#the promise is to make her REDACTED fourteen times :

[tahitiwoke]

I'LL NEVER BE A STRANGER AND I'LL NEVER BE ALONE.

so while you would have to waterboard the information out of him and if asked directly what his favourite holiday is, he'd absolutely say something like thanksgiving (which is nobody's favourite) or christmas (which is the easy answer). but the truthful answer? phillip j. coulson loves valentines day.

there is something about the way people are around this time of year; sure, it's obnoxious and nausea inducing, sure it can be horrifically lonely if you've got nobody around, and sure everybody seems to have an opinion about whether it constitutes a real holiday or not. yet he cannot help but love the dopey smiles. the silly love heart chocolates. the cards and flowers and big, romantic gestures. last year, he had made filet mignon with black truffles and paired it with a spectacular merlot, a rose gold tiffany bracelet as a slight indulgence. (he doesn't care for jewellry as a gift, it feels lazy and easy, but it had suited her.) and it...had gone to waste. a crisis with the u.n. claire had been on the phone with half the global world leaders, playing tennis tag for well into the wee hours, and by the time she'd made it back to the residency, it hadn't seemed the time to claw back a semblance of a night. they moved on. no big deal.

this year, however, when chris agrees to help him divert some attention and the billy joel tickets a friend at the d.o.j. offered him in exchange for phil's standing reservation at a restaurant in the city that nobody got reservations for, it had seemed a no brainer. there are still a few phone calls on the books, some loose-end tying to be done with the french, but her diary is blissfully empty past six p.m.

they have dinner at the hotel, which is fine and not really at all part of the plan on the whole, because it works as a good cover; chris invites sloan sabbith to sit down with them and it's nice, looks like a working thing rather than a double date. it's private, too. sloan is thoughtful and has good points to make on the revised tax plan; phil mostly switches off after dessert, though, because claire has her hand on his knee, caught up in conversation with chris.

anyway. they have dinner. chris and sloan leave but before phil and claire, do they head back up to her room for a quick costume change -- gone are the formal suit and skirt, shirt combo, replaced instead with some plain clothes, comfortable, a soft sweater and jeans and baseball caps. (a red sox one for her, because it reminds him of the last time they went to boston together.) they look like everyday new yorkers. nothing to think about if passed in the street.

they go out the service entrance and are thankfully ignored by most of everyone; his friend at madison square who works as the stage management let them up to the private box and meechum, scott and carys follow behind in civvies, too.

( and because he can't resist any longer, as they walk down the back halls of the building to get to the service elevators, looking for all the world just like a small group of lost tourists, just friends at concert, phil reaches out and takes her hand -- she seems to be preempting him a little, too, as if she had the same thought, because it's barely a reach before their hands meet. )

they make it to the box in time for billy joel to take the stage and wish everybody a happy valentines. i hope you're all having a great night. let's spend a little time together. phil wraps an arm around her and she kisses his cheek; after this, there are grand designs to head down to chinatown, where he knows they've cleared an arcade centre, and to sign off the night? a horse drawn carriage ride through the park, like she'd asked. it'll be incredibly late by the time they get back to the hotel, but he's made a promise that he intends to keep. so he'll stay up as late as she wants.

[harmonyckrs]

DAY 5 in Twisted Strangetown: The One in Control

THE PREVIOUS DAY

Today marks the second day of staying with the Curious brothers in order to ease Pascal's worries. Due to this, we've had limited contact with the General, but I will assume that Boss has been able to resume communication with him.

My observations of the Smiths is that they are just normal (bruh). Further observation is needed. There's nothing particularly off putting about them that isn't any more off-putting about everyone else (you spent a whole day observing them with and your conclusion was this? This is why Ajay likes me more LOL). I admit it was nice to see other people with alien descent, though I wasn't a huge fan of the General talking about how all aliens were evil before proceeding to call Chloe and I "the exception." He was quite apologetic when he realized it offended me, however. I suppose he still has a lot to unlearn in regards to his alien biases.

I also overheard Pascal and Lazlo discussing a conversation they over heard Chloe having with Vidcund's kidnapper and her fuming over the riddle that he gave her in order to meet up with him in person. We've come to the conclusion that it might be an art museum, but it'll take some time to figure out which one. Either way, Chloe's recklessness may cause some hardships later (seriously? It ain't that big of a deal). We'll have to claim that the kidnapper was simply just trying to reach out to whichever family member will listen. Hopefully they will buy it.

C: So how's the subject doing, Aktu?

A: His name is Vidcund, and he's doing fine. I explained everything to him, and I think he's starting to cooperate. How are you feeling?

C: Really tired. And my head still hurts, but I'm sure it'll be gone in some time. What happened to the hat you always wore with that suit?

A: Dropped it by accident.

C: You realize that they could track you with that, right?

A: They couldn't even figure out my riddle! I don't think they're smart enough to use my hat to trace me here.

C: Figuring out who a hat belongs to through collecting DNA from it and solving a riddle require two different skills. They probably have your name already.

A: Well, I...fuck.

C: Just lay low for a while, and don't do anything stupid. If he's calm enough, you can probably just let him go and give him one of the rings we have that'll keep him immune to mind control.

A: Are you sure? We only have so many of those.

C: Yeah. I'm sure he cares about his family, right? We can use him as our mole with the promise of helping the rest of his family.

A: Good point! I'll give that to him as soon as I can.

C: Good. I don't want to use up too much battery on this hologram machine, so I'm going to end our call here. Just remember what I said...

THE NEXT DAY

---

BONUS:

ENERGY: 25%

I don't remember feeling this awful since having to leave Strangetown 20 years ago.

I was just a teenager! What was I thinking, going up against one of the most powerful people in all of Strangetown? And what was [REDACTED] thinking, fighting a fourteen year old for power? For the sake of the Watcher, I'm just a colony drone! I'm not powerful like the Birth Queens or Pollination Technicians!

And that's why I need to keep training. If I won that fight, then everyone would've been safe from [REDACTED]. And maybe I wouldn't feel as though they're always watching, even when we're miles away.

ENERGY: 50%

A: The weather is pretty nice today. Do you want to go outside?

V: Aren't I a hostage?

A: You're a test subject, not a hostage. Plus, you're really far from Strangetown, and Cyd and I have connections in all of Bluewater village from getting rid of the other guy who used to live here.

V: Makes sense. Who was the other guy?

A: Oh, nobody important. Think his name was, like, Malcolm Lemongrab or something. I forgot.

V: Malcolm LANDGRAAB? The heir to the richest family in the world?

A: Oh, shoot! You know him? That explains why the police came by with all those annoying questions. Cyd had to pretend to be Malcolm over the phone and act like he got abducted by aliens in order to get them to go away!

V: ...You're the worst criminal ever.

A: Well, it's my first time. So is that a yes or a no on the outing?

V: Eh, sure. Why not?

ENERGY: 75%

As I'm forced to remain in bed to recharge, I think about [REDACTED] and what they did. A part of me wonders what they have to gain from altering everyone's personalities. Power? Some sense of superiority that they have the ability to control everyone there? Fear of being discriminated against?

No matter. Once Aktu and I are done with this experiment, we'll be able to find a way to release Strangetown from the control of [REDACTED]. Peace will be restored, and Porthos and I can finally rest knowing that we've completed our mission.

ENERGY CHARGED: 100%

I think I'm ready to meet that subject now! What was his name again...Vincent or something? Ah, I'll figure it out.

Either way, it's a step closer to freeing Strangetown from [REDACTED]'s control.

[pertinax--loculos]

Word Find Tag

So, @winterandwords tagged me to find the words small, work, see and outside. I’m going to be using my new WIP for this, because it turns out that even with only a few scenes written I actually have enough to hit all these words. :D

Small (Maddie POV)

Verreynne chuckled. It was a truly unpleasant sound. “Fuck you.”

“If you don’t help us, you’re going to die.”

A moment of silence. Verreynne sat back slightly, tension creasing his eyes momentarily as he shifted his shoulder. Then he said, “That a fucking threat?”

Maddie’s heart skipped a beat. It took every ounce of training and experience she had not to quail under the hissing, implicit promise of violence. “It’s merely a statement of fact, Mister Verreynne. Locked up in here, you’re vulnerable. At least if you’re out with the rest of us you might have a fighting chance.”

She wasn’t sure how long he stared at her. Probably it was only seconds, but they seemed to stretch into epochs, time bending and yielding in the too-quiet, too-small space. Maddie worked to keep her face neutral and her breathing even.

She might have even succeeded, because Verreynne finally tore his gaze from hers and fixed it on Flack.

“I will end you for this,” he said.

Work (Maddie POV)

“Scan our surroundings,” she said. “I wanna know whether there’s anything out there we’re gonna hit.”

“What does it matter? We’ve got a compromised hull with fourteen people about to start using a whole heap of oxygen we don’t have. We’re talking minutes here, Fletcher, never mind hours.”

Maddie shoved [Harrison] in the shoulder, turning him back towards the panel. “Scan our surroundings,” she gritted out through her teeth. “Tell me what’s going on here.”

Harrison muttered and started tapping at the panel. It would be harder work than if they still had a bridge, but he was clever enough to be able to patch into their remaining external sensors.

What was she doing? Harrison was right. Their deaths were guaranteed. Would it make anything any better, knowing how it happened?

Maddie shook the thoughts away. With the rest of the bridge gone, she was the commanding officer. She’d do what she could right up until the last minute.

See (DJ POV)

Kathleen’s eyes were wild. Her focus was somewhere on the room behind him, and the emptiness that leant her gaze was only underscored by the too-clear sheen of tears, gathering at the edges of her eyelids and dripping down her face. No undertones brightened her complexion, just the ashy look of shock. Her grip was surprisingly firm.

“Oh god,” she moaned. “Gracie.”

Her daughter. The one she was going to see after all these years. What had she said, appearing like a ghost in the haunted hallways of this deathtrap, to make Kathleen so desperate? What lies had she whispered that made Kathleen believe shooting [Redacted] was the right thing to do?

No. DJ shoved the questions away. Kathleen was sick. She was his patient. He had to treat her. That was all.

Outside (Verreynne POV)

With none of the normal engine noises, it was easy to hear footsteps coming down the corridor. Verreynne tensed, and the thing in his shoulder grinded again. He closed his eyes for a sec. Swallowed down the sickness grumbling in his belly. Fuck. No idea how many hours it’d been since they’d been out of cryo. Enough. Too many.

Something clanked or clicked on the outside of the door, and that fucking rage he’d felt when he’d first seen that sick smirk on fucking Flack’s face lashed at him again. They’d cuffed him, tied him, dragged him to this pathetic spit of a closet in a ship he didn’t know, and they’d locked the fucking door. Suppose he should be grateful Flack was giving him so much credit. It was an empty sorta consolation.

I’m gonna tag back @winterandwords, @oh-no-another-idea, @thegreatobsesso, @blind-the-winds, @artdecosupernova-writing, and @crosswise (not sure if you’re into tag games? If not, ignore!) to find the words bleak, yearn, fall, alive and knowing.

[writings-of-a-narwhal]

while i am procrastinating an actual wip / cast intro, i will give a slight one here with a handful of characters from 'and the moon sets' who live in my head rent free

---

yui nakamura -- seventeen at the beginning ; talk shit get hit ; ice magic ; runs her family's restaurant and cares for her younger siblings and her parents die ; i dare you to talk shit to her or her siblings ; strong physically and mentally but also she needs a break; love of my life ???

kaiyou nakamura -- thirteen at the beginning; current pov character??? ; baby boy ; healing magic ; gets taken away to be a poison tester for a warlord with a terrifying reputation, lord takeda ; too kind for his own good ; crybaby ; strong ; friends and family call him 'kai'

akasuki nakamura -- eight at the beginning; empathy magic ; cute little dilute calico kitty familiar named ume ; absolute sweetheart ; so shy and sweet and blushy i adore her ; too soft for her own good, taking after kaiyou in that aspect ; i want to hug her, she's such a good kid ; family and close friends call her 'suki'

momoko nakamura -- five at the beginning; empathy magic ; frog familiar named haru; agent of chaos; mud and sticks and tricks and all sorts of fun!! ; she's sick ; i give her such a hard life she does NOT deserve this she needs a hug ; acts happy and chaotic for the sake of others, secretly cries a lot ; loves to yell and be loud ; family and friends call her 'momo'

kaede nakamura -- an infant at the beginning; literally this face >:3 ; i love them so much, they're smart, she keeps her magic a secret the entire time until the end, they even keep their familiar (a crunchy old kitsune named tsubasa) a secret it's so funny

ichigo -- the nakamura kids' dad's familiar, an old wolf. though their dad is dead, he still guards the family, as old and worn and scarred as he is.

---

shizuka miyazaki -- kitsune, exact age unknown ; a geisha who works as an information dealer ; supposedly has no loyalties to any side of the war ; she reminds me of fall colors and the smell of cinnamon ; amber eyes and calming magic that makes you feel at ease

takashi sato -- eighteen at beginning ; kinetic / fire magic ; eyes the color of the setting sun and hair dark, dark red that seems black until the light hits it ; a soldier with a promising future ; calm, kind, caring ; warm smile

hanzo arashi -- age unknown ; dragonborne, electric and storm dragon magic ; eyes yellow as electricity and always burning, scars like lightning spread across his skin, sharpened teeth glinting white ; a fighter with no loyalties except to one

neoma takeda -- fourteen at beginning ; [redacted] magics ; warhorse familiar named souta ; the young lord of the takeda clan, brought in as her grandfather is dying as a last resort to save the clan ; seemingly very intelligent and knows a lot about battle plans ; loves bright colors and she always seems to be smiling, she always finds something to compliment in others...

[bubbyleh]

Do I Know You? - Chapter 7

read this chapter on ao3! check out the rest of this series on tumblr!

Chapter 7: Redacted Version An idea of the truth.

- ○ -

Getting to know your long-lost sibling around thirty-nine years after they disappeared is certainly something. It’s difficult sometimes for Kleiner to reconcile the adult sitting across from him with the baby he knew so long ago, but he’s trying! And though Bubby isn’t really one to offer up much in the way of personal anecdotes, even hearing the odd story from five years ago from Coomer is nice.

At first, Kleiner told himself he wouldn’t press. He had no starry-eyed, idealized notion of Black Mesa in his head. The facility was fucked up beyond measure, and the thought of Bubby growing up surrounded by that? It was one he wanted to shove into a trash can in his mind.

But Bubby didn’t seem to want to talk about it, and Kleiner wasn’t sure he wanted to hear.

Slowly, though, that changed. The incidents were small initially, but Bubby began to open up slightly. Like how during one of their regular coffee meetings, Kleiner asked a bit about the conversation he’d overheard in Chemical Engineering.

“Oh, that,” Bubby grimaces. “That was Dr. Daniels. He’s been in charge of my project for as long as I can remember. He died not long after that night .”

“Good,” Kleiner says in response to that last fact, a statement that throws Bubby for a loop. They look unsure, avoiding Kleiner’s gaze for the briefest of moments and slouching forward. Suddenly, though, their eyes widen, and they sit right back up.

“Yeah, you’re right,” they finally say. “It is good.”

Bubby places their mug on the table, brow furrowing as they stare at the coffee, gently swishing. And something about it threatens to tear Kleiner’s heart apart. The wrongness of it all. Bubby shouldn’t have memories like that—of Dr. Daniels. They were supposed to grow up together, in a small house at the end of the street. Instead, they were in Kleiner’s admittedly cramped kitchen, trying to catch up on a lifetime of memories.

It’s unfair.

Kleiner takes a sip of his coffee.

“Bubby,” he manages to ask. “Have you ever thought about leaving Black Mesa?”

And Bubby frowns. “That’s… complicated.” They fiddle with the edge of their mug.

“How so?”

“Well,” Bubby sighs. “It’s not that I want to stay at Black Mesa, it’s more that… I don’t technically have a doctorate, you know. And I’m not qualified to do anything else. If I want a job, it’s gotta be here.”

Oh. Right. Actually, Kleiner hadn’t really thought about that, but it did make sense that Black Mesa wouldn’t be able to just hand Bubby a degree. Hell, it might actually be a bit of a warning sign if they could.

“But, also…” In the most simple of motions, Bubby smiles. “Harold’s here. You’re here, Isaac.” He brings his mug up to his mouth, but pauses to clarify, “You two are doing great work. I wouldn’t ask you to leave it, and I won’t leave either of you.”

Bubby’s clearly trying to keep their tone casual, but their words feel significant to Kleiner. They hold a weight to them; a promise.

- ○ -

The Hanukkah photo was the first step. It took a while, but the longer Bubby saw it and got used to it, the more he realized he was curious. The baby in that photo looks so happy to be with their brother, and it’s hard to imagine that that’s

him

. A little person whose family adored them. And maybe, if they see the rest of Kleiner’s photos, he’ll at least understand a bit about who that person could have been.

Isaac, of course, was thrilled by the prospect of sharing Bubby’s baby pictures. He’d promised to dig up as many as he could and bring them over, since Black Mesa’s singles dorms aren’t really great for receiving guests in. Once Harold had found out about the plan, though, he’d been eager to invite himself to the viewing. Actually, he’d been practically giddy about it.

Maybe they should be worried about that…

…

Oh this was a mistake.

Before they can really consider cancelling, though, there’s a knock at the door. And when Bubby opens the door to the sight of Kleiner holding a small cardboard box, it’s only then that he realizes that tonight is going to be extremely embarrassing.

- ○ -

“Oh, look at this one! He has to be less than an hour old, here!”

“My goodness, he’s adorable!”

Bubby has to resist every urge not to hide his red face behind his hands, because some poor part of his brain still really wants to see what he looked like as a baby. Unfortunately, Coomer does as well, and if they have to hear one more time about how they were the cutest thing to ever grace the planet, then they’re going to explode.

What’s even worse, though, is that Coomer brought out his own collection.

“You should see this one.” He slides a picture over to Kleiner. “They thought they were so cool!”

Bubby just barely catches a glance of a photo of himself when he was, what? Thirty-five? Thirty-six? Couldn’t have been too long after he started dating Coomer, actually.

“Wait a fucking second.” Bubby snatches the photo before Kleiner can get that good of a look. They do look younger, with a scowl on their face pointed somewhere offscreen. “I don’t remember you taking this.”

“Ah, well.” Finally, Coomer has the audacity to look at least a bit sheepish. “I made sure you weren’t looking.”

Bubby squints back down at the picture. “Why?”

“I thought you looked nice,” Coomer admits matter-of-factly.

And after a brief reprieve, Bubby’s flushed face returns in full force. This time, though, he draws his knees to his chest and buries his face in them.

“You two are killing me,” Bubby mumbles, holding the picture out for Isaac.

Kleiner plucks it from their hands. “You’re fine,” he insists.

“I will die, and it will be your fault.”

There’s a sound of papers shifting, followed by Kleiner muttering, “Hang on a moment…”

Bubby peeks out.

“I think that was it, actually,” Kleiner sighs. Almost instinctively, he reaches over and pats Bubby’s head, earning himself a glare. “You disappeared when you were around thirteen months. That’s not a lot of time…”

Kleiner’s eyes seem fixed on the photo of the newborn in his hand, though. He brushes it with his pointer finger, and in the back of Bubby’s mind, something clicks into place. They stand abruptly, much to their brother’s surprise.

“Fine,” Bubby states. “Give me a second.”

They loop around the couch, and after blindly fumbling under it for a moment, their hand finally finds purchase on what they were looking for. With a flourish, Bubby holds up their file, shaking off the dust that’s accumulated.

“Is that where you’ve been hiding that?” Coomer asks.

“Don’t worry, it’s getting a new hiding spot after tonight,” Bubby reveals. He settles back on the couch, clutching the file tightly. “Now, let me set the ground rules: This is a selective process, which means I reserve the right to withhold any picture I see fit.” He glares at the two of them. “No sneaking.”

Kleiner nods, and Coomer chimes in with “Understood!”

Bubby takes a deep breath before they open their file again. It’s been a while—a long while—since they last did, but everything is just as they left it. In fact, he thinks he might know where the first good picture is as he flips forwards slightly.

“Alright.” They undo the paperclip, slipping the photo to Kleiner. “This is me and Dr. Cynthia, one of the good ones. The notes say I was around fourteen months here.”

Dr. Cynthia had taken an immediate liking to Bubby, and judging by the picture, the feeling was mutual. She held him up to the camera with such a happy look on her face. Bubby’s struck with the thought that it was the first time in over a month that someone had loved him.

And Isaac has tears welling up in his eyes.

“No, shit,” Bubby struggles. “Don’t cry, fuck.” They pull Kleiner into a hug without really thinking.

Kleiner wipes away the few tears that escaped. “I’m fine, Bubby, seriously,” he says, but his voice sounds shaky. “It’s just… I didn’t get to see you grow up.”

Oh.

Crap.

“Okay, we don’t have to look at them anymore-” Bubby tries to put the file down.

“No wait!” Kleiner’s almost frantic as he grabs onto Bubby’s wrist. He takes a breath. “I want to see them.”

“You’re sure?”

Kleiner nods.

“Alright.” Bubby shakes his hand off them. “But we’re taking a break if you need it.”

- ○ -

Seeing the rest of Bubby’s childhood was certainly a mixed bag of emotions. They were such a cute little kid. There was a picture of them after they got their first pair of glasses, with a smile bright enough to light up a room. And then in their teenage years, their facial expressions gradually melted into “teen angst”. It was especially funny when Kleiner held up a picture of Bubby pouting when he was a baby, and they realized he was making the same face in both photographs.

Kleiner loved it, truly, but there was an underlying melancholy to it all. He should have seen this all himself. Bubby was taken away from their family, and for what?

That question sticks in their head. For what? Bubby’s clearly been skipping over large parts of their childhood, ignoring the bad parts and sharing the good. And that makes sense, of course, but…

Well, Kleiner read that first paper. Bubby was taken for augmentation and enhancement.

They did something to him.

“I’ll see you sometime next week,” Bubby promises as they see Kleiner out of their dorm. “Maybe we’ll do another dinner?”

“That would be nice,” Kleiner agrees. He’d stayed later than he meant to, but the trams would run for another hour or so. He has time for goodbyes.

“I’ll talk to you about it at work!” Harold calls from the seating area, where he’s still sorting the picture mess.

Bubby rolls their eyes, but they lean in, pulling Kleiner into another hug. “Thank you.”

Kleiner’s always happy about some genuine emotion from their sibling, but it’s a bit sudden. “Why are you thanking me?”

“I don’t know, really,” Bubby chuckles to himself. “Being my brother, I guess? Accepting me?”

“Like I wouldn’t welcome you back.” Kleiner returns the hug for a brief moment, before pulling back. “I’ll look at my schedule next week.”

Bubby waves his brother off. “Bye, Isaac.”

“Bye Bubby.”

And Isaac Kleiner decides. He is going to get his hands on that file.

[magdalcne]

{ BELLA HADID / CISFEMALE / SHE/HER } whoa, whoa, you see that person over there ? that's ( TWENTY-THREE ) year-old ( MARIE HAKIMI ) . someone told me they were part of the london 47’s , apparently involved in some shit with the ( STOLEN ) crew as a ( MEMBER ) . their leader just died too ,  so they must be feeling ( HEARTBROKEN ) .  but i also heard about ( REDACTED ) , which i’m not sure the group knows about . i mean, it sort of explains why they’re the ( THE HIDDEN HEART OF GOLD ) of the group and why they’re so ( RELIABLE & METHODICAL ) and ( SARCASTIC & STRONG-WILLED ) . i feel like when i look at them, though, they sort of feel like ( VILLANELLE OF KILLING EVE, RED SLIP DRESSES, CHAMPAGNE FOR EVERY OCCASION, FRENCH KISSING, FUCK THE PAIN AWAY BY PEACHES ) - if that makes sense ? anyway , i’d stay away regardless .

statistics —

FULL NAME:  marie NICKNAME(S): don’t call her nicknames AGE: twenty - three GENDER + PRONOUNS:  cis  female + she/her ORIENTATION:  bisexual ( prefers women though ) ZODIAC:  scorpio sun,  she doesn’t know the rest BIRTHDAY: november 22nd, 1996 PLACE OF BIRTH:  paris, france DRINKING / DRUGS / SMOKING:  yes / sometimes / yes LABEL:  the hidden heart of gold / she has a soul i promise CREW: stolen STATUS: member SINCE: late 2015

backstory —

MARIE HAKIMI was born to an 19-year-old ÉLOÏSE DURAND and 21-year-old ERIC HAKIMI in PARIS, FRANCE, who played a large role in organized crime in paris. her parents were dating at the time of conception and lasted only two more years before parting ways and leaving éloïse to be a single mother. 

leaving éloïse to take care of a two-year-old all on her own, she quickly realized her financial safety net from the mob was over and began fending for herself however she can. her mother bounced from sex work to managing various fast food establishments and finally settled on doing housework for the upper class, living in her own quarters. as she was finally able to get herself and marie to be financially stable enough, the fatigue and trauma from the past ten years began to quickly catch up to her. by the time marie was twelve, her mom was diagnosed with clinical depression and by thirteen, her condition became severe. the rich family they were staying with let them go - which left them to lose both their source of income and shelter - and her and marie were back at shady places. 

at fourteen, marie’s mother began receiving disability checks and continued to stay in bed - eventually not even leaving to see her psychiatrist. and marie during all of this? she was fed up; all of this frustrated her. she was pissed at her mom for making them lose their income, just as she was getting comfortable. she was pissed at her for refusing to get up, seeing her as pitifully lazy. and it was then that she realized she was going to need to support herself. after talking to a few kids at her school and getting close to the teen drug dealers there, she began selling herself. but unlike her competition at school, she was highly determined and hungry to make a living from this, especially seeing the kind of money she could eventually make from this. 

and she was quite skilled at it all, too. she used her persuasion to con high school kids out of more and more money from a gram, which impressed the dealer she would buy from very much and earned her many referrals that helped move her higher up the ranks. this allowed her to be able to make enough money and move out early at sixteen. leaving her mother behind, she felt as though she could finally breathe and the gratification of being able to support herself at a young age did wonders to boost her ego and confidence.

this eventually got the attention of a group of criminals, eventually known to be les requins, who heard about just how quickly she was moving up the drug dealing ranks, she was interested and fearless. however, she was not anticipating them to tell her just how much they knew about her and weirdly enough, how much they knew about her father. which is also when she found out her father had died just three years prior. les requins, noticing her potential and also wanting to honor the memory of her father, decided to take her under their wing.

they started with the small, familiar tasks. while her clientele was more often than not foolish teenagers, they had her set her sights on their parents — pushing cocaine and ketamine rather than overpriced marijuana. and as she excelled in achieving that, and grew older and out of high school, they focused her tasks on entrapping men in order to steal from them. it started with the little things, like watches or electronics, but before she knew it, they trusted her enough to steal the big things too like, cars and guns.

and eventually, stealing and heists became not only marie’s thing, but the entire group’s thing. they basked in the negative publicity they received across paris media, and kept trying to one-up each of their heists or thieving rampages. but this overload of attention on them, truthfully, is something marie never wanted for herself. she knew this would only lead down one path — arrests and life in prison. and then she was approached with the most outrageous task next: killing the leader of london 47′s, jamie singh.

which she knew would be a suicide mission. but at the same time, there was a part of her who wanted the satisfaction and ego boost of assassinating the most high-profile figure in the underground crime industry. she wanted the clout. it was very superficial, but she wanted the power, and it motivated her to travel to london. she had a plan, she got close to that plan, and then his security caught her, last minute. 

at that point, she made peace with dying right then. the risks were apparent and her heightened ego got the best of her, despite her tactics being as careful as they were. but in a turn of events, jamie had security release her. he gave her an ultimatum: she tells him what she knows about les requins, give up allegiance to them, and allow him to get to know her and try to understand her. or, he would kill her himself. the former felt painstakingly embarrassing, but her ego already failed her once, so she decided to do just that. 

jamie understood her childhood struggles, his being similar, and the woman somehow deeply intrigued him. he then proposed a test to her: she had to stay in london, join the 47′s, and not tell anyone back in paris. if she failed, her life would once again be on the line, as second chances were rare for him. she knew this was a test of trust, and honestly, she was looking for a way out — les requins have gotten too reckless and at least there was a better blanket of security and structure in the 47′s.

and so ever since that moment when jamie showed remorse towards her four years ago, she had been working to pay him back. he was the mentor she always needed in her life and the bond they eventually grew, along with the rest of the group, gave marie a renewed sense of purpose. but with his death... it devastated her. she lost the one person she couldn’t stand to lose, who also happened to be the anchor of her found family. now, all she wants is the group to get back on track, worried about their reputation in the crime world. after all, if there’s anyone who knows that other groups could take advantage of this publicized vulnerability, it’s her.

personality —

BASED ON: Villanelle (Killing Eve), Amy Dunne (Gone Girl), Tony Soprano (The Sopranos)

+ reliable, persuasive, witty

- sarcastic, strong-willed, stoic

(scorpio, entj)

[houseplant-central]

if John Green wrote me as a character in one of his novels

Quick trigger warning: this post includes spoilers for John Green's "Looking for Alaska", as well as discussion of writing that glorifies mental illness and suicide.  

My younger sister told me this morning that she had started reading a novel by John Green. No disrespect intended to the man, but I was concerned.

Among a variety of other media I consumed in my pre-teen years, it was likely the anthology of John Green's works I owned that contributed to my obsession with the collective "manic pixie dream girl" fetish of 2013. (An anthology of works that is still sitting on a bookshelf at my mother's house, hence where my sister must have found "An Abundance of Katherines"). Again, no disrespect to the man, but when all of your books (with the exception of "The Fault In Our Stars") have a "quirky" but "tragically mentally ill" teenage girl who is somehow also super fit and always looking attractive (despite afore mentioned mental illness she's supposedly dealing with), who will either pretend to die or actually die by the halfway point of the book to inspire your male lead to go on a soul searching journey-- something's going on.

Case in point, "Looking For Alaska", which (spoiler alert), I am going to spoil the plot of in the next few paragraphs. Alaska has the potential to be one of the most interesting female leads I've ever come across in teen literature. She's enigmatic, ridiculously quick-witted and undeniably beautiful. She's recovering from a complicated family trauma, and has moved out on her own to attend university, determined to carve out a meaningful life for herself, despite struggling with complex PTSD and manic depression.

Except the story is told from the point of view of a young boy named Miles, whose only real character trait is that he's hopelessly fascinated by Alaska. This could still work as a novel mostly about Alaska, but told through the eyes of her first love, Miles. Or as a chronicle of their friendship and love story. But for either of those to work, it would require Green to use Miles' point of view to flesh out both Miles' and Alaska's character. Instead, Miles remains a stand in for literally any teenage boy, with very little character qualities, and Alaska's "quirkiness" and attractive qualities elevate her to the most amazing person Miles has ever come across. Despite Miles and Alaska only being very briefly romantically involved, Miles spends the entirety of the book chronicling his attraction to Alaska and everyone else's love for her.

But it doesn't stop there.

All of Alaska's quirks are considered attractive, including her toxicity to her friends, her long disappearances, and jokes about her suicidal ideation and depression. Her mental illness is glorified as another thing that separates her from the "other girls" which hold no interest for Miles. Ultimately it's this glorification of her mental illness, especially her manic depression, that makes me comfortable labelling this work as one that falls into the "manic pixie dream girl" trope.

But it doesn't stop there.

Because Alaska kills herself. And this only creates more intrigue for Miles, who dedicates the rest of the novel to better understanding her, even when she is gone. Which again, could be quite a compelling, if depressing, narrative. But ultimately Green makes it so Alaska's death only makes Miles more in love with her. The friends who were once side characters express to Miles how much they miss her now that she's gone. The bully characters admit to Miles that they've realized they should have befriended her when she was alive, but could only realize that now that she's dead. Far from a warning that your loved ones will miss you when you're gone, "Looking for Alaska" was "13 Reasons Why" before "13 Reasons Why". It promised young readers that people who kill themselves teach their friends and their bullies their worth: the absolute last messaging any author should be sending to young readers.

This was indeed sub-par messaging for tiny, clinically depressed pre-teen me.

Back to the crux of the point, however. For a long time I was in love with this book, and the character of Alaska. I supposed I looked at her and her family trauma, similar to mine, and thought: "damn, my trauma just makes me cry whenever adults raise their voice, but this girl uses it to be smart, skinny, well-dressed, well-read, a little provocative, AND relatable. I must be doing something wrong." Thus, with Alaska and a collection of Tumblr posts and Arctic Monkey's lyrics in mind, I set about my several year long quest to become just that variety of manic pixie dream girl.

Enter: several problems. I did not struggle with mania, rather sluggishness and a loss of enthusiasm for life outside of novels and the internet; this meant I did not feel like running around in short skirts and knee socks being the life of the party in every situation like Alaska. I wasn't pixie sized; I struggled with my relationship to my body my entire teenage years, and I could never hop up on a table to give a drunken toast like Alaska, it might break. "Dream" is a little less quantifiable, but I never talked to anyone outside my handful of friends, so I had slim chances of becoming anyone's impossible dream. "Girl" I thought I at least fit, for the entirety of high school, but I came out as non-binary in my first year of university; so all together taking a look at "manic pixie dream girl" I was 0 for 4.

Nonetheless aspects of that romanticism of a broken childhood and that touch-and-go relationship with self-identity stuck with me through high school into college, and my greatest fear is either promoting that romanticization of real issues in real life, or in my writing. Because often I look at myself, or an aspect of my life and go "heh, that doesn't sound like a real personality trait, that sounds like something a female John Green novel character would do or say. Get over yourself."

So here, without further ado, is a look into that guilty pleasure of romanticization. John Green would start with something like: "they* liked used books that already had annotation in them." It's always a little detail with him, one that's considered a character "quirk". That's the one thing of his I picked up and is still in far too much in my writing today. A list of quirks instead of an actual character. (But that's a blogpost on writing for another time).

So: "They liked used books that already had annotation in them. They kept a collection of books on astrology, numerology, and tarot. They grew outdoor plants indoors under a lamp they bought from a weed dealer, though they didn't smoke. The plants were mostly herbs, and they used them in cooking. They had houseplants too. Their eyes were deep set. When they wore mascara it smudged near instantly underneath, but it still looked good. They had some sort of tragic backstory, that explained their oversized sweaters, and their late nights and their dark art, but the backstory was desperate and sweaty and felt like fingernails making bloody crescents in hands, and wasn't aesthetic, so it wasn't important. They owned a polaroid camera. They'd read the entirety of Beowulf for fun. They would somedays stare into nothingness for hours on end if uninterrupted, not thinking of anything at all, and be startled by the way time still continued to pass. But that wasn't terrifying, it was only quirky, somehow. They smelled like coffee. They couldn't seem to make themselves yell, even when they were angry or in danger, but that was also quirky, somehow, and cute, and not a huge safety issue. They liked the smell of pine trees."

I think it's important to romanticize some aspects of your own life. If it's important to you, then it's important to you. Liking your own quirks is much better than hating them. And romanticizing quirks like smelling of coffee is valid. But romanticizing your bad or difficult qualities as "quirky" is not good. (A note to fourteen year old me: "romanticize your love of already annotated books! But not your mental illness! Take that shit seriously instead, yo.") And thinking you're going to make your life better or more meaningful by copying Alaska is never a good idea; she didn't have a very good ending.

*they/them are my preferred pronouns!

Edit: I looked up "Looking for Alaska" and realized it's banned in some highschools in Canada and the states. I was about to redact some of my harsh standpoint that it's not a good read for younger teens, who might become too blindly attached to the negative messaging like I did, because I don't think banning books outright for heavy content is ever a good idea (banning books for hate speech is another debate for another time). But then I saw the suggested ban has nothing to do with the glorification of suicide and everything to do with the "offensive language, sexually explicit scenes, homosexuality and unsuitable religious viewpoints", which is ridiculous. I don't think it should be banned in any capacity-- I think reading it now (if I'd never read it before) would give me context for the manic pixie dream girl craze, and be somewhat of an enjoyable read. My hesitance about my sister reading it now is because she reminds me too much of myself at that age.

[agentargus]

//Ages back, @spookylilmoonpie asked for more information about Dante and Murmur. Started on some lore but I’ll post a small part of it here now:

Audio transcribed and translated from the Italian (with exceptions where necessary) by [REDACTED]. Timestamp states place the recording took place at 3:33 PM on the 10th of January [DATE REDACTED]

“This is Father Dominic Lawrence, acting chaplain of the St. Olympius Residential School , documenting on behalf of Repubblica Dei Lupi. The day is the tenth of January, Feast of St. Peter Orseolo. Optional Christmas vacation ended one week prior to this day. As the students of St. Olympius have returned to school for spring sememster, they have begun reporting strange happenings—well, stranger than usual—concerning two students enrolled on the fourth of December, Feast of St. Giovanni Calabria. The following interview is to be conducted with the older brother. Mother Superior currently records her questioning of the younger sister in the parish hall...”

Transcriber’s note: Father Lawrence now opens the door, the creaking of which can be heard on the original recording.

Good afternoon, son.”

“Good afternoon, Father Lawrence.”

“Please sit down and help yourself to the cookies.”

“Thank you.”

“What is your name, son?”

“Dante Feliciano Argenti.”

“And how old are you.”

“I don’t know. Mother says I’m roughly three years older than Giu-Giu—my sister, but Mother doesn’t like talking about it.”

“How old do you think you are.”

“Most of the people in my class are fourteen or fifteen—except Estella. She just turned 3049 years old yesterday. I told her she didn’t look a day over 2000, but I don’t think she understood that I was joking...”

“Sister Madalberta claims you’ve been sleepwalking.”

“If I have, I don’t remember.”

“Then you don’t remember the things you said to little Francesco?”

“That he could have my marbles because I’d already lost them in the figurative sense?”

“No, though that was very kind of you and he’s very thankful. I mean when he found you sleepwalking out of the dormitory and tried to wake you up...Dante, you told him that a thousand centipedes waited for him in hell, that they would crawl beneath his eyelids while he slept and...”

“I didn’t say that! I promise, I didn’t say that. Centipedes wouldn’t even go to hell anyway, they’re perfectly nice creatures...”

“Yes, the boy was quite sure that it wasn’t you, even if the words came out of your mouth. Didn’t have your energy, he said. You know he’s an empath, yes?”

“Is that like a psychic?”

“Sort of...”

“I really should apologize to him, if only for the bad things he’s probably seen in my head.”

“Tell me about the bad things in your head...”

“I don’t think you really want to hear them, Father. Mother says I think exactly the way she expects from a teenage boy...”

“You’re probably right, let me rephrase: tell me about the bad thing in your head that isn’t you. Tell me about the thing that hurt your mother.”

“Why would you want to know about him? I’d call him a turd, but I don’t hate toilets so much that I would force him upon them.”

“Have another cookie, Dante.”

“Thank you. Mother never let me have seconds.”

“Why do you hate him?”

“Because hurt my mother, obviously. He would have hurt my sister if he’d had the chance...”

“Did he ever speak to you?”

“Only in my nightmares...can I go now? Please?”

“Did he pretend to be your friend.”

“No, he pretended to be me...”

“What do you mean?”

“I grew up in a haunted mental institution, Father. I would like to think I’m well-versed in the difference between the voices that exist within one’s own mind and those that belong to outside forces, between madness and malus, if you will...”

“...but...”

“...There were no voices in my head at all, at least, none I could distinguish from my own thoughts. Do I have to talk about this?”

“Just explain a little more...”

“I had bad thoughts. I still do. Everyone does, I think. I want to think it’s normal. Sometimes, I’d have very vivid night terrors where I...where acted on those bad thoughts. I wanted to be good, I couldn’t be good all the time, but I tried. Every bad thought would be locked away somewhere, and my nightmares would feed on them, the way eating soy beans or chicken can feed a growing tumor with the hormones but are harmless if you don’t have a tumor. I think I was fighting myself too hard to realize that I was also fighting something else.”

“The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn’t exist.”

“Yes, exactly. I thought it was just my guilty conscience and nothing more, which made me feel all the more helpless to fight back. Guilt isn’t productive, Signore Pantalone told me when he rescued Giu-Giu and me. It traps you so that you become convinced you can’t do better, and if you think you can’t do better, you don’t. I think the bad thing that lives inside me was waiting until I stopped trying to do better, until I couldn’t tell the difference between my nightmares and reality...and now, I guess he can’t tell the difference either if he wakes up when I’m asleep.”

“How would you feel if I put you to sleep so that I could talk to him?”

“I thought you were maybe trying to put me to sleep right now, but sedatives don’t work on me. Why else do you think I’ve been eating the cookies even though I’m pretty sure you drugged them?”

“You’re a smart boy.”

“Thank you. You didn’t have to lie to me, you know. Bearing false witness is a sin, father.”

“I never lied to you, son...”

“A sin of omission is still a sin. You think I’m stupid. Everyone thinks I’m stupid. I was trying to be polite, but trying just made me look like an idiot...”

“I didn’t drug the cookies, Dante. I’m telling you the truth. I didn’t want to put you to sleep, I wanted to make you angry, because being angry makes you feel guilty, and when you feel guilty, you want to disappear...”

“And nothing can stop me...”

*muffled static*

Transcriber’s note: at this moment, the radio in Father Dominic’s office appears to have been switched on. The song “Duke of Earl” by Gene Chandler plays in the background of the following conversation:

“˙˙˙lɹƎ ɟo ǝʞnD ǝʞnD ǝʞnD lɹƎ ɟo ǝʞnD ǝʞnD ǝʞnD”

“Dante?”

“Dante’s inferno...”

“Who are you?”

“Siehst, Vater, du den Erlkönig nicht? Den Erlenkönig mit Kron' und Schweif?"

“Excuse me?”

“I’m the Duke of Erl, I sing, come and I’ll show you the Erl King.”

“What is your purpose?”

“I’m gonna love you ¿sɹǝʌoɔ ɹnoʎ ɹǝpun ɹǝɥ ɟo ʞuᴉɥʇ noʎ ʍouʞ poƃ ɹnoʎ sǝoD ¿ɹǝɥʇɐɟ 'ɹǝɥ ǝʌol noʎ ʍouʞ ǝɥs sǝoD ‘cause I’m the Duke of Erl.”

“Why are you here?”

“It’s nighttime. Time to sing a lullaby.”

“Why didn’t you manifest sooner?”

“I’m always there when good little boys are sleeping. Are you thinking of Sister Claire while you’re sleeping? Mich reizt deine schöne Gestalt. Und bist du nicht willig, so brauch' ich Gewalt. Come on, let me hold you, darlin’...”

Transcriber’s note: According to Father Lawrence, this lull in the conversation occurs when he unplugs the radio, though the song keeps playing.

“Why did you manifest when he was awake?”

“ʞɐǝʍllᴉʇssǝɥsǝlᴉɥʍǝʇuɐpʎqɐqǝɥʇllᴉʞ ˙ǝʇuɐp 'ʎqɐq ǝɥʇ ǝʇɐɥ ʇ’uop 'ǝʇuɐp 'ʎqɐq ǝɥʇ ǝʞɐʍ ʇ’uop ˙ʎqɐq ǝɥʇ ǝʞɐʍ ʇ’uop sʎɐs ɹǝɥʇoW. Dante says don’t wake the baby, mother, don’t hurt the baby mother, don’t hurt the baby. In seinen Armen das Kind war tot...”

“Tell me your name.”

“I’m the lɹƎ ɟo ǝʞnD ǝʞnD ǝʞnD lɹƎ ɟo ǝʞnD ǝʞnD ǝʞnDoh yeah yeah yeah yeah...”

“I-in the name of the Father, I command you, tell me your name...”

“Aaaaaaa-I’m the lord of the night, master those spirits who cannot rest, Duke and earl and duke and earl and...”

“In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy S-Spirit, I command you, tell me your name.”

“...Murmurmurmurmurmurder you in your sleep, while you’ve got your pants down and you’re thinking of Sister Claire...”

“Shut up!”

“That wasn’t very nice, Father. Have you been a bad boy? Good little boys must go to bed. Bad little boys must stay there. Never waking up again. In his arms, the child lay dead...”

“In Jesus’s name, once more, your name.”

“No.”

“Your name...”

“No.”

[several seconds of unintelligible static]

“Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven...”[more static] “The power of Christ compels you, tell me your name!”

“...Murmur.”

“Murmur, go back to hell.”

“Already there. Nothing can stop me...”

“I command you, in Jesus’s name, go back!”

“Dante’s inferno. Dante’s hell. Don’t hurt the baby, mother! Over and over again...”

“Go back!”

“Hell is home. Dante is home. Dante is hell. Can’t kill the baby, it’s okay to hurt the baby, Dante, she won’t die.”

“Go back!”

“People who cannot die cannot go to hell. People who cannot die are already in hell. Hell is where the the good little boys go to bed.”

“Murmur, I command you, go back to hell!”

“Daylight is fire. Fire is hell. It’s nighttime. Dante is daylight. Daylight is hell. I am in hell. We’ll walk through my dukedom and a paradise we’ll share...”

“The sun is rising, Murmur, go back to sleep...”

“Duke Duke Duke Duke of Erl Duke Duke Duke of Erl Duke...is everything alright, Father? You look like you’ve seen a ghost...literally.”

Transcriber’s note: the recording ends here.

[nivalvixen]

Framed

Also on AO3

...

"Hey Scott, so I'm here. I'm in Quantico, Virginia at the FBI. I'm at the freaking FBI! It's real. I'm really here. Look I kinda told Lydia that I miss her, and I can't wait to get home, but listen, Scott, whatever you're doing right now just make sure you're still getting out of Beacon Hills. Maybe you think that, you know, the whole thing falls apart if you're not there, which I get, but you have to. I know you're supposed to drive out tonight, so if you don't call me back, just promise me that you're going. Just get in the Jeep and go."

Satisfied that he'd left enough command in his tone that Scott would actually obey, Stiles ended the call and headed through the building - the FBI building - to his first session of the day.

Spitting water over one of his classmates (FBI-mates? Peers? Ooh, better.) wasn't exactly going to be a highlight of his day, but then neither was finding out that Derek Hale was a suspect for murder. Mass murder, at that.

New FBI recruits weren't allowed their phones on inside the building due to security reasons, so as soon as Stiles overcame the shock of his instructor's words, he was desperate to get outside of the building and on his phone asap. Stiles planned on sending a text along the lines of 'what the actual fuck, Derek Hale?!' just as soon as he possibly could.

Unfortunately, that wouldn't be soon enough, because the details for Derek's case were brought to the forefront after his incessant questions. His peers decided to psychoanalyse every single thing they could about both the case and person, desperate to prove themselves to the FBI, each other, and maybe themselves.

The details for the case were oddly vague considering the detail usually seen in FBI cases. Stiles restrained himself from shouting that he knew that the information was wrong because he was with Derek on those dates, or, y'know, the Nogistune was fighting him on that day. There was another so-called murder the week they found Derek in Mexico.

He wanted to shout at the top of his lungs that this wasn't right, that Derek wouldn't hurt anyone. Not anyone who didn't deserve it, at least. Stiles couldn't say any of this, not without those same desperate-to-please peers turning on him. Besides, he's certain that they'd find out about his connection to the "mass murderer" soon enough, and he felt his stomach turning and churning, like butterflies going through a wood chipper.

His first day at the FBI was going to be his last. That had to be some kind of record, surely?

Stiles stayed quiet for most of the session, to the obvious relief of his instructor and peers. He took diligent notes, using his own form of shorthand to write the real details of what had happened on the dates his peers called out. He tried to keep his expression neutral as people who didn't know the first thing about Derek examined every last detail of his life.

Derek had his family torn from him, literally burnt to ashes, and these people were acting as though he came out from that... that trauma as the world's biggest villain. The complete and utter opposite was true, and Stiles hated that these people couldn't see that.

Where were the details about how he had saved people's lives, and always made sure to stock extra bags of candy and chocolate at Halloween, and how he'd sacrifice himself before letting anyone he cared about coming to harm? Where was that in the stupid file?!

"Known acquaintances: Peter Hale, redacted, and... redacted. Well, that's helpful," one of Stiles' peers muttered, glaring down at the paper in frustration.

"What?" Stiles asked, eyes wide.

She was the one he'd accidentally spat on earlier, and she still didn't look overly pleased at him for that, but she handed the paper to him with a shrug. "A lot of names are redacted. Doesn't make sense in a case like this, huh?"

"No, no it doesn't," Stiles muttered, eyes scanning down the paper. He reached for another piece of paper, eyes taking it in at a glance, then another, and another.

In every place possible, Scott's name was redacted, and for some reason, so was his.

Before he could say or ask anything, they were let out for lunch, and Stiles followed the group, his mind already whirring overtime to try to make the connections and fit all of the puzzle pieces together. His finger itch, and Stiles wished that he'd at least brought a piece of string to help him focus.

The lunch room wasn't exactly quiet, but there's enough whispered conversation that when it stopped completely, Stiles definitely noticed. He looked up from his notes to see what had happened and his face settled into a scowl. Remembering where he was, Stiles tried to make himself look more neutral instead, but it was difficult when Agent Dickface was heading over to his table.

His peers, to put it lightly, freaked out a little. They sat up straighter, looked attentive, and Stiles was pretty sure that one guy was this close to drooling and/or fainting.

"Good afternoon recruits; it's good to see some new faces," Rafe McCall said, smiling at the group broadly.

Stiles couldn't stop the scowl this time, but at least the others were all looking at Agent Fuckwad instead of him.

"What have you been working on this morning?" Rafe asked, sitting at the end of the table and looking at them expectantly.

The final puzzle piece fell into place and Stiles looked at Rafe sharply. Rafe returned his gaze for a split second, cool and unperturbed, before his gaze continued to the rest of the group.

They finally seemed to realise that Agent Rafe McCall actually expected an answer and they hurried to tell him everything about their case that they possibly could.

"Excuse me," Stiles muttered, barely even noticed by his peers as he stood and left.

Rafe glanced after him briefly, but returned his attention to the rest of the recruits, who were vying for his attention and approval.

...

Stiles made it outside using his very own swipe card - not stolen, borrowed or copied, thank you very much - and turned his phone on. He had a few messages from his father, saying how proud he was, how he expected a full report that evening, and that Scott had taken the Jeep earlier that morning. Stiles breathed a sigh of relief on seeing that text.

He swiped through his contacts and settled on Scott's name for a moment, then continued past. Stiles felt as though a piece of lead had settled in his stomach, and he had a brief thought about Agent McJerk, wondering if he had had any hand in Stiles actually getting to the FBI. There was a time in his senior year when his grades had slipped, so while Stiles had been hopeful about getting in to the FBI, he hadn't really expected to get in.

He finally settled on the contact for 'wolf' and sent a text message.

You're being framed for mass murder. Run.

Stiles turned off his phone and headed back inside.

...

End of the first chapter

Next parts: two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty

[starfallskitter]

little songfic for the night

names all redacted ~

lyrics are like this / im a shit writer / enjoy my mess

why do i post anything

~

"The Ballad Of Mona Lisa"

She paints her fingers with a close precision / He starts to notice empty bottles of gin / And takes a moment to assess the sins she’s paid for

pink sits, legs crossed, on the floor. Needle in hand, she sews a pattern into her skin, in and out, metal popping through skin and ink dripping like blood. Her lip rests firmly between her teeth as she works, and the music that rings in her ears loud enough to deafen someone more sensitive is illegible, she doesn’t understand a word of it. Her focus is set, with an artist’s precision, precision that isn’t hers, going over and over a triangle with more meaning than she would ever admit.

She’s turning twenty-one soon and nothing is in place. Her promises of yesterday have yet to come true, and for her, a prophet, to fail would be unthinkable. She bites her lip tighter, presses into her skin a little too hard, jerks away reflexively. Cursing lightly, the needle dips into the ink and she gets back to work.

Mum’s been finding empty bottles. Dad’s noticed how they never left their room. pink worries, and she always has reason to worry, that their parents already know the secrets. The believable ones, anyways. The ones to do with boys and friends and teenager drama. She’s sewing a promise into her skin; this isn’t the favour, that’s the tattoo on her leg, but this is her promise. Her bond, binding her to repay the debt. Not her debt; yellow’s debt, incurred early in the morning in a fit of jealousy. She wonders why he seemed so damn confused when x started his end of the deal. Maybe he’d forgotten what deals with the devil were. Whether or not they tipped the scales, that was up for debate, and debate it they would. In pink’s view, x was too smart for the law. He’d skirt the universe, asking instead of demanding, advising instead of telling, setting events in motion to make his intentions happen regardless. yellow was big and lumbering in this business. Better left to the professionals, she supposed, as she stabbed herself a thousand times over, for a man who in some millennia would love her. A man who was about to twist fate to the whims of a teenager too young for the universe to tear apart. Didn’t matter that it had already been done.

A lonely speaker in a conversation / Her words were swimming through his ears again / There's nothing wrong with just a taste of what you've paid for

It’s not long later and his shoulder still hurts. yellow stands in falling water, staring at the swirling around his feet. gold is walking circles around him, asking questions yellow doesn’t quite want to answer, about the trial, how things are going with the trouble he’s got himself into, whether or not he’s alright. Basic as it is, yellow has no answers. gold’s sitting at a school desk in 2003. yellow says olive’s still not in jail. gold says that sucks. gold doesn’t know about x, or the deal, or that one specific Clarus in the middle of all of this. He does, but he doesn’t know what those words mean. If he knew yellow was taking all of this paranormal ghost story style he’d lose his mind. Very yellow today.

pink’d said, a thousand times over, just you wait. “I promise, sweetheart, you’ve just gotta wait. It’s not over yet.” Nothing’s ever over, that he knows, as a man fourteen years older than him is his exact age and simultaneously thousands of miles away and tucked right into his hindbrain. Nothing’s ever over, and the second you don’t think something’s gonna happen, it does.

x has a year and a bit. He says he can do it in eight months. yellow winces at the nerves in the spine and sighs down at the floor. “Everything alright?” gold asks, as he always does, and yellow nods, grimaces, and stares at his feet. What kind of price is he gonna pay? He’s sure this isn’t right. You can’t bribe the scales. Physics don’t work like that. Here he is, cheating, cheating the universe, demanding through his very own cheat that everything work out fine. Someone will die, someone will leave, yellow is almost sure of it. The last thing he thinks of is gonna happen. If he thinks it’ll happen it won’t.

Maybe there’s not much wrong with asking a little more of the cosmic scale. Being aware of it doesn’t tip it. He has a backlog of inequity he needs repaired and he wants it in this life. Maybe all he ever had to do was ask. Nothing makes sense, and his compass is spinning.

Say what you mean / Tell me I'm right / And let the sun rain down on me

Standing over the hill, yellow threw a promise into the sky. “I’ll make him happy, and nothing else matters.”

Sitting alone in the back of a bus, yellow keeps his head down and wonders if he can keep that promise. The golden blazon on an indigo banner glares back like an accusation. navy scrambles onto the couch and two black holes look away from their cards and declare ownership with a stare. yellow swallows and knows he has a promise to break.

It’s not like he hasn’t failed before. tangerine’s abused, olive’s an abuser. Two lives saved, though. He wonders what goes on where he can’t see. He wonders about his ledger and were the marks sit. He wonders if that ledger exists at all, and what gets him where. Does it matter that he couldn’t save a sinking ship if two dead men walk? Does it really make a difference, in his one oh so selfish endeavour, whether or not he cheated? Is it cheating if he’s only asking for a chance?

Nobody knows. Not even yellow, who seems the only person in the world who listened close enough to know what that buzzing silence said.

Give me a sign / I want to believe

forest stands, palms open. Gold, scarlet, cerulean, navy, fuchsia, chartreuse, magenta, emerald, dove, strings like a thousand spools of thread trail from his fingers. yellow can’t move. Closing in are five hundred souls, prayers bouncing off each other and echoing through their heads. yellow puts his hands over his ears and fights off the urge to fall apart. It’s not what forest thinks it is. Maybe yellow isn’t alone.

Whoa, Mona Lisa / You're guaranteed to run this town / Whoa, Mona Lisa, / I'd pay to see you frown

olive follows indigo around like he’s lost. He speaks whole sentences to him whilst staring down the hallway at yellow, hoping for some sort of adverse reaction. Imagine being the butterfly who causes a hurricane. Imagine wanting to be.

Nothing strikes and olive falls loose. He’s so full of anger, anger it’s so, so damn hard not to absorb. He’s already lost, and yet, he’s slashing tires and stealing credit cards of the victors just to watch them lose something, anything. No accounting for taste. He knocked a girl up just to keep her permanently his.

yellow walks the hallways and pretends he doesn’t see indigo. indigo walks the hallways and pretends he doesn’t see yellow. yellow wonders if indigo still has nightmares. He wonders if he kept the necklace and what reason he could’ve thought it was for. x remarks firstly on how fucking horrible the gift was; partially because of how utterly desperate yellow had seemed, and partly because it protected indigo from all the ways x had wanted to fuck him up.

yellow is bitter. He doesn’t want to be bitter. He’s never been bitter before. Maybe it’s ‘cause he lost by foul play what he’d rightfully earned. Maybe it’s ‘cause he wants it back.

He senses something, call it desperation / Another dollar, another day

indigo, surely, he knows something’s up. Maybe x was in his dreams or something. x’s a terrible wingman, but the only one there is for situations like this. magenta’s been making deals, but yellow’s been making deals with more powerful people. Fire-eyes.

magenta, she’s nice. yellow and blue call her [redacted] behind her back. They pretend they don’t know her name. She’s got a resting bitchface and insults indigo every time he gets close. Maybe she’s not nice.

Each day it all runs the same way.

And if she had the proper words to say / She would tell him / But she'd have nothing left to sell him

magenta’s deals are shady. She keeps olive updated. She keeps indigo in check. She gets paid in power. indigo’s an idiot. Surely, were he to know, he’d have never gone the way he did. He’s lost.

It’s a green field, full of knee-high grass, like the one in the song he almost sung. High Hopes. He’d always sing songs that were so meta. “I don’t want to fall in love with you.” It rings through yellow’s dreams. It’s still his ringtone. The grass is evergreen and there’s trees around the edges, and a girl in a white dress runs like she’s part of a medicine commercial. Pathetic, in all honesty, she reaches out her hand and he takes it. Sometimes it’s magenta. Sometimes it’s green. Sometimes it’s yellow back when his hair was long and full of nits. That’s it, that’s his head, some days. Maybe he’s just a simple man.

Deceptively simple.

Say what you mean / Tell me I'm right / And let the sun rain down on me

He’ll get there. Nothing’s ever over.

Give me a sign / I want to believe

[ecotone99]

[SF] Project Icarus: Subject-001

The following is highly classified information relating to Subject-001 of Project Icarus. These are the only files that could be decoded, the rest are too far gone. Use this information to help you develop your new serum, Doctor. We expect the desired results this time.

Subject-001 Test Day: One Date: 12/1/2033

Report: Subject-001 (who will henceforth be referred to as William) was injected with the Icarus formula at exactly 06:01 EST. There has been no noticeable change to William's appearance or intelligence. William's body temperature has risen to 101.2 degrees Fahrenheit. William was able to survive in temperatures as low as 14.5 degrees Fahrenheit without feeling cold.

Personal Log: Dr. [redacted] decided if anyone was to be our first test subject, it should be William. She says it's because he had the most promising application, but I know it's because he's the least likely to sue if something goes wrong. Either way, we're rushing into things. It'll be a miracle if the serum has the desired effect, let alone it be permanent.

Subject-001 Test Day: Two Date: 12/2/2033

Report: There has been no noticeable change to William's appearance or intelligence. William's body temperature has risen to 113.7 degrees Fahrenheit. William was able to survive in temperatures as low as 4.0 degrees Fahrenheit without feeling cold.

Personal Log: This was a long day. William has to be monitored at his every waking moment, and guess who has to do it. Yesterday was fine because there were constant tests being run to make sure his body accepted the formula. Those were at least interesting. Now that we know he's fine, all I can do is watch. Watch him read, watch him eat, watch him shit. It's mundane and tedious, and all for a stupid report. I'm starting to regret signing up. These logs are the only things keeping me sane.

Subject-001 Test Day: Five Date: 12/5/2033 Report: William's skin has taken a permanent shade of red, similar to a mild sunburn. There has been no change to William's intelligence. William's body temperature has risen to 130.1 degrees Fahrenheit. William was able to survive in temperatures as low as -13.8 degrees Fahrenheit without feeling cold.

Personal Log: With William's skin turning red, he is beginning the transformation phase of the formula. In the next few days, we'll know if the formula was a success or not. However, if today is anything to go off of, I might have been wrong in doubting Dr. [redacted]. However, this is still an insanely boring job.

Subject-001 Test Day: Fourteen Date: 12/14/2033 Report: William's skin has taken a permanent shade of red, almost maroon. William has lost all of his body hair. William has seemingly forgotten the definition of words over ten letters in length. William's body temperature has risen to 182.0 degrees Fahrenheit. William was able to survive in temperatures as low as -49.4 degrees Fahrenheit without feeling cold.

Personal Log: Dammit. I told Dr. [redacted] that once William's mind began to slip we should stop the test. But no, apparently the opinion of the only person who watches him everyday isn't good enough. It was bad enough when no one could understand what he said, but now we have to give him directions like he's in kindergarten. Why doesn't she understand that this just isn't worth it? If we stop now, William will spend the rest of his life as a retard. At least that's still a life. If only someone would listen to me. I'll do my best to save you William, but unfortunately all my best offers is a prayer.

Subject-001 Test Day: Twenty Date: 12/20/2033 Report: William is no longer recognizable as human. William has an intelligence comparable to that of a tree. William's body temperature has risen to 246.9 degrees Fahrenheit. William was able to survive in temperatures as low as -127.0 degrees Fahrenheit without feeling cold. William broke containment at 22:57 EST.

Personal Log: I am convinced that I'm the only one here with any morals. Everyone else thought it was okay when William's side effects started to include devolution. Well, now he's a monster. A monster we're all trapped with until the guards can kill him. Emergency lock down won't let anyone else in either, so of course our dear old Dr. [redacted] is safe outside. I'm sorry William, I didn't want it to end like this. I knew it was too risky to use human test subjects before lab rats, but we really didn't have a choice did we? Our government wants results as fast as possible, and honestly, I don't blame them.

Subject-001 Test Day: Twenty-Three Date: 12/23/2033 Report: William is still missing and has presumably killed all available security.

Personal Log: We're fucked. Not only everyone in this facility, but everyone in the world. Project Icarus has really lived up to its name. Dr. [redacted] was too ambitious in her solution for this new Ice Age we find ourselves in. Humanity can't survive in this new world, that much is clear to me now. And frankly, we don't deserve to. We brought this winter upon ourselves, overcompensating for a problem that could have been avoided in the first place. We were stupid. We were greedy. We flew too close to the sun.

Subject-001 Test Day: Thirty-Three Date: 01/1/22034 Report: Subject-001 is deceased.

Personal Log: Hello Doctor. We believe your formula had some flaws. We will give you one more chance to correct these flaws. Only one. Happy new year. Fail your job and it will be the last one you, along with the rest of humanity, will ever experience.

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