#AND IT HAS LED TO A CHAIN REACTION OF NOT UNDERSTANDING A SINGLE THING IN MATH

[kerosene-saint]

I fucking hate this math class and I have cried so many fucking times over it and I've done TWO FUCKING ASSIGNMENTS IN TOTAL.

[t3a-tan]

Firing Squad

Set before Cody and Jael met whilst Jael was still a soldier for Syris. Fair warning, this is heavy but also has a lot of lore importance.

---

Elyon got caught. In one of the routine tent checks, they found evidence of him rebelling; a single black feather.

Jael only found out that his friend and fellow soldier had been caught when he was yanked off of his metal cot and taken away with the rest of his squad. Already, this feeling of unease had come over him.. He knew something wasn't right.

"Jael! Jael, tell them it's not mine!" Elyon cried out, catching sight of him as he struggled against the handcuffs. Jael almost didn't recognize him with that bag over his head. "Please! I would never rebel! I-I wouldn't dare to go against her highness, our gracious and merciful Queen Mary!"

Gods was it weird hearing that long title in such a desperate plea…

Jael tensed up, looking towards the captain, who was watching intently. Suspiciously..

"I…"

If he helped his friend, what would happen to him?

He was only 18. Jael didn't know how to respond. He and Elyon had both agreed that something was wrong with this country and the Queen herself, but they didn't know what would happen if they got caught.

No. They did… they just didn't want to believe it was possible.

"Are you working with Elyon, Jael?" The captain glared hard. "You two are close, aren't you? Didn't you notice he was being radicalized?"

Jael jolted, before standing up straight and proper, looking straight ahead rather than daring to look into the captain's eyes.

"N-no, sir. I didn't notice anything, sir. If I had, I would have reported him immediately." Jael paused, almost surprised by his instinctual response. "S-sir…" He finished.

The captain nodded, seemingly pleased by that answer.

Elyon however, was devastated.

"W-what!? Jael, but— no I can't… please..!" He cried. Jael's heart beat fast, and he tried hard to control his breathing in case anyone noticed how on edge he was. At this point, Elyon was the least of his concerns.

He was still, as Elyon was dragged into that dreadful room.

His hair stood on end as he caught sight of his superior, ushering him into the room just beside it. Where the firing squad would get ready.

"You're a good angel, Jael." The captain spoke, placing a hand on his shoulder and squeezing, a bit too tightly for Jael's liking. "Raphael is considering giving you a promotion soon.. You'll be joining the Seraphim in no time." He continued, leading Jael through the rows of guns.

"Elyon is your friend, I understand…" He trailed off, glancing down at Jael and looking for a reaction.

"If he has been found rebelling, he is only a traitor in my eyes, sir." Jael didn't know what compelled him to say that, but it seemed to work. Some part of him was disgusted. Elyon didn't deserve the blame for this. It was Jael's idea in the first place. He planted the seed of doubt into Elyon's head…

The captain smiled, smacking him on the back in what may have been an encouraging manner in another context, but now it just felt intimidating.

"Good, good… pick up that gun, Jael."

Jael's blood ran cold as his superior pointed out the rifle. The same kind that was used by the firing squads…

Hands shaking, he reached for the gun.

"Sir..?"

He tried not to seem nervous, but it was difficult when his body wouldn't stop shaking.

Saying nothing, the captain led him out into the room. Alone. Elyon stood up against a wall, chained by the hands so he could only move a couple of feet in any direction. Jael swallowed.

"When they say fire…" Jael already knew what was coming, but he didn't want to believe it.

"Shoot."

Jael shut his eyes for a moment, but nodded. He tried his best to shut out his friend's begging from the other side of the room. There was already an audience, and he knew this whole thing was being recorded. All angels, no matter the age or circumstance, were required by law to watch a public execution, to set an example.

Jael didn't think he would ever be part of this.

And sure, on the battlefield he had killed before. He had pulled the trigger on whoever he was told to, but now..?

This was Elyon.

This was his friend.

The captain stood back, and so Jael lifted the gun, trying to steady himself. If he missed, if he refused to shoot, if he acted nervous...was he next?

"Elyon of Squad 194. You have been found guilty of rebelling against her highness, our gracious and merciful Queen Mary. A black feather was found in your tent, along with a detailed plan of her assassination."

That last part just wasn't true at all...but Jael wouldn't say that out loud. Of course they would make some things up to suit their narrative...the more guilty Elyon looked, the less people would care. The worse Jael would look if he failed to shoot.

"I-I didn't! I would never rebel, sir! Please..!"

"Aim!"

Jael aimed and found that he was the only gunman in the room. It was a test and he knew it; one that he couldn’t afford to fail as much as his trigger finger trembled with hesitation.

"Ready!"

Jael cocked the gun, his finger finally resting over the trigger. Elyon was moving around, but Jael could follow his movements. He had hit moving targets before…

"Fire!"

Jael hesitated, his finger holding over the trigger but never pulling it, frozen stiff.

If I do this, I'm truly a monster. I can never go back…

"Fire, boy!"

Jael pulled the trigger immediately at the sound of the captain's voice on instinct, watching it hit his friend right on target. Elyon went quiet, though he was still standing, seeming dazed, though he couldn’t tell for sure with that bag over his head.

"Aim!"

Jael released a breath, his body starting to relax. Finally, his tremors had stopped, mind going numb.

"Fire!"

He shot again.

"Fire!"

And again.

"Fire!"

And again.

[bloomfield-book-ratings]

Alien Covenant: Origins by Alan Dean Foster

I absolutely love the 1979 film Alien, I think it’s a pillar of cinema. The whole egg to face hugger to chest burster to double mouthed eyeless monster with acid for blood and a knife tail is like a perfect Pokémon evolution of both horror and terror. And don’t forget the set design holy cow. I was less impressed with everything that came after that until Prometheus which is, oddly enough, one of my comfort movies.

That’s when I became obsessed with the story line, it wasn’t just monsters and mayhem and roll credits anymore, nah bro we had malicious synthetics experimenting on humans without their knowledge or consent, and starting the chain reaction that led to the existence of the Xenomorph, and commits genocide no less. In Alien Covenant, which is a little too gory for me to watch a lot, the plot gets even more interesting with David disguised as Walter taking over the ship full of colonists and placing some embryonic face huggers in cryo storage.

I wanted to consume every available piece of information and additional lore or facts or information, I wanted to know so badly, I was so curious and fascinated. I’m telling you all of this so you know how much I love the franchise and how hard it is for me to tell you a hard truth: this book is terrible.

SPOILERS AHEAD

So first of all, the author has the same emoting capabilities as a paper towel. I felt nothing for any of the characters. Was that intentional? Should that have been intentional? Me thinketh not. For once I finally understand the faux pas that is “show don’t tell”, we get told a lot of things, things hard to envision and even harder to care about when the writing is as dry as a piece of burnt toast.

I swear this should not have passed editing inspection for several reasons. There were some continuity issues, the biggest one being a fight scene where descriptions like there being body parts flung in the air in an explosion and a soldier being pierced in the face with a long shard of bone ending in “no causalities on either side”. Uh, hello? Also a characters manner of speaking changes suddenly and jarringly in like, the last one sixth of the book? And was I to this a annoying old man British thing where he ended non questions with “what?” And called one character “old boy” a lot. You know the movie Chicken run? The old rooster? That’s all I could hear.

Sadly, this book doesn’t even need to exist at all. With the movie preceding it’s release and therefore the outcome already known, it held no intrigue or suspense in that department. We already know the Earthsavers don’t stop the Covenant from departing. And there is nothing added to the plot of Alien Covenant in any way, there’s just some stupid guy having dreams about the xenomorphs and gaining a cult following that try to prevent space colonization and fail. I cannot think of a single thing I can hold onto as being useful going forward. Nothing scientific, nothing notable about the characters was revealed, in 344 pages he drug out what could have been an after thought. Especially since none of the events in this book were actually brought up in the movie. I hate to say it, I hoped for so much more, but this story is useless and irrelevant. Worse, it’s not even interesting.

And oh my god don’t get me started on how confusing it was to keep track of characters when he used descriptors like “the matronly woman frowned at her smaller female counterpart as she spoke robotically to the portly and rotund pale man.” And then in the next bit he uses names but you have no idea who the name belongs to. Then he’s back to saying things like “the youngest male member of the council and the one with considerably more melanin than the rest of his associates”. I feel like he was kind of fat phobic but in a weird way like yeah imma write a bunch of fat characters so I can describe the way they’re fat in so many different ways, none of which are flattering or even neutral.

I wanted to like it. I wanted for it to be good. I hold the franchise and movie plots dear to my heart still. I am a devout member of this fandom, which I feel is still important to stress so when I say zero stars you know I was not coming from an antagonistic place or didn’t understand the subject, and I didn’t have any preconceived negative feelings toward it.

But I have been robbed by the worst thief of all. A bad book.

[the-darklings]

—𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒕𝒉 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒔𝒆𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒆;

—PART XVIII. | THE TRUTH WILL SET YOU FREE

pairing: john wick x f!reader x santino d’antonio

word count: 36.2k+ (honk, honk, honk x 2)

summary: ���You’re just a little tragedy, aren’t you?”

warnings: swearing, strong violence, blood, likely some emotional damage to readers inbound

notes: I waited for this chapter for a very, very long time and been laying the foundation for 250k. Lets begin. 

children of ares series: 01 | …. | 16 | 17 | . . | 19 |

Sometimes he genuinely wonders how many poor decisions led him here.

To this exact moment in time. To this exact set of circumstances.

“I wish to see him.”

Winston tilts his head at the cool demand, not letting any outwards reaction slip.

The Adjudicator stares him down like the request should have been fulfilled yesterday. He’s not, admittedly, used to people making such demands. Especially not so brazenly. And inside his own hotel no less.

He gazes at them for a beat before nodding his head stagily.

“Forgive me and my old age,” he begins calmly. “But who exactly do you wish to see? The chef perhaps?”

He knows perfectly well who the Adjudicator wants to see. Judging by the slight, annoyed pinch of their mouth so do they. Charon stands a step behind the High Table’s associate and his expression is as professionally cool as always. In truth, however, they are both wary at best.

“You know of whom I speak,” the Adjudicator snips, their voice that calm, almost robotic cold. “Santino D’Antonio was shot at this hotel, was he not? Mr Wick fired the shot but the bullet failed to kill him. To our knowledge, he is still in your care. Or is that incorrect?”

Keep him safe.

Such a simple request. A request to keep a man he barely tolerates on a good day shielded from other sharks. For once, Winston wishes you cared about yourself as much as you do about others.  

You, Santino, John—you’re all I have. I can’t lose anyone else. I can’t.

Sometimes—often—the memory of those words worries him. Truly. Wild, relentless drive and desperation rarely mix well together. The former you have plenty of and the latter has been mounting too rapidly for his liking.

Silencing his thoughts, Winston tilts his head in an accommodating manner. Conjuring an innocent expression, he nods his head for what feels like the hundredth time in the last hour alone.

“Ah, yes, Mr D’Antonio. Tragic, truly, but the Vipress saved his life,” he explains smoothly, watching the individual before him with the same shrewdness the Adjudicator is watching him. “Rather heroically, too. Quite surprising that the Table did not see her actions as such.”

The Adjudicator’s eyes narrow. From their spot on the office chair, the Table’s representative regards him with disinterested, yet vexed expression. Clearly, his approach of talking circles and giving half-answers about your and Johnathan’s whereabouts has not left a good impression.

That’s exactly the point though.

“The woman known to us as the Vipress had plenty of chances to stop Mr Wick,” the Adjudicator answers; an expected explanation, a pitiless one, too. “She failed. Even though she is one of the few individuals realistically capable of such a feat. Therefore, under our assessment, there is nothing here to celebrate.”

Winston turns, lowering his whiskey glass back onto the table. He leans back towards it, completely relaxed, his palms resting against the edges of the smooth wood.

“Loyalty,” he muses lightly, letting the word hang in the air for a bit. “Such rarity nowadays, would you not agree? It is rather difficult to stay neutral when you have an emotional investment in both parties caught in the conflict.”

The Adjudicator stands at that, their willowy frame stretching to their full height. Little sympathy can be found in their stony expression. “Only loyalty to the High Table should matter. The Vipress has shown to have very little of it. Now, Mr D’Antonio?”

He didn’t expect this to be easy. But he doesn’t let so much as a whisper of his exasperation show. Winston considers, calculating what harm could be done versus the gap of time it might buy him, hesitating for only a beat before dipping his head in agreement.

“Of course, follow me,” he says pleasantly, gesturing with his arm. “He came out of surgery several days ago.”

Over the Adjudicator’s shoulder, a faint glint of surprise shows on Charon’s face before the man blinks it away swiftly. The concierge knows better than to question outright. Old and tested loyalty lives between them. The manager always does things for a reason, and the concierge follows graciously every time because he knows as much.

The Adjudicator stalks after him silently, Charon a few steps behind them. The elevator ride down is silent and tense. No need for empty exchanges between them and neither party bothers pretending otherwise.

Only a day left on the clock. Then he’s expected to step back and leave his hotel—his legacy—behind to some stranger the Table deems worthy. The thought alone almost makes him scoff again.

The High Table can take the Continental from his cold, dead hands.

And he imagines there are at least one or two individuals who may have something to say about that.

You have contributed to the chaos, little hatchling, but what now? You can’t win this game by sacrificing your Queen.

The elevator halts with a rumble. Worn metal creaks. Winston reaches out, pulling back the metal partition. The white hallways of the medical wing are silent and undisturbed by the bustle of the front foyer. Heaviness hangs in the air as he strolls down the long stretch of white, his shoes clicking against the spotless flooring. Charon and the Adjudicator are only several steps behind him but he’s in no hurry.

They round the corner and three heads turn in their direction.

The fourth doesn’t move.

Here we go.

Camorra’s Elite Four sit like guard dogs of the most vicious variety at the end of the lengthy hallway. Behind them stands a door. Behind that door, Winston knows, Santino D’Antonio now lays, clinging to his life and healing. Hopefully. He couldn’t care less about the Italian living or dying, but for your sake, he needs the arrogant man to pull through.  

The closer they come, the tenser the air becomes.

The tallest and broadest of the guards is leaning against the wall but pushes away from it upon their approach, uncrossing his arms as he stops in their path. The first line of defence.  

Another—the sharpshooter, if Winston recalls correctly—rises a second behind that, lowering a gleaming pistol he was fiddling with. Eyes narrowed, distrustful.

The youngest—the smiling nightmare, as you’ve called him once—doesn’t shift from his spot on the floor, a laptop in his lap. A pop of chewing gum fills the silence when he glances up lazily at the commotion over his round sunglasses.

And finally closest to the door—nearest to the Camorra boss, always the most vicious and final deterrent—stands the Devil of Camorra. He doesn’t look at them. He almost appears thoughtful, playing with a lighter in his hand as he leans against the wall.

Click, click, click.

“Can we help you?” the tallest asks politely, his Italian accent faint but still noticeable.

The sharpshooter stands by his side, frowning faintly.

A polite, unspoken warning hangs in the air. The woman—D’Antonio’s bodyguard that you’ve called a good friend on many occasions—appears to be missing. Though Winston doubts she’s far behind. He’s seen her by the Italian side for almost as many years as he’s seen you.

The Adjudicator speaks before he can. “I wish to see the Camorra family head, and the new member of the High Table, Santino D’Antonio.”

“Respectfully, who are you supposed to be?” the sharpshooter demands, his dark eyes narrowing marginally.

Loyal. To a degree at least. Winston had been hopeful they would be. He’s not surprised to see them standing guard, either. He’s betting on them continuing doing so.

“An Adjudicator,” the youngest quips from his spot on the floor, his fingers clicking across the keyboard. Another pop of gum follows. “Sent to adjudicate this hotel, I bet. Bang, bang—not a good look for the sturdy, old table. Seccante.”

The Adjudicator’s head slants; a calculating motion. “The Chameleon of Camorra,” they state flatly, unimpressed. “Former association with an organisation known as Slifer before Giovanni D’Antonio recruited you to Camorra’s ranks, correct?”

The young man in question drops his head back with a gleaming smile. The tattoos across his neck ripple with the gesture, and a gleam of white appears even brighter in the artificial light.  

“Oh yeah,” he drawls, amused. “Papi Giovanni welcomed me with open arms.”

There is clearly more to this tale. The implication is blatant even if the words are presented as a joke but Winston can still read it.

“You can’t see him.”

All eyes slide towards the Camorra Devil. His voice is gravelly, uncompromising, and he still doesn’t bother looking at them. Part arrogance, Winston imagines, and part genuine disinterest with them and the situation.  

“I have the right—”

“We have orders not to let anyone see Santino until he’s fit enough to take back command.”

At long last, the Devil turns towards them. The look in his icy eyes is a clear, if barely polite, warning. The man called Hector always had a reputation for being Giovanni’s most violent lapdog. Serving Camorra for years without a single falter. That level of loyalty is admittedly rare, especially when Winston knows others have tried to recruit the Devil in the past.

Hector, unlike you, has never been bound by a debt that kept him chained to Camorra. He stays because he wants to. If there are any other reasons for that loyalty, they’re unknown to the manager.

Though Winston has never interacted with the leader of the Elite’s, he’s heard plenty about him, and can understand why his name is spoken with trepidation. Despite it being subtle, the air around the man is still hostile. Brimming with a promise of violence.

“Whose orders?” the Adjudicator interrogates. “The council of Camorra—”

Whatever card they were hoping to play gets crushed in seconds.

“Our current acting boss. The Vipress,” the Devil announces, sounding annoyed, and pockets his lighter before pushing away from the wall. Another pop of gum ripples from the youngest Elite. Hector prowls closer, deliberately slow, and walks past the other two members of the guard. The Devil halts in front of the Adjudicator, appearing utterly bored. “You might be familiar with her. Stubborn, demanding, likes knives a little too much, starts shit wherever she goes. Santino named her his heir. No one is allowed to see him on her orders.”

Winston has to bite back a small smile. Perfect.

The Adjudicator stands completely still, their stare hard while they process the new information.

The manager hangs back, not saying a word, watching the silent face-off with vague amusement. He has to admit that at least the Devil doesn’t lack nerve. The other three don’t appear nearly as intimidated as they should be, either.

Adjudicators are feared for a reason. They have a vast reserve of power bestowed upon them by the highest tiers of the Table. Adjudicators stand even above Continental managers. Something Winston has been rather unpleasantly reminded of with Johnathan’s latest actions.

“The will of the Table stands above the individual order of someone who has been made Excommunicado.”

Mild but icy. Clearly, the not-so-subtle defiance from the Devil of Camorra hasn’t gone down well, either. Behind the tall man, the other two shift in their spots, tense. An exaggerated sigh sounds from behind them, and the chameleon rises to his feet as well. Cracking his neck, he strolls towards his associates, leaning his shoulder against the sharpshooter. The other man doesn’t so much as blink, clearly used to such antics.

“We answer to the will of the Camorra boss only,” Hector informs coolly, his tone just barely passing for polite. “We have since the beginning of Camorra family inception.”

We don’t answer to you, goes unsaid but the double meaning is clear. Winston straightens, a touch surprised. He wasn’t aware that such a divide existed between the highest tier of Camorra members and a top level High Table representative. He wonders if it’s more so the threat to their boss—the last D’Antonio left to carry the bloodline that founded Camorra centuries ago—or simple dislike that is driving such blatant disobedience.

The manager sincerely doubts that this refusal to comply is born out of genuine loyalty towards you or respect for your command. Especially from the Devil who holds no loyalties other than one towards Camorra.

The Adjudicator’s head dips, their short black hair appearing even darker in the bright light.

“There are rules. You are not above them,” they speak briskly, softly. “No one is above them. You are all bound to the will of the Table and exist under it.”

Another obnoxiously loud pop of the gum and the youngest of the Elite’s grins. “Actually we’re part of the Table,” he notes nonchalantly, but there is something icy about the slight edge to his grin. Distantly, Winston recalls you telling him that from all the Elites, it’s the chameleon you won’t want as your enemy the most. “Take one leg out and the whole table wobbles.”

The silence that follows those words is stifling. No one speaks or moves.

“No rules have been broken,” Hector eventually bites out, blunt but controlled. “We’re just guarding our boss. Shouldn’t you be commending our loyalty, huh?”

An unexpected bait but not one the Adjudicator rises to. Their expression remains steely, their eyes dragging over the Camorra Four before they finally turn away.

“Very well,” they intone flatly, their eyes narrowing marginally, and their tone dismissive. “Next time I will return with a direct order to stand down.”

“You do that,” the Devil shoots back without missing a beat.

The Adjudicator pauses, their eyes flickering back towards the man, digging into him for a moment before their attention drops away. Winston remains composed when the Adjudicator’s stare moves to him next, cold as ice, an unspoken burn of anger present in their eyes. Clearly, they’re not very used to not being heeded.

“I will be in my room.”

The Adjudicator doesn’t stick around to see if anyone has anything to say about that. They turn to go without sparing anyone another word, their steps brisk and sharp, betraying the displeasure absent from their frosty expression.

It’s quiet while they all stand, listening to the sound of retreating footsteps and, eventually, the whirl of the elevator going up.

It’s only then that the Elites relax, their guarded demeanours easing a bit.

“So mean spirited,” the chameleon mutters under his breath, unimpressed, and turns to go back to his laptop. “Exhausting.”

“Gentlemen.”

Winston nods his head at the Devil specifically, but Hector only grunts under his breath with a roll of his eyes. Briefly, he glances at Charon, his eyes narrowing before he turns away and stalks back to his previous spot.

Conversation over.

Fine by him.

The other two—the sharpshooter and the strength—return his nod, polite but stiff.

Winston tips his head in their direction one last time, and turns on his heels to go. No one stops him, and Charon trails after the manager a few seconds later.

It’s only when they both step into the elevator, the door closing softly behind them, that Charon finally speaks, “Nicely done, sir.”

Winston sighs, his shoulders dropping.

“It’s only a temporary deterrent, I’m afraid,” he admits and knows he’s right. If the Adjudicator does get that order the Four will not be enough. “The hatchling?”

The concierge straightens, his hands folded behind his back.

“The last sighting was reported as the Moroccan Continental, sir.”

There is a tickle of relief followed by a sting of concern. “Good. Then she as good as made it.”

He’s still not quite sure how he feels about the idea, however.

“If I may, sir,” Charon begins as if sensing the manager’s unease. “You do not look pleased about that.”

There is no point in trying to deny it, so Winston doesn’t.

“Not at all,” he agrees smoothly, feeling the elevator halt and the concierge moves ahead, opening the partition for them. “If it had been up to me, she never would have had to go back there. But she’s been reckless and manoeuvred herself into a corner with only one ace left to play. Herself.”

Seven years in this world. Seven long years of fighting for freedom and now there is a reputation that has been built upon that desperation. A reputation that has attracted all sorts of attention over the years.

Charon both looks and sounds troubled while they walk through the lobby. “Is there a reason for concern, sir?”

All these moving pieces forming an ever-shifting pattern. Something has been brewing for a while now. Winston can’t help but feel like he’s missing and not seeing something crucial. Like all those pieces are put together at a slightly wrong angle, disorientating the whole picture.

What will you do now, little hatchling?

The Elder. That history between you, that story you shared—they all weigh heavily on the manager’s mind. Always have.

He comes to a gradual stop.

“Oh, yes,” he mutters, pensive, shaking his head as he glances at the concierge beside him with open unease. “Most certainly.”

Every breath takes notable effort.

Your instincts pinprick, trying to acclimate to the too-familiar surroundings—count and anticipate any potential threats. Everything about being back here feels so familiar it is its own kind of torture.

Your skin itches. One side of your face and hands—everywhere the scorching sun has managed to touch you the most—stretches uncomfortably with every twitch of your muscles. It’s a discomfort that comes with sunburns often earned in an unforgiving terrain like the desert, and you try to lick your dry lips, lifting your head. Your vision swims immediately, an explosion of vivid spots blinding you, and you careen dangerously to one side, hissing under your breath.

Eyes track every jerk of your body, and you know full well you’re not alone in this tent.

You’re almost afraid to look at him. Then feel idiotic for feeling that way. Maybe it’s because you had hoped that this chapter of your life was shut and laid to rest long ago, and it’s a hard pill to swallow, knowing that he was right after all.

“Drink.”

It’s then that you notice a cup sitting on a small, wooden table to the side. Part of you wants to cackle till you choke when you realise it’s the same green cup you drank from during your first test with him years ago.

Gathering yourself, you reach for the cup despite your dread, your digits folding around it carefully.

The drink inside smells minty and fresh but you don’t find anything amiss with it on the first inspection. A vague recollection of a similar scent tickling your senses when you were coming in and out of consciousness comes crawling back. With that in mind, you finally tip the cup down, taking a purposeful sip.

It empties in three slow gulps and you lower it back onto the table, still silent. It does make you feel better instantly, lifting the dense fog that was previously crushing your mind. A sense of déjà vu nips at your senses but you push it back. Not much point in delaying this. Though it doesn’t surprise you that he gave you time to gather yourself.  

Kindness with this man, you have long since learned, comes in the smallest of gestures. Tiniest of moments.

Drawing your knees closer, you sit up slowly, your head lowered.

“Why have you come?”

His words send a shiver down your spine that has little to do with heat. You’ve forgotten how much quiet power always rings through his baritone. His smooth, accented words wash over you like a tidal wave; gentle as they are dangerous. Misleading with their softness.

Swallowing, you force your limbs to obey you—to shift the worn muscles into an appropriate position. One knee digs into the carpet beneath you, your hands lacing over your bent thigh when you reposition yourself into a kneeling position. Your head is still lowered and you realise, then, that it isn’t fear of punishment that’s forcing you to stare at the ground.  

It’s him.

He once managed to get under your guard with startling ease and you scrubbed him away. Walked away from him and everything he offered. Tried to forget him despite the cracks. Your choice had made you feel powerful back then. In control. Despite there being a part of you that had longed to stay, you never quite regretted your decision to leave.

Worst, perhaps, is the knowledge that it wasn’t one-sided. You weren’t foolishly pining after the most powerful man in the world. You weren’t naively seeing something that didn’t exist. If anything, his interest in you had been more obvious from the start.

“I—” you mumble, near choking on your suddenly heavy tongue and mangled thoughts. “I came to seek repentance for my actions.”

Silence follows your muffled words and you stare at the ruby ring on your hand intently.

Will he turn you away? Consider you naive and foolish for hoping there’s some semblance of hope?

And where is John? Did he only pick you up and not him? Your weapons—what few you still have—are still on you because you can feel them against your body with every inhale and exhale.

Your empty stomach rolls and you have to bite back the acid welling at the back of your throat the longer you wait. The thrumming of your own heart almost drowns out his voice when the answer does finally come.

“Stand, viper,” the Elder states calmly. “You do not grovel at my feet.”

And just like that your breaths calm. Your dread ebbs like sea waves receding. With his words, you remember that you met as equals and parted as such despite you unearthing his true identity.

He’s right. You don’t grovel at his feet. Or anyone’s.

You stand at once, balancing on your heels, and square your shoulders. The lock of your jaw is a firm one, your stare steady and the steel in your stance returns easily. In that, it feels like no time has passed at all.

Straightening, you look ahead and meet his inquisitive stare evenly.

This time the sight that greets you is befitting the man who rules the High Table. This is how you had expected him to be the first time you met. A golden chair that reminds you more of a throne, and extravagant robes that breathe wealth and showcase his status. Surrounded by his people in a subtle warning though you know he can more than hold his own.

He oozes that unnerving authority but his face is still familiar. Few years have passed since you’ve last seen him, yet he barely looks any different. If it weren’t for several new lines creasing his face, you would have thought that time has simply paused here while you’ve been gone.

The quiet intensity of his heated regard hasn’t changed, either. Nor has the unease or the thrill that comes with having his complete attention on you.

He watches you unblinkingly and you find yourself swallowing again, an immovable knot sitting in your throat.

“Here you are.”

It’s a soft, thoughtful statement and you’re not quite sure what to make of his words or his demeanour, so you settle on a simple, “Here I am.”

He stands at that, his robes rustling in the wake of his sudden movement. His steps are measured and leisurely as he approaches. The Elder’s stare takes every inch of you in and you don’t lower your eyes. He doesn’t look particularly pleased with what he finds and you can’t help but wonder why.  

It still kills a small part of you. That you had to come back but only because you need a favour from him. Not because you returned to join him or even visit him, if you even could.

A part of you…

“I thought that maybe…” you mutter when he halts before you—all heat, spice, and that razor-sharp gaze that seems to burn into you—his hands lacing in front of him as he watches you keenly. “That maybe you forgot about me.”

It’s been years after all. You’re just you. One person in a machine so much larger than yourself. If Elder considered Tarasov to be nothing more than a piece in a more elaborate game years ago—at the near height of his power—then you couldn’t have possibly been that important. Or even noteworthy. He might have thought highly of you once but that was then.

His expression, however, gives you an answer before he can verbally do so.

“How could I?” he questions curiously, softly. As if the concept of forgetting you is truly an inconceivable one for him.

You work your tongue, trying to think of something to say, something clever, but nothing comes.

You simply stare up at him mutely, taking him in, and he you, and it does indeed feel like no time has passed between you. Even though so much is different now.

“I almost came back. Once,” you confess in a breathless rush, blinking rapidly because it’s hard to keep a straight expression under that scrutiny. “I got desperate and angry and…”

And Tarasov won’t let you help Camorra with the Albanians. Had treated you like nothing more than a dog, reminding you of your place. Dependant on his goodwill of which he had none. So you had ran like a reckless idiot. Sick and tired of being dependent on his word. Hoping for his mercy or any crumb of kindness.

“I know,” he murmurs in reply, a secret for you alone. “I waited for you.”

Air escapes your lungs at that mild admittance. At the way his eyes drag over your features, savouring but still guarded—always guarded. Everywhere from your eyes, to the dip of your collarbone, and the bow of your lips. There are others scattered around the tent but it feels like you’re the only ones here.

The golden hue of his eyes glints with knowing light at your reaction, and you force your tongue to work, “I wish to explain myself.”

He nods his head once. Prompt as it is anticipatory. You imagine that to him this is all playing out exactly as he’d been expecting it to. You’re back but a part of you is mangled exactly like he predicted it would be. Vengeance has led you here. Tarasov may be dead but you have only dug yourself into a deeper hole.

“You came all this way,” he says knowingly, his head slanting and lips thinning into an enigmatic half-smile. “Speak freely, viper.”

Your eyes, in return, sweep warily over others inside the tent. Some familiar faces. Others are unknown to you. Only pointed stares and blank expressions greet your curiosity. Inscrutable, severe stares that judge your every move and word. Saad is nowhere to be seen. That surprises you but you don’t let it show.

The Elder notes your wariness, not bothering to look away from you when he commands a soft, “Leave us.”

As one, everyone inside the tent rises. They don’t question, nor do they linger. They file out in a neat line, their robes rustling in the breeze, and you stare after them, surprised. You didn’t expect him to dismiss everyone solely because you felt uneasy talking to him with others around. Although seeing the space clear out is, admittedly, a relief.

Now it’s you two alone and it changes the air between you again. This puts you back in time, even if you try to remain unaffected.

But it’s hard not to. A part of you still sees him as Rafik. A man you have spent endless hours talking to about everything and nothing—a man you considered close to you—despite knowing full well that Rafik isn’t even his real name. In fact, you have no idea what his name is. Or who he is. Not really. He’s still just layers upon layers of mystery. Power. Ancient and tangible.

The way he gazes at you makes you think that isn’t the case, however. There is warmth woven into his regard, an almost fondness that despite being muted is clear to you.

The darkness of that stare is arresting when he reaches out, the warmth of his fingertips ghosting over your bandaged ear. You don’t hold back your wince of pain, pulling away from the contact.

The Elder’s mouth slants downwards at that, his eyes narrowing marginally. He looks thoughtful, displeased almost. The shadow across his expression is new to you. You’ve seen him as many things but tense and unhappy is not one of them.

“What have they done to you?”

It’s a quiet question—a collection of sharp, hard syllables—dragging themselves from somewhere deeper, you can tell.

Your lips part, ready to tell him everything but you stop yourself at once. How would he even look at you if you knew what you did? There would be no chance of forgiveness then. If he knew how badly you broke the very rules he enforces upon everyone in their world repeatedly.

With that in mind, you instead settle on a weak, “Guess you were right.”

Do not let that fire consume you.

He was right. He was always going to be right, you were just too blind and proud to admit it.  

His expression strains, his touch dropping away, and a glint catches your eye when his hand lowers. You feel a thud against your ribcage, and focus on that golden skin, barely breathing to a point his next words hardly register.

“This is not something I wished to be right about,” he says unhappily.

You swallow. Then again.

“You’re wearing it.”

He pauses. It doesn’t take long for him to figure out what you mean by that. The pad of his index finger brushes over the ring he’s wearing absentmindedly. The golden plate seems to gleam at the touch despite neither of you standing in direct sunlight.

“It was a gift,” he says gently in return, his features guarded once more. “A parting gift from you.”

It doesn’t explain much yet it explains everything.

On your last day together, when you visited Casablanca together, you had gotten it for him after arguing Saad out of some local currency under the guise of buying something for yourself. A souvenir as far as he knew back then. But the ring had caught your eye first. Handmade ring crafted out of pale golden metal. It reminded you of the sun that is his presence and the endless stretches of sand surrounding you.

Grinning, and more than a little unsure, you had presented it to him when you sat on the beach together, calling it a thank you present because you hadn’t worked up the courage to talk to him about leaving just yet. He had accepted it readily, his fingers lingering against yours when he took it, and even back then you couldn’t quite describe the emotion you glimpsed across his face.

You hadn’t dared to assume it was wonder back then, but it had been a close thing.

You certainly didn’t expect him to keep it after you left.

Or to still be wearing it after all these years. But maybe you’re jumping to conclusions and he’s only wearing it today. Specifically for this.

The silence between you changes yet again, morphing. Something more charged. Near oppressive.

Nerves flutter inside your tired body and you allow a soft wisp of breath to escape you, thinking of something to break the tension with.  

“Where is John?” you question quietly, your voice thick.

His jaw ticks, and he looks away, staring out towards the horizon.

“Mr Wick is safe,” he answers coolly. “Do not fret for him. He will answer for his wrongdoings in due time.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

The Elder turns to face you again, and it unnerves you because he keeps slipping between the man you lived with for months, and the man who controls the High Table. One is close to you, familiar. The other feels removed, walled off. No longer a sun but a cold, distant star. Unreachable to you.

His expression softens a touch when he notices your startled expression.

“Mr Wick has returned only to unleash havoc,” he informs you calmly, matter of factly. He doesn’t sound or look angry or even displeased, yet something about the piercing gleam in his eyes makes you think that it will not be a confrontation without consequences. “His punishment will reflect that. He made the decisions that led him here,” he fades off, pausing, his stare flickering over your features once more. “As have you,” he adds.

“I’m sorry,” you force out, shaking your head, cringing slightly at the pain that flares through your skin at that. “They’re both important to me and—”

“I am not speaking about Santino D’Antonio getting shot, viper.”

Your head snaps up, your features slacking with confusion. “Then what...”

The Elder lifts his hand, his attention focusing on the ring on his finger instead. He seems to struggle with something internally before sighing softly and dragging his stare away from you once more. You wonder why. It’s almost as if it’s difficult for him to look at you.

“Do not tell me you were so quick to forget my warning to you,” he begins calmly, something aloof lingering in his voice. He walks past you, his fingertips tapping on his ring repeatedly. Your own fingers tighten into a fist when you note the shift in him, the Camorra ring pressing into your skin as a bleak reminder. Your eyes follow him as he goes, watching his broad back when he stops at the edge of the tent, looking out towards the vastness of the desert. “I told you what will happen if anything befalls Viggo Tarasov before your debt is repaid.”

Ice pierces you, burrowing under your skin viciously, and you’re glad that he can’t see your face because for a second your expression comes apart completely.

“I did not—”

“Do you really think I know you so little that lying to me would work?”

Your mouth snaps shut, a bitter tang stinging the inside of your mouth. He’s right. You feel as disappointed in yourself as he sounds. You’ve always prided yourself on being forward and direct. Yet your instinct now had been to lie, to deny, because the idea of him knowing terrifies you.

Because it puts you in so much worse of a position than what you first expected to be in.

How? Why would he even think—

The High Table would have—

“I know why you came here,” he says, at last, turning to face you again. His expression is grim and he watches you closely as he strolls closer. Despite his leisurely gait, his stare is searing. “You came in hopes that I would lift the Excommunicado. You came in hopes that you can clear your name. But your crimes run deeper than you are willing to admit to me.”

“I’ve disappointed you,” you assume blankly. “Is that it?”

He shakes his head once. “No, viper,” he responds placidly, his eyebrows knitting. “You have disappointed yourself. You are so much better than this. Yet your recklessness has led you to this. Did you really think that I would not find out?”

He comes to a stop before you again and you meet his stare.

There is no point in lying, so you don’t.

“If you knew,” you start, choked, forcing down your emotions as you search his face, and try to quieten the pounding of your heart. “Then why was I not declared Excommunicado sooner?”

A long beat of suffocating silence, and then, “Because I shielded you.”

He says it so simply. Like it’s as expected as the sun rising each morning. A faint knell of wind chimes fills the hush between you this time, and you peer at him in disbelief. Shock.

“What?” you exhale shakily.

The Elder shakes his head once, sighing. “I gave you a chance in hopes that you will take it and savour your new freedom,” he explains smoothly, his fingertips still dancing over the ring. His strong profile only accents his handsomeness and you see the conflict there—see the shadows dancing inside the inky pools that are his eyes. “I overlooked your wrongdoing. Because I understood your pain then as I do now. I cautioned the Table to look the other way. But what did you do with this gift, viper? You wasted it. And there is nothing to be done now. Even I cannot shield you from the storm that has been unleashed. The scale has been tipped towards chaos now. You broke the rules in the open, for the whole world to see,” he continues, each word making your heart beat harder inside your chest, his attention returning to you, “And now here you are.”

So that’s why.

Why there was such a long pause between Tarasov’s death and administration contacting you about you being free of your debt. The silence that made you so uneasy back then. The High Table had been suspicious, had assumed you played a part, but the Elder pulled their attention away from you.

Years later, he’s still looking out for you.

You’re too speechless to say much past gaping at him; a thousand thoughts fluttering through your mind, all of them wild and hurtful.

Your attention falls to the carpet beneath your feet, and stays there for some time while you digest what this means.

He knows. He’s known for weeks now.

Just like that the already shaky foundation beneath your feet slips further.

Helplessness closes in and your eyes sting.

Consequences. Everything has a price and it was foolish of you to assume that your luck will continue. You’ve been too quick to celebrate and now...

“What now?”

A whisper of material sounds in your ears and the heat of his palm comes to rest against one side of your face. You feel that warmth sink deep into your skin and it burns. Both a physical ache and something deeper. Your eyes open as he guides your face upwards for him to see.

You lean on the side of caution and say nothing, waiting for him to speak first.  

“Now, my viper,” he whispers, a touch forlorn. “You face the consequences of your actions.”

Forcing down your fear, you give him a firm, unyielding, “If you’re going to kill me, at least make it quick.”

His palm pulls back but not all the way. His knuckles trace over the curve of your cheek—so faint you barely register the sensation. “I would never kill you.”

“But?”

He seems to be considering something hard, his regard in a constant flux between warring emotions, “But you cannot be seen as walking away without punishment after what’s happened. It is the way of things,” he finally concludes.

You pull away from his touch, your eyes burning, “So be it,” you mutter, shaky and forcefully casual. “But I don’t regret stepping in. I don’t regret any of it. I would do it all again.”

Even if it meant the pain and the heartache. Sleepless nights and blood.

Because at least they’re all alive. Even if this is the sacrifice for that victory.

You saved them, and you would never regret that.

“Is this love?”

Your attention snaps back to him at the gentle murmur of his question. There is little distance between you—to a point you can feel the heat of his broad build and the phantom sensation of his exhales against your skin.

He didn’t specify who the love is for.

Deep down, you know it’s not so simple to untangle who means what to you anymore. It’s a mess of different emotions and loyalties. Everyone in your life that has made themselves a place in it, you love fiercely. Even if they’re all different kinds of love. All you know—all you need to know—is that you would gladly stand here for any of them. Punishment and consequences be damned.

“Yes.”

You’re not sure why you expect him to be irritated, perhaps even disappointed in your answer, but he only seems to consider your words for a while.

Fierce desert heat rolls across your skin while you wait for a response but he seems to be in no rush to provide you with one. His lips part, his head lowering and he makes a small sound at the back of his throat; half-disbelieving, and half-thoughtful.  

“How odd,” he muses faintly, his features drawing into something desolate. “I do not quite recall the last time I felt envy.”

Your eyes flutter shut, trying to push his words and the emotion in them away. He means that genuinely, and you know that. You’ve lived with him for months and have seen a great many sides to him. That loneliness—that drive to be something more, to be understood by someone else—is what drew you together in the first place. Bonded you as deeply as it did.

Despite the nip of sadness you feel for him, you don’t contradict him—don’t say anything at all, in fact.

“What is it that you want from me?”

The Elder appears lost in his head for a while before he finally responds, “You already know, viper,” he says in a knowing murmur. “Otherwise you would not look at me with such sadness in your eyes.”

“You want me to stay.”

“Yes,” he agrees with a slight nod, his previous melancholy receding, and his guard slipping back on. “It is the only way that your life can be spared. Your service to the High Table will be used to absolve you of your crimes.”

You can’t quite help the bitter, brief laugh that slips free from you. “And is love a crime? I’m being punished for caring. For wanting to keep my family safe.”

He doesn’t say anything but you can guess what he’s thinking.

You broke the rules. Killed Tarasov. Interfered when you could have killed John and proven your loyalty to the High Table. Rules apply to all—no exceptions.

You don’t want to think about what would be the outcome if he knew about Chicago as well. Then, you conclude numbly, even his favour won’t save you from death.

“For how long?”

The Elder doesn’t reply. You already know, his expression seems to say though, and your composure fractures. Sucking in a deep breath, you chew on your inner cheek, half-turning away from him.

Because of course you know.

“For life,” you choke out.

“Yes,” he agrees, his voice gentle. “You will become my fourth disciple, and my apprentice, working directly under me,” he explains carefully, watching you just as closely, and you fight to keep a straight expression. “I am sorry, (Name), I wish there had been another way. But we are each masters of our own fate. You gave this life a chance once before and you embraced it effortlessly.”

You know that. You know that compared to what could have happened, this is a mercy. He will treat you fairly, kindly, and you’ve almost made this place, his people, your new life once before. If anything, on the surface alone, this is more of a gift than a punishment, especially with the amount of power you will gain by joining him.

And yet.

This also means that you will rarely, if ever, see your friends and family again.

Everyone you love and care for will be removed from you. People who join the Elder don’t go back to their old lives. Service to the High Table becomes their new life. The tribe, their new family.

No Winston or Charon. Santino or John. No Ares or the Elites. No Sofia or Cassian.

Just no one.

The tear you feel in your heart at that thought nearly makes you choke on a sob. For all the physical agony you’ve been through in these last several weeks, this somehow hurts the most. The notion that you will never see them again, will never get to touch them or laugh with them, is agonising. Somehow it hurts even more than the realisation that you will be bound yet again, unable to be free, unable to live for yourself just like you always dreamt of.

A hand reaches for you but you stumble back a step, still not looking at him.  

“You will not be my prisoner, viper,” he tells you seriously. “I would never take that from you. But you—”

“Can never see them again, is that it?” you cut him off sharply.

You know he’s not used to being spoken to like that. You doubt anyone has even tried but when you lift your eyes to his, you notice how his own features smoothen in response to what he sees on your face. The grief and the pain. The raw, suffocating grip of it shackling you and dragging you down, down, down—

He doesn’t deny your words, however, and that’s answer enough.

“I know this is hard,” he says instead, and you think that sympathy you spy in his dark eyes is genuine, well-meant. “But I warned you where this path will lead you. You did not listen.”

It doesn’t help though.

God, it hurts so much. This is somehow worse than when John left. Worse even, is the fact that you have no one to blame. Not even the Elder. You did this yourself. Went into this fully knowing there is a chance it will all blow up in your face.

“Can I at least...say goodbye?” you wonder, your words thin, and inhale deeply despite the dry, hot air giving you little relief. “Spend some time with them before I leave?”

The Elder hesitates. “A week.”

You shake your head, stepping closer towards him. “Six months.”

His head slants; a colder, more authoritative motion. “Are you bargaining with me, viper?”

There is no hesitation in your reply, not this time, “Yes.”

“And what bargaining power do you have?”

It’s a curious question as opposed to condescending. Almost as if he’s trying to gauge how you will react, and you force your emotions back, licking your lips once. Your thumb smoothes against the inside of the metal band on your hand.

“I’m the acting boss of Camorra,” you remind him, straightening your shoulders once more despite the way you can feel your pulse fluttering against the base of your neck. You’re not sure if it betrays you but you certainly don’t let it show. “And I would respectfully ask that you give me six months. It will not change anything in the long run.”

The Elder’s attention drifts towards your hand, and he closes whatever little distance there is between you, reaching for it. You tense despite yourself when he carefully takes your clenched fist into his palm and lifts it between you. His thumb traces over your bruised knuckle—a tender, careful touch as if not to hurt you further—and a pensive hum slips free as he stares at the ring on your hand.

“You wear power beautifully,” he comments idly, and you have to hold back a shiver at the feeling of his thumb continuously journeying over your skin; nothing more than a tickle, a promise of warmth. The touch hurts as much as it soothes. “Three months. Offered to you only because you dare where others don’t. Because I am not unreasonable and while this is a punishment, I do not wish to see you unhappy.”

Too late for that nearly escapes you but you bite your tongue.

Three months. Just three. It will pass in a blink and then…

A lifetime away from everything you love, everything that is home and safety. Everything that’s important to you.  

“May...may I have a moment?” you request weakly. “Just to…”

He releases his grip on your hand and it falls to your side heavily. “Of course,” he voices graciously. “I will be back shortly but take the time you need.”

He steps past you once more but this time he heads towards the direction other men had left in earlier. He doesn’t pause and he doesn’t turn back to look at you, his gait slow but self-assured. You wait till his broad back disappears from your sight before you feel your expression crumble completely.

Pressing a hand against your face, you ignore the flare of pain where you dig too hard into your sunburnt skin. Instead, you focus everything inside yourself on controlling your despair and tears. You can’t fall apart now. Not after how far you’ve come and all you’ve been through.

Shuddering breaths wheeze past your mouth and nose, your shoulders quivering. Better to allow yourself this weakness now, alone, than to let the Elder or anyone see this slip.

Your shaking hands drag themselves away from your face and mouth, and your palm pushes against your breastbone. Beneath the material of your jumpsuit and skin, your heart hammers inside your chest like a wild beast desperate to escape. So afraid of the chain once again.

But what can you do? There is no other option. No escape. Nowhere to run, and even if you did, such action would only paint a bigger target on people closest to you. The only thing you would do by running is reassuring their demise.

The heel of your palm presses harsher against your sternum, maybe in some naive hope that you can tear your own heart out and it would be—

Oh.

You still, an unsettling sort of hush falling over you when a dark, insidious whisper slithers into your mind after all. You keep your palm close against the curve of your breast and think.

What would Winston do if he were here right now?

There is only one option, really.

Just the one.

But your mind and instincts go to battle at once. One side arguing for it and other against it. If you succeed...but if you fail…

But what other choice is there? Servitude or death? No.

A frustrated sound tears from the back of your throat and you drop your hand, standing to your full height, your eyes squeezing shut.

No. No, you will not let this pass. You will no longer be controlled. You’ve had enough.

Fuck consequences. You will deal with them as they come. You shouldn’t be punished for killing the man who took everything from you in the first place. You should not be punished for saving someone you care for—for interfering.

Your blunt nails bite into your palms to a point of pain despite that resolve. Because digging through that determination and rage is fear. Very simple human fear but you bottle it and shove it deep down.

No time for that now.

Power is a dangerous thing. You have to be willing to lose everything in order to take it.

And that’s exactly it.

Lose everything.

Just like that your taut limbs relax, the pounding inside your head retreating and dulling into a muffled buzz. You step forward one slow step at the time before dropping heavily onto the very throne you woke up to find the Elder sitting on.

Your eyes flutter close and you mull over the new path you’re about to step on, bowing your head in acceptance. So much for dreams of freedom. Your fingers ghost over your collarbone again and you smile this time; a cold, broken fragment of a smile.

Eyes closed, you listen to the sounds of the desert for a while, calming yourself. Wind against silk and tapestries. Faintest of whooshes caused by wind teasing sand away from the outer surface of dunes surrounding the camp. Sandorms, at least, you have not missed.

Deep down you can’t help but think that you always knew how this was going to end.  

People like us don’t get happy endings.

You ignore the ache inside your chest at the memory of Santino’s face, focusing instead on clearing your mind.

It takes at least another ten minutes before muted footsteps sound from ahead of you. You don’t lift your head at his approach, your arms hanging limp between your parted legs.

He pauses when he sees you. You suppose it’s rude, what you’re doing, sitting on his throne like it’s your own.

This time, you’re the one to tilt your head to one side, looking up at him from under your lashes.

The Elder doesn’t appear angry at your nerve to sit on his throne though. No rigidness to be found in his expression or slanting of his full mouth, not even a pinching of his brows; all telltale signs of his discontent usually. In fact, his eyes drag over your figure, lingering everywhere despite the distance.

For a man who doesn’t let others close, rarely lets his guard down in general, his appreciation—dare you say it, desire—is abundantly clear.

Jaw clamped tightly shut, you rise to your feet unhurriedly. Far steadier than you expected yourself to be capable of, and he steps closer towards you as well. Slow, bordering on cautious, and you wonder why. It’s like he’s afraid to blink lest you disappear.

But maybe that’s precisely it. Maybe he’s been hoping to walk into this tent and find you here every day since you’ve been gone. And now that you are here, he’s not quite sure what to do.

“How are you feeling?” he asks curiously, his accented words warming you like the setting sun, and you wonder what it may feel like to hear that voice for the rest of your life.

No turning back now.

Swallowing thickly, you ignore the pulsing numbness locking your throat, and wait for him to halt in front of you before you speak.

“I accept.”

A light sparks in his eyes—something burning and near living in its intensity, an emotion you have only glimpsed once before—as they roam over your features in search of an answer to a question he hasn’t asked.

“Three months,” you begin purposely, rushing your words out in a breathless whisper. He’s so close there’s hardly any distance between you at all—no room to turn away nor do you want to. The turquoise of his turban only seems to bring out the beauty of his dark eyes and golden skin. Draw you closer. He, too, hardly seems to be breathing while he listens to your words intently. “Then I come back here. To you. And stay. I will give this a chance but I can’t promise that it...will not be hard. In return…”

“The Excommunicado will be lifted upon your return to New York,” he reassures, still searching for something in your expression. “You have my word.”

His eyes lower and he breathes another sigh in a rare show of uncertainty.

“What is it?” you can’t help but wonder, confused.

“What proof do I have that you will uphold your word, viper?” he questions mildly, his probing stare digging into you. That challenging, clever stare that first got the warning bells ringing inside your head that this is not a man to be trifled with. “What will you give me in a show of fealty?”

You don’t say anything, peering up at him silently.

Seeing that, the Elder’s eyes slide towards your bare neck, and stop there. A second later, his strong fingers trace over the curve of the silver chain around your neck—

“No,” you choke out desperately, your hand snapping up to grip his own when his fingers slip around the metal. “Please, it’s not mine to give away.”

It’s Santino’s. When he gave it to you, over a year ago now, he asked to guard it for him, keep it safe. Even then, you knew it meant more to him than he would ever admit outright. You’re not quite sure where it comes from or who it belongs to but you have a strong inkling, and the idea of giving it away makes you feel sick to your stomach.

The Elder hesitates at your fragile plea, your eyes locking again, and fingers touching. “Yet it is important to you.”

More than he knows and certainly more than even you realised.

Here, now, faced with the prospect of losing it makes you think that you can’t live without it. That you need it or you will feel aimless and lost forever. It became an anchor slowly, with time, but now you value it above most things.

That realisation leaves you trembling before you conjure up some semblance of composure back.

“Please,” you plead again, soft and frayed. “Not this. I can give you something else. Something more.”

He doesn’t hide his palpable confusion, and that’s when you move closer, your fingers snaking up his neck as you lean forward and kiss him.

His moment of hesitation lasts no more than a split second before he grabs you around the waist, hauling you closer and you slip your arms around him, kissing him as deeply as you can. Your mouth hurts from how hard you kiss him, fervent and demanding, and despite his initial falter, he replies with equal drive and need. Your tongue slips inside his mouth, wet and hot, and you don’t compromise and neither does he. One hand grips the back of his neck where your nails sink into the firm, strong skin there, scratching and claiming. Your other drags across the scruff of his jaw, forcing him closer. Not that you need to, he holds you so close, every curve of your body presses into him.

He fuses you two together, the accessories of his robes wedging painfully into your skin but it only fuels you more. His large, burning hand settles against the back of your neck, holding you to him. Biting back a snarl, you try to wiggle your way free but his fingers dig in. Firm, unyielding, steadying; forcing a small gasp from you despite your best effort to hold it back.

You let everything flow outwards, biting down on his bottom lip greedily, and he groans loudly at the back of his throat—a deep, appreciative sound—that almost makes you purr in delight. All that control, all those guards, and you tore through them like tissue paper.

The taste of him mingles on your tongue, his nose nudging against your cheek when he deepens the kiss again, exploring and searching but with such desperation, it’s like he’s trying to drown himself in the kiss. In you.

Your lips tingle and feel partially numb by the time you finally part, breathing hard. Heat creeps up your neck and simmers in your gut while you continue holding onto him. The chain around your neck lays forgotten, both of the Elder’s arms locked firmly around you instead.  

Perhaps this is a kiss you should have shared years ago. That night by the fire you came dangerously close to taking this path. Claiming a lot more than just a kiss from him when he outright admitted that he would have made you his. A kiss that could have started something beautiful. It’s tainted now by the uncertainty of your shared future but you don’t point that out, only waiting for his reaction.

“Ya amar,” he breathes near reverent, his voice throaty, and gaze wild. He tries to leash his desire but you can still taste it, and with how thoroughly you kissed him, you have no doubt that he can say the same for you. “Why?”

“This is what you want,” you tell him, hushed words that brush against his lips as intimately as your lips have moments prior. “It’s what you always wanted.”  

He grips one side of your face, reminding you too much of someone you can’t afford to think of right now, and he shakes his head once.

“No,” he murmurs but the way he holds onto you betrays him as do his eyes that keep flickering back towards your lips. “What I always wanted was an equal,” he pauses for a beat, squinting at you like he’s taking you in with new eyes, like you’re a marvel to behold. “And you have become exactly that, haven’t you, my viper?”

Once you would have denied it, shielded away from saying anything on the matter. Once you simply won’t have believed it. But now there is nothing holding you back anymore.

In that freedom, you have unearthed a simple truth.

“Yes.”

His eyes flutter shut at your confirmation, and you hate the subtle glimmer of relief, even wonderment, you see creasing his expression. Like he’s waited his whole life for someone to say that.

“Three months,” he utters quietly like he doesn't want to disturb the moment. “Then you will return to me.”

“I always do.”

His grip on you constricts before loosening, lingering and reluctant to let go but he does eventually, his digits sliding away from the curve of your waist and neck.

You don’t bother asking how many rules you broke with this kiss.

You both got what you wanted.

“Your tent awaits you,” he prompts quietly, still drilling holes into you. “Rest before your journey, viper. We will see each other soon.”

You couldn’t run even if you wanted to or tried—neither of which you do. Too late for that now.

You dip your head in a small bow, but his fingers tap under your chin the moment you do, guiding your face upwards.

“Everyone but you.”

Then he pulls away, his thumb fluttering briefly over your bottom lip, and sits himself down on his throne, folding his arms and legs alike.

The perfect picture of a powerful, controlled ruler. Enigmatic and captivating.

Cruel as he is kind.

The Terrible Sultan, you can’t quite help your fleeting thought. Which makes you wonder if that, then, makes you his Golden Empress.

You don’t linger on that thought though, that connection that lives between you. Pivoting on your heels, you head towards the exit of the tent, feeling his eyes lingering on you the entire way.

Your mouth still burns but you ignore it.

Your expression slackens the moment your back is to him, coldness spreading through you as you step into the blazing desert sun.

E4 E5.

The roar inside your head is overpowering.

So much so that all you can do is sit slumped beside your old cot. You hadn’t quite made to it, instead half-collapsing beside it. Your folded knees partially obscure your sight as you stare blankly ahead but you can’t bring yourself to move. 

Instead, you work on glueing together that controlled calm the very man you just talked with taught you. 

Your mind doesn’t allow you rest though. Every wall of control and discipline you’ve ever learned from every influential person in your life dissolves in face of the blistering furnace that is your raging heart. 

A collection of voices scream at you inside your head, and it takes a while to be able to comprehend what one singular voice that sounds suspiciously like Winston is demanding. 

What have you done?

And all you can think in response to that is a tiny and uncertain, What I had to.

Lacing your fingers, you push them between your thighs, sucking in deep, near painful breaths. 

You don’t have time for this. No time for self-pity. There’s…

There’s too much to do. 

Yet all you want to do is sit here for the rest of your days and never move. 

You lick your lips, wetting them, and feel another torrent of emotions batter against your self-control. 

The taste of him is still in your mouth. 

You haven’t kissed anyone on the lips in five years. Not since that night on your birthday when you kissed John. The last time you ever laid your mouth on someone else in general…

A comforting memory slips through the chaos; wispy and balmy, like an embrace. A memory of heat enveloping you, familiar cologne, and dark curly hair. Santino’s small, drunken smile when you pressed a kiss against his forehead, your fingers cupping his face. 

The way he had held you to him around the waist, making you feel unfairly safe, cared for. 

You never did tell Santino about his whispered words at Naples. What he confessed to you between the shadowed walls of his bedroom. Back then, a large part of you still refused to believe it—believe him. Had chalked it up to nothing more than a drunken moment of sentimentality. But that’s no longer the case. You know better than that now. 

Three months will have to be enough to…

To say goodbye. 

Clinging to that memory—and the understanding that you don’t have time to waste—you rise to your feet. For what feels like a thousandth time, teeth gritted and jaw set, you still stand despite the knock. 

Your tent hasn’t changed much. Some things are in a different place to where you left them but the knowledge that it’s been waiting for you all this time is like a sledgehammer to the chest. 

Soon, if things come to pass, it will be your home permanently. 

You start with changing and washing up, followed by applying the salve you found in a small, ceramic pot onto your skin.

For the burns, the note left on your pillow beside the pot read. You didn’t need to ask questions about its origins. You know that penmanship as well as your own after spending endless months studying his research. 

The Elder has once again thought of everything. 

The salve is like a soothing, cool caress across your burned, dry skin and the relief is, once again, immediate. A part of you wonders if there will ever come a day when his genius doesn’t surprise and intrigue you. 

Food is harder. Your stomach still churns, and despite your best attempts to quell the sensation of queasiness, it doesn’t pass. 

You force some broth down despite that, chewing everything in front of you on automatic. Made with a loving hand and great care guarantees that the food is delicious yet you taste none of it. 

It’s quiet. 

The roar inside your mind has quietened. 

Now everything feels cold and far away despite the heat dampening the back of your neck already. The shock has worn off, leaving only throbbing absence behind. 

A commotion sounds outside your tent and your head snaps to the sound. A second later the flap parts and a familiar, dark spectre of a man walks inside, his eyes already locked onto you. 

“John.”

You jump to your feet at the sight of him, moving towards him in hurried steps. Saad slinks inside behind John and you halt at the sight of his looming frame, your eyes narrowing. So that’s where he’s been. No doubt watching over the deadliest assassin alive to make sure he doesn’t cause problems. 

John looks relieved to see you, his expression easing as he takes in your new attire. Previously severe contours of his features relax and his chin dips. 

“V.”

He always manages to pack so much into so little. It’s like the acknowledgement alone asks a hundred questions. 

Are you okay? 

Are you hurt?

What happened?

Though you want to ask him those same questions yourself. He looks terrible. His treatment, clearly, while not awful has not been as hospitable as your own. 

“Saad,” you address the man, nodding your head towards him. Much like the Elder, he hasn’t changed much. A new scar clips the left side of his chin but the rest of him remains the same. From his critical stare, crooked nose, and dark skin. “It’s good to see you again.”

He doesn’t smile and his expression doesn’t lighten at your words. You didn’t expect it to, either. 

“Viper,” he says so bluntly you blink and even John inclines his body towards the man, peering at him from the corner of his eye. “Finally back where you belong.”

Your mouth goes dry. 

“I’m going back to New York,” you inform him, jutting your chin. “So I’m afraid this is a brief visit only.”

Those pitch-black eyes study you for several moments and you can’t quite tell what’s going on behind those empty depths. 

“You have ten minutes,” he states briskly, his voice still flat and accent gruff. “Then I am to escort Mr Wick to his transport. Your presence has been requested by the Elder before your departure.” 

You straighten at that. John is much the same, his shoulders curving backwards. Those words are also when you notice that John is in a fresh, black suit. 

“Is there a problem?” you pose coolly, but your old sparring partner only watches you both with palpable distrust.

He glares at you for a beat, still deadly silent, before turning away from you both. “Ten minutes,” he grunts, and then he’s gone, the flap swishing in his wake while you listen to his retreating footsteps. 

“V, what happened?” John asks the moment Saad’s footsteps can no longer be heard. “He told me he saw you already.” 

He. The Elder. 

Dropping your head in a nod, you turn away from the man behind you, glancing briefly at your shaking fingers. You squeeze them painfully, pressing them against your chest instead, and focus. 

I can do this. 

“We came to an agreement,” you say swiftly, keeping your tone light, and glance at him over your shoulder. Your hand lowers from your chest at the look on his face. John looks confused. Unconvinced. “My Excommunicado will be lifted once I return to New York. You?”

You knew from the moment the deal was made that telling John would not be wise. You know the man inside this tent. His actions with Santino have proven to you that despite what you might say or do, it won’t change his mind. When it comes to push or shove, John will always shove. And he will shove with enough force to crush the opposition completely. 

His reaction to learning that you have to go back in three months would only land him in deeper trouble. Usually, you would expect him to maintain his ironlike composure. Very little could ever move John in the first place, especially towards anything rash. But that desperate gleam in his eyes when he told you that he will make up for his mistakes keeps constantly jumping to mind. 

You don’t trust John not to do something drastic right now. 

He doesn’t respond to your inquiry at first. Which gives you plenty of time to notice the sheen of pain exuding from him. You slant your body back towards him when you do, and take several steps closer.

“What’s wrong?” 

Still, he says nothing. 

You’re about to demand answers but he simply lifts his hand in the air between you. 

And you suck in a deep breath at the sight of his missing ring finger. 

The void is glaring and the finger that was once home for a golden wedding band is gone. As is the ring. 

“He wanted to see my conviction to the Table and told me to cut my finger in a show of fealty,” he explains lowly, his voice and expression worn. “I will be bound to it and remember through death after I complete my task. That was his will and my price to pay for survival.”

It’s so easy, you think in a dazed rush, to forget exactly what the Elder is capable of. He got the deadliest assassin in the world to mutilate himself as a punishment. You would wager he didn’t even threaten—he didn’t need to. 

It makes you painfully aware of what could have happened to you if you didn’t have that history with him. If he didn’t look at you with all that hidden emotion. If you were just a girl who broke his rules. What would have become of you then? Would you have lost a finger as well? Your whole hand? 

Would you have been just another casualty to be stomped out? Removed like a tumour because you didn’t abide. 

Suddenly you feel sick all over again. 

Suddenly all you want—

Your arms wrap around him and you squeeze the powerful frame of John’s body to you. He seems to deflate, unwind and soften, his arms wrapping tightly around you in return. 

“I’m sorry.”

Because you’re still angry at him, still bitter about all he’s done, but you care about him despite that, and know how deeply this would have hurt. Physical injury aside, it’s the loss of his ring that would have stung the deepest. 

John adores Helen still, loves her deeply. 

It’s not something that can fade so easily despite death. 

You felt panicked at the mere prospect of the Elder taking the silver chain around your neck. How did John feel having to lose his finger and his final sign of dedication to the woman he loves? 

But, it seems, that you have both gotten what you had coming. 

He, too, will be bound to the Table now. In a different way than you but bound all the same. This desperate, bloody fight to be free and you are both back exactly where you started. 

John’s face presses into you, savouring the contact, and you release him after another minute. It isn’t just him that needed this. 

“I have to tell you something,” he says the moment you pull back. 

The morose curve of his mouth chills you at once. Comfort, however fleeting, has now left the air between you. 

“What is it?”

“It’s...”

John stares at you for a while. An internal war rages behind his dark eyes and your confusion mounts at his hesitancy. Something is stuck behind his teeth and your stomach sinks the longer the battle goes on inside him.

“It’s about Cassian,” he eventually settles on.

Your brows draw together, caught off guard. Analysing his features closely, you wait to see if he will expand on that but as always John limits himself. He only peers at you but the regret you find lingering in the air around him unsettles you further. 

“What about him?”

He still looks torn and reluctant when his lips part, “After we parted. He found me,” he says and your shoulders lift with your forceful inhale. Understanding blooms steadily with every word. “He wanted revenge. For Gianna.”

The air inside the tent is blistering but you feel it cool by several degrees at those words. 

You had sworn an oath to Gianna that you will make sure her family name survives beyond her. Now you wear the very ring she and Santino have been struggling to earn their entire lives. 

Even worse were Cassian’s parting words to you that still haunt you. 

But if we ever meet again. I will kill you myself. 

Your mentor and friend. A brother you would have loved to have had. 

You could drill John about what happened while you were dealing with Lucien. You could accuse him of more wrongdoings and damage. Demand to know why he didn’t tell you sooner. Scorn him. Hate him.

But instead, you turn away, and let only one question slip free, the only one that matters, “Is he still alive?”

He answers you honestly.

“I don’t know.”

His voice is thick with muted remorse and you nod your head in acceptance of that honesty. You don’t say anything in return, still staring at your cot. Focus on the pattern of your old blanket.  

You feel it bubbling in the air between you and speak up before he can.

“Don’t apologise,” you order but it’s empty of fury. You just sound weary. So very weary. “I understand. I just…”

Your eyes slip shut. He was only trying to keep himself alive. It’s just survival. But it still hurts. In that moment, the urge to give up is near overpowering. It digs deep between your shoulder blades and straight into your heart but you shake it off.

You’re not getting out of this. There’s no hope for you now. You know how this ends. 

You almost recoil at Kishi’s voice filtering from the deepest recesses of your mind. 

No. There’s still hope. That’s exactly why you can’t give up. Because there is still hope. 

“Wish it didn’t have to be this way?”

John’s soft inquiry makes you flinch, snapping you to the present. Your eyes return to him and you examine him for a moment, digesting his words. 

“Yes,” you mumble in agreement, your sadness no doubt palpable. “Yes, I do.”

John lowers his head, a few strands of his raven hair tickling his cheek when he does. “Do you ever wonder…”

He stares at the empty space where his finger should be, flexing the remaining ones experimentally. You wait for him to continue but can tell from one look that he’s lost in his head, thinking hard about something. 

“Do I wonder what?” 

John’s lips part, then press shut again. His breaths are haggard, slow. 

“What might have happened had I never pushed you back? Never left.”

You’re not sure what to do with his curiosity. You’re not even sure how you feel about it.  

“I used to. Often,” you admit after several minutes of thought. Because what do you have left to hide? Now, perhaps, you can be as open as you wish to be, say everything because it’s not like— “Then I realised there was no point to it because you weren’t coming back,” you tell him and chuckle weakly, adding an ironic, “We’re each masters of our own fate.”

Shuffling your feet, you venture closer towards him, and lift your face to his, taking his hand into your own. His knuckles, much like your own, are bruised and swollen. His are worse than yours, however, and with that in mind, you lead him towards your cot. You reach into the still open ointment pot and gather some, rubbing your fingers briefly to warm the salve. 

Slowly, you drag your fingertips gently over his knuckles. It won’t be as effective as it is for burns but chamomile, echinacea and ginseng inside the salve should still help with healing and soothing the pain. 

“You always had the right to choose, John,” you say quietly, frankly, as you work to apply the salve on his other hand as well. He’s so still you’re not sure if he’s breathing. “The right to happiness. I understand that now. It’s always been your right,” you continue, a touch sadder, and your eyes skip upwards to rest on his face. His stare is gentle, his mouth parted while he peers at you. “I’m just sorry that you had to lose it. But to answer your question. No. Not anymore. It’s been a long time. We’re different people now.”

You finish applying the salve and release your grip but his fingers tighten around yours before you can.

“Maybe that’s a good thing,” he says, his words hushed. 

Your search his face again. Wonder what the future will hold for you both. “Yeah, maybe it is.”

A rustle sounds behind you and you turn just as Saad steps back into the tent, his features still rigid with displeasure. 

“Come with me, Mr Wick,” he instructs sternly and inclines his head in your direction. “The Elder awaits you.”

Grounding your jaw, you offer the assassin beside you a calm, “I’ll see you back at the Continental.”

John turns back towards you. He doesn’t look particularly thrilled at your words, a question hanging in the air around him. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” you say, unfazed. You pat his arm once as you pass; an old, routine gesture you haven’t done in years. “Tell Winston to get my favourite ready. He’ll know the one.”

You brush past them both, chin slanted at a higher angle. It’s late afternoon by now with the sun starting to dip towards the dunes. The air is still sweltering despite that, and a robed man waiting outside the tent gestures mutely in the direction he wants you to head in. 

You find the Elder at the edge of the camp, his presence a beacon that draws attention effortlessly. 

You pause at the sight of him, your shoes sinking into the golden sand beneath. He stares out towards the desert like you’ve seen him do a thousand times, and you wonder if he’s thinking about what you asked him years ago. Another ordinary night by the fire over your shared meal. 

Why not leave again? Why live in a desert? 

It is my duty. 

So you’re a prisoner of your own status? That seems lonely. 

And with his gaze focused on the fire instead of you, he had given you a simple yet serene response, Not anymore. 

Swallowing thickly, you stand there unmoving, watching him for a while. Something tells you that he’s as aware of you as you are of him. 

Loneliness is not unfamiliar to you. It’s a close companion. Has been for years. 

But you’ve found an escape. People to call your own. A sense of belonging.

He hasn’t. 

“It is peaceful here,” he speaks up suddenly, startling you. “Even as a boy, I loved the desert despite its cruelty. I have grown up appreciating its deadly beauty. Have learned to respect it and admire it.”

“Nothing about death is beautiful.”

A brief chuckle flows through the air and he turns to face you, his expression open, his stare narrowed but inquisitive as always. His laced fingers rest against his chest.  

“Your mind has been sorely missed, viper.”

The longing in those words brushes against your skin and mouth; an invisible kiss, an appreciation. 

You imagine that will change one day soon. 

Though it would be a lie to say that you, too, have not missed your discussions. The way you could submerge yourself in conversations with him completely. Lose yourself in his mind and the challenge he constantly posed. 

“You wished to see me.”

Your words sound lifeless even to your own ears and his expression drops. He strolls closer while you stand rooted in your spot. Something is different about him now. He’s missing that edge he had when he saw you earlier. That desperation. Desire. Near darkness. 

He’s more controlled now. At ease. Back to the man you knew. Earlier he gave into his desire freely, and you suspect it was only due to long years separating you. 

“I’m tempted to come with you,” he divulges quietly, like sharing one more secret, and a shiver tears down your spine at those words. He pauses, exhaling, and twists his ring on his finger for seemingly a hundredth time. You didn’t realise earlier how habitual touching it had become for him. “But I do not wish to take this time away from you. So, ya amar, I present you with this.”

From between the folds of his extravagant robes materialises a golden dagger. Your breaths grow shaky before you force them back into a steady rhythm, lifting your eyes to his. 

“It’s the same one,” you say weakly, your tone questioning. “From before.”

The Elder nods and holds out the dagger in the palm of his hand. It’s the same one he tried to give to you during your first stay here, after your sparring session.   

Same stunning, elegant design laced with gold around the handle. Black sheath edged by crusted golden detail as well. 

“Each of my disciples receives a weapon from me personally upon their initiation,” he tells you, his voice soft and melodic, always happy to sate your curiosity. “This one...is special to me,” his voice lowers, a glimmer passing through his eyes that’s gone too soon to decipher. “It is not official yet but I had hoped that one day it will serve you better than it has me.”

He waits for you to take it but you hesitate, staring at it. Your hand hovers over it, outlining the shape of it with your nail. 

You can still taste him. Like he’s rooted himself inside you now. 

“You told me that you understood me,” you begin cautiously, your voice equally as low. “Understood the vengeance that drove me. How?”

The Elder examines you closely. A pregnant pause stretches between you and you begin to think he will never respond before he finally reaches out. He grasps your hand in his, turning it till your palm faces the sky, and places the dagger deliberately into it. Watching you keenly, he carefully folds your fingers around it, not releasing your hand even when he’s done. 

A faint whisper passes his full lips—and you recognise Darija even if you don’t understand it—but it strikes you as…sad. Plagued with some nameless darkness. 

“One day,” he starts huskily, now in accented English, and you can’t quite read his expression or tone. But it’s some bizarre mix you’ve never seen before. A strain and a shadow all at once while he looks you over. “If you still wish it, I will tell you everything.”

The weight and the finality behind that word makes you shift, uneasy. You’re not sure if there will even be tomorrow—much less one day. 

But before you can voice that, the Elder lifts your joined hands, pressing his mouth gingerly against your skin; a fleeting flutter that warms the flesh. 

“Let this be a token of our shared promise to one another.”

He takes one last look at you, his dark gaze inscrutable, and then you’re left alone with only setting sun for company. 

The dagger in your hand feels like an anchor, and you tip your head backwards, gazing up at the expanse of the sky above. 

The subway doors hiss open and you lift your head, stepping out onto the platform with other passengers. You’ve spent the majority of the journey here staring at the soles of your shoes, your mind splintering in a thousand directions.

There’s too much to do with time so limited.

Your return to New York had been by air. The Elder’s decision, taking into consideration how you felt about water travel.

It’s funny how you didn’t even need to voice such a thing for him to understand it. For him to make sure that the journey back is as painless as possible.

You’re not sure how John travelled but he did leave first, meaning he should be back in New York already. Until you arrive at the Continental, however, you have no way of knowing for sure.

The fierceness with which you’ve missed your home makes your shoulders lock as you cut through the bustling crowd. It should be said that Grand Central is always busy and overflowing with noise. Today is no exception to that. But you’re still a person at the very top of the Wanted list, so you keep your eyes peeled.

Instinctually, you scan the flow of the crowd around you. Strain every sense. Employ everything you’ve learned from some of the best in this world.

Step by step, turn by turn, staircase by staircase.

This time, he doesn’t catch you off guard.

The mob of people flows around you like a coursing river, hiding you both as you jerk to a mutual stop.

The grip on your wrist is unyielding, painful. The sharpened metal between your fingers trembles under the strain of that grip, and your expression mangles with fury. Acidic, poisonous emotion bubbles up to the surface and you don’t bother hiding it.

The man before you smiles at that—a slight but lovely thing—every micro-expression laced with fine malice.

“Hello, Lucien.”

You stand close enough to be touching, his thin frame still managing to cover your own. Your jaw has become a rigid mass as you glare up at him with open hostility.

“There you are, snakey,” he hums pleasantly, his thin mouth transforming into a slow, chilling smile. You try to push the blade you’re holding into his gut but his numbing grip remains. “I’ve been waiting for you to return. Has he missed you much?”

A couple of friends pass right by you, laughing loudly, and you both jerk again; limbs locking and muscle straining further. Neither of you manages to gain more edge on the other though and Lucien’s smile stretches further.

“And I knew you would find me,” you snarl coldly, your eyes narrowing into slits. “I wanted you to find me.”

Knocking his knee with your own, you swipe another blade free and aim it at him. Lucien pushes himself into you in reply, wrapping his arm around yours and halting you in your tracks. The blade scratches against the sleeve of his black jacket, cutting into it, but it doesn’t break skin past that. He yanks you closer, your bodies pressing against each other. You’re both practically embracing. Your limbs a joined, trembling mass from the sheer friction between you.

It’s a deadlock and you’re too evenly matched.

You’ve been waiting for this chance. For the chance to return the slight that was taking you and wasting precious hours for you over a week ago. Now that you know Santino’s choice is you—that you could have avoided this whole mess in the first place had you just had enough time to talk with him—it only makes you more furious.

You’ve been waiting for Lucien to catch up with you.

This time, however, he’s not the hunter, catching unsuspecting prey.

Baring your teeth, you snarl, wrenching yourself back—

And freeze.

Lucien’s coat parts and this close up a blinking red light catches your eye. As does the beeping your ears hadn’t previously picked up with all the noise.

Lucien’s smile turns downright predatory.

“All these sweet little angels...” he remarks in a sing-song voice, pointedly looking around the crowd, his accent just a little more notable. “Ready to watch them all burn?”

A portable bomb.

You should have known.

There’s no doubt enough packed in it to blow half the building, if not more. He would likely delight in the idea of the carnage even he’s not alive to see it himself.

Your features creasing at that thought, you demand an incredulous, “You would kill yourself just to see me die?”

“I’m already dead,” he replies blankly, the tilt of his voice emotionless. “After all I’ve done, it’s not about survival anymore. It’s about me....and you. And one last dance between us.”

You’re not going to play his games. Despite the confusion his words birth, you only allow a chilly, tepid smile to grace your face. Mocking him openly.

“Then catch me if you can.”

You sweep your foot under his legs. Swift and brutal. Lucien doesn’t fall but he does stumble half-a-step back, and you rip yourself out of his grip, dashing through the throng of people.

You’re not running blindly.

He enjoys the chase and you know he will follow but it’s not fear or desperation leading you this time.

People curse and holler as you shove them out of your way, throwing a few purposely in Lucien’s path. You don’t slow down to check if he’s following.

Every trained instinct in your body is screaming at you that he is.

You should have known he would try to use the people at the station against you. Use your close proximity to each other against you too. He’s learned of the dangers you pose at close combat.

But he’s not the only one to have learned something from your previous encounters.

Focused entirely on your rapidly forming plan, you tear out of Grand Central, the cool air of New York greeting you like an old friend.

Streets blur around you and your heart pumps inside your chest as you round the corner, stumbling. Wind beats against your cheeks and you ignore your harsh breaths, leading Lucien deeper into the heart of the city.

And it’s not his city.

You know every nook and cranny of this concrete anthill.

Skidding and stumbling, you throw yourself behind a building wall, pressing your back against it.

Your lungs quiver, heart pumping, and throat aching from the outright sprint you’ve just done.

Lucien should assume the obvious.

That you’re leading him back to the Continental at neck-breaking speed. As you did once before. And you are but not just yet. There’s something you have to handle first.

It takes no longer than ten seconds for the commotion to explode from the direction you just came from. Just as expected.

Lucien’s pounding footsteps reach your ears and your arch your back, readying yourself.

A smear of golden hair enters your vision and you throw yourself at him, slashing at his side.

No wires attached to the bomb that you saw. The Lovers are too sophisticated for anything as inelegant and rudimentary as that. Which makes this bomb either remotely detonatable or Lucien has other means by which to set it off.

Which then means that all you need to do is to rip that portion of his coat off him.

You’re not about to lead him back to your home with a bomb on him.

Lucien crashes onto the concrete sidewalk heavily, you on top of him. His knee drives into your gut and you wince, your fingers tangling into his jacket so he doesn’t slip out of your grip. You manage to hold on, hacking against the coarse material wildly. His features contort, realisation as to what you’re trying to do sinking in.

He throws a punch at you but you duck, ignoring his fingers when they sink into your hair, trying to yank you off him. People around you scream as you roll across the concrete, scattering the moment they realise you’re armed.

You have no intention of killing Lucien outright.

He deserves to reap the consequences of his actions just like the rest of you. If there’s anyone who deserves to be punished for all of this, it’s him. And you will see to it. Lead him back to the Continental and trap him inside like a rat in a maze.  

See what the Black Dragon does when you offer their little pet as a sacrificial lamb for the High Table.

He yanks on your hair but you swipe upwards, scratching your blade against his skin and he barks a laugh. Few droplets of blood slide down his porcelain skin and you stumble back, staggering onto your feet.

Lucien’s jacket is in tatters and he grabs it, yanking it off himself, and throws it carelessly to one side. You tense when it hits the ground but nothing happens. You’re not quite sure if it’s just that durable or if it was a fake-out—both seem equally as likely. “You’re no fun,” he pouts, watching his hand curiously. Ruby droplets well where you have torn into his skin, and he swipes his tongue across the skin lazily, unconcerned. “But fair enough.”

“You and me,” you grit out, glaring down at him as you back up, rolling the blade between your digits with expert ease. He stretches to his full height, too, towering, cracking his neck as he does so. “Let’s dance.”

You peel away, him a second behind you. You know how fast he is and pump your legs till the muscles in your thighs burn from exertion.

You’re surprised he’s not trying to shoot you like last time but maybe that’s the point. He doesn’t want a quick death for you just like you don’t want to kill him till he’s been punished.

Night blurs around you and your eyes narrow in concentration, keeping ahead but just barely. You can hear him right behind you, practically breathing down your neck.

Motorcycles suddenly rev behind you but you don’t dare to risk turning around to check. There’s more than one engine. Which doesn’t bode well for you.

Leaping down the stairwell, you cut through an underground pass. The tunnel amplifies every sound and you hear Lucien’s pounding footsteps behind you. He’s gaining on you.

Sweat clings to the back of your neck, your cheeks stinging from heat and the cold alike.

You take three steps at a time, jumping up the staircase on the other side of the tunnel in a manner of seconds. It takes several moments before motorcycles sound from behind you again—they clearly know the route enough to know about the shortcuts—but you don’t let it shatter your concentration.

The staircase of the Continental appears in your vision, so dear and welcoming—

A weight slams into you from behind and you wince as you both roll across the ground; a wild tangle of limbs.

Scrambling, you punch him right across the jaw before he can get a solid grip on you. Your knuckles twinge with pain but it barely registers. Lucien’s head snaps to the side but he manages to grab your wrists, pinning them to the ground, before you can yank a blade loose.

You drive your knee into his ribs. Once, twice.

Lucien takes it like he can hardly feel it. Teeth gleaming, bared. His grip tightens on you again—there will be bruises there tomorrow without a doubt—and you roll in a mangled mess once more. Two animals snapping their teeth at each other. The motorcycles draw closer down the street and you squirm when he tries to pin you down again. For being so thin, his strength is impressive. Worrying.

He wants to play games. But you’re far, far more furious than he is.

Your head cracks against his forehead, momentarily blinding and deafening you. Lucien falls back. Wobbling, you do the same. Everything is static noise—one moment, two, then you force yourself to move. Vision swimming, you kick at his abdomen blindly. There’s contact and rolling onto your stomach, you hurriedly scramble onto your feet.

A roar of engines hums through the night air, closing in, and you leap onto the stone stairs ahead of you, gripping onto the concrete.

Safe haven. Home.

Your head slants to look behind you; a victorious, vicious smile spreading across your face even though your forehead hums with numbing pain.

Lucien approaches slowly, a hunter on a prowl. His slick back hair is in a disarray. Flecks of his own blood splattered across his face.

He looks murderous despite the deformed smile still splintering his mouth.

Motorcycles come to a stop behind him and you recognise those dark uniforms anywhere. Black Dragon’s men—just as you suspected.

You rise to your feet, deliberate but cautious, taking count of the men present. Foot soldiers are hardly a reason for concern. A certain blonde with his raging stare most certainly is though.

“No one interferes,” Lucien orders, directing his words at the men behind him. “This is between me and—”

“Us.”

Your heart stills for a second before exploding in a wild flutter inside your chest.

You don’t turn around but hear the hotel door behind you crack open, followed by footsteps.

Lucien’s expression morphs with cold viciousness in the face of the new company.

Dario and Julian walk past you first, coming to a stop at the foot of the stairs, effectively blocking Lucien’s path. The Sharpshooter has his twin pistols gripped firmly in each hand, his usually friendly demeanour absent. Only the Camorra’s best stares back; focused and grim. Dario is no better with his arms folding over his broad chest the moment he halts, seemingly only amplifying his domineering presence. He reminds you of a growling grizzly bear, waiting for the slightest of provocations.

Step comes to a standstill beside you, nudging you with his elbow, and you dare to momentarily look away from Lucien to see his grinning face. He wiggles his eyebrows, his round sunglasses still on his face before he leaps down the last several steps. He lands noisily just behind Julian, laughing softly under his breath.

“Whatever issue you have with our boss,” Dario speaks solemnly, his usually warm, rumbling voice void of those things. “We would caution you to forget about it.”

“Get out of my way,” Lucien hisses lowly, his lips barely moving. “This doesn’t concern you.”

Julian raises his pistols at blinding speed at those words, pointing them directly at Lucien’s face. The Dragon’s men unholster their weapons in response but despite being outnumbered at least one to two, the Elites don’t appear concerned.

You’re not sure if you’re still breathing.

“We would rather not kill you,” Step chirps happily, leaning his elbow on Julian’s shoulder, before adding a downright chilling, “But we will.”

Lucien’s expression smoothens, growing remote in its emptiness. His hollow stare drags up till it latches onto you—cold and unforgiving, two black holes.

“You know you can’t hide from me, viper,” he whispers yet his low, throaty words carry through the night air all the same. The Elites don’t so much as blink; an impenetrable wall of defence. “We have unfinished business, you and I.”

“Were they not clear enough for you, huh?”

Your eyes nearly close when the final pair of footsteps comes to a stop beside you. Your attention doesn’t waver but you hear the click of a lighter beside you. It’s followed a second later by a soft crinkle of a smouldering cigarette as Hector draws a deep, tobacco-induced breath into his lungs.

“She’s our boss,” he declares roughly and you feel your throat close up at his frank statement. “Which means that you really don’t want to start this,” a pointed pause, and another hard inhale of a cigarette before, “So why don’t you go and blow a load into your girlfriend and stop wasting our damn time.”

The atmosphere thickens with tension at Hector’s crass words but you don’t look away from Lucien.

The blonde slants his head, curious. He regards Hector like a bug; an odd, unusual being that makes no sense to him. Like his words are spoken in a foreign language the assassin doesn’t quite comprehend.

“Boss,” Lucien echoes softly, making a fine mockery of the word, as he takes a few deliberate steps closer. “Is that suppose to mean something to me?”

The threat in his lovely voice snaps Julian’s hand to one side, the barrel of his gleaming silver pistol pressing into Lucien’s temple just as the tall man places his foot on the Continental staircase.  

“Julian, don’t!” you warm loudly and the Sharpshooter freezes at your command. “It’s what he wants,” you add bitterly, turning your stare towards the blonde who appears completely unconcerned to have a fully loaded weapon digging into his head.

His smug smile stretches, quivering at the corners, his stare almost playful, goading.

Julian obeys, his arm lowering slightly but his pistol remains trailed on the French assassin. The man in question takes his time, deliberately climbing one step at the time, and Hector lowers his smouldering cigarette. He’s on your right, standing between you and Lucien but the blonde hardly seems to notice that when he comes to a halt, still watching you intently.

“Yeah, it really should,” Hector says deliberately, his voice dipping towards seriousness and warning.

Dario and Step are still watching the Dragon’s men closely while Julian has turned with Lucien, his pistols still locked onto the man. It’s been a long time since you’ve seen the Sharpshooter as anything other than grinning and relaxed.

Lucien drags his gaze away from you at long last, his attention switching to the leader of Elites beside you, and you feel the suffocating tension in the air as they both stare each other down.

“I hold no loyalties to anyone for you to threaten me with fancy titles, dog,” the blonde remarks, his voice light, almost friendly, his attention once again returning to you. “But I’ll see you inside, snakey.”

You don’t answer him, choosing to glare right at him and nothing more than that. The lack of reaction seems to dissatisfy him, his lips pressing into a firm, unhappy line. He reaches for you—

Hector grabs his extended hand with near blinding speed, crushing his wrist in an ironlike grip as he jerks Lucien’s hand backwards, holding him back.

Everyone tenses and Dario pulls his own weapons free when the Dragon’s men try to push closer.

“Let me rephrase that,” Hector hisses quietly, his words thick with warning—no boredom or indifference to be found in his voice now. “She’s ours. You so much as lay a hand on her and I’ll cut it off and feed it to you.”

The French assassin grins in return, chuckling, his fist clenched to a point his knuckles strain beneath his pale skin. Hector’s grip only tightens though, the ink of his tattoos highlighted by the lights above.

“You got that?” he stresses viciously. “Or was I being too obtuse, you bleached French fuck.”

He throws Lucien’s arm back at him and the man’s expression sharpens with a savage sort of rage. Aside from his stormy, narrowed stare, it’s near impossible to tell that Lucien is displeased though. His features might as well be cut from marble.

“You remind me of someone I knew once,” Lucien muses, still grinning though it looks no better than a sharpened blade. “He too was an arrogant, blunt tool to be used.”

The blonde hums mockingly, looking Hector up and down.

“Get lost,” he calls out loudly, slanting his head—something so harsh in the motion you half-expect to hear his neck crack—toward the Dragon’s men. “I don’t need you here.”

Confusion follows those words but Lucien only cuts one last look your way before strolling calmly into the hotel.

You’re not going to stop him because he’s exactly where you need him to be. He will stay to try and wait you out. Which is exactly what you want and need. Time.

Biting back a grin, you briefly glance at Hector who meets your inquisitive stare and turns towards the Dragon’s men who look unsure as to what they should do.

“Are you deaf?” he snaps loudly. “Get lost.”

Step moves first, bouncing up the stairs till he’s right in front of you. He parts his arms, waiting for you to show if you’re in the headspace to be touched and…

You wrap your arms around him—near crushing and strong, squeezing his wiry frame to you with all the strength you possess inside your body. The hacker’s arms lock equally as tightly around you despite Hector’s snort.

“We’ve been worried about you, carina,” he mumbles against your cooling neck, and you watch Dragon’s men clearing the entrance of the hotel over his shoulder. “Everything’s gone to hell.”

“We should take this inside,” Dario speaks up, finally lowering his weapons, and Julian does the same though his grip on them doesn’t loosen. “It’s not safe for you out here, V.”

You release Step from your death grip with a nod and a pat on his shoulder. He flashes you a quick smile but it looks strained. They all look tense, grim-faced, and tired. Still deadly though, and focused as always.

Julian opens the glass doors and steps inside, his pistol raised like he expects Lucien to leap at you from the shadows.

The hour is late and the reception area, for once, feels eerily quiet. No Lucien in sight though.

You haven’t even noticed how they’ve positioned themselves around you. Hector is still on your right, Julian at the front and Dario taking the rear while Step’s arm ghosts on your left.

Your throat aches, something coiling inside your heart.

You feel…

Protected. Safe.

It robs you of speech for a solid minute—that realisation.

You’ve lived with them for a year. Ate, trained and bled with them. But it feels different now for some reason you can’t explain.

You’ve grown so used to fighting your battles alone that having someone on your side feels surreal.

Even more surprising is Hector’s compliance. You hadn’t expected him to fall into the role of your temporary right hand so easily. Or to be as open about your position, and his by extension, at your side. You hadn’t even expected him to stand in defence of you, unlike the other three.

But Hector has always valued Camorra above all else. Personal prejudices aside, he will always do his duty. It is, perhaps, the one thing you’ve always admired the most about him. His unfailing loyalty.

If you died now it would only cause further chaos and headaches for him.

Seeing all of them again, however, fills you with such immense relief you can hardly speak.

“Santino?” is the first thing you manage to wheeze out. “Ares? Roberto? How—how are they?”

With each step, you shed your momentarily lapse reminding yourself that this is no time to feel sentimental.

Hector answers you promptly, as would be expected of him, “Princeling woke up several hours ago,” he states calmly and you notice that he no longer has his cigarette. He must have dropped it outside. Despite that, your sensitive nose still catches a whiff of tobacco every time his lips part. “Ares is with him. Roberto is stable.”

You practically stumble to a stop. “He woke up?” you whisper, your voice breathy with fragile hope.

Hector’s stare is critical but lacking his usual irritating superiority. Surprisingly. “Yeah, asked after you,” he reveals bluntly, and you can feel others monitoring your reaction to those words. “He thought Wick killed you.”

Your heart clenches painfully at that.

He got shot in the head and his first worry when he woke up had been you?

But the knowledge that he has regained consciousness, had been coherent enough to even speak, nearly crumbles your self-control again. Relief churning through your veins is immeasurable. Dizzying.

You want to demand a thousand things but instead push yourself to focus, “We have to move him to the penthouse. Immediately.”

One of Hector’s eyebrows arches at that. But it’s Dario that speaks first, “Why?”

You glance between the four of them silently. No one else seems to be around. In the distance, even the reception desk sits empty, and it’s the first time in seven years that you’ve seen it unmanned.

What’s going on? Where is Charon?

“Because she’s not here,” you tell them, still slightly out of breath due to your earlier sprint, and your words soften with bitterness. “The Female Lover. Divide and conquer seems to be the most logical course for them to follow now.”

It would make sense. Split attacks and lay traps. Force your hand with pitting Lucien against you because they no doubt know that Santino is being kept safe between these walls. Put danger right here on your doorstep so you are forced to act.

The Four exchange wary looks and you note them at once.

“We already moved boss,” Julian informs you before you can ask, his strong eyebrows curving and feet shuffling. You can almost hear the grimace in his voice. “Right after the visit from an Adjudicator earlier. We figured it was no longer safe for him to stay since they demanded to see him.”

“Don’t look so surprised, sweetheart,” Hector mutters under his breath, folding his arms with a slight roll of his eyes. “Some of us are actually good at doing our jobs. Removing him from the Table’s direct jurisdiction was the best thing to do at the time.”

“Then where the hell is he?”

Step winces. “The penthouse,” he tells you and immediately lifts his hand in a pacifying manner while your eyes close. “But Flavio and others are with him. He’s protected. He was moved discreetly. No one saw a thing. I was watching all the cameras myself.”

Biting back a sigh, you mull over his words and huff a breath. “Then why are you not with him?”

“Because once Mr Wick arrived here in a rather…loud manner,” Dario begins and your attentions slides to him. “We knew you will not be far behind. With trouble likely on your heels. We had no way of contacting you and splitting up would have drawn too much attention. Step worked entire day trying to pin the Lovers down to one location but they kept popping up all over the city. They’ve been circling.”

So they stayed here to keep enemy eyes pinned on the hotel, giving them time to move Santino in secret.

Sometimes you forget how brilliant they are.

“They were waiting for me to come back,” you assume.

Dario inclines his head, his stare firm, and strong eyebrows curved. “Our duty is to protect you as well, V.”

Your blink at those resolute words, caught off guard.

Step is grinning cheekily but the other two stand with sombre air surrounding them. Hector’s expression is stony but he doesn’t disagree, either.

Before you can thank them or say anything else, a realisation slices through you like a bolt of lightning. A sickly feeling of quicksand gobbles you up in a matter of seconds, and you battle down the urge to kick something.

“Circling,” you repeat numbly, nearly biting your tongue because you already know the answer before you bother continuing. “Anywhere near the penthouse?”

You direct that question at Step and the latter stills, his grin wilting. “Closest ping I got was four blocks out.”

“Fuck.”

Your head slants backwards and you bite out an even more vicious, “Fuck.”

“V?”

Your head drops back and your expression is no doubt unforgiving. “Get to the penthouse right now,” you order, not even bothering to make it sound like a request. “This is their plan. For me to get here so she has the go-ahead to attack while Santino is alone. They’ve been waiting for you to move him. They knew you did. That’s why the male Lover let it go. Why he’s not here right now.”

Lucien is no doubt putting their plan into motion. Dismissing Dragon’s men was about giving you a false sense of security.

“What about you?” Julian wonders quietly though his tone doesn’t lack urgency. Dario already has his phone pressed to his ear, no doubt calling the security at the penthouse.

You want to go.

You…

“I can’t,” you choke out even though it kills you to admit it. “If I go, I lead Lucien and god knows who else straight back to Santino.”

The Lovers are no doubt hoping for that outcome. But you can keep them separated too. Weaken them. It just means trusting the Elites with Santino’s life completely. They will be taking the brunt of Mika’s and the Black Dragon’s attack.

You look towards Hector but find him already gazing at you, his harsh features drawn into a pensive expression. His eyebrows sit contracted into a tight line and his eyes go to Step.

Dario’s muffled murmurs cease then, and he lifts his head, ending the call with a single touch against the glowing screen. “There’s been nothing so far but…”

“Can you isolate any incoming attacks?” Hector demands and Step pulls out his phone the moment those words leave the leader’s mouth, scrolling and tapping rapidly. “Get to the penthouse. Julian call the rest of the men. The ruse is up. Tell everyone to get their asses there right now or I’ll kill them myself. Go.”

It’s a testament to how much they trust each other that they move as one—not questions asked—only pausing monetarily before you, and it takes you a full second to realise that they’re waiting for your approval.

Right. You’re their boss. Even if only temporarily.

You nod twice; shaky and a touch frantic.

“Capo.”

You’re not even sure which one of them says it, or if it’s all of them in unison, but a shiver tingles down your neck all the same.

Hector hesitates, still standing rooted in his spot, his stare probing but he doesn’t make a sound until the hurried footsteps of the other Elites fade.

“You’re planning to go after him.”

It’s a statement, direct and shrewd, and you see no reason to deny it. “Promise me you will kill her,” you insist sternly, your eyes meeting for a charged moment. “Don’t let her touch him.”

Hector strolls past you, his hands in his pockets. “Consider it done,” he shoots back flatly, pausing beside you once again but doesn’t turn towards you. You simply stand shoulder to shoulder in the empty lobby. “Something else is going on here. The Frenchie isn’t the only one you should watch out for. Some bald asshole followed Wick, and this Adjudicator seems a little rule happy and not in a good way,” he concludes pointedly.

“It doesn’t matter,” you respond mildly, your voice vacant and low, distant. “They can’t touch me. No one can now.”

The dagger against your side feels like it’s scorching into your skin.

Hector turns to face you at that but you don’t do the same. His weighty stare digs into your temple for several moments but you ignore it. Expectation hangs heavy in the air between you but you don’t explain yourself further. There is no point.

He scoffs under his breath, managing to sound as dismissive and derisive as always. The nearby heat of his looming frame disappears, his footsteps echoing against the marble as he saunters away.

But the way he had the foresight to move Santino nags at you, as do his actions outside on that staircase only minutes prior.

And—

“Hector?”

His footsteps fade into a stop, and you turn your face towards him.

“What now, sweetheart?” he calls out impatiently, peering at you over his shoulder as well. “Want a back rub with all of that?”

Normally something like that would have angered you, dug under your skin, pissed you off. Now though…

“Thank you.”

He doesn’t outwardly react to your words, not even a twitch of his facial muscles. He only stares at you for a long minute completely silent. You’re not quite sure what to make of that reaction.

“Whatever.”

His back disappears through the door leading outside and you turn back towards the reception desk.

Time to get some answers.

You hear him before you see him.

The dog leaps at you with a happy bark, his tongue lolling to one side when he lifts his nose eager to give you kisses.

His presence here shocks you but only because you know for a fact that the Continental doesn’t do animal boarding. Everything lately has felt like an avalanche of one thing after another that you haven’t stopped to think about what may or may not have happened to him. Or where he might be staying after John’s home was destroyed.

Despite not seeing him in a few weeks, he seems no less thrilled to see you.

“Hey, Cheeseburger,” you greet with the first genuine smile in a week, your features softening. You bend down to pet him, rubbing behind his ears and he only tries to lick you with more fervour, a happy doggy grin splitting his face. “Have you been good?”

A small bark escapes him, tail wagging so quickly it’s a blur, and your smile grows.

“Miss.”

Your eyes skip ahead, and relief whispers through your chest, an invisible coil loosening when you spot Charon standing ahead of you. As always his posture is bowstring straight, his suit pressed neatly, and eyes watchful over his glasses.

“Charon.”

You’ve missed him. So dearly. Seeing his face is like a much-needed balm against your tattered nerves.

His voice is as low and soothing as always when he offers a cordial, “Welcome back.”

His words might as well be an embrace and your smile wobbles momentarily. There has been a large part of you that was convinced you would never see him or Winston again.

You try not to think about your deal now. About leaving just when you got them back. Right now all that matters is that you’re here.

Still stroking Cheeseburger’s head, you stand back to your feet, ignoring the twinge of discomfort in your muscles when you do.

“It’s good to be back.”

Charon starts approaching you but a voice cuts in before he can say anything else.

“The Vipress.”

Your smile slides off your face when a short, bald man with a fixed smile and a wide-eyed stare appears from behind the concierge.

Hector’s warning springs to mind at once, and your eyes briefly flicker towards Charon whose expression remains impassive. A certain strain—disdain, even—can still be found in his overall bearing, however.  

Charon is not one to dislike people often, and certainly not openly. Though to most he would no doubt appear as detached and professional as always you can tell the difference. You’ve known him for years after all.  

“Do we know each other?” you wonder neutrally, your palm ghosting over a concealed blade despite the no-business rule. Not a scowl or even a whisper of a frown shows but your voice slides into something apathetic all the same.

The man dressed in all black wanders closer. His stance is relaxed, expression friendly, but you see the assessing gleam in his eyes, the brittle—almost mean—edge to his slight grin. It makes you feel like he’s in on some joke you’re missing out on.

Despite being on the shorter side and his near deceptive demeanour, you don’t fail to take count of the precise way he moves—a trained, likely deadly individual, and your attention settles on him like a sharpened blade against his throat.

Though your body language doesn’t outright change, you know he, too, notes the shift in you in those several seconds that pass between him stopping just a little ahead of you.

Cheeseburger licks your fingers—blissfully ignorant of the uneasy atmosphere—and you drag your fingertips over his head tenderly.  

“No,” the man answers shortly, still smiling what he no doubt hopes to be a friendly smile though it hardly is. “But I know of you. Tokyo still remembers your name.”

Your heart stutters for a single second, feeling the slice of those calm, unassuming words. But you can tell from the way his lips flutter just slightly that he chose his words carefully. A deliberate dig and he examines your reaction closely, so you show him nothing.

The man ventures closer yet again, seemingly encouraged by whatever he sees, and extends his gloved hand your way. “But where are my manners? I am Zero.”

His hand hangs in the air between you and Charon’s stare settles on you. He doesn’t interfere though, or comments.

Not taking his hand would be rude but expected. People know of your aversion to touching strangers. However, it would also put you on a backfoot after his previous dig, and the last thing you want is someone that worries even Hector to smell weakness.

With that in mind, you slot your smaller hand into his, your grips equally as constrictive, “Good to meet you,” you say, your voice bland, dropping his hand after another forced twitch of your lips. “Now if you excuse—”

“I was still in training when you killed Kishi of Tokyo,” he declares loudly, freezing you mid-turn, and your eyes meet Charon’s again before you look back at the newcomer. You’re not quite sure what to make of his strange stare or fragmented little smile. “We knew each other. But not much,” he continues, no doubt purposely ignoring your disinterested, borderline hostile stare. “Maybe I should express my gratitude. If it were not for you, I would not be what I am today.”

He even bows his head. Like you’re his comrade. Like you’re one and the same.

Still, you say nothing, and Zero chuckles loudly before it cuts off abruptly. A new gleam glows in his eyes, and it doesn’t surprise you when Charon comes to a stop beside you. The concierge cuts for a silent but foreboding figure all the same.

Zero’s expression twists with amusement upon spotting that silent gesture, and he presses his hand over his chest. “You’ll have to forgive me, I’m a bit—what do they say—a little starstruck,” he apologizes but it feels more like oil on your skin followed by another gleaming smile. “Meeting the John Wick and the Vipress in a span of a single night. Legend of the old and legend of the new. The shadow that hides the snake—that’s what they still say about you two.”

You work hard to not let anything slip. You’ve known about your legacy in Tokyo for some time now—your and John’s both. You did what no one has done before. Escaped. Survived. John slaughtered his way through Kishi’s men to make sure no one ever followed you back.

It didn’t change much in the end. That nightmare of a man—his phantom, at least—still haunts you to this day. It chills the blood in your veins to be standing out here now and be discussing him so openly. Especially with someone who supposedly knew him.

You’re not sure if you’re strong enough to engage with this conversation. There’s only so many ghosts you can handle in such a short span of time.

“I wish to see the manager,” you announce instead, your stare not leaving the assassin before you.

There is a flare of fury at the dismissal but it’s brief, and once it passes, it leaves a man that reminds you of a mannequin—deflated and lacking life, formless like a ghost.

“Sir and Mr Wick are currently meeting in the administrative lounge, Miss,” Charon answers promptly but then adds a deliberate, “The manager, however, has expressed his desire to see you at once upon your return.”

Even if Winston hadn’t, something tells you that Charon would have said that regardless. Like you know him, he knows you. He understands perfectly well how shadows of your past belong there. Rattling them now would be dangerous.

Nodding, you force yourself to keep a polite facade, the assassin receiving a rather forced, “Mr Zero.”

Certainly the best he could hope for. Or should. Still, you feel proud of yourself for managing to contain yourself. For not letting him bait you into action because he no doubt was hoping for a reaction, perhaps even a confrontation. That would be easy, expectant.

Zero doesn’t look pleased about the outcome of the conversation at all. His easy-going, faux adoring demeanour splintering around the edges. The man before you tries to hold the pieces together but you notice the cracks all the same.

Lowering your chin, you raise your palm towards Cheeseburger, “Stay.”

The dog releases a small whine at the order but does as he’s told, sitting back on his hind legs, his ears perked up. That alone almost brings another smile to your face.

Your arm drops back to your side and you offer Charon another look that says a silent keep an eye on him.

Your footsteps echo as you cut through the hallways of the hotel, passing a few faces as you do. Zero doesn’t follow and you’re glad for it—for some reason, a part of you had expected him to.

Throughout your journey, you feel eyes tracking you. No one says anything or moves towards you though. You half expect Lucien to leap at you from every shadowed corner but he’s nowhere to be seen. You want to worry that maybe he truly did leave the hotel and hightailed it for the penthouse but it won’t be logical for him to miss out on this chance.

Lucien’s interest—fixation—with you has always felt deeply personal. More than a simple job or a hit. It never felt like he took as much interest in Santino as he did in you. Certainly surprising considering that from you two, it’s Santino with the biggest power reserve behind him. Enough to crush the Lovers if he came into his power as he now has. You’ve thought about this once before but maybe then you had things wrong.

Despite you being the bigger physical threat, removing Santino first would have been more logical. It would have isolated you. Left you without support.

Lucien never showed much eagerness in Santino’s removal aside from making an occasional threat to rile you up from the start.

Why?

Is it truly just conviction that you are alike? An obsessive there can only be one mentality?

With that thought lodged like a splinter inside your mind, you step into the elevator, shoving the partition roughly with a metallic click.

The elevator jolts when you press the appropriate floor button, falling back against the metal wall on your journey.

Everything is so loud it’s somehow quiet. Or maybe you’ve just gotten better at ignoring it.

It’s a short trip and when the elevator halts you pull the metal partition slowly this time, perking your ears for any unusual sounds.

There’s nothing.

You’ve never liked the administrative lounge much. Unlike the rest of the hotel that’s always oozed an old, rustic charm, this space has always felt cold and clinical on the few, rare occasions you visited Winston up here. Frankly, it’s never been the type of place you enjoyed visiting then, and you don’t suspect that will change any time soon.

The neon laser lights and glass as far as the eye can see. Visually it’s a masterpiece of architecture but it always made you feel uneasy. Like a rat caught in a crystal maze. Being back here now reminds you eerily of the gallery you had to chase John through, nearly losing everyone dear to you in the process.

Grabbing a blade from a secure sown-in compartment inside your coat, you move up the staircase soundlessly.

It doesn’t take long for faint, muffled voices to reach you. Slowing down further, you approach one step at a time. With each step, Winston’s calm baritone becomes clearer. You stop abruptly when his words start registering properly.

“—but you’re having doubts?” he calls out, sounding knowing and in control like usual. “Because you know that she will never forgive you if you do this. Will never let you into her heart again. She’s the only thing you still have left to lose,” he goes on, and your eyes widen when you realise who exactly he’s discussing. What the hell is going on? You know he’s talking to John but… “This is all assuming she can find it in herself to forgive you for your actions in regards to one Santino D’Antonio in the first place.”

You can’t see them from here. You’re above them by at least an entire flight of see-through glass stairs. Shifting your weigh, you move closer, holding your breath and sinking lower towards the ground to not alert them of your presence.

“I understand perfectly well, Johnathan, this is nothing personal,” Winston continues and for once you truly find yourself hating how calm he sounds. You’ve never seen the manager caught off guard. It’s everyone else he outmanoeuvres with expert ease. But personal? What’s personal? “If you feel like you must. Put a bullet through my heart. The High Table has asked me to step down one way or another.”

You almost stumble.

What?

It’s then that a memory springs forward. Of the tent. John’s conflicted expression and his words.

Elder gave you time to say goodbye but you had to make a deal. What if John had to make one too? He mentioned a task; a task he never got time to explain further. Only a vague mention of one.

But he had wanted to, you realise with sinking dread, the moment he saw you, he wanted to.

John’s punishment—his true punishment—is sacrificing his oldest friend in a show of fealty to the Table and killing him.

The lukewarm metal between your digits nearly falls to the ground at that realisation.  

But why—

“The hour?” John’s gruff voice speaks at long last.

A distracted hum, then confirmation, “The hour.”

“You should have killed me when you had the chance,” John says bluntly. “Killed us both.”

You gnash your teeth together, feeling the grind of bone inside your skull as you slink closer, taking it one stair at a time. Unhurried and precise. Just how John himself taught you.

Distantly, you hear Winston agree followed by muted footsteps against the gleaming floor. Is he moving away from John or towards him?

“In the years you’ve been away, Johnathan, I have come to learn that loyalty is a peculiar thing,” the manager muses, his voice thoughtful, but you hear the deliberateness he puts into each word he speaks. There is an odd quietness to his voice though—the type of you’ve only heard a handful of times. “Hard to earn, quick to break,” a long pause supersede those words and you come to a standstill as well, straining your ears. “But not always. It can sometimes be obtained by the most unlikely of individuals during the most unlikely of times.”

You’re not quite sure what exactly John gleans from those words but he does seem to take away something you miss. “You’re not stepping down, are you?”

“No,” Winston states evenly. “I don’t think I am.”

“So it’s war,” John declares, sounding just as bewildered as you feel, and you know it’s a rarity for him to let his emotions slip so easily. But this is… “You’re going to war with the High Table.”

Once you had joked about it. You were left cranky after yet another job for Tarasov, and had come back to the Continental worn after days of dealing with less than hospitable conditions. Winston had listened to your rant like usual.

What if I just killed Tarasov now?

Newspaper and brandy in hand, Winston’s reply had been unamused, You get killed.

Not if you help me. You and I, I bet we could take the Table on.

It was a joke back then. Nothing more than a throwaway, snarky remark you had made as a way to alleviate some pent up stress. A momentarily reprieve from the helplessness you’ve always felt in the face of your circumstances. It’s one of the few things that has helped you stay sane over the years.

It was long before you met the Elder and learned you could kill Tarasov without consequences once the debt was repaid.

It’s only now that you realise that Winston never did give you a response to that offhand statement. Joke or otherwise.

It’s only now that you stupidly realise that the idea of war shouldn’t surprise you at all. That perhaps deep in your bones you always knew there was a possibility of one.

Maybe Winston’s dedication to upholding rules and order always blinded you to the fact that despite that obedience he wasn’t afraid of them.

That which terrifies others—everyone, even you and John—has never affected the manager in the same manner.

He’s not afraid of the High Table. Or to move against them if he sees fit.

“I’ve made my decision. A long time ago now,” Winston remarks, and you edge closer, catching the first glimpse of him through the crack in the stairwell. “Back when I had to watch Charon carry a dying girl through the very halls of this fine establishment. A girl that you left behind. And now, it’s time for you to choose as well.”

Oh.

You’ve always privately considered Winston and Charon to be your family. One you weren’t quite allowed to have but chose for yourself despite how foolishly sentimental it was. A bond that was forged through years of knowing each other. Struggling together. Practically living together.

It never once crossed your mind that it was a feeling returned at least to some degree.

That alone makes you look at the entire conversation you’ve just heard in a new light.

“Choose what?”

Winston stands in front of John, his hand extended towards the assassin. In the manager’s weathered hand—a fine mockery of a week ago when he first declared you both Excommunicado, and even worse, of the Elder offering you the golden dagger at your side—sits a pistol.

The older man gives John a shrewd stare, and if you didn’t know any better you would say that he’s disappointed John is not catching on quicker.

“Oh, but you already know,” he states flatly, moving his hand in a vague motion. “It’s the same choice you’ve been struggling for the last five years now. Between who you are and who you wish to be. You kill me, you sell your soul to the Table.”

All you can see is the back of John’s head, his crop of black hair standing out like a dark spot against the glossy, blue tint of the lounge.

He thinks about Winston’s words for a bit.

“But I also live and remember Helen.”

Once those words might have caused a burn of pain but now all you feel is a nudge of sadness and a joyless sort of understanding. You’ve accepted the fact that there will always be a part of John that will always love Helen.

You’ve just hoped…

“Helen loved you, John. She truly did,” the manager agrees, something just a touch warmer to be heard in his intonation. “And you love her. You only came back because she was taken from you. But she’s also gone and she’s not coming back. You go ahead with this and you lose V forever, and I know that alone is stopping you.”

There is a scathing sort of finality to the last part and John’s slightly lowered head lifts.

“So I guess my question to you, then, is who do you wish to die as?” Winston asks though it does sound like a fine line between an inquiry of genuine curiosity and an authoritative demand. “Baba Yaga. The living nightmare and the last thing so many have seen. The servant of the High Table. Or as a man who was—and likely still is—loved by two wonderful women.”

John doesn’t move or say anything. That heaviness hangs across his shoulders, burdening him with yet another choice.

The problem is the fact that what you told him back at the desert still applies.

You don’t trust his word. You’ve been burned too harshly by recent events to do so.

With that in mind, you drop your guise, walking the remainder of the stairs with deliberate heaviness. Purpose.

Both men turn at the sound of your advancing footsteps. The former’s expression lightens, a clever gleam catching your eye. John looks weary, almost like he’s readying himself for another battle, another storm that is your raging fury.

You have little appetite for that though.

Too much is going on right now. The Elites could be battling against the Female Lover and the Black Dragon’s men right now. You need to find Lucien and figure out a way to keep him here. Inform the High Table. Find out who started this hunt in the first place. Who knows about Chicago.

“Winston.”

A slight smile ghosts over the manager’s face. “Welcome home.”

It hurts.

Because it feels so good to hear him say that. To feel welcome and missed. Even if you know it’s as much about drawing that line in the sand for John—an unspoken You vs Us.

John doesn’t fail to take count of the blade in your hand, neither does Winston.

A suspended kind of silence shrouds you three. If John really thinks that you will let him—

Footsteps.

You all turn in the direction of a tall, graceful figure clad in all black moving briskly down the steps.

The icy blue stare and black, short-cropped hair are all unfamiliar to you.

“Mr Wick and Miss Vipress,” the newcomer greets in a cool and collected manner, gripping a pair of leather gloves in one hand. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you both. I’m an Adjudicator.”

Shit. Of course they are. It makes sense for one to come and adjudicate the hotel after John shot Santino at practically point-blank range inside these very walls.

The hour.

Winston overstepped his position by offering you that hour. By helping you and John out.

Now he’s paying for it.

When neither you nor John say anything in return, their head slants in Winston’s direction, unperturbed. “Have you decided to step down?”

You would think they’re asking if the cookies are ready to come out of the oven. Their voice is as empty as their stare despite the gravity of their question. But the Adjudicators are often cold and distant. Dedicated to upholding the rules of the High Table even more so than the hotel managers are. To expect pity or mercy from one never bodes well.  

Winston greets that indifference by no less bored, “I don’t think I will.”

A quick tilt of their chin—offended, critical—and they turn towards John instead.  

“And you?” they demand, a notable sharpening to their tone. “Will you be pulling a bullet in his head?”

You tense at those words, your body instinctively moving in front of the manager.  

John’s ponderous scrutiny falls on you but you don’t take your attention away from the Adjudicator. Is what Winston said true? Are you really the only thing John still has left to lose?

You’re not sure if—

“No,” he says, quiet but resolute. “I don’t think I will.”

The High Table representative examines you three with a flicker of disbelief as well as irritation. You can’t help but wonder if this is the first time they encountered such blatant dismissal of their authority.

“So be it.”

They turn on their heels creating at least several meters in distance between you. A phone appears in their hand and they dial, bringing the phone to their ear with an effortless air of superiority.

All you manage to catch from where you stand is the very end of the conversation. “The Continental Hotel, New York,” an imposing proclamation followed by swift damnation. “Deconsecrated.”

The Adjudicator spins towards them, approaching leisurely as they gave each of you a measured, speculative look.

“This institution has hereby been deconsecrated,” they state flatly, appraising you all with aloof, disinterested air. Like you have just become less than human in their eyes and nothing more than trash to be taken out. “As such business may now be conducted on Continental grounds. Since you are refusing to step down,” they continue, their tone icy and pointed glaring digging into Winston, then John, “And you are refusing a direct order, your lives are now forfeited.”

Much to your surprise, the Adjudicator’s bright eyes come to rest on you next. “It is my advice to you Miss Vipress that you vacate the premises immediately,” they warn but the words lack much care aside from mild impartiality. “The High Table emissaries will be joining you shortly to see to the removal of your souls from the property,” they add to the two men on either side of you.

The Black Dragon men.

With that, the Adjudicator turns to go but your voice halts them before they take further than a step, “This hotel is my home,” you profess tightly, something slippery and raw in that string of words. An old ache; a new longing. Ironlike, unshakeable conviction shines the brightest though. “If you want it, you will have to take it over my cold, dead body.”

Another tilt of chin that makes you think reptile; coldblooded and dispassionate. “That can be arranged.”

A snarl pulls your lips back. “Can it?” you wonder, your words soft but deliberate. “You may wish to double-check that.”

The Adjudicator visibly pauses at that, and it’s the first sign of uncertainty you glimpse in their armour. The first time it takes them a moment to settle on their next course of action. Faint sourness lines their dignified features while they study you, considering your words no doubt.

“Good evening to you.”

Your glare is hot enough that you’re surprised the Adjudicator doesn’t catch on fire the moment their back is turned to you—and rather bold of them to turn their back on two master assassins after what they’ve just done—and your fingers itch.

John’s fingers snap around your wrist, holding firm and stilling your rising hand. “Don’t.”

The red haze lifts and you relax your jaw. It’s only after he sees your posture loosen that he releases his grip, his fingertips lingering against your inner wrist as if savouring the contact.

On your right, Winston heaves a weary sigh. “This haven is safe no more.”  

Your eyes lower and you try to process what’s just happened.

Continental is the only sanctuary you’ve ever known—the only one you’ve ever needed—and something in your gut churns. It’s a deadly, potent mix that makes you force a calming breath.

John breaks the silence first—a rarity, but you suppose this week has been full of those. “Are the services still off-limits to us?”

Winston looks to you first, taking you in, and you wonder what he finds in your no doubt murderous expression and blazing glare. Every muscle coiled tight and ready to spring.

Destruction hums in your blood, screaming for retribution and you want to indulge in it.

They should be terrified of you, the Elder’s voice reminds you.

“Considering the fact that V’s Excommunicado was lifted minutes prior and this interesting change in circumstances…”

He fades off for a moment, giving you both another thoughtful look that tells you he’s fully appreciating who exactly is about to stand in defence of his hotel. “What do you need?”

NF3 NC6.

You’re a statue rooted at Winston’s side.

The four of you—John, you, Winston and Charon—wait for the elevator to grind to a halt, Cheeseburger sitting patiently between you and John. Ever the loyal companion.

“We have another problem,” you declare with a subdued sigh, dragging your eyes over the metal cubicle you’re trapped in. Even years later the fear of being a trapped animal unable to escape hasn’t quite faded from memory.

The manager clicks his tongue in reply, leading you all out of the elevator and towards the massive vault door sitting at the end of a short hallway. Guards—what few cemented their loyalty to the hotel and Winston himself—dot the length of it, watchful and awaiting their orders.

“Splendid,” the man shoots back dryly. “Not like we have plenty of those already.”

“The Male Lover is here,” you inform him, ignoring his snark. “He followed me.”

Winston’s mouth curves downwards at that. He places his hand on a palm scanner, waiting. “As expected,” he offers in return, his tone challenging. “Your next move?”

“He knows something that he shouldn’t,” you answer promptly, fiddling with your fingers. John and Charon are silent behind you but you know they’re also missing a lot of context behind the conflict, especially the former. “About Chicago. I intend to find out how and from whom. Then…”

Well.

Your plan till about ten minutes ago was to capture him and keep him here. Feed him to the High Table. Exact your justice by other means.

Now though...

It’s war.

The hotel has been stripped of its immunity. People are on the way to kill Winston and John. Charon by default. Even the staff if they get in the way, though the order to evacuate has been sounded already.

If you stand with them you, too, become an enemy.

The choice is simple. Easier than most things in your life have been, and it sits right in your gut.

If the High Table wants the manager standing in front of you, they will have to go through you first. And you’re capable of unleashing a lot of damage before they ever manage to get close enough to touch him.

But this also means that there will be no divine justice at the end. By the decree of the Adjudicator, people can now spill blood freely between these walls. There’s nothing stopping Lucien from attacking you anymore. Nor will he miss such an opportunity.  

A confrontation between you two can only end one way now.

“Then I deal with him,” you finally mutter, your jaw locking with resolute firmness.

An eyebrow quirked, Winston gestures inside, going straight for the drinks cabinet. You head right without prompting, going for a very special compartment safe built into one of the wall’s inside the vault.

You’ve had it installed years ago gradually filling it full with the passage of months and then years.

Not wasting time, your palm settles on the scanner, ignoring the code pad entirely. A beep sounds and a muted green light bathes your skin a second later. A hiss follows and then—

“That’s…impressive.”

John’s voice behind you should not surprise you—and it doesn’t—but it does make you tense. Shrugging, you risk a glance in his direction to see what he makes of your collection. The quiet, impressed way his eyes drag over each shelf betrays both his surprise, and even a shade of wariness.

Vials upon vials all line the massive cabinet of three separate compartments folding outwards—custom made just for this. Labels hug each vial neatly, all of them lined up in an orderly fashion based on use and colour. The rest of the cabinet houses some of your rarest and most expensive ingredients. Carefully hidden in the most secure location you can think of—or it was till about fifteen minutes ago.

“It took me a while,” you admit though the tension in your tone and body don’t ebb away. “A lot of trial and error. And throwing up.”

You’ve been your own best guinea pig over the years, and have suffered a great deal for it. But it has also given you something no one before has been able to achieve: immunity. To most of these dark, dangerous creations of yours.

Your prized collection of at least a hundred vials makes even Baba Yaga pause and consider. See you differently no doubt.

The truth is that the sheer magnitude of the horrors and devastation this collection could unleash is unprecedented. Unrivalled by all with the exception of but one man.

And no one knows it exists apart from the people in this room and Santino. The High Table suspects something of this nature exists, you know that. Hence their insistence on you being unable to remove anything from the hotel after your Excommunicado.

“I should have told you,” John speaks up, his lips parted and tone deep, tired. “About my task. I just…”

“Knew that if you told me neither of us would have left that desert?” you guess. “Yeah, I kinda figured that.”

You understand his angle. His reason for not saying anything too. There’s just one thing that’s been bothering you since you learned about it.

“Did...did the Elder forbid you from telling me?”

John’s expression creases. “No,” he admits slowly. “But he reminded me that your forgiveness is rarer than water in the desert, and rage fiercer than the sun.”

You can almost hear that echoed in the Elder’s gentle, accented voice. Staring at the vials, you force some of them out, rolling them in your palm experimentally as you start assembling your weapons swiftly.

The task makes sense. Winston did something he shouldn’t have. Punishing him would be expected like it was with you and John. Manager or no, he’s not all-powerful.

But the thought that the Elder still knowingly told John to remove Winston stings. Deeply. He knows full well what the older man means to you.

Realising that you have nothing else to say, John steps away but you hear the reluctance in his steps when he walks away.

But all this can wait. The looming threat is the first order of business. You can’t afford any distractions, so this, too, gets shoved behind a wall. Locked tight. You can catch a moment later. Process everything that’s happened in this last week.

Charon’s lulling voice describes the change in the Black Dragon ranks to John—armour improvements, weapon improvements, more robust training. You listen with half an ear. They’ve gotten better with years, deadlier. They will not be an easy target but staring at all the vials out in the open fully and at your disposal makes your mouth twist into a cold, cruel smile.

Let them come.

You will make corpses of them all.

With that thought in mind, you arm yourself to the teeth, locking a belt around the curve of your hips. Blades slot easily against your body, vials of poison and canisters of gas following. Next, come pistols with spare clips and enough bullets to take down a small army. Fitting, considering that’s most likely what you are likely to face. You thoroughly check each pistol, removing the magazines, and making sure safety is on all of them. Double-checking there’s no jamming, either.

Once you’re comfortably armed you pull out two small needles, filling both with a small dosage of different colour solutions. You prepare more but focus on the two first.  

Charon and John are still getting prepped, arming themselves just as intently while Winston sits calmly on a luxurious leather sofa observing them. Cheeseburger lays beside him on the sofa, his ears slightly perked as he watches everyone in the room.

Charon is closer so you hand him the needle wordlessly, knowing that he’s more than aware of what it is. Moving closer to John, you note the concentration with which he adds each spare magazine into his own utility belt, a deep pinch between his brows. This lethal focus means that you’re about to lose the John you know. Once Baba Yaga arrives there will be nothing but destruction left behind.

Something in your chest is ready to do the same. You almost crave it. Like everything has been building too quickly and now you feel at a breaking point ready to unleash.

Moving swiftly, you stab a needle into John’s neck, feeling him jerk and snap his fingers around your arm just like he did earlier. His grip is harsher, his fighter instincts kicking in. This time he’s not trying to stop you from attacking anyone but himself.

Rising an unimpressed eyebrow, you remove the needle from his neck, and John sways, scowling in your direction.

“Ow. What was that?” he demands quietly, no doubt recalling the last time he had a run-in with your creations.

“A little concoction that will, hopefully, give you immunity from most things in my arsenal temporarily,” you tell him calmly, near monotonous. “Unless you prefer dissolving into an immobile puddle the moment my paralyser comes out?”

John’s brows hitch, his eyes narrowing marginally, and his chin slants. “You enjoyed that,” he states dryly.

Blinking, you feel your lips quirk in an infinitesimal smile, blinking innocently up at him. “No idea what you’re talking about,” you demure pleasantly. John stares at you blankly and your small smile quivers, widening. “Okay, fine. I totally enjoyed that.”

A tiny quirk of his own mouth follows and it feels strangely nostalgic, near bittersweet, because it’s like years ago again. Just you two getting ready for yet another job together, you teasing him or firing questions at him. He’s always been patient with you. It was a kindness you never once took for granted. You were so alone, so lost, and he’d been the only harbour you had.

Despite his flaws, despite his mistakes, in many ways, John will always be that. It’s the one thing you never see changing.

You still miss that ease you once shared. Sometimes remnants of it appear, like now, and it just makes it harder.

But reminiscing now is a fool's errand.

Instead, you reach for another blade mounted on the wall behind him and bend your knee, slotting it against the special opening in your boot. He doesn’t take his gaze away from you as you do that, and you straighten, waiting to see if he will say anything else. He doesn’t. That almost makes you smile again. Typical.

Nodding at him, you look towards Charon instead, pulling out several vials, “For the guards,” you state seriously, your ease evaporating, and he takes them without a word. “Make sure they inject themselves at least five minutes before heading out just in case. It’s going to be a nasty toxic cocktail one way or another. You already know what to do.”

A firm nod. “Certainly, Miss.”

Satisfied, you walk past them heading towards the manager who watches you curiously as you approach. Cheeseburger raises his head at once, his tail wagging at your proximity. Your fingers brush over his head, petting him, and you hold another vial for Winston to take.

Nothing to do with protection and everything to do with arming him. Which, you suppose, is its own type of protection.

He stares at you blankly, a glass of what you only assume is brandy gripped securely in his hand.

“Oh, I sincerely hope you’re joking.”

He sounds completely incredulous and you roll your eyes.

“Precautions,” you shoot back, twisting the poison vial between your fingers and holding the entire length of it out to him. “Your wisdom, remember?”

“And you think that if they somehow manage to get through you, Jonathan, Charon and the guard, as well as at least two tons of metal, that will stop them?”

“No,” you answer honestly. “But it will make me feel better if you have it.”

Winston heaves a sigh, shaking his head but takes the vial all the same, leaning back in his seat. A single eyebrow lifts as if to say satisfied? and you fight back a groan. Why can no one in your life make things easy for you? Just once?

You part your lips, a playful remark on your tongue, only for distinct thudding to sound from above. It’s faint, barely audible, but you all freeze at the sound of it.

Your eyes drag towards the ceiling, just as Winston’s voice sounds, “Charon, would you be so kind as to welcome our new guests?”

The concierge strolls briskly towards the fuse control box, pushing one of the levers down with a deafening click.

Upstairs, you know the hotel has been plunged into darkness before emergency lights come into operation.

“Let's go.”

You reach for the last few things you can get your hands on, your focus narrowing down to tunnel vision.

“You will do the Continental proud,” Winston states, sounding so sure you can’t help but lift your head in his direction from your last minute prep. “Both of you.”

Your heart jolts painfully but you nod in acknowledgement all the same. Charon returns the gesture as well.

“And Johnathan?”

The assassin halts at his name, looking towards the manager in an unspoken question. “Do what you do best. Hunt.”

The four of you share a long, leaden moment before John moves first, followed by you. The vault door whirls close behind you, securing Winston and Cheeseburger inside, but you refuse to look back.

You will see them both soon.

Splitting at the mouth of the hallway, you watch Charon lead the guards down a different path while you and John take the elevator. Divide and attack on two fronts. John will be their main target first, then you.

The man beside you is as still as death, his body relaxed but senses alert. John doesn’t fidget, hardly blinks, everything about him is steady and tranquil. Just standing near him feels electric.

“Just like old times.”

His faint words startle you. A large machine gun in his hands, the black suit, an unforgiving stare—he looks near godly, as always, and you blink in his direction. Your tongue drags over your lower lip, pensive, and when you glance back at him you see John’s eyes jump up from your mouth.

“Just like old times,” you agree softly.

You’re not sure what he sees when he looks at you. You would like to think he sees someone who exceeded his expectations for you all those years ago. Strong and unyielding.

You hope he sees an equal.

The lounge is painted with sickly green when the elevator crawls to a stop, and you both move like an extension of one another. Falling into a routine is easy because it’s instinct. The lounge is submerged in smoke, obscuring your vision so you both move silently through it, gauging the situation.

Raising your hand, you feel John slow beside you, his gun raised, covering you. Your eyes journey over the lounge, spotting blurry figures creeping through the space, trying to discover you no doubt. The black uniforms make anger simmer in your gut, gnawing on your self-control.

A hiss joins the fray of noise as you lightly roll your own gas canisters across the marble floor, your paralyser joining the smoke seamlessly.

You should really thank them. They just made this easier.

Now it’s just a matter of—

A gunshot booms behind you and you pivot on your knees, watching John tackle two men who have taken a route from behind, hidden from sight by large stone pillars.

Each man takes several bullets to take down and you frown at that. Through the darkness, you spot the heavy armour—heavier than you’ve seen them wear—as well as goddamn gas helmets on their heads.

Rising, you jog towards the bodies. John throws himself at the other approaching men and you yank on the helmet on the dead soldier’s head. It slips off relatively easily and you curse under your breath when you note what filters have been installed at the base of it.

They’re significantly better than the last time you faced off against them. This paralyser will be nothing more than an irritant at this rate.

They’ve come more than prepared.

They’ve come ready to skin the snake and hang her by that skin.  

Snarling, you hurl the helmet at another uniformed figure that rounds the column, his rifle raised, watching it crash against his head.

Two shots follow from your Glock but the man only stumbles back, and you leap at him, slotting the nozzle under his collar before firing again. A bullet slices clean through his neck, finally killing him. You slide a blade in your other hand, spinning it once. Scanning your surroundings, you take the other side so you and John work back to back even at the distance.

Gunshots explode ahead and you know that Charon has joined in the fray as well.  

Your displeasure morphs into anger and then outright fury with each dead body. It doesn’t take you long to realise that your weapons are too weak to handle this onslaught. The calibre too low. The helmets make the paralyser nothing more than a tickle down their throats and an ache in their eyes.

While that slows them somewhat, their armour is too good for a simple pistol fire. No matter how many bullets you may have at your disposal.

Slamming a knee into one man’s gut, you yank his body to one side. His body soaks up bullets his friends try to shoot at you and you pull back. A blade buries deep in his neck, you jerk the deadman again, feeling a splatter of hot liquid on your face when the blade cuts deeper into his skin.

Duck, yank, slice.

You tear through the throng of incoming soldiers but you’re slowed by the fact that each person takes too much effort to kill unless you get up close and personal. That in itself is tempting faith.

One bullet, one falter, that’s all it would take.  

A man charges at you when his gun clicks empty, and you block his punch, pistol-whipping him across the head. The contact rattles through your bones and you bare your teeth.

A slice so quick he doesn’t even register it follows before his throat opens.

Nothing but a wet gurgle slips free and gravity does the rest.

Another follows after that, and another and another. It’s chaos and darkness. The floor is slippery with blood but you push ahead your expression contorted with pure wrath.

They want to kill you, do they?  

Rules have drowned you for years now.

But right now—right this second—you’re still free of your chain.

And they have no idea what you can do.

Let me give you something to be afraid of.

With that thought racing through your mind, you turn and dash towards the elevator, slamming your hand against the button. It takes long—too long—but you know it will be worth it. Throwing yourself inside, you press the basement button over and over again, practically beating it.

The ride down seems to last an eternity as well.

You prowl inside the cubicle like a wild animal ready to spring free. So much so that the partition nearly breaks with the amount of strength you use to yank it backwards with.

“Winston!” you shout from the top of your lungs, slamming your palm repeatedly against the vault. “Let me in!”

There’s a reverberating click only moments later but you don’t wait for the hefty metal to open fully before you push inside, breathing harshly as you do.

Winston blinks slowly at the sight of you. “V?”

There is a question and a sharpness to his regard, and the wariness with which he takes you in should probably worry you. But you don’t answer him. Instead, you head straight for the cabinet. Your pulse pounding and a clamour inside your head leaving you partially deaf. To a point, both John’s and Charon’s returned presence back inside the vault scarcely registers.

A red haze clings to everything around you.

“V.”

Your knuckles are starting to swell again but after this, it won’t matter—

“V.”

“What do you want?” you hiss, each syllable acidic to a point it catches John off guard.

He mutely offers you a shotgun and something at the back of your brain recollects mentions of “armour piercing shells” but you shake your head.

“There’s still some left alive at the back, and they’re regrouping,” you say instead, trying to quell your temper. “I have something else for the second wave.”

He reads between the lines of your plan.

“I’m not leaving you alone to face them.”

Your head snaps in his direction, and you hold out a vial—smaller than others, rounder, filled with liquid that seems to be caught in a perpetual state of half-brown and half-red—in front of his face.

“This,” you begin tightly, your vocal cords straining from how hard you’re working to hold yourself back. “Is something that will kill them helmet or not. They should know better than to think that some cheap plastic will save them from me.”

You pull out two canisters of gas, shaking both as you look towards the air system. “Air filtering still on?”

“Minimal,” Winston returns, his voice dull, stare watchful. “Don’t let it consume you,” he reminds quietly after a pause.

Your grip momentarily falters at those words but that’s the only reaction he receives.

“Then I’ll do it the hard way.”

John intercepts you before you can take so much as a step, his minute unease now gone. “Why didn’t we open with that?”

You’re not sure why the hell he’s stalling now to ask you questions but you answer him despite that. “This is a diluted version of something I created a long time ago,” you tell them. “It wasn’t created to be used as a vapour. This is also the only vial I have, and it will take at least a month to create more. I was saving this for the eleventh hour because no matter how many are out there, they’re about all about to experience a quick but very painful death.”

You’re not quite sure what to make of what you glimpse across his features. Some turbulent mix of emotions he doesn’t seem to wish and explain. Day by day he learns the full extent of how you’re no longer that girl that walked away from him with tears streaming down her face.

This is what you are now. What you had to become.

You wait for a reaction, judgement, but John only steps aside, his voice a low rasp, “Be careful.”

You soften somewhat at the muted worry you hear in his voice. “You too,” you say with a sigh. “Go ahead. I’m grabbing one more canister of gas just in case. Don’t go anywhere near the lounge for the next ten minutes at least.”

Both men indicate their understanding, not bothering to question you further. And there is comfort in that, in their easy understanding and trust. They both can more than handle themselves but a distinct worry still gnaws on your entrails as you watch them leave. Lack of presence from the other guards no doubt means they’re all dead already.

So that leaves only you three.

Three vs a small army of highly trained fighters.

But not for long.

“V.”

“A little busy, Winston,” you stress while rummaging through different compartments. “Can it wait?”

Silence greets your words. Then, “If I asked for your trust. Your complete trust,” he begins purposely, his voice deceptively serene. “Would you give it to me?”

Your hands still and you stare blankly at your collection for a beat.

Straightening unhurriedly, you try to digest his words, and tilt your head in the manager’s direction.

It’s only when you note his expression that you realise something is very, very wrong.

The lobby is a graveyard.

Both literal and figurative.

Bodies lay in heaps across the usually gleaming flooring, and you wait patiently while leaning against one of many marble columns.

Waiting you’ve gotten rather good at.

The poison sits in your hands, warmed by your palms, but still brimming that ugly dark shade despite now being transformed into a vapour. You’ve recreated two versions of The Drowning and haven’t used either since Chicago. That thought makes you glare at the ceiling above because the recollection of Rafael and Boutin still wounds.

The grandeur of the Continental never fails to impress you though. Not even years later. There is always something new to discover and admire.  

You’ve been waiting for at least five minutes now so when a creak sounds you don’t move at first. Muffled footsteps echo across the eerily quiet lobby, moving towards you.

But not from the direction of the entrance.

The louder the steps become the more obvious a secondary sound becomes as well.

Whistling.

Faint but melodic.

The familiarity of the tune causes you to stands straighter, focus on the melody.

Mr Sandman drifts through the air as a peculiar sort of goad; purposeful and sly.

“Oh, snakey,” a voice coos playfully, pausing the tune for a moment. “I know you’re hiding somewhere out here.”

Lucien.

Of course.

You’ve been expecting him to show up sooner rather than later. It’s good to know that you were right about him though. He wasn’t going to let you slip by him again. This time, you don’t want to, either. This time, you’re going to finish this.

You contemplate throwing the poison in his face but the High Table would not give up so easily. John and Charon might be cleaning up the remainder of the first wave one shotgun shell at the time but a second wave is guaranteed and soon. Logically they would want to try and overwhelm you. They’re hoping to wear you out.

“Come out, come out wherever you are,” Lucien calls out in a sing-song drawl, his footsteps slowing to a point they fade entirely. “Don’t make me find you. You’re not going to enjoy that scenario.”

“Who says I’m hiding?”

You round the column, finding his thin, solitary figure in the middle of the lobby immediately. The dark green light seems to only emphasize his gaunt frame and you take a step closer, then another.

How clever of him to wait until your paralyser is fully dispelled from the air before he came seeking you out.  

His head lowers, deepening the shadows under his eyes. “Did your guard dogs run away?” he wonders mockingly, his voice carrying. “Good, they were getting in the way.”

“Of what?”

“Our dance, of course,” he retorts, a shade angry like you should know better. “One last dance and the truth. Oh, if only you knew but you don’t. No point in secrets now though.”

You scoff, both of you watching each other as you draw nearer. “You like hearing yourself talk, don’t you, Lucien?”

The blonde assassin bares his teeth at the sound of his name—dangerous and macabre, dripping with heinous amusement—and he gazes at you for a moment. Something flickers over his shoulder—

“Not at all actually,” he states overly calm. “But you’re not the only one to have your life stolen. Maybe it’s about time you realised that,” he divulges, his voice softening into something as hateful as it is eager. Like whatever he thought he knew, he couldn’t wait to impart on you. “I’ll be waiting for you, viper.”

You aim the poison at his head, hurling it through the air with every fibre of your strength.

Lucien ducks, sliding across the floor at near blinding speed, and disappearing behind the armchairs and from your sight.

It’s at that moment that the Black Dragon’s men burst through the lobby door, their guns raised.

Following his example, you dash behind the column, an explosion of bullets following a split second later.

Rubble splinters under the abuse and you turn, avoiding the crumbling stone.

One, two, three…

This time your poison doesn’t escape in an unassuming tickle of vapour. No, this time it’s an impact of a small explosive going off, and it’s a matter of one, two, three before muffled screams and groans replace the gunfire.

Arching your back against the ruined stone, you allow your head to tip back, watching the ceiling thoughtfully. You wait till gunfire completely cuts out before moving. Then, you stride from behind the column studying the effects with a mix of cold detachment.

Your own nose and lungs ache uncomfortably—just a show of how potent the formula really is—but you don’t take your attention away from the dying soldiers. They’re more of a heap at this point, their gas masks that they no doubt were so sure would keep them safe now virtually useless.

It’s a quick but brutal affair.

Wet sounds and sobs of pain. Then, like dominoes falling, the men still one by one.

They might be only obeying orders, but they came to kill the only family you have and take your home, and you find yourself feeling little to no pity for them.

The haze is gone now, leaving the lobby even more chillingly silent than earlier.

Lucien is nowhere in sight.

You would have preferred if the poison got him but didn’t hold out much hope that it would. He’s too good and far too fast.

I’ll be waiting for you.

He will grow to regret those words.

Stepping over the bodies, you approach the spot you saw the blonde last, heading in the direction of the only corridor he could have gone down.

Glock aimed ahead, your movements are utterly silent, deadly. No matter how deep into the hotel you head, he seems to be nowhere in sight, however. This time, clearly, he wants you to look for him.

Corridor by corridor you find nothing. Then floor by floor. You know this hotel far better than Lucien does. If he really assumes he can hide from you here he’s sorely mistaken.

Gunfire rips through the air and you pause, tightening your grip on the pistol. Little by little, you decrease the distance just as a hush falls up ahead.

John’s dark hair is what you glimpse first and instinctively relax seeing that it’s him.

“John.”

The man turns towards the call of his name, and you squint at him, approaching cautiously. “Why are you wet?”

John breaths are laboured, rattling from his lungs in shallow pants, making his chest expand with each inhale. “Zero’s men.”

“The Male Lover found me too,” you tell him and you both fall into step. “Missed out on the poison party, unfortunately.”

The man at your side glances you over once—a completely wordless but attentive examination—and you huff a small breath, amused.

“I’m fine.”

You’ve forgotten how much of a mother hen he could be without saying a single word.

At least you’re a little calmer now after your previous display of explosive fury.

He seems to accept your words, and you both step into the elevator for what feels like the hundredth time in a span of only several hours.

You know what logic John is following though. Both Lucien and Zero have likely hidden up on the higher levels for two reasons.

More places to hide.

And they’re less likely to encounter any poison on the higher floors.

Leaning your shoulder heavily against the cool metal, you peer at the man only arm’s length away. Baba Yaga stands with his shoulders slumped and expression enervated. Yet he’s standing despite that. His gaze still burns with a fierce sort of determination.  

That might have been one of the first things you’ve fallen in love with—that determination and will. Followed by his often unspoken kindness.

What won’t you give for things to be different.

Going up the floors proves to be the right of course action the moment the elevator stops.

John throws himself against one side of the metal cubicle, and you do the same when a bullet whistles through the partition, piercing the metal where John’s head just was.

Pushing your hand out, you fire blindly, hearing shuffling in response, and use the distraction to peek your head over the edge. John does the exact same thing and you both fire simultaneously, hitting two men. John in the head. You in the chest. Neither moves.

Shoulders hunched and tense, you move in unison, and you conclude instantaneously that this is clearly a trap to draw you in deeper. Laying a path for you to follow until the trap springs shut.

Eyeing each other, you both move ahead despite that shared conclusion.

It doesn’t matter much now. You may only have the single magazine, and one vial of paralyser left on you after butchering your way through an entire hoard of soldiers, but it won’t matter.

There is a nagging thought at the back of your mind that you should ask about Charon but now isn’t the time for that, either. The concierge is likely back with Winston by now.  

There is a ruthless strategy to how you remove Zero’s men. One by one, shoulder to shoulder, and know that these men are afraid. That they know deep in their heart of hearts that they won’t survive the fight before it even begins but they still try. They’re strong and fast. A legacy of hard training and cruel discipline no doubt. But John is stronger and you are faster.

In many ways, they remind you of those soldiers from years ago who ambushed you in that freezing Tokyo alleyway.

Your bullets run out by the time you return to the administrative lounge. All you have on you now are two blades, paralyser, and Elder’s dagger, tucked away and out of sight. Both blades have been christened with blood two floors ago, and John is down to his bare hands.

It would put most at a disadvantage but not him. If anything, his ruthlessness only seems to grow.

But something is different this time.

Three main differences, really.

First, a jovial whistle of Mr Sandman floating through the air.

Second, three dead men that you recognise as Zero’s and finally…

Lucien leans again a glass case housing an old relic, his hands covered in blood and the tip of his blade scratching at his nail. There’s at least a few dozen of these glass cases littering the room, an old passion of Winston’s, and quite the point of pride for him. Some artifacts locked away here are worth a lot of money. Frowning deeply, you stall, drilling holes into his figure.

Lucien knows you’re here but doesn’t acknowledge you right away. He continues humming, seemingly set on finishing the tune before his head dips lazily in your direction.

“Run along, Mr Wick,” he says bluntly, his face splattered with blood. “This is between me and the viper.”

The man beside you makes a small sound at the back of his throat, near disbelieving, but you cut him off before he can speak, still staring at Lucien, “Go, John,” you say calmly. “He’s right. We have unfinished business, as do you.”

John’s stare burns into the side of your head but you don’t explain further than that. This is not his fight. You’re no longer in need of his shadow and in need of his protection.

Still, he doesn’t move right away, and you hear him audibly inhale as if he needs to say something but can’t force the words out.

You’re about to repeat yourself but he finally steps to the side, taking a path around Lucien and the dead guards. His gait is slow. He’s practically staggering because you can sense his reluctance but the fact that he listens does make you feel a tinge of satisfaction.

A part of you wants to look towards him as he disappears down the hall but you don’t.  

Lucien peers at you with a strange little smile on his face all the while, waiting till John’s footsteps fully retreat until his limbs shift. He’s still smiling faintly but you’re in no urge to finish this, so you’re fine with letting him play his games, waiting and watching.

“Had your fun?” you wonder, bored, gesturing towards the dead men at his feet.

Lucien cranes his neck, pushing away from the glass with a swiftness that makes you tense. He chuckles at your reaction, stepping over them like they’re nothing more than dirt under his boot.

“Oh, that was just a little warm-up,” he says brightly that faint, unsettling smile still lingering, and you can’t help but wonder what his deal is. He seems awfully cheery. It makes for a strange contrast to your last few run-ins. And his previous words, implying his own looming demise. “You kept me waiting. Don’t tell me you’re getting slow.”

Smiling, you too move in his direction, limbs relaxed, a peaceful hush over your body. “Are you hoping to talk me to death?”

“Now, now,” he mutters icily. “No need to be quite so rude. I just want a dance.”

Your smile splits into something bleaker, more cold-blooded, and you circle each other. Pale blue light dances across Lucien’s sharp features. A snap of jaws, a growl—there is something animalistic about the wordless exchange between you. Something brittle, a string being yanked upon repeatedly until one of you finally gives in.

Lucien leaps first.

Your knives are short, certainly not created for duelling but the clank of metal pierces the air as you both meet in the middle. Your exhausted muscles snap, tensing, coiling.

He swipes his elbow in your direction but you duck just in time, a whistle of wind tickling your temple.

Arms twisting, you both ignore the screech of metal, you punching him in the jaw while he gets you in the ribs. Gasping, you stagger back, ignoring the numbing pain. Time has dulled the memory of how hard he manages to hit if the hits land.

Lucien springs towards you again, his face contorted, lips stretched back. This time your arms are tucked at your sides and you greet his attack. Your knees knock but you manage to push him back. A swipe of your blade is your reply but he careens out of the way and you kick at him instead. He catches your knee, staggering back from the impact, and he grins at you wildly. A slight cut against the corner of his mouth bubbles up, spilling blood over his front teeth. It paints the white bone canvas with diluted scarlet.

“You didn’t answer my question earlier,” he says conversationally, and you try to sink your knife into his chest but he shoves you back. You stumble but stay upright, exhaling shakily at the pain across your ribs. “If he missed you.”

Ignoring him, you roll the blades between your fingers, drooping lower as you unleash one quick swipe after another.

Lucien lurches backwards, his expression tightening in concentration. He manages to stay out of the way, just barely. So you push him backwards till you’re back by the bodies, and the man drops to the floor so suddenly you’re left staring at empty air until your mind catches up.

He rolls across the floor, a blur of his golden hair and dark clothes the only visible thing, and you realise a second too late as to why.

A blade lays by one of the dead men covered in blood as well. You have no idea how he managed to take down three men with a minimum of two katanas at their disposal. But there’s no time to contemplate that because this time you’re the one throwing yourself backwards.

Lucien swipes the katana in a deadly arc.

His hair mused, face bloodied and a grin on his face, he gazes at you for a second. Your grip on your blades constricts.

“I wondered for years what was so special about you,” he reveals mildly, tipping his chin upwards, pulling the blade closer towards his body as he stands. “I fucking hated you, viper. Viper. I suppose that’s one of many titles for you, isn’t it? John Wick’s protege, the Vipress, the Italian’s whore, the Russian’s Viper, Lady Camorra. Honestly doesn’t your head…hurt from it all? Or does it add to your ego?”  

He spins the katana in the air, rolling his wrist—experienced and at ease, the blade like an extension of his arm. Your senses pinprick at that assessment, knowing he just made this much harder for you.

“Did the way he used to call you his desert viper make you feel powerful?” he wonders suddenly, tracing his index finger up the curve of the metal. “Gave you a sense of importance? It must have felt thrilling to be such an exception to the most powerful man in the world.”

Something inside your chest stills.

Lucien drags his eyes in your direction, watching you closely over the edge of the blade.

“My, you really do have no idea, do you?” he continues slyly, his expression slackening with amusement; malicious, wild kind that causes you to bristle. “None. Your life is, ah, what is the expression again? A hot mess, non? Oh, snakey, I thought you could be the one to teach me a lesson I failed to learn all those years ago, but your ignorance is truly disappointing.”

He cuts the air with the blade, lowering it back to his side, and you bite out a chilly, “What the hell are you talking about?”

He tuts, wagging his index finger in your direction, his grin fluttering like he’s trying to contain a laugh bubbling inside his chest.

“I kept telling you but you just don’t listen, do you?” he wonders with a click of his tongue. “I told you we were the same. Forged by the same violence. Alike in ways you failed to understand. Now, why do you think I would say that?”

You don’t respond, instead, you push yourself backwards, launching your full mass at him. Lucien greets you with a chuckle—a cold, hollow sound, teetering on manic just like the rest of him—his katana managing to absorb the impact of your shorter dual blades.  

“Tokyo, Chicago, Prague, the Albanians, the summit, us—did you really think it was all, what exactly, one funny coincidence?” he asks jovially, and a distinct chill sinks into your bones at his words, forcing you to pull yourself backwards, and dive for the other blade on the ground.

He lets you. Doesn’t bother trying to stop you, and you grip the handle in a knuckle tight grip, creating some distance between you once more. Again, he lets you, examining you with a dark but curious light gleaming in his eyes. Like you’re a lab rat he’s conducting a study on. His question rattles through your head and you squint at him.  

“You never even questioned it, did you?” he continues, his voice airy with disbelief, a joke that seems to entertain him endlessly. He’s lost interest in the fight between you for a moment, prowling across the gleaming floor but in no hurry to attack. This, clearly is more important to him. “The water, the tunnels, the darkness. A repeating pattern. All carefully put together to test you. Over and over and over again. And you exceeded his every expectation. Every challenge thrown at you, you triumphed. And even if you did wonder at the back of your mind, you never once were made to believe that someone else was pulling the strings all along. Think, snake. Think.”

You’re not sure if you’re still breathing.

What…

No…

No, it doesn’t…

It’s not possible. It…can’t…

Your head is empty and you gasp for breath but your lungs feel blocked, your throat locked.

Lucien attacks in a blur.

You just barely manage to muster up the speed to block him, a piercing screech of metal against metal. Your arms buckle under his strength and he kicks you, catching you in the gut. One, two—

A muffled curse slips free, everything spinning, and he grabs the spare blade in your hand, throwing it away.

Parrying for control, you attempt a punch at his head but it’s too slow and sloppy. He catches your fist, bending your arm at a sharp angle. You relax it as per your old training to avoid broken tendons or bones. The katana slips from your hand and you growl under your breath, your free hand managing to form a fist.

A punch to his gut hits him quicker than a snake bite. Brutally efficient, impacting the exact same spot you gutted him only weeks prior.

Lucien grunts. Swears. His teeth gleam, still tinged by blood and you feel his hot breath on your face. Death and decay and—

You’re too misbalanced that you don’t notice it fast enough.

Lucien kicks you in the stomach with enough strength to send you flying.

A second of weightlessness enfolds you and then comes the crash.

Glass shatters upon contact and you muffle a cry of pain, feeling glass explode and rain down around you. Hitting the floor with a deafening thud, you stay there for a while, everything ringing and blurred around you.

A feeble moan escapes you, pained and strangled.

You attempt to shake your head, your fingers twitching against the glass covered floor.

“Tokyo was just the beginning,” Lucien’s muffled voice sounds like you’re underwater and you groan, weakly tilting your head to spot his approaching legs. Glass crunches under his boots and you try to desperately block out his words. “He’s always been on the lookout for new members to join his inner circle. Best of the best. And he’s always paid close attention to poisoners like you. Tokyo was just a nudge to see what you were made of. But you didn’t break and it escalated too far. Do you know what the Elder did after you escaped? Why you never heard from Kishi’s little group again? It wasn’t because of Wick. It was because the Elder had the entire clan killed. Just that easily. Because they disobeyed him.”

“No, no…”

It can’t be true.

It can’t.

He has to be lying. It doesn’t make any sense…

Except…it does.

“Did you never ask yourself why Tarasov didn’t simply turn you into another whore or sell you?” he demands harshly. “Later, I imagine, it was a certain degree of fear of you. But initially, it was because of the Elder’s will. Even if all Viggo Tarasov knew back then was that the Table willed it so.”

You focus on your core, trying to get yourself to move but Lucien speeds up his approach, kicking you in the stomach.

Pain blinds you and you roll across the floor. Your forehead connects with the glass, your left eyebrow splitting on impact. You don’t realise it at first—not till numbness is replaced by a sensation of something wet trailing down your face.

Droplets of fresh blood hit the crushed glass beneath you, and you crawl ahead with a pained gasp.

“Next—and my personal favourite—Chicago,” Lucien narrates loudly, his voice echoing through the large space. You hear him behind you but utter shock wins out, locking your limbs, leaving you a frail mess on the ground for him to prey upon. A part of you wants to roar, another wants to cry. Your training battles against the yawning abyss you keep slipping down with each horrifying word. “Who do you think fed the father-son wonder duo their information? Why do you think you were taken to an underground facility that was spitting image of Tokyo? Why not just kill you and D’Antonio outright? Boutin thought he was getting a special task but the truth was that he had long since outlived his use. The Elder fed both Boutin and his son to you to see what you would do. Black Dragon and D’Antonio were just pawns to hide the real test.”

The highway. The way they just kept attacking but not trying to kill you. It was to see how long you will last.

You want to be sick, a dry heave bubbling past your lips, every word crushing you harder, harder, harder—

“And, once again, you did perfectly but not without a loose end,” he sneers, venturing closer, step by step, as is savouring your reaction. “He also knew that the fear of being found out will make you more compliant. Wasn’t it peculiar that he summoned you right after you returned to New York? It’s almost like he…knew. Well, he did. He always has.”

Biting your tongue, you try to push yourself up on your elbows.

Ignore him, don’t listen, don’t—

“Prague. Again. Poison that made you struggle,” he reveals, his voice pitching towards impatience now. “The syndicate that took your Italian had no prior conflicts with Camorra and for a reason. Another test and punishment. More pieces for you to remove.”

Santino was taken for no reason. Right after your return from the desert. Cognitionis had no former alterations with Camorra up until that point. They were far too small to ever risk the wrath of a powerhouse like Camorra. They hadn’t even made demands which struck you as so odd back then but you had chalked it up to them wanting to prove a point.

A poison the heir was poisoned with was sophisticated and took some time to reverse-engineer. So long, in fact, that Santino nearly died.  

“Albanians. Same thing,” Lucien voices harshly, punctuating every word. He’s gotten so close that when the second kick comes the pain is distant, muted. Because what he’s betraying is so, so much worse. “It wasn’t Camorra that started the conflict. It was made to seem that way. Tarasov was cautioned to keep a close eye on you. To a point he forbade you from helping Camorra, right? And what did you do after that, snakey?” he demands, bending down and yanking you upwards by the back of your neck.

He pulls you towards him and more blood trails down your face. Lucien’s narrowed eyes search for something in your expression, and he smiles faintly when he spots it. “That’s right. It’s all starting to click, isn’t it?”

Tarasov forbade you from helping Camorra, from helping Santino. It was the first time you ever talked back to him. First time you ever conjured up enough courage to do so.

And then, furious and upset, you ran. Straight to Casablanca. And nearly back to the man who always expected—knew, he fucking knew, planned for it—for you to come back to him.

It’s what he wanted from the start and it would have been your choice.

No forced loyalty.

You will always lose, and it will always lead you back to me.

Oh God.

If Santino had come just half a day later you won’t even be here right now. You would be with him, at his side, and none the wiser to this truth.

The terrible, dark truth of what loneliness can do to someone.

“I even told you it was him,” the man holding you whispers, his head dipping to one side when he drags his fingers over your face, wetting them with your blood. “You just don’t remember, do you?”

His disappointment is once again palpable.  

Except while you’re staring at the cutting lines of his face, a recollection does come.

The warehouse. You tied to a chair. A needle stuck in your neck as Lucien leaned his body over you. The scathing bewilderment at the fact that he has managed to find something powerful enough to knock you out for hours. Those thin, pink lips shaping words while whatever he injected you with coursed through your veins, and a name you didn’t catch.

The Elder sends his regards.

Lucien’s fingers sink deep into the skin of your neck, his expression clouding with rage the longer he gazes at you.

“You were his favourite,” he seethes bitterly, ripping you upwards and on your knees so quickly you’re left scrambling. Your legs drag across the glass shards and your hands lock shakily around his, trying to rip out of his grip. “No one after you was good enough! We trained until our bones broke. We could bleed ourselves dry, and it still wasn’t enough!”

Shódigan.

That’s why he asked if you knew about it.

You thought you did but—

He flings you ahead and your body slides across the gleaming flooring, leaving a trail of blood behind. Lucien follows, stalking closer, and squats beside you, this time yanking you upwards by the collar of your shirt. “He adored you,” he adds with a hiss, his fury scalding your skin; an old, festering resentment. “And now you’re paying the price for that adoration.”

He exhales with great difficulty, taking several moments to reign in his temper.

Now, you understand his obsession with you perfectly.

He is like you.

He was a candidate too.

He must have been.

Another face in a long line of candidates for the coveted disciple position.

This time when Lucien speaks, his voice sounds contemplative, “Though I suppose you should thank him too,” he states forcefully light. “One day you will be remembered as a legend, just like your Baba Yaga. He helped to forge you into what you are today.”

You’re too numb to feel anything else.

There is just a hushed sort of silence ringing through your head.

Undeterred by your lack of response, Lucien goes on, wiping at the blood on his face, “You know there is an old French saying: qui se resemble, s'assemble. Can you guess what it means?” he doesn’t wait for your answer this time, either. “Every man loves well what is like to himself. You are each other’s dark mirror. His counterpart.”

He giggles this time, grabbing your face, his fingers cutting into the flesh of your cheeks, and for the first time since he started his speech, something sparks in your gut.

Shock or not, your body is failing to respond but you battle against it, silencing your mind.

Hurt and betrayal slam like an overloading flood against your composure despite your best attempts to stay afloat.

You’re such a fool.

Such a lonely, naive fool.

So desperate to believe.

Hope.

Just like he was.

Lucien is right.

You and Elder are two broken halves of a mangled whole.

The same man you once saw as a chance for redemption, belonging, is the architect of the majority of the pain in your life.

One day, if you still wish it, I will tell you everything.

Everything. This is what he had meant by everything.

He ordered Winston’s death not because the manager broke the rules but because he wanted to remove your main tie to New York—the very tie that made you choose to leave him in the first place.

And John would have been the one to fire the bullet.  

You would have hated him for the rest of your days for taking the manager away from you.

Santino is still weak and so very easy for the Elder to dispose of right now.

The Lovers. Their mission to hunt you both down.

Another test for you, another tie cut if they succeed in killing Santino.

And you would have crawled to him on your hands and knees, hoping for his kindness once again. Heartbroken and alone with no one to turn to.

He would have won and you would have made it easy for him.

So very easy.

Lucien drinks in your tiny, wet breaths and glassy stare. Blood continues dripping from the cut against your eyebrow and you shiver in his hold.

A tear trails down your cheek and you can’t process a single thought. It’s too much, it’s…  

“He always feared you would find out,” this time his voice is softer, emptier, and the hollows that make up his eyes examine you shrewdly. “But it’s a fitting punishment. To care for someone so deeply, to desire them, only to live with the burden of knowing that you are the reason for their suffering.”

His fingers tremble, sunken deep into your cheeks, and another off-tilter laugh tickles from the back of his throat.

“I really did hate you, your shadow, for years. Until those tunnels,” he murmurs, his faint accent just a little more notable then, his grip easing, loosening. “Until I saw how much darkness lurks under that mask of calm. How much hate festers inside you but directed at the wrong people. I told you we were one and the same. You should have listened.”

He shakes his head, blonde strands brushing over his forehead, his mouth stretching into another beaming smile, all teeth.

Lucien lets you go and you drop the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.

That’s all you are—comes the sinking, gutting realisation—a puppet for others to use and play with.

“He will kill me for what I’ve done to you,” Lucien announces, sounding like he’s made peace with that grim fact long ago. “But you know it’s funny, snakey. I always thought I would enjoy this more. Getting back at them by betraying his secrets. Seeing that realisation on your face. That crumbling hope and despair as your world unravels and crashes around you,” he says softly, near lovingly.

It must have taken him years to gain this level of trust, to learn this information.

You don’t move a muscle. All you can see are Lucien’s legs but you can feel him staring down at you.

The blonde tsks under his breath, nudging you with the tip of his boot but you don’t react. “You want to deny it, I know you do,” he begins purposely, and you suppose he would know, won’t he? “But you can’t. Because I bet every single thing that’s never made sense about your life before now suddenly does. Am I right, snakey?”

Your fingers tremble and you press them closer to your body.

“Looking at you now, I almost pity you,” he muses and there is a distinct note of uncomfortable surprise in his low voice. It almost makes you ponder just how large the line between this lucid Lucien and his insanity really is. “You’re just a little tragedy, aren’t you?” he adds thoughtfully.

Little tragedy. Little tragedy. Little tragedy.

It echoes.

You wonder, then, what you would have become had you been allowed to stay a girl. If you didn’t have to become a monster. Even though the monster kept you alive, kept you breathing and fighting.

What would you have become if you hadn’t been robbed of a future you could have had?

“Your life is not your own, it never was.”

Deafening, hollow silence follows that statement. Your heart thuds so painfully inside your chest, a part of you waits for it to stop on its own.  

Lucien’s boot settles against your waist again, pushing you onto your back.  

You stare up at the ceiling above you and count the beats of your heart.

The assassin straddles you unhurriedly as if expecting you to fight back but all you do is blink slowly.

Everything is rushing through your head right now. Every moment over the last seven years.

His fingers brush over the curve of your neck and he stares down at you with an almost rueful expression on his face.

“What a waste,” he starts tightly, followed by a long pause and he mutters something in French under his breath. His fingers settle around your throat—not squeezing, simply gazing down at you. “I knew it would crush you. But I hoped for that rage. For the abyss. For you to show me once and for all what I lacked that you had. Your lesson.”

So that’s what that was about.

“We might have been friends had we met sooner, serpent girl.”

His fingers constrict—

“My—”

Your voice cracks and Lucien’s grip relaxes instantly. The thin line of his eyebrows knits in confusion. “Quoi?”

Gulping a painful breath, you part your lips, “My…lesson,” you croak out, tasting blood on your tongue and how fitting that you should. “My lesson…I have the answer.”

A certain light devours his gaze, and although his features drop with surprise, his eagerness is tangible.

He leans closer, and over you, his fingers still around your throat, “Tell me.”

Your tongue feels heavy and dry inside your mouth, an acrid aftertaste coating it, and Lucien jerks his fingers harder around the fragile column. He presses closer, his body weight pinning you down—

You jerk your body, a blur of your arm, a gleam of a dagger in the artificial, cold light. The Elder’s dagger in your hand trembles but gushing scarlet coats it still.

“I’m faster.”

Lucien gapes, his mouth parted. He convulses, his grip on your neck slipping, and you lurch your hips upwards, throwing him off you.

He drops to the side, right beside you, unmoving but the heat of his body still warming you—and you clutch the dagger tighter between your blood-stained fingers. You press it to your chest and lay there till time becomes nothing.  

BC4 BC5.

Years ago when you escaped to Casablanca, eager to start your life over and join the Elder once again, Sofia told you something that has stuck with you ever since.

Sometimes you have to kill what you love.

You’ve thought about that a lot over the years. What exactly she had to sacrifice to have the power she now possesses—her daughter, flesh and blood, and good.

What you may have to sacrifice one day to earn your freedom.

Now, you suppose, none of that matters anymore.

Not really.

You’ve almost won your pyrrhic victory, Kishi purrs happily at your side, and you hear the subdued rumble of Tarasov’s laugh too, soon you can savour the rotting, sweet taste of it on your tongue.

The rooftop terrace door slams open, and you step onto the patio, halting the heated conversation with your arrival. There is an unsteady sway to your limbs that doesn’t escape anyone’s attention—John’s shoulder’s slump, Winston’s eyes narrow, the Adjudicator simply arches an eyebrow—but your expression remains steely.

The fire roars behind Winston and Charon—and it is, admittedly, a massive relief to see them both safe and unharmed—even if it makes you think how close you came…

No.

None of that now.

You’ve lived through worse (have you? liar, liar, liar, Kishi coos) and you give them a forced, fragmented smile.

“Mornin’.”

The Adjudicator grimaces subtly, and you know it’s likely because your injuries leave your smile bloody. Good.

“The Vipress,” the Adjudicator greets, standing to their feet. “I must express my apologies on behalf of the High Table. It does, indeed, seem like the general order in regards to you has...changed.”

They don’t look particularly happy to admit that but this is no time to goad, if you even could muster up the strength for it.

Instead, you stare blankly in their direction for a beat. “Excuse me,” you say, your voice a grating whisper, as you push past them. “Killing your lackies has made me thirsty.”

You shoulder past them, avoiding contact, your eyes momentarily jumping to Winston who stands right behind the Adjudicator, his stare cautious. Your eye contact lasts no more than a scant few seconds but it’s enough.

It’s a split second in which you grab a glass of champagne, ignoring the other snacks on the table.

You turn to face them, finding them all in differing states of confusion or uncertainty but offer no explanation as you drown three large gulps.

“Let’s get on with it, then,” you phrase bitingly, not bothering to hide the impatience, the sting of bubbling acid and, and… “I would like to have breakfast and take a shower. It exhausts a girl, having to take down armies. Hope you can appreciate that at least most of mine are in one piece. Less blood for you to wipe,” you comment idly, directing your words at the Adjudicator.

Coldness lurks in their regard, and you can tell that their opinion of you is less than savoury.

You don’t give a shit what they might think of you.

Every word slips past your lips on automatic; mindless, void syllables that feel drained of life. It’s an effort to register anything around you.

The blood, the champagne, the bubbles tickling your nose.

“While you have been pardoned of your crimes,” the Adjudicator resumes smoothly, clearly eager to get the conversation back on track and out of the way. “I’m afraid no such thing has happened with Mr Wick. A man who has shown no loyalty, no regard for the rules. It is by that logic the Table’s decrees that the punishment should fit the crime.”

Winston hums loudly, his head tilting as he nods in absentminded agreement.

You take another sip of your drink, frowning at the taste of blood in your mouth. Fitting, somehow.

You might have scrubbed yourself clean of blood before coming up here but it still stains the cracks of your skin. Cuticles stained with red, mouth stained with red.

Red, red, red…

John straightens at those words. He looks beat from his own fight but remains quiet. Yet, he can no doubt sense that something’s wrong.

“You’re correct,” Winston states, no affliction to be found in his voice and he steps closer, pulling something from behind his jacket. “Sorry, Jonathan.”

BANG

The gunshot is like a thunderclap through the too still morning.

John’s body jerks with the impact, a gasp sounding a second later, and you look at him while Winston steps closer.

BANG

John scrambles backwards, his bulletproof clothing absorbing the impacts but it won’t get him far.

“(Name)!” he calls out desperately, pained, his eyes seeking your form out, his voice cracking and splintering.

You can’t help and wonder if he’s scared. He sounds scared. There is something ironic—downright hilarious—in the knowledge that he’s facing death yet calling out your name like it may prove to be a salvation.  

It’s the first time since you asked him not to use your real name that he uses it. But you don’t move. Don’t respond to the plea for help. Mercy.

You just stare at him, indifferent and cold, knowing that even if you tried you couldn’t muster up any emotional response right now.

Winston fires again, and again, and John veers towards the building edge, his knees shaking.

The manager’s expression remains vacant, cold, and he shoots again, no hesitation in his aim. Not a single falter. It’s one of the most well carried out executions you’ve ever witnessed.  

John’s back hits the ledge and you watch in near slow motion as he tips over the edge falling at least twenty floors down and towards the concrete below.

You hear the metallic bangs as he hits a few fire escapes on his way down but still don’t move.

Then, impact so loud it splits the air.

Then, stillness.

The typical buzz of New York City waking up resumes. Time restarts and goes back to its natural flow once again.

Throwing your glass back, you drown the remainder of the champagne, licking your lips twice, yet blood still lingers.

Winston lowers his arm, approaching the edge but the Adjudicator gets there first. Charon is only a step behind them, and you force yourself to move after them as well.

The Adjudicator gazes down for a long, assessing moment, silent. Their head turns towards the manager who meets their probing stare flatly.

“I assume we’re done here?” he questions.

The Adjudicator inclines their head and, predictably, switches their attention to you. “You did not help him.”

A fact, not a question, yet it demands an explanation all the same. Your tongue moves on automatic, forming words that taste brittle.

Everything feels brittle.

“Why would I?” you wonder dully. “He betrayed me not so long ago, and nearly killed the majority of my friends less than a week ago. I learned my lesson.”

Chuckling, you turn your back to them, walking away leisurely. The glass clangs back onto the coffee table, a shriek of a sound. “I have served. I will be of service,” you echo the mantra pleasantly, faint with scorn.

Every word bleeds venom through your heart.

You don’t face them again, and no one stops you. The terrace doors slam shut behind you, and it’s a deafening bang that reverberates. You force yourself to put one foot in front of another. Keep walking, keep walking, keep—

It’s a blur, your feet dragging behind you. You’ve stopped bleeding but still have to halt at one point, leaning your palm against the corridor wall to rest.

You’re teetering and—

Your life is not your own, it never was.  

Your room sits untouched. The door opens with a click that’s like a kiss against your hair—so soothing and loving, comforting in ways that you could never quite explain.

The table is still an organised mess; notes half-unfinished, empty vials, dried ingredients—all littering the wooden surface, and you approach it slowly.

Exactly as you left it before you departed for Rome.

It seems like a lifetime ago now.

Everything is the same here, frozen in time.

Except nothing is the same.

Your fingertips trace over your notebook; a new formula, a collection of improvements on old ideas, scribbles that don’t make much sense to anyone but you.  

Your legacy. Your work.

This room is a testament to who you are. What you have become.

A tragedy.

Not a legend, or a fighter, just a tragedy of a girl.

A sound escapes you at that, strangely wounded, and you lean the heels of your palms against the table edge, your vision blurring.

Tragedy, tragedy, tragedy.

A puppet stitched together by different hands, influenced by different people.

You’re a product of someone else.

Every victory from your past sours and cracks with that realisation. You must have made him so proud.

You hate this room, this table, these plants, yourself.

This time a scream rips from the back of your throat. A brutal sweep of your hands wipes the table clean, everything plummeting to the floor with a booming crash.

You destroy everything in your path. Glass explodes, paper rips, liquids spills. You’re panting, sweating, and shaking by the time you come back to yourself. The floor is a mess, the whole room is.

A glint catches your notice when you spin on your heels, and your head snaps to the floor-length mirror across the room.

You don’t recognise anything about the bloodied, tear-stained, wild reflection that glares back at you. A monster is all that stands there. Alone and devoid of everything.

Distance evaporates between you, and you slam the hilt of the only weapon you still have left into the glass. The Elder’s dagger shatters the mirror upon contact. Cracks fracture your face before the mess crashes at your feet with another ear-splitting echo.

That uses the last tendril of strength left in your body—perhaps your very soul.

Your knees fold under you—and it’s almost soft, your crumbling.

Weightless and empty you settle on the floor.

Tears stream down your cheeks, hitting the crushed glass in front of you but you don’t wipe them away, don’t make a single sound. You can’t.

Your forehead lowers between your knees, your hushed sobs the only noise permeating through the peaceful room.

You don't get back up.

B4.

. . .

AN: 

well. 

now you know. 

not sure how many of you are even around to read this but a fun game to play now that you're done:

- reread COA from start to finish, noting every use of "honoured guest" in relation to V spoken by her enemies throughout the years, even the elder himself.  

[spencers-renaissance]

Fic Rec Bingo!!

So instead of Fic Rec Thursday, I thought I'd do something a little different this week and recommend 25 fics based on this bingo card (although it turned into 26, oops). I kept most of these as CM because that's my blog's focus, but due to the nature of the prompts, there are 5 Marvel (Irondad) ones & 1 Sherlock towards the end!

from @lightveils on twitter, but found posted on tumblr by @cywscross <3

1. A fic with a premise that shouldn't work but does

I never would've thought I'd enjoy a fic with Spencer as a little rebellious shit because it seems so ooc, but I loved this one!

las vegas kid by trashcanbarbie - 1.9k, 1ch, Gen/Aaron Hotchner & Spencer Reid, Gambling, Spencer Reid Needs a Hug, Young Spencer Reid, Teenage Rebellion, Protective Aaron hotchner, Pre-Canon, Father-Son Relationship, Teenage Spencer Reid

JJ raises her eyebrows, “so, you're trying to say counting cards isn't cheating?” “No,” he grins, boyish and charming, “it is.”

2. A fic you've reread several times

Discipline Changes by fullofcrazyness - 1.2k, 1ch, Aaron Hotchner/Spencer Reid, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, Past Child Abuse, Spencer Reid Needs a Hug, Comforting Hotch

Jack stopped and looked at his dad, finally seeing that his dad wasn’t actually angry. Concerned and relieved, but not angry. He was about to say something when he saw someone in the doorway, white as a sheet. “Papa?”

3. A comfort fic

i'm always tired, but never of you by @iamrenstark - 2.2k, 1ch, Derek Morgan/Spencer Reid, Hurt Spencer Reid, Angst with a Happy Ending, Sad Derek, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Spencer Reid Needs a Hug, Derek Morgan Needs a Hug, Men Crying, Gunshot Wounds, Blood and Injury

When Spencer figured it out, he was stepping out of the elevator on the bottom floor of Quantico, and he went to tell Derek he loved him like he did every day, but he froze up, because he was afraid he wouldn't hear it back. (Or, Spencer thinks his boyfriend is falling out of love with him.)

4. A cathartic fic

Every Little Transgression by @58thacademic - 1.6k, 1ch, Gen, Angst with a Happy Ending, Sad Spencer Reid, Protective David Ross, Protective Derek Morgan, Mentioned Suicide Attempt, Spencer's Backstory, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-Con, Spencer Reid Needs a Hug, Episode: s03e16 Elephant's Memory

Ok so. Elephants memory was really good because we got Reid backstory. But I'm still annoyed that he didn't defend himself against Hotch. So this was born.

5. A fic you'd print and put on your bookshelf

One Call Away by GhostInTheBAU - 204k, 32ch, Aaron Hotchner/Spencer Reid, Dubious Consent, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Domestic Violence, Rape Recovery, Referenced Past Drug Use, PTSD, Hurt Spencer Reid, Protective Aaron Hotchner, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Flashbacks, Healing, Nightmares, Suicidal Thoughts, Hurt/Comfort, Whump, Eventual Smut

When Reid's boyfriend attacks him, leaving him broken and bleeding, he calls the first person he thinks of for help. He calls the only person he really wants to see. He calls Hotch.

6. A fic you associate with a song

I associate this fic with The First Thing You See by Bruno Major. I think if you listen to the song, you'll easily see why <3

You Make Waking Up Worth It by @guccifloralsuits - 2.1k, 1ch, Derek Morgan/Spencer Reid, Fluff, Minor Angst, Established Relationship, Morning Routines, Hurt/Comfort, Good Things Happen Bingo

“Morning sweetheart,” Derek says, pausing briefly to ruffle his hand gently through Spencer’s hair. The genius nuzzles into the touch but doesn’t reply. It’s too early for conversation, Morgan knows. Pretty boy may get up earlier than he does, but it takes the younger a lot longer to really wake up.

7. A fic that inspires you

This fic could have been in so many categories because I adore it, but I wouldn't have started writing Rain is a Chance to be Touched without this fic so it definitely belongs here.

Forgive Me For All I Could Not Become by @degrassi-fanatic - 105k, 20ch, Aaron Hotchner/Spencer Reid, Canon Divergence, Getting Together, Angst, Case Fic, Confessions, Complicated Relationships, Near Death Experiences, Friends With Benefits, Smut, Miscommunication

In which Reid has always been good at hiding things. He hid his father's departure and his mother's illness from social services. He hid his addiction from his team. He hid his sexuality from the world. He hid his inappropriate feelings from his boss. That is until he's bleeding out in Hotch's arms, in an abandoned church, in Oklahoma. From there on out, Hotch and Reid learn to make a complete mess out of each other.

8. A fic that brought you on board a new ship

Even though it's unrequited, this was the first fic that really had me going !!! at Penemily <3

Another Wide-Eyed Girl by mallfacee - 2k, 1ch, Gen/Derek Morgan & Penelope Garcia, Penelope Garcia/Emily Prentiss (Unrequited), Coming Out, Internalised Homophobia, Derek Morgan is a Good Friend, Friendship, Gunshot Wounds, Episode: s03e08 Lucky

Derek Morgan is handsome and calls her “baby girl” and smiles at her like she’s the only girl in the room. Penelope Garcia knows she should be swooning and all she can think is that there must be something wrong with her not to react to a man like that giving her all this attention. Two years later she meets Emily Prentiss and understands.

9. A fic you wish could be a movie

Listen, I adore the soulmate trope, and an angsty moreid soulmate movie? Fucking sign me up right now

i need you now but i don't know you yet by @iamrenstark - 3.1k, 1ch, Derek Morgan/Spencer Reid, Hurt Spencer Reid, Hurt Derek Morgan, Mutual Pining, Soulmates, Hurt/Comfort, Buford Mention, Angst with a Happy Ending, Getting Together, Season 5

It goes like this; Spencer hasn't spoken to his soulmate since he was ten, didn't know their gender or their name or a single thing about them. Spencer's soulmate doesn't want him, and that's okay.

10. A fic that led to you making friends with the author

I'm doing two because fuck you that's why

This was one of the first fics I read of Adam's and I immediately fell in love with his writing! And I'm pretty sure that we ended up becoming friends after I rec'd it!!

Plum Sauce by @goldencatchflies - 1.5k, 1ch, Derek Morgan/Spencer Reid, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Canon Divergence, Fluff, Jealousy, Platonic Morcia, Episode: s07e13 Snake Eyes

Garcia tells Spencer about what she thinks happened between her and Derek. He doesn’t seem too happy about it...

I read this from Syd and absolutely loved it, and like with Adam, we became friends from there! (I mean technically husband and wife, but, y'know. Semantics.)

You Belong With Me by @spencerspecifics - 11.4k, 1ch, Derek Morgan/Spencer Reid, Song Fic, Getting Together, Angst with a Happy Ending, Pining, Fluff

A fluffy Moreid fic based on You Belong With Me by: Taylor Swift

11. A fic you associate with a place

This reminds me of a chilled Sunday afternoon on my old sofa in my living room, with the fire on in the background. I read it all in one sitting and loved every word <3

Metanoia by @makaylajadewrites - 39k, 16ch, Derek Morgan/Spencer Reid, Canon Typical Violence, Implied Rape/Non-Con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Established Relationship, Near Death Experiences, Frostbite, Rape Recovery, Suicidal Thoughts, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Autistic Spencer Reid, Drug Use, Eventual Smut, Eventual Happy Ending

Oh, Derek… He couldn’t stand the thought of him bursting in with SWAT in tow, gun at the ready, only to descend those creaky stairs and find his naked, bleeding body, vacated of life, crumbled on a red-stained mattress. The realization that he was going to die at the end of this was catching up to him, but maybe it would be better that way.

In which an unfortunate resemblance to an unsub's victims puts Reid right on his radar.

12. A fic that made you gasp out loud

Gasp out loud might be a *bit* of an overreaction, but this one took me on a rollercoaster and I loved every second of it (all of bau-gremlin's fics will do that to you tbh)

The End by @bau-gremlin - 3.1k, 2ch, Aaron Hotchner/Spencer Reid, Graphic Violence, Stabbing, Blood and Injury, Temporary Character Death, Hurt Spencer Reid, Whump, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt Aaron Hotchner, Sleepy Cuddles, Protective Spencer Reid

The famous interview with Chester Hardwick ... except Hotch and Reid get separated and Reid is left alone with Hardwick and a prison-made shiv.

13. A fic you found at the right time

You're Going to be Okay by fullofcrazyness - 2.6k, 1ch, Gen/Aaron Hotchner & Spencer Reid, Dark, Suicidal Thoughts, Depression, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, Sad Spencer Reid, Hurt Spencer Reid, Depression, Protective Aaron Hotchner, Hurt/Comfort, Happy Ending

Spencer was no stranger to depression. His father leaving him, his mother’s episodes, being twelve years old in a Las Vegas high school. All of those things made him very familiar with the illness. “I… I think I need some help.”

14. A fic that you would read a fic of

Chain Reaction by EloquentDossier - 42k, 16ch, Aaron Hotchner/Spencer Reid, Alternate Universe, Texting, Dialogue-Only, Text Fic, Self-Esteem Issues, Fluff, Angst, Implied/Referenced Past Drug Use, Canon Divergence, Pining, Oblivious Aaron Hotchner, Happy Ending

A dialogue-only AU in which Hotch texts what he thinks is Rossi's new number but is actually the slightly eccentric stranger whom Hotch knows only as "Spencer." What follows is something neither man could have ever quite expected.

15. A fic that made you laugh out loud

The Bet by @degrassi-fanatic - 1.6k, 2ch, Aaron Hotchner/Spencer Reid, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Bets & Wagers, Humour, Fluff, Canon Divergence

“Fifty bucks says Hotch writes you up and sends you to sexual harassment sensitivity training.” she declares as she stares him down. Without looking away from her, Reid takes out his own wallet and flips it open to pull out a fifty dollar before placing it down right next to Prentiss’s own money. “Fifty bucks says Hotch will go out with me.”

16. A fic that gave you butterflies

The healing and dynamics in this one is just.... off the charts :')

Who Spencer Reid Loves by @blueberriesandbubbles - 36k, 11ch, Derek Morgan/Spencer Reid, Rape/Non-Con Elements, Abusive Relationships, Domestic Violence, Abuse, Hurt Spencer Reid, Mutual Pining, Rape Recovery, Healing, Fluff

Derek Morgan has been in love with the resident genius as long as he's known him. When Spencer enters a relationship with a mystery man, Derek is unhappy. He is even more unhappy when he meets this man. Spencer starts acting different and Derek knows something is wrong and he has a feeling its connected to the man Reid is dating.

17. A fic that embodies something you value in life

The utter and total love and devotion in this fic just punches me right in the gut every time I reread it

A Little Fall of Rain by jack_hunter - 4.3k, 2ch, Aaron Hotchner/Spencer Reid, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Angst, Spencer Reid Whump, Autistic Spencer Reid, Major Character Injury, Secret Relationship, Team as Family, Dad Rossi

Morgan crept up behind the doctor and snatched the headphones off of his head, earning a yelp of a protest as he slipped them over his own ears. “Les Mis?” Morgan asked with a quizzical look, “didn’t peg you as the musical type, Pretty Boy.” Spencer snatched the headphones back. “I’ve always loved the theatre and I went to see Les Misérables with-... a friend last Friday.”

18. A favourite AU

The Curious Case of Dr. Reid by severaance - 37k, 10ch, Derek Morgan/Spencer Reid, Transgender Character, Fluff, Trans Spencer Reid, Light Angst, Getting Together, Developing Relationship, Smut, Insecurity, Happy Ending (Warning for Homophobic & Transphobic Slurs)

"And your names for the order, please?" The barista asked, eyes flickering expectantly between the two before her. "Spencer," she answered, although she was not talking to the barista. "I'm Spencer." The man before her had the same idea. "Derek."

19. A fic you stayed up too late to finish reading

I stayed up one night and read pretty much all the marvel fics this author has written, but this was the last one that I simply could not resist. The next day wasn't pretty :/

The more you say, the less I know by forthenightisdarkandfullofterror - 13.9k, 3ch, Gen/Irondad, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Temporary Amnesia, Protective Pepper Potts, Not Endgame Compliant, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Blood and Violence, Hurt Peter Parker, Whump

Tony wakes up from snapping with amnesia and for the life of him can't remember the kid hanging around, claiming to be 'just an intern'. Feelings get hurt.

20. A fic that made you feel seen

heavy in my bones by hopeless_hope - 4.4k, 1ch, Gen/Irondad, Chronic Pain, Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Peter Parker, Whump, Father-Son Relationship, Dad Tony, Worried Tony Stark, Angst, Chronic Illness, 5+1 Things

Five times Peter lied to someone about his chronic pain, and one time he told the truth and got the help he needed.

21. A fic you love without knowing the source material

(I mean this is literally all marvel fics but I'll rec this one because I loved it so much)

the locker room by searchingforstars - 15.5k, 3ch, Gen/Irondad, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Hurt Peter Parker, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Mental Health Issues, Misunderstandings, Arguing, Miscommunication, Crying, Whump, Angst with a Happy Ending, Rape Recovery

Peter's falling apart and he doesn't know how things will ever go back to normal again after Ryder.

22. A fic you've gushed about IRL

Genuinely, this fic is better than most published fiction I've read...

The Third Option by Uncertainty_Principle - 220k, 37ch, Gen/Irondad, Hurt/Comfort, Sexual Abuse, Emotional Abuse, Physical Abuse, Alternate Universe, Hurt Peter Parker, Foster Care, Identity Reveal, Slow Build, Disordered Eating, Homelessness

Ben and May divorced before Peter’s parents died, so when Ben is murdered Peter goes into foster care. It takes just a tiny taste of superpowers for Peter to decide he doesn’t want to put up with his horrible foster father anymore—the streets are infinitely more appealing. All he wants is to be Spider-Man anyway.

So he leaves. Simple.

Simple, that is, until Iron Man needs Spider-Man’s help. Peter isn’t about to turn down an opportunity to fight alongside Tony Freaking Stark, but he also isn’t going to let his hero know that his recruit is a fifteen-year-old homeless dropout. So they strike a deal. Peter will help Tony. In return, the mask stays on. And that’s when things get complicated.

23. A fic you still remember many years later

The Transport Series by ancientreader - 135k, 2 works, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Backstory, Canon Drug Use, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Physical Disability, AU, Important Character Death, First Time, Developing Relationship, Angst with a Happy Ending, BDSM, Humour, Fluff

How to become a consulting detective. // Jim's lessons are hard to unlearn.

24. A fic with a line or two that you've memorised by heart

"He has held up buildings and nuclear bombs and whole entire countries on his back. Peter’s body is the heaviest thing he’s ever held."

when my body won't hold me anymore (where will I go) by @madasthesea - 4.4k, 2ch, Gen/Irondad, Temporary Character Death, Angst, Grief/Mourning, Father-Son Relationship, Hurt Peter Parker, Crying, Forehead Kisses, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Medical Inaccuracies, Hugs, Platonic Cuddling

But he knows. He knows. He can feel it. Peter’s dead. Peter Parker watches as Tony carefully arranges his limbs on a cot. “Mr. Stark,” he tries for the dozenth time. No one hears him.

25. Free Space

And to round it off, we have to celebrate the fic that really and truly welcomed me into the CM fanfic world...

Chanel by @4x24 - 24k, 7ch, Derek Morgan/Spencer Reid, Getting Together, Spencer Wears Makeup, Friends to Lovers, Light Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon Typical VIolence, Humour, Fluffy Ending, Pining, Smut Heavy

Penelope mentions offhandedly one night that she thinks Spencer might look good in makeup. Spencer takes the suggestion to heart. Derek likes the new look - and Spencer - more than he probably should. (Season 4)

[kaizokuou-ni-naru]

The Voyage So Far: Enies Lobby

east blue (1 | 2) || alabasta (1 | 2) || skypiea || water 7 || enies lobby || thriller bark || paramount war (1 | 2) || fishman island || punk hazard || dressrosa (1 | 2) || whole cake island || wano (1 | 2)

this is still one of my very favorite nami panels. i think she’s really great through all of water 7 and enies lobby in general, actually, even though she isn’t really one of the characters in focus for a lot of it- like zoro and sanji, she stays pretty steadfast and very badass even though everything that happens, and never gives up on robin for a moment despite being one of the ‘weaker’ members of the crew. and it’s always fun to see her playing with lightning.

one of my favorite jokes from the first half or so of enies lobby is the strawhats both being completely unsurprised that luffy charges in ahead of them as soon as they arrive AND being able to find him immediately by following the explosions. they know him so well. 

luffy’s never been scared of dying, going all the way back to when he told coby he was fine with dying for his dream back in chapter two or three. that conversation is what his exchange with blueno here reminds me of- blueno asks him how long he intends to keep fighting, and luffy says until he dies, like there’s nothing to it.

it’s always been a trait of his to face death unflinching with a grin, so long as it’s for the sake of something he cares about, be it his crew or his brother or his dream, and i just really like that about him.  

i’ll go into it in the dressrosa post too, but i think it’s really impressive just how long oda held off on giving luffy any sort of significant power-up. he gets his first big power boost in the whole series here, forty volumes in. i’ve always liked that oda is very conservative with power boosts like this, because it both keeps the series’ powerscaling in check and makes the times it does happen much weightier. this is a monumental moment, and it feels like it.

also, i love the way gear two is drawn pre-timeskip, especially with the steam. it looks very cool and atmospheric.

i really like how united the strawhat crew feels throughout enies lobby, after all the internal turmoil and discord of water seven. even though the matter of usopp leaving the crew is still unresolved, they’ll all together once more, on the same page, and fully united in the goal of saving robin, whatever consequences it might bring. 

the tree of knowledge has such a cool design- it looks massive, and even more than that, it looks old. you look at that tree and you know its been there for easily thousands of years. its seen entire eras of history, and it would be priceless even without the countless books stored inside it.

and then it burns.

i’m so endlessly sad about the tragedy that is robin’s relationship with her mother. they never even got to see each other until their world was ending, and even then only for a couple minutes.

olvia is a very interesting character, because she’s someone who chose her dream over the people she loved. that’s not an inherently good or bad choice, but it is a choice she made, and it’s what led to the ending she and robin had to have. i’ve wondered a lot what might have happened if she chose the other way, if she never left or if she came back sooner or if she chose to flee the buster call with robin, and how different (and almost certainly better) robin’s life would have been if she had.

in a way, olvia reminds me a lot of kouzuki toki. they both die in order to fling a light of knowledge and hope into the future, and they both send their children away and choose to stay behind to choke on ash for the sake of a better tomorrow. 

i didn’t really notice until putting these panels together, but a lot of things burn in enies lobby. ohara burns, and the pluton plans and the world government flag, and enies lobby itself, and at the end, the going merry burns, too. if you extend it back to water seven, there’s the galley-la headquarters, too. in an arc that deals so much with the preservation and destruction of history and knowledge, it’s a fitting motif. 

the world government flag burning is still to this day one of the most striking panels out of a series full of them, in my opinion. in one act, the strawhats proclaim their absolute defiance against the world government, and their willingness to make enemies of the greatest power in the world for the sake of their friend.

it’s also another one of those moments that’s interesting to think about in the context of luffy’s past. it was a ship flying that same flag that shot sabo down, and while luffy wasn’t there to see it, i don’t think he’s oblivious to that fact, especially given how he says just before this he understands robin’s enemies perfectly.

dadan told him and ace that there was nothing they could do against the whole world, and luffy went and did it anyways.

sometimes i just think about how scary it must have been for robin, someone who’s been weighed down by the shackles of her past with no escape in sight for so very long, to open herself up and let herself hope, for life and freedom and a dream that’s always been out of reach. 

franky has a lot of really great moments between this arc and water seven- his conversation with usopp as usopp is working on merry and his talk with robin on the sea train are two others. it’s almost impressive how quickly he becomes an immensely likable character once we start getting to know him, given how he’s first introduced as an absolute piece of shit.

his burning of the pluton plans is a favorite of mine, and i think it might be because, like so many people before and after him, he’s choosing here to stake all his hopes on the strawhats, on luffy’s ability to pull off the impossible and on robin’s goodness. when robin’s only ever been chased and hated and called a demon by the world, franky chooses to trust her and luffy with the legacy his dad died for, and neither of them let him down.

monster point looks SO FUCKING TERRIFYING in enies lobby, and i LOVE it. look at that. franky is seven and half feet tall, and in front of monster point he’s tiny. monster point is huge, and dead-eyed, and a force of absolute destruction. i do kind of wish we got to see chopper go completely feral like this more often. he deserves to be terrifying!

i love how much FAITH all the rest of the strawhats continue to have in usopp throughout enies lobby. he left the crew and they really would have a right to be angry at him if they chose to, but it doesn’t even seem to cross any of their minds. they’re just happy he’s okay, and they include him again without missing a beat, because he’s still their friend and they know down to their bones they can trust him, even after everything. 

i’ve always really loved zoro and kaku’s little moment of post-battle banter here- zoro relays paulie’s message about cp9 being fired, kaku says he’s out of a job, zoro tells him to try the zoo, and kaku cracks up.

it feels very real to me for whatever reason, and i think part of it ties back into how well one piece handles morality with its characters- zoro and kaku are genuinely pretty similar people who get along decently, it just happens that they wound up on opposite sides. there are series where you’d never see moments like this due to the lines between good and bad being so firmly drawn, and i love how one piece blurs those lines so much they may as well not exist a lot of the time.

this is the other sequence, along with luffy climbing the drum rockies barehanded, that always makes me physically cringe to look at. it looks so painful. robin is so nearly powerless here, but not quite- she can still buy time for her crew to catch up, even if it’s only seconds, even if she risks shattering her teeth or even her jaw in the process. she’s spent so long giving up and has only just started daring to hope- she’s not about to go gentle.

there aren’t many panels that give me catharsis like this one. there really aren’t.

oda’s villains are usually complicated and awful and often a little admirable, if only for how clever or how terrifyingly powerful they are, but every now and then he comes up with someone who’s just pathetic and cowardly and pointlessly cruel. spandam is like this, obviously, and so is orochi, and the celestial dragons, and i’d argue flampe from whole cake island as well. and there’s nothing like seeing characters like them- weak, cruel people so assured in their own power and rightness- get obliterated.

one of the things i really like about enies lobby is that nobody really gets sidelined- everybody gets multiple chances to shine. luffy, usopp, and obviously robin are the most in focus, obviously, but zoro, sanji, nami, chopper, and even franky all get a bunch of individual awesome moments. oda’s ability to handle his cast satisfyingly is consistently really impressive (if sometimes strained in huge ensemble arcs like dressrosa or wano) and it really shows here, i think.

i just really love the entire climax of enies lobby. much like the arc as a whole, it just feels triumphant, even though the situation is extremely dire. luffy unlocking gear three, robin’s cuffs getting unlocked, usopp shooting spandam and the marines all the way from the tower of justice- it’s all just good, a long chain of much-needed victories and catharses, and it feels very good to read.

i’ll always be impressed by just how much characterization oda manages to give merry, a boat. she’s only really a character in water seven and the end of enies lobby, only about two chapters of which she actually speaks in. and yet i don’t think you’d find a single one piece fan who disagrees that merry’s death is easily one of the most heartwrenching in the entire series.

i love the reactions of the strawhats to robin’s thanks. they’ve just gone through hell to save her, most of them are beat to shit and they all risked their lives, and yet they all just smile, or brush it off, because to them there’s nothing else they could have done. it’s all worth it, so long as they got her back, so long as she’s safe and happy.

merry’s funeral just hits me in the chest every single time i read it. it’s tragic, of course, but there’s also something almost lovely about it, something peaceful about her getting to go out on her own terms, carrying her crew to safety one last time, defying every rule of the universe to do it. just like a strawhat pirate.

oda’s ability to communicate emotion through expressions really comes through here, too. merry has the only lines in this scene, fitting for her death in the limelight, but the shots of every other crewmate’s face let us know at a glance just what they’re all feeling and just how strongly they’re feeling it.

you know, i’d forgotten we only learn the name of the new world after enies lobby. we only get proper exposition about the revolutionary army and the yonkou here, too, despite them being set up since loguetown and jaya (or alabasta, or even chapter one if you count from shanks’s introduction) respectively. oda’s ability to parse out exposition and explanation so we always have just the right amount of information is really impressive- we always have more questions, but we also always have the feeling that those questions have answers, and that sooner or later they’ll be revealed.

points at shanks. i just think he’s neat.

it’s my opinion that one of the great joys of one piece is seeing luffy and the crew rise up in the world, and seeing them gain more and more notoriety. i love nothing they do ever happens in a vacuum- everything has impacts, and there are always outside eyes watching, and often those impacts are things that they never could have predicted.

ace and blackbeard is still, i think, definitely one of the coolest looking fights in the whole series. it’s not all that often we get to see two people with extremely flashy and showy abilities go all-out against each other, and the resulting fireworks are still really something to behold, despite how badly it all ends. 

[mindibindi]

Beyond disappointed in Ted Lasso. What were they thinking?!

The writing is a complete betrayal and insult to Rebecca’s character and Hannah’s skills as they’re being seriously underused. It’s also insulting Sam’s character.

Hoping someone pulls Rebecca’s head out of her ass tbh. Sam shouldn’t be getting caught in the crossfire of her looking for romance. I know he showed up at her doorstep but she still should’ve turned him away, and not even messaged him in the first place.

Hey, I'm with you, Anon, though we do seem to be in the minority. Sam is definitely not blameless here, he is also in the wrong. But if one of them is more in the wrong, it is Rebecca. I can't speak to whether her head has left her arse as yet because I have quit watching (at least for now). I hear she called it off with Sam in the most recent ep, though not because of any major crisis of conscience or because anyone in her inner circle expressed any reasonable reservations in response to her bad behaviour. And to be honest, I'm not sure we should need to hope and pray that Rebecca's precocious god-daughter, her slimy ex-husband, or the brutal British press will act as a moral compass on this ill-advised relationship. Both Rupert and the press have been set up to some extent as the villains of the piece. And a 14 year old should never have to school her elders on what is and isn't acceptable. Nora's needs have already been neglected by Rebecca for far too long.

If a moral position is to be taken on this, it needs to be taken by the show (because stance matters) and/or by its characters. But the show has for the most part depicted this relationship as ill-advised but ultimately hot, sweet, funny and romantic. As for the characters themselves, Sam has shown at least once that he has some moral backbone but seems to be adorably clueless when it comes to fucking his boss who keeps trying to set boundaries with him. Meanwhile, Rebecca's whole arc in s1 was about learning not to misuse her power for her own selfish ends. In season one, she misused her power within the club in order to exact revenge. In season 2, we have seen her misuse her sexual power, though I still cannot see to what end. I'm a bit at a loss as to what exactly she gets out of this 'relationship' but then I'm a grown woman so I have absolutely no interest in sleeping with a Harry Potter enthusiast barely out of his teens. I couldn't think of anything less sexy and more ick. I was certainly hoping for better character development for her this season.

As to what the writers were thinking, obviously I was not in the writer's room, but I would guess that they were thinking that any drama is good drama, people are stupid and fan devotion will trump any meaningful critique. In other words, they were thinking exactly how every other television writer thinks, despite the fact that this show posited itself as 'not like other TV shows'. This, to me, is where the blame really lies. Not with the characters or with the actors who are doing their best to sell this ludicrous turn of events. It must be noted, however, that both actors were completely blindsided by this relationship that had supposedly been so cleverly foreshadowed. Newsflash: if the people actually living these stories did not see this coming then you haven't foreshadowed shit. Sure, there were a handful of people that paired Rebecca with Sam but this does not constitute proof either. Fans have free-range to imagine and re-imagine characters. In some cases this may extend to imagining relationships between characters who have barely, if ever, interacted. There may be little to no evidence that these characters have even clocked each other's existence and some fans will still ship it. The existence of a handful of shippers does not legitimise such a problematic and divisive plotline making it onscreen.

But wait!, you might argue, this may not be a case of a popular show seeing just how far they can stretch fan devotion. This may not be a case of fan service to a handful of shippers. After all, the creators mapped out the entire three-season arc of Ted Lasso before they even pitched it to Apple. This was their brilliant plan all along! To which I would say: then maybe they should've rethought their second act based on people's strong reactions to their first. Ted Lasso was touted as the show we all needed in 2020. The writers and creators have all marveled at the chord it struck considering it was conceived prior to the pandemic and all the chaos it wrought. And while there is something to be said for having/sticking to a creative vision, there is also something to be said for being flexible and responsive to your audience and the cultural zeitgeist with which you're engaged. Season 1 of Ted Lasso told its story so gently, without creating distrust, division or unnecessary anxiety. It did not treat its audience like a gaggle of stupid lemmings to be led over a succession of narrative cliffs. THIS is what I mean when I say the show has broken with its brand. And look, this whole dark forest thing would be okay if the narrative arc was as well-crafted as s1. Season 1 gave us meaning, cohesion, comfort, sense in a senseless time. It was an almost perfectly crafted season of television. And I kept the faith for 6 episodes, despite the first half of s2 being pretty damn wobbly. But the follow-up to this stellar debut has been less than extraordinary so yeah, perhaps they should've thought a little harder about what made s1 so special before throwing it all out the window.

But wait!, I hear the faithful say, you don't know how things will pan out yet! Wait until the season is over and everything will make sense! But -- wearily and once again, I say -- we should not need to wait until the end of the season to understand what the hell is happening. By this point (over halfway through the season and show) we should have a v clear idea of the show's themes and the characters' arcs. And tbf, from what I can tell there are some fab things happening in other aspects of the show that I wish I could watch and enjoy. But my biggest fear at this point is that they are going to use Sam to solve Rebecca's childlessness. That, like Rupert (because the parallel cannot be avoided), she will become pregnant with a young fling and the show's attitude to this relationship will ultimately be: oh well, it was a bad idea and didn't work out for them but it was all for the best in the end cos who can be mad about a cute lil baaaayyybbbeeee??!! If they do go down this path then I will definitely be abstaining from the rest of the show. I will simply recall my repeated viewings of s1 with fondness tinged with regret at just how badly they fucked up a good thing.

Ultimately, Anon, I think this may be a case of there simply not being a diverse enough perspective in the writer's room. I am not saying that every single woman or every single person of colour will necessarily object to this relationship. I am simply saying that women and people of colour will be more sensitive to the issues of gender and race that are relevant here but that have not been fully or sensitively acknowledged in the writing of this plotline. Neither am I saying that Rebecca is the first woman to sleep with a man much (much, much, MUCH) younger than herself or indulge in an ill-advised relationship. But the comparison with Rupert both works here and doesn't because Rebecca is not being written like a white woman, she is being written like a white man. Realistically, only a white man can engage in this kind of hugely imbalanced relationship seemingly without any major moral qualms or societal ramifications. Not to put too fine a point on it, but this kind of relationship is reserved for all the Bills and Joes and Brendans and Jasons out there -- not for the Rebeccas and definitely not for the Sams. We are way beyond the point in feminism where we believe that liberation is simply the right for a white woman to behave as badly as a white man. The truth is that whatever wealth, power and privilege Rebecca has, the rules are different for men and women. She will not be treated the same as Rupert if and when this affair is uncovered. She will be treated far more savagely than Rupert ever was and Sam will be treated far more savagely than Bex was. This is not an argument for the equal treatment of these two relationships. It is an argument against how the relationship between Rebecca and Sam has been envisaged, i.e. through the wrong perspective. In writing from a 'neutral' white male pov, the show has invisiblised all the many issues activated by this storyline and revealed a blindspot that was always there.

As much as I loved and still love season 1 of this show, it has definite blindspots when it comes to representations of race and gender. There are at least two moments in s1 that stand out for me as being so obviously written by a man. Not necessarily because of what they do but because of what they don't do: what is missed, absent, unacknowledged. I was willing to overlook such minor failings in a debut season for many reasons. But s2 seems to have exacerbated these minor flaws rather than correcting them. And here I can't help thinking of Tina Fey speaking of the diversification of the writer's room at SNL during her tenure as co-headwriter. This notoriously male-dominated environment only began to shift and produce better work when a greater diversity of minds, voices and persepectives was allowed in the room. In this richer environment, she notes, different jokes played differently. Different sketches made it to air. Different perspectives were represented and different performers were celebrated. I can't help wondering if this plotline would have made it to air if there had been a female writer, a writer of colour or both further up the chain of command to challenge the ideas of the straight white dudes in charge.

One of the reasons I didn't think Ted Lasso was for me was that it centred a straight, white, cis-het, able-bodied man who rose to a position he didn't earn. That is just not a pov I would normally choose for myself, especially now that there is such a rich array of alternative perspectives through which to view the world. But I think the show won a lot of females fans with its first season largely due to its portrayal of Rebecca. She is the first person we meet. She is arguably the protagonist of s1. And while she would have been figured as a villain in previous pieces, the show never took that stance with her (because again, stance matters). Other elements like the depiction of female friendships, all centred around Rebecca, made this show female-friendly viewing. But imo, the major reason this show won over female fans (this one, at least) is because, in this post-MeToo, post-TimesUp era, it stood up and said: domestic violence is not okay, we stand with women and all victims of abuse, we will defend you, we know words can hurt, we know it can happen to anyone, we know all about toxic masculinity, we do not take this lightly and we will support you in your healing. Needless to say, this is how women hope men will act when they speak of their most difficult experiences but it is not how they always do.

The shift away from Rebecca this season has however meant that the white male experience is more centred than it was in s1. Rebecca's journey to recovery, health and happiness has been trivialised and sidelined, reduced to a highly questionable sexcapade. Meanwhile, we get overwrought manpain at every turn. We get Beard wandering around London (no, I haven't seen it and no, I don't need to. We've all been raised on white dudes thinking they're genuises when they have a figurative wank all over our screens). We get NO queer represention at all. And the only other female characters on screen are in care/service roles to men. The father/son, mentoring and toxic masculinity themes are all still there but they're no longer balanced out by ANY other competing perspective. One of the reasons I was okay with Ted failing upwards in s1 was that he used his power and privilege to lift up others. He was the one in service. He used his enormous privilege for good, as anyone with such privilege must. (Admittedly, it could be argued that this is just another version of a white savior narrative).

My point here is that I'm not sure that peeking behind the mask at the sad clown is as revolutionary as some might believe. We love it because it's familiar. But this is a narrative with a long and problematic history. Do I believe in tearing down toxic masculinity in all its forms? You bet. Do I believe that patriarchy traumatises men as well as women and every other minority in existence? I mean...nowhere near as much, but absolutely. Do I believe in men expressing their feelings and going to therapy? Wholeheartedly. But I am also aware that 100 or so years ago, we were in a very similar place with our narratives. Everyone is looking for a recapitulation of modernism and frankly, this might be an indicator of just that. Whenever women and people of colour have demanded rights and recognition, there has always been a resurgence of tales about just how frickin' hard it is to be a white man. Minority genders and non-white people have never in western history been as visible or vocal as they are now. So forgive me (or don't, I don't care) if I critique a show not only for centering fathers, sons, boys and men but for blindly and boldly writing one of its only female characters and one of its only black characters as if their gender and race just do not exist. There are many other power differentials at play in this relationship, including age, experience, wealth and position, but race and gender are the two that patriarchy is most invested in invisiblising. So I don't care how brilliant they think they are, I will not trust the writing of a bunch of white dudes trying to tell me that race and gender are irrelevant.

[tricktster]

Hey, while The Letter is still the subject of like every ask I’m getting, I want to highlight an important point that I neglected to address in my Guide to Writing a Fuck You Letter. (As a  refresher, when I say “Fuck You letter,” I’m really talking about a letter directed to another person that is written in response to that person’s bad/wrongful act. In the Fuck You letter, you explain exactly why that person’s act was bad or wrongful, and then you explain the potential negative outcomes  that the actor should expect as a result of their bad act, in order of escalating severity.) 

If you want to convince someone to take a specific course of action, a Fuck You letter is not your best vehicle to accomplish that goal. Sure, once in a while, someone will get so spooked by a Fuck You letter that they’ll give you what you want, but the purpose of a Fuck You letter isn’t to get someone to agree with you, it’s to back your opponent into a corner in order to provoke a stupid reaction. 

See, it’s not unusual that I have to indulge in some tactful exaggerating when I am describing the bad outcomes that a Fuck You letter recipient can anticipate, because, in my experience, people are usually aware on some level that the bad act they’re doing is something that they can get in trouble for. They don’t want to get in trouble, so they cover their tracks to make it harder for anyone to prove that their act was motivated by bad intent.

Example (with the same caveat as before, this example has nothing to do with the varietal of Fuck You letter that I write): Pregnant people who are fired by their employers because they become pregnant. I can only speak for the USA, but I understand that it is (generally) illegal here to fire someone because they are pregnant - and yet! It happens all the fucking time! Some employers will come right out and say “we’re firing you because you’re pregnant” (especially if they’re firing a low wage employee per this article) but sometimes the employer will use some pretext to fire the pregnant employee - maybe they’re told during their firing meeting that it’s not because they’re pregnant, it’s deeeefinitely because they were two minutes late eight months ago. You get it; obvious bullshit, but it’s not like the employer wrote a letter saying “You’re fired because your pregnant.” The employer did a bad thing, but it’s going to be tougher for the employee to prove. 

This is where the Fuck You letter shines, because you’re going to write it and outline the consequences to the employer for their bad act under the pretext that you can already indisputably prove that the employee was fired because of her pregnancy. In other words, you gotta bullshit. Then, and this is my favorite part, you sit back and watch what happens. If they give you the type of response you’re looking for, that’s awesome, but it’s way more likely that they’re going to respond with the time honored technique of Reacting Defensively and Making a Mistake (Preferably in Writing). People are fucking awful at recognizing their own wrongdoing, everyone’s the hero of their own story etc. etc. You give them a Fuck You letter, and a lot of the time, you get a furious response from the actor that’s intended to justify and explain away the bad act. If you’ve done your job right, they can’t just ignore the letter; they know you’re going to do Something Bad to them if you don’t hear back, and they will righteously show you that they are a Good Person who does not deserve Something Bad happening to them! Sometimes they’ll also threaten you in return, which is *chef kiss* the best. 

So, extending our hypothetical, maybe the employer responds by writing, “As we discussed at the time of your firing, [Employee] you were fired because [excuse]. If you keep lying about what happened, I will have no choice to inform your new employer that you were suspected of [embezzling or whatever, you get the picture]. “

Getting a response like that from the employer might not sound like a good outcome, but it really fucking is, because now you’ve forced the employer into committing to one excuse for why the employee was fired. The employer suddenly is in a way worse position, because he’s going to need to find proof to support his false justification for the firing, which will be pretty hard to come by, since, you know, lying. Likewise, now that he’s committed to a lie, all you have to do is start poking holes in it. And if you can figure out how to get him in deeper trouble for the threat he made in response to your letter, well, golly gosh is that asshole ever double-fucked.  

The Fuck You letter serves an important purpose, and it’s not “forcing someone to correct their wrong.” You write a persuasive letter if you want to coax someone into doing the right thing. The Fuck You letter’s purpose is to goad someone into doing something so indisputably wrong that they they can’t weasel out of it. 

While we’re on the subject, I’m going to share the best fucking explanation of  how to write persuasively that I’ve ever encountered. It’s from Year of the Griffin by Diana Wynne Jones. It’s a fantasy novel about a bunch of students essentially agitating for an improved curriculum at their University. I know that sounds fucking awful, but DWJ was a hell of a writer, and this book has informed my life in a huge way by giving me this gift of a passage, which runs through my mind every single time I have to write something that will convince someone to see things my way.  

“[The professor] was determined to skim Ruskin’s essay. But it was impossible. Ruskin was a dwarf, used to working with intricate things, and his argument was like chain mail, forged link by link. He put out a suggestion. He followed that with obvious things that led from it—things you were forced to agree to—and then he went one stage further and Wham! you were agreeing to something that was quite unheard of. Then Ruskin took the unheard-of idea and did the same to that. Wham. A new mad idea. Around and around the links Corkoran went, up and through and wham! through the first twenty pages. By this time he found he was humbly agreeing to a complete reorganization of the University syllabus, with theory and practical being taught together, to give more space for hugely advanced theory, and the first-year course beginning where the third year’s left off;”

[charlthotte]

Breaking Through the Iron Wall - Aone Takanobu x Reader

Chapter 11

Beside me, I could sense Aone's pure fretfulness. His exterior exerted his usual stoic presence, yet the smallest draft of a broken child drifted through the cracks in his skin. Second after second, those cracks grew larger and larger until he seemed frail enough to snap. But we were outside, in the blatant view of the rest of the world - from what I knew - Aone wasn't a person to let his guard down in front of just anyone, somehow I felt the exact same way. But I was certain that the reason behind him was something entirely opposed to mine, perhaps it was something even darker.

I tried to shake myself out of my deep pondering, it was selfish to think about myself in a time where Aone was trekking through the furnaces of hell - and he needed me to accompany him on that adventure. I was certain that he couldn't do it alone, he'd break. There wasn't a more eloquent way of putting that statement, nor could you sugar-coat it. 

Roaring skies bellowed up above us, winds howled in agony - all of their lamentations lashing and tearing through the atmosphere; almost biting at our skin, shredding our outwards protection into ribbons of devastation. Those deafening bellows closed off my hearing almost entirely, I couldn't hear anything - let alone my own thoughts.

Throughout the whole journey, the winds kept us separated, no matter how valiantly I quested to ameliorate his feelings... I just couldn't reach them. Normally, a trip to the vet shouldn't have caused Aone's level of anxiety, so maybe... It was so much more than just a trip to the vet. 

Hesitantly, my fingers gingerly edged the door open, shrouding us both in a whole new light of apprehension. The ring of the entrance bell almost seemed deafening - breaking the agonisingly tumultuous silence. Everything was unreal. No, I didn't understand the situation to the fullest extent; but somehow, deep inside of me - I just knew. Soon, we were welcomingly ushered into the establishment by a woman in a lab coat. Her hazel eyes oozed with the highest volume of empathy that I had ever witnessed, somehow she knew to be gentle with Aone, as if she knew him well.

Almost in a chain of reactions, we were now sat down in the waiting area - side by side in silence. A gargantuan urging churned inside of me to console him, in any way possible; a pat on the shoulder; some words of sympathy or maybe simply the warmth of another human against him, so that he knew he had at least one shoulder to weep upon. Almost identical to the situation beforehand - Aone began quivering, but ever so slightly. And as always, I was the only person in the nearby vicinity that could notice exactly how he felt. As if on instinct, my arm shot upwards to wrap it around Aone's shivering shoulders, but at least the the farthest that I could reach. 

His whole body jolted at my touch, almost as if he had recently been snapped back into the current reality. Quicker than a blink of an eye, his eyes snapped over to rest upon me, their unnatural glossiness glimmering underneath the light - searching for the slightest scrap of comfort to latch onto.

Never before had I gazed upon his face in a manner such as that, to me, he seemed a new person entirely. Not a single aspect on his face had been altered, however, there was just something inside of me that didn't recognise him. My eyes darted around until they latched straight onto his. At that point - I had the slightest inkling to avert my gaze, but I just couldn't, - there was something inside of him, scraping and pleading for just that one moment of comfort. And that was when he had located that source of comfort, in me, no less. His whole figure softened as if he had lost his skeleton. He was but an empty vessel of what he was before.

---

The amount of time that flew past us was unfathomable, almost immeasurable. Time was always supposed to sprint forwards when you were enjoying yourself, and at that moment, both of those aspects were completely averse to the latter. The pure trepidation we were both enduring stretched out the time to the extent where a second was a terribly drawn out eternity.

"Mr. Aone Takanobu." The same woman that had greeted us spoke into the drab atmosphere. Within her eyes, I could sense something close to pity, all beneath the surface of empathy.

Gingerly, I rose from the chair, my legs almost buckling underneath me - but I knew, that I was the one who couldn't show any weakness, I was Aone's pillar of reassurance. If I toppled over, so would he; but his crash to the earth would be much more crushing. A faint tug rippled through the sleeve of my coat - Aone was gripping onto the fabric as if it was some sort of a lifeline for him. It was almost as if he was a terrified child cowering behind their mother. Even though he stood inches above myself, he didn't appear that way - his aura omitted that of a child, but not just any child, a scarred child, apprehending the worst.

As we were led to the veterinarian's office, sounds of weeping animals and humans echoed through the air, nothing was normal, nothing felt... right. The lady beckoned for us to take a seat, and the whole manner in which she conversed with us in simply unnerved me. Nothing was typically out of the ordinary - but it was at the same time.

Her shoulders rose and fell slowly, as if she was bracing for the impact of something intense. She began, "We have examined Shiro to the best of our abilities, however there was little to do for him. The symptoms he has displayed cannot match up with any diagnoses that we could offer you. To put it in simple terms, there is nothing much that we can do to help him."

Everything froze.

Everything froze, all except Aone and I. We were the only people in the world.

Almost instantly, Aone's eyes cascaded tears of sorrow, there was nothing to stop them from doing so. 

In the adjacent second, his body collapsed upon me for support, now was the time for his pillar to be there for him. Full instinct loomed over all my emotions, and I didn't even need to think of what to do next, I just simply... Knew... My one arm that wasn't already around his shoulders shot straight up to his hair - ruffling the tiny tufts gently. Twisting and curling a few of his ashen locks around the tip of my finger. The other presence in the room didn't matter to me as Aone's sturdy figure spluttered and choked inside of my arms. The amount of pain I was feeling due to the news that had recently been bestowed upon us was immense. But I couldn't even begin to imagine the sheer dosage of agony that he was going through, he had easily been close to Shiro for years and years at that point. Shiro seemed like the only living thing that Aone felt truly comfortable around, and now he was going to lose him.

Stinging slightly, my eyes began to be tickled by tears, threatening to surge over my eyelids - but a pillar can't crash. Aone's sobs rang out through the room, and then - not only was the news agonising, but so were the sounds of his fretfulness, perhaps even more so. Both our chests quivered in a calamitous rhythm, creating a song of desolation.

Breaking us out of our own little world, the lady almost whispered, "I'm guessing that you understand what I've said... I am extremely sorry to tell you this but, I don't think Shiro can last any more than a week living on this earth. However, we will supply him with some antibiotics to make his passing easier... Once again, I am so sorry."

What she said couldn't register with either of us, both of us being too occupied by the other's embrace.

I endeavoured to try and find Aone's eyes inside my own, only to see a harsh reddish hue emblazoned across them. He was a broken doll. I couldn't bear seeing him just so... hopeless. Therefore, in an effort to calm his lamentation, my hands hesitantly cupped themselves around his damp and blotchy cheeks, caressing my thumbs over them - wiping away his tears as I did so. He sank into them, using my hands as his only source of support.

"Aone... I can't imagine the amount of pain you're feeling right now: I know that Shiro is your best friend. I can't fathom losing someone close to me, especially if they're as close as you two are. You're inseparable. But, Aone... Please don't weep so. Shiro would want you to be happy, as he is still here with you... Even if not for much longer. I'm just so... sorry" I smiled hopelessly at him, trying to offer him the smallest shard of contentment that I could. Jittering, his palm cupped over one of mine, gyrating uncontrollably. I knew, in turn, he was attempting valiantly to comfort me too.

Nodding shakily, he spoke up for the first time since we had been at my house, "T-thank you, (Y/N)." His whole body jittered up and down with each one of his breaths - if you could call them that. Each one was so breathy, as if he was gasping for air. He was already drowning though. And I didn't know if I could save him.

---

After at least a quarter of an hour of consoling Aone, we were finally allowed to see Shiro again, finally allowed to set our eyes upon that perfect life form that only had a small cache of days left on this Earth. His little body scampered down the hallway - and straight into Aone's arms, placing his paws upon his shoulders; wagging his tail at a breakneck speed. It was as if they hadn't seen each other for months... maybe years. Pure longing laced itself into Aone's expression, exuberating immense levels of elation - yet still exerting a hidden sense of dejection. 

With a snap of the fingers; his tears had miraculously evaporated, freeing him - but not completely - from his lamentation. Every hair on his body stood on end, smiling an unfiltered grin from ear to ear, babying Shiro with his words.

That sight was truly gorgeous, the two clutched onto each other as if the world was about to end, and it was about to. But only for him.

Overwhelming joy flushed through me - making my heart skip several beats. Dropping to my knees, I positioned myself adjacent to Aone, beckoning for Shiro to come over to me. And even though Shiro and myself had hardly known each other for a week, he still leapt into my arms all the same. His hazel eyes glimmered in the artificial light, outputting something childlike and innocent. Running my hands up and down his fur, I noticed how soft it was, not a single strand was the littlest bit coarse.

I began to laugh under my breath, but I couldn't understand why. Was it grief? Was it apprehension? Or was it happiness? A single tear rolled down my left cheek, and once again - I didn't understand why.

Cheery howling flew through the air, ebbing out from Shiro's mouth; and all of a sudden he had cranked up his volume of giddiness to a whole other level. Jumping up and down on his two hind legs, he gathered enough force to knock me over - and abruptly I laid on the laminate floor of the veterinarian's with Shiro bounding around over and on top of me. Almost winding me at one point.

Every ounce of lamentation had disappeared from the establishment - replaced by an aura of pure joyousness. Very soon, we were beginning to overstay our welcome - therefore we hooked him up to his lead and set out, once again, out into the outside world.

[the-original-b]

Medusa’s Lair: How a Series of Errors Created the Most Dangerous Place on Earth

Imagine a landscape, marked with the ruins of an old, abandoned civilization. Nature has overrun what the inhabitants left behind, the fauna run wild, aggressive toward intruders. The flora, water, and even the air are poison.

This isn't some far-off alien world, it's an area encompassing everything within 19 miles (30 kilometers) of what is incontestably the most dangerous room on Earth, a room which to merely enter is to court death .

This is the true story of how, on one morning in the spring of 1986, a combination of human error and mechanical flaws sired a monster.

This is the story of Medusa's lair.

The Day the Devil Was Born

Nuclear fission reactors use isotopes of radioactive materials like Uranium as fuel, and harness the energy from its splitting atoms to convert water into steam to spin a turbine and generate electricity. The fuel is arranged in such a way that the rate of reaction remains at a level that can more easily be managed and controlled; as you would expect, there are a number of safety measures built into fission reactors to ensure the nuclear materials sustain their chain reaction in a (relatively) safe and stable manner. I won’t go into more detail than to say that those measures exist, since this story isn’t about how a nuclear fission reactor works.

It’s about what happened when a certain reactor stopped working.

On the morning of April 26th 1986, the operators at a nuclear power plant in the northern Ukranian SSR were running a series of tests to see how their reactors would function in a prolonged low-power state. During these tests, a combination of procedural violations, operational oversights, and a fatal design flaw in the reactors used at the facility created a chain of events that led to possibly the worst nuclear disaster in history.

As a result of the series of events and decisions that led to catastrophe, the reactor was generating well over ten times what it was designed to generate before the energy became too much for the unit; the building heat and pressure violently threw the lid off of the reactor core.

The lid weighed 1,000 tons.

At the moment the shield was dislodged, hydrogen, oxygen, and super-heated nuclear materials collided and ignited, resulting in an explosion that ripped the building open and threw eight tons of radioactive material into the world.

With no remaining safeguards to slow the reaction of the nuclear fuels burning at the bottom Reactor #4, the fissioning materials got hot enough to literally melt down, and then they kept getting hotter, reaching hellish temperatures nearly three times as hot as the inside of an active crematorium. Hot enough to glow incandescently.

Meanwhile firefighters battled the Uranium and Graphite fires with water, sand, clay, and other materials. Many of them succumbed to radiation poisoning, as it took nine days to extinguish the fires. But the radioactive material at the base of the reactor was still hot.

The facility’s name was Chernobyl, and beneath the basement of Reactor #4 lies a truly terrifying monster.

What Lurks Below

If you were ever asked what the most dangerous thing man ever created was, Corium would be a solid answer. Corium is a molten mix of nuclear fuel, fission products, other metals, and concrete produced when a nuclear reactor melts down and the resulting lava melts through the floor of the reactor room.

After the fuel rods at Reactor #4 melted down, the liquid Uranium flowed to the bottom of the reactor, melting through the walls and the concrete below it in just eight days. It flowed through the pipes and corridors at Chernobyl to the basement, taking all manner of unnatural formations and nightmarish shapes.

One uniquely dangerous deposit of Uranium Oxide, sand, silicate glass, and molten metal would become infamous in the coming months as the single absolute deadliest thing our world had ever seen.

Eight months after the explosion that turned the city of Pripyat into a dead zone, nuclear inspectors were in the basement of Reactor #4, searching for the remains of the core materials and the fuel rods. They turned a corner and laid eyes on a two ton slab of Corium still slowly eating its way into the Earth. The artifact had adapted a wrinkled, gray exterior—and was thus named the Elephant’s Foot.

The photo above was taken in 1990. Of the photo, Dr. William Zoller wrote:

This is a slide I obtained from the Russians. It shows what is called “elephant’s foot.” It is melted Uranium fuel in the levels below the Chernobyl reactor… So what we’re looking at are mounds of melted fuel that have now congealed and solidified. Obviously, the radiation cloud in this is a very highly radioactive mass. The Russians obtained this picture by sending a man down there with a camera. He took one picture, and then came back up. I was told that he died from the radiation he received. So this picture cost a man his life.

You read that right.

This is the real-life Medusa; a monster that kills anything standing next to it, simply by being there.

High-energy radiation a given object emits is measured in Roentgen, and the radiation absorbed by living tissue is measured in rad. One Roentgen may deposit anywhere from 1 to 4 rad in bone, so for simplicity’s sake let's say that one Roentgen of emission results in at least one rad of absorption.

To better grasp how dangerous this formation is, understand that 400 rad is considered the median lethal dose of absorbed radiation in humans, and that 1,000 rad is regarded as an absolute lethal dose; a person exposed to 400 Roentgen for 1 hour has a 50% chance of dying from radiation poisoning, and if an identical person were to be exposed to 1,000 Roentgen for that same hour, his fate is sealed (note that my understanding of how ionizing radiation is absorbed is at a very, very, basic-level, but I’ve checked sources written by subject experts and my math seems to work).

When the Elephant’s Foot was first found eight months after its formation, it was emitting 10,000 Roentgen; if you were to stand near it, you would receive an absolute lethal dose of radiation—you would die, regardless of treatment—after just three and a half minutes of exposure.

By 2001, its radioactivity had sharply declined but you still wouldn’t be able to spend more than sixty minutes in its presence without receiving a fatal dose of radiation; present estimates place its radioactivity at a level that you wouldn’t be able to spend more than a few hours near it without absorbing a lethal measure of radiation.

It’s not as incontrovertibly deadly as it was over 30 years ago when it was first formed but make no mistake, the Elephant’s Foot—Medusa—is still hot, and is still slowly eating its way down into the Earth.

All efforts to destroy it have thus far been unsuccessful, and the expanse of land around it remains uninhabitable, and will for the next three to six centuries. Today, Reactor #4 is entombed in a steel sarcophagus but the Elephant’s Foot remains. It will stay alone in its dark lair for centuries, a sobering reminder and symbol of our own awesome potential.

There is so much more to the story of Chernobyl, Reactor #4, and everything leading up to the disaster—more than I can ever fit into a blog post. If you’re as curious and fascinated by this stuff as I am, and would enjoy a compelling story, I can’t recommend HBO’s historical drama Chernobyl enough. It’s basically a six-hour movie cut up into five pieces that tells the story of the disaster itself, the cleanup efforts that followed, and the decisions that led to them in the first place.  

But if you’d rather do the research yourself, I can at least point you in a few directions.

Further Reading:

The Chernobyl disaster and Exclusion Zone

YouTube, the Chernobyl disaster in under fifteen minutes

YouTube, how and why the reactor exploded (spoilers for HBO’s Chernobyl)

Corium

The Elephant’s Foot, and Dr. Zoller’s photo

Measurement of radiation and certain examples of exposure levels

[bellemorte180]

Wanderlust Chapter Ten

A/N: IMPORTANT NOTE AT THE END

Chapter Ten

There were no actual apartment buildings in Mystic Falls but instead a series of old Victorian houses that were divided into separate apartments. The Victorian home that Jeremy’s apartment was located in was massive. It was a dusty green color and had one of those round towers on the side that Victorian architecture were famous for. It had a wraparound porch and Klaus could see a series of small mailboxes located beside the front door. Klaus’s eyes traveled over the building and landed at the very top of it.

Jeremy’s apartment was at the very top and was in what used to be the attic of the house. The house had eight apartments in total and out of courtesy, Vincent called the landlord to inform them that they would be searching the apartment; and requested a set of keys to avoid breaking down the door. Seeing that the landlord was Mayor Lockwood and she wanted to avoid any and all damage, she easily agreed to handing over a set of keys.

Within thirty minutes, Vincent, Klaus and a series of agents were ready to barge into the apartment, bring Jeremy Gilbert in for questioning and search for any evidence that could point to either Jeremy or someone else as the killer; and it wasn’t even close to ten in the morning yet. They were close to ending this, Klaus could feel it. He could see the light at the end of this dark tunnel. A few more turns and they would have him.

The question became whether or not Jeremy was the man they were after.

As quietly as they could, the agents climbed the stairs to the door of Jeremy’s home as quickly as they could. However, due to the homes age, stealth was difficult to come by seeing that the home creaked at certain places. Vincent took the key that Carol Lockwood handed him and slowly unlocked the front door. Klaus pushed the door open as quietly as he could, cursing the creaking sound the hinges made.

The moment the front door was open the first thing they saw was a galley style kitchen that opened to a living space. It was old and outdated but functional. It had old-fashioned tile that was popular in the seventies and light-colored paint on the walls. It was tidy but had enough mess to it that Klaus could tell that people lived there. In the middle of the galley kitchen was a woman who Klaus had only seen once before.

Jeremy’s girlfriend Anna.

Her black hair was tied back into a messy bun and her dark eyes wide. She was in a pair of small pajama shorts and a tank top; clearly having just woken up. Her hands were gripped around a coffee mug that still had steam rolling off of it. Her eyes wide as she took in the agents and when her gaze landed on Klaus; her head turned towards a door that Klaus assumed lead to a bedroom.

“Jeremy. Run!” Anna called out and it was like a chain reaction. Suddenly the silence was broken, and Klaus could hear something breaking in the bedroom. The sound of feet hitting the ground had Klaus taking off towards the bedroom. When Klaus reached the bedroom, he saw a young white male, wearing nothing but a pair of worn jeans try and escape from the window. Klaus reached out and grabbed the loop of Jeremy’s jeans; pulling him backward with some force. He tossed Jeremy onto the bed, the springs creaking as he landed against it. Jeremy jumped up quickly and raced towards the bedroom door but stopped when he all but ran into Vincent; who was leaning against the door casually.

“Running really does not make you appear innocent.” Klaus muttered from behind him and he could even see the faint outlines of an amused smirk on his boss’s face. Jeremy was looking between the two of them as though he was trying to find a way out of this; but by the sounds of the crashing coming from the living room and kitchen, and Anna’s voice yelling at the agents that they would not find anything, he realized that his options were limited.

“Mr. Gilbert, I take it?” Vincent asked but Jeremy did not reply, instead sending Vincent and Klaus a menacing look; or at least what he assumed was menacing. Taking a look at Jeremy Gilbert had Klaus questioning. He was tall, standing close to Klaus’s height and had darker hair than his sister; although, given the fact that Elena was adopted, it was unsurprising. He was built well with muscles and a six pack that some agents would kill for. It was obvious that he spent a significant amount of time in the gym. Klaus took in his arms and could see the faint line of track marks; a sure-fire sign of a drug addict.

“What are you doing?!” Jeremy hissed out as Klaus gripped his forearm and looked at the inside of his arm. He traced the light scars on his arm and noticed how faded they were. These were not fresh; Klaus knew what fresh track marks looked like and these were not it.

“How long have you been clean?” Klaus asked him.

“Almost two years.”

“Good for you. Take him in.” Vincent replied and two agents all but pounced on Jeremy, bypassing both Vincent and Klaus in the process. Jeremy’s eyes grew wide and he tried to struggle as the handcuffs were put on him. The agents pulled him out of the room and led him out of the room. He would be driven to the station where he would wait for Klaus and Vincent to interrogate him. “Tear this room apart. If there is anything to be found. I want it. We got out here.”

For the first time since Vincent arrived on the scene, Klaus did exactly what he was told without question. The bedroom was messy, and Klaus found nothing remarkable about it. The bed was one that would be found at the local superstore and the matching dresser screamed Ikea. Klaus went for the dresser first; starting from the bottom drawer and moving upward. He tore through the clothes and checking to see if any of the drawers had a false bottom.

He ripped the comforter from the bed and pulled out his keys; flipping open the swiss army knife and cut a long line down the center of the mattress, pulling it apart and revealing the springs. Empty. He knocked on the bedroom walls, searching for a hallow spot and removed all pictures from where they were hanging; tossing them to the ground in the process. Klaus moved to the bathroom, checking the tank of the toilet and the medicine cabinet.

He pulled back the shower curtain and looked over the bathtub. He moved to the linen closet and tossed every towel, cloths and supplies to the floor. Finding nothing in the bathroom, Klaus goes back into the bedroom, catching a glimpse of the destruction in the living room; Anna standing in the corner with tears streaming down her eyes.

Klaus moved to the closet. He pushed the clothes aside and tapped on the wall, hoping that the stereotype of old houses having hidden compartments was true. Klaus found himself disappointed. He tossed the shoe on the bottom around and moved to the top shelves. He found a few boxes and moved to dump them on the bed, being mindful of the slash down the middle. Most of what was in the boxes were documents; old tax forms and he found Anna’s birth certificate. However, on the very bottom was a series of pictures. There was nothing out of the ordinary, old photos from when Jeremy was younger but there was one that stood out. Klaus tore away from the bed and the contents he dumped out and walked over to Anna who was standing in the corner, watching her entire apartment being destroyed.

“Why does Jeremy have this picture?” Klaus asked her, holding up the picture so she could look it over. Klaus saw no flicker of surprise and while the picture was innocent enough, he could tell that she had seen if before. “It would be best if you answer me.”

“He dated Vicki when they were younger. Want to see the pictures I have of my ex-boyfriends?” Anna snapped back with narrowed eyes.

“It is not the photo of Vicki that concerns me, it’s the fact that April Young is also present in it.” Klaus told her calmly and Anna said nothing. She made eye contact with Klaus and he knew that she was not going to answer any more of his questions. He turned to the agent who was standing near her, ensuring that she does not flee and spoke. “She does not leave this apartment. Understand?”

Klaus all but ran down the stairs of the old house, heads from other tenants peeking out to see what the commotion was. He ignored them, hell bent on getting to his SUV and back to the station. It wasn’t until he was crossing the lawn that he heard Vincent calling after him.

“Klaus!” Klaus turned to see his boss all but running across the lawn to meet him. He had a confused look on his face and he momentarily forgot that Vincent was also working this case; and that he was already on thin ice with him. Klaus handed him the photo and he look at Klaus in question. “What are you thinking?”

“Something bothered me early on. Marcel…”Klaus paused, taking a breath at the mention of Marcel’s name “and I dug into the lives of each of the victims. Andi was well loved in this town and by the sounds of it, they rolled out the red carpet with every visit. She had a long-term on again and off again relationship with Damon Salvatore. Caroline has her mom, friends, and an ex fiancé. Vicki had connections all over this town. Her brother, sleeping with her boss, dating Jeremy Gilbert in high school and sleeping with Tyler Lockwood. They all had roots that ran deep.”

“But not April and Cami.”

“Cami was easy to explain. She wasn’t from here. She didn’t grow up here or know anyone. Mystic Falls was nothing more than a pit stop on a tour of small towns during a road trip to visit her brother. She was a victim of opportunity. What bothered me at first and I should have followed my gut was April. Or rather, the lack of relationships or anything on her outside of a rocky relationship with her father.”

“I’m not following.”

“No one reported her missing. She up and left her job in Richmond. Not a single friend there missed her. She was pregnant and no one could tell us who the father was and not a single man came forward searching for her. Why? Tyler Lockwood said she was forgettable but someone outside of her father had to have some relationship with her. This picture shows she had roots here. A connection. If Jeremy is not the killer, he most certainly knows who is.”

“Then we need to talk to Jeremy Gilbert.” Vincent opened the passenger side door and climbed inside. Klaus ran around the car and took off once the driver’s side door was shut. He broke every traffic rule on the way to the station, the police lights on the SUV flashing and the siren blaring. When they pulled into the parking lot, Klaus slammed the car into park and all but ran into the station.

“What interrogation room is Jeremy Gilbert in?” Klaus barked out when he reached the front desk, not caring who the officer was behind the desk. Once he got his answer, he brushed past him with Vincent on his heels; the latter not even bothering scolding his agent on his lack of manners as he would have in the past.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Rose-Marie, the attorney who was with Elena in their interrogation speaking with Damon and Stefan Salvatore. Klaus was too focused on the task at hand to find the irony that it would be both brothers who would be willing to hire an attorney to get Elena out of trouble; or at least, minimize the trouble she was in.

Klaus paused at the interrogation door, allowing his heart to steady and his thoughts to collect. He made eye contact with Vincent, who nodded, and the both walked into the room to see Jeremy handcuffed to the table, shirtless and a few bruises forming on his arms that were obtained from his struggle when the agents tried to put them in the back of the SUV. They both sat down across from Jeremy, gazing at the other man; realizing that this was not going to be easy.

“Yesterday afternoon we picked up your sister in connection to the murders of four woman and the kidnapping of Caroline Forbes.” Vincent told Jeremy; whose eyes grew wide. It was clear that he had not heard the news of the arrest. “She told us an interesting story. Back in November you had asked your sister to steal a large quantity of drugs from the hospital she worked at. Why?”

Jeremy said nothing.

“She also said you specifically asked for Dilaudid. That is not an easy drug to come by nor is it used by recovering drug addicts. Use a dose that is slightly too high, and you would end up overdosing. Seeing the fact that you’re still here and appear to be clean of drugs, makes me wonder what happened to the Dilaudid.”

Jeremy remained silent.

“Why would you risk your sister’s career for Dilaudid? There are easier drugs to come by. Heroin. Meth. Cocaine. Ecstasy. All those would have similar affects and are far more difficult to be traced by the DEA. So, I will ask you again, why did you have Elena steal the Dilaudid from the hospital?”

He once again, said nothing.

“Four women are dead Jeremy. Drugged with the same medication you had your sister steal.” Klaus snapped at him, his patience wearing thin. He pulled out the photo of him with his arms wrapped around both Vicki and April. “One of those women was your ex-girlfriend and another one was the other woman in this photo.”

Jeremy looked down at the photo and Klaus could see a crack in his demeanor. He continued to gaze at the photo and Klaus could tell that his mind was raging back and forth; battling over something that he could just not see.

“What was your relationship with April Young?”

“We were friends.” Jeremy stated in a hollow voice. “That’s it. April and Vicki were close, unlikely best friends back in the day. April tried more than once to get Vicki clean but never succeeded. I rarely saw her after graduating high school. She went off to college and Vicki and I stayed behind.” Jeremy shifted his eyes away from the picture. “That’s it.”

“You’re lying.” Klaus leaned forward, gazing at Jeremy. “You know more than what you’re letting on. You’ve had contact with April over the years. Haven’t you?” Jeremy said nothing as his looked over the agent’s shoulders, staring at nothing. “She may have fallen out with Vicki who continued down a destructive path, but she would have heard that you got clean. She would have been proud of you and reached out. She did, didn’t she?”

“You need to talk to us Mr. Gilbert.” Vincent chimed in. “It will go very badly for you if you don’t.” Jeremy shook his head. “Let me explain to you what this looks like. You were given a large amount of drugs that were used in the murder of four women and the kidnapping of another. You have not told us what happened to those drugs or where they are now. You have connections to all the victims except one who has been ruled an opportunistic kill. You don’t talk to us, you’re going down for these murders.”

“I sold the drugs.” Jeremy bit out quickly, going into a panic.

“I don’t believe you.” Klaus bit out. His jaw clenched in fury and was close to losing his temper. “These women were strangled to death after spending three months locked in a cell. They carved their names into the wall. He mutilated their bodies after he killed them. Your ex-girlfriend. Your high school classmate, Andi. A young woman by the name of Cami. She wanted to be a therapist. Your friend April. That is what they suffered. Your sister’s best friend almost met the same fate. So, you tell me right now, did you kill them?”

“No.”

“Who did?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re lying, Jeremy.”

“I don’t know!” Jeremy yelled, tears starting to stream down his face. He slumped back in the uncomfortable metal chair. He looked at the ceiling as though he was pleading with some unknown force. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

“She was pregnant.” Klaus told him gently. Jeremy turned to look at him; confusion written all over his face. “April. She left Richmond in hopes of raising her child here, in Mystic Falls. Her father didn’t support her choice to have a baby out of wedlock. She was trying to find a life where her child would be safe and loved. But you didn’t know that did you? You didn’t know she was going to have a baby.”

“No. No. I didn’t.” Jeremy whispered, a fresh set of tears running down his cheeks; shock etched into the lines of his face, making him appear far older than twenty-seven. It was in that moment that Klaus knew that Jeremy was innocent. He didn’t kill those women, but he was likely to go down for it if he did not confess what he knew.

“Virginia still uses capital punishment. If you don’t talk to us and you go down for this, you’re not facing a life in prison. You’re facing lethal injection.” Klaus slid the photo across the table to Jeremy. He pointed at April, drawing his attention to her. “She was your friend.” He moved his finger to the photo of Vicki. “I know she broke your heart, but you loved her once.” Jeremy just stared at it and Klaus could see the memories flowing through his mind. “Who killed them?”

“No. No. No.” Jeremy shook his head. He pulled himself from his thoughts and shook his head. “Charge me. I confess. I killed them. All of them. I locked them in the Lockwood cellars and buried them by the Falls. Charge me. I confess.”

Klaus and Vincent looked at one another, both thinking along the same lies. It was a false confession. Jeremy is not the man they were hunting. He does not appear to be the man who was taunting Caroline and he showed genuine remorse for their murders. Vincent unfolded his arms and leaned forward.

“You’re confessing to the murders of Victoria Donovan, April Young, Andi Star and Camille O’Connell as well as to the kidnapping of Caroline Forbes?” Vincent looked at him, chained to the chair. He nodded. “I have a question for you. After you strangled them, what did you do to the bodies?”

“What?”

“What did you do to the bodies?” Unable to answer, he just looked between Klaus and Vincent; giving them the answer they already knew. Vincent sighed and closed his eyes; shaking his head. “You didn’t kill these women Mr. Gilbert, but you know who did.” Jeremy still remained silent and Klaus could see the sympathy written on Vincent’s face. “What is he threatening you with?”

“Anna.” Jeremy whispered. “He is threatening Anna.” Another looked passed between Klaus and Vincent. “Anna was my saving grace. If it was not for her, I would have ended up back on drugs. I love her.” He gave a humorless laugh. “If I tell you the truth, he will kill her. If I have to take a needle in the arm so she can live, I’ll do it. I can’t risk her. Not her. I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”

The two agents nodded, knowing that they were done and left the interrogation room. They were silent as they moved down into the busy station. Liz caught Klaus’s eye. She was dressed in civilian clothing, her arms crossed and worried. She heard the news that they picked up Jeremy; he could tell it in her posture. He knew her question.

Was Jeremy Gilbert the man who committed these heinous crimes? Was he the one who hurt Caroline?

Klaus shook his head, telling her that it was not Jeremy. Liz’s shoulder’s slumped, her eyes closed, and her lips pursed together. She looked utterly defeated. She had hope that this was finally over and Klaus felt as though a led pipe was dropped in his stomach for being the one to dash that hope. With a heavy heart, Klaus followed Vincent into the office; leaving its owner standing out in the lobby.

“What do you think?” Vincent asked in a low voice. Klaus slumped down into a chair that was stationed across from Liz’s desk; which Vincent was leaning against.

“He didn’t do this.” Klaus told him and Vincent nodded, agreeing with him. “But he knows who did.” He closed his eyes. “I say we bring in Anna. Convince her to help us. She won’t want Jeremy to go to prison for the rest of his life for something he did not do. We can use her to convince him to tell us what he knows.”

“I like it. She might be hostile towards us though. We did just arrest her boyfriend and tear her apartment to shreds.” Klaus shrugged in response; knowing full well he had done far worse and still got a witness to corporate. “What else are you thinking about?”

“April.” Klaus replied. “I think we need to talk to Pastor Young again. He could not have been completely blind to his daughter’s life. He would have to know if she had a boyfriend in high school or that she was friends with Vicki. He came off as a strict parent.”

“She was close friends with two drug addicts. I think she was a pro at hiding things from her father. There is a chance that if she did have a boyfriend, he didn’t know about it.” Vincent rebutted and Klaus knew he was right, but it was still worth a shot. “You said he was taken aback when she told him of her pregnancy? He had no idea who the father was?”

“Yeah. He was and he had no idea. According to him, April was not in a relationship.” Klaus pinched the bridge of his nose, a headache forming and a feeling of dread combing through him; the adrenaline from the interrogation leaving him. “What do you think? Should we bring them in?”

“Yeah. Well, go and talk with Anna first and see if she can help us. If not, we will talk with Pastor Young again and see if anything else comes to mind.” Klaus stood from his chair, the tension still in his back. “Klaus.” Klaus turned to look at his boss who was staring at him, deep in thought. “I’m still pissed at you for last night, but, good work. You’re good at this. Are you sure you want to leave?”

“After last night? And Marcel?” Klaus looked at him, searching for some kind of understanding in his superior’s face. He found nothing more than confusion, stress and genuine worry. “More than anything.”

Klaus made his way out of the office and reached for his phone in order to dial the agents that were still at Jeremy and Anna’s apartment. He would have those agents bring Anna in. He was already crafting the questions and persuasion tactics that he would use in order to get her to help them. His mind reared to the first time he saw her at Alaric and Jenna Saltzman’s home; she was speaking with Elena. She knew more than she was letting on.

“Klaus!” Klaus was halfway through dialing the phone number when he heard his name being called. He looked up to see Caroline rushing towards him. Her hair was down and straight; unlike the wet messy bun she had it in when he left her home that morning. A black purse was slung over her shoulder. She appeared worried, terrified and concerned. “Is it true? Did you arrest Jeremy Gilbert?”

“Shit.” Klaus cursed. He should have known that it would not be long before it was all over town. They were lucky with Elena Gilbert. It was later in the day when they had brought her in, but it was still early, and Jeremy’s arrest would have gathered a significant amount of attention; especially with Mayor Lockwood being contacted in order to execute the warrant on her building.

“It’s true?” Tears welled up in her eyes and Klaus could see the relief, fear and betrayal all play behind them. Klaus placed his hands on the small of her back and lead her across the room towards the small kitchenette. Liz was waiting there, with her arms crossed and was leaning against the counter. She held out her arms and Caroline went into them willing. “Did he do this to me?”

“Jeremy is being questioned in regard to the murders and your kidnapping, yes but we do not think he is the man. He confessed to the killings, but he does not know some of the details of the murder.” Both Liz and Caroline looked confused. “There are certain…details in the autopsy report that we kept quiet. It was a false confession.” Caroline’s face was streaming with tears and Klaus could not be sure if it was out of relief or disappointment; perhaps a bit of both and a large mixture of fear. “He knows something. He is hiding something, and Vincent and I are working to discover what it is.”

“He is not talking?” Liz asked and Klaus shook his head. He could feel the anger vibrating off of Liz and Klaus made a mental note to keep her away from the interrogation room. Liz was a good cop, but he could not be sure she wouldn’t take her anger out on Jeremy. “I want to talk to him.”

“Liz. No.”

“Klaus. He hurt my baby.”

“Listen to me.” Klaus implored, staring directly at her. “We are close. If we can get Jeremy to crack, we will be able to bring in the right man.” He shifted his gaze back to Caroline who was barely holding herself together. “I promise you that I will not rest until this is over. Nothing is more important than tracking him down.”

Not caring that her mother was standing in the kitchenette nor the fact that at least a dozen officers could see them, Caroline left Liz’s arms and replaced them with Klaus’s. She buried her face into his chest and Klaus wrapped his arms around her; rocking back and forth, hoping to provide some form of comfort. He could feel his shirt dampen slightly by her tears and could hear her muffled sobs.

Seeing her completely break down only fueled the anger that he was feeling. Mixing her distress and the memory of Marcel’s body laying cold in the morgue below, set a new solve in Klaus that he had not felt in years. He wanted to push himself harder and better; in a way that he had done so in years. Never before had he hated an unknown suspect as he did this man. There was a part of him that wanted to see him bleed.

Klaus leaned down and kissed the top of Caroline’s head; knowing that Liz was watching the two of them, but he could not be sure if she was really seeing them. Her mind was so preoccupied with Jeremy that he could lock lips with Caroline, and she would be oblivious.

“Klaus.” Caroline’s muffled voice came, and Klaus pulled out of the embrace. He looked own at her tear stained face. Her skin was blotchy, red and he could see the trail of tears that were stained on her cheeks. “There is something else. I got another one.”

“Another what? Letter.” Caroline nodded and reached into the black handbag and pulled out a piece of paper. Much like the others, it was a piece of computer paper that had typed lettering on it that was non-descript. “He was there. Last night. He was there.”

Caroline,

Did you enjoy it? Enjoy him? Did you enjoy it when he touched you? When he was inside you?

I’m angry Caroline.

You belong to me and you let him touch you. I do not know if I can forgive that. You betrayed me. You’re planning on leaving me, I can see that. I won’t let you. You belong here.

I’ve been lenient so far, but I think it is time for you to come home.

Your only friend.

A fresh wave of hot fury pulsed through him. Memories of the previous night flashed before his eyes. He remembered Caroline being in his arms and the feeling he had when he kissed her. He could see the moment she fell apart for him so clearly. The look in her eyes when he made love to her was something, he wanted to hold dear and yet this man had watched it all.

How? He was not physically in the house. Klaus was sure of that. He would have heard him come in and Vanchure and Rosza were stationed outside. How would he have seen them with enough knowledge to know that they had sex? His first instinct was the fact that he must have planted a camera somehow inside the house, but Klaus searched the house when Caroline was still missing; unless he missed something. Regardless, one thing was very clear.

Caroline was not safe in her home.

Klaus looked back at Caroline, a thousand thoughts echoing in his mind. She appeared so vulnerable and he hated seeing her so. The Caroline he had grown to admire and had feelings for was strong and full of light. Seeing her break only made his anger run hotter than before. He kissed her forehead before looking directly into her eyes.

“I want you to go home, pack a bag and come back here.” He thought for a moment that she was going to argue but she didn’t. She nodded her head in agreement. He looked towards Liz, who was still fidgeting angerly and was itching to get a look at Jeremy. “Liz, take her home. Help her get some stuff together and come back.”

“No. I’m staying here until we find him.” There was no we in this case and Liz knew that, but Klaus could tell that there would be no convincing her otherwise. Klaus was resolved to accept that Liz was not going anywhere, and that Caroline would have to go the house with agents. Klaus nodded before turning back to Caroline.

“Take agents with you.” Caroline nodded but said nothing, fear still evident in her eyes. Klaus leaned down and kissed her gently on the lips, hoping that it would bring some relief to her; even if it was temporary. When Klaus pulled away, he looked around, not caring that they were in full view of a packed room, but searched for the agents that brought her in. “Vanchure.” The other agent came over and Klaus could see the bags under his eyes; exhaustion was evident in the other agent. “Take Caroline to her house. She is going to pack a bag and come straight back here. Understand?”

“Got it.” Vanchure responded and Klaus leaned down to kiss the top of Caroline’s head again. She walked over to Vanchure but had her arms wrapped around herself and Klaus was beginning to realize that was her tell; whenever she felt vulnerable or hurt, Caroline would hug her arms around herself as though they were a shield she was clinging to. “Are you close? To catching him?”

Klaus looked at Vanchure and could see the anger radiating from him. With everything going on, Klaus had forgotten that Vanchure had been friends with Marcel. He never considered how his death would affect him. It was clear that he was taking the death hard. He remembered Marcel telling him about Vanchure’s wedding a few years previously and how he detested being the best man. It hit home that once again, Marcel was dead.

“We’re close. We will catch him.”

“Then I’ll take care of her.” Vanchure and Klaus nodded to one another. Vanchure placed his hand on Caroline’s shoulder. He steered her towards Rosza, but Caroline looked over her shoulder as they headed towards the exit. He watched them walk away until they turned a corner and she was out of sight. He turned back and Liz was about to speak but Klaus shook his head.

“No Liz.”

“She is my daughter.” Liz hissed back. “When she was born, I promised that I would protect her, and I failed. I know that I haven’t been the best mother in the world and that Caroline learned to stand on her own two feet far too early but this; I can’t…. please. Let me talk to him.”

“Liz. I can’t. You know I can’t let you in there.” Klaus soothed, trying to reason with her but the woman was stubborn; and Klaus could see where Caroline got that trait from. “I understand where you’re coming from. I’m furious. My best friend is dead and the woman who I –“ Klaus stopped himself. It was too soon for such declarations; especially when he did not fully understand what he was feeling. “I care about her, more than I should but I cannot let you go in there.”

“You really do, don’t you? Care for her?” Liz stared at him, echoing words Elena had said to him only two hours prior. Klaus just nodded and Liz seemed to take a deep breath. “Then you will do what is right by her. Even if it is hard?”

“Always.” Klaus vowed and he knew that they were not speaking about Jeremy no longer. Liz knew something was going on between her daughter and Klaus; if she had seen the note, she would know exactly what transpired between them the night before. If she did, she did not comment on it. However, her opinion was clear. She liked Klaus; that much was obvious but was the timing, right? Caroline was hurting and clinging to anything she could that would bring her comfort. Klaus did not doubt that her feelings where not real but was it too soon? And for him? He had no idea where his life would lead after this case, but he knew that no matter where he ended up, he wanted Caroline to be a part of his life. “I will always do right by her.”

“You’re a good man Klaus.” With that, Liz walked out of the kitchenette. She paused and looked over her shoulder. “I’m not leaving.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.” Klaus replied and Liz gave him a warm smile. Klaus nodded and headed back towards the office that Vincent was using. Not caring that Vincent was on the phone, Klaus barged in and tossed the note onto the desk. His supervisor picked it up and read over the words type onto the paper.

“I’ll have to call you back.” Vincent disconnected his call and tossed the phone down with a hard thump. He read the note again, allowing the words to sink in before leaning back and rubbing his head. “For fucks sake. There is no keeping this out of reports now. I was just on the phone with the director. He is hounding me about solving this case because a reporter that Andi Star worked with heard about the investigation and is expecting those vultures to descended upon Mystic Falls first thing in the morning.”

“How do you know that?”

“They ran a news report. Aired first thing this morning.”

“Shit.”

“And here you are fucking a witness. This is a train wreck.”

“We are close. You know that.” Klaus said, ignoring Vincent’s remark. He did not care about the hassle he was going to face. Klaus was not one for diplomacy and only cared about tracking down the man who was killing these women. “I told Caroline to pack a bag and come straight back here. I have no idea how he knew I was with her last night, but she clearly is no longer safe there. Vanchure and Rosza with her.”

“Good call.” Vincent replied, sending him an annoyed look. “Did you call agents to bring in Jeremy’s girlfriend?”

“No-“ Before Klaus could respond, there was knock on the office door and they both turned to see an unexpected sight. Tyler Lockwood was standing in the doorway. He looked tired and worn out, as though he had been wrestling with himself over something. Klaus narrowed his eyes at him. “Can we help you?”

“Yeah. I ran into Liz in the lobby and she said you would be in here.” Tyler’s eyes traveled to Vincent, having never met him before. “My mom told me that you picked up Jeremy Gilbert. In connection to the murders?”

“We have.”

“He didn’t do it.” Tyler said and Klaus could see him gathering up little bit of courage he had. “When you and your partner came to my house the other day, I wasn’t completely honest with you. I lied about something or rather, left a piece of information out. I know Jeremy did not murder these women.” Vincent stood and shared a look with Klaus. “But I know who did.”

A/N: You may know that the amazing @klavscaroline​ and I are collaborating on a betting pool for this story. Below is the information and link to participate! 

Please note that the betting pool was created by Klavscaroline and all credit for the pool should go to her!Wanderlust Betting Pool

Who is the killer? Could it be the Salvatore brothers? The Gilberts? The Lockwoods? Or someone else altogether. Throughout these few weeks, we’ve been following the story of the kidnapping of Caroline Forbes. Along with Special Agent Klaus Mikaelson, we’re dying to know who the serial killer is. (No pun intended) In honour of this story that has captured our hearts, I’m collaborating with @bellemorte180 to organise the Wanderlust Betting Pool, where you, the readers, can take part in guessing who the killer is. There will even be a prize for the winner! 

Click Here 

[salmankhanholics]

★ Well done Salman Khan”: Single screen exhibitors react to Radhe – Your Most Wanted Bhai’s hybrid release announcement!

Apr 23, 2021  The industry, trade and moviegoers were left surprised with the sudden announcement that Radhe - Your Most Wanted Bhai, the much awaited film of Salman Khan, would release in cinemas on Eid. However, it’ll also simultaneously arrive on Zee’s pay-per-view platform, ZeePlex. It’s the first time something of this sort is being attempted. Ideally, a massy movie like Radhe - Your Most Wanted Bhai is best enjoyed in cinemas but due to the never-ending second wave of Coronavirus, it seems that the makers had to make this decision.

Shariq Patel, Chief Business Officer, Zee Studios says, “Wherever theatres are operational in India, our film will release. And internationally, cinemas are anyway open. So wherever theatres are functional, we’ll follow the theatrical windowing of that particular country.” In other words, internationally, the film will release only in cinemas, provided theatres are functioning in that region. In India, it’ll have a hybrid release.

He justifies this move by stating, “Internationally, Warner Bros has been following this practice. Last year, we experimented with just a PVOD (premium video on demand) release of Khaali Peeli. We shortened the theatrical window of Suraj Pe Mangal Bhariand Solo Brathuke So Better. We need to adapt to the existing market scenario. One has to understand that a lot of money has been invested. So one can’t keep waiting for the ideal scenario to arise. The pandemic and the resulting restrictions have been going on for a year now and there’s no end in sight. So, the point is that we have to evolve, find a solution to a given situation.”

Trade Speak Trade analyst Taran Adarsh says, “The producers did the right thing. Since it’s a Salman Khan film, the costs are huge. And it’s a film which was supposed to release one year ago. Imagine the interest he must have incurred due to this delay. He has all the money in the world, I am not denying that. But every film has an economic baggage. How long can you hold on?”

He adds, “As for the exhibitors, they were hoping that Salman Khan will bail them out. As I have always said, he is the pied piper of Bollywood. His films, irrespective of the merit, command a terrific initial. Now a hybrid release announcement comes as a jolt for them. It’s going to take some time for them to absorb the reality.”

He also feels that in these sensitive times, cinema is the last thing on people’s mind, “On social media, 99% discussions are only about Covid-19. Cinema doesn’t even feature anywhere as priority. So it’s a wait and watch situation right now. We don’t know how it’s going to pan out.”

Girish Johar, producer and film business analyst, however, is more critical of this development, “This scenario has to be seen through various perspectives. Definitely, it’s a big blow for cinemas. We have already lost around 1000 screens to Covid-19 last year. And now Radhe - Your Most Wanted Bhai, which is like a crucial oxygen cylinder, has gone away on digital. So it’s sure to affect the health of the exhibition sector.”

He says he fails to understand how someone of the stature of Salman can opt for such a model and adds, “If you are an individual producer in need of cash flow, then one can understand if one opts for such a model. After all, the interest adds to the budget with each passing month.” He also feels that the stars have been unfair to the theatres, which made them so popular in the first place. He emphasizes, “These actors, in their 30 or 35 year old careers went to various theatres to promote their films. Kuch actors ne toh ticket window pe tickets bhi bechi hai, for promotions. Pichle ek-dedh saal mein cinemas bandh kya hue, inhone toh tweet bhi nahi kiya for helpingthis sector. It’s the cinema that made you. They should have been a little considerate about them.”

He further tells why the PVOD release is not ideal, “From infrastructure perspective, it is not the right move. It’ll stop the growth of multiplex screens. Also, OTT is an urban market and mostly patronized by viewers of 10-12 cities. Toh Radhe - Your Most Wanted Bhai log ZeePlex pe Delhi aur Mumbai mein dekhenge ya Ichalkaranji mein dekhenge? Obviously, it’ll be the former. And Mumbai and Delhi were the top revenue generating centres for most films. As for audiences in smaller towns, they’ll access the film through Telegram or other pirated means.”

“How long can you keep waiting?” We then asked the exhibitors on their reaction to this development. While the representatives of multiplex chains were unavailable, the single-screen cinema owners shared their views to this writer. Surprisingly, till now, they have always been against a big, feature films releasing anywhere else other than the cinemas first. This time, their viewpoint has slightly altered.

Vishek Chauhan, owner of Roopbani Cinema in Bihar, says, “It’s high time they took this step and no one is to blame here. How long can you keep waiting? It’s a crisis situation for everyone. It’s not like cinemas hi marr rahe hai. Sab marr rahe hai. Everyone is suffering. Zee has paid around Rs. 230 crores. How long can they hold their investment?”

Akshaye Rathi, film exhibitor and distributor, adds, “Given the scenario given in the country right now, the decision is quite practical. I don’t expect a significant number of cinemas to be even allowed to open by May 13. It’s an interesting experiment and I truly hope that the Indian consumers rise to the occasion and actually pay per view rather than hacking the movie through piracy.”

He continues, “As an exhibitor, however, I would have loved it had the movie’s release plans been delayed a bit and was brought to the theatres when things were coming close to normal. Now that the vaccination drive is getting accelerated, I am sure that day isn’t too far out that cases would reduce. Fingers crossed and here’s wishing the team luck.”

Raj Bansal agrees with Akshaye Rathi as he states, “If they really wanted to come in a big way in theatres, they should have waited for two months.”

Question mark over its domestic box office performance However, due to the rise in cases, one wonders how many cinemas will be open in India by May 13. Also, prime markets like Mumbai, Delhi etc. might still be shut. In such a scenario, one wonders what the domestic box office of Radhe - Your Most Wanted Bhai would look like. Vishek Chauhan minces no words as he tells, “Theatre India mein kahan khule hai? Jo bhi khule hue hai, woh naam ke khule hue hain. The way cases are rising exponentially, cinemas will be lucky to be operating by Diwali in this country. The current crisis is unprecedented.”

He also feels that it’s a long way to go for cinemas to reopen. He explains, “First, you need the cases to go down and for people to feel confident to roam around. Then the government should feel confident to open cinemas. Then, theatre owners should feel that it’s viable to resume operations. Lastly, producers should feel that it’s a good time to release their films. Yeh hote hote aisa na ho ki phir se saal nikal jaaye.”

Raj Bansal tells, “Half of cinema theatres in India might be shut during Eid. May 13 is just three weeks away. I doubt if we can open up looking at the lockdowns that are happening in several places. The election rallies and kumbh mela have led to the increase in cases majorly. We can’t afford to do the same during Eid by opening up cinemas.” Even Akshaye Rathi is in agreement that theatres in most regions will still be shut during May 13.

Vishek Chauhan, then, tries to understand the rationale behind this move, “Salman and Zee must have got slightly bolstered since UK cinemas will resume operations from May 11. The USA market, meanwhile, is fully recovering. UAE is perfectly fine while Australia and New Zealand is alive and kicking. So the domestic losses they’ll face, they’ll make up from overseas markets to some extent. Domestic box office, meanwhile, will be zero. Kahan release karenge? The government might refuse to open cinemas for this film, fearing that it’ll lead to crowding.”

‘Radhe’ model to become the norm? Like Radhe - Your Most Wanted Bhai, there are several big ticket films awaiting release. The question is whether these films would also follow suit and opt for a hybrid release. Shariq Patel says, “I am fairly certain. A lot of films have been held on for so long. No producer has the capacity to hold on to their film for such a long period. However, equilibrium will be reached once the situation is back to normal. But when that normal situation would arise is something that no one knows. Today, we are in April 2021 and it’s worse than the circumstances in April 2020.”

Vishek Chauhan also has a similar point of view, “Other makers should follow suit. How long will they wait for? And we cinema owners are in no position to dictate terms to them. But one thing is proven that when cinemas are open, theatres are the best place to release a film. Theatres will be back and theatres will be the main medium to release films.”

Akshaye Rathi however disagrees, “I think a lot of filmmakers would observe what actually happens to Radhe - Your Most Wanted Bhai in terms of its PVOD release. India as a market has traditionally not succeeded too well with the pay-per-view model. Having said that, this is the biggest film to take this route. If it succeeds, then maybe a few more producers might consider it. So I think that it’s a wait-and-watch scenario. Personally I don’t expect too many people to take up this model yet.”

Raj Bansal adds, “It’s too early to decide. We have to wait and see how Radhe - Your Most Wanted Bhai performs, and also how much it affects theatrical business. If the box office gets impacted, then the Multiplex Association of India might now allow such hybrid release. However, since 15 months will pass without any major film, the MAI might allow this model for a few films initially.”

[sonicringbond]

Sonic Ring Bond: The Journey - Scene 7

And the longest scene to date since the prologue, and it actually sets up a villain for the series moving forward. Well, one of many planned villains, but they are the first. They also are not an original character, but another repurposed game character. I'm really curious though how many people will recognize them though. Well, best way to find out is to let everyone get to reading...

Scene Prompt(s): No Prompt

-----

    “Right, Rosy-lass, then this is your lad, is he? He doesn’t look all that impressive to me.”

    The voice that croaked out and pulled Sonic’s consciousness back was not familiar, but something about the way he spoke felt demeaning and Sonic forced an eye open. He was still floating in the water, but he no longer seemed to be in the massive basin and labyrinth of water channels. The corridor he was floating down was much humbler in a way, and even the ancient brickwork could be made out in the water-carried light. The lanky frog who grabbed his wrist and pulled him from the water was also clearly visible. Rosy was not, though Sonic would recognize her voice anywhere and smiled to himself as neither the frog nor Rosy seemed to realize he was awake yet.

   “Well, water is kind of Sonic’s big weakness. I’ve been trying to help him with it, but he’s just so stubborn about it.’’

    “You’re one to talk kid,” Sonic revealed his conscious state with a jab at Rosy. It did not net him the result he was expecting though and Rosy embraced him in a fierce bearhug as he still was supported by the frog.

    “Sonic! I’m so glad we caught up with you!”

    “Grk! Amy, can’t breathe!”

    “Amy?” the frog queried with a peering glance at Rosy.

    “Oh, don’t mind that Gill. It’s just my regular old plain name. Rosy is my adventurer name and I much rather prefer it, but Sonic just refuses to use it.” Turning a pouty scowl onto Sonic, the pink hedgehog received an awkward smile in return, at least for a moment as Sonic turned to business. In a way.

    “Only you though kid,” he began with a jest as Rosy let him go and stepped back. “In the middle of nowhere and in a hidden underground ruin at that you find someone to make friends with. I think I might actually be impressed this time though.”

    “Hee-hee,” Rosy giggled and hid her mouth behind a hand as she swayed back and forth. “It would have been nice if Gill and I had met at a slightly better time.”

    “Gill, huh…?” Sonic turned a sidelong look toward the frog as he stepped away from him.

    “Mach Frog Gill Bradley,” Gill corrected Sonic and managed to earn Rosy’s playful ire.

    “Hey, you didn’t give your full name either so you can’t be mad at me!”

    “Well, Rosy-lass, I use my name carefully as I have enemies and friends and they use them differently.”

    “Is that so?” Sonic queried and rubbed his nose. Before giving Gill the chance to answer however he extended his other hand in greeting and smirked. “Well nice to meet you Mach. Name’s Sonic. Sonic the Hedgehog.”

    Gill was taken aback at Sonic’s brazenness, or at least that is how it appeared to Rosy who failed to understand the smile the frog donned. “Mach is it now. I must say Rosy-lass, I like your lad a fair bit here.”

    Sonic smirked again as Gill took his hand and the two shared a firm handshake. Continuing to rub his nose, Sonic shifted to a different question. “And what’s the deal with calling me the kid’s lad?”

    “Well, the lass called you her ‘boyfriend’ so that rightfully makes you her lad.”

    “You told him what!” Sonic spun on the spot to throw an incredulous look at Rosy who simply giggled and swayed her body about.

    “Aw, come on Sonic, I was just having a little bit of fun. Besides, we’re destined lovers after all, so what’s the big deal?”

    “The big deal is that I make my own destiny, and my reputation is going to get all messed up if people go around thinking we’re a thing.”

    “Well, it looks like it to me lad.”

    “You see my point kid?” Sonic groaned as Gill seemed fully convinced that he and Rosy were an actual couple. Not even bothering to wait for an answer though Sonic raised a hand and began walking off. “But whatever. Now that you and I know the other’s alright let’s put this place behind us. And I guess your friend can follow if he doesn’t slow me down.”

    “Is that a challenge now lad? Mach Frog Gill Bradley doesn’t often back down from a challenge.”

    “Boys!” Rosy shouted exasperated at them both. “We aren’t done yet. Did you forget Sonic? We still need to find an Ancient Ring and I know for a fact that there is one down here.”

    Holding up a tarot card Rosy revealed to Gill that she had been dowsing for more than just Sonic who realized that she had yet to give up. In a match of pure stubbornness though he was no match for Rosy and even Gill could not escape. Soon the labyrinth and army of golems led the three to a flower garden adorned with ancient statues with features long lost to time. All except one which rested a short way from the center of a massive overgrown plaza. Before it was a plaque with script similar to what Sonic and Rosy had seen before, and more importantly a single Ring spinning on its axis just above the ground and in the statue’s direct line of sight.

    “Well, ain’t this an unusual sight?” Gill probed for a reaction as he strolled alongside Sonic and Rosy into the plaza. That they had slowed down told him that the sight before him was likely a trap and was surprised when he saw Rosy skip out and start looking around. “Now wait a right minute Rosy-lass–”

    “I would leave her too it,” Sonic put a hand on Gill’s shoulder to calm the frog down. “From what I know she used to do this thing all the time before we met. And she’s got intuition like you wouldn’t believe.”

    “A lass’ intuition is it then.”

    “Call it my girlish intuition,” Rosy called back into the conversation about her with a laugh. The two boys exchanged looks and a shrug but did not speak up allowing Rosy to continue as she waved them over. “And it’s safe. It’s really weird actually. There aren’t any traps or really any sign that anyone has been here. Not even the golems. And I thought they’d keep chasing us for sure.”

    “Heh, I wouldn’t worry about it kid,” Sonic dismissed the oddity of the situation as he led Gill down towards the singular Ring in the plaza. “That statue there just might be an image to whatever god the people who built this place worship.”

    “You think so, Sonic?” Rosy asked doubtfully as she looked at the statue. Pressing a finger into her cheek she noted its stance seemed to be that of a prisoner, with arms pulled up and back. The shackles around its wrists seemed all that remained of whatever chains had long ago symbolically bound it. But the massive cog around its neck like a collar for its robes seemed even more peculiar. It was massive enough to hide most of the statue’s head as well save the eyes which peaked over it, and the three long quills that rose well above it and curled ever so slightly back. “I don’t know. It doesn’t look like it was here to be worshipped. I think it might have been a warning.

    “Well I’m sure you can let us know as soon as you use that Ancient Ring,” Rosy cheerful switched from confusion to anticipation and swayed her body about while smiling brightly at Sonic.

    Rosy’s shift in focus earned her Gill’s curiosity and he voiced a question he doubted would be answered. “What do you mean use the Ring Rosy-lass. There isn’t much use for a Ring in a place like this. I say we snatch it and be on our right way.”

    “Funny that’d I say this, but not so fast Mach. She dragged us down here for a reason and I’d hate to disappoint her now.”

    Ignoring Gill’s questioning eyes, Sonic strode up to the Ring and took it in hand. Turning it over and studying it carefully he saw exactly what Rosy already believed was there with all her heart. After all, her tarot cards would never lead her astray.

    “Heh, I really don’t know how you do it kid. But someone was nice enough to scribble on this old Ring and prove it. It’s definitely an Ancient Ring, and just the one we needed.”

    “Of course, silly,” Rosy laughed and shook a finger playfully at Sonic. She quickly shifted to clasping her hands in front of her however and looking at Sonic excitedly as her tail began to wag energetically. “Now hurry up! I want to know what the sign says!”

    “Whatever kid,” Sonic waved her off, but still made his way up to the plaque. Looking up past it to the statue Sonic rubbed his nose as he felt a sneeze coming on. ‘And what makes you so dangerous?’ Sonic questioned it with a thought before feeling it looked familiar in a way.

    “Hey kid,” looking back at Rosy, Sonic pointed a thumb at the statue. “Doesn’t it kind of remind you of someone?”

    “Hmm?” Rosy tilted her head and inquisitively stepped forward as she looked at the statue closer. Her eyes lit up in surprise and recognition a moment later. “Oh! It looks like an echidna!”

    “You think so too, huh?” Sonic continued to rub his nose as he looked back at the statue. ‘Yeah, you are definitely giving me the creeps buddy.’

    Looking down at the plaque that likely held his answers Sonic noted a set of characters that resembled a language he did know and he smirked. Twirling the Ring around his fingers he contemplated aloud departing. “I’m thinking maybe we should leave old Ix here alone. I’d hate to wake him only to tell Knuckles I put down a possible relative when we get back home.”

    “Sonic! That’s not funny!” Rosy chided Sonic who simply laughed her cute fury off. She did not relent, however. “Knuckles doesn’t talk about it, but I’m sure being the last of his kind is something that really bothers him. And besides, this is just a statue and maybe another golem at worst. It’d be a lot better if you used the Ring so you can read what the people here left behind. Maybe there’s something that would convince Knuckles to leave Angel Island or at least tell him he isn’t really alone.”

    “Alright kid, I get it.” Sonic again waved off Rosy, but still rubbed his nose. ‘Weird that you haven’t picked anything up though. This is normally your type of thing unless it’s just my hay fever.’

    Sonic found himself doubting his own senses as Rosy’s intuition did not seem to detect even a hint of danger. Looking at the statue one last time Sonic shrugged. ‘Well, whatever. I’ve handled echidnas and statues both before so what difference does it make.’

    His mind finally made up, Sonic again took a firm grip on the Ancient Ring and pressed it to the plaque. Unlike the last time he had attempted to make a Ring Bond with the ancient script, this time the Ring Bond came to life. Gill unfolded his arms as he stared bewildered at the scene before him.

    “What exactly are you doing lad? Is that Ring Craft?”

    “Ring Craft? Rosy looked back puzzled at Gill who looked more than a little a terrified.

    “Don’t know what you’re talking about Mach. This is just a little trick I picked up a long time ago. And one with disappointing results today.”

    “Really?” Rosy questioned turning her curious gaze onto Sonic as the motes of light the Ring had dissipated into were absorbed by Sonic’s body.

    “Yeah. It’s just like you said kid,” Sonic confirmed Rosy’s prior assumption. “It’s just a warning. Looks like there’s nothing here but some old history. Maybe Zooey would be interested though. I think I can afford to spend a Ring to give her a call.”

    “Wait a right minute lad,” Gill attempted to cut Sonic off. “How was that not Ring Craft like the old tales speak of. You touched the plaque with a Ring and now you can read the ancient script?”

    “Hm, looks like Zooey was trying to get in touch with me for a while,” Sonic ignored Gill as he rolled his glove cuff forward to look at the wrist mounted device underneath it. Pressing a button on it he spoke up to someone who was far from present. “Hey Zooey, the kid and I–”

    -Sonic! What happened. Oh, never mind it’s horrible! Oh, Sonic you have to do something!-

    “Woah, Zooey, what’s the matter?”

    -Sonic! It’s… Sonic! It’s Tails!-

Scene 7 · CLEARED

The Prisoner, End

-----

And there we go, time for a hard shift back to the current villains, but at least for how I imagine things for now the Battle Kukku Armada should be more small time pests compared to my take on Pir'Oth Ix. He's obviously out of commission right now, but he'll be active soon enough. I hope everyone enjoyed this chapter, and I wonder how many of you recognized him  before getting this far down or taking a peak at the tags. Anyway, one more scene from last week to post so I'll you see everyone in a bit.

-----

Sonic the Hedgehog and all affiliated imagery are registered trademarks and copyright of  SEGA, SEGA SAMMY HOLDINGS Inc. Copyright © SEGA, SEGA SAMMY HOLDINGS Inc. 1991 - 2020

Sonic Ring Bond AU by Sonic Fan J @ sonicfanj.tumblr.com and deviantart.com/sonicfanj/Joshua D. Tarwater on Twitter @JoshTarwater.

Fair Use Disclaimer

Sonic the Hedgehog and all affiliated characters and logos are the express property and Copyright© of SEGA SAMMY HOLDINGS used without permission under Title 17 U.S.C Section 107 of the Copyright Act 1976 in which allowance is made for “fair use” for purposes such as criticism, comment, news reporting, teaching, scholarship, and research. “Fair use” is use permitted by copyright statute that might otherwise be considered copyright infringement. The Sonic Ring Bond: The Journey alternate universe (AU) consumer written work of fiction is a non-profit transformative work primarily for personal use and can and will be taken down without warning or prior notice at the request of the copyright holder(s) should it not be recognized under “fair use”.

*Sonic Ring Bond logo created by DEE Art – twitter.com/daryliscute. Sonic Ring Bond AU and Sonic Ring Bond: The Journey are the creation of Joshua David Tarwater/ynymbus/sonicfanj/@Joshtarwater and is to be, including all contents herein considered for all legal purposes the property of the Sonic the Hedgehog intellectual property (IP) and copyright owners, SEGA SAMMY HOLDINGS. All story contributors via prompt, suggestion, written scene, art, and all and every other contribution acknowledge that all contributed material is forfeit for legal purposes to SEGA SAMMY HOLDINGS upon official request from SEGA SAMMY HOLDINGS.

Scene Status: Published Draft No.: 2 Story Idea: @JoshTarwater/SonicFanJ – Inspired by @cutegirlmayra​u Story Format: @cutegirlmayra​ Main Author: @JoshTarwater/SonicFanJ Secondary Author(s): None Currently Story Expanding Author(s): None Currently Editor(s): None Currently Scene Number: 7 Chapter Title: The Prisoner Primary Chapter Author: @JoshTarwater/SonicFanJ Secondary Chapter Author(s): None Currently Chapter Idea: @JoshTarwater/SonicFanJ Chapter Setting: The Abandoned World Inspiring Song: Fuse Man Stage (Arranged) by Yoshiya Terayama

[phobiadeficient]

Sniper + 1 or more other mercs punish Scott after he's been a brat

demo/sniper/scout is a pairing combo i really like even if there’s like. practically no content for it. its good shit tho for real

-

“Tavish, your boyfriend is being a bloody menace again,” Sniper started in, dragging Scout by the scruff of his neck into Demo’s little workshop.

“Why’s it that he’s only my boyfriend when he’s acting out, and your boyfriend when he’s being sweet?” Demo asked, not looking up from the bundle of wires and switches that he was working on, canisters lined up neatly in front of him.

“Because he only ever works this hard to piss me off,” Sniper replied.

“And why do you think that is, Mundy?” Demo asked, a little bit sarcastically.

“Because it’s way funnier,” Scout cut in, and shut right back up again when Sniper shook him once, hard.

“The temper on you, love,” Demo tsk’d, working his hands free and standing up from his workbench, moving forward to look Scout up and down. “Careful with him. The munchkinlander bruises easy, y’ken.”

Scout glared at that, and Demo raised an eyebrow at him briefly before turning his attention back to Sniper.

“Look, you know why he keeps doing this, aye?” Demo asked, amusement in his tone.

“Because we can’t leave him alone for ten bloody minutes before he gets bored and wants attention, and then he has a bloody temper tantrum over it when we don’t give it to him,” Sniper said, tone biting. He seemed legitimately pissed off. Demo was curious as to what Scout had actually done this time.

“And?” Demo led, and continued when Sniper just frowned, not understanding. “Lad, you keep using negative reinforcement is the thing. Stubborn little bastards like this,” he said, taking Scout’s chin in one hand and tilting his head up to face Demo head on, “just dig their heels in with that. Love getting a reaction.”

“So what else am I meant to do?” Sniper asked, confused.

“Watch and learn,” Demo said, and leaned to grab a length of rope from where it was hanging on the wall.

He had a setup for making his much larger explosives, which included a big bracing apparatus—currently folded and stowed away—and a large hook on the ceiling. Demo, in clean, efficient movements, first tied Scout’s wrists together, then he looped the rope up over the hook, pulling hard, and Scout was yanked so he stood flat on his feet with his arms well up above his head, only enough slack to stand comfortably.

Scout looked surprised. He clearly hadn’t really seen this coming. Demo barely spared him a look though, busy tying off the rope.

“Care to pass the box cutter, Mundy?” Demo asked idly, and he saw Scout go tense in his periphery.

Sniper did so, and Demo flicked it open, moving forward. Scout had a slight edge of fear in his expression, and Demo flicked the thing back closed, moving a hand to press soothingly into Scout’s side.

“Not gonna hurt you with this, darl,” he said, stilling the mile-a-minute train of thought that was probably going through Scout’s head just then. Scout relaxed only a little bit.

To be fair, it wasn’t often that he and Demo played this way. That was more Sniper’s rodeo, with Demo occasionally asked to help with more complicated ones. And when Demo did play he usually did so with Sniper, and they didn’t exactly have a set dynamic, switching between who was in charge and who was tying up who depending on the mood. Mostly Scout got his fill of that particular kind of attention with Sniper and then he and Demo messed around in a more vanilla way, Scout getting pampered just a bit in the wake of getting tied up and used. That was more Demo’s dynamic.

That said, he did have some ideas.

“Hold this,” Demo directed, taking the dog tag lying against Scout’s shirt and lifting it up towards his face. Scout carefully took it between his teeth, clearly hesitant, not sure that’s what Demo wanted from him. Demo nodded approvingly. He then opened the box cutter again and sliced Scout’s shirt clean off of him in three cuts, two from the edge of the sleeve to the collar of the shirt and once right down the center, baring him to the world. He tugged lightly on the chain of the tags and Scout released it again, letting it drop back into place, face flushing.

He was aware of Sniper moving to lock the door somewhere in his periphery, even if he didn’t turn to look. Scout glancing to watch him did that work for him.

“So what’d you do?” Demo finally asked, tone bright.

Scout set his jaw, looking off to one side.

“The little menace just—“ Sniper started, but Demo shot him a glance.

“No,” he said, looking back at Scout. “He’s gonna be the one to say it.”

“Or else what?” Scout challenged, no small amount of fight there behind his eyes.

“Or else you get to stand there. But if you do tell me,” Demo led, reaching forward to close the distance for a moment, thumbs moving to Scout’s nipples and kneading and rolling them in smooth motions that had him writhing, gasping in need within only a few moments. Then he pulled back with a parting pinch, and Scout went still again, breath coming a bit heavier, pants tighter. “Well, I think you’ll like what happens.”

Scout was quiet for another few seconds, glancing between Sniper and Demo a few times.

“Care for a drink, Mundy?” Demo asked, attention shifting to Sniper.

“Could go for one,” Sniper shrugged, catching on in an instant. “What do you have?”

“Got plenty of options—“ Demo started, taking only a step away from Scout before he started stammering.

“I, alright, so, it was really an accident this time I swear—“ Scout said, speaking quickly.

“Right?” Demo said, returning to stand in front of him again.

“I…” Scout was flushing further. “I went over to the camper to see if Snipes was busy, because you told me you were workin’ on somethin’ today, and he was just taking his stupid gun apart and putting it back together again—“

“I’ve told you a million times that my rifle needs actual maintenance or else I’ll need to replace it within the year, it’s not my fault you don’t take care of your bloody things and I do—“ Sniper started to snap, and quieted again when Demo glanced at him.

“So what’d you do?” Demo prompted, raising an eyebrow at Scout again.

Scout ducked his head. “So I… sassed him for a while,” he trailed, speaking carefully. “And he told me to go away, and… that he wasn’t good to play today. That he was busy.”

Demo nodded, waiting, aware that that wasn’t enough to piss Sniper off so badly.

“…And then on my way out I slammed to door,” Scout admitted, “and it shook the camper and knocked over a bunch of shit.”

Demo hummed, stepping a bit closer, running hands down Scout’s sides, making him shiver as he traced over the sensitive parts of his ribcage, gentle even with calloused fingers. “What’d you knock over?”

“A few glasses, a jar—it was empty,” he hurried to say, seeing Demo’s eyebrows rise. “But glass got everywhere. And a box of bullets slid off the table and scattered. And… and a picture fell off the wall. It was an accident, really, but then Snipes freaked out on me and yelled at me and dragged me over here.”

Demo hummed, hands rising to toy with his chest some more, and within moments Scout was leaned forward what amount the ropes would allow, reduced to gasping again. “Good,” Demo praised, and Scout shivered.

“How the hell did you manage that?” Sniper asked from near Demo’s shoulder, incredulous.

“Positive reinforcement, Mickey m’boy,” Demo said, a little smug. “Now, Scout.”

“Mmmwhat?” Scout asked, eyes blinking open, hazy.

“Now you’re going to apologize,” Demo said.

Scout tensed up a bit, eyebrows furrowing. “Aw, go to hell,” he said, even as his voice wavered. Demo stopped playing with him. “I didn’t even do it on purpose, it’s not my fault he’s a dumbass and left his goddamn dishes stacked up like that and doesn’t know how to hang up a poster—“

Demo removed his hands entirely, and Scout stopped talking, looking down and watching them retreat, returning to Demo’s side, one to his hip. “I don’t care if you did it on purpose, lad. You’ve made a mess and now you’re going to apologize for it,” he said firmly.

There was that gleam again. “Or else what, Cyclops? You gonna make me?” he asked, taking some of the slack in hand and leaning hard on the ropes.

“Nope,” Demo replied, reaching up to cup Scout’s jaw in hand, angling him just so. “You’re just gonna stay there tied up until you do. And you won’t get a single lick of attention until then. All you have to do is apologize, lad, that’s all. Just a little one.”

Scout huffed, sinking, glaring at Demo when he gave Scout a parting pat on the cheek before stepping away, gesturing for Sniper to follow.

“Mate, he doesn’t listen to that,” Sniper said quietly, too quiet for Scout to hear as they went to the cabinet on the other side of the little workshop. “He’s stubborn as hell. Buttering him up doesn’t get him anywhere but pleased with himself.”

“Mundy, every time he acts out you rough him up. But that’s what he wants you do to,” Demo replied just as quietly, pulling out two glasses and two bottles, setting to mixing some drinks on the countertop nearby. “You’re giving him what he wants. If you want him to do what you say willingly, you’ve got to promise something that he’ll like just as much as whatever punishment you’re threatening him with. Either punish him hard—which might well just get him to safeword before he’s done what you’ve asked, the little bastard’s a slut for pain and doesn’t know when to quit—or offer him something he wants more than his pride.”

Sniper took the drink that was offered to him, clinking their glasses before downing a gulp. He considered for a moment. “Think that’ll work?”

“Depends. You can rile him up real desperate-like then get him to do what you say, but only if you can make it that long without losing your own self-control. Or, you can offer something he wants desperately already.”

Sniper paused. “Oh. Well, mate, then I might just have an idea.”

-

Scout was sulking. There he was, shirtless and tied up, and Demo and Sniper weren’t even looking at him. Assholes. Couldn’t they see how hot he was? What a chance they had right then? He was just there, good-looking and helpless. Seriously.

He perked up when Demo started walking towards him, only to slump again when he moved right past him. Then he felt a pair of strong hands at his hips and he was pulled back against Demo’s body, and his breath hitched.

“So me and Mundy have been talking,” he hummed, quiet into Scout’s ear. “We think we know what your reward is gonna be for when you tell him you’re sorry.”

“Yeah?” Scout asked, tilting his head closer, trying to look at Demo.

“Yeah,” Sniper said, and Scout looked forward again, and his breath caught when Sniper stepped forward close enough to press their fronts together, leaving him sandwiched and immobilized between the two larger men. “Remember that time we all got together?”

“When me and Mundy both had a lend of you? At the same time?”

“You put that sweet little outfit on to beg us for it, to try and get us to give it to you, remember? The black one?” Sniper prompted, nibbling a line down Scout’s neck between phrases.

Scout remembered exactly what Sniper was talking about and his pulse hammered. Demo pressed a kiss to his pulse point as it apparently showed, and he swallowed hard, breath hitching as Sniper caught the motion of his adam’s apple under his teeth. “Yeah,” he said weakly.

“I knew how much you liked that, and god knows me and the lanky bastard both liked it too. If you apologize, we can do that again, right here,” Demo coaxed, hands falling from his hips to instead run along the inside of Scout’s thighs.

The idea ran loose in Scout’s mind for a few moments. Himself, tied up and helpless, getting absolutely railed into by the two very hot guys he was dating.

He flushed clear down to his chest, heart hammering.

“Okay,” he agreed, voice breaking a little. “Okay, I’m sorry. I’m sorry Snipes. I—I promise I won’t do it again, I’m real sorry.”

“You gonna help him clean up later, lad?” Demo asked, hummed into the back of his neck.

“Yeah, yeah I will, promise. I promise,” he agreed, nodding feverishly.

“Gonna whinge about it, or will you be a good boy and help nice and quiet?” Sniper asked.

“No, I’ll be good. I can be good,” Scout said quickly.

Quiet for a few moments. Scout rolled his hips forward at the sound of Sniper and Demo sharing a kiss over his shoulder. “Bloody genius, Tavish,” Sniper praised lowly, and Demo chuckled, and then they were starting to get undressed.

Scout moved along to make it easier when his pants were undone and pushed down, trying to kick off his shoes as best he could. Sniper got them open, and then Demo pulled them down and off, guiding them off Scout’s legs one leg at a time. When Demo returned to pressing up behind him, his chest was bare, and Scout groaned at it.

“Lube, Mickey?” Demo prompted, and the bottle was passed over. “Thanks, love. Right, up you get lad.”

Scout felt hands pulling at the back of his thighs, and he took the prompt, shifting on his feet for a second before taking hold of the slack in the rope again and lifting his legs up into the air, wrapping them around Sniper’s middle. Sniper grabbed hold of him to help him keep his balance, hands on his ass, both keeping him supported and spreading him enough that Demo could start in.

Scout moaned and babbled pleads into Sniper’s shoulder and neck as Demo worked him open quickly and efficiently, knowing his body and his tells pretty damn well by then and knowing that Scout could take the discomfort involved in moving fast. Loved to, even. Loved the slight burn, the knowledge that he’d be just a little sore the next day and that he’d know exactly who was responsible for it.

But Demo worked him up well into three fingers, his hands bigger than Sniper’s, spreading him more than was usually needed. Scout was asked to hop down for a second to let Sniper get undressed, which he did with efficiency, before he was being held again, Demo helping support his weight while Sniper slicked up and found the right angle and—and—and—

His brain always whited out for a second at that first push, and it was a good thing he managed to keep his legs in place and had Demo holding him up, that he clenched his fists, because he might’ve outright fallen over otherwise. Sniper filled him in three easy pushes, and Scout tried to say something like “it’s fine, I’m not in any pain, we can go ahead”, but mostly it just came out in a moan.

Sniper got a pretty good read on the situation, though. “He’s awright, Tavish. Go on,” he prompted. Another kiss shared over his shoulder, then Demo shifted, Sniper taking the weight back to free up Demo’s hands.

Sniper started rolling up into him in slow, steady motions, and Scout heard the sound of more lube before on the next roll, one of Demo’s fingers followed alongside Sniper’s cock and Scout couldn’t help but release a sharp gasp of pleasure, hips jerking. Demo shushed him with a kiss at the apex of his spine, starting up a gentle motion alongside Sniper’s. One finger became two—another hard gasp from Scout, they were talking to each other quietly but he couldn’t seem to make himself focus on what they were saying—and then finally three. All of a sudden, Scout felt a bolt of something, and he whispered a frantic word into Sniper’s shoulder.

Sniper’s motions stopped in an instant. “He asked for yellow, Tavish,” he relayed, and Demo stopped as well.

“Need me out, lad?” he asked sympathetically, free hand kneading at Scout’s thigh to soothe him.

“No,” he managed, voice weak, and with everything stopped for a moment he could process suddenly that there were tears leaking out of his eyes. “Just-just gimme a second. I can do this. I know I can do this. Just need a second.”

Demo nodded, kissing Scout a few more times, beard a comforting, familiar rasp against his skin. Sniper did the same on the opposite side of his neck, a tremble to his hands where they supported Scout’s weight.

Finally Scout felt like things had reached a manageable level, and he exhaled, relaxing just a little bit, taking a deep breath. “Okay. I think I’m good now,” he said, tilting his head to make it clear he was addressing Demo.

Demo ignored that for a little bit, continuing to stretch him and coax him open for a few more moments before he even pulled his fingers out and his pants off. Scout squeezed his eyes shut and took a few more deep breaths, listening idly to the sound of slicking up further, hands being wiped off.

Then Demo had a hand on his thigh, pulling, working Sniper out until just the head was left. And Scout heard Sniper’s breath catching, and then his own followed as he felt Demo line up.

“Ready, lad?” Demo asked, and Scout nodded half-frantically, and he started lowering Scout to allow them both to push in.

Whiteout, world blurring at the edges. He was aware, distantly, of Demo murmuring for him to relax, of Sniper telling him good, he was doing such a good job, what a good boy. His own dick was absolutely throbbing, trapped between him and Sniper, teased by the hair on Sniper’s stomach and desperate for contact, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t touch himself, couldn’t do anything but let himself be used, and oh, oh fuck—

Breathing picked up, Sniper and Demo thrusting in what rhythm they could find, both of them using their upper body strength to lift and manipulate Scout as they pleased, bouncing him on them with only some small amount of effort, seeming to get a real kick out of all the noise he was making. Demo reached around and took hold of Scout’s dog tags, pressing them to his mouth, and Scout took them between his teeth like he had earlier without even really thinking about it.

Hands were everywhere. Supporting his weight, groping up and down his thighs, dragging nails over his back, and—that was Demo’s, he was pretty sure—teasing at his nipples and making him whine and jerk.

“Want me to bite you?” Sniper asked, liquid gravel into his ear, and he nodded desperately, and writhed when he started in.

“Gorgeous, love,” Demo praised, low into his shoulder blade, licking and sucking at the freckles there that he could find, and all Scout could do was moan.

“Such a good boy,” Sniper praised, voice hard and rough, marking up his shoulders and neck with abandon between panting, and all Scout could do was moan.

“Gonna come, are you? Gonna come for us? Go on, give us a show,” Demo teased, nose buried in his hair, hands pinching his nipples hard, and all Scout could do was moan.

He wasn’t sure who came first, sensation and pleasure blurring together, feeling only his own sounds transform into begging, then praise, then no words at all, just moaning and keening, a rough voice following with him, someone else humming satisfaction into his shoulder.

When he came back down to earth, shivering, shaking, out of sorts in his own skin, like he’d touched a live wire, like he was fresh off the high of winning a fight, he could confirm pretty easily that yes, both Sniper and Demo had come. And Demo had pulled out, gingerly, gently, and pulled away from Scout’s back, leaving him cold. Scout felt an involuntary roll of embarrassment hit him at the feeling of dripping that followed the exit. Sniper hefted him carefully, slipping out, and a moment later Scout’s arms were suddenly released and dropped down around Sniper’s shoulders.

Sniper looked at him. He looked at Sniper.

“Made a bloody mess of you,” Demo observed, returning, helping guide Scout‘s feet to the floor and stroking over one of the bite marks Sniper had left, other arm wrapped around his waist to help keep him upright. “That’s gonna leave a mark, Mundy. What’d I tell you about bruising?”

“Sorry,” Sniper said, a little sheepishly.

“You right, Scooter?” Demo asked, hand smoothing down his flank, one of Sniper’s moving up to mop his face dry. Scout nodded, not quite ready for words again yet.

“I’m…” Sniper started to say, hesitated. “I’m sorry I snapped at you like that, love. It was an accident that you made such a mess. An accident because you’re a careless little bugger, but still an accident. And I, er, appreciate your apology.”

Scout couldn’t help but smile, and buried his face in Sniper’s shoulder to hide it. Took a deep breath or two. “You can make it up to me by helpin’ clean me up. I can barely fuckin’ walk right now,” he murmured weakly.

“Sure,” Sniper agreed.

“We all sorted out then? Anyone still pissy? Is the domestic over?” Demo teased, moving to the side of them to look them both in the face. He got some sheepish nodding. “Good. Gimme your hands, lad, you’re not getting out of those cuffs yourself.”

“Thanks, Demo,” Scout said, more earnest than he generally allowed himself. Sniper echoed the sentiment.

“Don’t you even mention it,” Demo said, kissing both of them square on the cheek, first Scout, then Sniper, then Scout again. “Love you both, happy to sort it out that I get to keep loving you both instead watching of you throttle each other.”

“What if that’s hot, though? What if we get a safeword first?” Scout joked, grinning at Demo even as he offered his hands to be untied.

“Och, then I’ll watch you throttle each other seven days a week, darl,” Demo teased, pinching his cheek, and Scout laughed, and Sniper laughed, and all was well.

Until next time Scout decided he wasn’t getting enough attention, at least. But Demo was looking forward to it.

[petriichvrs]

𝒘𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒍𝒆𝒚, 𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐘.

´   ･   .   ✶   ⧼    jessica barden, demigirl, she & her & they & them   /   mariners apartment complex by lana del rey + short nails with dirt caught beneath them and worn out jeans with muddy patches on the knees. scuffed trainers that have seen better days ( you understand how they feel ) and a handknit jumper that is somehow still too large, with stitches pulled hither and tither. windswept red hair and a stubbornly set mouth, the kind that used to twist into the most infectious smile ; but doesn’t, now that you are the girl on fire who has seen it all and yet, not enough. in the depths of those brown eyes, flames rage, good and strong, and isn’t that the savage beauty of it all? that in spite of everything, you remain - sturdy and smelling of smoke.   ⧽   ━━   hey, isn’t that GINEVRA MOLLY WEASLEY? i read a daily prophet article on them, once ; the TWENTY TWO year old pureblood WITCH is a GRYFFINDOR alumus, who has gone on to be a PROFESSIONAL CHASER FOR THE HOLYHEAD HARPIES. i’ve heard they can be quite RESILIENT & INTUITIVE, but i don’t know… they came off very HEADSTRONG & WAGGISH in that interview. it really is hard to know what to believe these days though, isn’t it? click HERE for ginny’s entire history ( also linked within ) & HERE for her pinterest board.

  and they call us hard women,       as if SURVIVAL could ever be delicate.

𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐒 !

FULL NAME:   ginevra molly weasley.

MEANING OF NAME(S):   an arthurian baby name meaning ‘fair one’. a name of irish origin and derived from ‘mary’, meaning ‘star of the sea’. a surname of unsure origin.

NICKNAMES:   ginny.

AGE:   twenty two.

BIRTHDATE:   august 11th, 1998.

BIRTHPLACE:   great britain.

ETHNICITY:   white.

EDUCATION:   homeschooled as all wizard children are, before attending hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry upon turning eleven.

JOB:   chaser for the holyhead harpies.

LANGUAGES:   english, french, german, spanish.

GENDER IDENTITY:   demigirl.

PRONOUNS:   she / her / they / them.

SEXUALITY ORIENTATION:   bisexual biromantic.

𝐖𝐈𝐙𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐒 !

HOGWARTS HOUSE:   gryffindor.

WAND TYPE:     eight and a quarter inches yew with phoenix tail feather.

PATRONUS:   a horse ( an ardennais stallion ).

BOGGART:   tom riddle ; not lord voldemort. people often forget that ginny faced him all alone, aged eleven, and only barely lived to tell the tale.

AMORTENTIA:   molly weasley’s homemade mince pies, harry potter’s preferred cologne and the smell of the quidditch pitch at hogwarts, after spring rain.

MISC. INFO:   trained and registered animagus, with the ability of transforming into a ginger tabby cat.

𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 !

FATHER:   arthur weasley.

MOTHER:   molly weasley neé prewett.

SIBLING(S):   william, charles, percy, fred, george & ronald weasley ( older brothers ).

RELATIVES:   the weasley & prewett families ( and all who have subsequently married into them ).

SIGNIFICANT OTHER:   none.

EX SIGNIFICANT OTHERS:   harry potter & dean thomas & michael corner.

CHILDREN:   none.

PET(S):   arnold ( purple pygmy puff with a shocking lifespan ) & archimedes ( a screech owl ).

𝐏𝐇𝐘𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐋 !

HEIGHT:   five foot one inch.

EYE COLOR:   brown.

HAIR COLOR:   ginger.

SCARS:   she has scars along her thighs and upon her fingertips that she doesn’t remember getting, from her second year. 'blood traitor’ on her right arm from lines she was forced to write by the carrow twins, in her sixth year. scars from the crack of a whip along her back, and scars upon her wrists and ankles from the chain bonds that filch preferred. a scar along her left cheekbone that she pairs with the gnarly one upon her knee, because both of them were sustained under the cruciatus curse. she has more scars than she can possibly remember that serve only to remind her of the war that they fought ; and she tries very hard to be proud of them, but even she finds it hard.

GLASSES / CONTACTS:   no / no.

PIERCINGS:   basic lobe piercings and a scaffold piercing in her right ear.

TATTOOS:   a tiny snitch, stick and poke tattooed on the inside of her arm - done in her third year, it glows when the weather is perfect for quidditch.

OTHER NOTABLE TRAITS:   there’s a dent on her forehead that you would only see if you were looking for it, sustained in the chamber of secrets.

𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘 !

STAR SIGN:   leo, the lion ( passionate, earnest, enigmatic, jealous ).

PERSONALITY TYPE:   estp, the entrepreneur ( high energy, independent, reckless, bold ).

ALIGNMENT:   chaotic good.

TEMPERAMENT:   melancholic.

RELIGION:   agnostic.

PHOBIA(S):   ophidiophobia ( fear of snakes ).

VICE:   anger, recklessness, impatience.

VIRTUE:   confidence, passion, perseverance.

𝐌𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐋 !

ALLERGIES:   none.

SMOKING/ALCOHOL/DRUGS:   sometimes, but has mostly broken the habit / socially, and regularly / no.

DIAGNOSES:   post traumatic stress disorder, survivors guilt and chronic insomnia.

BLOOD TYPE:   a positive.

𝐅𝐔𝐋𝐋 𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘 !

click this link to be brought to ginny’s entire history.

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 !

seventh child and only daughter of arthur and molly. first girl born into the weasley fam for GENERATIONS, so that makes her special. had too many brothers. biggest grievance was they never let her play quidditch with them, so she broke into their shed and taught herself. cried every single time they went to hogwarts without her. 

eventually got there herself. her first year notoriously SUCKED.

if ‘sucked’ is a good enough word to describe being possessed by tom riddle and opening the chamber of secrets, which ultimately led to a lot of people almost dying, including herself.

this, understandably, royally fucked ginny’s shit up. easily seen by her extra special hysterical reaction to the dementors. didn’t do much in her second yr other than be upset by them on the train and be hermione granger 2.0 ( overachiever extraordinaire ).

fully supported harry potter during his fourth year, when he became the unwitting fourth champion. would have gone to the yule ball with him if she hadn’t pledged herself to neville longbottom, who goes on to become one of her best friends.

got all up in order business in her fourth year, against her parents wishes. you can take the girl from the rebellion but you can’t take the rebellion from the girl. joined dumbledore’s army. also named it. became a royal pain in umbridge’s ass. was super talented at spells ( she’s special ) that they were being taught. had a rough christmas cos her dad almost got killed by voldemort’s ugly snake. hexed draco malfoy and still giggles about it to this day. fought off death eaters in the department of mysteries and was witness to sirius black’s death.

everyone rly wanted a piece of ginny in her fifth year ( understandable ). she got invited to slug club. was also made chaser of the gryffindor quidditch team ( after playing seeker the previous year when harry was banned ). she dated harry for a hot minute after she finally got rid of dean thomas ( srry dean ), but... after dumbledore died and death eaters attacked the school he broke up with her to ‘protect her’ which... sucked.

honestly. summer in general sucked. her bro got attacked by a werewolf. her boyfriend dumped her for her own good. there was a wedding, for some reason.

sixth year also sucked. the da was reformed ( by ginny & her friends ) but could only do so much in the face of the gross misuse of power by grown ass adults. ginny did all that she could even when they were actively torturing them all, but was made go into hiding at easter. 

followed her fam to hogwarts for the battle. almost had to sit the whole thing out, but ran off after she was forced to leave the room of requirement.

let’s recap the battle real quick : her brother? died. her friends? died. the love of her life? never even said goodbye and died. ginny? almost died! she did not have a good time. 0/10 stars on yelp, in fact. but they prevailed! they made harry proud! love when you succeed and get ptsd for your troubles.

ginny helped rebuild hogwarts over the summer, and went back in september to finish her seventh year, but... it wasn’t really home anymore. a war will do that. loss will do that. she was trying very hard to be okay - and in a lot of ways, trying a little too hard to be who she had ALWAYS been. she probably could have done with being told that no one expected her to be unchanged, but... everyone was going through their own stuff. 

she tried to honor the one’s that they lost by living, but... that was easier on paper. ginny didn’t seem to make it all the way through the five stages of grief. she was angry, and she was sad, but she couldn’t deny it and she couldn’t change it - and acceptance was impossible. her grief turned into a persistent feeling of emptiness, and that took a toll on her, as a person. 

a lot that made her happy once didn’t, anymore. she was scouted by the holyhead harpies fresh out of hogwarts, but when they asked her to sign, she didn’t immediately take them up on the offer. quidditch was about the only thing she had left at that point that brought her some measure of joy, and it felt...surreal, to be considering taking such a small pleasure and turning it into her life work. it felt not right, for some reason. doing something so ‘normal’ felt insulting, almost, to all the people who wouldn’t do anything normal again - but she couldn’t do nothing forever, and eventually, she was convinced.

she took the offer. she never looked back. things haven’t really gotten better in all the time since then, but at least they can’t get any worse.

𝐀𝐃𝐃𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 !   /  talk of scars & death & trauma.

ginny’s scars tell more stories about her life at hogwarts than she has ever uttered. from her first year, she has marks that she can’t name the cause of. scarring along her thighs and upon her fingertips that were obtained in some of her black outs, that her parents BEGGED madam pomfrey to remove, but who she quietly told to not bother. there’s a small dent on her forehead that she sustained when she collapsed in the chamber of secrets, and you wouldn’t see it, if you weren’t looking. she doesn’t point it out.

of course, she sustained some in her fourth year. she fell over during a dumbledore’s army session and she scraped up the palm of her hand, something that they all laughed about, back then. she broke her ankle badly enough that it continues to click, even now, but luckily was never a hassle in her chosen career. maybe she’d have been even worse of, if bellatrix had tortured her like planned. ginny counts her blessings.

but it’s her sixth year that ruined her. that instilled within her a LOVE of long sweaters and a fear of being seen entirely naked. ‘blood traitor’ is carved into her right arm from lines she was FORCED to write with her own blood, over and over, after being caught putting graffiti on the side of green house number five. she didn’t cry, to them. she didn’t shed a tear. along her back there are criss cross scars from the CRACK of a whip, so many of them that ginny still closes her eyes when she’s getting into the bathtub, so she doesn’t catch a glimpse in the mirror. she’s been suspended by her ankles, by her wrists, and she has the taut skin there to show for it, and under one instance of the cruciatus curse, she FELL and sustained two wounds most commonly paired together in her thoughts - a scar along her left cheekbone, and a gnarly one upon her knee.

the war scarred her too. scarred her deeper. scarred her truer. she has more now than she can possibly remember that serve as a reminder to the war that they fought, together - and she tries to be proud of them. she really does. but even she finds it difficult.

ginny still keeps a bag packed and ready to go at the drop of a hat under her bed, just in case she has to run. it’s a habit instilled in her by her parents from when they went into hiding, and it’s one that she’s finding almost impossible to break. she still sleeps with her wand underneath her pillow every night, fingers curled around the wood - terrified, always, to be caught without it.

her nightmares vary, but they’re there. sometimes she wakes in a cold sweat, blinking away the MEMORY of green light that came all too close to finishing her off. sometimes, all she can see is the rotting body of her older brother and his open, vacant eyes. sometimes it’s harry, and he’s all alone, and she’s screaming at him - just screaming and crying and begging him to turn around and stop and come back, but he never does. sometimes she’s back in the dungeons of hogwarts, hanging by her ankles, and when she’s shakily sipping coffee in the morning, she can still hear the carrow twins laughter in her ears, clear as day.

she’s suffered from sleep paralysis, too, though this predates the war and began in the weeks after the chamber of secrets. her limbs too heavy to move, the demon that stands over her is tom riddle - her longest and most withstanding nightmare. she’s ashamed of the fact that though she fears she’s forgotten the exact sound of fred’s laugh or the feel of harry’s hand in hers, she’ll never be able to forget the features of sixteen year old voldemort.

ginny can throw off the cruciatus curse, now, and perhaps can even resist imperio. she’s never wanted to TRY, but after the many times it was used upon them in her sixth year.. she believes it possible.

she trained to be an animagus, more out of… boredom, than anything else. she’s registered as an orange tabby cat, and it’s not uncommon for her to run off in this form in the direction of the lake, where she can sit for hours.

ginny is bloody awful at all of the things her mother tried to teach her. knitting, cooking, general housework. she would sit for HOURS with molly in the lead up to christmas, a pair of knitting needles held awkwardly in both hands, fingers incapable of making the loops and stitches that molly is so skilled at doing, until SHE had all the christmas jumpers done… and ginny only had a rather pathetic excuse of a scarf. similarly, she tried many a time to lend a hand in the kitchen, or memorize the recipe and replicate her mothers famous homemade fudge - almost always creating some sort of inedible goop at the end of it all. she tries, god bless her, but she just doesn’t seem to have the knack that came so EASILY to molly, and years ago after a particularly disastrous attempt at knitting the weasley family matching jumpers that ended with tears all around, ginny gave up that particular hobby.

she can garden, though. BOY can she garden. neville taught her how to take care of plants she thought were beautiful, and when she moved into her little bedsit, ginny pulled up the entire garden in her allotment - redoing it in her image. she spends hours out there, knee deep in mud, hands covered, and she comes in, sunburnt, smiling, blazing and beautiful. it’s such a simple joy to her, but it is one, nonetheless.

she always had an interest in muggles. ginny idolized her father ( and still, perhaps, does ), and some of her earliest memories were of clambering onto piles of scrap in the burrows yard, just to peek through the little dusty window on arthur’s shed and watch as he tinkered with some new muggle artifact. she was the one who told fred and george about the car, you know - though she never thought even for a MOMENT that they would end up driving it.

she learned the concept of ‘stick and poke’ tattoos from a worn out fiction book she borrowed from hermione, and learned how to replicate them with a good quill, some magical ink and a couple good spells. she gave herself her own one, in fact - the little snitch inside of the crook of her left arm, that isn’t a perfect circle, but still manages to glow BRIGHT when the conditions are perfect for quidditch. she got pretty good at them, too, giving many of her classmates their own magical tattoos as the years went by - though, like many things that brought her joy, she stopped doing them after the battle of hogwarts.

[the-mad-starker]

Starker RP: Diamonds and Roses

If you’ve seen this moodboard before, don’t worry, I’m just reposting cause I’m too lazy to make a new one.

BUT! @lovely-garnet​ and I have been teasing people with our prison AU rp... And we’ve finally starting posting it. Here’s chapter 1 and 2 together since we didn’t post chapter 1 previously. We’re hoping to update once a week.

AO3 Link: Chapter 1 (2359) | Chapter 2 (6101)

Summary:  Prime Alpha Tony Stark is sent to prison. He can get out in a second, but instead, he decides to play nice and bide his time. Do things the legal way, for now anyway. While incarcerated, a sweet faced omega wants his help but at what cost?

Notes: Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Prime alpha Tony, Omega Peter, intersex omegas, prison AU, future smut including anal sex, vaginal sex, blow jobs, etcetcetc...

💗 💗 💗

Chapter 1: The Boss

When the news broke out, the public reactions were a mess.

Those who only knew him only as a kind benefactor cried out against his imprisonment. Those that worked in the shadows alongside him were either pleased or worried about the status quo. After all, Stark Industries was a big name that had its fingers in many pots. With its head cut off, or in this case, imprisoned, there would be an inevitable chain of events if SI couldn't remain on top.

Tony Stark didn't worry about that. Even though the great mafia boss Tony had ended up in prison, things weren’t that much different after all. He did what he always did. 

Walk in. 

Take control. 

By the end of Day One, he had most of the prisoners under his thumb, ruling over block B with everyone falling in line. It wasn't a complete takeover, of course, but the ones at the top of the food chain… Those people were his now.

It would've been easy to just buy out the compound. Tony could afford it but why get rid of all the excitement in his life? No, sometimes it was good to have fun.

Still, this whole prison thing was a bit of an inconvenience. He had to waste his time here when he could be out playing in the real world instead of having to eat sloppy food and sleep in a single creaking bed. But this was a necessity. There was a reason Tony was here and he'd sit tight and endure it.

The prison was a bit unusual, of course, as the prisoners here weren’t just common riff raff. It was huge and spacious with some amenities, but… It was still a prison.

There were beta guards everywhere, personnel trained specifically to go toe to toe with alphas. Supposedly, they could take an alpha down. 9/10, Tony heard they could subdue a raging alpha. It might take a couple of them to do it, but they did it nonetheless.

The prisoners had a rigid schedule. Specific times for sleep, showering and eating - filthy bathrooms and tiny cells. Violence was pretty common around here, not that Tony would know… If there was any violence going on around him, he was never the one on the receiving end.

Now, his prison sentence was set for as long as he would be able to sit still in this place - that was Pepper’s advice on the matter. But even though it had only been a week behind bars for Tony, the tension in the cell block was already quite high. 

For whatever reason, he had to share the cell block with another prime alpha, and that had lead to many of the other weaker alphas to choose sides and start up fights. And he was the one that had to keep the peace, somehow.

A lazy Sunday afternoon was coming to an end when his right-hand man passed through his open cell door. It seemed as if he was hesitant to disturb Tony for the laying man had his eyes closed. So for a moment, Happy waited to see if the other would notice him. But the matter was important so he decided to clear his throat before speaking to announce himself.

“Boss,” he greeted with a low voice.

Tony didn't give any indication that he heard the man, except for his eyes barely opening. His entire posture was that of a man relaxing but anyone smart enough knew who he was. What he was.

So the correct analogy to make would be a predator lying in wait. Not resting. Waiting. There was a glimmer in his eye that proved it, a sharp, brilliant gaze that belied the relaxed posture of his body.

He knew Happy wouldn't disrupt him for anything that wasn't essential. And for Tony, essential meant business. He didn't get to the very top by letting others handle his business, oh no, his gang was built from the ground up by his hands and molded to his liking by his every decision.

“Hmm?” Tony prompted.

“Ms. Potts has some news for you,” Happy told him, making sure to keep his voice a low murmur.

Tony heard it clearly. With a single fluid motion, the alpha sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He got up, stretching relaxed but powerful muscles.

“Does she now?” Tony smiled, a sharp grin that normally put others on guard. “How do you feel about taking a walk with me, Hap?”

It had only been a week, but Happy was still wary about the prison rules and their reward/punishment system.

“I think it's almost time for lights out, sir,” Happy hedged. Smart beta, not outright defying Tony but saying enough that he let the prime alpha know his concerns.

“Take a walk with me,” Tony said simply.

“Okay, boss.” Happy agreed despite his concerns. He knew better than to refuse such a simple request.

Tony led the way out with Happy following behind him like a shadow. He could feel the eyes of his fellow prison mates on him before they darted away. No one would be caught dead staring him down, not if they wanted to keep their eyes.

It was close to lights out. On a Sunday like this, they preferred to keep the inmates indoors. But as Tony had mentioned, he was in the mood for a walk.

The beta guarding the door leading to the yard outside didn't meet his eyes. He turned to the side, peering at something in the distance, pretending that he wasn't allowing Tony Stark to just wander outside as he pleased.

The air here was refreshing but the towering walls were an eyesore.

Tony ignored them and turned to the man behind him.

“What do you have for me?”

The yard was empty as the light of day was quickly fading, but even if no inmates were nearby, Happy was being extra careful to ensure that no one was listening. Happy turned behind him to check if anyone was around and then looked over at Tony again.

The night breeze chilled him to the bone but he didn't flinch. He was a tough guy but most importantly, he was standing face to face with Tony Stark. Keeping his stern and controlled appearance was crucial.

For a moment, Happy seemed to be conflicted, an attempt to speak that was delayed for reasons unknown. Then he reached in his pocket to pull out the smallest looking scroll that ever existed. It wasn't at all acceptable to make Tony wait so Happy let out a sigh and spoke.

“Ms. Potts sends word that there is some progress being made...” His voice trailed off and then stopped as he glanced at his closed fist where he was palming the tiny piece of paper. 

“...But I have something else that may be of interest to you. I was approached by a... kid... saying he needs to talk to you.” Happy crossed his arms in front of his chest as he recalled the weird encounter. “I told him to get lost but he was adamant.”

Happy shrugged in an indifferent manner but then his expression grew concerned, darker. “An omega.”

The information from Potts, Tony filed away for later. Happy was right that the second part was more interesting to him. Entertaining was maybe a better word.

Tony watched the expressions play out on his second's face as he talked about the omega. Happy was a beta so these things didn't really make much sense to him.

“An omega, hmm?” Tony watched Happy with hooded eyes. He folded his arms loosely, tilting his head at the beta.

“Who told you that you can have an opinion regarding who sees me and who doesn't?” Tony's pose was relaxed but his voice was icy with disapproval.

He looked away from the man, not bothering to wait for a reply. A lot of people came to see Tony when he got admitted to prison. Alphas, betas, omegas. Tony was proven to be the best of them, the strongest, the prime. Everyone gravitated to him for one reason or another, but whether or not he had a use for them, that was a different matter.

Happy making those decisions on his own without informing Tony first was a rookie mistake. So Tony made sure his displeasure was known.

“Hap, buddy,” Tony said casually, “we've known each other how long? Years. No one ever needs to talk to me. If there was ever a need, I'd get to them first. Tell me more about the omega.”

To try to make excuses now for his decision to dismiss the boy would only make his situation worse, so Happy stood in silence as Tony spoke. In truth, he didn't believe that there was a reason for his boss to waste his time with that... mousy omega. 

Of course, he didn't really understand what it all meant. He only knew in theory how things worked for alphas and omegas. What he knew first hand, though, was that Tony's displeasure could result in very unfortunate outcomes, so he noted to never repeat such a mistake again. 

Feeling intimidated but refraining from showing it, Happy nodded with a stern and collected expression. His opinion was that the omega was complete nonsense but decided not to share it. Tony didn't seem like he would appreciate it very much so he stuck with the facts.

“He gave me this,” Happy said, opening his palm to reveal the paper he was holding on to. “The letters are tiny but it writes the place and time that he wants to meet with you. Now, before you say it, I know this is...” He waved his hand and shook his head as to indicate how unacceptable this all was. 

“But I looked him up and found out why he doesn't want to meet you out in the open. Thing is, he is under Thanos.” Now the beta paused. 

His opinion was - again - to not bother with this but he kept it to himself. He glanced towards the back to make sure that no one was listening to their conversation and then his eyes returned to Tony, concerned and heavy. 

“I don't know what he has to offer, yet, but I can get him to talk,” Happy promised.

“Under Thanos,” Tony hissed, a tiny bit amused. 

He knew the guy. Big, beefy alpha that was always waxing on about the necessity of balance. They weren't at each other's throats, not yet anyway, but Tony wasn't entirely fond of the man.

Then again, the fact that Tony was sharing space with another prime alpha when he didn't choose to was probably the cause of that. It didn't matter that there was plenty of room for multiple alphas, there was something about Thanos that Tony didn't particularly like.

He waved away Happy's suggestion and plucked the piece of paper out of his hand. His eyes scanned the words, noting the time and place before he tore it to shreds and let the wind carry the tiny bits away.

“If he didn't talk to you then,” Tony said, “he's not going to talk to you now.”

He patted his second on the shoulder. “You did your job, Hap. I can take it from here.”

Then he smiled, a curving of his lips that was just a bit dark.

“Besides, it doesn't seem like I'm leaving this place anytime soon,” Tony sighed. He knew he was getting out, the question was when. “I may as well pick up a hobby or something.”

An omega. He had his pick of people to choose from to keep him company. But an omega that was under Thanos might just cause problems.

Why would Tony bother with that? And yet, the boredom was already setting in. He had sway over the prison, but even then, demanding a lab and whatever he needed to keep his mind entertained would either be too much or take too long.

He could use a bit of entertainment.

“I'll handle the omega,” Tony told Happy, “In the meantime, you can handle Thanos. Not directly, of course, but you can distract him or something.”

He glanced at Happy with a smirk. “I can trust you to do that, can't I, Happy?”

Happy was right to believe that this would pique Tony's interest. After so many years of knowing the man, he understood that he was easily bored. An omega would be entertaining for him, at least for a while. That's why he had brought this information in the first place even though it was against his better judgment. This omega could cause undesired complications, though, and he wasn't even really worth it in Happy's eyes. 

Such a small and young little thing, but he had fire burning in him to make such a bold request. Happy would give him that, at least. Or the omega was just stupid, that could always be the case.

Maybe Happy was wrong to worry that this situation could get out of hand. It was just one tiny omega that could be used to keep Tony occupied and not bored out of his mind while they do…

In truth, Happy wasn't sure what they were doing in the prison. He only knew that where his boss went, he followed.

It wasn't his place to think about it anyway, but despite knowing he should just shut up and obey, Happy said a hesitant, "Boss?"

Maybe the news of fresh entertainment had tempered Tony's mood since he gave a small, indulgent smile at the beta.

"Yes, Hap?"

"Why are we really here?" The beta asked, a hint of uncertainty in his tone.

That smile didn't fade even the slightest.

"Diamonds and roses," Tony Stark answered and that was all he said on the matter.

It didn't make sense to Happy but he had already dared as much as he could stomach for the evening. So, Happy nodded with obedience, “Boss.” 

That was enough to show that he would do anything that Tony asked of him - or rather, commanded.

<hr>

Chapter 2: Deals in the Dark

<hr>

(AO3 Link)

The time of the meeting had drawn near.

That was why Peter was pacing around in his cell unable to calm his nerves. Clenching his jaw in an attempt to control his fear, he finally gathered the courage that was needed to go along with this plan. There was no other way and he knew it. This was his only chance. 

He walked out of the cell and down the stairs, relieved that none of Thanos’ men were around. Weirdly enough, the guards didn't pay him any mind either.

It was late in the afternoon, and at this hour, the prisoners were free to use the common areas or rest in their cells. It was the only possible time to slip through the prison grounds unnoticed.

Light on his feet, he made it to the hallway that led far and away from the main living area and down to the boiler room. Peter had snatched away the keys to this place when he had first arrived a few months ago. 

It hadn't come in handy up until now, but this was a perfect spot for a secret meeting. It was secluded so his scent wouldn't draw any unwanted attention and it had only one entrance. One entrance, one exit. Safe and dangerous at the same time.

It could also be the perfect place for a trap, but Peter dismissed that thought with a shake of his head. If Tony Stark was to harm him... He could only hope that he wouldn't do that. That the prime would listen to him, that he would help him.

Perhaps, he was naive but there was so much riding on this meeting. Not to mention the very fact that his heart pounded at the thought of meeting the prime…

It was time.

He walked inside the room and it felt like he was entering the wolf's den. Peter shivered as anticipation and dread grew in equal measure. He was risking everything to be here in this tight and dim lit place. 

His lean and frail body was dressed in the standard prisoner’s uniform but around his neck, Peter had a makeshift, tight collar made out of bandages. It was so feeble that it could be ripped off by anyone, let alone an alpha that would want to mark him. Yet there it was, an attempt to shield oneself.

With his hands already covered in a thin layer of sweat, he walked to the back of the room next to the tubes and pipes that came out of the wall and hid in wait. 

<hr>

Tony's footsteps made soft little clicks as he walked. The man could be quiet, of course, he could, but he didn't need to.

The guards didn't look at him, averting their eyes in respect. The prison uniforms were ghastly and ugly and even Tony couldn't get out of wearing them. But the way he walked, his strides confident, face forward, eyes unwavering, no one noticed the uniform.

He walked with a confidence that many tried to imitate. It wasn't exactly a strut, no, that was too arrogant and arrogance implied unworthiness. No, Tony was confident and that confidence played a big part in making others bow to him.

He caught the faint scent of omega as he grew nearer to the meeting point and here, he paused, inhaling and scenting the air to get more intel.

The omega was anxious, a distasteful note of bitterness that Tony could almost taste. It made his nose wrinkle but it did make him curious. Omegas were flighty things and briefly, Tony wondered if the omega would run after all.

It would displease him to have his time wasted, but as he continued walking to the destination, the omega's scent only strengthened. He was certainly there, a thought that pleased Tony's alpha side.

The boiler room, a particular choice. Tony wondered at the reasoning. Did the omega really trust Tony to let him go if things went wrong? What a peculiar thing to do.

And yet, as he stepped through, Tony felt a bit more entitled to be a gentleman. It wasn't every day that something caught his attention this much. And he hadn't even met the omega yet.

Time for that to change.

“An interesting place for a meeting,” Tony noted out loud.

His voice carried just enough to fill the room. He moved away from the entrance, leaving it free as a show of good faith.

Long before the prime spoke, Peter was already aware of his presence.

He had heard him come. Those confident steps were unmistakable but most importantly, he could smell him. And this wasn’t just any scent, it was a prime alpha’s and it flooded the room the moment he stepped inside. 

To the sensitive senses of the omega, it was deafening, overpowering. Peter needed time to adjust because his breath had been immediately cut off, his ears ringing, and he hadn’t even seen the man whose commanding presence it belonged to. 

Truth be told, he hadn’t expected the prime to show. Why would he? But now that he was here, Peter felt unbalanced, his resolve weakened.

“Come out, little jailbird,” Tony called out, “Let me see who has the balls to summon me, hmm?”

At once, Peter’s entire body urged him to obey, but the boy felt his knees tremble and stood frozen with a hand tight above his pounding heart. 

After only a few moments of mustering up the courage needed, Peter revealed himself. Not that he was ready, but he would never be. He had his fingers curled in tight little fists as he tried to appear in control and failing all the same. 

Nevertheless, he walked in small but steady steps out of his hiding spot to present himself to the man that had gone out of his way to meet him. The alpha had answered the request of a stray omega and as unexpected as that was, the boy had counted on it with all of his heart. 

Peter wasn’t stupid, he understood that Tony had shown him grace by being here. That was what he told himself, at least. He was trying desperately to not give in to the intimidation and fear he felt. 

His big brown eyes were fixated on the floor. He would never dare to plainly look at the prime alpha. That would be too bold, too disrespectful. But even with his eyes averted, his mouth was tight with determination. 

“This was the only place I could think of,” Peter replied, his voice steady for the time being. He dropped his gaze further down and to the side. “Thank you, alpha, for meeting me.”

There was a slight tremble in his muscles, a shiver as if the boy was cold. 

Glancing at Tony’s general direction, he realized that the man had stepped away from the entrance. That made the tightness in his chest ease a little, his body a bit more relaxed. And that had to be enough.

After days of watching from afar, finally, the prime's eyes were on him. His breath caught, heart stuttering as the prime alpha eyed him up and down.

Tony wasn't sure what he expected when the omega came out of his hiding place. Happy had no information to give him besides saying the omega was a kid. At least that much was true, the omega certainly was young compared to Tony.

Observing the boy, Tony couldn't help but wonder how he had gotten into this place, how he even survived. He looked so small and vulnerable that Tony's alpha side wanted to react in one of two ways.

It wanted to stalk forward and destroy. Something so weak seemed almost too pitiful to exist in these walls. Why even bother?

But a larger side overtook it. At first glance, the omega didn't seem like much but his actions spoke of a deeper depth that Tony found intriguing. It was already a good sign that the omega was seeking to talk to him. Tony could only imagine a few reasons why an omega would seek an alpha out.

That was just the way of things.

Truthfully, Tony wasn't surprised.

It was nature, really. The weak turning to the strong and Tony was the strongest of them all. And yet, despite knowing this, Tony still felt something when he looked at this omega. To his surprise, he felt more inclined to lure the omega in, to find out more about him. To protect him.

Such dangerous thoughts for an alpha like Tony Stark. He'd have to monitor himself to make sure none of these unexpected feelings turned into a weakness that could be exploited.

The alpha leaned against the wall, arms folded as he looked at the boy. He tilted his head in acknowledgment, not that the omega would see it.

“Your name, kid,” Tony said firmly, “You know mine, obviously. It'd be rude to speak otherwise. And that would be such a pity since you've tried so hard to be respectful.”

Peter lifted his gaze, curious, as he peeked at the alpha in front of him. The prime asking for his name had caught him off guard. In prison, hardly anyone had used his name, especially alphas.

It was an unexpected… surprise. A good one since the alpha was almost trying to be civil.

“I’m Peter... Parker,” he answered with a hint of excitement that he tried to push down while smiling gently at his feet. The prime’s presence was intimidating, yes, but also... soothing. 

“It's true, I know who you are,” Peter continued in a small voice with that smile lingering on his pink, hesitant lips.

He took another step towards the alpha and then stopped. The omega wouldn’t approach any further than this, even if the Stark’s demeanor and overall posture were relaxed. 

“Everyone knows who you are... You're kind of a big deal,” he said demurely. He nervously scratched his cheek, not knowing what to do with his restless hands.  

Tony smirked at the omega's words.

“Kinda a big deal, hmm?” Tony echoed, amused, “That's cute, Parker.”

At the alpha's casual response, Peter relaxed further. The gentle approach calmed his nerves. Maybe it would have been better for him to hold onto his fear- this was a prime alpha, after all. In this world, alphas like Stark were at the top of the food chain, the hunter, and the omega was at the very bottom. The prey. 

But then, as if Peter remembered the reason he had requested to meet with him, the boy’s expression turned serious. Unsettled even. 

“Alpha, sir, I–” he stuttered and got mad at himself for showing weakness in front of the alpha.

Clenching his jaw, Peter turned to the man and looked at him. The distress he was trying to hide was clear in his wide eyes. “I need to ask for your help if you would give it.”

Ah, Tony finally thought. 

He worried for a moment that the boy would beat around the bush. Essentially, that this Peter Parker would waste his time. It was good that he got to the point. 

The alpha watched and learned with keen eyes, taking in every quiet detail that gave him clues as to who he was dealing with.

Omega body. Omega gestures. Omega submissiveness. Everything about the kid was omega which was appealing to Tony's alpha nature.

A slight sniff to the air showed that Peter wasn't afraid of him though. That was good. Even though omegas were programmed to be the more submissive of the trio, Tony didn't want to bother with someone so weak.

He tilted his head in thought, listening with some interest.

Then the omega met his eyes and Tony's breath caught. The omega's eyes were so captivating, so determined. There was an edge of desperation there and it just made Tony so damn curious.

Lured in by those brown doe eyes, Tony pushed himself off the wall. The alpha prowled forward, eyes hooded as he came to a stop in front of his prey.

Peter didn’t waver, he stood his ground looking up at the alpha as he approached. Even if he felt his cheeks heating up, the redness spreading to the top of his ears, Peter stood still. 

Tony took the omega's chin between his fingers, making sure Peter wouldn't look away.

“Spit it out then, kid,” Tony said softly, “A man like me isn't just going to agree without hearing your offer. So, what is it, hmm? What has you in such a bind that you came to me?”

Then his lips quirked up into a wicked smirk.

“And more importantly, what are you willing to offer me?”

The boy’s lashes fluttered because of the alpha's proximity. Tony didn't seem affected, his gaze steady and smile, unfaltering. Was Peter the only one being affected? He couldn't shy away, even if that was the case.

It was pointless to try and hide. The alpha could surely scent him and hear the pounding in Peter's chest. And he could see the small flames dancing in the brown of his eyes. 

No matter the foolishness that was going on in his mind and heart since the first time he had gotten a glimpse of the prime... It was not the point of their meeting. And so, he pulled himself together, furrowing his eyebrows and tightening his fists.

“It’s Thanos,” Peter spoke and his muscles tensed, the mere mention of the name made him flinch. “He… promises one thing and does another. He makes himself out to be a… a savior but he lies. He's not what he seems... He's… a bad man.” 

In his strained voice, the hatred was evident. The things he had seen… he couldn't forget or forgive but he also couldn't go off on a rant no matter how easy it was to do so. Peter knew he had to be quick, concise, and as persuasive as he could.

 “I know I’m young and... But– Is it wrong to seek shelter away from him? He does as he pleases with omegas, with everyone that works for him, and–” Peter averted his eyes now, even if Tony was holding his chin up. He was embarrassed by his outburst but tried to push it all down. 

“He means to humiliate me, to take my suppressants away... That’s inhumane.” He gritted his teeth, looking down and to the side.

“So, I’m begging you to take me under your wing.” He turned back to Tony with wide, hopeful eyes. The omega’s scent unleashed in waves since the need and vulnerability had shone through. 

“And I’ll do anything you want,” Peter continued, voice steady and a fierce look in his eyes.

The scent made Tony's lip curl but besides that, there was no other reaction.

Every word, every sentence that came from the omega's mouth had conflicting emotions rioting inside the alpha. The information on Thanos caught his attention but it didn't matter. The gist of the matter was that this omega wanted to switch sides and while it could be done, it could be messy too. Would it be worth Tony's while?

The offer he dared to give the prime was what made the alpha's mind go quiet with dangerous intent.

“Now,” Tony purred, a low sound. In another world, it might've even been soothing, but here and now, it should've sent alarms ringing in anyone's mind. “That's a bold faced lie.”

The alpha smiled, but it was empty. A mean smile that held nothing back of what Tony was.

The hair at the back of Peter’s neck stood as the atmosphere in the room shifted. At once, uneasiness crept into the young one’s heart as an underlying fear made itself known. That Tony Stark was like any other alpha. That Tony Stark was another Thanos... 

“You can't– Or well, I suppose, you shouldn't be offering things like that, omega,” Tony said casually.

He rubbed his thumb across the other's cheek, playing up all the dangerous signs that omega mommies told their sweet faced omega children about alphas like him. He grazed his thumb against the soft swell of Peter's lips, eyes dropping to where he touched him.

“Is this what you promised Thanos? Anything?” Tony continued, “Why are you surprised he wants everything then?”

He pushed his thumb inside, ignoring the heat that started to swell in his own body. As much as he was down for a fuck, there was something more important for the omega to learn.

Paralyzed by his words and actions, Peter looked up at him with huge eyes. His breaths became shallow, one by one, before stopping altogether once the alpha’s thumb was pressed between his trembling lips. 

“You say something like that, you better deliver,” Tony said darkly. “And I know you can't, won't.”

He paused then removed his hands but continued to stare down at the boy.

“There are things people are willing to do and things they aren't so willing to do,” Tony scoffed. “When I said what are you offering me, I don't want some bullshit answer. You think you're willing to give me everything?”

Tony chuckled then jerked his head towards the wall. “Strip. Present for your alpha, omega.”

The omega was utterly shocked and frozen in place. Once the words made sense, he stepped forward, unwilling to let Tony’s accusations unanswered.

“I didn’t promise anything to him!” Peter cried out in protest. The insult was too cruel, too false to accept.

It couldn’t be true! Peter refused to accept it! That instead of finding a savior, he would be made to choose between whose hands he would suffer in. 

But the injustice and the heartless words were too much to keep quiet even if it was against his instincts to defy the prime in front of him. It hurt him deep down because the omega had been enamored by the alpha in the few days that had passed. Looking at him through shy eyes from a safe distance.

His young innocent love had been allowed to bloom deep within. Peter knew that he shouldn't have, that it was a road that led nowhere, but he couldn't stop himself from dreaming.��

This very dream flickered before his eyes, at this moment, as he stood before the man that threatened to crush Peter's heart in his palm.

“...So you think to humiliate me, as well?” He almost choked as tears burned at the corners of his eyes but there was no chance to back down now. If Thanos learned of this, he would strangle Peter to death with his bare hands. 

“I wasn’t lying,” he sobbed, lowering his head and tugging his uniform shirt over it, making his hair a mess. He let it slip through his fingers and drop to the floor. 

His chest was left covered in a white undershirt and the boy clenched the fabric, trying to silence the nerves that shook his body. 

He had to prove himself. He had to. While looking down, he lowered his pants and stepped out of them. 

But that was it. The boy couldn’t do anything more.

Paralyzed, he stood in his underwear and shirt, his hands close to his chest. His eyes were wet with tears but he didn't dare let them fall. He couldn't look the alpha in the eye, his face was burning with mortification. Instead, his eyes were pinned to the ground as he waited for the alpha’s judgement. This was far from the presenting that the alpha demanded of him, but Peter couldn’t find the strength to do it, not all the way.

Some alphas got off on the scent of fear. It smelled sickeningly sweet with just a hint of sourness underneath.

Tony had learned to tolerate it, but never cared for it much. He might even learn to detest it, especially with the small omega trembling in front of him. The scent of his fear was almost offensive compared to how it was before Tony revealed himself to be the monster he was.

Tony could even muster up a tiny bit of regret if he wanted to. Scaring the omega was his goal, but he hadn't expected– What a mess.

He sighed, a deep heavy sound before he ran a hand through his hair in frustration.

“Christ, kid,” Tony huffed, “The point was to be careful with what you're offering. You can't say you'll do anything then be surprised if they take as much as they can. Ever heard of give an inch, take a mile?”

He deliberated his choices. He could just walk away. The omega would probably count himself lucky. Maybe even avoid all alphas and primes in the future. Lesson learned and all that. 

Alphas were scum.

He could wash his hands of this. Maybe even keep an eye out for the boy as recompense for the rude awakening Tony had given him. But did he want to walk away…?

Tony could make this right. Walking away wouldn't solve the boy's issue with Thanos. Wouldn't save him from becoming a prison bitch. Not with that attitude and no protector.

Another sigh, but truly, there had never been another choice for Tony.

He stepped forward, knowing his actions might be read wrong but doing it anyway. He enveloped the omega in his arms, scenting him in the only thorough way an alpha can claim another without actually getting down and dirty.

The boy in his arms had been through a rollercoaster of emotions already and it didn’t seem like there was going to be an end to it any time soon. In his confusion, Peter tried to back away when Tony stepped closer, still too agitated, too unnerved to think clearly. 

“I'm not so heartless. I'm not so greedy or cruel,” Tony admitted reluctantly. “But others aren't that way. You can't trust anyone, kid. Better you learn that now.”

Peter flinched, barely able to listen to what the alpha was saying through the hammering of his heart.

In the next moment, however, the alpha’s scent bathed him in comfort, in warm and fuzzy feelings of protection that Peter had never known before. And that made his body relax, whether he wanted it or not. 

To be granted a prime’s protection in such a gentle and caring way made Peter’s knees weak, his body calm and pliant. He was young, inexperienced, never marked or claimed in his life and now he had been completely overwhelmed in the arms of the powerful prime. 

His instincts had risen within him, taking hold of his mind as Peter pressed his face against Tony’s strong chest. He lifted his head towards the man’s neck, taking in the scent that was even more intense there. 

Soon, Peter was so much calmer even though his heart was beating fast but that was for entirely different reasons. 

"What– what is this..." Peter murmured, dazed, scent drunk and barely fighting. "Why are you..." 

The alpha held him and he even felt fingers stroke through his hair. 

"I'm giving you what you want," Peter heard the alpha say, his voice so soothing that the omega felt like he was sinking into a soft cloud.

The scent tapped into Peter’s instincts, forcing his body in this more relaxed state. He felt how it soothed his mind, pushing aside his previous fear and almost leaving him in a drugged out state.

It felt good but… Alpha wasn't angry with him… His mind was in a haze and the clarity that he had before… When adrenaline made his heart pound and his mind skip a thousand thoughts a second of what he could do, had to do… It was gone, out of reach and he almost… almost didn't care to have it back.

Something about that was wrong.

Primes were dangerous, Peter always knew that but now, more than ever, he understood why. 

Their scents were potent and whether or not Tony only meant to soothe him, not steal away his mind, it was affecting Peter too much.

It was casting his inhibitions and logical thinking to the side. He didn't want that, not when so much was unclear between them. He needed clarity to not be tricked by the alpha if that was his intention. Tony could not be trusted. 

All this could still be a game, a farce, something to entertain this man for a few minutes… hours… days? The fear of being such a toy made his heart seize and where it was content and excited by being so close to the alpha, it now threatened to break. It was more than enough to clear his head.

Uncertainty made Peter's form stiffen and he pulled his nose away, seeking to escape the gravitational pull of the alpha. 

"But… Who's to say that…" he uttered. He was fearful, yes, but also determined. "That… you're not just like him? Just another alpha." Peter asked and glanced at the alpha with furrowed eyebrows.

Tony's eyebrows rose in surprise.

He has given the kid what he wanted. His scent would be on the omega and as soon as he walked out, the other inmates would know. They wouldn't touch Peter for fear of angering Tony Stark.

Once Thanos learned of it, surely there'll be a clash between the two primes. When confined in such tight spaces, it was always meant to happen but the omega in his arms would've been a catalyst.

Protection. He was giving Peter what he wanted... Or was he? Under his wing…

Tony was intrigued.

"That could almost be an insult," Tony said with a devil may care smile. "Just another alpha… Are you always so impulsive, sweetheart?"

He let the boy go, stepping away and looking around the small, dark room to gather his thoughts. Even if Tony had his equipment and toys right in front of him, his attention would still be captured by the omega waiting for him.

"Who's to say I am any different," Tony considered, not at all offended. Then with a sly smile, he turned back to the omega, settling his hands on the boy's slight shoulders. "Except you. You're the one saying that by coming to me. Have I proven you wrong then? Am I just… another alpha?"

His own conviction had saved him but the alpha pulling away had certainly helped. Even then, the powerful scent was pulling him in but he resisted. It was getting easier to manage through it the longer they talked.

They… They were truly engaging each other now, something Peter didn't think would happen. He needed his wits together to be on par with the prime.

Peter shook his head and his curls bounced around with the movement. Insulting the prime had not been his intention, of course, and he became flustered. Even so, he still would not back down. The scent coming from the man was not agitated which helped Peter continue.

An omega's place was not to judge or measure alphas, let alone primes. Unless they were asking for trouble... Which Peter did just by requesting this meeting.

"Alpha… seems different," he admitted, keeping the rest of his heart's secrets to himself. "I…" he swallowed, "I have seen you…" 

The boy had heard of Stark's ways within the prison. That he didn't mistreat those that were vulnerable and if there was ever a reason to fear an alpha… Stark's people feared him for the right reasons. But maybe he hadn't had enough time to show what he was capable of.

The boy’s admission made Tony wonder what exactly Peter had seen. What had Tony done to invite such curiosity and trust?

To his knowledge, he took over his side of the prison almost ruthlessly, all kinds of people bowing their heads to him.

The omega continued to speak though, so Tony put the thought aside for now.

"What if… Alpha promises…" Peter proposed shyly and bit his cheek. "No tricks or games…"

Tony raised a brow and stepped closer, their chests almost brushing. It pleased him when the omega continued to gaze up at him, expectantly and with such an unnerving gaze. 

"Did you learn nothing from what I did?" Tony murmured, not unkindly but curiously. "How can you trust me? You're asking me to promise something with no way of holding me accountable."

His smile turned almost sad then.

"No tricks, no games?" Tony repeated, "Don't you know who you're talking to? Ah, you shouldn't be in this hellhole, kid."

Peter tilted his head, while still looking up at the man. Young innocence flickered in his eyes, so easy to be extinguished at the hands of an alpha. He stared into Tony’s dark gaze, wishing he could see what went on in his head, his thoughts and desires, his motives and wishes.

The boy was guilty of his crimes… That was how he had landed himself in this mess. But even with the fear that one of the primes could take him apart, Peter wouldn’t change what he had done. He kept that to himself, however, since he truly believed that Tony had no idea. Tony didn’t even know he existed before this meeting, no doubt.

He shrugged his shoulders, but his eyebrows twitched upwards, making an arch. He recognized now that Tony called his bluff and hadn't expected Peter to actually go through with the request. To Peter, it told him that the prime hadn't had bad intentions… Stark just had a shocking way of doing things.

But what could Peter use that Tony would abide by…?

“I will hold you to your word,” he said and lines of distress formed across his smooth little forehead. 

“On a prime’s honor,” he continued with a stern expression. His scent was giving away, however, how intimidated he really was.

Would this boy ever stop surprising him? The alpha wondered.

"A prime's–" Tony ended up chuckling.

He couldn't even fathom– It was ridiculous. The omega was holding him to a promise based on such a fanciful thing. And yet, something stirred inside the prime and it… It didn't exactly ache, but it was bothersome.

Then that scent reached him… Sour… His nose twitched in agitation. Rather abruptly, the alpha decided that he didn't like that scent, not when it was previously so sweet and alluring. Before Tony had played his game, as the omega called it.

"Honor, huh?" Tony smiled indulgently, "That doesn't exist in this world, sweetheart. But…"

His chin dipped, just the slightest acknowledgment.

"If you want that promise, then you can have it," Tony relented with a careless shrug. "Is that enough? Or should I sweeten the deal… Add something nice to make up for what I did. Diamonds, perhaps?"

Peter smiled at first, a bit hopeful since the man gave him the promise. He shouldn't trust him fully, Tony had said it himself, but Peter did. He trusted that he would keep his word, even if it had been given to someone insignificant like him, a stray omega.

Then his eyebrows lifted at the alpha's curious proposal.

Diamonds…?

With a tilt of his head, Peter looked up at him, his expression softening in wonder. It was meant as a joke, he was certain. It couldn’t be that the prime would truly offer this to him. But even if he was, the omega had no use for precious stones. What good could they do… They were just for show, void of true meaning.

He smiled innocently.

"No… no need for diamonds," he said lightheartedly while shaking his head. The omega's defenses had fallen. He was exposed again, letting go of his reservations and fear. His smile turned tender and apologetic almost. 

"A rose would be nice, though," Peter gave back. His inner thoughts and emotions were bare for the alpha to witness in the vastness of his brown eyes.

Ironically, the request would be more difficult to fulfill. Diamonds, Tony could have smuggled in. They were tiny and easily hidden. Peter would perhaps have a hard time keeping them but anyone who knew they were a gift from the prime wouldn't dare touch them.

But a rose… Another fleeting thing. Something that wouldn't survive here. And yet, Tony wanted to get it for him.

Maybe it was because it was a challenge to do so. Maybe it was for some other reason…

Roses and diamonds… He thought wistfully. It didn't mean anything to the omega, but it did for Tony.

He dismissed the thought and instead gave the omega a charming smile.

"A rose… It would suit you," Tony told him. "A rose and a promise then, along with my… protection. What then are you giving me in return, hmm?"

Peter would not repeat the same mistake as before. Offering anything to the alpha was just not persuasive enough since he had already backed down from such claims. Yet the omega was determined and would go very far to have Tony as his protector. 

“I’m tough. I may not look it, but I am,” he said and gulped, his cheeks getting a bit rosy.

The words didn’t match with his softness, his vulnerability that was so obvious in his scent. 

“I can work for you, obey, and be devoted. I can… do the dirty work.” He glanced to the side, unsure. 

The omega knew that he didn’t seem like much, but this… he really meant it.

Tony hummed in response and gave the boy a look over.

Whoever heard of an omega doing dirty work? That'd be interesting, indeed. Tony couldn't even really think of what task he would give the omega, but then, having a potential piece is better than not having one at all.

He'd find a use for Peter eventually, he was sure of it. At least the boy learned quick.

"You want to be a grunt in my… organization?" Tony said thoughtfully but shook his head, "I don't need more grunts. I have those in spares, even here."

He gave another thoughtful hum and let his eyes linger on the omega's pretty features. He circled the waiting boy, considering… Considering…

No tricks or games was what he had just promised. He'll stick to it then.

The prime prowled forward, every step a confident stride. His chest pressed against Peter's back, firm and unyielding.

"I have a better idea and you can decide yourself," Tony purred as he curled an arm around the omega's neck. His lips brushed against Peter's ear, soft and intimate.

"How about you keep me company, hmm?" Tony suggested, "Be mine. My omega. I have business to take care of and a fickle heart can cause trouble. Keep all the other omegas from interfering and we have a deal."

It was such a minor thing but Tony's interest wasn't so easily won. It would be one less worry, one less quarrel that he could somehow get caught in.

Peter felt Tony’s chest rise and fall against his back, with the man’s steady breathing. He turned his head, for a moment, to look at him, before lowering it again. His chest raced, and how could it not, after this proposition.

Just business… a cold deal. Well… not for Peter, since being Tony’s omega was his heart’s deep desire. He wanted to be close to him, to accompany him… to talk to him… To stare up into those beautiful dark eyes… 

But it was not easy to say yes, even if it was what Peter wanted. It was risky, but the man had promised… And Peter believed him.  

“Then we have a deal.” Peter nodded, and his form stiffened. 

To belong to the most powerful man in prison was a serious matter. And yet the omega didn’t care as much for this as he cared for the fact that he would belong to Tony Stark and be his. Peter’s young love surged even greater with the possibilities. The omega tried to not fool himself and still, that hopeless dream of true love didn’t seem as unattainable… 

Or maybe… 

Maybe he was giving himself away for false hopes and empty promises. A flower cut off the garden, to be scented and of use until… deflowered. 

Even though Peter couldn't see it, Tony's smile grew once the deal was made. The omega also wasn't pulling away so Tony felt a bit... daring.

He turned his face, nudging his nose against the boy's ear. Peter's scent had turned sweet again, like honey on his tongue and the alpha breathed it in like it was a drug.

"Deal," Tony said, lips curved up in a devilish grin.