#snatch block manufacturers

[mariacallous]

For years, I sat down to work each morning, realizing hours later that I felt drained, but got little done. Instead of writing, I spent my time texting, emailing, and mostly aimlessly browsing through news sites, blogs, and social networks. Every click triggered another. I tried to regain control by using an app called Freedom that blocked my computer online access for fixed periods of time. Sometimes it helped, especially when I had a work deadline looming. Sometimes it didn’t. But trying to control work time was only part of the struggle. I kept feeling the irresistible urge to pull out my phone wherever I went. At that point, I blamed myself. After all, I was the girl who spent hours playing video games well into college. But something happened in 2015 that made me realize that something much bigger was awry.

It was a Saturday evening when I arrived with my family to a friends’ home for dinner. Their 11-year-old son was playing with his parents’ iPad. When we came in, his parents demanded that he hand it over and join the other kids. The boy at first refused to hand it over. He then tried angrily to snatch it back from his mother, regressing to toddler-style wailing to demand the device. Throughout a long evening he exercised every manipulation tool in his power to regain control of the iPad. As I observed his parents’ despair, I recalled a family conflict that transpired at my parents’ house some years earlier. At that time doctors diagnosed my father, a heavy smoker, with emphysema. My father could have avoided his painful final years, hooked to an oxygen tank, by quitting smoking when he was diagnosed. He refused. We desperately tried to resist his decision by taking his cigarettes away. But like my friends’ son, my father reacted with uncharacteristic anger, exercising every means at his disposal to get his cigarette pack back.

That day I began to see how our present relates to our past. The past can answer one of today’s most perplexing problems. Why, despite multiple reports from Silicon Valley whistleblowers revealing that technology companies are using manipulative designs to prolong our time online, do we feel personally responsible? Why do we still blame ourselves and keep seeking new self-help methods to decrease our time online? We can learn from the past because in this case the tech companies did not innovate. Instead, the technology industry manipulated us following an old playbook, put together by other powerful industries, including the tobacco and food industries. 

When the tobacco and food industries confronted allegations that their products harmed their consumers, they defended themselves by raising the powerful American social icon of self-choice and personal responsibility. This meant emphasizing that consumers are free to make choices and, as a result, are responsible for the outcomes. Smokers and their families sued the tobacco industry for the devastation of smoking, including lung cancer and early death. But, for decades, they failed to win their lawsuits because the tobacco industry argued successfully that they chose to smoke and, therefore, they are responsible for the results. The food industry employed an identical strategy. When a group of teenagers sued McDonald’s because they suffered from obesity and diabetes after eating regularly at McDonald’s, McDonald’s also successfully raised the same claim. It argued that no one forced the teenagers to eat at McDonald’s, and since it was their choice, McDonald’s is not responsible for any health ramifications. The food industry went further. They successfully lobbied for laws known as the “cheeseburger laws” or more formally as the Commonsense Consumption Acts. Under these laws, food manufacturers and vendors cannot be held legally responsible for their consumers’ obesity. Why? Because the laws proclaim that this will foster a culture of consumer personal responsibility, which is important for promoting a healthy society.

The tobacco and food companies did not stop at just arguing directly that their consumers are responsible. They also provided new products to help them make better choices. In the 1950s, researchers published the first studies showing the connection between smoking and lung cancer.  In response, the tobacco companies offered consumers the option to choose a new healthier product: the filtered cigarette. They advertised it as “just what the doctor ordered,” claiming it removed nicotine and tar. Smokers went for it. Yet, they did not know that to compensate for the taste robbed by the filtered cigarette, companies used stronger tobacco that yielded as much nicotine and tar as the unfiltered brands. Here as well, the food industry followed suit. It also offered tools to reinforce that its consumers are in control. Facing criticism of the low nutritional value of their products, food manufacturers added products called “Eating Right” and “Healthy Choice.” While giving consumers the illusion they were making better choices, the diet product lines often made little improvement over the original products.

The tech industry is already applying this strategy by appealing to our deeply ingrained cultural beliefs of personal choice and responsibility. Tech companies do this directly when faced with allegations that they are addicting users. When the US Federal Trade Commission evaluated restricting use of loot boxes, an addictive feature common in video games, video game manufacturers argued: “No one is forced to spend money on a video game that is free to play. They choose what they want to spend and when they want to spend it and how they want to spend it.” But the technology industry also does it indirectly by providing us with tools to enhance our illusion of control. They give us tools like Apple’s Screen Time, which notifies us how much time we spend on screens. They also allow us to restrict time on certain apps, but then we can override these restrictions. We can choose to set our phones on “do not disturb” or “focus times.” We can set Instagram to remind us to take breaks. Yet, screen time continues to creep up. These tools are not successful, because just like the “filtered cigarette” and the “healthy choice” food products, they are not meant to solve the problem. Tech companies did not eliminate the addictive designs that keep prolonging our time online. The goal of these products, also known as digital well-being tools, was to keep the blame ball in our court, as we unsuccessfully face devices and apps that manipulatively entice us to stay on.

Awareness is crucial to stop blaming ourselves, but learning how the battles of the past played out also provides a rich repository for future action. Importantly, it exposes the vulnerabilities of the technology industry’s self-choice and responsibility argument. How? For one, when evidence comes out that businesses intended to addict consumers, it often defeats the industry’s argument that consumers voluntarily chose the products and are responsible for the consequences. In the 1990s, information leaking out of the tobacco companies’ fortress revealed that the tobacco industry knew that nicotine was addictive and manipulated it to maximize consumption by smokers. It was then that courts began attributing more responsibility to the tobacco industry, and smokers finally started winning cases. This is directly relevant today as whistleblowers report that tech companies purposefully addicted their users to prolong their time online, while choosing to ignore the harms. Second, children are the Achilles’ heel of the personal choice and responsibility defense. While many object to making paternalistic choices for adults, choosing for children is acceptable. For example, kids are not allowed to purchase cigarettes. Legal action is already underway to protect kids from the harms of excessive screen time.

Parents are suing social media companies and gamemakers for addicting their kids and causing them mental harm. They are no longer alone. Recently, school systems sued for the costs of treating kids harmed by social networks. Representatives of the US Congress and state legislatures relentlessly propose bills to protect children. Proposals raise different solutions from  imposing liability on social networks should they fail to remove addictive features to prohibiting access to social media for kids. The past illustrates that the weakness of the personal choice and responsibility defense with regard to kids makes this path particularly likely to succeed.

We can also push against the technology industry’s business model. Under this model, we get products like Gmail and Instagram for free. Still we pay, though not in money. We pay with our time and data. In recent years, government agencies filed antitrust actions against Big Tech. If successful, these actions could destabilize the prevailing business model. For example, should an action against Meta, which currently holds Facebook, Instagram, and WhatsApp, succeed, and break it up, it will likely encourage competition. Competition could push toward alternative business models, such as subscriptions or pay-as-you-go. When a company’s business model does not rely on our time as its main resource, its need to design products that maximize our time online diminishes.

While a movement to battle technology is underway, it cannot rely on lawyers alone. Parents can influence schools to better assess and limit incorporation of technology into the classroom. Business owners can impact use of screens on their premises. For example, restaurant owners can decide not to replace menus with QR codes, thereby reducing the likelihood that patrons will take their phone out during the meal. Online entrepreneurs can opt for an alternative business model, one that is not based on advertising and user time. Technology designers can evaluate whether to design a feature aimed primarily at keeping users online for longer. We have many options to make a collective impact. Changing norms and business operations is possible. Looking at the past illustrates the possibilities of the future. We could never imagine bars without cigarettes, but they became our reality. So can a better-balanced tech future.

[mystalwartheart]

🏤 Stepping into a house that gives off all the wrong vibes [sorry, old os so the emote didn't show up for this one haaa] 🎹 Nighttime in an ancient house/manor, with the tinkling of piano keys from the next room

----

these sounded so good together, i feel they'd make something interesting perhaps~?

The night is eerily calm and still, hanging over the forest as if it were a physical weight. The only sounds to be heard are the light rustling of the trees in the wind. If indeed that's what they truly are.

Regina warily eyes the unnervingly sumptuous manor house before her, deducing the quickest and safest entry route. She and her team have been deployed here by...special request, following reports from the area of body snatching and human remains being illegally sold to bioweapons manufacturers. She's been instructed by her local guide to bring her team to this historic estate and wait there to meet her.

Now that she's here though, Regina's instincts and training immediately tell her something is off. The stately mansion feels like an emanation of the strange energies radiating from this place, and she's starting to get flashbacks she'd rather not deal with right now.

Not again.

Silently, Regina directs her team to follow her lead inside the structure with hand signals. She's heard the stories, and she has the intel: There are eyes and ears everywhere in this land. Cut off from the outside world with no access to radio communications, Regina fears this will be the most grueling and high stakes black ops mission she's ever been on, and she'll have no choice but to put her complete trust and faith in her guide.

She can only hope and pray that's wise.

The old door opens and Regina cautiously takes her team inside in formation. She intently scans the foyer, connected rooms and branching hallways with her Betalight torch for any signs of life. As she advances, she does her best to block out the memories that claw at the back of her mind.

Then she hears it, and can barely believe her ears: Someone - or something - is playing the piano softly in an adjacent room. And she knows the tune: Beethoven's Piano Sonata Number 14, Quasi una fantasia.

"Mondscheinsonate". "Moonlight Sonata". Regina knows a trap when she sees one. The house is toying with her, but she's ready too: Instructing her team to hold back and guard her rear flank, she enters the next room on her own, sidearm aimed and ready. She finds no evidence of anyone else in the room with her though, and slowly moves to investigate the grand piano in the center. She inspects the beautiful instrument, quickly scanning her eyes across the keys.

She won't play this time, though.

[milemarkerindustry]

Mile Marker Industries has been in business for over thirty years, providing high quality, highly durable, hydraulic and electric winches, mounting systems, locking hubs, snatch blocks, shackles, tow and rigging ropes, recovery kits, vehicle accessories and more to off-road motorists. 

Our products are available in retail shops across the U.S. and we have dealers throughout the world. 

When you need high quality, highly reliable, well-tested products for your ATV or 4×4, you can count on Mile Marker and our team of professionals to help you out. 

[seogurus233]

Cell phone Advertising and marketing Services: Elevating Your main Digital camera Being successful

Around the ever-evolving land for a digital online marketing, vacationing in front of the bender isn't the purpose nevertheless a necessity. Cell phone online marketing, essentially, has developed into building block pertaining to firms planning to relate with their own projected audience around real-time. In that extensive tutorial, we investigate the world of transportable online marketing sales staff, falling lighting on their own very important identity around propelling your internet business to help newer heights.

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These Rise for SMS Advertising and marketing Services During a world soaked together with signals, standing out on your audience'lenses textual content mail entails finesse. SMS online marketing sales staff might possibly be the maestros orchestrating advertisments which track the particular distractions together with resonate together with consumers.

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Conclusion: Your main Quest to help Cell phone Advertising and marketing Care

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Begin your journey to help transportable online marketing excellence together with the support of these consultants. Regardless of whether you're also coordinating a app with the app retain, writing fascinating SMS advertisments, or possibly driving the particular complexities for transportable SEO, their own proficiency is paramount to help unleashing the entire possible of the a digital presence.

Around the an entire world of transportable online marketing, it'lenses not merely pertaining to reaching a projected audience; it'lenses about producing special cable connections which stand up test for time. Rely upon the help of transportable online marketing sales staff, and let your manufacturer thrive in the ever-evolving land for a digital possibilities.

On a regular basis Expected Things Q1: So what sets transportable online marketing sales staff besides regular online marketing sales staff? Cell phone online marketing sales staff are known for systems tailor-made pertaining to mobile devices, contemplating the unique buyer doings together with inclinations relating to smartphones together with tablets. Their particular proficiency exercises past regular online marketing, surrounding features including app retain search engine optimization, SMS advertisments, together with transportable buyer experience.

Q2: How should transportable analytics sales staff help with the achievements of online marketing advertisments? Cell phone analytics sales staff execute an important role around altering undercooked facts in actionable insights. From comprehending buyer behavior, campaign ability, together with other metrics, they offer useful knowledge which instructions strategic decision-making, assisting in firms complicate their own method for ideal results.

Q3: Might be transportable online marketing primarily useful pertaining to firms together with transportable apps? While wearing a transportable app could be valuable, transportable online marketing is actually useful pertaining to every business together with a respectable presence. Cell phone online marketing sales staff compose systems which think about transportable web-site search engine optimization, reactive develop, together with other causes which enhance the generally transportable buyer experience.

Q4: So what identity carry out cross-channel online marketing gurus execute around be sure you plan? Cross-channel online marketing gurus establish natural systems which span various a digital platforms. From synchronizing texting together with advertising all over various pipes, many make certain a standardized together with impactful manufacturer existence, making the most of obtain together with engagement.

Q5: Just how could firms leverage promising technological know-how for their transportable online marketing systems? Cell phone online marketing sales staff remain current with promising technological know-how including enhanced truthfulness, style seek out, together with more. Companies can certainly leverage these kind of designs to raise buyer ordeals, make a distinction their own manufacturer, together with stand above competitors in the changing a digital landscape.

[imithoist]

Reliable Snatch Block Manufacturer

Boost your lifting capabilities with MIT Hoist's top-notch snatch blocks. Our industry-leading snatch block manufacturer deliver reliable, high-quality solutions for your heavy-duty applications. Don't miss out on the opportunity to enhance your lifting operations. Contact us (+8657682453785) today and experience the power of MIT Hoist's snatch blocks.

[saudidutestme]

Saudi Dutest: Your one stop solution for all lifting equipment

Saudi Dutest is a prominent name in GCC among the professional lifting equipment suppliers in Saudi Arabia that provides their clientele with a wide range of lifting equipment and inspection services across the construction, manufacturing and the civil industries. 

Established in the year 2011, they have understood the dynamic local market and have emerged as a leader in providing lifting solutions for occupational safety throughout the Middle East. They cater to their clients with proficient, robust and consistent goods and services. Saudi Dutest implements international quality management systems, verifying their commitment to providing quality consistent products, backed by an experienced and qualified engineering team. 

Saudi Dutest provides a range of lifting supplies & services for Saudi based customers, including those such as wire rope slings, chain slings, webbing slings, shackles, hooks, general lifting gear as well as third party inspection, repair and testing services. They are also the authorized distributors of Crosby, Casar, Modulift, and Dillion. Saudi Dutest is the sole agent for Gripton lifting gear, which is a U.K. based company with over 50 years of experience, providing the highest quality lifting gear. 

Being a recognized supplier of lifting equipment, Saudi Dutest popularly represents this wide range of internationally credited lifting accessories in the KSA. 

Lifting Gears – The gears help to pull up the heavy loads without applying any manual strength and are mandatory for performing any kind of lifting applications. Popular lifting gears include geared trolley, horizontal and vertical clamps, snatch block, lever hoists, chain hoists and many more.

Lifting Slings – Slings are rope-like structures, which are used to lift heavy loads in the lifting industry. As per different lifting applications, different types of slings are used, such as chain slings, wire rope slings, webbing slings, etc.

Shackles – These are used to lock the slings while lifting heavy loads. Some of the popular shackles which are represented by Saudi Dutest are nut and bolt shackles, screw pin D shackle, screw pin bow shackle, nut and bolt D shackle, etc.

Force Measuring Equipment – These devices are used to measure the tension force acquired while lifting a load. AP dynamometers, mechanical force gauge are some of the common force measuring devices.

Saudi Dutest manufactures all its products in accordance with the latest technology and complies to various safety standards, ensuring safety and quality management. Through their professional approach, competitive pricing and highly customer centric services, Saudi Dutest has arose as a pioneer in the lifting solutions industry in the KSA.

[brd-group-of-company]

Safety Measures:

1. Push button controller voltage restricted to a low, danger free 24V

2. Dependable electromagnetic brake inbuilt for hoisting lowering motion

3. Limit switch prevents over hoisting of snatch block/load avoiding accidents

4. Operated through a reliable circuit incorporating contractor

5. Back up fuses

6. Isolating switch

7. Indicating lamp

[boytouya]

𝙒𝙖𝙞𝙩 𝙖 𝙈𝙞𝙣𝙪𝙩𝙚!

words: 1.2k

warning: profanity

request: “HELLO! <3 how r u !! could I request a mean male reader bullying back bakugou yet flirting w/ him at the same time? arson boy would be so disturbed. 😭your requests say open but PLEASE ignore this if they’re not, for my own dodge of self-embarrassment, LMFAOOO Ɛ/>”

a/n: i’m doing alright, sweetheart! i hope you’ve been doing well. this has been sitting in my inbox since april i’m so sorry!!! i hope i could do this request justice. i’m considering making it longer.. i didn’t wanna make the reader an unlikeable kind of mean so i went with something more tame, that’s why it sounds more like friends going back and forth :)

“Get your filthy paws off me!” Katsuki snarls, the link gums of his mouth exposed as he bares his teeth. If there were one word to describe him, it’d be feral. Sharp canines, an angular jawline and rough scarlet eyes that had a never ending blaze behind them. They were a deep shade of red, almost appearing brown. He was frustratingly handsome, the kind of pretty that only boys could achieve, with unnecessarily long eyelashes and beauty marks. His hair goes in all sorts of directions, each strand somehow meeting perfectly to form the most endearing row of spikes you’ve ever seen. He pushes you aside with his wrist, as if touching you with his entire hand would infect him.

His explosions were just as bright as his mind, the thought pops up when he nearly casts an explosion straight into your face. It crackles on his fingertips, illuminating an orange glow against the curves of your face. It blends almost perfectly into the apples of your cheeks and beneath your irises. He curses himself for thinking about you in so much detail, but how could he not?

“Ahh, ‘get your filthy paws off me!’” You tack on a nasally voice, obviously over exaggerated to make the boy uncomfortable. It works, seeing as he grunts and tears his gaze away. You can smell something burning, the dense scent of charcoal filling the air. “Stop projecting, and pull up your pants. You look fuckin’ stupid.” The insult comes out with a bit more venom than intended, and it clearly gets under his skin. The comment festers, aggressively at that.

“Keep mentioning being stupid and I’ll beat you till you are!” His pupils dilate, just underneath the light shining through his eyelashes. His tongue, as pink as his lips, swipes under his teeth. It feels like he’s the only other person in the room, a dark vignette blocking you from the rest of your class. Just you and Katsuki. Just you, Katsuki, and the God awful smell of whatever was burning.

“Fuck!” Bakugou yells, patting down his lap. You have to shift to see over his desk, but there’s a burning hole through his baggy pants. The mossy green lacks any sort of smooth transition into charred black. It’s not exactly small, but you wouldn’t say it’s that noticeable either. Around half the size of Katsuki’s calloused palm. He’s usually careful, he never needs to look out for these things because he has one hundred percent perfect control over his quirk. Then there’s you, pushing him off his balance beam for the first time in forever. His feet had already grown unsteady to begin with, but something about your unreasonably handsome face made him stumble.

“Do you have All Might boxers? That’s…kinda cute.” The hole is nowhere near the top end of his thigh, but you like to tease him anyway. There’s heat dwindling on his cheeks, more so than his palm. He doesn’t blush though, instead stomps his heavy foot on yours in retaliation. It could be to distract you from whatever he’s feeling rise to his throat. It definitely distracts you from what you feel in yours.

You’re always the first to check him, pull him back in from his fits of- well, passion. To others, he seemed aggressive and angry, but really, he was just passionate about what he enjoyed. Beating others. His fire was always ignited, the flame sparking the second he developed his quirk, and it only ever grew brighter. You wanted to be his candle, to be able to melt under his flame and bounce back when his wick had burned itself through and through.

“It’s too early for your shit.” Bakugou’s cheek rests against his knuckles, his elbow digging into the edge of his desk. He stares straight ahead, afraid the air would be snatched from his lungs if he makes eye contact with you for any second longer. His cheek, though squished between his hand and excess baby fat, looks incredibly kissable. When he’s not straining his face he appears much more youthful. Of course he was only a teen, the both of you were, but the facial expressions he made reminded you of an old man. The thought of Katsuki hunched over with grey hair, yelling at children brings a smile to your face. He already went to bed early, had a tight ironed schedule and woke up early. Honestly, he was already on his way.

He makes no effort to fully turn his body, let alone actually look at you. Instead, Katsuki tilts his head to the side and stares at you through his peripherals. He hadn’t thought about it till now, but the flirting was actually kind of flattering. Hearing you go on with your day without saying something Denki would fist bump you for left him feeling unsettled, like there was a tsunami in his stomach. He actually kind of liked blowing up your face after you flirt with him.

“I can feel those Granny Smith’s staring straight into my soul,” He ignores the obscure comparison of his eyes to apples, but he’d definitely think about it later. Your backhanded compliments have him tapping his foot against the floor in irritation. The rhythm is somewhat memorising, Katsuki makes a mental note to try it out on his drums in his free time. Not that he’d ever say it was inspired by you. Not in a million years. “Really lets me know where home is, thanks ‘Suki.”

“Don’t call me that, prick!” There are fireworks exploding in his stomach. The fizzle out into sparklers, zapping against his insides and bringing overwhelming thoughts straight to his head. It was an unusual feeling, trapped inside his body and only expelling through bouncing legs. At first, the flirting made him want to punch you in your prince-charming esque face, but hearing the nickname made him feel something else. Warm and floaty inside. With fifty percent humor intended, you reach over the safety of your desk to grasp his hand. In the millisecond you get to hold it, you note it’s faint dampness. A drawback of his quirk, something you’d be sure to tease him about another time. He swats your hand with a loud ‘smack!’ that bounces off the walls of the room. He doesn’t pull away completely, instead brushing his knuckles against your own. His signature nose wrinkle returns, manufactured from the exact opposite of disgust. He hates the way his heart quickens, the way he feels challenged when you speak to him, the way he craves the feeling of your hand on his for just a second longer.

But oddly enough, he loved- no, liked? He wasn’t ready for love yet.- you with every fiber of his being. His knuckles brushing against yours felt like more fiction than it actually was, his heart did somersaults against his ribs when he saw you. Hearing you insult him had always taken him aback, it made a mischievous glint in his eye return just as quick as it vanished. Then you’d laugh, a divine chime that he couldn’t quite describe with words, and say something that stopped the blood flow in his body. You truly were something else, a supernova that only vermillion eyes could see. He was thankful for that. The two of you are rather young, with questioning, impressionable minds that’ll cling to each other for support. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

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[thranduilsperkybutt]

Killer

Gif sources:  1  |  2  |  3

Pairings:  Baron Helmut Zemo/Reader

Warnings:  TFATWS Spoilers! Hurt/comfort, slight angst but hopeful ending, a little bit of spice 🤏 but it’s still solidly SFW and mostly near the end; insignificant character death; canon violence; Zemo being a menace not only to my heart but my mental health

Word Count:  11,932 words

Reader Gender:  Female

Author: Meg

Summary:  While tracking the Flag Smashers across Europe alongside Sam and Bucky, you suddenly find yourself in need of a hero. The man who comes to your rescue, however, is the villain of too many people’s stories to ever be mistaken for one. The lines between what is and what should be become blurrier, making it too easy to forget that you aren’t supposed to like Baron Helmut Zemo at all.

A/N:  Based on a simple sentence my friend said in the middle of us both simping over Zemo together, which inspired a novel lolol 😂 Whoops! Sorry I’m so long-winded, but I hope you guys like this anyway!

Oh, this was not good.

So very, very not good.

A twisting grip on your arm, pain shooting up your shoulder and from the side where the knee of the supersoldier atop you digs into the flesh of your hip, pinning you down. Cement bites into your cheek like a taunt of the predicament you’ve gotten yourself into when he slams you into the ground. Wind knocked out of you, you feel the painful strain in your joints, and know that if your arm is pushed too much further at this sharp angle, it’s likely your shoulder will come out of socket.

A whimpered yelp that you can’t bite down escapes just as the supersoldier’s grip tightens when you struggle beneath him, desperate panic lacing your blood as you realize you can’t escape his grip. You remember the sight of the back of Sam and Bucky’s heads when they went off towards the east side of this warehouse, and for a brief moment you wonder if that’s the last you’ll see of them. Splitting up had been the last thing you wanted to do, but the maze of this place made it a necessity if you were to do the thorough sweep of the area for the group of Flag Smashers rumored to be taking shelter here.

Well, you found them, alright.

Why did you have to be the one to get stuck searching the west side with Zemo?

The reluctance you’d displayed when Sam initially split you up with Zemo wasn’t exactly one-hundred percent truthful, though, was it? God, maybe it made you stupid and foolish, but a secret, cursed part of your stomach had flipped with nervous anticipation at the thought of being entirely alone with him. Something which had only been accomplished briefly over these past few days of tracking the Smashers all over Europe.

A subtle glance in Zemo’s direction had revealed no such similar reaction on his part, his stare meeting yours. Distant and unreadable, is what he was.

Except for when he wasn’t. Distant, that is.

Except for when he treated you with a modicum of civility. No, you couldn’t even fool yourself into believing it was simple civility, or even whatever traditional ingrained gentlemanliness that a Baron of Sokovia would have been taught in his youth.

Zemo had treated you with something more than that, especially when no one else was looking.

Sometimes, even if they were, and you still hadn’t decided if that dangerous toeing of the line between animosity and flirtation was a manufactured tactic to manipulate you or not. Uncertain if you should be offended that Zemo figured you the weakest link of your companions, or if, in the case that his interest was genuine… it wasn’t, so no use dwelling on what you would do in that case.

What you should do, when he set upon you with that look in his eye, like he knew something about you that you didn’t.

Like at the end of Sam’s introductory speech detailing the plan of the warehouse sweep, where that lingering glance in Zemo’s direction had ended with a slight curve of his lips upwards. Looking bizarrely satisfied with the announcement of Sam’s plan, and you couldn’t tell if it was at the thought of hunting supersoldiers, or the strange, treacherous feeling swimming in your own gut--- that Zemo’s pleasure was even minimally at the truth of another opportunity to have you, all to himself.

It had been enough to make you tear your eyes away, but not enough to get his lingering stare to stop itching the back of your neck. Enough to make Bucky raise a brow at you, a wary look in his eyes as he observed the one member of your party who seemed at all pleased with the fact that you were all likely heading into a fight, or worse, nothing at all, in mere moments. A warning simmered in blue, Bucky’s unspoken, “be careful,” resting on the solemn line of his frown.

You’d been told it enough in the past few days, to be careful of Zemo. Terrorist, criminal, killer--- a portion of the words they’d used to describe Zemo.

At first, you were acutely aware of the warnings you’d been given, of the story they’d told you. The same one you’d heard pieces of from different sources. What had happened in Bucharest was national news, but to think that the man who had sat across from you on his private plane, tension thick in the air while a smile rested on his own lips, had been responsible… it had churned your stomach at first. Sitting there in his finery, attended by a footman, he seemed a strange visual for the description that predated your formal introduction to him.

And you had excused yourself to the bathroom, if only to escape the feeling. The animosity of Bucky’s conversation and the tension in Sam’s shoulders, the weight of curious eyes, which always seemed to glance back towards you.

He was unnerving, if only because of how peculiarly normal he seemed in certain moments. Approachable. Amiable, even. A predator’s façade, meant for you to wonder if he had truly been the kind of man capable of terrorizing Bucharest and your friends the way he had.

Which was how he looked at you, just like a predator sizing up new prey.

The quaint jet washroom could not be your solace forever, and you were inevitably forced to emerge, or face the embarrassment of worrying your companions with an abnormally long bathroom break. When you emerged, however, you found the murmured conversation to be of a slightly lighter tone, and soon discovered the reason for it when you nearly walked straight into the chest of the man you’d gone to the restroom to escape.

“Apologies,” he had said, as if you were not the one who almost ran straight into him, amusement dancing in his eyes as his body easily blocked the narrow aisle towards where Sam and Bucky sat further in. They’d not yet noticed your emergence from the restroom, and your hoped your quick glance towards them had not looked too desperate. Torn back to Zemo with the startling shock that he would even offer, “Would you enjoy a drink? I was just on my way to get a refill, you see,” he raised the short glass in his hand, ice clinking, empty otherwise. Your pause was pregnant enough that he eventually teased, “I promise not to poison you, if that is your concern, my dear.”

“No, thank you,” had been your curt answer, pushing down the heat that threatened to burn your cheeks at his familiarity with you when you attempted to move around him, forced by the narrow aisle to graze his chest with yours in order to return to the attention of your companions, ignoring the additional attention which had followed you from the aisle.

The outfit you discovered he had chosen for you upon landing on the outskirts of Madripoor was… just another reason to dislike him. The one relief was that it was comfortable enough to fight or run in, if need be, but nothing about it was sensible in the least. What the outfit lacked in cleavage, it made up for in its form-fitting style, leaving little to the imagination otherwise. You felt as if every inch was on display for the perusal of whoever simply cast their eyes upon you, regardless of how you would tug and pull at the fabric in an attempt to make certain areas less focal.

And then there was what he’d said about it, humming appreciatively when you emerged from the jet just after Bucky and Sam to be offered a hand by Zemo at the last step, if only to scrutinize you in this ridiculous outfit as you equally scrutinized him, donned in a fur-trimmed jacket that you reluctantly had to admit made him look… handsome, “Good. In that, you shall make a believable lover.”

You’d almost tripped that last step at his words, despite the firm grip keeping you upright, eyes wide as you heard Bucky choke on his own spit before collecting himself.

Zemo paused long enough that you think he simply enjoyed watching whatever conclusions you were jumping to flash upon your face until he clarified, just as you opened your mouth to demand an explanation, wishing there was some way to wipe the smirk from his lips, “Not my lover, of course,” a gesture towards Sam, “but that of our friend, the Smiling Tiger.” His smirk broke out into a proper grin as you snatched your hand from his, realizing your form complimented Sam’s own ridiculous outfit, as Zemo addressed him, “The source of your alias is known for philandering various women. Seeing the Smiling Tiger with another woman has become somewhat expected.”

“He takes different women with him, even to do business?” Sam raised a brow.

Zemo chuckled slightly, “Certainly not.”

“What am I supposed to be doing tonight if I’m not going to meet the contact with the rest of you?” jutting your chin out, you cross your arms over your chest, if only to attempt to appear as if Zemo didn’t utterly disarm you with the slip of his attention back to you, “I’m not here to stand around and look pretty, you know.”

“Although I’m certain you would excel at that,” Zemo had purred, your poker face almost breaking under the shock of his forwardness, wondering if he simply enjoyed toying with you--- if perhaps you were an easier read than you thought, “Madripoor is full of dangers, but no one would dare bother a woman who belonged to the Smiling Tiger. It is typically assumed that these women pose no threat in and of themselves, considering his habit of picking shallow, frivolous women who rarely realize they are not the only of their kind in his orbit. This assumption will offer you the perfect position to scout the outskirts of our interaction for anyone unsavory, who might try and interrupt us during our business tonight.” He reached out, pushing your hair from your shoulder, and you took effort not to flinch back at the ghost of a touch on your bare skin, “While you will undoubtedly draw the eyes of many, none who are searching for a potential threat will linger on you long.” Zemo’s teeth flashed with his smile, his hand returning to his side, delving into the pocket of his coat leisurely when he shrugged, “You are simply another beautiful woman on the arm of a dangerous man tonight. That is nothing new in Madripoor.”

“And just how loving is Smiling Tiger with his girlfriends?” Sam huffs, and you wondered if the apologetic look he cast your way was for Zemo’s behavior, or what would undoubtedly be his own tonight.

Striding forward towards the waiting car, Zemo glanced over his shoulder as he passed your companion, “Very. You might want to warm up to each other rather quickly, if that is to be an issue.”

But you’d done worse undercover before, and a night of flirting on the arm of Sam Wilson was the least of your worries, so you mimicked the shrug Zemo had given you, and fell into step beside Sam, “No problem.”

Sam nodded, “None for me, either.”

“Let’s just get this over with,” Bucky agreed with a clench of his jaw, marching after Zemo towards the car, and you remembered that whatever you had to endure tonight, would probably be only a fraction of the discomfort Bucky would feel at reliving his Winter Soldier days.

Even if it wasn’t real.

Part of you yearned for the weight of Sam’s hand in yours, his breath tickling your neck where he had kissed it for show, upon being left alone at the bar in this strange Babylon that was the Low Town of Madripoor. Not that you were incapable of defending yourself, but you were outnumbered--- really, you all were.

And you preferred for your only intel on the region to not have come from the single man in your company who you knew you couldn’t trust. Zemo’s word that no one would bother you, alone, in this ridiculous outfit, simply because they’d seen Sam--- or, the Smiling Tiger, as he was tonight--- all over you? Well, it wasn’t enough to put your mind at ease.

You tried to hide that unease behind the drink in your hand, thankful that you’d been given something fruitier and less daring than the drink Zemo had ordered for Sam, as your eyes scanned the bar, catching where the three of them had disappeared into the unknown of the one area you could not enter.

Technically, you could, but you’d have to take out the four--- no, five--- guards lingering in the main chamber of the bar, before doing so. You couldn’t do that without starting a scene, though, and there was no reason to do so until absolutely necessary.

Pushing away from the bar, your only indication of what was going on past those burly statues of guards flanking the way beyond was the sound of the earpiece in your ear, shaded from view by your hair. A whisper, compared to the throbbing music around you, but just loud enough with its closeness to make out the conversation you weren’t otherwise privy to. It was going well enough, as you moved throughout the bar, ensuring your counted five guards remained in their positions, with their relaxed posture, and counting a sixth one as he returned from the direction of the restrooms.

Some tried to stop you, to get you to dance with them, but a simple name of your alleged lover had sent them on their way easily enough. So perhaps Zemo had not been entirely untruthful, it seemed.

Then, the meeting had turned sour. Going south fast, and you watched as the two guards flanking your companion’s escape tilted towards their bulky earpieces, but you were on them before they could go further within, to where you now heard fighting in your own subtle earpiece.

Doing your best to sound like a bubbly drunk, you draped yourself between them, obstructing their path, “Oh, is this the way to the bathroom?” You were two steps into the hall, when one grabbed you by the arm, the other attempting to walk around you, but you easily blocked the way as you tumbled yourself into his arms, apparently losing your footing at the tug on your arm, “You don’t have to be so rough!”

“Get out the way, lady, this isn’t the bathroom,” the one whose arms you were haphazardly steadied with grunted, and you watched as the other slipped past you towards the beyond, his partner following close behind.

But by then you were halfway across the bar in a quick stride, hearing the hushed, “Meet us outside, we’re going out the back,” that Bucky murmured, just for you.

“No weapons,” Zemo added curtly. “We are not ready to cause a scene, my dear.”

The threatening chime of the phones around as you hit the front doors and pushed beyond, only to find that the clinging followed you even there, lifted up by the chill and stink of Madripoor’s Low Town air, had you growling out, “Looks like that scene’s already started, whether or not you want it to, Baron.”

You caught sight of them up ahead, walking just as briskly down the side-street, and nearly had to run to catch up to their pace. By the time you did fall into step beside Sam, the neon glow of the bar at your back went black with a heart-stopping shunt, right before the gunfire started.

Your only relief as Sam pushed you down with his ducking, was that whoever was firing the automatic weapon was not a good shot. Then, you ran.

But, from the corner of your eye, you saw the flap of a long coat, the swivel on firm calves, as Zemo turned to the side, and escaped beyond the adjacent alley, and, right then, you thought that would be the last you saw of him. Yet, you couldn’t be concerned with hunting him down, what with the gunfire coming from all directions, straight at you, Sam, and Bucky. Allowing the perfect moment for Zemo to slip away.

As you ran, heart pounding and barely registering the sound of your companion’s voices, you almost laughed bitterly with the hysteria of the chaos around you, and the thought that maybe Zemo had created it just to escape. Whether he did or not, it certainly worked to his advantage, and the rev of motorcycle engines biting at your heels reminded you that, like it or not, you couldn’t worry about where he had gone, down that side-street, at the current moment.

Blindly following Sam, who was blindly following Bucky, down the alleys of Low Town, you turned the next corner as a shot rang out. Not the same, quick bursts of an automatic, but rather, the loud, resounding hollowness of a sniper’s bullet.

Air brushing against your cheek, the deathly kiss of wind as the bullet moved past your head, and straight into the motorcyclist behind you. You barely breathed as the second, then third shot rang true, and your pursuers fell dead on the slick, black wetness that was Madripoor’s alley streets.

Just as Zemo emerged from the opposite end of the street, catching your bewildered stare as his own, matching confusion, accompanied a breathless, “You seem to have a guardian angel.”

Even by looking at her, you could tell Sharon Carter was anything but your guardian angel.

Madripoor had changed her. The events which had trapped her here had done even worse. Something bitter and estranged lingered under each word the former agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. said as she presented her story for the four of you. Enough to make you wary of her intentions, regardless of how helpful she may have seemed.

Despite the fact you had known her, when you, too, once worked for S.H.I.E.L.D.

“Well, this is just too perfect,” were her first words, when she’d come upon the four of you in that alleyway.

Too perfect, was right. Her High Town home, her art gallery full of stolen things, the undisclosed clientele she apparently kept, and expected, resulting in your hasty changing of clothes. It all was too perfect, even down to her tragic story of exile from the States. Something was off, but you had too much to worry about to concern yourself with picking apart the story of your host, your momentary refuge provided by her hand.

You wondered if Bucky could sense it, too, when he said, “She’s kind of awful now,” following her abrasive callousness in detailing the hypocrisy of heroism.

If not him, then perhaps the look Zemo sent your way could confirm your suspicions, but he buried it down behind the glass of whatever hard liquor he had acquired in her too perfect home. Nagel, Wilfred Nagel was who you should have been focusing on, rather than the question you nearly dared to ask Zemo right there, as Sam offered Sharon a pardon that you all knew relied on too many bureaucrats to ever be a certain promise.

The longer Zemo held your gaze, the less you concentrated on the conversation around you, until something of a party was mentioned, and the low promise of the, “Trouble,” that Sharon would find parted Zemo’s lips. You could believe that, more than whatever Sam had promised her.

The art gallery had taken on the atmosphere of a club, rather than some simple party. Music throbbed, louder than that of the bar earlier in the night, pulsing bodies to move in tandem with the beat of the sound. Veins, stretching out from the same, beating heart.

But further in, past the stage and the DJ, was a viewing of priceless art, which was certain to be priced and sold tonight. The business Sharon was conducting, the contacts she’d said she would work for information on Nagel’s location, were undoubtedly among the people gathered there.

Waiting around was rarely enjoyable.

Your group moved towards the open bar, but none of you looked to the bartender for a drink. Zemo’s eyes affixed along the dancefloor, surveying, as much as Sam or Bucky were. If someone were to look closely enough, in that moment, that simple glance would give away their training. Your eyes, however, traveled past them, catching the questioning glance Bucky sent your way as you moved to separate and disperse into the crowd of writhing bodies around you.

“I’m going to dance,” was your only explanation. If the three of them had not seen some potential threat in those few moments of surveying, then it likely wasn’t there.

Either way, Sharon had said, “Lay low, blend in, enjoy the party,” before sending you on your way.

That much, you could oblige her with.

Considering the dancefloor was a great percentage of the party, dancing also allowed you to survey the room without looking like you were gawking. Thankful to be back in your own clothes, the black on black and buckles of your light tactical wear fit in appropriately with the variety of party-goers around you. Tempo flaring, sweat and alcohol, adrenaline rushing your veins, for a moment you found you were enjoying yourself, after the initial sweep of the dancefloor had come up empty of threats. Or, well, anything that was immediately threatening to you.

Which is why you could have kicked yourself for letting what might have been the biggest threat in the room creep up on you, in that brief moment of thrumming ecstasy.

His hand caught in the buckled strap at your waist, pulling you into a firm back, not unlike other dancers around you had, but his breath smelled of bourbon as it ghosted your cheek, and the accented voice at his lips was enough to have you whirling in his arms, “Do you mind if I dance with you?”

In your defense, the last you’d seen of Zemo had been moments ago, across the bar as he perused the artwork with Sam and Bucky. You could hardly believe he’d crossed the room as quick as he had--- quick enough to catch you off-guard.

“What?” you question blandly, the mixture of unease and shock churning into something else that you wouldn’t dare admit as he offered a dazzling smile, and you suddenly realized you were still standing far too close, with the growing crowd around you.

He mistook your confusion for difficulty hearing over the blaring music, and leaned closer, to catch you by the ear, “Dance with me.” Not a question, this time.

He was close enough you could smell his cologne--- a rich scent, peppered with cinnamon, which had you wondering just how much he had paid for the bottle of whatever it was, or if it had been something Sokovian from before the fall. It was unlike anything you’d scented before. He even smelled expensive.

For a second time, you almost jumbled his question, though not from shock. The heat rising to your cheeks and the skip in your chest, you couldn’t convince yourself was entirely from the dancing or the light drink you’d had earlier in the evening.

His own cheeks were faintly pink, upon closer inspection, but otherwise there was no evidence in his smooth posture of the multiple glasses of liquor he’d had tonight, yet it’s enough to make him look warm--- perhaps not as cold as he once had appeared.

Human.

“We are to enjoy ourselves, are we not?” he suggested, as if that would push you toward one answer over another, and it worked.

“Yes,” your lips said it before your mind caught up with them, and his smile widened into a grin, as brief as it was.

“Then, dance, my dear.”

His own dancing was rigid, but he kept beat. Small movements which would not draw attention from anyone, yet were somehow the barest ability required to be considered dancing. As if he had little experience dancing to club music like this, though you couldn’t be sure. It was almost comical, yet no-one could laugh at him, since he miraculously managed to pull it off.

Well, you, at least, were able to bite back a chuckle at the sight of him. Something about it, about him, in that moment, dancing so awkwardly yet with so much confidence, brought a genuine smile to your face, as you danced alongside him.

And when he gestured in a round motion with his hand for you to spin, you did that, too, without a second thought. It was easy to forget, for only a second, when your eyes caught his in the strobing light and the smile upon his face, his hands coming together to clap for you in time with the pulsing beat between you, just who he was, and what he’d done.

Far too easy to forget.

But one glance towards the edges of the dance floor has you remembering, as you caught the movement of Bucky and Sam following after the slip of Sharon’s form. Bucky’s eyes bored into you, his jaw clenched. Displeasure written on his face, and you don’t think the sake of blending in would be enough to excuse your dancing with Zemo, or the enjoyment with which you’d done it.

“Perhaps, she has found our missing Doctor Nagel,” Zemo’s form was too close, all over again, and this time you do step away from him, if only a single step. It’s enough to breathe, to clear your head of whatever had overcome you moments before. He’s too busy looking after their three retreating forms to notice the guilt catching at the back of your throat, suffocating you for barely a second.

You ensure any proof of the feeling settling in your gut was gone by the time he cast his eyes towards you, the brown of his irises nearly black in the lowlight of a High Town party, but you didn’t keep his stare long, “Let’s find out.”

The sun was dawning when you emerged onto the street, and reached over your heads by the time you made your way to the water-side lot filled with shipping containers. Sharon’s intel had led you to it, and container four-two-six-one had come to your knowledge with little questioning on Sam and Bucky’s part, if only because she was an old friend.

You still wondered who would give her the location of such a prize as this, and what it had cost her, since you were slowly learning that nothing in Madripoor came free. Regardless of where she had received the information, it had been where Nagel was hidden, along with the remainder of his serum research.

It had also been where the bounty hunters of Madripoor descended upon you.

Dr. Nagel was a young, lanky man who had barely finished his exposition of where to possibly find the Flag Smashers who had stolen his serum when the very man you had danced so happily with not two hours before shot a bullet right through his heart. All you could think, in the stunning moment of realization that Nagel had been dead before he even hit the ground, was how stupid you were to ever let your guard down around this man--- this killer.

“What did you do?” Sharon’s cry rang in your ears as the gun clattered to the ground from Zemo’s hand, jolting you into action from staring at Nagel’s body to turn on them. Catching Zemo’s cold eyes--- no remorse within them--- as Sam and Sharon struggled to pin him to the grated shelves of Nagel’s lab. You think you might hate him, just in time for the blast of an explosion to push you face first into the metal slatted floor of Nagel’s bunker.

That hate was all you had left to fuel you from getting up off the floor, bones creaking as flames danced in your peripheral, a hole blown through the side of the crate. That anger, and the grasp of Sam’s hands on your forearm, pulling you up after he got his own footing.

Zemo had been gone by the time you had enough sense to scan the area, but there would be no searching for him this time, either, as the bounty hunters descended upon your location with the ease of wolves circling their prey. Shooting out from cover, you knew the bullets of your pistol weren’t enough to last you for all of them, and they had you pinned.

Part of you still hated him, even when he saved your asses. Another part wondered why he even bothered.

You hoped you radiated that hatred when you got into the back of that getaway car he’d found, too sullen to even wish Sharon a farewell, let alone offer a smile at the cheeky attitude Zemo had pulled up in it with. After everything, it only made you stew more--- his nonchalance. If you were being truly honest, you were angrier still at yourself, and the thought that he’d played you like a fiddle. If you had kept your guard up and kept an eye on him, perhaps Nagel would still be alive. Perhaps you wouldn’t feel like Zemo was playing this two steps ahead of the rest of you.

Even on the plane out of Madripoor, you had sat in sullen silence, refusing so much as to look at Zemo, even when he offered you food.

You hoped your sharp, “I’m not hungry, thanks,” cut deep, as childish as it may sound. You didn’t bother to look long enough in his direction to see if it had. Speaking exclusively to Sam and Bucky, even when Zemo changed your course to Latvia, you had not spoken a word to him until you landed in Riga, and his conversation turned towards Sokovia.

“Erased from the map,” he clicked his tongue, but his pace didn’t slow, when he spoke in what was as much an accusation as a question, “I don’t suppose any of you bothered to visit the memorial?” Met with silence when he looked upon Sam, he turned his eyes toward Bucky, then you, and it was the longest you’d dared hold his gaze since he killed Nagel, when he scathingly said, “Of course not. Why would you?” Nodding towards an old set of double doors, he drops the subject as suddenly as he’d brought it up, “We are here.”

Your traitorous heart clenched as you watched him disappear beyond them, Bucky remaining by your side while you lingered at the bottom of the steps leading into the residence.

“I’ll be back,” Bucky murmured, glancing your way, to which you silently nodded, too troubled by the fact that you felt anything at all akin to pity for that horrible man to worry where your friend might have to wander to in the middle of Latvia. Zemo was, undeniably, horrible, wasn’t he?

A huff of annoyance blew past your lips as you marched the steps towards where Sam and that man had disappeared beyond. Maybe you were just getting soft in your old age, or something.

Yeah, that had to be it.

What you hadn’t expected was for Sam to meet you at the doorway to Zemo’s… loft? Loft.

“I’m gonna’ hit the corner store, if you’re alright to watch you-know-who,” Sam murmured low, and you scrambled for words to say aside from the hell no which threatened to spill from your lips. “He’s in the shower, so maybe he’ll be a while anyway.” Glancing over your shoulder, Sam’s brow furrowed, “Where’s Bucky?”

“Said he’d be back,” you looked behind yourself, as if expecting to find him there. “Don’t know where he ran off to, though.”

A questioning breath was sucked through Sam’s teeth, before he let it out in a sigh, affixing you with a, “You good?”

With babysitting Zemo?

No.

“Yeah, go,” you had ushered him out the door despite your current feeling towards the subject, and by the time you shut the door behind him and rummaged into the kitchen area to ransack the refrigerator, you realized why Sam was going to the corner store. This place was positively barren of the necessities. Groaning in disappointment, you lean your head back in a silent cry to the heavens. Why was nothing going right on this mission? You were starving, and hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep on the plane over.

Standing there for a moment, you let the cold air hit your skin, daring it to keep you awake.

The door to the washroom pushing open grasps your reluctant attention, head lulling to the side slightly as you shut the empty refrigerator. There he was, the bastard, clad only in a robe and lounge pants, pushing a folded towel along his neck, catching the water there which dripped from his semi-dry hair.

Footsteps softened by the slippers at his feet, he asks upon taking a look around the room to find only your presence there, “And where have your soldiers run off to?”

You grit your teeth, forced to answer him, “Sam went to the store, because you don’t keep your safe houses stocked with food.”

“This is not a safe house,” he murmurs, coming close enough that the sun streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows catches along something gold glinting at his throat. Large hands lower the towel and fold it neatly, as your gaze lingers, observing the necklace where it delves into his chest, a view allowed by the robe’s relaxed fit, just open enough to reveal the soft hairs there. You snap your eyes back up before you can stay there for too long, and Zemo is smiling slightly. Bastard caught you.

“What is it then?”

“A vacation home.” For a pitiful instant, your mind sent you images of the family he’d lost in Sokovia. The last thing you needed was to feel sorry for him, so you clear your throat, shaking off the thought of what was missing. What had led to who he’d become. Your pity thankfully didn’t show as he moved ever closer into the kitchen, feet stopping just before your own so that he could look you down. You couldn’t help but grasp the counter you leant yourself upon until your knuckles blanched under his scrutiny, nearly on the verge of demanding he explain what his problem was, until he nodded to the cabinet beside your head, “Excuse me.”

You almost jumped out of his way.

Watching, desperately clawing for the anger that had been so comfortingly oppressive in your chest earlier in the morning, because anything was better than lingering on the cut of his jawline, or the way his robe dipped as he reached for that very cabinet you had been standing in the way of a moment before. Anything else, focus on anything else.

When he opened it, your eyes snapped to the few jars within. Olives and fruit lined the shelves in twistable jars, flanked by large bottles of that same dark liquor he seemed to favor, and a tin of coffee beans. In the back, nestled away for a rainy day, was a box of Turkish delight.

“Ah,” he breathed pleasantly, shooting you a cheshire grin, “so it is not entirely as empty as you thought.”

Bastard, bastard, bastard---

The word rings in your head like a mantra as you feel the anger crumbling, fading away with each second he looked at you like that. What was wrong with you, to be this easy? Something had to be.

His eyes were thankfully torn away when he looked into the cabinet once more, plucking the fruit--- peaches, looked like--- from the shelf, along with the coffee and candy, “I doubt you would like to eat pickled olives alone.” He says it, right before he closes the cabinet, and reaches out with the jar of peaches towards you.

Blinking up at him, you don’t dare take them, genuinely curious, “They’re not for you?”

“You did not eat on the plane, and it has been hours, now; you must be starving.”

You’re surprised he even cared, or made the appearance of caring, but that shrivel of spiteful anger you clutched onto with all your might refused to take them from his hand, despite the growl in your stomach, “Sam will be back soon enough with food.” Turning on your heel to keep yourself from going back and snatching them away like a starving animal, you move to the other side of the kitchen.

His jaw is set when you look back at him at the sharp tap of glass and metal along the countertop. Zemo’s fingers clutched the jar and coffee tin with a fury that was only revealed in the depths of his dark eyes, watching you move across the living room without so much as a word.

Until you sat down, and he breathed calmly, so calmly, that you knew it was the calm before the storm, “Am I to expect you to act as a petulant child for the remainder of the mission, or shall I ready myself for you to come to your senses?”

You scoffed at him, “Excuse me?”

“Please do not make me repeat myself, my dear.”

“I’m sorry, Baron,” you grit with as little remorse as possible, that once-simmering anger nearly boiling again, “that I don’t want to trade peaches with a man who murdered someone not two feet from where I stood.”

“Try again.”

“What?”

“Try, again,” he breathed slowly, as if he had to do so to keep himself from breaking into some fit of rage. You’d never seen him enraged, even when he fought and killed, he was always a deathly calm, and some sick, twisted part of you wanted to see him truly, frightfully angry, “You don’t treat Wilson and Barnes with this childish disdain, despite them killing countless people in your presence.”

“Don’t even compare yourself to them. You killed an unarmed man!”

“I do not wish to litigate the details of what may or may not have happened---”

“‘Litigate?’” you rose to your feet from the couch, not even realizing that he had half-way crossed the room by the time you did, “Do you even hear yourself? You put a bullet in his heart! What is there to litigate?”

“He was a threat.”

“He could have been arrested, or---”

“Criminals can escape prisons,” he bit, nearly in each other’s faces by the time you laughed at your own bitter answer.

“What? Like you?”

“Precisely,” he agreed, and you met his glare with one just as heated, until something shifted in his gaze. A sort of dawning understanding that muddled his glare, until a raise of his brow accompanied the easing tension in his shoulders, and you already knew you weren’t going to like what he was going to say before he’d even said it, “Is that what bothers you?”

“What?” you ask warily.

“That I am considered a criminal.”

“You’re a killer.”

“My question stands, regardless.”

“I’ve worked with criminals before,” you shook your head, making to turn back to the couch, but a fast grip at your upper arm stopped you in your tracks, and he was far too close all over again. Suffocating you with his closeness, with the oppressive cleanliness and water his scent still carried from his recent shower. Ungloved, his fingers were warm, radiating through the sleeve of your shirt, digging firmly into the pliant flesh of your bicep.

His breath carried the faint smell of mint that comes after a fresh brushing as it wafted past your skin alongside his demanding amusement, and your stomach dropped dreadfully when he teased, “Ah, but you danced with me.”

Have you ever let someone you didn’t trust get too close?

The question seemed to dance in the black endlessness of his dilated pupils, rimmed with the deceptive warm brown of his irises. You were so close that you could notice the gold flecks in them which caught in the sunlight streaming from the window, something you otherwise would have missed. A dare in the dangerous flick of his lashes, he glanced to your lips and back; was he all too aware of your closeness, too?

The reflexive dart of your tongue to wet your lips gave you away, face burning hot with anger and embarrassment, and you ripped yourself from his grip, “I don’t know what you’re implying.”

“I’m sure you’re clever enough to figure it out,” is his sarcastic counter, a satisfied smirk which said he had all the answer he needed already left you wishing there were some way to rip it from his face, because were you really that obvious? Or was he just that good at reading people?

This time, when you headed to sit back on the couch, he simply stood there, allowing you to be unobstructed. You plopped down upon the couch with all the defeat you felt at his satisfaction, lying down in the hope that if you ignored him, he’d simply go away.

When you hear the sound of his slippers along the floor, signaling his departure from your side, the distant shuffle paused in their tracks when you couldn’t help yourself from asking, “Why did you come back?”

“Hmm?”

“When we were in Madripoor,” you breathed slowly, curiosity overcoming your anger, “you had escaped us twice. It was the perfect chance to run for your freedom. Why come back?”

You don’t dare open your eyes, even with the length of his pause, before he answers, a solemn honesty in his voice, “This is not a mission which I can abandon. I must see it through.”

You almost asked him why, once again, but thought better of it. Something told you he wouldn’t have given you a straight answer, either way.

Just when you think he’d gone on his way, the shuffling sound of his slippers closed in once more. Tempted to look, your curiosity at his approach was answered with the sharp sound of glass clicking against the wooden coffee table.

“Feel for me as you will, but eat,” his voice is low, soft. You don’t know if it was the straining of your ears to make up for what you would not see, but you could have sworn you heard an apologetic tone when he added, “You’re no use if you lack the strength to fight your enemies. As you are now, anyone could overpower you if they wished.”

That earns him a peek of a glare from out of the corner of your eye, and you earn a stern look in return as he nods towards the canned peaches on the table.

You couldn’t help yourself from asking sarcastically, before cracking a small smile, “So, are the Flag Smashers about to propel from the ceilings to catch us unaware, or is it you I should be worried about overpowering me?”

No apologies, from either party, but his dark chuckle is enough to set your soul aflame when he teases, sounding too much like a promise, “I would only overpower you, should you to ask me to.”

And that was when you realized how your question had come across. The burning in your face only increases as you sat up sharply at his words, about to protest that it had not been what you meant by them, but the doors to the loft opened, saving you the embarrassment of that conversation.

“Where’s Sam?” Bucky asks, and Zemo leans away from the coffee table, freeing you from the sweltering scrutiny of his gaze.

“I’m afraid we are running low on groceries, and he was so kind as to do the shopping for us,” Zemo explained innocently enough, but Bucky’s eyes narrowed at him regardless.

“Speaking of going out,” you reached for the jar of peaches, feeling Zemo’s glance upon you as you popped the top open, “where’ve you been?”

“I saw an old friend,” Bucky grumbled, shrugging off your question as he moved towards the washroom, “I’ll tell you when Sam gets back.”

The door closed behind him with a certain finality on the subject, at least until Sam returned. By the time you looked back towards Zemo, he was fiddling with the box of candy.

“I shall put the coffee on,” he announced, glancing to catch your eye with the flick of a candy wrapper glinting between his fingertips, offering, “Turkish delight?”

Upon Sam’s return, the news that Bucky’s old friend had been a warrior of Wakanda was a bad one, at least for Zemo. But with bad news came good news, and soon enough you were following the trail of the Flag Smashers once again, even if that meant the Wakandans were following your trail.

Hours turned to days, and by the end of a weeklong trek across Europe filled with close-quarters and even closer encounters with your Sokovian prisoner, you were standing in front of the dingy warehouse which had found you in this final, terrifying predicament.

Wondering if it had all been pointless, to be snuffed out at the hand of the supersoldier above you, pushing you into the dirty concrete. He wouldn’t need a gun to end you, and you both knew it. So you might have been panicking, with how savagely you pulled in his grasp. A trapped animal, fighting to get free.

Blood rushing to your head fills your ears, catching the first sight of the man pushing you into the ground just barely out of the corner of your eye, and the dark mask covering his face with a handprint. You could make out that he was light-skinned, dark hair pushing down past his chin, young enough to make you wonder just how old he was, and if yours would be the first life he’d take.

His voice is softer than you expected, for someone who sounded so terrifying when he began his order of, “Stop struggli---”

The bullet that rips through his neck tears his grip away from your body, ringing off the hollow echo of the room for just the moment it took the eyes beyond the frame of his mask to widen and dilate as they looked into your own. Green.

His eyes were green.

Silence far too sudden for the adrenaline of the close gunshot not to shake you to your core.

The supersoldier is dead before he hits the ground, and you’re pushing yourself up on aching joints to get on your feet as quickly as possible, until the familiar voice of your companion meets your ears in a thick, Sokovian accent, “He did not hurt you.” It’s flat, not hitching into a recognizable question at the end, but the dark eyes of your savior seem to question you despite the cracking disinterest of his tone.

There was no denying you were happy to see him.

“Zemo,” it’s breathless, and sounds too much like a hoarse relief for your own liking, so you focus instead on rolling your bruised shoulder and avoiding the searing gaze upon you, trying not to appear as shaken as you truly were, “Not anything I can’t walk off.” The sound of something muttered in Sokovian under his breath brings you to look upon him again, finding that his gun lingers along his hip, locked in the tight, leather-gloved grip. He looks displeased, lips set into a tight line that suggests he’s angry, even, but not in the same way he had been in Latvia. This was worse, a colder, solemn anger that threatened the fire behind his eyes, threatening to burn this whole place to the ground, and you can only question, “What is it?”

“Undoubtedly any others remaining here have been alerted by the noise,” Zemo says curtly, turning towards the hallway from whence you came. He is angry, you manage to confirm, when he bites across his shoulder, “Mind your surroundings this time, so that you don’t find yourself pathetically helpless again.”

His words were scathing, but they’re meant to be. Even worse, you know he’s right. This dead one, whose blood was splattered over the top half of your tactical gear, had crept up on you too softly, and was too strong to shake off once he’d gotten hold of you.

Constructed to kill, thanks to the serum.

Even going into a fully aware fight, you were at a disadvantage, especially in close quarters. It was something he understood. Something he used repeatedly in his own strategy against opponents which were physically stronger in every way.

Your only hope of an upper hand had to come from either distance, or subterfuge. At least, if you weren’t accompanied by Bucky or Sam.

You’re lucky, despite the burning ache in your side and back, that it hadn’t been worse than it was, and that Zemo had come upon you as he did.

“Remain close,” he murmurs, as you emerge out into the hall, and you don’t dare to argue with him on it, even if you might have had the situation which just transpired not done so. Clearing the upper west floors were methodical, swift, and it became apparent by the third that whoever had been here was gone, either before or after Zemo’s gunshot had rung true.

Bucky and Sam appeared winded when you regrouped at the designated meeting point, and you didn’t have to wait for Bucky’s explanation to guess what had occurred, “We tangled with a few of them. They got away, but we got another lead from what they left behind…” Bucky trailed off, swapping a glance with Sam at the sight of your disheveled state.

“What happened to you two?” Sam’s eyes dart between your torn clothes and the scrapes along your skin towards Zemo’s tense, rigid frame.

“I was jumped by one,” you grit, embarrassed enough that he’d caught you off-guard without even verbalizing it, “he had me on my stomach, but Zemo, he---” you clear your throat, remembering the vacant green stare and splash of deep, vibrant red that had accompanied your rescue.

“It has been handled,” Zemo supplies for you, and before Sam could question him further, he adds, “the man is dead.”

The blood along your black tactical gear has dried by now, but it’s black stickiness must be ever apparent for them now, as Bucky sighs a weary, “Well, shit.”

“Are you okay?”

You open your mouth to answer Sam, but Zemo gruffly responds, “She’ll live,” before brushing past the two of them towards where the car which would take you back into the heart of the city was waiting.

“What’s wrong with him?” Sam wonders, when Zemo is far enough ahead that he can’t hear the question.

“You want a list?” Bucky grumbles dismissively, stretching his metal arm in a wide circle that suggested it had set peculiarly after his last fight.

Your throat tightens, and you try your best to keep from remembering that helpless, desperate feeling which had drenched your soul as the supersoldier pinned you to the concrete.

Forcing a humorless laugh, you offer up a half-hearted explanation, daring it to sound as unbothered as you wished you truly were, “Maybe he regrets the bullet he spent saving me.”

Bucky’s exhale is somewhere between a bitter laugh and sigh, “Who knows, with him.”

As much as you wished for it, you couldn’t be sure if those words you’d spoken didn’t ring true.

“Whatever,” Sam agrees, dismissively rubbing the back of his neck. Redirecting back on the target of chasing the Flag Smashers, you hoped you’d get a step ahead of them soon when Sam instigates your following of Zemo to the car, “We’d better get back to the motel and regroup. Got an early day ahead of us tomorrow.”

The, “yeah,” you supply the back of their heads with, finding yourself following after them, is almost as distant as you felt. Internalized, and thrumming with the melting adrenaline which made way for exhaustion to settle into your bones and take hold.

Yet, you can’t get that deathly, dilating green out of your mind, or the ghost clinging to the ache in your back, where murderous weight had been.

Zemo did not meet your eye the whole ride to the motel--- and it was nothing like the dazzling vacation home Zemo had introduced you all to in Riga. Complete with plain walls and shuttered windows, the view of Prague you received from the window set in the dead center of the narrow bedroom was that of the wall of the building opposite. Utility, over luxury, but privacy had been key, as well.

He had retired to his own room just as soon as you’d set foot before it, bizarrely silent in that same way that you had come to realize could never be a good thing, because it meant Zemo was lost in his own head. Neither Sam nor Bucky made note of it, at least aloud, and so you held your tongue as well, rather than acknowledge the dark cloud which seemed to follow the man as he disappeared beyond the click of the motel room door.

“We can trade,” breaks you from your intense scrutiny of that door, key card clutched firmly in hand as you glance towards where Bucky stiffly supplies, “I don’t blame you if you’re not okay with it. You can stay with Sam instead.”

Your heart clenches, and for a moment you’re brought out of your remembrance of the Flag Smasher’s body atop your own by the offer, somewhat touched that he would take your place as Zemo’s keeper tonight at the sacrifice of his own comfort. Even after all that Zemo had done to him, he would take the bed which you had agreed to sleep in earlier, when the motel owner had explained the issue of limited capacity.

You can see the apprehension behind his eyes, despite his generous offer. He was still unsettled by Zemo, and, if you were being honest, so were you. You won’t make him do that for you, all so that you can avoid whatever tension lingering between you and Zemo.

Instead, you pat Bucky in the chest gently with the palm of your hand and swallow down the nauseous churn of your stomach, forcing a light tone, “I’m a big girl, Bucky, but if he gives me any trouble, I’ll shout for you guys. How’s that sound?”

“If he gives you a chance to shout,” Bucky frowns.

“Well, if he suffocates me in my sleep, I’ll haunt him forever,” it’s meant to be teasing, but it comes out dry.

“Our side will be unlocked, just in case,” Sam mentions, lingering in the open doorway of the adjoining room, “might wanna’ unlock yours, too.”

“Or else I’ll just have to break through it if anything happens,” Bucky’s tone is just as dry. Tired. This chase was wearing on you all, and you could only hope that tomorrow would be different than today.

Slipping the key card along the door, it whirs to life with a click. The acceptance of your entry indicated by the green glow of the lock’s internal light. Slipping into the room, you rest your back against the shut door, willing the green remembrance of your attacker’s eyes to shake from your head.

Your death-grip on the key card doesn’t ease as the bathroom door opens, and you catch sight of Zemo. He’s shed his jacket, left in that dark turtleneck and slacks. His hair had fallen, ever so slightly, from its perfected part against his forehead. The tips of a few strands there are dark with a dampness which evidenced the water he must have splashed his face with before emerging from the restroom.

His hands are free of his gloves as he flexes them at his sides, pausing for but a moment of acknowledgement at your presence before he goes further into the room, towards the full bed near the window which he must claim as his own. The jacket lies there, until he retrieves it to hang in the closet on one of the wooden hangers provided within.

Not a word. You don’t know if it should make you relieved or concerned, but truthfully, it makes you feel nothing. Because you’re still standing at the door by the time he turns from the closet, staring unfocused at the floor before you and screaming internally to pull yourself together when he does it for you.

“Are you going to stand there for the remainder of the night?” Curtly, “If my presence has you so paralyzed with fear, you may as well take up your soldier’s offer to switch rooms.”

His voice holds an edge, despite the deceptively smooth calmness to it. A taunting, instigating bait hung there. As if he were still angry at you.

And for what? For getting attacked?

The thought sends white-hot, simmering rage swelling in your own chest. Did he think you a nuisance, after having to save you from that brute of a supersoldier this evening? It had been a sneak-attack! You doubt even having your wits about you would have helped catch the silence with which you’d been crept up on in that warehouse, now that you’d had time to replay every second of it in your mind twofold.

Glaring at him with that fire in your eyes, was better than that frightfully distant look you’d held a moment before, he thought.

“What do you want from me?” comes biting from your teeth, bared at him as you bristled under the cold anger of his own stare.

“There is nothing you could possibly offer me that I would want,” he strikes back.

Snake, meet wolf.

“As if I would offer you anything at all after the way you’ve acted,” it’s an effort to keep your voice from rising. You want to fight; to feel something other than the crippling terror that had nearly killed you this evening--- that panic, which had gripped your heart until it felt like it bled.

“The way I’ve acted?” Zemo’s demeanor changes, flaring rage in his eyes as he stalks across the room. It takes everything you have not to wilt in his approach, but to instead glare right back at him, even when he crowds you up against the door, palm coming flat against where your head resides. His voice doesn’t rise with his seething fury, but rather, lowers into a tone that turns your blood cold as it rushes through the heat his closeness spreads through you, “I am not the one who almost got myself killed.”

“Well,” you struggle to remain even, as you breathe all the disdain you can muster into your words, “I’m not going to apologize for you having to save me.”

His head tilts to the side, snarling through his thick accent at the thought, “I do not want an apology for that.”

Standing straight from your leaning on the door, if only to feel as if you were invading his space rather than the other way around, you find that he leans away ever so slightly when you snap, “I’m not going to thank you for it, either.”

“Thank me for---?” he stops himself with a clench of his jaw, breathing slowly through his nose, as if to calm the crackling fire behind his eyes as his glare burns into your own. Too close; he’s still standing much too close.

And he moves so quickly you have zero chance of escaping his path. The hand he didn’t have laid flat on the door pushes you roughly by the shoulder, into it. By the time your mouth is open to even yelp in surprise, it’s suffocated by the hasty press of his lips against yours. Searing, pressing the length of his body firm against your own as he kisses you with all the wild fury his eyes betrayed. Nothing was left of the collected calmness of his posture or voice from before, as his hand on your shoulder digs into the hair at the nape of your neck, tugging you into him.

Not that you needed to be coaxed, with the way your fingers dig and scrape into the fabric along his chest, his shoulders, his throat, his hair. Digging in, his part is destroyed as you nip at his lips, teeth and tongue distracting you from any fragment of sense that was left screaming at you to remember it. To remember who he was, and how things are supposed to be between you.

Which was definitively the opposite of this. His hands were never supposed to find themselves fistfuls of your hair, your hip, your flesh, as they did now. You were never supposed to know that he tasted like something sweet, or felt soft beneath the hard lines of his turtleneck.

He was dragging, pulling, tumbling with you away from the door, as anger and fury melted into a complex, sweltering mixture of something else entirely, heat burning through your core when he tugged at the buckles of your tactical gear.

The world turns sideways, and then you’re falling upon something soft--- the mattress creaking beneath your weight and the weight of him kneeling atop you as you dragged him down to your lips once again. Rough, not gentle, as you arched into him and tugged at his hair, a breathy groan escaping into your mouth from his own.

He inhales sharply, as if suddenly realizing the position you were both in, as his fingertips grazed the bare skin of your waist, where your shirt had become untucked from your pants.

Breaking, parting, breathless, he stares down at you. Brown eyes blown wide and dilated, staring at you like a deer in the headlights--- perhaps the most honest expression you’d ever seen on Zemo’s face.

You were no better, sprawled along the comforter and trying to catch your breath. A single question ringing around your brain in search of an answer, any answer.

What are you doing? What are you doing?

“I,” he breathes softly, in a lilting apologetical tone, and you realize he’s between your legs, hooked along his hips precariously. Your anger dissipates, evaporating like it had been burned away with the roaring flames he’d ignited within you, and he clears his throat slightly. Troubled is how he looks, when his eyes become incapable of holding your own, “I can’t do this.”

No apology, though it may as well be there, in the way he said it.

Though you know he’s keeping you from a terrible mistake, part of you is lying when you murmur, “It’s okay,” back up to him.

“Yane mogu etogo sdelat,” he leans down, as if collapsing under the pressure of whatever he was feeling, right into the curve of your stomach. Sokovian, you register faintly, as another reverent, “I can’t do this,” falls from his lips to be muffled in the fabric between you.

Your hand finds his head, fingers carding through his hair reflexively, and you don’t know if it’s from the shock of your situation or a genuine desire to comfort him, when you repeat, even softer, “It’s okay, Helmut.”

It’s the first time you’ve called him by his first name, you realize.

Maybe it’s the fact that he was still tangled up in you, or the fact that you’d been mere moments away from letting him have his way with you, but you don’t dare move from this spot. From pushing your fingertips against the crown of his scalp, or the weight of him against you. Neither does he, as he breathes raggedly for a moment against your stomach, face buried there.

Breaking the silence almost feels wrong, but you do it anyway. A compulsive, desperate need to do so crawls up your throat, until you can’t contain the words any longer.

Reaching down, finding the curve of his jaw, you pull, until he lifts his head enough to peer over the curve of your chest to meet your eye, questioning after a moment of peering into the lingering want, and tragic grief of his stare, “Are you okay, Helmut?” But you already know the answer; you finally understand that this man is far more broken than you’d ever realized.

“Is anyone ever just, ‘okay?’” is his evasive answer.

You say it before you can think better of it, offering him another piece of you with which you probably shouldn’t have, but you were already neck deep in possible regrets, so what was one more?

“People’ve said I’m a good listener before, if you need to talk about whatever it is that’s troubling you.”

You liked to think he owed you some kind of explanation for all this, but if he’d asked you for the same, you don’t know if you could give him one, either. It had just… happened. No rhyme or reason, but some bizarre, broken part of your own soul had called out to whatever was cracked and frayed in his own. It was all the answer you could think of, for why you were flat on your back beneath him still.

“I would not bother you with my troubles,” Zemo starts, attempting to piece back that calm, collected mask which kept this fragment of him that you had bore witness to hidden.

“If not me, then you should bother someone with them.”

And maybe it’s the soft, bittersweet smile with which you look up at him, or a deep craving to be understood by just one other human being in this world, but his chin remains firmly planted against your chest as he says quietly, sadly, “I have no one left. They are all gone.” He doesn’t flinch away when you brush the hair from his forehead, out of his eyes, catching sight of the confusion, the trouble in his soul.

Trouble, indeed.

Stormy, dark, he stares a hole into your soul, and you ache with the hollow tragedy of it, when he murmurs as firmly as he can, almost worse than if his voice had cracked with emotion, “I have lost them all.”

You want to tell him the reflexive compassions that come at times like these, but sorry feels cheap, and you could never understand the pain he must feel. You hope you never do.

So you breathe out slowly, one word at your lips, “Sokovia?” as if you didn’t already know. As if you had not read his file, years before he joined you for this mission. Back when he had terrorized the Avengers and murdered diplomats at the United Nations hearing. You tried not to think of it, now, when he looked so vulnerable, and sad, as the slight nudge of his chin into the flesh of your skin is all that’s required to acknowledge your question.

“You already bother me enough, Zemo,” you try to add a joking hum to your voice, as you sigh beneath him, but even that sounds bittersweet, “so feel free to bother me more with your troubles, if you like.”

There’s quiet for what feels like a long time after that. Your words permeating the space between you, and you don’t know if he watches you like he does to gauge your sincerity, or because he simply likes looking at you like this.

He gives you a fragment, when his body shifts, and his weight moves up just enough to catch your eye from where you were left staring at the ceiling in this thrumming silence, your fingers slipping from his hair to his shoulder, “I…” he clears his throat softly, “saw you underneath that supersoldier, and I just… could not lose one more.” Zemo doesn’t say he cares about you, not explicitly, “He was going to kill you.”

“I know,” it tastes hollow in your mouth, as you do your best not to go back there, to how he’d found you.

“It,” he breathes, searching for the right word, “frightened me, and so I was furious. Not entirely at you, but because…”

He trails off, and you supply instead, the similar feeling which had buried itself in your own chest, “Because of how it made you feel?”

Zemo nods, his hands smoothing down your back, catching at your waist, “I did not like the way it made me feel,” his gaze flicks along the planes of your face, before returning to your own, that want-mixed-grief once again swirling within them. “The way you make me feel. It is like… a betrayal.” His voice does shake this time, when he breathes, “It is too soon since… I lost my whole world.”

A betrayal, he had called the feeling.

It felt like that for you, too. This swirling, guilty want in your bones for him, when you know it’s the last thing you should want. That he should be the last thing you want. If Bucky or Sam saw you like this--- you think they might hate you for it.

For wanting him.

Your hand rests at the curve of his neck and shoulder, thumb close enough to feel the short stubble which threatened to peek through at his jaw with the late hour of the day, and you agree, “I was angry, too, because of this feeling.”

“The feeling of wanting something you cannot have,” he chuckles, a truce, offered from his body to yours in the vibrations of it which resound in your chest.

“You could say that.”

Perhaps, in a different world, things could be different.

Maybe, if you’d met him at a different time.

But as things were, you were just two broken people, seeking solace in one another when every fiber of your being told you not to. That it was wrong--- despite how comfortably right he felt against you here and now, lingering between your thighs and against your body for as long as he possibly could, despite the guilt that you’d shared, without even knowing it.

It’s not your place, but when he sits up finally, his weight lifting off of you and somehow leaving you feeling more suffocated than when it had been there, you catch his attention with the sound of his name, “Helmut?”

“Hmm?” he wonders, knees pressing into the mattress as he’s halfway detangled from between your legs.

Catching his eye, you hope you look as sincere as it felt within you, the ache in your chest for him, “Anyone who could have loved you, would have wanted you to be happy.” It sounds cliche and generic, but you don’t dare mention his wife specifically, or the terrible emptiness that comes with the loss of a child. Still, you see it in his eyes, in the way he observes you with increased curiosity, that he knows it to be true, despite that desperate, clawing pain you know he must feel within his chest.

Zemo’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes, “That is a sweet sentiment.” And he’s gone, leaving you spread there to watch after him as he crosses the room, towards the restroom, probably for a moment of privacy. Stopping in his path, he glances at you, hand resting on the doorframe, “But they do not have to go on living without them.”

The bathroom door shuts behind him with a definitive click, and you’re left reeling as you piece together the facts of the night. The pieces of his grief, and want, which you’d witnessed. The fragments of yours which only seemed to swell with his own.

A miserable, self-pitying groan slips past your lips.

You were truly in trouble, now.

[imagineabrighterworld]

Shigaraki with an Enforcer S/O

Shigaraki didn't know you were at the meeting until you appeared behind him

Shigaraki needed more men after the failure at the U.S.J. It did bring the League into light, but without the criminals in his arsenal as most were taken into custody or deemed useless, he knew he had to start searching for a new crew. This led him to Corellia, an area full of thieves, black market traders, and mercenaries for hire. You were the enforcer of the biggest mafia in the area, and you made sure he knew that.

Crossing the alleged “safe zone” of Corellia and heading into the Black Light District, Shigaraki motions to the nomu’s on each side of him to take the lead. Kurogiri and another sleeker nomu would take spot behind him. While he was capable of protecting himself, he was taking no chances. He was his greatest pawn in this game, to lose himself and be captured would be detrimental to his whole system.

Moving further into the district, he notes the amounts of bordered up shops and graffiti covered walls, but this all changes when he reaches the center of the district. From there the shops are all open and bustling with customers, the scenery was not the same bleak grey and black concrete walls. It was lively and without the normal trash that coagulated on the streets. What made this area different than that of the one fifteen feet away?

With little else to do than gawk at the juxtaposition, Shigaraki heads down the alleyways of Corellia and enters the underbelly where the black market resided. It was at a shop that he found the leader of the Black Teeth, a gang notorious for drug manufacturing. They dealt with quirk enhancement and blockages, something Shigaraki took interest in after the nomu came to being. His best nomu was beaten by All Might, which meant he would need more than what his scientists were capable of in order to strengthen them.

The boss of the crew was lounging in his chair, the third eye on his forehead closed while his striking white eyes were staring directly at the nomu accompanying Shigaraki.

The man grins. “Their construction is magnificent. Who did you get your hands on to make these?” He sits up, elbows resting on his knees as he scans them up and down.

Shigaraki scoffs. “That is need to know information, and you do not need to know it.”

“Aye, it was a simple question.” The man leans back, his joking demeanor melting into something more serious. “So, Shigaraki Tomura. What can I do for you?”

Shigaraki takes a seat across from the man, knowing he was safe with his posse of nomu. “I need your numbers. You have men to spare. I require them.”

The man hissed through his teeth, an amused glint in his eyes. “You want my men. Mi amigo, are you sure you know what you're asking for?”

While Shigaraki didn't know what was said, he knew for certain what he wanted. What he needed. He wouldn't let the U.S.J. failure happen again. “I am more than certain.”

“Muy bien. I'll give you one of my crew. You'll find they're all you need. Incredibly loyal that one.”

“Only one?” Shigaraki grits his teeth. “Is that a joke?”

A hand lands itself on Shigaraki’s shoulder, causing him to jump slightly in his seat, already reaching to turn them into dust.

A barrier keeps him from touching you, the air seemingly hardening and turning golden at the force of his touch.

You give him a small smirk. “Hey jefe.”

You were either very smart, or incredibly dumb

You didn't bargain for power, or for riches, two things the League could most definitely provide. He found this strange, as everyone wanted something. No one ever gave anything for free. And with your skills, you could ask for anything in return, so why didn't you?

After finalizing a contract with your boss about new arrangements, you leave Corellia with the small group of League affiliates. Still, Shigaraki couldn't understand you, and it was bugging him to no end.

He slowed his pace until he was beside you, his hands clenched into fists as he remembers how you blocked him from using his quirk. “Why are you joining us?”

You examine the face of your new employer, or more of examine the hand covering his face. Your own face was scarred after battles and fights with the police and other gangs. Your body was covered in burns, stab wounds, and gunshots. You've been through the wringer yet still worked in the mafia with gusto. What fueled you? What led you to wanting to aid the league?

“Heroes and villains are white and black. I prefer grey.” You crack your fingers, watching the bones as they pop and settle back into place, relishing in the relief. “Your fighting will bring to light how corrupt some heroes are. It will usher in a better era. If the people work hard enough to make it.”

“You sound like a damn hero.”

“It's all about perspective mi amigo.”

You managed to enter his own little mafia after that display of your skills

There was no denying you had talent, he needed your abilities. You would make for a great asset to his newly forming team.

Two weeks into joining the league, you’ve already proven your worth. With your barrier quirk that could accumulate damage and send it right back at the attacker, you were a perfect tank in his array of assets.

In a meeting gone astray, you defended your new boss and led him to a safe zone away from the villains that wanted to usurp him as the new leader of the League.

At least, you believed it was a safe spot.

“Shigaraki!” You scream at him, spotting a hero ready to pummel him into the ground with their hammer quirk. Rushing to his side, you push him out of the way and put up a hasty shield, grunting as the force drives you into the ground. Breaking the shield, you watch as the hero is thrown back twice as hard, their back hitting a steel pillar above them.

“Get them out of here!” Your new boss yells at Kurogiri as he decays one of the hero’s sidekicks, not batting an eye at the ash covering him from head to toe. He proceeds further into the warehouse in search of the villain that ratted them out to the Hero Agency, but you refused to let him go in alone.

Kurogiri’s smoke appears below you, but using your barrier as a foothold, you launch yourself in the air and run after Shigaraki. “Pendejo!” You shout out, hoping to catch the attention of the blue haired male. “Use your head!”

The lights cut out, and all you could do is focus on the senses you still had.

Maybe it wasn't your smartest idea, but you raise your voice again.

“Shigaraki!”

You run to what you assume is the center of the room but slip on what feels like piles of sand.

The lights turn on, and in the corner of the room you find Shigaraki with a gash just under his chin, nearly catching him on his jugular.

He huffs, the hand that was normally  covering his face no longer there, allowing you to see his annoyed yet soft expression. “I can handle myself too.”

An odd beat flutters in your chest.

“I know that idiota.”

You begin to grow on him /like a tumor/

He doesn't admit it, but after that incident, he begins to trust you more than he had before. You proved your loyalty, something he was inclined to ignore before. And you weren't afraid of his presence. The others in the league liked to have their own time away, they had separate goals and found the league as a place to enact them, but you didn't have that. So the fact that you stayed with him at the bar to just be there was quite nice.

You helped him with info gathering, and gathering in general

As his new enforcer with a knack of collecting data without being seen, you became extremely useful to him. And useful to the others as well.

“Oooh did you get the photos I asked for!” Toga chirps from her seat at the bar, spinning in a half circle as she watches you lift a heavy satchel and place it on the counter. The girl always had weird requests, but you caved in. She didn't ask for much anyway, not compared to what your old boss ordered you to do.

“Esperate chica, I have them.” You respond while pulling out a handful of polaroids. They were of several students of U.A., mostly of Izuku Midoriya, who you had yet to uncover why she was so obsessed with him. You pull your hand away just as she snatches them from your grip, remembering how she accidentally scratched you the last time you brought her photographs.

For Dabi you brought him information on Endeavor and his son, as you would see them occasionally on patrol. There wasn't much to tell, as the young boy didn't seem to like his father whatsoever. He rarely spoke, making him a poor source of info. But Dabi was sated either way.

“And what about for me?” Shigaraki hums from behind the counter, looking at you with carmine eyes. “You are my spider first and foremost. Don't forget it.”

With a grin from ear to ear, “I was thinking of you jefe.” You reach further into your satchel and pluck a collectable All Might action figure. “I thought you might like it.”

Needless to say, he decayed it right before storming off to his room.

But later that evening he opened his door to find a video game he had planned on buying.

With a small huff, he accepts the gift and returns to his nest.

You were his right hand alongside Kurogiri

Despite your rough beginning, you grew fond of your new boss. It was like having a friend, even if he could be somewhat of a man child, you learned how to deal with his moods. Which made Kurogiri’s life so much easier.

Shigaraki slams his hands on a table, turning it to dust. In fact, he was tossing everything out of his way, sending dust raining around the room. You stand at the door watching the sprays of ash like fireworks on New Year. It was always best to wait for his rage to ease before approaching him. This, you learned from Kurogiri.

But this time you needed him to calm down. You needed him to be a leader, not a temperamental child.

“Shigaraki.” You stand behind him, arms at your sides.

“How is it that he still gets all of the attention?! How, even after he retires, do we keep failing! One after another, our plans are turning into dust!” He slams a hand on another table, sending it crumbling to the ground.

“Shigaraki.” You repeat in a stern tone.

“What?!” His attention snaps to you, eyes crazed and bloodshot with rage.

“To win a battle is not to win a war.” You state calmly, keeping eye contact with the enraged leader. “Look at the bigger picture, and you will get the advantage you need.”

Something flickers in his eyes, giving you the shot of confidence you need in order to place a hand on his shoulder. He flinches at the contact but doesn't move from you.

“I believe in you cariño.”

He was incredibly antsy when Chisaki wanted you to join the yakuza, so you stepped up and said yes for him

Without knowing it, you had begun caring for the members of the League, something you weren't prepared for when you joined. At first it was just a side gig, a favor to your leader to work with the League. But now it wasn't just for your old boss or for the late Magne, it was for Shigaraki. You were doing this for him. Why? You didn't know. But you were caving for him.

“I’ll go.” You say from your spot beside him at the arm of  the sofa. You were used to meetings like this. The yakuza wasn't much different from the mafia, they were like twins. That's how you knew it was better to give in than to argue anymore on the terms. Anymore nitpicking and the meeting would turn into a bloodbath mixed with ash.

Shigaraki doesn't look at you, and for that you were glad. To show weakness in front of these people would only give them a bigger advantage. Did Shigaraki like you? You didn't know. But neither did the Yakuza.

“Your underling has more sense than you do.” Chisaki croons from his spot across from Shigaraki. “They know when it's better to just back down. I like that.”

Shigaraki clenches his fist.

Chisaki looks you over, nodding once to himself before waving dismissively. “You'll need a mask if you are going to be here. I don't need you contaminating the air with your germs.”

You feel your eye twitch, but you give no more than a nod as you walk out of the room, bidding Shigaraki goodbye with a single look.

The next time you see him is the day you realize just how much you missed him

Bloody and sore from fighting with the yakuza underbosses in order to get out, you were happy to regroup with Toga and Twice. You were split up from them during your stint as a yakuza, you assumed it was because you were seen as a tier higher than them. Chisaki was smart enough not to let you plan with them behind his back, but he wasn't smart enough to realize the plans were already made even before the fated meeting. 

“Shiggy!” Toga squeals from the back of the van as you all cruise on the empty highway with Chisaki strapped to the gurney. “I missed you guys so much! It was kinda fun being a yakuza! But they were so rude to us, weren't they Twice?”

“Yeah! They were dicks- The nicest people ever goddamnit! EW!”

You laugh at the two behind you, listening to them talk with Dabi, Spinner, and Mr. Compress about their little ‘vacation’.

“You're bleeding.”

Shigaraki’s voice drags you out of your thoughts. 

“Hm?”

“You're bleeding.” He repeats in the same monotone voice.

Looking at your injuries you shrug and lay back deeper into the seat cushions. “I’m home, that's all that matters.”

Your leader huffs.

“I missed you cariño.”

“...”

You smile.

“Welcome back.” 

[themurphyzone]

PatB AU: Pinky the Snowmouse

This is just one of those late night ideas that I wanted to post. It’s somewhat based off that Frosty the Snowman special from the 60s with a dash of Pinocchio. 

I haven’t actually watched either of these recently. My subconscious is just weird. 

1. After his fallout with Snowball, Brain continues to aspire for world domination, but finds that he’s hit a block when it comes to plans. He doesn’t have inspiration nor anyone to bounce ideas off with, but he tries to push past it and just continue creating. There’s bound to be a gem or two amidst all the duds, he tells himself. And he doesn’t need anyone else, he can rule the world on his own.

2. ACME Labs hosts a Christmas party, and they invite a magician for entertainment. Brain is in his cage, brainstorming ideas for world domination while the scientists gather around for the magician’s performance. Brain knows magic is all just sleight of hand and optical illusions, and rolls his eyes at the magician failing to even manage that. The scientists all mock the magician, and their laughter grows more when the magician fails to pull a rabbit out of his hat. 

3. The magician is laughed out of ACME Labs, and he swears revenge against all the scientists who work there. But he left his top hat on a table by Brain’s cage, and he doesn’t notice until later that night. ACME Labs closes, and Brain escapes his cage, glad that the party is finally over so he can get back to planning properly. 

4. But loneliness creeps up on Brain again, and he tries to dismiss it as the reason he can’t concentrate. So he goes outside, where a thick layer of snow has covered the ground. He starts kicking around snow and eventually builds a snowmouse, wondering if he’s gone mad since he’s partaking in an activity that’s usually reserved for children and not future emperors. 

5. He builds the snowmouse’s body first, using a stick for a tail and fashioning the head. Then he decides it’s missing some prerequisites to be a proper snowman, so he goes inside and gathers a bunch of buttons, a pink scarf, and lastly, the magician’s hat. He goes back to the snowmouse and dresses him up, then tosses on the hat as a finisher. 

6.  And boy, if Brain felt ridiculous before then now it was tripled since he decided to dress up the snowmouse like it was a real entity. He angrily starts berating himself for being distracted and that he needs to focus, because he can’t be like all those other scientists. 

He declares that their collective minds are nothing compared to the intelligence in his pinky, and a voice answers ‘yes?’ 

7. Brain thinks he’s just hearing things, then the voice goes ‘oh, i thought you called my name. Narf!’ 

Then Brain turns around and freaks out, because holy crap the snowmouse he built was alive and talking. Brain dismisses it as a figment of his imagination at first, but as the newly christened Pinky the snowmouse displays a rather glaring lack of intelligence, he can’t help but be curious about how snow can come to life. He circles Pinky and tries to figure it out, taking off the magic hat, and Pinky goes still and silent. Brain quickly puts the hat on Pinky again, and soon the snowmouse is dancing around once more. 

8.  Unbeknownst to either of them, the magician saw the hat bring Pinky to life and decides he can profit off the hat, then follows the two mice. 

9. Pinky gets distracted and wanders into town with Brain trailing after him and making sure Pinky’s stupidity and lack of awareness about the world doesn’t kill them both. To Brain’s dismay, he finds that Pinky takes in pop culture much faster than he does at science. It’s pretty ironic that Pinky already knows who Mariah Carrey is despite being alive for less than an hour, but he believes snowflakes are manufactured in an eco-friendly factory in the clouds. 

10. Pinky sees a pair of lovers hugging, then tries to do the same with Brain. Unfortunately, all this does is make Brain shiver with cold, and Pinky feels bad for hurting him like that. Brain shouts at him for hugging, but when Pinky apologizes, Brain realizes it was just an accident and tells him not to do it again. 

11. Pinky notices that images of Santa are plastered all over the place since it’s the holiday season, and wishes he could meet the big guy. This leads into inspiration for Brain to create his own line of toys and plant them in the elf factory for mass production and distribution. Brain praises Pinky for the inspiration. 

12. Brain creates the Noodle Noggin plans and together the mice stow away in a plane bound for the North Pole. However, it’s necessary for Pinky to stay in cold temperatures, so they have to remain in the cargo hold and away from the heated cockpit. Brain is freezing despite being dressed for cold weather, and Pinky feels bad for not being able to keep him warm. Pinky says he wishes he could be a real mouse like Brain, so that he can be his friend forever. 

Brain thinks the headaches Pinky gave him were pretty real, but the companionship and kindness were real too. He keeps quiet about this, unsure of what to say. 

13. The magician has also stowed away on the plane. 

14. The plane lands at the North Pole, and the mice head to the elf factory. They discover Pinky can’t enter the elf factory since it’s heated, so Brain goes in alone to slip the Noodle Noggin plans in with the other blueprints, while Pinky wanders off and explores the North Pole settlement. 

15. Before Brain can successfully slip the blueprints in, the magician ambushes and successfully captures him, and the Noodle Noggin plans are torn beyond saving in the struggle. Angered at the loss of his plans, Brain demands the magician explain himself. The magician declares he gets a two for one profit, with a talking mouse and a magic hat, then realizes the snowmouse is missing and demands to know where he is. 

16. Without the hat, Pinky can’t stay alive. Brain refuses to reveal Pinky’s location for any reason, and the magician tries to force it out of him. Brain is stubborn though and refuses to speak. 

17. Pinky finishes wandering around the village and goes back to check on Brain, thinking he’s taking an awfully long time in the elf factory. He peeks in through a window, discovering that a man is hurting a very distressed Brain, who’s still resisting. 

18. Pinky shouts for Brain, and gets the magician’s attention. Brain yells at him for drawing attention to himself, ordering him to run. But Pinky won’t do it, because Brain is in trouble and needs help. 

19. The magician demands Pinky give up the magic hat. But Pinky will only give up the hat if he releases Brain. The magician agrees, but Brain knows full well that the magician is far too greedy and will go back on his word, and Pinky is giving up the hat and his life for a promise that won’t be kept. 

20. With Brain in hand, the magician walks over to a fireplace and tells Pinky to come inside. The fireplace is bright and warm, and Brain orders Pinky to just leave, because the heat will kill him if he doesn’t. Pinky starts to melt as he comes closer, telling Brain it’s okay, he’s happy they’re friends, even if their time together was brief. 

21. When Pinky is in front of the fireplace, the magician snatches the hat off his head, and renders Pinky lifeless. Reveling in victory, the magician releases Brain who hugs and begs Pinky to wake up and stop being stupid, just wake up and say narf, Pinky. Except Pinky can’t see or hear anymore, and is nothing more than cold, melting water with a few accessories. Brain is left crying and pleading for Pinky to come back, clutching a wet scarf in his hands. The magician mocks Brain for believing that a pile of snow had thoughts and feelings. 

22. But the magician’s joy is cut short at Santa Claus’s sudden appearance. Angry that someone could take such mirth in murdering an innocent creature and cause so much grief in his best friend, Santa orders his elves to tie up the magician and take him away. The elves obey, and the magician is reduced to a pathetic mess. 

23. Brain barely notices the commotion. Santa decides to grant Brain one Christmas wish, just to give him a little comfort. And Brain ponders, knowing that he journeyed all this way for world domination, and while he can easily cut a lot of hassle by using his wish to make himself ruler of the world...he remembers Pinky’s sacrifice.

Pinky’s compassion. Pinky’s kindness. How Pinky provided the inspiration he needed. 

Brain admits to Santa that even if Pinky was made of snow, he still had the warmest heart he’d ever known. 

24. Brain asks if it’s possible for Pinky to be revived with a body to reflect his warm heart. 

25. Santa grants the wish. The puddle that used to be Pinky reshapes and forms into a living, breathing mouse with the softest, warmest fur imaginable. Pinky marvels at his new body and the mice have their first proper hug. Brain is overjoyed at Pinky being alive again, and Pinky is happy to be a real mouse at last. 

26. Santa lets the mice ride home in his sleigh (Pinky falls in love with Donner on the way home and Brain learns what jealousy is for the first time and hopes to god they don’t get invited to any Donner parties). Meanwhile all the elves are sobbing with their hot cocoa, marshmallows, and candy canes while watching all the drama unfold on their security feed because this is the best Christmas drama they’ve seen in years. 

[kuroo-shitsurou]

Weekly Meal Prep (Yandere!Omi Fushimi)

note: this is my first attempt at working with the yandere theme so i don't really know if i did good or bad,,, but something about messed up omi just sends me straight to hell. hope you enjoy!

word count: 2.9k

Monday.

"This is so good! This has got to be one of my favorite curry dishes so far." You gushed, shoving another spoonful of the new curry in your mouth.

"Glad you liked it. The place had bad reviews, but I think it's just because normal people don't know how to appreciate the raw and concentrated flavor of curry." Chikage grinned as he looked at you endearingly

"Ugh," You scoffed, "Why can't people understand that the raw flavor of the spices are supposed to taste like this? I dislike the artificial flavors of watered down and manufactured spices because of how... fake it tastes in curry dishes." You were about to go on a full-on rant about how using real spices in curry dishes should be the only way to cook curry.

Chikage watched you with his emerald eyes, admiring how beautiful you looked when you talked about something that you were so passionate about. Yeah, sure, he disliked women, but being here with you made him realize that maybe the other gender wasn't all that bad. Actually, he still hated women; He just didn't hate you.

You weren't a woman. To him, you were a goddess.

"Thank you for taking me out, by the way." You suddenly spoke, breaking your rant about the whole curry ordeal. "You didn't have to, but you did. I appreciate that a lot, Chikage."

His lips curled up in a warm smile.

"Don't mention it, director."

After you two finished your meals, you had to go back to the dorm immediately to hold several meetings with the troupes regarding their next projects. As Chikage held the door open for you, his eyes darted back inside the bustling restaurant.

"Hm? Is something wrong, Chikage?"

Again, he smiled at you, but it was more strained than the last.

"Of course not. Let's go home, shall we?"

-

Tuesday.

"Oi, careful." Juza wrapped an arm around you and pulled you closer to him. A motorcycle was speeding by and it nearly hit you, but thankfully, Juza saw it before it impacted. "Tsk, careless drivers piss me off. Stand here." He then guided you to walk inside of the sidewalk.

"Oh crap, I didn't see that. Thank you, Juza! You're so nice." Juza blushed at your kind words, but he shook his head to rid of the thoughts.

"'S nothin."

"Hey, look at that! They're selling a new flavor of crepes! Come on, let's check it out!" You grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him over to your favorite crepe place. They didn't have a line yet, which was good, because you were able to purchase the new crepes for you and Juza.

"Here!" You grinned at him, handing him one of the crepes

"Lemme pay for them."

"Nonsense!" You gently pushed the crepe further into his hand, and his mind went wild when your fingers brushed his skin. "Consider this a thank you gift because you saved me earlier."

He took the crepe hesitantly, and muttered a quiet "Thanks." before he bit into it.

His face lit up immediately.

"'S sweet. I like it."

"Marshmallow crepes. Genius! We should bring one home for Hisoka. I'm sure he'd love this!"

Juza smiled. He adored how you were always considerate and thoughtful of other people even when you weren't physically with them. It's one of the many things that he loved about you.

Suddenly, he felt a shiver down his spine. He looked around, but was suddenly distracted when you were spilling the cream all over yourself.

"Crap!"

"Oi, tissue!"

He handed you a few tissues so you could wipe your shirt, and you had to admit that was a little mortifying to be that clumsy in front of the younger male.

"Thank you for being so reliable, Juza. Makes me feel

As you were mindlessly walking home, Juza couldn't help but think to himself why that motorcycle looked so damn familiar.

-

Wednesday.

"Come on, director-chan! I promise you, it tastes good!"

"Kazu, I am legitimately going to HURT you."

"No you're not! That's so mean!" Kazunari wept crocodile tears.

"Come on, director-chan! It's just a bite!"

"Kumon, I'm going to die. If I don't make it, tell everyone in Mankai that I love them and that I always treated them as my own family."

"Director-chan, you aren't going to die here." Kumon sweat dropped.

"No, I've accepted my fate. If this is what I must do for love, then at least I'll go out knowing that I did it for you boys.

"Director-chan, it's just a salad. You don't have to be so dramatic about it!"

"It's a death trap! I know you boys want to kill me so you can always get free time!"

"If anything, we're concerned about you health! That's why we want you to eat this!" Kazunari made sure that the fork had greens, kani, and a mishmash of everything before he held it in front of your mouth. "Here, say ah!"

You wanted to throw up. Vegetables. Disgusting.

"This store sells the best kani salad! You have to try it, I promise you'll like it!" Kumon looked at you with big doe eyes and you sighed in defeat.

You leaned forward to eat the portion on the fork and Kazunari blushed because he realized that he was feeding you. It was an adorable sight, and maybe peer pressuring someone into eating healthy food could be an addition to his growing list of love advice.

You blinked. "It's... actually pretty good."

"Right?!" Kumon beamed before giving the restaurant owner a thumbs up.

"Here, director-chan!" Kazunari filled the fork again, "Say ah!"

Your face bloomed red and you snatched the fork from his hand, "I can feed myself just fine, Kazu!"

"You really are the cutest!"

"I wanna feed you too, director-chan!"

Kazunari watched as Kumon bothered you while you ate the rest of the salad. It was off-putting how there seemed to be a cold atmosphere in the room. He looked around to see that there were just a few customers sitting in the dining area. His eyes landed on a hooded figure who was sitting in a lone booth in the corner of the room. The figure had his face hidden behind a menu, but there was something about the person that reminded Kazu of a certain brunette that they loved in Mankai.

Maybe that was just coincidence.

After all, there were a lot of brunettes in Japan.

Right?

-

Thursday.

"It's odd for you two to take me out for Chinese." You stated. Your eyes were scanning the menu of the new Chinese place that opened just a few blocks away from the Mankai dormitory.

"Tsumugi found out about the egg drop soup because apparently it's famous outside of Veludo Way. He was insistent that we take you to try it." Tasuku replied, eyeing how excited Tsumugi looked.

"I've heard great reviews about the egg drop soup and I've been dying to try it." Tsumugi's usually calm and gentle tone of voice was laced with a child-like glee, and it took all of your willpower not to reach over the table so that you can pinch his cheeks.

"He already ordered individual soups for us, but if you want anything else off the menu, go ahead and order it as well." Tasuku won't admit it aloud, but he liked spending time with you and Tsumugi. Being with his bestfriend and his favorite director made him feel a sense of comfort that just made him feel all warm and gooey inside. He felt at home with you two and he wouldn't exchange that feeling for the world.

"It's refreshing to be with you two, especially since it's a lot calmer whenever Tasuku isn't at your throat, Tsumugi." You giggled, ignoring the deadpan look that the athletic male beside you was giving you.

"I'm glad you feel that way, director-san." Tsumugi chimed, smiling. He took your hand a placed a gentle kiss on the back of it. "Spend some more time with us, alright?"

Your face immediately felt hot and you pulled your hand back to save yourself from being more embarrassed than you already were.

"Is it just me, or does it feel like we're being watched?" Tasuku murmured as his eyes quickly scouted the room. Ever since you entered the restaurant, Tasuku already had this instinct in his guts screaming that there was someone watching you. Not just you in particular, but the three of you. You heard him speak, but what he said was unclear.

"Sorry, did you say something, Tasuku?"

"Oh, I was just mumbling. Don't worry about it.

"Three orders of egg drop soup. Can I help you with anything else?"

"No, thank you!"

"Enjoy your meal!"

Tsumugi immediately began to eat his soup even though it was still hot. His face melted into pure bliss as he felt the delicious components sliding down his throat.

"It's so good." He commented, masking his elation.

"It really is!" You added, taking quick slurps from your spoon. The soup itself tasted rich in flavor; It wasn't too runny, nor was it too starchy.

"It tastes okay to me."

"That's so disrespectful, Tasuku." You jokingly said with a mocking tone. "This soup legitimately changed my life. I wish I could have it everyday, along with curry."

"You somehow managed to sneak curry into the conversation again, huh?" He sighed, smiling at the way you laughed afterward.

Tasuku continued to consume his soup while observing how you and Tsumugi were practically worshipping the soup. He decided to ignore the eerie feeling building in the pit of his stomach gnawing at him alive.

Maybe it was just the soup.

-

Friday.

"Hurry up. We don't have all day."

"Gee, you don't have to be so mean about it!"

"I told you to make it quick. We have to get back in town because we have another meeting to attend to."

You and Sakyo just got out of a business meeting outside of Veludo Way. It was regarding a sponsorship for the Autumn Troupe's next play. Sakyo, the greatest cheapskate and money-pinching Sakyo, was more than willing to accompany you to the next town over if it meant saving the company tens of thousands worth of yen. As long as it involved finances, the blond always needed to be a part of it.

"I know that, but we need to grab lunch before we head to the next meeting. It's bad to miss out on meals, you know! Come on, we'll just grab something from this store and rush back to Veludo Way."

Sakyo sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, but you did have a point. He was also feeling the hunger starting to rise inside of him. It was already lunchtime by the time you guys finished with the first meeting of the day, and he didn't really have a proper breakfast earlier.

You walked into this quaint little restaurant on the side of the road owned by a lovely old couple.

"Good afternoon, may I help you with anything?" The old lady asked warmly.

You felt your heart soften, "Is it possible to get two yakiniku bento boxes to go?"

She smiled, "Of course, dearie. They'll be right out."

"She seems nice!" You whispered to Sakyo, who was sitting across from you.

"She reminds me of you."

"Eh? Don't tell me I'm already aging! I don't wanna be like you yet!"

"I can and will leave you here."

"Eh, but seriously, how?"

Sakyo sighed exasperatedly. "She... sounds nice. Lovely, even. She just has a nice smile and it reminds me of how nice you are when you talk to other people."

"S-Sakyo, is that really you? Who are you? Are you an alien? How are you being so honest right now?"

"I'm going back to Veludo Way without you.

"Hey, I'm kidding!" You pouted.

"Two yakiniku bento boxes to go?" An old man, presumably the husband of the lady they talked to, walked over to you two and handed you the bag of bento boxes.

"Ah, thank you!" You bowed before taking the bag from his hands. You took your wallet out to pay, but Sakyo already left money in the box where you put your payment.

"Hey, I can-"

"Consider it my treat. You'll be working hard today, after all." For a brief second, he gave you a warm smile. However, it was quickly replaced by his usual scowl. "Now hurry up and let's go."

"Geez, I was just about to call you cute as well!

"I am not cute, _____."

As you two were walking out of the restaurant, the old couple gave you a fond smile.

"We were like that too when we were younger."

"Mhm. They look good together, don't you think?"

When you got back to the car, you began to snack on the onigiri part of your bento. You didn't notice how Sakyo's eyes were glaring daggers into the figure who was idly sitting on his motorcycle just a good few meters away from the car.

The figure was wearing a denim jacket and a black helmet, but he could see a few tufts of brown hair sticking out from above the nape of his neck.

His hand grasped the steering wheel in a tight grip until his knuckles turned pale. What was he feeling? Anxiety? Hostility?

The sensation of being... followed?

His mind was racing at the thought, but he decided to rid the negativity filling his consciousness to the brim.

"Sakyo, here's your onigiri." Your voice snapped him out of his daze, and he shot you a small smile.

"Thanks. Let's head back to town now."

"Mhm!"

Seeing the pure innocence, joy, and trust in your smile made him content. He wanted to protect you and your smile forever.

If only he could.

-

Saturday.

You woke up earlier than usual because you promised Itaru that you'd go with him to the game store down the street since today was the release day of the new game he'd been itching to buy.

You sat up to stretch and noticed that Omi was in your room.

"Gah!" You gasped, pulling the sheets up to cover yourself. "Omi?!"

He gave you a warm smile, "Oh, good morning! You're finally up. Sorry for barging in like this, I just wanted to call you over for breakfast."

"Th-Thanks for waking me up but um, do you mind? I'm still kinda in my nightwear." You blushed, knowing that your bra was still unhooked.

Omi's eyes darkened for a brief moment, but it was gone as soon as he blinked. It was replaced by the usual hazel eyes that gave you the warmest and kindest looks.

"I'm sorry! I'll be waiting for you outside." He then left your room, shutting the door behind him without making a sound.

"Jeez, Omi." You muttered to yourself. You quickly hooked your bra together then changed into a more decent t-shirt, appropriate enough for the other boys in the company to see you without being flustered or bewildered out of their minds. Seriously, Azami acts as if he's never seen a girl's shoulders before, what's up with that?

You tied your hair in a ponytail and went out of your room to head over to the kitchen where a bunch of familiar platters were waiting for you.

"Oh, wow, isn't this quite a... variety for breakfast?" You spoke, careful with your words. You always appreciated Omi for making food for the company, but the dishes he served this particular Saturday morning seemed like a mishmash of different food combinations and you just couldn't put your finger on why the food looked and smelled so familiar to you.

"Dig in, my dearest director." He replied, with his back facing you. It seemed as though he was still preparing something by the sink.

You took a seat and viewed the selection he prepared for breakfast.

Curry. Delicious, by the way.

Yakiniku.

Kani Salad.

Egg drop soup.

Crepes.

"Hey, didn't I..." You whispered to yourself, finally realizing that the meals he prepared for you were all meals you've eaten that week.

How did he know? Did the guys tell him about it?

"Well? Aren't you going to eat? You've been enjoying these all week, why not relive the moments one more time? I made sure to prepare them just the way you like them, after all." Omi's voice was laced with something... unknown. Was it possessiveness? He didn't sound like the warm and loving Omi you knew and love.

This Omi was... dangerous. He was terrifying. His back was still facing you, but you could feel a threatening aura from his broad shoulders because of how they looked so stiff.

He turned around and you froze upon seeing his half-lidded eyes. There was a crazed look in his pupils, something that reeked of want, lust, and obsession.

"You had curry with Chikage on Monday. Marshmallow crepes with Juza on Tuesday. Kani Salad with Kumon and Kazunari on Wednesday. Egg drop soup with Tsumugi and Tasuku on Thursday. Then you had a yakiniku bento box with Sakyo yesterday, right?"

Your eyes widened. The boys were pretty aware of the places you went to and who you went there with, but how in the world did Omi know everything?

"Don't worry about it. You don't have to go out with them anymore. I'm the only one who gets to cook for you from now on, okay?" Omi took steps closer to you. You wanted to scream, to run out of the room, to call for help from anyone, but you felt as if you were paralyzed with fear.

This wasn't Omi anymore.

He stopped when he was directly in front of you from across the table, and you could see his thin lips twist into a sadistic smile.

"Dig in, my precious director."

[o-wise-corvid]

Okay so there’s some mentions of children in pain and going through some severe physical stuff. Dark Side torture to build their hatred type stuff. DONT read if that’s too much.

People who were wanting more: @captainrexisboo @clonetrooperrights @koskareevesismyqueen @gospelofme @jgvfhl @ct-27-fives

WARNINGS: mild mentions of torture/ broken bones/ character in pain

Chapter 1: Two, Three, Four, Five

“Get your elbow up! Block with your shins and forearms... Use your points! There you go!”

To be possessed of such a small frame, Gaia never failed to impress Cody with the way she could change direction. She could run full tilt at a training droid, her whole body leaning into the sprint, then check herself, pivoting on a dime to swing up behind it. One firm kick and there was a clanker head lying at his feet.

She ran with what he could only define as commitment, pushing her entire being into a single goal. That wasn’t something he’d taught her to do, but something she’d brought herself; Cody encouraged her natural talents as often as he encouraged the practiced techniques he’d been showing her for over a year.

Gaia rode the toppling chassis to the floor, crouching on its back with a triumphant smile on her face. “How was that?”

Cody grinned at her. “Very nice. Those reinforced gauntlets really help with the punches, don’t they?”

Gaia inspected the new armor that sheathed her arms from knuckles to elbow, matte black instead of shiny. Which was a good choice given the wear the things had already gotten after one day. “Yes. No more broken knuckles.”

“No more broken knuckles,” he agreed, scooping her up. Gaia laughed and rested her small hands on his chest plate. Cody could swear she’d grown since the day before, her weight already not so easy to manage as it had once been. “But what did Papa tell you about broken bones?”

“They grow back stronger,” Gaia recited dutifully, dark eyes serious. Too serious for one so young. “Did you ever break your knuckles, Papa?”

Cody opened his mouth to answer, smiling at a memory of another brother, Kix, belligerently scolding him about his frequent visits due to how he fought droids. But another voice interjected.

“Captain.” Sixthree wobbled over anxiously, arms lifting in manufactured excitement. “You are being summoned by Lord Vader. He wishes you to bring the young lady along.”

Icy tendrils of fear shuffled their way through his body and he tightened his grip on Gaia reflexively. “Bring her with me? You’re certain about that?” he tried, despite knowing the droid would have relayed the message accurately.

“Yes sir.”

“Papa.” Gaia pulled his face around to look right at him. She touched her forehead to his. “I know what to do. Let’s go.”

He couldn’t help but smile. Her accent had changed, picking up the thicker vowels and light r’s that Jango Fett had passed down to all his Clones. In such a clear, delicate voice, it sounded especially sweet.

“I know you do,” Cody told her, lowering her to her feet. “What do you call me?”

“ ‘Sir’ if I speak at all, sir,” Gaia snapped, spine straightening like a flagpole.

“Do you look at me if you’re asked a question?”

“No sir.”

“Do you fear me?” He put a little edge in his voice, looming to his full height as he paced a tight circle around her.

“Yes sir.” Gaia didn’t track him with her eyes, didn’t blink, didn’t flinch. She was good, he had to admit. She’d picked up on what survival meant so quickly and she’d practiced everything to the point that she performed without thinking.

“Do you fear Vader?”

“Even more.”

“How do you address him?”

“My Lord.”

“Alright,” Cody finally murmured, as satisfied as he was bound to get. He touched Gaia on the top of her head, feeling the tight pattern of her braided hair under his glove, then sheathed his face in his helmet.

They stalked through the ship as one. Gaia had assumed a posture and cadence to her steps that mirrored his own, which carried a menace that even ranking officers knew to give room. She had figured out an expression of intensity that looked positively chilling on a little girl and wore it whenever she was in public. Cody admired the girl’s drive and grasp of her circumstances, even though their routine was beyond familiar.

Vader was awaiting Cody in the hangar bay, just as imposing as he’d ever been. Gaia didn’t react to his presence as they entered the long, mostly empty expanse. He wondered how she perceived him in the Force, what he felt like to the other senses that she was gifted with. From the outside, she looked inscrutable, her boots clicking in time with Cody’s as they approached the hulking figure. When Cody stopped, so did she and they both snapped a salute.

“Captain,” Vader rumbled. His sloping helmet shifted so that his attention was obviously fixed on Gaia. “Cadet.”

“My Lord,” Cody and Gaia said together and they both gave a short bow.

Vader stepped over to Gaia, sinking down on one knee until he was more level with the girl. She stared stoically ahead. “I see your training is progressing well, young one. Tell me, what do you sense in this room?”

Gaia frowned a little, but her expression was one of concentration rather than concern. “You, my Lord. The Dark Side is strong with you. The Captain. And... two others.”

Vader actually chuckled and the sound made the buzzed hair on the back of Cody’s neck stand on end. “Well done, little one. Your training has indeed progressed.” Rising, he affixed Cody with his soulless stare. “You are being tasked with the training of two others, Captain. Your success with this one is evident. I am leaving these in your command.”

Two Stormtroopers came hurrying up, each gripping a squirming person in their arms the way someone holding a feral animal would. Cody could see that they were children due to their size but because they were thrashing so wildly, there wasn’t much he could tell about them apart from the fact that they were both Zabraks.

Vader nodded to the Stormtroopers to set their burdens down, which they did, and then hurriedly backed away. Which Cody almost snorted at because it wasn’t like the kids could bite them through their armor. But then he noticed the scrapes and gouges in the white helmets; one of the eyes was shattered.

“Mind the horns, sir,” one of them offered nervously.

One of the Zabrak children twisted around, flailing a little with bound hands and legs, and actually growled at Cody. His blue eyes burned against his dusky skin, bits of plastoid shavings and visor glass stuck in the crown of amber horns along the boy’s scalp.

“I’ll have them tamed in a month, my Lord,” Cody said confidently though he had to admit that both boys looked fierce enough to take on Wookies.

“We shall see, Captain.”

Cody and Gaia glanced at each other, as Vader turned, the Stormtroopers sweeping into his wake. “Can you help me get them to our quarters?” he asked quietly. “I can get one; two might be a lot.”

Gaia grinned and stretched out a hand toward the boys. The other, green-eyed one shot up, dangling by his ankles. Cody almost laughed. Gaia wasn’t one to overdo it if she didn’t have to. Lifting the boy by his binders was easier than trying to just lift his entire body.

Cody snatched up the blue-eyed one in much the same way, keeping him at arm’s length as much as he could. The Zabrak swayed and snarled nonetheless, trying to reach Cody with his horns. Once, Cody was sure he felt the Force flutter weakly at his armored side.

Gaia had a worse time of it. Her size was the biggest problem. Green eyes squinted furiously at her and her legs flew sideways as if she’d walked over an oil slick. Gaia caught herself without dropping the Zabrak on his head and glared hotly at the boy. “Do it again and I’ll break your ankles.”

Cody looked at her worriedly, glad for the concealment of his helmet. He’d never heard such a deadly note in the girl’s voice and it chilled him. He knew she was under the charge of a slightly Forceful woman who visited the ship once a month, but what exactly happened during the hours Gaia would be away from him there, he could never say. He knew how she returned, though; it was usually hours before she finally responded to him verbally. She always crawled into his bunk on those nights, clinging to him like her sanity depended on it.

When they were finally inside his quarters, Cody flipped the blue-eyed boy as gently as he could onto the bunk, carefully righting him so he was sitting up. Gaia did the same with the other and then threw her arms around his neck. The boy’s eyes flew open wide.

“I wouldn’t have done it,” she hurried. “I promise. You have to make everyone out there feel like you would though. If they don’t think you’re bad, they won’t trust you. Do you understand?”

A wave of fierce pride seemed to bubble up from somewhere near Cody’s feet, thawing the frost of Vader’s presence out of his veins. That was his ad’ika, his Gaia. If she could keep that moral core, that goodness, and survive what could be a very horrible existence with it in tact... What a warrior she could be.

Both boys were listening now, glancing between Gaia, who knelt between them on the skinny mattress, and Cody. He took off his helmet and set it on the Gaia’s bunk. Guess he’d be needing to add two more. His quarters were starting to get really cramped now that he thought about it. He felt his lips tug to the side; Fives would’ve loved it, though, wouldn’t he? Fives always did prefer to keep everyone close, within arms reach if need be.

“You’re... wait...” The one Cody had hauled in was frowning, trying to make this new information make sense. He stared at Gaia as if he’d never seen anything so perplexing in his entire life and then his gaze shifted over to Cody. “You’re a Clone.”

“Yeah.” He knelt down and Gaia scrambled off the bed, looping her arms around his neck from behind. He patted her clasped hands and locked eyes with both boys. “I won’t lie to you. This place is dangerous. For all of us. Clones aren’t supposed to be like me. They’re all under the control of the Empire, in here,” Cody tapped his temple for emphasis. “Gaia, here? If she was what they wanted, she really would have broken your ankles. It’s not easy, being us and being here. But together, we can make it. Think you can find it in yourselves to trust us?”

“How long have you been here?” It was the blue-eyed Zabrak who spoke. His accent was as sharp as his canines.

“Over a year,” Gaia replied with a tightening of her arms around Cody’s neck. He wasn’t sure, but it felt like she was somehow guarding him, like she was prepared to launch herself over his shoulder if one of the boys tried anything. “Papa Cody helped me. He’ll help you, too. And when they start teaching you how to... do things, it won’t be easy. But he makes it better.”

The boys looked at each other and then both sighed. “Okay... what should we do?”

“Pick your names.” Gaia beamed at them both. “You can pick anything.”

Cody chuckled, Gaia’s excitement tangible as she bounced on the balls of her feet. “My brothers, the other Clones, all chose their own names before the Empire happened. It was something we all looked forward to.”

“Soren,” bubble the green-eyed boy. He beamed at his brother. “Like that pilot.”

The other boy rolled his eyes indulgently. “I know.” He looked down in his lap as Cody gently unfastened the binders around his wrists. “Who was your favorite?”

Cody frowned. “Favorite...?”

“Brother.”

Gaia was looking at him now, too. She knew, Cody suspected. He’d told her so many stories about his little brother, the one who’d earned Jaig eyes his first tour. The brother who’d walked out of the barracks fresher one morning with bleached, barely-there hair and a strut like some sort of Coruscanti model. The brother who’d stood up to a rogue Jedi, defying orders despite the knowledge that doing so might’ve meant his own life.

“Rex,” he said in a tight voice.

“Can I have it, too?”

Cody swallowed, which was difficult, but nodded. “Sure. I think... I think the other Rex would be happy to share his name with you.”

The next six months skipped by very quickly. Gaia went through a growth spurt, shooting up to only an inch or so less than Cody. Soren and Rex took to their combat training like they were born for it. Their physiology leant itself to acrobatics and the boys both favored using their own heads as weapons whenever they could.

Cody finally took the leap and shaved his head, actually feeling pleased at the result. The kids all took turns helping him, giggling and getting into a shaving gel fight before everything was said and done. Then they took turns “buffing” his smooth scalp to make him “shiny like Sixthree”.

Gaia took to guarding her new brothers like they were her own flesh and blood. She talked gently but firmly to them prior to their first session with the woman Gaia called The Teacher, and while both boys looked markedly frightened, she promised them vehemently that she would be there the entire time.

Cody tried not to think about the way all three had looked upon returning for their sleep cycle. Acid burns had peppered the left arm of each child, and Gaia sported an angry red and purple slap mark on her left cheek. He’d arrived back at their jammed quarters after a day spent forcing himself not to think about what was happening with... with his children, only to find them huddled together on his bed while Sixthree tried to soothe them while he applied bacta to their blistered skin. Gaia had thrown herself into front of the door when Cody had turned on his heel with murder in his heart, barring his way and begging him to just stay.

“Papa, what happens if you do kill her?” Gaia had demanded quietly. “They’d kill you. And then what about us?”

His awe of the girl never seemed to lessen, but only expanded more and more every day. She was so strong and so smart, protective to a fault, even of him. He adored her in a way that was no more or less than the boys, but was something different. The boys were like shadows of his childhood, ghosts of little brother cadets possessing different bodies. They felt familiar and like parts of himself that he’d lost. Gaia was more like a miniature, not quite realized version of something that Cody had never actually experienced: a mother. But this would have to be how mothers were. Right?

Two more kids were brought to the ship a week after the head shaving event. Both were just as feral and unwieldy as Soren and Rex had been, especially the youngest one to date, who was only nine. He was the most difficult of them all. And Kali was the one who had tried to Force choke him the second she’d laid eyes on him.

Shriek, the boy, had done exactly that the second that Vader and the kid’s handlers had departed. To say that the boy had a pair of lungs on him was an understatement, but it wasn’t the volume that sent Cody to his knees. Images of his brothers screaming in agony seared his brain like hot knives. Rex, falling and tumbling, the fear in his voice split Cody’s skull. Kix taking blaster bolt after blaster bolt, toppling to his knees with lifeless eyes before anther brother took his place. Wolffe stretched with his limbs pulled taught, Grievous placing a lightsaber at the junction of his shoulder and arm as he unsheathed it. The screams layered, the same but different faces bleeding over and around each other in an unending torrent of pure misery until... the varactyl scream.

Soren surged into action, clapping a dark hand over Shriek’s mouth so hard that it made tears spring into the boy’s dark hazel eyes. Rex tackled Kali, who had flown to her feet and was running away like a frightened animal. Gaia planted herself between the boy who would be called Shriek, arms raised defensively, face taught with concentration.

“Get... out... of his head,” she struggled to say, sinking down on one knee as if some huge weight was pressing her into the plastisteel floor. She whooped in a breath and then growled through gritted teeth, arms trembling furiously. Cody had relied on later recounts of the event to fill in the gaps in his memory but that moment, the relief as... it withdrew from him, was one that remained crystal clear.

No one had moved for a long while after that, all five just breathing loudly. Shriek lay stiff and shivering in Soren’s arms. Kali had allowed Rex to turn her loose, her purple lekku draped over each shoulder as she slumped to her knees. Gaia had collapsed to her hands and knees, but not before knocking her foot against his arm. Are you okay?

He started to tell her he was okay, but he knew he wasn’t, so he didn’t say anything. Such tenderness also wouldn’t have looked good to outside eyes. Instead, Cody straightened out of the curled ball he’d been reduced to by a child and tried to get to one knee. A lancing stab of white hot fire shot through his head, cracking over his right temple and behind his eye. The noise that tore out of him was startling even to him.

“I’ve got to get him to medical,” Gaia said quietly, glancing at Soren and Rex. “Take them to our quarters. Gag that one.”

Kali didn’t resist and instead benignly followed Rex and Soren as they hefted Shriek between them, careful not to glance worriedly back at Gaia as she struggled to get Cody standing again.

“Come on, Papa,” she whispered, fitting her shoulders under his arm. “Help me.”

Energized a little by the girl’s plea, Cody got his feet under him, live blaster round loose in his skull and all, and kept himself righted long enough for Gaia to half drag him to medical. How she did it other than through the Force, he was never able to really comprehend afterward. It was only the next morning, after he came to with five small faces watching him intently did he realize that he’d been unconscious.

“Captain, sir,” Gaia roused the group with a sharp salute and they all lined up beside his bed. Each was dressed in matching simple black body glove, kama, and black vambraces, their faces ghostly in the too bright lights of the medbay.

“At... at ease,” he said, groaning quietly at the sensation of light in his eyes as he slowly pushed himself up on the bed. The five children obeyed in flawless, unnerving synchronization.

“Cadets Kali and Shriek have made a change of opinion since last you spoke, sir.” Gaia intoned in what he could only describe as a menacing voice. But the names... that was promising, he hoped.

She broke rank and placed behind the line, her recent gains in height very evident amongst the others. “Haven’t you?” she snapped pointedly, glaring into the faces of the vibrantly purple Twi’Lek and pale young human as she gave each of them a healthy smack on the shoulder that was anything but friendly.

Again, Cody felt the gnaw of worry mixed with shock at how good Gaia was at this.

“Yes sir,” they both answered, addressing Gaia. That was a nice touch.

She turned to Cody, betraying not announce of emotion other than agitation. “We will leave you to your rest, sir. I would like to put the newbies through their paces, sir, with your permission.”

“Permission granted,” Cody said in as flat and hard a voice as he could muster.

Waiting until the kids had trooped out in single file, he reached over to the pile of discarded armor that someone had removed from his body and grabbed his communicator. “Sixthree?”

There was a pause and then the too chipper voice of the protocol droid responded. “Captain. Oh, I do hope you are sufficiently recovered?”

“I... yeah, I’m okay. Listen. We’re gonna need a bigger room. Six beds. A master suite for myself, a group room for the... squad.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Maybe room for a proper kitchen and place to eat. See what you can do about that, yeah?”

[imithoist]

Hire one of the top permanent magnet lifter manufacturers can assure you get high-quality, durable lifters for your industry. Read more….

[dastardlydandelion]

i’ve seen quite a bit of meta floating around abt sam’s situation vs tory’s and how that enhances their rivalry but i’ve seen v little abt how how fighting itself means different things to them and how i personally think that rly shows itself in the school brawl so i’m going to babble on abt that for a min.

so to recap what most ppl already pinned down: tory and sam’s beef isn’t just about miguel. far from. tbvh i’d ever argue it’s mostly *not* about miguel but he factors into the situation so strongly bc miguel is the *one* thing tory had that (at the time) sam didn’t. it isn’t just abt him, it’s abt what he represents. it’s abt sam seemingly (re)staking her claim to one of the only good things in tory’s life. from tory’s perspective she has very little in contrast to sam. sam lives in wealthy encino, has her own car, a membership at a country club, and participates in karate bc she’s a legacy child and to do so is at her leisure. her dad has his own personal dojo she can practice in whenever she wants and oh yeah, her lessons are free bc her dad is her sensei. sam who could easily afford karate lessons doesn’t even have to, her dad actually jumps at the chance to give them to her.

tory has to work for everything that’s hers and then some, supporting a mother with frail health and taking care of her bby brother. tory’s life is more precarious and vulnerable than sam’s bc of her financial and living situation, and frankly, she needs self-defense skills more than sam does. remember when she’s at the store with aisha and describes to her how some perv tried to grab her, a move she then blocked? how she stabbed him in the face with her duster/bracelet??

i feel like the gravity of that is lost on most ppl bc in context, tory’s almost bragging abt it and showing off a lil bit. and why wouldn’t she?? she thinks aisha is a badass, she saw her breaking boards blindfolded!!! she thinks aisha is cool and she wants aisha to think she’s cool too, so she’s telling her smth abt herself that she correctly feels aisha would admire. but context aside, it’s v scary and sad that tory was in a situation where she had to do that.

tory had kickboxing training even before she joined cobra kai. going off some of her dialogue to miguel, abt how some ppl in this world have to fight for everything they have, i’m going to assume her safety applies here. given that her financial situation is so precarious, i don’t think tory would’ve taken kickboxing classes unless she felt like she had to. like— don’t get me wrong, tory clearly enjoys fighting. it’s prolly a good way to relieve all the stress she’s under, having head of household responsibilities at 16/17. but we see in s3 when her mom can’t rly work anymore and therefore she has to work even more herself, tory leaves the dojo specifically bc she can’t afford lessons. so that leads me to believe that even if tory enjoys fighting, she wouldn’t spend money on it unless doing so was of necessity to her.

tory does not live in a world of stability. her mother’s health is precarious and unstable. her financial situation is precarious and unstable. even working two jobs she didn’t have enough to cover rent. it was so, so heartbreaking but u could see it in her eyes that she was considering the landlord’s offer. she was considering sleeping with some gross ass adult man who berated and belittled her just to have the stability of a home. imho she would’ve done it if kreese didn’t handle the situation (and he definitely didn’t do so for selfless reasons, but that’s another matter entirely so i’m not gonna go into that).

sam, on the other hand, doesn’t just have stability, she has luxury. again, the big house, her own car, wealthy, supportive, healthy parents who have the time and the means to be there for her and provide her with whatever she wants, let alone needs. fighting is v different for sam. from sam’s perspective, karate is meditation. karate is a way to find balance, to center yourself and spiritually connect with your body. karate is recreation and sport, tournaments where rules ensure everyone’s safety at the end of the day and fighting with honor scores u points while fighting with dishonor gets u disqualified. where fighting with honor is “fair” and fighting without honor is “dirty.” 

now, i know sam *theoretically* understands karate from the self-defense perspective too. bc she’s heard daniel’s stories. bc she used it against kyler when he made her uncomfortable. bc she and robby got into it at the mall to come to demetri’s defense, thereby actively protecting another person. but sam does not have daniel’s lived experiences of struggling with poverty or being put into harm’s way as gravely as daniel was in his youth (at least not until the school brawl, i’m getting there). sam never had to stab a pervert in the face bc he predated upon her and grabbed her. sam did face bullying, yes, but as hurtful as being slut-shamed on the internet is, her safety was not threatened in that situation the way tory’s safety has been threatened, nor the way her father’s safety was threatened in his youth.

i definitely think the context of their situations influences how each thinks of fighting. tory intimately understands fighting for survival in a way sam does not, in a way sam simply cannot relate to. tory doesn’t adhere to the rules the way sam does bc rules have never done shit for her. actually, the rules themselves keep her down, her mother got fired from her job at the restaurant precisely bc she was bringing home leftovers to feed her hungry children. tory has no reason to distinguish between dishonorable fighting and honorable fighting bc at the end of the day, fighting is a necessity for tory in a way that it is not a necessity for sam. tory doesn’t fight to win points or to meditate, or to spiritually connect with her body. tory fights for self-preservation.

from sam’s perspective, tory fights “dirty.” from tory’s perspective, sam lives in a fantasy world where there’s some kind of manufactured distinction between fighting “fair” and “dirty” only for those who have the security and luxury to made that very distinction. to tory, fighting is fighting and that’s that. to sam, fighting is a discipline, an art, a tradition, and is meant to be practiced with a level of etiquette shown to your opponent. bc that’s what tory is to sam, an opponent. but sam isn’t an opponent to tory— she’s an enemy. these are not the same things.

i think the way tory and sam understand fighting really rears its head in the school brawl. tory’s had it with sam, she’s had beef with her since the moment sam accused her of stealing and it reaches its tipping point during the party bc first, sam beats her in the drinking competition, embarrassing her in front of everyone, and then she goes and kisses miguel. who isn’t just tory’s bf, but one of the only good things in her life at that moment.

on top of that, like, okay, tory is v aware miguel used to date sam. so when she’s dating miguel herself, i think she does take a kind of satisfaction in that, in knowing she’s “taken” miguel from the pretty, privileged princess who has everything else, pretty privileged princess who once accused her of stealing and would then go on to mock and ridicule her. i think it increases the sting for tory when sam follows up beating her in the contest with kissing miguel not just bc she’s hurt, but bc it’s an added slap in the face that sam “reclaimed” this one good thing tory thought she’d managed to “take” from her.

come the school brawl and sam is aware tory’s angry. tory announces on the damn loud speaker she’s coming for her, prolly to embarrass her in front of everyone the way sam embarrassed her the night before. fight ensues and they’re matching each other p well, i’d say tory mostly retains the upper hand bc she had the element of offense on her side while sam’s blows were primarily defensive…it’s slightly in tory’s favor but rly could go either way until the point where tory breaks out the spiked knuckle duster/bracelet.

if u look at sam’s face after tory puts it on, like…she’s shocked. she’s frightened. she was not anticipating that at all. tory on the other hand, has a mocking expression and from her tone, i kind of think she’s reveling in sam’s reaction. bc tory knows full well sam has never had to fight the way she has. sam’s never actually had her safety compromised so it’s like. utterly incomprehensible to her the moment it happens. 

tory is the first person who has ever actually threatened sam’s safety and tory knows that, and she relishes it. from tory’s perspective, sam is just as foolish as she is pampered, and she gets to be the one to snatch sam’s sense of security away from her the moment she introduces a weapon to the situation and shows sam; ‘no, this isn’t just a karate match. i actually want to hurt you, and i am going to use whatever i have to do that.’

and…i think she was just trying to hurt sam, personally. ik a lot of the ck fandom thinks tory wanted to kill sam. and i actually think sam herself thinks tory wanted to kill her bc of the visceral reaction she has to tory afterwards. sam has ptsd after the school brawl and it’s not just bc of tory, it’s clearly also bc of what happened to miguel. what robby did to miguel out of anger, anger not created by— but definitely inflamed by —the fact miguel and sam shared a smooch. but sam also has nightmares of tory trying to kill her and it’s tory’s voice that makes her freeze up during the fight at the laser tag place.

i think sam also inevitably associates tory with what happened to miguel, bc while robby, not tory kicked him over the railing, it was tory who started the brawl. and miguel went upstairs specifically bc he was trying to get tory off of sam. he followed them up there bc he was tryna calm tory down. so i think that’s also why sam is so shook by tory after, that inevitable association with miguel’s fall/coma. but i defo think bc tory was the first person who ever actually threatened sam’s safety for real, sam felt like tory was going to kill her. and to be fair, when tory gets sam on the floor and yanks her hair back, it appears that she’s doing so specifically to expose her face/throat area as she pulls her opposite arm back to stab.

sooo with that i 100% understand why so much of the ck fandom and sam herself would think tory was tryna kill her, but i personally don’t think that. i think she was trying to scar her face. i think tory might have specifically been aiming for the mouth bc she wanted to punish sam for the kiss. stabbing/slicing her mouth would be targeting a place on sam specifically associated with the incident that pushed tory’s anger over the edge.

i also think it’s entirely probable tory was just unleashing all of her built up stress on sam during that fight. tory was more aggressive not just bc she’s the one more pissed off but bc her nerves are fucking fried. she throws all of her negative emotions in the brawl and she has infinitely more of those than sam, created by her precarious and fraught living situation wherein she’s had to endure much more hardship than sam and she’s constantly on her guard, fully aware of how fragile any semblance of stability she manages to carve out for herself/her family is. while sam, on the other hand, gets to live in what must appear to tory as this soft, fuzzy fantasy world where mom and dad take care of all the important stuff and sam doesn’t have to worry abt a thing.

i maintain that i don’t believe tory was tryna kill sam, but i do believe she rly wanted to hurt her. and she did…sam is hospitalized after the fight. tory goes back to cobra kai to train for the next one. bc that’s what tory’s life is, one fight after the next. she doesn’t have the luxury of treating karate as a means for meditation or recreation like sam does. and i truly think that impacts that dynamic more than often given credit for.

[realfuurikuuri]

Chapters: 12/? Fandom: Mao Mao: Heroes of Pure Heart (Cartoon) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Mao Mao/Tanya Keys, Mao mao/badgerclops

MissingArm!AU: When escaping the cave, it wasn't his tail that got crushed. In exchange for his innocence, he gained a sordid past. The Pure Heart Valley seemed like a good place to escape. To start a new life with a new family to forge a new identity. However, when the past rears its ugly head Mao Mao's forced to step up or be put down.

AN:  We're back after a brief interlude, but here is the next chapter. The biggest deliberation writing this one was the ending. I was wondering if I should make it a new chapter, instead, I decided to include it in this one. Enjoy. The song of the day is RUn the Jewels #4. RTJ is a rap duo that released the new album for free on their website. Give it a download. Not that it has anything to do with the chapter I just love it. As always credits to @Spookylovesboba and enjoy the chapter.

Direct Link to chapter 13: XXXXX

Mao Mao sat on the couch. He had a book in his hands, but his eyes glazed over the words. Occasionally, he stole glances at the door, realized his mistake, and went back to the book he wasn’t reading. He considered looking up from the book, maybe time would go faster if he watched cartoons with Adorabat. He quickly realized that watching What’s New Lucky Ducky would only make him more impatient. Maybe he should try seeing what Badgerclops was up to? Granted, if it was anything technical, which it always was, he wouldn’t be able to help.

Ding-Dong!

Mao Mao looked to the monster alarm before remembering that Badgerclops installed a doorbell. He leaped to his feet and swung open the door, swiftly swiping the package from Mail-Mole’s hands. He set it down on the table and unsheathed a single claw.

“Hey, Mao Mao.”

He swung around to find Adorbat standing behind him.

“What’s in the package,” she asked, flying up to his shoulder.

“Oh. Its-,” Mao Mao hesitated, he was about to say nothing off of pure reflex, but he looked down at the package. He wasn’t at home anymore, he wasn’t bound by family either. There was no reason to hide it.

“It’s a… how to say this… a Rubber Ducky toy.”

“A toy! I wanna see! I wanna see!”

Mao Mao quickly snatched the contents from the box, holding it high in the air out of Adorabat’s reach.

“This isn’t just a toy. It was expensive. Be careful with it, okay?”  

“Fine,” she groaned.

Inside the package was another package. A box that was one of those hard, plastic clamshell things with a small egg-shaped thing sealed inside. He brought it down to Adorabat’s eye level as she began to read it over.

“Virtual Pet? Hey, I have one of these.”

“No, no, no. You may have one of the gatchis, maybe a rerelease, but this is different. Check this out,” Mao Mao pointed to a small worn sticker on the back. “See 1988. A sealed, first-generation, blue egg Ducky-Gatchi.”

“Wow. 1988… that’s almost as old as you,” she said.

“Yeah- wait, how old do you think I am?”

His question never got answered as their attention was pulled away by Badgerclops. “Hey, Mao, someone used one of your pointy things as a screwdriver and broke it,” he called out as he came up the stairs.

“You did what!”

Mao Mao inhaled sharply. He’d learned his lesson after yesterday’s stroke, besides he didn’t have health insurance.

“Watcha’ got there?”  Badgerclops leaned in for a closer look.”You buy Adorabat a new toy?”

“No, I didn’t buy it for Adorabat,” Mao Mao said in a small voice,” I bought it for myself.”

“Aren’t you a little too old to be playing with toys?”

“What? Are you crazy? I’m not playing with this! I spent $1000 on this!”

Oops.

Badgerclops slowly turned to Mao Mao. “Does this have anything to do with your Lucky Ducky obsession?”

“What? I don’t have a- haha, is it getting hot in here? I’m going to step out to get some air.”

Mao Mao was almost out the door when Badgerclops’ robotic arm grabbed him by the cape and pulled him back to the table.  “Why did you spend $1000 on a Ducky-Gatchi?”

“It’s not just a Ducky-Gatchi. It's from the first run of the product. The Ducky-Gatchis were released in eight colors with eight shapes. There’s supposed to be roughly a 6435 chance of any specific combination, but a manufacturer’s error made blue eggs even rarer than that. This blue egg gatchi is still sealed in the plastic, and it's been taken care of really well. The clamshell packaging hasn’t even started to yellow.”

Badgerclops frowned and crossed his arms. He held it for a few seconds before relenting with a heavy sigh. “Fine,” he groaned,” just don’t spend so much money on this stuff.”

“Hot dog! I knew you’d come around,” Mao Mao slapped Badgerclops on the back before going back to the Ducky-Gatchi,” still have to find a place to display this, though.”

“Hey Adorabat. Don't you--,” Mao Mao looked around to find Adorabat nowhere in sight.

“Where’d she go?”

“I don’t know She was here a moment ago,” Badgerclops.

“Hey, Mao Mao,” her voice called from the other room,” I told you I had one.”

* * *

Badgerclops watched Mao Mao head off into the bedroom. He picked up the Ducky-Gatchi he left on the table. This thing was definitely not worth $1000. He would have been madder if Mao Mao hadn’t looked so happy. The smile was different from the normal ones; it didn’t have any boastful pride, reckless ambition, or ego-saving denial. Badgerclops had traveled with Mao Mao for years yet this is the first time he’s seen a smile of indulgent joy. It was a good look on him and Badgerclops knew he ought to do what he can to make it more common. Although, Mao Mao could stand to learn some moderation.

He held the Duck-Gatchi up and did his best to see why he’d spend $1000 on it. Value is a subjective thing, so what value did this have to Mao Mao? It likely had something to do with his childhood (every odd thing about him did) so how did this relate back? Badgerclops first thought was Mao Mao’s father. He wasn’t like how Mao Mao described him. Badgerclops mind began to wander back to the night when Mao Mao had a stroke. And the night he met the root of Mao Mao’s problems.

* * *

Again, Badgerclops was spending the night in Camille’s tower. Again, he sat off to the side to watch Honey and Camille work. Again, he found himself powerless. The only thing different this time was that he did his best to ignore the infuriating metallic tap! tap! tap! from Mao Mao’s dad who crossed his arms and wouldn't stop tapping his finger. Badgerclops stole a glance  at him.

He could sort of see the resemblance between Mao Mao and his father. Shin had a more angled face and grayer fur, not to mention those golden eyes. First time he’s heard of a cat having eyes like that. There was little resemblance between him and his grandson. Granted, there wasn’t that much resemblance between Jǐngtì and his own father. The black and brown patterned fur, tufted arms, white stomach, and blue eyes were certainly from Jǐngtì’s mother. He only shared the round face and pointy ears with his father’s side. Shin was impressively tall. Neither Jǐngtì nor Mao Mao had that. Shin’s made Mao Mao look downright pathetic compared to him. Then again he would look pathetic compared to anyone when he was lying on a table.

Tap! Tap! Tap!

It’s a good thing that Adorabat wasn’t here, although he wasn’t sure if they’d make the play. Should he take her home after the play, or stop by with her in tow. Should he leave Mao Mao to attend the play alone and leave Mao Mao here, or should he wait here? It’d hurt to not have either of them show up for the play, but she would understand, right? Maybe he could

Tap! Tap! Tap!

Maybe he could talk to the teacher and pull Adorabat out of the play. This is an emergency.

Tap! Tap! Tap!

Could he not be so fucking annoying?  Badgerclops sighed, trying to resume the line of thought, but found it fleeting. He was racking his brain until he was just trying to block Shin out, yet he kept tap! tap! tapping! away.

Eventually, it was too much. Badgerclops turned to Shin,” could you possibly be quiet for one second,” he snapped.

Shin seemed almost confused for a second, then he seemed indignant. “Excuse me for being worried about my son,” he shot back.

“For the first time,” Badgerclops mumbled.

“What was that, boy? I can’t hear you from down there.”

“I said that its a funny time to suddenly start caring about him!”

Shin stumbled back like he’d been hit in the chest. “That’s… that’s preposterous. Where would you even get that idea?” His words were shaky, lacking that artificial confident inflection that his son copied.

“I don’t know, maybe I’ve actually paid attention to anything he says for more than five minutes?”

"You're talking like you my son better than I do."

Before they could get any louder, they were interrupted by a loud “ahem” that turned their heads. Honey was pointing at the door with that placid look on her face; The mute’s message was heard loud in clear. Shin held the door open for Badgerclops as they took it into the hall outside. They didn’t start arguing again. The rising tension gave way to a sickening sense of shame. They both retreated to their own corners, to their own minds.

“What do you know about us,” Shin mumbled under his breath.

“Enough,” Badgerclops answered back.

Shin looked up, confused before he realized he was thinking out loud. He didn’t say anything back, instead, he dismissed Badgerclops with a grumble.

“Why did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“You saw him back there? Why’d you attack your son?”

“What are you talking about? I never attacked him. He attacked me!”

“How do you explain the broken bones, the bleeding, the bruising, the three-inch hole in his side?”

Shin didn’t snap back. His face went pale and it looked like he was about to vomit. “I.. have done no such thing.”

“Then who did? You were the only person at the house after that.”

“I don’t know. That’s not what happened?”

“Then what did happen?”

Shin reared up like he was going to say something back before his shoulders slumped as his gaze went to the floor. “I.. my wife said that I should visit, so I did. When I did show up Mao Mao was bleeding all over the place. I didn’t know what happened. He.. had some glass in his side. I got it out and then… I don’t know.”

“What happened?”

“We… got into an argument. A bad one. He chased me around the house, told me I was a grandfather, and then told me he didn’t want to see me again.”

“Is that it?”

“Yes! That’s what happened! I learned that my own son hates me more than anything in the world. There! Are you happy?”

Badgerclops examine Shin. His flicked back ears, averted gaze, thee closed hands, and receding posture.  It didn’t seem like he was lying. Which begs the question, what happened next? The timeline he had down states that he met Jǐngtì , which is where the glass came from. After that, he met Shin, who removed the glass, so how did he get the 3-inch hole in his side? Who else could have possibly visited?

“I think I should be going.”

“I don't think I’m the first thing my son wants to see when he wakes up,” Shin justified. It was aimed at Badgerclops but he could tell Shin was talking to himself.

Badgerclops was felt the urge to stop him. Not because he thought Shin was wrong, but because Shin was the only lead he had. He looked to Shin’s hands. They found the missing finger, so Shin was certainly there, but those claw marks didn’t fit those. They didn’t fit Mao Mao or Jǐngtì’s, so those claw marks belonged to someone else?

He had to rule out Shin, so Badgerclops let him go, watching him trudge down the hall.

Ironic, he thought becoming working in the Pure Heart valley would be tedious work, but here he is doing it of his own violation. Maybe Mao Mao would remember something when he woke up. He had to find out who. Who did this?

Badgerclops set the question aside, returning to the present. He’s dwelled on that question for hours already, and he’d dwell on it some more but right now he set the box back on the table. He titled his head to the other room to get a better look. Mao Mao and Adorabat have been in there a while. Long enough for him to dwell at least.

* * *

“Mao Mao,” he heard Badgerclops call out.

“Yeah,” he answered back, not taking his eyes off the screen.

He had a well-worn ducky-gatchi in his hands. The plastic had begun to chip, there was a scratch on the screen, and the sound chip or speakers must’ve broken cause it made no sound. Adorabat quietly watched Mao Mao over his shoulder. Mao Mao could hear Badgerclops’ heavy footsteps as he approached.

“What’re you doing,” he asked.

Mao Mao shook the ducky-gatchi in his hands. “She actually had one. Though it's out of package and heavily used so it’d be $300 at most.”

“I’d hate to interrupt you having fun, but we gotta make lunch.”

Mao Mao was going to disagree. It should be noon maybe a little after, but the pit in his stomach said otherwise. He might've played this longer than he thought. He passed it to Adorabat to follow Badgerclops to the Kitchen.

“What are we making,” he asked.

“Actually, I wanted to ask you something.”

Mao Mao paused. “What’s up,” he asked.

“Relax,” Badgerclops said,” you’re not in trouble or anything. I just want to make sure everything’s okay.”

“Why would anything not be okay,” he deflected.

"I just want to know why you bought the ducky-gatchi."

"Oh, that was just... something I've always wanted, but never actually got."

"Does it have to with your dad?"

"Yeah," he sighed," papa -er, Shin- never really approved of my... Lucky Ducky thing, so now I'm not involved with him anymore I thought-"

Badgerclops placed a hand on his shoulder," don't worry I'm not mad at you. Just try to be more careful with money."

Ring! Ring! Ring! The monster alarm blared on the wall.

“Yeah, thanks” Mao Mao,” Adorabat c’mon we got work to do.”

* * *

Mao Mao rode into the Valley Plaza only to be stricken with a bit of disappointment when he saw what it was. “You know you shoulda installed a second alarm during renovations.”

“Do we really need one though?”

“Well, one of us could be halfway done making lunch instead of dealing with this mess.”

Mao Mao pointed his thumb at the huddled, shouting mass of limbs that were the Sky Pirates' regular arguments. It got to the point they were actually kicking up a cloud of dust like this was a cartoon. Although… someone was missing.

He patted Badgerclops’ shoulder. “Hey, have you seen-”

“2nd store window. Three houses left.”

Mao Mao followed the instructions to find his son, lounging on windowsill, looking down on everything dispassionately. Almost everything. When he caught his eye he turned away. To think today started so well.

“That’s enough!”

Mao Mao turned to Orangusnake right in time to keep himself from being cleaved in two. He caught the strike with Geraldine locking blades for a second as the fight began, but something was different this time. Orangusnake’s blows were quicker, heavier. Each hit shook his sword like a bell. What was wrong? What was different?

Mao Mao blocked a strike that sent him crashing through police barriers. When did he set these up? He didn’t have time to think about it. Orangusnake was silhouetted in the sun with a war-ax brandished. Mao Mao stepped back to get out the way but stumbled. His foot was caught in something. A hole? What was a- oh no.

Clang!

Mao Mao had blocked the strike perfectly yet it sent tremors down his body and forced a web of cracks to snake across the ground. The police barriers were there for a reason. A reason he needed to address before someone got caught in it. The ground shook and shuddered as it began to give way, plunging Mao Mao and Orangusnake into the dark depths of the sinkhole.