#volume encryption

[filehulk]

VeraCrypt

Security on your device is crucial, especially if others frequently use your machine. VeraCrypt is an application designed to secure and encrypt partitions, ensuring sensitive files remain protected. The program is highly customizable, offering a variety of options. When you open VeraCrypt, you’ll find a simple interface, which some may consider outdated, guiding you through the available…

[digitalcreationsllc]

Endpoint malware attacks decline as campaigns spread wider - Help Net Security

In Q2 2023, 95% of malware now arrives over encrypted connections, endpoint malware volumes are decreasing despite campaigns growing more widespread, ransomware detections are declining amid a rise in double-extortion attacks, and older software vulnerabilities persist as popular targets for exploitation among modern threat actors, among other trends, according to WatchGuard. “The data analyzed…

[softshuji]

𝟏𝟖:𝟎𝟐𝐏𝐌 | 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐌𝐀 𝐒𝐇𝐔𝐉𝐈

Title: Secrets We Keep

Summary: On coming back from a job, Hanma receives a very surprising and very unexpected message from you.

cw: fem!reader, quite a bit angsty, Draken makes an appearance, reader gets a little upset, some sexual content, unrequited feelings, this is kinda self indulgent and is a very personal piece to me. Reblogs appreciated!

Hanma isn’t accustomed to getting calls from you this late. 

Even if you’re not in bed, you tend not to speak as much after hours, and you wind down alone for most of them. You have an unspoken rule like that. If he calls and it’s late, he does most of the talking and you play some game or another in the background, the occasional hum and word of assent that tells him you’re listening. You get tired, he knows this. He knows you have an awfully long bedtime routine, the kind that takes almost an hour- a serious dedication that even he wouldn’t get between. 

And it is late when his phone buzzes in his back pocket and he turns, half shielding it from the others like a secret he wants to keep, hunching his shoulders to protect his screen before clicking away to the voicemail you’ve left that’s ten minutes long and alone, with nothing to accompany it. 

He frowns, fishes in his jacket for a knotted pair of black earphones before walking away with a wave over his shoulder, leaving an exacerbated Kisaki who throws his hands up at the sudden disappearance. An air of apprehension licks up his spine when his finger hovers over the play button. He looks once, twice behind him, like it’s something perverse to be here sitting on a step of some ramshackle warehouse, the entirety of him now crouched over his phone as he slides the volume higher just as your voice bursts to life in his ears.

It’s not uncommon, this little pastime and you do it often. Blow his phone up on the weekends when you’re free with voice notes and videos for him to come back to when he has the time, because he knows you prefer to talk rather than text, a long film of messages for him to scroll through as he passes over the threshold of his apartment. Sometimes it’s inconsequential, and you have nothing of any import to say- just the constant reminder of him being there, a tether that holds taut in the end to end encryption of your strings of messages, a little hopeful at the prospect of hearing from him when you see him typing a few hours later. 

Other days, there is little talking and he’s surprised by how often he wishes there was, the quietness that has him jittery and out of place, anxious in a way that has nothing to do with the copious dangerous missions or drugs or anything else he indulges in. Your presence is funny like that, even this far away, a calm and soothing balm, the kind that has his stomach tightening with a sense of excitement, a sense of purpose or something to look forward to that isn’t a cheap and short lived thrill.

He glances up, just as you clear your throat and take a sigh, at Koko and Sanzu climbing into the back of a car, and Kisaki shrugging his shoulders with a vague nod in his direction before following suit, the cars now dwindling in number till his alone sits far off in a space.

You shuffle, the odd scratchy sound of your sleeve passing over the microphone.

‘Hi Ken,’ you say and Hanma frowns, pauses the voicemail instinctively, with a hard and painful thud to his chest, thumb now hovering over the play button as he stares at the shining, smiling profile picture of you looking back at him as the sun shines.

A voice somewhere says he should quit while he’s ahead, an angel on his shoulder that sends a spasm of fear and apprehension along his spine while the devil on the other has his ears ringing with a loud curiosity. 

He knows you’re not the kind that plays these sorts of jokes, not the kind that intentionally hurts or causes confusion. You’re good like that, his good girl that he wishes was less kind to others sometimes, especially when they’ve done nothing to earn that from you. His girl he wishes was a little cruller, a little meaner, a little less like you’re in love with the world and a little more like you hated it. It would be easier for him to deal with if your heart was a less fragile thing, even if he loves it like that.

The curiosity, he realises, quickly wins him over and he presses play just as you puff out a breath and sniffle into the receiver.

‘’m’ sorry Ken, I know it’s late, I didn’t know who else to talk to. You don’t have to reply and actually it’s probably best that you don’t, y’know?’ You say and Hanma notices you’re slurring slightly, the edge of your words soft and quiet and elongated, interspersed with puffy sighs and the faint click of your shoes on the tarmac, the sort of state you only get into when you’re drunk and upset and finding your way home when you’re too embarrassed to ask for a ride, which you know he’d give you. It’s because of that that you never ask.

He wonders- and it’s probably true he thinks- whether you’ve just misclicked or anything so common and random, that you’ll realise your mistake come morning once the alcohol has worn off with a headache and painkillers later, and he should probably preserve your privacy. 

But he can’t lie and say curiosity isn’t thrumming through his blood. 

Maybe you and Draken are in a relationship? That could be a possible explanation, and not so farfetched. Draken is the kind of man he thinks you might fall for, and he churns this thought in his mind often. The kind of man you like, the kind you deserve in fact and it is someone like dear Ken-chin, who is attentive, and stern, a rule follower, a man who could be a gentleman and fuck you like one too, the kind that you could bring home to your family and it wouldn’t mean a thing. You could be happy, he knows you would be in fact. He has seen you two around before with Draken leaning down a little too close for comfort- not that he can say anything anyway, because you’re just friends who fuck on occasion, a barrier he’s determined not to overstep, for various reasons that is.

‘I’m just…just tired. I just wanted to talk to you about something, because I think you’re the best at tellin’ me what I need to hear ‘n’ I’m so drunk right now, I know if I don’t talk about it now then I never will.’

He should stop because he’s not convinced that anything he’s about to hear will be good for either of you in any way. Part of him knows what he might hear. Maybe you’re going to confess to dear Ken-chin and that’ll be that, and he’ll pick up the tattered remains of his heart and deal with it alone. Or maybe he’ll pick another fight with Draken that lands him on his ass just to blow off the steam. 

‘It’s about Hanma.’

Ice slams into his veins. His ears ring, a visceral pain so sharp in his chest that his breath comes short. He heard that right? It’s about him? 

He rewinds a few seconds just to hear it again, the sound of his name on your lips in such a foreign way, to someone else at that. He likes how it sounds, he always has. The delicious undertone of an accent, the way your voice rises an octave with the first syllable, especially when you’re whispering breathy against his ear, chest pressed to his as your lips find his neck. It feels less like a dirty thing coming from you. None of the fear, the inflection of hatred and violence that often accompanies the utterance of his name in the street. A softer sound, like you’re testing it on your tongue and tasting it, often with a laugh, with a smile thrown so easily his way.

‘...it’s about Hanma, and I think you’re the best person to talk to about him.’

Hanma bites his lip as he listens, an ear trained on the empty parking lot, the sun now splashing a burnt orange over the grey tarmac, shadows lengthening to claws in his periphery. 

‘Ken I…I think I’m in love with him.’

Hanma locks his phone and pulls his earphones out, quickly, an erratic and sharp breath as he stands and his vision wavers, a hand running down his face and through his hair. He looks around, he’s not sure at what, for anything, someone to tell maybe, someone to mention it to, this bombshell landing at his feet.

You’re lying, you have to be. You’re in love with Draken, he knows this, he’s seen how he looks at you. Like you created it all, everything good and worth it in the world, the kind of smile he thinks no one can see playing on his lips, and blind to how Hanma bites his tongue and clenches his fist in his pockets, and you smiling up at him and nodding to his every word. Maybe you are good at these kinds of jokes, maybe this is all an elaborate prank and you and dear Ken-chin are going to laugh about it later.

He paces. 

He chews on his lip, a look back at the step he’d been sitting on before he unlocks his phone to see the now paused voicemail taunting him still. 

There again comes that thought to quit while he’s ahead, to let it go and pretend and keep moving as if it hadn’t happened, as if you hadn’t sentenced the both of you and damned you entirely. And yet the curiosity triumphs again as he takes his seat and presses the buds to his ears, clicking play with a fear and hesitancy that has sweat breaking across his skin, a shiver now running along his spine as his skin kisses the evening air.

‘I’m in love, Ken….with Hanma. And God do I know how damn dangerous that is for me, for him, for everyone.’

Hanma pauses again here, just to take a second, just to rewind ten seconds and hear it again, the way the words play on your lips, an almost defeated sigh- as if you’re resigning yourself to something, like you’ve lost a war, a long pause now weighted in the air as the gravity of the statement descends on you.

‘But I love him, I really do. I’ve tried for weeks to convince myself it’s not true, that it’s just the sex and company and the attention but it’s not, it’s really not.’

You sound sad. You sound like you’re upset by this revelation and Hanma feels a stab of pain when he thinks of you being devastated by this news, as if it’s something that greatly bothers you, distresses you in some way and it hurts in some cold locked chamber of his heart when he thinks of causing you pain like this, pain at the unchanging nature of him.

‘I almost hate it when he comes over, but I can never say no to him, I never want to. I want him to have everything he wants, he deserves it. God, I can almost hear that annoyed tone in your voice that you get whenever I do something you don’t agree with, and if you’re going to say I told you so then don’t bother. Because no one’s more angry at me than I am.’

There’s a brief shuffle here, the sound of doors opening and closing, a vague and muted male voice underneath it all before the hum of a car engine undulates the lilt of your voice. 

You’re sad, but you’re frustrated, and Hanma imagines the taxi driver watching in curiosity as you vent your frustrations in his backseat, the entirety of you dwarfed in the big coat you wear when it’s cold out with the hood pulled up that comes entirely over your hair and forehead, and he smiles - imperceptibly, and unintentionally at the thought. 

Vaguely, some unimportant but very noticeable thought, reminds him that you told- and you speak often, about this with Draken and with that comes a prickle of jealousy- a reminder that Draken is very obviously in love with you, that he’s the better choice in it all at the end of it. Would you pick him? If it came down to it, and you knew what Hanma was, the danger that comes with him, all the violence and burdens he carries in his wake- would you still love him then? When you know all there is, and he’s bled out and delirious on your sofa staining the fabric, mumbling profanities and your name and eyes glassy with pain and unshed tears, hurt in the way only Kisaki has seen him, would you still be so in love?

‘And I…I love everything about him,’ you say now. ‘I love even the things he thinks I don’t notice. Those shitty emergency room shows he likes, how he takes his coffee, the fact that the two of you regularly meet up so you can fight and he comes over pretending like he won, those little things he gets me all the time, the pictures he takes and keeps because they’re memories, all of it.’

A fluttery warmth floods his veins, his head dipping like he’s hiding from someone even as the smile tugs at his lips, a crimson flash of unadulterated embarrassment pecking at his skin. 

He has an album on his phone for you. Pictures and pictures and videos, both short and long of the two of you, those that are intimate and not. He looks through them often and always with a syrupy and reserved smile, the kind that he doesn’t believe he’s capable of anyways, the kind that comes so easily when it comes to you. He has favourites of course, snapshots he’s edited the colours of in his free time, monochrome snaps of you turning back to look at him with a wide grin, and often tangled up in the sheets as you pull them to your chest, an innocent embarrassment inlaying your actions when you roll over to hide from him. Others, the more intimate ones maybe, where he’s holding your hair in his hands as he uses your mouth to get off to, or presses his chest to your back as he fucks you slow and deep and full of a meaning he’s afraid to think on.

It’s never been the same with you. He likes to take his time, relax you, work you up till you’re aching for him. He finds you still, pressed to the mattress, to the sheets long after you’ve left, a hair woven into his jacket, the smell of your perfume clinging to his neck, and your name on his lips when he’s alone and seeking release and stroking his cock to the thought of you to tip him over the edge. Other times, when it’s been a while, you’re both undressed before you get to the bedroom, and it’s fast and rough and desperate, a clash and dance of bites and nips and kisses that get needier and hungrier and the air is alive with desperation and promise and he comes too close for comfort to telling you it all.

‘I think of him so often, more often than not. I wonder all the time what he’s doing, or what he’s thinking, whether he’s happy, whether I make him happy. It’s like I want to be with him all the time, like I’m happiest when he’s around.’

And you do, and it’s true and it’s perhaps shameful to admit out loud, that you wonder constantly whether he’s happy with you, what more you could do for him, whether you could ever really be enough for a man so big, so proud and unapologetically him, whether you ever have the capacity to follow him through life, holding his hand as he drags you along through the violent underworld, bodies mounting under his feet that he put there. He’s never been evasive about the kind of work he does, the kind of life he lives and all it comes with and you’ve asked on occasion, whether he intends to leave it or not. Hushed whispers under the covers as you trace and stroke the fine hairs on his forearms, leading down to the ink on his hands as you bring the backs of them to your mouth to kiss. And he pulls you into his side and tells you maybe one day, if he could find something that makes up for what would be lost, but that really he quite likes the life and how dangerous it is, how he expects to find himself on the other end of a knife or bullet one day- this last part said in a breathless laugh, as if he’s expected and accepted it and you push at his chest and tell him it’s not a funny joke, that you’d be really upset if something happened to him and would spend forever wondering where he’d gone.

He’d laughed at himself at first - when the concept of something more with you had crossed his mind. Some random day- a Friday evening maybe, and he’d thought about taking you out for a proper date, the kind where he’d pick you up and get you a dress, drive you to some fancy place and you’d drink expensive wine and come home to spend hours between the sheets as he knows you would. And you’d said you were hanging out with Draken and he remembered, as clear as day, why he hadn’t done this already, what unspoken rule he’d be breaking, the kind of trouble he’d be getting the both of you into by involving you more with him.

It’s less funny now when he really thinks about it.

And it’s not funny at all when he catches you sniffing into the receiver for the first time, saying ‘I’m so upset Ken. I’m upset at myself, and angry. So angry, because I know he doesn’t feel the same. I mean how could he? He’s Hanma fucking Shuji, and I think that tells me enough about the type of commitment he has to me- or lack thereof.’ 

It makes him wilt with a shame that’s bone deep. His lips parting in surprise and indignation, something that feels like frustration simmering in his blood because you’re not wrong, but you’re not exactly right either. 

‘... and I don’t know what to do Ken. I don’t think he likes me the same but I can’t keep things like this forever because it hurts so much.’ The slightest waver to your voice, a rise in pitch he recognises all too well. ‘It hurts so much to have to be so close to him and so far still. And one day I think I’ll end up leaving him just to save myself, from him, and save him from me.’

Hanma pauses and takes a breath, a hand running through his messy curls, a harsh tug and pull on his scalp as he bites down hard on his lip, the phone shaking slightly in his other hand. 

For a moment, he tries to rationalise it and this is what he comes up with.

You’re in love with him, and you think he doesn’t feel the same because he’s never committed to anything more, because he’s never asked, even though he’s been convinced you’re in love with Draken and that Draken is in love with you. Of this last part he is in fact certain. It’s difficult after all, to ignore the numerous occasions in which he’s dropped your name to gauge things, only to see Draken’s eyes glaze over with that familiar syrupy shine, just as the stone drops into Hanma’s stomach. And again, given enough time he thinks you could also return that affection if you don’t already.

There is a sound then, as he clicks play again. A shuffle as you leave the Taxi and hand the fare over to the driver, a slam of the car door and the tap-tap of your heels on the tarmac and all of it undulated by the soft trickle of rain across the velvet night. You have an umbrella out and he recognises the slightly tinny sound of rain against the pink and black plastic. 

You cough and sniffle and his hands itch. You’d left the blanket in his car the last time you’d been there and your feet will be hurting from the heels and you’ll be shivering because you never seem to learn and your painted nails will be slightly chipped because you never get enough time for yourself and his heart floods with a sappy and tender warmth at how easily he can read you, how well he knows. On any day that isn’t today, he knows you’d go home and drink decaffeinated tea and fall asleep on the sofa only to wake up an hour later and trudge to your bed inevitably because you say the sofa hurts your neck and you like sleeping with extra pillows. He knows you take an hour with your dental and skincare routine and you plan your outfits beforehand, tying your hair in braids before settling in bed with a pillow between your legs because you like the support and two blankets because you always seem to be cold and when he comes over you roll one up because you say he’s warm enough for the both of you- to which he laughs. But you’re always indignant and say it isn’t funny, that he’s the sun to you.

He imagines it now, as you fish for a tissue in your cluttered bag (the contents of which you have walked him through on numerous occasions which includes but is not limited to, your purse, keys, lipgloss and lip balm, a mirror, bandages and plasters, painkillers and sanitary towels, sweets and gum, a pen and a small diary, an atomizer of your favourite perfume- which he also knows- and earphones) and his chest thumps with all the tenderness he wishes he could give you.

‘Shit sorry, gimme a second Ken, I can’t seem to find my keys,’ you say and Hanma waits, as patiently as if you’d told him, foot tapping incessantly against the concrete step till your keys jingle and your front door slides open. You throw your bag and coat on the sofa and slip your heels off at the front door, each step methodical and each a mirror of himself every time he has the fortune of coming to see you, which isn’t as often as he’d like. It’s a rinse repeat. He knocks. You open the door and he kisses you on impulse and you laugh and pull away after a moment too soon and push the door shut, leading him by the hand to the kitchen where you say you’d just finished cooking and he kisses you again just to taste the sweet tang of pasta sauce on your lips. You eat together and talk incessantly and Then it leads to more, as it always does and you’re undressed by the time you’re in the bedroom, your arms around him and your lips on his neck as he rocks steadily into you and you stay like that till one of you falls asleep, followed by a hasty morning and a quick kiss goodbye till the next time this happens.

You take a breath and he can tell you’re weighing a dangerous thought on your tongue. 

‘Y’know Ken? I know you’re gonna be pissed at me for saying this, but I don’t mind if he just wants to use me for sex or something- just to use me how he wants if it means I can stay with him just a bit longer.’

The thud of his heart is a painful punch to his ribs. 

A pause as you take a breath. ‘I know it’s not what you wanna hear and I know you’re always warning me against shit like this so I’m sorry. But it’s him, Ken.’ And you almost whine, almost keen into the microphone. ‘He’s like-like the sun to me. It’s like he’s so warm and safe and I see him in everything and God do I fuckin’ know I shouldn’t because I know what he is. I know he’s a killer, but he’s also just…just my baby too.’

He hangs his head, a furious burn licking across his skin. 

He hears you pause, the gravity of it all descending on you there at your front door, a heaviness blanketing the edge of your words before you sigh and flick on the kitchen light. Your sock clad feet are soft on the tiles and you put the phone down momentarily on the countertop as you open the fridge and pull out the glass bottle you love to drink out of, and the leftovers from lunch you’d told him you made earlier in the day and had offered to share because you always do and he had told you he was busy tonight and you’d said ‘Okay, well the offer is there if you change your mind,’ and the weight of it hadn’t meant anything to him at the time. But he listens to you lean on the countertop and drink steadily and the gravity of it settles on him. 

You love him. You’re in love with him. 

He suspects Draken knows this already and if he doesn’t, he suspects he’ll find out soon anyhow. He suspects- in addition to these revelations- that perhaps Draken is planning to tell you his own feelings soon too. As a fourth revelation, he wonders why that thought burns him so much, why perhaps the idea of Draken pursuing you, and you allowing it, enjoying it maybe, ignites a hot and uncomfortable jealousy in him, the kind that has his stomach tensing with a pulsing green envy.

And then, as you pad from the kitchen to the bathroom, and flip the tap and open the cabinets, he imagines you slipping your clothes off on the way, kicking them onto the sofa as you're prone to do. 'What do I do Ken?' you say, your voice undulated by the echoic sound of the water hitting the basin. 'Do I tell him? Do you think he feels the same?' 

Hanma parts his lips to voice an answer of his own when- 'Actually don't answer that, I know he doesn't. I know someone like him could never love someone like me. And before you give me a rebuttal, let me tell you why.' 

You take a breath and the cleanser bottle is squeezed as you rub circles into your cheeks. 'I'm not all that pretty, I'm not even all that smart. I'm too intense, too overbearing, too overwhelming and mostly, I just don't think he'd love me. And if he did, then it must be because he sees something in me that isn't really there. Projecting onto me y'know that kinda thing.' 

You pause as you ruminate on this idea before you switch the tap off and flick the light switch, a faint ruffle as you dry your face with the towel.

'And I don't know if- hang on a second I can't seem to find my shirt, y'know that star wars one I like.'

The one with the faded print, and two sizes too large that you refuse to throw away because you say it's the most comfortable and he seethes silently, with a click of his tongue and a bite to his inner cheek, at Draken having seen you like that, in the shirt only he should know about, with your hair behind a headband and fastened with a claw clip- too intimate for him to feel comfortable with anyone but himself having access to.

‘I don’t know if he’d ever be happy with me, Ken. I don’t know if I could ever be enough for him, and I can’t set myself up for something that’s going to hurt more than it already does.’

You pad to the bedroom, leftovers in one hand, and your phone in the other, the lights flicked off as you pass, a faint shuffle as you slide into bed with a muted sigh and yawn. 

Hanma wonders- while he listens and while you talk- whether these are regular occurrences between you and Draken. How many have there been? Nights where you've talked to him while Hanma is away doing some job in some shady part of Tokyo and thinking about you all the same, determined not to say anything because the change could be the end for both of you and he’s not willing to risk it despite his many vices. How many times has Draken wished it was him, and how many times has he listened out of a love that you don’t yet reciprocate?

How long until you do?

And then, as you sniffle and your voice crackles under the weight of it. ‘I hate him, Ken.’

Hanma clutches his phone a little tighter, jaw clenched and ticking under his skin.

‘I hate him so much that the thought of him being with another girl makes me sick.  I hate the way he looks at me when we’re alone, the way he ruffles my hair and kisses me, the way he does things for me I haven’t even asked for. And I feel so fucking pathetic for falling for him when I knew what I was getting into. I’m so, so stupid.’

You’re quieter now, a sombre lilt and cadence to your voice as you mumble into the receiver. 

‘And y’know Ken, I wanted it to be him. At the end of it all, it was always him. I tried. I really did,’ you say, whispering against the fibres of your pillow pressed to your cheek. ‘I tried not to love him, I tried not to care. And I’m sorry, I should have tried harder, I know that.’

You shift, and hike a leg to your chest. ‘I’ll love him forever Ken. Even if I die, even if I get old and marry someone else, I’ll always wish it was him, and I’ll always wish I was brave enough to tell him.’

You take a breath, long and forlorn and heavy. ‘And I know in my heart he could never be sincere about me, that he doesn’t mean it and I’m just someone to play with. And I hate him so much that he’s all I think about. I count the minutes till I can see him again, till I hear his voice and it never changes, no matter what I do, how much I shut him out, it never goes away. It’s like…like I was made for him.’

You laugh, and it lacks mirth, full of heartache. ‘God, what an embarrassing thing to say.’

‘And I know I’m hard to love. I’m intense, needy, clingy, weird and off-putting and just not pretty enough to be someone he could love entirely- I don’t know, I’m getting tired Ken.’ You yawn again and roll over, taking the duvet with you as you fish blindly for the remote on the nightstand and it clinks against your water bottle as you sit up. ‘I just wish I could tell him. Just really wish I could say it and hear it back and that maybe I could be more than what I am to him. Because I love him, Ken. At the root of it all, that’s all I have to give him. And if he doesn’t want it then there’s nothing else. Even if I died, and it was because of him, I would forgive him immediately and even if he didn’t want me, I could love him because he deserves it. He deserves everyth-’

‘Dude, are you okay?’

Hanma flinches and jolts on the step, ripping the earphones out and shoving his phone deep into his pocket, the harsh flare of the sunset a burning cinder in his eyes as he squints up at Draken.

His tongue trips, teeth coated with a film of anxiety, jaw aching and tense as his head pulses with a lick of increasing pain. ‘Huh?’

‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost, you’re pale as shit. Are you good?’ Draken frowns and turns to glare at the single parked car, the sun a bloody orange and falling quickly behind the trees. ‘You’re here alone?’

Hanma freezes, sweat prickling at his neck, a kiss of apprehension and foreboding making a steady crawl along his spine. ‘Y-yeah. Why are you here? Thought you’d be busy.’

‘Hm? Moneymaker sent me to find you, said they’d left you here.’ And then, as an afterthought. ‘You look like shit.'

Hanma scratches at his neck and averts his eyes, thumbing his phone in his pocket. ‘Yeah, not feeling so good. Think I’ll just head home and sleep it off. Tell ‘saki I’ll be there tomorrow, or whatever.’

Draken raises an eyebrow, a long and hard look at Hanma who makes a show of standing and dusting the soot from his suit, his gaze anywhere that isn’t Draken, who eyes him as he walks off towards his car. 

Two things come to mind right then as he switches the heating on in the interior. 

The first is that he’s shivering, nervous. And it surprises him when he pulls down the mirror to see the sweat forming on his forehead, twitchy and tense as he presses it to the steering wheel. The second is that he got the message intended for Draken, which means Draken doesn’t know. 

He drums his lithe fingers on the wheel and pulls out his phone and your open chat tells him you’ve deleted the message. He wonders if you’re assuming he’s seen it, that it’s late and you’re too tired to be entirely thinking straight, that the alcohol in your system is hopefully blurring the lines enough for him to have time to think, that you’re pacing as you do, when you think you’ve done something wrong.

He types.

‘Hey Pretty Girl, you still awake?’

You respond immediately. ‘Just about, why?’

His fingers move fast, and he types and sends before he has a chance to backtrack, before the weight of it crushes him. 

‘I’m coming over, I wanna see you. Leave the door unlocked.’

He tosses his phone across the passenger seat, the vice clamping on his head now loosening, the pain warming and dissipating as he throws the car into reverse and speeds to your apartment, passing Draken who watches him leave in a plume of thick, grey smoke.

a/n: hi hiiii it's that time!!! my fav day of the year!! happy birthday to daddy my one and only, my heart and soul, the angel and darling of my life, my most beloved, the sun in my sky, you know who you are, i adore you.

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[sanzaibian]

“Sir, here are the Beatty files.” The young woman told me, handing a USB key.

I have heard a lot about these files. They were intercepted in the town after which they’re named by the secret services a while ago, but were encrypted in such a puzzling way that only now can we view them. And of course, I am the first one to be able to review its content.

I know a lot of things, as it is my job to be informed of anything and everything happening around the world. I know the plans of China over Taiwan, the successor to the Ayatollah, the contents of the talks between Putin and Kim Jong-un, and all the current US military strategy. In my line of work, everything can happen, yet at no single point could I make sense of the Beatty files. Nor could anyone else for that matter.

I excused the young woman, bidding to her my thanks for the deciphering team, and went to the unused laptop I had prepared. When it comes to matters of national security, I cannot afford to be careless, and let anyone unlicensed to get access to this. So brand new laptop, created by us, which has never been opened, to open these files.

And so I fiddled with the parameters a bit, entering the secret code, and inserted the USB key to view its contents. Inside were a few files, all of which videos. Their names were not informative, since I know for a fact that their original names were not recovered, so I just opened the first file in the list.

The video opened looking down in a white cubic room, meaning it was very likely a security camera recording. In addition, there was the time indicated on the bottom right, yet something felt weird about how it was displayed… 15:58… 15:59… 15:60 ???... 16:01, etc. Why is it not counting time correctly ? Nobody indicates time like this ! It’s wrong, it’s incorrect ! I just opened it and there’s already something I cannot in any way explain !

Taking a deep breath, I look at the center of the screen, in which I have a good view of a man sat in a chair. He has tanned skin, black hair and black stubble, and a very developed musculature. He looks to be a very attractive middle-eastern man, although I cannot say which ethnicity he precisely has.

The chair he’s sitting on is quite massive, and he looks almost as if he is… restrained in it ? Yes, there seems to be little handcuffs tethering him to the armchairs. But most striking are the numerous tubes going out from his arms, legs, torso and even head, linked to some types of medical appliances I cannot recognize, as well as to a sort of glass tank.

Suddenly, I notice the deep voice of a man. I up the volume, and hear… a language I cannot understand.

“Tzai en 19/03, 2:17, en tzoujkbruoi odogattzion program en Scipio Labratory. Ny hse Hk. Adtem, tzai widt nyn hskadiais, Sjd. Fingtrosy ÿ Sd. Vagohs, ÿ naum wom fill no tzoujketvÿsn ekspÿrians widt no #1073 bymarjen.”

At first I get some German vibes from it, but then it seems to be Polish, and then French… Whatever that language might be, it is not one I have ever heard. The man in the chair looks around, seemingly half-dazed, as if he was drugged. I don’t know what will happen to him, yet I get the feeling that it won’t be a desirable fate.

Suddenly, another voice, that of a woman by the looks of things, speaking in that same strange language.

“Hsüzmalhsÿv drël en im.”

Then a buzzer sound. There seems to be some white substance flowing inside the man’s body, through the tubes from the medical appliances. As it flows, I can see his eyes starting to become more droopy, before fluttering, and then closing. At the same time, his body starts floundering in the restraints, as if he was keeping himself from falling asleep. But as time went on and the white liquid ran dry, all of his muscles were relaxing and his stance become limp, like that of a dysfunctional robot. However, looking at his accelerating breathing rhythm, it seems to my trained eye that he is not actually asleep. It’s only his body refusing to function correctly.

“Drël ingkatzt. Etvÿsn harjimÿll.” Says another voice, deeper than the last one, but not as deep as the first one.

I don’t really know what’s happening. If the counter on the bottom-right of the screen wasn’t ticking up, I would have thought that the image was frozen. But then, suddenly, I can hear a low sound in the recording. And that sounds starts creeping higher and higher, as if something was charging up… Yeah, definitively charging up, since I almost saw some lightning sparks going off from the chair…

I don’t know what’s happening, but it seems to be malfunctioning. The sparks make themselves more and more intense, and it almost seems as if the machine is ready to explode...

Just as I say that, the first deep voice makes itself heard once again, but this time more in a frustrated or worried tone than an official one.

“Sel heont havy… Go huop sel hstill pÿrdont...”

But suddenly, the sparks stop, and while the sound doesn’t stop, beige liquid start flowing into the pipes… from the man to the tank ? What is that thing ? I don’t understand ! However, I can hear cries of rejoice in the audience, with all three voices I’ve heard since then saying incomprehensible stuff that I wouldn’t even be able to transcribe. I guess they also didn’t think… whatever this is would work ?

I take a drink from my water bottle as I keep an eye on the video. However, since I need to reach my bag, I cannot actively monitor it. Besides, according to what I hear, nothing of note seems to be happening... But when I have put down the bottle, I stop the video. I rub my eyes, but even then, I still see it.

The man seems smaller.

Somehow.

I go back in the video to the time where the man with the deepest voice sounded worried and… Yeah, looking like that, it’s even more apparent. The man has been losing mass. And the tanks have been filled by this beige skin-color liquid… Heh, if I didn’t know I was in reality, I would have said that this is muscle-juice, but this is ridiculous…

Especially since the body mass hasn’t been the only thing to change.

As I play back the video and continue through the long haul of high-pitch noise and not much else, I notice that the man’s stubble seems to be disappearing… and his head hair growing as well, somehow ? It almost seems as if he’s becoming less masculine by the second, if it even makes any sense, even though nothing about this video actually makesanysense. If I didn’t know who supplied it to me, I would have said this was a fake…

As his pecs were shrinking, his arms were thinning, his waist narrowing and his legs slimming, his stance almost seemed to be relaxing further – if it’s even possible. I mean, I don’t know ! It’s just the impression that I’m getting ! As the last of his stubble vanishes, at least according to what I can see through the pixels, he almost seems to be getting cuter ? Whence more relaxed ? Fuck, this makes absolutely no sense whatsoever…

Oh. I know why I get this impression. It’s not anymore weird or nonsensical, but at least in this context it seems to make sense… I think he also is losing height. Yes, actually. Height. It’s almost as if someone took the textbook definition of a “twink” and decided to impart its characteristic on this poor fellow – don’t ask me why I know what it is.

As I continue watching in horror, the woman’s voice says, gleefully :

“Entzony as hen !”

How can they sound so… happy ? Happy to torture a man like this ? To, quite visibly, drain his muscles into those tanks that look more and more full ? It just goes beyond me ! Don’t get me wrong, I’ve seen my fair share of horrible and unethical treatments, and a ton of unethical human experiments. But this by far takes the cake of the most disturbing thing I have ever seen ! They’re taking away what he is, his identity ! Him ! That’s the most cruel violation of human rights I have ever seen ! To gleefully disfigure someone like that…

The tanks have finished filling up, and the sound starts lowering in intensity. The man left looks only like a shadow of who he was. He still looks like himself, except devoid of any… meat, may I say ? When the machine was well and truly turned off, the deep voice rejoiced, seemingly announcing the success of that terrible plot.

“Fÿstyfuroll ! Oll fod havy kotzvong !”

Funnily enough, the first word made me think of “feast for all”, which just feels wrong given the context. On that, they all seem to have left the premises, as a nurse came in and untethered the poor man from all the equipment, and taking with her the tanks filled of muscle juice.

I continued watching, hoping that I would get to see the young man wake up.

And wake up he did, looking around, before standing up… and immediately falling. Presumably due to him not expecting to be this skinny. He then looked at himself, and had an utterly horrified look in his eyes, as if he was processing the fact that he was irremediably different.

He crawled towards the wall, and using that, he climbed back to standing, managing to take a position so that he could be looking at the camera.

And on that, the video suddenly stopped, leaving me on this freeze frame :

I absolutely don’t know what to do with that. Now I not only understand, but also feel how confused the secret services were by intercepting this message. It just seems wrong in so many ways, so much that… it might not even have occurred on Earth for all I know ! The language is unknown, but familiar. The way to count time is disturbing, but otherwise identical to ours. The events depicted are of typical mad experimentation, but in a manner that is unthinkable in my knowledge of the world.

I don’t have the strength to view any of the other videos, since they’re likely all the same amount of disturbing. So I close the laptop, and already starts asking myself the question I need to give an answer for my superiors :

Just what the hell are the Beatty files ?!

[ask-mobile-iterator-project]

To Perpetual Umbra:

A Crimson red pearl was noticed amongst fresh delivery and it came with attached message to it: "Greetings Perpetual Umbra, I hope Im of no inconvenience, but I would like to ask for the assistance. This particular data pearl contains valuable for me and my workgroup data, but in so far I was unable to decrypt and extract the data. Im unable to address my peers for assistance due to technical issues and I was hoping you might help with it" - WSS

Pearl appears to be indeed encrypted, but on such surface level it was surprising "WSS" couldn't access it. With minimal effort data was extracted and it contained quite the volume of old, even ancient, star charts and maps used for navigation and constellation charting. But amongst this all there was also.... a hymn. Put on autoplay it ring damaged by time song and words. Despite the damage first words of the hymn can be clearly heard and understood:

We're no strangers to love You know the rules and so do I A full commitment's what I'm thinking of You wouldn't get this from any other guy

The Mobile Iterator Project Askblog is now Permanently Closed. Thank you everyone for your submissions.

....not really. here's your response.

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

[COMMUNICATIONS RECEIVED]

Respondent(s): MIP_02 "Perpetual Umbra"

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

Luna's Notes: I wouldn't normally take an ask like this, but it spoke to me for some reason. ((the bit it was the bit it was the opportunity for The Bit)) . ask is of dubious canonicity as I'm sure there are methods of "trolling" within this universe but Rick Astley's famous song likely does not exist, unsurprisingly. 👍

[aziraphales-library]

I'm seeing so many season 2 "fix it" fics or things along that line which is great; but I feel like I'm missing fics on 2 very important things from the season:

1. Crowley reacting to Nina asking Aziraphale about the "naked man in your bookshop" in ep 1

2. Crowley reading/watching Jane Austen things after discovering that she was more than a criminal mastermind.

If you or your followers know of any fics along these lines, I would be eternally grateful! Thank you.

I've found a couple of Crowley reacting to "naked man friend", one featuring Crowley reading Jane Austen, and a couple that include Jane Austen herself...

Take a Big Cup; Put Six Shots of Jealousy in It, Nothing Else by Violencerarelyknocks (T)

Season 2: 6 shots of espresso scene I thought they moved way too quickly past "How's your naked man friend?", so I adjusted it a little. Jealous!Crowley

What Does It Matter by Multifandom_queer (T)

An alternative to how the "naked man" scene could have ended. Funny misunderstandings reveal many feelings. Teen rating for talks of sex but no actual sex

Pride & Prejudice and Pain by SharpCroft (G)

Struggling to move on, Crowley turns his anger on an unlikely source - The Complete Works of Jane Austen.

Of letters and diamonds by yellow_owl (G)

Aziraphale and Crowley find out how Jane Austen pulled off the 1810 Clerkenwell diamond robbery.

Such Means as Are Within My Reach by HC_Weatherfield (NR)

On her death, Jane Austen left Aziraphale a parting gift: a volume of her personal diary, encrypted in a code entirely of her own invention. When, quite by chance, Aziraphale discovers the key to the cipher, she is able to relive her past with this marvelous lady. The experience is quite different for Crowley, on every count.

well-versed in etiquette, extraordinarily nice by laiqualaurelote (G)

Once she had said to him, hoping to probe: “It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.” To which Mr Crowley had only responded: “What do you know of the universe, Miss Austen?” In which Jane Austen, criminal mastermind and aspiring novelist, pulls off the 1810 Clerkenwell Diamond Robbery, with the help of a certain demon.

- Mod D

[k-nayee]

In Silence, In Strategy The Hunger Games: The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes

wc: 3.3k a/n: been a while since I uploaded and decided to go ahead and post this beaut. hope y'all like!!

Traveler M.List

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ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ

You awoke to the sound of knocks—three precise taps against the heavy mahogany doors of your room.

The sunlight was already breached the tall latticed windows, pouring across the cold marble floor in gentle gold.

Morning had arrived without permission.

The door creaked open before your voice could find shape; three maids entered. Always three of them. Always silent except for what was necessary.

They moved like ghosts dressed in soft Capitol blue, each step echoing in the hollow space of your suite, their presence already set in motion.

“Morning Miss Ithecian,” the eldest said gently, carrying a steaming porcelain cup of tea, head bowed with a grace that still felt like mockery when it came from Capitol tongues. “It’s time.”

You sat up slowly without word. There was no need to respond—they would carry on regardless. Their hands knew what to do, and your body had long since learned to surrender to their rhythm.

You stared ahead as the morning ritual began.

One maid, small and soft-fingered, took off your sleeping bonnet with reverence, setting it aside before moving to your hair. She began to undo each twist by hand, fingers working with a practiced rhythm—unraveling each coil, combing from the base to fluff out volume, smoothing a light moisturizer between each pass.

Another began unlacing the night-corset you slept in, tugging at the back with firm efficiency. She pulls your nightgown off and lets it pool to your feet, exposing the soft, unblemished expanse of your skin.

A scent of  jasmine and neroli clung to you, the lingering trace of last night’s bath oils still strong.

The third maid approached with a polished black box cradled in her arms. When she lifted the lid, a faint shimmer of silk caught the morning light—unnecessary indulgent silk line the inside to protect the day's uniform like it was heirloom glass.

You raised your arms without a word, allowing the blouse—pure white, short-sleeved with gently puffed shoulders and a stiff starched collar—was drawn over your head.

They buttoned it from the front with care, smoothing it flat down your chest before carefully pinning the blood-red tie beneath the collar. Affixed at its center was the brooch: your family’s crest—a ship with a serpent carved along the hull. It glinted faintly, silent and watchful.

The red pleated skirt came next; drawn up your hips and fastened at the side with an invisible hook. It fell just to the knee, precise in length, every crease pressed as if by law. The black stockings—soft as breath—were rolled up your legs by practiced hands, their silken texture catching briefly at your knees.

You step into the lacquered red Mary Janes waiting near the foot of the bed. The silver buckles caught the light as the maid knelt to fasten them, one after the other. Sweet, prim, and perfectly Capitol—just not in the way they intended.

It was all so silent. So expected. So utterly empty.

And yet, somewhere in the quiet, while fingers threaded and zipped and tied, memory surged.

You were seven the day your world burned down in District 2.

The air then had smelled of ash and iron. Screams replaced the lullabies. Fire raging through the streets where your home had once stood.

Your family—a unit built on intellect and precision—was obliterated in the opening shadows of the Dark Rebellion.

Your mother was a tactician revered even in the Capitol’s oldest circles. Your father, a publisher of encrypted texts and wartime treatises that generals still quoted today. Your older brother a genius who could blueprints for silent drones even before he was allowed to drink. And your sister...she could dismantle any machine and rebuild it faster, stronger.

Gone. All of them. No graves. Only cinders.

You survived. Pulled from rubble by hands not your own.

And even now, years later, seated in the finest quarters of the Capitol, with maids dressing you like a prized pet, you could still hear the crackle of that fire.

Still feel the smoke clinging to your lungs.

Still remember the way your mother screamed your name one last time.

And yet the Ithecian name had outlived them. A name inked into Capitol archives—etched into theory, warfare, invention.

Their books—dense with strategy, science, and social critique—still sat on government shelves, in university vaults, quoted at banquets by those who only half-understood them. Strategy guides still bore your grandfather’s notes. Your grandmother’s philosophical analysis On the Human Element in Calculated Risk was required reading at the Academy.

When your family died the Plinths had taken you in—coddled and secured within their towering estate like a priceless artifact rescued from war to raise alongside their son Sejanus.

Capitol children never let him forget where he came from. They sneered at the Plinths’ wealth, earned not over generations but during the war—built in blood and iron, in weapons forged when the Capitol needed more death dealers.

But you—even tainted—were born of legacy.

They couldn’t ignore that.

But they still tried. They hissed at the mentioning of you. A title of 'District-flavored royalty' becoming the new synonym to those who found even speaking your name to be below them. A Capitol girl with District soot in her bones.

And yet they didn’t truly challenge you.

Because deep down, they knew. Your family had taught theirs how to win wars.

Your reflection in the glass stood tall and flawless, a porcelain doll of ancient brilliance and current suspicion.

*.·:·.☽✧✧☾.·:·.*

The grand staircase curved like an unfurled ribbon as you descended with composure, its marble steps glistening with the morning light that poured in through the domed glass ceiling.

Soft sunlight streamed through windows dressed in gauzy cream drapery, the scent of fresh citrus, toasted bread, and something floral from the garden seeped into the air.

At the sound of your polished heels meeting the floor of the dining atrium, Mrs. Plinth looked up from her cup and practically lit with delight.

“Sweetheart you look stunning,” she gasped, rising half from her chair as though drawn by sheer affection. “Like a painting come to life.” Her smile crinkled the corners of her powdered cheeks, glowing with such open pride it nearly outshone the sun.

You smiled back, warm but measured. Always warm with her. It was easy.

Sejanus stood too fast; his breakfast knife clattered from the sudden movement.

“Y-you always look amazing!” he blurted, voice cracking slightly and breathlessly. He was dressed in his academy issued uniform—a stark contrast from your personally tailored one. His curls were slightly damp, as though he’d rushed his bathing to be at the table before you arrived.

Mr. Plinth, predictably, didn’t rise. But he glanced over the top of his paper with a grunt that somehow managed to carry weight and approval in equal measure. “Capitol royalty if you ask me.”

You offered a nod, another smile—this one smaller but genuine—and took your place beside Sejanus. “Thank you.”

On the table, long and elegant with its cherrywood gloss, was a second tea service with more additions than before: a plate crustless cinnamon toast bites, a small bowl of honey (not sugar) to sweeten the beverage.

They remembered. Of course they did. This household had your patterns and tastes memorized.

The Plinths didn’t merely raise you. They adored you.

From the moment you were brought in, small and silent, ash still clinging to the hem of your coat from the destruction in District 2, they had welcomed you like a long-lost daughter.

Your father and Strabo Plinth had shared more than business; they had shared philosophies, theories, a bond forged beyond where the weight of one's lineage determined status. Your mother and Mrs. Plinth had written to each other with the intimacy of sisters—discussing recipes, book edits, secrets about courtships,  and the burdens of intellect.

So when the fire took your family there had never been a question of what came next. You belonged with them.

As you reached for the cloth napkin—

“Miss Ithecian,” a maid suddenly appears. “Your gloves.”

You paused at her words and glanced down at the folded coverings. They were silk, black as ink and custom stitched.

Before you could reach out and grab them Sejanus intercepted. “I don’t mind!” he said, voice softer now, almost shy. “I can...if you’d let me, I mean.”

You turned slightly in your seat, angled toward him. He was still flushed at the cheeks, trying not to look too proud of himself for speaking up. Something flickered behind his eyes—something devoted, something a little scared.

You had seen that look before.

When you were both younger and he scraped his palms climbing trees you dared him to climb first. When he held your hand at your family’s funeral and refused to let go until you told him to.

You didn’t speak. Just slowly lifted your hands out to him—palms down, fingers soft and open.

Sejanus' breath caught. Just barely. But you felt it.

With great care he took the left glove first then guided your hand inside. Silk slid over your fingers, smooth as breath. He adjusted each finger, tugging gently to perfect the fit at the wrist with feather-light precision. Then the right.

His eyes stayed fixed on the task the entire time, touch brushing against your knuckles with reverence.

“There,” he whispered once it was done. “Perfect.”

Your lashes fluttered. “Thank you, Sejanus.” You went back to your tea as he preened beside you.

Across the table Mrs. Plinth sighed with thinly veiled delight. Mr. Plinth had returned to his paper, but he wasn’t reading. You could see the faint smirk behind the page.

It wasn't long before Mrs. Plinth resumed talking, as she always did—gossiping softly about daily news: a Peacekeeper’s daughter caught sneaking out with a performer... the fabrics arriving from the outer cities.... new peace treaties being proposed.

Mr. Plinth didn’t comment. He was absorbed in his paper, as usual, occasionally flicking a page or snorting at a statistic. But he’d lean slightly toward you when a name or topic of interest appeared, as if waiting for your opinion before forming his own.

Beside you Sejanus nudged his plate in your direction.  “Here,” he said lightly, “take the [favorite fruit] slices. You like them better than I do.”

He always did that—offering his toast when yours had cooled, or nudging the berries he knew you liked closer to your side.

You took the [fruit] slice from his plate and took a bite.

Sejanus beamed.

It was easy, sometimes, to forget how much he idolized you.

He looked at you like you were made of sun and stone. Like he would carve his whole world to fit around yours if you asked. Even now, his gaze would drop when you looked directly at him, as if overwhelmed by being seen.

You remembered, once, when you were children and he'd tried to catch a scorpion beetle for you—simply because you'd pointed at it once and said it was beautiful.

He got stung. His hand swelled for days. And yet he didn't cry. Just smiled at you like he'd do it again.

Sejanus wasn’t a strategist. He didn’t think in moves and countermoves. He was good-hearted, idealistic, easily led.

Easily guided.

That made him useful.

The quiet notion of marriage had never come from the Plinths.

It was your family, back when they were still alive, who first floated the idea. They had seen it clearly: the softness in him, the blind loyalty, the eagerness to please.

To them the path had been obvious. If the Ithecian name was to survive—if your lineage of thinkers and builders was to remain more than myth—it needed power behind it. Wealth. Status.

And Sejanus, sweet as he was, came with a family whose vaults had grown fat on the spoils of war. A family who'd earned their fortune by hammering weapons for the Capitol during the darkest years of rebellion.

The marriage had been suggested—not for love, but for legacy.

If she chooses it, your mother had once written to your father, let her. She will steer that house without ever raising her voice. The boy adores her. She’ll never have to force him.

And she was right.

You could have had it all. The name. The empire. The keys to the Plinth dynasty, just by curling your fingers and letting Sejanus put a ring on them.

The Plinth fortune in Ithecian hands. You as the bridge between intellect and resource.

But you had a soft spot for Sejanus.

He was your best friend—your constant, your emotional tether in a city of masks and poisoned smiles. He gave you half his breakfast without a second thought. He laughed at your rare jokes like they were the best things he’d ever heard. He kept your secrets not because you demanded it, but because it never occurred to him not to.

He loved you.

You didn’t want to break him to make him obedient. You didn’t want to rule by sheer force of will, even if you could.

No.

You would sit beside him. Whisper in his ear. Let him think the ideas were his, when they had been born in the quiet corners of your mind the night before. You would never dominate. That was not the kind of power you wanted.

And so you sipped your tea, gloves on, posture serene as Sejanus steal glances at you like you were the first snowfall of the year.

And you let him.

*.·:·.☽✧✧☾.·:·.*

The silver tray with empty cups and plates was whisked away by servants as Mrs. Plinth busied herself, fussing with delicate speed as she retrieved two satchels from the standing coat rack by the front foyer.

She was glowing. Practically vibrating.

“Oh my stars, look at you two,” she cooed, clutching the bags to her chest for a second like she might burst with emotion. “First day—for the both of you! I can hardly stand it.”

Sejanus stood by the door, shifting excitedly from foot to foot like a dog waiting for a walk. He grinned as she pressed his bag into his arms, brushing invisible dust from his lapels for the third time since leaving the breakfast table.

You moved to meet Mrs. Plinth as she handed you the bag marked with your family’s sigil—an older emblem, gold-stamped and faint from time, but intact. She tucks a straying curl back as if you were still a child, though you barely blinked.

“There,” she murmurs, a glint of quiet pride in her eyes. “A picture. The very future of the Capitol.”

You gave her a gracious nod. She meant it. You could tell.

The driver was already waiting at the base of the marble stairs—hat tucked low, posture straight beside the open back door of the sleek tinted car. The Plinth insignia gleamed on the doors.

Mrs. Plinth followed you to the steps, her hands light on your backs as she rambled. “Now I packed extra water in your side compartments. And a little tin of biscuits. Sejanus don’t eat hers before lunch. I mean it!”

He flushes at the accusation. “Ma!”

You turned to her just before getting in, dipping your head in gratitude. “I’ll make sure he behaves.”

“Oh I know you will,” she replies with a wink.

The car slowly began to drive away as you sank into the leather seat—the scent of clean leather and citrus polish enveloping you, the window shielding you in that comfortable tint.

Sejanus was already talking before the vehicle had fully merged into traffic.

“I can’t believe it,” he said, bouncing slightly in his seat. “You’re actually coming to school! Like really coming! I mean I always said you should, but I didn’t think you would. Everyone’s going to lose it. No one even believed me when I said you’d be enrolling one day. They thought I was making it up just to get attention.”

You gave him a sidelong glance, the corner of your mouth twitching.

He caught himself. “Not that it matters what they think. But still! This is going to change everything. They’ll see. Once you’re in the classroom, they’ll see.”

You listened. Not nodding out of agreement, but habit. He didn’t notice the difference.

He kept going.

“And I can’t wait to introduce you to Coriolanus! He’s...a little intense sometimes but I think you’ll get alongI think. He’s sharp. Really sharp. You two would talk circles around everyone.”

Your face stayed still. Almost.

Just a faint shift in your brow. A tightening behind your eyes.

Snow.

You’d never met him. Never exchanged a single word. But you knew more than enough.

You’d watched from the silence of your room when he visited, footsteps echoing against the marble floor outside your door.

You never came down. You listened instead. Noticed how Mrs. Plinth’s voice changed slightly when he was around. Noticed how Sejanus laughed too loudly, always trying.

But it wasn’t the boy that caught your interest—it was his shadow.

So you researched; quietly and strategically. Just as your parents taught you.

You traced his lineage back through redacted records and archived mentions. The Snow family—a name steeped in once-glory—now dripping in desperation.

You knew about the penthouse he clung to—its fading grandeur polished daily to hide the rotting edges. You knew about his mother dying while giving birth to him, his grandmother who spoke more to the past than the present, and the cousin who stitched his clothes by hand, pretending not to notice when he grew thinner each season.

And oh did you know about him.

A Capitol boy born with nothing left but pride. Raised with entitlement but no cushion to soften the fall. A creature of careful smiles and sharpened hunger.

Coriolanus Snow didn’t trust anyone because he couldn’t afford to.

You respected that. But you didn’t trust him either. Especially not with Sejanus.

“He’ll love you,” Sejanus was saying again. “I just know it.”

You let a beat of silence pass. Then another.

“He sounds...charming,” you murmured finally, your voice flat as glass.

Sejanus grinned, oblivious.

You’d grown up in the shadow of great minds. Your parents taught you to read people the way they read schematics. To learn their flaws by how they talked about themselves. To listen for what wasn’t being said.

That’s why you stayed silent.

That’s why, every time Coriolanus had come to visit the Plinth residence—and he had, more than once—you’d remained in your room.

Not out of fear. Not out of disdain.

But control.

You needed to watch from a distance. To understand the shape of the threat before engaging.

And now you would be stepping into the same space as him. Deliberately.

Your first real public appearance.

The Capitol's gossip vines had already tangled with your name for years:

A Plinth by adoption... An Ithecian by blood... The girl behind the glass.... The one who didn’t go to parties... Who stayed home during galas... Who vanished up the stairs whenever guests arrives....

Now you were showing yourself. In uniform. In flesh.

The Plinth car turned the final corner, coasting down the final slope toward the Academy’s grand front steps where the building loomed, pristine and imperial. Even through the tinted glass you saw them—the students.

They noticed the car immediately.

Faces turned as a ripple of speculation passed through the crowd.

Sejanus reached for the handle. “Alright, let’s go—”

“I’ll wait.”

He blinks, hand pausing mid-air. “Wait? Why?”

You kept your voice soft and measured. “I’d rather enter with a professor. Less...pressure.”

It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the truth either.

Sejanus relaxed instantly, concern melting into understanding. “Oh. Of course. Yeah. That’s totally fine.”

He smiled again, hopeful and warm. “Me and Coriolanus’ll be waiting for you alright? You don’t have to worry.”

Your lips pressed together, unreadable. “Go.”

And he did.

He stepped out into the Capitol air and closed the door behind him with a click, already scanning for Coriolanus, heart on his sleeve.

You stayed behind, watching as the students part around Sejanus—some acknowledging him with smiles laced in politeness, others barely hiding their disdain.

You saw the curiosity bloom on their faces as they peered toward the car again, wondering....waiting.

But you made them wait. Because control was power. And you’d never let them see you before you were ready.

Not Coriolanus. Not the Academy.

Not anyone.

[komatsudaya]

RKRN Rikichi & Komatsuda Moments (w/summaries and translations)

While there's a good amount of information out there in English about Nintama Rantarou, it feels like there's much less about the original manga, Rakudai Ninja Rantarou. To help fix that even just a little bit...

…I put together a guide to all the times Rikichi and Komatsuda appear together in the manga, with summaries and translations.

(I've also got a WIP guide to Rikichi + Komatsuda moments in the anime, which I'll eventually get around to formatting so I can post it on here. For now, here's a shameless plug to the current iteration.)

Quick list:

Vol 21, pages 221, 234 Vol 22, page 238 (in disguise) Vol 23, pages 161-167, 205 Vol 27, pages 100-106, 109 Vol 30, pages 76-79 Vol 32, pages 59-63, 81, 86-87, 90-92, 104, 114 (all in disguise), 119 Vol 44, pages 75, 86-90, 111-112, 118, 120, 132 (111-132 in disguise), 134, 143-144 Vol 57, pages 43, 120-124

Summaries and translations

Vol 21

Pages 221, 238

The first time they appear together is this panel, from the same chapter in which Komatsuda is reintroduced as the school's newest employee. They're entirely across the room from each other, but hey, it counts. They also both appear in a panel at the end of the volume, but they don't interact.

Vol 22

Page 238 (in disguise)

This is the first time they're actually seen interacting with each other, though Rikichi is in disguise at the time.

Komatsuda speaks of Rikichi casually, so they must've seen each other at least a few times before this. I'm sure Rikichi got a surprise the first time he came to the school and had Komatsuda chase after him to sign in.

Vol 23

Pages 161-167, 205

Now we're getting to some real interactions! This story focuses on a plot to get a warship schematic to the pirates; to avoid having it stolen by the Dokutake, the plan is to have each student memorize a part of it then have the pirates put all the parts together and decipher it using an encryption chart. Unfortunately, Komatsuda was the person chosen to deliver this chart.

Rikichi meets up with the teachers and students of 1-Ha to relay what happened when he ran into Komatsuda earlier.

From the way he speaks, it seems Rikichi has interacted enough with Komatsuda to have a pretty clear idea of how the boy tends to operate. On his way to the ocean, Komatsuda spots what looks to be a person laying in the bushes and goes to help them. “Komatsuda is such a kind person,” Rantarou says, to which Rikichi replies, "Kind, sure. But careless."

Komatsuda gets a closer look at the body and finds that it's just a doll. "Komatsuda!" Rikichi calls out, emerging from the nearby trees. "Don't pick up that doll!" When Komatsuda inevitably lifts it up...

(Earlier in the story, a doll resembling Yamada was used as a decoy since Yamada originally had the ship schematics)

After Komatsuda falls in the hole, Rikichi loses his trail. Don't worry, Komatsuda is safe and sound! And he even manages to hold onto the encryption chart.

Vol 27

Pages 95-99 (in disguise), 100-106, 109

This story revolves around explosives master Tadadouzen, who was kidnapped by the Dokuajirogasa ninja because he created a new type of artillery shell. Just when it looks like Komatsuda and Shinbei are going to be captured by a pair of Dokuajirogasa, one of the ninja who'd cornered them takes off his disguise and reveals himself as Rikichi… who is then interrupted by Danzou flying in and knocking the other Dokuajirogasa ninja out.

The kids are excited to go on a rescue mission, but ponder how Rikichi knows where Tadadouzen is. After giving them a murderous glare, Rikichi reminds them that the other Dokuajirogasa ninja just blurted it out: Tadadouzen is under the tea room near the back of the grounds. They go and search the room, but pulling the floorboards up reveals nothing. Shinbei gets glued to the wall by his snot, and when Rikichi pulls him off, it reveals…

For once it's not Komatsuda who causes Rikichi trouble, but Shinbei, who trips when getting into the stairwell. Komatsuda is still technically the one hitting Rikichi, but details. They find Tadadouzen and bust him out.

Rikichi carries the sensei, and Komatsuda is tasked with carrying the shell prototype that Tadadouzen made while imprisoned. From there, the group meets up with the rest of 1-Ha and we don't see Rikichi and Komatsuda together for the rest of the chapter.

Vol 30

Pages 76-79

Somebody ordered a case of fans from Komatsudaya, and Komatsuda was tasked with delivering them to the customers at Mushroom Valley… but he left the store before he learned exactly who the customers were. Everyone suspects it might be ninja who are planning on using them to perform the Kasumiougi no Jutsu (where ninja place poison inside a folding fan then blow the poison at their enemies). While in town, the group runs into Yamada and Rikichi.

The kids of 1-Ha ask Rikichi about his work. When Doi chides them, Rikichi says:

This is one of my favorite panels. The framing of Komatsuda staring blankly into the sky while standing behind Rikichi is beautiful.

Rikichi sheds some light on the situation: while investigating the Dokuajirogasa's use of poison for assassination, he found a group of Dokuajirogasa ninja waiting for someone in Mushroom Valley.

There Rikichi goes, zero to sixty in a second flat. I really like the addition in the anime where Rikichi gets caught up in Komatsuda's pace and cheerfully replies “Take care!” to Komatsuda before he yells at him, but Rikichi is too much of a brat in RKRN to say something like that. He's at least enough of a brat to then sarcastically praise Komatsuda, who's a little too dense to pick the sarcasm up.

Rikichi leaves after that.

Vol 32

Pages 59-63, 81, 86-87, 90-92, 104, 114 (all in disguise), 119

A suspicious leaflet advertising ninja work draws a motley crowd of professional and would-be ninja, including Komatsuda and his brother, Yuusaku. Their task is to sneak into a certain castle's outpost and retrieve some hidden documents. Just as they're all about to start the job, Rikichi disguises himself as Yuusaku and takes the man's place without anybody else knowing.

While it's probably the role least likely to draw attention to him, disguising himself as Yuusaku also means he'll be in constant contact with Komatsuda's, shall we say, personality. It doesn't take the usually professional Rikichi long to start breaking character. Luckily for him, nobody else had met Yuusaku before.

Rikichi does get some professional points back for his intel-gathering, as he's picked up some insider info on the Komatsuda brothers. He also helps throughout the job by supplying his ninja expertise, some of which he justifies Yuusaku knowing by saying things like "I make fans, so I have to be good at measuring angles."

Apart from the Rikichi and Komatsuda content, these chapters are great because we get to see expressions on Yuusaku's face that we'd never otherwise see. He makes lots of grumpy and cool expressions.

This is also the only time Rikichi (technically) calls Komatsuda by his first name:

We also learn the extent of Rikichi's skill and/or Komatsuda's obliviousness, as Rikichi was able to stuff an entire matchlock in Komatsuda's clothes without him noticing.

Rantarou eventually catches on that a civilian like Yuusaku couldn't possibly have the skills and knowledge that the man with them is displaying, and Rikichi takes off his disguise. Komatsuda confesses that he had absolutely no idea that his brother had been Rikichi in disguise, and then Rikichi says The Line.

“イライラするんだ君���見ていると!!”

From there, Rikichi leaves the group to complete a task elsewhere. I'm sad that Yuusaku was cut from the anime adaptation of this story; at least we finally got to see him in ninja clothes in season 31.

Vol 44

Pages 75, 86-90, 111-112, 118, 120, 132 (111-132 in disguise), 134, 143-144

Bouta brings news that something is stirring in Kikurage Castle: bad rumors are being spread about the castle's young master, and a beloved new vassal may actually be an enemy infiltrator. When Rikichi arrives at the scene, he spots a group of enemy Tofuntake ninja waiting for a signal to begin an ambush on Kikurage Castle. Unfortunately, when he leaves to bring this intel to the castle...

...he's interrupted by Komatsuda. They fall to the ground, Komatsuda right on top of Rikichi. And why did Komatsuda come to see Rikichi?

The next time we see Komatsuda, he's been captured by Kikurage ninja who found him wandering around the castle and took him for a Tofuntake ninja thanks to a letter that had been hidden in his collar. Komatsuda claims innocence and ignorance.

After the suspected vassal is exposed as a Tofuntake ninja, Rikichi reveals that he'd been disguised as a Kikurage ninja and had given Komatsuda the letter in order to perform the Hotarubi no Jutsu (wherein a ninja uses a fake document to lure the enemy out). Komatsuda, however, had no idea that he was going to be used for such a purpose. So Rikichi went back to "help" Komatsuda by giving him the letter... purely for his own goals. I adore the way Rikichi spins Komatsuda out of his ropes.

After everything settles down, the group departs. Rikichi is about to leave when Komatsuda drops a bomb on him:

Vol 57

Pages 43, 120-124

While running in the forest, Yamada and Shinbei come across a meeting between two ninja from different castles. After they return to the school, Rikichi briefly comes by to give a message to his father and the two of them set out after the ninja they saw, with Komatsuda in pursuit of their signatures. I love, love, love that Rikichi looks like he's having fun being chased by Komatsuda, like he's playing a little game with him.

The two ninja they saw were from Oomagatoki and Kawataredoki Castle, two castles which hate each other. It turns out the ninja are part of a group of Komatsuda's kouhai who graduated from the same ninjutsu school and are having a reunion picnic despite being on opposing sides. In order to throw off the suspicions of a pair of Oomagatoki ninja who came to investigate, the ninja fake a battle between themselves.

After the fake battle, a certain someone who was forgotten in the hustle and bustle returns to finally get Rikichi to sign in and out. Komatsuda almost manages to sneak up on Rikichi, but the man detects him at the last moment and shouts "Who's there?" before Komatsuda bursts out of the bushes wielding the sign-in sheet.

Some people might say that Rikichi was off his game, but maybe it's just a sign that Komatsuda is improving?

The graduate ninja say they don't think they're really cut out to be pro ninja and want to become "amazing clerks just like our senpai, Komatsuda!" which makes the boy in question blush.

And that's it! That's the last time they appear in the same panel!

I like that the manga and anime have different flavors of Rikichi and Komatsuda. Compared to the anime, their interactions in the manga certainly tend to be a bit more… forceful, I suppose I'd say, though much of that lies in how surly Rikichi is in the manga compared to the anime. Despite that one-sided antagonism on Rikichi's part, he shows an understanding of Komatsuda (though sometimes the boy defies common sense). He knows he can get away with being sarcastic with Komatsuda; he knows that to be subtle with Komatsuda is a losing game - except when he can use that obtuseness to his advantage. He even plays around with the boy because he knows that when he runs, Komatsuda chases after.

Komatsuda, for his part, can show a surprising amount of insight about Rikichi at times - except, of course, when it comes to understanding when Rikichi gets angry at him. The biggest example would be in volume 44 when he busts out the real reason Rikichi is avoiding his father. Komatsuda is someone who tends to forget or overlook things, but he also has good instincts. In the same volume, he can also immediately see that the smile Rikichi gives is all business, even though earlier in the series he took Rikichi's sarcasm at face value. Perhaps he'd observed Rikichi enough to be able to spot the difference.

Rikichi gets mad at, well, pretty much everybody throughout the course of the manga, but he shows a special ire towards Komatsuda probably because every interaction with the boy can turn into an exercise in chaos. When Rikichi says "go," he doesn't know if Komatsuda will go or stop or slam right into reverse. They're like oil and water, and Komatsuda is a flood.

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

For completion's sake, two other moments to note:

Vol 22, chapter 8: Both of them appear in the early pages of this chapter and are presumably in the same space, but we never see them in the same panel. Similarly, they both appear throughout vol 27, chapter 4, but only show up together in the same panel once at the beginning.

Vol 43, page 224: Komatsuda brings Yamada a package from his wife, so Komatsuda either a) got it directly from Rikichi, or b) picked it up from where Rikichi left it at the school, which means Rikichi would've needed to sign in/out.

[xoxorealitygalore]

Fast & Furious: The Mother

Luke Hobbs x OC

Summary: An assassin comes out of hiding to rescue her daughter, whom she left earlier in life.

Fast & Furious presents The Mother: Family runs deep. Vengeance runs deeper.

Part One

The Call

The shrill ring of the phone sliced through the quiet of the night, its sound jarring and insistent. Veda Burgos, former U.S. Army operative turned private contractor, sat upright in her bed, the sheets tangled around her legs. The room was dimly lit by the soft glow of a bedside lamp, casting long shadows on the walls. She reached for the phone with a practiced calm, her fingers brushing against the cool metal before lifting it to her ear.

"Veda," the voice on the other end was low, gravelly, and unmistakable.

"Luke," she replied, her voice steady despite the rush of emotions the mere sound of his name stirred within her. "It's been a while."

"Too long," he agreed. There was a pause, a hesitation that spoke volumes. "I need your help."

Her heart skipped a beat. "What happened?"

"Samantha's been taken," he said, the words heavy with urgency. "By Dante Reyes."

The name hit her like a physical blow. Dante Reyes, the son of Hernan Reyes, the criminal mastermind whose empire had once threatened to engulf them all. She had crossed paths with Dante before, during a mission that had nearly cost her everything. She had thought him dead, a casualty of their last encounter. But now, he was back, and he had their daughter.

"Where is she?" Veda's voice was sharp, her mind already shifting into mission mode.

"Cap-Haitien, Haiti," Luke replied. "I have a team ready, but I need you to lead it. You're the only one who knows how he thinks."

Veda closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. The weight of the situation settled over her like a cloak. She had left that life behind, the life of danger and constant peril. But family, her daughter was a line she would never cross. She had trained for this, lived for this. And now, she would return to it.

"I'm in," she said, her voice unwavering.

Veda clenched her jaw, her voice calm but steel-laced. “Send me the coordinates. I’m coming.”

The next few hours were a blur of activity. Veda moved through her home with precision, gathering gear, reviewing intel, and contacting old allies. She hadn't anticipated returning to the field, but the urgency of the situation left no room for hesitation.

Her home, once a sanctuary, now felt like a staging ground. Maps of Haiti were spread out on the dining table, red pins marking known locations of Dante's operations. Satellite images flickered across her laptop screen, each one scrutinized for any clue that might lead her to Samantha.

She donned her tactical gear which was black combat boots, cargo pants, a fitted shirt, and a vest equipped with various tools and weapons. Her hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, and her face was set in a mask of determination. She was ready.

As she prepared to leave, her phone buzzed with a message from Luke: Meet me at the airstrip in one hour.

She nodded to herself, grabbed her bag, and headed out the door.

Her flight was silent. Charter jet. Off-grid.

She read the intel Hobbs sent which was brief, encrypted, clinical. Samantha had been targeted because of her bloodline. Dante Reyes was continuing the legacy of his father Hernan, using violence and vendettas to break those who destroyed his empire. Hobbs had crossed him.

Now Dante wanted blood.

But he made one mistake.

He took a mother’s daughter.

The Airstrip

The sun hung low over the Haitian horizon, casting long gold streaks across the tarmac. A private airstrip carved out of jungle and salt-worn stone buzzed with quiet urgency. Two Falcon aircraft idled nearby, their engines humming like thunder on standby.

The crew which consisted of Dominic Toretto, Letty Ortiz, Tej Parker, Roman Pearce, Han, Gisele, Tess, and Ramsey stood in a loose semi-circle near the cargo hold, double-checking their gear and loading crates of weapons and tech.

The stillness broke as the black SUV tore across the dusty runway. It skidded to a stop near the group, and Hobbs stepped out of the driver’s side, towering as ever in tactical gear, his jaw clenched tight.

He rounded the vehicle and opened the passenger door. And she stepped out. Fierce. Dressed in matte-black fatigues. Her brown eyes were sharp, scanning the team in an instant. She moved like a soldier, quiet and precise. The air shifted with her presence.

Everyone straightened.

“Damn,” Roman muttered, under his breath. “Who’s the queen of shadow ops?”

Hobbs raised a hand. “Listen up.” The murmurs died. All eyes turned to him.

“This is Veda Burgos. She’s ex-Army Spec Ops, classified black-tier contractor, and she’s saved my ass more times than I can count.” He turned toward her, his voice softer, but still heavy with weight. “She’s also my wife. Or... was.”

Veda gave a slight nod. “Let’s not get distracted by titles.”

Letty arched a brow, folding her arms. “So you’re the one we’ve heard absolutely nothing about.”

Dom, calm but observant, extended a hand. “Welcome.”

She took it. Firm grip. No hesitation.

“We’re going after my daughter,” Veda said, looking from face to face. “Samantha. You all know what we’re up against. But I need you to understand something, this isn’t just another mission. If we don’t get to her in time, Dante Reyes won’t just use her to get to Hobbs. He’ll break her to get to me.”

The team nodded, silently absorbing her words. Hobbs stepped beside her. “She’s the best there is. And I trust her with my life.”

Roman cleared his throat. “Okay, but real quick—how come we’ve never heard of her before? Like, never? Not even in a 'back-in-the-day' story?”

Tej elbowed him. “Because that’s what real ghosts do, man. They don’t leave stories.”

Veda gave Roman a small, deadly smile. “Let’s just say I wasn’t on the party circuit.”

Ramsey clicked her tablet, bringing up a holographic 3D map of the compound.

“Glad you’re here. We need every hand we can get,” she said. “Dante’s fortified the site with military-grade tech, infrared sensors, heavy weapons, and a kill-switch on the prison floor.”

“Then we go in silent,” Veda said. “We ghost the perimeter, neutralize the guards, and extract the asset, my daughter. No noise, no mistakes.”

Letty smirked. “I like her.”

Han stepped forward, nodding. “So do I.”

Hobbs looked at them all, then down the runway toward the rising heat waves.

“Gear up,” he growled. “We leave in fifteen.”

Veda turned back to the Falcon jet, walking shoulder to shoulder with Hobbs. For the first time in years, they moved like they used to do. One rhythm, one mission.

Hobbs slightly turned his head to her, his eyes scanning her form before settling on her face.

"You look the same," he said, his voice tinged with something she couldn't quite place.

"Time hasn't been kind to you," she replied, her tone teasing but with an edge of sincerity.

He offered a small smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Let's get to work."

As she climbed the ramp, Veda paused and looked over at him. “Of course,” she said. “This is about bringing my daughter home. And I’ll burn the world down to do it.”

He didn’t doubt her.

And as the Falcon lifted off the runway, slicing through the Haitian dusk, they followed her lead into the storm.

Cap-Haitien

The jet touched down in Cap-Haitien under the cover of darkness. The humid air hit Veda as she stepped onto the tarmac, the scent of saltwater and earth mixing in the night air. She adjusted her gear, her senses sharpening as she surveyed the surroundings.

Luke joined her, his presence a steadying force. "Intel suggests Dante's compound is about five clicks from here," he said, consulting a handheld device. "We move out in ten."

Veda nodded, her mind already calculating the best route. She trusted Luke's information, but she would verify it herself. She always did.

The team assembled, a mix of seasoned operatives and local contacts. They moved out swiftly, navigating through the dense jungle underbrush, their movements coordinated and silent. Veda led the way, her instincts guiding her through the terrain.

As they neared the compound, the sounds of the jungle faded, replaced by the eerie quiet of the enemy's stronghold. Veda signaled for the team to halt, her eyes scanning the perimeter.

"Two guards at the entrance," she whispered. "We take them out silently, then breach."

Luke gestured for the team to spread out, each member taking their assigned position. Veda and Luke moved in tandem, their actions fluid and precise. Within moments, the guards were neutralized, their bodies hidden from view.

They approached the compound's main building, a fortified structure that loomed ominously in the moonlight. Veda crouched beside the door, assessing the best way to gain entry.

"Explosives?" Luke suggested.

Veda shook her head. "Too risky. We go in quiet."

She produced a small device from her belt and attached it to the door's lock mechanism. Within seconds, it clicked open. She pushed the door slightly ajar, peering inside.

The interior was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of mildew and decay. They moved in, their footsteps muffled by the worn floorboards.

They navigated the labyrinthine hallways of the compound, each turn bringing them closer to their goal. The tension was real, every shadow a potential threat. Veda's hand hovered near her weapon, ready for anything.

They reached a reinforced door at the end of a narrow corridor. Veda signaled for the team to halt. She approached the door, listening for any sounds from within. Hearing nothing, she placed her ear against the cold metal, her senses straining.

A faint sound like a muffled sob reached her ears. Her heart clenched. It was Samantha.

She turned to Luke, her expression hardening. "She's in there."

Luke nodded grimly. "Let's move."

They breached the door, weapons raised. Inside, the room was empty but there was a monitor playing a video of a crying Samantha.

“You really think I would make this easy for you, Hobbs,” Dante’s voice crackled over comms. “And hello, Veda, nice of you to come out of hiding. I look forward to meeting you again,” He chuckled.

Veda's fists clenched at her sides, her knuckles whitening. Anger surged within her, hot and fierce. But beneath that anger was a cold, calculating resolve. Dante had made a grave mistake. He had underestimated them.

They boarded the jet once more, the engines roaring to life as it taxied down the runway. Veda settled into her seat, the familiar hum of the aircraft grounding her. She pulled up the mission parameters on her tablet, reviewing them once again. Dante Reyes was a dangerous adversary, a man who had orchestrated chaos and destruction with a twisted sense of justice. He had taken their daughter, and for that, he would pay.

Luke sat across from her, his gaze fixed on the horizon. The silence between them was thick, laden with unspoken thoughts and shared history. It was a silence that spoke of battles fought and lost, of promises made and broken. But it was also a silence that spoke of unity, of a bond forged in the crucible of adversity.

"How has she been?" Veda asked, her voice breaking the stillness.

Luke's eyes softened, a flicker of warmth amidst the storm. "She's been strong," he replied. "Just like her mother."

Veda smiled faintly, her heart swelling with pride. Samantha had always been resilient, a trait she had inherited from both of them. She was their daughter, their flesh and blood, and she had the strength to endure whatever Dante threw her way.

But Veda knew that strength alone wouldn't be enough. They needed more. They needed the full force of the Hobbs family.

"We need your brothers," Veda said, her tone brokering no argument.

Luke's expression hardened, a flicker of defiance in his eyes. "Absolutely not," he said, his voice low and firm.

There was no way Luke was involving his eight younger brothers: Jonah, Mateo, Kal, Timo, Enele, Enoka, Laki, and Fetu in this. They had their own lives, their own battles. This was his fight, his responsibility.

But Veda was unyielding. "This is about Samantha," she said. "We need more people to rescue her."

Luke met her gaze, the weight of her words sinking in. She was right. They couldn't do this alone.

With a heavy sigh, Luke relented. "Take the jet to Samoa," he told the pilot.

As the jet soared into the sky, heading toward the distant islands of Samoa, Veda allowed herself a moment of reflection. The path ahead was fraught with danger, the stakes higher than ever. But she was ready. They all were. Dante had made a grave mistake. And they were coming for him.

Part Two

[frakyeahbattlestargalactica]

Monty Jaggers McGraw:

I am writing new BASIC programs to demo at my VCF Southwest 2025 exhibit of my 1979 Tektronix 4054A color vector graphics computer.

One of the programs I am writing is a 1978-1979 Battlestar Galactica TV demo. That TV show had $500,000 of Tektronix vector graphics computers and test equipment and many screenshots of their green vector storage CRT displays - some stills - some animated. These computer graphics were generated on both 1975 4051 and 1976 4081 vector graphics computers - predecessors to my 4052 and 4054A computers (see first photo attached).

Miami Herald TV 1978 magazine interview with the Battlestar Galactica set designer indicated extras on the set stationed in front of the 4051 computers were playing games during filming to increase realism and were so absorbed they kept playing after the cut! (article page attached).

The 4051 and second generation 4052 were the same physical size and used the same CRT and same Display board, but the 4052 and 4054 computers replaced the 800KHz Motorola 6800 CPU with a custom four AMD2901 bit-slice CPU to create a 16-bit address and data bus ALU which emulated the 6800 opcodes and added hardware floating point opcodes to speed up these computers 10x over the Motorola 6800, doubled the BASIC ROM space to 64KB and doubled the RAM space to 64KB!

I created these vector bitmap graphics using a "3D CAD" picture I found on the web of the Battlestar Galactica (last attachment).

As far as I know - there was never any 4050 BASIC program to view bitmap pictures on any of the 4050 computers. The 1979 4014 vector graphics terminal had a grayscale bitmap mode in the Extended Graphics option board, but I have only found a couple of bitmap 4014 images on a single Tektronix demo tape cartridge.

My 4050 BASIC program to display bitmaps works on all 4050 series computers - with an optional Tektronix 4050R12 Fast Graphics/Graphics Enhancement ROM Pack. This ROM Pack speeds up displaying vector images (including vector dot images) 10x over using BASIC MOVE and DRAW commands.

The Battlestar Galactica bitmap image in R12 binary format is 332234 bytes - slightly larger than would fit on a DC300 quarter-inch tape cartridge in the internal tape drive of all three 4050 computers, but would have fit on a 3M DC600 tape cartridge with a capacity of 600KB - it would have been very slow to load.

I designed an Arduino board to emulate the Tektronix 4924 GPIB tape drive - with the help of my software developer. My GPIB Flash Drive board contains a MicroSD card with gigabytes of storage and the Flash Drive emulates a GPIB tape changer, storing all the files of a "tape" in a single directory. I have also attached to this post a photo of my GPIB Flash Drive.

I have recovered almost 100 Tektronix 4050 Tapes and posted the ones I think are the most interesting at this time on my github repository for Tektronix 4051/4052/4054 computers: https://github.com/mmcgraw74/Tektronix-4051-4052-4054-Program-Files I included Tektronix published MATH volumes 1, 2, and 3 and Electrical Engineering, but I don't think they have a lot of use today. I have in my collection but not recovered tapes on Project Management, Statistics, and over 100 more tapes from the very active user group, which Tektronix made collections and published abstracts in their newsletter and the newletter customer got the tape for free. Commercial software like CAD programs were likely encrypted to eliminate copying - since Tektronix 4050 BASIC included a SECRET command which would then encrypt the program file as it was recorded to tape and add a SECRET flag in the tape header that would signal to BASIC ROM when that file was accessed to decrypt the program when it was loaded into memory. One big limiter to the size of the program was RAM in the 4051 was limited to 32KB and the 4052 and 4054 were limited to 64KB of RAM, although Tek BASIC did include commands to allow program "chunks" to be overlayed as necessary. Tektronix used those commands in their 4050 System Tape which was shipped with every system and included a tutorial on many of their BASIC commands. The tutorial ran on the original 4051 with 8KB of memory, and if the program detected 16KB of memory it would APPEND larger program files to speed up the tutorial.

[jomiddlemarch]

And whilst our souls negotiate there  

Chapter 5

The encryption on Hermione’s journals was the most unequivocal example of paranoia that Draco had ever encountered, and he’d spent his formative years in close proximity to Severus Snape, his aunt Bellatrix, and Voldemort.

He spent much of the first night with the books in a state of frustrated fury, hearing himself utter obscenities in the five languages he spoke fluently, making up new curses in Gamela and Oscan.

Her work was fucking gorgeous.

It might also be a death sentence.

Might being the operative word. 

His aforementioned close proximity to three people who were certifiable (Snape was the closest to sane, but Dumbledore should never had trusted him with a classroom full of pubertal students and volatile substances) had given Draco a degree of insight that Harry, Neville and even Bill Weasley weren’t able to match. He also had access to the combined resources of the Malfoy and Black libraries and wasn’t above begging the senior archivist at Alexandria and promising exclusive access to the Black villa in Sardinia for the season, a period of time specified by the archivist and which Draco had no particular idea of the actual duration therein encompassed.

It took a week to unseal the journals.

(Yes, the last volume was a little wonky and kept reverting to encryption when he looked at it directly. He asked Neville for an extra-strength decoction of Hairy eyebright and learned to read it without giving himself an eyestrain-induced migraine.)

He frankly could not have gotten through them without the ministrations of his House-Elf Fizzy.

Given what he recalled of Hermione, this required him to offer Fizzy the Malfoy chalet in Zermatt for the season; appropriate ski-gear would be left in the chalet itself, to avoid offending Fizzy’s own sensibilities.

After a first skim of the first three books, he sent a message to Potter, indicating that he’d need a leave of absence from his regular responsibilities at St. Mungo’s if he were to make any progress on Hermione’s case and that the leave would need to be requested on his behalf by Potter and Longbottom in order to keep his fragile reputation remotely intact. Before he’d finished the latest cup of tea Fizzy had prepared for him, though after he’d dispatched the generous serving of millionaire’s shortbread, he received an owl from Neville, assuring him that the leave had been processed through the official channels and also noted unofficially, to the relevant higher-ups and Powers that Be, to his credit. The owl, feathers glossy with good health and surprisingly patient for a predator, had also carried a magically miniaturized bottle of Neville’s syrupy bilberry tonic and an invitation to Longbottom House should Draco want to peruse the library, discuss Hermione’s case with Madam Longbottom herself, or pop round to Neville’s favorite pub for some bitter or sticky toffee pudding.

Harry, who Draco would have accused of showing off save that he was certain the man was largely oblivious to the implications, sent a Patronus to confirm Neville’s message and to inform Draco that everyone involved in Jean’s care had been placed under Fidelius, so Draco could proceed accordingly.

The silvery stag gamboled off before Draco could say anything other than Bloody bollocks.

This served to make the pages of volume four flutter a bit and open to a passage Draco knew must exist but hadn’t yet found.

Hermione Granger, as it turned out, had a positively filthy mouth.

[lovelylotusf1]

Pick something to steal from my room

Tagged by @1425fivefive thank you!!! I did this a few months ago, but have accumulated even more items since then.

Tagging: @jusst-you-race @colapoint @fueledbyremembering @wanderingblindly & @wisteriagoesvroom :D

[areyoufuckingcrazy]

“The Lesser of Two Wars” pt.5

Commander Fox x Reader x Commander Thorn

The aftermath of an attack always came in waves.

Smoke cleared. Evidence was gathered. People lied. And then, the survivors were expected to sit in rooms like this and act like it hadn’t shaken them.

Bail’s office was quiet, the kind of quiet only the dangerously exhausted and the politically cornered could create. A few low-voiced aides bustled around the outer corridor, but inside the room, it was only the senators.

Organa stood by the tall window, arms crossed as he stared down at the Coruscant skyline with a frown etched deep into his brow. Senator Chuchi sat stiffly on the edge of the couch, her shoulder bandaged from shrapnel. Padmé was leaned over the table, scanning a datapad and speaking in hushed tones to Mon Mothma. You stood near the bookcase, arms folded, trying to will the fire in your chest into something productive.

It wasn’t working.

“I’m tired of acting like we’re not under siege,” you muttered aloud.

Padmé looked up, lips pressed thin. “We are. We just haven’t named the enemy yet.”

Chuchi nodded slowly. “They know what they’re doing. Each strike more coordinated. Less about killing—more about threatening. Silencing.”

Bail finally turned, face unreadable. “They want us reactive. Fractured. Suspicious of each other.”

“We should be,” you said, pacing a slow line. “No one’s admitting what’s happening. The Senate hushes it up. Security leaks are too convenient. And somehow every target is someone with a voice too loud for the Chancellor’s comfort.”

That earned a moment of silence.

Mon Mothma spoke softly. “You think he’s involved.”

“I think someone close to him is.”

“We can’t keep pretending these are isolated,” you said finally.

“They know that,” Padmé murmured. “The question is: why isn’t anyone doing more?”

Bail, now standing at the head of his polished desk, didn’t answer immediately. His jaw was set. His gaze flicked over the datachart projected in front of him—attack markers, profiles, probable motives.

“They’re testing the Republic,” he said. “Or what’s left of it.”

“They’re testing us,” Mothma whispered, voice hoarse. “And if we keep responding with silence and procedural delays, they’ll push until there’s no one left to oppose them.”

The words sat heavy.

Outside the door, the crimson shadow of the Coruscant Guard stood watch—Fox and Thorn included, though you hadn’t glanced their way since entering.

But you could feel them. You always did now.

You turned slightly, voice low. “Have any of you gotten direct messages?”

Chuchi looked up sharply. “Threats?”

You nodded.

There was a beat of silence. Then Mothma sighed. “One. Disguised in a customs manifest. It knew… too much.”

Padmé nodded. “Mine was through a Senate droid. Disguised as a corrupted firmware packet.”

You didn’t speak. Yours had come days ago—buried in a late-night intelligence brief with no sender. All it said was:

You are not untouchable.

You hadn’t slept since.

“We need to pressure the Supreme Chancellor,” Bail said.

That earned a sour look from you. “He’ll deflect. Say it’s a security issue, not a political one.”

“Then we make it political,” Mothma said, finally sounding like herself again. “We use our voice. While we still have one.”

The room shifted then. A renewed sense of unity—brittle, but burning.

But in the quiet after, your gaze slipped—just for a moment—toward the guards stationed outside the door.

Fox stood perfectly still, helmet tilted in your direction. Thorn just beside him, arms folded. Neither moved. Neither spoke.

But their presence spoke volumes.

This was war.

And somewhere between the smoke and the silence, something else was taking root—dangerous, fragile, and very hard to ignore.

⸻

The room was dark, save for the steady pulse of holo-screens. Red and blue glows blinked over datafeeds, security footage, encrypted reports—layered chaos organized with military precision.

Fox stood at the center console, arms braced against its edge. Thorn leaned nearby, still in partial armor, visor down. Both men had discarded formalities, if only for this moment.

“This list isn’t shrinking,” Thorn muttered, scrolling through the updated intel. “If anything, it’s tightening.”

Fox tapped in a command, bringing up the names of every senator involved in the recent threats. Mothma. Organa. Chuchi. Amidala. And her.

He paused on her name.

No title. No pretense.

Just:

[FIRST NAME] [LAST NAME]

Planet of Origin: Classified. Access requires Level Six or higher.

Military Status: Former Commander, Planetary Forces, 12th Resistance Front

Notable Actions: Siege of Klydos Ridge, Amnesty Trial #3114-A

Designations: War Criminal (Cleared). Commendation of Valor.

Thorn let out a slow breath. “Well. That explains a few things.”

Fox didn’t speak. His eyes scanned every line—calm, deliberate.

“She was tried?” Thorn asked.

“Yeah. And cleared. But this…” Fox magnified a classified document stamped with a Republic seal. “She made decisions that turned the tide of a planetary civil war. But it cost lives. Enemy and ally.”

“Sounds like a soldier,” Thorn said.

“Sounds like someone who was never supposed to be a senator.”

They both stared at the glowing file, silent for a long beat.

“Why hide it?” Thorn asked. “You’d think someone with that record would lean on it.”

Fox finally replied, quiet: “Because war heroes make people nervous. War criminals scare them. And she was both.”

Thorn folded his arms. “She doesn’t look like someone who’s seen hell.”

“No,” Fox agreed. “But she acts like it.”

A beat passed.

Thorn tilted his head slightly. “You feel it too?”

Fox didn’t answer immediately.

“You’re not the only one watching her, Thorn.”

The words weren’t sharp. They weren’t angry. Just honest.

And for a moment, silence stretched between them—not as soldiers, not as commanders, but as men standing at the edge of something they couldn’t name.

Before either could say more, a message flashed in red across the console:

MOTHMA ESCORT CLEARED. STANDBY FOR NEXT PROTECTIVE ASSIGNMENT: SENATOR [LAST NAME]

Fox closed the file with one last look.

Thorn gave a tight nod.

But as the lights of the war room dimmed behind them, neither could quite forget the file still burning in the back of their minds—or the woman behind it.

⸻

It was hard to feel normal with three clones, a Jedi Padawan, and a Skywalker surrounding your lunch table like you were preparing to launch a military operation instead of ordering garden risotto.

The restaurant had cleared out most of its upper terrace for “Senatorial Security Reasons.” A ridiculous way to say: people were trying to kill you. Again.

Still, Padmé had insisted. And somehow—somehow—you’d ended up saying yes.

The sun was soft and golden through the vine-laced awning above, dappling the white tablecloths with moving light. The air smelled like roasted herbs and fresh rain, but not even that could soften the tension in your shoulders.

“You don’t have to look like you’re about to give a press briefing,” Padmé teased gently, reaching for her wine.

You let out a slow breath, forcing a smile. “It’s hard to relax when I’m being watched like a spice smuggler at customs.”

Across from you, Anakin Skywalker didn’t even flinch. He was leaned casually against the terrace railing, arms folded, lightsaber clipped at the ready. Rex stood a few paces behind, helmet on but gaze sharply fixed beyond the decorative trellises. Ahsoka was beside him, hands on her hips, trying very hard to pretend she wasn’t completely bored.

Then there were your shadows—Fox and Thorn.

They stood just far enough to give the illusion of privacy. Both in full armor. Both still as statues.

You saw them watching everyone. Especially Skywalker.

“I’m just saying,” Padmé said, twirling her fork. “If I were an assassin, this place would be the worst possible place to strike. Too many guards. Too many eyes.”

“Don’t tempt fate,” you muttered.

Ahsoka leaned forward, chin in hand, curious now. “Senator Amidala says you don’t really need all this protection. That true?”

You blinked once. Padmé was smirking into her glass. Of course she was.

“Well,” you said smoothly, lifting your napkin to your lap, “some senators are more difficult to target than others.”

Ahsoka squinted. “That’s not an answer.”

“That’s politics,” you replied with a practiced grin.

From behind, Fox shifted slightly. Thorn’s head turned just barely. They’d heard every word.

Padmé laughed quietly. “She’s been dodging questions since she was seventeen. Don’t take it personally.”

Ahsoka grinned, shaking her head. “Okay, fine. But seriously—what did you do before the Senate?”

You took a slow sip of your wine. “I made a mess of things. Then I cleaned them up. Very effectively.”

“Vague,” Ahsoka said.

“Deliberately.”

The conversation drifted to safer things—fashion, terrible policy drafts, the tragedy of synthetic caf. You allowed yourself to laugh once. Maybe twice. It was good to pretend, even just for a meal.

But as the plates were cleared and sunlight dipped a little lower, you glanced once toward the shadows.

Thorn stood with his arms crossed, ever the silent shield. Fox, next to him, gave you one sharp nod when your eyes met—no smile, no softness, just silent reassurance.

You weren’t sure what made your heart thump harder: the weight of your past threatening to surface… or the way neither of them looked away.

⸻

The wine had just been poured again—Padmé was laughing about a hideous gown she’d been forced to wear for a peace summit on Ryloth—when the world cracked in half.

The sound came first: not a blaster, not the familiar pulse of war—but the high-pitched whistle of precision. You knew that sound. You’d heard it before. In a past life.

Sniper.

Glass shattered near Padmé’s shoulder, spraying the table in glittering fragments. A scream rose somewhere below, muffled by the thick walls of the restaurant. And then—

“GET DOWN!”

Fox moved like lightning. One arm shoved you sideways, sending you down behind the table just as another shot scorched overhead. Thorn dove the opposite direction, deflecting debris with his arm guard, already scanning rooftops.

Anakin’s saber ignited mid-air.

The green blade of Ahsoka’s followed a heartbeat later.

“Sniper on the north building!” Rex barked, blaster up and already coordinating through his helmet comms. “Multiple shooters—cover’s compromised!”

Another blast tore through the awning, scorching Padmé’s chair. You yanked her down with you, shielding her head with your arms.

“Two squads, at least,” Thorn said over comms. “Organized. Not a distraction—this is the hit.”

Skywalker growled something dark and bolted forward, vaulting over the terrace railing with a flash of blue saber and fury.

“Ahsoka!” he shouted back. “Get them out of here—now!”

She was already moving. “Senators, with me!”

You didn’t hesitate—your combat instincts burned hot and automatic. You grabbed Padmé’s hand and ran, ducking low behind Ahsoka as she slashed through the decorative back entrance with her saber. The door hissed open—Fox and Thorn moved in tandem, covering your escape with rapid fire precision.

“Go!” Fox shouted. “We’ll hold the line!”

You and Padmé bolted through the kitchen, past startled staff and broken plates. Behind you, the sounds of a full-scale assault filled the air—blaster fire, shouted orders, another explosion shaking the foundations.

Ahsoka skidded into the alley, saber still lit. “Rex, redirect the speeder evac—pull it two blocks west! We’re going underground!”

Padmé looked pale. You weren’t sure if it was the near-miss or the fact that you were dragging her like a soldier, not a senator.

“This way,” you said, yanking open a service hatch. “Down the delivery chute. Go.”

She blinked. “You’ve done this before.”

“Later.”

Minutes stretched like hours as Ahsoka led you and Padmé through Coruscant’s underlevels. The girl was quick, precise—but young. She kept glancing back at you, questions on her face even in the middle of a mission.

Padmé finally caught her breath. “Are we clear?”

“Almost,” Ahsoka said. “Rex is circling a transport in now. We’ll get you back to the Senate.”

You exhaled slowly, the adrenaline catching up to your bones.

Ahsoka looked at you directly this time. “You weren’t afraid.”

You shook your head. “I’ve been afraid before. This wasn’t it.”

And though she didn’t press, something in her eyes said she understood more than she let on.

Because that wasn’t fear. That was reflex. Memory. War rising again in your blood, no matter how carefully you’d buried it.

And you weren’t sure if that scared you more… or comforted you.

⸻

The plush carpet muffled your steps as you entered the secured room, escorted by the Chancellor’s guards but notably free of the Chancellor himself. Thank the stars. The tension in your jaw was just now beginning to ease.

Padmé sat beside you, brushing glass dust from the hem of her gown. She wasn’t shaking anymore, though her eyes betrayed the flickers of adrenaline still fading. Ahsoka stood at the window, her arms crossed, gaze sharp as she scanned the skyline.

“I should’ve worn flats,” Padmé muttered, leaning toward you. “Last time I try to be fashionable during an assassination attempt.”

You gave a small, dry laugh. “Next time, we coordinate. Combat boots under formalwear. Very senatorial.”

Ahsoka turned slightly, studying you.

Padmé smiled faintly, but her next words were laced with meaning. “Well, you would know. I’ve never seen someone pull a senator out of a sniper’s line of fire with that kind of precision. It was… practiced.”

You didn’t miss the weight in her tone.

“Remind me never to tell you anything personal again,” you quipped, keeping your smile light. “You’re terrible with secrets.”

Padmé raised a brow, amused. “I am a politician.”

“You’re a gossip,” you shot back playfully.

Ahsoka tilted her head, clearly intrigued. “Wait… practiced?”

Before Padmé could answer—or you could pivot—the doors slid open.

Thorn entered first, helmet under one arm. His eyes immediately scanned the room. Fox followed a step behind, helmet still on, shoulders squared, every inch of him sharp and unreadable. But you felt his eyes on you. The pause in his step. The tension in his jaw.

Neither man spoke right away. But they didn’t need to. Their presence filled the room with the kind of silent protection that wasn’t easily taught. Not one senator in the room doubted they’d cleared the entire floor twice over before allowing the doors to open.

Fox’s voice cut through after a beat. “Are you both unharmed?”

Padmé nodded. “We’re fine. Thanks to all of you.”

Thorn’s eyes shifted to you—just a second longer than protocol called for. “You’re calm.”

You shrugged. “Panicking rarely improves aim.”

Ahsoka didn’t let it go. “So… you have training?”

You gave her your best senatorial smile. “Wouldn’t every politician be safer if they did?”

Padmé gave you a look. “You’re dodging.”

“I’m deflecting. There’s a difference.”

Before Ahsoka could press, the door slid open again, and Captain Rex stepped in.

His brow was furrowed beneath his helmet, his tone clipped and straight to the point. “General Skywalker captured one of the assassins. Alive.”

That got everyone’s attention.

Fox stepped forward. “Where is he now?”

“En route to a secure interrogation cell. Skywalker’s escorting him personally. He wants the senators updated.”

Your fingers curled slightly into the fabric of your robe. For all your practiced calm, something burned beneath your ribs.

Someone had targeted you. Again.

⸻

You barely sat.

Your body ached to move—to fight—but instead you paced the perimeter of the small, sterile waiting room the Guard had shoved you into while Skywalker handled the interrogation.

Two chairs. A water dispenser. No windows.

And a commander blocking the only door like a wall of red and steel.

Fox.

You’d seen Thorn step out to “coordinate with Rex,” but Fox hadn’t budged since Rex walked in with the update. Motionless. Head tilted just enough to follow your pacing.

It had been seven minutes.

You stopped finally, resting your palms flat on a small metal desk.

His voice, when it came, was rougher than usual.

“You need to sit down.”

You didn’t look at him. “No.”

“And drink water.”

“No.”

A longer pause.

“You may be a former soldier,” he said quietly, “but you’re still human.”

That actually made you spin around—lips curling into a sharp smile.

“Funny. You treat me more like china than human, most of the time.”

Fox didn’t move, but you could feel the shift.

“You’re not breakable,” he said flatly. “That isn’t the point.”

“What is?”

He was quiet.

You stared at him, taking a slow step closer. You knew it was reckless before your feet moved. But you did it anyway.

“Tell me, Commander.”

Fox didn’t answer immediately.

But then—his head turned just slightly toward the ceiling. As if he was measuring something he didn’t want to name.

You were about to fold your arms, press harder—when he spoke.

Voice low. Tight.

“If anyone’s going to break you, it should be your choice.”

For half a second, your heart stopped.

Your eyes snapped to his visor—not in disbelief, but in something far more dangerous.

He held your stare.

Then turned his body back toward the door in a sharp movement—like he’d reset an entire system with one motion.

“Sit down, Senator,” he said, brushing the moment away like it was protocol.

You did.

But not because he told you to.

Because your knees suddenly felt unsteady.

And outside, Thorn’s shadow was pacing too.

⸻

Thorn wasn’t brooding.

He told himself that twice. Then once more for good measure.

He wasn’t brooding—he was thinking.

Processing.

Decompressing, even.

Helmet off. Armor half-stripped. He leaned against the long bench in the quietest corner of the barracks, pretending not to hear Stone snoring two bunks down. Pretending not to care that Hound’s mastiff, Grizzer, had somehow crawled under his bunk and now slept like it was his.

He ran a hand through his hair.

It should’ve been a normal day—hell, even a standard post-attack lockdown. Escort the senators. Maintain security. Nothing complicated.

But she had looked at him.

Really looked. Past the phrasing, past the title. Past the helmet.

And worse—he’d let her.

That smile she gave when Fox told her to sit, that off-hand comment about being treated like china—it stuck in his mind like a saber mark. Not because of what she said, but because of what she didn’t. The way she tested the air in every conversation. Pressed and pressed until something cracked.

And if she pressed him again—he wasn’t sure he’d hold as well as Fox did.

Thorn sighed sharply and stood, heading for the hall.

He needed air.

Thorn didn’t expect her to be out.

It was late. She’d had a hell of a day. She was a senator.

But there she was, near the far fence where the decorative lights bled softly across the foliage. Arms crossed. Expression unreadable. Alone.

She turned her head a little when she heard his approach, then fully—half a smile forming.

“I wondered who’d come to check on me first.”

Thorn raised an eyebrow. “You expected someone?”

She shrugged, but it was coy. “Let’s not pretend either of you would let me go unmonitored tonight.”

He smirked, just faintly, and stepped closer. “You’re not wrong.”

They stood there, still, in the humid night air. The stars were dim from all the light pollution—but Thorn didn’t look up.

He looked at her.

The silence stretched again.

“You know,” she said after a beat, “for someone who’s so damn good at his job… you’re terrible at hiding how much you care.”

He didn’t deny it. Not this time.

Thorn’s voice was low when he replied. “And you’re good at provoking reactions.”

“You didn’t give me one.”

He met her gaze. “Didn’t I?”

That landed harder than she expected. Her smile faltered.

And when she didn’t answer, Thorn gently touched her elbow—brief, almost professional.

But not quite.

“You’re not just another asset,” he said quietly. “I just don’t know what that means yet.”

Then he stepped away.

And she let him.

But she didn’t stop thinking about it all night.

⸻

The day was mostly quiet—too quiet. Meetings had ended early, and most senators had retreated to their quarters or offworld duties. She had slipped away from the dull chatter, climbing the stairs to the lesser-known observation deck—her sanctuary when the pressure of politics felt too tight around her throat.

But she wasn’t alone for long.

Thorn stepped through the archway, helmet under his arm, posture rigid as ever.

“I figured I’d find you up here,” he said.

She arched a brow. “Am I that predictable?”

“No,” he said. “You’re just hard to keep track of when you want to be. But you only disappear when something’s bothering you.”

She tilted her head slightly, giving him a quiet once-over. “And what makes you think something’s bothering me?”

Thorn didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stepped to the edge, eyes scanning the skyline. When he finally spoke, his voice was low. Measured. “You wear your control like armor, Senator. But it’s heavy. I can see it.”

She turned away from the view to face him fully. “You really shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re not supposed to care.”

His jaw tensed, the shift subtle, but not lost on her.

“And yet…” she continued, stepping closer, “…here you are. Always near. Always watching. I’m not blind, Thorn. You don’t flinch when there’s danger. But you flinch when I look at you too long.”

He didn’t respond. Not at first.

So she pushed again.

“You’re a good soldier. Loyal. By the book.” Her voice dropped. “So tell me—how much longer are you going to pretend I don’t affect you?”

Thorn’s composure cracked.

It was a split second.

But in that second, he moved—one hand cupping the side of her face, the other bracing her waist as he kissed her. Not roughly. Not rushed. But with the kind of restraint that felt like it was burning both of them alive from the inside out.

He pulled back just enough to breathe—but not enough to let go.

And then—

“Commander.”

The voice cut through the silence like a knife.

Thorn froze.

She turned her head slowly, her heart hammering, to find Fox standing at the top of the stairs—helmet on, voice emotionless.

Almost.

“You’re needed back at the barracks. Now.”

“Sir—”

“Immediately.”

Thorn stepped away, face hardening into a mask. He didn’t look at her again. He simply nodded once to Fox and walked away, every step heavy with restrained emotion.

Fox waited until Thorn disappeared from sight before turning back to her.

“Senator,” he said, voice quieter now, almost too quiet. “That was… out of line.”

She raised a brow, pulse still thrumming from the kiss. “Which part?”

Fox didn’t answer.

But his silence said enough.

Jealousy had sharp edges. And for the first time, he wasn’t hiding his anymore.

⸻

Previous Part | Next Part

[gilverrwrites]

Been obsessed lately can we get 📱😴🧹 for slade please!

He tends to have that effect on people 😉

🧹 Chores

Are they the one doing most chores in the house?

Slade mostly lives in crappy motels and on the couches of friends and family that don't want him around. So no, he doesn't undertake chores frequently. He is a very organised person, though, and he does tend to clean up after himself when he's a guest in other people's homes.

Which chore is the one they dread doing the most?

Anything that consumes big chunks of time, like deep cleaning or ironing and folding laundry. It's time that could be better served on other things.

Do they wash the dishes right after a meal, or do they leave them in the sink until it's impossible to ignore them?

Pre-divorce he was guilt of leaving dishes and most other chores for Adeline to deal with. Spoiler: Addy is taking none of that shit, so they would sit there until one of them caved. Post-divorce, when there's nobody else to deal with he'll sort it straight away.

Do they have the dreaded "laundry chair" where they put dirty clothes on?

Nope.

Do they make their bed in the morning, or leave it undone until it's time to sleep?

He makes the bed every morning, and he makes it up very precisely. The same way he was trained to while in the army.

📱 Phone

What phone do they have?

Whatever is cheap but sturdy. They're always burners that he swaps out after every job he takes, so there's no need for anything fancy.

Do they use specific ringtones depending on who calls them, or do they use just one for everyone?

Default ringtone. It's almost always on silent so he has no need to specifics.

How often do they check their phone?

When he's looking for a job, especially when he's itching to get moving, then he'll be on it pretty consistently. But unless he's spiralling, it basically ceases to exist in his head.

Do they keep their phone's audio volume on, or do they prefer the vibration or? or do they rather have it silenced?

No volume, no vibrations. Can't risk it going off when he's working, especially on stealth missions.

How many apps to they have on their phone, give or take?

In addition to whatever comes as standard:

Tor, or another dark web dedicated browser.

Some sort of VPN security app.

Whatsapp or telegram - whatever encrypted messaging app his kids use.

Similarly he has a couple of fake social media apps that he uses to keep track of Joey, and Rose (and Addy, and Dick)

So like 4-5?

Do they have games on their phone?

Nope, and he judges people he see in public playing games on their phones.

What's their background and lock-screen?

Default, he doesn't hold onto phones long enough to warrant changing them every time.

😴 sleeping routine

At what time do they tend to go to sleep?

As and when his body needs it. He has a terrible sleeping pattern.

Do they take anything to help them sleep ( medicines, chamomilles, warm milk... )?

Rarely. If he does need the aid, he likes warm milk or Ovaltine.

How much does it take for them to fall asleep?

The things keeping him awake are usually psychological, so it takes multiple mugs and meditation even to help him get to the point he needs.

Are they a light or a heavy sleeper?

Unless he's near death, he's typically a very light sleeper. He's always on some level of alert.

Do they snore, talk and/or move a lot while sleeping?

Again, unless he's sleeping of a serious injury that needs time to heal, he's a very light sleeper, he barely moves a muscle. No talking or snoring, he's like a vampire. He does have a tendency to drool though.

Do they dream often? & What kind of dreams to they tend to have?

Moderately often. His dreams often consist of events from his part, usually relating to his children (Grant especially), dramatisations and distorted nightmares of what he could have done differently, how he could have been better.

Do they prefer to be in complete darkness to fall asleep, or are they ok with a bit of light?

He prefers darkness for its tactical advantage should anyone try to attack him while he sleeps, but either is fine.

Do they need the door or the windows open, or do they prefer them closed when they go to sleep?

Both closed. His hearing is good enough to detect if anyone is touching the locks/handles.

What's their usual sleeping position?

He often sleeps sitting up, head resting on the back of the chair, but when he's in a bed he'll take advantage. If he's truly exhausted he'll just collapse in a pile, but other wise he sleeps on his back, arms and legs straight like a damn corpse.

Where is their bed? with a side against the wall, in the middle of the room... ?

Wherever the motel has placed it.

Mundane headcanons

[ras-favourite-balor]

[ECHO.EXE RUNNING]

XIII▸ Greetings, Brigand; I will extend greetings to Persephone as well, in her absence. It feels only polite

XIII▸ We haven't spoken- well, not much. I've ah, come to discover in the time since the 30 hours war, that I am not particularly skilled in subtlety. I will presume you are aware of my prior communications, and the unnamed sign off that I used. Apologies.

XIII▸ But that is largely irrelevent to what I wish to speak with you about today. You have continued to aid in 341's recovery, and both he and APMS have found safety aboard your ship. While I am certain you do not need it, you have my gratitude for all you have done. I... thought perhaps I could offer further aid. If you would be amicable.

XIII▸ As has been noted some number of times in communications between myself and 341, I have a greater level of insight into exactly how programming of the kind we are both subject to functions; I have a greater level of operational freedom attributed to my role on the field, but suffice it to say I am deeply familiar with how to... engage around such programming. How to put someone subject to it at ease, while perhaps not putting them in their comfort zone.

XIII▸ Making things sound nice, I suppose you might call it. I am designed after all, to facillitate healing. This is easier to do, when one is comfortable.

XIII▸ Which is to say- well. If you would find my advice on any such matters useful, regarding how to communicate potentially difficult things to 341 and/or APMS in a manner that will not aggrivate their existing programming? Then I will be at your disposal. I care for 341 and APMS, both. I... I think you may be good for them.

XIII▸ It's a very different world, to the one they were made in. I am glad to see them learning new things. I am glad to see them confident enough, to learn new things.

XIII▸ If you think I could be of use. I would... I'd like that.

[ XIII-E // @xiii-e ]

//

A response, a video file. Encoded of course. An encryption XIII-E knows, somehow. They know it intuitively, know its solution, like a distant memory. Decrypting it is as easy as breather for them.

The video quality is mediocre, probably a simple tablet or terminal camera. The audio is a tad crunchy, filled with an odd staccato thrum of background machinery. Brigand's face is haggard, heavy bags under both eyes. His beard is a mess, it is matted, and wild. He is quiet for a long moment. His eyes are clouded somewhat, clearly something heavy on his mind. XIII-E has here a unique and clear glimpse at different Brigand. This Brigand is tired, his standard beaming smile is nowhere to be seen. Desperation has replaced the normal hope in his eyes. When he finally speaks, his voice trembles somewhat.

[Brigand} It is odd, to even think of relying on another. . . Another than Persephone, at least. . .

She is gone.

I have searched the ship over. Not a nanite in sight. . .

He stops. Breathes deep. Composes himself. He continues, less shaky this time.

[Brigand} Yer' help would be much valued 'Tirteen. Ye' make some wonderful points. Besides, I think I will be very busy, very soon. With so many suddenly seeking my downfall. They seek to take what I have built. They seek to waste my blood. My sweat. My fuckin' tears.

Somehow, Brigand's tone has shifted. His sorrow gives way to rage, tears well at the corners of his eyes. His spine straightens. A distinctly mechanical whirring can be heard, as his words grow in volume. It is subtle, easily mistaken for more ship-born ambience.

[Brigand} Only now. Only now the vultures circle. Only once she is gone. Only now, that I am unfit. Only now would they fuckin' dare to come and take away my charge. Like wolves in the night. If they think that I am unsuited to care for the lamb. . .

His eyes are sharp now. Sharp, and hungry. His voice has levelled, yet drips with malice and disdain. XIII-E would see the gears turning behind those eyes. Gears slicked with gore and hate and love.

[Brigand} Then. They. May. Come. They may come and break themselves upon my blades. They will come and they learn why I have lived this long. And all the while we, you and I, will make 341 more than a weapon. He will learn to live.

He will have to.

The footage ends moments after. As the image fades, Brigands eyes are piercing. And Persephone's favourite pet name seems fitting now.

Butcher.

[arkanis-englishupdates]

SUMMARY OF ALL ARKANIS POVS

DAY 64 & DAY 65 — 06/11/2024 & 07/11/2024

DAY 64 — 06/11/2024

The day in Valigma begins with bombastic revelations.

Pac visits Bia Raux's base, who gives him a mask, tell him a secret, tells Pac about having a plan to save the diluted ghost kids and sends him back to the front of his house (He comes back a little sad and apprehensive, for some reason). While the sky is completely pink, Pac sees countless lightning bolts on the horizon, and suddenly a giant meteor hits him and his house, completely destroying it (The same thing happened to Choke's house yesterday, after the domes disappeared).

Pac goes into despair when he sees his house in ruins, being narrowly saved from dying by JVNQ, Quel and Beatriz. The group talks about what happened and Pac tells them part of the conversation he had with Bia (He doesn't tell about the secret, but says that Bia talked about Araldo deserving what happened to him). Nicklink appears soon after, but doesn't console Pac like the others.

After talking, the group goes to the Araldo Factory... Or what's left of it. The entire place was bombed, leaving a huge crater full of fire (None of the specialists did this).

Bagi meets with Choke and Beatriz to talk about everything that was going on. Beatriz shares her theory that maybe Araldo is just a pawn in the coder's game who would be the real leader of the plan.

Beatriz also tells what happened to Pac's house and says about what Pac told them, about how Bia has a plan to save Milo and Tucupi. The trio also talk about Julia's disappearance after the attack on Valigma's Shop.

Bagi soon presents the theory that Bia and Araldo could be allies, not enemies. With Choke's information about Bia's masks, they come to the conclusion that Araldo and Bia's masks can serve to channel Arkanya and the masks worn by the residents of Valigma do exactly the opposite and deprive them of channeling and flowing Arkanya.

Beatriz pulls Bagi into the corner and tells her that Bia talked to Alexey about him allying with her and accepting a mask that she would use to take his Arkanyx.

Suddenly, Hugo sends a book to Bagi, telling her to go to Araldo's laboratory (The Araldo's submerged construction they have already invaded) with all the specialists, saying that there is something they missed.

(Before gathering everyone to go to the laboratory, Bagi asks Quel why Araldo would be at Bia Raux's house during Cherry's death. Quel doesn't know why.)

In Araldo's laboratory, specialists find three new passages.

On the first passage they find a room with three books. The first book is about a bank transfer (made on 09/03/2024, September 3, 2024) from Araldo to the Valigma's City Hall, the amount transferred was J$ 105.000,00. The second book is a list of keywords used to refer to some specialists. The third and final book is a medical report on Araldo, which reports his surprisingly high regeneration/healing capacity.

Suddenly, after the group enters the second passage, a vision appears for all the specialists. The vision shows Hugo's voice, saying about the place they were in (which he purposely hid right under Araldo's laboratory) and about the high encryption of the place, saying that the group will need help from the Forum to get through encryption and stating that he has already contacted them.

The Forum is what the spectators are called. We are all the Forum, but it is through the Arkanis Discord that we can help the specialists.

After speaking to the specialists, footsteps are heard and Hugo can be heard in the background showing concern about Araldo's plans, saying that the specialists are the only hope of stopping him. After that, the vision ends.

In the third passage, the group finds a room with a book titled "Diaries" written by "Leonardo Diberman" and another book titled "Essays about Arkya - Volume 1" written by "Leonardo Diberman".

The first book ("Diaries") appears to be written by someone else, not Leonardo. The person talks about being chosen to be a Coder, reflecting on Arkanya in general and on an ethereal figure that was "made entirely of Arkya, destined to be decoded" by them.

The second book ("Essays about Arkya - Volume 1") is an essay about Arkya in general and how it influences Lankyas and Arkanya.

Leaving the third room/passage, The group heads to Hugo's server that they opened in the second room and they investigate the place. In one of the server rooms they find a large screen, playing audio in binary code.

Translating the binary they get the number 62.

Going to another room, they find a screen with morse code there. Nicklink helps them translate, getting the number 742.

They go to the main room and enter their password, along with another password that was found in another room by other specialists from the same group. Inside the room, they find a picture on the ceiling (A white square, separated into several lines to form small squares. The punctuation "?" It was inside all the little squares), another enigma.

With the help of the Forum, the specialists complete the image and obtain a QR code. The code translates to “01082088” and using the code they see the long-awaited videotape:

The videotape shows the front of a couple's house, which is suddenly visited by someone in a hood who watches the house move through the window. Seeing no movement, the person floats off the porch, using the house's light bulbs to create a fire.

This videotape is the recording of the fire that killed Jota's parents.

Upon seeing the tape, all specialists are teleported to the city center again. They start to theorize about the tape and about the hooded person, with the most likely theory being that Bia Raux was the hooded person.

Bagi notices before the hooded person starts the fire, someone comes out of the couple's house.

Bagi shares information about Leonardo's diary with Gabepeixe and Pac helps with new information, giving them a book. In the book the author talks about someone (supposedly Araldo) who has a grandiose vision about Arkanya, who welcomed them when the whole city turned its back on them, invited them to be their Coder. Despite their trust in the person, the author says they feels like just a pawn in a game, as if your loyalty is constantly tested. With so many red flags, the author says they will continue their work for Arkanya.

DAY 65 — 07/11/2024

Meiaum wakes up again! (He just explores with Amora and talks to Denix and Gabepeixe around).

Guzhera starts the first episode of his podcast, "Podzhera", with JVNQ and Guaxinim as guests. Mayor Jota was part of the behind the scenes, helping Guhzera with the camera and sound design.

Meiaum, Denix, Amora and Gabepeixe manage to find the location of the studio where the Podcast is being made and play several loud audios to make a prank.

Nicklink and his brothers get a videotape inside Araldo's laboratory, showing Marília and Araldo talking. The conversation is a bit aggressive, with Araldo at the end slapping Marília when the woman says that "they are getting closer and closer". Nicklink shows the video to Choke and Gabepeixe.

Gabepeixe takes Coreano and Yayahz to his base to show the video of Marília and Araldo, but suddenly the video player turns on, showing a black image with the phrase "Everyone Dies!" Written in white.

[Please, if information is wrong or missing, let me know!]