#rapha did a front flip

[lkluvsu]

listen its not funny but. its a LITTLE funny

[hourglassmermaid]

42 for prompt!

lmao i forgot that you were the one who requested this one, so i’m sorry for making you beta your own prompt request

read on ao3

[Prompt] 42. “I’m only here to establish an alibi.”

Hunter’s Moon is bustling. Maia runs up and down the bar, taking drink orders from werewolves and mixing cocktails for vampires. She’s flanked by two other bartenders Alec doesn’t recognize, but they seem competent enough — the seelie who made his gin and tonic didn’t fuck it up, so that’s something.

There’s a chorus of conversations melding into one cohesive backing track, accented by the clinking of glasses and crashing of ceramic plates. Everyone in the New York shadow world seems to think that Hunter’s Moon is the only bar in the whole damn city. It’s elbow to elbow at the bar, much fuller than Alec is comfortable with, but he focuses on his company and tries his best to ignore the crowd.

“I’m only here to establish an alibi,” Raphael says, leaning up against the counter and nursing his bloody mary.

Magnus chuckles beside Alec. “I know, Rapha,” Magnus humors him. “You wouldn’t be caught dead in any bar with less than one Michelin star unless you had to.”

Raphael rolls his eyes, pointedly ignoring the jab. “How much longer do I need to stay?”

Magnus absently presses a ringed finger to his lips, seemingly lost in thought. Alec can’t help but stare; he’s a weak man, especially when Magnus is accentuating his lush, kissable lips, and suddenly Alec starts to wonder how long they have to stay.

“Well, technically you only needed to make an appearance for Simon’s gig,” Magnus says, “and since that’s over—”

Raphael dashes out of the bar before Magnus can even finish his sentence, leaving his empty glass and a generous tip on the bartop. Alec and Magnus exchange a look, and Alec shrugs, taking another sip of his drink.

Maia makes her way over to them, summoned by the dirty dishes and exposed cash.

Jace finishes his beer and sets the empty bottle of Blue Moon in front of her.

“Need a refill?” she asks, plucking the bottle from the counter.

“Yes, please,” he says. “Also, would you mind putting on the Rangers’ game?”

“Sure thing.” She turns away from them to go refresh Jace’s drink and presumably fish out the TV remote, but pauses when a familiar face joins them at the bar. “Hey, babe. You were great tonight.”

Simon nudges into the space between Jace’s stool and a very surly, very disgruntled werewolf. “Thanks! You really think so?”

“You were okay,” Jace says, and Simon visibly deflates.

“I enjoyed the performance,” Magnus praises. “That thing you did with the synthesizer and the coconuts was… innovative.”

“It was alright,” Alec adds, and Magnus nudges him in the ribs.

Maia narrows her eyes at Alec, and Alec takes another sip of his drink to avoid her gaze. The lime in his glass is simply fascinating.

“Raphael said he liked it,” Maia lies.

Simon’s eyes widen. “Wait, he actually came? Is he still here?”

“He had some business to attend to at the Du Mort, unfortunately,” Magnus says, furthering the lie.

Alec apparently missed the memo that they were all supposed to coddle Simon, but he’ll try and be more sensitive for the rest of the night.

“Didn’t think he’d come,” Simon admits, “but I guess I owe him now.” He turns his attention to Maia. “Can I get a pint of O neg,” he asks her, and she sets off to fix their drinks.

She returns a few minutes later with a fresh Blue Moon for Jace, a glass of blood for Simon, and another martini for Magnus, even though he didn’t ask for one, but she’s excellent at anticipating like that. She looks up at the TV above the taps, her back leaning against the counter, as she flips through the channels until she finds the hockey game. She sets off to check on her other customers once they reassure her that they’re content for the time being.

“I forgot we’re facing the Bruins tonight,” Jace notes, taking a swig of his beer.

“Oh, yeah, fuck those guys,” Simon adds, wiping away a drop of blood from the corner of his mouth.

“I rather like the Bruins,” Magnus says innocently, not meeting their gaze.

Alec smiles knowingly into his glass as he takes another sip of his gin and tonic. This should be good.     

Jace and Simon lean over, staring at Magnus dumbfounded.

“You’re just saying that to get a rouse out of us, right?” Jace asks. “Like, you’re not actually into hockey or anything, right?”

Magnus sets his martini glass down on the coaster, and without missing a beat, fires back, “Does a Gordie Howe hat trick consist of an assist, a goal, and a fight?”

“Uh, yeah, it does,” Simon says, stunned.

“Holy shit,” Jace swears.

“Okay, but why the Bruins?” Simon asks. “You live in New York!”

“Have you seen Patrice Bergeron?” Magnus counters, and Alec can’t help but agree. The man is gorgeous and an absolute angel on the ice. They don’t call him St. Patrice for nothing.  

“So, you’re only into them cause the team’s hot?” Jace accuses.

“Absolutely not,” Magnus shoots him down. “They’re an Original Six team with more heart than half of the league. They have an unparalleled mixture of young and senior talent, and it’s inspiring to watch them lift each other up. They know how to rally when they’re down, and they never give up.” He catches his breath and after a beat, adds, “But yes. They are also an exceptionally attractive group of men.”

“Did you know about this?” Jace asks Alec.

Alec shrugs. “We went to a Bruins-Habs game a few weeks ago. Gotta say, it was pretty exciting.”

“Traitor,” Simon says with outrage dripping from his tongue.

Alec’s eyes dart to Magnus. Magnus is beaming up at him, clearly pleased that Alec’s taking his side in this pointless feud. Alec will always take Magnus’ side, whether the fight is on the battlefield or in a ratty dive bar. They’re united on all fronts — even petty ones like this.

Alec wraps his arm around Magnus’ shoulders, pulling him closer. He leans down and presses a soft kiss to Magnus’ lips. Magnus closes his eyes, melting into the kiss. Alec smiles into it, the warmth of Magnus’ breath and the feeling of holding him so close, sending waves of pure joy through his chest. They linger for longer than is probably acceptable in public, but Alec doesn’t care.

They finally part, and Alec says, “Tuukka could take Henke in a fight.”

“What the fuck?” Simon asks.

“You really are a traitor!” Jace yells.

Alec laughs. He’s going to keep stirring the pot for the rest of the night.   

[zane-rapha-the-mun]

The Transformation: Paradigm shift. Ch-1 By Zane Rapha

Prolog: May of 2020

    'The dark-haired woman sat silent, I counted the seconds as they went by, 4 minutes and 37 seconds. To say the least, I know she is mad.'     She gave him a stern glare as she reached for the top drawer in her desk and pulled out a red folder, labeled Special Agent's File 417- Zane Morningstar, before starting to read from the top page.

     "Special agent Zane Morningstar. DOB: 12/22/1998. Age 22. 5ft-7in. 140lb, Eye color: Blue. Hair: black, Left handed. Male. History: Unknown. Family... Let's see... Mother: Cora Morningstar, Deceased. Father: Unknown. Siblings: None. Childhood home: St. Ann's Home for Children.     And yet even though you have had it rough, it also says your the youngest agent to have ever graduated out of Quantico. Known as one of the smartest people in the world having an IQ of 163 on the Stanford test. Also known for holding a World Guinness record for most cases solved, given you have been providing information anonymously via letters to the leading agents or detectives on the cases starting at the age of 12.     Now I like an underdog as much as the next guy but it is no excuse for drinking your problems away, Acting like a complete fool at my crime scene, and publicly mistreating your partner?!" She shouted in his face.

    His face was flush red, a color not common for him.     'She has a right to be angry at this juncture, yet she is exaggerating a bit.'

    "I'm... Sorry? However, I must inform you that is an exaggeration."     "Oh! Is that so?" She said with clear sarcasm.      " Well, for one, I drink only a glass of wine in the evening, just to calm my nerves. Also, if acting like a fool is what you call it when I do my job, then yes, otherwise, I was not. AND!-"     "SHUT THE HELL UP! That was not a real question smart-ass." She fumed, clearly not enjoying my humor in all this.     "Well, you don't have to be so rude!"     "You know what, your right! I can just do This!" She said sliding the paperwork across the desk. "You get to fill all this out on your days off from now on."     'It's old cold cases from last year. Does she really think this will be an issue?'    "I know your thinking, What, is that all? NO! You are being reassigned to a new partner who won't take your shit! Say hello to Agent Sian." She said pointing to the door.    He looked, to the door and saw them standing there listening in on their conversation.     'This girl is quiet, I didn't hear a peep from her this whole time. She is going to be intriguing.'

--Chapter 1: Just a Gear in the Machine--

Dec 2021

      There was a sound of a blood-curdling shriek that filled the back alleys of the bustling city block ahead of me. No one seemed to hear the screams but instead chose to ignore it, as if it is not there. I still moved quickly but cautiously towards the sound, a little frightened of what I will find.

    'Why must I be here?' I think to myself as I watch everyone pretend the world is on their phones and nothing else is real. Then, without thinking I unholster my sidearm, running into the alley, and I call out quickly, "FBI! Freeze, Drop your weapons!" Nothing was there. It was just a shadow casting off a dumpster as a dimly lit side building lamp flickered, a woman's shoe sat at the base of it.     'Clearly, something is wrong here.' I thought to myself before looking around the alleyway and questioned anyone who might have seen something to find no one had seen a thing.     "Just Typical! People keep their heads down when the FBI ask questions." I said to myself in frustration. 'At least there seems to be a boot print in the mud by the garbage bin. I took out my pen which I have markings for measurements. 14 inches and the depth is 3 centimeters. This guy is big and tall. Most likely male based on the shoe size. Most females don't get that big. Might be in the 6ft and up range.     I then received a call in to report on my radio. I soon reported in. "We may have a 207 or a 10-54 at the 42ed east and 14 broad back alleys possible male suspect may be in the 5'7 to 6ft range."     A static sound filled my radio before the noise of the other agent repeating 10-1 came through. 'Why would there be poor reception out here? Someone must have a jammer. Anyhow, I'll report back at HQ, and there will be a squad out here.'     After I walked a few feet away the static cleared, "10-4, Go home. I will want a briefing in the morning."     I responded quickly. "10-10, Boss." 'That's a bit unusual... and not by the books. I'll need to look into this.' I thought to myself.

    As I walked home, the sensation of having eyes on my back grew stronger. 'Someone is watching me, but who?' I questioned myself in thought. 'This is strange. No footsteps. Where did the people go? Why am I so dizzy?' I looked down to the ground unsteady, almost fainting. 'I need to go home now.' I quickened my pace to get home as soon as I could. Finding my keys as I ran to the door. I entered the pin for my apartment *0419* The gate door chimed, and the latch clicked open. The door was open and soon locked behind me. 'Whoever is following me will find it hard to get in this place.' I thought as I looked at the door to see if anyone passed it. Running up the two flights of stairs I soon re-found my apartment key now having the right door. I entered the clean and well-kept studio apartment. One of which most would think belonged to someone with OCD. I flipped the lights on and closed the door behind me. I checked the locks on the door before moving over to the windows. I checked the locks on the sliding steel bars. "Safe," I said with a sigh of relief. Walking over to the kitchen too poured myself a glass of red wine, sipping on it for a minute before going to my desk where my all black desktop sat. I moved the mouse to hear the roar of the fans in the tower come to life. Timestamp 12/3/2021 10:27 PM.     'Damn, it's late. I have to get that report in before 12. I hope I can get it done on time.' I thought to myself as I set my wine down and sighed into FBI server and started on my report.

    The next morning, I arrived at the office to discover it had become a crime scene.  My boss was found dead and was being carried off in a body bag.  There was yellow tape everywhere. "What happened here?" I shout. "Why is he dead? I just spoke to him last night!" I said, frightened and angry, "What the hell happened to him?"    "The Director needs to talk with you." Special Agent Sian said.  "Very well then," I said. "Do you know what happened here, Agent?"    "That is what the Director needs to speak to you about."    I hurried to the Director's Office with a horrible feeling of dread. 'This is going to be bad.'    I knocked on the closed door, and hesitantly entered the superior agent's office. "Welcome, Agent Morningstar, thank you for coming in, please take a seat. I need to speak to you about something important."    "As I'm sure you have been made aware, the Assistant Director, Maxwell Horren has recently passed."    "How did he die?" I asked.    "We are still looking into that, Agent Morningstar, but we suspect suicide. The circumstances of his death are still under investigation at this time." He said before a long drawn-out sigh escaped. "I'm sorry, but I have to ask you to hand in your service weapon and shield, you are under suspension pending the conclusion of the coroner's inquest. At this time, you are the last known person to see him alive, and we need to consider all possibilities of his death. I'm sorry, but you know this is only a formality as you were here last night, at the suspected time of his death. So, you will remain a suspect until this is settled and until then, Agent Morningstar, I expect you to remain cooperative."    "You can't do that, I wasn't here last night, I did my report on my home PC and Sent it in at 11:45 PM.  I was on a case and then went back home. I wasn't here at all yesterday."     "Yes, you were. I saw you getting coffee for Maxwell when I left at 9:00 PM. Your report was submitted at 9:40 PM and our records show you checked out at 10:00 PM, which matches the footage of you leaving the lobby. His suspected time of death is between 9:30 and 10:00, so if it was not suicide, you are our prime suspect! I'm sorry, but I have to ask you not to leave the city at this time. Do you understand?"      "Yes," I replied begrudgingly as I placed my sidearm and badge on the table.      "I'll update you on what we find as soon as possible, Mr. Morningstar, goodbye." He said getting up to show me the door.

                                     ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

    I left the FBI headquarters suspended pending this damn investigation! I'm now a possible murder suspect! 'What did he mean when he said he saw me there? I know I was not there, and why say my report was sent at 9:40? No that is not right, I sent it in at 11:45, I swear... I don't know what is going on here, but this is bad. I need to check my computer when I get home, but I can't set on the couch and do nothing, I have to take action right away. Are they trying to frame me for Max's death? If this is going down the way it seems to be; I must speak to Kate on this matter. She'll know what is going on and she'll see what I should do.' I thought to myself as I walked to the children's hospital.

   Kathryn Morgen, Age 22. 5 foot 6 inches, 147 lb, Eye color brown, hair brown, Right-handed Female, works as a C.I.A. Agent, she also volunteers her spare time at the children's hospital, to help out the staff with excess paperwork overload. She can often be found at the front desk filing intake papers with a smile. Her kindness and generosity exceed imagination. Not only that but she is a world-renowned mathematician having an IQ of 157 and three books on theorems and formulas. She is also Zane Morningstar's foster sister and best friend since they were kids.

   "Hey Zane, how is my favorite person?" Kate asked endearingly.      "I need to talk to you. Your C.I.A. connections. Perhaps you can find out why I'm being framed?" I asked, hesitant of her response.    "Framed for what?" She asked, raising a brow in suspicion.    "They are trying to frame me for Max's death," I Stated.     "Wait, what?! Maxy is dead?..." She looked down trying to process the information. "When?" She questioned hesitantly with a sad expression.     "Last night apparently. They said between 9:30 and 10:00 PM," I replied quickly trying to get her to move this along.     "Okay... Right. So that would be when you were working at the office last night. Oh, so you are a suspect since you were there?" Kate asked.     "No, I was on a case. You know, the one I told you about last night, where I heard a woman screaming, and when I arrived, no one was there. She poofed. I can't explain it! No evidence of her or anything aside from a shoe and then I was asked to go home by Max with no explanation." I explained with only a confused expression as my reply.     "I had just gone home at 10:27 and filed my report." I continued only to get her shaking her head no.     "I talked to you all last night after I finished my report, remember?" I said.     "No! At around 10 PM last night, you called me to tell me you were going to be busy all day today, and that you would come over to visit me tonight!  Whatever you are talking about with this case and no one being there, you never said a word to me about this. What happened? Did you forget, and have a dream that you told me about this case? Because I don't recall you telling me about that case at all!"    "I see... I have to go, I'm sorry!" I said before rushing to get outside.    "Okay, bye!" She yelled as I opened the doors.    'I hate to leave Kate like that abruptly, but I need to go home, Now!' I thought to myself as I ran from the hospital.

 'Okay, that was very strange,' I shuttered, in thought. Now in a panic, I moved fast through the city, passing a tall man with long black hair holding out roses to a little girl as I ran. 'I don't remember any of that conversation happening like that. I need to check the date for today!'

  As soon as I arrived home, I then went directly to my desk computer. I needed to check my files and confirm the time and date stamp on my reports. I found that all of my sent files were gone and I couldn't log in to the FBI at this time. Everything that I know I did yesterday is missing.     "FUCK. What the hell is happening here? I need to check my personal journals."     Maybe I can use it as evidence, I kept a detailed record of everything that happened, and some proof too, I kept photos in it. I always keep daily journal entries in precise detail, before I go to sleep each night. I know that no one could have tampered with it. I went to my antique desk, that has been rigged to conceal my secret documents. I doubt anyone knows I keep a journal And, even if someone found out, it is even more unlikely they could find my hidden desk compartment.   I sat down at the stained wooden desk and reached into the fountain pen drawer to retrieve the secret key stashed inside a hollow fountain pen. Then I reached behind the retractable keyboard tray, to locate the key latch for the locked file box. I opened the file box without looking because experience with my daily writing exercise made me familiar with the lock by touch alone. I retrieved my book and began to review my last entry. As I started reading, I discovered that there was indeed an entry for yesterday. However, the page had been ripped out of the book. My computer says it is 12/6/2021, but the entries for the 3rd 4th and the 5th are gone. This is strange, no page has ever been torn from my Journal by me. Now, there are only ragged edges.    'Okay, who has figured out I had journals? No one knows about my writings. Not even Kate knows. No one knows. So how did this happen?'     I can't fathom who or what could do this, or why they would want to. Who would go this far to frame me for a murder I never committed? I mean My memories of the past two days are gone.    'Why would anyone do this to me?', I thought. I reflect back on how careful and methodical I have always been with my undercover work. I have never blown my cover. No criminal I have ever successfully caught and arrested has ever discovered the truth of who I am. I am so cautious that few people even know where I live.     I am more concerned right now than I have ever been in my entire life, but a form of rage is rising to take the place of my fear. I begin pacing the room as my anxiety increases. I find myself moving toward the windows, to check if all the locks are secure. There are no signs of a breach of the home. 'How did two days disappear from my memory? And why?' I questioned.

    While looking out the window I saw a very tall man, wearing a Black hat with long curly black hair and a long dark gray trench coat.     'Wait a minute; he's the guy I passed by at the hospital handing a girl a rose.' I thought to myself in shock. I reach for my sidearm to find it missing.     "Fuck it to hell, I'm unarmed," I said to myself before grabbing a hidden flip knife from the kitchen and moving fast to the door and running down the stairs.     'This is crazy. No sidearm, no badge, No backup. I'm running in blind to a potentially dangers situation with only a flip knife. Fuck!' I thought in a panic as I slipped the knife into my pocket before running outside.     Now outside of my apartment, he was lurking next to the bus stop out front. It is as though I can feel his presence calling me to come to him. I know he's trying to lure me someplace quiet. I see a glimpse of his eye, and I start to follow him as he leads me down the sidewalk. After a few paces, he walked down an alley; I choose to go. I begin to walk toward him, though I can't think of a good reason for doing so aside from instinct. I soon realized I am making a terrible mistake as I continue towards him and catch a glimpse of the man's face.   As I move closer to him, I finally question why I am even out here doing this. I am a very well trained agent; I should know better than to do this alone.     'I have a 1 in 5 chance of being raped, a 20% chance of being kidnapped and a 1 in 6,100 of being murdered. I'm a suspect in a murder case, so chances are my life is over, and I'm walking towards a stranger who I suspect of killing a woman. I don't like my odds here. Even if I get out of this alive, I most likely won't like the results of the case. I should go to Max's Apartment and see if there is a suicide note. If someone did kill him, there should be none.'     My thoughts were suddenly interrupted by what can only be described as a deep, smooth voice. I realized that while my mind was racing my body continued to move toward the danger. Suddenly, I found myself trapped in a narrow alley with my body pinned against a brick wall.    "Now, aren't you interesting. May I offer you a gift?"    The man reached into his trench coat pocket to pulled out something but waited. "What's your favorite color? Come now don't be shy."     "I am FBI Agent, Zane Morningstar. I have a few questions for you, sir. To start where you the night of December 3rd?     The man smirked. "There is no need for that, I know you know I was there. But don't worry, I'm not going to hurt you. I'm just trying to give you a gift."     I gave him a fearsome look as I imagined all the things that he could possibly do to me at this point. I have few options, I need to position myself out from against the wall and find a better angle to deal with a guy like this fast before things get out of hand. "Listen, whatever you did, I need you to tell me now. Things only get worse from here on out unless you turn yourself in." I stated calmly reaching for my holster. 'Perhaps he won't notice that I don't have a gun..'     "You know it's not very nice to try playing games with me. I could offer you an end to keeping that little mouth of yours shut forever." He said sounding devious as if he would enjoy the challenge.    "You are a choice little sick fuck aren't you? How dare you! Who the hell do you think you are? Do you even realize that you just threatened a federal agent? I should arrest you!" I retorted trying to keep my voice stable.     His smirk widened with a slight uneasiness to it, it was as if the prospect made him laugh a little inside. His black and oily razor-sharp teeth exposing themselves, dripping onto the pavement. "No, I'm afraid you're not. See, you're not a cop or an agent right now, and it is you who doesn't have a clue who they are talking to, or what for that matter. However, that is beside the point. I'm going to show you a trick, and all you need to do is accept my gift. Okay? Now, I'll ask again. What is your favorite color? Doesn't have to be your favorite, just name one you want."     "I refuse to entertain you any further. Get out of my way!" I said firmly as I tried to assert my authority.    "Oh dear, Very well then. I must say that was a very dumb move on your part human, I may just give you a chance since I'm in a good hunting mood. Maybe I can have some fun with you," he said. Before standing upright.    'Taller than six foot... He's in the eight range, but how?' I thought to myself in wonder, before looking at his face better as he tilted it to one side. He has one eye, and its iris is Red. 'What is this thing?'                                                        ~ ~ ~ ~                                                

[activatingaggro]

CW: age gap, implied hooking up between adult and teenager. takes place.. a week or so before ID fakes his death, and ditches the clade.

PHERES DYSSEU | 7 sweeps, 17 years old

ICONIC DISQUIET | 9 sweeps, 21 years old

“It’s 3PM,” the television sings, “do you know where your clademates are?”

And just on cue, the door slides open.

The lights in the common room are dimmed. The curtains have been drawn shut, but this late in the day, there’s no way to fully block the sunlight: it creeps in through the cracks in the fabric, seeping into the floor in front of each window in golden pools that make your eyes water. You’ve told Raphae to get a better tint on the panes, but he likes the light. Says it gives the room atmosphere.

“And besides, babe,” he chided, last time you’d brought it up: “- why are you up at 3PM, anyway?”

The next time you start to complain about the light, you’re going to remember this: Pheres walking into the room, wearing enough white that it feels like a slap to the face. There’s white on his shirt, white on his pants, white painted in arching designs across both prongs of that obscene rack. He’s bright enough that he’s practically glowing.

No, scratch that: he’s taken out his lenses, and what you’d thought was an after-image is his eyes, glowing bright as two suns in the darkness. He’s scrubbing at his face as he heads in. He doesn’t pay you any mind, not at all, not until you clear your throat.

“ID,” he says, startling.

“That’s me,” you drawl. You mute the television with your psionics and keep knitting, the click of your needles loud in the sudden silence. “The one and only! And where are you going, mister daywalker?”

He’s never quite dropped his hand from his face. But now it flicks up, fingers brushing close to his eyes before he forces it down. Forces: you can see the muscles in his arm going taut, drawn tense as the tendons in his neck. His smile barely deserves the name. “.. funny.”

“I’m a regular comedian, sweetheart.” He’s lingering directly in front of your television, shifting from foot to foot, but when he notices you watching, he stops moving and lifts his chin. Behind him, the show’s flipped from the commercials back to the recital. But although you can see a familiar pair of horns bobbing behind him, you don’t gesture him to move. Not just yet! You’ve seen Apollo Harley’s last performance a dozen times. But it isn’t often that Pheres comes slinking into the apartment when he’s alone! Why, usually, he doesn’t even risk it with his moirail.

He’s usually too scared. Too terrified, poor pupa: he’s grown in sweeps and inches since Sipara first hauled him in, with his scabbed over face and his cullbait eyes, but he’s never really changed. Never stopped suspecting you were one bad day from culling him, as soon as Raphae turned his back. There’s something flattering about that level of fear! But he hasn’t been cowering at the sound of your very name, lately. And right now, he isn’t even quaking, poor dear. Why, he’s acting like he’s not scared of you at all, and if it weren’t for the were holding his body taut, maybe you’d even believe it. He’s scared, but he’s refusing to show it. That’s something new! And that’s far more interesting than any old recording.

When he slinks forward, you click your needles together, a loud clack that stops him mid-step. “Now, don’t ignore me! That’s rude, sugarhorns.”

“.. my apologies. I didn’t expect you wanted to chat, given that it’s so late, so. Ah. I’m going to bed.” The ‘obviously’ hangs silent. “Raphae gave me a key,” he adds, so sweet and pleasant that it almost makes you pause. It’s the sort of tone he uses on Raphae. It’s not one you’ve ever had directed at you, not from this half-grown sprig: Pheres’s always been sharp and anxious, the few times Sipara hasn’t spoken for him. “Presumably the offer still stands?”

“Well! It’s not like it’s my hive, sugarhorns,” you say, blithe, “so if Raphae said you can stay, I guess that’s that. But the guest room’s that way.” You wave with a needle over towards the far hall, but all Pheres does is laugh. Then he grins at you, sheepish and lopsided as he threads a hand through his hair.

“Ah.” He’s darker than Raphae. The white of his clothes feels blinding even in the light of the room, bright enough that it makes you want to squint as the sunlight catches on the gauze, turns it irisdiscent. “Yes, I realise,” he murmurs. “I was going to Sipara’s, actually.”

“Sipara’s asleep, dearheart, like all good, little pupas.”

And that gets you a frown.

“I’m not going to wake her.” Patience is layered thick as syrup in his words, softening the edges. No wonder Raphae likes him so much: he’s nearly as cloying as one of his co-stars. “I’m just going to sleep -”

“In her recuperacoon?” you ask, raising your eyebrows, and your needles click together as you start the next row. “Just climb in there, smelling like you just dipped yourself into a vat of vodka? Booze and sopor doesn’t mix, fourprongs! You’ll wake her right up.”

“And that’s no good.” You click your tongue, shaking your head. “Sipa-dear has actually been working all night, unlike some of us,” you inform him. “She needs her rest! And not to have it ruined worrying after why her moirail’s come limping in at 3PM, looking like the most bedraggled dandelion in the field.”

“Did you actually go out like that, by the way, or did you lose your glasses along the way? Oh! 'scuse me, sweetpea, glasses and lenses,” you say, helpfully. “Don'tcha know those are expensive? I know that our little rust makes bank, but that’s no call to get careless!”

He lifts his chin. “Sipara doesn’t pay for me,” Pheres says, prim. “Or for my clothes. But, ah, thank you for your concern! But I assure you, I’m not going to wake her up.” There’s nothing on his shirt, but he dusts the front of it off all the same, fingers tugging at the end of his sleeves and straightening them out flat. “I’ll see you in the evening. Enjoy your..”

He glances towards the television. You missed the first blood, listening to him; there’s maroon on the floor, but the poor schlub who got cut is nowhere to be seen. Pheres’s nose wrinkles as Harley’s shoe skirts the pool, close enough that the fabric wrinkles from the heat of it. “.. show,” he says. “Enjoy your show.”

Then he turns and stalks towards the back hall.

You let him take the first three feet. Of course you do! Garbed in white or not, Pheres isn’t exactly a sight for sore eyes: that ridiculous rack of his is long enough to make some of the church-rats jealous, and it’s glossed, to boot, the rough arches gleaming gold in the sunlight. With the curls catching around it and the horns curling on bottom, even you have to admit, it’s kind of fucking gorgeous.

And the rest of him sn’t quite a sight for sore eyes, either.

So you let him take the first three feet, then you snatch hold of him with your psionics. Pink tangles around his ribs and shoulders, and you spin him mid-step. When he stumbles, it’s right back into the recreationblock.

“Hey, there,” you say, amused. “I think you got a little confused, spacecadet! Understandable, really, considering your awful drinking habits, but I’m pretty sure I said the guest room was thattaway.”

The look he gives you this time is infinitely more familiar. “Yes, you did,” he says, mild, but there’s that sharp edge you’re used to. Except it's fascinating, really, because for once, it's just him: he's not peeking from behind Sipara's shoulder, like she's the worst kind of meat-shield, like she could really do anything if you decided to cull him.

It's just him, chin up, nose high, like he's got any right to look down on you. “But I’m not heading there.”

He turns on his heel. You give him another two feet before you spin him around, and this time, he actually flails when the pink lights of your psionics snap into existence.

It doesn’t do anything. He snaps a hand through one band, breaking it, but you’re already tugging him right-ways with the others.

“To the left, sweetheart,” you say, helpfully.

He actually hisses at you. You’ve spent too much time around Riccin and Sipara! When his ears don’t flip back to match, just stay all stiff and round, it actually throws you.

What throws you more is the way he flares up a split second later, eyes lighting up like embers in the night. Psi snaps off of the corners, bright enough that you can hear the whine of it at the edge of your range. “Stop it!” he snaps, baring his fangs so the light hits them, and wouldn't that just be a sight, if they weren't nubs?

“Well, good job, fourprongs, that was practically fucking eloquent.” The ding of your protocol is still new. When Raphae had said he didn’t like cursing, you hadn’t realised how far his definition spread: it feels like someone puts a finger to your node and presses, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough you know it's there. “Maybe if you say please,” you drawl, trying to ignore the intrusion, “I’ll consider it.”

He just looks at you.

And then Pheres takes a deep breath. When he closes his eyes, the room dims, the light fading down to something almost managable. When he opens them, the glow’s dimmer, too, a slower hue that matches the slow rise and fall of his chest, and it's a nice effect, you'll give him that.

“Iconic,” he says, slow and proper, each syllable in that clipped, rural accent of his. He’s grown a few inches in the past few perigees! Seems like everyone’s been doing that, except for you: he’s gained the two, maybe three inches he needed to catch up with Sipara, and he’s tall enough to actually look down his nose at you from the couch. “Might I please go sleep in my moirail’s room? As is her stated preference?”

There’s so much condescension layered in his voice. You let the question hang, because there’s something absolutely precious in the way his breath picks back up in response. Has he always imitated Raphae like this, and you just never noticed? You’d known he was a little cuckoo, but the way he’s holding himself - like a proper little blueblood - is amazing.

“Well,” you finally say. “That just didn’t sound very sincere, sweetheart.” “Stop calling me that.” Three steps, and he’s halfway across the room, his knees bumping into the coffee table in front of you. The glass figurines on top shift, clinking into each other, and you tsk, reaching out to fix where a ceramic kitten nearly fell to the edge. “Careful,” you scold, but he doesn’t pay you any mind, none at all.

“And what is your problem?” he demands. “Being her auspistice doesn’t make you her keeper. She has a lusus, Iconic. She doesn’t need a second one. And she has a moirail. We always sleep in the same recuperacoon.” Frustration leaks in. “I’m not going to wake her up. For heaven’s sake, I’m her moirail. I think I’m a lttle more concerned about that then you.”

“But you’re such a bad one, pupa.” His eyes widen. Then he flushes, red flaring fire-bright in his cheeks. “Oh, sorry,” you laugh, “do you prefer me not using that, either? Sugargrub. Sweethorns. Fourprongs, how’s that –”

“I don’t see how you can judge bad moirails, considering yours is going into the helmsblock.” A beat.

“Or is that your preference?” he says, prim. “I know how your.. religion views such things.”

.. well!

Scratch that. He’s definitely not afraid of you anymore.

You blink at him, watching his face to see if he’ll realise how much he just erred. But Pheres’s chin is up, and his mout set. The jut of his upper horns would almost be threatening, if they weren’t curved over his shoulders, the tips blunted and round.

“My religion,” you repeat, curious, and he gestures sharply towards his cheek. Now that he’s mentioned it, you can feel the black bars on your skin. You’d forgotten to take off your paint after the performance - and of course he’d think you’re a part of the Navigressors, with grease still on your hide.

It almost makes sense. That’s so noteworthy, with Sipara’s little cullbait. “Really? Don’t you mean the clade religion? Because I think you’re a little out-numbered.”

“Sipara’s outgrown it,” he says, peering down at you through his lashes. “It’s a shame the rest of you haven’t.”

You’re not entirely sure what’s changed since the last time you paid any attention to Pheres! Sipara’s spent whole twilights furious about him dealing with bluebloods: maybe their shitty pride has rubbed off. Maybe this is just liquid courage, turning from some cowering rust to someone worth noticing.

You don’t really care why: you like it.

The sunlight to his back puts his face in shadows, and then the light of his psionics set his features into sharp relief. His features look stone-cut in the darkness. The set of his body language is downright imperious. If you slapped fins on him, they wouldn’t be out of place - but why bother with fins, when he’s got that curling rack?

No wonder he’s got that brace on his neck. Between the weight of both sets, it’s a wonder it hasn’t just snapped.

It’s a wonder someone hasn’t snapped it!

But seeing this half-grown sprout try and get belligerent at you is the best entertainment you’ve had all night.

“But it doesn’t matter,” he continues. His chin’s up, but now there’s amusement seeping into his voice, too, sweet and poisonous as bad well-water. “You realise you can’t actually stop me, don’t you?”

He lifts a hand, and snaps. There’s a buzzing in your horns, seeping all the way down into your horn-bed as energy builds - then light flares at his fingertip, pooling down into the bed of his palm as it grows. Psionic tricks like this are a dime a dozen. Doesn’t mean the way the light creeps across his skin, darkening the hue and bleaching out the white of his clothes, isn’t attractive. “It’s Sipara’s hive, too. I can go anywhere in this block that I want. I was being polite,” he emphasizes, eyes narrowed, “in asking, instead of just jumping.”

“I wasn’t actually asking permission.”

Oh, right. That’s what his power was.

(What sort of maroonblood teleports?)

“Isn’t that just sweet of you?” He doesn’t slouch, at that, which’s a surprise: his lips thin instead, his horn tilts up. If he were a more interesting troll, he would’ve growled. It’s a shame he isn’t. “D'you want a medal, fourprongs? ‘cause I’m afraid I’m all out.”

“It’s a good thing you were polite,” you add. “Just imagine what might’ve happened if you weren’t! Why, some cullbait vagrant just storming into my matesprit’s hive, in the wee hours of the night. Barging into my poor auspitice’s room. What’s a fellow to do, in that case?”

“I mean, just look at yourself. I’m surprised the security bots even let you in through the door, to be honest!” He opens his mouth. You laugh, waving a hand, and unfold yourself from the couch.

Pheres stiffens, but he doesn’t step back when you step forward. He doesn’t flinch, either - and isn’t that just a disappointment? “Oh, honeypie, I know you’re on the admissions list,” you drawl, “but look at yourself. You look like a goddamn ghoul. If they had any sense, they would’ve culled you, just to be sure.”

“But I guess you’re just lucky like that.” He tucks his chin in, tossing his head. On anyone else, it’d be a horn toss. On him, it’s just absurd. “Unfor~tunately for you, my little raspberry, I’m just not as forgiving as the bots! If you try to do your little bunny-hop in, my darling sprite, I will haul you out personally, how’s that?” You place a hand on his shoulders. He’s coiled tight under you: if he gets any tenser, he might just break.

Poor thing.

And you don’t want to break him. Sipara would get upset, bless her heart! But you do dig your nails in as you lean in, and your smile’s as thin as his lips. “Or ma~aybe,” you drawl, “I’ll just do all of us a favour and haul you out the window, how’s that? Sipa’ll get over it –”

When he tenses, you know he’s going to do something. but you’re not expecting him to slam those absurd horns right into the underside of your chin. Your head jerks up even as you start to twist  away, and he takes advantage of that. His hands plant firmly in your shoulders and he shoves, hard.

Sweeps of experience should keep you upright! But momentum wins. You fall, hitting the coffee table, and distantly you hear the tinkling of glass shattering. More relevant is the way you haven’t let go of his shoulders, though. Pheres writhes like a snake, fangs bared, but you haul him down with you.

Your ass hits the edge of the table, then your shoulders. Instinct alone has your horns hitting the soft carpet with a puft, rather than the wooden edge. And there’s bony knees digging into your hips, and bony fingers digging holes into your shoulders. Above you, Pheres is as wide-eyed as if he was the one that just got fucking shoved.

“Did you just break my cats?” you demand, incredulous, and letting go of his shoulders, you fumble around you on the carpet. Everywhere you touch, there’s glass.

This close, with the dark of the ceiling above him, you can make out the faded bloom of his pupils, faded pink behind the glare of the white. Before, he’d flushed. Now he’s just red, the colour creeping up like a rash.

When he realises you’re staring, he laughs, brittle and high. “I did you a favour. An undeserved one. They’re fucking terrible.” His fingers curl in, his nails biting into your bare skin. “I’m not going to apologise,” he adds. “You deserved that.”

You really, really should cull him for this. Half of those figurines are collector’s items! They are unique and precious to you, and worse yet, they’re irreplaceable. They don’t even make them anymore! You can feel the shards digging into your back through the fabric of your cardigan, undoubtedly ripping holes into the weave of the fabric. But unlike your poor figurines, you can always replace the sweater.

And right now, even with dollar signs dancing in front of your eyes.. you can’t bring yourself to be too irate over the figurines. Pheres’s half bent over you, knees framing your hips, his claws digging into your shoulders. This close, he’s warm as the sunlight on his back, and when you shift, letting yourself get a bit more comfortable on the ground, he doesn’t move.

He just exhales, a little shakily. This close, you can smell the vodka on his breath, but it doesn’t matter: he’s a psionic, and his eyes aren’t dull. He’s burned it off. If he hasn’t, he will.

“Besides,” he adds, “you can’t complain. You’re not even bleeding.”

“Yet,” you say, and shrug your shoulders. “Watch your nails, pupa, they’re sharp.”

Pheres blinks, looking down at his hands like he forgot they were there. Then he jolts up, eyes wide, nervous laughter bubbling up like foam from a spritzer. “Ah -” Surprise sets in. For a moment, he’s straight as a board, sliding back like he’s able to pull off of you entirely.

But he doesn’t. He looks down at you, eyes wide, then he relaxes, inch by inch. “Don’t call me pupa,” is what he says, waspish, even as he clasps his hands in front of him. (No blood on his claws, but he actually manicured them, and they’re as white as the gauze on his arms. It’s absurd.)

“I already told you that. I have a name.”

“So Sipara’s told me, unfortunately!” It’s a little hard to focus on anything but the glutes on your hips, honestly. You shift, bracing an elbow behind you, and look up at him. Pheres isn’t half-bad looking from this angle, all things considered! If he didn’t keep talking, you’d focus on that.

But he doesn’t seem keen to shut the fuck up. “Right. She’s told you.” He shakes his head at you. “She’s told you all about me, and us, and I’m sure she’s mentioning me every time I so much as message her,” he says, and it’s not bragging: he states it as a fact, crisp and clean and without so much as an edge of doubt in his voice. “Because we’re moirails. And that’s what moirails do. You’re so concerned about me waking her!”

“Well, how do you think she’d feel about this? Me scrapping on the ground with you, like we’re a couple of lowbloods?”

“.. are we scrapping? Last I saw,” you note, “you’re the one that took a swing, darling. And now you’re just sitting on me.”

He flushes at that, but when he shoves at your shoulder, breath so terse it comes out as a hiss, he doesn’t move.

Oh, you should move him. You know you should, honestly, and you can hear Raphae in the back of your pan, dubious, as loud as a pan nanny: “- are you robbing the school creches now, Iconic?” But you can’t bring yourself to care.

He’s pretty, and he’s warm, and if he’d just shut up --

Well. You can’t say you’re averse, not when this is getting fascinatingly caliginious. Caliginious is a strong word for it, maybe: you’re not precisely certain what he’s doing here. The only thing you’re sure of is that he has no idea what he’s doing here.

If only he’d shut up.

“That’s not moirallegience,” you say, because you can’t resist an opening, and Pheres is nothing but them: he’s targets upon targets, all there to be fucking prodded. “That’s co-dependence.”

Pheres swells. “What do you even know about quadrants?” he demands, flustered, fucking aghast. “You don’t even care about the ones you have! I’ve never even seen that yellow that you and Sipara are all about - you don’t have pictures of him up, you don’t have his name up. On anything. I’ve checked.” He’s emphasizing each word, gesturing with a hand as he talks. “Or Iphige’s, or.. even Raphae’s, for heaven’s sake. And he’s your matesprit! Most people would have his face plastered everywhere.”

“So many questions! Are you trying to pile me?” Pheres’s been frowning. Now he genuinely scowls. “Because,” you say cheerfully, “you’re getting awfully personal –”

“Do base accusations usually work to distract people? Sipara uses them, but she’s seven. I rather thought you’d learn better by ten!” He pauses, takes a breath. “But it makes sense. No wonder you’re so worried about Sipara and I’s relationship.”

“You’re projecting,” he declares. “That’s a little embarrassing, don’t you think?”

There’s a hundred different things you could say to that. There’s a hundred different retorts! You’re not going to be shown up by some half-grown adolescent. And somehow the tables have shifted. He’s amused, and you’re not.

“Nine,” is what you manage, irritated at him, irritated at yourself. (Two sweeps. Eleven is looming like an omen, but you’ve still got two sweeps until you’re plugged in, and Raphae has his matched set. Two sweeps, and you’re not going to let this scrap of fabric take one from you early.) “I’m nine.”

“Really? With all the mention of pupas, I was certain you must be at least ten. Maybe eleven!” Maybe you twitch. For the briefest moment, Pheres’s eyebrows knit. Then he grins, shakes his head. The motion sends his twists spiralling. “Heaven only knows you’re the oldest person in the hive. Still.. that’s an entire sweep until you’re conscripted. Such a difference,” he says, poisonously bright. “However could I forget? Nine, and a few perigees. But that poses another question!”

“How, exactly, are you so bad at quadrants?”

Somehow, this isn’t amusing at all.

“Codependence. Moirallegience. Really! Are you even serious? Is Iphige even your moirail,” he asks, pointed, “or is that just for convenience, just like your matesprit?”

“Alright, alright. This is absolutely precious, but analysing ID hour is over, I’m afraid! And you’re digging holes into my organs, sweetheart. So you can just move.” You start to push up. There’s glass digging into your elbows. The cleaner droids are going to have a field-day with this.

But Pheres is not moving. Pheres is just staring at you, eyes narrowed, chewing on his lip. “I don’t see why you care,” he says, irritated. “Are you going to let me go without - threatening to haul me back by my hair, or something savage?”

“.. I’m fairly certain I said nothing about hair, sweetheart!” He’s not moving. For all of your shifting, when you still, he’s still perched on your hips. “Have you been thinking about this?” you say, amused, eyeing him. “Because, sure, we can work that in -”

“Then we’re not done talking,” he announces, and slams his hands into your shoulders.

You let him push you down. He’s rougher than you’d have expected! Your horns hit the ground with a thump, and - alright, this’s progressing. Unexpectedly.

He’s still chewing on his lip. The skin’s pinched and colouring, the red bright under his fang. You’ve got half a mind to bite it, see if you can’t spill it properly.

If he doesn’t beat you to it first, because he leans forward, hands braced on your shoulders. “I don’t understand,” he says, frustrated. “It’s none of your business! This isn’t how auspisticism works! This isn’t your job, and it’s not - you shouldn’t care!”

“It doesn’t make any sense, unless..“ His breath catches. His eyes widen. If he had ears worth noting, they’d lift, but instead he swallows, hard, and practically bounces on top of you. "Oh my god,” he marvels, “you’re pale for her.”

“I can’t believe it.” His hair’s fallen out of those ridiculous ringlets and into waves. They’re tumbling past and around his horns, framing his face like a halo and blocking out the light. There’s no heat coming from the glow of his eyes! But the warmth in his voice scalds. “Oh, but - it makes so much sense.”

“I should’ve guessed, when you moved her in.” He’s picking up in speed. “I told her auspitices aren’t that kind. I told her you had motives.”

Raphae’s asked you before, exasperated, long suffering: don’t you ever get embarrassed? It’s always been a silly question. You don’t do shame!

Until, as it turns out, there’s a ninety pound bag of knives sitting on your thorax, casting all sorts of frankly unfortunate aspersions on you! You pride yourself on not caring, usually, but it’s remarkably hard to keep your balance with the bone-sharp jut of a knee digging into your hip, and the carpet doing its very best to add new holes to your back.

“Look -”

“No, no, my apologies. That was untoward. You’ve demonstrated that you’re such a kind hearted soul,” he says cheerily. “No, perhaps it was later. When you first saw her fighting? Good heavens. After you put her into the ring? This is just - I can’t believe it.”

“You don’t care about your moirail,” he announces, viciously pleased. “You don’t care about your matesprit. You don’t care about anything at all, except - blurring on my moirail. Don’t you think you ought to be paying attention to your own quadrants, ID? They’re your age.”

“This is just pathetic.”

“Oh, fuck off -” you snap, and midword, he fucking kisses you.

[stayradadventureteam]

2016 Rapha Prestige

2016 Rapha Prestige Midwest-in retrospec

For those of you that haven’t read about the 2015 Rapha Prestige Midwest go ahead and give it a read here. If you want to skip it let me give you a quick synopsis… It was about 100 degrees and almost the same humidity. It was a damp burning hell. So I guess, Rapha decided to move it up a little sooner in the year so the weather wouldn’t be so oppressive. April 30th, 2016 was close to the opposite in temperature but just as treacherous.

This year is it was up on the beautiful roads west of Madison, WI around the Blue Mound area.  This is the same Driftless Area as the first RPM just a bit further north. So it still has plenty of up and downs to keep everyone on their toes and having fun.

The weather that day called for…. RAIN. All day, rain. And a high of about 45 degrees. So yeah, it was gonna be just a lovely day in the saddle.

On the bright side the roads this year were almost all paved so we did have that going for us. Rapha likes to keep everyone in suspense on these rides and wait until the very last minute to give out the course. I kind of enjoy that part of it. It makes me over pack(and over think) and run around doing everything I can to CYA before the last day.

Sitting at the start at Cress Spring Bakery in the middle of nowhere the weather looked like it was going to clear up a bit.  After a few miles we removed layers, stached the rain jackets and were enjoying the day with our fingers crossed it would stay that way. That didn’t last. Soon enough the skies darkened up and began to weep. And weep. And weep. From that point on the rest of the day was to be enjoyed in the rain. Good rain gear made or broke the ride this year. I had recently received a Gore waterproof cap as a gift and it earned its keep that day. Without that and a solid rain jacket there is no way that I could have made it as long as I did.

Leaving in waves, we rode through some quaint little towns and through plenty of farm fields and end up missing a turn onto the Badger State Trail. We quickly figured out our mistake and flipped around and got back on track. Soon after hitting the limestone we came up to the Stewart Tunnel, a quarter mile long 21’ high and 14’ wide tunnel with a slight bend in the middle so when you enter it becomes completely black. None of us brought a light bright enough to light our route so we just slowed down and took out sweet time getting through. There was a group of folks hanging out in the middle just drinking beer and enjoying the lovely day we were having. I had my eyes locked on their little lights to help lead the way. It was amazing.

Almost to the first stop in Blanchardville the Comrade Cycles team caught us. Three of which on single speeds. Yep, single speeds. As they buzzed by I hollered, “What took so long?” Then they were gone not to be seen again until the end.

Once in Blanchardville we found our way to a small gas station with some warm food and drink and a table for us to disrobe from our wet gear. After loading up on snack, refilling bottles and the such we started to get ready to hit the road again. We probably stayed in the heat too long, it was hard to leave.

From there the temps slowly dipped a bit as the wind picked up and the spirits dipped as well. That’s when we saw Tim, from the Union team, in a van coming by after he had dropped out. That gave me mixed emotions. Part of me was sad to see such a strong rider pulling the plug on a tough day, but part of me got a little bump from him holler out the window, "STAY RAD", at us to keep it up!

That didn’t last too long. Sean was really starting to feel the wet and the cold. His jacket was not being a team player with him and was long since soaked through. Now, if you know Sean you know he rarely show any pain, or any emotion for that matter. He can be on the front of a race, stoic faced and crushing. However, this day was different. With legs long since soaked and shoes heavy from the water built up in them we were all fading.

Everything got harder. The wind was starting to pick up making the flat sections almost as difficult as the hills that define the area. One of those hills broke me, that was it, I was going to do it, I was going to walk a hill. It was the first, and to this point last, time I had walked a hill. There was a lot in me that said to just stay on the bike and force your way up it, but too much had built up already and I didn’t care anymore, I was walking.

Not soon after we were caught by the rest of the Union Cycling team out there and their faces mirror ours. We ride with them to the last stop on the route in Ridgeway. Not a lot of talking went on, just heads down and working together to get though.

Once in Ridgeway, we stopped at a gas station with food and hot chocolate. At that point all of us were in a different state of mind. I wanted nothing more than to go inside drink the biggest cup of boiling hot chocolate I could and warm up my insides. Schratz and Kristina had a different plan, stay for a short as possible and just get back on the road and finish. And Sean had the bleakest of plans…  hitch a ride back to the start. And I couldn’t blame him. We were saddened to see him leave but understood his reasons completely. Had my jacket and cap not been doing their job I’m not sure I would have lasted as long as he.  We also discovered that the Union squad had made the same decision as Sean and take a ride back to the bakery.

There we also ran into the Half Acre Cycling team as they were warming up inside.  Tim Coghlan, of Rapha, came into the gas station with disparaged look on his face and a truncated route. The new route took the sand and limestone path that was right out the door to Blue Mound to drop off some miles(and elevation) but still giving us the ability to finish the route by the power of our own two legs. We took that option.

The three of us teamed up with the remaining three of Half Acre to reunite Rad Acre and finish the ride. The bike path was brutal. Hours of rain and sandy limestone do not make up for very solid ground. This is the first time that my decision of riding on 28’s took its toll, at least that’s what I’m going to blame it on. Jen, Johnny and Kristina were put the hurt on and I was doing my damnedest to stay with the group.  Kristina was especially smashing it in the sand, like a demon chasing a lost soul.

Finally back on pavement we gave the final decision on the route, standing at a "T" intersection with the choice to go UP Mounds Rd for the out and back or turn right and go four and a half miles to the bakery. With the wind picking up and all of our digits getting colder by the second we decided that cutting the out and back out was going to be our choice.

The final stretch, no more turns until the bakery. Knowing the end was near we took full advantage of the amazing paved rollers ahead of us.  Half Acre had the same idea, dropping us on the final miles. We bombed down the last few miles.  The speed of the descents topped with the freeze wet temps made every effort to control our bikes & brakes a fight for survival. Windy and rain spitting in our tired happy faces, we finally rolled into the parking lot.  Wet, cold, tired, done, happy.

From then on it was all smiles. The fine gentlemen running the food truck were handing out Dixie cups of chicken broth and it was the greatest chicken broth any of us had ever had. With a quick change into dry clothes we were all starting to get a little color back in out cheeks along with food and drinks in our bellies.

With ten months of reflection, I decided it was an amazing adventure on some incredible roads in some less than ideal conditions. Not often do I decided to ride my bike 95 miles in the rain in 45 degree temperatures, but then, I wouldn't have had this tale to tell. Without the stellar team of Jon, Kristina and Sean it wouldn’t have been nearly as fun.

Words by Joel, Photos by Joel & Kristina