#Tape for unit testing

[dear-ao3]

You can't hide the bit about starting a cult in the tags. We demand the story.

once upon a time i was a menace of a 15 year old taking high school chemistry. and this was not a particularly advanced chemistry class. we had ancient bunsen burners, occasionally we lit things on fire, sometimes there were chemicals involved, but for the most part, it was standard run of the mill shit.

the class was divided into two groups of people:

The Trouble Makers and the People Who Didnt Cause (many) Problems

as a mostly straight a and usually honors (when it wasnt science) student, i fell into the second category.

this class was 8th period, last period of the day, and the teacher was new that year. we will call him mr a.

mr a was on the younger side and seemed like a dude who wanted to have fun with us (essential for a science class). unfortunately he was teaching a batch of idiots (myself included).

its been several years so i dont remember the exact politics of this class, but i do know that it was populated by the two guys who stuck a pop tart still in the foil in the band room microwave and nearly lit the entire building on fire, a few class clowns, some very stereotypical football players, two guys who were positively dumb as bricks and constantly acted like they were on the verge or breaking up or getting back together (they were not dating at all. they were both and still are very straight), and then there was me and a few other girls who mostly just minded our business and watched the chaos unfold.

mr a's mistake was that he engaged with the insanity caused by The Trouble Makers. which resulted in even more insanity. he only lasted one year. he hated all of us but he might have hated himself more.

he did like me and my friends tho because again, we did not cause problems.

you might be wondering what kind of problems could be caused in a high school chemistry class. well lots. for starters one of the outlets in the room was taped over with NO JUSTIN! BAD JUSTIN! written on it because one kid thought it would be funny to stick scissors in the outlet in a different class (true story). there were broken beakers, smashed glass, general insanity. again, not an honors class so most of us didnt really care about it as long as we passed. there was one time he told us (jokingly) that we should only drink pepsi because his wife worked for the company and it would help fund his kids college career or something. two days later five guys came in with coke bottles. that was the kind of class this was.

but we still learned chemistry. probably. i dont actually know.

this guy taught lessons like he was reading a tumblr text post. like full on "so the guy hated that guy cause xyz and smited him in the science journals for this that and the other thing" it was entertaining.

i remember learning two things in this class. one was that salt is NaCl. which mr a called "our good friend nackle" the second we will get to in a minute.

one of the things we had to do in class relatively early on was decorate a periodic table that we would be allowed to use for tests. like color code and all that. we were allowed to use it for tests because there was a Giant periodic table hanging in the room and mr a was "too short to cover that up"

well, that periodic table proved to become his worst nightmare.

now. remember that i am 15. i am a sophomore in high school. i have not yet had to consider the horrors of college. i am at peace. aside from this chemistry class i am also taking a dance class (that i didnt like), ap english language (which was terrifying because im really bad at deeper meaning in texts), honors algebra 2 (which i Barely passed), latin III (another class i was pretty shit at, but it was fun), crafts 2 (which was wonderful), gym (thats a totally Other story) and honors united states history (which i loved). i was also dancing about 20 hours a week outside of school. but most of my schedule required me to be a good little honors student and mind my business. i was also, by all accounts, an absolute loser and a nobody and had very few friends and was totally unknown to most popular kids. however, you all know me on this blog and know im a little shit and it was only a matter of time before i caused problems Somewhere.

and that somewhere came one blissful day during 8th period chemistry when mr a asked me something about the number of electrons on carbon.

and i (to my credit) was entirely zoned out because again it was 8th period. but i gave him an answer. it was the right answer. what the answer is now i have no idea because i went on to get a ba degree in history and my eyes have not graced the periodic table since this class.

and then he asked me "how do you know thats the right answer"

and i said, in all my zoned out, infinite wisdom "it says so on the periodic chart"

isnt a periodic table? you might be asking.

well you are correct.

but you see. the giant periodic table above the front of the board at the front of the room was from the 70s. and it didnt say periodic table. it said "periodic chart of the elements"

and i, being zoned out, just read the damn name off of the thing because what the fuck else is a girl to do.

and mr a says "its a table. the periodic table."

and i, who have now zoned back in and realized my mistake, refuse to admit that i was just zoned out in class so i say, like any reasonable person, "then why does it say periodic chart up there?"

and mr a said "i dont know, its old."

and i said "well it says chart. so why cant we call it chart?"

and mr a said "because its a table."

and me, because im a little shit and also 15 and there were probably also 10 minutes left in the school day said "i think we should be allowed to call it a chart. it says so right there."

and well. that was all the go ahead the trouble makers in the class needed to hear.

from then on, it was the periodic chart. we all called it that. all of 8th period. and mr a HATED it. if you wrote chart on your test you got points taken off (which i never did because i wasnt an idiot but i would put little smiley faces next to my answer and he would draw a frown face when he graded my paper next to it). if you said it when you answered a question he would pretend he hadn't heard you.

it was such a phenomenon that it spread to his other classes. everyone called it the periodic chart. the scissors in the outlet kid. the pop tart kids. the football players. everyone. it was a chart. not a table. to this day i still call it a chart.

though, i think he was just mad that my cult (which he did call a cult, the periodic chart cult) was more successful than his stoichiometry cult. which was basically that we all had to repeat stoichiometry back to him every time he said it. that is the second thing i learned in this class. dont ask me what it is though, i just remember the name.

at the end of the year we parted ways, mr a silently glaring at me for my chart crimes, never to return to our school (probably because he got fired, unrelated to my chart crimes). despite this, he did still like me as a student, and i did get an a in his class, though it probably pained him to give it to me.

the following year i had physics in the same classroom, periodic chart overlooking me.

i used my iPhone 5c to take a photo of a white board and accidentally dropped it six inches onto the lab bench. the screen grayed out and it never turned on again.

the chart had cursed me for my hubris.

[namelessgakusei]

Extra EP. 1.3 Conflagration

Devil May Cry x Reader Insert

Warnings: It's DMC. Based on the New Netflix Series. Spoiler warnings for the actual show. Not proofread.

EP. 1.2 COMBUSTION (prev.)

EP. 2.1 Lead us not into temptation (cont.)

Synopsis: Unbeknownst to you and Dante, there are people plotting to bring the two of you down.

Deep within the Whitehouse gathered various people of authority, united for the same agenda of addressing the strange Vatican City Bombing. Dr. Fisher explains that a network of terrorist demons might be behind the attack, a claim immediately questioned by the general of the military, saying that America shouldn't entertain such ridiculous notions. Suddenly, a voice cuts in, defending the doctor's claim.

Vice President Baines turned to the general to his left, the glare accumulated from years of tactical management visible in his face. "I assure you, he is serious."

Dr. Fisher continued his presentation, saying that demons are related but separate from humans when it came to the evolutionary branch, having tested the DNA left on the scene. He explains that they exist and are natives from another universe, a parallel plane to Earth. While the talk about their place of origins continued to escalate, Vice President Baines furrowed his brows, deep in thought.

Mythology exists to explain Reality, said the doctor.

Apparently, there exists an interdimensional rift that acts as a bridge between the two universes, although it has been blocked for millennia by a field of quantum interference. There had been natural disruptions that makes way for demons to pass through, but are unstable enough to only let lesser ones in, enabling them to blend in the crowd. The president sputters and struggles to keep up, asking what this all means.

"Which means the big demons are stuck on the other side." Dr. Fisher nods. When asked about his employer, the presentation changed to reveal the organization. "Dark Realm Command." The bright red color contrasted the black screen as the insignia reveals the rest of the name. "DARKCOM, as our PR department insists we call it."

"DARKCOM is an independent dimensional security firm, funded by private investments, such as my own." Baines' voice made everyone shift to his direction, understanding well on who has the real power within the room. The lull in the room was broken by a hurried employee who insists on making everyone see the contents of the tape he delivered.

The screen plays the last moments of the group of criminals who raided the Vatican City Museum, revealing the culprit behind the attack, the White Rabbit. He spoke of a name, Sparda, as he marvels at the sword. This ignites the curiosity of the doctor, having heard the name before. But what soon followed in the feed was the brutal deaths of the men and the Rabbit's taunting words. "The gates of Hell will open soon enough."

"To any sapiens wishing to join the celebration," It's clear that the Rabbit planned for this video to be found, as it's like he's speaking directly to the leaders of America. "If you want to catch a rabbit, find the hunter."

"Hope to see you all there♡"

The thief screamed in agony as the Rabbit continuously stabbed him, laughing manically as the man dies.

The president staggered to get up on his feet, still shaken from what he saw, saying that this is all too much to deal with. Baines assured him that this is all real. Hell is real. And this is the start of the Holy War that Humanity should win.

"I believe the demon is toying with us." Dr. Fisher's expression hardened, nodding to the executives in front of him. "Giving us a clue to its next move. We need to figure out who this hunter is, which can only mean..."

"A Demon Hunter."

Baines' posture straightened up as he barks a command, voice low like a storm about to hit. "Find every demon hunter you can. And bring them to me."

Paranormal offices were raided, hunters were captured, beaten up if they resist, as they were all brought together in interrogation rooms. Frauds were weeded out from actual hunters, but it didn't saved them from getting hurt here and there. No matter how much they fight, they were always asked the same thing.

Do you know the White Rabbit?

Finally someone spoke up. A man, tanned with dyed blond hair, asked for a cigarette in exchange for his information. He said he knows a guy, a broker for demon hunters and mercenaries, a hustler who feeds off the bottom of the bottom feeders. "Last time I saw him, he told me how he'd set up this job for a talking bunny."

"I didn't give him much thought, coming from a serial liar and a drunk." The chained up demon hunter smirked at the other side of the one way glass.

"But maybe he wasn't lying." And perhaps he wasn't, and if it adds up, it means the White Rabbit was operating in New York. "Give me a name." Baines glared back, although he knew that the man can't see him from the other side of the glass.

The club was crashed in by a SWAT unit, their black uniforms completely out of place under the colorful lighting, demanding the whereabouts of Enzo Ferino. People screamed in surprise but didn't budged, either too high or drunk to care, but their target wasn't. Enzo jumped over a table and bolted upon seeing the cops, passing through the dancing crowd, who weren't too pleased by his hurried movements.

He thought he was safe when the fire exit was on his sight, cackling at his escape from imprisonment once again, only to get a door slammed to his face. The staff member gaped as Enzo was apprehended.

Enzo woke up with a start, handcuffs on his wrists and an electric shock clip about to get connected to his skin. "Before we start, you should know that I'll tell you anything you ask me about any subject!" He sputtered, narrowly avoiding getting electrocuted. That seemed to work, as the clip was withdrawn, but it didn't stopped the information broker to try and get the situation "under his control". "Now, let's talk compensation—"

The clip was nearly shoved to his face.

"Alright, I'll do it for free! You guys should really learn how to negotiate properly."

"Tell us about the White Rabbit." Baines' voice boomed from the speaker. Enzo chuckled and started recalling the events of their meeting. "He showed up at my office with a job that needed expediting."

"And that didn't seem strange to you?" Baines looked like he was about to murder someone as he leans closer to the mic. "A six-foot talking rabbit." But it only made Enzo scoff, saying that in his line of work, it's only a slow Tuesday. "Some demons making noise over on the west side that he wanted clipped. Calling too much attention to themselves and whatnot."

"Why? What did it mattered to him?"

"Y'know, I saw the price he was offering and I must've forgot to ask." Enzo shrugged and grinned. "One thing about it that struck me as funny is that, he has a particular demon hunter he wanted me to hire." He grimaced, shivering at the memory. "Wouldn't take anyone else."

"Who?"

"Kid named Dante."

Enzo frowned after that, saying that he's a sweet kid. "Bit of a troubled past, though. You know how it is, Dad not around. Mom and twin brother brutally murdered by demons. Y'know, that sort of thing." Before grinning again with a, somehow, proud expression. "Got attached to my kid though! They're practically hip to hip! Can't separate them for too long, else they get antsy."

The last part was promptly ignored in favor of digging up information on Dante. Dr. Fisher successfully pulled out his file and began snooping for details they could use. "Dante. Last name unknown." His mugshot was unserious, picking his nose and not standing straight. "Looks like he also works as a standard hired gun. Oh! And if half of what I'm reading here is true, his capabilities are extraordinary."

"What else do we have on him?" Baines frowned while the doctor marveled at what he saw. "Anything that explains the Rabbit's interest?"

"Hmm. It is said here that he always works with another demon hunter regardless of any mission. And he's recorded going AWOL from five separate jobs."

"Why?"

"It just says... Ugh." Dr. Fisher looks disappointed. "Got bored?"

Baines frowned, and asked about the other demon hunter, making the doctor pull out another file. Dr. Fisher's eyes widened at your document, there you stood properly for a mugshot photo, only glaring too much at the camera.

[Demon Hunter PII]

Name: (Y/N)

DoB: Unknown

Age: Unknown

Address: 862 Divine Street, Brooklyn, NY, 11206

Sex: [redacted]

Nationality: Unknown

H: [redacted]

W: [redacted]

EC: [redacted]

HC: [redacted]

Skin: [redacted]

Prof: Hunting High Ranking Demons

[Document Title]

Demon Hunting Evaluation Report

[Subject]

Name: (Y/N)

Occupation: Mercenary, Demon Hunter, Information Broker

Affiliated Group: None

[Overview]

This report serves to outline the evaluation of (Y/N), a demon-hunting mercenary and information broker, in both their job performance and comprehensive performance.

[Contents]

- Successfully completed every mission using a variety of self-made guns inside their briefcase.

- Capable of dealing with multiple enemies alone with their physical ability and agility.

- Always accompanied with the Demon Hunter, Dante and vice versa.

- Often acts as a mediator between Dante and their team mates, keeping him in line and solving conflicts before it arises.

- Their great combat skills and quick thinking are well-acknowledged, but their mutual reliance to Dante showcases their codependency.

[Combat Experience & Skills]

- 10+ years of being an information broker

- 5+ years of demon-hunting experience

- Has an excellent reputation in the black market and the demon hunter community.

- Experienced in battles with various types of demons; specializes in tracking and documenting demons.

- Highly skilled in marksmanship and weaponsmithing.

- Outstanding crisis management ability in dangerous situations and great tactical knowledge

- Skillful with military weapons and firearms, creates makeshift weapons within record time.

- Specializes in close-combat.

[Personality]

- Level-headed and cautious

- Confident in their ability and power

- Constantly seen bickering with Dante, even in dangerous situations, but compliments each other in combat.

- Can be flexible and work together as a team to complete missions, but usually works with Dante.

- Sharp and observant.

[Remarks]

Unauthorized access to classified missions.

Reason: DANTE GOT BORED AND I WAS CURIOUS. Y'KNOW, OLD HABITS DIE HARD.

*Assumed to be referring to their occupation as a broker, further investigation is due to find out if there will be a leak.

[Evaluation Report]

Mercenary (Y/N) demonstrates distinguished demon-hunting abilities. However, they need to be able to operate independently.

Further caution needs to be exercised when interacting with them due to their tendency to dig into your background.

"This is quite the combination." The doctor beamed. "This must be the kid that Mr. Ferino talked about. If they are really attached to each other..."

"We could use them to lure Dante out." Baines narrowed his eyes towards your picture.

"I heard a rumor once about demons who were too powerful to cross over, so they learned how to project their consciousness into our world and possess stuff, poltergeist-style." Enzo's warden was the unfortunate victim of his ranting. "You ask me, that's what this White Rabbit is. A possessed kid's toy." The broker grins towards the speaker, which replies to him with—

"I didn't asked."

"Look, look, look, that's all I know. If you're after his location, I can't help you. I only saw him once." Enzo shrugged and groaned, but Baines assured him that they already know where to look, as a man with a rabbit head can only avoid surveillance for so long. This made the broker scoff, saying that there won't be any survivors even if they send a team. But Baines replied with a cold voice.

"There was only one."

Before he sighed over the mic, asking of what he knows about the Sword of Sparda. Enzo tried retelling the tale that everyone knows, about the demon that rebelled against his own kind and sided with humanity, but the vice president cut him off, demanding him to give new information. This made the broker raise a brow but nonetheless complied, having no choice, as he reveals the existence of an amulet. The doctor immediately went to work and realized that it was the missing piece of the puzzle, that it was the transmitter that enabled the separation of the two worlds and while the demon technology is medieval, their understanding of the quantum principles is far more advanced than Humanity in its current era.

But Enzo said that the amulet was split into two, so there will be no way for the realms to be open to each other without limit; so long as the amulet remains broken, so will Armageddon remain as just a myth. It didn't stopped the doctor from listing out the worse possible scenarios, however, before being silenced by Baines, saying that they won't let it happen as it is the DARKCOM's purpose.

Their divine charge.

To be the last line of defense against the Inferno.

The Vice President mulled over the fact that the Rabbit already have the first half of the amulet, only for the door to swing open, with a jittery soldier coming out of it. It's the survivor, the doctor says, Anders from the J-Squad. The soldier insists on having sensitive information that he just had to say it directly to Baines, concerning the Rabbit and the end of the world.

"I heard the Rabbit say something after he'd done this. He was pissed off, furious, sir. He knows where the other half of the amulet is, and he tried to get it back already. But his plan failed."

"He's gonna try again. Soon."

Baines narrowed his eyes at Anders, inquiring more of the plan that the Rabbit said. But the soldier shook his head, saying that he doesn't know that much, only something about hiring someone for a set-up job. "Whoever it was, that's who has the other piece, sir."

Realization dawned to both Baines and Dr. Fisher as they both turned to the yawning Enzo.

"Dante."

taglist!: @mischiefmanaged71 @tamashithe2nd @im-just-a-simp-le-whore @96jnie

[stele3]

Blood donations through the Red Cross: a guide

Blood drives are always going on. You can go to the Red Cross website and find one in your area.

The website sends you text reminders the day before, as well as a link to the Rapid Pass, a questionnaire that determines you eligibility.

Yes, you can give blood if you’ve had gay sex; Biden fixed that. Yes, you can give blood if you’ve got tattoos, so long as they were conducted in a licensed facility.

On the day of, you go to the drive. You need your driver’s license, which they’ll scan. If you didn’t do the Rapid Pass ahead of time, you do it there.

They then check your hematocrit — usually by pricking your finger — your blood pressure, and your temperature. You sign a form saying you understand they’re gonna test your blood for diseases and will contact you if you’ve got any.

Time for the scary part. You walk over and lie down on what looks like a massage table. They put a blood cuff around your arm and have you squeeze a squishy thing to enlarge your veins. Once they’ve found a good one, they mark it with a pen.

They apply disinfectant to the whole area.

Steps 4-7 take about half an hour.

They insert the needle, tape it to your wrist, and wait while the bag fills. The normal blood donation takes 3 units, or 3 pints. Each unit is one transfusion, which is why the Red Cross says every donation can save 1-3 lives.

How long step 9 takes depends on you. Several factors are at play: your cardiovascular fitness, your hydration level, and the size of your veins. My speed record for filling the bag is 4 minutes and 4 seconds, but I’m told that’s insanely fast. (I guzzle water the day of.)

Once you’ve filled the bag, they take the needle out, apply gauze, and tell you to hold it over your head while they secure your donation. Once they’ve done that, they wrap tape around your elbow, which is to stay in place for an hour. The gauze needs to stay in place for about 4 hours.

SNACKS.

There is a critical shortage of O type blood, both O- and O+. There is always a critical shortage of O types, because O- is the universal donor (can give to anyone). However, because of its rarity (only 7% of the population), its use is restricted to babies and pregnant people. The most common blood type used in ERs is type O+.

Yes, this has the potential to cause side effects for people who have any type of - blood. Considering the beyond-critical shortage of O- and the prevalence of + types (85% of the population) vs - types (15% of the population), ERs will usually roll the dice and give you O+ until they figure out what blood type you actually have.

IF YOU HAVE TYPE O BLOOD PLEASE DONATE. Everyone should donate but especially type O.

If you don’t know your blood type, good news! The Red Cross will tell you after you donate! That’s very useful information for you to have, and they give it to you for free.

And I mean….theoretically, you could use this process to check for blood diseases like HIV. It’s free! If you have no other way of accessing that info, the Red Cross will absolutely test your blood and alert you if you’re positive. Scratch that, irresponsible advice. Apologies!

I’m not scared of needles, but I faint at the sight of my own blood. I still go every 8 weeks, because doing so SAVES LIVES. I have donated 8 times. That means I’ve saved the lives of between 8-24 people. Can you imagine how good that feels? 8-24 people are alive because every 8 weeks I plop my ass down in a gym or church or whatever and white-knuckle my phone for 5 minutes.

50% of people are eligible to give blood but only 5% do, and that number falls to catastrophic levels among young people. Millennials and Gen Z give 40% less blood than older generations, and that’s placing us all at risk.

So if you’re in the 50% of the population who’s eligible to donate, roll your sleeves up and avert your eyes, guys. This is THE most basic form of mutual aid you can possibly do.

[facts-i-just-made-up]

How do you build a atomic bomb?

Easily!

All you need are a few household items, a little bit of patience, and a Class 1 Top Security clearance for the manufacture of biological, chemical or nuclear weapons under the Fermi laws of 1954 contingent to permission from the United Nations Security Council.

You're gonna need-

A box of matches

A blender

Tape

Some wire mesh (Like a window screen, for sifting)

Cake mix (Yellow sponge cake works best)

Ziplock bags

String

Ice cubes (The cold kind, not the rapper/actor)

A toilet paper tube

A Catholic Missal

An empty kitty litter bucket

First, you're gonna need two rare substances- Weapons grade uranium and "heavy" water. For the uranium, just take your yellow cake mix and sift it with the wire mesh. Whatever stays on top of the mesh- That's weapons grade. For the heavy water, take some ice cubes, which are heavier than water but still made of water, and put them in the blender. By breaking up the ice cubes and releasing the water, you keep the weight but make it a fluid. This is a process that scientists call "Putrefaction".

To build the weapon, pack some uranium into one end of the toilet paper tube and then cover that end with the Catholic Missal. This guarantees what we call a "Critical Mass" of uranium. Then take a smaller wad of uranium and pack it into the other end of the tube, leaving plenty of space between the two.

Tape the box of matches to that end of the tube. It will act as an explosive device to send the "bullet" of uranium into the critical mass, thus resulting in a nuclear fission explosion.

You now have a nuclear fission device! This device has a yield equal to about 10 thousand tons of T.N.T. But fission is for wimps, right? So let's turn that fission bomb, into a fusion bomb!

Tape your string to the matches to act as a fuse, and then put the nuclear warhead in a ziplock bag. Be sure to seal it tight! Now place that assembly into the kitty litter bucket. Make sure it's empty of kitty litter before the next step.

Fill the rest of the bucket with the heavy water you made in step one, and seal the top of the kitty litter bucket with the string still poking out. Once the fuse is lit, it will light the matches and detonate the nuclear fission bomb. This acts as a heat source to boil the heavy water, and when heavy water boils- Nuclear Fusion!

Congratulations, your bomb is now complete. Remember that it's illegal to carry or detonate a nuclear fusion warhead in public (except in Texas), and bear in mind this will be quite a bit stronger than your usual firecrackers. We recommend only setting off your nuclear device on official U.S. testing grounds, such as the desserts of New Mexico or islands in the Pacific only populated by tribes under no country's protection, because that's seriously what the U.S. did.

So play safe and have a good time,

-facts-i-just-made-up.tumblr.com

[foone]

I got a cute little CRT+VCR combo unit on Sunday from ewaste, so I thought I'd test it out using one of the free VHS tapes I got from last month's electronics fair: FernGully: The Last Rainforest.

It started right up to Hexxus singing Toxic Love. So I guess it works fine!

[papasmoke]

By now, on October 22nd, hundreds more Palestinian children have been killed by Israel in Gaza in the past two weeks than all Israeli civilian and military personnel killed on October 7th, to say nothing of the thousands more Palestinian adults murdered whose deaths are just as tragic. Under immense pressure from the people of the world who have been protesting the genocide in the tens of millions, Biden, Trudeau, and the jackals of Europe make vague references to the rule of international law needing to be upheld (not even mentioning Israel by name when doing so) while making no effort to limit Israel's genocidal and indiscriminate campaign of terror against Palestinians in Gaza and the West Bank. In one hand the United States pressures Israel to allow a handful of aid trucks through every day to the Gaza strip whose supplies can only tape over the gaping wound that has already been inflicted with what amounts to a third of a nuclear bomb being dropped on a 5x25 mile strip of urbanized land, while in the other hand sending billions of dollars in weaponry to Israel to fuel it's genocide. One hundred, five thousand, 2 million, 5 million dead Palestinians, the number would change nothing for the calculus of western governments who decades ago made the calculation that the total extermination of the Palestinian people was a price they'd be happy to pay in service of maintaining Israel as a racially and religiously segregated US allied military stronghold and test bed for new western weaponry.

[mariacallous]

Often I recall the day of Biden’s inauguration, which took place on a platform that only two weeks earlier had been used as a staging post for the insurrection. It was festooned with red, white, and blue bunting, but it still felt like a crime scene that should have been sequestered with yellow tape. As I made my way to my camera position on the press stand, I noticed that technicians were testing the giant teleprompter in front of the presidential podium. And I recognized the words on the screen: “Four score and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure.”

The teleprompter had been loaded with the 272 words of Abraham Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address in November 1863. Maybe it was some kind of sick joke. A rogue technician, perhaps, with a dark sense of humor. But these passages from the country’s most celebrated sermon could hardly be described as out of place. The question at the heart of the speech, and which had also been posed at the country’s founding, was being asked anew: Can this nation long endure?

My sense—my ardent hope—is that the conditions do not yet exist for all-out armed conflict, a second civil war, partly because the United States has accumulated so much muscle memory in coping with its perpetual state of division. But nor do the conditions exist for reconciliation and rapprochement. Nowhere near. So the United States occupies a strange betwixt and between: close to abyss, but a step or two back from the edge. Going to hell, as the wit Andy Rooney once observed, without ever getting there.

The U.S. historian Richard Hofstadter, famed for identifying what he called the “paranoid style in American politics,” put it well: “The nation seems to slouch onward into its uncertain future like some huge inarticulate beast, too much attainted by wounds and ailments to be robust, but too strong and resourceful to succumb.” The fact that Hofstadter published those words at the start of the 1970s speaks to how the United States remains stuck in a rut—revisiting the same arguments, going over the same ground. Americans remain tethered to their contested past. The news cycle is the historical cycle in microcosm. As Lincoln put it in his message to Congress in December 1862: “We cannot escape history.”

So even if the United States does not descend into civil war, it is hard to envision it ever reaching a state of civil peace. The forever war will continue: America’s unending conflict with itself.

America’s Democracy Was Never That Healthy

[bonny-kookoo]

Jungkook

𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄 | Leave Me

He's still wary of you, and you don't really mind it one bit- you know where he's coming from, considering his species. And hey- at least he chose a relatively neutral planet to drop you off at. Or so you thought.

Tags/Warnings: Alien!Jungkook, Human!Reader, little angst, little tense, slight fluff?

Length: 2k I think

-> Masterlist

T H E R E I S N O T A G L I S T-

A/N: boo

⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──👽── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅

When you wake up, it's way too quiet- ship no longer steadily buzzing, engines turned off it seems like as you sit up on the bed, looking around. Energy was still running, since lights were still on, and there was an almost unnoticeable humming from an AC unit, but other than that, everything was still.

"Hello?" You call out- but the only response you get is the slight echo off the steel walls of your room. Nothing else.

Did he really leave you alone? What are you supposed to do now?

You flinch when the hydraulic door hisses loudly, the alien entering the room with a serious, though slightly surprised expression. "You're awake." He observes. "Good. Eat." He commands, throwing a pack of… something at you, a little harshly so, but you still accept them. "I had to get what I know is safe for human consumption. Can't really run around Etis and bark something about humans, after all." He mumbles to himself more or less, cracking his neck. You notice the scratches on his face, as he looks into the small mirror near a cupboard to clean them and place some butterfly tape on the bigger one up his forehead.

"…what happened?" You ask quietly, testing the waters as he clicks his tongue.

"Nothing." He simply answers, continuing to fix himself up before he sighs, and sits down in the corner of the room on a chair, one leg over the other and his arms crossed. His entire body language screams defense- even if he wants to look tough. "Where is your preferred destination?" He asks, and you shrug, deflating visibly.

"..you know, like I said." You shrug. "You can always just leave me here. I don't have a plan." You admit, and he watches you for a moment.

"I don't believe that." He shakes his head, denying your words even though they're true. "I will ask you again. Where is your-"

"Nowhere!" You respond a bit more agitated, though you can feel tears of frustrations well up in your eyes. "I don't know where to go. Throw me out wherever." You tell him.

He, yet again, observes, silently. He doesn't say anything- his eyes simply a grey-ish yellow as he watches you from his spot. You're not sure what that means, though you've seen them change sometimes depending on his mood, so it might be connected to that. He's definitely not human, in that case, if his height was anything to go by already. Great- he probably hates you because you're human, just like most alien species' do.

You can't even blame them.

"What made you leave earth." He questions now instead, and you're confused.

"I already told you-" You start, but he shakes his head, watching you intensely with a piercing gaze.

"I know, and I'm not asking that." He clarifies. "I am asking for what the.. reason was that made you act." He defines more clearly, and you look down at your hands, thinking.

What made you act?

"There.. was a family." You mumble, voicing out your memories. "A mother, alone. Two kids, maybe around four or five." You explain, eyes unfocused as you remember their faces. "She was pleading with an older man, and police. Begging. 'Don't take them', she'd said. 'they're all I have', she'd said." You recite.

It's quiet for a moment too long in his opinion, as he prompts you to continue. "What happened?" He asks, voice surprisingly calm.

"They took them." You say, as if it was obvious- but he notices the distance in your voice. "She'd lost her name, just like me. And therefore, she was no longer a registered citizen- and the children automatically got placed in government care, no matter if she was able to care for them or not." You explain, before you look at him- his eyes a clear but pale yellow as he listens to you.

"I'll never forget her cries." You tell him. "Her.. just, screaming for hours. No matter where I went, I could still hear her."

"I will attempt to verify this incident." He tells you, almost like a threat.

"Then you won't find anything." You smile somberly, laying back down on the bed, curling in on yourself in an attempt for comfort. "Things like these obviously aren't allowed to be published in the media." You say, closing your eyes.

"Convenient." He simply offers, and you nod, before you hear him sigh, and stand up- leather of his pants making distinctive noises as he moves around. "Our next stop is Vao Q4. I will be leaving you there, since it's a relatively neutral planet for humans." He says, before he leaves the room.

And you just fall asleep in silence, barely noticing the engine of the large spaceship starting.

⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──👽── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅

When you wake up again, you move into the bathroom area to clean up and use the gauze Jungkook had left you to at least provide yourself with a makeshift pad for your period. It's when you're just about done, walking out the small room, when the door opens, Jungkook entering with what looks like a metal collar,a small black box-like item attached to the side of it. "Here. Put that on." He orders, and you're not sure what he means- though you comply, having no other choice but to click the collar shut behind your neck. "It has a tracking device. For now, I've set my name as your current owner in case someone asks." He informs you, before looking around. "Put on your shoes." He says, turning around to leave the room.

"Wait- why?" You wonder, and he just turns his head for a second, staring at you.

"We'll be passing by Vides in a few hours." He simply tells you. "And since I don't know what you need, I'll be taking you out with me." He informs you, and you look at him a little longer, making him roll his eyes. "Can you put on your shoes now?" He reminds you almost as if annoyed, and you nod, scrambling to put them on before following him out of your tiny cabin you've been living in.

You're not sure for how long. Time isn't really your strong suit, and without night and day, it's hard to really pinpoint how long you've been on this ship.

"You have a spending limit of 100 currencies. Do not exceed that." He tells you as you both walk through another large door, most likely the main operating room where he lives and watches over the whole ship. There's so many buttons, noises and screens- you're both fascinated and overwhelmed.

He watches you for a moment, before the whole airship shakes, making you fall flat on your butt, before everything stills-

And he chuckles, finding your rather clumsy mistake funny.

"I'll warn you next time we land." He clears his throat, before he rather roughly pulls you up into a standing position by your arm. "Now stay close, and don't talk. You humans only cause trouble the moment you open your mouths." He says, before he leads the way out, large cargo door opening with a hiss.

The moment you're outside, things are bright- and you're greeted with the wet, cool climate of the foreign planet you're on. Many different species are walking around, sounds a little distorted sounding- but Jungkook leads the way, and you follow wordlessly.

"Hey, how much for the slave?" Someone with big lower canine teeth asks, his skin a deep blue. "Looks young. Can it work?" He wonders, and Jungkook turns towards him with a deep red-ish brown gaze.

"She's not for sale." He answers, pulling you close by the back of your clothes. "And can't work for shit anyways." He explains, and you have half a thought to feel insulted by that-

But you're too worried by all the unfamiliar things around you, so you just stay quiet like jungkook had told you to.

The man leaves with a shrug, before you walk with Jungkook down the dusty street, white particles floating without any sense of gravity around. As you enter a large tent, you find yourself recognizing a lot of the items- cartons full of random things in bulk standing around. "Go search for what you need. But stay within my sight." Jungkook orders, and you nod, hesitantly walking around to take a look.

The mood feels tense. It doesn't feel like Jungkook is making sure you stay with him- but rather as if he's guarding you instead.

"Oh, what an adorable guest!" A tall.. being says, clapping her four hands once, jewelry clattering loudly as she looks around with her snake-like head. "Is it yours?" She asks Jungkook, who nods, wary, arms crossed.

"I'm not selling." He says instead of anything else. "I just need things to accommodate for her menstrual cycle." He informs the alien, who nods once, twice.

"Ah yes, I remember humans have quite a complicated one.." the female sounding being says, trotting around before she looks through various boxes. "Little gem, what about these here?" She wonders, and you look at Jungkook first-

Making his eyes flash an orange glow for a second, before they turn brown again as he nods.

When you look into the box, you find the entire box full of thick looking pads, still in their plastic wrapping. You nod quietly to her to tell her that these are what you'd like, and she nods eagerly back. "A quiet little thing." She says, before making a clicking sound in her throat.

"Not really.." Jungkook mumbles to himself. "How much for the entire box?" He wants to know, walking closer to you both, boots heavy on the floor, throwing dust around.

"Hm, I'll make 50 currencies, but just because she smells lovely." The alien grins with her multiple rows of teeth, before she turns towards Jungkook with an outstretched hand.

He some small but thick metal cards into her hands, and she counts them, before she nods. "Jimin!" She yells suddenly, making you hold your ears, and much to your surprise, Jungkook seems to have gotten startled as well, as he..

Holds you close?

A human man walks into the tent, clothes dirty but otherwise well put together. "Bring this box to their ship, yes? And go fetch me Johrta, I need to have a word with that scammer.. " she orders, and the human named Jimin nods, closing up the box before he lifts it-

Waiting for you and Jungkook to move.

You both break apart like burned by hot metal, before you walk up front towards his ship, where Jungkook takes the box from Jimin to place it inside himself- offering him one of the metal cards.

"Is she still treating you fine?" He asks, and Jimin nods.

"I managed to get my own home underground. I'm doing very well- thanks to you." He nods gratefully, before he looks at you. "A new companion?" He asks, and Jungkook scoffs, eyes a suspicious blue.

"Absolutely not." He denies. "Snuck on my ship illegally, now I can't seem to get rid of her." He sighs, making you look at him almost in anger.

What is he talking about?

"Well, I wish you both good luck. And, don't worry." Jimin looks at you, smiling brightly. "He looks all mean and angry but he's real soft on the inside." He snickers, and laughs especially when Jungkook's eyes turn bright pink.

"Shut up!" He snaps back, grabbing your wrist to tug you back into the cargo ship-

Jimin happily waving as the door closes again.

It's quiet for a good moment, before Jungkook moves to lift the box to bring it into your room on the ship. "Are we already leaving?" You wonder, and he nods, dyes calming down slowly.

"Its tense on this planet. I'm not sure why, but I have a feeling we shouldn't be here too long." He simply explains, before the door to your room opens. "I'll leave them here. You can.. change now, or whatever. I'll inform you about our next destination." He offers, before he turns to leave.

"Jungkook-" You say, making him stop in his tracks. "..thank you." You tell him, and he simply nods.

Leaving you alone again.

[mydaddywiki]

Jason Kenney

Physique: Husky Build Height: 5' 10" (1.77 m)

Jason Thomas Kenney PC ECA (born May 30, 1968) is a former Canadian politician who served as the 18th premier of Alberta from 2019 until 2022, and the leader of the United Conservative Party (UCP) from 2017 until 2022. He also served as the member of the Legislative Assembly (MLA) for Calgary-Lougheed from 2017 until 2022. Kenney was the last leader of the Alberta Progressive Conservative Party (PC Party) before the party merged with the Wildrose Party to form the UCP. Prior to entering Alberta provincial politics, he served in various cabinet posts under Prime Minister Stephen Harper from 2006 to 2015.

Kenney studied philosophy at the University of San Francisco, but returned to Canada without completing his degree. In 1989, he was hired as the first executive director of the Alberta Taxpayers Association before becoming the president and chief executive officer of the Canadian Taxpayers Federation. Kenney was elected to the House of Commons in the 1997 federal election for the Reform Party. In 2000, he was re-elected as a Canadian Alliance candidate and then was re-elected five times as a candidate for the Conservative Party of Canada.

Handsome, nice full lips, husky with nice wide hips. And that brings me to that bangable ass of his that looks good in a pair of jeans. You should know by now, I have the biggest weakness for big, thick asses and this guy his one of the best. Problem is, he’s losing weight. Jason you can lose the weight, just don’t lose that butt. Because if I visit Canada one day, I want to take him out for a test ride. You know what mean. Fucking.

Lets see, Kenney is bilingual, speaking French and English. He has never been married and has no children. Wait a minute. A tough-talking Conservative who has never been married and apparently doesn’t like to be open about his personal life. I think I need to visit Canada. Now. Not to offer Kenney the DICK and video tape it for posterity. It’s to see the beautiful country of Canada of course. And if that other thing happens, all the better.

[girlballs]

feel like posting about my Freaks but instead I'll post about the setting inhabited by my Freaks.

At The Arcane University takes place in 2053, in part of what used to be Wisconsin- the United States no longer exists as an entity, having been broken up after a second Cold War sort of situation around 2004 (the current big dog in town is China).

the titular Arcane University is part of an international organization called the Falke Institute, and the Madison campus is one of many around the world established to study magic- Campus 16 is by far the largest in terms of surface area and population, effectively being a self-sustaining city of about 90 thousand people.

magic has only really been properly understood as a science since about 1960, although its study has made it clear that magic has always been a subtle background element in human history. since the 60s, Aetheric Studies has led to massive advancements in essentially every other scientific discipline, from clean energy to agriculture to magnetic tape storage media.

Campus 16 (est. 2023) is partly an experiment by the F.I. to test a whole bunch of Aetheric technology mostly focused on sustainable food and energy production. everyone attending and working at the Arcane University is ultimately part of this experiment- students and staff are provided basically-free housing and amenities, with the understanding that everyone is expected to contribute to the common good and general campus upkeep.

given its size and enormous population for a university, Campus 16 is split into six Districts in an attempt to make management and coordination easier: the four main University Sub-Campuses (Allard, Hayes, Tai, and Belmonte, sometimes called Houses) which each contain student & staff housing, academic buildings, and various student services and recreational areas; the Daris District, a relatively small administrative area; and the Common District which encompasses the bulk of Campus 16's support infrastructure for food, power, transportation, etc.

some notable staff: Rector Ikaros Dume, head of the University Court; the four Housemasters: Deborah Kranz (Belmonte), Arran Darrow (Allard), Tugev Vasarraseppä (Tai), and Nalini Bhattacharya (Hayes); the Administrative Head of Housemasters, Raisa Böhmer; Tjeerd Geels, Chief Civil Engineer.

in addition to various magic disciplines, martial arts of various denominations are taught throughout Campus 16. every other winter season, there's a University-endorsed tournament arc.

okay that's it for tonight. maybe I'll post about my freaks tomorrow.

[froidefille]

Day 21: a fic rated M

📚 Among the Elements by @sweet-s0rr0w

Draco/Harry, 8.3k, M

Summary:

Harry getting pregnant might have been an accident, but Draco means it when he says that he’s all in. What he doesn’t expect is to find himself all alone in St Mungo’s neonatal unit, making life-or-death decisions for a tiny human he’s never even held.

Yet another Mpreg fic on my list! I remember being on a con 10 years ago where a brave soul made a whole lecture on Mpreg to a hundred people in the audience. I have so much respect for this person years later because that must have taken some balls to do 😀 Anyway, I remember a part of the lecture were on theories on why this trope is so popular and I remember exactly zero of them but yeah, there is something to this trope and I indeed do love it 😇

This one is a gentle, raw, aching story.

The relationship between the boys is so mature, so profound and yet so on edge! Also, I will NEVER get tired of Draco being adopted by the Weasleys, and in thic fic it is so delicately done <3 But by far my favourite aspect of it is the way it describes the tiredness of being a new parent so touchingly *melts* I thought about sending it to my friend who has a 6-week old baby but I just thought it would be too rough on her to have the experience being caught in words. I’ll send it to her in a few months tho:

She’d blathered on about ley lines and standing stones and planetary alignment while Draco tried not to weep with exhaustion at the very thought of a midnight ceremony. Everything’s so heavy now, waterlogged: his old self gasping for air somewhere between feeds and changes, between nights spent mumbling Wakefulness charms to avoid falling asleep with Scorpius in his arms and days filled with the stomach-churning terror that he’s doing this all wrong.

And just have a look at the below ONE sentence that somehow encapsulates the wonder of getting to know a brand new family member that haven’t existed yesterday:

“Scorpius,” Draco echoes, as he burrows closer – and for the first time, the word is more than just a sharpness behind Draco’s breastbone, more than an absence of air in his lungs: it’s a promise. A gift. Their future.

 *cries* more than just a sharpness hehind his breastbone 😭 more than an absence of air in his lungs 😭 😭 😭

Thank you for today’s prompt @hprecfest and @sweet-s0rr0w for all your delightful works!

Some more of beautiful words under the cut <3

PS. Just to let you know – it’s quite possible I may need to take a break for the next few days. Christmas is pretty crazy in my home, there’s a hundred dumplings to make, at least six cakes and eight other dishes </3 And I am exagerating none of it, damn the traditional Polish cuisine. Wish me luck!!

It had all happened so fast. One moment: Christmas classics on the Wireless, box-knives through packing tape, hanging tiny Quidditch outfits on the line, talking hopes and dreams over ice cream at midnight. The next: panicked shouts, Expecto Patronum (five times before it worked), stern-voiced medics, and a harsh, insistent bleeping that no-one but Draco seemed to hear. One day: Harry, carrying their baby, a beautiful, remarkable, imperfect family that Draco still couldn’t quite wrap his head around. And the next– The next day, Draco had found himself perched on the edge of a plastic armchair, staring numbly through a magical field at the blurry, purplish outline of a baby he didn’t know. His baby, the sign said, though the thin-skinned, bony-limbed creature below resembled neither a Malfoy nor a Potter, but something else entirely. Hardly a baby at all. 

The angsttttttt *cry*

Draco pictures a child, small and uncertain, clinging to Harry amidst the hustle and bustle of a busy September Kings Cross platform. He imagines a boy, tall and handsome, beaming up at him from the middle of a Quidditch pitch. He thinks of endless hospital visits, endless frustrating tests, of three lives trapped between separate worlds. And then there’s Harry, shielded in a magical coma, clinging to life by the faintest of threads. Harry, brave, beautiful Harry, who was starved and beaten and raised in a cupboard, all for being different.

The way Draco, with all his pureblood upbringing, knowing nothing but magic, decides in a instant that he’d rather have Scorpius healthy than magical – there were tears in my eyes, I swear.

“I’m sorry,” Draco says all at once, his mother’s disapproval echoing in his head. He’s a disappointment, he knows – to her, and now probably to Pansy, but he’s made up his mind. He can’t let Harry down, not with this. “Oh, my darling,” Pansy whispers, looking for all the world as though she can’t decide whether to smack him or hug him. In the end, she just reaches over to pour him some wine.

Oh Pansy! I have grown to love Pansy in Drarry, I especially love when she’s a fiercely protective friend unrelenting in all her elegance all the same <3

You wanna grab some food? Harry had asked, once Scorpius was settled and they could dawdle by the cotside no longer, which was how Draco had found himself in the local Chinese, pulling out Harry’s chair for him, nerves and embarrassment tangling up inside his chest as he tried to make sense of the menu. They were parents when they’d barely been lovers, partners when they’d barely been friends, and now… this. This is new: this isn’t Harry bringing a fucked-out Draco peanut butter on toast as dawn breaks outside, or the two of them on the balcony in Malta, working their way through the room service menu in an effort to find anything that Harry could eat without gagging. This isn’t takeaway pizza in a half-decorated nursery, or another tray of beige hospital food, or Draco’s Sunday roast left untouched as life moves on around him at the Burrow. What this is – what it feels like – is a date. Draco’s first proper date with the man he sleeps beside, the father of his child, the person he’s fallen in love with somewhere along this brief, crazy journey. A date that goes well.

The fact that they had a baby before they went on a date – well, somehow I’m not even surprised, those boys 😂

[univac1219]

Does your 1219 have a nickname?

Also, I was wondering if you have any fun stories surrounding it! Strange quirks it has or anything like that.

I'd love to see more photos if you're allowed to post them!

Thanks for the question! These are my favorite part about my blog by far.

Not exactly, the UNIVAC 1219 doesn’t have a nickname. I did realize recently that I should specify the pronunciation (Twelve-Nineteen), but it doesn’t have any nicknames. Apart from ‘the 1219’, it’s also regularly referred to as the CPU or just ‘the computer’.

Fun stories or weird quirks? Boy, I could fill a book with this machine’s weird quirks (or as we say, intermittent issues), but I’ll try to blitz through the most common ones:

Sometimes the computer will stop running and enter a WAIT mode. No reason, it just needs a break. We can’t fix it, it just has to decide to go back into operating mode.

The computer will often start attempting to communicate on IO channel 13. We’re not telling it to talk to anything, it just decides to try to.

One of our teletypes (the Kleinshmidt) stamps ink splotches into the paper rather than characters most of the time. However, this weekend it worked for the first time in 10 months! We didn’t change anything, it just had an extra cup of coffee or something.

The Digital Data Recorder, or the tape drive, has the most gremlins out of any of our units. The top handler works fairly well, but the bottom handler won’t properly read data, write data, move the tape forward, initialize the tape, or any number of other issues.

There’s more but hopefully this satisfies your curiosity.

Fun stories? Well, I can’t name any specific ones, but I can say it’s a very endearing machine. It’s the very last of its kind and being one of three individuals in the world responsible for it makes every issue that more frustrating. There is no real forum for it, the subject matter experts sit next to me and are often just as exasperated as I am.

But the unique nature of this situation make every successful diagnostic test that much sweeter. Every new addition (5.25” floppy drive via serial) that much cooler. I have an IBM PC-XT clone at home, but I thank my lucky stars every day that this big iron is what I get to specialize in.

As for more photos, I have none that are as grandiose as you would probably expect. I do have my working photos though. I took all my photos when I first started working on it and now I am more dedicated to fixes than photo-ops.

This is a photo of our finicky Kleinshmidt teletype. Still has blotches but it actually printed!

This is the back of the bottom handler. Pictured is the vacuum pump in the bottom left (so sudden stops just yank magnetic tape slack rather than ripping tape). The big cylinder in the center is a motor for running the magnetic tape handler itself. The big black ‘hose’ of wires coming out of the steel plate contains all the cables that come right off the handler’s head for reading and writing data!

This is the forward pinch roller of the bottom handler. It was replaced after this photo was taken as you can see the rubber has deteriorated in the 55 years this machine has been operating.

As for being allowed to post photos, that’s not an issue. The last 1219 was decommissioned in 2014 and now you can find all of its documentation online at http://www.bitsavers.org/pdf/univac/military/1219/

[adafruit]

🎄💾🗓️ Day 11: Retrocomputing Advent Calendar - The SEL 840A🎄💾🗓️

Systems Engineering Laboratories (SEL) introduced the SEL 840A in 1965. This is a deep cut folks, buckle in. It was designed as a high-performance, 24-bit general-purpose digital computer, particularly well-suited for scientific and industrial real-time applications.

Notable for using silicon monolithic integrated circuits and a modular architecture. Supported advanced computation with features like concurrent floating-point arithmetic via an optional Extended Arithmetic Unit (EAU), which allowed independent arithmetic processing in single or double precision. With a core memory cycle time of 1.75 microseconds and a capacity of up to 32,768 directly addressable words, the SEL 840A had impressive computational speed and versatility for its time.

Its instruction set covered arithmetic operations, branching, and program control. The computer had fairly robust I/O capabilities, supporting up to 128 input/output units and optional block transfer control for high-speed data movement. SEL 840A had real-time applications, such as data acquisition, industrial automation, and control systems, with features like multi-level priority interrupts and a real-time clock with millisecond resolution.

Software support included a FORTRAN IV compiler, mnemonic assembler, and a library of scientific subroutines, making it accessible for scientific and engineering use. The operator’s console provided immediate access to registers, control functions, and user interaction! Designed to be maintained, its modular design had serviceability you do often not see today, with swing-out circuit pages and accessible test points.

And here's a personal… personal computer history from Adafruit team member, Dan…

== The first computer I used was an SEL-840A, PDF:

I learned Fortran on it in eight grade, in 1970. It was at Oak Ridge National Laboratory, where my parents worked, and was used to take data from cyclotron experiments and perform calculations. I later patched the Fortran compiler on it to take single-quoted strings, like 'HELLO', in Fortran FORMAT statements, instead of having to use Hollerith counts, like 5HHELLO.

In 1971-1972, in high school, I used a PDP-10 (model KA10) timesharing system, run by BOCES LIRICS on Long Island, NY, while we were there for one year on an exchange.

This is the front panel of the actual computer I used. I worked at the computer center in the summer. I know the fellow in the picture: he was an older high school student at the time.

The first "personal" computers I used were Xerox Alto, Xerox Dorado, Xerox Dandelion (Xerox Star 8010), Apple Lisa, and Apple Mac, and an original IBM PC. Later I used DEC VAXstations.

Dan kinda wins the first computer contest if there was one… Have first computer memories? Post’em up in the comments, or post yours on socialz’ and tag them #firstcomputer #retrocomputing – See you back here tomorrow!

[grumpyeagleandfriends]

Vigil - Chapter 2

Summary: Using the genetic material extracted from Yusuf al-Kaysani and Nicolò di Genova, Dr. Metak Kozak initiates Project Eos as an attempt to artificially replicate immortality through forced human trials. Nine embryos are created, implanted, and birthed under controlled conditions. The experiments she conducts represent a grotesque evolution of Steven Merrick’s work.

When Copley first uncovers the program, Kozak’s records declare total failure. "Group Gamma yielded no viable candidates. All subjects compromised beyond analytical utility." But six weeks later, an anonymous lab technician leaks damning footage. There is a single surviving child, a three year-old male designated "IL-9" with confirmed cellular regeneration and disease resistance.

The team must address the danger this discovery represents. Nicky and Joe are confronted with a child created from their stolen blood.

A/N: A post-cannon story imagining the concept of a lab-generated immortal and how it affects the Guard. Could also be seen as an examination of parenthood. Mostly that, actually. Medical torture. Dr. Kozak is her own warning tbh. Child Abuse. Nicky is a doctor. Death. Immortal Parents. Hurt/Comfort. Illness. Blood. Angst.

Masterlist

05:02 AM. 01 Feb. 2025, Sheldwich, Kent County, United Kingdom.

The back guest bedroom quickly became their entire world. Behind the closed door, time moved differently. It was measured in the rustle of sheets each time Nicky checked over Ilyas, the creak of floorboards as Joe traveled between the ensuite bathroom and the bed, bringing a cool washcloth or a glass of water. Copley had prepared the space into a makeshift medical suite before their arrival: the small adjustable bed stood opposite Joe and Nicky’s shared bed, flanked by an IV stand and a glowing vitals monitor. They moved like synchronized ghosts, one always lingering near the bedside while the other stepped away to take moments to breathe: gulping frigid air in the garden, choking down meals at the kitchen sink, scrubbing themselves red under the shower as if they could wash away the memory of the hell they left behind.

Nicky's thumb brushed over the spot. This confirmed what the lab reports described, but it was something he felt the need to see for himself. Perfect, unbroken skin.

Stripped of his medical gown and dressed in soft, green and white cotton pajamas, Ilyas almost looked like any sleeping child—if not for the pulse oximeter clipped to his finger and the IV line taped to the inside of his elbow. Nicky had silenced the beeps of the vitals monitor to make the room feel less clinical, routing all alerts to his phone instead. It was doubtful that Ilyas was ever allowed much quality rest at the lab. With the heavy schedule of monitoring and testing, someone would have been coming into his room throughout all hours of the night. He fell into a heavy sleep the moment they got him settled in bed, his body in dire need of recuperation. 

While Ilyas slept, Nicky was able to perform additional tests. He fastened an elastic tourniquet around the arm not containing an IV. The boy didn’t stir once while he located a suitable vein and filled three small glass vials. The dark blood seeped out sluggishly, but he drew enough for a complete blood count, a metabolic panel, and a culture, neatly labeling each tube before setting them aside. Copley had a trusted contact who could analyze them and produce results in the same day. 

When Nicky withdrew the needle, he pressed a cotton ball to the small puncture wound in the crook of Ilyas' elbow. He held it there for only a handful of seconds before peeling it away to check the site. A bead of blood welled up, dark against the boy’s pale skin, but the tiny wound closed before his eyes. It wasn't instantaneous like his or Joe’s healing, but it was still too fast for any mortal. The skin smoothed over completely within seconds, leaving no trace of the needle’s entry. There was no bruise, net leftover mark. 

He exhaled slowly, carefully packing away his supplies. The quiet of the bedroom felt suddenly stiff, the weight of this discovery pressed down on his shoulders. Beyond these walls, life continued. He could hear the muffled sounds of movement down the hall, the creaking footsteps as the others moved through Copley's house.

The team had respected the unspoken boundary surrounding the back room. No one approached unless summoned, wanting to provide Nicky and Joe space to tend to their fragile new reality. But just outside, the rest of the house hummed with activity.

Booker set up camp in the living room, his face hidden behind his laptop screen as he scrolled through the new trove of files. They now had ten times the intel they had gathered before, each document more disturbing than the last. There were things he read in the first few hours that brought on a sharp wave of sickness, one he wouldn't be able to fully shake for days. He tried to set aside the worst of it, leaving the video files and clinical reports in a separate folder for Nicky and Joe. That information belonged to them first, and they should be the only ones with the power to decide if anyone else ever saw. Instead, he focused on combing through for names. This included every researcher, every access badge logged at the facility, and every pdf of signatures for financial contributions. He was scrupulous in the way he compiled the information, forming what would soon become a master list. All staff tied to the facility would need to be traced. There could be no exceptions. 

Only Nile moved freely between these separate worlds. She stocked the fridge with meals that could be reheated with one hand and stacked clean clothes outside the back bedroom's door. Once, after catching Joe’s empty stare in the kitchen, she risked taking a train to the city to buy books in Italian, Arabic, and English, even a few children's stories. With a limited selection of foreign language titles, she was unsure if her choices were even to their taste, but she felt better knowing that they would at least have options while they sat back there. The very next morning, if she happened to find Alif Laila and Il Piccolo Principe missing from the small pile, she didn’t mention it.

Copley worked methodically in the study, covering any lingering footprints from the raid, creating new false trails where he could. A cup of untouched tea sat perpetually beside him. 

Andy cleaned and sharpened her axe by the window, preparing the few tools she would need for the next job. She didn't pace, didn't open her mouth to speak. Because these were the moments when her stillness was far more dangerous than anything. She would leave for Kozak before the next day, and she would do so alone.

Nicky passed the hours by monitoring Ilyas' ragged breathing. The first night bled into a grey, sluggish morning, but by then, the IV fluids and several hours of rest had begun to take effect. The boy’s pulse felt steadier under Nicky’s fingertips and read better on the monitor, the rhythm no longer frantic or racing. Pressing on his nail beds revealed quicker capillary refill, the pink color returning in two seconds instead of six. His fever stubbornly remained at a low simmer, but thankfully didn't climb any higher. The waxy pallor of his cheeks had softened into something closer to life. Even his eyes seemed less sunken, the dark shadows beneath them visibly lighter.

Satisfied but cautious, Nicky adjusted the IV flow to a slower drip, then pressed a fresh cool cloth to the back of his neck. 

It was near noon when Ilyas finally stirred. His feet rustled beneath the blankets. Nicky and Joe were both there, hovering nearby. 

His long lashes fluttered before he immediately screwed his eyes shut again. Even the weak sunlight diffused through a layer of grey clouds proved to be too much for him. He turned into the pillow with a whimper, his body curling inward like a creature retreating. 

He gazed blearily at the man sitting near him. Watching. Unsure.

"Troppa luce." Nicky remarked, already reaching for the remote to close the automatic shades on the windows. There was the gentle whir as the blinds slid down over the expansive glass, casting the room in only the dim glow of a solitary lamp in the corner. (Too much light.)

Joe lowered himself onto the side of the bed. He didn’t rush, allowing the boy several moments to adjust to his presence before he lifted the washcloth from the back of his neck. He pressed his palm to his fevered skin, only switching to then check his forehead. Immediately, Ilyas stiffened at the touch, not entirely in fear, but as if he found the gesture strange. Joe wondered if anyone had ever done this for him. 

Joe’s hand smoothed down his back, leaning forward to try and better peer at his face. "Does your head hurt?"

A pause. A slow exhale. Then his lips parted—

"Yes."

It was just loud enough to be audible, his voice raspy from disuse. Even this small effort seemed to greatly tax his strength, as he now struggled to lift his eyelids with each slow blink. 

"Thank you for telling us.” Joe continued, watching the boy try to follow Nicky's movements with his eyes. 

Joe's breath caught, his mouth opened in hushed surprise. The word was hoarse but unmistakable. He glanced at Nicky, just for a second, and saw the same stunned realization in his eyes. They never imagined to hear him speak this soon. It was an outright revelation to their ears. Language meant comprehension. It meant that Ilyas could hear them—their reassurances, their apologies, their quiet debates over his care. It meant that he wasn’t lost.

“Yeah?” Joe replied in a soft breath, managing the faintest smile. His hand moved to wrap around Ilyas’ fingers, his thumb smoothing over his knuckles. “Okay, let us fix that."

He turned to look at Nicky, who was already administering another dose of fentanyl through the IV bag's medication port. 

He didn't seem alarmed for the moment to be in this strange place, surrounded by two men he didn't know. Fatigue looked to be winning out against any fear or uncertainty he might have felt. His eyelids were loosing the battle to remain open. 

"Sleep a little more. It's alright." Joe encouraged him, squeezing his hand one last time before letting go.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

01:57 AM. 02 Feb. 2025, Sheldwich, Kent County, United Kingdom.

The kitchen was quiet, lit only by the washed out glow of the stove's range hood light. The clock on the wall ticked past midnight, but Joe was still awake, moving on autopilot as he rummaged through the fridge for something—anything, really—to eat. He couldn't remember having any appetite since before they were gathered into Copley's study two days ago, but his body was now stubbornly demanding fuel. His limbs trembled with each movement, the acid in his stomach burned for something to consume. He grabbed the first edible thing within reach, cold fried chicken left forgotten on a chipped plate, quickly tearing into it with his teeth. The grease smeared across his fingers, but to him it tasted of nothing. He felt too tired to sit, too wired to sleep. The last forty-eight hours had been a blur of violence and terror and that small, fragile body carried in his arms.

Over the course of nine centuries, he had seen and held many dying children, in plague houses, in famine ravaged villages, in the ruins of bombed out cities. But he had never held someone whose suffering had been so carefully designed. Joe knew now that this what disturbed him the most in this entire ordeal. Even if he refused to ever read them, he knew the lab's files explained how each action was meticulously measured and plotted. How nine engineered human lives were reduced to mere data points, made to be harvested until they broke.

In such a short amount of time, the name had managed to settle naturally into their life. Joe couldn't imagine the child being called anything else now, so much the soft syllables suited him. Earlier that day, while he and Nicky bathed him with a sponge at the sink, Joe had repeated it aloud more than once, making sure the exhausted boy met his eyes each time. It might have seemed foolish to an outsider, this insistence, but Joe needed him to understand that this name was his. Because he still feared, deep down, that it might be the only thing they would ever be able to give him.

And so Joe forced himself to think of any other distraction—about what else he could find to eat, if maybe there was something sweet he could take back to Nicky, if the broth simmering on the stove for Ilyas needed checking. 

Ilyas.

Just as he lifted the lid of the stock pot, there were footsteps.

Andy stood in the doorway, dressed to leave—black jacket half-zipped, unlaced boots shoved onto her feet. Joe spotted her axe tucked into the sitar case by the door. The incongruity of it was almost comical, one of their oldest tricks, the kind of thing that would have made him smirk under different circumstances. A packed bag was slung over one of Andy's shoulders. She froze when she saw him, her expression flickering. There was brief surprise, then resignation. She hadn’t anticipated anyone to still be awake. 

For a moment, they just looked at each other. Of everyone in the house that could have walked in, Joe was glad it was her. Andy wouldn’t hover with pity or prod him with gentle, suffocating questions. 

She crossed to the table and dropped into a chair, yanking the laces of her boots tight with sharp, practiced tugs.

Joe leaned against the counter, arms folded. “Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, though they both knew that it wasn't really a question.

Andy’s fingers paused. “You neither, apparently.”

He sighed, short nails scraping through his beard. “Nicky’s with him. I just…needed air.”

She nodded, like that made perfect sense. Then, after a beat, “How is he?”

No one had asked yet. No one had dared, but this was Andy. In her six millennia of life, she had burned every bush anyone ever tried to beat around.

Joe’s shoulders drooped. He rubbed at the back of his neck, the muscles there stiff and begging for him to go lie down.

“Thankfully, he's still sleeping." The words came out clipped, factual, like if he said them fast enough, they couldn't possibly harm him on the way out. "He’s sick. We don’t know with what. He will need fluids for the next day or so. He’s—" His throat tightened, "—too thin. Can't grip my hand. Can't lift his head. We know that he's in pain, but he can't tell us much.” 

To his absolute relief, Andy didn't press. She just listened, her silence ever a solid thing. 

“We named him." Joe added quietly. "Ilyas.”

That made her glance up. “Yeah?” A faint crease formed between her brows. It wasn't disapproval, but rather something like recognition.

“Yeah.” He let his hand hover only a few centimeters from the top of the stock pot, the steam warming his palm and fingers. “Nicky chose. Said he should have something symbolic.”

Andy’s mouth twitched. Knowing, almost fond. “Sounds like him.”

Joe nodded. He didn’t feel like mentioning the second name, how Nicolò had spilled from his lips in the van without hardly any thought or pause. Because there simply were no words for the why of it, for what exactly compelled him to make sure Ilyas carried something from the man he loved. Some blessings required no explanation, because some intentions were too sacred to put into words.

He watched her finish fastening the laces on each boot, then the familiar way she tested both heels against the kitchen tile. 

“Where are you going, boss?”

She let one hand rest flat on the kitchen table as she looked at him. 

"To handle something that can’t wait.”

He knew. Of course he knew. But his breath still caught, just for a second.

Kozak.

The name idled there in the silence, sharp and acrid.

Joe's rings bit into the flesh of his fingers as his hands flexed. Every cell in his body screamed—fuck, needed—for him to suit up and follow her. To hunt, to carve his own hurt into that woman's throat and see for himself when she took her last breath. Because he knew the restlessness he felt would only ease once she was erased from the earth for what she had done. Not just to him, but to Nicky, to a child who flinched at every touch and didn't understand being held.

But he couldn't. 

And Joe knew with devout certainty that Nicky would want to do the same for his own reasons, but he couldn't either.

Their place was here, in this house, watching over that little boy in the back bedroom who didn't yet know who they were to him.

Andy rose. For a moment, she adjusted the strap of the bag slung over her shoulder. He caught a gleam of something unspoken in her eyes before she was quickly bridging the space between them. Her gaze held Joe's as she reached up to cup his face. He blinked and she was suddenly pulling him against her. The stiffness in his body temporarily gave way. He allowed himself to hide down against her shoulder, relishing the contact. Andy's hand found the back of his head, smoothing up his nape and tangling briefly into his curls before she pulled away, brushing a chaste kiss to his cheek.

She saw him and she knew.

He didn't beg. Didn't bargain. Just let the weight of his own debt press his feet deeper into the floor. Joe owed Andy so much, and for not the first time, he felt painfully young under her gaze. Helpless before her in the same way he and Nicky were nearly nine hundred years ago, stumbling together for days through the Cherkasy forest until they found her, Quynh, and Lykon. Desperate for direction and answers about this impossible existence forced upon them, most of which she could not give. 

Andy could read all of this in him. The same way now as she could back then, understanding all too well the need and weariness in his eyes. 

“I’ll see you when I get back.”

Joe didn't ask her to wait. Didn't say let me come. Though God knew how he wanted to. He gave the barest nod, the line of his jaw trembling with everything it cost him. 

The sitar case clicked open then shut. Andy didn't say anything more. She stalked out of the kitchen in the direction of Copley's entryway. The front door sighed on its hinges. She was gone. 

Alone now with the refrigerator's mechanical hum, Joe's shoulders dropped.

01:42 PM. 02 Feb. 2025, Sheldwich, Kent County, United Kingdom.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Nicky had been up before dawn, simmering bones in Copley’s too-pristine kitchen, filling the house with the rich, earthy scent of home-made chicken broth. It was the kind of thing mothers and grandmothers had prepared in the same manner for all of history—something meant to knit strength back into fragile bones. With all of the offerings in the modern age, this recipe had scarcely ever changed. 

The morning had been quiet, the kind of stillness that settles after several days of non-stop rain. Ilyas had slept through most of the first day, only briefly waking the times they changed his clothes and bathed him at the sink. 

Now, on the second day, Nicky was determined to get some kind of real food into him. He read in the files from the lab that there had been problems with feeding Ilyas even before the testing required to purposefully starve him. Ilyas often refused meals, with some notes describing him as "disinterested" and exhibiting a "failure to thrive"—Nicky balked at the very wording, as if his refusal to eat were due to some shortcoming and not a rational human response to a world that did not encourage him to live. On multiple occasions he was fitted with a feeding tube, and the reports mentioned four separate times where Ilyas ripped the tube out in frustration during the middle of the night.  

Nicky could have almost smiled at the idea of him causing trouble, but this was food, something essential and meant to be comforting. He could easily picture those small fingers clawing at the invasive thing in his nose, the silent rebellion of a body that refused to be force-fed. Any notions of pride he might have felt were chased away by his guilt, because he knew that defiance shouldn't have to be an act of desperation.

He didn't want to entertain the idea of feeding Ilyas sludge through a tube. His short life had been clinical and joyless for long enough. The boy deserved to taste good things and experience flavor, even if they needed to start with options that were light and mild. 

By afternoon, the painkillers had softened the sharp edges of Ilyas’s discomfort, leaving him drowsy but lucid enough to try. Nicky knelt beside the the small bed they’d set up for him, his voice a steady murmur.

"Vuoi mangiare? Hai fame?" He repeated the question in English, softer this time. "Are you hungry?" 

Ilyas blinked up at him, his gaze slow and unfocussed, as if the question itself was a foreign concept. 

Joe stepped in without hesitation, hands slipping beneath the boy’s body. "Come here, it's okay." he murmured, using great care to not lift his slight frame too quickly. It would have been an easy mistake, with how little he weighed. Nicky followed, attentively guiding the IV line, making sure nothing pulled or snagged.

Ilyas made a sudden, uncertain whine at the movement, his fingers twitching against Joe’s sleeve. He was alert enough to register that he was being transported somewhere for something, and this seemed to ignite his concern. His eyes struggled to follow the movement, to place where exactly he was being taken. 

Joe stilled at once, cradling him close. "Hey," He whispered, tipping his head downward so the boy could see his face. "Just moving you to the big bed for a little while. Nothing bad, I promise."

Nicky watched, struck silent, as Ilyas settled almost instantly at the sound of Joe's voice. Whether it was simply tone or the words themselves that reached him was unclear, but the tension bled from his small body before he could grow too upset. 

Carefully, slowly, Joe settled down onto the large mattress. He shifted to sit against the headboard, positioning Ilyas on his lap, letting him lean back into the solid warmth of his chest. His arms loosely bracketed him on either side, not to restrain, just to make sure he wouldn't fall. 

Nicky perched on the edge of the bed and took the steaming mug of broth from the nightstand. He cradled it between his palms, testing the heat, then dipped the spoon and lifted it toward Ilyas' mouth. The boy's head lolled away abruptly, his lips pressed together in protest. 

Undeterred, Nicky bent closer, trying to catch his eye. "Dai, solo un poccino." he coaxed. (C'mon, just a little bit.)

Joe’s thumb brushed the curve of Ilyas’ cheek. He spoke near the crown of his head, his voice easy and warm. "Nicky made this for you, habibi. Not for anyone else."

The endearment gave Nicky pause. He had watched Joe comfort enough frightened children and animals to fill several lifetimes, but something in the way he spoke to this one was different, and he couldn't quite name why. This seemed to come from a different part of him, born from a deeper emotion that neither of them would have been able to explain. 

Ilyas remained unconvinced. He eyed the mug with open suspicion, small hands flexing restlessly against Joe's arms. He would have pushed them away if he possessed the necessary strength. 

This was going to be slow work.

They would never dream of force feeding him, so they temporarily retreated. The spoon rested untouched against the side of the ceramic mug as their conversation drifted to unimportant things. They would needed to do more laundry soon. Someone should ask Booker or Nile to go buy proper bread from a bakery, because Joe wanted good toast. The rain would return by nightfall. 

Ilyas remained nestled against Joe's chest, listening to the sound of their voices over his head, no longer looking at the mug. 

Seizing the moment, Nicky coated only the back of the spoon, continuing to talk about the coming rain as he smoothly dabbed a single drop onto the boy’s lower lip. Ilyas blinked in temporary surprise, but the tip of his tongue instinctively darted forward. He immediately frowned once the taste registered, which was followed by a tiny, almost comical furrow of his brow.

They both pretended not to watch him too closely. He seemed to be pondering, taking a moment to examine this new flavor. 

After a moment, Nicky tried again, this time with half a spoonful. "Ancora?" (Again?)

A pause. Then, the faintest hum, something close to yes.

"Bravo, piccolo." Nicky breathed, praising him as he eagerly took the bite offered.

There was the soft thud of Joe's head tilting back against the padded headboard. He directed a blinding grin at the ceiling when the boy opened his mouth for a second spoonful. His laughter was gentle. 

"Another victory for Italian penicillin."

Nicky huffed, but his lips flicked upward into a faint smirk as he dipped the spoon once more.

Twelve.

They managed to feed him twelve mouthfuls of broth before fatigue set in. It wasn’t enough, not nearly, but this wasn’t about volume. It was the way Ilyas leaned forward when Nicky lifted the next bite to his mouth. It was about seeing him actually want for something.

By the end, Ilyas was already fading, his breaths deepening against Joe’s chest. Exhausted just by the simple act of eating.

Carefully, Joe took him back into his arms and carried him over to his small bed. He settled him down before tugging the blankets up to his thin shoulders. He lingered for a moment longer, smoothing a hand over the newly healed skin where the lab’s electrodes left his scalp raw. The oatmeal shampoo Nicky had insisted on must have helped. The irritation was gone, now leaving only stubbly regrowth.

When he straightened, Nicky was watching him. No words passed between them, but none were needed. The glance alone transmitted the weight of their shared determination.

Later. They would try again later.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

05:45 PM. 02 Feb. 2025, Sheldwich, Kent County, United Kingdom.

The doorframe was as far as Booker let himself go without permission.

He had timed this carefully, watching through the kitchen window as Joe's silhouette finally disappeared down the garden path with Nile and Copley. Their muffled voices faded into the early evening air, leaving only the faint click of the sliding glass door behind them. Nile had expertly finessed the situation, somehow convincing Joe to take his first proper break in nearly forty-eight hours. Booker owed her more than he could say.

The transformation in both men since they returned from the raid with the boy had been alarming. They had been holed up in that back bedroom for nearly two days now, only ever leaving to quickly grab food. Each time, their appearances gave everyone reason for concern. Both looked like phantoms of themselves, dark smudges beneath their eyes, beards growing unkempt, skin gone sallow from too many hours under artificial light.

Booker knew his role in all of this, and had no intention of ever forgetting his place in the chain of events. Even now, years after the betrayal, the weight of Merrick’s lab still pressed between his ribs like a malignant growth. Nicolò had forgiven him, yes, but forgiveness wasn’t the same as trust. And Yusuf's wounds ran undeniably deeper, the scars left behind still more visible. 

Booker's knuckles hovered an inch from the wood. They tapped softly. 

“C’est moi.” 

He kept his tone low, instinctively softening the words.

A pause. Then, Nicky responded, his voice rough with exhaustion. “Entra.”

He pushed the door open to a scene that wrung physical pangs from his heart.

The room was dark, save for a dim lamp illuminated in the far corner. Nicky sat slouched in an armchair, sock-covered feet propped on the edge of a narrow bed, laptop casting a pale blue glow over his unshaved face. But it was the small figure on the bed that made Booker's chest ache—a child sized mound beneath a knitted blue blanket, so still he might have been carved from stone. Clear plastic lines snaked from his arm to a gleaming  metal IV stand. Two bags hung suspended, one clear, one amber-tinted, their fluids dripping in silent tandem.

Christ.

Booker knew this tableau too well, the stoic watch over a child's sickbed. The paper thin skin. The shallow breaths. The way Nicky hovered nearby, standing guard against a threat that had already breached the door. He had lived this before. He had been in this exact position, years ago, watching his own son war through the rise and fall of his chest. Being in this room suddenly felt wrong for a myriad of reasons, but he couldn't back away, couldn't bring himself to leave just yet. 

"How's he doing?" Booker kept his voice hushed, nodding toward the small shape swallowed by blankets.

"Stable." Nicky didn’t glance up as he spoke. “He's fighting a bacterial infection, but it's taking Copley's biologist contacts some time to identify the strain. He's on antibiotics for now.” He tapped the laptop's trackpad, scrolling through files labeled with the lab's insignia. “I've been looking through the last two months of reports to try and understand what they did. But there are gaps in the files...”

Booker watched him rub at the bridge of his nose, his eyes squeezing shut for a beat.

“Come in properly, libretto.”

Booker's hand came to rest on the winged back of the chair, he shifted his weight, the floor creaking beneath him. He gestured to the laptop, his voice carefully neutral. "There’s another folder you should see. With video files—hundreds of them."

The door clicked shut behind him after he crossed the threshold. He moved further into the room, keeping a respectful distance from the bed, choosing to stand near the armchair where Nicky sat. 

"What have you been reading?" He gently demanded, eyes glancing at the screen of Nicky's laptop. "The logs some of the resident physicians kept aren't the most consistent." 

Kozak had implemented a certain turnover schedule amongst staff, partially to protect the core of her findings and to assure that no single individual held a complete picture, but this was also to prevent anyone from developing empathy or attachment towards the subjects. She was a sadist by every clinical definition, but no fool. She understood the risks of using young children, the emotional element that this could raise for others wasn't one she felt personally, but she knew it could be dangerous to her work. 

Nicky nodded admittingly. "No. So I've been looking elsewhere, but now that we have so much information, it's slower work." 

Nicky’s fingers stilled on the trackpad. "Of what specifically?"

"Every test, every procedure, starting from the beginning all the way to this past month." Booker swallowed. "I didn’t watch. But the filenames are timestamped. I think they started to use video more than written logs towards the end. They're less subject to individual interpretation."

"Video is fact." A muscle jumped in Nicky’s jaw as he spoke. Booker recognized the look on his face—knew all too well his silent brand of anger.

"Nico..." He hesitated. The question 'how are you holding up?' died on his tongue. He knew the answer. Knew the way days bled together at a sickbed, the way food lost taste, the way the world narrowed to medication schedules and sponging fevered foreheads. He had sat exactly where Nicky sat now. The experience gutted him from the inside out.

"You should eat first." He insisted. "Sleep maybe, too. Even if just for an hour."

Nicky’s gaze flicked to Ilyas, to the slow rise and fall of the blanket. "After."

His voice wasn’t sharp, just final. He double clicked a file labeled: IL9_CoreStressTest_12.01.25.mov.

The screen filled with sterile white tiles. A metal table. Small limbs strapped down with nylon cuffs.

Booker turned away before the muted video played. He didn’t need to see to know what came next. The silence between them thickened, broken only by the hum of the laptop fan.

Then—

"Thank you." Nicky said quietly. "For finding all of this."

"Shh, è tutto a posto..." The soothing words spilled automatically as Nicky reached out, his knuckles brushing down the boy's flushed cheek. (Shh, everything's okay...)

Booker nodded, his throat tight. He knew what the gratitude would cost him. He knew that Nicky would torture himself by watching every second of footage. He wished with everything that he could stop him. 

A thin, pierced sound interrupted the quiet of the bedroom. Not quite a cry, but the vulnerable whimper of a child hovering just between sleep and wakefulness. The small bundle in the bed shifted restlessly. Dark eyes struggled to blink the dimly lit room into focus. The boy looked to be searching for something, for some sort of anchor. 

Nicky sat up, setting the laptop aside. He left the chair, moving to crouch down by the small bed. The child shifted against the blankets, this time followed by a whine. 

Pain. Booker could tell from the pitch alone. 

The heat radiating from the small body was alarming even before he covered the child's forehead with his palm. His mouth tightened into a grim line as he grabbed the thermometer from the nightstand, gently inserting the sensor into one tiny ear.

Nicky frowned at the reading. The fever had spiked again. Worse. 

He asked the boy if he wanted to drink. He brought a straw to his lips, patiently waited, but the child only turned his face away, a weak "no..." leaving him. 

Nicky glanced over his shoulder. “A cloth. Cold.”

Booker moved to the ensuite, wetting a washcloth under the tap. When he returned, Nicky took it without a word, folding the material around the back of the the boy's neck.

"Sono qui, Ilyas." Nicky murmured to him. "Close your eyes now. I'll stay with you.” (I'm here, Ilyas.)

His eyelashes fluttered momentarily before shutting. He remained curled on his side, toward the man continuing to speak quiet comforts, who continued to watch patiently until sleep took him under once more. 

Booker’s gaze lingered on the child, even after Nicky stood and returned to the armchair. He caught the name that had gently floated out—one he had never read anywhere in the files.

“Ilyas?”

“Yes, that's his name.” Nicky's voice softened, just for a moment. If he hadn’t been so drained, he might've worn the ghost of a smile.

“Elijah.” Booker repeated the Hebrew equivalent, approving.

Now that the boy, Ilyas, was asleep once more, his features were slack and calm, granting a clear view of his face. The resemblance was undeniable. Those were Joe's eyebrows, the same expressive arches that could convey entire conversations without words. The shape of his nostrils, the curve of his cheekbones, it was surprising to see how much of him was derived from their Yusuf. 

"Kid looks like Joe." Booker observed aloud before he could stop himself. 

Booker's eye caught a colorful book settled on the corner of the nightstand. Even in the soft light of the bedroom, he could make out the title—Il Piccolo Principe, it must have been one of the titles Nile picked up in London. Under lighter circumstances, he would have launched into playful banter about the merits of reading Le Petit Prince in the original language, continuing their two hundred year-old rivalry of France vs. Italy, but he knew his brother was not in the spirit. The fatigue weighing down his frame, the darkening of his pale green eyes, both robbed Booker of any desire to tease. 

This drew a hum of agreement from Nicky, who was settling the laptop back on his thighs. 

"Lucky for him." 

"Have you been reading to him?" He nodded to the volume on the nightstand. 

"You should. It's good for him." he offered, his voice rougher than he intended. He cleared his throat. "Even when you think he can't hear you. Especially then."

Nicky blinked momentarily before understanding. "Oh, yes." His hand smoothed through his own hair, pushing the unwashed strands back from his forehead. "We don't know if he likes it, but it's the only thing we can do other than let him lay there. Feeding him, bathing him—it all hurts and leaves him exhausted."

Booker had already stepped towards the door, but didn't yet reach for the knob. 

Nicky turned to look at him, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten.

"There was a scarlet fever outbreak when my oldest boy was about his age—" He paused, the old ache flaring momentarily in his chest. He could still recite much of Les Aventures de Télémaque from memory, just from how often he read the text to Philippe."—when they have fever like this, even when they're too sick to open their eyes, they still know your voice."

Booker met Nicky's gaze, willing him to understand. "It's not about the words right now. It's about him knowing you're both there."

Somewhere from the front of the house, out near the living room, Joe's voice could be heard. Booker only nodded once more at Nicky before his hand found the door handle. He quietly let himself out. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He had read the dry reports, studied the sterile photographs, but nothing could have compared to watching it unfold in real time. Nicky was once again confronted with how easily human beings could do deplorable things when convinced it was for science.

06:33 PM. 02 Feb. 2025, Sheldwich, Kent County, United Kingdom.

Nicky had spent the evening combing through the videos, forcing himself to witness a cruelty that might not match the scale of Jerusalem's massacres or Warsaw's ghettos, but still revealed the same fundamental truths. These were people who woke each morning, drank their coffee, and came to work specifically to torture a child. Who watched his body jerk in pain and noted it down with academic interest. Who looked past his abject terror so they could move on to the next test.

He wouldn’t be able to eat that evening. 

In one video, Ilyas appeared smaller. He was dressed in a pair of shorts, shivering beyond his control, being held down in a metal tub of ice water, his lips already tinged blue. A nurse strapped his wrists to the sides, while weights around his thighs and ankles worked to keep him submerged. Kozak’s voice, crisp and detached, narrated in the background, "Subject IL-9, hypothermia trial seven. Begin timer."

Nicky’s chin rested in his hand, his fingers pressed hard against his closed mouth. His eyes burned, but he didn’t blink.

He forced himself to click the next file.

The same room. Ilyas strapped to a chair, blindfolded, this time his tiny body looked rigid with fear. There was no IV attached to him, no visible form of sedation or anesthesia. His small voice piped up once, asking why he couldn't see, but no one answered him. A gloved hand forced his jaw apart, shoving in a plastic device to keep his mouth propped open. A scalpel flashed, then slowly approached the back of his throat—

Nicky slammed the laptop shut. He folded forward, buried his face in his hands like in prayer. He didn't move from that position. Not when the bedroom door creaked open. Not when Joe’s footsteps crossed the floor.

"Nicolò?"   His voice was too soft, too careful.

Joe lowered himself before the upholstered armchair, his hands sliding up the backs of Nicky's calves, stopping to rest on his knees.

He couldn't lift his eyes to meet him. Everything about his touch was warm and meant to comfort, but he only found it too cautious, too unbearably gentle.

"What's wrong?" Joe searched, his fingers moving to guide his hands away. 

Nicky only shook his head. There were no more words in him, nothing more to say that they hadn't shared between each other already. What was he to do? Allow Joe to watch the same inhuman filth? To what end? So they could both feel the same devastation?

"Non è niente." He muttered dismissively, straightening with mechanical effort. "È solo la stanchezza."  He shifted to the edge of the armchair, shoving the laptop behind him. (It's nothing. Just the fatigue.)

Joe's dark eyes gleamed as they took him in, assessing. He sat back on his heels, letting his hands fall away in surrender. 

“You should go out to the garden.” He urged, long fingers resting down at Nicky's ankles. "Five minutes, love. Just to breathe.”

"No." He shook his head with no small amount of finality, his voice thin and tired. He nodded towards Ilyas' resting form. "Not while his fever's still climbing. I'll just shower." 

Joe nodded in concession, moving back so Nicky could stand. 

He relieved Nicky from watch duty long enough for him to bathe and force down a glass of water. During the time Nicky was away under the spray of the shower, Joe's gaze drifted over to where Ilyas lay in the bed. He looked undeniably worse than he had that morning. Now even in sleep, his face was drawn taut, his small brow pinched with discomfort. He lay curled on his side like a shrimp, his posture unnaturally stiff and protective. It was true that the heat rolling off of his body was palpable, thickening the air in the room. Joe didn’t need to touch him to know that Nicky had been right, it was burning worse.

He positioned more cold washcloths on Ilyas' neck, chest, and forehead. Anything to help the IV cocktail of cefotaxime and acetaminophen coax his fever down. 

Nicky re-emerged from the shower not long after, his wet hair dampening the collar of his t-shirt. 

That evening, they remained together in the back bedroom.

Joe sat with one of the books Nile had graciously bought for them when she snuck away to London, Pirandello's Uno, nessuno e centomila. Joe had only wanted to briefly thank their little sister that afternoon for her thoughtfulness, but she ended up dragging him outside by the hand into the garden. Much like Nicky, he initially tried to refuse the break, but the forced reprieve had helped to clear his head. The cool air in his lungs made him feel more awake, the fallen wet leaves on the ground reminded him of walking through maple orchards in Canada. The positive memory had soothed his mind some, and Nile's grip on his hand had worked to ground him. 

He cracked open the paperback and began to softly read aloud in Italian, the melodic sound of his husband's language forming a small bridge in the isolated bedroom.  

Nicky allowed Joe's voice to wash over him, if only to seek a moment's worth of calm for himself. Fresh from his shower, with his thoughts now feeling slightly more coherent, he sank back into the armchair beside the bed and resumed his grim task. The laptop was balanced once more on his knees, the screen purposefully titled away from Joe, the volume muted. There were only a few files from the last month, so he reasoned that he wouldn't have much to work through. 

He selected the most recent of the videos, timestamped only one day before the raid. 

Nicky watched, motionless, as the screen showed a bird's eye view of Ilyas. He was lying naked on an exam table, curled tightly in the fetal position. He was strapped down with thick nylon restraints. A gloved hand poured red-brown antiseptic along the delicate curve of his spine. The boy didn’t struggle. Didn’t cry. Just stared blankly ahead, breathing in and out, as if he had long since learned that resistance was pointless.

With the volume cut, there wasn’t the background noise of Kozak’s voice narrating the procedure. The needle went in. Nicky’s own spine burned in phantom sympathy while he watched the plunger depress, some clear solution vanished into the space between Ilyas’ lower vertebrae. 

Subject IL-9, Trial Sequence 01 (Project Phase IV). Intrathecal administration of enhanced neisseria meningitidis, Strain version S-29. Expected symptom onset within 24 hours (fever, photophobia, muscular rigidity). Objectives are to (a) measure regenerative response while under septic duress and (b) observe if fatal pathogen exposure induces permanent death. Vitals stable at point of commencement. Observational period set to begin-

He minimized the video, clicking back into the maze of folders to pull up the corresponding chief resident’s notes. The files weren’t just organized by date. Kozak’s work was also segmented into the four project phases, cataloguing the perceived milestones in her research.

Nicky’s eyes narrowed as he skimmed through the report.

He didn’t finish reading.

In one fluid movement he was already on his feet, the chair’s legs scraping the floor. Ilyas lay curled on his side, the same position he had favored ever since they brought him home. The same position he had been forced into on that table.

Aversion to light. Headaches. Curled position. Fevers that spiked but never broke. 

Nicky knelt beside the bed, his hands steady despite the unease he felt. Carefully, he began to remove the washcloths Joe strategically placed over his body to help soothe his fever. He pressed two fingers to his pulse point, while simultaneously regarding the vitals monitor. Too fast. The skin beneath his touch still burned.

“Ilyas,” he murmured, shaking him gently. “Svegliati un momento.” (Ilyas, wake up for a moment.)

Ilyas stirred with a whimper, his lashes fluttering. It took three tries before his eyes opened, glassy with sleep and pain.

"It's okay, piccolo. I've got you." Nicky coaxed, helping the boy shift onto his back. Ilyas went rigid, a wounded noise catching in his throat as the movement pulled at tight muscles. 

Joe’s book snapped shut. He sat forward, now watching them. "What is it?"

Nicky didn’t answer.

He cupped either side of Ilyas’ face, his thumbs tracing circles into his temples. “Shh, let me see,” he whispered, before slowly, cautiously, attempting to guide the boy’s chin toward his chest.

Ilyas only screamed, his muscles too stiff to cooperate. 

It was a raw, shattered sound, one that likely traveled to the far ends of Copley's home. His small hands flexed at his sides before clawing at the sheets. His legs lifted off the mattress in a futile attempt to curl once more.

Nicky released him immediately. Ilyas turned away, gasping, trembling.

Nuchal rigidity.

Joe was on the floor beside them in an instant, his hand gripping Nicky’s elbow. “Nicky—” His voice was clipped and strained, torn between trust and protest.

How he didn't see the signs sooner would haunt Nicky for days to come. His attention remained fixed on Ilyas. He stooped, now curling over the whimpering boy.

“Shh, mi dispiace tanto, Ilyas." He murmured softly to him, just able to meet his glassy brown eyes as his hand cupped over his sweat damp nape. "Te lo prometto, è finito ora, niente più male.” (Shh, I’m so sorry, Ilyas. I promise you, it's over now, no more pain.)

“Nicky.” Joe tried again. His name clearly meant as a plea.

Finally, Nicky turned, meeting Joe's face that barely contained the silent demand of what are you doing.

"I know what this is." Nicky responded, never looking over his shoulder as he moved toward his supplies. He dug out an intranasal syringe prefilled with fentanyl, then shifted back over to Ilyas. With one hand he braced the boy's head and quickly fitted the nozzle of the syringe to his nostril, shushing him once more as he administered the two necessary doses. 

He paused to watch for a moment, verifying when Ilyas' pupils dilated in response. 

The bathroom's stone tile was cool under their feet, the air still thick with the damp heat of Nicky's shower. Joe positioned himself in the open doorway, body angled to keep Ilyas in sight while they spoke.  

He reached for him with a trembling hand, claiming his palm against his own. "Come with me." He stood, drawing them both upward, his grip insistent. 

Joe, confused and concerned, could only follow, because there was never any other option. He no longer remembered a time when his trust in this man didn't feel calcified into his very bones. His faith in Nicky had guided him safely to shelter and water underneath countless dark skies. Even now, with fear howling through him, he let himself be led. To question Nicolò now would be to doubt the very laws that governed the earth. 

Nicky swallowed hard. “They infected him.” he began, the words like ash in his mouth. “This is a strain of meningitis that they engineered. It’s—it’s meant to be resistant. Meant to kill him.”

Joe’s face remained a colorless mask as he nodded. His free hand rose, pressing to the column of his throat, rubbing as if something invisible constricted the area. 

“I need to perform a lumbar puncture tonight, so I can collect a sample of fluid from his spine.” Nicky continued, his voice numb. “I will need you to hold him.”

For a long moment, Joe didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

There was a moment of reflection that passed over them. Joe's gaze was fixed in the direction of where Ilyas slept

"Will it—" His voice cracked, but he caught himself. His teeth bit down on the inside of his cheek before he tried again. Slower. "How much will it hurt him?"

He glanced over to where the boy was resting. Even in the dim light, he could see how his gaunt face gleamed from perspiration. 

Nicky's expression softened, the underlying trepidation in the question pushing him to want to blurt reassurances, to say whatever he could to fix the insurmountable hurt in this situation for the both of them. But he would never insult Yusuf with empty comforts. He would never ask him to cross any sea without letting him plainly see the swell of the waves for himself. 

"I can sedate him enough so he stays calm. He'll be conscious, but he won't remember much after." He took a step toward Joe, watching how his eyes moved from Ilyas to meet his own. He was a man torn, wanting to simultaneously trust and protect, to question and defend. "I will numb the injection site completely. After that, he won't feel anything." 

Joe's hand dropped from his throat. He sagged against the doorframe, nodding down towards the tiles beneath them. He knew Nicky would never let this child suffer. He knew this implicitly. Yet the idea of using sedation and restraint gave him pause. After two fragile days of coaxing trust from Ilyas, would this feel like a betrayal to him? 

"I'll start the more aggressive course of antibiotics now, regardless." Nicky interjected. "But I have to do this, Joe. I need to know how far the infection has progressed." 

"Okay, yeah." The answer was quick, spoken softly but unwavering. "We'll do it tonight." 

Nicky's lips met his temple. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

07:17 PM. 02 Feb. 2025, Sheldwich, Kent County, United Kingdom.

Nicky went into the ensuite to thoroughly cleanse his hands. Before he began, he leaned over the sink, firmly splashing several handfuls of cold water onto his face. The brisk liquid worked to shock him back to the land of the living, back to the present. The act of meticulously cleansing his hands helped to re-center him. He remembered sitting side-by-side with Joe, centuries ago, in the courtyard of a mosque in what was then Constantinople. They were together at the ablution fountain to perform the purification before prayers. Nicky had begun to occasionally accompany Joe for this, at his gentle insistence. His sleep had been so disturbed during this period of their life, and Joe was convinced that performing the motions of prayer, of kneeling and opening one's self to the divine through perfected repetition would maybe help free him from his own mind. Find peace with me, Nicolò—he had urged him, many, many times. Ultimately, it hadn't been the communication with God that finally soothed him enough to rest again. It had been Yusuf's constant warmth, his infinite patience with an angry and disillusioned Catholic who wrongly believed that relief only came through penance and self flagellation. 

The work to prepare the bedroom for the procedure was hurried, but everything felt to Nicky like they were moving through water. Each step made him more aware of his fatigue, each time he remembered another item he needed, requiring another search around the poorly lit bedroom, his head seemed more disorganized. He set out what he would need, sterile blue drapes placed over their bed, another over the nightstand to act as a work table for his tools. He lined up the sealed spinal needle, iodine, vial of lidocaine, syringes and collection tubes. He stared at each item a dozen times, wanting to make sure there was nothing forgotten.

He had already administered low-doses of midazolam and ketamine through Ilyas' IV port. Joe remained seated near the bed, watching over him as the medication took effect, as his small body went lax with the sensation of floating. They had removed most of his clothing, leaving him in just a pair of shorts. 

It made him think what a merciful thing it was, that harm was able to be unlearned. 

Joe's hand found the back of his nape, supporting him, assuring that he wasn't jostled. He took the time to speak to him, mouth positioned near the shell of his ear. "Easy, small man."

Nicky stepped out of the bathroom donning blue surgical gloves, not the usual bare hands he normally prioritized when treating Ilyas. The boy had known so little touch that didn't come from sterile latex. They didn't want that to be his life anymore, but the procedure necessitated proper sanitization. 

He nodded once, signaling that he was ready. "You can move him over."

Joe turned from where he sat on the small bed's edge. Carefully, he peeled the blankets back, crouching to scoop Ilyas up from the mattress. The movement drew the first hushed noise from him. His head lolled against Joe's shoulder, his eyes dull and half-lidded. 

“Relax." He murmured. "I’m right here.”

Mindful of the IV tubing, he took the three short steps over to the larger bed and gently settled Ilyas onto the blue drape. The moment he made contact with the new surface, a fragmented mumble escaped him, not any sort of intelligible word, but a blend of protest and confusion. Joe let Nicky instruct him on how to position his body, tucking his knees up, bringing his thighs to meet his chest. 

The boy blinked drowsily, struggling to sharpen his surroundings, to make sense of how he was newly oriented. 

Without hesitation, Joe moved around the bed, climbing on from the opposite side so he could stretch out on his stomach. His head was now near Ilyas, his arms reaching out to hold him steady in the curled position. He cupped one palm around the back of Ilyas' shorn head, his blunt nails scratching at his scalp. 

Behind Ilyas, Nicky settled in, his face unreadable as he began to swab his back with a muddy orange iodine solution. He set the sponge aside and carefully drew a dose of lidocaine into a small syringe. 

Ilyas grimaced momentarily. Beneath the haze, there was a flash of fear that surfaced. Joe knew that he must be feeling the faint sting of the needle. His fingers spasmed against the drape before a soft gasp slipped free.

Ilyas' eyes tried to search the corner of his field of vision. Joe could feel the minute twitch of his head, instinct making him wish to turn. His hand held him in place, keeping him still.

"Hey." He dipped his chin, forcing the boy's bleary eyes to meet his. Their faces were only a few inches apart. "Look at me, okay? Only me." 

“You know,” Joe began, his thumb sweeping over the boy's brow, “when I was little, a few years older than you, but still little, I got stuck outside my house when I wasn’t supposed to be.” His lips quirked, pleased to see the boy's eyes on him. “It was late at night. I thought I could climb up a tree along the side wall like a thief in the stories. There was an open window that I thought maybe I could reach if I jumped, but I just got my shirt caught on one of the tree branches. I was stuck hanging in the air like laundry.”

Ilyas exhaled, the breath leaving him unsteadily. His gaze continued to cling to Joe's, even through the labored blinks of his eyelids. 

"I was with my cousin, Bilal. He tried to help, but he just threw rocks at me. I don't know whose foolish idea it was, his or mine, but I guess we thought it would knock me loose.” The memory forced a hushed laugh from him. “Of course it didn’t work. Just made me swing and one of the rocks nearly caught me in the eye. My uncle who lived next door woke up from all the noise. He came outside in his night clothes and found me up in the tree. Bilal ran away down the street to hide, leaving me there alone. My uncle found a ladder from one of the neighbors. And then—” His hand smoothed down Ilyas’ short hairs again, noting the velvet like texture. “Then I was in so much trouble. I think the entire village woke from my uncle's yelling, but I didn't care. I was just happy to be down from the blasted tree.”

"Almost done." Nicky's voice spoke from behind. 

"The next day," Joe continued, knowing they needed Ilyas' attention focused in the right direction until the end. "I found Bilal washing in the stream. For leaving me up in the tree, I stole his clothes and ran away as fast as I could. He had to walk home naked, and everyone was awake to see him. I mean everyone, habibi. The entire village." 

There was a quiet disapproving hum from Nicky. 

"—That wasn't very kind of you, Yusuf." 

Joe chuckled, the sound airy and warm from his chest. "No, it wasn't." He admitted, his grip on Ilyas readjusting, his chin still pressed against the mattress. "And I got in trouble yet again, but it was very funny." 

Ilyas gave no reaction to his anecdote, but this scarcely mattered. His brown eyes never strayed from his face, fixed there with a drowsy intensity. Even through the drug-addled haze, he was listening, or at least trying to listen. Maybe it was due to the sedation, but he seemed captivated just to have someone speak at length directly to him. They had little idea of his language level, but Joe couldn't help but wonder how much of the story he understood. Did he know what a ladder was? Or a stream? He made a note to tell him more stories, next time with some quickly drawn illustrations to help. 

"It's done." Nicky announced, shifting on his seat to back away, a collection vial held in one hand. 

Joe pushed up onto his elbows, his chest hovering over Ilyas so he could look. Other than the large iodine stain on the boy's lower back, there was nothing to see. His skin was left unmarked from the puncture, perfectly healed over. The needle had already been properly disposed of into the makeshift sharps receptacle Nicky made. A labeled glass tube containing cloudy liquid rested in his husband's gloved hand. From the set of his jaw, from the dip in his posture, Joe could see that whatever he found had already given him reason for concern. 

"Can I—" He cleared his throat, nodding to the curled boy between them. "—It's okay now if I pick him up?" 

The question pulled Nicky from his thoughts. His pale eyes lifted to settle on Joe's face. "Hm? Oh—sì, certo."

He didn't hesitate. Slowly, he coaxed Ilyas to uncurl from the tight fetal position, guiding his thighs away from his chest. Thankfully, the heavy medications used to sedate him kept most of the discomfort at bay, allowing them to move him more freely. Joe worked his hands underneath him, bending down to lift his body back into his arms.

Ilyas made a confused sort of gasp at the movement. His mouth parted to voice some sort of protest, but he fell silent the moment Joe shushed him. 

He stood cradling the boy beside the bed, watching as Nicky removed his gloves, then lifted away the blue drape to crumple it into a ball. 

"You did well, Ilyas. So well." Joe whispered down to him, swaying slightly on his feet. 

The bedroom door opened, and Nicky quietly disappeared down the dark hallway with the spinal fluid sample. He was off to deliver it to Copley, who would undoubtedly still be awake at this hour. It would be rushed out in the middle of the night to be anonymously analyzed by one of his contacts. They would have the results back before morning. 

Carefully, Joe settled himself onto the large bed, resting back against the headboard. He kept Ilyas in his arms, tucked against his chest. The boy's ear was pressed near his heartbeat, his eyes still open as he listened. The world likely felt strangely in motion for him, like the room was in permanent tilt while his body freely floated. His features twisted into a frown before he hid his face away, a shuddering sigh seeping from his lungs. 

They waited in the dark together for a stretch, knowing it wouldn't be long until Ilyas was properly out. The only sounds filling the room were the low, steady hum of Joe's voice and Ilyas' even breathing. With gentle encouragement, the boy finally managed to drift off. His slight weight went entirely slack.

Softly, Joe hummed a made up tune. The pad of his thumb traced lazily over the back of one of Ilyas' hands. Nicky returned not long after, joining him in their bed, their sides touching. 

"Dorme?" Nicky murmured in the dark, his large hand found the boy's slender ankle. No gloves now, just the skin of his bare palm, warm and slightly callused. (Is he sleeping?)

Joe glanced down, tilting his head to peer at the face smushed against his chest. "Almost."

“Tell me,” Joe said in a hushed whisper, switching purposefully to Arabic, a language he slipped into whenever he founds things to heavy.

Nicky understood him. He knew that he would demand to know the truth of things, to know exactly what kind of fate lay stretched before them. He was a poet, a romantic, an optimist, yes, but above all, he was someone who refused to look away.

He lifted his gaze, turning to fix his sights on Joe's face. His fingertips brushed his elbow just underneath Ilyas' still form. 

“This will only get worse before it gets better.” If it ever gets better. Nicky wanted to add, but he was patient. This conversation had only just begun. It would not be brief, nor would it be only a singular discussion. 

Joe exhaled through his nose. “How much worse?”

"—mettilo a letto."  (Put him to bed.)

It was a command, softened by the hand he brushed down the small leg draped over Joe's arm. They both needed to be entirely present for this, and the message passed clearly between them—first, set him down, then we talk.

The bed hardly moved as Joe delicately extracted himself. He carried Ilyas over to the small bed against the far wall, Nicky helping him cross over with the IV tubing. Gently, he deposited the boy back onto the soft mattress, only letting go when he was sure that Ilyas remained perfectly asleep. 

Once the blanket was smoothed back over his bare legs, Joe straightened and returned to their bed. Nicky remained motionless while he settled in beside him. His body's exhaustion was so pronounced, but sleep felt as if it would be impossible that evening.

"Meningitis moves quickly." He began slowly. "With his biology, I can't know exactly how it will be for him. Given the date of infection, any normal child would be much worse by now." His legs shifted, his knee bumping Joe's thigh. "But as this progresses, there will be constant fever, delirium, neurological decline—it will be ugly. And even if his body fights…” His throat tightened before he forced out the hardest truth. "I cannot guarantee how it will end for him."

A pause. The wind outside rattled the trees. Somewhere in the house, they could hear water running from a different bathroom.

"I'll do everything to help him, but-"

Joe found his hand in the dark, their fingers deliberately intertwined. “-this might come down to just keeping him comfortable." He finished. 

“Yes.”

"Then that's what we do." Joe answered, pulling Nicky's hand to rest on his thigh. "We give him dignity." 

Nicky’s hand curled firmly around his in need, so overwhelmed by his own fears and the desire to address this guilt that neither of them knew how to correct. His head dipped, his shoulders curled inward against a hurt that threatened to choke him. “I can’t do this here any longer, Joe. I won’t.” The confession fell from him like a severed limb.

Joe understood immediately. Copley’s house felt all wrong, too full of ghosts. His wife had passed within these walls, Booker's betrayal had taken root here. It was a museum to a life that had fractured, to a life that wasn't theirs. The high ceilings echoed. The floors were always too cold.

“Genoa, then.” 

Nicky nodded. Their home by the sea, with its sun-warmed tiles and the golden walls of their back spare bedroom. The bed was quite new, but the room itself had held numerous transient souls over the past century—refugees, allies, once even a wounded enemy soldier that Nicky had nursed back to health. It smelled of salt and rosemary and the lemon tree just outside the window.

“We’ll need supplies,” Nicky murmured. “Everything we have here and more. Stronger medications—”

“Copley can arrange this.” Joe reminded him. He was already pulling out his phone, reverifying the travel time by plane. “He can set us up with a private flight. No customs, no headaches.”

Nicky’s gaze flicked to Ilyas, he watched the way his eyelids fluttered. “It's important to do it soon. He'll be uncomfortable during the journey, but if we wait too long, it will only be more painful for him.”

Joe's voice was absolute. "Nico, you would never allow him to suffer. Know that I know this, please." 

“We’ve done this before.” Joe whispered. Not as a question or a reminder. Just a bare acknowledgement of the history they shared. 

Nicky's body leaned over in his direction, his head finding rest on his solid shoulder. Joe shifted beneath him, positioning their bodies so they were more reclined, lifting his arm so Nicky would fit against his side. They didn’t speak for a long moment, listening together to the rasp of Ilyas’ quiet breathing.

It was decided. They would tell Copley that evening. 

A shadow passed over Nicky, he stared blankly at the space just after the foot of the bed. It was true that they had both waited at various bedsides, had both held onto stiff hands while watching the light drain away from unseeing eyes.

“Yes. But never for a child.”

There lied the simple truth of it, the horrid core sitting firm and unmoving at the heart of everything. This could break them differently, potentially introducing a hurt that would rewrite them as people, changing the way they related to the world and the humanity inhabiting it.

Neither one knew what to say when faced with that. 

[madjosie]

Thorns and Roses | Bangchan (pt.1)

f!reader x detective!bangchan

Part two here

Note: mentions of drug and alcohol abuse, mentions of abuse, use of tobacco, detailed scenes of murder, mental illness

Words: 12k

-

The repeating flashing of red and blue lights in the distance jolted Christopher out of a long trance. For the entire twenty-minute ride, his mind was completely blank. His first murder investigation. His real chance to test his own ambition and knowledge he acquired over the long and hard years of college. But most importantly, to prove he didn’t get this job for nothing.

After finishing college and doing a couple of internships, his friend landed him a job at the local police investigation unit. At least that's what Changbin thought was the least he could do for his friend, who had gotten him through far more shit in life than he should have. Christopher and Changbin had been friends since the start of university and after realizing he failed his initial career path, Changbin encouraged Chris to try the justice system instead of his original choice of music. It was a hard decision for him to leave the thing he most loved behind, but Chris decided to follow his friend's words and got into criminology. On some nights he found himself dreading the decision, but his friend was always there to encourage him that the path he now found himself on was a real calling for him.

A few years later, the pair found themselves assigned to the same investigation. Changbin was well-loved within their unit, often described by coworkers as a witty chihuahua but also extremely hardworking, with a couple hundred cases behind him already. Christopher, on the other hand, had mixed reviews. Some thought he got the job just because of his friend, while others believed he had great potential, but not enough experience to be anything more than an assistant to Changbin. For the first month, his job was to act as a printer and coffee machine; nobody took him very seriously, including his boss. He thought maybe that was the process for everyone, that everyone had to go through the "maid phase" before getting assigned. He never spoke of it to Changbin, but he was already well aware of what was happening.

Upon arrival, a swarm of butterflies, or rather angered wasps, went crazy in Christopher’s stomach. Anxiety or excitement, he didn’t know. He came with the task of finding out how the crime happened, and he wasn’t going to let a few loose screws mess up his chance.

“Seems we’re a bit late,” the driver said, the buckles clicking as they frantically tried to take them off.

The scene was painted by flashing lights of cameras and police tape. To Chris, it resembled more a creepy movie set rather than an actual place. It was the middle of December, the cold air lay thick as two police officers made their way over to the two men. His companion Changbin mumbled curse words under his breath, rubbing his hands together frantically, trying to warm them up at least to comfortably greet the approaching officers.

“Evening, gentlemen.” One spoke, his breath painting shapes in the air.

“The forensics took the body for autopsy, feel free to head on over there.” The two investigators only nodded, the atmosphere seemingly not conducive to starting any conversation.

As they got closer, the scene became clearer. A plastic folder found its way into Christopher’s hands, his companion gesturing for him to flip through the pages.

“Only 26 years old?”

“Yep, and a quite successful businessman.”

His eyes turned upward to look at the rather underwhelming house. Maybe it was due to it being December and no flowers finding the strength to bloom under the thin coat of snow, or maybe it was due to the old musty doors and windows and an unkempt porch. Chris found the strength to let out a chuckle. “Sure seems like it.”

Changbin rubbed his temples. “Apparently his girlfriend was the last one to have contact with him, but she says that at the time of the murder she wasn’t even in town.”

“Is she in for questioning?”

“Yep, they got her in right now.”

Chris’s fingers traced along the glossy paper, outlining a few news reports of the man. He seemed to be quite a successful real estate agent. Ironic, considering he lived in what looked like a literal garbage truck.

Upon entering the house, Christopher’s stomach turned at the odor that hit him like a slap in the face. “Fucking shit.” Fortunately for him, he hadn't had the glory to inhale the lingering smell of a deceased body until now, which was now a shock to his gut. Taking a few seconds for his nervous system to calm down, his mind focused on the task. If he wanted a good reputation so badly, these kinds of things shouldn’t be an obstacle for him.

The suprisingly narrow hallway of the house led right to the living room, the floor and wall painted with crimson liquid. Trash decorated the floor along with evidence markers. Trying not to move anything around and make an even bigger mess, they made their way deeper into the house, the blinking of forensic cameras flashing every now and then.

“Forced entry?” Chris handed the folder back into Changbin’s hands. “No, we’re assuming the killer had a key,” one of the remaining police officers informed, bowing her head to both of them.

The red liquid that outlined the body stood in the living room, but the trail led farther out. It seemed that the conflict started in the kitchen and proceeded to the living room. Changbin left Christopher’s side, occupied with his own brainstorming. Chris took a better look at the evidence marked with the yellow plastic. Bloody shoe prints, knocked over chairs, the kitchen utensils untouched. The killer either brought their own weapon or took the one from here with them. Flipping through a few more pages of the folder, it seemed that the footprints belonged to the victim. No found fingerprints, no DNA left anywhere. Making his way to the backyard of the house, Chris was greeted with a fresh thin layer of snow.

“How long has he been dead for?” Maybe if it hadn’t been long, he could find footprints or any type of trail. It hadn’t snowed a lot these past days, so if it happened at least two days ago— “Four days,” Changbin was heard from the bathroom, making Chris sigh in frustration and shut the back door with a loud thud. He leaned his back against the kitchen counter as his eyes fell on the small dining table in the middle of the room.

A splash of purple caught his attention from his peripheral vision. A small bouquet of purple flowers covered in glitter was thrown in the corner of the kitchen counter, barely visible because of the microwave.

“Seems like he did have a good relationship with his girlfriend,” Changbin followed his companion's gaze. “There’s no sign of struggle in the bathroom.”

For some reason, Chris decided to pull out his phone. With a quick tap and a 'click' sound, he captured the lonely pile of now long dead roses.

Time flew by, and by the 60-minute mark, they decided to call it a day. Nothing new was found except for the small sign of affection thrown away in the kitchen. The only thing they could do was wait for the analysis of the evidence found and the autopsy results to reach their hands.

-

3:37 AM blinked on the clock. No sign of sleep.

Chris usually had a very hard time falling asleep, being prescribed sleeping medicine ever since he got into college. His body seemed to prefer the nocturnal lifestyle. Chris rubbed his eyes, turning in his bed for the twelfth time in the past half-hour. “God fucking dammit.”

His feet hit the cold apartment floor. Step by step, he made his way to the balcony. The lights of the city drew warm shapes on the white snowy canvas, but the city had never felt this cold. With a deep sigh, he took a seat on a not-so-stable wooden chair, pulling out a box of tobacco that had been squished in the back of his pocket for the whole day. He knew it was a bad habit, and at some point in life, he might even regret it, but for his mind, it was the only option. Putting on one of his own tunes in the background, he looked over at the city, focusing on making shapes with the clouds and lights rather than the running worries.

He knew he should be extremely grateful for how far he had come, but the feeling of a missed opportunity never left his tough head. Is this even his real calling? Maybe he should have pursued music when he said he wanted to? Maybe he should have stayed on the path he started on when he got to university? Maybe it’s not his coworkers but him? His own performance? Instead of waiting for work, should he have gotten up and demanded it?

A loud groan left the deepest pit of his throat as his head fell in a desperate attempt to quiet down the most annoying and loud part of his brain. He felt as if the engines in his brain had been working for a year without stopping, and he was a minute away from overheating and shutting down. He felt a pair of eyes looking at him, his gaze spiking up immediately.

His eyes met with a girl’s. Her face was defined by only a couple of shadows from the old streetlights. Her expression seemed startled and puzzled; he could only make out the shadow of her softly curled jawline and her long hair. It seemed like she was carrying some bags with her.

“You scared me, are you okay?” Her voice was sudden, a soft melodic vibration merging out of the darkness. To Chris, her voice had become one with the now soft jazz melody playing on his phone. “Sorry. I burned myself with the cigarette.” He awkwardly chuckled as he pulled up the almost-done cigarette to show her. Probably not the most attractive thing a guy could have said for an excuse. Seemed like the only logical option, he was not going to vent to a random stranger at 3AM about how his life choices made him miserable.

She awkwardly laughed with raised eyebrows and nodded, shifting on her feet before taking a quick step, trying to escape making this conversation far more awkward than it is by now. Before he could say anything more, she sent a quick wave to the weird shirtless man on the balcony, disappearing away from the orange street lights, back into the darkness. 

-

With a huff of relief, she set down the two bags in front of the shop’s entrance. Fiddling through the pockets of her cardigan sweater, she caught hold of a flower-shaped keychain with a pink ice cream cone glued to it. Her own work of craft.

The bell of the small shop rang as the door pushed it, usually signaling an incoming customer, but now signaling her despair and urgency. “Okay, three hours to finish it, it’s enough time.” She breathed out in a desperate attempt to calm her nerves.

She autonomously set down one bag on the counter of her work place, while the other got chucked into a big wooden box that was hidden under a broken piece of wooden flooring.

She doesn't really remember when she got the habit of doing that, or what kind of materials are even in there, but she still liked to keep them in case she ran out of something in the middle of crafting.

The pickup was scheduled for 7 AM, and did she completely forget about it and sleep through the whole afternoon and half of the night? Yes. Were an angry bride and a ruined wedding on her bucket list for this month? No.

Who the hell even has a wedding in the middle of cold December?

Her worktable, usually filled with colorful ribbons and glitters, was now covered in various shades of white, gold, and pink. Placing every flower in its designated place, not one should be even an inch off. In her mind, every misplaced glitter particle could be seen, every wrong shade diamond could ruin the whole piece, every miscolored petal could completely destroy the bouquet. She was a skilled artist, and flowers were her medium, her self-defense of choice.

Flowers could make everything pretty. Even the saddest lawn with a few daisies turns into a cozy backyard. Flowers even make funerals beautiful. It’s a sign of life. But they won’t bloom in the wrong conditions. They need sun and water to grow, to become beautiful; otherwise, they rot and become one with the ground, the ground they grew from. When you plant a flower, you have to look after it, just like a mother and father look after their children. Feed them and watch them grow into a person.

Roses hold a special place in her heart. The symbol of love, affection, and life. But roses come with thorns, and what do you do with those thorns? Thorns are there to protect the beauty of the rose, and if you touch them, they hurt you. Then what do you do with them? You remove them from the rose and throw them away.

-

The clock struck 7:48 AM, and the bell this time signaled a customer. A late customer, nothing new.

"Pick up for Watson," a friendly voice sang from behind the counter. Adriana emerged from the colorful beads in the doorway of her little workshop, greeting back in the same cheerful tone.

"Here you go, I hope the bride likes it." She handed over the carefully crafted bouquet of white roses and transvaal daisies, decorated with various ribbons and glitters.

"Oh my god, she will love it. Thank you again."

The cheerful woman exited the store, leaving only the faint sound of the TV to set the ambiance in the store.

Winter was always slow in the shop. Not many people find snow and harsh winds perfect for holding outside weddings or birthdays, hell even funerals get rescheduled. But, of course that is not always guaranteed, such as today. For these kinds of situations she decided that maybe it was worth it to stay open during winter.

The calm atmosphere was cut short by the ringing of Adriana's phone, her favorite song indicating that someone was trying to reach her. She picked it up and swiped the green button across the screen. "Hello?"

"Adriana, can you please come over? Some shit happened. I was at the police station until now—"

"Lila?"

"I came home last night, I didn't even enter the house and-"

"Wait, Lila, slow down. Where are you?"

The voice on the other line stopped to take a breath. "I'm at my apartment. Please come over. Jaehyun was found dead last night."

-

The apartment complex suddenly filled with the sound of hard footsteps. Moments later, Adriana found herself wrapping her arms tightly around her best friend, whose cries were quick to be muffled by Adriana's cardigan. In this moment of despair, Adriana didn't know how to feel; she usually kept her emotions very well under control, but now, they ran wild.

She didn't like Lila's boyfriend at all. The history between them only made Adriana's body boil with anger rather than happiness for the couple, and for all the right reasons. But seeing Lila break down in her arms naturally put all of that aside, how could she focus on anything else but tightly wrapping her arms around her.

“The police questioned me the whole fucking morning. They think I did it,” Lila managed to say between sobs.

“Oh, fuck,” Adriana broke the hug, her face painted with disbelief. She couldn’t grasp the accusation of her sweet best friend killing a human being, the amount of monstrous venom that needs to run through your veins to take the life of another living and breathing being. Lila was completely incapable of such an act.

Lila’s voice grew louder, filled with desperation. “I didn’t do it, I swear. I was out of fucking town. How the hell could they accuse me of that?” The cries got louder as Adriana’s comforting became more and more useless.

“Listen, I know you were out of town. We even texted about it.” She took Lila’s hands in hers. “I’ll be the witness for your alibi. I know you didn’t do it, Lila. We will print out the texts that you sent me and give them to the police. You’re gonna be okay Lila.”

The room eventually quieted down as Lila caught her breath, nodding in confirmation at Adriana's words. Only a faint ‘thank you’ could be heard from Lila before she got pulled into a hug once more.

Her boyfriend Jaehyun was a pretty sketchy guy. Adriana didn’t know much about him, except for the fact that he was a pure asshole towards Lila, and that he had a history of abusing drugs. Great combination.

Adriana was convinced the drugs led to his aggressive behavior. On multiple occasions she tried to sit down with Lila and convince her to break things off with him, but that just erupted an argument between the two girls. She didn’t want their friendship to end, so she stopped trying and only offered a shoulder to cry on when incidents with him happened. On couple of occasions he even threatened Adriana, which spiked an unfamiliar feeling within her. A feeling that she could maybe be the last page of his book, and the first chapter of Lila’s new life, but choosing morals, Adriana deleted the text and never mentioned it to Lila.

-

The cafeteria was filled with the bustling sounds of plates and chattering, every group occupying their own little table much like a high school cafeteria. Chris took slow bites of his now cold and tasteless mashed potatoes while the two men in front of him argued about something he didn't pay much attention to. It was amusing enough for him to just watch them bicker.

“Yeah, but if you leave it on for 10 then you're basically eating a rock.”

“I didn't say 10, I said 7. Are you even listening? Who the fuck boils eggs for 10 minutes?” Hyunjin spoke while pulling on Changbin's ear.

Changbin was quick to react to that, slapping Hyunjin's hand away. “Ay, you can't do that to your senior.”

Chris, on the other hand, stayed quiet, chuckling to himself at the two grown men pushing and pulling at each other’s nerves. One thing about Hyunjin that Chris valued the most was his sense of self. Nobody could tell that man anything; he followed his own path. Even though his main occupation was to nitpick at rotten dead bodies and analyze bloody weapons, he still didn't throw away his love for art. That man painted day and night, no matter how much his job as a forensic tired him out.

Their laughter was cut short by the appearance of a usual, grumpy face. “Christopher, I need you in the interrogation room. You too,” Hank pointed at Chris then briefly at Changbin.

The two men shot the long-haired boy an apologetic look while standing up from the plastic cafeteria chairs.

“We will finish this discussion later,” Changbin whispered under his breath to Hyunjin before the long-haired man was left alone to finish his lunch.

“We have a witness for Miss Bennett. You need to make a formal report of it and add it to the record. Christopher I believe you have the skills to do atleast that, right?”

He couldn’t say no to Hank, he was already terrified of him as it is. This was the first time their boss directly gave a task to him, and it felt like a huge responsibility to take it, and most importantly, do it right.

Hank handed a stack of papers to Changbin, shooting a polite smile to both of them, or more like a threatening one as it seemed.

“You’ve done this before right?” Changbin turned to look at the dumbfounded boy in front of him, raising an eyebrow at his expression.

“Twice,” Chris nodded. “I think.”

Picking out a couple of papers, Changbin handed them to Christopher, before grabbing him by his shoulders and turning him towards the big black doors. The words interrogation room bolded above a small frosted window.

He stood on the other side of a one-way mirror, awaiting the sign that he could seat himself on the chairs that stood on the other side of the reflective glass. He didn't really know what to expect; he didn't even have questions formed in his head yet, but with a few nudges and looks from Changbin his nerves let loose for at least a second or two.

To Chris, it felt like not even a second had passed before he was sitting in a pretty uncomfortable chair. His fingers fiddled with the rims of the pages of a series of notes in front of him. He was well aware the conversation was being recorded, and he for sure didn't want to have any mistakes on his record.

Just take a deep breath and stop being a bitch.

He heard the door of the interrogation room open. Three quiet "good mornings" were exchanged, but he was too anxious to look up at the women now sitting across from him. He finally pulled his gaze up, first catching a glimpse of the uniform of a police officer in the corner of the room, then at a strangely familiar pair of eyes.

Chris cleared his throat before speaking, “Good morning, ladies. Today is the 7th of December 2023, 11:05AM. Please state your names and relations to the victim for the record.”

As they spoke, he pulled out a blank piece of paper, writing down the date in the corner as he waited for them to voice out their names.

“Lila Bennett.”

“Adriana Lee.”

The man in front of them felt his breath stop for a second, the voice of the woman echoing through his ears, reminding him of a jazz melody. His eyes looked up at her, the woman calmly awaiting for the witnessing to continue. His eyes traced the familiar outline of her jawline.

“And your relations to the victim,” he cleared his throat once more, desperately trying to get the clump of anxiety out of it. He barely even spoke to her last night, but now that he sees her in the clear light instead of the streetlamp lighting, he's finding it hard to organize his thoughts.

“Girlfriend.”

“Lila's friend.”

“Okay, and miss Lee you are here to comfirm the alibi of miss Bennet on the night of the murder, December 6th, 2023?”

The woman in front of him just nodded.

“Correct?”

“Yes.” The jazz-like voice spoke up again.

“Can you confirm the location of miss Bennet of the night of the murder?”

“Yes, she had previously announced to me that she had a business trip to attend from the 4th to the 6th of December. She even sent me photos of the trip.”

“Mhm, and where were you off to, Miss Bennett?”

“I told you already, I was on a business trip to New York.” Lila's voice broke. Adriana could tell that the police weren't on her side at all with this. Hell, they are probably too lazy to even do any real investigation and just want to get it over with. She took her hand under the table, squeezing it tightly.

“I told you, I have proof she was there,” Adriana spoke to the man. “I can show you, I have them printed out.”

She reached for her bag, pulling out five printed photos of their chats from the last few days. Christopher's eyes scanned the text, noticing the photos were sent at the right time. He put the photos over the stack of papers on the table.

His attention turned from Lila to Adriana. “And can you please confirm where you were on the night of the murder?”

“I was at home sleeping. At around 3AM, I had to urgently get up to run some errands for my shop.”

Chris just nodded at the reply. “I can confirm that.”

Adriana's brows furrowed in confusion, trying to recall if she came in contact with anybody last night. She was so occupied with running to the store to finish that damn bouquet and by the lack of sleep for the whole entire morning that digging for any more information in her brain felt like trying to find a needle in a haystack. Maybe she didn't hear him right.

“Oh, the shirtless guy.” Her mouth formed an 'O' shape, her finger pointing at him.

His ears perked up at the response. He loudly cleared his throat before continuing. “Alright, and when did miss Bennet arrive back from New York?”

“It should be in the text.” Lila spoke up before Adriana could get a word out.

“You didn’t text me, you called me in the morning.” The other girl whispered to Lila. The hand holding hers suddenly getting sweaty.

The man in front of them eyed them both, switching his gaze from the girl on the left, to the girl on the right. His gaze seemed to stop at hers.

“I told you, I called the police as soon as I got home and saw him lying ther-“

“Please, sir. You even saw me on my way to the shop. You were on the balcony, I remember-“

With a swift motion, Chris got up from his chair, gathering all the papers and binders from the table. “Okay, the hearing is done. I will send the photos for further investigation. Have a great day, ladies.” He barely even finished the sentence before he was already out the door.

“The fuck was that, Chris? You could have asked so many more questions.” Changbin exclaimed, his tone not very angry but rather just confused and laced with dissapointment. He knew Chris never acted weird unless something was bothering him, but he couldn't really guess what was happening to him. He had a simple job of asking a few questions and writing down the answers on a piece of paper.

“We have enough evidence with this. Just send it over and rule her out.”

Dropping the few papers in Changbin's hands, Chris decided to return to the cafeteria, hoping at least Hyunjin was still there.

-

For the third time this month, a man has been found dead in his home. Autopsies reveal that all three victims showed signs of struggle, but unfortunately, no murder weapons or significant clues have been found. The crimes are still under investigation, and we are currently awaiting new information. We kindly ask all citizens if they have any information about the victims or possible suspects, to please contact the number below or the local police department. On the further note, authorities recommend keeping homes locked at all times. I am Tina Mitchell with ABC News—

The monotone voice of the news anchor was quickly cut short by Lila turning off the TV. Adriana sighed, her hands handling the hot glue gun with precision.

“Do you think they're all connected?” Lila questioned, rolling a plastic diamond between her fingers before sticking it onto the fresh layer of glue on the decorative paper. The two had been in the shop for the past couple of hours, sipping tea and trying to shift their minds to anything but the last few days, but to no avail. Every channel they turned to, every video they watched, every radio channel they tuned into—everyone talked about the murders of these three men. Knowing the topic hurt Lila, Adriana never thought of bringing it up first, but if Lila brought it up, she was more than willing to continue the conversation. Adriana, to some extent, understood her but a big part of her also didn't. Jaehyun was abusive, and as crazy as it was to admit to herself, Adriana was happy that the man finally had no way to control and harass her. He was a pretty rich and put-together guy on the outside, but when the covers lifted, he was actually a raging psycho, or in Adriana's words—a devil that should have never walked this earth. Every time he broke Lila into pieces, Adriana was the one gluing them all back together.

“Could be. There are no weapons found in any of them.”

A moment of silence fell between the two. Adriana’s eyes briefly caught Lila’s fingertips picking at the skin of her hands. “I told you to stop doing that.”

“Do you think Jaehyun deserved it?”

Tears brimmed in Lila's eyes, but she tried her best not to cry. In her mind, she thought her best friend had suffered enough because of her, and that her crying again would just set them back. Her friend worked so hard to try to make her feel better, cooking her meals when she couldn’t, cleaning her apartment, letting her cry in her arms.

“Do you want the honest answer?”

“Yes.”

“I do.”

A tear managed to escape Lila’s eye before she could wipe it with the hem of her sweater.

“Lila, he abused you, you are finally free from that.” By her words, Lila seemed to be letting her tears fall more freely.

“I know it hurts, but it was for the better, no matter how heartless it sounds.”

Lila knew Adriana wasn’t the best person to feel remorse for such people, but she couldn’t deny that her best friend’s words did pull at the strings of her heart. She took one more deep breath, finally wiping the last tear off her soft cheek.

Finally, a sob escaped her lips “But it hurts,”

“I know honey, its going to hurt until you tell yourself it doesn’t.”

The girls exchanged a quick tight hug, and a quick smile before turning their attention back to the peals and stems surrounding their table.

The cheerful bell of the store rang as footsteps echoed through the store.

“Good afternoon, welcome to Petal Paradise, how can I—” Lila's sad voice quickly changed by the cheerful customer voice, but it suddenly stopped without a warning, alerting Adriana in the back of the workshop. “How can I help you?” Lila finished in a quiet, almost unhealable voice.

“Oh hello, we didn't know this was your shop.” The shorter man spoke in a soft tone, trying not to alarm Lila by their appearance. “Oh this is not my—”

“Hello, how can I help you?” Adriana took her usual position behind the counter, staring at the two familiar men. The appearance of them sent a protective signal in her mind, quickly pulling her best friend behind her, hiding her behind her own body.

“We're not here because of the investigation, he just wanted to—”

“I saw the arrangements on your display, so I wanted to buy my date a nice bouquet. We don't mean to cause you inconvenience.” Changbin butted in the middle of Chan's speech. Both girls visibly relaxed at the statement.

“What style of bouquet are you looking for?”

Adriana’s words were still laced with caughtion, but she knew she should act towards them like she would to any other customer. Maybe it was a better idea for Lila to come to her shop another day. Seems like this would only bring more trouble on her already weak heart.

“Ermm...” The shorter man rubbed his chin while his eyes scanned all the displayed bouquets, ranging from sunflowers to roses to tulips in all different styles and colors. “This one.” He pointed at the one hanging near the TV. A rich pink and red bouquet with silver ribbons and small pink angels glued to the wrapping. The tulips of various colors hugged each other, making their colors resemble a pink sunrise.

“The tulip one?” Lila spoke up, finally finding the courage to look at the man that she had been pushing and pulling with for the past week.

Still after the confirmance of the alibi, she was still up for questioning for a couple of times before they finally decided to drop her as a suspect from the case. The man who mostly interrogated her was the one who was now standing in front of her, taking interest in the work of her own hands and mind.

Lila quickly made her appearance right in front of Changbin, eager to inspect his wishes for the boquet, much like he questioned her, except this was a much more lighthearted discussion for Lila’s mind.

Lila wasn't a full-time worker at Adriana's shop, but trying to be a good friend, she often hopped in to help Adriana during busy hours. Over time, Lila started to catch a grip on it. In bad moments, the two girls would find themselves covered in glue and glitter, smelling like a Lush bath bomb. Adriana noticed Lila's talent, so she decided to display some of her works in the shop, and Lila couldn't be more proud of them.

To her best friend’s surprise, she visibly got rid of all of her fear and dread by the mention of her own little bouqet.

After a minute of debating, the two found their way to the back of the workshop to discuss futher about the decorations.

“Very romantic for a first date.” Adriana chuckled, looking up at the brown-haired man in front of her as she typed in her register, the only thing making her feel at a safe distance from the man in front of her.

“He sure is.” He nodded in agreement. “Oh, I'm Christopher. I think it would be time to finally formally tell you my name.” His hand found itself reaching out to her.

Adriana hesitated before her eyes fell on the growing pink color on his nose. The faint dimple showed on his cheek as his eyes formed creases while he politely smiled

She took his hand into hers, giving it a few shakes. “Adriana. You're the weird shirtless guy, and the detective.”

He let out a laugh as he let go of her hand, nodding his head. “Don't know about the shirtless guy part.” He chuckled once more, rubbing his nose, resulting in the soft color rushing back once more. “Sorry about that, I was having a rough night.”

“No need to apologize to me. You burned yourself.” Adriana turned on her heel, walking to the outside of the counter and plopping herself on a fluffy emerald green couch placed in the corner of the shop. “You can come sit while we wait on those two.”

The pair found themselves in comfortable silence as they waited. Given that the couch wasn't very big, their knees often bumped into each other, causing a fit of quiet 'excuse me's' and 'I'm sorry's'.

In hopes of trying to avoid another awkward memory in the making, the pair found their focus shifting to the small pastel pink radio and the classical music that was coming from it.

“Enemies to lovers. Joshua Kyan Alampour?” He questioned.

“You listen to classical music?”

“Not really, I just know Clair de Lune and this one.” He chuckled. “I’m more of a rap guy, i'd say.”

“Oh, wow,” Adriana nodded, trying not to erupt in laughter by his awful attempt to strike a comfortable conversation. No way he is an actual interrogator. “I don’t think rap would be suitable for this kind of place.”

“Oh definetley not, stick to classical.”

Adriana was biting her lip, trying not to let the bubbling pit of laughter burst out of her, while on the other hand Chris was trying not to bang his head on the nearest coffee table.

Finally, the moments of despair ended, and Lila and Changbin emerged from the colorful door decorations.

“I'm so glad you like it. Have fun on your date.” Lila exclaimed as Adriana joined to greet them out.

“See you around.” Chris turned to send one of those dimpled smiles again, and with the sudden restriction of the possibility to form a functional sentence, Adriana just smiled and nodded goodbye.

-

The cold winter streets got washed by a wave of rain and wind. The sound of it hitting the ground accompanied by the sound of police sirens and curious groups of neighbours, set the atmosphere of that night. Fourth victim this month. Same settings as always. No forced entry, no sign of any murder weapons, no hopes of Chris ever growing in his bosse's eyes. The police investigation unit had been putting the last few cases as priorities, thinking that maybe this was all a connected act. An act of greed for money, or maybe just pure jealousy, or even just raging partners. The team got called out for yet another eary hour investigation, making Chris curse everyone and anyone that was in charge of distributing cases. He finally managed for once to fall asleep without taking his medication.

The house where the new homocide took place looked monotone as usual, making Chris feel like he got teleported back to the first time he even went on these types of investigations. The floor beneath their feet creaked as groups of forensics and investigators and police hoarded the house, sending comments to eachother every once in a while in hopes of puzzling up a convincing story, but to no avail. Leads were impossible to find and as minutes passed the atmosphere at the crime scene indicated more and more that the only thing they agreed upon that the past few incidents were calculated and connected.

„Do you think somebody was hired to do this?“ A tall man in a white hazard suit spoke up, the suit crincling as he put his hands on his hips.

„Why would anyone spend that much money to kill people like this?“ Changbin answered Hyunjin, widening his arms to point at the state of the house. As usual, the house wasn't very well kept. With empty bottles and various kinds of trash littering the, what seemed like once was, a very light and spacious living room.

Hyunjin shrugged his shoulders. „Debt maybe?“

„Could be, they all seemed to be quite successful at some points in their life. Don't know how that could turn into this.“

A faint sound of moving chairs and the closing and opening of doors could be heard in the background. Hyunjin and Chanbing didn't think to look at the man, figuring he had something mapped out in his mind and that it was best to leave him to it.

„Do you have any connections to the victims?“

Nobody has really came foward about these men. They have gotten a few calls from former employees or from ex-friends, but nothing to make the story significantly change. The girlfriend of the last victim has been ruled out long ago, leaving the case pretty much cold, and by the pace they were going with, it seems like the remaining three ones will end up just the same.

The autopsy report was also long due, looking at the fact that the first body has been sent in for inspection almost a month ago. Without the reports they was nothing they could really do, not knowing the weapon used and not having found one at the crime scenes.

The tensions in the department were heating up. Chris has been assigned to the case for a few weeks now, and by the looks of it, and by the looks that his boss sends his way, he was not in for a good time. Could he potentially be fired? Probably not. Changbin would not let get Chris fired in any book, but was there a chance of him getting landed just heavy paperwork and coffee stains. Very much possible.

The man now inspecting the kitchen floors has working the hardest he had ever been, not even a single peck of dust going unnoticed, and most certanly, not even a small purple petel that had suddenly caught his attention.

It was squished between the cracks of the musty beige tiles of the kitchen floor, leaving some purple pigment smeared across the cold tiles. The glitters from it seemed to be speckled everywhere, from the tiles, all the way leading up to the dining table. It couldn't be that this one tiny thing travelled so far and left such a trail. Chris dug through an archive of memories, trying to remember where exactly he saw that sparkle once before. He twisted the small petal, delicate and vibrant, between his gloved fingertips. It was a dark shade of purple, with a subtle light gradient towards the area where it once used to be connected with the stem.

With a quick whip of his phone, his fingers glided through various apps trying to find the one that would revive his memory, and not long after, a picture of a chucked boquet at an old kitchen counter stood before him.

„I might have found something.“ Chris's voice was finally heard from the next door room, alerting both Changbin and Hyunjin. Soon enough, the suited man found himself next to the investigator, analyzing the small flower remain after snatching it from the investigator at the speed of light. „It's just a rose.“

Leaning over the two men to take a look at the new found item, Changbin cimmed in. „How the hell will that lead to anything?“

„Remember the real estate agent guy, from like a week ago? We saw the same type of flower at his own kitchen. See?“ Chris flashed up his phone of the same flower he took, trigerring a not very amused look on his partner's face.

Changbin wasn't really having any of it, wile on the other hand Hyunjin was  quite intrigued by what Chris had to say. After all the pushing and pullin they might have actually found some type of clue that could help them progress, and not spin in circles.

„Wow congradulations, now we can show the jury that if you buy a bouqet of purple roses that look like a unicorn shit on them you might end up getting slashed by the throat.“

Couple of scoffs were heard. „Come on Changbin, don't be an ass. It could really mean something.“ Hyunjin spoke up.

„How the fuck do we go from here, we follow the glitter trail into a fairy killer's house?“ It was visible to the both men that the last couple of weeks took a toll on Changbin aswell. Everyone expected a lot from him and he expected a lot from himself. „Oh or even better, maybe we should send it to the lab to wait another fucking month, and have Hank bickering above my head for the whole week like a fucking seagull.“

Hyunjin sighed once more as his fingers found their way to rub his temples. „You're such a dick these days.“ And with that, Hyunjin left the two men in the kitchen of the crime scene. Changbin knew he was, but the frustrations came over him like an avalanche.

„I know someone I can ask.“ Was the last thing Changbin heard before he was left by himself, surrounded by the familiar yellow markers and a nausious mix of chemicals.

-

The heavy sounds were muffled by melodic beats, ringing in the ears. Thousands of voices tried to pick the right from wrong, creating a cacophony that drowned out any lost hopes of peace. Thoughts collided, creating a storm too powerful, turning the once melodic rhythmic beats uneven. The storm overcame and swallowed any last bit of clarity. The trees that once grew in the palace of a beautiful mind, planted and left to grow, twisted and turned out of their roots, swallowed by the heart of the storm. One by one, they disappeared.

Eyes shifted from one crimson puddle to another, the scenery resembling a collision of two rivers. The rivers twisted and turned around the room, colors blending with numerous shades of gray, consuming any vibrant speck. Making sense of the surroundings was almost impossible. The body moved on its own, while the mind struggled against a force that wanted total control. This force ordered the body to pick up anything that could potentially give it away, anything that could lead to the destruction of the little paradise the force had created for itself.

Each step was driven by an unseen compulsion, an urgency to erase traces, to cover tracks that could lead to exposure. The air felt thick with tension, every breath heavy with the weight of the task at hand. The rhythmic beats grew more erratic, mirroring the turmoil within. Shadows danced on the walls, fleeting glimpses of a reality that seemed just out of reach.

There was no room for error. The voice echoed, layered, each letter bouncing off the walls. After the final order, it stopped. The limb that once snuffed out the burning candle of life caught a velvety texture. The royal purple splash of vibrance found itself consumed by the crimson river.

-

The morning was greeted by the sun after the last night's storm, creating a rainbow here and there in the light blue sky. It wasn't a busy morning, so Adriana chose to take it slow and not bombard herself with tasks like she usually did when opening the store. With the ring of a bell, she left the colorful little building and headed over to a small coffee shop right across the street.

"One coffee with milk, please."

The young girl behind the counter flashed Adriana a smile accompanied by a nod. Adriana took a seat in a booth near a window overlooking her store, her eyes darting towards the once snow-covered street. The smell of sweet pastries and brewing coffee calmed her mind. For some reason, her body seemed more tense than usual today, maybe due to a lack of sleep or the stress circulating for the past few weeks.

Closing her eyes, she tried to shake away the chills, but to no avail. A dreading feeling had found a home in the back of her mind. Her body felt dirty, and her mind felt even worse. She dug deep into her memory to find the cause but couldn't even remember coming home. The last thing she recalled was going for a couple of drinks with Lila and her friend at the downtown bar, but that was way before the storm even started, yet somehow, she could still feel the wind and rain hitting her skin. Could it be—no. She would never let that happen again, drunk or sober.

The face of her father flashed before her eyes. The feeling of his fingertips brushing against her bare skin, and that stupid smile as he looked at her with every emotion but the one a loving father should have for his daughter.

Her eyes abruptly opened as her name was called. She quickly gathered her stuff from the booth table and made her way to the counter where two coffee cups were sitting. She reached for the wallet in her purse, counting out the loose change to give to the cashier.

"How much for the both?"

Her head turned to look at the voice behind her, and her eyes met with a familiar pair of light brown orbs.

"Chris?" Her brows shot up at the sight of him. "4.40 for the two coffees."

He flashed her a smile before handing a bill to the cashier. "I went to look for you at the store, then I saw you from the window. I was hoping I could have a chat with you."

"Yeah, sure."

Adriana must admit it was a pleasurable shock to see Chris in front of her, but something told her she wasn't in for a sweet chit-chat. With goodbyes exchanged with the cashier, they exited the sweet-scented coffee shop and made their way to the building across. They both set their belongings on the emerald green couch, the couch where Chris felt his legs were going to give up on him last time he sat there. He knew he had to stay professional today, even though he really wished he had an excuse to talk to her about anything but the cases he was assigned to.

He didn't understand why, but the pure sight of her made some type of feeling wash over him, a feeling of his chest tightening and his brain getting foggy. He must admit to himself that he felt very pathetic to be experiencing this in the presence of a person he saw only three times, two of them being completely awkward, and the third being purely professional. It was like he couldn't help himself but be completely drawn to her. Maybe it was her long chestnut hair, or her piercing eyes that seemed to hold as much wisdom as they did mystery. He couldn't really put his finger on it, but he had to snap out of it. He was talking to her for a reason.

"We can sit and chat here. I usually drink my morning coffee here anyways." She led him through the back door to a tiny porch. It was pretty hidden off, a line of big trees and bushes creating a tall fence around the small garden of the store. On the wooden floor sat a tiny light wood table with two foldable chairs overlooking a row of clay pots waiting to be planted with colorful flowers. The garden was quite lively for this time of year, a few winter-thriving plants occupying their space along with the birds that found their home here.

A tiny greenhouse sat in the corner. He figured that's where she grew most of the flowers she used for her crafts.They placed their coffee cups on the table before a comfortable silence took over for a minute.

It felt absurd to Adriana to let a random man sit with her and drink coffee in her place of peace, but unlike with most strangers, she felt quite comfortable with him. It was odd to her rather than alarming. She was always cautious and observant around strangers; she had to be.

"It's quite chilly," he said, breaking the silence. He took a short sip of his coffee before rubbing his hands together.

"Much less than last night."

"Right, I got called to investigate while it was going on." His lips pressed against the paper cup to take another sip. "Barely came home alive."

A chuckle fell out of Adriana's lips as she took a sip from her own. "Now imagine that but you're drunk and in heels."

A small fit of laughs erupted from both of them. "Who the hell thinks of going out in that weather?"

"Wasn't my choice. Lila needed some company. I wasn't gonna turn her down." She shrugged her shoulders, letting out a breath she didn't even know she was holding.

"How is she holding on?"

"She was fine until the funeral. Now she's back at the beginning, it seems."

Chris nodded. He knew it took a long time to get over such a death, especially if it was a close person, but it felt weird how Adriana talked about it with such ease. Surely, they were close. He was her best friend's boyfriend.

"I'm sorry we couldn't come back with any clues. The body was found with a slash over the throat, nothing more nothing less. We asked left and right, and nobody could recall seeing anybody."

She just nodded, not a word escaping her mouth.

She felt weird talking about it, or rather listening. It's not that she felt much dread about the death at this point, but the atmosphere in the air didn't seem to sit right. She waited for him to speak up again, but he didn't. Soon they fell into the same silence once more.

The once excitement to be talking to Christopher turned into pure anxiety, to an extent even fear. She knew he didn't come here for no reason and she anxiously waited for him to bring it up, but he didn't.

She looked over at him. He seemed to be lost in his mind, focused on something. He didn't notice her gaze shift onto him, so she took the chance to admire his features. A voice in her head seemed to be screaming at her to stop, to resist the urge, that it was no use to fall into these feelings, that he's going to hurt her just like the way the man closest to her did. That he is capable of the things both her father and Jaehyun did. But despite the effort, she still focused on the way his brows knit together in thought, and the way his rosy lips puckered out, chapped from the cold and harsh winds.

In her mind, he represented danger. Not the kind of danger she was looking out for in a man, but the kind of danger that seemed to turn off all her sensors. His presence was like the polar opposite of what she was used to. The presence he held was calm, comforting, so intoxicating to her mind.

"How often do you sell those roses?"

Her head snapped toward the direction he was looking.

"Which ones?"

"The purple ones." His eyes seemed to be set on a bush of dark purple roses inside the greenhouse.

"Not very often, I mostly grow them for my own pleasure."

A hum escaped his throat, his eyes not moving even an inch from the dark flowers. "You like them?"

"Do you recall the last time you sold or gave them to someone?"

"I'm not sure. I removed them from the display in the shop not long ago, so probably before then."

"How long ago?"

"Are you interrogating me?"

The sudden change of her tone caused him to finally look away from them, and rather set his eyes on hers. Her gaze seemed to stiffen and her eyebrows furrowed in defense. With another sip of his almost cold coffee, he reached for the phone in his pocket.

"I found this at all of the crime scenes, including the one last night."

A series of pictures of dark petals submerged in a thick red liquid were shown on his phone. Most were just petals, but the one that caught most of Adriana's attention was a bouquet. A sparkly bouquet with dark brown wrapping, words "I miss you" written out in cursive with red ink.

She felt her breath being caught up in her throat. The sight of it sent a painful sensation in her gut, almost like a sharp knife piercing through her. Her vision got blurry as a wave of tears threatened to fall onto the lit-up screen. "No, no, I—"

"I'm not saying that you're the culprit, I just want to know if you recall who you sold these to last." His voice was awfully calm, like trying to calm down a crying child.

Her voice broke as she spoke up. "I made those for my mom last. I took them down after that. I swear to God I'm not the one who did it. I saw those men barely once in my life—"

"You know them?"

She stood still for a second, rewinding her own words, before fully letting the tears slide down her cheeks. To Christopher's surprise, his suspicion of her didn't grow. Instead, his eyes softened at the sight of the girl in front of him. Her cheeks flushed red as her tears fell each second at a more rapid rate, coating her eyelashes with the salty liquid.

"How do you know them?"

He tried to choose his words carefully. He never imagined being in a situation like this with anyone, let alone with her. With every approach he calculated in his mind, he felt like there was nothing he could do to minimize her tears, yet he still tried to soften his voice the best he could.

"I saw them with my dad in meetings sometimes, mostly when I was little. They were all a bunch of scumbags, rich people trying to become richer." Her voice suddenly changed, laced with bitterness.

"Could I perhaps get in contact with your dad or mom then?"

A couple of moments that felt like hours passed before she stood up from her seat, almost knocking down the now cold and unfinished beverage. She slid the glass back door open and entered the store, her heavy and obviously angry footsteps fading away.

He knew he had messed up badly. It was a dumb mistake to pursue this line of questioning alone. He should have brought Changbin with him, someone with more experience. Doing outside work without his boss knowing could easily lead to being fired.

The sound of footsteps grew louder, but he didn't dare to look up, fearing he'd be met with either a slap in the face or with those bright, glossy eyes that tugged at his heartstrings.

"Here is my mom," a voice said.

Chris finally looked up, his eyes widening at the sight before him.

Forever in our memory, Anita Lee. 1979-2022.

"The dad is at the graveyard, search for the name Leon."

-

"Isn't it weird though?" Changbin sat on the edge of the table, eyeing Chris who remained motionless, the only sound in the room the tapping of a pencil on the armrest of Chris's chair.

"Those damn flowers don't grow at this time of year, and she told you herself that she made the bouquet," Changbin continued, frustration creeping into his voice as Chris remained unresponsive.

With a heavy sigh, Changbin slid off the table. "Should I talk to her?"

"No," Chris replied curtly.

"Oh, come on now," Changbin exclaimed, throwing his hands up in frustration.

Chris knew the aftermath if the word got out within the unit that he had spoken to Adriana privately. Someone was bound to draw a connection between her and the murders, and just the thought of it sent a chill down his spine. Part of him feared it might be possible, but another part, the emotional part, screamed that she couldn't possibly be capable of such acts. She seemed so... harmless.

"A young girl that works at a flower shop kills four men in their own homes with no forced entry, and no murder weapon. You sound stupid, Bin," Chris muttered, rubbing his temples.

"You're the one being stupid, firstly by going to talk to her before informing anybody, and secondly by being so fucking oblivious," Changbin retorted, pacing in circles around Chris's desk.

Chris sighed, realizing Changbin wasn't going to drop the topic easily. Changbin finally stopped pacing and pulled a chair from a nearby desk, positioning it in front of Chris.

"How about this. I don't tell anyone about your little private investigation, and you let me come with you," Changbin proposed, leaning forward with a serious expression.

"No chance," Chris replied firmly.

Without another word, Changbin stormed off towards Hank's office, clearly intent on taking matters into his own hands, or better yet, to force Chris into submission.

Chris scrambled to his feet, hurrying after Changbin. "Wait, hold on."

Changbin stopped abruptly, turning to face Chris with a raised eyebrow.

"I could use the backup," Chris admitted reluctantly.

Changbin smirked at the response he knew he was going to get either way. "I knew you'd surrender so easily.”

-

„Adriana. Adriana what the fuck?“ A loud and terrified voice screamed, but there was nobody in sight.

Silence.

„Adriana please, you're scaring me.“ There it is again, louder this time.

„Lila?“

„Adriana please, put that down.“ Louder. She knows too much.

„Wake up, please.“ Louder. She is going to give us away.

„I beg you, please.“ You have the rose in your bag. Just kill her already.

Silence.

„What the absolute fuck is wrong with you?“ A voice screamed, as the scene in front finally cleared.

Lila stood in front of her, a completley unreadable expression plastered on her face. It was like a mix of terror and relief in one. She looked around. Lila's kitchen?

„What the fuck?“

„Yeah, what the fuck is right. Put that shit down.“

Only when Lila grabed the object from her hand, she realised what she was holding.

„When the fuck did you get the idea to sleepwalk into my fucking kitchen and start banging your head, with a fucking knife in your hand?“ Lila's screams got louder than before, clearly fear masked by anger overcoming her senses.

She opened her mouth to say a word, but nothing came out. Absoutley nothing. The only thing she could do is cry. She doesn't even know why she was crying, or how she got there in the first place, but the tears rolled down like a waterfall.

„I'm so sorry,“ Were the only words Adriana said through tears before she stormed out of the apartment.

-

This was his second pack of the day. Actually, maybe even third. He couldn't be bothered to count at this point. With the flick of the lighter he inhaled the deadly smoke once more.

Thankfully the weather was calm tonight, maybe too calm for his liking.

With the year being over, the department had an annual meeting about how everyone was progressing in their path, or in other words, public bullying. At least it seemed like that to Chris.

After an underwhelming review that Hank announced to the whole department about Chris, he decided to try to get his mind off of things with a short walk. That short walk turned into a two-hour sitting session by the sea with a pack of cigarettes and two bottles of cheap beer. He thought of inviting Changbin, but by the end of the meeting he figured he would rather let him celebrate with his girlfriend rather than drink his boredom away with him; after all, the other cases Changbin had been assigned to, other than the ones with him, had been successful.

They did find some information, but nothing significant to the case, but more about Adriana's father. They decided to snoop around and ended up finding some news articles about her dad. He was a highly respected man, a business owner. Neither Adriana nor her mother were mentioned anywhere in the articles, but a weird piece of information did get noticed. Supposedly, he died at the start of last year, and by the looks of it, nobody knows how. There were no signs of struggle on his body, and no culprit in mind. In the pictures of the funeral, there were no family members, or in other words, no Adriana. The articles suspected it might have been either an alcohol or drug overdose.

Nothing about her mother was found either, and despite Chris's attempts to gather Adriana's phone number from the records, she was never picking up his calls.

He came to a point where he didn't even know what he was searching for. Was it information to catch the killer, or to frame Adriana? Probably not the second one. Firstly, he didn't want to think about that even being a possibility, and secondly, it was absurd to think a flower from the local and only flower shop in town would automatically make the owner the killer. As sure as Changbin was that something might be up with her, to Chris all he heard from him was nonsense.

He took a sip of his beer, deciding to focus on the sound of crashing waves rather than the shit his mind was trying to come up with.

Taking a deep breath, he scouted the beach. The moonlight above made the sand light up like thousands of diamonds. Furthering his gaze, he caught a glimpse of a silhouette sitting on a bench, a couple of meters away from where he was laying on the sand. The light breeze combed the silhouette's hair as the moonlight drew lines of their nose and chin. She looked like a painting from that far away.

The silhouette's hands made their way to her face, seemingly to wipe something off. Tears, perhaps.

She stayed still for a moment—a moment that felt like days—before catching her face in her hands and bursting into tears. The sobs wouldn't be so loud if it wasn't the dead of night, and awfully quiet to begin with.

He decided he would rather leave her alone, figuring his presence would just be a bigger burden for the girl. That was until her voice managed to say something in between sobs. Hold on.

„Adriana?“

She didn't seem to stop crying, but she lifted her head towards the voice. A familiar feeling of shame washed over her once she realized whose eyes she had met. The shame that always manifested itself when she was crying in front of someone.

„You alright?“

It was a stupid question. Of course she wasn't. She was choking on her own tears, for fuck's sake. He decided to get up, step by step coming closer to her. The only thing she could reply with was her head shaking no.

„I get that we're not friends or anything, but you can tell me if you want.“

He was now sitting next to her, closer than usual.

Keep your mouth shut

With a sniff and a wipe of her tears, she cleared her throat. „It's just my mom.“

She didn't understand why she was saying that. Maybe deep down inside, she thought he would view her differently, maybe even as crazy. Even if she really wanted to, she couldn't form the words to explain to him what had just actually happened. It was like something was screaming at her, threatening.

„You miss her?“

She didn't answer, but rather burst into tears once more. Not because they were mentioning her mother, but because she couldn't bring herself to tell him the truth.

He felt his heart shatter at the sight of her. He couldn't shake the urge to reach out for her cheek, to wipe away the tears that escaped her light eyes. Maybe that was crossing the line. Maybe this wasn't the right time. He could potentially make the situation even worse. He quickly pulled back the hand that had started to reach for her tears.

Her head started to pound. She couldn't understand her behavior, and it made her want to scream at the top of her lungs. His presence was so calming, but her mind was like a storm. She really had hoped he could be someone she would let her walls fall down for, the one that would know her more than anyone, even Lila.

„Yeah, I miss her, a lot,“ she croaked out.

His eyes stayed focused on her, watching how her chest moved, how she wiped her cheek every now and then, and how her gaze never left the scene in front to look at him.

„Come with me.“ He extended his hand for her to take. Finally taking her gaze off the ocean, she looked up at him. She tried to focus on his features through her blurry vision, how his dark hair perfectly complemented his pale complexion, how his eyes creased at the corners, and how his lips curved slightly upwards.

Soon, her soft fingertips made contact with his. He pulled her up from the bench with a light tug.

Maybe it was an act of loneliness from both sides, or maybe it was that they found peace in each other, but for the whole walk across the beach, neither one of them disconnected their hands from one another's.

-

Chris led Adriana to a secluded spot above the beach, almost like a cliffside that looked over the shore. The place was well hidden behind some trees, and it seemed quite tricky to get to, but he managed to help her climb all the slippery and stern pathways.

The place itself was made of smooth, weathered rocks, their surfaces polished by years of relentless waves and wind. They formed a natural seat, comfortably wide and just the right height to sit on and dangle your feet above the beach. Patches of moss and tiny, tenacious plants clung to the crevices, adding a touch of green to the grey stone.

Empty bottles were scattered around them, remains of past visitors who had discovered this hidden gem, and also the remains of their own. The only noises heard were their own laughter, mingling with the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore below.

Chris opened another beer and handed it to Adriana, who took it with a tipsy smile. "Cheers," he said, clinking his bottle gently against hers. The moonlight above made the moment feel almost surreal, casting a silvery glow over everything.

Adriana took a sip and sighed, her shoulders relaxing a little. "How did you even find this place? I feel like I should deserve a medal for even climbing all the way here."

Chris shrugged, looking out at the vast expanse of the ocean. "Needed a place to clear my head one day so I wandered around and stumbled upon it."

She nodded, staring at the horizon. "It's peaceful up here."

For a while, they sat in comfortable silence, the weight of their own respective burdens momentarily lifted. The tranquility of the place seemed to work its magic, easing the tension that had gripped Adriana's heart.

Chris glanced at her, his gaze softening. "You know, I don't wanna push your buttons or anything, but why aren't your dad and mom buried together?"

Adriana's eyes didn't well up with tears this time. It took her a moment to form her words, but that only made the boy's body tense up.

"My dad was an asshole."

He stayed still at her words, not wanting to disturb her train of thought.

"He was pretty, let's just say, agressive-" She took a deep breath before continuing. "He killed my mom in a burst of anger."

There it was again, that heavy, unsettling atmosphere. The train of words suddenly woke up Chris's tipsy mind, making him feel like he just got slapped in the face with a cold wet towel. "I, I'm so sorry for asking."

"Chris, it's fine. I'm coping, see?" She tried to crack out a smile while picking up the half-drunk bottle of beer, wiggling it in front of his face.

As she put the bottle back down in its place, she kept her eyes to it while carefully placing it down, "He got home drunk one night after going out with his business partners for a few drinks, some were the ones that got killed not long ago. He got mad at my mother for some stupid fucking reason and slashed her throat with a pair of kitchen scissors."

Chris felt a wave of nausea mixed with sorrow wash over him. It was his job to listen and see these kinds of situations, but now that she was there in front of him talking about her own family, it felt like a completely different situation. It's like his professional part of the brain that was supposed to be intrigued by those stories got turned off, and replaced with pure sorrow. "Jesus, Adriana... that's..."

"Yeah," she interrupted, her voice steady despite the heaviness of her words. "He never got to pay for his actions, well, he did pay with his money. He bribed the police, there was nothing I could do about it."

Chris didn't know what to say. The weight of her story hung in the air between them. He wanted to comfort her, to say something that would make it better, but he knew there were no words that could heal those wounds. Instead, he just squeezed her hand gently.

Adriana looked at him, a stern expression still glued to her face, despite feeling her jaw relax by the sudden contact. "I guess someone took the situation into their own hands, one day I just got a phone call that he died, I don't even know how. I couldn't really be bothered to give a fuck either."

Chris stared at her, his mind racing. He wondered if her father's death was linked to the recent murders. There were too many coincidences, too many connections. "Do you think... do you think the same person who killed your dad might be involved in these recent murders?"

Adriana shook her head, her eyes distant. "I don't know, Chris. Maybe. But whoever it was, they did me a favor."

He nodded in response, emptying out his sixth bottle of the night. "Did he hurt you?"

"That night? No. But he did do some things when I was little." She felt the words come out so naturally. It wasn’t usual for her to talk about what she went through with her father, but the mix of booze and quietness made her speak before she could think, yet still managing to avoid bringing up the reason that resulted in them sitting together like this.

The boy’s ears perked up. Like a bullet his head shot towards her, eyes widened like an owl. “No fucking way-„

You're giving us away

A searing pain stabbed through Adriana's head like a hot needle, causing her to cry out and clutch her head in agony. Panic started spreading through her body like venom, distorting her vision and making her ears ring. The world around her spun uncontrollably.

"Adriana!" Chris exclaimed, his voice filled with concern and urgency. He knelt beside her, gently trying to support her as she trembled in pain. "Adriana, what's happening? Talk to me."

Get away from him

Adriana's mind felt like a chaotic storm, every step pounding in rhythm with the searing pain that lanced through her head. Despite Chris's desperate calls, she couldn't stay still. Her body moved on its own accord, driven by a force she couldn't name.

Chris watched in shock as Adriana bolted away from him, her figure disappearing into the darkness between the trees. "Adriana, wait!" he shouted, scrambling to his feet and running after her. It was like a demon possessed her. Did he once again step over the line he swore he would not cross again?

He followed the path she had taken, his heart pounding with worry and confusion. "Adriana, please," he called out again, hoping she would hear him, hoping she would stop.

Despite his efforts, she was long gone.

“Shit.”

His fingertips found their way to tug at the strands of his brown locks. What the fuck was he supposed to do now? His slow steps brought him back to the scattered bottles.

A tiny purse laid on the cold ground, the ground where Adriana was sitting just minutes before something took over her.

[textsfromhannibal]

My Panasonic RX-5031 - aka Deborah

I've seen some comments on my Peacefield clip video wondering about sourcing vintage audio equipment, so here's everything in my brain downloaded for educational purposes. :D

Last year around Christmas, I decided that I wanted to get into collecting physical media again. For the nostalgia and hobby factor, if nothing else. For some reason, my heart led me right past the vinyl and CD aisles and decided that I needed to make myself at home amidst the... fucking cassettes?

Examining my motivations, two factors influenced this decision. One is that I am privileged to live close to an amazing independent record store that has hundreds of vintage cassettes sitting there in bins, just ready for the picking, most priced between $1-$5. They also sell or can order all the recent physical releases, so I could pick up Brat and Short n' Sweet on cassette if I wanted.

(Tender mother, aka Deborah. Yes, that is Impera inside, and yes it sounds phenomenal.)

The other factor is that I stumbled upon... this darling. This glorious, almost physically immaculate Panasonic RX-5031 was waiting for me at the Goodwill auction website, which is a resource I find not a lot of people know about. Your local Goodwill might sell all the good shit via auction right here, folks. When it comes to electronics and bulk craft supplies such as vintage sewing patterns, I find this website is often worth a look.

I couldn't find much information about the Panasonic RX-5031 (I'm still in the market for a user manual). I have yet to pinpoint an exact production run for it this model, but I'm assuming early 80s due to the lack of Dolby noise cancellation and the analog cassette timer. However, by searching for the model number on YouTube I was able to find a video of a gentleman test-running his own recent acquisition, and the audio quality of his unit blew me away. For that reason, I decided to bid. Competition was fierce, people were on my ass all the way to the end, and at first I wasn't even sure I'd won her.

But I did. I won the auction, she was now mine to love and cherish.

She arrived still in fair working condition, with full radio capabilities (even shortwave!). All controls and readouts working, and zero corrosion. No one ever thought of putting batteries in this baby. The only thing wrong with the unit was the fact that the left audio channel wasn't working for tapes--both through the speakers and through the headset jack.

(Deborah has many buttons and dials, because she is a lady of class and elegance. Also, it is SO FUN to get that heavy kinetic feedback. All the clicks and ka-thunks really add to the experience.)

Luckily, again, I am privileged to live in a city where music is a big deal. Within half an hour's drive from my house are wizards who know the deep magic, who can service almost anything as long as it's not a modern flatscreen TV. (They've told me to my face to throw those out if they break, they're not worth repairing.) If you've got a cabinet tube TV from 1982, though, they can fix that right up for you. Any turntable or cassette radio, bring it on down.

So, for about $95, I got a full tune-up and restored cassette audio on the left channel. I'll admit, between purchasing such a high-quality vintage unit and the servicing, we're looking at a few hundred dollars in startup costs for this hobby. However, I'm looking at a new budget turntable right now that starts at $200, and a new portable cassette player that starts at $110; the best quality factory-new CD/cassette unit you can purchase, according to Techmoan, is this baby and it starts at $167.

For the fact that the Panasonic RX-5031 is vintage and has such great sound, I'm content with what I've spent. The fact that other bidders were RIGHT ON MY ASS until the very end of the auction tells me that other people were willing to spend even more than I did; I think I won by sheer luck of the auction timing out.

So now I'm having a lot of fun collecting new and vintage tapes. I've learned a lot, including how to fix some common tape issues (replacing pressure pads, etc.) and some pitfalls to avoid (mold is an issue in old tapes, if the cassette casing doesn't let you see that the tape is entirely devoid of mold, I wouldn't purchase it). I'd like to learn more about servicing the actual unit.

(A selection of the vintage tapes I've sourced -- pretty sure that George Michael one was purchased and never used, it sounds incredible.)

More groups are releasing to cassette for the novelty factor, and since the price point is lower than vinyl, I'm hoping that evolves into a steady cassette release scene. There are some gorgeous designs out there, and limited-edition runs that sell out very quickly (I dithered for a full day before I decided which version of Skeletá to preorder). Honestly, I've found myself enjoying the static, hum, grunge and warmth that comes through when I play music on tape. It's not the ideal format for longevity, but it's what I grew up with, so it still feels special to me.