#frank is getting prototyped but you already knew that

[molten222]

these casts would make the best fucking sburb sessions

[shychick-52]

Gyro's tech

From The Art of DuckTales:

I like how Frank summed that up, very interesting! So, the three major brands of Gyro's tech seen in the show are BulbTech, GoldTech, and TimeTech. But the order in which he created them gets a little tricky, which I'll try to uncover.

As for "TimeTech is his new thing"... I'll get to that further down...

As we see in season 2's 'What Ever Happened To Della Duck?', Gyro invented GoldTech- presumably his earliest brand of tech, or at least one of his earliest- sometime before Della took off in the Spear of Selene years ago (he presumably designed the rocket to run on GoldTech; and I love the page in the Spear of Selene’s manual that talks about the benefits to it XD):

In Gyro's debut episode 'The Great Dime Chase' early in season 1, he first introduced BulbTech to Scrooge and the Board with his prototype Lil Bulb...

...which, in season 3's 'Astro B.O.Y.D.', was hinted to be from an old idea he actually had during his intern years (the working name at that time being 'Lil Helper', which was a cool reference to its name from the comics and 80s show):

And in season 2, his TimeTech was introduced (although it was never actually called that in the show). There was the Time Tub ('The Outlaw Scrooge McDuck' and 'Timephoon') and the Time Teaser ('The 87 Cent Solution'), the latter which Glomgold found/stole just as Manny was on his way to dispose of it along with a bunch of other apparently discarded inventions of Gyro's:

The strange thing is... according to 'The Great Dime Chase', Gyro had already invented his Time Tub prior to that episode (prior to creating BulbTech). It was listed among his failed experiments (and what's also interesting is that it wasn't shown gaining sentience and turning evil in either of its only appearances 'The Outlaw Scrooge McDuck' or 'Timephoon'):

What's also interesting is that in a blink-and-miss-it moment toward the end of 'The Outlaw Scrooge McDuck', Gyro was seen powering his Time Tub with GoldTech right before he left the Old West period (look very carefully at the gif in this post by @kats-randomology; what Gyro pulls out of his pocket is a tiny nugget of gold, which he inserts into his time machine). So... his Time Tub was a form of TimeTech that ran on GoldTech (if anything, I'd thought it was a hybrid of TimeTech and BulbTech because of the lightbulbs adorning the mechanism as shown in the above screenshots of it)??? So, he was still using his old GoldTech and he designed his time machine to run on it? Did he ever stop using GoldTech at any point after Della went missing?

Then again, we have no idea what year Gyro even came from when he got stuck in the Old West in 'Outlaw Scrooge McDuck'. I just always assumed it was present-day Gyro because he implied that Fenton's ancestor reminded him of his intern ("You are very frustratingly familiar to me"). But his Time Tub was in the lab in 'Timephoon' when Louie stole it (Louie presumably even knew about it, because he seemed to sneak into the lab specifically to take it for his get-rich-quick scheme), so I dunno. When exactly did he create the Time Tub?? If it turned evil at some point, I don't know why he would use it again, unless he was determined to perfect it for some reason...?

Here is part 2, of this post.

[shinagawa-division]

Ritsuko’s Thoughts on Shizuoka Division

Kanon Hojo

“Kanon Hojo, female, 29 years of age, known moniker is Mz. Hyde, head of the Shizuoka Division and active leader of rap group Silent Tragedy, members are 2nd Member Socialite Reika Aichi and 3rd Member Yakuza Leader Sakura Kito.”

It was silent for a moment before a scoff was heard. “This specimen…between her and Kuromiya from Minato, I can’t tell which gave Chuuoku and by extension me more trouble, both of them are idiotic, so consumed with themselves that they didn’t even pay attention to their surroundings nor the circumstances they were in, it made getting rid of the both of them far to easy, at least before, she knew well to keep to herself and not bother me but ever since she volunteered to be a guinea pig to for the prototype of the true Hypnosis Microphone, she had become a pain to deal with, if I’m being frank, I’d say she got exactly what was coming to her, only an absolute fool would believe that working with Amayado and his cursed microphones would be do anything good, you might as well just signed your own death warrant.” The tone of her voice was cold, unfeeling, and just a tad bit spiteful.

“That was only the beginning however, things truly went to hell when people from the different departments started to go missing, people had thought that I had something to do with it, which is just insulting and even if I had I wouldn’t be nearly as obvious and sloppy as Hojo but I knew who the true culprit was, it didn’t take a genius to know either, it was so painfully obvious I’m surprised Tohoten didn’t notice earlier, perhaps if she did, we could have saved so much more time and resources but I digress. I turned her in and requested for her termination, it was granted and the clones were dispatched to take her out.” There was a sigh of exasperation.

“I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised to have found what was left of their bodies the next day, I noticed that there seems to be a theme with explosives with those that were…let go, dramatic but effective, unfortunately. That was the last time any of us had seen of her but I had been keeping tabs on any suspicious activity in any of the divisions and immediately Shizuoka had become number one on the list, not only had any and all influence Chuuoku had in the city had been annihilated but there had been reports of bodies being found in the less than savory areas of the city…well, what was left of the bodies anyhow, now with her return, there has been quite an uproar over here, Kadenokoji has given the order to terminate on sight should any of us face her.”

Reika Aichi

“Reika Aichi, female, 28 years of age, known moniker is Belladonna, part of the Shizuoka Division and active member of rap group Silent Tragedy, members are Leader Kanon Hojo and 3rd Member Yakuza Leader Sakura Kito. I’ll admit, this specimen has peaked my interest, having started out as a child of a prostitute, she has become the most wealthy and influential person in Shizuoka, single-handedly manipulating the upper class into obeying her and convincing the public to be on her side, it’s quite impressive. There seems to be mixed opinions of her, despite the fact that she is responsible for each of her husband’s deaths, some people hold her to high regard. Her extensive knowledge of poisons also interests me, however, given her involvement with Specimen Hojo and her dislike for Chuuoku, it’s best to proceed with caution and dispatch her swiftly and quickly.”

Sakura Kito

“Sakura Kito, female, 28 years of age, known moniker is Renegade, part of the Shizuoka Division and active member of rap group Silent Tragedy, members are Leader Kanon Hojo and 2nd Member Socialite Reika Aichi. Much like the previous specimen, this one is one of the most powerful people in Shizuoka due to her role as leader of the Kito-gumi, a Yakuza clan that’s steadily growing in numbers and power ever since their…change in leadership. Already, she has complete control over Shizuoka’s underground society and has authority over every police station in the city, she is just as feared as much as she is respected and resources have shared of her plans to expand her influence outside of Shizuoka with very mixed results. As such, she is considered dangerous and a threat and the order has been given to take her out as soon as possible.”

Silent Tragedy

“Shizuoka Division, Silent Tragedy is a team that I will admit has peaked my interest, especially with their leader coming out of whatever hole she hid herself in. Both Tohoten and Kadenokoji have given the order to all Chuuoku teams to proceed with caution with this group and that should any of us face them in battle, we should dispose of them as quick as we can.” There was a sigh of exasperation. “This entire situation is growing tedious, truly, it astounds me how incompetent The Party of Words has become since it’s foundation, if somehow we all get through this, I’ll be having a personal word with Tohoten.”

[thoseofgreatambition]

Dear George || Gred and Feorge

pt 1 || pt 2 

description: Though he didn’t like to speak of it, George struggled after the war. He’d let himself lose step of things in the comfort of soft bodies and the hope of forever. Sleep escaped him. Worry consumed him. A spark of hope came from the cunning Gwendolyn. George tries hard to squash any thoughts down, to escape the cycle of mistakes. 

a/n: I am so shocked y’all liked the last chapter! I hope y’all keep liking it. I’ve been hoping to convey my intention through this fanfic well, and I hope my messages about different types of health start to come through. 

warnings: anxiety

Pairing: George x OC

Wordcount: 1.6K

“Hey Gred!” Fred was smiling brightly at his brother as George came through the fireplace. Fred was standing in their kitchen in front of a series of potions that he was going through dose by dose. His cane sat atop the counter next to a pile of product prototype sketches.

The elder of the twins hadn’t had too much to drink, seeing as it had been so long since he’d been able to, but it was just enough to keep him quite happy. He forced another potion down his throat, wincing at the taste. He’d complain about how many he had to take, but he was simply happy that the number was going down. “Where’d you go off to with Gwen?” If it had been a few months earlier, Fred would be quite confident with the answer to that question, but now he wasn’t quite sure.  

They hadn’t really talked about George’s behavior after the war, but Fred was happy his brother seemed back to himself. George, for a short while after the war, had thrust himself into a series of ill advised relationships. The girls had all been a tad off their rocker but then again, George had been the same. Fred knew his brother was seeking companionship instead of actually dealing with the after effects of the war.

Really, Fred was much less worried about him nowadays, though the fact George couldn’t sleep was cause for concern.

He was curious about what had happened with Gwen though. He hadn’t seen her since before the battle, and tonight he hadn’t really gotten to talk with her. Hopefully she’d start coming back to London more often.

George raised the bottle of potion and the satchel of tea he’d been given as he walked towards the kitchen. “I told her that I can’t sleep and she helped me out.” There was a bit of hope in his chest that had gone away several months before when his other routes of relief had petered out. He’d sat with Gwen during potions. He knew she was good at this, and had faith in her.

He frowned as he noticed Fred all ready for bed and already working on his medicines. George wouldn’t say he coddled his twin, but after the war he’d been the largest caretaker in Fred’s life. More so than anyone else in the family. “You need any help there mate?”

With a shake of his head, Fred downed the rest of his potions. “Nah, I’ve got it.” He gave George a smile, quite certain as to what his partner was thinking. “You can take a break now.” As much as he appreciated all the help George had given him, it was nice to be a bit more independent now, and Fred wanted to start taking more care of himself.

Unsure of what to do with himself, without the task of taking care of his brother, George nodded and took the potion Gwen had given him. “I’m going to try and sleep.” Fixing the tea was next on his list, and he was hopeful that this might work. He situated himself next to Fred in the kitchen, leaning against a counter across from the stove as he flicked his wand to start the tea.

“Let’s try and work more on the Concentrating Candies tomorrow. I’m pretty confident we can get the recipe right with a little more tweaking.” Maybe they could get Ron or Lee to help out. Testing the candies on themselves time after time wasn’t always much fun. “We ought to get more test subjects this time, it’ll help out our sample size.”

Last time they’d made the candies too strong, and had spent the day hyperfocused on the shop. At least everything had gotten cleaned, George mused.

Fred nodded as he chugged the contents of a water glass. After taking those potions for so long you’d think he’d be used to the taste, but that wasn’t the case. He tried not to shudder as he focused on what George was saying. “That’s a good idea.” He knew what test subjects George was thinking of. “Let’s ask Ron. I think Lee’s busy tomorrow.”

Ron was more likely. He’d been quite helpful after the battle. When the twins had returned to their shop, it had been ransacked. Their inventory was all over the floor, shelves were broken, and there was enough soot to suggest that several small fires had taken place somehow. Fred had reckoned there’d been some misplaced spells when they’d left. The twins and Ron had been able to fix up the shop itself, and it looked almost as good as new. The problem they had now was replacing lost inventory. It was like starting from square one.

“I’ll pop over to his place in the morning and ask him to come over and help.” George stretched as he moved away from the counter. He was in a strange grey area at the moment, where his body felt tired from a long day, but his mind was far too awake to let him rest. “G’night Forge. Call for me if you need anything.” He clapped Fred on the back before walking out of their small kitchen, down the hallway and into his room.

Part of him was tempted to just head to bed and hope for the best. He took a sip of his tea, and decided against the idea. It hadn’t really worked for him in the past, and after all he’d promised Gwen a letter written tonight. With a flick of his wand he moved all of the clutter off of his desk, and sat down with a piece of parchment.

Gwendolyn, Gwen, Dear Gwen,

It’s about 1 a.m. I just took the potion that you gave me tonight, or yesterday, depending on how technical you want to get, and I’m drinking the tea. I hope you know that the potion tastes like piss. The tea is quite nice though, seems like something Mum would like. If everything works I won’t complain, and I’ll be sure to visit and pay you back somehow. If this works we aren’t even anymore, I’ll definitely owe you. Start thinking about what you want, alright?

Turns out I didn’t need to rush home back to Fred, he was quite alright without me, got all ready by himself. I shouldn’t be so surprised. He’s gotten loads better. It’s been almost a year since the battle after all.

George frowned and re-read what he had written. It was quite a frank telling of what was going on, but at the moment he was just tipsy enough to not really care if he was getting too personal.

It was weird. I haven’t minded taking care of him in the least, I know he’d do the same for me in a second, but it was almost disappointing that I couldn’t help this time. I’m happy, I’m very happy, but I don’t know quite what to do with myself at the moment. Have you got a potion for mixed feelings? I’d like to buy that one.

You wanted a joke didn’t you? One that isn’t an ear pun?

My friends say I say too many skeleton jokes. I suppose I ought to put more backbone in them.

Still a pun, but you ought to like it. I can’t exactly turn a phrase in a letter after all.

Fred and I are going to be working on our Concentrating Candies tomorrow. Those school aides I told you about. It’s a tricky recipe so far. First batch made us more distracted. Second batch made us sick. Third made us too focused. We did get quite a lot done on that last one though, so at least it was closer. We’re hoping to just get something done that will help students focus enough to not get easily distracted during a test or while studying, but it’s easy to get to too much or too little.

We’ll be doing the next batch tomorrow. I’m going to see if Ron or Lee can help us, it’s a bit better indicator if something works if more people can test it.

It’s actually really nice talking to you again, even if it’s just been tonight and through letters.

You ought to come by London more. Your old friends miss you here.

Don’t you want to open a shop up in Diagon Alley? There’s a lot of empty places now, that are going for pretty cheap. You ought to look into it. We could be neighbors. That would be nice. We don’t know a lot of people who live here. Fred and I are the youngest ones here.

I hope your Dad didn’t mind me popping over. From what you told me though he was probably happy to get another customer.

If this potion works I’ll be buying them from now on. It’s only fair.

George finished off the last of his tea, and felt himself growing more and more drowsy as time passed. Still, he wanted to finish the letter before he went to bed. He’d promised after all. 
 A lot of us that used to be on the Quidditch team, or at least on the Gryffindor one, are talking about doing a small game together. I’ll let you know when it’ll be. I expect you to come to it and play with us.

No more hiding away in Wales.

I was actually really happy when Fred suggested we do a reunion tonight. It was all slapped together, but it was really nice to see him well enough to go out and excited to see all his old friends together. I think it’s been hard seeing people visit him just because he’s been unwell.

I’m glad you came, it was fun talking to you.

I’m actually getting pretty beat now, so I guess you were right, relaxing before bed works pretty well. I think your potion is helping too.

I’ve got to go to bed now, so I’ll send this with an owl to you. I expect a response as soon as you can. I’m not letting you go so long without talking to anyone again.

From George From Gred Sincerely George George

George did a quick read over of what he had written before shrugging. It was a pretty personal one, but he trusted Gwen enough with all of this, and he was too tired to rewrite the damn thing.

Quick as he could, he folded the letter into an envelope, sealed it with a bit of wax, and handed it to the owl he and Fred shared. “Take this to Gwen, alright Peeves?” There was a muffled hoot in response, before the barn owl took off out of the window.

The redhead stretched and let out a yawn. He could already feel the fact that he was going to sleep quite well tonight. That was certainly going to be a pleasant change of pace.

Climbing into bed, George expected to be hit by the typical wave of concerns and busy thoughts that kept him awake all too often. Tonight though, he felt much more at ease. It wasn’t as if he thought Gwen was wrong when she said writing a letter would help, but he hadn’t exactly thought that writing down his thoughts would have such a big impact. Turning over onto his side, he shrugged the blankets on top of himself and closed his eyes.

For the first time in a very long while, George Weasley slept well.

taglist: @harrysweasleys @geeksareunique @insearchofnewdreams @notstandingstill-imlyinginwait @lumos-barnes @thatfuckingliardavidtennant @slytherinqween @xinyourdreamsx @skiving-snackboxess @wildfire-whizbangs @dwarfwizard-from-panem @diary-of-an-onliner @answer-the-sirens @woakiees @black-widow-fangirl @theheirofnightandday @summerstardust @whysoseriouspadfoot @chocok22 @myhopesareanchoredinyou @siriusblackisme @illusivedaydreamer @zeeneee @writingwitchly @wolfpotter12 @obsessedwithrandomthings @carolinesbookworld @shadowsinger11 @pit-and-the-pen @summer-writes @peachesandpinks @ickle-ronniekins @gweaslvy @alpinewinchester

[a-vamp-and-a-half]

Frank looks away, like he's got something on his mind but he won't say it to Doc, instead he turns to Bim "sorry Bim but I just remembered I need to finish up those prototypes you sent me" he gives a strained smile like he's lying but luckily only Bim sees it "I should head back to my room, I'll let you know when they are finished" he looks back at Doc and nods "good day" he walks off now, Doc can see Frank is conflicted with this information.

Doc sighs. “I feel bad for stressing him out.”

“Can you elaborate?”

“... What?”

“Frank feels guilty, you feel guilty, what the hell does that even feel like?”

“... Okay, um... you know when... you make a mistake, and you feel all ashamed of yourself?”

“No.”

“Fucking- you are so- ... Okay, okay. Uh, basically it’s something bad happens to someone else, and you feel you are responsible for it.”

“Right, happens all the time.”

“And then you feel bad about it. You want to make amends.”

“...”

“Like, apologize, do something for them to make up for it?”

“... Like... when someone breaks something on set and won’t stop saying sorry, that’s guilt? They aren’t just pleading for their job and/or life?”

“Could be all three, but yeah, guilt is probably involved.”

“Huh... so you probably feel that all of the time, then, with AJ and Frank.”

“Okay, that you knew already.”

“I knew you felt guilt, I didn’t know that’s what guilt entailed though. I thought guilt was more ‘I did something that will harm my goals, I better find a way to get back on track’.”

“... That explains so much about you.”

“Explains a lot about you too.”

“Did we just... gain a deeper understanding of each other through a civil conversation?”

“Oh, ew, I think we did. Okay, I’m going to go work on some stuff for my show now.” Bim quickly walks away, and Doc is left confused and somewhat pleasantly surprised.

[weshallc]

This is so exciting, can’t wait to see what happens next! (No, I honestly do forget)

Berns Night (Revisited) 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿

Call the Midwife AU (Crown Jewels, everyone but Paddy and Bernie at Mount Busby)

Chapter Three: OF MICE AND MEN

“The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men. Gang aft agley. An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain. For promis’d joy!”  To A Mouse by Robert Burns 1785.

“Liars and Lovers Combine Tonight, We’re Gonna Make A Scene.” The Captain by Biffy Clyro 2009.

The largest reception room at Mount Busby Farm would have once been very grand, with Queen Anne furniture and Regency coffee tables. The only thing that remained unchanged was that the original fireplace still gave up warmth and light provided by nature, and the windows let in the light from the same star constellations and the same moon.

The Two Loves preferred antique furniture of a later period and in their 80s comfort was paramount. The room was stocked with love seats, chesterfields, recliners. bean bags, generous cushions, and a rather charming gold settee that suspiciously looked pre-war. Just no one was sure which war. Everyone mocked it, but everyone fought to sit on it as it was very comfy. Patsy often talked about replacing it, but Delia wouldn’t hear of it. “You don’t throw your memories out with the rubbish and there are more memories than just ours hidden within these cushions, Cariad.” That was always the end of it.

The most current occupants of that particular settee to be making memories were Tim Turner and Lucille Anderson. Phyllis looked over at the awkward teen, who was no longer as awkward as he had once been. He sat comfortably chatting to his companion, both of them laughing at intervals. Lucille often finishing Tim’s sentences or him proclaiming, yep that’s it or knew you’d get it when they appeared to reach a level of understanding.  Of course, when she asked the student nurse about her new friendship, she would just reply, brushing the older nurse off. “Oh, he is a dear boy; He makes me laugh.”

He was certainly doing that from where Matron Crane was sitting on a leather tan Whitworth dining chair, probably by Frank Hudson.  Years of heavy lifting before the introduction of patient hoists and transfer boards had taken their toll on the matron’s back. It was why she had found herself in a more managerial role much earlier than she would have planned. She looked at Student Nurse Anderson and thought maybe the NHS was in more tender capable hands than the shitstirrers would have them believe.

“I am wondering if we should start,” youth minister Tom Hereward was on his feet. “I am not sure how long baby will sleep in a strange house.”

“I have been called many things in my time, but not sure strange is one of them,” laughed Delia.

“Oh, I have Deals, it’s fine,” reassured Patsy.

Tom turned pink. Trixie leaned over to him, “They are joking,” and sat back onto the giant purple pouffe she was sharing with Valerie. “I know, I live here. I have to put up with it all the time.”

“So. Erm who is in charge, who has the most authority here.” Tom was still trying to create some sense of order.

“Well, Julia is the vicar,” chirped in Bobby, trying to offer her husband some support.

“But this is not the church,” Rev Julia responded with a warm smile.

“Another shock there then, it’s all coming out tonight, Patsy.” Delia couldn’t help herself when she had an audience and a bottle of Prosecco was being passed round.

“Matron Crane is on the council,” Lucille reminded everyone.

“No, I don’t think that matters lass, it’s not a council matter.” Phyllis shook her head.

“Well, someone needs to take the lead,” Tom said with a hint of irritation.

“I will!  On the authority that I am a young woman on her only night off of the week,” struck up Val, “but I have agreed to come here and discuss plans for Bernie’s birthday instead of having two for one sex on the beach.”

“It’s a cocktail, and its happy hour in the Fourteen Teacups on a Tuesday,” Trixie interpreted for everyone.

“That’s ambitious having a happy hour in the Teacups, isn’t it?”  said Fred, who had managed to wedge himself into a deep red Chesterfield.

“Yeah, apparently Ursula gives you the right change, that’s why they call it happy hour,” Tim smirked.

“As I am representing the Crown. I will continue,” said Val and she did, “we want to put on a Burns Night for Bernie’s birthday like in the old days. Now Tim has told us Paddy is half Scottish.”

“Why isn’t he here?” asked Bobby.

“Well, he said it would look suspicious if he left Bernie on her tod behind the bar on a Tuesday night,” Vi explained sitting on a scarlet love seat next to Fred.

“Yep, in case our two Tuesday night regulars rush the bar at once,” snorted Val.

“I think it’s more that it would look suspicious if he actually just left Bernie alone for five minutes,” Trixie corrected.

Lucille felt Tim squirm in the seat beside her. She knew he thought the world of Bernie, but didn’t like to hear her relationship with his father discussed in public. This was inevitable being a small village with one pub, one church and two of the village's most popular inhabitants linked to both. She tried to ease his tension.

“I think it’s lovely, just shows as my grandma used to say there may be snow on the roof, but there is still fire in the grate.”

As everyone surrendered to laughter, Matron shared a smile with the vicar, both of them confirming Lucille might be familiar with the saying, but maybe not its meaning.

Delia was the first to keep a straight face, “But they are only bairns, wait until they are mine and Pats age then the fire may need a little bit of stoking.”

“Yes, Deals, but remember we have never required the use of a poker.”

Val swiftly continued, “Paddy doesn’t wish to be involved.”

“Why?” Reggie asked, perched on his wooden stool.

Val motioned towards Tim, who was still recovering from the last topic of conversation.

“Because it would look ridiculous, his words not mine.” Tim continued, “and I quote, Wilf had the works, I would look like I was trying to pull a stunt to impress Bernie by looking like I was dressing in drag and taking the piss.”

Tim looked at his knees, and Lucille gave one a quick squeeze. She knew this wasn’t easy for him.

Everyone else also looked at their knees. The mood was solemn.

“We can all understand Paddy’s reasons.” There were a couple of nods and sighs in response. “But we aren’t putting up with any of that nonsense,” Val added with a grin.

This was met with a very large and unanimous cheer.

“Well, I’ve already looked up the Turner tartan,” Trixie handed an iPad over to Patsy via Val.

“That’s very smart,” approved the artist.

“Sorry I hate to throw a spanner in the works, but how are we going to afford all this?” butt in a pensive Vi.

“We’ve already thought of that,” grinned Delia, ”Mount Busby will cover the cost of the costume.”

“That’s very generous,” sniffed Evie, who had nearly dozed off in a leather recliner.

“Not really,” explained Patsy. “I have a friend that works for Kilts 4 U and they are very interested in looking into the possibility of making an alpaca lined sporran.”

This was news to Reggie who followed anything relating to his charges with great interest, “What’s a sporran?”

“It’s where he keeps his spare change,” Fred enlightened, or at least tried to.

“It’s the little purse that men wear at the front of the kilt, Reggie,” Violet elaborated. He seemed reassured by this.

“So anyway, in return for a few samples,” Patsy continued, “my friend will be happy to hire out the full regalia for the evening.”

“It’s not long now until Burns Night have you got some sort of prototype ready?” quizzed Evie.

“Lady K is working on them as we speak. She loves nothing better than fiddling with a bit of alpaca wool,” Delia replied gleefully.

“Lady K?” Phyllis queried.

“Yes, she is very creative,” reassured Trixie.

“I don’t doubt it, Trixie, but she is one of Bernie’s clients. What if the lass sees what she is up too”

“Don’t fret Phyllis,” Patsy interjected, “I find that Antonia is much less forgetful when she has an occupation to challenge her and I am certain she won’t let the cat out of its proverbial bag.”

Jack sat on the floor accidently banged his head against the fire surround he was leaning against, “Can’t imagine Berns thinking; oh look Lady K is sticking bits of alpaca wool to a man’s bag he hangs in front of his todger. That must be something to do with Paddy and my birthday”

Vi was quick to admonish Jack, but when even Tom started to laugh, she decided to let it go.

“What about the little knifey thing they keep in their sock that he stabs the Haggis with?” Fred was beginning to get excited.

“Sgian dubh,” corrected Vi.

“All part of the traditional dress,” Patsy added a tone to her voice to reassure everyone that she had thought of everything.

“So that’s the gear sorted. Me and Reggie are in charge of the beer. What else?” Fred’s eyes were wide, thinking they actually might be able to pull this off.

“Well, myself and Evie have created a menu, pretty much on the lines of what we used to do in Wilf’s day.” Violet opened a small notebook and put on her reading glasses.

Clearing her throat she read, “Cock-a-leekie soup, Scottish salmon and tattie scones or scotch egg for starters.”

“Cock a what?” shouted up Jack.

“Chicken and vegetable soup to you, young man. There will be a just vegetable option too.” Violet’s voice began to take on the air it adopted when addressing an audience. “Then we have the Haggis or vegan Haggis, neeps and tatties and a whisky sauce.”

“What about those that might not wish to partake in the Haggis?” Tom asked nervously, as he might.

Evie spoke up before Vi could respond. “There is always the Fourteen Teacups for the likes of those that don’t wish to have Haggis. It’s a Burns Night. If you don’t want Haggis, then stay at home and order in a pizza.”

“What’s for pudding?” Bobby struck up, squeezing her husband’s hand.

“Cranachan which is raspberries, cream, oats and whisky, or Clootie pudding with whisky sauce or whisky ice cream or a Scottish cheese board with oatcakes.”

Murmurs of approval were aimed in Violet’s direction.

“That’s a lot of whisky?” Lucille remarked.

Violet agreed, “Yes, we need just a house whisky for everyone for the toasts Val, I will leave that to you, but you need to pay the piper with a good quality malt.”

Silence broke out in the previously buzzing, over occupied living room.

“Piper!” Several people groaned at once.  

Fred, who was not going to let anything get in the way of this Burn’s Night declared, “Look, we will just have to bung on a recording.” Turning to Tim and Jack, he said, “You lads look up the Red Hot Chilli Pipers on your phones.”

Tim reached for his phone, swiping the picture of Lucille and him with Alpaca Colin. But Lucille touched his hand, making him hesitate.

“I don’t think that would be very suitable, Mr Buckle going to all this trouble with such a delicious menu and Mr Turner all dressed up in the finest regalia and then having some squeaky din coming out of an iPhone.”

“Your right lass, it just won’t do,” supported Phyllis.

“Well, does anyone know a piper?” Fred replied wearily.

“Surely we can find a professional one online?” contributed Julia

“A professional piper that’s free on Burn’s Night at this late notice,” chided Phyllis.

“I know a piper.”

The voice came from the back of the room. Everyone turned to look at the slight dark-haired woman sat on a dining chair. “Well, I think we all do.”

“Do we, Jane?” Julia asked.

“Yes, the busker that stands outside the town hall in Appleby Thornton.”

Everyone started talking at once;

“I only go into town every second Tuesday to get my hair done.”

“Same here I only go through if I have a doctor’s appointment.”

“Well, it’s the cost of the parking isn’t it, it’s free at Tweaven Retail Park and more shops.”

“You can get it on t’internet delivered to your door.”

“I haven’t been since Marks and Spencers closed.”

“Debenhams is closing next week such a shame, that shops older than me, always been a department store in Appleby Thornton.”

“It was one of the first in the country to have a lift, you know.”

Jane cleared her throat. “There are a lot of good things about Appleby Thornton that are not always obvious.”

“Here, here!” chimed in Val, “there is still a Primark.”

“Oh well, let’s be grateful for small mercies,” stung back Trixie.

Much to Delia’s disappointment, Val bit her lip. The ex-nurse and market gardener loved a full house. She cherished her quiet times with Patsy too, but she was the more sociable of the pair. The farm was large enough for Patsy to have her office and art studio and not be disturbed while Delia fussed the alpacas with Reggie. Trixie moving in had been Patsy’s scheme, but Delia was the one who had benefited most from their new project, even if she would never let their new employee know she was a project.

Delia enjoyed listening to Trixie’s anecdotes and gossip. She felt reconnected with a world that was moving so fast. The Two Loves were business women and technology hadn’t passed them by.  It was the music, the celebrities, the trashy telly that Patsy despised and Delia loved that made having Trixie and her friends around delight Delia.

Delia’s carer probably wasn’t as up-to-date with pop culture as Trixie and her friend. Val was now a frequent visitor to Mount Busby, as she and their new lodger had struck up quite a friendship. Nurse Bernie always looked a bit behind the door when the other two were in full flow about some reality TV show.

But since Trixie had moved in, Nurse made Delia’s blood pressure check the last visit on her rounds and she drank tea, sitting and chatting with Trixie. Bernie didn’t need to watch Love Island. She had her own romantic paradise in Poplar-on-Tweaven and Delia couldn’t be more happy for her.

Val had bitten her lip, her new friend was still a bit of an enigma to her. She did know Trixie might talk as if she had been born with a silver spoon in her mouth, but in the last few months she had gleaned enough to know that spoon had been tarnished sometime ago. So in spite of all her bravado, Trixie was as familiar with Poundland as she was with Prada.

It was Julia who cut through the chatter. “I believe I am familiar with the young man you are referring to. He has a small dog with him if I am right?”

“Yes, Reverend.” Jane was beginning to believe she had dreamt the piper and maybe also Appleby Thornton.

“He’s rather good, as I remember.”

Jane was beaming as she nodded.

“So problem solved,” Fred rubbed his hands together with glee, “tot of whisky, a bowl of water for the pooch, bob’s your uncle, sorted”

“No, it certainly is not.” Trixie’s tone caused everyone to alter their gaze, “this man is a professional musician surely, if he has a regular spot he has a license. I am sure Chummy is well acquainted with the gentleman and his story. We can ask her.”

Inspector Noakes had been unable to attend the meeting because of work commitments, and Peter’s Tuesday evenings were spent running a youth football team that Jack and Timothy had both enjoyed being a part of. Alas, Tim had become too rangy and prone to injury, and Jack had become too lazy and prone to chips.

Trixie continued, “He deserves an appropriate wage for his efforts.” She turned to Val. “I believe the Crown has an entertainments licence.”

Val nodded and smiled reassuringly at her friend, “Paddy does, leave it with me and I will also make sure he and the mut are fed and provided with transport both ways.”

Trixie relaxed and shared a smile with the aromatherapist sitting at the back of the room. “Do you know his name?”

“Kevin.”

Fred let out a huge sigh. “So we are all sorted then?”

“It would appear so,” replied Lucille, grimacing at Tim.

“Apart from Dad.” groaned Tim.

Followed by an echo of sighs.

“Leave your dad to me, Chick.” winked Val.

[elizabeth-234]

The Supplejack

Previous Chapter Nine: Progress

Summary: Peter Parker has been alone his whole freshman year but finds hope when Stark Industries announces a science competition. The prize? An internship with Tony Stark.

Chapter Ten: Fast-forward

-

Beginning of February  

“I think we might be able to start the full-scale model soon.”

Peter looked up from his phone, which he was reading his notes he doodled in class off of. Mr. Stark offered multiple times to get him a new phone but he preferred the simplicity of this. When he told Mr. Stark it was easier to use the man acted all offended under his smile. Teasing Peter about his inability to figure out a simple phone when they were working on building a full-scale code and model of tech for cars. It was also easier to understand his thoughts written down. While they didn’t look particularly neat on the page it made more sense to him. Mr. Stark seemed to understand that.

He snapped his jaw shut when he realized it was hanging wide open.

“Really?” He said, dropping his eyes back down ignoring the sinking feel in his chest.

Mr. Stark chuckled and went back to scanning the algorithms.

“We can get a full team in here to work on it. Whatever we need.”

A whole team? Someone to take over what they were doing? Peter flinched.

Their work had come so far. From car models went from mere imaginations, to metal models, and back to hologram full scale models. Their protocol were written in C++ after debating between the Python coding.

Peter found the time… soothing to his mind. Sometimes coming in late at night to work by himself even if Mr. Stark wasn’t there. Friday always let him in with a kind word.

He remembered the first couple of times they worked together Mr. Stark would get into a kind of trance, rock music blaring in the background. While Peter liked the music – he made his own playlist to all the songs they listened to – his head rang after an hour or so.

His expression must have revealed more than he wanted to because without comment the next time Peter arrived the music was quieter.  

It was little things like that and the temperature which had Peter settling into their work focusing more on Mr. Stark and less on Tony Stark.

With summer coming up in less months than he thought Peter was sure their time would be cut short.

What he wanted to do was ask the man himself. To beg him to continue working through the summer and next year and the next even if it meant bringing in fifty other people to work on it. He wanted to finish their project, to see their models turn into something real. Something that could help people. The selfish part of his brain suggested that what he really wanted was to continue working with Mr. Stark even if it didn’t end up helping anyone.

Instead what Peter did was stay silent and hum slightly to the music nothing about his appearance gave his thoughts away besides the fists he made every so often looking at Mr. Stark working.  

Would he even want to continue working with Peter?

-

End of February

Julia sat next time him while the subway rumbled forward. He kept his legs folded in front of him, fingers grasping backpack which rested on his knees in order to take up less space.

They already passed his stop but he stayed on like he always did riding with Julia.

“Do you really think the permission will go through?” She asked quietly. Julia had fidgeted today in the lab. Her eyes scanned the paperwork over and over making sure they filled out every form correctly. Their whole team practically had their proposal memorized with the amount of times they’d reworked it.

“I’m sure they will.” He said but continued when her expression didn’t change. “It was really good, Julia. You did a great job.”

Peter stared at the glass window on the other side of the subway. Their reflections looked back and he saw her head duck down.

The subway came to a stop and she stood to leave. She ran her hand through her hair and looked at him.

“Thanks for riding the rest of the way with me. Text me when you get home?” Her tone was quiet and it was Peter’s turn to drop his head. “You’re a great friend, Peter.”

He mumbled something and she smiled over her shoulder walking onto the platform. The doors closed behind her but he didn’t lift his head.

Peter switched trains but couldn’t stop the smile from coming over his face.

She thought they were friends.

-

Beginning of March  

“Kid… Peter?”

He blinked. Mr. Stark’s hand landed on his shoulder. His muscles tensed under the sudden intrusion but Mr. Stark’s eyes never left his face.  Slowly, he squeezed, calming Peter’s pulse, and stepped back.

Mr. Stark ran his hand through his hair.

“Time for food.” He said and waited for Peter to put all his notes away.

“I can just go home, Mr. Stark. It’s no problem.”

The man chuckled and Peter flushed knowing he said that every time.

“I already ordered your favorite from that Korean place down the street.”

Peter stopped walking before hurrying to catch up. They settled around the table piled with way more boxes of food they could ever finish. Sure enough a container of Bibimbap with all tofu, no eggs, and spicy sauce was waiting for him.

Mr. Stark began telling him some gossip he’d heard around the office.

“And how do you know about poor Mr. Singer?” He said, scrapping the crispy rice off of the bottom of the takeout box.

The man didn’t even have the decency to look ashamed when he spoke. “Oh, I just happened to be walking by when his wife came storming in.”

Peter snorted. “Friday told you. Didn’t you, Friday?” He asked over Mr. Stark’s copious denials.

“That is correct, Peter.”  He smiled upward at Friday and failed to notice the soft look Mr. Stark was giving him.

“You caught me, kid.”

-

End of March

It would have been easier to accept if the letters were stamped permanently in red across the whole paper. It would have made since in a way – been final. Instead they received a formal reply. One with fancy wording and apologies that had the vague pretense of sounding sincere and apologetic.

This made the news so much worse.

Their proposal had been rejected or as the letter said: “at this time we are not allowing student groups access to our facilities.”

Julia’s face crumpled while Frank swore. Monica began typing frantically but through it all Peter just sat there.

What would they do now?

-

Beginning of April

“You still have a lot of time to make yourself be what you want. There’s still a lot of good in the world."

They were watching The Outsiders while he waited. Peter had read it the year before in English but had missed the movie day because he had been sick.

The rain pelted down against the glass windows. Thunder and lightning battled in the sky only an arm’s length away from where they sat. He’d watched many storms pass through from his fire escape but here, this high up, Peter felt like he was inside it. Every clap of noise sent a pulse into his bloodstream pumping the blood through his veins. It didn’t key him up like it did in the apartment. The sounds were loud enough to sooth his racing thoughts enough so he could focus on the movie playing in the background and the soft sounds of response Mr. Stark was making to the movie. He felt safe there in the storm.

Of course, Peter had put up a mild protest. He’d been fine to go home, he told Mr. Stark. But the man took one look outside and suggested the movie. Food was involved, too.

It took Peter exactly thirty-two seconds to decide he could wait for the rain to pass.

An hour later, laden with stir-fry and popcorn Peter was boneless on the couch. He smiled as Mr. Stark leaned forward, his eyes focused on the screen. It was the man’s first time watching it as well and though Peter knew the ending, it didn’t stop his enjoyment.

He yawned and sank deeper into the cushions.

The day had seemed unending and filled with busywork assignments. Things that weren’t teaching him anything but would take all night to do. Ned was gone so he spent all lunch listening to Mike debate the pros of anarchy with everyone at the table. He stared at MJ until she caught him and he ran away to the library. It wasn’t until he got to the lab that he had a moment to breath.

Something touched his shoulder and then with more force he was pulled away from the couch.

The sound of the credits rolled. He didn’t realize his eyes had shut.

Peter could hear Mr. Stark’s voice whispering something and a feminine answer but his eyes stayed closed, blessedly on the brink of sleep.

His head was against a hard surface, a chest, and Peter was lulled deeper by the heartbeat within. A hand brushed back his hair after he was placed on something soft and he could swear the voice said something important but Peter was too asleep to make sense of it.

-

Ned leaned across the lunch table. His hands bordered their lunchboxes in a protective frame as Peter relayed the news from his meeting the previous week.

“I just feel so bad for those Frank and Monica. I mean they’re graduating and everything. This was their final hurrah.” He said, nibbling on a carrot.

“Dude, that sucks. What are you going to do?”

Peter nodded at the question. As it was they weren’t sure.

The prototype of the machine was necessary for them to see before they could come up with a model for themselves. He had thought about going to Mr. Stark and asking him for advice, but he decided not to in the end. It was an unfair advantage that the other teams couldn’t use. If no one else could go to the owner of Stark Industries for help, why should he?

Peter was also proud of the work they accomplished so far. Sometimes he forgot how young they all were, given the amount and quality of work they completed.

The whole experience had changed him more than that though and he was loathe to sit there and do nothing.

“I don’t know, Ned. We’ll figure something out though.”

He could only hope.

-

“Look, Peter. Mr. Stark will understand if you can’t make it today.” May spoke with an edge to her voice. “I forbid you from going.”

“May, I have to go. This is important.”

“Peter, you’re sick. It’s okay.”

He coughed into his elbow, sniffling and meagerly taking a tissue May was holding out to him with pouting lips.

Peter whispered something to her. Something he was too afraid to think but needed to say.

“What sweetheart?” She said and even though he was sick and had a fever May sat on the edge of his bed.

“It’s just,” he licked his chapped lips. “What if he finds someone else to help out?”

He thought of the team Mr. Stark mentioned before. Peter looked away from the piercing glance. His fingers fidgeted with the blanket wrapped around him.

“Peter, he would never do that. You know he wouldn’t.”

She said it with such conviction but his stomach sank. Did he know that?

May kept talking, running a reassuring thumb over his knuckles but Peter was too wrapped up in his thoughts. He went through cataloging every interaction and every word spoken between them.

Peter thought of the way Mr. Stark smiled when he came into the lab and how he would always check the temperature to make sure it was warm enough. The man practically bought the whole menu at a restaurant when Peter stayed for food and it was getting more common for him to stay after a work day. Sometimes they would watch a movie but most times he would just work on homework as Mr. Stark continued with business. But were those concrete signs? It certainly didn’t mean he would abstain from finding a replacement if the work needed to be done. Peter sighed into his hoodie, wincing at the way his stomach was cramping.

It was with the image of Frank helping Mr. Stark in the lab that Peter made his decision.

He realized May had left when she popped her head back into the room.

“Stay home, Peter. Okay? I’m sorry I have to go to work.”

His cough wracked his chest but he managed to tell her he loved her. She gave him one last searching look before she left for work.

After he heard the door shut with limbs groaning Peter got out of bed. He toggled back and forth as the blood ran to his head but with careful steps made it out of his room. His hand swept across the length of the highest cabinet and found the last packet of powdered vitamin C before mixing it in his water bottle.

There was sweat seeping into his sweatshirt and on his forehead by the time he made it to the subway platform and he shivered into it. His breath shuddered when he finally sank down into one of the empty seats, making sure to touch as little as possible. He kept his hoodie up and took small sips of the vitamin infused water, praying for an instant cure.

Friday greeted him when he got into the elevator but he didn’t lift his head up to the lights like he normally would. They burned his eyes.

“Hey, Friday.” He said rubbing his hand along his chest to stop a cough. Even to his own ears his voice sounded tired.

“Are you alright, Peter?” Friday said, softer than normal.

“I’m fine, just a cough.”

Friday said nothing but the elevators opened.

The room was void of people and Peter sat down with a heavy breath. He crossed his arms on the table in front of him. Thankfully Friday must have forgotten to put the lights on so it was dark in the room.

Every minute he sat there, Peter shrunk down until his head came to rest on his arms. Wet coughs racked his chest and he shivered again. It was cold in the room but he didn’t want to bother Friday. The curt tone he used earlier with Friday sent a guilty tendril tightening along his spine.

The doors swept open and bursting into the room with wide eyes was Mr. Stark. Peter tried to smile but from the furrow in the man’s mouth, it wasn’t as reassuring as he meant it to be.

“Kid, what’s wrong? You okay?”

Peter sat up trying to relax the ache in his muscles. He flinched back when rough hands touched his cheek before moving to rest against his forehead.

He felt silly to realize Mr. Stark had moved across the room and was now kneeling beside him. Peter concentrated on the small lines forming lightly in the corner of his eyes. For a moment he imaged being younger and being sick at home, but instead of Ben kneeling in front of him it was Mr. Stark making sure he was okay.

With a shake of Peter’s head Mr. Stark removed his hands and walked away. His voice rung out as he barked orders to Friday and then he was on the phone.

Peter gripped the edges of the counter, tears blurring in his eyes. How could he even think that? The betrayal of his thoughts sent a tear over the edge and down his hot cheek. Worse than that though was the longing he’d felt – still felt - when Mr. Stark looked at him with such concern.

It wasn’t right. It wasn’t his to want.

Mr. Stark came back and led Peter into the elevator. His tone was quiet, soothing, and Peter weakly followed him after brushing his tear away. Friday chimed in to give reports on his temperature. His brain felt fuzzy.

There was an arm, guiding him, warm across his back.

“Come on, Kid.” 


They arrived into a bedroom and dimly Peter realized this is where he fell asleep the previous month. He stopped short at the door.

“Peter?” The man spoke softly and the back of Peter’s throat itched.

“But… we have the meeting. We were going to work on …” His brain failed him at the end.

“Hey, kid. You’re in no position to be working. Hell, you’re burning up.”

He sent Peter to the bed and disappeared into the bathroom.

Peter sat at the very end of the mattress, his butt halfway off the edge. It wasn’t his bedroom, just one for guests. There was nothing in there that was his, but Peter noticed that the lamp was where he moved it before when he tried to get some reading in the morning when was there.

He moved closer to the headboard, eyes on the light in the bathroom, and switched it on.

Peter could still convince Mr. Stark they could work today. It would be fine. Mr. Stark wouldn’t have replaced him then as long as he remained useful.

“The work will still be there later.” Mr. Stark said emerging from the bathroom as if he read Peter’s thoughts. “Drink this while you take this.” He gestured to the water and Tylenol in his hand.

Peter’s protest died on his tongue and Mr. Stark spoke again.

“I’m not in any hurry to finish the project. As long as you get better.”

He blanched at the implication of the words.

There was no anger in the man’s face. Something uncurled in his chest when all he saw was concern. Ben used to wear that face well.

Peter’s eyes dragged on his cheek. Another cough stormed through his chest.

“I’ll go fill this up again. There’s sweatpants and t-shirts in the dresser.”

Peter stood up, feeling red on his cheeks. There were clothes there?

He browsed the drawers looking at the various t-shirts - all avengers themed. Quickly he got into sweatpants and sweatshirt glancing at the door back and forth.

With a speed he used when changing after gym class he shucked his shirt and pants off and into his chosen clothes, grey sweats and Stark Industries shirt. His hand brushed over the ironman one but he couldn’t quite make himself put it in.

He settled on the bed again just before there was a knock on the door. Dizziness wavered through him and Peter grasped the bedside table for support.

Mr. Stark came in carrying the glass. The covers were pushed back and Peter found himself lying down. The man hovered for a moment, his hand came up from his side reaching out before dropping back.

“Get some rest, Kid. Friday will be here if you need anything and I will just be in the living room outside.”

Peter’s eyes closed of their own accord and he nodded. Footsteps swept across the room but before the door could close Peter thanked Mr. Stark, wishing he had the right to say more.

“Of course, Peter.” Peter’s throat went tight. The door shut and Peter spun around. He didn’t want to look at the lights shining through the cracks in the door.

Of course, he said like he would look after Peter. As he would have if Peter’s mind conjured up sound for his imagination. Like he cared.

The knot loosened in his throat and Peter locked the guilt away for a moment, instead basking in the knowing someone was waiting up in case he needed them right outside this room that wasn’t technically his.

He reached up, adjusting the pillow under his head and closed his eyes.

-

Middle of April

Peter’s stomach protested as the smell of leftovers wafted from the lid he opened. The nausea from being sick still lingered and Peter found his appetite was suffering because of it.

The cafeteria, loud as ever, raged around him. He pushed the container of food away with a grimace.

Something nudged him from the side and he saw Ned’s profile looking straight ahead. He shrugged and went back to staring at his lunch. Ned’s elbow dug into his upper arm and Peter looked over while rubbing the spot of impact. Narrowly dodging another nudge, he got the hint and followed the boy’s gaze.

Peter blinked at the figure coming forward.

Flash waded through the crowds and tables. His gaze was fixed forward and now that they weren’t precisely enemies Peter let himself feel intrigued by how people just seemed to get out of Flash’s way.

He wondered why Ned was so interested in Flash until the boy in questions eyes moved and landed on Peter.

He was making his way in their direction.

Peter knew from the previous eight months how rare this was and his stomach cramped in response. His eyes flounced back to the Tupperware.

“I wonder where he’s off to,” Ned said.

Peter watched Ned in his observations not wanting to be caught blatantly staring at Flash himself. Despite the itching feeling crawling through his limbs Peter smiled at his friend and the way he moved forward so Flash’s view of Peter would be limited.

Under his lashes he looked up to see Flash continued the straight path to them. Peter held his breath and watched his legs, which seemed much safer than his face.

Flash continued forward until he was a table away. Peter finally looked up at a sound from Ned and met his eyes. The boy stared straight at him and Peter forced himself to maintain contact. Flash glanced toward the doors and back at Peter, his brow quirked when Peter’s face remained in ignorance. He did it again before veering off toward the exit.

The doors closed behind him blocking Peter’s curious gaze, food dilemma forgotten.

Should he follow?

Ned began talking about how weird Flash had been lately and Peter nodded along. His hands twisted in his lap, bouncing in time to the rise and fall of his foot against the ground.  

Without breaking eye contact with the door, he stood up, murmuring something to Ned whose eyes flickered to the door. Ned nodded without missing a beat.

As Peter was passing toward the door he briefly reached out to touch Ned on the shoulder before hurrying away. Ned was such a good person…. A good friend.

Backpack slung over his shoulder Peter followed the path his eyes traced before and saw Flash leaning against the lockers down the hallway from the cafeteria.

“Flash. Hey.” He said trying to keep the weary tone out of his voice. They’d seen each other off and on at their time at the Tower but hadn’t seen much of each other at school. In fact, the last time they talked was when Peter had a meltdown in front of him, which was slightly awkward to realize how Peter yelled at him before. Not that he didn’t deserve it.

The boy’s arms were crossed in front of him. Peter could see his shoulder’s tensing and he held his body still. Peter forced his hands to stop fidgeting by shoving them in his pockets. A blush worked its way onto his cheeks when neither of them spoke. Was he wrong? Was he supposed to follow Flash?

“So, I hear you need a connection at Oscorp?” Flash said uncrossing his arms and casually raising his eyebrow at Peter.

His jaw dropped. This was not what he expected.

“Uh… How did you hear that?” He said trying to find a semblance of rational thought.  

Flash had the decency to look embarrassed but he answered anyway, if a little cautiously. “That Mike kid is loud as shit. Anyway, do you?”

“Why?”

Flash sighed and crossed his arms again.

“Listen, I’m trying to be... decent. My dad has connections there and I could see if something could come of it.”

“Why?”

Was that all he could say?

“Is that all you can say?” Flash snapped.

Peter shut his mouth and thought about the options. He could lie. Say that they didn’t need this. Then he wouldn’t need to repay Flash for anything. But the image of Julia’s clenched hands and the hours they spent working came to mind. And he decided he didn’t care if he was put in Flash’s debt or that he didn’t know the motivations behind this act of supposed kindness.

Plus, Flash proved changed – sort of – mostly. If he wanted help, well, Peter wasn’t going to say no.

“Yeah, Flash. We do need help, if you’re willing to offer it.”

They nodded at one another before walking down the hallway too close to be considered friends but too far away for anyone to perceive them as enemies.

-

“Sorry, Monica couldn’t make it today but she said as long as we take notes it should be fine.”

Flash stood shuffling on the balls of his feet in the doorway. Julia and Frank were clearing off a spot for him to sit at the table while Peter motioned him forward.

Frank clapped Flash on the back in greeting and welcomed him.

“Thanks man. This is going to be a great help.”

When Flash sat down, moving his backpack to rest against the leg of the table, everyone stared at him. It was the first time after their sandwich fiasco that Peter had seen him look so embarrassed and out of place. He withheld a smile.

Flash got straight down to business, explain the security and how his father got them a tour and question time with the person in charge of the prototype. Julia’s hand flew over the paper trying to write every word he spoke. Without breaking his speech Flash slight a typed-out sheet of all the information. Her hand shook slightly and thought she thanked him, Peter noticed she didn’t look him in the eye.

The meeting passed quick and Peter was pleased with how much Flash got along with everyone. He and Frank spent a bunch of time talking about sports and the playoffs. After some cajoling he even got Julia to talk about their new kittens at home. In turn, Flash smiled as she told him how BOGO would steal all of Free’s food.

Flash smiled at the story. A real, teeth-baring smile.

-

Peter was used to things happening slowly in his life.

It took him almost half a school year to decide to participate in the S.T.A.R.K competition. Days avoiding the sign in sheet until finally he took the plunge. Months after dreading nearly everything he settled into a routine. He was opening up to the people around him.

He thought back to how scary it was considering Ned’s offer to sit with him at lunch. It was weeks until he was able to go more than once a week.  He even went over to Ned’s house over break.

But all these things took time and much thinking on Peter’s part. He weighed the consequences of everything before stepping forward and rarely out of his comfort zone. That was safe.  That was good.

Things happening quickly were never good in Peter’s opinion. Ben’s funeral came and went so fast. The whole thing sped up like someone was pressing fast-forward. Though he was careful and took his time letting Sam into his life; it took but a second for her to break his heart.

That’s why when Flash sat at their lunch table at the end of the week, Peter’s stomach turned sour. He knew to expect the worse. He foresaw the worst. But there was nothing he could do or say in the moment.

Ned, after a moment of scrutiny, looked between Flash and Peter, then stuck out his hand for the two of them to shake, forever reminding Peter how forgiving Ned was.

How many second chances had Ned given him?

Just like that Flash began to eat lunch with them sometimes. Not every day, but throughout the week he would stop by and join an argument between Mike and Midge before wandering off again. Somedays he would even find Peter in the library when the cafeteria was too much for him to get through.

Flash was quieter than Ned. He would hold himself still, aware of his space at any given time and there was still tension between them sometimes. But it was nice all the same.

Peter didn’t find it so strange that Flash and him became friends so quick this time.

-

End of April

Peter looked around the lab. Scattered on the tables were scraps of paper, all smudged with crunched writing, and metal shavings discarded from the models they had built. His backpack was folded over itself on the floor by the door on top of which his jacket was crumpled.

Mr. Stark stood beside him and if Peter turned his shoulders slightly to the left he could see the slight furrow in his brow. How his hand would come up and rest under his chin while his finger traced his goatee every five minutes or so.

It was his thinking face, Peter knew.

Months of working together and Peter’s steady heartbeat was proof he was relaxed. Content.

He didn’t think about the fact this would all be ending come summer. And he absolutely ignored the itch in the back of his throat thinking about the possibility of never seeing Mr. Stark again.

“I’m still thinking we are going to totally have to overhaul the thrust mechanisms on this side, Mr. Stark. It’s working now, but barely, and it could be so much better.” He said breaking the silence.

Mr. Stark’s eyebrows rose in response but he didn’t say anything. His eyes stayed trained on the new schematics displayed in front of him. He grumbled something under his breath and Peter cracked a smile knowing he was right.

The lab settled under the silence again. Peter moved around to Mr. Stark’s other side and grabbed a Stark pad off the table.  Easily Mr. Stark stepped to the side to accommodate his reach and giving Peter enough room to work at the table.

-

Peter yawned as he opened the door to the apartment. He grabbed a box of Chex mix and sank into the couch. His phone vibrated again and shoving his hand into the box checked his messages. The group chat between everyone went off with a near consistency putting his flip phone into overdrive.

There had been time of the subway to look at it but he ended up falling asleep, waking only to find drool gathering on his sleeve where his head rested and to hear he missed one his stop.

Even though he was barely awake now, Peter considered the walk home beneficial. The moon hung in the middle of the sky decorated by a vague face and stars all around.

It let him think, at least.

His third handful came away as the rest, only the little breadsticks and the occasional rye chip. May must have eaten her way through the bag first. He set it aside feeling a cramping in his stomach. Maybe he was still sick.

He yawned again and sank further into the couch knowing he should go to bed, but his bones felt too brittle to get up.  

Everything was coming to a head soon. Midterms, Mr. Stark and their work, and the tour were compounding at an exponential rate.

It was all amazing. Peter knew he was so lucky and at times thought he dreamed it all.

But it was sometimes too much.

He wasn’t used to having so many people in his life or having to check his phone throughout the day to see who was texting him.

Who would have thought at the beginning of the year Ned and Flash would send each other memes? Or that Julia would come out and lead one of their group meetings?

Peter smiled remembering how Monica’s jaw dropped when Julia, gently, corrected her on some of the analytics. Or how she gave everyone in their group, Flash included, a newer version of the pen that landed her in the internship program.

He felt so full of life, something he’d never thought possible for someone like him.

And right now, it hurt that all he wanted to do was curl up and sleep for the weekend. He wondered what would happen if he told them. If he just needed some time to disconnect for a bit.

He knew he couldn’t do that though. They would be fine without him, they would move on and continue texting minus his phone number, and Peter wasn’t ready to get rid of them so soon.  They deserved someone who was normal, who could sit in the cafeteria for the whole week without feeling bone tired, or someone who could be fully present without worry about sneezing the wrong way.

Peter would get through it and soak everything up. Every laugh, and debate at lunch. Flash’s and his new acquaintanceship. And especially any time Mr. Stark was willing to work together. He could push through it for now.

It would be fine.

He groaned against the couch pillow thinking about everything he had to do and after looking at the calendar on the way he realized something.

It was only a week until they would tour Oscorp.

It's always one step forward and two steps back for our Peter isn't it?

a/n: Hi sweet friends. I hope you are all doing well and you and your loved ones are staying safe. This semester has been crazy, as things get in real life. My classes have been moved online so I can finally start writing again which makes me so happy. I also just wanted to say thank you for continuing to read this story. Every comment and kudos make my week so bright.

As always, I would love to hear your thoughts.

Taglist: @verdonafrost @demi-starzak @whatisthou

Next Chapter Eleven: Welcome to Oscorp

[breanime]

Tiny Little Increments (Part Two)

Warning: It’s a Logan story, so...steamy...

*gif not mine*

“Holy shit,” Logan sighed out, flopping onto his back on your bed, “That was incredible.”

You laughed, sliding off of the bed and grabbing a pair of panties from the floor. “Oh shit,” you said, stumbling as you stood up again. Your legs were a little wobbly, and you had Logan to thank for it.

“That’s what you get for getting out of bed,” he grinned, “What are you doing?”

“Gotta get breakfast started,” you answered, pulling on a pair of leggings and a T-shirt, “You want some coffee before you go?”

“Mm,” Logan sat up, still grinning, “So this is how it feels to get kicked out?” He put a hand over his heart. “I’m wounded.”

“I offered you coffee,” you shrugged.

He laughed, getting up and getting dressed. “Coffee sounds good,” he answered, “Not as good as you on me, but…”

You rolled your eyes, still laughing. “I could be persuaded to make you breakfast too.”

His answering smile made your stomach flip. It was a new feeling, and a part of you wanted to swallow it down and never feel it again, but another part…liked it.

You led Logan downstairs, kicking some of the toys out of the way. Your brother grinned from his spot on the couch when he saw Logan.

“That your car out front?” He asked.

Logan nodded. “Yeah. You into cars?”

“Yeah, how fast does it go?” He asked excitedly.

“Very,” Logan grinned.

“Logan, you remember my brother, Cameron?” You said, putting your hand on Cameron’s head as you walked past him into the kitchen. “I’m making breakfast,” you said, turning to regard him, “If you want to eat, you need to clear all that crap from the stairs.”

Cameron got up with a groan. He was about to go to the steps when he stopped and turned back to Logan. “Can I see the inside of your car?”

“Cam—” You started.

“Sure,” Logan answered, “If you convince your sister to go on another date with me,” He said with a wink.

Cameron grinned, running up the stairs screaming “I’m gonna see the inside of a Rolls Royce!”

You started the coffee, smiling despite yourself as Logan walked into the kitchen behind you. “Another date?” You asked, back to him.

He came up behind you, hands on your waist. “I’m not well experienced in the whole second date thing,” he admitted, “But maybe we can give it a try.”

“We haven’t even had a first date, yet,” you said back. You felt that feeling in your stomach again.

“Ah,” he grinned, backing up from you. He put a finger up. “So you want to go out with me?”

“I never said that!” You laughed.

“Where do you want to go?” He asked. “I pretty much make my own hours, we can do something tonight, if you want.”

“What’s happening tonight?” Your sister asked, coming into the kitchen with her dingy pink bunny in one hand and a clipboard in the other. She sat at the table, raising an eyebrow at Logan. “You’re still here?”

“Hey,” he greeted her, flashing her a smile that could charm a snake, “I didn’t get your name last night.”

“Emma,” she answered. “You’re Logan, right?” He nodded in response. “You’re taking my sister somewhere tonight?”

“No,” you said before he could answer, “he’s not.”

“Why not?” Emma asked.

“I’m free tonight,” Logan made a show of sighing and leaning against the counter, “But your sister doesn’t seem to want to go out with me.”

“Why not?” She asked, addressing you this time.

“Too busy,” you answered.

“What do you have to do?” Logan asked.

“Take care of the kids, clean the house,” you answered, “Get everything ready for school on Monday, try to fix the heater, get groceries…”

“We can take care of all that,” your other brother, Jeremy, walked into the kitchen with a cigarette between his lips. Ethan, yet another brother, was behind him.

“Seriously?” You frowned. “Nicotine for breakfast?”

“Nothing else was available,” he said back with a smirk. He turned to Logan, offering his hand. “You must be Mr. Rolls Royce.”

“Logan,” he said with a grin, “And you’re one of the brothers?”

“Second oldest,” you answered as you rinsed out some coffee mugs, “His name’s Jeremy and he’s a pain in the ass.”

“All true,” Jeremy said. He pointed behind him with his thumb. “This is Ethan, third oldest, least good-looking.” Ethan swiped at him, but Jeremy dodged easily. “So you want to take our sister out?”

“Yes,” Logan answered.

“No,” you said at the same time.

“You still haven’t given me a good reason why not,” Logan said.

“I’m busy,” you said, rubbing a stick of butter on a pan.

“We got the house, Y/N,” Jeremy said, “Have fun.” He walked past Logan to reach into a cabinet and grab a bowl. “She’s such a fucking martyr,” he whispered conspirously to Logan, “Please take her off our hands, man.”

“Hey!” You cried while Logan laughed. “Here,” you handed him a cup of coffee, turning and handing the other two mugs to Jeremy and Ethan, “What’s the bowl for?” You asked Jeremy.

“Frank’s passed out in the yard, gonna wake ‘em up with some nice hose water,” he answered, grinning. Ethan laughed, following behind him as Emma jumped up, trying to convince them not to.

“And Frank is…?” Logan asked now that the kitchen was clear again.

“My Dad,” you said, cracking an egg over the pan, “I think you saw him last night.”

“Oh yeah,” he leaned back against the counter, “Can I ask?”

You shrugged. The fact that Logan was still here—and wanting to take you out on a date—was a little surprising. But you knew it wouldn’t last, his interest in you. It was best to get it out of the way now, get rid of all those…butterflies in your tummy. “Frank’s an alcoholic, a drug addict,” you shrugged again, cracking another egg, “He doesn’t stay here all the time, it’s mostly me with the kids.”

“How many of you are there?” He asked, voice soft.

“Six total, including me,” you answered, cracking a few more eggs. “Liam’s upstairs, he’s only three.” You started scrambling the eggs, not looking up. “The boys help a lot, and I do what I can to provide for the kids…”

“What about your Mom?”

You scoffed. “She left when Liam was one. We’re better off without her.” You turned a bit to regard Logan. His face was serious, and you realized that this was the first real conversation the two of you have ever had. “Last night was fun,” you started.

“And this morning,” he added with a slight grin.

You couldn’t help but smile back. “And this morning,” you added, “But I’m not like you. I don’t make my own hours, I’m not a CEO, I don’t own a phone that looks like it can fly or it’s from the future—”

“—It’s a prototype,” he interrupted lightly, “I can get you one, if you want—”

“—Logan,” you said firmly, turning around to face him fully, “I know what this is to you. It’s a fun little trip to the scummy side of town with a side of pussy, and that’s fun for you, but this is my life. I have bills, kids to take care of…the me you met last night was just for last night. This,” you gestured with the spatula around you to the crooked cabinets, the dingy wallpaper, the table with piles of crap all over it, “This is who I am all the time, so…” You took a breath. You didn’t know what to say. More to the point—you didn’t know why you were so sad. People never stayed; you knew that. Which is why it made no sense that Logan wanted to see you again. It made no sense that you had butterflies when he smiled, and that even though he had been fucking you senseless all night, you couldn’t get over the intimacy of him opening the car door for you, couldn’t get over the feel of his hands on your waist. It made no sense. “So…” You tried again.

Logan stepped up to you, and you melted when he put his hand on your chin, lifting your face up towards his. “I like who you are,” he said softly, “And this may come as a surprise to you, but I’ve gotten pretty good at reading people in my work. You think I didn’t know that you weren’t just some club bunny? I saw you the moment you walked into that club,” he smiled, “Saw you flash that pretty smile to get in for free, saw the way you charmed the bartenders to giving you free booze…”

“So you knew I was poor,” you said, not impressed.

“Figured as much,” he was honest, you’d give him that, “Didn’t know how severe it was until we pulled up.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter to me, though. What matters is that you’re fun, and beautiful, and a damn good time.”

You felt that fluttering in your stomach again. “I’m not… I can’t just go club-hopping every night.” You said weakly.

“I know,” Logan smiled, “and I also know that, the moment I saw you, I felt… alive again, in a way I haven’t felt in a long, long time. I know you don’t do this a lot, and I don’t do this—ever,” he admitted, “but, uh… I’d like to take you out—and not just to a club or something, I want to take you on a date, where we can talk.” He shrugged, hand still on your face. “You can tell me more about your shitty parents, and I can tell you about my opioid-addicted mother and asshole father.”

Your eyebrows shot up. You hadn’t tried to picture Logan’s parents before, but if you had, you wouldn’t have conjured what he just said.

“Yeah,” he chuckled, “I’ll tell you all about it…” He leaned down and pressed his lips against yours. It was a much softer kiss than the others had been, and you leaned into him. He pulled back with a brilliant smile. “…Tonight?”

You sighed. You heard footsteps, so you moved away from Logan.

“Daddy’s gone,” Emma announced with a grimace.

“It’s for the best,” you said, moving past Logan to grab plates.

“He’s at the bar,” Jeremy said, tossing the bowl into the already full sink, “having his liquid breakfast.”

“Which is so much worse than a nicotine breakfast.” Ethan murmured, smirking. Jeremy flicked him off.

“It’s not fair!” Emma pouted. “You guys wouldn’t let me bring him in last night, and now you ran him off before he can even have any breakfast!”

“He wasn’t gettin’ any breakfast, anyway,” you said back, passing Ethan a plate, “Cam!” You shouted. “Bring Liam, it’s time to eat!”

“He’s our Dad!” Emma argued.

“He’s an asshole,” Jeremy said.

“And a prick.” Ethan added.

“And he’s not allowed in the house when he’s loaded,” you finished. This was an old argument. “Eat your food, Em.”

She sat back, crossing her arms. “Not hungry,” she pouted.

You turned to her, a hand on your hips. “Emma…” You started.

“I was thinking,” Logan said, cup against those lips that were just on yours, “And feel free to say no,” he said, grinning as Cameron came down with Liam in his arms, “But I was gonna see if anyone wanted to take a spin in the Rolls Royce?”

You watched, trying to keep the grin off of your face as your siblings all perked up—even Emma.

“Seriously?” She asked, momentarily forgetting about Frank.

“Sure,” Logan answered, “After breakfast?”

“Hell yeah,” Jeremy grinned.

“So Y/N’s going on another date with you?” Cam asked, sitting beside Emma at the table.

Suddenly six sets of eyes were on you, including Logan’s; dark and foreign and unnecessarily dazzling. Jeremy was smirking at you, and Cameron and Emma were giving you matching puppy dog eyes. Ethan, who was holding Liam now, was bouncing him on his knee and grinning at you.

You took a sip of your coffee, trying to hide the smile that just wouldn’t go away. “Tonight,” you said casually, “Dinner,” you looked over at Logan.

Cameron and Emma cheered, which made Liam start clapping and cheering as well, and even Jeremy and Ethan looked pleased. Traitors.

Logan leaned forward and kissed you, totally unbothered by the audience of adolescents a few feet away. “Can’t wait.”

Logan stayed for the rest of the morning, eating breakfast with you and the kids like it was nothing, like he had been slumming it in the hood with you for ages. After breakfast, he took the kids for a ride while you cleaned up.

He came behind you, a hand on your waist and the other on your neck. “I gave Jeremy the keys,” he whispered in your ear.

You turned. “You what?”

“He’s 17,” Logan shrugged as you pushed him away, “The kids wanted to go to the arcade.”

“They don’t have any money,” you said back.

“I gave ‘em some,” he pulled you back to him, kissing you, “Bought us some time.”

You bit your lip. Really, it was time for him to go. You had a lot to do, and you already broke your own rules by agreeing to a date.

“I told Jeremy to stop by the grocery store,” Logan said with a grin, “Emma already had a list on her.”

“Of course she did,” you rolled your eyes with a smile, “That girl is a walking, talking memo.”

“I like your siblings,” Logan said, “I mean, I like you more, but…”

That phrase, that one phrase—I like your siblings—was so simple and so honest and so genuine, yet it had your heart pounding. You ran over to him, throwing your arms around his shoulders and ramming your lips against his. Logan made a surprised, pleased sound, and picked you up. You wrapped your legs around his waist, hands going to his hair, as you licked into his mouth eagerly. Logan carried you to the table, dropping you down amongst the unopened bills and forgotten takeout menus.

“Pants,” you moaned out, arching your back and reaching out for him.

He grinned down at you. “Shouldn’t we go upstairs?”

“Why?” You asked, giggling as you pulled his fly down. “We have the whole house to ourselves.”

He answered you with a full laugh, stepping out of his pants. You pulled your shirt off, and Logan took a breath. “No bra,” he said, “Fucking perfect.”

You laughed when he dipped his head down and wrapped his lips around your nipple. He kissed up your chest and back to your mouth, and your jaw dropped when you felt his long fingers between your legs. You moved your hips, and Logan took the hint and double downed on his efforts. You came almost immediately, eyes clamped shut and mouth open, screaming silently. When you opened your eyes again, chest heaving, Logan was stripping his shirt off.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he said, voice thick with lust, “I want another incredible blowjob, but more than that, I want pre-date sex.” He was peeling your pants off now, and you helped him the best you could.

Your eyelids fluttered closed when he pushed inside you, and you heard his unmistakable chuckle above you. You sat up, wrapping your arms around him and pushing your chest against his. “So,” you gasped out, bouncing on his cock, “where we goin’ for our date?”

“That depends,” he answered, thrusting into you harshly, “Are you considering it our first or second date?”

“First,” you said, as if the answer was obvious, “And probably last.” You rolled your hips and moaned. He hit your sweet spot, and your legs were starting to shake.

“Keep talking like that,” he grabbed your leg and hoisted it over his shoulder, “and I won’t let you cum.”

You pouted. “You’re not playing fair!”

“Nope,” he kissed your neck, fingers gripping your thigh, “I’m playing to win.”

You let your head fall back as his hips slammed into yours. His mouth was still on your neck, leaving hickeys, and you scratched along his back, leaving marks of your own. You were close, and Logan knew it, moving against you with new purpose.

He put a hand on your neck, pushing you back on the table. “Promise me a second date,” he said, leaning over and kissing you.

You bit his lip, and he groaned. “Make me cum,” you grinned back.

Logan laughed—and man, you could imagine yourself getting used to that laugh, that smile. He plunged one hand between the two of you, down where you were connected, and you cried out at the increased sensation. It was insane—he felt insane. Soon you were cumming, squeezing around him and calling his name.

“Fuck,” he said, his voice just one octave above a growl, “You look so fucking good like this…” He grabbed your other leg, tossing it over his shoulder.

“Logan,” you sighed, running your hands up and down his arm. He kissed you, his hips still moving a mile a minute. He put a hand in your hair, moving your head to get better access to your mouth, and you sighed happily. “Fuck!” He was kissing your neck again, he smelled so good and felt fantastic, and suddenly, as his hips slammed into yours and his cock kept hitting you in all the right places, you found yourself speaking words you never thought you’d say—especially to someone you just met. “Please, baby,” you begged, “I need you!”

Logan groaned, bringing his mouth to yours again before abruptly pulling back. You watched eagerly as he came on your stomach. “Fuck,” he laughed, “sorry, didn’t mean to cum on the table,” he said, not sounding contrite at all.

“You didn’t,” you said, breathing heavily, “You came on me. Pass me the napkins.”

“So,” Logan asked, helping you wipe up and picking you up. Those butterflies started flying when he put you back on the floor. “How we lookin’ for that second date?”

You giggled, shimming back into your pants. “I’m leaning towards a maybe,” you teased.

“You’re leaning cause I made you cum. Twice,” Logan grinned back. “You got something nice to wear tonight?”

You cocked an eyebrow, shrugging into your shirt as Logan got dressed as well. “Is this your way of telling me where we’re going tonight?” You asked.

“Maybe.” He looked towards the front door, and you heard the sound of an engine. “Kids are back.”

“That was quick,” you said back.

“I’ll try not to take that as a criticism,” Logan grinned.

“Y/N!” Emma and Cameron ran to you, tackling you in a hug. “Crystal Cappelli saw me in the Rolls Royce! She’s gonna be SO jealous!” Emma cried happily, jumping in place.

“That’s not just a Rolls Royce,” Cameron said, eyes wide, “That’s a Rolls Royce Wraith! That’s like, the car of a superhero!”

“Supervillian,” Logan corrected, running a hand through his messy hair.

“Was it fun?” You asked, putting your hands on either side of Cam’s excited face.

“Yes!”

“So what do we say to Logan?” You prompted.

Cam turned to Logan, an 11-year old cherub. “Thanks for banging my sister!” He giggled, running back out the door.

“Hey!” You called after him, heat in your cheeks.

“Gotta help with the groceries!” He called back.

“Thank you, Logan,” Emma said sweetly.

“You’re welcome, Emma,” he said back.

She gave him a shy smile before following Cameron out of the door. You felt your heart skip a beat. Emma never smiled like that at any of the people who were in and out of the house—whether they came with you or with one of the boys. But she smiled at Logan.

He leaned over and kissed you again, smiling. “Wear something nice,” he said, “See you in a few hours.”

You nodded. You watched him leave, a flurry of emotions going through you—chief amongst them was confusion. You ran to the window, peaking through the blinds. Logan was talking with Jeremy, who had plastic bags in his arms. Like… a lot of bags. How much money did Logan give them? Ethan—who barely talked to you, let alone a stranger—was laughing along with them. Liam was standing next to Jeremy, holding a bag of his own like a big boy. Your eyes grew wide when you saw Logan pass something to Ethan, and you watched as he drove off.

What the hell could he be giving your kid brother?

*******************************************************************************************

Let me know what you think! I’m having so much fun writing this!

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[sustraiii]

TEAM ZRCN ARC 2 - CHAPTER 12

Back with the villain squad this chapter! Neela’s fate is revealed, and tensions bubble over in a tense meeting.

WISTERIA

The room was quiet today Wisteria noted, as she stepped inside. Although it was noon, the windows had been blackened out long ago, giving the room a state of near-permanent darkness. Or at least it would be, if not for the dim light hanging from the ceiling.

“Lunch is ready,” Wisteria announced, setting down the tray she was carrying onto the fold-out table into the room.

The figure in the corner slowly rose to her feet, tentatively coming closer, and grabbing the sandwich as if she expected Wisteria to snatch it away again.

“Hungry aren’t we?” Wisteria remarked.

The young woman swallowed her mouthful of the sandwich before answering. “You don’t exactly give me much to eat. I think I could be forgiven for feeling as though I’m being starved.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that, Neela,” Wisteria assured her, catching the younger woman off guard by her casual use of her name. “They deem you to valuable to risk hurting. From what I can tell they’re planning on using you to blackmail your father into giving them a considerable amount of money.”

Neela went silent for a moment, the look on her face appearing to imply she was processing this new information. A moment passed before she looked up at Wisteria, scowling at her. “Don’t act as though you’re above killing someone like me.”

“What’s that supposed to me- Oh! For the last time, I didn’t ‘kill’ your teammate!” Wisteria fired back, more defensively than she intended. She already had enough comments from Candy, who seemed to delight in taunting Wisteria by saying she didn’t know she had it in her.

“Can you say that for certain though?” Neela challenged, tilting her head to one side.

“I’m not having this conversation with you again,” Wisteria told her outright, already turning to leave. “The answer is going to be the same as the last five times you’ve asked.”

Neela didn’t respond after that, so Wisteria left her to brood in silence. She had barely closed the door behind her, before another voice cut through her thoughts.

“Wisteria,” Candy greeted, a teasing smile on her lips. “Did I scare you?”

Hardly. But Wisteria opted against responding to that, instead asking, “What is it that you want Candy?”

Candy’s smile soon disappeared when she clearly didn’t get the response she was hoping for. Good, Wisteria thought. It would take more to scare me than someone like you.

“Farron wants to speak with us,”

“Finally!” Wisteria said, emphasising a relieved sigh if only for the annoyance it provided for Candy. “It has taken him long enough. What was he doing? Trying to wrap his head around how much of a colossal fuck-up you made?”

Candy’s lips pressed into a thin line, and Wisteria likely would have gotten an earful, had she not turned and began walking away. With a shrug, Wisteria followed close behind. The building they currently found themselves was the old processing plant for the Shizukana mines, long since closed and disused after the mines blew up. It was dark, miserable building, both inside and out. Much of the old factory had been gutted long ago, but you could still see reminders of what it had once been. If all went to plan, Wisteria would finish her mission here, and then she could finally say goodbye to Farron and his group. Then it was only two years left of her contract with the Rossi’s and she could finally go home. Whatever home was anymore...

Farron waited for them in what had once been the foreman’s office, as evidenced by the now faded lettering on the door. The two women entered quietly, but Candy came to a sudden stop inside, almost causing Wisteria to crash into her. Wondering what had caused the sudden halt, Wisteria glanced around her to see Nieve and Ulysses stood behind Farron.

“What are they doing here?” Candy questioned, gesturing towards the two of them.

Farron’s expression remained as neutral as ever, but he relaxed into his chair slightly before he spoke. “Helping me get the story straight.”

“I’m not following,” Candy said, her features shifting into a confused frown. “I thought things were pretty clear.”

“To a degree,” Farron admitted. “However, I have since learnt you weren’t very forthcoming about the build-up to certain events. Including how I supposedly gave you permission to use my prototype in that village to attack those students.”

Candy seemed to turn mute at that. Wisteria couldn’t help but smirk at her getting called out. 

“Don’t smirk, Wisteria,” Farron advised with a firm tone, his green eyes shifting towards her for a moment. “You are not exempt from this diversion to my plans. I hear you gravely wounded one of these students. That he might even potentially be dead. Would you care to explain yourself?”

“I can’t say for certain whether he survived obviously, as I’ve been here for five days, but I can assure you that was never my intention,” Wisteria informed him. And she wasn’t lying either. True, she had meant to attack him, but only to knock him down and get him to yield. She had never intended to cut him like that. “The boy slipped when attempting to parry me, and unfortunately it threw off my aim as well, leading to what eventually happened.”

Farron frowned slightly and Wisteria got the impression he wasn’t overly satisfied with the answer, despite it being the truth. His gaze soon shifted back to Candy.

“Not only did you divert from the plan, but you also wasted the prototype. I warned you that it was unstable and that it was to come back to me as soon as Wisteria arrived,” Farron scolded.

“Why does she only get to walk away with a slapped wrist?” Candy asked, gesturing angrily towards Wisteria.

“Wisteria isn’t the issue,” Farron responded, cooly, “Now if I can continue -”

“No!” Candy shouted, interrupting him. “Ever since she joined, things have been going wrong! Verde’s gone underground, Saika and Merlot were arrested, half our supplies were reclaimed. And it's all her fault.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m to blame for like zero of the things you mentioned,” Wisteria pointed out with a smirk. 

“And there you go with a smirk again,” Candy yelled. She came striding up to Wisteria and grabbed her arm roughly. “I swear this is all just a little game to you.”

Wisteria only returned the comment with a sneer, before glancing down at where Candy was holding her arm. “Let go of me.”

“Or what?”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Usually, when using her semblance, Wisteria liked to ease her victims into it, but to be frank, she had had enough of Candy’s snide remarks. She was sure the Rossi’s wouldn’t mind if she had a little fun in her last few days here. The effects of getting hit with the full force of Wisteria’s semblance was almost immediate: Candy’s pupils went wide, she seemed to pale in colour, and she dropped to her knees trembling. Her breaths became nervous and ragged, and her body trembled violently. Nieve was used to such scenes, but Ulysses seemed visibly shocked at what was going on, becoming even more distressed when Candy began gasping about her chest hurting.

Seeing Candy knelt in front of her, Wisteria was reminded of a story she once knew. The story of a frightened little girl who lived in constant fear. Her parents left her when she was young, and she had been taken in by people who were supposed to protect her, care for her, and love her. But they didn’t.

She was a slave to them, a helpful tool to complete the tasks they didn’t want to do. And when she refused, they would lock her away, withhold her toys, or beat the back of her shins with a cane. Sometimes she would only have to cry to get such treatment. And unfortunately for that poor little girl, she cried often.

Her life was so very sad and fearful. Until one day it wasn’t.

One day that frightened little decided she had enough. She didn’t want to be afraid anymore. She wanted them to stop hurting her and leave her alone.

They knocked her down, yelling and screaming in her ear, calling her worthless and insignificant. And then she raised her hand to defend herself. “Leave me alone!” the girl cried out. And they did. They dropped to their knees and shied away from her. They were afraid. Stop. They begged the girl. Stop. You’re hurting us! Please, stop this!

“Say my name,” Was all the girl requested. “Say my name, and I’ll let you go.”

But they hesitated, and so she squeezed harder, and they screamed louder. Four more times she asked before she finally got her answer.

Wisteria! Your name is Wisteria Bloome.

“P-please…” Candy croaked, a shaky holding a shaky hand up for mercy.

Beg as much as you like, Wisteria thought, if I really wanted to kill you, it wouldn’t matter much. I could choke the life from you without even laying a hand on your throat.

And perhaps she might have done just that, had it not been for Nieve intervening, resting a hand on her shoulder, and pulling her out of her thoughts. There was a concerned look in her eyes.

“I think you’ve made your point,” She said, casting a glance between Wisteria and Candy, who was still trembling in front of them. With a small, almost reluctant nod, Wisteria released her hold on her. Candy gasped loudly, and the first few breaths after her release were long and deep, desperate to steady her nerves.

Wisteria was also feeling the effects of her powers. It had been a long time since she had pushed herself that much and she felt light-headed and little dizzy; had it not been for Nieve stood nearby, Wisteria would have likely toppled over herself. Nieve had been with her for a long time though, she knew what could happen in situations like these - both for the victim and Wisteria.

“Thank you, old friend,” She whispered quietly, giving her an affectionate pat on the back. Wisteria straightened slightly, before addressing Farron and Candy. “We’re done here for today.” She informed them, before clicking her fingers and summoning Ulysses towards her and Nieve. As they moved to leave, Candy finally seemed to have recovered enough strength to be able to lift her head. The look she aimed at Wisteria was one of hurt and questioning. 

“I did warn you,” Wisteria said softly, the faintest of smiles gracing her lips. And with that she and her companions departed, leaving Farron and Candy to deal with what had just happened.

[trulycertain]

pattern recognition

Time for 3.5k of character study! I guess this is kind of a companion piece to Proprioception, but it stands on its own. This one is all Pritchard and slow enemies-to-friends stuff. (Also on AO3.)

 Jensen’s still comatose. He’s the lucky one.

He hasn’t had to watch cleaners sift through broken glass and pray they’ve already got all the blood, even while some morbid fascination pushes you to look for it, to watch for the evidence of your coworkers and their last moments. Evidence they existed at all. Frank walks past windows and workspaces and mentally labels each; for all he was mocked for being a shut-in, he remembers each and every name. He has that sort of brain. Pattern recognition. He used to brag about it in hackerspaces, but it feels like more of a curse, now.

Jensen hasn’t had to walk through empty labs and abandoned desks, feeling the spaces. He hasn’t had to walk through rooms full of death and know that Jensen could have prevented it, wasn’t that his fucking job?

They should have had Belltower. They needed Belltower, not one jumped-up ex-cop who thought he could be a SWAT team on his own. That arrogance damn near cost him his life. Instead it just cost everyone else’s.

Sometime around Monday, when the cleaners are finishing up, Sarif starts knocking. He doesn’t usually bother, just strolls in as a reminder he owns the place, leans an elbow on Frank’s desk and starts talking at him like they’re friends in a bar somewhere. As if tech security’s less important than the latest jam in the coffee machines or the fact Eileen’s had a baby, isn’t that nice - until he gets to what he actually wants. There’s always another favour.

When the knocking starts, Frank realises how he must look, how snappish he must be. He catches one of the technicians in the canteen muttering about Stay out of the blast radius, Pritchard’s even further up his own ass than usual and watches the silence fall abruptly as they spot him.

But Sarif’s worse. Concealer can’t entirely cover up the eyebags, and he’s all manic focus, running hands through his hair and pacing as he talks about how Jensen isn’t quite dead, how they found a way; as he asks for the Prometheus specs and talks about how this can’t happen again and why the hell couldn’t his staff defend themselves...

He’s wild-eyed and unsteady round the edges, and Frank actually pauses and looks up from reams of code. Sarif’s never been like this before. Maybe when he’s just had an idea for a prototype and he’s buzzing, ready to start on blueprints, but… not like this. Not with this edge of panic, this white-knuckled fear to it. There have always been jokes about Sarif’s obsession with his tech, but this is something else. This feels like a sickness.

And then the visits stop, and that’s how Frank knows David’s down at the LIMB clinic. With Jensen.

After the surgery, when Jensen’s still not dead and clinging onto life as stubbornly as he does everything else, the mania fades. David edges in like Frank’s a cornered animal, actually pausing to let him speak once in a while. Frank hates every minute of it.

A week later, there’s a soft knock on his door. Frank looks up and sighs, waiting for the hedging and the edging away.

It’s not Sarif. It’s Athene.

Something must have happened. He doesn’t know, he’s had his head in the firewalls for the past three days, because there was an anomaly and God don’t let it have been something he missed, something that could have prevented it…

Athene puts her head around the door of the tech lab, after another half-hearted knock. There’s something in her hand, and she raises it. “Are you signing?”

“Signing what?” He looks distractedly back to his monitor. Sure, it’s yet another card, but Ramirez hasn’t woken up yet and… Then he gets it. He grinds his teeth. “Oh. He made it, did he?”

“It was a close call. You don’t know how close.”

Actually, he spent two days without sleep in front of flickering screens, waiting on news and to see if any short-notice specs needed to be delivered, because if these augmentations couldn’t do something to save people then what was the point of them. When it came through, the fact Jensen was one of the few people down there not DOA? It just seemed like cruel irony.

“Frank - “

“No. Ask someone who actually cares.”

“You’ll regret it, you know. He’s in a lot of pain.” Athene’s voice is soft. Sometimes she reminds him of the school nurse he had when he was young, the one everyone actually liked; that calculated gentleness, that careful, I’m not judging you but everyone else will, and she thinks he can’t see through it but he’s sat through this kind of thing enough times. (We know it was a misunderstanding. Just give us the account details. You couldn’t really have emptied out the bonds.)

He tsks and looks back to his keyboard. “He’s alive, isn’t he? It’s better than some.”

“He’s not conscious yet, and he’s probably going to be scared when he wakes up. He doesn't know about Megan, and that’s… I don’t envy him."

"He wouldn't have to know if he hadn't gotten her killed."

"You know how the patients get sometimes, if it’s their first time...”

Franks drinks cold greyish coffee so he doesn’t have to look at her. “He knows the augs. He watched M – Reed build them.”

Athene sighs. “Have it your own way. But David thinks it’s a shame, you know.”

“Sarif can think what he likes. This isn’t in my job description.” He signed up to work up for a corporation, not “one big happy family.”

There’s another pause, a wave of silence at the doorway that always comes before something he won’t like. Athene says, too softly, “Frank, dear. Have you looked into the counselling? It’s only once every couple weeks, there’s...”

He swallows and looks at a screen, because it’s safer than looking into her eyes. “I can’t afford to lose the time. Some of us are too damn busy to wallow.” He pauses and says, more quietly, “Have you? I’ve barely seen you leave your desk since it happened.”

“I’ll be all right, Frank. It's not me you should be worrying about.” Another sigh, somehow more judgemental than the last, and then Athene gives up on him. Good.

He runs back over the list of the casualties, the dead and the injured. After a while, the names start blurring until he has no idea who’s who. That shouldn’t feel like a relief.

    Jensen’s still an asshole. That, at least, is reassuring. There are tales of scared nurses and Jensen taking chunks out of concrete, ones Frank’s not meant to have heard, and when Jensen comes back…

He skulks back. Glowers in the corner of Frank’s office like a deeply unwelcome gargoyle and practically snarls at anyone who dares to ask him about the augs. He’s always been touchy and overly defensive, but this is different. He won’t even look at anyone, just keeps the shades practically… well, welded to his face. As if he no longer deigns to interact with the mere mortals.

Frank sees the new eyes once, when he’s adjusting the retinal systems and integrating the HUD, doing a few last-second checks before Sarif sends out his shiny new guard dog. He blinks when the shields slide back, and then swiftly hides it and starts to work.

Somehow he’d expected narrowed blue eyes. The same old glare. Or maybe that Sarif would have tried to design something close…

No. They’re less human than some of the augs SI makes. More reflective, and a bright acid-green, golder at the edges. Entirely inhuman. Excessive, some might say.

Also out of sync. Which is why Jensen’s dragged himself into Frank’s office. Fix me, Pritchard. Piss off, Pritchard.

When they narrow in pain and Jensen clutches his head, Frank realises that the coldness wasn’t the augs. Jensen blinks and swiftly shuts it all away with a grunt. And Frank realises that even if Adam’s eyes were still human, they’d be empty. As if he doesn’t goddamn care about any of this. He’d probably rather be at home, eating cheese balls and taking the last of his sick leave…

He’ll realise what it is much later, when he’s realising Jensen’s at the bottom of an ocean, long-dead, and wanted to be.

    Jensen wanders into the canteen after Taggart’s press conference, about to hop yet another VTOL with Faridah. From the bow-legged lope – the cop walk, Frank always thought sourly, but now he wonders – Frank’s starting to suspect the shades are hiding eyebags and a bruise or two. Even the damn hairgel’s starting to sag. Jensen makes straight for the vending machine, with the air that anyone who gets in his way will be Typhooned, and silently stabs in the numbers for something tooth-rotting.

Frank can’t even blame him, after tonight.

The vending machine starts, stalls, and the candy bar refuses to budge. Jensen sighs, sounding resigned and like this is precisely what he expected. He gives it a quiet tap. Another, firmer one, still seeming wary of breaking the damn thing.

Jensen’s quietly picking the vending machine up and tilting it, shaking it slightly like a chip packet, when Frank leans on the wall nearby.

“Pritchard,” Jensen sighs, as if seeing Frank is the icing on a truly awful cake.

He’s probably waiting for some snide comment. It’s an unorthodox use of the arm mods, after all, and Jensen acts as if anyone seeing a moment of humanity is a fate worse than death. But Frank’s too exhausted and too preoccupied.

There’s a plunk as the bar finally drops. Jensen’s eyebrows raise from under the shades with an exhausted sort of hope, and then he carefully lowers the vending machine and springs down to grab it.

Frank’s on his twenty-second hour without sleep, and he knows Jensen’s been taking valuable time to trail down back alleys and sneak past rioting mobs and poke into apartments just to understand. Besides - he ascertains after glancing around – they’re alone here. It’s an unholy time of night even for their department.

“That goddamn backdoor,” he hisses. “I knew Sarif was overinvested, but this...” He can’t even finish the sentence.

“He had files on me.” That should have come out with rage, but instead Jensen says it with that quiet matter-of-fact exhaustion again. There’s a quiet sound, and when he turns… Frank looks with surprise into tired green eyes.

“Why on earth – Was this about Mexicantown?”

Jensen shrugs. “Guess he was doing some background checks.” There’s something uneasy in his posture.

Frank has a feeling that’s not the whole truth, but he’s in no mood to pry into Jensen’s personal life; he’s seen enough of it already. “Your… contact is safe. I’ve been keeping tabs, especially with the rioting.”

For the first time, Jensen seems awake. He opens his mouth. Closes it again. “...Thanks.”

Frank waves a hand. “But I told him, you leave a door ajar and someone else can open it, I told him so many damn times...”

“I’ve always said the same thing.” The slightest tilt of the lips. A genuine smile, from Adam Jensen. The world must be ending. “He thinks we’re both paranoid.”

“We could have prevented this. And he wouldn’t let us.”

Adam ducks his head, and sobers. “Yeah. But I’m gonna find her, and the others. Gonna try, at least. Someone has to.” He swallows. “You on comms?”

“Where else would I be?” Frank starts to walk away. “Don’t get yourself killed, Jensen.”

Jensen snorts, shades sliding back into place. “I’ll do my best, Francis.” Then he shoves a candy bar into his mouth and turns to head to the helipad.

    Frank’s in a crumbling theatre in Detroit when he sees them.

They needed to prepare for the LIMB clinic, and if there’s one thing he’s used to, it’s boredly scraping blueprints and intellicam footage for Jensen. He was looking for security guides, for the cam links, and the file roots didn’t make sense. He thought they purged the footage. Surely, for patient confidentiality, even if they were worried about malpractice suits… The clinics were never his area.

No. They didn’t.

He winces and keeps scrolling through files, ignoring frames and previews. Augs are perfectly ordinary to him, but he doesn’t need to see thousands of surgeries from the greater Detroit area. He almost moves past it.

And then there’s a tilt of the head, something… He spots a familiar beard, under the blood.

So much blood. It’s staining the bandage over Jensen’s eyes, he must have already had the retinal prostheses, it’s on the bandage from where half his skull must’ve got blown off and had to be rebuilt, and it’s all over the flayed augs. Frank frowns. That’s a mark of hasty installation, they’re calibrating nerves on the damn table...

David’s a designer, an engineer, not a surgeon. He almost never worked with trauma patients. Frank thinks of Sarif and thinks of slow, deliberate tweaking and calibrations. He doesn’t think of a man wrist-deep in guts and clearly half-yelling at his surgeons.

That would be enough, but Frank realises with a slow, dawning nausea that Adam must be conscious, on some level. Thrashing, and that isn’t just blood on his face, slipping out from under the makeshift blindfold… Perhaps he still had his natural eyes, then. Frank recognises tears well enough. Why the hell -

Maybe it’s that - looking for an explanation, an excuse, something - that makes him click.

“Keep going, we can’t lose him now.” Sarif sounds exactly as strident as he looked.

“He doesn’t need the arm. We can wait, delay surgery - “ Someone offscreen, with the same sort of desperate horror as Frank feels rising in his gut. Because he has to look, now, and that arm’s clearly beyond saving but the rest… there’s too much blood and he’s not a damn doctor, he’s not certain...

“You don’t know what the hell he needs. He’ll make it through.” Sarif glances back to Adam. “He was made for this. Come on, get the damn laser scope!”

Sarif says something else, but Frank loses the words. Loses all of it except the sound. Because Adam’s screaming. Screaming, and screaming…

He slams the off button hard enough he nearly breaks the keyboard, glancing behind him.

No angry cloaked aug. He has a feeling Jensen wouldn’t just let this go.

He sits, numb, and stares until the monitor blurs. It was easy enough reading the notes, when he thought at least some of it had been elective. When he thought Jensen had asked for all the bells and whistles.

Icarus system, Typhoon, Quiksilver reflex mods, rebreather…

But somewhere along the way… well, he has the sneaking suspicion Jensen didn’t. That wasn’t a man who could choose anything. And the idea that Jensen, of all people, the most stubborn man this side of the Canadian border, might have been overwhelmed or pressured into augs…

Faridah said it. He didn’t want to listen. He still doesn’t want to listen.

Upselling. The word goes through his mind, and then he hates it, and he tries to push it away. Maybe it’s the goddamn caffeine making him paranoid. (You’re always paranoid, Francis, a dry, rough voice says in the back of his head.)

Paranoia or not, he doesn’t go near the cams for a while. He runs over blueprints and any potential robots left, instead. Clinics always used to guard the neuropyzene coolers more heavily than the augs themselves. Even before the Incident, they understood desperation.

He isn’t so much avoiding Jensen as… not having pressing business in the same area. But when he’s on his fourth hour combing through code and he’s in dire need of a piss, he barges into one of the old customer restrooms -

And Jensen’s standing by the sinks, staring steadily into the mirror, shaving away months of grime and overgrown beard.

Frank pauses in the doorway, stupidly.

Adam wets the razor and says, without turning around, “What do you want, Pritchard?” There’s little of its usual bite. He sounds exhausted.

Frank tries not to stare at gold knuckles as Adam cleans up the edges of that fussy little goatee – remembers a set on the table twitching and spasming, trying to respond to pain stimulus while still pinned – and Adam’s ducked head. There must still be so many scars, under that damp hair.

He considers saying something. Jensen would probably punch him if he so much as tried. No, more likely snap something disparaging and then turn tail. And it’s not exactly a conversation he’s excited about having, either.

“Still hogging the bathroom, Jensen?” is all he manages instead.

Adam snorts. “You gonna say something about how my bladder should be augmented?”

Frank swallows. “No.” That’s the last thing he thinks he can say right now. He heads down the row to a stall; he's not dealing with Jensen's very literal dick-measuring. “I’m going to say, prepare for the LIMB job.”

    It’s easier not talking about it, not thinking about it. Jensen is Jensen, the sarcastic asshole who tried to steal his job and kept wandering into his office to try and take him down a peg. (The sarcastic asshole who sank with Panchaea trying to save the world and asked him to look after an elderly woman in a rough neighbourhood because she was “...family.” And who pretended not to water the cactus in his office but did it whenever he was in town, because Megan had given him the thing. And maybe later Frank watered it, too, when Jensen was away for god-knows-how-long and then afterward, when he was at the bottom of the ocean, but… Jensen doesn’t need to know that. Frank just thought the room needed some extra oxygen to counter all the alcohol fumes.)

Not thinking about it does just fine for the rest of the mission, and then Jensen gives him a swift goodbye before being spirited away by INTERPOL. The last conversation they have ends with Jensen passing him a cigarette and actually smiling at him. Amused, but not the smug smirk of their usual conversations. I really owe you one, Pritchard. Frank remembers watching him walk away to the VTOL and Jensen not even turning round but throwing him a jaunty little scout-salute with those custom-built hands, coat flapping ostentatiously. Asshole. It sounded too fond in the privacy of his own head.

Not thinking about it breaks, somewhat, when Sarif calls him.

(He’s no good to me like this, Sarif said while pulling apart skin and squinting through blood, and Frank assumed at the time that just meant half-dead but now he’s starting to wonder. Sarif, who sent Jensen on a mission to the depths of god-knows-where, where he disappeared off the grid for days. And then there’s the damn backdoor he found because Sarif was too busy spying on his employees to consider that someone else could, too. Or the way that Sarif seemed far more focused on retrieving the Typhoon prototypes than his employees. Pattern recognition.)

But Sarif is Sarif, and he smiles and it’s all Fraaank, it’s good to see you, and Frank needs the money. In a week. He tells himself he’ll think about it in a week, when the Blades have had the assets extracted. Besides, what kind of ripper would he be if he passed up a job like that? He’d make history - pseudonymously, of course. It’s almost a duty.

Sarif smiles, and it’s almost… sheepish. “You know there’s only one person we can ask.”

Frank sighs. “He won’t be pleased.”

“He’s Adam. He’ll do the right thing.”

Isn’t that what Sarif always relies upon, the strings he always pulls? Guilt, obligation, the last remains of some kind of twisted fondness.

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. It’s one more job, and he needs the money.

He realises his mistake, somewhere in the back of his mind, when he finally vidcalls Jensen.

The annoyed glare he gets for his trouble is comfortably familiar, at least. The body beneath it, however… There are obvious marks of support struts and chassis across Adam’s back. They had the foresight to tuck most of the scar tissue out of sight, but not all. It’s paler against Adam’s already-pale skin, stark. And there are the marks of the Typhoon, the augmentation Jensen always hated – a decision Sarif made for him, and Adam had swiftly started using the non-lethal ammo. There are hints of metal at his hips, and his feet are black and gold Sarif, too. There must be barely any of him left.

Frank should have asked. There was a time to ask. It's probably long-gone by now, and the SI offices are shuttered and dead.

He hides it all away, of course. It’s not the point. A job is a job. “Jensen.”

(He’ll ask, after this. Hunt through the files, pull up the employee contract again... It’s not like he has a lack of time on his hands. But not today.)

“Pritchard.” It’s said flatly, and Jensen nearly downs the whiskey. “I thought I told you never to ping my location again.”

This… This, Frank can do.

Asshole, he thinks. But this time, again, it has just a hint too much fondness in it.

[trashboatprince]

Time for another one-shot of Beast Bendy’s time in the studio as a little toon.

Dober, if you want me to change anything, let me know, I’m just going with my own headcanon on Bendy’s creation from the Ink Machine for this.

On with the fic!

--

Thomas Conner never expected that when he was hired by Joey Drew to work on installing things, that he’d eventually find himself involved in creating life through machinery and animation and not in the way it was done upstairs.

Months and thousands of dollars went into rebuilding the inside of the studio. Parts were left the same, but many others were completely rebuilt from scratch. Upstairs, in an area once used for offices, had been converted into a whole new room for a big project, the Ink Machine, designed by Wally Franks. However, the one that stood before Thomas now was the prototype, the one that he had designed with Joey and Wally, to show GENT what it was that they were investing in and having sponsorship with.

The machine was meant to produce more and more ink, enough for the animators to use for years to come without ever spending a dime to any ink-producing companies. It was obviously a huge expense to save a couple hundred bucks, that’s what Tom thought, until Joey began explaining more and more of what else it was going to do.

‘Bring life to the cartoons’, he had happily announced when the mechanic asked about any other purposes for the Ink Machine.

Don’t animators do that already? With all those drawings and music and stuff?

Nope, no, no, no! Joey had shook his head, getting too close to Thomas, as he loudly informed him that he was literally going to bring life to the cartoons.

Thomas left and came back a week later because the higher ups forced him to come back to the crazy man and his little studio.

If it wasn’t for the pretty girl who worked in the sound department, Thomas wouldn’t bother dealing with listening to Joey’s plans and ideas for using magic and shit to make cartoon characters into living beings. That lovely angel kept him from also strangling Drew.

Oh Allison, you are a saving grace...

The man stared at the machine in front of him. This wasn’t going to work, this was completely stupid and pointless. He looked over at Wally, who looked nervous as he fumbled with the controls of the machine. The studio’s man projectionist, Norman Polk, stood nearby, holding a tin with a cartoon reel inside of it.

“Where’s Drew?” Thomas asked, crossing his arms.

“He said he couldn’t come for the tests, remember? He has that week-long trip he’s on, so we’re just gonna have to do it all ourselves. Says he trusts us completely.” Wally grunted as he tried to turn a loose bolt on the machine, gotta make sure it doesn’t explode on them.

“I doubt it’s gonna work,” Norman sighed, drumming his fingers on the tin, “but if Mr. Drew thinks it’ll make any sort of progress... can’t help but to try it, ya know?”

Thomas scoffed, looking around the room. There had been ink-painted circles and symbols all over, including on the floor, under the nozzle of the machine. The air was freezing inside the room, and the lights were terribly dim, poor Wally had to hold a flashlight in his mouth as he worked.

The information that Joey had given them over the month since the machine’s completion was basically summed up as ‘put the reel into the machine, speak the incantation, and let the ink flow’.

Sounded simple enough, but this was nonsense. Whatever, as Wally puts it, Joey signs the checks, might as well do this to humor him. He glanced at the doorway, knowing that upstairs was the offering room, set up with what Joey claimed as ‘gifts to the gods’ for this project. Thomas was surprised that they weren’t using the big Ink Machine that Wally had designed, but then again, gotta try the prototype first. Plus, the new machine was still in construction, can’t use it if it wasn’t fully up to speed. 

The switch in the offering room, once the break room, had been flipped already, the pipes were flowing with ink and they were gonna back up and explode if Franks didn’t finish!

“Done!” Wally grinned, stepping back. “Now for da reel, Mista Polk!” He held out a hand and Norman rolled his eyes, giving it to Wally, telling the janitor to be careful.

From what Tom knew, the cartoon was the very first one that was distributed to the public, The Dancing Demon. He had only seen it once, when he got stuck watching it in the theater room with some of the other employees. It was simple, just that Bendy character, dancing to a song, before the tune changes and he just goes nuts with his dancing, only to get pulled off the stage by a cane.

Well, almost gets pulled off. His head is taken away, but his body remains and happily continues to dance.

It was dumb and silly, but people like it, and it’s the movie that Joey insisted be used. Though, there was a bitter tone to his voice when he said that it had to be that one, it had some guy name Henry involved with it. A bit of asking around and Tom found out that Henry was the original animator for the studio and co-founder, lucky bastard escaped this place when he had the chance.

He watched as Wally inserted the reel into the machine, looking at the giant ink tank with a nervous glance. “Here goes nothin’...” He threw the switch and the machine came to life.

It loudly banged around, nearly pulling the bolts that kept it down out of the floor. Ink splattered everywhere and the three men has to hold up their arms to keep the ink from getting on them.

“Time to recite that bullshit!” Thomas shouted over the loud noises.

The words Joey made them memorize was complete nonsense to the mechanic, but he figured it was probably Latin or Aramaic, at least from what Norman figured. It made no sense to him and he didn’t want to know what he was saying loudly over the sounds of the Ink Machine.

The markings around them started to glow faintly yellow, the color spreading out onto the walls and floor as they continued to speak. The machine stopped spraying ink as something seemed to be wedged in the faucet, trying to come out.

Whatever it was, it was trying to force itself out.

Running over, Thomas grabbed onto the wet, solid lump of ink without thinking. He pulled hard on it, hearing it come out with a cartoony-pop sound, ink spraying out once more as he landed on his back, a weight dropped on him hard and knocked the air outta of him.

He coughed and shoved whatever was on him off, hearing it splat next to him as the machine was shut off by Wally. “Conner! Are you alright?” Norman asked as he approached.

“Fine, uhg.” Thomas coughed, sitting up to rub at the ink on his face. He stopped when he noticed movement out of the corner of his eye, nearly jumping when the lump he had pulled out started to rise up.

The three men watched in horror as the object rose, it was rather tall, and ink was shifting about on it. A lump formed, almost like a head, where strange horn-like appendages grew from it. A blob of ink dropped from the ‘head’ and the three stared at the white, toothy smile that showed.

Tom was suddenly yanked back, pulled away from the smiling mass and the circle he had fallen in.

The mass wiggled and tried to move towards them, two bumps come from what could be its shoulders. They flailed, spraying bits of ink about, as it tried to follow them. Then it dropped forward, face-first into the floor.

“... Is it dead?” Wally whispered, gripping Thomas’ shoulders tightly.

A strange, high pitched squeal came from the thing, making them all shout in alarm. They watched as it curled in on itself as the circle started to glow brighter than before and Thomas was blinded for a moment.

The light faded, and the room was plunged in sudden darkness as the power went out throughout the studio. They were left alone in pitch blackness with a creature they created.

There was a clicking sound, and a light turned on, Norman had found the flashlight Wally had used. He pointed it at the blob, only for them to see that it was gone.

“Oh shit, oh shit...” Wally wheezed out.

“Where did dat thing go?” Norman moved the light about, trying to find it.

Thomas watched as the light’s beam moved about, before he spotted something. He stood up quickly, taking the flashlight from Norman, and pointed it at the Ink Machine. “Found it.”

There was a bit of solid black, and solid white, peeking out from behind the machine. What looked like fingers in white gloves gripped the side of the machine, and a black and white face that was way too familiar to the mechanic was looking at them in fear.

“Sweet mother o’ Mary, we made Bendy a livin’ toon.” Norman said from behind Thomas. “Dat crazy ol’ Mr. Drew was right.” “You gotta be kiddin’ me!” Wally exclaimed loudly, making Bendy hide from the shout. Thomas turned, glaring at the shorter man, before approaching the Ink Machine.

He knelt down, seeing that Bendy, if that was really him, had pressed himself against the wall, unsure of where to go or what to do.

It was amazing, he looked exactly like the cartoon character, just completely solid and alive. He looked so small and scared as he looked at Thomas with large, soulless, black eyes.

Soulless... that’s one way of putting this. There was something so strange about him, he looked just like the character, seemed to register fear and curiosity as he looked at the flashlight and at Thomas, but... he gave off an air that didn’t sit right with the man.

Then again, he was made through demonic magic, a cartoon, and ink, so there was obviously gonna be something so otherworldly of this guy.

With a heavy sigh, he held out a hand. “Come on, kid, let’s get ya outta here.”

Bendy looked at the offered hand before carefully touching it, just as the lights started to come back on. “Do we tell Joey about this?” Thomas heard Wally say as he picked up Bendy.

“Let’s see if the kid lives, who knows how stable he is with that prototype we designed. It was only meant for making ink, not creating life like this.”

“Joey’s still gonna wanna know.” Norman frowned.

“I’ll tell him when he gets back, I’ll even write down everything that happened, I’ve got this.” Thomas replied as he walked past, heading to get back upstairs and out of that room. He had taken noticed that when the lights turned on, the walls were stained a sepia tone of yellow, he hoped that it didn’t cause any problems, nor did he want to hear any complaints from Sammy if those stains got down to the music department on the floor below.

He’d deal with all of the clean up late, right now, he needed to deal with the little cartoon he had helped in creating.

He hoped this didn’t come back to haunt him.

--

The room this took place in is the room where Henry collapsed at the end of chapter one)

[purkinje-effect]

The Anatomy of Melancholy, 48

Table of Contents. Second Instar, Chapter 15. Go to previous. Go to next. TW: frank discussion of human experimentation. There’s two ways to dehumanize someone: tear them down or put them on a pedestal.

_____________________________

“Thank you again for the meals,” ‘Choly told Ick the next morning. “And the use of your vehicle. And your help. And, well. Everything.”

“Just sad I can’t drive ya right back to the base an’ drop you off,” the mummy Furrier replied as he stacked up the bowls by his wash basin. “Straight shot down cuts right through where you say the Rust Devils set up house. Mmm, though. The route to and fro will be clear soon enough. And then. Then the Riverhawk can take you both ways whenever you like.”

“Will that ever include a route down Pawtucket Boulevard?” Sticks thought aloud with whimsy.

“Wouldn’t have to worry ‘bout that, if you’d just move to Voire,” Ick started again, unable to resist the bait.

“We... really have to get going, Mister Ick,” ‘Choly interrupted, pulling Sticks toward the opening of the Furrier’s house. “The sooner we get back to Deenwood, the sooner we can return.”

The ghoul and old man both exchanged an endeared laugh as they were separated once again. Outside, ‘Choly mounted Angel, and they were on their way to retrace the path back to the military base. Even with the visor cutting the glare of the morning sun, ‘Choly could recognize the difference between his default physiology and how he’d felt on a heavy dose of Day Tripper. It wasn’t a painkiller, but hell if it hadn’t distracted him from his pain and exhaustion. He did his best not to complain of his stiffness, not to risk sounding ungrateful for Ick’s rather lavish amenities.

Once they had crossed out of Downtown back onto Pawtucket Boulevard, ‘Choly cleared his throat.

“Can I ask you something?”

“I don’t think I could keep you from asking things,” Sticks replied, surveying for crabs. “You’re like a little kid seeing the world for the first time.”

He paused to re-steel himself.

“We weren’t together, before... were we?”

The ghoul scoffed a laugh, only to sober and straighten his gait.

“Oh. You were serious. Uh.” Sticks whet his lips, and chewed at them. “I wouldn’t have even given it half a thought back in the day. I’ll admit, I’ve been a lot more open minded as of late. Supposing I can owe that to being a bit lonely, but it’s not like I’ve done much in terms of remedying that. I... I don’t know.” He tossed a glance to the chemist riding a Handy, but kept his eyes on the road. “What, did you think of me like that before I, y’know?”

“My memory isn’t working like it should.” ‘Choly choked up on his deep flush. “I think it’s what was damaged worst by being frozen. Regardless, if I did like you before, I... hhhH-I think I really like you now.”

When Sticks stopped in place, ‘Choly thought at first he’d spotted a threat. But when Angel continued on ahead of him, he stopped the Handy and turned to look at the ghoul.

“Tch. Don’t know why I’m even surprised. You’d watch monster movies and then take a thirty minute shower after. Guess I’m still all looks and no substance.”

“--Oh hhh h-all the substances,” the chemist blurted out, only to smear his face in stupidity. “That’s not what I--”

Sticks pressed onward again with a frown, and ‘Choly and Angel followed.

“I can’t handle this right now. I’m still adjusting to learning a day ago that you’re even alive. I feel like we’ve both got a lot to work through here. Give me a minute. I’ve got to grab some shit.”

“...That’s not a no.”

“--Mister Carey,” Angel scolded, stopping far back a ways to separate the two, while the ghoul went inside the restaurant at the Sampas Pavilion.

At a distance, the chemist could tell the ghoul had gestured around the front door not unlike some kind of secret handshake. He thought perhaps it had been him gesticulating while he spoke to himself, but a few minutes after he’d vanished inside ‘Choly understood it to have been disarming a handcrafted home security system of sorts. Recalling that Sticks had done the same upon their departure affirmed his presumptions.

‘Choly dismounted Angel and took to his cane, to get out of the street. The pavilion itself lay across the road from the restaurant, a slab of concrete with four latticed metal pillars connected at the top. He stood in the center of it, and stared up into the metal work. Nearly ladder-like, he thought. He tried to remember what the phrase Jacob’s ladder meant, but Sticks approached him now toting a satchel, and the deliberation sublimated.

Meeting no resistance, they went the rest of the way down to the base in silence. ‘Choly took Sticks in the West entrance, to avoid Rust Devil activity. The biometric scanners seemed to have the ghoul on file from previous visits to the base, and didn’t object to him. The same Mister Gutsy met them once they passed the first boom barrier.

“Captain Carey, you’re late again. The General was starting to worry the enemy had gotten you. I see you’ve brought the entrepreneur Sticks with you. Explains why you were waylaid. The General has indicated he cannot be permitted on premises without escort. Do not let him out of your immediate company.”

“So good to see you, too,” the ghoul shrugged off.

“I don’t intend to take my eyes off him,” ‘Choly insisted, watching as Sticks took the lead of even Green Seven to meet General Francis. He bit at his lip when he realized how it must have sounded, but said nothing further.

Sticks opened the General’s office door to let them all in, and he waved enthusiastically to find she had her Assaultron with her.

“Oh, Helen. It’s so wonderful to see you,” he greeted with lyric. “How are the kids?”

“I am inorganic and Olivia is sterile,” the robot replied. “In the possibility you are suggesting that her supervision and maintenance of the base’s robotics redefines them as her adoptive children, they are exceptionally lethal and high-functioning as usual. Thank you.”

Once the office had shut again, Olivia marinated on the cold shoulder, and undesired company, only to warm into a chuckle.

“Good morning,” she grinned. “Considering you survived the trip, I’m to expect you have good news.”

“The Furriers agreed to help,” ‘Choly blurted out. He bit his tongue, not to lash out at knowing she’d drugged him before.

She clasped her hands together in a stiff pleasantry, knowing exactly why Sticks had come. The ghouls made eye contact, but said nothing to one another. She knew better than to pour any of them a drink.

“For your trouble, I believe a promotion is in order.” She stood. “How does... Colonel Carey sound? It’s only right.”

Thrown for a loop, ‘Choly had to process the proposition for a moment. When she gave him a persuasive grin and a murmur, he scrunched his face up in cognizance of the ramifications of the title.

“I’ll bite.” He sat to ease his posture and smooth his confidence. “Funny you mention it. MKExcell would be to my pay grade, then, wouldn’t it? The sachem agreed because Sticks promised the Furriers a hundred units of X-Cell. Love to know how they’ve managed to form such an unrepentant habit for a confidential chem.”

Her face slacked, and she crossed her arms behind her back to pace. Sticks made himself comfortable leaning in the far corner behind the door.

“You’re a few centuries behind in debriefing. It’s not necessarily on topic, but I suppose I can catch you up, since the other day a history lesson sounded like why you came to Deenwood in the first place.” She glanced over to Sticks, who neither budged nor seemed to care. “What the Furriers want is called X-Cell-Root. It’s the earliest and least stable test formulation of X-Cell.” She paused only a moment to make eye contact with ‘Choly again. “Are you sure I couldn’t interest you in a drink?”

“Just tell him why I have to play your middle man,” Sticks snipped. “Better from your mouth than mine.”

Any composure she had crumbled apart like a fallen cake. She poured herself a drink, and sat to keep herself from pacing.

“MKExcell... subsisted of ten branches of research. The results of seven of them went toward formulating what is now known as X-Cell. The next step was to refine and perfect the performance chem. During the war effort, there were many fields of study as to how to create the perfect soldier. There... was also talk of creating the opposite: a chem which could weaken opposition without lethal intent. X-Cell-Root exited prototype phase about two years before the new world order began. X-Cell circulated on the black market for a good bit until its high addiction rate began to indicate that even spaced out usage bioaccumulated the compounds in the user. Withdrawals effectively disintegrate the user’s immune system, and eventually begin deteriorating all sugar compounds in the body.

“...And that’s where you come in, Melancholy. Like I’ve said, I’ve read up on all the DIA documents on base, and I’ll admit I brushed up on you once you arrived. The Psycho branch of research was one of the three that didn’t actively contribute to the formulation of X-Cell, but you did good work. Good, loyal work. You wanted to know what your return to active duty would have entailed? They wanted you to work on phase two of MKExcell--MKExceed.”

‘Choly’s face drooped in stupor, but she rattled on undeterred.

“As I’ve told you, I was already on base working on the project when the nuclear exchange transpired, and I continued my research despite the apocalypse. X-Seed remained lethal for years. I ran out of test subjects, and worked with what I had on hand, collecting ferals and raiders alike. I extended the offer for voluntary testing to the locals--the Furriers--in exchange for weapons and first aid provisions. All they ever want these days is chems.”

“--I’m sorry, but I don’t understand.” ‘Choly rubbed at his head in exasperation, being given on a silver platter what he had sought. “The Furriers all but told me outright that they’re descendants of enlisted soldiers dispossessed from Deenwood.” She sighed and shoved an anxious smile behind another sip of liquor, but he didn’t stop there. “If Deenwood’s casualties were, from the sound of it, at a consequence of chem testing, not radiation, then how did you become a ghoul?”

Sticks couldn’t contain a sarcastic snort, only to hold up his hands when she glared his way.

“I... was not forthwith regarding on base survivors. Confidentiality of MKExceed, you know.” Olivia softened. “The original drive to continue the MKExceed project was the hope that it might provide a... cure. I was exposed to an X-Seed formulation that instigated an acute onset of cancer. Using several Fusion Cores, I rigged a way to give myself radiation treatments. I’ve never said I had the strongest command of radiology.” A taut self-conscious smile pulled her into herself like a drawstring. “At least it’s bought me all the time in the world to continue my research. I’ve managed to formulate an X-Seed that doesn’t mutilate those exposed to it. And while I've also successfully created a stable formula of X-Cell without addiction rates, I haven’t yet ironed out the hefty side effects of withdrawal symptoms that come with X-Seed. You might find some legitimate benefit in X-Cell-Squared, all things considered.”

She reached into her desk to produce an inhaler with four ridged ampuoles jutting back from the actuator and perpendicular to one another. When she set it in front of ‘Choly, he gawked at it, then around the room for advice. Angel said nothing. Sticks shrugged. Olivia’s enthusiasm only increased. He inhaled sharply and accepted it.

“I’ll have to think about taking it. In private.”

“Quite fine. First one’s on me.” She unclenched when he pocketed it. “It will take me about a day to synthesize the amount of chem the Furriers are requesting. The three of you are to stay on base until I can send you on your way with it. Keep Sticks in check, won’t you, Colonel?”

“What, you don’t trust me?” Sticks muttered playfully, falling in line and more than ready to get out of the same room with her.

“Old habits die hard,” she replied as they left.

“Don’t they ever,” ‘Choly sighed under his breath.

Go to Next »»»

[finding-jericho-blog]

I’m Still Me

characters: Connor (dbh) x OC (Ollie), others play a minor role.

warning(s): Angst, injury, character death... and then some comfort and fluff

word count: 2,447 words

A/N: @deviantramblings and I were talking the other day about this idea and I told her not to touch it and this is why! Sorry I got a little carried away, I think it’s just my personality at this point. >_>

Can I have Bree back now???? :D Ollie belongs to Lauren! I just puppeteer her when I get the chance. <3

It was over; after all this time, all of the desperate fighting and the fear that they would never make it out of this in one piece, they were finally at the end of it all. Together, they had won the freedom of the androids, and Ollie watched the snow fall around them with a brimming sense of pride. Not pride for what she had done; in her opinion, what she had done was very little in the grand scheme of things, but she was.. proud of them. Proud of the androids for reaching out and taking the freedom she knew they deserved, proud of Markus for having the tenacity to lead them.. and proud of Connor, for choosing for himself who he wanted to be.

Bree stood at Markus’ side, and even as Markus addressed his people, his hand rested at the small of her back; the small gesture was enough to make Ollie smile fondly to herself. They were so in love. Of course, she had known that when she had first met Bree; the way she had talked about him with stars in her eyes, and the absolutely vicious desperation in which he had fought to reach her and rescue her from the hands of their enemies. They were perfect for each other, and merely thinking about the way they loved one another prompted Ollie to peer up towards the android at her side that she, herself, had fallen so deeply in love with.

When her amber eyes flitted over to Connor’s features, she was surprised to find that his eyes were already on her, a small smile gracing the corners of his lips in a way that never failed to make her heart race; her face, suddenly too hot, and the sudden spike in her heart-rate must have revealed her embarrassment, because his smile widened just a fraction as he reached for her hand, intertwining their fingers together and giving a gentle squeeze; a silent ‘I love you’. Pursing her lips in some attempt to suppress the full blown grin threatening to overtake her features, the ginger turned back to the crowd, her eyes flitting across the seemingly endless sea of androids, all listening with rapt attention as Markus spoke to them, telling them that it was time for them that the time had come to let the humans know who they really were.

A sudden tightening of Connor’s hand around hers prompted her to glance up at him once more, but he.. wasn’t looking at her. His attention was trained straight ahead of him, but he wasn’t really looking at anything in particular. Brows knitting together in concern, Ollie tried to slip her hand out of Connor’s grip, but it held steadfast, and.. it kind of hurt, to be frank. A wave of fear washed over her as she attempted to discretely draw his attention. “Connor,” she whispered breathlessly. “is everything okay?”

There was no response.

Markus called for a future based on tolerance and respect, and no sooner had the words had left his lips, the gun she hadn’t even realized that Connor even had was lifted, the barrel pointed directly at the back of Markus’ cranium. And Ollie, frozen in her shock, wasn’t the only one to notice; North uttered Markus’ name in warning, but not soon enough.

The gunshot rang so loudly in her ears that any sound that came after it was muffled and distorted; Markus’s body fell lifelessly by the wayside, and before Bree even had a chance, a second bullet exited the chamber and she followed him to the ground, still, silent.. dead. A pool of cobalt and a pool of crimson began to form underneath them, and Ollie’s hand was suddenly released. Still in shock, Ollie crumpled to the floor, her eyes unable to tear away from the unmoving forms of her friends, even as Connor continued his onslaught; North, Simon, Josh..

Connor was dead too, wasn’t he?

How naive she had been to hope that they would finally get their happy ending. This wasn’t a fairy tale, this was a war, and it was a war that CyberLife was keen to win by any means necessary. And they had done it; what left was there to fight for, now that the figureheads of the rebellion were all dead? What hope could any of them possibly have to fight against the perfect machine that CyberLife had created, when he had so effortless wiped out their entire leadership in one fell swoop? Ollie knew she had no hope in hell; she had been helpless to him from the moment they had met.

When the shock of it all had finally wore off, if only just a little, her russet eyes slowly drifted up the form of CyberLife’s most perfect prototype to find that his eyes were already on her. But they were cold, and dark, and held not an ounce of the light and love that she once found there; he was a hollow shell, an empty vessel possessed by his creators.

What a cruel thing to do, Ollie thought, staring down the barrel of the gun. to cloak death itself in such a sweet looking face.

The final gunshot startled her awake, so much so that she shot upwards with a horrified shriek, and quite nearly banged her head against Connor’s, who had been leaning over her with an expression of absolute terror, his LED circling a bright, crimson red. “Ollie!” He reached out for her, and was startled when she smacked his hands away with a cry of fear and scrambled sideways, off the edge of the bed. She hit the floor with an audible gasp, clambering backwards when Connor followed after her, and held her hands out when her back met the wall of their bedroom.

“Stay back!” she sobbed, and Connor immediately froze; his dove brown eyes were wide, unblinking as he tried to make sense of what was happening. Tears streamed hot trails down her freckled cheeks as a sob wracked her body, and Connor so desperately wanted to comfort her, to draw her up into his arms and tell her that everything was alright, but.. she told him to stay back, and if that’s what she really wanted, that’s what he would do.

Slowly, he lowered himself onto his knees, and held his hands up where she could see them. He couldn’t possibly know what she thought he was going to do, but he wanted her to see that he meant her no harm; he never meant her any harm. “Ollie..” he breathed her name once more; the tone of his voice combined with the heartbroken expression he wore seemed to draw Ollie out of whatever state of panic she had been in, realization washing over her as she came to realize… she hadn’t really just watched him murder her friends. He hadn’t just shot her. She was home, safe, and Connor was here, and he was.. himself. It’d all been a horrible, twisted nightmare conjured up by her terrified mind.

Without warning, she threw herself towards the android, quite nearly tackling him to the floor. He remained upright, however, and wrapped his arms around her without hesitation as she buried her face into the crook of his neck, sobbing so uncontrollably that he feared that if he did not calm her, she may begin hyperventilating. “It’s alright, now..” he whispered into her hair, his soft hands caressing the tense muscles of her back as she wept, soaking the collar of his shirt with salty tears. “It was just.. a bad dream, it’s over now.” He could never understand what it was like to wake up from a dream, or a nightmare for that matter. The way Ollie had described dreams to him, it was like, slipping into another reality for just a short time. Sometimes, that reality was nice, sometimes it was really strange, sometimes it was sad, and sometimes.. it was terrifying.

What had brought on this night terror? It didn’t take long for Connor to piece together what had potentially caused it; earlier that evening, he had explained what he had been too afraid to admit to her before; how CyberLife had nearly reclaimed him just moments after they had assumed their victory, how they would have had him kill Markus and everyone else had he not remembered Elijah Kamski’s warning that he always left a back door in his programming.

“I was so afraid!” Ollie sobbed into his shoulder, her voice muffled, but still crystal clear to him. Every faux muscle in his body went as still as a statue, and he wondered vaguely how he could have wrought her so much suffering when he claimed that he loved her; he had felt so much guilt about hiding what had happened from her that he finally had broken down and told her, and because of his selfish desire to ease his conscience, Ollie was plagued with terror, and it was his fault. Connor didn’t voice these concerns; instead, his jaw clenched and held her tighter, whispering comforting words to her over and over in hopes of soothing her grief. It took time, but soon, the sobs gave way to quiet hiccups and sniffles, and her body relaxed against his, molding into his chest in a way that felt too perfect, too right to have been merely happenstance that they met. The RK800 patiently waited for some sign that she was ready to talk about what had happened, and that moment came when she pulled back just a fraction so that she could see his face, her swollen lips parting to speak.

“I… I’m so sorry, Connor, I didn’t mean to-- to hit you like that…” Ollie’s voice was weak, and he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that the first thing she would do was apologize for that, even though she knew she couldn’t possibly have hurt him. Before he could inevitably tell her that it was alright, she quickly continued. “That nightmare was so.. vivid.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Connor lifted a hand, brushing away the remaining tears that still clung to her rosy cheeks with the pad of his thumb. “I should be the one apologizing. I should have never told you about what CyberLife tried to do.. It doesn’t matter what they tried to do, it failed, and I’m.. still me. I would never…”

Ollie’s amber eyes blinked a couple of times as she processed what he said; at this point, it shouldn’t come as a surprise that he was able to so easily work out what was bothering her, but it still shocked her at times when he was able to pin-point it with such ease. Sometimes, she felt that he knew her better than she even really knew herself. Shaking her head, Ollie’s hands lifted upwards to rest on either side of his face, forcing him to look at her. “Hey..” she breathed. “I don’t want you ever holding back from telling me something that’s bothering you because you think I’ll have a bad reaction.” Ollie knew her words were contrary to what had just happened; he’d told her something that had been bothering him, and.. well, she had a bad reaction. But that didn’t mean she wanted him bottling things up for fear of that. “I know… that.. you don’t want to upset me, but your own feelings and fears are just as important and valid, and I want you to be able to talk about them, even if I… overreact a little.”

“You’re not overreacting.” Connor said this firmly, his arm around her waist tightening, if only a fraction. “Your fears are valid too, Ollie. I know the implications of what I told you are disconcerting. We.. should have talked about it more, I should have put your mind at ease.. I-”

“Connor, this wasn’t your fault, you hear me?” Although her voice was still gentle, she, too, spoke with a rare firmness that demanded his attention, and she clearly had it. “Sometimes the human brain just blows things out of proportion, especially when we sleep. I know that… you’re still you.. and you would never hurt me. And that CyberLife can’t control you anymore. It was just.. a really, really bad dream.” Ollie could still see the blood pooling on the platform, red and blue alike, the cold, lifeless stare of Connor as he pointed the gun at her-

His lips tenderly planting a warm kiss to her forehead drew her mind away from those dark thoughts, and she sighed in relief; her very physical reaction urged Connor to kiss her cheek next, and then her other; finally, he kissed her lips, finding his own solace in the way her heart had finally slowed to its natural pace. Ollie closed her eyes, now, and rested her forehead against Connor’s, concentrating on the way his arms felt around her, and how.. safe she felt there in his embrace; she loved him. She trusted him. And as terrifying as that nightmare had been, that’s all it had been; a nightmare.

After a moment of silence, Connor reluctantly pulled back a fraction, those umber eyes she loved so much flitting across her features. “Are you going to try and go back to sleep?” He inquired gently; almost immediately, Ollie shook her head.

“No, I don’t think so. I need a little bit to.. try and get it all out of my head.” she uttered, averting her gaze somewhat sheepishly. Without another word, Connor scooped her up into his arms and stood up, prompting a pleasantly surprised squeak from the red-head as she peered up at him inquisitively.

“Then, I think I’ll make you some tea. You should put on that weird old crime comedy you and Hank like so much.”

“Excuse you,” Ollie started, pointing a finger at him in an accusatory manner, as though she were deeply offended by what he had said. “Castle is the crowning achievement of television, and you’re weird for not liking it.”

“I like that you enjoy it,” Connor replied easily, smiling down at the ginger in his arms playfully. Ollie felt her cheeks warm at this answer, and stuck her tongue out at him playfully, earning her a quick kiss on the temple as he carried her out of their bedroom; she closed her eyes and laid her head on his chest, and for a moment, she wondered how her brain could have ever imagined something so terrible happening when she felt so completely safe and adored with him. She loved him, she trusted him. And he loved her and trusted her, too.

[racingtoaredlight]

Leo Fender, Les Paul and the Birth of the Solid-Body Electric Guitar Industry

Interesting timing on a number of fronts...chiefly being that a book about this very subject is being released shortly.

Over the past few weeks, I’ve really dove into all the various design details that Leo Fender engineered in the 1950′s, and my favorite parts have been talking about the designs in a historical context.  Design features like the foam mute on the P-Bass “ashtray” that helped combat issues with primitive amplification.

And while I’ve alluded to things like “there not being third party parts manufacturers at the time,” I never really touched on the industry in general.  Given that some of what I’ve written the past few weeks might be fresh in the memory, it’s a good time to look at the two titans of the guitar world, and how things came to be.

***

The top picture is the two most famous electric guitar models ever made.  On the left, a reissue 1957 Gibson Les Paul “Goldtop.”  On the right, a reissue 1957 Fender Stratocaster.  The bottom picture is the third most famous electric guitar model, an original 1952 Fender Telecaster.

Fun exercise time...I’m going to take every guitar player I mentioned in my Greatest Guitarist Series, and mark if they primarily played one of these three models.  I’m going to strike any classical musicians, (non-fusion) jazz musicians, acoustic-primary guitarists and guitarists who made their impact before the Korean War.

Jimi Hendrix STRAT Eddie Van Halen *MODIFIED STRAT SRV STRAT Andres Segovia John McLaughlin Jimmy Page LES PAUL Eric Clapton STRAT (also played Les Pauls) David Gilmour STRAT (has played all 3) Steve Vai Danny Gatton TELE (has played all 3) Julian Bream Chet Atkins Pat Metheny Duane Allman LES PAUL  Les Paul LES PAUL Ry Cooder STRAT (has played all 3) Yngwie Malmsteen STRAT Keith Richards TELE (has played all 3) Wes Montgomery Tony Iommi BB King Charlie Christian John Petrucci Prince TELE James Hetfield John Jorgenson TELE Chuck Berry (has played Les Pauls and Teles...famous for ES-335) Robert Johnson Steve Howe  (has played Les Pauls and Teles...famous for ES-175) Joe Pass Al DiMeola LES PAUL Django Reinhardt James Burton TELE Brian May Jerry Garcia (has played Strats and Les Pauls) Paco de Lucia Paul Gilbert Eric Johnson STRAT (has played all 3) Brent Mason TELE Shawn Lane  Muddy Waters TELE Buckethead Billy Gibbons LES PAUL (also plays Teles)  Slash LES PAUL Larry Carlton (has played all 3, but his nickname was Mr. 335) Frank Zappa STRAT (has also played Les Pauls) Christopher Parkening Marty Friedman Robben Ford TELE (has played all 3) Jeff Beck STRAT (has played all 3) Buddy Guy STRAT Lowell George STRAT Mark Knopfler STRAT (has played all 3) Ritchie Blackmore STRAT Elmore James LES PAUL John Lee Hooker Joe Satriani Woody Guthrie Hank Marvin STRAT Kirk Hammett Dimebag Darrell Jerry Reed TELE

That is a decent representative list of great guitar players, and those three models...the Fender Telecaster, Stratocaster and the Gibson Les Paul...account for the easy majority.  And even if a guitarist wasn’t known for one, they likely recorded with one at some point in their careers.

It’s easy to know where to attribute Fender’s success...Leo Fender was an engineering genius.  Gibson, however, had an established reputation long before they ventured into the solid-body world...but they wouldn’t have made that transition if not for Les Paul.

***

The State of Things Today

Before we get into the feud, it’s probably a good idea to get to know where each of these two companies are today.  The companies we’re going to talk about in 1952 bear little resemblance to each in the modern era, having both been passed from numerous ownership groups.

I’ve talked a lot about Leo Fender’s ouster at the hands of CBS...which led to the company’s darkest period which took more than a decade to dig out of.  CBS themselves were ousted by a group of Fender employees in 1985, and the company they started (they couldn’t use the original facilities) now boasts annual revenues well over $500 million.

It’s reflected by the company’s offerings.  Never attempting to be high-end our boutique, Fender’s brilliant branding allowed them to manufacture the same instruments that Leo designed, keeping costs low and making it easy to freshen up long-standing iconic models.

Gibson on the other hand, filed for bankruptcy last year.  Long derided for resting on the laurels of their name, Gibson is another victim of predatory private equity...being used merely as a conduit to acquire more debt.  Bad news intensifies...they’re also responsible for having strict international regulation regarding the types of wood used.  Gibson got in deep doo doo for using illegally farmed woods, and varieties of woods that had been prohibited from foresting due to excessive use (Brazilian rosewood).

Their offerings were staid and stale.  Any new innovations were seen by the guitar market as clumsy and hideous.  And, making things worse, the nature of their guitars’ construction is much more expensive and labor-intensive than Fender’s ever could be.

Fender will live to see the next 50 years.  Gibson likely will not...certainly not under this ownership group.

***

This is Les Paul holding his prototype solid-bodied electric guitar, nicknamed “The Log.”  Yes, it looks ridiculous.  No, another solid-bodied electric guitar did not exist at the time.

Les Paul had a longstanding relationship with Gibson.  Gibson was good to him.  Being a jazz guitarist, the whole Gibson lineup was perfect for Les, and they gave him ample ear to chew with all his (at the time) crazy ideas.  It was a great partnership.

Me being a Fender fanboy and my comments regarding their business should by no means suggest that I’m not a fan of Gibson guitars.  I absolutely love them, especially the Les Paul model.  They feel like the guitar version of driving a Cadillac...smooth, comfortable, refined, classy.

But, like I said above, Gibson was a long established company even in the late 1940′s.  They didn’t make gimmicks.  They made works of art out of the finest woods that produced these beautiful, natural, organic tones.  Even their electric hollow-body models replicated an acoustic tone as close as possible.  Philosophically, it was going to take something major to get Gibson to budge.

"If you don't do something, Fender is going to rule the world."

-Les Paul

***

When Les Paul received Leo Fender’s prototype in 1951, he knew what it meant.

Sure, it was a gift in the sense that Leo Fender wanted him to have that instrument, but it wasn’t just an instrument, it was an overture.  Gibson was a guitar behemoth that dominated an industry that was teetering on the edge of being revolutionized.  Fender was that metaphorical disruptor.  Both were already well aware of each other.

Fender wanted Les Paul on board, plain and simple.  They were hardly even a real company at that point, and getting someone of Les Paul’s status on their roster would be a coup of epic proportions.  From a marketing and branding perspective, Les Paul was a guitarist that could’ve established their brand before they even released a product catalog.

But that wasn’t it.

Les Paul’s reputation for having prototype solid-bodied guitars had created waves.  He was a recording maven, had a giant audience, and whether Gibson wanted him to or not, exposed people to the sounds possible with a solid-bodied guitar.  Leo Fender wasn’t a musician, but he was making the same type of noise within in the industry.

Fender sent out one of his right-hand men who reported back to him on the gift-giving.  That dude thought Les Paul was kind of an egotistical dude and didn’t think much of it.  Les Paul himself actually did like the instrument a lot...a huge amount given what he said to Gibson execs...and as the two guys who were leading the solid-bodied guitar revolution, there was equal parts kinship and rivalry.

*Les Paul with Leo Fender’s gift...a 1951 “Nocaster”...called that because Fender hadn’t come up with the name Telecaster yet, and there was no model under the Fender logo.

I don’t think it needs to be said that Les Paul ended up staying at Gibson.

***

In 1952, Gibson released their first solid-bodied model that had Les Paul’s name on it.  It would define their company.  Also in 1952, Leo Fender released the Telecaster (and Precision Bass), the genesis of the company that would grow into the largest guitar manufacturer in the world.

The sheer amount of music that’s been recorded using Les Pauls and Telecasters (as well as the Strat) is simply mind-boggling.  It’s almost impossible to quantify.

While the electric guitar industry might be well past the point of peaking, they’re still a major part of American culture.  Something that’s come to define us internationally as much as baseball or apple pie.  And it’s these three models from Fender and Gibson that so many people are able to instantly identify, that have recorded so much iconic music, that will live on well into the future like a Stradivarius violin or Steinway piano.

And for a brief period in the early 1950′s, it almost came to be that the two most prominent figures in the modern electric guitar world joined forces.  Almost.  It’s a shame they didn’t...might have been a good thing, given that each was given full creative control without the other’s presence...but the modern musical world was largely impacted by these two guys tinkering around in their basements.

It’s a cool story and easy to let your imagination run wild about what they could have done together.

[victory-of-the-people-hl]

Dr. Green read the sign before the elevator.

“Section A-17 Prototype Labs, this must be the place.”

“And it seems someone else went through here,” Gina replied, with a twinge of anxiety. They had already been through so much. They could handle whatever might lie in some rusty old lab, surely.

They continued into the elevator and proceeded downward, the elevator making a horrible lurching noise and sounding like it was getting ready to collapse on the way down. It would never get a chance to do so, however.

“You really think those ninja looking fucks could find a way to blow up the whole facility?” Colette tried to be hopeful, but she knew what they had to do.

“With the amount of explosives stored here, one stray bullet could do that job,” the response was slightly sarcastic, but also had a twinge of dread in it. 

The noise of the struggling lift was the only sound the rest of the way down as the words sank in for both of them. They knew they had to evacuate. They knew how they would do it. And yet it still didn’t feel real.

The doors shuttered open, and Gina readied her shotgun for anything nasty beyond them while Colette held her revolver at the ready. They gave way to a run-down old lab that had strangely been recently used.

“We’re in luck,” Gina inspected the door access system, “the last person to use it didn’t sign out of the system. Looks like Dr. Rosenberg got out alright.”

“Glad to hear it, but let’s worry about our own asses,” Colette retorted, thinking bitterly about the now well spoiled plans they had to celebrate that night after the experiment.

The pair continued into the lab, guns at the ready.

"Kukurku,” the alien phrase came from around the corner.

“These bastards again,” Colette whispered to Gina, recognizing the distinct sounds of their voices.

“Just when we thought we’d seen the ugliest of it.”

Gina ran in first with her shotgun readied, finding three Shock Troopers inspecting some ancient teleportation equipment. She got the drop on one and quickly turned its back into a hole with a double barreled blast from her spas-12. Colette quickly flanked in behind, firing at a second with her revolver, which held its Shock Roach in front of itself, lessening the velocity of the impact, but leaving it bare handed. The beast knocked the gun out of her hand and grabbed hold of Colette.

“Could use a hand here,” Colette called out while pulling out a pistol.

Gina, busy taking on the remaining alien, tossed her own pistol to Colette, who quickly pumped 34 rounds into the alien’s skull with a gun in each hand. Colette pushed off the now very dead creature and came in with her crowbar to finish off the remaining one that Gina was battling.

“Getting real tired of this, think we can reach somewhere safe and quiet with this old hunk of junk?” Colette asked hopefully.

Gina wiped the sweat from her brow, “Anywhere not here would be nice, to be frank.”

Colette reloaded both pistols and readied her shotgun, keeping guard while Gina tried to figure out how to work the device from some poorly written notes Dr. Rosenberg had left for himself. There was a distant, but extremely loud blast, followed by another.

“Shit-” Colette stepped back, closer to the teleporter.

“Alright, this isn’t ideal, but I don’t have time for anything better, especially when we’re going both at once. This machine isn’t even made for that,” Gina pressed a button and initiated the power-up sequence.

“Heh, you’ll be lucky if you get my beautiful face,” Colette said sarcastically in a vain attempt to lighten the mood. 

The loud droning of the charging sequence was blocked out by the rumbling and explosions growing closer and louder overhead.

“Alright, move!” Gina shouted as the portal flickered open.

The two dashed inside as the lab collapsed.

“Fuck, I think ‘not ideal’ is a bit of an understatement,” Colette said, as the pair found themselves on an island of god-knows-what floating in the void of the border world.

[xoxoladyclara]

“Valkyrie Rising”, on AO3 now!

Hello Tumblr! I’m so excited to share with you the first chapter of my newest fic series, “Valkyrie Rising”, an MCU/DCEU crossover fic. I’m posting the text of the first chapter here, as well as the link to the story on AO3! Make sure to swing by to check out the other two chapters I have published so far, the author’s note, and to get notifications of when new chapters are posted. I’m super excited about this one, and I can’t wait to share it with you!

Wayne Tech Enterprises AI manufacturing system online. System operations: 120 petabytes/sec. Project A.L.F.R.E.D., Mach 23 rendering. Estimated wait time: 134 minutes.

Barbara let out a soft groan as the time slowly ticked down on the computer screen in front of her.  She rested her head on her desk and began drumming her fingers to the beat of the system rendering beeps.

She heard her colleague/friend/former roommate Frankie chuckle from behind her computer screen. "Things going that well, huh?"

Barbara groaned again in reply.

"Come on sweetie, what's wrong?" Frankie's singsong-y voice floated back towards her.

"This program! It was perfectly fine the first time, but no! 'The voice isn't right, Barbara.' 'You need to be able to fool me AND Alfred, Barbara.' 'The A.I. needs to be fully functioning but not homicidally inclined, Barbara.' I cannot WAIT for this to be done."

"You think Mach 23 is the one?"

Barbara stood up, grabbed her empty coffee mug, and walked over to the coffee-maker in the corner of their office. With a few quick taps of her fingers, the machine roared to life, and Barbara began to tap her foot impatiently. "It better be," she muttered darkly.

"Finally!" Frankie wheeled herself away from her desk, the computer dinging its goodbye.

"You're done already?"

Frankie smiled at Barbara and shook her head. "Hey, I'm just the IT girl on hourly. I don't get paid the big bucks to move us one step closer to Skynet."

"Aww Frank, can't you stay? Don't you love me anymore?"

"And miss the Wayne Enterprises gala tonight? I love you, girl, but I love a free night on the town just as much."

Barbara sighed pitifully, but hugged her friend tight anyways. "I hope you have a great time tonight, Frankie."

Frankie released her arms from the hug and rubbed Barbara's back. "You going to be okay?"

"What? Of course!" Barbara quickly turned back towards the coffee machine and grabbed the newly filled mug of liquid energy. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Frankie looked at her sadly; Barbara ignored her, walking back to her desk. "You know, ten years ago - "

"It's in the past," Barbara answered before Frankie could finish. "Besides, what sort of mother would I be if I left my child in this time of need?"

"Well, are you sure you're fine with missing the big shindig?"

Barbara rolled her eyes, turning back towards her concerned friend. "First of all, if I never have to be on display at another Wayne function, it will be too soon. Secondly, you know my father would rather lock me in Arkham then let me go anywhere with a population exceeding ten people. And lastly, if I did get to go, I'd have to deal with a hovering dad, a pained looking boss man, and the likelihood of getting arrested for punching Dick Grayson in the face. Trust me, this is much better."

Frankie rolled her eyes, but smiled at Barbara nonetheless. "If you're sure - "

"Of course! And you need to go. Someone has to represent the best department in the building."

"Best-looking, that's for sure. Sure you won't be too freaked out all alone down here? Tessa from HR said everyone is going."

Barbara snorted "She's paid to say that. Now, get going before I forcibly eject you from my fortress of solitude!"

Frankie grinned and made her way towards the slowly opening door. "See you later, Gordon."

"Have fun! Don't do anything I wouldn't do!" Barbara called after her and grinned as Frankie returned a one-fingered salute of her own. The door, with their names emblazoned on it, followed by "Information Technology Specialists", swung shut after Frankie.

Information Technology Specialists, my ass, Barbara thought to herself. She had to give credit where credit was due, however; it was a good cover. In fact, if it hadn't been for that stupid cover, she would still be under constant surveillance at her apartment. Bruce, for all his flaws, was perhaps the best business man she knew, and he had somehow managed to convince her father that she would be totally safe working at Wayne Enterprises. Barbara would have been relieved, but she saw his intentions for what they were: a place for her to work and be of use, but as far removed from the "family" as possible. And as annoyed as it made her, she was grateful; it was better than being under house arrest at her dad's.

It hadn't always been like this. Life had been normal once. School, dinner with Dad, fighting crime, doing homework, weapons building with Bruce, etiquette lessons with Alfred – she had been normal. It all turned to shit the day she lost her legs.

Sighing, she pulled out her personal laptop, grabbed her leftovers from lunch out of the fridge, and turned her attention to the news coverage at the Wayne Enterprises Annual Gala.

"-Welcome back to our evening coverage of the Wayne Enterprises gala. My name is Lois Lane, and I am live at the largest Gotham event of the year. We just spoke to the man of the hour himself, accompanied by Diana Prince, known United Nations correspondent.

The screen flicked to an earlier interview. "Mr. Wayne, if you could remind our viewers, what is the purpose of the annual Wayne Enterprises Gala?"

Bruce shot Lois his most winning smile. "It would be my pleasure, Ms. Lane. The Wayne Enterprises Gala was created for the sole purpose of raising money to give back to the community. Gotham has had a, uh, difficult past, but I truly believe that its darkest hour has passed. The time has begun to turn Gotham back into the shining beacon of progress it once was, and you can be certain that Wayne Enterprises will be leading the charge." With a quick kiss goodbye to the camera, Bruce and Diana walked away.

Barbara snorted as she took a giant bite of her pasta. "You should change your name to Sharkbait," she muttered under her breath.

Her phone buzzed on her desk. She grabbed hold of it, shoved some more pasta in her mouth, and read the text messages as they appeared.

Barry Allen: Hey Babs! You coming tonight?

Barry Allen: I can pick you up if you'd like!

Barry Allen: Iris can't make it, so I need a date!

Barry Allen: I'll even bring you some flowers or something!

Barbara Gordon: BARRY. This isn't prom. You don't need to bring me flowers. Also, I'm not going.

Barry Allen: WHAT? WHY NOT?

Barbara Gordon: I'm working late tonight, finishing up on a project.

Barry Allen: : (

Barry Allen: All you do is work nowadays.

Barbara Gordon: Well, it's either work or house arrest.

Barry Allen: : (

Barry Allen: Still a bummer though. Everyone else is stopping by! Even Dinah and Oliver, and you know how impossible it is to have them in the same room right now.

Barbara Gordon: Are they still fighting?

Barry Allen: Dinah cut the heads off ALL of Ollie's arrows and replaced them with butt plugs.

Barbara Gordon: Damn.

Barry Allen: Tell me about it.

Barry Allen: Are you sure that project can't wait?

Barry Allen: We all really miss you!

Barbara Gordon: Hardly.

Barry Allen: They do! I miss you the most though.

Barbara Gordon: You know, you could run over here some time! It's not like you have a long commute anywhere.

Barry Allen: Are you sure you can’t come out?

Barbara Gordon: Positive.

Barry Allen: Well, let me know if you need anything. If you do, I'll be over in -

Barbara Gordon: DON'T YOU SAY IT

Barry Allen: A FLASH.

Barbara Gordon: …..

Barbara Gordon: …...

Barbara Gordon: Sometimes I hate you.

Barry Allen: : )

Barry Allen: You know you love me.

Barbara Gordon: … That I do. Have fun tonight, Allen.

Barbara smiled to herself as she grabbed hold of the pasta. Barry always, always had her back. Even considering Kara and Dinah, he was the closest friend she had. Funny, how things work like that. She never in a million years would have thought that after all this time, it would just be Barry Allen left standing. Well, Barry Allen and the ever-suffering Alfred Pennyworth, but still.

"Look who has just arrived! Ladies and gentlemen, Dick Grayson, with – can it be? Supermodel Kory Anders!"

Barbara stilled, staring at the screen, as Dick Grayson strode into view, wearing a dark purple suit, perfectly tailored to show off his assets. At his side was "Kory Anders" - Starfire's public persona – in a fitted black dress that left very little to the imagination. Her bottle-red hair hung down to her waist, the Farrah Fawcett curls taking up a decent amount of the screen.

"Mr. Grayson, great to see you!"

Dick winked at Lois. "A pleasure to see you as always, Ms. Lane."

Lois laughed brightly. "How does it feel to be the beneficiary of the Wayne legacy on nights like tonight?"

"Lois – if I may call you Lois – Bruce taking me under his wing after I lost my family was the best thing that could have ever happened to me. I am incredibly proud to be a part of his generous legacy. To be here, surrounded by all my friends and loved ones, with the most beautiful girl in the world at my side – there's nothing more I can ask for."

Lois thanked Dick and Starfire, and as they walked away she turned to face the camera. "Truly a triumphant night for Gotham's royal family - "

Barbara closed the computer window with a click. Feeling sick to her stomach, she pushed her pasta away, and breathed deeply, hoping to chase away any untoward thoughts. She suddenly heard a ding coming from her computer station.

Project A.L.F.R.E.D., Mach 23 rendered. Please insert chip before commencing download.

Barbara raced over to her station. Grabbing her prototype communicator watch, she removed the empty chip, inserted it into the docking station, and commenced the download. The watch was fairly inconspicuous; it had a pale pink leather band, a medium-sized cream-colored face, with two small gold hands that showed the time. Underneath the leather were several laced graphene threads that held the operating system dock in place under the watch face. The glass on top of the watch face was made of several layers of metallic glass, meaning it could withstand bullets and weight that was fifteen times the normal capacity of a steal beam of the same size. The A.I. chip, once inserted, could only be removed by the person who inserted it into the watch in the first place, as sort of a failsafe. It was, without a doubt, both the most expensive and impressive piece of Wayne Tech ever created.

Total program download in 3 minutes.

Barbara sighed again, watching the countdown. At this rate, she would be ahead of schedule. She might even be able to leave earlier than -

BOOM! The sound of splintering glass and crashing cement echoed throughout the corridor.

"What the - " Barbara muttered. She peered through the blinds on her office window and saw several masked men heading down the corridor, towards the sound of the explosion. The private Wayne Security detail, that usually patrolled Wayne Enterprises after hours, was nowhere to be seen.

"Shit," Barbara gasped. Whirling around, she opened up a hidden compartment of prototype guns – one of her many side projects; as long as she was incarcerated at Wayne Enterprises with total access to Bruce's credit card, she might as well have a hobby – and tapped her foot impatiently while the program finished downloading.

A.L.F.R.E.D., Mach 23, downloaded. Please insert into device for immediate testing.

Barbara grabbed the chip and stuck it into the watch. As she slid the watch onto her slender wrist, she could feel the small gears in the docking system adjusting so that the watch was snugly attached. The watch began to glow softly as the AI came online.

"Program intializing," a deep British voice said. The light on the watch face glowed with each syllable the AI spoke. "A.L.F.R.E.D. online. Who is the primary controller?"

"Barbara Gordon," she spoke slowly, still tapping her foot.

"Body scan initializing. Retinal scan initializing. All individual markers catalogued, approved and secured. Personnel file pulled. Hello, Barbara Gordon. How may I be of service?"

Barbara shoved some magazines into her pocket. "Set me as sole executor of your system and its programming, initialize all security protocols, begin downloading of Wayne Enterprises database. Sync data from my cellular device, laptop, and console to system storage."

"Yes, Ms. Gordon. All items in progress."

"Please, call me Barbara." Barbara grabbed the gun, loaded it, and moved over towards the door.

"Of course, Ms. Gordon," A.L.F.R.E.D. replied.

So far, so good on the personality front, Barbara thought as she crouched behind the door.

"Information downloaded, processed, and synced to my servers. Security protocols updated."

"Great. I need you to get an eye on the situation in the Weapons Division once you've finished."

A few seconds passed while A.L.F.R.E.D. processed the information. Still crouched behind the door, Barbara heard several more footsteps running down the hallway.

" - faster we get the load, the faster we get paid, so keep those feet moving quickly - " The voice barking out commands disappeared down the hallway, quickly drowned out by the sounds of boots slamming down on the floor.

"There has been a breach in the Weapons Division," A.L.F.R.E.D. began. "It appears that the innermost laboratory area has been compromised."

Barbara drew in a sharp breath. "Why? And how?"

"My scans of Mr. Wayne's messages to Mr. Pennyworth indicate some sort of alien byproduct was delivered this morning to Wayne Enterprises. I would assume that is the cause of this commotion. As to the who, I am scanning the security footage as we speak and running all faces through the Gotham City Police Department database."

"SHIT. What was Bruce thinking, bringing something like that here?"

"I have identified some of the intruders, Ms. Gordon. Frank Legetti, former SEAL, wanted for illegal weapons racketeering on the black market. Clyde and Wilson Marchette, thugs-for-hire, recently paroled. There are several other men in masks that appear to be guns for hire. However, I believe I have identified the leader."

Barbara nodded, beginning to brace herself for a fight. "Lay it on me."

"A Jerome Napier, convicted felon, who recently escaped from Arkham Asylum."

The blood drained from Barbara's face. "It can't be."

"I'm afraid so, Ms. Gordon. The Joker is in the building."

Check out the rest of the story on AO3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12645348/chapters/28816497