#Green Division Concrete

[over-orchid]

『Here comes the Sun』

【A Neil Vana x Reader】 【 Act 1 】 【 All eyes on me 】

Synopsis: It didn't take long for them to come back to you, you'd always be dragged back over the bridge. Its just this time, you have a pair of the palest green eyes following you.

Rating: Mature, will go up. Tags: Neil Vana x reader, No use of Y/N, Scientist Reader, Forced proximity, Enemies to friends to lovers, Pre-Canon, Canon divergent, Eventual romance, Eventual smut. wc: 2.5K Chapters: Chapter 2

『It was nothing. Until it was something.』

“I think the beach is real”

“Oh?” The half picked out Caesar salad long forgotten as you meet the hazel gaze of the tall woman seating in front of you. Lucy, or Lulu to you. She had a sharpness to her; she was as blunt as a butter knife but that’s half the reason you two became friends. She told it as it was. She wasn’t afraid to stick up to your attitude. You challenged her when she needs someone to set her straight.

“What’s got you getting so philosophical.”

“I meet someone. He��s…. helped me understand it better” You could have helped her. That would risk everything for you.

“How did he manage to do that. I’ve been trying to show you for years and all I get is you looking at me like a case study.” You’ve traded the salad for a cigarette.

“I can’t say much but he’s shown me so much.” She has this softness to her. You don’t see this much anymore.

It’s nice.

“How’s the research going? You look like you haven’t slept, and you’ve barely finished your food.” Nothing gets past her does it. She has the uncanny ability to turn any conversation into a session.

“It’s fine” Theres that look “I’m serious, it’s fine. I need to run by some samples, but I can’t find them in the Bridges system. They’re too specific for my needs and no one is willing to go retrieve them.”

“What exactly do you need that no one can go get for you?”

“I need samples of Chiralium” You forced a response. It wasn’t entirely untrue, but she didn’t need to know that.

You could tell she wanted to challenge that but you’re thankful she didn’t. Its already hard enough to explain to your colleagues.

There’s a ding from Lulu’s phone, just as she checks it, she’s up. Pained expression gracing her delicate features.

“Sorry, I have to take this. I’ll call you later” She was gone as soon as she spoke. Already forwarding some credits for you to pay with.

Who ever this guy was, he’s got her hooked.

“Oi, Doc”

 Well, there goes your perfect concentration. With a slight jolt of your hand, your prized microscope goes off kilter.  Turning with a blazing look, there stands your tiresome coworker, Mikey as he would prefer to be called. He leaned against the table, merely centimeters away from you. God, you can smell his cheap cologne. You’d hoped with his wondering eye finding the new lab assistant, Giselle. He’d finally leave you alone. Unfortunately, that was not the case.

“What Michael.” There was a tightness in your voice, maybe it would make him go away.

With a roll of his eyes, he pushed away from your personal space. “No need to give me that look. Big man needs you, sounded like it was important.”

Now that was interesting.

Gathering your supplies, you’ve mastered the art of packing as many objects into your handbag as possible. You didn’t have long to catch him before he goes offline again.

Getting through the large campus was a breeze, from outside of the science division of the OC, it looks imposing, sterile, void of any sort of life. The LED white lights hummed as the click clack of your short heels made their way on the concrete. For most people, the off-white walls and cool lighting were claustrophobic. For you, it was calming. Like nothing really changes here. It saved you from the chaos of the outside world.

You’ve had enough of the outside for a lifetime.

Finally, the head office was in sight. Just as you pass into the foyer, there’s a group of what looked like heavily armed men, the security division. Why would they need to be here? Oh well, not your problem.

As you round the corner, you see the familiar black door with a “Dr. Carl Hartsen” placed neatly to the right. You faintly tap your index finger on the door. Nothing. He must not be online yet. You make your way in anyway.

The room was empty. It looks like it’s hardly been used. Almost in perfect condition really. As you make it to the desk, there’s a quieten ding. Coming from above you. A small projector comes to life as a blue tinted figure appears out of nowhere behind the desk. He’s neatly dress, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. The orange device attached to his chest, beeping softly. A reminder of his fate.

“Ah, Hello. Thank you for coming on such short notice.” The tall, wiry hologram of smiles calmly, knowingly.

“It’s ok sir, I’m sorry I haven’t gotten the recent reports written up. This data has been kicking my ass harder than I expected”

“We’ve been over this, no need to be so formal.”

“I don’t think saying ‘ass’ in front of your superior is formal” 

“Well, as formal as you are. I’m not a “sir” anymore, not to you anyway. We’re equals now.” He makes his way around the desk, to stand beside you. Leaning against the table. The blue of his hologram illuminating the room around you. “Besides, you’re making me sound old”

“Ah well, carl-Heartman. I would even dream of doing that.” Feigning insult, you smile. “I’m still getting used to being promoted business. I can’t believe I have to boss around all the assistants; they all look at me like kicked puppies.”

“Don’t let it get to you; it toughens them up really” Giving you a cheeky wink. “Anyway, I didn’t call you here for an update on your promotion. I-Well, how do a put this” He looks away sheepishly from you. He was not one to beat around the bush.

“You’re needed in a meeting with head office. It’s…. very important that you go.” There was a hint of pity in his brown eyes.

“What kind of meeting? Why am I only being told of this meeting now?” The familiar flare of anxiety bubbles in your chest. You push it away with anger.

“Not one I can openly discuss here. I will be with you, but she will be doing most of the talking.” She? There’s a pause. The beeping on his chest quickens “Shit, I don’t have much time.” Heartman’s lips purse as he looks away and back to you. Like he’s mulling something over in his head.

“ You-“

A knock startles both of you. You really were jumpy today. Maybe lay off the caffeine.

“Come in” Heartman straightens up with a cough.

The door revealed an older man, clothed in a black dress suit. He looked important. You bite the inside of your cheek. The bubbles only got worse.

“Heartman” The unknown man nods to the hologram beside you before turning his sharp gaze to you, addressing you with some force. “They’re ready to see you”

Your nervous eyes meet Heartman’s; he smiles softly at you. “Don’t worry, I’ll be right there in a few minutes” With that he disappears.

The walk to the conference room was quiet and tense. The man in black didn’t even turn to acknowledge you as you both left the room. Rude. It wasn’t a long walk but it almost like you were being chaperoned to your own doom. That gnawing feeling in your chest only grows more apparent. Not now. You can almost feel the ink in your veins drip from your fingers. Like the darkness could swallow you at any moment.

Jesus Christ, not now.

When you finally get to the room, you really wish it would.

There, by the head of the table stood another formal looking man, well combed brown hair in a navy-blue suit. All American, all sleaze. His smile reminded you of a shark, too many teeth. He stared at you like you were some sort of insect on display. Like he could crush you in an instant.

But nothing he could do would compete to the woman sitting beside him. Right at the center of the table, she sat there with a warm smile and cold eyes. Blond hair perfect, signature red dress prominent against the greys of the room around her.

There sat the queen herself.

AmelieStrand.

“Thank you for joining us on such short notice, please have a seat” Her voice light and airy. With a level of sophistication that you would never achieve in your lifetime.

This can’t be real. You’ve entered the lion’s den.

Heartman you better get your ass in here right now.

“Erm-Thank you ma’am.” It almost felt painful to make your way to an empty seat nearest to the door. You didn’t even notice there was two other men in the room. Both sat on the side of the table opposite the door.

All eyes were on you.

The two men looked to be in combat gear. The same as the the troops stationed outside. Why would they be here? What kind of meeting is this? Where was Heartman?

The first of the men was tanned, probably Hispanic, eyes as black as his slicked back hair. He was handsome, very handsome. Perfectly chiseled jawline, with a 5 o’clock shadow that would have others flocking to him. He smiled at you, now that was a sight.

You almost didn’t notice the most strikingly pale green eyes staring at you from beside the ridiculously handsome man. Ok, now you’re staring.

Amelia called your name. Her blue eyes bore into yours, like she was trying to find something within them. You squirm in your seat.

“Excellent, we’ll proceed. Now, I’ve called you all here for a matter of-”

“Excuse me Ma’am. Please forgive me but I was told Heartman would be here. Should we wait for him” There’s no way you’d be doing this without him.

You can see the man beside Amelia’s eye twitch. Though, she herself just smiled politely.

“Don’t worry, he’ll be here in a few moments. You can catch him up on anything he’s missed.” She stands. That’s the end of that.

“I assume you all are wondering why I’ve called you here. I’ll keep this short.” Gesturing to you “I’ve read your paper on ‘How death has changed DNA’, amazing work. Your work on the creation of beached things, is next to none I’ve read.  Your involvement in Project Hades was remarkable”

Hades.  Of course, she called you here because of that disaster. The unpleasant memories begin to surface. You can feel your fingernails dig into your palm.

Amelia makes her way towards you. Her gold neckless jingles with her smooth movement. A feeling of unease carries through you.  Her compliments felt hollow.

“That is why I need you to go to Washington DC to retrieve the last remains of the first BT.”

…

..

.

What.

You could feel yourself twisting rapidly to face her, disbelief clear on your face. This can’t be real. She can’t be serious. A quick glance at the two men, shows they share in her astonishment.

“Ma’am with all due respect, my paper was just a theory into the creation of beached things and how genetics plays into their conception. I haven’t been able to prove anything in any concrete way. The Hades project was a complete failure-”

She cuts you off. “That is why you need those samples. I believe with the right materials and time. You can make it work. I can provide you with all the resources to get you to your destination.”

“Madam Strand, thank you for this offer but I can’t go out there. I’m not a porter. I don’t have the skills to even get to Nevada without getting myself into a voidout.” Or worse.

“That’s why they’re here.” Strand finally sets her gaze to the two-man watching silently. “Alejandro, may you introduce yourself and your companion.”

“Ehum, Of course Madam.” Mr. Handsome straightens up. “Hola, my name is Alejandro Torres. I’m the lead operative for security for Bridges. This is my compatriot, Neil Vana. He’s one of the most skilled Porters in the business.” Torres, smiles as he claps the shoulder of the pale man. He looked like he would rather be doing anything else than be here. His green eyes darting between Torres and Ameila. Before ultimately landing on your own. You bristle; his gaze is almost unnerving.

“Neil” That got his attention. He gapes wide eyed at the woman in red. She was standing directly beside you now. “I need you to accompany her on this expedition. She’ll need an expert porter to make it there and back.”

His eyes darted between yourself and Amelia. Dark brows furrow in confusion. “I can do this job on my own.” His voice was soft; you would almost have to strain to hear it. He also has a slight accent. “I don’t need a civie slowing me down”

Ouch, rude much? He wasn’t exactly wrong. Though you could do without the cheek. Before you got a chance to retort.

“She’ll need to collect data along the way, and I’m not sure about you but I don’t think you would know what you’re looking for Mr Vana.” Thank God, Finally Heartman makes an appearance. Neil makes a face but doesn’t say anything.

“Forgive my delay. I had to go offline for a bit. You understand. I’m Heartman by the way. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Gentleman. I would shake your hands but-” He pushes his hologram hand through the table.

“There’s nothing to forgive, Heartman. I’m glad you could make it but unfortunately, I must take my leave. Agent Jefferson will fill you in on the details. I’ll meet you two at the exit port in two days, at 0600 hours.”

Just as she leaves, she gives your shoulder a squeeze. It felt cold.

After what felt like hours, you can leave the conference room. The rest of the meeting was a blurr, you didn’t really focus on anything other than the fact that you had to leave the town in two days. It’s been 3 years since you stepped foot outside. You bite your cheek again, wincing at the pain. It was something to focus on.

“Hey, Doc. Got a minute?” The smooth deep voice of Alejandro strolls towards you. Alone this time.

You and Heartman exchange glances, you give the taller man a nod. “I’ll meet you back in my office tomorrow morning. Rest well.” As he vanished you turned back to Alejandro.

“Don’t mind my friend, he’s a bit una reina de hielo. He’s a good man really. Just give him time.” You don’t doubt Alejandro, but that doesn’t change the fact you’re going to have to deal with him for weeks until he warms up to you. If he ever will.

“I’m sure he is, but he’s right. Going out to the next state is one thing, across the country is a whole other story.” You could use a cigarette.

“Don’t discredit yourself yet, Doctora. You don’t know what your capable of” With a smirk and wink, the tall dark man makes his way down the hall.

What the fuck are you getting yourself into.

[hoodielord]

Green eyes in the fear fog.

For half a second, Steph thought today would be a decent day. But no, not in Gotham.

Steph's current events professor, who was also the head of student affairs, had offered extra credit to help give college tours. Look, she had to take the extra credit she had to, even if it meant that she had to be a tour guide. It wasn't hard, just annoying.

The group was small, only five people, but two of them stuck out. A brother and sister. The brother was the definition of adoption bait blue eyes, black hair, vigilante tendencies withholding. The sister was at least as tall as Jason. She had orange hair just like Babs, you'd think they were related.

Anyways, Steph's new mission was to make sure the kid and Dick never met. The kid would not stop making puns. Some of them earned him a laugh but some earned him a smack from his sister.

"Aw, come on, Jazz, it was funny."

"You can do better." she shrugged.

" Sounds like a challenge." A wicked smirk appeared on his face.

" Danny, please don't."

"Challenge accepted."

Yep, I'm definitely keeping him away from Dick.

But something was off about them other than looking at the crime capital's university. They could probably be metahumans. Their eyes seemed to slightly glow blue. They carried themselves as they had already expected danger. I mean, it pays to be prepared, especially in Gotham, but they aren't from here.

If the siblings weren't already on a list B has they should be now. Jazz had been almost ecstatic when we were moving through the psychology department. Danny was practically bouncing off the walls when it was time to go through the engineering and physics departments. Definitely should keep an eye on them.

It was reaching the end of the tour in the cafeteria. Another weird thing about the siblings was their reaction to food. They seemed to have this sort of optimistic curiosity like they were happy to have food to eat, but at the same time, they were poking to make sure it wouldn't attack or something.

Talking with the siblings was interesting too. Danny was buzzing about the engineering department. He went into a great rant about a project that Wayne Enterprises was working on in the aerospace engineering division. Maybe she should keep him away from Tim, too.

The conversation died quickly when a shriek rang out from down the hall. Steph turned quickly to see green fear toxin fill the cafeteria. Swarms of people ran for the exits knocking each over. She quickly dug through her bag and pulled out her gas masks, one for her and her backup.

"Jazz? Jazz, where did you go?" Danny called. They must have gotten separated.

Damn, she needed another one for the siblings. She shoved her spare into Danny's hands.

" Put the mask on and head for the exit."

"But I need to find Jazz."

"I'll find her. Put the mask on and go." Steph yelled as she went further into the fog. Quickly, she sent an alert to Oracle. Signal is on patrol right now, but more bats might show up.

It was dense she could barely see in front of her. There was some noise up ahead. Someone was screaming. The yelling grew louder as she rounded the corner.

"Stop! Get away!"

It was Jazz. She was practically growling. Her fist slammed into the concrete wall, leaving a deep impact. She was clearly affected by the Fear gas. A meta affected with fear gas, not good.

"Stop! Don't hurt him. He's not a monster! He's my little brother!" Jazz had gone from fury to sadness as she practically begged for her hallucination to stop haunting her.

If it wasn’t the meta thing it was whatever she was hallucinating that caught Steph’s attention. Definitely on B's list now.

"Isn't it interesting what fear does to the mind?"

Steph saw Scarecrow emerge from the fog.

"I saw you in the psychology department. Your eyes lit up like a fire. But now they are clouded with fear."

A chill went up Steph's spine. She quickly checked her mask for leaks but didn't have any. Turning her attention back to Jazz and Scarecrow, she saw something. Green eyes shifted inside the fog. They looked like a predator hunting its prey. For a second, they look like Jason's.

From behind Scarecrow, the eyes stopped, and a figure emerged. A baseball bat slammed into Scarecrow's face, knocking him to the floor. The figure came into full view now. It was Danny his eyes were glowing green.

He knelt down to Scarecrow.

"You really don't have any brains. Do you Scarecrow? If you did, you wouldn't have hurt my sister." His voice was downright, frigid.

He turned and rushed over to Jazz who was still trying to convince her hallucinations to stop.

"Jazz, it's okay. Come on, I'm fine. It's okay." His voice was soft and gentle as he helped her up. Jazz mumbled a little as she stumbled down the hall.

Steph quickly caught up to the siblings slinging Jazz's arm over her shoulder.

"Sorry, I couldn't help earlier," Steph spoke quietly.

"It's fine. Not everybody can be a hero."

Steph wanted to laugh at the irony of that statement, but she just nodded.

"Sorry about the tour too."

"It wasn't all bad."

" Oh, the rouge attack and poisoning wasn’t bad?" Steph asked sarcastically.

" Our hometown is haunted and our community college is funded by my godfather. And he is a rich fruit loop.”

‘Ghosts?’

“You know Gotham University is funded by Wayne Enterprises right?”

“Annoying crazy fruit loop or weird himbo? Hmmm. Yeah, I’m going to have to go with the himbo on this one.”

Steph laughed at that one. Bruce is going to want to hear about this but she’ll keep him away from these siblings for a little while.

[writingsoftarnishedsilver]

Weaponized | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

Part Seven

← Previous Chapter Next Chapter →

Words: ~3,600

Series Tags/Warnings: Violence, Trauma, No Hogwarts House, Post Hogwarts, Auror!Sebastian, Auror!MC, Modern AU, Female Reader Insert, Enemies to Lovers, Slow Burn, Forced Proximity, Ancient Magic, Mutual Pining, Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Betrayal, Reconciliation, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Divergent

Beta: @dreamy-gal-30 💚💚💚

Auror Division Headquarters, Staging Area – London

You strapped the last of your gear into place with practiced precision—thigh holster secured, spell-proof vest tightened, wiggenwelds clipped to your belt. Around you, the others in Sebastian’s squad moved through their own final checks, voices low, tension coiled under the surface.

It was the first time the full squad had been cleared for duty since the Southwark operation. You hadn’t been there for that mission, but you’d read the incident report—Combs and MacKinnon had suffered severe concussions, Townsend had nearly lost a leg, and Snow’s wand arm had only just been cleared by the Healers. But now, the squad was nine men strong. Or well, eight plus you.

Supposedly, today’s mission was a simple intercept. Intel indicated a smuggler drop near the old Norwood freight depot. Minimal resistance expected.

You didn’t buy a word of it.

Not after Knockturn. Not after you’d seen the tactical posture of the guards and the restricted British-issue wand holster clipped to one of their belts. 

Unfortunately, you still hadn’t heard back from your contacts in Canada.

Around you, boots thudded against concrete. Evans clipped his wand into place while Mercer and Higgins ran through dueling formations with Townsend. MacKinnon leaned against a potions crate, muttering darkly to Combs about spellfire. Snow paced near the Floo, stretching his wand arm.

And then there was Sebastian.

He was talking with Lieutenant Hale by the comms panel, arms crossed, his expression a shade more closed than usual. You couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Hale looked tense. About what, you weren’t sure.

Sebastian turned toward the team a moment later. “Final loadout check,” he called. “Gear up. We’re moving out.”

That snapped everyone into motion.

You tightened your grip on your wand and took your place in the staggered row forming near the Floo. Sebastian moved down the line, giving each officer a quick once-over. His gaze brushed past you briefly—no scowl, no suspicion, just a nod.

Progress.

In fact, things had been relatively peaceful for the past few days. Or, at least, as peaceful as they could be.

Since Sebastian had punished the Auror Officers for their hazing, there’d been no more ice hexes in the showers. No more missing kit from your locker. Multiple had even apologized—some awkwardly, some sincerely, most somewhere in between. You hadn’t expected that. You weren’t sure what to do with it, really.

And Sebastian had apologized too, something you still hadn’t quite wrapped your head around.

It didn’t erase the way he’d treated you before. The shit talking behind your back. The shouting after Whitechapel. The punishing drills that bordered on torturous. The cold silences.

But it counted for something, even if it did take him reading your file to start treating you like a human.

From the front of the room, Sebastian nodded, satisfied that everyone’s gear was in order.

“Alright,” he said crisply. “Depot approach is narrow. We’ll go through the Floo one by one. No movement until everyone’s through, clear?”

A chorus of acknowledgments followed—“Clear,” “Understood,” “Yes, sir”—cutting clean through the tension in the air.

He glanced toward the Floo. “Alright, let’s move.”

Norwood District  – London 

The green flare of the Floo spit you out one step behind Combs, boots hitting damp concrete in the shadow of an abandoned factory front. The rest of the squad emerged in sequence, wands already drawn, movements swift and practiced. Sebastian was last, stepping through with purpose, already scanning the surrounding buildings.

You were just under a mile out from the supposed drop site, an old freight depot that had been decommissioned years ago, now fenced off and left to rot. Prime real estate for smuggling activity.

“Two-by-two formation,” Sebastian said quietly. “Evans, with me. Higgins, you’re rear. Rest of you, you know the spread. Eyes open.”

You fell into step beside MacKinnon, boots clicking quietly against the slick pavement. Fog clung low to the street, smothering the edges of light cast by the intermittent streetlamps. 

The city felt dead tonight.

About three blocks in, Sebastian dropped back. Just enough to fall in beside you. You glanced at him sidelong.

“...You good?” he asked.

The question startled you more than it should have. You kept your eyes forward. 

“Fine.”

Sebastian nodded once. ““This is your first op with the full squad. Just wanted to make sure no one’s giving you grief.”

You gave him a look then. “...I think they’re more afraid of you than me now.”

That actually got a brief huff of a laugh from him. “Good.”

He fell quiet again. For a few steps, all you could hear was the squelch of your boots in a shallow puddle. You let the silence stretch. You didn’t owe him conversation. But still, when his voice returned, it caught you off guard.

“What’s your read on the intel?”

You didn’t mean to scoff, you really didn’t, but the sound left you anyway, short and sharp and entirely involuntary.

Sebastian glanced over, brow arching.

“Not exactly brimming with confidence, then,” he said.

You sighed through your nose. Shit. 

You hadn’t meant to tip your hand, not to him.

Sebastian might have apologized, he might even have softened a little, but that didn’t mean you could trust him.

He didn’t know what you’d seen in Knockturn nor the growing unease curling beneath your ribs every time a smuggling mission came up. And until you were sure he wasn’t part of whatever this was, you weren’t going to hand him the match to light the whole thing up.

So you pivoted.

“The source is unverified,” you said evenly, keeping your eyes forward. “And we’re being sent into an abandoned Muggle logistics site with no secondary unit on standby. That’s not standard, and you know it.”

Beside you, Sebastian’s mouth pulled into a tight line. “Hale’s justification was limited comms reach near the depot. Said backup wouldn’t be able to get through fast enough if something went sideways.”

You hummed noncommittally. “That’s still not how I’d run it.”

He glanced at you again. “So you don’t think it’s a trap. You just think it’s sloppy.”

You nodded once. “Sloppy gets people killed.”

Before Sebastian could respond, the depot loomed into view.

A rusted chain-link fence framed the lot, half-collapsed in places and barely pretending to hold anything out—or in. The building itself crouched low against the skyline, all broken windows and warped siding, an abandoned relic from another era.

Sebastian raised a hand, signaling the squad to split. “Perimeter check. Townsend, Combs, Higgins, Snow—you’re clockwise. Rest of us will go counter. Eyes open.”

You gave a sharp nod and peeled off with MacKinnon, Mercer, Sebastian, and Evans, boots crunching over gravel. The air was damp and stale, laced with the smell of mildew and old oil. A low breeze tugged at your collar.

You found nothing.

No guards. No crates. No signs of movement. Just rot and fog and silence.

When you regrouped ten minutes later, the other team had similar results.

Sebastian frowned. “Alright. Let’s head in. Stay sharp.”

The squad fanned out and entered the depot, wands raised. You were third in. The interior was pitch dark and smelled like rust and damp stone.

Your eyes swept the space instinctively, trained to pick up movement even in the shadows, but nothing stirred. MacKinnon broke right. Combs moved towards the catwalk.

Then you saw it.

A single table in the center of the room, and on it, a torn piece of parchment, curled at the edges like it had been there a while but not long enough to gather dust.

You moved toward it slowly. The others noticed and closed in.

“Clear,” Combs called from above.

“Same here,” MacKinnon echoed.

You reached the table and picked up the parchment. One sentence, written in a looping, slightly smudged hand:

“Better luck next time :)”

Evans let out a sharp breath behind you. “That’s it? That’s all that’s here?”

Sebastian took the parchment from your hand, reading the words silently. His jaw flexed. “This was never a drop.”

“No shit,” Higgins muttered, eyes still scanning the empty space like something might crawl out of the walls.

You didn’t say anything, but your mind was already racing. You’d been in the field long enough to recognize the signs. A cleared perimeter, no magical trace, nothing left behind. This place had been scrubbed clean, and whoever had left that note had known exactly when you’d arrive.

Sebastian folded the parchment and tucked it inside his jacket. “We pull back. Sweep the perimeter one last time, then return to HQ for debrief.”

You nodded slowly, jaw tight. The chill in your spine had nothing to do with the draft curling under the doorframes. 

Better luck next time. 

Auror Division Headquarters, Personal Quarters – London

Your room was quiet, dimly lit by the single lamp on your desk. The ventilation system was the only sound, save for the soft rustle of pages as you turned them. Moon was curled across your legs, her tail flicking with every shift of your ankle.

You were finally warm. Finally dry. The depot raid was behind you, the mandated health report submitted, the mission debrief finished. Your gear had been stowed and your holster scrubbed down with oil. You’d even gotten your hair properly washed for the first time in two days.

You were in your pajamas now—regulation-issue loungewear worn to softness from five years of use. The collar slipped constantly off your left shoulder, the sleeves were too long, and the waistband never sat quite right anymore. But it was comfortable. And technically still regulation.

You were halfway through the same paragraph for the third time—your thoughts stuck on the torn note at the depot—when a knock rattled the door.

You jumped like you’d been hexed. No one ever knocked on your door. Not once. Not in all the weeks you’d been stationed here.

Moon tensed too, ears flicking, and you instinctively leaned down to whisper, “Under. Now.”

She darted off your legs and slipped under the bed without protest, the way she always did when you used that tone. You stood quickly, trying your best not to look like someone who had just panicked about having a secret cat.

You opened the door cautiously bracing for a random officer or worse, Hale.

It was Sebastian.

You blinked. “Oh.”

He looked… slightly less put together than usual. Still in uniform, but his sleeves were pushed to his elbows, the fabric creased at the collar like he hadn’t changed since the depot. One hand rested against the frame, his posture casual, but his expression unreadable.

“Hey,” he said.

You gripped the edge of the door, suddenly very aware of the threadbare state of your shirt and the fact that one of your shoulders was still bare.

“…Hi.”

His eyes flicked over you briefly—face, collarbone, hair still a little damp at the ends—then back to your eyes. 

“I, uh—sorry. Did I wake you?”

“No. Just reading,” you said, shifting your weight. “Do you need something?”

Sebastian hesitated. “Not… exactly. I just…” He cleared his throat, lifting up an envelope. “You have mail.”

You blinked. “Mail?”

He held it out between two fingers. It was a plain envelope, unmarked except for your name across the front. No official Ministry seal. No return address.

“It was in the secure drop outside the office,” Sebastian said. “Hale had already gone for the night, so I figured…”

You reached for it slowly, quickly realizing what this must be: a response from the Canadian Ministry.

You kept your expression neutral.

“…Figured I’d bring it myself,” he finished, watching you a little too carefully.

“Thanks,” you said, fingers brushing his as you took it.

There was a beat. Long enough to become awkward.

Sebastian didn’t leave. He just… stood there. Straightened a little, like he’d just remembered how posture worked, and shoved a hand into his pocket. His gaze flicked from the envelope to your face and back again. You could practically hear the whir of unspoken thoughts grinding behind his eyes.

You tilted your head, just slightly. “Is there something else?”

At the same time, he said, “So—”

You both stopped. Both blinked.

You let out an involuntary, awkward little laugh. “Sorry, what?”

Sebastian cleared his throat. “Oh, uh, go ahead.”

You gestured with the envelope. “I was just going to say… thanks. For this. Again.”

He nodded. “Right. No problem.”

Another beat passed. He shifted his weight like he might finally be about to excuse himself, but then—

“So…” he said again. “what were you reading?”

It took you a second to find your footing. “Uh… Just a Defence text I’ve read a dozen times.”

Sebastian nodded like that made perfect sense. “Comfort rereads. Yeah.”

You shrugged. “More like… I can’t seem to find time to buy a new book.”

A flicker of something passed over Sebastian’s face then, just for a second. Something that looked too close to sympathy to be anything else.

Of course.

He’d read your file. He knew you didn’t have a life outside the confines of the Ministry’s leash. Knew there was no family nearby, no partner, no listed friendships or social affiliations outside your commanding contacts in Canada.

Not even your off-hours were really yours. 

“I’ve got a few books in my office,” he said. “If... you ever want something new to read.”

You blinked. “You do?”

“Yeah. A lot of Muggle fiction. Some magical theory stuff too, but most of it’s trash novels. Fun trash, though.”

You were just about to say that actually sounded kind of nice when—

Meow.

You froze.

Sebastian frowned. “What was that?”

You blinked, feigning confusion. “What was what?”

“That sound. Did you—did something just meow?”

“No?”

“That was definitely a meow.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I’m pretty sure I know what a cat sounds like.”

“Maybe it was the pipes?”

“It sounded like it came from under your bed.”

You opened your mouth to double down when Moon, utterly unbothered, sauntered out from under the bed like the little traitor she was and curled delicately around Sebastian’s boots, biting playfully at the buttons.

His eyebrows lifted. “Is that a—?”

Without thinking, you reached out, grabbed the front of his shirt, and yanked him inside, Moon and all.

“Whoa—!”

You shut the door behind him in one smooth motion, pressing your back against it like a human barricade.

Sebastian just stared at you. Then at Moon. Then back at you.

“…You have a cat.”

You didn’t answer right away, mostly because you were panicking.

Three weeks. You’d managed three full weeks without a single detection charm tripping. Without anyone noticing the extra food being requisitioned. Without a single sound escaping during dorm inspections. And now? Now your fucking lieutenant was standing in your room, looking down at Moon as she purred against his leg like she didn’t just blow your entire cover.

You were already running damage control in your head—lies, excuses, memory charms if it came to it. Moon, bless her oblivious heart, circled back to rub against your ankle like this wasn’t a full-blown violation of housing regulations.

“I can explain,” you said quickly.

Sebastian just blinked at you, still visibly floored. “You brought a cat into Ministry housing.”

“She’s well-behaved,” you blurted, “and clean, and I transfigure the litter, and she doesn’t shed much, and I’ve warded the door to mask any noise—”

“—How long?”

“Three weeks.”

“Three—?” He let out a sound that was somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “And no one else noticed?”

You crossed your arms. “I don’t exactly have many visitors.”

“...No, I guess not,” he said quietly. Then he glanced around again—at the dog-eared book still sitting on the blanket, at Moon now kneading it with her paws. He didn’t look angry. Or smug. Or even particularly judgmental. He just looked… surprised. Like he’d just found out you had a secret inner world.

Sebastian folded his arms slowly. “Does she have a name?”

“…Moon.”

He crouched slightly, careful not to startle her, and scratched gently behind one ear. She purred louder, traitorous little thing that she was. “Cute,” he murmured.

You watched, arms still crossed tightly over your chest, tension buzzing in your spine. “So what now?” you asked. “You going to report me?”

Sebastian held your gaze for a long moment, then he straightened slowly and gave a small shrug.

“No.”

You blinked. “No?”

“I’m not reporting you,” he said simply. “I mean, would it really do any good? You’d just sneak her back in.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I would not—”

He cut you a look that said yes, you absolutely would.

You shut your mouth.

Sebastian huffed a quiet laugh. “Look, I’ve broken protocol more times than I can count. Half the things I’ve done would get me court-martialed if someone cared enough to look,” he shrugged. “So I'm not one to talk. Besides, if anyone’s earned the right to bend a rule or two, it’s you.”

Your throat tightened. You weren’t sure what you’d expected—sarcasm, a lecture, maybe even a warning—but not this.

“And…” He nodded toward Moon, now flopped on her side. “She seems mission-critical.”

You huffed, almost a laugh. Sebastian smirked. The air between you shifted. Still awkward, still strange, but warmer now.

“Right,” he said, stepping back toward the door. “Well... I’ll leave you two to it.”

You nodded, fingers still curled loosely around the envelope you hadn’t dared open yet. “Thanks. For the mail. And… for not turning me in.”

Sebastian paused with his hand on the doorframe. “Don’t thank me yet. Your biggest threat to getting discovered is probably her. She wasn’t exactly committed to hiding.”

You deadpanned, “She’s very well-trained.”

“She tried to eat a button off my boot.”

“She’s… enthusiastic.”

That earned you a quiet chuckle. “Get some sleep, Warden.”

He didn’t say your name, but the word didn’t sound like a jab this time. It sounded… nice.

Nice?!

You ran a hand down your face, trying to scrub the warmth from your expression before it fully registered.

What was wrong with you?

You sighed and sat back on the bed, shooting Moon a look before picking up the envelope Sebastian had delivered. Your pulse picked up.

Canada had finally answered.

You broke the seal with careful fingers, unfolding the letter tucked neatly inside. No crest. No header. Just plain paper and a line of handwriting you recognized immediately.

To: Warden 137 From: D.R. No flagged holsters reported stolen. Two quiet discharges in Artifact Control. One MIA. No formal inquiries opened. Artifact evidence logs partially corrupted. Internal audit halted by Oversight. Reason classified. Agree, fracture, not leak. Proceed with extreme caution. Communication restricted to burn notes. Will attempt parallel probe from our side. —DR

You read it twice. Then a third time.

Every line felt like confirmation of your hunches, your fears, and your worst suspicions. This wasn’t a few bad actors skimming off the top. This was systemic. Covered tracks. Altered logs. Someone, or multiple someones, inside the British Ministry were corrupting the system from the inside, and they were doing it without fear of consequence.

You folded the note in half, then again, and again, until it was the size of a knut. You didn’t burn it yet. You just sat there, staring at your hands.

← Previous Chapter Next Chapter →

Banner Credit

[lboogie1906]

Lorraine Toussaint (April 4, 1960) is an actress. She is the recipient of various accolades, including a Black Reel Award, a Critics’ Choice Television Award, and a Screen Actors Guild Award.

She began her career in theatre before supporting performances in films such as Breaking In (1989), Hudson Hawk (1991), and Dangerous Minds (1995). She is known for her role as Rene Jackson in Any Day Now (1998-2002) and her recurring role as defense attorney Shambala Green in Law & Order. She appeared as a regular cast member in Crossing Jordan (2002–03) and Saving Grace (2007–10).

She received critical acclaim and an Independent Spirit Award nomination for her performance in Middle of Nowhere. In 2014, she played the role of Yvonne “Vee” Parker, the main antagonist in Orange Is the New Black, for which she received critical acclaim and a Critics’ Choice Television Award for Best Supporting Actress in a Drama Series. She played the role of Amelia Boynton Robinson in Selma. She co-starred in Forever (2014–15), Rosewood (2015–17), Into the Badlands (2018–19), The Village (2019), and The Equalizer (2021–present). She appeared in Fast Color (2018), Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark (2019), The Glorias (2020), and Concrete Cowboy (2020).

She was born in Trinidad and Tobago. She graduated from Manhattan’s High School of Performing Arts. She attended the Juilliard School’s drama division as a member of the Group. She graduated from Juilliard with a BFA. She began her career as a Shakespearean actress before tackling screen acting in television and film. Notable stage roles include Hippolyta in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Tamara in Dreaming Emmett, Two Fish in the Sky, and an appearance at the Toga Festival in Japan. She has one daughter. #africanhistory365 #africanexcellence

[animeloverskylarmoon]

Byakuya Kuchiki (Bleach) - Noble Series 1: Our Love - Chapter 23

In order to save some face, you do your best to act like you hadn’t been doing the hanky panky with your captain. 

Once you return to the thirteenth squad, you and Byakuya meet Ichigo and Rukia at the front as you all take off to do your rounds.

“Renji went to the eleventh squad. Apparently there’s been more activity throughout the barracks. Two lower level hollows showed up.” Rukia reports.

Your eyes harden.

“Was anyone injured?”

She shook her head.

You laugh.

“It’s one of the few times I’m glad we have a crazy guy like Kenpachi.” Ichigo says.

Rukia nods

“He took them out. Hanataro dropped by just in case. Hirako-taicho thinks we should start assigning medical reapers to each division.”

That might actually be a smart idea.

“Rukia, maybe we should-”

The explosion nearby cuts your statement and you jolt when you feel the familiar raise in spiritual pressure. On instinct you all draw your blades. You’re stunned, because the minute the dust clears, the many pairs of glowing eyes shocks you.

You’re surrounded by hollows, and not just a few either.

At least two dozen.

“So many…”

This doesn’t make sense. How did they manage to climb through without so much as a sound? Usually there is more than a warning.

You barely have a chance to think about it, because they all attack at once. The four of you pitch off into different directions. You’re not surprised that they follow.

You sheath your blade, lifting your fists, Rukia takes a stance and Byakuya has already released his shikai. The stream of flower petals catches your view.

“Getsuga Tensho!!”

Ichigo is working from his spot, and you feel the brush of cold which no doubt is from Rukia. She’s managed to freeze three of them. The two that come in your direction are knocked right into the ground, the concrete lifting upon impact. Byakuya’s has sliced up at least a half dozen by now.

Taking down them isn’t hard, especially given the skills you all possess.

In a matter of minutes, there’s nothing left but the rubble from attacks landed. You huff, straightening when Ichigo slices the very last one. You’d like to say that you’ve won this round, but nothing about that makes sense.

There was no benefit of sending a bunch of hollows for your group. He knows you’re all more than capable, he has to. You can’t help but feel like he’s been watching you this entire time. That day in the trees, possibly back in Karakura Town.

They all move to your side, and you search the sky, hoping for something, some kind of explanation behind this attack. Now that you’re all airbourne, you get a better view.

“What do we do Taicho?”

He looks about ready to give instruction, but another explosion goes off and your head darts in the direction. The obvious option would be to head in that direction to assist, but another follows, then another, and another. The rush of spiritual pressures stuns you. Your eyes widen, because all you seem to see is smoke from multiple areas across the soul society.

“No..”

It’s not just one attack, now the plan seems clear, he’s trying to create panic in the chaos, because you can hear the yells of fellow reapers.

“This..this should not be possible. How is he controlling so many hollows..” 

Rukia asks in disbelief.

The last person that had that type of ability was Aizen. Not an enemy any of you would like to revisit. The destruction is terrifying. Your hands tremble, Byakuya isn’t oblivious.

“Devastating, isn’t it.”

You lift your fists at the words, and everyone in the space reacts to it. You don’t even get a punch in. A thorn goes right through your shoulder and you barely get a sound out. Your blood splatters, hitting Rukia’s cheek and she turns with every intention to attack. 

Byakuya and Ichigo are not far. Their intention is to fight, but the barrier rises and the attacks they fire offer resistance. There’s a green transparent box around your body as well as Rukia’s in the space.

Danuja lifts his hand, and a green ring wraps around your throat and Rukia’s.

Your breath hitches, because you can’t truly move. Not enough to grab your blade, help Rukia.

Stop Danuja.

Both Ichigo and Byakuya don’t need much instruction.

“Getsuga Tensho!!”

“Senbonzakura, Kageyoshi!”

Both attacks hit the barrier, but none of them do any damage. Once their energy fades, Ichigo stares in alarm.

There isn’t even a dent.

“Damn it!! RUKIA!! (Y/N)!!”

Your shaky gaze meets Byakuya. You can see the panic in his eyes. You feel responsible. If he’d only grabbed you, at least you would have felt less guilty. All of this is happening because of you.

Rukia looks pissed.

“Why can’t we move!!”

She’s right to question it. The rings are only around your neck, but you can’t move your limbs.

Not at all.

Danuja merely grins, moving closer.

“I don’t think you’re in any position to speak so boldly. You nobles always think you’re so entitled.”

There’s so much hate in his voice. You bite down on your lip.

“Danuja..w-why are you doing this?”

You can’t understand how someone so kind could do something this cruel.

“We..we used to be friends.”

“I WAS NEVER YOUR FRIEND!!!”

He sounds angry, and you swallow.

Ichigo and Byakuya can do nothing but watch.

Danuja stands right before you, eyes cold.

“I was nothing more than your maid, so was my mother.”

His words are painful to hear. But from his point of view, you get it.

“All you had to do was marry that stupid old geezer and she would still be here. The day you left, it broke her. It killed her. I lost the only person in this world who cared about me because you were an entitled brat.”

Your eyes shake, and when he snaps his fingers, you can feel a familiar tremor. Byakuya and Ichigo turn their gaze with the new arrival of hollows.

There’s so many, it’s frightening.

Danuja smirks.

“Let the games begin.” 

[lifeforms]

LEGAL NAME. xiulan amanda lang. NICKNAMES AND PSEUDONYMS. lana. there are a couple aliases re: the occasional vigilantism (superwoman, 'angel'), but she doesn't choose them or relate to them, and her identity is never public, so. DATE OF BIRTH. february 1 (1986, in canon) GENDER. cis woman. ETHNICITY. chinese. she is half white, but being raised by her conservative white aunt (until she abandoned her altogether, age 15) in the whitest town in comics did not instill in her a super nuanced feel for that. PLACE OF BIRTH. metropolis / washington, dc.

CURRENTLY LIVING. smallville, kansas until she's about 22; settles outside of Aforementioned Big City a few years later (though she does own her childhood home and spends time there). SPOKEN LANGUAGES. lana has a genius-level iq, conducts business internationally, and has been fixated on communication and her own Lack of Culture for as long as she can remember. so... english and cantonese and mandarin, predictably. beyond that, she is the one character i give myself license to [gestures vaguely] this question. i'm not going to claim a fluency level in something until it's plot relevant but i simply would not underestimate her.

EDUCATION. her degrees (when she's done) are in astronomy, electrical engineering, and molecular biology. at least one of them is a phd, but i keep changing my mind about those specifics. sorry. OCCUPATION. she founded/runs* qilin, which is the inverse of lutho/rcorp, basically --- they work with metahumans to get them therapy, housing, training, legal representation, whatever. (they also have a research division, but it is not a shady place. the building is literally made of glass. it is a glass house. do you enjoy that.) she can also be found at ironworks, helping refine/brainstorm super-gear for the jla.

*she's the ceo. she is super involved, but like. shoutout to the people who actually do run it

HAIR COLOR. dark brown, though she dyed it black throughout high school, so i guess that's TECHNICALLY a 'verse-dependent'. EYE COLOR. hazel. they usually look more green, but it's all in the light --- sometimes they're a neat amber color. feline all around.

STATURE. she's 5'3" / 160 cm. PHYSIQUE. small. fit. technically an hourglass figure, as numbers go, but i doubt anyone would call her 'curvy' at any point in her life. she can't stay still long enough.

FAMILY INFORMATION

SIBLINGS. none.

PARENTS. laura lang [neé potter], deceased. lewis lang, deceased.

RELATIVES. none close to her. she has an aunt and more distant relatives on her mom's side in smallville. she's kind of considered an honorary kent in many contexts, but. don't worry about that unless you have to. CHILDREN. alexander, deceased. she does foster kids --- most of them 'super', all of them hard to place --- and i want her to adopt, but npcs are not my strongest suit and i just. have not gotten around to writing a concrete arc for that up. PETS. Cleo The Big Black Dog. three horses (cordelia, hermione, banquo). a handful of other farm animals that she's accumulated via rescue (yes, there is a hamlet the pig).

RELATIONSHIP INFORMATION

SEXUAL ORIENTATION. bisexual. RELATIONSHIP STATUS. single will be the default unless it's a verse like, specifically built around a ship. (and she is Available For That but she'd rather die than download a dating app, so like. brush up on your lowkey mutual obsession skills if that's your plan.)

TAGGED BY: @religun TAGGING: 🫵

[beardedmrbean]

Two families in East Germany, longing for freedom, built their own hot air balloon out of masses of taffeta, bought secretly in preparations that took more than a year.

They planned to flee and cross into West Germany in a daring plan put into action in September 1979.

They set out in their craft on a moonlit September night - after a failed attempt when they ran out of gas in the air and crashed into the bushes below.

However, they managed to reach the West in their second try, making it out of the country in a highly dramatic feat just before the East German police caught up with them.

The two families were dicing with death, as guards protecting the border in East Germany, then part of the Eastern Bloc, were ordered to use lethal force to prevent people defecting to the West.

The inner German border and the Berlin Wall were heavily fortified with watchtowers, land mines, armed soldiers and other measures to prevent illegal crossings.

"We didn't know anything about ballooning," says Günter Wetzel, 69, from one of the two families who managed to flee in their homemade balloon, who researched at length after a television programme provided inspiration.

When asked whether his dreams have been fulfilled in his new home, he replies soberly, "What do you mean by dreams?" Wetzel, who retrained as a car mechanic, was sure it would all work out.

His story was later made into several films. His character was played by US star Beau Bridges in the Disney film "Nightcrossing" and by David Kross in a German movie called "Balloon" (2018).

Sadly the films did not make him rich, however. "We were naive," he says, looking back.

Exploring the former death strip

A sign located on what used to be East Germany's infamous death strip now tells visitors about the balloon flight, known worldwide for its boldness.

Following World War II, Germany was divided for decades, separated by a lengthy border that can now be walked by hikers.

Where the death strip ran along the inner German border, there is now a green belt between the Saxon-Bavarian Vogtland region and the Baltic Sea.

Day trippers are drawn by the combination of forests, moorland, rivers, heathland and low mountain ranges.

Hiking journalist Thorsten Hoyer has covered 1,250 kilometres of the roughly 1,400-kilometre-long green belt in less than a month, but he does not recommend it, saying, "70% of it is over concrete and asphalt."

Nature is working on reclaiming the terrain, but has not yet managed completely.

The route is modelled on the Kolonnenweg on the east side, where the former East Germany border guards patrolled over perforated slabs.

Today, there is greenery everywhere along the path - though less in the way of tourist infrastructure and in places, there could be better signposting.

So it is better if cyclists and hikers focus on select routes, perhaps in the Franconian Forest where the states of Bavaria and Thuringia meet.

'Little Berlin'

The river Saale, once a border, flows leisurely along and builds up to a smooth surface near Hirschberg and is lined with trees and bushes, while canoeists rush over a weir. If you cycle along the colonnade path, watch out for the wide depressions in the concrete.

The situation eases on a forest path and the little road to Mödlareuth. Here, Americans used to call the village "Little Berlin."

Just like the German capital, Mödlareuth was divided by a wall and you can still visit the German-German Museum which has a memorial to the separation of the country. Visitors can also see a section of the Wall, and watchtowers and barbed wire fences bear witness to the painful division.

Britt Hornig, who is currently wandering through the museum grounds, is deeply moved and agitated. She used to work as a paediatric nurse in East Germany. "There can't be anything like this again. That was my childhood, my youth. It was absolute madness what they did to us."

"I went to the demonstrations in Leipzig every week and fought for freedom until the Wall came down."

Otto Oeder, a former border policeman and now 79 years old, also recalls the division. "I thought the world ended there," he says, describing his deployment on the Bavarian side of the Iron Curtain.

He wrote and published his book about those divided years, recalling refugees who made it through. "At our police station, we first dressed them in dry clothes, donated by us, not paid for by the state."

He also set up a regular meeting point in a pub for people who had crossed the border and could share their anecdotes. Anyone loyal to the East German regime was unwelcome.

Hiking through the past

Frankenwald-Steigla is the name of a network of circular hiking trails in the Franconian Forest, three of which illustrate the German-German past.

The Wetzsteinmacher trail, 5.3 kilometres long and starting below Lauenstein Castle, leads up to the Thüringer Warte. It is a viewing tower on the summit of the Ratzenberg and provides a fantastic vantage point to survey the area. Climb 117 steps and you can take in a view of the forests of the Thuringian-Franconian Slate Mountains.

Other climbs include the challenging Grenzer-Weg trail - 16.8 kilometres from Carlsgrün - and the moderate, recently inaugurated 10-kilometre Grünes Band trail, which starts in Mitwitz.

Along the way, a stream babbles and cuckoo calls echo through the forest. You can hear birdsong, while dewdrops sparkle like pearls on blades of grass. Dragonflies dance in the sun and it is so peaceful that you cannot imagine anything ever happened here.

[watcheraurora]

I just wanted you to know that I have developed so many short story continuations of like, all of your fanfics its not even funny. Like, I gave sheriff jimmy a whole ARC where he ends up in conflicts with Joel and then flees the division. BRUH!! you've given me brain rot, I demand compensation, I'm loosing actual sleep over these AU'S XD

Oh my goodness! I'm so honored that I've inspired you so much! <3

You're actually Dangerously Close to Tango's history with Joel when he left the division. Because they did end up in major conflicts around the time Tango left! But I'm very happy that you've created more based on something I made!

May I offer you a piece of the as-yet-untitled Even Ice Walls Fall Down Role Swap I'm working on as compensation? XD

For context: When I first thought of the idea of "superhero and villain AU for the Ranchers" I really loved Deepfrost and Sheriff as a villain and a hero respectively, but my friend who I ranted to about it (@soemthingsparkly who also did Deepfrost and Sheriff art in the fic :-D) really loved the idea of hero!Tango and villain!Jimmy instead. And I promised them I'd work on a version where Tango is the superhero Blaze and Jimmy is the villain Canary because as Ice Walls demonstrates, I am Not Creative™ at coming up with hero or villain aliases. And I'm still working on it but I do enjoy it

AKA the version of the story where if they manifested different powers, they might have taken different paths?

—

"Blaze, watch out! There are civilians nearby!" Joel barked in Blaze's earpiece as he loosed a wheel of fire. Canary squawked in alarm as Poultry Man tackled him out of the way of the wheel. The two hurtled to one side in a tangle of white and yellow feathers.

"I know that," Blaze ground out as he focused on conjuring another wheel. He liked wheels of fire more than fireballs, due to being a little more precise and effective, in his opinion. "So maybe step off my back a little."

"I will when you stop acting like you're out of control!" Joel snapped.

Blaze's whole body went rigid, the fire wheel spinning around his fist. "Out of control?" he demanded, his other hand holding the earpiece firmer in his ear as he ducked behind a concrete barrier to hide. "I am never out of control, and I resent the implication otherwise." An animalistic growl built in his throat. "Do you understand how much I work to remain in control with powers like mine?"

"Blaze—"

"N-n-n-n-no. Between the two of us, only one of us has the one-hundred-and-sixty IQ. And that would be me. So don't you dare lecture me about not knowing how to use my own powers. I'm not you, Lore. I'm not a danger to myself and others because I don't know how to leash myself. So shut up and let me do my work." He ripped his earpiece out of his ear and vaulted the concrete barrier to throw himself back into the fight, hurling the fire wheel in Poultry Man's general direction. The villain squawked like a chicken and dodged out of the way.

"Blaze! What are you doing?!" HoTGuY shouted as Blaze lowered his head a little and charged forward. His Blaze Rods appeared around his head, orbiting fast. They lifted him off the ground and he was flying, his gold-blond hair turning into pure flame. It would return to normal later.

Canary saw him in the air and snapped out his wings—enormous and vibrant, rich yellow. They beat the air once and shot him up to be almost level with Blaze. "Look who we pissed off!" Canary teased, voice singsong and high-pitched. "You here to play games, Fire Boy?"

Blaze's eyes were entirely the same shade of red while his fire powers were active and his Blaze Rods orbited his head. Iris, sclera, pupil—all the same. It was why he didn't bother wearing a mask. No one expected the green-eyed nerd to be Blaze because everyone assumed Blaze was red-eyed all the time.

Blaze bared his teeth in a frustrated snarl, sparks shooting between the gaps. He spun two fire wheels into existence. One spinning around each hand. "Let's see how playful you are when your flight feathers are ash, birdie," he spat. The inside of his mouth glowed like there was fire in his throat, its light reflecting outward.

Blaze had a temper. Blaze knew he had a temper. A bad one. One with a short fuse and a big explosion. He knew it was a side-effect of his powers. He didn't used to be so easy to set off. He used to be a lot more patient with people and situations.

But here he was, eleven years after his powers manifested, ready to burn a whole city block down and trying to stop himself from actually doing so.

But man did Canary piss him off. Even more than Poultry Man. Poultry Man was a pain in the neck. He was chaotic and antagonistically playful. He took nothing seriously. But Canary—Canary was little more than Poultry Man's lackey. But he targeted Blaze like it was his life goal to see how much fire he could withstand.

Canary's eyes widened behind his mask.

"Take the shot, you idiot!" Poultry Man shouted.

Canary moved to aim his crossbow, but Blaze's fire wheel spun into existence faster. He hurled it across the distance like a chakram. Canary's wings flapped hard to go over it and avoid it. Blaze rushed after.

[tomwambsgans]

for the hell of it i've assigned succession characters halloween(esque) albums

logan: timber timbre - hot dreams / lemon demon - spirit phone

shiv: the cure - seventeen seconds / concrete blonde - bloodletting

roman: pink turns blue - meta / depeche mode - violator

kendall: nick cave - let love in / radiohead - hail to the thief

connor: echo & the bunneymen - ocean rain / joy division - unknown pleasures

greg: the green pajamas - happy halloween / the mountain goats - goths

tom: blue oyster cult - spectres / dead man's bones - dead man's bones

marcia: siouxsie and the banshees - juju / jill tracy - diabolical streak

gerri: bauhaus - mask

stewy: honus honus - use your delusion

mencken: miracle musical - hawaii: part ii

[patcon]

[gardenvarietygay]

I’m having a heck of a time deciding what to do with this giant pot.

I initially bought it to put on my porch but it’s just too shady with the huge overhang, even hellebores were stretching for light. I decided to move it to the walkway directly in front of my porch which gets blazing hot sun all day long and lots of light and heat reflected from the concrete.

I debated buying a red banana for this pot but they were absurdly expensive. While I was at the nursery I saw this trumpetbush (Tecoma stans) for $6.99 and was so perplexed by it that I bought it. The tag says that it gets 18” tall (46cm) but I’m hoping more for the 3-4’ (1m) promised by the internet. If the trumpet bush is lackluster, I’m thinking next year I’ll do an elephant ear (Colocasia esculenta).

In front of it I planted some purple sweet potato vines (Ipomoea batatas) of unknown cultivar, they were tagged as “accent plant.” My in-laws have HUGE pots of shell ginger (Alpinia zerumbet) that they’ve overwintered for years and years, I’m hoping to get some divisions of those to plant in this pot toward the back.

I’m a softy and hate to let plants, even “annuals” die if they’re technically able to be overwintered. However, I don’t enjoy keeping half-dead plants hanging around my windows all winter. With that in mind, when it comes to potted plants I’m really trying to only grow things I can either overwinter bare root or that are true annuals and I won’t feel bad letting them die. So the long-term plan for this pot is ornamental sweet potatoes (I’m not exactly set on this color, I might swap them for a bright green next year), shell ginger, and elephant ear, all of which very conveniently produce tubers. I could throw in some dahlias or something I guess too.

If you have better ideas please let me know, I am very obviously winging it.

[viskarenvisla]

Thirst - Chapter 1: Her Quiet Revolution There can be no real affection for the Damned, and the ravening Moon Beasts are doomed to tear the world apart around them...this is especially true for such forbidden things as romance between vampire and werewolf - both of them, predators after the same prey, respective boogeymen for the other...but what happens when they look past these things? Can there truly be love, or can monsters only descend into perversion and eventual bloodshed?

This tale is a semi-AU for my character Yusuf Mizrah, who features in Law of Blood. I decided to depart from Forsaken and use my own werewolf universe, but fill in the spaces for Vampire lore from Vampire: the Requiem...

Chapter One

Four nights ago, down at the river

By the standards of the normally rowdy syndicate, It had been a rather orderly gathering. Nobody showed up openly brandishing weapons or anything of that nature - both officially and within their still-beating hearts, Kindred blood shed on the balmy concrete, or bodies turning to ash were the last things anybody desired. She knew better, however, than to trust in the members’ individual senses of propriety, and that was why they’d concentrated their petty hopes and dreams onto Monroe Carter as their representative. Not that she was complaining.

The thirty or so Kindred who'd come together on this night were as motley and differentiated a band as could be expected from those whose only real ties were death and servitude. Despite the segregation and censorship imposed by their ‘betters’, their hunting grounds ‘leased’ to them at the edges of their masters’ domains and the loathsome blood tax they were forced to pay, they’d become a cohesive thing. The Cause had grown from little more than a whisper of rebellion, shared in near silence among those who lined up weekly to give Communion unto their dread rulers. Slowly it’d turned into secretive meetings where resistance to their individual vincula was slowly built among the gathered. Debates and lectures about "the Natural Rights of the Unnatural" stretching into the night forming the mental cornerstone that would become the fortress of their resistance.

Finally, it had come to this.

The bonds of servitude and death were surprisingly strong, enough to overcome divisions that had, more often than not, been purposefully placed there by their own Overseers. Vorath the Thricefold’s old rivalry with Manny Vaull was once fierce enough to set their teeth gnashing in the other’s presence; now they stood side by side. It was the same with Corra Wilson and Nettletongue; an unlikely jealousy between the two over a shared blood doll, given the scarcity of appropriate prey, had been replaced by something nearing as close to comity as could be found among the Dead.

Monroe stood at the head of the silent gathering of eclectic individuals, pulled from The City’s rusted shadows here to meet the Overseer Committee as they returned from conclave with their own elders. The Red River, flowing like a fat, wriggling worm through downtown, out to Ashland Port and into the wine-dark, thrashing waters of the Gulf, was usually reserved for shipping liners carrying refined gas, steel, and other byproducts of the state’s industrial blight. Such was the pull of the Overseers, however, that the waterways were cleared for their entry.

She was like a cold-forged, steel torch in the night, beat bright and unyielding against an icy anvil. A black bandana was tied around her forehead - something the syndicate's members all shared, whether worn on their arms or looped through a belt - holding her many-colored, gold clasped braids back in a complex knot. The dark green, midriff-length jacket worn over her torso was weighed down by the fire-hatchet within, her tool of choice in the regrettable event that negotiations failed and this became a violent confrontation; more than likely, given the difference in age between the Overseer Committee’s members and their own, it would be a savage rout. Still, seven against thirty was good odds, and they’d surely pull at least half the elders’ number down with them.

Monroe was confident in herself, in the strength of the Cause. It was a crossbow bolt with a red-hot iron head, pointed threateningly at the hearts of their oppressors; their message would be heard, and their demands met. 

For now, they were silent, waiting patiently. It wasn’t your typical protest or picket like she was used to, with marching and signs, slogans shouted for cameras…that sort of thing wouldn’t get through to the Elder Dead, who were beings of an earlier time. They intimately understood the balance of power, however, and the message would be entirely clear when the Overseers laid their eyes upon their servant-livestock, staring them down and wearing black, with Monroe leading them.

“Look,” breathed Harlowe, pointing down toward the bay when the first glimmers of the luxury yacht’s fog lights cut through the springtime haze of pollution and condensation. Although the gathered Dead barely moved, everyone felt it…that anxious pressure that preceded a confrontation with authority. That terror was understandable, though quieted by their unity and a certain understanding shared among The City’s common vampires: if anyone was going to take the blame and end up an example, it was Monroe Carter. Rhymes with martyr . An old lover, long lost to the years, had once said that, and that’s what she remembered instead of his (or her?) face.

To Monroe’s Spartan sensibilities, the garish festoons of the superyacht showed how the Overseers, in their vast view of time, laid the trappings of the new over the old and familiar; while the massive boat was smooth and white, sleek and covered with blaring, soulless lights, their servants had gone through the trouble of carefully interweaving Tatarian Honeysuckle across the decks in bright, purple petaled magnificence. Bright red silk ribbon was intertwined among the railing. By its streamlined form, it was the most modern boat that old, musty money could buy; its spirit was that of the old pleasure barges of nobility whose largesse had, since the time of the Egyptian Old Dynasties and the Kings of Xia, been supported on the backs of the masses.

Now…for the grand act. “William,” she called in her alto voice, muffled by the warm, foggy air. “You’re up.” She congratulated herself at resisting her inward giddiness; never had she sent a message of defiance such as this.

The hairless, fishy-fleshed man that hunched beneath his long, concealing coat obliged silently, stepping from the gathering and leaping into the river, barely disturbing it. When he emerged, he’d coiled one big, dripping end of the cold-forged iron chain fitted in Harlowe's Machine Shop around his torso. Its bright-green links were the size of a small box television, and in William’s skinny, yet stunningly powerful arms, they dripped with the chemical-rich flow of the Red Rock River. Little John, towering over everyone present with his gentle voice and boyish face; Melinda Arsanova, always dressed proper and presentable no matter the event; and Sherman, his arms thick like tree-trunks from feeding on this very dock’s workers. They stepped forward and pulled hard on the chain, secured on other side of the river with a great iron stake Harlowe had shaped himself, and soon there was a neon-green painted barrier of links presented before the superyacht. One might look here and see an impossibility, four bedraggled oddities attempting to cut off the passage of a yacht, but Monroe knew them as some of the strongest Kindred in the city.

She waited with baited breath. Here, based on the whim of a dead thing hundreds of years her elder, the Brujah’s whole plan could come tumbling apart…but there came the booming sound of a foghorn, and the yacht’s forward wake churned a crimson foam in the Red Rock River as it slowed its ponderous, floating bulk to a halt. Another shaking, drawn out howl from the foghorn, like an indignant cry whale’s cry.

The chain remained stretched taut across the river.

Minutes rolled by…nearly an hour, testing their resolve before the first of the Overseers deigned to make an appearance upon the deck. Monroe knew who it would be, before his over-long, pale fingers curled around the steel bar struck into the deckposts, fingernails clicking odiously against the side of the yacht. Vasco Isidoro was, in her view, the weakest of the Seven, and he reminded her of the guy from the insane asylum in Beauty and the Beast…you know the one. The man with the tonsure and stooped posture, the furry eyebrows. Vasco was also well dressed in his black, pinstripe suit, but he still looked like a bag of bones and spiders supported by its own conniving will.

His eyes were green like pea soup, and his voice had a similar wet quality. “A fine evening indeed to you, Siervos ,” Vasco called in a disarmingly cheerful tone, accented by his native Curitiba. His smile was entirely like that of some predatory lake fish’s, concealing hundreds of needle-sharp teeth. “You all seem to have misplaced your charming, green chain, directly in our path…perhaps you require assistance recovering said chain, that your betters might be on their way?”

Isidoro’s words were like a slow-falling, poisonous net; it was only after you looked behind his lips and saw the anxious malice squirming beneath that one felt uneasy. Monroe could feel the syndicate’s members stirring uneasily in the line…authority had been so beaten into them by blood-bond and fear that each defiance was an act of desperate will on their parts. Stretching a harbor chain across the path of the barge along the river was more than a mere defiance.

 “You ain’t wrong,” she answered, acting as their courage. Monroe Carter was loud enough to be heard above the din of The City’s night hum, as well as the idling of the barge’s engines. “We require your assistance but I’m afraid the chain stays until we’re done here.” She didn’t flinch or even squint as one of the ship’s lights swiveled down to shine upon her; if it was meant to intimidate and separate her, the spotlight had the opposite effect. Always had.

Vasco’s thin, shiny lips drew wider across his long face, splitting to reveal where his fangs had grown in place of his incisors. She knew he was enraged, a creature set a whole class above and apart from them, but the lowest of his kind - and now, facing disobedience called siervos ? Monroe could empathize, she also liked things to be orderly, and for that to happen all the moving parts had to work and obey . “My dear wards, certainly you understand the value of our time. Each moment’s value eclipses your combined years as we work to keep you safe…protect your posthumous rights. To waste such a valuable vintage as ours, surely you can see both the folly and danger inherent in such a thing. Now…Would you care to release your chain?”

To drive the point home, Monroe took note of the ten or so men that stepped up to join him at the edge of the deck, pointing loaded M4s their way; clad in faceless, visored black helms, moving in perfect unison, these humans - maybe even ghouls - were the preferred servant for the Overseer Committee. Unquestioningly obedient, tied by their own addictions and contracts, they still didn’t have what old vampires like Vasco and his ilk required: Kindred blood. That, of course, was their bargaining chip…if not her own trump card. “‘Fraid not Mister Isidoro.”

She smiled internally as he bristled; these older, dead things, they demanded the honor of titles even in this day and age from their Childer. “We tried your ‘official channels’; we were stonewalled. We wrote to y'all, we signed petitions, and we even sent y'all messengers that you returned to us in them little wooden boxes. ‘Member that?”

Behind her, Tucker growled under his breath. His best and only friend, the oldest member of his coterie, had been among those messengers returned to them as little more than finely ground ashes and bright, gleaming fangs. The icy lake of their fear cracked, thawed by memories of their own old resentments. Suddenly they weren’t quite as afraid of those white-phosphorous bullets.

“A regrettable misunderstanding and little more of course. We would all hate for similar misunderstandings to happen over the matter of a mere green chain, especially since, as you know, the Oversee Committee dutifully handles petitions - ” 

“Yes yes, on individual basis, we have heard before,” Old Vlacha gruffly complained.

“Yeah…you can think of this as somethin’ more like us filing a class-action suit,” Monroe put it out there in words that would disturb the corporatist in Isidoro. “That’s why I’m speaking for everyone here with one voice, make sure there ain’t no more ‘misunderstandings’ like there was, Mister Isidoro.” The young Brujah got a kick out of the way his face shivered under that smile every time she called him that.

She didn’t really need to say more for him to infer precisely what she meant; that they were prepared to enforce a blood picket, if their demands weren’t met. That’s what the consequence of ‘misunderstanding’ meant on their end, since they couldn’t really challenge the Overseers with force and hope to succeed. The Overseers were old enough that the blood sustaining them had become a concentrated, unnatural thing of arcane fusions reliant on the unliving force of other Kindred; human blood, though a heady draught for any vampire, no longer sated them. That’s why they kept the common Lick chained. Los Siervos . 

To Monroe, who’d always chafed at being born at the bottom and struggling against the weight of those saw fit to keep her there, the irony of their unlives was how the clock was turned back at the leisure of older, more powerful Kindred…as if the liberties people had fought and died for were illusions, like the ones they’d woven to keep the Kine ignorant of the monsters drinking deep from their veins and souls. She was as unable to keep her mouth shut in death as she was in life, and the unfairness had become simply intolerable.

Isidoro’s smile changed, leaving his eyes; the corners of his lips slackened. It gave him this leering, wild aspect, like a villain from a children’s tale in her eyes. Monroe expected fear from those gathered, or for the wiley old Nosferatu to turn the power of the Blood against them, but nobody broke from the picket and the chain remained taut. 

All according to plan . 

“Miss Carter, I would like to suggest once more…that Mister William, Mister Jonathon, Miss Arsanova and Master Sherman release their grip on their misplaced chain and make way.”

Isidoro raised a hand and the safeties were simultaneously clicked off on the pale-flame rounds pointed their way; international language of terror. A few gasps of reticence and sounds of hesitation rose unbidden from the gathered Dead, and they wavered. The seconds seemed to drag on during the standoff, just as Monroe planned, and at just the right time, before everyone’s eyes, she broke the tension.

“We’re tired of being your serfs,” she said, blunter than creatures like Isidoro were used to.

The phosphorus-loaded M4s remained pointed their way; she could feel one of the Overseers’ soldiers, looking down his reticle and pointing right at her heart, and although the Beast’s instinctive aversion to Final Death clawed echoing and squealing in the back of her throat, she continued. “We’re tired of you drainin’ us to the bone while we can barely get by on the dry, over-policed barrens you expect us to trough in.”

“I almost fell into torpor last week after Lady Shira took her tithe,” called little Samara Green, bedraggled and rain soaked slip of a thing. “You think it’s easy for someone like me to hunt out there ?” She pointed upriver, far back toward the smokestacks still working into the night. “They barely have enough people working third shift for me to feed on, and there’s something crawling in the gutters .”

“Yeah!” shouted Tucker, a fellow Brujah who had a loose grip on his Beast than she. “When you’re not ashing us for trying to talk to you, you aren’t even protecting us from the stuff in our hunting grounds!”

Monroe didn’t let herself smile, but victory stirred in her heart as their complaints filled the air, overcoming their collective dread for the Nosferatu. 

“Your friends shipped my job to Mexico and I got evicted!”

“I still haven’t gotten compensated for the storm damage to my haven, the roof is caving in - there’s a fucking beam of sunlight shining in the middle of my living room!”

“A pack of Lupines moved into my turf!”

Soon their voices were raised in a cacophony of rising anger, indignance at their lot channeled through Monroe and upward above the smog. The traditions of the syndicate were born during the French Revolution, when many pale lords and ladies the Overseers had once known personally were put to the stake just as readily as the guillotine; their fear was born from personal experience. Isidoro himself had come close to having his head stuck through a little window, and based on his better judgment lowered his hand.

Without a word he disappeared from the deck. The rifles were still pointed their way as the syndicate’s voice rose, a cacophony that signaled clear as the murderous light of day: there were only two choices here as Monroe had presented them.

The first, the most tried and true and obvious, was to simply fire upon the syndicate’s members and scatter the survivors back to their corners and miserable little havens. The truly, finally dead would be annihilated by burning rounds, atrophied organs turning to ash and scattering before sunrise. Bloody monsters’ tears would be shed both for their loss and out of despair for their unchanged state. 

The second was, of course, a far harder pill to swallow: to step down from the pedestal of exclusivity, of elite entitlement, and negotiate with lessers, for in the end Monroe held one truth over the elders’ heads:

The greater parasites required the lesser ones for sustenance, while the lesser ones required the protection of the hoarier, longer-toothed Kindred. Some of them were even their Sires, having sung the first notes of their Requiems in the wind. A great, dysfunctional family devouring itself from head to toe like a grotesque, rotten snake, dressed up in faded silks and tarnished ornaments. 

As before, the Overseers made them wait, this time under the threatening rifle barrels of their gendarmes. All eyes were on Monroe, waiting for her to flinch, but she simply stood her ground. Waited.

The minutes passed, tension dilating them into hours before, with a sound of grinding metal, a ramp was slowly lowered from the superyacht toward the concrete levies upon which Monroe stood. Isidoro reappeared, and with a wordless gesture, split his palm open. The red of his blood spilled into the river - a universally recognized guarantee of safety.

Although she never showed it, striding up the ramp, her converses clanking with each step, a relief greater than any she’d known drained the tension from her unliving muscles. I win…this first battle, anyway .

When she walked free, it would be carrying the prize she’d set her attentions upon, unwaveringly. Greater rights and freedoms…fuller bellies and warmer beds during the daytime. A revolution that would be won without spilling a drop of blood.

None that would be seen, anyway.

[shattered-matrix]

Chapter 1: Scratched Weapon

Pacific Rim au | platonic Yunho x OC copilot (Ash Calder)

Themes: war prep, drift strain, haunted calm, broken systems, quiet loyalty, first blood, Jaeger pilots with issues™, complicated male friendships, Kaiju-slaying, drift-induced emotional crises, and soft moments in steel cockpits.

2.9k words

Tag list: @woosmaid

Ash Calder had learned to sleep just long enough to keep the dreams out.

Six hours was too much—left too much room for memory to claw its way back in. Four was doable, if he’d taken something to dull the edges. Three, if the alcohol was just enough to weigh his limbs without blurring his instincts. He could time it down to the minute now.

The hangovers were manageable. He’d had worse.

He kept the bottle tucked into the sock drawer of the PPDC dorm room where he’d been quietly shelved after Bastion—a glorified trainer’s billet attached to a Pacific Fleet simulation base. The kind of assignment they gave to pilots who were too dangerous to promote and too useful to disappear.

Officially, he’d been there to “assist in the development of Drift response strategies for next-gen cadets.”

Unofficially?

He was the story instructors told at the bar. The ghost they used to scare rookies straight.

"You don’t want to end up like Calder." "That Bastion sync? It fried his empathy." "He walked away with his co-pilot still screaming in the link."

They weren’t entirely wrong, so he didn’t correct them.

He’d gotten the transfer orders at 3:17 a.m.—the kind of hour that only meant two things: a mistake, or a mission. He’d already been awake for thirty minutes by that point and was aware enough to identify that it was the second.

The destination was redacted on the header. Just coordinates and clearance codes. The flight was already booked. No commentary. No explanation. No room for interpretation.

He'd read the name once he was in the air, the cheap plastic terminal screen flickering under a low-budget logo:

DESTINY BASE – OPERATIONS RECALL / PACIFIC DIVISION

He’d heard of it, in the way all ex-Jaeger pilots heard things. Old base. Mostly decommissioned. Korean-led. Whispers said it had stayed active, even after the PPDC stopped pretending the world needed saving.

Which meant someone had plans. The same someone who had pulled him from the shelf.

He didn’t know what was going on. Not yet. But that someone was building a new wall between this world and the next. And they wanted to put him in it.

He regretted that he hadn’t been able to bring that bottle.

The landing pad at Destiny Base was smaller than he expected. Not cramped—just deliberate. Clean lines, hard edges. Everything reinforced, like someone had built the structure expecting it to be hit.

Ash stepped out of the drop shuttle and into the bite of sea-salted wind. The sky above was overcast, a matte smear of grey stretching low over the compound. Rain in the air. Metal underfoot. The entire platform smelled like welded steel and ozone.

There was no welcoming committee. Just the automated hiss of the docking doors and the steady blink of a perimeter drone rotating in lazy circles along the railings.

Before him, the base sprawled in levels: reinforced concrete, hangar bays, and blast-sheltered infrastructure all descending toward the sea in a stacked geometry of function. No flourishes. No banners.

Not a symbol. A shield.

The outer buildings bore the wear of weather and time—salt-scarred paint, older PPDC logos half-faded. But the inner ring, closer to the command tower, gleamed with newer plating. Retrofitted sections. Upgrades bolted onto legacy structure.

The bones of the First War, grafted into something meaner.

It looked like a facility halfway between resurrection and refusal.

He didn’t need to be told it had stayed operational in secret. He could feel it in the walls.

He passed through the gate checkpoint without fanfare. His file must’ve been uploaded ahead of him—no questions, no delay. Just the soft green ping of the doors sliding open.

The officer on duty gave only a single instruction:

“Elevator to Level Five.”

That was all.

The interior wasn’t polished. The lights ran cool. The floor bore boot marks and scuffed tread from Jaeger crews that didn’t stop to clean.

He passed a few personnel in corridor jumpsuits—engineering blues, field tech grey—but none spoke. A few glanced his way. One younger tech nudged another and muttered something sharp under her breath.

Ash kept walking.

The elevator to the operations wing was slow—the kind that groaned with age but never failed. The doors closed with a sound like old breath held too long. As it rose, Ash caught glimpses through narrow porthole windows:

Rows of unfinished Jaeger limbs stacked like bones in drydock. Workers crawling over exposed neural lattice like ants across a skull. A training yard below, where pilots sparred with wooden batons under the sharp eye of someone who moved too precisely to be casual.

A familiar, quiet rhythm pulsed beneath it all.

They were preparing.

Not for show. Not for protocol.

For war.

Maybe those rumors of suspicious seismic activity hadn’t just been rumors after all. Not if they were dragging the half-broken things from forgotten shelves.

The elevator doors opened into a wide, angular hallway that ended at a steel-sealed room marked:

OPERATIONS STAGING – RESTRICTED ACCESS

A woman in uniform waited just outside. She didn’t offer her name. Just held out a data slate.

“Sign for clearance.”

He did.

She tapped the pad twice, nodded, and vanished.

The door hissed open.

And inside, waiting like someone who never slept, stood Commander Choi Jongho.

“He walks like someone who doesn’t care if he makes it back.”

Hongjoong didn’t look up from the tablet in his lap, fingers still dragging through a layered schematic that no longer resembled anything the PPDC had officially signed off on. Blueprints swam beneath his hands—neural feedback calibration and biomech correction spiraling through interface code like a living thing.

“He walks like someone who doesn’t expect to.”

Yeosang’s voice continued from behind, clipped and clinical. He stood at the wide, reinforced observation window overlooking the south quadrant of the base. From here, the landing pad was a grey smear against the deeper curve of the sea. A figure in dark gear had just disappeared through the outer checkpoint.

“Calder’s onboard,” he finished, eyes reproachful.

“Yes,” Hongjoong replied, like that had been inevitable all along.

“You didn’t ask me.”

“I never ask you. You’d say no on principle.”

“Principle,” Yeosang echoed. “That’s a rich word from the man who submitted illegal Drift theory under a dead man’s credentials.”

“You liked that paper.”

“I liked the math. I don’t like that you brought him here.”

That got Hongjoong to look up.

“Brought him? Yeosang, I built this program assuming they’d never let me use him. I buried Bastion contingency protocols so deep they practically read like myth. I was halfway to scrapping Vigil Hammer’s stabilizers when Jongho told me to stand down and fish Calder out of whatever hole he’d been reassigned to.”

Yeosang crossed his arms. The glow of the monitors cast sharp shadows across his face, turning his features severe.

“And you didn’t stop him?”

A scoff.

“You try to stop Choi Jongho when he’s decided something. I’ll sit back and watch.”

Silence hovered between them. It wasn’t hostile. Just stacked—layered with calculations neither of them wanted to say aloud.

“He’s still Drift-compatible,” Hongjoong said at last. “Whatever Bastion did, it didn’t sever his capabilities. Since he’s the only one who walked out, I’d say it sharpened them. And if we’re right about what’s coming next…”

He let the thought hang.

Yeosang didn’t fill it in.

Eventually, Hongjoong set the tablet down. Stood. Adjusted his jacket like it was armor.

“You think he’s dangerous,” he said quietly. “I think he’s a weapon that never got pointed the right way.”

Yeosang’s voice was low and final.

“We’re both right. And one of us is going to regret it.”

The room was cooler than the hallway. Quieter, too.

Not silent—he’d already picked up on the perpetual hum running through Destiny Base, the low thrum of systems running deep in the walls—but this room carried it differently. Like it had learned to hold its breath.

Ash stepped inside, and the door hissed shut behind him.

Commander Choi didn’t move. He stood at the far end of the operations staging room, back to a display showing real-time seismic mapping across the Pacific. The fault lines glowed red where they shouldn’t. Shifted when they weren’t supposed to.

Rumors indeed.

After a moment, Choi turned.

Jongho was younger than most commanding officers Ash had dealt with—likely just over thirty. But there was nothing soft about him. His presence carried the kind of weight that didn’t need volume—precision in motion, gravity in stillness.

He didn’t offer a hand. Didn’t offer pleasantries.

“Lieutenant Calder,” he said. “You’re early.”

“I didn’t stop to unpack, Commander,” Ash replied.

Jongho nodded once, like that was expected. He stepped aside and gestured to the console table at the center of the room. It lit at his touch—sync records, deployment logs, neural compatibility scans—all of it projected in sharp, efficient lines.

Ash Calder, broken down into data and graphs.

“I’ll be direct,” Jongho said. “We don’t have time for acclimation. You were pulled because you’re Drift-compatible, and because we need pilots in Jaegers.”

Ash said nothing.

Jongho studied him, expression unreadable.

“You were marked unfit for active deployment after Bastion. Psychological dissociation. Drift saturation trauma. Command thought you were a liability.”

“I was.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m not.”

That was the way of it. He was whatever label command applied to him. They didn’t train him to contest that.

Jongho considered that for a beat. Then tapped the console again. A new window opened—sync records. Stable. Deep. Clean. Someone else, graphed the same way Ash had been.

“Your potential co-pilot: Jeong Yunho. He doesn’t need emotional reinforcement,” Jongho said. “He needs someone who doesn’t break under strain.”

“You think I won’t?”

“I think if you do, you’ll do it quietly. After the mission. That’s good enough.”

Another pause.

Ash didn’t shift. Didn’t bristle. He just waited.

Finally, Jongho stepped back and crossed his arms.

“This isn’t peacekeeping anymore. The seismic activity in the northern Pacific isn’t random. And we’ve got more signals cropping up—louder. Patterned.”

“You think they’re coming back, sir.”

“I think we were arrogant to assume they wouldn’t.”

Jongho turned back to the display.

“You’ll start simulator trials tomorrow. Dr. Park will clear you medically in the morning. If you’re still stable after Drift testing, you’ll deploy with Lieutenant Jeong the moment Vigil Hammer is re-certified.”

Ash nodded.

“Understood, sir.”

He turned to leave.

“Lieutenant.”

He paused.

Jongho’s voice didn’t rise.

“We hold the line here. That means no outbursts. No unreliability. And no drinking yourself into stupidity. If you need something for the pain, you go through the right channels.”

Ash met his gaze over his shoulder.

“Sir,” he said. “Understood, sir.”

And then he was gone.

“So. Bastion.”

Wooyoung swung his legs over the edge of the upper railing, boots knocking gently against the steel. Below, the sparring deck thrummed with motion—Mingi and Yujin were mid-drill, matched in pace and breath, moving in mirrored arcs that felt more like choreography than combat.

San didn’t glance over from where he leaned against the railing.

“Careful,” he said. “You say it like it’s a swear word.”

“Isn’t it?” Wooyoung replied. “I mean, they pulled him out of a black-budget burn ward and dropped him here like a pre-scratched weapon. Not even a ‘hello, here’s your haunted pilot.’”

San watched as Mingi ducked a strike, then hesitated just a hair too long.

Wooyoung grinned. “You know what I heard? He doesn’t speak Korean. Like, at all. Can’t read it. Can’t write it. Probably doesn’t even know what chimdae means.”

That earned a side glance from San. “He’s in Korea.”

“Right? Poor guy. Welcome to Destiny Base. Nothing’s labeled and everyone’s judging you in a language you can’t understand.”

Down below, Mingi lost focus again—eyes flicking briefly up toward the balcony. Yujin didn’t hesitate. She stepped in, swept his leg, and pinned him to the mat with a clean, merciless twist.

“Focus, Mingi,” she said, breath only barely elevated. “You drift like you train.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered from the floor. “Don’t sync distracted, or you’ll sync dead. I know.”

“Then prove it.”

On the balcony, Wooyoung gave a low whistle. “Bet she wins five out of six today.”

“She always wins five out of six,” San replied.

“I respect that about her. So precise. So terrifying.”

“You should train with her.”

“I like living.”

They watched in silence as Mingi stood, reset, and circled again.

Then:

“Do you think he’s stable?” San asked quietly.

“Nope,” Wooyoung said. “But I think if anyone can handle him, it’s Yunho.”

“You’re putting a lot on that.”

“I always do.”

Another pass. Another clash below.

“Besides,” Wooyoung said, voice dropping. “If he’s even half of what Bastion supposedly turned him into, he won’t flinch. He won’t complain. He’ll walk into the Drift, burn a little on the inside, and win.”

San didn’t respond right away.

“But?”

“I don’t like it when ghosts come back. It’s creepy.”

The hallway split three different ways. None of the signs were in English.

Ash stared up at the overhead panel, then down at the branching corridors. Left led toward something labeled with slashes and circles he didn’t recognize. Right had a symbol that might’ve meant “storage”, or might’ve meant “do not enter unless you want to lose a limb.” Straight ahead, someone had propped a mop against the wall and left a puddle of rust-stained water trailing into a side vent.

He adjusted the strap on his duffel. Waited.

Two engineers passed behind him, speaking low and quick in Korean. One glanced his way. The other elbowed her and muttered something that made them both smirk as they disappeared into a maintenance shaft.

Ash didn’t react, given no time to even ask for directions before they scuttled off.

Well. He’d slept in worse places than hallways before. He could again.

If the history books were right, Destiny Base had once been the international headquarters of the PPCD. Back then, the signs had been in six languages—every corridor marked with clean, neutral clarity, meant to guide the world’s best toward unity.

Then the war “ended.”

And when the base was downsized—converted from front-line command to quiet coastal outpost—someone made the call to repaint.

The walls were refreshed. The labels were scrubbed. The foreign text was never replaced. Only Korean remained, leaving outsiders lost within Destiny’s walls.

A door hissed open behind him.

“Lieutenant Calder?”

The voice was calm, low. English—accented, but smooth.

Ash turned.

The man approaching was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in standard issue base gear with the sleeves pushed to his elbows and the faint outline of unit tags across his shoulder: Vigil Hammer.

He moved like someone used to stability. Not stillness—but centeredness. Like his body already knew how to take the impact and not fall.

“You’re Jeong Yunho,” Ash said.

“I am. You look lost.”

“I am.”

Yunho’s mouth curved just slightly at the edges. Not quite a smile. But something close.

“Come on. I figured they didn’t give you the updated maps. Or any signage you could actually read.”

Ash didn’t respond but fell into step beside him without hesitation.

They walked in silence for a few paces. Ash caught the glance of a field tech leaning against the wall. She straightened slightly when Yunho passed but still whispered something as they disappeared around the bend.

Yunho didn’t acknowledge it.

“They’ll get used to you,” he said.

Ash raised an eyebrow.

“That a promise?”

“No. Just a pattern.”

They reached a side wing where the overhead lights ran a little warmer, the noise a little thinner. Yunho stopped outside a door and keyed in a short code.

“This is us.”

Ash stilled.

“Us?”

Yunho didn’t flinch.

“Pilot quarters are shared. Pair housing—standard protocol for active Drift teams. Builds rapport.”

Ash didn’t respond right away. His hand tightened slightly on the strap of his bag.

“You’ll get the far bunk,” Yunho added. “There’s a locker for your gear. You’ll need a new access card- I left it on the desk.”

He opened the door.

The room was clean, utilitarian. Two beds. Two lockers. One shared sink. A shower unit and toilet behind a small door. No window. Just steel walls and a faint scent of industrial sealant.

“Smells like metal,” Ash muttered.

“They just replaced the plating,” Yunho offered. “But yeah. It does.”

He stepped back.

“We’ve got early briefing tomorrow. Dr. Park will run your clearance at seven. I’ll meet you there.”

Ash didn’t move.

“You always track down your co-pilots first thing?”

Yunho met his eyes, steady.

“Only the ones who don’t speak the language.”

Ash didn’t smile. But he stepped inside.

Seonghwa sat alone, the soft blue glow of the interface flickering across his face and reflecting from his glasses. Ash Calder’s personnel file hovered in front of him—columns of vital signs, Drift saturation patterns, archived psych evaluations, declassified post-Bastion logs.

He didn’t flinch at the red flags. He’d seen worse. In case studies, not his own patients. But still.

He did pause at the note at the very bottom, hidden in a collapsed tag only someone like him would bother to expand.

“Compatible. Unpredictable. No secondary anchor. Use with caution.”

Seonghwa exhaled slowly, locked the file, and dimmed the screen. Hongjoong, then. Seonghwa had wondered who’d drawn the commander’s attention to Calder. He should have known.

He didn’t say anything out loud as he pulled up his logs and began rewriting tomorrow’s evaluation protocols.

Prologue | Next

[apexart-journal]

Radostin Sedevchev in NYC, Day #4

Once again, I woke up far too early—and once again with the feeling that I had gotten just enough sleep, though in reality, I hadn’t.

My first activity of the day was with the Billion Oyster Project, so I headed to Governors Island. I arrived at the pier 40 minutes early and decided to catch an earlier ferry and take a walk around the island. It’s a perfect place for rest and relaxation—green, peaceful, and far removed from the concrete, with great views of Manhattan and New Jersey. When I arrived at the site—or “the Pile,” as they call it—the organizers were incredibly kind and quickly laid out a plan for the day’s tasks. The first job was brutal: we had to move a massive pile of sand into a metal container, possibly more than 5 cubic meters. It was intense physical labor—shoveling and hauling buckets—but everyone was enthusiastic, and the work progressed quickly and smoothly. The group was quite large. Some people were regulars, others were there for the second or third time, and a few, like me, were first-timers.

After we finished with the sand, we took a short break. While looking for a place to eat, I stumbled upon a lovely bench on a small hill with a clear view of the Statue of Liberty. By chance, I had packed a peanut butter and jam sandwich for lunch. And so, in that moment, I had the most kitschy American experience of my trip (so far).

While I was waiting for the others to regroup after lunch, I found myself thinking about volunteering—not just as a way to support important causes, but as a tool for integration into broader social groups. It’s a way to stay connected with people you might otherwise never meet, people you may not even share common interests with. It’s a small but meaningful counterforce to the division we see in nearly every aspect of social life today—a division that, in my view, began with COVID but has since seeped into all levels of human interaction. Volunteering seems like a way to break out of the narrow bubbles of interest we often find ourselves in.

After we finished the work with the oysters, I headed back to the apartment to wash off the sand, recharge a bit, and get ready for the evening’s event: a jazz concert at the David Rubenstein Atrium at Lincoln Center. It was part of the Jazztopad Festival, which usually takes place in Poland. The performers for the night were the Michiyo Yagi and Hamid Drake Duo, joined by Wacław Zimpel. I didn’t know what to expect, but the music hit exactly the right place. I enjoyed the concert a lot, and I’ll definitely be exploring more of their work. I appreciated how the musicians blended digital media with classical instruments in a way that felt experimental and at time fully dissonant, and somehow really enjoyable.

What’s even more impressive is that all the events in the summer program of the centre are completely free. In an expensive city like New York, free access to culture feels not just nothing but essential. It’s fantastic that anyone can enjoy these programs for as long as they wish.

[frontageexterior]

Rise Above the Rest with Frontage 26mm WPC Louvers

Exterior building designs today have to not only be protective in design but also beautiful, eco-friendly, and long-lasting. That is where function and beauty intersect that Frontage's 26mm WPC Louvers are capable of—a high-end option for modern facades and exterior building applications that combines the strength of concrete and the elegance of wood.

Constructed with premium Wood Plastic Composite (WPC), the louvers exude modern look with the capacity to resist less friendly climates. During the renovation of an existing commercial building facade, residential balcony, or adding modern sophistication on interior partitions and walls, Frontage 26mm WPC Louvers provide unmatched luxury, durability, and low maintenance.

Product Overview: 26mm WPC Louvers

With high-end design finish, natural grain wood, these louvers are constructed to deliver architectural style and weather resistance.

Specifications Width: 219 mm

Length: 2900 mm

Thickness: 26 mm

Panels per Box: 4

Area per Panel: 6.84 sqft

Total Box Coverage: 27.36 sqft

Why Frontage 26mm WPC Louvers?

For exterior details that deliver aesthetics as well as long-term performance longevity, our 26mm WPC Louvers are your best bet. Here's why:

✅ Genuine Wood-Like Finish

These louvers mimic the grain and warmth of real wood, providing a luxurious, rich appearance without the constraints of wood. From traditional to modern, to natural designs, the finish complements any type of building tastefully.

✅ Weather & UV Resistance

These louvers will never warp, crack, or discolor with hot sun or relentless rains, unlike with common wood. They are tough and weather any extreme climatic condition outdoors while retaining their original identity.

✅ Water & Termite Proof

WPC won't take water—no swelling, rot, or mildew opportunities in sight. And with it being 100% termite-free as well, you play in tropical, wet, or infested areas.

✅ Low Maintenance

Bye to frequent painting, sealing, and repairs. They are maintenance-free and need only the occasional clean to keep them looking their bright, new self. Their construction guarantees longevity with minimal upkeep.

✅ Eco-Friendly & Sustainable

Made from recycled plastic and wood, these louvers offer a green option over timber products sourced from deforestation. They are also fully recyclable, encouraging sustainable building.

✅ Simple Installation

Lightweight and manufactured in module design, 26mm WPC Louvers are quick and simple to install with ordinary tools. The robust design allows them to last the test of time after installation.

Applications: All-Spaces Versatility

Frontage 26mm Louvers are used in numerous architectural and interior design applications. From a high-end home, modern office, shopping center, to hotel, they infuse aesthetic and structural depth.

● Exterior Façades

Use these louvers on large surface areas to add rhythm, depth, and texture to the façade of a building. They give a contemporary appearance along with weatherproofing.

● Interior Accent Walls

Employ 26mm WPC Louvers to add elegance to simple living room walls, reception area of an office, or shopping mall interior spaces. Wood-grain texture adds warmth, comfort, and individuality to interior spaces.

● Partitions & Ceilings

Divide open spaces or define ceilings with linear elegance. These louvers offer space division and light filtering without the use of room enclosures, promoting openness and movement.

● Balconies & Railings

Create fashionable, low-maintenance railing systems or balcony privacy screens with improved form and function.

● Ornamental Applications

Elevate the look of any space with WPC Louvers as decorative trim, beam hoods, or overhang design. They contribute high-end finish with architectural personality.

Instant Benefits at a Glance

✔ Natural wood like finish with increased durability

✔ Weather and UV resistance

✔ Termite, moisture, and rot resistance

✔ Easy to install and maintenance free

✔ Eco friendly product made of recycled material

✔ Suitable for domestic as well as commercial use

FAQs – 26mm WPC Louvers

Q1: What is WPC and why is it better than wood?

WPC = Wood Plastic Composite — wood fibre and polymer blend. WPC is termite-proof like natural wood, water-resistant, weather-resistant, and will not need periodic painting or maintenance.

Q2: Are the louvers suitable to be placed indoors?

Yes. Their pleasing appearance and less material make them suitable for walls, partitions, and show ceilings inside the building.

Q3: How long does 26mm WPC Louvers last?

Maintenance-free, they remain in good condition for 20–25 years or more, depending on usage and climatic conditions.

Q4: Two or more colors or textures?

Yes. Frontage comes in a myriad of wood finishes and colors that can match a myriad of design plans. Even customized designs are possible on bulk orders.

Q5: Are the louvers easy to install?

Yes. They are light, pre-cut and modular, hence very simple to cut and maintain using simple tools. They are also supported on aluminium frames, wooden battens, and concrete slabs.

Q6: Are they eco-friendly?

Yes. Frontage WPC Louvers are recycled content and chemical-free, hence ideal for domestic, school, and green initiatives applications.

Conclusion: Style, Strength & Sustainability in One Smart Choice

Frontage's 26mm WPC Louvers are more than an attractive façade. They're a smart investment in durability, design integrity, and sustainability. They were designed by experts who adore classic timeless beauty merged with modern performance, delivering long-term value for each square meter.

If you’re ready to enhance your exterior façade, redefine your interiors, or simply bring warmth and structure to your space, Frontage WPC Louvers are the solution you’ve been searching for.