#*sigh* addin' it to the list

[weeb-polls-with-pip]

xxxHolic fans, you are making me insanely curious about Yuuko.

[boygiwrites]

Harley D. Dixon 4

An amazing edit inspired by this story! (Cred to Cora_Line99) Harley D. Dixon's Pinterest Board! Harley D. Dixon's Playlist!

📖Chapter List.

Author's Note. Happy to be posting another chapter! Please enjoy :)

We drive all morning.

The leafy dirt and tilted trees of the quarry crawl past our windows, and they take about an hour to turn into cement roads, gas stations, pharmacies and corner stores with the windows busted out. We're in an empty town, now, trailing the sidewalks like a long line of ants.

At the head of the group is officer Rick's car, leading us left and right 'round the edges of danger and death, 'cause that's what cops do. Behind him is Morales' car. Then, me and my Dad are in the middle, and behind us is the RV. At the back, sandwiching us all together, 'cause he's the only other cop, is officer Shane. His voice crackles up on the walkie every few minutes, goin', everything lookin' good up front, over, which Rick's voice answers, all's good, over, except for that one time, 'cause there was a dead buck blocking the road, and they had to get out and shove it off.

Sometimes we'll get a, Daryl, from one of them, which means, How's Harley, which means, Do we need to pull over and shoot your daughter in the face, and my Dad always answers with a, Keep drivin', and he throws the walkie down like it tried biting him.

Adults like addin' layers onto what they say, 'cause the truth is too offensive to say out loud.

My Dad's watchin' me real close; closer than the road, even. He's chewin' on his thumb.

Things were a little like this when it was just us, in the beginning. All we did for the first three days was drive.

Then, we found these people.

I think about Rick — And how just for one more day, he saved my life.

He split Sophia's Dad in half with a bullet, to keep him from ripping me up. Without him, maybe those teeth in my shoe would'a had one more moment to sink into me, and I'd be dead again, some other way. The only reason I'm able to feel the sun on my skin right now, and listen to the birds as they flutter and chirp on the phone lines is because of Rick, the man who killed my Uncle. I'm half-dyin', and Rick — He's half-good. There might be walker germs inside my body, and they might be squirming their way into my lungs, and my heart, and eventually, my brain, which will turn me into one more dead name the living will have to carry around with 'em, and my Dad will be sad forever, but today, I get to watch the sky pass over us.

That's just enough, I think, for me to only hate officer Rick with half of everything I got.

The walkie chimes.

"Daryl?" It's Rick, again, and I know his police badge is prolly winkin' in the sunlight.

Do we need to shoot your daughter in the face? Did I fail?

Dad snatches up the walkie. He don't like answering the secret question that Rick's askin', not one bit.

"No. Keep drivin'."

He throws it down and goes back to chewin' his thumb, bouncin' his knee, and glancin' at my arm. If he could, he'd blast the music so loud that there wasn't enough space left in his head to think so hard about everything. I go back to watching the clouds pass by, just for today.

We drive all morning, and then after that, we drive all afternoon.

Somebody honks twice, quick. Honk, honk.

That's code for, everybody pull over; something's wrong.

"Stay here, chicken," My Dad mutters, before he hops out. We're in a parking lot for a supermarket.

The adults gather, and the kids are all lookin' at each other through the windows, mouthing what's going on, and frowning. We all shrug.

My Dad comes back a few minutes later.

"Old man says the RV's runnin' on fumes." Dad reports, folding him arms on my window.

"What's that mean?" I ask him.

I can feel nausea spilling in through my stomach; rolling inside my skull, for the third time today.

"Means we're gonna have to stay here for a little bit." He sighs.

The first thing I do when he lets me out the truck is retch my guts up onto the front tyre.

Heads turn, and I know everybody's already makin' excuses in their heads, like I'm just feeling car-sick, but it's just not true. I'm not car-sick. I've been throwing up since yesterday, and everyone knows it, 'cause they watch me like hawks.

My Dad helps me use a spare shirt to wipe my chin clean, and then he sets me up in one of the camping chairs people are pulling out for the long wait. He makes me drink some water, three big sips, and he finds me an apple to nibble on, nagging me to eat as much I can. I hesitate, 'cause it's just gonna end up in another slimy puddle of vomit some hours from now, but I bite into it, anyway.

He tells me to stay put, and then he's leaving with all the other men to search for gas. The women hover around me — Some sitting, some leaning, some standing, but all of 'em starin'. Except for poor, poor Andrea, who's not staring at anything other than her shoes. I feel like Andrea.

More apples and water get passed around.

"Sweetie, I just wanted to tell you I'm so sorry." Lori says to me. "I should have been paying more attention. I shouldn't have let you run off."

I force myself to look at her. "Don't be sorry. It's my fault."

"Oh," She sighs, and she just looks so, so sad. "Please don't say that. It's not your fault."

But, "It is my fault." I tell her. "I ran away."

Carol speaks up. "Honey, what happened was not your fault. It wasn't anybody's fault. It was just... a terrible, terrible accident."

Jacqui nods. "Don't blame yourself."

"Rick feels awful." Lori admits. "After Atlanta, after Merle... Now, this. God. He's just so torn up about it."

I shrink into my chair, 'cause I don't wanna hear a single word 'bout Rick, or his feelings. He saved me, but he's not my friend, and I don't have to care about his feelings; especially not when they're about murdering my family. I don't have to care about any of their feelings. I think they're forgetting that I'm also waiting to see if I die. They keep glancing at my skin, my eyes, and my fingers, which aren't twitching, yet — But, so am I. I don't want to die. I want to listen to the birds every day. I want to see my Dad, too. I want to watch the stars at night, and pick out the shiniest one.

"Okay," Is all I can croak out, 'cause there's something very thin inside of me that's stopping me from crying, and I don't wanna break it.

Then — "God," It's Andrea, and she's laughing. "She's dying! The kid is dying, people!"

I whip my head up. The other women gasp.

"Last thing she wants is you people pestering her all-damn day, so just do her a favor and shut your traps."

Everyone is gobsmacked, as Dale likes to say. Their mouths are hanging open, and their eyes are all shifty, like they're lookin' around to see if everyone just heard what they just heard. But, yep, they heard right. Andrea just said the word dying, which is basically a cuss word, and nobody can do anything to take it back.

You can't swallow words you already said. I know that, 'cause I've tried, like the night I told my Dad he killed my Momma.

"Or Daryl's gonna come back and do it for you."

Andrea don't even care 'bout the stares. She goes back to eating her apple. 

"I don't think that's appropriate," Lori tells her.

Jacqui sighs. "Let's just talk about something else, y'all, huh? Like, uh..."

"There's nothing else to talk about, Jacqui. We're all just playing the waiting game, here. Whether we talk about the damn weather or not isn't gonna change the fact that we might have to shoot Harley in the face in a few hours."

Andrea's right, and nobody can change it.

After that, all we do is wait, and wait, and wait, for me to start twitching. Nobody likes this game.

To keep busy, me and the other kids scribble flowers and stick-men into the tarmac with some chalk that Carol finds in a trunk, and she makes sure to compliment my drawings way more than the others, even though they're kinda wonky. Carl snacks on some jerky. Then Dale wonders on back, and we get to listen to some more of his poetry book, which has teeny-tiny letters that he needs to put his glasses on to read. It makes him look more like everybody's grandpas than he already does. My Grandpappy Dixon, though — He wouldn't read no damn poetry book. He'd chop it up and use it for firewood, just so he could burn some more poetry books.

We're on a poem about a newborn lamb when the men come back.

They're all carrying jerry cans and plastic tubing and heavy, droopy frowns that mean bad news. Glenn flops onto a chair and when he shakes his head, sweat goes flying off, and his arms are covered in black car soot. Morales and T-Dog pinch and shake out their sweaty shirts.

My Dad stands behind my chair, squeezing onto the muscles on either side of my neck.

"You eatcher apple?" He murmurs to me.

"Yeah," I murmur back, and he nods.

Everybody straightens.

"Alright, y'all." Rick hooks his thumbs into his belt. "At the moment, we're only getting gas from 'bout one outta every fifteen cars we check, which'll have us back on the road in about a couple hours. I'm aware that ain't ideal. I'm aware we're on a time limit, here. But we don't have a lotta options."

"There's space in the RV." Comments Dale. "We could ditch one of the cars; pile in the RV."

Shane tries to laugh. "That's a whole lotta pilin', there, Dale."

Glenn looks like he hates to say it, but, "He's right. We've already got me, Jacqui, Carol, Sophia and Andrea crammed in there."

Dale deflates and goes back to stroking his beard.

"Now, this here's a parking lot, people." Shane announces. "There's cars here. There's gas. We're just gonna have to stick it out 'til then."

There's a general wave of disagreement passing over everyone's faces.

I know what they're thinking.

"Is someone going to say it?" Carol huffs, and nope, nobody's going to say it, so she has to. "Harley can't just, 'stick it out'."

We haven't had a real conversation about this. My imminent maybe-death has only been passed around in whispers and mumbles, like a bad stain nobody wants to hold onto for too long. Nobody wants to mention my weak stomach or just how much I've been hurling up my food, because that way, it can't just exist in the background, anymore. It has to take a front seat, where they can see it; where it's scarier.

As soon as the words come out Carol's mouth, eyes start jumping around, as if it's easier to discuss my death if they can't see me.

"I'm sorry, but that's the reality, here." Carol's taking a page out of Andrea's book. "Daryl, how many times has that girl thrown up today?"

His hands grip me harder. "'Bout... 'Bout four-five times."

"Right. So, I think it's time we throw the possibility of those scratches bein' nothing out the window." She says, grim.

Glenn rubs at his forehead. "Oh my God."

"W— H-Hold on, now." Dale's stuttering, shaking his head. "We can't just diagnose her from— from one measly symptom."

"This doesn't change anything." Shane suddenly argues.

My Dad starts, "The Hell it don—"

"We're headed to the CDC for a cure." Shane talks over him. "We're headed there, and that's it. It's all we can do."

Dale's just totally appalled. "I think there's a lot more we can do."

"That supply run from a few weeks ago," Glenn's frowning, "I brought back some good stuff. Maybe that can... Stave it off."

It, meaning the germs reaching my brain, once and for all. I recall the posters in my old science classroom, where a person's head would be sliced in half and you could see all the brains on the inside, and I imagine that it's my brain, and that there are millions of little ants chewing away at the edge, and then one of them breaks through, 'cause all it takes is one, and they eat my brain from the inside-out like an old melon, then that's the end — I die.

My Dad can tell what I'm thinking, 'cause he's magic like that, and he silently takes my place in the chair, and sets me in his lap. His arms wrap around my waist, and Jacqui reaches over to put her hand over mine.

You can't stave off turning into a walker. You can try — Like, with cables, and apologies — but really, it doesn't work like that. We're all just meat and bones and guts and skin, and rules like dying apply to us, even if we don't want 'em to. We're all just animals, even if we read poetry.

Shane scrubs his face with his hand, and he looks like he really wants to call Glenn a cuss word. "Glenn—"

"It doesn't work like that, I know." Glenn snaps. "You think I don't know that? You think I'm an idiot? You think I wanna watch a kid die?"

Rick pipes up. "Nobody's sayin—"

"'Nobody's saying that', I know," Glenn argues, "But you're all thinking it. What? You don't even want to try?"

"No. It's a good idea." Rick disagrees. "In fact, I'm all for it. Daryl?"

My Dad's gone quiet. He gives a nod.

"Well, then I don't think it's anyone else's decision to make." Rick concludes. "What do we have?"

"Kaopectate, Ibuprofen. Nausea stuff." Glenn lists, calmer now.

"Still stuck sitting on our asses, though." Morales sighs, holding Eliza, who's not full of germs. "Wasting time we don't have."

"CDC's not going anywhere." Jim shrugs.

Suddenly, Dad's not quiet anymore. "How 'boutchu go ahead and share whatcher fuckin' problem is with the class?"

Jim claims, "Don't got one."

"Nah, matter fact," Dad scowls, "You know what? You said my daughter's life ain't worth a few drops of gas this mornin', if I 'memmer right, so why don't you go ahead and shoot a fuckin' hole in yer head 'fore I get up 'n do it for you? Right here, right now?"

Jim's jaw drops. "Woah—"

"Hey — Let's just get back on track, here." Rick holds up his hands, always the peacemaker. "There's no need for this."

Jacqui whips her hand in the air, squinting. "Hang on. What?"

"Yeah," Dad's getting heated; his voice higher. "This fuckin' string-bean bastard, you know what he said to me this mornin'? He said, 'Let's just think 'bout how much gas this is gonna cost us', with some lil' fuckin' smirk, when we were talkin' about savin' Harley."

Jim bursts, "Oh, that's compl—"

Conversation breaks out, but my Dad's shouting over all of it. "Yeah, man! S'what you said, right to my face!"

"That's—" Lori's gobsmacked. "I don't even know what to say to that, Jim."

"H— H-hang—" Rick's trying desperately to squash all this arguing down, but the shouting and the bodies — standing, now — are drowning him. Underneath me, my Dad's legs are jerking up and down, up and down, like that day in camp, 'cause he wants to get up and beat Jim until he's just a lumpy, red smear in the road. Suddenly, there's half a dozen people out of their chairs, forming one hostile voice. "H— Hang on, a secon—"

"You know what," Shane's booming, "I thought there was something off 'bout the way you said that, Jim."

"Is that true?" Glenn's asking, eyebrows screwed tight. "That's messed up, man."

Morales frowns, "Would you say that about my daughter?"

"Calm down," Dale echoes Rick. "Calm down."

"What, you gonna hit me, now? That's whatcher gon' do?" My Dad goads, grinnin', now. "Really?"

"Calm down," Jacqui says.

"Calm down," Lori says.

"Calm down!" T-Dog says.

"Calm down!!" Rick bellows, furious, absolutely furious, and there's a cracking gunshot — a bang — aimed into the clouds, and then silence.

Absolute, total, complete silence. It's so solid that people are stuck in it. So solid that I can hear the bird on the hood of Dad's truck jumping back and forth on its little talons, twenty feet away. It watches, oblivious, hopping and shuffling, until people start remembering to breathe again.

Even Rick is disturbed, and he's the one that pulled the trigger. "That's enough," He exhales, lowering his revolver.

"That's gonna pull a lot of geeks this way." Glenn whispers.

"Good thing we can leave right now, then." Rick pants, and he's staring down Jim, now. What does he mean? Leave right now? But we're stuck here. He said that. His cheekbone looks like an old plum, from where my Daddy punched him a couple days ago, and his eyes; they're piercing, like sharp, blue shards of glass melting under a blowtorch, and suddenly, he don't look like much of a peacemaker no more. "'Cause, Jim, your seat just became available."

His seat? What's that mean? Is he—?

"You're leaving me here?" Jim cries.

"Next bullet's goin' in your leg." Rick tosses the words at Jim, tired. "You doin' this willingly, or not?"

Jim cries out again, and that's how he goes down — He goes down crying and kicking and screaming, bastards, bastards, bastards, but the words mean nothing, and Dale's tryna stop them but neither him or Jimmy are strong enough to fend off four other grown men. I find myself in Lori's arms, right beside Carl, watching with my heart in my mouth, as Shane, Rick, Morales, and my Dad pin Jim down like he's an angry cat, and beat his fighting hands into a long coil of rope that they twist — God, you don't have to do this, please, you don — it tight, and then they anchor him to a shopping cart bay, and they leave him there, with nothing but a jar of peanut butter, a steak knife, an unloaded gun, and their bitter regards.

Dale's blubbering, speaking up for everyone who won't; can't. "This isn't right—"

But they brush past us, into the cars. Rick grabs Lori. My Dad grabs me. Shane starts unloading his Jeep, 'cause we're leaving that behind, too.

"We're leaving Jim?" I shriek quietly to my Dad, who's ushering me back into the truck.

He yanks my seat-belt down. "Ain't our fault," Click. "Fella deserves it."

"But—"

The door slams shut.

"Please!" Jim cries. I scramble to peer outside, and I see him kicking the air. "Please! I'll die out here!"

"If yer smart, you'll cut yourself out with the knife, and you'll ration the jar." Daddy calls out as he hops in the driver's seat. "But it's like I said." Slam. "Bag'a bricks."

"No, no, no! Please!"

More doors slamming shut; engines roaring to life. Rick shouts out the radio channel, again, as a reminder.

I can still hear Jim screaming when we peel out onto the highway.

"Everything lookin' good up front? Over."

A pause.

"All's good. Over."

I never wanted this.

Outside the windows, the sunset is melting purples and oranges all over each other like hot wax, and the tips of wheat fields are whipping past.

There's a long list of things that have happened the past few weeks that I never wanted.

I never wanted to leave home. Homes aren't meant to be left. That's why we got a word for house and a word for home, 'cause they're different. House is the walls and the bricks and the paint, but home is the twenty-year-old sofa that's in it, and the people that have been on it, and the old pictures stuck on the fridge. It's where I made memories in the day and dreamt about 'em at night. It's where I took my first steps, and it's where I cried, and laughed, and broke my first bone, and got my height scribbled into the doorframe. It's where I miss — deeply, like a wound I can't put a bandage on — every moment of every day. It's where I won't get to grow up. I never wanted to drive for days and go nowhere. I never wanted my Uncle Merle to turn into a star. I never wanted a dead man to scratch my own death into my skin, and there be nothing I could do to stop it besides stave it off. I never wanted to die; not yet, not now, not before I could live.

And parents aren't supposed to live longer than their kids. It's just one of them rules that everybody's born knowing.

I think that's why my Dad is cryin' again; crying, crying, crying, and he just can't stop. My Daddy never cries. Toughest man in camp, I'd say.

The common assessment, now, is that I really am infected. I'm going to die.

I remember my Dad's wallet, with all the photos tucked into the sleeves. I remember all the other photos we lost, or left, or didn't think to capture. I remember my last birthday, which was my seventh. Such a small number. Not even all my fingers. Some people get two number-candles on their cakes before they die. I only got one, but that's okay, 'cause I got other things. I got a day just for me, and I got I love you's, wrapped up in pink and even pinker birthday paper, and I got it all even though my Daddy didn't have much money. I got to live. I don't know how many days are in a year, but I know it's a lot. There's even more in seven years. I got to be alive for every single one of them. Isn't that lucky?

We left Jim to die, and I never wanted that, neither. Nobody deserves to die. I don't.

"Daddy, are you gonna leave me?" I ask. Maybe I won't get shot; I'll get left. I don't know which one I'd choose. I don't wanna choose at all.

"God," My Dad snuffles, smackin' away his tears. "Don't fuckin' ask me that."

"I— It's gonna happen, though." The germs will reach my brain, and that'll be it. "E-everyone thinks so. I'm sick."

"Shut the fuck up, Harley." My Dad whispers, and I wish he was singing again. 

"Dad—"

"Don't."

"Maybe you should— Maybe you shoot me instead."

"This weren't never supposed to fuckin' happen!" He shrieks, suddenly, and punches the horn. "Fuck!"

Then, right on time, the walkie chimes.

"Daryl?"

Do we need to shoot your daughter in the face? Is it over?

With a rage like I ain't never seen before, my Dad steals the walkie off the dash and smashes it into the horn, over and over again, honk, honk, honk, honk, honk, until a piece breaks off, and then another, and another, until the buttons all pop off and the plastic cracks in half, like a broken heart. Then he chucks the whole thing out the window, and it's gone forever, and he sucks in a breath that sounds like a chainsaw tryna start, and he cries.

I feel sick again. My stomach's ballooning up and shrivelling down at the same time, and I'm gonna be sick.

By now, all the cars are pulling over, 'cause my Dad honked the stop, pull over signal ten times over, and then some.

"Daddy, I need to get out—" I'm sayin', gagging.

"Fu— I know. I know." He's sayin' back, and he swerves onto the side of the road, into the wheat.

He leaps out, slams the door shut, and runs around to my side, but by the time he yanks my side open, I've already thrown up all over my feet. I lurch, and then there's more, and my stomach empties again, and there it is — I see the apple, and I see- I see blood, streaked through it, like red-brown poison. I cough more up while my Dad soothes my back and holds my hair out the way.

Then, there's Rick and Dale, standing at either one of my Dad's shoulders.

"Is she okay?" Dale's panting.

"That's it. There you go." Dad beats on my back, and I spit the last of the apple-slime onto the floor. "It's done?"

I murmur a uh-huh, and then I realise what I've done. "I'm sorry."

"Hell you got to be sorry 'bout?" He frowns, still half-crying; still mourning me while I'm still here.

"The— The truck."

"Huh? The tr—?" He huffs, confused, and then shakes his head. "Truck's the last thing I give a damn about."

Rick's tryna put a smile on, but it don't look quite right. "We've got tissues in our car. We can clean it."

I wish they'd all turn away, 'cause it's like I'm naked. My vomit, and the blood, is just sittin' there like a puddle of evidence and dead people germs, for everyone to see. My Dad pulls me out by my wrist, and then we're sitting on the steps of the RV, and he's cradling me, and I'm crying like a baby, and the seven years mean nothin', 'cause I'm zero years old again, like I was in that picture at the hospital, a little pink newborn, so new and alive, and I just need my Momma and my Daddy to kiss it all better again. All I got is my Daddy, now. He's tryin'. But all the kisses in the world won't bring my Momma back. They won't give me another birthday. 

"Sh, sh, sh, baby." He's sniffling into my hair, kissing where it meets my skin. "Shhh. I'm sorry, baby. Stop cryin'. Stop cryin'. Please."

But I can't. Not when I'm dying, and I ain't even lived, yet.

Lori and Rick clean the car out for my Dad, and when I climb back in ten minutes later, it's like it was never there, but we all know it was.

We continue driving into the night.

Carl can balance spoons on his nose.

He can also bend his thumb all the way back, twirl a coin like a spin-top, and cross and uncross his left eye. It's pretty cool. Now I know five things about Carl.

"Check this out." He says.

We're sitting at the RV booth, 'cause I get to sleep in here again, tonight. Morales is driving my Dad's truck for us. It's nearly us kids' bed-time, but Carl's trying all this stuff to make me feel better, and his Momma's lettin' him. My stomach's still whirling around, and my eyelids feel bloated, but it's working. I'm not crying anymore, not so much.

"How do you do that?" I giggle, sniffing. He passes me the spoon, and I try copying him.

I wish we had actual toys to play with, but we just gotta make do with what we got.

He shrugs. "I don't know. I just kinda do it."

Lori's chuckling to herself in the passenger seat, next to Dale.

I drop the spoon. This is hard.

"Show me again," Demands little Eliza, who looks far too grumpy for someone so small. "Show me how it works."

Carl's like Glenn — He's a good sport — So, he tilts her head and moves her spoon around until it stays, and she's giggling, too.

"Wanna see what else I can do?" He wiggles his eyebrows.

There's more? Just how cool is Carl?

He takes Sophia's spoon, and he takes my spoon, and then he grips them both so they're cupping each other. He shakes them. Cluh-clink, cluh-clink, cluh-clink. Music!

"I need a piece of wheat to chew on or something." He smiles, pulling an uh-huh, look how awesome I am, face. "Cowboys used to play the spoons, right?"

I grin. "You should have a cowboy hat, like your Dad's. Then you'll be a real cowboy."

"And a horse!" Sophia adds.

"And a gun!" Louis snarls, excited.

Lori gives us a sassily raised eyebrow. "Uh. I don't think so."

It's so silly that we all start laughing together. Carl, the spoon-clinkin' cowboy of the West.

"Oh, and did you know—?" Carl's got another trick. He presents the spoon to me, backwards.

My upside-down reflection stares back at me. For a second, I'm curious, but the feeling quickly fizzles away. Is that really what I look like? The little girl in the spoon got blonde hair that's all spillin' out of a rushed pony-tail in shoulder-length strips, and choppy bangs, and heavy brown eyebrows at the bottom of her face. She got one little black mole dotted onto her cheekbone, a fairy kiss, like Momma called 'em, and another one under her nose. She got purple-ish craters above her lids. She got red cheeks. She got a pair of green eyes, blinking at me from her upside-down prison inside the spoon. She's me, but inverted; wrong. I don't like this trick.

The girl in the spoon is frowning.

"What is it?" Carl asks. He pulls the spoon away and inspects it. "It didn't work?"

"N— No." I quickly tell him. "It worked."

"Then, what's wrong?" He asks, but not in the way adults do. There are no layers to anythin' he says, 'cause he ain't learnt to add 'em, yet.

I think of the spoon-girl, and I compare her to my school photo — The right way up; healthy, a neat ponytail.

"I just look so different," I shrug, 'cause I ain't learnt neither.

Sophia looks like a little dolly when she pouts. "Yeah..."

"What's it feel like?" Eliza asks.

She leans forward, 'cause she wants to hear a secret. Am I allowed to tell her one?

Everyone at this table's seen somebody turn before. Sophia saw her Dad turn. Eliza and Louis saw their Aunt and Uncle turn. Carl was there when Amy... I saw a hitch-hiker turn, once. There's not really an exact moment where someone changes. There's no switch. There's only a slow decline, and then a last breath. Then somebody else wakes up, in your body. This is what I say to the other kids. I think they're picturing each step happening to me as I describe them.

Louis goes, "Woah..."

Then, Eliza asks the un-askable. "Harley, you should show us what's under the bandage."

We all look at her. A proposition. We're all thinking, is she crazy, but then I say the un-sayable, 'cause lookin' won't hurt.

"Alright," I murmur, glancing at Lori and Dale. Their backs are turned. "I'll just lift the corner, okay?"

They all nod and lean even closer.

I pick at the edge of the seal, and it burns, just a little, and nope, the adults are still not looking, so I keep peeling and peeling until there's a little hole. We all contort ourselves to peer inside, and I keep going and going, and it's halfway off, now. It's like I'm opening a little door into a different dimension. I'm expecting melting, pizza-cheese skin, and maybe some gross, alien fungus carpeting a layer of yellow ooze, and blood bubbling up under my muscles, and we can almost see the scratches, now, and I wonder if—

"Hey." I whip my head around — we all do, like meerkats — and it's not Lori, or Dale. It's my Dad, coming in through the bedroom door. He's too tired to be proper angry, so he just sighs. "What the Hell do you think you're doin'?"

"Sorry—"

Wordlessly, he comes up to me and sticks the patch back down.

"What's going on back there?" Lori asks. "You guys behaving?"

"Takin' her bandage off." Dad snitches on me.

He kisses me quickly on the hair to balance out the scolding. He's never done that before. Then he pulls a box of pills off the kitchen shelf.

"Time for yer second one of these."

Lori gets up to pour me a cup of water, and Dad pinches my nose, and I swallow the pill in one gulp.

This is what some people would call a last ditch attempt — Racing to the CDC, filling my stomach with Glenn's medicine, and not being allowed to fiddle with the bandage, to stave it off. Rules are just words, but I'm supposed follow 'em, anyway. That's why I say I'm sorry again, but Dad don't like that, either. He says it's bed-time.

"Say goodnight to everyone," He tells me, 'cause he likes when I have good manners.

He grabs my pyjamas off the back of the driver's seat, where Dale's trying not to fall asleep on his face. I say goodnight to the other kids, and Lori, who gives me a hug. Dale calls out a goodnight, too, and he reaches over to ruffle my hair, like a grandpa. Then my Dad tugs me back into the bedroom we spent the last night in. The kids mumble goodnight to me again as I'm dragged away, but they feel a little too much like goodbye.

I hope Carl knows he made me feel better, even if it was just for a few minutes.

Apparently, we're on the outskirts of Atlanta now. When I peek outside, I see skyscrapers.

"We're gonna make it, right? To the CDC?"

I won't run outta time?

Dad freezes for a second.

"I'll drag you all the way there myself if I gotta." Dad says, and I know he's dead serious. Outta Hell on hot coals.

We're not stopping for the night. We can't. The engine's rumbling below me when I hop onto the bed.

My Dad grabs my hair-brush from our back pack on the floor, and he settles himself behind me on the covers to do my hair. My Daddy's a Dixon, and that doesn't just mean that he looks out for me and hates when people see him cry. It means that instead of saying I love you, he'll show me I love you. This is what he's doin' right now, by carefully running the brush through my messy hair, petting my baby-hairs into place, and threading his fingers through it all from scalp to end. He's done my hair so many times that I couldn't count, even if I used all my fingers and all my toes. He'd brush it while I sat in the bath when I was littler, and when he was gettin' me ready for school. He ain't that good at it, 'cause his hands are made for tools and guns instead of little-girl-hair, but that don't matter. The I love you matters more.

After that, he helps me into my pyjamas even though I don't need any help at all, and I realize that he's got that same intense look on his face that he did on that night in the quarry. It's not so much flaming, anymore. It more of a sinking, heavy look. I study it as he wraps me up in my button-up dinosaur pyjama shirt. Does he think this is the last time he'll put me to bed? 

"Can you sing for me tonight, Daddy?" I ask, suddenly. If he gets to brush my hair and do my buttons, then I want to hear him sing.

He was just about to do up the last button. He hesitates.

"Yeah." He says. Then, he pinches my cheek, and he finishes looping the button. "I'll sing, little chicken. Lay down."

I burry myself in the thick covers. My Dad sets down his crossbow on the side-table, and shirks off his red flannel shirt, leaving him in a white tank-top. It's warm enough in here that he can do that, and I wish it was his lamb-skull tank-top, the one with all the crumbs, and I wish I still had my Raggedy Anne doll, which Uncle Merle found on the side of the road but I loved with all my heart, anyway, and I wish we were home. He kicks off his mud-caked boots. That's the last step. This is it.

Dad clicks off the lamp.

The room turns dark, and he rolls onto his side, facing me, but on top of the covers. I reach out and touch his mole, 'cause it matches mine. Lots of him matches me. His blonde-ish hair, his thin mouth. If time let me, I might've looked a little like him when I grew older. Then, I touch my name, permanently marked into his skin. Another I love you, shown and not spoken. I wonder if this will be all that's left of me if I don't wake up. He watches me, and I must be pretty interesting, 'cause he does it for a while. It's like when he was staring at my baby picture. He cups his giant hand over the side of my head, and I can feel his thumb wagging back and forth. Then, he starts whisper-singing, and I close my eyes and I imagine home. Home, where I belong. Home, where everyone I love, plus me, are all still alive.

I dream of a tyre swing and baby lambs.

I hear retching outside.

It's so dark I can't even tell if my eyes are closed or not, and my Daddy's already half-way on his feet, but it's not me, this time. I was sleepin', just a second ago. He notices, and then he's just confused. Who's throwing up? The lamp clicks on, and ugh, that's real bright. I sit up, rubbing my eyes. Dad's pulling his flannel back over his tank-top. He tells me to stay here, baby, and he grabs his crossbow and hurries outside. I crawl to the window.

We're pulled over in an emergency lane. The headlights are beaming a spotlight onto all the commotion.

It's Carl, hunched. He's throwing up over the guard rail, and Lori's crouched next to him.

Why's he throwing up?

My Dad pokes his head back in, hand outstretched, and he says I'm allowed to follow him outside, so I pad alongside him into the night. We reach the small crowd that's gathered around Carl, and I grab onto one of my Dad's belt loops and hide behind him, 'cause I'm scared. There's this terrible moment where I think that Carl is also bitten, or scratched, somehow, but Rick rips Carl's shirt off and rolls up his shorts, and nope, he's totally clean. Lori feels his forehead. It must be hot and wet, 'cause she frowns, but mostly, they're all just really, really confused. Weird, weird, weird.

"What's goin' on?" T-Dog asks, jogging over from one of the cars.

Dale answers, tense. "We're not sure, yet."

Rick searches for me and my Dad amongst the others. "Daryl, bring Harley over here."

We squeeze past some people and into the light. Dad stands me right next to Carl, and now I'm gettin' spun and poked and peered at.

First, me and Carl's skin is the same blotchy white. Weird. Then, our eyes are the same red. Weirder. We've both thrown up. Doesn't make sense.

"They have the same symptoms?" Jacqui asks.

How could we be the same typ'a sick, if he ain't even infected?

"How could this happen?" Glenn's asking for everyone.

"It can't be anything contagious, right?" Dale guesses. "Otherwise, we'd all have it."

Nobody knows what to do or say, 'cause this is the biggest, weirdest mystery in the world. Rick looks back and forth between Carl and me. Lori does, too. My Dad's got a frown on. But then my Daddy's eyes shift off my face and down to my arm, and he gets an idea and it's a weird one, 'cause he pinches the edge of my bandage, and I flinch, and then all in one go — ouch — he rips it off, just like he told me never, ever to do, and it lands on the road, and there's my arm.  The cars fill the silence with hums. Am I dreamin'? Am I really still in the RV, sound asleep? My arm— It's not fuzzy or melting or oozing. It's—

"It's healed?" Rick shakes his head, eyes wide, and he grabs my arm like my Dad, to bring it close to his face.

I can't believe it. My arm — It's healthily scabbed over, with not one skin cell outta place.

I gasp, "Daddy, my arm."

"Am I seein' this right?" Dad asks Rick and Lori, suddenly breathin' as if he's been running.

"It— It looks completely healed." Lori breathes.

Several people come forward to take a look at me. Nobody's quite believing it. I'm not—? I'm not dyin'? Is that what this means?

"Have either of you kids eaten the same thing these past few days?" Asks Shane.

It's a weird question, but I have to answer, so I think really hard and so does Carl. The fish fry? The peaches? The—?

"The jerky!" We both shout.

"The—?"

"Who made the jerky?" Dad's lookin' through the crowd; desperate, not breathing, not yet. "Who was it?"

"It was m— I made it." Glenn confesses, but he doesn't know what it is he's confessing to.

"How'd you make it?" Dad asks, and he's pointing, now. So many strange questions, tonight. "Tell me exactly how you made it."

Glenn stammers, and we all listen to him list his jerky recipe like it's the most important thing in the world. "W—Well, I guess I took that meat you bought back — The possum? — And I don't kno— I sliced it, and then I—" Dad barks at him to tell us the exact thickness of the cut. "I guess, like an inch. Then I smoked it, I guess, on a stick over the campfire. I don't know, man. I—"

"You ain't salted it? You ain't cut the fat off?"

Glenn's lost. "No. No, I guess not."

My Daddy, then, drops onto his butt on the tarmac and he does the most confusing thing. He huffs out a big lungful of air, like he's boutta cry, but he doesn't cry. He starts laughing. He starts laughing, hard, like it's all a giant, funny joke that no one has gotten until now. Rick stands and starts laughing too, but his eyes have gone wet, too, and slowly, surely, everyone else starts sighing and laughing and clapping. Even Andrea's smiling! I'm smiling too, because I feel like I'm allowed — Like there ain't some catch. The jerky. Glenn made botched jerky. All those times my stomach was clenching like a sore fist — I weren't dying. All those times I was hurtin', back at the quarry — It weren't nerves. It was the jerky, messin' up my insides, 'cause it weren't made right. Jacqui runs for the food supply and she comes back with a zip-lock bag full of Glenn's jerky, and—

"God!" Everyone cringes all at once.

It's absolutely covered in mold. It's the worst-cured jerky in the entire world.

"Daddy—?"

"It was the fucking jerky?" Glenn's never looked so happy to be an idiot. "It was the jerky?"

"Fuck. Oh, fuck." My Daddy grabs both my cheeks. "You're fine. You got food poisonin', baby."

"I'm not dyin'?" I ask, just so I can hear him say no again, and then I ask it three more times, just to be sure. My Dad kisses my forehead, and then I'm in a big, strong, hug, and I'm alive. I'm alive again! And I can feel my heart-beat in my chest, and I can breathe, and I can do whatever I want, 'cause I'm alive. All that pacing and worrying and breaking of hearts and grave-digging of old memories, just for it to be Glenn's fatty, unsalted jerky. He's coming closer, now, and my Dad pulls away from me just enough to let Glenn give me a little hug.

He almost killed me. I think that makes us friends, now.

"Hoo! Praise Jesus!" T-Dog hoots, and Carol thinks he's bein' silly, 'cause she slaps his shoulder.

"I'm not dyin'." I laugh.

It's like we've won the lottery. All one camp, all happy, together. Rick grabs my Dad's arm and gives him a nod, a nod that says, It's over now, and my Dad nods back. I think to myself, randomly, that this is what family looks like. None of us were born together, and we ain't even know each other before, but we're all cryin' and laughin' together, and we chose each other. We chose to be scared together, and now we get to be happy, together.

"Man, we gotta keep you away from the food for a while!" Shane's teasing Glenn. "I mean, whoo!"

"I love you, Daddy," I'm suddenly admitting to my Dad, under all the happy shouts, while he stares up at me in the light of the truck.

He says somethin' he ain't said in years. "I love you too, Harley."

I get another kiss on the head, and another hug, and maybe, I'm thinking, this could be home. I might get to grow up here, instead.

I'm alive.

"Somebody throw that damn bio-hazard jerky in the trash!"

Author's Note. Hehehe, that last scene. So much fun to write. Stupid Glenn.

There's actually quite a few lines of foreshadowing in all the chapters leading up to this one. We all knew that Harley was probably going to be fine, but I tried using the food poisoning to keep everybody on their toes. Drama. Gotta have it, hehe.

I really hope you enjoyed reading. Thank you for being here! :)

[everyhowlmarksthedead]

NO ; MADS

HAPPY LOWMAN X READER

@arved asked: So... Would you write a story where you are Bishops younger sister and you ve met Happy, and starts having feelings for him... Your brother won't like it...

WORD COUNT: 2.9k

Thanks to my lovely beta reader @starrynite7114 💘

Author comments: I hope you all enjoy. Gifs credits to: @mayans-mc

Tag list: @starrynite7114 @chibsytelford @dazzledamazon @mara-mpou @sammskellington @gemini0410 💥 (if you wanna be tagged, send me a message!)

You leave your car parked at the Romero and Brothers entry, looking for Chucky to tell you where Bishop's bike is. Your brother texted you last night to ask you if you could have a look at it because it started to make a noisy sound somewhere in the front wheel. Some of the guys in the crew know about mechanics, but he only trusts your hands to touch his baby, so you had to drive from Mexico. The kind man with strange hands, whom you love so much, tells you that Bishop is not there but his bike is parked next to the clubhouse. Nodding, you go downstairs off of the office, to walk through the small alley on your way to find what paranoia your brother has this time.

You run the heavy metallic door with Mayans symbols, raising an eyebrow when you see some motorbikes you don't recognize at first, but you don't give it more importance than that it has. Taking out of the pocket of your shorts the copy of the key, you walk towards the green bike with the intention of ride it to the car scrapping, when you hear a hoarse voice calling for your attention.

“To the floor! Hands up!”

Five men are pointing at you with loaded guns, following the indications of an older one without hair and covered in tattoos. He throws the toothpick, that it was in his lips, walking closer. You stop the engine without any sudden movement, and your hands on your nape. You're breathing fast, leaving the motorbike at your back.

“Call Bishop”. He says. And you don't know what disturbs you more, if the lack of gesticulation on his face or the calm tone voice.

“I'm...”

“Shut the fuck up, bitch”.

Rude.

You were going to tremendously enjoy it when your charter comes back and finds you kneeling on the ground. They try to contact your brother, but seems like he's driving, 'cause there's no answer. Even so, it takes you only two minutes to hear the motorbikes coming. Taza is the first one who sees you, braking abruptly and throwing his helmet to the floor.

“The hell you' doin' man?” He shouts, till all the Mayans appears.

“Put your fuckin' guns down!” Bishop runs out of the dark van, to help you.

“She was stealing...” The unknown man tries to say, confused and lost in the situation.

“She's my fuckin' sister!” The Mayans president is pissed off, while Taza holds your hands to put you up.

“You ok, chiquita?” He asks looking you from top to bottom.

“Not sure if I'm more scared than horny, or more horny than scared”. You answer wrinkling the bridge of the nose, your crew laughs shaking their heads.

“You hurt your knees”. Bishop sounds worried, repairing on the small burns on your legs. The concrete and gravel floor was hot, but you didn't notice it 'cause you were busy trying not to die by a gunshot.

“Bish, it's ok. I would have shot without asking”. You placed your palm on his shoulder, before Tranq lifts you up in his strong arms. “It's always an adventure to come see you”.

“I'm sorre', we didn't know”.

“Yea', did you ask her?”

“Let's take care of the Mayans' warrior”. Your savior chuckles, walking upstairs to the clubhouse.

┅┅┅┅┅┅

Chibs screamed, his gaze upon the skies when he heard news of his men’s actions upon his arrival. You two know each other since your brother became president of the charter, always being a gentleman and treating you as one of his own family. But you said one hundred times that everything was fine, rolling your eyes while you were hearing him cursing in scottish. The man who pointed at you first introduced himself as Happy, and you couldn't help laughing at his name.

At least, he was fucking hot and worth it.

┅┅┅┅┅┅

Night has fallen in Santo Padre and the latin music has flooded the clubhouse and its yards. The delicious smell of Felipe's meat is in the air, mixing with the laughs and shouts of the charters having a party between brothers. And there you are, lying inside the ring with your forearms behind your head looking at the stars and a beer next to your body. Turning your head to the main group of men, you check that the Son's is staring at you like ten minutes ago. You chuckle shaking your chin, putting back your gaze to the sky.

MEANWHILE

“So, wha's she doin' here'?” Chibs asks your brother, who is drinking his beer.

“I think something is happening to my bike, and she's the only one allowed to touch it”.

“Half Mayan and mechanic... Is she single?” The vice of the Sons of Anarchy asks without any shame.

“Yes, she is. But I don't want a motorist from any charter to be her man, 'you hear me?” The Mayans president is forceful, leaning forward on his seat.

“I'm too old for the club, I'm leaving it, Chibs. It was a pleasure”. Happy is the one who talks this time, and you can hear him, of course.

You can see how the man is getting up of his seat, taking off the vest to give it to the SoA president while everybody laughs except Bishop. He walks to the makeshift bar, next to the barbecue, to obtain two beers. Now, you have to hide the fact that you weren't looking at him. The older man gets inside the ring, standing up in front of you. Raising your gaze, you lift an eyebrow.

“Can 'invite you to a beer?”

“I already have one”.

Without expecting, he kicks it away from you, but you don't move a single inch rolling your eyes.

“Wasn’t pointing a gun at me enough? I think ya've already covered your aggressiveness quota for the day”.

“And I think that love was born between us when I called ya' bitch”.

“Is that what you tell to every girl?” You ask sitting on your forearms and crossing your legs, one over the other.

“I'm not a man of words”.

“You don't have to insure it, flaco”. You sigh for a second, raising a hand to take the beer he's offering you without a gesture on his face.

“So, you're Bishop young sister, uh?” He says, having a seat in front of you. After almost one minute in completely silence, he talks again taking you by surprise, even if it wasn't uncomfortable. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-eight. I found him when I was fifteen. My parents abandoned him, before I was born”. He nods because of your words, looking thoughtful. You have a sip of your drink, waiting for him to say anything. But, that doesn't happens. “You have a lot of tattoos. Which one is your favorite?”

It's a cliche to ask about something like that, but you can't take your eyes off of them, because all that you can see around his arms and neck are traces drawing stories on him. You tattoo on your free time, so you're kinda passionate and he has truly pieces of art on his skin. Happy lifts up the grey shirt, showing you many more, before pointing the big and curled cobra on his chest and abdomen. You run your fingers over it, enraptured and your lips almost open so slowly that you can feel the way his abdomen contracts under your touch.

“Man... It's fuckin' amazing. I love the green path, but it is somewhat worn. I think I could fix it”. You say, trying to not sound too rude.

“Fix it?”

“Yea'! Addin' more color”.

“No, I mean. You tattoo?”

“I did most of the Mayans tattoos”. You nod then, with a proud gesture on your face, as he does after you. “I got my stuff in the car, if you want”.

“Sure, I would like to see what are you capable of”. He says calm, getting up off the ring and offering you his free hand, pushing you up on your way for a new adventure.

With a confidence that you don't know where it come from, he surrounds your shoulder with his arm, walking closer to you, but in complete silence. You can see your brother staring at you with his pursed lips against the beer he's holding. You pass them by, and if looks could kill, Happy would already be dead. Taking the key out of your pocket, you unlock your car to open the trunk.

“I got it”. He says going ahead, taking the heavy case full of different stickers on it.

Walking towards the clubhouse to get in, you stop your barefoot in the middle of it, looking for the best place.

Finally, you point the sofa on a corner, with a plug near of it, where you can put your machine.

“Shirt off”. You say, hearing how he chuckles almost in silence, obeying the order.

Now you're able to see many more tattoos around his back and arms. Good god, he can point a gun at you again, whenever he wants. Swallowing and clearing your throat, you prepare to mount the whole show. Your hands are cleaned with alcohol before covering them with the latex gloves, placing the ink cangs on the table by your side. The buzz of the needle floods the club, noticing that Happy doesn't feel anything when you start with the color over his lower abdomen.

You're focused in tattooing and cleaning the leftlover ink that bothers your view, even when you have a good point of light overhead. His skin is more tense than yours, being older and more tattooed, and that surprises you. The Son is getting you nervous, with his gaze on you, but not on the ink, making you raise an eyebrow.

“What?”

“It's the first time a woman tattoos me”. Happy says, after some seconds looking like he's trying to find the correct words.

“'Cause you're a male chauvinist?” The needle stop, staring at him for a moment.

“'Cause I never found a woman who did it”. The smile he gives you makes you tremble slightly.

You continue with your task, stopping some times to check that the ink is uniform in every inch, till it's finished. You take a case cream tube, taking off one of your gloves, pulling it with your teeth, to put some of it on the reddened skin. Happy shakes a little, making you laugh hoping it's not because of the pain he was containing to look ‘more like a man’ and don't get embarrassed.

“Shit! It's cold!” He growls.

“Genius...” You break into loud laughter, while he snorts.

You caress his skin spreading the cream over the retouched tattoo, so slowly that you see how much he's enjoying it with a soft smile on his lips, before covering it, so that the excess ink doesn't stain the shirt when he got dressed again.

“Do you like it?” You ask with curiosity, getting up to admire your art.

“'Course, but it seems like you wanna do anotha’”.

“Seems like”. Cross-armed, you purse your lips.

“A tattoo for a kiss”. Yes, you were expecting it, making you squint at him.

Taking off the other glove and almost laying on the table, you reach your bag next to the case, looking for a cigar to light between your lips. You've seen him smoking before, so you do the same with him. Another way to keep his mouth occupied. Curling your legs on the table and surrounding them with your arms, you tilt your neck gently. He has a lot of happy faces tattooed by the cobra side. At first you think it's some kind of bad joke, until you realize it.

“You were nomad. That explain the shitty face and the holy silence”. You say having a smoke, with your gaze now on his. “A face, a life”.

The Son has an arm behind his head settled on the sofa, and you start to notice that maybe he's not good with words. But you like to read. So you do. Every gesture, for minimal that this could be on his face. His eyes vibrating, trying to keep yours. The way he has to swallow the smoke of the cigar. The skin of his throat going from up to down in a fast move. He's not ill-at-ease, but seems like he would like to hide that part of his life.

They are recent. Your fingers run over them, outlining each stroke. Those tattoos couldn’t have been more than six or eight years. The black ink was first, and looks like he added the yellow one somewhat after that. But when you're about to travel the last one, right before an old demon, he grabs your wrist. His fingers closing tight around it, loosening the grip some seconds after in a ephemeral caress that dries your mouth.

“Whatever I want?” You ask in a whisper referring to the tattoo, watching how he leaves his cigar in the ashtray next to yours.

Happy nods. Taking his right hand to place it on your, the noisy needle is back. In the ring finger, without needing a pre-design, nor anything of the session before that one, you tattoo a semicolon. Maybe bigger than you thought, but at least he's gonna see it all the time. After, you put some cream on and cover it with plastic film, you admire it one last time. So he does.

Time to pay your debt.

He puts a hand around your wrist it to urge you to lie on top of him. His legs between yours and his free hand tangled in your hair. His gaze could say more than thousands words and your eyes lost in it. Your nose brushing in a soft touch, till your lips meet his in a mild kiss with some kind of desperation. And before a last look, he tilt up his head to catch them again. Your chest laying on his, with no distance between both, breathing fast. Your tongues fighting, wetting the other, taking some air by your nose while his arms surround your hips and your hands travel to Happy's neck.

Maybe, the fact that most disturbs you is that he hasn't any intentions of fucking you, at least, not tonight. And you know it by the way he has to turn your body, lying by his side on the sofa. But the kiss doesn't stop, till he decides to attack your neck. You bite your inner lip, pressing a hand on his head to pull him closer, while his teeth drags on your skin before licking and suck it. He's making his own tattoo, even if it's gonna disappear in some days. And you can't help a gasp that escapes from deep in your throat.

Somebody knocks on the door.

“Happy, we should go”. His prospect's voice sounds behind it.

The man snort against your skin, pulling himself away some inches to admire his own piece of art, before bite your lips back.

“Happy?”

“I'm old but not deaf!” He shouts, turning to the door for a second.

“Sounds like Cali is calling”. You chuckles, getting comfy between his arms to enjoy the last seconds together.

“Next time, it will be permanent”. He replies referring to the hickey on your neck.

Leaving you alone in the sofa, he gets up to dress his shirt and take his stuff to keep it in a pocket. Happy leans toward you, placing one hand on the headrest, to kiss you one last time with some dearly that overwhelms you. Then, he leaves the club, with his eyes on the tattooed finger.

It takes you a minute to get up, being somewhat recovered, walking towards the wood railing outside to watch how he's wearing the Sons of Anarchy vest. Your brother comes next to you, adopting the same position but without his gaze on you.

“Did you fuck him?”

“I tattooed him”. You answers with a smooth smile on your lips.

“I don't know which one is worst”. Bishop sighs shaking his head, before turning at you. “He was a nomad”.

“So do I”.

“Es diferente, (Y/N)”. (It's different).

“Yea', él lo hizo por dinero. Yo lo hago por placer”. (Yea', he made it for money. I do for pleasure).

“¿Cómo lo sabes?” (How do you know it?)

“Porque sus tatuajes están rellenos de amarillo”. ('Cause he got the yellow on his smileys).

Bishop bow his head with a heavily snort drowning in his mouth, before licking his inner lip. “I can't lose you”.

“You will not. Maybe he was the reason I was looking for, to settle”.

“A man that pointed you with a loaded gun and called you ‘bitch’”?

“A man you can trust in. Don't you?”

You got it. You've caught him.

Your eyes flies to Happy, turning around to look at you with his shitty face, before getting inside the van that his prospect drives.

[shaekingshitup]

Grindin

A/N: EEEPP. This is my first attempt at a reader insert. Reader is always gonna be black. I missed a many of days. Here is the day 3 prompt because I liked this idea! Kind of based off my favorite coffee shop. Maybe I’ll do more for this lil story? 💁🏿 The chime for the door is literally from this song here. 

Summary: Reader goes back home to open a coffee shop and meets a man that stirs some things in her. 

“I love the concept,” you commented, “ I know we were only interested in black and blue originally. But can you do a mock up with gold lettering as well?”

“YAS! THAT! I like THAT! exclaimed Ray

“Already done,” Lulu noted and pulled out a secondary growler mock up from behind the print that you were assessing.

“You know me so well,” you smiled.

“Yeah, your ass is kinda predictable” she smiled back which earned her a tongue out.

This was your first meeting of the month and so far everything was going great. You loved that you could live out your dreams with the two people you trusted more than anyone in the world. Lulu had been by your side since you both realized you were the only two Spelman freshmen who were both from Cali in your class.  By your second semester y’all were so inseparable that everyone thought you were sisters. And by year 2 you were already living together. Thank God y’all had separate interests which kept your friendship and now your business in a healthy and ever growing state. You were engrossed in the world of science. You had been a bio major who often volunteered at the local greenhouse. That helped you establish your small but busy coffee shop a year and a half ago. Lulu was a graphic artist whom also was in charge of all Grindin social media and the unofficial pastry taste tester. Ray had come along when the ladies were rooming together off campus. He was a community college to 4- year transplant at Clark Atlanta but the boy was born and raised in Macon, Georgia and he’d never let you forget it. It was evident that once he met the girls at a mixer in his first week, the friendship was a wrap. That spawned regular visits back to his parents’ homes on the weekends and even some holidays spent in the south. After graduation, the bond never broke. You and Lulu returned to Cali with Ray in tow so that he could use his business degree to help birth Grindin.

You glanced over to Sherell. The Brewista Lead for the morning shift. You knew that Sherell had been strugglin to keep up a healthy sleeping schedule with finals right around the corner and the nerves of her impending graduation from Lincoln. She was a sweet girl and you couldn’t stand to see her bare any more stress. You were so caught up in your thoughts about Sherell that you had missed the very clear topic change amongst your friends.

“Okay, but that nigga’s arms? They biggg. You know what that mean!” sad Ray pointedly at Lulu

“HA” she cackled, “ that don’t mean nothin’. My guy has really soft eyes and you know Y/N loves a guy who is easy on the eyes,” Lu quips

“Bitch, you see the caterpillar above those eyes? We don’t nee her birthin the next Helga Pataki in these streets”

“Ugh” you groaned as you rubbed your temple. “I don’t know how many times we have to have to do this but I do not under any circumstances want you two meddling in my love life,”

“But” they chorused.

“BUT NOTHING! Every human with an assumed penis and who looks like they got more than $150 in the bank becomes a contestant for your little game of ‘Win a Date with Y/N’! I run a coffee shop! Not a dating service. I’m done explaining shit to y’all. Stop harassing my customers and let my ass worry about who I am with! I mean that shit.”

“I told you we should have started addin females to the list,” whispers Ray as you walk over to the counter.

“Raymond Johnson the IV and Eyeluta Nicole Hathaway, if I hear one more word from either of y’all you both gone be banned from any pastries for the rest  of the month” you spat feeling like the unofficial mother of your group yet again. You took a deep breath and continued toward the counter. 

“Sherell, how’s it going?” you asked a you approached the register.

She sighed heavily.

“You know what? You need a break. Go in the back and relax your eyes a bit. I’ll man the front”

“Oh no. It’s really-“

You cut her off. “Get back there and relax a little. I think I know how to run a register,” you winked.

You were on the register and Antwon was pouring at the bar. You two were in a good rhythm. It was either bustling or there was one customer to tend to today. There didn’t seem to be any in between this morning. 

GRINDIN rang out as the next patron entered.

“Welcome!” Antwon called out as you were assessing the stock supply up in the floor.

When you turned around you were met with... Well, you weren’t quite sure how to describe him. Fine was an understatement. Standing six feet tall was a milk chocolate wonder with a physique that his dark turtleneck and three piece suit couldn’t hide.

Keep it professional y/n

Before you could even get a breath out he growled “Y’all really got Clipse playin every time the damn door open?” He said this with his eyes glued to his screen as if looking up was such a difficult feat to conquer at 7:32 a.m.

“Yeah. It’s a signature touch,” you responded to the stranger. At your voice, he looked up and offered a smirk that probably made most women collapse at first sight. You still hadn’t made up your mind though.

“I’m feelin it.”

“Is this your first time here? I’m more than welcome to answer any questions you have about the menu or the store in general” you offered.

“Nah. I’ve been in a time or two before. Never seen you before,” he very openly eyed you up and down, “I normally let my assistant handle this shit though, you know Miss… “

“Y/N. Well, since you’ve been here before then you’re familiar with our unique take on the menu.” you supplied.

“Yeah, y’all rotate teas and coffees quarterly. You seem to keep a few staples- which I ‘preciate and y’all got some corny ass names for these drinks too.”

You bristled a bit at that last part. “There’s nothing wrong with a little creativity.”

“Never said there was, Y/N” At this point you couldn’t tell if you wanted to serve this man or show him the door. You chose the professional route.

“So, what does your assistant normally bring you Mr…?” you trailed off

“Just Erik is fine. My favorite is the single origin. Black.  It’s always the best way to start my day.”

“Mine too.” you smiled. Maybe he isn’t so bad after all

“If you’re into the single origin and you love that bold, black, taste something similar with just a little more sweetness is Brew Thang.”

He chuckled. “See what I be saying about these names? How you expect a grown ass man to order a drink called ‘Brew Thang’?”

“It’s good. Once you have a taste, you won’t have a hard time getting it to roll of your tongue.” you sassed.

Oh fuck . I didn’t mean it like that. I gotta keep this professional. I don’t need a bad review from this guy.

He raised an eyebrow at you. “Oh really? Then lemme get a taste,” he said licking his lips. Your eyes widened slightly but he caught it. 

“Size?” you asked looking down at the tablet screen. 

“Large” he said with a bld and dark stare, “How much I owe you?”

“This one will be on the house. I want to make sure you’re satisfied.”

OH MY GAWD GIRL? WHO ARE YOU? WHAT IS COMING OUT OF YOUR MOUTH. PLEASE LEAD WITH YOUR HEAD AND LESS OF THE PUSSY

“Antwon, let’s switch. I’ll take the bar. You take the register!” You yelled out and quckly you two transitioned so that he could help the growing line of customer and you could bang out the drinks. Erik followed as you moved to the bar where he watched you work your magic. Once you were done pouring his drink you gave it to him. You got started not the next orders not the board but made sure to keep an eye on him as he took the first sip.  

“Fuck ma. This shit good” It was your turn to smirk. 

“That’s what I was trying to tell you. So now you’re hooked on the Brew Thang?”

“Oh yeah, I’m definitely satisfied.” You failed to hide your giggle as you called out that Ricky’s order was ready. Erik stuck around for a little after that inquiring about other menu items that you told him not be too quick to judge based on their names. The initial tension had dissolved and you two were in a comfortable rhythm of commenting on both the menu and the changes you’d seen in Oakland during the last few years. Thankfully there wasn’t a rush at the moment and it was fine for your to be off to the side of the bar answering any questions he could put forth. He was attentive to your passion regarding the menu and all that went into the shop as a whole.

“Hol up. You ain’t a barista. This is yo shit?”

“I prefer Brewista and yes. I do co-own this shop with my best friend Ray and we have a great Graphic Artist, Lulu, on deck too” The more he learned about you. The more he wanted to know.

“Okay Miss Entrepreneur. I see you. Damn, does that mean that you tha one that come up with these corny ass names then?”

You scowled playfully. “You keep talkin on my name and you gone catch these hands. I’m a professional. But I grew up on these streets. I can throw blows Erik,”

“My bad baby girl. I respect your grind.”

“Okay. So who really is the corny one here?”

“Whatever,” he smiled. A genuine smile with teeth and this made you want to melt right there. “Anyways, speaking of Brew Thangs, you got  a ni-“

His phone rang and he glanced down cursing. He put up his index finger and gestured that he just need one moment. You nodded your consent.

“What up T?”

In that time that he took his call, you looked up and saw that you had a line out the door. Sherrell came back out to the floor and your two were in a great rhythm getting through the 16 drink orders that had come up. When you looked up again, Erik was no where to be found. Now that the shop was stable you let Sherell do her thang and went into the back to re-convene with Lu & Ray.

“Y/N we need to get you an award for best employer. You really be out here goin the extra mile for your staff,” Lu said. You lifted the corner of your mouth in a weak attempt at a smile.

“Uh uh. Hoe what’s wrong?” Ray said noting your dejected spirt.

“Now? Now you listen to me?!” you yelled. “ALLL the time, I tell yo asses not to intervene in my love life and the one time it may have actually been beneficial y’all were no where to be seen!”

“I know she didn’t” Ray said.

“Yeah. She did” Lu, retorted. “I’m gonna ignore your funky attitude because I can see you’re going through something sis. What’s the deal?”

“I was talking to this guy. This man. And y’all he was so charming and sexy as hell and he wasn’t afraid to talk about shit that matters and I just turned away to make some drinks and he disappeared! I really thought he was gonna make a move. Or at the very least that you two would move in on him and make me sit through another awkward date. But nooooooo, you two finally decided to respect my wishes for once and now Imma die alone!” you monologued.

“You done?” Lu asked.

“Yes” you pouted.

“Aww come here baby,” Ray said with his arms outstretched, “I’m sure he’ll be back.” He hugged your frame tightly and rubbed some circles into your back. “Especially if you turned around when you were in front of him, cuz BABY GOT BACK!!” He yelled.

You and Lu laughed as he started smackin your ass and shakin his own. Soon enough you were all in the back twerkin like it was the first night y’all meet all over again. Hopefully he’d be back.

I’m sorry I forgot who to tag! Soooo if you got tagged and didn’t wanna be I’m sorry. The inverse is the same 😁

@twistedcharismaaa @raysunshine78

@ghostfacekill-monger @yoursoulstea 

@shewrites02 @sarcastic-sunshines

@thadelightfulone

[askdawnandvern]

Vernon: Whew, I got a boatload of great memories with my parents. Goin' shootin' with Pa, baking with Ma, I got a list a mile long of great times I've had with my folks, and I'm still addin' to it. But if yer gonna make me pick favorites...well...lessee...

When it comes to Ma, I think one of my favorite memories, or I guess series of memories came from my shifts workin' at Ma's stand. I mean, I had a lot of fun bakin' with Ma and stuff, but the thing about bein' a pup and growin' up in a big family is that well, A.) When yer little you spend most of yer time findin' yer own fun rather than hangin' around with your parents a lot, and B.) ya got six brothers to compete with fer Ma and Pa's attention. When I was old enough, and outta my bad dog phase, workin' at the stall turned into a really fun way to get to know my Ma. I mean really get to know her, ya know, and come to that realization that 'hey, yer mother is just another mammal like you.'

We talked about all sorts of things. My Ex Ana, What happened to Dawn and how I turned around in high-school, Gus and the other fellas. And for everything I brought up Ma had a story of her own to tell about the rough patches in her youth. It made me feel so much better about everythin', and so much less terrible of a mammal after how I had been actin' before. It made me feel normal again, and it made me closer to her.

Pa was always less of a talker, but when he did speak it was to the point. I'd say the strongest memory I have....well, I suppose its really more of a bittersweet thing...so I'm not sure if I should count it. So I guess I'll pick another close one. I remember when I was a lil' Pup, before I met Dawn the first time, and the ol' Mam' decided to take us out to the beach. Now bein' the rambunctious pup that I was, I immediately got myself into trouble. Ya' see, someone had dug out this deep hole in the sand, big as an elephant! At least it seemed that way as a pup. And me bein' me, I had to jump in it. Only problem was, kinda like a kitten yearnin' to climb, I didn't really plan fer how to get out of it. So after a few minutes of clawin' at the walls, I started cryin' and fussin' fer help.

The first mammal to hear me was Yuri, who came over to make fun of me. But soon after my Pa showed up to chase him off. I remember after Yuri scampered with his tail between his legs, my Pa crouched down, eyein' me with a smirk as I sat in the wet sand, wipin' my eyes. Then he reached out to me, and pulled me up and onto his shoulders in one big swing. And he said somethin' like...'Yer just as bad as I was growin' up boy, never lookin' before you leap.' And I just giggled at him o' course. But then his tone changed, and he sorta got this wistful sound to him, and he told me. 'I wish I could always be there to pull you out of trouble.' He sighed. 'But one day yer gonna have to start tryin' to dig out of them hole yerself.' I remember being confused. "But that don't mean I'm gonna leave ya, I'll always be there to offer a paw when I can. And when I can, remember yer ol' 'mam will always be cheerin' ya on in spirit."

Looking back, I don't know what really prompted that speech. Whether he had a close call at work, or just remembered something from his own childhood. But even then, it stayed with me. Even if I couldn't understand it, it stuck. And when I got older, I really grew to appreciate it that much more.

Well, until the college thing...

[megsblackfirewrites]

Two For The Road: Chapter 18

Chapter 18

Hanzo had been expecting Vanessa to be violent when she saw Jack. Her own first reaction had been violence and, from what Jesse had told her about his sister, Vanessa was a horrible person to see riled up. It was like she had two modes; calm and collected or murderous. She hadn’t expected Vanessa to be so calm when she walked into the room and saw Jack leaning on the table.

“Is it really you?” she had asked, gripping her rifle tightly in her left hand.

“I’m sorry, Vanessa,” Jack had said. “There’s been a lot of time between us.”

“At least you’re alive, you bastard,” Vanessa had said as she holstered her rifle and rushed forward.

She had thrown herself into Jack’s arms, pressing her forehead against his as she let out a sob. Tom had smiled as the two of them embraced tightly, fingers digging into each other’s jackets. Gabriel had been smiling the whole time, sharing an amused look with Jesse. Hanzo had felt a temporary pang of jealousy before she remembered that Jack and Vanessa had known each other a long time and that this was a very typical response between the McCrees and the people they loved.

Vanessa had then gently removed Jack’s facemask and ran her fingers over his scars. Hanzo tensed at the sight of his milky eyes, but that seemed to be the last thing that Vanessa noticed about him. Her fingers moved slowly over his jaw, then his nose, up into his receding hair, and then gently over his eyes.

“You got old,” she’d said.

“Stress will do that to you,” he replied. “Feels like I haven’t slept a day since Zurich, even with Gabriel at my side again.”

“You still don’t know how to fuckin’ relax,” she teased before hugging him again. “Don’t you ever fuckin’ do that to me again, Jack. I’ve lost enough in my life without addin’ you to the list.”

Jack had chuckled as he led her over to the couch where Hanzo, Jesse, and Tom were waiting. Vanessa sat down beside Tom and leaned back on the couch, waiting for Jack and Gabriel to explain themselves. Hanzo was not expecting the answer.

“Wait, Angela experimented on you?” Jesse demanded. “Angie?”

“She’s always been tampering with ways to bring people back from death regardless of how long they’ve been gone,” Gabriel said. “Her research…I think her heart was in the right place. It’s been four years; I try not to hate the girl, but some days are better than others.”

She lifted her mottled hand and watched chunks of blackened flesh flake off. Jack took her hand and squeezed it, perhaps a little tighter than what was needed, but it seemed to help with the dissolving.

“Still, you were decapitated,” Hanzo said. “I was the one that found your body. I saw what happened to you.”

“Would you believe me if I said I know because I was there?” Gabriel asked and shook her head, reaching up to run her talons through her hair. “It’s hard for me to explain sometimes; my soul didn’t move on. It hovered, like it knew I wasn’t supposed to be dead or something. Or maybe it was scared to leave Jack. Either way, I think that’s the only reason that Angela was able to bring me back to life in spite of what had happened to me. My soul was stuffed back into a partially cremated body and I wound up like this; caught somewhere between decaying and regenerating.”

“Partially cremated?” Jesse frowned. “Wait, they were already in the process of getting you ready for burial when they let Angela experiment on you? That means….”

“Angela knew you weren’t dead when we buried you,” Hanzo straightened in horror. “She knew we were burying the wrong people!”

Gabriel nodded her head. “Yes, I believe that is true. We won’t know until we track her down. She’s been quite elusive for someone that is a high-profile doctor.”

“That bitch,” Hanzo growled. “When I get my hands on her…!”

“Get in line,” Gabriel chuckled. “I get first dips on bouncing her head off a table.”

“What about Jack?” Tom asked. “He wasn’t dead when they pulled him out of the wreckage. Why pronounce you dead to the entire world?”

“No idea,” Jack shook his head. “I can tell you that they didn’t heal me for weeks. I was hopped up on a shitton of painkillers to keep me unconscious throughout it all and when I was allowed to move around, it was to get brought before the generals of the UN and told that I was to conform to their ideals.”

“And we all know how much Jack loves taking orders,” Vanessa laughed. “Especially from incompetent jackasses.”

Gabriel chuckled her amusement as she reached out to cup a hand under Jack’s jaw. “My argumentative darling needs some gentle reinforcement,” she teased.

“Yes. Gentle,” Vanessa narrowed her eyes. “Like the three hotel beds you broke on a ‘vacation’?”

Jack’s face turned a lovely shade of red as he looked away. “I forgot about that,” he grumbled.

“I had to hear it from Ana for about a week,” Vanessa growled. “Like I was supposed to control two grown-ass people or somethin’.”

Hanzo chuckled as Gabriel slumped on Jack’s shoulders and nibbled playfully on his ear. Jack huffed and grumbled, but he made no effort to chase Gabriel off. They all chuckled before Jesse leaned forward.

“So, why’re you a decent height all of a sudden, Gabe?” he asked.

“It takes a lot of energy to keep this decomposing body at seven feet,” Gabriel sighed as she put more of her weight on Jack’s shoulders. “Six-one is much more reasonable. And I adopted it for a while because I was mourning and honouring Jack.”

“Wait…you didn’t know the other was alive?” Hanzo stared at them in disbelief.

“Not a clue,” Gabriel shook her head. “It was a terrifying realization when I found out. I almost lost him again.”

“I seem to have this bad habit of getting shot in the head,” Jack sighed and rubbed the side of his head. “I’m lucky Gabriel has my back. I’d be dead by now otherwise.”

Gabriel nuzzled him gently and ran her fingers through his hair. “You are my darling, Jack; I would do anything for you,” she whispered.

Hanzo smiled at the gentle sight. It was comforting to see that they still loved each other so deeply. There was still some hope in the world for romance, it would seem.

“So, what’s the plan?” Vanessa asked.

“Plan?” Jack turned his head towards her.

“You can’t tell me that you came to L.A without a plan,” Vanessa arched an eyebrow. “You always have a plan.”

Jack tilted his head towards Gabriel and she nuzzled his cheek. “We did have a plan,” she said slowly. “We just didn’t expect you all to show up.”

“You’re kidding?” Tom snorted. “You show up in one of the safehouses and don’t expect me to come investigate?”

“True,” Gabriel chuckled before she settled against Jack’s shoulders. “We’re bringing Blackwatch back.”

“Yer kidding?” Jesse stared. “What about the Petras Act? Those damn enforcin’ units’ll kill us!”

“Overwatch has been forbidden,” Jack said. “It doesn’t say anything about Blackwatch.”

Jesse and Hanzo shared a look. Jack was not the kind of person that they thought would handle Blackwatch life very well. He had never been good with secrets and working in the shadows had never been his strong suit. He was better pushing papers or fighting a fair fight.

“Are you sure about this, Jack?” Hanzo asked. “You never took an interest in Blackwatch’s machinations before.”

“Times change,” Jack said with a heavy sigh. “People don’t want Overwatch. Fine. They never had a say in Blackwatch and the world needs an organization working from the shadows to keep the rest of the darkness at bay.”

“Poetic,” Vanessa commented. “And more than a little suicidal. I’m in.”

“Agreed,” Tom nodded his head.

“Hanzo?” Jesse glanced at her.

“I will do what I must for this world, whether it wants my protection or not,” Hanzo said with a firm nod of her head.

“Then it’s settled,” Gabriel chuckled. “We’re bringing Blackwatch back to life. Tom, think you have a list of trustworthy agents to bring back into the fold?”

“I’ll need to run it through you and your favourite specialist first,” Tom nodded. “But I think I know a few that would just at the chance to return to active duty.”

Jack nodded his head as he stared at some point above their heads. “I hope those bastards pray to whatever god they believe in to spare them; I have no mercy left,” he said.

Hanzo’s eyebrows rose, but she stayed silent as Tom and Gabriel started discussing recruitment and data collection. They had to set up a new base of operations, establish a roster, and figure out some way to tempt backers into helping get Blackwatch back on its feet.

“There’s the plane,” Jesse smiled as he watched the landing lights flare to life overhead. “You eager to see yer brother?”

“Yes,” Hanzo sighed as she sat beside him in the rental Tom had secured for them. “It’s been too long.”

Jesse grinned and flicked his cigarillo to the other side of his mouth. He knew that Genji would wait until the last possible second to get across the tarmac to where they were waiting, but he wasn’t sure how good at stealth Pet and Zenyatta were. It was bad enough Gabriel was trying to figure out how to get Reinhardt across the Atlantic without arousing suspicion; he didn’t need to think of two bumbling omnics accidentally setting off the National Guard.

“Bingo,” Jesse said as he pointed through the windshield.

He spotted the flash of Genji’s biolights as he slipped free of the cargobay. Genji ran as fast as ever, easily darting between cover to remain out of sight. He couldn’t see a Petras Unit following him or Zenyatta and hoped they hadn’t been found.

He jumped out of his skin as something thumped on top of the Jeep and rolled down to sit on the hood. A very dazed mechanical bat the size of a Great Dane waved at them before the omnic unfolded from its form. It flopped off of the Jeep’s hood and wiggled into the backseat, hugging Hanzo from behind.

“You can go into recon mode,” Hanzo said as she hugged the omnic in return. “I’m so proud of you, Pet.”

“It took a while and I can’t really fly, but I can glide,” the omnic’s ears flicked happily upwards. “Hello, Jesse McCree; it’s nice to finally meet you.”

“You must be Pet,” Jesse smiled and reached out to ruffle the “fur” on top of her head. “Yer a right cutie.”

“Thanks,” Pet wagged her tail. “We worked really hard to make my faceplates unique so I didn’t look like every other Unit out there.”

“I think we did a great job,” Genji said as he flipped up into the Jeep. “It took a lot of remodelling, but we finally got her a look she likes.”

Hanzo twisted around to hug her brother close, kissing over his cheeks as he chuckled that he was fine. Zenyatta floated into place on Pet’s other side and waved in greeting. He seemed exhausted and sagged against the seat, snoring softly before Jesse had even pulled out onto the freeway. No one talked the whole trip; Genji was clearly suffering from jetlag and Pet was barely staying awake.

Jesse pulled into the parking space set aside for them at the new underground headquarters and turned the car off. Hanzo carried Pet in on her back, chuckling as the young omnic protested being moved. Zenyatta floated tiredly after them, mumbling softly as he held Genji’s hand to keep from getting lost. Jesse led the way down into the bowels of the decommissioned production plant and smirked.

“Everyone, welcome to Watchpoint: L.A,” he said as he pushed the doors to the control room open. “Try not to smudge the paint.”

“Jack!” Genji shouted before he bolted forward and threw himself into Jack’s arms. “I missed you. I hate you. I missed you.”

“Missed you too, otouto,” Jack murmured as he hugged Genji tightly. “Good to see you. How was the trip?”

“Long,” Genji said. “But we can talk more in the morning. I need sleep.”

“Quarters are through the doors there,” Jack gestured to the doors at the back of the room. “Plonk yourself down on whatever bed you find.”

Genji flashed thumbs up before he trotted back to Hanzo and picked Pet up. She grumbled a meek protest, claiming that she could walk on her own, but she was out cold again before Genji had even started walking. Jack’s blind eyes followed them as they walked past, somehow still as analytical as ever even without his visor on. Jesse knew there was a story behind that, but his bosses hadn’t felt inclined to tell him anything.

Right now, they were all focused on getting Blackwatch operational again. It was almost like old times, but there was the nagging suspicion hanging in the air that if they expanded too fast that they were going to fall under the same troubles as before. No one talked about it, but they all wondered the same thing. Were they going to be betrayed by their own again? Could Gabriel keep Blackwatch from falling apart from the inside because of greedy, self-centered bastards?

He hoped so. He wanted this to work. He was so sick of running and hiding. He wanted to save people again and have a strong network watching his back to bail him out of trouble when he inevitably ran into it. He wanted Blackwatch back and he was eager to get back in the saddle. It was time for them to move through the shadows and put the fear of retribution back into the hearts of the criminal underbelly.  

[escape-from-reality-reads]

Pharalynn’s Challenge: Part 5

Formerly known as Assassin’s Creed: Protection

Part 1  //  Part 2  //  Part 3  // Part 4 // Here // Part 6

Work Count // 2344  And right after I said these would be short

As we come up to the castle I begin to make my way to my now normal waiting place when Altair blocks my path, motioning for me to follow him inside to Al Mualim’s study. I comply and follow him to where the Master is residing. I jump onto the railing overlooking the floor below while Altair talks to Al Mualim about the most recent kill, the elder praising my Charge. I dig my claws into the wood beneath me when the traitor talks of the order, and it takes everything in me to not warn him about Mualim’s true plan. Luckily I’m able to relax enough to retract my claws when Altair questions Mualim’s motives and actions.

Once the topic is over the Master tells Altair that more of his weapons were in his possession. After the elder man hands the weapons off to Altair he finally notices me on the beam. “Altair, where did this creature come from?” Altair walked over and stood next to me. “Malik found her at the Bureau. She has accompanied me on my last few missions.” The grand master frowns. “I have not seen her before.” “She has stayed outside the last two times I have traveled here.” Mualim nods before walking to the giant window, not pushing the subject and bidding Altair safe travels. 

We leave the building and enter the courtyard Altair is pulled into the training ring for yet another session. ‘I swear this guy doesn’t train his student at all.’After Altair ends the session the two of us head into town and grab a horse before leaving the borders, me gripping the saddle blanket. 

We quickly make our way back to the Bureau in Jerusalem where Malik resides. Once we drop in I hop up onto the counter and rub against his able arm, him rubbing my ear absentmindedly as he informs Altair on Majd Addin. The young assassin makes a snide remark about this kill being as easy as the others to which Malik quickly shoots down. Altair pauses for a moment before sucking up his pride and asking for his advice. 

“What’s this? You’re asking for my advise instead of demanding it? I’m impressed.” I look to Altair. ‘You’re not the only one.’ Malik goes on to inform us of two places: the Southernmost church and a street near the Synagogue. Altiar thanks him as we leave, and as we make our way over the rooftops I can’t help but feel prideful of my Assassin’s growth since I arrived. 

After we save a few citizens, escort a man, and pickpocket some people we overhear two men talking about one of their sons being executed later in the day. The father is reasonably angry with the situation and wanting to save him, but his friend tells him, and by default us, where he is to be. Altair and I travel the streets a while longer to gather more information where we hear another pair of men say that the execution happening near the West of Solomon’s Temple. The two talk of change and the suspicions that they had about the Templar before returning to their work. After the information is gained we make to the rooftops and towards the temple.

On the way to the execution platform another assassin pulls Altair aside to ask for help with some archers to which Altair agrees before going back to the rooftops with me not far behind. After using our usual method we return to the assassin who thanks us before telling us that Addin likes to lecture his victims before killing them, leaving himself open to attack. Altair thanks the man before we go on our way, finding one of Addin’s followers along the way. 

Altair is quick to start a fight with the man, easily knocking him off his feet so that I can jump onto his chest and place my claws on his throat. Once the man yields Altair motions for me to jump off before interrogating the man about Addin. He informs us that everyone that is to be killed threatens Addin’s plans and power, and will be used to strike fear into the other citizens. He ends his rambling by listing off the names of the main people Addin converses with, but he;s not sure who they are. Altair ends the interrogation by swiftly killing the man and going back to the rooftops.

The assassin goes to continue to the execution point but I jump in his way. I know that he wants to stop Addin, but there is still information that he needs. Altair looks down at me and I look in the direction of the Bureau, meowing. He growled something about me being a nuisance and went to walk around me, but I bit down on the hem of his robe before tugging it in the other direction. “There is nothing in that direction that we need. The execution is this way and this is the way the two of us will go.” I growl and start towards the side of the roof facing the Bureau and jump over to the adjacent roof, hearing the young man sigh and follow behind me. “I am following a feline that I met just a few days ago? What is wrong with me.” I turn to look at him to meow happily and rub my head against his leg before continuing towards the bureau.

Once we leave the Bureau Altair crouches down next to me on the rooftop. “You are a strange creature. You are able to understand me, assist in my missions, somehow knew that Malik had some information that I needed to know. Not to mention that your eyes hold as much intelligence as a human.” 

I stand there for a minute before saying ‘fuck the rules’ and speak. 

'Well done. You’ve figured it out.’ The robed man is quick to straighten his posture and unsheathe his hidden blade. “Demon!” I stretch, kneading my claws into the ground before sitting down and looking up at him. ‘Relax Altair. I’m not a demon. Quite the opposite actually.’ Altair doesn’t move and inch. “Then what are you?” ‘The correct name is a Pharalynn, but the more common name is Guardian Angel. Yours to be exact. My job is to keep you on a certain path and I really hope you’re satisfied because I am bending, if not breaking, the main rule we have to follow.’ He finally lowers his knife, curious but hesitant. “Rules?” I growl and raise my hackles. ‘Can we talk about this after we take this guy down! All you need to know is that I’m on your side and that you cannot tell a soul about this.’ Altair thinks for a second before nodding. “Let’s go.” I nod and and two of us start towards the West of town. 

Once we arrive at the site Altair quickly rids us of the archers and soldiers on the rooftops, and we crouch to look down at the execution platform. ‘If you go down into the crowd I can jump down from the beams and distract them long enough for you to take out Addin.’ Altair scoffs and I raise my hackles in annoyance before hissing at him. ‘If you have a better idea I am all ears.’ He remains silent. ‘I don’t care about if you look down on women or if you think that you’re the best of the best. My plan is the best one we got, so let’s get it done.’ I finalize my rant with a growl before getting into position, leaving Altair stunned on the rooftop. He snaps out of it and jumps down, merging with the crowd. The two of us wait patiently for an opening and when it comes I jump down onto the beam and growl as loud as I can, gaining everyone’s attention. 

Altair is quick on his feet, killing the remaining guards as I jump onto Addin and claw the hell out of his face. I jump down as he runs off the platform and, coincidentally, into Altair’s blade. 

Altair interrogates the dying man who is set on defending his actions to the bitter end, saying that he enjoyed the power that he obtained from the murders. He then tries to say that Altair would have done the same if given the chance. “Maybe in my past, but I have learned what becomes of people who lift themselves above others.”

“And what is that?” 

“Let me show you.” 

With that Altair cut Addin’s throat and bloodied his feather. 

As Altair is dealing with Addin I spend the time chewing and cutting through the chords binding the assassin. The man rubs his wrists and Altair calls me to his side. I jump down, leaving the assassin to free the other three, and follow him to the bureau where he and Malik banter for a moment before the two us us head back to the horse. 

When we reach the horse Altair directs it to a secluded space on the path, away from the main road before turning to where I am behind him. 

“You said that You would explain once Addin was dead.” I sigh and nod. ‘So I did’  I jump down and sit on the ground. ’You might want to take a seat. A lot of information is going to come at you in a short amount of time.’ Altiar agrees and sits down next to me. 

‘Okay, first thing first, this is not my first life it’s my second. My first name was Kallie and I was the daughter of a man that worked with your bureau. One day Robert de Sable sent a few of his men to our house with the mission to kill us. Mother gave me a warning, and I sent a letter to my father saying what had happened to us. Once the letter was sent I went downstairs and got stabbed in the back where my mother had her throat slit open.’ 

Altair looked down at me with what seemed like a mix of pity and confusion. “But you are here.” ‘Do you want to hear the tale or not.’ He returns to silence. 

‘When I died I arrived in a black room with a whit floor that stretched for miles in every direction, and was greeted by a deity named Minerva. She told me of my job and gave me this mark.’ I turn my paw so he can see the mark on the base pad. ‘It is called a triquetra. It marks all Pharalynn.’ 

The assassin gazes at the mark before making eye contact again. “You said that you are my guardian.” I nod. 

‘Yes. The Pharalynn were created to work like God’s guardian angels, but we can actually make contact with our charge. The only thing is that we have to be careful about who we let know about us. If the person is one that can’t keep a secret and will tell the world then we need to stay silent for our own safety as well as our charge.’

“And why is that?”

‘If you heard a person say that the animal could talk would you believe them or think that they were a witch with a familiar.’ Altair stays silent. ‘Exactly. If they say anything then our charge, known as the Xilafyk, would be killed and we can’t have that happen.’ “So I am one of these Xilafyk that you speak of.” ‘Yes, and a very important one.’ “What do you mean?”

‘Your life is important to future assassins that have yet to be born. Specifically ones that live in 1476 to 1511, 1715, 1765, 1789, 1868, and 2012. I will not say how, but the actions that you make will influence what happens the their times.’

“So you were sent here to protect me and make sure that I do what needs to be done. Not to mention that you know what is to happen in the future.”

‘Yes.’

He scoffs before standing up. ‘I know it sounds odd but, to be fair, you are talking to a cat that is speaking into your mind.’ “I am not being protected by a female, cat or human.” I need my claws into the ground. ‘I am not here to protect. I am here to guide. There’s a difference. Not to mention that I can beat the shit out of you without breaking a sweat so I’d stop the sexist remarks. I don’t care what era we are in. You will treat me with respect.’ He scoffs again and I lose it. Without thinking I lunge forward and slip under his outer robe, latching onto his pant leg before digging my teeth and front claws into the upper part of his leg before clawing up his lower leg with my hind claws. Altair yelps and tries to pry me off without success before he falls back to the ground.

“Alright I yield! Just let go of me!” I stop my attack and walk back into the light. ‘Like I said, I’m not here to protect, just to guide. Now, if you don’t want that to get infected I suggest you get it cleaned and bandaged. Not to mention if you don’t want me to do it again I suggest you keep any sexist remarks to a minimum. Cause I might be a cat and female, but I can assure you that females are just as capable of fighting as men. It’s just that we don’t get to learn how to because of men like you who think it isn’t our place.’ I hop back up onto the horse grabbing some gauze and a container of alcohol before returning to Altair’s side. ‘Here. Clean it up and lets go.’ Altair stays silent as he bandages up his wound before putting the supplies away and starting towards the castle with me in my usual place behind him.

I think I made some good headway with the boy.

Next // Part 6