#Extraction/John Wick cross over

[chickensarentcheap]

Lost and Found- Chapter Twenty

Fandom: Extraction

Pairing: Tyler Rake and Esme Drummond (OFC. But you do not have to read the others in the series to understand this fic.)

Warnings: some profanity.

*Includes Extraction 2 canon mentions

Tagging: @youflickedtooharddamnit @munstysmind @tragiclyhip @secretaryunpaid @theesirenteller @asirensrage @residentdormouse @ninjasawakenedmystar @ocappreciationtag @arrthurpendragon @occommunity @thebejeweledwatercat @kmc1989 @karimac @themaradwrites @alisbackalleybbq

Link to Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43179357/chapters/127894162

My tag list is open!! Please just let me know if you'd like to be added :)

Chapter Summary: Tyler Rake, John Wick, and Alcott walk into a bar...

*****

They make quite the threesome in The Continental lounge. Wick with his American drawl, infamous slicked-back hair, and all-black attire, Alcott with his crisp English accent, neatly tailored pants, and cashmere sweater, and Tyler in his ‘casual best’. A simple black Henley shirt and well-worn and faded, olive green cargo pants he’s had for years; tattered around the cuffs and sporting holes in the side pockets.

Three entirely different yet somehow similar men; a combination of unique backgrounds yet familiar circumstances. Their lives filled with loss and heartbreak, and their hands drenched in the blood of many.

And their bank accounts much fuller because of it.

“Now explain this to me again,” Alcott implores from his middle seat at the bar, nursing the remains of his drink. “Like I’m a three-year-old. Because the information is just not getting through. You’re not telling her WHY?”

Sighing, Tyler takes a sip of water. “It’s not that we’re NEVER going to tell her. It’s just that we’re waiting.”

“Waiting for what? Hell to freeze over? Pigs to fly? Just what are you waiting for?”

“For the right time.”

“And just what constitutes the ‘right time’? The child’s existed for nearly five years. She’s been asking about her father for almost a full two of those. If you ask me, there’s no time like the present. She already admitted to loving you. What more do you need?”

“It doesn’t matter if she already loves me or not. Esme and I agreed; that we'd hold off on saying anything.”

“But why? If the little one is already this attached to you and you…by my brief albeit brilliant observation… are already attached to her…”

“She’s been through enough. I mean, it’s been a hell of a four days for US and we’re grown-ass adults. She’s not even five. A baby still.”

“Baby or not, she’s resilient as hell and stronger than either of you are giving her credit for. You don’t think it would be a welcome surprise? In the midst of all the bullshit? Don’t you think it wouldn’t give her something to smile about? To learn you’re her dad?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think.”

“It matters a hell of a lot. It’s your damn swimmers that helped make the child. You’ve got more of a say in this than you realize. Don’t be a pussy, Rake. I know you love the woman, but stand up for yourself. Tell her to shit or get off the pot.”

Smirking, Tyler sips at his water. “You saying something bad about Esme? Of all people?

“I’m not saying anything bad about her. I’m simply saying she’s being foolish. That this is all just a bunch of horseshit. There’s no reason to keep it from her. It’s not like it’s horrible news. For either of you.”

“You gonna say all that to Esme’s face? Tell her she’s making a mistake? Being foolish?”

“No. And you’re not going to tell her I said it, either. I’d prefer to keep my balls exactly where they are, thank you very much. And you…” He nudges Wick with his elbow. “...does any of this make sense to you?”

In response, Wick bobs his head from side to side, then shrugs his shoulders.

“What the hell is that…” Alcott mimics the gesture. “... supposed to mean?”

“It means I don’t have a horse in this race. I’m just here to listen. To support. Not throw my two cents in.”

“How very diplomatic of you. I hope you’re not going to be like this when we get out onto the street. All passive and shit. I can barely carry my own weight most days, I don’t need to be carrying yours as well.”

“Job me and ‘real life me’ are two totally different people.”

“You must have an opinion. One way or another. Does it make sense to you, or is it just the stupidest damn thing you’ve ever heard of?”

“My opinion means nothing. I’m not taking sides in this. I’m not a father. I don’t have kids.”

“What does that matter?”

“It matters a lot. It means I don’t have a leg to stand on when it comes to telling other people what to do with their children.”

“I don’t have any either…”

“That you know of,” Tyler mutters.

“...but I know when something is purely idiotic. And this is about as idiotic as it gets. Tell us. Come on. How do you feel about all this? What do you THINK about it?”

“I think…” Wick downs his bourbon and then waves the empty glass at the bartender. “...I need another drink.”

“You alright, mate? Do you need to talk about it? Whatever you’ve got going on? ‘Cause there’s a couch over there…” Alcott nods in the direction of the lounge. “...and you can lie on it and I’ll sit next to you and you can talk to me like I’m a therapist. Gonna cost you, though. One sixty-five an hour.”

“And would that be in US dollars or pounds?”

Sighing in exasperation, Alcott turns back to Tyler. “You realize this is a stupid idea, yeah? Keeping it from her? That little girl is smarter than any of you are giving her credit for. And she’s been wanting a dad in her life since she’s practically been old enough to talk. I know you think you’re protecting her, but…”

“That’s exactly what we’re trying to do. Protect her. She’s been through enough. More than any kid should have to go through. So we’re just giving her a little bit of a break and…”

“Hearing that you’re her father IS the break. That bit of good news in the midst of all the bullshit. Don’t you think it’ll lift her spirits? Especially after what happened this morning? That incident scared her to bits; she needs some kind of assurance that her entire world isn’t going straight to hell. That she’s safe and secure and no one else is going to hurt her.”

“And I can give her all of that. I can keep her safe. I can stop anyone from getting to her. She doesn’t need to know I’m her dad for all of that to happen.”

Wick speaks up. “If I may be so bold…”

“Oh, now you have something to say,” Alcott chides. “After you get a fourth one into ya. Need the booze to loosen your lips and tongue, do you mate?”

Tyler nods, signifying for him to go ahead.

“I can’t believe I’m going to say anything because I’m trying not to put myself right in the middle of your personal life. But…”

Tyler scowls. “Mate, you’ve been in it for years. Since you kept Esme’s whereabouts a secret. And then didn’t bother telling me about my kid. You have been knee-deep in my personal life for a while.”

“I did what was asked of me,” Wick defends himself. “Esme’s my friend. She needed my help. I gave it to her. And I wasn’t going to betray her confidence. For anyone. And I’m sorry; if that puts me on your shit list permanently. But I did what I had to do.”

“It wasn’t up to any of us to tell you where she was or that you had a kid,” Alcott adds. “None of that was ours to tell. She asked for our help, we gave it. It wasn’t anything personal against you. Although I still think she could have done a hell of a lot better than a two brain cell having, knuckle-dragging, nappy-headed bastard from Queensland.”

“I think it would do Millie a world of good to hear that you’re her dad,” Wick continues. “She needs something to hold onto, some kind of bright spot in all of this. She’s a little kid, and little kids need to know that everything is going to be okay. Hell, even us adults need to know that from time to time. She’s been asking about her dad for a while; who he is, where he is, why hasn’t she met him? And she doesn’t just get on her mom about it. She’s asked me. More than once.”

“She’s asked me several times,” Alcott admits. “She even once asked if I was her dad. I said to look at me and look at herself in the mirror. That alone should tell her I’m not the one that put the bun in her mother’s oven.”

“I just think that this is something that could undo some of the damage done this morning,” Wick says. “We all see how much she adores you. And vice versa. If she’s already head over heels and doesn’t know, imagine how she’ll be when she finds out. And I just can’t help but believe it’s better if you do it sooner than later.”

“Listen to him,” Alcott addresses Tyler. “That’s a man that knows what he’s talking about.”

“Ten minutes ago, you were worried he was going to get you killed out on the street. Now you’re kissing his ass?”

“We’re on the same page. Both of us feel it’s best for Millie if…”

“What do you either of you know what’s best for Millie? For MY daughter? She doesn’t belong to either of you.”

“Maybe not, but we’ve known her longer,” Alcott points out. “As much as I’m sure that hurts to hear.”

“Not my most favourite thing to think about, no.”

“The truth is, we’ve been in her life from the start,” Wick says. “When she was still inside her mother’s belly. Both of us have changed her diapers, fed her bottles, read her bedtime stories, tucked her in…”

“She’s puked on me more times than I care to remember,” Alcott adds. “And believe me, her mother will eventually get my cleaning bill.”

“Why would you think I want to hear this? You’re not making things any better, mate. I’m already pissed off enough. Bringing things like THAT up? Are you trying to get her ass handed to you or…”

“No one is trying to rub salt in the wound,” Alcott assures him. “But the fact of the matter is that we do know Millie better than you do. For now, anyway. I mean, I let her call me Uncle Duey, for fuck sake.”

Wick swigs his bourbon. “I’m Uncle John-John. Killer by night, Uncle John-John by day. My, how the mighty have fallen.”

“She’s a damn good kid,” Alcott continues. “Her mother has done an amazing job with her. And you should consider yourself lucky; you didn’t manage to knock up someone who would have gotten rid of your spawn the second they found out about it. This isn’t exactly the life we strive to bring kids into, is it? Give them dads who kill people for money?”

Tyler frowns; brow furrowed as he drums his fingertips against his glass. “That’s not all we do.”

“Aww mate…” Alcott chuckles and slaps a hand down onto his shoulder. “...don’t sugar coat it. Don’t romanticize it. That’s EXACTLY what we do. And one day, that little girl is going to grow up and she’s going to find out what her daddy really does for a living and…”

“What I DID for a living,” Tyler corrects him. “Past tense. By the time she’s old enough to understand it, I’ll have been out of the game for a few years.”

Alcott waves down the bartender. “The fact of the matter is that she WILL find out. Right now, you’re just the cool friend of her mother’s who can kick ass and take names. That’s how she sees it; you’re big and you’re strong and you’re here to keep her safe from the bad guys. But once she’s older…”

“I just think it’s better if she knows about you being about her dad before THAT happens,” Wick pipes up. “That’s my opinion. Take it with a grain of salt. But…”

“You must want her to know,” Alcott says. “That you’re her father. How could you NOT want her to know?”

“Of course I want her to know. You think I like this fucking game we’re playing with her? You think it doesn’t burn my ass every time she calls me by my first name? Or ‘this is my mum’s boyfriend. Do you really think it doesn’t bother me?”

“I think you’ve got a lot of anger stored up,” Wick says. “And I think the more you lie to Millie, the worse that anger is going to get and then you’re going to snap one day and say some shit you’ll regret. And then both her and her mother will be out of there.”

Grinning, Alcott nudges Wick with his elbow. “Now who’s the therapist?”

“I have my moments.”

Alcott addresses Tyler once more. “Isn’t five years enough? Wasn’t that enough time apart? Do you really want to let this shit fester and a year or two down the road, let it completely ruin things? For good?”

“That’s the last thing I want.”

“If Millie is anything like her mother…” The Brit tosses a wad of cash down on the bar when one of the tenders sets down a tray of shots. “...which we already know she is, she is going to be the type to hold one hell of a grudge when she’s older. So you can imagine what that’ll be like? If you keep up this bullshit? The more time that drags on, the more she’s going to resent both of you for not telling her the truth sooner. And the next thing you know, you gotta teenager who can’t stand being in the same room as you and would sooner spit in your face than look at you.”

Wick side-eyes him, then helps himself to a shot. “Are you SURE you don’t have kids?

“I don’t have kids. But I do have brothers and sisters. And I know how lies…even told with the best of intentions…can tear a family apart. Why would he want that to happen when he just got his family together?”

“HE is sitting right beside you,” Tyler reminds him. “HE can hear you.”

“Mate, in the long run, it’s your life. And from what I understand, that life has been quite shit the past few years. Now, you’ve managed to get her back; the woman that you love more than anything in this world. The person you’d gladly give up your own life for. Do you really want to hold onto this shit you’ve got bottled up and risk losing her? AGAIN?”

“It wasn’t my fault. I wasn’t the reason Esme left.”

“You were and you weren’t. You didn’t do anything wrong. We all know that. But she did leave BECAUSE of you. To protect you. And I’m not going to judge that decision and we’re not going to debate whether she was right or wrong. And I’m certainly not going to pretend I understand anything about the situation she was put in…”

“But…”

“Enough lies have been told. Enough secrets have been kept. I think it’s high time that all of that shit stops. For you, for her, for Millie. For all of you as a family. You’re that little girl’s father. Whether you’re ready to be it or not.”

“I was ready to be ‘it’ the second I saw her and knew she was mine.”

“Then do your first good thing as a dad, and don’t lie to her. No more than you already have. She’s smart and she’s resilient and doesn’t have a hateful bone in her body. Not yet. But the older she gets…”

“What we’re trying to say is that you’re going to just fuck things up more,” Wick says. “Or at least that’s what I’M trying to say. I don’t know what the fuck he’s talking about half the time.”

“I was ready to tell Millie the first day. That I was her dad. But it’s not my decision to make. It’s not…”

“Not alone, it isn’t,” Alcott downs his shot and the winces at the immediate burn. “But it’s half yours. Now I know it’s been a while since I’ve indulged in any extracurricular activities of the sort, but I’m pretty sure it takes two people to make a baby. Unless times and technology have changed since the last time I…”

Wick frowns. “Jesus, how long has it been?”

“Way too long, mate. Way too damn long.”

“But aren’t you…you know…with his ex-wife?”

“On and off. And without giving too much away and completely disrespecting her, I’m sure the big-headed, big-eared Australian and I can agree on the fact that she isn’t the most…what’s the word… affectionate…of people.”

“It’s like fucking a couch,” Tyler grumbles as he slides off his bar stool, then pulls his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans. “Three or four times every six months.”

Alcott smirks. “Now THAT’S not nice. It’s true, but it’s NOT nice. At all.”

Wick nods in the Australian’s direction. “Where are you going?”

Tyler tosses a handful of bills down onto the top of the bar. “I’m not going to name names, but unlike certain individuals, I have a woman to get back to.”

“That’s right,” Alcott scoffs. “Just rub it in, you prick.”

“I’ll be rubbing it in while you’re rubbing it out.”

“You know, it’s moments like these where I don’t like you very much. Are you the one still holding a grudge? Because I drank all your milk?”

“You’re just damn lucky I hit that coffee cup. ‘Cause the meds had me pretty shaky that day. Be glad you still have your hand. Is that your favourite one? The one gets the most use?”

“I really do hate you sometimes, you know that, yeah?”

“You’d miss me, though. If I wasn’t around anymore.”

“In your wildest and wettest.”

“Last thing I want to do is sit around here, watching you two get shit-faced. Not when I’ve got a warm body waiting for me.”

“I don’t know what she sees in you. You’re certainly not the best catch on the planet. Not even close to it. She can definitely do better.”

“It’s okay to be jealous, mate.” He clamps both hands down on Alcott’s shoulders.. “ Especially when you’re not even on her short OR long list.”

“Now that’s just rude. Those are just fighting words. Give her a kiss, would ya? From both of us.”

“Don’t bring me into this,” Wick grumbles. “I prefer all my limbs attached to my body.”

“Get your beauty sleep, Australian,” Alcott calls to him as he heads through the room. “Good knows you need about ten years of it to look good even in your mother’s eyes.”

Tyler smirks. “That’s okay. Your mother thinks I’m perfect just the way I am.”

“You fucking asshole. You regular fucking muppet. I oughta come over there and rearrange your ugly face.”

Chuckling, Tyler steps out of the bar. “I’d like to see you try.”

******

He’s rougher than he needs to be. Using his considerable size and strength difference to punish her; able to convincingly hide the hurt, anger and bitterness under layers of voracious want and need. And she willingly takes everything he dishes out; her body eagerly responding to the tight grip around her throat, the yanking of her hair, and the brutally hard thrusts that have her crying out in a mixture of pleasure and pain.

It had always been her favourite; that tiny body able to withstand enormous amounts of torment in the name of sexual gratification. Something he’d both discovered and marvelled at five years ago; amazed at not only the things she allowed him to do but so openly -and boldly- requested of him. And it remains all this time later, despite their absence from each other’s lives; the awe and the adoration and that powerful, all-consuming mixture of lust and love that nothing -or no one- else could ever come close to measuring up to.

The self-loathing makes a quick appearance; feeling the utmost disgust in himself as he lays in bed beside her. Listening to her soft rhythmic breathing as she sleeps soundly; her back presented to him, yet her head resting in the crook of his elbow, those long, dark tresses fanned out across his arm and the sheets below. He hates himself; for both manhandling her and continuing to harbour such resentment. And while it will be ever strong enough to undo the love and the adoration and pure, unadulterated worship that he’s carried for years, it is enough to slightly tarnish them. To make him feel sick to his stomach and despise himself for ever thinking such negative and hateful ways towards her.

Sighing heavily, he drapes a forearm across his brow and takes in slow, deep breaths; a somewhat successful attempt to chase away the ugliness that festers inside his brain. His own body bearing the effects of just how rough and unhinged things had been between them just two short hours before; deep and painful fingernail trails that crisscross his back and his ribs, bite marks that decorate his collarbone, shoulders, and even the inside of his thighs, a tingling scalp where having his hair twisted and yanked. Incredibly enjoyable at the time; her enthusiasm and her ability to ‘dish it out’ encouraging his intensity even more. But now he feels like shit; the conversations in the bar replaying in his head and his anger -towards both her and the situation that had seen her make the decisions she had- simmering just below the surface.

He’s teetering on the edge of sleep when he feels her stir; the slight shifting of the mattress under her tiny body, the absence of the weight of her head upon his arm as she changes positions. Rolling over under her side and sliding closer to him; a hand coming to rest on his stomach as she nuzzles his ear with the tip of her before pressing a lingering kiss to his cheek.

“Why are you awake?”

He lays a palm on the back of her head; fingertips pushing through her hair to lightly and affectionately knead at her scalp. “I was just going to ask you the same thing.”

“I had the weirdest yet mostly satisfying dream. About taking you and Millie to Colorado to meet the fam. My mom picked us up at the airport, called you Crocodile Dundee and insulted your haircut.”

“That’s oddly specific. What happened next?”

“You gave her very detailed instructions on how to fuck off and stay fucked off. I didn’t get right to the end, but I like to think you wrapped things up by slapping the shit out of her.”

“I don’t hit women.”

“Never? Ever? You’ve never hit a woman?”

“What kind of asshole do you think I am?”

“I don’t mean in your personal life. I know you’re not the type. I mean on the job. You’ve never had to resort to it?”

“Just once.”

“Was she a mark or…?”

“Another merc. Working FOR the mark. We got into it. Blood was shed. Only one of us walked away.”

“Well, I obviously don’t need to ask WHO.”

“Yaz got his ass handed to him by one. In Vienna. She absolutely wrecked him. And he’s tough; for such a small guy. But believe me; he couldn’t walk or piss right for a month afterwards.”

“You like to keep up with your friends’ urinating habits, do you?”

“Anyone ever tell you? That you’re a smart ass?”

“You used to tell me ALL the time. Makes me happy to hear it again; means we're getting back to the basics. The good ol’ days. And as for your future monster in law…”

He arches a brow.

“You wouldn’t even backhand her in dreamland? The Wicked Witch of the Midwest? The one who said you kidnapped her only girl and…I quote…’kept her captive in your den of blood and danger and kinky sex’?”

“I mean, she WAS right. About the sex thing.”

“She also called you Ty.”

“Now THAT’S a fighting word. Because of that? I suppose I could make an exception. Knock her out.”

“And here I was, thinking the selling point would be the decades spent making my life a living hell. I thought for sure you’d want to defend my honour. Seriously though…” She lightly runs her fingernails across his stomach. “....why ARE you awake?”

“It’s two thirty in the morning. Why are YOU so chatty?”

“It’s a gift. Answer my question.”

“I’ve always had trouble sleeping. Even back in Dhaka. And especially when we were living together. Come to think of it, I’m starting to see a pattern. The one thing all these places have in common.”

“Maybe it’s better you don’t sleep. Because I might kill you. Smother you with your pillow.”

Chuckling, he wraps an arm around her and pulls her tightly into his side. Lips meeting her brow before resting his chin on the top of her head. “Just got a lot on my mind.”

“When it comes to the job?”

“Are we even calling it that anymore?”

“I mean, you WERE hired. You did show up. And you ARE doing what I employed you for.”

“But? I sense a ‘but’ coming on.”

“Well, there’s nothing really ‘normal’ about it. And Millie and I are definitely not ‘normal’ customers.”

“Everything about this is as far from normal as you can get. It’s personal. Way too close to home. I’m never THIS attached to who I’m looking out for.”

“You looked out for Mia’s sister and her kids. That’s pretty personal.”

“She was my ex-sister-in-law. And it was a job out of pure fucking guilt. Because I felt I owed it to Mia. After everything I had done to hurt her, I figured it was the least I could do.”

“What if you’d died doing it? Was giving up your life the ‘least’ of it, or…”

“At that time? Without you around? I didn’t give a fuck if I was alive or dead. So it wouldn’t have mattered much.”

“It would have mattered to me; if Nik or Yaz or even Alcott got a hold of me and said something happened to you. I wouldn’t have been able to handle that. The fact that I never got to say I was sorry or tell you that I still loved you or to bring Millie to you. So for what it’s worth, I’m glad that never happened. Because I may not have been in the picture, but I would have missed you for the rest of my life.”

Emotion chokes at him, and he places a hand on her hip and gives a tight, affectionate squeeze.

“I was going to come and see you. In Austria. At the prison.”

“Alcott told you I was there?”

Esme nods.

“Why didn’t you show up?”

“I don’t know,” she admits. “I guess I was scared. About how you’d react. It had been almost three years since I’d just disappeared. And you would have had every right to be pissed off enough to have me thrown out of there.”

“I was never THAT pissed off.”

“I also didn’t want it to happen there; the first time we saw each other again. Not exactly the ideal place for a reunion. I don’t think you would have wanted to find out about Millie while you were locked up. Me showing up would have been enough of a shock, never mind THAT.”

“It would have been a hell of a surprise. But I wouldn’t have been pissed off. I would have been relieved more than anything; to see that you were okay and to know that you even gave a shit what was going on with me.”

“I never stopped ‘giving a shit’ about you, Tyler. I worried about you all the time; practically every second of every day. But had I shown up there…”

“You could have been convinced to be a repeat visitor. I could have talked my way into conjugal visits.”

“I probably would have gone along with it. I bet you looked hot in that orange jumpsuit.”

“There is something seriously wrong with you.”

He remains quiet for several minutes, knuckles repeatedly grazing up and down and her spine, her nose pressed against the side of his neck.

“I wrote to you,” she confesses. “Every week for about a year.”

He frowns. “I never got anything.”

“I never sent any of the letters. I just sat down and poured my heart out and then got cold feet about mailing them. So I just put them in a box and tucked them away. They’re actually still in the back of my closet.”

“You kept them all this time?”

“Everything I wish I’d said and everything I should have done differently is in those letters. Even every apology I wish I’d made. There was always unfinished business. An open chapter. And if I got rid of the letters, it meant I was also getting rid of you. And I know I left, and it seemed like I didn’t want you anymore, but I wasn’t ready for it…for US…to be done. I don’t think I ever would have been.”

“Come here,” he beckons and wraps her in both of his arms; enjoying the scent that clings to skin and hair and the warmth that radiates from her naked body.

God, he’d missed it. He’d missed HER. The touch of her hands and the taste of her kiss. The sound of her voice and her laugh. And that smile that’s reserved solely for him; curving her lips and further softening her features and causing her eyes to sparkle and dance. And for several minutes, they lay in silence; the tension and the sadness eased by the familiar weight of her head upon his chest as a large, callused palm continuously strokes her hair.

“Maybe one day you’ll let me read them. You might have chickened out sending them when you wrote them, but…”

“Whenever you’re ready to see them, they’ll be there. And I think it might be good for both of us; if you look at them. Kinda like shutting the door on that part of our lives. Permanently.”

“I don’t think I’m ready right now. I don’t think I’m quite there yet.”

“Take your time. They’re not going anywhere. There’s no rush. I know there’s a lot going on right now; I’ve dumped enough on you in the past four days to last a lifetime. And I never intended to. I never…”

“You haven’t ‘dumped’ anything on me. Using that word makes it something there’s been nothing good. And believe me, Millie is worth more than any of the bad shit. I’d take a bullet to the neck a thousand times over if it meant she’d exist.”

“I just wish things had been different. When it comes to how I handled things. I had the best of intentions. I REALLY did. I panicked; I knew you wouldn’t stand a chance against The High Table, and I had to protect you. If anything had happened to you…”

“I can wrap my head around THAT. What I can’t get past is afterwards. When things went back to normal and they weren’t a threat anymore. That’s what I’m having a hard time getting past.”

“I already explained. I already…”

“I don’t want to be angry.”

“At me?”

He nods.

“You have every right to be, Tyler. I did a horrible thing to you. More than one, actually. And I can justify leaving; I feel I did the right thing when it came to protecting you. But staying under the radar for years and not telling you about Millie…”

“It’s the entire situation I want to be angry at. That I NEED to be angry at. If The High Table never showed up, everything else wouldn’t have happened. You didn’t know they were going to come for you. You thought you were in the free and clear and done with them. And when they came looking for you, you weren’t given much of a choice. It’s them I should be pissed with. Not you.”

“But…”

Firmly gripping the back of her head, he presses a kiss to her temple and then begins to uncoil her from his embrace; hating the absence of contact when he sits up against and leans against the headboard. One leg bent at the knee, he sighs heavily and rakes a hand through his hair and then runs both palms over his weary face.

“Do you think we can actually TALK about this? Without hurting feelings?”

Gathering the quilt around her naked body, Esme sits up as well. “I think feelings are already hurt, don’t you?”

“Without hurting them even more, then? Because I don’t want to fight, Esme. That’s the last thing I want. There’s enough bullshit going on without adding that to the list.”

“I don’t want that either. And I don’t want to fight about this, especially. But if talking is what you want to do…”

“Like rational, reasonable adults.”

She nods in agreement.

“First thing’s first. I need to ask you something. And you gotta promise me it won’t piss you off.”

“How bad is what you’re going to ask that you need a promise like that?”

“It’s not that it’s bad. It’s just…I don’t know…you might think I’m stupid for even thinking about it, let alone asking.”

“And you accuse me of being that one that talks in riddles? What…?”

“Did you and Alcott have something going?”

She can’t help but laugh. “What?”

“Did you ever have anything going with him? Relationship wise?”

“No. No. Omg, no. Never.”

“I mean, a relationship of ANY kind. Maybe you never boyfriend and girlfriend thing, but…”

“There’s no ‘but’. There has NEVER been anything between us other than friendship.”

“Did he ever want there to be?”

“Not that he’s ever told me. Or acted on. Colleagues and buddies, that’s it.”

“What about you? Anything YOU wanted? Or acted on? Or…”

“Tyler, men and women ARE capable of being just friends.”

“You and I weren’t.”

“You and I are in an entirely different league. We always have been. From pretty much the second we met. You never denied it; feeling ‘something’ right away.”

“Lust. It’s called lust. You know how there’s ‘love at first sight’? Well, that was lust at first sight.”

“Yeah, there was a lot of lust. But it was more than that and you know it.”

“Did you feel anything like that for him or…?”

“I have never felt anything for Russell. Other than platonic love. And maybe wanting to smack the shit out of him from time to time.”

Tyler smirks. “Russell. That’s kinda personal, don’t you think?”

“It’s his first name. What else am I supposed to call him?”

“Everyone calls him Alcott. EVERYONE.”

“Probably because they don’t know his actual name IS Russell. I like to call people by their first names. Especially my friends. You’ve always been a little uptight about these kinds of things; you’ve always hated the idea of anyone else being in my life. You don’t even like the fact I was married before we met.”

“What I hate is WHO you were married to. And the shit he did. That’s what I hate.”

“Admit it, you can’t handle the thought of me with anyone else. I bet you stressed about it constantly during the last five years.”

“No.”

She stares at him pointedly.

“Sometimes.”

“I have a history. I have exes. So do you. You were married before me. You don’t see me obsessing over it. I mean, I don’t particularly like the idea of hearing about your slutty bachelor days, but I realize back then you had commitment issues. You’re a red-blooded male with needs and…”

“And you’re a red-blooded female. With needs.”

“Needs I was more than happy to tend to on my own. You’re the type that prefers having a participant with those things. Me…”

“I am more than capable of handling things on my own. Figuratively AND literally…”

“...I don’t need sex. I have gone YEARS without it. I’m capable of surviving without it.”

“That makes me feel great. Thanks for that.”

“If it’s already not glaringly obvious, I enjoy sex with you. I love having it with you. I could have sex with you all day, every day. For the rest of my life. But the fact is, I never gave a shit about it until YOU. It wasn’t a necessity. I’d never been with someone who could get the job done, know what I mean? I always relied on myself for getting there.”

“You have dated some real fucking winners, haven’t you.”

“I may not need sex, but I WANT sex. And I want it with you. Only you. No one else. And seeing as we haven’t seen each other in five years…”

“What about Alessio? You slept with him. You were going to marry the guy.”

“This isn’t about Alessio. Who was a job.”

“I’ve never had a job that required me to fuck someone.”

“I was his fiancee. I was playing a part. If I didn’t do THAT? He would have known something was up. And maybe it was drastic; going to those extremes. But I did. I allowed myself to feel beautiful. And wanted.”

“I wanted you.”

“And I fucked that up. I know that. But other than him? And this playing pretend? There’s never been anyone else. I haven’t wanted to be with anyone but you. And I tried. Not the sex thing, but the dating and the relationship stuff. I met people. Men, women. I went out a few times. And you know what? Every time they tried to take things further? All I did was compare them to you.”

Tyler blinks at her honesty.

“I have never wanted anyone else. I’m not afraid to admit that. And there’s never been a damn thing between Russell and I. He kept me updated on things you were doing; he contacted me about Georgia and Mia and her sister and all of that. And told me about you going to prison. Other than Millie, he was the strongest connection I had to you.”

“And Nik. And Yaz. All these people that knew you were okay.”

“All people I swore to secrecy and hated every second of it. They didn’t want to lie to you. I especially didn’t want to. And I don’t get your hang-up with Russell and me. You don’t ever question my friendship with Yaz.”

“That’s because he’s Yaz. He may have a huge hard-on for you…”

“He has a hard-on for me? What? He told you that?”

“...but I know you wouldn’t give him the time of day. Not like that. I know you see him like a little brother. But Alcott..”

“It’s because Alcott’s like you, right? He reminds you of yourself. And because I lusted you immediately and fell in love with you so quickly, it must mean it happened with him too.”

“Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t know why it bothers me. How close the two of you are.”

“All I can do is tell you the truth. And reassure you. As many times as you need it. There has never been anything between us. On either of our parts. Nothing has even come remotely close to crossing a line. I know I hurt you and I betrayed you and you don’t exactly trust me right now…”

“I trust you. With my life. With my daughter’s life.” ‘ “...but I wouldn’t lie about this. I don’t see him in that way. I don’t see anyone in that way. It’s just you, Tyler. That I’ve wanted. It’s always been you. It will always be ONLY you.”

“You’d tell me, yeah? If there’d been anyone else? During the last five years? OTHER than that dick head, Alessio.”

“You were honest with me; about sowing your wild oats all over Australia and many parts of Europe. Why would I not tell you the truth? There hasn’t been anyone else. And there especially hasn’t been anything with Alcott. And there never will be.”

He nods slowly as he considers her words.

“On a side note, he’s banging your ex-wife, you know.”

“I don’t care what he’s doing to my ex. She’s my ex for a reason. She stopped being any of my concern a long time ago.”

“You were concerned enough to help her. To take the job. Put your life on the line to get her sister and her kids the hell out of Georgia.”

“It was a job. I was being paid.”

“Maybe. But there’s a history there. You were married to the woman. You had a child with her. I know the kind of guilt and regret you carry around. You can’t tell me those didn’t play a part.”

“How did we go from talking about us to talking about her? How…?”

“You want to talk. So let’s talk. Let’s get it all out there. Say the things we need to say. You’re not the only one who’s been holding onto some shit.”

“And now who’s worried about someone else’s history?”

“I don’t care about your history. I care about YOU. And when I heard about that job…”

“You left. I wasn’t the one who took off. You were. So I stopped being of any concern to you. Second you walk out that door…”

“No. It never stopped. I never stopped worrying about you. I didn’t leave because of something you did. Or didn’t do. I never took off because I didn’t love you. I took off because I did.”

“You know how you always say ‘opposites attract’? When it comes to us? Maybe most of the time, that’s true. But it’s not with this. You left, Esme. You left ME. Just like I left my boy. So we have THAT in common, don’t we.”

“I never blamed you for leaving your son. I said it was a stupid thing to do. I still think it was. But I also told you I understood why you did it. I sympathized with you. I still do. It was a horrible, horrible thing to go through; seeing your child sick and wasting away. And you’d never been taught coping skills and you had all that toxic masculinity and you…”

“Why did you leave?”

“I told you. I left to protect you”

“We could have found a way. To fight back. So tell me, why didn’t you stay?”

“I was scared and I was worried and I didn’t want anything to happen to you. I…”

“Esme…” His voice becomes more forceful. Demanding. “Why didn’t you stay?”

“Because I fucked up. Because I brought them to you. And I didn’t know what else to do. So I left. Because I didn’t know how to fix it.”

Silence descends on the room. An eerily still quiet that remains until she sniffles loudly; wiping at errant tears with the back of her hand.

“I couldn’t fix it. I couldn’t fucking fix it”

“Why do you think I left my boy?”

“It’s not the same thing. It’s not…”

“It is. It IS the same thing. We left for the same reasons. And what happened because of it? We took off. And we hurt the only person that ever really gave a fuck about us.”

“I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t know how to get away from them. I didn’t want them coming back. Not when you were there. I didn’t want them hurting you. Or worse.”

“We would have had time. To get the fuck out of there. We could have found a place to hide out. We could have flown under the radar and let Nik and John and even Alcott deal with The High Table. You didn’t have to leave.”

“I didn’t think of that. I was scared. You were still healing from Dhaka. And even if you’d been a hundred percent, you’re not invincible. You wouldn’t have beaten them, Tyler. Not on your own. Not even with a small army. They would have found us. No matter where we were hiding.”

“Don’t underestimate Nik. She would have put us far underground. No one would have been able to track us.”

“I didn’t even consider it. It didn’t even cross my mind.”

“Like you said; you were scared and you were worried. Kinda hard to think right under those circumstances. But Nik? She has no excuse for not coming up with a solution like that.”

“I’m sorry, Tyler. That I didn’t think of those. That I didn’t stay. I wanted to. I wanted to be with you. I never wanted to leave.”

Reaching out, calloused fingertips push strands of hair off her forehead and tuck others behind her ears. “I know you didn’t.”

“We both fucked up. In the past. Only my fuck up lasted five years. And I not only hurt you, but I hurt Millie, too.”

“You didn’t hurt her. Not in the slightest.”

“I kept her away from her dad. For selfish fucking reasons. All because I was worried about rejection. Because I was scared you’d turn me away. That you’d turn US away.”

“I wouldn’t have. I’ve spent the last five years wondering where you were. HOW you were. Wanting you.”

“I’m a horrible person.”

“No. You’re not. You’re a good person who made a bad decision.”

“I remember saying those exact words to you. In Dhaka.”

“And you didn’t hurt Millie. Look how amazing she is. She’s healthy and happy and she’s so fucking smart, Me. And she’s beautiful and she’s perfect and she’s everything that’s great inside both of us all into one. You didn’t hurt her. And you definitely didn’t fail her. You’ve done an awesome job with her. And I’m lucky. Of all the people that are the mother to my kid, it’s you. Because a lot of other women never would have gone through with having her.”

“There was no way I was giving her up. Not while I was pregnant and definitely not after. And I needed to hear that from you. That I haven’t fucked her up. That I’ve done good with her. And BY her.”

“You’ve done more than good, believe me.”

“I am so sorry. That I screwed up so badly. That I left instead of trying to fix things. I really did do it because I didn’t think I had another choice. Because I was scared and worried and wanted to keep you safe.”

“I can accept that. I HAVE accepted it. But when everything was gone and you still stayed away? That’s what I’m having a hard time with. That I just can’t get past. And I want to; get past it.”

“Tell me what I need to do. Tell me what I need to say. I’ll do it. I’ll do anything to make this better. To make it right.”

“There’s nothing you can say. Or do. You’ve already done it all. It’s just me. It’s me needing time to process and accept it and move on from it.”

“So what does that mean for us? You don’t want there to be an us? Until you’ve done all that?”

“That’s not what I’m saying. At all. Of course, I want there to be an us. Did you not ask me to marry you?”

“Not in so many words, but…”

“And did I not say okay?”

She nods.

“I want you. I want US. I want to raise our daughter together. I want to get married and have more kids. I mean, if that’s what you want. More.”

She manages a weak, shaly smile. “A couple more wouldn’t hurt.”

“I’m actually looking forward to; finding out we’re having another one and seeing you pregnant. That’s one of the things I AM pissed about; that I didn’t get to see you like that. All cute and round, and the baby…MY baby…just growing and thriving in there.”

“I carried HUGE with Milile. People were always asking if there was more than one because of just how huge I was. I told them, ‘This is what happens when you procreate with a giant.’”

“I hope you know I’m going to be one of those insanely protective dads-to-be.”

“More protective than you already are with me? Is that even possible?”

“Don’t challenge me, Esme. You’d be surprised how far I can go with it. And I’ll deal with my shit; all the issues I’ve got going on because of what happened. But I’ll do it WHILE we’re together. I’m not worried about that; it causing problems between us or with our family. I just thought you needed to know that I AM still struggling with all of this; you staying away and keeping Millie from me. And I don’t know how long I’ll actually fight with it, but I will get over it. Eventually.”

“And you’ll still love me? Even when things seem extra hard?”

“I love you no matter what. I never stopped. Not once in those five years. I’ve always loved you. I always will.”

As he leans in to peck his lips, her fingers aggressively push through his hair. A long, trembling sigh escaping her when the hand on the nape of her neck tightens its grip; holding her firmly against him as he prolongs and deepens the kiss. Long, sinuous movements of lips and tongue, accompanied by naked limbs that glide and rub against each other as they once more sprawl out across the bed. And when air becomes a necessity, he pulls away and braces himself on both arms above her; a smile curving her lips as she reaches up to trace the line of his jaw.

“Can I ask YOU something now?”

“As long it’s not about my ex-wife, what happened between you and me five years ago, or what’s going to happen in less thirty-six hours.”

“It’s not about any of those things.”

“What do you want to ask me?”

“Is it true? That Yaz has a hard-on for me?”

Chuckling, Tyler leans down and nips at the side of her neck. “You’re a brat.”

“Did he actually tell you that? That he’s packing a woody for me?”

“I can’t give away all his secrets. I’ve said enough.”

“Did you threaten to rip from limb to limb if he even tried anything?”

“No.” He presses a series of warm, soft kisses across her collarbone, his beard scraping the pale, delicate skin. “I told him YOU would.”

[nijjhar]

Punjabi - Why the Sikh Temple" is called Gur = Logical Reasoning and Dwa... Punjabi - Why the Sikh Temple" is called Gur = Logical Reasoning and Dwara = Place to exchange views. https://youtu.be/Zb1O0w5XKXs A Testimony by an American Soldier:- Youtube channel - Truthsoldier I served in the satanic Iraq war. I openly am shamed for that and I asked for forgiveness for taking part in that war. I actually had my awakening while over in Iraq. My eyes were opened to the injustice of that war. The Iraqi people loved Saddam; they had whole stories with nothing but Saddam’s face on everything. Since then I have been speaking out against the US and ISRAEL on my Youtube channel. Here is my contribution:- Holy spirit, common sense, shatters the fetters of the dead letters, the Holy Books. If we have One God, our Supernatural Father of our souls, then there should be one Faith. In Christianity, Jesus said One Fold called the Church of God headed by One Shepherd, our Bridegroom Christ Jesus/Christ = Satguru Nanak Dev Ji, the Second coming of Jesus. Solid Proof; this Golden Temple is of the same size as the Holiest of Holy that used to be in Jerusalem and its Curtain held the Secrets of the Oral Torah = His Word was rendered from the Top, the Temple High Priests, to the Bottom, the village Rabbis off you go �� Luke 16v16; Law and Prophets were till John and thus, everyone makes a direct approach to God through His Word = Logo = SATGUR PARSAD. So, these hireling Dog-Collared Priests and Mullahs, cannot give your account to God as the Rabbis used to give at Passover. So, they are "ANTICHRISTS" that have a following of the spiritually blind Super Bastard Fanatic Devils - John 8v44 -, Hindu, Jew, Sikh, Christian, Muslim, etc. Outwardly, and not spiritually inwardly. These spiritual selves Hindu, Jew and Christian, are never born like Christ, the Title and they never die but the tribal selves Judah, Levi, Jatt, Tarkhan, etc. were born and they will die. Thus, Jesus was born and Jesus died on the Cross and rose on the Third Day and NOT CHRIST, THE TITLE. Books:- ONE GOD ONE FAITH:- www.gnosticgospel.co.uk/bookfin.pdf https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9qHdTpTXHvE&list=PL0C8AFaJhsWz7HtQEhV91eAKugUw73PW1 American Jews are today – http://www.gnosticgospel.co.uk/GrimReaper.htm Destroying one country after the other, so that the scripture is fulfilled. Also, do not forget the partition of India and how the dirty hearted-British divided the homeland Punjab of the brave Jatt tribal soldiers who fought in the two World Wars for the British. ATOMIC WAR PREDICTION – MATT. 13V24-30. “Kingdom of Heaven”:- http://gnosticgospel.co.uk/faithfat.pdf Another:- https://youtu.be/qDU964t_0i0 www.http://gnosticgospel.co.uk/starttrib.htm https://youtu.be/FQIjTHe_pOs Super Hitler Putin:- https://www.youtube.com/@ChaudhryRajinderNijjharJatt/search?query=Putin He is the tribal man of God and he will sort out the Blasphemer USA and the West, Tony Blair and Bush, that Saddam Hussein had WMD but none were found by an Army Major General who runs Military International Ministry in the name of Christ Jesus. Such Blasphemy against the Holy Spirit is not FORGIVABLE but punished by God through the Tribal people of Yahweh. Jesus said to the crowd: "No one who lights a lamp (How this Lamp is Lit has been explained by Christ = Satguru Nanak Dev Ji in which you earn the Scriptures, Milk by studying the dead letters as Saul did from Gamaliel or you do in the Universities and Colleges – Here is the link to my Video in Punjabi - Bhao, Fear of God while walking over the very Narrow Road to the Palace of our Supernatural Father Elohim, Allah, Parbrahm, etc. = under the Will of God, this Wick of heart is Lighted https://youtu.be/j1rXlPWSE1sHoly Gospel of our Supernatural Father Elohim, Allah, Parbrahm, etc., ....... Gur doesn't mean Guru. Satgur means the formula for speaking logical reasoning that Brews = Pars.........ad = Logo. THE GOSPEL IS CALLED “LOGO” AND LOGO IS THE EXTRACT/NECTAR OF “LOGICAL REASONING” – SATGUR PARSAD. Once-born people are incapable of logical reasoning and, therefore, the logo is for the twice-born people of discerning intellect called the “holy spirit”, surtti or “common sense”. So, if you want The Gospel, then you must think logically over your own heart. Thus, listen to everyone and ponder over it logically in your own heart. Then, the Gospel would be written over the living tablets of heart – 2corn 3. Punjabi - Bhao, under the Will of God, this Wick of heart is Lighted to seek the Gospel Treasures. Or the Gospel Truth is sought by submitting your heart to the Will of Elohim, Allah, Parbrahm, etc. https://youtu.be/j1rXlPWSE1s My ebook by Kindle. ASIN: B01AVLC9WO Full description:- www.gnosticgospel.co.uk/Rest.htm Any helper to finish my Books:- ONE GOD ONE FAITH:- www.gnosticgospel.co.uk/bookfin.pdf and in Punjabi KAKHH OHLAE LAKHH:-  www.gnosticgospel.co.uk/pdbook.pdf Very informative Channel:- Punjab Siyan. John's baptism:- www.gnosticgospel.co.uk/johnsig.pdf Trinity:- www.gnosticgospel.co.uk/trinity.pdf

[haroldgross]

New Post has been published on Harold Gross: The 5a.m. Critic

New Post has been published on http://literaryends.com/hgblog/john-wick-chapter-4/

John Wick: Chapter 4

[3 stars]

The mayhem continues in this wrap up to this Wick saga. And I was surprised that, with nary a written piece of dialogue, Shay Hatten (Day Shift) and Michael Finch managed to put more story in this sequel than the most recent chapter, which was a welcome improvement. There are also some very nice touches and call-backs to the beginning of the tale to help tie this long, dark, tea-time of the soul together.

Despite the world-trotting and massive fight scenes, returning director Chad Stahelski not only had fewer words to work with but also a smaller, central cast around Keanu Reeves (The Matrix: Resurrections). Reeves spends the story in a deadly dance of shifting alliances with Ian McShane (American Gods), Donnie Yen (Mulan), Hiroyuki Sanada (Mortal Kombat), and Shamier Anderson (Invasion). There are also 100s of stunt people (or so it seemed) filling out various mercenary groups and bounty hunters as well, but at times they are literally faceless.

And then there’s Bill Skarsgård (Soulmates) as a controlled psychopath representing The Table along with Clancy Brown (Dexter: New Blood). Skarsgård gives us a dark and clever villain, but with flaws that can be exploited.

And, of course, seeing Lance Reddick (Resident Evil) in this final role was bittersweet.

Oddly, the choreography was a little wanting. It felt staged far too many times. While I’ll often advocate for the beauty of that kind of effort in fight displays, in this case it was unintentional. It was also rather disturbing to watch this film on the heels of Extraction 2, where the fights are so clinical, even while they are extremely well directed. The effect in Wick is that it nearly glorifies the violence, while in Extraction it is anything but. The movies have different intents, but they have a heavy cross-over audience, so it isn’t unfair to compare them.

Stahelski could have trimmed this nearly 3 hour finale down a little without harming the impact. And a bit more research about Paris geography wouldn’t have been amiss when planning the final run. But all that aside, Wick proved to be the little indie that could, even if it outgrew its boots a little and got lost in the mayhem. In the end, though, it is a simple and effective tale with the second and this last flicks being the best. And, of course, Wick as a franchise isn’t over. This was one story, others are possible, which the tag after the credits makes clear if the studio’s intention it wasn’t obvious.

But Wick is also not for everyone. It is hyper-violent from beginning to end…usually with complete dispassion or emotional consequence. At least Wick takes a serious beating throughout, though he heals and functions with injury at an absurd level. But this is more dark fantasy than gritty reality. So if constant stabbing, shooting, fisticuffs, animal attacks, and arrow-play disturb you just don’t even bother. It definitely gets a bit much after a while.

Where to watch

[overheardatthecontinental]

Talk Chapter 14

AO3 LINK

The moment John reaches the city line, he turns on his phone. Yet again, he is met with a cacophony of vibrations as his phone loads with the unread messages that have accumulated over the past twelve or so hours.

He waits until the barrage has ended before hitting the speed dial option that will bring him directly to the Continental. He orders a day room to set up shop, as well as a request for the technician to start researching DeLuca’s mother.

He’s transferred to Winston long enough to find out the name of Mateo’s mother. Winston barely gets a sentence out before John has said a goodbye.

When he is done, he dials Sofia.

It’s already evening in Morocco and he can hear loud music in the background when she answers.

“You’re lucky I’m picking up considering you don’t answer any of your texts.” She says loudly, over the pulsing rhythm.

John feels his lips twitch at the annoyance in her tone. “Been busy.”

“So I’ve heard.” The background noise gets quieter and he hears the sound of a door closing. “Rumor has it, you’re killing anybody even considering taking the Kingston contract.”

Good. While he doesn’t have the time to actually go ahead and kill every person seeking out Helen, he wants anybody considering her contract to think twice.

“Hearing many rumors in Casablanca?”

“Oh, you went global , John. Everybody everywhere is talking about it.”

John sighs at that and shakes his head, “Is there really nothing more interesting happening anywhere?”

“I’ll break it down for you because I know you’ve had a lot of head injuries: everybody looks at you like a monk. You don’t date. You don’t fuck around. Everybody just kind of assumed you were celibate. I've even heard rumors that you made a deal with the devil to be powerful at the cost of giving up sex.”

“Then, a contract goes wide. Some woman no one’s ever heard of. Never set foot in the Underworld yet seems to have a connection to John Wick. Everybody waits for a response. Only you disappear off the map for twenty-four hours. And nobody can actually find Helen Kingston.”

“Then, you resurface and start killing anyone who’s even looked at the Kingston contract. So, no, John. There really isn’t anything more interesting happening anywhere.”

John lets out a breath.

This, he realizes, is quickly becoming his newest fear. That even if, somehow, he can get them both out alive, he’s going to have to face the rest of the Underworld.

He’d warned Helen before he left that he still had enemies. Ones far worse than DeLuca. The Syndicate heir was ambitious, but DeLuca truly didn’t care whether Helen lived or died. Others would. Others would make it their mission to make her suffer just to see how John would react.

She was already trapped in ways she couldn’t possibly understand and that terrified him.

“But I take it you’re not calling to find out what the rumor mill is pelting in Casablanca.”

“No, I’m not.” John says, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as he waits for the pedestrians to cross in front of him. “I need a favor. There’s a bottle of Romanee-Conti ’72 in it for you. Plus expenses.” He’s more than willing to give her a marker if that’s what this takes, but he has a feeling that the rare vintage plus the intrigue of it all will be enough to capture her attention.

“Color me intrigued. What’s the job?”

“The man who’s hired the hit on Helen is Mateo DeLuca of Syndicate. I have reason to believe his mother, Isabella DeLuca, is the one who is actually calling the shots. Only problem, she’s in Rome.”

Sofia hums, “Is she well-guarded?”

“I don’t know.” John answers honestly, “But I need her in New York yesterday.”

“An exchange. His mother for your girl?”

John drives on, inclining his head at the question, “I’m certain it won’t be that simple. But yes.”

Sofia hums and, again, he can hear her moving. The background noise increases slightly, “I can be to Rome in five hours.”

“Perfect. If you can get her when she’s going to bed—”

“No one will be the wiser until morning. This isn’t my first extraction, John.”

He nods to himself because of course it isn’t .

He isn’t a micromanager. He never has been, but the stakes have never been quite like this before.

“You care if she’s bruised?”

John considers it.

He typically liked to keep things as clean as possible. He didn’t do extractions or espionage or anything else that called for more tact and forethought than a bullet to the head.

But Isabella DeLuca was the force behind Mateo. Arguably, the force behind Helen’s abduction.

“Not in the slightest.” He says finally, “Although I don’t expect she’ll put up much of a fight. She’s a bureaucrat.”

Sofia groans, “I prefer it when they fight. Bureaucrats just whine.”

“I get it. I’ve spent more time dealing with politics the past few days than I have in my entire life.”

“Never thought I’d see the day where John Wick had to talk nice to people. Then again, never thought you were going to get your v-card punched, either.”

John rolls his eyes at Sofia’s ongoing joke. There wasn’t much else she could get on him but his decision to be largely celibate fascinated his friend. Truthfully, John didn’t think too much about sex or carnal pleasures. He didn’t prioritize fleeting experiences.

But then, the assassin’s voice softens, “How is she? Your girl. Does she understand what’s going on?”

John nods before remembering that Sofia can’t see him. “Yeah, she gets it. And she’s…” unbelievable. Ridiculous. Brave and clever and tougher than he ever gave her credit for, “In the past week, she’s been kidnapped, held hostage, and forced to go into hiding because half of New York is out to kill her. And despite all that, her biggest concern is that something could happen to me .”

It still boggles his mind.

“How long have you been together?”

He isn’t entirely sure how to answer that and there’s far too much to explain over the phone. He decides on, “It’s complicated.”

“Isn’t it always?” She asks and John is glad that she isn’t going to chastise him for not knowing better. “Hang on.” He hears her switch languages to Arabic. While John isn’t fluent in that particular language, he knows enough to hear the word ‘airplane’. After a minute of back and forth, she is back on the phone, “I’m headed to the airport now. The concierge is finding a pilot as we speak.”

“Perfect.” John says with a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

“Where am I taking her once I have her?”

He thinks, quickly. There were too many eyes in New York for him to chance it getting back to DeLuca. Likewise, he was certain his house was being watched. Even though it technically wasn’t under his name, enough people knew about his residence in Jersey for it to get around. And there was no way in hell he was bringing Isabella anywhere near Helen.

“There’s a private airstrip just outside of Newark with an adjacent motel. Keep her there. If I don’t talk to you before then, I’ll plan on meeting you there tomorrow, at noon. I’ll probably be offline when you land.”

“I’ll get her there.”

“Thank you, Sof.”

He hangs up and concentrates on the road ahead, even as his thoughts spin. He hates having to depend on anybody. That said, he does trust Sofia to get the job done. To take care of it and troubleshoot any unforeseen problems on her own. That knowledge helps with the distaste he feels for needing help. It was easier to accept the help, too, knowing it would benefit Helen.

John makes it to the Continental and leaves his car with the valet. Walking into the lobby, he spots Verdugo sitting in an armchair by the fire, reading the newspaper. He imagines the assassin is likely still the number one contender targeting Helen, considering John hadn’t been able to touch him the day before.

He feels his hand already itching for his gun but he knows the rule.

He recites the rule, to himself, again and again as he passes by.

No business conducted on Continental grounds.

He can’t falter on that, not here. The moment Verdugo sets foot outside the hotel, he’s fair game. But not here.

Charon already has a key card placed on the counter when John reaches the counter. John places a coin down and they make a quick exchange.

“Mister Dexter sent you a fax and the Technician has compiled the information you asked for. I’ve taken the liberty of sending it all to your room.”

“Thank you.” John says, thinking back over the past few days. For everything that the Continental staff had helped him with. “For everything, this week.”

“Of course.” The Concierge replies with ease. John takes his key and starts to walk off when Charon calls to him, “And Mister Wick?” He waits until John turns, “I wish you the best of luck with your… task.”

John nods his thanks and proceeds down the hall and up the stairs. The day room was almost identical to the one he had stayed in while waiting for news of Helen just days ago. Two folders layfolders lay on the table when John walks in.

The first is much smaller. John flips it open and finds only two sheets of paper, reporting the updated odds. In large capital letters, it advertises Kingston Contract Odds .

John forces himself to swallow as he reads through it.

Verdugo remains the top contender, but the rest of the list is very different than the one he had seen yesterday morning.

Fuck, he thinks, was it really only yesterday?

He sighs, reviewing the changes. While he had eliminated a great deal of the assassins targeting Helen, even more had dropped out of their own accord, it would seem.

Good.

But more would always come, as evidenced by the papers in his hands.

More names he didn’t recognize. Junior assassins and street kids looking to make a name for themselves.

He’d try to make time to eliminate more. Keep reminding people exactly who they were messing with by going after a woman they knew to be his.

John takes out his cell phone, again, ignoring the dozens of text messages that would be left unread until he had the time to deal with them. He finds Santino and drafts a new message.

J: Need to talk. Today.

He reads it over after and sends. Before he can even set it down, it vibrates in his hand.

S: Intriguing. You know where I live.

John turns off the screen, setting the device to the side as he opens the second folder.

Pictures of Isabella DeLuca on the arm of her late husband at scores of different events over the years. A birth announcement of their son. A copy of a marriage certificate. A degree from Sapienza University of Rome in business sciences and another in political science. A transcript, providing proof of excellent marks and scores.

She was bright, it seems, adding to Helen’s theory that Isabella was the true brain behind Syndicate.

He continues going back into her history, but he doesn’t make the connection until he sees her birth certificate.

Isabella Carlotta Giovinco.

Daughter of Stefano Giovinco and Valentina D’Antonio.

He whips out his phone and dials Winston speedily.

“Hello again, Jonathan. Have you—”

“Valentina D’Antonio.” John says quickly, “What’s her relationship to Lorenzo?”

“Valentina?” Winston repeats, “She was his older sister. The eldest child of Claudia and Enzo D’Antonio.”

“And that would make Isabella DeLuca his niece?”

“Yes.”

John closes his eyes, “And you didn’t think that was pertinent information to share when DeLuca asked me to kill the D’Antonio’s?”

“Killing family is not an unusual practice, Jonathan. But, honestly, it slipped my mind. When Isabella was never, herself, a D’Antonio.”

“But her mother was.” He shakes his head, “And in those days, everything was patrilineal. Heir’s weren’t chosen based on age or conviction; they automatically went to the oldest male.”

“Which, in Valentina’s case was her brother, Lorenzo. She married one of her father’s lieutenants, if I remember correctly. They had several children, one of which being Isabella. It was quite the scandalous thing when Isabella married Dante. She had to renounce the Camorra at her own wedding to be accepted into Syndicate.”

“A lesser gang.”

“But one that quickly rose to prominence. It’s second only behind the Camorra in Italy.”

John pinches the bridge of his nose. He fucking hates this bullshit.

There’s a knock on the door and a beeping as the door unlocks. Winston enters and John lowers his phone, shutting it off.

“So, before Isabella, Syndicate was just another Italian crime family trying to be great.” John assesses, “Her family probably thought she was crazy for leaving the safety of the Camorra, but there was no advancement there. In the Camorra, she was just the daughter of a soldier and a has-been princess. But in Syndicate, she was a queen.”

“You think Isabella was the driving force behind Syndicate’s rise?” Winston synthesizes, looking unsure.

John nods, “I do. Helen told me that DeLuca wasn’t smart enough to be doing this on his own and I didn’t listen. Fuck .” He exhales, “I almost missed it.”

He’d kick himself if he could. If he had just listened to her from the beginning… no. He can’t focus on should have’s.

This is good.

Any doubt that Lorenzo D’Antonio will turn down his request fades from his mind.

Because it’s personal now. For them, at least.

It’s been personal for John since they started stalking the woman he loved.

“Unbelievable.” He mutters.

“I take it Mateo demanded the same last night as when he first took your beloved.”

John nods again, “Yes. And I’ve spent the last few days trying to figure out how I can get us both out of this alive. I can’t believe I almost missed it.”

John exhales and it feels like a weight is lifted from his shoulders.

It’s far from over but he can feel everything start to come together. There’s a light at the end of a tunnel that once seemed endless.

He breathes easy.

He wishes that Helen weren’t hours away so he could take her into his arms and hug her as the relief courses through him, overwhelming the guilt that he had missed something so crucial.

“It’s unsurprising that you missed it.” Winston says, “You’ve never had a political mind. You prefer the simplicity of being told where to point and shoot.”

True enough, John thinks.

“There’s something else you should know.” Winston adds, his voice softening in a way that tells John that whatever comes next won’t be good. He nods and Winston says, “There’s a missing person’s out for Helen Kingston. I’m not sure if it was someone in the Underworld trying to draw her out of hiding or if it was someone from her work, but the police were at her house this morning.”

If it wasn’t one thing, it was another.

John shakes his head, “Do you know if Charlie was able to clean the scene before the police got there?”

Winston nods, “Yes. I have someone watching the investigation. The police are under the assumption that she ran away since both her cell phones and her laptop are nowhere to be found but her family is pushing, saying Helen wouldn’t just disappear without telling them.”

“Alright.” John sighs, “Thank you for letting me know.

“Of course.”

“I have to meet with Santino.” John says, closing the folder and handing it to Winston, “Could you pass these along to the Technician? I need them scanned and emailed to Sofia Al-Azwar.”

Winston accepts the folder, inclining his head, “I’d ask what you were planning, Jonathan, except I feel it’s better that I don’t know.”

“You’re probably right.” John agrees.

“That said, I will be watching with complete and utter fascination.” The Manager continues, “Good luck.”

John nods, pocketing the key in case he needs to come back, and leaving the rest behind. Without a goodbye, he hurries back down the hall. He descends the stairs only to meet Verdugo walking up. The other assassin gives him a smile.

“You’re a hard man to find, John Wick.”

John stops and reminds himself again, of the mandate.

No business shall be conducted on Continental grounds .

While John was more than willing to argue that this isn’t business, it was personal , he was certain that argument wouldn’t fly with Winston or the High Table.

“Am I?” He asks, instead.

“Very. But every now and then, you pop up. Seemingly out of nowhere. If only Helen Kingston was privy to doing the same.”

No business shall be conducted on Continental grounds .

“It would be in your best interest,” John manages to bite out, “To forget her name.”

“But it is such a pretty name. Fitting, really. There was a war over her namesake as well.”

No business shall be conducted on Continental grounds .

“One where thousands died,” John agrees, aware that they’ve caught the attention of several onlookers just off the lobby, “Yet another reason it would be wise of you to drop the contract.”

Verdugo inclines his head, “You can’t keep her hidden forever. You do know that, don’t you? If it’s not me, it’ll be someone else.”

No business shall be conducted on Continental grounds .

“It won’t be you.”

“Why are you making this so much harder on yourself?” There is genuine curiosity dripping from Verdugo’s words. A confusion, of sorts, as if he can’t understand why John Wick is putting off the inevitable.

Kate had been similarly curious, although hers had been riddled with amusement. Now she was dead.

But every assassin thought themselves invincible, to a degree. Yes, they were far more aware of mortality than the average person having watched the life drain from countless eyes. But the older assassins in particular, who had brushed with death regularly, often seemed to forget that.

John, himself, was guilty of that. He thinks to the tie that does not hang from his neck, which instead, he had left with Helen. He might never wear one again in his promise to her to not let anyone have a chance at defeating him.

“Make it easier on yourself and let her go.” The other assassin pauses, “I’ll make sure it’s quick. Painless.”

No business shall be conducted on Continental grounds .

No business shall be conducted on Continental grounds .

No business shall be conducted on Continental grounds .

“Would you like to take this outside?” John asks, hoping against hope that Verdugo is stupid or confident enough to make a mistake.

Verdugo inclines his head, “You forget, Mister Wick. You’re not the one with the multi-million-dollar bounty… Consider my offer. Others’ targeting the Boogeyman’s woman will be far more malicious.” He starts to ascend back up the stairs, “Be seeing you, Mister Wick.”

John repeats the rule one last time before forcing himself to turn away. Until Verdugo leaves the Continental, John can’t do shit.

That said, he’d be extra wary of tails on his way home. Just in case.

He’s almost tempted to let the assassin tail him. Take him to the middle of nowhere and pummel him to death.

His focus has never been so chaotic. He’s typically good at ignoring the smack talk. At walking away from those seeking to push him or make him lose his resolve.

John needs to stick to the plan.

Helen is safe. Protected.

Marcus won’t let anything happen to her.

He needs to do his part.

He nods to Charon as he leaves, ignoring the countless sets of eyes watching him as he strides through the lobby with purpose. The valet is gone when he reaches the stairs and John takes a moment to breathe. To go over the plan.

Santino will still be his point of contact. The easiest of the D’Antonio’s to convince to go along with his plan. But now he has leverage to use with Lorenzo, which makes it significantly easier to breathe.

He just needs to get the bounty removed. Then he can deal with the rest—the other enemies who might target Helen, the missing persons’ case being explored, and the countless unresolved feelings that had been flowing between them.

In a way, he’s relieved that the deadline is only two days away because he’s not sure how much more he can take.

The valet pulls up to the curb with his car and John hands him a tip as he walks by. Santino’s penthouse condo wasn’t too far away, just over the bridge and into Manhattan.

John is waved into the garage by security and he parks next to one of Santino’s many, but mostly unused, sports cars, before heading to the elevator.

When he arrives, a few members of Santino’s entourage were relaxing around his penthouse.

Ares plays a video game with a few of her co-bodyguards. She throws him a smirk as John is wanded down by another member of Santino’s protection.

Her hands move in a blur as she signs you still alive, old man?

John rolls his eyes and signs back Respect your elders.

Ares only grins wider I’d rather respect your girlfriend. I’ve seen the pictures. She has a nice ass .

Not knowing how to respond to that, John just shakes his head and moves further into the penthouse suite. Santino appears at the balcony, always one to make an entrance, and descends down the stairs.

“John! Always a pleasure. Café?”

John nods, “Si. Gratzi.”

Santino motions with a hand and leads John to a kitchen where two more of his men were sitting. Both regard John with interest but he ignores their stares. Santino barks an order in Italian and one of them stands to make the espresso.

“You’ll have to forgive the mess,” Santino says, although John has noticed no mess to speak of, “My father and sister are visiting.”

John hums, “Are they here?”

“No, no. Gianna doesn’t travel often and prefers to use the advantages of the Continental whenever she does. My father is staying with a business associate.”

John didn’t understand much of politics, but he was well aware that business associate meant mistress in this case. He says nothing as Santino’s henchman hands them each a small cup.

“Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” Santino asks.

John glances around not so subtly and Santino gives another order. The men vacate the room and John can hear them passing on to others outside the kitchen that it is time to leave.

“I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors going around.”

“Ah, but I never believe such fickle things.”

That was a lie, but John let it slide. He didn’t come here to argue with the Italian mafiaso after all. He can hear the swing of the door and he glances back. Ares has come in.

“I hope you don’t mind, John, but I do prefer to keep my head of security close at all times.”

He resists the urge to roll his eyes but nods, signing as he speaks, for Ares benefit, “Of course.”

Santino offers a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes and John finds himself doubting that this is a good idea.

Remember your promise , he thinks. He will come home.

“Now, please,” Santino says, “Enlighten me with the truth.”

“The rumors,” John admits, “are largely true.”

“But not entirely?” Santino leans forward.

“Is anything entirely true?” John evades with a practiced ease.

“Is she your girlfriend?”

“We’ve never technically put such a label on our relationship.” Not technically a lie, John thinks. “But for all intents and purposes, she is mine .”

Santino grins broadly, already rapt by the drama of it all. John will never understand the Mafioso’s fascination with such things. Truthfully, John isn’t certain why anybody gives a damn about the lives of people they don’t care about but that’s another matter entirely.

“Mio Dio, John. I did not think you had it in you.”

He barely withholds another eyeroll.

“And now what? You destroy New York piece by piece, until there’s no one left to harm her?”

“That’s plan B.”

“And plan A?”

John swallows down the espresso, keeping an eye on Ares as he prepares to explain.

“Mateo DeLuca holds the hit over Helen. I’m sure you’re familiar with him.”

“We’ve never actually met.” Santino says, “But he is my cousin.”

John nods once, “And of his mother?”

“Isabella. My dear aunt Valentina’s daughter. Until she disowned and dishonored her family to marry that scoundrel, Dante. Quite the tragic affair, although I was too young to remember.”

“She remembers you.” John says, “She’s ordered your death, along with that of your father and sister, in exchange for the release of Helen’s contract.”

Ares moves fast but John is faster. He grabs a cutting board from the island and uses it to catch the two knives she throws at him before he discards it, throwing it to the floor.

“Relax!” He says as he signs, before turning back to Santino, “If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t have offered you an explanation. I’d have killed you the moment you walked in.”

Santino looks to his guard, quietly ordering her to stand down, before looking back at John. “Go on.”

“They want the Camorra.” John says before taunting, “And it would be easy enough to give them. Except I don’t trust them. Nor do I like the idea of the High Table coming after me while DeLuca takes Rome, free of consequence.”

“I take it you have a plan?”

“It would require your cooperation, as well as that of your father and sister.”

“How so?” There is a glint of excitement in Santino’s eyes that John really doesn’t understand but he isn’t going to complain if it means the mafiaso is willing to help.

John glances to Ares, who has her arms crossed and is still watching him with suspicion. “We’ll need to stage your death. I’ll take photographic evidence to give to DeLuca. Once he exchanges his end of the bargain, you can present the DeLuca’s to the High Table to be tried for treason.”

“And you walk away with the girl.” Santino hums, shaking his shoulders as he considers it, “How exciting! How would you like to fake my death? Strangle me? Pretend to cut me open, hmm?”

Unbelievable. It takes him a moment to even remember to speak, “I was thinking fake a bullet to the head. It doesn’t leave much room for questioning.”

“Are we to do this now?” Santino is practically bouncing.

Again, John is tempted to just yell what the fuck but withholds with a shake of his head.

“I was hoping to speak with your father, first. But yes, it would be today. If I’m seen coming and going while you are obviously alive, DeLuca might suspect that I’ve tipped you off.”

“Wonderful!”

“You’d have to stay in hiding for two days.” John says, “And no one can know. Not even your entourage or security. Save Ares.”

“Yes, yes!” Santino nods, “They will mourn their loss only for me to rise, like Christo.”

He swears he catches Ares rolling her eyes while Santino considers how to best spin faking his death. Not that she’d ever admit it. She was too loyal. A rare quality in the Underworld, but one John respected nonetheless.

“Can you get a hold of your father remotely?” John asks, “Over video call?”

“Of course!” Santino gives instructions to Ares. She nods and leaves the room, “New video conferencing on top-of-the-line laptop. Just released from Geneva. It’s untraceable, unhackable.”

The other assassin returns with the laptop and sets it up for Santino. The heir calls his father while John closes his eyes. The youngest D’Antonio had been an easy sell—willing to play dead for the shock value and entertainment factors alone. And while John was certain Lorenzo would be swayed by Isabella’s involvement, he was aware that Lorenzo might take a bit more pushing.

The call is picked up by one of Lorenzo’s bodyguards.

John is aware that high-ranking members of the Underworld kept hired guns, and particularly members of the High Table required guarding, but it still throws him.

John, who can barely stand the presence of friends, cannot understand the appeal of such things. Or the inability to take care of one’s self.

After a few minutes, Lorenzo is brought to the computer. He settles down in front of it, peering at the camera. A rush of Italian parts from his lips and John finds himself code-switching quickly, trying to change the language his brain would accept.

“I told you, I would see you Friday before I left—” Lorenzo was saying, his voice dripping with disdain.

“Yes, father, but I have John Wick here to speak with you.”

Santino turns the camera towards John.

“John!” Lorenzo says in surprise, “I was hoping to see you on my visit. When I heard about your… conundrum, I assumed you would be too busy.”

“Lorenzo,” John steps closer to the camera, “It’s about that matter I wish to speak with you.”

And it all comes out.

The involvement of the DeLuca’s. Isabella’s slow, careful takeover of the Syndicate. Playing kingmaker to her son and murdering her husband, all in quest of taking back the Camorra.

The contract on Helen’s life.

How, despite the contract, John doesn’t trust the Syndicate crime family.

“That whore .” Lorenzo spits out, when John has finished, “She gets that from her mother. Being a princess in the Camorra was not enough.” The old man shakes his head, “Her ambition is her downfall.”

“You can have them tried at the High Table for their treason.” John nudges.

Lorenzo certainly perks up at that. What a display that could be. The Camorra annihilating its number one competitor, publicly.

“I’ll testify for the High Table.” He continues, “All I ask is a few hours of your time. And that of your children.”

“I don’t like the idea of playing a dead man.” Lorenzo replies uncertainly, “It would look weak.”

“Only for you to rise from the grave, seizing what has fallen in DeLuca’s absence. Syndicate could be yours.”

Lorenzo considers it, a smile breaking upon his face. “Alright, John. Tell me your plan.”

....

thanks to @meetmeinthematinee​ for reviewing it before I posted this :)

[sirenfromthelostcity]

The Most Pt. 2: Dangerous Woman

A/N: Sorry if this has any errors that i’ve missed to correct when i was quickly reading it over, i just wanted to finally post it as y’all have waited long enough. I accidentally turned this into a bigger thing so this might actually have like 2 more parts. Personally i’m feeling kinda iffy about this part, partially bc it was kinda rushed but that was my fault. Still tho i hope you like it! The story changed in direction so many times lol but i really hope you like the final result of this part. As always, massive thanks to everyone who has bothered to read pt 1 and return for a pt 2! Feedback is always appreciated :) Enjoy!

P.S. I normally write my flashback scenes in italics but idk why in the last part it didn’t post that way. 

Words: 3.3k+

The silence was unbearable. In fact, it’s been unbearable since you first departed John’s house for The Continental. Things certainly haven’t been the same since your outburst four days ago. Now here you both are, entering the elevator to take you to the lounge room where you are to meet your father and uncle Winston to officially mark John’s completion of the marker.

“So, this contract my father has for me must be quite important for him to have cut our training so short,” you remarked, no longer bearing the silence.

“I suppose,” he replied.

“Still, you must be excited.” 

“I must be?” he frowned, turning his head to face you but you remained looking ahead.

“Today’s the day you’re set free. I know how much you hated being bound to the marker.”

“It wasn’t an easy transition for me in the beginning,” he admitted, “but I did enjoy my time with you... more than I expected to.”

“As did I,” you finally glance at him before licking your lips and dropping your gaze to your feet. “Listen, John, I’m sorry for the way I’ve been acting these past few days,” you recalled the day of your outburst in training and the next few days that followed. “To tell you the truth, it’s really not how I would’ve preferred to spend our last few days together.”

“How would you have liked for us to spend our last few days together then?”

For a moment you were at a loss for words. He used the same words you had previously spoken yet it felt like they had a different undertone.

“Uh, probably more together–– wait that came out wrong. I think. I just meant I was kinda isolating myself and acting pretty distant and… and had I known my dad was gonna end my training so soon ...” 

You hesitated, not quite so sure what to say. You questioned if it was even worth trying to say. John’s eyes implored you to go on but since you wouldn’t he decided to confess something.

“On the night of your father’s call, I tried to convince him to at least let you finish the full five years we had initially agreed on.”

“Why would you do that?” you frown in confusion and concernment. “You don’t think I’m ready?”

“No. I know you’re more than capable of handling yourself.”

“Aww that’s sweet, can’t take all the credit though. I had a really great teacher. He was tough on me sometimes but I know he was just trying to push me to be my best,” you jest. “So then why did you want to complete the full five years, you afraid you’re gonna miss me?”

 “I know I’m gonna miss you,” his words, although so simple, were heavy with sadness. Though he wasn’t even trying to hide his sadness the task would’ve proved itself impossible for both his sorrow and vulnerability was evidently reflected in his eyes. You couldn’t help but stare back at him with the same sorrow and vulnerability reflected in your own eyes.

You were both so caught in the moment neither of you even noticed the elevator doors open. John attempted to say something but was quickly caught off by your uncle addressing your arrival.

“Ah! There they are,” Winston motioned towards you both.

“Uncle Winston!” You say in both surprise and slight annoyance for interrupting the moment.

“Winston,” John greeted your uncle before the both of you were ushered into the lounge room together.

After your father officially marked John’s completion of the marker in the book, he immediately lead you to sit down with him at a different area of the room for privacy. You felt John’s eyes follow you and caught him stealing a few glances your way during your conversation. At one point it seemed as if John was going to make his way to you but your uncle Winston decided to steal him for a chat instead. 

That was the last time you saw John Wick. Until now. 

Staring at you from across the entrance of a nearly empty warehouse, John stands completely surprised to see you for the first time in nearly two months, “(Y/N)?”

“John?” you reply, just as shocked.  “What brings you to these parts of town? You’re not here to kill me are you?”

“No,” he furrows his brows, as if he’d ever take that contract. If anything, he knows he’d stop at nothing to ensure that contract is revoked. “But I am here for business.”

“Small world, so am I.”

“I didn’t know you were back in the city,” he states.

“Don’t take it personal, no one’s supposed to know I’m back,” you begin to approach him. “However, I was planning on visiting you after I finished sorting everything out with this contract. I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

“So have I,” he begins to amble towards you till you meet, his eyes never leaving your form as you saunter towards him. 

As you approach him you can’t help but admire how handsome he looks and how much you’ve missed seeing him. Little to your knowledge, John is doing the exact same. 

You’ve always recognized John as an attractive man and tonight is no different. Although you’re more used to seeing his long hair styled more casual, almost ruffled, seeing it tamed in a slicked back fashion sends shivers down your spine accompanied with wild thoughts of having it tousled within your fingers. John owns a variety of suits, as it’s practically a requirement in your world, but you absolutely love how they adorn his body and compliment his tall form, especially the all black suit he wears now. You’ve seen John in his Baba Yaga mode before and have to admit his look is as delicious as he is dangerous.

As for you, this is the first time John’s ever seen you in your business mode and unsurprisingly to him, you look as stunning as you are lethal. Your attire essentially consist of only one color, black, but the color suits everyone and you’re no exception. Your garments consist of a simple v-neck long sleeve shirt tucked into your jeans and tall comfortable leather boots. To top it all off you wear a sleek leather jacket, one John can’t help but adore how well it flatters you. Simple garments indeed but to John you’ve always looked comely no matter what you wore. 

“What a very small world indeed,” you both halt to a stop as you finally meet. “What are the chances that you and I, both with the intention of seeking and reuniting with the other, just so happen to cross paths at the same warehouse in New York?”

“Very slim. Although I am glad to see,” you heart flutters at this revelation, “this does seem a little suspicious.”

“Who did you say you were here for?” you question.

“I didn’t, but I’m here for Robert O’Riley.”

“So am I,” you frown. “I don’t understand, I was told this wasn’t an open contract.”

“I was told the same,” John takes a moment to assess the situation but it doesn’t take long for him to realize he doesn’t like it. He glances at you before taking your hand in his and heading towards the exit.

“Wait, where are we going?” you inquire, jogging behind him 

“Away from here. I don’t like this.”

Before you and John could officially reach the exit the doors burst open in an explosive manner, sending you two flying back onto the ground. Along with a slight ringing in your ear, you hear a window break as another explosion goes off, instinctively covering your head to shelter yourself from the debris. At least three more explosions go off, the entire warehouse is now decorated in fire, smoke, and shattered glass. 

“(Y/N)?!” John screams out for you.

“I’m fine! Where are you- AHH!” you suddenly get an excruciating pain pulsing through the left side of your lower abdomen as you attempt to sit up. You look down only to see a large piece of broken glass sticking out of you. “Not good.” 

You yelp in pain as you extract the shard of glass from your body and promptly apply pressure to the bleeding wound.

Despite the pain you rise up to your feet, “John!” you call out, coughing and limping your way through the smoke. 

“(Y/N)!” John calls out from behind you, relieved to see you alive.

You turn around and the two of your make your way to each other. 

John immediately spots your bloodied hand covering your lower abdomen and the concern within him speedily rises. 

Seeing his concern you swat your hand through the air in a nonchalant manner, “It’s really not that bad,” you lie. 

John shakes his head, seeing through your white lie. Still, he knows he’d rather assess your injury outside than in a burning building.

“I know a way out,” he coughs.

Noticing your limp, he wraps your arm around his shoulder before wrapping an arm around your waist to help you walk. Together you exit the burning building. 

As you both continue to walk together you suddenly holt as you hear movement and the sound of car doors opening and slamming shut, “Wait, someone’s here.”

The both of you remain hidden in the darkness but as you near the luminescence of a street light, you see at least six men all clad in suits huddling up to one man.

“Perché siamo ancora qui? L'edificio è sul fuoco del cazzo! (Why are we still here? The building is on fucking fire)” says one of the men with a hand up in the air, motioning to the burning building.

“Because, you dumbfuck,” the main mobster turns to directly rebuke his partner, “it’s (Y/N) (Y/L/N) and John Wick.” 

“She’s back?!” trembles another. “And he’s here too?!”

“The fu- were you not listening the entire car ride here?!”

“They’re just two people,” the first ruffian exasperatedly drops his hands to his sides. “I don’t get why you had to bring a whole cavalry for this.” 

Three more cars arrive and several more men begin to exit the vehicles.

“Do not, I repeat, do not underestimate them. They are two people that have proven multiple times to be very difficult to kill. We’re just here to make sure the job is finally done.”

“Matteo, you really think they’re still alive?”

“Doesn’t matter what I think. Valentino is not ruling anything out, so we’re here.”

You recognize the name and frown in perplexity. You know exactly who the mob leader is referring to but cannot recall ever crossing paths with him either in your personal or professional life. However, the same cannot be said for John.

“What do you want us to do?” chimes in another mobman. 

“Look around the place, make sure no one besides us leaves this place alive. Boss wants no loose ends, capire (understand)?” he commands. 

“Inteso (understood),” several of the men mutter.

“John we have to split up,” you whisper. 

“My car is right there,” he nods to his vehicle a couple meters away. 

“Okay but they are most definitely gonna shoot at us either as we run to it or as we’re driving away. I don’t wanna risk that.”

“You’re in a really bad condition right now and I’m not gonna risk that.”

“But John–” you grumble and he cuts you off.

“We stick to the shadows. You need to get patched up.”

Although endearing, John’s sudden protective nature of you slightly annoys you. With him being the man that’s trained you for nearly five years you’d think he’d have a little more faith in you. Nonetheless, you stick to John’s plan of sneaking your way to the car and it works. That is until you encounter one of Valentino’s thugs taking a presumably unapproved smoke break. 

The man’s eyes go wide in shock and horror as the sight of both you and John was certainly not something he anticipated despite the warnings from earlier. Using his shock to your advantage you quickly push John into cover before outdrawing the mobman and expertly shooting him twice in the gut and once in the head for good measure. You immediately run for cover behind an empty car as the body drops to the ground. John sees a man aim at you and immediately shoots him in the head before any harm can be done, any harm towards you at least. With those shots fired, the battle begins. 

You skillfully maneuver your way around different covers, successfully eliminating the mob men one by one. Never straying far from you, John swiftly does the same until there's no one left but the two of you. You take a quick look around your surroundings to make sure the threat is over. Upon spotting John your lips twitch into a small smile, relieved that he’s okay. However, as your adrenaline begins to fade, the pain from your wound returns and your breathing becomes heavy. You slide down against a car with a grunt and John is instantly at your side hovering down to pick you up and take you to his car. 

“I got you,” he says, rushing to get to his car with you in his arms. 

Once he finally has you situated in your seat, he gets into his own and begins to race to the nearest motel at breakneck speed. Although John would much rather prefer to take you to The Continental, he knows you’ve already lost a lot of blood and is not going to risk the long drive there.

“John, I’m cold,” you say, breathlessly. 

“I know sweetheart, just stay with me we’re almost there,” his hand reaches over to inspect your wound and the fear within him rises more as he feels how soaked your hand is from your own blood. His hand overlaps your own, assisting you in applying pressure onto the wound.

You exhaustedly giggle at the new nickname, “John I have to tell you something, just in case–”

“Please don’t talk like that, (Y/N),” he says to you distraught. “We’re nearly there.”

“But John I–”

“What day is it?” he asks.

“What?”

“I need you to stay conscious. What day is it?”

“I’m trying to tell you something.”

“You can tell me that when you’re feeling better. Please, what day is it?”

You stay silent to actually think about it for a second, your mind feeling fuzzy, “.... Friday…. It’s now Friday...”

“Cats or dogs?”

“What?”

“Cats or dogs?”

“... That’s hard… they’re both so cute …. I love your dog though… dogs.”

“Day time or night time?”

“... Night time… definitely night time..” 

“... Boy or girl?”

“What?”

“If given the chance would you want to have a girl or boy?”

“That’s easy… I’ll take either… so long as I love the person I’m having ‘em with … I know I’ll love the kid no matter what..”

John looks at you for a moment before focusing back to the road but his look can be described as nothing but doting and warm. To his relief the motel comes into his view and he drives into the parking lot. 

“I’ll be back,” he says, exiting the car to get you two a room.

“I”ll be here,” you pant. “Sitting...”

On approaching the check in desk, John, looking like he’s just escaped from a burning building, briefly scares the man behind the desk. He orders a room for two with separate beds and pays the clerk extra for discretion and privacy. Before leaving he asks the clerk, Dave, if the rooms have first aid kits. 

“Uh yeah, all our rooms have them. They’re in the bathroom under the sink.”

“Thank you,” John nods before quickly exiting the front desk area and heading straight to you. 

At once John is opening your door and helping you out of the car and into your room. He quickly turns on the lights and seats you on a chair next to a round wooden table. As told, John finds the first aid kit in the bathroom then proceeds to disinfect his hands before helping you take off your jacket then sitting on the empty seat in front of you and fixing your wound. To both the relief of John and you, the shard didn’t break in you so he is able to clean the wound quickly. Unfortunately for you, your wound requires stitches. It’s not information you didn’t know but it is something you’re not looking forward to and John sees it when he catches you glare at the needle and thread in his hands. 

“You’ve never gotten stitches before?” he asks.

“I’ve tried really hard to avoid them.”

“I have to do this,” he says and you silently nod in acknowledgment. “It’ll be over before you know it. Just, think about something else.”

“Like what?”

“Anything. What do you wanna do after this?” 

“Sleep,” you blatantly reply, your eyes slowly blinking. 

“No, no, no, you’ll get to do that but not now. You need to stay with me. What do you wanna do when this is all over?”

“Um,” you think. “The beach… I’d like to go to the beach…” 

“Why the beach?” he asks, you feel the needle prick your skin and wince at the pain. 

“Why the beach?” he repeats, continuing with stitching you up.

“... It’s been a really long time for me since I’ve been on one… since I felt the waves graze my feet … and crash into my body…”

“Tell me more.”

“I wanna feel the winds of the sea flow through my hair… and the sand…. soft against my skin …. Will you go with me?”

He pauses in his work to look at you, “Of course I’ll go with you, sweetheart.”

You smile, “There it is again.”

“What?”

“That nickname.”

“You don’t like it?”

“No, I love it. Just wasn’t expecting it.”

“I don’t think any of us really expected anything that happened tonight.”

“You’re right about that,” you giggle. 

“All done,” he says as he finishes closing the stitch. “How do you feel?”

“Tired and light…. Guess that’s expected though, I lost a lot of blood.”

John silently listens and watches you intently. You wonder what thoughts are going through his mind.

“Thank you, John,” you start, “you saved my life tonight.”

“No need to thank me, (Y/N),” he reaches for your hand and gently squeezes it. “Thank you protecting mine earlier.”

You suddenly remember the big gun fight that erupted maybe an hour ago, “Oh yeah, nearly forgot about that. It was nothing, my instincts just kicked in then. Told you it was gonna happen, one way or another. But you were so worried about me.”

“Sweetheart I’ll always worry about you. I know you can handle yourself but the situation was different.”

“I get it,” you nod. 

John quickly looks you over before rising from his seat and helping you get up from yours. 

“Where we going?” you ask.

“You need to get cleaned up to get some rest and you can’t do that here. Not when someone is clearly out to get us. We’re going to The Continental.”

[bcdygucrds]

The call comes at three in the morning, inconvenient at best, devastating at worst when John’s woken from a very pleasant dream about a vacation in the Caribbean. He’d told his sources (Lyla’s sources, but he likes to think he still has connections despite his years away from the armed forces) to contact him with any suspicious information about Slabeside, and he doesn’t begrudge the call--but he does answer it with slightly less tact than he normally would have.

“This is Diggle.” He barks into the receiver, careful to keep his volume low so as not to wake Lyla. The voice croaking back at him is that of an old squad commander Lyla had known before they got back stateside. Daniels had saved both their lives more than a few times, and the favors between them were starting to rack up.

“John, we’ve got a problem. There’s--” It’s subtle, but the hesitation is easy enough to track when you know the person you’re talking to. “--The prison’s going on lockdown. Nothing in or out. I don’t know for certain, but I’ve got a hunch your guy’s to blame. I don’t know what he’s planning, but I don’t think it’ll be good for Oliver.”

John sighs, shifting slightly so he’s further away from Lyla. “When is the lockdown happening?”

Silence fills the receiver for a moment--a terrible sign. “We got the order an hour ago. I...I’m not sure if we’re going to be enough to stop whatever’s coming.” Daniels says, referring to the small number of guards John can be sure are actually on the side of good.

“You found out about this an hour ago and you’re just calling me now? Damnit, we’re losing time.” He’s being unfair to Daniels, and to the situation, but he’s tired, and the tiniest bit cranky, and very worried about Oliver. He sighs again. “I need you to get me in there. A visitor pass. A guards uniform. Whatever you have to do--I need to be on the inside of those walls by tomorrow.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” The call ends with a click, leaving John with only the ever-growing weigh of his concerns. If Diaz is really messing with Slabeside, it’s for one reason only: The Emerald Archer himself. And while John had meant it when he’d promised to be the last thing standing between Oliver Queen and death, he hadn’t expected that moment to come quite so soon.

Their bond, their brotherhood, was strong enough to weather any storm, but death would be a brink they hadn’t crossed, a channel they hadn’t navigated. John, for one thing, didn’t really want to live in a world where Oliver didn’t exist anymore. He knew the rest of Oliver’s family felt the same way.

He turns to lay back down in bed and finds Lyla on her side, eyes wide and staring at him. He appreciates her quite presence, calming in a way he’d never found anything else. She waits for him to speak, to explain the situation, and although it takes him far too long to find the words, she’s there when he does.

“I have to do something dangerous tomorrow,” He starts, and she laughs.

“What, instead of the perfectly safe and normal nocturnal activities you usually get up to?” Her pretty mouth is quirked up into a grin, but he can still read the worry in her eyes.

“Lyla please.” John asks, practically begs, because if he’s going to have to say goodbye he wants to do it right. “I have to go help Oliver tomorrow, and I don’t know how it’s gonna go. But he’s in a real bad way, and I can’t leave him there. Diaz has locked down the prison.”

Lyla pulls him closer and wraps her arms around as much of him as she can. “We don’t say goodbye, John. That’s not who we are. So you go rescue your brother tomorrow, and then you come home for dinner, understand?“

It’s the only moment of softness she’ll allow him before she’s rolling away and pulling out her laptop, fingers clacking furiously over the keys before he can register that she’s moved.

“I’ll make a few calls and see if I can’t get Richard Smith transferred in a new night watchman.” She promised him, mouth stressing the syllables to the fake name he’d once used on a covert mission to break up a smuggling ring. It’s not his favorite alias, but it’s got the papers he needs to get him where he wants to go as fast as possible, and he needs the element of surprise on this one.

“Lyla if I wasn’t already married to you, I’d propose right now.” He promises her, and she gives him a wicked grin.

“Third time’s the charm.”

-

He enters Slabeside with relative ease for a building that’s supposedly on lockdown, and it’s suspicious. He’s on edge, waiting for someone to pop out of the shadows and rip off his helmet, but no such attacks come.

He begins to wonder if Diaz has sent the majority of the guards home, citing the lack of prisoner movement as a reason for sending them all away. John believes his reasoning lies closer to a desire to brutalize those in cells with as few bleeding hearts around as possible, but he’s biased.

The guard uniform Lyla and Daniels had procured is itchy, and far too tight around his shoulders, but he likes to think it adds to the intimidation factor of his silhouette. He’d told no one but his wife about this visit to the prison--a fear of who might have access to their phone lines keeping from informing anyone else who might be in danger from the information--but their combined skillset was more than enough to bypass a few security cameras and avoid some guards.

Oliver was being kept on the other side of the prison, the wing for serious offenders, and the thought hurt John to the core. Oliver, as a person, wasn’t violent. He wasn’t inherently build or bred for destruction, and John knew that he lost a piece of himself in every punch he threw. Oliver didn’t belong trapped in a wing with some of the most violent criminals Star City had to offer.

He’d asked Daniels to have Oliver taken to the med bay around nine PM, a luxury he was certain Diaz would attempt to deny, but there was no way around it. They needed him out of the cell for this plan to work.

The blow to the ribs was necessary, a cover so they could give him the signs and symptoms of internal bleeding. Diaz was petty, but he was also proud, and John was counting on him wanting to take his prize himself. Daniels had given the all clear over fifteen minutes ago, and it was down to John to locate, extract, and get Oliver to safety.

He counts the door numbers down, lower and lower and lower until.....finally. Footsteps as quiet as he can make them, but still too loud for the empty hallway he’s in, he steps up to the tiny window and whispers: “Ollie? Come on man, please be in there. I didn’t come all this way just to get the wrong room.”

@themanbeneaththehood

[itsyourchoicedevotionals]

Active Part

“Jesus replied, “I tell you the truth, unless you are born again, you cannot see the Kingdom of God.” John 3:3NLT

Another died. Everyone knowing him understood what his life was about, drugs, porn, partying. Was his name ever written in the Lamb’s Book of Life? He and Jesus are the only ones who hold that answer. Jesus said, we could inspect fruit for evidence of Christ in a person’s life. Peace— seemingly non-existent. Joy— unseen. Goodness— would help anyone. Patience— rarely. Kindness— very kind when not high. Faithfulness— only to addictions. Love— all about self.

Is it possible, he’s in heaven? According to his family, he’s finally at peace in heaven. An overdose took his life. Could he repent, as he was dying? Only God knows. Reading our text, “unless you are born again, you cannot see the Kingdom of God,” fake gospel being preached, teaches— everyone goes to heaven. Not.

Yes. Jesus paid for EVERYONE’S sins by being tortured and dying on the cross. Jesus suffered more than all others. Satan extracted his total hatred of God and mankind in the punishment Jesus endured. The work of the cross did everything necessary to pay for all sin forever.

Each person has an active part to play in accessing the redemption of the cross for themself. How? Our heart choice has to be— ‘I make Jesus Lord and Master of every single aspect of my life.’

Word ‘Lord’ means— “someone or something having power, authority, or influence, a master or ruler.” ‘Master’ means “a person with the ability or power to use, control, or dispose of something… an owner of enslaved people in the institution of slavery.” Many people mouth the words, ‘I accept Jesus as my Lord,’ without having a clue to the word’s meaning.

Not only clueless of the meaning, these words are often spoken nonchalantly. Do insincere words equate ‘born again?’ An article written by a preacher said, in his younger years, he’d prayed the sinner’s pray with the 700 Club at least fifty times. Nothing changed because his heart wasn’t sincere about the words. (My thoughts: something must’ve been working in his spirit to cause him to fall at an altar, time number fifty-one.) Who are we to judge God’s faithfulness and the heart’s cry? “…The LORD does not look at the things people look at. People look at the outward appearance, but the LORD looks at the heart.” 1Samuel 16:7NIV. Often my mind doesn’t know what my heart is crying out. God holds those answers.

Our nation much resembles the man who overdosed. Face it— we need repentance nationally. If you look at the news media— hate, murder, drugs, sex sins, drunkenness, skepticism all reign as ‘lord’ over this nation. Many churches teach non-offensive gospel, or ‘grace reigns’ sinning is fine, you’re covered. What sins? i.e. “Do you not know that the wicked will not inherit the kingdom of God? Do not be deceived: Neither the sexually immoral, nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor men who submit to or perform homosexual acts, nor thieves, nor the greedy, nor drunkards, nor verbal abusers, nor swindlers, will inherit the kingdom of God.” 1Corinthians 6:9-10BSB. God’s Word is quite plain.

There are thousands, if not millions, who’ve NOT bowed their knees to Baal, and Moloch in the USA. Those people, who worship Yahweh alone, have washed their garments in the blood of Jesus, see Revelation 7:14.

God loves you. We call out to everyone trapped in sin: repent and be saved. Receive Jesus as your Lord to be born again.

Nationally, we need to be born again. How can this happen? By repenting for our nation, asking Jesus to be Lord and Master, one again. Are you one of those born again? It’s your choice. You choose.

PRAYER: Father God help people to pray with heartfelt meaning the words, forgive my sins. Come into my heart and be my Lord, in the name of Jesus Christ I pray.

by Debbie Veilleux Copyright 2021 You have my permission to reblog this devotional for others. Please keep my name with this devotional, as author. Thank you.

[welcometoels]

Intermission - Oddsock’s Dream

[Due to last minute unavailability of one of our players, we abandoned our usual DnD session in favour of a run of The Witch Is Dead - a one page RPG by Grant Howitt.  Matt (Oddsock) took the helm and has supplied the below notes for your delectation and delight.  Art provided by the players, with John (Kadis) as Sock-Sod, Laura (Julius) as Cleo and me (DM) as Mister Champion of Industry]

On the hearth of the Jaunty Skinner, swaddled in an otter and fey weasel, an adorable golden retriever dreams. Oddsock dreams of home and the hours spent chasing butterflies. He dreams of the rival of youth Ghedahn the Paladin. He dreams a truly disturbing and mysterious dream.

He dreams about a witch.

She has just been murdered.

The witch hunter has left her well-appointed cottage in a mess and her body has just been found by her 3 currently present familiars. They are: Cleo the cat with the power to make plants grow, Sock-Sod a chocolate Labrador with the ability to open and close things, and finally Mister Champion of Industry a spider who can speak to humans. His name arising from a flyer he found in a bin from a corporate event. Distraught at the murder of the witch who taught them their powers (Ethel the Magnificent, purveyor of card tricks) they set out to claim the eyes of the witch hunter to resurrect her.

Opening the door to get a scent (or just to find a trail of bloody footprints) Sock-Sod, ridden by Mr Champion of Industry (MCoI) emerge to find themselves on the wrong side of the A405 North Orbital, between the M1 and the M25 just outside of Bricket Wood, near St Albans. Our erstwhile troupe make their way into the town and find many of the townsfolk heading towards some kind of gathering. They’re dressed in white and yellow regalia and greeting each other with a gesture representing the sun. The sound of an amplified voice drifts over the town. MCoI has no idea what it’s saying.

Spying a merchant selling white and yellow pinwheels to the children of the town Cleo climbs onto the windowsill of the hairdresser, successfully pouncing, snaffling her prize and leading the party down an alley. As a result they narrowly miss the emergence of a figure wearing a cuirass, leather gloves and heavy boots with a broadsword strapped to his back emerging from Londis with a couple of bottles of wicked strength cider, one of which he opens up and starts quaffing in the mouth of the alleyway. Seeing him as he starts to stride away the party try to catch up. Sock-Sod once again tries to catch a scent and sees him as a vivid streak of lime green vapourised alcohol striding off towards the Bricket Wood social club.

Making haste the party arrive to find that their quarry is nowhere to be seen. Upon the dais a man hand cranks a steel wire egg, contained within are multiple coloured spheres. Also seated there are a man wearing a gaudy chain and white and yellow robes, and a mysterious figure wearing an old leather coat and a wide brimmed had. Sock-Sod is eager to get his paws on one of those round things, but the chap running the tombola is having none of it. Meanwhile Cleo has an idea for a foolproof disguise for the party that will enable them to move unseen. She stalks the perimeter until she finds what she’s looking for, a balled up tablecloth from the hog roast blown against the fence! Quickly forming an animal stack of Cleo standing on Sock-Sod with MCoI remaining on top for full visual capability. MCoI promises promotions and leveraged synergies for all.

[Oddsock snores and repositions]

MEANWHILE: another of the witch’s familiars, a Hare named Michael with the magic ability to clean blood out of upholstery waits at a train station having attended a hedge-witchery conference in Harrogate. The platform is filled with a menagerie of animals wearing lanyards. A local news crew has arrived on the scene. Michael rolls his eyes.

Sock-Sod notices an increase in the lime green tang in his olfactory view and the animal stack notices some heavy leather boots making their way through the cloud. The disguise is almost immediately shed resulting in a second plan being formulated involving bunting. Cleo manages to defy gravity in the way that only cats can when clutching any wall fixture and releases it from one end. The other end is suspended from a pole by the hook-a-duck stand. Sock-Sod and MCoI ably demand that the hook-a-duck hook-on-a-stick is handed over whilst Cleo shimmies up the pole. She sends the bunting fluttering to the ground before gracefully falling straight into the middle of the water bath, scattering the rubber ducks. Fortunately her allies are quickly able to extract the now ferocious feline.

On stage an argument has started betwixt the leather clad drunken upstart and the shadowy figure who turns out to be an elderly gentleman. These two are rival witch hunters!

MEANWHILE: Michael-the-blood-stain-removing-hare has been able to upgrade to weekend first class, but unfortunately is sat next to a racist granny who keeps trying to talk to him. He just wants to drink his godawful rail coffee and get home.

The young upstart witch hunter (Mr Eustace Eustace III) challenges the older witch hunter (Simon Menzies) to a Challenge of the Brotherhood at… THE GATE. The man with the gaudy chain, The Baron, announces to the townsfolk, peasantry and merchants that they were indeed in for a treat and that we would all be processing down to the gate for the ritual challenge. Our trio of familiars follows along, MCoI scales to the peak of Simon Menzies and discovers that HE was the hunter that had murdered Ethel the Magnificent at the behest of the baron for her obnoxious close up magic routine that would often plague the town centre. Reporting back on his findings the animal parliament agreed that they would sabotage the chances of Eustace Eustace so that they could exact revenge on Mr Menzies.

MEANWHILE: A traffic jam. Michael gazes out of the window of his rail replacement bus service at Kettering High Street where the bus is stuck at a set of 4 way control traffic lights. Guess who has come to sit next to him.

Arriving at THE GATE, which turned out to be a large vertical circle of stone with attached bar and gift shop. Looking through the currently inactive GATE shows a view over fields, but after Mr Menzies lights the blue touch paper it is filled with a tornado of rocks. The baron announces the rules. “Each Witch Hunter, in the tradition of the brotherhood, must deliver the best performance of Wonderwall followed by Angels using a performance style of their choosing. The worst performer will be cast into THE GATE and the winner will be known henceforth as the greatest witch hunter.”

Simon starts a painful rendition on an acoustic guitar that he clearly has limited familiarity with, whilst Eustace slides a Rectangle of Great Storage to the sound artificer who inserts it into his own larger glowing silver rectangle, which displays on the back a banana with a little bite taken out of the wrong side of the curve. An array of animal distraction ensure with Sod-Sock giving the engineer puppy dog eyes, Cleo going full cat on the laptop keyboard and MCoI promising promotions for all upon completion of a successful project. As Mr Menzies finishes his set the sound artificer attempts to start up Eustace’s backing tracks only to find his laptop furiously installing updates. So eutace tries it a capella and is cast through THE GATE.

MEANWHILE: A hare stands in an industrial estate in Hemel Hempstead whilst a now black eyed racist grandmother glowers at him from the window of the bus as it slowly pulls away. Michael hears a pop and a scream as a leather clad witch hunter drops from the sky into a skip in front of a van wholesalers.

With Eustace out of the way Simon is now entirely at their mercy. As he requests conveyance away from this place using his magical communications oblong Cleo tries to pounce upon him to no avail. As our heroes (?) pursue him towards the parish council car park MCoI uses his magical ability to speak human to distract the witch hunter, who foolishly and in reckless abandonment of the green cross code, stops in the middle of the highway and is immediately hit by an articulated lorry. Whilst ambulances are summoned Cleo and Sock-Sod make off with his eyes at high speed, motivated by the executive seminar stylings of MCoI.

Arriving home the witch is resurrected, a bedraggled hare arrives home not wanting to have to spend the next 8 hours cleaning up blood, and, finally a spidery specialist consultant in shifting paradigms and over promising motivational promotions is devoured by a cat.

A golden retriever jerks awake. He knows there was a dream, for some reason he was very, very small and used a lot of new and big words. It was very real to him indeed. But, as with all dreams it is already fading, and as Oddsock takes the comfy bit of the blanket away from Julius and settles back down it is already forgotten.

[chickensarentcheap]

Fandom: Extraction and John Wick

Pairing: Esme Drummond (Rake) and John Wick (platonic)

Face claims: Rachel Bilson and Keanu Reeves

@tragiclyhip @munstysmind @themaradwrites @thebejeweledwatercat @youflickedtooharddamnit @secretaryunpaid @mrsmungus @asirensrage @theesirenteller @residentdormouse @ninjasawakenedmystar @kmc1989 @karimac @alisbackalleybbq

AFTER THE CUT

“I think about her all the time,” Esme swallows around the lump of emotion sitting square in her throat. “Even now, after all these years. She was my first friend…my ONLY friend...here. Outside of the circle, anyway.”

“It’s hard. Making any connections beyond all this. Most people…regular people…wouldn’t understand. Why we do what we do.”

“I’m right in the middle of it all and most of the time I don’t even understand it. And I know it sounds horrible; to say I’m at least glad she was gone before I left the city and moved to Prague. Had she been alive, I don’t know if my heart could have taken it. Saying goodbye.”

“She thought very highly of you. Always had something amazing to say about you. She valued your friendship. She would tell me that you were the sister she never had. Say how she would have given up all four of hers for one of you.”

“She was an incredible woman. Just so beautiful and so talented. And she was so perfect for you. You were perfect for EACH OTHER.”

“And that’s why I feel like I owe you. Because you were the one that brought her into my life. I got a chance at normal because of you.”

“It was merely a blind date. I just thought you’d be good together. And you were. You were so good.”

“Helen was the best thing that ever happened to me. I never thought I’d get away from this life. I thought it would always be ‘live by the gun, die by the gun’’. It never occurred to me that I could have anything more than that. Or that I even deserved to.”

“You sound so much like Tyler. The number of times he used to question the same thing; whether or not he deserved having me in his life. When really, it’s always been me that hasn’t deserved him. And considering five years ago…what I did to him…how badly I hurt him…I honestly don’t. I don’t deserve him. He should hate me. Not want anything to do with me. Yet here he is.”

“He loves you. Just as fiercely as he did back then. If not more. And there’s an extra layer to that now. You’ve made a human being together. He’s a dad again. How could he ever hate you? You’re the mother of his child. You talk about Millie being the greatest gift you’ve ever been given? I bet he’s thinking the same thing.”

“He’s so good with her, John. He’s so patient and loving and attentive and looks at her like she’s the most incredible thing on earth. And that’s not even him going ‘all in’ when it comes to the whole dad thing. He’s been holding back; until we’re ready to tell Millie the truth. Yet he’s already so amazing with her.”

“After you took off, he probably never thought he’d get another chance at raising a kid. I don’t think he ever moved on. Not really.”

“He was seeing someone. But he admitted he just couldn’t invest in her. That he couldn’t be what she wanted. He tried, but…”

“It’s pretty hard to get over; meeting the one and then losing them. And sometimes you never do. You just accept it. That you missed your chance.”

“Do you think you’ll ever meet someone? Get a second chance? At love?”

Crossing his arms over his chest, he stares out the window. Taking in the brilliant blue sky and the sunshine that bounces off the windows of surrounding buildings and the leaves on the patio trees; brilliant shades of yellow, orange and red.

It’s been a long time since he’s paid attention to the details of the outside world; his entire existence has been painted in shades gray and black since the death of his wife. There’s a change coming; rolling in as quickly as the frigid temperatures that accompany late fall in New York City. And he can’t quite put a finger on it; if it’s a promise of re-birth or the warning of something dreadful and sinister.

“I’m not exactly looking for that kind of thing. Or remotely interested. I had my chance. And unfortunately, fate didn’t think I deserved it. A guy like me? Having someone like Helen? Getting a normal life? It was bound to happen; being punished for the things I’ve done. People I’ve hurt.”

“That’s not why Helen was taken from you, John. You weren’t being punished. You weren’t paying the price for your sins. She was sick. It was the luck of the draw. Unfortunately, very horrible luck. And I know that’s probably very easy for me to say because I’ve never been through that kind of loss, but...”

“Viggo said it to me. When I was going after his son. He mentioned how people like us are rewarded for our misdeeds. Which is why God took my wife from me.”

“That’s NOT true. Viggo was a horrible man. I was at the receiving end of his particular brand of bullshit many times while working for him. He was evil. Why would you believe anything he said?”

“I haven’t been able to get past it. I can’t seem to let it go. He talked about how we’re cursed. How this life follows us; it clings to you and infects everyone that comes close to you.”

“You don’t really believe that, do you? A lot of people in this life have managed to escape. They’ve closed that chapter and started a whole new one. Lots of guys have walked away; they’ve found normal jobs and have gotten married and had kids.”

“The ones who are lucky. Who didn’t stick around for too long. Which is why you and Tyler need to get out here. Out of the mercenary world. Because if you guys keep going the way you are, one of you will end up just like Viggo said. The life WILL find you. It will find you and it will suck you back in and you won’t get another chance to leave. It WILL destroy you. And you both deserve better than that.”

[thorne93]

Things Left Unsaid (Part 1)

Prompt: Imagine years ago, you used to work with Jonathan Pine and John Wick, and both of them were madly in love with you but chose to keep quiet for the job’s sake, and eventually, each of you went separate ways. When they find out you’re in trouble, they reunite and join forces to save you.

Warnings: language, death, killing....

Word Count: 5282

Notes: Spoiler alert-ish for the Night Manager and John Wick. Beta’d by my girl @like-a-bag-of-potatoes. Prompte from @theartofimagining13

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

How were you in this situation? Easy - you killed for a living. Ironic, isn’t it? You take the life of someone else to earn your own. It wasn’t that simple though. You killed people who you were ordered too - thankfully, so far, they were like you. Mob men, bodyguards, people who posed a threat to whoever your boss was. You didn’t kill random people, that would be sick.

But apparently no matter how you tried to justify what you did, you were still in Beijing, at the hands of the Chinese Mafia. You had gotten in over your head on this one. The hit was a big wig in the Chinese Mafia, you thought maybe you could take him but apparently you bit off more than you could chew.

Somehow when you ended up at the bathhouse, you’d taken out seven of the ten guards but someone had come out of the bathroom where you hadn’t seen him and wrapped a cord around your neck and used a blunt object to knock your lights out. Now, you had woken up in some abandoned warehouse, with eight men standing around you, hitting you as you were tied to a chair.

You spit out the blood and stared up at them.

“You hit like a bitch,” you laughed. They put on brass knuckles and you rolled your eyes. “Oh I’m so impressed, you’re hitting a restrained woman.” You scoffed. Then the hard, stringing blow came to your right cheekbone, feeling like it had been shattered.

“Who sent you?” they asked.

“Fuck off,” you responded as blood spewed from your mouth.

“Give us something, we let you live. Give us nothing, you’re useless to us,” one of them tried.

“I don’t know. I get all of my requests anonymously. I don’t know who asked.”

“She’s lying.”

“I’m not.”

Someone got a phone call, he nodded and said he understood. When he hung up, he said, “Boss wants to talk to her. He thinks he can crack this bitch.”

“Let’s go,” one of them said as they grabbed you arm and lifted you out of the chair.

As they put a bag over your head, you couldn’t help but remember the good ole days, with Pine and Wick. Six or so years ago, you all were invincible. They called Wick Бугимен - or the Boogeyman. They called Pine the Shadow - for always being in the room but never knowing quite where he was. He was stealthy and good like that. You? You were known as Dame des Todes - or the Lady of Death. When you, Wick, and Pine walked into a room, everyone knew it would be you three - the Trio of Death - that would walk out alive, leaving no survivors. Where John was known as the leading male assassin, you were the female. No one rivaled your skill, stealth, or even body count.

You liked to think of yourselves as the Three Musketeers of Death though. Being best friends in murder may sound strange, but since when has mankind not bonded over the killing of fellow humans? What stronger bond is there than those of military comrades, gangs, brothers in arms? That’s what you thought....

Many people wonder how people end up in your line of work, but for you it was simple - your parents had done it. They were known as the best in their field in Germany, but due to a consequence on the job, they lost their life. You had many happy memories of your parents teaching you how to use guns of all kinds, how to be tactical, how to think five steps ahead.

When your parents left your life at the ripe age of 18, you had to find a way to survive, what better way than to keep the family business going? You had their contacts and started there. First hit being to avenge your parents. Being nowhere near as skilled as your parents, it took you eight months to finally find the group who did this to them, and how badly you wanted to torture them. Yet, you restrained yourself, knowing that your parents wouldn’t do that, and if you were to be in this business, nothing could be personal. You gave them a swift death after telling them who you were. That you were the daughter of Elias and Ava, coming to exact your vengeance.

Before you knew it, you had met Jonathan Pine, a rather gentlemanly British soldier. The circumstances were unusual, but it was a moment you’d never forget. Pine was assigned to extract a family of witnesses for witness protection in India. Your job was to eliminate the team that was contracted out to annihilate the family. You could only assume your contract came from the patriarch of the family, but most of your contracts were anonymous so you had no idea who requested the hit on other hitmen. Through a tangled web, ultimately, Pine’s mission and yours was the same - keep the family safe.

He and his team were just stepping out of the threshold of their house as he looked around vigilantly. He saw it about half a second before it all happened. He spotted the gunman and snipers and urged the family to get down as he went to cover them with his body. You had just showed up, you were told the extraction would happen 30 minutes later, so you were accidentally late to the party, but it didn’t take long for your score to catch up. You set up the rifle in record time and took out the two snipers, then shot the handgun assailant from the rooftop. Pine glanced up and saw you and you took off. You ran across the rooftop and hopped to another one. You continued to rooftop hop until you found a roof access door, entered it, ran down the stairs with your equipment and Pine caught you at the end of the stairs, his hands on your upper biceps. How the hell he knew you’d be in that building, you weren’t sure. That’s the moment you knew he’d be a valuable asset to your life.

“Where are you off to?” he questioned, his accent charming.

“I’m leaving. My job is done,” you said simply as he let you go.

“I beg to differ. We could use someone of your expertise to help them escape.”

“Speaking of, you left your objective,” you noted, crossing your arms.

“My men have it handled. Please, join us. Who do you work for? French?”

“Wirklich? Mit diesem akzent?” you questioned, your native tongue slipping out for purpose and accident. Usually when you got incredibly sarcastic or irritated, your German heritage took center stage.

“Ah, du bist Deutsch. Entschuldigung.”

“Das ist gut.”

“Tell me, why does the German government have to do with protecting them?” he asked.

“Who said I was with the government?” you asked.

“Touche. So, what do you say? Care to join me?”

“I don’t do this for free, got it? I did my job, so my work is done. If you want a babysitter, you better be paying.”

“How much?”

“For making sure they aren’t killed? Five K.”

He looked at you as if you’d lost your mind. “Five grand? To ride in a car with a family?”

“It’s my ass on the line. So yeah, you want me, that’s my price.”

“Fine, you have yourself a deal.”

You traded names and he led you back to the car. The ride was easy as you eyed for anything out of the ordinary and nothing else happened, you got the objective safely to their new house and within the night, the money for both jobs was in your account.

“If you ever need anything, you can reach me here.” You handed him a black card with a single phone number on it.

“Thank you,” he said.

And like that, your friendship and alliance formed. He kept your secret - it was in his best interest. He had called in your help for a few missions, even tried to recruit you to the British army a few months into your friendship, to which you had laughed.

“A German girl in the ranks of the British army? That doesn’t make you nervous?” you had teased as you took a puff off your cigarette and he sipped his bourbon.

“On the contrary, it would settle any anxiety I have in the field if I knew you had my back,” he countered. You smiled at each other again before tasting on your fineries.

“I am sorry, Pine, but the military isn’t for me. Too many rules,” you said as you leaned over and gave him a mysterious look.

For about six months after that, you two worked together off and on, keeping in touch. It was nice to have a friend, being a hired killer was a rather lonely life. But a soldier understood the mindset - being hired to kill someone you didn’t know, for a cause you weren’t sure about. You bonded over that and it was refreshing to have a friend, someone to trust. Things that were hard to find in this business.

---------------------

Travis POV - Present

“What the hell?” your tech friend said as he watched one of his twenty monitors. You were skilled with technology but Travis was much quicker and much better. You had hired him to help tracking IP addresses, phone locations, computer locations, files and all other things techie - you hired him.

He had put a tracking device in your cell phone without your knowledge. He did it because he cared. He may not be able to shoot the broad side of the barn, but dammit, he could hack into anything and make sure you were safe. But now, that device had gone offline. He knew vaguely of where you were going and the signal dropped about ten foot from the building where you were at.

You never turned your phone off - ever.

You never let it die, always having it charged and ready for a new contract or tip.

Something was wrong. He wasn’t sure what to do at first as he adjusted his glasses and pushed around the ramen containers and mountain dew cans. He knew he wouldn't be of any help, but maybe an old friend would.

He called your old friend, praying he would help.

“Hello?” the British man greeted.

“Hi, Jonathan Pine, this is Travis Herenbold. We met once or twice years ago.”

A few moments of silence hung between them before he answered, “Ah, yes, you’re Y/N’s friend.”

“Yes, yes, I am. She’s in trouble. You’ve got to help her.”

“Waht? Slow down. What’s wrong with her?”

“I think she had a hit for Han Zing, the leader of--”

“The leader of the Chinese Mafia, Beijing chapter,” Pine finished, his voice relaying an undertone of awareness. He knew just how dangerous this man was.

“Right,” Travis conceded. “Well she went to the bathhouse where he should’ve been and then her signal just dropped.”

“That’s not like her,” he said, his mind already working on a million outcomes.

“I know, that’s why I’m calling you. I know you’re retired but she needs your help. I’d help but I can’t do what you can.”

“You say she’s in Beijing?”

“Yeah, at Dragon Bathhouse, at least her phone checked in there.”

“Okay, I’ve got a call to make and I’ll be over there.”

-------------------

Reader POV

About a year after meeting Pine, you had met John Wick. You’d heard legends, stories, myths...But when you met the man in person, it all made sense. Ironically, you had the same hit. It was an open contract and you two were the closest in proximity to the target when it became available. You never dreamed in a million years you’d meet John Wick, let alone become best friends.

You had begun to follow the target outside of his club and before long, you noticed someone else was tailing all of you on the other side of the street. A tall man with dark long hair in a long black coat. To the normal person, it would seem like he had nothing to do with you or the man in front of you, but to you, you saw how he matched his pace with the target’s, his head tilted toward the group ahead of you. As soon as they rounded into the alleyway, you knew that’s when you’d have the greatest chance to take out the target and his guards. Right as you turned though, a bullet whizzed passed your head. You turned and it was the guy you knew was up to something. “He must be here for the same thing,” you had thought to yourself. You turned and shot at the guards as they all spun to face you and opened fire on you. Ducking and spinning, you dodged the bullets as you killed two of the five. As you tried to make your way through them, two others were taken down before you could get to them by the other guy. The other hitman was distracting you and fucking with your groove and with that, the last body guard had gotten the target in his car as he drove away, you and the other hitman shooting at the car didn’t phase it as they sped away.

“What the fuck, man?” you said as you spun to the stranger. “You could’ve killed me.”

“You got in the way of my shot,” he insisted in a husky voice, his dark eyes on you.

“Your shot? He was mine. Word of advice, when you go to tail someone, don’t make it so goddamned obvious.”

“Contract’s open, he can go to whoever claims him,” he argued. “But now, he got away, and that money will probably go to whoever gets him.” He glared at you before turning and running his hands through his dark hair, his gun still in his grip.

“Unless...we take it,” you offered.

“What?”

“Well, the way I see it, we both showed up same place, same time, right? It’s only fair to give each other a fair shake.”

“What are you proposing?” he demanded.

“I’m saying we take the son of a bitch out together, and split the money.”

“No way.”

“Why not?”

“I work alone,” he insisted, his dark eyes boring into yours.

“We all do, jackass. But maybe this time can be different. I’m not so selfish to think I should take all the money when you helped open his ass wide open for us.”

He just stared at you.

You sighed. “We’ll split it and go our separate ways.”

“I don't trust anyone,” he said in an even tone.

“Good, neither do I, but I bet if we worked together, we’d get to him faster,” you tried.

“Fine, only because I want this to be done.”

You shook hands and began to work on finding him. He knew quite a bit more about the target, down to his goldfish’s name. You were thoroughly impressed and in less than half the time it would usually take to track down the target, you had found him and you and the stranger took out twenty of his guards and the target. It almost became a competition on who could get the most kills in the most clever ways. You made your call to the contract holder who was happy to oblige splitting the money into your accounts.

“We should do this again sometime,” you said in a joking manner as you left the mansion that had a crazy body count.

“Yeah, maybe so. You did good. You could work on your stance a bit, and your gun shakes .5 seconds before you pull the trigger. How new are you to this?” he had questioned.

It wasn’t offensive or condescending, it sounded like he was concerned.

“Technically, I’ve only been in it for three years, but my parents showed me a few things growing up, here and there.”

“Kind of a strange thing to teach a child, don’t you think?” he asked as he lit a cigarette. You pulled your own out and he lit it for you.

“Not to me. They just showed me what to do, not how to do it on anyone. It was for my own safety, should anyone come looking for me or them.”

“Sounds like they cared a lot about you,” he said softly.

“They did,” you answered, the lump rising in your throat. You shook your head. “Well, pleasure doing business with you.”

“Hey, I’m John Wick by the way,” he said before extending his hand.

A tiny gasp escaped you as you shook his hand, your eyes growing a bit wide. “You’re the infamous Wick...Pleasure to meet you, sir. I’m Y/N.”

“Likewise, Y/N. Catch you on the flipside?”

“Absolutely,” you said before handing your card to him. “In case you ever want to share another body count.”

He smiled at you and you turned away from each other and headed opposite directions down the street.

After that, he showed you the ropes. He taught you how to fight better, how to be a better strategist, how to enhance your reflexes, even taught you more about guns. Before too long, he became your best friend just as Pine had. You two swapped stories over drinks, aspirations, thoughts. You shared a love of cars as well and you two worked on building his ‘69 Mustang Mach1 Coupe and he worked with you on your 69 Chevelle SS. When you weren’t killing or training, you were racing. And yet again, he was better than you were, there wasn’t much he couldn’t do.

-----------------------------------

Wick’s POV - Present

“Hello?” I answered, recognizing the number, wondering what he wanted. I hadn’t talked to him in years.

“John, it’s Pine.”

“What’s up?”

“It’s Y/N, she’s been kidnapped.”

The air left my lungs. Y/N was too smart for this to happen so she must be in with some pretty big time shit.

“How? Who? When? Where?”

“Han Zing’s men, tonight, Beijing.”

“We don’t have long then.”

“I agree. Where are you now?”

“Jersey, you?”

“Egypt. Rendezvous at 567?”

“I’ll be wearing the gold hat.”

Long ago, you all had set up a code for several safe houses and rendezvous points. 567 referred to your Beijing location which was a warehouse. The gold hat referred to the guns I was bringing.

My emotions started running rampant within me. I had loved you for a long time. I loved you even before I met Sarah but because I didn’t want to complicate things between you and me or Pine and us, or complicate our professional and friendly relationship. I thought you were too good for me anyway. I never thought you’d accept any offer I had.

Now that you were in danger, it felt like I couldn’t breathe, like my chest was caving in. You were smart, skilled, and trained but did any of that help when the Chinese shit heads had the upperhand?

I lit a cigarette out of a nervous habit as I gathered my gold coins, guns, ammunition, and packed a bag of clothing. I petted my sweet pitbull goodbye, making sure she had enough food, and left. The entire time, my stomach in knots about you and what those assholes could be doing to you.

-----------------------------

Reader POV

Your life hadn’t changed except for having two amazing friends. Pine had still called on you occasionally and so did Wick. You knew Wick only asked you to come around because of an apprentice deal. He never needed anyone’s help, but it was nice to be asked, just the same.

Only after a few months of working with Wick, one day you two came up on a rather sensitive mission that would need a soldier’s help. You two needed to get into a compound in France to take out someone.

“I know someone who can help,” you informed. You made the call to Pine and he met you two.

“A soldier?” John had questioned as he paced in the giant study in his house. “What can a soldier help?”

“I can get you in the compound,” Pine answered.

“But couldn’t you be imprisoned? Lose your job? Why would you abandon the oath you swore to help out to hitmen?” John demanded. John trusted no one, for obvious reasons, so when someone threatened that, he was like a rabid dog, a bit protective, insane, and irrational.

“Because I’m not here to judge. I’m here to help Y/N. We aren’t exactly different you and I. You get paid to take out specific people, I get paid to take them out in droves.”

Wick arched his eyebrows in agreement while he nodded his head side to side. “Fair enough.”

With that, they shook hands, and the plans were underway to assassinate a French officer. Pine had helped you two into the compound, you located the officer, killed him, and left. You gave Pine some of your earnings as you always did when you used his help.

After that, the three of you worked together often, for five years.

You were smiling, recalling the memory of Pine offering to ask for a woman’s help on a mission that was quite a bit to handle, even for you three.

“What if we asked Andrea to help us?” he said, as he leaned on his fists on the back of one of the chairs in John’s house.

“No,” you had said emphatically in a flat tone as you cleaned your guns.

“Why not?” he questioned. “She’d be a great asset in this endeavor.”

“I don’t work with women.”

“That’s right, she doesn’t,” Wick had answered from the kitchen as he grabbed a glass of orange juice.

“Yeah, and why is that?” Pine had questioned with burning curiosity. He rounded the chair and sat down.

“Because women are untrustworthy.”

“That’s incredibly hypocritical,” he noted with a slight laugh and smile.

You grinned over to him. “Women are manipulative. See, a man, he’ll just shoot you or beat the shit out of you, right?” He nodded as Wick came and sat next to you on the couch. “But a woman, she’ll do everything she can to destroy you mentally. She’ll sleep with your brother, best friend, boss, partner. She’ll learn your weakness and exploit to the fullest extent. She’ll mangle your family, your self image. She’ll destroy your business, your reputation, your dignity. She’ll get inside your heart and mind and twist it until you don’t know which way is up.”

“That’s dark,” Pine noted.

“It’s true,” Wick agreed as he bumped his shoulder with you.

“So is that what you do?” Pine inquired.

“Me? No, but I’m not most women,” you said as you got up to make some food.

Pine and Wick silently agreed to themselves as they watched you walk away.

Time with them was as fun as it could get. Save for taking random people’s lives, you had a blast with them. You were able to travel together and Pine even took up some of the contracts that hit the market while he was away. His government had even given him some ambiguous black ops missions in which he would hire both of you to help him out. It stayed off the record and the job got done. You played chess together, target practice, training with each of them. In a very dog-eat-dog world that you lived in, none of you were selfish. Contrary to what most would believe, it was a caring friendship.

Then more and more, you worked together. Each job had a specific task. Pine would infiltrate, be the inside man. He’d pose as a caterer, bus boy, bartender, anything that could get you close enough to figure out their next move. He was the strategist.

Your job, was a lot of times to be a honey pot. You didn’t mind using what God had given you to take down men, it was actually a gift. Nothing was sexier than having a gun strapped to the inside of your thigh with a dress that made every head in the room turn. But behind the pretty face and body to knock someone dead--literally--was the job to plant information, you would tell them where to go or suggest some place that was ultimately a trap. You were the black widow, the seductress.

Wick was the man to start the job. He’d walk in, seemingly unnoticed, until the first bullet hit the first chest or skull, then all hell would break loose around you three. Wick was the executioner. He decided when and how to kill them. Once you and Pine gave him all the info, he would decide whether it was a suicide, mass murder, random attack (such as a bank robbing), mugging, chemical means, bombing.

Before long, the rumors turned to reputation, reputation to fact, and fact to legend. This is where you got your infamous nicknames from. Pine, being in the room, like a fly on the wall, a shadow, nothing out of place. Wick, was the man, the thing that lurked in the dark, taking every man alive. You were lady of death because again, no one suspected the boobs and pretty face to be packing heat between her legs.

Then, six years ago, they retired, leaving you alone.

Wick had met Sarah, a wonderful girl, and wanted out. You said he was crazy for thinking he could leave, but he did. You were beyond thrilled for him though. He seemed so...lonely in the five years you’d known him. But after four years of marriage, she passed on. He called you weeping, and you jumped on the first plane from Germany to New Jersey. You set up all of the funeral and paid for it. You’d never met Sarah but Wick explained her as wonderful. She seemed it - anyone who could make him happy had to be a saint. You had stayed at his house that night, sleeping in the bed next to him, trying to comfort him, to no avail. You couldn’t blame him, he’d just lost the love of his life. The next morning, he had asked if you could leave. He wanted to be alone to grieve. You wanted to stay and care for him but you didn’t press the issue. Of course, when you had heard about what happened once you left, you felt awful and enraged. You wanted to go back in time, but you couldn’t. You hadn’t heard from Wick in about six months since then. You tried to check in but he never picked up a call or returned a text. You didn’t hold it against him though.

Pine wanted to retire from the military. He wanted a quieter life for as he got older. The last you heard, he was a night manager. You talked occasionally, but you knew he was trying to leave the life behind and that probably included you. The last time you actually saw him was at Sarah’s funeral.

Ah yes, the good ole days. If only they were here now. They’d clean house, tell you you were careless, then bust you out of this situation. You sighed internally and you finally stopped on your journey to meet the boss. The reminiscing stopped as they removed the bag from your head.

----------------------

Pine and Wick POV

“So much for retirement,” Wick said as he entered the warehouse and Pine turned around.

“Yeah, well I wasn’t exactly sipping a pina colada on the beach,” Pine noted.

“Me either. So what do we know?”

Pine filled him in on what he had found out about the mission and your location and everything they knew about Han Zing and his arena. They began trying to figure out a plan of attack, calling all their somewhat trusted contacts in the area to assist. They finally had something to go on.

As they headed that way, Pine drove and Wick sat shotgun while he looked through his phone. He found a picture of you two being silly on a beach in Florida. You had your tongue out as the shore was washing in. He smiled at the memory.

“Is that Y/N?” Pine asked as his eyes danced over to the screen.

“Yeah. We went on a mini-vacation in Florida.”

“Were you two a thing or…?” he asked cautiously.

“No, no, never. But god did I want to be,” he admitted suddenly.

“Yeah? You have feelings for her?” Pine felt his throat start to swell and his scalp prickle. “Of course Wick would loved you, why wouldn’t he? You were you,” Pine thought to himself. Somehow incredibly sweet, despite being a hired killer. Yet, you completely separated yourself from your job. Taking a random person’s life was no more upsetting to you than cleaning your house. But it wasn’t because you were cold, it was more because that’s how you had to make a living. You certainly weren’t an open book though. But you were fun, sweet, vivacious, risk taker, exciting, and loyal. He had thought about asking you to come away with him when he retired, but something stopped him. He didn’t want the friendship between the three of you compromised.

“Yeah, man, I have for a while.”

“Even before Sarah?” Pine questioned.

“Yeah, I don’t know exactly when. I just...I fell for her pretty hard, then I sort of rationalized myself telling myself it would be a stupid move and just ignored how I felt. I met Sarah, and man, I loved her too. I loved her without question.”

“So how did Y/N fit into all of that?”

“She didn’t. Sarah was my world. I thought about her occasionally, told Sarah about her…” A pause stilled the air in the car. “Why do you ask? Do you like her?”

“If you must know, yes. I’ve cared for her for years now, just never had the balls to tell her. When I got the call that Zing’s men had her, it scared the shit out of me.”

“Me too.”

“The idea of never seeing her again…”

“Yeah…” Wick agreed. “So you love her then?”

“I think so. I almost asked her to retire with me, but...never did.”

“Why not?”

“I didn’t think she saw me like that. I also didn’t think she could leave the life behind.”

“It’s easier than you may think,” Wick countered.

“That’s good.”

“When we find her…” Pine started, not sure how to ask the next part…”Are you going to tell her?”

Wick shook his head. “I don’t know, man. We both love her, telling her that might...complicate things.”

“Precisely why I never told her. We’re the Three Musketeers after all…” Pine smiled at the memory of the legends and Wick shared in a small laugh.

“Ah, haven’t heard that in a long time, man…”

“Tell me about it.”

“What do you think Y/N would do if she found out we love her?” Wick asked his best friend as he turned to face him.

“Probably kick our asses,” Pine responded.

Wick grinned. “True.”

“You think we shouldn’t tell her?” Pine inquired, his eyes flashing to his friend.

“I think it’ll be a lot for her to take in after whatever these fucks did to her.”

“Well, we’ve kept it quiet this long, what’s a few more days?”

Wick nodded, getting a little more animated. “That’s precisely my point, though, we’ve kept this to ourselves for years and what did it gain us?”

“Nothing.”

“Right. We can tell her when the time is right, how does that sound?”

“Sounds perfect to me.”

[aleesblog]

Remembrance hump of Garrincha published in The Blizzard

                                                                                                                                                                         Bird of Passage                                                    

A personal quest into the life-story of Garrincha, Brazil’s unrefined legend                

                       By Andrew Lees                    

1st June 2017

Money talks but it don't sing and dance, and it don't walk

Neil Diamond

Under an unremarkable sky there were four of us out on the backstreet making our rings fly. I thrust my ring away then pulled it in, creating ellipses in the summer air. If it dared to slip I coaxed it back up, bending my knees and bracing my shoulders as I tried to circle the sun. Jill Clapham and Karen Pullen were streets ahead, looping their hoops in a swaying 2/4 rhythm and creating double flirts with their ductile hips. That morning as the larks rose into the sky above Little Switzerland I twirled my first ton.

At two o’clock we all ran in to watch Sweden play Brazil. My father was already crouched in front of our Bush console. I sat beside him on the hearthrug and my mother brought in a jug of Kia-Ora orange squash. On the other side of the bulbous screen a thickset man in a raincoat was triumphantly brandishing a large Swedish flag. The magic mirror then moved its focus to show the opposing teams jogging up and down uncomfortably in the silent rain. At last the referee blew his whistle and the final was afoot. A quarter of an hour into the game the commentator informed us that the effervescent Brazilian fans were singing, “Samba, Samba” even though they were losing 1-0. Garrincha, their right-winger attacked from the fringes. Twice in succession in the first half, he beat three players and his inch-perfect goalmouth crosses resulted in Vavá goals. As the game went on my eyes were drawn more and more to this hunched man who never passed the ball. On 29 June 1958 I was transported to a field of dreams somewhere on another planet.  

That winter I gave up hula-hooping and started to kick a rubber ball against our coal house door. I learned to keep the pill on the ground, tame its wicked bounce and make it run. I gained a rhythm that allowed me to twist and dart past imaginary opponents. I found that with the slightest of taps from my left foot I was able to alter the ball’s speed and trajectory. I kept my feet apart, flexed my body and imagined I was Garrincha. My ball slept with me under the sheets as I listened to Bobby Vee on my portable radio.

I set unregistered record after record with that small rubber ball and became a star of the school playground. It was also the last time the skylarks darted out of the turf and diminished to dark specks in the porcelain sky, the last time they would sing their hearts out, momentarily disembodied as they summoned the sun.

It was now 1959 and I had started to go to football matches with my father. I loved the communal walk to the ground, the baying wit of the tribe and the surging swell of bodies tumbling down the terraces. But what I watched on the pitch was a war in which tough men battled it out for a paltry win bonus. The game was prosaic, forbidding and merciless and bore no resemblance to the fluidity of the Brazilian champions.

In the summer of 1966 I got to watch Brazil play for a second time. Garrincha emerged from the Goodison Park tunnel wearing the number 16 shirt. His unstoppable swerving banana kick that had hit the top right hand corner of the Park End net three days earlier had led me to anticipate a repeat performance of the mesmeric sequence of steps I had watched as an 11 year old with my father. After the band had played the national anthems Brazil’s bandy-legged outside-right ambled over to position himself next to two policemen patrolling the far touchline.

Under the floodlights and with the Liverpool crowd’s chants of “Hungary, Hungary” and “ee ay adio ” echoing in their ears Flórián Albert and Ferenc Bene set about putting the ageing world champions to the sword with fast incisive counter-attacks. Just before half-time Kenneth Wolstenholme, the BBC sportscaster, lamented, “Ah, Garrincha seems to have gone now. He has lost all the feistiness and fire and that devastating burst of speed.”  

In the second half I noticed that Garrincha sometimes came inside looking for help and on the rare occasions when he tried to get round the outside of the Hungarian defence he was easily cut off and forced to pass. At the final whistle a delirium of appreciation burst forth, as toilet rolls rained onto the pitch. A stray balloon blew up from the Gwladys Street terrace, drifting forlornly in the direction of Stanley Park.

It is 2006 and I am sitting in the Bar Vesuvio in the old cocoa port of Ilhéus watching Botafogo play Vasco da Gama. The ball rarely leaves the ground and always seems to be angled perfectly through the narrowest of channels. Periodically it shoots out to the flanks and is then rifled back across the box. In this game corners and throw-ins are irrelevant. The ball dips and bends as it fires towards goal. Then out of the blue a Botafogo player goes round his opponent on the outside and I blurt out the words, “Alma de Garrincha.” An old man sitting beside me smiled kindly and said, “Garrincha jogou futebol do mesmo modo que viveu sua vida, divertindo-se e irresponsalvelmente!” [Garrincha played football the same way he lived his life, pleasing himself and running wild!]

Back in England football was now an acceptable topic of conversation in the hospital canteen. In fact there were many similarities between the modus operandi of university teaching hospitals and Premier League football clubs. One Tuesday lunchtime after rounds I explained that ‘Garrincha’ was a drab little Brazilian bird with a buzzing flight and a bubbly song that could not survive in a cage. Nobody had heard of Garrincha.

I then got out my laptop and showed them extracts from the 1963 Cinema Novo film Alegria do Povo [The Happiness of the People]. The film begins with black and white photographs of Garrincha to a soundtrack of samba. I fast-forwarded so they could see the Lone Star of Botafogo mesmerising his opponents in the Maracanã stadium.

One of the house officers, a Manchester United supporter reflected, “He plays a bit like George Best.” I replied caustically that Garrincha was Best, Stanley Matthews and John Barnes and a snake charmer rolled into one. “What’s more you don’t need slow motion/3D/surround sound from 23 angles to prove he has more tricks than Messi and more grace than Ronaldo.” I knew that my fuzzy evidence had not convinced them. They smiled benignly but knew their chief was basking in the emotional overglow of an unhealthy reminiscence bump.

Undeterred I continued to watch web compilations of the Little Bird’s sillage, much of which had been posthumously embellished by music. To Moacyr Franco’s song Balada no.7 (Mané Garrincha) I watch him double back before arrowing away to the right. A magnet seemed to be always attracting him to the margin of the pitch. His style was casual, irreverent and highly improbable but never disrespectful. He tormented and teased but never mocked. He was wordless and indefinable. For Garrincha, football was no more than a series of duels against instantly forgettable defenders and foreplay was far more enjoyable than scoring. The more joyous he made the crowd, the sterner became his facial expression. He was football’s Buster Keaton cracking jokes with his bandy legs and dancing to the gaps in the music. In one game playing for Botafogo he was even admonished by the official for flirtatious play. He was a one-man carnival who could turn life upside down with his antics. ‘Seu Mané’ expunged the prison of cause and effect from the game of football.

By the second half of the 19th century Lancashire cotton goods had become almost worthless in Brazil. Even the turbines coming in on the Liverpool boats from Manchester were in far less demand. As a consequence the 1000 or so English expatriates began to invest more in local textile production. John Sherrington, a man who had strong commercial links with Manchester, purchased a stretch of verdant land that nestled below the forested Serra dos Órgãos in the centre of the sate of Rio de Janeiro. Here in 1878 in the grounds of the old fazenda he and his two Brazilian partners constructed a textile mill. The project got off to an ill-omened start when the ancient tree said to have been more than 50m tall and with a trunk circumference greater than 30 human arm spans came down during the construction of a road, but within a few years the factory was functional, converting natural fibres into yarn and then fabric.

The municipality of Pau Grande in the district of Vila Inhomirim 50km outside Rio de Janeiro already had a small railway line. It had been constructed by the English engineer William Bragge in 1853 and connected Raiz da Serra and the Imperial City of Petrópolis with the wharf in the small port of Mauá at the mouth of the Rio Inhomirim. This railway provided a reliable form of transport from the mill to the coast.

The Francisco dos Santos family were descendants of the Fulni-ô Indians, who after being ousted from their coastal homeland by the Portuguese had settled in Águas Belas, a municipality close to the Rio Ipanema. Although they had finally been hounded down near Quebrangulo and forced to take the surname of their oppressor these ‘people of the river and stones’ refused to bow to outside discipline. As their traditional lifestyle was eroded some of their number assimilated with renegade black slaves in the quilombo hideouts of the Brazilian outback.

Manuel Francisco dos Santos was the first to travel the 2000km from the tribal homelands to the boomtown dominated by the mill owned by the América Fabril company. Although the landscape bore similarities with the countryside on the borders of the states of Alagoas and Pernambuco from where he had travelled, Pau Grande itself more closely resembled Delph or Saddleworth on the Pennine ridge.

The several hundred labourers had come from all over Brazil but the mill managers were exclusively English. In return for the privileges of secure employment and accommodation the predominantly illiterate mill workers were obliged to comply with the strict discipline and moral code of the British Empire. Mr Hall, the manager, would sometimes deal with misdemeanours that had occurred outside the factory by administering a caning to the miscreant. Mr Smith, the director, emphasised the virtues of hard work and self discipline and encouraged football on the premise of ‘healthy body, healthy mind’.

On 28 October 1933 Manuel’s brother Amaro dos Santos, who worked at América Fabril as a security guard, became a father for the fifth time. The midwife was the first to notice that the baby boy’s left leg bent out and the right turned in. Manuel Francisco dos Santos had to grow up fast and his love of trapping and caging birds led his older sister Rosa to nickname him Garrincha. In his school reports he was described as quiet but mischievous and impulsive and his teachers considered him uneducable. For the young Mané by far the best thing about Pau Grande was a secluded potholed stretch of grass 60m by 40m high on a bluff that overlooked the factory. There were days when he would return two or three times for peladas [kickabouts]. Barefooted and dressed only in shorts Garrincha and a couple of mates would regularly thrash older opponents. His hunting spear was the ball and his prey lay nestled in the back of the net guarded by a goalkeeper. When he was not running with the ball he would be fishing or hunting with his friends Pincel and Swing, two brothers from the neighbouring Raiz de Serra.

His first job, at 14, was in the cotton room of the mill with its blistering heat, lung-damaging dust and deafening machines. The air had to be kept hot and humid in this the most unpleasant working environment of the factory to prevent the thread from breaking. He was always going absent, often to drink cachaça in a local bar or have sex with the mill girls at the back of the small football stadium belonging to SC Pau Grande, which had been founded in 1908 by workers from the factory. His employers soon gave up any hope of getting a decent day’s work out of him and it was only his footballing deftness that saved him from the sack. With Garrincha in SC Pau Grande’s side the factory team went two years without a defeat.

The coach likened Garrincha to Saci, the pipe-smoking mulatto imp whose spellbinding one-legged footwork created whirlwinds of chaos wherever he went. It was impossible to outrun Saci, who could make himself disappear at will. Sometimes he would transform into Matita Pereira, an elusive bird whose melancholic song seemed to come from nowhere. The only way to placate this legendary trickster was to leave him a bottle of cachaça.

Eventually Garrincha’s dazzling dribbles came to the attention of scouts from Rio de Janeiro and he was offered trials for the big clubs. He arrived at Vasco da Gama’s São Januário ground without boots, turned up late for a trial with São Cristóvão and when asked to stay overnight by Fluminense feared for his job and returned on the last train home. His insouciance counted heavily against him. Eventually a supporter and scout from Botafogo, a modest football and regatta club, but one that had a strong journalistic and intellectual following, dragged SC Pau Grande’s number 7 back to the capital.

On clapping eyes on Garrincha, the Botafogo coach Gentil Cardoso is said to have muttered, “Now they’re bringing cripples to me.” He then asked the young bumpkin, “How do you play, son?” to which Garrincha replied, “With boots!” After watching him kick a ball around Cardoso had seen enough to throw Garrincha into the first-team squad’s practice match. After the game the Brazil left-back Nílton Santos, who had been nutmegged for the first time in his career by the upstart, is said to have told Cardoso that the boy was a monster and should be signed on the spot if only to prevent him being snapped up by one of their rivals. The Rio press enthusiastically heralded Garrincha’s signing as a professional footballer in 1953. Their only criticism was “the boy dribbles too much.”  

In Sweden in 1958, Garrincha was the best in the world in his position. Four years later in Chile he was the finest player in the world. After he had been officially announced as the player of the tournament, the poet Vinicius de Moraes composed the sonnet 'O Anjo das Pernas Tortas' [The Angel with Twisted Legs]:

'Didi passes and Garrincha advances

Observing intently the leather glued to his foot

He dribbles once, then again, then rests

Measuring the moment to attack

Then by second nature he launches forward

Faster than the speed of thought.'

In his June 1962 article “O Escrete de Loucos” [The Squad of Madmen] published in Fatos & Fotos, Nelson Rodrigues, the great Brazilian cronista reported that the European squads had been working on strategies to stop Garrincha but had not taken into account that the Brazilian team was a phenomenon made up of pranksters who played the game from the soul. In the last minutes of the final against Czechoslovakia, Garrincha had turned the opposition to stone. One defender even put his hands on his hips in total capitulation. Regarding the earlier 3-1 victory against England in the quarter-final, Rodrigues wrote, “The Englishman plays football whereas the Brazilian lives and suffers every move.”

Garrincha fathered fourteen children by five different women. One of them, Ulf, was born after the 1958 World Cup final and grew up in Sweden1. Garrincha had a lengthy and tempestuous relationship with the samba diva Elza Soares. He drank heavily and was responsible for the death of his mother-in-law in a car accident where he was drunk behind the wheel. When he finally hung up his boots, after a brief comeback with the small Rio club Olaria in 1972, he faded into oblivion. One of his last public appearances was at the carnival in Rio de Janeiro. The shots of his hunched bloated figure sitting alone on the front of the Mangueira samba school float saddened the nation.

Following Garrincha’s death from the complications of alcoholism on 20 January 1983, Hamilton Pereira da Silva, a poet and a politician from Tocantins, composed Requiem for an Angel:

They stood in the cortege

And offered him wings

Multicoloured wings

Vermilion, white

Chocolate

Grey

Hang gliding on the wing

For you who lived as an angel for so many years

These wings would have been meaningless

Before the eyes of the people

In the magical glow

Of those Sunday afternoons…

Two days after the announcement of Garrincha’s death, the poet Carlos Drummond de Andrade published an article entitled “Mané and the Dream” in the Jornal do Brasil in which he declared that football had become a panacea for Brazil’s sickness. Garrincha had been a reluctant hero who had temporarily banished the nation’s inferiority complex and inspired the have-nots to greater things, He pleaded for another Garrincha to rekindle the nation’s dreams: “The god that rules football is sardonic and insincere. Garrincha was one of his envoys, delegated to make a mockery of everything and everyone in his stadiums. The god of football is also cruel because he concealed from Garrincha the faculty to realise his mission as a divine agent.”

In his imagined chronicle Diario do Tarde Paulo Mendes Campos wrote that the rules of Association Football did not apply when Garrincha was on the pitch. The pushes, trips and shoves against him went unpunished and it was only when the embarrassed defender fearful of ridicule by the crowd pulled at his shirt that the complicit referee would be reluctantly forced to award a foul.

Despite these chansons de geste by Brazil’s greatest living writers and poets, the truth of the matter was that Seu Mané’s trickery defied literary description. Football was not an art. Garrincha had held a mirror up to the nation.

His body was taken from the clinic in Botafogo to the Maracanã stadium. Nílton Santos insisted that his teammate be buried in Pau Grande and not in the new mausoleum for professional footballers in the Jardim da Saudade. Traffic came to a halt on the Avenida Brasil as the cortège passed by with mourners crowding the sides of the road and others throwing flowers from the overhead bridges. “Garrincha you made the world smile and now you make it cry” had been daubed on a tree. As the mayhem of cars finally approached Pau Grande the bottleneck became so great that people were forced to abandon their vehicles and walk to the little church.

Seu Mané had played the game for its own sake. His fancy footwork, element of surprise and capacity for improvisation had nourished the nation’s soul. A memorial stone was placed in the cemetery. Its inscription read, “He was a sweet child. He spoke with the birds.” Tostão, his teammate, would write on the 20th anniversary of Mané’s death, “Garrincha was much more than a dribbler, a ballet dancer and a showman, he was a star.”

My sentimental quest begins at the Botafogo Sports and Regatta Club on Avenida Venceslau Brás. It’s now used mainly by the young socios (members) to play volleyball and basketball. A picture of Nílton Santos in the entrance reminds the club of its glory years. His black and white striped shirt with its lone star hangs in a display case next to the trophy cabinet.

When Garrincha played for Botafogo de Futebol e Regatas it was a deeply superstitious club.  The day before the game a mass communion with eggnog, milk and biscuits would took place and on match day the club’s silk curtains were tied up to symbolise the ensnarement of the opponents’ legs. An hour before the game each player was compelled to take a mud bath and eat three apples. An ex-Fluminense player had to be included in every team. Before each game a stray mongrel called Biriba would piss on the leg of a player. When things were going badly for the team the Botafogo president would release the little dog from the stand to run onto the pitch and distract the opposition. Biriba became so important at the club that he was included in one of Botafogo’s championship winning team photographs.

I set off past the Aterro do Flamengo with its fenced playgrounds full of youths playing football, I look over at the Marina da Glória with the mist-topped Sugar Loaf in the background, heading for Praça Quinze where the boats come in from Niterói. Out in the bay the Ilha das Cobras is surrounded by frigates. I drive fast on the Linha Vermelha heading north in the direction of Galeão. To my left is the vast sprawl of the Complexo do Alemão favela, the Instituto Oswaldo Cruz and the toy-town church of Nossa Senhora da Penha perched on its sacred mount. I reach the artificial brine lake designed to deter the favelados from hanging around the beaches of the Zona Sur and then drive north towards the Federal University Hospital block where I had lectured the day before. A nauseating smell of sewage fills the air. I head north-east through the teeming run-down districts of Baixada Fluminense, which are full of old trucks, new schools and stray dogs.

In Casa-Grande & Senzala [The Master and the Slaves], Gilberto Freyre uses the term bagaceira – the shed where the dry pulpy residue left after the extraction of sugar is stored – as a metonym for the exploitative plantation culture. Freyre wrote that “Brazil is sugar and sugar is the Black” and both were linked in the collective unconscious with sensuality and sexuality. Bagaceira was later used to refer generically to marginalised riff-raff. Football had provided Garrincha with an escape route from enslavement but when all the fibre had been squeezed out of him cachaça left him as bagaceira.

The municipality of Magé with its farming communities guarded by the Dedo de Deus mountain marks the official leaving of Rio de Janeiro. We turn right along a bumpy narrow road filled with buses and motorcyclists, cross the single lane railway track, go past a man on a horse and open roadside kiosks selling tyres. The people seem gentler and more approachable than in Grande Rio. At a birosca that sells buns and cachaça I stop to ask the way to Pau Grande. Chortling, the bar owner points to his groin and says, “Aqui está.” “Pau grande”, I later learned, was slang in Brazilian Portuguese for “big cock”.

After another 15 minutes drive the Estadio Mané Garrincha, the home of SC Pau Grande, comes into view, its rustic white walls and small arched entrance resemble an Andalusian village bullring. The grass is lush and samba drifts from the television in the clubhouse. The president, plump, with a Zapata moustache and dressed only in fading khaki shorts, greets me effusively. In one corner of the clubhouse are three cases of memorabilia, one filled with small trophies, the other two with crumpled newspaper cuttings and posters defining the ascent of the Little Bird. One of the pictures shows an 11-year-old Garrincha sticking out in a team of men and another his father Amaro, looking down affectionately on his young son from a small wooden veranda. In some of the group photographs there are boys who resembled my own teammates from school, pale solemn faces, straight brown hair and small chins.

The president tells me that Garrincha used to love to return to Pau Grande for a pelada with his old friends after playing at the Maracanã. Over a glass of cachaça he tells me the club are hoping to raise money to create a small museum. He also reminds me that the black and white striped SC Pau Grande strip is identical to that of Botafogo except for the star. I offer him money to buy a ball, but he refuses and we settle for just another photograph. I then walk down the cobbled road to the centre of the village where a small bust of Garrincha greets the few visitors. To its right are a series of murals illustrating how Pau Grande used to look in its prime.

América Fabril closed in 1971 and its buildings now operate as a distribution centre for mineral water but the Neo-Gothic grey and white Capela de Sant’Ana that had been overwhelmed by Botafogo supporters at Garrincha’s funeral is unchanged. A car blasting out propaganda for Sandra Garrincha, a candidate in the Magé prefectural elections, drives by, followed by a group of young girls waving flags in support of her campaign.

I ask one of the security guards at the gate of the old factory if I can have a look around. The factory looks much the same as it did in the days when it produced cloth. The chimneystack is still standing but there are now vast empty spaces giving parts of it the appearance of a vacant exhibition space. In some of the rooms machines rumble away bottling water from the mountain springs. I thank my guide and walk back into the village in the direction of the lemon bungalow which the Brazilian football federation had bought Garrincha for his part in the World Cup victory in Chile in 1962. Two of Garrincha’s friendly grandnieces are standing on the veranda talking to a young man astride his bicycle. Grilles guard the windows of the house even though I am told there is still next to no crime in Pau Grande. There is a mural of Garrincha’s head in his playing days at the front door and on the wall of the house looking onto the street is written the legendary number 7 he carried on his back and the words “jogando certo com as pernas tortas” [playing straight with twisted legs]. One of the girls invites me to enter a small shrine at the side of the house. Among the photographs and medallions is a framed tribute fastened on one of the walls:

'Garrinchando

'Garrincha pretends that he despises the ball, but she knew he would always come back to pick her up.

The dribble was his courtship.

Garrincha, you passed through life, overcoming all obstacles that were put before you. But in the end that relentless adversary Death defeated your dribble.

From that moment on the ball and the football universe became orphans of the most blessed contorted legs football has ever known.'

Pau Grande is still full of gente boa. Doors do not need to be locked at night. Round the corner from Garrincha’s old house an elderly man tells me that the former mill town is still full of Garrincha’s ancestors. He then leads me up a path behind the houses that reminds me of the Brackenwood edgeland of my childhood, full of weeds, plastic bottles and butterflies. After a short walk up a steep incline we reach an empty white outhouse with two palomino horses tied up outside. 20 metres below the high bank is a clearing strewn with twigs and leaves. At either end are goal posts without nets. I climb down and start to run close to the right edge where patches of grass grow sheltered by overhanging trees. I pause. I then sidestep to the right and accelerate. I twist round with my back to the goal, shimmy and shoot. I feel free. When I can fly no more I sit on a bench behind the far goalposts. Once I have gained my breath I rise and walk to the edge of the ridge and look down on the mill, the little chapel and the orderly rows of houses.

An hour later I drive on up to the cemetery at Raiz da Serra. As I am parking the car, a skeletal drunk in shorts, sandals and a fading orange shirt staggers out of the Encontro dos Amigos bar offering to guide me to Garrincha’s grave. He tells me that the previous Friday three Vasco da Gama players had made the pilgrimage from Rio to pray for inspiration before their game against Flamengo. Tucked away in the middle of a row of closely packed tombstones I am shown a faded inscription, which says “Here lies the man who was the happiness of the people Mané Garrincha.” On the worn headstone his date of death is recorded incorrectly as 20 January 1985. There are no flowers or graffiti. A singer and friend Agnaldo Timóteo had paid for the funeral, the tombstone had been paid for by his captain Nílton Santos and a local family called Rogonisky had allowed Garrincha’s remains to be buried in the same grave as their 10-year-old son who had been killed in a road traffic accident.

I then climb up to look at the newer but equally stark and neglected obelisk. Written on a memorial tablet are the words:

'Garrincha

The Happiness of Pau Grande

The Happiness of Magé

The Happiness of Brazil

The Happiness of the World.'

As I sit in silence in this deserted cemetery I think that it could only have been my great-grandfathers’ deep loyalty to street, neighbourhood and even mill that prevented them packing their bags during the slump. It was in towns like Oldham that association football first changed from a game played by gentlemen into a profitable attractive Saturday afternoon spectator sport. As I sit by Garrincha’s grave I see their familiar faces under their flat caps, their trunks bent over by the damp and onerous labour, hurrying past the smokestacks and rows of terraced houses to Boundary Park. The Latics were yet another stabilising devotion that stopped them sailing down to Rio on a Lamport and Holt steamer.

Football has been hijacked by television money and sponsorship deals. It was now much more of a spectacle but had fewer magic moments. Running fast with the ball glued to your toes was high risk and was decried by millionaire coaches. Wingers like Garrincha (outside rights and lefts) had been replaced by a new breed of wing-backs that could attack and defend. Power and victory were what counted these days.

A small brown wren-like bird with a large cocked-up tail, sharp beak and shiny black cap flits under a neighbouring headstone and interrupts my litany of regrets. Dusk is falling and with a heavy heart I leave through the dark forests on the steep ascent to Petrópolis. I am now certain that when I have started to dribble my lines, when I can no longer remember my date of birth or the names of my children the alchemist will still be around beckoning me to come and join him for a pedala in the clearing above the cotton mill.

[stranger-who-writes-fiction]

and dogs were a universal constant, it seemed...

Fandom: Supergirl Rating: K+ Pairing(s): Kara x James Summary: Well, if you’ve seen 101 Dalmatians...

...

When there's a loud, insistent knock at the door late one Friday evening, Kara is so thoroughly convinced it's the pizza guy that she doesn't bother with x-ray vision.

So she's more than a little shocked to discover an irate neighbor in the hall.

(And, quite honestly, a little disappointed. She beat up some sentient killer tomatoes that afternoon and she's starving.)

“Oh, uh,” she blinks at the scowling woman before her. “Hi Ms. Kaplan.”

“My dog is pregnant.”

It is at that point that Kara notices Ms. Kaplan is not alone. Wrapped around one of her slender wrists is a leash and, at the end of that leash is Sadie, Ms. Kaplan's friendly (if somewhat shy) American Shepherd.

“...Congrats?” Kara doesn't really know what else to say to that...weird, random news.

“Don't play dumb!” Ms. Kaplan snaps. Kara's never been terribly...fond of Ms. Kaplan. Out of all of the building's tenants, she's definitely the most...prickly. And not in a Snapper Carr kind of way. More like a...what was the name of the woman in Wizard of Oz?

She'll Google it later. “I'm...sorry? I don't really under—” behind her, Kara can hear Krypto's nails against the hardwood as he pads through the kitchen to come investigate. His fur brushes against her leg as he tries to maneuver around her, insistent on seeing who's at the door.

Ms. Kaplan gives the two of them a pointed look.

Oh.

...Oooooh.

“Oh!” Kara exclaims, looking down at Krypto, then to Sadie, and finally back to Ms. Kaplan with wide eyes. “I...really didn't think that was possible.”

Ms. Kaplan mutters something about 'irresponsible millenials' under her breath, and crosses her arms over her chest. “Didn't you have him fixed?”

Kara winces. It was on the to-do list. Really it was. She was going to take him to the DEO this weekend, actually.

“Uh.”

“Well it's too late now anyways!” Ms. Kaplan throws her hands up, startling both the dogs and Kara. Krypto lets out a surprised wuff. “My dog's pregnant and I'm not going to be able to get anything for a bunch of mixed mutt—”

“I'lltakethem!” Kara blurts, so loud and sudden that Ms. Kaplan has to take a step back. “I mean I'll. Um. Since it's our fault and all and...I certainly wouldn't expect you to take care of them or anything...!” If Ms. Kaplan picks up on Kara's nervous energy, she doesn't say anything. Instead, she seems focused on considering Kara's offer to take the unexpected puppies off her hands.

“...Well that's only fair,” she finally says. “As this is his fault,” she glares at Krypto.

And she's not entirely wrong, what with something like that requiring two parties and all, but. Kara doesn't like her accusatory tone.

“Right! Yes. Fair. We'll do whatever we can to ah, take the burden of, um. We'll take the puppies. Let us know if you need anything! Thanks!”

“But—”

“Bye!”

Kara doesn't slam the door in Ms. Kaplan's face—it would be difficult to explain away the structural damage to the wall if she did—but she closes it with enough force to sufficiently send the message: we're done here.

“Miss Gulch!” Kara suddenly cries, finally remembering the name of the Wicked Witch of the West. James looks up from his laptop as she flops down on the bed beside him.

“So, not the pizza guy?” he surmises.

“No,” Kara mumbles into her pillow.

“What?”

She turns her head to the side so he can hear her better. “We have a problem.”

“Well, of course,” James smiles, not quite understanding. “No pizza.”

“...Okay, yes,” Kara concedes. “But also—” Krypto chooses that moment to bound into the bedroom and make a running leap onto the bed. He lands between them, all fur and limbs and drool.

“Ugh.”

“I thought we decided he wasn't allowed on the bed?” James half chuckles as Krypto settles his sizable girth right next to him, turning in tight circles and pushing his snout into the covers, pulling the blankets into a nice, rumpled mound.

“I don't see you getting up in the middle of the night pushing him off,” Kara says with a smirk. James coughs.

“...He looks so sad when we make him sleep on the floor...”

“Softie.”

James doesn't dispute the claim, rather, he changes the subject. “So what's the problem? Aside from the lack of pizza happening right now.”

“Our neighbor's dog is gonna have puppies.”

“That's...nice?” It doesn't sound like a problem to James. Kara gives him a minute. After all, she didn't get it right away either. “...Oooooooh.”

“Yeah.”

“...I didn't think that was possible.”

“Neither did I!” Kara pushes herself up onto her elbows and drops her head into her hands, running her fingers through her hair in mild frustration. “Nnnrrrg shoulda had Alex check him out. Or Eliza, maybe. Someone who knows about this...stuff.”

“I sincerely doubt your sister is going to know much about dog breeding.”

“Well, yeah, but.” Kara frowns. “They're like. The best xenobiologists on the West Coast.” Kara is inclined to add or any coast, but that's her own personal bias speaking.

“I thought your mom was an astro...something or other?”

“She's both.” Kara says.

“Ah, right.”

“I should still talk to them,” Kara realizes. James raises an eyebrow.

“I mean. Okay? But it seems a little late for—”

“In two months,” Kara interrupts him, “we're gonna have a bunch of potentially superpowered puppies running around here.”

James' opened mouth audibly snaps shut. Kara nods sagely at his reaction.

After a time, (and a short but meaningful glare in Krypto's direction) he speaks.

“Let's call Eliza.”

Ms. Kaplan is suspicious when Kara and James offer to foot the bill for a quote: 'highly sought after, exclusive vet,' and more than a little protective of Sadie, but Kara and James are very persuasive, as is Kara's...'uncle,' John.

(No, J'onn absolutely does not use his Martian mind powers, that would be unethical.)

(...Okay he maybe uses them a little.)

“Uncle. Really?”

“Well if Barry's our cousin, you can be my uncle,” Kara says, arms crossed, pacing back and forth outside of the DEO med lab. “Is it warm in here? It feels warm. Can we open a window?”

“We cannot,” J'onn tells her, and has to hide his amused smile when she mutters in displeasure and resumes pacing. James joins them, leaning against the door frame next to J'onn. He appears entirely unruffled, casually sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup and smiling pleasantly.

“Any news?” he asks, tone nonchalant.

“...No...” J'onn squints. “Do I smell alcohol, Olsen?”

James takes a swig of...it could still be coffee, technically speaking. “You do.”

Ten minutes pass, during which Kara and James pace and drink, respectively. Kara eventually takes a seat in one of the desk chairs, resigned to an evening of anxiety.

But then Alex opens the lab door. Kara jumps up, one hand still on the arm of the chair.

“Is everything okay?”

“Everything's fine,” Alex says. “I just need...” she pauses. “James. For a sec.”

James straightens. “Yeah, sure,” he says. “Um. Can you—yeah.” He hands off his 'coffee' to J'onn, who gives the liquid a wary sniff.

“Just James?” Kara asks, “'cause, I can, you know. Help too.”

“Not when you're all worked up, you can't,” Alex challenges. Kara balks.

“What? I can, I can totally—”

“You just broke the chair.”

Kara looks down at the crushed arm.

“...Er.”

So Kara resumes her pacing, and J'onn resumes his quiet bemusement, and Alex and James resume...stuff. Dog stuff. Dog pregnancy stuff. Space dog pregnancy stuff, sort of.

And Kara gets so impatient and more than a little nervous, because Eliza had been very clear about the fact that they are in uncharted territory; there was little to no research on Kryptonian fauna, what with all fauna being presumed extinct until Krypto's pod had shown up. They had, of course, approached Alura's A.I., but that hadn't proved as helpful as they'd hoped.

“This constructs lacks sufficient data on crossbreed species,” the A.I. Explained in a flat voice, “and cannot accurately determine the chances of survival re: offspring of Kryptonian and Earth Canidae.”

Kara had spent the entire afternoon under a blanket, face pressed into the soft fur of Krypto's neck, not crying. Nope. Not her. She was toooootally fine.

(She was not.)

She's somewhat okay now, because Eliza and Alex have been working tirelessly on the science side of things, as none of them were too thrilled by the prospect of a bunch of dead puppies.

Kara shudders at the thought and taps her foot. A little too hard, because the concrete cracks.

J'onn clears his throat.

“A-hem.”

“...Sorry,” Kara says sheepishly.

J'onn's about to deliver a formal reprimand, but the med lab door suddenly opens, and three ragged humans wander out, James leading the pack.

“Can I...?” James points to the cup of coffee in J'onn's hand, extracting it before J'onn can answer.

“What is it?” Kara asks, voice cracking with panic. “What—are they okay? Did—oh no—”

“Whoa, hey, calm down,” Alex says, placing a firm, steady hand on Kara's shoulder. Kara refuses to calm down until they tell her what's going on. “Everything's fine. The dogs are okay.”

“Dogs?” Kara sounds hopeful. Eliza nods.

“Dogs. Plural.”

“That's, it's...” Kara's grin is wide and relieved and only grows wider as her excitement increases, ten-fold. “That's great!”

“Fifteen,” James says abruptly. Kara's still grinning, but her brow furrows in confusion.

“Uh. What?”

“Fifteen,” James repeats, bringing the cup to his lips.

“...Fifteen...what?” Kara's excitement is now tinged with a fair bit of...concern, is probably the best word.

Alex beats James to the punch. “Puppies.”

Kara swallows audibly.

“...Fifteen...puppies. As in—”

“A litter of fifteen puppies, yes.” James nods. “Fifteen tiny Kryptos. That we agreed to keep. In our apartment.”

The news hits Kara like a truck. Okay, no, not quite a truck, more like a mid-sized sedan. Still. The impact is enough to have her reaching behind her for the desk chair, which Eliza rolls over.

“Thanks,” she says weakly.

“Of course, sweetie.”

“It's possible they won't have powers,” Alex adds in an attempt to be helpful. “The cellular structure necessary to absorb the yellow sunlight might not be passed—” There's a crash in the med lab, followed by an annoyed wuff from Sadie. “...never mind.”

J'onn snatches the coffee from James' hand, and downs it in one quick gulp before handing the empty Styrofoam cup back to James.

“I am not paid enough for this.”

Kara steps back, and admires their handy work.

“Not bad,” she decides, beaming at James, who tears off a final piece of duct tape from the roll. Krypto's tail wags in approval, tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth as he pants excitedly.

“I'm impressed,” James agrees. “It was quick thinking, on Alex's part.” He steps back as well, taking in the somewhat odd set-up they've constructed in their living room.

The furniture is all pushed aside to make room for the (mostly) circular enclosure of cannibalized dog-crate pieces; a kind of fence that surrounds a veritable sea of blankets and dog beds, which is all fairly commonplace.

It's the two large red sunlight lamps directed towards the enclosure that make for a slightly...out-of-the-ordinary tableau.

“And you're okay?” James reaches out and gently rubs Kara's arm. She nods.

“Oh, yeah. Red sunlight is fine,” she reminds him. “It's the Green K that's bad news.” She wrinkles her nose for effect.

“I thought you used Green K in the training room?” James asks over his shoulder as he moves to the kitchen to return the duct tape to the junk drawer.

“We do,” Kara admits, kneeling down to check on the zipties holding their makeshift fence together. One of the puppies sees her and waddles over, still not quite sure how to work his little legs. He trips over himself a few times before he manages to wriggle close enough to snuffle her hand through the gaps in the metal. “But it's...not very healthy, honestly. I can at least take a certain amount before it really does permanent damage...”

James frowns.

“Sounds pretty dangerous...” He grabs two mugs from the cupboard. “I'm making tea. Want some?”

“Sure.”

“Can't they use red sunlight for that too?” He waits for Kara's answer as he fills the teapot with water and turns on the stove.

Kara chuckles as the small puppy nudges her hand, and watches as Krypto edges forward to investigate. He seems to understand that this tiny white balls of fluff belong to him, but he's not sure what to make of them, really. “Not as efficiently. It takes longer, to get rid of my powers, under red sunlight.”

James' tone is level, but he grips the mugs a little tighter than is probably good for the ceramic. “But it doesn't hurt you,” he argues.

“Neither does the Green K in the training room, not really,” Kara assures him, looking over her shoulder to offer a smile, as if to say 'it's fine, I'm fine, it's all fine.' “I mean, it does, but not...” she sighs. She's not explaining it well at all, and she can tell James is upset. “It's low grade, and synthetic. And my healing factor kicks in immediately, once the emitters are turned off.”

“Mmmm.” James' frown deepens, and he presses his hands flat on the counter top, fingers slowly curling into clenched fists. “Still sounds dangerous.”

“Which is why we're not using it on small, newborn puppies,” Kara tells him in a tone that suggests they should move on from the topic. She joins him in the kitchen, wrapping him in a hug to further persuade him to end this particular conversation.

It works. He finds himself draping his arm over her shoulders, keeping his other hand free to finish making the tea.

“How long will they need the lamps?”

“Alex is still trying to figure it out,” Kara tells him. “I mean. They'll need to be trained, obviously, but...” Krypto lets out an excited yip, and they both turn to see the puppies congregated near the older dog, little pink noses twitching in delight. “Okay that...is criminally adorable.”

“I should get my camera, right?”

“Yes.”

“We can't name him Spencer.”

“Um, we can absolutely name him Spencer.”

“You have to imagine yourself yelling the name outside where other people can hear you. And possibly see you. Yelling for Spencer the dog.”

“I am imagining it, and it's a great name.”

Kara sighs. “I'll let you name that one Spencer,” she points to the ball of white fluff attempting to break free from the enclosure, “if you let me give one of them a Kryptonian name.”

“I can't pronounce those names,” James reminds her. “I can't imagine yelling it outside around other people because I physically can't make those sounds.”

“J'onn can do it,” Kara huffs.

“J'onn can alter the shape of his vocal chords,” James states.

And, as much as Kara is loathe to admit it, it's a good point.

“Alright then, we'll just,” Kara throws her hands up, “have to agree on a name.”

They stare at the unnamed puppy in question, who is vigorously gnawing on the metal. One of his brothers attempts to join him, but the pup lets out a sharp yip, along with a few high pitched gurgles that are probably meant to be growls.

He's not a bad dog, just...vocal. And ill-tempered.

James and Kara share a look.

“Snapper,” they decide.

“No.”

“But—”

“No.”

“It's just—”

“No, no. The rule is that only Krypto can sleep on the bed, we agreed on this.”

Ace paws the comforter and whines, high-pitched and pitiful.

“Kara look at him.”

“I will not.”

And she doesn't. But she does roll over and look at James, poised to tell him that's final, but he's staring back at her with pleading dark eyes and a pout that she's certain he's learned from her (dang it) and it might as well be Kryptonite, that look.

So Ace is allowed up on the bed.

“That's it, no more,” Kara declares, rolling over and maybe stealing a little more of the blankets than is strictly necessary. Ace decides he doesn't want to sleep down at the foot of the bed, next to Krypto. He much prefers right on top of Kara's head. “Oh, come on.”

“At least he'll keep you warm,” James tells her with a smirk. She grunts.

“I run five degrees hotter than humans and I can't feel cold, I don't need him to keep me warm.” She forcibly scoots Ace over so that he's perched between the two of them on the pillows.

When she once again turns to face the nightstand, she's met with a wet, black nose taking up most of her field of vision.

“Hedwig, no,” Kara says sternly.

“Oh, what's one more,” James yawns.

Well.

One more becomes two.

Then three.

By morning there are six dogs on the bed, and between the two of them, Kara and James haven't even managed five winks, let alone forty.

There's movement from beneath the pile of snoozing dogs. James, trying to turn over without toppling the Jenga tower of fluff.

“I see now, this was a bad decision.”

Hedwig's tail thumps Kara across the nose. She sputters.

“Yes. Yes, it was.”

Alex raises an eyebrow and taps the front page splash of The Tribune.

ASLEEP ON THE JOB—SUPERGIRL CAUGHT NAPPING DURING MAYOR'S PRESS CONFERENCE

“You should really talk to your PR guy.”

“I'm my PR guy,” Kara grumbles, slumping down in her chair. Or, Winn's chair. But he's got the day off, probably sleeping in.

Ah, sleeping in. Kara misses it.

“You really have to stop doing that,” Alex tells her. Kara waves her off.

“Yeah, yeah, journalistic integrity...I know.”

“Do you.”

“Al-ex.”

“Alright, alright, I can see my advice is not wanted,” she says. “My incredibly sage, scientifically-sound advice.”

“You have a way to make them stop barking?” Kara sits up and leans forward, suddenly all ears. Alex scratches her neck.

“...Well no.”

“Ugh.”

“I was just going to suggest sending James to these things instead,” Alex jabs a finger at the unflattering photo of Kara snoring her way through the speech. “I know the Guardian's costume isn't quite as photogenic as the super suit, but he's pretty high profile, now that he's dating National City's Girl of Steel.” Alex smirks at Kara's faint blush.

“Aherm. Well. That, um.” She coughs. “That hasn't been confirmed or anything.”

“There was photographic evidence, if memory serves.”

“It was a hug. And he'd almost died!”

“I know. I was there.”

And Kara's about five seconds away from speeding off to the Sierras to grab a quick handful of snow to dump down Alex's shirt, but Agent Matthews walks over, smiling pleasantly, and Kara recalls that he's quite the dog lover; she knows, she's seen pictures of his prized Yorkie, Mr. Chips.

“Soooo...puppies, huh?”

“Rrrrrgggg,” Kara drops her forehead into her right hand and grips the arm of the chair with her left. The sound of splintering plastic fills the air.

“...Broke another one,” Alex mumbles. Matthews blinks.

“...Was it something I said?”

It's easy enough to wrangle the puppies at first. They're small, and though they have most definitely inherited their father's superpowers, the red sunlight lamps keep accidents to a minimum.

But, puppies, unfortunately, grow.

“Could you just—no, no, Snapper!” Kara has to use a burst of super speed to keep Snapper from leaping out of their building in a single bound. He makes some displeased grumbling noises—foiled again—and Kara, even with her strength, struggles to keep a hold on the wriggling mass of fur that, until seemingly recently, could fit in James' shoe. Now, he's at least fifteen pounds, possibly more, and as wiggly as...something that wiggles.

“Noodles?” Kara wonders aloud. James is behind the couch, trying to coral Pluto and Gandalf.

“We're out,” James says, misunderstanding. “We're out of just about everything. Including you-know-what.”

“...C-H-E-E-S-E?” Kara asks.

“Yep.”

Well, of course they are. The only thing that goes through food quicker than Kara Danvers, apparently, is Kara Danver's dog.

Dogs.

Plural.

Fifteen dogs that are big and only going to get bigger.

“Kara, we can't keep them,” James is sprawled on the couch, trying to catch his breath and hoping it will be more successful than his earlier attempt to catch Blue, who had recently taken to hovering about three feet off the ground whenever she got excited.

“I know,” Kara groans, letting her head drop onto the back of the armchair. “I know we can't. But James,” she forces herself to sit up, because this is serious. “It's not like we can just...put them up for adoption. Look what Snapper did to my cape!” She holds up the red fabric, gesturing angrily at the shredded, drool-encrusted edge. “This is Kryptonian fabric—bullets can't go through this thing, but Snapper's teeth have no problem.”

“Oh, that reminds me,” James says, reaching under the coffee table and extracting a pile of charred papers. “Waldo's got heat vision now.”

“Ugh.”

“This is insane,” he declares as he tosses the blackened remnants of the CatCo magazine aside. He raises his hand and gestures to the apartment, which is full of snoring, slumbering dogs. They're everywhere. The floor. The couch. The bed. A sea of white fluff. Fluff that comes out in great white clumps as the pups shed their winter coats; the fur covers whatever other surfaces aren't currently occupied by dogs. “One of them is going to break something. The wall. The ceiling. Something. And we aren't going to be able to explain it, they're going to figure out we have alien dogs, which is going to lead to questions—”

Kara groans again. This is bad. She didn't think this would be so hard. She just imagined it would be like Krypto again.

But Krypto came to them already trained, and smarter than your average dog. He had powers...and the uncanny ability to know when to use said powers...and when to keep them hidden.

(It's both unnerving and very cool, in Kara's opinion.)

The puppies aren't trained, not yet, anyway. James has purchased what amounts to an entire Kindle Library of How To books, but progress is slow.

(Nonexistent.)

Though, there is one trick Kara's been working on with the dogs, and it's coming along okay...

One of the puppies pads over and hops up onto Kara's lap, uninvited, and makes herself right at home. (It's Nugget, according to the tag hanging off the red collar.) And Kara sighs, rubbing her behind her ear. This—the fact that they're just all so gosh-darned cute—makes it that much more difficult to be rational about the situation.

Krypto yawns and stretches, rising from his place at James' feet. He comes to join Kara and Nugget, resting his shaggy head on Kara's knee, looking up at her with sad, dark eyes.

It's all too easy to imagine him saying, I don't want them to go.

So Kara mutters, “I know, I know,” but she doesn't know.

She doesn't know what to do.

A rainstorm makes the decision for them, in a roundabout way. It's the most rain National City's had in years. There's flooding near the Bay, mudslides up in the hills...

And power outages, all across the city.

Kara's busy relocating waterlogged vehicles when the steady buzz of energy that runs through the city goes quiet, creating a blank space in the background noise she constantly has to filter.

She starts, head whipping up to see that, indeed, the buildings have gone dark.

“...Oh no,” she says. The guy in the car frowns.

“What? Is something—is my car gonna be okay?”

She rushes through the rest as fast as she can without breaking the sound barrier, and speeds home, not even bothering with the window, she just...crashes right through.

It's dark inside, the red sunlight lamps off.

And the dogs are gone.

Kara's head whips around and sure enough, just as there is a vaguely Kara-shaped hole in the window closest to the door, there are several vaguely dog-shaped openings in the other windows.

“Crap!”

Kara receives a total of four frantic phone calls—one from James, one from Alex, one from Winn, and one from J'onn. (Though. J'onn's isn't so much 'frantic' as it is 'rife with barely-contained rage.')

“I'm seeing reports of a plague of alien dogs, menacing the downtown area,” Kara can hear J'onn's jaw creak, it's clenched so tight.

“I'm on it, I'm on it!” Kara tells him, racing across the city as fast as she can manage in the rain.

“I'm sending a team—”

“No!” she cries, sputtering somewhat when a gust of wind sends a spray of water in her direction. “No, no I—I've got it handled. Really.”

“Kara—”

“Yup already rounding them up don't need any backup bye!” she hangs up abruptly, and she is guilty about it, but she really doesn't want J'onn to send a team.

A team means guns.

Loaded with Kryptonite.

And Kara doesn't think it's come to that. It won't come to that, if she can help it.

James, Alex, and Winn are already downtown—she can see Alex's  dark green jacket—darker, thanks to the rain—in a sea of frenzied National City citizens. Alex remains unmoved, though, not at all disturbed by the fact that there's a group of dogs flying around overhead, occasionally shooting lasers from their eyes.

“Do we have a plan?” Alex asks as soon as Kara touches down beside her.

Kara frowns.

“I thought you'd have a plan.”

“Kara, this—” her statement is punctuated by a small explosion across the way, and a flurry of sparks that light the darkening night sky, “is very much outside of my wheelhouse.”

“It's not,” Kara argues, simultaneously helping to direct the crowd away from the destruction. “They're just like a bunch of Fort Rozz escapees. Kind of. Sort of. That's totally in your wheelhouse.”

“Fort Rozz escapees don't usually chase cats,” Alex counters. “And you know how we take down Fort Rozz prisoners. It's not the same.”

“...No, it's not,” Kara agrees, mostly under her breath. James runs over, panting beneath his helmet, one soggy dog tucked under his arm. Alex and Kara both look impressed.

“...I had half a BLT left over from lunch,” he explains, holding up a ziplock bag with the sandwich inside. The puppy in his arms squirms eagerly, licking his lips.

“That's—”

Another dog barrels into James from behind, drawn by the scent of bacon, and sends James sprawling across the pavement. The puppy—Kara's pretty sure it's Waldo—falls from his grip.

“Grab him!”

“I'm trying!”

“They're—”

Kara doesn't finish her thought, because sudden nausea rises in her throat, and her vision goes dark at the edges.

Kryptonite.

She staggers back, but doesn't fall to her knees. It's Green K, yes, but not the real stuff.  This doesn't stop Alex from rushing over, slipping on the wet pavement as she does so. The two dogs whine and duck their heads, tails falling between their legs.

And Kara mentally runs through the list of people who could possibly have Kryptonite; it's short, because it would have to be someone with access to the synthetic formula. Max Lord, maybe?

“Supergirl.”

Not Max Lord, but. An old mutual acquaintance, kind of.

“Reactron,” James wheezes as he struggles to stand. Kara looks over, vision dangerously blurred. He's hovering a few feet away, sporting a new chest piece that emits a faint, sickly-green glow.

Alex draws her weapon and fires, but the bullets bounce of his metal armor. Kara watches as he aims his gauntlets in Alex's direction.

“No!” She shoves Alex out of the way, and the green lightning arcs through the air before connecting with her shoulder, hot and sharp as it surges through her system. One of the dogs yelps, Reactron cackles, and before she loses consciousness on the cold, wet pavement, she grits out, “That's such a stupid name.”

Ben Krull doesn't know why CADMUS wants a bunch of alien dogs, nor does Ben Krull particularly care. Ben Krull just wants the missing piece of the suit that will allow him to break ties with these anti-alien nutjobs and get back to more important things, like enacting revenge on Superman.

(See, he's not so much anti-alien as he is anti-Supers. He'd hate them regardless of which planet they came from, he's pretty sure.)

“Do you have the dogs?”

“Do you have my tech?”

“We'll deal with payment after we check the cargo.”

“You'll deal with it now,” Krull snaps, “Because the only way these dogs stay powerless is if I stay close. No tech, no help from me, and you can handle a bunch of superpowered mutts on your own.”

The CADMUS goons don't like this, of course, but they aren't really in a position to argue. The tallest of the bunch hands over a metal case, and Krull makes sure to check the contents before he moves to stand next to the van, giving a nod to the CADMUS guys. He's ready.

They open the van, and call the dogs. None of them are eager to obey, however. Most of them cower in the far end of the vehicle; as far away from the unfamiliar-smelling strangers and odd glowing man as possible.

“Come on, move. Move,” Krull tells them. They don't budge, forcing the hired muscle to actually climb in and physically remove them. “Hurry up!”

He goes to grab one of them, in the hopes of speeding this venture along, but before he can grip the collar, another dog rushes forward, barking madly, jaw snapping.

“Rowf!”

Sharp teeth sink into the exposed bit of skin just above Krull's gauntlet on his forearm. He seethes.

“Damn it!” He yanks his arm back violently, pulling the dog along with him. It's a snarling, snapping mess of teeth and drool, and now the other dogs are barking too.

“Shut up!”

“Keep them quiet!”

“Get off of me you dumb—” Krull raises his fist, and is about to bring it down on the dog's skull.

But a vice-like grip on his wrist puts an immediate end to that plan.

“Don't. Touch. My dog.”

And then it's Krull who receives a fist to the face, as Supergirl sends him flying across the warehouse floor.  

WHAM.

The dogs start in with a chorus of approving yips, and Kara smiles as she kneels down and gathers up Snapper in her arms.

“Aw, who's a good boy, huh? Taking down that dumb ol' Krull? You're a good boy, yes you are!” Snapper puts on a wide doggy grin, and happily slobbers all over the side of Kara's face. “...gross...” she whispers.

The reunion doesn't last long, unfortunately, because Krull forces himself to his feet.

“Not a smart move,” he wipes the blood from his split lip and coughs, a shaking hand reaching up to tap a button on his chest plate. “Or did you just forget about the Green K in my suit?”

The faint green glow is no longer faint; the suit hums menacingly and green sparks spill from cracks in the metal. The mild fatigue that Kara's felt since entering the building is replaced by a wave of familiar nausea that only grows worse as Krull steps closer.

Kara struggles not to gag.

“Didn't—f-forget—” she heaves, and points to something behind Krull's back. He doesn't immediately turn, though, certain it's just an attempt to distract him.

But then someone taps his shoulder, and he has no choice but to whirl to face...

The...Guardsman? The G...something or other. He didn't really read the newspaper, when he was in prison.

“Wha—”

Whoever he is, he grips the casing on Krull's chest piece and pries it off in one swift yank. The small lump of Green K pulses brightly, and behind them, the dogs howl. “No!”

But Krull isn't fast enough to stop the vigilante from extracting the Green K, which he tosses to a woman with short dark hair, dressed in black tac gear.

“Got it!”

“Good.” What feels like a boot connects squarely with his tailbone, and he's once again thrown through the air. This time, though, when he slams down on the pavement, he groans, and doesn't move.

“Nice,” James says, holding up his hand to give Kara a high five. She obliges, and then has to lean forward to catch her breath.

“I—thanks, but let me just...hooo boy.”

“Are you—”

“I'm fine, I'm good. I—see? Told you that synthetic stuff doesn't hurt me.” She puts on what she hopes looks like an unaffected smile, though she's quite clearly still a little unsteady on her feet. James laughs.

“Right.”

“A-hem.”

They turn to see a handful of CADMUS lackeys surrounding them. Oh, right. Kara had momentarily forgotten they were there.

“You want me to handle them?” James offers. Kara shakes her head.

“I wanna try something out,” she tells him, and gives a sharp whistle. All of the dogs' ears perk up, their eyes bright and attentive, now that the awful green rock has been put away.

The CADMUS goons shift nervously, and Kara grins.

“Alright guys...fetch.”

Only about four of the dogs actually get the command right, but four superpowered puppies prove more than capable of taking down some mid-level grunts.

(The rest kind of just run in circles and wag their tails, much to Kara's embarrassment.)

“That was...impressive,” J'onn says as he surveys the scene. A team of DEO agents help to cart away the moaning henchmen, and a special team works on containing Krull, who's still out cold. “Odd, but. Impressive.”

“There's a lot of stimuli, threw off their focus,” Kara says, only a little defensively, from her place on the ground, surrounded by their furry brood. “If we had some cheese, maybe...?”

Just saying the word is enough to set the dogs off, barking madly, straining on their Nth metal leashes, and James groans.

“Kara.”

“Sorry!”

“Now they think they're getting...C-H-E-E-S-E.”

“I know, I know.”

“Look. Look at their little disappointed faces.”

“Make me feel WORSE, why don't you...”

J'onn clears his throat.

“I...wasn't finished.”

“Oh,” Kara blinks. “Sorry, J'onn.” She gets the dogs to quiet down, and soon enough, the whole group is looking expectantly at the Director.

“I was going to say,” J'onn gives the dogs an appraising look, “that with the proper training, these dogs...would make quite a formidable team.”

“Well, yeah,” Kara says. “Have you seen Krypto in action? Imagine fifteen super dogs, rushing in to save the day.” Krypto hears his name and wuffs, and James reaches down to give his ear a scratch.

“Yeah, you're a good boy...”

“And, I mean, we're trying,” Kara continues, “but between work and DEO stuff and making sure they don't chew through the brick, it's kind of...” she huffs. “Slow going, the...training.”

J'onn nods, understanding their plight, but he smiles knowingly.

“I think I have a solution.”

(Ben Krull is put back in prison. No one sits at his table in the cafeteria.

“That lowlife kidnaps dogs,” the Atomic Skull hisses. Chemo shakes his head in disapproval.

“Truly a monster.”)

“Oh-HO that is sharp.”

James whistles in appreciation as fifteen DEO agents file out onto the floor with fifteen fluffy, white dogs in tow, each sporting a black harness with DEO K9 DIVISION embroidered proudly on the side in bright white thread above the DEO seal.

Winn grins.

“I designed them.”

Kara reluctantly admits that they do look good, though she still thinks the House of El coat of arms would look even better.

“You're biased,” Alex tells her.

“Only a little.”

Winn looks downright smug as he returns her repaired cape to her, along with a smaller parcel, wrapped in butcher paper.

“I designed that too,” and Kara laughs when she opens it, revealing a smaller cape with the familiar not-an-S emblazoned in bright yellow across the back.

“Aw, Winn.” She thanks him and gives him a hug while James snaps the cape into place on Krypto's collar.

“That's pretty sharp too,” he decides. “Nice work, man.”

Winn takes a seat in his chair, careful to mind the duct-taped arms. “No problemo, happy to be of service, ready to provide a super suit anytime, any place.” He throws in some finger guns at the end of his statement, prompting an eye roll from Alex.

“Pssh.”

“If you four are done?” J'onn raises an eyebrow, and waits for them to settle down. “I have new recruits to train.” He strides out to meet the dogs, and Kara immediately follows.

“Oh, I wanna see this,” she says.

“Me too,” Alex and James both chime in.

“Pass,” Winn says. “Overwatch DLC is callin' my name.”

So the three stand off to one side to observe J'onn as he takes his place at the front of the 'pack,' as it were, hands crossed behind his back, face settled into its usual stern, steady expression.

“Aw, this is adorable,” Agent Matthews happens to be walking by, stack of paperwork under his arm. “I might have to take a picture. For the 'gram, you know.”

“...No one calls it that,” Alex is inclined to point out, but Matthews pays no attention. He pulls out his iPhone, and waits for a break in J'onn's speech before stepping forward.

“Can I grab a quick picture, Sir?”

Perhaps, once upon a time, J'onn would have said no. But in a post-Kara-and-Winn-at-the-DEO world, J'onn doesn't even put up a fight.

“Fine.”

Matthews beams, and adjusts the focus on his phone.

“Say—” four pairs of eyes widen as they realize what's about to come next.

“No, wait—!”

“—cheese!”

Thirty ears twitch and within seconds, the DEO is full of flailing dogs, tails wagging so hard that papers are flying off of desks, and the barking so loud that the computer monitors crack. Handlers attempt to restore order, but the pups are having none of that.

Krypto sits at Kara's feet and practically beams with pride. Those are my kids, he seems to say.

And Kara, Alex, and James can't help but laugh, because J'onn's new elite team of K9 alien hunters is tearing up the top secret government facility over snacks.

“Did I ever tell you the kryptonian word for 'dog?'” Kara asks James, still watching the ridiculous event unfold with a wry grin.

“No,” James hides his laughter behind his raised fist. “You didn't.”

“It's 'fun.'”

Notes:

- The internet says that last thing is true. - Krull came across more like his comics counterpart, so perhaps a little OOC for the show universe, apologies. - All of the dogs’ names, because why not.

Snapper Pluto Hal Blue Ace Nugget Waldo Hedwig Sadie Jr. Krypto Jr. Artax Gandalf Snuffaluffagus or ‘Gus’ Penny Kodak

[dailybiblelessons]

Lessons for October 11 to 17

What's ahead in the Bible readings for this week

October 11 to 19, 2018 The Twentieth Week After Pentecost The Twenty-Eighth Week in Ordinary Time*

Bible Review: The Message

The most important thing you need to know about The Message is that it is in contemporary American English. You won't find any stilted language in this translation! The Message translation is by Eugene Peterson, a pastor, Bible scholar, and translator. Peterson's aim is to get the Bible into our heads and hearts, and get the message lived. (That is exactly what we are trying to do by providing you with these Bible lessons every day.) The transaltion grew out of his work as a pastor, from conversations in living rooms and hospital rooms and coffee shops. He has solid grounding for making this translation from his years as a teacher of Hebrew and Greek in a seminary.

In his introduction he says

I lived in two language worlds, the world of the Bible and the world of Today.…So out of necessity I became a “translator” (although I wouldn't have called it that then), daily standing on the border between two worlds, getting the language of the Bible that God uses to create and save us, heal and bless us, judge and rule over us, into the language of Today that we use to gossip and tell stories, give directions and do business, sing songs and talk to our children.

And all the time those old biblical languages, kept working their way underground in my speech, giving energy and sharpness to words and phrases, expanding the imaginations of the people with whom I was working to hear the language of the Bible in the language of Today and the language of Today in the language of the Bible.

This week's Wednesday Gospel (Luke 16:19-31) is from The Message. Here it is:

“There once was a rich man, expensively dressed in the latest fashions, wasting his days in conspicuous consumption. A poor man named Lazarus, covered with sores, had been dumped on his doorstep. All he lived for was to get a meal from the scraps off the rich man's table. His friends were the dogs who came and licked his sores.

“Then he died, this poor man, and was taken by the angels to the lap of Abraham. The rich man also died and was buried. In hell and in torment, he looked up and saw Abraham in the distance with Lazarus in his lap. He called out, “Father Abraham, mercy! Have mercy! Send Lazarus to dip his finger in water to cool my tongue. I'm in agony in this fire.’

“But Abraham said, ‘Child, remember that in your lifetime you got the good things and Lazarus got the bad things. It's not like that here. Here he's consoled and you're tormented. Besides, in all these matters there is a huge chasm set between us so that no one can go from us to you even if he wanted to, nor can anyone cross over from you to us.’

“The rich man said, ‘Then let me ask you, Father: Send him to the house of my father where I have five brothers, so that he can tell them the score and warn them so that won't end up here in this place to torment.’

“Abraham answered, ‘They have Moses and the Prophets to tell them the score. Let them listen to them.’

“‘I know, Father Abraham,’ he said, ‘but they're not listening. If someone came back to them from the dead, they would change their ways.’

“Abraham replied, ‘If they won't listen to Moses and the Prophets, they're not going to be convinced by someone who rises from the dead.’”(The Message)

If you decide to buy this translation, please consider using one of these links, where your purchase will benefit our work: The Message Ministry Edition: The Bible in Contemporary Language Cost: $7.99 The Message Deluxe Gift Bible: The Bible in Contemporary Language Cost: $10.87 The Message Devotional Bible: with notes & reflections by Eugene H. Peterson Cost: $13.38 (The prices above are as of Saturday, October 6, 2018).

This week's illustration

Lazarus in Abraham's bosom, while the rich man is in torment. It's a reminder to me (and I hope to you) that our actions in this life have consequences, sooner or later.

Gospel Lessons

The pivotal reading for this week is Sunday's Gospel, the parable of the rich young man. This man has observed the Torah. Jesus challenges him to sell all he has and give it to the poor and become Jesus' follower. He goes away sad because he has many possessions. The Wednesday Gospel (see above) is the parable of Lazarus, the rich man who ignores Lazarus, a beggar at his doorstep, with dire consequences. There are a couple of things to notice in this parable. Lazarus is the only character in any of Jesus' parables given a name. His name in Hebrew means "helped by God." And the rich man remains anonymous. In ancient times, as now, wealth is sometimes considered a sign of God's favor. The Sunday reading is a reminder that our wealth isn't really ours, and the Wednesday reading is a reminder that wealth is not always a sign of God's favor.

Epistle Lessons

Our Epistle readings during the time of preparation are from the letter to the Hebrews. It is sometimes attributed to Paul, but most scholars doubt that Paul is the author. Nevertheless, it has much that is powerful for us to understand. I particularly like these lines from the Sunday reading: Let us therefore approach the throne of grace with boldness, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need.

Complementary Series Hebrew Scripture

Our Sunday reading from the Hebrew Scriptures is from Amos. It condemns those who “trample on the poor and take from them levies of grain.” Again we are called to consider how our wealth is gained. Today is close to the annivesray of the death of John Woolman, an American Quaker, who would not eat anything made with sugar or molasses, since these were the products of slave labor in the West Indies. He was determined not just to avoid any direct oppression of others, but to root out any indirect enjoyment of exploited labor. This week we are reading the entire book of Obadiah. It is the shortest book in the Hebrew Scriptures. In my study Bible it takes up two pages. The background is that the Edomites returned escaping Israelites to the Babylonians, who had conquered Israel. Edom was settled by Esau, Jacob's brother, so the Edomites were betraying their blood relatives. As the New Interpreter's Study Bible says, “The Book of Obadiah is a vividly harsh reminder of the intense hatred that can develop between closely related individual or groups. It is also a reminder that we reap what we sow.”

Both Amos and Obidiah are called minor prophets. It is important to remember that these minor prophets are ones that left shorter books behind. They are not minor in the sense that their message is unimportant, only in the sense that their written legacy is smaller. Sometimes the minor prophets are called “The Twelve” because all twelve of them were written on a single scroll in ancient times.

In the Friday reading, the people remember their fear when being present when God's self was revealed on Mount Sinai. I am sure I would have been trembling in fear and awe.

Semi-continuous Hebrew Scriptures

We continue to read in Job this week. Here are brief sketches of Job's three friends and of Elihu, who appears late in the story (this week on Wednesday).

Eliphaz: He is the oldest of the three friends. He is often described as having great dignity and urbanity. As Job continues to complain about God (despite his friends' insistence that only evil people have bad things happen to them), Eliphaz angrily answers Job, attributing to Job a number of uncharitable acts that Job did not do.

Bildad: He insisted that if only Job would admit his faults, God would forgive him. He is often dogmatic and mean-spirited.

Zophar: He tells Job that God extracts from Job less than he deserves. Like Bildad, he is often dogmatic and mean-spirited.

Elihu: Elihu suggests that Job say to God, “teach me what I do not see, and I will do it no more.” Some scholars think that the Elihu chapters were inserted by a later editor, as he is not mentioned other than in the six chapters in which he speaks.

The New Interpreter's Bible, Volume IV, suggests that Bildad, Zophar, and Elihu function as a collective character, and the thing to consider is the contrast between them and Job, rather than differences among them.

I hope these readings bring a blessing into your life. Thank you for all that you do to help God's children. Mike Gilbertson

Links and summaries for the week ahead

Thursday to Sunday Psalms. Complementary Psalm 90:12-17 Teach us to number our days. Semi-continuous Psalm 22:1-15 Why have you forsaken me?

Thursday: Preparation for the Twenty-eighth Sunday in Ordinary Time Complementary Deuteronomy 5:1-21 The Ten Commandments. Semi-continuous Job 17 Job prays for relief. . Both Hebrews 3:7-19 Warning against unbelief, as at Meribah

Friday: Preparation for the Twenty-eighth Sunday in Ordinary Time Complementary Deuteronomy 5:22-33 Moses is mediator of God's will. . Semi-continuous Job 18 Bildad tells Job God punishes the wicked. . Both Hebrews 4:1-11 A Sabbath-rest for the people of God

Saturday: Preparation for the Twenty-eighth Sunday in Ordinary Time Complementary Amos 3:13-4:5 Israel's guilt and punishment. Semi-continuous Job 20 Zophar tells Job wickedness receives retribution. . Both Matthew 15:1-9 Jesus berates the Pharisees.

The Twenty-eighth Sunday in Ordinary Time Complementary Amos 5:6-7, 10-15 Lament for Israel's sins and a call to seek God. Semi-continuous Job 23:1-9, 16-17 The Almighty is hidden from Job. . Both Hebrews 4:12-16 The Word of God is sharper than any two-edged sword. . Both Mark 10:17-31 How hard it is for the rich to enter the kingdom of God.

Monday to Wednesday Psalms. Complementary Psalm 26 Prayer for justice. Semi-continuous Psalm 39 Prayer for wisdom and forgiveness

Monday: Reflection on the Twenty-eighth Sunday in Ordinary Time Complementary Obadiah 1-9 Edom will be brought low, their cruelty repaid by pillage and slaughter. . Semi-continuous Job 26 Job replies God's majesty is beyond our understanding. . Both Revelation 7:9-17 The nations stand before God's throne.

Tuesday: Reflection on the Twenty-eighth Sunday in Ordinary Time Complementary Obadiah 10-16 Edom mistreated his brother. . Semi-continuous Job 28:12-29:10 Where is wisdom found? . Both Revelation 8:1-5 The Lamb opens the seventh seal.

Wednesday: Reflection on the Twenty-eighth Sunday in Ordinary Time Complementary Obadiah 17-21 Israel's final triumph. Semi-continuous Job 32:1-22 Elihu rebukes Job's friends. Both Luke 16:19-31 The parable of Lazarus and the rich man

The links to the readings become active at 3:05 a.m. eastern time.

Do you have a friend who could us these readings?

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*Denominations have different ways of designating the weeks during the year, so your church may refer to this week by a different name or number or both. Regardless of the name or number, the readings are the same. Here is an explanation: Calendar Explanation

Selections from Revised Common Lectionary Daily Readings copyright © 1995 by the Consultation on Common Texts. Unless otherwise indicated, Bible text is from Holy Bible New Revised Standard Version with the Apocryphal / Deuterocanonical Books (NRSV) copyright © 1989 by the Division of Christian Education of the National Council of Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All right reserved. Passages ending with (The Message) are from The Message Ministry Edition: The Bible in Contemporary Language copyright ©1993, 1994, 1995,, 1996, 2000, 2001, 2002 by Eugene H. Peterson. Used by permission of NavPress Publishing Group.

Note: The links in the titles above take you to Amazon, where you can purchase them and benefit The Lectionary Company. Image credit:��The Rich Man in Hell and the Poor Lazarus in Abraham's Lap from Das Plenarium via picryl.com. This is a public domain image.

[chickensarentcheap]

Fandom: Extraction/John Wick crossover

Pairing: Esme Drummond and John Wick (platonic)

Face claims: Rachel Bilson and Keanu Reeves (obviously lol)

@tragiclyhip @munstysmind @themaradwrites @thebejeweledwatercat @youflickedtooharddamnit @secretaryunpaid @kmc1989 @karimac @asirensrage @residentdormouse @alisbackalleybbq @theesirenteller @ninjasawakenedmystar @mrsmungus

AFTER THE CUT:

Smiling, she raises her mug to her lips. “I’ll say it again, Jonathan; you’re a really good friend.”

“And about what you brought up…the whole ‘business proposal’ that never was…”

“Let’s not revisit that, okay? It’s not one of my finer moments. It was humiliating as hell. I’m still embarrassed. All these years later.”

“I didn’t say no because I was against it. In theory. Had it been another place, another time, another life, I would have gladly helped out.”

“I can’t believe I ever thought it was a good idea. Recruiting a friend to help out like that. I know I always wanted to be a mom, but…”

“I was flattered. That I was at the top of your list. And had things been different…had our lives been different…I wouldn’t have thought twice about going along with it. I just wanted you to know it was never about you; why I said no when you brought it up. It wasn’t because I was disgusted or thought less of you for asking. And I know you’ve probably thought it for years. That you were out of line.”

“I was, though. I was completely out of line. It’s a crazy thing to ask of someone. But thank you; for setting my mind at ease. It’s nice to know I wasn’t the issue. At least not in a bad way.”

“It wasn’t a good situation. With both of us being caught up in this life. Even if you’d walked away, I still would have been knee-deep in it. And that isn’t who you would have wanted to have a kid with. Someone like me. All the enemies I’ve made. That’s why I said no. Because you deserved so much better than that. Better than me. And I knew that guy was out there. Somewhere.”

“What’s the saying? ‘All’s well that ends well’? Had we gone that route, I never would have met Tyler. Which means I wouldn’t have Millie. And I wouldn’t give her up for anything. She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Aside from her dad, of course.”

“And as far as this being a good friend? Being there the other night, all the help I’m giving now. I guess in a way, I feel owe you.”

“Not The High Table stuff again. I thought we agreed; it’s all water under the bridge.”

“I was thinking of something more important. More…personal.”

Esme smiles up at him. “Helen.”

Wick nods

She returns to looking at the window, drink clutched in both hands as fingernails repeatedly tap against the porcelain of the mug. “She was one of a kind.”

“She certainly was.”

They’d met in a coffee shop in Brooklyn, strangers living in nearly identical brownstone apartment buildings within a block and a half from one another. Two women living very different lives; Helen, a famous and world-renowned photographer, and Esme, only six months into working under The High Table. Frequenting the same cafe twice daily, their busy schedules, sought-after skills, and expertise had made anything more than warm smiles in greeting and simplistic, minor chit-chat impossible. But they had been paying attention; learning each other’s standing orders and one often treating the other. A rather simple gesture that means so much; signifying a door left open when it came to a potential friendship.

Fate intervened three months into ‘knowing’ one another; both finding themselves at the receiving end of some well-deserved downtime. An extremely rare occurrence of clear schedules that allowed them to stop, breathe, and take in the world around them. Helen was already seated when she’d spotted Esme stepping through the front door; calling out a greeting and then flashing that brilliant smile before gesturing to the various offerings on the table. It had been the start of something so beautiful; both surrounded by the sea of humanity that ruled over New York City, yet never feeling more alone. And they’d spent hours in that cafe; drinking countless cups of tea and coffee, sampling various desserts, and lamenting about ‘single girl life’ in The Big Apple. There’d been o talk of their respective careers; instead, they’d chatted about their hometowns and large yet fractured families.

After that, they’d prioritized meeting every morning, whether at the cafe, each other’s favourite breakfast spots, or even for jogs through Central Park. Helen quickly became not only her best friend, but a sister figure. Only four years separated them, but at times Helen had seemed so much older; wise, learned, brimming with positivity and always prepared with the perfect advice for any situation. Ad she’d been more of a sibling to Esme than any of her blood relatives had ever been; suffering through even her very early years with five older brothers that lived to torment her.

“I think about her all the time,” Esme swallows around the lump of emotion sitting square in her throat. “Even now, after all these years. She was my first friend…my ONLY friend...here. Outside of the circle, anyway.”

“It’s hard. Making any connections beyond all this. Most people…regular people…wouldn’t understand. Why we do what we do.”

“I’m right in the middle of it all and most of the time I don’t even understand it. And I know it sounds horrible; to say I’m at least glad she was gone before I left the city and moved to Prague. Had she been alive, I don’t know if my heart could have taken it. Saying goodbye.”

“She thought very highly of you. Always had something amazing to say about you. She valued your friendship. She would tell me that you were the sister she never had. Say how she would have given up all four of hers for one of you.”

“She was an incredible woman. Just so beautiful and so talented. And she was so perfect for you. You were perfect for EACH OTHER.”

“And that’s why I feel like I owe you. Because you were the one that brought her into my life. I got a chance at normal because of you.”

“It was merely a blind date. I just thought you’d be good together. And you were. You were so good.”

“Helen was the best thing that ever happened to me. I never thought I’d get away from this life. I thought it would always be ‘live by the gun, die by the gun’’. It never occurred to me that I could have anything more than that. Or that I even deserved to.”

“You sound so much like Tyler. The number of times he used to question the same thing; whether or not he deserved having me in his life. When really, it’s always been me that hasn’t deserved him. And considering five years ago…what I did to him…how badly I hurt him…I honestly don’t. I don’t deserve him. He should hate me. Not want anything to do with me. Yet here he is.”

“He loves you. Just as fiercely as he did back then. If not more. And there’s an extra layer to that now. You’ve made a human being together. He’s a dad again. How could he ever hate you? You’re the mother of his child. You talk about Millie being the greatest gift you’ve ever been given? I bet he’s thinking the same thing.”

[chickensarentcheap]

🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹

Thank you!! It's messy because of my weirdo process but here it is lol

“Join me, will you?” (Winston gestures towards the patio; a waiter in a sleek black suit, crisp white shirt and matching gloves setting a table. Carafes of hot and cold drinks  and platters of various breakfast foods)

“As much as I’d love to, I’ve got plans.  That don’t include your particular brand of bullshit.”

“Perhaps just a coffee then.  While our Esme…”

“Our Esme?  When did it become OUR? Because I don’t share.  Not with you.  Not with ANYONE.”

“...finishes getting herself and the little one ready for the ready.  I’m asking nicely, Mister Rake. Extending a level of politeness and civility that you probably aren’t used to.  Nor do you rightfully deserve.  I’m well aware I’m not your favourite person and believe me, the feeling is quite mutual.  I insist you join me.  If you know what’s best for you. And for THEM.”

(He isn’t stupid;  accommodating the man's demands is truly in his best interest.   If he were alone, he wouldn’t think twice about turning his back and walking away if he was alone.   Or putting his fist through Winston’s face.   The latter no doubt seeing him leave The Continental body bag;  no one survives the swift punishment that is handed down when breaking The High Table’s sacred ‘covenants’.   But there’s too much at stake;  people depending on him to make sure they make a clean escape from not only the hotel’s grounds, but also the city and country.  Paying job aside, Esme and Millie need him;  putting forth a level of trust and expectation that he can’t fail.  Instead of resisting, he steps out onto the patio;  reaching for the sunglasses that dangled from the neck of his shirt and slipping them onto his face

(drops into one of the chairs, requesting coffee from the waiter and then nodding thanks when his cup is filled to the brim)

“What the hell do you want Wilson? Because I’m not quite sure I possess the level of patience you require.”

(takes a seat across from Tyler) “You knew this moment was coming. From the second you stepped through the front doors. You knew I wanted to meet with you; specifically asked Charon to pass the message along.   I made it very clear we needed to talk. And that’s exactly what we’re going to do. Talk.  Whether you’re comfortable with it or not. And as for what you 'brought' to The Continental? You brought nothing but violence and mayhem."

*****

My peeps: @munstysmind @muchadoaboutcj @tragiclyhip @secretaryunpaid @asirensrage @thesirenrealm @residentdormouse @ninjasawakenedmystar @mrsmungus @starryeyes2000 @karimac

[chickensarentcheap]

A flashback! A little cross-over of sorts. Esme and The Adjudicator

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BELOW THE CUT

“Esme Drummond. It wasn’t easy. Finding you. One of the harder challenges I’ve faced. When you ran away, you certainly ran as far as you possibly could.”

She fights to control the emotions threatening to overwhelm her. Nervousness. Fear. Forcing herself to remain calm, cool and collected; recalling those days she’d come face to face with evil and had lived to tell about it.

"I never ran away. I had no reason to. I was spared. Given a second chance. And I took it. This is just where it led me to.”

“A second chance you didn’t earn or deserve. A grand injustice occurred. And I’m here to fix it. I’m an adjudicator. Sent by the High Table. I…”

“I know who you are.”

“Then I assume you know why I’m here.”

“I was cut loose. Excommunicated. I haven’t been back to The Continental, I haven’t done any work for anyone associated with them. I’ve kept my distance. Like I was told to. I found other employment. I never…”

“I’m not here because of something you did or didn’t do. I’m here because you never deserved the second chance you were given.”

“I went before the High Table. I defended my case. I had people speak on my behalf. John Wick and Winston…”

“Never should have been allowed their time before the High Table in the first place. It was an erroneous decision. Allowing them to come to your defence. Many others have broken High Table rules and have paid the price. They weren’t given the same treatment you were. It is a stain on the High Table. One they are desperate to wipe out.”

“It’s been three years. Why…?”

“We had a lot of seats open up. Meaning we have many new members. Powerful ones. Who aren’t as understanding or forgiving as their predecessors. And with new faces comes new business.”

“And that has to do with me because…?"

“One of the first orders of business was to review prior decisions. Regarding those who had broken High Table rules. People who had been given reprieve instead of punishment. And your file just happened to be on the list. Although to be honest, you likely would have continued to fly under the radar. Had you not resurfaced���quite spectacularly…in Dhaka.”

Esme frowns. “Dhaka? What does Dhaka have to do with this? What…?”

“Word gets around. Especially in our circle. The defeat of someone like Amir Asif is something to be praised. Celebrated, even. And it wasn’t exactly subdued was it? The way everything went down. It certainly was an attention grabber.”

“Admittedly, things didn’t go exactly as planned. They got a little…messy.”

“To say the least. You practically shot up and burned the entire city down.”

“To be fair, I had help. And I didn’t really do the dirty work.”

“That’s right. You had a partner. An accomplice. Someone watching over you. Keeping you safe. That means you were, what? Aiding and abetting? You can take the girl out of the criminal underworld but you can’t…”

“Do we really have to take a trip down memory lane? It’s not exactly my favourite thing to relive. Dhaka isn’t going to be on any highlight reel of mine.”

“It really wasn’t ALL bad, was it? Those stories have been passed around as well. About you and the mercenary. You were never known as someone who mixed business with pleasure. All part of ‘turning over a new leaf’, I presume? Unless…”

Her eyes narrow. “Unless WHAT?”

“Unless it was part of the game. Maybe you knew latching onto him would be the only way you’d get out of there alive. You had to find a way to guarantee safe passage out of Dhaka, so you decided to do whatever it took. Even if it meant keeping his body AND his bed warm. It’s clever. You’re even more devious than I originally thought. I admire it.”

“That’s not what happened. Not even close.”

“I highly doubt that your behaviour was genuine. That it was love at first sight. You knew the danger you were going into and you knew you had to do whatever it took to secure your survival. Isn’t that what you do? Con people? Have them believe everything you say is true? For your own benefit?”

“It’s what I DID,” she stresses. “I’m not in that life anymore. I gave it up. Back on that bridge. I left the old Esme behind. I’m not her anymore.”

“So you’re admitting it. You used him. Fooled him. In the same way you did so many others.”

“What happened between Tyler and I was real. Everything I felt, everything I said, everything I did, was genuine. There was no pretending. No lying. No manipulating. It was all real. And I don’t care what you or anyone thinks.”

“You do realize that Dhaka was a mess for many reasons, don’t you? You killed one of ours. Someone who was in very good standing with the High Table. Who had made allegiances with the likes of Amir Asif in order to benefit everyone involved. And things were going so smoothly until you showed up there. And stuck your nose where it didn’t belong.”

It suddenly makes so much sense. Nik’s reluctance to call Gaspar; arguing with Tyler that it wasn’t a good idea that they call his old friend and colleague for help. “Gaspar was in the circle? I thought he retired. Walked away from the game. I thought…”

“He walked away from the private sector. Got into something more lucrative. And then you came along and put a few bullets into him. You just can’t keep out of trouble when it comes to us, can you?”

“I didn’t kill him. I didn’t pull the trigger.”

“So the mercenary did.”

“I never said that.”

“Well considering there were only two of you capable of pulling off such a feat….” The adjudicator’s eyes widen; a smirk tugging at their lips. “Unless it was the boy.”

“What happened that night has no bearing on what’s going on right now. I’m not telling you a thing. Not about what went down at Gaspar’s house. Not about Dhaka in general. I know what happened. WHY it happened. In the same way I know that everything that I felt for Tyler…everything we talked about and experienced together…was real. You can’t take that away from me. No matter how hard you try. No one can.”

“While Gaspar’s untimely and bloody demise may not play a direct part in why I’m here, it holds relevance. You were there when it happened, you did nothing to stop it, and you refuse to say who was directly responsible. Therefore, it adds to the reasons you should be punished. And you will be. Punished.”

“And you came all the way here to tell me this? It couldn’t have been handled through a phone call? An email even?”

Their face hardens. Eyes darkening. “Believe me when I tell you that when it comes to this matter, snark is not in your best interest.”