#when will this man stop throwing into a blender my weak little brain

[girlartemisia]

oh boy. this poem just BROKE me.

(MAJOR brain rot ahead)

Since I must bear the grief of my heart

and feel in place of pleasure a burning fire

and from virtue I'm pulled to a place so vile,

I will say how I lost all value.

And I say that my spirits are dead,

and that the heart has a lot to fight and little life;

and if it weren't that dying is to me joy,

I would make Love weep of pity.

But, for the mad time that has got upon me,

I change from my fixed opinion

into another condition,

such that I don't show how aggrieved I am:

there where I am deceived,

for from inside the heart passes Love

that brings away all my strength.

why, you may ask? WELL. I could go on about the whole wonderful question of how is Guido narrating which becomes a question of who, and expand on the topic of his alienation from himself BUT. What is really haunting me right now is a brief sentence in the notes to the last two lines where De Robertis calls Guido's habit to stop the narration to explain what was at the beginning of all of it a "step back". He talks about Guido's usual "step back". You may say yeah so what? he takes a step back in the chronology of events, what's so special? What is special is that taking a step back is like dancing. Guido creates a little dance in his poems by narrating events in a sparse order, following the mind's subjective train of thought rather than the objective chronology. Now, consider also the language he uses. The words are carefully chosen to create soft and melodious sounds. He has the music.

And what about the dancers? Who is dancing to the music, following these steps? THE ACTORS OBVIOUSLY. Is it not true that Guido vivisects himself into many little components (heart, eyes, soul, spirits, sighs, etc...)? And that those components are personified? So that they are characters of their own? And do critics not call these "characters" dramatis personae? Actors? His poems are a whole damn theater performance. And HE. IS. THE PROTAGONIST. He's the main actor and all the actors and no actor and the author and the director at the same time. Guido fucking reached ubiquity with his mind while being nowhere at once. WITH. HIS. MIND. And he managed to make it make sense. How. How did he do it. I stare at the text and I see under my eyes how but I ask myself how.

And shall we talk about how some of his poems were probably actually put into music?? They were sung? The singers became part of the performance? I just- hhhhng I have no words. In such small spaces he can show such elegance, such finesse, such genius. I hope in life someone kissed his beautuful head.

[yourdaddychan]

triggers — bathroom sex, oral [ female receiving ]

word count — 1.8k

note — pwp here we go boys 😎 happy new year el oh el

pairing — stripper!hyunjin x female reader

"Y/N~" Your mother's voice rang out from the phone held too close to your ear. You winced, holding it far from you.

"Yes, mother?"

It was her birthday, and just so happened to be the anniversary of the divorce of your parents. So of course, your rich and carefree mother decided to spend the night at a club.

"You have to come," She insisted, almost whining at this point, "Minho will be coming too!"

Ah, yes, Minho. Your charming, yet freak of a best friend. You didn't even know the definition of horny before you met Minho. He wouldn't miss up an opportunity to see some skin.

"Come on, Y/N, pleeaasee~"

"Alright, fine," You sighed, cutting her off and ending the call. "I'll be there, don't worry about it."

You tugged at the bottom of your shirt and stepped out of the car into the chilly night air.

"Y/N!" A male voice called out your name. You turned, watching as the figure who called out your name smirked, tucking his hair behind his ear. "Missed me?"

"As if, Minho. You barely give me any space to miss you." You huff, crossing your arms and pretending to pout.

"Aww, don't pout at me, I know you love me~" He teases, poking at your cheek.

"Are we going or not, sloth?"

Your best friend hooks his arm into yours, forcing you to walk in step with him.

"You better stay with me, Minho. I swear, if you lose me, you'll lose your head too."

"I wouldn't lose you, I'm responsible!" He protests, tossing his fluffy hair indignantly.

You raised an eyebrow, ignoring him and stepping through the entrance of the club, immediately blinded by the flashing lights.

You estimated it was about two minutes into the night when Minho's arm loosened in your grip, and after mouthing drinks, he disappeared in a flash, leaving you alone.

You sighed, turning your attention to the dancer walking to the stage.

Responsible, my ass. Minho really knew how to annoy the shit out of you. Oh well, you reasoned. As long as you were here, you might admire the handsome man who was currently walking to the stage as if he owned the place.

He had a certain aura to him that you couldn't pinpoint. He was almost ethereal, the way he flipped his chin length blonde hair, turning to wink at the crowd. You needed to get closer.

You pushed your way through the screaming crowd, somehow making your way to the front.

The dancer turns to look at the crowd, and he looks directly into your eyes. Your breath stops. As his brown eyes kept contact with yours, he steps up to the pole, and he dances.

You had never been more focused in your life. All you could see was this man, the way he moves his body, and every step he took. The way his flexible body wove around the pole, as he maintained blowing kisses and winking at them. It was exhilarating, addicting, and you needed more.

He licks his plump lips, concentrating on flipping his body around the pole. You're so entranced, you don't even notice as the man rests his eyes on you. As he bites his lips at the almost immediate thought of you crying for him, begging for him.

The dancer takes a breath, trying to keep his cool. But how was that possible when you were there, with your eyes widened and your jaw dropped? It was too much for him. He just had to talk to you.

You rinse your face in the bathroom, looking at yourself in the mirror. That show was really something. Your cheeks were flushed, and you were covered in sweat. The image of the dancer was still engraved in your head, refusing to let itself out.

You sighed as you patted your cheek with a spare beauty blender, touching up your makeup. Oh, the things you would let that man do to you. It was unfair, really, how his sheer beauty left you weak in the knees. How a simple lip bite from a man you haven't even seen before left you wet and bothered. Unfair was the only word to describe it.

Lost in your thoughts, you don't notice as a tall figure walks up to the open restroom door, knocking at it softly.

"Hi, there~" You jump as a soft voice greets you. You swore you were alone in the bathroom when you arrived. You turn towards the voice, protectively holding your beauty blender out.

The voice chuckles, and the figure steps inside the bathroom to show himself. Oh. Oh shit. You were fucked.

Standing in front of you was no other than the pole dancer you just saw.

"Hwang Hyunjin, nice to meet you. And you are, babygirl?" The dancer extends his hand, expecting you to shake it.

Babygirl. The name makes you weak, shooting any comments you had out of your brain. Your head was empty, with the only thought being babygirl.

"I-uh..." You finally reach out a hand, meeting his midway, and shaking it. "I'm Y/N..."

"Y/N. What a pretty name for a pretty kitten." The dancer, no, Hyunjin, releases his grip on your hand, now putting it gently on your shoulder. He leans closer.

"Well," Hyunjin whispers, "I'm glad to see I have such an effect on you, babygirl." He draws out the word, making every syllable weaken your defenses.

You whimper, and wince after. How did this man have the ability to make you puddy in his hands so easily? You couldn't tell if you hated it or loved it.

"Don't worry, kitten. You have an effect on me as well. I saw you cheering for me, and well..." Hyunjin exhales, gesturing towards his bulge.

You widen your eyes. That was all you? A sudden surge of confidence overwhelms you as you step closer to him and nip at his neck, drawing a moan out from him, and tug at the bottom of his shirt.

Hyunjin tugs your shirt off, catching your lips in a harsh kiss. He desperately licks and bites at your neck, sucking at the exact spots that make you whimper.

"I'm going to make you feel so good, babygirl," He breathed in between his kisses, diving back in to suck at your neck, and drawing a strangled moan from your lips. The stripper bucks his covered hips into yours, bulge growing by the second.

"Just fucking do it already." You hike his shirt up and took it off, shirt soon followed by his sweatpants.

"Fuck..." He moans at the sight of your naked bodies pressed together, seen clearly in the mirror. "Such a pretty little babygirl, hm? A good little toy for me to play with?"

His large hand cups your jaw, tilting it for another intoxicated kiss. Teeth clashing as he kissed you, Hyunjin drops his other hand down to play with your gathering stickiness.

"A-ah.." You let out a whine, bucking your hips in his hands as he rolls your clit in his fingers easily. Your hands gripped his shoulders as he broke away from the kiss, easily picking you up and setting you on top of the counter. He swings your legs over his shoulders, dipping down so his face could meet your heat.

"Smells divine," He comments, gathering your juices with his fingers and sucking them with a pop. "Tastes divine too, baby. And your moans? Sound divine."

He brushes his fingers against your clit to make a point, as you whimper with the slight touch. The dancer knew what he was doing, how he was affecting you. And he loved every single second of it.

Hyunjin licks a bold strip of your heat, sighing with pleasure as you threw your head back.

"So reactive, kitten. So easily, too, hm?" He tilts his head playfully as you try not to glare at the cocky man. "I believe I asked you a question, baby. I expect you answer it."

"I'm sorry... I do react too easily, but I can't help that you're so hot!" You rush, trying to find any reason at all to defend yourself.

Hyunjin drags his fingertips lightly on your inner thigh, looking into your eyes.

You shivered. His gaze was piercing, darkened with lust. You couldn't look away.

"So hot," Hyunjin finally responds after too long of a silence. "You're cute, too cute. I can't wait to ruin you. To see your eyes puffy with tears as you beg me to let you cum. Oh yes, we'll definitely have fun."

He licks your inner thigh, watching you struggle to keep your legs open for him with a smirk playing on his lips.

"Still open? My good girl." A rush of pleasure speeds through your body as Hyunjin says those words, making you feel proud of yourself. Good girl. His good girl.

He nips around your throbbing heat, licking and biting at your inner thighs and paying no attention to where you needed him the most.

"Please..." You finally beg as his nose brushes against your clit for the tenth time, shooting euphoria throughout your body, and disappearing in an instant.

"Please what, babygirl?" His breath is hot against your heat, the change in temperature making you wetter than before. "I need you to use your words," He practically purrs, obviously enjoying watching you squirm and beg for him.

"M-make me feel good," You stutter, your brain clouding over with how needy you were for Hyunjin.

"M-make you feel good, huh?" He mocks, scoffing at how far gone you were. "I haven't even properly touched you, babygirl. So sensitive, hm?"

You nod, eagerly waiting for his mouth on you dripping heat.

He smirks, lapping at your heat gently, and drawing back immediately.

"Hyunjin!"

"Needy kitten." He clicks his tongue in mock disappointment, and laps at your wetness again, making you throw your head back in pleasure.

Your eyes roll back in bliss, and all that could come out of your mouth was his name. Hyunjin.

"Fuck! Hyun-Hyunjin!" You scream out, making the blonde boy in question raise his head, cocking an eyebrow at you. "Shh, now. We don't want anyone to hear, do we?" He presses a tiny kiss to your clit, and starts nipping at the sensitive bud.

Your hands find themselves in Hyunjin's hair, and you tug at his loose tendrils, eliciting a deep groan.

"Such a good babygirl." Words of praise continue to leave Hyunjin's mouth as he dips his head back down to lap at your heat feverishly, causing you to feel such pleasure that your thighs start to shake.

"Hyunjin..." You pant as you feel your high approaching, and you buck your hips up against the dancer's tongue in need.

To your dismay, he suddenly pulls away with a soft smack from his lips, making you whine from the ruined orgasm. "Oh trust me, baby, we aren't done yet," He chuckles, reaching out to grab your chin and tilt it towards him. "Our first time can't be in a dirty bathroom, now can it, babygirl?"

[mycupoffanfiction]

His Second Chance Part 6

Bucky x Reader

His Second Chance Masterlist

Bucky comes back from Wakanda with Steve, ready to begin his recovery from his days as the Winter Soldier, but there’s one thing he doesn’t take into account - you.

Warnings: Fluff, angst, language, mentions of bad family, needle (briefly mentioned for a second with little detail), a smidge of violence.

Word count: Approx 2400

Masterlist

In this one, Bucky feels terrible about what happened and wants to fix it but he doesn’t know how.

Okay, so we’re just going to admit that Infinity War and End Game didn’t happen and Bucky’s brain had been de blendered by Shuri and for some reason still has his silver arm (sorry that one makes me weak and I always defult to it). 

Please don’t hesitate to leave suggestions or thoughts! TAG LISTS ARE OPEN! (My forever list and His Second Chance list)

_____________________________

“(Y/n)?” Steve knocked on the door a few times. “She even in there?” Sam asked. “FRIDAY said her vitals are reading from her bedroom, so she’s definitely in there, Sam.” Steve nodded, knocking on your door again. “C’mon sweetheart, we just wanna check up on you.” Steve called through the door. “(Y/n), sweetheart, please.” Steve called.

For fuck sake, just leave the poor girl alone. Bucky sat on the floor on top of his mattress, back pressed up against the bed frame with his ear against the wall. He could hear you shuffling about now and again, the odd sniffle and whimper. He could also hear the click clack of your keyboard along with the sound of your mouse, you were drowning them out with a videogame. That sounded like you.

 You’re a fucking idiot, the poor girl has locked herself away because of you.

Perhaps you should be the one to coax her out of her room and apologise.

No, she’s terrified of you, it’ll make it worse, you’d be better to just leave.

Don’t leave, you can’t leave her when you haven’t said you’re sorry or said goodbye.

“Can you please, shut the fuck up?” Bucky growled lowly, hitting his head against the wall that separated your rooms.

 A thump caught your attention. You knew where it came from, it was Bucky on the other side of that wall, probably beating himself up over the incident. Truthfully, you weren’t scared of him and you might have already forgiven him because you knew it wasn’t really Bucky that meant to scare you or hurt you, it was the voice in his head, the damage Hydra did to him that caused it. “(Y/n), open up!” Sam was taking a turn at your door now and you let out a deep sigh.

 Getting up from your swivel chair at your desk, you padded over to the wall and sat on the floor, pressing your ear up against it, your hand coming up to rest against the wall. “Bucky?” You whimpered out.

 Bucky heard you on the other side of the wall. He even considered ignoring you for a moment but knew you had come to him and it wasn’t fair to ignore you. “(Y/n).” Bucky sighed your name out, wondering if you’d even heard him. “I’m sorry.” He apologised, a bit louder this time. “I’m so sorry.” Bucky clutched at his long brown hair, pulling on it a bit too hard, the hurt eased the pain in his chest. So goddamn sorry. “I’m sorry too.” Came your little voice, confusing Bucky. What? Why is she sorry? You’re the one who fucked it all up. “I pushed you too far too fast.” You went on. “Please don’t be sad.” Bucky blurted out. “It wasn’t you. I promise it wasn’t you.” Bucky pulled his hair a bit tighter, squeezing his eyes shut.

 “It wasn’t you. I promise it wasn’t you.” Bucky sounded so desperate, so broken. You let out a sigh and sat in silence for a moment. “(Y/n), please open the door!” Sam was getting exasperated. “Sam, calmly, she’s not gonna open the door if you shout at her.” Steve started squabbling with Sam. “Well I know better; she’ll open the goddamn door if I’m out here long enough.” Sam argued. “No, she won’t, she’ll answer the door if we’re gentle with her.” Steve started going into protective Steve mode and putting on his Cap voice. “Don’t coddle her, she ain’t a child.” The two of them continued arguing and you heard a pained groan from the other side of the wall. I feel you.

 Getting up from the floor, you padded over to the door and swung it open quickly. Both soldiers paused and looked at you, Sam looked terrified as you gave them both a death glare. “(Y/n).” Steve began, voice gentle. “Are you alright?” He asked. “Does she look alright to you? Cause she looks like she’s about to gut us both.” Sam pointed at you. “I just want to rest, please.” You sounded exasperated, exhausted from the anxiety and the entire situation. Without saying anything, Steve nodded and pulled Sam back from the door before you shrunk back into your room and collapsed on your bed. A muffled, “Thank you.” Could be heard from the other side of the wall as the silence set in and you began to fall asleep.

 “C’mon Buck, it’ll be good for you!” Steve exclaimed while Bucky rubbed the bridge of his nose. “No.” He replied simply in an frustrated tone. “Please Buck, it’ll help, I promise.” Steve tried to pull Bucky along by the hand the way that you did, but he wasn’t having any of it. “No, I’m not seeing some therapist.” Bucky protested, yanking his hand away.

I don’t want to see a therapist; I want to see (Y/n) and apologise properly.

“No, it’ll help if you go see this therapist about the voice in your head.” Steve encouraged. “It won’t just help you, but it’ll help your little girlfriend too.” Sam teased. “Not my girlfriend.” Bucky growled. I wish she was though; I wish I could kiss her and hug her, tell her how wonderful she is, make lov- Nope, no, now is not the time to think about that!

“Whatever you say pal. Look, just think about it, alright?” Steve sighed, giving him a sympathetic smile and handing Bucky the business card for the therapist he was recommending. “She’s helped a few of the others too, helped Wanda and Pietro process everything that happened after Ultron, helped Tony with his anxiety, she’s helped Bruce with his anger, I’m sure she can do the same for that voice in here.” Steve poked the side of Bucky’s head before backing away and leaving it at that.

Maybe it was worth a shot, if she could help stop the voices so you could think fucking rationally for once.

Bucky sighed and stared down at the little paper in his hand before retreating back to his room.

 ***

“Here, it’ll make you feel better.” A woman who resembled an older version of you leant over your tired body. “It might hurt a little, only for a second.” She smiled gently down at you. “No, please.” You half heartedly protested, too drugged up and sleepy to respond properly. “Darling, it only lasts a second.” She smiled, holding up the needle before slowly approaching your arm. “Stop.” You begged, tears streaming down your cheeks. “Stop!” Your yelling was useless, body limp, heavy and difficult to move as the needle went into your arm. Oh god. It burned, it burned so much.

 A blood curdling scream ripped through your throat as you burned from the inside out. “Should’ve knocked her out completely before we did it.” The woman sighed, watching you wriggle and writhe under the straps that held you down onto the workbench. “It’s in her, give up the cash.” She held out her hand. “Not yet, I want to see it work once it’s set in, then you get the money.” An older man stood next to her, dressed in a tan suit. “That wasn’t part of the deal, Pierce.” She sneered. “It is now.”

 “You’re worthless! A freak! An experiment!”

“You injected me with it!”

“Shut up! You worthless child, I did it for the money, not you!” Your mother screamed you down as you cowered in the corner. “You’re tainted, ruined, a failed test!” She raised her voice, throwing kitchen utensils at you with every word. “That’s all I am to you?” You screamed back. “That’s all you ever were!” She responded, chucking a knife at you, but you were too fast, your abilities kicking in. The knife stopped short of your chest, only by a few centimetres.

You saw red, your mother had just tried to kill you.

“Your father left because of you!” She went on as you used your fingers to manipulate the energy field that held the knife still in front of you, twisting the knife around without even touching it. Her eyes went wide and you stared her down. “Don’t talk about dad.” You growled. “Dad left because he couldn’t stand the thought of you taking money from Hydra so they could use their experimental serum on me.” You frowned. “He hated you for it! He hated what you became.” She screamed.

“So did you.” And with the flick of your wrist, the knife hurtled towards your mother, the blade narrowly missing her face and smashing through the wall behind her with the force of energy you put behind it. She screamed, stumbling back from the force and ducked as rubble cascaded down onto her and when she looked up, you were gone.

 ***

You came bolt awake in a cold sweat, heaving for breath, the voices replaying in your mind a few times. “Asshole.” You whispered as shook your head of the memory and sat up to look at the time. Three o’clock in the morning. It wasn’t like you were going to be able to get back to sleep, so you decided to get up and do something with yourself.

 With a pounding headache, you left your room in search of something to quell the pain. As you walked down the corridor, you realised the living room light was on still and you naturally assumed one of the boys had forgotten to turn it off. But as you entered the living room, you saw Bucky sitting hunched over on the edge of the sofa, looking up at your sudden arrival like a deer in the headlights.

 “Bucky.” You whispered. “What are you doing up so late- early- I don’t know.” You dropped your forehead into your hand and rubbed where the headache pulsed. It felt like your brain was two sizes too big for your skull. “Uh.” Bucky looked confused for a second. “Could ask you the same thing.” He responded simply. “(Y/n), I, uh. God, fuck me.” Bucky rubbed his face with his hands. “Can I sit next to you?” You asked, hesitantly taking a step towards him. “No.” Bucky face palmed. “Yes, please.” He almost squeaked out. Oh my god, you are so confusing Barnes. “That’s a yes or no answer question, not both.” You stated with a small smile on your lips. “Sorry, yes, please sit.” Bucky patted the seat next to him. God you’re bad at this, can’t even answer a yes or no answer question properly.

 Bucky flinched when you approached and sat down next to him. “I’m not going to hurt you.” You tried to reassure him. “I know that.” Bucky nodded, leaning away from you. “I’m scared to hurt you, though.” Bucky dropped his voice into a whisper. A look of realisation crossed your features for a second. Wow you actually admitted that out loud, not sure if that’s good or bad, Barnes. Please don’t take it the wrong way, please. “You can’t hurt me, Bucky.” You gave him a small, sweet, reassuring smile as you looked up into his bright blue eyes. “I promise.” You did a quick demonstration of your abilities by plucking the piece of paper from between his fingers with your energy. Bucky stared at you for a second, completely dumbfounded. WhaAAT? This whole time she could make things fucking float? “Holy shi- you’re enhanced?” Bucky’s voice peaked. This is mildly terrifying. You smirked, pulling the card into your hands with your energy field. “I suppose you could call it that.” You shrug.

 Your eyes look down at the little paper. A business card. It was the therapist you’d seen around that Wanda had mentioned a few times to you. “Steve set you up with her?” You ask, holding up the card with your hands this time before handing it back to him. “Yeah, wants me to go and see her.” Bucky sighed. “Think it’ll help?” You ask, sitting back against the soft cushions as you watched Bucky visibly relax a bit. “I don’t know.” He shrugged, following your lead and leaning back against the sofa. You reached out and hovered your hand over his flesh one, waiting for his approval to take it. Bucky intertwined his fingers with yours, his eyes fixed on your gentle gaze. “What do you think?” Bucky asked. Did you really just ask her opinion? Is that going to help? Oh god, she’s going to try and persuade you to do it. “I’m not going to tell you what to do, Steve might do that, but I’m not Steve.” You paused for breath. “Do you have anything to lose? The worst that will happen is that it won’t work or that you’re not ready to try it, that’s not going to hurt or kill you. But it’s ultimately your decision, Bucky.” You squeezed his hand a little. Bucky huffed.

 She’s right. She’s so fucking right. What have you got to lose? Her… But going to a therapist is doing the opposite of putting her in danger.

Should listen to her more often.

 “Maybe you’re right.” Bucky sighed. No, she is right you idiot. “No, you’re definitely right.” Bucky corrected himself. Good. You smiled up at him, not a ‘see I told you so’ sort of smug smile, no. It was a sweet, encouraging, gentle smile. Your cheeks warmed with a dusting of pink blush as you gazed up into his soft blue eyes. Oh god, she’s melting me. I’m melting. How does she do that? How are you so wrapped around her little finger? It’s that smile, that sweet little smile. Or the eyes, that’s probably it.

No, it’s her, it’s all of her.

“I’ll do it, for you.” Bucky whispered. Oh no, did you just say that out loud? You just said that out loud. Of course you fucking did. Urgh.

Oh but look at the flustered little smile, the blush, the way she’s looking away shyly. Oh so damn cute. Deeep breath. Bucky smiled at you goofily, getting lost in your beautiful features.

He would do it, for you. He knew he could.

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Forever Tag List:

@shygirl-00 @swanlakemikey @scuzmunkie@paintballkid711@lovelylilia @mapreza1 @love-bucky-3000 @cals-cigarette @scarlett-berserker @2407zzz@mercurybarnes @mywinterwolf @geeksareunique @fairislesheets @wendaiii

His Second Chance Tag List:

@socialheartbreak @whatsupbucky @yesno18 @just-a-littlebit-of-everything @crystallstaircase @megantje123 @fantua @lady-x-red@buckys-islandgirl@chipilerendi @butteryoptimisticpeanut@wowitsemilysblog @dark-night-sky-99 @marvel-ous-bucky@rand0mfangurlstuff @tfandtws

[deepseawritings]

Trapped (part 2/2)

EDIT: Part 1 is here

Fucking Dutier and his holier-than-thou attitude.  Good riddance to him and his chronic sourness, and to the endless accusations that were driving Lukash mad.

He continued messing with the damaged computer, illuminated only by the glare of the screen. He hummed as he worked. Despite the appearances, it wasn't a happy or contented hum. He was doing it for the same reason he started talking before: noise helped mask the buzzing in his head. It was really annoying, like having a mosquito following you all the time. So he hummed and talked to himself, hoping it soon would go away.

"Dancing on the ashes of the world, I behold the stars... c'mon you piece of shit... Heavy gale is blowing to my face... dammit!"

Maybe it was time to accept his hacking skills weren't up to the task. Or that the hard drive was corrupt beyond salvation.

Accepting defeat, he turned the computer off. The screen's light faded out of existence and the room was left in almost total darkness. There was one of the ever present emergency lights out on the corridor, but only a weak glow arrived inside the abandoned lab room. Blind in the shadows, Lukash stubbed his toe against the table's leg. Shit!

"Damn battery consuming anomaly," Lukash grunted while blindly rummaging his backpack, thinking on what he could use as a source of light. "Ah, right!"

The lighter, of course. Its flame was a poor substitute for the torchlight, but it was better than nothing. A loud noise followed by muffled shots came from somewhere far away. Looked like Voronin found a welcome party. Awesome, that meant less mutants Lukash would have to deal with.

He went to the dimly lit entrance of the room and into another corridor, which was blocked by an erratic electro. Thank goodness this could be bypassed simply throwing a bolt.

But his headache was killing him, the buzz getting louder and louder, like static in his mind, and he botched the timing between throwing the bolt and crossing. To avoid getting shocked he threw himself against the wall. To his luck, he fell against a door that burst opened under the sudden impact. The lighter’s flame was snuffed and his shoulder would develop a bruise the size of a mountain, but he was fine. Lukash re-lit the small flame of the lighter and decided to explore the place.

Getting lost in the small maze of interconnecting rooms was surprisingly easy, especially because all those rooms looked basically the same. But in the end he made it back to the corridor. The electro was behind him now, for which he was grateful. And further ahead the long corridor he glimpsed a hunched figure standing still in the semi darkness.

"Voronin?"

Had the Dutier lost his mind, stopping in the middle of the corridor in the dark like that? His eyes hurt from straining his vision in these conditions, and he saw everything blurry and greyed. His headache worsened considerably too. And the more he approached Voronin the more he felt something wasn't right.

The figure finally turned around, slowly. It most definitely wasn't Voronin. It wasn't even human anymore. A deformed face flashed in front of him, despite the fact neither of them had moved an inch. Reality spun wildly like a rollercoaster and Lukash nearly fell to his knees overwhelmed. Thinking was difficult, and reaching the GP-37 slung on his back proved to be a titanic effort since he barely knew what was up or down anymore. But he screwed his shut and focused on getting the weapon in his hands.

He succeeded, all the while the mutant's hideous mug flashed behind his closed eyes. Hoping he was gripping the rifle correctly -and not about to shoot himself- he opened fire. The accuracy left something to be desired, but at least he hit the mutant. The Controller either didn't realise it had been shot or didn't care, since it kept doing its weird mental voodoo.

Lukash wasted the whole clip on the Controller and when the ammo ran out, instead of reloading, he just took out his pistol and finished the job. He knew when the Controller died because he stopped feeling like someone put his brain on a blender. The pain stopped but his ears were still ringing and his vision was blurred. Oh God, this was way worse than the evilest of hangovers, everything kept spinning. Lukash sat on the floor while the world around him righted itself.

Slowly but surely he was getting better. Except for his vision, which had gone from blurry to unbearably bright. Fuck, it was like staring at a light bulb.

"Can you hear me?"

So he was actually staring at a light bulb. Sort of. "Get that damn thing out of my face!"

The torchlight's beam was redirected away from his eyes and Voronin even offered him a hand to get up. It was suspiciously nice of him.

"Oh, did you miss me? That's why you came back?" He swatted the hand away and got up on his own after picking up his rifle.

Voronin's answer was a sound of disgust mixed with annoyance. And yet he refrained from starting another of their vicious arguments.

"While you played with the computer I found more Burers. Killed one but the other smashed a barrel against me and escaped." Coming from Voronin that was as good as admitting he felt guilty, maybe even worried, by having left him behind to fend for himself.

But Lukash wanted an apology, damn it, so he pushed him further. "And you stumbled into me by coincidence, I'm sure."

The Dutier clenched his jaw and made a face like he swallowed a lemon. And then he surprised Lukash.

"Abandoning you in the dark was a bit extreme, I suppose I shouldn’t have lost my patience like that. I just couldn't think straight in that moment."

"I think this once it's understandable," Lukash kicked the Controller, making sure it was dead for good. "Man I hate Controllers and their ability to mess with people’s minds."

Voronin's answer was a stiff nod and an awkward silence fell upon them, neither sure of what to do after their little show of civility. Of course, Lukash broke it first, and with a rather unfortunate joke.

"Now we just have to agree about who ambushed who and we're as good as friends."

Talk about putting your feet on your mouth. Voronin gave him a hard look, clearly conveying the idea he thought him an idiot, and walked away, although at a slow enough pace that gave Lukash ample opportunity to catch up with him.

They walked in silence for a while, the torchlight's beam weakly illuminating the way. Lukash wondered if Voronin had an idea of where were they going, or if he simply went down the corridor because it was the easiest path.

"I think I may have an inkling about whose fault the ambush was," the Dutier said out of the blue when they reached a fork in their path. To the left there was a dead Burer slumped in the middle of the way. Vorornin went to the right. "And if I'm right I'll skin the son of a bitch alive"

"Ha, so he was one of yours!" Being proven right was amazing, more so when the admission came from the dour Duty General.

"He hasn't been one of mine for quite some time now," Voronin replied bitterly.

A deserter then. Probably someone with a grudge against his ex-faction, Lukash guessed.

They arrived to another big room full of old junk. Another lab presumably, like the one where they had their spat before going separate ways. A dark heap lay on the middle of the room.

They approached cautiously, until they were close enough to see it was a dead Burer. Must be the one that escaped from Voronin. Maybe he wounded it before it got away? Except, Lukash noticed with alarm, this one had the throat ripped open. Bullets didn't do that.

There was a single warning growl and fear doused him like an iced bucket of water. Then he saw a pair of malevolent yellow eyes too close to his face and pain bloomed on his chest. The bloodsucker clawed him from clavicle to hip and Lukash stumbled back. Voronin shot the mutant as soon as it became visible, drawing its attention away from Lukash. The bloodsucker turned around and jumped at the Dutier, attaching its tentacled maw on his neck with frightening efficiency. Lukash watched in sick fascination as the bullet wounds on its back slowly healed as the mutant drank blood, the flesh knitting back together in a scarred lump.

His rifle did nothing when he tried to shoot the mutant off of Voronin. Shit, he hadn't reloaded it since his encounter with the Controller! Mentally kicking himself for such a rookie mistake, he ditched the GP-37 in favour of the pistol, which he hoped still had some bullets in the clip. Unnatural regeneration ability or not, surviving a point blank range headshot was really difficult. Just to be sure, Lukash shot again. The creature went flaccid like a ragdoll and its mouth tentacles released its hold over Voronin's throat. The Dutier wasted no time in pushing the body away from him.

Even in the half-light of the room Lukash could see the wound on Voronin's throat with more detail he ever wanted. They needed to stop the bleeding right now. He started to frantically search in his bag. Fuck, and double fuck! Where were the bandages?! Or the Vinca, or... His hand closed around a soft bundle and he sighed in relief. Lukash shoved almost the entire roll of bandages in the wound and pressed hard, while still searching for the Vinca pills with his other hand. He would also need more bandages.

"Press here." He dragged Voronin's hand over the improvised patch and pressed it down hard until the Dutier winced in pain.

Lukash grabbed the fallen torchlight, because his blind search wasn't going that well, and for the first time saw the blood stain over his chest. At least he didn't feel much pain now, although that could be an effect of the adrenalin surge. He popped a Vinca pill and hoped it would be enough; he had a far more urgent wound to deal with.

#

He felt like something had tried to chew a piece of his neck off. His hand was still pressing down what felt like a mountain of bandages, and God it hurt. Being bitten by a bloodsucker usually was at the bottom of the list of survivable mutant attacks, usually because the bastards gorged themselves on their victims without restraint, and for the first time Voronin was really fucking glad for Lukash's presence. He tried to get up and the effort sent his head spinning, so he quickly sat down again.

"Ugh, water." Voronin wasn't sure if he said that aloud or not. But he must have, since Lukash materialised at his side with a canteen.

"How are you feeling?"

He grunted and drank more water. Was it really necessary to ask such stupid question? Lukash kept talking, seemingly unable to keep quiet for long.

"I think we managed to stop the bleeding, but if I were you I’d keep pressing down a little longer." Lukash tried to appear unconcerned, but he failed miserably.

Returning the canteen, Voronin looked at him and frowned at the dark stain covering his chest. "What happened to you?"

"Oh, just a scratch from our bloodsucking friend," Lukash waved his hand in a clearly dismissive gesture.

"If that's just a scratch then my neck wound is just a love bite," Voronin couldn’t keep the disapproval out of his voice. His wound was probably massive too, and he looked tired and drawn. Not like Voronin himself didn’t look any better, though, sitting on the floor and slumped against the wall to keep upright.

Ignoring his own injury, Lukash sat next to him and dragged his bag closer. He took a medkit out of the backpack and told Voronin he was going to take out the bloodied gauze and fix a proper dressing for the wound. Thankfully there was no more bleeding when he removed the ball of bandages.

"Seems like the bloodsucker didn't nick anything important when it gave you this hickey," even so, Lukash grimaced when the wound was uncovered. The resulting scar would be huge. "You're one lucky bastard."

The process of applying the butterfly stitches was unpleasant, the edges of the bite wound were pretty sensitive to being pinched together like that. Voronin schooled his face in a blank mask. The sooner Lukash was done with this the better.

The final dressing covering his neck was a bit shoddy and had a bit too much gauze, but Voronin didn't mind. After all, it's not like he would have done it better. He slowly got up. "Good. Now strip."

He didn't expect Lukash's startled laugh, though perhaps his choice of words hadn't been the most appropriate. "What? Isn't that a bit forward from your part?"

After mentally counting to ten, and fixing him with an unamused stare, he answered. "You know what I mean. Have you taken care of your own wound?"

"I took a Vinca pill? It didn't look as bad as your neck, you know?"

Okay, point taken. And yet that was no excuse. As they soon discovered, the dried blood made the clothing stick to the wound and water was necessary to peel it off without making the 'scratch' bleed again. He'd also been lucky, Voronin noticed. The slash went from his clavicle to mid chest, where it curled around his ribs and went down almost to the hip. With a little more force and with only a slightly different trajectory the bloodsucker could have easily gutted him.

"Hmm, I don't think you'll need stitches," was Voronin's verdict.

"Dude, you probably do. Proper stitches I mean, not the flimsy paper ones I used," Lukash admitted a touch worriedly. "But I'm afraid I'd make a butchery out of it."

"Yes, no offense but I don't think I'd let you try."

"Fair enough." Lukash seemed in an awful good mood. "Look at us, being nice to each other. Someone could even think we're friends!"

"I wouldn't take it that far." He slumped back again, searching the support of the wall. Damn, he tired so easily now. But they couldn’t afford to sit on their asses for long.

At Voronin's insistence, they soon retook the exploration of this place, but at a slower pace than usual. The rest of the rooms were pretty uninteresting: another lab, an empty room, a dormitory without a single mattress in the bunks. It was on this last one they found a dusty protective suit with an unknown badge sewn on it. It looked old and worn, but Lukash seized the opportunity to change his slashed suit for this one. Meanwhile he searched the rest of the lockers.

"How does it look?" The Freedomer asked, waving at his new ensemble. "Do I pass for an ecologist?"

"More like a merc. I don't think I've ever seen an ecologist in a blue suit." The suit had a greyish faded hue actually, but it could be guessed which colour it had originally been. "C'mon there's nothing else here."

Such affirmation could be broadly applied, as they soon learnt. The corridor led them to another infinite loop, like the one they found right after arriving. And the only other unexplored room turned out to be empty except for a badly rusted ladder going up to a hatch.  With much regret, Voronin had to admit he didn't feel up to the task of climbing up the ladder; this slow crawl through the rooms had been taxing enough. And Lukash readily agreed when he proposed to rest for a bit before investigating where did the ladder lead.

Finding no suitable place but the floor, Voronin sat down and sighed heavily as he turned off the torchlight. No need to waste their only battery when the room was lit by faint glow coming from the corridor. Although that made searching what he wanted a tad more difficult.

"Anything you want in exchange for one of those?" Lukash looked at the painkillers in his hand with hopeful eyes. His ‘simple scratch’ must hurt worse than he admitted.

He traded it for a can of energy drink. Perhaps not the best trade, but he was going to need a little pick me up to keep the pace, he felt drained and sluggish. They took their painkillers and enjoyed a bit of rest while he drank the energy drink, and then got moving.

The ladder wobbled under their weight and creaked ominously, but it endured. The nasty surprise came when they reached the end of the ladder. No matter how much force it was applied, the hatch’s door wouldn't budge. Both of them tried opening it, all to no avail.

Ten minutes later they had to face the truth: they were back like they started, with no way out of the bunker. A desperate need to have a glimmer of hope ensued, and they started to list all the places explored, in the hopes of noticing something they could have overlooked. Lukash carried a notebook and a pencil in his backpack, so they started drawing a map of the whole place cobbled from their memories.

About an hour later they had a very nice map and no idea of what to do next.

"Maybe we should sleep, take on this tomorrow with a fresh perspective." It was sound advice and Voronin had no choice but to agree.

So, deciding this room was as good as any other place, Voronin took out the sleeping bag and went to sleep in sullen silence. Neither of them thought about setting up a watch. According to their map they had explored every place that was accessible, and killed every mutant in their way.

#

Quiet sobs woke him in the dead of the night. Well, Lukash supposed it was night, but he had no idea what time it truly was.

Voronin was snoring loudly, so he wasn't the one making those sobs. Not like crying seemed to be his style. Was he imagining things? The crying got louder and Lukash was pretty sure it wasn't a hallucination. Then it hit him like a revelation: it must be the damn poltergeist! As far as he knew they hadn't been able to kill it yet, the sneaky bastard just floated away and they forgot about it. Well, this ended now.

He grabbed his pistol, made sure it was loaded, and set off in search of the damn mutant. Following the sound of crying he arrived to the dormitory room where he found his new suit. A thin figure stood hunched in the shadows behind one of the bunks. Whatever it was, it seemed to have its back towards him. Nevertheless, remembering the encounter with the Controller, he preferred to be cautious. Aiming to its head with the pistol, he used his other hand to throw a bolt at it. Nothing. Slowly, he got closer to see what it was. Could poltergeist adopt a form that wasn't a floating ball of energy?

The mysterious figure turned out to be a skeleton dressed in a ragged lab coat. And it was hovering a few inches above the floor. The floating skeleton suddenly lurched forward and Lukash shot it by pure instinct. The bones fell on him, gracelessly scattering upon the impact. And a second later the emergency light shattered in a thousand pieces, leaving Lukash in total darkness.

Why did these kind of things happen to him, and where the fuck was his lighter? He patted all his pockets in search of it, praying he hadn't stuffed it into the backpack. Just as he found it and grabbed it, something cold breathed down his neck, leaving a trail of goose bumps in its wake.

A deep seated surge of paranoia welled up in him and Lukash turned around quick like lightning, the flame of the lighter trembling at the sudden movement. He saw the glowing bastard between the bunks and shot it. The poltergeist retaliated by pushing one of the bunks against him. The impact made him stagger, the metallic frame hitting him right on the wound crossing his chest. The pain momentarily stole his breath away.

Nonetheless, he shot at the mutant again as soon as he was able to do so, then another shot rang in the air. The poltergeist died with what looked like a small implosion of energy, revealing its true appearance. Ugh, he preferred their energy ball form.

"You know, it's the second time I find you hunting mutants in the dark." Voronin pointed the torchlight at him, looking between irritated and slightly amused.

Lukash got closer to him and smirked teasingly. "And both times you came to my rescue, even if I had the situation under control. If I didn't know better I'd say –"

"Yes, yes, thank God you know better," Voronin hurriedly cut him with a put upon grunt.

Since they were both up and about, they decided to retrace their steps from yesterday, in the hopes they missed something, anything. The map they had made was flawless, though. Everything was reflected on the piece of paper, nothing had escaped their notice.  And they were still irremediably trapped down here. Eventually they reached the room with the collapsed floor, the time warping anomaly sitting right under it. Had it deflated a bit or did he blow it out of proportion in his memory?

"The smart thing would be to not get into it again," Lukash said, scuffing his boot on the floor and sending a rain of tiny pebbles down into the anomaly.

"I never liked the idea of getting inside it," Voronin looked with distaste at the purplish bubble.

Last time they lost three days and all their energy in there. And yet Lukash both stood at the edge of the hole, looking down with fascination as the pebbles he pushed down seemed to float once they went inside the anomaly. It would take quite some time until they reached the floor.

"Any other ideas?" Voronin didn't sound very hopeful.

Equally desperate to avoid or stall going down there, Lukas wracked his brain for a single idea. There was nothing left unexplored on this floor; what could they try that they hadn't before? The hatch wouldn't budge; it probably was controlled remotely...

"Would you flip your shit if I, what word did you use, play with the computer?" The word again hung in the air between them, unsaid but tangible.

With one last look down to the time anomaly, Voronin turned to him. "I guess it can't hurt to try."

#

Waiting while Lukash worked on the computer was boring. First he patrolled around the room and investigated every corner of it, just to do something. Then Lukash complained he couldn't concentrate with him wandering about, so Voronin picked up one of the rickety stools from the floor and sat on it.

Watching the Freedomer work was interesting, at least for a short while. He was so focused on it, clearly showing his frustration every time he found a setback. It was almost endearing. Ultimately it didn’t offer that much entertainment, though. Mostly because everything in the screen looked like gibberish to him.

Voronin took out his PDA. According to its clock, and not counting the three days apparently spent crossing the time anomaly, they'd been here for about forty-eight hours. Sometimes it seemed like a lifetime. The communications channel was still dead and he even doubted his last message was properly sent. Voronin decided to confirm his theory by sending another message, a simple S.O.S this time. It worked like the last time, with an error telling him the messaging system was out of line even if the message was sent. He hoped Lukash was having better luck with the computer.

"I can't make this fucking piece of junk work!" Lukash violently pushed the keyboard away. "I'm out of ideas."

They both knew this had been a desperate attempt that would most probably fail. And yet neither of them liked the idea to go with their other plan. However, they were out of options.

"We have no other choice, do we?" Lukash sighed, swivelling lightly from side to side on the stool he was perched on.

Indeed they didn't.  So they went back to the office with the collapsed floor, bypassing the electro in the middle of the corridor like they did before.

The time anomaly hadn't miraculously disappeared, but it certainly looked smaller than the last time. Curious how it expanded and contracted. However, while other person might marvel at it and wonder what induced those changes, Voronin only cared that it meant they would spend less time inside it. Perhaps then it would sap less energy out of them, he felt tired enough right now, he’d keel over if he spent too much time in the anomaly.

"Okay, here we go. On the count of three: one, two..." Lukash jumped down before arriving to three.

During the seconds it took Voronin to jump down as well the Freedomer seemed to float mid-air, suspended in time. The illusion was quickly shattered when he went inside the anomaly too.

Despite the energy draining effect, since it was smaller in diameter than the last time and they needn’t climb anywhere now, it didn't take them more than a minute to get out. This translated into actually losing about three hours, according to their PDAs.

Retracing their steps was even easier in this floor, just checking the map to make sure it was accurate. And just as before there was nothing they had missed. Eventually they found themselves going to the upper floor and facing once more the big metal door separating them from their escape.

Neither said anything, but a cloud of gloom had settled over them. They were going to die down here. Sooner or later it would happen, unless they found a way out. Shit, when Voronin thought about leaving a legacy like General Tachenko's he never included mysteriously disappearing into the package.

He stood there, contemplating their bleak future in silence. For once Lukash didn’t start to fill the silence like he usually did. And when he eventually stormed off, because he got sick of staring at a slab of metal, something exploded on the other side of the door.

#

Startled by the detonation Lukash took a step or two backwards. The door was slightly bent out of its normal shape, what the fuck just happened? Voronin came back in time to see the door slowly swinging open.

Both Lukash and Voronin grabbed their weapons and pointed them towards the opening.  The metal door was pushed to the side and revealed a single stalker, who looked completely floored to see them.

"Woah," the man raised his hands in a placating gesture when confronted with both of them aiming their rifles at him.  "There's no need to shoot!"

"Who are you and what are you doing here?" Voronin barked at the stalker with his command voice.

"I... I'm just a loner! I heard the road to Pripyat had been cleared recently and came to investigate."

That was enough explanation for Lukash, but not for his Dutier companion, who was a highly suspicious bastard.

"This isn't exactly the road to Pripyat, isn’t it?" Voronin squinted at the man with distrust.

"Just a small detour!" The man squeaked. "I've never been so close to the infamous Brain Scorcher before, which I'm very glad was turned off, by the way. I saw the outer door, with the number pad, and I thought I could find something of value inside."

Lukash lowered his weapon and nudged Voronin to lower his Val too. The stalker flashed him a nervous smile and lowered his hands as well.

"You said the outer door had a number pad, did you blow that one apart too?"  He was honestly curious to know.

"Yes, with a modified grenade." Well, well, well, this guy was certainly interesting. And he had some great ideas. Perhaps they could have tried to force their way out sooner like that, had they had any explosives.

"There's nothing down there except anomalies," Voronin cautioned him.

The stalker nodded eagerly took out a detector from his belt. "That's fine, I'm an artifact hunter."

Voronin looked pityingly at him and went towards the exit. Lukash shared his eagerness to get the hell out from here and followed him. However, he turned around to face the stalker one last time. "Friendly advice: stay away from the purple anomaly!"

Leaving the flabbergasted loner behind, he stepped outside and went down the ladder. Being able to see the sky again was amazing. And best of all, he recognised where he was! This was the Red Forest, more precisely it was the road that went to the Brain Scorcher. And for once it wasn't crawling with Monolith soldiers.

"We're out!" Voronin answered to his enthusiasm with a noncommittal hum. That wouldn't do.

He grabbed the Dutier by the shoulders, watching him intently to see if he was capable of expressing some positive emotion. And, before he could think what he was doing, he planted a kiss on the surprised General. It lasted a few seconds until Voronin pushed him away and crushed him against the same ladder they had descended from.

Realising what he'd just done, Lukash kept his mouth shut instead of blurting "I like it when you take control like that" like he'd been about to do. Even if it would have been mostly a joke he had the feeling Voronin wouldn't appreciate it.

"What the Hell Lukash." Voronin’s voice was startlingly rough. Lukash had no answer to his question, so instead he just held his gaze until Voronin released him.

"The Barrier is in this direction," he said, walking ahead to get away from Voronin's judging eyes.

It had felt nice but unremarkable. No reason to keep thinking about it, or to imagine how it would have been if the Dutier kissed back. Yeah.

The zombies coming from between the trees were a welcomed distraction, and that’s something he never imagined he would say. Killing them helped clean the atmosphere of any lingering awkwardness. Nonetheless, it was depressing to see so many zombified stalkers wearing Freedom's suits. Such was life in the Zone, and such was the price paid to keep control of the Barrier. At least they were outnumbered by zombified stalkers from Monolith, serves those bastards right.

The zombies kept dropping by all the time; a lone one now, then a pair or three of them together, then a lone straggler. Cleanse and repeat. In the end they opted to run and leave them behind before wasting all their ammo.

And soon they reached the control point that marked the entrance the end of Red Forest. The Barrier was just a road’s bend away.

#

A group of stalkers rushed from behind the abandoned cars near the booth at the control point. They all were from Freedom, and they weren’t very friendly, aiming their weapons at them.

"Stop and identify yourselves!"

Well, Voronin was almost impressed they hadn't shot him on the spot just for the uniform he wore.

"Max, don't you recognise me you idiot?" Lukash laughed in disbelief.

"All I see from here is a Dutier and a merc trying to cross into our territory!" The Freedomer, Max, replied. One of his comrades said something they didn't catch but had Max quickly checking his PDA. "Lukash?! Where the Hell have you been? And what are you doing with that Duty pig?"

"Stop pointing that rifle at my head for fuck's sake!"

"Sure, but what do we do with him?" No need to be a genius to know who the Freedomer was referring to.

"We grant him passage and let him go. Just this once." Lukash's idea wasn't very well received by his faction.

The Freedomers complained loudly about it and one even blamed him for Lukash's disappearance. Not a completely unexpected reaction, if he was honest. If the situation was reversed his men would probably do the same. Although Lukash didn't seem amused by their defiance.

"I said we let him go and that's final."

Truth be told, Voronin was surprised by Lukash's firm defence of him. Perhaps it should be expected after all they went through. In that hypothetical reversed situation, Voronin wouldn't let his men kill him on the spot either. It would feel wrong.

Deciding to cut this tense encounter short, Voronin voiced his agreement to Lukash’s terms. “I go my way and you go yours. Just this once, yes?"

It was just for a moment, but he saw a flash of disappointment on Lukash’s face. What had he expected? He couldn't go to Freedom's base for a last shot of vodka and a goodbye, they weren’t old friends, they were the leaders of enemy factions.

"Yeah. It's been... interesting." Lukash offered him his outstretched hand.

"It's been a nightmare, you mean." Voronin accepted the handshake.

"Only most of it." Lukash smirked and finally let go of his hand.

He waited while Lukash wrangled with the rest of the Freedomers until he managed to impose his will. In the meantime, he sent a message to his men to let them know he was alive and well. This way they would be expecting his arrival, and if he knew Petrenko well enough, he would dispatch a squad immediately. They would meet halfway if everything went well. And if for some reason Lukash’s men decided to not play fair and followed him, it was good to know reinforcements were on their way.

Once the last of the disgruntled Freedomers disappeared down the road then he went on his way. During his lonely trek back to Rostok he reflected on everything that happened. It was too much for only fifty hours, more or less. It seemed like he spent a lifetime trapped in that hellish bunker. And things didn't exactly go back to normal once they got out. And of course it had been the Freedomer’s fault. When Lukash kissed him his brain had short-circuited. He couldn’t even begin to fathom his intention for doing so, so Voronin decided to erase the incident from his memory. It never happened.

However, for something that according to him never happened, he spent quite some time thinking about it. More precisely, he spent the rest of the way to Rostok thinking about how Lukash's lips had felt against his own. Utter foolishness, even if it happened -which it didn’t, thank you very much- it was something best forgotten.

It would be much better to think about how he would enjoy finding Skull and killing him. He usually preferred to avoid making a public spectacle out of executions, but for him he would make an exception.

Author's note: I may be slow to write and edit, but I said the second part would be up in a few hours or tomorrow, so here it is.

[sunaddicted]

Ode To The Broken (00q)

It was dark when James peeled his eyelids open, woken up by something his sleepy brain couldn’t point out yet but that soon would make its way to the forefront of his mind; in the meanwhile, his eyes looked for the alarm clock on the bedside table and its neon green numbers changing every sixty seconds: it was 4:17 in the morning and James felt like he’d been ran over by a car and then put in a blender, before he’d poured himself on the mattress.

Though, he remembered nothing of the sort happening; for their standards, James and Q had had a relatively boring and comfortingly domestic night in, eating chips in front of the tv and cuddling with the cats.

Q.

Where was Q?

James forced his body to sit up on the mattress, letting the warm blankets pool in soft waves of fabric around his waist: there was no Q to be found in the bedroom, which wasn’t exactly unusual since the younger man suffered from a serious case of insomnia but whatever had woken up James, his senses felt all in overdrive and a loathsome panicky feeling seized his chest; breathing became difficult, coming into short inhales and quick exhales that made him feel slightly light-headed.

Almost afraid of passing out, James climbed out of the bed and with shaky legs he gained the hallway; suddenly the noise of blood rushing in his temples disappeared and he could distinctively hear the sound of water running in the bathroom - and James was able to breathe correctly again, perfectly aware of what was going on.

James knocked at the bathroom door, not really expecting an answer but he guessed that it would be better to avoid scaring Q into an heart attack - God knew that with the amounts of stress and caffeine on which the younger man practically lived would have made that possibility pretty strong, despite the fact that he was just in his late twenties.

“Enter” Q’s voice bid from inside the room.

“Not you” James murmured fondly at the cat - Pampuria, it was impossible to mistake her white floof for Turing’s darker colouring under the moonlight - that had just brushed against his calves.

“Let her in” Q called out “She’s been scratching at the door for a while”

James snorted when Pampuria looked up at him, a smug mewl putting on display that sharp little teeth that had bitten him so often “Spoiled brat” he said as he pushed the door open, shaking his head when the cat entered the bathroom first, swishing her floofy tail around.

“Don’t talk like that about my Princess” Q said with a smile, letting a wet hand dangle out of the bath, so that the cat could sniff at his fingers and rub against them “Did I wake you up?”

James sat down on the edge of the tub, arms instinctively wrapping around Pampuria when she jumped in his lap - just to be closer to her owner but still comfortably far from water, obviously “No” he reassured “Did you have a nightmare?”

“That would imply that I ever managed to fall asleep” Q pointed out with a grin, fingers nervously playing with the bubbles hiding his submerged body “I just keep thinking about it, you know?” He sighed out in the end, looking up at his lover with tired green eyes.

James carefully freed an hand from Pampuria’s floof, making sure that the cat understood not to make any idiotic movements unless she desired to take a bath, and carded his fingers through Q’s damp curls “Hard choices are part of the job” he pointed out gently, digits massaging the younger man’s sensitive scalp.

Normally, Q would have closed his eyes in bliss at the skilfull massage but instead he let his eyelids slid down to hide his irises as distress filled them. A tear slid down his stubbled cheek and Q angrily wiped it away, feeling so weak in front of James; his lover had literally gone to hell multiple times and had managed to make the trip back alive to tell tales about it “It could have been you” Q couldn’t help whispering, his voice breaking on the last word.

“It already has been me” James murmured “And it could happen again, yes”

Q snorted - a noise that became a sob halfway out of his throat - even as another tear fell down his face “Have I already told you just how shitty you are at comforting people?” He asked, a bitter smile blossoming on his lips.

Even if he hadn’t been Quartermaster back then, Q remembered when it had been James’ turn to be sacrificed in a last desperate attempt to win a battle in the never ending war against terrorism: the halls had been filled by a cacophony of disbelieving murmurs, the news of 007’s death travelling on everyone’s mouths just like it had done so many times before that - the only difference being that they were carrying the downfall of a hero, instead of its conquests and shenanigans.

Only, then M had been able to share part of the guilt with Eve who had understandably missed an extremely difficult shot - hell, an impossible one.

Now, Q only had himself to blame for issuing the command that had led 002 to her death and nobody was blaming him; the higher ups had even congratulated him upon making such a difficult decision, displaying a cold-blooded and clear mind in the moment of need. Nobody cared that 002 had died: she’d been just another sacrificeable piece on the board, a pawn that with its death would open up a safer path to the Queen.

“She knew what she was risking, Q”

Q looked up at James, an eyebrow arched up in silent inquiry.

James smiled down tenderly at those big and tired eyes, just pleading him for the right words to make the guilt a little more bearable “You know that is Double-Ohs are not the most obedient of the lot” he started.

“You can say that, yeah” Q interrupted, his smile loosing a bit of the bitter edge as the corners turned up a little more and made the faint suggestion of dimples appear at the corners of h6os mouth.

“Stop interrupting me” James reprimanded fondly, tapping Q’s nose; as any other time he had poked at the younger man, Pampuria warningly dug her claws in his thigh “As I was saying, you know we almost never follow orders - 002 could have easily told you to fuck off and kiss her arse like she already did numerous times. But she didn’t because she evidently thought too that the move you suggested was the only possible one to avoid wasting all the months of work leading up to that op”

Q sighed and closed his eyes again, this time pushing his head in James’ fingers to ask for more pets. It all made sense - it was the truth: 002 had known that Q was at the end of his rope, that the only thing he could have suggested from behind his computer was to take the leap - and she had because, despite being on the field, she hadn’t seen a better option either “She was my friend”

“I know. But as your friend, would she want to see you like this?” James asked, knowing that Q wouldn’t stop feeling sad just because he knew that 002 would bite his head off, if she knew that Q was crying over her dead body like that; she’d been a peculiar character with quite a mouth on her - and no, James didn’t mean it in a complimentary way - and a peaceful attitude towards death that not many agents really managed to reach.

Q shook his head.

(“Grow a pair, Q” 002 snarls over the comms, gritting her teeth as she scales the wall just using her pigheadedness and a huge amount of luck.

Q rolls his eyes: she could have easily used the elevator - after all, he could control it easily “Of what? Boobs?”

“Someone has been reading naughty Star Trek fanfictions again” 002 sings in a teasing voice “Or maybe Bond is just /that/ kinky?”

Q rolls his eyes again - he does that a lot when he’s monitoring 002 “You’re perverted. If you bring back that throwing knife I spent a whole day balancing to perfection - and that you’re using to scale a wall when you could have taken the lift - I’m giving you a bottle of Macallan as a prize”

002 snorts but Q knows her and waits, eyes following her ascension as he virtually covered her shoulders, making sure that nobody started shooting at her.

“How old?”

Q grins when the question finally comes “25 years old, Sherry Oak range” he answers and when 002 whistles, he knows that he’s going to see his equipment again this time. )

“She’d tell me to stop whining” Q answered, sighing as he shook his mind free of the memory; he knew that one day he’d feel only fondness when remembering the agent but, for now, it still hurt too much.

“Exactly” James gently put Pampuria on the floor and stood up, ignoring her irritated mewl to grab a large towel from the warming rack “Come out now, you’re getting all pruny” he encouraged.

Nobody needed to know that James squeezed Q a little harder than usual when he had him snuggled up against his chest, trembling in his cocoon like a leaf in the wind.

[humanityinahandbag]

Frustrated

Or: Sam likes Max, Max likes Sam, and The Geek Needs to actually get work done, so they need to resolve something stat. 

AKA: The one with the date

I am woefully late in finishing up a long overdue prompt for @thewittyarsonist for Zootopia, which I am hard at work on! But then the opportunity struck for something to give in the meantime, and I had to take it! Based on this absolutely hysterical (and really awesome) piece of art! Check it out. I couldn’t stop laughing. And then one thing led to another and I slipped this 13 page monster out between study sessions. 

For those who don’t know Sam and Max, you probably should. And that’s not advice for story reading. That’s just life advice. Go watch it. Witty got me hooked. So now I’m gonna get you guys on it, too. It’s brilliant. So go watch. 

(The prompt was Frustrated. So Witty, you’re getting the same prompt for this, and then the other for Zootopia! You’re getting it all!) 

(side note, this was impossible to write because if you’ve ever watched the show you’d know that dialogue, among many other things, is fucking insane. But that was part of the fun.)

Sam says “glad to have you around” like it doesn’t mean anything. And maybe it doesn’t. He says everything like that. The weather's good today. How about those Mets. Intergalactic cheese wranglers have stolen the world's supply of gouda. Pass the milk.

So when he says “glad to have you around” while he slaps a hand against Max’s back, it hard not to feel...

What’s the word?

Max reaches through his limitless supply of Seussian diction and pulls out “frustrated”, which is as mundane as it gets. But there it is.

Frustrated.

He’s frustrated.

“Whatever you say, Sam,” he chirps, loading the bazooka and flicking the switch in their car to open the sunroof. “Now, you gonna give me a lift, or am I gonna have to vault out’a this car by myself?”

Sam lets go of the wheel and laces his hands together, their car hurtling over the cliff side. Oh, the Geek was going to fucking kill them for this one, but they’d survived worse than a perilous plunge and an angry adolescent. “You sure you wanna go out like this so early? You haven’t even had your coffee!” Granted, their coffee was now somewhere down in the depths of a rock quarry after the third spin. But Sam always packed a french press under the passenger seat in case mid-hurtle cappuccinos were needed.

Still.

It’s stupid and it’s little and they’re flying through the air, spinning around in what is essentially a glorified Campbell’s soup can, but the mundanity of the small show of care leaves Max once more regarding the word frustration with a certain level of ire. And through the smoke and the gasoline he can just catch glimpses of that safe smile and eyes. God, his partner was practically built for trust. So he puts his left foot into Sam’s waiting palms. “Save me a cup.”

Sam nods and grins and shifts for better velocity. “What floor?”

When he returns, a little crisped and smelling like burned popcorn, Sam passes him a towel from somewhere and slaps him on the back. “You know, Max,” he says. “You’re just amazing. I could kiss you sometimes!” He laughs hard. “I have! Remember that?” 

Max rubs his face hard against the towel and wonders if long, drawn out frustrated screams would be at all noticed. 

He remembers. 

It’s the little things that bother Sam, who is very aware that his position in their partnership is the level headed and reasonable one. And that despite his many acts of quick violence and rabbit throwing, he still holds that title, and he holds it well.

But he can’t be level-headed about this.

Not when Max is on his knee in front of a crowd of man-eating bananas brought to life by some undercover government experiment they’ve been called to stop (and the Geek had gracefully ducked out- claiming a certain amount of repugnance for the whole thing: if I can’t tell you for sure if they’re berries or fruit then I’ll be too busy wracking my brain to do much else!), stretching out his hand and smiling a serrated smile through flashy, freshly sharpened teeth.

“Marry me, Sam!” he says, a free hand to his chest. “Marry me, and make me the happiest chemical experiment to ever come out of a test tube!”

Sam swallows. They’ve played this game before. 

It just gets harder to play each time. 

He’s...

(perturbed)

(embittered)

(tabefactioned)

He searches through his formally educated brain for the word and somehow can only come up with frustrated. Which is a dumb word. He’s so many other things. But frustrated rises to the top, suffocating and separate as oil, and he slips in it.

“Oh Max,” he plays along, wondering if the sincerity leaked through. “There’s nothing I’d like better.”

A few of the bananas began to weep, a few others distracted by the fanfare. And the ones that weren’t were clogged in their pursuit by the crowd of cheering fruit/berries.

Sam would choose then to throw Max, who’s teeth went to work sawing away at whatever he could, while Sam grabbed a blender from his infinitely packed pockets and went to work.

“Ain’t it great, Sam!” Max asks him later while they watch the sunset sitting atop the fallen bananas and their brethren. The air is smelling a little foul, and the stuff under them is beginning to ripen and squelch, and eventually they’ll need to explain to the commissioner why there’s a pile of desecrated banana skins sitting in the middle of the freeway (and the traffic at rush hour was going to be insane- he’d have to remember to drive up the I-90 instead and hope that the remaining drivers heard the news about the great fruit/berry/TBD massacre before taking to the road). But for now, Sam leans back against a few lumped up banana peels. “The two of us, workin’ together like that!” Max reaches down and grabs a hunk of banana, biting in. “‘oo ah’ too goo’ too me,” he says between bites.

Sam fiddles with his tie. “Uh huh.”

Max swallows. “And talk about quick thinking! I thought you were about to say our vows! Your acting is just-“ he chef kissed, throwing his hand out. “Stupendous! A real slay! Get it?”

“Uh huh.” Sam stood. “We should get back. Geek’s gonna wanna hear the whole thing.”

Yeah. Frustrated was a good enough word.

The Geek is... in her limitless intelligence and infinite access of sources, she can only come up with one thing: fucking pissed.

But frustrated works too.

She’d always been a floater of sorts. Belonging to no one and pretending like it didn’t bother her. She’d had foster parents before, and she’d most likely have them again should her latest ones perish, fall victim to their own stupidity, get lost in home depot, or get tired of her.

The latter usually won out.

But never before had she ever had foster parents who were this completely stupid. Living in the same place, eating at the same times, throwing one another like hand grenades through the air, and yet neither could seem to get a grasp on the fact that one was hopelessly in love with the other.

“How do you get married twice,” she mumbles into the mirror while she brushes her hair, “and still not actually figure shit out-“

“Language!” says Sam, who was passing by the bathroom to collect Uranium from the supply closet.

She mutters something else before reaching for her toothbrush. Sam walks past again, Uranium in one hand, a bag of skittles in the other. “Hey. You good?”

“Sure. There are nuclear rats in my closet, but other than that-“

“I can’t tell if you’re just being sarcastic to spite me.“

“Sarcastic,” she affirms. Then: “Well. The rats are real. But they were a good placeholder for sarcasm.”

He rolls his eyes and adjusts his hat. “I’ll get Max to take care of them.”

“Don’t! Last time he did that I couldn’t get the smell out for weeks.”

“Well, I’ll tell him to be more careful. Have a little confidence, won't you?”

She mutters “god... just marry him already” into her toothpaste and he pops his head back in.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Could have sworn you just said I should marry Max.”

The Geek shrugs, says “you said it, not me,” and starts on her molars.

Sam leaves in thoughtful silence. 

It’s the Geeks idea.

Well... not wholly her idea. She won't let Max think it was her idea. He’s like that sometimes. Max: the overenthusiastic dreamer. Sam: the all too intelligent unintelligent anthropomorphic bustler.

But she’s really the one behind it all.

“You seem alone,” she says one day, fiddling with the engine in their car.

Max, who was busy pulling all his best dresses from the glove compartment in search of a burger, looked out the window and over at her. “Huh?”

“I said you seem alone.” Her hands were covered in grease. She’s a better conversationalist when her hands are covered in car grease. It eases the tension of trying to be normal. “Have you ever thought of going on a date.”

Max blinked. “A date? With who!”

“A girl. You should meet a girl.”

“You’re a girl.”

“A girl your age.”

“What’s my age?”

Darla concedes that she doesn’t know. Still: “Someone adult or something.” When he wrinkled his nose she said “they don’t need to be normal! Just adult. Find someone who’s got seven fingers or someone who only eats glass or something. But find someone who eats glass and has an insurance card.”

“Insurance is for the weak!”

“You get what I mean. Someone who has a rewards card or two in their wallet and eats cereal out of real bowls instead of deflated footballs.”

“Sounds feisty!” He pulled out a washcloth of a tight blue dress and held it out, admiring the way the sequins sparkled under the chemical emissions. “But why do I need a girl?”

“To date.”

“Why do I need to date?”

“So you won't be alone!” She looks down at the engine and says, “and you... can maybe bring Sam along. On a date.”

Oh, she got him then.

She got him good.

The gears that he reserves mostly for wildly unimaginable schemes and harmoniously planned multi-purpose disasters. Romance must have counted as one of them. The Geek hoped the former. Guessed the latter. “Interesting.” He holds down the ’s’ when he says it, hissing a long, long second. “I suppose that someone of my... cultured wiles needs to be shared.”

“Exactly.”

“And the internet is a vast and fruitful place. There’s gotta be a way to find all sorts to go out on a- what day is it?”

“Tuesday.”

“Well, that settles it! Only freaks go out on Tuesday nights, and I’m lookin’ for the freakiest!” He hopped out the window, dress still in tow. “You think I should wear this?”

“I think you should stop messing with my car or give me a hand.”

He reaches up and pats her head while he passes. “Add some boosters, will you? Last time we crashed there could have been more pizazz.”

As luck would have it, finding three women was easier than to be expected. Especially when those three women were attached at the hip.

“They call themselves a BLT,” says Max, showing the Geek the picture.

She squints. “Beautiful Ladies in Tandem?”

“Bitches Living Together.” He snorts. “What a crude trial of triplets! I adore them already!”

“And you got a date with them?”

“I did!” He waved the printout around. He’d found them on craigslist. Not as if they’d been actually advertising on craigslist. More like, he’d started bidding for a lot of vintage landmines and they were the only other taker. So with some searching (and a few hours of illegal activity in which two different branches of the NSA were bribed with a false promise of information about who knows what), he managed to get a name and an email.

They’d responded back only three minutes and twenty-seven seconds after he’d reached out.

BLT: It’s odd, one of them (or all of them, Max wasn’t sure how it worked) replied. Not many people reach out for dates unless they want something.

Max: Just the company of a lovely lady.

BLT: That’s what they always say.

Max: No. Really. And you can trust me. I’m an unauthorized scientific mutation of the most unmistakable screw-up!

(Which is true in more than one way.)

(That being: Sam is not pleased.)

“I don’t want a date,” he grumps.

“But Sam!” Max follows him around, twisting through the pernicious jungle they found themselves in. The Commissioner lost his keys again, somewhere next to the swamp of doom and the valley of certain maiming, and their mission had gotten them air hauled out the back of a commercial airline and into said jungle, they now larked through. Well... Max larked. Sam sort of trounced.

Max had told him the news on the way down, sometime after they’d reached three thousand feet.

By one thousand feet, Sam was sulking.

“I don’t want a date,” he said again.

“You’ve always wanted to date!”

“Since when.”

“Since you were born this heart haltingly handsome!”

It doesn’t work, and Sam brushes past a few more vines.

“Aw, c’mon, Sam! Give a rabbit a break! I got bitten by at least three different kinds of mosquito back there.” He shook out his arm for emphasis. “I might die soon, and your last words to me would be, I won't go out with you.”

“I won't go out with you,” says Sam.

“Aw SaAam!”

“No’s a no!”

“Why.”

There’s frustration on both sides here, and it chisels an almost permanent admission against the space between. Max smiles up at Sam. Sam glares down at Max. They both hollow out their chests to try and not grasp too hard onto what they want to say-

“Fine.” Too close. It was easier than three words. One word is always better than three. “I’ll go on the stupid date.”

Whether or not he expected the walls to fall, Max can’t blame them for staying strong. His are impenetrable. He was made that way. And he’ll blame it on white coats until the day he withers away; nothing but a great body in a (most likely) great dress (he has one picked for the funeral already and it is to. die. for.) in a world full of batshit crazy.

“That’s the spirit!” says Max, who chooses those three words over any other. “It’s tomorrow. So we can’t die today.”

“I hope we do.”

Max clucks his tongue. “Last one to find the keys pays for drinks!”

They were set to meet at 8:30 in that little Italian joint a few blocks over. The Geek refused to let him take the car, and so the two of them walked, waving to random kids who recognized them from Nietzsche-esque class trips or some daily newsreel.

“Can’t believe you got us a date,” Sam kept saying.

Max shuffled along, stomping on acorn caps. “Yup,” he said. “A date. For us.”

“I’m not happy with it.”

“Sure you’re not.” That twisting feeling came back again, and Max stomped especially hard on an extra sharp cap. Somehow the little pinch at his ribs won out. “But it’s about time you did!”

The girls, as it turns out, are lovely. In that we would kill you if it were Wednesday but it’s Tuesday sort of way. Max reaches a hand over his head and waves it back and forth like a faulty windshield wiper. “Girls! Oh girls! Yoohooo!”

The three girls look their way before leaning back into their limited space, chattering quietly.

Sam leans over and hisses “You found us conjoined twins.”

“It fit into our line of work.”

“How did we go from two girls to three!”

“The more the merrier.”

He pulls down his hat. “There is nothing about this that I like right now.”

“Buck up!”

“I’ll never let you live this down.”

“You’ll have fun!”

“This will be the worst night of my life.”

“I brought lip-gloss! Would lip-gloss help?” He smacked his own lips. “It’s cherry flavored.”

Sam went quiet a moment, considering something. And then sulked again. “I,” he mumbles, “can think of at least six different problems I have with this arrangement.”

Max waves at the girls again, locks his jaw, smiles, and says “We’re joined at the hip. I thought it would be best to date people like us” through his teeth before actually opening his mouth and saying “so glad you could make it!”

Sam just grunts.

The middle of eyes the rabbit up and down, one thin brow raised nearly to her hairline. “You thought we wouldn’t?” The triplet to her right sniffs and pokes the air with her nose.

“Nah. Just though we might not. Never know in a job like ours!” He holds onto the edge of the booth and wiggles up. “Now! How about we look at that menu!”

Max is the perfect gentleman. He only burps twice, only spills two glasses of wine onto passing waiters (red, always red), and laughs at all the right moments when the girls speak.

He spends most of the time trying to get Sam to laugh along.

To his credit, Sam isn’t rude. He’s sullen. Which some could argue is the same, but those someones have never had a date with three women and their frustratingly adored sidekick before. So.

The girl to the left takes his paw at one point and leans her front down on the table, taking the middle girl down with her just a squeeze. “I’ve never met a police officer before. Not like this. What is it that you do exactly?”

“Solve crime.”

Her face drops. “Oh. I was under the impression- I mean. Well, Max told us that it was a little bit more than just that.”

“It is,” Max strains, giving Sam an elbow to the kidney that’s just a little too hard. “Right, Sam?”

The larger of the two sips his wine. “Sure.”

“What he means to say, girls, is that we deal with threats of a tremendous tenacity! Aliens with craniums the size of Utah. Misshapen malamutes the size of Utah.” He throws his hands up, nearly spilling glass number three. “At one point we just fought Utah! The most permissive of states!”

“Very interesting,” says Right.

“Intriguing,” says Middle.

Left bats her eyes and sighs, “divine. I wish I could see that.”

“Well, we usually allow visitors, so long as you carry your own protective headgear and sign our complimentary waver. Ain’t that right, Sam?”

Sam grunts.

The night moves on like that for a while. Sam watches the time flicker by. He watches Max talk on and on about new and exciting things. He watches the girl to the left, the girl to the right, the girl in the middle-

The girl in the middle watches him.

Sam squints at her.

She squints back. Looks at him. Looks at Max. Looks at him again. He can almost see her thinking, eyes flashing a sort of mania he usually only sees in the eyes of subterranean squids.

“You know,” she says, cutting Max off in the middle of yet another retelling of his best crashes. “I think the three of us need to skedaddle home.”

Max falters mid-explanation, his hand in a little demonstration of the angle the car hit the side of the 14th-century gothic church. For a moment (the barest, smallest, breaths of a moment) Sam swears he sees panic. But then it’s gone. And he’s back to himself, crossing his arms and kicking his feet up against the. table until the salt shakers quaked. “So soon?” The rabbit tilts his head. “The night is young!”

“We have work in the morning. And, by the sound of it, so do you!”

He nods sagely. “You’re right. The freelance police never do sleep.” Wiggling off the booth, he salutes the table. “I’m just gonna go powder my nose.”

it’s only when he’s gone, slipping past a few waiters and tripping more of them on his way towards the bathroom, that Sam says, “What was that about?”

“Oh! Look at that! He speaks!” The middle sister snorted. “Some conversationalist you are!”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“As if I need to.” She rolled her eyes. Her sisters nodded along. “It’s pointless to be here. This isn’t going anywhere anyway.”

“Totally stale,” says Left.

“A real burnout,” says Right.

“Well- well you don’t know that! You know, under all that thick padding and grade A steel and elastic he’s really a sweet guy.”

“Yeah. But that sweet guy isn’t ours to take.” She and her sisters coordinate getting out of the booth and stand, adjusting their skirt. “He’s not available. So there’s no point.”

“He isn’t taken.”

She snorts and throws her head just so. “Yes, he is.” Left slips a hand into their purse and takes out three dollars, folding them neatly and handing them to Right, who leaves them on top of the sugar packets in the center. “A tip for the waiter. And a tip for you. Try to maybe go on a date without a moderator sometime. That isn’t our job.”

They leave.

Sam feels like he wants to vomit.

Or maybe just eat another half a pizza.

He orders a pizza to-go and picks it up before Max gets back. Apparently, he’d decided that the bathroom needed a powdering too. “They’re going to love the new color scheme,” he whispered to Sam. “Those last ones were too muted. Really did nothing for the place.”

Sam hums.

They end up finding a random car on the way home and sit on the roof, fishing anchovy pineapple pizza slices out of the box and throwing the onions at squirrels.

The frustration gets a little tighter.

“So that date was a bust,” says Max.

“Yeah.” Because this is stupid and I think I’d rather just go out with you instead of three random chicks you found online-

“They didn’t even stay for desert! And I was gonna break out my armpit rendition of moonlight sonata!”

“Mmm.” I would have listened because I always listen, and if you’d just say something before I did then maybe this would work better, because I’m a big fat coward who carries a loaded gun in nearly every orifice of my person and somehow still can’t say what’s driving me nutso-bananas and that’s not about to change-

“But they just got up and ditched us like the broads they-“

Yeah because the didn’t think you’d be interested in you because- “They think you love me?”

Oh fuck.

Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck-

He did not mean to say that out loud. 

Or did he?

Sam shoves a half a pizza slice into his mouth and looks away.

Max looks like he wants to drop his jaw. But he just stares. It’s much worse. “You...”

“Sorry,” says the dog. “Sorry, just forget I said that. Slip of the old tongue, buddy. Left my mouth somewhere else tonight, if you know what I mean!” Except it isn’t that. It isn’t, and they both know that. And at some point or another, they’re going to have to face it. Because they practically live together. They work together every day. Their lives depend on one another. And he isn’t sure if he’ll ever be able to throw Max across a canyon again if he can’t even look the rabbit in the eye so- 

“That’s why they left.” The admission is a slow one, and he says it mostly to the anchovy that’s half buried under a thick grease track of cheese. “The date. They thought that we were dating. Thought we were just stringing them along.” He laughed sourly. “Funny, right?”

Max doesn’t laugh. Max doesn’t do much at all. He looks down at his greasy fingers and says nothing. Which isn’t Max. Max is supposed to brush off all this stupid shit and laugh with him. And maybe even punch his shoulder and say you got me! But he doesn’t. 

Fuck. 

How is he going to explain to the commissioner that he ruined the best team up corporate never had because of one little admission of undying affection. He won't, that’s how. Because he’s going to fix this all.  

He starts, trying to erase everything he’s started behind the obvious and the benign. “Look. Max. I’m sorry I ruined your date-“

“Are we?” 

“Are we what?”

“Dating?” And whatever he was trying to fix, Max effectively stonewalled. 

Sam swallows. He wants to say no. Because that’s what he’s supposed to say, he’s sure. But instead: “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I don’t know.”

“Huh,” says Max. 

He’s faced killer scorpions and giant brains and once he’d even faced down the school board with only minimal terror, but the bravest thing he ever does is look up from his greasy hands and say “would you like to?”

Sam doesn’t know.

But he does.

Actually, fuck that. He sure as shit does.

The Geek is more than pleased. Things are better in the lab. Less frustrating. The weird vibe between them, a mix of something between butane gas and cottage cheese, had started to really mess with her work space, and it was better to have relative peace again.

If relative peace was Sam throwing Max at a dartboard to see if his ears would stick.

“Guys,” she snaps, “I’m actually trying to call the President of France here-“

“Sorry, sorry!” Sam lumbers across the room and helps Max from where he had, successfully, stuck. “Just waiting on orders from the Commissioner! New case apparently! Somewhere deep in the bowels of the sewer system.”

“Literally,” cackles Max, straightening his ears. “Bowels.”

“Okay, but can you do it quietly.”

They both give her okay signs and slip off to the car to wait for orders. It doesn’t pass her by when one lends the other a nudge, a hip bump, a whisper. She connects her headset and looks away, glancing just once more when Sam opens the door for Max and bowing low. There’s a lighthearted humor around his face. He looks younger. 

The image is not long for the world before normality slips back into place with Sam passing Max a preloaded glock, a freshly steamed one-shouldered red number, and an energy drink.

The screen flashes on. “Oh! Mrs. President! How are you? I’m fine. Fine. No, sorry for not calling you back yesterday. There was just some... frustrating stuff. But it’s all sorted now. So what did you want me to do about that national bank of yours?”

[shinobicyrus]

Let's Go Get Lost

Twenty miles outside Amity, Danielle threw up ectoplasm in a gas station bathroom. 

She overdid it when she overshadowed Danny’s mom (his mom not my mom) and teacher before flying off, but it wasn’t like Danielle had a plan. All she knew was that she needed to be gone, the farther away from Danny the better. Didn’t matter where, so long as it was away from his face, his voice, home, his friends, his town, his life. So she picked a direction and flew, barely making it ten minutes over the too-hopeful ‘Come Back Soon!’ sign on the edge of town before she starting losing steam. 

It reminded her of being carsick on family RV trips, vacations Danielle vaguely remembered from a childhood that wasn’t hers. She scanned the buildings below for a discrete landing spot and tried to alleviate the strain by switching back to human, but transitioning from floating to weak, wobbly feet just made it that much harder to stumble through the aisles of the Big 10 and barely made it to a stall before her legs gave out and she spilled green into the toilet for so long it felt like she was being hollowed out, inside.

Her throat burned, mouth retching on the taste of bile and the raw, roiling taste of ectoplasm that was like someone had soaked grave dirt in formaldehyde and battery acid before throwing it all in a blender with expired jello.

“Awsome,” she groaned into the bowl. Flushed it so she wouldn’t have to look at the otherdimensional goop. The plumbing here had probably seen worse. 

Hard tile on her bare knees. Her fingers clutched around cold porcelain. A wave of deja vu hit her like nauseau in the brain: Danny young and small in his NASA pjs, puking his guts out while Maddie rubbed soothing circles on his back.

“It’s okay sweetie, just wait for it to pass and then I’ll get you something to settle your stomach.”

(notmymomnotmymomnotmymom)

Danielle shook her head to clear it, but all it did was make her dizzier and she hacked up a few more times until her insides stopped spasming. Panting, exhausted, face slick with sweat, Danielle sat down on the filthy tile floor. The walls of the stall were defaced with gouged initials, sharpied slurs, and promises for a good time. When her legs didn’t feel quite so much like puddy and she could stand without getting sick, Danielle pushed out of the stall, went to the sink, and washed off the sweat and tears from her face. 

The door behind her opened. Dani looked up at the grunt of surprise and saw a confused middle-aged man and his son staring at her in the mirror. 

“…this is the men’s room, isn’t it.”

Danielle started calling them ‘Danny Thoughts.’ Little leftovers of inherited memories caught in the green goop that made up half of her. Sometimes it was little things: a smell, a song, a brief moment of recall. Other times it was more intense, like a memory. A powerful feeling of deja vu. 

What was the opposite deja vu? Did it even count if she technically never experienced it before? Her whole existence was defined in the betweens. Ghost and person. Boy and girl. Teenager and three-month old. Real person and crappy copy. 

The Kennedy Space Center was down south. Danielle knew it was there because it’s embedded there in her DNA, courtesy of mad science and a space-obsessed 14 year old. She doesn’t even care if it’s his obsession because dammit, she wants to see a space ship. 

So she walked until her feet hurt. She flew until she had to land and throw up. Huddled in the alley behind a Waffle House, she glared at her hand and willed it from melted plastic back into something more hand-shaped. Then she threw up again, got up, and walked some more. 

Another in-between. Living and dying.

The guilt from stealing was devoured in a fit of mental cannibalism about two states back. She risked phasing her hand through vending machines, ancient payphones, and rigged arcade games for loose change. Even a few dollars could be stretched out if you stick to the fast food dollar menu. 

First she got a backpack, then she bought cheap clothes at thrifts stores to keep in it, along with her food and road maps. Songs she’s never personally heard got stuck in her head. 

“I got a bad disease…” she tunelessly serenaded the cars ignoring her on the Interstate. “Up from my brain is where I ble-eeed.“

Once and a while, a car might stop on the side of the road ahead of her, windows rolling down. Sometimes the people are nice; Danielle starts getting good at lying. Oh no, ma’am, I’m just walking to the next town over- visiting my Aunt over in Batesville. Well, sure, if you say it’s not trouble, that’s be real nice of you, thanks!

She made the mistake of getting into the wrong car, once. Once, and only once. Ten miles later he was stumbling and screaming into the woods on the shoulder of the road as Danielle watched him, eyes burning the same ghostly green as the fire consuming his car. 

After that she got better at spotting problems before they got that bad. A lot easier to intangibly stow aboard a big rig than ask permission. The most useful leftover memories were from that summer Danny, Tucker, and Sam were on the run. Danielle enjoyed the irony; using secondhand memories of things she never did from a summer that got magically retconned. That made them like, double fake memories.

Sam taught her how to blend in, which clothes were practical and would attract the least suspicion. Tucker had her dig through an electronics store’s dumpster and use a dead phone like a prop; much less suspicious to be lingering outside of a store when you’re pretending to be just another text-happy kid. 

The drawback was, those memories hurt. Remembering when the three of them (notmyfriendsnotmyfriendsnotmyfriends) were on the road together was a raw reminder that she was alone.

When her hair got too long, she used some stolen scissors to cut off her ponytail and chop her bangs. In some situations, it was easier to make everyone believe she was a boy. A young girl out on her own attracted attention- sometimes from people that meant well, sometimes not. It was another moment of Danny Vu, wandering down a hallway with his hands in his pockets, being invisible without any ghost powers at all. 

Which was a good thing, because she had to use her powers sparingly. Every time she used them, it got a little worse. Sweats, nausea, shaking hands, coughing up ectoplasm, her body melting a little, before she got it under control.

(I got a bad dis-eease)

Cold breath came out of her on a humid night in Smyrna. Danielle ducked into an alley and waited for three ghost-vultures to pass above her, squabbling among themselves. One insisted that they must have made wrong turn in Knoxville.

Daddy was still looking.

Danielle measured time in miles and meals. She had no idea how long it had been since she left Amity. Didn’t much care. All that mattered was the goal. She slept using her backpack as a poor pillow at bus stops, in abandoned buildings, under bridges. Not afraid of ghosts, she even broke into old mausoleums, or took advantage of a hotel vacancy and phased through the wall, enjoyed a real bed and a shower.  

When she finally got to Cape Canaveral, she splurged by stealing a shower at the Y, washing her clothes at a coin laundry, and spent the afternoon at a cheap buffet, recovering her strength so she could sneak in at night and explore all the exhibits as much as she wanted, making new memories that were hers. Just hers. 

There were no shuttle launches to watch, but it was still a beautiful place to wait for the sun to set. She sat down on sand still warm from the long day, kicked off her frayed, disintegrating sneakers, and let the tide tickle dusty toes.

She’d made it. South. Unless she planned to walk into the ocean or hijack a boat, there wasn’t much farther she could go. Danielle had a whopping seventeen dollars in her pocket, was being hunted by some persistent-if-incompetent ghosts that were either supposed to kill her or bring her in to get killed, and even if she dodged them for long enough, it was only a matter of time before she coughed up her own liquefied kidneys and melted into a puddle of green goop.

…she was going to have to go back, wasn’t she?

That was a sobering thought. She loved Danny like you could only love someone you knew so completely- but that place, everyone and everything in it. She knew it all, too. Knew if from a life she never had, couldn't have; had no claim to, but it still felt like it had been stolen. His parents. His sister. His friends, his home, his school, his town. She’d dreamed that life when she was slowly growing in that tank- and being born was like waking up and realizing your Everything wasn’t real. 

Her fingers dug into sand, relishing its warmth and texture. This was hers. Everything outside of that town. A thousand thousand places he’d never been to, never experienced. A thousand thousand opportunities to remake herself- to be something distinct. To live. 

She had no idea how much time she had left, but Danielle stayed where she was on the beach, watching the sun crawl into the sea, in absolutely no hurry to go anywhere.

“Where I go I just don’t know, I might end up somewhere in Mex-i-co-oooh. When I find my piece of mind, I’m gonna keep you for the end of time…”