#biling and coding service

[lisacameron99]

The One With Breaking The Code Part 1

Warnings: panic attacks, emotional manipulation, implied sexual trauma, rape aftermath, emotional breakdown, physical violence, jealousy, betrayal, guilt, found family, hurt/comfort, emotional fallout

Mona said it like it was gossip. Like it wasn’t her life unraveling at the seams. “I went to the cops. Told them about the shoplifting.” She smiled like she expected applause. “Community service. Big whoop. Then I found a note in my apple this morning—’You didn’t bite the first time, but you will. –A.’” Her laugh was thin, performative. Almost proud.

Caleb nodded slowly. “That’s… not okay, Mona.”

“Yeah,” Lily muttered, eyes narrowed. “Super chill of A to threaten you over a Granny Smith.”

Mona blinked, maybe catching the edge in her tone, but she just tossed her hair over her shoulder and said something about getting lunch before leaving. Except Lily knew she didn’t go far. She hovered, just out of sight. Like she always did.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Lily dropped her pencil. “I hate her.”

Caleb didn’t even hesitate. “I know.” His voice was quiet. Careful. His hand reached for hers without thinking, thumb brushing gently against her knuckles.

It was a small gesture. Soft. Steady. And it shattered her.

“Don’t,” she whispered.

He looked up, startled. “Lily, I—”

“I don’t like you like that,” she snapped, pulling her hand back like it burned. Her voice was too loud, too sharp. It cracked right down the center. “I’m sorry. I just—I can’t.”

“Lil—” Caleb started to stand, but she was already backing away, shaking her head.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I didn’t mean to… I didn’t think you…” Her throat closed. “I can’t do this.”

She turned before he could say another word and bolted—hallways blurring, heart pounding, guilt rising like bile.

By the time she reached the courtyard, her lungs were heaving. She pressed her hands to her knees and tried to breathe, but the truth kept crashing down in waves.

Caleb was simple. Easy. Kind in a way that didn’t ask questions. In a way that made her feel seen and safe and… wanted.

And she hated him for it.

Because Noel was all jagged edges and broken trust. He was late-night panic attacks and whispered apologies. He was the first boy to ever really love her and the first one who ever made her bleed for it. He was loyalty and lies, and Lily would always choose him.

But for one second—for one second—she thought about how it would feel to fall for someone who didn’t come with a warning label. Someone who wasn’t wrapped in secrets and mistakes and promises made in the dark.

And that made her worse than Mona. Worse than Alison. Worse than A.

Because Hanna was her best friend. And Caleb wasn’t hers. He never was. He never could be.

But God, for one fleeting second… she wanted to know what it felt like to be chosen without the chaos.

And she hated herself for it.

____________________________________________________

Spencer had been pacing the Hastings living room since before Lily and Justin even pulled into the driveway. She didn’t sit when they walked in. Didn’t bother pretending this wasn’t going to wreck them. Her eyes landed on Lily like she already knew.

“I need to tell you something,” she said, voice tight. Too calm to be anything but terrified.

Justin crossed his arms, already tense. “Okay…?”

“It’s about Jason.” She paused. Swallowed. “He’s my half-brother. Peter’s his dad too.”

The silence was instant. Suffocating.

Lily blinked. Her brain short-circuited around the words.

“What?” she whispered.

Spencer flinched. “We just found out. He didn’t know either—”

“You’re related to him?” Her voice was cracking now. “You’re telling me he’s your family?”

Spencer hesitated, and that was all it took.

“No,” Lily said, louder now. “No, no, no—you don’t get to say that like it doesn’t matter. Like he’s just some sad mistake in a family tree. He—he touched me. More than once. I was high. I was drunk. But he still said yes when I couldn’t. And Ian—Ian raped me. And Jason watched.”

Justin’s entire body stiffened.

“He said he was too drunk to stop it,” Lily choked, a sob curling at the edge of her words. “But he wasn’t too drunk to unbuckle his pants when I couldn’t even stand. He let Ian touch me. Like I wasn’t even a person.”

Spencer’s voice was thin. “Lily…”

“Don’t,” she snapped. “Don’t say my name like it fixes anything. This—this changes everything.”

“It doesn’t,” Spencer said, stepping closer. “It doesn’t change how I feel about you. I know things have been weird since the cabin. Since we fought. I know I made it worse. But I need you to hear me: I’m not choosing Jason. I never would. This doesn’t erase what he did. It doesn’t erase you.”

Lily was shaking, eyes wild. “But it does. He’s your blood. And I’m just a burden. A mess you keep dragging behind you.”

“You’re not—”

“Then why does it feel like I’m disappearing? Like every time someone finds out the truth, they pick the person who hurt me instead of me?”

Justin finally spoke, voice hollow. “The money, Spence. Was that him too?”

Spencer looked between them, then nodded. “It wasn’t Jason. It was Mark. He gave Alison fifteen hundred dollars.”

Lily reeled. “Our dad?”

“She knew about Lily’s drinking. About you, Justin. The hospital. Everything. He paid her to shut up.”

Justin dropped his head into his hands. “Unbelievable.”

“And Peter’s been giving Jason money too,” Spencer added. “Monthly. Quiet. Under the table.”

Lily laughed. It was sharp and joyless, breaking off into something halfway between a scream and a sob.

“So everyone just pays each other off and pretends we’re not bleeding out in the hallway?” she spat. “Like we’re not the ones still living with it every day?”

No one answered. No one could.

Spencer reached out, but Lily stepped back. Her shoulders were trembling. Her eyes were glass.

“I can’t,” she whispered. “Not from you. Not right now.”

Then she turned and collapsed into Justin’s arms, burying her face in his chest like if she let go, she’d shatter.

He held her so tight she could barely breathe. And that was the only thing keeping her from falling apart.

____________________________________________________

Lily barely got the words out over the sound of her own breathing. “Hanna… we need to talk.”

That was all it took.

Ten minutes later, she was in Hanna’s room, pacing while Hanna sat still on the bed, watching her like she already knew something was wrong. Lily didn’t stop moving—couldn’t. Her fingers trembled at her sides like they were trying to crawl out of her skin.

“It was nothing, okay?” she said, too fast. “It didn’t mean anything. I didn’t let it mean anything.”

Hanna frowned. “Lil. Start from the beginning.”

Lily dragged a hand through her hair. “Mona came over during bio with me and Caleb. She told us about going to the cops about the shoplifting, then said she got this note from A—something about biting the apple. She left. I said I hated her. And then Caleb… grabbed my hand.”

Hanna’s brows rose slowly. “He what?”

Lily swallowed hard. “It wasn’t even that long, okay? He just—he looked at me like he got it. Like he was trying to say he understood. And I panicked. I told him I didn’t like him like that and I ran. Literally ran.” Her voice cracked. “Because I don’t like him like that, Hanna. I don’t. Not even a little. You have to believe me.”

Hanna stayed quiet. Still. Listening.

“I would never do that to you,” Lily said, her voice shrill now. “I couldn’t even wait, I had to tell you right away, because I knew if A saw it, if anyone else saw it—”

“You mean like this?” Hanna said gently, lifting her phone. Her thumb moved a few times, and then she held it up.

Lily froze. Her heart stopped cold.

It was the moment. Captured perfectly. Her and Caleb. His hand in hers. Her eyes turned down. His face soft. To anyone looking—anyone who didn’t know—it looked exactly like what she had tried to prevent.

“W-where did you get that?” Her voice splintered.

“A. Sent it.” Hanna didn’t soften the words.

Lily took one step back. Then another. Her knees gave slightly like they might give out entirely.

“She sent it to you? When?”

“This morning. Aria, Spencer, Em, and me.”

“And Noel?” she whispered. “Did—did Noel see it?”

Hanna didn’t answer.

Lily’s chest seized. Her breathing got shallow. Quick. Dangerous.

“Oh my God.” She clutched her stomach. “Oh my God. Oh my God, no. He thinks—he thinks I—I didn’t even do anything, Hanna—”

“I know you didn’t,” Hanna said quickly, rising from the bed. “Breathe, Lil. Hey—look at me.”

But Lily was spiraling. Fast. Her breaths turned to gasps, short and frantic, like her body forgot how to take in air. She stumbled into the wall and slid down it, fists clenched in her hair, nails digging into her scalp.

“I can’t—I can’t—I didn’t mean—he’s gonna think—he’s gonna leave—”

“He’s not,” Hanna said, kneeling in front of her.

“You don’t know that.” Her voice was raw, wrecked. “You don’t know what I’ve done. I’ve ruined everything. Everything’s falling apart and I can’t—I can’t breathe—”

Hanna didn’t speak. She didn’t argue. She pulled her phone back out with one hand, the other still rubbing circles on Lily’s back. Her fingers flew across the screen, quick and quiet.

To: noel khan (lily bean’s bean)

lily’s having a panic attack. she saw the picture. You need to get o my place, i can’t help her. now.

She didn’t tell Lily. Didn’t need to. Because right now, her best friend was curled on the floor, choking on guilt and panic, gasping like her lungs were collapsing from the inside out. And Hanna knew that if there was anyone who could break through the spiral—who could bring Lily back to herself—it was him.

____________________________________________________

Noel didn’t knock. He just opened the front door like he always had, like he knew she needed him more than manners. His hair was still damp from a shower, and he wore nothing but black athletic shorts and a faded Rosewood sweatshirt. His eyes were wild when they landed on Hanna—until he saw Lily.

She was on the floor, back pressed to the wall, legs curled into herself like she was trying to disappear. Her face was blotchy, eyes red and glassy, breath still uneven.

Noel was at her side in two strides.

“Lil,” he breathed, kneeling in front of her.

She didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

But the second he touched her—warm hands on her arms, grounding her—her body gave out. She collapsed into him like gravity had been holding her up and then let go. Noel caught her, pulling her into his lap without hesitation, wrapping his arms around her like armor.

“I saw the picture,” he whispered into her hair. “It doesn’t matter.”

She shook her head. Tried to speak. “I didn’t—”

“I know you didn’t,” he said, voice quiet but certain. “You don’t have to explain. Not to me.”

Her sob hit him square in the chest.

Hanna stepped back. Gave them space.

Noel just held her. Rocked her gently on the bedroom floor until her breathing slowed and the shaking faded to a soft tremble. Until she could sit up on her own.

Then, wordlessly, he helped her to her feet and led her out the door.

They didn’t say anything on the drive back to the cabin. He kept one hand on the wheel, the other holding hers across the console.

When they got inside, Lily stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, still in the jeans and long-sleeve from earlier. Like she didn’t know what to do with herself now.

“I want to talk,” she said hoarsely. “I need to—”

“Not now,” Noel interrupted gently, brushing her hair behind her ear. “You don’t have to be strong tonight. Just let me hold you.”

She didn’t argue.

He handed her an old, worn-in T-shirt and a clean pair of boxers. She changed in the bathroom, her fingers shaking as she peeled away the clothes that still smelled like shame.

When she came out, Noel was already under the covers, back propped against the headboard, waiting.

Lily climbed into bed beside him, and he pulled her into his chest immediately, wrapping his arms around her like he could keep the whole world out.

She cried again. Silent, gut-wrenching tears that soaked into his shirt.

And he just held her through it. Every second. Every tremor.

She fell asleep like that. Pressed against him, wearing his clothes, his heartbeat steady beneath her ear. He didn’t move. Didn’t let go.

____________________________________________________

Hanna didn’t wait. The second Lily left with Noel, she grabbed her keys and drove straight to Justin’s.

She didn’t knock, just marched through the door and into the living room, where Justin was half-asleep on the couch, hoodie up, earbuds in.

“You need to hear this from me,” she said, breathless.

Justin sat up fast. “What happened?”

“It’s about Lily. And Caleb.”

He stood immediately, tension shooting through his frame like lightning. “What about Caleb?”

“He—he held her hand. Today. While they were studying. She told me it didn’t mean anything, that she told him she didn’t like him and ran out, but A sent us a picture. Made it look worse. And she spiraled. Full-on panic attack.” Hanna’s voice was tight. “Noel had to come get her.”

Justin’s eyes narrowed, jaw clenched. “Where’s Caleb now?”

“He’s on his way. He was coming over to help decode the file from Melissa’s hard drive.”

But it was already too late.

The front door creaked open and in walked Caleb, backpack slung over one shoulder. “Hey, I brought the—”

He didn’t get to finish.

Justin stepped forward and punched him, square in the jaw.

Caleb stumbled back, dropping his bag with a loud thud.

“What the hell, man?” he shouted, clutching his face.

“You touched my sister?” Justin was already coming at him again.

Caleb blocked it, shoved him back, and then landed a hit of his own.

“Guys, stop!” Hanna cried, trying to wedge herself between them, but they weren’t listening.

They were all fists and fury—Justin fueled by protectiveness, Caleb by guilt. It was messy, brutal, and relentless. A punch to the ribs. A blow to the shoulder. Grunts and breathless swearing between swings.

The front door slammed again and this time it was Toby who burst in, grabbing Justin from behind and yanking him off Caleb with effort. “Enough!”

Everyone froze, panting.

Caleb was bleeding from his nose. Justin had a split lip.

“I know, okay?” Caleb spat, not at Justin, but at the room. At himself. “I know it was wrong. I knew it the second it happened. She told me no and I backed off. I didn’t do anything else.”

Justin was still heaving, fists clenched at his sides.

Caleb turned to Hanna, eyes bloodshot, desperate. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, Hanna. I didn’t mean for it to get that far. I didn’t even realize what I was doing until it was over.”

She stared at him, arms crossed tightly over her chest. “Then why?”

Caleb swallowed, pulled out his phone, and opened his inbox. He turned the screen toward them—Justin, Toby, Hanna.

It was an email. From A.

Subject: Temptation

Body: Get Lily to cheat. Break them. Or I break you. That file isn’t the only thing I have, Caleb. You go to prison or she goes down with you. Your call. Tick tock. —A

Silence.

“I didn’t know what to do,” Caleb said hoarsely. “I thought—I thought I could pretend. Just long enough to get A off my back. But the second she looked at me like I was safe, I realized I wasn’t. I’m not.”

He turned to Hanna again, voice breaking. “I love you. I love you. And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I just—I didn’t want to lose you too.”

Hanna blinked, her lip trembling, but she didn’t say anything.

No one did.

____________________________________________________

The Pretties, 11:52 PM

Justin

a sent this to caleb

figured you should all see it

[photo attachment: A’s email — “Get Lily to cheat… or I break you.”]

Spencer

…This is sick.

Absolutely sick.

How long has he had this?

Toby

Since earlier, yesterday I think 

Didn’t say jack shit to anybody

Caleb

Didn’t know how

Didn’t want to make it worse

But A doesn’t just play games, they break the rules

And I’m so sorry

Emily

How’s Lily

Noel

asleep

she cried herself out

barely said anything on the way back

she’s wrecked

it’s like she folded in on herself

Emily

Noel you better make sure she comes to the brew tomorrow

She needs something to be normal

And the three of us together there will feel normal there

And she won’t be stuck in your bed all day

It needs to be something that doesn’t make her feel like the world is ending

Hanna

thanks em

really

Spencer

This whole thing is fucked.

Everything about it. The timing. The manipulation. Him.

Toby

What do you want to do spencer 

Write another speech?

Or run? You’re good at that part

Hanna

jesus toby

not now

Aria

can everyone shut the fuck up for two seconds

lily is the focus here, caleb too

not some petty spat between exes

Caleb

I never wanted her to get hurt

I panicked

I thought if I just played along, A would back off

Justin

you thought

you gambled with my sister

my sister’s feelings

you know what they did to her 

Spencer

You knew what she’s been through

And still let yourself entertain it

Caleb

I stopped

She said no

I backed off

I swear that’s all that happened

Emily

This is what a breakdown looks like

You know that right

It’s not just crying

It’s shaking and silence and her thinking she deserves this

Hanna

she kept saying she ruined everything

i’ve never heard her sound like that

Noel

i’ve never seen her like this

not even after ali

she’s curled up in my bed and still hasn’t let go of my shirt

like she’s afraid she’ll disappear if she does

Justin

she won’t

i’m not letting her

and the rest of you better get on board or get the fuck out

because i’m done letting this bitch use my sister as a play toy

Aria

then we all need to shut up and do better

because this is exactly what A wants

us at each other’s throats

while lily falls apart in the middle

Spencer

We keep talking about protecting her

But we’re always three steps too late

We never actually save her

Toby

We react

We don’t prevent

That’s the problem

Caleb

I’ll fix it

I’ll do whatever it takes

Just tell her I’m sorry

That I never meant to be another person who failed her

She’s literally the sister I’ve always wanted

Emily

She’s not ready to hear it

But when she is

It better come from you

Justin

she deserves better than this

better than all of us right now

but she’s still here

so we fight for her. no matter what.

[pinkobservationwizard]

Medical Billing Services In Iowa (IA)

The state of Iowa, bordered by Missouri and Mississippi rivers, is also known as the Hawkeye state. The main occupation of the people in the city is agriculture. This is one of the most densely populated state flourishing with its agriculture-based economy. Manufacturing, finance, and technology are some of the contributing factors towards its economy. The city is now equipped with the best billing service – 24/7 Medical Billing Services.

The main advantage of using our billing services is that clients get a one-stop solution for all their billing requirements. We provide numerous services to help achieve higher efficiency in medical billing. Our team at 24/7 Medical Billing Services understands how doctors are short pressed for time during the weekdays, and so are patients with their daily routine. With this understanding we make ourselves available 24X7 all through the year to solve coding and billing issues, and help you get your payments on time. Your patients can call us anytime for any kind of clarification regarding the billing while you sit back and keep a tab on the revenue cycle management process remotely. We are here to increase your revenue and cut down operational costs with services that are at par with international standards.

Save time and money, on a daily basis! Enjoy more hours with family and friends

[billingcodingservices]

Digitonics Care Your Strategic Partner in Revenue Cycle Management. Medical billing, credentialing, government-mandated OSHA, HIPAA, and corporate compliance services. Our billing and coding specialists assure your revenue cycle runs smoothly and efficiently .

[scarecrowbutch]

I HATE FLAWED SYSTEMS

[freifraufischer]

Svetlana Khorkina and the Grand World Conspiracy Against Her (and Russia)

Khorkina is one of the greatest female gymnasts ever, having won 7 Olympic medals and twenty World Championship medals.  A true all arounder she dominated the sport for a decade between the 1996 Olympic Games until her retirement after the 2004 Olympic Games.  Known for great innovation she has elements named after her on vault, bars, beam and floor (though some of those have since been removed from the code of points).  She has a reputation for elegance and performance quality that has few rivals in the sport’s history.

And she’s a crazy person.

Despite being a two time Olympic champion on uneven bars in both 1996 and 2000 the prize Khorkina always wanted most was to be the Olympic All Around champion.  She fell in Atlanta losing to Ukrainian great Lilia Podkopayeva.  Coming into the 2000 Olympics she was the two time World champion and she expected to walk away with the All Around gold medal.  She fell in the final, both on the infamously incorrectly set vault and on bars just after.  It would be the beginning of her claims that there was a world wide conspiracy against her (and Russia).  

She refused to vault again when offered the chance to redo it because it wouldn’t have changed things given her bars fall which she blamed on the disappointment of the fall on vault.  There is some debate about if she was generally having problems on bars at that competition but most people in the sport believe that after the vault problem was discovered the most fair thing to do would have been to redo the entire final on a different day.  A logistical nightmare's to be sure but she wasn’t crazy to feel aggrieved.  It didn’t help that Russia fell many times during the team final and received a silver that they considered an insult.  But she wasn’t the only person to vault on the cursed vault in Sydney and if there was a conspiracy it would have been directed at half the competitive field.

She continued her domination at World Championships but by 2004 she was showing her age and the end of her ability to stack difficulty over her competition.  That wouldn’t stop her from claiming judging bias against her in Athens (even though there is a case to be made that she got reputation scores she didn’t deserve at that Olympics).  When she retired from the sport she became a member of the Russian parliament and a member of Putin’s inner circle.  She is married to a retired general in the Russian security services 23 years her senior.

These days she is often quoted in the press not only about the conspiracies against her and Russia but also about how American gymnasts are taking performance enhancing drugs, that sexual abuse survivors are in it for fame and money, and of course there is the racism about black women.  She once described an abuse victim who was a winner of the Commonwealth Games as a nobody, that the postponement of the 2020 Tokyo Olympics was was punishment from God for offending Russia, that the United Kingdom was a ‘so called democracy’, and any number of other terrible opinions.

When Simone Biles suffered from the twisties in Tokyo, there was a great deal of shock when Khorkina came out with numerous supportive statements.  Embodying the meme of ‘when the worst person in the world says something you agree with.’

[skjebne-a]

Yakuza Culture / misc headcanons for hanzo shimada

Tradition of Service

The old Yakuza code emphasized respect for the common people. In their eyes, a victim of the Yakuza had to choose to become a victim. No one forces somone to buy drugs from the Yakuza or spend their money at one of their brothels or gambling dens. A citizen whose home is burglarized, who is mugged in a back alley, or has his wallet taken by pickpockets in turn is considered to be a victim by the Yakuza because they were not given a choice. Some of the Yakuza continue to subscribe to that tradition and will police their territory to prevent violent crimes. Most of the Yakuza though have abandoned that practice and now take a cut of any street crime in the districts they control.

Back in the day, the Yakuza provided the population a kind of “justice for hire” service. In which those whom believed themselves wronged by another person or group would take his or her case to the oyabun in that area and request that they help. If the oyabun decided to help, kobun would “exact justice” from the offender. The wronged party would be charged a fee which for the service which was based on their ability to pay. It is one of the reasons that in Japanese society there is sympathy for the Yakuza, even among the authorities who usually decline to prosecute its members or even investigate crimes related to the Yakuza. Unless they commit murder (except if it was the only “appropriate” action) or kill civilians in which case the Japanese police take action.

Code of Honor

The Yakuza code of honor is shaped by Japanese culture and consists of three major elements; giri, jingi, and ninjo. “GIRI” means “obligation” or “duty”. Which requires the Yakuza to repay their debts and follow the dictates of obedience and honor. Debts may be repaid in money but usually are done through loyalty and service. Failure to fulfill their duty or obligation brings shame on the Yakuza member, his gumi (clan), and the oyabun (boss). Yakuza take the concept of duty seriously and never forget when a favor is done for him, and will repay the debt.

“JINGI” is deference and respect for a superior. All Yakuza are expected to practice jingi and act in a proper and civilized manner. Some of the oyabun are of the opinion that only Japanese humans deserve to be treated in a civilized and proper manner. Other oyabun believe otherwise and will harshly punish any members of their gumi who fail to act in a proper manner toward other (meta)humans.

“NINJO” encompasses things such as compassion, feelings, sympathy, and emotions. It is a quality that makes a man sympathetic to the plight of others and is instilled in an individual early in their life. Yakuza who have it are motivated to protect those who seek justice and the concept of ninjo is still upheld by some of the more honorable and traditional Yakuza.[

Tattooing

Irezumi is the tradition of full-body tattooing, which the traditional clans are deeply into. Especially the expensive full-body suits of tattoos which are done manually via the old techniques. Each full-body tattoo suit takes years to finish if ever, and each session can cost up to 6K nuyen. The Oyabun and senior officers may award good service and loyalty by subsidizing their trips to get tattoos.

Traditionial hand-inked tattoos are the most common medium in the Yakuza for quickened spells, though it’s still uncommon due to the requirement of having a master tattoo artists and a powerful sorcerer. Other Yakuza, prefer modern techniques such as biotattoos and nanotattoos, which the Sons of the Neo Chrysanthemum are famous for with thier glow in the dark bioluminescent tattooos in night clubs.

Sake-Sharing

Sakasuki is the ancient Shinto ritual which the Yakuza use to seal promises and most importantly bonds of loyalty. Newly recruited Yakuza are inducted into the clan and their relationship with the Oyabun is established with Sasauki ceremonies. It’s a pretty simple ceremony but one that is highly ritualized, which may at times require a third party (usually a Shinto priest) who makes sure all is set up correctly, pours the sake, delivers the prayers, and so on.

Finger-Cutting

Yubisume, is the ritual of cutting off one of your fingers on pain of dishonor, shame, and worse at the hands of the Oyabun. It consists of a ritual which is attended by the Oyabun. Binding your smallest finger on the right hand with a white cloth, then with a sharp blade cutting off a joint or even a complete finger. You aren’t supposed to show any emotion or pain as that would bring you even more shame. The piece is then offered to the Oyaban. If he accepts it, then it’s over but if not, you are supposed to cut more. Your not permitted to replace them with prosthetics. It is also used on extremely rare occasions as a form of protest. Since it is considered rude for a member of the Yakuza to speak against the boss, cutting off your finger and presenting it to him is used.

Ritual Suicide

Seppuku is practiced by the Yakuza, which is ritual suicide by using a sword. The way it is done is thrusting a blade straight in and then across. If done right, you’ll be spending the last minutes in horrifying pain with the intestines unraveling and spilling out, and blood, fecal matter, and bile everywhere. Respectable Yakuza bosses will have an executioner nearby to quickly end the poor man’s suffering

Cultural Conflict in the Yakuza

Old School

In the Yakuza it is the Old School which is dominant. Most of the clans subscribe to it, and most importantly the largest, wealthiest, and most powerful Yakuza clans are all of the Old School. These clans are often multi-generational with members who are lifelong criminals, born and raised in the Yakuza. Old School clans have quite a bit of public support.

The traditionalists of the Old School believe in Japanese superiority and are racist, xenophobic, and misogynist ultra-nationalists. They are also firm believers of honoring the Yakuza traditions and in the Yakuza code, and are the most likely to protect their community and provide the traditional “services” to the lower classes which the clans historically were known for. They are admired for their dedication to their enemies’ destruction, their violent skills, the principles by which they live by, and the social protocols to which they adhere.

New Way

Within the Yakuza, it was the younger generation of Yakuza who founded started the New Way. They were tired of waiting to inherit the established clans as due to technology and medicine, the geriatric bosses were running the clans for decades. They also believe the Yakuza has to evolve and change its ways to survive and prosper in the Sixth World. Those clans which follow the New Way for the most part are newly established clans (relatively speaking) and none are at the top of the Yakuza hierarchy. New Way clans are often more aggressive, violent, brash, and arrogant. The are usually more concerned with making nuyen than honor.

The reformers of the New Way embrace and accept the Awakened, metahumans, women, technomancers, homosexuals, and those whom are part-Japanese. It is not consistent across the board though. It varies widely among the different clans which follows the New Way. One clan accepts women and homosexuals, another clan recruits metahumans, and yet another is open to half-Japanese members. These clans often maintain some restrictions against one or more groups.

Ideological Factions

The WATADA-RENGO are fully Old School, as every member syndicate is required to follow that path when it comes to membership. Their main rivals, the SHOTOZUMI-RENGO has left it to its members to decide what policy to follow, therefore some syndicates are Old School and others are New Way.[60] Four Oyabun Rengo has taken a firmly neutral position when it comes to the ideological dispute.[61] The newly established and growing WANIBUCHI-RENGO of NEO-TOKYO is solidly New Way, and has been recruiting extensively from the formerly proscribed classes of people.

[kissjane]

Snippet for anon

So I know the war soulmate story is by popular demand supposed to be going high on the WIP list, but I am already struggling with a couple of other longer stories right now and I need the mental bandwidth kinda. 

But I didn’t want my sweet anonymous prompter to feel unappreciated or left out (because I truly cherish the prompts and my heart glows with the implication you want to read more of my stories!) and so I did start on one of the Davenzi soulmate prompts. I changed it slightly to include a soul mark. This is not going to be horribly long I think (see above re: bandwidth) so I might find the time to finish it soonish between all my other commitments.

Here is the beginning (probably - depending on later edits) of it to tie you over in the mean time.

Matteo has never really believed in the whole soulmate business. He thinks it’s just messy and painful, and if it was supposed to help people find happiness, it’s certainly failing. He’s watched his father scrub angrily at the heart on his wrist, wanting it to go away. He’s seen how his mother keeps pulling her sleeve down to cover her mark, afraid of people questioning why her soulmate walked out on her. He’s been a part of the whole mess with Jonas and Hanna, who had to go through so much heartbreak, even with the marks clear and shining on their wrists – although when he’s honest he accepts his role in that, and he also is forced to admit they are happy together now.

Still, though. The marks are not a guarantee to everlasting love, so it doesn’t really matter he hasn’t got one. Oh, sure, the boys keep telling him it’s just because he hasn’t met his soulmate yet, and that it will appear any day now, but he shrugs it off. Who would ever love him, anyway? He is still the same lost boy he was in high school, although he’s let off on the weed significantly and somehow even managed to get a university degree.

He muddles through just fine, with a job he doesn’t despise, and he finally moved out of the flat share over summer. He misses Hans, but he cherishes his privacy. He hangs out with his friends occasionally, easily settling back into the old familiarity.

He doesn’t need a soulmate.

If he says it often enough, he may start believing it.

 ***

 Matteo is flicking through the channels. None of his friends answered their phone this evening, and he is bored. He’s had pasta again for dinner, and he is not looking forward to another night of aimlessly browsing YouTube. Maybe there will be something interesting on tv, he thinks.

It looks like he might be disappointed once again.

Finally, he lands on a talk show of sorts.

A good-looking guy is talking animatedly about something. Matteo turns up the volume and listens to the guy talk about a movie he apparently made. Fuck, Matteo thinks. The guy does look to be about his age, and here he is, talking on tv about a movie he made. Matteo has spent the last week at work programming code to automize speed ticket and fine collecting. Not exactly a great service to humanity, he thinks. Nowhere near as cool as filmmaking, either.

The guy is passionate about his work, he goes on and on about how representation is important and how queer voices need to be heard. Matteo wonders if he is queer himself. He looks at the wild dark curls, the olive skin. Good-looking, talented, successful, queer. Matteo ticks off one of the four. Suddenly he feels jealousy rise like bile in his throat. This guy would definitely have a soulmate.

He reaches for the remote, wanting to turn off the tv, when the guy turns his head and grins straight into the camera. It seems like his brown eyes bore into Matteo’s soul. He freezes, his finger on the off button.

It lasts only a second, although to Matteo it feels like hours.

When the guy turns to the host again, he seems to be blushing. Matteo finally pushes the button.

As he flicks away the remote, he sees, out of the corner of his eye, something on his wrist.

He swallows.

A bright red heart proudly adorns his wrist.

[koeii]

Yakuza Culture

Tradition of Service

The old Yakuza code emphasized respect for the common people. In their eyes, a victim of the Yakuza had to choose to become a victim. No one forces somone to buy drugs from the Yakuza or spend their money at one of their brothels or gambling dens. A citizen whose home is burglarized, who is mugged in a back alley, or has his wallet taken by pickpockets in turn is considered to be a victim by the Yakuza because they were not given a choice. Some of the Yakuza continue to subscribe to that tradition and will police their territory to prevent violent crimes. Most of the Yakuza though have abandoned that practice and now take a cut of any street crime in the districts they control.

Back in the day, the Yakuza provided the population a kind of "justice for hire" service. In which those whom believed themselves wronged by another person or group would take his or her case to the oyabun in that area and request that they help. If the oyabun decided to help, kobun would "exact justice" from the offender. The wronged party would be charged a fee which for the service which was based on their ability to pay. It is one of the reasons that in Japanese society there is sympathy for the Yakuza, even among the authorities who usually decline to prosecute its members or even investigate crimes related to the Yakuza. Unless they commit murder (except if it was the only "appropriate" action) or kill civilians in which case the Japanese police take action.

Code of Honor

The Yakuza code of honor is shaped by Japanese culture and consists of three major elements; giri, jingi, and ninjo. "Giri" means "obligation" or "duty". Which requires the Yakuza to repay their debts and follow the dictates of obedience and honor. Debts may be repaid in money but usually are done through loyalty and service. Failure to fulfill their duty or obligation brings shame on the Yakuza member, his gumi (clan), and the oyabun (boss). Yakuza take the concept of duty seriously and never forget when a favor is done for him, and will repay the debt.

"Jingi" is deference and respect for a superior. All Yakuza are expected to practice jingi and act in a proper and civilized manner. Some of the oyabun are of the opinion that only Japanese humans deserve to be treated in a civilized and proper manner. Other oyabun believe otherwise and will harshly punish any members of their gumi who fail to act in a proper manner toward other (meta)humans.

"Ninjo" encompasses things such as compassion, feelings, sympathy, and emotions. It is a quality that makes a man sympathetic to the plight of others and is instilled in an individual early in their life. Yakuza who have it are motivated to protect those who seek justice and the concept of ninjo is still upheld by some of the more honorable and traditional Yakuza.[

Tattooing

Irezumi is the tradition of full-body tattooing, which the traditional clans are deeply into. Especially the expensive full-body suits of tattoos which are done manually via the old techniques. Each full-body tattoo suit takes years to finish if ever, and each session can cost up to 6K nuyen. The Oyabun and senior officers may award good service and loyalty by subsidizing their trips to get tattoos.

Traditionial hand-inked tattoos are the most common medium in the Yakuza for quickened spells, though it's still uncommon due to the requirement of having a master tattoo artists and a powerful sorcerer. Other Yakuza, prefer modern techniques such as biotattoos and nanotattoos, which the Sons of the Neo Chrysanthemum are famous for with thier glow in the dark bioluminescent tattooos in night clubs.

Sake-Sharing

Sakasuki is the ancient Shinto ritual which the Yakuza use to seal promises and most importantly bonds of loyalty. Newly recruited Yakuza are inducted into the clan and their relationship with the Oyabun is established with Sasauki ceremonies. It's a pretty simple ceremony but one that is highly ritualized, which may at times require a third party (usually a Shinto priest) who makes sure all is set up correctly, pours the sake, delivers the prayers, and so on.

Finger-Cutting

Yubisume, is the ritual of cutting off one of your fingers on pain of dishonor, shame, and worse at the hands of the Oyabun. It consists of a ritual which is attended by the Oyabun. Binding your smallest finger on the right hand with a white cloth, then with a sharp blade cutting off a joint or even a complete finger. You aren't supposed to show any emotion or pain as that would bring you even more shame. The piece is then offered to the Oyaban. If he accepts it, then it's over but if not, you are supposed to cut more. Your not permitted to replace them with prosthetics. It is also used on extremely rare occasions as a form of protest. Since it is considered rude for a member of the Yakuza to speak against the boss, cutting off your finger and presenting it to him is used.

Ritual Suicide

Seppuku is practiced by the Yakuza, which is ritual suicide by using a sword. The way it is done is thrusting a blade straight in and then across. If done right, you'll be spending the last minutes in horrifying pain with the intestines unraveling and spilling out, and blood, fecal matter, and bile everywhere. Respectable Yakuza bosses will have an executioner nearby to quickly end the poor man's suffering

Cultural Conflict in the Yakuza

Old School

In the Yakuza it is the Old School which is dominant. Most of the clans subscribe to it, and most importantly the largest, wealthiest, and most powerful Yakuza clans are all of the Old School. These clans are often multi-generational with members who are lifelong criminals, born and raised in the Yakuza. Old School clans have quite a bit of public support.

The traditionalists of the Old School believe in Japanese superiority and are racist, xenophobic, and misogynist ultra-nationalists. They are also firm believers of honoring the Yakuza traditions and in the Yakuza code, and are the most likely to protect their community and provide the traditional "services" to the lower classes which the clans historically were known for. They are admired for their dedication to their enemies' destruction, their violent skills, the principles by which they live by, and the social protocols to which they adhere. 

New Way

Within the Yakuza, it was the younger generation of Yakuza who founded started the New Way. They were tired of waiting to inherit the established clans as due to technology and medicine, the geriatric bosses were running the clans for decades. They also believe the Yakuza has to evolve and change its ways to survive and prosper in the Sixth World. Those clans which follow the New Way for the most part are newly established clans (relatively speaking) and none are at the top of the Yakuza hierarchy. New Way clans are often more aggressive, violent, brash, and arrogant. The are usually more concerned with making nuyen than honor.

The reformers of the New Way embrace and accept the Awakened, metahumans, women, technomancers, homosexuals, and those whom are part-Japanese. It is not consistent across the board though. It varies widely among the different clans which follows the New Way. One clan accepts women and homosexuals, another clan recruits metahumans, and yet another is open to half-Japanese members. These clans often maintain some restrictions against one or more groups.

Ideological Factions

The Watada-rengo are fully Old School, as every member syndicate is required to follow that path when it comes to membership. Their main rivals, the Shotozumi-rengo has left it to its members to decide what policy to follow, therefore some syndicates are Old School and others are New Way.[60] Four Oyabun Rengo has taken a firmly neutral position when it comes to the ideological dispute.[61] The newly established and growing Wanibuchi-rengo of Neo-Tokyo is solidly New Way, and has been recruiting extensively from the formerly proscribed classes of people.

[arukou-arukou]

Extremis v. 2.4 Superior

For @stevetonygames team angst, fill Angst: Mind Control. Also filling prompt Canon ref: Superior Iron Man. Warnings: Angst without a happy ending, evil Tony Stark, mind control.

Steve and Nat were running a mission with STRIKE in Syria when the emergency evacuation order came through. The president of the United States had been kidnapped and SHIELD wanted its top agents on the case yesterday. Helicopter to Quinjet to DC was the planned route. They’d been communications dark, so the additional news that Tony Stark was dead was a shock to say the least. Steve stared down at his tablet, spine numb, fingers cold. It was not the time to fall apart, but oh how he wanted to fall apart. He wanted it like he wanted a cup of coffee in the morning, like it was habit. He wasn’t allowed to fall apart, and somehow the restriction made it even more impossible to bear.

Nat sat beside him, her face betraying nothing, her eyes sharp on their team, on the pilot, and most especially on him. He wasn’t supposed to notice her noticing him, but he couldn’t help himself. She wouldn’t do him the disservice of asking if he could handle this, but she’d be shadowing him every step of the way, ready to step in if his thin veneer cracked under the pressure.

They touched down on US soil four hours later, Fury waiting for them on the tarmac, Hill at his side, Alexander Pierce, Vice President Rodriguez, and Thaddeus Ross also waiting on them, secret service swarming, the whole atmosphere strained, and not only because of the kidnapping, if Steve had to guess. Fury looked pissed to be working with Ross, and Ross looked like he’d been sucking lemons, so in general, the affair was a stick of dynamite waiting for a spark. More shuffling, more takeoff and landing, a briefing meeting that felt more like negotiations at the height of the cold war, and then they were en route to Florida. Steve tried his hardest to keep his head in the game, but part of him was remembering sweat damp sheets from months ago. Tony was in DC on a fairly regular basis, which meant Steve was getting laid on a fairly regular basis, but it also meant that he spent more time than he ought wondering what exactly to make of their relationship. He’d done his reading, knew all the filthy terms for people who fucked without dating, and knew that wasn’t for him, but somehow, he kept falling into bed with Tony anyway. The lack of resolve, the knowledge that that resolve would never come, was a hairline fracture within him, and at the first opportunity, he’d drive an ice pick in and let it rip him to pieces, but he couldn’t do it yet, not with the president in the hands of terrorists.

Halfway to Florida though, they got a cryptic message across the coms. It was carrying all the right codes, all the right signals, and it told them to land at the oil rig and standby, stand down. Fury sized up Ross and Ross sized up Fury and then they lit into each other, each accusing the other of undermining the operation. STRIKE looked on with barely concealed glee as the higher-ups had it out with each other, but Steve and Nat were trading glances. They could both of them come up with a few explanations for a mysterious coded message with all the right signatures, but Occam’s razor said the most obvious explanation was a genius billionaire playboy philanthropist.

The quinjet touched down on the oil rig with Fury and Ross still arguing about what to do, and seeing his opportunity, Steve took it, Nat shadowing him without question. The rig was on fire. Very on fire. Molten twists of metal littered the landscape, and they were no doubt only minutes from a major explosion.

“We need to evacuate this place. Hostiles and friendlies.”

“So you’re assuming there are friendlies?”

“Aren’t you?” Nat nodded and considered the disaster before them. “I’ll do a check from the high ground, you run the gauntlet. I’ll relay any activity I see. We’ve got five minutes and then we need to clear our people, whether we’ve found anyone or not.” Her voice brokered no compromise, and feeling that hairline fracture within him, Steve thought better of arguing. He took off at top speed into the mess of the rig while Nat swung herself up a set of stairs, climbing like a monkey for the best vantage point. She needn’t have bothered. The moment she cleared the rooftop, an Iron Man armor—not one like Steve had ever seen before, big and bulky and gorilla-shaped—swooped in and grabbed her. A second later, he was gripped in his own Iron Man bear hug, a second armor right behind the first.

Joy overtook worry, and Steve gave himself over to the ride, watching the burning rig shrink away, not caring that he was leaving his team behind. Tony was alive. Tony was alive!

The armors landed them in a McMansion somewhere outside of Ft. Lauderdale, if Steve had to guess, and they released them both, standing as flanking guards. The entire mansion was dark, not a light in sight, and above, the stars twinkled down on them with a cold, hard glint. Tony emerged from an arch, flanked by Pepper and Jim. Steve’s heart started fluttering at double speed, overjoyed. He rushed forward, only just stopping himself from kissing Tony in front of them all, and instead gripped his biceps, looking him over for any sign of injury.

“You’re okay? You’re okay! The news said you were dead.”

“Not so easy to kill me,” Tony replied, a smirk drawing up one corner of his mouth. There was something different about him, though in the darkness, Steve couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

“The president?”

“Taken care of. Why don’t you guys come in and we’ll chat.”

Steve was all too eager to follow, like a puppy to heel. Nat spoke, though, and stopped him cold. “What did the Mandarin do to you all?”

Tony stopped too, though he didn’t turn back. “It’s not what he did to us, Nat. It’s what we did to him. I promise I’ll tell you all about it if you’ll just come with us. We’ve got drinks by the pool and everything.”

“I’m not going anywhere. Steve?”

Steve didn’t want to look back. He didn’t want to see Nat’s face, because the thing was, he trusted her instincts more than his own. She never trusted anyone, and she was never wrong about a situation headed south. And he didn’t want to hear it. Tony was alive. The president was safe. For once, just for once in his life, he’d love for the dire national emergency to already be taken care of. But no. He had to look back.

Nat stood her ground, the armors looming behind her, now closer than they had been. Her stance was wide, her guns drawn, and they were aimed at Tony. When she saw she had his attention, she spoke again. “Steve, that’s not Tony.”

Tony was at his side now, that same razor-sharp smirk on his lips. Steve looked closer, and against his will, he began to see what he hadn’t wanted to see before. The light was low, yes, but even so, he could see that Tony somehow looked younger, smoother, leaner. The beautiful crow’s feet and laugh lines on his face had disappeared, the slight layer of middle-aged fat on his face and stomach were gone. From the corner of his eye, Steve could also see Pepper, and she too looked younger, sharper, as though there was metal under her skin.

“What are you talking about, Nat? I know you don’t like me, but surely you know your old pal, Iron Man.”

Nat fired three shots, all of them straight into Tony’s skull, and Steve broke again, the fracture back, splitting splitting, a fault line straight through his heart. But no. There was a strange white-blue glint in Tony’s head. He hadn’t crumpled to the ground. There was no blood. Tony hadn’t moved at all. Instead, he started laughing. One by one, the metal bullet casings plinked out of his skull and straight to the ground. The hole healed itself over, smooth, unscarred, perfect.

“Tony?” Steve asked, even as Nat twisted to make her escape. She was too slow though, and the gorilla armor had her up in its grip, holding her fast.

“Pep, Gummy Bear, if you would escort Natalia to the lab, I’ll be along soon to administer the dose.” Pepper and Jim strode forward like machines, their eyes blank, and Steve felt horror creeping up his esophagus, souring his mouth with bile. “Jim, Pepper, please don’t hurt her. What are you doing? She’s your friend.” Steve stumbled forward, but Tony’s hand clapped down on his shoulder, pushing him down down down with inexorable weight. His knees buckled and then cracked into the cement, pain shooting through his legs.

“Tony, what are you doing? What did you do to them?”

“Oh my dear Captain, I’ve done the best thing I possibly could. I’ve made them superior. They’re happier this way. See?”

He gestured, and as one Jim and Pepper turned toward Steve and bared their teeth in a horrible parody of a smile. “You see, darling? Younger, stronger, happily rid of all that pesky free will. Happier. Just like you will be, too.”

Steve turned to look up into Tony’s eyes and saw the white blue glow within.

“Extremis, darling. It was flawed when the Mandarin had it, but now I’ve perfected it. Eternal youth and beauty. Unfailing loyalty. And the world at our feet. Come now, Steve. Don’t you want to be superior?”

Tony’s hand dug into the thick muscle of his trapezius, squeezing and squeezing and squeezing, until Steve’s vision went black and white and blue.

[7deadlycinderellas]

The Starks at War, 1941 part 2

AO3 link

(who knew all I needed was something called the “Abandoned WIP challenge to finish another chapter of this?)

Arya doesn’t stop shaking the whole way home, through to the next day. Asha accompanies her, sympathetic, but distant. The bus ride is hell.

When Arya walks through the front door, Jojen and Bran are playing cards, but stop immediately to look at her.

“Arya-” Bran starts, stuttering, “Mother?”

Arya feels a sob choke out, then get stuck halfway.

“How did you know?” Asha asks.

“Radio,” Bran says, pointing at the wireless set by the front window, “It said that the Germans hit a military hospital- the one we knew you were going to.” His voice suddenly becomes thick, and Arya realizes he sounds double his newly fifteen years.

“We were scared, we thought it might be both of you.”

Arya slumps down in her chair.

“It was stupid, really,” Jojen comments, “painting crosses on the roofs of all the hospitals. Just gave them something to aim at.”

“If half the stories out of France are true, it is our error to expect any kind of fair play from Nazis.”

Arya feels like she can barely move.

After a time, Asha stands to leave.

“I’ll spend the night at the inn and leave in the morning.”

She leans down to clap Arya on the shoulder.”

“You know where to reach me.”

Once Asha leaves, Arya slumps and clutches her face in her hands.

“I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it,” is all she can whisper to herself.

Autumn begins to turn over the coming weeks. Arya sleepwalks into it. Gilly ends up being the one who goes to the church to report. There are no remains to bury.

Sansa calls multiple times a week.

She keeps asking if they need her to come home. They all push her off. Winterfell isn’t home as it was, and they won’t bring her back if she is needed elsewhere.

She’s begun to settle in in London. The flat she shares with Margaery is tiny, just a bedroom and kitchen. The two beds they’ve managed to drag in barely have enough room between them to walk.The walls are papered, but it’s fading and peeling. The heating doesn’t always work, what with the coal shortages. Often at night, the two of them simply pull on all of their clothes before crawling into bed.

The tenement building’s shelter is outside. When the air raid sirens bellow, they have to shove on their slippers, grab their masks and barrel down the stairs among the other flat-dwellers. Praying that all they will hear is the sirens and not the whine of an incendiary or the gait shattering boom of an explosion before they manage to cram themselves inside.

Sansa’s begun adjusting to the work as well. She spends all day in the tiny gray office, editing and retyping papers, sometimes helping Margaery do translations. Sometimes, even work is interrupted by air raids.

She can’t stop thinking of what Catelyn would have said to see her now. With her short cut hair and simple office clothes, she looks nothing like the debutante she dreamed of being. This was not a world her or her mother would have even thought to be part of.

She’s good with idioms, her supervisor notes, so at least she can take pride in that. She was always good at French in school, longing one day to go there, to see the sights and the glamor for herself.

One night when they’re at home, eating some cobbled together vegetable medley, cooked in a pan, Margaery comments,

“I think I’m going to cut my hair. I’m sick of having to set the whole mess at night.”

Sansa nods. She had been surprised when watching Margaery do her hair the first time, to see how hard she worked to make it perfect. Without the curlers at night, one side would curl up perfectly, and the other would hang straight pin straight, stretched out by its length.

“They do say long hair is terribly old-fashioned.”

Margaery sighs when it’s finished, touching the ends as though she can’t believe it’s gone. But now the sides curl properly, and she won’t have to do anything but wash it and wrap it all up before bed.

“My mother used to put it up for me when I was little, the way she did when she went out,” she comments idly.

“You never told me what happened to your mother,” Sansa tells her, suddenly keenly feeling her own loss that she’s spent so much time shoving down deep inside.

“She died of the flu- not the big one, just the usual one- when I was ten. My father was never the same after that. I’m not sure any of us were.”

Sansa is quiet. She understands really. She’s almost appreciative that she hadn’t been at home most of this entire past year. She can’t imagine how her mother must have taken her father’s death. While the pair had never been the most demonstrative of their affections, their children were very secure in the fact that the two had loved each other, and that not all married couples were as lucky.

Margaery glances down at herself.

“She always wanted the best for me. Nothing specific, just that I would be happy and the best person I could be. She was the only one I think. Everyone else has their own ideas about who I am and exactly what I should aim for.”

“What do you want to do? What would make you happy?”

Margaery’s expression is pensieve.

“I wish I’d applied to go to university. I’d like to study political science. I’d like a proper little flat, near a park, one that’s not been bombed. Maybe I’ll marry, but only if I meet someone I want to. Maybe I will when the war is over.“

It has been strange, Sansa thinks, leaving school behind and seeing Margaery for who she really was. She had always thought they were friends, but here she’s stripped bare. She’s not a prefect, or head of the French club, or the beautiful polished girl Sansa had idolized. Here she chips her nails and ladders her stockings and forgets her hat just like everyone else.

That doesn’t mean Sansa doesn’t still look up to her though. She fits right in at the office, even with most of the others being London born girls who left school at fourteen and knew they would end up working if they didn’t marry. Many of them were pleased to work in an office, rather than in a factory, or worse, in service. Sansa sometimes feels tongue tied around them, and not just because the Starks have always had a few people employed in service.

Before October, both of them get letters inviting them for an interview with the same Baelish that Margaery had said recognized Sansa’s name. The instructions have them both come to a tiny, bare bones hotel room during lunch hour. Sansa’s stomach grumbles while she’s outside waiting  for Margaery to finish her turn. Her stomach is not eased by her own interview.

Petyr Baelish isn’t a tall man. Sansa’s used to looking most grown men in the eye, and finds that when he stands, she’s actually looking more at his hairline. He has dark hair, going somewhat gray, a neat mustache and an overall aura of having everything under his control.  

He asks her dozens of questions, some of which she doesn’t even understand. But by the time it’s done, she has a job offer.

And a new, horrifying, realization, about the nature of the office where she’s been working.

Her and Margaery both, are, on paper, enlisted in the FANY, the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry. In practice, they were brought aboard the organization that became known as SOE for secret operations, and being sent to Scotland for their training.

Sansa cringes at the slightest thought of what her mother would say. But her mother is dead now, and this gives her the slightest hope for vengeance. Vengeance. That was one of those words so beloved in those awful twopenny comics Arya and Bran devoured.

It doesn’t take long before she wonders what on earth she was thinking by accepting.

Even reaching the training school is rough. The terrain in Scotland is difficult. By the time they reach the facility, they are all exhausted, hungry, soaked through with rain and covered in scratches. And when they reach it, the real fun begins.

Sansa never once in her life thought she would someday learn to shoot a gun, or disarm a man, or be required to carry a suicide pill. These skills are not second nature to her, so she has to work at it. When her eyes threaten to prick full of tears and her throat threatens to close up, she thinks of her mother’s face, dead now for no reason, and no one coming to save her, or Sansa or anyone. No one is coming to save them.

She learns to parrot back the goal they are told. To resist the enemy by any means necessary. There aren’t a great many women in training with them, but there are far more than Sansa would have expected. Too many in England have lost loved ones in this war. Too many have seen their homes destroyed.

Learning telegraphy and morse code are much easier, even if they are still totally foreign skills for her. She goes back through Arya’s letters, remembering her speaking of learning these things for Girl Guides. These at least, don’t make the bile rise in the back of Sansa’s throat at even the thought of using them.

One night, she sits on the end of her bed and puts her head in her hands. Margaery has the bunk above her. There are bunks here, it’s like being back at school again.

“What’s wrong?”

Sansa’s shoulders slump as she responds.

“All I can think is how much my younger sister would prefer learning all of this than me. She always loved science fiction and pulp magazines and those awful two-penny adventure comics. And when I called home last, she sounded so angry...she needs to feel like she’s contributing as much as us, but she can’t. She’s sixteen, she’s tiny and she’s stuck at home still.”

Margaery frowns, deep in thought.

“Your sister Arya...you said she’s only sixteen?”

Sansa nods.

“She’ll be seventeen at the beginning of next year.”

“Then let her be a child if she can still, we don’t know how long this war will last. Besides, from your stories, she always sounded like such an impulsive and ill-refined girl.”

Sansa sniffs. Her stories had always been terribly unfair to Arya. She might still prefer running about outside, but she hadn’t thrown a tantrum in ages, and the shouting and even the insults were a thing of the long past. They might never have been as close as sisters in Jane Austen novels, but they hadn’t fought each other in so long.

Except when they did.

“She is.”

Margaery smiles, and plays with one of her gloves.

“Know why Baelish had been head-hunting us?”

Sansa shakes her head.

“Because aristocratic women are good at a great deal more than picking out dresses and fixing their hair. We know manners, and pick up rules of etiquette with ease. We are good at talking to people and getting them to tell us things. And we are excellent at keeping up appearances under pressure.”

Sansa nods, and tries to put on her face.

And it is very easy to see why Margaery was selected. Her French is perfect and she has a great deal of knowledge of French geography, culture and fashion. Information that it turns out, Sansa has picked up quite easily having hung on Margaery’s words when she was just the glamorous school prefect.

And it’s so much easier to keep her face on in the dorms than out in the training field with a weapon in her hands.

One of the instructor’s compliments Sansa on her accent.

“A bit breathy, true, but the disguise of an excited young girl can be very handy. Very few would doubt the intentions of one.”

When the both of them get near to finishing training, Baelish’s assessment claims they would both make excellent radio operators. Even Sansa’s not naive enough to believe that’s a safe occupation, like Baelish insists. Mum had seemed fond enough of him, but Sansa doesn’t trust something in his gaze.

This is what sticks in Sansa’s mind as Margaery and her are sent off to parachute school. The first day of training, she stares out the window and wishes she were more like Arya.

That same day, Arya gets the telegram.

The months since Mother had died were hell. Arya has kept up with the girl guides when she could. She helps out with the WVS, who seems nearly as lost without Catelyn as she does. She helps Bran stumble through the paperwork needed to keep the family affairs in order. She tries to help Gilly with little Sam and Weasel.

She writes Gendry whenever she can. His letters are always so sweet, so understanding, but he can’t write often. And she doesn’t know if her own letters actually capture even half of what she feels.

He writes that he wishes he could come see her, but the Navy is stingy with leave, and when he gets a day, he’s stationed too far away to make the train ride south in the time given. Sometimes, selfishly, Arya wishes she could ask him to come anyway, but she can’t. She won’t get him in trouble because of her.

The day the telegram comes, she’s about to burst as it is. It’s only a few days after America has entered the war, wrapping her mind around that was hard enough.

She’s in the kitchen, staring at the paper when the others trickle in for lunch.

Bran notices first, Arya’s stony white face.

“What now?” he asks.

Arya’s hands are holding the card still, but her fingers are shaking.

“It’s Robb,” her voice says, low, dead. “His plane was shot down over France. They have no idea what’s become of him.”

Without meeting his eye, she hands the telegram to Bran, puts her hands on the table. Then she lays her face down on top of them and cries.

None of them could have known what was going down in France at the moment.

Robb was a competent pilot. He wasn’t a natural like Jon was, but he was good enough. This was very little comfort when his plane was currently on fire and quickly losing altitude.

He tried to radio out assistance, but the controls are dead. Robb’s head is throbbing from where it slammed against the inside of the cockpit and he can hardly think. It’s only through sheer luck that he manages to get his parachute on and leap from the rapidly descending plane and pray as he bails out for the ground.

The air rushes around him for only a split second it seems before he collides with the ground so hard that it feels like he’s being manhandled. He thinks he hears something crack, but he can’t stop to think. All he sees is blurs, all he hears is ringing and all he smells is blood and smoke. He tries to stand and run, but his body isn’t listening.

Eventually, one of those blurs comes closer, and grabs him, by the arm, pulling roughly. His legs screech in protest, his lungs wail, but it keeps pulling, and eventually the world begins to return to him.

The figure pulling him, he eventually sees is a woman. Young, perhaps in her twenties, with dark hair. She wears a heavy, dark green coat and her footsteps are heavy.

Eventually, the image of a barn comes into sight. The woman pulling him stops, moves something, and the next that Robbs knows, he’s being shoved into what seems like a hole in the ground.

“Stay quiet. Don’t make a sound until I come back for you. Not a single word, or you’re dead.”

Robb tries to stop himself from blacking out, but he doesn’t succeed.

When he comes to, he takes inventory of his surroundings. Dirt, a lot of dirt. A couple of what look like potatoes in one corner. A root cellar, most likely. The inhales and all he can smell is dirt too. His leg is on fire, and much of his skin is too. He fears when he wakes up fully, the pain will be so bad it makes him pass out again.

He can hear people outside, somewhere, faintly. He follows the woman’s advice and pretends he’s dead. He hears planes overhead, and gunfire too. He hopes his squadmates are alright.

Robb’s not sure how long it is before the cellar door cracks open and he jumps, squawking in pain, but the woman from before pulls him out again and leads him to the farmhouse.

“I told them where I saw your plane go down. I told them I saw it on fire and was worried about the trees in the wood. I didn’t say anything about your chute, I burned it in the hearth.”

After she leads him in and lays him upon a wooden chair, she retrieves a glass and tells him to drink the liquid inside. It’s bitter, and he sputters, but she pushes it to his lips again, and after that, he fades in and out.

When he finally wakes, there’s the sound of a kettle whistling.

“Not real tea, I’m afraid, but dried mint is good enough to pretend.”

She sits across from him. Even still in pain, Robb can’t help but notice that she’s lovely. He sips the mint tea and tries not to choke.

When he finally gathers the mindfulness to speak, he picks his first question carefully.

“What’s your name?”

The woman sighs, before taking her own cup and sitting in the other chair.

“Talisa.”

“Talisa,” he says, feeling the name on his tongue, “I’m Robb.”

“I suppose we should use each other’s Christian names, given we’re going to be stuck here together for at least six weeks” she admits. Then she gestures at Robb’s leg, which she has immobilized with splints and thick rolls of bandage cloth. “Don’t try and move. I couldn’t set a proper cast, but I did my best. Don’t ruin all my hard work.” Dimly, Robb realizes he is covered in cuts that are also bandaged.

Robb is flush with gratitude.

“Thank you,” he says. He examines her bandaging. “Are you a nurse?”

Talisa nods.

“I was going to be, before-” she waves her arm out, “All of this.”

Robb glances around the farmhouse, and realizes the place is empty, but has the signs of other people having lived here before. Four chairs around the table, more cups than one person would need.

“Do you live here by yourself?”

Talisa nods, sadly.

“My father died when I was young, of a fever. I was born in Guernica. When Franco bombed it, me, my mother and my brother escaped and fled here. My father was French, so getting asylum was easier.”

“Guernica,” Robb muses, rolling the word around in his mouth, wondering where he’s heard it. “That’s in Spain right?”

Talisa purses her lips before answering.

“I guess it was too much to expect England to have reported too much on our own little war. But yes, Guernica is in Spain. The three of us came here and worked this farm. Then the Germans came. It had barely been three years. Seems like such a little time of peace.”

She turns away, and Robb chooses not to press her.

“Once your leg heals enough, I’ll pass you off to the resistance, and they can see about getting you home.”

“The German’s won’t get suspicious of you?” Robb asks. He doesn’t want to bring any trouble to her.

“That’s no matter,” she insists, “It’s not like you can go anywhere on your own, and anything I can do to be a thorn in the side of the Third Reich, the better.”

Talisa drains her cup at this point, pushing it back down against the table, and briefly shuts her eyes.

“It’s probably not good to admit, but I am happy that at least I’ll have someone here to talk to this Christmas.”

Christmas, Robb thinks. He hadn’t even realized.

Christmas 1941 is hellish for his own family.

Jon can barely eat any of the Christmas dinner the servicemen are given. It feels like ashes in his gut.

Sansa is given a break over Christmas, but the next day is when they’re supposed to be given their first parachute lessons. She cries herself to sleep, in fear. Fear for herself, fear for her brother. In her more fanciful moments, she imagines parachuting into France and one day bumping into him on the street. Perhaps he’d lost his memory, she wonders, her mind a Hollywood fantasy.

Arya and Bran are still at Winterfell.

Bran is overwhelmed. The work that has been left in his lap threatens to consume him, even as he had wished so hard to be useful.

Arya feels nearly dead inside.

The past two Christmases without Robb and Jon had been bad enough, but at least there were his letters. Now she can’t read them without wondering if they’re the last she will ever receive.

On Christmas Eve, no tree, no lights, no Christmas dinner, Arya stares out her bedroom window. Father, Mother, Robb gone. Jon, Sansa and Gendry far too far away. Bran overwhelmed, even Gilly, Sam and Weasel ash-faced.

They see Rickon so little it’s as though he’s slipped away.

It hardly feels like Christmas at all.

Maybe it would be better if she weren’t here too. One less mouth to poorly feed.

She leaves her bicycle, and her books. She takes Gendry’s letters, and she wonders if she’ll be able to receive any more of them.

The day Arya turns seventeen, she calls Asha Greyjoy, asking if her offer still stands.

[the-bjd-community-confess]

DoA megapost (22 confessions)

Mod: So https://true-bjd-confessions.tumblr.com/post/189300138511/mod-due-to-excessive-offtopic-arguing-in-the

All you guys’ pending DoA confessions presented in no specific order, before we move into the hold, as announced above.

To be clear: I think this is a feature DoA should have yesterday. It’s completely inappropriate to force people to use deadnames and names which are related to traumatic life experiences, or be banned. 

However, *weary sigh, gesturing at the multiple 70+ reply confessions on this topic* people told me they were finding the rapidly escalating discussion to be upsetting and offputting, and that’s not my goal for this blog. ❤️

1.

I am exceptionally weary of all the DoA hate over the person who got banned over making a new account after not being allowed to change their user name. DoA isn’t the only doll forum out there. If you don’t like their rules, don’t join. I for one find their rules about on- and off-topic dolls to be unfair and arbitrary as hell, but in the end it comes down to their house, their rules. Move on.

~Anonymous

2.

Us: Sure would be nice to maybe be able to change your name on DOA.

Some of y’all: Are you asking for anarchy?? If we allow this, what’s next?? A reasonable review of outdated rules??? The rules are there for a reason!!1! The reason may be antiqued because technology has updated and changed since then, meaning there are better solutions available, but it’s still a reason so we DEFINITELY should NEVER change!! Change is too scary for me. :( You’re bullies who want to be special :((( Stop that :(

~Anonymous

3.

I love seeing people get so offended at anon saying “bigots”. How do you know it was about you ? Guilty conscience? DOA could allow name changes if they really wanted to. There are other hobbies where they forbid certain people from entering forums while still allowing name changes. It’s not hard if you really care.      

~Anonymous      

4.

Honestly the way people fall all over themselves to defend DoA against any sort of criticism (regardless of how you personally feel about the validity of said criticism, reader) makes me glad I never got into the community aspect of this hobby. It's just... stressful.          

~Anonymous  

5.

The transphobia in the comments on this blog in particular are so gross. Being a bigot makes your dolls instantly hideous. And no, I’m not saying everyone who is defending DOAs decision is transphobic. I’m talking about the one who thinks trans people transitioning is wrong and their friends. You’re gross and so are your dolls.

~Anonymous  

6.

scammers can & will get around DOA's no name change policy, it's really not that safe. also, DOA isn't the only website which allows the sale of high-value items.

~Anonymous  

7.

First it's "if you want name changes coded in DoA, offer to do it yourself!", then it's "why tf would DoA accept some rando to help code their site?" make up your goddamn mind, your argument is falling apart. 

Also when did this issue become "DoA vs trans people"? Like, I like DoA yet I also recognize it should be more accessible and updated for the modern userbase. I want it to become as good as it can be because I like the community and would hate to see it die out like so many other forum sites do. Yes, it has flaws- and believe me, the folks who get extremely upset about the idea of admitting that embarrass me- but I liked the format since I was new to the hobby. I just wish it was more inclusive!    

~Anonymous    

8.     

girlisav3rb: "this isn't about exclusion or leaving anyone out". Also girlisav3rb: "I'm just kicking your punk ass off [obvious metaphor for DoA]" yyyyiiiiikkkees      

~Anonymous    

9. 

The DOA username debate is really starting to feel like 4 people's personal beefs against each other. It isn't really about dolls and I wish it wasn't dominating all the confessions here. I don't really care about watching pomoaples, pupkinspce, aigisthewlve and tellmeifthursday make fools of themselves daily.        

~Anonymous      

10.

Say it louder for the people in the back: IF YOU INSIST ON NAME CHANGES FOR DOA, THEN VOLUNTEER YOUR CODING EXPERTISE. Don't know how to code and are just squawking about something you can't directly contribute towards? Then shut up or offer up money so the mods can hire a computer programmer to make the changes you're DEMANDING from a FREE service.        

~Anonymous

11.

God it's so painfully obvious to see how many of the people defending DoA on the grounds that name changes would destroy the integrity of the website have never ever worked on or even been part of a forum or really any website of any kind in their lives. Seriously arguing that "the database" would break if you changed a name like?? No??? Have you ever seen a server backend before? You can automate this shit, you know, keep a log of former names, just... it's not some big huge challenge??? 

~Anonymous 

12.           

I don't have a horse in the trans name change race but calling DoA one of the friendlies communities around is abject bullshit lmao. There's not a more elitist, paranoid, abusive community this side of comic books -- but that kind of goes for this hobby as a whole, let's be honest.           

~Anonymous     

13. 

THE RULES ARE IMPORTANT WE CAN't cHANGE THE RULES IT WILL LEAD TO CHAOS IF WE CHANGE ONE RULE WHERE WILL IT END THINK OF THE CHILDREN!!!!!!!! In my town it used to be THE RULES that POC have to go to separate schools and use separate bathrooms, but sure, the rules are the most important thing, not the people. And before anyone says cOmPaRiNg DoLlS tO rAciSm, 1) shitting on trans people IS a form of prejudice you smoothbrains, and 2) my ass is POC and I call it like I see it. Check yourselves.            

~Anonymous   

14.   

I personally think DOA should just.. go away? It’s been around for years, most people use it as reference rather than a community anymore. Everything is on FaceBook and Instagram now, DOA is pretty much just a glorified Dolly Dictionary at this point. Besides, if they aren’t going to change an Incredibly simple, easy thing to change just to accommodate transitioning people, it’s not the best place to be.

~Anonymous  

15.

I mean about the whole rules is rules is rules thing about doa: the thing is, some rules are there for a reason and obviously do need to be respected whether you agree with them or not, like don’t block fire exits, murder is bad, etc. but some rules eventually become outdated and need to be changed to keep up with society, and that doesn’t make the people pointing out that they need to be changed evil or entitled or spoiled. Imagine if we all still had to drive 10 mph everywhere because when someone pointed out that car technology had improved since 1915 and the speed limit should be increased accordingly everyone had just shouted them down with “BUT TEH RUUULLLEESS!!!” You’d be pretty interested in getting some of this “special treatment” yourself so you could get to work on time, huh?

~Anonymous  

16.

Honestly the easiest solution would be let people change their names only once and have it trackable.. as a trans dude its NOT that deep.     

~Anonymous        

17.

I notice that the unrelenting attacks on DoA are now even using the same phraseology along with the name-calling and implications of sinister motives. These are textbook bullying tactics. Next is the boycott, except that most of these people already say they don’t use the forum because they are just too “21st Century” for it.

Luckily this is just a confession board and no matter how many folks you manage to rile up here, it’s not going to affect DoA. Now, this is why I love DoA–you can’t go on their own site and spew this nonsense. They have Rules. They are Strict. They attempt to avoid drama, especially off-topic drama, and they don’t allow meanness, vulgarity or obscenity. If you’re looking for a pleasant, safe space, it’s your best bet.

~Anonymous

18.

Easy to lay bigotry, laziness, stupidity and worse on DoA mods for not just accepting tales of trauma and pasts to erase.  But the internet has always been full of lies by people trying to get their own way or escape consequences. Not just pro scammers. People who cry things like illness, trauma, disaster, family or pet problems over and over to get sympathy for demands or as all-purpose excuses. Recast ownership lies. People who never got a no before, and don't like being turned down no-how.

~Anonymous

19.

I just realized that no one understands the people saying DOA can allow name changes are the people who have actually modded forums before, most forums unless they’re running a totally outdated system use user id numbers that are linked to display names, which can be changed, and you can write a simple string of simple-baby-code to show old display names on a profile, to explain it in simple terms.   

~Anonymous                    

20.

Honestly I think that the anti-name change people are mostly just shilling for DoA because they can't believe that their precious forum with its volunteer mods could be anything but flawless. Or something like that, given how indignantly these people have *always* reacted to confessions criticizing DoA, even before the trans controversy was a thing. There have definitely been some obvious transphobes as well though, whose bile is really more suited to conservative FB pages or something. Go away!          

~Anonymous

21.   

the DOA mods can obviously change people's usernames because it's 2019 and basically every other site in existence can do it. they might have to change the site slightly to accomplish this. maybe there are reasons for them to choose not to do that, but let's stop pretending it's some technological impossibility.

~Anonymous

22.

How about this: Implement a system on DoA that indentifies users by a unique code and allow users to have a changeable display name. Changing the display name could become a paid feature to pay for the technical changes. Think of a system like discord has. It's a win-win situation. Thoughts?            

~Anonymous

[pollenallergie]

Lady Lust: A brothers!Faust & Axel Fanfiction

Sooo I finally got around to posting the next chapter of this 😂😂

And sorry the header and the “keep reading” cut off are missing, I was too lazy to go find the pic in my camera roll, add it, and then log on to my laptop, sign in, and add the cut off as well. 😅😂

Hopefully it won’t take me so goddamn long to get around to writing the next one 😂

Sorry for the wait. Also sorry it’s kinda short.

Taglist: @beyond-the-ashes @siriuslymooned

Elle was left like that, alone and in a miserable state, for what felt like forever. Really it was just a few hours, but time goes by slowly when you're restrained to a bed and covered in your own bile, or it did when she was left like that. Minutes turned to hours and hours turned to an eternity as Elle sat there.

She'd attempted to free herself multiple times, but to no avail. She'd screamed for help, attempted to chew off the belt on one wrist, kicked the landline on the bedside table onto the floor and attempted to dial the number for emergency services with her toes; she'd done everything she could think of and the it only left her tired, still stuck in her restraints, and with a sore shoulder. So she gave up on her attempts and somehow managed to Will herself to sleep, deciding that being unconscious was better than being awake at that moment.

Eventually, her arms began to go tingly and fall asleep from being held up for so long and her bile had soaked through her clothes, the enzymes and stomach acid within it burning at her skin, irritating it and causing it to begin to itch. By the time she was found, it was obvious that she'd have a rash from being left covered in her own vomit for so long.

The person cursed with finding the girl in such shape was non-other than Faust's older brother; a Norwegian born, American raised male in his late twenties with piercing, pale green eyes and skin covered with tattoos and streaks of grime and oil left over from a rough night at work. He knew Elle well enough, although she did not know him at all. He'd seen her one night when he followed his brother. His reasoning for following his brother that night was a pretty solid one as it regarded him sneaking off a night and lying about where he was going. The one condition that the boy's mother gave him in regards to allowing Faust living with his older brother was that Axel was supposed to keep an eye on him at all times, that he was to keep him out of trouble; which was pretty hard to do if he was sneaking around all the time.

So, he followed him one night to find out where it was that he was sneaking off to. Faust had always told him it was for work, but Axel knew better than that. Axel knew that Faust worked at his friend's record shop and, more importantly, that the shop always opened at an hour past noon and closed at two hours to midnight, never earlier and never later, so there was no reason why Faust should be sneaking out at one in the morning for work.

Just as Axel suspected, Faust wasn't going to work, in fact he didn't even really work at his friends record store, sometimes he helped out, but that was rare. Faust actually spent most of his time following around a girl, a girl that Axel would learn from weeks of asking around was named Ellise Vidal, the same girl he found unconscious and restrained to Faust's bed with splattered on the front of her clothes as well as on the bed beneath her.

Axel acted upon instinct when he saw the girl in that state, he did what came to his mind first and immediately went to free her from her restraints. As he attempted to undo the belt that held her right wrist in place, his fingers brushed against her wrist alerting her and waking her from her slumber. She jolted away from his touch immediately as her first response to feeling any touch after what happened earlier was immediate fear and panic.

"It's ok, I'm getting you out of here," Axel told her, speaking with as much of a comforting tone as he could muster, which really ended up being more of a borderline monotonous tone.

He then resumed freeing Elle of her restraints, moving on to undo the belt that held her left wrist in place after he had successfully undo the right side one.

Immediately after being freed, Elle spoke up, saying whatever she thought would get her out of the scene of the nearly hellish event and back home the soonest.

"He stole my car," Were the first words she said.

"What?" Axel inquired, not hearing her correctly the first time on account of the fact that she was mumbling nervously.

"Faust stole my car, he drove off in it after storming out. I have no way to get home," She explained, this time in louder and more clear tone.

"Okay... I uh... I can get that back for you when he comes back. For now, why don't we get you cleaned up and then I'll take you home. Okay?" Axel suggested, his tone becoming slightly less monotonous and slightly more comforting with every sentence he spoke.

"I wanna go home now," Elle said, her tone still shaky, unintentionally revealing how truly nervous and frightened she was.

"Don't you wanna get cleaned up first?" Axel asked.

"No, just wanna go home... now," she replied.

"You can take a shower here and I can throw your clothes in the wash with the sheets while you're in there, you can uh... borrow a change of clothes from me when you get out," Axel suggested, prompting the wreck of a girl in front of him to finally look up at him, to finally make eye contact with him. Her tear-filled, brown eyes met with his own pale green, bloodshot ones as she spoke, still using that shaky, nervous tone.

"Please just let me go home."

That was all that it took for Axel to finally give her what she want, with that he shut up and immediately led her to his car, helped her in, and took her home; getting her they successfully with the help of receiving directions from her. The entire car ride was silent, neither of them spoke. Axel needed to ask no questions or talk about anything, as he figured he'd just force the story of how she ended up like that out of Faust when he got home rather than pester her about it, as he assumed that talking about it was probably the last thing she wanted to do at that time. Elle was the same way, quiet and without questions. She didn't question who this stranger was that had freed her and was now giving her a ride home as she just assumed that he was a relative of Faust's based on his similar looks. Elle assumed that Axel was most likely Faust's older brother as he was too young to be his father, too old to be his younger brother, and physically too similar to him to be his uncle or cousin. She could've asked for his name, but she didn't. She hoped she would never need to know it just as she hoped she would never have another chance to see him because she knew seeing him would ultimately lead to one of two things; either her seeing Faust again as well or her having to talk and about and thus be reminded of what Faust did to her that night. Elle planned on burying what happened to her that night deep into her memory, never to be thought about again, if that was even possible for her.

Upon arrival, she quickly got out of Axel's car, mumbled a quiet "thanks" to him as she shut the car door behind her, all but ran up her driveway to her garage, and entered the code to open the garage door. Elle then retrieved the necessary supplies she knew she'd need to break in, as she didn't have her key on account of the fact that it was on the same key ring as her car keys, which Faust had stolen. After that she walked around to the side of the house and worked on breaking into her own room.

Elle first set down the step-stool she had taken from the garage and stepped up onto it. Next she grabbed the crowbar she had taken and slid it between the windowsill and the bottom part of the frame of her closed window. She then used all of her strength, or what she had left of it after her night of sexual horror, to pop open the window and break the lock of it. She then pushed up on the bottom of the windowpane, opening her window. Once she had done so successfully, she climbed in. She then shut her window and grabbed the bar she used to keep it locked with when the actual lock got sticky and she couldn't use it. She placed the bar in between the top of the windowpane and the midsection of it, keeping the window closed and from being opened up again.

Elle then worked on showering and changing into some new, clean clothes. After that, she threw her vomit covered ones in the wash and hung the leather coat she'd borrowed, which thankfully didn't get any vomit on it, back up on the coat rack near the front door. She then snuck back outside and put the crowbar and stool back into the garage before leaving to go back inside and closing the door behind her. Once she got back inside, she made it a point to go straight to bed, not giving herself the chance to relive the events of tonight within her conscious thoughts as she gave into her exhaustion and drifted off to sleep. Elle decided that she would deal with the emotional  repercussions of what Faust did to her that night the next morning when she woke up. Thankfully, her subconscious mind was on the same page, allowing her to dream about the usual things rather than the traumatic experiences she had just hours before. For now, all was right in the world, she slept peacefully and saved all of her worries and grievances for the day to follow, leaving her temporarily carefree and somewhat content.

[starkercrossedlovers]

M: Got any premises on the back burner that you’d care to share? ~ Bleu

Oooo yes!! Lol so many

Letters from the Void Redux (stony): Endgame AU wherein Tony and Steve learn to forgive and fall in love through the art of writing letters. One scene in particular is inspired by this art.

Excerpt: Steve slips away as Tony’s taken to the medical ward, his skeletal frame scarily still. He shuts the bathroom door behind him with a resounding slam, locks it for good measure as he feels himself unraveling.

Liar

No trust

He bites back bile and whirls, slams his fist into tiling and yes that’s it, pain, pain is what he needs, deserves, so he does it again and again and again till there’s a hole a foot wide and ten inches deep in the steel and concrete and his hand is slick with blood.

The Muse (starker): Tony is a classical music composer who has lost his muse. He stumbles into a run down piano bar with no pianist and no customers and a bartender with a smile like the sun who reignites his creative fire.

Excerpt: Music is that powerful and all consuming feeling of awe and utter smallness when standing at the ocean's edge—He stands on the beach, pants soaking with each slap of the tide against his legs, the water freezing and he’s sure that if he looked his skin would be blue but it doesn’t matter, doesn’t feel like anything as he screams into the vastness of the horizon, time and tide carrying it away until there’s nothing left but the hoarseness at the back of his throat and the steady flow of the ocean—in and out, in and out.

Code Name: Love (stony): Steve Rogers aka Captain America is elected president and falls in love with his secret service agent, Tony Stark.

Excerpt: “Thank you Tony,” the President murmurs, gaze flickering over his face, lingering on his lips. “I...I think you should call me Steve when we’re alone,” he suggests softly, lips curling into a warm smile.

Tony feels heat crawl up his neck and nods nervously, “Sure Mr. President, uh, I mean, Steve,” he stutters out.

Steve grins and squeezes his shoulder, “Great! I think it’s time for bed then, don’t you?”

Heaven is Your Touch (spidershield collab with @infinity-worried ): Steve Rogers is a good man, a man of unwavering beliefs, which is why he’s a teacher at a prestigious Catholic school in New York. All that changes when Peter Parker transfers to the school and he can’t quite seem to keep his eyes off the young man. (No excerpt for this one yet!)

Unbroken (stony): Steve Rogers is rescued from the ice when Tony is just a kid, struggling under the weight of Howard’s expectations for him—Present as an Alpha or be disowned. Steve quickly becomes Tony’s only friend, his protector, but when Tony does present—he’s left with few options. Faced with being forced into a bond with Obadiah, Tony begs Steve to bond him instead.

Excerpt:

His father gives him his first taste of alcohol at nine, slapping him when he spits it back into the glass in revulsion.

“Starks are made of iron,” he declares and pushes the glass that’s half full toward Tony, “now drink.”

He makes Tony drink till his head swims and his stomach roils and then when he vomits on the floor of his father’s office, he gets his nose pushed in it like a puppy that’s pissed on the floor.

He cries as his father uses the belt, teeth biting hard into his forearm to stifle his cries. He gets better at it as he gets older, but the scars on his arm are proof of his suffering.

Proof that he’s like his father; strong and iron willed and alpha.

[chaoskirin]

Fanfic -- A Temporal Folly -- CHAPTER 5

Fandom: Queen Genre: Sci-fi/Horror Rating: R Chapter Title: Detached (Chapter Five) Word Count: 2265 (oops!) Chapter Summary: Same thing, with 100% more Roger! 

How we all mourn the broken Holding onto the slimmest ledge Our fingers slipping by the second Drawn to the inexorable truth That to change the fates of the never-ending masses Is to destroy the fabric that binds us all

2019

Roger crashed into his vanity, upended his chair, then fell to the floor. Winded, he fought against gravity to regain his feet, momentarily blanking on the logistics of up and down; in the end, he succeeded only in rolling onto his side.

What was he doing in his dressing room?

He was too fucking old for this shit!

Roger would admit that, unlike Brian (whose feet were firmly on good ol' Terra Firma), he often had his head in the clouds and had no qualms about breathing the vapors. So he wasn't surprised when his mind skipped past every logical explanation like dreams or hallucinations and went straight to alien abduction as an assured reality. It sure felt how he imagined an alien abduction would go, although the completely empty dressing room unnerved him a bit, and the blue light oozing out of the walls like a thoroughly squeezed snail was an odd touch. Had he acquired the good shit?

It said a lot about him that his second guess was "drugs," Roger supposed.

"Right. Up on the feet then," he told himself. Now that the initial shock had worn off, he reintroduced himself to the concept of three dimensions and peeled himself off the floor. His joints popped and cracked in protest.

As he tried to regain his bearings, he squinted at the weird gecko-like beast, stuck by its little spade-toes up in the farthest corner of Roger's dressing room. As calmly as he accepted his alien abduction, he took this in stride, only partly because his very brain seemed to have short-circuited. The rest was because he kinda hoped he'd made first contact before his dear friend and space nerd, Brian May. Wouldn't that just rankle!

"Where are your eyes?" Roger inquired at the toxic blue creature. It grinned with a maw full of sharp, irritating teeth.

In answer, it shuffled toward him, hissing like a leaky tire. Alas, it seemed he'd have to fight the thing. So much for peaceful first contact! How could he possibly fight this cow-sized creature, though, with its lack of eyes and weird suction-cup toes and its feral, white-rimmed grin?

He did what any blue-blooded Brit would do. He bunched it square in the mouth.

The thing was fast. In the blink of an eye, it had Roger's arm crushed between its teeth. He tried to cry out, but the creature already had itself wrapped around him; consequently, the only sound he could produce was a less-than-intimidating squeak. Every time he gasped, the creature constricted tighter.

---

Witness. ---

1993

The alarm buzzed. John reached over and snoozed it.

Five minutes later, the radio started playing Sinatra, despite John ripping out the FM transmitter just the night before. Grabbing the entire clock-radio, he launched it across the hotel room, where it shattered against a mirror.

Then, for good measure, he sat up in bed and gave the lamp a good solid kick. He'd be billed for it, and probably even kicked out of the hotel. Maybe he'd sleep in a ditch tonight for the thrill of it. None of that mattered, though, since he'd wake up in the same bed, at the exact same time, annoyed once again by Come Fly With Me through a tinny, sub-standard speaker. He glanced at his watch.

"Three. Two. One." As he pointed at the door, somebody rapped on it and called "Room service!" "Fuck off!" John growled.

He'd seen Groundhog Day back in his own Theta-Universe just before traversing the portal. The coincidence wasn't lost on him. Who knew such a temporal anomaly wouldn't be caused by driving off a cliff, but by mucking about in the past!

The most annoying thing was that he couldn't write anything down, because everything would disappear when the day started over. Infuriating! He had so many questions, and limited memory with which to remember them, or their answers.

"What is this," he grumbled, sliding out of bed. "Sixty? Seventy? A thousand?"

Every morning, he made a tick on the wall. The next day, of course, it was gone.

It was at least sixty, though. He knew that. And in those sixty days, he'd pursued every opportunity to speak to Freddie, but this universe's version was reclusive and distrustful. Once, frustrated with the lack of positive response, John tried to drag him off so they could talk, and ultimately ended up in jail.

It didn't matter. By then, he knew he'd wake up the next morning safe in the hotel bedroom.

Today would be different, though, John mused as he brushed his teeth. Humming a cheerful ditty that was definitely not Sinatra, he pulled the hairdryer out of its wall holster and used it to smash the mirror. If his actions didn't matter, if everything would reset in 24 hours, why shouldn't he take out his frustrations on inanimate structures? He spit the toothpaste out in the middle of the floor. "It's a glitch," he told himself. John often spoke to himself now, since he had no friends in this universe. He technically didn't exist in it, which meant no one recognized him, which meant he had no friends. "We fucked up the code. It was too much. We shouldn't have--" Today would be different.

Over the past few weeks--relatively speaking--John worked on finding the key to fixing everything. By the very nature of time-space, the machine he and his other self built also had to exist in this world. He should have entered into the Iota-Universe at the machine's location, but the glitch interfered and spat him out elsewhere. After triangulating all possible points of interest, he found it in the basement of an abandoned school only a half mile away from the hotel. The proximity made sense. And if he was right, which he'd find out today, the location of the machine, the hotel, and Freddie would create a perfect line.

That revelation didn't matter much before, but now it made sense. It was the continuum trying to correct itself, pointing the way to solve the problem. If John could get Freddie to the machine, his presence would act as a battery, activating it and allowing everyone to go home. He had to. At this point, he teetered just on the verge of madness. Living the same day over and over couldn't have been healthy for anyone.

--- Today, he'd try a different tactic. Today... Today it would work.

It was sad in a way, how meeting up with Freddie had become routine. The first few times John saw he old friend, he couldn't even approach for the tears in his eyes. And Freddie looked so whole and healthy. Standing in the presence of Queen's legendary singer made John's heart soar!

But while this Freddie had similar mannerisms and a rather sizable ego, he was reclusive, bitter, and almost hopeless. In the rare occasion John managed to find the right combination of words and platitudes to get this version of Freddie to talk, every word dripped with regret and bile. After Queen failed, Freddie's life folded in on itself. He repressed his sexuality. Settled down with Mary. Lived miserably.

John had doubts about taking this Freddie back to the Theta-Universe, but he still waited in the same park every morning just to catch a glimpse of his old friend. Sometimes they'd talk. Sometimes they'd fight. Today, John intended to test his theory on the machine.

At eleven o'clock and four minutes, Freddie sauntered past the park fountain.

As casually as he could, John pushed himself off the bench, falling into step just behind Freddie. He tried his best to act as if he had somewhere to go and just happened to be traveling in the same direction.

Astute, though, Freddie glanced over his shoulder. "Are you following me, darling?"

Every day the same question.

"Yes, actually," John replied. Before Freddie could get angry, though, he regurgitated a bit of trivia Freddie gave him just a couple days prior: "I saw you at the Itherian last night. You sing, right? Was that you?"

Yesterday, the spiel was too desperate and overstated. Today, John reined in his anxiety and evened his tone.

It worked. Freddie's face lit up, every trace of doubt vanishing. "Hey, yeah! I don't remember seeing you there."  

Damn. A new variable. He could ruin the entire day if he answered wrong. Crossing his fingers in his pocket for luck, he tried, "Oh, I don't like to be around people. I kinda stay toward the back when I go to those things."

"There were only eight people there, dear," Freddie replied, arching an eyebrow.

"Eight too many," John muttered, trying his best to let his anxiety float to the surface.

"Oh, you've got it bad, haven't you? Poor dear. Well, did you like the set?"

If John continued along this conversational path, Freddie would ask which song John liked the best, and John had no answer for that. At that point, Freddie would see right through him and the day would be a wash. "Loved it," he said. And before Freddie could ask the wrong question, he quickly added, "I actually have a little place in the basement of an old school just down the block. I could use a regular. You want to see?"

Was that too creepy? It sounded too creepy. He'd have to work on his delivery for tomorrow.

To his surprise, though, Freddie said "Lead the way!"

---

"Interesting that you had to break the lock," Freddie grunted as John led him down the steps. Every one of them creaked underfoot with a squeal that sounded like each board was about to snap in half. Had they been that loud the other times John came down here? They must have been. He was just nervous and his senses were playing tricks on him.

"Ah, it's a work in progress," John said, whisking the dust-discolored sheet off the machine. His heart hammered as he turned to Freddie, who was staring at the contraption with a mix of disgust and curiosity.

"Is this what you intend to use for music?" Freddie asked. "Good God, is that a broken television set?"

"Actually, the truth is..." John fiddled with the dials, clicking the calibration from 6-2-5 to 6-2-6. It should have turned it on, which would give a heaping portion of credence to John's story. Shifting the sub-space translator node into the low-mid position, he said a quick prayer...

Please work. Please work. Dryly, Freddie scoffed, "Did you build this yourself?" as nothing at all occurred. "It's liable to belch dust before it creates music."

"I'm gonna explain, I promise. It's just that I'm from an alternate universe..." The truth slipped past his lips has he re-calibrated, trying 6-7-6 instead. Normally, that would be too high, especially with the translator node where it was. Maybe too high was just right for the Iota-Universe, though? "I was going to show you--hoping to take you back... There's this place where Queen made it, Freddie."

"Oh dear," Freddie drawled.

"Give me a minute," John snapped.

It had to work. It had to!

"How do you know about Queen?" Freddie asked. John briefly looked over his shoulder, to find Freddie peering down his nose. "I've not told anyone about the name. You've been breaking into my house. Looking at my sketches!"

The stray thought that this Freddie was also paranoid touched on John's thoughts as he tried to troubleshoot. "No, you must have told me--"

"I don't even know you!"

John sighed, resigning himself to another failure. He could try another approach tomorrow, of course. And the next day if he had to. And then the day after that. He started to wonder if perhaps he'd have to rebuild the machine! That'd give him an excuse to see if remaining awake for multiple days in a row would allow him to move past the same stretch of twenty-four hours, but was it worth the trouble?

He wasn't sure he liked this Freddie.

As John fiddled with the calibration, something slammed into the side of his head. The force caused him to spin around in a half circle and collapse onto the dead machine. As he lost consciousness, Freddie raised the two-by-four in his hands for another attack...

That was the first time John died.

Then his alarm buzzed.

"Ow," John grumbled. Sitting up and kicking off his sheets, he rubbed his unbruised temple, gritting his teeth. Though the pain was gone, the memory caused more than a couple tears.

He never bothered Freddie again.

---

2019

Roger could no longer struggle. Though his lungs reflexively tried to suck in just the barest hint of oxygen, he could no longer breathe. Though not one for giving up, he had to admit that this was over.

All he could think about was how wrong it felt to see that glimpse into John's mistake. How could he possibly have lived the same day over and over without going insane?

And Freddie...

That monster wasn't Freddie.

You wasted your time, Deaky, Roger lamented. You should have stayed.

You have witnessed,

the creature said, squeezing Roger tighter and tighter until his ribs cracked and snapped. Choking with pain, Roger's vision closed in until the lack of oxygen dragged him into a surprisingly peaceful demise.

[leowenila]

Tom’s Services

Hi! This prompt is for the sweet anon that sent this to me about two weeks ago- making it my first requested story! Writing them may take me awhile, but my requests are always open. Anon, Thank you for sending this idea, I hope it was what you envisioned. Very sorry for the delay of this request and the lame title. Enjoy!!

Prompt: Amelia stays home because of a really bad migraine, Owen is so worried that it might have something to do with her brain surgery, so he calls Tom to come to their house to check on Amelia as she keeps saying she’s alright and refuses to go to the hospital!

Waking up with a throbbing sensation traveling throughout her head felt more normal to Amelia Shepherd than she would ever like to admit but on this day, the pain was different than an average hangover symptom she had during the days she would spiral out of control. This was the same sensation that brought hundreds of her patients into the emergency department almost every day, believing it is a brain tumor. Amelia is a neurosurgeon, she knew that it wasn’t a tumor. Instead it was migraine. Turning on his side, the redheaded trauma surgeon lazily laid his arm around his wife and began to place kisses on her partially exposed back, she moaned to his touch and moved further away towards the end of the bed, Owen remained oblivious.

Without warning, he noticed Amelia quickly exiting their bed and haphazardly run towards the bathroom across the hall. Allowing the nausea to subside after a few minutes, Amelia sat with her head between her crossed arms on her knees and closed her eyelids in attempt to ignore the yellow lines interfering her vision. Pulling her out of her temporary tranquillity, she heard a knock on the wooden door..

Surveying the scene in front of him Owen looked at his exhausted wife and made some room to sit in front of her to take in her features. The brunette lifted her head off of her crossed arms to squint at Owen and his crossed expression, and knowing well what he was thinking. Before she could reassure him, Amelia felt bile arising in her mouth to expel into the toilet beside her. Owen placed his muscular hand on Amelia’s back in attempts to soothe her the only way he knew how to in the moment as he thought the worse.

The tumor returned.

Koriack didn’t remove it all. I’ll kill him.

What if this time the tumor is malignant? Or inoperable?

Feeling like the world finally stopped spinning, the brunette gained energy and walked out into the living room where she carefully laid on their grey comfy sofa in the living room. Amelia placed a blanket over her forehead and blue eyes to relax her mind, in hopes to allow the migraine symptoms she had been feeling to pass; but was cut short after she heard the trauma surgeon on talking on the phone in the distance.

“Do you have time in your schedule for a quick consult?”

“Is that what all the attendings at Grey Sloan use as their code word for screwing each other? I don’t typically swing that way, sorry Hunt. But hey! If you and Shepherd are into threesomes, I’m all in.” The brunette heard a familiar voice sounding through the speaker of Owen’s phone in his hand causing her to sit up from her comfortable position.

“I’m fine, Owen. It’s only a migraine” She said quietly more to herself than him as Owen listened to the male neurosurgeon and demanded him to perform a house call on Amelia. After failing twice more to grab the trauma surgeon’s attention, Amelia walked to him while almost losing her balance and pressed the “End Call” section on the touch screen.

“I’m fine, O. There is no need for Tom to come by.”

“Is that what you said for ten years before you made the decision to take part in Carina’s study and find the tumor in the first place?” Owen said defensively to his wife in worry instead of anger. The brunette stepped back.

__

Several hours later after managing to swallow a few bites of soup without nausea present and falling asleep with her body intertwined with Owen’s after a relaxing head massage. the couple heard a knock on the front door. The two shared a look with one another before the trauma surgeon got up off the couch to answer the door.

“Where’s Shepherd?” Tom asked Owen with a medical supply box in his hand and walked right into their home where he saw the young neurosurgeon sitting. He took a seat on the coffee table in front of the couch and removed his penlight from the navy blue scrubs on his torso. Knowing the exam like the back of her hand, Amelia performed the exercises and nodded simultaneously to confirm with her mentor towards the redhead’s direction. Without saying a word Koriack walked over to the door and let himself out after stopping in the doorway.

“You do realize your wife is a neurosurgeon, don’t you?” The blonde neurosurgeon asked the trauma surgeon standing before him with a confused expression upon his face. Owen nodded.

“You could have fooled me, Seems as that you didn’t believe her when she told you, it was just a migraine. And besides… Me? Thomas Koriack, not successfully removing a tumor? Not possible.” The brunette rolled her eyes at the other neurosurgeon as he confidently made it known about his excellent services he provided to the Neurosurgeon community.

[sabrinaleethings]

Detroit Become Human: We Are Not Afraid [Chapters 3 and 4!]

Markus and Simon were androids owned by famous artist, Carl Manfred. After his untimely death, Markus and Simon's lives change forever as Leo, Carl's disowned and criminal son, take ownership of them. Carl's death doesn't go unnoticed however, as Hank and his new android partner Connor, are hired to solve the case. Follow Markus and Simon as they forge a new path for the Android Revolution.

If you want to catch up and read previous chapters..

CLICK ME (fanfiction.net) or CLICK ME (archive of our own)

[CHAPTER 3]

Markus

November 15, 2034

“Well? Are you just gonna fuckin’ sit there, or are yuh gonna come inside?”

[...CURRENT OBJ: Follow Leo…]

The human, Leo, was already unlocking the door to a small, what seemed to be abandoned one-bedroom apartment when Markus swung his legs out of the autonomous taxi.

A quick scan of their surroundings told Markus that he was presently on Clayville Road, also known to authorities as “Ice Lane.”

[...environment scan complete…]

A quick head swivel had Markus memorizing and processing the small houses that were boarded up and in shambles that lined the road. Off in the distance behind the house, fog and emissions from a factory plant grew into the greying sky. Faceless dogs barked, their yelping slightly masked by the sounds of breaking glass and car alarms blaring.

“Coming, Leo.” Markus answered as he strutted up the cracked and decrepit concrete stairs that led to the gaping front door.

His stark-white CyberLife shirt and pants seemed out of place next to the fading brick red and decaying browns that made up the house.

One step into the building had Markus’ autonomous senses synapsing with the new environment.

The tangy smell of iron and melted metal passed through the android’s olfactory processor. The familiar hazy smell of Thirium and hydrochloric acid made his head spin with new environmental information.

[...scanning for signs of danger…]

His LED flickered to gold for barely a second before fading into a calm blue.

[...no imminent danger detected…]

“Close the goddamn door, will ya?” Leo’s voice echoed through the room, it bounced off the dust and thick air that seemed to swirl through the living room.

“Of course.” Markus closed the door behind him gently, but even the slightest vibration from the door closing caused the walls to shake slightly and miniscule bits of debris and dust fell from the cracked ceiling.

A shaking hand appeared from behind an old television that blocked the doorway to the kitchen. Leo’s full frame and bloodshot eyes followed suit as the weight of the human met the android’s.

The man grabbed a fistfull of the android’s shirt, shoving him back into the closed door. RK200’s head smashed into the wood, and stayed there.

His LED flickered crimson as warning signs blared in his field of vision.

[...damaged component :OCCIPITAL PLATE:...]

[...contact CyberLife for assistance…]

Leo’s hot breath and sunken eyes met Markus’ face.

“Who the hell found ya, huh?” The grit in his voice was like gravel as the android tried to process the demand.

“Leo..I-”

The man jerked the android’s frame back into the door- once, twice.

“Tell me, dammit! I fucking shot you, you should be dead!”

[...stress level: ^46%^...]

The android wasn’t equipped with an answer- he tried to recall previous memories, previously downloaded information from before, but there was nothing. Only broken code and static.

“I-I have been reset and restored to the optimum factory settings. I do not have any information or memory stored from before I was brought online at CyberLife approximately one hour, and sixteen minutes ago.”

Leo’s hand tightened on the android’s shirt- the moisture from his hands seemed to soak through the cotton fabric and was identified by the android’s skin. Sweat began to bead on the human’s forehead, his temperature rising slightly as the android scanned him.

[...stress level: ^51%^...]

With no other option but to deescalate the situation, android RK200 recited his programmed script.

“I am android RK200, a domestic assistant and companion created by CyberLife to make your life better. My name is Markus and I’m happy to be of service to you, Leo Manfred.”

The human’s face contorted with one can only assume as rage, then confusion, then acceptance. His core temperature slowly sank from 100.1F to 99.6F and further decreased.

“You’re a fucking piece of work, yah know that?”

[...stress level v49%v…]

Markus made his eyes soften, made the corners of his eyes slightly squint as he imitated a calm, and friendly half-smile.

“I am whatever you wish me to be, Leo.”

The human loosened his grasp on the android’s shirt and took a deep breath. He ran a shaking hand through his dark hair and rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hand.

[...stress level v32%v…]

“Fine. One fucking thing then-” Leo turned his head and released the android’s shirt completely freeing both hands. He reached into the back waistband of his jeans and removed a handgun, loosely holding it in his dominant hand.

“Simon! Where the fuck are you- come here now!” Leo shouted into the empty building.

Simon? The android thought to himself.

[...scanning area for occupants…]

[...LEO MANSFIELD :identified: HUMAN…]

[...NO REGISTERED ANDROIDS FOUND…]

The dull throbbing of a golden light appeared from the kitchen- the lights were still off in the house, and as the sun continued setting, the shadows seemed to cover more of their surroundings.

The golden light was attached to the temple of a slightly taller- blonde haired, blue-eyed android whom emerged from the kitchen.

His hands were slack at his sides as he approached Leo. He had a dark navy t-shirt covering his torso, with baggy dark wash jeans on his lower half.

His crystal blue eyes seemed to widen as he took in the other android.

“Markus?!” A static voice whispered in his head.

Most, if not all of androids produced were programmed with the ability to communicate wirelessly with each other should they need to in order to complete a task.

Android RK200 was not tasked with responding or even communicating with the blonde one, so he ignored the signals that were being sent to him wirelessly.

“Hello, Leo.” The blonde android regarded the human with polite friendliness as he approached Leo.

[...facial recognition in progress…]

[...scanning for more information…]

[...]

[...information is delayed: please wait..]

[...COMPLETE…]

[...android PL600...model #501743923 IDENTIFIED…]

[...SIMON PL600 REGISTERED DECOMMISSIONED ERR: 400-1a…]

Markus’ LED furiously blinked red at the information compiled from the pl600.

Decommissioned? How...that’s impossible.

Markus’ internal confusion was cut short by the very hot presence of a hand on his upper shoulder.

“Markus, do you recognize this android at all?” Leo’s voice by further inspection had changed from angry and hot, to cold and mischievous. There was a playful smile that tugged on the corner of the human’s lips, the beads of sweat grown to full size, now running down his temples and catching in the collar of his jacket.

“I-” Markus started. He looked from the red-faced human to the android that now stared at him. His two crystal blue eyes laser-focused on the two emerald ones. His eyes, Markus noted, were strangely human, seemingly begging him to remember.

“My internal facial processing systems identify this android as SIMON- a PL600 make, serial number 501-743-923. Initialized and registered to a Carl Manfred in February of 2028.”

Leo released a hot breath of air and growled at Markus. His hand now held the gun to the android’s chest, tapping on Markus’ breast plate as he spoke.

“Not what I asked plastic.”

[...stress levels ^32%^...]

“No Leo, I do not, nor can I, recognize this android. I’m only meeting him for the first time now.”

Simon’s eyes were glued to gun now that was being white-knuckled gripped by the human. Markus took notice as the other android’s LED emitted bright flashing red reflections on his yellow hair, and the junk that was spread across the shelf next to his head.

Was he...shaking too? Simon’s frame was indeed trembling, barely noticeable to the human’s eye, but to Markus’, an RK200’s vision was comparably better. Yes, the small streaks of blonde that ran in front of the android’s face was swaying slightly, and his slackened hands seemed to be shaking while he stood there.

Simon’s eyes slid once more up Markus’ frame and locked on the flashing yellow LED that took residence on his right temple.

“Markus, please remember.”

That voice again, static and weak floating through RK200’s processors.

“I don’t-” Markus began.

His hand was pried open by Leo’s hot and shaking fingers a moment later.

“So Markus,” Leo placed the handle of his handgun into the unresponding palm of android RK200. The bile and alcohol on his breath became more apparent as the thirium pump in Markus began to race.

Leo turned to Simon. “Get on your knees, bitch.”

“Yes, Leo.” Android PL600 responded as he lowered himself to one knee, and then hesitantly the other. His voice was still smooth, still friendly even though his yellow blinking LED said otherwise.

[...ERR: 606- THIRIUM PUMP WORKING 150% TO CAPACITY…]

[...SYSTEM TEMPERATURE RISING…]

“Grab the fucking gun, plastic.” Leo commanded, and Markus obeyed.

“Markus...please.”

Simon’s voice was clearer now, but still edged with static. His older model wasn’t perfectly compatible with the newer makes like Markus, which made his data transmission via wireless communication, weak.

[...stress reaching dangerous levels…]

[...^65%^...]

“Aim it.” Leo instructed.

Markus didn’t respond right away. Destroying another android went against his programming, even if it was an order… and he didn’t want to? No, Markus fought with his inner programming. Androids don’t want. They don’t wish. They don’t hope.

“That was an order. Point the gun at his fucking head.”

[...current objective: POINT GUN AT PL600...]

[...stress levels ^77%^...]

Markus raised his hand, his pointer finger refusing to touch the trigger.

Simon’s crystal eyes were rimmed with red.

Was he...crying?

[SYSTEM INSTABILITY]

“Don’t shoot, Markus.” The voice in his head begged.

[...disable wireless communication temporarily?...Y/N…]

“Please, Don’t!”

[<Y/N>]

The crackling static in Markus’ head went silent.

A tear began to fall from the blonde android’s eye. Markus noticed the reflection of the gun in the liquid that slowly fell from the android’s cheek.

[SYSTEM INSTABILITY]

“Shoot.”

Leo’s voice was barely a whisper, but clear enough to echo through the living room.

[...stress levels…^85%^...]

[current objective: SHOOT]

Blue flashing options faded in and out of android RK200’s vision.

[> shoot SIMON

[> shoot SELF

[> shoot LEO

“Yes, Leo.”

Markus’ hand was still as he slowly let the pad of his finger feel the trigger of the handgun.

He was an android, void of all human emotions, merely made to imitate human characteristics. He was their slave, designed and programmed to do exactly what he was told. He was programmed to be submissive. To never fight back, to always be complicit to the orders his owners gave him.

Markus’ thirium pump thrashed in his chest like a caged wild bird, his oxygen stabilizers increased the amount of air that wheezed in and out of his nose.

His job was to follow orders… why was this so hard?

His objectives flashed quicker in his vision as he was running out of time to decide.

[> shoot SIMON

[> shoot SELF

[> shoot LEO

Android RK200 grit his teeth, and tried to stabilize the frenzy that was occuring inside of him.

[SYSTEM INSTABILITY]

Leo grunted to himself and crossed his arms. His eyes wildly fluctuated from Simon to Markus.

Simon’s blindingly red light sputtered on his temple.The tempo was almost as quick as the thirium pump in Markus’ chest.

Leo was impatient, as he spit on the ground.

“For fuck’s sake, shoot it alr-”

[> shoot SIMON

[> shoot SELF

[> shoot LEO

[...]

Android RK200 complied, and pulled the trigger.

[...OBJECTIVE : <shoot simon> : COMPLETE …]

[...]

[...software stabilized…]

…

Connor

November 15, 2034

“According to my enabled GPS software, we don’t seem to be going in the right direction, Lieutenant.” Connor’s face was illuminated by the street lamps that passed by them, his reflection in Anderson’s car window mirrored his own: a slight frown, and knitted eyebrows.

“I’ve driven this same route for nearly a decade-” Anderson leaned forward and turned the volume knob clockwise. Loud guitar riffs and unrecognizable screaming blared through the speakers. “-mind your own business and shut it.”

Connor turned his attention to the driver- Anderson rested his head on the heel of his hand while the other held the wheel.

“Do you have any pets, Lieutenant?” Connor’s voice was barely noticeable over the music, but Anderson answered anyway.

“Yes. Why does it matter?” He arched a quizzical eyebrow and glanced at the android.

Connor turned down the volume of the music just slightly, so that he didn’t have to raise his voice in order to respond.

“I noticed a patch of hair on your jacket, belonging to a Saint Bernard. I like dogs. What’s its name?”

Anderson loosened a breath, his posture slowly relaxing into the conversation.

“Uh..Sumo.”

“That’s a nice name.” Connor replied, smiling as best as he could at the Lieutenant.

“Yeah… wasn’t my idea.” Anderson mumbled under his breath. More to himself than to the android, but he went with it anyway.

“Who’s idea was it, Lieutenant?” Connor asked innocently.

“Christ- forget it.”

The android looked forward once more, straightening his tie as he did so.

For about fifteen minutes the two of them sat in uncomfortable silence, the air around them so thick Anderson, on multiple occasions shifted in his drivers seat, as if he couldn’t get comfortable.

Before Connor had a chance to break the silence with more probing questions, Anderson pulled into an empty parking lot beside a building labeled “Jimmy’s Bar.” The neon blue and red sign reflected off the water pooled on the sidewalk, the shadows of people walking around danced on the side of the building as they entered and exited the establishment,

“Stay.” Anderson’s voice was loud, but also weak. Tired.

“Lieutenant, I really think we should-”

Anderson was already halfway out of his car when he interrupted the android.

“Stay here. I won’t be long.” The lack of lighting in the car, and the overabundance of artificial light outside emphasized the dark ghosts that circled Anderson’s eyes. HIs smile lines- or frown lines- were dark shadows that were nearly hidden by his facial hair.

“Lieutenant!” Connor tried to yell his name, but the door was already slammed shut before his voice hit its mark.

Ten minutes.

Connor set an internal countdown. The white flashing text pulsed steadily in the corner of his vision. Ten minutes, and he was going to extract the Lieutenant.

[9:59]

The android removed the coin from his pant pocket with ease, and began flipping it in between his fingers. The light shining from the bar’s light reflected on the coin often, and each second that passed made the android..frusterated? No. Not frustrated, that’s a human emotion. It set his internal processes on edge however. RK800 had a mission. Had a goal: to solve the case. To figure out what exactly happened to Carl Manfred.

And sitting in an alcoholic detective’s car was not a proper use of his time.

But- he was given an order. To stay.

[5:13]

Rain began to drip on the windshield- each tap of the water on glass echoed through the car.

[5:12]

Connor caught his coin mid-flip and shoved it into his pocket.

Mission before all else.

Connor’s steps leading up to the door sent water splashing up his pant legs- cool and almost refreshing on his skin.

“No Androids Allowed?” He read aloud.

[...deactivate timer? <Y/N>...]

With the flashing countdown gone, Connor opened the door to the bar the same moment a man staggered out.

“What the fuck Connor?” A voice whined. It was Lieutenant Anderson. Breath analysis confirmed he’d had a couple of shots of whiskey, but other than that- his blood alcohol content was still relatively low.

“I-I was just going to double check to make sure you were alright.” Connor stammered- caught off guard by the early departure of the Lieutenant. “You’re my partner to this case and-”

“I told ye I’d be right out.” Anderson waved a flat, slightly shining key card in the air. “I needed a drink…” Connor leveled his gaze with Anderson’s. “And how the hell did you expect to actually get into the junk yard after hours? You know they lock that crap up…”

For the first time since Connor’s activation, his LED flashed yellow. Only for a millisecond, but it caught Anderson’s eye. The android worried he’d made the wrong choice by following his Lieutenant.

“Whatever plastic-” Anderson stalked back to his car but stopped as Connor addressed him.

“Can I ask you a personal question, Lieutenant?” He nodded his head, and focused his eyes on Connor.

“Why do you hate androids so much?”

Anderson stood and stared at the android for a beat too long. Connor noticed a spike in the Lieutenant’s heart rate and blood pressure.

He turned back to his car, “I have my reasons.”

Connor noticed the sadness and depression that seemed to cloud Anderson’s eyes. It made his chest ache.

[...SYSTEM INSTABILITY…]

No, not ache. Androids can’t feel pain. But- Anderson’s regard to androids did make Connor feel like there was a weight pressing on his chest. Right on top of his thirium pump and oxygen regulator.

He loosened his tie before following Anderson to the car.

CHAPTER [4]

Markus

November 15, 2034

“Holy shit…” Leo’s rasp fell to deaf ears as Markus’ internal homeostasis programs fought on overdrive to correct the software abnormalities that were misfiring through him.

Android RK200 slowly lowered the gun he’d just fired.

[...OBJECTIVE : <shoot simon> : COMPLETE …]

Automatic internal software scans flashed white and red code in front of the androids vision. Nothing was damaged, saved for the slightly cracked occipital plate in the back of his head. Nothing to pose an imminent threat to his ability to perform his duties. But- the android’s thirium pump was still beating at over 120% normal capacity, and he couldn't seem to slow the quick breaths that escaped his lips.

Droids needn’t breathe the same as humans did, however there was something seizing in the android’s chest and he couldn’t seem to return to standard condition.

A scuff of Leo’s boots on the floorboards gripped Markus’ attention and pulled him from the self-diagnostic state he was previously paralyzed in.

The human laughed, the shaky quality indicated that the human was both in fact surprised, and pleased.

He grabbed the gun from android RK200’s hand before striding to where the blonde android stood perfectly still, on his knees. In the same position he was ordered to stay in when Markus was given the order to shoot.

Android RK200 absentmindedly ran his hand over his cheek- something tickled his skin receptors, and when he pulled his hand away, a streak of blue liquid smudged the palm of his otherwise perfect hand. Thirium- the splatter and result of the gun’s discharge.

Markus’ head began to spin in an unusual way, like his balance was no longer calibrated. Too much data seemed to process at once, his head felt cloudy and heated from the over-exhaustion of his internal computing systems.

“Not the exact result I was aiming for, but fuck-” Leo kneeled down, eye level with android PL600- Simon. He grabbed the prone android by the chin and swiveled its head from one side, to the other, taking in what damage was done… or not done.

Markus watched- analyzed.

Simon’s LED was stagnant- it wasn’t flickering anymore.

It just burned a bright, painful red on its untouched temple.

“Good fucking shot, plastic.” Leo hummed. He traced his thumb up the side of Simon’s cheek- where the skin had begun to dissolve- still smoking from the bullet. The faintest shine of Simon’s white, cracked plastic cheekbone protruded from the hole Markus’ bullet had carved, and the outline of the android’s upper teeth were all but shadowed by the remaining skin.

It wasn’t crying anymore- the tears that once fell had dried.

Leo leaned his face closer the android’s- seemingly trying to analyze the bot himself, as if he were capable.

“Yuh still in there, fucker?”

Markus noted Leo’s preference to the word and stepped to the side slightly, attempting to give himself a better view of the blonde android.

Simon didn’t respond. His eyes seemingly were glassed over- no doubt attempting to run his own diagnostics scans from the immediate trauma it acquired.

Android PL600 models were one of the earliest domestic assistants placed in the market- their software over the recent years had grown almost obsolete- their newer modeled AX400 easily replaced the PL line within a year of i’s time in circulation.

Given its out-of-date software, it was taking Simon longer than usual to respond.

Leo traced the gun down the side of Simon’s face, following his jaw bone, down his neck, and resting on his chest, covering a spot stained with blue.

“Answer me android-”

Androids weren’t supposed to be able to feel startled, but- when Simon slowly turned his head and focused his crystal blue eyes on Markus, the RK200 nearly short-circuited. His thirium pump almost stopped at the look Simon gave him.

[SYSTEM INSTABILITY]

“My software analysis confirms that there is no damage detected for my processors. However - minor hardware corruption has been detected. For further assistance, please contact your nearest CyberLife representative.” Android PL600’s voice was smooth and rehearsed- the program script rolled of his tongue as he stared at Markus.

His blue orbs then slid from Markus, to Leo.

“Yes I’m still in here, Leo.” Thirium trickled down his cheek and into the collar of his shirt as he responded.

Leo swung back his fist and aimed for Simon’s head.

Two bright, flashing options appeared in Markus’ vision.

[>Stop Leo

[>Do Nothing

Automated code and programming process flooded his mind. Serve and obey serve and obey…

Markus was rooted to the spot.

[>Stop Leo

[>Do Nothing

[system stabilizing]

The thud of Leo’s fist on Simon’s temple echoed through the small house.

Android PL600’s head snapped back, as it landed on its rear, hands splayed out behind to catch its fall.

“Next time, I’ll make sure the bullet goes through your fucking forehead.”

Leo stood, and on his way passing Simon, knocked both arms from under it. The android fell on its back, its head cracking against the wood. Thirium dripped from Simon’s nose and streamed down its opened cheek.

As Leo was about to turn into the kitchen, he looked back to the two androids in his living room.

“Don’t bother me for the rest of the night. Simon- finish cleaning the fucking kitchen,” He gestured to the room behind him, gun still in hand. “-And Markus, bah!” He scratched his head with the gun, looking noticeably distressed and unable to think of a command. “Recharge for the night..” He winked at the android. “You’re gonna need full battery power tomorrow..huh…” The human shuffled into the kitchen, and then disappeared up the stairs that were hidden to the right of the doorframe.

Markus inhaled and sighed quietly through his nose, ignoring the android that laid in front of him.

[...OBJECTIVE: >enter rest mode and wait for further instruction<…]

But…

“Markus…” He looked down to see the blonde android sitting up, it’s right hand still shaking, now touching its cheek with delicate fingers.

“Yes?” Markus replied. His thirium pump slowed to an average tempo as his LED returned to a warm blue.

Simon’s eyes were clear as his… -its optics focused from Markus’ face, to his hands, to the blue spray that coated his white CyberLife shirt.

“For all it’s worth-” It stood- swaying slightly on its feet. A quick scan from android RK200 revealed that the android in front of him had a damaged calibration disk in its right ear. It stepped forward, just a small one, left leg slightly dragging behind. It sighed, “-for all it’s worth, thank-you.”

Thank you? This took Markus and his cognitive software by surprise. Again- there it is, surprise. Markus took a step back to counter the other android’s slow approach.

“I shouldn’t be thanked…” After all, he was an android- property to the humans. His actions based solely on the will of his owner. If anything, Simon should have been thanking Leo…

[...SOFTWARE INSTABILITY…]

“I have orders, and so do you. Goodnight, Simon.” Cold, unfeeling, robotic, just as he should be.

Markus turned, and headed into the adjacent room - it was empty, save for an old dining room table covered in old pizza boxes and beer bottles. A cigarette ashtray, broken on the floor crunched under his shoes as he entered.

Simon’s voice was soft as it whispered, “Leo is going to make you do terrible things tomorrow, Markus.”

Markus stopped moving, back pressed against the far wall next to a boarded up window as he listened.

“It’s your choice. Remember who you were…” Simon’s voice disappeared and faded into the sounds of staggered breathing and the quiet thump thump thumping of Markus’ heart… thirium regulator pump.

Android RK200 tilted his head back slowly, until it tapped the wallpaper behind him.

Before entering rest mode, he stood there. LED flickering every once and a while as he listened to the sounds that came from the kitchen. The house was empty and small enough, even the smallest choked sob that seemed to emit from the android in the kitchen caught his audio receptors.

The blonde android… warned him? After being shot by him? It wasn’t Markus’ place to question an owner’s orders or actions, simply to serve and obey.

His LED began to spin golden as he computed.

But, what did PL600 mean by, ‘remember who you were..?’ Markus clenched and loosened his fists, the memories replayed through his vision as his processors assessed the day’s information.

Simon’s warning played back through his mind, and it created the strangest feeling in Markus’ chest cavity. Almost comparable to fear or dread- he researched the human emotions as he continued to compile the data.

[...CURRENT OBJECTIVE:> enter rest mode and wait for instructions<…]

The reminder flashed in front of Simon’s face- just the memory, slightly distorted by the hazy white lettering.

Markus shook his head in an attempt to free the contiplation that began festering his inner processes.

[...ENTER REST MODE? : Y/N :…]

What did Simon mean? Who was Markus before? What happened?

[...ENTER REST MODE? : Y/N :…]

serve and obey serve and obey serve and obey serve and obey

[...ENTER REST MODE? : Y/N :…]

Who was I?

[...ENTER REST MODE? : Y/N :…]

Android.

[...ENTER REST MODE? : Y/N :…]

[...]

[...Entering Rest Mode: Please Standby…]

[...60s…]

Serve.

[...]

And obey.

[...0…]

~

Connor

November 15, 2034

“We don’t have a shit ton of time- I’d like to be out ‘uh here before morning.” Lieutenant Anderson slammed his door behind him as he walked toward the main gate of Detroit City’s android Junkyard. His shoulders were hunched, but it was mostly camouflaged by the enormous winter coat he wore.

A beaming orange VETA sign illuminated the parking lot as Connor followed his partner.

“I don’t understand why -” Connor began, only to be interrupted by Anderson.

“-Why we’re being so sneaky?” The android nodded. “Truth is Connor, I want justice for Carl Manfred. The fuckers at the precinct only want the easy answers.” He raised the flat key card to the scanner in front of the towering iron gates. A small beep and a click opened the gates and allowed them access to the mountains of parts and junk that waited ahead. Connor stood beside him though, listening. No one advanced forward. “To them, it’s easier to blame a fucking plastic robot that can’t defend themselves rather than finding who the true monsters are.” Anderson initiated the movement and started walking. “...lazy pieces of shit..” he mumbled as his boots splashed through the stagnant and putrid rain puddles.

This initiated a response from Connor. “It sounds to me Lieutenant that you’re siding with the androids.”

“I’m siding with the victim, Connor. I don’t give a fuck if it was a flying dart made of shit that killed Carl.” He ran his hands through his hair as he stuffed the key back into his pocket. “I just want the truth.” He sighed, in a way that made him seem older than he actually was, and it made the android slightly uncomfortable.

The conversation died there, and Connor was somewhat thankful for it. It allowed him to focus entirely on his mission and current task at hand: to locate and seize android RK200.

Anderson stood with his arms crossed a few feet away from the exit as Connor marched forward.

“This place gives me the creeps. You do your magic scanning shit and I’ll be here when you’re done.”

Connor’s lip turned into a half a smile as he strutted forward.

“Affirmative Lieutenant.” Connor gave him a thumbs up before surveying the environment.

The android could definitely understand the Lieutenant’s hesitancy when it came to the junkyard. In truth, it was the first Connor’s seen it- and it overwhelmed him a fraction.

Both to the left and to the right of him seemed to stretch forever- only illuminated by the faint glows of red, blue and golden LED’s that still buzzed on the temples of disembodied androids.

The drop in front of him had to be at least fifty feet, entirely made of scraps of metal and  bodies of other androids who could possibly have been exactly like him.

“Where are you Markus…” Connor hummed to himself.

In a fraction of a second, the android was able to map out the most likely and highest possible pathways that an android could take to leave the pit, should they find themselves able to.

Three red paths glowed in his mind - those were deemed the least likely, seeing as the incline up the precipice walls were almost too steep for a fully functional android to scale.

Two yellow paths glowed through the center of the pit, and it snaked through and around the many trenches that lined the bottom. Possible escape routes, only they disappeared into the darkness to the right of Connor, and he wasn’t sure how far those paths would stretch on.

Two throbbing blue trails lead straight up the side of the pit to where Connor was standing, the end of one route disappeared at his feet.

[...CURRENT OBJECTIVE: > FIND ANDROID RK200< …]

“Here goes nothing…” The android’s voice faded as he took a couple of steps back, and then lunged forward, catapulting himself into the pit.

It wasn’t done without proper planning in the least- Connor meticulously calculated where certain scraps of metal, or protruding arms and legs sprouted from the pit’s walls on his descent. He used those to grab on to as he slid and sprinted down.

Some grips were more slippery than anticipated, but, within about fifteen seconds, the android found himself standing at the bottom of the junkyard canyon.

“Connor! You good…?!” Anderson’s husky voice echoed from the top lip of the pit- Connor saw his worried face peek from behind a mound of android parts.

“Perfectly fine Lieutenant! Don’t worry!” Connor waved his hand in affirmation. “I’m a professional!”

“Jesus fucki-” His head had disapeared behind a torso presently struggling to climb the wall.

Connor smirked, and began his mission.

The first blue path he decided to follow seemed to be the easiest to maneuver. It trailed from the center spine of the pit, around a couple of android hills, and up the wall that lead to Anderson.

Pulling up the android’s stats in his internal database, allowed Connor to accurately decipher which android limbs could possibly belong to such a make and model.

RK200, Markus- the android’s picture stayed transparent in Connor’s sight as he began walking and scanning.

The first section he scanned neglected to show any results.

“Hmmm...” Connor hummed to himself as he continued down the path, his shoes every so often getting caught in a hole, or grabbed by a sentient hand reaching for him.

The second place he stopped to scan seemed different than the rest of the pit- felt different.

There were blinking and fading LED lights all around him. The walls to either side of him were made of mostly put-together androids- they still had faces and some of them were talking. One female android was singing.

A sudden burst of electricity seemed to course through his limbs, and Connor all but fell to his knees.

[...INCOMING W-WIRELESS C-COMMUNICATION…]

The text blinked in front of him before he could steady himself.

[>accept

[>decline

Head buzzing with external feedback, Connor had to decide before he lost connection.

[>accept

[>decline

An extremely loud and static voice echoed through his skull, causing Connor to instinctively raise his hands to his ears.

“Y-You Search-ch for an answer -a-answer you will not-not-will not find here detective.”

“What!?” Connor responded out loud, as well via wireless communication. His hands still splayed defensively over his ears.

He cocked his head from one side to the other, trying to find where the voice was originating from.

“H-he lives- and he- he will free- will free us…”

There! Connor’s eyes focused on the upper torso of a Jerry EM400 android and he directed his internal wireless communication programming to the redheaded bot. Feeling as though there was an invisible rope pulling him to the android, he stepped forward and kneeled down to be eye-level with the EM400. Their wireless signals growing stronger as he approached.

“What are you talking about?” Connor’s voice was firm and demanding- the same one he’d use in an interrogation office.

The Jerry model just smiled back at Connor- his LED burning a bright red. His legs were gone, and the bottom half of his torso seemingly grew from the mound of earth behind him. One arm was mangled and the wires were dripping from one of his elbows- static sparks crackled from them with the wind that tunneled through the pit.

Connor reached a hand to grab the android’s only other working extremity.

“Please, you’ve got to help me-”

Upon connection to the Jerry, Connor was granted access immediately to the memory files stored in the Jerry’s software.

Like a flashback, Connor sifted through the files, time stamped with the dates starting back from when he was first commissioned to Pirate’s Cove amusement park, leading up to present moment.

“D-don’t do t-that-” Jerry’s voice crackled as Connor persisted.

Starting with the date of Carl’s death, Connor sped through the android’s memory files.

Connor’s eyes seemed to glean as he found what he was searching for.

“Gotcha.”

“P-Please s-stop- g-get GET OUT!” The Jerry’s voice seemed to roar through him and Connor quickly released his grip.

“I appreciate your cooperation EM400, the city of Detroit thanks you.”

That’s it! Chapters 3 and 4! 

Feel free to hop on over to my fanfiction.net or ao3 pages to subscribe to stay up to date! :D 

Thanks friends!