#I HAVE THREE MORE THERE WILL BE A DOG AND A CHAMELEON AND EITHER A LION OR PANTHER I'LL DECIDE KN THE CAR...

[squishosaur]

another one 💥💥

character design wip

[celestiall0tus]

How the Kwamis work in my AUs

As per an ask, I want to go over how I've reworked the kwamis in my AUs. In general, they primarily function the same, but I'll get into those deviations here as well. Now, let's begin:

General:

The kwamis received a massive overhaul. No longer are they creatures to be contained and kept in check. They are divine entities that have their own autonomy and freedom. Their concepts have been reworked to feel more like actual abstract concepts rather than their powers, like Illusion or Teleportation. The kwamis, once their jewels are activated, are bound to the person and cannot be removed by anyone aside from the holder. Furthermore, there are 27 main kwamis that I use that come with a pair. The paired kwamis function as opposites, yin and yang. Paired kwamis can cancel out the others powers, working as a balance. When paired holders come in contact, they will neutralize the use of each other's powers. I.e. if the freedom holds connection, freedom cannot teleport and connections can't communicate telepathically. The opposites are also immune to the effects of the other. I.e. sorrow uses their sadness aura, joy is unaffected. The exception to this ruleset is the five remaining kwamis of this set of 27. These five have no counter and can swing either way depending on the hearts of mortals. I.e. Health being able to either cure or inflict diseases depending on a person's heart and agenda.

The kwamis, and their pairs and new concepts, are as followed.

Ladybug and Black Cat - Creation and Destruction

Bee and Spider - Devotion and Betrayal

Mouse and Pig - Perception and Ignorance

Fox and Lynx - Deception and Honesty (the most paradoxical pairing)

Dog and Rooster - Love and Animosity

Bat and Tiger - Fear and Valor

Ant and Goat - Drudgery and Revelry (Ant changes to the horse in Salvation)

Monkey and Raven - Joy and Sorrow

Horse and Rabbit - Freedom and Connection (Freedom does change quite frequently through my AUs along with Intuition)

Wolf and Owl - Intuition and Knowledge (Like Freedom, Intuition changes)

Bull and Koala - Determination and Lethargy

Cow and Swan - Body and Soul

Cicada and Chameleon - Reality and Imagination

Dolphin and Seal - Memory and Oblivion

Robin and Dove - Genesis and Destiny

Shark and Bear - Time and Space

Finally, the set of five:

Snake - Health/Life

Turtle - Protection

Butterfly - Transformation

Peacock - Beauty

Dragon - Nature

List of weapons here

Lastly, each pair possesses a Miracle power that must be used with the other half willingly. I.e Creation can create anything permanent, only after Destruction has destroyed something of equal value to be created. Or Connection can broadcast a message that transcends language and distance with the assistance of Freedom.

Now, the powers work differently based on the AU. So, let's dive into that:

Miraculous AU:

The first AU I started and is still ongoing. This is full of experimental ideas that not all carried over to the other AUs. I will explain them and give a brief why they didn't carry over:

The holders would get stronger the more they used their powers and the stronger the bond was with their kwami. It works for this AU, as there is an essence of time to allow this. In the others, the stakes are higher, so the systems work differently. It is also integral to the story as the bonds with the kwamis have plot relevance, especially with Papillon and later Lord Bug.

The kwamis fall into one of three categories based of their concepts: Defensive, Combative, Hybrid. I honestly don't know what I was thinking or why it seemed like it was a good idea at the time, but it is extremely flawed. Essentially, kwamis would offer special protections or skills the closer they were with their holders. I.e. the ladybug holder couldn't be hurt, but wasn't good at fighting while the black cat holder excelled in combat, but was a glass cannon. It is a messy system and didn't carry over.

Greater and lesser powers. So, the powers in this AU were to gauge what would work, carry over, and figure out what was OP. While powers have changed, the system did too later on. In this AU, you have holders with three sets of powers. Lesser powers they can use more freely while greater powers were limited to one use per transformation until they were stronger. The third power was their miracle power, the Miraculous. The Miraculous stayed the same, but the system of lesser and greater powers changed.

The holders and their kwamis and powers (lesser then greater) are as followed:

Ladybug - Marinette - Creation and Good Luck Aura (Lucky Charm)

Black Cat - Adrien - Destruction and Black Luck Aura (Cataclysm)

Bee - Chloe - Charm and Bless

Spider - Zoe - Betrayal Inducement and Bond Destruction

Mouse - Juleka - Omni Senses and Perception Manipulation

Pig - Amelie (Initally) - Ignorance and Defiance (Ignore)

Fox - Lila - Illusions and Shapeshifting

Lynx - Marc - Truth Detection and Axiom

Dog - Sabrina - Love Inducement and Indomitable Love

Rooster - Felix - Hatred/Anger inducement and Berserk

Bat - Mylene - Fear Inducement and Terror Constructs

Tiger - Kim - Courage inducement and Clout (just like the show)

Ant - N/A

Goat - Ondine - Sin Inducement and Anarchy

Monkey - Bridgette - Joy Inducement and Euphoria

Raven - Nathaniel - Sorrow Inducement and Incorporeal

Horse - Alix - Teleportation and Defiance

Rabbit - Rose - Telepathy and Connections (threats of fate)

Wolf - Alya - Tracking and Clairvoyance

Owl - Max - TBA

Bull -Ivan - Hope Inducement and Indomitable Will

Koala - N/A

Finally, the set of five:

Snake - Luka - Cure and Rejuvenation

Turtle - Nino - Shield Generation and Invincible

Butterfly - Gabriel - Wither and Transform

Peacock - Nathalie - Beauty Manipulation and Mesmerize

Dragon - Kagami - Form shift (has for elemental forms to shift between to control the elements.)

Alright, next!

Salvation - Game of Gods and Men:

Here's where the deviations and changes begin. Salvation introduces the concept of Holders and Avatars with different rules for each.

Holders are what you get in the show. Has to transform to use powers, active their powers through a phrase, and overall limited. They have one power to use as many times as they want, but typically a lesser power.

Avatars are demigods. They are the mortals that consumed (yes, I said consumed) the essence of the kwami, i.e. the kwami itself. Providing they survive the ordeal, they are forever changed. Their bodies are essentially dead save for their still beating heart. They don't need food, sleep, breath, and are sterilized. They cannot fall ill to mundane diseases nor killed by worldly means. The only way to kill an Avatar is by another Avatar's powers or weapons (unless you are the turtle). With all the powers that they gain, they gain access to an unleashed form that is their true form. A mix of human and kwami, their Avatar forms, but only once they've mantled their concepts and stay true to their concepts.

Avatars gain three additional powers, giving them four. While there is no technical limit, there is. Each Avatar has a pool of power they can draw from. If they tap it out before resting or eating, then they will draw on their own life force. Should an Avatar do this, it will shorten their lifespan until they die. Furthermore, an Avatar that truly embodies their consumed concept can achieve their Avatar form. While in this form, they gain two more powers, but only while in this form.

The Holders and Avatars are as followed:

Ladybug - Luka- Creation

Black Cat - Kagami - Destruction

Bee - Marinette (Avatar) - Bond Creation, Bless, Command, Devotion Empowerment (in Avatar mode) Authority and Domination

Spider - Nathalie (Avatar) - Treachery Inducement, Bond Destruction, Psychological Intuition, and Teachery Empowerment (in Avatar mode) Will Breaker and Killer Instincts.

Mouse - Alya (Avatar) - Omni Senses, Perception Manipulation, Clarity, and Hyper Awareness (in Avatar mode) Astral Vision and Divination

Pig - N/A

Fox - Marc - Illusions

Lynx - Lila - Truth Compulsion

Dog - Nathaniel - Indomitable Love

Rooster - Audrey - Berserk

Bat - Felix (Avatar) - Fear Inducement, Phobia Creation, Fear Empowerment, and Terror Constructs (in Avatar mode) Submission and Nemesis Form

Tiger - Alix - Clout (just like the show)

Ant - Tomoe - Command

Goat - Nino - Sin Inducement

Monkey - Kim - Joy Inducement

Raven - Anarka - Sorrow Inducement

White Cat - Adrien - Teleportation

Rabbit - Rose - Telepathy

Deer - Sabrina - Tracking

Owl - Zoe (Avatar) - Story Mimicry, Memory Reading, Instant Learning, and Hyper Mind (in Avatar mode) Fathomless Mind and Omniscience

Bull - Chloe (Holder then Avatar) - Hope Inducement (Holder & Avatar power), Hope Empowerment, Stampede, and Indomitable Will (in Avatar mode) Self-Resurrection and Lifeless Continuation

Koala - Sabine - Tranquility

Finally, the set of five:

Snake - Juleka - Healing

Turtle - Bridgette (Avatar) - Shield Generation, Invincibility, Fortification Creation, and Hyper Evasion (in Avatar mode) Counter and Decay

Butterfly - Colt (Avatar) - Mutation Inducement, Mental Manipulation, Construct Creation, and Transmutation (in Avatar mode) Amalgamation and Reconfiguration

Peacock - Gabriel - Mesmerize

Dragon - Mylene - Form shift (has four elemental forms to shift between to control the elements.)

Next!

Absolution:

The system is kept simple in this one. Each holder gets one passive power that is either always active or they can use an unlimited amount of times while they get a primary power they can use a handful of times.

The cast is also smaller. Here they are and their powers:

Ladybug - Marinette - Creation

Black Cat - Adrien - Destruction

Bee - Chloe - Empower and Command

Mouse - Juleka - Omni Senses and Perception Manipulation

Fox - Lila - Illusions and Shapeshifting

Wolf - Alix - Teleportation and Defiance

Rabbit - Rose - Telepathy and Connections (threats of fate)

Deer - Alya - Tracking and Clairvoyance

Ox - Ondine - Indomitable Strength and Invincibility

Snake - Luka - Cure and Rejuvenation

Turtle - Nino - Shield Generation and Invincible

Butterfly - Nathalie - Transmutation and Mental Manipulation

Rooster - Nathaniel - Anger Inducement and Berserk

Raven - Marc - Sorrow Inducement and Incorporeal

Next!

Paradise:

Took me long enough to get this damn one sorted through, but it finally took off. The system of Paradise borrows from an aspect of Salvation, namely the Avatars. They have one power they can use as many times as they like, but there is a drawback. They will first go through the kwamis power reserves, and after that should they use their powers, they draw on their own life.

The holders are:

Ladybug - Marinette - Creation

Black Cat - Zoe - Destruction

Bee - Chloe - Bond Creation

Spider - Felix - Bond Destruction

Mouse - Nathalie - Tracking (perception edition)

Pig - Alix - Ignore

Dog - Sabrina - Love Constructs

Rooster - Juleka - Berserk

Tiger - Nino - Clout

Bat - Rose - Fear Augmentation

Goat - Luka - Anarchy

Rabbit - Mylene - Threads of Connection

Butterfly - Emilie - Transmutation

Peacock - Amelie - Beauty Manipulation

Turtle - Gabriel - Shield Generation

Snake - Adrien - Healing

Dragon - Kagami - Nature Manipulation minus fire

Swan - Ondine - Soul Reading

Cow - Kim - Golem Creation

Next!

Amaranthine:

So, yeah, this one. No activation phrases needed for powers, strong variations of the powers that make them like gods, and seemingly unlimited use. However, should the holders sustain enough damage or has used all the power reserves of the kwami, they'll de-transform and pass out from the strain.

Furthermore! There is a concept within this AU known as Soulbound. This is soulmates for kwamis. Kwamis can become soulbound with mortal souls they have been with in different incarnations of that mortal's life. This level of a bond between kwami and mortal allows for both to feel, experience, and think as one. And, yes, Marinette and Longg are soulbound. And if you think it's a massive advantage, you are right, but also oh so wrong.

Holders are:

Ladybug - Chloe - Creation

Black Cat - Zoe - Destruction

Fox - Alya - Illusions

Dragon - Marinette - Nature Manipulation

Snake - Luka - Wound Inducement

Butterfly - TBA (I ain't revealing this until they show up in the story. So, if you know, congrats. You get a cookie and politely asked to keep your mouth shut) - Transmutation

Next!

Separate Worlds:

This system is basically Absolution but the passive is something that is always active and not a power to use while their primary power is an actual power that can be used an unlimited amount of times, but are severely limited in what they can do.

Holders are as followed:

Peacock - Juleka - Absolute Beauty and Mesmerization

Dragon - Rose - Being Reworked

Turtle - Mylene - Invincibility and Fortification Generation

Butterfly - Adrien - TBA and Transmutation

Snake - TBA

Mouse - Alya - Omnisenses and Imperceivable

Owl - Alix - Passive Learning and Knowledge Replication

Ladybug - Marinette - Good Luck Aura and Object Creation

Fox - Nathalie - TBA and Illusions

Dog - Felix - Indomitable Love and Love Constructs

Next!

Court of Miracles:

I will at the very least explain how things work here, but that's all you'll get for now. In essence, there are no Miraculous jewels. Rather, the kwamis blessed mortals with powers, effectively turning those mortals into demigods. These blessings would have been passed through the generations to the modern day. With the weakening blessings and connections to the kwamis, there are three classifications to the demigods:

Lowborn

Midborn

Highborn

Lowborns have the weakest of connections usually having a single power. Midborn have stronger connections and possess some animal characteristics of their families kwami and posses 2-3 powers. Meanwhile Highborns have the closest connection, possessing the most animal and kwami traits among having the most powers at 4-5. Amongst the Highborns there are the Elites that can transform into man beasts, which is Juleka's Naga form.

The, uh, "Holders":

Marc – Cicada of Reality – Lowborn – Reality Warping

Nathaniel – Chameleon of Imagination – Midborn – Imagination Projection, Imaginary Constructs, Inducement

Marinette – Ladybug of Creation – Highborn – Omnifabrication, Omnireplication, Object Creation, Absolute Creativity

Felix Fathom – Black Cat of Destruction – Highborn – Omnicide, Disintegration, Destructive Energy, Erasure

Jalil – Shark of Time – Midborn – Accelerate/Slow/Stop Time, Chrono Vision

Alix – Bear of Space – Midborn – Create/Delete Spaces, Teleport

Aeon – Robin of Genesis – Midborn – Beginning Dominance, Origin Creation

Mireille – Dove of Destiny – Lowborn – Absolute Cancel

Mylene – Dragon of Nature – Midborn – Natural Disaster Manipulation, Environment manipulation, Absolute Control of Nature

Juleka/Luka – Snake of Life – Highborn (Juleka)/Lowborn (Luka) – Healing (Luka)/ Healing, Life Creation, Death Inducement, Disease manipulation, Resurrection (Juleka)

Adrien – Peacock of Beauty – Highborn – Absolute Beauty, Beauty Inducement, Shapeshifting, Siren Song, Mesmerizing Presence

Zoe – Butterfly of Transformation – Lowborn – Transmutation

Socqueline – Turtle of Protection – Midborn – Shield Generation, Fortification Generation

Kim – Cow of Body – Lowborn – Golem Creation

Ondine – Swan of Soul – Lowborn – Soul Reading

Nathalie – Dolphin of Memory – Highborn – Enhanced Memory, Memory Creation, Memory Implantation, Memory Reading

Veronique – Seal of Oblivion – Highborn – Memory Erasure, Memory Suppression, Identity Erasure, Paramnesia

Lila – Fox of Deception – Midborn – Illusions, Shapeshifting

Nora – Lynx of Truth – Lowborn – Truth Sense

Chloe – Bee of Devotion – Midborn – Suggestion, Bless

Manon – Spider of Betrayal – Midborn – Bond Destruction, Betrayal Inducement

Max – Owl of Knowledge – Midborn – Encyclopedic Knowledge, Knowledge Projection, Knowledge Absorption

Alya – Wolf of Intuition – Lowborn – Supernatural Tracking

Jessica – Mouse of Perception – Midborn – Self Perception Manipulation, Enhanced Sense

Chris – Pig of Ignorance – Lowborn – Ignore

Ali – Horse of Freedom – Highborn – Defiance, Teleportation, Weakness Removal, Clear Mind

Rose – Rabbit of Connection – Highborn – Telepathy, Connection Sight, Bond Creation, Omni-Communication

Fei Wu – Tiger of Valor – Highborn – Indomitable Courage, Courage Inducement, Clout, Courage constructs

Nino – Bat of Fear – Midborn – Terror Form, Phobia Creation, Terror Constructs

Sabrina – Dog of Love – Lowborn – Empathic

Aurore – Rooster of Animosity – Midborn – Rage Inducement, Berserk

Bridgette – Monkey of Delight – Midborn – Joy Inducement, Lightside View

Delmar – Raven of Sorrow – Lowborn – Sorrow Inducement

Ivan – Ox of Determination – Lowborn – Brute Force

Kagami – Koala of Lethargy – Highborn – Sleep, Serenity, Dream Walk, Combat Negation

Penny – Ant of Drudgery – Midborn – Drone Creation, Supertasking, Supernatural Stamina

Jagged – Goat of Revelry – Highborn – Sin Inducement, Revel, Anarchy Inducement, Ecstasy

Next!

All That Remained:

So, this variation of the system is a mix of canon show and canon movie. They get one use of their powers (minus Tomoe, but that's a story thing) with one power per (with Tomoe an exception) but once they use it, they won't de-transform after X amount of minutes.

The holders are as follows:

Ladybug - Marc - Creation

Black Cat - Felix - Destruction

Bee - Sabrina - Command

Spider - N/A

Mouse - Juleka - Perception Manipulation

Pig - N/A

Fox - Lila - Illusions

Lynx - N/A

Dog - Chloe - Love Constructs

Rooster - Ivan - Berserk

Bat - Tomoe- TBA

Tiger - Adrien - Clout

Ant - N/A

Goat - Nino - Anarchy

Monkey - Kim - Joy Inducement

Raven - N/A

Horse - Alix - Teleportation

Rabbit - Rose - Telepathy

Wolf - Alya - Tracking

Owl - Max - TBA

Bull -Kagami - Stampede

Koala - N/A

Snake - Luka - Rejuvenation

Turtle - Socqueline - Shield Generation

Butterfly - Nathalie- Transmutation

Peacock - Emilie- Mesmerize

Dragon - Mylene- Form shift (has for elemental forms to shift between to control the elements.)

Cicada - Marinette - Power Replication

Chameleon - Nathaniel - Imagination Manifestion

Swan - Zoe - Astral Projection

Cow - Ondine - Golem Creation

Dolphin - Amelie - Memory Recall

Next!

Siren's Song:

I had a change of heart with this one, mostly because I want to have some real fun with this one. This system will mirror Amaranthine's system with the using powers as many times as they want, but once they start drawing on their own life, they will de-transform and pass out from the strain.

The holders:

Ladybug - Kagami - Creation

Black Cat - Ivan - Destruction

Peacock - TBA - Siren Song

Bee - Mylene - Empower

Fox - Luka - Illusions

Butterfly - Marinette - Iridescent

Swan - Rose - Venus

Raven - Adrien - TBA

Chameleon - Tomoe - Grandeur

Cow - Gabriel - TBA

Of Virtue and Sin

The kwamis come in vials of tattoo ink (well, the essence of their powers, making them more like blessings/curses). The "holder" has the ink tattooed into the skin and the process, like Salvation's Avatars, can kill because of the sheer pain of having the living essence of a literal god tattooed onto mortal flesh. Those that survival can only be killed by overexertion of powers or by another "holder".

The "holders" get two powers they can use freely, and an ultimate power. This ultimate power can only be used when they "transform" a la venom style. This form and the power with it are extremely taxing on the holder. They can only maintain the form for so long, but are unstoppable in it. Once they use their ultimate, they immediately de-transform.

[thecatchat]

Organizing some thoughts

This is so much longer than I meant for it to be. I looked back at old posts using the archive feature on desktop and I was really meaning to just look for the post about the different dragon body parts and the different magics we gave them but I just kept finding cute, funny, or informative posts so here have a review of some of my favorite ideas we haven't seen in over a year. @thebadchoicemachine

Apparently we made Foolish into Daft, since it's one letter away from Draft, like drafting a plan. She's also a woman now, do we want to keep that? The name mishap came because when they introduced themselves to a exhausted, heat stricken sailor misheard the name and now everyone calls them that and it's a little too late to correct them now. Apparently they are now based off a turtle or sea turtle? Don't remember that part but I could roll with it.

I think we have Alex down as being like 8-10 years old physically? At least at first. How much do they age through out the lenses? I mean, with all the wonky time space dimension hopping and reality warping we have going on, they don't necessarily have to grow up.

Reminder for self mostly: replacing the SBI group is Revrie, god of the dimension Lull, basically a very flexible, light world. Very dream like. Revrie has adopted three Travelers (or they are all from Lull, I'm a sucker for found family but you imagined them all from Lull, I'm fine either way): Flame, Spark, and Ash.

Flame looks like they could kill you and would kill you. Either is from or really takes inspiration from apocalypse worlds and looks like he (they? she?) eats bricks for breakfast. They're a little mellowed out, but they still bounty hunt in random dimensions for fun and to keep in shape.

Spark looks like a cinnamon roll, would kill you. Could either be from or take lots of inspiration from super spy action movie type worlds. Has a ton of gadgets, small enough to crawl in vents, hyper competent in spying. Not the strongest but can kill you in 10 different ways with a spoon. Absolutely terrible at everything else. Never let them into a kitchen or do household chores. Small talk is abysmal. Look charming but once they open their mouth it's all over. Also, sparks = electricity = gadgets and tech.

Ash looks like they could kill you, is a cinnamon roll. Originally, I was getting werewolf vibes, but like hyena werewolf vibes. Now I'm rolling it through my brain. Maybe more Painted Wild Dog, or Maned Wolf, or maybe a different species entirely. Has the potential to break bones with their bites, but would prefer to prank and/or mess with people. And maybe a hug. Still mildly feral but in a cute, charming way. Just wants attention.

Suite and card titles for the Prowa quartet! Cue = Ace of Clubs. Rue = King of Spades. Bill = Queen of Diamonds. Switch = Jack of Hearts. Also, Switch is part chameleon and can change the color of his scales, which are dotted around his body like freckles. Also, I remember a post where Nite learned about Switch being slightly cold-blooded and he just, followed him around for the rest of the day, and heated up the rooms so Switch would be "safe from the cold" in a sense and that's too cute.

Dragon kingdom culture/slang. Enemies is an actual social title, referring to people who intentionally try to make your life harder or prevent you from reaching your goals. Used for things like people trying to get the same job position as you, annoying customers, wild animals, etc. Arch-Enemies are similar but more special: given to people who have genuine negative feelings towards the other, is often mutual, and born from personal fudes. Rivals are like Arch-Enemies but instead of coming from a place of hatred, it comes from the desire to see the other person grow and overcome challenges.

Another thing: Growing up, Nite was constantly being "summoned" places, summoned by his dad's, summoned by his soldiers, etc. I think "summon" is just short hand for "arriving/traveling to a place". If only to have the line "someone summon 911." or "Who summoned me?" jokes.

I should make memes for this story. I haven't done that since before the reboot.

We gave the soul/life draining powers to the people of the End Nation because it made their culture of constantly covering up all their skin and wearing masks make sense, especially since if you're already covering up every inch of skin, might as well dress up and exaggerate your body language to get your point across.

Found the post where we talk about different magics for the different parts of the body of the dragon. I have Thoughts about this but I will save it for when it is not 1:30 AM.

[fancoloredglasses]

[RERUN] 7 Little Superheroes (a good ol’ fashioned...kidnapping mystery?)

[All images are owned by Marvel Disney. Please don’t sue me]

This is a review that suffers from some serious “wall of text” issues, in that there’s not a SINGLE image or video clip from the episode save the title screen! Well, we’re about to fix that! If you wish to slog through what is essentially a book report, you can do so here.

I’m sure most of you have heard/seen a variant of the “Ten Little Indians” trope in which someone invites a group to a secluded area with no chance of escape, then composes a cryptic poem about the means in which every one of them will die, one by one. In fact, Rooster Teeth did one of these in which they “killed off”  most of their executives.

Anyway, the writers of Spider-Man and His Amazing Friends thought this would be a great story to adapt. Just three problems...

1. The “Spider Friends” were just three. No worries, we’ll just bring in 7 guest heroes!

2. The show is only half an hour long (minus commercials and credits, so more like 20 minutes) No problem, we’ll cut the cast to 7 total.

3. That damn issue with violence on kids’ TV, plus do we really wanna kill off heroes like Captain America? Ummmm...right...they’ll just be...captured?

The villain of the episode is the Chameleon. I’d never heard of him before or since viewing the episode, but a quick Wikipedia search says he is the half-brother to Kraven the Hunter and a master of disguise (given his name, that makes sense) His voice seemed familiar, so a quick IMDb search revealed the actor also voiced Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain, from the Rankin-Bass Animation production of The Hobbit (a much better version than Peter Jackson’s production as it was more cohesive while being less than 20% as long, but I digress...)

If you would like to watch the episode, Disney+ has your hookup.

The episode begins with the Chameleon spouting the first lines of the poem...

7 Little Superheroes vanish one by one...7 Little Superheroes, soon there will be none!

We switch to Spider-Man swinging through New York, when he encounters a letter addressed to him along his patrol route (is he that predictable? Why hasn’t anyone set a booby trap on one of his regular perches?) inviting him to Wolf Island Mansion for some sort of gathering (not in the least suspicious...especially since Iceman and Firestar have similar invites...seriously, booby traps!)

Peter informs Aunt May that the three of them are going to a house party. Aunt May decides to invite their dog Ms. Lion along as well. Peter objects, but do you really think he could say no to Aunt May?

When the heroes reach Wolf Island, Iceman’s ice slide accidentally covers the lake that Prince Namor of Atlantis, the Sub-Mariner (hero #4) was swimming in. Iceman apologizes, but Namor insults them and flies off (yes, the undersea prince can fly. Don’t ask me, I just report this stuff!)

Upon entering the mansion, the group encounters the Sorcerer Supreme, Doctor Strange (hero #5), Captain America (#6), and Shanna the Jungle Queen (who? I mean #7)

[NOTE: the comic version is Shanna the She-Devil, but the writers understandably changed her name for the episode...I mean, no sense pissing off the parents! Either way, I’ve never heard of her...]

The Chameleon makes his presence (and intentions) known. This pisses off Namor (what doesn’t?) and he decides to leave...

...only to run into a force field (bet that pissed him off too) which covers the mansion, trapping everyone on the grounds! Then we get our first clue as to who’s on the chopping block...

7 Little Superheroes in quite a fix...One will meet fire, and then there will be six!

The group deduces that their “host” is the Chameleon, and that he very well could be disguising himself as any of them! (I thought he just disguised himself. Can he mimic powers too?)

Namor (no doubt in the most pissed off way possible) decides it’s best to work alone as he can’t trust appearances. (know what Namor is an anagram for? Mor...an? hmmm, doesn’t quite work, but you get my point)

(Thanks to Imperius Wrecked)

You’d think he’d be able to smell the difference between water and alcohol...)

Namor attempts to fly over the pool to the exit...

...but the Chameleon ignites the alcohol. The heat further weakens Namor and he falls into the fiery pool!

Meanwhile, Spider-Man is searching on the roof of the mansion, but falls into a trap panel (on the outside of the building? The Chameleon must have a hell of an issue with squirrels and raccoons getting in...), allowing the Chameleon to assume the web-head’s identity.

Let’s check in with Iceman and Captain America out on the grounds, shall we?

6 Little Superheroes trying to stay alive...One will step into quicksand, and then there will be five!

Seems a bit specific, don’t ya think? I mean, all you have to do is stay off the ground, right?

Iceman falls prey to a snare trap that suspends him about 10 feet off the ground. Cap rushes to his aid...

...only to catch a tripwire of his own, sending flying barbs his way. They’re easily blocked by his shield, but there are a lot of ‘em. “Spider-Man” arrives on the scene, suggesting Cap dive into a nearby pond until the barbs stop flying. (three guesses what the “pond” actually is...)

Captain Gullible dives in, and is pulled down by the quicksand. Iceman freezes the rope to free himself (why didn’t he do that before?) and is about to freeze the pond to save Cap, but “Spider-Man” offers to use his webbing to pull him out instead, only the webbing doesn’t stick to Cap and he sinks below the surface...

...as “Spider-Man” swings away, chuckling menacingly as Ms. Lion snarls at him.

Firestar and Doctor Strange arrive, and Firestar deduces that it must have been the Chameleon. The three follow Ms. Lion back to the mansion...

...where we see Spider-Man finally freeing himself from the trap panel by climbing down the flue (seriously, how does the Chameleon not have a problem with woodland animals invading his home?) just in time for Iceman to hit him hard with a blast of frozen mistaken identity.

The group quickly realizes their error when Ms. Lion shows concern for Spidey.

Let’s check in on Shanna the She-Devil Jungle Queen. She has climbed a nearby spire to get a view of the surroundings. I’m sure the view is impressive, but instead of getting your breath taken away by it...

...shouldn’t you be watching the Chameleon setting off the explosions in the very spire you’re standing on? (he does get around, doesn’t he?) Shanna falls into a pit (what? no poem?), but not before she sends a telepathic distress call (wait, she can do that? I honestly don’t know, as I’ve never heard of her) to Doctor Strange. The Spider Friends and Strange rush to her aid.

Unfortunately, by the time they arrive, the Chameleon has changed into Shanna. (This is beyond being a quick-change artist. This is shape-shifting!)

“Shanna” then jumps down and hangs off of a nearly ledge (you’d think someone with Shanna’s agility could get herself out of that predicament) as the group approaches. “Shanna” falls just in time for Spider-Man to swing in to catch her.

The group might have been fooled if not for Ms. Lion not liking her (who knew cartoon dogs were such excellent judges of character?), so the now-revealed Chameleon takes his revenge...

...by opening a trap door under Ms. Lion! Fortunately, Spider-Man grabs her before she falls.

The group chases “Shanna” into a maze of caves (pretty sure you can guess what happens here) The Chameleon hides as Firestar flies by, then transforms into her.

5 Little Superheroes want to know the score? One will run into herself, and then there will be four!

First off, shouldn’t that be “4 Little Superheroes”, since he already took out Shanna? Second, it’s now pretty apparent (well, a 50/50 chance) to the group who the next victim will be (unless the Chameleon plans on targeting Ms. Lion)

Fortunately, the group guesses correctly (or have they forgotten about Shanna?) and run after Firestar, who was scouting ahead, (have these people not learned to not let ANYONE out of their sight when there’s a shape-shifter around?!) but not fast enough...

...as Firestar encounters “Firestar”, who blasts her with freezing air, incapacitating her as she falls down a trap door!

Meanwhile, Shanna manages to free herself from the rubble (guess the count was right after all) and goes looking for the group (pretty sure we all know what’s about to happen...)

“Firestar” starts a recording as he joins the group, making everyone think he’s the real deal.

4 Little Superheroes, scared as can be...A demon will devour one, and then there will be three!

Right on cue, a robotic “demon” shows up to attack the group. Shanna chooses this moment to find the group, distracting them long enough for the demon to blast the group, sending everyone except Doctor Strange flying...

...then he eats Strange! Spidey deduces “Firestar” is not who he says he is, so the Chameleon runs off.

3 Little Superheroes, racing to pursue...But one will fall right off the bridge, and then there will be two!

In the middle of the Chameleon’s poem, he starts a tremor as Shanna falls (heh) behind. Spider-Man tries to web her...

...but she falls into the chasm below before the web reaches her! (not sure why he couldn’t try again...)

So with just the wall crawler and Iceman left, things seem grim. In desperation, the pair heads outside so Iceman can try to break through the force field again.

2 Little Superheroes out in the sun...the Iceman will be melted, and now there is but one!

Once again, the Chameleon strikes before he finishes speaking...

...this time with a heat ray that nullifies his ice powers, then a tractor beam to draw him back into the mansion!

[Gonna hit the pause button and go back 41 years to when I first saw the episode up to this point. I honestly was shocked that the show would kill off Captain America and Doctor Strange (I had no clue who Shanna was and, to be honest, Namor was being a complete ass and deserved what he got), but in both Iceman’s and Firestar’s cases, their fates were a bit more benign as Firestar was being incapacitated by icy jets of air (so essentially tortured instead of killed, then?) and Iceman was captured rather than given a death scene. I guessed this was because they had “star power” immunity and would eventually be rescued (I mean, they wouldn’t kill the title characters, right? Right?) Yes, now I know how things worked better, but my younger self...

Pause over, let’s resume]

It seems that Iceman and Firestar are imprisoned next to each other, so the Chameleon tricks them into using their powers on one another.

Meanwhile, web-head has re-entered the mansion. One rotating wall later, he falls into a web (ironic)

1 Little Superhero eaten to the bone...Leaving myself, the super super villain, all by myself alone!

A giant robotic spider comes across the web, hoping for a bit of cannibalism (of a sort, I guess...) Spidey discovers the “web” is made of electrical cables...

...so tears the end from one and jabs it into the spider, shorting it out with a jolt of deus ex supershit.

Escaping the room, he finds a room where all six “victims” are alive. (Cap, Strange, and Shanna are imprisoned, while Namor, Iceman, and Firestar are incapacitated by their weaknesses)

That’s when the Chameleon announces he has rigged the island with enough explosives to level it!

OK, the show time counter is at 21:21...let’s see if the bomb can be defused by 22:21.

[While we’re on the subject of suspension of disbelief, how the hell did the Chameleon get Namor out of the fire, Cap out of the quicksand, and Shanna out of the abyss...not to mention moving Iceman and Firestar from their cells to this chamber...when he has been sticking close to the heroes or in his control room the entire episode? Strange was obviously transported there by the robotic demon, but how did the Chameleon keep him from casting spells?

Soapbox over, now for the thrilling conclusion!]

First, Spidey redirects the heat lamp drying out Namor onto the block of ice imprisoning Firestar (wouldn’t she have suffocated by now?), with the melt flowing around Namor, reviving him, and Iceman, dousing his flaming cage. (29 seconds left according to the show time counter...) Namor then destroys the generator near the cage (guess it was electrified...? That explains why Cap wouldn’t just use his strength to bend the bars. 9 seconds to go, by the way...)

The Chameleon takes off in his helicopter (22:34; Everyone’s dead, including the Chameleon) and deactivates the force field. Doctor Strange magics everyone to the roof...

...and Spidey shoots a web onto the chopper, pulling himself up and inside. (Nice to know the Chameleon is polite enough to let the authorities know what vehicle he’s in)

Meanwhile, the timer is obviously running slow as it’s reading T-minus 20 seconds one minute and 49 seconds after the one minute timer started. (did you follow that?)

We switch back to the chopper where Spidey has finished tying up the Chameleon with webbing. (obviously the Chameleon got beat up off-camera where no parents could object) Spidey then grabs a megaphone and calls to the others.

7 Little Superheroes, get together gang...Swing on my spider-line cuz there’s gonna be a bang!

(No shit! It should have happened over a minute ago!)

The heroes fly off, abandoning poor Ms. Lion!

(The timer should have gone off a minute and sixteen seconds ago. The Chameleon really needs to not skimp on his timers next time) Firestar realizes they forgot the dog.

Spidey takes aim and shoots a line, snaring Ms. Lion and pulling her to safely as the explosives go off a minute and thirty-five seconds late!

The web-slinger give Ms. Lion the props she deserves for giving the heroes an unexpected edge as we fade out.

I really wonder what this tale would look like today with (limited) violence being allowed in televised animated programming. While Marvel obviously wouldn’t kill anyone, they could put the heroes in dire peril enough to take them out of action without seeming as contrived.

[the-darklings]

—𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒕𝒉 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒔𝒆𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒆;

—PART XVIII. | THE TRUTH WILL SET YOU FREE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wish to see him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Keep him safe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s exactly the point though.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The fourth doesn’t move.

Here we go.

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

The closer they come, the tenser the air becomes.

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

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

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

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

Click, click, click.

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

The sharpshooter stands by his side, frowning faintly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You can’t see him.”

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

“I have the right—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Winston has to bite back a small smile. Perfect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I will be in my room.”

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

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

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

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

“Gentlemen.”

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

Conversation over.

Fine by him.

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

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

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

Winston sighs, his shoulders dropping.

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

The concierge straightens, his hands folded behind his back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What will you do now, little hatchling?

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

He comes to a gradual stop.

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

Every breath takes notable effort.

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

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

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

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

“Drink.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why have you come?”

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

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

It’s him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Here you are.”

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

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

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

A part of you…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What have they done to you?”

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

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

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

Do not let that fire consume you.

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

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

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

You swallow. Then again.

“You’re wearing it.”

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

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

It doesn’t explain much yet it explains everything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is that supposed to mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I did not—”

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

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

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

How? Why would he even think—

The High Table would have—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” you exhale shakily.

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

So that’s why.

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

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

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

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

He knows. He’s known for weeks now.

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

Helplessness closes in and your eyes sting.

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

“What now?”

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

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

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

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

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

“But?”

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

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

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

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

You saved them, and you would never regret that.

“Is this love?”

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

He didn’t specify who the love is for.

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

“What is it that you want from me?”

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

“You want me to stay.”

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

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

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

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

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

“For how long?”

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

Because of course you know.

“For life,” you choke out.

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

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

And yet.

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

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

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

Just no one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It doesn’t help though.

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

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

The Elder hesitates. “A week.”

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

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

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

“And what bargaining power do you have?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

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

What would Winston do if he were here right now?

There is only one option, really.

Just the one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

No time for that now.

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

And that’s exactly it.

Lose everything.

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

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

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

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

People like us don’t get happy endings.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No turning back now.

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

“I accept.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In that freedom, you have unearthed a simple truth.

“Yes.”

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

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

“I always do.”

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

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

You both got what you wanted.

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

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

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

“Everyone but you.”

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

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

Cruel as he is kind.

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

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

Your mouth still burns but you ignore it.

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

E4 E5.

The roar inside your head is overpowering.

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

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

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

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

What have you done?

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

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

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

There’s too much to do. 

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

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

The taste of him is still in your mouth. 

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

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

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

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

Three months will have to be enough to…

To say goodbye. 

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

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

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

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

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

The Elder has once again thought of everything. 

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

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

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

It’s quiet. 

The roar inside your mind has quietened. 

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

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

“John.”

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

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

“V.”

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

Are you okay? 

Are you hurt?

What happened?

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

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

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

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

Your mouth goes dry. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He. The Elder. 

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

I can do this. 

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s wrong?” 

Still, he says nothing. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Suddenly you feel sick all over again. 

Suddenly all you want—

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

“I’m sorry.”

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

John adores Helen still, loves her deeply. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is it?”

“It’s...”

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

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

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

“What about him?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He answers you honestly.

“I don’t know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wish it didn’t have to be this way?”

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

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

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

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

“Do I wonder what?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why not leave again? Why live in a desert? 

It is my duty. 

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

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

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

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

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

He hasn’t. 

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

“Nothing about death is beautiful.”

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

“Your mind has been sorely missed, viper.”

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

You imagine that will change one day soon. 

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

“You wished to see me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hello, Lucien.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Baring your teeth, you snarl, wrenching yourself back—

And freeze.

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

Lucien’s smile turns downright predatory.

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

A portable bomb.

You should have known.

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

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

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

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

“Then catch me if you can.”

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

You’re not running blindly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it’s not his city.

You know every nook and cranny of this concrete anthill.

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

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

Lucien should assume the obvious.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You have no intention of killing Lucien outright.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Safe haven. Home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Us.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The blonde hums mockingly, looking Hector up and down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your throat aches, something coiling inside your heart.

You feel…

Protected. Safe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart clenches painfully at that.

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

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

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

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

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

What’s going on? Where is Charon?

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

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

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

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

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

“Then where the hell is he?”

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

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

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

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

Sometimes you forget how brilliant they are.

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

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

Your blink at those resolute words, caught off guard.

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

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

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

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

“Fuck.”

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

“V?”

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

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

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

You want to go.

You…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod twice; shaky and a touch frantic.

“Capo.”

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

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

“You’re planning to go after him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And—

“Hector?”

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

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

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

“Thank you.”

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

“Whatever.”

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

Time to get some answers.

You hear him before you see him.

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

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

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

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

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

“Miss.”

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

“Charon.”

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s good to be back.”

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

“The Vipress.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why?

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

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

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

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

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

There’s nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You almost stumble.

What?

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

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

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

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

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

But why—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What if I just killed Tarasov now?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

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

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

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

“Choose what?”

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

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

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

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

He thinks about Winston’s words for a bit.

“But I also live and remember Helen.”

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

You’ve just hoped…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You have little appetite for that though.

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

“Winston.”

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

It hurts.

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

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

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

Footsteps.

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

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

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

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

The hour.

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

Now he’s paying for it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re not sure if—

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

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

“So be it.”

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

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

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

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

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

The Black Dragon men.

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

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

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

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

“Good evening to you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

NF3 NC6.

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

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

“We have another problem,” you declare with a subdued sigh, dragging your eyes over the metal cubicle you’re trapped in. Even years later the fear of being a trapped animal unable to escape hasn’t quite faded from memory.

The manager clicks his tongue in reply, leading you all out of the elevator and towards the massive vault door sitting at the end of a short hallway. Guards—what few cemented their loyalty to the hotel and Winston himself—dot the length of it, watchful and awaiting their orders.

“Splendid,” the man shoots back dryly. “Not like we have plenty of those already.”

“The Male Lover is here,” you inform him, ignoring his snark. “He followed me.”

Winston’s mouth curves downwards at that. He places his hand on a palm scanner, waiting. “As expected,” he offers in return, his tone challenging. “Your next move?”

“He knows something that he shouldn’t,” you answer promptly, fiddling with your fingers. John and Charon are silent behind you but you know they’re also missing a lot of context behind the conflict, especially the former. “About Chicago. I intend to find out how and from whom. Then…”

Well.

Your plan till about ten minutes ago was to capture him and keep him here. Feed him to the High Table. Exact your justice by other means.

Now though...

It’s war.

The hotel has been stripped of its immunity. People are on the way to kill Winston and John. Charon by default. Even the staff if they get in the way, though the order to evacuate has been sounded already.

If you stand with them you, too, become an enemy.

The choice is simple. Easier than most things in your life have been, and it sits right in your gut.

If the High Table wants the manager standing in front of you, they will have to go through you first. And you’re capable of unleashing a lot of damage before they ever manage to get close enough to touch him.

But this also means that there will be no divine justice at the end. By the decree of the Adjudicator, people can now spill blood freely between these walls. There’s nothing stopping Lucien from attacking you anymore. Nor will he miss such an opportunity.  

A confrontation between you two can only end one way now.

“Then I deal with him,” you finally mutter, your jaw locking with resolute firmness.

An eyebrow quirked, Winston gestures inside, going straight for the drinks cabinet. You head right without prompting, going for a very special compartment safe built into one of the wall’s inside the vault.

You’ve had it installed years ago gradually filling it full with the passage of months and then years.

Not wasting time, your palm settles on the scanner, ignoring the code pad entirely. A beep sounds and a muted green light bathes your skin a second later. A hiss follows and then—

“That’s…impressive.”

John’s voice behind you should not surprise you—and it doesn’t—but it does make you tense. Shrugging, you risk a glance in his direction to see what he makes of your collection. The quiet, impressed way his eyes drag over each shelf betrays both his surprise, and even a shade of wariness.

Vials upon vials all line the massive cabinet of three separate compartments folding outwards—custom made just for this. Labels hug each vial neatly, all of them lined up in an orderly fashion based on use and colour. The rest of the cabinet houses some of your rarest and most expensive ingredients. Carefully hidden in the most secure location you can think of—or it was till about fifteen minutes ago.

“It took me a while,” you admit though the tension in your tone and body don’t ebb away. “A lot of trial and error. And throwing up.”

You’ve been your own best guinea pig over the years, and have suffered a great deal for it. But it has also given you something no one before has been able to achieve: immunity. To most of these dark, dangerous creations of yours.

Your prized collection of at least a hundred vials makes even Baba Yaga pause and consider. See you differently no doubt.

The truth is that the sheer magnitude of the horrors and devastation this collection could unleash is unprecedented. Unrivalled by all with the exception of but one man.

And no one knows it exists apart from the people in this room and Santino. The High Table suspects something of this nature exists, you know that. Hence their insistence on you being unable to remove anything from the hotel after your Excommunicado.

“I should have told you,” John speaks up, his lips parted and tone deep, tired. “About my task. I just…”

“Knew that if you told me neither of us would have left that desert?” you guess. “Yeah, I kinda figured that.”

You understand his angle. His reason for not saying anything too. There’s just one thing that’s been bothering you since you learned about it.

“Did...did the Elder forbid you from telling me?”

John’s expression creases. “No,” he admits slowly. “But he reminded me that your forgiveness is rarer than water in the desert, and rage fiercer than the sun.”

You can almost hear that echoed in the Elder’s gentle, accented voice. Staring at the vials, you force some of them out, rolling them in your palm experimentally as you start assembling your weapons swiftly.

The task makes sense. Winston did something he shouldn’t have. Punishing him would be expected like it was with you and John. Manager or no, he’s not all-powerful.

But the thought that the Elder still knowingly told John to remove Winston stings. Deeply. He knows full well what the older man means to you.

Realising that you have nothing else to say, John steps away but you hear the reluctance in his steps when he walks away.

But all this can wait. The looming threat is the first order of business. You can’t afford any distractions, so this, too, gets shoved behind a wall. Locked tight. You can catch a moment later. Process everything that’s happened in this last week.

Charon’s lulling voice describes the change in the Black Dragon ranks to John—armour improvements, weapon improvements, more robust training. You listen with half an ear. They’ve gotten better with years, deadlier. They will not be an easy target but staring at all the vials out in the open fully and at your disposal makes your mouth twist into a cold, cruel smile.

Let them come.

You will make corpses of them all.

With that thought in mind, you arm yourself to the teeth, locking a belt around the curve of your hips. Blades slot easily against your body, vials of poison and canisters of gas following. Next, come pistols with spare clips and enough bullets to take down a small army. Fitting, considering that’s most likely what you are likely to face. You thoroughly check each pistol, removing the magazines, and making sure safety is on all of them. Double-checking there’s no jamming, either.

Once you’re comfortably armed you pull out two small needles, filling both with a small dosage of different colour solutions. You prepare more but focus on the two first.  

Charon and John are still getting prepped, arming themselves just as intently while Winston sits calmly on a luxurious leather sofa observing them. Cheeseburger lays beside him on the sofa, his ears slightly perked as he watches everyone in the room.

Charon is closer so you hand him the needle wordlessly, knowing that he’s more than aware of what it is. Moving closer to John, you note the concentration with which he adds each spare magazine into his own utility belt, a deep pinch between his brows. This lethal focus means that you’re about to lose the John you know. Once Baba Yaga arrives there will be nothing but destruction left behind.

Something in your chest is ready to do the same. You almost crave it. Like everything has been building too quickly and now you feel at a breaking point ready to unleash.

Moving swiftly, you stab a needle into John’s neck, feeling him jerk and snap his fingers around your arm just like he did earlier. His grip is harsher, his fighter instincts kicking in. This time he’s not trying to stop you from attacking anyone but himself.

Rising an unimpressed eyebrow, you remove the needle from his neck, and John sways, scowling in your direction.

“Ow. What was that?” he demands quietly, no doubt recalling the last time he had a run-in with your creations.

“A little concoction that will, hopefully, give you immunity from most things in my arsenal temporarily,” you tell him calmly, near monotonous. “Unless you prefer dissolving into an immobile puddle the moment my paralyser comes out?”

John’s brows hitch, his eyes narrowing marginally, and his chin slants. “You enjoyed that,” he states dryly.

Blinking, you feel your lips quirk in an infinitesimal smile, blinking innocently up at him. “No idea what you’re talking about,” you demure pleasantly. John stares at you blankly and your small smile quivers, widening. “Okay, fine. I totally enjoyed that.”

A tiny quirk of his own mouth follows and it feels strangely nostalgic, near bittersweet, because it’s like years ago again. Just you two getting ready for yet another job together, you teasing him or firing questions at him. He’s always been patient with you. It was a kindness you never once took for granted. You were so alone, so lost, and he’d been the only harbour you had.

Despite his flaws, despite his mistakes, in many ways, John will always be that. It’s the one thing you never see changing.

You still miss that ease you once shared. Sometimes remnants of it appear, like now, and it just makes it harder.

But reminiscing now is a fool's errand.

Instead, you reach for another blade mounted on the wall behind him and bend your knee, slotting it against the special opening in your boot. He doesn’t take his gaze away from you as you do that, and you straighten, waiting to see if he will say anything else. He doesn’t. That almost makes you smile again. Typical.

Nodding at him, you look towards Charon instead, pulling out several vials, “For the guards,” you state seriously, your ease evaporating, and he takes them without a word. “Make sure they inject themselves at least five minutes before heading out just in case. It’s going to be a nasty toxic cocktail one way or another. You already know what to do.”

A firm nod. “Certainly, Miss.”

Satisfied, you walk past them heading towards the manager who watches you curiously as you approach. Cheeseburger raises his head at once, his tail wagging at your proximity. Your fingers brush over his head, petting him, and you hold another vial for Winston to take.

Nothing to do with protection and everything to do with arming him. Which, you suppose, is its own type of protection.

He stares at you blankly, a glass of what you only assume is brandy gripped securely in his hand.

“Oh, I sincerely hope you’re joking.”

He sounds completely incredulous and you roll your eyes.

“Precautions,” you shoot back, twisting the poison vial between your fingers and holding the entire length of it out to him. “Your wisdom, remember?”

“And you think that if they somehow manage to get through you, Jonathan, Charon and the guard, as well as at least two tons of metal, that will stop them?”

“No,” you answer honestly. “But it will make me feel better if you have it.”

Winston heaves a sigh, shaking his head but takes the vial all the same, leaning back in his seat. A single eyebrow lifts as if to say satisfied? and you fight back a groan. Why can no one in your life make things easy for you? Just once?

You part your lips, a playful remark on your tongue, only for distinct thudding to sound from above. It’s faint, barely audible, but you all freeze at the sound of it.

Your eyes drag towards the ceiling, just as Winston’s voice sounds, “Charon, would you be so kind as to welcome our new guests?”

The concierge strolls briskly towards the fuse control box, pushing one of the levers down with a deafening click.

Upstairs, you know the hotel has been plunged into darkness before emergency lights come into operation.

“Let's go.”

You reach for the last few things you can get your hands on, your focus narrowing down to tunnel vision.

“You will do the Continental proud,” Winston states, sounding so sure you can’t help but lift your head in his direction from your last minute prep. “Both of you.”

Your heart jolts painfully but you nod in acknowledgement all the same. Charon returns the gesture as well.

“And Johnathan?”

The assassin halts at his name, looking towards the manager in an unspoken question. “Do what you do best. Hunt.”

The four of you share a long, leaden moment before John moves first, followed by you. The vault door whirls close behind you, securing Winston and Cheeseburger inside, but you refuse to look back.

You will see them both soon.

Splitting at the mouth of the hallway, you watch Charon lead the guards down a different path while you and John take the elevator. Divide and attack on two fronts. John will be their main target first, then you.

The man beside you is as still as death, his body relaxed but senses alert. John doesn’t fidget, hardly blinks, everything about him is steady and tranquil. Just standing near him feels electric.

“Just like old times.”

His faint words startle you. A large machine gun in his hands, the black suit, an unforgiving stare—he looks near godly, as always, and you blink in his direction. Your tongue drags over your lower lip, pensive, and when you glance back at him you see John’s eyes jump up from your mouth.

“Just like old times,” you agree softly.

You’re not sure what he sees when he looks at you. You would like to think he sees someone who exceeded his expectations for you all those years ago. Strong and unyielding.

You hope he sees an equal.

The lounge is painted with sickly green when the elevator crawls to a stop, and you both move like an extension of one another. Falling into a routine is easy because it’s instinct. The lounge is submerged in smoke, obscuring your vision so you both move silently through it, gauging the situation.

Raising your hand, you feel John slow beside you, his gun raised, covering you. Your eyes journey over the lounge, spotting blurry figures creeping through the space, trying to discover you no doubt. The black uniforms make anger simmer in your gut, gnawing on your self-control.

A hiss joins the fray of noise as you lightly roll your own gas canisters across the marble floor, your paralyser joining the smoke seamlessly.

You should really thank them. They just made this easier.

Now it’s just a matter of—

A gunshot booms behind you and you pivot on your knees, watching John tackle two men who have taken a route from behind, hidden from sight by large stone pillars.

Each man takes several bullets to take down and you frown at that. Through the darkness, you spot the heavy armour—heavier than you’ve seen them wear—as well as goddamn gas helmets on their heads.

Rising, you jog towards the bodies. John throws himself at the other approaching men and you yank on the helmet on the dead soldier’s head. It slips off relatively easily and you curse under your breath when you note what filters have been installed at the base of it.

They’re significantly better than the last time you faced off against them. This paralyser will be nothing more than an irritant at this rate.

They’ve come more than prepared.

They’ve come ready to skin the snake and hang her by that skin.  

Snarling, you hurl the helmet at another uniformed figure that rounds the column, his rifle raised, watching it crash against his head.

Two shots follow from your Glock but the man only stumbles back, and you leap at him, slotting the nozzle under his collar before firing again. A bullet slices clean through his neck, finally killing him. You slide a blade in your other hand, spinning it once. Scanning your surroundings, you take the other side so you and John work back to back even at the distance.

Gunshots explode ahead and you know that Charon has joined in the fray as well.  

Your displeasure morphs into anger and then outright fury with each dead body. It doesn’t take you long to realise that your weapons are too weak to handle this onslaught. The calibre too low. The helmets make the paralyser nothing more than a tickle down their throats and an ache in their eyes.

While that slows them somewhat, their armour is too good for a simple pistol fire. No matter how many bullets you may have at your disposal.

Slamming a knee into one man’s gut, you yank his body to one side. His body soaks up bullets his friends try to shoot at you and you pull back. A blade buries deep in his neck, you jerk the deadman again, feeling a splatter of hot liquid on your face when the blade cuts deeper into his skin.

Duck, yank, slice.

You tear through the throng of incoming soldiers but you’re slowed by the fact that each person takes too much effort to kill unless you get up close and personal. That in itself is tempting faith.

One bullet, one falter, that’s all it would take.  

A man charges at you when his gun clicks empty, and you block his punch, pistol-whipping him across the head. The contact rattles through your bones and you bare your teeth.

A slice so quick he doesn’t even register it follows before his throat opens.

Nothing but a wet gurgle slips free and gravity does the rest.

Another follows after that, and another and another. It’s chaos and darkness. The floor is slippery with blood but you push ahead your expression contorted with pure wrath.

They want to kill you, do they?  

Rules have drowned you for years now.

But right now—right this second—you’re still free of your chain.

And they have no idea what you can do.

Let me give you something to be afraid of.

With that thought racing through your mind, you turn and dash towards the elevator, slamming your hand against the button. It takes long—too long—but you know it will be worth it. Throwing yourself inside, you press the basement button over and over again, practically beating it.

The ride down seems to last an eternity as well.

You prowl inside the cubicle like a wild animal ready to spring free. So much so that the partition nearly breaks with the amount of strength you use to yank it backwards with.

“Winston!” you shout from the top of your lungs, slamming your palm repeatedly against the vault. “Let me in!”

There’s a reverberating click only moments later but you don’t wait for the hefty metal to open fully before you push inside, breathing harshly as you do.

Winston blinks slowly at the sight of you. “V?”

There is a question and a sharpness to his regard, and the wariness with which he takes you in should probably worry you. But you don’t answer him. Instead, you head straight for the cabinet. Your pulse pounding and a clamour inside your head leaving you partially deaf. To a point, both John’s and Charon’s returned presence back inside the vault scarcely registers.

A red haze clings to everything around you.

“V.”

Your knuckles are starting to swell again but after this, it won’t matter—

“V.”

“What do you want?” you hiss, each syllable acidic to a point it catches John off guard.

He mutely offers you a shotgun and something at the back of your brain recollects mentions of “armour piercing shells” but you shake your head.

“There’s still some left alive at the back, and they’re regrouping,” you say instead, trying to quell your temper. “I have something else for the second wave.”

He reads between the lines of your plan.

“I’m not leaving you alone to face them.”

Your head snaps in his direction, and you hold out a vial—smaller than others, rounder, filled with liquid that seems to be caught in a perpetual state of half-brown and half-red—in front of his face.

“This,” you begin tightly, your vocal cords straining from how hard you’re working to hold yourself back. “Is something that will kill them helmet or not. They should know better than to think that some cheap plastic will save them from me.”

You pull out two canisters of gas, shaking both as you look towards the air system. “Air filtering still on?”

“Minimal,” Winston returns, his voice dull, stare watchful. “Don’t let it consume you,” he reminds quietly after a pause.

Your grip momentarily falters at those words but that’s the only reaction he receives.

“Then I’ll do it the hard way.”

John intercepts you before you can take so much as a step, his minute unease now gone. “Why didn’t we open with that?”

You’re not sure why the hell he’s stalling now to ask you questions but you answer him despite that. “This is a diluted version of something I created a long time ago,” you tell them. “It wasn’t created to be used as a vapour. This is also the only vial I have, and it will take at least a month to create more. I was saving this for the eleventh hour because no matter how many are out there, they’re about all about to experience a quick but very painful death.”

You’re not quite sure what to make of what you glimpse across his features. Some turbulent mix of emotions he doesn’t seem to wish and explain. Day by day he learns the full extent of how you’re no longer that girl that walked away from him with tears streaming down her face.

This is what you are now. What you had to become.

You wait for a reaction, judgement, but John only steps aside, his voice a low rasp, “Be careful.”

You soften somewhat at the muted worry you hear in his voice. “You too,” you say with a sigh. “Go ahead. I’m grabbing one more canister of gas just in case. Don’t go anywhere near the lounge for the next ten minutes at least.”

Both men indicate their understanding, not bothering to question you further. And there is comfort in that, in their easy understanding and trust. They both can more than handle themselves but a distinct worry still gnaws on your entrails as you watch them leave. Lack of presence from the other guards no doubt means they’re all dead already.

So that leaves only you three.

Three vs a small army of highly trained fighters.

But not for long.

“V.”

“A little busy, Winston,” you stress while rummaging through different compartments. “Can it wait?”

Silence greets your words. Then, “If I asked for your trust. Your complete trust,” he begins purposely, his voice deceptively serene. “Would you give it to me?”

Your hands still and you stare blankly at your collection for a beat.

Straightening unhurriedly, you try to digest his words, and tilt your head in the manager’s direction.

It’s only when you note his expression that you realise something is very, very wrong.

The lobby is a graveyard.

Both literal and figurative.

Bodies lay in heaps across the usually gleaming flooring, and you wait patiently while leaning against one of many marble columns.

Waiting you’ve gotten rather good at.

The poison sits in your hands, warmed by your palms, but still brimming that ugly dark shade despite now being transformed into a vapour. You’ve recreated two versions of The Drowning and haven’t used either since Chicago. That thought makes you glare at the ceiling above because the recollection of Rafael and Boutin still wounds.

The grandeur of the Continental never fails to impress you though. Not even years later. There is always something new to discover and admire.  

You’ve been waiting for at least five minutes now so when a creak sounds you don’t move at first. Muffled footsteps echo across the eerily quiet lobby, moving towards you.

But not from the direction of the entrance.

The louder the steps become the more obvious a secondary sound becomes as well.

Whistling.

Faint but melodic.

The familiarity of the tune causes you to stands straighter, focus on the melody.

Mr Sandman drifts through the air as a peculiar sort of goad; purposeful and sly.

“Oh, snakey,” a voice coos playfully, pausing the tune for a moment. “I know you’re hiding somewhere out here.”

Lucien.

Of course.

You’ve been expecting him to show up sooner rather than later. It’s good to know that you were right about him though. He wasn’t going to let you slip by him again. This time, you don’t want to, either. This time, you’re going to finish this.

You contemplate throwing the poison in his face but the High Table would not give up so easily. John and Charon might be cleaning up the remainder of the first wave one shotgun shell at the time but a second wave is guaranteed and soon. Logically they would want to try and overwhelm you. They’re hoping to wear you out.

“Come out, come out wherever you are,” Lucien calls out in a sing-song drawl, his footsteps slowing to a point they fade entirely. “Don’t make me find you. You’re not going to enjoy that scenario.”

“Who says I’m hiding?”

You round the column, finding his thin, solitary figure in the middle of the lobby immediately. The dark green light seems to only emphasize his gaunt frame and you take a step closer, then another.

How clever of him to wait until your paralyser is fully dispelled from the air before he came seeking you out.  

His head lowers, deepening the shadows under his eyes. “Did your guard dogs run away?” he wonders mockingly, his voice carrying. “Good, they were getting in the way.”

“Of what?”

“Our dance, of course,” he retorts, a shade angry like you should know better. “One last dance and the truth. Oh, if only you knew but you don’t. No point in secrets now though.”

You scoff, both of you watching each other as you draw nearer. “You like hearing yourself talk, don’t you, Lucien?”

The blonde assassin bares his teeth at the sound of his name—dangerous and macabre, dripping with heinous amusement—and he gazes at you for a moment. Something flickers over his shoulder—

“Not at all actually,” he states overly calm. “But you’re not the only one to have your life stolen. Maybe it’s about time you realised that,” he divulges, his voice softening into something as hateful as it is eager. Like whatever he thought he knew, he couldn’t wait to impart on you. “I’ll be waiting for you, viper.”

You aim the poison at his head, hurling it through the air with every fibre of your strength.

Lucien ducks, sliding across the floor at near blinding speed, and disappearing behind the armchairs and from your sight.

It’s at that moment that the Black Dragon’s men burst through the lobby door, their guns raised.

Following his example, you dash behind the column, an explosion of bullets following a split second later.

Rubble splinters under the abuse and you turn, avoiding the crumbling stone.

One, two, three…

This time your poison doesn’t escape in an unassuming tickle of vapour. No, this time it’s an impact of a small explosive going off, and it’s a matter of one, two, three before muffled screams and groans replace the gunfire.

Arching your back against the ruined stone, you allow your head to tip back, watching the ceiling thoughtfully. You wait till gunfire completely cuts out before moving. Then, you stride from behind the column studying the effects with a mix of cold detachment.

Your own nose and lungs ache uncomfortably—just a show of how potent the formula really is—but you don’t take your attention away from the dying soldiers. They’re more of a heap at this point, their gas masks that they no doubt were so sure would keep them safe now virtually useless.

It’s a quick but brutal affair.

Wet sounds and sobs of pain. Then, like dominoes falling, the men still one by one.

They might be only obeying orders, but they came to kill the only family you have and take your home, and you find yourself feeling little to no pity for them.

The haze is gone now, leaving the lobby even more chillingly silent than earlier.

Lucien is nowhere in sight.

You would have preferred if the poison got him but didn’t hold out much hope that it would. He’s too good and far too fast.

I’ll be waiting for you.

He will grow to regret those words.

Stepping over the bodies, you approach the spot you saw the blonde last, heading in the direction of the only corridor he could have gone down.

Glock aimed ahead, your movements are utterly silent, deadly. No matter how deep into the hotel you head, he seems to be nowhere in sight, however. This time, clearly, he wants you to look for him.

Corridor by corridor you find nothing. Then floor by floor. You know this hotel far better than Lucien does. If he really assumes he can hide from you here he’s sorely mistaken.

Gunfire rips through the air and you pause, tightening your grip on the pistol. Little by little, you decrease the distance just as a hush falls up ahead.

John’s dark hair is what you glimpse first and instinctively relax seeing that it’s him.

“John.”

The man turns towards the call of his name, and you squint at him, approaching cautiously. “Why are you wet?”

John breaths are laboured, rattling from his lungs in shallow pants, making his chest expand with each inhale. “Zero’s men.”

“The Male Lover found me too,” you tell him and you both fall into step. “Missed out on the poison party, unfortunately.”

The man at your side glances you over once—a completely wordless but attentive examination—and you huff a small breath, amused.

“I’m fine.”

You’ve forgotten how much of a mother hen he could be without saying a single word.

At least you’re a little calmer now after your previous display of explosive fury.

He seems to accept your words, and you both step into the elevator for what feels like the hundredth time in a span of only several hours.

You know what logic John is following though. Both Lucien and Zero have likely hidden up on the higher levels for two reasons.

More places to hide.

And they’re less likely to encounter any poison on the higher floors.

Leaning your shoulder heavily against the cool metal, you peer at the man only arm’s length away. Baba Yaga stands with his shoulders slumped and expression enervated. Yet he’s standing despite that. His gaze still burns with a fierce sort of determination.  

That might have been one of the first things you’ve fallen in love with—that determination and will. Followed by his often unspoken kindness.

What won’t you give for things to be different.

Going up the floors proves to be the right of course action the moment the elevator stops.

John throws himself against one side of the metal cubicle, and you do the same when a bullet whistles through the partition, piercing the metal where John’s head just was.

Pushing your hand out, you fire blindly, hearing shuffling in response, and use the distraction to peek your head over the edge. John does the exact same thing and you both fire simultaneously, hitting two men. John in the head. You in the chest. Neither moves.

Shoulders hunched and tense, you move in unison, and you conclude instantaneously that this is clearly a trap to draw you in deeper. Laying a path for you to follow until the trap springs shut.

Eyeing each other, you both move ahead despite that shared conclusion.

It doesn’t matter much now. You may only have the single magazine, and one vial of paralyser left on you after butchering your way through an entire hoard of soldiers, but it won’t matter.

There is a nagging thought at the back of your mind that you should ask about Charon but now isn’t the time for that, either. The concierge is likely back with Winston by now.  

There is a ruthless strategy to how you remove Zero’s men. One by one, shoulder to shoulder, and know that these men are afraid. That they know deep in their heart of hearts that they won’t survive the fight before it even begins but they still try. They’re strong and fast. A legacy of hard training and cruel discipline no doubt. But John is stronger and you are faster.

In many ways, they remind you of those soldiers from years ago who ambushed you in that freezing Tokyo alleyway.

Your bullets run out by the time you return to the administrative lounge. All you have on you now are two blades, paralyser, and Elder’s dagger, tucked away and out of sight. Both blades have been christened with blood two floors ago, and John is down to his bare hands.

It would put most at a disadvantage but not him. If anything, his ruthlessness only seems to grow.

But something is different this time.

Three main differences, really.

First, a jovial whistle of Mr Sandman floating through the air.

Second, three dead men that you recognise as Zero’s and finally…

Lucien leans again a glass case housing an old relic, his hands covered in blood and the tip of his blade scratching at his nail. There’s at least a few dozen of these glass cases littering the room, an old passion of Winston’s, and quite the point of pride for him. Some artifacts locked away here are worth a lot of money. Frowning deeply, you stall, drilling holes into his figure.

Lucien knows you’re here but doesn’t acknowledge you right away. He continues humming, seemingly set on finishing the tune before his head dips lazily in your direction.

“Run along, Mr Wick,” he says bluntly, his face splattered with blood. “This is between me and the viper.”

The man beside you makes a small sound at the back of his throat, near disbelieving, but you cut him off before he can speak, still staring at Lucien, “Go, John,” you say calmly. “He’s right. We have unfinished business, as do you.”

John’s stare burns into the side of your head but you don’t explain further than that. This is not his fight. You’re no longer in need of his shadow and in need of his protection.

Still, he doesn’t move right away, and you hear him audibly inhale as if he needs to say something but can’t force the words out.

You’re about to repeat yourself but he finally steps to the side, taking a path around Lucien and the dead guards. His gait is slow. He’s practically staggering because you can sense his reluctance but the fact that he listens does make you feel a tinge of satisfaction.

A part of you wants to look towards him as he disappears down the hall but you don’t.  

Lucien peers at you with a strange little smile on his face all the while, waiting till John’s footsteps fully retreat until his limbs shift. He’s still smiling faintly but you’re in no urge to finish this, so you’re fine with letting him play his games, waiting and watching.

“Had your fun?” you wonder, bored, gesturing towards the dead men at his feet.

Lucien cranes his neck, pushing away from the glass with a swiftness that makes you tense. He chuckles at your reaction, stepping over them like they’re nothing more than dirt under his boot.

“Oh, that was just a little warm-up,” he says brightly that faint, unsettling smile still lingering, and you can’t help but wonder what his deal is. He seems awfully cheery. It makes for a strange contrast to your last few run-ins. And his previous words, implying his own looming demise. “You kept me waiting. Don’t tell me you’re getting slow.”

Smiling, you too move in his direction, limbs relaxed, a peaceful hush over your body. “Are you hoping to talk me to death?”

“Now, now,” he mutters icily. “No need to be quite so rude. I just want a dance.”

Your smile splits into something bleaker, more cold-blooded, and you circle each other. Pale blue light dances across Lucien’s sharp features. A snap of jaws, a growl—there is something animalistic about the wordless exchange between you. Something brittle, a string being yanked upon repeatedly until one of you finally gives in.

Lucien leaps first.

Your knives are short, certainly not created for duelling but the clank of metal pierces the air as you both meet in the middle. Your exhausted muscles snap, tensing, coiling.

He swipes his elbow in your direction but you duck just in time, a whistle of wind tickling your temple.

Arms twisting, you both ignore the screech of metal, you punching him in the jaw while he gets you in the ribs. Gasping, you stagger back, ignoring the numbing pain. Time has dulled the memory of how hard he manages to hit if the hits land.

Lucien springs towards you again, his face contorted, lips stretched back. This time your arms are tucked at your sides and you greet his attack. Your knees knock but you manage to push him back. A swipe of your blade is your reply but he careens out of the way and you kick at him instead. He catches your knee, staggering back from the impact, and he grins at you wildly. A slight cut against the corner of his mouth bubbles up, spilling blood over his front teeth. It paints the white bone canvas with diluted scarlet.

“You didn’t answer my question earlier,” he says conversationally, and you try to sink your knife into his chest but he shoves you back. You stumble but stay upright, exhaling shakily at the pain across your ribs. “If he missed you.”

Ignoring him, you roll the blades between your fingers, drooping lower as you unleash one quick swipe after another.

Lucien lurches backwards, his expression tightening in concentration. He manages to stay out of the way, just barely. So you push him backwards till you’re back by the bodies, and the man drops to the floor so suddenly you’re left staring at empty air until your mind catches up.

He rolls across the floor, a blur of his golden hair and dark clothes the only visible thing, and you realise a second too late as to why.

A blade lays by one of the dead men covered in blood as well. You have no idea how he managed to take down three men with a minimum of two katanas at their disposal. But there’s no time to contemplate that because this time you’re the one throwing yourself backwards.

Lucien swipes the katana in a deadly arc.

His hair mused, face bloodied and a grin on his face, he gazes at you for a second. Your grip on your blades constricts.

“I wondered for years what was so special about you,” he reveals mildly, tipping his chin upwards, pulling the blade closer towards his body as he stands. “I fucking hated you, viper. Viper. I suppose that’s one of many titles for you, isn’t it? John Wick’s protege, the Vipress, the Italian’s whore, the Russian’s Viper, Lady Camorra. Honestly doesn’t your head…hurt from it all? Or does it add to your ego?”  

He spins the katana in the air, rolling his wrist—experienced and at ease, the blade like an extension of his arm. Your senses pinprick at that assessment, knowing he just made this much harder for you.

“Did the way he used to call you his desert viper make you feel powerful?” he wonders suddenly, tracing his index finger up the curve of the metal. “Gave you a sense of importance? It must have felt thrilling to be such an exception to the most powerful man in the world.”

Something inside your chest stills.

Lucien drags his eyes in your direction, watching you closely over the edge of the blade.

“My, you really do have no idea, do you?” he continues slyly, his expression slackening with amusement; malicious, wild kind that causes you to bristle. “None. Your life is, ah, what is the expression again? A hot mess, non? Oh, snakey, I thought you could be the one to teach me a lesson I failed to learn all those years ago, but your ignorance is truly disappointing.”

He cuts the air with the blade, lowering it back to his side, and you bite out a chilly, “What the hell are you talking about?”

He tuts, wagging his index finger in your direction, his grin fluttering like he’s trying to contain a laugh bubbling inside his chest.

“I kept telling you but you just don’t listen, do you?” he wonders with a click of his tongue. “I told you we were the same. Forged by the same violence. Alike in ways you failed to understand. Now, why do you think I would say that?”

You don’t respond, instead, you push yourself backwards, launching your full mass at him. Lucien greets you with a chuckle—a cold, hollow sound, teetering on manic just like the rest of him—his katana managing to absorb the impact of your shorter dual blades.  

“Tokyo, Chicago, Prague, the Albanians, the summit, us—did you really think it was all, what exactly, one funny coincidence?” he asks jovially, and a distinct chill sinks into your bones at his words, forcing you to pull yourself backwards, and dive for the other blade on the ground.

He lets you. Doesn’t bother trying to stop you, and you grip the handle in a knuckle tight grip, creating some distance between you once more. Again, he lets you, examining you with a dark but curious light gleaming in his eyes. Like you’re a lab rat he’s conducting a study on. His question rattles through your head and you squint at him.  

“You never even questioned it, did you?” he continues, his voice airy with disbelief, a joke that seems to entertain him endlessly. He’s lost interest in the fight between you for a moment, prowling across the gleaming floor but in no hurry to attack. This, clearly is more important to him. “The water, the tunnels, the darkness. A repeating pattern. All carefully put together to test you. Over and over and over again. And you exceeded his every expectation. Every challenge thrown at you, you triumphed. And even if you did wonder at the back of your mind, you never once were made to believe that someone else was pulling the strings all along. Think, snake. Think.”

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

What…

No…

No, it doesn’t…

It’s not possible. It…can’t…

Your head is empty and you gasp for breath but your lungs feel blocked, your throat locked.

Lucien attacks in a blur.

You just barely manage to muster up the speed to block him, a piercing screech of metal against metal. Your arms buckle under his strength and he kicks you, catching you in the gut. One, two—

A muffled curse slips free, everything spinning, and he grabs the spare blade in your hand, throwing it away.

Parrying for control, you attempt a punch at his head but it’s too slow and sloppy. He catches your fist, bending your arm at a sharp angle. You relax it as per your old training to avoid broken tendons or bones. The katana slips from your hand and you growl under your breath, your free hand managing to form a fist.

A punch to his gut hits him quicker than a snake bite. Brutally efficient, impacting the exact same spot you gutted him only weeks prior.

Lucien grunts. Swears. His teeth gleam, still tinged by blood and you feel his hot breath on your face. Death and decay and—

You’re too misbalanced that you don’t notice it fast enough.

Lucien kicks you in the stomach with enough strength to send you flying.

A second of weightlessness enfolds you and then comes the crash.

Glass shatters upon contact and you muffle a cry of pain, feeling glass explode and rain down around you. Hitting the floor with a deafening thud, you stay there for a while, everything ringing and blurred around you.

A feeble moan escapes you, pained and strangled.

You attempt to shake your head, your fingers twitching against the glass covered floor.

“Tokyo was just the beginning,” Lucien’s muffled voice sounds like you’re underwater and you groan, weakly tilting your head to spot his approaching legs. Glass crunches under his boots and you try to desperately block out his words. “He’s always been on the lookout for new members to join his inner circle. Best of the best. And he’s always paid close attention to poisoners like you. Tokyo was just a nudge to see what you were made of. But you didn’t break and it escalated too far. Do you know what the Elder did after you escaped? Why you never heard from Kishi’s little group again? It wasn’t because of Wick. It was because the Elder had the entire clan killed. Just that easily. Because they disobeyed him.”

“No, no…”

It can’t be true.

It can’t.

He has to be lying. It doesn’t make any sense…

Except…it does.

“Did you never ask yourself why Tarasov didn’t simply turn you into another whore or sell you?” he demands harshly. “Later, I imagine, it was a certain degree of fear of you. But initially, it was because of the Elder’s will. Even if all Viggo Tarasov knew back then was that the Table willed it so.”

You focus on your core, trying to get yourself to move but Lucien speeds up his approach, kicking you in the stomach.

Pain blinds you and you roll across the floor. Your forehead connects with the glass, your left eyebrow splitting on impact. You don’t realise it at first—not till numbness is replaced by a sensation of something wet trailing down your face.

Droplets of fresh blood hit the crushed glass beneath you, and you crawl ahead with a pained gasp.

“Next—and my personal favourite—Chicago,” Lucien narrates loudly, his voice echoing through the large space. You hear him behind you but utter shock wins out, locking your limbs, leaving you a frail mess on the ground for him to prey upon. A part of you wants to roar, another wants to cry. Your training battles against the yawning abyss you keep slipping down with each horrifying word. “Who do you think fed the father-son wonder duo their information? Why do you think you were taken to an underground facility that was spitting image of Tokyo? Why not just kill you and D’Antonio outright? Boutin thought he was getting a special task but the truth was that he had long since outlived his use. The Elder fed both Boutin and his son to you to see what you would do. Black Dragon and D’Antonio were just pawns to hide the real test.”

The highway. The way they just kept attacking but not trying to kill you. It was to see how long you will last.

You want to be sick, a dry heave bubbling past your lips, every word crushing you harder, harder, harder—

“And, once again, you did perfectly but not without a loose end,” he sneers, venturing closer, step by step, as is savouring your reaction. “He also knew that the fear of being found out will make you more compliant. Wasn’t it peculiar that he summoned you right after you returned to New York? It’s almost like he…knew. Well, he did. He always has.”

Biting your tongue, you try to push yourself up on your elbows.

Ignore him, don’t listen, don’t—

“Prague. Again. Poison that made you struggle,” he reveals, his voice pitching towards impatience now. “The syndicate that took your Italian had no prior conflicts with Camorra and for a reason. Another test and punishment. More pieces for you to remove.”

Santino was taken for no reason. Right after your return from the desert. Cognitionis had no former alterations with Camorra up until that point. They were far too small to ever risk the wrath of a powerhouse like Camorra. They hadn’t even made demands which struck you as so odd back then but you had chalked it up to them wanting to prove a point.

A poison the heir was poisoned with was sophisticated and took some time to reverse-engineer. So long, in fact, that Santino nearly died.  

“Albanians. Same thing,” Lucien voices harshly, punctuating every word. He’s gotten so close that when the second kick comes the pain is distant, muted. Because what he’s betraying is so, so much worse. “It wasn’t Camorra that started the conflict. It was made to seem that way. Tarasov was cautioned to keep a close eye on you. To a point he forbade you from helping Camorra, right? And what did you do after that, snakey?” he demands, bending down and yanking you upwards by the back of your neck.

He pulls you towards him and more blood trails down your face. Lucien’s narrowed eyes search for something in your expression, and he smiles faintly when he spots it. “That’s right. It’s all starting to click, isn’t it?”

Tarasov forbade you from helping Camorra, from helping Santino. It was the first time you ever talked back to him. First time you ever conjured up enough courage to do so.

And then, furious and upset, you ran. Straight to Casablanca. And nearly back to the man who always expected—knew, he fucking knew, planned for it—for you to come back to him.

It’s what he wanted from the start and it would have been your choice.

No forced loyalty.

You will always lose, and it will always lead you back to me.

Oh God.

If Santino had come just half a day later you won’t even be here right now. You would be with him, at his side, and none the wiser to this truth.

The terrible, dark truth of what loneliness can do to someone.

“I even told you it was him,” the man holding you whispers, his head dipping to one side when he drags his fingers over your face, wetting them with your blood. “You just don’t remember, do you?”

His disappointment is once again palpable.  

Except while you’re staring at the cutting lines of his face, a recollection does come.

The warehouse. You tied to a chair. A needle stuck in your neck as Lucien leaned his body over you. The scathing bewilderment at the fact that he has managed to find something powerful enough to knock you out for hours. Those thin, pink lips shaping words while whatever he injected you with coursed through your veins, and a name you didn’t catch.

The Elder sends his regards.

Lucien’s fingers sink deep into the skin of your neck, his expression clouding with rage the longer he gazes at you.

“You were his favourite,” he seethes bitterly, ripping you upwards and on your knees so quickly you’re left scrambling. Your legs drag across the glass shards and your hands lock shakily around his, trying to rip out of his grip. “No one after you was good enough! We trained until our bones broke. We could bleed ourselves dry, and it still wasn’t enough!”

Shódigan.

That’s why he asked if you knew about it.

You thought you did but—

He flings you ahead and your body slides across the gleaming flooring, leaving a trail of blood behind. Lucien follows, stalking closer, and squats beside you, this time yanking you upwards by the collar of your shirt. “He adored you,” he adds with a hiss, his fury scalding your skin; an old, festering resentment. “And now you’re paying the price for that adoration.”

He exhales with great difficulty, taking several moments to reign in his temper.

Now, you understand his obsession with you perfectly.

He is like you.

He was a candidate too.

He must have been.

Another face in a long line of candidates for the coveted disciple position.

This time when Lucien speaks, his voice sounds contemplative, “Though I suppose you should thank him too,” he states forcefully light. “One day you will be remembered as a legend, just like your Baba Yaga. He helped to forge you into what you are today.”

You’re too numb to feel anything else.

There is just a hushed sort of silence ringing through your head.

Undeterred by your lack of response, Lucien goes on, wiping at the blood on his face, “You know there is an old French saying: qui se resemble, s'assemble. Can you guess what it means?” he doesn’t wait for your answer this time, either. “Every man loves well what is like to himself. You are each other’s dark mirror. His counterpart.”

He giggles this time, grabbing your face, his fingers cutting into the flesh of your cheeks, and for the first time since he started his speech, something sparks in your gut.

Shock or not, your body is failing to respond but you battle against it, silencing your mind.

Hurt and betrayal slam like an overloading flood against your composure despite your best attempts to stay afloat.

You’re such a fool.

Such a lonely, naive fool.

So desperate to believe.

Hope.

Just like he was.

Lucien is right.

You and Elder are two broken halves of a mangled whole.

The same man you once saw as a chance for redemption, belonging, is the architect of the majority of the pain in your life.

One day, if you still wish it, I will tell you everything.

Everything. This is what he had meant by everything.

He ordered Winston’s death not because the manager broke the rules but because he wanted to remove your main tie to New York—the very tie that made you choose to leave him in the first place.

And John would have been the one to fire the bullet.  

You would have hated him for the rest of your days for taking the manager away from you.

Santino is still weak and so very easy for the Elder to dispose of right now.

The Lovers. Their mission to hunt you both down.

Another test for you, another tie cut if they succeed in killing Santino.

And you would have crawled to him on your hands and knees, hoping for his kindness once again. Heartbroken and alone with no one to turn to.

He would have won and you would have made it easy for him.

So very easy.

Lucien drinks in your tiny, wet breaths and glassy stare. Blood continues dripping from the cut against your eyebrow and you shiver in his hold.

A tear trails down your cheek and you can’t process a single thought. It’s too much, it’s…  

“He always feared you would find out,” this time his voice is softer, emptier, and the hollows that make up his eyes examine you shrewdly. “But it’s a fitting punishment. To care for someone so deeply, to desire them, only to live with the burden of knowing that you are the reason for their suffering.”

His fingers tremble, sunken deep into your cheeks, and another off-tilter laugh tickles from the back of his throat.

“I really did hate you, your shadow, for years. Until those tunnels,” he murmurs, his faint accent just a little more notable then, his grip easing, loosening. “Until I saw how much darkness lurks under that mask of calm. How much hate festers inside you but directed at the wrong people. I told you we were one and the same. You should have listened.”

He shakes his head, blonde strands brushing over his forehead, his mouth stretching into another beaming smile, all teeth.

Lucien lets you go and you drop the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.

That’s all you are—comes the sinking, gutting realisation—a puppet for others to use and play with.

“He will kill me for what I’ve done to you,” Lucien announces, sounding like he’s made peace with that grim fact long ago. “But you know it’s funny, snakey. I always thought I would enjoy this more. Getting back at them by betraying his secrets. Seeing that realisation on your face. That crumbling hope and despair as your world unravels and crashes around you,” he says softly, near lovingly.

It must have taken him years to gain this level of trust, to learn this information.

You don’t move a muscle. All you can see are Lucien’s legs but you can feel him staring down at you.

The blonde tsks under his breath, nudging you with the tip of his boot but you don’t react. “You want to deny it, I know you do,” he begins purposely, and you suppose he would know, won’t he? “But you can’t. Because I bet every single thing that’s never made sense about your life before now suddenly does. Am I right, snakey?”

Your fingers tremble and you press them closer to your body.

“Looking at you now, I almost pity you,” he muses and there is a distinct note of uncomfortable surprise in his low voice. It almost makes you ponder just how large the line between this lucid Lucien and his insanity really is. “You’re just a little tragedy, aren’t you?” he adds thoughtfully.

Little tragedy. Little tragedy. Little tragedy.

It echoes.

You wonder, then, what you would have become had you been allowed to stay a girl. If you didn’t have to become a monster. Even though the monster kept you alive, kept you breathing and fighting.

What would you have become if you hadn’t been robbed of a future you could have had?

“Your life is not your own, it never was.”

Deafening, hollow silence follows that statement. Your heart thuds so painfully inside your chest, a part of you waits for it to stop on its own.  

Lucien’s boot settles against your waist again, pushing you onto your back.  

You stare up at the ceiling above you and count the beats of your heart.

The assassin straddles you unhurriedly as if expecting you to fight back but all you do is blink slowly.

Everything is rushing through your head right now. Every moment over the last seven years.

His fingers brush over the curve of your neck and he stares down at you with an almost rueful expression on his face.

“What a waste,” he starts tightly, followed by a long pause and he mutters something in French under his breath. His fingers settle around your throat—not squeezing, simply gazing down at you. “I knew it would crush you. But I hoped for that rage. For the abyss. For you to show me once and for all what I lacked that you had. Your lesson.”

So that’s what that was about.

“We might have been friends had we met sooner, serpent girl.”

His fingers constrict—

“My—”

Your voice cracks and Lucien’s grip relaxes instantly. The thin line of his eyebrows knits in confusion. “Quoi?”

Gulping a painful breath, you part your lips, “My…lesson,” you croak out, tasting blood on your tongue and how fitting that you should. “My lesson…I have the answer.”

A certain light devours his gaze, and although his features drop with surprise, his eagerness is tangible.

He leans closer, and over you, his fingers still around your throat, “Tell me.”

Your tongue feels heavy and dry inside your mouth, an acrid aftertaste coating it, and Lucien jerks his fingers harder around the fragile column. He presses closer, his body weight pinning you down—

You jerk your body, a blur of your arm, a gleam of a dagger in the artificial, cold light. The Elder’s dagger in your hand trembles but gushing scarlet coats it still.

“I’m faster.”

Lucien gapes, his mouth parted. He convulses, his grip on your neck slipping, and you lurch your hips upwards, throwing him off you.

He drops to the side, right beside you, unmoving but the heat of his body still warming you—and you clutch the dagger tighter between your blood-stained fingers. You press it to your chest and lay there till time becomes nothing.  

BC4 BC5.

Years ago when you escaped to Casablanca, eager to start your life over and join the Elder once again, Sofia told you something that has stuck with you ever since.

Sometimes you have to kill what you love.

You’ve thought about that a lot over the years. What exactly she had to sacrifice to have the power she now possesses—her daughter, flesh and blood, and good.

What you may have to sacrifice one day to earn your freedom.

Now, you suppose, none of that matters anymore.

Not really.

You’ve almost won your pyrrhic victory, Kishi purrs happily at your side, and you hear the subdued rumble of Tarasov’s laugh too, soon you can savour the rotting, sweet taste of it on your tongue.

The rooftop terrace door slams open, and you step onto the patio, halting the heated conversation with your arrival. There is an unsteady sway to your limbs that doesn’t escape anyone’s attention—John’s shoulder’s slump, Winston’s eyes narrow, the Adjudicator simply arches an eyebrow—but your expression remains steely.

The fire roars behind Winston and Charon—and it is, admittedly, a massive relief to see them both safe and unharmed—even if it makes you think how close you came…

No.

None of that now.

You’ve lived through worse (have you? liar, liar, liar, Kishi coos) and you give them a forced, fragmented smile.

“Mornin’.”

The Adjudicator grimaces subtly, and you know it’s likely because your injuries leave your smile bloody. Good.

“The Vipress,” the Adjudicator greets, standing to their feet. “I must express my apologies on behalf of the High Table. It does, indeed, seem like the general order in regards to you has...changed.”

They don’t look particularly happy to admit that but this is no time to goad, if you even could muster up the strength for it.

Instead, you stare blankly in their direction for a beat. “Excuse me,” you say, your voice a grating whisper, as you push past them. “Killing your lackies has made me thirsty.”

You shoulder past them, avoiding contact, your eyes momentarily jumping to Winston who stands right behind the Adjudicator, his stare cautious. Your eye contact lasts no more than a scant few seconds but it’s enough.

It’s a split second in which you grab a glass of champagne, ignoring the other snacks on the table.

You turn to face them, finding them all in differing states of confusion or uncertainty but offer no explanation as you drown three large gulps.

“Let’s get on with it, then,” you phrase bitingly, not bothering to hide the impatience, the sting of bubbling acid and, and… “I would like to have breakfast and take a shower. It exhausts a girl, having to take down armies. Hope you can appreciate that at least most of mine are in one piece. Less blood for you to wipe,” you comment idly, directing your words at the Adjudicator.

Coldness lurks in their regard, and you can tell that their opinion of you is less than savoury.

You don’t give a shit what they might think of you.

Every word slips past your lips on automatic; mindless, void syllables that feel drained of life. It’s an effort to register anything around you.

The blood, the champagne, the bubbles tickling your nose.

“While you have been pardoned of your crimes,” the Adjudicator resumes smoothly, clearly eager to get the conversation back on track and out of the way. “I’m afraid no such thing has happened with Mr Wick. A man who has shown no loyalty, no regard for the rules. It is by that logic the Table’s decrees that the punishment should fit the crime.”

Winston hums loudly, his head tilting as he nods in absentminded agreement.

You take another sip of your drink, frowning at the taste of blood in your mouth. Fitting, somehow.

You might have scrubbed yourself clean of blood before coming up here but it still stains the cracks of your skin. Cuticles stained with red, mouth stained with red.

Red, red, red…

John straightens at those words. He looks beat from his own fight but remains quiet. Yet, he can no doubt sense that something’s wrong.

“You’re correct,” Winston states, no affliction to be found in his voice and he steps closer, pulling something from behind his jacket. “Sorry, Jonathan.”

BANG

The gunshot is like a thunderclap through the too still morning.

John’s body jerks with the impact, a gasp sounding a second later, and you look at him while Winston steps closer.

BANG

John scrambles backwards, his bulletproof clothing absorbing the impacts but it won’t get him far.

“(Name)!” he calls out desperately, pained, his eyes seeking your form out, his voice cracking and splintering.

You can’t help and wonder if he’s scared. He sounds scared. There is something ironic—downright hilarious—in the knowledge that he’s facing death yet calling out your name like it may prove to be a salvation.  

It’s the first time since you asked him not to use your real name that he uses it. But you don’t move. Don’t respond to the plea for help. Mercy.

You just stare at him, indifferent and cold, knowing that even if you tried you couldn’t muster up any emotional response right now.

Winston fires again, and again, and John veers towards the building edge, his knees shaking.

The manager’s expression remains vacant, cold, and he shoots again, no hesitation in his aim. Not a single falter. It’s one of the most well carried out executions you’ve ever witnessed.  

John’s back hits the ledge and you watch in near slow motion as he tips over the edge falling at least twenty floors down and towards the concrete below.

You hear the metallic bangs as he hits a few fire escapes on his way down but still don’t move.

Then, impact so loud it splits the air.

Then, stillness.

The typical buzz of New York City waking up resumes. Time restarts and goes back to its natural flow once again.

Throwing your glass back, you drown the remainder of the champagne, licking your lips twice, yet blood still lingers.

Winston lowers his arm, approaching the edge but the Adjudicator gets there first. Charon is only a step behind them, and you force yourself to move after them as well.

The Adjudicator gazes down for a long, assessing moment, silent. Their head turns towards the manager who meets their probing stare flatly.

“I assume we’re done here?” he questions.

The Adjudicator inclines their head and, predictably, switches their attention to you. “You did not help him.”

A fact, not a question, yet it demands an explanation all the same. Your tongue moves on automatic, forming words that taste brittle.

Everything feels brittle.

“Why would I?” you wonder dully. “He betrayed me not so long ago, and nearly killed the majority of my friends less than a week ago. I learned my lesson.”

Chuckling, you turn your back to them, walking away leisurely. The glass clangs back onto the coffee table, a shriek of a sound. “I have served. I will be of service,” you echo the mantra pleasantly, faint with scorn.

Every word bleeds venom through your heart.

You don’t face them again, and no one stops you. The terrace doors slam shut behind you, and it’s a deafening bang that reverberates. You force yourself to put one foot in front of another. Keep walking, keep walking, keep—

It’s a blur, your feet dragging behind you. You’ve stopped bleeding but still have to halt at one point, leaning your palm against the corridor wall to rest.

You’re teetering and—

Your life is not your own, it never was.  

Your room sits untouched. The door opens with a click that’s like a kiss against your hair—so soothing and loving, comforting in ways that you could never quite explain.

The table is still an organised mess; notes half-unfinished, empty vials, dried ingredients—all littering the wooden surface, and you approach it slowly.

Exactly as you left it before you departed for Rome.

It seems like a lifetime ago now.

Everything is the same here, frozen in time.

Except nothing is the same.

Your fingertips trace over your notebook; a new formula, a collection of improvements on old ideas, scribbles that don’t make much sense to anyone but you.  

Your legacy. Your work.

This room is a testament to who you are. What you have become.

A tragedy.

Not a legend, or a fighter, just a tragedy of a girl.

A sound escapes you at that, strangely wounded, and you lean the heels of your palms against the table edge, your vision blurring.

Tragedy, tragedy, tragedy.

A puppet stitched together by different hands, influenced by different people.

You’re a product of someone else.

Every victory from your past sours and cracks with that realisation. You must have made him so proud.

You hate this room, this table, these plants, yourself.

This time a scream rips from the back of your throat. A brutal sweep of your hands wipes the table clean, everything plummeting to the floor with a booming crash.

You destroy everything in your path. Glass explodes, paper rips, liquids spills. You’re panting, sweating, and shaking by the time you come back to yourself. The floor is a mess, the whole room is.

A glint catches your notice when you spin on your heels, and your head snaps to the floor-length mirror across the room.

You don’t recognise anything about the bloodied, tear-stained, wild reflection that glares back at you. A monster is all that stands there. Alone and devoid of everything.

Distance evaporates between you, and you slam the hilt of the only weapon you still have left into the glass. The Elder’s dagger shatters the mirror upon contact. Cracks fracture your face before the mess crashes at your feet with another ear-splitting echo.

That uses the last tendril of strength left in your body—perhaps your very soul.

Your knees fold under you—and it’s almost soft, your crumbling.

Weightless and empty you settle on the floor.

Tears stream down your cheeks, hitting the crushed glass in front of you but you don’t wipe them away, don’t make a single sound. You can’t.

Your forehead lowers between your knees, your hushed sobs the only noise permeating through the peaceful room.

You don't get back up.

B4.

. . .

AN: 

well. 

now you know. 

not sure how many of you are even around to read this but a fun game to play now that you're done:

- reread COA from start to finish, noting every use of "honoured guest" in relation to V spoken by her enemies throughout the years, even the elder himself.  

[oopsitszuli]

What pets the Hashira and kamaboko squad would own Hcs!

Authors note: special features of kanae Kocho, Tamayo, yushiro, and Kagaya!!

Warnings: none!!

——————————————————————————-

-Hashira-

Kyojuro Rengoku:

* He would own Two golden retrievers and one tabby cat.

* All three of his pets are adopted from a local shelter.

* Probably calls them his children.

Gyomei Himejima:

* Brown Maine coon cat. I have zero explanation it just fits.

* This cat is gyomeis PRIDE AND JOY. Like- he shows him off to everyone who comes near his house.

[[ “this is my pet cat. I love him very very much.” ]]

Tengen Uzui:

* Dog person 100%

* His first pet was a white German Sheppard! But then his wives talked him in to buying more animals.

* Now they own a white German Shepard, a yellow lab(Hinatsurus choice), a corgi(Sumas choice), and a Saint Bernard(Maikos choice)!

Shinobu Kocho:

* A total fish/bird nerd.

* Of course she owns a fish tank but I also believe she owns two Rosy-faced lovebirds!

* The birds are probably trained to like everyone but Giyuu. (Just so she can tease him about it)

Muichiro Tokito:

* SUGAR GLIDERS. FIGHT ME. HE OWNS TWO SUGAR GLIDERS AND ABSOLUTELY ADORES THEM.

* He sometimes forgets their names so he’s taken to calling them thing 1 & 2

* Mitsuri probably bought them for him and she occasionally watches them when tokito is busy.

Iguro Obanai:

* Reptile NERD- (me too honestly)

* He owns (kaburamaru of course) bearded dragons, chameleons, leopard geckos, and crested geckos.

* He thinks of them all as friends more then as pets.

Mitsuri Kanroji:

* Cat lady. No questions asked.

* Tabbies, Calicos, Birman, Siberian, Tonkinese.....you name it she’s probably got it.

* Has “cat play dates” with Gyomei.

* She also owns a bunny!

Sanemi Shinazugawa:

* Shiba Inu! Or an Akita! Either way he’s got a puppy!

* He is the best dog dad in the world. Goes all soft when he’s around his fluffy boy.

[[ “Who’s a good boy?! Yes you are! Yes you areeee!” He said in his best baby voice while petting his beloved puppy, unbeknownst to him a few of his fellow Hashira members had shown up.

“Shinazugawa has gone soft! How cute!” Mitsuri chimed in while smiling brightly.

“I HAVE NOT-“ ]]

* he would then apologize to the dog for yelling in front of him.

* HE ALSO CANONICALLY OWNS BEETLES AND THATS SO CUTE

Giyuu Tomioka:

* Black cat that started showing up at his house and one day wandered inside.

* It just wandered in and he went “......ok then...” and kept it.

* Shinobu scolded him for taking in a stray cat and not even taking it to the vet or giving it a bath.

* Now he’s an amazing pet owner (partially due to a fear of Shinobu.) and his cat absolutely adores him.

-Kamaboko squad-

Tanjirou Kamado:

* Hamster and two guinea pigs, Hands down.

* He owns a tiny little short haired hamster and he absolutely adores her.

* He also owns golden and brown guinea pigs! He thinks they’re the cutest thing ever.

Zenitsu Agatsuma:

* Ferrets! Two lil ferrets who he adores almost as much as he loves Nezuko.

* Probably has to keep them away from Inosuke because Inosuke gets a lil to rough when playing with them.

* Nezuko helped him name them!

Nezuko Kamado:

* She owns a Holland lop bunny!

* She probably bought the bunny at a fair Ngl- that or Zenitsu bought the bunny for her.

* She would also probably own a beta fish!

Inosuke Hashibira:

* Greyhound. Self explanatory.

* He probably races it on a daily.

* The perfect dog for a person like Inosuke.

Genya Shinazugawa:

* Bearded dragon!

* He likes them cause they’re rough on the outside but softies on the inside if they like you! Just like him!

* Spoils the dragon to the point Sanemi has to stop him from buying new terrarium accessories when they go to pet stores.

* WOULD 100% WALK THE DRAGON ON A LEASH-

Kanao Tsuyuri:

* like Shinobu, she’s a bird nerd!

* She owns two Cockatiels and unlike her they’re extremely loud!

* She thinks it’s kinda funny- a quiet girl with her two loud ass birds.

* Regardless of how loud they are, she absolutely adores them.

* They have a habit of trying to catch the coin when she flips it in the air.

Special features:

Kanae Kocho:

* Hedgehog! She thinks they’re absolutely adorable!

* She also probably said that the hedgehog reminded her of Sanemi because “She’s spiky and intimidating on the outside but on the inside she’s sweet and cuddly!” Which had Sanemi blushing and scoffing.

Yushiro Yamamoto:

* Hear me out.......... Hermit crabs.

* I HAVE ZERO EXPLICATION I JUST THINK HE WOULD THINK THEYRE NEAT-

* AND HE WOULD LIKE WATCHING THEM

Lady Tamayo:

* She’s content with just chachamaru. But she always thought turtles were neat!

Kagaya Ubuyashiki:

* The crows-

* IM NOT JOKING- THOSE ARE ALL TOTALLY HIS PETS AND HE ADORES THEM MORE THEN ANYTHING IN THE WORLD.

[princess-of-the-corner]

*some bird sounds* Hi Corner. I was browsing ML Tumblr and I read something about a "Great Salt Onslaught of 2018" or something by like that. Out of the people I’m brave enough to ask, you’re the most knowledgeable one about salt, so I was hoping you could shed some light for fandom newcomers.

Short answer: 2018 is when Chameleon aired.

Long answer, because I was there Gandalf. I was there three years ago.

And by FUCK is it a journey.

Okay. So. Chameleon aired. And the fandom was frustrated.

On one hand, good! Chameleon was supposed to be a frustrating episode! The plot is about Marinette and Adrien being the only ones to realize Lila is a liar, but unable to prove it. That's the point!

On the other hand.... while the Fandom had been noticing some lackluster writing in Season 2, the way the writers made Chameleon really showed the lack of talent in how forced things were.

The biggest complaints about the episode were

The class ignoring Marinette when it came to rearranging the seats and forcing her to the back.

The class is dumbed down, believing anything Lila says, no matter how Marinette points out the flaws. Lila says she saved Jagged's cat from a runway and got tinnitus, Marinette says "I know Jagged and he doesn't have a cat!", the class ignores this. To the point where Max believes a lie about a thrown napkin being able to gouge out an eye.

Everyone brushing off Marinette's accusations as 'she's probably upset because Lila likes Adrien, and she's done wacky shit before because of that'.

Alya asking Marinette for concrete proof that Lila is lying, saying that 'a good reporter always checks her facts', while falling for something without fact checking

Adrien tells Marinette that the whole thing will probably blow up in Lila's face soon enough, so just take the high road and ignore her instead of causing a scene every few minutes.

Marinette not telling Adrien that Lila's lies are going further than just 'I know X celebrity', with her actually threatening Marinette, purely because 'well! Gotta do what Adrien says because I love him and he's perfect even if I know there's more to it!'/

Now. These are legitimate criticisms. The writing in this episode was off. And there were ways it could be improved upon!

So after the initial criticism toward the writing, Fandom did what Fandom does best: Write a Fix It Fic!

Some had the class realize on their own what was wrong. Some had Marinette successful in convincing people that Lila was lying! A few had Marinette actually get Akumatized and expose Lila through that. Maybe Marinette actually tells Adrien about Lila's threat and they plan together.

Some included a bit of catharsis of everyone having made the Canon mistakes, but someone calls them out on it.

This last one got popular. Because god isn't that catharsis a rush? Everyone kinda projected onto it.

But.... it built on itself.

Eventually it went from 'the class makes mistakes because they're teenagers' to 'honestly they're being jerks right now and Mari would be justified in being pissed at them for all this' to 'you know what? They're all assholes who use people and poor Mari is just their victim but they see shiny new better Lila and jump ship! She should use her own connections to ruin their lives in revenge!'.

Yeah it... it escalated.

And over the past three years, it's continued to build. We have fics where instead of just them believing Lila for a bit but coming around, they are 100% fooled. Sometimes this takes place over months of manipulation and gaslighting, sometimes they're just totally dumb jerks. Either way, the class deserves to have their futures ruined for being jerks at 14.

I won't go into every awful variation I've seen because we know the awful stuff. The kinda racist way they made Alya into Lila's attack dog. The Mar///ibat. The Quantic Kids making a comback but only as 'Marinette dumps these assholes for better friends'. Attempted murder through not believing allergies.

It all originated in 2018.

[gothelsflower]

okay i know op is anti-tangled and posts tangled critical content, and i am very obviously not an anti-tangled blog so i hope im not overstepping here (though i have no opposition to tangled criticism; or criticism of any disney film in general! in fact i’m probably one of disneys biggest critics as a whole lol) BUT this triggered one of my special interests which is lore behind disney animation and specifically unused concepts such as rapunzel unbraided! if you already knew all this, my apologies in advance and feel free to ignore the rest of what i’m about to say. just in case:

tldr: tangled’s art style originally drew heavy inspiration from the french rococo era but became more simplified once the film transitioned hands and to a computer animated format, and the original concept for a rapunzel film which was extremely different from tangled (2010) was eventually recycled into what we now know as enchanted, which is why giselle is so similar to rapunzel yet also seems to flesh out those intended concepts better given the film’s satirical genre and self aware storyline

in more detail, though other blogs have gone into better detail than i probably will… maybe neither of you were aware, tangled’s original development actually began in the late 90s as a hand drawn film and went through around three(ish) “actualized” versions before the tangled (2010) we eventually got. in 2005 there was a concept involving real world teens getting transported to a fairy tale realm and having to deal with all the fairy tale tropes and magical fantasy while learning to get along. the modern era bits were set in san francisco, and the film set out to unpack and satirize classic disney princess tropes in response to the success of dreamworks shrek (which allegedly, disney ceos did not get was satire of disney? or just thought was a good idea to do themselves if they did? yanno.. for profit) while also retelling (or sort of just propping up) the original rapunzel tale as a structure for this new narrative which included original versions of rapunzel and her prince (named beau) as well as the witch/mother gothel (named lucretia iirc) and original characters claire and vince. for many reasons, ultimately this idea was scrapped and the film returned to just reimagining the fairy tale as is like most other disney princess classics rather than completely reinventing the narrative. this version of rapunzel/tangled was a lot dark and edgier, similar to the hunchback of notre dame, and had alan menken and glen keane at the forefront. the art style was also predominantly inspired by french rococo and revolutionary era works, with rapunzels own personal artistic style coming from glen’s daughter and disney animator claire keane.

due to health issues, glen left the project for a bit, and during that time production teams changed hands, the film got a lot brighter and happier in tone, rapunzel, beau/bastion/flynn and gothels designs changed, pascal became a chameleon instead of rapunzel/claire’s squirrel companion, beau the dog is now maximus the horse, new music got written, the storyline was adapted to what we know now, the overall style was simplified and less historically accurate or tied to one period, etc etc etc. keane returned to the project as either an executive producer or supervisor (?) but not director, and his og vision ultimately had changed a lot to a more basic adaptation of the rapunzel story (which, truly, is not without its flaws). however disney still really loved the idea of breaking down and also making fun of in a way their own established tropes for princesses, but decided instead to do it in a live action/2D animation hybrid format which focused more on the modern setting rather than the fairy tale world. and with new characters. all that is to say, in some ways it did have a definitive art style and also this is why giselle is so inherently similar to rapunzel… because she originally was her, sort of. and enchanted’s success likely did influence the final version of tangled, since they had been closely intertwined from their inceptions and because a lot of the same people likely worked on them, even at the same time!

if i have any inaccuracies, feel free to correct them! i’m saying this all off the top of my head and didn’t go back to cite sources and concretely verify the things i couldn’t expressly recall bc it’s very late at night here

I found a gif of giselle from enchanted and just realised she is literally like Rapunzel but much more fleshed out? Crazy how tangled said "here is rapunzel" but we already had a maiden trapped in a tower! I know that Giselle becomes real and finds herself in the real world, so she isn't really rapunzel from tangled, but still, it's wild!

I never really thought of it that way, that's pretty interesting! I think that it's not too out there to say that Giselle may have influenced Rapunzel, in a sort of way that the other disney princesses did. She most likely laid down the foundation of what kind of rincess they wanted to do next.

Ironically, Giselle was meant to be a parody with a little bit more sincerity mixed in so she could develop, while Rapunzel basically played all the disney princess tropes straight while making is seem like she was defying them on a surface level. The parody princess is more developed than the actual factual one.

Interesting note, the visual style of Giselle was influenced by art nouveau and Mucha, which is pretty distinctive. I kinda wish Rapunzel had a distinct style like that, or had a heavy inspiration from some art style that was more recognizable like Giselle.

[aion-rsa]

Star Trek Doctors, Ranked By Crankiness

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This Star Trek: Lower Decks article contains spoilers for Season 2, Episode 3.

In the very first filmed episode of Star Trek: The Original Series — “The Cage” — Captain Pike drinks itty-bitty martinis with the Enterprise’s chief physician, Dr. Boyce (John Hoyt.) And although it remains to be seen if we’ll be seeing Boyce in Stranger New Worlds, the tradition of the cranky — but wise — Starfleet doctor was started right there. After Boyce and Piper, Star Trek set the standard for cranky, wise-cracking doctors in space with the introduction of Dr. Leonard “Bones” McCoy; as played by the wonderful DeForest Kelley. 

While Kelley passed away in 1999, the spirit of Bones lives on. Not just in the Karl Urban version of Bones in the reboot films, but also in the foul-mouthed, utterly hilarious Catian medical officer, Dr. T’ana (Gillian Vigman) on Star Trek: Lower Decks. In the most recent episode of Lower Decks, “Mugato, Gumato,” T’ana demonstrated some next-level crankiness, as she avoided her own physical examination, something Bones had to prod Kirk to do all the time, including his first-ever filmed episode, “The Corbomite Maneuver.” But is Bones actually still the crankiest Star Trek doctor? Has T’ana dethroned him? 

The only way to find out is to rank all the Trek doctors from least cranky to most cranky, and find out who is the hardest to please, and as a result, possibly the doctor we paradoxically love the most.

(Note: With some exceptions, we’ve excluded characters who were Starfleet doctors who weren’t regular recurring characters. This is why Dr. Selar from TNG isn’t on this list, even though as a Vulcan, she’s inherently cranky.)

10. Dr. Tracy Pollard (Discovery)

The least cranky doctor on this list is easily Dr. Pollard on Star Trek: Discovery. This woman even puts up with Georgiou, a dictator from an alternate universe who wants to die. As played by the fantastic Raven Daudu, it’s very possible Dr. Pollard is the best doctor on this list. She also may never be recognized as such, because she’s really even-tempered, kind and way too busy saving people’s lives to complain.  

9. Dr. Phlox (Enterprise)

Phlox isn’t just one of the nicest Star Trek doctors ever, he’s actively one of the most likable characters in the entire franchise. Played charmingly by John Billingsley in all four seasons of Enterprise, Phlox projected a childlike curiosity of the universe combined with a ton of knowledge and wisdom of having seen more of the quadrant than most of the other characters. Phlox is also, perhaps, the most tolerant Star Trek doctor, insofar as he never pushes his cultural views onto others, even though, in some episodes, like “Dear, Doctor,” he’s torn apart by his own set of ethics. Oh, and he saved the life of Porthos, Captain Archer’s dog in “A Night in Skybay,” AND while doing so, managed to make a joke that Porthos would develop lizard-chameleon powers in the process. That’s bedside manner!

8. Dr. Hugh Culber (Discovery) 

Who doesn’t love this guy? Since Season 1 of Discovery, Culber has put up with shit from everyone, and very rarely has he snapped. Yes, in Season 2, after coming back from the dead, he was pretty pissed off at everyone. But, as he said in Season 3, “My murderer and I are good now!” In episodes like “Su’kal” and “Die Trying,” Culber is one of the kindest and simultaneously most practical Star Trek doctors of all time. He doesn’t lie to anyone, but he does know how to make you feel better. Out of all the Discovery regulars, Culber feels cut from the same cloth as someone like Deanna Troi or Guinan. He’s smart, insightful and empathic. 

7. Dr. Beverly Crusher (The Next Generation)

Crusher certainly has the ability to sass her patients, but she’s basically a nice person. Whenever Crusher freaks out on anyone it’s always because she’s either in love with a ghost that lives in a candle (“Sub Rosa”), her feelings are being manipulated by a nearby Vulcan (“Sarek”) or Jean-Luc is messing around with her emotions. (All of The Next Generation.) Crusher suffers the fools she works with, but she does it with grace and dignity. That said, you kind of know she hates certain people in certain moments, which can probably just be attributed to Gates McFadden’s flawless talent.

6. Emil, Rios’ EMH (Star Trek: Picard)

Rios has a lot of cranky holograms in Season 1 of Picard, but his medical hologram is not even close to being the most difficult of all of them. In fact, he’s pretty cordigal, and reasonable, which is odd considering the situation he’s in. Clearly, among the holograms on the La Sirena, Emil is one of the most well-adjusted. You wouldn’t want him as your primary physician in real life, and because he’s basically connected to the personality of Rios the possibility that he might become super cranky is certainly there. But, so far, he’s right on the line.

5. Dr. Julian Bashir (Deep Space Nine)

Okay, we’re crossing over into slightly cranky territory here. Bashir began his journey on DS9 as a cocky jerk, which isn’t the same as the kind of crankiness we’re talking about here. The Bones-style of crankiness is the kind of crank we can get down with. Bashir’s off-putting personality was  — at first — not something anyone admired or liked. That said, as Alexander Siddig evolved the character, Bashir didn’t become more cranky, but he did develop righteous indignation. When Bashir got his indignant buzz on in episodes like “Past Tense,” or “Inter Arma Enim Silent Leges,” he was really at his best. To be clear, Bashir isn’t a nice doctor, and this is where we cross the threshold. 

4. Dr. Leonard “Bones” McCoy (Star Trek: The Original Series)

Although he set the standard for crankiness, in the entire canon of Trek, Bones is somehow not the most cranky Star Trek doctor. The reasons for this are threefold: First, there are three characters on this list who are much crankiner than him. Second, Bones is actually a sweetheart deep down, and demonstrates his love for Spock over and over again, despite his terrible, terrible comments. Finally, Bones can’t be the crankiest doctor on this list because Dax heavily implied in “Trials and Tribble-ations,” that one of her previous hosts — Emony Dax — totally hooked-up with him. For some reason, this detail makes it seem like he’s a lot nicer than he comes across. And again, The Search for Spock exists.

3. Dr. Katherine Pulaski (The Next Generation)

In 1988, Pulaski would have easily been number one on this list. She mispronounces Data’s name, doesn’t feel bad about it, and proceeds to kind of make everyone else on the ship feel awful. Pulaski is a pretty good doctor, and not remotely a bad person, but she’s pretty damn cranky. The brilliant Diane Muldar plays Pulaski like someone who has been transferred to a job she doesn’t really want, which is sort of amazing considering at this point, Roddenberry didn’t want Starfleet characters to have interpersonal conflict.

In “The Icarus Factor ” (which the latest Lower Decks also referenced) Pulaski also thinks Riker’s deadbeat dad is hot and tells Riker this point blank when he’s reminding her that his dad is the worst. This alone gives her deeply strange tastes, and makes her super cranky and weird AF. Don’t mess with Pulaksi! If you talk about how your friend is mean, she might throw it in your face and say she likes them better than you anyway! 

2. Dr. T’ana (Lower Decks)

Okay. So Dr. T’ana is almost the most cranky Star Trek doctor ever. Combining the best qualities of Bones, with that weird go-shove-it-vibe from Pulaksi, Gillian Vigman turns it all up to 11. It helps that T’ana is a cat-person (I.E. the Catian species) but her crankiness is more than that. She’s kind of sadistic, and isn’t afraid to use boulders to knock “strange energies” out of people when the time comes. T’ana is sort of burnt-out, but also, is kind of unflappable too. Like, you get the sense that she’s sick of all this space sickness stuff, but she’s got too much proffensionality to say she can’t do something. The secret crankiness of Dr. T’ana is that seemingly she can fix anything that is wrong with anyone. But, she’s going to make fun of them for it, and get pissed off if you look at her the wrong way.

That said, like Bones, you get the sense that none of it is personal. Which is what makes her Starfleet all the way. 

1. The EMH (Voyager)

Robert Picardo’s Emergency Medical Hologram is the best cranky Star Trek doctor. There are many reasons for this. His arrogance. His constant complaining. The fact that he has good reason to complain, considering he’s a hologram that has to do other people’s bidding. But the reason that tops all other reasons is the way that Picardo can make his crankiness clear with the simple inflection of his voice. It’s not what he says. It’s how he says it. And if you need proof, all you have to do is go back to the very first Voyager episode ever, “Caretaker.” When the Doctor has to start triage on the wounded crew, he asks somebody to hand him a tricorder. He looks at it, and realizes it’s not the right kind of tricorder, and hands it back and says “medical tricorder.” The amount of venom in this comment cannot be communicated in print. The way Picardo says medical tricorder is so dismissive and frustrated, that he basically created a new level of crankiness with one single utterance. 

T’ana may be creeping up the EMH from behind, but this cranky crown will be hard to swipe. Especially from a hologram.

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Lower Decks airs new episodes on Thursdays on Paramount+.

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[sorenskyhigh]

Pets They Would Have pt. 2

Karasuno

Hisashi Kinoshita

Hisashi is a Train Company Employee. This means he works a lot of hours and just does not have the time to take care of, love and train any other pets

Fish are a really easy to take care of

All you have to do is remember to feed them and have a water filter to constantly clean their aquarium

Some fish, if handled when young, can get big and will let and love for you to pet them

But, they also are just very nice to have

Just to watch them swim around all of the plants with the light on at night

As I said, they don't need alot either

Hisashi could just let them be

They wouldn't beg or need constant love and attention like a mammal (dog, cat, rat, bird)

They also don't need constant vigilance for health issues or specialized diets like amphibian and reptilian pets

Hisashi is going to be tired when he gets home from work, so he needs a pet that is more ornamental than a chore

I feel if Hisashi were to have fish, he'd get the weirdest ones in the pet store

Hisashi seems to have a very strong inner child

So he would want either the flashiest fish, or the ones that cause a double take everytime their passed by in the store

He may get only one or two or get a whole tank full

I honestly feel like it could go one of two ways:

A- He has an aquarium for a wall in his house filled with his wild choice in fish or

B- He has a small, round, spherical bowl with two fish in it

It'd be funny if he had just the two fish to start with then they had babies even though the worker said they were both female

Obviously they weren't

They laid eggs and he had to transfer the female and daughters to one large tank and the father and sons to another so they wouldn't keep having babies

After this he has like 14 fish in total

Then he keeps finding himself at the pet store looking at the "ugly" fish no one wants

He buys these fish and ends up having two tanks that cover a whole wall

One's for his male fish the others for the females

But he screws up and learns the hard way that clownfush can change genders to help make babies

I'm being terrible to this poor guy let me stop

He so would be that fish owner to get real plants and "not those toxic plastic ones, how do they not hurt the fish???"

I honestly love the thought of Kinoshita just spacing out in front of his fish as he just watches them swim and do their own thing

Or if he were to only have a couple fish and he lets them get really big and pets them

Kazuhito Narita

Now, I know what you're thinking

Aren't Ferrets incredibly high maintenance?

Not really

Kazu ends up working at a Realty Firm

Generally their work hours are supposed to be around 40 hrs a week

But they often have to stay longer considering most clients can only meet up on weekday afternoons

So this means Kazu has to work a lot

Ferrets may be mischievous and a little destructive, but that's easy to fix

If a ferret is to be left at home alone for hours at a time, just get it a really big cage and tons of toys to play with

Plenty of food and water too, of course

But ferrets are honestly pretty chill

All they need is for you to clean out their cage around once a week, some light grooming here and there, and some time to run around

Apartment or house doesn't matter with ferrets

They love to just mess around and only need a couple hours of free time a day

They sleep most of the day, 17 to 20 hours usually

They also aren't very vocal

They have a specific noise they make when excited thats barely heard by most human ears

Fun fact about ferrets is they actually have pretty poor eyesight, but their sense of smell and hearing more than make up for it

The only real problems Kazu would have to worry about are hairballs getting lodged and dental issues, no different than a cat

I didn't pick a cat though bc, Kazu seems like the kind of person to have something that doesn't get riled up on a whim like a cat

Cats often have unpredictable moods, ferrets on the other hand can be energetic but won't get into a bad mood at the drop of a pin

They're generally very fun loving

Though, it is always recommended to get a pair

Ferrets are highly social animals, so they would need a buddy for when your not able to be there for them

Kazu would probably get one almost all white ferret and one almost all dark brown ferret for the symbolism

I love the thought of Kazu wrestling with one ferret, it wrapped around his hand, and then the other one if climbing on his back and sliding down the back of his shirt in playful retaliation

Tobio Kageyama

I really really wanted to give Tobio a turtle, but with him being a volleyball player in his adult life, that just won't work

Turtles need very specific temperatures and surroundings so they can live happily and healthily

I honestly feel in terms of personality, nothing but a cute little Eastern Box Turtle would fit him perfectly

I honestly struggled to find something that, to me, fit Kageyama Tobio but also would be manageable for him as a pro athlete

He's a very complex character and something with fur or feather just did not seem to suit him to me

The only problem is.......reptiles and amphibians are generally really demanding pets

From the food they eat, the the temperature their home has to be set at, its a lot of constant care

Some of them may not like constant physical touch, but they still need to be cleaned and have a constant watchful eye to check for any skin abnormalities

I decided on the African Fire Skink after much much MUCH consideration

These lizards don't get large, onky around 14-15 inches

And, unlike many reptilian nd amphibian pets, they don't require any specific heating or lighting

As long as your house isn't like consistently hot or cold or constantly changing between the two, their fine

They do need a substantial amount of dirt to dig and hide in

They mostly eat insects and one very rare occasion would appreciate a pinky mouse

These lizards are also shy and like to be admired from a distance

They don't like to be touched too much

They also have few and far between health problems uike other lizards

The only real problem is you can't find them at local pet stores but, they generally sell for around 25-70 USD

They also live for around 15-20 years

I feel like Tobio would have gotten his lizard as a middle schooler bc he didn't have very many friends, but he also didn't want a really needy pet since he doesn't know how to socialize well

Since this lizard like to be left alone, he could admire it from afar and this lizard could help him learn how to social better

Sorta.....

Imagine Tobio at a table in his room, doing some homework and the little Skink is just lazing about in a sunspot next to him 😍

Shoyo Hinata

YES YOU ARE SEEING CORRECTLY

At first for Shoyo I thought, okay maybe a hamster or a Guinea Pig or something like that

Ya know, something small but mighty and also, incredibly cute!

But I took a look at a list of pets that travel well and one of pets that can be left at howm for days with a proper care taker

I nearly shot myself bc I totally forgot that Hermit Crabs can be pets!!!!!

And they suit Shoyo so well!!!

They are small and sturdy

They fight back and pinch when threatened but can be very nice little pets to have

Hermit Crabs also love, sadly, for only around 10 years and can grow up to 6 inches long

Also, three to five shells per crab should be available

I am living for the idea that Hinata bought a bunch of shells for his crabs and painted them with little volleyballs and crows and ornage and black 🥺

These are good bc as long as you have someone reliable to feed them when they need to be while you're gone

Usually, if they're small, they're tiny wittle claws can't grab onto pellet food, so heir is a specific kind of almost dust like food for Hermit Crabs

Also, dark leafy greens like kale and broccoli or fruits like apples, bananas, and grapes are good too

Just choo them up really really tiny

They also need 2-3 inches of soil, silica play sand, and (optional) coconut fibers for them to burrow in when they molt

They also need a place for water to keep their little shells moist

They also need specific temps and maybe even mist their terrarium with water now and again

Something that us important and why Shoyi would need someone to come in and check on them is bc they are every vulnerable when molting

When a Hermit Crab molts they need to be separated from others so they don't get hurt

Like with many smaller pets you also have to thoroughly wash your hands before and after you touch them

Shoyo would fight Tobio when Tobio said his Crabs are boring and go into a long detailed argument about how each Crab has his/her own personality and how interesting they are

Kei Tsukishima

Did you expect this Dino loving nerd to have anything else other than a reptile?

I tried to find one, as you can imagine, that would fit his adult life schedule but also his personality

I really wanted to give him an Iguana or Chameleon butbthey were really demanding with care

Now.....I know

Anole are native to the Southern US and Southern Hispanic countries such as Mexico, Clolombua, and Venezuela

They are around 20cm long and only live a very short 3-5 years

Also if you own many most should be female and only one should be male if you choose to have any males at all

The males get very territorial and will fight one another

Also the males flair our their dewlaps (skin flap under their chin) in defense and when they feel threatened

The dewlaps are usually pink, red, or on the rare occasion blue

Females have these as well but don't flair them out as much

Anoles are very high energy but don't care to be touched too much

These lizards also can't be picked up by their tales as they have evolved to lose their tales and grow them back

Kei would like these as they are so odd

They're not only descendants of Dinosaurs but they can lose their tales and grow them back at will???

I feel like Kei would constant have new ones

His massive tank (you need big ones for these guys, they are very active and will resort to cannibalism if their space is too small) is never empty, always at least three

He has analbum on his phone of all of the Anoles he's owned and maybe even has a picture book with their names on it

Yamaguchi to this day is the o ky one that has had the privilege to see said book

Yamaguchi is also the only person Kei trusts to take care of his precious Anoles

And when one dies he has really small but none the less grand ceremony for a descendant of the mighty race of Dinosaurs

Yamaguchi always helps him set these up

I fell like he would give them really weird names as well

Like twig, stick, sock, glove, kneecap or some weird shit idk

I'll have Yamaguchi, Yachi, Yui, Natsu, and Saeko in the next one

My requests are open and I hope you enjoyed

@popcorntime-doodles @multifandombrainrot @kneecapstealingalien @jiheonity @weareallhumans123 @smallmangi @canadian-crow @just-jellyfish @immiamarais @i-need-coffee-now-pls @shadowsbutdead @ghostexhibit @goshikisimp @anothershadeofpink @mestayanon @all-around-fandoms31 @thatfunnysprout @itsallgonnabokayihope @g00s3 @boreateo @backalley-astrologer @vaniatslover @lil-mellow-bunbun @strawberrymakki @beelziee @taiyahhh @sakusasgerm @cr4z3d-cl0wn @brendanfkelley @mainnews32 @beelshumanworldburger @mehreenackerman @detective-bakugou

[turning-dreams-into-chaos]

The Chameleon (Part 2)

*Not my Gif*

~Part 1~

Post Date: 4-8-20

Paring: Barry Allen x Reader, Cisco Ramon x Reader, Team Flash x Reader

Word Count: 2.3K

FUTURE WARNINGS: Dealing w/ Trauma and attempted/mentions suicide

~Master~

~Flash Master~

*Also keep in mind, I will (and did) ignore timelines in the show cause I wanna fuck with everything 😊*

Barry and Cisco sat in the Cortex, tossing Candy into each other’s mouths. “Watch this.” Barry told his friend as he chucked the M&M across the room and ran, skidding into place right into time to catch the thing in his mouth. His hands went into the air in victory, a bragging smirk on his face as he fell back into his chair.

“Not bad, not bad. But watch the master.” Cisco chucked the candy harder across the room much like Barry did, but moments before it collided with the floor, he had opened a breach, sending the candy right into his mouth. Unfortunately, the M&M went straight down his throat as he started coughing and Barry tried to help him, patting his back but ultimately chuckling. Cisco finally spit the thing out, taking deep breaths before either of them realized amongst the chaos an alarm went off.

Cisco coughed out, trying to find the source of the noise. “Uh, it’s a breach opened. It looks like it’s the alley next to Jitters.” He barely got the words out of his mouth before Barry donned his suit and ran out of the building. The streets were crowded as he raced by, but the alley was almost empty when he stopped next to a dumpster.

Almost empty.

“What the hell?” Barry whispered into his coms as saw you lying on the ground, eyes shut closed as you held something in your hand. Barry looked around, trying to find anyone else who could’ve caused the breach.

He took a few steps closer to you, on edge just in case you turned out harmful. “Hey, are you okay?” You didn’t say anything, trying to open your blinking eyes as Barry felt worried for you. “Ma’am?”

Your eyes peeled open as Barry saw the struggle from the light and he moved to block the sun. He took the time to study you, trying to figure you out before you spoke up. “Bartholomew?”

You saw his shoulders tensed as he looked at you, standing up completely and taking a few steps away. It wasn’t until the light caught your eye did the reality set in and you clutched the extrapolator in your hand before shoving it in your pocket, turning to where the blue light had left you. “No.” you mumbled as you could only see the brick wall in front of you. “No…” you ran your hand across the wall. “No! No!” Barry jumped when you started screaming, punching the wall and saying the words “Take me back! I can’t leave him!”

“Stop!” he yelled over you, coming to your side and bringing your arms down gently. You felt his touch, swinging your arm around to punch him but he caught it easily with a speed you hadn’t seen coming. Your head was pounding as you looked up into his big brown eyes, the familiarity just striking you to your core.

“Bartholomew…” Your head started to spin, a sudden rush of blood sending your head rolling to the side with one last mumble. “Bart…” Barry caught you the moment you started to fall over. He had no idea what was going on, all he knew was you came out of a breach, one you obviously wanted to return in to, knowing Barry’s name. and now you were passed out in his arms.

“Barry? What’s going on?” Cisco asked over his com as Barry sighed, his arm moving under your legs to hoist you in the air before rushing back to STAR labs. Cisco grabbed the papers around him, keeping Barry’s wind from blowing all over. “We really need to get paperweights!” He yelled before seeing Barry rushing into the med bay and laying you down on a bed. “Oh shit.” He held down the button to call Caitlin. “Caitlin, we need you!”

Caitlin rushed into the cortex, her heels clicking with each step as Iris followed behind. “What’s wrong?” Caitlin asked before seeing you on the bed. Barry kept his eyes on you, not trusting in the least bit that anything good was to come of this situation.

“She came through a breach and passed out. I brought her here.” Caitlin immediately began checking you out, the three others standing and watching her. Barry cross his arms, bring a hand up to pull off his mask.

“Woah, what if she wakes up and sees you?” Cisco said as he and Iris both paid attention to Barry, heading out of the med bay, letting Caitlin do her thing.

Barry shook his head. “She already knew my name. I didn’t even have to take my mask off.”

“Do you know her?” Iris asked, rubbing the back of her fiancé. Barry glanced back at you, seeing Caitlin put away her things and join them.

“No. I don’t recognize her at all.” He told them. He couldn’t help but stare at you, hearing the machine Caitlin hooked you up beep steadily. Everyone turned to look as well.

“She should wake up soon. A few minor cuts and bruises on her, but the one I’m most worried about is on her head.”

“Is that why she passed out?” Barry interrupted her, furrowing her brows. Caitlin nodded.

“Ok, can we get back to how she knows you?” Iris asked, leaning onto Barry. Cisco nodded, looking to Barry for answers he didn’t have. Caitlin furrowed her brows.

“Wait she knew you?”

“I don’t know. She didn’t call me Barry, she called me Bartholomew.”

“Do you think she’s from a different earth?” Barry shrugged at Cisco’s question, about to answer before his phone buzzed, telling him Joe needed him for a crime scene.

“I gotta go. Text me when she wakes up.” Iris and him left the lab hand in hand.

Cisco and Caitlin carried their day as normal, Cisco working on his newest invention and Caitlin spent the time checking on you, waiting for you to wake. She hadn’t found any signs of you being a meta-human so they skipped the meta-cuffs, using a normal pair to handcuff you to the bed. A few hours later, and several times Barry came back to check on you, you finally started stirring.

You opened your eyes, groaning at the brightness of the room. Silhouettes of people boarded your eyes when you opened them wider, feeling the stiff cold metal on your wrist.

You started to pull against it, making Caitlin jump and place a hand on your shoulder. “You’re okay! You’re okay!” You calmed down slightly, hearing a rushed clicking of heels followed by a softer, more thud of footsteps as two more people entered the room. You looked at the people in the room, the doctor who calmed you, a long black-haired man, a duo who looked to be father and daughter, and then him.

“Bart...” your voice was quiet, enough you thought they wouldn’t here but when Barry furrowed his brows, you knew at least he did.

“How do you know my name?” He asked, skipping all formalities. You stayed silent, coming up with a way to explain everything. “Who are you?”

“It’s a long story.” You told them. Their Bart just leaned back on the wall, giving you the go ahead to start talking. “Ok, I guess the first thing is my name’s Y/N and I’m not from this earth.” You didn’t hear a scoff coming from anyone, no demand to know who you ‘truly were’ and realized they knew about the multiverse.

“How did you get here?” The long haired man questioned you as you tried to reach into your pockets, only to pull on the metal cuffs. You groaned, letting your wrist settle.

“Any chance I can get these removed?” You smirked but no one made any move. You didn’t expect them too, really. You were always the most cautious on your team, Nora was always the one who trusted everyone. You cleared your throat, shaking away the thoughts of your team as you reached with your other hand, pulling out your extrapolator.

The device was taken out of your hands by the long haired man and you watched him look it over. “You made this?” You nodded your head, seeing a smirk appear on his lips. “Damn Girl.” Cisco passed it to Barry who took a look at it as well.

“So why’d you come here?”

You hesitated, leaning your head back on the pillow and closing your eyes. “I didn’t have a choice. Something happened on my earth. I barely got out.”

“What happened?” You couldn’t answer Iris’ question. You didn’t know what had happened, it all happened so fast and suddenly. Your eyes opened, clearing the memories from your conscious and swallowing.

Barry didn’t have to hear your answer to know something happened and by the way your eyes softened every time they landed on him, only to harden when you pulled away. “Guys can I have a minute.”

They all looked at him but his eyes remained on you. “Barr, are you sure?” The woman next to him asked. He nodded her hand, grabbing hers and pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

You had to look away. You knew it wasn’t Bart, your Bart, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt to see it. Everyone filed out of the room, leaving you and the doppelgänger of the man you loved. He didn’t speak again, instead surprising you by releasing your cuffs.

“Thanks.” You mumbled as he smiled down to you, making your heart leap out of your chest. You sat up fast, hoping he couldn’t see the change in your expression as he pulled up a medical stool.

“You’re welcome.” He glanced to the main cortex, seeing his friends standing around, taking looks at the two of you every so often. “So you were a part of Team Flash on your earth?” You nodded, playing with your fingers.

“Yeah, for about 5 years. You have more people though. On my earth it was just Nora, Bart, and I.”

“Barry.” He interrupted, making you raise a brow at him. He shrugged, his mouth upturning to a smile again. “I go by Barry here.” You scrunched your face up, a slight grin coming into play as you remembered a certain conversation with Bart about nicknames and how he’d never let anyone call him Barry.

“Why?” You joked as Barry caught sight of your grin, knowing you’re messing with him, but he couldn’t help but be intrigued by you. “I mean, Barry is just so...” you trailed off, tilting your head to the side as Barry laughed.

“And Bart is better?”

“At least Bart doesn’t sound like a dogs name.” He looked only slightly taken back as he chuckled, throwing his hands up in surrender.

You could help but relate Barry to Bart, They were so similar it scared you; you already lost one of them. Barry’s smile began to fade. “What happened with your earth?”

“I told you I wasn’t sure, but before I left something something happened. I don’t know what happened. I don’t think anyone did. One minute everything was fine and the next... no one was safe. The skies turned red and the sun, the sun blew up. The ground collapsed in and it was gone. Bart gave me the extrapolator seconds before-“ you voice cracked as you felt tears start falling onto your shirt, wiping them off quickly. Barry felt something shift until his head as he reached out, grabbing your hand. Your eyes met his, one glimpse of your old world, of Bart, shining through. “I watched my team die today.” Your voice was brittle and you felt Barry squeeze your hand, offering you comfort.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that.” He whispered.

You nodded, wiping away the last of your tears before letting go of his hand. “Yeah. Me too.” Barry didn’t know what came over him but when you let go of his hand, he want to keep holding yours again.

The team started to come back in, each offering you a small smile as they introduced themselves to you. Bart, Barry told you there were more people that weren’t there and you had to laugh. Your team was so small compared to theirs.

It was obvious they all trusted Barry when he said you were alright and with a few more checks Caitlin said it was alright for you to get up.

Your legs were a little wobbly at first and Barry reached out, giving you someone to hold onto. You missed the way Iris furrowed her brows, crossing her arms in front of her chest as you were focused mainly on the room.

It was almost similar to yours. Yours was a lot more clean, anytime you’d make even a small mess, Bart was there to clean it up, chastising you, but after all the years you’ve known the twins you got used to it.

You gently pushed yourself out of Barry’s arms, feeling a sense of nostalgia as you looked towards the console in front of you, not seeing Nora talking to Bart through the coms, their typical sibling banter filling the room and making you laugh. You smiled heartbroken at the memories.

Barry watched you, his curiosity peaking as he watched your fingers danced across the desk before you ripped them away. Cisco stepped up to you, throwing his arm around your shoulder and Barry felt something unsettling inside of him. A feeling he used to get quite often when he saw Iris with anyone. He pushed the feeling aside, shaking his head. You looked at Cisco next to you, seeing the smile on his lips that couldn’t hold a candle to ones Bart or even Barry wore before he spoke up. “Welcome to Earth-1.”

A/N: Thoughts are welcomed! Let me know if you want to be tagged by commenting!

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[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

Claimed

This fic is a response to this gorgeous yet painful image by @whiteleyfoster. It’s also available on AO3 (I’ll reblog with the link once AO3 stops being down).

CW: Whump. Violence like you might expect in a PG-13 movie, possibly clean enough to sneak a PG, but the IMPLIED violence is worse. Torture, non-graphic. Hitting. Branding. Despite the opening paragraphs, this is not going to go well.

--

“So. Can’t get decent crepes outside of Paris, eh?”

Crowley lifted the nearly-empty bollée to his lips, hiding a smile as Aziraphale polished off his second order of crepes (third, technically, since he’d also claimed Crowley’s).

“Obviously not.” Aziraphale waved a hand, and a server rushed over with another plate – these crepes stuffed with eggs and ham – as well as a fresh pitcher of the crisp cider that was already making Crowley’s head buzz most pleasantly.

“Only, I seem to recall,” Crowley swirled the last of the cider and finished it off, placing the large cup on the table beside him, “the last time we were in France, you said the best crepes came from Bretagne.”

“Yes. Well.” Aziraphale was currently very occupied with his mouthful of stuffed buckwheat cake.

“And I seem to recall that, just at the moment, Brittany is one of the safest places for an Englishman to be. Especially one with such,” he glanced under the table, “fascinating taste in footwear.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said sternly, taking a drink from his own large, bowl-shaped cup and trying to frown seriously. “You know perfectly well that tastes and styles change. Brittany may have been the place to go for crepes in the twelfth century, but these are modern times. You absolutely must get them from a Parisian creperie or what’s even the point?”

“Is that so?” The demon folded his hands and leaned forward, smiling in a way that showed all his teeth. He peered over the tops of his glasses. “So tell me, why did we spend twenty minutes walking past at least a dozen restaurants until we found one run by a Breton?”

Aziraphale swallowed, very visibly. “Well. I suppose…” He pushed the crepes around his plate with his fork, studying them as if he’d never seen them before. “I suppose…”

“Yess?”

“Oh, I missed you, if you must know.” His eyes darted over and then back again, but there was something in them Crowley had only seen a few times in six thousand years: complete honesty. “You’ve been over here for nearly four years now, and I…I haven’t had a decent conversation in all that time. There are plenty of lovely humans in London, but they’re all…you know…human.”

“So you decided to come down to Paris and get yourself nearly decapitated in hope of a bit of a chat? That’s barely better than doing it for the crepes.”

“That wasn’t the plan! I just…” he glanced around and moved his chair closer, much closer, close enough for the fabric of his trousers to brush Crowley’s knee. “I really did want to talk to you. Get your, I don’t know. Perspective. Things have been a bit…strained…between my superiors and I lately.”

“Gabriel’s strongly worded note?”

From the frown that crossed Aziraphale’s face, Crowley suspected the Archangel had been more than a little rude. “He doesn’t like my plan to set up a permanent base in London, though I did get Michael and Uriel to approve, which is enough. So he had me…audited.” He shuddered. “They didn’t find anything worth recalling me over, but my powers are rationed until further notice.”

“He doesn’t like that you went around him, so he tries to cut off your access to miracles? Petty wanker.”

“Crowley! You shouldn’t say such things.” Aziraphale’s protest had noticeably less conviction than usual.

Crowley shifted his hand across the table, across the distance between them, until it met Aziraphale’s right hand. It came to rest by the pitcher of cider, the longest fingers of their hands just barely touching. The angel didn’t pull away. “You wouldn’t have come all the way to Paris if you didn’t want someone to say it.”

Aziraphale bit his lip. His left hand reached up, tipped Crowley’s glasses just a bit further down. “No. I wouldn’t have.”

“Nhk. So.” Crowley tried to keep his voice steady. “A dashing rescue. Spot of lunch. Insulting your boss. Anything else you need from me this time?”

The angel’s right hand, still resting on the table, crept forward, fingers lacing between Crowley’s without quite touching them. “Do you…Crowley, do you have a place to stay in Paris?”

“Yes,” he whispered, almost regretfully.

“Because I don’t.”

The silence that can exist between two immortals is absolute. Not a breath. Not a heartbeat.

Crowley’s shaking hand rose to push his glasses back in place. “What…exactly…are you saying?”

A very disapproving look. “Not that, Crowley. Get your mind out of the gutter, please. But…well, I very much don’t want to be alone right now. Can we…talk?” His left hand fell to Crowley’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “There’s something…I don’t quite know how to say it, but…”

“There’s…” Crowley gently lifted Aziraphale’s hand from his shoulder, taking it in both of his, circling his thumb across the back of it. “Yeah, there’s something I’ve been wanting to say, too.”

Aziraphale sucked in a sharp breath. Nodded. “Shall we…shall we go?”

At that moment, that glorious moment he had awaited so long, Crowley sensed…something. Another being. Not human. Not of Earth at all.

“Aziraphale.” The angel tilted his head, puzzled by the change in tone. “Were you followed?”

“No, why would I…” His eyes went wide as he sat up very, very straight, jerking his hand back, pushing his chair away as if to pretend he didn’t even know his tablemate. “I don’t sense anyone.”

“One…no, two, I think.” Crowley concentrated, closing his eyes to help focus. “I can’t tell where, but very close. Can you teleport?”

“No. Gabriel’s still tracking me.” His eyes darted from the front door to the back. “But he wouldn’t…no. Michael. She seemed suspicious last time we spoke, but I swear I thought I’d convinced her…”

“Doesn’t matter, Angel.” Crowley stood up, circling behind Aziraphale’s chair. He couldn’t cover both exits. They might already be trapped.

“Get out,” Aziraphale said, almost like a command. “I’m already in trouble just for being here, but they’ll certainly buy my crepe craving story. Just teleport away.”

“Don’t be stupid. I froze time already today, you think I can –” He rested a hand on the back of Aziraphale’s chair, trying to calm down. “Besides. I wouldn’t leave you even if I could.”

“You idiot.” Aziraphale stood next to him, hands folded behind his back. “Fine. That leaves two choices. We either have a big dramatic fight and try to fool them, or we split up and try to sneak out.”

“Sneak,” Crowley decided. “But we should stick together.”

“Too risky. There’s a tailor’s shop five blocks from here. That’s where we meet, but only if it’s safe.”

“Nh.” One more glance at the doors. “Fine. I’ll take the front.”

Aziraphale nodded, and leaned close to whisper an address into his ear. Then, before he pulled away, he pressed his lips to Crowley’s cheek.

Crowley had been kissed before. Among humans, as a casual form of greeting, it had gone in and out of style for about three thousand years. He thought he knew what to expect: pressure, warmth, maybe some wetness.

What he felt was like the brilliant, shining burst of a newborn star, painfully bright, almost unendurably sweet. His ears rang with the music of the spheres, a single perfect chord too high for human perception. For just a moment, he forgot everything but the sensation of being wrapped in a warm blanket, held close by someone who cared for him, which wasn’t something he’d ever experienced but now he knew, he knew precisely what it would feel like, and every cell in his body gloried in it.

It was like Heaven before the Fall.

“Stay safe, my dear.”

Before Crowley could even think of responding – could even find the pieces of his heart, shattered from shock and joy, and pull them back into himself – Aziraphale had slipped away.

Front door. Right.

He pushed it open and leaned out, sniffing the wind. No angelic scent, just the usual filth and mud that permeated the air of Paris these days. Sanitation should really be a higher priority of the revolutionary government.

He crept out, keeping to the shadows. The street was abandoned, empty apart from a dog wandering from alley to alley. That wasn’t good.

Crowley knew two ways of hiding from non-human eyes. He could turn into a snake and try to slide into the cracks of a wall, but it was hard to make the transition without sending off enough psychic energy to alert every angel, demon, witch and medium in the entire continent. Harder still when exhausted, and he hadn’t yet recovered from stopping time.

The other choice was to blend into a crowd, try to dissipate his demonic essence. He closed his eyes, trying to sense the noise of humanity, the rumble of feet and voices. There – two blocks east, a major street. It should be enough.

He pushed away from the building, dashing across the first alleyway.

A hand grabbed his ponytail, jerking him back. Dirt-smeared fingers fell on Crowley’s shoulder, pinching him, keeping him from escaping.

“Hullo, Crawly,” growled Ligur in his ear. “Where’s the angel?”

How much did he know? Enough to be lurking outside the right creperie.

Shit shit shit fuck

“What do I look like, his travel agent?” Crowley pulled himself free, brushing at his collar. Trying to look unphased. “I’m trying to find the bastard, same as you.”

Ligur leaned close, narrowing his eyes, and took a big, disgusting sniff. The hat on his head shifted, chameleon head poking out from under it. One of the strange eyes stayed fixed on Crowley while the other scanned the area around them.

“Well, don’t look at me,” Crowley said, stepping back. “I haven’t got him in my pocket. You try that way,” he gestured vaguely westward, “and I’ll keep heading –”

In a flash, Ligur had him by the collar, pulling him close for another sniff. “Oh, I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

A pale figure appeared at the other end of the alleyway, by the back of the creperie. Crowley very nearly called out, until he recognized the grubby form of Hastur.

“Find him?” Ligur asked, chameleon eye still fixed on Crowley.

Hastur spat, rubbing at his jaw. “Wasn’t expecting the little twit to fight. Covered his trail, too. Might be able to find him with a Hellhound but…what have you got there?”

Crowley’s heart swelled at the news. Good job, Angel. Now he just had to talk his way past the idiots.

“That’s just perfect. I spent months setting up a trap for him, and you two…” Something wasn’t right. The way Hastur circled, staring at Crowley like he’d never seen anything like him.

“How’d he know we were coming?” Ligur asked.

“He could probably sense you,” Crowley snapped. “That particular angel is a lot more clever than you are. He could probably sense your auras even with them suppressed. I know I can.”

“Hm. And no power in Hell can hide a demon’s aura.” Ligur was smiling. It was never good when he smiled.

“Well. Yeah.” Crowley glanced from one Duke to the other. “Everyone knows that.”

“So why can’t I sense yours?” demanded Hastur.

He didn’t have any answer for that.

Ligur grabbed Crowley’s jaw, one finger tracing across his face where the glow of Aziraphale’s lips still lingered.

“There. A blessing.”

And he slammed Crowley head-first into the stone wall of the creperie. The world shattered and went dark.

--

Hot lines of pain sliced through his skull, turning his thoughts into a strange, sliding jumble. He was being carried. A rotten stench. He fell unconscious again.

A slap of something wet, putrid, slightly burning splashed across Crowley’s face.

He jerked up, trying to stand, but his legs just scraped helplessly. He was tied to a chair, arms behind his back, and something kept the wood from even budging as he struggled. The air was hot, stuffy, rancid. Nearby, a fire flared from red coals to brilliant yellow-orange flames, pain searing across his retinas. He shut his eyes, hissing.

“Uh-uh.” Ligur slapped his face. “No sleeping now. You like to talk? It’s time to talk.”

Crowley shook his head. It only made the pain in his skull worse, but at least he managed to open his eyes again. The fire was back down to something only vaguely uncomfortable.

He wondered where Hastur had gone off to, but really, one Duke of Hell was enough to deal with.

“You wan’ a story? Right. There was this girl. An’ she wore a cape. Red cape. With a hood. S’why they call her Goldilocks.”

“Where’s the angel?”

“Told you,” Crowley snapped, or tried to. His voice was still sluggish, mind still seemed to be missing pieces after being so thoroughly shattered. “Dunno.”

“You’re lying.” Grubby fingers pinched Crowley’s ear, twisted it, pulled it. Ligur could rip it clear off. He’d done so before. Crowley clenched his teeth and focused on not making any sound as the Duke leaned closer. “You smell like angel.”

He punched Crowley in the mouth.

Fire lanced across Crowley’s jaw, tongue suddenly swimming in a lake of copper-tasting blood. There was a tooth. Wasn’t sure where that had come from. Molar?

Crowley spit, trying to clear his mouth. “I mean,” he grinned as best he could, “if we’re talking ‘bout stench, I think you got me beat.”

He didn’t see Ligur pick up the club. Just felt it crash into his already-shattered skull, the explosion of pain almost more than he could endure.

Then another, another – shoulder, ribs, stomach. Something in his leg cracked. Something in his gut tore.

He must have screamed at some point. His throat felt ragged. He couldn’t remember.

Then, just as suddenly, it was over. Ligur still stood over him, Hastur’s voice coming from somewhere beyond: “We need him to answer the questions first.”

Crowley blinked at the fire, finally saw Hastur standing behind it, holding something in the flames. “Lord Beelzebub sent us to check on you. Instead, we find a fancy little angel wandering the city. Lost him outside the prison. Tracked him to the restaurant. And then out comes you. Shiny new blessing. No aura.”

Shit shit shit. They knew everything. He didn’t have a story to explain it. Didn’t have a clear enough head to think of one. Could barely keep his face blank, keep the despair from showing.

“Well?” Ligur demanded.

“You…didn’t ask a question.”

Kick to the chest knocked him over, onto his back, onto his arms, crushed under the weight of his body.

Ligur’s foot landed on his chest, stepping down, forcing the breath out of him. “You think you can get away from us that easy? You gave our Dark Lord your soul when you Fell. It’s no longer yours to try and barter your way back into Heaven with.”

“Wha’?” Crowley couldn’t keep up. “I don’t…what you talking about?”

“The blessing,” Hastur said from beyond the fire. “It’s how angels mark what’s theirs. You let some fluffy winged bastard try to claim you as his own.”

His own. The two words pierced through the fear and pain, struck him in the heart. He closed his eyes, tried not to think about the look in Aziraphale’s eyes as they’d sat in the creperie together. “Don’ be sstupid,” he hissed. “Don’ wanna go to Heaven.”

But he remembered how that kiss had felt. A tiny piece of Paradise. He would give anything to live in that moment, forever, with Aziraphale.

“Good,” Ligur said. “Wouldn’t work anyway. Heaven doesn’t want you anymore.” He ground his heel in, pressing down on an already-cracked rib. Crowley bit his lip, couldn’t hold in the whimper. “Soon as that angel has what he wants, he’ll toss you aside. Right back in the pit. Where you belong.”

“You’re wrong.” Crowley realized his mistake after the words were already out. “I mean. ‘M not…Don’t know why he blessed me. Didn’t ask for it.”

“Oh, we’ll help you figure it out,” Hastur said, pulling something long and dark out of the fire. “You’re going to tell us about every moment you’ve ever spent in that angel’s company.”

“And if we don’t like your answers,” Ligur grinned, “I get to have more fun.” He grabbed the front of Crowley’s shirt. Crowley cowered, but all Ligur did was pull him upright, chair and all, tearing the black fabric in the process.

“I tol’ you. I don’ know! I…” but his mind was a cold blank. Oh, Someone, Anyone, he had to think of a story. “I don’ even want this blessing,” he lied.

Then Hastur lifted up the ling piece of metal he’d pulled from the flames.

A brand.

The end of the iron glowed white-hot, twisted into a Leviathan Cross. The symbol of Sulfur. Of Brimstone. Of Hell.

“Good. Then you’ll like what comes next.”

Ligur pulled at the torn fabric of Crowley’s shirt, exposing his throat, his shoulder, his collarbone.

“Nooo…” Crowley moaned. “No, you don’ hafta…I’ll talk. Whatever you wanna know, I’ll tell you.”

“Yeah,” Hastur nodded. “You will.”

And the brand pressed into his flesh, into his muscle, into his soul, hot as the birth of a universe.

Crowley howled until he blacked out.

--

Crowley lay face-up in a London alley, among the garbage and the rats. Where he belonged.

Somewhere above, stars shone down, blessing on all God’s creatures. All except Crowley. He might have helped to hang them, set them in their courses, but Heaven had seen his defects, his weaknesses, and thrown him down here to die, inch by inch, for six thousand years.

He tried to see the stars, but it was all a watery blur. Even when he blinked the tears away, there was always more, more, more…

He hadn’t told Hastur everything. He’d told enough. What would the Duke do with that information? Would it get back to Heaven? Would they use it against Aziraphale?

Would they break him, like they’d broken Crowley?

A voice, muffled, distant. Go away. Leave me to rot.

“Oh, my Lord – Crowley!”

A heavy thump as a figure fell to its knees beside him. His eyes tracked over. The face was closer than the stars, but no clearer. “…Angel?”

“Oh, my – I’ve been looking for you for – where have you – what did they do to you?”

“Sorry, Angel. Didn’ wanna talk.” He closed his eyes. “Didn’ wanna.  But…”

“No, of course, don’t even try. Let me.” Soft hand brushed his forehead. A trickle of that lovely, welcoming warmth…

And then fire, burning sulfur, blazing through his shoulder, his chest, his limbs, his soul. Crowley arched his back and screamed.

The hand jerked away. “What – how –” The paid faded, and now Crowley could see Aziraphale’s flustered face, pinched with pain. “Oh, my dear, I swear, I only meant to heal you, I don’t –”

“’M not yours.” He tried to raise a hand to clutch at his fresh brand, still sizzling and aching, but his arms refused to move. “Never be yours.”

“I understand,” said Aziraphale, but he couldn’t. How could he? Crowley didn’t even understand. How such a tiny wound could forever cut his soul off from the one place it longed to be. “Let’s get you inside.”

Warm arms, behind his shoulder, below his knees. Lifting him. Carrying him. Like a child. He curled into it, burying his face in the softness of Aziraphale’s chest. Trying to recapture that safety, that belonging he’d felt, just for a second, in a restaurant in Paris.

He couldn’t remember how Aziraphale got him inside. But soon he was settled on the bed, black down pillows under his head, thick red quilt tucked around him. Hiding his wounds, his mangled body.

“There.  Is…what do you need, Crowley?”

“Rest,” he sighed. “Just rest. ‘M a demon. I can heal. Just…”

“Of course.” He turned to leave. “I…I’m sure you’ll know where to find me when you’ve recovered.”

“Angel.” Blue eyes turned back to him. He had to know. Had to be sure. “You…blessed me.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale sank down to sit on the side of the bed, hand resting close to Crowley’s face. The angel kept his eyes turned away, as if something urgent lurked nearby. “You noticed. I…I really shouldn’t have presumed. It’s not…there really isn’t an etiquette for it, I suppose, but I suppose asking first was the least I could do. I truly am sorry if I caused offense. I had hoped, if it was Michael, you might be able to slip past her.”

“Demons…”

“I know. As I said I truly am –”

“Ligur saw it.” Aziraphale faced him, eyes wide, mouth open. “Sstupid lizard eyes.” Crowley swallowed, tried to rally his brain and his tongue enough for full sentences. “They…they took me to Hell. Wanted to know why an angel claimed me. And…when I couldn’t answer…”

“Crowley!” One hand hovered over the demon’s forehead, not quite touching. “No, oh, Lord, no…It’s…That means it’s my fault…”

Pain on his angel’s face again, tears in his eyes. Who hurt Aziraphale? Crowley would kill them –

Ah. Right.

“Shuddap,” he managed. “Just. Do it again.”

“What?”

One hand fought free of the quilt. It seemed to have the right number of fingers, but Crowley was having trouble counting past three. He held it out, trying to find Aziraphale’s. “Angel. Bless me. Again.”

Aziraphale’s fingers gently surrounded his, lifting the hand to his face. Lips lowered to brush against it –

Again, pain lanced out from his brand, boiling across his skin, through his muscle, his everything. The scream was as much rage as pain this time.

When his mind cleared, Aziraphale was gone. No, not gone. Across the room, pressed against the wall. “’S it that bad?”

“What did they do to you?”

“You claimed me. They claimed me back.”

He couldn’t stand the look of horror on Aziraphale’s face. Crowley huddled down under the quilt, trying not to sob again.

“Crowley,” the voice came softly, from a distance. “I…there aren’t any words…what could I ever do to make up for this?”

“Stay,” he whispered.

A long pause, filled with silence as could only exist between two immortals.

“What?”

“Stay. Here. Until I’m asleep.” A shudder crept through him. It would be a long sleep, full of dreams he didn’t want to face. “Please. Don’t want to be alone.”

This time, the pause was long enough that Crowley feared the angel had simply teleported away.

Then the quilt shifted, and another body, warm and soft and so very solid, settled next to him. “Is…is this what you mean?”

He didn’t have any words left. He just sank into those arms, let them wrap around him. Everything hurt, more than he’d ever thought possible, but he was here, wrapped in a warm blanket, held close by someone who cared for him, and it was better than he could have imagined.

Perhaps this was enough. Even with his soul claimed by Hell for eternity, perhaps he could have this one tiny piece of Heaven.

It was the only piece he wanted, anyway.

He knew that Hell would try to take even this from him. But maybe, together, with the right weapon, they could fight for it.

His mind drifted away, born aloft by the pure angelic smell, mixed with some sweet, floral perfume. This time, when sleep took him, he didn’t find darkness, just warm golden light, a stone cottage surrounded by flowers, and a smiling face framed by silver curls…

--

Slow, easy breathing told Aziraphale that Crowley had finally fallen asleep. He’d given the demon’s mind the tiniest nudge, to ensure good dreams while he healed. Aziraphale had worried it would be too much like a blessing, trigger whatever had happened the last two times, but this seemed small enough to pass.

Crowley was asleep now. There was no reason to stay.

He waited a moment longer, anyway, arms around the broken body of his friend.

Friend. As if he could call it that, after what he’d put Crowley through. He couldn’t tell – not for certain – if Crowley hated him for it, but why wouldn’t he? It was probably only the pain, the fear of being alone, that had kept him from throwing Aziraphale out already.

For now, though, Crowley lay in his arms, and if he ignored the wounds, it was very nearly everything he’d ever imagined. He traced a finger down Crowley’s cheek, drinking it all in, not sure he’d ever be allowed another chance.

He pressed his lips to Crowley’s forehead. Not a blessing this time, just a kiss. “I swear to you. Even if you hate me, even if you never speak to me again.” Another kiss, gently, on his eye. Then his cheek. “I swear, I will never, ever let any harm come to you. Never again.” One last kiss, lingering on his brow. The last Aziraphale would ever give. And a whisper, soft as a sigh: “I love you.”

--

Thank you for reading! AO3 link will be up soon.

[captain-jinguji]

Hi! Can you write all three groups with f! s/o who's afraid of dogs? Thanks!!

Babe let me start this off by saying that if you're afraid of dogs, I SINCERELY HOPE YOU CAN OVERCOME YOUR FEAR BECAUSE A DOGS LOVE IS EVERYTHING BUT I COMPLETELY UNDERSTAND 💚💚💚

STARISH + QUARTET NIGHT + HEAVENS with a s/o who's afraid of dogs

STARISH

Natsuki:

B-b-but??? You have to meet Elizabeth??? Is high-key upset but wont force you into it. Still, he would love for you to overcome your fear and hes right there when he introduces you to elizabeth, making sure his dog takes it easy on you. He really hopes you learn to be less afraid because he loves dogs so much.

Tokiya:

As ridiculous as that fear sounds to him, he's actually super relieved because he doesn't really like dogs either. Super happy because that means his s/o wont be asking for a dog in the future lol

Cecil:

Are you afraid of cats too? No? Then he doesnt see the problem!!! As long as youre good with cats, specifically big cats since he owns a panther, then hes fine!!! Will protect you from any dog that might pass you on the street.

Ren:

He actually prefers to get a parrot or some type of bird so he's SUPER chill with your fear. Protects you from all the dogs on the streets but still makes fun of you "ah yes, that golden retriever was really out to get you, lady ~"

Otoya:

Same as Natsuki, he loves dogs!!! Is there any way he can help you overcome this fear? What if you go to the adoption center and play with the puppies? He tries everything and really hopes it can get better.

Syo:

Eh i mean it's not super important to him but he does want you to overcome your fear :) he had to overcome his fear of heights and the way he felt afterwards was so free!! He really wants you to feel that too, so he does go to like therapy or something to figure out the root and then take it a step at a time.

Masato:

Can he still get a pond with fish? Lol but in all reality, he can't judge because hes DEATHLY afraid of any kind of bug and he feels like a hypocrite if he judged you for your fear of dogs. Just kill the bugs for him and he will guide you around any dog you might encounter.

QUARTET NIGHT

Reiji:

He will make fun of you, sorry i dont make the rules. But of course he won't let you get like a panic attack or anything. Still hopes you might overcome the fear, but he won't force you or anything. It's not a deal breaker.

Ranmaru:

He is a lot like Cecil. As long as you like cats, he doesnt care. Dogs shed a lot and require way more attention than he's willing to give so as long as youre fine with a cat or two, he is fine with you being afraid of dogs.

Camus:

Uh oh. This will be a problem. Alexander is his best friend and he will drop any s/o who doesnt get along with him. So you better learn how to deal with dogs or this relationship is over.

Ai:

Much like Syo, he wants you to face your fear. Both because he thinks it's ridiculous and also because dogs are everywhere on the street and he cant carry you away every time. Takes you to therapy and slowly introduces you to smaller dogs.

HEAVENS

Eiichi:

Of course you can cling to him when you pass a dog and of course he won't take you to the park when there's dogs playing frisbee. Anything that makes him feel like your protector, like your man, is fine by him.

Kira:

Doesnt? Care? Like he doesn't understand why but hes not a huge dog fan so it's not a deal breaker for him. Will just ask if you want anything else. A chameleon? A fish? Tell him, he's gotchu.

Nagi:

Oh he will SO make fun of you. If he sees you get scared he WILL laugh, but he also feels kind of bad, so after he makes fun of you, he'll go out of his way to "rescue" you. Just make sure to properly thank him.

Eiji:

He also loves dogs a lot so he's kind of heartbroken. Also asks if he can do anything to make you feel better and overcome your fear because he does want a dog in the future. They're actually really fluffy, see ?

Yamato:

Doesnt have time for a dog and also just likes to feel manly. Much like Eiichi, he feels special when you go to him for protection and he always grins widely. Still makes you overcome your fear at some point because it's low-key ridiculous to him.

Van:

Come to papa Van. We'll just go and get ice cream instead. What was that? You wanna go shopping? Fine by him. This is just an excuse to spoil you more because youre "innocent" and "so fragile". Thinks it's actually adorable.

Shion:

He loves dogs but it's not a necessity to him. Are you cool with a chinchilla? Yes? He just needs some kind of pet in his life so whatever doesnt scare you and keeps both of you sane is what he will go with.

[secret-engima]

Snippet of Teach Me How To Fight

(Me, to myself: You should wait until tomorrow so you can edit this first. You should wait until you have more on it before sharing in case someone asks for snips. You can’t just dump the entirety of what you’ve written so far on this new WIP in everyone’s lap, UNEDITED and everything.

Also Me: *slams this onto your dash and runs away cackling like a lunatic* I PROMISED ALL THE DRAMA DIDN’T I????)

...

     Ignis was prepared for his first summer solstice. He had read all the advice books he could get his hands on since he was ten, he had pestered the trusted adults in his life for details of their first solstices, he had written and rewritten his introduction letter to perfection. He had even cooked an array of pastries that ranged from chocolate to plain, each one marked with its ingredients in case of allergies or preferences.

     He had requested ahead of time that unless his soulmate called for help, he was to be left alone. He knew it would probably be a nasty shock for his soulmate to learn that he was the advisor of the prince on her very first swap, so he had decided it would be best not to shove that information on her. If she chose to leave his suite and explore after reading his letter, that was her choice, but he didn’t want to push her in any way by having there be expectant —nosy— company waiting for her.

     He had researched and rehearsed it all a hundred thousand times, trying not to show just how excited he was to meet his soulmate to Noctis and Gladiolus, but he was certain they had seen through his false calm.

     The night before the day of the solstice, Ignis slid beneath his blankets and took a deep, shaking breath. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would get his first look at his soulmate’s life. He would get to know her name, what she looked like, hopefully even where she lived, and she would know all the same things about him. He puzzled over what she would be like as he tried to drift off. He assumed she would be Lucian. Most soulmates were located on the same continent, though no one really knew why. Perhaps she was even nearby. An Insomnian born and bred. Or she might be from Lestallum, or any number of rural towns dotting Lucis’s landscape. If that was the case, it would be interesting to get his first look at the world outside the Wall through his soulmate’s eyes.

     Even if, by some strange twist of fate, she was born of Altissia, or even Niflheim, he already knew he would love her. He would. He couldn’t move away if she was Altissian or Niflheimian, not with his position, not with Noctis to take care of, but hopefully he could talk her into moving to Lucis. At least to meet him in person.

      He wondered what kind of taur she would be. Perhaps a cattaur, either a wild one or a domestic. All graceful lines and soft fur. Maybe she would be of the canid family, a wolf or a dog or even a fox with a fluffy tail. Maybe she was a whirling, twisting ferrettaur, or even a tall and stately moosetaur like Captain Drautos. She might even be one of the cold-blooded taurs, a lizard of some kind like chameleon or bearded dragon or salamander. That would be interesting. He would have to make sure not to do anything to hurt his soulmate’s body while he was there, though since this was the summer solstice, he wouldn’t have to worry about heat lamps at least…

     His eyes slid shut without his notice and he fell into the black.

     He opened his eyes because of the throbbing, agonizing pain in the hip of his right hind leg, like someone was repeatedly hitting it with a hammer, or had hit it with a hammer and refused to let him take medicine. He startled awake from the sheer sharpness of it, sat up with a cry in-.

     Not his voice.

     Not his body.

     Not his room.

     Ignis looked around in horror at his first switch, lungs heaving as he took in all the details, his too-clever mind for once failing to put the pieces together because if he did- if he did he might scream-.

     “Don’t scream.” The voice, rough and cold, dragged his gaze away from the tiny, barely closet sized room he was in and the thin, uncomfortable, too-small cot this body was lying on and to the … door.

     Through the bars, the grizzled honey badgertaur who was missing an arm and an eye, stared back at him with his remaining eye, “Don’t scream. You’ll get her in trouble. Don’t shout or try to escape, she’ll be the one to pay the price after the switch is over, and for the love of the Six don’t speak to anyone but me. Mistress hates acknowledging the fact that any of us have Switch days too, because that reminds her we’re the same species rather than just fancy wind-up toys.”

     “…What?” Ignis managed, strangled and half sobbing, a pitch that was naturally higher than his and foreign to his ears as he tried to stagger to his paws, faltered and bit back a scream from the throbbing in his —in his soulmate’s— hip. “I don’t-. I don’t understand. I thought-. I wasn’t expecting-. I don’t-!”

     The badgertaur looked at him in what might have been pity. Or at least understanding, “You weren’t expecting your soulmate to be a slave. No one ever does.”

     “Slavery is illegal!”

     The badgertaur’s lip twitched, “That answers what your country is.”

     “What do you mean that explains my country? Slavery is illegal!”

     A shrug, callous and calm, accustomed to the fact of life that so repulsed Ignis, “In Lucis, yeah. In Altissia too.”

     The badgertaur slid a key into the lock of the barred door and swung it open, hefting a medical kit off his hindquarters as he entered the cell and popped open the kit with surprising ease for a one-armed man, “But where the other countries outlawed it outright, around here it’s been dressed up in fancy words and clever wordplay for two hundred years. ‘Slavery’ is illegal. But buying debtor contracts from another person without asking where the debtor came from or why they’re so young and foreign? Or even how they landed in such an impossibly large debt in the first place? That’s just fine.”

     Ignis stared blankly at his soulmate’s striped hip, at the bandage the badgertaur was carefully peeling free of a-. A sword wound of some kind, clearly having been mostly healed with potions, but still there, a raw and red and ugly semi-scar that made Ignis want to throw up, “…I don’t understand.”

     The badgertaur snorted, cracked open a potion on the injury and began wrapping it up in a new bandage using his remaining hand and one forepaw, “They never do the first time. Your soulmate is one of the finest young arena fighters I’ve seen in decades. I’d say she might even have four more years of fights in her. Assuming she doesn’t lose her temper too often. Like she did three days ago. That’s what got her this.”

     The badgertaur glanced up and saw Ignis’s still lost and horrified expression and grinned without humor, showing off the gaps of two lost teeth, “Welcome to Niflheim, kid.”

[im-fairly-whitty]

On Bridling Dragons: The Essay

Do you like dragons, accurate world-building, and bizarre dental facts you’ve never once in your life wondered about?

Boy oh boy, have I got the post for you. 

So everyone loves a good dragon-riding story, but as anyone’s who’s ever bridled a horse can attest, most artists (or writers for that matter) don’t know the first dang thing about that strappy thing that goes on a horse’s head, and that mess gets even worse when trying to translate it to a reptilian version of realistic working riding tack.

The basic and biggest problem in trying to bridle a dragon is the anatomical differences in the skull and dental types of equines (horses) and dragons (reptiles):

Horses are heterodont (mammilian, meaning they have different types of specialized teeth in their mouths) herbivores (plant-eating). They have their incisors at the front for cutting grass and then molars in the back for grinding it down. (Some horses also have small canines also known as “wolf teeth” up by their incisors that stallions use for fighting, but they’re small and generally ground down by their owners for safety.) 

This herbivorous dental set-up leaves a convenient gap near the front of their mouths. That’s where the metal bit of the bridle sits, allowing the horse’s rider to turn the horse’s head by pulling on the reigns, which tugs the bit against the sensitive corners of the horse’s mouth and directs it.

But reptiles, and by extension dragons, do not have that gap for a bridle’s bit. While all mammals are heterodonts (again, meaning they have different types of specialized teeth in their mouths), reptiles instead only have one kind of tooth in their mouths that all serve basically the same small pointy purpose.

Most species of reptiles fall into one of three tooth types:

1. Acrodont, meaning the teeth are actually ridges attached to the jaw bone that do not grow back if lost (IRL chameleons, bearded dragons, and in this world small insect-eating wyveryns). 

2. Pleurodont, meaning teeth are set inside their jaws and constantly fall out and grow back over and over through their entire lives (IRL many lizards and iguanids, in this world drakes are pleurodonts). 

3. Thecodont, meaning teeth grow from deep sockets, the strongest type of tooth. Falls out and is replaced constantly but rate of replacement slows down with age since each tooth only grows back about 50 times. (IRL crocodiles and snakes, in this world dragons.)

  Because of these teeth types there are two common strategies for bridling dragons (quick carnivorous flyers) and drakes (slower herbivorous and flightless).

1. Closed bridle:

Meaning that there is no bit used at all. The mouth of the animal is strapped closed in a kind of muzzle while in harness. Riding closed bridle is actually legally mandated for many species of dragon that are known to be flighty, or that large enough that they could pose a danger around people if they were to be startled and snap at someone. Aside from that most dragons have necks long enough that they could reach around and bite their own rider if they were to get riled enough for whatever reason.

If a rider is caught riding open on a breed that should be wearing a closed bridle they are subject to very heavy fines for posing a public danger. Most drakes also wear closed bridle (the yellow drake pictured is actually wearing a simple lead halter) despite being easy to handle and calm, but that’s generally because they move slow enough that the kind of precise direction an open bridle gives isn’t needed and their teeth grow too constantly to remove for the second type which is the

2. Open bridle: 

English Fieldracers like Arthur are one of the few species small and docile enough to legally be ridden open bridle, but that does come at a cost. Using a bit gives dragon riders better and faster control while flying, but it does necessitate the regular removal of teeth in order to create the bit-gap that horses have naturally. 

While this is painful for the animal, it’s seen as a cosmetic sacrifice for performance, like IRL dog breeders who dock the tails or ears of puppies to meet breed standards or in order to make them better working animals. 

A dragon’s “bridle teeth” are removed as often as possible while it’s still young before it’s bridle trained. This forced them to burn through the fifty or so times each tooth is able to regrow, meaning that by the time the dragon is fully grown at about 10-20 years old the bridle gap is permanent, the dragon no longer being able to regrow teeth there. 

And yes open bridle teeth removal does become quite the animal rights issue in modern era timeline in the Free Wing universe, but for now Arthur’s one of the many Victorian Era dragons who’s just glad he’s old enough not to have to get his teeth pulled every few months anymore.

(Some more expensive bridles for younger dragons like Arthur’s use extremely tough types of leather through the mouth instead of metal in case of a surprise leftover tooth coming in. A surprise tooth that could crack very painfully on a metal bit will instead wear at the leather in a noticeable way that will allow the rider to get it removed before it’s an issue. Arthur really should be using a metal bit by now but he’s picky and Louis spoils him by buying the more expensive leather replacements when Arthur starts to chew through them since he can afford it.)

Extra note: Spanish Razorwing dragons (a cowboy’s mount of choice) are plenty big enough for them to legally be forbidden from riding open mouth, but many cowboys ignore this law since they want their mounts to be able to fight on a moment’s notice should they clash with bandits or feral dragons. 

It’s a big risk to ride a Razorwing open bridle and generally the mark of either a very skilled or a very reckless rider. Many other cowboys will refuse to work with “open riders” because of the risk it can pose to their own closed bridle mounts who would be unable to defend themselves if the open bridle dragon decided to attack.

* also I realize now that Arthur’s reigns are absent or partially missing in his headshots and his bit circle is too high, I think that was a pre-research artistic decision in order to unclutter compositions since I hadn’t quite nailed down what I wanted dragon bridles to look like yet so I had some wiggle room.

[callenennis]

Hey so I asked earlier if requests were open. Could you please write a fanfic of Ango & a criminal female s/o. She’d be a drug dealer working for a drug lord (like Jesse Pinkman). She & her drug lord operate under pseudonyms. There‘s an outbreak of deaths from drug addiction in Yokohama and related shootings & Ango has been trying to hunt them down. It’s a cat-mouse game when him & is a/o are together. He’s been oblivious to his s/o’s involvement until he arrives at their meth lab. Thanks! 😊

Firstly, my sincerest of apologies for the late response on this request, I’ve just started college where I live so I’m trying to balance this blog and my schooling. Secondly, thank you so much for the request! I was so excited when I saw it! Thirdly, I’ve never seen Breaking Bad before so I really hope I did Jesse Pickman justice.

Enjoy!

Raise Hell

Synopsis: When a dangerous drug outbreak starts killing the citizens of Yokohama, Ango Sakaguchi is tasked to investigate; unbeknownst that he’s already met with one of the ringleaders, his girlfriend.

Fandom: Bungo Stray Dogs

Pairing: Ango Sakaguchi X Female Reader

Genre: Angst, Fanfiction

Warnings: Illegal Drugs, Violence, Swearing, Blood, Bombs, and Death

Rating: 17+

Word Count: 1.9k

——————————————————————————————-

Meth isn’t as terribly difficult to make than most people give it credit for. Most every ingredient can be found with items from your average supermarket for a cheap total, no need for plants or needles, you truly can’t get any easier than that. Once you’ve been in the drug trade from so many years you pick up a few things: One, if you really don’t want to get caught, destroy whatever remnant of your life you had before. Burn anything that would tie you down or be held against you. If you really want to make sure of this, just do what I did, stage your own death. Some type of terrible car accident where the car catches on fire or explodes will do fine. Two, Become a chameleon. The old you is dead and gone forever and you’ll need to blend in with the populous now so no extravagant purchases with your new-found wealth. Which brings us to number Three, hide any and all suspicious amount of money you have, and no, I’m not talking about a stupid shoebox in the closet type shit. I talking under the floorboards before sealing them tight to blend in with the rest of the ground, wooden framework of your furniture, the back of a painting in a frame, false bottoms in drawers, somewhere hidden but accessible in emergencies.

Out of everything I fabricated and lied about there was one thing I couldn’t make up, how much fun it was to keep toying with my boyfriend, Ango Sakaguchi. For over three years we’ve been playing this cat and mouse, having gotten so close to being caught and thrown in prison only made my desire to continue stronger. With each close encounter sending a rush of adrenaline through my body as a devilish smirk would spread across my lips. I know I shouldn’t keep going, I know I should have jumped ship as soon as I heard Ango was investigating the drug-related deaths and shootings that kept growing. Every nerve in my body was shouting, screaming at me to stop will I’m ahead, you don’t have to keep going, you can stop and have a normal 9-5 life with Ango, have a normal life, get married... but I couldn’t. This is all I’ve known for so long, my hands have long been stained with dirty money, long been stained with the chemicals and lives I’ve taken by proxy, I can’t imagine doing anything else. I couldn’t, I’m not leaving Kazuki. We’ve been in this game together for too long, and I intend to see it through to the end. “Hey babe, I gotta run out for a minute and help Hiroshi, okay?” I called out using Kazuki’s alias as I pull my arms through the coat, peaking my head into his office.

Ango hardly looked up from his paperwork, simply humming in response as he continued working on his mound of paperwork. I leaned my body against the doorframe, my eyes softening upon seeing the dark circles forming under his light-colored eyes. Seeing him so overworked and exhausted but still trudging on for the sake of work made me feel awful. Especially now when his desk is littered with crime scene photos, autopsies, and blurry CCTV photos of masked people, people I know, and try to protect all while simultaneously working against them. An unwilling double agent if you will. I quietly walked over to Angos’ hunched over form, placing my hands on his tense shoulder while carefully massaging them. “Ango,” I spoke again softly, “I think you need to take a break.”

“I wish I could,” he answered leaning against the back of his chair, lulling his head back to look at me. I arched my brows in worry upon seeing his face up close: eyes half open, hair slightly tousled, brown kobicha tie disheveled, his thin frames glasses slipping down his nose. “The bad guys are still going to be there tomorrow, babe” I hummed pushing his glasses up, giggling at his bashful face. I placed a loving kiss on his forehead, combing my hands through his hair making him close his eyes and hum. “You’ll be better focused tomorrow, I mean who knows? Maybe they’ll slip up while your sleeping.”

“That’s why I need to keep working,” he argued opening his eyes slightly, struggling to keep them open with each slow blink. I sighed, slightly annoyed at his continued persistence, “Please Ango, it’s not healthy to stay up for so long” I pleaded, wrapping my arms around him in a loving hug. “If you go to sleep now I’ll make you breakfast in the morning” I heard him laugh slightly at my offer. “You know me too well,” I smiled in return, knowing he couldn’t resist my cooking before responding, “You’re not terribly hard to read.” I watched him walk out of his office sluggishly while I cleaned the papers littered across his desk, my eyes catching on an autopsy report. I scanned through the sheet diligently looking at the chemicals found in the victim: Ephedrine, Ammonia, Gasoline, Toluene, Freon- my heart dropped upon reading the final ingredient.

“Son of a bitch” I cursed pulling at my phone, taking a quick picture before hastily packing up the rest of the paperwork. My shoes were hardly tied as I rushed out the door through the labyrinth of back alleys towards the lab while pulling my mask on, busting down the door to Kazuki’s office. His head shot up upon my loud entrance, narrowing his eyes in annoyance as he spat out, “you know damn well how much that door costs.”

“That door’s not gonna mean shit soon, we got a problem” I barked back, my voice slightly muffled though still carrying an authoritarian tone, slamming my fist on his desk. “If it’s about the overdoses we already tweaked the ingredients for a new batch,” he said with a bored tone kicking his feet up, “Our sales will be back to normal by tomorrow.”

“Like that’s gonna do shit, look,” I said pulling up the photo and sliding my phone towards him, “read the chemicals.” His long fingers picked up the photo, carefully reading the words before seeing his eyes expand in shock, “Fuck, that’s-”

“Catecholamine and Tolcapone, and way too much if it” I interrupted looking at his face, knowing that we were thinking the same thing, there’s a spy in our ranks. Swiftly we started scanning through the files on every older member in our group or any younger member with elderly relatives. These aren’t your typical over the counter chemicals you get at the corner store, this is regulated, controlled. Chemicals and drugs found in prescription medications you can’t simply trick a doctor into giving you. With enough Catecholamine and Tolcapne in someone’s body there a ticking time bomb of rage with virtually no impulse control. Mix that with all of the chemicals in meth, and you’ve got an adrenaline run, short-tempered, raging, and homicidal machine who won’t stop until their heart inevitably either explodes or stops altogether. My fingers continued to grow more cramped and sore with each page turn until finally finding it. “Where’s Asuka Miyazaki?” Kazuki’s head shot up so fast I thought he’s broken it, face painted in horror, “the roof!”

We both dashed up the towering flight of stairs at breakneck speed, as I lagged behind with each tripping over my own half tied shoes; letting Kazuki rush passed me like lightning up several flights, bursting through the door. Before I could take another step to join him I froze, taking a deep breath, smelling something... off. I couldn’t quite place it for a moment trying to find the right words. BO? Sewer Water? Burned-out matches? My blood ran freezing cold upon realizing the smell, rotten eggs. Methane gas. That son of a bitch is gonna blow the whole Ward sky high! My body took over before my mind could, bare feet leaping down each landing and step, feeling my ankle twist and snap once jumping onto the ground floor. I bit my lip, fighting back the grueling pain and urge to curse with each step towards the emergency alarm. I need to keep going. If I can pull it the alarm the sprinklers should help rid any gas or flames. One more, I screamed at myself, just one more-

The moment my fingers brushed against the alarm the building came to life with overwhelming heat and flame, I pulled the alarm just seconds later though it did nothing against the rapidly growing inferno. The following explosions’ shockwave hurled me through the lab walls like a freshly sharpened knife to paper; before I was slammed into something hard, knocking the wind out of me before crashing to the ground. Desperately I gasped for air, feeling my broken ribs stab into my lungs with each breath. My right eye struggled to keep open and see through my mask, my vision blurred and distorted with each moment. The only sound I heard was the deafening ringing in my ears as summoning any remaining strength to flip over to my chest; my ribs further stabbing into my lungs. I outstretched my right arm attempting to pull myself up, seeing the deep gashes littered with shards of glass and rubble bleed profusely onto the ground. The sight itself nearly made me vomit. As the ringing in my ears cleared I heard the muffled sound of breaking glass and footsteps come closer before stopping near me. I craned my head painfully towards the sound, only to find myself peering down the barrel of a gun I’d never dreamed of being on the other end of.

Angos’ gun. Cocked and loaded, his finger itching to pull the trigger and end my life right there. I could feel his harsh glare on me, reflecting all of the pent up emotions he’d been harboring for months: rage, frustration, loathing, murder, all shooting through his veins. A moment of suffocating tension mixed in the air with smoke and iron. “Who are you?” Ango asked, pure venom dripping from each word uncharacteristically, it was terrifying. His sharp glare burning into my skin hotter than the flames around us, the feeling of defeat finally creeping into my broken bones. As if on cue, the white theater mask covering my face feel onto the rubble littered ground like a loud clattered, exposing my bloodied and bruised face.

Ango’s eyes widened in disbelief, his once steady hand holding the gun now beginning to shake as his mind tried to piece together what he was seeing. His lover—the one he trusted more than anyone else—and the two drug lords he’d been hunting. They can’t be the same, they couldn’t be. I could see he didn’t want to believe it, it’s not possible, I’ve been so loving, so kind, there’s no way she would never be apart of this. But he couldn’t deny it, with each moment that passed the more I saw the gears in his head click. Every unanswered question, botched raid, failed trap, all of the missing pieces coming together. My unexpected errand runs, late nights out, surprise visits to Hiroshi, no, The Jesters place. It lined up perfectly. But there was still one question he wanted to know, need to know. “Why?” he spoke, voice barely above a whisper, salty tears threatened to run down his cheeks, an expression of unfathomable hurt and betrayal painting his face. Before he could speak another word, my head fell against the cement ground, vision fading to black as I steadily suffocated on my blood. With my final breath, I choked out the answer...

“For... him... For... Kazu...ki”