#attached to This show and the routine i’ve built around it and i’m prepared for That to be over

[twinksintrees]

i’m so tired all i wanna do is cry

[commonalex]

future ready

future ready by common alex

Listen/download: future ready by common alex

It was around three months after I've been fired. I didn't dare to talk about it much, but it wouldn't that much of a mystery for someone to figure out why the short chick with the plaited hair isn't on the cash register giving wrong change to the old ladies anymore. To be perfectly honest, I was pretty devastated that I managed to fail even at working at the supermarket, where all you needed to get a grip was knowing how to count, wearing an "Olga" tag like a war medal, and acting like everything's okay at all times. Maybe that's why I ended up sneaking into it like a thief that day, out of stubbornness. It was the last sense of routine I had while everything was going under outside the window.

I could barely get out the bed before four in the afternoon. And when I did, all I had planned was dragging my body before the tv to catch some telemarketing and dumb commercials until the sun was out again and I successfully forgot who I am and what I'm going through. Because what other choices did I have really? For the last two years I was jumping from one dead end job to the next, either until I get fired or until I quit. I was leaving on benefits and a sad amount of savings, and I was starting to accept the fact that this would be my life from now on. Like, what else did I really have to rely on? Studies? Big deal, the world wouldn't end with just one english teacher less. Friends? Don't get me started. Family? All I was left with was a mother with a mission to make me feel horrible every time we spoke on the phone because I wasn't bothering to go see her. But even if I did, what would I have to say to her? I was mentally collapsing. So I said "leave it for now" and kept the thought pushed back for later. That's the reason why on that particular day I didn't pick up whenever my mom was ringing this cherry ericsson I had at the time. It wasn't like I really needed to answer, I already knew everything by heart.

"Have you seen how this girl you used to hang out at school does lately, Olga?".

No, mom, I haven't. It's been like ten years since I finished school.

"She's studying this thing you used to like, she got settled, she even has her own house".

Well done for her I guess, and?

"And you?".

I don't know what the hell I'm doing with my life anymore, mom.

"But don't you ever think about your future?".

My long awaited future, huh? What a glorious future that was. It was so good, half of the people I used to know didn't make it halfway through.

Outside things were a bit more casual that the deep existential turmoil that was described by the news at the time, yet I was indeed shocked by that eerie amount of silence that was stretching through the cold winds that was piercing my purple coat. I could hear a tv screaming from two blocks away and the screeching roars of the phone lines echoing around the city, but there was barely any human voice left. I was only catching some mumbles and grunts here and there as I was jumping out of fear every time I had to turn around a corner. So it was just like everyday Athens, only with a little more of snow and fear of getting mugged. My social atrophy made me feel like I was being chased as the surrounding landscape was rapidly being stripped from anything that was reminiscing of a typical day. Like, that was the first time I ever saw people looting kiosks and butcher shops. I only managed to see like three to five people with their backs hunched, covering their faces while carrying those huge gray tv screens with the vhs player still attached or fifteen bags of chips, with their eyes moving around uncontrollably. All I had in my mind seeing these scenes was the word "brutalization". Maybe because all this time I wasn't fully aware of what was going on, or maybe because the news told the truth for once.

I snuck from the side door where the staff entrance was, because all the glass on the front of the supermarket was smashed to pieces and I didn't like the thought of my hands sliced open. It was a mess on the inside and the aisles stood empty like sad metal canyons. People must have broke in trying to get all the toiler paper and canned foods left in the previous weeks. From the expired milk bottles at the back to the unstoppable static noise of the refrigerators in front of me, there were all those special little touches to make me feel like I was working in this hole of a job again. And no, I did not bother searching for supplies. Instead, I walked around like I was out shopping with my mom, opening the boxes of the diabetes flavored cereal that no one bother to take, just to steal their toys. I also found a bunch of unopened boxes of the supermarket's very own faux chocolate milk (yes, the one with the dark industrial waste left on the bottom) that was probably expired as well. But, I was a lady, right? So I took some of them to the cash register, because Olga ain't no petty thief. I got around my place of work and scanned the bottles to find out that they cost something less than three hundred and seventy-five million. "Luckily, I don't have to calculate any change now", I thought. Never before have I ever experienced such relief while being there. I was sitting in the same place I was rotting for hours before the world turned to shit, and I was patiently waiting for a huge line of old ladies to pop out of nowhere just to ruin my vibe with their pension money bills. I almost started to miss all of those stuff. This must meant that things have really turned to shit.

The new millennium have begun just like any other year, against the disappointment and secret eagerness of some people. All that screaming about the revelation, the second coming of Satan, the aliens, and the revolution of the machines faded miserably as the days went by and absolute destruction was not to be seen. Yet, at least. Because the first planes that crashed mid-flight in South Africa and Indonesia didn't appear before the end of January, but all were like "okay, technical problems". And when missiles were accidentally landing on Iraqi cities, people were like "well, what to do, technical problems yet again". Only when the bank deposits got erased people started to cry and run like headless chickens. Young people now would call me cynical, but you had to be there to see it. It was crystal clear that people had all of their hopes and dreams for tomorrow stored into a single digit of a computer. A kind of tomorrow which was now failing to promise anything anymore in front of millions of simultaneous personal bankruptcies. Then the reactors in Italy exploded due to a system failure and tomorrow officially died. This tomorrow that we were told would bring everything to us, from cancer treatments to all of Britney's music stored in a tiny mini-disc. From flying cars to underground metros. From huge tv screens for each living room to the giant digital information highway better know as the INTERNET. Nowadays all of these sound so silly, but the pain in the faces of people from the betrayal of their dream did not seem to go away. Until mid-February, everyone lost their minds. Those who saw all of this coming ran away in fear of the new Chernobyl to leave the rest of us behind to die. Shops, services, offices, all ceased to have any actual reason to exist in from of the impending disaster. All you could see around anymore were padlocks, deflated bodies on the street from people that couldn't take it anymore, and some shadows of people left to wander like animals while pretending to be alive. Maybe that's why the tv was constantly playing commercials and other irrelevant bullshit during all of this, it was the last useful thing they could show to the people that were preparing for the grand finale.

But that grand finale wasn't so tangible for me. Everyone had this type of end predetermined, but this panic of theirs seemed more like a slightly less shallow version of the preexisting self-preservation to me. I wasn't convinced by those who screamed that the world was over simply because it already happened to their world. Like, just as Rome wasn't built in one day, their illusions weren't shattered overnight. I mean, at that time the supermarket was filled with those obnoxious promotional banners featuring the new slogan that was everywhere lately, before things change for the worse. They had the "FUTURE READY" catchphrase in large white letters that spread noisy and ridiculous lacking any particular meaning as everything was collapsing. What future exactly was that slogan referring to? The future in general, as a concept of time and space? They wouldn't have thought that out that much. Was it the future of humanity from now on? I wouldn't be so concerned for this with all those rich fucks that had already kissed as goodbye from their shelters, we were far from being extinct and in maybe less that ten years we could wake up with someone like Will Smith ruling the world. No, the catchphrase probably meant that future with the flying cars and the internet. The future only fools would believe it would come (and yes, people actually believe that). That future we lost just as fast as we were promised for it.

So in short, we were crabs in a bucket, pulling each other down in excruciating depths. This wasn't living nor surviving; we more or less kept on functioning like bio-robots with depression. But for me, things weren't looking so grim. "Look at me", I would say, "I reached twenty-nine and haven't done crap to be proud of, I drink expired chocolate milk and I'm secretly glad the world is ending because every day was borderline unbearable for me anyway, so how good would the future be for someone like me?". Nowadays the denial of any form of reality in this reasoning stands out, but at that moment I was reaching redemption. I was now reassured by the thought of the end, acting like a barrier that could block this endless loop that was running relentlessly against me. "So finally", I said to myself, "let's calm down once and for all". I was spinning around in the cashier's chair like a silly kid and was finishing up the bottles of milk like there's no tomorrow, while convincing myself that once everything goes to hell, my torment is over.

My phone’s vibrating through my coat cut me off the carefree twirling around my craziness. "Mom" was flashing on the screen again, but by that point I couldn't be bothered for explanations. Still, the dialogue kept running automatically like a script inside my head.

"I just can't get you. Do you keep on acting unbothered by the world? Even now? Who are you trying to convince anymore, Olga? Me? Because I know you have roughened up out of fear".

Well, truth is I was actually fearing you would start with that kind of shit again.

"You are getting more and more difficult to talk to. You are basically denying something we both clearly see at this point".

We seem to say the same exact thing, ain't that something? I guess I was kinda doomed from the start to be and look just like you.

"You really do me dirty with all these conclusions you're drawing out of anger".

Okay, so what? Did you get upset?

"Why are you angry at me, Olga? Can I hear you say it, just for once?"

I don't have the time for this thing again, mother, I need to enjoy my remaining days over here.

"How much do you think this will last for you? When will you stop stalling and start looking after you and your future again, Olga?"

What future do I have, really, are you kidding me?

-Are you talking to yourself, ma'am?

I almost slipped out of the chair. I had never experienced such horror before. I was barely held off the bench to help me  get up again slowly with my heart sinking to my stomach, only to see a little girl with plaited pigtails looking at me half-frightened. She wasn't over nine years old, judging by the face and the childish dress she wore under this puffy purple coat.

-Why are you here? Where are your parents?

-Over here, come and take a look! But mom told me not to talk to strangers!

That of course made zero sense to me. Just like it made zero sense for a child to be left alone in a destroyed supermarket with the sun setting outside. I asked for the girl's name, nothing. I asked again, she hid her puzzled frown behind her pigtails trying to playfully imitate my posture with her hands on my waist.

-I'm Olga, I work here. And you?

She started to say something and suddenly changed her mind, running like hell to the back. I was confused thinking how would I look like to someone who saw me chasing a little girl in there, but then I reminded myself that probably nobody would be left to live to the end of this month, so I wouldn't be considered crazy for too long. I began running under the flickering ceiling lights and with each step I had to swallow my vomit. This little girl felt sorry for me in the end and stopped to wait for me at the end of the far right aisle, leaving one sleeve of her huge coat to stick out on purpose. I approached with an awkward smile and glanced at the strange grace she had on her face, with those weird baby hair that can't be caught for nothing in plaits pointing upwards. Despite my awkwardness, the girl stood unworried and expressionless as if I put her on timeout. I asked her name again. She slips away from a second time and runs like the wind, squealing something at lime while zigzagging the aisles.

-You should probably pick it up!

My phone was stabbing my pocket. It was "Mom" yet again, but I really wasn't in the mood for "Mama". I had to pick up my lungs from the floor at the top of my priorities, because this little devil wasn't running but galloping like a damn horse. I finally caught up with her in the aisle with the products of the day and tightly grabbed her by the shoulders. The little devil screamed and was banging her feet in pain. My hands had been too coarse for people after all this time.

-Hey, ma'am, did you get angry? I was just playing with you.

-I'm don't have time to play right now, please go to your mom.

-But I told you, My mom's right here.

"Where is "here"?

With just one finger sticking out of the sleeve, she pointed to the right middle shelf at the end of the aisle. She put her finger before her mouth to stop me from talking and I followed her on tiptoes. When we approached the end of the aisle and my eyes got used to the darkness I saw a woman laid inside the empty shelf. She was in her sixties and wearing an old black nightgown with holes on it. From her short hair down to her nails, there were ice flakes stuck everywhere as if she was just found buried in the snow. Her face with her eyes closed was carrying such an expression of pain and torment. I was so weirded out that something made me want to follow those ice streams that filled her skin's scratches with my fingers, however her body felt so stiff I jumped back. She looked more like a porcelain doll than an actual person.

-Ma'am Olga? Are you alright?

I threw up all the chocolate milk I drank. My body got the chills and my teeth were trembling so much that my breath was coming out in sharp puffs in front of the flickering lights of the refrigerators. I must have look like shit, because I scared the little girl for good and made her get five steps back from me while I was going crazy and trying to clear my eyes from the shock.

-Why is she here?

-Nobody wanted her. Nobody called to take her.

I didn't pay much attention. I pulled out my cherry ericsson to call for help, but the chaotic hum of the phone lines echoed in the aisle before I even put the phone to my ear.

-Who put her here?

She was just staring at me. I asked again and again. She let her lower lip half open. I grabbed her by the shoulders like before and she pulled out a choked scream due to my clumsiness. She started crying and feeling loose in my hands. It was then that I felt like something broke inside me and I crawled away from her because she would pass out in any second just by looking at the state that I was. I sat on the floor watching her wipe her tears from a distance, all while fixing her plaits and stressfully straightening the dress inside her coat. Every now and then she would throw these incoherent excerpts from conversations that seemed weirdly familiar, waiting for me to remember the answers I had given to each of the discussions. I felt sick, like my insides would explode at any moment. My mind was working overtime and I started seeing red. I understood, but I did not want to accept it.

"But how?" I was saying again and again. I can't just live through this stuff. I was thinking that maybe that's it, we are officially past this tomorrow. Maybe that was the end of the world and the time I had at my disposal. Only instead of cloud islands or pits with flames I was stuck inside this supermarket with a little girl and a dead woman. Was this fitting? Not really. It might be considered symbolic, but still not at all subtle. That's why I was stuffed with anger and distress. I couldn't digest what to feel after all that I saw. And what was the meaning of all of this? To make me feel remorse? To help me maybe? But how? So many questions hanging above my head I began to feel like I was melting from the uncertainty. Luckily, the little girl found some courage to pick me up from the floor.

-You still don't recognize her, do you?

-I recognized her just fine the first time.

-Are you sure, ma'am Olga?

-I don't know, what do you say?

-You tell me.

-We have to get out of here, kiddo. We can't get through it like this. Even now, with everything else going to hell with us.

-Do you really want me to come with you?

-I don't know. Maybe I want to, maybe I should.

The phone started screaming again. It was dimming "Mama" with small flakes of ice filling its broken tiny screen. The girl bent down and put this in my palm with no emotion on her face. I answered it. I waited for an eternity so thin you could fit it inside a moment like this. "Hello? Mom?". Eventually the same confusing static noise creaked from the other side of the call, and I stuck there waiting through the buzzing to find her smoker's coughing that she used to do before starting to complain about how I constantly forget about her. Waiting just to tell her that I was here, I was fine, and the world might not end there. Maybe, somewhere, somehow, there's even some future we can fit in it.

-So are we ready now, ma'am Olga?

-Ready for what?

She pointed at the banner hanging from the ceiling.

-Future ready.

I didn't catch my mother's voice at the other end of the line, of course. I hung up and weakly threw the phone on the shelf where the woman was laying, just to hear its dying snout. This felt way more fitting.

-Nah, not really. But it probably does not matter right now.

-But. I'm scared.

-I'm scared too, being in here and all.

-So when will we be back? When everything was normal again?

-"Normal" may no longer exist. We'll just have to see. For now, get up.

-You know better, ma'am.

-Ma'am my ass.

The little girl glanced just once at the self with the phone on and continue to walk with me, with her palm lost and warmed up somewhere inside my own palm. An analog clock on the wall pointed somewhere after nine o clock and the sky was bruised from the clouds that were pouring snow on everything around us. I put my hand with hers in the pocket of the miserable purple coat and lifted our hoods to escape the cold on the way home. I don't really remember how long we walked with our backs hunched over somewhere between the white and the gray. I only recall that we took the long way home, like a punishment of some sorts.

Thinking that I would never hear again the saltiness in my mom's voice was my most bitter torment. I never thought of such a possibility. I always had in the back of my mind that she would find a way to defy any rule of the universe, just so she could care for me. That's science fiction, after all. It seems I was holding on to my illusions for so long, so waking up hurts like hell even today. And if my mom died, I believe she must've left with that pain and concern during her last moments. "Look at me now", I catch myself saying here and there "I avoided her only until I had to mourn her". Until then, the only thing I had on my mind was working on what I should say when I would get asked about her, only to answer that we "fell off" with no emotion. What exactly happened to fall off with her would be like unnecessary little details. Still, to this day, that's exactly what I tell people when it's being brought up. I can't talk about it without sinking in remorse. I can't get the right words to come out anymore, not even by force.

Of course I tried to find her. Especially with the years that were to come upon me, I needed this to have my mind calibrated just to not go crazy over the batshit hysteria that was building up inside of me. Deep down, though, I knew I didn't have the courage to look at past trauma anymore, and I was secretly hoping I would never fine here. Maybe because the end of the world not coming anymore, at least as I thought it would, and now I have to live with it forever. Maybe because the worst that could have happened to me in the end was the postponement of the apocalypse. And this falls heavily on my shoulders to this day. Every day I have to justify why it was worth it to stay behind, either as punishment or by luck, trying to convince myself that there is something left to do with the leftovers of my future.

[gaymy-raudenfeld]

Home is Where the Heart Is

I’m posting a little late, even by American standards, but I made it in time! A merry pitchmas to @snowbritt and all of you wonderful people. I haven’t posted any fanfic in a while so this may be a bit rusty.

Summary: When the Bellas find out they’ll be getting a house and sharing bedrooms, Beca tries to use the opportunity to get close to Chloe. When she doesn’t act fast enough, she spends the following months pining after Chloe and trying to find a chance to get close to her. Beca gets her wish in an unexpected way.

Rating: T

Word Count: 3.1k

“Dear Barden Bellas,

Due to your recent streak of wins at the ICCA finals, we have decided it is only fair to award you the way we have awarded our other prestigious acapella groups in the past. We have secured the funding and approval to build a lodging house for all current and future Bellas to reside in throughout their time at Barden University. The proposed blueprints are attached…”

Beca was cut off by the screaming. The girls couldn’t believe it. They had won back-to-back ICCA championships and now they were being given their very own building. They could finally practice outside Barden’s tiny black box theatre, free from the drama kids who kicked them out so they could rehearse and the motion lights that sometimes left them singing in the dark, like some kind of cult-

“Wait a minute,” Fat Amy interrupted everybody celebrating, “this floor plan only includes six bedrooms.”

“Well then I guess we’re gonna have to double up.” Cynthia Rose said, eyeing Stacie.

“I wanna be with Jessica.” “I wanna be with Ashley.” Ashley and Jessica said at the same time.

“And we have to save one room for the new Bellas.” Beca added. The girls began to talk amongst themselves again when Fat Amy quietly approached Beca.

“How about it, shortstack?” She said, leaning in. “I promise to give you ample warning about any gentleman callers I may have.”

“Yes… I mean no… I mean what?”

“This is like the third time I’ve caught you daydreaming today; you have GOT to tell me what is on your mind before you wander into traffic or something.”

“How is telling you gonna stop me from wandering into traffic?”

“It’s not, but I won’t be able to hear your gossip if you’re in a coma.”

Beca sighed and lowered her voice even further. “Listen, if I promise to give you more details later, will you be chill about letting me room with Chloe?”

“Chloe?” Fat Amy questioned. “She takes forever to get ready before every practice and recital, which YOU were complaining about just last week. Are you sure you’ll be able to deal with Chloe’s daily makeup routine when you’re sharing a bathroom?”

“It’s not that big of a deal, I could get used to it.” Beca shrugged.

“What’s going on?”

They were interrupted by Stacie calling everyone to attention. “Okay! So the room assignments are gonna be one free room for new recruits, Ashley & Jessica, Denise & Cynthia Rose, Fat Amy & Beca, me & Chloe, and… Lilly sleeps in a room by herself. We all good with that?” The Bellas voiced their agreement.

“Fuck.” Beca muttered to herself.

The girls began to scatter, some still chattering excitedly about the Bella House, which would be ready by the Fall semester. When almost everyone had cleared, Fat Amy turned back to Beca. “You wanna tell me what that was about?”

“I may have… developed a crush on a certain Bella.” Beca said, turning beet red.

“No way!” Fat Amy whisper-yelled. “Let me guess. Is it Stacie? Her legs are about as long as you are, so you get a good view.”

“It is NOT Stacie. Although you do have a good point about the view.”

“Well who is it then?”

Beca took in a deep breath, preparing to unload her secret. She breathed again, and as she exhaled, she said “Chloe.”

“Chloe?? Of course! The first time you met you were naked and it did something to you, psychologically.”

“It was the second time, and she just, wouldn’t leave my shower until I sang with her and I did and then I joined the Bellas and everything was totally fine.”

“And you JUST developed this crush?”

“It’s possible I was too traumatized by the event to understand my feelings until recently.”

“Yeah, or you’re just a clueless girl who fell in love with an even more clueless boy for like, eight months before you broke up because you realized you have feelings for a girl in your acapella group. Which, by the way, was bound to happen, with the amount of time the nine of us spend together.”

“Damn Amy, have you actually been paying attention in your psychology class?”

“Enough to know that you’ve got the hots for your redheaded best friend, and your life is only gonna get worse if you don’t tell her about it.”

“What do I even say?”

“That one’s on you, loverboy. Now, I gotta get out of here and meet a gentleman caller.”

Beca quirked an eyebrow. She was going to need to find a way to tell Chloe her feelings before the living arrangements were settled.

-

Beca did not find a way to tell Chloe her feelings before the living arrangements were settled.

Fall came in the blink of an eye and she found herself face-to-face with a slew of problems, including arranging new Bellas routines, her music theory professor who seemed to have it out for her, and the fact that she had a growing crush on her best friend and acapella group co-leader. Things were off to a great start.

The summer spent apart had only deepened Beca’s feelings, which was irritating. It didn’t help that she and Chloe spent a ton of time together choreographing dances for the competitions later in the year. Whenever the girls had to pair up, Chloe walked straight to Beca, grabbing her wrists with intention. Like she knew exactly what she was doing. Like she belonged there.

“Bec?” Chloe had clearly been trying to get Beca’s attention.

“Huh? What?” Beca’s train of thought was broken.

“Are you ready to show them the moves we came up with?”

Beca nodded eagerly, attempting to make up for spacing out earlier. “Yep. Totally. Let’s do this.”

Chloe started leading Beca around the makeshift rehearsal area they had created in the Bella House’s living room. They had to move the couches around and it wasn’t as big as Barden’s black box but at least it didn’t smell like feet. It was easier to focus on what was in front of her, which, at the moment, was a certain redhead.

Chloe smelled like clean laundry and cherry blossoms, a product of the showers that were much easier to take now that she didn’t have to use a communal bathroom built for thirty people. Chloe may take a while to get ready, but Stacie takes even longer, and sometimes Chloe walks down the hall to Beca and Amy’s room and borrows their shower. Their bathroom smells like vanilla and cherry blossoms for hours afterward, and it drives Beca nuts in the best way possible. She watched Chloe perform the new routine with confidence, poise, and accuracy, and she felt her breath hitch in her chest.

What she didn’t feel was the edge of the coffee table as she tripped and fell backward onto its hard surface, banging her head. After everyone’s initial shock had passed, they went to check on Beca to make sure she was okay.

“I’m fine.” Beca stated assuredly. “Really, the worst thing I hurt is my ego.”

“Your head sounded like a bowling ball hitting the floor” Lilly said, almost imperceptibly.

“BECA!” Fat Amy shouted. “CAN YOU SAY YOUR A-B-C’S BACKWARDS?” She was speaking more slowly than normal.

“You know I can hear you right?”

“And isn’t that supposed to be for sobriety tests?” Cynthia Rose asked.

While they had been chatting, Chloe had sat down next to Beca and helped her sit up. She had her hand on Beca’s back, propping her up just in case she felt dizzy.

“Are you okay?” Chloe asked concernedly.

“I’m fine,” Beca repeated, much softer this time, “really.”

Chloe was looking into Beca’s eyes, just checking her pupils. Such a clinical action, but Chloe made it seem so tender. She ran her hand up Beca’s neck to the back of her head, feeling for any irregularities. Beca felt chills run up her spine as Chloe rubbed her fingers across her scalp. She hoped she wasn’t being too obvious.

Chloe pulled back. “The bad news is you might have a small concussion. The good news is that lump on your head just may make you taller.”

“Ha-ha.” Beca fake laughed.

Stacie chimed in, “I had a concussion once and my doctor told me not to sleep. Wait. It was either my doctor or my mom. I don’t remember.”

“I think the best thing for Beca to do is to go lie down.” Cynthia Rose added.

“Does that have anything to do with you not wanting to practice the new routine?” Beca quipped from the table.

“If I carry you to your room can I not answer that question?” Cynthia Rose replied.

“Fair enough.”

Cynthia Rose crossed the living room to scoop Beca into her arms, and was about to lift her off the table when Fat Amy piped up. “Uh, um, Beca can’t stay in our room.”

“Why not?” Beca squinted at her roommate.

“Because… I’m going to have... a gentleman caller….. or two….. this evening.” She began to trail off near the end.

“Right on.” Stacie nodded in Fat Amy’s direction.

“Okay so where am I taking Beca to?” Cynthia Rose asked, still positioned to lift Beca.

“How about my room?” Chloe, who had been sitting quietly next to Beca for some time now finally rejoined the conversation.

Beca tried to be cool, looking at Stacie. “Is that alright?”

Stacie nodded. “Yeah, sure, I was planning on going out after this anyway.”

“Great, then it’s settled.” Cynthia Rose said. “I’m carrying Beca to Chloe’s room.”

-

They quickly discovered that Cynthia Rose couldn’t carry Beca up the stairs wedding-style. So it turned into Chloe and Cynthia Rose flanking Beca on each side in case she became dizzy after hitting her head.

“I feel like a fucking hospice patient.” Beca half-joked as they reached Chloe’s room and they helped her lie down on the bed.

“I got it from here, C. Rose thank you.” Chloe said, ushering her out and gently closing the door behind her. She turned off most of the lights in the room except for some string lights and a single lamp that emitted a soft pink glow.

“Wow, you went hardcore doctor out there.” Beca said a bit jokingly.

“This is like, my seventh year of school. If I can’t recognize a concussion when I see one I should just quit now and go back to clown camp with Aubrey.”

“Yeah I… I’m sorry BACK to clown camp?!?”

“It was a dark summer in middle school.”

“You owe me a story Beale.”

“I don’t owe you anything Mitchell.”

The two locked eyes from across the room and Beca felt her heart jump into her throat again. Good thing she was already lying down this time; nowhere to fall.

Beca relented. “How about an ice pack?”

Chloe nodded, a contented look crossing her face. “That I can do.”

She returned moments later with an ice pack, an extra blanket, and a box of chocolate chip cookies.

“Oh my God.” Beca stated when she saw the care package Chloe had assembled for her.

“I thought you might want the rest of these before they were devoured.” Chloe said, handing Beca the cookies.

Beca quickly opened the package and grabbed a cookie to chow down on. As she was popping the dessert into her mouth, she unthinkingly said “I love you.”

“I love you too.” Chloe said, perched on the side of her bed. She seemed more sincere than Beca was expecting. She awkwardly swallowed the large bite of cookie she had in her mouth in an attempt to change the topic as quickly as possible.

“So I’m concussed?” Beca asked, reaching for the blanket to put over her legs.

“Yep.” Chloe stated. “Couldn’t keep up with my choreo, huh?” She winked, handing Beca the ice pack. Beca didn’t want to talk about the real reason she injured herself: that she was too busy watching Chloe dance to pay attention to her own feet.

“You know I’m a notoriously bad dancer.”

“Is that why you always need my help during practice?”

“Yeah, if it wasn’t for you I would have done this like ten times already. I’m taking advantage of your veterinary health training.”

“Always good to be able to practice on someone who can give me feedback.”

“As long as you don’t shove a thermometer up my ass.”

“Well, Stacie IS gone for the rest of the night…”

“Watch it, Beale.”

The pair laughed for a second before settling into a comfortable silence. Chloe sat on the edge of the bed, tracing swirling patterns in her sheets. Beca looked around at the room she missed out on at the end of the last semester. It wasn’t all that different from her own; the only important difference was the girl she was in the room with.

When it became clear that Chloe wasn’t going to leave, Beca began to ask questions. “No plans tonight, huh? You’re not having a tinder-venture like Stacie or whatever the hell Amy is doing in our bedroom?”

Chloe chuckled. “No, nothing like that. I haven’t really gone out on a date in a while. Besides, I want to make sure you’re okay!” Chloe moved closer and fussed with Beca’s blanket.

“I appreciate the gesture, Chlo, but you’ve definitely got better things to be doing on a Friday night.” “Nothing more important than you.” Chloe looked up, meeting Beca’s eyes and offering a smile. Beca sheepishly looked away. Was that as serious as it sounded? Probably not, right?

“Do you mind if I…?” Chloe trailed off, motioning to her covers.

“Do I mind if you sleep in your own bed? No, not at all, just help me get over into Stacie’s bed.” Beca began to push herself up with her arms.

“You don’t have to move, actually.” Chloe said. Another surprise.

“Are you sure? It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Please, Beca. It’ll be easier. I’ll even let you be the little spoon.”

Beca scoffed. “What makes you think I want to be the little spoon?”

“Don’t you?”

Beca hesitated. “…….Fine.” She scooted over and allowed Chloe to slide in next to her. She could feel the warmth from Chloe’s body contrasting the ice pack she had been holding to her head.

“Is this good for concussions too?”

“Yep. Vet’s orders.” Chloe said as she settled in.

After a few minutes had passed, Beca spoke again.

“You know, I wanted this room really bad before we all moved in together.”

“Really? Aw Bec, you should have said something sooner. I’m sure Stacie and I would have been fine in your room-”

“It’s not really about the room. More like, the roommate.” Beca felt her stomach drop as she began to hint at her feelings for Chloe.

“Oh.” Chloe just said back.

Oh God. Oh fuck I’ve ruined everything I can’t believe I just came onto her like that-

”That’s really sweet of you Bec.”

Beca couldn’t believe it. The world was still intact, somehow. She inched backward into Chloe, and felt the redhead silently move closer to her at the same time. They fell asleep with their legs tangled, both tired from the long day.

-

The next morning Beca woke up early to a throbbing in the back of her head.

Ah, fuck. Beca thought to herself as she reached back to rub the tender part of her scalp, still half asleep. She was surprised to grab onto a face just behind her own.

“Good morning to you too.” Chloe said, muffled by Beca’s hand.

Beca turned over. “Shit. Sorry about that. What time is it?”

“Like… 8:30 on a Saturday. Are you late for morning yoga?”

“Fuck you.” Beca laughed and poked Chloe’s shoulder. “Ah man. I really stayed in here the whole night.”

“And you only snored a little bit.” Chloe joked, still lying down on the pillow.

“She’s feisty in the morning!” Beca retorted, eliciting a smile from Chloe. They were face to face now. Inches from each other. Beca watched the soft morning light filter in over Chloe’s face. Her hair was shining. She could see each fleck of gold in Chloe’s big blue eyes. Beca couldn’t help but think how beautiful she looked.

The moments passed by silently as the girls enjoyed the most intimate moment either of them had experienced in a long time.

“Beca?”

“Yeah Chloe?”

“Would you be okay if I kissed you right now?”

Beca didn’t even give herself time to think before blurting out “Yes.” And in an instant, Chloe’s mouth was on hers. The kisses were delicate and sleepy, but full of the spark that had been building between them since the first time they sang together. When they needed to pull away for air, Beca took a moment to marvel at what was happening. “Woah.” She said, a look of incredulity on her face. “Did Chloe Beale just kiss me?”

Chloe nodded and the biggest smile spread across her face. “Sure did, Beca Mitchell.”

Chloe dove back in for more kisses and Beca eagerly responded, only interrupted by Beca’s brief cries of pain when Chloe’s hand accidentally wandered to the bump on the back of her head.

-

That afternoon Beca made her way back down the hall to her bedroom so she could get ready for the day. She ran into Fat Amy eating a popsicle on her bed.

“Amy, you’ll never believe what happened this morning.” Beca began.

“Let me guess, you finally sealed the deal with ginger?”

“How did-“

“It was my plan all along Beca! Do you think it’s a coincidence that I kicked you out of the room last night?”

“I thought you were seeing someone. ones. whatever.”

“I lied so you could get into Chloe’s room and make some music with your mouths.”

“Amy!”

“I TOLD you I would always give you ample warning when I had any gentleman callers! Because I’m a decent roommate, Beca, and I’m even better because I got you hooked up with your ladycrush.”

“Was it your plan for me to get a concussion too?”

“Sometimes you just have to seize the moment.” Fat Amy said, swinging her popsicle around emphatically.

“Wait a minute. Aren’t those the ones I bought?” Beca said, nodding at the popsicle.

“Ah yeah. See. I may have taken the last one as a reward for being a fantastic matchmaker-slash-roommate. I figured helping you get with Chloe would outweigh my poor decisions.”

Beca rolled her eyes. “You’re lucky Chloe is so great, otherwise you would owe me a new box of popsicles.”

The End.

[themenof--freeridge]

Resistance is Futile

Pairing: Oscar Diaz x Reader

Requested?: Yes- bae-b-cakes : Hi :) could you do an Oscar x Reader where the reader is working at the bank the Santos robbed? Maybe Spooky could have a “love-at-first-meet” moment with her possibly because she’s scared but doesn’t flinch? And him hold his gun to her so none of the other crew members mess with her? I know requests are closed but I thought that maybe this was a new idea. I love your work <3

Warnings: none

--

*Reader POV*

I released a heavy sigh as I stared at the clock directly opposite me, wishing for the minutes to magically tick away faster than ever. The day was creeping to a close but there were still customers trickling in, testing me with their own tired eyes.

As I reset the computer system to prepare for the next customer in line, I momentarily wondered how I ended up working as a bank attendant for four full years. Sure, the pay was decent, but it definitely wasn’t my dream job. Like most other people in the neighbourhood, I had a job that just barely covered the bills.  

My hand swept under the desk to ring the bell for the next customer. Just as the middle-aged customer shuffled over to my stall, the front doors of the bank opened and a group of well-built Hispanic men ushered in, with bandanas over their mouths in an attempt to hide their identities. Around here, it was obvious that these men were Santos.  

My co-worker to my right pressed a shaking hand to the Security bell under her desk, signaling the nearby authorities of the threat.  

The Santos were quick to flay their weapons around as they barked orders for everyone in the building, including the bank’s guards, to sit in a line on the ground. The attendants and employees all ushered out into the main hall and joined the customers on the ground.

I found myself at the end of the line, furthest from the entrance. While one Santo already managed to grab hold of a floor manager and was hurrying him to the cash trays behind the counters, the other Santos moved down the line to see if there was anything worth stealing from the hostages.

I winced at my own mind; were we already hostages? Despite the threat in front of me, I couldn’t help but think that this whole scene only meant that I would have to be in work longer than I wanted.  

Although I should have been fearing for my life like everyone else, my own exhausted thoughts made me calmer in the scene.  

So calm that when I looked in front of me and stared through the barrel of a pistol aiming for my skull, I just sighed again.  

Behind the pistol were furrowed eyebrows and young eyes.  

Without even thinking, I asked, “Is that thing even loaded?” I could sense the people nearest to me offer incredulous stares in your direction.  

I was sure that when I saw the right cheek of the Santo turn upwards that the guy was smirking at me. “You willing to bet on it?” he countered.

“Look, I just wanna get off work already. This is all quite inconvenient.”

Beneath the bandana, a chuckle erupted and the pistol leaned away from you ever-so-slightly. That was enough to keep my mind at ease.

-

*Oscar POV*

This was already taking too long. Any logical person would know that the longer you took to hold up a bank, was the higher chance you had of the cops coming around.

The guy with the money bag was already taking much too long for my comfort.  

Needing to keep everyone calm and make sure no one was secretly calling the cops, I inspected every one of the hostages on the ground. It was only when I reached the end of the line that I noticed this girl looking very un-bothered.

Like the others, I stuck the pistol to her head. The second her eyes met mine, I knew that something was off with this girl. She had the eyes of a woman who had had a rough day at work and just wanted to get away.

Then, she spoke. “Is that thing even loaded?”  

I couldn’t tell if she was cheeky or curious. Either way, it threw me off a little. Not only was her voice calm, but the way she looked at me, it was as though she could see me behind the Santo exterior.  

Fumbling for a response, I replied, “You willing to bet on it?”

She glanced away for a moment and came back with, “Look, I just wanna get off work already. This is all quite inconvenient.”

That was enough to make me laugh a little, and I took the pistol away from aiming at her.  

Next to me, the guys were making their rounds along the line, interrogating everyone and picking at the slightest sign of jewelry or watches. I winced; I knew we came here for the money, but the interrogating was a bit excessive.  

The intriguing lady in front of me spoke again. “Don’t you guys make enough money from dealing drugs? Why do you need to rob a bank now?”

One of the other guys moved closer to me, his hand gun eagerly pointed at the line of hostages, ready to take out anyone who got in his way. Out of instinct, I moved so that my back was in front of the interesting attendant. Luckily, the guy didn’t seem to notice.

“Where the hell is Rico?” he asked, referring to the guy with the money bags.  

Speaking of the devil, Rico appeared, heaving two full bags, one over each shoulder. “Let’s go, boys!” he exclaimed.  

Immediately, the boys rounded up and quickly headed for the exit.  

Just as the sirens were heard in the distance, I glanced back at the girl. To my surprise, she offered a sarcastically slow wave as I shuffled away. I smirked once more and left the building.

--

*Reader POV*

The cops finally showed up and I told them everything I could recall, even the time on the clock.  

By the time they let me leave, it was nearing 7:30PM and I just wanted to get a greasy burger and head off to bed. Luckily for me, there was a diner just around the corner of my block.

As I pushed open the door and was welcomed by the chiming bell above the entrance, the scent of burger grease and burnt coffee engulfed me. I eagerly made my way to the counter and the cashier already knew my order; I take great pride in being a regular customer.

As I took a bar stool to wait for my order, I glanced around at the patrons. The usual suspects stood out: high school kids joking around and single parents treating their kid/kids to dinner outside of the house.  

Just to my left, another person walked in and took the stool next to me.  

“Coffee,” the person said to the cashier. The attending girl rolled her eyes but did her job.

That one word was enough to make me realize that the voice was all too familiar. I chanced a glance at the person’s face and scoffed when I met their eyes. It was that Santo guy from the bank.

He met my eyes and offered a smirk in return. At least without the bandana I could actually see the smirk. I had to admit, it looked good on him.

“You following me or something?” I asked, when he didn’t look away.

The attendant placed the coffee mug on the counter and pushed the container of milk and sugars over. Only when the girl turned away did he respond. “What if I was?”

“Then I'd say you elevated from a thief to a stalker.”

He turned away still flashing that mischievous smirk. He tore open two packets of sugar and emptied the contents into the mug. With a couple swirls with the spoon, he was satisfied and took a cautious sip.  

He nodded once and returned to me, waiting for my counterattack. “I could live with the robbery thing but I really don’t like stalkers.”

He chuckled suddenly and responded, “Then don’t let me stay as a stalker. Let me take you out.”

Now it was my turn to burst out laughing.  

His eyebrows came together in confusion. “Didn’t realize I was so funny.”

“Well, you can’t be serious.”

“Why not?”

“You’re a goddamn Santo.”

“And?”

“And living in this neighbourhood is hard enough without being attached to the Santos.” I looked towards the kitchen area, wondering when my order would be ready.

“Maybe a Santo is what you need to make your life easier.”

I kept his gaze and asked, “Why me?”

He smirked once more and answered, “Because anyone who doesn’t cower in front of a gun is either a psychopath or what I've been looking for.”

“I could very well be a psychopath, for all you know.”

The attendant finally approached us, with my order in her hands. She rest the bag in front of me and offered a polite smile, closing our interaction for the evening.

I rose to my feet and clasped the bag, ready to leave. The Santo hurried to follow suit and placed a hand on my arm.  

“I’m willing to find out. I’m Oscar, by the way.”

I sighed, coming to terms with the fact that this Santo wasn’t going to give up anytime soon. Resolved, I offered, “I usually get coffee here on Saturday mornings, around 9. If you’re here then, I’ll take you seriously.”

He released my arm and nodded. “Deal. See you then.”

“Alright.” I took that chance to bolt out the door, already scolding myself for getting involved.

It wouldn’t be so bad, right? You were either on the good side or the bad side of the Santos. Maybe being associated with one would actually benefit me. If I needed anything exciting to take me away from my normal, mind-numbing routine, it was a relationship.  

All in all, the robbery signified a turning point in my life. Now, it was up to me to take hold of this chance and make the most of it.  

[hunkjasontodd]

Call In to Talk?

I revisited @pichiba’s blog and was scrolling through the radio!au tag when I realised I hadn’t written much about them in a while and it was bugging me so... 

Prompt: Ryan’s down with the flu, and is feeling down because nobody’s paying attention to the show. Shane steps in to help. 

Sequel to this!

Also available on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15321384

Ryan stares at the control panel, a little lost. 

Let’s rewind, yeah?

Ryan, the kind soul he was, was persuaded (more like peer pressured, but he’s not going to be that mean) to take over his best friend Steven’s radio show so that he could return home and spend time with family. Unawares of the traps, Film student Ryan went on to set up a show talking about unsolved mysteries. 

While most listeners had their fun, pitching in ideas and other possible theories, two of them decided to be a pain in his side and tear apart his theories with even more possible science, leaving him flustered and a little embarrassed. Well, one of them dropped off the face of the world, rest in peace, Brent, but the other one, an even more annoying man named Shane, decided to wreck havoc in his little haven by having Ryan play into his little game. 

Shane truly knew how to smooth talk his way to the results, and Ryan hated it. He hated it because he’d thought that Shane would just be a casual listener, but it turns out that his new “friend” decided to become one of his most loyal listeners. Every session, every fucking morning at 3, Shane would be there, live-tweeting how he thinks the weird theories are all whacky and supporting scientific theories with evidence and proof. At the half-hour mark, he’d call in to argue with Ryan for a solid five to seven minutes, leaving the Film student gasping for breath and bubbling with irritation. Then, as the show comes to an end, Shane would haughtily tweet out “seems like the Boogaras are losing, again.” 

They’ve gotten to a point where people have begun taking Shane’s side, and more and more people are converting. It took the fun away from being a supernatural radio show host. It was tiring to talk, now. Shane would always be there, armed with his stupid science, ready to rip apart everything Ryan built. 

Long story short, Ryan doesn’t like Shane very much. 

Just his godforsaken luck. 

The last day of Unsolved, and he gets a cold. Great. 

Ryan sniffles miserably, eyes and nose red and stuffy, leaking gross liquid. Steven had come back to the States a week ago and told him that Worth It would be back on air in about three days, leaving Ryan with the final Saturday, 3 AM slot. 

Then, he had to fall ill. Fantastic. 

‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ Steven asks, handing him a paper towel and wincing at the noise that escapes Ryan’s nose. He nods, hoarsely replying, ‘I’ll be okay.’ 

‘You don’t have to force yourself, dude,’ his best friend reprimands lightly, smoothing circles into his back, ‘I can take over. We’re done with the scripts and stuff.’ 

Ryan shakes his head, glaring at the lunch table, ‘no, no. I can do this.’ I need to do this. ‘Worth It doesn’t deserve to get the worst slot ever.’ Steven levels him with a glare, aggressively stabbing his bowl of noodles with chopsticks, ‘my best friend doesn’t deserve to overwork himself when he’s not feeling well and has a test to study for.’ They both stare at each other, until the other breaks. ‘Really, Ryan, you don’t have to.’ 

‘I want to,’ he whispers, softly, ‘I- I got attached.’ Steven’s eyes widen by a fraction, yellow noodles slipping off his chopsticks, ‘I need to say goodbye.’ He knows he must look pathetic, clinging to something as dumb as a supernatural radio show. But, it was his baby. He loved interacting with the live-feed, the preparation, the recording, the whole routine and mood. 

They sit in silence for a long while, a dark cloud over their heads. 

Steven lets out a slow breath, grip tightening on his utensil, ‘okay.’ 

Ryan startles, ‘okay?’ 

‘Okay. You get to do a last slot for Unsolved.’ The Chem student drums his free hand on the table, ‘but, if you feel terrible, I’m not letting you enter the studio.’ The underlying threat of something horrific eases into his tone a little too easily, but Ryan lets it slide in favour of thanking Steven.

‘You’re the best,’ he chokes, tears blinding his vision. 

Which brings him back to the current setting: he’s in the studio, Steven and Adam, alongside TJ, on the other side of the glass, ensuring that everything’s alright and things are running smoothly online. Steven has a perpetual frown on his face, worry lines creasing his forehead. 

‘Ryan, what’s going on?’ Steven’s voice rings in his headphones. The Twitter live-feed was full of “get well soon”s and other minor insults/concerns about how he shouldn’t be on air if he was feeling unwell. 

They weren’t talking about the show at all. 

A twinge of hurt strikes in his chest. He sniffles, ignoring Steven’s concerned shouting and TJ’s attempts to fill the silence. He can’t even end Unsolved the way he wants to. Just grand. 

‘Incoming call,’ Adam’s soft voice pulls him out of his stupor, urging him to pick it up. Ryan does so, albeit slowly, ‘hey, wha--’ He’s abruptly cut off by a familiar voice, one that’s so used to mocking him.

‘Are you saying that something happened at the Sallie House and nobody in their right minds filmed it? Are we really going to trust some probable hallucinations?’ Shane’s annoying voice leaves him stumped.

‘Huh?’ He wasn’t expecting anyone to talk about the case at all. ‘You heard me, Ryan,’ Shane replies, ‘wait let me get on Twitter and just-- okay. Check the feed, dude.’ Ryan does so, adjusting the brightness to see that Shane’s posted several photos of diagrams and heat signature readings. There’s a rustling sound on the other line, ‘you see it, right?’

‘Well, I’m definitely seeing something, alright,’ he fires back automatically, confusion and rage fueling him. ‘Good, good,’ Shane murmurs, the rustling continues, then another tweet loads. It’s more pictures, this time, hand-drawn. Ryan expands all the images, eyes going back and forth. 

Shane clears his throat, ‘right, so, I’m drawing out the setting of the so-called “incident” and sent you images of the heat signatures of the area during that day, as well as the insides of the flashlight. It could very likely be possible that the light turned off and on due to the irregularities of the surrounding temperatures.’

Ryan sputters, scrambling for a counter attack, ‘but- it happened more than thrice, when they were demanding the demon turn it on!’ Shane hums, as if mulling over it seriously, ‘have you ever considered the fact that when they talked in close proximity to the light, they were actually releasing heat, which could cause it to turn on and off?’ 

It leaves him stumped, for a few microseconds. 

Shane prattles on, listing out all the possible situations and scenarios for the light to have been acting weird, tweeting out even more pictures and diagrams to help facilitate his point. Ryan slowly gets the point, and comes up with a few more arguments, talking about how some rooms in the house had stable heat signatures but experienced the same things. 

At this point, the live-feed has shifted from talking about Ryan to talking about the case. 

‘User @boo-gara-fan made a good point: it can’t be possible that the light acted weird on command, but then stabilise itself again for the rest of the incident. It’s almost too coincidental.’ Ryan wants to applaud himself for being able to stand up for his own point, glad that there were people on his side. 

Steven has been strangely quiet, he glances up to see if his friend was still around. Sure enough, there he was. A big, broad smile on his face, eyes glimmering in relief and pride. Huh? 

Before he gets a chance to ask, more people chime in with their own opinions, and the show is back on track. 

‘--and this has been Ryan Bergara! Thank you guys for being such awesome listeners these past two months! It’s been a blast, hosting Unsolved. I had my good and bad moments, but I hope I was a good host and provided the entertainment you were seeking. Thank you, and farewell!’ Ryan cuts the recording, ignoring the tears sliding down his cheeks and the tremble in his voice. 

He was done. Unsolved is over.

The crew start to move in, clearing up the area and helping him one final time in shutting the studio’s power off. Before the live-feed is cut off, he sees a final tweet flash on the screen: 

Shane Madej @shanealexmadej

Take care of yourself. I hate hearing you sound sick. It’s been fun. 

Ryan chokes back all the tears he’s been holding back. Sliding down against the control table, he finally lets his sobs out, lamenting how the end of something he loved had finally come.

Forty minutes later, Ryan locks up the room for the last time. He stares at the door. Studio 13, it says, painted in bright orange. He takes a deep breath, walking towards the front desk. He signs his name on the checkout sheet, turns his Crew ID in, and drops off the keys in the pink box for the last time. 

‘Ryan!’ Steven yells from across the field, running to him at full speed. ‘I’ve got news for ya, buddy!’ Ryan is about to ask what happened when Steven crushes him into a hug. 

‘Unsolved is back.’ Steven whispers, a grin in his words. 

‘What?!’ The words have yet to settle in when Steven drags a tall, lanky man in front of him. ‘He’s been pressuring the studio to give your show back to you, and they finally relented! On three conditions, though: you get the prime slot, and have to do supernatural and crime.’ 

‘What? Where’s the third?’

The other man smiles at him, genuine and relaxed. ‘Nice to meet you, I’m Shane Madej, your new co-host.’

[back-to-drawing-board]

Tin Soldiers

"These are our working models, sir. If you'll just step this way." The showroom is dark, but as the small group of three men move into the area right before the stage, lights above slide seamlessly on, ambiance filling the deathly silent space, throwing sharp shadows over the illuminated, still figure on display. One man in a well-to-do suit, looking ever so slightly perturbed yet interested nonetheless, suits at the one on the far left. It's head bowed, dark green of synthetic hair glinting under get slight and face obscured, just like its compatriots. "Er...you said...they were fairly dangerous, did you, Nestor?" The businessman questions.

wendigoruble

"Well, it really depends on the model you see." Ethan motions to the android at the end of the line,"This model we call Anti. And he is one of our most advanced yet dangerous models." At the simple sound of the name the bots eyes flash open, head snapping up into place. With its fave finally being seen there's a..Hardness about the expression. Not necessarily mean but not too kind either. It almost seemed to be waiting with a snarle about easy on its lips. "Now, he's only dangerous if you say certain activation codes or phrases." Ethan doesn't seem bothered by the bots movements nor the look on his face. He simply motions to one of the other bots beside him. It seems to be an older model of the same creation. Far more basic and uncanny in appearance. Face smoother than it should've been. The very last one seemed to be the be model in which a more.. Almost toony appearance. An eye floating about in fluid attached to a metal body. Indeed these all did work and they all did function about the same. "And.. These..Er, tell me out this most advanced one.."

themarginalthinker

Ethan moved towards a table at the back of the room, eyes straying for only a moment to linger on Anti's sudden activation, before laying his clipboard bristling with papers on the surface. God...why him...he hated these corporate pricks. So scared, like mice in the eyes of a snake that isn't even there. He pastes a smile on his face instead. "Well, before we talk about our most advanced model, which, might I remind you, is only still a prototype, I thought we'd take a look down memory lane here and see the progression of the SEPTIC project as a whole. And, I assure you sir, with just a word, every single one of these droids would give their lives for you. They're supposed to, in fact. Asimov, and all." Ethan comes to stand next to the shifting man. He doesn't draw attention to Tyler who has also seen the bot move, and has discreetly pushed a button on his wristband, a small red light over the still-open door flickering silently on, unobtrusive and unnoticed. "I didn't come here to look at your jurisdictions failure scrap heap, I came here to make sure you're putting out the kind of innovation promised!" The man in the suit huffs.

wendigoruble

Ethan fight back a frown itching at his smile. He gives his neck a gentle crack and clears his throat before speaking up. "Sir I assure you this is no scrap heap and each of these models are very strong. Even our first. Now, you see our latest model is very up to snuff as we can demonstrate." He comes around to stand before Anti, staring up into the green eyes to establish connection. The bots pupils noticeably grow then shrink to normal size again. He then holds out his hand and allows the bot to step down from the stage. Anti's eyes begin to scan the room only to fix in this new person. Stepping forward with little more than a gentle hum in his chest. He scans up and down a few times. "Unknown user, permission to initiate connection?" With the sentence the bot avoids eye contact. The suited man furrows his brows,"Is...This supposed to be like this?" He asks in a questioning tone. Before Ethan or Tyler could speak up the bot repeats,"Unknown user, permission to initiate connection."

Last Sunday at 10:26 AM

wendigoruble

I FOR GOT TO ADD HENRIC TO THE BOTS

wendigoruble

h.e.n.r.i.c: Heath Engine Nurture Rescue Intelligence Circuit

Last Sunday at 1:30 PM

themarginalthinker

"Nestor, what the hell do I do with this thing?" Themena questioned, a thin sheen of sweat coming over his brow. Even if the bot wasn't even looking at him, it was like the thing was staring him down, the lines of it's body not yet harsh, but much like a sheathed knife, it still carried all the potential for absolute destruction. The scientist in question didn't even blink, coming up to stand a few feet behind Anti. "Not to worry sir - this is actually part of the demonstration. His systems run on a facial recognition algorithm, highly advanced. Essentially, his planned deployment is to assess a situation, identify unknown persons and upload their faces and stats into a database - height, weight, exact eyecolor, gait recording - and that's all before he even engages. You just have to say your name sir and you'll have open access."

Henric is a good nursebot

I bet they'llbe planning to have him work with Anti

wendigoruble

Anti: Target injured Henric: ...Target in need of medical assistance

wendigoruble

The man didn't feel.. Necessarily comfortable with the bot recording all of this. Sure it was probably practical and such but having thst in a data base didn't give him much security. Especially since the security sector was branched off in many different locations. "I believe you. What other models do you have aside from.. This?" He takes a step back. "Well if you're not interested in this particular model we do have the nursebots. Henric is a good one. Allow me to show you." Ethan reaches out and places a hand on Anti's back, speaking a string of numbers which seem to power the bot down in a way. Leading it back to the stage for it to stand. He then heads towards the door, Tyler urging the man on as they walk.

Last Sunday at 5:34 PM

themarginalthinker

The next room is  deffinitly smaller, less of a car showroom floor, and more like...an office waiting room. The floor is carpeted in plain beige and there's an actual wooden table with chairs around it, clearly to serve whatever purposes the droid stood  on it's own little podium in the corner has for those it meets. The droid itself is also quite different then the last, though the model doesn't actually seem changed much. A different machine based on the same schematics. It's hair is a softer green, like pastel, and though it's eyes are closed, clearly in whatever serves as an 'off' or 'unactivated' mode for these things, it's stood in a shaft of soft indoor lighting, creating gentle shadows over it's plainly dressed body. On its exposed shoulder is a large red cross surrounded by a white circle. Obvious what it's purpose is. Tyler leans against the wall as Ethan ushers the business man down to take a seat on one of the chairs. "We're sorry he's a bit undersressed,' Ethan says, stepping towards the bot and  gesturing to the plain jeans and teeshirt it wears. "In action, he'd be fully equipped with his medical strata and proper clothing, but your supervisors didn't give us much time to prepare for the tour. I assure you though, he can still impress. Right, Henric?"

wendigoruble

The bots eyes slowly open and he blinks a few times. His head slowly rising as opposed to the rough movements of Anti. His expression and face is a lot softer and more friendly looking. Eyes are a gentle blue with a caring nature somehow seeming built in to them. He turns his head towards Ethan and then to the others with a smile. "It is nice to meet you all. Is there any assistance I could provide?" The bot takes a step forward and his gaze lands on the business man,"My optical scanners indicate you seem stressed sir, might you need a glass of water?" Tyler, for the first time in this whole ordeal, actually  speaks up for once. Well..He was usually more of a body guard and not one to give input into the tour. But after working here so long he got to know a lot of the insurance and outs of these robots. "I'd take him up on his advice, he can actually serve rather quick from what I've seen. Faster than any doctor I've went too anyways." The man narrows his eyes a bit,"So, a simple med bot? Is his quickness the only thing that makes him stand out?"

themarginalthinker

"Not at all!" Ethan assures enthusiastically. However, instead of presenting more of the Henric's abilities, he steps back, and allows the bot itself to come forward. With one look, and a nod, Henric is before the man. "Unnamed user, if I might address you as sir, after the initial scan of all your base functions and vitals, my issued order of prompts in this low-stress, immediate threat-free environment dictates that I proceed to a deeper level of body scan. This is of course something you may choose to forgo at your own discretion as the current user, as this secondary level of 'check up' as one might refer to it as, is not immediately necessary for your health. Such a scan would include the observation of your endocrine systems, cardiac and respiratory minor insystems, and major digestive tracks to confirm routine function." "Does he always speak like this?" The man mutters to the two scientists, who don't look like their attentions were waning in the slightest at this onslaught of words, despite no doubt having heard it a dozen times. "Alright, look Nestor, you said this thing is better then anything on the market so far - all I'm seeing is a talkative nursebot who told me something any shlub on the street could-" "I'm detecting an unusual interference with your heart rate and pancreatic functions, sir," Henric says, face morphing into one of more professional seriousness. "Do you wish for me to do a closer scan and diagnostic?" He asks, seemingly uncaring now at the man's discomfort.

wendigoruble

The man glances at the bot and shakes his head,"No, I don't." With that he stands, seeming not to care for the bots changed expression. "You really think some shlub on the street could scan each and every individual bone in your body? Know when and why something unexplainable is happening to you?" Ethan almost seemed to snap.. More just throwing out his frustration from previous times,"These bots can do more than you think and you've only even seen two so far!" "Ethan!" Tyler quickly cuts in and makes his way over to his friend snd gently pats his shoulder,"Don't speak out of turn now, you know this could mess with our funding." Henric glances about at each. Doing his best to assess the situation. This unknown user didn't pose much importance to him anymore, not after the comments he'd spoken. The bot turns and moves towards the blue haired man, scanning over his body before gently taking him by the hand and leading him to sit. "Mister Nestor, I must warn you're becoming agitated again. I've gotten a logged four panic attacks from you already and if you have another I must ask you stay here." The concern in the bots tone returns and that soft look comes back as well,"Deep breaths please."

Last Sunday at 7:24 PM

themarginalthinker

Ethan tries not to let the fact that there is more then their team of engineers, or just Tyler in the room - someone who could keep this whole thing from collapsing - and does try to calm himself. Henric's hand is a cool presence on his arm, and while normally Ethan would reach up to take it, let the bot squeeze it gently in rhythm with his breathing exercises, the man doesn't, and just tries to focus on regaining his professional cool. What wasn't really a panic attack (it was) passes, the scientist stands, and the droid, while not smiling, still has a warmer look in his eyes, having helped. "Do you require anything else, Mister Nestor?" He enquirers, stepping a respectful foot away, ignoring the way the business man huffs and looks at the door to the next room with no hidden impatience. Ethan shakes his head, good attitude firmly back in place. "Not a thing, Henric. Thank you for your care." At the words, a small flash of light blinks in the droid's eyes, and without another word, he returns to his corner of the room, and closes his eyes, silent and still under his spotlight, as if he'd never moved at all.

wendigoruble

Tyler makes sure Henric is secure before he checks up on Ethan once more before they all head into the next room. This one more of a proto type room. Sure the others were  still in early stages but the next bot, it didn't even have a voice. Mainly because of the precautions it took to create such a thing. But those precautions came with actually a few good ramifications. The room itself is large and carried a dim feeling due to the red curtains hung up along the walls. There was bar along one of the wide walls with drinks (nonalcoholic of course, this was a work place) on a shelf. The bot behind the counter had his hands folded and his head down. He wore a black hat and a very neat suit. It didn't seem to have skin as the others did but rather it was made if a reflective plastic-like appearance. "This is what we call Jackson." Tyler starts, sure Ethan might still be a big shaken up,"He actually could present some very good safety opportunities. As you can see his model would work in bars. He's the quickest at counting, can prepare any drinks and even records if anything goes into a drink thst shouldn't be there. He could be something like a bar tender, bouncer and cashier all at once!"

themarginalthinker

"I..see," the man said slowly, hesitant to get close to the bot lest he somehow initiate it's 'on' function, but as he steps a bit closer, it makes no move at all. He glanced back at the taller of the two presenters, not having met this Scheild before. Usually it was the smaller, skittering Nestor constantly ragging his ear off about numbers and costs and dates. Hmph. Turning back to the inert machine, he sneers. He wishes there was alcohol here. "I think I heard tell of something of this caliber from your department before. Entertainment bots, was it? Something useful that will actually sell." Tyler was careful at his words when he saw Ethan slowly tensing up again, though keeping it under control a bit better. He stepped forward, wondering if activating Jameson was necessary for this endevour as well. The business man hadn't been...impressed, exactly, with the others, but he'd been given at least a little taste of what they might do, be like. Jameson... They were working on it. Really, Tyler thinks, this day had come far too soon. "Well, he's one of them. There's two - three, really, if you count ah...one of our more people-oriented models. Jameson is intended for adult recreation, yes, while the other is more suited to children."

wendigoruble

"Then show it to me and don't waste my time. These things need to be friendly to all demographics. I'm sure you'll understand." The man had a smugness about his tone. But in a sence he was right. These bots, more or less, could be for anyone really. Ethan opens his mouth slightly to speak though nothing really comes out. He actually csnt think of anything to say really. Damn it, if he only had Henric following he could do his breathing with thst calm tone of the care bot. But what this an was saying really got under his skin. Talking as if androids such as if weren't worth a thing, or as if no work had been out into them. Tyler quickly starts his way into the next room. A room with stars on the walls and almost reminiscent of a child's music box. In the center of the room on a small stage stood another bot. It's arms folded on its chest like a mummy, a top hat, cat mask and a cape with a purple underside. It's eyes were closed with a peaceful expression almost as if it were a real living person. "Now this is the most.." Tyler pauses,"Marketable... Eh.. Creation." Damn did he hate the word marketable.

[gratitudejoyandsorrow]

Wanderlust

Prompt: “She was a nomad at heart. Unlike him, she didn’t need to have a place to call home.” Told in Lin’s POV.

Pairing: Lin x reader

A/N: I’m glad I got this out in time for V-day! Though I’m not as satisfied as I should be, I decided to share it with you guys. Hope you guys enjoy it!

 Lin was going to do it tonight.

 He had the support from his family, friends, and even some random old lady on the subway he told last week.

 He was partnered up with Y/N in an acting class during his Sophomore year of college. The second her eyes landed on him and she gave him her million-dollar smile, he should have known he was doomed.

 He and Y/N became fast friends and spent every single waking moment together. They would text each other at night, have breakfast and coffee in the morning, head to class, and then do whatever the hell they pleased until it was time to go home.

 Junior year they met each other’s parents. Y/N had her mother’s looks, but everything else about her was her father. Her personality, the way she carried herself, her love for travel and adventure… it all came from him. And of course, his parents loved her. They called her their daughter and fed her bottomless stomach with food whenever they would visit.

 Senior year, even though they were both stressed and drowning in exams and projects, they managed to find time for each other. It helped that she was practically living with him. She cleared space in his tiny closet for her clothes, left her toiletries in his bathroom, and slept in his bed. Somehow, she managed to book small affordable getaways, either in nearby states where she would drag him around and explore the city or a “staycation” in New York where she would show him things even he, a native, haven’t even heard of before.

 It was during a random night in the middle of the semester, where she was cramming for an exam that was in the morning, that he realized how much he really loved her. He sat in the kitchen across from her, papers sprawled on the table and his laptop in front of him, watching as she began to doze off. The pencil in her hand fell to the table with a thump and he chuckled when her head began to bob, drifting further into the calls of sleep.

 “Time for bed,” Lin whispers, getting up and going over to her side.

 As he pulled her up from her seat by her hand, she began to protest. “No,” she yawns, rubbing her eyes.

 “You need sleep,” Lin urged, pulling her towards his bedroom.

 “But I need to study,” she whined, but let him lead her to bed.

 “I’ll wake you up early in the morning so you can study,” Lin smiles, opening up the duvet and helping her inside.

 Just as he was about to turn and leave, she stops him by grabbing the sleeve of his hoodie.

 “Stay with me, please?”

 Her question tugged at his heartstrings.

 She scooted over to make room for him and kept the duvet open to let him in. Lin’s smile gets bigger, and with a defeated sigh, slips in beside her. She immediately attaches to him, tucking herself under his chin and swung her leg over him. She was asleep within seconds.

 Lin stared at the ceiling, heart hammering against his chest.

 He wanted this every day for the rest of his life.

 He wanted to come home to her, sleep next to her, be with her...

 Lin wanted it all and more.

 And today, after months and months of suppressing it, he was going to tell Y/N. Even if she didn’t feel the same, he had to do it. So what if the little hope he’s built after overanalyzing every conversation, every single touch, every unspoken word he’s had with her is crushed?

 At least he gave it a shot.

 “Lin! I have exciting news!” Y/N came rushing in the bar full of graduates, graduation cap still pinned to her head and heels clicking with every step.

 Lin spreads his arms open and she runs forward, squeezing him tightly.

 She draws back, eyes gleaming with excitement, and grabs his hands. She jumps up and down, not able to contain her excitement.

 “I got the job!” she squeals.

 Lin’s heart drops.

 “The job?” he echoes.

 “The job for The National Geographic, silly! How could you forget?”

 He didn’t forget.

 It was the freelance journalism job with The National Geographic.

 She was going to be whisked away from New York, away from her home, her family, him…

 “Oh my god, Lin! They left a voicemail earlier today and they said they want to fly me out to Australia tomorrow. Can you believe it? Australia!”

 “Australia…” Lin whispers, throat feeling tight.

 He felt as if the floor was going to slip from under him. She was finally going to travel the world and experience all the things she’s dreamed of, but he felt so devastated.

 She lunges forward, hugging him again.

 “I’m so happy!”

 Lin lifted his trembling hands to embrace her.

 “Me too.”

 The rest of the night passed by in a haze.

 It didn’t go away even after he said goodbye to her at the airport the next day.

  For the last five years, the only way he kept in touch with Y/N were through emails. She had a horrible habit of losing her cell phone and it was almost impossible to find signal in the middle of nowhere.

 She’s been to every single continent, every nook and cranny of the world. From the Great Pyramid of Giza to Seychelles, she was there, her smile brighter and bigger than he’s ever seen it.

 She was a nomad at heart. Unlike him, she didn’t need to have a place to call home. The whole world was her home. She didn’t want stability, she wanted excitement. She didn’t fear the unknown, she thrived in it and faced it head-on.

 She was the polar opposite who he was, but damn, every time he would scroll through her pictures, he felt a deep sorrow in his gut of what could have been.

 He knew that they would have been amazing together.

 He could just picture it... Y/N, in the front row of the Richard Rogers Theater on the opening night of In The Heights and then Hamilton, screaming her head off in some gaudy dress. Her getting annoyed with Karen and her sass, adoring Chris and his big-brother tendencies, and silently rooting for Jasmine and Anthony…

 But she wouldn’t have been truly happy.

 She would’ve felt trapped and miserable if she stayed in New York. That’s why he let her go, why he chose to smile and ignore every cell in his body that begged to speak up the day she left. It would have been unfair and selfish of him to say anything to her. He didn’t want to hold her back from experiencing the world.

 So instead, Lin sent her scanned Broadway pamphlets and newspaper clippings his mother saved, cast recordings of the musical, and pictures of people she would never meet.

 They emailed each other every day and he hung on to each and every word she sent. From three sentences to a full page of words, he saved it. It was pathetic that even after all these years, Y/N was all he could think about. Every girl he’s dated was nothing compared to her.

 Maybe it was time to stop pining for a girl that was always seemed to be out of his grasp.

 “Lin, are you ready?”

 His father’s voice pulled him out of his musings. He glanced around his surroundings, remembering that he was supposed to do a press conference for the record-breaking Tony nominations Hamilton set.  He cleared his throat and nodded, leaving the dressing room and heading towards the stage.

 After he was announced, he walked onstage, the bright lights of the cameras blinding him. One by one he was asked routine questions from reporters: his inspirations for the play, his reaction to the sudden popularity of the show, and how he felt about the nominees of each category.

 The final question came from the back and Lin squinted his eyes, barely making out a form of a man.

 “Andy from the New York Times,” he said, “back in your college years, I heard that you got banned from the girl’s dorms after being caught in bed with one of the students multiple times. Would you like to comment on that?”

 Lin reared his head back and laughed when the crowd let out a murmur. “You must have done a lot of digging to find that story,” he hums, tucking his hair behind his ear, “but, you’re correct.”

 There was another buzz from the crowd, but this time, it was accompanied with flashes from the cameras.

 “But, it’s not as wicked as you think it is,” Lin continued, smirking, “I spent a lot of time with a very dear friend in her dorm, studying. We had a lot of classes together and it was easier to stay at her place than to go back to my own dorm. The RA just happened to catch me sneaking into her dorm at night and assumed the worst.”

 The crowd seemed unconvinced, but Lin didn’t have a chance to elaborate because time was up. He was escorted off to the side to take pictures and he posed as best as he could as he walked through the row photographers.

 “Lin!”

 The familiar voice caught his attention, and with a grin, Lin walked towards Andy. “That was a tough question,” Lin says, shaking his outstretched hand, “I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned that story during any of my interviews.”

 Andy returns the grin and winks. “I have a great source.”

 “Oh? I’d like to meet them,” Lin responds, genuinely intrigued.

 Andy laughs. “You’ll have to wait for it.”

 Lin was left to ponder his cryptic answer as he was ushered to the fans that awaited him.

 Lin didn’t know why there were so many parties he had to attend.

 He was currently getting ready for a banquet to celebrate the Tony nominees. In all honesty, the question from Andy completely threw him off-guard and caused him to feel a mix of emotions, longing the being the strongest. He wanted to stay home and reminisce the precious memories he had with Y/N, but it would have caused him to spiral into the depression he fought so hard to climb out of.

 His phone buzzed, indicating that the escort was in front of his apartment, waiting. With a sigh, he pocketed his phone and wallet, mentally preparing himself for the event.

 He swung his door open, stunned to see a woman whose hand was poised to knock on his door. A woman who strangely looked like…

 “Y/N.” he whispers, eyes wide.

 She drops her arms, letting them fall limply against her side.

 “Hi,” she breathed, a sheepish smile on her face, “I… I got your address from your Father. He told me about your event tonight, but I couldn’t wait. I needed to see you.”

 Lin felt his eyes water and his heart felt like it was going to burst. His eyes took in Y/N, her skin tan from all the days she spent out in the sun, baby-face long gone, and body slimmer from all her travels.

 She’s still as beautiful as ever.

 “You’re here.” Lin couldn’t recognize his voice.

 “I’m here,” she repeats, “for good.”

 Lin couldn’t comprehend what Y/N was saying. “For good?”

 She swallows thickly, and wet her lips before she speaks. “My contract with National Geographic is over and I didn’t want to renew it. I’m done, Lin,” her voice wavers, “I got a job with New York Times a couple weeks ago –”

 Lin lets out a sharp laugh. “You’re Andy’s source.”

 She pauses. “Yes.”

 Lin runs a hand down his face, trying to make sense of the situation. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner that you were back, Y/N?”

 She frowns, her eyes searching his face as she explains herself. “I was scared, okay? It’s been five long years... Things change, Lin! Would we really be able to pick up where we left off? I’ve missed so many important events in your life. I should’ve been there,” she stops, voice quivering.

 Lin smiles sadly. “I wanted you to be there too.”

 “But I’m here now, and if I have to, I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”

 Lin stares at Y/N, her declaration causing the tears in his eyes to spill. His heart felt full and wordlessly, he opens up his arms for her.

 She runs into his embrace and it felt like he was young again.

 The nomad finally decided to stop wandering.

 “I’m home,” she whispers.

 “Welcome home.”

[bcimbatmandude]

More Human Than Meets the Eye- A Study in Pink, Part Five

A/N: Hello again! so sorry this took so long. In apology, I wrote out an especially long chapter. This will end episode one and the following chapter will send us in to episode two! Again, thank you s much for reading, and please enjoy!

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

Previously- "Good idea." Sherlock made his way to the door. "Where are you going?" John called to him, puzzled as to why he was leaving at such a crucial time. "Fresh air. Just popping outside for a moment. Won't be long."

"You sure you're alright?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock ended, and hurried down the stairs.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

Sherlock came to an abrupt stop at the bottom of the staircase. The front door was wide open and he studied the man standing next to the taxi from inside of the flat. He slowly made his way outside, making sure to grab his coat beforehand. He shrugged his arms into his jacket, and shut the front door behind him with a soft click.

"Taxi for Sherlock 'olmes," the older man spoke. Sherlock quickly glanced down at the man's name tag which was embroidered on to his cardigan.

"Jeff is it?" the detective asked casually. "I didn't order a taxi." "Doesn't mean you don't need one."

"You're the cabbie," Sherlock stated confidently. "The one who stopped outside Northumberland Street. It was you, not your passenger." Jeff shook his head and tutted. "See? No one ever thinks about the cabbie. It's like your invisible. Just the back of an 'ead." The man adapted a sinister smile as he spoke. "Proper advantage for a serial killer."

Sherlock took a few steps towards the driver. "Is this a confession?" He glanced up towards the window of the flat. "Oh yeah," Jeff nodded. "An' I'll tell you what else: if you call the coppers now, I won't run. I'll sit quiet and they can take me down, I promise." Jeff continued smiling and Sherlock scoffed.

"Why?"

"Cause you're not gonna do that."

"Am I not?" Sherlock questioned, lips forming into an interested smirk.

"No," Jeff confirmed. "I didn't kill those four people, Mr. 'olmes. I spoke to 'em, and they killed themselves. An' if you get the coppers now, I promise you one thing…" Jeff leaned close to Sherlock, making sure to make eye contact with the curly haired man. His voice dropped to a whisper. "…I will never tell you what I told them."

The man didn't break eye contact after he spoke his last statement, and Sherlock made no move to interrupt it. Sherlock merely stared at the man, gathering more clues by the minute. Finally, Jeff straightened and began walking around to the front of the cab.

"No one else will die though," Sherlock said slowly, watching the man's movements. "And I believe they call that a result." The cabbie stopped then and turned towards Sherlock.

"You won't ever understand how those people died. What kind of result do you care about?"

Just then, a dull thump was heard from inside the cab. "Dad?" a muffled voice cried out, and Sherlock's head snapped towards the voice's direction. Jeff took a step towards Sherlock and chuckled darkly. He sang out, "Did I forget to tell you about your daughter? My mistake. I'm absent minded sometimes ya see."

Sherlock continued staring at the cab, his face now conveying the fear he was feeling at hearing his daughter's voice. Another thump occurred and Sherlock's face slowly morphed from anxiousness into anger. He turned to stare at the stupid man that had dared to take his child from him. "My daughter," he seethed, eyes dark, "has nothing to do with this."

"But Mr. 'olmes," the cabbie started, voice innocent. "Haven't you ever heard of leverage?"

Adaline heard her father speaking from inside of the cab. Granted, it was a bit muffled, but she knew her father's baritone voice better than anyone. "Daddy?" she called out again, hoping that he could hear her. She wanted out of this stupid taxi. She wanted to go home and cuddle with her dad and her stuffed cat. She banged her hands against the window in frustration and yelped when a sharp pain shot through her at the action. Her eyes teared up from sadness and pain, and she squeezed herself tighter into the corner of the car.

Sherlock heard his daughter call out for him again, his heart clenching at the fear in her voice. He heard a sharp yelp of…pain? Was she hurt?! Sherlock swung back around to look at Jeff. "If you harmed my child in any way.." he threatened, and the man unconcernedly waved him off.

"No, no, the little dear's fine, just fine. We had a little…disagreement about things, but we figured everything out pretty quickly." He smiled wider, yellow teeth showcasing themselves against cracked lips. Dark fury surged through Sherlock at the man's words, and he took an involuntary step forward.

"I should just kill you right here and now," Sherlock spoke, his voice coming out as a growl, and for a split second, the older man's face showed panic before it smoothed out again, and a non-caring smirk was plastered on to his face. "You could," he shrugged defiantly. "But you won't."

"For a dead man walking you're awfully confident," Sherlock commented. "You seem to truly believe you know me." "I know men like you," Jeff answered seriously. "You won't kill me."

Sherlock stopped moving towards the cabbie and looked back at the car. "What would you have me do?" he asked lowly. "Let me take you for a ride," the man offered, relaxing slightly now that Sherlock had calmed down a bit. "So you can kill my daughter and I?" Sherlock snorted in disbelief.

"It's like I told the kid. I don't wanna kill you, Mr. 'olmes. I just wanna talk to ya. You're gonna kill yerself." Without another word, Jeff turned his back on the detective and headed to the driver's side of the car. He opened the door and placed himself behind the wheel.

Sherlock hesitated for half of a second before hurriedly making his way to the car and opening the door, climbing in beside his daughter. "Daddy?" he heard a small voice say as he shut the door. He turned to face the voice, and his breath caught in his chest.

The seven year old had curled her small body in to herself as tightly as she could. Her legs were up to her chest, her feet on the seat as she hugged herself into the corner of the backseat. Her eyes were puffy and red from where she'd been crying, and there were left over droplets on her pale cheeks. He saw a giant bruise on her forehead, and it was bleeding slightly. His fists clenched, nails digging into his palm. He scooted himself closer to her to examine her forehead, feeling a small amount of relief when he saw that it was only scraped.

He noted how gingerly she was holding her hands and he very gently took them into his larger ones, shushing her quietly when she hissed and whimpered. They were scraped raw and seeping blood in a few places. The detective instantly knew what had happened to cause the injuries, eyes glancing down towards the little girl's equally damaged knees and the holes that were torn into her pajama bottoms. His mind flashed back to the man's bleeding hand, and another growl built up inside his chest. He resisted the urge to make the noise however, knowing that it would only increase his daughter's fear. Instead, he pulled the child close to him, tucking her under his arm. He began running his hands through her curls, hoping that the familiar action would soothe her somewhat.

Adaline curled in to her father's body as much as she was able to. She soaked up his warmth, pressing her face against his chest and listening to his steady heartbeat. She took a deep breath, trying to breathe the fear away. The little girl felt her father's large hands running through her hair, gently combing through any tangles that had formed, and she felt herself begin to relax. Her dad was here which meant everything was gonna be okay now. She was safe.

"Is dragging little girls into your car a normal part of your murder routine, or is this a special incident?" Sherlock sneered. The man's eyes glanced at the father and daughter from his rear view mirror, studying them for a second, and then looking back towards the road. Sherlock thought he saw a hint of guilt flash through for a second, but it was gone too quickly for him to be sure.

"I was warned about you," the older man began, choosing to ignore the detective's last question. "I recognized you, soon as I saw you chasing my cab. Sherlock 'olmes! I've been on yer website, too. Brilliant stuff! Loved it!"

"Who warned you about me?" Sherlock asked simply, getting annoyed with the man's yammering.

"Oh," Jeff started, "just someone out there who's noticed you." "Who?" Sherlock asked, leaning forward a bit in his seat. His green eyes located a photo of a young boy and girl that was attached to the dash of the car. He leaned back in his seat again, but not before looking closely at the side of Jeff's neck. "Who would notice me?" he asked again, sitting all the way back once more.

Adaline studied her dad's face from underneath his arm. It was showing a slight amount of satisfaction. Barely noticeable if you didn't know him well enough. He was connecting clues.

Jeff's eyes once again looked into the rear view mirror, brown eyes meeting green. "You're too modest, Mr. 'olmes." "I'm really not," Sherlock replied drily, and Adaline smiled a bit. Sherlock noticed the brief change of emotion come over her face and shot her a quick grin. "You've got yourself a fan," the cabbie continued.

"Tell me more," Sherlock requested nonchalantly. Jeff chuckled to himself then. "That's all you're gonna know," he paused dramatically. "…in this lifetime."

Back at the flat, Lestrade and his crew were preparing to leave the flat. "John?" Mrs. Hudson questioned, poking her head in the door. "Where did Adaline get to?" John looked around the flat, just now realizing that the small girl hadn't been seen in a little while. "I don't know, Mrs. Hudson," he answered, eyebrows creased. "I think she said she was going to see to the cab. Maybe she went back to her room." Mrs. Hudson shrugged, accepting this answer, and went back to her own living space.

"Why did he do that?" Lestrade asked John suddenly, and the army doctor turned towards the Inspector. "Sorry?" John questioned. "Why did he have to leave?" Lestrade clarified as he slid into his coat.

"You know Sherlock better than I do," John shrugged. "I've known him for five years, and no, I don't," Lestrade countered.

"So why do you put up with him?" John questioned, crossing his arms against his chest. Lestrade sighed. "Because I'm desperate, that's why." The Inspector walked towards the door, but before he reached it, he stopped and looked back towards the doctor. "And because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think one day, if we're very, very lucky, he might even be a good one." John stared as the man turned and walked out the door, his mind going over Lestrade's words.

Some distance away a cab was coming to a stop in front of two identical buildings which were sitting side by side. Jeff turned off the vehicle engine, getting out of the car. He walked to Sherlock's door and opened it. "Where are we?" Sherlock inquired, making no move to get out of the vehicle. He continued to hold Adaline who was trying to catch a glimpse of where they were without bringing attention to herself. "Don't play dumb, Mr. 'olmes," Jeff scolded. "You know every street in London. You know exactly where we are."

"Roland-Kerr Further Education college," Sherlock stated. "Why here?"

"It's open," a tiny voice answered, and both men looked down. Sherlock frowned at his daughter disapprovingly and tried in vain to tuck her farther into him. "Very good little miss!" the man praised, and Adaline grimaced. She regretted speaking up now. "One thing about bein a cabbie," the man explained, unaware of Adaline's plight, "you always know a nice, quiet spot for a murder. I'm honestly surprised more of us don't branch out."

"And you just walk your victims in?" Sherlock asked incredulously, eyebrows raised towards the man. "How?"

In answer, Jeff reached into his back pocket, pulling out a shiny black gun. Adaline's eyes grew wide when the man pointed the gun at her father's face, and she whimpered. "Dad.." she whispered, frightened for him. Sherlock hugged her tightly, but made no move to intercept the man. Instead of tensing up at the sight of the weapon, Sherlock's body remained quite relaxed. He was almost..bored? Her father rolled his eyes at the gunman, and Adaline held her breath.

"Oh, dull," Sherlock sighed, turning his head away. "Don't worry," Jeff assured him. "It gets better." "You can't make people take their own lives at gunpoint."

Jeff grinned. "I don't. It's much better than that." He lowered the gun and Adaline relaxed, taking a small breath of relief. "Don't need this with you, cause you'll follow me."

Back at 221B, John was alone in the flat, preparing to go home. He walked towards the door and stopped suddenly, clenching his fists. The man realized that he hadn't grabbed his walking cane and looked around the room before spotting it sitting on a stack of papers next to the dining room table. He limped over to collect it, grumbling to himself.

John clasped the cane tightly in his hand and began to make his way back to the door. Suddenly, behind him, the computer began beeping repeatedly. John turned back to the device and walked to the table, propping his cane up against it. The doctor picked up the computer, looking closely at the screen, which has pinpointed the location of Jennifer Wilson's phone. John felt a surge of energy rush through him and he quickly turned towards the door, taking the computer with him as he hurried down the stairs, once again forgetting to grab his cane.

Back at Roland-Kerr College, Sherlock was grimacing exasperatedly to himself. He watched the cabbie walk towards the building for a moment before looking down at his daughter.

"Are you okay?" he asked, tipping her head up towards him. He studied her face closely and Adaline felt the confidence that she'd been trying to build up during the car ride waver. "I want to go home," she said simply. Sherlock nodded and kissed her forehead, making sure not to touch her bruise. "I know," he nodded. "And we will. This won't take much longer."

The two of them climbed out of the car and began to follow the man inside the building. "Dad," the little girl called suddenly, and Sherlock looked back towards her curiously. "What about his gun?" she asked him worriedly. He stopped then and turned towards her fully, leaning down close to her ear. "It's not real," he whispered. He leaned back up and winked at her, causing a happy smile to spread across her face in relief. Sherlock grabbed his daughter's hand tightly within his own, walking the two of them into the building.

Father and daughter followed Jeff through the corridors of the college building. He stopped in front of one of the classrooms, opening the door and gesturing for Sherlock and Adaline to head in. Sherlock studied the man closely, but dutifully walked inside the room, making sure to place his daughter on the other side of him as they passed Jeff. The cabbie released the door, causing it to swing closed, and a bang echoed throughout the room, causing Adaline to jump in surprise.

Sherlock hugged her to him. "It's alright," he whispered. "Be brave, Adaline." Adaline took a deep breath and visibly straightened, stepping away from her father a bit but making sure to retain possession of his hand. Jeff turned on the lights and Sherlock looked around the classroom, taking note of the long wooden tables and plastic chairs. "Shall we talk?" Jeff asked politely, gesturing to one of the tables.

Sherlock and Adaline walked over to the tables as requested. Instead of plopping down in one of the chairs like Adaline did, Sherlock took a seat and flipped it around, only then sitting down. He sighed dramatically and began taking off his gloves, stuffing them into one of his coat pockets.

"Bit risky, wasn't it?" her father began. "Taking me away under the eye of about half a dozen police men. They're not that stupid, as hard as that is for me to admit. And Mrs. Hudson will of course remember you."

"You call that a risk?" Jeff scoffed, and reached into his pocket to pull out a small bottle. "This…is a risk." The bottle held a single large capsule of..something, and Adaline frowned, puzzled. Sherlock was also studying the glass bottle, but his face remained neutral.

"Ooh, I like this bit," Jeff stated, and Adaline looked up at the man, alarm going through her when she noticed that he was smiling gleefully. He continued, "'Cause you don't get it yet, do yer? But you're about to. I just have to do this."

And with that, Jeff reached into his other pocket, pulling out an identical glass bottle, which also contained a single large capsule inside. He put the two side by side. "You weren't expecting that, were you?" he gloated, looking excitedly at Sherlock. The older man leaned forward. "Ooh, you're gonna love this."

"Love what?" Sherlock asked, his voice snapping. Jeff now leaned back in his chair lazily. "Sherlock 'olmes. Look at you! 'ere in the flesh." He paused now. "And his daughter of course," he gestured with his chin toward Adaline. "That website of yours: your fan told me about it."

"My fan?" Sherlock repeated, voice tight.

"You are brilliant. You are. A proper genius," the man gushed. " 'The Science of Deduction.' Now that is proper thinking. Between us three sitting 'ere, why can't people think?" Jeff looked down at his lap and sighed angrily. "Don't it make you mad? Why can't people just think?"

Jeff looked back up, meeting Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock looked back at him for a long moment, eyes narrowed in thought. He made a realization and they widened. The detective spoke to the cabbie then. "Oh I see," he began, voice dripping in sarcasm. "You're a proper genius, too."

"Don't look it, do I?" Jeff scoffed. "Funny little man drivin' a cab. But you'll know better in a minute. Chances are it'll be the last thing you ever know." Sherlock held the man's gaze for a second or two, green eyes dropping back down to study the two bottles.

"Okay, two bottles. Explain."

"It's simple," Jeff shrugged. "There's a good bottle and a bad bottle. You take the pill from the good bottle, you live; take the pill from the bad bottle.." Adaline sucked in a breath and Jeff looked at her, eyes glinting. "I think little miss here gets the gist of it." Sherlock glanced over at his daughter for a second before quickly shifting back towards Jeff. "Both bottles are of course identical," Sherlock spoke, partly to himself.

"In every way," the cabbie confirmed. "And you of course know which is which." "Course I know," the man said, rolling his eyes.

"But I don't."

"Wouldn't be a game if you knew. You're the one who chooses."

"Why should I? I've got nothing to go on. What's in it for me?"

Jeff leaned forward, and his face grew darker, more sinister. "I 'aven't told you the best bit yet. Whatever bottle you choose, I take the pill from the other one – and then, together, we take our medicine." Sherlock's face lit up in excitement, and he started to grin. Now he was interested.

"I'm sure you've also realized, Mr. 'olmes, that upon choosing the wrong bottle, you die, therefore leaving your daughter fatherless." Sherlock's smile dropped abruptly and he looked to his daughter, who was staring at the ground.

Adaline was absolutely terrified. Her father was actually going to play along with this man and his game? What about her? What if he lost? Did he not even care how his actions could affect her? Sherlock continued studying Adaline. He wanted her to look up at him so he could reassure her secretly, but she continued staring at the floor. He bit his lip and looked back towards the driver. "I won't lose," the detective said confidently. "If you don't cheat, that is."

The cabbie scoffed and almost looked offended at the dark haired man's words. "I don't cheat. It's your choice. I'll take whatever pill you don't." Sherlock looked down at the bottles, beginning to properly concentrate now. "This is what you did to others," he commented absently. "You gave them a choice."

"And now I'm givin you one." Sherlock looked up at the older man who licked his lips in anticipation. "Take your time," he instructed. "Get yourself together. I want your best game."

"It's not a game. It's chance." "I've played four times. I'm alive. It's not chance, Mr 'olmes, it's chess. It's a game of chess, with one move, and one survivor. And this ... this ... is the move."

Jeff slid the left handed bottle across the table to Sherlock. He licked his top lip and pulled his hand back towards him. "Did I just give you the good bottle or the bad bottle? You can choose either one."

Meanwhile, Dr. Watson was sitting in the back of a taxi, talking animatedly to Lestrade over the phone. "No, Detective Inspector Lestrade. I need to speak to him. It's important. It's an emergency!" He leaned forward then, studying the outside scenery. "Er, left here, please," he instructed the driver. "Left here."

"You ready yet, Mr. 'olmes?" Jeff asked, meeting Sherlock's eyes. "Ready to play?"

"Play what? It's a fifty-fifty chance."

"You're not playin' the numbers," the man announced, "you're playin' me. Did I just give you the good pill or the bad pill? Is it a bluff? Or a double-bluff? Or a triple-bluff?" "Still just chance," Sherlock repeated, shrugging.

"Four people in a row?" the man rolled his eyes. "It's not just chance." Adaline shook her head at the events happening in front of her. This was insane. She couldn't believe her father was going along with this.

"Luck," Sherlock stated stubbornly. "It's genius," Jeff persisted. "I know 'ow people think." Sherlock rolled his eyes but the man continued. "I can see it all. It's like a map inside my 'ead. Everyone's so stupid." Sherlock sighed, exasperated. "Even you," Jeff taunted, and Sherlock's gaze sharpened. "Or maybe God just loves me."

"Doubt it," Adaline whispered under her breath. She heard her father snort and despite the situation, had to fight off the urge to smile. Sherlock straightened up and leaned forward towards the man. "Either way," he started, clasping his hands on the table in front of him. "You're absolutely wasted as a cabbie."

The detective gazed at the man in front of him intently. "Why would you risk your life just to kill four strangers?" Jeff ignored his question and gestured down to the bottles. "Time to play." Sherlock folded his hands under his chin in his favorite prayer position. "Oh I am playing. This is my turn." He stopped then and looked down to his daughter who was staring at him questioningly. "Adaline?" he gestured simply, and she gulped, then nodded determinedly.

"You have shaving cream behind your left ear," she started, voice quiet but strong. "Nobody has pointed it out to you, which usually means that you live alone since there's no one to tell you about it." Jeff tried not to fidget under the child's gaze. She continued. "Your clothes are clean but they're old. Maybe about three years? That means that you care enough to keep up appearances but you aren't planning ahead for life."

"What's the point in all this?" the older man stuttered, trying to remain confident. Sherlock's spoke then, taking over for his daughter. "I noticed in the cab that there was a picture of a pair of children on the car's dash. The children's mother had been cut out, indicating that she's still alive. If she was dead, she wouldn't be cut out. The photograph is old but the frame is new. You think of your children but you don't get to see them."

Jeff's brown eyes slid away from Sherlock, and Adaline's eyes widened when the man's eyes showed pain. "Estranged father then. Your wife took the kids, but you still love them, and it still hurts." Sherlock paused then. "Adaline was spot on with your clothing. You're not taking proper care of yourself. And here you are on a kamikaze murdering spree. What's that about?"

At this point, Jeff had gained control of himself again. He gazed back at Sherlock with a neutral expression on his face. Sherlock studied the man for a few moments before his eyes widened. "Of course," he breathed out. "Three years ago—is that when they told you?" "Told me what?" Jeff snapped.

"You truly are a dead man walking," Sherlock said softly. Adaline snapped her eyes up to the cabbie. He suddenly didn't look quite so deranged anymore to the small girl, instead adopting almost a frail look. Adaline suddenly felt sorry for the man. "Aneurism," Jeff confirmed, tapping the side of his head. "Right in 'ere. Any breath could be my last."

"So because you're dying," Adaline spoke, not feeling nearly as afraid of the man as she did before, "you murdered four people?" Jeff frowned at the child. "I've outlived four people. That's the most fun you can 'ave with an aneurism."

Sherlock adopted a thoughtful look now. "No, no, that's not all." Jeff looked at him curiously.

"You didn't just kill four people because you're bitter. Bitterness is paralytic. Love is a much more vicious motivator. Somehow this is about your children."

Jeff sighed and looked away. "You are good, aren't you?"

"But how?"

"When I die," the man explained, "they won't get much, my kids. Not a lot of money in driving cabs." "Or serial killing," Sherlock said drily.

"You'd be surprised."

Sherlock leaned forward then. "Surprise me."

"I 'ave a sponsor," Jeff told the curly haired man. "You have a what?" "For every life I take, money goes to my kids. The more I kill, the better off they'll be. You see? It's nicer than you think."

"Someone is willing to sponsor a serial killer?" Adaline asked, voice disbelieving. "Who'd be a fan of Sherlock Holmes?" Jeff countered. Sherlock and Jeff silently stared at each other for a moment. "You're not the only one to enjoy a good murder. There's others out there like you, except you're just a man…and they're so much more than that."

Sherlock's nose twitched in distaste at the man's words. "What do you mean more than a man? An organization? What?" "There's a name no-one says, an' I'm not gonna say it either." Jeff gestured down to the bottles on the table. "Now, enough chatter. Time to choose."

"What if I don't choose either? I could just walk out of here."

Jeff sighed, taking the gun out again. "You can take the fifty-fifty chance," he started, and suddenly, moved the gun to point towards Adaline, "or I'll shoot your pretty little girl here in the head." Sherlock's eyes hardened and darkened towards the man. He knew the gun was fake, but the very idea of what he was suggesting was enough to piss Sherlock off.

Sherlock reached out, grabbing the gun and pointing it towards him. "I'd rather you not point that at my daughter thank you," he said dangerously. "I'll take the gun."

"Are you sure?"

"Definitely."

"You don't want to phone a friend?"

"Dad…" Adaline objected, now beginning to feel unsure. Sherlock merely glanced at his daughter, quieting her with a look. "The. Gun."

Jeff's mouth tightened, and he slowly squeezed the trigger. Not being able to watch, Adaline closed her eyes tightly, turning her head away. She bit her lip, waiting to hear the loud bang and the sound of her father's body hitting the floor…

A small flame burst out at the end of the muzzle. Sherlock smiled smugly at Jeff. "I know a real gun when I see one." Calmly, Jeff lifted the gun and released the trigger. The flame went out. "None of the others did."

"Clearly," Sherlock remarked. "Well, this has been very interesting," Sherlock declared, and reached down to take his daughter's hand in his own. "I look forward to the court case." Sherlock and Adaline stood up, Sherlock tugging his daughter towards the door. Jeff put the fake gun on the desk and turned to look at the pair. "Just before you go," he said, voice light. "Did you figure it out?"

Sherlock stopped right abruptly, right before he got to the door. Adaline grabbed the back of her father's jacket, gripping it tightly. "…which ones the good bottle?" Jeff continued. "Of course," Sherlock sniffed. "Child's play."

"Well," Jeff grinned, "which one, then?" Sherlock opened the door a little, but showed no signs of exiting the room. Adaline glanced back towards the man and out into the hallway of the building. She bit her lip and tried to tug her father towards the doorway. "Which one would you 'ave picked, just so I know whether I could've beaten you?"

Sherlock's face hardened, and he looked towards his daughter. Adaline stared up at him with pleading, scared eyes, and he broke. Sherlock turned back to look at the man, sighing with regret. "I'm afraid I can't take that risk." Jeff's eyes widened, obviously surprised.

"The great Sherlock 'olmes? Turning down a game," he scoffed. "Perhaps you're not as great as I thought." Sherlock said nothing, only continued peering at the older man.

"I bet you get bored, don't you? I know you do. A man like you…" Jeff looked at Adaline then. "You're not exactly father material are you? How could you be? Fathers have to be boring. Have to be responsible. Too normal," he sneered out the word. "You're Sherlock 'olmes. You're anything but normal."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed towards the man, and he took a step closer to him, releasing Adaline's hand in the process. "You're too clever to be normal." Jeff held up a bottle. "But what's the point of being clever if you can't prove it?" Adaline watched her father walk back over to the man and pick up one of the bottles. Her breath caught in her throat and she start fiddling with her fingers nervously.

Sherlock took out the capsule and held it up to the light as he examined it. "Still the addict," Jeff whispered. Slowly, Sherlock lowered the pill, holding it at eye level as he gazed at it. "You'd do anything..anything at all…"

Adaline watched as her father almost became hypnotized by the man's words. She slowly walked towards him, heart now beating wildly in her chest. "Dad…" she began slowly. "Don't listen to him." Sherlock heard his daughter's voice, but he couldn't comprehend what she was saying. Her voice almost sounded muffled. His hands began to tremble with excitement as he held the pill closer to his mouth. "….to stop being bored," Jeff finished.

Sherlock slowly began to move the pill closer to his mouth. "Dad, stop," Adaline cried, rushing over to her father. "What are you doing?!"

Jeff matched Sherlock's movement with his own, reaching up to put his own pill close to his mouth. "Innit good?" Each man's hand moved closer to their mouths, and Sherlock had almost touched the pill to his lips.

"Daddy, STOP!" Suddenly, Sherlock's back slammed painfully into the cold floor. His ears were ringing from a loud noise and he shook his head, dazed. What had happened? That noise…that sounded like a…

He gasped. "Adaline!" Sherlock shot up from the ground, looking around the room frantically. "Adaline where are you?" That was a gun…someone had shot a gun. Where was Adaline? What if she…

"Dad.." he heard a small voice say, interrupting his spiraling thoughts. He was instantly on his feet, heading towards the voice.

Adaline was kneeling on the ground next to Jeff. A bullet had impacted his chest and he was steadily bleeding out on to the concrete floor. Sherlock hurried next to Adaline, gently pulling her away from the man. "Daddy?" she questioned, looking at him with wide eyes. "Go stand over there," he gestured towards the door. It was a testament to her shock that she did so without question.

Sherlock went and hurried to the window, studying the bullet hole in the glass. He looked at where the bullet had to have come from, but the window of the opposite room was open and there was no one in sight.

Sherlock heard Jeff let out a heavy breath, and cough wetly. He straightened up from his crouch near the window and walked over to the desk, snatching up one of the pills lying on it. The detective walked over to Jeff, brandishing the pill in front of him. A large pool of blood was growing underneath the dying man, staining the floor.

"Was I right?" Sherlock asked the man who was staring up at him in shock. "I was, wasn't I? Did I get it right?" Jeff didn't reply. Sherlock hurled the pill across the room angrily. "Okay, tell me this. Your sponsor. Who was it? The one who told you about me—my 'fan.' I want a name."

"No," Jeff refused weakly. "You're dying, but there's still time to hurt you," Sherlock countered. "A name." Jeff shook his head, and grimacing angrily, Sherlock lifted his foot and placed it on Jeff's shoulder. Jeff gasped in pain. "A name," Sherlock threatened.

Jeff cried out, and Sherlock grit his teeth. "Now." The detective's face was intent and almost manic looking; he leaned more of his weight onto Jeff's shoulder. Jeff cried out in pain again. "The NAME!"

"Daddy stop!" he heard right before a small body slammed into his. He looked down towards his daughter who was staring up at him fearfully. "Daddy you're hurting him," she whimpered, looking at the dying man. "Adaline not now," he said ferociously, pushing the little girl towards the door again. The man was quickly fading away. He was losing time! Sherlock stomped one last time on Jeff's shoulder. "SAY IT!"

"MORIARTY!" The man gasped one last time in agony before his eyes closed and his head rolled to the side. Adaline gasped and Sherlock looked towards her, watching as she slowly walked away from him, shaking her head. "Adaline…" he started. "No!" she shouted, and ran out of the room.

Adaline ran and ran till she finally made it outside. She wasn't watching where she was going, and the tears pouring out of her eyes were blinding her as well. Suddenly, she ran into something hard, her small body slamming into the ground. She whimpered painfully at the sharp sting her poor hands gave off. "Adaline?" she heard a hesitant voice say. She looked up and gasped. "Mr. John!" she shouted, jumping up and almost tackling the unsuspecting man.

John gasped when the small girl rammed herself into him, her arms squeezing around him as tightly as she was able. He was shocked! What was she doing here? He quickly got a hold on himself and hugged her back, his own arms wrapping around her securely. "There there," he soothed, rubbing her back. "It's alright love."

He hugged her for a bit longer before gently grasping her shoulders, pulling her away from him so he could get a good look at her. "Ada what happened?" he questioned, looking increasingly concerned as he studied her small body. "Why are you here?" The little girl looked rather rough. Her forehead had stopped bleeding, allowing the large bruise to stand out. Her kitten pajamas were torn and John saw that her hands and knees were scraped. She was wincing every now and then as well, and the doctor in him reacted towards the child's pain instantly.

The child opened and closed her mouth despairingly, not knowing how to answer the man. John noticed her struggling, and the urge to comfort her washed over him. "C'mon," he said, making a move to lift her up. "Let's fix you up."

"John," he heard a deep voice say, and looked up to see Sherlock walking towards him. The curly haired man was looking at his daughter, his face showing…regret? John was puzzled. He looked to Adaline and then back to Sherlock, eyebrow raised, but the man only shook his head.

Later on, Sherlock and Adaline sat in the back of an ambulance. A paramedic had come and placed an orange blanket over the both of him. Sherlock had scoffed and immediately tried to shrug his off while Adaline snuggled in to hers, quite content with the warmth. John himself had treated Adaline's injuries, putting Neosporin on her scrapes and checking over her bruise. "No sign of a concussion," he murmured as he studied her. "But you will be quite colorful for the next week or so," he finished, looking at the blonde headed girl apologetically. Adaline smiled at the kind doctor. "Thank you, Mr. John." John smiled back at the sweet child and wrapped the cover tighter around her tiny form. Sherlock watched the two of them, green eyes steady on his daughter.

Lestrade walked over to the three of them. "Why have I got this?" Sherlock asked the Inspector, making him roll his eyes. "They keep putting this blanket on me."

"Yes, it's for shock," Lestrade answered the man. He turned towards the little girl. "How are you Ada?" he questioned her concernedly. When he found out that she had been involved in the cabbie's final act, so to speak, he'd felt quite scared for her. He cared quite a lot for the little girl. "I'm fine, Uncle Greg," she answered quietly, smiling at him halfheartedly, and he frowned. Lestrade shrugged off his concern for the moment, telling himself she was just exhausted by the day's events.

Adaline stared off into the distance, her father and Uncle Greg's voice fading away. She couldn't stop thinking of what her dad had done to the cabbie earlier. Her father had hurt that man. Yes, he was a bad man, but did that matter? She had never seen her dad look like that. He was so kind to her. He never even raised his voice at her..only when she was being very stubborn, and even then….She shook her head firmly. No, she thought. That man wasn't her father. She didn't know who that was. Her daddy would never do something like that.

She soon became aware of the fact that someone was talking to her. "…Adaline," a voice said distantly. "Adaline!" Finally, she looked up and saw the man of her thoughts staring at her in concern. "Did you say something daddy?" she asked.

Sherlock's eyebrows creased. "It's time to go home," he said to her. "C'mon. Up you go." Sherlock helped his daughter hop down from the ambulance, grabbing her hand tightly within his own, and the two of them walked over to where John was waiting on the other side of the police tape.

"Um, Sergeant Donovan's just been explaining everything, the two pills," the doctor started. "Been a dreadful business, hasn't it? Dreadful." Sherlock merely stared at the man thoughtfully for a moment.

"Good shot," he told him quietly, and Adaline quickly looked up to Mr. John, mind whirling. Mr. John had shot the man? John looked startled, eyes widening at Sherlock, before he looked around at the scenery innocently. "Yes. Yes, must've been, through that window."

"Well, you'd know."

"Need to get the powder burns off your fingers," Sherlock continued. "I don't suppose you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case." John cleared his throat and looked around nervously. "You all right?" Sherlock questioned him. "Yes, course I'm all right."

"Well, you have just killed a man," Sherlock replied bluntly. John looked quickly down at Adaline and back to Sherlock. "Yes, well.." he trailed off, clearly uncomfortable.

"He wasn't a nice man, though," Adaline put in suddenly, and Sherlock and John both looked down at her, surprised.

"No," Sherlock answered his daughter slowly. "No he wasn't, was he?"

"And frankly," John continued, "a bloody awful cabbie." "That's true," Sherlock nodded. "He was a bad cabbie. Should have seen the route he took to get us here!" John giggled and Sherlock smiled. "Stop! Stop, we can't giggle, it's a crime scene. Stop it!"

"You're the one who shot him. Don't blame me." "Keep your voice down!" John whispered as they passed Sergeant Donovan. "Sorry—it's just um..nerves, I think."

John asked Sherlock if he was actually going to take the pill, and Adaline bit her lip. She knew the answer to that. "Course I wasn't," Sherlock answered, and Adaline's head shot up to her father in disbelief. Why was he lying to Mr. John? "Biding my time. Knew you'd turn up."

"No you didn't," John denied. "It's how you get your kicks, isn't it? You risk your life to prove your clever." "Why would I do that?"

"Because you're an idiot." Adaline giggled and Sherlock shot a playful glare towards her. "Yes well.." Sherlock cleared his throat. "Anyone up for dinner?"

"I'm starving."

"Can we go eat egg rolls dad?" Sherlock tightened his hand around his daughter's. "Of course! That does sound good. There's a Chinese restaurant that stays open till 2. You can always tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the door handle." Adaline mouthed her father's last sentence to herself mockingly, and John, seeing the action, chuckled warmly at the child's antics. Adaline's face dropped to the ground, cheeks warming when she realized she'd been caught. She glanced up at John shyly and he winked at her, making a large smile stretch across her face.

Just then, a few yards ahead of the three, a black car pulled up, a tall man climbing out. John stopped and smacked Sherlock on the chest, pointing towards the man who was now walking towards them. "Sherlock. That's him. That's the man I was telling you about."

Sherlock and Adaline looked forwards. "I know exactly who that is." Adaline looked in the direction that John was pointing and gasped excitedly. "Uncle My!" she yelled, and ran towards the man, shocking John. Sherlock merely sighed though and walked up to the pair, stopping in front of them angrily.

Mycroft watched his small niece bound up to him and kneeled down, catching her in his arms. He lifted her up, frowning instantly when he saw her bruise. "What in the world happened to you poppet?" he questioned the girl. "I'm fine, Uncle My," she answered him confidently, arms wrapping around his neck gently. "Daddy took care of it."

"In fact I did," Sherlock's voice rang out, and Mycroft moved his head to look at his little brother. "Another case cracked then, Sherlock?" he began, peering at him. "How very public spirited ... though that's never really your motivation, is it?" "What are you doing here?" Sherlock bit out.

"As always, I'm concerned about you and my only niece. And apparently, I have good reason to be," he finished, eyes becoming sharper as he glanced from Adaline back to Sherlock. Sherlock's own eyes darkened and he straightened, looking at his brother sternly. "Yes, I've heard about your concern."

"Always so aggressive," Mycroft tutted. Adaline shifted a bit and he gently placed her down beside her father. "Did it never occur to you Sherlock, that you and I belong on the same side?" Adaline rolled her eyes at the two men, very much used to this routine. "Oddly enough," Sherlock pondered sarcastically, "No!"

"We have more in common than you like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer ... and you know how it always upset Mummy."

John had had enough at this point. "Okay hold on, hold on. Mummy? Who's mummy?" "This is Uncle My, Mr. John," Adaline answered the man, looking up at him with wide green eyes.

"Putting on weight again?" Sherlock continued to taunt.

"Losing it in fact."

"He's your brother?" John cut in again, mind still struggling to comprehend. "Do keep up, John," Sherlock scolded condescendingly. "Of course he's my brother."

"So, he's not…" "Not what?" Both brothers looked at John, and the man shrugged embarrassingly. "I dunno—criminal mastermind?" Sherlock snorted and looked at Mycroft disparagingly. "Close enough." Mycroft scoffed. "For goodness' sake. I occupy a minor position in the British government."

"You are the British government, Uncle My," Adaline answered, and Mycroft looked down to his niece. "Hardly, my dear." Sherlock sighed, clearly being finished with this conversation. "Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home. You know what it does for the traffic. Come along, Adaline."

Adaline gave her uncle one last hug, kissing the man's cheek when he bent down to meet her. "Talk to you later, Uncle My." Mycroft smiled warmly at his niece and watched her hurry after her father.

John stayed behind to talk to Mycroft for a bit longer before running to catch up to Sherlock and Adaline. "So," he started, "dim sum?" "Mmm, I can always predict the fortune cookies," Sherlock responded.

"No you can't!" John scoffed. "He can!" Adaline threw in. "Almost every time anyway.." she trailed off. "What are you so happy about anyway?" John asked the detective. Sherlock adapted a bright smile. "Moriarty," he said simply.

"What's Moriarty?" John asked, puzzled.

"I've absolutely no idea," the man answered back cheerfully, and began gently swinging his and his daughter's arms back and forth, listening to her giggle happily.

Back at the car, Mycroft watched as his brother and niece walked along with the army doctor, John Watson. "Sir, shall we go?" his assistant, Anthea asked him. "Interesting, that soldier fellow," Mycroft said quietly. Anthea looked briefly towards the three, eyes resting on the little girl now skipping next to her father. The woman turned her attention back to her Blackberry.

"He could be the making of my brother – or make him worse than ever. Either way, we'd better upgrade their surveillance status. Grade Three Active. Don't want to take any chances with my niece in the mist of things." Anthea looked up from her phone.

"Sorry sir, whose status?"

"Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson."

SHSHSHSHSHSHSSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

A/N: Oh. My. Goodness. This one was long.  At least it was for me. I'm actually pretty worried about this chapter. I hope it came across okay. Tell me what you guys think of Mycroft. I didn't want to change his personality that much, but I did want him to come across as a caring uncle. I also changed cannon just a little bit with the pill scene. I hope you guys liked it. Thank you all so much for reading. Until next time!

[mrwizard555-blog]

Guatemala 2018

Eric and I left for Guatemala on Saturday, October 20, 2018.  We rose at 4:00am and Deb, Eric and I headed to Logan.  We had an 8:30 flight to Dallas/Fort Worth and then onto Guatemala.  Eric and I do not talk a lot as both of us are rather quiet, and given how tired we both were we spoke very little on the flight to TX.  We landed at 11:30 (roughly) and had a 4 hour layover.  While there we were also to meet up with the  rest of the team.  We ate, played some cards, took a nap and waited.  I asked Eric if he was a little hesitant about what we were getting into and he said yeah.  I agreed with him but we both decided it was an adventure and we would take whatever the trip gave us.  The flight to Guatemala was pretty basic - I watched Dead Pool 2.  We met up with everyone, got our luggage, cleared customs, and hopped into our vans for the ride to the hotel, the Euro Hostal.  It was a decent place with a whole wall dedicated to license plates from everywhere.  Rooms were clean and after a meeting with the team we crashed.

The next morning we had about a 2 1/2 hour drive to get to San Lucas Toliman, which is a village on Lake Atitlan.  Leaving the Hostal we finally got a good view of the area.  There are walls along the streets on both sides.  Everything is closed off for security.  Side streets have gates and along the top of all the walls are barbed wire. It gave us a bit of a worry given how fortified everything was.  The drive out was an experience as well.  There are no rules while driving on these roads.  And as we drove up into the mountains, along mountain pass roads, we consistently pulled over to the left to pass other vehicles.  It didn’t matter if we couldn’t see 30 yards in front of us.  Eric, Fran, and I were also in the very back of the van, with a wall of suitcases packed to the ceiling directly behind our heads.  All I kept thinking was if we stop short those are crashing down on top of our heads.  But we made it without incident.

Once we arrived at San Lucas I got to see just how beautiful Lake Atitlan is.  It is surrounded - and created by - 3 active volcanoes.  The lake is 1,100 feet deep and huge.  The mountain range around the lake is beautiful and as I sat on our deck at dusk it was amazing listening to all the birds and animals in the jungle around us.  Once we got settled into our rooms we all met up and walked down to the lake, which is a fun filled meeting area for locals.  Lots of people, music, families, and food being sold.  (don’t eat the food).  We all hopped on a boat and took a ride across the lake to San Juan.  Another village with a great many shops.  But the ride was spectacular.  You got to see multiple areas/villages/homes around the lake and understand just how pretty it is.  The village was nice, but poor and run down quite a bit.  It was definitely set up for tourists as the streets were lined with shops.  With Auntie Fran leading I think we visited every one of them.  The  people here are very nice and friendly.  I’ve been told not to eat anything off of the street but I really want to try some of this stuff.  But when we visited Cancun, Dylan and Deb ate stuff from the street folks and got violently sick and it ruined their trip.  So I am not eating anything I’m not supposed to.  Once back to San Lucas we ate dinner in the church/mission, cleaned the dishes and wiped down tables.  Then had a meeting to go over all that is expected, walked back to the hotel and sorted through 10 large bags with medical supplies, preparing for tomorrows work.  My next installment will pick up then, with our first day of working the clinic and helping people.  That will be on Monday, October 22nd, my Carolyn’s 19th birthday.

Monday - October 22

We woke a little before 7:00am after a night of listening to dogs barking and fighting, and roosters crowing since about 3:30.  Eric was a bit grumpy.  We all meet at the mission for breakfast by 8:00.  We stand in a circle and someone leads us in prayer and we all sing some song, which is printed out for everyone so we all know the words.  It may sound a bit dorky, but it is actually quite nice.  Eric never leads my side.  And I can hear him singing along with everyone else.  Us newbies, first timers to Guatemala with this group, then hop onto the back of a small pickup truck, standing in the back, and drive to the local hospital.  We see this because it is tied to the same mission, as is the school we later visit, and all involved are very proud of how far everything has come along over the last 50 years, primarily lead by one priest.  Whose name now escapes me but I’ll add it in later.  The hospital is actually pretty nice, for being in Guatemala, and in 2017 served over 20,000 people.  San Lucas Toliman has a population of 17,000, so many people from neighboring villages come here for help.  The hospital recently had an x-ray machine donated to it, which was needed because the one they were using was from WWII.  It was, because they still have it and we saw it.  They also recently had an ambulance donated to it, which is actually another small pickup truck with a box built on the top.  Honestly, I think it would be too small inside to allow someone 6′2″ to lie down if needed.  But again, it is far better than not having anything at all.  After that tour we went to the local school, again 11 of us piling into the bed of a small pickup.  The school is very nice, with over 800 students.  It is private with families paying about $1.80/week (US) to send their children there.  They recently adopted the Montessori technique for teaching - which I don’t fully understand but have heard of before.

Once our tours were complete it was time to meet up with the others down the mountain at the village we were to work for the afternoon, from 1:00 to 4:00pm.  The ride down was again 11 of us piled into the back of a small pickup, this time shooting down the mountain doing roughly 50 MPH.  The driving here is a bit wild, with “chicken buses” driving faster than anyone else, passing on the left at any point in the road, not caring what could be coming in the other direction.  Eric loved it.  The village was small and very hilly.  We worked in a small 1 floor room and set up stations.  Eric, Jonathon (another boy 1 year younger than Eric and in 8th grade) and I worked the reading glasses station.  We were to test people who had a hard time seeing things close up - which for the US is mostly reading but here can be threading needles, fish hooks, etc.  Primary necessities for many.  We used a tripod with a yard stick attached at the top.  This allowed people to put their forehead against the yard stick, which was 14″ away from an eye test chart taped to the yard stick and hanging down from it.  Our interpreter, Oscar, would explain what we needed them to do, which was read the numbers with one eye at a time, downward to see how small a font they could see without any glasses.  We then tested them with varying strength eye glasses, from 1.0 to 3.25.  It was a great feeling when you watched someone put on the proper strength eyeglass and read all the way to the tiniest print.  They beamed.  It was also funny when the young girls would show up at our station.  They knew we would also give away sunglasses if they asked, but first they had to take the test.  All of them had 20/20 vision and when asked why were they there they simply asked for the sunglasses, which we gave them.  Some people we were not able to help though.  These folks had more serious issues and the glasses weren’t really going to make much of a difference.  I wanted to explain things to them but couldn’t, due to my lack of the Spanish language.  We didn’t wrap up on time, not finishing until after 5:00.  This could have been problematic because of all the supplies we bring with us, including drugs.  We wanted to be back and unloaded before dark, which did not happen tonight.  Eric and I had a chance to talk towards the end of the day, before we had to pack up.  Eric said that this made him wish he was fluent in Spanish because the people are so nice and friendly that he would have liked to talk to them, but couldn’t.  He also said this was making him look at being a doctor a little differently.  He could see how this was truly helping people and making a difference in their lives.  Along with making a lot of money, which of course he added in.  But day 1 working down here and he is seeing things a little differently.  Very nice.  Our ride back, while harrowing to me, was uneventful, thankfully.  We enjoyed dinner together, prayed and sang together again and came back to our rooms.  Everyone truly shuts down after dinner, enjoying a little quiet time and going to bed early because they are all exhausted.  For the second night in a row I”m writing this blog and Eric is snoring next to me.  I’m off to sleep too because I am also exhausted.

Tuesday - October 23rd

Similar day as Monday.  Things get into a routine here with Breakfast at 8:00, prayer in a big circle before we eat, wash dishes and wipe down tables, and make sandwiches.  Hop into the back of a small pickup truck and pray you make the journey safely.  On Tuesday I went with Larry at 8:30 to the hospital to help load all the suitcases of equipment onto one of our trucks.  We then headed back to the mission, picked up everyone else and headed to our village.  Eric was making sandwiches while I went to get the bags with Larry.  We are on different teams for these domestic duties.  Eric, Oscar (our translator), and I were on reading glasses again.  We test peoples vision, try a couple of strengths of reading glasses and repeat.  This day we were working next to a school and the schoolyard where the kids play was just outside.  So at lunchtime Jonathon, Eric, and I started kicking a soccer ball around and some local little kids joined us.  Eric and Jonathon played for a while, which was nice.  Oscar and I managed the glasses alone for most of the afternoon, which was fine.  We finished up earlier than some others so the 2 of us walked around the village.  Not really much to see, but on our way back some little kids went running by us, looking at me, and yelling “gringo!”.  It was pretty funny.  

Even though October is still part of Guatemala’s rainy season we have been blessed with beautiful weather.  It hasn’t rained on us yet.  

That night, after dinner a few of us walked to get ice cream.  We went to the local park which had a nice basketball court and some kids were playing.  Eric was so upset that he has a broken finger because he wanted to play.  The kids there weren’t very good and I think he believed he could take them.  The fair/carnival was closing down and rides were being dismantled in the streets.  The carnival doesn’t set up in some open piece of land like at home.  They set up their rides in the street and shut the streets down.  The ferris wheel was still going though and was probably the fastest spinning ferris wheel I’ve ever seen.  It was a nice day and the routine is getting to be familiar now.  Enjoyable even.

Wednesday - October 24th

We started out as usual, breakfast at 8:00.  The food here is actually quite good and I think we will be lugging a lot of the food we brought with us back home, or give it to the team who are staying another week.  A nice problem to have because the food could have been terrible, and so this is much better.

There was a mass going on during breakfast which was specifically for the hospital workers, so when the mass ended we lined up on both sides of the exit doors and clapped and thanked the workers for all they do.  They loved it.

Today at the clinic Eric and I got to work with the dentist.  This is not like a dentist at home.  There is little preventive care, if any, and the villagers only show up to have teeth pulled.  Eric’s jobs were to sterilize the equipment, which was continually used, washed, and reused all day, discard the bloody gauze, and throw out the teeth.  He also handed out free toothbrushes and toothpaste to all the patients.  He was magnificent.  He did a great job, enjoyed the autonomy of having his own tasks to perform, and didn’t make one mistake.  My job was to take temperatures of all potential patients and blood pressure of adults.  I enjoyed today’s work more as well.  I got to interact with villagers more than with the eye glasses because I didn’t have an interpreter with me.  It was a little bumpy sometimes but fun.  I actually had to take my own temperature for one little girl because she was terrified and had no idea what the thermometer was.  Once I showed it she reluctantly let me put it in her mouth and get the reading.  There were a lot of teeth pulled but very little screaming or crying, and we saw a lot of little kids.  They’re tough.  I think they live with tooth pain for so long that the thought of pulling it and having the pain be gone is a happy prospect for them.

Another harrowing ride back with 11 of us standing in the back of a little Toyota pickup, prayer, dinner, clean up, and after dinner meeting/prayer stuff again.  But then we walked back to the hotel and the Red Sox were playing game 2 of the World Series against LA.  Which I was able to watch on the 1 tv at the hotel which is in the outdoor patio area.  Team members joined me for a little while, which was nice because normally we all separate at this time.  It was even nicer because the Sox won and now have a 2 game to 0 lead on LA.  Go Sox!

[clusterassets]

New world news from Time: ‘I’m Just Helping Them Get to Liberty.’ The Female ‘Coyote’ Smuggling Migrants Through Central America

Haitian migrants follow a coyote, left, toward their encampment on Dec. 8 in Capurganá, Colombia, the gateway to North America.

Smugglers Inc.

A voyage through the fraught, life-changing and totally routine $35 billion human-smuggling business

By Karl Vick and Lisette Poole Photographs by Lisette Poole for TIME

They arrive as boxes. Doña Katia’s contact in Colombia calls to say, “I’ve got six boxes coming to you next Tuesday,” and she understands his meaning. In the business of moving people illegally across international borders, discretion is required.

Still cajas, or boxes, sounds a little cold to Katia, who prefers to talk up the human element of human smuggling. So the Indians and Eritreans, the Bangladeshis and Haitians she collects on the border where Panama meets Costa Rica acquire a new name when they travel across the latter country in her car, then board a boat to Nicaragua and a bus to Honduras, hurdling the series of borders toward the U.S. “I call them pollitos,” she says. Baby chickens.

In Paso Canoas, a shabby Costa Rican border town facing Panama, at least 14 other smugglers—sometimes called coyotes—compete for the migrant trade. Katia, a mother of two, calculates that she has sneaked between 500 and 600 people through the heart of Central America in the past 2½ years. She knows her customers not by their names but by their faces, which show up on her phone in texts sent from another smuggler preparing to hand them off: brown men, and a few women, in sheepish clusters outside the Western Union where they have retrieved cash from a relative to cover the next leg. From South Asia, the journey costs anywhere from $10,000 to three times as much.

Around the world, borders appear to be making a comeback. Donald Trump was elected to the U.S. presidency promising a wall. Britain recoiled from the European Union and the foreigners they were forced to allow in. But below the surface, things are still moving. The forces that compel people to move on from what Trump calls “sh-thole countries”—higher wages somewhere else; the chance to be the one sending money home, rather than the one receiving it—have lost none of their tidal power. In 2015, every 30th person on earth was living in a country where they weren’t born, or on the way to one. That’s nearly a quarter of a billion people.

Katia began smuggling migrants—she calls them her “baby chickens”—toward the U.S. two and a half years ago.

They chose to go. The vast majority of humans in migration are not trafficked. (The U.S. State Department’s top estimate of people being moved against their will is 800,000.) Most are not fleeing war. More than 9 out of 10 people stealing across international borders—93%, according to the International Organization for Migration (IOM)—scrimped and borrowed to uproot themselves. The IOM says smugglers collect $35 billion a year to facilitate what is simultaneously an epic journey, a crime and a service.

At base, it’s a business. And Katia, as she sometimes calls herself, offers a rare view into how it works. In a series of interviews with TIME, she laid out her smuggling operation in detail, from the bribe expected at a police checkpoint in Nicaragua to the surprisingly modest monthly profit she pockets from work that outsiders assume is part of a vastly lucrative industry dominated by hardened criminal gangs.

“I think, fundamentally, this is a process of global osmosis,” says Tuesday Reitano, whose title is the deputy director at the Global Initiative Against Transnational Organized Crime but who regards the phenomenon as more natural than iniquitous. “People are moving around through semipermeable borders. They go from where it’s poor to where it’s rich until they overwhelm the system and make that less rich, and then they go somewhere else. And ultimately, it all ends up at room temperature.”

That the U.S. is overwhelmed and growing less rich because of immigrants was a premise that helped lift Trump into office. That premise may not hold up to scrutiny; the Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development suggests that migrants contribute more in taxes than they consume in benefits. But emotions matter in politics, and working-class wages in the U.S. have been stagnant or worse since companies became freer to move operations to countries where labor costs less, a central tenet of globalization. The other half of that equation is that labor will ignore borders as well.

[time-ad size=”large”]

The largest number of migrants, according to the IOM, set off from India. And the world’s top destination remains the U.S. So there was a logic to finding, on an overcast December after­noon in Costa Rica, a tall, brown-eyed man from Punjab standing beside the Christmas tree in Katia’s living room.

The journey of Mulkit Kumar began a month earlier, in a northeastern India village that’s small but hardly disconnected. To see his wife holding their baby in the house he left, the construction worker presses the video icon on his smartphone. When he decided to leave that house for good, he used that same phone to dial a number in New Delhi. “Friend of a friend,” Kumar says of how he found the first smuggler. “There are a lot of people who have made the journey before.”

We are all in Katia’s house, a modest bungalow built with her earnings as a coyote, alive with her niece’s chatter and her son’s PlayStation, when her own phone rings. She yelps. It’s the Delhi contact. “I already withdrew the money,” she tells him. “My love,” he coos in reply, in Hindi-accented Spanish.

“Yes, I’m a good person,” she says. “Friday I will get the guy out, and then the following week I’ll get the other guys who are coming from Ecuador.”

Between them, the two smugglers arranged most of Kumar’s journey, which will be financed—as most migrant travel is—by the traveler’s extended family. Relocating a wage earner to a country with much higher wages and the prospect of upward mobility amounts to an investment, and a sound one. The transplant will wire home a few hundred dollars a month, likely for decades. Worldwide, such remittances were on track to total $444 billion in 2017, according to the World Bank. That total has nearly quintupled over the past 15 years, the bank says, and proved a far more stable source of funds for poor countries than either foreign direct investment or private investment capital.

Pakistani and Indian migrants arrive at Capurganá on a smuggler’s boat from Turbo, Colombia, on Dec. 8.

Kumar says his four sisters came together to cover his expenses: 140 rupees ($2) for the bus ride to Delhi and 60,000 rupees (about $950) for the airfare to Quito, the capital of Ecuador. Smugglers say that if you want to go to the U.S., start by booking a ticket to Quito. Ten years ago, the South American nation threw open its doors to the world, requiring no visitor to arrive with as a visa. And though the policy has tightened some since, the reputation endures. The border of Colombia lies just 150 miles away, and from there it’s a couple days up the Central America trail to the edge of North America.

The journey is life-changing, fraught—and routine. Five years ago, only a few hundred migrants routed themselves to the U.S. through South America, but the number soared in 2015 to nearly 30,000, according to Colombia’s government, which took measures to regularize the journey. In the grubby port city of Turbo, officials last year began taking the names of migrants as they boarded ferries that were headed north. A ferryman’s clipboard shows that 46 migrants made the trip one day in October, 106 the next. Each carried a salvo conducto, or “safe conduct” pass, permitting them to remain in the country for five days.

The trip from Turbo in a long, open boat crosses the Gulf of Urabá and ends in another realm. The remote town of Capurganá lies just inside Colombia but beyond the writ of its government. The area—rebel territory during the nation’s long civil war—is now controlled by a mafia, the Gulf Clan, which reliably services two sets of transient populations. Tourists come for the picturesque beach, and migrants to stage for the arduous hike into Panama. On holiday weekends, they compete for hotel rooms.

“There were so many of them, they used to put different-colored bracelets on them,” says local resident Wilberto Peñaloza, referring to the migrants, not the tourists. Smuggling is a volume business here. Coyotes coordinate to keep their “lines” moving smoothly and last year organized to cut a fresh trail north a safe distance from the route used to traffic narcotics.

Both trails run through the Darién Gap, the forbidding, roadless jungle that separates Central America from South. Walking it takes as long as a week on mud trails over steep hills and across meandering rivers. Hazards include snakes, thieves and being returned by Panama to Capurganá, where the hopeful wait for wire transfers to try again. One piece of graffiti calls the place “purgatory.” “Seeing all the migrants, you see all the money,” says a former smuggler in Capurganá known as the Horse. He built a house on the profits from the $40 to $70 he charged for a day’s start into the jungle. Most of his clients were Haitians. “They have an American dream,” he says. “It’s like a headache they get that won’t go away until they get what they’re looking for.”

The road at the end of town in Capurganá, where migrants would pass through at night to enter the jungle before local coyotes changed the route to avoid authorities, on Oct. 3, 2017.

Capurganá exists, like “irregular migration” itself, in the twilight between laws as written and reality as lived. Consider Yikalo Gebrekristos, who TIME finds idling outside a Catholic church a block inland. His journey began in Khartoum, the Sudanese capital, which teems with foreigners fleeing other countries in Africa’s Horn, including his own nation of Eritrea. The Khartoum police shake down migrants daily. But Gebrekristos opted to put his money into the kind of corruption that would work for him, climbing into one of the late-model cars that double as offices for underground travel agents. There he learned the price for a Sudanese passport—$3,000—then that of a ticket to Quito. The $15,000 he had spent when we found him came from relatives, to whom he owed not only cash but possibly his life. “If you have a good family, you go to America,” Gebrekristos explains. “If you don’t have a good family, you go by Mediterranean Sea”—the route to Europe, which runs through Libya, where African migrants are routinely enslaved or abused for months, if not years, before getting a place on a dangerous boat.

But traveling through the Americas is no snap. Near a poster bidding tourists Dare the Darién, an Ecuadoran migrant recounted attempting the journey four times with no success, paying $300, $200, $150 and $200, only to be sent back. He was about to try yet another coyote. “When the things are legal, you can look into the details,” he explains. “But when it’s illegal, it’s a risk you have to take.”

Things are getting tougher. At midday on Dec. 11, TIME found a Bangladeshi man named Kamal Hussein in an abandoned resort, chipping at a coconut with a flimsy knife for a meal. Three weeks earlier he had emerged from the Darién in Panama after losing his money and phone to bandits.

But instead of allowing Hussein to continue north, as they might have done a year ago, Panamanian officials detained him for 14 days, then sent him back to Colombia. These days, the country is overwhelmed by the flow of northbound migrants. “We were receiving 300 or 500 a day,” Javier Rudas of the Panama Migration Service tells TIME. He notes that Panama’s agreement with Costa Rica allowed it to send only 100 north per day. “So we had a big balloon that kept filling.” The cost of maintaining camps to hold the excess thousands was more than what the government wanted to bear. For that reason, many are turned back to Capurganá, to try again.

“At the end of the day, they’re understanding it,” Rudas says, “and they’re looking for new routes. At the end of the day, they get to the United States.”

In Turbo, Colombia, locals turn out for the funeral procession for truck driver​ Marco Antonio Builes, the victim of an armed robbery​, on Oct. 1, 2017​.

Sure enough, in Costa Rica, Katia keeps doing business. It’s not like a year or two ago, when she might have seen as many as 35 migrants a day. Those were flush times: the U.S. had given temporary protected status to Haitians because of the 2010 earthquake, and took a softer line on Cubans because of Castro. The door closed when the Obama Administration changed the Cuba policy, but the route remains popular, mostly with South Asians. Of the 235 detainees in the Panamanian camp where Hussein was briefly held, 185 were from India.

“You try to do excellent work and lower your prices so you can keep business going,” Katia says in her bungalow. She snagged the Delhi contact by undercutting his previous Central American smuggler, who charged $2,700 per migrant. “I’ll give you better rates,” Katia said, offering $2,300.

“He gets them from India to Ecuador, and I get them from Ecuador to Mexico,” she says, and launches into a description of her enterprise. From Quito, migrants go by bus to Tulcán, the city in Ecuador nearest to the Colombia border. There her contact meets them, and arranges transport north to Capurganá. When they emerge from the Darién, they travel by taxi to Panama City, then are directed to a bus. “There’s a compartment in the bus where they hide,” Katia says, “and the bus brings them here.”

The Paso Canoas border area is known for shopping. Locals from Costa Rica and Panama come to buy hard-to-find items. Here, mannequins at a women’s clothing store on Dec. 21, 2017.

“Here” is the strikingly informal boundary where Panama meets Costa Rica. (In some places, it’s simply a median between parallel highways.) Still, she arranges crossings into waiting taxis at 3 a.m. and posts a lookout, because what she’s doing is illegal, though she has a hard time regarding it as immoral. “If I was making them do something they didn’t want to do, that’d be different,” Katia says. “But I’m just helping them get to liberty, which for them is the United States.”

The taxis bring them to the spare room at her house or to cheap hotels nearby. After the deprivations of the Darién, she can arrange a haircut, new clothes and a phone for an additional $200. If anyone shows up without cash, her attitude changes abruptly. “You don’t have the money?” she snaps, when a Cuban arrives empty-handed.

Prices have risen with the uncertainty on both sides of the Darién Gap. The passage from Colombia to Costa Rica now costs $1,900, Katia says. From Costa Rica north to Mexico, it’s another $2,300. She says her profit on each migrant works out to just $120, all of which comes out of the $400 she charges for the Costa Rica leg. The price for the next rungs on the ladder—$800 for Nicaragua, $700 for Honduras—are consumed by the cost of drivers, food, shelter and bribes.

“I can’t charge them more, because they’re already crying about the price,” she says, “and if I charge $100 more per country…” Left unsaid: Someone will undercut her. “I can’t,” she says with a shrug.

The bribes add up. Police staff permanent check­points in each country, and at the first one in Costa Rica, the charge is $35 per migrant, paid to the officer whom Katia approached through a family member. Travel is timed for his shifts and is highly choreographed: she photographs the license plate of a semitrailer, then texts it to the officer, who orders the truck to stop. While it blocks the view of his colleagues, the car of migrants slips past.

Near the border with Nicaragua to the north, the car detours to the coast, and the migrants then file to a boat that’s waiting for dark. It’s a three-hour voyage, and Katia says she does not sleep until she gets a call confirming the landing in Nicaragua and transfer to a bus. “Two checkpoints in Nicaragua,” she says matter-of-factly. “Forty dollars a person.” As they approach Honduras, the migrants set off on foot for six hours to cross the border through the jungle. If they encounter bandits, it’s another $40 per head to keep moving.

“Honduras is easier,” Katia says. “Once they’re in Honduras, I relax, because I’ve been working with the same guy there for 2½ years.” The country still offers salvo conductos, but getting one can involve spending a week or two in detention, so many migrants pay the coyotes to simply take them to the next country to the north, Guatemala. “The local indigenous people will work with them,” she says. “The coyote will write down the license-plate number, send photos of them to the indigenous person who will be along the way, get them off the bus, and put them on the next.”

Same for the cop at the checkpoint. “The coyote goes ahead, pays them off and shows them the pictures of the migrants, so when the cop gets on the bus and sees the people from the photo, he just lets them go,” Katia says. They enter Guatemala by horseback and proceed toward Mexico’s porous southern border. There, those who want to apply for asylum present themselves to the authorities; others find yet another coyote to attempt the U.S. border.

“I’m responsible,” Katia insists, a little proudly. “If something happens, they get robbed, left behind, I’m the one that responds. Other coyotes don’t care, they’ll just take the money and leave them, robbed or whatever.” She flips through her digital ­scrapbook to find a woman who arrived in tears. “She had been raped, and had an infection.” A trip to the hospital was arranged. “And this blond woman says she was raped also,” Katia says, a few clicks on. “The coyote in the jungle separated her from the group and told her she couldn’t move forward until she slept with him.”

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Such stories are not rare. But researchers say brutalizing the customer does not work as a business model, especially in the age of social media. Katia, like her contact in Delhi, isn’t even a full-time smuggler; each has a day job in transport. That’s both logical and the norm, Reitano of the Global Initiative Against Transnational Organized Crime writes, with co-author Peter Tinti, in Migrant, Refugee, Smuggler, Savior. People with routine, intimate knowledge of the mechanics of international travel are best positioned to detect and exploit its gaps.

But heartless scammers keep the popular image alive by swooping into high-profile events, like the 2014 Syrian refugee rush to the Aegean Sea. Reitano says such surges attract opportunists who take migrants’ money and then abscond, as well as organized-crime networks chasing a quick payoff. Most smugglers, however, are in it for the long haul. “The whole system is generally not about getting one payment,” says Reitano. “It’s about getting payments through the years. Nobody wants it to fail … except the receiving states.”

Katia’s monthly income from smuggling averages $800—the same as from her day job, she says. “They make what everybody else makes,” says Gabriella E. Sanchez, a University of Texas at El Paso assistant professor of security studies, who is building a smuggling research unit for the E.U. “People don’t want to hear that. This notion of organized crime has never been further than the reality of the facilitation we see around the world.”

Illusions die hard, though. In her living room, Katia beams while recalling an email from a onetime customer thanking her for helping him get to the U.S., where he opened a pizza parlor. “I feel good, feeling that it hasn’t all been about money,” she says. But that extra $800 a month let her move into a house she built; it paid for the video console her son toggles from across the room and family trips to a water park. It also explains why she got up in the night to gather the 18 Africans whom her mendacious new drivers had dropped by the side of the road, a five hours’ drive from the border with Nicaragua. Collecting them was the right thing to do, but she also needed the reference.

“Yes,” she says. “They recommend me to their friend!”

A satisfied smile. “Business.”

A horse grazes in a palm field, near the border area where Katia works, on Dec. 20, 2017.

Poole’s reporting was supported by a grant from the International Women’s Media Foundation

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February 15, 2018 at 05:30PM ClusterAssets Inc., https://ClusterAssets.wordpress.com