#two troubled americans that just feel left the fuck out

[ricciardosgirl]

currently writing a slow burn farleigh romance 🤔

might make multiple parts i dunno.

keep an eye out for it!! 👀

[m1ssunderstanding]

Understanding Lennon McCartney Rewatch Part 1.3

Okay can anyone explain the “false hotel registration” thing to me? Does it mean they registered under a false name? So Paul registered under a false name so he could go fuck a girl in his room without getting in trouble with the press? I'm confused. Didn't they bring girls to their rooms all the time without getting in trouble? It doesn't make sense. Why did he feel the need to register under a different name?

Paul, talking about American conservatism, “So many organizations over here that are nuts anyway.” John, “Yeah, they're so far right they just–” tape ends. They really were brave, though. To say what they thought and risk losing what they'd only just got. I wonder who cut the recording. 

Journalist: Paul, are you planning to marry Jane Asher? John: scream ‘no.’ Go on. Lol John certainly says what he feels doesn't he?

Paul making fun of the racist question. Good job bud. 

The whole “Yesterday” thing is crazy. Like, what a feat, first of all. I think we forget how unbelievably successful the song was.

Second of all, I know John's reaction was childish and mean, but his feelings were valid if you just look at the treatment and reception of “Ticket to Ride”  (John's dead mum song). Like objectively yesterday is a better song, but still.

Oh, John. Poor thing. 

If “Girl” is secretly about Paul . . . yeesh. It's so obsessive and adoring and simultaneously so disappointed and disparaging. John always has such impossible standards for Paul. “She promises the earth to me and I believe her, after all this time I don't know why.” Um… maybe because he literally did give you the world? At so many points I find myself asking, “what more could Paul possibly have given John?”

People always take this quote as a sexuality thing, but couldn't it also be a conscience thing? Revulsion at taking advantage of the fact that all these women are fans? At the scale of his infidelity? I don't know, am I giving him too much credit?

The thing about Paul, John – and though it drives you insane, it's a big factor in why you love him -- is he's not going to be bullied into anything. If he decides to take LSD it's going to be on his own terms. And I know you think it'll bring you two closer, and you're right, but peer pressure just doesn't work on him. There's no point. You know that.

I LOVE Paul and the Indica. Designing the wrapping paper in secret up in his little attic room, covering over the shop windows so he can do his handyman work building shelves and painting in peace. It's Linda's Paul pre Linda, you know?

John is so good at PR as in making something sound as beautiful and important and powerful as possible. Which is something Paul absolutely relied on John to do and clearly could not do on his own after the break up. Look how John makes them almost into prophets here.

"I really wanted to live in London but I wouldn't risk it." Another thing to make John envious of Paul and resentful of Cynthia. I really wish those two had just never got married. 

“I don't object to people having a lot of money, I never did. But I do object to people being stony broke and starving.” RIP John, you would've loved the American “left” of today. But you can't have the former without the latter, sorry.

This picture always gets me. It's ridiculous. Pattie and George. Mo and Ringo. John and Paul. With Cynthia awkwardly by herself. It's funny. It's adorable. It's crushing. And with that quote? It's impossible.

I think Tara Browne is overlooked. Paul brought him home for Christmas. That's a big deal. And John hated him enough to laugh when he read about his death. That's also a big deal. Paul and his messed up social climbing obsession. I do think it's worth pointing out, though, the difference between Paul’s LSD trip with Tara and his trip with John. More on that later.

I really do think they were all staunchly anti-racist for their time, you know, besides John's racist jokes and drawings… but Paul particularly. And I have to wonder where that came from. Did he have empathy for people being judged on appearance and background? Was it partially due to his idolization of black artists? Did Little Richard maybe say something to him about racism in America? Anyone have any thoughts?

Actually, same, John. 

Okay and I have to share my hot take on the whole Jesus scandal. It's this: the American right doesn't actually care about Jesus. They care about protecting their hegemony. They didn't like that the Beatles were openly and stubbornly integrationist. They didn't like Paul's comment about their inhumane racism. But they couldn't openly counter that without showing their hand. So they used the Jesus comment as an excuse. If they play the religious persecution card, they get to paint themselves as the victims and therefore the good guys while they take down anyone who challenges the status quo that keeps them in money and power (aka the Beatles). 

Maybe I should've had a “poor baby” tally because the number of times I've said that about John in these comments has got to be tally-worthy. I would've driven around in a gorilla suit with you, honey!

It is actually amazing that there hasn't been more speculation on Paul's sexuality with all these serious boyfriends. 

Paul tells a story about a time he flew a plane, and how much better he liked it than being a passenger. First off. Imagine being a pilot and just being like “oh, you've never touched a joystick in your life, but you're Paul McCartney? Sure, go ahead. Fly the plane.” But also. His control issues and his confidence are both off unreal. No one in their right mind would feel more safe flying a plane – as someone with a complete lack of experience – than when a licensed pilot is flying it. 

Okay I literally JUST learned that Here There and Everywhere says, “how good it can be” not could. Can. And it's one of those in my "for sure this was about John" folder. Okay then. Wow.

The thing is they really did compliment each other's songs a lot more than modern Paul makes it seem like. So I wonder what it was about the “Here There and Everywhere” compliment that made it so special to Paul?

This footage where John is hiding behind McCharmley. I love protective Paul and how different he is to protective John and how much they needed each other. 

Hall of Fame quote: “what composer do you respect the most?” “I dunno really. John Lennon.” “Paul McCartney.”

[stusbunker]

Spotless: En Cédant

Chapter Twenty Two

Featuring: Dean Winchester/Reader, Dean/Bela

Other characters: Lee, Bobby, Sam, Annie, Kevin (mentioned)

Word Count: 2541

Warnings, etc: Mutual pining, Aromantic Bela, more hints at bisexual Dean, unbeta'd

A/N: Dean's magazine interview is released and he asks a question he regrets.

Series Masterlist

Dean walked into the auditorium they’d been leasing for rehearsals with a gas station coffee and what John would have called a ‘piss-poor’ attitude. Sam had stayed over at Madison’s and gotten his own way to their last pre-tour play through. It was one of those rare mornings where their place felt too big, and Dean couldn’t kick the feeling that something was missing in his daily life. But it was too early for a pity party and too late to turn around and play hookey.

Not that he’d even dare that on this tour, not this close to showtime.

The energy in the hall did little to ease Dean’s annoyance, filled with quiet conspiring. Each person he nodded at seemed to be hiding a smirk or trying not to laugh out loud. Once he got to Lee, he’d had enough.

“Okay, what the fuck is with everybody today?”

Lee shook his head. “You don’t know, you poor bastard. Have you seen Trouble yet?”

“No— whyyyy?” Dean scanned the room littered with roadies and band members, lounging over the stage and the first rows of seats. 

“Look, man, it’s easier to show you than tell you.” Lee reached into his back pocket and pulled out a rolled up magazine, which was not what he was expecting. His sources of embarrassment primarily spread online these days.

But then he looked down and saw his own smug face staring back at him.

“Holy shit,” Dean said in a whisper.

“She’s got like a whole box of these, everybody’s read it or is currently reading it. It’s almost like you’re famous or inspirational or some shit.”

“Some shit is more like it,” Dean muttered and flipped to the page number next to the tagline, ‘Phantom Traveler’s frontman Rides the Road to Redemption’.

“Hey! Get your own!” Lee snatched the magazine out of his hand before he could get past the shot of him in Baby’s driver’s seat, eyebrows furrowed in the side view mirror.

“You sonuvabitch,” Dean threatened and went to steal it back when Bobby appeared with his ruffled mustache of disapproval.

“Okay, Fabio, go find Trouble, she’s got a whole case of those you’re supposed to sign before we get started.”

Dean wiped his face with his palm and braced himself for a long ass day. “Okay, any idea where she is?”

“First dressing room,” Bobby replied. “Don’t take too long, we want to run through some old stuff with Kevin so Charlie can plan out some lightwork with it, then we need to talk setlists for this weekend.”

“Yeah, of course, uh, I’ll be right back,” Dean said, turning to head to the pit. He turned and added over his shoulder. “At least I hope so.”

It was worse than Dean thought, but somehow also better than he’d expected from Meg.

Sam sat backwards on an old makeup stool as he read the article out loud, “‘even his timeless good looks couldn’t save him from the storm of controversy he unleashed after punching out photographer, Jared Bender, alienating his keyboardist and lifelong friend, Cas Novak to the point of leaving the band, and forcing his manager and mentor, Bobby Singer, to cancel their last North American tour with two months left.’”

Sam made a visible ‘yikes’ face and continued on as you listened, moving stacks of magazines around into manageable piles along the counter. 

“‘The man sitting across from me was neither the cocky dipshit I interviewed six years ago, nor was he the unstable egomaniac who caused those around him to walk on eggshells during their last tour. He was oddly zen, blunt as ever, and refreshingly humble.’---- Ha! Christ, did you pay her off?!” 

Dean decided he’d heard enough and cleared his throat. You froze and turned, but Sam just grinned wolfishly at him through the old spotted mirror, completely unsorry about being caught.

“There you are! Hot off the presses, man.” Sam flipped the copy he was reading towards Dean, which he caught against his chest with his free hand.

“Yeah, thanks,” Dean grunted, splashing some of his coffee as he stopped the magazine from falling to the floor. “How bad is it?”

You chuckled. “It’s not— well, for starters, it’s the freakin’ cover! I was not— she was being purposely vague about the whole thing, even which issue it was going to be— I am kind of in shock still.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Dean stared at the cover, unsure if he dared read it with an audience. After the silence got too heavy, he buried his own sick curiosity and looked at you to keep busy. “So, Bobby said you’ve got work for me?”

Dean smiled too late, catching you entirely deflate from his terrible segue.

“Uh— yeah, it’s only 100 copies. We’re sending them out to bundle with tickets for radio stations in every city.”

Dean walked across the small room, set down his coffee beside Sam’s rumpled magazine, and picked up one of the metallic Sharpies you had left out. “You sure they want just me signing these?”

“Dude— none of us are in any of the pictures. And besides just verifying some details, she didn’t interview any of us.”

Dean spun on his heel. “She asked you if I was lying about stuff?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “It wasn’t like that— it was more of her trying to catch you in consistencies.”

Dean raised his eyebrows at how that was exactly what he had said.

Sam huffed and started rambling. “I mean it was about the tone of the album and the cohesiveness. It wasn’t bad, God, okay?!”

“You’re not really reassuring me here, Sammy.”

“Look, I’m gonna go set up.” Sam stood up. “But, we’ll talk it out once you’ve read it, okay? Just get these signed, so we can figure out everything upstairs. Maybe then Bobby doesn’t have an aneurysm.”

“We can only hope,” you tucked on, which took the words out of Dean’s mouth.

Dean nodded, sighed, and popped off the cap of the marker. “Alright, let’s do this.”

Sitting around haphazardly sprawled across the theater seats, the band and immediate support personnel plotted the first stretch of the tour. Dates were set, venues, everything important, but the minutia had to be finalized so everyone knew where to be and when.

“We’re doing in studio stops with stations here and Vegas. But we are doing phone in interviews with San Diego, Phoenix and Albuquerque. We’ll talk more, but I think we’ve got stuff lined up once we hit Texas,” you rattled off to the group, pen in hand, laptop on your lap and phone in hand.

Bobby had his day planner open on his lap and Annie added things into her phone as you went. Dean kept his calendar app open, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary yet. Once the tour got underway, things got easier with the practiced dance, but until then he was jittery and brooding.

He hated the build up, but knew it’d be over soon.

“Dean— we gotta talk later, figure out when Bela will need passes. That goes for everyone, please let me know who you’re bringing each night so I can submit the names to each venue.”

“How is that your job on top of everything else?” Bobby asked.

“You want to do it?” You countered, coyly.

Everyone laughed. Lee threw a balled up receipt at the back of Dean’s head, but he just flipped him off.

“Need to get you an assistant,” Bobby muttered, but Dean didn’t think it was a bad idea. 

The meeting continued, plans for press stops and casual drop ins for the first leg were cemented with your approval. The band’s image meant everything to you, not just because it was your job, Dean knew it was a deep seated loyalty and faith in them, both as individuals and as a unit, a family. You worked harder for them than any mere publicist would. 

And that genuineness came through to the fans. 

Then that respect and admiration was reciprocated. Sure, there were ones who were closer to obsessed than others, but even Becky, the fanclub president, had cooled down over the years. Things might get awkward amongst the masses, but it wasn’t dangerous. And it had been awhile since anybody had asked for a lock of his hair during an autograph session. 

He didn’t miss that.

Dean switched apps and snapped some quick shots of the group from where he sat, dazed and tired from the meeting, but still together and looking good. He typed a quick caption to the post: ‘Can’t wait to see y’all again soon, we’re back baby.’ He even remembered to tag the band’s account before posting. But he knew you’d go through and add hashtags and pin people’s accounts to their faces in each shot, eventually.

For now, he was just grateful that he was still doing what he loved with his people.

Not much later, Bobby called it and everybody agreed to meet at Elizabeth’s. After securing all the equipment and hugging Charlie goodbye, Dean helped you haul the boxes of magazines to Bobby’s truck to be mailed out later.

“You want to ride with us? Got that scheduling stuff to hammer out anyway,” Dean cleared his throat and nodded towards Baby on the far edge of the parking ramp.

“Uh, Sam left with Kevin, but yeah,” you said, looking over to Bobby and Annie. “See you guys there?”

“Sounds good,” Annie said.

“Drive safe,” Bobby warned and held the door open for his wife.

Dean felt weird with his empty hands and you bent over with your bag and your laptop case, but you seemed to manage. “How are you feeling about things? How long we got before shit explodes with that article?”

You hummed in estimation, “about nine hours? East Coast will get to it first so it’s gonna be another early day.” 

“Brutal.”

“It will keep me busy, but it will be a good busy. I’m sure of it,” you promised.

Dean huffed. “If you say so.”

He unlocked the passenger side door and held it open for you, the familiar creak in the hinge the only sound in the cement tomb of the parking garage. But it didn’t feel creepy, it felt nice to be alone and out at night. With you.

He let you drag your stuff into the footwell and made sure not to get your sweater caught in the door as he closed it. He rounded the front bumper and got into his spot. “Alrighty, let’s go get stuck in traffic for an hour.”

You smiled at him, without looking up from swiping through your phone.

“You posted?!” you shrieked in surprise not five minutes later.

“With my own two thumbs and everything,” Dean teased back.

“They are loving this.--- Dean, it’s already got like over a thousand comments.”

Hey, he could do the internet charm, when he wanted to.

“What are they sayin’? They pumped to see us live?” 

“Definitely! And then the usual: speculation on Lee and Pam, people begging you to father their children—” you laugh fondly, like at a child showing off a well known skill. “Kevin is starting to get a sort of following, and the younger crowd brings more enthusiasm. Plus, people are already speculating how long during each set before Sam loses his shirt.”

Dean cackled. “Sweaty bastard, even with all the box fans.”

He pulled them onto the freeway and wedged in where he could amongst the chaos, careful to leave breathing room for his girl.

“When you’re all done with that, we can talk Bela at the shows. I’m guessing you meant you want her backstage and easily seen from the audience and all that?”

“Pretty much, but also what works around what she’s doing. She can’t exactly tour with you guys, but we gotta make it look like she’s doing her damndest to.”

You spent a few minutes going through your notifications while Dean turned up the radio a bit to keep him occupied through the stop and go traffic. Must be a game somewhere, he thought passingly.

“So, uh—- how much longer do you think we gotta do this act? Seems like I’m looking pretty good these days in the eyes of the public. And if you’re sure Meg’s article will be good press—”

You put down your phone and turned on the bench seat to lean your arm along the back of it, putting Dean entirely in your focus. He swallowed and looked back at you out of the corner of his eye.

“Where’s this coming from? I thought it was working out good with Bela?” You were trying for neutral, he could feel it. But you were upset. Or alarmed at least.

“It is— just not really sustainable for the long run. Eventually she’s gonna find somebody she actually wants to date and I’m gonna be gone for like the next year.”

You tilted your head to the side. “Bela’s aromantic, Dean. She isn’t interested in relationships at all.”

“Wait— what? That’s a thing? Chicks do that?”

You glared at him. Shit.

He licked his lips and wiped his palm on the thigh of his jeans. “Okay, but people probably know that, right?”

“Yeah, but people have a way of thinking that eventually she’s gonna meet the right person and ‘settle down’.”

Dean groaned. “Are we playing up a shitty stereotype? Am I being a bad ally?”

You rolled your eyes. “Dean, shut up. You didn’t know, which I find odd, but I’ll talk to Bela about that.---- And we’re not getting graded on your allyship, because frankly that is an entirely different conversation.”

Dean closed his eyes against the accusation but got back into driver mode quick enough to remain safe. He sighed.

“Anyway, I was just curious if there is a timeline or an escape clause or something when the label won’t cut off my nuts for being officially single again.”

You turned back to face the dashboard and picked your phone back up. “I cannot believe you can’t keep it in your pants for one tour, Dean. Groupies and fucking syphilis boosters cannot be that fun.”

Dean swerved, but righted the car. 

“HEY! Nobody said anything about wanting to get my dick wet! I was just asking a question. You don’t gotta be shitty about it.”

Dean swallowed back his retort about not needing easy hook ups because Bela was more than on board for helping fill that particular outlet, but he had already dug himself into a hole tonight.

He inhaled and worked on calming himself down. He realized he was more hurt than anything, that that’s where your mind went for his reasoning. 

That was how you saw him.

He wasn’t a dog, not anymore at least. And if he had been for the few years after Jo’s death, it was something he had to get himself through. He should not feel ashamed for enjoying life. 

But apparently somewhere along the line you’d grown a superiority complex.

Your opinion shouldn’t matter. He only had to answer to himself at the end of the day. But shouldn’t didn’t equal doesn’t.

Which made him feel even more pathetic.

Tagging:

@deans-spinster-witch

@mrswhozeewhatsis

@cosicas-cuquis

@fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like

@suckitands33

@ladysparkles78

@deans-baby-momma

@stoneyggirl2

@sassy-pelican

@leigh70

@globetrotter28

@winharry

@lastactiontricia

@rockhoochie

@brightlilith

@coldhearted93

@djs8891

Chapter 23: Furia

[rat-typewriter]

hi! i hole you’re doing good! when you get the chance can you do high school aged baseball player bill de brought x fem reader who plays softball headcannons? thank you!

Notes: Girlie im so sorry this has been in my inbox for like a year,,, but better late than never right???? also im not american so i have no clue what a softball is so this is based off of ten minutes on wikipedia

BaseballPlayer!Bill Denbrough with a SoftballPlayer!S/O

alrighty,,, so first off your school only has one pitch - so Bill first sees you while getting ready for practice and your team is finishing up training

Honestly he spots you straight away - not necessarily because you're any better than the rest of the girls, but because of how you cheer your teammates on any time they make a good hit

He finds it so endearing, seeing someone so openly kind and genuinely excited for their friends

Not to mention he thinks you're probably the prettiest girl hes ever seen but whatever

But he's s u p e r awkward so wouldn't actually work up the courage to talk to you for a couple of months

BUT THEN

it's late afternoon in May; he's waiting with his team for practice and your team is finishing up again

you manage to hit the ball into the chainlink fence and it jams into one of the gaps

now,,, your team has a strict "whoever touched the ball last has to go find it" policy (which has left you digging through bushes of brambles on many occasions) so there you were, half on tip-toe and half straight up CLIMBING the fence to try and reach the stupid ball

you could hear your friends laughing across the pitch and (although you loved them to pieces) you definitely shot them a few death glares

One time you turn and stick your toungue out at them, playfully shouting for them to fuck off

and when you turn back, you nearly jump out of your skin

lo and behold on the other side of the fence is the CUTEST boy you've ever seen, reaching up and pushing the ball back through

and when he looks at you with those blue eyes

asafsghadssdhj

let's just say you don't catch the ball when he knocks it out

you stare at him and you can feel blood rushing to your face

internally you're screaming at yourself to stop gawking at him like a weirdo and SAY SOMETHING

if the fence wasn't between the two of you, the space between you would have been too small to be socially acceptable

honestly you're both so awkward you probably would have just stood there forever, but sooner or later his team would notice him with a girl

"Shit, Bill's got game!"

the entire group of boys suddenly broke out into laughs, jeers and whistles

needless to say Bill was mortified

mind you,,, your friends were no better

every time you saw him after that, they would all start giggling and nudging you like maniacs

don't get me wrong, you love your friends to pieces,,,, but you could have killed them all

you occasionally bumped into Bill a few times after that: around school, sometimes in town - but your first proper conversation was while sitting on the grass outside school

Your team was practicing, but you were in trouble with the coach for flunking a maths exam - so she was making you sit out to study for this session

you stared at you maths textbook - lets be real, not really thinking about anything - when he came over

"M-maths, huh?" he asked, craning his neck to read your notebook

"Yeah," you smiled. "Gotta say though, it's just not adding up."

why in the world did you say that

seriously

worst joke ever (not me slandering a joke i literally just wrote down smh)

But it was the first time you had managed to make him properly laugh

he grinned and your soul more-or-less left your body

you chatted for a while after that, him helping with a few questions

but mostly just messing around and laughing

it was only when your coach shouted to you that practice had ended twenty-five minutes ago that you suddenly snapped back to reality

"Oh shit," you gasped, stumbling to your feet; shoving the book into your bag. "I gotta get home"

He stood with you, helping to pick up your pens and papers

"Sorry!" he smiled sheepishly (oh god that smile) "I didn't mean to make you late."

"It's not your fault." you grinned

Suddenly you realised, didn't he have practice now? the baseball team always came on after softball ended

you asked him where his team were and his face suddenly reddened and he admitted that there was no baseball practice that day

"Oh I get it," you teased. "You came all the way out here just for me?"

he didn't reply, instead laughing and looking away

oh.

OH.

"wait, seriously?"

he swallowed and grinnef again. "m-maybe."

"Well," You paused. "We should do this again some time."

And that is how you got your first date with Bill denbrough

((You went cycling))

[brynnterpretations]

LOVED the the boys ship you wrote me (went anon at first bc i'm shy and new to tumblr lmao) so wanted to ask one for my the boys oc since i saw you do ocs too!!

her name is veronica daumas, she's in her late 30s, brazilian (speaks portuguese and english) and has been living in the us for 10-ish years (faceclaim is taina muller). she was a private eye in brazil before messing with some big corporations (aka vought), giving herself a lot of trouble, and having to fake some documents and burn some bridges to move to the us. she was recruited for the first mallory team due to her investigative abilities and, of course, is brought back to the team for the s1 shenanigans. during the years between the first mission and the start of s1, she was working as a sort of particular investigator for a brazilian-american crime boss in nyc.

personality-wise, veronica is a nosy bitch. she loves fucking around and finding out, prying for information, discovering things about people. a bit grumpy and snappy, but who in that team isn't? brutally honest too, not in an edgy, wanting to be a bitch way, but in a comically careless disregard for if something would be rude. her own crazy drive to pursue the truth makes her not realize some people might not want the whole truth at all times. it's not like she doesn't lie ever, she actually controls information very well when she wants/needs to; she really wants to be the one who knows things more than other people do. she's in a weird middle ground in the insane-to-normal spectrum: if butcher is one side and mm's the other, she stands aside with a cigarette to film whatever will go down between them. she's not one to stop anyone though — your problem! chronic bailer: if it's gonna go down, she'll leave. addicted to getting away with things. will absolutely back off and save her own skin, which is a conflict she has to grapple with when she inevitably comes back in contact with the boys, and starts getting attached to them as they slowly realize they actually are a team. she has left a lot of people behind in her life and it's something that's slowly coming back to haunt her — oh shit, she cares about the people she loves. and bailing won't solve her problems if she still feels for the things left behind.

i originally ship her with frenchie but wanted to see your input, hcs, and any other opinions since i absolutely loved your writing!! thanks in advance <3

I am so glad you liked your ship, and thank you so much for sending in another! I love Veronica so much and if you ever post a fic of her I'd love to be tagged in it. I hope you're well and again, I'm so glad you enjoyed! This brought a smile to my face. ♡

I ship Veronica with...

Frenchie ♡

Boyfriend

GIF Source: @yocalio ★ (link)

I agree with your pairing — Veronica definitely seems like Frenchie's type of partner, and vice versa. Dark and varied past? Check. A love for drama? Check. Wanting to be independent, but becoming attached to a group of fucked up people just trying to do the right thing day-by-day? Check.

I've mentioned this in a few other HCs, but I don't see Frenchie as a person to move fast romantically at all, so it would definitely start with a lot of interesting conversations and a healthy dose of playful flirtation. If Veronica is someone who's comfortable with hookups, I feel like it would be likely for she and Frenchie to be sexually intimate with each other before catching romantic feelings.

Once in a relationship, the two of them would be quite the chaotic duo, and would always back each other up. Sometimes, Frenchie will not know what she's talking about, but if anyone (*cough* Annie *cough*) tries to push back on any of Veronica's ideas or input, he will fight for her like a guard dog.

Generally, Frenchie really trusts Veronica's decision-making skills and intuition — he's always been more of a tactile person when it comes to work in the coup, so her investigative abilities are incredible to him — and always makes sure she's properly heard by the group, even when they're all yelling over each other, which is... a lot.

Frenchie is very fascinated by Veronica as a person, and would always make time to talk to her in-between missions. It would start as very run-of-the-mill questions, at least by Frenchie standards (her work in Brazil, how it was transitioning to life in America) before slowly becoming more personal. However interested, though Frenchie will always be patient — he knows how personal people's pasts are, and always respects her if she doesn't want to divulge information.

The two of them would definitely balance each other out. Frenchie is endlessly loyal, to his own detriment — Little Nina called him little doggy for a reason — and Veronica's ability to know when's the right time to bail would help him gain a lot more self-awareness and respect, while Frenchie would be able to show her that sometimes, not every time is the right time to bail.

During missions, he would always make sure he has a line of contact with Veronica, even if they weren't directly working together, just to give her words of encouragement and check in on how she's doing. He knows she's capable, yeah, but he just wants to hear her voice (and know what's going on, because he, too, is a nosy bitch). Sue him.

Frenchie is not shy at all with PDA, and would always be very physically close to Veronica, whether it's a hand holding hers, an arm wrapped around her shoulder, or just standing by her side. He also lives for sleeping with her, no matter who's the big spoon.

Frenchie loves hearing her speak Portuguese, and will often ask her to read to him.

Tons of cute, silly nicknames for her, such as mon bijou, mon trésor, and ma chouchoute.

As for the rest of the coup...

The Boys ☻

Teammates

GIF Source: @yocalio ★ (link)

Butcher really likes Veronica, finding her to be funny, competent, and very, very funny; the man could not deal with another moral compass on the team. Even when he's not a hundred percent down with an idea of hers, he'll back it up just to start shit with Annie and M.M. The guy's gotta get his fun in somehow.

He also definitely would invite her out to drink a lot (strictly platonically, though, because our boy is not a homewrecker).

However, it wouldn't be without its stressors. Considering Veronica's bluntness and lack of hesitation with calling out bullshit, I could see some pretty gnarly arguments happening between them, especially if it concerns Frenchie

On the topic of M.M. and Annie: M.M. does quite like Veronica and doesn't snap at her, but can get annoyed with her pretty quickly, especially when he senses that she's about to bail. Still, though, he finds her extremely intelligent and invaluable to the team, and believes her to be a very good person, even with her guarded exterior.

And, for Annie — I hate to say it, but Veronica and Annie would not get along at the start. Annie is very much an endlessly hopeful and loyal person, to a rather damagingly "go down with the ship" mindset, and would find Veronica to be flaky, selfish, and a hazard, likely having a relationship with Veronica similar to her relationship with Butcher.

That doesn't mean there wouldn't be room for improvement, though. Annie's decently intuitive, and as she senses Veronica becoming more and more attached to the team, would begin warming up to her and holding far more respect for her as a person.

Hughie would be quite wary of Veronica and probably wouldn't interact with her too much — sorry, he's a nervous little fella — but, like M.M., would also hold a lot of respect for her.

Kimiko would love her, finding her to be an extremely funny, interesting person. Like Frenchie, Kimiko is someone who highly values honesty, and would find her to be a refreshing person to be around, especially since Veronica isn't afraid of standing her own.

Additionally, Kimiko is admittedly pretty drawn to gossip and other "nosy" things that she wasn't able to pick up on or enjoy during her time in the Shining Light Liberation Army, so if Veronica dispels any information she's picked up on to Kimiko? The woman will be sold.

So... welcome to the team. She's one of the boys, for sure.

[miss-multi45]

Heyheyehey

I love your writing so much, honestly you're the bestttt

I was wondering if you could do headcannons on how the ghouls/ghoulettes react to plus size reader, if you've already done this would you do headcanons on how they'd react to plus size reader feeling insecure and starving herself? (Totally not projecting myself onto this lolz)

Anyway thank you so much, please remeber to stay hydrated and eat something

(I was also wondering if I could be known as 🐝 anon)

of course you can, 🐝 anon! ♡♡ i love the plus size girlies!

GHOULS WITH A PLUS SIZE FEM!READER!

Swiss

this man LOVES plus size girls

so much to love, so much to mark, so much to scent

but when he finds out you're starving yourself?

he started to panic about losing you, losing you to insecurities

next time he saw you, he lifted you up without any trouble (ghouls and ghoulettes are strong as fuck) and carried you to his room

he left his room, and came back with a [favourite sandwich] sandwich and a packet of crisps [i'm british, chips for americans]

he held you in his arms and made sure you ate

while you're eating, he's tracing the stretch marks all over you

"my little tigress, gorgeous girl.." he purrs into your thighs

satan, this man adores plus size people

Sodo

simp for plus size people

when he first saw you, he walked into a wall by accident because of how captivating you are

he did eventually find out about your insecurities and how you were starving yourself through the ghoulettes

he trudged to your room, swung the door open with a bowl of strawberry ice cream in one hand, and a massive poofy, fluffy blanket with skull designs on it in the other

he will put something on for you two to watch and drape the blanket over both of you, and he will make sure you eat

it's completely ok if you don't eat all of it, if you eat a big enough portion that's amazing, but if you don't eat any?

he won't force feed you or spoon feed you, he will put some ice cream in his mouth, then transfer it to your mouth by kissing you

"pretty baby, please eat. you're fucking delicious, i love you and your body."

he massages any places you're massively insecure about

Rain

just like sodo, he saw that you had that bit of chub at the bottom of your torso like every woman has, and he spilled his drink because of how distracted he was

he likes kissing that part of you. like a lot

nobody needed to tell him you were starving yourself, he knew

he could smell it, and he saw the way you left the room when food came in

he was heartbroken you didn’t like your body, he thought you were trying to kill yourself

he came into your room one rainy, foggy night and immediately burst into tears

"my love, my sweet darling, baby shark, please eat something. i don't want to see you starve yourself, you're too precious. i don't care what you look like, i'm in love with you, (y/n)."

i'm making myself blush holy shit-

he gave you a packet of lady fingers and made sure you ate it

Phantom

infatuated with all of you

likes to leave hickeys along your thighs and hips

love handles. are. his. favorite. thing

he caught wind of you not eating, he was enraged that your insecurities went that far

as soon as he confirmed it, he bolted to your room and slammed the door behind him

*aggressive panting* *holds up a selection of chocolate bars* "babygirl, either you eat one of these, or i will devour your pussy until you learn to love your delicate and magical body."

you did the first one, he did the second one

he's a switch, in my eyes

Mountain

out of all of the ghouls, he's by far the one who obsesses over plus size women

he just adores everything about them, their thighs, their hips, their love handles, their stretch marks, their breasts

when he started dating you? he left so many marks on you, he scented you to make sure no other ghouls laid a single atom on you

he felt kinda guilty when he found out about you starving yourself because of insecurities

was he obsessing over you too much? did he make you feel uncomfortable? was it his fault?

you had to reassure him it wasn't his fault at all

he dropped to his knees when you told him, wrapping his arms around your waist and looking up at you

"flower, my rose, my gorgeous blooming dandelion, look at you. you're absolutely stunning, every single part of you was blessed by Aphrodite."

genuinely, you are a goddess in his eyes

my eyes too

Aether

he's a thicc boi, he loves any and every female body type that exists

he couldn't handle making eye contact with a woman as beautiful as you

when you asked him if he wanted to be your boyfriend, he got a boner

he hid it well though, you had no clue he was hard

after a while of noticing you behaving oddly, he found out through the ghoulettes

his heart dropped back to the pits where he came from, and his eyes grew cloudy

he rushed to you with a bowl of fucking spaghetti and apple juice (i love apple juice, and you should too) and purred into your back while you ate it

he drank half of the apple juice

"my star, my queen, i love your body. i love you, i want to marry you."

he helped you every step of the way to love your body

Omega

another thicc boy, who love thicc women

you were the first plus size woman he'd seen in ages, literally

fell head over heels for you and 0.004 milliseconds after seeing you, he wanted you, he wanted you to belong to him

when you started dating, he got you a lot of lace underwear

he likes the way it hugs your jaw-dropping body

he dug up the truth himself, his deity of a girlfriend is starving herself? he will drown whoever made you feel like that

you had to tell him it was your insecurities, and he picked you up by your thighs (strong man) and gazed into your eyes

"bunny..what? you're insecurities are making you hate your body it's going into forced starvation? oh bunny, you're perfect. jaw-droppingly beautiful. i wish you could see yourself the way i see you."

he helps you love your body, just like aether

Alpha

buddy already knew the second he saw you, he also fell in love with you the second he saw you

"she's so fucking hot..i know she's insecure. satan, she's too gorgeous for this world.."

you were on his mind 24/7 365/366

he made the first move, he has godlike confidence in himself

"hello, (y/n). would you like to be my mate, pretty girl?"

you said yes, because of the massive crush you had on him

he didn't know you were starving yourself, however

when he did know, he was with you at all times, making sure you ate enough to satiate your body's needs

he made sure to never let you skip a meal ever again

Ifrit

he likes all women, especially thicker, plus size women

likes lifting you up by your thighs just to stare at you

and show off his strength

he could smell you were starving yourself, and he didn't like it

he also knew exactly why you were doing it

"puppy, why do you want to be skinnier? you don't need to change the way you look. insecurities are just bullies that live in your head, you can get rid of bullies, puppy. i will help you."

he wraps his tail around your thighs, "you see this? this is good, it's delicious, it's sexy, good to hold onto and mark and squeeze when i fuck you."

does that with every part of your body you're insecure about

GHOULETTES WITH A PLUS SIZE FEM!READER

Aurora

holy shit, you're stunning

no seriously, she is flabbergasted when she sees you for the first time

"woah..swiss look at her.." "hot." "shut up, she's mine." "..but you told me to look at her-" "to see what you will never have, that girl is mine."

when you officially start dating, she's over the moon

shows you off, like 'my babygirl. my wife. my mate.'

cried when she found out that you stopped eating

did a girls night in and did your nails to make you feel better

strawberry, raspberry, banana, blueberry flavor snacks

not to make you lose or gain weight, she just really likes fruit flavor things

also, aurora is a pro at doing nails. she can do nail art, all that shit

Cirrus

choked on her food when you walked past

"oh my satan..that woman is a goddess..i need her.."

you're her queen

she's your queen

she joins aurora's girls night in and all of the ghoulettes help you to feel empowered by your body

"aurora, i have a special girl here who isn't feeling particularly proud of how delicious her jaw-dropping body is." "WHAT. BRING HER IN THIS INSTANT."

cirrus bought you and her matching sets of lingerie

dark green for her, lilac for you

she is so proud of how far you've come, she will never leave your side

Cumulus

bbg used to be insecure about her body too

learned to love it with the help of cirrus and aurora

she can tell you don't like your body, she can tell you starve yourself

she will do everything in her power to let you love yourself

lets you lay your head on her thighs and plays with your hair as you sleep and you wake up with hickeys and bites all over you

how mysterious

Mist

oh my god you don't understand how much she wants you to sit on her lap

kiss her until your lipstick is her new skin colour

stares at you like 😱 when she finds out you don't eat as much as you need to

"you're insecure? beautiful, that's ok. just don't starve yourself to feel like you're 'perfect', you're already perfect."

gets distracted by your stretch marks and doesn't pay attention to anything she's meant to be hearing

she loves everything about you, and you being plus size makes her horrifically down bad for you

please make sure to eat, drink and sleep, 🐝 anon! I love you ♡♡

[sillygooseassociation]

Infirmary Room Confessions

A/N: Hey y'all! I used to be active on tumblr (a different blog for a different fandom) eons ago and have recently just been lurking in the background on this one. However, I thought, why not give it a go? So here we are, a short Ted Lasso fic to start me off and hopefully get me an in for the Ted Lasso tumblr community!

Pairing: Ted Lasso x hurt!reader

Description: After an accident during training, Y/N ends up in Richmond's infirmary, pleased to see who is there when she wakes up.

Word Count: 948 words

-

When you offered to help during training after Keeley gave you the day off, you certainly didn’t expect to end up with a football to the face. You were only meant to be taking videos of the boys’ goal drills for the coaches team to review later. Ted said something about it being the perfect entertainment for “Secret Sandwich Switcheroo”, to which Beard nodded while Roy rolled his eyes and muttered what sounded like “what in the fuck” under his breath.

A minor detail you had forgotten though, was your magnet-seeming relationship with all things bad luck. As your head hit the hard ground of the pitch at the impact of the flying ball, you suddenly remembered this detail. A chorus of your name was yelled at different volumes, your eyes slowly blinking through the pain as you stare up at the cloudy sky.

In a matter of what felt like seconds, a certain gaffer was at your side, his bushy eyebrows furrowed in concern as he stared at you. You attempted to shake your head, hoping to dissuade any of his worries, although the motion elicited a groan from deep in your soul. 

“Oh God, Y-Y/N, are you okay? Don’t worry, Dani is getting the med bag,” you could identify the voice as Ted’s but had trouble concentrating on the actual words, responding with a murmur before your view of the light blue expanse turned to darkness.

-

As your eyes opened once again, a light pressure on your thigh squeezed lightly, “Why, hey there, Sonny and Cher.” A small chuckle left your lips while you turned your head to the side, setting sight on the normally chipper man seated next to you, a bit gloomier than normal. 

“Did I ruin today’s training?” 

Ted smiled softly, even when laying in Nelson Road’s infirmary, an ice pack on your head as they waited to test you for a concussion, you were worried about others. “No, sweetheart. Coach and Roy have the boys finishing their drills right now. They’re all pretty worried about you, though.”

You looked at him inquisitively, “Worried about me? What for?” Ted’s eyes widened as he let out a soft and joking scoff, “What for? Y/N, you’re every bit a part of the team as me and every one of those players. They all know it and so do I. Rebecca and Keeley have been texting from their meeting in London to check on you. All of us care about you and want you to be safe.” 

Looking down, your eyes slightly watered. Ted’s kind words ruminated in your mind, taking claim as the true reason behind the tears rolling down your cheeks, though you would adamantly argue they were a result of your pounding headache. Trying to take the pressure off of you, you decide to tease the American as you look up, “Well if they’re all worried about me, how come you’re the only one here?”

A slight blush covered Ted’s cheeks as he glanced down, his tongue sticking out slightly in thought as he met your eyes again quickly before looking around the room, “Someone had to be here to check on you when you decided to grace us with your presence again.” You looked around and noticed the chair at the desk of the team’s doctor was slowly spinning, suggesting she had only recently stood up and left the room. 

Turning back to the brunette with a raised eyebrow and a growing smirk on your face, you decided to push him a little more. Sure, you two always had a natural banter, and over time your feelings for him had changed from platonic to something more, but your uncertainty about if the feelings were mutual kept you from pushing the boundaries. With your current state of mind, all worries about ruining your friendship were replaced with a mix of pain, confusion, and complete infatuation with the tender-hearted man. 

“Interesting…that person couldn’t be Dr. Sanchez? The trained professional?” Ted blushed once again at your words, caught in his small fib. “Oh well sure but,” Ted clears his throat, “I thought maybe it would be comforting to wake up to a friendly face. And I would regret it for the next while if I wasn’t that friendly face for you.” 

A smile appeared on your face, bashfully looking down only to notice that his hand was still on your thigh, his thumb rubbing comforting circles on the athletic fabric covering your skin. Turning your attention back to the man, seeing him wear a smile that resembles yours, you place your hand on top of his, “I’d be happy any day of the week if the face that greets me when I open my eyes is yours.”

Ted chuckles lightly as he tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear, “Well then I guess we’ll have to see to that. Just without the whole ball to the face and knot on the back of the head, yeah?”

Nodding slightly so as to not worsen the pain in your head, you readily agree, “Sounds good to me Coach Lasso. As long as I’m not banned from all future trainings.”

Ted scoffs, moving his hand from your thigh to intertwine your fingers together. “You must be losin’ marbles if you think I’m ever gonna let you out of my sight after today,” a giggle leaves your lips at his comment as he brings your hands to his mouth, kissing the back of yours. Your laughter turns into a content hum as you relax into the infirmary pillow, a smile on your face as you look at Ted, thankful, oddly enough, for your clumsiness that day.

[breitzbachbea]

@fvriva Copying this out so I can do more stuff -

But yes! One of Charlie's many exes, only two of whom have ever received a name, is a guy called JJ! His full name is Jacob Johnson and I once posted some old pictures I had of him here .

They used to date when Charlie was pretty young and just out of school and were part of a bigger gaggle of gay guys. Guys who were just experimenting and finding themselves ... and who thought it'd be funny as fuck and their good right to fancy Charlie's father substitute Paddy. Charlie didn't find that shit funny at all, but kids can be so cruel. (I also bet like some were like "Ohhh, he's from the North and he's kinda badass, do you think he's an ex-Provo?" because these boys are pulling a Michelle from Derry Girls. And saying "He's a Prod from Derry" has zero effect, because then it's "Oh my god, that means he doesn't got all that repression! I bet he's a real Casanova!" at which point Charlie was ready to either eat the Abrakebabra tray himself or shove it down someone else's throat.)

However, Charlie's boyfriend JJ never participated in that tomfoolery. Because he was a clever young man, who knew if he kept it to himself, he could date Charlie, partially to get closer to that hunk of man. Enjoyed it very much whenever he was with Charlie and Co. and Paddy was around.

However, JJ overall didn't feel like Ireland was a great place to live and wanted more opportunities, so like many young Irishman, he went away to America. And before he left, he did the kind thing of breaking up with Charlie ... and also the not so kind thing of telling him the truth in regards to Paddy. Rough breakup.

JJ gets to America, things don't really turn out as they are ought to be and America has more or less just the same problems he wanted to escape, be it in a different costume. Poor JJ falls in with the Mob to get by and after seven or eight years, he is like "Hey. I am not gonna snitch on you, I am not gonna cause trouble, but I just wanna go home. Could you arrange something for me?"

And his boss, a young man called Alfred Jones, is like "Hmm, sure! I think I know someone you could work for, someone to keep eyes on you and who takes care for you in Dublin! Harry O'Connel's the name!"

And JJ does think. Hey, that's the name of Charlie's childhood friend. Even the surname is spelled that weird way ... But he shrugs it off, because maybe someone just left an L off the end and there have to be plenty of Harry O'Connell's in Ireland.

And Harry thinks the same when Al talks to him about an Irish guy called Jacob Johnson, like yeah yeah sure. Fork found in kitchen situation.

And then JJ arrives back in Dublin, goes to the office after some preliminary meetings with other subordinates or so, walks into Harry's office ... and Harry's face is not one that you forget. Not much has changed since puberty is through. And thusly Harry also learns that he has hired Charlie's ex as a new subordinate.

So poor JJ, comes home from his failed American Dream, learns that his ex's childhood friend is a mobster and THEN learns that the same holds true for said ex and has always been the case for the middle-aged guy he fancied.

JJ has learnt a lot about himself since he went away, especially about his priorities in life, so he now also realizes that Paddy was just some embarassing Teenage infatuation and nothing genuine at all. Not to mention that he may have a soft spot for Charlie still, but no old spark that is still alive. Charlie does make a bit of an ass of himself for wishing it was the case and being thoroughly disappointed when he gets mercilessly roasted by JJ and not even a little bit fancied. Sir, you are getting steady now, you don't NEED your ex-boyfriend for approval.

That's Jacob Johnson! Poor lad, deserved better :/

[popculturebuffet]

Christmas in July: Jingle Belle: Ring a Ding Jing (Comission for WeirdKev27)

Hohoho all you happy people. Christmas in July is almost done and i'm almost out of here. For now though we have some more presents to plop down your chimeny

No no we're not there yet. Get back in the cage mickey rooney. No today's present is another look at Jingle Belle, a character created by DCAU legend Paul Dini.

Since it has been a few years, a quick recap: Jingle Belle is santa's 20 something but actually pretty dang old daughter who gets into trouble and stuff. That's... pretty much it.

Okay THAT'S pretty much it. He's done occasional stories with the characters at a bunch of diffrent indie comics companies. Kev's a fan so he asked me to cover some more.

So with that we can get to today's story which involves casinos, the mafia, the rat pack and jing becoming a mob boss. You know christmas! Under the cut!

Ring a ding jing is a two issue story from a 2004 mini series done by dark horse.. which the image above lets you know, the previous two being the previously covered special christmas special.

Now that's out of the way we begin with a letter to santa: An old friend of his is asking for help, Bud Coleman, a kind old man who's been running a santa theme park in lake tahoe since 1962 which santa came to see open himself. I do like this bit, that santa took the time to help an adjacent park open and gave it his blessing. Feels very santa. He writes back he unfortunately CAN'T hlep but before he can provide presumibly some advice.. our heroine comes in

I hate to take sides.. but Rusty.. you brought this on yourself. He was trying to borrow her snowboard.. without asking her and when again she put a keep out sign. Immature.. yes. Clear as fuck? Yes. Implies Rusty does this shit a lot? Also yes.

So santa in his "infinite wisdom" decides to send jing to help this poor old man.

Seriously just... this whole story is at least 20% Santa's fault for sending Jing down there, knowing both what she's like. Granted I can't completely fault him for not thinking this goes where it goes, it's a bit chesnuts and not roasted on an open fire, but he still should've known this wouldn't end well. IT's why the ending dosen't sit right with me but we'll get to that.

For now Jing flies in and is unimpressed with what's left of the park, if nice to bud. Sadly the parks in deep disrepair, the rides busted, the reindeer replaced with a very good boy, and Bud's wife having been seriously injured in a fruit cake accident and really needing a doctor but not getting one because Trauma is funny right? I mean if it happens to a house cat named tom sure

But in this case meh. Jing needs twelve million dollary doos for her plan to save the park, but hears bud's friends joking about him being part native american and that gives her an idea: GAMBLING. She plans to turn part of the park into a casnio. Bud's not sure but Jing's got the charisma to talk him into this. She then gets busy grabbing some of her dad's staff specifically

Well a wolverine that fights a robot to test it for santa, but he acts like logan so he counts dammit. She grabs a few menehunes, some slot machine parts, paul anka and some cocaine. you know the things you need for a good casino.

So naturally when Bud gets back, he finds his park has been turned into a nightmare

Bud is naturally.. horrified by all this. Except the house band, they fucking rip. But wolverines as bouncers, lemmings as servers and something called

Ah yes the most iconic of x-men, texas murder alligator. Side note ask Gail Simone to add Texas Murder Alligator to her run. He really needs the work.

Bud is horrified with Jing wondering if she screwed up.. but he's pacificed a bit by the profits since it's more than they've made in 20 years. Jing naturally has let the success go to her head but soon has to deal with the greatest monster in gambling

But since that all happens in a tie in issue we instead see her get abducted by the mob. Specifically Leo Gatch, who runs all the casino's in the area and is impressed with her work.. but wants his cut. Jing refuses and he responds by telling her "Join up or get your legs broken" We end the issue on that cliffhanger.

So naturally she escapes.. by summoning a giant reindeer named thrasher. Or goat. Whatever he is he's got the poots and poots on gatch as jing runs away

So Jing comes back and Bud about dies when he finds out who Jing just pissed off wanting to apologize. We soon find out naturally letting a teenager telling a mob boss to go jerk off in a lake has consequences, as Gatch has cut off the food and entertainment. Jing being responable and entirely likeable.. decides not to. I like this panel of her going beetlejuice over her frustration at the situation before deciding to fight dirty

So she fights back. She has wolverine deliver a message telling Gatch

Has him eat his whole buffet and then invite him to see their new act

Yes Jing has brought in toy versions of the rat pack who are loyal to her and help throw gatch out, though she did skimp on the accuracey a little what with frank going AGAINST the mob, but ey creative lisesnce and all that. She also clearly hates Dean martin as he's the only one to get a joke at his expense. Or paul dini does and that sir I just don't understand.

Meanwhile Bud has to turn some kids away and realizes "maybe this giant casino war with anamatronic dean martin has gotten jus ta wee bit out of hand. "

Anyways Gatch heads back to fly in some muscle to break her legs and kidneys, but finds his casnio is super paying out. Turns out the people he told to fix the machines> He then passses out and awakens. Jing has taken over and plans to become queen of lake tahoe and then the rest of the world.

Sadly she forgot about her dad... who i'm suprised she dosen't just throw out as he found out about the scheme. And here's that part where I don't like him... he outsourced this to his michevous daughter, didn't bother to look into what she'd just requested when she came back and grabbed a bunch of his pepople for her scheme and didn't think to do ANY followup till bud called him. I'm not saying Jing's out of the clear, she lied to a man, turned his park into a casino without his consent, got into a war with someone very clearly part of the mafia, and then planned to become queenpin. She done fucked up, but multiple people can fuck up and it's hard to feel bad for santa when HE SENT HERE THERE. He sent her to his friend and while as I said at the top, he couldn't of seen THIS coming, he should've seen something going horribly wrong coming and maybe sent one of his elves to look after her.

Bud is closing down the casino part, so the war with gatch isn't an issue: he got enough to renovate the park and that's all he really wanted. Him calling santa in is a nice touch: it's one thing to make money they badly need to remodel, the rides were out of date and needed to be refurbished or replaced. That's fine. It's another to turn his place into casniopolis.

Gatch and Jing don't get off the hook though just because this solved all his problems: Gatch is let go, having claimed to learn his lesson.. but is told by santa to donate to several charities. Which is a slap on the wrist but given what Jing's put him through, I doubt he wants to piss off Santa as he won't play as dirty but he will play to win. Jing is left.. handing out fruitcake.

This two parter is.. decent. The idea isn't terrible, but Jing feels very one dimensional mostly either being manipulative or angry in the first half and the setup is nonsenical. Again Santa, why did you think sending your teenage daughter fresh off nearly murdering her cousin would work?

But honestly the jokes do help: from a wolverine refrence, a cheap pop for yours truly, to the rat pack, the picked up screwball pace of the second half really helps the story and the ending does mostly work. I just would prefer if th efirst half had more jokes than "Jing thinks starting a santa casnio is a good idea" as a santa themed casino isn't that shocking to me or over the top. It probably exists. Now elves fixing machines, a wolverine eating his buffet and anamatronic rat pack that's my forte.

So overall a solid story just not a lot to talk about. You'd think they'd have more but i'm wrong.

[iammistressofmyfate]

Holy fuck.

This is just doom stream of consciousness

The closer we get to November, the more dread I feel.

I'm a "goody two shoes." I hate being in trouble. I don't like causing waves or conflict. I'm not violent.

But this is the first time in my life that I have felt such rage and anger that I've wanted to lash out.

I cannot believe the state of the US right now. I recognize that we've been on a downward trajectory for a long time but that we've gotten to where we are right now...

I feel like I'm going crazy.

I vacillate between despair and fury and trying to figure out where to put my money where my mouth is.

But I also want to see real, true protest. I want Congress and the Supreme Court and the President to know how deeply they have failed the American people. That things need to change.

Though... will that make any difference? Nothing speaks louder than money, and Justices are taking bribes left, right, and center. Congress, too.

Anyway, this isn't meant to be productive, it's just me ranting because I am so upset

[hydrojenperoxide]

To Look Like Your Lover - 1/?

Summary: Tom Bennett, a guarded yet cocksure prisoner of war, just wants to get the fuck out of France. Willia Ward, a student at the American University of Paris by day, whore by night, is part of the web of Nazi resisters that work to smuggle allied soldiers to safety. Willia has been assigned to help Tom escape, but Tom has always had trouble taking orders.

---------------------------------------

Aunt Gertrude’s voice wavered back to me over the phone all warped and wrong sounding. “You need to leave, Willa," she garbled. "France isn’t safe anymore for girls like you! Come home. Come back to New York where the Germans-” 

It was hard to hear her over the pound of the frantic drums and the squeal of the trumpets in the neighboring mainstage room. It was even harder to imagine her sitting in her stuffy living room on Long Island, surrounded by plump cats and ancient, deflated pillows. New York seemed such a long way away from where I was—Paris. 

Paris. City of love. City of dreams. Paris, where I’d gone to find one and fulfill another. Pais, where I’d failed on both accounts—love and dreams. 

“Girls like me, huh?” I shouted back into the receiver, smiling at the red lacquered wallpaper behind the phone box. “Girls like me are safe everywhere, Aunt G! Nobody wants to hurt a harmless tart. Besides, I’ve only a few months to go until my degree is complete. I can’t just…just come home!”

Feeling eyes on my back, I turned, keeping the phone pressed to my ear. The room in which I stood was dark, lit only by the red, tiny lamps and reflective chandeliers. Glittering men and women were standing about in clumps, clutching their drinks. Couples were dancing beside the dark bar. Naked women were kissing uniformed soldiers on the lounge chairs. Nazi flags fluttered over everything, looming like red rain clouds.  

Full of blood.

“Harmless? Is that what you’re calling yourself these days, Willa?” Aunt G sniffed over the phone. 

Finally, I caught the eyes of the man that had been staring at me. He had a pinched, pale face and watery eyes that were as dark as his suit. When I blinked at him, he blinked back. When I smiled at him, he did not smile. Instead, he touched his left knee with two fingers. 

Thumb and pinkie. 

My skin went cold, despite the heat of the room. I recognized the sign instantly. 

He wants a meeting with me. Not the erotic kind. The other kind.  

“Shit, sorry, the line is breaking up Aunt G,” I invented. “I have…I…oh goodness…I won’t be able to call back today. There it goes…no more connection!” 

Still smirking, I slammed the receiver down and danced away from the phone, towards my observer. I swiveled my hips, parting the dancers like a knife might cut through butter. Nobody looked twice at me. 

I worked at the underground club Le Flamant most nights as a dancer and fille de joie. Indeed, I’d been employed by the place for the past three years. A linguistics degree from the American University of Paris wasn’t going to pay for itself, after all. Still, after a while, the regulars only looked at the new girls, and I was not a shiny new toy anymore. I didn’t mind. The work was simple: look pretty, show up, lie. 

Men liked lies. They liked to hear how handsome they were or how pleasurable their company was, or how big their willies were. And there were always men willing to pay for the pleasure of my lies. Big men, small men, handsome men, ugly men. 

Still, I liked my second job better. 

When I sidled up to the man he looked me up and down. “What are you drinking?” 

He spoke in English with a Meridional French accent. Nasal on the vowels. Which meant he was probably from the south. He also had a pair of false eyeglasses on. I knew they were fake because the lenses didn’t glint in the light. There was no glint because his glasses had no lenses at all. 

Idiot.

“Whiskey on the rocks. On pebbles, preferably. I don’t like my liquor watery,” I cooed, sliding into the seat beside him. As I sat, I touched my pinkie and thumb to my knee, the same way he had. 

The sign of one Nazi resistor to another. 

At last, the gentleman smiled. “Isn’t that a man’s drink?” 

I raised a brow. “Do I look like a man to you?” 

“I suppose not.” 

I heaved an exasperated sigh. “Aw, shucks. Don’t make me blush. Another compliment that good and I may faint.” 

The man laughed humorlessly and looked at his shoes. “I’m sorry, it has just been a while since I’ve been around such a…uh…such a beautiful woman.” 

There was a fine sheen of sweat on his upper lip. A muscle was jumping in his neck and a bit of neatly folded paper was peeking out of his jacket pocket. 

He doesn’t do this often.  

I considered him, estimating him at about thirty years old. Posture of someone who sat behind a desk most days. Nervous enough that this could have been his first assignment from our organization. 

The organization that smuggled allied soldiers out of France.  

Usually, the men that came to give me my assignments from the organization were less sweaty. 

“Oh, I understand,” I purred, reaching out to touch his chin. “Why don’t you order me that whiskey, huh? Then come meet me in room four, just down the hall. That’s my room. I’ll wait for you in there.” 

I dropped my hand and stood, aiming for room four. I didn’t wait to watch the man order and shuffle along after me. I knew he would follow. 

Still, when I shut the bedroom door behind me, I took a deep breath. It wasn’t my room really. Just the room I fucked men in. Still the music was muffled and I was surrounded by my things. My glittery gold costumes, my makeup, my fur coats. All the familiar things that made up this strange, second life of mine—the life where I wasn't bent over old books, studying myself cross-eyed.

I moved to the long mirror propped against the wardrobe and watched the door in the reflection. I tried not to make eye contact with myself. I didn’t like looking at myself when I was all done up. My lips, redded with rogue, looked too big. My eyes, lined with kohl, looked too blue. My straw color hair, pinned to perfection, made me look doll-like and fragile. Even the way I looked was a lie, designed to please. 

To settle my nerves, I reached for the fur coat hanging off the edge of the mirror and groped into the deep pocket. My fingers brushed against cold steel. 

The barrel of my gun. 

When I saw the door knob turning in the mirror, I turned. My companion from the bar stepped inside, and locked the door shut behind him. In each hand was a tumbler full of whiskey. Even though he held out the one with more ice in it to me, I didn’t make a fuss about it. Instead, I gestured to the papers hanging out of his pocket, forgoing the need to flirt, to smile. 

He wasn’t here for all that anyway. 

“Are you blind? The file has been hanging out of your pocket the whole time,” I snapped, taking the whiskey and sipping it. 

Amber and smoke.  

The man paused, brow crinkling. “Moi ? I am not blind.” 

“Good. Because your glasses have no lenses in them either. If you ever get sent out on an assignment again, there is no need to dress up like a cartoon detective. You’re more likely to get caught, looking like that. And if you’re caught, I’m at risk too.” 

The man just blinked at me, nervous and bemused by the shift in my demeanor. Hilariously, he took off his fake glasses and shoved them in his breast pocket, guilty as a schoolboy. 

Taking another sip of my whiskey, I held out a hand. “Forget it. Just tell me what the assignment is.”  

My informer looked insulted for a moment, then he reached into his pocket and thrust the mess of papers at me.

“The boss said it’s your usual run. Take him across the Pyrenees. Deliver the individual to the Spanish border, then come back.”

I palmed the file open. It was a mess of small type, and a black and white photograph of a handsome man with bowed lips, an imposing jawline, and a flush of sepia hair.  He’d angled his chin arrogantly at the camera as if he’d been flirting with whoever had photographed him. He was smirking, but there were dark, joyless shadows beneath his eyes. 

“Is this my man?” I whispered, squinting at the name. “Tom Bennett?” 

“That’s him, alright.” 

“Pretty boy,” I mused, flicking to the second page of his file. “This says he was in the Navy.” 

My informer sipped his drink and shuddered. “Oui . He was a sailor on the Exeter. He fell on the shores of Dunkirk. Bullet through the shoulder. He’s still healing from some sort of infection. He was brought to one of our hospitals. There’s a doctor there that offered him an escape with us. That’s all we know. Apparently, he is the only fellow that agreed to work with us. Must be desperate to get home.” 

“Must be,” I agreed, running my eyes along the text at the bottom of his file. 

Tom H Bennett. P.O.W. English national. Roughly between twenty-four and twenty-six years of age. Currently a patient in American Hospital-Paris. Reports of poor attitude in treatment. Reports of negative interactions with other patients. Reports of attempted aggravated assaults to nurses and doctors. 

I ran my hand over the last sentence. “Sounds like a lovely chap. How much will I make for this run, huh?” 

The man went to take another sip of his drink, then seemed to think better of it. “On your return, you’ll get ten American dollars.” 

I looked up. “Ten? His file says he’s a piece of work! I should at least get twenty.” 

“Ten is all we can promise you.” 

I gaped at the man. 

Ten was not enough. The cost of tuition had risen to four hundred US dollars. Just a few days ago, I’d forwarded the last of my savings, all two hundred and eighty dollars of it, to the college. In return, I’d received a nasty little letter asking where the rest was. The letter also clarified that I’d be put on temporary academic leave until the money came through. 

Ten bucks was not even close to enough. 

Naturally, I couldn’t call Aunt G and beg her to bail me out. Every time I considered doing so, I could hear the echo of the last smug words she’d said to me before I’d boarded the boat from New York to France three years ago: You’ll come crawling back to me on bended knee. You always do. You've always had your Father’s follow-through.

Which, in layman's terms, was none at all. 

But ten dollars was hardly enough for me to make rent, all while retaining a vaguely healthy body weight. Yes, I was paid for my shifts at Le Flamant, but that was hardly more than forty cents a night. And with the war, prices had been rising. Food was expensive, so was coal, bus tickets and… and I was drowning. 

And I needed, more than anything, to finish the damn degree. If only so that I could return home, smack it down in front of Aunt G, and tell her to kiss my foot.

I closed Tom’s file and pressed it back towards the man. “Fine. So, when and where do I get the pleasure of meeting Tom ?”

My informer had the decency to look guilty. “Tonight. After your shift, in the hospital lobby. He’ll be waiting for you.” 

“What does he know about me?” 

“Nothing. He has just been told to wait for someone. You’ll have to make yourself known to him.” 

I sucked my teeth. “Lovely. You know these soldiers always expect a man to come collect them? Half of them don’t want to come with me because they don’t believe a woman could be part of our little operation.” 

The man rolled his eyes, then kept them averted. “I apologize that we could not give you more time to prepare for this assignment. I came as quickly as I could. Do you think you can still manage-”

“This is my job. This is what I’m good at. I think I’ll be fine,” I snapped.  

He turned to leave again, but I reached out and grabbed his sleeve. “You know you’ll have to pay me for our time in this room too. If Madame Claude, my other boss, finds out I took a bloke into my room with nothing to show for it, my pay will be docked...” 

I held out a hand. “So, cough up. S'il vous plaît .” 

***

When my shift ended, it was raining. Not pretty, glittering rain. The rain was ugly and grey and frantic as if it was determined to sweep me off the sidewalk and into The Seine. 

As I walked, I mopped the makeup off my face and kept my head down. Still, my heart was beating hard in my chest. Soaked Nazi flags dripped water onto my head and the leafless trees seemed to shake their fists at me as I passed. The curfew began at nine at night and lifted again at five in the morning—still thirty minutes away. The only people allowed on the streets were the German officers in their grey suits with the red party pins stuck plainly upon their swollen chests. 

They frightened me, those men with their proud guns and invincible belief in their own righteousness. The tanks, the flags, the Wehrmacht’s obsession with gaining more territory within which the Aryan race might expand—all of it frightened me. And fear made me feel weak. Weakness was embarrassing, and embarrassment made me angry. 

Despite the fact that I was clearly not an S.S. officer, none of them really looked my way. Their tanks trundled by. Officers gathered beneath streetlamps to smoke, peeked at me. Some of the men called out to me in slurred German. I only turned my collar up against them and sunk my hands into my pockets. Within my fur coat, I gripped my gun. My heart beat harder.

Just get through this part. Just get through, I urged myself. 

When the American Hospital-Paris loomed into sight, I paused, blinking up at the pale building. The windows were still bright, despite the hour. Medic vans were parked in front of the rain-splashed stairs leading to the large wooden doors, one of which was wide open. Gold light spilled forward, inviting as a department store during Christmas. Only, I suspected that my life was not at risk when entering a department store. Going into a hospital to retrieve a malcontent (and possibly shell-shocked) prisoner of war was another matter. 

I straightened my back, smoothed the worry from my face, and hurried up the steps. 

This is always the worst part, I told myself. Once I have him, I can go home, collect what I need, and get on the road. 

The hospital lobby was warm and stinking of dry gauze. The yellow walls danced with the shadows of the nurses rushing about. Massive white pillars crowded the grand room.

Breathing thinly, I ducked behind the pillar that was closest to the front door and peered around. A doctor walked by, white robe whispering in his wake. A man with his arm in a sling shouted something at an attendant. A black-haired nurse caught my eye and quickly looked away. 

A shiver ran through me. If my heart had been beating hard before, now it was racing. 

“Come on, Tom,” I whispered to myself. “Where are you?”

I checked my watch. When I looked up, a movement caught my eye. A man was walking down the main steps, hands tucked away in his pockets. I recognized him instantly from the photo in his file, even though he wasn’t smirking anymore. 

Tom Bennett. 

His sandy hair flopped across his forehead as he stepped down the stairs. His blue eyes were sharper than they’d looked in the photo—smarter too. He was taller than I’d imagined, broader. There was a scuffed scab beneath his left eye that he hadn’t had in the image. Still, it was unmistakably him.

Tom had a way of walking that was all shoulders. They swung in tandem with each stride of his long legs. 

Cocky. Self-assured. Tricky. I knew the type. 

Briefly, his gaze caught mine. Instead of looking away, I stepped forward, and held out my hand to him, as if we were familiar. Lovers, even. 

Tom blinked, lips parting slightly. I saw a chord in his pale neck twitch. 

He really was pretty.

When Tom approached me, he took my hand, which was a good sign. Sometimes, they didn’t. Those ones were harder to travel with. 

He smelled like strong tea and blood. His hand was warm and dry and rough with old callouses. Strong fingers. Big knuckles. 

I tugged at Tom's hand and looked down at my feet. Together, silently, we stepped forward, straight out the front door. As we descended the front steps, a distant bell began to toll. 

Five in the morning. Curfew had lifted.

It didn’t mean we were safe. Officers were still everywhere. We wouldn’t be safe until we were outside of the city, well into the wild. And even then, safety was more of a state of mind than an actual place. Spies were everywhere. Germans were everywhere. Traitors and rogues and informants were everywhere.  

With my hand in his, I could feel Tom’s pulse beating madly in his wrist. I could see his breath coming out from between his lips in long streams of steam, as if he was breathing deeply.

When he glanced at me, his pert mouth lifted in a half-smirk. I dragged us along the sidewalk and didn’t return the furtive glance.  

“I was expecting a man,” Tom sniggered under his breath. 

He had a rasping, velvety voice that was at odds with his twangy Manchester accent.  

“That's what they all say,” I sighed, glancing over my shoulder. 

A slender shadow shifted behind us. Someone was following us at a distance. My heart dipped down into my stomach.  

“Security in that place is mad. It’s a miracle I only died once,” Tom added, glancing over his shoulder too. “Do you smoke? I’m dying for a fag. Haven't had one for days.” 

I tightened my grip on him and hurried my pace. “I-” 

“Nah, I can already tell," Tom interrupted. "Little thing like you? You don’t smoke. Too posh for that, ain't ya?” 

“Would you just shut up and walk," I grit out, squeezing his hand as hard as I could. "Smile at me. Laugh. It'll look like we're lovers. We'll be less likely to attract attention." 

Tom's half-smirk evolved into a true, shameless smirk. He looked at the false jewels in my hair, my smudged lipstick. “Are you a whore?” 

I'm your only hope of escaping this city alive, I thought sourly. 

I had to try very hard not to glower at him. “Are you, huh?” 

Tom laughed, just like I'd told him to. “I could be. Depends how badly you want me.”

"Nevermind. Let's not talk. Just hold my hand," I grimaced.

Once again, I glanced over my shoulder. The dark shadow was still following us. I could make out the silhouette of his shape. He was tall, dressed in a dark coat and a bowler hat. 

Not good.

"If there's anything else you'd like me to do to look like your lover, ya know, just say," Tom shrugged. 

"Come this way," I muttered, turning suddenly to guide him down a dark, narrow side street. 

As if sensing my fear, Tom glanced over his shoulder. I heard his breath catch. I heard our footsteps echo down the alley. Behind us, the footsteps of our pursuer echoed even more loudly.  

"Has that skinny bloke been trailing us?" Tom breathed, leaning close to my ear.

His hot breath made the hairs on the back of my neck rise. 

"Took you long enough to notice," I hissed back. 

"Christ," Tom swore, hastening his footsteps. "And you're my protector? I should have just died in the fucking hospital." 

"I can bring you back, if you'd like," I snarled, breaking out into a jog. 

Behind us, our shadow gave chase. 

My life had been a string of disappointments and disasters and narrow escapes from one thing or another. But I'd never run for my life holding a stranger's hand.

[wartakes]

When Domestic Politics Become a National Security Concern (OLD ESSAY)

This essay was originally posted on June 29th, 2022 - not long after the verdict overturning Roe v. Wade was handed down by the Supreme Court.

Basically, this was me commenting on how I increasingly see crossover between the world I operate in (national security, defense, etc.) and the domestic political environment in the United States - which is needless to say, NOT A GOOD THING.

(Full essay below the cut).

I hope for a lot of things these days. I hope for better things for myself, for my friends and family and loved ones, for people all over the world at large.

But more than anything, I really just wish we could stop having history for just a day or two.

Like, fucking really. Can it just take a smoke break? I’d really like to write one of these about something else for a change instead of whatever event is sucking my soul out that month and it feels like there’s been even more of that already this year than the last couple years combined.

The big event most recently of course was the U.S. Supreme Court overturning its own prior decision on Roe vs. Wade, stripping nationwide abortion rights and immediately putting the lives of countless women at risk. As if this wasn’t bad enough in its own right, it seems that there are troubling signs on the horizon for what the majority-Republican appointee court has its sights on next when it comes to stripping away rights that many of us thought were settled at this point. Needless to say, it’s been an utterly demoralizing week for myself and just about everyone I know.

Now, you may be asking yourself: “KomodoDad, why are you writing about this here? Aren’t you a war guy? Why are you going on about domestic politics?” First of all: if you really are unironically asking that, go fuck yourself, I’ll write about what I want to. Second: all of this is fast becoming a national security issue and that’s really bad and we should all be concerned (that is, those of us who haven’t already been concerned for a long time now).

I started thinking about this on the friday that the Roe decision was passed down and it festered in my head even more over the weekend that followed. I could see it not only in the reaction of victorious right-wing forces celebrating their accomplishment and lashing out further at their opponents, or in the various police crackdowns on people rightfully showing their displeasure at this rollback of bodily autonomy. I also saw it just in the reactions of people I know, a great many of them struggling to keep from saying something that would get them banned off of social media or worse. Even more than I saw during the George Floyd protests of 2020, I’ve seen this bubbling rage coming to the surface in so many people who A.) haven’t been prone to outrage before; and B.) aren’t all necessarily leftists or as far left as some of us are online.

I look at the pattern we’re locked in, with a powerful and vocal right-wing minority continuously ramming through its agenda even when the majority of Americans oppose it, and that majority of people getting more and more frustrated when nothing seems to be done to try and roll it back, and I suddenly get very concerned. I get concerned because I am a national security weirdo, and when I look at what’s going on now and I look at what’s been going on the past five, ten, twenty years, I start to see patterns that if I noticed them in a foreign country I’d be going “uh oh, that doesn’t bode well for them.” Basically, it feels like more and more of our domestic political issues are turning into national security concerns due to their intractability and that’s not good.

I want to stress before I go any deeper that I’m going to try and not make this a doomer piece. I speak every other minute about how I abhor doomerism in all its forms and that’s the last feeling I want to encourage with my writing. But I do want this essay to be something that at least makes you feel concerned if you weren’t already and motivate you to action. I’ve actually avoided writing about this topic for a while to be perfectly honest with you. I’ve seen more than a few articles and several recent books about the possibility of Civil War II and by and large I’ve felt they’ve been scare pieces trying to make a quick fear buck. While I’ve admittedly still had a low-level concern about that sort of thing, it’s been just that: low. I hadn’t yet felt a need to address it. But after this past week, I think I’ve finally felt like it’s necessary to talk about the risk of civil conflict for everyone’s sake because I feel shit like what’s happened with Roe is only going to keep coming hotter and heavier and we need to understand what we’re dealing with if we’re going to do anything about it.

Worrying Signs

As usual, I feel the need to define some terms and explain some of my concepts a bit more. If I casually say “everything is national security now” with no context, that can be taken a lot of ways. After all, national security and national defense do touch upon or are connected to multiple corners of our economy and day to day lives, even if we don’t always see it. When I say “everything is national security now” what I mean is that more and more political issues are rising to the level of contention or intractability where they carry with them a threat of widespread violence – be that violence against civilians, the state, or whatever or whoever else. They start to rise to the level that they’re disrupting or preventing the carrying out “good governance” (or whatever might pass for it) and all the things we might consider part and parcel of being a “normal”, peaceful, functional country. Things as simple as being to go to the grocery store or go to school or wherever without the threat of getting merc’d being off the scale. They rise to that level because their intractability prevents any kind of solution through existing non-violent channels for whatever reason – such as those channels being flawed and broken, or just being plain non-existent in some cases.

This is nothing new (unfortunately). We’ve seen this before to varying degrees. The most notable and destructive instance of this in American history is of course the original U.S. Civil War, where the issue of slavery became so intractable that it could not be resolved by peaceful means and became a violent conflict when the South took up arms in defense of it (if anyone ever tries to tell you it was about “states’ rights” just ask “states’ rights to what, motherfucker?). Other examples also exist at varying scales and intensity of violence. The Whiskey Rebellion of 1791 against the Federal government and its powers of taxation is one example, which involved a large-scale Federal and state military response but very few killed or injured. There are of course, other examples that don’t quite rise to the level of civil war or outright rebellion from multiple periods of American history, such as violence against activists in the Civil Rights movement. Another pertinent example in light of the Roe vs. Wade decision is the history of attacks – sometimes deadly – on abortion providers in the U.S. (which have consequently skyrocketed over the past year in case you were wondering).

So, yes: certain political issues becoming increasingly unsolvable by peaceful political means and becoming security issues as well as political issues is not new. However, whenever it happens, it should still be cause for concern even if its “mild”, because it signals greater problems afoot. In that vein, if you start getting more and more issues that are becoming security issues all at the same time, it stands to reason you should be even more concerned. That’s why I feel it’s even more cause for worry now due to the fact it feels like more and more issues are all reaching that point simultaneously in recent years.

There’s also the matter of the way in which the issues become intractable or contended, because sometimes it creates the false impression that the problem is no one is “compromising” or finding “middle ground” like “adults” (or at least that’s what braindead columnists in major newspapers are trying to get us to believe). With many of our “controversial” issues today, there often seems like there’s actually a majority of people who are in favor of some kind of progressive change or action. We’ve seen this with gay marriage, abortion rights, gun control, and with multiple other issues that we’re told are “controversial.” The problem is that the minority of those who oppose any positive change on these issues are mostly unwilling to cede any ground what-so-ever; with more and more issues are seen by them as being hills to die on (or kill on). Even mild amounts of change are cause for outrage and screaming bloody murder, as we’ve seen with what it took to pass even lukewarm gun violence legislation in the aftermath of multiple mass shootings this year (and the reactions to said lukewarm legislation from some on the right). Every single political battle becomes one that these reactionaries want to fight to the death over (both figuratively and – increasingly – literally).

And that’s what they are: reactionaries. Don’t let these people fool you into thinking that they’re only “conservatives.” This is not to say that conservatives are necessary “good”, but this just isn’t what they are. A philosophical conservative (on paper) isn’t supposed to necessarily be opposed to all change, but only wants gradual, limited, incremental change (the subtext here for anyone on the left of course, being, that they want that change so that they can “manage” it and maintain power and privileges in the process). But reactionaries want to actively turn the clock back and re-fight past battles that they’ve lost. It’s not just good enough for them to slow down change or even halt change, they want to go back and undo change to fit their own worldview.

The Rachet Effect of Rage

Therein lies another problem, because the deadlock we’re in isn’t really even strictly a deadlock. Movement is certainly possible, but it feels as if the only movement we can achieve lurches us further to the right. You’ve probably heard this described before by people more politics savvy than I am: the idea of the rachet effect; where the design of the political system prevents moving back to the left and only allows movement to the right. It becomes harder and harder to dismiss as you have the Democratic Party – the supposed guardians against the sort of setbacks we’re experiencing (if their campaign literature is to be believed) the party currently in power, failing to do anything to substantively improve our material conditions while continuing to allow the right to drag us further into their corner despite not even supposedly being in power anymore. The Democratic Party seems fundamentally incapable of exercising power once it has notionally achieved it, while the Republican Party has spent the last two to four decades building up power and institutions in such a way that it can continue to wield power even when it is – on paper – still in the opposition.

That brings us to the situation we’re in. Where when we’re not at a standstill, we’re being ratcheted further to the right with various court challenges and other manipulations of the structures of power by the right. Any attempt to move further to the left is blocked or thwarted by the mechanisms developed by the intractable and reactionary right – be it the Republicans or various other far-right groups that have sprung up like mushrooms in the past decade – and aided by the incompetence, unwillingness, or even outright complicity of the liberal establishment. This is a situation that has left many – myself included – feeling disenfranchised and powerless to act on our own or to convince those in power to act positively.

You may not remember, but I’ve written about this sort of thing before in a different context, when I discussed insurgency and counterinsurgency and our failings in understanding it. Insurgencies, rebellions, civil wars – all the various kinds of intrastate violence, start when domestic political grievances become unresolvable by peaceful means. Eventually, at least some of those who are advocating those grievances – after it’s become clear they have no way of affecting change or even negotiating for the possibility of change under the current systems – feel that they are forced to take up arms and use violence in order to do so.  

Maybe now, if you weren’t already concerned with the buildup of impotent rage many in this country are feeling at the same time that those on the right seem more than willing to resort to violence to drag us back in time and keep us there, you might start to understand why I am.

As the right dig in deeper with their extreme stances, you have the opposing current of everyone else who want change slamming up against them. While the right stands as a bulwark against change while shoving everyone else backwards, the frustration and the rage of everyone else builds. What happens when you have more and more people who aren’t somewhere to the right of Genghis Khan increasingly feel they have no other way to try and stop it or to improve things the way the system is currently constituted? What happens when they feel voting does nothing, that politicians aren’t willing to engage with them, and where it feels like any other response ends up with them being beaten and tear gassed? You can fill in the blanks. It’s not good.

All is Not Lost

If you know me, you know I don’t like treating the future as written in stone. Time is not, in fact, a flat circle. We do all still have agency. We can still affect things in the world around us. We are not absolutely doomed to a certain large-scale conflagration of civil violence and destruction along with all manner of other misery. We are not completely powerless to stop events. There are reasons for hope. But if things don’t change in a big way, if enough people don’t act and soon, we’re definitely on the road to something bad.

I have no idea what that something could potentially be and no one else can be absolutely sure either – so if anyone else tries to give you any prediction other than a series of plausible possibilities, take it with a large grain of salt. I don’t want to get too deeply into those because I don’t want to scare or depress you any more than you absolutely need to be right now. All I will say is it could be anywhere from something as high-key and violent as the Syrian Civil War, to something more on the level of Italy’s “Years of Lead” or the Northern Irish “Troubles.” A lot of that really depends on what happens more in the years to come/years preceding any hypothetical conflict (which again, is not certain to occur). But even if only the “less bad” types of civil conflict break out, it would still be horrific for large swathes of society and the world at large. We shouldn’t want any of that in any shape or form.

Again, I try not to be alarmist or doomsaying – the exact opposite, in fact. What I’m telling you today is not meant to fill you with dread for the sake of dread; it is not meant to black pill you or turn you into a nihilist or a doomer. What I want to do is simply drive home the seriousness of the times we’re in – to reinforce what the last few years have taught us: that this is not just a game, or a temporary phase that will eventually fizzle out on its own. We are, in fact, in a real crisis. We are in a Wikipedia article that has not been written yet – or exists and is going to be retitled sometime in the near-future. How that article will read in the future is on all of us. This is meant to be a drive to action to try and improve this situation and prevent it from spiraling further out of control, not an attempt to get fear clicks and paralyze you with foreboding. We need to channel our fear, our anger, our frustration; channel it into meaningful action.  

Part of me isn’t entirely convinced we’re not already well into the early stages of what might be some kind of civil conflict. That with all the mass shootings, street brawls, and other violence, we may already be in some kind of “Years of Lead” or “Troubles” or Weimar Republic-esque disorder. If that’s the case, that only reinforces the call to action to make sure that the conflict we may or may not already be in does not progress to more destructive phases – not only destructive for us as people living in this country, but destructive for the effects it would undoubtedly have on the entire world due to the centrality of the United States in its day-to-day affairs. We owe it to not just ourselves, but to all people everywhere out of solidarity.

What are some of the things we can do now? A lot of the things we need to do are things people have already been telling us to do and that we need to double down and commit more to as we move ahead. Getting to know your neighbors and your community and participating in mutual aid; joining, starting, and supporting progressive organizations be they labor unions, advocacy groups for specific topics or general change, or organizations that help people get resources that they may not be able to usually access; participating in direct action and pressure campaigns when necessary; also, while we’ve learned that voting alone doesn’t bring about change, I’d still say that it’s something we cannot ignore as a too (I’m not going to give you an electoralism lecture because I don’t buy into that myself, but voting isn’t a useless gesture and is critical to prevent more backsliding, with some of the progressive victories we’ve seen this year being proof of that).

I know that last paragraph is a very generalized, non-specific list of suggestions. In my defense, at the end of the day, I am still a national security and international relations professional, not a domestic political animal. There are people out there you can and will give you more specific and helpful advice on this front that I can. I just want to make sure that you’re taking home that there is a real urgency to seek out said advice and guidance and act on it. All is not lost, do not despair; but know that the pressure is real and the need for action is real. I leave you with this: all of our lives have intrinsic value; when something has value, you fight to defend it.

Stay safe out there and keep on keeping on.

[thehangeddemon]

The Road to Hell, Cont. || Charleson, Xavier, Ramsay, Lawrence, & Captain Issott || July 11th, 2023

Mason/Leslie: Mason had been prepared to explain until their little puppet abruptly halted. Leslie had been an inch away from crashing into their captive when his body came alive with awareness. Running off was not an option, was it? To cause more alarm than the supposed heart attack they had left at the front door.

But the crossroad demon did nothing to stop him. Following the tracker faithfully, his mind tunneled in the direction of his husband and the only barrier between them.

Tackling and subduing would only cause a stir in surveillance, but there was no turning back now.

“Just one threat,” Mason whispered. His hand hovered over the double doors. Locked, most likely. Xavier’s mention of teleportation had him turning to speak, but it was Leslie who stepped forward, hand out to give pause.

Wait, he mouthed, and reached out with his left hand, contorting his fingers tightly, soft cracks breaking the dead silence, wrist twisting. The door had indeed been locked, and with one more finger overlapping the other, the locking mechanism was broken entirely.

The room began to dim as the doors swung wide. Knowing where every person was in position to Charles meant knowing exactly where the guard stood, flinging every ounce of his telekinetic will in throwing Ian against the ceiling and his gun out of reach, falling between Ramsay and Leslie’s feet.

Xavier/Ramsay: Xavier understood his brother’s meaning, but the way he saw it, every single person who worked in this facility was a threat.

Leslie’s magical lock picking saved them the trouble of teleportation but it was just as well. The now cognizant lab tech would likely be sounding the alarm at any moment, evading detection was no longer an option.

Especially given the chaos that erupted the moment those doors opened.

With the main threat pinned to the ceiling, Xavier scanned the rest of the room for any potential others.

Ramsay was quick to react and pick up the gun. He planted himself in the doorway and aimed toward the hallway in case more guards came running. The second gun, the one he’d taken from the guard in the parking garage, was held at the ready at his side.

Charles/Haine: "What the fuck?" Haine swore, unknowingly echoing his guard's earlier sentiment. The room's other inhabitants shouted their own shock as the doors banged open. A technician took refuge behind the nearest machine while the nurse ducked where she stood, hands moving to protect the back of her neck.

The doctor could see nothing beyond the havoc that had broken loose almost as soon as they'd powered on the amplifier. His thorough research had not mentioned the professor being telekinetic... was he?

All semblance of kindness gone, he grabbed the nearest tech by the back of his neck and all but flung him toward the machine. "Shut it down!"

Charles stared blankly up at the ceiling, mouth open in a silent scream. Far from the intoxicating rush of Cerebro, this was agony. Invisible claws scraped at every drop of his power, pushing it out farther than he could ever reach on his own.

Mason: The guard was pulled from the ceiling, dangled mid-air, and thrown across the room onto the loudmouth American. As much as he wanted to split their bodies in two, the horror of Charles' condition stayed his hand, rushing to his husband's side to remove any and every device attached.

It couldn't be like this. He needed Charles to see him. To do more than feel his presence. He was not alone, and this would never happen again.

The spell was broken as the silk and gold braid was yanked from his wrist.

Xavier/Ramsay: With Mason focused on Charles and the guard now freed from the ceiling, Xavier’s black-eyed laser focus shifted to him and the man Mason had thrown him onto.

If they thought to move or to reach for anything, they’d both find themselves pinned.

Ah, but first.

“John, shoot the machine,” Xavier said almost pleasantly, no longer bothering to whisper.

“Yep.” Wasn’t really any point in staying hidden anymore, was there?

Ramsay used his teeth to tear the silk off his wrist and aimed three consecutive shots at the machine.

Haine: Not quite an off switch, but it was certainly effective. The thrum of the internal gears whined to a stop, the unit smoking from the holes blasted into its facade.

Even with the needles being pulled free from his skin, it took a several moments for Charles to return to himself. Mason's face was the first thing his eyes latched onto and he released a soft sob. The hand that reached out to touch him was stopped short by his restraints.

Haine recovered from the blow as well as could be expected. It took some effort to push Ian's limp form off of him, but he managed. Not bad intel, then. A rescue. Well, he wasn't going to stick around for the aftermath. He made to get to his feet and bolt, only to find himself rooted to one spot.

Not similarly restrained, the nurse made a scramble for the doors on hands and knees.

Mason/Leslie: “It’s okay. I’m here, baby.” He leaned into that outreached hand, letting Charles cup his jaw while unfastening his restraints. Adrenaline argued with compassion, being gentle took willpower. There was no one else, nothing else in the room except his husband.

Until turning his attention to Charles’ ankles, expecting a strap and finding his angel, his beloved broken, swelling, and bleeding. It was impossible for his eyes to turn black, but impossible to tell the difference in the dim lighting.

There was already so much anguish, so much rage. What was one more drop of acid in the Stygian pit?

Leslie had no idea what Mason was seeing, having dropped to a knee to catch the nurse mid-crawl, covering her mouth and nose the same as the guard, pulling her to lie safely against the wall.

“Which –“ Mason didn’t need to ask. He would see for himself. Caress his mind against Charles’ memories, and find himself facing the lump on the floor beside the doctor.

There was no sense in beating a dead guard, which just left Haine.

“You motherfucker.”

Xavier: Although Xavier had merely kept the man who appeared to be in charge rooted in place, Mason’s sudden shift in demeanor and the venom in his voice told Xavier that a different approach was required.

Jaw twitching, the demon would flick his hand, intending to telekinetically toss the man against his ruined machine and pin him to it so his brother could do with him as he pleased.

As for the others in the room, they weren’t spared a thought. He’d leave them to Ramsay and Leslie.

Charles/Haine: His world had narrowed down to that steady presence. Whatever went on around them was secondary to the face in his hand. Mason was here, and they had time to sort out the rest.

He braced himself for his husband's reaction to the worst of his injuries. The rage was expected, but it stole his demon away too soon. With a wince and a groan, he forced himself into a seated position. "Mason."

Haine's pulse was practically visible, hammering through him as he desperately sought a way out. He yelped as he was moved, eyes wild with terror. Urine dampened the front of his slacks. Those eyes. These were no mutants. What could he say to stave off the attack? Nothing came to mind. "I..."

Mason: Mason offered his hand to the sound of his name and gently squeezed.

"Right here, baby." But he knew what his name meant. Knew Charles wanted this man alive. For some fucking reason.

"He can live with a broken fuckin' leg." It would be a mercy, wouldn't it? Charles loved his mercies.

His free hand outstretched, eyes directed at the doctor's leg as he squeezed his fingers into a fist, taking his right femur and breaking it in two with a crack of his knuckles.

Charles: Charles took the offered hand and held it firmly. He wouldn't deny Mason this small release and he forced himself not to look away. He suppressed a flinch at the sickening crack of bone.

He waited for the doctor's screams to die down to whimpers before speaking. He did not let go of Mason's hand.

"His psionic blocker, my love." He needed it out of the way. "The tech raised the alarm. There are guards on the way. You're going to call them off. And make sure no one leaves this building."

Xavier: "Please, allow me," said Xavier, taking a very twisted pleasure in approaching this mess of a monster with only his voice and the smell of sulfur to signal his presence.

Haine would feel the ghostly touch of unseen hands removing that ridiculous device from his head before watching what, to him, would look like the air crushing it in its grasp.

Mason/Leslie: It wasn't death, but it remained to be seen whether he would live to see the sunrise.

Leslie occupied his time under invisibility to cover the faces of those remaining conscious, pulling them into the corner with the nurse. As much as he wanted to make himself visible to Charles, remaining unseen had its advantages.

He brushed past Ramsay, fingers patting his shoulder as he muttered, "Behind." A chef's habit.

He needed to stand in the hallway. He couldn't look at Charles like that. He could fix him. Down to his bones he knew he could fix him, but he also knew this wasn't yet over.

As Charles said, there were guards on the way. The only evidence of his existence was the shadow he had forgotten he created.

"I'm gonna pick ya up," Mason said, softly. "Put your arm 'round me."

Charles: At this point, the horror was mild in comparison to his preternaturally snapped femur. He sniveled as the one defense he had against that bastard telepath was taken from him by a phantom, but said nothing. What was there to say?

Charles nodded. Deep breaths would only add to his discomfort, so he took shallow sips of air to brace for the pain of moving. His cracked ribs twinged as he slid an arm behind his husband's neck. For Mason's sake, he suppressed a flinch.

"Will you set him on his feet for me, Xavier?" As much as he didn't deserve Charles' kindness, he needed Haine clear-headed to stave off the coming attack. Already, boots could be heard slamming against tile. He muted the throbbing in his leg partially with a touch to his pain receptors.

"Pull yourself together, Haine. We don't have time for this."

Xavier/Ramsay: “As you wish.” Xavier moved Haine away from the machine and put him on his feet, standing him straight as a soldier. Moving, if attempted, would be impossible. He was still firmly within Xavier’s telekinetic grasp.

The soft, eerily calm tone of Xavier’s voice did not sit well with Ramsay at all. But what could he do? There was still a threat to deal with and they didn’t have the luxury of taking a moment to check in.

“Leslie, get behind me,” said Ramsay, moving out of sight of the door. “Can you use a gun?”

Mason/Leslie: Leslie already had his back to the wall on the other side of the hallway. By now, those footsteps were just out of sight. Too late to say anything. He was better off remaining still, out of sight, he assumed. If anyone was getting caught when shit hit the fan it would be everyone without a shroud.

Slowly, the witch rubbed his hands together, ready to charge up an inertia spell.

Charles had become a careful bridal-style bundle in Mason’s arms. “There’s others? More children?”

Charles: He wanted to so desperately to nuzzle into the crook of Mason's neck and purge all of the emotion he was bottling. He settled on holding him more tightly than was strictly necessary. A scowl settled onto his features at Mason's question. "Yes. Young adults, as well. We'll need to find some way to transport them to the school, but I'm getting ahead of myself."

He reluctantly turned away from his husband to look at where Haine "stood."

"Xavier, position him in the hall, please. If they plan to shoot first and ask questions later, I won't put anyone else at risk."

Xavier: “With pleasure.” Another small flick of Xavier’s hand and his little toy soldier was placed in the hall as requested.

Smiling, he came up behind Haine and whispered, “Although I must confess, I’d really rather they didn’t shoot first and ask questions later. You and I need to have a little chat, Mr. Haine. Your behavior has left much to be desired.”

Haine: If Haine could have bolted, he would have. He trembled with pain that had only dulled enough to be bearable. Or, perhaps, from the chill that ran down his spine at those hushed words. Either way, he was rooted to the spot. A human shield for Charles and his pet monsters.

Booted feet grew louder as half a dozen guards rounded the corner at a jog. Their assault rifles were raised against any apparent threat. But it was their boss that stood before them, pale and shaky but seemingly alone. If they noticed the stench of sulfur in the air, they had nothing to tie it to.

"Where's Ian?" the guard in front asked, peering around Haine to try and get a peek at the chaos inside the room.

The doctor very seriously considered telling the truth, but he could feel the telepath in his mind. As well as the heat radiating from the invisible threat behind him.

"I-inside. Everything is fine, here. The... the amplifier malfunctioned. Secure the exit and make sure that everyone on staff is present and accounted for."

Unconvinced, the first guard shifted his forefinger to the trigger of his weapon, prepared to move past Haine and into the room behind him.

Xavier: Six guards, all armed. Mason had his hands full with Charles. Ramsay was armed but visible. Leslie was unarmed but invisible and with magic at his disposal.

Xavier raised Haine's arm to stay the guard and leaned in close to his toy solider again.

"Put more authority into your voice and I'll have you healed and let you walk away from this with your life. Do not let those men into that room," he added, very slowly. Xavier was doing his damnedest to do this the way Charles wanted but this monster wasn't making it easy.

"Call. Them. Off."

Mason/Leslie: Leslie didn't know which caused the tremble in his hand, his blood sugar or terror in his veins. Only Xavier would see the rise and fall of his chest. Hands at the ready to cause chaos, the likes of which no sleeper could fathom. He had the upper hand, but his eyes told a different story.

Mason's stance shifted, Charles held steady as dusty colored wings slowly broke free from hiding.

They couldn't just leave. Their work wasn't finished here. What energy they had, had to remain in reserves.

Which was why two massive wings overlapped Charles' view, prepared to shield his husband from the potential threat outside.

Charles/Haine: He'd been reduced to little more than an oversized marionette. Fear was too weak a description for what Haine felt. He was chilled to his very core, beyond anything he'd experienced in his fifty-eight years. The hand that rose without his prompting trembled with it.

In Mason's arms, Charles rolled his eyes. The doctor was past threats, now, frozen by his terror. He seized control of Haine's mind, imbuing the coward's voice with his own steely resolve.

"That's enough, Tom. And the rest of you. I said to secure the exit and check on the staff. Now."

It was an air of command that might have stayed his hand, had the guard not seen past his employer and into the room beyond. Ian's corpse. A friend, and a damned good one. He'd been disarmed, and a winged...something stood in view. The entire area radiated malice.

He opened fire.

Xavier: Not even with his life on the line could Haine steel his resolve. And this was the man who had pretended he could pull off something of this magnitude?

Please.

Xavier left Haine exactly where he was while the head guard opened fire, hoping he'd at least have use as a shield for the moment or two it took him to get out of the line of fire and come to Leslie's side. Only then would he let Haine drop like a limp doll and turn his focus toward that gun.

The demon would flick his hand again, intending to snatch the weapon from the guard's hands and throw it as far away as possible. He trusted that Mason could safeguard Charles and that Ramsay could protect himself, and take a shot if he had it.

"Leslie, we need to remove the guards," he whispered urgently.

Mason/Leslie: Moments like this required trust Mason couldn’t have given even in recent years. Trust in his brother and trust in those his loved ones cared for. To open his wings for counterattack would be certain death for the fragile life in his arms.

Again, Lawrence begged for release, and again he was denied. It was only their combined strength keeping Mason’s legs strong as he pushed forward to keep the guards contained in the hallway.

His wings would hold. It wasn’t his Grace, but it was Grace enough to withstand human means.

Leslie’s intended spell was charged, whispering a Nordic spell under his breath as he stepped forward. There was no time to explain. Mere seconds as the remaining security raised their weapons to the doorway.

"Ef ég sé örvum varpað harðlega að hjörðinni minni; þó ég sé fljót á flugi, þá handtek ég þær í loftinu."

The tattoo in his palm warmed and glowed with vulgar magick. His arms spread wide, sending a wave of heat in a 10-meter dome. A ward to rob the motive force of missile weapons, so long as he harbored the energy to maintain it.

Charles/Haine: The lead guard had lost his weapon. The remaining five were quick to press forward to defend him. They sent out sprays of bullets that suspended in midair, inches from their target.

Haine's mind had snuffed out like a candle light, the pain of landing on his snapped leg too much to bear. Charles cursed at the lost connection. Once again, he'd been rendered blind. This time, by the protective barrier of his beloved's wings.

The sound of gunfire drove his heart into a frenzied pace.

Mason.

He was acting as living shield. And no amount of knowledge on demonic strength could chase away the instinctive panic. There would be no convincing Mason to look after himself when Charles was at risk. He clung more fiercely to his husband.

'Their helmets!' he projected into Xavier's and Leslie's minds. 'Try to remove their helmets!'

On the cold tile, Haine stirred. The pain in his thigh was nearly blinding, but the entire hallway had erupted into action. He'd be damned if he wasn't going to take advantage of the chaos. He set off at a slow, desperate crawl.

Xavier: Leslie’s spell may not have stopped the guards in their tracks, but it bought them precious time.

Time for Xavier to fling his arm and fling their weapons away in the process. Time for Xavier to register Charles’ voice in his head and begin to plan the best course of action.

The helmets had straps so they couldn’t merely be flicked off. Not without decapitating them all, which…wasn’t the worst solution…

‘I can’t do it without taking their heads as well,’ he thought to Charles and Mason.

Mason/Leslie: It was the heat of the moment. Hearing Charles in his head so clearly as though beside him. Just as he so often did when hearing the professor's voice, telepathy didn't stop him from speaking aloud what he thought.

"Can't move," but he considered breaking the spell after Xavier took action. There was every possibility someone had backup. A handgun out of his line of sight.

He was scared to let go, but only just realized the doctor was making a feeble attempt at escape. He had to choose one or the other.

Mason was staring upwards was at nothing, forcing his mind outwards to peer through Xavier's eyes in a flash. Only then did he shift his wings back behind his shoulders.

Charles: "No!" Charles' shout rang out both physically and mentally. He'd feel shame for it, later. But six headless corpses was more than he could bear, under the circumstances. He shut his eyes against the visual. This did nothing to chase it away.

He had to focus, find another solution. His telepathy unspooled in search of more unshielded minds.

Assault weapons rendered useless, and then flung down the hall, the guards were forced to think on their feet. Indeed, four of them did carry handguns in their belts. The remaining two pulled out blades. Anything to defend against a threat they could not see. The lead guard could at least take a shot at the one he could.

Xavier: Charles could not possibly know the weight his ‘no’ held in that moment. It would’ve been so simple, so easy to neutralize the threat then and there and not have to worry about elegant solutions.

But Charles said no, so the guards would be thrown back with an impatient wave of Xavier’s arm instead.

Time and cover were what they needed. Time and cover.

“Come,” the demon said to Leslie. “We don’t have but a moment. We need to get back into that room, I’ll keep the doors closed behind us.”

Mason/Leslie: Leslie's hands trembled. Fear in his alert and glossy eyes. At last he remembered to breathe, afraid still of dropping his spell when Xavier snapped him out of it.

"The doctor," he gasped, lowering his arms. Nausea swept over his entire being as the bullets raced forward by another foot, dropping off like metal rain on the tile.

Mason backed up, giving passage as he glanced down the hallway, allowing Charles to do the same.

"Who d'ya feel?" he asked, retreating back inside.

Charles: He shuddered his relief at carnage avoided, still too shaken to be properly grateful for Xavier's restraint. He looked, when presented the opportunity, but his mind was elsewhere.

"Frightened kids, mostly. Still locked in, but they can tell something is amiss. It's the middle of the night, so they aren't fully staffed. I can feel... three, without blockers. There are more, but I can't reach them. Some might make a run for it."

Outside, the guards were getting to their feet.

Charles shifted his focus to only the minds within the room. "Is everyone inside? Is anyone hurt?"

Xavier/Ramsay: “I’ll deal with him later,” said Xavier, the thought of that feckless coward making his blood boil. He wouldn’t get far on that leg and wouldn’t be hard to find.

“We’re fine, prof,” said Ramsay. “Don’t worry about us, you’re the one who needs lookin’ aft—“

“Mai, you have to take Charles out of here.” Xavier spoke calmly, and although Leslie was the only one who’d be able to tell, his eyes were still pitch black. “The same goes for the two of you,” he added to their pair of mages. “It’s no bother if Mason or I take a hit, they’re not equipped to kill us. The same cannot be said for the rest of you. Charles is already injured.”

Mason/Leslie: Leslie leaned himself against the wall near Ramsay, watching each person before remembering his invisibility. After some hesitation the silk was unknotted and pocketed.

"You shouldn't be here alone. Charles said something about children. We need to get them out."

Mason pressed his forehead to Charles' and sighed.

"We'll get them." He looked between the witches. "Y'all aren't leavin' Charles' side. Hear me? While I'm gone, same fuckin' room."

Leslie nodded without a second thought.

"Of course."

Charles: "Absolutely not. You are sorely mistaken if you think I'm leaving this facility for even a minute wi--" He cut himself off as Leslie appeared. Good to see that the witch was still standing. He nodded his agreement.

"They're terrified. We can help release them, once the guards are dealt with."

His eyes shut at that gentle contact, and he stroked a thumb over Mason's cheek.

"I'll be fine. We'll barricade ourselves in the room, if we have to. But you be careful. Neither of you has unlimited energy."

Xavier/Ramsay: “I fuckin’ agree,” said Ramsay, crossing his arms. “I told you I’m not letting you go into the heart of bloody darkness by yourself.”

Their concern fell on deaf ears. “How would you have us deal with them, Charles?” asked Xavier. In his view there was only one way, and Charles had already made his aversion to it quite clear.

As he had said, Xavier and Mason didn’t have unlimited energy. Whatever route they chose to take, it needed to be swift and effective and that which was swift and effective was very rarely palatable.

He sighed. “Why deal with them at all? If we know where the others are, we can go in and get them before the guards have a chance to rally. Ramsay could transport them once we gather them all.”

Mason/Leslie: Leslie managed a smile, but it was obvious something was pulling at his features. Exhaustion between physical and mental. The voices outside and the clatter of human bodies, body armor, and retrieving of weapons. A trembling hand reached for a chocolate bar. Not at all hungry, but he had to do something about his blood sugar before he started slurring words. No need to call attention to himself if he could help it.

"How much energy do you have left?" Leslie asked Ramsay. Fuck it, a small bar of chocolate was offered.

"I can't carry ya n'carry a child. Ya need t'be someplace safe," Mason whispered. I cannot lose you again, was a chant he didn't mean to give.

Charles: "I'd have them incapacitated! A broken leg is quite an effective obstacle. Obviously."

He shook his head.

"How? Teleport from room to room? They aren't being kept in a collective cell. This is a hospital. Or a farce of one, anyway. You'd both collapse before you collected half of them. Which is to say nothing of keeping them safe from attack."

His lips brushed the corner of his husband's mouth, heedless of their audience. He dropped his own voice to a murmur.

"You won't have to. I'll be safe here. They're keeping mutants here, love. They used... they tried to use me as a bloody weapon. I can't leave until it's shut down."

Xavier/Ramsay: Ramsay shook his head at the offer. “You eat it. You need it a hell of a lot more than I do.”

As to Leslie’s question? Ramsay rubbed his ring and sighed. The metal was getting cold.

“Not as much as I’d like. I could probably make one more big leap. Two at a push.”

A broken leg…

“I’ll be back in a moment.”

Under the cover of his remaining invisibility, Xavier popped out of the room. His telekinesis would hold the doors firmly shut while he assessed the situation outside and went in search of what he was looking for.

If he had to push the guards back again, he would, but his main objective wasn’t them. And it wasn’t far. It was terribly hard to make significant progress on a broken leg.

“Where do you think you’re going, little toy soldier?” He froze the coward Haine in place and crouched down beside him.

“I’m not done playing with you yet.”

Mason: Ramsay was studied across the room. Fingertips lightly brushing along his husband’s arm. Charles wasn’t willing to leave, and right this moment, Mason was willing to accommodate. The look on his husband’s face when that machine was running… he never wanted to see that again, and yet it was all he could see with every blink.

“Ya need t’sit with Charles. If this goes tit’s up, ya leave with him.” Barking orders was as easy as breathing. A different time. A rank on his shoulder. A gun in his arms. Only to dissolve into the Pit snapping orders between experiments. Ramsay’s loyalty lay with Xavier, not Charles, but he would have this no other way.

Charles was returned to the bed, positioned to sit over the edge.

“Ramsay, you’ll do that?” Only with a downward inflection in his tone. “Say yes so I can find my brother.”

Charles/Haine: Charles didn't want anyone burdened with him, but he knew to pick his battles. He gave Mason a final squeeze as he was set down.

'Thank you.'

Haine could have wept when he heard that sinister voice at his ear, again. Did just that, in fact.

"Please," he begged, almost grateful that he couldn't put a form to that voice. "I'm trying to save people."

Xavier/Ramsay: It was precisely because Ramsay’s loyalty laid with Xavier that it laid with Charles.

The witch nodded. There was so much he wanted to say but it simply wasn’t the time.

“I will but you don’t have to look for him. He’ll be back in a bit.”

Xavier tsked. “My dear Mr. Haine.” Mocking sympathy dripped from his voice as he grabbed Haine’s arm. “You can’t even save yourself. How can you possibly think you could’ve saved anyone else?”

Without warning, Xavier’s return to the room would be heralded by the sudden reappearance of Haine, followed by Xavier’s voice saying, “But fear not. You may yet be of use tonight.”

Mason/Leslie: Mason was already turning his attention to Leslie by the time Ramsay spoke. He needn't say a word. The fact that he looked to the Verbena at all made him feel a certain way, but Leslie had no intention to open his mouth. Only cross the room and wrap his arm around Charles' shoulders.

"Where all are you -" Leslie's eyes drifted as he answered his own question with skin-to-skin contact.

"He said that," but Ramsay harbored as much concern as Mason felt.

No sooner did Haine appear did Mason outstretch his hand. Telekinesis not for the doctor but for his brother. Forcing his arm into his grasp, he felt for the delicate thread on his wrist. In the heat of the moment, he couldn't say whether or not this spell altered behavior, but he wasn't taking a chance on literal blind trust.

Charles/Haine: Charles looked up at his friend with a weak smile. He hadn't had a chance to give the witch his due consideration, yet. "Hello, Les. How are you feeling? You're looking a bit pale. You didn't come here on an empty stomach, did you?"

Before he could glean an answer, Haine reappeared. His smile darkened to a scowl in an instant.

Between the pain and the teleportation, Haine heaved from his place on the ground. He forced himself to swallow the bile. "How?"

Xavier: Haine’s question would go unanswered for the moment, as Xavier almost immediately got the unpleasant surprise of being yanked to Mason’s side.

“Oi!” There was no need to ask what his brother was doing; Xavier could surmise it for himself and would very much be resisting.

“Don’t you dare,” he said with more annoyance than venom. “Do you think I have an infinite supply of this silk? Doing what we need to do is going to be a thousand times harder if we’re visible. I have exactly one other cloaking method on me and we need it for Charles and the others.”

Mason/Leslie: Judging the distance of Xavier's voice, Mason made a grab for his jaw; a conscious decision, rather than his throat.

"There's gonna be children hearin' a voice without a body. I ain't gotta tell ya they're already scared shitless. Guards already know we're in this room if ya can't fuckin' tell. Let me look at ya."

Let, he said, with one hand on his jaw, the other on his wrist. His baby brother could argue all he wanted against that strength. This was not the first time holding Xavier down.

Leslie was making an effort to ignore them.

"Came here with a granola bar and chocolate," he forced a smile. "I can try and heal some of this now, or I can take the pain away..."

Charles: Charles could not do the same. This was his family. This was his fault. He looked to his husband with a grimace, and then back to Leslie.

"Is making this leg useable going to put you on your back, Les? Be honest. I won't have you passing out on my behalf." But he wanted to be useful.

Xavier: Xavier couldn’t dodge in time. His attention was on his arm and not on Mason, which had given his brother the opening he needed.

Suddenly the silk on his wrist was the last thing on his mind. He wasn’t fighting its removal and if it was he wouldn’t try to stop it; he was struggling against the hold itself.

“Mai, let me go.” There was the slightest note of panic in his voice that he couldn’t quite mask but that would be visible on his face for a split second the moment that he became visible.

With the veil of shadow gone, the last shield he had was the pitch black of his eyes.

Mason/Leslie: The silk fell to the floor without a single regard. Now that he could see his brother, his grip loosened. Both hands gentle on his face. For a moment, despite the screaming of guards, gunfire, kicks at the door, and his beloved just behind him, they needed a moment.

"You're okay, Zav," Mason whispered.

Leslie glanced over his shoulder. This felt intrusive, which forced his attention back on Charles. If he could make Charles his whole world in that moment he would.

"Useable, yeah. I can do it." A lie with a straight face, but his smile didn't reach his eyes. "That's what you want?"

Charles: Indeed. The moment was one of familial intimacy that even Charles would not interrupt. Instead, he studied Leslie's face. He knew his friend's smile possibly better than his own. This was not it.

He gave a small shake of the head, patting Leslie's back.

"I'm all right. It's not all that bad." Charles could lie, too. "We'll figure something out. This is a medical facility, of a sort."

Xavier/Ramsay: It was intrusive. Xavier's moments of vulnerability were not something everyone was privy to or that he wanted everyone to be privy to. Of all the people in that room, only Ramsay understood what Xavier was feeling but because they weren't alone, Ramsay couldn't do a damn thing about it.

And because they weren't alone, Xavier couldn't fully accept his brother's comfort.

"I'm fine." A kneejerk response and a lie anyone could see through. "There are larger issues at hand. We can't stay here. You."

Xavier turned his attention back to Haine and moved to put some distance between him and Mason. He felt too exposed to let himself have a moment and the situation gave him the benefit of distracting urgency.

The only upside to being visible was that Haine finally got to see his phantom: a tall, well-dressed man with cold, fathomless black pits for eyes.

"Here's what you're going to do. You're going to show me where your office is. You're going to show me where the security room is. You're going to tell me exactly how many other people you're holding in this facility. And you're going to tell me the truth because if you don't, I will make you wish that I'd just killed you."

Mason/Leslie: Fair enough. He'd follow Charles down that avenue until it was exhausted. The longer he rested the better.

"Maybe there's morphine or something in here," Leslie muttered. "Ramsay, help me look?" Something to do to ignore the commotion outside.

The moral high ground was oftentimes set on the harder path. Right now, all Mason wanted was murder. That was easy, and that was not what Charles wanted.

So he occupied his time allowing his telepathy to expand, feeling at untrapped minds, counting each conscious child. Unconscious minds took more effort; he just needed an estimate while his brother attempted an alternative strategy. Searching for children with excruciating pain or any other nurse in the facility.

Charles/Haine: He'd find eighteen captives, in total. Most were relatively healthy, if resigned to their fates. A handful with particularly destructive powers were kept bound and behind reinforced doors. Each had experienced taking of samples, but only three had full amputations. One was in the process of regenerating his stolen tail.

Haine nodded. They could take what they wanted, burn it all down, as long as he left with his life. He could always rebuild. Find new staff. Find a less protected telepath. But he kept those thoughts as far from the surface as he could.

"Y-yes. Whatever you need. I swear."

Xavier/Ramsay: Ramsay nodded and began rifling through any drawers or cabinets he could find.

Xavier’s smile was predatory. There was no depth within Haine’s mind that he could not reach but Haine didn’t need to know that.

“There’s a good little soldier. Now then, I need you to tell me how many others and picture your office. What sort of protective measures does it have? Is anyone going to come looking in there?”

Xavier’s intention was to move them all there, away from the guards.

Mason/Leslie: Another lost tail. A reminder of Dothan and the rescue of their children. The memory warmed his skin and darkened his eyes. It would be a lie to say Xavier was rubbing off on him, but it would have been the perfect excuse.

"I'm not seeing anything," Leslie sighed. He hated the realization that no intention had been made for Charles' comfort. Nothing after his leg, nothing now. He could relate to the frustration in the room, but his focus had to narrow or he would drive himself mad.

Mason had the strength to take Charles back, take multiple trips for the children. He would fall unconscious, but he could do it. But leaving meant leaving Xavier, and with every passing second the notion became beyond possibility.

Impatience was his worst enemy.

"Let me take the pain away, Charles," pleaded Leslie, returning to Charles' side.

Charles/Haine: Picture his office? Was Charles going to involve himself in this? Or did this creature also possess telepathic ability. What the fuck? He constructed the mental shields he'd been practicing, wishing desperately for his blocker.

"Eighteen. It has a reinforced door, with a bolt."

Not overly large, but it was bigger and more comfortable than any other office space in the facility. It had a small couch for long nights.

"No one will look for you there, if they don't see you enter."

Charles shook his head, but his smile was reassuring. "I'm fine. Truly. I won't have you hurting yourself on my behalf."

Xavier: Whatever defenses Haine hoping to erect were precious little against a demon. Still, Xavier made a conscious effort to simply brush the man’s mind to glean the information he needed.

The less Haine believed he could do, the better.

“Such a good answer, little soldier. Well done.”

Xavier straightened and turned to his brother and the others. “We can’t stay here. It’s safer for us all to move to Haine’s office, just until we gather the children. With any luck we can be done and out while the guards are still chasing their tails.”

He used his telekinesis to haul Haine to his feet grabbed his arm with one hand, holding the other out to Ramsay.

“All together now, we know how this works.”

Mason/Leslie: "I can't feel a thing right now," Leslie managed an earnest smile, moved his forearm out of view. Couldn't let Charles see what he had done to himself to achieve that.

"My blood sugar's fine. I'll help with the pain when we move." From the sound of things, they were in for another relocation. Mason took hold of his husband's hand and dropped his fist on his brother's shoulder.

Charles: Moved like a ragdoll, but at least he was still alive. He wasn't looking forward to more teleportation.

Charles threaded his fingers through Mason's, bracing himself for the jump. He extended his opposite hand to Leslie. "We'll see."

Xavier: The moment given to brace was purely for the benefit of Leslie and Charles. Were it not for them, he would’ve happily transported Haine without warning or mercy.

Guiding himself with the image in Haine’s head, Xavier took them all to his office and left the guards and the gunfire behind.

“Right.” Xavier released Haine’s arm but he didn’t let him down just yet.

“You said there are eighteen in total. Are they being guarded? Are their rooms locked and monitored?”

Mason/Leslie: Ragdoll wasn't Mason's intention, as they reappeared, Charles was back in his arms, rather than risk his falling on the floor. He wasn't about to have Charles standing on one foot with everything that had happened to him. He was placed upright on the couch, and this time Leslie took to the floor in front of him, carefully draping Charles' leg over his raised knee.

"Just trust me," said Leslie. At least now he could better concentrate, with gunfire only a whisper in his ear. He rubbed both hands together, and whispered a prayer between his fingers. There would be no carving into Charles' skin; that spell was too harsh and for many, too frightening. This wouldn't last nearly as long, but it was something.

Charles/Haine: Haine shook his head, breathing through the queasiness and mind-numbing pain. No tender care had been taken for his broken leg. But he spoke, regardless. Too afraid to dally despite his anguish.

"No guards at the rooms. The nurses monitor the patients in shifts, but less often, right now. It's late." He wasn't a monster.

Charles sank into the sofa at the instant relief. Despite his insistence to the contrary, the pain had driven him to distraction. The glassiness in his eyes cleared somewhat. "Stubborn," he admonished, but there was no heat in it. "Thank you, Les. How are you feeling? Do you need to eat something?"

Xavier: "Are they all in the same ward? Is the ward closed?"

If it was, he and Mason could lock themselves in it while they gathered the children. If it wasn't, Xavier had one more cloaking spell that would give them some cover. Transporting them was another matter but that was the next bridge to cross. One thing at a time.

He shared these thoughts with his brother.

"Picture the security room, Haine. I won't have us spotted on any cameras."

Mason/Leslie: "Mhm." Leslie was inclined to agree, but there would be no walking back from his blessing. His forehead pressed lightly to Charles' knee as he offered the spell, cupped hands over the nasty wound on his leg. Little more than a heavy dose of Tylenol, but it was something, leaving energy wherever else needed in the meantime.

He simply shook his head to the food question. There was a bite left of his chocolate, and he was offering it to Charles.

Mason's fingers lingered on Charles' shoulder as he rose to his feet.

"I'm goin' t'security." He wanted this shit over with. It seemed much of their hesitation was because of this one room and his patience had finally reached its peak.

Charles/Haine: "They're all over. In rooms based on... classification." There was no gentler way to put that. Haine winced at how it might sound to these people.

"Psionics, regenerative abilities, destructive abilities, et cetera." Different powers required different restraint methods. Not that he was going to say that shit out loud.

He nodded and pictured the security room. Cramped and lined with display monitors. Usually only one guard, at this time of night.

Charles shook his head. "Thank you, no. I'm not at all hungry." Which was actually the truth. Despite his missed dinner being the catalyst of this entire disaster, he hadn't so much as thought about food since being taken. The very idea of eating anything, at the moment, made him actively queasy.

"Eat. And let me know if you need more, later."

He gave Mason's hand a careful squeeze and nodded. The sooner this night ended, the better.

'Be careful. I love you.'

Xavier/Ramsay: At this point, nothing Haine said had any chance of not sounding completely deplorable. His only saving grace was the knowledge he possessed of this facility, and that grace was very, very tenuous.

“Naturally,” Xavier said through gritted teeth, brushing Haine’s mind again for the mental image. When he had it, he turned to Ramsay.

“John, gun.”

Ramsay tossed one of the guns to him.

“Thank you. I’m going to leave him here. If he moves, shoot him in the leg.”

The witch smirked at Haine. “With pleasure.”

“Behave now, little soldier,” Xavier said before clasping his brother’s shoulder. “Let’s go.”

Mason/Leslie: Leslie could understand, and had they taken longer to reach him, would have insisted for the sake of Charles' own blood sugar, but with refusal, he finished off what remained and crumpled the wrapper. Had half a mind to flick it at the doctor, but instead tossed it in the nearby wastebin. Just didn't have it in him.

Being transported by a fellow demon didn't feel like anything, and no sooner did the reappear did Mason's fist connect with the nearest breakable jaw. Just like the last fucking facility. More children for the school, yet more to bleed for.

"I wanna see this place burn."

Xavier: "It will," Xavier said matter-of-factly, leaving the guard for his brother to incapacitate and turning his attention to the monitors. "I only ask that you leave Haine to me."

There were a few guards in the parking garage where they'd entered but the rest seemed to be concentrated outside the machine room Xavier was still holding closed with his telekinesis. It was a drain on his power but he had no choice. The diversion it offered would shelter them while they grabbed the children, and they needed it.

Gathering eighteen children from several different areas was no small task.

"Only nurses to worry about, like the bastard said. They're likely all human, they won't put up a fight when they see a gun. How are we doing this?"

Mason: "S'not my choice." Or Haine would have already been in pieces. "Charles is the one broken in the other room. He's gettin' final say."

Kill them was the knee jerk response. Employed of their own free will, they had no right to their lives after what they had done to these children. They were witnesses. They were liabilities.

"Lock em all in one of the rooms. Gonna take the children in batches t'the nurses' station." Leaving the potentially volatile for last.

Xavier: Xavier didn’t argue the point. They had more pressing matters at hand and besides, he intended to make a damn good case for eliminating that wretch.

He nodded. “Very well.” He looked around at all the different controls and then down at the guard. The likelihood of him recovering from the blow Mason had given him and sounding some sort of alarm was slim, but it wasn’t zero.

The demon reached down to disarm him and grabbed him by the collar. Best stow him in a broom closet, just in case.

“Right then, I’m off to dispose of this and gather the nurses.”

Mason: Mason watched the screens, playing out both scenarios, knowing what Charles would want didn't make it easier to swallow, but he would, for as long as he could choke it.

And then he looked in one of those rooms, reminded of the hours he had spent in secret with his daughter until rescue.

"I'm off t'the children."

Xavier: Xavier nodded again. “I’m a thought away if something happens.”

With the guards otherwise occupied, he was able to drag the guard out of the security room and down the hall to the nearest utility closet with ease. It was slightly larger than expected, and as good a place as any to keep the nurses once he rounded them all up.

Xavier left the door open just a crack and got to hunting.

The first nurse he came upon would be met with a black stare and a gun pointed directly at their head.

“Make a single sound or a single move and you’re dead,” he said, offering a chillingly pleasant smile.

Mason: There had to be a modicum of caution when taking to the hallway. Security wasn't going to just stand in front of the blocked door, staring blankly until something new happened. More than likely they would begin spreading out, looking elsewhere, regardless of the alarm. They had made it as far as they had with little fanfare; trusting their system was all but nonexistent.

There was going to be that one nurse, Mason ventured to guess, that would scream before his brother had a chance to speak. Until then, he was down the hallway and to the left, towards the minds of the eldest captives.

Charles: The only nurse brave enough to venture out of hiding after the tech had raised the alarm froze in her tracks. She obeyed. A deer in headlights.

The facility's eldest resident (aside from Charles) was a mere twenty-two years old. Like Cynthia had been, the young woman was strapped securely into a straight jacket. Her room was painted the same cheerful mint that Charles' had been, but there was no furniture beyond the cot she laid on.

Xavier: The nurse was definitely human. Only humans believed that the scariest thing they could possibly encounter was a person with a loaded weapon. They had no idea of the danger that lurked right beneath their noses, often hunting them and picking them off and manipulating them at will.

Well. This one did now. And for her bad luck, the danger had a loaded weapon, too.

Xavier quickly closed the gap between them and moved to stand behind the nurse, pressing the gun's muzzle right against the back of her head and using it to get that ridiculous blocker off. Such a nuisance.

"There's a utility closet near the security room. Walk."

Getting her there under her own power was quicker and would save him energy, and it also gave him the opportunity to search her mind for the number and location of the other nurses.

Mason: Mason peered through the door. Debated on breaking the door entirely or spending energy to teleport. To lean on the former, it was imperative not to frighten her.

He realized only years too late the toll of lessening contracts had taken on his stamina. Add to the irritating reality that being split into two had successfully tethered weights to his feet. He would sooner blame these factors than any whisper of blame on his husband. A benevolent soul determined to keep bloodshed to a meager drip. That was fine. He would walk around the obstacles for as wide as he was able.

“Hey!” Could she even hear? Was she tranquilized? His mind reached out to hers, light as a feather. Remembering Leslie and what retaliation felt like, he had no desire for a repeat. Knowing her vague age wasn’t the same as opening the door to her mind; he had only seen through a window.

“My name is,” she would know eventually, given the circumstances, “Mason. I’m here to get you out.”

Charles: The nurse was trembling, grey curls bouncing as she hurried to obey the command. Her blocker clanged against the tile, and she prayed that the rest of the staff still had theirs firmly in place. They were huddled together in the lab, waiting for the guards to give the all-clear.

The young woman sat up in her bed with some degree of difficulty. That was promising, but she wasn't going to go leaping for joy, just yet. Following the same line of thought as Mason, she was willing to give a little.

"Evelyn. You the dude who was in my head, earlier?"

She didn't think so. He'd been kinda... soothing. Maybe they were working together.

Xavier: Three nurses. Three lab techs. One doctor. One guard. All hiding in the lab, waiting for safety that would never come.

Like fish in a barrel.

“Pathetic,” the demon said with disgust, knocking the nurse in the back of the head with the butt of the gun and letting her join the security guard among the brooms and mops.

Xavier closed the door behind himself and made for the lab, having used his time in the nurse’s head to familiarize himself with the layout of this part of the facility. He couldn’t afford a single unnecessary teleportation.

His energy was better spent using his telekinesis to undo the lock on the door to the lab and freezing everyone inside in place as he entered with his weapon drawn.

Mason: Of course, Charles had already swept the area. At least she was receptive. Had the children been tranquilized this would have gone a lot slower but possibly smoother. Still more children to gather, but an auspicious start to his endeavor.

He shared his findings with Xavier, taking what was offered in his brother’s mind, only to give in turn to his husband. No telepath was going to be left in the dark.

“That was my partner. There are five of us.” Lawrence remained uncounted so long as they remained whole. “I need you to face the corner. I’m gonna break the door.”

To break, a combination of raw strength and telekinesis as he backed away and kicked just beneath the doorknob.

Charles: The room's inhabitants didn't have time to properly jump at being startled, before they were locked into place by an unseen force. The guard, at least, had the presence of mind to call out to his fellows despite his terror. He had no clue whether they were within earshot.

"The main lab has been breached! The intruder is alone, but armed!"

"Bet." Evelyn nodded, assuming he meant mission partner. They sounded like some sort of paramilitary group, like those X-dudes. She slid clumsily from the bed and moved to stand in the corner, facing the wall. She could not wait to get out of that fucking straight jacket.

From his place on the couch, Charles shared the information with Leslie and Ramsay.

"Mason's reached the first kid. He's getting her out, now."

Xavier: “Just like the nurse,” Xavier sighed, telekinetically locking the door again and setting the gun aside. “You humans see a weapon and immediately assume it to be the most viable threat.”

Xavier smiled as he approached the guard, fixing him with that empty black stare. “There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio,” he said in an intimate whisper, undoing the clasp keeping the guard’s helmet on so he could remove it and toss it aside. He’d be taking the guard’s weapon as well.

“Warning them won’t help. You don’t even know what you’re warning them against. If you did, you’d know that none of you are making it out of this room.”

Mason: 'Zav,' Mason's voice came sharply. That wasn't their decision to make, and his warning doubled as a reminder of their reason for being here across the facility. Any moment Charles could be listening in, and that was the last thing he needed to hear.

But his expression had to remain neutral as the door squealed back on its hinges, slapping into the wall as it broke.

"So, what can ya do?" Just to get Evelyn talking as he stood center of the room, hands open to unfasten her straight jacket. Cynthia hadn't been a violent girl. Couldn't even speak. Doctors in these organizations seemed to accept any excuse to restrain the strange and unusual.

"I'm goin' t'the next room. Gonna gather everyone up in here so no one gets lost. Ya gonna stay put?"

Charles: Terrifying. But the guard was made of sterner stuff than Haine. He met that fathomless black gaze with a set jaw. If he was gonna die, he wasn't gonna blubber about it. The same could not be said for the rest of the room's inhabitants at the promise in the man's words.

"Thank you."

Evelyn could do a lot, but figured she'd keep it short and sweet.

"I can stop a man's heart."

And planned to do a lot of that, now that her hands were free. She rolled stiff shoulders and flexed numb fingers. She'd lost track of how many days she'd been trapped in this hellhole, but she would make them pay for every one of them.

"What?"

This man was her savior, technically. She owed him a debt. But she'd been caged for long enough, thanks.

"No. No, I can't. I appreciate you letting me out, and everything, but they-- they have my kid sister. I'm going to get her and we're getting the fuck out of here."

Xavier: Although Xavier’s jaw twitched, the predatory smile never left his face. For a moment he’d forgotten that he wasn’t entirely alone but no matter. This guard didn’t know that there was a hand staying his elsewhere in this godforsaken building.

“Such a good little soldier,” he mocked before giving this man the same gift his brother had given the guard in the security room: a knockout punch and a broken jaw to go with it.

Only then did his focus shift to the rest of the room, and it was immediately obvious that this was not simply a lab. It was something far, far worse.

He stalked past the morgue shelves to the nearest nurse and had to fight to merely take the blocker off and not throw them against the wall.

Mason Great. That was just what this situation needed. His tone had been intentionally confident and full voice, but was quickly deepening into something non-negotiable.

“I picked ya first for a reason.” Let’s go with that. “There are younger people here and they’re gonna need ya t’keep em calm. Runnin’ around drawin’ attention t’yourself is a sure way t’fuck this up for everyone. Y'all are gonna be taken t’a school t’be looked after."

Maybe a compromise, because he didn't have time for this shit, and locking her back up was a surefire way to lose her trust forever.

"If ya come with me, ya actually have t'stick with me. Ya gonna do that or play Miss Independent?"

Charles: That particular nurse was the youngest of the lot, silently crying as he was approached. Like the guard, he held his tongue, bracing to be punched as well. It had looked like it hurt like Hell.

Evelyn sniffed. She could fight him. Slow his heart long enough to put him on his ass and make a run for it.  But it seemed a pretty fucked up way to show gratitude. And who knew if that telepath of his would stop her. Or anyone else on his little squad, for that matter. Cooperation was the cleanest way to get to her sister. She nodded.

"Fine."

Xavier: The punch wouldn’t come. After removing the blocker, Xavier simply moved on to the other two nurses and took theirs as well.

The doctor would be last but as Xavier moved about the lab and took in his surroundings, a sickening feeling of curiosity churned his gut. A feeling that had begun at the morgue shelves but wouldn’t stop there, that wouldn’t let him be until he saw for himself just what these people had been doing with those eighteen souls his brother was in the process of rescuing.

His eyes flicked back to piercing, icy blue as he walked past the still-frozen staff and deeper into the lab.

Mason/Leslie: Mason crackled his neck, but it was not in Evelyn’s regard. Chalk it up to exhaustion, but it was a single image from Xavier that had caused it. His brother wasn’t the only one hanging on by a thread.

“Great. Wonderful.” He gestured to the door. One finger on the figurative trigger to snatch her should she run. Trust in a stranger could only go so far. The next immediate door was peered through. The same brush of mind. The same greeting, same warning, same kick. This one told to stay put as well. Maybe they could gather in this room, or he was going to have an annoyance on his hands.

"How are you feeling?" Leslie asked. By now the witch was pacing. Not sensible for his energy, but never one to remain still unless meditating.

Charles: Evelyn followed behind as agreed, peering into the next room to see if it housed her sister. Not finding her, she was ready to move on. Not cruelty. Tunnel vision. Her family first, always. At least this young man was willing to stay behind and help any children sent his way. And if the opportunity arose to pierce a nurse or guard with his wicked spines, he'd take it.

Charles offered a small smile. He felt like boiled shit. He could barely see out of his left eye and he was certain that it has begun to darken to an ugly violet hue.

"Just fine. Do either of you have a mobile? They took mine and did goodness knows what with it. I doubt anyone at home is ready for a sudden influx of kids."

In this way, at least, he could be useful.

Xavier: Xavier had only taken a couple of steps before he paused.

Of the eighteen people that needed to be saved, Mason had only gathered two and would soon secure a third. That left fifteen left to gather and there was no telling how long and how complex it would be to free them. It was vital work, and a distraction would spell disaster for his brother. Xavier couldn’t have that.

He closed the door to their connection and continued walking.

Within minutes, he would walk into the cold storage room and wish he hadn’t. Within minutes, he would realize that this had been Hell long, long before two demons walked through the front door.

Xavier Atlas stood in the middle of a sea of bodies, a sea of children, breath steaming in the artificial cold and clouding his vision as his eyes fixed on a cadaver that was so, so small, too small to be here. They were all too small to be here, to be in a freezer, to be in pieces.

A thread snapped.

He would return to the main room in a flurry of black-eyed demonic rage and threw the doctor against the morgue shelves with all his might.

Without the blocker, it was pathetically easy to see into the doctor’s mind, to see what he’d done. What they’d all done.

Keeping the doctor pinned, Xavier closed his hand into a fist and used his telekinesis to tear him apart from the inside out.

Mason/Leslie/Lawrence: Mason held his hand up to Evelyn as he spoke to the young man. This was exactly what he had hoped from the first door. At least it hadn’t taken long to find a caregiver. She could look, of course, but she was watched from his peripheral.

Once the boy understood what was required of him, he moved on to the next door. Now it was about funneling everyone back to the boy’s room.

And wondering why the fuck Xavier had severed the connection. That was only going to push his brother back in. Not only out of spite but out of consideration of the demon’s sanity. Something had been off since the moment he had carved into his chest.

Fucking Hell, Charles didn’t know about that.

“Zav.” A thought said aloud, his steps slowing as he climbed back into that mind, only to cease all movement.

His neck popped again. Eyes reddening. This time, there would be no argument as a third hand appeared from Mason’s wrist, tearing upwards out of his chest, pressed hard on his stomach as the other half of his soul pulled forth, disconnecting from his very core. Lighter hair, soft hazel eyes, gray jeans and darker gray shirt. A sight for any child to behold as these two men stumbled against separate walls.

The new addition was quicker to recover. Rolling his shoulders as he started off towards the morgue.

“I’m gonna play.”

And there was nothing Mason could do to stop him. It was better this way. He couldn’t be blamed for Lawrence’s actions.

He forced his attention back to the children, still gulping in air as he kicked in the next door. The younger the children, the gentler his voice.

Lawrence rounded the corner, pushed through the door, past Xavier, and past the writhing doctor. Straight to the crying nurse. Those tears still flowing, he cupped his face in both hands.

“Why are you doing that?”

By then, Leslie had already tossed Charles his phone. Plenty of battery left for whatever he intended.

Charles: Evelyn and the boy had not had any contact, up to this moment. But the identical, wide-eyed looks they exchanged would have been comical in any other context. A person had come out of Mason's chest. A man-sized Chestburster had just waltzed down the hall like he did this every day. The boy was too stunned to speak, but Evelyn recovered more quickly. She jogged to catch up to Mason, still sticking to him like a shadow.

"Who the fuck was that? And how did he get... inside you?"

Charles had quickly thanked Leslie and punched in the relevant number before he realized. The phone had plenty of battery life, yes, but no service. Damnit. They were underground. He offered the phone back to his friend and turned to Haine's still-sniveling form with a scowl.

"You didn't think to let us know that our mobile phones don't work, here?"

"You never asked. None of the residents here have phones, anyway. The landlines work."

The telepath rolled his eyes in irritation, but looked between Ramsay and Leslie.

"Would one of you mind--"

The spike of fear had him straightening, despite the pain. He inhaled softly as he sought the source. A second doctor, pinned to the wall and panicking like a trapped rabbit. He had no time to react before the life was snatched painfully away.

Charles gasped as he lived it second-hand, ribs screaming in protest. He'd only been in the mind of a dying man once before.

At least it was quick, this time. If no less painful.

Charles reached out to Mason in alarm only to find Lawrence out and on the hunt, as well. He swiftly severed the connection, face flushed and pulse racing.

Absolutely not.

Whatever destruction the two of them thought they would unleash, they'd be disappointed. It was the work of an instant for Charles to reach into the minds of the unblocked staff and send them all into a deep sleep. Including the young, weeping nurse.

If they died, they'd do so unaware.

"Xavier's killed one of the staff. I need that phone. Quickly."

Xavier/Ramsay: "Fuck me," Ramsay hissed, grabbing the landline off of Haine's desk and handing it to Charles. He should be with Xavier, dammit, not in here.

His presence wouldn't have done a damn thing to stop the demon from killing whoever the fuck he'd killed--and Ramsay couldn't say he would've tried to--but at least Xavier wouldn't be fucking alone.

Xavier only became aware of Lawrence's presence after the doctor's mangled bloody form collapsed to the floor. He turned to do the same to the lab techs, only to have his catharsis snatched away by an invisible force that knocked them and all the nurses out in the same moment.

He didn't have to guess what had caused it or why; he already knew, and drove his fist into the wall in frustration.

It would be short-lived, however, as he remembered their most present and numerous threat.

Turning to Lawrence, Xavier reached into his pocket and held up the braid of enchanted silk. Of the seven initial strands, three remained. More than enough.

"Guards," he said, pulling a strand from the braid and holding his hand out for Lawrence's wrist in invitation.

Mason/Leslie/Lawrence: It was a lot to explain in a setting such as this, and perhaps tomorrow he would find their reactions entertaining. Right now, Mason could only manage to shake his head.

“He’s my -“ The word tasted like metal in his mouth, “-brother. Ya can hear ‘bout it later.”

Another child was ushered to the boy; he’d already forgotten his name. He would memorize them all tomorrow, along with anything else important, before or after keeping his word.

“Charles?” Leslie tucked his phone away and took to the professor’s side. Concern etched his features as he watched the horror unfold in his eyes.

Oh. Between the two demons, he thought that Mason would have been the cold-blooded killer. He was still processing when Ramsay handed over the landline.

“Why did he… ?”

Lawrence watched as his little toy slumped in his hands. Not nearly as fun to play with something this quiet. This pretty face wouldn’t contort into anything interesting.

The body was allowed to crumple naturally as he got back to his feet. He wasn’t finished with him. He couldn’t sleep forever. The fucking audacity to cry wouldn’t remain unpunished.

The delicate strands were given a cursory glance.

“Don’t waste a good spell. Put it back.”

Xavier was given a strong pat on his back and gently pulled towards the door. Time was wasted and there were guards to dispose of.

“I never get to have fun.”

Hearing the commotion of disturbed, distracted, and disconcerted guards, Lawrence began rolling his wrist. The more he rolled, the larger the sulfuric blue flame grew. Intent on throwing the fireball the moment they turned the corner.

Charles: She wanted to hear about it now, but Mason was right. Her sister and the rest of the kids were more pressing. She followed dutifully behind.

"Sure. I'm holding you to it."

Charles was shaking with a nauseating combination of pain, anger, and exhaustion. His partially-numbed leg helped to clear some of the fog, at least. He'd spared the staff, for the moment, but the guards were beyond his reach.

Xavier and Lawrence weren't.

The telepath very seriously considered putting them both down as well. He'd save ruining family bonds as a last resort.

He looked up at Ramsay as he dialed the memorized number.

"Listen, if you need to go to him, go. You'd be better served talking him back to himself than defending me from bloody office furniture."

When the demon in question was well away from the lab, a nurse would awaken and slip into the hall. She'd scurry, glassy-eyed, to the nearest supply room.

His attention turned to Haine as the line began to ring.

"You are going to show me every scrap of information you have on this place and any others."

The guards were indeed still struggling to enter an empty room. If Lawrence's fireball struck true, the remaining five guards would turn their reclaimed weapons on the pair without hesitation.

Xavier/Ramsay: There was no talking Xavier back into himself. Ramsay knew this. It was a miracle Xavier had held out this long and now that he'd started, he wouldn't stop unless he was good and ready or ran out of people to kill, whichever came first.

"I'm not going anywhere." Not wanting to take his frustration out on Charles, Ramsay opted to stomp on one of Haine's ankles instead.

"He asked me to stay put and keep a gun on this shitbag and your bloody husband asked me to stay with you."

Xavier nodded once and put the silk back in his pocket, letting himself be pulled along as docilely as anything despite the murder in his eyes and the fresh blood on his suit.

"You will tonight," he said softly, breathing deeply and centering his focus on himself for just a moment. He didn't put it past his brother to try to stop him and if he did, Mason would be met with a brick wall of resistance.

As would the guards.

The second Lawrence released his spell, the demon would be moving to plant himself in front of him in case any of the guards who remained standing were quick enough on the trigger to take a shot. They could take them, but regardless of whether they hit their mark, the demon wouldn't stop coming toward them.

Even the quickest one would only have a breath's worth of time before Xavier let the doors burst open and divested them once again of their weapons. This time he wouldn't push them back. He wouldn't let them fall back of their own accord, either.

He did not intend to let go of his catharsis. Whichever one was nearest would be pinned and given the same treatment the doctor had been given.

Mason/Leslie/Lawrence: Leslie turned to the door, tempted to make use of himself in some way. Ramsay was willing to stay, and if Charles allowed him to heal, he would be more inclined, but the commotion from those halls could be heard from their little sanctuary. There had to be something he could do.

The very moment Mason considered calling Xavier back was the same moment that tiny, lifeless body flashed in his vision. He could picture any of his children on that cold steel table. From Lucy to Rory to any of the children gathering in the room down the hall. To the iridescent sniffling child now in his arms. Charles must have seen. Their connection was all too quiet.

He just needed to focus on what was in front of him. Now that Charles was safe, this was the priority.

How much his life had changed.

Lawrence’s daughter was blessedly free of supernatural influence, but it was her little face he had seen, and it was all he could see. Lifeless children were all the motivation needed to stand behind Xavier’s frame. Waiting for the clack of guns he knew would follow the demon’s wake. Emerging with a second flight of fire flowing like waves toward the screams.

"Tell me where you want me," Leslie begged. "Charles? Do you want me out there?"

Charles: His mind was working overtime, rifling through the doctor's thoughts while he urged the nurse to move faster. The line was ringing and Haine was screaming and he felt his careful control waver. His temper flashed white hot for an instant.

"You are not helping!" he snapped at Ramsay before inhaling deeply. His cracked ribs wailed and he very nearly flung the receiver across the room. But Charles could not afford to let himself slip. It was not a luxury that his position allowed. Instead, he took quick, shallow breaths and addressed Ramsay calmly.

"You will leave this office if you can't keep a leash on your anger. It isn't useful to anyone present. I need him alert, not blinded by pain, thank you."

He looked to Leslie, deliberately blocking out the chaos nearby.

"I'd rather you didn't. However, if you think that you'd be more useful out there, I'm not going to stop you. But I implore you to be careful. I couldn't live with myself if something happened to you, because of me."

Jean's worried voice on the line was a balm to his nerves and just the boost of strength he needed to push forward. He ran through an abridged version of the night's events in a tone that left no room for interruption.

"Let the children sleep, but wake the team. Have Hank prepare the infirmary, and I need you to prep as many rooms as you can. You can reach me at this number when everyone is ready, but I can't be tied to the phone, just now. Of course... I'm fine... Thank you... I'll be in touch."

Xavier/Ramsay: The witch said nothing, merely set his jaw and stared at the wall. Haine would be blinded by a lot more than pain if Ramsay had his way. Motherfucker deserved it.

Whatever Xavier had planned for him, Ramsay wouldn’t lift a finger to stop it. And the demon would have something planned, reliable as sunrise.

Two of the shots had found their target but Xavier couldn’t feel them. Rage and adrenaline numbed him, deafened him, but unfortunately didn’t blind him.

He watched the guard’s face contort in pain but all he could see was the child in the freezer. He thought of that child and all he could see was a newborn Devlin laying on snowy white furs in a willow branch basket. Just a baby. His baby.

He could scarcely see the flames licking at the guards but it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter if they were already burning and dying and screaming in pain.

Xavier would grab another guard, then another, and he would use his power to twist their insides, to break their bones, to tear at their skin until they were nothing but sacks of flaming pulp.

Mason/Leslie/Lawrence: Leslie flinched at Charles’ sharp comments. He felt the most useless in this building. A feeling he would not agree with come tomorrow, but this was now, and his eyes were to the floor.

“Have me gather whatever you need. Help Mason. Help you. Just… something.” Being a bodyguard would feel more rewarding had anyone been aware of the change of rooms. He didn’t pine for battle, but he pined for value.

At last, with their initial burden dispatched Lawrence headed back to the security room. Determined to find where the last of the monsters had fled. Those nurses, techs, what remained of the guards, and the few left hidden in the storage room. This building was in desperate need of cleansing. The bodies in the morgue deserved to be with their families, if their families cared at all. They deserved to be recognized and buried with fresh, beautiful flowers. They deserved better than this Hell. They deserved the retribution.

The two youngest mutants remained. This would have been a far more arduous task had Mason been human. The little iridescent child refused to leave his arms, and there she would remain.

'Almost finished here,' Mason offered, allowing Charles to see the gathering of children being tended to by those eldest in the group.

Charles: He reached out to take his friend's hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. It was the only comfort he could offer, at the moment.

"You can help me gather the files. Nothing is backed up digitally, so there's going to be quite a lot."

If Lawrence was looking for movement, he wouldn't find much. The handful of guards still in the garage had not entered the building. The staff continued their forced slumber.

And the sole remaining nurse had already reached Haine's office door.

"Do not shoot," Charles commanded, just before her knock sounded.

"Leslie, be a dear and let her in."

When allowed, the glassy-eyed nurse would enter pushing a wheelchair loaded with medical supplies. The only person willing and able to help him at the moment, Charles loved much too deeply. He wouldn't have Leslie passing out on his behalf. He'd tend to himself.

In unnatural silence, the nurse handed Charles a small cardboard box and knelt to tend to his leg.

He pulled a rubber tourniquet from the box and tied it to his left arm with practiced ease. Equally as swift was his ability to fill a syringe from a vile of clear liquid and find his median cubital vein on the first try. It took only a few moments for the glassiness in his own eyes to clear completely.

He wordlessly acknowledged Mason's update and looked to Leslie.

"When she's finished with the splint, we can go."

He still waited on a call, but it was sure to come before he was done.

Xavier: He wouldn’t stop. Not until the last guard fell to the floor and joined his fellows and until those who had been left in the barricaded room were splashed like so much red paint across their precious machine.

Guards remained in the garage, nurses and techs in the lab, but Xavier didn’t care about them.

As he crossed the lake of blood he’d created in the hallway, his only thought was the little toy soldier cowering in his office.

“HAINE!” Xavier shouted as he started toward the office at a determined clip. There was no one to hear him and no one to stop him.

“HAINE!” The major threat was dead. Only the person who had commanded it remained to be dealt with.

“HAINE!”

The door to the office would practically blast open a mere moment before Xavier entered the room. In his right hand, a bloody knife. In his left, all the strength he had left to pick Haine up and pin him to the wall by his throat.

“How many?! HOW MANY?!”

Mason/Leslie: Leslie squeezed the offered hand. Would have kissed his knuckles had this been any other day, any other circumstance. Certainly not with Mason in striking distance.

Charles’ command wrinkled his brow, and still the witch jumped at the sudden knock. Half a mind to throw a spell at the door when asked to open it. What walked through only served to confound.

“Why won’t you let me take care of you?” was only a half-bitten question. Too tired to argue this late in the night. This stubborn sweetheart of a man refused to be a burden to such an extreme level. It was a wonder he allowed Leslie to touch him at all.

With an RN in his grasp, he didn’t think to question why Charles was so skilled with a tourniquet. Such wandering thoughts never crossed his mind. He and possibly Ramsay were the only drug abusers in this facility, as far as he was aware. As far as he was willing to believe.

“There’s a few ugly beasts.” Back where they started. Lawrence’s pretty little nurse would have to wait. Something to savor like the last square of chocolate after a meal.

The security room was abandoned. He ignored the clatter deep in the facility, heading toward the exit.

“Where are we go –“

The sudden explosion of broken wood, hinges, and metal slamming hard against the wall bordered on deafening. The witch ducked to a runaway chunk of rubber, and before he realized what he was doing, made a grab for the demon’s forearm.

“Nonono! Please just wait!”

Mason made a head count, tried to offer the child in his arms to the young male leader of the group.

"I'll be right back. Okay, love? I have to gather everyone else and we're leavin'. I promise."

She almost didn't take no for an answer. Luckily one of the preteens was making a show of her power as a means of distraction for some of the unsettled lot.

To return to Charles or to chase Lawrence...

Charles: "Absolutely any other time, Les. Do you truly believe I want to spend the next three months in a cast?"

Longer, if he hadn't misjudged the severity of the break.

"After you've had a decent meal, and at least eight hours of sleep, I will be more than happy to let you patch me up. You have my word."

Charles raised his arms instinctively at the explosion, temporarily losing his hold on the nurse. For her part, she did not run, cowering where she knelt, instead.

It took only a moment for Charles to recover, reaching out with more force than was probably necessary for Xavier's mind and dragging him down. He'd collapse into a sleep just as deep as the medical staff.

Haine fell with him, blacking out as his shattered leg made impact with the ground.

"Fuck!" Charles' shout was muffled by the hands he dragged down his face. "Fuck me."

Xavier/Ramsay: After the sudden appearance of the nurse he should’ve expected something else would hit the fan, but he didn’t. The sudden and explosive opening of the door caught Ramsay just as off guard as it did Leslie and Charles, and just like Leslie and Charles, he had to duck to protect himself from getting hit by any shrapnel.

He registered Xavier’s appearance but had no time for shock before he was scrambling to help Leslie attempt to stay the demon’s hand.

“X! Don’t!”

Xavier couldn’t feel Leslie or Ramsay any more than he could feel the holes in his torso. His entire field of vision was red and at its center, the detestable face of the man that in this moment, Xavier despised above all else.

“How many more babies are in those drawers, Haine?! How many of them begged you for mercy the way you DARED to beg me?! HOW—?!”

The demon was in no fit state to fight Charles or his entry into his mind. Quite apart from the fact that he’d stretched his powers to their absolute limit, he was injured, and the blood loss that had occurred as a result had weakened him too much to be able to resist even a small push.

Charles had given something much larger, and absent any resistance, Xavier went limp.

Ramsay managed to catch him before he hit the floor. His friend looked an unholy mess, but it wasn’t until Ramsay had him in his arms that he realized that as well as being covered in blood, Xavier was bleeding.

“X? X!”

Ramsay laid the demon down carefully and tore open his suit jacket, vest, and shirt to reveal two bullet wounds in his torso.

“Get that bloody fucking nurse over here!”

Mason/Leslie: ‘Baby, ya alright?’ Because that was all that mattered. Not the scent of blood or sulfur. Only the sound of his husband’s voice in his head, and the suffering at his back.

Mason made it to the end of the hall, waiting for Charles’ response, waiting for acknowledgment before turning in Lawrence’s direction. This had to be his choice because he knew himself. Knew what Lawrence would do because it was what he would do, and Lawrence would have no trouble looking his wife in the eyes despite the blood soaking his hands. His life was a replayed record.

“Make a promise like that,” Leslie panted, staring down at Xavier’s wounded body, “I’m holding you do it. But, uh, let’s make it two days.” Because he was getting on his knees, holding his hands over the wounds and closing his eyes. Could a demon die this way? He didn’t have a clue. Wouldn’t have believed a bullet would cause such injury had he not seen the dark blood with his own two eyes.

This was living tissue; he could work with this. Felt each heartbeat as his own as he whispered his prayers in hurried Irish Gaelic. His liver had been nicked. A through-and-through inches from his heart. It was a wonder he had lasted this long, or the strength to lift his arm, much less Haine off the floor.

“Glaonna fola chun fola," he whispered. “Glaoim amach agus glaoim isteach.” His pocketknife was opened, stabbing once into his palm, allowing the blood to drip into Xavier’s wound. A thick lavender scent filled the room as the first wound closed.

Charles: 'Fine. I'm fine.'

He briefly debated beckoning Mason to his brother's aid. Guilt warred with his anger and hurt. But it appeared that the decision would be made for him.

Despite Charles' every attempt to protect him, Leslie would spend himself to close Xavier's wounds. Good, that he'd left the reserves until now.

Charles shared a concise version of what had gone down with the demon's brother and urged him on to his task. Things were under control, here. More-or-less.

Ramsay: Ramsay bit back the urge to stop Leslie. Even though the man still looked like he was about to keel over, he was helping Xavier, and Ramsay hadn't been raised to throw a blessing back in someone's face when it had been offered. He'd been taught to shut up and be grateful so that was precisely what he did.

"Thanks, mate," he said with a nod, patting Leslie on the shoulder once he'd finished with the first bullet wound. "I'll pay back the favor. I'm buyin' you and everyone you know a steak dinner with all the bells and whistles when we get the fuck out of here."

Ramsay shifted positions so Xavier was cradled between his legs with his back to Ramsay's chest and held him while Leslie did his work. It was a move that gave away the intimacy and closeness between them more than words ever could.

Mason/Lawrence: As much as Mason desired to wall his mind, he would not. The desperate need to keep his husband close in any measure outweighed what he was about to witness. Charles did not have to look. A kind of fence around his point of view, perhaps, would prevent Charles from seeing the worst of his human self.

Lawrence had done exactly as expected. Less carnage than Xavier would have enjoyed, but Mason knew the sound of mayhem like an unforgotten melody.

He had managed to get in close to the enemy. Scrambling into the entryway sobbing for help, hands raised and on his knees. Someone must have taken pity, believing those tearful panicked eyes. Not a tactic Mason had ever used, but Lawrence was not an exact copy. According to a djinn, he was meant to be an improvement. A clean slate. Popplewell’s proud design. All it had taken was one chest-aching scream powered by every ounce of rage to break the small crowd. Lawrence had no control over his telekinesis but he knew its triggers.

A knife had been lodged into his calf muscle. The explosion of power had sent one of the guards straight up, now concussed and teetering on unconscious at his feet. One had tried for the door, third-degree burns on his arms and hands, clothes charred and unconscious. The others remained unseen as Mason approached. There, slumped against the closed door, was Lawrence, body trembling with adrenaline and a gun in his lap.

Mason/Leslie/Lawrence: Had he the strength, he would have made his way back to the nurse. He was not the only one offended by such selfish tears, but this was where his vengeance ended.

Mason removed the knife without a word. A kind of softness had overtaken him as he stared at his reincarnation. Where was this hatred a lifetime ago when Carl murdered his family? He had sighed, lifeless and defeated, and did nothing. Could do nothing. Years and years of Carl had taken its toll. But Lawrence, he wondered, might have done something different. Would have removed Carl from the equation sooner. This quiet depressed man had such potential. He hated him, and pulled him into his arms because he had to. For a moment, one might mistake his absorption for a hug.

Mason offered Charles a clear path to the young awaiting mutants.

‘Won’t be long.’ Those left alive in Lawrence’s wake were gathered and restrained.

“Uh-huh,” Leslie breathed. Watched as his blood dripped onto the remaining wound. This was not a complete unblemished heal. Just enough magic to prevent a meaningless death. This was a spell in reverse. A spell meant to expel a victim’s blood, and by reversing Leslie could barely manage to keep his eyes open.

“You know, sleepin’ next t’me makes you heal faster. Told you that… forever ago.” His words were now slurred, but his body managed to stay upright. His Verbena blood fighting the good fight with everything it had left.

“Saying you should sleep with me.” His laugh was exhausted, falling back on his ass, his back to Haine’s desk.

Charles: Under different circumstances, Charles would have been the first to fall into one of their shared laughing fits. A pity that the moment was wasted on him, now. He'd been drained of even the slightest hint of frivolity.

The awaited call had come at the tail end of the spell. Charles' leg was as secure as it could be, under the circumstances. And despite Lawrence's actions leaving the taste of bile in his mouth, he could admit that it put an end to any pressing danger.

All that remained was a mess for Charles to clean.

He looked to Leslie, mouth tight with worry at his condition, and nodded. Carrying on two conversations at once had never been a problem for the telepath.

'Mason, hold that thought. I need you here, please.'

"Les, let me borrow your mobile, again."

He let his gaze shift to Ramsay.

"Do you have enough energy to get him home?"

Ramsay: Ramsay nodded. “I have enough juice to get Leslie back to Edenton and from there I can call X’s familiar to help me get him back to Bangkok. No need to worry about them, prof. I’ve got it.” He owed Leslie and Xavier that much, if not more.

Subconsciously, he held the demon a little tighter.

“And if you ah….need help with…” Ramsay gestured vaguely at the space around them. “I can be of use. Wouldn’t be my first time dealin’ with the remains of something like this. You won’t find better hands, except your own.”

Mason/Leslie: Leslie offered his phone without questioning, but he was shaking his head.

"Not home. I gotta stay with you. Gotta heal you." Not to mention anyone else in need. His work was far from complete.

'Comin',' Mason's voice, even in their connection, was gentle.

Charles: He'd just been about to clarify his question to Ramsay when Leslie protested.

"I know that. It's why I'm going to call Tristan."

He pulled up the fisherman's contact and began punching into the landline.

"I only meant Xavier, Ramsay. But, thank you. And we'll take care of cleanup, as well."

Ramsay/Tristan: Ramsay nodded. Even if he didn’t agree and thought that Leslie would be better off resting at home, who was he to argue? Charles knew what he was about, Leslie was a grown man, and the decision was ultimately theirs.

Sometime during their stint underground, it had stopped being late night and was slowly turning to early morning. The majority of Edenton remained sleeping, oblivious of this change, but not Tristan Seger.

He was up, showered, and getting ready to head to the docks to start his workday when his phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number but that in itself was nothing unusual. Nor was the earliness of the call; fishing kept odd hours.

It was probably a vendor or some other business acquaintance.

“Hello?” he greeted, putting his phone on speaker while he put his boots on. “This is Tristan.”

Mason/Leslie: "Oh." Wait a minute. Oh.

"Nononono - " Leslie sniffed as he turned to Charles, placing his hand on Charles' good knee. The phone was already ringing.

Mason was walking through the broken entryway when the witch thumped his head against the desk.

"Hey, Tristie."

Charles: Charles brought the phone to his ear, ignoring Leslie's protests and only looking up at Mason in greeting.

"Hello, Tristan. It's Charles." Were they on such familiar terms?

"Er... Charles Xavier."

Ramsay/Tristan: What a scene for Mason to walk into, was all Ramsay could think. An obliterated door, Haine passed out, his blood-stained brother sleeping in the arms of a witch, a second witch slumped and borderline delirious on the floor, and his injured husband trying to keep everything together.

Tristan’s brow furrowed. “Charles? Where are you calling me from? Was that Leslie’s voice, why’s he with you? What’s wrong?”

The more Tristan spoke, the more the confusion in his voice was replaced with concern.

Mason/Leslie: A scene that had Mason remaining in the doorway, looking from his brother to his husband and back. No one was sobbing within an inch of his life. He could see the gentle rise and fall of Xavier's chest. Anger had to be kept in reserves.

"Children are waitin'." They didn't need to be here any longer than necessary. "Ya takin' him home?"

Leslie put his finger to his lips but didn't even know what he was shushing at this point.

"I'm fine. It's all... gonna be... fine."

Charles: He loved his husband. Was grateful to him. That was the only reason the tenuous hold he had on his patience had not yet slipped. He was enduring for those children. It seemed nothing about this night could be simple. He made no acknowledgment, only pressed forward with Tristan.

"I'm calling you from California. Apart from low blood sugar, Leslie is fine. We've had a very long night, the details of which I will share when we've had a chance to rest. That's why I'm calling, actually. He needs food and sleep, and I was going to let him stay at the school. I didn't want you worry when he didn't come home."

Ramsay/Tristan: Ramsay didn’t know if Mason’s lack of a negative reaction was due to the fact that Xavier was sleeping or because there were bigger fish to fry, but either way he was glad for it.

He would’ve had some shit to say otherwise.

The witch nodded. “Just for a bit. Once he’s cleaned up I’ll ask Abel to take him back to Bangkok. He’ll be looked after.”

Absolutely nothing Charles said after ‘Leslie is fine’ was interpreted through any other lens but that of worry and quiet panic. If Leslie was actually fine, there wouldn’t be a need to tell him Leslie was fine. If it had to be stated at all then that meant something bad had happened.

But something in Charles’ tone told Tristan he wasn’t in the mood for an interrogation. Yet.

Tristan took a deep breath. “Okay. Swear to me he’s all right.”

Mason/Leslie: Mason didn't care enough to comment. If Charles thought calling family was a reasonable course of action then so be it. Something marginally less stressful than the eighteen voices in the next room.

In the meantime, he took a knee by his brother.

Ramsay could think of a hundred things to say and it would have been oil over water. Tonight was one of those nights he didn't give a single fuck. This was a bloody mess and he would be here to clean it, not his brother. This catharsis would stick to his brother like gum on his shoe.

"Have him call when he wakes." He nodded to the door. A quiet, polite get out.

Leslie could just barely hear his merman on the other line.

"I'm alllll right. I swear. He swears."

Charles: Another statement from Leslie he would have chuckled at, any other time.

"You have my word. He needs food and sleep, nothing more. He'll call as soon as he wakes."

If Leslie forgot, Charles would remind him, but he doubted it would be necessary.

With as firm a goodbye as was needed, he'd end the call.

He looked up at Mason, again. His face was pale and drained, but the set to his jaw was determined.

"I need to speak to the kids. Will you take Leslie to the school? The team is awake. Everyone knows where they're needed. Kurt will transport them and the children. He's well-rested and hasn't been popping from place to place all night. But he's never been here, before. Can you bring him? Just to room where the kids are waiting. He... doesn't need to see this place."

Ramsay/Tristan: Tristan nodded and said, “Okay. Thank you.”

No firm goodbye would be needed. He could feel the somber air about Charles through the phone and ended the call with no further questions or dallying.

He had to trust that whatever was or had happened would be explained to him eventually. Until then, he’d be going about his day feeling like a rock was lodged in his chest.

The door. As if Ramsay actually needed it.

“Roger that,” he sighed, adjusting his hold on Xavier so he could access his ring.

It had just enough left to give for one more leap and thankfully, one was all he’d need.

He completed his ritual and disappeared with Xavier without another word.

Mason/Leslie: "I will!" He didn't mean to sound ridiculous. This was his being sincere while battling low blood sugar. Without granolas and chocolate, he was going to start going through Haine's desk. Anything. Gum, for fuck's sake.

Leslie was largely ignored by the crossroad demon, now standing directly in front of the telepath.

"Of course."

The witch was busy unwrapping what looked like a Jolly Rancher when he was suddenly lifted in Mason's arms. Long legs and arms flailing and then clinging.

'Love ya, baby.' Across the United States in a blink. The witch was tossed on their bed.

"Ya know the house. Don't fuckin' die." He had more things to worry about than Leslie's health. Out the door and across the great house, following Kurt's mind. The night was not yet over. There were still unconscious bodies and carnage to wipe away.

"Don't stray from where I drop ya off n'ya can say I owe ya a favor."

Charles: Treatment that would require discussion, if and when Charles heard of it. If Leslie was able to drag himself out of bed, he'd be given food and a place to rest. They were expecting him.

Charles left Haine and the nurse in the office. The doctor was out, but he'd be shoved deeper. The nurse would follow him down.

He levered himself into the waiting wheelchair without allowing himself to think too much about it. Onward.

Passing the smouldering carnage in the hall was almost his undoing. But he bottled it up like everything else as he wheeled to where the children were being held.

Kurt nodded, taking this responsibility very seriously. He needed no favor, but he wasn't going to tell his uncle that.

"Got it."

Mason/Leslie: Leslie gave himself a five minute power nap, but the longer he delayed going to the kitchen the worse he was making this for himself. He would drag himself away, and reluctantly find someone to help with insulin.

In the meantime, Mason and Kurt appeared just outside of the mutant boy's room. An interesting and arguably handsome boy. An instant distraction.

"This is Kurt."

Invisible fingers brushed over Charles the moment his mind was felt. His angel. He assumed he would want to introduce himself.

There would be no public displays of affection in this moment, not when they had so much to do.

"Gonna clean house."

Charles: Charles was barely hanging on to his composure, but he leaned into that mental touch. Somehow, he managed to summon a smile for the children. His tone was gentle as he explained who he was and what they could expect over the next handful of days.

Mason was given a nod. Charles didn't know precisely what he was going to do, but he trusted his husband.

Kurt was rested enough to take the children in two groups, starting with the youngest. When he returned for the second group, it was with Logan, Piotr, and Ororo in tow.

Mason: At this point, Mason was running on fumes. The last of his strength would be utilized to spare Charles' team fresh nightmares and the assumption that he had caused death and destruction in Charles' name.

He would not point fingers. If they wanted someone to blame he would take their judgment, but there was still time. The last of the breathing bodies were placed in the storage room. Those no longer of this world, what could be carried, were dragged to the hallway of the massacre.

Mason flicked his hand, fingers outward, and frowned.

"Lawrence." The other half of his soul had slipped into a trance-like state, tucked away as his soul healed.

After a minute his hand ignited in blue flame, and so too did the blood and guts. A hole was forced into the ceiling. Concrete, wires, and dirt fell into the hallway, pushed aside by telekinesis. An explanation was given to Charles. Just a blip of information so as not to frighten those that remained with the noise.

Much of his strength was forced upon that telekinesis, keeping the flames contained and the smoke where he desired. Lastly, he would follow the blood trails. It had been years since he had caused blood to float. That familiar watery glide, darkened the more he gathered. Another decade under his belt, he could do more than ignite, but open his mouth and swallow it whole. A little blood magic to revitalize his energy, but not much. By now the blood was old and curdled. The taste of rust like an old friend. At least now he could return to the fire, strengthen its heat until all that remained was ash.

Charles: Nearly everyone present flinched, including the telepath himself. But he passed along Mason's reassurance.

"Cleanup."

The last of the children were taken to the school, where Jean and Hank were waiting to see to their varied needs. Charles would conduct his own examinations once they'd finished here.

 But clearing the facility was priority. When they were done, no one would step foot in this godforsaken building again.

The last of the team had arrived, and Kurt was firmly sent home to await a call. If he could spare someone trauma today, he would.

His main goal was the gathering of evidence. Every scrap of paperwork would be gathered and sorted through. No living member of staff would escape conviction. Knowledge of the facility and its horrors would be publicly exposed...

An arduous process that the team set to with grim determination.

Charles, however, was responsible for the staff themselves. After directing his people to file storage, he made his solitary way to the lab. The nurses and techs still slumbered deeply where they'd dropped. He wheeled further into the space, back toward the open door seeping cold into the main room. And there the horror gripped him.

Mason: 'Charles,' came gently. Not that cold room, not those small disfigured bodies. Lips pale and eyes forever shut.

His demon came around the corner. Fingers swept over Charles' shoulder, slow and mindful so as not to startle. He couldn't have his beloved in this room alone. At the end of his demonic magic, he had ran across the facility to stand by his side.

Charles: "I..." His voice was raw and thick with sorrow. The fiery rage that had driven Xavier was something buried deep in the professor. An unrelenting grief was all he could feel. And he trembled with it despite the dryness of his eyes.

He swallowed it all as best as he could, reaching back to take Mason's hand.

"We--" He sounded broken. Breathed. Forced himself to start again.

"We have to identify them. Find their information. Notify their families, if they have them. If they... if they were alone, I'll bury them in my family's plot."

A small, insufficient gesture, after all they'd suffered.

Mason: "We had the same idea." He saw no need to elaborate. Charles was well aware of Lawrence's presence.

"Haine wouldn't have destroyed their files. Doesn't seem the type. I'll look around here if ya look in his office."

Mason came around to face him, lowering to eye level to cup his face. Their first moment alone and still not truly to themselves.

"I... am so, so sorry, baby."

Charles: Mason would have stopped it. Had stopped those eighteen children from meeting a similar fate. Had stopped Charles from finding more, against his will.

He had no reason to apologise.

Charles was going to say just that when his eyes finally fell on the open collar of his husband's shirt. Just a hint of dried blood peeked above it. Inconsequential, really. Could have been gory residue from any number of moments during their ordeal.

But his dread was mounting. He raised a trembling hand to that shirt and tugged another button free.

He inhaled raggedly. Where the private symbol of their love and devotion had once rested, only a crusted wound remained. His breath stilled in his chest. Blue eyes snapped to meet brown.

"Why?"

Mason: The moment Charles' eyes lowered he knew what had been discovered. No attempt was made to stop his hand, but he fought against every instinct to look away. There was no shame in finding his husband, only in the pain of losing something Charles dearly loved.

Fingertips hovered over his wrist, afraid to touch and be pushed away.

"A spell I never have to -" At last his gaze lowered, presenting his hand and the jade ring. "A trackin' spell. Ya were unconscious. We couldn't find ya. I had t'sacrifice somethin'... somethin' I'd hate losin'. I'll never lose ya again."

Charles: A single grain of sand to tip the scale.

It was too much.

Sitting amongst the bodies of tortured children, bruised and broken, with hours left to push through, the single remaining strand of his control snapped.

Far from pushing Mason away, Charles gripped his husband's arms with bruising strength. Ugly, wracking sobs tore through him. Emotion he'd been bottling for hours finally spilling unimpeded down his face.

There could be no shame, here. Only his hold on Mason kept him from sliding to the cold, sterile floor.

Mason: "I'm sorry." This wasn't why he had initially apologized, but it was now. Sorry for losing him, to begin with. Sorry for the pain he had endured, the fear in his heart. He was sorry for the children at his back and the carnage he had witnessed. Of Haine's very existence.

And he was sorry for destroying something precious.

He leaned forward in his grip, pressed his forehead to his husband's, and breathed out every ounce of remaining tension. Just mindful enough to avoid his leg as he sank his weight into Charles' arms.

"I-" I haven't felt this kind of fear in years. You didn't summon me. I couldn't reach you. I thought I lost you.

"I love you."

Charles: Mason was an island in a sea of sorrow. Charles clung to him as he wept. There was no way to stem the flow, even with everything that still needed to be done. He sobbed until he was wrung dry, and the ache had begun to creep into his ribs, again. He'd need a second dose of morphine, soon.

He didn't move, even when he'd quieted to soft, rhythmic breathing.

"I love you."

Because he hadn't missed that. Hadn't missed that unnecessary apology even through his purge.

"Let's... let's get back to it. I want to go home. And I want this place burned to cinders before we do."

Mason: The demon held on for dear life. Gripped with his remaining strength. If he could curl his entire body into Charles' embrace he would. They had time to hold one another; time almost stolen from them.

Mason counted the seconds between the telepath's breath, hands cupping his jaw. The warmth in his own eyes was ignored. Tears wiped away with his shoulder.

How could he not apologize for adding to Charles' pain?

Two additional fingers emerged from the demon's hand, softly brushed over Charles' cheek and disappeared beneath Mason's skin.

"I can take ya now, baby. Ya need t'be looked at." Until he devised a suitable contract or the witch had the strength to mend. One or the other had to happen.

Charles: Mason should have already guessed what his response would be. They'd been through too much not to see the entire, nasty beast brought down. And Charles would never return once he'd gone. No. Staying until the end was the only thing for it.

He gave a gentle shake of his head, grabbing Mason's hand to offer a squeeze to him and Lawrence, both.

"I can't. Not yet. I'm as stable as I can be, at the moment. Besides, the team needs me. Without Jean here, who is going to keep hold of Haine and the others?"

He sighed.

"I'm staying. I need to search his mind, anyway."

Mason: "I know." He knew Charles would say that, but he had to offer; this was his way of saying what he wanted, though, he was at war with himself. Never wanting to leave Charles' side again, and wanting what was best.

But perhaps this was best.

"Then go back to the office." He didn't want Charles to see this much death if he could help it. "Please. I'll comb through here."

Charles: He held onto his husband for a few more moments, reluctant to be apart. But there was work to do. Too much time had passed, already.

He nodded, before he could lose his resolve.

"Alright. And I'm sorry, my love. For what you were forced to sacrifice. It wasn't fair. If I'd been there, it never would have happened. Forgive me."

Mason: "Don't do that. Don't ask... " He choked on his own words, staring down at Charles' lap to hold himself together.

He placed his hand over the tender wound.

"We'll make it again."

Charles: A nod.

"Yes."

They couldn't afford to lose any more time.

"I'll go. Let me know if you find anything. I'll get everything I can out of Haine."

Mason: Charles was putting himself back together. It was with his strength he could do the same.

"Make it as unpleasant as possible," he sighed.

But one last thing. He held Charles' face and offered a quick kiss. God, he needed that. Needed everything to turn and face those children, and then look past them to find their files.

Charles: It was almost enough to make him smile. Almost.

"I will."

He wanted the kiss to linger. Wanted to lie in bed, wrapped in Mason's arms for the next week. It would have to wait.

Charles forced himself to leave the room, resisting the urge to lash out at the sleeping staff as he made his way to Haine's office.

As promised, he dragged the doctor from sleep without the gentle consideration he'd offer anyone else. No fanfare or explanations. He merely sank into the man's mind in search of useful information.

Mason: The image, sound, and scent of Charles' sobs would live with him for the rest of his eternal life. But so would his gentle affirmation of love, his apologies, and his strength. An incomplete blend of the horrors and the blessings.

What he would have to push aside as he started with the nearest drawer. All physical copies, Charles had said to someone; he couldn't recall who anymore.

Their connection strengthened as time went on. More than a window. His presence was unmistakable as Charles dealt with his kidnapper. He would never be alone with that beast ever again.

"T'think ya might end up one of mine," Mason muttered, flipping through one of the folders he had found.

Charles/Haine: He sifted through information at lightning speed. None of the concern he typically showed was present. Not outright cruelty. Charles couldn't be anyone other than himself. But he wasn't gentle.

Indeed, there was yet another "hospital" tucked away in Idaho. He committed the location to memory, already planning to send the team out on a mission. Put an end to all of it.

He noted the location of all remaining files. And, oh! There was storage for personal items that had not yet been incinerated. Perhaps his rings were there. Or something he could pass along to those poor kids. A piece of their lives returned to them.

When he scraped away all that he needed, he ventured into the past. That old hospital, long turned to ash. This man was no telepath. His memories of that place were a blur of indistinct faces and disembodied parts. Charles pulled free from his rancid mind with a sound of disgust.

"You don't even remember them do, you? Those children? My children?"

"What?"

The experience had been dizzying. The bastard was disoriented. Charles pressed on.

"They were means to an end for you. To be tinkered with and disposed of for your 'noble goal.'"

He needed out of that room. He pushed the doctor carelessly into sleep once more and wheeled into the hall to breathe.

Mason: Mason hated this room. The sterile and unwelcoming atmosphere washed in an eyesore of fluorescent. The cold surfaces served only one purpose. But it was the stench of disinfectants and formaldehyde that threatened to distract him. Reminders of his purpose. Of those bodies just feet away, tucked safely in their drawers.

His distance was kept as Charles roamed Haine’s mind, not wanting to interrupt as he explored and foraged information. What he could use, he took, and gathered the necessary files into a forgotten paper box in one of the cabinets.

‘Think we could use him in Idaho?’

Charles: Charles shook his head. It was an unnecessary gesture, as no one was around to see it. He took off toward that storage space, putting as much distance as possible between himself and Haine.

'No. I have what we need. If I never see him again it'll be too soon.'

Mason: 'Your will be done.' He would do whatever Charles desired to the doctor, even if that included nothing at all. A portion of his catharsis had been released on Ian. The only death he could claim for himself.

True catharsis came just minutes ago in Charles' arms, but several thoughts had followed. Ones he would keep to himself until sorted.

'I'll move these children when the time comes.' He would not allow Kurt anywhere near this room, nor Ramsay or Xavier or anyone else.

Charles: 'Where? And how? Love, you're running on fumes as it is.'

Not that Charles was in a position to scold. He could sleep for forty-eight hours straight. Probably would, when they were safely in bed. The thought urged him onward.

Mason: 'When we can take em straight to a funeral home. If we can't make that work, then I'll think of somethin' else.'

There was no room in Xavier's school for these bodies, but Charles also wanted Haine exposed. That meant these children. There was a very real possibility they would have to stay here and be left to authorities. Everything was based on Charles' decisions.

'Don't worry about me. Had some blood magic like a cup of tea.'

Charles: 'No.' Perhaps more an emotional decision, than logical. But for once, perhaps that was acceptable. Those children didn't need to spend a moment longer in this place than necessary.

'Move them to a funeral home. I'll deal with the investigators. We have enough evidence. Documents, photographs... It'll have to be enough. I meant what I said, before."

Mason: 'Ya mean everything ya say, baby.'

So then, he needed to find a funeral home. There would be no rest yet.

The sun was finally rising over the quiet hills. The world, this side of the world, was finally waking up.

There was a contract here. He just need needed to close his eyes and try to iron out the details.

Charles: He made it to the storage room, hauling himself onto his good leg to reach a pristine box labeled with his name. There was an unspeakable comfort in pulling his own cardigan over the hospital clothes he wore. It was summer weight, and did nothing against the persistent chill. But it warmed him from the inside.

A small baggie tucked in beside the rest of his clothing held his rings. He shared the image of them with Mason, tinged with warmth. A small mercy that they hadn't been disposed of, yet.

Mason: A feeling Mason shared. Small mercies. Things he couldn't call miracles no matter the temptation.

'I should have made a contract for ya. But anything beyond a certain size... it attracts him. I was seconds away... Leslie stayed my hand.' He owed the witch proper gratitude.

The mark on his chest was felt.

'Either ya manipulate the mind of a funeral director or I do, but we have other legalities on our path. If I set everything in motion myself, he'll find me.'

Charles: Charles wasn't at all surprised by Leslie's usefulness, only that Mason had gone to him for help. Anything for his husband. It was a deeply moving gesture.

'I'll do it. There are officers and staff that I'll need to tweak, anyway. And information about guards that I'll have to erase entirely.'

A long night, indeed.

Mason: What would he even ask for in exchange? A soul wouldn't be noticed, but there was no soul to take. Certainly not his husband. Haine was already out the door to Perdition. He would offer to no one of Charles' staff. He would never be forgiven.

He took a breath.

'Do you want Haine to die, or rot in prison?'

Charles: He opened the baggie and slid his wedding band back where it belonged. He hadn't realized how wrong he'd felt without it.

The summoning ring was next, a perfect distraction from a difficult question.

'Don't ask me that. I'm at war with myself.'

Haine had hurt so many people. Children. But Charles didn't know if he could stomach sentencing even a monster to death.

Mason: 'I... have a contract in mind. I think it won't light any flares.'

Mason smiled to himself. 'Better?' he felt at his own ring.

Charles: 'Yes.' He rubbed at the metal, warming it up to his body temperature. No one would ever take it again, if it was in his power to stop them.

He reached out to Ororo to assist him with the rest of the boxes, grunting as he hoisted himself to his good leg, again.

'What terms? I won't risk him coming after you.'

Mason: Charles had taken such concern over a demon he had never met. Over an incident he had not witnessed. Such a little thing. Of course he would! Bronwyn would probably say, but it meant so much.

'Having Haine set everything in motion for us at the cost of years of his life.'

Charles: Charles pulled down the smallest boxes as he considered.

'Do you think he'll agree? He surely knows he'll spend the rest of his life in prison, at best.'

Mason: 'If the alternative is death, he'll shave as many years as he needs.'

Charles: Ah. Well, that was one way to go about it.

'As long as you're safe, I can live with that. What will he be exchanging?'

Mason: 'T'walk away with his life and whatever limitation ya want on his memories, I'll thread in anything ya want t'happen t'the children here, the people, legalities. It's a lot of manipulation of a lot of people.'

Charles: 'Sounds fairly heavy, love. Are you certain it won't draw attention? I can stay to alter memories. I'll manage.'

Mason: 'I don't want your stories and mine to overlap. Ya tell me exactly what ya want too have, every detail, n'I'll divvy a portion to the contract. We can make this work.'

Charles: He nodded uselessly, piling boxes onto his lap.

'My main concern is the dead guards. I'd rather they be forgotten.'

Or the mess would be even more complicated to clean. He would do what he could for their families, on his own time. They were not responsible for the guards' crimes.

'And I don't want the police looking too closely into what went on here, once we arrived. We can manage finding the children's families, if they have them. And they can stay at the school for as long as necessary.'

Mason: 'The children alive and dead are the evidence the police need to keep Haine behind bars. Either this entire place is our secret or it belongs to the public record. Even I can't bend human law that far, darlin'. The children they killed can seal his fate. If it's just photographs on paper... d'ya trust humans not to let him go?'

Charles: 'I only meant that we'd be responsible for their care, and beyond. And that the police don't need to know that Lawrence and Xavier were here.'

Never mind what they'd done here.

'They aren't going to let him go, Mason.'

He didn't believe so little of them. And, frankly, he wouldn't allow it, if they tried.

Mason: He hated that this was a conversation they were having while Charles was so injured. He hated the mess this had become and the unfortunate lack of discretion they could have. Moments like this the modern age suffocated his mind quite utterly.

For Haine to escape with his life pressed dangerously against contractual loopholes. To know he would not be killed either way rendered the arrangement ineffectual.

To deepen the contract with memory alteration of not only Haine but several dozen mortals, not to mention Charles' health.

But the witch could mend his injuries.

Keeping the plausible loophole behind his back, Mason offered the second draft of the contract for Charles to consider.

'Are you saying you want the police to allow the school to foster these children? That you volunteer the school to bury the bodies of those lost? They will still want to conduct their own autopsies.'

Charles: 'Yes and... yes.'

Which was to say, he'd personally handle the funeral arrangements, as necessary. He couldn't imagine that every person that had been held here was utterly without family. He'd do what he could, for them. And see to those who'd been alone in the world, himself.

'I can live with that. Better for them to have some concrete evidence on hand. Better than having to tinker with them on everything.'

Mason: Mason returned to his husband's side, without warning or permission, pulled him into a kiss. There was no tingle, no warmth of magic. This was not a contract. This was simply a need. A lot was about to happen, and more likely than not Logan would be carrying him for a second time. Lawrence's presence could only mend so much with his own injuries to account for.

"I need Haine awake. Ya don't have t'be in the room, but once it's done, things are gonna shift. Papers are gonna copy n'go back where they were. Last thing I need t'know, is how ya want the police aware."

Charles: Too soon. Charles practically flinched out of his skin at the sudden presence before recognizing his husband. It still took several long moments for his pulse to slow to normal, but he didn't pull away from the kiss.

He nodded, pulling his jumper more tightly around his body.

"All right. As soon as you're inside of his office, I'll wake him. And I'll phone the police. If we're wanting to be semi-legitimate, it'll be good to have a call on record."

Mason: "Thy will be done."

Mason swallowed thickly, combed his fingers through Charles' hair. A faraway look had taken his eyes as he planned, only to shake it off.

The less of his strength used the better. One last decision to be made.

"Have Kurt move everyone out. I won't be long. That includes you. Make your call when you get home."

Charles: "And how are you getting home, Mason? Will you have the energy to make it back? I'll have to phone from here, in order to reach emergency services in this area. But, I'll have Kurt take me straight after."

However grudgingly. In truth, only the children were keeping him moving. He was exhausted, and he hadn't taken that second dose of morphine.

Mason: "Ya don't think they'll find that suspicious? You've been seen in San Francisco." But he wouldn't argue beyond this. If Charles was adamant then so be it.

Charles: "They have my information, here. My belongings. My blood is splattered in one of the rooms. They'll know I was here, and they'll definitely want to question me. I never intended to hide my presence."

Only Mason and the others.

"They also know I'm a mutant. And will know how to contact me and the rest of the captives, when the time comes. Whatever influencing I'll have to do to smooth things over, I'll do. It was more important to get them someplace safe, than spend however many hours being questioned immediately."

Mason: "Baby, they won't know unless ya want em to know. That's what's about to happen." He didn't realize that was what Charles wanted. His staying and revealing himself as a victim in all this hadn't crossed Mason's mind once. There would be no sense in Charles' leaving if that were the case. And who caused his injury? Haine?

Mason rubbed his face in both hands. Draft three, then.

Charles: "You said it yourself, people know I was in San Francisco. I'm supposed to be giving a lecture in a couple of hours and I can barely stand. I haven't seen myself, but I imagine it isn't pretty. Did you and Xavier wipe the footage from the hotel's security cameras of me being taken? We haven't even checked out! All of our belongings... how do I explain it away? It's too much for you to put into a single contract."

Mason: "Then ya wanna stay here strapped to a bed? I can - I can make it work." He didn't care about himself. This wasn't about him, it was about Charles, and having Charles here, having to explain in detail what had happened to him, the very thought made his wings itch.

Charles: "No. It's much too late for bed-strapping. The children are already at the school. We can't unring that bell and, frankly, I wouldn't want to. What we need is for them not to dig too deeply into how we escaped. I'm assuming the contract can cover that, at least. If not, I'll turn their thoughts away from the idea."

Mason: Mason took to squatting in front of Charles' wheelchair. He didn't want to think about the reason his husband was in one. One step at a time. They had to cross this hurdle first. He closed his eyes. His mind and his mouth weren't in sync. Articulating his thoughts was becoming a struggle. Their ideas had to be perfectly aligned for this to succeed.

Charles would take the children. That was the least of his concerns. What mattered was Haine and shutting this place down. The dead children, unfortunately, had to remain, as well as original-passing copies of their files. The living children were never here. That would simplify one aspect of this operation.

Charles could play off his injuries as a horrible accident. A hit and run, given the location of his injury. Maybe. This would prevent him from having to testify. Having to face anyone but those he absolutely trusted.

The remaining staff would be the simplest spell. Memory alterations.

All of this relied on Haine begging for his life. This was the price for his life.

This Mason offered telepathically.

Charles: Charles considered the offered plan. He was prepared to be questioned. He was prepared to testify. He was prepared to help the captured children through the same. It was their suffering he thought of, not his own. And the strain that his own pain would put on Mason.

Finally, he nodded. It would work.

"I can live with that outcome. I'll have to return to San Francisco. Clean up the mess there, before it gets out of hand."

Mason: "I'll make this work with Haine." He gestured to the floor. "This is mine. San Francisco is yours. If Kurt has ya, my last trip'll be t'the school." This, knowing it would be his last transportation for some time. Knowing he and Lawrence would be out of commission entirely.

Charles: "I'll meet you there." He took Mason's face in both of his hands.

"I'll gather everyone and reach out to Kurt. I can have one of the staff call the police. We'll call it a growth of conscience. Is there anything else you need from me? Aside from waking Haine, of course. I'll make sure everyone else stays asleep until the police arrive."

Mason: His demon leaned into his hand, breathed him in for the last time.

"I need ya t'go home. I need ya t'be someplace safe n'fuckin' stay there. Okay?"

Charles: He nodded. "When I'm finished in San Francisco. I'll work quickly."

His thumb stroked over one bearded cheek.

"I love you. I'll see you at home. Soon."

A promise.

Mason: "Always." Said with as much conviction as he could muster. His vision would blur if he stayed in Charles' presence for much longer. He kissed between his eyes and forced himself away. Back to Haine, steeling his expression by the time he reached the door.

Charles/Haine: Charles took a moment to breathe once Mason departed. It was nearly over. They'd be home safe and warm in bed within the hour, hopefully.

Reinvigorated by that thought, he filled the team in on the plan. They'd join him in the storage room as swiftly as possible.

Already on her way, Ororo arrived first. She was helping to gather boxes when Mason reached Haine's office.

Charles dragged him roughly out of sleep and severed the connection.

Haine winced at the fresh wave of pain that greeted him. But it was the figure in the doorway that caused his face to pale. He curled in on himself tightly and said nothing. Charles wasn't around to spare his life, this time. He hoped his death was quick, but he doubted it would be.

Mason: The figure in the doorway didn't move. The only signs of life the rise and fall of his chest, and the subtle movement of pupils swimming in mahogany.

Haine didn't have to say a word. Didn't have to move if he didn't want to. His only hope crossed the room and knelt by his side.

"What's your first name, Haine?" Now that they had a moment to themselves, they could pretend to have some civility.

Haine: He shrank back against the wall at the creature's approach. He couldn't flee, even if there had been an opening. His leg throbbed at the memory of the break. He'd done it without even touching him.

He swallowed thickly. "Christopher."

Mason: "Christopher. That's a good name."

Rough fingertips brushed along the doctor's hairline. Nails gently scraped over his five o'clock shadow. Every second wasted was a second to recharge, to let every word sink in.

"Ya have a choice, Christopher. One that's entirely yours. So I want ya to think really hard."

A breath of silence allowed Haine to hang onto his every word.

"Do ya want to live to see tomorrow?"

Haine: It was a touch far too tender for the situation. He shuddered, and tried to pull away from it. But with the wall at his back, there was nowhere to go.

"Yes," he breathed, grasping at the unexpected offer. "Yes, of course."

Mason: "Survival instincts, good. Death would mean seein' my face every day for eternity. What I did to your leg is nothin' compared to what I'll do to you in Hell. What ya think I am, I am. Now tell me this, do ya wanna remember my face?"

Haine: He shook his head. Not a refusal. Confusion. "I-I don't know what you mean. I couldn't forget your face if I tried."

These beings would haunt his nightmares for the rest of his life.

Mason: "I can take it all away. My face, your pain. I can put it all back."

Two fingers pinched at Haine's chin, held him firmly.

"I'd rather skin ya while ya breathe, but it's what Charles wants, because he's better than me. Ya have two options, mine, or his."

Haine: He didn't even try to pull his chin free. That little comment on the professor left a sour taste in his mouth. A better man would have had vision. Would have seen Haine's work for the noble undertaking it was and joined him willingly. That the plan had crumbled was his fucking fault. But Haine wasn't foolish enough to say so.

"His." He tried not to spit the word.

Mason: Had this been a written contract with every clause put to ink Haine might have refused. Death was certainly Mason's preference, but Charles had refused his death no matter. For now, Mason set aside the unsavory detail of his arrangement, pulling Haine to his feet via his collar.

"Seal it with a kiss, monster."

Haine: He groaned in pain at the shift in position. The command made no sense to the doctor. All of this was entirely outside of his understanding of the world. But the words were straightforward enough.

He leaned in as much as he dared and brushed the lightest of kisses against that mouth. A shudder followed.

Mason: Upon opening his eyes Christopher Haine would find himself alone. Not a broken hinge nor a broken bone. The halls were unnaturally quiet. Not a soul in movement, like a wound toy readying to dance, standing in their positions. Where guards should have stood there was liminal space.

There was not a single child in those mint green and white cells. Not yet. Plans for more children, certainly. Those to replace their losses. Those unfortunate souls on cold slabs await their final rest.

But not for much longer.

Mason appeared in the only safe place he could think, falling on his knees in their bedroom, crumbing as his contract came to life.

Charles/Haine: Haine blinked. Something was incredibly wrong here, but he could not pinpoint how. He brushed the feeling aside as being overtired and decided on a nap as soon as the plans were finalized. The sensation would be forgotten entirely by the time the sirens sounded.

Charles had done as promised. Kurt came for the staff and boxes first, then returned shortly thereafter for the professor. Between them, they made quick work of packing up the hotel room.

His call to the conference's lead organizer had been brief, and apologetic. Mason's suggested excuse was a perfect one: a hit-and-run accident. The authorities had already been informed and the professor would be fine after rest and recovery. He was so very sorry for the inconvenience. He hoped another lecturer would be able to fill in for him. And, yes, he'd happily attend the following year.

Here, there were no armed guards or psionic blockers. It was laughably easy for Charles to nudge the concierge into handing over the security footage and forgetting the entire interaction. As far as she could recall, the nice couple had checked out that morning, without incident.

Before the hour was through, he was back in the safety of his home. He'd had no time to so much as ask after the mansion's newest residents before he was being shooed off to bed. Hank would see to his injuries, soon.

Charles called for Logan as soon as he found Mason collapsed on the ground. His demon was out cold and not aware of his husband's gentle fussing. The burly mutant hauled both of them onto the mattress, in turn, and left with only mild grumbling.

There was plenty of work left to be done. But Charles trusted his team to manage, until tomorrow. For now, he would rest.

[faint-kitten]

I have played Minecraft today for the first time.

I had a Commander Shepard skin from when I downloaded it on Xbox years ago, so I was femme Shep. I punched the Tree because I know you're supposed to. Then I punched flowers. Then I punched bushes. Then I punched mushrooms. I got so many mushrooms.

Then I found a Dog, couldn't figure out how to pet the dog. Didn't want to let him out of my sight, but I saw a pig, and another dog. Then I found a big beautiful pit. I'm a bugger for a pit. I love a little hole in the ground protect me from everyone. Make a TV and a bed I'm good to go. I knew going in water protected you from fall damage, so I just swam down into the pit. It was so damp and beautiful down there. Then I met a cute skeleton. Then I tried to hug the skeleton. The skeleton made it VERY clear he did not consent to being hugged. I apologized to the skeleton and told him I didn't know the place was already spoken for I'd be happy to leave. But must have been an American when he was alive because he kept shooting. So I ran. I flock of Seagulls'd it. I ran back to the waterfall and in my panic jumped deeper into the pit. I landed in water which was okay, but I just kept sinking: I didn't know how to swim. I am not afraid of slenderman. I am not afraid of Pyramid head. I am not afraid of freddy Kruger: I am afraid of pitch black water, and confined spaces, feeling like I cannot escape. I do not want to abandon Commander Shepard, and her cute butt to an ever crushing eternally falling, black fathoms of nothingness by closing the game. Suddenly I was not having fun anymore. The music was still whimsical. It was indifferent to my terror. I tried jumping. I went up. I spammed the jump button. I zoomed the fuck out of there. I was fucking Aquaman swiming up a waterfall at 40 knots. Giving the skeleton a two fingered salute on my way out. I got out of the waterfall. I stood and realized I couldn't go any higher out of the pit. I either needed to dig my way out or settle my differences with Mr. bones below. I know you put things in shapes to make different tools. I had all this wood. But the more I moved the wood around, the more it made more wood. It was like that fucking episode of star trek. The trouble with Wood. My Wood Begat different wood. I just kept making wood, which begat more wood, which begat buttons and sticks. It occurred to me I needed more material.

I know you can make pickaxes out of wood, but the solution eluded me. I was like the worlds shittiest alchemist. If I was in Full Metal Alchemist, my name would be "The Bozo Alchemist" because I am a clown that can't transmute anything. I tried to punch rock and stone, farming for metals and ways to make a pick. But my digging left no blocks behind to harvest. Commander Shepard's might hands crumbled everything into dust. I saved, and logged out for the day. I don't know if I'll ever play again.

8/10 would recommend.

[incrediblemelk]

At MIFF this year I saw Hello Dankness, the new film by Soda Jerk, which won several festival awards. Using Soda Jerk's signature pop-piracy sampling style, it draws heavily on American film and TV depictions of 'the suburbs' to stitch together an account of the US's post-truth journey into the heart of dankness, from the 2016 presidential elections onwards.

As their artist statement says, "We tried to scream, but all that came out was a meme."

It was literally the first time I had thought about the "dicks out for Harambe" meme since 2016.

Hello Dankness quite extensively samples This Is the End (2013), which left me with a hankering (a dankering?) to watch the film. When I saw it pop up on Stan last night, I thought, "Now's the time."

I missed the film when it was new, because there was a preview screening clash where two screenings were scheduled on the same night, and I chose the Pacific Rim screening instead (a film with which I became obsessed).

It's such a fascinating time capsule of the Apatovian heyday of gross-out 'manchild' and 'stoner' comedy. At the time it was mostly hailed as a self-indulgent minor entry in a subgenre already running on fumes.

But when I rewatched it last night, I was struck by how fresh and culturally relevant it still feels. Has public discourse just got danker over the past decade?

There's a whole act in the middle when the narrative momentum sags as the central group of frenemies barricade themselves in James Franco's house. But now to me it reads like the Covid-era lockdown malaise, when an initial fun buzz ("let's do all the drugs!" "let's make Pineapple Express 2!") gives way to boredom, bickering and a sense of mounting threat from outside.

It's also pre-#MeToo and yet it's prominently about unpleasant, self-obsessed men trying to reassure each other that they're 'good'.

There's a scene where the group get so worked up about their need to reassure Emma Watson that they don't pose a sexual threat to her that she ends up being convinced they're absolutely going to rape her, and ends up leaving, along with all their food and drink.

(Watson notoriously refused to participate in a later scene where Danny McBride has become the cannibal king of ruined Los Angeles, with Channing Tatum as his gimp.)

It was striking to watch an apocalyptic moral punishment come for people like James Franco and Jonah Hill.

Meanwhile, Seth Rogen and Jay Baruchel, who end up in heaven dancing with the Backstreet Boys, have basically turned out to be IRL mensches.

Even Craig Robinson, who's had some drug troubles, seems to be living a pretty wholesome life.

In a Daily Beast podcast appearance from May 2023, Baruchel said, "Jonah and I don't get along super well – or at least didn't back then." When the host observed that this comes across strongly onscreen, Baruchel replied, "Yeah, no shit it fucking does!"

Baruchel also recalled:

It was this weird thing of mining personal shit. But not for catharsis … mining it just for comedy. So mining it in the most monetized, capitalist way of, "we’re going to dig up real personal shit," but nobody’s going to go home feeling better about it. We’re just going to turn it into a fucking product.

We never talked about any of the real shit. Like, it never came up for real. Because we’re both 1982 kids, which means we were raised in a great misogynistic tradition of not talking about shit. Especially two boys … we'll air grievances. When we're mad at each other and say that, but it’s very rare to be vulnerable.

I don't know why I'm so frequently drawn to stories of male friendships, but at their best, the Apatovian cycle does create a mainstream space for male vulnerability – even though they frequently can't help undercutting the intimacy with 'no-homo' mockery or self-mockery, or diverting it into jokes about dicks and bodily functions.

As Baruchel said in 2020, "Crass, male gazey shit is definitely in the DNA of the thing, but so was heartbreak and wearing your heart on your sleeve and not being blessed with with every fucking advantage. They’re deeply human things, and were really imperfect and super honest and devoid of vanity."

[child-of-the-new-contagion]

Ecto-Containment System

.,.,.I wanted a place where I wasn't limiting myself by fear of certain potential readers. It's funny, cause they wouldn't probably read anyway, but the slight chance was inhibiting expression. My wife E is one of the feared potential readers, and I've given out links at times to people too close to me in real life, and that can cause headaches. I could of course just not post, but there's the thing about being potentially readable, even if it's a self-flattering fairy-tale, or even the thing about being theoretically readable far in the future by alien surveyors of the Sol information microcube archived before civilization got turned into a dead two-dimensional painting by hyper-dimensional travelers cleaning the Dark Forest of potential rivals like some roided-up sinophobic new american century project.

So I'm posting in a new way, just writing about things straight-forwardly, instead of coding and metaphors, although I'm trying to do this thing where I have my cake and eat it too, take trips on dxm yet have the happy marriage, be in a relationship but also be able to write, indulge in cryptic poetics and also just convey information, for the edification of myself, mostly, cause there's this sordid compulsion in the social media era, of exhibitionism, even if it's for no one.

So yeah, I'm being a goody good boy for the most part, and a good husband [pretty good at any rate], and faithful, but I also believe in drugs. Certain ones, a sophist's discernment, doctoring myself. I can never totally turn my back on the dextromethorphan sacrament, I'm the prodigal son, the lapsed catholic reclaiming my birthrite.

I think vaping is the new MSG. They don't want it to be OK. They don't want you to enjoy it. They. Them. You know.

It's hard to quit because the negative consequences are so few. Except the artificial expense. The Sin Tax, the mafia government's cut, whatever. Also, there's something creepy about turning myself into a glitchy machine whose functionality is dependent on the short nicotine timer. I don't like it when I'm impatiently pecking at the button with increasing, ever-more-futile efforts like a trauma victim in the hospital bed being weened off the morphine IV by the nurses.

And there's something troubling about the steep curve of diminishing returns, forcing me to take frequent tolerance breaks, like I fail to do anymore with caffeine. It's such a silly game. I'm wired up with what sometimes seems too many chemically dependent circuits, but then, it's all a chemical circuit in'it, some voice deep inside sooths me into believing. No, that's not all there is, there's magikscum of dissociative drugs, and there's the people I love, organic realness, and there's a society I don't know whether to be a martyr defending or shrug off, or just admit I don't know nothin about nothin, I'm just a confused old man in the woods.

There's the thing about never being very precocious, so middle age is gonna hit me late like most things, maybe I'm not even there yet, but oh boy, what a crash it'll be. If I can survive beyond 47, the most depressing age according to data, then maybe I'll get to the real don't give a fuck golden years and enjoy that, if there's anything left in the world to enjoy.

I can take tolerance breaks though, I can go on nic gum, boring responsible gum, and I can even get off that too and get nic free, and I can even get off zoloft, until I start feeling sadness too scary to bear, and run back to it. I can get off these things for a little while. I can get off booze almost all the time, and that is one of the really evil ones, so that's good. I can keep my fentanyl in a bank vault, open it telepathically with the auto-destruct command when needed, if last-ditch geo-engineering fails to fix the planet, and instead turns everything to ice, with the remnants of humanity left to fight it out on a never-stopping train circumnavigating the frigid world and serving as an emblem of wealth inequality.

One part of the movie Children of Men that I think of more and more, that I never gave its due, is the premise of the government-issued suicide pills that are advertised on TV, with the cheery slogan: "You choose when." And real life is rhyming with that close to home with all the hoopla about the Medical Assistance in Dying program in Canada, the assisted-suicide fast-track. I have complicated feelings about that.

I wonder if I can captive-audience someone through the thin gruel of emotional blackmail into reading my selfish words through laundering in what is professedly a letter to a friend, but is really just a blog entry, another wordwank. It might almost work, it's hard to quit something that almost works because it's so close, it might as well be working, burning the credits of long expired favours, like bunk acid.

Mostly I can keep vaping and being on SSRIs and trazodone the tranq because maybe I just breezed through the midlife crisis without even noticing, or maybe it's still waiting for me, but regardless, I can enjoy the benefit, having lived this long, of not feeling the dumb compulsion to be pure somehow, that's an idealism I can happily leave behind.

I'll also post the only music I can manage over the long lame lately, which is facile and clumsy improvisations. But there was something worth a novel or a series in the title: The Art of the Possible. Which is what they say politics is, but I'm trying to stay away from politics on this blog. But there's rich thematic resonance from the epigram that extends to many things. What I meant when I came up with it while playing stemmed from the obsessive thought, what can I possibly come up with, in tense real-time, with these hands of mine that are lagging so far behind my rushing thoughts? The limitations of technique and imagination. What sort of compromise do I have to make with reality, to serve others, like the mockingly theoretical readership, listenership, or public?