#finally i have started working on using stamps and metal cutting dies

[bush-viper-cutie]

sMuggled Art

Pairing: young muggle!snape x muggle!reader

Word Count: 5, 262

Rating: E for Everyone

Plot:  Severus is forced to take work in his father’s coworker’s wife’s store where he meets (Y/n). Severus’ view of the world seems dark, and you don’t really make things any better, but there is yet hope to change his mind! 

Warnings: None

A/N: Another request completed for anon! Since Severus doesn’t go to Hogwarts he has (my best attempt) at his North England accent. Hope you like it and the next on the list is the long awaited Crystal Ball part 4! :D

Posted: 8/31/20

Masterlist

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(Y/n) = Your Name

 ~ * ~ * ~   = time skip

 ~ * ~ * ~

~ * ~ * ~ = POV switch

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~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~

The front door slammed and shook the walls; Severus and his mother both jumped knowing what was soon to follow. His father was home and it didn’t sound like work had gone well again. His father walked into the kitchen where Severus was eating, his mother was wafting the cigarette smoke out the window before hastily dropping it into a water-filled pan in the sink and turned to her husband.

“They cut our pays. Again!” His father pulled on the fridge door so hard the entire thing moved forward several inches, scraping the tile.

That was Severus’ cue to escape to his room. He didn’t like being in the same room as either of his parents, though he could tolerate it when they were sober. All they ever did was order him around or ignore him on good days and yell at him on bad ones. Drunk, however, he knew what awaited him. He gathered his books and left his half-eaten cheese sandwich on his plate and turned to leave.

“You.”

His father’s gruff voice stopped him in his tracks. He turned, staring up at him as he took a long swig of beer and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

“You need to start earnin’ for this ‘ousehold.” He stepped closer and stared down at him over his large, hooked nose. His black eyes looked hazy and dark circles made his face look much older than he was. Anyone could look at his face alone and guess an age ten years older than he was, except his large square shoulders and huge bulging muscles would make anyone second guess themselves. He slid his jacket off himself and let it drop to the floor, flexing his arms and leaned over the doorway, blocking Severus’ exit. “T’morrow. I’m takin’ you ‘round to Malv’s wife’s store. They’re lookin’ for an extra ‘and.”

“Doin’ what?” Severus squeezed his eyes, regretting having spoken.

His father smirked and bent down to Severus’ hunched height. “Doin’ wh’ever they ask s’long as it pays.” He shoved him out of the kitchen and slammed the door.

Severus straightened his shirt and cursed to himself, heading upstairs. He closed his bedroom door and sat on the edge of his bed. He had plans tomorrow to do the homework he’d been putting off for the week. He was already falling behind in school, which wasn’t a good enough excuse to get out of doing work. It wasn’t like his parents cared whether he stayed in his disgusting school. His father had, on more than one occasion, talked to him about quitting and starting work in the mill, but there was no bloody way he was throwing out his only chance of leaving this horrid town.

He kicked his nightstand in frustration and winced as the leg snapped with a crunch and the whole thing came toppling over. Pencils and loose paper fell out, along with his black leather-bound journal. It was the most expensive thing in the house, given to him for his eighth birthday by his grandfather before he died.

His father had wanted to sell it, but it wasn’t even worth the cost of gas it took to get to the pawn shop across town. His grandfather had paid good money for it, and in the end, it stayed in Severus’ possession, used to hold his rubbish drawings throughout the years.

He picked it up and started sketching out the broken furniture and shading it as best he could. He sighed and closed it, throwing it back on the pile of loose doodles.

~ * ~ * ~

The next morning he picked out anything that didn’t have obvious patches or holes to wear. He even combed through his hair, per his mother’s orders, and brushed his teeth, ready for work. He dumped out his school supplies from his bag and packed his journal and a few pencils. He hated having nothing to do and carried it with him everywhere. He liked drawing in public because normally no one talked to him when he did, and if they did, he could ignore them with ease and pretended to be too focused on his art.

“Severus! Get down! Now!” His father’s deep voice roared through the house.

He growled to himself and slammed his bedroom door shut, marching down the stairs to where his father stood waiting with his arms crossed.

“Don’t make me late for work,” his father growled.

He was always late for work.

Severus nodded and slipped on his shoes, tucking the laces inside and pulled the door open. His father pushed him aside and walked out first, heading to his old grey car with the paint coming off the sides. He looked around for his mother but she was in the kitchen, smoking again.

“There food I can take? …For breaks?” he called out.

She didn’t respond and he headed out. He walked around to the passenger side and did his best to unjam the car door, finally needing help from his father to get it open. He sat down, hugged his bag to his chest, and buckled in.

~ * ~ * ~

He stared at the rain droplets racing down the window as they drove a few minutes into town. The shops were just opening as the car pulled up to the curve of a street of small and old looking store fronts. The most immediate store had a metal sign with their store name stamped on and rusting on all the edges. It was still in better condition than the wooden sign from the store next to it with bloated letters from all the years of rain.

His father slammed the door closed and walked around the car, pulling the passenger door open with such ferocity the car wobbled in place.

“I’ll pick you up after work. ‘Round seven. ‘ere’s your papers.” His father handed him three folded pieces of paper and pulled him out of the car, slammed the door closed and walked back around. “Don’t mess this up, Severus. Or you’ll be dealin’ with me.”

Severus nodded, clutching his papers and watched his father’s car pull into the street and head back around towards the large looming factory in the distance. The smoke from the factory mixed with the grey clouds, hiding any hints of the sun outside.

He covered the papers from the rain and walked the few steps to the door and pulled but it wouldn’t budge. He pressed his forehead to the window and peered inside, watching as a silhouette of a short woman approached.

He backed away as the door unlocked and a pale, sunken-faced woman with big bushy brown brows stared up at him through golden glasses. She pulled on her string of waxy pearls around her neck and looked him up and down.

He stared back at her and extended his hand with his papers his father had given him. She unfolded and shuffled through them, humming affirmatively after each one.

“I can use you.” She stepped back and let him in out of the rain into the yellow glare of the ceiling lights. “Was ‘oping you’d be… more like your father.”

She squeezed his arms and he recoiled into a shelf, hitting his head against the sharp wood.

“But I s’ppose jus’ your height will do.” She led him through several tight spaces between shelves of porcelain figures and around the front counter into the back room.

The back room was brighter than the main store, using whiter light, and there were larger stacks of boxes piled in the corner behind a single round table where someone sat reading.

“This is (Y/N). Do what you’re told. I’ll be back ‘round noon to check up on things ‘ere. Or might be back sooner. Don’ know yet.” She eyed him up and down with squinted eyes and exited the back room.

After a few awkward seconds the front door creaked open and closed. Severus stood there doing his best to avoid looking at (Y/n), instead looking down hoping his hair would hide his burning face.

~ * ~ * ~

~ * ~ * ~

A tall boy with long inky hair stood awkwardly in the doorway, looking at his shoes, glancing up at you every few seconds, and clutching his beige tattered bag in his arms.

You set your book down and stood. “Sorry about my mum… She can be a bit…” you shrugged, not knowing exactly what word best described the creature that was your mother. “What’s your name?”

His eyes flashed to your face and back down to his shoes, a light blush spreading over his cheeks. “Severus.” He turned his head to look at the wall of advertisements for new porcelain figures and let his hair fall over his face.

“Welcome, Severus. It’s pretty easy what you’ll be doing. Just… restocking and opening boxes while I dust and sit at the counter.” You turn to face the boxes and brought one down on the table with a grunt. You pulled on the tape and opened it up, taking out the little porcelain figure wrapped in tissue and plastic. “You can just set them on that cart over there and wheel it out into the store.”

Severus looked over at the cart and nodded.

You stood there awkwardly, waiting for him to say anything or ask any questions but all he did was hang his bag on one of the hooks on the wall and avoid your eyes.

“The sheet there says what number box to open and how many figurines to take out every morning. Just… let me know if you have any questions or can’t find something… I’ll be in the front.” You closed the box and headed out, closing the door to the back room and went to flip the ‘closed’ sign to ‘open’.

~*~*~

You spent the hour dusting the figures all over the store before finally sitting down on the stool behind the counter – a little high for your liking – and opened up your book once more. Severus had begun restocking the figurines, preferring to wonder around the store like a lanky giant than ask for your help. You tried concentrating on the words beneath you but watching him struggle to find the shelf full of porcelain ducks while carrying a glossy yellow one with a blue umbrella was entertaining enough.

The first customer of the day came through and bought about six of the forest series figures. As they walked out you spotted Severus’ look of disgust and laughed, catching his attention.

“You should see them over the Holidays. The shelves need constant restocking.” You watched a tiny smile grow and felt the air around get significantly lighter.

“But what are they for?” He stepped closer but avoided your gaze.

You shrugged, “They collect them.”

“Waste of money,” he mumbled and continued finding where the last of the figurines went.

~ * ~ * ~

It was around noon now and like she had said, your mother was back. She pushed the door open with her pink faux-leather purse and sneered at Severus in the corner as he replaced some figures a customer had just bought moments ago.

“Got anythin’ nicer to wear? You’re drivin’ down the prices with those pants of yours. They’re too short.”

“Mum,” you cut in before she could embarrass him further. “No one’s even noticed him.”

She turned back to Severus. “Ever think to tuck in that shirt?”

“No,” Severus snapped. He crossed his arms over his chest, somehow looking smaller than before.

Your mother scoffed and headed to the counter, shooing you out. “Go eat your lunches.”

You jerked your head to the back room, inviting Severus to join you. He shuffled in ahead, going straight for his bag.

You unwrapped the brown bag in the corner and took out your sandwich, turning back to Severus. He was bent over the table scribbling in a journal. You pulled the other chair out and sat down, peering over and seeing it was the beginnings of a doodle.

You watched him for a few minutes until he looked up and closed it.

“What were you drawing?” You finished one of your sandwich halves and waited for his reply.

His eyes flickered to you and he licked his lips, getting ready to answer. “Its… Just nothin’.”

“Your tongue was sticking out… You looked pretty concentrated.”

“I wasn’t drawin’ nothin’,” he growled and put his stuff back in his bag. He laid his head down, letting his hair spread out on the table.

You stretched out your finger and snuck a feel, smiling to yourself. You wrapped your last sandwich half and pushed it up to him. “Want my sandwich? I haven’t bitten it.”

He dragged his face up and looked down at the sandwich half next to his elbow. He looked back up at you and raised his brow.

“Take it.” You nudged it closer.

He took the sandwich and began eating. “I don’t take bribes, just to inform you.”

You gave a giggle and enjoyed the slight blush that spread over his cheeks. “You think I’m giving you my sandwich so that u can show me your art?” You leaned forward and grinned. “I’m just being nice.”

“Nice?” He shook his head, “No one’s just nice.”

“What?” You laughed. “People are nice all the time!”

He turned to you, furrowing his thick brows and leaned in. “Everyone wants somethin’. Even if it’s just to feel good ‘bout themselves.”

Your grin shrunk and you looked deep into his eyes, seeing he was speaking his truth, even if you disagreed. You sat back and mulled over what he said, seeing a bit of where he was coming from. What you didn’t understand is how someone could actually think that.

He set down his sandwich and got up from the table, walking over to the bathroom and locked it. You looked at his bag and thought back to the doodle he had been working on. You looked back at the locked door and back at his bag. What sort of stuff did he draw with a mentality like that? He frowned when he restocked, snapped angrily at people, and believed the world to be selfish.

You reach in his bag and pulled out his black leather journal, opening it from the back forward and flipped through pages until you found the first doodle. It was a scribbled mess, but it had begun to take shape into one of the tiny lamb figurines, cowering from a large grey wolf with an open drooling mouth.

You flipped to the next page and saw a broken stand and a few shattered bottles. The next page was a broken mirror and the next a burning house. The page after caught your eye. It was a swing set in the foregrounds and a group of teens talking by the slides of the playground he’d drawn. All of the teens had smiling faces and ice cream cones or popsicles in their hands. Were these his friends? But why did they look so far away? Regardless, his skills were amazing. Everything looked so detailed and precise.

“Couldn’t resist?” A cold low voice spoke from above.

Severus’ hands came down above you and snatched up his book. You turned around and stood to face him, red in the face with embarrassment and shame.

“I-I’m sorry I… I just… It was only a few pages.”

He was fuming, lips turned down with bared teeth. His eyes glistened as he clutched onto the journal. “You can keep the rest of your ruddy sandwich.”

“No, please. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking… I was just curious and I let it get the better of me… I really am sorry. I swear I only looked at a few drawings. I’m sorry. Really.” You were a fool for not realizing how upset he’d be. You’d thought worst case scenario he’d be annoyed, and once the band aid of you looking at his art was torn off, he’d be more open to going through it with you. Best case you’d put the journal back before he came back and your curiosity would be settled.

He stepped forward, towering over you. “No. You’re not. You got what you wanted… So why would you be sorry?”

“Because I didn’t consider your feelings. I thought you wouldn’t care so much about your art. I didn’t think you’d really care.” You hugged your arms closer and watched his expression change.

His furious black eyes took in your figure and he looked down at his book. His frown turned softer. “I don’t care. It’s pointless to care.”

He turned away from you and walked into the bathroom. Within seconds he was back out with empty hands and left the back room to continue stocking the shelves in the store. You made your way to the bathroom and saw he had turned the faucet on the book, soaking it in the sink.

Tears coated your eyes as you blinked, turning the other pages of the journal and seeing nothing but smeared figures and smudged faces. You hadn’t expected such an extreme reaction… but it was still all your fault. You should have realized some people could be very sensitive about their art… even if you hadn’t seen anything that personal in it.

~ * ~ * ~

The next four hours was spent in silence as you helped in the front desk and occasionally restocked some figurines. Severus had refused to even look at you, keeping his eyelids half closed in boredom the rest of the time and responded to only your mother.

The last customer left, and the shop was ready to close. The next hour was spent dusting and counting money until finally your father’s car pulled up on the curb.

“Time to close,” your mother pushed you and Severus out as she locked the shop door and dropped the key in her pocket.

Severus’ bag was noticeably more empty than it had been when he walked into the shop. You clutched your bag closer and felt the journal you had slipped into your bag. You weren’t really sure what you were going to do with it… but you wanted to make things right with him.

You father honked and your mother and you got in his car, leaving Severus standing outside the shop in the rain. You watched him sit against the door and pull his legs in, resting his head on his knees. Your father pulled away from the curb and you sat back, wondering what to do.

~ * ~ * ~

The night air was cold but the rain had stopped shortly after dinner. You gripped onto the handlebars of your bike and squinted at the signs as you rode passed. The torch in your hand kept flickering and the rows and rows of identical houses made biking all the way to Severus’ house in the dead of night seem like the worst idea of the century.

You kept your feet still as the wheels turned on their own down the hill, taking you to the last neighborhood of Spinner’s End. You stopped a few houses away from the house you believed to be Severus’. You took out the note where you’d written his address and shined your torch at the letters written sloppily on his dented mailbox.

You ditched your bike in a bush across the street and headed to his house. You placed your hand on the gate and breathed out, pushing it open and walking down his cobblestone walkway and up the two steps to his front door.

You knocked a few times and heard a door close inside and then quick footsteps. The front door swung open and a tall woman looked down at you. Her eyes made her look cross, but her down turned mouth gave off a sullen air about her. She looked you up and down and crossed her arms.

“S-sorry,” you stammered. “Can I speak to Severus?”

The woman’s sad mouth turned up at the ends. “Severus? And what would you wan’ with him?”

Did she find it funny you wanted to speak to him? “I’d just like to.”

Her smile pulled up higher to show her yellow crooked teeth. “Run ‘long back to where you came from, brasser. Come back when we ‘ave the money to spend.” She slammed the door.

Your mouth fell open and you backed away, shaking with anger. If you could go back several second you’d’ve hit her long pale face square in the nose. She may not have realized who you were and the fact your mother was currently employing her son, but that still didn’t giver her the right to talk to you that way.

You headed out of their property and noticed a shadow on the pavement coming from the house. You turned just in time to see a dash of black hair as Severus pulled his head back inside his window. You looked at the windows at the front of the house and made sure no one was watching you from there before heading around the brick wall to the left side of the house. Severus was hiding under the windowsill, only the top of his head was visible from down where you stood.

You climbed the low wall and shined your torch on the dead dried grass, spotting a ladder. You jumped down and dragged the ladder, pulling it out as long as it’d go, and propped it up on the side of the house. His window wasn’t that high up and the ladder seemed sturdy enough so you climbed, clutching your bag under your arm as best you could.

You reached the top and looked down into Severus’ eyes as he sat under his windowsill still with a red face. You sighed and looked around his room. His door was closed and it looked safe enough, away from the eyes and ears of his horrible mother.

“Are you going to invite me in?”

Severus nodded and moved back awkwardly, still on the floor of his room.

You threw your bag in and ducked inside, doing your best to not fall on your face. You sat in front of him and pulled your bag close. “Severus, I wanted to talk to you and apologize.” You looked around his messy room. “Though I was hoping to do it at your front door but… I suppose this is still the least weird apology I’ve given in my life.” You smiled hoping to lighten the mood.

He shook his head and pulled down on his hair. “I heard… I-I mean…” He pressed his face down into his hands, hiding his red face. “I’m sorry my mam called you a… She… She ‘ates everyone. Please don’t…” He sighed.

You laughed, “Don’t worry. It’s not like you called me that.”

He looked up and watched you behind his hair as you pulled out his black journal.

“I… was a jerk earlier. I got curious and went behind your back… You don’t deserve that… So… Here.” You extended his notebook out to him.

He pushed his hair back and frowned. “It’s ruined. I soaked it.”

You nodded, “Well… The art is no longer in there. It was really smudged. But I cleaned it off as best I could and spent all evening drying it… The pages are dry and hold pencil led well enough again… See?” You flipped to the first page where you’d written:

‘I’m Sorry I’m Awful

Please Don’t Hate Me.’

He took it and flipped through it, feeling the paper with his long fingers and rubbing at the occasional left over smudge. He looked back up at you with still furrowed brows. “But why? We aren’t friends… What d’you expect to get from this?”

You raised your brow and pushed your hair aside. “Still so cynical. But you’re right. I do want something – Two things actually. One, for you to forgive me. And two, to be friends. You seem pretty alright and your art was really good, from what I could tell.”

His face softened and he looked back at his journal, closing it and placing it between you both. “Friends?”

You laughed. “Yeah. What? Have too many to squeeze me in?”

He shook his head. “No, it’s just…” He gripped his knees and bit his lip. “D’you know we go to the same school?”

You blinked, taken completely aback. “We what? Really? I’ve never seen you around.” How had you not noticed him ever at school. It wasn’t that big of a school, and most students knew each other through their parents who most all worked at the mill.

He nodded, bringing his head lower and letting his hair cover his face again. “You’re too popular t’even know I exist.”

You laughed at that word. “Popular? I’m not popular.” You couldn’t believe what he was saying.

“You’re always around all those people…”

You giggled, “They’re just my friends…” It suddenly struck you that he’d been watching you before. As you were cleaning up his journal you had noticed several groups of students he’d drawn. Besides the one at whatever park, some of the settings were school settings. But it hadn’t clicked that it was your school he had drawn. “Severus?”

He looked up, his face was no longer red, but a light pink blush remained on his pale cheeks.

“Did you want to be friends with me before? At school I mean?”

He shook his head.

You frowned, confused about what he was trying to say. If he didn’t want to be friends why was he watching you? Why did it seem he had an interest in you if he wanted nothing to do with you? “Then what? I don’t get it.”

He shook his head again. “Nothin’… I forgive you. You should go before my parents catch you in ‘ere. My mam will lose it… and you wouldn’t want to see that. Things get weird when she does.”

You nodded and stood, zipping up your bag and turned to the window. You wanted to stay longer, figure out what the hell was Severus’ secret. Why was he so secretive!

You swung a leg over and felt for the step, ducking through the window and finding the step again with your other foot. You looked down to make sure everything was okay and took a step down. You turned back and froze. Severus was back to kneeling next to the window and his face just inches from yours.

“S-sorry! I thought I should be close enough to catch you if the ladder started tiltin’…” His cheeks reddened even more and spread to his neck.

You nodded and looked into the deep wells of his eyes, seeing yourself reflected in their dark depths. He got closer, letting you stare at him longer.

Another explanation popped into your head, for why he’d been the one to know you existed despite never having met him. Why he’d observed you with your friends. Why he cared about your social differences….

“Do you have a crush on me, Severus?” you smiled.

His eyes widened and his mouth fell open slightly. The blush that had been spreading down his neck turned red again, and he looked away, giving you a curtain of inky hair. He turned back with more composed features. “Of course I don’t! Why would I? I-I just met you today and… and I was just sayin’ that stuff about school because I-I noticed you once. That’s all!” His voice was deep and harsh.

You rolled your eyes at his weak attempt at intimidation. “Just admit it! Why else would you be acting so weird about being friends and caring about how ‘popular’ I am even though I’m not?” You climbed back up the ladder and pushed him aside to climb back through the window.

He stood and squeezed his hands into fists, no longer cowering. “Just because I’ve seen you ‘round doesn’t mean I ‘ave a crush on you!”

You scoffed. “Do we have any classes together?”

“No.” He crossed his arms.

“Do we have the same lunch together?”

“No.” He started tugging on his sleeve.

You smiled again. “There are over a thousand students in our crummy school and hundreds during lunches and somehow you know I’m not part of those hundreds in your lunch?” You laughed again. “Explain that.”

His face got even redder. “Well.. I-I… I-it…” He shut his mouth and clenched his jaw. “Fine. I DID. ‘appy?”

Your smile dropped. “‘Did’? When… Why did you stop?” Why did you care?

He huffed. “I told you. It’s pointless to care… about you…”

You looked down at his greying socks. You weren’t sure why his words kind of stung.

“Why d’you look like that?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know…” You bit your lip. “I think I… Liked? That you had a crush on me?”

He scoffed, “Why? S’you could feel good about yourself?”

You shrugged again, feeling tears grow in the corner of your eyes and wishing you could escape such an awkward turn of the argument.

There was a long pause.

“D-d’you like me?”

Your head shot up and your faced burned hot. His eyebrows were raised and his crossed arms were loosening the longer you took to respond. “I… might have taken an interest in… you.”

“You’re interested in me?” His face pulled up into a grin suddenly. “Is that what you’re sayin’?”

You scoffed, “I didn’t say that exactly!”

He laughed and stepped forward, still towering over you. “I felt you feel my hair! I was right! I knew it!”

Your jaw dropped and if your face wasn’t red before it was now the color of a tomato. You did remember doing that. “I… I don’t know why I did that!”

“That’s why you want me to admit I ‘ave a crush on you,” he shrugged and stepped back, looking as if he’d won.

“Aha!” You quickly put your finger up. “You DO have a crush on me!”

He placed his hands on his hips and shook his head. “I’ve already won. You ‘ave a crush on me – and you didn’t even realize it.”

What had this day turned into. Being suddenly told this morning you’d have to train someone knew at the store and now it was passed midnight and somehow you’d accidently confessed a crush you’d also gotten today? The day was as messy as the clean up for his journal that now lay forgotten on the floor.

You held your hands up in defeat. “Fine… So maybe I do… But you do too!”

He curled his finger and pressed it to his lips. “Alright… I do…”

You smiled down at your shoes and stood there awkwardly for a minute before decided to just go for it. You stepped forward and kissed his cheek, accidently touching the corner of his mouth and pulled away.

Your face burned. “Ok… Bye – !” You turned and headed out the window, quickly climbing down and let the ladder down on the ground gently.

You climbed the brick wall and looked back up at Severus.

He was touching his cheek as he smiled and waved. “S-see you t’morrow!”

You put your hand to your mouth and giggled. “See you.”

He looked smug suddenly and you rolled your eyes playfully.

You quickly jumped down and ran to your bike, hopping on and peddling back up the hill, trying to pull your giant smile back to normal.

~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~

Masterlist

Request: “may I request a muggle young sev x muggle reader please idk a story or headcanon really anything you want I just love the way you write young severus okie dokie thank you for reading 🥺❤” – Anon

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Welcome to General Taglist!!:

@bionic-otp​

@severuslovebot​

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[prurientpuddlejumper]

Guerrerita

Part 2 ->

Summary: Nevada takes you out on a fancy date and things go poorly.

Nevada Ramirez x Feral Female Reader

Warnings: allusions to domestic violence but no actual domestic violence, just some assumptions based on Nevada being generally an asshole.  A bit of regular violence though. (OK, you know that trope where the Honorable Tough Guy beats up a stranger’s abusive husband to teach him a lesson?) Mature content, but no smut this chapter.

1,796 words

While most people would consider a romantic dinner at a sophisticated restaurant relaxing, everything about it had you on edge. It was too fancy for you to belong there, even in the elegant dress Nevada bought for you. The dress was too form-fitting, too low-cut. It made your cleavage look ample, and though you were getting accustomed to wearing such pieces in your new employment, your confidence in the feminine was still lacking.

You hunkered low in your seat, trying to be as small as possible so no one would look at you. Of course your nervous fidgeting only made them look more.

Not helping matters was your date, sitting across from you at the small, intimate dining table. Nevada Ramirez cocked his brow sarcastically as he made an inappropriately sexual comment about the aforementioned dress, and the aforementioned way your breasts looked in it.

“It’s almost distracting enough that you don’t notice the—” he gestured at your face with a mocking smirk, and laughed almost cruelly as he saw your eyes flash wide. 

Your jaw clenched and you thought of a million biting comebacks you could shoot at him, and briefly envisioned flipping over the table and decking him, but instead you shrunk further in your chair.

“Come on, guerrerita, don’t be like that,” he frowned. He seemed genuinely upset that you were shriveling instead of being riled into taking his bait.

Never in a million years would you have imagined yourself with an asshole like Nevada. Vulgar, loud, rough around the edges. A gang leader who earned the nickname of a ruthless dictator. But your life had been in a downward spiral, and Trujillo found you at the bottom of it. He recruited you into the crime family, and gave you a purpose when everything in your law-abiding life was falling apart.

It was a recent development that you’d admitted your feelings for each other, and until now your relationship (outside of work) had been limited to passionate, desperate, intense sex. Fucking Trujillo was like fucking the illegal fireworks he sold, but this was the first time you’d allowed yourself to be seen out in public with him—in decent company, anyway.

He’d insisted on taking you out to celebrate with something nice, just the two of you. None of his men lurking over your shoulders. Something he thought you’d want, even though all you wanted was to go back to the Heights and rip his clothing off. Now you were too pissed off and embarrassed to even want to fuck him.

You thought he might tone himself down for the upscale venue, but Vada had been his usual obnoxious self all night, and more genteel diners were glaring. Honestly, this was why you couldn’t stand him at first, even though he was incredibly handsome. But his boorish exterior belied a cunning, organized businessman who had all of Washington Heights under his thumb, who earned his community’s loyalty through fear, yes, but ultimately, by taking care of them. There was, underneath the showy performances of flippant laughter and casual brutality, a certain sensitivity you had grown keenly protective of. 

He saw the value in things others overlooked. He recognized all the anger and pain stamped inside you behind those mild suburban manners—things polite society considered flaws—and told you that you were exactly what he needed. That those things were an asset to him. That you were valuable. 

No one ever said that to you before. 

You weren’t in love with him. He would always be a ruthless criminal, and one day you’d want your normal life back. But you had grown… attached.

One of the glaring diners was eyeing Nevada with particular suspicion, not just briefly glancing up when he laughed too loud or made a rude remark to the waiter. He shot Vada a profoundly dirty look and held it long enough to raise your hackles. He sat at the bar about four table lengths away, had shoulder-length hair, a messy stubble beard, and a solid physical build. You would have mistaken him for a surfer except you were on the wrong coast, and your instincts told you he was dangerous. You quietly assessed the potential threat while maintaining your meek posture low in the chair. A cop? Or a rival gang leader? Unlikely to make a move inside the restaurant with so many witnesses. You’d watch the exits when it was time for the check.

The waiter brought the main course to the table, and blessedly, digging into a meal finally shut up Nevada’s feisty tongue. Instead of sleazy remarks, he made small-talk about how good everything tasted. Maybe it wasn’t just having his mouth stuffed that mellowed him. There was a softness in his eyes now—a look reserved for when you were alone together, when he knew something was bothering you. You guessed he finally caught on that you were not having a good time.

Nevada never took anything seriously, until suddenly he did. You’d seen him throw opponents off balance by dropping from sardonic laughter to spine-chilling hostility, and the effect was equally potent when he dropped into affection.

His foot bumped into your leg—those shiny black leather shoes that looked like someone cut off a tacky cowboy boot at the ankle—and slowly brushed against it under the table. It wasn’t an aggressively sexual maneuver, just an affectionate contact letting you know he was there. It worked. You lanced a slice of filet mignon on your fork, and felt your shoulders relax with his change in attitude. It was a simple gesture, but the warmth of his leg spread tingling waves through your skin, making your face flush. A private, intimate moment, like a sharing secret. That was the most thrilling part of the relationship, really—the secret that the fearsome Trujillo had a tender side. In a way, you were like two opposite halves that fit together perfectly.

Before long, you were comfortable enough to start gushing about the day’s victory you were there to celebrate, and the staring stranger had slipped entirely from your mind.

***

You excused yourself to use the bathroom, and as you washed your hands in the mirror, you got a good look your swollen black eye. You’d taken a glove to the face hard, but it opened your opponent’s guard and let you hit them back harder until they went down, and you walked away with prize money from the biggest tournament you’d ever won. Nevada was so turned on by your aggression, it took all his willpower not to barge into the locker room and fuck you right then and there. Instead, he treated you to dinner at a nice place like a gentleman, which was a very sweet, if misguided effort.

The bruise had spread and darkened in the hours since you received it, and your makeup no longer did anything to hide it. And there you were all innocent, in a cute little dress, slouching nervously across from a character from Breaking Bad. Oh fuck, no wonder everyone was giving him dirty looks.

An icy fist clenched around your heart as you remembered surfer-hair sitting at the bar, and you suddenly didn’t feel right about leaving Nevada unguarded. You shook the water off your hands and rushed back out into the dining area.

You were just being paranoid, of course. No one would start a fight in the middle of the restau—

Fuck.

Your table was empty. And so was that spot at the bar.

Worst-case scenarios ran through your head and your field of vision narrowed. A waiter hurried past with a tray of dirty dishes and you grabbed him by the arm hard enough for several plates to go flying as you whipped him around. “Did you see where the man at that table went?!” you demanded, pointing.

Indignant protests died half-formed on the surprised waiter’s lips and turned to terror at your intensity. “I-I think he went out to smoke! The side door!”

You dropped his arm without a thank you and marched with purpose to the door, which pushed open into a dim back alley.

“If you ever lay a hand on her again—” surfer-hair was snarling, pinning Nevada against the side of a metal dumpster, fist raised about to strike. 

Nevada’s lip was bleeding, but he wore a cocky grin, letting fly a string of filthy Spanish expletives. 

“You think it’s funny beating on a helpless girl? Let’s see how you like it.”

Nevada was scrappy, but not especially large. He’d gotten in a few hits, but was losing, badly. He was more the brains of his criminal operation, which was why he was always accompanied by protection. And now you were seeing red.

The man got off another punch to Nevada’s smirking face before you could reach them, the dull impact unlocking a boiling rage that rose in your blood and turned you into someone you wouldn’t recognize once the heat had passed. As he reared back for another, you used his momentum to keep him sailing backwards, off balance. 

“DON’T YOU”—you kicked him in the chest, staggering him back—“FUCKING TOUCH HIM!” you roared. 

Carrying forward on the momentum of the kick, you threw your entire body into punch after brutal punch, hissing and snarling like an animal, driving him back and down, your primal fury relishing the sensation of fists slamming into solid flesh and bone. You were going to break this fucker for daring to hurt Trujillo. “I will kill you! I will kill you!” you screamed, thrashing him in a relentless onslaught that never gave him an opening to regain his footing. The man might have given a better showing, but he was still recovering from the shock of being beaten senseless by a demon he had assumed was a fragile soul in need of rescuing.

You felt a hand grasp your shoulder and threw a vicious elbow, stopping yourself inches before seeing whose nose it was you were about to shatter. “Princesa, princesa—calmate. Tranquila, baby girl…” he cooed, pulling you off.

“I’ll fucking kill you!” you kept shrieking, legs and arms kicking out at the air, trying to continue raining blows down on your enemy as Nevada restrained you. You struggled against Nevada’s arms, your hammering pulse chanting murder in your ear, but never striking a blow against him. Even in a blind rage, your instincts recognized he was yours to protect.

In the way his long fingers gripped you, the rhythm of his breath in your ear, and how close he held his body firm against you, he was clearly turned on. 

He cackled at the would-be do-gooder. “You don’t wanna mess with an MMA champ’s boyfriend, comemierda. I don’t think she’s kidding! Better run while you can.”

“Alright, alright, Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered, guarding his face. “Who the hell are you people?”

Nevada’s smile could have split his face in two. “She’s my bodyguard.”

[andreils-keys]

kay so ive been taking prompts from my instagram and

why would you tell me not to kill one and if i do to bring him back please you’re taking all the joy out of writing >:(

anyways lets get into it <3 (tw: small mention of domestic abuse)

(disclaimer yes i am a kandreil shipper :))

andrew is cursed in the same way blue was sort of where if he tells someone that he loves them they’ll die (yes i changed it a bit)

but instead of doing the whole 'you're cursed zap magic' thing (bc i don't think it'd fit very well in the aftgverse) im gonna try something else             

andrew had some pretty shitty foster homes when he was young

but the worst one was a small house by a family-owned ice cream shop

he remembers the ice cream shop very vividly. it was where he went when his foster mother was out working or drinking. it was where he went to feel safe.

he was pretty young, maybe 4 ? 5 ? impressionable. in that stage where santa claus and the boogie man were real, where hiding under a blanket protected you from nightmares. (he learned pretty quickly that hiding under the blanket did not protect you from anything.

he was bashed and battered with fists and words, words that cursed his very being and proclaimed that to love him was to die.

he was so young

he was only a child

and he did what children do best

he believed        

there was a time when he doubted

another foster parent, a run down house made beautiful with love and mismatched furniture

the road to healing is rocky and dangerous, but easier to traverse when you have someone behind you

finally, he let himself love

he let his foster mother in, little by little, and he thought: maybe im not a curse

and he said: i love you

the day after, she died in a car crash

the car brutalized

her body brutalized

his heart brutalized

coincidence? he says out loud at the entrance of another foster home. because it needs to be said. because lies always become crystal clear when said out loud.      

bc of this he's never directly expressed love for anyone and he tends to distance himself from people just to make sure there's 0 risk of him causing someone's death

but if he does care for someone he shows this through actions (no i love yous because that's what he believes caused his foster mothers death)            

he's always had people he's cared about, people he's wanted to protect and keep safe

but ever since the car crash, hes never had anyone hes wanted to say i love you to     

until     

[enter kevin day]         

the first person that consumed him was kevin, the boy that sought him out in high school with desperation in his eyes, raving about a sport that had made andrews days in juvie a little more bearable. 

the man that always appeared on television with a cardboard smile stamped onto his face, always a step behind riko moriyama, always hiding in his shadow.

the man that inexplicably made yet another appearance in andrews life, this time with a shattered hand and a plea for help.

the man that pushed and pulled andrew just enough to get him through another day, another week.        

and then neil, so different from kevin and yet so alike, as sudden as a gunshot, as tantalizing as death. 

the boy that's as invested in riko and kevin as andrew is. 

the boy that is impenetrable and distrusting, the boy that lets no one in. 

at first andrew thinks he's safe. as long as neil doesn't let anyone in, that means andrew won't have to let him in. and kill him.

aha sike. turns out neil is the trusting-no-one-but-andrew-minyard-and-kevin-day type           

the three of them form a twisted complicated pyramid; each side leaning against the other two. immovable. strong. inseparable, unless andrew deliberately pushes himself away when the feeling ballooning in his chest is too much.

(although he will always get pulled back in. the gravity of neil and kevin is too strong for andrew to stay away.)

he promises to protect them because that's what he does for the people he cares about.

but falling in love is a whole other ball game.

andrew is so afraid.

afraid to love them, afraid to let them in.

he knows he can't allow it; every time he thinks of how much he feels for them, he remembers the car, the shattered windows, the pieces of glass tipped with blood.

but andrew is only human.

even if he tells himself not to fall in love, the heart and body tend to ignore the mind.

he let’s himself be selfish

the hard press of kevin's lips against his, the gentle tug of neils fingers threaded through his hair, a hand clamped against neils neck and the other gripping kevin's arm.

that is all andrew allows

he doesn't mind if kevin and neil go gallivanting off somewhere on their own (s a f e l y; if those idiots get taken by the yakuza it would be extremely inconvenient for andrew)((andrew: dammit now i have to save them from the mafia nicky: you don't have t- andrew: no im gonna)), even if it prods unpleasantly at a sensitive point in his heart. if they're happy, hes happy. 

(well, not quite happy. satisfied is the proper word. and he supposes that's the most he can ask for.)       

he doesn't tell them about the nightmares. the dreams of fire and blood and twisted metal, of fists and a curse and a small, dark room. more often than not neil will wake to find andrew sliding out of his bunk and going to the kitchen for a bowl of ice cream.

neil won't pry, but he'll wake kevin and they'll join andrew in the kitchen, standing on the other side of the counter from andrew with their shoulders pressed together, a reminder to each other and andrew that they are there for each other.         

and then neil disappears. like a dream. like smoke. 

andrew took his eyes off neil for one second, and neil vanished in the crowd of angry fans.

they search and search but neil is gone.

all they find is neils exy racket lying on the ground in pieces, broken from the stampede of fans.

andrew whispers, the words dredged from a desperate, vulnerable place inside him: i love you. neil, i love you. come back to me. come back to kevin. come back to us.     

the next day, the fbi tells them that they found neils gym bag. it was covered with tire tracks and spattered with blood.

they couldn’t find neil.    

and the pyramid falls.

the grief and guilt and heartbreak andrew feels is unparalleled. never has he felt so broken. never has he felt so dirty. he did this. he did this.

kevin insists neil is still alive. lost and floating, but alive

but andrew knows better.

his nightmares get worse. sprinkled in with the mauled car and heavy fists is a shattered exy stick, a gym bag dripping blood, an unreachable figure with red hair and a slash of a smile.

andrew spirals. 

he refuses to speak to anyone. even kevin. he'll stay with kevin and press his palm into the side of kevin's neck, his pulse grounding andrew and keeping him in the here and now, but he will not speak.    

cabeswater brought gansey back right and i feel like the one closest to magic would be renee (thank you neils jortventures fairy magic huzzah) except she doesn't use magic. 

so remember how she was affiliated with a gang when she was young 

there was a member of the gang that continued to reach out to her, especially once they escaped from the gang a little after renee did

renee did respond to their messages, but she tried not to initiate conversation because they were part of her old life and she was living and loving her new one. 

essentially she was nice enough not to cut them out completely. 

unfortunately the kid got caught up in another gang that was closely associated with the butcher of baltimore

when nathan dies they text renee about how their gang is in pieces because the butcher is dead. 

renee isnt there to receive the message right away (she and andrew were sparring, as they were keen to do now that neil was gone and andrew was out of sorts) and kevin is the one to catch the word butcher when the notification pops up

he scrambles for renees phone and sees: the butcher is dead.

he is so relieved because the butcher, the man kevin always had to fear and avoid, is dead

and then he starts to think

neil’s father was the butcher. does this have something to do with neil? was the butcher the one that took neil? if the butcher is dead, does that mean neil is still alive?

it’s a bit of a stretch, but kevin is willing to believe anything if it means that neil is alive

he tells andrew

he doesn't expect andrew to do anything but he still wants to tell him, just so that andrew will know, just so that kevin himself can taste the words.

kevin asks renee if they can reach out and she's like wtf y'all doing going through my phone but she understands how hard it hit them, andrew especially, and if it'll help them she'll go along   

they meet up with the kid

renee seems nice enough, but andrew can tell how strained she is by the way she keeps cracking her knuckles one by one

they get the info from the kid about a red haired blue eyed cut up burned kid

kevin is distraught about the cut up burned part

andrew is close to vomiting from a whirlwind of relief (they never said he was dead) and denial and fear for neil

he refuses to get his hopes up; he said the cursed words. he saw the blood on neils’s gym bag. he saw the shattered exy stick. (or was that a dream? his nightmares and reality are so tightly interwoven he can hardly tell what's real)

the kid warns kevin and andrew that the last time they saw neil was in the basement and that the probablity of him still being there is relatively low

kevin makes a sort of impatient gesture at the kid and they bring kevin and andrew to the house (renee stays behind; she made a lame excuse about needing to make a phone call but she just wanted to give them space, either to reunite with neil or grieve their loss a second time)

from the outside, it’s a nice looking house and it doesn’t look threatening in the least, but andrew knows how deceiving appearances can be

once they go inside everything is in shambles. the couch overturned, the tv screen cracked in multiple places, ceiling plaster and pieces of porcelain all over the counters and dining table

the kid points them to the basement

kevin is the first to go down

andrew is surprised mainly because kevin is usually always so careful

andrew follows more warily, afraid to find nothing, afraid to find neil; afraid to have his heart broken all over again, afraid of the prospect that he has wasted his entire life living a lie.

he reaches the basement to find kevin wrapped around a small beat up, bruised, burnt, and shivering lump.

neil is hurt and bloody, and it drives a stake through andrew’s heart, but the fact that neil is breathing and alive alive alive causes a different kind of pain, the unique pain of relief and sorrow and love swirled together.

kevin is stroking neils hair and very obviously trying not to have a panic attack and andrew goes to them

sits down

both kevin and neil look up at him, and andrew watches as some of the fear and pain in their eyes fades.

he can feel the words bubbling up and he wants to say them, to scream them, but they are stuck inside his throat, twisted around his tongue.

it is a language andrew has taught himself to unlearn.

the road to healing is rocky and dangerous, but easier to traverse when you have someone behind you

it’s even easier when you have two people behind you, people who have seen what you have seen, people who make an effort to understand you.

andrew eventually does say it.

the words, no longer cursed, are still clumsy and fall in a messy jumble at his feet

but there they are, light as a cloud, heavy as a storm:

i love you

[wordlessbabbling]

Ozymandius

A Thomas Shelby x femm!reader story

Requested by @fifty-shadesof-tommyshelby

“You are a gangleader at the top of the chain. You’re civilian occupation is being a pub owner. The Peaky Blinders were looking to either make an agreement with you, or kill you, but where’s the fun in that? Today, Thomas Shelby walked into your bar.”

Warnings: none, I think. Thomas Shelby’s a dick? Idk

Masterlist

Dylan, your secretary, slid a small piece of paper across your desk and sat in the chair opposite you. You looked up from the document you were signing and eyed the card suspiciously.

Slowly, you snatched it in your well manicured hand and glanced your eyes over the paper once. Then again. Then once more.

You looked up from the paper and grinned, holding the sheet to your chest.

Without another glance, you immediately left the room to prepare.

You, Ozymandius, King of Bristol, you were going to battle.

Although this time, you were armed with a bottle of whiskey and two drops of perfume.

“Hello.

-T.S”

----

You donned your brown skirt with your creme coloured loose sleeved shirt. 

You scanned the bar and noted the regulars along with your workers who stood idly in case something broke out.

The “King William Ale House”, your pride and joy. Of course you owned about 60 other pubs in Bristol, but this was your baby, your first one. The furniture was black leather with gold linings. It had a gramophone in the corner and often men would come in to request songs.

On Wednesday nights, you always had a slow night, so often chairs and tables would be cleared out and couples could come and dance in the evening. On Sundays after lunch, men came in and often asked for the radio to hear about the latest news or the racing broadcasts.

Today was Wednesday meaning it was slow so it would be easy to eye-fuck the Peaky Blinders.

The doors opened, in stepped one man; then another; then another; then another; then another; and a final one.

If you were a suspicious woman, you would say those were your new business associates; lucky for them, you were because you swiftly greeted them and played the slowest song you had. 

It was time to finesse your way into these gangsters hearts.

“Evening boys, welcome to the “King William Ale House”. The couples booths are in the corner and dancing is encouraged for all. Drinks?” Your accent was thick and sultry. Really, you were teasing them, but you were never one to discriminate.

“Orright. Isiah, Finn, go to the booths-” the one with the burly moustache grumbled.

“-the couples booths?” the ginger one screeched.

Another man spoke up, identical to the rest of them, “for fucks- just go, Finn. Scud can come sit by you if your pride is hurting too much.”

One of the men placed his caps on the counter. In the corner of your eye, you saw the glinting sheen of a blade sewn into the plane and rather boring cap.

So it is true?

“A bottle of Irish and the whereabouts of Ozymandius.” His voice was monotonous and deep.

“I apologise, Mister, but I do not know their whereabouts.”

The man with the burly moustache got very close to your face, “now you listen here, sweetheart-“

“-Arthur, Arthur. Calm down, eh. We’ll wait.”

The men sat at the bar and smoked. Others in the room got up on their feet and danced quietly together. In your opinion, you were rather enjoying yourself. There’s a certain rush one gets when they deceive the arrogant of the world.

You leant your back to the bar and faced the array of drinks and sours; and above the debauchery rested a plaque.

Everyday you read that plaque. Everyday you remembered where you came from and why you do what you do.

“I woulda thought the King of Bristol woulda had a watch on him, Tommy.” The one with the baby face and toothpick sneered, “I don’t like waiting like this.”

“Ozymandius is never late. They need no watch for they know that time is wasted.” You muttered saltily.

“Are you a spy?” The one with the monotonous voice asked, ‘Tommy’ you think.

You didn’t move your head from the plaque, only continuing to stare at the italic writing. “No, not a spy. Though I do like watching.”

The hush fell over the room again as you listened to the slow music playing quietly.

The door opened once more and another couple stepped in. It was Daniel and Lisa, a lovely new couple. They even had a baby on the way!

“Danny! There you are! Ah Lisa, how’re you doing? How’s the baby?” You smiled warmly at the couple.

Daniel used to hang about on the streets when he was a kid, you saw him as useful and put him to work in the local inn. He met Lisa and the rest was history. You were definitely a bit of a romantic

Danny was about to open his mouth when you heard a bottle slam on the counter again, it was the rude man with the monotonous voice. “Are you a whore, then?”

You played nice and told “Tommy” to excuse you and you carried on with your conversation with Danny and Lisa.

While watching Danny and Lisa dance and look at each other, you remembered what your mother used to say to you.

“There are locked rooms inside all women; kitchen of lust, bedroom of grief, bathroom of apathy. Sometimes, the men—they come with keys, and sometimes, the men—they come with hammers.”

While you were lost in your thoughts, you heard the sound of a fist being slammed into oak: the man with the moustache was having a tantrum.

“Have we been fucking stood up, Tom? Is that it? Lady-“ he took a gun from his holster within his jacket, “-you’re gonna tell us where Ozymandius is, otherwise I’m gonna blow your fucking brains out.”

You trotted around the counter to face the man head on with his gun still pointing at your face. You grabbed the gun directly from his hand and twisted it, listening for the sickening crunch of his finger in the trigger slot.

To avoid hitting anyone else in the bar, you twisted the gun down. You used your right hand to stop the wrist as you used the left hand to bend their wrist, grabbing the gun, and pushing the gun down.

After quickly disarming the man, you pushed his quivering frame to the floor. You took the gun in your hand and like a good game of ‘Simon Says’ all the others with peaked caps took out theirs as well.

You pointed your gun to Tommy who you now understood was the leader, all silent and sneer of cold command. You were no fool.

With one gun pointing to one man and four pointing at you; you liked your chances.

The one with the baby face spoke up, “who are you, eh? Who is she?” His voice was loud and maybe distressed but now was not the time for shock analysis.

You stared and got closer to the man, ‘Tommy’. He made the wise decision to not extract his gun, but his expression looked nearly bored. You admired that in a man.

“Evening ladies and gentlemen, I’m very sorry to disrupt your couples night, but for tonight, the “King William Ale House” is closing early.” Danny and Lisa along with the other couples all scurried out.

All that was left now was you against the blinders. Your men who still sat in their chairs did not move. They knew not to. They were only there in case you died. Unlikely, but you didn’t like leaving much up to chance.

You inched closer to ‘Tommy’, despite his bored exterior, you saw the curiosity that resides in his temple. “I’m not a fucking whore, eh? You hear me?” You brought the gun closer to his face, hearing the tell tale click of it’s metal as you pressed it against his face.

“Who are you then?” His eyes quivered, but his face remained like a stone, eyebrow crooked.

“My name is Ozymandius, King of Kings;

Look on my works, ye Mighty and dispair!”

You pushed the cold metal closer to his face. You sighed again, “I’m very sorry boys, but we’re going to have to cut this short. You were late for our meeting, anyway.”

You clicked back the gun on to safety and instead cupped Tommy’s jaw. You leaned in close, making an effort to fan your breath.

“I’ve read about you in the papers, Shelby. Maybe next time, don’t be late for our evening date?” You felt his spine shiver as you spoke. “Two weeks. Meet me back here. Same time. Bring your cleanest suit and maybe some flowers, just for me? Yeah? Alone and sweet; how quaint.”

Leaving the frozen men behind, you toddled back around the counter and started washing glasses that sat there.

Slowly while swaying to the music that still played, you hummed the tune to yourself. When you looked up again, the men were still standing there like ninnies.

“What’re you lot still doing here? I told you, we’re closed.”

You carried on your work of cleaning glasses while heavy boots shuffled on the ground, and two of them picking up the groaning man with the burly moustache.

You placed down your glass and leaned back against the counter again. Looking up at the plaque, you read aloud:

“I met a traveller from an antique land,

Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,

Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;

And on the pedestal, these words appear:

My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;

Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

——

Based off of ‘Ozymandius’ by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Thanks for the love.

Feedback and comments are wanted.

See ya next time!

[turbulentt]

her heart tastes bitter. chapter one.

warnings: mentions of parental figure's death. 

author’s note: if you wish to be tagged on the following chapters to keep up with the fanfic please let me know. i haven’t decided how regularly i will post. hope you guys enjoy :)

_

"oh, looks who's here." yunho happily runs to congratulate you "i heard it was a tough job. are you okay?"

"yeah, i'm fine." you answer and quickly move to your desk "i have to write the report to hand to the boss."

"oh, good luck with that. also, wooyoung was talking shit about you earlier, nothing new, when are you going to deal with that?" yunho sits on your desk and you shrug your shoulders unbothered. you're more than used having jung wooyoung as your personal hater, him and a couple of his mates who, unfortunately, you are obliged to call coworkers. "i can't do anything if he's an idiot. it's been what? two or three years? he's just throwing a tantrum at this point."

"i know, but he has tried to sabotage you more than once. why don't you tell the boss?" yunho is always this worried about you, apart from your boss he is one of the few people who respect you at work. "i don't want to bother mister kim with these childish matters. besides, wooyoung is his right arm. who do you think he will trust?"

"you're partially right. but bear in mind that he chose to trust you when no one else did. not even me. he has your back, you know that."

"i know." you smile "don't you have a job soon?"

"i do. i need to get going. wish me luck!" yunho pops up happily and walks away as he waves back at you. "don't get eaten!" you say jokingly and he gives you the middle finger.

as you keep writing the report your mind keeps drifting away to yunho's words. it's true what he said, you couldn't deny that it was mister kim who supported you when no one else believed in your dream. kim hoongjoong was and is your savior, and for that, you own him your life. and it's funny, now it feels like you both have a father-daughter like relationship, and that's one of the reasons most for your coworkers to not be very fond of you, but you have proven your worth more than once.

your phone rings unexpectedly startling you.

"what do you want, yeosang? i'm at work." you pout and lean back on your chair.

"ok sorry, rude. i just needed to tell you that you're supposed to have dinner at my place tonight," he explains, leaving you confused.

"why am i having dinner at your place?"

"my mom is in town, she wants to see you. please, i already told her you'd come." yeosang pleas cutely.

"okay, fine. but i'm doing this for your mom." you scoff.

"good! at my apartment, at eight o'clock, don't be late."

"i won't."

"oh also, try not to talk about your demon-slaying job to her." he mocks you.

"bye, yeosang." you chuckle and hang up the call.

yeosang is your best friend for as long as you can remember. he's been with you through a lot, and he was the one who held your hand when you received the news that your father had passed away. he's like your pillar, there's nothing he won't do for you, and vice-versa.

yet, with that comes that you can not possibly keep secrets from each other. not even if you try. the guilt will only consume you enough to make you confess.

the first time you told yeosang about your job he didn't believe you. obviously, like any other regular human would. yeosang does not believe in demons, or he didn't at least. as a demon slayer, you aren't supposed to reveal your identity to outsiders, only not to go through the danger of that outsider being a demon.

but at that time ou didn’t think it through, you just had to make yeosang believe.

...two years ago...

"so you mean that you've been working as a demon slayer for approximately one year now?" yeosang repeats almost perfectly what you had just explained to him. "exactly. but you don't believe just yet, am I right?" you look at him unamused. "how exactly do you expect me to believe shit like this, y/n? this sounds like a movie."

"i know it does, but would i lie to you?"

"well, no. bu-" you cut him off and drag him across the cafe and outside. "wait a damn minute. you're really a pain in the ass."

you get your phone to call someone and yeosang just stares at you expectantly.

"yes? yunho I need a favor."

after a few minutes of conversation, you convince yunho to give you the location of a low-class demon.

your plans weren't the best, you admit that. but you always had this irresponsible side, reckless and empty-headed self. you just wanted to show him you were telling the truth.

and so you did. you drove to the location along with yeosang and you could very clearly feel his uneasiness. by now he knew he should've taken you more seriously.

arriving there you just told him to stay inside the car and watch quietly as you slew the demon mercilessly with your sword. he watched as you penetrated its heart and trapped his soul back to the underworld.

as you get back on the car, clothes stained from demon blood and sweat dripping from your forehead, you look at him once again.

"do you believe me now?"

"you said your boss’s name is kim hoongjoong? tell me more."

instead of being scared, yeosang was actually very much excited, as he now believes in demons and demon slayers.

"kim hoongjoong, or mister kim as everyone refers to him, is the best of the best. he is the leader of the demon slayers and the most powerful too. he has been given the power to see demons and any kind of spirit at his birth and with that gift, he is the one who assigns each demon to a certain slayer. there are many layers of demon slayers, arranged by power, to keep the balance in the underworld." you start to explain as you drive away through the city. "just like the old hierarchy? with kings, queens, clergy, and such?"

"exactly. mister kim is who we call the higher entity which makes him the most powerful yet vulnerable slayer for the magnitude of power he holds. all demons see him as a threat, not enough to attack him, but we have to make sure he is protected nevertheless. for that are the knights, those who stay by the boss' side and protect him from possible attacks. they also assist other slayers on their jobs if there is requested any help." you keep on explaining and yeosang seems utterly absorbed by your words.

"are you a knight?" he asks curiously. "no, not yet at least. i’m who they call the warriors. we deal with middle or low-class demons and cleanse locations and souls."

"oh! that seems interesting. so, you basically prevent places from being haunted?" yeosang sounded like a curious child discovering a new hobby, is very amusing to you. "you could say that. but instead of haunted, we refer it as being possessed. either people, animals, plants, places, or inanimate objects." you point out.

yeosang suddenly goes quiet, you glance at him only to see him tremble in his seat.

"so does that mean that spiders can be possessed?" his hands shake and you laugh at him. "yeah, but they can't hurt you. demons usually only use animals as a form of transport until they find a fitted human to be their host. a few demons though, connected to animals, can indeed possess animals in order to create the chaos but they are rare so don't sweat it."

"yeah... yeah i won't." he chuckles nervously.

...present...

"the boss is calling for you."

sighing you stand from your desk and make your way up to your boss' office. as you walk through the place heavy unpleasant stares are held on you, as if you were some kind of demon to them. knocking at the metal door you hear a sweet voice giving you permission to enter.

"did you call for me, sir?" you close the door behind you, standing still where you are waiting for a response. "you can quit the act. it doesn't fit you." he laughs lowly and turns his chair to you with a smile "there's no one here, make yourself comfortable."

"good." you chant jokingly and sit on the chair in front of his desk "but why did you call?"

"i felt like talking." he smiles looking at you and you give him a stare of confusion "tea?"

"yes, please." you watch as he pours the tea for both of you and takes a sip "you can also quit the act, boss. you didn't just feel like talking out of nowhere."

he laughs again, this time a bit louder and sighs.

"perceptive as always. you're right." he stares at his tea blankly seeming to look for the right words "i was talking to your father just now."

"oh. how's he?" you take another sip, not minding the tension building around the room. "he's doing good. hasn't found his path yet. i'm sorry if this bothers you."

"you know it doesn't. my dad died a while ago, long enough for me to get over it." you smile weakly "i'm worried that he hasn't found the path to the beyond yet thought. does he know what's keeping him here?"

"no. i have no clue either. do you have any ideas of what it might be?"

"i don't know. my dad had a lot of unfinished businesses. maybe it is a relationship. there are numberless possibilities." you cross your arms and shrug, there is not much you can do, humans should not interfere on spirits journeys to the beyond. "i hope he finds his peace soon. meanwhile, i have something for you."

"a new job?" your eyes shine in expectation and your boss looks at you fondly. "yes. this one will determine whether or not you will ascend on the chain." he hands you a white envelope, holding all the information on the demon and its host.

excitedly your fiddle your fingers through the envelope to open it, it's such an important job, finally, one of the many to come where you will have to give your all to prove to mister kim that you are the suited one to follow his footsteps and inherit his powers.

as you pull the stack of papers out you feel a cold shiver run down your spine. something's not right. skipping the first page you get to what matters, the face and name of the demon you will be slaying next is all that you care about.

and then you see his face.

stamped on that paper are his name and his face.

your next target is him.

you look up at mister kim wordlessly. he stares back at you smiling, fully aware of all that is running through your head at that moment.

"c-choi san…?"

[geckolady]

Skulduggery Pleasant: Raising Cain - Chapter 6

Chapter 6 - Escape attempt

Stephanie woke in a small, dark room in the freezing cold sometime later. Resting on the floor in an extremely uncomfortable position, she tried to see if anyone was with her. She couldn't hear anyone and she honestly couldn't tell the difference between eyes open and closed.

She struggled to sit up as her hands were behind her back but managed it just as the door to the cell, and she was sure it was a cell, opened with a bang against the wall.

The sudden light after so much dark was almost blinding and she didn't see who dragged her up and out before she was halfway down the hall. It was the same man that had run in the room right before she'd passed out. Her thoughts went to Wolf, to her other friends. She hoped they were okay.

"Where are we?" She asked the man.

He snorted. "Do you really think I'm going to tell you that?"

"It's not like I'm going anywhere," she pointed out. "Also, that cut of yours looks infected." He reached out and yanked her hair sharply and she yelped out in pain. "Fuck you!"

He growled at her and pushed her up the steps. Stephanie stayed quiet and tried to think of what she could do. Until she knew if her friends were here there was no point leaving. Then again, if they were all here she would need to escape to get back up. She tried not to panic and followed the man despite the growing anxiety clawing at her stomach.

They entered a large room with at least twenty of the paper men and a few real men she didn't know lined up against the walls. No females of any type except herself. In the middle of the room stood Serpine. Stephanie was brought a few metres in front of the man and forced to her knees.

"Ah, I've been waiting for you to awake," Serpine said. "I think you might just know what I want."

Stephanie refused to say anything and glared at the small scar above his eyebrow. She hoped Skulduggery had given it to him.

"I have a little bargain for you. I know Pleasant and his Dead Men have decided to take you under their wing and make you their newest member. Usually, I'd dismiss anything they thought, but then I met you," he said, stepping forward slowly, looking her over. "You are young and weak now, but you show a lot of potential. You killed one of my men. Did you know that? Oh yes, he died quickly from his wound. I expect you would make a great apprentice and under my mentorship, you can help me take over this world and crush those that don't believe in us, that look down on us. Doesn't that sound better, my love? Doesn't that sound better than following muddy dogs around like a stray they took in to feel good about themselves?"

Stephanie tried to look blank faced. Gordon had written that that was a good thing to do.

"But with me,” he continued, “I will mentor you to your absolute greatest and you will aid me in completing all my dreams. You can be my daughter. I can be your father, and I will love you as my own. One day, they will look at us as saints and the beginners of the enlightenment. Do you want that, my daughter? Don't you want greatness?"

His hand came around and cupped her cheek. She glared into his eyes. "The Dead Men love me. And Gordon is my dad!"

He laughed deeply and struck her cheek hard enough for her eyes to water. "Would you listen to that? She thinks they love her. Darling, they will use you and hurt you until you can't stand and then feed you to their enemy as bait for their own ends. I will give you one final chance to join me before I am forced to torture you to death."

She pretended to think about it. "I'm afraid I'll have to pass."

"Oh?" He chuckled. "And how's that? Are you going to negotiate?"

"Yes. I will get you the Sceptre, but you have to let me go."

"And why would I do that? Do you not think that I won't know you'll run off?"

She shrugged. "Well, I don't exactly have anywhere to go. If I try and run, you'll find me and even if I do try I won't get far without magic and a passport."

He stared deep into her eyes and a grin slowly spread across his features. He leaned in close enough she could smell the coffee on his breath. "You are not in a position to bargain. Take her to the dungeon!"

Stephanie was yanked to her feet and followed the man willingly out the room – she didn't like all those paper men, and Serpine wasn't helping.

But what now? She was away from those eyes but she was still with her guard. She couldn't act like her friends were all free, or even one of them was, or even that they knew where she was if they weren't in the cells around her. She needed to get herself out, though knowing if she had to break out someone else would be good too. She expected Wolf would be but she'd already gone through the maze of the dungeons and didn't expect she could find him. And her fighting wasn't good enough to take down these people and she didn’t even know any magic!

"You're annoying," she told her guard.

"What?" He said. "Shut up. Stupid kid."

"Can't you tell me where we are now? What if I guess? We're at Serpine's house? Mansion? Wait, is it a castle?"

"How'd you guess that?" The man asked, looking at her.

"Castles have dungeons, dummy. What about my friends?"

"I can't tell you anything kid," he said. "Just stay quiet and keep your head down. You shouldn't be involved. You're a kid."

"Well I am, so tell me if my friends are safe."

"I don't know."

"So they're not here?" She asked.

He hesitated.

"Some of them are here? How many? I bet Wolf is."

"Who the hell is Wolf?" He asked.

"Dexter Vex," she clarified. "Is anyone else here? Are the other's safe?"

He shook his head, but she didn't think it was an answer more so than in annoyance. They came up to her cell and she was pushed into it. "Wait!"

He sighed and rubbed his eyes. "What?"

She hesitated. "I need to pee."

He gaped at her. "What do you want me to do about it?"

She bit her lip. "Put my hands on my front. Then you can leave."

"I know I can leave." He said but got a set of keys out and came into the cell to move her shackles around. She waited until he had to move around her to reattach the cuff before striking – she twisted and punched him in the neck as hard as she could, and he let go of her other hand to stumble back and she stepped towards him to deliver a blow to his nose. He cried out and she wrapped her cuffed hand around the spare cuff and used it to punch him with the metal in the temple, which was strong enough to get him on the ground and it was just a simple matter of stamping on his head three times before he stopped moving.

She breathed hard and listened carefully. There was no sound except the slow drip of water elsewhere and the quiet breathing of the man on the floor. Quietly, she searched his pockets and found several cuffs, a flip-knife and of course the keys. She also took the chocolate bar that had melted slightly but since he had captured her, she felt she deserved it anyway.

She put everything in her various pockets, thankful for Wolf's advice already and of Panda for his amazing creation. She closed the cell door on him and locked it. She had no idea where her friends would be, or if anyone would come looking. With everyone upstairs, she figured that her guard would be expected back soon with either one of her friends or else for a meeting, or just by his fellow guard friends. She started looking through the open peek-hole on the doors, going through aisle after aisle of cells. She was beginning to give up hope of finding Wolf when she saw a cell peek-hole closed in the distance. She ran to it and carefully opened it.

Wolf and Snake looked up at her. They grinned.

She put a finger over her lips and got the keys out, looking left and right as she did. The cell was opened quickly, and she got them out their shackles. Luckily, it was one-key-fits-all.

"How did you get free?" Snake asked her in a whisper.

"No one expects to get their ass handed to them by a girl half their size. Come on, we need to get the others."

"Are they all here?" Wolf asked.

"I don't know. Snake, did you see anything?"

Erskine shook his head. "I know Skulduggery is here. I heard him with Serpine, but I don't remember who was hurt or not in the fight, they dragged me from the room at the start."

"Alright. Where do you think Crow is?"

They started scouring the cells together and came across Skulduggery whistling in his cell.

"Come to – oh hello," he said when they opened his cell. "How did you get free?"

"Tell you later," she said, unlocking his shackles as Wolf and Snake kept an eye on the halls. She could see them acting as a team now, as a unit. It was very privileging seeing a group as close as this able to protected her, to see them flow together so well. She desperately wanted to learn how to fit into that flow and learn them so well she could work without words too. "Who else came in with you?"

"Saracen and Anton got free but I know Ghastly is here. Any idea on times?" Crow informed them.

"Probably none. I got free at least ten minutes ago. The guard was probably expected back with someone," she said. "If we get Panda we might be able to fight our way out but there are a lot of people up there."

He looked at her sharply as they left the cell and the other two closed around them. She closed the door to make it seem like they hadn't been there. "You went upstairs?"

"I was taken. Let's talk later."

He nodded, and they split into two, Stephanie sticking with Crow, and they searched the last few rows of cells. He wasn't there though, and they were forced to do a running check back through the cells just in case. Stephanie rounded the corner just as four paper men went around the corner of the next aisle and she almost fell to the floor stopping Crow running passed her, and had to throw herself in front of Snake to stop him running passed too.

They waited a few moments as the soft rustling and thud, thud, thud of the paper men moved through the cells. Slowly, Stephanie stepped forwards and crouched down, looking around the corner. The paper men had stood outside a cell. She crept back.

"Guards," she said. They frowned. "At Panda's cell, I bet."

They nodded, and the three men looked at each other before Wolf and Snake jogged silently to the other side of the aisle of cells to come from the other side. Crow held up three fingers. Two. One.

They raced around the corner at the same moment as the others and rushed at the paper men. The four split and Stephanie was quick to simply run passed them and get the door open. Panda was unconscious but even after she got his cuffs off and patted his cheek he didn't so much as flutter an eyelid. She looked up to see Crow looking into the cell. There was a sudden shout from somewhere else. Their time had run out.

Wolf pushed in and pulled Panda onto his shoulders and pushed Stephanie out the door with his leg. She ran with the others to the stairs. At least twenty people must have entered the dungeon, but they didn't see anyone as they’d scattered to find them. They waited a moment for Snake to check the hall and then made a run up the stairs.

They were confronted with forty paper men at least and the three able to fight immediately began to rip into them but with no weapons they were soon choking in the gas, except for Crow who stood in the middle of the group pulling arms until he had a pile in a circle around him and he had to step high to get over the bodies. They ran from the last few who were slow to run after them.

Stephanie didn't see any way out at first but as soon as she saw the window she pulled her jacket off and let Snake grab it from her roughly and sprint ahead to jump through it.

They all followed and landed badly, though Crow did use magic to make their lands a bit better focusing on Wolf since he had Panda who was still out cold. Stephanie fell to the floor badly and felt her leg pull but rolled and started running after the others. Crow was the one who kept back to stay behind her and keep her safe, the others getting far ahead much too quick for her to keep up with. She looked back quickly before they went into the trees and saw what could have been thirty paper men and at least a dozen other guards running after them.

She squeaked and ran faster after Wolf and Snake, taking far too long to get to a big wall. Stephanie saw Wolf, with Panda, scale it in just one jump, push himself to swing over the wall, flash a grin at her, and fell from sight. She turned to Skulduggery and he kneeled with his hands together and she was in the air, flailing and then was grabbed by Wolf, sans Panda, and hauled her the rest of the way over. Wolf almost stumbled but Snake was there to steady him as Crow landed to their right.

A van was on the road with the door open and a man in white carried Panda into it. Stephanie looked to Crow but he put a hand on the back of her neck and pushed her gently towards it and the doors were closed behind them just as she heard the shouting of their pursuers.

They drove faster than Stephanie had ever experienced, and she couldn't help but grin and high-five Snake and Wolf.

[maximumsnow]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: A Hat in Time (Video Game) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: The Conductor (A Hat in Time), The Conductor's Grandchildren, Hat Kid (A Hat In Time) Additional Tags: The grandchildren have names because I could not find a way around it that would be believable, Don't think too hard on them, This was mostly canon compliant until I decided to be self indulgent at the end whoops, Parental Conductor, THIS IS VERY MUCH A FIC I HAD WANTED TO READ BUT HAD TO WRITE Summary: Of all the things that could have happened on the cruise, The Conductor definitely hadn't bet on the ship sinking. He has to find his grandchildren before the worst can happen.

Aka, It kills me that you find The Conductor in an empty playroom in Rock the Boat. There's no way he could have known the babies were safe while he was stuck there, and if he even remotely cared about them, I wouldn't imagine him taking it well.

-

The Conductor hadn’t even spent a full day on the ship, and when he was back on dry land, he was going to file a complaint. He’d been searching for a bathroom for the better part of an hour, and he was extremely lucky he literally stumbled upon a seal who knew where it was.

Said seal was trying to clean a giant mess in front of the only door to said bathroom.

“WHY IS THERE ONLY ONE BATHROOM ON THIS PECKING SHIP?!” He was practically jumping with anger as he yelled. The pleasant buzz from the alcohol had long since worn off, and his irritation about the situation was only building to a proper explosion.

“I’m vewy sowwy, but we’we wowking on it.” The seal seemed appropriately apologetic, but was otherwise unfazed by Conductor’s loud anger.

The moon penguin in front of him snapped literally and figuratively, "Stop bothering them! I can't hold on for much longer, and if you-"

He checked out of the tirade the penguin clearly needed to direct at someone. Even though the penguins had a strong loyalty to that peck neck Grooves, he really didn't have the energy to fight them with the same fervor. They weren't the one constantly driving him up the wall, and he had other things to focus on.

Such as getting through that door.

Somewhere between getting called "a has-been director" and "the worst thing to happen to bird cinema since The Birds," the Conductor realized that the seal had made absolutely no progress on cleaning the mess. Every spill that was sopped up with the mop was replaced by a new glass falling out of the cart.

It was like watching the new tech owl trying to wrangle the lights.

Making an executive decision, he decided he would take matters into his own hands and jumped ahead of the still ranting penguin. He heard them squawk indignantly, but he was already bolting towards the wall by the blocked off door.

He used his momentum to climb up the wall and hopped onto the walkway that apparently served as a roof for the bathroom. The seal had ignored him as they continued their neverending task, but the moon penguin’s dropped jaw was hilarious. Apparently they forgot that he still did his own stunts.

Cackling, he turned away and dropped down the other side. There was a tool cabinet flush against the wall, and at the top, he saw what he was hoping for. The opening didn’t even have a vent cover, which made things even easier. Clambering up the drawers as if they were stairs, he was FINALLY inside.

Along with another seal with a dining cart.

He had more urgent matters to take care of though, so he brushed away the question of, “How the peck?!” For later.

He had to pass by the seal again as he washed his hands, so he asked, “Ah, need some help?”

“No thank woo. My fweind will let me out once they’we done.”

He still had a drink with his name on it and, and was not about wast time arguing. “If ye insist,” he casually said before jumping for the vent opening and climbing out. Once he was on the tool cabinet again, he paused as he tried to figure out the quickest way to the bar.

This ship was convoluted, not like his train, which was mostly a straight line. Sure it would get tweaked for certain movies, but for a train to actually go, you couldn’t deviate from the norm. But this thing didn’t have stairs where they should, and in order to get anywhere, he had had to jump and climb.

That was not an easy task while toting around five rowdy little ones.

He hopped onto the balcony so he could get a better look at where the next jump was when the entire ship violently tipped to the side. The Conductor gripped the railing to keep him self grounded, but he nearly lost his grip when the ship tipped the other way.

“WHAT THE PECK IS GOING ON?!” He screeched at a seal that flew by. Whatever was said was lost in the ruckus of the ship tipping once again, and he caught them with one hand as they were flung back in his direction.

One of the bulky Mafia humans on a balcony across from him yelled, “Driver must have lost mind!”

“Captain was on bweak!” The seal helpfully added.

They were jerked as the ship swerved, causing him to scream,“THEN WHAT PECK NECK IS STEERING?” If he wasn’t clinging for dear life, he would be stamping his feet.

Any further conversation was cut short by a loud metallic screech as the ship jerked to a dead stop before tilting. With the side that the Conductor was on sinking straight into the water.

The seal started to squirm before insisting, “Let go, mister! I can swim!”

Given that he couldn’t hold onto the struggling seal with only one hand, he had to take their word for it. The water was already close enough that the fall wouldn’t even faze them, and he needed to get out quickly.

Once the seal was in the water, a few others were already pulling up a lifeboat to their area, and they directed all the passengers towards it. If it wasn’t for the owl and penguin clearly calling the shots from the boat, he would have wondered where the sudden competency came from.

Shifting his grip, he pulled himself upwards so that he was balanced on the railing. At first he was going to make a jump for the lifeboat, before something icy gripped his heart. “OI, PECK NECK!” he yelled towards the boat. He didn’t care which one answered, “Have ye been to the children’s playroom!?”

“No, sir! we’re trying to get everyone close to the water first,” The owl responded. That was all he needed to know, and he jumped for the still intact bounce pad. “S-sir!” He could hear the owl call for him as he used the spring to trampoline upwards, but he had other priorities.

The little ones were in danger, and he couldn’t wait for someone else to find them.

His jump carried him almost half-way up the side of the ship, but there wasn’t an easy place for him to land. Expletives left his beak as he realized this fact, and his claws screeched against the metal as he slipped back down the side. The fall was halted when he managed to grab onto a window ledge and pull himself up.

All he could think was to jump to the next balcony he could see and keep going up. Even as the ship leaned further over, he fought gravity itself to reach the next hand hold.

He couldn’t let them die. He promised his daughter he would take care of the children on this trip, and that they would all have a good time. She wasn’t supposed to worry about them drowning while they were with him. He couldn’t let her down. He couldn’t let them down.

Even if it meant he died trying to save them.

With the speed that had carried him through the opening of Train Rush, he managed to climb nine-tenths of the way up when he saw a problem. There was a patch of pure white and then glass before the railing at the top of the ship.

Nothing to hold onto.

And the water was only climbing higher.

His best bet was to jump and pray that he could reach the railing. With no time to lose, he took his only available option.

Which thankfully worked out; he was able to grip the railing that kept people from falling off the top of the ship and pull himself over. Just in time for several pool toys and floats to slide down and bounce into him.

If he popped one or two out of frustration when trying to get them out of the way, no one needed to know.

With everything turning on its side and sliding, the path to the playroom was perilous. He could even see the icy pool water spilling out and flooding the lower level of the deck. From his position, he could see that the remaining vacationers were scrambling to the exit on the opposite end from his destination.

None of them were carrying little balls of yellow feathers.

All the pool chairs on the upper level where he was were heaping together into a miserable pile. At least one tipped over the edge once it hit the glass. But, it meant there was a mostly clear path to the dome that he knew covered the playroom, and he took off running.

Until the angle became too much for him to keep his feet on the walkway.

His chin hit the boards before gravity rolled him back towards the railing he just left.

He couldn’t fail. Not now. Not when he was so pecking close.

Pulling out a knife, he jammed it into the wood to stop his descent. The pain in his shoulder told him he would feel that in the morning, but he would worry about that when the little ones weren’t in danger.

He tugged the knife a few times to ensure it was well and truly wedged in before pulling himself up and grabbing the edge of the deck. The angle of the ship now meant that once he was over the edge, he could stand on it, and once there, he prepared himself for a dive towards the still open door to the playroom.

The landing was a bit rough, but he was finally in there.

And it was empty.

Unable to believe what he was seeing, he called out, “Ainsley? Maisie? Innes? Rory? Alister? Yer grandpa’s here!” As each name came out, his voice became more desperate and pleading, and it nearly cracked by the last word.

All he heard was silence other than the sound of water leaking in.

Speaking of which, he could feel the chill of the arctic ocean through his shoes, and he clambered onto the desk before the water could soak more of his clothing. Still frantically looking, he noticed that the circular playpen, while still attached to the floor, was tilted so that the opening was hanging over the water that had already accumulated.

His heart stopped.

The little ones couldn’t swim.

He jumped into the water in a panicked frenzy. With frantic movements, he swept his arms around as he searched. His arm bumped into something, and without hesitation, he grabbed it and swam up. Once he surfaced, he got a better look. A part of him was afraid of the answer, but he needed to know.

It was a dinky toy.

“RAAAAUGH.” Screaming in frustration, he threw the toy against a wall, uncaring of where it landed. Which, after bouncing a few times, it slid right back into the rapidly swelling pool. “WHERE ARE MY PECKING GRANDCHILDREN?!”

Any further screaming was halted as he felt the cold bite of the water finally getting through his desperate and angry haze.

He already knew that he couldn’t handle arctic water well after the incident in the pool.

They have no chance of surviving that.

The thought weighed him down even more than his currently wet clothes. Climbing out of the water was difficult thanks to his shaking limbs, and he wasn’t sure if that was thanks to the physical or emotional numbness.

With the ship almost completely on its side, he couldn’t see a way out, so he pulled himself into the concave curve of the glass-like dome that was once the ceiling of this room.

And waited.

He wasn’t sure for what. Even if he was found, would he be able to live knowing that he had failed his precious grandchildren? He shouldn’t have left them to drink for hours. He hadn’t even explored the boat for other activities he couldn’t do with them around. He had just wasted his time in one spot on alcohol and not spending the last few hours of their lives with them.

He was an awful grandfather. An awful father. Maybe his other daughter was right. Maybe he was just a selfish bastard who never cared for his family.

Thoughts continued to spiral as he stood up, and he couldn’t help but contemplate the water before him.

Until a loud splash brought him to the present, and jerked his attention back to the very crooked entrance.

It was the hatted lassie.

She was jumping across the platforms with the skill and speed he expected from her, but he couldn’t figure out what she was doing here. She should have been on one of the life boats! He was about to say as much when she got to him, but she picked him up without any preamble.

He couldn’t help but squawk at the sudden action, and he gave a half-hearted reminder about his feathers that she clearly wasn’t paying attention to.

Unwilling to potentially drag her down with him by struggling, he kept quiet as he let her carry him out of the playroom and to the last life boat. He couldn’t help but shiver as his damp clothing was exposed to the wind, but the minor tremors did not deter the lass.

When they made it to the boat, there was a fair amount of rescues there, including two Express Owls. Who looked overjoyed when he saw them.

“Conductor, your grandkids have been looking for you! We went ahead and sent the other boats on-”

“Don’t wait up for me pup. Get in a boat and scram. This is my dang ship, and I’ll go down with it,” the Captain’s voice echoed over the water.

The immense relief at finding out the little ones were safe was then shattered when the lass started running back to the boat. Likely to rescue the stubborn captain.

“Wait, lass, where yer going? You wanna save HIM?” He shouted at the fleeing child. The Captain was a Walrus for Peck’s sake! He could hold his breath long enough to swim away if he wanted to! And if he didn’t want to… well, the lass shouldn’t be risking her life!

“I’m not gonna hang around a sinking ship! If you don’t make it back quick, we’ll leave without yer!” Some part of him had hoped that would scare her back, but she was already climbing into the top of the ship and had clearly ignored him.

“She saved some of your kids, you know?” The moon penguin whispered to the frustrated owl. “I don’t think she has it in her to leave anyone behind.”

While he knew that was true, it didn’t ease his agitation. The ship was already halfway sunk; they didn’t have much time before they would be endangered too. They couldn’t wait forever.

The boat couldn’t stay so close to the ship and had to move, but between the seals moving some capsized life boats around and some of them staying back to guide, there was a clear path from the ship to their boat. He could only hope she saw it.

Waiting was agony, and there wasn’t much room to pace. “Where’s the lass? The ship is sinking, we gotta get out of here.” After about a minute, he yelled again, “Get over here, lassie, We’re leaving NOW!” It was only thanks to his light weight that he was able to jump up and down to express his impatience.

The Express Owl that had the misfortune of being right next to him rubbed his head to clear the ringing from his ears.

After a minute, the lass hopped down from an icy ledge while carrying the Captain. The sight made the Conductor do a double take. Sure he knew that she was light on her feet and good at jumping, but that didn’t necessarily translate to carrying someone ten times your weight. He hadn’t thought much on her carrying himself since he wasn’t much taller than her and significantly lighter, but this was strange.

The relief returned, however, and overpowered the confusion. She was a strange one, yes, but she was consistently strange.

And safe now.

Everyone gave their thanks to the lass as the boat caught up with the others, and the Conductor threw in his own deeply felt appreciation. “Aye, thank you lass. The little ones haven’t learned to swim yet!”

Speaking of.

He could hear the excited peeps from his grandchildren when they saw him. Alister was waving his rubber knife around with excited glee, and it was only thanks to a strangely alert seal that kept him from jumping out of the boat and towards his grandpa. Of course the Conductor couldn’t help but wave and make a silly face at him.

When he could tear his attention away from the little ones, he noticed something… familiar glowing in the middle of the boat with his grandchildren. A glowing hourglass.

Oh PECK.

He heard the Captain say something about the shiny thing on the glacier, and while that caught his attention, he was a lot more worried about something so dangerous in the middle of his grandchildren.

Before he could make his own path, the lass must have come to the same realization and booked it over to claim the Time Piece to send back to her ship and away from clumsy and curious hands.

The time piece itself vanished in an instant, but the lass remained this time. She sunk onto the bench, and he could tell even from this distance that she looked exhausted.

He decided to hop over now that the lass had claimed her prize, and the little ones immediately started to climb all over him. Unfazed, he picked them all up for the best group hug he could deliver. Maisie was initially reluctant to let go, clutching him as tightly as her beak held her pacifier, so he cradled the little one in one arm as he placed the others down.

With the little ones assured of his presence, he joined the lass on the bench. Innes crawled up to sit on his lap still clutching their sunhat, and the others all hovered around him before settling near his feet and leaning against his legs.

He wasn’t sure why the lass hadn’t left yet; generally, once she had her Time Piece, she would leave as soon as possible. He opened his beak to ask the question, but as he turned, he noticed that she was hunched over and trembling.

Thinking about how they were in the arctic and how she had just been hopping and running around in the water, it concerned him. Quietly, he asked, “Are ye cold, lass? Need anything to warm ye up?”

What he hadn’t expected was the lass to turn her face up to him and for her to be crying. “I’m sorry!” she sobbed before burying her face into her hands.

At first, he was confused. “Why are ye apologizing? It’s not like this-”

Before he could complete that sentence, she wailed, “Yes, it is! I saw that Time Piece and. And.” She couldn’t keep talking before another sob broke out. Whatever she had been about to say was lost, and she instead said, “Almost hurt everyone...”

The puzzle put itself together. The Time Piece. She wrecked the ship and endangered all of their lives for one of those hourglasses? A part of him really wanted to be angry. It was a very loud and vocal part of himself.

But the other part saw a clearly guilt-wracked child, and his parental nature told the angry part to peck off.

He shifted the little one in his arm to the other side before reaching out to gently touch her shoulder. “Ye didn’t mean it to turn out like this,” he stated when she looked up at him in surprise. “Everyone was talking about how the ship couldnae sink, and well. How were ye supposed to know?”

She clearly didn’t accept that. “It doesn’t matter… I still-”

“Beatin’ yerself up over it isn’t gonna help, trust me on that one, lass. We all make mistakes. Some of them terrible. But everyone got off that death trap, thanks to you.”

The lass glanced around at the few lifeboats that were around them. “There’s no way that’s it!”

“Lass, ye saw the way to get on before the boat left the dock. It thinned out most of the crowd since they couldnae get on board. Everyone who got that far had to fly or jump.”

After a moment, the lass leaned into his touch until she let him give a one sided hug. The shaking had lessened by then, he noted.

They stayed in that position for a while, and now that he was still, the dampness in his clothes was making itself known again. The lass noticed and asked, “Why are you so cold?”

“I uh, might have taken a dip earlier. While trying to find the little ones.”

The somber look returned to her face, and he kicked himself at his callous reminder of what they had just gone through. The moment was interrupted by a seal with a penguin perched on top approaching their boat, and the penguin asked, “We got some blankets stored in our boat, need any?”

“YES!” The lass shouted. “He’s like a birdcicle at this point!”

That got a loud laugh from the Conductor. “Ye need one too, lass!”

After they got blankets brought over, the Conductor got the little ones wrapped up in their own so that they would nap for a while. Their rescue boat was still a distance away, and he didn’t want them to get into any trouble before then. He noticed that Ainsley’s white hat was damp somehow, so he plucked it off. She chirped in protest but calmed down when he let her hold onto it like a toy.

With his limbs free, he cocooned in his blanket and watched the lass follow suit with hers. Eventually, she ended up leaning against him again, and he finally said, “Ye could just go back to yer ship, right? It’ll be safer for ye.”

“Not fair to you guys...” She mumbled.

It really didn’t sit right with him that she insisted on suffering along with them, but arguing wasn’t going to change her mind. “… How about ye head back once the rescue boat gets here? We’ll be safe by then.”

The lass mulled it over before finally agreeing. “Sure. That’ll be… fine.” A yawn interrupted the reply, and she jerked away.

“Ye can sleep, there’s not much to do other than wait.”

She must have been tired enough to not argue, because she simply leaned back against him, and her breathing slowed after a few minutes.

With all his charges accounted for and resting, the Conductor smiled in relief. He was tired, for sure, but he would deal with that later.

“Rest well, lass.”

[duhragonball]

Dragon Ball Z 271

Last time, Super Buu nearly broke the universe, but Vegito punched him in the face, so it’s okay.   Meanwhile, King Yemma is watching this fight on a big screen TV.    Well, it’s probably one of those projectors like they use in office conference rooms, but it looks like a big screen.   It would have been kind of funny if it was like one of those projector deals, though, and they spent like two episodes trying to get it set up.   Then they sort of get it working, but they can’t make the sound work in full screen mode, so they have to window open and you could see all of Yemma’s desktop icons over on the left.  

Anyway, Yemma credits himself for things working out this well.   Goku wouldn’t have stood a chance against Majin Buu by himself, but thanks to Yemma, he now has Vegeta to fuse with.    All of the oni who work for him give him a standing ovation.

But Baba’s not all that impressed, since she always saw Yemma as a big dumb guy who sits around all day stamping papers.  

So, back to Buu, he’s taking a deep, calming breath to calm down from the last episode.   I’m not sure why he’s bothering, since he’s in the middle of a losing battle, and he’s got a short fuse to begin with.  

Vegito eggs him on, so he tries to attack again, and it doesn’t work.  

But Buu can put himself back together, so it kind of seems like a stalemate.   What difference does it make how much stronger Vegito is if Buu can regenerate indefinitely.  

But Vegito’s still holding on to Buu’s head tentacle, so Buu wants him to toss it back so he can reattach it.  

So Vegito does, but then he shoots it in mid-air, completely annihilating it.   That seems to freak Buu right out.

Vegito threatens to do the same to the rest of Buu, adding that if all of Buu was destroyed in one shot, even he couldn’t regenerate from that.

So Buu has no choice but to grow a new head tentacle.   Well, if he could have done that, why did he want the old one back?   I’m assuming the point of all of this is that there are limits to Buu’s regeneration powers.   We’ve already seen him get destroyed and reformed  several times.   One time he did it to himself.   But usually, it takes a great deal of effort to hurt Buu that badly, whereas Vegito inflicts that sort of damage almost every time he attacks.   So this is far and away the most intense fight Buu has been in, and he’s starting to tire out.   Eventually, Buu will get blown apart so many times that even he won’t be able to pull himself back together.   The impression I get is that it would have been easier for Buu to reattach existing peices of himself than to grow new ones.   If Vegito keeps destroying head tentacles like this, it’s going to wear him down even faster.  

Or Vegito could just destroy Buu all at once, so why doesn’t he do that?   That;s what the Kaioshin want to know.   The Elder Kai gave Goku his own life and the Potara Earrings to defeat Majin Buu, so why doesn’t he just finish the job?

Even Vegito’s surprised by how much stronger he is than Buu, so he tells him not to be too upset over the way the fight is going.

But Buu is upset, so he resorts to one of the moves he picked up from the fighters he’s absorbed.   He’s somewhat surprised to find that Vegito’s familiar with the Super Ghost Kamikaze Attack, but he figures it’ll still hurt Vegito while allowing him to keep his distance.

Except Vegito has that attack scouted.  He just throws five ki blasts from his fingers, and detonates all five ghosts before they can get near him.   In the dub, they called this the “Banshee Blast”, and I don’t know why.  I do like the name, though.

Vegito scoffs at that attempt, since it was a move thought up by a child, but Buu insists that this was just a warm-up for his real attack, which will commence shortly.   

So this time, Buu makes ten ghosts instead of five, and instead of rushing Vegito, they all perform the Kamehameha.

This seems to make Vegito nervous, and he turns around and flees to avoid the blasts.

But these are those bendy Kamehameha’s, like the one Goku used against King Piccolo, so no matter where Vegito goes, the blasts track him.

So Vegito flies into a narrow canyon, which causes some of the Kamehamehas to hit the sides and explode before they reach him.   But Buu was counting on him to do that...

Because he has three ghosts waiting for Vegito on the other end of the trench, and they fire Maseko blasts at him when he approaches.  

And he can’t avoid it all in time, so it all blows up in his face.  Where were the other seven ghosts?    I would assume they all flew down from above to cut off the only escape.  

But it doesn’t work.   Buu’s mighty pleased with himself until he realizes that he can’t find Vegito’s body.   Then he senses Vegito behind him but too late to stop his head from getting blasted off.

Yeah, Vegito just used Goku’s Instant Transmission, and Buu’s like, “Oh, yeah, I forgot he could do that.”   I sort of wonder if this is why Goku doesn’t use it more often than he does.   Sometimes we’ll see him zap himself around rapid fire, but usually he only busts this out once in a great while, and maybe it’s to lull his opponents into a false sense of security.  

So the fight resumes, and Buu cries foul for Vegito using fusion, which is pretty rich coming from a guy who absorbs his opponents when he can’t beat them.   By now, Vegito realizes that he doesn’t even need to use his hands to block Buu’s attacks.

This is sort of like that episode where Frieza did the same thing to Goku until he finally forced Frieza to use his hands, except Buu can’t pull that off.   He tries a ki blast, but Vegito just soccer-kicks it away.

Meanwhile, in heaven, the girls are still searching for Gohan.   Dabura, now a good guy, promises to find Gohan even if it costs his life, but Bulma reminds him that he’s already dead. Okay, so when she raps her knuckles on Dabura’s belt, it clanks like it’s made of metal.  So how does any of this work?  Did Dabura get to keep his belt when he died?    They acted like Goku keeping his physical form after death was a great honor, but here it looks like everyone in heaven gets to have at least half of theirs.   I sort of assumed they were all made out of ghost stuff, but if Dabura’s belt is real, then I have to wonder about his pants.  

Now that I think about it, what’s up with Chi-Chi?  She wasn’t wearing yellow pants, but she has a yellow ghost tail, so what’s up with that?  Same with Videl, really.  But if you touched these ghost tails, would they feel like they’re made out of fabric.  Anyway, Videl thinks they can’t find Gohan, because she still believes he’s alive somehow.    She can feel it, though not in the same way Goku can sense ki.

So Bulma is supportive of this.  Even if it’s wishful thinking, she believes that if you wish hard enough and long enough, your wishes will come true.    Speaking of wishing for something long and hard, Bulma points out that Videl’s in love with Gohan.

D’awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.

Dabura’s ecstatic over this, and I get the impression that he didn’t know what love was until now.   Anyway, he gets a little overenthusiastic about it, and it gets weird.  Way to kill the mood, Dabura, and this is coming from the guy who made a “long and hard” joke a minute ago.

Speaking of long and hard jokes, Buu may have put up a good fight after absorbing Gohan, but it’s not enough to stop Vegito, or even make Vegito try hard.  He informs Buu that he’s beaten, and suggests that he surrender.

I’m not sure what Vegito would do if Buu actually gave up.  I guess he would demand that he cough up Piccolo and the others, assuming Buu even knows how to do that.  Then what?  He just collects the Dragon Balls four months later and wishes everyone back, and Super Buu just gets to hang out?  

Anyway, Buu doesn’t give up, probably because he knows he’s on his own here, and the only thing Vegito can do is kill him, so he eggs him on.

And this is just a trap to lure Vegito in so he can turn him into candy.

Specifically, coffee-flavored candy. 

From ringside, Dende and Mr. Satan are horrified.  This is one of my favorite bits from the dub, because Dende asks “Why coffee-flavored?   That’s gross!”   And instead of “Nani?” Mr. Satan just asks “Candy?”   He’s seen Buu do this before, but he just doesn’t get it.  

From the cheap seats, the Elder Kai flips out.   Vegito just snatched defeat from the jaws of victory.   I’d like to say Kibitokai is siezed with mortal terror, but that’s kind of been his default mood ever since they went into Babidi’s spaceship.

All that’s left now, it seems, is for Buu to decide how to eat Vegito.  I’m with Dende on this: Why coffee flavored?  I went to Starbucks a few weeks ago on a lark.  I don’t think I’ve been to one more than twice, and the first time was like 15 years ago.   Anyway, I decided to get an iced vanilla frappucino, just for the sake of trying one of these overbooked coffee things they’re famous for.   Turns out it was terrible.  I wasn’t sure if I’d like iced coffee or not, but I didn’t expect it to be that bad.   It tasted like coffee that’s been sitting around for a really long time.  Like, imagine if you brewed a pot of coffee, and just dumped it into a stoppered sink and forgot about it for like a week, and then you came back and sipped it up with a straw.  

And I enjoy coffee from time to time, but I never realized just how important the temperature of it can be for the experience.   I knew people drank it on ice, and I honestly thought that made sense.   Yeah, the same flavor, only cold, I could see that.   And yeah, that’s exactly what it tastes like, but it’s awful.    It was like eating the middle part of a Hot Pocket that hadn’t cooked all the way through.

And I know it doesn’t matter here.  The point is that Buu’s survived Vegito, so it doesn’t matter if he tastes good or not.   But still, he could have turned him into anything, so you’d think he would have gone with a better flavor.

Anyway, yadda yadda, Z stands for the end, but ice coffee sucks.  

[rjmorrisonuniverse-blog]

Nolan and the One-Hook Day

1. NOLAN

 What a shit storm of a day.

Distilled angst, chain of events, cosmic joke funnel, harpoon of the gods.

I know as I sit near him that I will have to throw the best punch I have ever thrown; one with technique and violent finality. I'll have to lift up from the chair, slide it back as I tell him "I'm going for a piss", and deliver the perfect right hook that begins from my heel and gains muscle torque up the calf, thigh and buttocks. I'll pivot with it as I rise and all my years of practice should unconsciously find that sweet spot on his jawline. I have to throw for a kill.

One chance or else big trouble.

Even I know that you don't get into punch-ups with massive off-duty cops.

One knockout hook, and an expedient exit through the side door on the far end of that pool table. It has to be soon, before the after work crowd shows up and this shit-hole becomes witness city. Before the pork behemoth gets even nastier and I run out of time. You bet your ass the pig reference is intended; this guy has the face of a swine. Mammoth jarhead on a stump neck with beady red rimmed eyes and nose vascularity that bespeaks years of hard drink. His voice is gravel, whisky phlegm and flat hard, and his salt and pepper goatee has an ugly way of framing an unsmiling mouth.

Motherfucking pig, prick, douchebag.

 I guess we should backtrack some. My name is Nolan. You don't need the surname, so get over it right now. I work for a metal stamping plant, and we make mostly automobile fenders. The job pays well but the environment is a hell on earth; a gargantuan space lit by low sodium lamps that hang forty feet above the floor. Two-storey tall machines that thump and roar like monsters starved for metal and perhaps human flesh, and a long shift there with earplugs inserted and legs taking shock after shock wave is about as otherworldly a job as I've ever had.

Is it any wonder I amped up my mixed martial arts training and aimed at the UFC?

Lunch breaks at A.G. Simpson were hilarious, as the zombies filed into the cafeteria in various states of exhaustion, depression, hangover, debt, disillusion. Even there, with the long bank of windows that overlooked the main work area below, the fucking lighting was brutal. In your face harshness, bad food, a sickly mint green high gloss paint on the cinder block walls... I mean, no amount of overtime could justify my being there and ONLY there to make ends meet. I remember a painting crew that was hired to spray the ceilings and recoat the washrooms, and those guys were freaked OUT by the vibe. They took their breaks in the cafeteria too, cursing themselves for not bringing their own food to the job, bitching about the watery vending machine coffee, and more than a dozen times asking us "how the fuck do you stand working here?"

So, given my size and mindset coupled with a love for man-to-man conflict resolution, it was a no-brainer for me to embark on a little side action in the octagon. I started as a gangly kid with the amateur boxing and proved a quick study with natural power in each hand. Even with the headgear and twelve ounce gloves I was knocking people out cold, and sparring partners too. I always seemed to have that mean in me, but as lady luck, that rotten bitch, would have it... I was a "cutter". If I didn't knock his ass out in the first couple of rounds, sooner or later I'd be bleeding. Bottom lip, bridge of nose, and for a brief stint in the pro circuit, both eyelids. I was an undefeated slugger fighting out of a loser gym, punching for power and lantern jawed, but that goddamned skin of mine  pushed me toward MMA combat, and that was fine by me. I didn't like my fellow man as a rule, and most days, hitting him made more sense than conversation.

I started out lucky, through a cousin who was being trained in the Pat Miletich camp, and found myself under the tutelage of the great man himself. I could list details about the intensive training that mixed kickboxing and Jiu-jitsu, Pat's karate methods and a stripped down version of Thai boxing that seemed best suited to my power... I could talk about the first dozen fights in Iowa, all victories by knockout in the first round.

I was busting my hump at the metal stamping plant all day, training five nights a week, and taking fights for shit money anywhere they would put me. Eventually I was given an opportunity to match up against a name opponent, even though his career was on the downward spiral, and representatives from the UFC were ringside. That was one motherfucker of a highlight reel knockout, let me tell it. My six foot four two hundred fifty pound hammer was primed to drop and I don't mind saying that poor bastard was knocked out during the stare down. Stoked? Homicidal.

The first thing he attempted was a leg kick, and in missing, he presented me with a clean shot at his mandible. I saw his eyes go all wide and wild just as I uncorked a sweet left uppercut and felt that indescribable delicious shock of connection when it exploded on the sleep spot under his chin. He was out before his head bounced off the canvas, and even today the debate continues about what killed him; the punch or that heavy landing. My celebrations ended when I saw that he wasn't getting up, and by the time the stretcher arrived I knew it was serious. I won't lie to you. I won't say it chewed me up inside that my opponent died a week later. These are gladiators and they go into it fully aware of the dangers. Highly skilled, trained to the nth degree, all it takes between two combatants in that arena is a nanosecond of error and somebody's lights go out.

Permanent injury, career ending injury? Not common, but I wasn't a common hitter either. Maybe we can thank my father for that. Every opponent wore his face and I don't throw to win. I throw to injure.

I was told that a contract was being drawn up for me in the aftermath of that fight; that all the way up to Dana White's office, the name "Nolan" was being spoken as the next money magnet. Then that poor bitch died and the contract offer was postponed until the media hornets nest died, too. I was pissed, maybe even a little at myself, and for sure at the man whose physically abusive ways had forged the fires that shaped me.

Two weeks later, I busted up one of Miletich's top young prospects during a heated sparring exchange, and that was the end of my UFC dream. Back to the zombie show at A.G. Simpson I went, and no amount of prying from fellow workers would get me to talk about just how close I had come to fame and financial freedom. Fuck it, fuck them, and fuck dreams. That became my mantra, and I withdrew into a mean sonofabitch's shell. Nobody messed with me back then.

Well, not until I took on that part time gig as a bouncer at Bunny's strip club. That was where I met Sherry-Ann.

  2. SHERRY-ANN

  Here in the bottom of the barrel tavern, I motion to the waiter for two more pints and listen to the gravelly voice of the big prick sitting at the corner of the table. He's talking about his failed marriages, the failings of the judicial system, the failure of society to appreciate what he does for a living. Failure? I'll show the motherfucker failure. Then, as the waiter sets down two more pints, I hear off-duty pig's speech beginning to slur.

"You shoulda been a cop". He fixes his cold eyes on me, looking at my down-to-the-wood hairstyle and clean cut features. He's bitching about the career path and in his next beery breath he's pitching a sale.

"My woman wouldn't have anything to do with me if I was a cop", I tell his stump of a face while Sherry-Ann drops the needle down on some distant memory that plays a song of sex and rage. Pig-mug leers into his ale, and I glance down at the broad knuckles across my right hand, square and knobby and designed for pain delivery. I had been forming a fist as he bitched about his marriages, and now I force myself to flatten out the fingers on my thigh.

 You may have thought that Sherry-Ann was a stripper, based on my mention of the club where I watched the door and floor. Nothing against the girls inside who worked the laps for money, but I would never date a peeler. I fucked a couple of them when I first took the job because they were practically throwing it at me. These all-American clean cut features of mine would have been enough, but toss in some nasty scar tissue and my indifferent conduct, and it was shooting fish in a barrel time. I don't pretend to understand the mind of a woman, but there is a fundamental truth about their being attracted to rough men. They may not love us in a lasting way, but a lot of them want us between their legs.

My first weekend on the job, on the Saturday shift, this feature dancer "Savannah" kept taking her breaks in the entrance lobby, near the door and near me. Nothing wrong with my meat radar, and I knew where the harpoon was headed. This joint, "Bunny's", was a rough place in a nasty part of southside downtown. Blood spatter on the sidewalk out front was common, and in time a lot of it was extracted by yours truly in the doing of his job; I always thought it funny how these down and out motherfuckers could find money for beer and lap dances. How many of them had wives and hungry children at home?

Some of them came in looking for trouble, pissed off at the world, and I took pleasure when reducing their dietary needs to soup. The owner of the place didn't give a shit how we did our duty, as long as the money came in and the cops stayed away and the girls were kept happy. So, when Savannah finished her final three song set of the night, instead of taking private dance requests she asked me if I would join her for a drink. Rose, the owner, cleared it with "Night's almost over... long as you keep an eye on the room."

Savannah and I shared a small table near the entrance door, and she did most of the talking while I admired her rack and scanned the patrons. Her body language was nothing less than a carnal invitation, with those shapely legs spread and her hand coming up often to touch my bicep, forearm, knee. A vacant, giggling, augmented and needy blonde caricature.

Shift finished, I invited her back to my two-bedroom apartment for a few more drinks and some good hard fucking, but on the way out the back door I first saw Sherry-Ann and she laid a burn job on my mind. She was leaning forward to talk to a potential client through the driver side window, and I caught sight of long-honed legs flowing up into a tightly rounded naked ass calling to me beneath her hiked black skirt. Statuesque, easily six feet without the twat-for-sale boots, and when she heard the back door squeal open and slam shut she turned for a second to shoot me and my companion a hard appraising look. The street lamp threw a sleazy orb over her beautiful features, with that young Margot Kidder sneer, too much lipstick and tumbling waves of ludicrous wig-red tresses tickling the mid back.

Untamed; that was the immediate impression. Lanky and dangerous and maybe a little crazy, and the kind of bedroom ride that was sure to be a roller coaster. We experienced that intense time-stand-still-eye-lock and I felt the kinetic energy between us that stayed with me all through the next two hours of sex with Savannah. That final climax, doggie style with her face pushed into the back of my sofa and her hands braced against the wall... that was another woman's bird I was basting. A woman I was determined to meet at the next opportunity. I remember drama-Savannah's look of injury when I handed her cab fare at four in the morning and bluntly told her I needed to sleep alone. She tried to protest and I gave it to her straight - "We both got what we wanted tonight, and now it's time for you to piss off."

 "You really shoulda been a cop, I'm telling you."

I nod as if in agreement, look at the clock above the bar and realize that I'll have to do my thing soon. Sherry-Ann will be expecting me home from work, completely unaware that my day is an official shit-storm only beginning to hit the fan. The huge man sitting with me lifts the pint of ale to his mouth, still glaring my way over the rim, and I see his police-issue service revolver sitting snugly in its shoulder holster. The open front of his brown suede jacket, the bulging stomach, massive arms barely contained by sleeves, and a pungent body odor of sickening complexity.

This doomed fuck doesn't have a clue that I followed him here.

3. PARENTING

  A week after I first laid eyes on Sherry-Ann's lanky goods, I was on duty at Bunny's with a sense of excitement that I hadn't felt in a long time. The shift was uneventful, and when I went through the back door, there she was at the end of the block with another chick. I thought about walking over to her, but decided to roll up in my Grand National. It was a hot night and she was sweetly tucked into a pair of high-riding denim shorts and a tight red t-shirt with black boots at the mid-calf; straight platinum blonde wig. I saw her eyes move from her companion as I rode up slowly, window down.

What a fucking body. Built for cock of Nolan. I can't explain the power of the attraction, and I had never considered paying for sex even once in my life. She just had that sneer, defiance, youthful strut and a physique to match. I'll admit that I had a soft spot for the ladies of the night, because my mother had been one, and I hate on pimps and everything they represent. Sure, I had some Travis Bickle in me, and Sherry-Ann was my Jodie Foster.

"Looking for a date?" her upper lip curled at the corner, and then I could see her remembering me from the weekend before. She smiled as I stopped, and her girlfriend took a long look through the windshield before casually strolling around the corner out of sight. "Hey, I remember you, stud."

Long story short, we did a little negotiating and she got in the car. I drove around the block and parked in behind Bunny's near the fire escape and garbage bins. Very romantic. Turned out that Sherry-Ann was new to this stroll, and didn't fuck. She was oral only, and I had to wear a jimmy hat Her old man was a biker-type who also had a piece of the action in the very club where I worked; a few girls who took on after hours customers at his command. He'd taken a shine to his newest meat, and didn't want Sherry-Ann riding any cock but his. I was as stiff as a fucking girder when she started stroking me through the dress slacks, but when I tried to enjoy her tits she moved my hand away gently, bending to unzip me and set the crowbar free. As soon as she started rolling that goddamned rubber over the head I could feel myself losing the erection.

"This isn't how I want it" I told her flatly, and she froze, raised herself back up and looked me long in the eyes. I remember thinking that I knew her from somewhere, maybe another life, and for the first time in my thirty four years I felt that I wanted something intensely. Her. "I wouldn't mind grabbing a coffee somewhere for half an hour, for the same money, if that's cool."

We started that way, and for weeks I would take her to a seedy twenty four hour diner near her stroll, to learn about her life and tell her about mine. Both of us were survivors of violent childhoods, but her father was nothing compared to the evil piece of shit that was mine. Her dad was heavy into the booze, gambling, and spousal abuse. My father was the angriest most self-entitled rage-aholic in existence, and from my first childhood memories it was his fists that marked my growth.

That prick verbally abused my mother and took sadistic pleasure in kicking the shit out of his only child. As I grew into a large teenager, the beatings escalated in duration and ferocity. He never told me why he hated me, but I knew instinctively that my life had been an accident... a miserable wait around that cocksucker's reality. As Sherry-Ann and I shared these sad stories over coffee, we could feel a mutual caring develop between us, and I always had that sexual hunger for her.

In time, she trusted me enough to explain that she wanted to get away from "Roy", who was becoming increasingly demanding and violent. He'd brought in another girl from the bus terminal, and that was his new top bitch. Sherry-Ann had to start earning like the other girls, and when she told me that, I took care of the situation for her. I spent a couple of weeks in hiding, watching for this fucker, and quickly enough I was able to figure out his schedule. He'd roll around just after the sun went down, in a beat up blue panel van, and again after three in the morning to collect the pussy rent... I waited for the Thursday of the third week, told Sherry-Ann exactly what I planned to do, ignored her warnings and pleas, and when Roy showed up later that night for his money...

Nolan came out of the shadows across the street. Roy was in the driver's seat, window down, in conversation with one of the other girls and I casually walked around the back of the van to push his bitch out of the way with my right hand before looping a short left hook into the center of his face; it had brutal follow-through and Roy's head whiplashed before he hit the bench seat sideways. Two of the girls started running away, but Sherry-Ann stayed for the show. I yanked open the door and grabbed a generous handful of beard and long hair, pulled the semi-conscious Roy back to a sitting position. The blood was cascading out of what remained of his nose, down his shirt and vest, all over the money he had dropped into his lap. I gave him a good shake and his eyes rolled open, tried to focus, and before he could attempt anything I drove a hateful straight left into his open mouth, putting him OUT. I loved the sight of him sagging back to a lying position in a grotesque slow motion of jaw-hanging gore. "Sherry-Ann is with ME from now on" I shouted into the cab, and who knows if he heard it or not...

"Call an ambulance for this piece of shit, and let's go get your things." An hour and two pieces of luggage later, Sherry-Ann took refuge in my apartment. A roach-infested den of depression and about as dead end as it gets for a pretty young runaway of twenty three. We had sex for the first time that night; a two-way act of consumption that I won't ever forget. We felt like we knew each other far beyond those few weeks of talking, and her forthright way of telling me how to fuck her, how to do the things that she needed done, the way her sexy mouth formed a leering curve when she came so hard and violently around me. It would be a long time before she heard it, but when I called in sick the next morning, I was sure I could love her.

Roy? He hadn't seen what hit him. I heard that he lost most of his upper and lower plate, had to have his nose reconstructed, and a few weeks after that night he and his women vanished from Bunny's and the block. Sherry-Ann settled in with me, took a waitressing job, and we fell into a year-long calm spell... I had saved almost all of my earnings over the past eight years and we made plans to get a house together outside the city core. We had a friendship and the sex was ferocious, but there were hurdles to overcome. I helped Sherry-Ann quit the glass pipe, and she helped me open up.

 Which brings me back to this nameless drinking hole and the large man sharing a scarred wooden table with me. Brings me to a heartbeat of hate, and the day that marked the history of Nolan with a river of tainted blood.

 4. SHIT, MEET THE FAN

 A Friday that began like any other, with the five thirty alarm. Sherry-Ann's warmth against me under the sheets, and the new anticipation of weekend reward in my life. I gave up the bouncer gig at the strip club to spend weekends with my woman, and for the first time ever I had days to look forward to during the workweek. Long lazy mornings in bed together, watching television, having sex, lost in conversation... me, the short fuse with lots on his mind and little to say. Simple, beautiful hours.

That Friday I ate my breakfast alone then walked quietly into the bedroom to kiss Sherry-Ann on the forehead as she slept. Me, the guy who told himself he would never give a shit about anyone... she was asleep on her side, dark brown hair fanned out across the pillow. I ran it through my fingers to make myself believe again that this amazing change had come to my existence, and then left to make the half hour trip to the A.G. Simpson metal stamping plant. I first noticed the horizon of fire when I made the turn into the industrial park on Laird avenue; jet black smoke billowing upward to form the devil's cloud cover, licked from below by a massive wall of flame. I hit the gas and felt my guts sink into the comfortable abyss of my usual state of being, knowing what I was going to see at the end of the avenue, reaching for the radio as I saw the rows of cars lining each side and stopped by a phalanx of police cruisers, ambulances, and fire trucks. The all-news station was on the scene and I learned that a huge explosion had ripped through my place of employment, killing four workers and injuring dozens of others.

"Jesus H. Fuck!" I pulled over and parked on the strip of grass adjacent to the two lane blacktop, got out to watch the blaze. Co-workers either sat in their cars or stood around in groups, shaking their heads at the sight of the apocalypse before them. A couple of them acknowledged me with nods, but most of them ignored me. I told you before, people tended to avoid me and I like it that way. I asked a couple of the guys what they knew, and nobody had shit for info other than the explosion happened just before dawn. Fuck me, I kept thinking, there goes work for a while. Maybe for good if the place is gutted.

I went back to the car, sat and watched the show, and after a couple of hours it occurred to me that I should just go the fuck home to be with the only person I cared about before she went in to work her half day. All the way back toward the small house we were renting, my mind was in a fog that reminded me of the worst of times during my childhood. My sixteenth birthday, when the man who called himself my father arrived to take me out of school because my mother had overdosed on heroin. Waiting in the hospital as she fought her last battle, he found a way to blame me, and that night after her death the beating he dished out had me fearing for my own life. I fought him back for the first time, and even though I hurt that motherfucker, he got the best of me and I spent two days in my room bruised, battered, and determined to leave. Two weeks later, he went in to work the night shift and I escaped. Some day I'll tell you about those first few months... I did things to survive that no one should resort to. If not for my mother's sister, I wouldn't be here today to break deserving skulls.

A half block away from the house I could see a car in the parking pad. A rusty Pontiac Laurentian, dented along the passenger doors and crusted with dirt. What the fuck? I glanced at my watch and it came from the stomach up to my throat; a sick knowledge of a thought that I stopped from forming... without realizing it I was on the brake and slowing. Ten in the morning on a day I'm not supposed to be here until five thirty. She goes to work at twelve, comes home before five. I put the car in reverse and backed up to park against the curb about a dozen houses away from mine, killed the engine and sat in silence. I watched the car in the driveway, looked at the front of the bungalow that framed the inevitable act of betrayal that life had in store for guys like me. For the first time in nearly twenty years I didn't take immediate action. I couldn't, man. I was paralyzed with a cold sweating fear, choking on a feeling like being trapped in a plunging elevator. There was no rationalizing in the car that morning as I sat there watching and so certain that Sherry-Ann was in there destroying us with another man who was soon to pay a price beyond reason.

Almost two hours went by, in a blur, before I decided to leave the car. I strolled over to the house, slowly and not feeling anything I can describe. I was thinking about a movie that I'd seen called "Into The Night", where the main character played by Jeff Goldblum comes home early to find his wife screwing someone. As I walked between my place and the neighbour's, around the side to the back bedroom window, my mind went numb. I always knew that God had put me here in this body for a lifetime of getting fucked. Life is a better fuck than pussy. Life is a twenty four and seven joystick, motherfuckers.

Our bedroom windows bottomed at eye level. An air conditioner filled the lower section of the far pane, so I cupped my hands around my eyes and peered through the glass of the east frame... the blinds weren't dropped all the way down to the sill and I was able to make out the two shapes on our bed. The bottom of the bed faced the windows, giving me a clear enough look at his big legs and ass as he pumped his erection into her. I felt a scary chill of calm for a moment, watching his balls move back and forth as he rode that beautiful pussy and blocked her from my view through sheer bulk. The sight of her long naked legs, one bent upward and one straightened, and a small hand gripping the blankets... that started the tears and I turned away quickly to walk back to the car.

Those were the longest two hours of my life, longer even than the wait for news about my mother that afternoon in the hospital. I'm not a smoker, so I sat and chewed gum in silence, waiting and getting used to the idea that once again, the dream is over. Fuck life, fuck love, and fuck dreams. Welcome back to reality. You fell for a whore, asshole. She's been turning tricks on the side all this past year and you bought the Hallmark card version of what it should have been and isn't. Last Friday had been a good fucking day that lasted clear through until the following Monday, and THIS one is the end of the world as you know it. Job, woman? Fuck you. Gone.

 The bartender, myself and this half drunken off-duty pig, plus six others who sit at the bar on the far side of this shit-hole. Four hours ago I watched this man leave my house through the front door, as though it were his, and casually get into his old Pontiac. I gave him a decent head start and then followed him across town into the city core. He parked in front of a tired brownstone on the south side, got out and lumbered up the stoop past a sign that read "short term rentals available", and I parked further up the street and did some more waiting. Him first, her later. I couldn't believe it and yet it made perfect sense. I'd deal with him, then Sherry-Ann would get one chance to explain this to me. Just one. I turned to lean against the driver's door, stretched my legs out across the seats, flexed my fingers, and watched the front door of that brownstone. When I made the decision to stop waiting he emerged from the building wearing the same clothes, and I followed him to the fucking dive that now serves as the shit-storm epicentre.

I gave it fifteen minutes before I entered the nameless hole. It took my eyes a moment to adjust from bright afternoon to damaged liver gloom, and the smell of piss and old beer and sweat that hit me like a swinging back-fist. All eyes turned at my entrance, but he was hunched over a pint and facing away from the front door and was the only one not to see me come in. I went straight to the bartender and asked him in a low voice what "that guy over there" was drinking, ordered two pints, and walked the length of the room to his table.

I set the pints down in the middle of the tabletop and pull out a chair around the corner from his, and he looks first at me and then the beer. Back at me, eyes widening as I lower myself and bore lasers into his pupils. "Still a cop?" I slide one pint toward him and raise mine up for a good swallow. He doesn't answer right away, staring me in the face, sizing me up, lost in something... "YOU shoulda been a cop" he mutters. "I followed you here" I tell him right away, let it soak in for a moment. "From the place where I'm staying?" he runs a huge hand through his goatee and greying hair. "No, from my place... the factory where I work is burning today."

He nods slowly, looking down into his beer... "been looking for you, son."

"I've never been your son, mister. I have the scars to prove it."

"I heard you left the city to stay with your aunt for a long time... " his voice trails off in memory. "So you found out where I live, dropped by for a friendly visit, did you?" He smirks a little and I almost throw the bomb right then, but it isn't the right time... I'm throwing for a kill, remember. I play it like I don't mind that he found me, and of course he has no idea that I saw him fucking my woman... no idea that as I sit here getting psyched up to stop his motherfucking heart, my own has been smashed. "So here I am, sir. What can I do for you?" he smirks again.

And it goes like that for nearly an hour, as this beastly childhood force sits next to me and attempts to... what? Atone for something? Correct the damage that he inflicted on his only child? I sit here and listen to his talk about the difficulty of losing my mother, and the failed second and third marriages. I let him ramble through his anger, and I hear nothing but an older version of the gigantic negative force that took all of my potential and crushed it into a compact life-hating machine. I can't even come up with one iota of pity for this prick, and now it's Sherry-Ann I'm thinking of as I glance again at the wall clock and decide it's time. How she could betray me... us... like that, and with THIS of all monsters.

"Tell me something" I interrupt his self pitying rant about spineless judges. "How much did you pay?" He looks at me stupidly, one bushy eyebrow lifting. "For Sherry-Ann this morning" I raise my voice a notch. "What did that cost you?" His hand comes up with the pint as he says "I didn't pay" and I slide the chair back, start the hook from my hip as I rise and pivot to throw thirty five years of poison through my torso and shoulder and forearm and fist as a projectile unlike any I've ever unleashed. Instinctively aimed for his heavy jawline as he tries to react too late, jerking beer over the rim of his glass when I land it and envision my knuckles removing his lower face. The jolt of it through my arm is like an orgasm and he and the chair hit the floor as though a wrecking ball has swung into the tavern. I'm not even looking at the others in the room, and in one chain of events I squat to look at his hanging jaw and the teeth that he is pushing out of his mouth with a bleeding tongue.

The cocksucker is still conscious but the force of the hook has probably broken his neck. I've never seen a head swivel like that. I grab a handful of vest and start dragging him across the floor as the witnesses just begin to realize what has happened, maybe not even giving a damn in a place this rough. I drag the piece of shit across the floor and his face is hitting the legs of chairs, his arms are limp. The bartender yells "hey! take that shit out of here" and I feel a nasty smile crack my mouth. The door near the pool table has one of those metal bars on it that you push, so I lift up my prey with both hands and ram his face into it. Outside in the late afternoon sunshine I can see that his fucking head looks like a shotgun suicide, and his breath is heavy and blood thick. There's a big blue garbage dumpster around back, and I drag him face down by the vest collar, hearing his gun scrape along the asphalt, feeling the swelling along the top of my hand. 

I prop him up in a sitting position against the dumpster and step back to deliver a looping head kick to his temple. His skull whiplashes and he hits the parking lot on his right side. I feel myself nod in agreement, then finish him off with a short toe kick to the throat. From the moment I first hit him to the lifting and tossing of his body into the dumpster I have been outside of myself. I take one final look at his imploded features and spit on them, dropping the metal lid down on the fucking garbage.

Do you think the blades of the fan are now filled with shit? No. There's just one more detail to cap my Friday to end all Fridays. I drive back to my house, just ahead of rush hour traffic. My hand is swollen and cut where I clipped his teeth. My mind is a seething pit of rage and fatality. I don't care about a fucking thing at this point other than to have Sherry-Ann look at me with her gorgeous eyes and talk me out of this crescendo. Tell me it was a moment of weakness, of old habits dying hard... tell me what you have to but tell me everything will be okay.

I pull into the driveway, enter the house, and see that she is home early. Her purse and shoes and waitress outfit are all in the living room. The house is silent and I walk quickly down the middle hall toward the last room on the left where she is lying in bed with her eyes wide open and the belt from her bathrobe knotted up around her neck. My breath hitches in my chest. I turn on the ceiling light. The bedsheets are on the floor, the pillow case beneath her spattered in blood, the tip of her tongue is showing between bloody lips. I nod again in agreement with the universe. Nolan is getting cosmic-fucked now. How DARE I fall in love? Who am I to change what I am?

In an echo of my earlier gesture that morning, I bend over Sherry-Ann to kiss her forehead, then close her eyelids. No tears now. I pack one piece of luggage, turn off the bedroom light, and get into the car to head for the nearest automatic teller. I'll get a hotel room and tomorrow I clear out my savings. Nolan blows this town forever. I'm on a mission now, and before I'm finished people will know about me from coast to coast.

Every lowlife motherfucker in every shitty part of every city has it coming, and I'm the delivery boy.

[taintedones]

' DRINK UP! ’ Hickory’s rough voice was quiet, his eyes were barely open and there were resent shapes in his palm signaling that he’d been clenching his fist so hard that morning, that his nails had left imprints. They were the usual symptoms, Landon had come to recognize them over the years. Today was reaping day. 

It wasn’t as if he’d forgotten. It was hard to do so. The days leading up to the annual event caused people to sulk around with fallen faces, as if the reaping had already happened. However, that had never been Landon. Why waste was could possibly be you last few days of freedom being miserable. Had Cecily been alive, she would have done a thousand and one things she really wanted to do before every reaping, just in case. That’s when it hit him, as he stared down at the glass of liquid courage Hickory had placed in front of him, he swallowed a lump in his throat. Today would’ve been her first.

He’d tossed the liquid down his throat so fast, to get it over with. The glass of alcohol was always how Hickory dealt with the reaping’s and the memories that came with it. Though that day in particular, it seemed as though he’d started early. Landon could smell it on his breath from a few yards away. He never asked questions though. Hickory’s daughter had died in the fifty-seventh games. Jesus, two decades ago. Landon nodded to himself, no wonder the man already smelt like booze. Shortly after Cecily’s death the two had sat and sobbed for an hour about the people that they lost. Since then there was an unspoken agreement between the two of them that they would move on and shed no more tears. Landon had pretended to keep to that promise for Hickory. 

As the last remaining drops of the alcohol burned down his throat, Landon picked himself up and headed towards the room that was dedicated to him, calling back as he did, ‘s’pose I should make an effort --- it’s my last time after all.’   He very rarely did that. He tended to wear the same shirt every year, until it got too small. Then he’d grab one the next size up. He was very complacent with it all. However, this year when he entered his room there was a different set of clothing laying on the bed. A short sleeve collared shirt, some brown pants with a pair of suspenders and a tie. The tie that Hickory had gifted him on his birthday that year. It wasn’t a new occurrence, Hickory laying his clothes out for him. He used to do it for his daughter so in a way Landon figured it was therapeutic. He pulled on the clothing without a fuss and started to work on the tie. He wasn’t a fan of things around his neck, it made him feel like he couldn’t breathe; so, his left it hanging slightly, a little bit looser than intended. Then he did what he always did, he rolled up the sleeved of his shirt. Guess you could say it was his own little stamp. Very soon he was reaching for his would-be token, if he were to be chosen. It was a gold ring. Landon assumed It was likely just some kind of metal painted gold. Cecily had found it when she was six. She’d wandered all around seven looking for its owner for days. She was selfless like that. When she eventually found the owner, he was so astounded by her action that he told her to keep it. It was too big for her little fingers so she’d tied a string around it and gifted it to Landon on his first reaping. He rarely took it off.

The walk to the justice building was calm. Hickory stood beside him talking about all the things they’d do to celebrate his final reaping when it was all over. Though they both knew neither of them would be celebrating anything. They both liked to process things after reaping’s, alone. However, the idle chat was much appreciated. There was already a line of kids packed at the desk that made sure everyone was present. Hickory squeezed his shoulder and headed off to find a spot where he could hear, but not see. He didn’t like to watch. 

As the line got smaller, Landon was grateful for the short-sleeved shirt. It was hot and it felt like he was waiting for hours. The line moved quickly but Landon suddenly became focused on a young boy, likely twelve. He must’ve been about twelve, a late comer. He looked frazzled. The line was long, the boy had sweat on his forehead. He was mumbling something about not being able to see from the back.

‘Hey, you can cut in here if you want.’ He’d smiled, gesturing to the boy who happily accepted his offer with a stuttered thanks. He was shaking so much that the vibrations echoed through the pavement. ‘You’ll be alright.’ Landon squeezed the boy’s shoulder as Hickory had done to him.  The line moved again and soon they were standing side by side in the roped off section designated for the males. He was still shaking. The escort did their usual cheery speech and a girl was called up to the stage. Landon hadn’t paid much attention, he never did. He tried to scan the crowd to see if his mother had made an appearance. Nope. Then suddenly he felt movement beside him. The little boy who’d been so frazzled was now trembling with fear. He was moving.

‘Excuse me.’

Landon looked down at him, then back at the front. The escort repeated his name. Subconsciously, Landon took a step back to allow him through. Then came the thought. His first reaping, imagine if Cecily had been called today. Had she been alive. 

‘What are you doing.’ The boy whispered. Landon’s hand was on his wrist as he tried to wriggle free.

He hadn’t even notice it. He tugged on him a little bit to prevent him from moving.

‘What are you doing?’ Landon’s eyes found the stage where the escort was eyeing up the twelve-year-old boy. He turned around to spot a few peacekeepers moving towards him. He was causing a scene. The two white-clad men said something in the background and moved in quickly like sharks, removing Landon’s hand from the boy’s wrist and ushering him forward. Landon’s attempt to follow was thwarted by a third who had placed himself in front of him. ‘Get out of my way.’ He demanded, his eyes realizing that the boy was almost at the stage. He had to stop this. Another child could not die. 

He could stop this.

‘Move!’ with one forceful shove, he sent the peacekeeper to the ground. Over one hundred heads turned towards him as he felt more guards closing in. One grabbed his arms, another his shoulders. He wouldn’t have another chance. And so suddenly, with all the might in his voice;

‘I volunteer!’  

[queenzufufu]

Soldier Boy (5/5)

Summary: Alfredo only had three main goals in life: earn money, keep his family safe, and to try and one up his parents and make it past the age of thirty.

The Fakes? He couldn’t be any further from that world. No doubt he’d love to be part of it but he knows it’s never going to happen. There’s just no way.

Until one night, and one heist gone wrong, finds him in the middle of a gang war that he finds he has no choice but to get involved in.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 AO3

It takes him a second to pick out who’s his closest target; he bursts through the door and sees so many armed individuals it renders him still for a second. Only for a second though, he’s jumping into survival mode the second after - shoots the first guy to notice him in the head before he’s even fully turned round. There’s an upturned table to his left, good cover to duck behind as more of the men notice his presence.

C’mon! You better fucking take down more than one.

He fires blindly. Rapidly shooting over the top of the table - glad that it’s made of thick wood, otherwise it would have shredded to pieces by now.

His heart’s pounding as he takes a chance and peeks his head out ever so slightly to take aim. He sees one is wounded, limping - takes him out quickly - and another one reloading, too slow, the gun drops to the floor and now there’s only one left. He doesn’t even wait for the man’s dying breath, just shoots, makes sure he’s down, and moves to new cover before more arrive, he’s bound to have alerted others close by even with all the racketing gunfire still aimed at the guys–

Suddenly he notices a pain shooting down his leg. A piece of wood from the table thankfully, not a bullet. Still, stings like a bitch as he yanks it out.

He steps forward now, ready to take the offensive even if he’s limping and he’s dripping blood with every step he takes. When he reaches up to wipe the dust of wood chippings from his face he feels the smear of warm blood it leaves behind, the wound from Dmitri’s knife still bleeding, albeit slowly.

Another man charges him from out of nowhere with a fierce yell, weaponless other than a piece of metal piping, and Alfredo braces himself and holds up his better arm to block the initial blow. It sends another white-hot flash of pain through his body but at least it’s better than getting his face smashed in. The combat is too close to give him time to fire his rifle, but he still has Dmitri’s knife - and as the man’s swinging again, and again, Alfredo ducks around him and digs the blade into his back. His grip on the hilt grows slippery with blood, and now both of his arms are in pain, but he uses all his strength to keep the blade firmly in and hold the man still as he yanks the knife up, the cries slowly dying out as he reaches the heart or lung, he doesn’t really care as long as he does serious damage–

The sound of bullets pierce his ears again, and he blocks the oncoming fire with the dead or dying body, and he sees that it’s abundantly clear everyone’s aware of his presence now.

A double set of doors have opened, revealing the main part of the upper floor where the majority of shooting has been coming from. Five - was that how many he’s taken out so far? It hardly seems like it’s been that little, he’s already exhausted, his injuries crying out for attention, and yet as he leaps to plant himself behind the wall he counts twenty, maybe more men in the main room. Breathing heavy, he crouches down as he feels the thuds of the bullets hitting the wall on the other side.

But this is what he wanted, he remembers, this is good, he tells himself. If they’re all focused on him now then that means there’ll be less attention on the others, providing of course, they hadn’t already been killed. No - he can’t think like that, his promise is far from over, he’s got their attention now he has to keep it for as long as possible. Something is riling up inside him, something both angry and scared, something desperate to save the others and desperate to survive himself. Doing both right now seems out of the question. But he can sure as hell try–

He fires off a round into a man approaching the doorway.

Another one into the guy trying to get the cross fire on him from the far corner.

Jumps to his feet and knifes one man who tries to rush him.

He’s running low on ammo, they are too but there’s so fucking many of them.

He spots a good place for cover inside the room and blindly runs for it, diving on the man currently firing at him from there. He presses his hands down on the man’s throat, his vision red and everything burning. For a moment he completely blacks out and the next thing he knows the man his dead with a knife in his neck. He almost throws up straight after, scared suddenly by how easy it’s become to kill–

He ends up lingering on it for a split second too long, for the next thing he knows there’s a cry of something in Russian, and then it feels as though a boulder has crashed into his side, knocking him forcefully to the floor.

“Get them!” He can hear yelling, someone American, across the room.

“Is too late! They go already!” a heavy Russian accent shouts back.

Blinking back the black dots in his vision, he tries to scramble to his feet, but some weight is still pushing him down. He stretches an arm out, trying to reach for his gun or the knife still in the man’s neck, but he can’t lift his head and he can’t see anything but clouds of dust and people’s feet running past. A foot stamps down on his hand, almost hard enough to break the bone, and he lets out a cry, feeling all the fight finally leave his body. He feels the weight on top of him shift and then the sound of a blade being pulled out of flesh right by his ear, warm blood splattering over him and onto his face, in his eyes, on his lips. He can taste it, hot and coppery and horribly too familiar.

“Don’t kill him!” That same American accent demands - and he feels the weight slowly leave him, although by now he’s too exhausted to even try to stand up.

Also, there’s no point. He knows he would only be pushed back down if he does and he’s content to not do anything for just a second or two, feeling strangely happy despite everything. They’re gone… That’s what he heard. They got out. Michael and Gavin, and Jack and Geoff, and Jeremy and oh-he-better-still-be-alive Ryan. That’s what he wanted, and somehow he’d made it happen.

He tilts his head and glances up, see’s a man so huge his breathing halts for a second. There's a burn scar across his face, and the man’s eyes are dark and he’s sweating and bleeding just like Alfredo is; but unlike Alfredo, he isn’t lying small and broken on the floor.

“This motherfucker–” the man begins, angrily, before cutting off abruptly as though silently ordered to, and letting out a half growl. “What would you have us do with him?”

How about we just shake hands and call it quits?

“Seeing as you and your men have spectacularly failed to guard what we worked hard to take from The Fakes, we’re going to steal something back. See if this doesn’t open up some new avenues for us.”

The voice, the American one, sounds so incredibly relaxed and business-like after everything that just happened, that it sends Alfredo’s mind into a spin. He doesn’t like the sound of any of that. But then he also doesn’t like the sound of dying right now.

Fuck me, he feels his heart pounding harder, what the fuck are they going to do to me? He’s struggling to stay in control now, scared and helpless and so very alone. He selfishly wishes one of The Fakes were there with him, somebody he could look to for reassurance during a situation he would never, ever have imagined himself being in when he was little and playing at being a legendary gangster.

In a way, it’s kind of a blessing they knock him out there and then.

“You did good today, lil’ man.”

Denny’s helping him take his shoes off at the doorway to their house. Alfredo frowns - wasn’t he just somewhere else? Somewhere scary? A building filled with big, bad people, and his whole body had been hurting. He looks down at his arms and legs. They’re fine, they ache a bit but that’s because of what Denny had been saying. He had done good today!

All thoughts of the bad place vanish as he tugs at his older brother’s arm eagerly. “I wanna come with you,” he claims - grinning as his brother grabs his hand and leads him inside.

“You can’t. You gotta look after grandma,” Denny explains patiently. Their grandma’s not home yet, she’s still at work - been taking extra shifts on ever since their dad had died three months ago. Alfredo still gets sad a lot - actually confused more than anything, wondering how someone who you saw every day of your life could suddenly not be there anymore. Denny didn’t get sad though and he always told Alfredo not to cry ‘cause that’s not what Dad would want’, and he’s started skipping classes to work for their crew more, even takes Alfredo with him at the weekends. Alfredo always wants to join him, even on school days, but Denny says he can’t because he’s five, not nine like his brother. Apparently nine was when you became a man - it also meant that you could start being a lookout during nights apparently, because that was what Denny had started doing too. Alfredo tried convincing his brother every night to let him come with him, and every night he said no.

“Grandma’ll be okay,” he tells his brother. “I can help you more than Grandma! I could do the looking out thingy too, real good. I’m small. I could hide. That’d be good cause no one would never see me and then I’d be really quiet!”

“You’re too little to help. It’s very hard work.” Denny says, sitting down on the couch and pulling him onto his lap, and Alfredo tilts his head back at him.

“I can do anything!” he replies brightly. “I’m strong like you!”

“Really?” His brother’s face can’t help but crack a tired grin, and Alfredo clambers off his lap. He goes to the kitchen, grabs a chair, and brings it back to Denny. It’s twice as big as he is but he manages to keep it off the ground and even lifts it above his head.

“Please let me come with you! I’ll help, see? I’m strong!”

“Fredo…” Denny’s half laughing, half shaking his head.

“I wanna come!”

“Put the chair down - just… put it down before you drop it on your head,” he says, and Alfredo lowers it to the ground, arms only shaking slightly. His brother holds out his arms and he climbs onto him again, head tucked under his brother’s chin. Denny wraps him in a hug and buries his head in his hair, then his tone changes.

“We can’t always be together,” he informs him.

Alfredo doesn’t understand - sure, his mom had gone not long after he’d been born, and now his dad too, but they were adults, and they were confusing at times. But he and Denny, they were brothers, and brothers always stuck together. They ate together, they played together, and now they worked together. He leans back and studies his brother’s face, eyes the same as his, skin the same shade, a gold chain he’d inherited from their father, the older boy looking strangely adult-like all of a sudden.

“But who’ll play games with me at night?” he asks, and his brother lets out a chuckle.

“You don’t need me to play anymore,” he replies. “You’ve got new friends, remember?”

“I do?”

“Sure you do! Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten them already!”

“Umm, I don’t remember,” he begins, but cuts off in surprise as he spots the tears forming in his brother’s eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry I’m not there, but you’ll be okay, okay? You’re strong, remember? You’re strong and you’re brave and you ain’t so little no more.”

“I don’t understand–” Alfredo breaks off and his brother shushes him.

“You just gotta hang on. They’ll come for you.”

“Denny, you’re scaring me…”

But it was like his brother was no longer listening to him - like there was a barrier suddenly between them.

“Be brave… they’ll come for you. The Fakes don’t give up that easily.”

Wait.

The Fakes?

“What do you–

Consciousness comes back slowly and rather painfully.

He lets out a whimper at the dull throbbing that seems to make up his entire body and wonders what on earth he did last night to make him feel like this.

He cracks open an eye, confusion settling in as he observes the metal walls and blue light. Was he in a cell? Has he been captured?

Ah, that’s right.

He’s not alone, he realizes, there’s someone in the corner of the room, leaning against the wall. Watching him.

Slowly, the shrouded figure makes it’s way forward, every step purposeful and precise, like a big cat stalking its prey. Only when he’s standing directly next to him does the light highlight the figure enough for Alfredo to get a good look.

It’s a man.

A man wearing a shirt and tie…?

He’s late forties maybe, dark grey eyes narrow and piercing, greying hair combed neatly back.

The man studies him for what feels like forever, before slowly raising his hand, holding a small thin object between his fingers.

It’s a syringe, some weirdly green liquid filling it, and Alfredo instinctively lurches away as he lowers it to his arm, only to find out that he’s not moving anywhere, his legs and arms tightly bound to the table beneath him.

The man expertly finds a vein and injects whatever the fuck it is into his bloodstream. Alfredo expects pain, maybe to be knocked out again, but nothing happens, at least not instantly.

The man seems to soak up the slight confusion Alfredo’s projecting. “Human minds are weak,” he explains. “They break too easily and cannot sustain heavy damage.”

A smirk forms on his lips. “How quickly will you break, I wonder?” He draws his finger across Alfredo’s right arm. “Seems like someone has already started on you, Dmitri I assume, always had such fondness for the blade. I bet it hurts.”

“Should see him now,” Alfredo retorts hotly, surprised by how dry his throat feels. Fear, no doubt he’s scared about his situation, and tired, and dazed, and his arm stings like a bitch and his head is pounding, but he also couldn’t care less. So this is probably the Bossman it seems, the one who started all this, and the one whose schemes he and The Fakes had fucked up. Hell, at least he’ll get the satisfaction of knowing he’d accomplished something before this guy undoubtedly had his way with him.

“I did see him as a matter of fact,” the man murmurs. “You made quite a mess of his face. I suppose, though, bullets tend to do that to one's appearance. In the end, you made his suffering very brief, didn’t you? Do you think that’s what’ll happen here?”

Alfredo feels his toes curl up at the threat but he scowls back all the same. “I don’t care. There’s nothing that you can do to me now that’ll help you. Face it, you lost.”

The man smiles at him. “Dear boy, this game that you say I’ve lost, why, you do not even know what we’ve been playing. You must be new. Or were you hired just for this job?”

Alfredo’s eyes widen at the reveal. So this guy thought he was one of The Fakes, or was someone they were paying to help them. He isn’t sure if him thinking that was a good or bad thing, but he presses his lips firmly together and turns his head away to make sure he doesn’t unwillingly give anything away by his expression. Whatever this guy wanted to know, whether Alfredo knew the answer or not; he wouldn’t speak another word. He wouldn’t betray his friends.

“I fear I’ve been ever so rude,” the man says after a pause. “Please, allow me to introduce myself. I’m Edgar.”

Alfredo doesn’t reply, but tries to remember if that name should mean anything to him. He comes up blank.

“Human minds are weak,” the man called Edgar reiterates. “Far weaker than the human body. You can put a human body through a lot more than a human mind before it finally gives out. And with that running through your veins, you will even more susceptible to breaking than most.”

If Alfredo had a bad feeling before, now it was rapidly descending into gut-wrenching.

“You see what I injected you with increases the response of your body’s nerve endings,” Edgar continues. “A little something I had specially made, all the way from Colombia. So you see, the body is much more aware of all sensations. If you’ll allow me to demonstrate…” He reaches forward and carefully picks up Alfredo’s right hand as far as it would go in his restraints.

He offers Alfredo another sickeningly polite smile. And then he bent his thumb backward.

What normally might have been a painful twinge, as the digit is moved in a way it isn’t meant to, is blinding pain and he screams in both surprise and agony even as the rational part of his mind pleads for him to realize that he isn’t actually hurt.

Edgar releases his hand and drops it back on the table with a thud that sends a white-hot pain up his entire arm.

“You have two options. One: tell me everything you know about the Fakes and I’ll let you go. Or two: don’t, and we’ll see how long you last,” he says. “Pain or no pain? Which shall you choose?”

He does not seem to expect an answer but Alfredo’s silence is one enough.

“I will keep this simple for you,” he says. “You answer my questions truthfully and you may have a sip of water. You deny me anything, and I can assure you, it will not be pleasant.”

Alfredo see’s Edgar’s face light up in a creepy grin, and he feels shivers down his spine. Even that small motion seems more intense than usual.

There is no way this can end well.

There’s no way out. You know there isn’t.

At least not with this asshole still in the room. Maybe you can wait.

That’s it, maybe you can hold out until he leaves. Don’t give him what he wants and he’ll give you a break eventually. Don’t be stupid, don’t say anything, you think you can do that no matter what he does? Sure as hell hope so.

Right now you feel false confidence. But he’s already given you a little taste and that was enough. But the others, you can’t let the others down. Not after everything.

They’ll come for you.

A good plan - but in reality is it really one that he can pull off? Someone who just a few weeks ago had barely stepped a foot out of his own few blocks, just a corner kid who spent his days evading the cops and dealing with other small crews. Now that’s all changed, now he feels like he’s someone different, like he could never go back to that way of living again. He doesn’t know if that’s scary.

What is scary, though, is the look on Edgar’s face as he pulls up a chair and sits beside him.

“Right then,” he says quietly. “I think it’s time we began, don’t you think?”

Alfredo glares defiantly, and sees the man smile again. He managed a small one himself - a small one, something close to mocking.

“Excellent!” Edgar declares, and picks up Alfredo’s wrist. His hand is very cold, and the touch makes his throat tighten uncomfortably. He focuses on keeping his breathing as steady as possible, and tries to ignore the way his heart lurches at the dangerous glint in the other man’s eyes. “Let’s start off easy then, how long have you worked for The Fakes?”

Worked for The Fakes? Just who did this guy think he was?

It isn’t a question he could answer properly even if he wanted to, but he keeps quiet all the same. If this Edgar realizes he’s a nobody he might be done with him even quicker than originally planned.

His captor observes him for a few long moments. Eventually, he rolls his eyes. “Perhaps a broader question to start things off,” he says. “Provide me information on everything you know about The Fakes. But I’m warning you,” he adds, “this is your last chance.” And squeezes Alfredo’s wrist a little bit tighter.

Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out. This guy isn’t actually going to physically hurt him. It’s all going to be in his head. He just has to breathe.

He doesn’t see it with his eyes squeezed closed, but he feels the hand grip even tighter again and he braces for the oncoming pain.

And well, at least he isn’t disappointed. His thumb is bent back again but he may as well have broken it, burned it, and injected it with a volt of electricity all at the same time. His screams echo in the otherwise quiet cell, that dissolve into quiet gasps for air as he works to get his breathing back under control. But once he’s somewhat calm again, Edgar repeats his words. “Tell me everything you know about The Fakes. About Ramsey. About Free. That new little driver they’ve got themselves. Everything.”

“No.” Alfredo tells him out-loud this time, although he keeps his eyes averted and refuses to look at the man, like when he and Denny were little and he’d had a nightmare. His brother would always tell him to close his eyes, hide under the covers. If you couldn’t see the monsters then they can’t see you.

His index finger is twisted this time. He bites down hard on his tongue to keep himself from screaming so instead gets a mouthful of blood and an insane stabbing pain of his own doing, as what should have been a brief stab of pain feels like he’s just chopped his own tongue off.

Edgar actually chuckles at that. Of course he does, Alfredo thinks. This guy is a sick bastard. It only serves to make him even more determined to not say a word.

Things repeat for a while then, as each moment of silence or rebuttal earns him agonizing pain for a few seconds and Edgar would repeat his query with the same cadence as before. Alfredo supposes he ought to be grateful he isn’t actually hurting him, because that would hurt much, much more. He can only hope it continues that way.

His body feels like it’s been put through a meat grinder, even though logically he knows it’s practically the same as it had been when Edgar started this whole thing. He's begun counting each torture to try and give him a better timeline. He thinks they were on about the twenty-fifth ask now and Edgar generally allows him nearly a whole minute to recover.

Which means it hasn’t even been going on for an hour? Fuck me…

Despite the pain though, Alfredo’s still thinking clearly. He supposes that was part of Edgar’s plan, as he’s seeking information. But it was backfiring on him because Alfredo’s able to continue to remind himself that all of this doesn’t matter. They’re superficial wounds, therefore, he can continue to hold out and protect his friends.

The only thing that really hurts is his throat again as he's screamed it raw and every gasping breath only hurt it more. But otherwise he’s fine. Really. This isn’t so bad. He can keep this up for a while still. Maybe he’s more of a badass than he thought. Perhaps some of The Fakes has rubbed off on him over the past few days.

Eventually, Edgar’s going to have to take a break himself, right? So Alfredo should get a break then too.

As if summoned, he hears the door open and footsteps move towards them. Well, that’s quicker than expected but he’ll take it!

That’s until he makes out the face of the man who’s entered the room. It was the one with the burn scar who’d finally knocked him out back at the sawmill. He’d seemed very pissed back then. And he doesn’t exactly look any happier now.

“The men are asking for you,” the Russian says, large arms crossed over an equally large chest as his intense gaze moves between Edgar and Alfredo.

Alfredo glares at him and subtly flips him off with his untouched left hand, although the man likely neither see’s nor cares as he and Edgar seem to be sharing a look. It makes Alfredo feel better though. He’ll take his small victories where he can right now.

“Very well, I will address them,” Edgar says after a few moments, releasing Alfredo’s abused hand.

Alfredo struggles to hide his relief. Finally!

"Continue for me, Arkady." What? No!

“Permission to give him my own treatment.”

“Superficial wounds have been causing him great pain, but so far to no avail. If you wish, you may increase the intensity, but only minimally. I want him lucid enough to answer questions.”

The Russian smiles, showing nearly a full set of gold teeth. “I understand.”

Edgar sweeps from the room without a sound, leaving the remaining two to stare at one another. Alfredo’s mind is racing as he tries to figure out what increasing the intensity would involve. He bets The Fakes would know instantly and they’d be able to mentally prepare somewhat. All he has is a sinking feeling he doesn’t want to proceed to any higher level in this screwed up torture.

Arkady picks up the same hand that Edgar’s been toying with. Although where his hand was just about Alfredo’s size, this man's dwarfed it. However…

Alfredo lets out a small, uncontrolled laugh that had the Russian’s face going from anger to confusion. "Your… your shirt…" Alfredo manages, trying to pull his hand away with zero success as a giggle works its way out. “It’s got bird shit on it.”

For the most brief of moments, the Russian looks like he doesn’t know how to reply to him, just stares down at the mark on his shirt with surprise, but it does not take long for him to compose himself and his face moves back to a dark countenance within seconds. "Do you know who I am?" he asks, grip tightening on Alfredo’s hand in a painful manner.

Alfredo loses the grin at the renewed pain and presses his lips together firmly. He isn’t going to be answering any questions, unless this man reveals he’s secretly working with The Fakes and he’s here to get him out. That would be pretty awesome. Please let him say that, Alfredo silently pleads.

"I am Arkady, my brother and I were born killers" he continues as Alfredo winces at the continued pressure that’s rapidly beginning to approach an all too familiar and painful threshold. "And now, I am the only one who remains. My brother, Dmitri, was killed by some pathetic boy.”

And that prayer just took a suicide jump out the window. Alfredo gives a small whimper as his hand is practically crushed now to the point where black dots appear in his vision. Arkady’s unnerving gaze bores into his, who for the first time since he's been injected with the whatever the fuck that stuff had been, feels actual fear rather than just pain.

Part of him feels sad for the man. He knew what it was like to lose family, and he supposes the two were close. But there’s no real sympathy there, it was this man’s brother who had actively been trying to cause havoc for his crew and who murdered his own brother. And he really doesn’t think saying "sorry" is going to cut it. Not when he’s the one who had literally pulled the trigger.

"I will show you what real pain feels like," Arkady promises. "Now suffer.”

He doesn’t even ask a question. He just takes Alfredo’s index finger between his hands and bends it. But unlike Edgar, he doesn’t stop as the knuckle contracts back. And Alfredo can only seize with horror as his bone is snapped in two.

He realizes he must have blacked out as he comes to, his injured limb still throbbing and showing no signs of stopping. He happens to meet Arkady’s eyes and blanches at the look of absolute fury that fills them.

Arkady snarls back and grips his thumb. And just like before he does not ask a question or demand an answer. But he does break the digit.

Somehow this time Alfredo remains conscious, even as he prays to black out - because his entire body’s on fire and his hand is screaming at him and he realizes somewhere that hands can’t scream so that must actually be coming out of his mouth. His back arches off the table as far as it can go, which only chokes him from the binds over his throat and turns the scream into a terrible sounding cough as he gags for air.

He couldn't believe he was even thinking this, but where was Edgar? He needs to come back now! Seconds pass and he lies twitching and gasping on the table, his hand still encased in Arkady’s and the pressure alone on his broken fingers making him want to throw up. Tears leak down his face, blurring his vision, but he can still make out the fury etched on the other’s face.

"You are weak," the man spat. "I cannot believe this is a member of The Fakes.”

You’d be right.

But somehow Alfredo’s mouth moves without his consent as years and years of sarcastic comebacks between rival crews decide now is a good time to say something to show that he hasn’t given in. Not yet. "S-strong enough to… to beat y-your brother," he gasps out.

If Arkady had been projecting fury before, it moves beyond that. With a roar of primal rage, he yanks Alfredo’s arm up, choking him as his entire body jerks against the restraints.

"W-wait," Alfredo stutters as he realizes what’s going to happen. “D—"

The ‘don't' dies on his lips as the man twists his wrist until the bones inside crack into two and blinding white agony overtakes him.

The last clear thought he has as comforting blackness takes him away is that he’s going to die here. Right now. And despite his earlier conviction to do what it takes to protect his friends even if it meant taking himself out of the equation, he finds he doesn’t want to die. He wants to live. His mind and body scream at him to survive no matter what.

And that terrifies him.

When Edgar returns he is none too happy with Arkady’s handiwork, because apparently he ‘wasn’t ready to move onto such measures’ yet.

Alfredo’s barely awake when they’re arguing. The pain - if having his finger simply bent backward was horrific, having an actual bone snapped was indescribable - he’d kind of half passed out after the first break. He doesn’t know the exact damage. He just knows he’s even more injured than he was before but his mind’s so fuzzy he can’t even remember what injuries he’d already sustained anyway. He’s scared that what Edgar said will come true - that his mind was weak, that it would break - and he’d give up something he shouldn’t. Though he’s still amazed Edgar hasn’t realized just how useless he actually is, that he’s no member of The Fakes, just someone who got caught up in all this shit a week ago.

Edgar steps forward and eyes Alfredo’s face. He’s sent Arkady on his way. The entire room seems to grow in size without the hulk of a man inhabiting it anymore but it doesn’t make him feel any deal safer.

The man inspects his messed up hand with more annoyance than concern. Like a man who’s come back to find his car with slightly scratched paintwork. To Alfredo, it feels like his whole hands on fire, no one pain discernible from the rest, and his whole body in general feels bruised and tired, turning stiff and sore. It kinda hurts to breathe in too deeply. In hindsight, he probably should have focused more on shooting rather than hand-to-hand combat during the sawmill fight. He wasn’t the best when it came to brawling and his ribs hadn’t been quite a hundred percent yet, but god damn the adrenaline he’d felt at the time had pushed him through it. No adrenaline was coursing through his veins now though, only something far deadlier.

Edgar takes a step back again and sighs. He’s still got the look of a businessman; all groomed, still wearing a crisp button-up shirt and tie. Alfredo wonders who he is - who he was to The Fakes - someone from their past with a hefty grudge.

“Well it seems we’re going to have to continue with Arkady’s methods,” the man says finally, when Alfredo takes in a breath and ends up coughing painfully instead.

“I still won’t tell you anything,” Alfredo replies. “I’ll never betray them.”

“Oh yes, I’m sure you’ve got all these images of heroism floating around in your head, mark my words, that won’t last long, especially now,” Edgar almost says with a hint of regret, and Alfredo’s eyes narrow.

“You almost sound upset,” he mentions as so.

“Oh, I am,” Edgar replies sincerely. He turns away, and oh God, please don’t let that be what he thinks it is. His body jerks in reflex to seeing the syringe being prepped once more - bile rising in his throat, and eyes widening, unable to look away as Edgar returns to his side. “I do so love to get to know my subject a little better before their minds are too far gone.”

“I don’t need any more,” Alfredo rushes, panicked. “First dose is working just fine, case you hadn’t noticed.”

“No,” is Edgar’s eloquent response to that. “You see, dear boy, it simply doesn’t work that way. My work is precise, methodical - I start by merely picking at the surface, gently prodding to see what’s underneath the skin. I would have done so more if that Russian oaf hadn’t disobeyed my orders so hot-headedly. The only way from here is further down, I’m afraid.”

For a moment, Alfredo thinks he might pass out there and then. But his brain’s still in overdrive desperately trying to think of a way out of this situation.

“You need me alive, right?” he replies, trying to keep the shake from his voice. “How do you know giving me too much of that shit won’t kill me?”

“A valid point,” Edgar chuckles, and holds up the syringe for Alfredo to see better, who physically recoils back into the table at the sight. “But one I’d already considered, see? Half full, this has been proven a safe dosage in the past, you’ll be fine… well, you know what I mean.”

“You’re a fucking asshole,” Alfredo retorts immediately. “You’re like messed in the head or something. Like you keep saying all this shit about how human minds are weak, think that’s just cause yours fucked off a while back,” he adds, glaring with every ounce of anger and contempt he held for this man, who merely raises an amused eyebrow. Apparently it’s possible for him to look even creepier. Alfredo thinks a smile on this man’s face is ten times scarier than the anger on Arkady’s.

“Well, we’ll see who’s the more sane one at the end of this session,” he tells Alfredo. “We will be continuing as before - a question and an acceptable answer will grant you a moment's rest, an unacceptable answer or silence will result in a punishment. Rather more severe this time, like I said, can’t be going back on the work that’s already been done.”

“Fuck you,” Alfredo cries, because there’s nothing left to say. “Just fucking do it already! Get it over with!”

Edgar nods politely. And he injects more of the poison into his arm.

“Tell me,” he begins, “who are the current main members of The Fakes? I know Geoff is still in charge, and little Gavin is bound to still be there too, but who else?”

“Yeah,” Alfredo replies. “Scooby doo too, they’ve turned their hands to mystery solving in recent years.”

Edgar grabs his broken hand, his fingers putting pressure on bones that Alfredo swears he can hear screaming, makes him grit his teeth so hard it feels they might crack too.

“Oh I’m sorry,” Edgar says, and reaches out and cups his hand over Alfredo’s kneecap instead. “I’d forgotten that one had already been dealt with.” And with that he pushed down with both hands onto the joint, as hard as if he were performing CPR, expression not changing as he watches Alfredo as there’s a horrible popping sound; uncaring about putting on a cool front, Alfredo lets out a scream of pain that sounds more animal than human, and Edgar steps back and folds his arms while he studies his prisoner writhing in his binds.

“Sixty seconds and then we’ll try again,” Edgar says patiently, and he emphasizes the point by tapping his watch face.

“Fu… fuck you,” Alfredo murmurs, in between harsh breaths, half blind from the tears in his eyes. He doesn’t know what state his knee is in, whether it’s actually dislocated or not, might as well have had a hammer taken to it with the amount it hurt according to his brain.

“Such foul language, youth of today. Blame the parents though, I say.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you’d make a great father,” Alfredo retorts, even though it’s getting harder to breath let alone speak by the second. A sudden wave of terror rushes over him - the thought that this psycho may very well have children; his dad hadn’t been the best father and most of his friends parents growing up hadn’t been role model parents - and nearly all of them had been kids themselves when they’d been raising them and he knew he kinda lucked out getting brought up mainly by his grandmother who had another twenty years experience over most of the other parents, someone who’d already been there, done that. But, however young and immature the parents of his generation may have been, they still had one thing Edgar was clearly lacking, an actual sense of care, an idea that there was value in another human’s life.

Alfredo doesn’t think this man could care less if he killed a human or a fly, everything was just seen as a plaything for his sick little games. His vision swims, and he has to shut his eyes, to block out everything for a moment even though in the darkness it feels as if he’s suffocating, sinking into an abyss with no way out.

Perhaps he did actually black out for a second. The sharp prick in his arm, a pain he wasn’t even ready for, brings his awareness back to him, has his eyes snapping open in time to see Edgar - tucking away a small, sharp needle - like a workman with his tools always at the ready for every scenario.

He stiffens up as Edgar reaches a hand out again, this time placing it on his shoulder. Just the simple touch sends sparks of terror down his spine, a reflex reaction now. He’s trying his best not to cry, can’t bare to break down any more the necessary in front of this asshole, and he wants to stay optimistic. To believe that no matter how shit things may seem now, that there was still a hope that he could get out of here, that someone might come for him. Michael hadn’t wanted to leave him. None of them had, he thinks. They’d just been in an impossible situation.

He had to believe that they wouldn’t just forget about him.

Taking in a deep breath, he sets his mouth firm as he looks up to Edgar with an expression of determination on his face. He forces himself to appear defiant, even if he’s actually exhausted.

“Go on then,” he says. “What’s your next question?”

His bravado doesn’t seem to surprise the man, but strangely, a look of uncertainty has suddenly crossed his face. “Why you?” he asks softly. “Why you? The Fakes, they cherry pick their guys so why, of all the people in this god damned city, why would they have some kid like you working for them? What makes you so special?”

“I dunno, cause I ain’t special. Far from it,” Alfredo replies, and Edgar scowls.

“You’re lying,” he replies, but doesn’t stop watching as Alfredo cracks his first small smile in a while.

“But I know something,” he says, biting back a groan as the grip on his shoulder tightens. “I do know they trust me, that they… that they put their trust in me,” he continues, grin widening as he feels the truth in his own words. “So you’ve got another thing coming if you ever think I’d betray that trust.”

His answer actually renders the other man silent for a moment. There was a brief flash of anger, even if he’d never admit it. But then the eyes and face relax again, and he settles his grip on Alfredo’s shoulder firmly. “No. That’s not it.”

“It the truth!” Alfredo argues. It was! That one actually was!

Edgar’s having none of it. And this time instead of forcing the joint in the wrong direction he pulls out a pocket knife, and cuts with precision a moderately deep line across the top of his arm. “Liar. I cannot abide liars,” he hisses in Alfredo’s ear.

The questions seem to come quicker and quicker after that… a certain frustration added to them too. Something he’d said had rubbed Edgar up the wrong way, in that he was no longer bothering with the facade of being some polite, respectable gentleman. Now he was just a torturer, plain and simple.

Alfredo refuses to speak anymore, not only because it ended up badly the last time but also because he’s worried what he might say if he does start talking. He knows he doesn’t want to give Edgar any information. That the man’s still barking up the wrong tree if he believes Alfredo can truly be of any valuable use to him, but still wanting to make sure he gives him nothing all the same. Just in case. But each answered question leaves him in more pain than the last one - how many had it been now? Was he even paying attention to them anymore? What if he’s said something without even realizing it? He’s seen the dumb stuff people say when they get high or drunk. He wondered if the same counted when you were in so much pain you could barely think.

How much more? How much more of this could he take?

Please, he thinks, and finally gives up on trying to keep the tears in, not caring if Edgar saw him cry now. He body needs to use every outlet available to it in order to express the pain it was in. The cuts feel even worse than the broken bones, like he can feel the metal blade sliding through and ripping up the flesh, and Edgar latches onto that, keeps on using it.

Now he’s so out of it his own screams sound foreign. His body’s still reacting as violently as before to the pain being inflicted on him… but his mind’s another story, it’s locked itself away, putting up the barricades to shelter from the hurricane that raged outside. He knows he won’t be able to keep it up for long, that eventually that hurricane would break through and be left to wreak havoc, but he’ll take the respite while he can, and in a really fucked up way he’s glad of it. At least with his mind closed off from the current reality he doesn’t have to worry about letting slip something about The Fakes - the pain is all there is now, nothing else, there’s nothing else in his world other than pain.

And then eventually, thankfully, everything goes dark.

You’re gonna die here is the thought that runs through his head constantly now.

It sounded fucking morbid, didn’t it? But it wasn’t him being hysterical or pessimistic, it was simply a fact he’d come to accept.

He’s gonna die here, either from one of Edgar’s torture sessions or simply from starvation and dehydration. Whichever comes first, at least he’ll know he kept his promise and didn’t break despite all of the bullshit about how his mind was weak and fragile. Maybe he was the exception but as far as Alfredo’s confused, his body was weak and broken, but his mind? His mind was pissed off. Pissed off and smug at the realization that he was actually starting to get to Edgar. That his consistent silence was not something the man had expected to be kept up for so long.

It’s his… fourth day here, he thinks. And he’s still able to drift to the back of his subconscious while he’s being broken and cut. Still able to separate that part of his mind, the part that is the most vulnerable.

It won’t last.

Each time; every new bruise or wound he gains, he can feel it slipping, and he knows it won’t be long before he’s too far gone, but he’ll just have to last - would rather die than go insane.

But yeah. He might be feeling proud of himself for having held out for such a time, doesn’t mean everything sucks any less. He wants his grandma, misses her, worries that she’s worrying about him. Wonders what’s happening with The Fakes, if they’ve been in contact with her, if Ryan was okay.

It feels weird that up until two weeks ago he was no more than a drug dealer, a corner kid making his money by selling to the down and outs of their neighborhood - no worries at all, not really, nothing more than any other guy his age living the life he had been. Nothing at all like the past week, certainly. And to think, he muses - it all would never have happened if he’d simply let that burning continue burning and carried on his way. He didn’t know what would have happened, but not this, he would never have gotten involved with his childhood heroes.

You’d think that maybe he’d regret ever stepping a foot into the lives of The Fakes, but if he was truly honest with himself, he didn’t regret it one bit. Sure, he wishes the tale could have had a happier ending, but who knows, he might have been long dead already, killed in some pointless squabble between his crew and Dmitri’s thugs.

He’s happy he’s met The Fakes. That he got to see them for who they are as people, not just the characters he had created inside his head since he was a child; no matter how brief, he was glad he’d made that connection.

But he wishes there could be more time.

I mean, he doesn’t really have any friends, most of the people he spends his days with are teens, and he just doesn’t have anything in common with them. There’s his grandma, but even though he always feels like he can talk to her about anything, it was hard for her to understand what he was going through sometimes.

He’d felt something - with Michael especially, but Gavin too, and Jack. Geoff was also the first person he’d ever met who commanded respect rather than demanding it.

He thinks maybe, if he’d had that little bit more time, he could’ve been good friends with them. Maybe even Ryan.

Edgar enters the room while he’s in the middle of thinking.

There’s no greeting. No mocking remark. It’s simply down to business.

But as always - Alfredo won’t say a word.

It’s night when things kick off, or at least that’s what it feels like; truth be told Alfredo has no bearing on what time it is, all he knows is that he’s woken from a fitful slumber by the sounds of multiple shouts and gunshots. If he were a doctor (which, when he’d been four years old, he actually thought he was going to be) he’d say he was most definitely ‘fucked up’.

He can’t remember how long he’s been held captive but it’s been long enough for him to gain a handful of broken bones, even more cuts and lacerations, and too-many-to-count bruises. It’s only in times like now, when the effects of the drug have finally worn off, that he can do a realistic survey of the damages, otherwise beforehand it literally feels like his whole body is being torn to pieces.

He’s beyond confused when all the noise starts up. He’d had no idea how big the building was - only ever known this one room, but from the sounds of it it’s pretty big, the original echoes so quiet that he wonders if he’s imaging them. There’s a fight going on, Alfredo knows. Those were not the sounds of target practice, it was too frantic.

The sounds get louder and closer until eventually the door busts open, spilling bright white light into the room, and Alfredo instinctively flinches away at the silhouette of a figure standing tall in the doorway, too accustomed to associating that image with further pain.

“Oh thank fucking God,” the figure says eventually, and Alfredo’s ears prick up. He’d recognize that accent anywhere. “The fuck did they do to you? Oh, I’m gonna rip their fucking faces off, you can be sure of that.”

“Michael?” Alfredo murmurs, squinting as the figure crouches down beside him and works on cutting his binds. The sounds of gunfire still haven’t died down, but they’re getting less frequent, and this room feels calm all of a sudden. Still, he can’t quite believe his eyes, scared that this might be some new cruel drug Edgar is testing on him. “Is that really you?”

Michael finishes untying him - but Alfredo, having been in the same position for so long, feels unable to move. There’s a hand in his, his good… well, better one, and Michael’s fingers brush lightly against his forehead.

“We have to stop meeting like this, Alfredo,” he jokes, though his voice is tight, and he swallows hard before speaking again. “You able to stand?”

“I - I dunno… I think so.”

“Alright,” Michael reassures him gently. “That’s alright - hey, get in here dickhead, give me a hand!”

“He okay?” a new voice asks, one Alfredo doesn’t recognize.

“No. But he’ll be okay. Won’t you - remember what you told me? You’re a soldier, Alfredo. Come on now, we’re just gonna sit up slowly, that’s good, boy.” He doesn’t break off his comforting chatter as Alfredo sits up; he almost passes out, just that simple movement sending his head spinning and his whole body screaming, but he’s determined and above all he’s relieved. They actually came for him, they actually came to rescue him, and they were doing it and now he was getting out of this hell.

“Who’re you?” he mumbled, looking bleary-eyed at the new person as they maneuvered him to the edge of the table.

“Name’s Trevor,” the man simply replies.

Trevor.

He’s the guy who’d been following Hanson around, right? Another member of The Fakes then. Huh - pretty cool.

“Oh…” Alfredo blinks, eyelids heavy. “Nice to meet you.”

The man lets out a small chuckle. “Yeah, nice to meet you too.”

“Alright kid, come on, let’s try this,” Michael says, and tries to pull him up under his shoulders. Apparently, Alfredo’s having none of this, as he lets out an unintentional cry that has Michael blabbering out apologies and Trevor hurriedly asking what hurt.

Everything. Everything fucking hurts, he tries to say, but fuck - even talking seems like too much effort now.

“What in God’s name is going on in here?”

Geoff?

“We were seeing if he could stand, and well, it didn’t work. He’s in pretty bad shape.”

“I can see that. Why’d you try to make him stand anyway?”

“Well… he said he thought he could and–”

There’s a muffled thud and Michael shuts up. Meanwhile, Alfredo’s struggling to focus his vision as Geoff leans over to look at his face. A warm hand cups his cheek and runs a finger over the bruises Alfredo knows are there. “Sorry, but I can’t see you walking outta here, buddy. Trevor, go and make sure the guys are ready to leave asap. I’ll get Jack in here to patch up what he can and –”

Alfredo slips away while he’s still talking, allowing himself to fall into the darkness, happy and relieved, but most importantly, safe. It’d be okay. They’d come for him. Everything would be alright now.

“How bad do you think his grandma is gonna kill us?” Someone is speaking. Alfredo’s face contorts as he tries to concentrate, utterly disoriented for a few moments, trying desperately to remember where’d he’d been before he’d apparently fallen asleep - and what was that about his grandma killing someone?

Everything all comes back rather quickly, and rather painfully. He lets out a pained groan, opening eyes that feel like they’ve been superglued shut. He’s met by two extremely concerned faces peering down at him - ones that only reboot his memory even faster - but their eyes are lighting up at the same time.

“Hey, buddy,” Michael greets, in a whisper - looking as normal and laidback as ever as he grins down at him, perhaps his hair slightly more tousled than before, the bags under his eyes a shade darker. Other than that he looks exactly like Alfredo remembers as he pushes Gavin into view too so the other man can meet his gaze.

“You remember what happened?” Gavin asks first; Alfredo nods but then pauses, not only because the motion makes his head hurt but because he only remembered what happened up to a point. “You’ve been unconscious since we brought you here, but that’s nothing to worry about. Jon says you just needed your sleep after everything.”

Alfredo stares at him, struggling to process all the words. He’s tired, and he still feels like he’s just finished running five marathons, and most of his limbs are tightly constricted by what he assumes are bandages, but he manages a smile anyway. Wants to let them know that other than all that, he’s okay.

“Hey!” Michael exclaims suddenly. “I just realized something! Every time I’ve met you, you’ve been lying on the ground. At least you’re in a bed this time, right? And there’s no big motherfucker squashing you.”

“Hey,” Alfredo says, his cheeks warming - despite everything they’d been through, he’s still easily embarrassed in front of these guys, unable to quite rid himself of the idolising nature he’s carried for so long, that made it seem like he was meeting his heroes every time one of them spoke to him. “You making fun of me?”

Michael reaches out and squeezes his shoulder gently, and gives Alfredo a cheeky grin.

“Well, you have to admit, Alfredo - it was pretty fucking funny.”

“Saved your life asshole,” Alfredo mumbles, blinking heavily.

“Nah, I think I was good.”

Alfredo sighs, supposing it’ll take a while to live that one down. Michael lets go of him and leans back laughing. Gavin rolls his eyes and gives the other man a nudge, reaches out and brushes his fingers through Alfredo’s hair.

“Leave it off Michael, he’s still half out of it,” he says softly - eyes gentle as he gives Alfredo a once over.

Michael takes a deep breath, gathering himself. He winks at Alfredo. “He knows I’m only kidding,” adding, “How you feeling? You in pain at all?”

“No,” Alfredo begins, “nothing bad anyway. Jus’ tired.” He shuts his eyes, and finds he’s unable to open them again.

“Alright, tired’s good… we’ll stop bothering ya,” Michael replies hesitantly, like he’s unsure about leaving.

Alfredo doesn’t really care what they do. He just wants to go to sleep.

“C’mon, Michael, he’ll be fine.”

There’s silence, and then a stiff, “I know.”

“Then let him rest,” Gavin coaxes.

Another moments silence, and then a sigh. Alfredo feels a hand card through his hair in his half-awake state.

“Get better soon kid, I’ll see ya on the other side.”

“Mm not a kid,” he manages to mumble, and that brings out a laugh from Michael.

“I don’t care. You’ve only just entered the hazing faze.”

They leave then, and he’s quick to drift off - just one thought in his mind.

What did that mean?

The next time Alfredo wakes up properly he’s greeted by someone he would never in a million years have expected to be keeping watch by his bed.

Ryan’s looked better - in his very short time of knowing him this is definitely the worst Alfredo has seen him - physically-wise. His surprise must be evident on his face because Ryan’s first reaction is to smirk as he hobbles closer to the bed. He’s alive!

Somehow that feels like Alfredo’s greatest accomplishment. This man, Ryan, he was the whole reason Alfredo had gone and played the hero, because Ryan had gone and got himself shot. But who cares about the past, Ryan’s alive, he’s alive, they’re all good.

Ryan stands there for a few moments, shuffling awkwardly on his crutches, unsure what to say. When he’s finally had enough of being silent he settles for sighing instead and clicking his tongue in a way that makes Alfredo feel like he’s about to be told off by a teacher.

“You,” Ryan eventually says, and something passes across his face, something a mix of annoyed and confused and relieved. He stares down hard at Alfredo. “You - do you have any idea how stupid you are?”

“I’m uh… I’m sorry, I – ”

“Now I’m gonna owe you for the rest of my life,” Ryan bursts out. Once it’s out, the rest seems to follow more naturally. “You’re gonna need to get yourself kidnapped again or something - just so I can rescue you by myself!”

“Umm…” Alfredo says, confused, and Ryan begins hobbling back and forth in a kind of awkward pacing march.

“Also, you forced us to call in Fakehaus to help even though I still hadn’t forgiven James after he scratched up my bike last time!”

“I don’t –”

“You don’t think! Cause you’re stupid and young and… stupid… and I am very not happy with you.”

Alfredo bites back his grin. Suddenly, Ryan doesn’t seem so scary.

“Okay, I get it. I’m stupid,” he admits, smirking a little.

“Yes,” Ryan says.

“And I didn’t think before I acted.”

“Yes.”

“And I saved your life.”

“Ye –” The word cuts out short, and Ryan finally stops his penguin shuffling. “Yes, you did,” he says quietly, eyes softening.

Their eyes meet. And Alfredo doesn’t need to be a mind reader to see the gratitude expressed in the blue orbs - an emotion Ryan might not be able to express in words easily, but showing his true feelings nevertheless. It’s Alfredo who breaks the spell first and smiles, Ryan quickly following suit.

“Sorry, I’m… sorry. It’s been a stressful couple of weeks,” he mumbles, wincing as he takes a seat next to the bed.

“How’s your leg?” Alfredo asks, stifling a yawn.

“Annoying. Though, could be worse. Jon says I need to use these bastards for another month,” he scoffs at the crutches, giving them a glare as if they were the things that actually shot him. “He’ll be lucky if I stay in them another week.”

He shakes his head, stretching his arms out. “I shouldn’t be bothering you. Just wanted to say… well, I don’t really know what I wanted to say other than… thanks. Thank you, Alfredo.”

Some part of Alfredo’s mind leaps with excitement. That’s the first time he’s called you by your name! The other part however, was ready for some answers.

“Before you go,” he begins, “can I ask you something?”

Ryan nods. “Go ahead.”

Alfredo swallows, an unpleasant chill settling on him just at the thought of the man, but he pushes through it, determined. “Who’s Edgar?”

The older man freezes up, a huge look of guilt washing over him. Alfredo sees the whites of his knuckles as he tightens his grip on the crutches.

“Edgar,” he says slowly, a dark tension rising in him.

“Edgar,” he repeats. “He used to roll with us back in the day. We worked with him a couple of times anyway, very good at what he did but… well, you’ve seen yourself what sort of man he became - wasn’t as bad back then, but heading in that direction. We tried to make a deal, he didn’t want to hear it. We tried to cut him off, that only pissed him off. We tried so many fucking way to get rid of him and it - it ended badly. We thought he was dead. We saw his car go up in flames and –” He shakes himself, breathing slowly, only looking to Alfredo once most of the tension has been rid of. “Well, it’s a story for another day.”

Alfredo regards the man. He feels a horrible lump form in his throat as the memories resurface, and he hears echoes of his own screams in his ears, but he swallows it back, and instead offers Ryan a small smile.

“Promise?” he says. He has a right to know. No matter how unpleasant, he deserves to know more than anyone about whatever shit went down to make a man like Edgar so hellbent on destroying other human beings lives.

Ryan studies him carefully. “Promise,” he says eventually, and Alfredo knows he’ll keep it.

Still, he can’t help himself. Must be the meds…

“Pinky promise?” he asks, lifting his little finger as far as it could go, which was barely at all due to that hand being tightly wrapped up.

Ryan’s expression is one of bemusement, but his face relaxes, and he reaches out with an eye roll. “Pinky promise,” he says, linking their fingers together briefly.

He struggles to his feet then. Cheeks slightly reddened, from the heat of the room or from what just passed between them, Alfredo’s unsure -  but it suits him, he thinks, a man who wears embarrassment well.

He doesn’t say another word until he’s nearly out the door, and even then it’s a last minute decision, an afterthought. He looks to Alfredo, serious again, and speaks softly. “You don’t need to pretend everything’s okay. You don’t need to be strong or brave or whatever you think you should be.” Something flickers in his blue eyes, something not too far off from sadness. “Believe me I know what scars a man like Edgar can leave behind, so if you ever want to talk…”

He trails off, and they spend a few silent moments just watching each other. After a few more, Alfredo gives a small nod and a smile, grateful for the offer.

Ryan appears relieved, back straightening as he composes himself to look like the man in charge again. “Alright, when you next see me I’ll be free of these monstrosities,” he says, confidently, whacking the wall with one of the crutches, chipping some of the paint off.

The man’s eyes widen a little at the dent in the wall he’s made, and he glances back to make sure no one else saw.

Alfredo smirks, deciding he very much likes this new Ryan he’s slowly getting a glimpse of. “I’ll hold you to that.”

It’s not until his eighth day that he’s finally allowed to leave. He’s still got his left hand wrapped up tightly as well as a brace on his knee, coupled with multiple bruises that have yet to fade, and cuts that are still healing hopefully not to scar too bad, but other than that he’s good - wants to just get out of there anyway, there actually being not a hospital but a building near a hospital belonging to the man he’d heard Michael and Gavin fondly refer to as “The Fuck Doctor.”

The man, Jon, seems nice enough to Alfredo, and he’s looked after him well enough, so he isn’t quite sure where that name came from, but he’s also beginning to realize that if you weren’t being insulted by those two, they probably didn’t like you that much.

“Idiot,” is one of the first things Gavin says to him, to back that theory up. “When Jon said take things slow I’m pretty sure he didn’t mean almost knock yourself out straight away.”

“It’s not my fault, it’s a stupid place for a shelf,” Alfredo grumbles, batting the other man’s fingers away from his head.

“You’re bleeding,” Michael points out. He reaches out a hand to wipe away the few specks of blood from the reopened wound on his eyebrow. He shakes his head like a disapproving parent - Alfredo suspects it was one of the reasons Michael and his grandma had got on so well.

He takes a step back.

“It’s fine. Once we get outside it’ll dry up again, real quick. C’mon don’t make me wait any longer. I ain’t seen outside in forever, I wanna go.”

“Alright, alright, we’re taking you for walkies, calm down.” Gavin ignores the glare Alfredo sends his way, striding off with a small smirk. “Actually, we’re getting straight in a car, but then Geoff… Geoff wanted to see you and walk you the rest of the way home.”

Gavin reaches out a hand and grabs Michael’s.

“Let’s get out of here, boy,” he says, jerking his head for Alfredo to follow them, which doesn’t need repeating, Alfredo’s raring to leave. It’s not a long walk to the exit but he can already feel his knee starting to ache a little when they finally do get outside.

“Feel good?” Michael asks.

“Yeah, real good,” Alfredo replies, tilting his head back to the afternoon sun. “I’ve never wanted to be outside so much in my life.”

“Bet it won’t last long,” Gavin pipes up. “This city is too damn hot. I can’t stand it.”

“You’ve had fifteen years to leave,” Michael retorts, grinning. “If you hate it so much I’m sure we can find you a nice little desk job with air-con to keep you happy. I’m sure Trevor would be more than willing to fill your spot. He’s better looking too. Probably be even better at sweet talking all these assholes - probably get a raise, probably become boss one day–”

Gavin cuts him off by launching an empty water bottle at him. Michael doesn’t blink as it bounces off his forehead with a dull thump and onto the concrete below, rolling a little before coming to a stop at Gavin’s feet.

“Well, that was pathetic,” Michael remarks, and laughs, sauntering over to a nearby black van. “Fredo, you’re riding shotgun. Let the sweating British child sulk in the back.”

“Sounds good,” Alfredo agrees, grinning ruefully at Gavin’s affronted expression. Damn, it feels like he’s known these guys for years.

Being himself around these two just felt easy, natural. Joking about seemed like a second nature. But it was more than just the banter - it’s the sense that they truly do enjoy having him around, that he’s not just some kid they’ve been forced to babysit. Michael especially has always done his utmost to make sure he doesn’t feel like an outsider.

He hops into the passenger seat. Quite literally, he hops in, slightly annoyed that he’s already starting to tire. Jon had warned him that might happen, that he’d need to give himself time to get muscle strength back, and his knee was stuck in a brace for another few weeks.

He understood where Ryan was coming from. At least he didn’t need to carry himself around on crutches that seemed more hindrance than help at times. He hasn’t seen Ryan since that talk they’d had, but the man had sent a message via Michael. ‘Hi.’ That had been it. Apparently, that was rather talkative for the man.

“Okay,” Michael says after they’ve been driving for ten minutes. “Be on the lookout for Geoff. He’ll be wearing a black hat, black shirt, black pants, and black boots. He said he’ll be on this street somewhere and yeah, think he’s just gonna walk you the rest of the way home. Fond of a good old walk and talk, is our Geoff.”

Alfredo watches out of the window - wonders how much he’s gonna hurt by the time he gets home. He’s certain he’ll be able to make the walk but he’d been hoping to show his grandma how completely, one hundred percent fine he was. He’s already got multiple tastes over how overbearing she was going to be during her visits every day. Ah well, she probably would have seen through his guise anyway. No, scratch that, she definitely would’ve.

It’s Gavin who spies Geoff leaning against a brick wall, basically invisible in the shadows, so much so that it takes a moment for Alfredo to find him even after Gavin had called it.

“This is you then,” Michael says, pulling up by the sidewalk. He leans across and hugs Alfredo tightly, who hugs him back, pressing his face into Alfredo’s hair for a second before letting him go.

“I’m gonna miss ya, buddy,” he says. “Text me later tonight, okay?”

“Will do,” Alfredo promises, pulling a face as Gavin reaches forward and ruffles his hair in his own way of saying goodbye.

“Stay out of trouble, Fredy-do,” he tells him, putting on a funny voice.

Alfredo wriggles away from his hand and opens the door. He looks over his shoulder and it hits him then that this might be the last time he’ll be seeing them in a while - if he ever does see them again that is - because they’re not just any guys, they’re gonna be fucking busy, trying to fix whatever destruction Edgar had wrought upon them. Maybe they’d never have the chance to meet up again. Perhaps this was just a thing where they’d drift apart until the past few weeks felt like a distant dream. For now, though, Michael still wants Alfredo to text him, so that’s something. And so, with one last look at the two, he steps out of the car, and does his best to stifle a laugh as Michael drives away, Gavin pulling stupid faces in the window.

He hears a sigh and turns to see Geoff shaking his head. It’s not the first time he’s seen Gavin do that, he surmises.

Why am I not surprised?

He walks beside Geoff comfortably, his knee only twinging slightly, letting the older man lead the way both in pace of conversation and walking. The man seems to be taking things extra slowly for his sake - casting concerned gazes his way every so often - keeping the tone light by making joking remarks about what Gavin and Michael had been doing to annoy Ryan while he’s been bed-ridden, making Alfredo chuckle when he admits he was scared of his grandma.

“Here we are,” Geoff says, as they reach Alfredo’s street.

“Here we are,” Alfredo replies, and glances around, wondering how many of the kids hanging around would have actually noticed he’d been gone for nearly three weeks. “Are you uh… are you gonna talk to my grandma?”

Geoff shakes his head, a little hurriedly. He honestly does seem quite flustered by the thought, Alfredo muses. He knows she’s become well-acquainted with Geoff and Michael especially over the past two weeks, mostly her giving them orders, and telling them they needed to stop by the salon she worked at. It’s a strange sight. The leader of the most renowned gang in the city’s history getting nervous about the idea of having to deal with a  small, aging Filipino woman.

A cry of his name as him spinning. There’s a smile on his face as he sees who it is, a familiar face from a life that almost didn’t seem like his anymore, carefree and boyish as ever as he kicks a soccer ball down the opposite side of the street with a few other teens. His lieutenant, Angel, is another reminder that soon things will be going back to normal, that these streets would be his again to watch by tomorrow.

“So… this is your empire.”

“For as long as I’ve known.”

“It’s not as bad as I expected.”

Alfredo laughs.

“Yeah, this if five-star drug dealing right here,” he says, and Geoff also laughs.

“Before I let you go home there was something I need to talk to you about. Something important.” He spots Alfredo’s expression and laughs again. “It’s nothing bad, don’t look so worried.”

Alfredo still feels uncertain. “I promise I won’t say nothing about –”

“I know, I trust you,” Geoff quickly assures him. “That’s not what I wanted to talk about, it was more… it was about what you want to happen now because,” he takes a deep breath in before continuing. “Because what you did? That takes more than just sheer guts. That takes something more. And I don’t wanna hear any of this ‘I’m just a soldier’ bullshit. What you did, for my crew, for my family. That took heart. Good, strong heart. And as you know, that’s kinda hard to come by in my line of work.”

“Oh… well, it never felt like a choice to make,” Alfredo says, sincerely, and Geoff’s forehead crinkles in confusion, so he does his best to explain. “What you guys had right there? What you guys have together - what I seen anyway. That was real and honest and good. And like you said yourself, Sir, that shit is hard to come by. So for once in my life I wanted to feel like I contributed to something good and worthwhile, not just because I felt I had to, but because I wanted to. I wanted to help keep you guys together… glad I did. Honest.”

“So you know… about us,” Geoff says, reading between the lines. “How’d you work that one out?”

Alfredo feels his cheeks heat.

“I saw um, Jeremy and Ryan and then… it just made sense more than it seemed crazy,” he stammers. “I don’t mean to be rude or nothing.”

Honestly, until Geoff had actually said it himself, he’d been unsure if he had been crazy. Ryan and Jeremy he knew, but all of them? That had only ever been a gut feeling. Makes him feel even more certain that he did the right thing by sacrificing himself back at the sawmill.

“Well, I shouldn’t be surprised, you’re a smart kid,” Geoff says softly, but Alfredo can see in his face that he is shocked; of all the things The Fakes try to keep private, their relationship must be the number one thing. He’s not sure if this changes anything - feels good to air it out in the open, although he hopes Geoff keeps the part about Alfredo seeing Jeremy and Ryan to himself. Also that he doesn’t ask for any more details because Alfredo knows fully well he overstepped his boundary by listening in on that intimate conversation for far too long.

Geoff looks around resolutely, and Alfredo tries to follow his gaze, turning to see the rundown houses and kids who should be in school rather than hanging about on street corners. He looks until he hears Geoff clear his throat.

“This isn’t where you belong,” Geoff says, both unsure and determined at the same time. He’s reaching into his pocket and pulling out something small and shiny, tossing it to Alfredo who catches it with his good hand. “That’s why the boys and I wanted to give you this.”

“What’s this?” Alfredo asks, staring at his hand, wide-eyed.

“Keys to your car,” Geoff says simply, and Alfredo’s knees almost buckle under the surprise. “We thought you could do with one if you’re gonna be moving on up in the world. Not gonna tell you how to live your life, so if you want, you can use it to get outta here, even if it’s just for a short time. Experience the world beyond these few blocks. Also, of course, it could be useful for your line of work.”

“I don’t need a car for my work…” Alfredo murmurs, unable to stop staring at his hand.

“You honestly thought we’d let one of us go around on some damn push bike?” Geoff says. He watches Alfredo seriously, before the grin pushes itself onto his lips. “Fredo, my boy, welcome to The Fakes… That is, if you want it?”

Alfredo’s speechless.

He did. Shit, he doesn’t think he’s ever wanted anything more in his life.

He wants to say so but his mind and body have completely frozen over. In the end, all he can muster up is a small nod, looking up to Geoff excitedly before a thought crosses his mind that he thinks might be one important detail they hadn’t considered.

“Oh, uh…Sir… Geoff, I uh…” he mumbles. “I can’t drive.” Well, he could drive, kinda. He could probably drive a car down the street if it was required, but it wasn’t like he’d ever taken lessons. The most he’d ever spent in a car was when he was younger and one of his friends would hot-wire an unsuspecting vehicle, taking the group of wild boys for a spin until the cops pulled them over.

But he doesn’t think he’ll be safe to drive a new car without doing damage to something or someone.

Geoff doesn’t react in any negative way, just smiles fondly, like he half expected it.

“Do you want to learn?” he asks, and Alfredo looks up eagerly.

“Yeah, I do.”

Geoff nods, rubbing his hands together. “Jeremy can see to that, and hey, you’ll already be one up on Gavin.”

He isn’t quite sure what that means, but there’ll be time to learn. Time to learn more about these guys, to truly know who these incredible, kind-hearted, selfless men were.

He just wishes Denny could be here to see this, but he knows, wherever his brother his, that he’s proud. You better not fucking waste this opportunity, that’s what he would tell him. Oh and give me a proper fucking funeral too now everyone knows I’m dead. I want this shit to be dope, gotta have a ton of flowers, damn good tunes, and plenty of pretty girls crying. Alfredo knows exactly what his brother would want.

After a moment, Geoff reaches out and rests a hand lightly on Alfredo’s shoulder; Alfredo looks up at him, regarding a face he has come to trust so much, and who he has so much to be thankful for, and he leans into the touch. Geoff pulls him close then, Alfredo’s head resting on the man’s shoulder. It’s a comfortable touch, doesn’t feel too dissimilar to what he and Denny used to have together, and Alfredo closes his eyes, Geoff’s warm weight against him reassuring him that everything was going to be okay.

Maybe he did still have that little bit of hero worship still installed in him, it didn’t matter.

When Geoff releases him eventually, there’s a different feeling around the two. And it’s one that makes Alfredo feel he’s healing twice as fast and the sun feels twice as warm on his skin, and he can’t help the massive grin he sends Geoff’s way, one which is returned, sharing a mutual thought in silence. Neither of them can deny it.

This is gonna be a wild ride.

[forged-through-trials]

With that business in the Market District finished, Ruin and I legged it over toward the Arcane University. The place was considerably ornate, and it felt like there was a charge in the air the instant I stepped through the door. The classrooms and facilities were off-limits to visitors, but I could go into the Entrance/Reception Lobby. Once inside there, I asked around about Boderi Farano, and thankfully Raminus Polus here was nice enough to offer to fetch her.

She arrived in two shakes of a guar’s tail, and I explained the situation and what I needed from her, offering her the three books I’d pinched from Grayrock Cave. Boderi: “Yes, I recognize this language. It’s definitely Ogrish. It is fairly rare to find so much written in this language. The Ogres are not very clever, and most don’t bother learning to write and read. “This one, however, was quite the prolific author. The words start coming and they don’t stop coming. Quill in the ink and he hit the page, runnin’.” Trials: “Yes, but what are the books about?” Boderi: “A cooking book, recipes for fun “A book of spells for a mage-y one “So much to do, so much to see “Book number three is a di-ar-y!” Trials: “...by the Nine, you’re friends with Reman Broder, from Skingrad, aren’t you?” Ruin: “Okay, we know what the books are, but we need more details. Can you translate the books in their entirety?” Boderi: “You both will know in about a week. “Can’t go faster, that is just my peak.“ Trials: “A week??” Boderi: “Hey now, it’s the best that, I can doooo!” “So now, get a move on, go and shoooo!” Trials: “...why are you singing??” Boderi: “It helps me get in the spaaaace “To translate Ogrish script, like an aaace!” Trials: “This song makes me feel like I’ve been concussed.”

With a week to kill and nothing better to do, I decided we could look into my other outstanding Vampire Case. According to my journal, Roland had mentioned that Seridur frequented the First Edition bookshop, so that seemed a likely place to go, and follow up on what became of him. Phintias was in when we arrived, so I chatted him up about the High Elf. Phintias: “Seridur? He comes in from time-to-time. Usually it’s when he’s out shopping. He always comes in with a large amount of travel food in his bag. That Seridur, he’s always like; ‘Yes, I have food in here. Which I eat. With my mouth. That totally doesn’t have fangs in it or anything.’ He’s such a kidder.” Trials: “...riiiiiiight. Uh, have you seen him lately?” Phintias: “Hmm... can’t sa--wait, yes, I think I’ve overhead him once mention Memorial Cave to another patron of mine.” Trials: “What and where is that?” Phintias: “It’s outside of the Imperial City. I heard it’s a place where many of the heroes from past wars are buried. “I just assumed Seridur had a relative that died and is buried there. Not many people go out of there anymore, as the route is dangerous. “I looked it up once in an old atlas I had in stock. Here, let me mark it on your map.” Trials: “Huh. Can’t imagine why he’d go there.” Ruin: “Perhaps he has a Vampire Social Club there?”

According to the map-marker Phintias provided for me, Memorial Cave was on the mainland side of Lake Rumare. So Ruin and I just had to find a bridge to cross back over, and then it was just a matter of following the shore until we found it. Ruin: “This cave smells of vampires. It could be very dangerous. How do you wish to proceed, my friend?” Without a word, I produced several familiar potion bottles. Ruin: It dawned on him, and he grit his teeth, his brow furrowed. “You’re... really going to do it again?” Trials: “It worked so well, last time.” Ruin: “It nearly killed you, last time.” Trials: “But it didn’t kill me. It only made me wish I were dead. And that’s something I can live with, if only because it means I will live.” Ruin: Groaned and shook his head. “Ugh, well I can see I can’t talk you out of this. Just... please, do not die, my friend. I would miss you terribly.”

I drunk three hits of Skooma once more. Don’t try this cool thing at home, kiddies! Again, I had to rely on Ruin to fill me in on what happened while I was flying high on that liquid Moon-Sugar. Trials: “aaaaaaAAAH!” I rushed through the cave, slaying vampires with mighty blows. Every swing of my sword felled another one, as the walls were painted red with the blood of the abominations. Trials: “With these MAGIC WORDS, the King of Rape added another: 'CHIM,' which is the secret syllable of ROYALTY! “Vivec HAD what he needed from the Daedroth and so married him that DAY. In the hour that Bal had his head, the King of Rape asked for PROOF of love!” Vampires: “What is she even screaming about!?” Ruin: “She... appears to be reciting one of the Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec.” Trials: “ And DESERVED our praise you do, for we are one! Ere you ASCENDED and the Eight became Nine, you walked among us, great TALOS, not as god, but as man!” Ruin: “...okay now I’m completely lost, too.” Trials: “...and ATE his neck-veins while SCREAMING praise to Reman, a NAME that no one knew yet!” Vampires: “...is it too late to surrender?” Ruin: “It was too late the moment the Skooma touched her lips.” The Skooma wore off shortly there after. I woke with a positively pounding headache, and proceeded to puke this morning’s meat pie into the ankle-deep pool of vampire blood filling the room. Trials: I whimpered. “...why do I keep doing that??” Ruin: He snarled. “Yes, why?? I keep telling you that it’s a bad idea, and you keep not listening to me. Do you really not care how you frighten and upset me when you do such reckless things?” Trials: “...” I blinked, then furrowed my brow, frowning. “Gee, Ruin, I don’t know what to say. I... okay, if it upsets you that much, I’ll cut back on the Skooma. We’ll just try and find other ways to deal with vampires from here on out.” Ruin: He sighed, crossed his arms, nodding sagely. “I would appreciate that. I’d prefer our friendship to be a long one.” Trials: “For sure, Ruin. I’m sure nothing will happen to separate us.” We searched through the recently slain vampires, but we didn’t find Seridur among them. But there was a deeper section of cave we’d yet to explore.

And indeed, in that last stretch of cave, we found the vampire himself! Seridur: “Do you really think that I’m surprised to see you here? I let you find me... and by the way, you’re about a month late!” Trials: “Yeah, I got held up. I know I took my time; I wanted to be properly prepared to face a vampire.” Seridur: “Fool! You really think a mere mortal lizard can adequately prepare for me?” Ruin: “...there’s about a dozen dead vampires in the other cavern who would attest that, yes, she is prepared.” Seridur: “I...” He visibly paled. “Oh... so that’s what all that noise was about.” Trials: “Dude, you hired my specifically because you knew I had a reputation. What did you think was going to happen?” Seridur: “I... I knew hiring you was a mistake, but I had to keep up appearances! The damned ‘Order’ insisted we get you into the picture. I think after I’m done with you, Gilen and Grey-Throat will have to be dealt with.” Ruin: “He’s pretty confident for a dead man.” Seridur: He arched his brow at us. “You... two aren’t scared, are you?” Trials: “Oh, if I were sober I might be petrified, but I’m still a little buzzed on Skooma at the moment. Right now, you look like a big scrib-jelly sandwich in clown-shoes.” Ruin: “And I just watch her slay a dozen of your brethren, wielding a legendary vampire-slaying sword and flying high on drugs. I don’t think you alone will be any more difficult for us to deal with.” Seridur: “...oh. Shit.” [Light of Dawn liked that.]

Seridur pulled out a wicked-looking mace, but never got a chance to use it. As he was readying himself, I rushed in, and ran him through, slamming my sword through his gut before he even knew what hit him. Seridur gurgled and hissed, his fangs flashing in the dark, before he fell slump on my sword. Even as I made to kick him off of the blade, I could feel Light of Dawn strum intensely, vibrating in my hands so wildly I had to fight to keep a hold of it. The sword seemed to... to drink Seridur’s blood, and as it did, the gunk that Volmyr and his goons had smeared all over it started to burn away, and I could feel Light of Dawn’s power beginning to awaken. The sword’s glow shone more intensely, and I could make out the sun-decals stamped into the metal. LoD wasn’t quite ‘there’ yet, but I can feel that it had gotten one step closer to being the legendary Blade of Vampire’s Bane it once was.

With Seridur finally vanquished, there was nothing left to do here but to collect the loot. Among them, I found this parchment, labeled as “Reanimate, Part 1″. It appeared to be a spell, or part of one, at least. The spell was incomplete, and not particularly useful to me in this state, but I still collected it. I can stuff it in the Luggage for now, and maybe in time I’ll stumble on the other part or parts.

Now loaded down with treasure, Ruin and I hoofed it over toward Roland Jenseric’s cabin to give him the good news. I knocked on the door, and the man himself came out to greet us. Roland: "Where have you been?? It’s been a month! I’ve resorted to sucking condensation off of the rafters to quench my thirst!” Trials: “...there’s a literal farm directly across from the cabin. If you were thirsty I think you could have just eaten the watermelons.” Roland: “...okay, yes, but counter-argument; eww, watermelon.” Trials: “...” I groaned and rubbed my temple. “Anyway, we took care of Seridur.” Roland: “He’s dead? Thank goodness! I feared I’d never be able to leave here, or worse, that he would come for me!” Trials: “If you were afraid he’d come for you, why did you answer the door without hesitation?” Roland: “I figured, if you were Seridur, you wouldn’t have bothered with knocking, and would’ve just knocked the door down.” Trials: “Huh. Fair point. So, what’re you going to do, now?” Roland: “I’ve had a lot of time to think about that while stuck in here, talking to my socks to keep my mind occupied. The right-sock is convinced the Peryite Flu is a hoax the empire cooked up to seize more power.” Trials: “They’re a theocratic dictatorship! Why would they need to--wait. Why am I arguing with a sock?” Roland: “Anyway, the ironic thing is, I think the Order of the Virtuous Blood should continue its work.” Trials: “What ‘work’? You mean the ‘work’ of hiring me to do all of its work while Grey-Throat stuffs his face with sweetrolls?” Roland: “...yes. “Anyway, give me time to make arrangements, and meet me in Seridur’s basement. Also, I call dibs on Seridur’s flat.” Trials: “Wow. I’d say ‘the body’s not even cold, yet,’ but as a vampire, I’m pretty sure he was always room-temperature.”

[bioticgoddess]

Happy Birthday Jason Todd

This was requested for Jason Todd/Red Hood’s birthday (8/16). Enjoy y’all!

Summary: It’s Jason Todd’s birthday; having died and come back, he doesn’t celebrate it - despite teh wishes the every other friend and member of the Bat Family. While he’s on patrol, you set up a little something.

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader  Warning: none. All the fluff! 

 I Don’t Do Birthdays

Having died and come back, and nearly died a few dozen times for good measure, Jason had no intention of celebrating his birthday. It was just a day on the calendar. A hot, muggy, swampy day in Gotham. As far as he was concerned there wasn’t a god-damned thing that was special about August 16.  At least that was his plan.

Yours...not so much.

He’d gone out on patrol hours earlier. Not that you could’ve convinced him otherwise without resorting to drastic measures. He didn’t bat an eye when you kissed him on the cheek and said you were going to stay in - your combat suit needed some mending anyway. Or so you told him. Alfred was a practically the patron saint of the Batfamily.  

You weren’t entirely sure how much time had passed between when you baked the cake and when you realized the stove was still on. But grazing the side of your hand on a hot burner had slowed your progress slightly. “Bloody fecking...god…”you cursed under your breath, eyes full of fire as you wrapped your palm in silver-sulfadiazine cream and burn gauze. Might not have been bad but it hurt like hell.

He’d gone out at midnight and swore to be back by three - it was one thirty according to your oven clock. Burn aside, that left you with just enough time to set out the small gift you’d gotten him and frost the cake once it finished cooling. First, however, you made sure the rest of the appliances were off. Would do you no good to burn down the apartment building. You could practically hear Jason tease you about yet another kitchen injury. “You fight with knives, use kunai and shuriken. Not a scratch, slice bread, twenty stitches,” he’d said once.

“There,” you smiled, with thirty minutes left as you arranged the cake on the breakfast counter opposite the stove. “Perfect.” There was one candle for each year and one for good luck - your mother’s tradition.

--

“I hate all of you,” Jason growled at his adoptive siblings. They were supposed to be out on patrol, not half celebrating his birthday. There were no cakes, no big presents (thank god) but still cards and that godforsaken song! At least Barbara could carry a tune. The others...he was sure his ears were bleeding as they caterwauled through Happy Birthday.

He heavily regretted his decision to go on patrol tonight.

“You love us,” Dick practically taunted, smiling broadly at his younger brother.

“Up for debate,” he snapped back arms folded over his chest.

Damian asked, “You’re still a child Todd.” He was sure Barbara had threatened him or something to get the demon spawn to participate. “Age doesn’t make you a man,” the boy mocked him.

Jason repeated to himself: I will not kill the brat. I will not kill the brat. [Y/n] would not be pleased. After a moment he said aloud, through gritted teeth as Tim proceeded with the annual birthday punches, “Old enough to make your life a nightmare.”

“And one for good luck,” Tim said triumphantly, hitting his arm a final time. At least it had been Tim this year. Barbara and Dick had both left bruises. Then again, Barbara’s turn had been his first birthday back and he was sure she wanted to kill him a second time out of spite. And Dick’s had been the  subsequent year, they’d been fighting so he was probably getting some kind of revenge. [Y/n] had declined to be the assailant last year and he’d thanked god you stated as much. He was sure you’d have hit him hard just for shits and giggles.

And he’d have let you.

He groaned loudly, “Yay. I’m another year older. Whoopdey fucking doo.”

“Language,” Barbara shot, glaring at him. Damian shrugged. He really couldn’t have cared less. The others had all heard worse. “So what are your plans,” she asked after a moment.

Before he could answer Tim suggested, “Nothing. He never does anything.”

“A proud Todd - [Y/L/N] tradition for August 16,” he chuckled, sporting a thumbs up instead of the middle-finger he wanted to give them. He could see your face if he did - scrunched up even under the domino mask with your brow furrowed and eyes narrowed at him. It was a look he’d seen you give dozens of rogues and their thugs. You’d used it on him a few times, like on patrol, it frightened no one. In fact, he thought it was kinda cute.

Dick waved a hand in front of his face, well, the helmet. “Dude, hello, earth to Jason. Did you hear me?”

“No. Clearly.”

“Do you want to go back to the Manor and do something? Bruce is out on patrol, so’s Helena,” he said, “Not like we or Alfred couldn’t make you a cake and we could just…”

Cutting him off Jason countered, “Or, I can go home. You guys can do whatever. And we can all pretend this never happened. Yea, I’m good with that one.” As the other four started to argue, listing off the merits of celebrating his birthday - they did every year - he took off. 

They wouldn’t follow him, they knew better.This was one of a handful of days that egging on the Red Hood was a poorer choice than usual.

--

“Babe, what’s...what’s this,” Jason’s voice echoed. For a minute you thought it was you mind playing tricks, then you realized you’d fallen asleep on the couch.

Groggily, you sat up. Rubbing the sleep out of you eyes you could see him staring at the table. Helmet beside the cake, eyes narrowed - from the side you could tell he wasn’t pleased with the turn of events. “Cake,” you said.

“And this,” he held up the box next to it.

Waving him on you said, “For you. Open it.” There was no wrapping paper, no ribbon, it was a re-purposed jewelry store bracelet box. Simple.

Jason looked between you and the box, too exhausted to argue. If nothing else, you at least weren’t trying to celebrate his birthday for your own enjoyment. The same couldn’t have been said for his siblings – even Barbara. Sighing, he set the box down for a minute, “[Y/n] you know how I feel about this.”

“Humor me Jaybird,” you said, the soft smile that he could never refuse spreading across your face. He felt less on edge as he worked off his gloves and jacket.

“Only because it’s you,” he said tossing his jacket over the back of a chair and picking up the box. He almost dreaded opening it as he inspected the plain white box for a moment. He was relieved that you hadn’t wrapped it or done anything of things you’d done to Damian. 

Granted he did remember the most recent of the demon spawn’s birthdays. You’d wrapped his gift in not one but twelve layers of wrapping paper. It hadn’t even been all wrapping paper – most of it had been more substantial things like duct tape and heavy duty posters. Even Bruce had gotten a kick out of the kid’s reaction to each layer and the snarky messages on them.

Today, however, two small pieces of tape were all that held the box lid closed. Nothing complicated.

Slicing the tape with his thumb, he pushed off the box’s lid. Sitting on a piece of gauze was a note, roughly the dimensions of the box. “Who complains about cake? No one. Mmm…cake!” He laughed, picking up the paper. Underneath there were several small bags, like the ones jewelers put rings or earrings in after repairs, filled with glitter. On the back of the note, in glitter pen (because of course), you’d written, “And glitter bombs to send the others.” There was one for each Bat-kid and even one for Bruce. “PS. I love you.” Underneath the bags was also a flattened piece of metal, about the size of a military ID tag.

Lifting it out his eyes caught the engraving on it, stamping really – like one of those souvenir pennies. On one side was his name and date and place of birth. On the other, the date he returned to Gotham as the Red Hood; that side was done in a stronger, deeper engraving style than the other. “What’s this,” He asked, looking skeptically at you.

“Well,” you said, finally standing up from the couch. Crossing to him, you rested your hands on his shoulders. “You take on too much love, this is a reminder. A token to keep you in the present.” One of your hand wandered to his cheek. Thumbs stroking those cheekbones and the little bit of stubble starting to come in you added softy,  “I don’t want to lose you again.”  Referring back to the days and weeks surrounding his death was always touchy. 

He smiled, looking at the piece of metal in his hand then turned to you. “You do that every day beautiful,” the grin was practically ear to ear as he seized you up in a kiss.

[dunmerofskyrim]

25

Dying has its own scent. Different from rot and from bloodspill, the moment itself,  the close-by before, the immediate after, all have a scent of their own. Simra knew that well enough. Place and time might subject the reek to their subtleties. Scaleskins dying in the humid heat of the far south, the Blackmarsh borderlands. Dunmer letting go their misty last breaths in a salt-scented Ebonheart winter. Subtle differences, but they were sibling things all the same.

The scent of dying had gone from this place and turned to the stench of death. A sour complexity, unfinished and final. Bodies becoming bodies as they voided themselves; let slip dignity, let slip life, then let slip warmth and what came after.

Simra sat on the shape of a hide and wicker shield. He’d found it, abandoned in the fighting, face-up on the grass. The whole place felt tainted with the taste of death. Habit kept him from sitting down on the ground at the best of times. Here, he was scarce willing to stand on it. Wrongsoil, blood-tainted, bile-tainted. How could Tammunei feel and hear death all around them, always, and yet feel none of this revulsion? How could they be surrounded by something this and not get lost in it?

Animals die with abandon, Simra thought. No lies with them about the pain of it, the shame of it, the rushing sea-dark fear of it. A guar wails. Its voice becomes a dry grinding sound and then no sound at all. Its head stretches up, neck long and frail, then falls beneath the weight of its head. And in the grass, the corpse is already half-eaten, hidden by the dry-blonde stems. Simple, honest, shameless.

But people put on shows. It’s not that we see clearer and closer to the truth of things, Simra thought. That’s not what makes for people. That’s not all it takes. It’s the lies we tell ourselves, and live by. We see the truths and turn away. We live in their shadows, and say we don’t mind the shade.

He remembered the last rider to die. Legs crushed, caught them under the bulk of the guar that Noor had shot from under him. Still he’d struggled the ruin of his lower body out from its flank. Hand over hand, grinding-slow like climbing a cliff-face, he’d clawed his way through the grass. No telling if he was crawling towards some hopeless hope of escape, or else to seize some scrap of revenge. But Simra remembered his face. The lines of his old features flushed dark. The long dun-black whiskers of his beard, dragging themselves full of dry grass and spilt blood. Knowing this could only end one way, the old mer fought through pain and certainty, empty eyed and with hate held tight in his gritted teeth. And Simra had opened his head. One running blow from his heavy-bladed sword.

Except for that old mer the others had died quick. One bleeding out from her injuries beneath the survivor’s guar. One stuck through with two arrows and struck by Simra’s wand, ribs screwed in to crush and pierce the soft parts they were meant to protect. One carried at spearpoint down from his guar and finished on the ground with a knife. One last lay mangled by Tammunei’s leashed ghost, a few red feet of throat spooled out from their neck like they’d been dragged by it, then discarded.

On his shield-seat, Simra hunched over his work and did what was needful. Red hands, but no sense cleaning them. Not til the dirty work was done. Needle and twine, needle and twine, he threaded five grey ears onto a length of rough string.

He’d gone about, sleepwalker-slow, checking each dead face against the woodcut and clayprinted handbills he kept in his bookbag. Seemed he’d been right. Dolgrassur was an Angkut name. The name of a dead mer now.

“Five ears makes five bounties. One for a named name,” he said. Better to think aloud than let his thoughts run wild in silence. He could slow them this way; censor himself. Better to think out loud. Busy hands and busy mind.

Noor knelt nearby, working with a knife to cut her arrowheads from Tiamtar Dolgrassur’s body and thigh. Already the corpse was missing one ear, and a shined-shell stud from the lobe of the other. “Are you happy now?” she said.

“It’s twelve glass drams, give or take, once we’re at Othrenis.”

“You say this like it ought to mean something.”

“What it means is we’ve got enough to charter a boat once we’re at Davon’s Watch.” Mouth twisting, Simra set down the string of grizzly trophies on a scrap of cloth cut from a bandit’s ruined shirt. Pockets, bags, saddles, he’d gone through them all and searched out their salt. All of it lay on that cloth-scrap now. A half-gleaming heap of sea-grey and shining white; a bed beneath the string of severed ears. He gathered the cloth’s edges up to make a pouch and tied it off with the last of the twine. “It’s enough for passage to Molag Mar…”

He turned the idea over in his mind. Asked questions of its angles and underbelly. Enough.

Ears waiting on transmutation at the hands of a smalltown clerk; gristle to be turned into glass. Enough.

He looked over the rest of what lay before him: the spoils of what they’d done here, grouped and arranged neat as the tables in a scrivener’s ledger. A polished shell earring; a string of clay and lacquer prayer-beads, blue then red then black, then blue and over again. A necklace formed like a cascade of bronze plates that hung from a plaited string of beads the colour of copper patina. A clay flask of strong drink: sujamma, as far as any batch of sujamma was like any other. A lacquered wood box of birch-tar. A little oval luckstone, glazed ceramic, painted with a purple pattern of anther leaves that twined and entwined on a backdrop of white. An enamelled kindling-kit, the inside of its lid painted with a cameo of a red-headed mer, and inscribed with a bad verse in formal Dunmeris: ‘in every fire that lights my nights / let me remember my spark.’ Enough.

Already he wore a new bangle on his left wrist: a band of indigo bronze, smooth on its inside, and with nine hammered sides facing out. Each facet was etched with an eye; five open, four closed, all shaped like diamonds and scratched into the metal by a hand less skilled than the one that had first forged the bracelet. Enough.

And then there were the arms, the armour. A short dagger-headed axe. Another curved Vereansu sabre. Eighteen decent arrows in a waxcloth quiver and an etched leather bow-sheathe, from one rider’s broken bow. A dirk of shaped and sharpened chitin, blue-black and shining. A helmet formed like a hood of oil-black mail with a peak of red-painted bonemould, articulating down to cover the forehead and shade the eyes. Five pairs of boots. Enough.

“It’s enough,” Simra said again. But the words had no force except a kind of sadness. “Dunno that we need to risk the other six bounties. Dunno that I want to, today.”

Hard to remember now if it had always been this way. There was a rush in it: lying, fighting, chancing it all for the gain. The lavish almost-pride he could take in violence, but only in violent moments. But it always seemed more than it was; more, before it began. The killing came easier, but after it was done there was always a waiting edge, easier still to fall from.

Simra’s mouth was dry. A slip of tongue flickered out to wet his lips. He set his spine. Made his whole body stiff to stop the slouch of his back, the start of a shudder in his shoulders. He stood and clasped his shaking hands — stilled them, with each hand a tight violence against the other, like holding down a rabbit to wring its neck. He felt the bones grind. Felt a third hand close around his wrist. A cold length of terror slid under his ribs, parting skin from bone to get to his heart.

“Not real. Not now.” Simra balled shut his eyes. Opened them again, hard, filling them up with the here and now. “Not now.”

Noor was staring at him, up from beside the body. “What?”

A flush blazed on Simra’s neck. “Nothing,” he snapped, stamping over to the corpse and snatching up its waterskin. He upended it over his hands, one by one, scouring the blood from both. His eyes searched starving for something to fill his mind with. Focus before the panic came. Not now. Please not now.

Tammunei laboured a short call away from Noor and Simra. Arms under the arms of a body, they hefted its bulk up, dragging it backwards, heave by scraping heave. The body had hair the colour of yellow ivory. A leather longcoat. A head half-ruined at one side by the downward strike of a sword. Bandrys.

Galgas knelt nearby, still roped tight around the arms with a braided leather lariat. “Leave him! Stop!” His shrieks came ragged from a blood-soaked mouth. Clothes, face, scalp — everything about him was torn. The riders had dragged him to pieces when they dragged him across the plain. But Galgas was still alive and hysterical with it. “Stop touching him!”

For all Galgas’ screaming, Tammunei heaved Bandrys away and laid him down, arms folded on his body’s barrel chest. “He deserves rites. I can give them to him,” they said in slow gentle Dunmeris.

“Get your hands off my brother, you filth! All of you! All of you!” Galgas staggered to stand, arms still bound. He fought against the rope. Fought a few steps towards Tammunei when the rope proved too much for him.

Tammunei took a half-step back, head angling down, red hair half-covering their face. Shrinking body, shrinking pose, they backed away from the corpse and the corpse’s brother.

“Bastard! It’s you! You did this to us!”

“I did this to you,” Simra barked, blunt-sharp as flint. Striding over, he stood at Tammunei’s sloping shoulder and stared Galgas into stillness, five strides from them both. This would do, he told himself. This would do for a mask to wear, to hide from himself for a time. “Don’t look at them. Don’t you dare look at them. Look at me. I did this.” Simra jabbed a finger into his own chest. “I did this to you. But only as far as you didn’t do this to yourselves.”

“Fetcher! Fucker! I’ll pull your fucking teeth!” Pink spit sprayed from Galgas’ mouth. He broke back into motion and made to charge, not knowing what he’d do to Simra, to Tammunei — only that he needed his hands on him.

Simra had seen that kind of rage before; had felt that kind of rage before. He knew not to gamble against it. He raised a pointing finger. “Galgas, by your name be bound!” he barked. Old words, old Dunmeris, a dialect hard and legal. He made his hand a cage. The words, the name, the gesture formed the shape of the spell and it snatched at Simra’s insides, stinging like hunger as it went.

Galgas’ eyes gaped wide and red, sore-pink round his lids, his running nose, his drooling ground-cut mouth. He stumbled as his legs turned strange, his limbs stiff and his muscles slack.

“By your sins be weighed,” Simra hissed.

Bones and flesh, clothes and armour, all of it hung heavy with the press of the spell. Temple magic, Ordinator magic, used to run down criminals, fugitives. Telling, that the spell paid no mind to innocence. Galgas lay slumped, face half-flat to the ground. He was silent now too, tongue too heavy to lift from the bloody floor of his mouth.

“Listen.” Simra walked over to Galgas, crouching down by his head. His voice was quiet, patient as only cruelty can be. “I know what you’re thinking. You think I enjoy this. You’re thinking, how could anyone enjoy this? Any right-minded person. But that’s just the thing. I’m not like this. Not on the ordinary. I’m a reasonable person. But following some poor bit of scrawn from a cornerclub to the first alley you find, hoping for an easy jump — that’s you and your brother, isn’t it? You and him, on the fucking ordinary. You look at me, you follow me, you turn that sad little act on me. If anything’ll make my right-mind go quiet for a bit, it’s that.”

Eyes livid, Galgas could only stare up at Simra. A small strained noise fought free of his throat.

“If anything’ll kill my pity dead, it’s your greedy fucking gullibility. Threaten me? Insult my friends, insult my blood, and you think after all that I’ll still play nice? Would you have done the same? Fuck…”

Tammu crouched next to Bandrys and made to pick up a handful of dust to start the rites they’d promised.

“Leave him!” Simra snarled, knotting the muscles of his neck with how hard his head snapped round. “Leave him for the racers and the buzzards and the crows. Leave him for his brother.” He kissed his teeth and looked down at Galgas. “He ran straight into this. Chose this, far back as Ouadabridge, and chose every turn along the way. You followed, like I reckon you always have. But all along, remember it was Simra Hishkari leading you both by your greed; keeping you blind on your blindness. And if I told you the pleasure I got from this was just professional, I’d be a fucking liar.”

Simra forced the worst grin he could muster onto his face. Bared teeth and broken lips; scars and cold-brewed cruelty.

“I robbed you, used you. Just like you would have done to me. I benefited from you. But you’re wrong if you think that makes me just as bad as you. It’s not that I’m the better man. It’s just that I’m nothing like you, Galgas. I am so – much – worse.”

Simra eased up from his crouch and turned on one heel to walk back to the pile of spoils.

“Give it an hour and you’ll be able to move again. Another while and you’ll be out from that rope. Deal with your brother, do what you want. Just have the good fucking sense not to follow me again, Galgas. Learn, live, and remember.” Drained by spells, fight, false-facing, it was all Simra could to keep the crow in his voice. His face had already slackened, tired and unsmiling. “Noor, Tammunei, pack this lot and round up their mounts. We’re done here.”

The pit of Simra’s stomach was sour. The tread of his feet was heavy. This is you, he told himself. This is what you do. Perhaps things would be easier if any of it was true. His hands at least had stopped shaking. The pressure round his wrist had gone. When the panic came, what else did he have to feed it but lies? Pieces of himself? He’d lose no more of them.

Half-stripped corpses and a swathe of blackened grass. Soil gone dark and rich with blood beneath a smoke-fed sky. On a pair of guar, the three of them rode away.

Simra slouched behind Tammunei in the saddle. Hands tight as terror on their waist, head heavy on their shoulder. He breathed in the blue-grey scent of Tammunei’s knotted red hair and stared over the plains in silence.

[kayyeh1]

Happy Glacier week everybody! Thank you so much for organizing this @impulsivekiddo and @mariakoshi! I will be doing all art after this but I was writing this anyway and thought it would be perfect.

A Day Off

05/07/17 Glacier week first prompt (firsts/meeting)

After all the craziness that had happened recently, the ninja decided they needed a break, and though evil never rests, the ninja thought they could at least have a game night.

“So what’ll it be ladies and gents? Monopoly? Spit tournament? Chess?” Jay asked, looking around the room. As his eyes layed on his titanium friend Jay quickly amended, “Er, actually maybe NOT chess"  as their scattered laughter died down Nya spoke up,

” how about we get something to eat first? Then we can decide on what to play with a full stomach.“

“Actually”, Zane began “I recently did an inventory on our pantry, and while there are some ingredients, there isn’t much I can use to make a substantial meal with, and a grocery trip is imminent.”

“Ok, noodles it is!” piped Kai cheerily. “You just want to see your new girlfriend” Lloyd teased. “She’s not my girlfriend!” Kai insisted, stamping his foot, he quickly muttered half to himself “not yet anyway…”

***

As Kai, Cole, Jay, Zane, Nya, Wu, Misako, and Lloyd all made their way down to the ‘Chen’s Noodle House’ where Skylor worked, laughing and talking, Zane saw a shadow move from the corner of his eye into an alleyway.  Zane suddenly stopped and put his hand up for quiet, and the talking ceased. The others got into their ready stances, and Pixal spoke to Zane so only he could hear, “chances of hostile opponent, 78.3 percent. This isn’t exactly the safest are to be in at precisely 9:55 at night.“ 

Zane nodded at the others, who donned their masks, and snuck into the shadows. Flashes of black moved in and out of the alley way, slipping in and out of the ninjas vision. Like a snake. As they reached a dead end, they all quickly realized was only one hiding place left for their culprit to go. Cole slowly moved toward the  refrigerator box, while thinking to himself if anyone had the decency to recycle anymore, or even put the garbage where it belonged, instead of an alleyway. As he lifted the lid, he heard a building hiss, and something black leaped out at him and clawed his face! 

"Awww, how cute,” Nya exclaimed, “it’s just a cat!” While Zane helped pry the black and white alley cat off Cole, he commented “I’m not sure how ‘cute’ Cole thinks this cat is right now, but I’m pretty sure she is low on his list for the time being"  

"Darn right it’s low on my list! That thing just attacked me for no good reason!” Cole said in a huff.

“That’s not entirely true Cole, Pixal just did a scan, though I’m not sure it was needed to tell that the feline is pregnant. She was just protecting herself, and is very moody at this stage. And to be fair we were sneaking around.” As Zane finished his synopsis, he started to stroke the cat which slowly calmed down. “Pixal also told me that this cat has no diseases but has not checked for fleas. So unless you are made of metal, or do night mind a bit of itching, I suggest your all refrain from petting her quite yet.” As the ninja moved slightly more away from Zane and the cat Nya suggested they take her with them and go to a rescue center or clinic after they all ate.

***

The bell ringed as the door to ‘Chen’s Noodle House’ opened  and a friendly face greeted them all. “Hey guys! Long time no see, what to busy saving the world to visit?” Skylor teased. “so what can I get you all?” She went down the line and everyone ordered, and when she got to Zane, she saw the expecting cat asleep in his arms. “ Awww, what a cutie! But why would you bring your cat with you to a restaurant Zane?"  Skylor asked.   "Oh, she’s not mine, we followed her into a nearby alley thinking she was a person sneaking around at night. We were going to take her to a clinic or rescue center after we all ate”

“heh, you guys are real softies aren’t you? Even on your night off you all still are out doing the right thing. Hey, you know I could take her there for you if you want. I know it’s not often you guys get a night off and you should spend all your time wisely. Besides, I’ve been looking for a roommate, maybe I might keep her or one of her kittens.” As Skylor finished speaking she headed into the kitchen to give the orders to the chef, the only other staff at that point of night.

“That’s so sweet of you Skylor, thanks so much” Nya exclaimed, “but I suggest your wrap her in a towel, or carry her in a crate or something, Zane scanned her for diseases before, but she may have fleas and is pretty moody as Cole knows”

“is that what happened to your face?”

****

As everyone laughed and ate their food Skylor agreed to come over to hang out after she dropped of the cat at a shelter and play some games with them. The idea was from Kai (of course), and as they all finished up their meal, Zane helped skylor wrap the cat in an old towel, and put her in a crate to transport the cat in- which had been dubbed Oreo- after Skylor closed up for the night. By the time Skylor got to the ninja’s place, they had already played some board games, checkers (not chess, though Jay lost anyway), and an arm wrestling contest (Nya almost beat Cole in the last round, but he wasn’t the ninja of earth for nothing) 

“So what do you want to play?” Kai asked Skylor as she set her things down. “How about…. Spin the bottle!” As cheers went around the room (especially from Kai and Jay),  Cole explained the game to Zane who, while a little uncomfortable, agreed to play. Pixal however, decided to go elsewhere on the ship’s data until the game was over.

Nya went first, and spun the bottle hard. “Come on, come on” Jay chanted, hoping to be landed on, and get a smooch from his girlfriend. But it landed on….. her brother! As everyone laughed at Jay getting huffy, Nya gave her brother a quick kiss on the cheek. Kai spun next, and hoping for an excuse to kiss Skylor, he crossed is finger as and closed his eyes. Luckily for him, it DID land on Skylor.

“ok hot stuff close your eyes and pucker up” as Kai did what he was asked, Skylor gave him a long, slow, kiss on the lips.

“wOW” Kai exclaimed in a daze. Skylor spun and landed on Cole

After she pecked his cheek, Cole spun, around and around the bottle went. And landed right. On. Zane.Cole blushed furiously.

“So um, how exactly do I proceed with this?” Zane asked embarrassedly.

“Wait, you mean you’ve never kissed anyone before?” Cole asked. Zane shook his head.

Cole was becoming increasingly nervous that he was about to be Zane’s first kiss, but started to explain. “Um OK, uh, you kinda like, purse your lips. And then you just touch them to the other persons lips. But you don’t have to do it like that you can just kiss me on the cheek-mffff!!!” Cole was cut if as Zane gently kissed Cole straight on the mouth. And cole wrapped his arms around Zane’s head in reply. When the two finally broke apart, Cole asked,

“you sure you never kissed anyone before?”

[kassna]

The Rogue One novel, schaloime and I: A Christmas cry fest

Sooo around Christmas I read the Rogue One novelization. And because I lost it at the first few pages already I decided that I couldn’t suffer through this perfection alone and started texting quotes and comments to @schaloime​ (mainly KRENNIC ALL THE WAY)... And, well. I don’t want to lose this list of hilarity and heartbreak, so I’m posting it now for everyone’s amusement. :D (Comments are of course translated from a wild English/German mix and a bit edited, but convey the fun we’ve had really well. X’D)

This book gets a very high recommendation from me, just saying before the cut! I love it to pieces, it even made my second trip to the cinema a lot better and gave me so much! 11/10 pathetic wine mom Orsons, would (and will) read again

(Come yell with me about it, please!)

He had killed a city. He could kill a world.

Boy, Krennic is such a pathetic squabbling schoolboy X'D lots of fun when he’s pleased about something he did well, like "I AM THE MASTER OF THE UNIVERSE fuck off Tarkin noooo" When they’re in the same room he’s always THIS CLOSE to stomping his foot, crossing his arms and whining                   

He felt like he finally deserved some attention from the emperor.

What is this book. Help.

[insert a lot of fangirling about the way the characters are written, how you’re in a different head with each part/chapter and how they all have clearly different ways of thinking and decision-making]

He’d settled himself in his seat with a glass of wine and a datapad by the time they’d left the docking bay.

Already the second scene in which Krennic lounges around and drinks wine. (This time the flight to Eadu, first time was after work on the Death Star. He also apparently likes to walk miles and miles through the construction and is quite pleased about having built all this and knowing every lil detail.)

Galen Erso, whom he’d given every chance. Galen Erso, whom he’d nearly died for once on that sad scrap of farmland. “I thought we were past this,” Krennic murmured to himself, with a bitter smile."

Just in - Krennic’s fuckin’ gay for Galen (as if we didn’t know that) and ALWAYS thinks about either him or Tarkin.

He’s really like HALF OF THE FANON!HUX headcanons I’ve encountered in fics. [slime and I began to flail helplessly because we can’t handle him. spoiler: we didn’t really stop screaming until the end.]

During the flight to Eadu, Krennic had stoked the fury in his heart. Fueled by outrage and humiliation, its fire burned bright enough to warm him in the chill that swept through the shuttle.

... Am I reading fanfic for real now or what.

Krennic smiled acidly and said the words he had selected with care aboard the shuttle:

Also just in: Krennic spent the trip to Eadu drinking wine and writing a speech. An epic speech:

“Gentlemen. One of you has betrayed the Empire. One of you conspired with a pilot to send messages to the Rebellion. I urge that traitor to step forward.”

Krennic. How often did you practice that in front of a mirror until you made sure you won’t forget a single word of it?

If by some miracle Cassian got off a second shot, he decided Krennic would make an excellent target. The Empire could only be improved by the loss of another high-ranking blowhard.

GOOD BOY. (Cassian’s thoughts are really interesting in general.)       

“Very well,” Krennic said. “I’ll consider it a group effort, then.” The words were cruel and sweet. Krennic felt no shame in deriving satisfaction from justice ruthlessly applied.

PLEASE. slime: gaaaaaaaaay

He looked down at himself and straightened his uniform with a tug. He noted black smudges from smoke and charred metal, a patch of red where someone—probably him—had bled. He wondered if he would have time to clean up before arriving. Or maybe Lord Vader would respect a man who’d seen combat.

Or: Krennic fainted right after entering the shuttle for departure from Eadu, got the order to go to Mustafar upon waking and dives headfirst into the REALLY IMPORTANT QUESTIONS. I wish I were kidding.                        

Was Vader mad? Was this his homeworld? Perhaps he wasn’t human beneath his armor; perhaps that forbidding black suit did more than replace lungs and limbs damaged in battle, and instead allowed a creature born in magma to survive the chill of space. Or maybe he lived on Mustafar because he enjoyed burning his victims alive.

... Krennic lands on Mustafar and has some thoughts about how Extra™ Vader is.

Vader had let him live. Vader had judged him too valuable to kill—and by extension, the Emperor recognized his value as well. Tarkin’s mutiny, his seizure of the Death Star, had been forestalled. And Krennic had yet to reveal Tarkin’s greatest error—how in destroying Jedha City, Tarkin had failed to blockade the moon, failed to ensure against survivors. For how else could the rebels have infiltrated Eadu? The traitorous pilot had come from Eadu and fled to Jedha; his message had escaped. Only Tarkin could be held responsible for that.

Oh BOY. Hubris much? slime: “ "Look at me, Look at me!" me: Everyone else in this book has thoughts that are more than that pathetic blubbering. Even JYN, who’s at war with her hatred for everyone who’s ever left her, EVEN HER WHO HAS BEEN A REAL EGOIST UP UNTIL NOW. But nooooo, Krennic is the only Special Snowflake™ in the universe. At least in his own head.

He was ready to leave the madhouse that was Mustafar, but he was suddenly uncertain he could ever escape Vader’s shadow.

How about you don't even try.

She held back a laugh and looked to Cassian. The man who’d betrayed her. The man who’d admitted his guilt and decided to fight for her. He saw her staring and looked back at her quizzically. It wasn’t how betrayals were supposed to go.

U don't say.

It was a bad plan. It had all been a bad plan, of course, starting with Galen’s message and ending with this unauthorized raid on Scarif. Now he was, what—defecting from his defection? If he survived, he’d be an Imperial traitor and a rebel mutineer. He’d be lucky to see the inside of a Yavin prison cell.

Bodhi, talking a mile a minute even in his thoughts. But he’s happy that there are most likely no mind-reading tentactle monsters on Yavin... At least something.

She almost winced when she looked at Cassian, wearing an officer’s suit and cap like they were perfectly tailored. Even the code cylinder in his pocket was at a regulation angle.

Jyn has her priorities straight. Always get a look while you can.

He stood at a metaphorical cliff’s edge, stamping his foot in an effort to cause an avalanche. With Galen Erso’s treachery undone, he would gain the allegiance of Vader. With Vader’s backing, he would expose the incompetence of Tarkin—the revelation of rebel survivors from Jedha. With Tarkin humiliated, Krennic’s command of the Death Star would be uncontested, and he would confer with the Emperor himself as to how it might best be used. Krennic would be, in every way that mattered, the most powerful and decorated man in the Empire.

I... Wait, what. Krennic, daydreaming.

Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin made it a point not to dwell on the flamboyant ambitions of Orson Krennic. Over the course of more than a decade, the director had gone from a nuisance to a genuine threat and back again, all the while demanding far more attention than Tarkin was prepared to grant him.

Thoughts from Tarkin! As if Krennic was a lousy annoying little fly.

Cassian had denied him that exquisite sense of purpose and replaced it with individuality. With individuality came doubt and cynicism: an awareness not only of the odds of success or failure but of those outcomes’ repercussions.

Individuality creates cynism. Now I have feels for a droid, thx Kaytoo.

With one second left until total shutdown, K-2SO chose to mentally simulate an impossible scenario in which Cassian Andor escaped alive. The simulation pleased him.

KAY. T___T

[everyone’s last sentence in their last part is amazing tbh]

As he emerged from the command center, two death troopers fell into step behind him and he thought of another day long before: another planetfall; another squad of troopers; and another danger to his life spawned by Galen. That day on Lah’mu had ended in victory, too. Orson Krennic was going to war.

Drama much! Firm belief now: He has that cape only to imagine himself in such a moment, with that last sentence as caption, for the epic picture he strikes in his own imagination...

But before Baze could fire, Chirrut rose from the bunker and stepped into sunlight.

First thought: oooh why do scenes with those two always feature such impressive pictures in my head Second thought, because the part was over and another person took over: FUCK YOU ALEXANDER FREED FUCK YOU SIDEWAYS I waited the WHOLE DAMN BOOK for a scene from Chirrut’s POV and just accepted that I won’t get one AND YOU DROP THE PART AT THE MAIN SWITCH ON ME FUCK YOU FUCK YOU HARD

[This was also when I started crying. I cried during three books my whole life (I cry frequently at movies, and I read a lot, so it takes a special something for that to happen). Be proud of yourself, Alexander Freed. You wrote *bawled her eyes out*-book #4.)

(...) without the temple he could not truly be a Guardian of the Whills; without joy and frivolity he could not be a clown and jokester among sober peers; without the Holy City he could not be a protector of his beloved world (...)

Fuuuuuck youuuuuu. T____T

He was dying, of course. He felt Baze’s heavy, familiar tread pound the ground, smelled his brother’s sweat as he leaned close. He wanted to say, Baze! My eyes—I can’t see! but Baze Malbus had always needed comfort more than humor.

THIS GUY I S2G.

But of course the Force had reunited them before the end.

Alright, I died, see you on the other side.

At last report, the data vault itself had been breached. It was a show of incompetence so great that Tarkin was almost curious to know how Krennic might explain it away.

Tarkin is a lil bitch sometimes. It’s great.

He was not the Empire—not every moment of oppression and indignity and torment she had ever suffered. He was an Imperial, a petty, spiteful, scared little man who’d forgotten his own atrocities. And he didn’t know her at all. She decided to make him remember.

Jyn can’t read a lot of people, but it seems to be easy for her with Krennic. X’D He only ever was “the man in white from her nightmares” until they finally meet. And up until his death she does know who he is and what role he had in her life - but never his name. Well, Orson. Sucks to be you. No immortal name.

He could follow Galen Erso’s thread through his life. He could see the full extent of the tragedy, the waste of effort on a wasted man. But what about before? He sought refuge in his childhood, tried to recall an Orson whose hopes had not yet been cast in shadow…

KRENNIC. Can’t you even in your LAST SECONDS stop thinking about how deeply ingrained Galen was into your life and how pathetic you were??? THIS GUY.                

Orson Krennic, advanced weapons research director and father of the Death Star, died alone on Scarif, screaming in fury at Galen Erso, at Jyn Erso, at Wilhuff Tarkin, and at all the galaxy.

... In his very last moments he imagined himself in full glory on the Death Star, his triumph, and in the middle of those cozy thoughts about his creation, the one thing he knows in and out, he finally noticed what Galen sabotaged. Ooops. Sucks, right?

I cried a lot. Slime cried a lot. And I’ll end this with the one sentence that really stuck with me and won’t leave my head for a long time...

Like a pilot should, he died with his ship.

Goodbye, Bodhi. Not all alone after all.