#and now its like job hunting is impossible and blood money is getting harder to come by and im crammed in a tiny room with a hundred boxes

[mieaou]

why his wobbly smile like that??

[kadeu]

Accepted — Hyun Soomin

♣   Hyun Soomin looks like Kim Chungha (solo) ♣    She was December 17, 1918; making her 106 but she appears 25 years old ♣   This Kumiho is Pansexual, Heart Defector, and a Three of Clubs ♣   She is an attendant at the Dragonfire Hotsprings and an errand girl

BIOGRAPHY

Bora was born to a single mother, a three of hearts serf full of dread and regret. It wasn’t always like that, though.

Her mother was a thousand years old kumiho who had been aging quicker than before during the past century, due to the stress and poor quality of life she led after losing all her money and, with that, her previous nine of hearts rank. Being a successful drug merchant wasn’t exactly the safest profession, with fierce and ruthless competition to go against it didn’t come as a surprise, even though it turned into a traumatic, life changing experience, to be framed and driven to bankruptcy. Never married to the father, he took that as a chance to abandon them, since his rank hadn’t been affected by the scandal. She lost everything except for the baby in her womb. All the way down to a three and with the little savings she had outside the Zuihuo Bank -not enough to change her rank- she was left with a huge debt, a large belly and almost no options for a new job. Homeless and having a hard time facing reality she wandered around directionless. She almost didn’t survive giving birth to Bora if it wasn’t for a spade healer that took pity on the kumiho trying to do it alone in an alley, her water breaking in the middle of the Joker moments before. Wondering what would be best for her and the baby, deserting hearts and trying to join spades seemed like her best bet, but she never made it to the spade territory. For some time, other lower rankers in the heart faction helped her and the newborn survive, she didn’t even feed in a long while because the stress caused migraines and slowly drained her power, but the incessant cries of her baby drove her insane until she reached a turning point. If she wanted to survive, if she wanted Bora to do so, she had to let her wild nature as a kumiho come out and be as ruthless as they were to her. The day Bora turned one year old she went into a feeding frenzy. She stole and hunted. She lied and deceived with her illusions. She hid. Every human heart and every human kidney she could get in her hands was split into halves, one for her and one for Bora. She wanted her daughter to come into her power as soon as possible while she gained enough strength and courage to initiate her next move. It came soon as a conclusion that it was either selling her body, taking part in morally dubious business or serving a rich family, and if she was going to do so, then the family she was indebted to was the most reasonable choice. At that moment she didn’t have a place to call home, nor any income. It was a blow to her already humiliated soul, but she would take it for her daughter. You would think an infant wouldn’t notice any of this, but Bora knew and felt, she absorbed all of it as she watched her mother work and take care of her at the same time to the point of exhaustion. Years later, when Bora was old enough, she began serving as well under the name Wisteria. Every serf working for the family received the name of a flower, and she decided to take the meaning of hers as a mantra; longevity and endurance defined foxes accurately. In a fresh bank account, she saved and saved, hoping to one day rise in the social scale and help clear her mother’s debt. It was harder than it seemed though, not earning much as a serf led her to contact people in the darkest alleys of the heart borough whenever she had a chance to go out. She ran errands for the house and for a drug dealing gang always going by Wisteria and not her birth name. A kumiho’s illusions and transformations came in handy for many things as it would appear. Her mother wasn’t happy with her decision, but Bora couldn’t stand watching how the serving life was weakening her day by day. It took decades to take a step upwards. Many times, she thought it would be impossible, but keeping an eye on her own -almost nonexistent- expenses and limiting her social life she became a four of hearts. Did anything at all feel different? No, but it actually gave her the opportunity to consider other means of living.

IN RECENT YEARS

Even though it sounded like a good idea, Bora never left the family she worked for, not even when she made it as far as five of hearts. She couldn’t leave her mother there, still being paid with just food and a bed to sleep on. There were so many things the young vulpe could do now, but she had grown used to the job, the faces and the fake sense of security that even her questionable side job gave her. And still, every once in a while, she could feel a tingling sensation all over her skin, her blood rushing through her veins and her trembling hands trying to reach for something invisible. She couldn’t help but wonder if this life was really meant for her.

Sooner or later things would change -her gut told her- but the way it happened marked her whole existence and dictated her future.

In the middle of the 2023 winter, January, her mother passed away. Depression and anxiety took her slowly over time, but too fast for a kumiho. She hadn’t turned into her fox form in a long while, even though Bora tried to make her. It was like she was giving up and her daughter couldn’t do anything but watch her fade away.

Was it unfair to feel betrayed by her mother and those she worked for? Bora didn’t know. All she knew was that everything hurt. Becoming orphaned and indebted by inheritance, which automatically demoted her to one of hearts, were never in her list of aspirations. Even the family she served for years started treating her differently, even though she was the same person. Her own existence started losing its meaning.-“Sorry for leaving so soon, Bora. I don’t know exactly when it’s going to happen, but I can feel that I won’t stay with you for much longer. Take care. You’re the only reason I haven’t left before. I love you.”

It was written on a letter she found among her mother’s belongings, next to a stack of older looking ones that after inspection revealed the strangely close relationship her mother maintained with a club, and not just a lowranker like her, not even a regular highranker like she used to be, he was a jack of clubs.

Making sure her tears didn’t smear the ink on the letters, she read through all of them, starting from the most distressed looking, the oldest. She learned that they met through work around the time her business saw enough success to branch out to other districts. Their relationship seemed merely professional at first glance, but Bora quickly caught up with the little affectionate terms and endearments they exchanged more and more frequently. It was also very clear that her mother was already involved with Bora’s father, but it didn’t seem to affect their mutual flirtation. She also learned that he was a kumiho as well as they casually talked about feeding, transformation and everything that was quintessentially a fox spirit’s concern.

Bora wondered if they got to meet in person and how often. If their longing for each other ever saw compensation. Hyperfixating on the letters for a whole month kept her from drowning in the despair she felt every time the world reminded her of the current situation and when she finished the last one, already more than ten years old, an epiphany took place.

Maybe this mysterious, at least in her eyes, jack of clubs was her ticket to a new life. All she had to do was leave everything behind, unpaid debt included, and flee towards the club district. They wouldn’t send anyone after her, right? They didn’t care for her mother until she offered herself in exchange for a roof.

Meeting him wasn’t as easy as she initially thought, though, the club borough was recovering for the recent civil war after all, everyone was extra vigilant. It turned out to be hard enough just to find his whereabouts, not to mention he was surrounded by heavy security, a necessity for a drug and gem trader, plus there was no apparent or justified reason for him to direct his attention to a one of hearts kumiho that had nothing but the bag she carried on her back. Unfortunately for him, Bora wasn’t going to give up as she couldn’t turn back. There was nothing but emotional pain waiting for her back in hearts. Yes, in clubs she would have to endure the physical kind, but her determination wasn’t running low.

It was during the third of her futile, middle of the street at night, ambushes that she mentioned her mother for the first time since she died, in a cry for help as his bodyguards slammed her to the ground. That was enough to discreetly take her back to his place and hear her out.

It was then when Bora learned his name, which the letters didn’t mention for privacy matters. Kwon Iseul sounded as serious as he was, at least from what Bora could grasp during the first conversation they had. He agreed to help her, but only under a long list of conditions that included a fake name and limiting most of her activities to the night.

From that moment on she would be known as Hyun Soomin.

Iseul covered her tracks so her debtors back at hearts couldn’t easily find her, a bit of personal rivalry getting in the mix, he also found her a place to stay and immediately commenced the mentoring and training she desperately needed. As kumihos, feeding in clubs wasn’t as easy as it was before, they no longer turned a blind eye much to Bora’s disappointment, but there were still ways that he taught her. Regarding fights, she had no experience, she only knew how to use her powers at a basic level. There was so much to do. A few days later, already in the third month of the year, she was officially a one of clubs under his wing.

Little by little she proved her worth as a warrior, from using illusions to transforming into a beautiful black fox, she used every advantage she had to very slowly raise her rank. Always letting some time pass between battles as the last thing in her interest was to call attention upon herself.

Nowadays she is a three of clubs.

She got a job at the hot springs as part of her façade and to make some money of her own, but until the Dragonfire reopens she just keeps running errands -in the dark and away from the heart district- for Iseul.

PERSONALITY

In the eyes of strangers, Bora is a quiet, observant, maybe even a judgmental person. She usually speaks in a low voice that holds her real personality back, unless provoked. Indeed, this is far from her true self, it’s just a reflection of who she used and fakes to be. Slowly, she is developing a daring and bold attitude that sometimes comes out at unexpected times. She’s simply getting to know herself better now that she doesn’t have to obey anyone. She responds to her sponsor, but she isn’t serving him. Plus, the fights are basically forcing her to be more assertive, she knows that presence and psychological dominance can play a big part when you’re physically smaller than the majority of your opponents. It’s not like she was a submissive small fry before, never acted like one, but it is now she’s finally starting to match her potential.

Smart, cunning, analytical, untrusting, individualistic, dominant, fearless. She is driven by nothing else than proving her own worth to herself, she has found out that she thrives in violence and that she is pretty good at beating people up. Her fighting style is full of tricks and backstabbing.  Sometimes she shows another side of herself, more relaxed, flirtier and charmingly mischievous, a side she’s coming to after meeting new people, mostly those working for Iseul.

Her vulnerable side comes out at the memory of her mother and her mental health, especially during the last few months before dying. She doesn’t like at all talking about her or her past. This also leads to paranoia, wondering if one day someone will manage to take her back to the heart district, her debt still unpaid.

On another note, she rarely shows her fangs, tail, fluffy ears or anything that indicates her nature, which isn’t that common in the club borough and would give her out. Although, when she’s around people she trusts, mainly Iseul, she likes to display her foxy attributes.

She doesn’t discriminate based on ranks, knowing perfectly well what is like to be on the bottom, but she can be very judgmental towards highrankers if they show that very same kind of demeanor.

She has heard of the resistance many times, but she doesn’t care about it unless they mess with her lifestyle. It’s not like she disagrees with everything they stand for, but she obviously can’t accept their policies regarding vulpes’ feeding. Yes, humans are living beings, but she needs it to stay healthy and strong.

Congratulations Kisu your app has been accepted and we’re excited to have your muse on the dash with us.

PLEASE FOLLOW AND WELCOME @cunningtype TO KADEU!

[lamiasluck]

Hunting Season

Summary: Eric, blinded by hunger, raced around the ocean in a hunting frenzy. Unbeknownst to him, he's not the only one hunting.

AU: Siren au (this siren Host came from @emptynarration btw!)

Characters: Eric Derekson and the Host

Words: 1346

Warnings: Minor violence

Tags: @theshysepticeye

Read on AO3!

-

Hunger can make even the most timid creature a ruthless beast.

Eric speed through the sea, his torn fins hindering him, but that didn’t stop him. A school of fish raced ahead of him, painfully close, but out of reach for the siren. The growl from his stomach overpowered the numbing pain in his damaged tail. At least one fish, that was all he wanted. One fish could satisfy this growing hunger for a day or two.

Another lunge forward, this time Eric barely scraped the end of a fish’s tail with his claw. He snarled in frustration at his teasing prize. This constant marathon was beginning to make him wary. However, he knew he would be in much more pain starving from hunger if he went back home empty handed. The fish were becoming sporadic, struggling to form its neat bundled up grouping. There was a shadow that passed overhead on the surface, but Eric couldn’t focus on that in his hazed state.

He was so close. With another powerful lunge, Eric grabbed a fish and pierced its body with his claws. If it didn’t die by that, then Eric sinking his sharp canines into its flesh did the job. Blood dissipated into the water, but that was only a crumb compared to the feast Eric was having. Like a ravenous animal, he tore into his prey and ate with fervor. Blinded by his hunger, Eric failed to notice the frenzied state of the rest of the fish, nor the growing shadow looming over him.

The school of fish swam in all directions around him. Hell, he could grab another prey easily, but that wasn’t a luxury. Eventually, the fish got pushed close enough that they swarmed around him in their panic. No matter how hard he swam, Eric couldn’t escape the swarm. He made a distressed noise as he realized what was happening. A fishing net was cast and closed in on the fish, taking Eric as collateral damage along with it.

///

Host swam slowly near the ocean’s surface. A passing glance at his form would make anyone think they saw a whale. His looming presence made all the sea life stray away from him. That didn’t matter to him, not like he had an appetite for fish anyway. He followed an invisible trail to his prey. Their scent was distinct enough to make him salivate. Humans, a whole cluster of them, all alone in the middle of the ocean.

As he swam closer and closer he noticed something else abnormal lurking in the water. A distinct noise rang in his ears; the distressed chirping of another siren. The sound was dulled out by another presence he couldn’t see, but present all the same. If the alluring scent of a soon-to-be meal didn’t catch his attention already, then the panicked call beckoned him further.

Other sirens steered clear from sirens like Host. Well, almost everything steered away from him, he was the size of a goddamn skyscraper. However, that didn’t mean he didn’t have a heart. Eventually he could see that his prey was a boat of some kind, and by the big blurred cluster of fish he knew it was a fishing boat. The source of this poor siren’s strife.

The fishing boat didn’t notice the approaching dark shadow creeping closer. They were hoisting up their fishing net slowly out of the water, with the siren getting smothered by the plethora of fish crowding him. Their surprise catch would be a welcomed surprise once they see it. Sirens offered a lot of money opportunities. Host only saw the silver blur of the fish, but he knew the siren was there somewhere. The poor siren could barely breathe within the chaos, and his distressed chirping became more frantic. The sound rang in the Host’s ears and he charged forward towards the boat.

“Wh-What the fuck?!” a shipmate cried as the boat rocked violently. The boat crew toppled over in unison. A large clawed hand emerged from the sea and grasped at the side of the boat. The crew knew this chaos wasn’t the current’s doing.

As the ship split apart and the crew fell into the water one by one, Host watched their flailing bodies scream and choke on the water momentarily before feasting. Mists of blood dissipated in the water as he tore into their flesh in a messy fashion. The torn shipwreck slowly sank to the bottom, with it the tied up fishing net sank with it. Host could still hear the distressed siren’s call as the net futilely squirmed. He carefully approached it with curious eyes.

///

Eric felt the net jerk from side to side abruptly. Breathing became next to impossible in this crowd, and his cries became weaker in tone. His eyes began to close on its own, it felt harder to struggle against his prison. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears like a piercing drum, but there was nothing he could do.

He barely registered the weight of the fish dissipating around him. The net was shredded around him, but his eyes still felt too heavy. As he floated along with the ocean’s current, he felt his body hit the ground. A little voice told him that it was too soon to hit the ocean bed, and that the surface he was resting on didn’t feel like the muddy sea floor. It was too soft, yet coarse at the same time. The feeling of something brushing against his tail made him crack open his eyes slowly.

The image became clearer as he blinked slowly. He certainly wasn’t lying on the ocean’s floor, instead he was resting on the palm of someone’s hand. To his horror, the something at brushed against him was a clawed finger that was easily the size of his whole body. A siren the size of a whale stared down at him, milky golden eyes held a look of curiosity at the tiny siren before him. Tendril-like hair framed the terrifying siren’s face, swaying with the ocean’s currents like seaweed. The siren wasn’t devouring Eric like he thought, he simply stared.

Eric jerked suddenly, but the action hurt his tired fins. As much as he wanted to swim away, his body felt like cement holding him in place. There were new scars gashed across his tail and torso because of his ordeal, but he had another worry plaguing him. He made weak distressed noise in the hopes that someone would help him, but what could stand up to this behemoth of a siren? In a vain attempt to startle the new siren, he clawed at his hands, but that surely felt like mere feathers grazing against the larger hand.

The siren kept staring at Eric with curiosity. Surprisingly, he made a soft comforting clicking noise, or at least he attempted to. Eric cowered at the sound, curling into a tight ball as he hugged his tail to his chest. The siren’s lips quirked downward at his reaction. Eric made a sound, similar to a whine, as he peeked up in his ball of fear. The siren now held a look of worry, but it went unseen by fear blinded eyes.

Their pace was slow as the siren slowly descended further into the ocean. He kept a close eye on Eric’s weak and scared form and swam to the ocean’s floor. There was a smooth area of mud the siren focused on. No predators were around and it was relatively quiet. Perfect for an anxious siren like Eric. He gently laid Eric down onto the mud, much to his surprise.

Eric uncurled slowly and looked up in confusion. The scary siren suddenly didn’t look so monstrous anymore. Fear still pooled in his stomach but now there was something else alongside it as he stared at the other’s worried face. Curiosity. The siren quickly swam away, dusting up a huge cloud of dirt that engulfed Eric. By the time the cloud settled, he was alone. All he could do is stare as the siren swam far, far away. He was alive and, somewhat, well.

Maybe he should have said thank you.

[nelllraiser]

mori | montgomery & nell

LOCATION: Deep in the Woods

TIME:  7:19 PM

PARTIES: Montgomery de Ville and Nell Vural

It was just a regular evening for Nell. The sun was just beginning to set, and it was the start of her prowl for the night. Not yet having a particular target in mind, she’d lingered close to the house, not drifting all that far into the Outskirts just yet. But maybe tonight’s hunt for something to bring into the Ring would be short, and she’d be able to turn in for the night sooner rather than later. It’d been something like thirty-six hours since she slept, having been on the trail of a monster that’d bring in big cash the day before, and being unwilling to lose out on such a victory. So tonight would be quiet, and easy. Or at least she hoped as much. Ever since Morgan had mentioned the Tenome that has chased her and Blanche, Nell had been hoping to find it. She walked on through the forest, aimless at the moment as she readied herself to cast a tracking spell. Not for a moment did she think that the hunter might become the hunted. After all, these were her woods, her home territory. These dense branches and enormous trees were practically a second home by now. 

Montgomery hadn’t forgotten everything that they had been meticulously learning about their target. The hunt was something they relished, but when you were hunting for money and a human at that, the pleasure was somewhat diminished. At least in the build up. The pleasure of the kill was intricate and more importantly absolute. The one thing in the universe that Montgomery could always keep faith in. She was collecting creatures again, her skill was undeniable and she moved like an expert. Montgomery would’ve enjoyed hunting alongside her but clearly that wasn’t an option. Creeping forward, they moved parallel to their prey, keeping down wind from her and out of sight. Their opportunity would come soon enough, patience was a virtue for a reason after all.

For a moment, Nell stilled, feeling the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. It was the unmistakable feeling of being watched. Honestly, she should be used to it in woods such as these, with all sorts of creatures roaming the undergrowth, and even the trees above. Maybe tonight would be over sooner than she’d thought if something blood-thirsty was already nearby, making her hunt much shorter and less tiring than it needed to be. Already she could envision the smell of the freshly baked bread Bea had been making when she’d left the house, and Nell was all too eager to get home and chomp into it with little regard for manners or anything of that like. And then...sweet sweet release and she’d lay her head down to rest. Another night passed, finally able to close her eyes to rest and recharge.

Pausing for a moment, Montgomery sniffed the air cautiously. He wasn’t sure why he did it, it didn’t achieve anything. But it had become a habit and he was too stubborn to change it now. Creeping forward through the undergrowth on all fours, he stayed as low as he could. Moving with an athletic ease that had come from years of hunting game. This was just a different kind of hunt. Pulling the tranquiliser rifle from his shoulder he slid it through the grass alongside him. Positioning himself with a clear line of sight, Montgomery was pleased with the altitude they’d gained and took a second more to really settle in. There would only be one shot needed. Settling the rifle into his shoulder, Montgomery popped the cap off of the lense and peered through the telescopic view. Taking account of distance, wind, and of course natural projectile drop, Montgomery took his time, calmly taking a breath, his index finger slipped the safety off and curled around the trigger, pausing once more to make sure everything was perfect- he fired.

The longer this creeping sensation gripped Nell...the more foreign it felt. Rather than simply being watched, she almost felt...like prey. Like a vampire was going to jump out at any moment in an attempt to chomp down on— her neck. At the same moment the thought passed her mind, something else hit her, as if the universe had set her inner thoughts into motion. A sting in her neck, and a hand was automatically darting towards whatever had struck. What the fuck? Instinctively, she pulled the projectile from her neck, looking down at what appeared to be a tranquilizer nestled in her hand. Shit. Fuck. Adrenaline began to race through her veins, magic already sprouting to her fingertips. Her time was limited now. The chamber in the dart had been empty, and who knew what might have been in it. Anger, pure and hot shot through her as she yelled out. “Show your fucking self, coward!” Stomping her foot into the ground, the spell went out from there, designed to detect any living creature within a thirty foot radius. There, not too far from her in the tall grass. Without holding back, she sent an instinctual blast of magic in the direction of the body, summoning it towards her whether they wanted to face her or not. Her other hand had already drawn a dagger from its hiding spot, slicing a sizeable cut along her arm in preparation for her next move.

Would’ve been nice if Montgomery had been able to work out that was an option for Penelope Vural. Having literal magic at your fingertips must be convenient. Montgomery was sure that it would make his job much easier. “It wouldn’t be called hunting if I just showed myself now would it,” he protested in his Afrikaneers drawl as her magic dragged him towards her, but they knew that it wouldn’t be long now until the tranquiliser really started to take affect and then it would be all that much harder for her to really do anything. Then it would just be a matter of doing his due diligence, taking a trophy and confirming the kill for that little shit of a man August Thompson. Honestly Montgomery was almost tempted to let her live, almost. The money on this job was too good and this really wasn’t an inconvenience. Montgomery struggled against her magic, pulling their revolver out alongside the large hunting knife that he had strapped to his upper right thigh. “Are you sure you want to play this game little girl?” he asked smugly as he waited for the sedatives to take effect.

A sneer marred Nell’s features as the voice reached her. It would be impossible not to recognize that accent and tone. It only made the fight in her rear its head more passionately, knowing it was Montgomery that had come after her. What the fuck was his problem, anyway? Who the hell just hunted for sport? At least, that’s what she’d assumed. Why else would he be after her? Though...it was true she’d made plenty of enemies in her past. But surely he wouldn’t know any of them, right? Already she could feel herself becoming sluggish, her reactions taking longer to manifest than they usually did. Vainly, she pushed a bloodied thumb to the summoning tattoo on her arm in an effort to bring forth her three favorite hellhounds. Nothing happened. Looking down, she realized that with the world beginning to spin, she’d missed the tattoo, a finger’s swipe of blood now running just below the ink she’d been aiming for. “I’ll kill you first,” she spat out, trying her best to figure out which of the fuzzy Montgomery’s she was seeing was the real one. She threw her first knife, magic behind it’s throw to help it hit its intended target, both supplying assisted aiming in a time like this, and putting more force behind the dagger.

The irony in Penelope Vural’s logic was one of the most ironic parts of all of this. Normally Montgomery hunted for sport. They did it for the pleasure of the kill, they did it to make their blood rush and to feel the visceral pleasure of hauling a carcass back. He was an expert now, he’d clean it themselves and make trophies, sell what they could and he would eat what he couldn’t. His dogs got the rest. If it was edible of course. Montgomery was cruel but he wasn’t a cannibal. Not yet anyway. But today he had been forced into this position by a large sum of money. Perhaps forced was a bit of a stretch, perhaps he should simply accept that he could’ve walked away. But that was no fun. The dart was one of his own special creations. Years of studying medicine had made it easy to mix natural and supernatural sedatives and if Penelope died from the weird cocktail of magic and sleeping drug that was rushing round her system then who was Montgomery to complain? She seemed to be realising the predicament that she was in and as she pulled a knife and hurled it in his direction Montgomery side stepped it easily. His right hand snapped out and caught the handle of the blade as it sailed roughly near where his face had been. “Naughty, naughty,” Montgomery said wagging his finger and loudly tutting like a concerned nurse as he looked at the bright and shiny blade sighed, “such a beautiful creation, such a shame it’s user is so … unfortunate.”

A nearly animalistic snarl rang out from Nell as her knife was caught, wasting no time as she drew another knife as quickly as she could, though it was much slower than she normally moved, the tranquilizer still doing its work well. Pure spite was what was keeping her going, and her simple refusal to go quietly. She’d take a part of Montgomery with her or die trying. That was her only thought as she let the next knife fly, fueled by magic in the same way the first had been. As it grew nearer, it duplicated, spurred on by her magic to create an illusion that was meant to keep the intended target guessing as to which was the real knife. But to Nell it wasn’t all that different from her current vision, the world still taking strange shapes as her awareness ever so slightly began to flicker in and out. “Piece of shit!” she gasped with as much anger as she could muster, trying to remind her lungs how to draw air normally. “You fucking cunty-ass sad excuse for a human!” When was the last time she’d felt anything this strongly? Did it make sense that in her possible last moments, those would be the ones she felt the most emotion? “Shut your fucking mouth!” Each word was punctuated with effort as her magic burst forth once more, closer to the lines of instinctual now that things were getting down to the wire. She wanted him hurt. She wanted him maimed. She wanted him dead. To bring him to his knees.

Montgomery ducked beneath the shower of daggers that went flying in his direction. She was creative, he would give her that much, after all who would’ve thought that this is the way that she would choose to do things. He had always imagined that if he had been fortunate enough to have magic that he would be much flashier and creative with it. But each to their own. “If it makes you feel better to call me all of those things th- th- the-” Montgomery couldn’t finish his own sentence, looking down at his arms he found his veins bulging as the blood seemed to stop flowing around his veins and arteries. Suddenly his entire body was on fire as agony lanced through him. He couldn’t move. At least, not without it being agonisingly painful. His eyes raced around, what the fuck was going on? It took less then a second for them to train on Nell, she was doing something, it had to be a trick. Magic. Something that was stopping him from being able to move, being able to truly fight this. With a visceral, primal grunt of pain, Montgomery took the final three steps that spanned between him and Penelope Vural. The agony was almost too much. They cursed themselves for not using a higher dosage of the tranquiliser as his entire body screamed in pain. Grunting once more, Montgomery drew all their effort into one strike and with the butt of their pistol he clattered into Penelope’s temple. There was a sickening crunch as the metal contacted the bone and cartilage of her skull. 

Nell watched as Montgomery paused, sleepy brain unable to truly process what exactly was going on. All she knew was that she’d done something, expended some magical energy and suddenly he'd stopped. As the magic left her, Nell fell to her knees, a combination of the effort she’d exerted and the tranquilizer finally finishing it’s job pushing her to the ground paying no mind to her fighting tooth and claw against it. No. No. This would not be how she went. This would not be how she died. All those times she’d escaped by the skin of her teeth, all the near misses who’s tales she’d lived to tell. Being shot in the neck by a tranquilizer via a coward who hid in the bushes wouldn’t be her last stand. Her last stand. In truth, part of her had believed she’d never had one, the invincibility of youth and confidence lending her their strength when it came to the endless path that had seemed to unfold in front of her. Even though she’d seen so much more in her life than most did, there was still so much more she’d wanted to see, to touch, to feel.  She looked up as Montgomery readied the kill, biting down on any part of him she could manage to find hold of. Would this really be her last sight? She met his eyes, glaring at him even now as something glinted in the moonlight. Whatever he was meaning to kill her with, no doubt. She wouldn’t let him have the satisfaction of watching her eyes close, anger and defiance still burning in their depths.

Montgomery had to admit that as they watched her collapse, as he observed, the tranquiliser really begin to enter her blood stream and start impacting her organs and functions. Montgomery could’ve given a whole lecture just on how it all worked. He was Doctor Montgomery de Ville for a reason after all, but now wasn’t the time. He had to admit that her magic had been something new. He had never felt that sensation or anything like it. It was like his very blood was boiling. Stepping forward, Montgomery reached down and drew their hunting knife once more. A wicked blade with a razor sharp edge and even serated towards the base of the hilt. Perfect for decapitation. Oh how it shone in the light, the reflection glinting off of the sheen of the blade. 

Luce. Bea. Winston. Jared. Blanche. Countless others Nell had met and loved since coming back to White Crest. It wasn’t her life flashing before her, but the faces of those that had made it all the better in the past months and years, even those she wouldn’t have expected to etch a place in her soul. Nic. Morgan. Adam. Remmy. Her father. Her mom. God, her mom. She was going to die without so much as ever being a point of pride to her own mother. What would her legacy be? Did she even have one? Did it fucking matter? The dead were dead. Even now she still struggled, as if somehow her weak attempts to break free would find some way to be successful, that she’d find a way out of this like she always did, always had. Nell had never once stopped fighting in her entire life, and she wasn’t going to start now simply because it was coming to a close. She was going to leave this world the way she came into it, yelling, kicking, screaming as much as she could. Montgomery tensed behind her, that silver flashing once again and suddenly all she could see was—

[hairringtonsteve]

i. under pressure [quixotic]

[steve harrington x reader (female)]

series summary: everyone that knew the truth about hawkins lab thought it was over, that it was all over. they thought that the fighting was over, the bad men were gone. the portal was closed. people were safe. you, however, you knew the truth. things were far from over. and they were coming fast.

word count: 6,046 words

a/n: hey folks! this is a repost of chapter one, which was posted a few months ago. tumblr messed up the post back then, so this is going to be posted in my new format -- which will have the links in the first reblog (which will be reblogged right after it’s posted) and the tag list as a separate post! also, be on the lookout for chapter two, being posted tomorrow! tw: language

“I promised that I’d keep you shitheads safe, and that’s exactly what I’m doing.”

“Could you try a little harder, then? Because you kind of suck at this.” Just a minute ago, she’d pried off the metal lid of a Spaghettios can and had somehow folded it in half so she could use it as a spoon. She dipped her makeshift spoon into the can, precariously balancing a pile of canned noodles onto it and shoving it into her mouth. She said something, but it was muffled behind the food.

Some sauce dribbled down her chin and onto her shirt. It seemed almost impossible to keep from rolling your eyes, but somehow you managed.

“What was that, Tee? I couldn’t understand you around the food.” Tee glanced over to Seb, who had his head shoved in the refrigerator. He was standing on the tips of his toes, trying his hardest to reach something that was on the top shelf. When she made sure that he wasn’t looking, she set the can down on the kitchen table and shot you the finger. “Seriously, though, can you watch him?”

“Watch who?” Seb asked, poking his head out of the fridge. He gave you a bright grin, hair falling in front of his eyes. “Can I have pudding for lunch?” He stuck his tongue through the the gap between his two missing teeth in the front, waggling his eyebrows as though it’d help change your mind.

“You, kid. You can’t be trusted on your own. You could burn the place down or something.” His arm was sneaking back inside the refrigerator. “Oh, no. No pudding. You need real food for lunch.” He slammed the door shut and scowled at you. It would’ve been almost intimidating if he wasn’t just over three and a half feet tall.

“I wouldn’t burn it down. Tee would. I’d put it out.”

Tee smirked as she swallowed her food. “He’s got a point. What’s that word you used to call me?”

“Asshole?” Seb supplied as he crawled onto the chair next to Tee. You let out a cry of ‘language!’ but he just ignored you. “What’re you eating?” He wrinkled his brow as he leaned his arms onto the table, as if trying to read what the label said —like he could actually read. “Pasghettios?”

“Spaghettios. You want some?” Tee handed the can over to the five year old. His eyes lit up when he saw what was passing for a spoon. “Be careful with the lid,” she warned. Glancing back to you, she raised a brow. “So what was the word?”

“Pyro. You’re a pyro.” Your lips pressed together as you pinched the bridge of your nose. All you had to do was keep hold of your patience for a few more days, and the three of you would be free. But then Tee was opening her mouth to say something, and you felt like you were going to snap. “Can you just watch him? It should only take me a few hours.”

“No need to get touchy, God. It’s fine.” Seb tapped Tee on the arm to hand her back the can. You watched as he gave her the lid-turned-spoon as well. There was sauce all over his fingers.

You walked over to the sink to grab a hand-towel to run it under the faucet. “You guys do know that there are more spoons, right? And also more than one can of Spaghettios?”

“You do know that you don’t have to be an ass-”

“Tee.” Your voice was ragged as you almost groaned, the frustration obvious to anyone that was listening. You turned to her, frowning.

“We just wanted to see if we could eat it like this!” Seb piped up, looking between the two of you. “Like an experiment.”

He looked over to Tee, who was still glaring at you, and slowly reached over for the can. A tense second passed, and he started to eat once more.

“I’m just saying,” Tee started up, her arms crossed over her chest. “You kind of really suck right now.”

“Are you serious?” You tilted your head back and groaned. “After all the shit that I’ve done to make sure that your ass is alive, and this is what you give me? You can’t even agree to watch him for a few hours because you’re the asshole!”

“It’s like an experiment,” Seb mumbled to himself. He was focused solely on the food in front of him, as though he tuning everything else out. “I’m an experiment,” he added, grinning.

“Jesus, Seb. You’re not an experiment,” you snapped. louder and harder than you’d meant to. Your sharp words, accompanied by a scowl, made his grin drop. His face twisted up and got red. His lower lip trembled as he stood up from the table.

“You’re no fun anymore!” With that declaration, he practically ran into the bedroom and slammed the door shut.

“He’s right, you know. You’re no fun anymore.” You turned to Tee, who was still scowling. “What? I’m just saying, no pudding for lunch and yelling at him? You’re practically begging for a meltdown.”

“Trust me, I’m not begging for — “ You could hear a shriek from the bedroom, and the shattering of glass. “Well, that’s great.”

“Look,” Tee said, standing up from the table. She walked over to the couch, where your backpack and a decent sized cardboard box were sitting. “You take this stuff into town and see what you can get for it and I’ll deal with Mr. Drama, okay?”

Another thud came from the door. “You sure that you can handle the tantrum?”

“I’ll be fine. Go.” Her tone was final. You headed over to the couch and slung the backpack full of records over your shoulders. The weight made you frown. Peaking into the box, you made sure that that was filled to the top with records as well. “Just get some good money for them. I’d like to eat food that’s not ‘pasghettios’.”

You let out a snort. “You know that there’s other food in the freezer, right?”

Tee scoffed. “Yeah, but it’s just a ton of Eggos. You can’t live off of Eggos.”

“Says you. Eggos are magic.” She let out a huff of laughter as you picked up the box, wincing at the weight. It was uncomfortable, but not unbearable. You headed towards the door, hesitating as Tee walked over to get it for you. It was hard to remember that she was only fifteen. Hell, you were only nineteen. Neither of you should have had to deal with any of this. Your frustration towards her weakened. “You’re sure you’re good?”

“I can handle this.”

“You shouldn’t have to, though.” The words were quiet, the closest that you’d get to an apology. Your expression softened as Tee opened the door. She was avoiding your gaze, focusing resolutely on a squirrel shuffling around for its acorns on the ground just beyond the porch.

“None of us should have to handle this.” Her words were quiet in the warm spring air. “But we’re stuck with it, so we might as well deal.” Finally she turned to face you. Her expression was blank, but her eyes were hard. She looked older than fifteen. Another yell could be heard from the bedroom. “You better head out before he burns the place to the ground.”

“Isn’t that your job?”

Your words did the trick. The corners of her mouth twitched into a small smile and she rolled her eyes.

“Just go so we can head out of here in the morning.” You gave a nod of your head before stepping outside, the air hitting you. It was humid, the dampness just hanging there. There was no wind, no break, just heat.

You stood on the porch, shifting the cardboard box in your arms until Tee closed and latched the door. A pang of anxiety shot through you. They’d be fine. It was only for a few hours. It took you a few moments, but you forced yourself down the steps. Town was a couple miles away, but there were a lot of woods that surrounded the cabin. They would be safe and hidden away — as long as they followed the rules. Stay inside, stay away from the windows, keep the curtains drawn, don’t answer the door unless the secret knock is given. You didn’t want to think about the last time that Tee had decided that she was above the rules.

The gunshots still rang in your ears.

That was the past, though. You shook your head as you traipsed through the brush. There was a dirt road that led to the cabin, so you followed along that, staying just beyond the treeline. It was around May, you figured. There shouldn’t be anyone out hunting.

It didn’t take long for you to feel the sweat starting to drip down your back. You swallowed, suddenly wishing that you’d thought to bring some water with you before you left. You'd even seen a water canteen hanging off a hook in the kitchen. At the very least, you’d have to nab that before you left. It’d come in handy even though the three of you were heading north.

Well, not just the three of you. All sixteen of you, really. Just because everyone was scattered, that didn’t mean that you weren’t all in it together. Everyone was just… On their own for awhile.

It had been the safest course of action, you knew that. Alex knew that too, even if he hadn’t wanted to admit it then. He'd wanted everyone to stick together, that was all. It felt safer when everyone was together. From the time that you'd been born, it was always safer when you all were in the same room. You’d understood where he was coming from.

It was just hard to really think when everyone was huddled in the lab while there was still blood smeared along the windows.

“We can’t split up, we’ve got to stick together,” he’d said, giving you that imploring look. It was making you feel antsy, like you were going to crawl out of your skin.

“We can’t all make it to — you know where — together. We’d stick out too much. You saw what it was like outside. People don’t travel in groups that big.” Alex had scowled and shook his head. “You know that I’m right.” Without thinking about it, you narrowed your eyes, drawing upon that fear and anger within your chest.

Alex gave your shoulder a sharp shove. “Don’t try that Jedi mind trick bullshit on me. You know it won’t work.”

“You know that I’m right, though. We’ll be found easier. You told me yourself that you heard Doctor Lepner call for that, that… what’s it called?”

“Department for Defense, I think?”

“Exactly!” You jabbed your finger into his chest and scowled. “Do you really think that those people are going to be on our side? Do you really think that?”

Alex went to respond when he heard a guttural growl come from outside the lab doors. Everyone fell silent. Slowly, you turned your head to the thick metal doors, trying to see through the frosted glass. The silhouette of something awful crossed it. You looked over to Vee, who was trying to comfort Seb. He took in a shuddery breath before Tee slapped her hand over his mouth and wrapped her free arm around him.

You felt a tap on your shoulder. Glancing back to Alex, you paused at the expression on his face. Despite him being the oldest at twenty-two, he looked younger than you did at that moment. “We’ve got to get out of here,” he breathed.

“We can’t go all together.” A louder growl emanated from just beyond the doors. “It’ll be like Thanksgiving dinner if we do that.”

Alex let out a snort. The familiar sound gave you a tiny ounce of comfort. “You don’t even know what Thanksgiving is.”

“I know it’s got to do with food, which is what we’ll be if we don’t figure out what to do.”

A car roaring down the main road jarred you from your memories. You blinked, having been so caught up in your thoughts that you hadn’t realized just how far you’d walked. It drove on down the road, showing no signs that it had noticed you or cared if it had. You breathed out a sigh of relief. It took another two minutes for you to muster up the courage to leave the safety of the trees and to start walking down the side of the road.

It was hard work. The sun was beating down on your back. The box was growing heavier and heavier with each step. Christ, you really should’ve thought this one through.

It was hard to tell how much time had passed, but it seemed like no matter how long you walked, the town was still out of sight. You started wishing for a miracle when a car slowed down beside you.

“Hey kid, you need a ride?”

You turned around, squinting in the sun to get a good look at the vehicle. Your eyes flickered across the lettering along the side, the words letting fear settle into your stomach. You moved your attention to the man at the wheel. He had a small smile on his face and a kind of scraggly beard thing going on. You focused a little, reaching out just enough to get a read on him. It was difficult to focus that much when the sweat was literally dripping off of your face and your arms were wrapped around the box. But it was enough.

“Where you headed?” You asked, taking a step forward. You were close enough that you could just feel the blessed air conditioning.

“Into town. I can drop you off if you’re headed in.” It took you a second, but you gave a sharp nod of your head to answer him. “Throw the box in the back, then climb up front.”

It took you a few seconds to maneuver the box onto your knee and then open the backdoor without dropping anything, but you managed. Your arms ached with the sweet relief. Slamming the door shut, you practically leaped into the front seat once that door was open. The air was frigid and perfect, cold enough that it felt like it froze the sweat right on your face. You shut the door fast, and rolled the window up almost the instant it was shut. The backpack shoved against your back, making it so you couldn't sit back the whole way. You kept it on, though, just in case.

“So what’s in the box?” He asked as the car started forward.

“My grandpa’s records. My mom wants me to see what we can get for them.” The lie fell off of your tongue easily. The man nodded his head.

“Your grandpa got good taste?”

You shrugged. “I think there’s some Sinatra in there, and some Ella Fitzgerald?” You spoke like you were trying to remember what the records had said, but really, you were just trying to remember what some of the doctors had said when it came to music. Lush, green trees were a blur outside of the window. It was pretty.

If you weren’t in a cop car, you might have even been able to relax.

“Ah, so your grandpa was into the older stuff, then.”

“Uh, yeah. The older stuff.” You tried to wrack your brain for the years. Was Sinatra in the fifties? Or seventies? Or forties?

“My old man was into that jazz stuff.” Jazz! That’s what it was. The thirties and forties, then. “Really big into Benny Goodman. You ever hear of him?” You shook your head. “Oh, I bet you’d like him. He was great.”

The conversation drifted off after that. The two of you were content to sit there in the air conditioning, watching as the car finally started to enter town.

“You’re headed to the record store, right?”

“Um, yeah.” You’d been planning on going to the first pawn shop you saw, but a record store was even better. They’d be able to give you even more money if they were good records. And you’d made sure that the ones you’d picked were in pristine condition.

He took a left from the main road onto some smaller side road. There were plenty of shops with people bustling around. You blinked and for a split second, you weren’t in the police car; instead, you were in the back of a van looking out at the world around you for the first time while you were ten years old and handcuffed to the door. Another blink, and everything came back into focus. You turned to the man and stared at him. His mouth was moving.

“Huh?”

“I said, you need help carrying those inside?”

You shook your head so hard your hair flew into your face. “Nope, I’m good.” He pulled up in front of a storefront that read rebel records in all lowercase letters.

“You sure about that? I could help you bring them in. That backpack of yours looks pretty heavy.” He held your gaze in a way that made you shrink a little, like he knew that you were lying about something.

You reached towards the handle and hesitated. He was nice. He seemed like the kind of nice where you could tell him everything that had happened. The kind of nice that meant that he’d actually try to help you.

The kind of nice that would eventually get him killed if he did try to help you.

“No, I’m good. Thank you, though” You opened up the door and stepped out. The air hit you like a humid brick wall. It was almost enough to make you climb back into the car. But you took in a deep breath and closed the door behind you. When you grabbed the handle for the backdoor, it was so hot that you winced. “Fuck,” you mumbled, jerking your head up to make sure that no one was close enough to you to hear. You pulled it open, stealing all of the cold air that was leaking out.

“Hey, kid?” He called as you had an arm around the box. You looked up, your eyes meeting his. “If you need anything, you call the police department and ask for the sheriff, all right?”

“Okay.” You were shooting for a breezy tone, but it came out more shaky than anything else. The two of you regarded each other for a long moment before you tugged the box out fully. “Thanks again for the ride.”

You shut the door before he could respond.

Your head was pounding against your chest as you walked up onto the sidewalk and towards the shop. You were waiting for the inevitable, for him to get a call on his radio or to realize that the records were stolen or a hundred other things that could go wrong. But nothing happened. A few seconds passed, and the police officer drove off while you heaved out a sigh of relief. Things were fine. Hell, they might have even been looking up in your favor. You stepped over to the door, tightening your grip on the box with one arm while the other loosened up enough for you to get the door open, sliding in just before it shut behind you.

The record shop was old and dusty. Notes drifted from out of a record player that was behind the counter. You scrunched up your nose a little as you tried to place it. It sounded just familiar enough, like you’d heard it a few times in the background while you were driving from one place or another.

Doctor Arayed had always liked listening to music while she worked. She’d always be humming softly as she looked over blood samples, or when she’d push back the hair from your eyes. You could remember her always telling you the artists. Your favorite was always —

“Bowie?”

You blinked. A blond-haired man was standing in front of you, eyebrows raised. He was behind the counter, his forearms leaning on it as he shot you a small smirk. He was cocky, the sheer confidence coming off of him almost like a stench.

“I’m sorry, what?” You asked as you walked towards him, frowning a little.

“Bowie, that’s who’s playing. You like him?”

“Uh, yeah. I like him. He’s alright.” You set the box of records on the counter, heaving out a sigh as the man continued on.

“He’s a legend. You looking to buy any albums of his?” He leaned forward, his smirk growing. You could feel it, the way he was almost pushing the charm out of himself. It was impressive. He must’ve made decent money.

“I’m selling, actually. If you couldn’t tell by the box of records.”

He raised a brow. “Really? What've you got, sweetheart?” Someone let out a snort to your left. Glancing over, you paused.

He was behind a rack of records. You could only see him from his waist up, but he looked like he owned the place. Perfectly messy hair, a dark gray t-shirt hanging off of his shoulders like it was made for him, and a small smirk that made your heart stutter. He glanced up from the record that was in his hands and locked eyes with you. His smirk shifted into a smile.

You looked away, back to mullet-man.

“I don't know, really. They were my grandpa’s.” You slung your backpack around and set it on the ground, your shoulders and back practically singing at the freedom. Crouching down, you braced yourself as you unzipped the bag. Just sell the records, and get back to the cabin. Easy-peasy.

It took you a few seconds of trying to tug them out before giving up and just setting the whole bag on the counter beside the box. “My mom wanted to see what I could get for them.”

He reached out for them, pausing just above the bag as he glanced to you. You nodded your head, effectively giving him permission to just shove his hands in there. The records didn't have any names that you recognized, but then again, you were bad at recognizing names when it came to music.

He pulled them out one by one, turning them around in his hands. “These all play?”

“Yeah, I tried them all out myself.” Your words came out too fast, and your heart gave a little jolt as he looked up at you. His brow furrowed, and he opened his mouth to say something when you narrowed your eyes. You concentrated, that familiar feeling swelling in your chest. “They’re fine.”

“They’re fine,” he parroted, shooting you a grin. He looked back down to the albums, thumbing through them a little faster. They were fine, after all. “So these look — your nose is bleeding.” You froze and wiped the back of your hand under your nose. When you pulled it away, dark liquid was smeared across. “Here.” You looked back across the counter and took the tissue from him.

“Thanks,” you said as you dabbed at the area. “The air’s pretty dry in here. It’s killing my nose.”

“Yeah, it’s a pain in the ass during the winter. Right now’s not too bad, though.”

“So, how much do you think that you can give me for the records?”

He shrugged. “Twenty bucks sound good to you?”

“Twenty dollars, are you kidding me? That’s less than a buck a record!” There were at least thirty-five or forty records there. That was ridiculous.

“They’re used, though. New ones are sold for nine bucks.I can go twenty-five, but that’s it.” You blinked.

“I need at least fifty.”

“Fifty dollars, are you shitting me? That’s insane. Look, I’ll go twenty-seven, but that’s as high as I can go.”

The boy with the perfect hair fumbled with some records, reminding you that he was there. You glanced over, noting that he was watching the exchange curiously. The tissue was still in your hand. You took care to lower your voice and said, “Please. I need fifty. I’m begging you.”

“No way, sweetheart. That’s too high. I’m gonna give you the best deal around, so take it or leave it.” What an asshole. You leaned forward a little, placing your left hand on his arm so it was behind the pile of records, just out of the other guy’s sight.

You focused, feeling the power rising up into your chest. “They’re in good condition,” you murmured, the force of your words coming out strong. “You’ll do fifty dollars.” A thought occurred to you. “And you’ll keep your voice low.” He blinked his head a few times, looking from your hand on his arm to the pile of records and then finally back to your face.

“You know what? They’re in pretty good condition,” he said. He was quiet, thank God. “I can do fifty.” You pulled away from him and he shook his head a little before shooting you a blinding smile. He’d be kind of cute without the rat’s nest of a mullet.

“Oh wow, thank you. Seriously. That’s a huge help.” Reaching up, you wiped the fresh blood away from your nose. Your head ached a little. Some food would be a good idea.

“No problem. I’m Billy, by the way. Billy Hargrove.” He shot you another smile, his gaze flickering over you in a way that made you duck your head.

“I’m Elise. Elise Peters.” In that instant, you were thankful that the three of you had decided on fake names before getting to Hawkins. Granted, no one would really believe that the three of you were siblings, but it was better than nothing. You grabbed the now empty backpack and slung it over your shoulders. Billy was rifling through the cash register, softly counting the bills out loud until he had the right amount.

“It was a pleasure doing business with you, Elise,” he said, shooting you a grin while holding out the money. When you took it from him, he made sure to brush his fingers against yours.

It took all you had in you to keep from rolling your eyes.

“You too, Billy.”

With that you were heading towards the door. You risked another glance over to the guy with the hair, feeling your heart stutter a little more when you locked eyes with him. It took you a beat to pull your gaze away and step out into the hot spring air.

Meanwhile, Steve turned to Billy, eyebrows raised while he waited for the girl to leave before speaking. “You ever seen her around before?” He asked. Billy just shrugged as he thumbed through the new acquisitions. “What’d you give her for those?”

Billy shrugged again. “Fifty.”

“Fifty dollars? Are you kidding me? That’s insane.” He walked over and started going through the pile that Billy had already made. The more he went through them, the more in shock he was. “Dude, you’re gonna get fired. There’s no way Jenkins is gonna keep you on after this.”

“Oh, that’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it, Stevie? I get fired and you can work here in peace.” Billy watched as Steve’s hands stilled as he stared down at a record. “What?”

“Holy shit, you are fucked.”

“... What?”

“You do know that she just sold you stolen records, right?” Steve asked, raising an eyebrow at Billy.

“I’m pretty sure that I would’ve noticed if she was selling me stolen records. Fuck off, Harrington.”

Steve flipped over the album that was on top of the pile and pointed to some scrawled letters in black marker. “J. Hopper. She look like the sheriff to you, dumbass?” Just to really drive it home, Steve turned the cardboard box around to show him the same lettering. Billy’s face paled as he stared at the box.

“Fuck, I’m fucked. I gave her a decent amount too. Shit, do you think that Hopper will be able to get the money back?” All Billy got was a stare instead of a response. “What? Do you think that he’ll be able to get it back?”

“Do you think that Hopper will be able to get the money that you gave to some girl from out of town that stole his records to you — even though they have his name on them?”

Billy let out a groan and clapped his hand over his face. “I’m screwed. I’m absolutely screwed.”

“Maybe if you would’ve actually learned how to read, you wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

Billy stared at Steve for a few moments before letting his forehead hit the counter. “Der urr thint thut yer culd-”

“You gotta lift your head up, man. I can't understand what you're saying.” Billy lifted his head up nice and slow, fixing Steve with a frown.

“Do you think that you could tell Hopper for me? It'll sound better coming from the golden boy.”

“Why would I do that for you? Give me one good reason for why the hell I would ever do that for you.”

“Because last summer I saved your ass from one of those demogorgon things.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “You can’t keep bringing that up. It’s not like you just get to reuse that excuse over and over again.”

“Oh, well then next time, I’ll let it eat you, nice and slow. How’s that sound, Harrington?” Billy shot him a smug smile, like he had him.

“Better than being near you, Hargrove.”

Billy’s smile dropped. He ran a hand over his face and let out a shuddered breath. “Steve, seriously, I need this job. I don’t know — I have no idea how I missed Hopper’s writing, or why the fuck I sold them to her for that much. I just… I’m screwed if I get fired. Can you help me get the money back?” He asked as the door opened up.

“What, you sold my records already, Mr. Hargrove?”

Hopper’s voice carried across the room, loud enough to make both boys jump. “You — they — you know?” Billy asked, almost like he was going to start babbling apologies.

“Of course I know. I saw her walking along the road with a box that had my name plastered along the side. I can read, I’m not an idiot.” Steve snickered. “I even gave her a ride here. Thought she might come clean.”

Billy was fidgeting behind the counter, enough that it caught Steve’s attention. “So what are you gonna do?” He asked, hoping it’d put Billy at ease.

“Head back up to the cabin and see if she’s staying out there. They’re all the ones I left behind, so I figured that that’s where she’s at.” Hopper walked over to the counter, looking over the records. “How much you give her for them?”

“... Fifty.”

“You don’t know shit about music, do you, kid?” Billy opened his mouth to argue with the sheriff, but his shoulders drooped. “Don’t worry about it, kid. We’ve all been duped by a girl with a pretty face.” He looked over to Steve and nodded to the door. “I thought I heard Dustin say that your shift ends at three?”

“Yeah, as long as it’s not busy.”

Hopper gave a pointed look around the empty store — save for the three of them — and turned to the clock. “It’s ten ‘til now. I think Hargrove here can handle things while you come with me.”

“Why do you need me, though?” Steve ran his fingers through his hair, his lips pressed together into a thin line.

“She looks to be about your age. I figure it might make her easier to talk to if someone her age is there.” Billy opened his mouth to ask the inevitable question, but Hopper beat him to the punch. “You’re not coming for a whole lot of reasons, but the biggest one is that you still have to work.”

“Look, I don’t care who goes. I just need that money back.”

Hopper took a long look at Billy, his gaze easing up just a little. “You’ll get it back, don’t worry about it.” He started for the door, Steve following after him. They remained quiet until they got into the car, with Steve breaking the silence.

“So did you ever look into what I said, about Max and Billy’s dad?”

Hopped nodded his head as he turned the key, the engine rumbling to life. “Yeah, but nothing panned out. Domestic abuse is hard to pin down. Joyce just makes sure that Max is somewhere other than home for the most of the time. That’s about all I can do for now.”

Steve let out a quiet hum. “So we’re heading to the cabin?”

“To the cabin.

Some nice older lady had given you a ride close to where the dirt road leading up to the cabin was. You’d had her drop you off about a half mile down the main road, at some random house just to make sure that she wouldn’t think anything of it.

She’d been nice. A little nosey, but nice all the same.

You did the same as before, keeping just beyond the treeline so you’d be out of sight if anyone drove up there. But the cabin had looked like it had been empty for months when you’d gotten there two nights ago. Dust had covered everything. The lights had taken a few seconds to come on. Most of it was empty anyway. There were some cardboard boxes filled with stuff, like someone had started to move but never fully finished. The pantry and freezer had been stocked, though. There was even some stuff in the refrigerator. Thinking back on it, it’s a good thing that Seb hadn’t eaten that pudding. Who knows how old it could have been?

Just like earlier, the roar of an engine pulled you from your thoughts. But this one made you freeze.

The same car that had given you a ride into town earlier was driving up the dirt road. It was going a little too fast for you to make out who was in it, but it wasn’t hard to figure out.

You started running straight through the bramble patches, the thorns tearing at the exposed skin on your arms, a few getting your face as well. The sting was sharp, but you kept going. Your breath was coming out in pants as you jumped over a fallen long. Your foot caught on the branch, making you trip and hit the ground hard.

“Fuck,” you muttered, changing tactics. You got up and ran to the left, towards the dirt road. The second you broke through the trees you turned to head up it. You pushed yourself through the ache in your legs, through the pain in your arms and face until you saw the car parked in front of the cabin.

You couldn’t breathe. You could hear a muffled yell, and then Tee’s voice. It was impossible to make out what she was saying, but the closer you got, the clearer it was. The curtains were drawn open, like they’d been looking out the window. You could make out two imposing figures near them, but neither of them were near the door.

Launching yourself onto the porch, you ran inside, skidding to a stop when you saw the scene that stretched out before you.

Seb and Tee were backed up against the wall, eyes wide. Seb had tears running down his cheeks while Tee had her arms around him, protective and ready to lash out the second anyone moved. The cop from earlier was there, his hands held out in front of him. The guy with the perfect hair was there too, just behind the cop. You were pretty sure that the cop was saying something, but it was hard to tell with the dull roar sounding in your ears.

You couldn’t think of what to do. You looked back over to Seb, whose whole body was trembling. But then you saw something even more concerning.

His nose was bleeding.

please reblog/like/comment/send me an ask with your thoughts! 

[neusex420]

Detective Donovan Oliver Ryan.

I:

He wakes up at 4 am, earlier than he had to, but he couldn’t sleep again. It was happening with more and more frequency lately. The detective often rose before the sun, predictable, like clockwork. He had been dreaming of home. It’s a reoccuring nightmare he hates. The thought of that impossibly long stretch of beach is all that haunts him as he blinks away the exhaustion from his eyes. Bright spots on the ceiling dance in front of his vision. A case file was perched on his chest, a few of the papers crinkled at the ages, some scattered over the rumpled sheets besides him. Oliver had fallen asleep in his contacts, still perched atop the unmade duvet in a mess of white and grey cotton, reading through witness reports. None of them were actual witnesses, he grumbles bitterly. No one had actually seen them disappear.

No one had seen Alfie or Caroline disappear either.

Not even him.

It’s jarring, how similar the cases are, even if they’re quite different. Romero and Julia had no /him/, he tries to reason, no third, strange, inexplicable, unsolved mystery left behind. Their example, their disappearance, proved mystery enough. He couldn’t decide which was worse.

Oliver forces himself out of bed, even if it’s dark and cold and wet outside, a light rain storm creating a symphony of sound against the impossible stretch of glass he has for a bedroom wall. The horizon extends deftly before him, the ocean meeting the skyline in the warmest shades of dark blue. It was truly his favorite view. He doesn’t mind running against the rain, especially the warm kind of tropical rain they had here, the kind he prefered, so different from the chilly sheets of ice that seemed to always fall in Ireland in the early spring. He remembers hating March the worst, even if his friends disappeared in the summer, in June, after exams.

He likes the beach here, especially because it’s so different from home.

Suited up in a rain slicker and his jogging pants, he leaves the comfort of his flat and begins his usual route down the private stretch of beach sat near his and another condominium complex. He likes routine, falls into it easily, and finds the monotony of the beach helps him forget the dreams he hates. Usually. That’s almost the main reason he runs, he thinks, is the fact that it clears his head so thoroughly, makes it impossible to focus on anything else except the compacted, wet sand beneath the soles of his trainers, or the sea foam that occasionally veers into his path. Except today, he isn’t so lucky. He thinks of Caroline in particular. He remembers something new, the smallest of details; it was a red and yellow polka-dot ribbon that she wore in her hair, always a perfect bow, tied to keep golden tresses out of her eyes, especially in the summer heat. He had returned with it the night they disappeared, the silk crumpled in his little fist. He hadn’t remembered where his friends had gone, or what had happened to them, or why he had blood all over his tattered and torn clothes, but he had her ribbon. That had to mean something.

Though neither Oliver nor the detectives back home were ever able to figure it out.

He stops right as a wave crashes against the shore, startling him. His breath is far heavier than it usually is at this point in the run. Leaning forward, hands against his knees, he sucks air desperately into his lungs, attempting to dispel all thoughts of that damned ribbon, but he just bloody can’t. The empty beach that usually provides such solace to him only suffocates him further, the salt nearly acidic in his nose. He releases a sputtering cough before turning back in the direction he came, running even harder.

Luckily, he doesn’t remember anything else.

Kicking off his soiled shoes in the foyer, Oliver is greeted by a drawn-out meow and the blank stare of his cat’s yellow eyes carefully blinking up at him. He knows she’s hungry, demanding her breakfast, as he reaches to scratch at the scruff of tabby fur at her neck. She follows him into the kitchen, darting in and out between his legs, where he quickly arranges her meal, appeasing her consistent mewls. He goes for a shower after that, desperate to rid himself of any reminder of the failed attempt at a morning run. It seems that everything he used to enjoy isn’t working anymore. He needs to stop thinking about Caroline. There are two missing teenagers that deserve his focus and attention. Those traits were what had made him so good at his job in the first place, able to quickly climb the ranks in what felt like no time at all.

Why was it all coming back to him now?

-

He’s drunk, usually is after his long work days, though today proved exceptionally long, so Oliver found it only fitting that he get exceptionally drunk. He’d usually go to Lucky’s, where it seemed most of Key Biscayne’s police would go following the end of a shift, but he didn’t particularly feel like socializing with his coworkers all too much after the day he had. Nor did the loud, bumbling bar atmosphere appeal to him in any sense. So he went home, sat on his sofa, cuddled up to Ginger Snaps, nursed an entire bottle of whiskey followed by another of red wine his cousin had gotten him from a trip abroad, though from where he wasn’t sure. He didn’t bother reading the label.

After a while, the loneliness began to seep its way into the marrow of Oliver’s bones. He had forgotten about his phone, but notices the barrage of new messages left unread. Sasha’s name, printed in simple helvetica, flashes across the screen. Even though she didn’t have a contact picture, he could still see her face when he closed his eyes. Warm, honey brown irises and an alluring smile that makes his heart race. She was what Summer would’ve looked like if she’d been afforded the chance of growing older, Oliver had determined when he’d first laid eyes on the administrator at his fresh-out-of-uni job. It had been startling to see someone look so much like the girl he had loved and longed for, the girl he had mourned for over four years. But she was nice and charming and he couldn’t fault her for nearly being the most haunting physical manifestation of his past. Like she was Summer’s ghost.

So he slept with her instead. Maybe against his better judgement, but Oliver never swore himself to perfection. He made mistakes - and lots of them - though he couldn’t consider sleeping with Sasha to be a mistake either. He knew Summer would’ve wanted him to move on a long time ago if she had a say in his life after her passing, and it had been a while after meeting Sasha that he no longer felt guilty about desiring her, and fantasizing about her.

He responds after some time, inviting Sasha to his flat in a concise message, even if it’s late. He’s sure she’s had a few to drink herself already (and hopes she calls an uber because he hates when his mates drive drunk), though he still opens another bottle of whiskey, arranging it and two glass tumblers on his coffee table, poised for her arrival, even though she has yet to reply. He waits patiently, staring at the expanse of ocean separated only by thick paned glass. He wonders if Alfie and Caroline had drowned, caught up in some undertow, unable to swim against the current. Oliver thought of their tiny bodies lost afloat somewhere in those frigid waters they rarely ever swam in, lips tinged blue. It had been a long time ago. The Irish police didn’t have the money or resources American departments had for wild searches or man hunts. Two children could’ve easily drifted to sea, unnoticed.

Snaps hears the noise first, ears perked and tuned to the crunching of tires on the gravel of his front drive. Oliver waits for the sound of the car to drive away, though that doesn’t follow, and instead catches his doorbell ringing twice. Standing, he ambles to the door, opening it for Sasha.

“You know, I hate it when you drive drunk,” he murmurs, tone docile despite the implication.

“I’m not drunk,” she asserts, stepping into the threshold. He takes in her appearance and removes her cardigan from her shoulders, hanging it on his coat rack.

“You smell like hops and bar food,” he notes. He was a detective. It was his job to be observant. He wonders where she went before coming here, since it took her so long to arrive, though he doesn’t bother asking.

Sasha shoots him an appraising look before turning down his hallway. Oliver follows after her, lulled by the sound of her deep, honeyed voice washing over him like melting butter. “Trust me, I’ve sobered up.” He can tell something is bothering her though he decides not to prod, instead props himself against the wall in front of her and watches as she plops herself down on his furniture, pouring a casual cup full of whiskey. “You’re the one who didn’t respond… could’ve been fucking by now if you had responded.” The amber liquid sloshes against the side of the glass.

He chuckles, crossing his arms over his chest. “Right shame, innit? Guess m’only good for m’whiskey a shag, yeah?” Oliver can’t fight the grin that overtakes the bottom half of his features. He loved teasing her. She smirks back at him, shaking her head defiantly.

“And don’t forget your precious cat!”

-

It’s a few days later when the department holds a press conference and there’s an information session at The Shack that the detective is reminded of another part of his past. Oliver hates press conferences, hates having to stand before a crowd of civilians and answer questions he often doesn’t know the answers to, so he nursed as many whiskeys as the open bar provided, tilting his glass repeatedly for a refill. His partner promises her daughter will be there, ‘and she’s beautiful, though I swear I’m not just saying that ‘cause I’m her mom,’ and she hunts him down after a while, spotting him as he’d abandoned his place at the bar. She calls him Sherlock, Sergeant Mikayla Verdone, and he’s sure he would’ve made a move on her if he’d met her at a pub in her younger years. She was good at her job, most importantly, and Oliver liked her - not just as a partner, but as a woman. So he’s far from against meeting someone she’s raised.

He hadn’t expected her daughter to be Lexi though.

He remembers her from uni well, especially the late night trysts they often shared in his years as an upperclassman, the two of them locked away in the comfort of his off campus flat. She’d been spunky and fun, full of jokes that somehow matched his humor seamlessly. Though he had never been much of a partier, they met at one his football mates had managed to drag him to and had been promptly introduced by mutual friends. They’d begun snogging on the back patio before the night had even ended. Oliver found comfort in Lexi’s presence back then, found comfort even in the simplest of things about her, like the smell of her perfume, a rich scent with strong notes of gardenia and citrus. It washes over him even now, and he’s thankful for the privacy they’re afforded after her mum wanders off in search of her husband. He asks her how she’s been, and he’s genuinely interested in her answer. He missed her, even if he hadn’t realized it until then.

But unfortunately, life often gets in the way.

They chat for a while, light conversation about Lexi’s job at Sunset Academy and Oliver’s position as detective on Romero and Julia’s case. Neither bothers discussing the aforementioned case itself; Oliver knows he didn’t have the energy to after listening to the Sergeant read Sasha’s pre written statement to the press and public earlier in the evening. It’d been a lot for the department to admit that they hadn’t really gotten as far with the case as they should be by now, especially since most people were aware that if missing people weren’t found after the first 72 hours, they often couldn’t be found at all.

The thought that Romero and Julia might never be found nearly sickened him.

He notices Sasha from across the room. She watches them together, Oliver and Lexi, with a peculiar expression on her face, one that he can’t quite discern. He nods his head at her in greeting, turning back to Lexi with a kind smile. Part of him smug, the other curious; was she jealous? “Would you excuse me for a tick, love?” The two part, the detective leaning in to impart two quick kisses to each of the young teacher’s flushed cheeks.

Oliver has an inkling of a suspicion that this isn’t the last time he’s going to see Lexi in the foreseeable future, can feel it in the pit of his stomach. The feeling comforts him some. He hopes he’s right.

He doesn’t hunt down Sasha like he had originally planned to after leaving Lexi’s side, nor does he bother stopping to speak to anyone else, doesn’t have it in him to. He narrowly avoids Kellan near the appetizer table by slipping out a back door near the toilets reserved for wait and cook staff, stepping out into a back alley welcomed by the fresh, evening air. He pulls an old school silver cigarette holder from his pocket, one of his only momentos from life in Ireland, a gift left to him from his great-granddad from the war, and places a cigarette he’d rolled earlier in the day between his lips.

He thinks of Romero and Julia. What if they’d just wanted an escape from it all, just ran away?

What if Alfie and Caroline had just ran away themselves? Probably could’ve done it too, he figures. They were both quite intelligent for their ages, always receiving top marks; had a lot of street smarts too. The pair were more than capable, especially together.

The thought hurts, physically pains him - not that they could be out there after all this time he’s believed them to be dead, really, even though he has thought them to be dead until this very moment, but because they didn’t invite him to run away with them. Because they were out there somewhere whilst he was still stuck in this life.

He blows a plume of smoke out of his mouth with a sigh before muttering lowly to himself. “Bloody hell.”

[kingsofchaos]

When they've got him in the interrogation room every officer seems to have the same question; was it worth it? With all that happened, with how it turned out, the years of drunken revelry, the constant media attention, the heists, the hubris, the way it ended in a bloodbath the likes of which Los Santos has never seen. This is your legacy Ramsey, was it worth it? They ask like his answer means anything, ask like they even care what he thinks, ask like they don't think he feels anything at all. They ask like it wasn't his plans that brought him here. Like it wasn't his plans the led to six body bags and a single pair of handcuffs, a room full of tactless officers and a kingpin with no one left to call crew. They ask like can't help themselves from asking. Was it worth it?

There's never a serious discussion, no big heart to heart, but there's no escaping the fact that the Fake's all know they are dying in slow motion. More or less signed their own death certificate's years ago, living on stolen time, and sooner or later they'll find themselves in the ground.

They took Los Santos by storm and defended it with their lives. With each others lives. Have sacrificed themselves and the ones they love to a city that takes no prisoners. They fought hard for their crown, and kept on fighting every single day to succeed, to profit, to reaffirm themselves as the city's biggest bads. They knew that they would only be unstoppable until they aren't. Until the day they fall, and eventually they must fall.  

Even after all the years of action, all the blood, sweat and tears they've poured into this empire, everyone knows there is no such thing as retirement for the Fake AH Crew; for all they've already trained their own successors the frontrunners of the reigning crew in Los Santos will never be allowed to simply step down and move aside when their time is over. Between old enemies and constant rivals, members of law enforcement and anyone simply looking to boost their own reputation, there are countless numbers who would hunt them to the ends of the earth. Everyone knows, one way or another, the FAHC is going out bloody.

And by god, did they go out bloody.

The Fake's die halfway through the afternoon on a Tuesday. What a fucking inconsequential day right? They were owed a Friday at the very least, were meant to go out past midnight, meant to go out in a blaze of glory. They were meant to go out all together. They weren't meant to go out at all.   The wheels fell off weeks before, a series of questionable jobs and public fights, a level of disorder totally out of line with the crew's trademark cohesion. Rumour has it they were rife with in-fighting. Rumour has it after all this time the cracks were finally showing. Its easy, afterwards, to read into the events that came before, to manufacture clues, to swear the writing was on the wall for anyone to see. In reality no one saw it coming. In reality the whole damn city was taken by surprise.

Maybe they bit off more than they could chew, maybe they were distracted, out of sync, or maybe it was just the inevitable finally catching up with them but in the end the Fake's wind up in a firefight they aren't winning. After endless years of near misses and close calls, of lucky runs and brilliant timing, after thousands of impossible victories, the FAHC finally lost.

To lose like this, picked off one by one, powerless to save themselves, to save each other, must have been their worst nightmare. With every body on the ground those left only grew more furious, more reckless, lose whatever feeble grasp on self-preservation they ever had, throwing away any possibility of retreat in favour of retribution. It wasn't enough.

In the end the only one left breathing on either side is Ramsey. The scene finally gone still, silent, the echoes of screams and gunfire fading away into a shivery stunned kind of shock. They say Ramsey'd fallen to his knees amongst the grime, iconic suit near indistinguishable under all the dirt and ash, the blood of men and women who thought they'd live forever. He kneels there in silence while sirens grow ever louder, makes no move to flee, doesn't even look up from bodies as cars scream to a stop around him.

The messed up thing, the really fucked up part? They say Ramsey was laughing by the time the police got there. Say he stood and brushed himself off, surrounded by the bodies of those he claimed family, drenched sickly red while his empire lay in ruins, and laughed. And god doesn't that confirm what everyone's always thought, doesn't that just prove he always was a monster. Never cared for anyone, for anything, not really. People used to say the one thing Geoff loved was his crew but it seems Ramsey's cold-blooded ruthlessness won out in the end.

In the fallout of a travesty, of a victory, of an unexpected bloodbath, in a stark grey room faced with a distressingly apathetic villain, in circumstances none could have predicted, all the detectives seem capable of asking is if it was worth it in the end. They ask and ask and Ramsey's answer never changes, his cold smirk never fades, so calm and unconcerned they catch him glancing at the clock, as though he's bored. As though even now he's got somewhere better to be. And still, full of horrified disbelief, they have to ask.

Was it worth it? Yes. Was it worth it? Always. Knowing what you know now, knowing how it ends, how they all go down for you, would you do it all again? Every damn time. Surely you have regrets, you had to know one day it would end like this.   Oh baby, who says it's over?

It comes together as a joke more than anything, the cumulation of too many late nights followed by too many bad movies. Their last job was tense, a heist with months of preparations and so much on the line, and while they've certainly celebrated their victory like royalty they didn't come away unscathed. The injuries, numerous though mostly minor, serve to once again remind them all how lucky they've been so far. How most don't make it nearly this many years without tragedy, couldn't be in the game this long, let alone running the game this long without signing up for devastation. How losing a member, to outright death or crippling injury, is without a doubt only a matter of time at this point. How such a loss will be so much worse in this ridiculously close-knit crew than any they'd experienced before.

Sobering thoughts, combined with the difficulties of winding down after endless weeks of  stress eventually leads to the discussion they never have, the question of what else they could be doing with their lives, what choices brought them here, what they would do if they could just step out, sign off, retire. It's not that they're bored of this life they've built – how could they be when the world is their oyster – but there's no denying the fact that after all this time terrorising Los Santos doesn't quite thrill them like it used to.

If you'd asked any of them ten, five, hell even two years ago they'd have scoffed at the idea of ever retiring, would have sworn up and down that they wanted to go down in flames, to end with a bang, and at the time they meant it. At the time it was true. It still is, in a way, they'll probably always see something dreadfully appealing in going out on top, but with every passing year it's harder and harder to look at a room full of people they love and consider playing a role in their deaths. Every time they get hurt it takes a little longer to heal, the old aches and pains are becoming more prominent, and their ever growing patchwork of scars have started looking less badge of honour than they do morbid countdown. Obviously they've still got it, still in their prime enough to keep their crown, but between age and gratuitous injury, time is creeping up on them all.

The Fake's used to joke about the end, said whoever lasted longest won, got to make off with the fortunes, live like a king, but that reality isn't quite so funny anymore. The idea of surviving, of being left behind with nothing but cold hard cash and heyday memories is enough to make them physically ill. So maybe retiring doesn't seem quite so unappealing anymore.

Maybe a passing comment way too late at night, after far too much mixing of alcohol and pain meds, in the spirit of some dumb con movie they'd all been heckling, was enough to plant an idea. A ridiculous, unrealistic, completely unattainable idea, but still an idea nonetheless. They're all a bit hung up on it, still joking, still assuring one another that they aren't serious, but still bringing it up all the same, running through all the possibilities.

It would take far more than simply disappearing; they have too much wealth and notoriety, have far too many enemies, the world is simply too easy a place to comb through these days. People, at least the vast majority of people, would have to be convinced not to come looking. Convinced there was nothing to look for, nothing to track, would have to think the absent members of the Fake AH Crew were in the one place no one could ever reach them.

There are ways, of course, to feign death. For those with the right contacts, with endless money and enough resources, there are ways to trick the body into something close enough to pass, at least for a time. But even then it's not so simple; there must be witnesses, there must be evidence, crook and cop alike must be sure. Of course with a public death comes increased risk- it wouldn't do to go so far in their act that appearances became reality, to go to such lengths to imitate death only to wind up that way regardless. Somehow, someone's going to have to play guardian, prevent anyone's corpse from catching a stray bullet to the brain, or jerking back to life too late with guts already laid out on an autopsy table. Someone has to be ready to whisk them all away, and who do any of them trust more than the man they've been following all these years. The boss they'd die for. The boss they will die for.

They don't talk about it, because no one wants to admit it might be happening, no one wants to burst the bubble, to invite reality to rush in and crush the unbelievable thought that the Fake's might get a happy ending, but at some point they stop laughing. At some point they each quietly start getting all their ducks in a row, using their free time to organise their affairs.

No one questions the way Geoff and Jack have started having day-long meetings with the support crew in-between jobs, the way Lindsay's spending far more of her time recruiting than ever before, the way Gavin's taking calls at all hours of the day, rarely in english, clearly haggling over something. They don't wonder why all their money is getting moved around, why Ryan and Michael are busy collecting all outstanding debts while Jeremy and Ray are plotting the layout of the police station, the morgue.

It's all happening on the down low, all behind business as usual, but eventually, after nearly a year of quiet organisation, they are just about ready to disappear. All that's left is the bang, the flashy smoke and mirrors, the hook to stop anyone coming after them, anyone even thinking to track them down. One final step, one last decision to make, a choice they must commit to as one or not at all. All they've got left to do is die.

Over the years the Fake AH Crew has grown exponentially but the original elements have never drifted apart, never gone looking for something else or turned on one another. The crew has flourished, become a full blown empire, but nothing can touch the unity of the innermost members, as strong now as it have ever been. For all their loyal familiarity was mocked back in the day, for all their closeness was seen as a weakness, after all these years it seems only death itself will seperate them now. If they had the chance to evade their own mortality one last time, to get out, to be free, would they make the leap?

The Fake's die halfway through the afternoon on a Tuesday. Pattillo, the Vagabond, Mogar and the Golden Boy, Little J and Brownman, but not the boss. Well not on paper anyway – any who knew them must know Ramsey'd never recover from the loss. Any who didn't just know the LSPD took seven bodies away that day and none of them ever came back. It's not a stretch to assume Ramsey's survival was a rumour. To believe it wishful thinking, to say he died at the scene or died at the station, delayed injury or the cops cleaning up the last loose thread of the group who'd made their lives living hell for years.

There's paperwork out there, somewhere, claiming a different story. A report that barely makes a lick of sense, the sworn record that a kingpin arrived in chains and left with corpses, slipped out of his cell like he was never there, without a hint as to how he got free. He disappeared like smoke, not a trace left behind, and none of the seven alive or dead ever resurfaced. The story is embarrassing, inexplicable, and it reflects badly enough on the LSPD that it is quickly buried.

Even if it hadn't been there are few who would believe it. Few who could believe for even a moment that Ramsey could walk free and not be with the last of his crew, that he would let another run his empire, run his city, if he was in any way capable of preventing it. No, however it went down Ramsey did not survive. It's fitting, really. No one can live forever and the OG Fake's were certainty pushing their luck, had been pushing it for years; a crew that close should go out together.

The Fall of the Fake AH Crew isn't much of a fall, in the end. The seemingly inevitable power vacuum one would expect following the death of the group who'd been running the city for endless years never comes. It shouldn't be possible but even after the most devastating loss imaginable the the FAHC isn't toppled from their throne. They restructure almost overnight; many of the oldest, original members of the support crew bow out, disappear on the wind without a trace, but there are more than enough left behind to fill their shoes. It's almost perfect, almost unbelievable, some of support shuffling into the spotlight while still more unknown faces are revealed to boost their ranks. Their ability to keep their enemies at bay during the turmoil is impressive enough, but it's the absence of internal conflicts that is truely boggling; there are no betrayals or executions, no public power plays or jealous feuds, somehow the city's most scrutinised gang managed to completely restructure after the loss of not just their leader but all their key members without a single hitch. Almost like they were ready, like it was planned.

If the Fake's had the chance to stay together, to start over somewhere else, stop waiting for the day one of them inevitably doesn't make it home, but in return they had to step away from the action, give up everything they'd built, hand if off to legacy and fade out into legend, would it be worth it?

Apparently, yes. For all of them, from the moment the possibility arises, throughout every conversation, every debate and consideration, with everything they will lose, with everything they stand to gain, every goddamn time without fail, yes.

Somewhere out there, worlds away from Los Santos, a man sits on a private beach. He isn't armed with anything more than a beer, there are no weapons, he simply sits upon the sand enjoying the breeze. There's a woman to his right, sunbathing, a man to his left doing the same; golden tans make their startling number of scars stand out in stark relief but the heat of the sun does wonders for stubborn pains. At the shoreline old friends are knocking shoulders, bumping each other nearer and nearer to the water, not quite rough-housing like little boys but they're getting close, voices rising on the wind.

The single house behind them is huge and noisy, full of music and chatter, full of monsters and overgrown children, the most loyal humans the man has ever had the honour of knowing. In a brief moment of silence sound from the television drifts down to the beach, an American news anchor reporting the latest infraction of some criminal organisation in a far away city; the house cheers and kicks back into a merry roar. Down by the water there is a betrayal, a splash and screeching protest as one winds up in the waves against his will. Safe on the sand, without a trouble in the world, the man laughs.