#not how i intended to try my hand at writing em and jess but here we are i guess?

[love-fireflysong]

Day 1: Rainbow

Fandom: Until Dawn Character(s): Emily Davis, though all the others are mentioned. Words: 1058 Rating: T (Character death, swearing) Author’s Notes: Welp, I honestly didn’t intend to even write anything for this writing challenge but here we are! I decided it would be fun to just see what ideas came to mind from one or two of the prompts has a joke, and thought it would be hilarious to give Rainbows to Emily of all people. And well, that was my first mistake clearly. You can find the original post here for any others that want to try!

I will not tolerate any Emily hate. She may not be my fav character in the game, but I still love her a lot and having a gun shoved in your face would mess anyone up.

Personally, Emily had never been a huge fan of rainbows. It wasn’t that she hated them per say, she had just always been indifferent to them. There were far more exciting things out there than looking at a spectrum of light that didn’t actually exist cause it was just light that reflected off of water droplets that sometimes appeared in the sky after rain.

None of which was helping her as she glared at the mug of coffee that one of the officers at the police station had given her.The chintzy rainbow adorning the one side was way too cheerful and uplifting for the shit she had endured and somehow survived. Jess had once told her that rainbows were supposed to be a symbol of hope or promise or of good things to come. If so, then they were pretty shitty symbols in her opinion. Nothing that had just happened at been any of those things.

(Unlike her, Jess loved rainbows. Her blue eyes would always brighten up when one appeared in the sky after a rain shower. She would squeal in childlike joy when she watched the colors dance across her hand when cast through a window.

She didn't want to think about Jess.)

She took a drink and grimaced at both the taste and texture. The coffee was more like black sludge, thick and bitter. Em had a feeling that no amount of sugar or cream would be able to save this tar in a cup. She stopped trying to drink it. The color and consistency reminded her too much of the oil that had been everywhere in the mines, that stained her hand and clothes.

(Matt should have been in the mines with her, but he had failed to save her and fell with her when the tower finally collapsed further into the mines. And when she had woken up, leg tangled in rope and miraculously alive, he was nowhere to been seen.

She didn’t care about Matt anymore.)

She had found Beth’s head in the mines. Had found Hannah’s journal in the mines. Had been chased by that, that thing in the mines. She had barely escaped the mines with her life.

(Sam and Mike had gone down into the mines to find Josh. They never came back with him.

That was fine. She hoped he froze to death and rotted down there.)

In an effort to stop staring at the glazed image on the mug, and to stop from throwing it at the wall with a soul shattering scream, Em looked towards the officer that was standing nearby to keep an eye on her. She wasn’t too sure why, leaving the safety of the building to go outside was the absolute last thing she wanted to do with her time. But to her horror, her eyes caught on the carefully holstered pistol around their waist. The same way her eyes kept catching on it throughout her interview.

Unbidden, Mike flashed across her mind, the barrel of the gun flashing in low light of the monitors and aimed at her face.

(Mike was dead now. The sickening crack of his spine shattering as he was thrown against the pillar ensured that there was no way he would ever walk out even if the lodge hadn’t burst into flames.

She didn't feel anything when she used the commotion as a distraction to run outside.)

There had been so much screaming. Worse had been Ashley and Chris egging Mike on, adamant that Emily was going to turn into one of those things and kill them. Her hand that encircled the mug still stung from when it connected with Ash’s face, but it was a better sting then the bite on her shoulder.

(They were dead now, too. She had been running behind them, away from the wendigos chasing them down the hall, but they had been too slow. So, she had shoved Ash out of the way and into the wall. But because Chris had been holding Ashley’s hand, she hadn’t been able to brace herself and fell, taking him with her.

She wondered if they had died still holding hands. She hoped not.)

Sam had been the only one to stick up for her. Trying to convince Mike to lower the gun and for Ash and Chris to calm down. Em still thinks she should have tried harder, should have ripped the gun from Mike’s hands.

(Sam was also dead, though she didn’t see it happen. A few seconds after she had made it outside, the lodge had quite literally exploded with Sam still in it. She didn’t know if Sam had stayed behind in repentance for closing the cinema room door and locking it despite Chris and Ash still being in the hall. Didn’t know if it was Hannah or the flames that killed her in the end.

She decided that she didn’t care either way.)

The sound of the only door to the room was enough to rip her eyes away from the gun, and very nearly dropped the rainbow mug in her shock. Jess stood in the doorway, huddling deeper into a very old and worn leather jacket that Em had never seen before, and she looked like shit. Jess’s always immaculately styled hair was coming out of her braid, her make-up was running down her face, long and deep gashes covered what little of her chest Em could see beneath the jacket, and every bit of her available skin was covered in blood and dirt and gore and who knows what else.

Before she could even move though, Jess saw her and ran towards her, flinging her arms around Em’s neck with a sob and broke down. The two of them sat in the same chair, rocking each other back and forth, as they both cried and apologized and swore that they would never let a stupid guy get between them again. Slowly, the two of them calmed down; emotionally, mentally and physically exhausted and all cried out. With nothing else to do, Em offered her the mug of coffee still in her hands and watched as Jess’ baby blue eyes lit up just the smallest amount at the rainbow on the side.

(Maybe Jess had been right. Rainbows were a symbol of hope.

Not that she would ever admit it.)

[crawgluvr4]

(ao3)

it’s half one in the morning. gabriel stares intently at his work, even as the lines start to blur from exhaustion.

“c’mon, gabe,” jack whines, arms draped over gabriel’s shoulders. “you can do this tomorrow. there’s time before the party.”

gabriel sighs. “i’m nearly done.”

“you’ve been saying that for nearly two hours,” jack protests. he tightens his grip, and gabriel struggles to keep the fabric he’s sewing even. “bed time. please.”

“i can just… mist into bed, you know.” gabriel keeps a careful eye on the needle, nervous. “that’s something i can do now.”

“i don’t think sneaking into bed is the intended use of this,” and jack waves a hand, loosening his hold, “whatever it is. what if it wears off or something and you get stuck like that?”

gabriel’s nervousness spikes up. if it wears off.

“i mean i’d still love you even if you were a sentient cloud,” jack continues, oblivious. “but i think sex would be weird-”

“fuck off,” gabriel groans. he slaps at jack’s arms. “i’m not having this conversation. you’re weird and i hate you.”

“you loooove me,” jack sings, directly into his ear. 

“why is that even the first thing you think about! what the fuck. not ‘how do i keep my darling husband from blowing away in the wind’.” gabriel covers his face with his hands. “it’s ‘how will i fuck the cloud’.”

“it’s not like i went into the logistics of it!” jack is laughing against his back. “and it’s not like i wouldn’t- ugh, never mind. i’ll shut up about it if you come to bed already.”

“given your train of thought, that sounds like a proposition.” gabriel leans back, grinning. 

“i literally have to be up at seven tomorrow.”

“yeah, but i know how quick you can be.”

jack pulls gabriel’s beanie down over his eyes and leaves, grumbling. gabriel laughs so hard he ends up slumping off his chair onto the floor.

“it wasn’t even that funny!” jack insists as gabriel, eventually, comes into the bedroom, still holding his side. “you just have the sense of humour of a twelve year old.”

“you’re one to talk, cloud-fucker,” gabriel retorts, chucking his shirt at him. jack catches it and gives him a withering glare, undermined by how his lips tremble with trying not to smile.

gabriel finishes up his nightly routine and finally gets into bed. jack immediately curls up to him, wrapping his arms around gabriel’s shoulders and giving him a little kiss on his spine. gabriel can feel him smiling in the dark.

“if you cut the blood supply off to my arm,” gabriel says, “i won’t hesitate to push you off.”

“just cloud it or whatever,” jack mumbles into his neck, half asleep already.

“you’d like that, wouldn’t you.” 

jack just snorts. “love you.”

“love you too.”

--

he dreams of blowing away in the wind.

--

jack is gone when he wakes up, which is increasingly normal. life for them was never simple, but work had been a bigger burden over the past few months, and their time together was more and more centered around dinner and sleeping.

but it was nice, even then. just to relax and be human for a while, much as he could.

he ignores paperwork to finish the costumes; it takes another good hour and a half, and he begrudgingly admits to jack via text that he was right. jack texts back ‘always am ;)’ and gabriel makes a very irritated cheese sandwich.

he eventually drags himself over to the training range to go check on mccree. he had left him in charge of the recruits for the morning in order to finish sewing (and have a lie-in), and felt the urge to make sure he hadn’t burned the place down.

“howdy!” mccree greets him before the door even finishes opening, jogging on over with a have. the recruits all look nervously between him and gabriel, before mccree remembers himself. “uh, i mean, howdy… commander.”

gabriel looks at him tiredly. “report, mccree.”

one of the very new recruits looks like they’re about to pass out at their casual interaction. gabriel always loved pretending to be a serious hard-ass to new recruits at first, usually to test how they were with authority. it also made the parties blackwatch had a lot funnier for them.

“already had to send that palmer girl up to angie,” mccree sighs. “fightin’ over what target she gets to shoot at. real pain in the ass. rest of the kids here are doing fine, though.”

“some of these ‘kids’ have a decade on you, jesse.”

mccree coughs, adjusts his hat. “okay, okay, whatever. some of these respectable recruits,” and he puts on a very posh voice, “are doing absolutely wonderfully given the stressors of the situation.”

gabriel rolls his eyes. “right.” 

gabriel watches the recruits for a while as mccree goes into detail, occasionally inputting his own notes on his tablet to add to mccree’s report when it comes. assuming the cowboy hadn’t forgotten to write up the physical report, of course, but he planned to leave him to remember that on his own.

mccree shuffles closer after a while, leaning in. “did ya get the costumes finished?”

gabriel raises an eyebrow. “you think i’d be here if i hadn’t?”

“oh. right.” mccree pauses. “i just… had an idea. your mask has eye holes, right?”

“yeah.” gabriel lowers his tablet slightly. “i gotta see, jesse.”

“well i was thinkin’,” mccree gestures to him. “you can smoke up random bits of you, yeah?”

gabriel grimaces. “it’s supposed to be for combat only.”

“aw, like you haven’t used it for convenience. i know you! but that’s not the point.” mccree grins. “say you go in normally. everyone’s impressed by your craftsmanship, yeah, of course. but they’re used to it now. they all know you too well.”

gabriel frowns.

“i’m not bein’ insulting,” mccree adds hurriedly. “but it’s true.”

gabriel’s frown deepens.

“alright, alright! i’m just sayin’... the people there all know your weird cloud status.” gabriel pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to forget his conversation with jack the previous night. mccree doesn’t seem to notice. “and i think you could pass it off as clever effects if anythin’ got leaked. so just imagine bein’ dressed as sexy grim reaper-”

“it’s not sexy grim reaper, for fuck’s sake,” gabriel mumbles. “it’s tasteful and mature gothic halloween fashion.”

“the point IS if you start having smoke melt out your eyes-”

“wait, is it the boots? are heeled boots too much? christ, i’m not sure i can find flat boots in time-”

mccree elbows him. “the boots are fine, pops, i’m joking. now the smoke. think about it?”

gabriel stops thinking about how he’s going to obtain thigh high flat boots before the evening. “right. smoke. i dunno how long i can do that for, though.”

“you ain’t gotta do it for a long time,” mccree says, leaning back against the wall. “just occasionally when someone looks at you. and during the pictures.”

gabriel thinks about his dream. thinks about the deep-seated fear he’s had of himself since undergoing moira’s treatment and being able to dissolve. 

thinks about the potential look on jack’s face.

“you got a deal.” he flicks off mccree’s hat with a grin. “good idea, kid.”

--

the look on jack’s face - a mixture of fright and awe - is definitely worth it.

gabriel wins the informal costume contest, again, and donates half the winnings (a bottle of absurdly pink and sparkly gin) to mccree as thanks. reinhardt nearly passes out from fear. the rest of the party is simply good fun, and he feels a little more comfortable that the people around him don’t think him some kind of monster. outside of costume, anyway.

later, in bed, jack tipsily tells him he thinks smoky grim reaper in high heels is actually pretty hot. gabriel refuses to speak to him for a record two minutes, pillow over his face, while jack nearly cries laughing to himself.

“i’m not indulging your new cloud fetish,” gabriel says eventually, and jack wheezes into the quilt. “the rest of it i’d be happy to get to wear more often. they’ve been in my closet for years.”

“wait.” jack sits up. “in your closet? you didn’t just make that stuff?”

gabriel lifts the pillow off his face slightly. “nah, mccree asked me to make his and genji’s costumes. mine was just a well planned combination of clothes i actually own. i don’t wear ‘em much cause i don’t want the press to be weird about it.”

“oh my god,” jack groans, flopping back into the bed. “oh my god. you kept me up late like three days in a row making a ridiculous two-piece dragon cowboy costume for those two?”

“i take my work seriously, jack.”

“you skipped like four important meetings over the past month.” 

“saving the world is just a hobby,” gabriel grins. 

jack slaps the pillow back onto gabriel’s face. “you’re terrible. awful. evil. i hate you.”

“love you too, honey.”

[blackbeltkitten2ficsnships-blog]

Bad, bad Alphonse Capone (Chapter 7)

Sainte-Hélène.

Fandom/Movie/Series/Ect: Night At The Museum

Setting: Larry is still the night guard, several exhibits from the Smithsonian are at the Museum of Natural History

Pairing(s): Eventual Capoleon, Jedtavius, Teddy/Sacagawea

Characters: Al Capone, Napoleon Bonaparte, Ivan the Terrible (Awesome), Larry Daley, Teddy Roosevelt, Sacagawea, Jedediah Smith, Octavius, Ahkmenrah, Shaka Zulu, several Zulu tribe members, Dr. Richard McPhee, several Mobsters, Antonio Villalobos, Mariana Villalobos, Ramón Espina, Doctor Jess McClain, Docteur Alain Chaput, Claude Travere

Genre/Warnings: Some slightly graphic violence, Foul language, Angst, Fic inspired by a song, I’ll come up with more tags later

Notes: I listened to the song “Bad Bad Leroy Brown” by Jim Croce about a thousand times and decided I just HAD to make a fic.  The reason Al and the boys get made into color (as a plot point) is so everyone can see what happens to Al.

If anyone is OOC or this reads like a Dick & Jane, this is my second posted fic and I haven’t done much writing in the NATM field. (Disclaimer: I don’t own the song, nor the characters.) (If anything suddenly changes, I had to fix a mistake I missed.)

ANGST ALERT ANGST ALERT, SOB TIME.

Word count: 1,460

Summary: Al and the boys practically beg (Though they won’t stoop so far as to say they were actually begging.) for him and his gang to be colored up like everyone else.  Finally one day they get a paint-job, despite McPhee’s ever-present paranoia; Capone and the gang being popular in grey-scale.  Several weeks after they finally get what they want, Al gets in a fight, and doesn’t come out of it well.  Luckily for him Napoleon is compassionate enough to put up with Al’s grating personality to help him.

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Last Chapter

Al and Claude enter the lobby.  Two groups huddle on either side of the room, and British soldiers stand in the middle, creating a wall.  Larry stands at the information desk, eyeing the two groups.  You could cut the tension with a knife.

Al sighs and rubs his eyes.

“Alright Stache’, come on.”

Al practically drags Claude over to the information desk.

“Slim, what happened?”

Larry picks at the corner of his book, staring at the French soldiers, who don’t look happy to be in the same room as two groups they think of as enemies.

“I heard yelling and ran back here to find them mid-brawl.  Your guess is as good as mine as to why they were fighting.”

“Damn idiots, always raring to fight...  Claude, you talk to your men, I’ll talk to mine, and we’ll compare stories.”

Claude marches over to his men, and presumably orders them to relax and stand up straight.  They still give the British and Al’s men dirty looks, though.

Al is pretty sure Frankie would go off and Ralph would babble, so he’ll start with someone else.

“Hey Tony, come here a minute.”

Tony stares at the French soldiers as he walks over.

“Tony, what the Hell happened here?”

“Well...  Umh...”

“Tony, whatever it is, you gotta tell me.  We don’t need some kind of all out war with the French guys, alright.”

Tony grimaces and picks at his shirtsleeve.

“Ah, I wasn’t paying attention to everything...  Talk to Frankie, maybe.”

Al rolls his eyes.  He doesn’t know how Tony manages to be both secretive and gabby at the same time.

“Go sit down, send Johnny back.”

Tony slinks away like some kind of gumshoe and Johnny walks up.  Al gives him a questioning look.

“All I know is a fight started and I joined in.”

Al digs his nails into his palm.

“Fine, sit down and tell Ralph to get over here.”

Ralph, per usual, immediately starts shooting his mouth off.

“Listen boss, it wasn’t my idea, someone else started it!  I didn’t mean anything I said, it was the heat of the moment!  It’s not my fault Frankie decided to poke the Frenchies about Napoleon-”

“Ralph, Ralph!  Shut up, relax!”

Ralph clenches his hands and stand up straighter.

“Sorry boss...”

“It’s alright, Ralph, now what happened- Put it simply.”

“Uh...  So we were sitting around in the lobby, talking and laughing, the normal.  Then the French soldiers walk in, staring at us, sneering, babbling in French, ya know...”

Al motions for him to carry on.

“Frankie made some comment about Napoleon, I wasn’t listening so I didn’t catch it.  Whatever it was it pissed the French off.  Next thing I know we’re beating each other...”

“Frankie started it, great...  Go send him over.”

Ralph draws his shoulders up under the gaze of the French, and points Frankie over to Al.

Frankie marches up, head high, hands in his pockets.  The poster boy for defiance.  Al almost wants to slap that smirk off his face.

“It wasn’t my fault, they started it.”

“Ya sure about that?  Ralph says otherwise, Frankie.”

“You know Ralph, can’t tell a cow from a cat.”

“Hey now, Frank, Ralph might be a little scatterbrained, but he knows what he saw.  Now, what did you tell the French?”

Frankie leans his head back and crosses his arms.

“Why do ya care, Snorky?  You’ve hated the French since the Smithsonian.”

“Maybe I’m changing my mind about em’.  Spill!”

“Maybe I don’t want to spill, see ya later, Al.”

Frankie turns and walks a few steps away.

“Oh by the way Frank,-”  Frankie turns to looks at Al.  “-don’t call me Snorky.”

Frankie’s face drops but he doesn’t say anything, he just walks away with his head down.

Claude sneaks up beside Al, and makes him jump a little.

“Well, what did you get out of em’, Claude?”

“They won’t tell me what was said, only that your men started it.”

“Mine won’t spill anything either, but I have a feeling this is all wrapped around Napoleon.”

Speaking of Napoleon, he walks through the door.  Al jogs over and grabs him by the arm, pulling him out of the room towards the night guard office.

“Wha-  Capone!”

Al doesn’t release Napoleon’s arm until the office door is closed and locked.

“What was happening out there, Capone?  Why did Frank look so upset?”

“Well...  It was a fight.”

Napoleon’s face wrinkles up more than Al has ever seen.  It was cute, if Al admitted it to himself.

“Fight?  Who started it?  Why did it happen?”

Al lays his hand on Napoleon’s shoulder, to get him to shut up.

"Ni- Uh, Napoleon, let’s not talk about it.”

Napoleon’s face smooths out, his eyes wide.

“Alphonse...  When do you ever call me ‘Napoleon’?  To my face?”

Al feels his face heat up and by the slight crinkle in the corners on Napoleon’s eyes, he’s turning red too.  Damn himself, and Napoleon too.

“Shut up.  Just shut up.”

There it is, that infinitely glowy smile, all tooth and joy.  Damn if he isn’t turning redder.

“I might, for a price...”

“Do I want to ask?”

Napoleon’s done it, he’s struck the nail on the head, finished him off, with that stupid, stupidly cute little giggle; the Goddamn one where his cheeks nearly force his eyes closed, and you can see him bite the tip of his tongue.

If Al had any less self-control, he’d cave right here.  Say “Whatever you want, I’d do anything.  Anything.”  A faint thought of him pinning Napoleon to the wall crosses his mind.

Luckily he yanks himself together in time to hear whatever Napoleon has in mind.

“Walk with me, let me tell you about the art from my time.”

Al stands there like a dope, glancing around the room, seeing if he has any fanatical excuse to say no.  He wasn’t going to say no anyway, but it made him feel better about himself.

“Fine.  But no three hour spiel on one painting alone.”

“You have a deal, Alphonse.”

It wasn’t nearly as boring as he thought it might be.  Napoleon told stories of kings and queens, myths of dragons and the French Revolution. Al doesn’t think about the quiet steps behind him.  He know who it is, and he plans to make him leave them alone for a few minutes.

Al muses about what his life would’ve been like during Napoleon’s time between paintings.  Mid-thought about what kind of clothing he’d have to wear, he runs into Napoleon’s back.

The painting they’re looking at now is of a familiar figure standing on a hill, facing the ocean, framed by blue sky.  Al would’ve said it was “Poetic” or some shit if it hadn’t been for Napoleon’s shoulders shaking a little in front of him.

Napoleon’s inhale was shakier than his shoulders.

“Me on Sainte-Hélène, by Fran Josef Sandmann in 1820, roughly one year before...”

Al lays his hand on Napoleon’s shoulder squeezing gently.

Napoleon swallows thickly, trying to steady himself.

“Roughly one year before I died...”

Napoleon shifts to move on to the next painting, when he notices just which one it is, the one of himself on his deathbed.  He jerks and bends over, choking on a sob.

Al just barely manages to keep him from falling over.  He pulls Napoleon around the corner, where he couldn’t see the painting.

Napoleon practically sits in Al’s lap when they get to a bench.

Napoleon looks Al in the eyes, his face red and scrunched up, tears running down his face.  His Adam’s apple bobs several times and he chews his lip, like he’s trying to think of something to say.

All Napoleon manages is a depressing moan before he buries his head in the gap between Al’s neck and shoulders.  Al takes both his and Napoleon’s hats off, intending to run his fingers through Napoleon’s hair, but he’s got a fabric cap covering his hair.

Absently Al wonders why he’s wearing a cap under his hat.  Maybe it’s to keep his hat from getting sweaty.

Napoleon squeaks out this pathetic little sob and Al forgets about the cap, and squeezes Napoleon tight, rubbing his back.

There’ll probably be wrinkles in the back of his jacket, the way Napoleon’s hands are clenching the fabric, but Napoleon is more important than something that can be steamed.

Frankie leans around the corner.  Al regrettably locks eyes with him.

Al can’t read Frankie’s expression, he almost looks sick, but he also looks a little depressed.

Napoleon lurches, slamming Al back into the wall.

“Sorry, I’m sorry...”

Al pats his back.

“It’s okay, Napoleon.”

Napoleon practically wails at that, and Al squeezes him tighter.

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Last Chapter 

[zell-dincht]

It's High-namura Noon

Chapter 3 Words: 2786 Warnings: More of the same ol' nothin Summary: Crammed in a jail cell alone with McCree all night, Hanzo finally starts to open up to the other man. Notes: The comments are still way more entertaining than my crappy writing. (Seriously, check it all out on AO3)

---------

Hanzo could practically feel his heart drop into his gut as the officers roughly shoved him into the back of a patrol car along with Jesse. The cowboy didn't seem bothered by this new development, and maybe even looked a little bit amused as he made himself comfortable in the back seat. Hanzo, however, couldn't afford to be so lax about this situation. He had never been arrested in his entire life. Even with his family’s shady business dealings, they had so much money, the law never touched them.

Yet here he was, on his first trip to America, getting stuffed in a squad car with a common thief! His father could probably get him out of this, but Hanzo didn't dare consider asking for aid. If he could help it, his father would never find out what had happened this night.

“You look tense,” Jesse spoke as the sheriff drove to the station.

“You might be comfortable in handcuffs, but I, however, have my family name to uphold,” Hanzo replied through clenched teeth.

“Yeah what family is that?”

“Shimada. I am the eldest son, and it is therefore my duty to take over responsibility for the family business once my father is ready to step down.”

“Never heard of ‘em,” Jesse shrugged. “So is that what this is? A business trip? Kinda weird for a ninja-businessman to hitch a ride on a bus.”

“I am not a ninja. I practice the art, but actual ninja no longer exist,” Hanzo firmly corrected.

“Ninja, kung-fu, same diff.”

“Kung-fu is Chinese, and it is not the same--”

Hanzo slumped in his seat with a huff, trying his best to sit comfortably with his arms wedged behind his back. Jesse easily lounged in the back, knees comfortably spread apart and taking up a bit too much space for Hanzo’s liking.

Thankfully, this was a small town, and it didn't take very long to get to the station. Hanzo dreaded what might happen once they realized he wasn't an American citizen, but the sheriff marched them right past the desks and removed their cuffs before shoving the two men together in a cell.

“What's going on?” Hanzo asked once they were left alone. “They aren't going to take our information?”

“In small town New Mexico? Nah, not for this,” Jesse answered, already getting comfy on the frayed and faded cot. “They're probably more worried ‘bout finding a donut shop still open, instead of fillin’ out all our paperwork.”

Hanzo sighed as he remained standing, resting his forehead against the cold metal bars. “I was looking forward to sleeping in a bed tonight.”

“Hey, we can share,” Jesse offered and scooted as close to the wall as he could, but there was still barely any room on the small cot. “I don't mind, any.”

“No, thank you,” Hanzo firmly replied.

There was a moment of silence where Hanzo breathed slowly, trying to find some peace in this awful place, but of course the cowboy had to disrupt the quiet.

“So what's your deal, anyway?” Jesse asked as he sat up on the bed, leaning forward in interest. “Not every day my gang runs into a guy who can single-handedly take us all out. What’re you even doing here?”

“That's none of your concern.”

Hanzo kept his back to the other man, looking straight forward, past the bars of their jail cell, but he could still easily hear Jesse’s clunky footsteps as the cowboy approached.

“Look, I think you and me got off on the wrong foot,” Jesse offered as he casually leaned against the bars.

“You robbed a bus,” Hanzo spoke through clenched teeth.

“Are we never gonna get past that? C’mon, let's start over. Name's McCree. Jesse McCree.” He offered up a handshake, which Hanzo pointedly ignored. “Never did catch your name.”

“You don't need it.”

Jesse awkwardly pulled his hand away and rubbed at the back of his neck. “Won't give me a name, what you’re doing, why you're here… Nothing. Well ain't you just a real man of mystery.”

“It’s of no consequence. We will be parting ways for good as soon as they release us.”

“Yeah? How's travelling alone been working out for ya?” Jesse pointed out.

Hanzo folded his arms and stubbornly turned away. “Why are you so adamant on travelling with me?”

“Road trips ain’t fun if you do ‘em alone, and truth is…” Jesse sighed, hesitating a moment before he continued. “Truth is, I've been real down on my luck lately. Things ain't been goin’ quite right, and I could use your help as much as you could use mine.”

While Jesse remained leaning against the bars, Hanzo claimed the cot for himself, curling up with his back to the cell.

“Oh that's real nice. Guess I'll just take the floor, then,” the cowboy grumbled. He leaned back against the wall and slid to the floor, wrapping his sarape snugly around himself as he tried to get comfy.

A silence fell between them once again, but after a while, Hanzo wasn't sure why, but he finally spoke one more word - “Hanzo.”

“Come again?”

“Shimada Hanzo. My name.”

“Oh, like Hattori Hanzo?”

He sat up from the cot, eyebrows raised in surprise. “You know the story of Hattori Hanzo?”

“Shit, yeah, everyone's seen Kill Bill,” Jesse replied with a grin.

Hanzo narrowed his eyes, shooting another glare before curling back up again.

“What? What’d I say wrong this time?!” Jesse huffed.

“Goodnight, McCree.” Hanzo made a point to use the man's last name. They weren't friends, nor did he ever intend for them to be.

The harder Hanzo tried to fall asleep, the more restless he felt. This cot was so uncomfortable, and the idea of being in jail was still so unsettling, even if they were only being held for the night. After a few hours of tossing and turning, exhaustion finally caught up with him and he managed to fall asleep.

Hours later, the loud clang of the metal door caused Hanzo to jolt awake. One of the deputies stood with the cell door open, eyeing the two men. “All right, boys, up and at ‘em. Don't lemme catch you brawlin’ again.”

“You have my deepest apologies,” Hanzo replied, standing to give the man a polite nod. “It was a misunderstanding, and I assure you, it will not happen again.”

“Yeah, whatever. Now get on outta here.” The deputy nodded to the door, urging them out.

Hanzo gladly left the station with Jesse right behind. The cowboy loudly yawned and stretched his arms over his head.

“Damn, my back is killin’ me,” he grumbled. “Hey, since you stole the bed, how ‘bout a little back rub?”

“Not a chance,” Hanzo replied as he continued out towards the road. He paused, looking around to try and take in his surroundings.

“What's wrong?” Jesse asked, moving beside him.

“The car is back at the restaurant.”

Jesse replied with a hearty chuckle and a pat on the back that nearly made Hanzo stumble forward. “Can't even find your car, and you think you'll make it to San Antonio all on your lonesome? Admit it, you need me.”

“I'll be fine,” Hanzo insisted as he started walking, trying to remember his way back to the bar. However, he reached the next block and paused, unsure where to go next.

Jesse didn't say a word. He quietly followed and leaned against a nearby lamppost as he watched Hanzo attempt to work this out for himself. Once the pause lasted a bit too long, the cowboy pointedly cleared his throat.

With an exasperated sigh, Hanzo pinched the bridge of his nose and spoke up, “Very well, McCree. Take me to the car.”

“Thought you'd never ask,” he cheerfully agreed and waved a hand for Hanzo to follow him in the opposite direction they had been walking.

They walked a few blocks until Jesse finally came to a stop and nodded towards a nearby diner. “I'm starvin’. How ‘bout some breakfast?”

Hanzo knit his brows together as he weighed the decision. He originally had wanted to be rid of Jesse as soon as possible, but he couldn't deny the fact that he was both very hungry and very lost. With a brief nod, he followed the cowboy into the diner.

As soon as they slipped into a booth, a waitress approached with a couple menus and a pot of coffee. “Drinks?”

“Just some O.J. for the two of us,” Jesse replied before his new companion could say a word.

Hanzo shot him an annoyed glare, but once the waitress stepped out of earshot, the cowboy whispered, “The coffee here tastes like dirt.”

A moment later, the waitress returned with their juice and glared flatly at Jesse. “Sure you don’t want a cup o’ dirt to go with your meal?”

Jesse gave her a sheepish grin, but Hanzo felt mortified on behalf of the other man. He took the ceramic white cup on the table and turned it upright, handing it to the waitress. “Actually, I would like some coffee, please.”

With a satisfied little smirk, she poured the drink into Hanzo's cup. “Gimme a holler when you're ready to order,” she instructed as she left the two men alone once again.

Hanzo tentatively took a sip of his drink, trying his best not to make a disgusted face when he learned that the coffee was, in fact, quite bitter and flavorless.

“Thought you knew you could trust me by now,” Jesse said with an amused look on his face.

“I don't know what to make of you, Jesse McCree.” Hanzo set his cup aside and began looking over the menu.

“See? You're not the only one who can be mysterious,” he said with a grin.

Something about the way that cowboy smiled, Hanzo couldn't stand it. He didn't know why, but that grin made him feel unsettled. It was all charm and no sincerity. Something about it made Hanzo feel like he wanted to drop his guard, that everything would be fine. Of course, he knew better, yet the feeling still had him a little on edge.

“All right. Since you know so much, tell me,” Hanzo set his menu down on the table. “What should I order?”

“Leave it to me.” Jesse gave a wink and whistled for the waitress to come back.

For himself, the cowboy ordered chicken and waffles with a side of grits, which made Hanzo cringe, but for the other meal, he requested a simple order of scrambled eggs, hash browns, and sausage.

As they waited for the kitchen to prepare their meal, Hanzo thoughtfully studied the other man for a moment. “I've been wondering - how did you manage to reach this town? I left you on the side of the highway.”

“Whoa, now, you expect me to divulge my secrets, but you won't even tell me what you're goin’ to Texas for,” Jesse dodged.

After taking a slow breath, Hanzo finally confessed, “I am going to a place called Padre Island.”

The cowboy’s eyes widened in recognition and he responded with a hearty laugh. “Oh no, you can't be serious.”

“I don't understand.” Hanzo narrowed his eyes, watching the other man with a stone-faced expression. “What is so funny about Padre Island?”

“Oh, no, darlin’ that place ain't for you,” Jesse chuckled. “You're gonna stick out like a sore thumb.”

“It isn't for me,” Hanzo replied, getting annoyed. “I'm looking for my brother.”

“Now we're gettin’ somewhere! Brother's in college, I take it?”

Hanzo blinked in bewilderment. “How did you know?”

“This time o’ year, Padre’s like a Mecca for college kids,” Jesse explained. “Spring break.”

“Yes, he has a break from his classes this week, which is exactly why I was sent to retrieve him now.”

“‘Retrieve’?” Jesse frowned. “Like he's some kind of package?”

The waitress returned and set down the plates of food as the conversation went on. After making certain they had everything they needed, she left the table, and the two men continued as they ate.

“My brother is a graduate student at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology--” Hanzo began.

“No shit, M.I.T.?” Jesse interrupted. “Impressive.”

“Yes, at least it would be, if he only applied himself.” Seeing the cowboy tilt his head in interest, Hanzo continued, “His grades have been slipping. As a consequence, I must bring him home to Japan.”

“Aw, c’mon, let the kid live a little,” Jesse spoke around a mouthful of food. “It's spring break.”

“He has a duty to his family,” Hanzo insisted between bites.

“Says who?” The cowboy gave a casual shrug. “Hey, maybe he just wants to live his own life.”

“He has been away from Japan for too long. He must learn to run the family business, as I have.”

“Yeah, what about you? Do you even want to do any of this? Maybe you don't wanna run that business, either.”

Hanzo immediately tensed up, narrowing his eyes. “What I want doesn't matter.”

“You're in the land of the free, home of the brave.” Jesse gestured an arm towards the window. “This is America, darlin’. Your dad’s all the way in Japan. He's got no control over you, so live a little.”

“He can cut me off financially,” Hanzo pointed out.

“Could be worth the sacrifice.”

“I will not defy my father,” he firmly asserted.

“Fine, fine. Suit yourself.” Jesse waved him off and continued eating his breakfast. “So how's your food? Did I pick good for ya?”

Hanzo glanced between the cowboy and his plate of food. “It is acceptable, I suppose.”

The cowboy gave a satisfied nod and continued stuffing more of his own food into his mouth. Hanzo ate more politely, but had a smaller meal, so he didn't take much longer to finish his own breakfast.

As Hanzo picked at the remaining bites on his plate, Jesse stood up and made his way to the register. By the time he returned, Hanzo had finished eating.

“The bill?” he asked, glancing at the bit of receipt paper in the cowboy’s hand.

“Paid.” Jesse held up the paper and crumpled it up before tossing it beside his empty plate.

Hanzo frowned and glanced off to the side. “You didn't have to do that. I'm happy to pay my share.”

“I'm sure ya really don't mind spendin’ daddy’s money,” Jesse replied. “And before ya ask - No, none o’ that's robbery money. I won it fair and square, hustlin’ a game of pool.”

Hanzo followed as the cowboy made his way out of the restaurant, yet he still proceeded to pull his wallet from his pocket. “Allow me to pay for my meal, I insist.”

“No thanks.” Jesse dismissively waved a hand at the money. “I put you through hell. Treatin’ you to a nice, greasy breakfast is the least I can do.”

With a sigh of defeat, Hanzo put his money away. He couldn't argue against the logic, that after everything Jesse had done, he owed so much more than eggs and sausage.

As they approached the car, Jesse leaned against the driver door, blocking Hanzo from reaching it. He had a pleading look in his eyes as he attempted one last appeal. “Look, for what it's worth, I'm sorry for what happened on that bus. It never meant to get so outta control, and I hate that we've stooped to petty thievery. So c’mon, help me ease my conscience a little, and I'll help you get to Padre. On my honor.”

“Men like you have no honor. Step aside.” Hanzo tried to push his way to unlock the door, but Jesse continued to block his path.

“Hey, I'm being serious. Hanzo, c’mon.”

He paused and folded his arms over his chest as he thoughtfully looked over the cowboy. “Fine. But one strike, and I'll leave you on the side of the road again. You understand?”

“Crystal clear!” Jesse grinned that wide, irresistible grin and clapped his companion on the back before making his way to the passenger seat.

Hanzo was completely stunned with his own decision to allow this, but Jesse made a fair point. If he truly regretted his actions, didn't he deserve a chance at reclaiming his honor? And Hanzo was perfectly aware he would need help finding Genji, so maybe they could help one another after all. Hopefully, he wouldn't come to regret this decision.

[robertkstone]

Best Cars, Trucks, and SUVs We Drove in 2017

We’ve traveled the world and tested well over 220 cars to bring you the very best automotive reviews around. In 2017, we were blessed to have the best access to cars all over the price spectrum, from one of the smallest cars offered today to some of the quickest and luxurious, too. Now that 2017 is coming to an end, we’re reflecting on some of the very best cars and trucks we drove this year.

Enjoy, and check out the best cars we drove in 2016 right here.

2016 Ferrari 488 GTB

Sure, it’s Motor Trend’s Best Drivers Car. It was also the best car I drove all year, of any aspect. It represents every teenager’s dream for getting into automotive journalism. I’ll admit it: Growing up, I had that Alpine stereo poster with the maroon Lamborghini Countach on my bedroom wall. That was my dream, which the fates have granted me. And although I’ve been fortunate to drive numerous outstanding vehicles in my career, I have found many of them wanting, of not measuring up to my teenage fantasies. But from the second I clicked shut the driver’s door, the Ferrari 488 fulfilled every automotive desire I’ve ever had. From its fingertip-precise driving manners to the snarl-to-shriek powerband of the engine to its origami sheetmetal designed to make pedestrians gawk. It made me laugh, sing, weep, and swear great glorious oaths. —Mark Rechtin

It’s kinda low hanging fruit, but I have to admit there’s one car this year that embodied everything I love about cars: (A) sexy styling, (B) an aural superstar, (C) in terms of performance, it more than cashes the check it writes with A+B, (D) it was pretty easy to get close to its limits without the threat of something going terribly awry, and (E) it was surprisingly livable. The Ferrari 488 GTB deserved our 2017 Best Driver’s Car award because it is exactly what it appears to be, and unlike some other exotics, it isn’t over the top in any way. —Chris Walton

2019 Mazda3 Prototype

I don’t even know what this car will look like, as I drove a mule made out of a current-gen Mazda3. Doesn’t matter. Under the hood beats a compression-ignition gas engine, promising diesel economy with gasoline emissions at an affordable price. For more than a decade plenty of gigantic automakers have loudly promoted then abandoned this concept while plucky Mazda has just quietly made its spark-controlled compression ignition Skyactive X engine work—and work really well. The car bristles with plenty more chassis and seating innovations aimed at maximizing driver satisfaction, which drives home the point that while everybody else is making noise about autonomy, Mazda still wants its cars to be fun for human beings to drive. Hallelujah. —Frank Markus

Bugatti Chiron

For me, 2017 was a super year for supercars. Porsche’s 911 GT2 RS, the McLaren 720S, and Ford’s radical new GT all delivered breathtaking, yet uniquely different, high performance driving experiences. But in a year of superlatives, one car brushed them all imperiously aside: the Bugatti Chiron. The fastest, most powerful street legal production car in history, the Chiron is an automotive engineering benchmark for the ages, a car that redefines the performance envelope for internal combustion engines. Cruising one effortlessly at 200 mph on a European freeway and realizing I was still only accessing 75 percent of this extraordinary car’s capability is an experience I will long remember. —Angus MacKenzie

2018 Ford F-150

Never have I encountered a vehicle that was excellent in every form it came in. The base XL work truck was utilitarian and geared perfectly for its intended mission, the Lariat (supposedly the lesser of the luxury trims) was well-appointed and rode comfortably, and the Raptor was just a beast on- and off the pavement. Both the 2.7-liter and 3.5-liter twin-turbo V-6 engines were exceptionally powerful; the 10-speed auto was a peach, and who knew that a sub-3.0-liter engine could pull that hard even with all the metal around it?! Regardless of the variant, the F-150 has grown into a solid truck with a great blend of performance, comfort, surprising fuel efficiency, and a slick multimedia system than many automakers could learn from (looking at you, Toyota, Mercedes, Mazda, and Lexus). —Stefan Ogbac

2017 Tesla Model 3

I spend most of my time reading stories other staffers write about driving cars, not so much driving cars myself. I’m also a relative EV novice; the only electric car I had driven prior to the Model 3 was the Kia Soul EV. So I didn’t fully know what to expect when I got behind the wheel of the Tesla. Even after driving it, I still don’t fully know what to think of it. It’s an experience unlike just about anything else. I’m not sold on putting virtually all functions into the tablet touchscreen, but the clean interior this allows is stunning. It felt more like relaxing at home, the dash a nice coffee table and the windshield a TV, than sitting in a car—only my furniture isn’t that nice. And when I finally got to driving instead of just admiring … wow. If I were a reservation holder, I might get a little antsy as I wait to actually get a Model 3 of my own, but there’s no denying that the Model 3 is a genuinely impressive machine. —Jesse Bishop

Well, this is a pretty predictable pick if you know me—the Tesla Model 3. How come?

Not because it’s been the talk of the automotive town; the only car I know that causes people at dinner parties to quickly walk across the room to hear about. As an introvert, I actually wish they didn’t.

No, the attraction is in its possibilities. The Model 3, right now, is a big blank canvas upon which Tesla has a once in a lifetime chance to truly paint the car of the future. Sure, right now it’s a canvas in the hands of a sprinkling of people who are getting their first taste of how beautifully a well-designed EV can drive. And it’s supported by the Supercharger network, underlining its uniqueness as the only long-range EV that can truly replace your internal combustion automobile. And—no small thing—it’s at a price that’s laser-guided at the heart of the market, too. But those aren’t any of my reasons, either.

I’m going to point at two things. Here on the side—see that video camera in the B-pillar and that other one in the front fender? They’re some of the eyes this car will use to see—via artificial intelligence—surrounding traffic for autonomous driving. Can Tesla pull this off without Lidar? I don’t know. But those cameras there indicate they’re sure going to try. And also look here—inside—at the big screen in the middle of the dash. It’s meant to replace the usual busy swarm of knobs and switches with a single touchscreen interface. Some have criticized this. I see it as an inevitable evolution toward a new language of man-machine interface, and Tesla, once again, is off to a giant head start in defining it. Some critics have cast these two features of the Model 3 as—at the moment—a glass half full. I see that empty half as where the future of the automobile could very well be poured. —Kim Reynolds

2017 Ford Mustang Shelby GT350R

To help refresh my memory for this assignment, I scrolled through my Instagram account, which mostly serves as an archive of the good stuff I’ve driven. I paused at the Ferrari 488, stopped a tad longer at the fantastic Porsche 718 Cayman, but only the Ford Mustang Shelby GT350R gave me goose bumps. The wonderful wail from its Voodoo V-8 stands out the most, but the GT350R is much more than its engine. Its lively steering, precise shifter, and sharp handling all contribute to a unforgettable driving experience and without a doubt the best car I drove in 2017. —Erick Ayapana

2017 Mini Clubman S All4

This year I had the pleasure of chaperoning our long-term 2017 Mini Clubman S All4. In addition to being incredibly fun to drive and surprisingly spacious for hauling stuff around, the Mini facilitated some remarkable adventures—both impromptu and painstakingly planned. Whenever I had the Mini in my driveway, I was constantly coming up with excuses to get out and drive. Whether it was venturing into the heart of downtown L.A. for the afternoon or taking a day trip out to the middle of the desert, the Mini was ready for it. Limited parking? No problem. Got passengers? Pile ‘em in. Picking up something oblong and bulky? It’ll probably fit.

The Mini also got me through a two-week, 2,000-mile road trip that included bucket-list places such as Death Valley, the Grand Canyon, historic Route 66, and so much more. The destinations were unforgettable, but the journey in the Mini was just as memorable. —Alex Nishimoto

2017 Alfa Romeo Giulia

When a car distinguishes itself after an entire day of driving most of its competitors on the same roads, you know it’s something special. That’s exactly what happened earlier this year with the 280-hp 2017 Alfa Romeo Giulia, which won a comparison test against many formidable competitors. You’d expect the Alfa Romeo to look good and be one of the most engaging drivers in the class, but it was the car’s well-rounded appeal that really surprised. Sure, there are a few things in the interior I wish were different, and I personally have trouble trusting Alfa Romeo’s long-term reliability, but wow. What a car. —Zach Gale

2019 Lamborghini Urus

The best car I drove in 2017? The Lamborghini Urus. Even if it isn’t the actual best car (or in this case, hulking SUV), I’m the only American who has so far been allowed to drive the latest (and second) soft roader from Sant’Agata. All other sport-oriented SUVs are on notice: the Urus is better than you are. Yes, for $200,000+ it had better be. Initially, I was swayed by the 650 horsepower and the approximately 3.3 second dash to 60 mph. After many laps around a 4-mile circuit, however, I’m most in love with the Urus’ brakes. Which, at 17.3 inches up front, are the largest that have been fitted to any car. Ever. What a world we’re living in. —Jonny Lieberman

2017 Honda Civic Type R

My high points of the year include, as you’d expect, blasting up highway 198 in every single Best Driver’s Car competitor. The Porsche 718, 911 Turbo S, and Ferrari 488, of course, all stand out even months later. Oddly enough, so does the Corvette Grand Sport. Despite a gearbox that wasn’t quite right for the conditions (all too often I found myself running out of breath at the top of third into a corner or bogging in fourth coming out of it), I still remember how well that car stuck and steered, no matter how hard I was on the throttle or brakes. At the start of the 2017 Pe from PerformanceJunk WP Feed 3 http://ift.tt/2BjS3Rb via IFTTT