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dreamworksworddump · 7 years ago

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Pavlov’s dogs Ch.2

Part 1

Pidge wakes up at what feels like three a.m. feeling like a black hole has taken refuge in the pits of her stomach. She groans, and buries her face in her arm, wishing that it’ll go away so that she can return to the blissful nothingness that is sleep, but now that she’s awake and aware, her position starts to wear on her bones, and makes her muscles ache. With a long, annoyed sigh, she sits up, stretches, and then starts for the kitchen.

If she’s lucky, there’ll still be some of Hunk’s leftovers hidden in the back of the fridge. If not, well, she’s eaten stuff far worse than food goo (cough, cough, Matt’s cooking).

She’s still half asleep when she stumbles into the kitchen, and almost runs into Lance because of it. Lance juggles with his juice box for a moment, catching it just before it’d’ve hit the ground. Pidge freezes, feeling much like a deer caught in the headlights, and then shakes off her surprise.

“Hi.” Her voice is thick with sleep, and barely audible over the sound of the ship’s life systems.

“Hello.” Lance says back, just as quiet. He leans back on the counter, and sips at his drink. “Funny running into you around these parts. Thought you were upset with me or something.”

Pidge shakes her head. “No, of course not. Why would you think that? You just got out of the pod earlier today.”

“Well, uh.” Lance brushes his hair back from his eyes. It falls back, tangling with his eyelashes, as soon as he lets go. “There was the thing I said to you, back on the ship, and then later today, you were acting all weird, and then you ran off. You didn’t leave Green’s hangar since.”

Pidge… hadn’t considered that angle of it, of how it would make Lance feel. She rubs the side of her arm awkwardly, and shifts from foot to foot. “That’s- it’s not- you weren’t-,” She stops and takes a deep breath. “That wasn’t it. It’s not you.” Not all you, anyway.

“Oh.” Lance finishes off his juice box, and tosses it in the recycler.

“Can you pass me a-”

“Yeah, yeah, of course.” Lance hands her a box, and she pokes the straw through the top almost angrily. The mice scurry out from some hidey-hole of theirs, and climb onto the counter to stare at the two of them, unimpressed. Pidge takes a few sips of her drink. Lance taps his fingers on the side of his arm.

“So,” Pidge plays with the hem of her sleeve, picking at a thread until it starts to unravel. “Do you remember what happened before you, uh…” She isn’t sure how to bring up ‘you confessed to me whilst bleeding out’ without turning as red as Lance’s lion, so she stops, and tries again. “All I remember is you bleeding out. I can’t remember much of what happened before.”

“Oh? You called for backup ‘cause the Commander, uh, Therad? Theerad? Something like that. Anyway, he’d caught you messing with his computer, and you were fighting him. You called for backup because you’d hit your head, and I came in to help.”

“How’d you get shot?” Pidge isn’t feeling so hungry after all. She sets her drink aside and pulls herself up onto the counter beside him.

Lance shrugs. “Being awesome, as always. I took over, because you were injured, and he tried to take advantage of that. Aimed at you, and I pushed you out of the way. Shot him at the same time too. You remember what happened after that?”

Pidge pets one of the mice softly, and without looking at Lance, admits, “You said that you love me. And that the hero never dies before he gets the girl.”

Lance rubs the back of his head sheepishly. “Yeah… that wasn’t my best line ever, but, uh, you got the gist right?”

“That was your ‘big romantic gesture’ wasn’t it?” Pidge asks wryly.

“Maybe. Just a little.”

Pidge slaps his arm. “You doof. You chose then of all times to confess? You stupid, stupid, boy.”

“If I was going to die, I wanted you to know. You’re my best friend, and I love you.”

Pidge pushes off of the counter, and grabs his shirt, tugs him down so that his face is level with hers. “You’re a complete and utter idiot,” She leans forward and kisses him. His mouth opens slightly and she shoves her face at him even harder, following the heady taste of mouth, of Lance. As they pull apart, Lance blinks. She wipes spit off of her mouth. “But so am I.”

He shakes his head, one of his quiet little grins pulling at the corners of his mouth. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted that to happen. Can I,” He brushes her bangs out of her face and tucks the behind her ear. “Can I kiss you again?”

Pidge nods sheepishly, and Lance ducks his head down, and presses a gentle kiss to the side of her mouth. She can’t tell if that was intentional, or if their height difference somehow messed up his aim. He makes his way slowly to her mouth, and one hand cupping her cheek like she’s the most dangerous thing he’s ever tamed, the other resting gently on her shoulder, as if to steady himself. Her heart beats wildly in her chest, and she thinks to it, be still. A mere kiss should not have her feeling this way, like there is no where else she’d rather be other than here.

Lance pulls back, that small smile still lingering there, and gesture at the counter behind her. “You mind if, um,” He trails off, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “If you sat on the counter?”

Height difference, she thinks amusedly as she lifts herself up. For once it works in her favor; Lance’ll always be the one with the crick in his neck from stooping over.

“Better?”

Lance stands in the gap between her spread legs, one hand on her knee, the other knotted in her hair, and kisses her again. Pidge hooks one of her legs around his waist, and pushes against him. His hair tickles her face as he sucks on her bottom lip, and brushes against her nose as he trails down to her neck. He grabs her waist securely, the taut, strong grip the opposite of the gentle way that he kisses her, and makes bruises bloom underneath her collar.

“You’re- you’re good at this.” Pidge feels breathless, like she’s just finished morning training.

Lance straightens up, grins at her like she’s one of those alien girls he always flirts with. “I read a lot of Cosmo back on Earth.”

Pidge snorts and kisses the side of his face. “‘Course.”

The lights in the kitchen snap on to full brightness. She blinks to adjust her eyes. Lance backs up.

“What’re you too doing up?” Shiro steps into the kitchen, the heads of his lion slippers peeking out underneath his pajama pants. With his arms crossed and hair all messed up from sleep, he looks more like a depressed college student than the leader of Voltron. “Training resumes for the both of you tomorrow, and it’ll be harder than it has to be if you don't get some sleep.” He reminds them as he brushes past to grab a juice box. “Good night.”

As Shiro leaves, and the door closes behind him, the two of them exchange a look and them promptly bursts into laughter.

Pidge slides off of the counter. “He’s right. You get cranky when you don't get enough sleep.”

“Maybe so.” Lance admits. His hand brushes against hers, as if asking for permission, then their fingers link together. “Can I walk you back to your room?”

“Yeah, of course.”

The next few weeks go by in a pleasurable haze as they get over the novelty of being in a relationship with each other. Holding hands with him never ceases to make her blush, no matter how often Lance reaches for her hand. Besides the new points of intimacy between them, little changes in their relationship; one day Lance jokes that they should call themselves ‘BFWB’, or best friends with benefits. Pidge can't even fault him for it, because it's true. They don't tell anyone else about it, but she suspects that the mice have snitched to Allura, and that Shiro has his suspicions. She feels good, instead of just okay for the first time in a long time.

Then Shiro starts assigning Lance and Pidge back on missions and the nightmares start.

She dreams of Lance taking shots meant for someone else, of blood and bone instead of warm brown skin. She watches him suffocate after him giving her his hemlet, watches him burn from the safety of her lion, watches faceless Galra slice him into pieces. She watches him die over and over and over again.

Pidge tries her best to hide it. She busies herself with her work during the day, and stays up as late as she can at night to hold them off. Every night, she falls asleep anyways. Every night, she dreams of his death.

Pidge pulls on her pajamas, burrows under layers of blankets, and hopes that tonight she may finally get some rest.

Pidge miscalculated. How could she have miscalculated this?! The countdown blinks in the corner of her visor. Thirty-five ticks. Thirty-four. She’ll spend the next twenty ticks running there, leaving ten or twelve ticks to disarm it.

She’d thought that they’d be gone by now, that the prisoners would be freed and safe and there would be no one left on this godforsaken ship except for the droids. But things never go as they should, do they?

“Lance, is the kid out?”

“He’s heading out on the last escape pod. Hunk’s gonna pick him up. I’m coming your way now.”

Pidge stumbles over her feet, stopping just before she runs into the droid-turned-bomb. “What?! No, get out of here!”

“Too late.” Lance says from behind her. Pidge can't look up, can't waste anymore time arguing. She pulls out the green wires and tries to switch them to force the overload to come to a stop.

The droid begins to hiss from the heat.

“Pidge.”

The countdown is down to three.

“Pidge.”

“Wait a minute, I-” As the countdown reaches zero, Lance grabs her under his arm and throws her down the hallway, out of the immediate radius of the bomb. He breaks into a run, but he cannot beat time itself. The fire consumes him, melting his armor from his skin like wax.

Pidge wakes up in a sweat, sheets tangled around her legs like chains. Her pajama shirt clings to her skin like plastic and for a moment, she thinks that she is burning.

Her hair sticks to her forehead and moves limply when she pushes it back. The image of him burning- skin turning black, shifting to ash before her eyes- lingers. She considers switching on the light and reading, or hooking up her laptop and finishing the code she’d been working on earlier that day, but she’s tired. She’s so tired and all she wants is to get a good night's sleep.

Pidge climbs out of bed and creeps out of her room. She looks down the hall, both ways, and then dashes out and over to Lance’s room.

She hates feeling like this; irrationally scared for him, when she knows that he can take care of himself just fine, knows that the chances of dying of the job haven't increased since they both admitted to their feelings.

She knocks on his door, and tells herself that if he doesn't answer, she’ll be fine. She’ll find some other way to deal with it.

The door opens.

Lance yawns, and rubs his eyes. “Pidge? It’s the middle of the night. Are you-”

She barrels into him, and he stumbles back a few feet before regaining his balance.

“Pidge?”

Tears prickle at the corners of her eyes. “I had a nightmare.”

“Oh.” Lance says, his voice muffled in her hair. He wraps his arms around her and squeezes. She sniffs, her tears dampening his shirt. “It’s okay. I have them too.” He waddles backwards with her until they reach the bed. He falls back and scoops her into his lap, still holding her. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Pidge shakes her head. To verbalize it will make it feel more real, and the terror from her dream still has not left her. “I-I-I don't. I can't. I can't sleep, I can't.”

“That’s okay.” He plays with her hair idly. She slumps against him. “You can just stay here, alright? Stay with me until you feel better.”

She doesn't know what to say, but has the feeling that he understands anyways.

Pidge tugs him down by the shirt to the bed, holds his arm around her as he spoons her. She doesn't grow tired, but the fear begins to melt away, replaced by an all consuming awareness of Lance, of his body pressed against hers, of his breath stirring the hair on the back of her head, of his crotch pressing against the small of her back.

“Are you really turned on right now of all times?”

Lance shrugs and murmurs in her hair. “I was having a dream when you came knocking. And now there's a beautiful girl in my bed. I think I’m entitled to that much.”

“Maybe.” Lance strokes her face, and presses a kiss under her ear, in that sensitive spot between face and neck.

“It doesn't matter. You can ignore it. Right now, we’re focusing on you.”

But Pidge doesn't want to focus on herself; she wants to push that lingering feeling of fear away, wants to pretend that everything's all right because it's her nature to push her feelings aside when it’s not convenient. And besides that, the intimacy of having him beside her, the feeling of being loved has her feeling warm and fuzzy inside; she doesn't mind.

Pidge turns around, and kisses him on his jaw. “I really do care about you.”

“Yeah, I-I care about you too.” He kisses her back, licks the drying tears from her cheeks.

She slips her hand past his waistband, and he freezes. She wonders if her hands are too cold.

“Pidge, what are you doing?”

Pidge’s hand wraps around his length, maps it carefully from its base to it’s tip. It’s strange, she thinks, how smooth it feels, how the hair on his base feels like stubble, familiar and yet not. “Stuff.”

“Yeah, but-”

She pulls back, wiggles up to face height. “I’m doing something that I want to do.” Pidge squishes his face between her hands. His mouth puckers and she kisses him again and again, until Lance’s eyes are smiling. “So just shut up, and enjoy it, okay?”

Lance still seems hesitant, even beyond the smile, but he nods nonetheless.

Pidge scoots down again, till she's chest height and can reach his pants again. She slips her hand inside and grabs him again, firmly but not too firmly; like a joystick.

“Tell me if I do something wrong.”

“Don't think that's possible.” Lance mutters.

She holds his hand with the other, and slides her hand up slowly, plays with the tip, marvels at the wetness that spreads on her fingers, and then slides down again. Lance makes a sound like he’s choking, stifles it with his hand.

She furrows her brows and concentrates on his reactions, committing them to memory like one of Iverson’s lessons. When she tightens her grip, he grunts, and his eyes flutter like the power trying to stay on in the midst of a storm. When her palm glides across his shaft quickly after a series of long, slow ones, he groans, and arches towards her, attracted like a magnet to its opposite. When she moves slowly, decisively, he begs, his body rising and falling as he resists the urge to thrust into her hand.

When he cums, it is a surprise; She’d been studying his face- fluttering, open, unguarded. Warmth hits her hand, creeps through the gaps in her fingers and drips down to her wrist.

“Oh.” She says dumbly, unsure of what else to say.

“Sorry.” It’s dim in his room. The only lights are from the castle’s biolights, bringing energy to each and every crevice. Still, she thinks that his cheeks have darkened, and that a slight blush lingers on the tips of his ears, barely visible beneath his curly, overgrown hair. “I should’ve warned you.”

Pidge withdraws her hand from his pants, and stares painted across her hand. “It’s okay.”

Lance shimmies out of his soiled pants and tosses them aside, grabbing a towel and a new pair in one swift movement. He holds her hand still and wipes it away, then slides his new pair on.

He presses his hand against her crotch. The fabric is damp there, though she hadn’t noticed until now. “You want me to,” he licks his lips, suddenly dry. “Want me to return the favor?”

Pidge nods, a movement somewhere between hesitation and eagerness. He pins his hair back with a bobby pin from his dresser, and then scoots down under the covers with a wink, his bravado suddenly recovered. He tugs her pants down to her ankles, he guides her thighs apart gently, and presses his face into her apex.

Lance licks her widely, unfocused, and then narrows in on her clit. He circles it with his tongue, and her hands grab his hair, fingers pulling and tangling and urging his closer, harder. He takes her quiet, unsteady moan as confirmation, and keeps circling, sucking, licking, milking her tentative sounds of pleasure out of her.

He grips her thighs maybe just hard enough to leave purpling bruises, and then she’s done. She comes in rippling waves, thighs clenching around his head, hands pulling like she's trying to separate his head from his body.

She worries that she might’ve hurt him, but when he pops up, face slick with her wetness, he’s grinning like they’ve finally killed Zarkon.

“Good?”

“Great.”

“Good.” Lance says again, flopping onto his back. He wipes his face off with the dirty towel, and then wraps his arms around her again. “Now you really should get some sleep, ‘else we’ll both be tired in the morning.”

“You’ll be cranky.” Pidge murmurs, the afterglow already pulling her towards sleep. “You’ll need it more than me.”

“Mmhmm.” Lance says, and a moment later, his breathing evens out, and he falls into sleep. Pidge follows not long after and for the first time in a long time, she doesn't dream.

#pidgance #pidge #lance #voltron #vld

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uglymanchronicles · 7 years ago

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UMC:R Chapter 7: Troubleshooting

Another chapter that is gonna wind up being at least two. BUT BUT BUT it’s the reboot’s first fight scene! Hopefully I haven’t lost my touch.

Beep-beep-beep.

“Shit.”

That was an alert from a proximity sensor. Whoever was following Evan had finally caught up to him, two hours later.

Evan took a slow, deep breath and sat up. He calmly stood up, laid his notes on the desk, and got down on the floor to reach under the bed. He came up with a double-barreled shotgun and a box of shells. Slowly but deliberately, he opened the gun’s breech and slid the shells in, one after the other. He took another deep breath, trying to steady his pounding heart, and swung the breech closed.

“Alright, then.”

He reasoned his best bet was to get outside and meet his pursuer in the open; a cramped cabin with a single means of entrance and exit would make a terrible place for a confrontation, especially if he needed to escape. There was also the concern that an indoor scuffle might ruin the rune on the floor. So he had to get outside, but there was still the problem of the single door. He was going to be a huge, backlit target if he just strolled outside.

Best to address that as much as he could before opening the door, then, he reasoned. Crouching so as to not be visible through the window, Evan made his way to the dull copper oil lamp that provided most of the illumination for the room. As the spitting, dancing flame died down to a quivering ember, the room became enveloped in eerie twilight. Evan felt his pulse quicken. The darkness, held at bay only by the light of the rune; the silence of the forest, rapidly filling with the sound of his own heartbeat; the warm Summer air, quickly chilling as his blood ran cold; all these things reminded Evan of the very real possibility that he was about to die.

Evan shook himself. There was no time to think about that, not if he wanted to prevent it from actually happening. The backlighting issue was addressed; now he needed to deal with actually opening and getting out the door. He’d initially considered crouching beside the doorframe and pushing it open while still hiding behind the wall, but that seemed too obvious. If this guy was a professional, he might assume his victim was hiding just out of sight and pepper the suspicious area with bullets. Evan doubted that the wood, stout as it was, would do much to stop a hail of gunfire.

Still crouched, Evan slunk back into the bedroom and fetched a spool of thin rope from his pack. Using one of the legs of the woodburning stove as a fulcrum, he managed to rig a system where he could pull the door open without being in the actual room. With the shotgun balanced in the crook of his elbow, Evan positioned himself beside the bedroom doorframe and yanked the rope.

If the universe had a sense of drama, the door would have creaked ominously on its hinges as it swung open. As it was, it dragged and scraped across the uneven floor, emitting an embarrassing mix of rumbling and screeching. Evan let his breath out. He’d half-expected the silence to be shattered by a gunshot the second anything moved, but aside from the now-audible sounds of nature and the feel of a faint breeze, nothing had changed.

Squinting to the point of his eyes nearly closing, Evan glared out into the darkness as if daring something to happen. A few long moments passed and no menace materialized out of the shadows, which made Evan pout his lips in an annoyed frown. Maybe his methods were too obvious. He kept trying to think like a hired killer would think, but found he had little information to draw on beyond action movies and thriller novels. He gave up and decided to go back to basics.

On the lawn outside the cabin was an old, forgotten firepit, its remaining stones covered with moss and hidden by the grass. Evan could see the corner of one of the stones from his hiding spot, and it gave him idea. He crawled back to his gear and dug around until he found something he’d purchased on impulse: a “professional” slingshot, complete with a small supply of ball bearings. He’d bought it because he’d seen it in the clearance bin while he was shopping for much more important things, and it reminded him of his younger days. That, and it was under ten dollars.

Never thought nostalgia would come in handy, Evan thought, tearing into the blister packaging with his teeth. He settled back into position, a handful of metal marbles in his right palm and the slingshot in the left. He peeked around the corner again, spotted his target, and readied a bearing. Fingers pinched tightly around the little steel ball, Evan extended his left arm, stretching the bands taught, and then whipped around the corner and let the shot fly.

CRACK.

Evan swore and ducked back down again. That was a lot louder than he’d been expecting--mainly because he’d hit the doorframe instead of the rocks outside. So much for the element of surprise, then.

Evan spun back around the doorframe, standing fully upright this time, and fired several frantic shots into the darkness. He heard clacks and cricks as some of the shots hit the stones, and more shiffs and swishes as most of the bearings shot off into the trees. Hopefully that would be enough misdirection, because it was going to have to be.

Evan dropped the slingshot and scooped up the shotgun, then, head down and knees pumping, dashed for the door. He crossed the threshold and burst into the night, shoes digging into the grass as he twisted himself, changing direction abruptly to circle around behind---

Bang.

It was loud and sharp, but not ear-splitting. Evan could actually hear the bullet whistle through the air for a split second before the shotgun was torn violently out of his hands. He stumbled to a stop, slowly raising his hands. He couldn’t tell where the shot had come from, but if the shooter was good enough to blast the gun out of his grip while he was in a dead run, he was certain they wouldn’t have trouble putting one between his eyes if the situation warranted it.

A figure stepped out of the trees to his left. It was shorter than Evan but at least as broad, and dressed in a mixture of grays and browns that caused it to blend in with the shadows around it. It moved towards him slowly, both hands clasping a large handgun in front of it. Evan turned slightly, hands still raised, to get a better look at his attacker.

He—Evan was certain they were a he, now—was dressed as if he were about to storm a building under cover of night, not track someone through miles of forest. He was wearing an oddly bulky balaclava, and at least some of his bulk came from the full-body armor he was wearing. Magazine pouches, at least two knives, and other tactical miscellanea were strapped all over his body. The pistol was huge, matte black, and imposing, with a bright silver silencer and a scope the length of the whole gun.

Evan wasn’t quite sure what to make of this man. He absolutely reeked of ‘trying too hard’. But… he’d been able to track Evan, despite all his precautions. Is he that good, or did I just do a lousy job?

The man relaxed his grip on the gun, lowering his left hand to his side and holding the pistol almost lazily at waist level. He still kept it pointed at Evan as he walked closer, but he seemed more relaxed. He stopped about five feet from Evan and looked him up and down. Evan felt slightly irritated; the man’s demeanor was almost insultingly casual, as if he didn’t consider Evan anything more than a curious inconvenience.

“Well? What are you waiting for? You’ve got me. Just get it over with.” There was probably no peaceful way out of this, Evan reckoned, so he might as well poke the bear.

The man was so close now that Evan could see him cock an eyebrow under his mask. Brown eyes. Caucasian. He looked Evan over again, then, to Evan’s surprise, spoke.

“There a reason somebody would want you dead, kid?”

His voice was far more normal than Evan had expected, and Evan scolded himself for assuming that a bad guy would automatically sound like a bad guy. It was a voice you could hear a dozen times every day. He’s just a normal person, Evan reminded himself, and he found that thought emboldening him.

“A few, if I’m being honest. That’s not why you’re here?”

“Not unless you make me,” the man said, with a casualness to his voice that belied the situation. He leaned towards Evan, tilting his head slightly as he took a closer look. “Christ, what’d you do to your face?”

Evan felt a vein bulge in his neck. That pissed him off. He’d had people stare at him, but nobody had the sheer balls to come right up and say it. If the man hadn’t had a gun pointed at him, he probably would have had some choice words for him. But the gun was a definite variable in the equation, so Evan swallowed his anger and instead said, “What do you want?”

“Oh, come on now, kid,” the man scoffed. “That book, genius. Where is it?”

I was right! Evan had to fight a smile. The sense of vindication was enormous. But it made the situation all the more dire.

“You think I’m just going to give it to you? Do you know what it is?”

“Do you? Really?”

Evan was rapidly coming to hate this man, even taking the fact that he was holding at gunpoint out of the equation. As a witty retort was not forthcoming, he simply glared. The man shrugged and sighed.

“Well, anyway, you don’t want to cooperate, no big deal. I think I can find it. So if you don’t want another piece of your face missing, you stay put.” Still keeping the gun pointed at Evan, the man slowly walked a wide loop around him, making his way towards the cabin door.

Evan took a deep breath. “Who’s paying you, Mr. Carmichael?”

The footsteps behind him stopped. There was a quiet shifting sound. Then: “What the hell did you say?”

“You’re Leon Carmichael, right? ‘The Chameleon’? After I noticed you tailing me, I did some homework to figure out who I was dealing with. I gotta say, it’s weird to meet an actual ‘deep web’ hitman in person. I hope you’re not getting paid in Bitcoins. That shit’s gonna tank in, like a year, you know.”

Evan couldn’t stop himself from grinning. The quickened breathing from behind him told him he’d hit the mark. The feeling of the silencer against the base of his skull confirmed that.

“Who the fuck are you?” Carmichael demanded, his voice low but dripping with anger as he slowly walked around Evan again.

Evan laughed. “Oh, that doesn’t really matter, does it, Leon? Do you mind if I call you Leon? See, Leon, all that you have to know is that I’m so, so much smarter than you, that even when I couldn’t see you, I could pick up a pattern. A hitman infamous for never being seen. I figure you must be some kind of master of disguise, which is why I didn’t see you, but that truck of yours… man, how did you make it change color like that? Some kind of photoreactive coating? I’d heard the Air Force or somebody was working on that, but how’d you—“

“SHUT! UP!” Spittle flew from Carmichael’s mouth as he leveled the pistol at Evan’s face. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you retarded or something? Where’s. That. Fucking. BOOK?!”

The end of the silencer was an inch from Evan’s nose. He could see it quivering slightly as Carmichael shouted. He took a slow, steady breath.

“It’s in a backpack under the bed, inside a hollowed-out physics textbook,” Evan said, calmly, “but that doesn’t matter.”

“Why’s that, dipshit?”

“Because you’re about to get your ass beat.”

He twitched his right hand, causing his sleeve to drop down his arm, revealing…

-------

“I call it the Modular Armored Neutralizing Utility System, or MANUS for short,” his video self said, holding up a roughly tubular piece of metal. “You wear it around your forearms, and it’s got a bunch of slots for tools and it should help stop blades and blunt objects, and, um…” He scratched his cheek, looking down from the camera. “I was always bad at the sales pitch. Right, I’ve got a couple of really cool little defense gadgets built in already, rigged up to a couple micro-computers I’ve got set up to voice commands. For this one, you just have to bend your wrist like this and say—“

“LIGHTS OUT!”

40,000 lumens burst from the bottom of the MANUS. Even with his eyes closed, Evan swore he could see the whole scene lit up in black and white. As Carmichael yelled in pain and surprise, Evan swung his hand down onto the gun. Carmichael blindly fired two shots that made Evan’s ears ring, but he’d already pushed the barrel away.

“You son of a bitch!” Blinking his streaming eyes, Carmichael struggled to turn the gun back towards Evan and squeezed the trigger frantically. Evan had slid his hand up the weapon and wedged the skin between his thumb and forefinger beneath the hammer. It hurt when the metal slammed down, but it beat getting shot.

Even blinded, Carmichael wasn’t relinquishing the gun without a fight, thrashing violently in an attempt to pull it from Evan’s grasp. Evan, for his part, was trying to twist the gun with Carmichael’s finger still stuck in the trigger guard, but that meant Carmichael still had his finger on the trigger. Evan knew it was only a matter of time before he managed to shake Evan’s hand loose from the hammer and started shooting again. Wrenching the gun aside as best he could, Evan let go with his left hand and swung his left arm up next to Carmichael’s head.

“GUERILLA RADIO!”

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

A 150-decibel shriek shattered the quiet night air and bounced like a pinball off the mountains and trees. Birds took flight. Insects momentarily stopped singing. Something off in the woods started to howl. Evan could barely hear any of it over the painful echo ringing in his ears, but he wasn’t the one who’d had a directional speaker blaring a sound as loud as a jet engine an inch from his ear.

If Carmichael screamed, it was drowned out by the blast, but the noise cannon had done its job. For just a second, reflexes took over and his grip on the gun loosened slightly as he instinctively reached for his ears. Evan desperately hauled on the weapon, finally pulling it free. Gripping it by the barrel, he swung his arm back and brought the grip down on the side of Carmichael’s head. The force of the blow was so great that, combined with the disorientation from the flash and noise, both men wound up staggering several paces and falling to the ground.

Evan still had the gun in his hand. Though he was still half-blinded by the flash, Evan managed to eject the magazine and threw it as far as he could from his prone position. It landed somewhere in the brush, and he hoped that was enough to take it out of the equation.

Staggering back to his feet, Evan saw Carmichael struggling to do the same. From the way he was wobbling, Evan guessed that the noise blast had ruptured his eardrum. For the moment, he was effectively immobilized. Evan still had the pistol in his hand, and there was still a round in the chamber. The thought of the possibility of finishing this now rushed into his head with such ferocity that it felt like it’d been injected there.

No. ��Not this way. You don’t need to.

Evan squeezed the trigger and felt the gun kick as the last round slammed into the dirt. Carmichael flinched at the report, then stared at Evan through runny eyes with what seemed like a look of confusion under his mask.

“I’m not gonna kill you,” Evan growled, dropping the gun and starting towards him, “but I am gonna make you regret taking this job!”

“What?!” Carmichael yelled back, far louder than necessary.

Evan sighed. Note to self: deliver one-liners BEFORE deafening the audience.

Oh well.

Evan grabbed Carmichael by the collar of his body armor and yanked him upright. The assassin barely kept himself from toppling forward from the momentum, but by the time he’d found his footing, Evan had already wound up and launched his punch.

The knuckle of Evan’s middle finger slammed into the center of Carmichael’s face with such force it sent him sprawling back onto the ground further than his previous spot. Evan shook out his hand, then realized something: aside from a brief spike of pain at the point of impact, his hand didn’t hurt.

Somewhat contrary to common sense, much research points to the advent of boxing gloves as the start of more brain injuries in boxers. The reasoning behind this is deceptively simple: punching someone in the face with your bare hands hurts. The human skull is, generally speaking, very hard. But when you protect the hand that’s punching, the puncher doesn’t have to worry about breaking his own fingers and, therefore, can bring the full force of his punches to bear on his opponent’s face. Sure, the bone doesn’t make direct contact, so you lose that aspect of the attack, but removing the limiter of the fear of self-mutilation more than makes up for the difference.

Evan realized that, as a man with the inexplicable ability to heal almost instantly, he could have his cake and eat it, too. A grin began to spread across his face. How had he not considered that? Super-healing could be a weapon!

Letting out a roar that was half-battle cry, half whoop of exultation, Evan dove onto Carmichael’s prone form and straddled the hitman’s chest. Before Carmichael could recover from the shock of the first punch, Evan landed another across his jaw, roaring again as he threw the full force of his new muscles into the blow.

Impact. Brief flash of pain. Nothing.

Yes.

He swung back his left arm, twisting his torso as he drove a straight punch into Carmichael’s right eye.

Impact. Pain. Nothing.

Yes. Yes!

Right. Left. Right. Left. Right left right left right left rightleftrightleftrightleftRIGHTLEFTRIGHTLEFT

“Yes! Yes! YES! YES! YES! YES! YES YES YES YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAA—“

Amidst the flurry of blows, Carmichael somehow managed to get this arms up in front of his face and was grasping desperately at Evan, trying to either stop the punches or get his hands around his throat. Evan bit his thumb, but Carmichael managed to keep his hand on Evan’s face, pushing him up enough that he couldn’t get a clear shot. After a few frenzied swipes, Evan grabbed both of Carmichael’s wrists and yanked upwards while swinging his own head downwards.

Crunch. There was the sound of a nose breaking. But Carmichael was still struggling.

“Is that an armored ski mask? Come on, man! It won’t save you!” Evan heard himself yell as his head descended again.

Crunch. Crunch. Crack. Whump.

Four more headbutts and Carmichael was barely moving. All he seemed to be able to do was groan. Evan rolled himself off the broken man and sat up, panting. His heart was hammering in his chest, he could barely catch his breath, and he was dizzy from the adrenaline rush combined with the repeated head movements, but he felt amazing.

“Told you… huhh… I’d beat your ass,” Evan wheezed, slapping Carmichael’s shoulder almost playfully. “Now…hoo… get the hell out of here and tell whoever hired you to… huff… go fuck themselves.” With that, he left the groaning Carmichael on the grass, scooped up the pistol, and stumbled back inside.

#chapter #Ugly Man Chronicles: Reignition #Ugly Man Chronicles #my writing

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wreathedinscales · 7 years ago

Link

the title will make sense okay p r o m i s e

threw in a headcanon of mine for Danny. I welcome your thoughts on it, as well as the characterization ‘cause i’m still new at these characters lol

(bae i did it :D here you are! it sweet and gay)

When Danny asks, Luke almost has to think about it. Because―"Danny, we sleep together every night."

For a second, Danny smiles like he's remembering that for the first time. Then he shoots forward, serious again. "Yeah, yeah, I know! But I meant on you."

Luke blinks. He glances at the dinner between them. "Should I be eatin' this?" Connie hasn't had it out for him in a while, but. Y'know. Connie.

Danny's face scrunches. "I'm not drugged."

"But you're tellin' me you wanna sleep on me. You've been sleepin' on me for a month." Technically longer, but those nights were before they moved in together, mostly scattered between protecting Harlem and the Kitchen.

"Not really."

Luke rubs his eyes. "Danny. Y'know how you tell strangers you're the Immortal Iron Fist and they have no idea what you're talking about?"

"...yeah?"

"I'm feelin' like that right now."

Danny makes a snuffling, frustrated noise. "I just―" he waves his chopsticks. "It's like―"

He makes another noise. It's a problem he has, sometimes. Explaining things. What makes perfect sense for him, even outside the mystical stuff, doesn't always come out in a way others understand.

Luke taps his food with his chopsticks, peering at Danny's fidgeting. He takes a second to think.

"Is it about me?"

Danny jolts. "No! Not―I mean, not like that!"

"So it's...the bed?"

Relief starts peeking in. "Yeah."

"Okay. What about the bed?"

"It's not..." Danny nibbles on his lip. "In K'un L'un, we didn't have mattresses. Or pillows, or sheets. I thought I could get used to it, y'know? It's been so long. I can sleep!"

"I know," Luke teases.

Danny can't suppress a smile at that. "Yeah. I just can't sleep well. Y'know?"

Luke nods. "Okay. So why does sleeping on me help? Like, fully on top of me?"

"You're, uh." Danny gestures at him.

Luke raises an eyebrow. A smirk forms. "I'm what?"

"Um. Firm."

They start laughing.

"I'm what?"

"You're just―! You're―"

"Don't say hard, Fist-boy."

That sends them into a fresh bout. Danny smacks Luke's arm, trying and failing to shake it off after, which just makes Luke throw his head back.

After a few more smacks at each other, they sink into a nice quiet. New York fills in the gaps. Luke finishes his carton and moves onto the next.

Finally, Luke says, "So you think sleepin' on me's better than that fancy mattress?"

Danny makes a strange chirping grunt around his shrimp, brighter than he's been all night. Soon as he's gulped his bite, he says, "Exactly!"

Luke loves that damn mattress. That damn mattress has ruined him for all other mattresses. Claire tells him it's the consequence of marrying rich.

Luke keeps telling her they're not married.

She'd had Matt draw up a certificate for April Fools.

What he's saying is: "If I can get more room on that bed just by you sleepin' all the way on top 'a me, we're not gonna have any problems."

Danny always kinda looks like spring as a default, but this is on a whole new level. "You sure you don't mind?"

Luke shrugs, leaning on his elbows. "Like you said. I'm firm."

Danny throws a piece of shrimp. Luke catches it in his mouth.

What? You don't need no ninja skills for that.

"Danny, we're not fighting."

Danny keeps bouncing on his feet anyway.

Luke curls around his back, nuzzling a fond smile into his shoulder. "Unless you wanna lose?"

He gets a comically offended scoff and a jab at his stomach. He chuckles.

"Let's go, Rand. Sleep on me."

Luke lifts a snickering Danny with one arm around his waist. At the edge of the bed, Luke turns around, jumping a little so his head hits the pillows. They laugh at each other's oofs. Just because he can, Luke claps twice to turn the lights off. Sometimes it's just fun to play with some 'a the fancy shit Danny tosses into their place. (He claims he does it for Luke. Luke's pretty sure that's only partially true.)

Less than thirty seconds later, Danny's asleep.

It's almost weird. And Luke's fought the Hand.

Danny's a limp noodle, back to Luke's chest, head under Luke's chin. He's slept next to Luke before, but Luke's realizing that he's never slept. He's almost hurt that Danny hadn't told him sooner, but he's pretty sure Danny and Matt were conceived in masochism. Probably had to take Colleen to remind him that communication in a relationship's a thing. It's something else to work on, and something else they'll get through together. After everything at Midland Circle, Luke's pretty sure they can handle relationship stuff.

Easing into their damn awesome mattress, Luke wraps tighter around Danny to keep him where he is. He might move in his sleep, but that's another problem for another day.

Somehow, Luke wakes with his cheek in the pillow and Danny sprawled on him like a turtle shell.

He's got a crick in his neck. Irritating, but it's past nine and Danny's still sleeping. Guess Luke's muscles are even harder than they thought.

Danny's snuffled "Hmwha?" is lost under Luke's laugh.

#powerfist #ecriture #i didn't mean to ship this i'm like

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thekastlediaries · 7 years ago

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Tender Spots

@idontcarewhatmyusernameis9 replied to your post “If anyone has any matt/jessica (jessmatt? Messica!) prompts they want…” : After he saved her from that guy in ep 5 he teaches her how to fight, because it’s not all about powers

Thanks for the prompt! it’s not exactly what you asked for and the timeline I set it in is a little hazy, but I hope you like it.

She doesn’t like the way that Trish looks at her when there are bruises on her face. The scrapes along her cheekbone are still fresh, barely scabbed over since her last scuffle with the ethereally beautiful zombie woman. And there’s that look coming from Trish, just to make things a little more unbearable. It’s soft and concerned and there’s a little pain beneath the surface.

“Don’t give me that look.”

Trish feigns innocence, eyebrows shooting up. “What look? There’s no look.”

Trish’s fancy apartment in the sky offers plenty of distractions for Jessica. There’s a fully stocked bar with an array of amber liquids floating in crystal decanters, big wide windows to gaze out over the city while sipping the burning liquid. Jessica employs these distractions as best she can, walking away from her best friend to gaze across the skyline. It’s cold by the windows, the alcohol burning at the back of her throat is a lie to keep her warm. Trish lets her stew for a minute, and it’s Jessica who caves and glances back across the lush apartment. “There’s a look. There’s always a look.”

Trish nods, conceding. “You may be strong, Jessica, but you’re not indestructible.”

The tumblr clinks against the granite counter top. “Which is why I don’t like getting involved in this shit.”

“Right… and yet you always do.”

Trish is beside her now, her slender hand covering the back of Jessica’s. It’s protective and loving, and for a moment, the briefest moment, Jessica lets herself wonder what it would be like to accept it fully, to dismantle the cage around her heart. She shakes off the feeling, the cage is to protect them, not her.

Trish continues, “I don’t want you to stop, Jess. I think you can do a lot of good.”

Jessica scoffs, picking up the drink and tossing back what’s left.

“But you’ve got to learn a few more moves. Brute force doesn’t always work.”

The soft feeling of Trish’s hand on Jessica’s is gone. Instead she’s using it to slide a business card across the counter. It’s for the martial arts studio down the street, the overly fancy place that serves cucumber water in between krav maga. The very idea of popping in at that particular studio feels like fingernails on a chalkboard to Jessica, but she takes the card from Trish nonetheless. “Thanks, I’ll look into it.”

Trish shakes her head, smiling softly. “Bullshit.” The word is said with a smile, and it’s not an indictment. “Thank you for humoring me.”

The card lies on her desk for one day, a silent reminder of a vulnerability she’d long since tried to push away. She’s not indestructible, she’s mortal, she’s easily wounded, she’s half a second from death every time she gets into a fight with someone. The memory of hellboy saving her still grates on her nerves. He’s fast, sure, but he’s flesh and bone just like her, and he doesn’t even have the benefit of being able to pick up cars and toss them at people.

The more she thinks about it, the more annoyed she becomes. He doesn’t have to be doing this. No one expects it from him like they do from her, like they do from Luke. Matthew Murdock could just go back to living the boring life of a litigator and no one would try and guilt him into fighting for others. Except… he seems to have the guilt thing down pat, no need for other people.

Tonight she’s fallen asleep in her desk chair, yet again. Lately her bed feels like an unwelcome reminder of things she can’t have, and sleep is something she fights anyway. It’s better for her to sit at her desk working, drinking… when she passes out like that there are no dreams. But now it’s three a.m. and there’s a hellacious crick in her neck, and a restlessness in her body that she can’t shake. She reaches for the whiskey bottle to start over again, but it’s empty.

“Fuck.”

When she leaves her apartment she’s on a mission, eyes straight ahead, hands tucked into her pockets. The look on her face keeps the assholes at bay. She’s looking for a twenty-four hour liquor store, so she doesn’t know how she ends up three blocks into Hell’s Kitchen, gazing up at a giant buzzing neon sign. Bright pink and purple, it’s the most obnoxious thing she’s ever seen. Murdock’s lucky he can’t see it.

Grunting, she drags the nearest dumpster under the building’s fire escape, stretching to reach the bottom rung. It’s cold and wet against her fingers. She grips hard and hauls herself up to the first landing. She catches her reflection in the window. Her bruises have already started to fade, the scrapes looking less of an angry red and more like rust that’s about to flake away. She’s never quite understood her powers, didn’t really want to in the beginning. There’s something of a healing factor that comes along with her super strength. She starts climbing again, absentmindedly wondering if the healing factor is why she can’t seem to keep a good buzz going.

She reaches Matt’s loft in seconds, sitting outside the ledge to catch her breath. Suddenly she’s not sure what she’s doing. Matt’s clearly got his own shit to be sorting out, and she’s too hungover to learn anything. Sighing, she leans back against the window, thumping her head against the glass. Her eyes drift shut. Softly she starts humming a song, feeling a different kind of buzzing in her limbs. Pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name. A soft little laugh interrupts her just as she gets to the chorus.

Her eyes pop open, gaze shooting up toward the sound. There he is. Arms crossed in annoyance up on the roof. Before she can say anything he jumps down beside her, perching on the ledge like some kind of gymnast, even though he’s only wearing a pair of soft pajama bottoms and a cotton tee. Hair missed from sleep, no shades. He has a very boyish look about him. It’s unexpected.

“Nice song choice, Jones.”

She raises one eyebrow. “It seemed… fitting.”

Something falters in the smirk that’s on his face, his head cocking toward her. “Do you have sympathy for the devil?”

She doesn’t necessarily like the way he’s so intently listening to her. His breathing is shallow, brow knitted as he focuses in on on her. It’s probing, invasive even. There are echoes of Killgrave in the way it makes her feel.She shivers, her whole body physically reacting to the memory.

Matt’s head snaps toward her, an apology already on his lips, but she shakes it off. “It’s fine.” She shifts uncomfortably under his scrutiny. “And… surprisingly I do have a little sympathy for the devil even when he’s insufferably self-righteous.”

He settles on the ledge beside her, waiting a moment before asking, “Jessica… why are you here?”

“Trish thinks I’m gonna get my ass kicked by some ninja, and she wants me to take krav maga classes at this hip little martial arts studio up town.”

“And?”

“And that sounds about as appealing as pulling my fingernails out one by one with a pair of pliers. So… I thought you could show me a thing or two.”

“From the tone of your voice, I’d say training with me is only a slightly more appealing form of torture.”

He smirks, and she realizes with some surprise that she never really sees him do that with other people. He’s always so fucking serious all the time. She never would have guessed that her own shitty sense of humor would align with his. “Yeah, well at least I’d get to punch you in the face a couple times.”

She nearly jumps when he reaches for her hand, an instinct that would have had her smeared across the pavement. His fingers run across her knuckles, and her heart thunders in her chest for half a second, and it pisses her off that he can hear it.

Sheepishly he pulls away. “You don’t exactly have a lot of bone built up in your knuckles, either you don’t punch people that often, or your healing factor keeps your bones from rebuilding that way.”

“I don't…” She wants to deny what he’s implying. People not knowing that she heals fairly quickly is the one advantage she has left. “How do you know about the healing thing?”

He reaches up to touch her face, but she flinches again and he drops his hand. “Sorry, habit… I was just guessing. Your bruises have gone down, haven’t they?”

She grunts an affirmation, blowing out a gust of air. She’s so fucking tired. “Tomorrow then?”

Nodding, he rises from the ledge. “Bright and early.”

She snorts. “Figures you’re an early bird.” She doesn’t move to leave, instead leaning back against the window to stare at the blinking neon across the street. In spite of its tacky persistence, there’s something kind of pretty about the way the wet concrete reflects the light back. She’s lost in thought when Matt says her name again.

“Jessica…” He trails off, suddenly unsure of himself.

“Yeah?” She watches as he runs his fingers through his hair, like he’s nervous about something. Again, it’s utterly absurd, but he looks like a lost child. The feeling reverberates through her.

“Um… it’s pretty late. You could, uh, crash on my couch if you want.”

She can’t let him see how appealing the offer is. Her apartment is a wreck, bad memories in every crevice, and nothing to wash them down with when she gets there. She nods, hoping he can some how sense it so she won’t have to vocalize her relief.

It works, and he’s already swooping across the ledge to unlatch one of the windows. Tomorrow is certainly going to be interesting.

#jessica jones #matthew murdock #jessmatt #messica

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vivaciouswordsmith · 7 years ago

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penultimate chapter!

After this, it’ll just be the epilogue, and then Four-Legged Fiend will be over and done with. Once again, I thank @asking-ask for the inspiration, and all of you lovely people for supporting me. Might write some oneshots later on down the line. We’ll see.

Anyway, you can read it here or beneath the cut. Enjoy!

In Jeremy’s humble opinion, this had to be the most impractical way to conduct a heist.

Geoff had gone on and on and on about how serious they were going to be, but then hit the stumbling block of not having a ‘serious’ way of getting their Kuruma to the mainland. With few options immediately available, and time being of the essence, they were forced to fire up Geoff’s obscenely golden yacht, load the Kuruma onto it, and make their way to the mainland that way. After a half-hour of frantic phone calls, Geoff was able to drum up enough crew members to stage a fake party on the yacht, which he hoped would be a convincing enough alibi for most authorities to turn a blind eye to their activities.

This was where the crew found themselves at that moment. Lights flashed and whirled around, booze flowed through the ship as quickly as the wake closed around it, the stench of sweat hung over the congregation, and somehow all their fellow crew members had giant smiles plastered all over their faces. Honestly, Jeremy was in awe at how easily they were able to let go of their troubles and pretend to party the night away. Hell, some of them appeared to be actually enjoying themselves.

As for Jeremy, he was barely able to keep himself from shaking. Geoff only allowed the main crew members two drinks that nights, and sadly he was already halfway through his second shot of whiskey. Damn if he didn’t want some fucking courage, though. It wasn’t like he hadn’t ever broken in anywhere. Far from it, actually. It was practically a goddamn necessity in Los Santos. No, what had him worried, more than any threat of police or breaking into a zoo, was the fear that they would somehow fail. Maybe Ryan had been transferred to another location without them knowing. Maybe they’d decided to put him down. Maybe he was long gone, and they were only preparing for more heartbreak. Maybe-

“How’s it going, Li’l J?” He jumped and spilled most of his remaining drink on the mahogany counter. Geoff clapped him on the back and only eyed the puddle with slight annoyance. “You ready for this?”

“Sure. Yeah.” He scrubbed the mess up with a cocktail napkin and threw the pulp in the direction of the trashcan behind the counter. It splattered onto the ground immediately next to the trashcan. “How soon are we heading out?”

“Bout an hour. Harbor patrol’ll be long gone by then. You and Gav will be taking the Seasharks, while Jack and I will use the Dinghy to tow the Kuruma to shore. We’ll group up there.” Geoff patted him on the back again. “Don’t sweat it, okay? This is gonna be nice and easy.”

“I’m sure it will,” he said under his breath. Geoff raised an eyebrow, but left Jeremy be and went back over to the bar. He was ninety-nine percent sure Geoff had already gone past his two-drink limit, yet there he was, pouring himself another two fingers of whiskey like they weren’t about to break into a zoo. He caught Jeremy staring, blinked, very obviously set the whiskey back beneath the bar, and chugged the entire glass while flipping him off.

Well, he was the boss.

In stark contrast to the previous twelve hours, the next sixty minutes couldn’t pass fast enough. Jeremy couldn’t count the number of times something was broken, and he swore to God there were two people fucking in the corner. Matt tried to talk to him a few times, but the music drowned out every attempt at words he tried to make. Jeremy had downgraded to E-Cola by this point, and the corn syrup certainly wasn’t helping his shaking hands. If anything, he felt twice as twitchy as he had before. He glanced at the clock so many times in the course of that hour he developed a crick in his neck. Every time he checked it, it seemed like time hadn’t moved at all, and the unease in his stomach grew. There wasn’t a distraction in the world that could last long enough to get him through that one damn hour.

When a hand clapped on his shoulder, Jeremy fully expected Matt to have returned with yet another attempt to get him to cheer up, but instead came face to face with Jack. He nodded once and jerked his thumb over his shoulder. Jeremy’s heart throbbed in his throat. He swallowed, and nodded back. Jack turned on his heels and walked to the boat’s stern. Jeremy stumbled over his own feet, caught himself, and lolloped over to the golden railing.

Geoff and Gavin already stood on the tiny dock affixed to the yacht’s side. They struggled to hook a set of chains to a small loop on the back of a black dinghy. The chains were attached to a small float, upon which the tarped Kuruma sat. The ocean’s waves were not doing anything to help them out, and in fact the Kuruma looked in danger of flowing out to sea.

“Uh…do you guys need help?”

“I think we got it!” Geoff heaved on the chain and managed to clip the hook onto the dinghy. It creaked loudly, and Jeremy swore the loop bent into more of a ‘0’ shape. “See? It’s all good.”

“This shit better hold, Geoff, otherwise we’ll be out a Kuruma.”

“It’ll fucking hold!” Geoff stood up and dusted himself off. “Okay, Gav and Jeremy are up. You guys go on ahead, and we’ll follow you to the meeting point. You remember where it is, right?”

“That little beach surrounded by the rocks, right?”

“Good man. We’ll pick you up as soon as we get the Kuruma ashore.”

Jeremy swung over the railing and shimmied down the ladder. The platform wasn’t nearly big enough for three people, so he moved to a black Seashark, undid the tow rope, and clambered aboard. The motor roaring to life scared the shit out of him, but he recovered quickly and swung it out to sea. Another engine sputtered to life behind him, and a glance back showed that Gavin already followed closely behind him.

Strangely enough, as soon as the yacht faded into the distance, Jeremy found himself actually enjoying the ride. He jumped a few waves and goaded Gavin into racing him to the beach. Once or twice a grin stretched across his face, and he managed to spray an obscene amount of seafoam right into Gavin’s dumb face. His squeals made the venture entirely worth it.

After about fifteen minutes or so, the shore loomed ahead of them. Moonlight glinted off the rocks and dyed the sand pearly yellow-white. Jeremy slowed his approach and guided the Seashark out of the water and onto land. It sputtered and eventually went silent. He shoved it behind a rock and stripped out of his soaked jacket. A gust of wind moaned through the rocks and turned to ice against his dripping skin. He rubbed his upper arms and blew into his hands.

“Fuck, I hope Geoff and Jack get here soon.”

“Damn right.” Gavin panted and sagged against the rock. “Why is it so cold? It’s summer!”

“Wind blowing off the water, Gavin. Doesn’t help that we’re fucking soaked, either.”

The Brit glared at him. “I’d be fine if you hadn’t drenched me, you nob.”

Jeremy held up his hands. “What can I say? The opportunity presented itself, and I couldn’t resist.”

They didn’t speak after that. Jeremy huddled beside the Seashark and continued to rub his arms and legs. He eyed the road above the rocks and hugged his knees to his chest. Hopefully Geoff and Jack had made it to land by now, and would bring the Kuruma and their change of clothes around before too long. God, he hoped they’d be quick. His soaked clothes clung to his skin, and with every light breeze wrapping around the rock they turned colder and colder. Gavin’s breath sped up, and he swore he could see little puffs of breath dissipating in the moonlight.

Finally, headlights swept over the rocks, and the quiet purr of an engine stopped up on the overhead path. Jeremy turned and craned his neck. The Kuruma sat on the road overhead. Light glimmered off its black paint and cast a long shadow over the beach beneath it. Jeremy stood and gestured to Gavin.

It took them a few minutes, but eventually they scurried up the rocks and knocked on the Kuruma’s window. The trunk popped open. Inside were the armor sets they’d bought earlier. Both of them tore their soaking clothes off and strapped on the armor. Once everything was in its proper place, they tossed the wet clothes into the trunk and sat down in the back.

“Okay, it’s a thirty minute drive to the zoo,” said Jack. “Geoff’ll run down the plan again while you two check weapons.”

“Right, here’s how it’s going to go, dickheads,” said Geoff. “Jack’s going to stay outside the main gate with the Kuruma, ready to help us make our escape. If something happens and you can’t make it, make sure you tell him so he’s not sitting here with his dick out.”

“Yeah, we got that,” said Jeremy. He popped the clip out of his pistol and checked the bullets. “Jack’s out here, and we’re going in through the side door, right?”

“Right. We’ll drop Gavin off by the security office. He’ll watch the cameras, make sure we’re not going to have any unexpected visitors, then he’ll wipe that shit once we’re out.”

“Got it,” said Gavin.

“That leaves you and me, Li’l J. We’ll split up and head toward the two exhibits.” A piece of paper poked Jeremy’s forehead. He grabbed it and held it up to the window. New Eden Park Map headed the paper, and the rest was dominated by a simplified map of the zoo. “I’ll head for the wolf habitat, and you’ll head for the new rescues area.”

“Do we know he’ll actually be there, thought?” asked Jeremy. “I mean, he’s a wolfdog. Where does he fit into…into any of this?”

“That’s what we’re gonna haveta figure out, Jeremy.” Geoff paused for a moment. “Now, once one of us finds him, he’ll call the other and wait to reconvene. Then we’ll make our way into the exhibit, bust him out, and head back to Jack.”

“Sounds fucking easy when you phrase it like that,” said Jeremy.

“Hopefully it will be that easy. Still, be ready for fucking anything, boys.”

Jeremy pushed the magazine back in with a click. “Aren’t we always?”

“Sometimes. When we’re lucky.” Geoff let out a deep sigh. “God, we’d better not fuck this up.

In what felt like no time at all, a wide median split the road in two, and a series of animal statues sprouted out of it, growing larger and larger the further they went. A blue sign pointed toward the zoo. Jack looked in the rearview mirror. Jeremy and Gavin nodded and hefted their weapons. He nodded back and turned into the drive.

A large wrought iron gate stood at the end of the way. Vines curved up the sides and coiled around the figures on either side of the huge plaque bearing New Eden’s name. A man stood on the left side, and a woman on the right. They were naked save for the leaves covering their nethers. The headlight flashed off the iron and illuminated the dozen or so bronze snakes coiled around the nameplate. Geoff whimpered and sank into his chair.

“Well, that’s not ominous at all,” said Jeremy.

“Fucking Christ that’s creepy,” said Geoff.

“Leader of the most infamous crew on the West Coast, everybody,” said Jack.

“Shut the fuck up!”

Jack chuckled and pulled the wheel all the way to the left. The Kuruma’s wheels hit the curb and mounted it. Grass rustled and crunched beneath the wheels, and the gate quickly faded into the darkness behind them. A concrete wall ran along their right side. Paintings of jungle foliage and animals faces flashed and rippled through the darkness, appearing and disappearing in the blink of an eye.

“Okay, it should be…right…here.” Jack stopped the car and sat back. A small nondescript door sat in the middle of the brilliant paintings. It had no handle or doorknob on the outside, and a small set of stairs led up to the little fenced off platform. “All right. It’s all you guys now.”

“Right. C’mon, guys.” Geoff waved Gavin and Jeremy forward and popped the door open. “Let’s get our wolfdog back.”

They stepped out of the Kuruma and headed toward the door. Geoff stopped them right when they passed a cluster of trees and motioned for them to wait. When they gave him a questioning look, he pulled a brick of C4 out of his backpack and raised his eyebrows. They quickly got the picture and huddled behind the nearest tree trunk. Geoff let out a soft snort and approached the door. He stuck the C4 on the spot where the knob would have been and jumped back down the stairs. A few seconds later, the ground trembled, and smoke wafted around the trunk. Jeremy peeped around it and saw the long empty hallway beyond the wreckage of the door.

“Are we still good?” asked Geoff.

“I don’t know yet,” said Gavin. “Let’s just keep going!”

With that, they entered the dark building. It stunk of mildew and dust, and the shadows cast by their flashlights were far more interesting than the actual hallway. After a veritable labyrinth of endless turns and dead ends, they finally found the entrance into the main building. Their side was thankfully unlocked, so without further ado, they moved forward.

However nice New Eden might have been by daylight was completely occluded by darkness. Their flashlights glanced off skeletons and scales and fur and dull, glassy eyes. Gavin let out a small whimper and pressed closer to the other two.

“Damn, this is creepy. I thought this was a zoo or something?”

“I don’t know, maybe it’s, like, educational shit or something.”

“Both of you shits shut up! We’re almost to the security office.”

They both clammed up and moved on. A dim glow shone on the wall directly in front of them, and when Jeremy turned his head to look, he saw a set of monitors and the outline of a person behind two reinforced windows. Both he and Gavin stopped in their tracks. Geoff gave Gavin a pointed look and gestured at the door. Gavin blinked. He gestured more frantically. Gavin finally seemed to get it and crept up to the door. He fumbled with the lock, swore under his breath, and got it open.

Apparently he made some sort of noise, because the guard turned around. Before he could do anything, Jeremy aimed and fired. The bullet zipped out of the gun and hit him right between the eyes. Blood spattered over the monitors, and he slumped to the ground.

“Well, Gavin’s job just got harder,” said Geoff.

“Bugger my arse! We weren’t going to kill him, Jeremy!” Gavin glared at him. Most of the color had already drained from his face. “Christ alive, I’m going to have to clean this now, Jeremy!”

Jeremy threw up his hands. “Well it was either kill him or have him pull the fucking alarm! Plans have to fucking change sometimes, or we’d never get anything done! I’d rather have a couple fucking bodies and Ryan safe at home than try to fucking…I don’t know, Silent Snake his ass and get caught before we even do anything.”

“Fucking stop already! Christ, we need to keep moving before the rest of the guards come to see what’s wrong!” Geoff waved his hands around and glanced at the door. “Gavin, get to that security station now!”

“I’m going! Christ! You go find Ryan!” He nudged the dead guard aside with his toe and sat down.

“Okay, Jeremy, let’s go get our wolfdog back.” Geoff rolled his eyes and clapped Jeremy’s shoulder. “Fuck if I don’t know where he is, though.”

“That’s why there’s two of us, Geoff.”

They moved back out into the hallway and followed the signs toward the exit. A wave of heat, pollen and animal stink hit them right in the face when they opened the glass doors. Jeremy swallowed at the sight of the dim brick path winding past net and glass enclosures, going on and on and on until it was swallowed by pitch darkness.

“Okay, um, where are we going?” Jeremy pulled out his map and held it up to the moon. “The wolf enclosure is in the, uh, the, uh-“ He scanned over the map with his finger. “-The wolf enclosure is…in the North American section. Fucking finally.”

“Sure it is, buddy, but Ryan’s not exactly a purebred wolf. They might have put him somewhere else.”

“Where else is there?”

Geoff’s finger poked into his field of view and landed on the far side of the map. “This fucker says it’s hybrids and rescues. He’s probably there.”

“Do they know he’s a hybrid, though?”

“Uh…if they have his vet records…they could? I don’t fucking know.”

“Guess we’re gonna haveta check both of ‘em after all.” Jeremy sighed and put the map back in his pocket. “I’ll check the rescues, and you check the wolves.”

“Why me?”

“Well, the wolves are closer, and well…” Jeremy grinned. “You’re not exactly getting any younger, pal.”

“Well…you can…fuck off, Jeremy.”

Jeremy laughed and moved into the darkness.

An uneventful twenty minutes later, Jeremy rounded a corner and finally found the Rescues section. Most of the cages were smaller than his bedroom, so he paid them no mind and looked at the map again. A few more turns later, the pathway dead-ended in a vast field and forest exhibit. He moved closer and peered over the cinderblock wall. A gigantic trench sat in between him and the grass. He swallowed and looked back at the wall. A tiny plaque embedded on top of the half wall informed him that this area was meant to hold rescued wolfdogs.

His heart fluttered in his throat.

“Uh, Geoff? I think I might be on to something.”

“Yeah? What is it?”

“There’s a wolfdog exhibit in the Rescues section. They must get a lot of ‘em or something. Just…you know…fucking get over here!”

“Don’t worry, I’m on my way. I’m not that fucking old.”

Jeremy laughed and looked back at the enclosure. Unfortunately, it was too dark for him to make anything out besides shadows in between the trees. He shrugged and ran his flashlight over the various plywood displays set up around the little wall. Most explained how wolfdogs were actually incredibly dangerous and too much for most people to handle. Sun damage had faded the pictures and letters quite a bit by this point. Jeremy rolled his eyes and moved on.

The last display looked to be brand new, with red paint shining in the flashlight and every brushstroke still pronounced on the plywood. Jeremy spared it a glance, made to move on, and then did a double take. When he actually read the display’s content, he nearly dropped his flashlight in shock.

Introducing…the Reaper!

This deadly stalker of Los Santos’ criminal underbelly first appeared four years ago in the possession of a powerful gang. The skull-shaped markings on his face garnered the nickname ‘the Reaper’ and thus began a reign of terror thugs, police and civilians alike wouldn’t soon forget. This dangerous wolfdog was finally cornered, subdued and brought here to New Eden, where he will live indefinitely. The Reaper is considered by most experts to be the prime example of the dangers of wolfdog ownership.

A black outline of a wolf on a rocky outcrop sat beneath the blurb. A stylized wolf skull had been painted on its snarling face, and its eyes were two narrowed red slits. Jeremy blinked at it a few more seconds, a grin curling over his face. He put his fingers to his earpiece and let his weight rest on his back foot.

“Hey, Jack?”

A few moments passed before he finally answered. “What? Something wrong?”

“How much room is there in the Kuruma?”

“Uh…why are you asking?”

“I’ve just seen something we desperately need back in the penthouse.”

“Jeremy, we’re here to get Ryan back.”

“If you saw it, you’d understand!”

“Jeremy, the fuck do you want to steal from this place?” asked Geoff “It’s fucking hard enough dealing with one wolfdog!”

“I swear to God, it’s not an animal!”

A set of footsteps rounded the corner. Geoff walked up to Jeremy and opened his mouth. His eyes flicked to the sign, and whatever he was about to say died almost immediately.

“Oh my God we need this.”

Jack sighed. “Geoff, not you too…”

“Jack, you don’t understand, this is the funniest shit I’ve seen all week.”

“Do I have to remind you why we’re in a fucking zoo in the middle of the fucking night? We. Are. Here. To. Get. Ryan.”

“I know, I know.”

“I’m just trying to figure out why they build a fucking trench around the wolfdogs,” said Jeremy. “The fuck is it supposed to do?”

“It’s to keep them from getting out,” said Gavin. “They’re all fast and jumpy and shite, so they need a way to keep them from escaping that’s also not harmful, yeah?”

“So…a trench is the best way to do that?”

“They’re not stupid, Jeremy. They’re not going to do anything that could get them hurt.”

“What about bars? Or…those fucking…rope nets?”

“Bars look cruel, don’t it? And nets are for birds, Jeremy. Wolves can’t exactly fly away.”

“Okay, it’s great there’s a humane way to keep the wolves from escaping. How the fuck are we supposed to get in?” asked Geoff.

“Hold on…” Keys clacked for a few moments. “Try to look for some sort of service entrance or an ‘Employees Only’ door. You might be able to get in through the place where they rotate out the animals.”

“Okay, let’s…wait, they rotate out the animals?”

“Yeah! Y’know, they’ll have different groups of animals out at different times. Like a male lion on Wednesday and all the females on Thursday.”

“What, don’t want kids seeing the Circle of Life?”

“Pretty much.”

“Okay, assholes, enough with the chitchat. We’re losing time as it is.” Geoff finally moved past the display and scanned around the little cul-de-sac. “There!” He pointed to a little pathway barred with a rope and a sign saying ‘Stop! Employees ONLY beyond this point.’ He kicked the rope out of the way and stepped down the path. Jeremy rolled his eyes and followed behind him.

The little path wound through several different gardens of leafy plants and ended at a door set in a plain beige wall. This also had ‘EMPLOYEES ONLY’ written on it in bold red letters. A keypad sat above the door’s handle. Geoff swore under his breath.

“Gav, you still there?”

“What do you need, Geoff?”

“Is there any way you can bypass this employee’s only door?”

“Uh…hold on…” He typed at a keyboard for a few seconds. “I don’t know. I see where you’re at, but…it’s not exactly…hold on.” A beat of silence. “There’s a spiral with this month’s codes in it. You want to try some of those?”

“Oh, God, we’re going to be here all night,” said Jeremy.

“Okay, it looks like it’s going to be a four digit number, I don’t know which door you’re at, unfortunately, so I’m going to give you a passcode, and you tell me whether or not it’s good, all right?”

“Yeah, I’m fucking stoked to be doing this.” He bent down and eyed the keypad dubiously. “God, there’s like, a billion possible combinations for this fucker.”

“Not a billion, Geoff! A lot, yeah, but not a billion.” Pages rustled over the comm. “All right, these are the ones for your general area, so…try…four nine one one.”

“Do I hit anything after that?”

“Uh…I don’t think so. Looks like the light will flash green and the door will unlock if you enter the right one.”

Geoff pressed each button carefully. The keypad buzzed angrily and flashed red. “That wasn’t it.”

“Okay. No big deal. Let’s try…five naught two six.”

“What’s naught?”

“Zero. Idiot.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

Geoff tried this code. Again it buzzed and flashed red. “Still wrong, asshole.”

“Hey! No need for that!” More pages flipped. “Okay, how about this one…seven eight seven two.”

“This better be it, or I’m cutting your salary for the next month.”

“What? Why?”

Geoff stabbed at the buttons. The light flashed green, and a kaTHUNK sounded from the lock. “Don’t worry, Gav, your salary’s safe.”

“Thank Christ.”

He pushed the door open, and he and Jeremy entered the dark building. A wall of animal stink hit them right in the nose. Jeremy coughed into his sleeve and took a deep breath in through his mouth. “Okay, we’re in the animal…switchout…thing. Which way to the wolfdogs?”

“Uh…are there any fucking signs anywhere?” Geoff flicked his flashlight over the walls. Several pairs of eyes blinked back at him from behind bars, and he gulped. “Shit, this is creepy.”

“Let’s just…you know, keep moving, and hopefully we’ll see wolfdogs,” said Jeremy.

“Great plan, Jeremy. A plus.”

“Thanks, boss.”

They crept through the cage-lined hallways, breathing through their mouths to fight the stench of animal shit and piss drifting through the air. Several growls and hisses followed them through the complex, and Jeremy did his best to ignore the eyes following him down the hall. His fingers curled around the butt of his pistol.

Finally, the flashlight stumbled upon a little white sign set into the wall next to one of the cages. It simply read Wolfdogs – Handle with Care.

“Finally! Jesus.”

Jeremy knelt down and examined the door. It looked like a standard prison-style affair; solid steel bars, lock set in the door, and absolutely, utterly impossible to break down. He frowned and looked back up at Geoff.

“Do we have any lockpicks?”

“We should...” Geoff patted down his pockets and spun around in place. “Shit…hold on…fuck…I don’t think…I brought any…shit.” He blinked down at Jeremy. “Do you have any?”

Jeremy rifled through his own pockets and pouches. Ammo, knives, flare gun, fuck, fuck, fuck. He was just about to lose it when he checked his last pouch and found his lockpicking kit. He sighed and pulled it out. “Found ‘em.”

“Thank Christ.”

He let out a breathy laugh and cracked open the kit. It took him a minute or two to get a feel for the lock, but eventually he forced the pins to turn right. There was a thunk, and the door swung open. Jeremy glanced around the inside of the little holding area, and thankfully the three wolfdogs within remained asleep. An ear twitched here, a nose wiggled there, but otherwise they stayed in their straw piles.

“We need to be quiet,” he mouthed at Geoff.

“No shit,” Geoff replied.

They stepped into the holding area and made their way to the back wall. Jeremy’s heart pounded harder and harder with every step. His hand clenched around his gun, and he expected eyes to snap open and teeth to lash his skin at any second. The fact that it still wasn’t happening didn’t help at all.

When they reached the back wall, Jeremy felt along it for any sort of door or outline or whatever. His fingers happened upon a cool metal latch. He fumbled with it for a few seconds, slid it back, and pushed. An entire chunk of wall opened out onto a grassy patch, and cool air rushed into the room. Jeremy breathed in deep and let himself relax a micrometer.

That relaxation went straight out the window when hay rustled behind him, and he turned to see three wolfdogs rushing them. Geoff let out a high strangled noise and fumbled with his gun, but the beasts ignored him in favor of the open air. They loped past the two criminals and disappeared into the enclosure.

“Jesus Christ…I thought…I thought that was it for us,” said Geoff. He let his gun fall to his side and bent over to pant. “We…we need to find Ryan…now.”

“Why do you think we’re here, Geoff?” asked Jeremy. “I mean, that display thing was pretty damn awesome.”

“Shut…shut up.”

Jeremy smiled and moved into the enclosure. A howl sounded from across the way, followed by another, and another. He swallowed and flicked his light around. Nothing around him but grass and trees. Another howl rang out, louder this time. Wind swept around him and rustled the leaves on the trees. A howl mixed in with the wind and drifted closer and closer.

Jeremy decided to risk it. He cupped his hands around his mouth and took a deep breath.

“Ryan! You here, pal? It’s us! We’re here to rescue you!”

“The fuck are you doing?” Geoff’s hand landed on his shoulder and squeezed hard. “They’re gonna fucking kill us, dude!”

“I want to get out of here as quickly as fucking possible, and this is the only way to do it! Unless you brought fucking night vision goggles!”

A snarl sounded from behind them and they both froze. Ghostly green eyes flickered to life in the flashlight’s glow and shifted back into shadow. A cloud shifted, and moonlight dappled several furry bodies. Geoff cocked his pistol and whipped it around. Jeremy’s fingers clenched around the silencer on the end of his own and scrambled to unscrew it. It would definitely blow their cover, but maybe the noise of the gunshot would-

Something hit Jeremy right in the back and knocked him to the ground. Geoff shouted, and yips echoed from around them. Hot breath panted over the back of his neck, and Jeremy was sure this was it. He closed his eyes and braced himself. Paws bounced off his back, and a tongue lapped at his neck. His thighs shook back and forth in time with the wolfdog’s entire lower body.

“I’ll be goddamned,” said Geoff. He suddenly laughed, loud and long and maniacal. “I’ve missed your dumb face, Ryan.”

“Ryan?” Jeremy lifted his head and immediately felt himself being forced back down. “Buddy, I’m glad to see you too, but can you please get off me?” The weight immediately shifted, and a huge blue-eyed skull jammed itself into his face, quickly accompanied by a wet tongue on his cheeks. Jeremy grinned and sunk his fingers into that lovely thick ruff of fur around his neck.

“The fuck am I, chopped liver?” Geoff walked over and patted Ryan’s rump. The wolfdog turned and put his paws on his chest. His tail wagged and hit Jeremy in the face five or six times. “Fuck, I didn’t mean it like that!”

“I was about to say, he likes chopped liver, doesn’t he?” Jeremy pushed himself back to his feet and wiped his face on his sleeve. “Fuck, I don’t think there’s any sort of food he doesn’t like.”

“That’s too fucking true,” said Geoff. Ryan tilted his head and grinned up at him. “Seriously, you’re going to be a fat little fucker one day.”

A growl rattled through the air and wiped the smiles right off their faces. Ryan’s good ear flicked and flattened against his head. He snarled back and whirled around. His salt and pepper fur stood on end and his tail whipped back and forth, left-right-left-right-left.

“Oh no, I’m not going through this shit with you again, asshole!” Geoff tried to grab his collar, only to discover it had since been removed. “Fuck.”

Jeremy remembered what he’d tried to do before and finished removing his silencer. “Gavin, where are all the guards at right now?” he asked.

“Uh, well, there’s about four or five of them, all told, and most of them aren’t terribly near your position. They’re a little unsettled, though, because of the guard you killed. Whatever you’re doing, you need to hurry up!”

“I’m, uh, I’m asking because I’m totally going to blow our cover, so you should probably…uh…what’s that thing you say? ‘Leg it’?”

“Oh no,” said Jack.

“Yeah, you should be ready too, Jack.”

Ryan lolled back on his paws and snarled again. Just when he was about to lunge, Jeremy aimed the gun up at the sky and fired. The shot echoed through the empty zoo, and a frantic scurrying replaced the growling. Both Gavin and Jack yelled in Jeremy’s earpiece, but he ignored them in favor of pushing Geoff back toward the holding pen. Ryan gave Jeremy a withering look.

“Sorry, pal, we don’t have time for your wolf dick measuring.”

Ryan huffed, but followed after them without further fuss. Jeremy broke into a jog and hurried after Geoff. The wolfdog lagged behind him and occasionally let out a growl. A howl echoed behind them. Jeremy fired his gun up in the air again. Another bang rang through the empty air, followed by the sounds of all sorts of panicking animals. It spread through the zoo like wildfire, and the silent night air filled with howls, barks, growls, screeches, screams and roars.

“The guards are moving toward your position now, and…” Gavin trailed off for a few moments too long. “…oh, bugger my arse, I think one of them’s radioed the police.”

“Shit shit shit shit shit!” Jeremy ducked into the holding area and sprinted down the hall. More animals yammered around them, but thankfully their cages were still shut, so all they could do was cry out. Ryan stopped by a few of the cages and snuffled through the bars, but quickly followed when Jeremy pulled ahead of them.

Geoff waited for them by the exit. He nodded as soon as Jeremy approached and shoved the door open.

“Gav, you pull out and get back to Jack! We’ll be there as soon as we can!”

“Don’t need to tell me twice!”

Ryan sped out in front of them, his tail held high. His tongue flopped out of his mouth, and he almost seemed to dance down the stone path. It was a sight Jeremy had sorely missed, and it took some of the edges off the stone in his stomach.

Something he missed significantly less was the sight of flashlights approaching them, and, in the distance, still incredibly faint but growing louder by the second, the sound of police sirens. Geoff swore and held his gun up.

“Jack, you better be ready to fucking move, okay?”

“Already on it.”

“Gavin, what about you?”

“I’m wiping the feeds right now. Should be done in a few minutes…”

“Gavin, you need to get out of there now!”

“Just a minute!”

“We don’t have a fucking minute! When I say you need to go now, you need to go right fucking now!”

“Wait! Wait! Hold on! We forgot something!” Jeremy turned tail and sprinted back a few yards. He scooped up the handpainted Introducing the Reaper display, hoisted it over his shoulder with one hand and readied his gun with the other. “Okay, got it. Ready to go now.”

“Jeremy, what the Christ are you doing? You have to – ”

Gavin’s reply was lost when the first of the guards rounded the corner and surprised them. Jeremy leveled his gun at him, but Ryan was much faster. He leaped and hit the guard dead on, and had his throat between his teeth by the time he hit the pavement. Blood spurted from between his powerful jaws, and the guard’s shriek was lost to the crunch of bone and flesh. In moments, he’d moved on and they were able to keep going.

“It’s so fucking good to have you back, Rye,” said Geoff.

Ryan let out a little boof that was presumably in agreement.

They made it through the rest of the zoo in five minutes flat, though both Geoff and Jeremy panted and puffed like bellows and sweat profusely beneath their armor. Ryan reared up and pushed the door open with both paws, swayed through and was down the hallway before Geoff and Jeremy were even close. Shrieks and curses sounded over their earpieces, which gave them a pretty clear picture on what was happening with Gavin. They pushed themselves faster, breath heaving in and out of their chests, and made it back to the security room. Another dead security guard lay in the doorway, and when Jeremy poked his head around the corner, a bullet nicked his cheek and embedded in the wall behind him. He let out a little squeal and ducked down. The display slipped over his front and thudded solidly on the ground.

“Don’t you come any closer, you…oh…Ryan! Ryan, you’re back! Lovely Ryan!”

“Gavin, did you just shoot at us?!”

Geoff pushed his way into the room and kicked the swivel chair out of the way. Gavin sat in the miniscule space under the desk. He cooed at Ryan and smushed his cheeks, speech devolving quickly into British babytalk. Ryan’s tongue lapped at his cheeks, though he did occasionally shift in place and glance up at Geoff.

After several seconds of infantile praises, Geoff kicked Gavin in the knee. He squawked and looked up at them, hand up in surrender. He blinked several times. “Oh. Hi, Geoff.”

“C’mon, idiot, before I leave you for the fucking cops!” He hauled Gavin up by the collar and shoved him into the hallway. “Who knows, maybe I’ll even forget that you tried to blow Jeremy’s head off!”

“What? No, I’d never-”

“Well, you did! Now shut the fuck up and keep moving, or I swear I’ll handcuff you to a pipe my-goddamn-self.”

Gavin opened his mouth to argue, thought better of it, and took off down the hallway. Geoff growled something under his breath and moved to follow him. Jeremy toddled after him, the display scraping on the ground in his wake, the closeness and utter stupidity of his recent brush with death dancing in front of his eyes. Ryan stayed close this time, bumping the back of his legs to keep him moving and occasionally giving his hand a nuzzle.

A breeze cooled the sweat on his skin and snapped Jeremy out of his near-death funk. He shook his head, hoisted his gun and followed Geoff and Gavin to the waiting Kuruma. Already a veritable disco of red and blue lights danced across the zoo walls, and shouting echoed across the way. All four doors popped open, and Jack waved frantically from the driver’s seat. They ran in a little cluster and jumped as one amorphous being into the back of the suddenly very small Kuruma. Jeremy’s cheek squished into the opposite door and the weight of all the crew was focused right on his legs, and they didn’t like that at all. The wolfdog display jammed itself into several pockets of flesh, and only dug in harder with every movement they made. Jack starting the car and zooming through the grass definitely didn’t help the situation.

“Ow, ow, ow! Get the fuck off me! You’re crushing my fucking legs!”

“I’m on you?! How about you get your fucking feet off my dick?!”

“Christ alive, I’m gonna suffocate by the time you nobheads stop arguing! Just…just move!”

While they argued, Ryan wiggled out of the pile of flesh and crawled over the center console. He sniffed the new car thoroughly, turned in the passenger seat a few times, and nosed the Kuruma’s tiny window slit. Jack reached over and patted Ryan’s neck.

“Sorry, Ryan, these windows don’t roll down. You’ll get plenty of fresh air and car rides when we get back to Los Santos.”

Lights flashed across the windshield, followed by a hail of bullets. Jack grit his teeth and pushed the gas pedal down to the floor. The Kuruma shot over the curb and slammed right into a parked cop car. Blood burst across the windshield, glass and bone alike smashed, but the car pushed through the wreckage and sped onto the highway. Jack flipped on the wipers and spent a few quiet moments spraying the windshield and running the wipers until the bloodstain was more manageable. Ryan growled and closely watched the window.

The mess in the backseat finally sorted itself out when Jeremy wrapped his arms around the passenger seat’s headrest and pulled himself free. With him free, Geoff was able to push Gavin into the middle seat and rammed his face into the window.

“Shit, we’ve got company coming, and fucking fast, too. Do we have any guns on this thing?”

“It’s a Kuruma, not a fucking tank!” The car screamed around the corner and smashed into another barricade. “The best we can do is shoot back!”

“From where?!”

“The fucking…I don’t know…holes in the armor! Fucking shoot through that!”

Jeremy and Geoff squirmed around in the seats and wedged the muzzle of his gun through one of the slits in the window. It took some doing, but eventually he got the hang of the awkward angle and was able to pop a few tires here and there. Gavin did his best to worm his way into the passenger seat, but ended up laying on the center console, upper half largely balanced on Ryan’s back. His shots careened wildly around the street and hit about half of their intended targets. He screeched and shouted while Ryan grumbled and yipped beneath him.

“So, uh, what’s the plan, Geoff?” Jack’s voice was deceptively calm considering the speed at which he was driving and the amount of chunkified cop sticking to the windshield. “How exactly are we supposed to get back to Los Santos?”

“First, we need to get back to the beach, and then the B-Team’ll take care of the rest! Now, go!”

Jack nodded and shot down the highway. Sirens screamed around them, and occasionally Ryan howled along with them. Bullets rang off the Kuruma’s armor, and Geoff said about twelve times a minute how much they all needed one. Unfortunately, Jeremy had run low on bullets, Gavin was already out, and Geoff had exactly one bullet left in his gun. Signs for the beach claimed it was only ten miles away, which, if Jack continued at his current speed, meant they only needed a few more minutes. Still, that was a few minutes with no defenses growing increasingly more surrounded by cops. They hunkered down behind the doors and prepared themselves for the worst.

The Kuruma crashed through a set of wooden benches and picnic tables and skidded through the sand. Clouds of dust and grit drifted up in their wake, and Jeremy had to brace himself against the door to stop himself from rattling around like a marble in a can.

“Geoff, what the fuck’s supposed to happen now?!”

Geoff sat up, hit his head on the roof of the car, put his fingers to his ear and said, “B-Team, where the fuck are you!?”

“I see you, I see you!” Trevor’s voice suddenly crackled over their earpieces. “We’re working on getting this thing down, I promise!”

A great wall of glistening brownish-gray rock erupted in the distance, and an equally menacing wall of cops sprouted up behind the Kuruma. Time had run out; they would either smash into the rocks and die, or get surrounded by cops and die. Jeremy squeezed his eyes shut and huddled down in the seat.

Suddenly, the juddering sound of a helicopter’s rotors filled their ears. A moment later, the car’s back end lifted up off the ground with a metallic CLANG! Jeremy nearly fell in the floorboard when the Kuruma’s front lifted off the ground and the car swung back and forward. He pulled himself up and squinted out the slit in the window. He couldn’t quite get the angle necessary to see everything, but he could see the shadow of the cargobob splayed across the sand.

“We’ve got you, boss! Next stop, Los Santos!”

“Did we do it? Did we make it?” asked Geoff.

Nobody responded for a minute. As the cargobob continued to ascend and turned toward the ocean, it finally sank in. Jeremy let out a cheer, Geoff yelled and clapped his hands, Gavin warbled loudly and Jack sighed and let his head rest against the steering wheel. Ryan huffed a few times and finally let out a loud howl. Jeremy reached forward and ruffled his ears. Gavin hugged the pup and buried his face in his fur. Jack reached over and found an open patch of fur to pat. Geoff sagged back into the leather seat and let his head flop back onto the headrest.

“God, I’m so glad you’re okay, Ry-Bread,” said Jeremy.

“We’re going home now, bud. We’re going home,” said Jack.

Ryan’s eyes drifted shut. His tongue dribbled on the floorboard with every pant leaving his muzzle. His tail did its best to wag beneath the weight of two men.

Geoff sighed and sprawled over the back seat. He blinked several times and cleared his throat. “Uh…Jeremy?”

“What?”

“Did…did you actually steal that fucking Reaper display?!”

“Yeah, dude! It’s cool!”

They were quiet for a moment. Then Geoff snorted and let out a laugh. In between breaths he managed to say, “Do you…did you…all that time…we were running…you had that fucking thing?! Are you fucking serious? Jeremy…Jeremy you stupid bastard!”

“Look, I made it out okay, didn’t I? And I got the thing, didn’t I?”

“Jesus Christ.” Jack shook his head. “You really are one of us.”

Geoff clapped Jeremy’s shoulder and got himself back under control. “Yep. That’s the sort of dumb shit this crew stands for. You’ll fit in just fine with the rest of these idiots.”

“Yeah, you’re perfect, Li’l J!” said Gavin. “Michael thinks so, too.”

“God, what’s he gonna think of all this when he wakes up?”

“He’s gonna be a pisspot ‘cause he missed the heist, but after he calms down, he’ll be right impressed,” said Gavin.

“I hope Caleb’s ready,” said Geoff, “because he’s in for one hell of a shitshow.”

“At least for us the shitshow’s over,” said Jack.

“Damn right.” Geoff sank back into the seat and sighed. “We’re going to have a fucking vacation after this. B-Team and the other fuckers can handle operations for the time being. Right now, all I see in my future is video games and fucking Jack Daniels.”

That, for the time being, was the last word on the matter. The lateness of the hour and exertion sank deep into Jeremy’s muscles as the adrenaline ebbed. He settled back into the seat and shut his eyes. His shins bumped up against the display and he let out a little giggle. Maybe he’d hang it on Ryan’s door. A little homage to this whole adventure. Or maybe it would go above the fireplace, like any good trophy should. He’d decide later.

For now, he finally felt the contentment that came from a job well done.

#fanfiction #wolf!ryan au #a03 #achievement hunter #might post some of my alternate scenarios #can't believe i'm almost done

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