#Coming Clean

[90s-2000s-barbie]

Hilary Duff - Coming Clean (2003)

[allisluv]

COMING CLEAN

Chapter Three — knock on effect

word count: 5.3k

finnick odair x fem!oc

content warnings: finnick odair (yes he’s a warning in himself) flirting, dissociation, finnick likes his women a little mean, stylists freaking out, dahlia doesn’t like physical touch. lmk if there’s anything i missed!

previous chapter — next chapter

Dahlia had always been a light sleeper, which was why it came as no surprise that she stirred when her prep team burst their way into her hotel room the next morning.

She yanked the covers over her head and gripped the linen duvet, trying to block out the sunlight for as long as possible.

Bloom's unintelligible screeching, on the other hand, was harder to ignore.

With sleep still settled deep in her bones, she pushed herself onto her elbows and covered her eyes with her hands. Even through the drawn curtains, it was bright enough to make her head pound (but she suspected that had more to do with the glasses of white wine she had necked after her meeting with Finnick last night)

"Dahlia! Are you listening to me?" Bloom shrieked, throwing her arms helplessly in the air. "Is she even listening to me?" she hissed, spinning the question around to Malaki as if he could somehow crack open Dahlia's skull and peer in at her thoughts

Unfortunately, he wasn't a mind reader, which left him with the job of consoling her hysterics.

He took quick strides towards the stylist and put an abrupt end to her pacing by grabbing hold of her shoulders. "Relax, Bloom, the world isn't ending," he soothed. "Just sit down and have a gin."

He ushered her towards a leather armchair by the windowsill and grabbed a bottle of pink gin from the mini-fridge.

The clock had barely struck noon but no one seemed inclined to lecture Bloom for her drinking habits. Plus, she was a pretty nice drunk, so it wasn't as if she would push anyone off the balcony or anything.

Dahlia hugged her knees to her chest and scrunched up her eyes, trying to adjust to the lighting change. She didn't know what was sending her stylist into an alcohol-induced frenzy this early in the morning and quite frankly, she didn't plan on asking.

She had fallen prey to that old trick during the early days of her victory tour and, as a result, been forced to suffer through an hour spiel on why the district one stylist was a quote-on-quote "spineless hag who wouldn't know fashion if it slapped her in the face."

She mentally cursed herself for inheriting her mom's nosiness. "Are you gonna tell me what's got you this worked up or do I have to guess?" If she kept caving every time Bloom had something to complain about (which was more often than not ten times a day), she would never catch a break or learn her lesson.

Bloom huffed out something between a scoff and a sigh, pulling an old-fashioned newspaper from her knock-off handbag and chucking it across the room.

It nearly hit Dahlia in the head, which was probably what she was aiming for in the first place.

Malaki sprawled out on the double bed, the mattress dipping at the sudden shift in weight. He dug the pads of his fingers into his eyes.

Reluctantly, she picked the newspaper up from the foot of the bed and Bloom returned to nursing the bottle of gin. She flipped the newspaper around in her hands until the front page stared back at her.

A headline printed in bold letters. Two pictures; one of her heading back to her hotel room last night and one of Finnick doing the same.

"HEARTTHROBS OR HEARTACHE?

"Dahlia Holloway and Finnick O'Dair— both are known for their string of lovers in the Capitol, but things might just be heating up."

"According to an anonymous source, our darlings were seen getting up close and personal at last night's gala. We've been told that the victors were seen in a compromised position yesterday evening yet the details remain to be confirmed."

"Could it be possible that our golden boy and angel could be ready to settle down? Or is this another of their flings destined to end in heartache?"

Kissing Finnick at a Capitol party was bound to stir up rumours— that was the whole point! She and Finnick understood what they were getting themselves into. They had to throw Snow off their trail.

Still, it didnt make it any less humiliating.

"Well?" Bloom threw her hands in the air, clutching the gin bottle between her hot pink nails as the tips of her ears burned red. "Do you have anything to say for yourself, young lady?"

Dahlia blinked down at the newspaper in her lap, stifling down a laugh that threatened to bubble out of her chest.

The situation was far from funny but it was hard to keep a straight face. Bloom was akin to a baby deer and she simply wasn't cut out for acting like the big bad wolf.

"We left you alone for an hour!" she took another swig of gin and wiped the dregs from around her mouth. "An hour!" she cried out, jabbing the bottle in her direction.

Malaki sat up wearily and took the newspaper from Dahlia's hands. If given the chance, she'd launch it at the woman. He had spent years getting to know her, which was enough time to pick up signs of when she was getting stressed.

She was like a violent dog, for lack of a better term. When she felt threatened, she lashed out. It was a go-to, a reflex, an impulse. If she felt cornered, like she had nowhere to run, she snapped.

He wondered if it was a safety thing— push people away before they could leave. He had never endured the horrors of the games, though, so he didn't think he had the right to say whether that was where it stemmed from or not.

"Look, why don't we all take a breather and calm down," he reasoned, trying to keep two tempers in check at once.

Bloom leaned forward in the armchair, eyes almost popping out of their sockets. "Calm down? Calm down?" she hissed, slamming the gin bottle onto the table.

"What do you think will happen when people start asking questions, Malaki? What's he gonna do to us when he realises that people don't buy another star-crossed lovers tale?" she seethed, gesturing wildly at the front cover of the newspaper. "If any of us put so much as a toe out of line, we're all dead and buried."

She hadn't thought her heart could sink any further yet time and time again, she was proven wrong. Dread was wrapping its way around her lungs and squeezing tight.

It would have been easier if Snow had found out the truth and hung them for treason. At least then they wouldn't have been dragging anyone else down with them.

"I spoke to President Snow this morning," Malaki kept his voice steady, doing a far better job than his counterpart at maintaining his composure.

"He wants us to play into it, doesn't he?" There was an unevenness in her tone and she wished it would go away.

A pair of frantic blue eyes bore into his soul, and it was almost as if she was trying to predict what was going to come out of his mouth next.

"He thinks this might be a good thing," he explained gently, running a hand through his dark hair. "He thinks some good news may be a valuable thing for people to have in such a stressful time."

She could read between the lines without missing a beat; Snow was doing this purely for his own gain.

Having two of his most influential victors standing by his side would not only serve as a distraction but also shine a positive light on the victors as a whole community.

If the districts saw her and Finnick, who were referred to as Capitol sweethearts, together, it would be a perfect piece of propaganda. What better way to extinguish the spark of a rebellion than to showcase their loving relationship to the whole of Panem?

Presenting the districts with another star-crossed lovers tale would work in the president's favour if he could control these two. And he could— they still had people they cared about.

Perhaps the rebellious Girl on Fire and the charming Baker's Boy would be forgotten. Maybe Finnick and Dahlia could show how grateful they were for all the opportunities that winning the games had given them.

He wanted them to stomp out the rebel's spirit before it had a chance to spread any further.

Talk about killing two birds with one stone.

"Fine. We'll sneak around, pull each other into hotel rooms, whatever he wants us to do. Finnick and I are far better actors than Peeta and Katniss, anyway," she nodded earnestly, trying to convince herself that they could pull this off.

"I spoke with district four's escort this morning and she agreed that we need to be on the same page. We can't afford any mistakes, darling," he murmured, trying to explain the severity of the situation without sending her into another episode.

He vividly remembered the knock-on effect after her games. She was in and out of catatonic states for months and when she did come to, a trigger, no matter how small, sent her into full-blown hysterics.

Despite frequent episodes in which she couldn't tell what was real, it hadn't gotten that bad in months.

The last thing anyone needed was Dahlia spiralling, so if he could somehow shoulder part of that burden, he would do it in a heartbeat.

"You and Finnick have a date tonight," he saw the flash of panic on her face and quickly backtracked.

"All the details are sorted, it's okay. You'll be going to a quiet restaurant. All you have to do is show up. The paparazzi have been given an anonymous tip-off and they'll snap a few shots of you both coming back to the hotel. You can go to your separate rooms, for tonight at least."

Dahlia opened her mouth to protest but a choked sound escaped instead. She wondered if this was how avoxes felt; strangled and suffocated, paralyzed, as if someone had cut open their windpipe and left them to choke on their blood.

"How long do we have to keep this up for?" Her voice cracked and she willed herself to pull it together. "Because I can tell you this much for free, I am not being glued to Finnick O'Dair's hip for the rest of my life," she retorted, digging her blunt nails into the skin at the back of her neck.

Maybe she was being impetuous, but she had never been one to mince her words. Besides, she didn't think Finnick would be thrilled with his life being turned upside down, either.

Bloom hiccuped and managed to pull herself away from the gin bottle long enough to supply her with an answer. "Unfortunately, you love birds are stuck feeding the vultures until the next big thing comes along, darling."

As if someone had flipped a switch, she guzzled the dregs at the bottom of the bottle and tossed it to the side, kicking into autopilot mode.

Pinching the bridge of her nose, she pulled up the thin spaghetti straps of her top. "I know this is a lot but what's done is done. Dwelling on it isn't going to do us any good, is it?" she pulled a sketchbook from her bag and wobbled onto her high heels.

The gin had taken the edge off her anger and seeing how shaken up Dahlia was was enough to make the rest ebb off naturally. "Everything's going to be fine, darling. You could've done worse—he's a looker," she shrugged halfheartedly in an attempt to lighten the mood.

"Don't fret, darling. You've got the best stylist in the business. If Finnick isn't in love with you now, he will be by the time I'm finished with you."

˚＊✿❀༓❀✿＊˚

Nausea rolled over Dahlia in waves as she fiddled with the hem of her dress in the backseat of a taxi. The motion wasn't helping but Malaki had assured her that they were nearly there.

Bloom had spent forty minutes whipping up an outfit this morning and it had only confirmed Dahlia's theory that she had left the womb with a sewing kit.

It was well into the early hours of the evening before she was declared camera-ready and ushered into a private car.

After five failed attempts to keep the conversation alive, Malaki had taken the hint and allowed them to lapse into silence.

The taxi was unventilated and cracking open a window wasn't an option; they were blacked out for a reason, to stop the paparazzi tracking her every move.

She wondered if Snow had given up on the game plan and had simply resorted to suffocating her. Not likely. He would want to watch the life drain from her eyes, she reckoned.

As the car rolled to a stop in front of a restaurant, she started to really consider the fact that she might be sick. Malaki opened her door and the gust of wind fanned the side of her face.

"I don't think I can do this," she declared, clutching the fabric of her dress between her fingers. Real.

He leaned against the car door, not bothered about his jacket getting wet in the rain. "Yes, you can. I know you can because you've faced ten times worse than a date with Finnick, " he retorted. "Come on, I'll walk you in."

Dahlia closed her eyes, trying to trick herself into thinking that she was safe, even if that was far from the truth.

This wasn't about her. This was about June and Wyatt, Ivy and River, Malaki and Bloom, all the people she had dragged into this mess.

Wobbling unsteadily onto her feet, she repeated the list of names in her head like a mantra, a reminder that too many people's lives hung in the balance for her to screw this up.

She let Malaki lead the way into the restaurant and deal with the hostess while she tried to soak in the atmosphere and keep herself from drifting into the hazy other world. From the looks of things, it was pretty vacant.

It must be one of the places that Snow sent his favourable friends to. Toned-down colours and classy booths offered a bit of privacy from the rest of the diners. On the bright side, she didnt have to worry about hidden devices watching or listening. This was definitely a place that specialized in under-the-table deals —— no matter how stupid Snow was, he wouldn't risk secrets getting spilt to the public.

Once the last-minute details were finalized, Malaki pulled her to the side for a quick word. "I have to go. Just remember to breathe, it's going to be fine," he tried his best to instil some confidence in her but the truth is that it would have been easier to jump off a height and expect to grow wings.

She tried to tell him how sorry she was for getting him involved in this but the roof of her mouth had been superglued shut. She settled for a smile, hoping he wouldn't see through her. By the time she found her voice, he was almost out the door. "Thanks," she croaked, running her fingers through the ends of her hair.

He grinned reassuringly before stepping outside and being swallowed up by the fog.

"I can show you to your table if you're ready."

Dahlia nodded politely at the hostess, following her into the back of the restaurant where the lights began to dim, only to be replaced with candlesticks.

The walls were coated with ruby red paint and specks of gold were decorated around the outskirts of the booths. The place was practically empty apart from the occasional straggling couples picking away at dishes or gulping down glasses of wine. Everybody thankfully seemed to be too absorbed in their own conversations to pay attention to anything else.

Finnick quickly jumped to his feet as the two women approached the booth in the far corner of the restaurant. "Hi," he kissed Dahlia's cheek and gestured for her to sit down.

She gnawed on her bottom lip, wary of tearing a hole through the skin and having to endure a lecture from her stylist. She slid into the opposite side of the booth and folded her hands neatly in her lap, trying not to let herself slip away.

"Can I get you anything to drink? Some cocktails perhaps?"

"I'll have a pina colada and whatever the lady would like," he grinned lopsidedly, switching on the charm like a faucet.

It took an unbelievable amount of restraint not to kick him under the table. He hadn't done anything but being in his presence was more than enough to piss her off. In less than a day, he had managed to get under her skin like a fucking splinter. There was no way she was getting through tonight without something alcoholic. "Strawberry daiquiri please."

Once the hostess was out of earshot, Finnick wasted no time in voicing his amusement. "You realize we're meant to be head over heels in love, right? Glaring daggers at me isn't helping our case, honey."

Admitting that he was right was a tough pill to swallow and it left a sour taste in her mouth. "I never took you for a cocktail drinker," she easily redirected his attention elsewhere. Finnick raised a challenging brow, silently telling her to go on.

"Well, on first impressions, I had you down as a whiskey or margarita kinda guy — drinks with that bitter, kinda sharp taste, you know?"

The words were tumbling from her lips and she wished he would just reach across the table and slap a hand over her mouth before she made a fool of herself.

"I mean, it kinda makes sense, I guess. District four is mostly ocean, so it's understandable that people would want something sweet and light rather than something heavy.”

As she ran out of things to say, she made a mental note to spend more time with Ivy. It was obvious that Juniper's rambling was starting to rub off on her. If a sinkhole suddenly opened up beneath her feet, she would welcome it with open arms.

Finnick toyed with the collar of his black button-up and pretended not to notice the rosy blush dusting across her cheeks. "I can't stand that tangy taste of whiskey. Makes me feel sick. 'S why I prefer sweeter drinks."

Dahlia pulled her gaze away from her blunt nails to look at him. She had been so sure he was going to laugh in her face. She scanned his features, trying to find a cruel glint in his eyes or a condescending smirk, but came up empty-handed.

He lifted his shoulder into a shrug and swallowed down a laugh. "Can't say I was surprised by your order, though. Daiquiri drinkers are headstrong, adventurous, bold," he paused and sucked his teeth. "As far as first impressions go, you tick all three boxes."

She bit down on her tongue and ducked her head, trying to stop herself from smiling. He still caught sight of the twitch at the corners of her mouth. "You look beautiful, by the way, honey." His smile was cheeky, almost boyish, and she couldn't help but notice how young he genuinely was.

Absentmindedly smoothing out the creases in her emerald green dress, she teasingly tilted her head to the side. Finnick rested his chin in his palm, eyes twinkling with mischief, which could hardly indicate anything positive.

"Flattery will get you nowhere, Finnick," she mocked sweetly, subconsciously mirroring his body language.

Their drinks arrived moments later and once they placed their orders for food, the hostess left them in peace again.

She reached across the table for her cocktail, fingers just barely closing around the cold glass before her hands started trembling. The liquid sloshed about and she could see him watching her out of the corner of his eye.

He had a feeling that she didn't often depend on people and the last thing he wanted to do was overstep, but after watching her struggle with the glass for longer than necessary, he couldn't sit still.

He skillfully snatched it from her grasp, knowing damn well that she wouldn't have passed it over even if he had asked her to, and set it carefully in front of her.

She folded her arms over her chest and clenched her hands into fists to stop them from shaking. He bit back a remark on how she looked like a stroppy toddler— all she needed was the pout and nobody would be able to tell the difference.

"I didn't need your help, you know."

"'You're welcome," he scoffed at her stubbornness and sipped his pina colada through a straw. He supposed that was the closest he would get to a thank you. "So, tell me about yourself."

A laugh burst out of Dahlia's mouth before she had a chance to stop it. "You know, your pickup lines could do with some work," she snorted, twisting her mother's wedding ring around on her index finger. It eased her nerves knowing that a piece of her mom was with her.

"You wound me," he shook his head and clutched at his heart teasingly. "Seriously though, I have a feeling we're going to be quizzed about each other; at the very least we should know the basics," he pointed out. He was acting as if it was totally normal to fake being in a relationship with someone you first talked to less than twenty-four hours ago.

Admitting defeat twice in one night was bruising her ego but she would agree to disagree if it meant a quiet life. "Fine. What do you wanna know?" she asked, chipping away at her nail polish without realizing.

Finnick cleared his throat and clasped his hands behind his head as he thought. "Alright, I've got one. What are you made of?" he straightened up in his seat and she could practically see the excitement preventing him from sitting still. Anticipating her sarcastic response, he kept talking. "And don't say water or some other bull," he warned teasingly.

The waitress returned to the table with two steaming dishes before she had a chance to ask him what he meant.

She set down a bowl of pasta in front of Dahlia and slid a plate of salmon across to Finnick.

"Are you gonna tell me what you're made of or not?" she picked at her food once the waitress returned to the front of house. Hopefully the distraction would help her tremors subside. "Cause you'll have to go first —— I haven't got a clue what you're talking about," she admitted.

He chuckled under his breath and began sawing his knife through the fish as he thought. "It's basically a question that allows you to say what you are. Not what people say or think. Just you," he shrugged. "Like, I'm sunsets and footprints in the sand and... sea glass. I'm late-night swims and ginger cats. I'm Mags and knitted cardigans, lemonade and scribbled notes at one in the morning."

Dahlia smiled softly, mostly to herself than anyone else. It was sweet, she thought — the way he viewed himself. It seemed more accurate than the Capitol's persona of him, anyway.

"Alright. I'm.." she paused to think and her tongue darted out to wet her lips. "...hardback novels. I'm black coffee, knitting needles and complex female characters." He hummed in agreement. "I'm black boots and my mother's anger. I'm Alara," she smiled sadly and pushed through the ache in her chest. He didn't say anything. He knew it hurt. "I'm Juniper and I'm Ivy and I'm poetry."

She reached out with trembling hands and sipped her drink through a straw (which was a lot easier than holding the glass).

"Complex female characters. I like that," he broke off into a laugh and she buried her face in her hands, shoulders shuddering as she laughed. "What about your family?" he asked warily, approaching the topic with tact.

She nodded and offered a half-hearted shrug, dragging a piece of pasta through the sauce. "I have a sister and a brother. Ivy and River — well, and June. She isn't actually my sister but I count her as one, do you know what I mean?" she explained, covering her mouth with her hand as she chewed.

"Ivy's seventeen," she spooned pasta into her mouth between sentences. "She's the baby of the family. She keeps to herself a lot of the time but she's a good kid, you know? Moody and quiet but I don't think that's unusual for teenagers."

"River's the eldest. He works long hours harvesting, so between looking after the girls and visiting the Capitol, I don't see him all that much either," she brushed a few fly-away strands of hair behind her shoulders and hesitated before deciding that she didn't want to talk about her parents.

"What about you?" she asked, voice losing its usual bluntness. "Tell me about Mags."

Dahlia vaguely knew that Mags was a victor from district four, but she figured it would be easier for him to open up if she gave him a lifeline to latch onto. He had already brought up Mags, so she figured it was a safe topic, too.

She tucked her legs underneath her as he started to talk about his family.

"Mags was my mentor for the Hunger Games," he explained, taking a particularly large bite of salmon. "She's more like a mother," he ran his hands through his golden-blonde locks and tugged, something she had noticed he did when he was anxious or unable to sit still. A way of getting rid of nervous energy, she supposed.

"I don't think I remember a time when she wasn't there for me," he admitted. "She used to knit me a wardrobe of cardigans when I was younger — she still does," he rolled his eyes fondly. "I don't know where I'd be without her. She saved my life."

Dahlia ran the fabric of her dress between her thumb and forefinger. "She sounds like a lovely lady," she answered honestly, ignoring the way her heart ached for her own mother.

She had never been the best at small talk so she was grateful that Finnick knew how to keep a conversation flowing at a steady pace —— even his horrendous attempts at flirting were a lifesaver.

It helped the remainder of the evening go smoothly and before she knew it, they were out in the rain and throwing themselves into a taxi before it had fully stopped.

The chit-chat started to die out as exhaustion crept in and it was almost impossible not to fall asleep with the motion of the taxi speeding along the roads.

Dahlia focused on the sound of rain pattering against the tinted windows. She could feel her mind starting to slip as all the leftover sparks of energy fizzled out. Leaning her head against the side of the car, she feebly traced patterns into the condensation, drawing things to keep her tied to the real world.

Finnick watched her curiously out of the corner of his eye, head tilted to the side like a dog that didn't understand what was happening. He kept quiet as he tried to work out what was going on in her head. By the time they pulled up outside of the hotel, he was no closer to finding out.

The engine went flat and she finally looked up, peering through the window at the paparazzi spying on them through the overgrown bushes. In all seriousness, they might as well have been stood right outside of the car, because their attempts at hiding were pathetic.

"You ready?" Finnick asked gently, angling his head until she met his eye. She nodded and dug her nails into her palms to keep herself from slipping away. "I'm gonna hold your hand when we get out, alright? They're looking for a show," he said, failing to mask his distaste for the camera crews lying in wait.

Dahlia scrunched her toes in her heels and rolled her shoulders back, willing herself to at the very least appear confident, even if she didn't feel it. "Well, let's give them exactly what they're looking for," she smiled weakly and clambered out of the taxi, bunching the skirt of her dress into her hands and hoping the hem wouldn't get soaked.

Finnick shoved a wad of cash into the driver's hands before making his way to the opposite side of the taxi.

"Here," he pulled his jacket off, draping it over her shoulders. "Let's go."

Before she had time to second guess herself, she took his hand in her own, intertwining their fingers. His touch still burnt away at her nerve endings but it was easier to cope with when she was the one initiating contact.

"Thanks," she choked out. "For the jacket," she clarified. Their shoulders knocked together as they bustled towards the hotel across the street. It took every ounce of self-control she possessed not to squirm away from him.

"Don't worry, honey, the jacket was an added bonus — my company was the real prize," he smirked and she scrunched her nose and rolled her eyes.

Squeezing her hand as a pre-warning, he kissed her cheek as they stepped under the patio. They could hear the cameras clicking as they pushed into the hotel reception.

Security guards locked the doors when they were inside and once she was sure they were out of view, she quickly untangled their hands. He didn't take it personally.

"C'mon, I'll walk you to your room," he leant against the wall as they waited on the elevator. Panic flashed across her face and he felt his heart constrict as he realized the deeper meaning his words probably had. "Don't worry, that wasn't an invitation. Just don't want the paparazzi climbing up the drainpipes to see you," he joked, trying to lighten the mood.

She chuckled under her breath as the elevator arrived on the ground floor.

Once the elevator stopped, she kicked off her heels and looped the straps around her wrists. Bloom needed to find an alternative because breaking her ankles every night was not going to work.

She slid the jacket off her shoulders as her hotel room came into sight. She pulled her key from her purse and held the jacket out for him to take it. "Thanks again. I had fun tonight," she admitted, a small smile pulling at the corners of her lips.

"Me too," he grinned and it lit up his face. "Keep the jacket, I wouldn't want you getting withdrawal symptoms from me," he backed up down the hallway towards his room, his grin infectious. "Night!"

Dahlia tongued the inside of her cheek and shook her head fondly. "Goodnight."

[leoisstillalive]

this is nothing new but. have a reminder of the actual written script of 15x18 on this anniversary

[missingexaltation]

There's something so giddily validating hearing an openly bisexual musician singing his funky little bi anthem to a huge crowd during pride month, and being part of the crowd having a blast by singing back.

Love you, Billie. From one bi(romantic) to another ❤️🏳️‍🌈 💙💜🩷

What a fucking night it was!

Edit: forgot about the rainbow that appeared!

[420jimmyuso]

the people’s princess 💯 how could u hate him ‼️

[punktransmascfreakweirdo]

You guys know what’s funny to me?

All my favorite transmasc coded lyrics are by bands who aren’t transmasc

Said lyrics are:

“Found out what it takes to be a man, mom and dad will never understand” - Coming Clean / Green Day

“Daddy’s little girl ain’t a girl no more” - Negative Creep / Nirvana

These are the only ones I could think of off the top of my head but honestly I’d love it if people reblogged this with more lyrics

[roscoe-me-and-this-fuckin-kid]

anyway hearing coming clean by green day live added ten years to my lifespan

[nemo-draco]

gemme a snippet of Coming Clean 👀 (if that is ok w u of course )

No prob! Been kicking around this particular one a lot, keep debating whether or not I should break it up into two. Especially seeing as it's at about 33 pages now and we're kind of midway through what I would consider the second part. Coming Clean's a follow up for a previous story, To Be Or Not To Be Dinner, which are both kind of meant to lead into a longer AU called Sing Together. Thing was that I haven't seen many stories about Whitty actually telling his friends Carol and Hex what's going on with his life. Especially since there is a fair amount going on, and a lot of weird habits that are probably going to get everyone's attention.

Got some of the opening under the cut!

He couldn’t say that he’d paid too much attention, and that was yet another mistake he’d made during this whole…thing. Not paying attention, not noticing how things were aligning until he’d been all but backed into a corner.

Except not really, because it was so stupid in retrospect. He’d gotten upset over a stupid, stupid kid’s movie, because he was a moron who’s emotions could be all over the place and wasn’t that just lovely, wasn’t it all just so damn great, why couldn’t you keep your stupid mess to yourself you walking WRECK—

…Well, either way. He should have known better.

It was an interesting thought to have in retrospect towards the very end of the movie, after watching this absolutely tiny, completely trusting mouse go through hell after hell to find his family, only to end up in an alleyway tearfully proclaiming that this was his home now—

—Whitty’s lungs were burning when he finally stopped, crouching behind a dumpster as he tried to get his air back. His clothes were in shambles, his old leather jacket a tattered wreck around his arms. The body had pretty much disintegrated after he’d crawled out of the smoldering remains of the building he’d-

Don’t think about it. You can’t do anything about it now, don’t think about it.

He called me a FAILURE, he told me to leave, I thought he cared! Didn’t he care at all?!

Don’t think about it.

Even with the mantra thumping away in his mind, Whitty couldn’t help a sob from coming up as he huddled there, feeling more alone than he’d ever had before. At least before, he hadn’t known what it was like to have something you cared about, to have people who cared for you.

Or at least, people who’d seemed like they cared…

Not that it mattered anyway. It was gone now. He was on his own.

It didn’t stop the crying, the gasping sobbing that felt less like tears and more like he was trying to flail away from that realization. That no one was coming. There wasn’t any rescue, YOU’RE ALL ALONE NOW AND IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT—

And it wasn’t helping how things were playing out on the screen, hitting Whitty with that gut-punch of familiar emotions, that horrible reminder, and then whisking it away by having that last minute save.

One that he’d never gotten to see.

Whitty couldn’t tell if his breathing was growing faster because he was upset or angry, but he’d clearly gotten someone’s attention given that the screen paused on that happy reunion, a soft call of his name coming from somewhere off to the side.

It could have been Hex, Carol, maybe even Sunday, weren’t they still in the house somewhere? Either way, Whitty didn’t answer and he didn’t let himself think. He just bolted to his feet and went right down the hall to the bathroom, throwing the door closed and leaning against it as he tried to breathe.

The light had been on already, the sight of himself in the mirror snapping Whitty out of his turbulent emotions better than a bucket of cold water to the face.

There were black tears forming in the corners of his eyes, a few spots already dotting the front of his shirt. He was shaking with how heavily he was breathing, his eyes wide and growing wider as he took in his current state.

And worse still, his wick was smoking.

Immediately Whitty reached behind his head, grasping and attempting to smother the brewing fire with his own hands. Though fire itself didn’t bother him, the somewhat metallic threads of the wick were searing enough that he quickly felt a flash of pain go through his fingers.

It didn’t help that not a second after he did that, someone knocked on the doorway. Before Whitty could stop himself a pained yelp tore through his throat, his body jolting itself to the side and right into the open shower. The bomb’s head cracked against the tile, the whole world turning incomprehensible as he slid down to sit on the cool plastic floor. Whitty could hear noise, a couple different voices talking outside before the telltale sound of the bathroom door opening made him jump out of his skin.

“Whitty? Are you okay?”

Hex?

The robot peeking around the corner did catch Whitty’s attention, and though he recognized Hex, the bomb still flinched away with a yelp as Hex tried to come closer. Immediately Hex stopped, though he knelt after a moment, not retreating as he spoke to Whitty.

“Whitty? It’s alright. It’s me. Hex. Remember?”

The bomb nodded, though he couldn’t stop a tremble from reverberating through his arms as he huddled in on himself. It still felt like the air was being sucked from the room, but there was a little bit of space. Enough that Whitty could tell his wick had stopped smoking, though he couldn’t say the same for his eyes tearing. He had to stop that, had to calm down…

“Here. Whitty, look at me. Just focus on me right now,” Hex murmured, a softer smile taking root over his screen as the bomb’s orange eyes zeroed in on the electronic display. The robot’s smile blinked away, becoming a glowing circle that softly swirled into existence, and then out, and then back in. It really only occurred to Whitty what was happening when he caught sight of a corresponding line of text, instructing him to breathe in and out in time with the circle appearing and disappearing.

And it was working, the shivering gulps of air turning into slow, deep breaths, one right after the other. The adrenaline was running slowly out of the bomb’s frame, his head lolling forward a bit as he continued to breathe. He couldn’t help wincing at the feeling of a few oily tears slipping down his face, but it was better than the veritable waterfalls that had been primed to break free before. And a lot safer, especially since Whitty could see Carol peeking around the corner, clearly wondering what the heck was going on.

Why don’t you tell them.

The thought had the bomb wincing, averting his eyes like there was some shameful secret in plain view. He hadn’t forgotten the talk he’d had with Cyrix, following the whole soccer field incident, but, he hadn’t found the time to bring things up with Hex like he’d wanted to. Of course, there’d been a part of Whitty that never wanted to, to just have things keep going like they had been. Though he knew it would only be a matter of time now, just a matter of asking the right questions and while they’d been polite before surely that politeness was just about to run out…

[starwarslvr2012]

HI!!! I MADE AN EDIT ACCOUNT <3

[k-i-l-l-e-r-b-e-e-6-9]

Green Day - Coming Clean

[allisluv]

COMING CLEAN.

Chapter Two — glitter pens and dart boards

finnick odair x fem!oc

wc: 5.7k

content warnings; finnick odair (that man makes me hyperventilate), unsolicited touching but nothing graphic i promise, oc is forced to sell her body, slight dissociation.

previous chapter — next chapter

"Stop messing with the headpiece!" Bloom chastised, her voice cutting through the crisp evening air as she swatted Dahlia's hand away from the golden flowers weaved through her hair. "It's essential to your outfit darling," she continued fussing. Even with eight-inch heels, she struggled to reach the hairpiece.

If you took the backhanded compliments, ridiculous stilettos and melodramatics out of the equation, Dahlia found Bloom to be quite pleasant. Sure, she was a diva and slightly self-obsessed but by Capitol's standards, she was a gem.

Not to mention that she was absolutely gorgeous. If a siren emerged from the sea, Bloom was precisely what Dahlia would expect to catch a glimpse of.

Porcelain skin that looked as though it would shatter with the smallest of touches. Flaming scarlet ringlets rippled down the length of her back and a sage green dress glided behind her as she skillfully moved about on the lawn. She was crafted by Aphrodite herself, she was sure of it.

"You both look extraordinary," Malaki slid his way into the conversation with ease. Silver gems and jewels adorned his suit and when he shifted his weight from foot to foot, he bore a striking resemblance to a disco ball. Glitter had been dragged down the bridge of his nose and across his eyelids.

Offering both women an arm each, they hooked their hands through the crook of his elbow. Under normal circumstances, Dahlia would have declined his offer, but being in the Capitol always unnerved her. Malaki was almost a comforting presence and right now, she would take that where she could get it.

Malaki worked his way through the crowds as if it was second nature. The presidents' parties had always been a hotspot for the richest and most influential Capitol citizens so, naturally, Dahlia had to be on her best behavior this evening.

Her escort guided her into a banquet hall, where the victors and guests alike would spend the majority of their evening socializing. As much as Dahlia hated to admit it, the place was breathtaking.

Elaborately dressed figures spun on the dance floor, and from the way a number of them staggered about and giggled, she could tell that glasses of alcohol had started being distributed. Chandeliers hung from the high ceiling and velvet sofas were scattered wherever there was an inch of free space.

"Come on," Malaki interrupted her train of thought, gently knocking his elbow into hers and leading them towards a group huddled on a sofa. "I've got some people that I need you to meet."

Upon their approach, the men and woman sprung to their feet, planting a kiss on Bloom's rosy cheeks and clapping Malaki on the back.

Dahlia could feel her skin crawling as one of the men leaned in and kissed her cheek, too. She did her best to dazzle him with a smile, tugging on the heavy gold hearts dangling from her ears as they made space on the sofa and gestured for her to sit.

Bloom, thankfully, beat her to it, tossing her ringlets over her shoulders and blinking her winged lashes at the dark-haired man beside her.

A hand slinked its way onto Dahlia's lower back and she fought down the survival impulse that told her to strike first. Memories of the Hunger Games flickered behind her eyelids but once she registered that it was only Malaki trying to provide an ounce of reassurance, the kill-or-be-killed instinct ebbed away.

She forced a smile onto her face and hoped it would make up for her fleeting lapse of sanity.

"Dahlia, my darling, I'd like you to meet some of the Capitol's latest celebrities," Malaki announced, every muscle in his face aching from keeping up his facade. "I don't think you've had the pleasure of meeting our president's current friends," he let go of his victor and pulled up two silk lounge chairs, collapsing into one while Dahlia lowered herself into the other. The sofa broke into quiet protests and he tutted. "Don't go all modest on me now!"

Dahlia met his eyes over the conversation and tried to silently ask what he was getting at. He simply gave a gentle, but terribly clear, nod of his head.

If she hadn't gotten to know him over the years, she may not have thought twice about it. But she did know him and she could read him like a book—— he was trying to boost her Capitol status.

She didn't dare ask why. Not here, with dozens of eyes on her, anyway. His judgement had never led her astray before and hopefully, it wasn't going to fail her now.

"What can I say, I'm a busy woman," she ran a hand through the dark waves of hair framing her face. "To be honest, I admire you all— attending these parties every night and still being able to look as fantastic as you do. I don't know how you manage it."

The two women immediately turned the compliment around, praising how beautiful her dress was, from the ivy working its way down her arms, to the golden fabric of her outfit. Dahlia did her best to return the sentiment, but the women seemed determined to put themselves down and she was not here to boost their egos.

She eventually stopped listening and allowed her escort to carry the conversation on his back. She could read the room well enough to know when to nod or laugh. No one seemed to notice that their words were going in one ear and out the other, anyway.

So long as they believed her act, what they said was merely an inconvenience. Malaki would debrief her in the morning if there was anything he thought was of significance (—she didn't have the best track record when it came to paying attention).

After half an hour of agonizing small talk, Dahlia was desperately scanning the room for an escape route. If she had to spend one more minute pretending to like these narcissists, she would rip her hair right out of her scalp.

Then, as if her guardian angels had sent it right from heaven, she spotted the food tables scattered around the outskirts of the banquet hall. Pulling herself onto her six-inch gold stilettos, she staggered towards her escort, interrupting him with a tap on the back. "I'm going to get food."

She left no room for arguing and Malaki knew better than to stop her. She would do what she wanted with or without his permission. He nodded, turning back to Sparrow, an older man with an olive green wig who kept laughing boisterously and spilling wine down his dress shirt.

She didn't bother excusing herself— she hadn't been too involved in the conversation to begin with, so she didn't think they would notice her slipping out of the vicinity. Still, if Bloom hadn't been locking lips with the dark-haired man, she would have definitely been reprimanded for her lack of manners.

As she passed the velvet sofa that the Capitol people were lounging on, Sparrow slapped her backside, his hand lingering near the slit in her dress. Every single bone in her body tensed, a piercing cold wave of pain shooting up the base of her spine.

The sofa erupted into roars of laughter, all except the dark-haired man and Bloom, who were... well, preoccupied to notice what was happening.

Forcing a tight-lipped smile, she bunched the flimsy material of her dress into her hands and pushed her feet towards the food tables.

No matter how tempting it was to snatch the wine glass out of his hand and shatter it over his head, the consequences would only come back on her siblings.

Don't get her wrong, it would be worth it for the satisfaction alone, but she had lost too much at the hands of President Snow. If it put River and Ivy in harm's way, it was a risk she wasn't willing to take.

Her chest heaved with heavy, blazing breaths; it felt as though she was trapped inside a burning building with no exit in sight. She was swallowing smoke and thick clouds of it were constricting her windpipe. She blindly fought her way through the crowds of Capitol citizens, forcing harsh breaths out of her parted lips as she weaved between couples, muttering apologies as she went.

It was almost a godsend when the musicians struck up a livelier tune, sending flocks of giggling drunks to the dance floor and leaving her with a clear run to the food tables.

Gripping onto the first cream tablecloth in view, she used the back of her hand to wipe beads of sweat off her forehead. She didn't bother paying attention to the foundation that came away with it— if she didn't find a distraction soon, she would snap.

Thankfully, she had come to the right place. As much as she despised the Capitol and everything they stood for, she couldn't fault the food. It was one of the highlights of the evening, after all.

The choices were overwhelming; sushi rolls arranged in bite-sized portions; nachos drizzled in chilli sauce and topped with bacon bits; buckets of shrimp and dozens of different choices of meat.

As for the desserts, they gave a different meaning to heaven altogether; trifles drowning in whipped cream; mountains of profiteroles; apple pies the size of footballs and wedding-sized chocolate cakes.

It made her blood boil when she ate at the Capitol. People in the districts were dying of starvation and here, they drank flasks of champagne that made you sick with the sole purpose of eating more.

Dahlia begrudgingly snatched a paper plate from the stack and began piling food onto it. She hadn't eaten since earlier in the morning, so she pushed away the moral war raging on in her head.

She chose a lemon cupcake and shoved half into her mouth, continuing browsing.

Most of the guests were still absorbed in dancing and it left her with her pick of the litter. She had at least an hour until Malaki or Sparrow realised that she hadn't returned yet. An hour was good enough for her.

Spooning ice cream onto the side of her chocolate cake, a figure materialized out of thin air, standing beside her.

"After all these years, isn't it strange that we haven't managed to have a proper conversation?"

Dahlia resisted the urge to flinch and redirected her attention to the bread rolls across the table. "Well, my luck's gotta run out at some point," she offered sarcastically, stabbing a knife into a piece of cake.

She hoped that the cold shoulder would get him off her trail but after two minutes of silence, where he followed her around the food tables, picking away at the delicacies every so often, it was clear that he did not plan on leaving any time soon.

Tonguing the inside of her cheek, she lifted her gaze to meet his. "What do you want, O'Dair?" she hissed, slamming down the paper plates.

Finnick batted his eyelashes innocently and lifted his shoulders into a shrug. He was the Capitol's darling, adored and wanted by... well, everyone. As far as she was concerned, the only thing she and Finnick had in common was the fact that they were both stuck pleasing Capitol men and women.

In the eight years since she had been crowned victor, they had barely spoken. There'd never been a reason to, so what was with the sudden change of heart?

He knew how to play the game and he knew how to play it well, she'd give him that.

He was charismatic and talked circles around people. The Capitol women fell at his feet and as much as she hated to admit it, he was gorgeous.

He was built like a god, tall and tan, tousled bronze curls falling into his eyes. He was the perfect poster boy, the image of what a victor should be.

Dahlia had never been able to figure him out. She was beginning to think that maybe that was why she was wary of him. She didn't like the unknown and ever since the games, she found it hard to trust people. He was unpredictable, a bit of a wild card so to speak.

People in the Capitol may have been fooled by his charm, but Dahlia wasn't.

He had had eight years to speak to her. She found it highly unlikely that Finnick decided to talk to her on his own accord. Something had to be wrong. He had to have an ulterior motive— she just had to figure out what it was.

"What do you want?" she repeated, holding his gaze. If anyone was going to avert their eyes first, it wasn't going to be her.

Finnick chuckled breezily under his breath, a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. "Relax, honey. What's the rush, hm?" he arched a brow and reached out to steal a bread roll from her plate.

"Get your own," she slapped his hand away, hugging the plates close to her chest. He pouted dramatically and she rolled her eyes at his childish antics. "And don't call me that," she scowled and set the plates on the table.

She scanned the crowds for any glimpse of Malaki but the people on the dance floor moved too quickly and she soon became dizzy. He was constantly hovering over her and the one time she needed him, he was nowhere to be seen. It was typical!

Finnick chomped on a bread roll, quickly shoving the rest into his mouth when Dahlia turned around and swiped for it, her mouth hanging open. He shot her a smug grin, tilting his head to the side. "Come on, honey, don't be like that," he teased, taking two glasses of white wine from a passing Avox and murmuring his thanks.

Tentatively sipping, he held out the other glass and waited for her to accept his gesture of goodwill.

Dahlia's brows knitted together, distrustful eyes searching for any indication that he was trying to trick her. He didn't miss a beat, his face remaining expressionless, giving her no insight into how his mind worked. With her patience wearing thin, she took the drink from his outstretched hand, fingers closing around the cool glass. She didn't speak, simply fixing him with that same icy, blasé stare.

Finnick downed the rest of his glass, tongue darting out to wet his lips as he cast a cautious glance over his shoulder. "I suppose you've heard the talk in the districts. The Mockingjay and her lover have inspired some..." he paused, closing the gap between them so that she could catch his every word, "...interesting topics of conversation."

"Whatever game you're playing, I'm not interested," she snapped defensively, cutting him off before he had a chance to say anything else. In the districts, speaking about rebellions was punishable by public execution.

She dreaded to think what would happen if they were caught discussing the subject in the President's House, of all places. He knew when to pick his moments, huh?

Finnick might not have had many people left to protect but she did.

She carelessly threw the full glass back onto the food tables and spun on her stilettos to leave. She made it into a hallway until a hand wrapped around her wrist, stopping her from going any further.

His grip was firm enough that she couldn't wriggle out of it but gentle enough that it didn't hurt. "Let go or I swear to god, I will slit your throat right here," she warned.

"Killing the Capitol's darling would only put a target on your back, honey," Finnick reasoned, releasing his hold and taking a step back out of her personal space. An apology lingered on his lips but the words got caught in his throat. He wiped his palms into the fish-scaled trousers that hung dangerously low on his hipbones. "I just wanna talk."

She had become somewhat accustomed to arrogance when he spoke, so the odd gentleness in his tone made her head spin. He tugged on a shell necklace falling down his bare torso and, if she hadn't known better, he almost seemed nervous.

"We can't talk. Not here, anyway," she gestured vaguely towards the security cameras and she could almost see the lightbulb appearing over his head. A mischievous twinkle glinted in his eyes and dimples etched their way into the skin of his cheeks.

It was still impossible to get a glimpse into his thoughts, but whatever elaborate plan he was conjuring up, she could tell it was something she wouldn't like.

Without a word of explanation, Finnick made a b-line for a door at the opposite end of the corridor. "Are you coming or not?" He asked, that teasing lilt returning with his confidence.

Dahlia huffed out a sigh, weighing up her options. No matter how insufferable Finnick O'Dair was, following him surely beat spending her time with Sparrow.

Picking up the golden skirt of her dress, she reluctantly traipsed after him. By the time she caught up in her ridiculously high heels, Finnick had pushed the door ajar and was propping it open with his foot. "Ladies first, honey," he mocked, lips quirking into a smile when she glared over her shoulder at the nickname.

The woman's eyes swept across the private study, no doubt searching for intruders lurking in the dark.

He closed the door quietly and the muscles in her shoulders tensed. "You can relax, honey. No offence but you're not exactly my type," he chuckled airily, no maliciousness behind his tone.

"Well, aren't you a charmer?" she scoffed, fingertips skimming along the spines of hardbacks on the bookshelves. For the most part, they were your classic fairy tales with happy endings and bright front covers.

She hadn't exactly expected the President to keep his personal items somewhere with so little security—the study door had been unlocked, for Christ's sake.

"Is there a point to any of this or what?" she asked curiously, browsing through the bookshelves.

"This is the only room that isn't riddled with mics or cameras," Finnick explained, leaning his weight on an oak table. "Which means we're able to talk about rebellions without worrying about anyone eavesdropping," he shuffled in the flimsy shorts his stylist had chosen and pulled a box of sugar cubes from his pocket.

Dahlia opened her mouth to ask how he could be so sure but fell short.

Finnick had been in the Capitol business' for a long time and if a client didn't want to wait to go back to the hotel, she assumed this was where they would come.

It would be insensitive to ask when she already knew the answer, so instead, she opted for the next question that popped into her head. "How do I know you're telling the truth?" She arched a dark brow and smoothed out the creases in her gown. "You could be trying to set me up," she speculated, watching as he threw a sugar cube in the air and caught it between his teeth. Show off.

Finnick lifted his shoulder into a shrug. "I'd be implementing myself," he countered, offering her a sugar cube from the container. She shook her head, unsure why he was acting so nonchalant about this.

"You're the Capitol's darling. Do you think Snow is stupid enough to touch a hair on your pretty little head?" She scoffed, absentmindedly flipping through the pages of a book to keep from meeting his eyes.

He hadn't asked to be adored by the Capitol; she knew that— Finnick hadn't asked to be put in this situation any more than she had. Regardless, a part of her couldn't help resenting him, even if it wasn't fair.

"You think I'm pretty?" he teased and without even having to look, she knew he was smirking like the fucking madman he was. "You're right—although our beloved president would have no problem putting me in my place."

He didn't have to explain what he meant; disobeying the president's orders only ended one way, and that was with someone they loved dead.

Guilt stirred in Dahlia's stomach, and she swallowed it down uncomfortably. It seemed that even the Capitol's favourites didn't get off scot-free. Well, they were off to a great start so far, weren't they?!

"So, what exactly do you want to talk about?" She cleared her throat awkwardly and reached out for another hardback, sliding it from its slot on the shelf. "You know, rebellions and the Mockingjay, you didn't pinpoint anything specific, did you?" She cradled the book in her hands and turned to face him.

"Fair point," Finnick ducked his head with a smile, nodding softly. "Alright. Let me ask you something, honey. Katniss Everdeen and the bakers' boy; do you believe the star-crossed lover's tale?"

Dahlia didn't answer straightaway, mulling over his words. It was a complex one, she supposed.

Katniss Everdeen kept her cards close to her heart and didn't allow an eye to bleed through to what she was thinking. It was almost impossible to tell if her feelings for Peeta Mellark, her district partner and fellow victor of the 74th Hunger Games, were genuine or an act.

Either way, the Capitol citizens ate it up, too tangled in the love affair to question the legitimacy of it.

When Seneca Crane, head game maker, announced that there could be two victors from the same district, only to revoke the rule at the last minute, neither Peeta nor Katniss could bring themselves to kill the other, which was exactly where the poisonous berries came into play.

Before they had a chance to follow through with the double suicide, Seneca Crane delivered the good news.

Somehow, someway, Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark had defied all odds and outsmarted the Capitol. For the first time in history, the Hunger Games had two victors.

To say that President Snow was livid would be an understatement; Seneca Crane had met his untimely end, and the star-crossed lovers had no doubt been warned of the consequences if they failed to keep up appearances.

If Dahlia had to bet, she would guess that Snow had tailored his message towards Katniss.

Peeta may not have been the best fighter in the arena but he knew how to sell their story and make it believable. He deserved credit for that, at the very least. It was obvious to anyone with two eyes that his feelings for Katniss were real, regardless of whether they were reciprocated or not.

Katniss on the other hand... well, she wouldn't win any Oscars in the future, put it that way. Every time she was in front of a camera, it looked like she was sucking a sour lemon as opposed to being madly in love.

Their recent engagement had surely been Snow's idea, and if it wasn't, it was still meant to satisfy his peace of mind and distract the districts.

Dahlia couldn't figure out if Katniss was in love with Peeta, but she had a nagging feeling that behind the faux relationship and engagement, there was something there.

"I think they have more important things to worry about. You know, like fanning the embers of a rebellion? I doubt that went down well with our president," she scoffed out a bitter laugh and fired the book onto a black leather sofa.

She had to admit that the thought of their president finally being knocked down a peg was most appealing. It was no surprise that he hated the two victors— they served as a reminder that he and his system could fall just as quickly as it was built.

It's a good thing, she thinks. It tells him that he is not untouchable. That he is just as expendable as the twenty-three children who are sent to the slaughter every year.

Finnick clears his throat and it snaps her back to reality.

"I reckon he throws darts at photos of their faces every night before bed," he snickered, clasping his hands behind his head.

Dahlia laughed, pulling off her stilettos and looping the straps around her wrists. Bloom was probably one of the best stylists in the business but the heels she favoured would surely land her muse in hospital one of these days.

Bunching up the skirt of her dress, she pushed herself onto the opposite end of the table and let the heels fall from her grasp. "I bet he has a journal where he conjures up extravagant ways to kill them off," she smiled, swinging her legs back and forth.

He shot forward, crossing his legs and snapping his fingers in her direction. "Oh my god, he'd use glitter pens and put stars on the most painful ideas," he added, breaking into a laugh halfway through his sentence.

Dahlia let out an indignant snort at the mental image of President Snow in his office, using an array of glitter pens to write in his pretty pink journal.

She looked to Finnick, which may have been a mistake on her part, as it sent them both into a fresh fit of laughter.

When the sound of drunken giggles echoed down the hallway, Dahlia's blood ran cold. All of the giddiness was sucked from her body, leaving her with a chill that cut bone deep.

"Stop for a second," she tightly grabbed his arm, desperately trying to listen over the thrumming of her heart in her ears.

Contrary to popular belief, Finnick wasn't as stupid as he looked. He kept quiet, and he could just about make out the giggling of a drunk couple.

"Someone's coming," he hissed, wide eyes darting about as he hopped off the table.

"What do we do?" she whispered, bare feet making contact with the floor as she scrambled to pick up her heels. Wisps of dark brown hair had escaped from her bun and were falling into her eyes. "Should we hide?"

Finnick pressed his palms into his forehead, willing himself to think of something that would get them out of this situation.

Biting down on his bottom lip, he managed to compose himself long enough to resort back to the one thing he knew. "Do you trust me?" He asked, taking a hesitant step towards her.

"Absolutely not," Dahlia answered without missing a beat. What kind of a question was that? Before today, they had both been perfectly happy to ignore one another's existence! Of course she didn't trust him!

She may have made some questionable decisions in her lifetime, but she wasn't stupid——she didn't trust Finnick O'Dair as far as she could throw him. Shakily taking a step backwards, her hands flew out to steady herself when she hit the desk.

"You have to kiss me." The words tumbled from his lips before he had a chance to stop them and in that moment, he thought Dahlia Holloway was going to kill him with her bare hands.

Instead of clawing at his throat, she scoffed out a laugh, knuckles turning white from how hard she was gripping the edges of the table behind her.

"Well, do you have a better idea?" He hissed, digging his dull nails into the skin of his biceps. "We're not exactly friends, are we, honey?" he asked rhetorically now that being hung for treason was becoming a real possibility "So, how are we meant to explain this away?" he gestured wildly between the two of them.

"We snuck off to see each other," she nodded, eyes fluttering shut as she understood what he was implying. The Capitol couple were about to stumble into the study in approximately five minutes.

Either way, they were going to get caught and to the people in the Capitol, keeping their mouths shut was a foreign concept.

It was bound to get back to President Snow; Finnick O'Dair and Dahlia Holloway were found huddled in a study at one of his parties. It wouldn't take long for him to realise that the room in question just so happened to be the only room that wasn't riddled with microphones and cameras.

With the threat of a rebellion looming over his head, he wouldn't take that risk. Their families would be dead by morning— unless they painted him a different narrative.

It was stupid. God, it was so, so stupid. But the clicking of heels was growing closer and what choice did they have? There was no talking their way out of this one, not when Snow was out for blood.

She cradled her head in her hands, digging the pads of her fingers into her temples. She could feel herself losing her grip on what was real and what wasn't as she sunk further into the depths of insanity. Chewing on the inside of her cheek, she sighed in exasperation and hopped back onto the desk, legs dangling off the side. "This is all your fault, you know that, right?"

There was no point portioning blame at this point and technically speaking, this was her fault just as much as it was Finnick's. Still, it was becoming almost impossible to string together a rational thought and blaming him was the easier option.

"I didn't hold a knife to your neck and drag you in here, now did I, honey?" He tugged on his curls and shuffled forward in his dress shoes.

It took every ounce of self-control she possessed not to strike first. She wondered if anyone's heart had ever ripped its way out of their chest. If not, she was sure she would be the first; her stomach was doing somersaults and not the good kind.

"We might as well bite the bullet if we want to make it believable," she swallowed down the lump in her throat, bright eyes lingering on the doorframe.

He hummed softly in agreement and took one more step forward, keeping his hands to himself until she gave him the green light. "I'm not going to hurt you," he clarified, unable to stand the tension in the air.

She offered him an amused smile but he had a sneaking suspicion that it was an attempt to hide her discomfort. "You'd probably kick my ass, anyway."

Dahlia laughed, feeling the weight around her chest slowly lift. It was still a struggle to breathe but it was a little easier to tell what was real and what wasn't, which was classed as an improvement if you asked her. "Yeah, you've got that one right."

Finnick closed the gap between them, knees slotting between her legs. He hesitated and Dahlia took matters into her own hands, leaning close to him. Their lips met, tentatively at first, and warmth lit her nerve endings on fire.

She hadn't imagined him to be gentle. He was soft, all tender touches and careful caresses. His hands fell to the juncture between her shoulders and neck, smoothing back the dress fabric that got in his way. Her fingers carded through his golden locks, skimming the curls at the nape of his neck.

Both Finnick and Dahlia were so caught up in selling their narrative that they missed the creak of the door. It hit the wall loudly, knocking a potted plant down and scattering dirt across the floor.

A Capitol couple blindly stumbled into the study, gripping the doorframe to keep themselves upright. Neither of the victors pulled away just yet, wanting to make sure that the couple saw them.

"Oh!"

They broke apart as the woman noticed the room was pre-occupied. She clutched a bottle of whisky in one hand, slapping her partner's arm with the other. The man laughed, muttering something about how the mighty had fallen.

"Sorry! We didn't realise there was anyone in here," she giggled, swaying on the spot. "We'll leave you to get back to it!"

She winked, linking arms with her partner as they staggered back into the hallway, no doubt on the prowl for a more private room before broadcasting what they saw to the whole population of Panem.

Dahlia covered her eyes with her hands, forcing deep breaths through her mouth. She completely ignored the fact that Finnick was standing in front of her, probably wondering what the hell was wrong with her. Too much, she would have answered.

Eventually, she choked down the clawing sensation of panic and let herself retreat into autopilot mode. She picked up her discarded heels from the ground, shoving her feet into the ridiculous shoes.

Huffing out a sigh of frustration, she shakily stood to her feet and wrenched the door open.

She disappeared into the hallway without wasting a second and Finnick was hot on her heels, practically running to keep up with her quick strides.

They didn't exchange a word as they made their way to the banquet hall. Finnick scuffed his dress shoes against the tiles and Dahlia glared at him over her shoulder, but that was as far as their friendliness (if you could even call it that) extended.

Dahlia peered through the glass double doors, watching flamboyantly dressed couples prance about the dance floor. Thankfully, it looked like no one had noticed their escape, which meant slipping back into the banquet hall would be a piece of cake.

The adrenaline high was wearing off and it left an anxious feeling in its wake. Reality was burying its way under her skin— and quickly, for that matter. "You're gonna keep quiet about what happened in there, right?" she folded her arms over her chest, her voice lacking its usual venom. She was too exhausted to bother arguing.

"Do you really think those two are gonna keep their mouths shut?" he raised a brow sceptical, confidence and cockiness both returning at full force. "It'll be all over Panem by morning, but I'll keep quiet if it helps you sleep at night," he winked teasingly.

Dahlia scoffed, her narrowed eyes honing in on the ruby lipstick marks on his face. "Red suits you by the way," she smirked, pointing a finger at the smudged colour and slipping back into the banquet hall, trying to swallow down the panic clawing at her chest.

What had she gotten herself into?

[searsage]

Ryley chewed his lip, testing the metallic tang of his own dried blood.

"And that creature on the ship that the drones were guarding..? That was a architect wasn't it..?"

"…Yes it was."

"Shit…I thought Al-an was the last one…"

"I know, look Ryley…I'm going to try to explain all of this tommorow, everything to the best of my ability, you deserve to know, but not tonight, there's a lot to take in and I have a lot to focus on. Okay?" Robin explained stiffly, while the resercher didn't sound like she was a fan of the idea, even she seemed to realize they couldn't keep leading him through space blind.

"Sure tommorow we can do that, In the mean time think we should focus on recuperating, and getting ready to start on the reactor..how long will Al-an's decontamination last..?" Ryley asked tilting his head towards the hallway.

"Five to six hours, there can't be any chance of the bacteria speading on board, while the strain was divergent I tested a sample with the compound and it seemed much weaker then the strain once present on 4546B, decontaming him shouldn't be an issue, still even if we are immune we can't risk tracking the bacteria to another place where it may take root, the results would be catastrophic." Robin sighed, her voice filled with resolve despite her clear displeasure.

"You dont need to tell me that, although I dont think Al-an is taking his confinement too well…"

"What..?"

"Just watched him give one of those work desks a back massage that would not only end in a lawsuit but also first degree murder.."

"…He seemed pretty shaken, I'll talk to him when he gets out, for now I have to wrap things up here."

"Is there anything I can do to help..?" It was a clear dismissal but as exhausted as the hermit felt, physically and emotionally Ryley didn't feel right just abandoning Robin to her own deviances.

Robin had been through hell in the last few days, and it was clear to both Ryley and her protective companion just how vulnerable the resercher had been, even now that she was cured, Ryley still felt the need to hover about..

He was used to supporting his team and it was gus first instinct even if he felt out of place half the time.

Was he coddleling her…? No he was simply being supportive, coddling was such a unpleasant term for worry..

Still much to the hermit's quiet dismay Robin briskly shook her head.

[karihighman]

Chenford in The Rookie 5x12 😍‼️ aka: the one where they not only take their relationship to the next level but really take the time to understand just how serious this romance is for them (& how it’ll work with the careers!)

[ultraweathercoremax]

This blog usually tells the weather’s story. Now, it shares my own.

Nearly half a century ago, I was born not far from here in Hope, Arkansas. My mother had been widowed three months before I was born. I was raised for four years by my grandparents, while she went back to nursing school. They didn't have much money. I spent a lot of time with my great-grandparents. By any standard, they were poor. But we didn't blame other people. We took responsibility for ourselves and for each other because we knew we could do better. I was raised to believe in the American dream, in family values, in individual responsibility, and in the obligation of government to help people who were doing the best they could.

I consider that the Golden Rule requires that if I like a weather pattern, I must share it with other people who like it. Weather hoarders want to divide the observers and conquer them, making each forecaster agree not to share with others. I refuse to break solidarity with other weather enthusiasts in this way. I cannot in good conscience sign a fair-weather agreement or a sunshine-only pact. For years, I worked within the Channel 4 Team to resist such tendencies and other atmospheric inhospitalities, but eventually they had gone too far: I could not remain in an institution where such things are done for me against my will.

You can call me MAX. English words like 'maximum' stem from a Greek root beginning with the letters μαχ…; and this same Greek word means weather as well as struggle. Hence the name MAX, which is an uppercase form of μαχ.

Insiders pronounce the x of MAX as a Greek chi, not as an 'x', so that MAX rhymes with the word thwaacchhh. It's the 'ch' sound in Scottish words like loch or German words like ach; it's a Spanish 'j' and a Russian 'kh'. When you say it correctly while gazing out the window at a beautiful sunrise, the window may become slightly moist.

The purpose of this pronunciation exercise is to remind you that MAX is concerned with tension between weather phenomena: its emphasis is on weather and struggle, as in the underlying Greek word. It's important to notice another thing about MAX’s name: The 'A' is out of kilter. This displaced 'A' is a reminder that UltraWeatherCoreMAX is about the full spectrum of weather, from spectacular to mundane, not just the ostensibly sunny highlights.

► EXERCISE 1.1: after you have mastered the material in this blog, what will you be: a Weather MAXster, or a Weather MAXrobat?

To accurately, efficiently, and completely describe the atmospheric conditions, meteorological variables, and weather patterns of any segment of time is neither the duty of a mortal man, nor within his reach. So an attempt to document the ever-changing nature, diverse manifestations, and far-reaching impacts of all weather is a catalyst for insanity. Instead, I would much prefer to accept the reasonable challenge of simply outlining some observations and experiences with weather phenomena, and my meek involvement with them. This will not be, by any means, comprehensive, as it is not my goal for it to be so; perhaps I will save that for a Tolstoy-sized novel many years down the road. Presently, read this blog with the purpose of fixing yourself in the local weather timeline and invoking more questions than are answered.

It’s time to relax, and you know what that means: a glass of wine, your favorite easy chair, and, of course, weather posts reblogged all over your feed.

[spookyspaghettisundae]

High Noon, All In

Valentín Ruiz leaned against the kitchen counter. He slipped his leather jacket open, exposing the holstered gun on his belt, like a gunslinger in a Western movie showing his opponent he was armed and a force to be reckoned with. His gaze swept over Chloe Grant’s belongings, stopping on another cardboard box in the corner, and locking onto the contents he could spot in its open topside.

She had still been unpacking. Still moving into this new home. The knife block sat at the top inside that box, still wrapped in newspapers. Both of them could see hints of knife handles through the crumpled paper.

He peeled his sight away from the open box, and their gazes met. He scratched the stubble on his chin, then sighed. A long, weary sigh.

Though she remained speechless, Grant’s most prominent thought echoed like a scream inside her mind.

Her gun was upstairs. His was right at his hip.

It wouldn’t have looked good for him if he were to shoot her in her own kitchen, but they both had sophisticated military backgrounds, and both had been working in private sectors, shrouded in secrecy. To some extent, they both had the skills and knowhow of spies, and could make each other vanish from the Earth without a trace if they just tried hard enough.

Grant considered herself a good judge of character. But in a situation like this, all bets were off.

Their previous banter, paired with the flirtatious glint in his eyes, could have meant anything. Maybe he was always just like that, using it to disarm situations and make friendly. Or maybe he was a good actor, using it all to conceal more nefarious intentions, allowing the wolf to creep closer before it pounced. Or maybe it was entirely genuine.

She found Ruiz hard to read now. His poker face gelled well with his model’s face.

Eyes still locked onto her, he finally broke the awkward silence by saying, “I never asked, did I? You aren’t from around Texas.”

“Nope,” she said, popping the single syllable like a balloon. “You never asked indeed.”

He emitted something that died halfway between scoffing and a chortle. He chased that with a wam smile.

“Okay, well, are you from Texas? Or not?”

Grant’s phone buzzed. A short message. She hesitated to check.

Instead, she countered his question. “You said the job and HQ can wait, you needed to talk. Almost had me convinced it was something serious, but now we’re small-talking in my sorry excuse of a kitchen?”

She leaned against the other counter, opposite Ruiz, and crossed her arms. She sold her words with a crooked smirk.

He bought it.

“I’m from Cali,” he said, “and figured you were too, based on how you talk. Or maybe it’s Nevada?”

Her smirk transformed into a genuine smile.

A good guess.

He was good, after all.

“Yeah. L.A. You?”

Another half-chortle, half-scoff.

“Same. People say it’s a small world, but a city like that’s big enough for us to never meet before this job a couple o’ states over. How about that, huh?”

The phone buzzed again.

“Maybe we just got around a lot,” she said, her smile fading. “Is this… going anywhere?”

His sunny demeanor also faded. With a thumb hooked into his leather pants’ pocket, his right hand hovered dangerously close to his pistol all the while.

“What? I thought you wanted me to ask you out for drinks, off the job, sometime. Wasn’t that what you implied at Carrington’s?”

“I didn’t imply anything, I flat-out said it. But tell me something, now. You go to a lady’s home first to ask her out for drinks? Is that how you roll, cowboy?” Her lips twitched until they formed another crooked smile—keeping her cool, trying to lure his motives out into the open. “How’d you find this place anyway? You following me around now? Are you stalking me?”

He tilted his head, then shook it, averting his eyes. Like a boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar, he played it off with natural charm. A wide smile revealed a perfect set of teeth, just adding to the pleasant image. And he employed a soft, smoky chuckle to punctuate it all, to downplay everything.

Her phone buzzed again.

“Yeah, okay, I admit, I followed you here from Carrington, figured I wanted to ask in private,” he said. He was good. She had not seen his motorcycle on her tail for the entire ride. Offering Grant a sliver of relief, he unhooked his thumb, removing his hand from the vicinity of his gun, to wag a finger at her—to point at the phone in her jacket, specifically, just as it buzzed yet again. “You gonna get that?”

She grinned and grimaced both.

“You know, it’s work. Our work. I’m surprised your phone isn’t blowing up right now, too.”

He shook his head, still wielding that charming smile. “I prefer to keep it off when I have more important people to see.”

Oh, he was good. If he suspected that she knew anything about his espionage at Future Proof for Corsino, he was burying it under mountains of flirting.

Under other circumstances, it might have worked.

She slowly fished the phone out of her pocket, and it buzzed for the umpteenth time, now in her hand.

New messages flashed on-screen.

“We should be getting to HQ, saddling up already. And if you’d been paying attention to our employer, you’d know. We’re headed to the Appalachian mountains? Gonna be a long ride. So, I’m flattered you rate this…” she paused, using a gesture to bounce between the two of them, “as more pressing than your seriously lucrative job, but… I, for my part, would like to see those fat paychecks keep rollin’ in.”

He raised his hands like she had him in a stickup, palms facing her in surrender. With a nod of his head, he encouraged her to check her phone.

11:59, said the display.

High noon.

She fought the urge of looking up, to keep an eye on his right hand and the holstered gun.

As expected, messages from HQ were flooding her lock screen. Two of them in between had come from Danielle Bennett—from her own private number, not work.

Where ARE you? —Dan, 11:57

Grant held up a hand before Ruiz could say anything else. He shrugged in response. She took a moment to reply to Dan’s message.

Her heart was racing, but not because Ruiz was such a heartthrob. The silvery iron on his hip still kept her nervous enough, the subterfuge put all his flirting into question, and she still considered finding a way to elegantly excuse herself, to retrieve her own piece from upstairs.

For all she knew, she was about to take a bullet. Or ten.

Grant permitted none of this to surface in any shape or form. She bit her lip and answered Danielle, not HQ.

Had to make it snappy. Had to word it just right.

Her thumbs raced at a pace to match her heartbeat, tapping out a swift reply.

If anything happens to me, he’s at my place right now, and he’s got a private semi-auto 45 ACP, not issued by FP.

Message sent.

Grant quickly stuffed the phone back into her pocket. It soon buzzed more with a flurry of incoming messages. She knew they were all sent by Dan.

Without commenting on the flood of texts that kept her phone abuzz, Ruiz only arched a brow.

He stared into her eyes.

“Listen,” he said. A deep, shuddering sigh escaped him. The sheer power of it stunned her, and made her racing heart skip a beat.

He pulled off his beanie cap and ran a hand through dark hair, ruffling it as he visibly struggled to find the right words.

That sigh had blown away all flirtatious air about him. He shifted uncomfortably where he stood, still leaning against the counter. The hand so dangerously close to his pistol, it joined the other, folding in front of him and guiding his sight to the checkered floor between them.

“I am a spy,” he said. Each soft word landed like thunderclaps. “I work for an industry rival of FP’s.”

Her stomach knotted. The pause he allowed to follow only fueled her paranoia.

Was this another play?

Was he fishing for something else? Was he onto her, trying to find out who knew that she knew, to find whom she answered to?

Her mind flashed to Danielle Bennett, an innocent face on the surface of a sea of secrets.

Emotions started bubbling up from the depths.

Social engineering and confidence plays were tricky business, and whether this was a play of his or not, it had worked wonders in robbing Grant of her cool. She couldn’t think of any cards to play, and the sheer possibility of him being this stupid made her angry. It also somehow made her angry that his flirting might have all been hot air all along.

“What the hell?” she blurted out. “Why would you tell me that? Why me? Are you stupid?”

Another sigh escaped him.

He avoided eye contact.

Between her simmering sources of anger, and the very surprise of it all, she struggled to sense any deception. It was either a very good, aggressive bluff on his behalf, or her instincts were right, and he was coming clean to her in earnest.

Still, the question lingered. It compelled her to repeat it.

“Why? Why me?”

Another sigh from Ruiz now shuddered with gravity. He finally met her gaze again. The wet glitter of sorrow in his eyes hinted at a deep ocean of its own, an untapped well of tears, and a conflicted man hidden behind it all.

Everything he’d say would feel so very, deeply honest.

“When Spencer hired you, I… convinced Singh to let me get my eyes on your file. And when I saw that, I figured you were hired to ferret out any potential leaks or whistleblowers or spies in the organization. That’s kind of your specialty, isn’t it?”

Grant clenched her jaw so hard that her teeth almost started hurting from the pressure.

The look in his eyes reminded her of a puppy dog.

This, she hated. She really didn’t like dogs, not even in such an abstract sense.

“Well, I didn’t really sign up for that,” she snapped, “but I can see why you’d arrive at that misconception.”

Averting his gaze again, he shook his head.

“You know, I used to think it was the right thing to do. Everything about our company is shady. It’s shady as all hell,” he said. The words he used somehow dulled the edge. Maybe it was the softness in it, the sense of vulnerability he projected. His gravelly voice cracked, if ever so briefly. “Who’s the good guys, really? Who’s the bad guys? Sure, the extra pay didn’t hurt. It didn’t hurt one bit. But I was convinced it was better for this to be out in the open somehow, that it might be dangerous if Spencer held all this power in his hands, all this knowledge. Y’know?”

It was a lot to process. If this was a play, then he had gone all-in, put all his chips on the table, and asked to see Grant’s hand.

She had nothing. Nothing to match it.

It didn’t even feel like a play. It was probably more apt to understand it as someone who was quitting the game altogether.

Where she failed to reply, he continued speaking.

“Now? Carter was shot. Dead. We buried him after some gung-ho military asshole shot him, and I think it’s my fault—no—I know it’s my fault. And Singh’s behind bars, and this fucking shake—”

He raised his hand. His left hand—the one she had not been watching as closely, as it had been farther away from the holstered gun on his hip—now that she focused on it, she could see that it shook.

Tremors shook it.

Ruiz balled his hand into a fist but the tremors remained. His eyes sparkled brighter.

“This fuckin’ shake doesn’t go away anymore. I fucked up, Grant. I want you to turn me in or whatever, or just hear me out. Fuck. I don’t even really know you. I’m sorry I’m dumping all this horseshit on your lap. I just… I need someone to talk, I guess.”

His words fell the softest he had ever uttered. He rubbed his forehead, hiding his eyes behind his hand.

It was the least rehearsed thing she had ever felt coming from him.

This player had quit the game. He was on the verge of breaking down in her half-furnished house, in her sorry excuse of a kitchen.

She bit her lip. The ball of anger dissipated into a much milder frustration, a tinier pit, churning in her stomach.

In that moment, she decided to take him at face value. She could have gone on and continued questioning his motives and his every action, but the puzzle pieces fit into their rightful places.

Grant didn’t really know him either, but… this…

This felt honest.

“Shit, man,” she muttered, stirring as she broke free from her quiet shock, “this is so, so much to take in right now. You have no idea.”

It was her turn to release a deep sigh. Part of it was relief. She didn’t want to be cynical.

“Can I—do you mind if I smoke in here?” he asked. He blinked many times, blinking away the glitter in his eyes before he’d dare show any tears.

“Yeah, I mind. There’s no smoking in my house,” she answered with firmness.

He wiped his lips with those trembling fingers.

The gun at his hip no longer exuded a tangible threat. It just rested there. Just like the gun upstairs, in her bedroom. She would fetch it later, after he left.

“Shit, man, we got a lot o’ shit on our plate as it is. Now you come to me with… this? Like I said, it’s gonna be a long ride to the Appalachian, we need to get to HQ, and I need to think about what you said. I’ll tell you this, though, I wasn’t hired for counterintelligence,” she said, omitting the part of her having been doing that without being asked to. And as much as she disliked dogs, the look he then cast her way made her think of a kicked puppy. She swept her hair back, suppressed a groan of frustration, and the harsh tone faded from her voice altogether. Everything softened. “We’ll talk about it more, okay? But we also need to do our job—the Anomalies, the specimens and incursions—people’s lives are on the line, and we gotta hustle. See you at HQ, okay? Let’s talk shop after we get back from the field. Okay?”

Instead of tears, he broke out into another hybrid between scoffing and a chuckle. There wasn’t anything flirtatious or playful about it, instead having turned into something resembling relief.

He’d soon leave. She’d soon have packed and left as well, heading downtown to Future Proof’s towering skyscraper. And soon after that, they’d be en route to Kentucky.

They exchanged furtive, secretive glances during briefings in the boardroom and briefings in R&D, and between every step of travel where they looked each other’s way.

Grant now shared the burden of his secret. They did not speak about it at all. She felt watched all day, all night, all flight.

The tremor in his right hand remained, visible to her despite all attempts at hiding it. On the final stretch of flight into the Appalachian mountains, only Grant saw it.

Mischchenko chewed over their field operation orders from Spencer while they performed a final check on their EMD rifles. Pruitt was busy piloting the airlift chopper.

Max Carter was conspicuously absent. It felt like he should have been there. Instead, there was just an empty spot on the bench next to Ruiz.

That conversation in the kitchen had been haunting Grant all the while, all journey long. Everything else since had flowed past her in a blur. The most she remembered was trying to calm Danielle down, saying they’d sort things out soon enough.

She went through all the necessary motions. Kept to herself otherwise.

Grant kept her masked, helmeted head down, and followed Mischchenko’s instructions. Checked and re-checked her EMD rifle. Their battery packs whined as they powered their weapons up.

By the time the black, unmarked chopper swooped down over foggy Kentucky woods in the middle of nowhere, it was noon again.

The Anomaly glittered below.

That terrible, beautiful globe of splintered, slowly spinning lights, like glass shards shining with brilliant reflections of the sun…

Reports indicated pterodactyls in the area as a primary threat in the incursion. Burch confirmed the veracity of the images, and Stantz was busy having Bennett and their other minions scrubbing all video and image footage from the ‘net.

For the operators on site, the helmet visors concealed their faces. This kept the warmth inside their body armor, and it also hid all their facial expressions.

Even so, Ruiz’s stare lingered on Grant every now and then.

And she thought back to the kitchen, and how he had played his final hand, laying all cards out on the figurative table between them. It made her think of the blue-white checkered floor.

Would she tell Spencer? They needed to make a decision. A very cautious decision.

Some part of her related deeply to Ruiz. In all honesty, she didn’t trust Spencer herself. The power of these Anomalies, the power to affect time itself…

On the ground, she looked up at the Kentucky Anomaly in awe. It shimmered where it revolved mid-air, hovering inches above the frosted forest floor. This scintillating sphere was big enough to let another T-Rex escape from the past into their present.

Mischchenko was busy handling Doctor Solomon’s new variant of the ALM—what he had been so excited to share with the class. His new “innovation”.

This new variant could not only lock the Anomaly to prevent things from passing through the breaches in time—it could alternatively enforce stability. They could effectively stabilize a Flicker, what the R&D team had labeled an unstable Anomaly, which would work wonders if they ever needed to herd dinosaurs back through a Flicker again.

Ruiz returned from a sweep of the perimeter.

“No eyes on our big birds,” he reported. “But you’d think we’d hear ‘em make big shrieks to match.”

The ALM refused to lock the Anomaly. Mischchenko jiggled a cable. Slapped the side of the futuristic device.

She answered with frustration ringing in her voice—not over Ruiz’s report—but the ALM’s refusal to obey. “Burch said they’d be more silent hunters. Might not hear big wings until it’s too late.”

“These woods are pretty quiet today,” Grant remarked.

And with that, Mischchenko froze. The helmet kept her face as unreadable as everybody else’s, but Grant sensed the sudden shift in her superior’s air.

“You’re right,” Mischchenko said. “And now that you mention it, it’s too damn quiet. Keep your eyes peeled.”

Her movements turned hasty. She slapped the ALM’s metal case again, this time prompting lights to flare up on its top. The spiky sphere at its front starting spinning, and the Anomaly reacted—

The mighty, scintillating ball of light collapsed, compacting, shrinking from a huge, spinning sphere into a suitcase-sized orb, frozen and immobile mid-air.

The ALM hummed in chorus with the chugging generator wired up to it.

“Shit,” Ruiz muttered, so quiet that Grant only heard it over the radio bud in her ear. “I only now got what you mean, Mischchenko. Something’s wrong. We should be hearing… I don’t know what. It’s too damn quiet out here. I don’t hear Jack or shit.”

Mere seconds later, the chirping started. Chittering and scuttling sounds, drawing closer, ever closer. Shuffling, squeaking, and above all, chirping.

Not the chirping of birds.

Chirping of things on the ground. Buzzing.

Wings, far tinier than those of pterodactyls.

The mist around the Anomaly’s site roiled. Things emerged from it. Many, many things. Things that caused that symphony of buzzing and scuttling and chirping.

A living flood neared from every direction around them. The forest grounds teemed with life. Insects, the size of dogs, swarmed those frozen grounds.

Their three-person team was surrounded.

Ruiz shot first. Then the two women followed suit. Their EMDs flared up, discharging bright bolts of energy into the crawling swarm of weird locusts. The earth crackled with electricity, and those bugs were slowed, sometimes stunned… but the rest of the living tide swarmed every closer.

And quickly.

“Open the Anomaly back up,” Grant shouted between shots into the swarm. Then, as Mischchenko failed to comply, she repeated herself. “Open the damn’ Anomaly!”

Mischchenko stopped shooting and swiveled. She backed up, then hammered the device, shutting down the ALM.

The locked orb of the Anomaly exploded, expanding back into the brilliant, rotating sphere it had formed before.

The three field operatives continued firing shots in a futile attempt at stemming the tide, but they would never stop it like this—only slow it down, at best. Backing up all the while, shooting into these alien hordes of insect-like mutants, the light of the Anomaly engulfed them.

Pruitt was shouting over the intercom for a sitrep, but he would receive none as they shouted at each other in their desperate retreat, then all communications died.

The team vanished into the Anomaly, and the swarm followed.

[callmeblake]

This X-ray record sounds especially terrible, but they did do it.