#Let Mortimer say Fuck

[luxury-nightmare]

Mom says it’s my turn on the writing

He knew something was wrong with that place the moment he took the job. The long narrow hallways bathed in red light, the screams of the patients who were just being ignored, the goggles that obscured the employees faces, making it hard to read their expressions.

The caretakers.

He shivered at the thought of them. He had taken this job out of necessity, not out of want. He was a starving artist by any use of the term, working on commercials, infographics, and other projects to make use of his degree, while his own project was shelved until he had enough money to start working on it.

He has never been particularly social, so when the asylum let him work alone with little to no human contact that was fine with him. The one person he did see on the regular was Alex, and intern who did the voice acting for the training tapes. They were nice enough, trying to talk with him despite his more, eccentric tendencies.

So when he got a call from an unknown number, he just assumed it was from them.

He was right, just not in the way he thought.

“Hello?” He said into the phone. “Oh Mort thank si-God you picked up” Alex’s voice was panicked and breathy. Mortimer raised an eyebrow. “Are you ok Alex?” He asked.

“Not particularly,” they replied, “I might need to stay at your place for a while, can I come over for a minute?”

Mortimer looked at his apartment. Half empty paint tubes and pencils covered in bite marks eclipsed every conceivable surface. An ink stain the size of Antarctica stained his rug, half covered by the papers that littered the floor. “Could I maybe get back to you on that?”

“No time, I’ll find somewhere else if you need it-“

“It’s fine I just need a minute to clean” Mort replied “talk later”

“Oh also there’s something you need to kno-“ Mortimer hung up. Jesus it’s been forever since he’s had a guest.

—————————————————

Alex arrived at his door, out of breath and clearly shaken by something. He looked at them, before gesturing for them to come inside. He had made the place look, less terrible than when he had gotten the call. “You’re a lifesaver Mort” Alex said. “Called you on my burner phone, didn’t know if you would pick up” they muttered to themself.

His eyes dropped to their hands, stained with ink in stripe like patches. He didn’t know they drew.

They turned back to Mortimer, concern in their eyes. “Hey, uh, Mort, there’s something I need to tell you-“

But before they could finish, Mortimer’s vision went weird, every color seemed too bright, and he was suddenly aware of how his clothes rubbed against his skin. The feeling that he was being watched came upon him like lightning, and he turned back towards the door.

Only to be met with a monstrous grin.

Do not trust anyone you see wearing this costume.

The creature was crouched over so it could fit in the doorway, wearing a costume both too big and too small for it. It’s body was thin and boney, dark as night like a rotten corpse drowned in ink, and crooked yellow eyes stared into his soul with hunger, like something out of a nightmare.

He stood, frozen in terror, eyes locked at this thing before him. He had drawn it so many times for the asylums tapes, but any familiarity that could’ve brought was washed away as his breath went ragged and ice rushed through his veins.

Dear lord this was why Alex was so scared on that phone call. They were being chased by that thing, and now they were both going to die. Why did Alex lead it here? Why did he do to deserve this? He shut his eyes tight, waiting for it to end.

“Yeah, I was trying to warn you,” Alex’s voice came from behind him. Mortimer whipped around, staring at them in confusion. “Clyde, this is Mortimer. Mortimer, this is Clyde”.

Mortimer turned back to the demon in his doorway in utterly shock. He watched as the demon rolled its eyes and moved past him with inhuman flexibility, only to stop at Alex’s side, tail curled around their wrist subconsciously.

“Do you think we were followed?” It asked Alex. God it’s voice grated on his ears like sandpaper, an overlapping cacophony stolen from so many different people.

But before Alex could respond, the screech of police sirens pierced the brief silence. Red and blue lights blinked outside Mortimer’s window, and a sense of panic rushed over him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw police officers approaching the open door.

And in a split second, Mortimer made his decision.

He shut the door harshly and gestured to the closet down the hall. Both Alex and Clyde seemed to get the memo, rushing down the hall and piling into the closet. ”hey sir!” Mortimer opened the door again, looking the police officer in the eyes, praying to whatever higher entity their was that he didn’t notice how hard he was sweating.

Dear lord please don’t let him be dripping again

”we have been trailing a wanted criminal, and you two have shared some kind of connection, correct?” The officer questioned. “Nope, no, don’t know who you’re talking about?” Mortimer replied, perhaps a little too quickly. The officer raised an eyebrow.

“One Mx. Alex Willams. You two have worked together.” He stated. Mortimer cursed internally. He wasn’t buying this. “Oh the intern, yeah they voice acted for me a couple times, why?”

“They have been conspiring with the Eastridge demon.” The shock of that was still fresh in his mind, so he put on a convincing enough show of shock. “Do you have anything to do with this?”

“No, no, absolutely not. Don’t know a thing Mr. Officer Sir.” A look of suspicion crossed the officer’s face, and Mortimer’s heartbeat spiked.

“Hold on sir,” a second police officer walked up the the one at the door “this one is, probably not the greatest the interview. He’s a little” she twirled her finger around her head, the indication was clear, and Mortimer suppressed a growl. He know people judge him often, but at least they had the decency to do it behind his back.

The officer nodded and turned around “we’ll be in touch Mr. Gray”. Mortimer looked in relief as they walked back to their cars and drove away.

Mortimer shut his door and rushed to the closet, where Alex and the Demon were packed inside like sardines. The both fell out clumsily. Mortimer looked down at Alex, offering his hand, which Alex gladly took. Once they were back on their feet, Mortimer took a breath.

“Alex”

“What the fuck”.

Inspired by @slimeboygirlfriend fic “Starving artist” and this original idea came from @purplechaosguardian

I’m using this fic to set up some stuff for a later fic I wanna do.

remember what I wouldn’t let die on the old whiteboard?

[violetganache42]

Highlights from tonight's watch party filled with framing, whodunnits, and mystery galore (Sorry about your laptop problems and all our lag complaints, WriteBackAtYa):

"No":

Scrooge and the triplets making an appearance

Mortimer's voice

Mickey being a people pleaser

WriteBackAtYa commenting how we love saying our favorite characters' names whenever they appear onscreen

Me: "PLUS INTEREST?!"

"Duckman of Aquatraz":

Story Blossom: "Would've been awesome if Webby kissed a shark in the new series" spamtoon: "its okay because huey kissed a worm"

ACAB!!!

Even in the original series, Louie is always trying to talk his way out of shit

The idea of Glomgold walking into court blasting Queen's "We Are The Champions" in a similar vein as the "All I Do Is Win" scene

"WHY, BEAKLEY?!"

Duckburg's court and its judge fucking suck

"NOT THE PAINTING!"

Scrooge effortlessly defeating the prisoners in arm wrestling

MORE SCROOGE AND WEBBY MOMENTS 😭💖

Mad Dog being a mama's boy

This whole episode showcasing how prisoners are people too

melcat33: "Mad Dog was like 'this is my comfort millionaire'"

The Scrooge x Mad Dog ship setting sail

This episode also reminding us on why the legal system sucks

Glomgold taking the time to hang up a painting of Scrooge

"McMystery at McDuck McManor!":

Donald fleeing to his car like:

"Literally the oldest person he knows?"

The entire table read of this episode from Disney Channel Fan Fest 2018

Scrooge being a sulking Grumpy Gills. XD

DJ Daft Duck

Godfrey and I being on the same wavelength yet again (To quote Godfrey, "Insert 'Perception Check' by Tom Cardy")

Scrooge being SO against celebrating his birthday that he straight up lagged and froze the Discord stream (Dude, WTF?)

THE BUTLER DID IT

Mist Opportunity

"I hate this already."/"OH, YEAH. :)"/"You can't get that helmet off, can you?"/"OH, NO. :'("

Black Arts Beagle is best Beagle Boy

DT-87

The stream lagging on the part where Scrooge walks into a sliding glass door 😭 (I know it's because of WriteBackAtYa's laptop, but for the sake of levity, let's say it was Scrooge's doing again and he did it because that part fucking embarrasses him.)

Mark saying Glomgold sucks at the whole "trying to kill Scrooge" thing (Rare Mark Beaks W)

THE DUKE IS BACK

"Since when did I have to become the adult in the room? I'M NOT CUT OUT TO BE THE ADULT!"

Huey doing a Scrooge impression

"Don't kill me! I barely lived! #YOLO #FOMO #AHHH"

Duckworth's reaction to seeing the axe fall down to the floor

Duckworth and Beakley's beef with each other

"Clock Cleaners":

Snoozer male stork

Learning A New Hope was paired with "Duck Dodgers in the 24th 1/2 Century" for its screenings

Realizing we were watching the edited version of the short where Donald says "Aw, nuts."

The return of Max's real mother

The Great Mouse Detective:

Me sharing which DT/DWD character would be who in a GMD-themed AU way before the movie started

Us getting excited at hearing Alan Young's voice

Cheerful music playing right after a sad moment (Hiram getting kidnapped) = Last Crash ending vibes

A new server emoji of Mark Beaks getting shot point blank for dabbing

Tokuvivor: "The world's smallest violin" Caroline: "Let me play you a song on the world's smallest violin" Me: "Basil, this is serious."

Learning Vincent Price is in this movie

Sharing a GMD Lorcana card during "The World's Greatest Criminal Mind"

"Flaversham."/"Whatever."

teleportzz: "literally every man in this is so gay so far" puffywuffy8904: "or are they just european" Story Blossom: "Or are they gay AND european?"

Basil's face when Toby sat on Olivia's command

OLIVIA SAYING UNCLE BASIL 😭💖

Hiram and Olivia reminding Puffy and I of Scrooge and Webby (I AM GETTING FUCKING EMOTIONAL ABOUT IT AS WE SPEAK.)

Ratigan upon learning Fidget's list is missing:

Basil x Dawson being the movie's equivalent of DWD91!Drakepad

Story Blossom pointing out how Miss Kitty is basically Goldie

The bar fight scene in a nutshell:

"There is no Queen of England."

Ratigan's royalty drip

WriteBackAtYa: "He's supreme like a taco from Taco Bell"

Basil trying to imprison Ratigan: "Officer, arrest that man!"

The entire Big Ben scene and how well the 2D and CGI animations blended together

Learning that the ballroom scene from Beauty and the Beast was the first Disney and Pixar collaboration

According to melcat33, Basil not skipping leg day saved his life

puffywuffy8904: "and they were roomates" Me: "Oh, my God. They were roommates."

Ratigan's "Goodbye So Soon" diddy playing during the end credits

[panelshowsource]

alex talked about that recently in this interview! [rubs hands together like a mischievous little shrimp] i hope we see it one day heh

hehehe it was a fun task! we've NEVER seen alex play such a character during a task like that — he's received cuddles and made demands and eaten meals, but this was next level Alex Acting — so that was really fun!

lucy talking incessantly about alex's legs but mans also got his long sparkly toes

i think people are too quick to call this or that iconic, but ngl the second i saw this final image...it's practically a horror movie poster...PERFECT

can you imagine greg davies being your drama teacher and then he quits to become a comedian and the next day you see him on tv as Massive Greg hand feeding a man with no teeth who is pretending to be a tortoise

honestly if that's the one that haunts you i'd say you got off pretty easy, i scrub my eyes with concrete mix every night to try and forget ass sandwich and yet... but hey at least when he hurt his hand he finally had an excuse for that stupid bandage he wears hahaha

she was being so sincere and he was Such A Little Shit 😭

you know what i was binging some simon stuff as well, since it was his birthday, and ran across this again after all these years!

aw anon i'm so glad ♡

moooost of my fave episodes are like ~2005–2015ish? probably the nostalgia!

21.01 with jess hynes bc she is an icon to me

21.05 love seeing simon and miquita together

21.07 with martin freeman

22.02 with stephen fucking fry YES

22.04 was crazy like conchords-era rhys darby was there (i LOVED flight of the conchords lmao) and then johnny vegas and danny dyer next to each other? what a lineup

22.12 with josh groban, omid, martin freeman, heston is an ALL-TIME CLASSIC

i LOVE the guest-hosted episodes with martin freeman, rhod gilbert, frankie boyle (especially 24.12 with miles jupp and professor green), jack dee, alex horne, kathy burke, and johnny vegas

23.12 doctor who special HANDS DOWN

24.02 it's hilarious how respectable catherine tate is offset by how ridiculous catherine tate is

25.06 when greg hosted with frankie boyle, h was there just being h, holly walsh angel, it was a riot

john barrowman is also extremely iconic on buzzcocks, probably most so on 19.05 but also when he hosted 25.12

there are tons of older episodes from the lamarr era that i love — bob mortimer is so funny on this series especially on sean's team, 12.05 when jimmy and claudia were with phill, fun to see ian dury on 5.01, and so on — but these above are some of my personal all-time faves!

aw i really appreciate the rec! first i would like to say i looked it up on youtube and stumbled across the american version and holy shit the dude who hosted brainsurge on nickelodeon is hosting that and WOW my brain would have died never having remembered he existed if i hadn't seen him just now — so that was very weird. ANYWAYS i'll check it out!

imo it didn't start with ben miller...rob is always like this... sometimes when the pod episodes are shorter (less than 10min? does he do that anymore), you can tell some of the bullshit is edited around, but now that they're longer-form conversations he is dominating every episode. i'm certainly no rob hater, but it's really unsurprising to me because facts are facts — rob is self-involved, extremely concerned about being seen and being heard, incredibly pouty if not outrightly bitter when he's not recognised, when fame/success doesn't chase him, when he's getting less from life than he believes he deserves. there are aspects of rob in the trip that aren't far from reality, if you see what i mean. rob is, honestly, quite showbiz. don't get me wrong, he's funny, affable, talented, we love him! but he's not a stellar podcast host because he doesn't have the attention span to let someone else have a moment. have a story. put something on the table. there are definitely times i give him the benefit of the doubt and assume he's trying to form a connection by sharing a related experience/feeling/whatever, but other times he's just being self-involved, pivoting the convo, and it is what it is. it's too bad when we don't always get lengthy, insightful content for someone we love — like miles, let's say — and when we finally do rob isn't doing his part; i felt that way about the dara episode. i don't think rob means any malice, it's just how he is...+ a dash of being a middle-aged white man in showbiz...

i got this one yesterday...

...and i'm going to dedicate it to you<3

and frankly sign me up for the woz/vcm experience i am happy to be a little tomato in that flapjack sandwich

you guys are really sweet, it makes me smile ♡ i don't know why some days the trolling can really get to you and other days you forget it in a couple blinks... i feel like i've been having some bad days. last week i saw something on my own dash with thousands of notes outright mocking me and i haven't really recovered from the uncomfortableness/just general hurt feelings. i want be better about letting those things go, but i also think a holiday break will do me good. anyways, thank you for always enjoying the blog and taking the time to be so kind ♡

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WATCH LINKS MASTERPOST / FAQ / TAGS / ASK

[thefisherqueen]

Some thoughts about Sherlock Holmes' The Hound of the Baskervilles

It has been a bit of time since I read the final chapter of this novel, time which I almost always need let a story fully sink in and to sort out my thoughts about it. But a week or two has passed and my mind is still not entirely made up - so I decided to write a post about it in the hope that typing it out will clear my mind somewhere along the way.

I loved parts of The Hound of the Baskervilles. I'm not sure I loved the whole of it.

It was delight to see Watson in an active role, actually figuring things out - if with a bit more impulsiveness than wisdom, which feels so typically him, especially with the added influence of Henry Baskerville who had a very similar energy. The start of this story had some excellent comedy: the skull-obsessed Mortimer, sir Henry being Upset about his stolen boots, Holmes being outsmarted, Stapleton chasing moths. What I missed in Holmes/Watson dynamics in the middle was made up by finding out how wonderfully sappy Watson sounded while writing to him.

I thought that Stapleton as a villain was quite well done. You are given reasons to be suspicious about him pretty much from the point where Watson first met him , yet at the same time Doyle managed to make him seem both too harmless and adorable and too obvious to be the main villain, so that was some clever writing.

There were some well-thought out twists. Never saw the convict being mrs Barrymore's little brother coming, nor Stapleton being a fellow Baskerville, though the man on the Tor being Holmes himself did not surpise me. The abuse of two different women playing out in the background gave this novel poignant tragedy and emotional depth, as well as the issue of Holmes not trusting Watson with the truth, and Watson's confrontation of it with him.

What I think I missed most was the thing supposed to tie this whole mystery, gothic horror-inspired thriller together: the thrill. And it's not like I'm just impervious to victorian environmental storytelling: I was very much chilled by descriptions of the mountains and forests and sea while reading Dracula, or the fog-obscured London alleys in dr. Jekyll and mr. Hyde, and I can't really think of any examples at the moment but I'm sure Doyle managed to thrill me in other stories. Yet here... I missed a looming threat, an overwhelming sense of danger. You pretty much know from the beginning that the Hound is a real dog, for Mortimer says he found real dog footprints at the very start, so that pretty much cuts out the tension of 'is this supernatural?' The danger of a loose convinct on the moor also never really manifested itself, as neither Watson or Henry Baskerville is ever in danger of him, and he's a little forgotten within the narrative until he's pretty much elimated as a threat quite early on by the reveal that he's the housekeeper's little sibling. Watson's repeated descriptions of old buildings being scary/autumn being melancholy/the moor being moody and dangerous just never managed to convince me - perhaps a little too much 'tell, not show', perhaps because of personal positive associations with those things, perhaps because it feels a bit tired and overdone in fiction by now. Maybe in the time it was written, this angle was less cliché. I only found myself guinely scared for the sake of Henry Baskerville by the very end, yet even then it felt like more like tragic 'Holmes might be too late/might have fucked up' than suspense.

I understand everyone who loves this novel! Personally, as a whole, it just didn't quite work for me

[swanno-arts]

did i accidentally invest too much on this au. m maybe

additional notes below!

i know its possible to have vonel wear black as well but i wanted him to stay true to fate's colors (and yes i know there are no bright yellow in papers, please's color palette but shhh)

technically theres more grim reaper spawns, but lets just say vonel never kept track until now or there's a lack of reapers in the human department lol

the inspector still goes by the inspector, but is interchangeable with the reaper or grim

kinda has a similar vibe to the meta, please au - but in this case vonel is not fully aware of inspector's repeating lives thanks to jorji (mortimer)

initially they were restricted to just managing fates in arstotzka, but i wanted to raise the stakes :]

everyone in the office are not humans! especially not these two

vonel is aeons old. inspector is at max 28ish office-days old and vonel made him with sugar, spice, human eyes and store-bought lemons mixed in a brewing pot <3

oh yea vonel has the cat :] still deciding if it'll be lady pawdington still

anywho, for anyone trying to understand all this, basically vonel designs what is called the great dying as an attempt to eradicate humanity, so that the office ceases to operate and exist and that he could finally rest from his aeons work loop. he fakes the equilibrium rule and holds a facade to trick inspector to blindly follow his orders that would lead to the great dying. inspector can choose to either loyally obey his orders, rebel and help build humanity into a utopia and takeover vonel's role as he resigns, fuck shit up completely and get fired, create an actual equilibrium, or rebel and kill vonel.

[localcanadiancreature62]

Bill ruining Abigale's life drabble

Abigale was able to get into college with her father's help via making a male alter ego for her due to women getting higher education being frowned upon. She was even able to get her own research facility so she could practice her machinery more efficiently and with others' help,all while maintaining her male persona. Her father loved her dearly. Then Bill came. And *destroyed it all*. The reason why Abby made a deal in my vers was because she got betrayed by someone in her research facility the Blackwing Institute and her father cut ties with her :(. The perpetrator made it look like she embezzled from a successful oil company to fund her business when it was actually her father's money that funded it. That guy got jealous of her success because a young "man" (cuz male persona) was able to be more successful than him in regards to tinkering when he took decades to hone his craft. Her dad got furious with her and thought that she actually did it because the guy made falsified records of her supposed embezzlement. Mortimer,scrunching his nose in anger as he reads the embezzlement records: Abigale,did you do this?. How DARE you commit such an unforgivable act?. Why did you steal from that company?,i already gave you all of my life savings for your business. Was that not enough for you?. Was all of my hard work to support you for NOTHING?!. Abigale,sweating as her father has never been this mad before: I- I. Papa,i didn't do it. You have to let me explain. Please- Mortimer: No!. No more excuses! I'm tired of always sticking up for you when you just throw it all away because of your greed!. I'm done being your father,go and try to support yourself in this unforgiving male-dominated world and see if i care. *he says as he then walks away from Abigale,tears streaming down his eyes as he never wanted this moment to happen but he felt like he had no choice*. Abigale,tearing up: Papa!. Wait- I don't have anyone but you!. Please.. *she says as she kneels on the ground while hugging herself as she cried*. Bill promised to kill that guy for her and regain her success in exchange for building the portal. But he was obviously bluffing and he fucking killed not just that guy but EVERYONE in Abby's hometown 😭😭😭. They all died in a fiery blaze,Bill possessed Abby and used his fire powers to burn it all to the ground. And he also especially decided to have a "special audience" with her father as he killed him in secret before throwing his mangled corpse into the town square. Which made everyone believe that Abigale was a genocidal terrorist,and the remaining townsfolk tried to hunt her down but she luckily used her male persona "Adriel" to sneak away from the town.

@aria-greenhoodie

[amypihcs]

HELLO MY FRIENDS IN DOYLE! Let's see how this story ends!

At least Holmes feels like joking!

Well, i agree with you for once, Holmes. You ARE crazy. Now, to the conclusions.

Better move away from THERE. What have you breathed in now?

Now, let's explain the case!

Ah, do they come to Baker Street after 10 PM? Well, guess yes!

Now, does somebody know what the hell was that stuff?

Oh, that's a luck! He's here! And he's our doctor Sterndale!

Ah! Well, can't say that Holmes bears around the bush!

So, how's this doc going to react?

FUCK! Man got angry! Where did you put that gun, Watson? Ah, luckily he stopped himself!

And Holmes prefers once again to play with the law of England. And you want me to believe that Charles Augustus Milverton comes AFTER Holmes letting go TWO assassins. @skyriderwednesday is very right in chronology matters.

Watson. I know Holmes is commanding and awesome. But MAN, BE A TINY BIT MORE SUBTLE. You are DROOLING. (well, with good cause.)

Now, to talk frankly

Holmes is Rolling his eyes. Man i DID tell you, you are accused of murder.

Ahem, doctor Sterndale. Let us not try to bullshit Holmes. It doesn't wooork! (singsong tone)

Watson, be a dear and close your mouth. Flies are entering. And you are vaguely drooling.

And flattery doesn't work either.

But both Holmes and Watson like it when someone compliments Holmes!

Now stop trying to get away, man! Being slippery doesn't work with Holmes! No trifling with him, but do offer him trifles!

Well. He was pretty clear once decided, wasn't he? Since Mortimer Tregennis killed his sister, he is taking his revenge on the murderer.

Ah yes, now to the explanation and APPARENTLY they were lovers and not married just because doc is already married.

And now to HOW it went.

AAAH! An obscure poison. so obscure that not even Holmes and Watson know it! Very clever! And it was some kind of 'contrappasso' since Tregennis brother killed his sister via the same poison, it's right that he should die in the same way! An eye for an eye.

Well, doctor.

No need for ifs. Holmes loves his Watson already. And would ABSOLUTELY do the same.

What were going to do? Keep on the research? yes, yes, go. I prefer playing tricks etc etc.

Now darling Watson, a smoke? Do you approve?

'Sure my Holmes' -kiss- -Watson. Oh better like this. Since Holmes would do the same for you.

Holmes would kill for the man he loves. Like you yourself would probably do Watson.

BUT FOR NOW. Holmes is ON HOLIDAY!

So back to Celts and in the next story we'll hear of the dancing men!!

[ask-the-scout-siblings]

🪡Hello, Host World!🪡

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

The names fucking, Scout! And Im one of the many slaved puppets of Asshole Mortimer's Handeeshits!

(always wanted to say that, ever since I learned swears)

*Ehem*

So basically, I found this cell phone while grave robbing a former Host(dont ask why) and made this blog for me and my sibs!

(I also managed to hide the device from Riley...you guys better not tattle on me, I know she has a blog here aswell!)

Took me awhile to get the hang of using my Host's hand so that I can type all of this shit out, because apparently my stupid felt hands are too fucking soft for it-

Stuff about me and my siblings:

• Scout Prime(Just call me Scout):

- Gender is as fluid as a cat: Genderfluid(Any pronouns)

- Ace as fuck, leaning towards bi

- The amazing leader of the group(theres a prime for a reason!)

• Space Buns(Bonnie)

- Nonbinary(She/They/Xe)

- Useless Lesbian(she has a crush on Riley's lead assistent and is way too much of a coward to confess)

- Space nerd(Its their #1 fixation)

- The one Riley tolerates the most(mostly because xer sort of a teacher's pet)

• British Invasion(Bri)

- Genderqueer(They/Them)

- Gay but said "Eh.." to romance(Aro Achillean)(honestly same, the "Eh" to romance part I mean)

- Conspiracy Theorist/Has an Alien obsession(they're also a Host History enthusiast and knows alot about wars and military stuff)

- Somehow became british after drinking some of Mortimer's Tea and is now addicted to it(lets hope they dont try alcohol next)

• Red Hair(Radley)

- Stole two genders: Bigender(Xe/He/She)

- Unlabeled sexuality(doesnt really care)

- Is determined to complete any dare(xe literally almost died once because of them)

- Partner in crime(we're basically the most chaotic, probably the reason why Riley hates us the most)

• Royal Purple(Violet)

- Half girl half Bitch: Demigirl(She/They)

- Demisexual Bi Sapphic

- Big Diva(aswell as a big bossy pants)

- Fashion fanatic(still wondering how tf she managed to make 7 outifts in one day)

Oh! Almost forgot, Id like to set down a few things before you all start asking stuff:

Firstly, me and my siblings are MINORS!!! So dont you fucking think about doing anything innapropriate here, nor anything problematic/srs(I already made my first mistake by going through the search history)

Second, we swear alot(if it wasnt that obvious/nm). So if your uncomfortable with that, you are free to leave/nm/lh

Third, pls be respectful, by that I mean no hate speech or Harrassment. Although, I do like the idea of my sibs getting trolled(as long as it doesnt go too far of course)

Other than all of that, feel free to ask us some questions about our fucked up life!

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

[Ask are Open]

(P.S. from the mods; this is Pre-game Scout, meaning the event of the first game hasnt happened...yet)

[kuwdora]

1, 5, 9, 12, 20 for the WIP asks <3

Okay let me talk about my main/current WIP which is puppetskier nonsense called Coin Operated Boy. I have one chapter left to finish but it’s been such a silly and fun time. So much nonsense and whump.

Give a 5-word summary of this chapter/fic.

Philippa curses Jaskier into a puppet. (Okay 6 words…)

Are there any OCs in this chapter/fic? Who’s your favorite?

Every chapter features an OC because I’ve been exploring Jaskier’s relationships in Oxenfurt in that period between seasons 1 and 2.

Corydosia is Jaskier's sex worker friend he met while they were both students at Oxenfurt (and I have this whole backstory/side story for her that doesn't make it into puppetskier, heh).

Karsten is the 10 year old Eternal Fire acolyte that Jaskier befriends while he’s a puppet.

Mortimer is the academic frenemy that Jaskier has a running beef with for good, pedantic reasons.

Shani is still Shani but verging on OC territory because there's only so much I am drawing upon from the books/games, but I'm still hoping she's coming across as thoughtful and engaging and in-character in her own way.

They are all my favorite, it’s so hard to choose just one! I will say that Karsten holds a special place in my heart because he's so precious. I actually wrote the first scene with him a year and half ago for a different story where Karsten is 19 years old and making “devil’s music” with a sorceress in Novigrad, and is musically roasting Jaskier and Jaskier fucking loves it. Karsten’s eventually going to get ex-communicated from the church and help Ciri out, if I ever manage to work on that stuff again.

9. What is your favorite dialogue you’ve written so far?

“I think I’d get a better deal selling my soul to an actual devil,” Jaskier said. “Nearest devil’s in Novigrad and his interest rates have gone up since Nilfgaard took Cintra,” Mortimer said without missing a beat.

12. What emotions do you expect your readers to feel?

I hope folks will laugh and boggle at the absurdity and relate to the existential fears and frustrations Jaskier’s experiencing in his moments of stress. Hope folks find hope in Jaskier’s resiliency despite the odds he’s facing in the story and in the background as well.

20. Share 3 images that would fit to a mood board for this chapter/fic.

!! Okay time to share my face-casting of Shani, Cory, Karsten and a silly puppet photo for Jaskier. Under the cut!

Shani face cast is Jessica Sula, whom I imprinted on when she was on Skins back in the day.

Corydosia, author, sex worker and ceramics teacher is Cristela Alonzo

Mortimer Meinbald, Professor of Supernatural Phenomena is Jason Mantzoukas (he would be so fucking funny to see play off Joey in a scene)

Karsten face cast is a really young Sean Teale. These are from his teenage years but yeah just imagine him as a small child talking to a puppetskier.

Kermit has too many expressions and antics I love for Jaskier, and the number of puppet hole jokes I could not resist, well...

free to send me one of these current wip asks!

[existence-is-useless]

The Dresden Files vine Compilation

The Dresden Files vine Compilation

Now I know I’m (checks to see when vine died) six years late, but whatever. I like vine compilations.

Now I don’t know how to actually make vine compilations so I just typed everything up. Hope ya’ll enjoy it anyway. I’m putting it under a readmore so that the people don’t care can scroll through it easier.

Murphy: How much money do you have?

Harry: Oh, like 69 cents.

Murphy: Oh, you know what that means?

Harry (in tears): I don’t have enough money for chicken nuggets.

Thomas: So what do you want to eat?

Lasciel’s shadow: The souls of the innocent.

Harry: A bagel.

Lasciel’s shadow: No!

Harry: Two bagels.

Anastasia: Do you remember one time I liked you?

Harry: No.

Anastasia: Good, because it never happened.

Molly: Dad look, it’s the good kush.

Michael: This is the dollar store, how good can it be?

Lea: WHAT ARE THOOOOSE?

Harry: These are my crocs.

Harry: I heard this place is haunted. Apparently some girl died here when she was like 9--

Inez: I’m 11 so shut the fuck up.

Harry (playing guitar and singing): Hey, how you doing? Well I’m doing just fine. I lied, I’m dying inside.

Mortimer: Good credit, bad credit, no credit no problem. What you dead? Fuck it, ghost credit.

Ghost Harry: I’m gonna get a subaru.

Butters: Stop saying I look like Chicken Little. He’s dumb and he’s a coward. And I’m not a coward.

Harry: Road work ahead? Yeah, I sure hope it does.

Harry, bursts into room: HEY! HEY!

Murphy (Whispering): Shhh. Maggy’s sleeping.

Harry (whispering): Sorry.

Murphy (Whispering): What’s up?

Harry (whispering): There’s a fire.

Harry: Please Mab, just let me just have one good day.

Queen Mab: Oh my god, you again? Give it a rest buddy.

Harry: I eat Cheerios because they’re heart healthy and my heart has been severely damaged. So Elaine if you’re out there--

Harry: Why is your report card on the ceiling?

Maggy: You said bring my grades up.

Harry: I did say that.

Harry: would you rather kill Thomas or--

Lara: Yes, kill him.

Harry; I didn’t finish.

Lara: I didn’t need to hear it

Thomas: I’m feeling a little unsafe.

Thomas: Hey, do you want a pizza?

Lasciel’s shadow: Only if the topping is the flesh stripped from your bones.

Harry: I’ll have a slice.

Molly: Just remember: no one will ever be able hate to you more than you already hate yourself.

Harry: Like a good neighbor, Allstate is there.

Mike the mechanic seeing The Blue Beetle: What the fuck? You better buy a bicycle.

Harry: What the fuck is this?

Michael: Watch your profanity.

Murphy: Harry, this is a crime scene.

Harry (grabbing ice cream from the freezer): What is this the murder weapon? Get off my dick.

[futzingbarton]

dum spiro, spero

“Holy shit,” he exhales, only registering now that he had been holding his breath. “It is so much easier when you do all the lying.”

Tan laughs under his breath. “What lie? We’re moving the kid. Mortimer doesn’t trust his followers. Nothing I said was untrue.” Coming up on an open door, he slows down their gait. “That’s the art of it. If you don’t believe what you’re saying, no one else will, either. It’s easier if you don’t have to try to believe it, since it’s true. Stay here while I peek inside.”

Arcade blinks. He would have been frozen in place even if Tan hadn’t instructed him to stay put. This whole time, he’d been thinking of Tan, with all of the gaps in his memory, as something unfathomable, deeply unknowable without access to a time machine or some magical cure for grievous brain trauma. Tan lied easily, he lied well, he lied believably—could it truly be so simple? Is the authenticity that Arcade has been so worried about never knowing actually right there on the surface of everything he says and does, rather than being hidden beneath layers of falsehoods?

--

Arcade and Constantine's night out at the Ultra-Luxe doesn't quite go as expected.

chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3 | chapter 4

 Hope is not for the wise, fear is for fools;

Change and the world, we think, are racing to a fall,

Open-eyed and helpless, in every newscast that is the news:

The time's events would seem mere chaos but all

Drift the one deadly direction. 

“I look terrible.”

Arcade stares at himself in the mirror. The suit fits, though it’s short in the sleeves, and the pants are tighter than he’d like. Truthfully, the whole thing is tighter than he’d like—though he knows part of that is just his discomfort in anything more constricting than his usual attire. He’s grown comfortable with his ill-fitting cargo pants and Follower’s lab coat. Utilitarian and unconcerned with fashion, his usual wear has enough pockets for extra stimpaks, bandages, and bullets, whereas this…

He feels naked. Maybe part of his discomfort comes from the fact that it’s more form-fitting and less of a baggy silhouette draped over his lanky frame. He’s exposed, without his usual layers of armor and identity: the lab coat showing who he is and the philosophies he embodies; the drab, ragged shirt and pants of a typical wastelander to remind himself—and everyone else—that he really isn’t all that special, hardly worth a second glance and certainly not worth anything resembling a conversation past surface level pleasantries. 

He holds the black tie limply in his hands and says it again, quieter. 

“I look terrible.”

There’s a snort from the other room. “I sincerely doubt that,” says Tan. Moments later, he strides confidently into the room, and Arcade has to stop himself from letting out a juvenile giggle of disbelief. 

Tan, of course, of course, looks incredible. Fuck. He looks perfect, charming, dark brown hair slicked back but a few messy strands still framing his handsome face, scars and all, as though he’s styled it all on purpose to show off where the bullet failed at its one job. “Here I am,” he seems to say, “Still standing.” A challenge, a threat, and an invitation all at once. 

His suit fits him like it was made for him. Like he was born to wear it. Arcade looks back into the mirror and sneers at his reflection. 

“Not all of us are models, Constantine,” he mutters, tugging a sleeve down to see how it would look if it fit properly. 

Tan laughs, unaffected by any underlying bitterness in Arcade’s tone. “Not all of us are giants, Arcade. C’mere, let me.” He slides between Arcade and the mirror and starts unbuttoning the jacket, occasionally glancing up and smiling, brown eyes shining beneath his long lashes. 

Arcade fights against his baser impulses to speak. “I look terrible,” he says a third time, after clearing his throat. “I hate this. Where did you even get these, anyway?”

Another laugh. “Remember I said I was doing some poking around Gommorah?”

“Oh, ugh. Hope you washed your hands after.” He looks down at his suit, then at Tan’s. “Wait, scratch that, I hope you washed these after.”

Tan pushes the tailcoat off of Arcade’s shoulders and steps around to finish taking it off. He folds it and places it into a nearby duffel. “Har har. You know I’m the pinnacle of cleanliness. Besides, it’s not like I literally took them off of someone. Found them in a locker, fair and square.” 

“A locker you picked the lock on.” 

“Like I said,” Tan smirks. “Fair and square. Anyway, you don’t have to wear this, really. I just thought it’d be fun, and figured it could do us some good to have disguises. If it’s all the same to you, we can just wander in as normal and bring the suits as an option, in case I gotta dress up and scrounge up some intel.” He starts unbuttoning his own jacket as he speaks. 

“I thought—nevermind.” Arcade clamps his mouth shut, feeling his face grow hot. 

“What?” Tan shrugs off his jacket, folds it like he did the previous one,  and gets to work unbuttoning his shirt. 

I thought this was a date. “Nothing.” 

Tan stops, shirt halfway undone. A tiny smile still plays at the corners of his lips, but a stark kind of seriousness settles over him. Not anything that can be seen in his expression, no; it’s more of a stiffness that takes over the way he holds himself, like some barrier rises up and makes itself known between them, a looming cloud of something unspoken. 

At least Arcade can recognize it now. They’ve been together like this, what, two weeks? (Seventeen days, really, but he shoves that number down, annoyed with himself at knowing it in the first place.) Long enough that he can tell when they get divided like this. It’s funny, really—at the start, every non-answer and deflection added to this thin film between them, like tissue paper or cellophane. For the longest time it was hardly even noticeable, just an added push-pull in either direction, the gentlest resistance. Months and hundreds of redirects later, all those gossamer layers have become a thick wall, opaque enough that it’s almost always easier to drop a line of conversation than to try to push through it when that wall comes up. 

Unlike Arcade, intimacy seems to come to Tan naturally, about as naturally as every other type of interaction he has with people. Soft smiles, a comforting hand on his shoulder, the incessant ruffling of his hair—everything he does is so casual, so second nature, that Arcade sometimes feels like they’ve been in this…whatever-this-is for more than just a couple weeks. (Seventeen days.) Although, since the only major difference between then and now is an increase in kissing, he supposes the baseline nature of their relationship hasn’t really changed from how it used to be. 

So why was it easier before, with them being less close, when that barrier showed itself? Seeing Tan straighten up like that, like he’s adhering to a level of decorum Arcade knows he doesn’t command…it makes him want to tear his hair out. They’ve always had secrets and distance, and surely Tan can’t think that the addition of more physical intimacy obliges a sudden change in openness. Arcade’s seen Tan worm his way into the hearts of total strangers, disarming them with a sidelong glance before prying out their pasts and motivations as easily as shucking corn. He has to know, he has to, that Arcade’s defensiveness is only natural, and in its way, his own show of honesty. I want you to know me, he prays, just not like one of your marks. I want you to work for me the way I have to for you. 

Tan’s still looking at him, quizzically and at attention, and a mix of hope and worry briefly flares up in Arcade’s gut as he prepares for an inevitable question…but then Tan’s shoulders slouch back down, and the knot in his brow eases up and disappears, and all too quickly he settles into indifference. Arcade tries not to think about how that stings a little bit more than distrust. 

“Alright, well, I have a bunch of other outfit options. All laundered, don’t worry,” he says, finishing with the last few buttons and peeling off the pressed white shirt. He folds and puts it away, then wanders over to the wardrobe on the opposite side of the room and retrieves a handful of shirts and pants. Having long since given up on the tie, Arcade is still half-fumbling with his own buttons, distracted at the carefree way Tan strips off his slacks and searches through the other choices to find something more fitting. “Oh, and make sure you bring spare briefs or whatever you wanna use as swimwear.”

“Sure,” Arcade says, taking a deep breath in through his nose in a vain attempt to focus. Jesus, you’d think he was some lecherous teen with how his brain shuts off the minute Tan shows some skin. Given that he isn’t the kind of person predisposed to pining in the first place, his increasing distractibility because of a seventeen-day-old infatuation-riddled romance is a nuisance at best, and a damn liability at worst. 

Tan reappears at his side holding what looks to be a green button-up and a dark pair of jeans.  “If you don’t mind, though, maybe dress up at least a little? I might be trying to gain some info on the White Gloves, but I still wanted this to be…y’know. A date.” Then he leans close and plants a kiss against his jawline, his stubble scraping lightly against his neck as he pulls away. 

“Uh huh,” says Arcade, stupidly, staring straight ahead at the mirror but entirely aware of something hot and impatient coiling up within him. Tan mumbles something about almost forgetting to pack the masks and hurries out of the room, leaving Arcade to try his best to not stare too overtly at Tan’s ass as he leaves.

He tries, but it’s a futile effort. 

As a boy, Arcade was never particularly playful. He often got told that he was mature for his age and he found no trouble in continuing to conduct himself in such a manner; thusly,  the adults in his life not only tolerated him, but welcomed him—not as a begrudged charge, but as close to an equal as he could hope for given the circumstances. 

By the time he had joined the Followers of the Apocalypse as a hopeful and woefully idealistic young man, what most would consider to be typical boyhood experiences had almost entirely eluded him. He had never had the luxury of staying in one place long enough to develop acquaintanceships with other children his age, let alone engage in any sort of deeper friendship or blossoming teenage romance. He hadn’t even entertained the possibility of that kind of frivolity until he’d encountered it in a novel he initially mistook as a guide regarding old world scorpions, due to the wear and tear of the cover making the title only partially legible. 

He'd initially considered putting it back. The University often tasked its newer members to sort through any and all books that scavengers dropped off, most of which were either unsalvageable or unrelated to the kind of literature used for the courses that were offered. A haul of books had just been dropped off that morning, and though the pages were singed and the writing wasn’t exactly what he considered captivating, he held onto it anyway. The speculative science of cloning held his attention—or at least, that’s what he said when he sheepishly asked another Follower if he could keep his find. They didn’t bother questioning him further, just smiled and happily nodded their approval. After all, if they didn’t encourage his pursuit of knowledge and inspiration, that wouldn’t really be in line with their philosophy, would it? 

Arcade parked himself on a bench outside of the University Library and devoured the book in a single sitting, spellbound enough by all 388 pages that neither hunger nor the New California sun could make him put it down. Despite outward appearances, the paperback was in remarkable condition, clearly having been shoved far enough into some dusty corner that neither mildew nor booklice found a home in its pages. No, that space was reserved solely for Arcade, whose resulting sunburn and dizziness from the four hours he spent with the novel was not enough to make him regret losing himself in it. 

Even days later, as he pressed his fingertips to his forearm and watched the skin fade from white to pink to angry red, he could not stop thinking about the book’s protagonist: a studious, sheltered boy who just wanted to know more, help more, be more. Desperate for affection and care, curious to relate to and understand other people, Arcade felt such kinship for the boy that he was almost angry about the ways they differed, fictional premises be damned. 

The boy had almost all the same things he did: a mother who cared for him and hid him from those who wished him harm; older adults who helped him learn and grow; a father part of an unjust militaristic complex whose expectations and motivations remained largely unknowable. They only differed from each other in one jarring, major way—the boy in the book had a girl he loved, and Arcade most certainly did not. 

He hadn’t really considered his sexuality until then; at least, not in a way that bothered defining. Something had always been different about him, that much he was sure of. Nothing bold and nothing particularly exciting, just some part of him that always had him raising an eyebrow whenever his mother would muse about him settling down someday. It was a particularly late summer day that he’d finally come out to her, standing in the doorway of their little shack, hair still disheveled from hurriedly making out with another young Follower between the library shelves. “I’m gay,” he’d said, without much preamble, and his mother responded by raising an eyebrow in much the same way he used to do. 

Later that year, she passed away, and all those raised brows felt like a shared secret, a hidden joke just between the two of them. Sometimes Arcade can’t help but think—when he had voiced his realization, she must have finally felt content enough with the man he had become that she could leave him on his own. Maybe all those times she was musing about him settling down were more about him settling into himself, rather than trying to figure out how to be with someone else. 

All that is to say that once he had finally begun to explore having relationships, when he felt at ease enough with the Followers that he wasn’t looking over his shoulder quite so much as he used to, there was always a part of him that wondered what it would have been like if he hadn’t been forced to skip over the coquettish, awkward parts of romance. Getting over the embarrassing firsts of relationships hadn’t felt like playing catch up; no one he’d been with really cared if he had experience or not. Finding comfort in someone else was a rare reprieve on its own—no one really bothered having standards in that regard, what with all the horrors of post-apocalyptic America just outside your door. You learned quick, you kissed quick, you fucked quick, and that was that; nothing particularly long-term, with no one particularly noteworthy. They’d get deployed, or they’d leave with their caravan, or they’d just straight out change their mind and let whatever bloomed between them fade away like an annual flower. 

While it was simple enough not to keep a flame burning for any of the lucky—or unlucky—men in his past, childlike fancy played all too readily somewhere in the back of his heart, and took pride in making itself irritably unavoidable between dalliances. Neither logic nor realism could dissuade that little part of him from remembering the boy in the book and dreaming up wondrous and insane scenarios. Imagine, it would say, scratching at his thoughts on particularly boring days. Imagine what it would be like to be courted by someone, properly courted, with stolen kisses and holding hands and preening and primping and dates! Imagine being the object of someone’s affection instead of just the outlet of their attention. 

Years of work spent ignoring that nagging flew out the window the moment Constantine took his hand to walk along the Strip. With the way Arcade’s heart is pounding, you’d think he’d never gotten over comparing himself to the boy in the book, hadn’t done any work tempering his daydreams of preening about holding hands and stealing glances from across a room. Occasionally Tan goes so far as to run his thumb over Arcade’s knuckles every now and again, which makes his whole arm tingle with the sensation. He keeps looking down at their intertwined hands, baffled at his own reactions to the gesture. Why is this attention electrifying in a way it hadn’t been before; why does this feel like he’s uncovered something special, something previously unknowable, like finding an untouched, unscorched pre-war book or undistorted holotape? Like this is just it, this feeling of something he can’t rationally wrap his head around. It makes him feel like a child again, and it makes him feel like he doesn’t know anything, not really, leaving him to just have to bear the simultaneous thrill and terror of it. 

Oblivious to Arcade’s crises, Tan keeps his pace slow, as though he’s trying to take in every last bit of detail he can about the way the Strip looks at midday on a Tuesday. At first, Arcade thought it was just in Tan’s nature to be curious about the benign and boring, especially given the man’s interest in Arcade himself. There’s definitely some truth to that—Tan could find something miraculous or joyful about paint drying—but Arcade knows better now. That eagle-eyed gaze is just as much about collecting information and picking up on subtle details as it is about appreciating the ordinary. There’s a lot to be gleaned from the ways people go about their routines, and once you pick up on those things, it’s easier to see when something is disrupted. It’s how he can so quickly pick out people to look out for, and people to help. 

He’s just brought them to a stop by the NCR embassy for that very reason. “Those two look out of place, don’t they?” he asks, to which Arcade nods mindlessly. The two farmers hold all of Tan’s attention: the man, red-faced and sweating, fanning himself with his cowboy hat, and his wife nearby with her arms crossed and looking dreary. “Give me just a bit, I’ll be right back.” 

Arcade nods again, and when Tan lets go of his hand it’s like a fog lifts up from around him, giving him a chance to breathe, to think again. They’ve only walked a few blocks, but he’s grateful for the momentary pause and the chance to compose himself. He wipes his hands on his pants—they’re only a little clammy, thank god—and takes the opportunity to observe Constantine in his element. 

Demure isn’t usually a good word for Tan, but he wears different descriptors depending on the occasion. In this instance, he’s made himself seem a little smaller, hunched over somewhat so he’s not just looming over the folks. Downplaying himself to strangers is his speciality: he gleans what he wants to know by seeming innocent or uninformed or just plain curious and then, just like that, he flips the script. He becomes the answer to the problems, determining that he can help them, and probably everyone else while he’s at it—all confidence bordering on arrogance. 

It’s so fucking attractive, and so equally frightening. 

Could he unfold me in that way, Arcade wonders. Can he see everything I’m trying to hide? And if he can, would he do anything with it? Is their shared attraction enough loyalty to convince Tan there isn’t more to be had in tipping the scales a certain way, if he knew all of Arcade’s truths? Constantine isn’t what he’d describe as cutthroat, but that’s just because everything he’s done so far is, usually, in favor of what Arcade believes in. For the other sides, for the people he’s navigating and manipulating and shaping like clay to his whims—do they even know? Could they even protest? 

Arcade glances up at the NCR embassy and swallows, his throat suddenly dry. It would take a second for Tan to decide that there's better leverage to be had in selling out an ex-Enclave brat. It could net him things like military support, or opportunities for backroom deals otherwise hidden. This boyish adoration isn't enough to chance that. It  couldn't be. It won’t be. 

But then Tan takes his hand again, and that electric buzz travels back up his arm and into his brain and whatever worries had been flitting around in there die like bugs to a zapper. 

“Sorry about that,” he says, tugging Arcade back into step. “Some rancher infighting, apparently. He wanted me to go enact some vengeance and kill some brahmin baron for him. Talked him out of it and told him to stop by the 38 tomorrow if he wanted me to pass along some supplies before they went back on their way.” 

“That’s nice of you,” Arcade manages. He’s still trying to get his stupid heart under control. Once, as a kid, he licked the end of a battery because he saw Cannibal Johnson do it and wince. His whole body had sparked and felt, just for a moment, like it was made of jello and all filled with bees. That same feeling thrums through him now, walking hand in hand with this damn courier who came out of nowhere specifically to make his life more complicated. 

After a few more blocks, Constantine slows to a stop. Arcade almost walks into him, still preoccupied with staring down at their clasped hands, but when he manages to tear his attention away, he sees Tan staring pensively into the water of the Ultra-Luxe’s grand fountain. “There’s a lot more politics at play here than I expected,” Tan says, letting go of Arcade’s hand in order to fish around in his pockets. He sounds far away, contemplative; like the fountain he’s looking into is deeper than the one Arcade sees, and he’s lost to its unfathomable darkness. Arcade flexes his now-empty hand a few times, already missing Tan’s comfortable weight, but with this space at least he can breathe, which makes it easier for him to shove his juvenile fawning out of the way. 

“I suppose if you’re not used to being embroiled in it, I can see how it can be overwhelming,” he says with a shrug. “The Followers aren’t exactly…involved in much. If the NCR fills the role of the Allies and the Legion is basically the Axis Powers, the Followers occupy a place much like Switzerland. Though I wish we’d be given a chance at our own version of the Geneva Conventions, given the stunning amount of war crimes on either side.”

After a beat, Tan looks away from the bubbling fountain and over at him, wearing an amused smile. “Arcade,” he laughs, “I ain’t got a single clue what you just said.” 

Arcade feels his face heat up, and not from the sun directly overhead. “Right. Um. Sorry. That was some pre-war, World War 2 reference. What I mean is, we occupy a really neutral ground without much sway in terms of how we’d like for people to be treated. So I’m sure working under the NCR’s imperialist hand is sure to be pretty miserable if you don’t have anyone advocating for you.” 

“I just wasn’t expecting to see it so clearly, I guess. Like, aside from the politics of all these warring parties, now you got farmers and ranchers pickin’ fights? If the NCR is just going to impose scarcity and support the buyouts of people who’ve got the muscle to take over what they want, I’m not sure I want them involved with running the Dam at all.” 

Arcade snorts. “And you’re going to be the one making that choice for them?” 

He isn’t prepared for the steel in Tan’s expression as he holds his gaze and says, unflinching, “Yes.” In spite of the beating sun, something cold wraps itself around Arcade’s spine. Constantine isn’t bereft of conviction, no, it’s just usually been reserved for more…solipsistic ventures. He waits, but Tan doesn’t elaborate further, just flips a coin into the well and turns to leave. Looking down into the shining waters, a lone Legion Aureus glitters back up at him. Pax per bellum, it says. Peace through war. 

Tan strides up the stairs to the casino, hands in his pockets, looking for all the world the very picture of casual tranquility. When he gets to the door, the courier turns back and flashes a winning smile, beckoning for Arcade to hurry up. Neither war nor ruin weigh down his shoulders, and Arcade wonders if it is worse to be born into such things, or to be forced to choose them. Were he anywhere else, with anyone else, perhaps it would have been possible to entertain that line of thought further, but as it is, the instant Tan ushers him into the casino and shuts the door behind him, he is lost to the extravagance and glamor. 

The Ultra-Luxe is everything it promises and more. Opulence oozes from the seams of its design, evident in its high ceilings, its hushed conversations, its well-dressed staff. A cool, blue light twinkles through the crystalline petals of its centerpiece sculpture, casting the central bar in an ethereal glow. High society gamblers sit elegantly at the various tables circling about the room, the condensation from their iced cocktails gathering neatly on coasters. Tan makes casual conversation with the greeter, who seems exhausted by their very presence. Who knows how long his shift has been, given that some of the guests have stashes of chips at their sides to suggest they’ve been here all night and well into the day. The overly-polite greeter gives Tan a half-assed pat down and does the same for Arcade, then searches Tan’s duffel bag, and once he’s satisfied with their lack of weaponry, gestures for them to carry on with their business. 

“Thanks,” Tan says, all smiles. “Know who we have to talk to to check in for our dinner reservations?” 

“That would be Miss Marjorie. If you go through straight ahead—” the greeter points to a set of doorways tucked away at the far side of the room, “—past the cashier, you’ll see Mortimer at the front desk. Take a left, and then take the door on the left at the end of the hallway. That takes you to the Gourmand, while the door on the right takes you to the bathhouse.” 

“Wonderful. Much appreciated.” Tan hoists his duffel back over his shoulder and gestures to the bar with a nod of his head. “Let’s get a drink first, yeah?” 

Arcade shrugs. “Lead the way.”

They hardly make it down the first set of steps down to the lower gambling area before they’re stopped, this time by an underdressed, scowling stranger and his equally out of place shotgun. 

“Hey. You watch yourselves around Mr. Gunderson.”

Constantine sidesteps the shotgun as though it were little more than a tumbleweed. “Sure thing, pal,” he says over his shoulder, and carries on easily towards the bar. Arcade follows suit, leaning up against the counter alongside him. 

“What’ll you have?” Tan asks, waving the bartender over. 

“Um.” He hasn’t thought that far ahead. It’s not even four o’clock yet, and he’d rather make it through the entirety of the evening intact, so starting out simple seems wise. “Glass of white wine?” 

Tan nods and relays the order to the bartender, throwing in a beer for himself. Before the bartender can get back with their drinks, though, the man to Tan’s left speaks up. 

“Beg your pardons, strangers, but I’m lookin’ for someone. Y’all ain’t seen a young man with dark brown hair and a white hat on lately, have you?”

Tan fishes in a side pocket of his duffel for some caps, honestly considering. “No,” he says after a moment, “I haven’t.” He sets the caps on the bar in exchange for their drinks. With a conspiratorial wink, he toasts his bottle to Arcade’s wine glass and smiles. It’s one of those smiles Arcade knows all too well, one of Tan’s “watch this” smiles, usually before he pulls some ridiculous stunt where he gets someone to reveal everything about themselves and what they want. 

The older man sighs. “Ain’t nobody got one darned piece of news about my boy?” he grouches to himself. “Not one lousy speck of information?” Then, speaking back up, he says to Tan, “Ain’t got one Brahmin unaccounted for across a dozen ranches, but I’m here for an hour and my own son just up and disappears on me.” 

Tan nods, the very picture of sympathy. “Take it you’re a rancher, then?” 

“Yep, got a whole mess of brahmins to my name. Bighorners, too. Used to just have the one ranch, but land was easy to grab before the soldiers moved in. Before I knew it I was running one fo the biggest ranching operations east of California. Now everywhere I go, folks I never even met shake my hand and call me “Mr. Gunderson.” Don’t know quite what to make of that.” 

There it is. Of course Tan knew exactly who this man was when he sidled up to him, but for some reason or another, chose not to address him as though he did. And if he had, the rancher would have had his walls up immediately, whereas this way, here he was talking to Tan like they were old friends sharing a secret. 

“I see. Well, nice to meet someone else here who ain’t used to all this…” Tan trails off and gestures at the casino around them.

The rancher snorts. “Ain’t that right,” he agrees, and clinks his beer to Constantine’s. 

“And how come your man there gets a gun, if you don’t mind my askin’?”

“Made me a special arrangement with the hotel. They want to do business with me, they got to play by my rules. Lot of people out there resent success, might wanna take a swipe at me. This makes them think twice.” His voice drops low, doleful. “If I’d have been thinking, though, I’d have had him watching my boy instead. Then none of this would’ve happened.”

Tan frowns. “So it’s your son that’s missing?”

The rancher nods, takes a long drink. “My boy, Ted. He was right here. I didn’t leave him but a minute. I told him to stay put while I talked some things over with the White Glove folks. He was never one to stay tied down to a spot, though. Gets that from his mother,” he adds wistfully. “Got most of my staff out looking for him now. I’d be out myself, but I keep hoping he’ll show up back here. ‘Course if he does I’ll whup him ‘til his skinny hide turns to leather for putting me through this. But that don’t mean I wouldn’t be grateful.”

“White Glove folks?” Tan asks. Arcade’s not sure what he’s better at—feigning ignorance or innocence. Either way, the rancher doesn’t catch on in the slightest. 

“That’s what they call themselves, the folk that run this place. They’re the ones dressed all fancy with their bowties and shiny dresses. Some of ‘em got masks, too. Real hard to trust folks like that. Couple of them show their faces and that’s who I do my business with. I don’t talk to none of the other ones.”

As the rancher talks, Tan surveys the casino floor, narrowing his eyes at the masked White Glove members scattered throughout. Arcade even catches him shudder the tiniest bit, really selling the part. 

“What kind of business can you even do with these folks?”

“That’s between me and them,” Gunderson deflects. “But let’s just say they control the food supply around here, and I got lots of food to give, but that ain’t as welcome as you might think.”

Constantine lets the topic drop, taking a sip of his beer. “Tell you what,” he says, “let me help find your son.” 

The old man’s eyes light up. “I’d be more than happy to have you. Heck, I’ll hire anybody with a pair of legs and at least one good eyes at this point, and you seem like the kind of type with your head on straight. There’d be a lot of money in it for you if you can get him back to me safe.” He takes a swig, then adds, “And if he ain’t, you can bet I’ll pay for the names of the sons of bitches responsible.”

Tan gives him a pat on the shoulder. “We’ll keep an eye out for him, promise. I’ll let you know what I find. C’mon, ‘Cade.” 

With that, he pushes away from the bar. Arcade follows, glass already half empty. 

“You stood next to him on purpose, didn’t you?” he asks. He tries not to let judgment seep into his tone.

Tan huffs out a laugh. “Of course. Entire bar full of people dressed to the nines and he’s the only guy wearing a cowboy hat? Figured it had to be the guy that old man outside was willing to fight.” 

“Come to any conclusions?” 

“Yeah. Can’t hurt to have someone like that owe you. We find his son, might be able to figure out a good deal for consistent food for New Vegas, rather than letting these high society folks hold onto it all. Keeping an eye out while we’re here shouldn’t be too tough.”

Arcade hums. “Sure.” 

Tan glances over at him curiously, then shrugs. “Just if we come across him, promise. I won’t go out of my way for it. We’re here to check out the luxuries!” 

“You mean learn about the White Glove Society,” adds Arcade, then immediately wants to bite his tongue off.  Of course Tan’s here to learn more about the Society, and of course it makes sense that he would want to help Gunderson. It’s ridiculous that he’s upset about this, that he wishes Tan were here for him and him alone, and it’s downright childish and hypocritical to fault him for thinking ahead. It would be fantastic to cut a deal with someone like Gunderson, secure more steady food supplies for the area and maybe even get some ranches established closer to home. It makes sense…but that doesn’t stop him from being just a little resentful at their date turning into a missing persons case. 

“Yeah, that too,” Tan mumbles, keeping an eye on Arcade as they walk. He burns under Tan's scrutiny, feeling like he’s stuck beneath a magnifying glass and Tan is the sun, angled upon him just so. He forces himself to work at ignoring that hot prickle of something by examining the casino’s design and decor instead. 

They pass the cashier, whose gated office is overshadowed by a truly outrageous number of fake plants crammed into a recessed and railed-off garden bed occupying the center of the room. Unlike the Tops, which, despite Arcade’s general distaste for it, feels warm and conversational—and even the degenerate halls of Gomorrah are lit with a red and lasciviously inviting light—the Ultra-Luxe is cold, artificial, othering. The whole place feels like it’s on display, frozen in time and unmoving, and you’re the odd one out with every step you take. 

As though oblivious to such observations, Tan leads the way with such certainty that, were he dressed in one of those spare tuxes he has packed away in the duffel bag, he would absolutely be mistaken as an employee. He glides past another check-in desk where a man in a top hat watches them with an expression that is a mix of distaste and boredom, then turns left and finds the pair of doors the greeter had spoken about. 

Much like the rest of the casino, the Gourmand has no trouble advertising its ultra-luxury. Dark green curtains of thick, crushed velvet frame the entrance, tied open with shining golden cords. White marble walls with veined green accent tiles climb up to a ceiling whose intricate pattern shines spotlessly in the light of golden chandeliers, and the potted plants tucked into the corners are not just alive, but blooming, perfuming the foyer with their sweet, gentle scents. 

The hostess behind the green marble counter is similarly soignee. Her soft pink satin dress looks almost pristine, any signs of age having been expertly touched up, and her hair curls stylishly around her face, any stray strands tamed by enough pomade that Arcade imagines he’d hear a crunch if she dared touch the hairdo. 

Constantine seems similarly awed by the scene before them, though he collects himself quicker than Arcade does. 

“Howdy, ma’am,” he says to the hostess. “I heard you’re who I oughta speak to about confirming a reservation?” 

“That’s right,” she chirps. “And may I just say, welcome to the Ultra-Luxe. I do hope it exceeds your every expectation, though I have no doubt it will.”

Tan beams. “High praise from someone who works here.”

“I do, but one can hardly call it work. I think of myself as a caretaker rather than a common laborer. I suppose it’s a labor of love if it can be called labor at all. We at the White Glove Society are all responsible for maintaining the beauty and class of the Ultra-Luxe, and as its founder I suppose it falls to me to decide how we go about it.”

If there’s anything Arcade has noticed about the supposed elite of New Vegas, it’s that they love to talk, and moreover, talk themselves up. It’s that proclivity that leads most of these highfalutin airheads to walk right into Tan’s usual traps: they offer up information for free, unaware that every extra word gives Tan more rope with which to wrap them around his finger. More rope with which to hang themselves. 

“Oh, so I have you to thank for all of these incredible accommodations? Then may I just say, enchanté.” Without hesitation, Constantine reaches forward and takes one of the hostess’s hands in his own, placing a kiss atop it. Arcade fights not to roll his eyes. 

The hostess titters and coos, a flush rising to her cheeks. Tan squeezes her hand once before releasing it, leaving her to draw it back towards herself slowly, as though stunned by the entire exchange. She’s certainly playing it up—but Arcade’s been in her shoes, so he can’t quite fault her for taking a moment to clear her throat before she next speaks. 

“Yes, well. That’s  me, yes. Though we all do our part here, as I mentioned. Now, you mentioned a reservation?” 

“That I did. Dinner at 7, with ample time beforehand to enjoy the Ultra-Luxe’s bath house. Should be under the last name of Becker?” 

“Of course, dear. Let me look you up.” She retrieves a clipboard and rifles through some papers, finds the matching entry, and scribbles something down. Tan places a bag of what sounds like an egregious amount of caps onto the counter and slides it her way. “Perfect,” she says, secreting the bag away to a cabinet below, “you’re all set. Of course, if you’d like to extend your stay, or add any additional amenities, please don’t hesitate to come back. I’m here to do whatever I can to make your stay more comfortable here at the Ultra-Luxe!” She smiles brightly, sounding genuinely proud of herself.

“Excellent.” Tan looks back at Arcade, grinning. “I just had a few questions, first?”

“Certainly. How can I help?”

“I ain’t quite sure how to ask this…” Tan’s bravado suddenly drops, and he glances around the room, sounding nervous. “I just heard some folks talking about it in the casino and don’t really know how to get the right information, if you get my meanin’. I hope I don’t sound rude, I was just wonderin’ what you know about a missing person?”

The hostess sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Good heavens, this again? I thought all this was settled. I answered every one of that investigator’s questions to his satisfaction and gave all the help I could. I know our reputation hasn’t always been spotless, but that’s all in the past now—how some people can’t get over it is beyond me!” She waves her hand dismissively, adding, “For the last time, the White Glove Society has never and will never consume human flesh for any reason. It’s written in the charter!” 

Arcade blinks. The classical music filtering in from the speakers over in the restaurant fills the space, its pleasant violins and flutes utterly discordant to the sudden turn in topic. Tan glances back at him, eyes wide,  disbelieving. “Come again?” he sputters. “The White Glove Society eats human flesh?”

The hostess scoffs. “Now didn’t I just say that we don’t do that sort of thing? We do not engage in cannibalism here under any circumstances.” She sets about reorganizing some of the items on the counter, clearly flustered. “Though we haven’t always been the White Glove Society. There was another time, a dark time, when we went by a different name. But that’s all changed now! We’ve…evolved past such base impulses since settling into our new home. I’ve seen to it that those days are behind us.”

Tan nods very slowly, like he’s still trying to process the non sequitur. “Right. Of course. Appreciate the clarification,” he says. “Er…that aside, you mentioned an investigator? Any way I could speak to them?” Not the smoothest change of topics, but certainly necessary. 

“Why, yes, I think so,” says the hostess. She scans the clipboard again, looking through the names on the pages. “If he hasn’t checked out yet, that is. I had our maitre d’, Mortimer, offer him a complimentary room for as long as it took for him to be satisfied—you may speak to him to find out which room.” She pushes the clipboard aside and meets Tan’s eye with a saccharine smile. “You see? The White Glove Society remains the very picture of courtesy, even in the face of such impolite accusations. We have nothing to hide here. ”

Arcade has to fight not to laugh out loud. Nothing quite like insisting you have nothing to hide to convince someone of the opposite. Tan seems to think so, too—he clenches his fists tightly at his sides, in an effort to maintain his composure. When he replies, it’s a perfectly practiced show of sincerity and curiosity. “I’m sure you don’t, ma’am. Though, I’m just wondering, did the investigator say why he was here?”

More dismissive hand waving, more paper shuffling. She really isn’t doing well at hiding her jitters, so much so that even someone as socially inept as Arcade can see it. “He’d been hired by a young man whose bride-to-be went missing during their stay here. Well you can already guess what probably happened, can’t you? It seems perfectly likely that she got cold feet and ran off. And that young groom just didn’t have a clue, the poor dear.”

Tan hums and downs the rest of his drink. In general, Arcade’s always been happy for Tan to take the lead on these more cagey conversations; he’s never been particularly affable even in the best of moods, but in a situation like this, where it feels like an entire room’s worth of skeletons is stuffed in a closet, he’s just grateful he doesn’t have to be the one to navigate finding the best way to open that door. 

Clearing his throat, Tan continues. “I hate to add to the impoliteness, but I’m actually looking for someone else. A man that went missing, very recently.” 

The hostess stops shuffling with some papers and looks up at him, eyes wide. “A man?” she asks. She sounds genuinely unnerved. “Well then this…well this can’t be. Two disappearances in my hotel? What will people say? I’m going to have a word with my staff about security on the premises. Whether these people are found or not, our guests simply must feel safe in their own rooms.” She’s mostly talking to herself now, lost to her distress. Tan capitalizes on the moment by reaching forward and placing his hand over hers, making her stop her muttering and fidgeting. 

“Hey,” he says, voice quiet. “I’m sure you’ll do the best you can. I’ll go talk to this investigator and we’ll see if we can’t combine efforts. If I find anythin’, I’ll be sure to let you know. Alright, Marjorie?” 

And there it is. She’s in his pocket. For a moment Arcade wonders how the hell Tan even figured out her name before he remembers the greeter mentioning it up front—once. But that’s how Tan worked: picking up pieces of information most people would dismiss out of hand, or outright forget, just so that he could use them later. He’d never really use such information against people, given you were on the same side, and with friends, one could rest assured the most he would hold onto was all of your likes and dislikes and offhand comments, for the sole purpose of making sure to act in a considerate manner. 

Or so he claimed. 

Regardless, the hostess—Marjorie—seems to calm down a little, nodding at Tan and straightening her posture once again. “Well, I appreciate your assistance in this matter, Mr. Becker. And your discretion. Is there anything else that I could help you with, while you’re here?”

“Actually, yes. My partner and I here were hoping to make use of your bathhouse while we were here. Where can we find it?”

“Oh, of course!” Marjorie’s entire demeanor shifts into one of saccharine helpfulness, a ready and practiced speech the perfect way to assuage her anxieties. “If you go out these doors, the set of double doors opposite you leads right to the bathhouse. On the far side you’ll find some bathrooms and changing areas, as well as lockers for your things. There are some showers, too—we ask that you briefly rinse off before going into the pools, just to keep things as clean as possible. We boast both a sauna and a steam room, as well as our grand pool, which is heated to a comfortable temperature. Here, let me give you a locker key.” She rummages under the counter for a moment before producing a small metal key; when Tan takes it from her, he lets his hand linger for a moment, giving hers a gentle squeeze. 

“Thanks, Marjorie,” he says, and turns back to Arcade. “Shall we?” 

Arcade gestures to the door with his empty glass. “Lead the way.”

The moment the doors shut behind them and they are back in the casino hallway, Tan throws an arm around him, shoulders shaking with poorly-contained laughter. 

“Cannibals! Fucking cannibals, Arcade! The second I try to take you somewhere nice!”

Maybe it’s the wine helping dull his senses, but Tan’s touch isn’t as disarming as before. He maintains some level of composure and wit, smirking as he responds, “Oh, I don’t know, you have a knack for this kind of thing. That vault with the weird plant creatures looked promising too.”

Tan unwinds his arm and elbows him instead, still chuckling. “Shush, you. You had fun.” 

“You insisted on going alone to set an entire wing on fire.” 

“And I walked out of it just fine! Hardly even singed.” 

He rolls his eyes. Leave it to Tan to downplay being burned alive. He starts walking down the hall, towards where the maitre d’ is stationed.

“Hey, where you headed?” Tan asks, grabbing at his arm to stop him. 

“The maitre d’? You’re going to go after this investigator, aren’t you?”

Tan frowns, his brown eyes dark and serious. “No,” he says. He sounds…upset? Disconcerted. “Not yet at least. No, we’re here to enjoy ourselves. We’re going to the bathhouse and getting drinks and using the sauna and spending time together. That’s what today was for.” His voice grows quiet, and he looks away, seeming—for once—flustered. 

“Oh,” says Arcade, feeling stupid. “Um. Okay. Sure. I just thought…” I just thought you’d want to prioritize something else, he thinks, and hates himself for it. If there’s anything that can be said for Constantine, it’s that he tries, very hard, to balance his obligations to his friends and to the contracts and bounties and jobs he picks up around the Mojave. He’s scatterbrained and disorganized, but he gets everything done eventually, and works hard to make sure people don’t feel like they’re being ignored. Arcade has even seen how it eats at him, by way of the dozens of notes he leaves himself around the 38 and in his pack. Scraps of paper with “PINK DRESS FOR V” written in capitals and underlined litter his room. An entire section of his Pip-boy is dedicated to lists of the likes and dislikes of those he travels with. Tan tries, and he’s trying now, and Arcade assumed the worst of him out of instinct. Shame settles warmly on his tongue, and he wishes he hadn’t drunk his wine as quickly so that he’d have something with which to wash it down. 

The air between them feels charged and awkward with misunderstanding, so Arcade walks quickly to the other set of doors and pulls one open, holding it so Tan can go through. The moment he does, a burst of humid air greets him, smelling of chlorine and salt and gin. He steps in after Tan, once again marveling at the luxuries before him.

Blue and white tiles adorn the floor and walls, and a high, decorated ceiling looms above them, connecting to the floor with tall white columns with arches branching out on either side that make the expansive room seem like one long tunnel. The poolside bar is to their left, along with the doors labeled as the changing rooms and a third door for the steam room and sauna. Showers line the back wall, framing another set of double doors that lead to the hotel rooms. A grand pool occupies the center of the room, its water clear and clean. A few guests are making laps, with the rest spread out between the hot tub and the plunge pool on the right side of the room, or sitting tucked away in the rounded alcoves carved into the walls.

“Wow,” Tan says, and Arcade nods his agreement. Stupefied by the excess on display, he can do little more than gawk at his surroundings and follow Tan over to the bar, grateful when a cold glass of white wine is shoved into his hand. Physically, he is here, in his fogged up glasses and sweating through his collared shirt, but his mind is in Freeside. Right now, its denizens are sheltering in crumbling buildings, chasing down rats for food, and most are doped up out of their minds in a vain attempt to find some kind of joy to make up for their daily struggles. Do the chefs here know that their vegetables come from farms fighting to keep their crops alive despite their shortage of water? Do the people swimming here—some of whom must certainly live in neighboring areas—know how many people have lost limbs and digits to hypothermia from having to sleep unsheltered in the winter, when temperatures at night drop below freezing? Here, in this balmy paradise, does anyone know about what lies outside their windows, and more importantly, do they even care? The rolling blue ceiling is dotted with small, bright lights blinking indifferently in a vain attempt to mimic the stars. In that regard, at least, the Freesiders are richer, with the holes in their roofs giving them view of the real thing and not a childish facsimile. 

Arcade washes down his nausea with wine. 

“All good?” Tan asks. Of course he’s been watching the whole time. Lately it feels like his eyes are always on him, which, usually, is a good thing, a thing that makes him feel special and seen and coveted, but now…  

“Sure,” says Arcade, and takes another drink. 

Tan hums. He doesn’t buy it, Arcade knows that, but he’s not the type to press for more—not with him, at least. He’s seen him poke and prod and press his way into knowing and hearing more with strangers, but he never pushes with his companions. Not even if they would want him to. If he wants him to. 

“Let’s go get changed, yeah?” Tan suggests instead, walking towards the men’s changing rooms. “I want to try out this pool. The bartender said they ship the salt in from California! Thalassotherapy, they call it.” 

The changing room is dim and empty and smells of shampoo and wet towels. Tan finds  their locker without difficulty and immediately begins unbuttoning his shirt, quick enough that no sooner has Arcade fumbled past the first few buttons of his own shirt than Tan is already stripping off his undershirt, and fuck. Fuck. Arcade did not think this far ahead. 

“I don’t know how the waitstaff can handle it,” Tan says, casually flicking open the button on his jeans. Shit shit shit. “Did you see the bartender? Full tailcoat, full suit. He must be boiling inside.” 

That makes two of us, Arcade thinks.

Constantine’s body isn’t unrealistically sculpted; he is no David, no Hercules battling Cerberus. No washboard abs or marble pecs meet his stare, just a pleasant and inviting softness of skin and a fine covering of chest hair, trailing down, down, down to the band of his underwear. 

“Need some help?” 

Tan’s voice breaks through the chorus of lecherous thoughts crowding his head. He tears his eyes away to look down at his own chest, where his hands are frozen at the second button of his shirt. 

“No, I, um—”

He doesn’t get a chance to finish his protest before Tan says, “Here, let me.” He takes Arcade’s right wrist in his hand, lifts it up and away and presses it to his side, then repeats with the other hand. Arcade can do no more than force himself to take a deep, deep breath in through his nose as Tan slowly, artfully, undoes every button of his shirt, looking up at him from under his dark lashes all the while. 

Arcade would have never gone so far as to describe himself as horny. Not typically. He hasn’t been as sexually active since moving out to the Mojave, given that even if he were desperate enough to go out to a casino to proposition one of the sex workers there, he’d certainly see that same man back at the Fort within a day to get treated for a colorful variety of STDs. He’s had a few trysts with caravaneers passing through, a handful of rather unmemorable quickies in dusty tents, but by and large sex wasn’t something he made a priority. His libido was low enough that, if he ever did find himself bothered enough to do something about it, he made do with his hand and his imagination. 

The same traitorous imagination that has been sinfully overactive ever since he’d met Tan. It had been fine at first, when Tan was just some handsome stranger stopping by the Fort to help Julie out. But then they started traveling together, and then Arcade had developed this ridiculous infatuation, and now, well. He hadn’t managed to daydream up this particular scenario yet, but some of the details are spot on, like Tan’s self-satisfied smirk, and his hands traveling lower along his chest. 

He has the audacity to ask, “Cat got your tongue?”

Arcade rolls his eyes. “Just a little…distracted.”

Tan laughs at that, genuine and joyful, making the changing room seem brighter for one beautiful moment. He pushes Arcade’s fully unbuttoned shirt off of his shoulders. 

“There. I’m sure you can get the rest yourself.” He leans in and plants a quick kiss to the side of Arcade’s mouth. “I’m gonna go shower. Meet me outside when you’re ready.”

Arcade swallows thickly. “Right,” he squeaks. “Yeah.” He works on steadying his breathing as he hears the shower running. A minute passes before the shower turns off, and after another beat he hears the door to the changing room open and shut, finally granting him some time to chase away the rest of his thoughts with wine before finishing undressing and shoving his clothes in the locker alongside Tan’s. He rinses off, barely getting his hair wet, and tries not to trip over his own feet in rushing to join Tan outside. 

He’s not surprised to see Tan already in the pool, floating lazily on his back. Despite his competence in roughing it out in the Mojave, he’s never been one to shy away from creature comforts, and this is no exception. Eyes closed, hair fanning out around him in the water, he looks…peaceful. With a pang, Arcade regrets how rarely he’s been able to see Tan wear this kind of expression. 

With how comfortable Tan looks, Arcade assumes the water must be at a reasonable temperature, so he forgoes taking the stairs in. He sits on the edge of the pool, and with just his legs in the water, it’s warm enough. He takes a steadying breath and drops in. 

“Shit!” he hisses, startled at the sudden cold. 

“Yeah,” Tan agrees, floating by. “The first foot or so is fine, but the deeper you go the colder it gets.”

“You could have warned me!” 

Tan opens an eye. “And miss out on you looking like a drowned rat? No thanks.” 

Arcade scowls. In any other situation, Tan would be stronger than him, but now, he’s got his guard down. So he does what any completely sane, rational adult would do: he pushes down on Tan’s shoulders to shove him fully underwater. After a few seconds, Tan reemerges, sputtering. 

“Alright, alright,” he laughs,  shaking his hair away from his face. “I’ll lay off with the teasing. Just a little.”

A passing swimmer looks over at their commotion distastefully. 

“I think we’re disturbing the bourgeoisie,” says Tan, sidling closer to Arcade. He runs a hand down his spine, causing Arcade to shiver. “What do you say we check out the sauna? Since you’re getting goosebumps and all.” 

He could say that it’s not just the cool water giving him goosebumps. He doesn’t. Instead, he is content to have Tan—hand steady upon his lower back—direct him towards the stairs and out of the pool and through the door labeled ‘SAUNA.’

The immediate rush of dry heat is nearly overwhelming. Both he and Tan cough upon entering, so extreme is the dryness. The whole room is circular and dark, with a crackling stove recesseed into the center of the floor. Hints of metal peek out from behind panels of wood along the wall, hinting at what the room may have been before it was repurposed into a sauna, but not enough to be distracting. When the door shuts behind them, they are enveloped in a heady darkness. If he stares at the gentle orange glow of the stove in the middle, Arcade can just make out the heat haze distorting the air around it. 

Tan takes a seat at random and rests his back against the wooden wall, flinching a little at the sudden warmth. Arcade sits next to him, back straight, not quite willing to subject himself to that particular torture. 

He is grateful for the plastic frames of his glasses as his eyes adjust to the shadows. With each breath, his lungs get more accustomed to the heat, until finally he can chance a deeper inhale. He opens his mouth just a little, and hot air immediately rushes over his tongue and down his throat, air that is sweet and dry, tasting of the juniper and pinyon pine that makes up the walls and benches, with a mixture of local plants laid upon the coals—mesquite and sweetgrass. The scents and tastes themselves are warming, even apart from the glowing stove. 

Content, Arcade leans back and sighs, taking a moment to look over to see how Tan is faring. 

The courier has his eyes closed, seeming just as peaceful as he had been in the pool. Sweat gathers along his brow, and after a heavy breath, Arcade watches as a droplet travels down along Tan’s face, around his jaw and down his neck, then slowly coming to rest atop the ridge of his clavicle.

He licks his lips, tasting salt, and wonders—what would it be like to catch that droplet and chase its same trail with his tongue? Would Tan’s hot breath taste different, sweeter? If he reached out now and placed his hand against Tan’s chest, is his heart pounding as hard as his own? Could he, were he brave enough, seize this dark and sinful moment to claim Tan’s attention in the shadows, the way Tan holds all of his attention in the sun? 

“I can feel you staring.”

Arcade shuts his eyes immediately. “No clue what you’re talking about,” he mumbles.

“You’ve been staring all day. Every opportunity you get.”

He opens his mouth to respond, but then Tan’s voice is right there, honey-thick and whispering into his ear, and oh god. 

“I wanted to see if you’d do something about it. Shove me into a corner somewhere, hide us behind a curtain. I know you’ve been thinking about it.”

The wood creaks, and suddenly there is a solid weight on either side of him, on top of him, and he opens his eyes to see Tan towering above him: his arms braced against the wall, his dark curtain of hair framing his face so that Arcade can see nothing else besides his eyes, liquid black and ravenous, and those full, full lips.

“See? You’re doing it again. It’s okay though.” Constantine leans in so close that Arcade can feel his breath—whiskey-sweet, smoke-sour—ghosting over his lips with every word. “I’ve been thinking about it, too.”

Arcade can hardly think as Tan brings their mouths together. Tan’s lips—soft, always so soft—work against his, deliberate and demanding like a fever, slowly building in heat and frenzy and want. With Tan’s thighs crowding him in, it is all Arcade can do to lift his leaden arms and anchor them at Tan’s hips. Constantine responds in kind, letting one hand drop to rest along Arcade’s neck, his thumb rubbing gentle circles against his pulse as though it can soothe away the worries thrumming in his blood. 

Whatever rush of electricity Arcade felt at them merely holding hands before is amplified thousandfold, so to his intense embarrassment he can’t hold back a desperate little moan at even this most delicate of touches. Tan only laughs and takes the opportunity to lick his way into his open mouth, eager to swallow any more noises of want. There is something aching in his kisses, something darker, searching for something Arcade isn’t sure he can give. But with every brush of his tongue, rake of his teeth, quiver in his thighs as he keeps himself still upon Arcade’s lap, that something steels itself and grows stronger, bolder—like it isn’t just Arcade that Tan’s exploring, but his own memories, until he is no longer acting as a body with an intellect, but a body with a need, and he can finally trust himself to act upon it as part of him surely knows how. 

Tan finally pulls away, sweat-slick chest heaving, and tilts Arcade’s jaw upwards so that he can plant hot, open-mouthed kisses to it. Unthinking, Arcade moves a hand to tangle in Constantine’s hair, only to be met with a deep, rumbling hum against his neck, followed by a not-so-gentle nip. 

“Careful,” Tan cautions, licking to soothe the bite. “‘m trying to control myself, here.” He sounds unfairly put together, like they aren’t both gasping for air in a room intent on smothering them. 

Feeling oddly petulant, Arcade says as much. “That’s not fair,” he whines, and winces inwardly at how wrecked he sounds. 

He feels Tan’s laugh more than he hears it, as he continues kissing his way upwards, coming to a stop by the shell of his ear. “Why?” he purrs. “You that eager to see me out of control?” As though to drive the point home, he snaps his hips forward and drags them back torturously slow, unable to contain a snort of laughter at Arcade’s choked little whine in response. 

“Fuck, you’re insufferable,” Arcade hisses. Yes, god, please yes, he means. 

Tan flashes a positively shit-eating grin. “Mmm, and here I thought I was being considerate. Sating your appetite.” As he talks he reaches up to take the hand Arcade’s still got in his hair. He brings it down in front of them, and Arcade watches dumbly as Tan places a reverent kiss to each knuckle in an unspoken promise. Soon, he seems to say. Someday soon. But not yet. 

“More like whetting it,” Arcade grumbles, but his heart isn’t in it. As much as he would love to gripe, there’s something so terrifyingly unguarded about Constantine in this moment, and he isn’t quite as callous as he would like others to believe. He frees his hand from Tan’s grip and brings it to the side of his face, instead. He brushes a few strands of Tan’s wet hair out of the way, to reveal the bullet scar along his left temple. Tan’s eyes are still focused on him, unfathomably dark but for the few flickers of maple light cast from the center stove. 

Perhaps he had gotten it wrong. Perhaps Tan has always been at home in the shadows, holding his power through that which is underhanded and base. Maybe the whole point of this is…well, not to steer him any one given way, even Arcade isn’t so naive as to think he has that much sway, but at the very least, he can be a reminder of better things. Of decency and humanity and the promise of change, walking proof of all the things in the sun that he’s working towards, in case he loses sight of them while steeped in the world’s viciousness. Sure, it might be a bit…conceited to consider himself all that great of an example of goodness, but it’d be more of a disservice to both his mother and the Followers to dismiss the impact their teachings have had on the course of his life and the choices and lessons he tries to embody. If Tan is as intent on meddling with the politics of the region as he’s shown he is thus far, perhaps this is the least Arcade can do while journeying beside him. 

“Okay,” Arcade says simply, sitting up straight. He tilts Tan’s head down and places a gentle kiss to his scar, another to his cheek. “Now get off.”

Tan complies with a chuckle. “So demanding.” Arcade takes a deep breath; it’s much less stifling with Tan on top of him, though he misses the weight. 

No sooner are they sitting side by side again than the door swings open, and a party of other guests stream in, seating themselves throughout the room. Tan looks far too entertained, reveling in their perfect timing.

Arcade groans. Even if they’ve lost their shared moment, he’s not particularly keen on sweating in a room full of strangers. “Come on,” he says, getting to his feet. “Let’s go to the steam room.”

Tan shrugs. “Sure.”

Why an establishment would have one incredibly hot room lead to another is beyond him, but there are plenty of other pre-war construction decisions that seem moronic to him, so in this, the Ultra-Luxe is hardly unique. The steam room is smaller than the sauna, more of a walk-in closet than anything else, but its overall design echoes that of the grand pool room. White tiles make up the majority of the room, including the raised steps that constitute as seats, with a mix of dark and light blue tiles serving as accents along the ceiling and the lip of each step. 

Steam, of course, fills the room, rendering Arcade’s glasses useless within seconds. He manages to make out a small corner shelf and so, with a resigned sigh, takes them off and sets them down, himself sitting down on the nearest step. Tan sits next to him, although this time, there’s no underlying thread of heat between them. Even if there were, it’s near impossible to feel sexy in a damp cloud. 

As much as it pains him to admit it, this is…nice. He’s so hot he’s not sure he ever wants to move again, but his limbs feel like pudding in a strangely pleasant way, and he has to really focus on his breathing for his lungs not to complain about the humidity—all of which forces him to slow down, calm down, in a way he hasn’t bothered to do before. For a long while, there is nothing but the sound of their combined deep breathing and the sputtering of the steam vents. Sometimes, snippets of quiet conversations come through when the steam isn’t flowing, but then the vents turn on again, rendering any outside sound incomprehensible.

“I like seeing you like this,” Tan says, voice foreign after such a long period of silence. 

“What,” smirks Arcade, “relaxed?”

“Undressed. But yeah, that too.” 

Arcade slaps at Tan’s shoulder, too hot to put any real effort behind it. 

“Really, though,” Tan continues, putting a hand on Arcade’s knee. There’s that electricity again. “Thanks. For putting up with my whims. For putting up with me,”  he adds, so quietly that it’s almost lost to the white noise of the fans.

Arcade blinks. This side of Tan isn’t new—he thinks back to that night up in the cocktail lounge of the 38, when they first kissed—but it surfaces rarely enough that he’s never quite sure how to respond.

“I don’t…I mean, it’s not—” he fumbles with his answer, and before he can say much of anything, the door to the steam room swings open, where a man in complete White Glove attire stands, a tray of drinks on his arm. Strangely, though, he steps into the room fully, and shuts the door behind him. Arcade looks over at Tan, who raises a brow. 

“Um. Hello,” Tan says, sounding cordial, if surprised. 

“Who are you?” the White Glove responds, setting down the drinks: three glasses of champagne. It dawns on Arcade that he’s thirsty enough to be tempted to nab one for himself. 

Tan laughs. “How about you first?”

“So you don’t know?” The White Glove lets out a relieved sigh and slumps down next to Tan, taking off his mask so he can breathe. He looks exhausted, the circles under his eyes clear even against his dark skin, like he hasn’t slept in days. “Good,” he groans, rubbing his face with a gloved hand. “That’s good. So they didn’t send you after me. “

Tan looks between the man and Arcade, brows knitting together in confusion. “No, I—we are just visiting. Tourists enjoying the amenities. And, well, keeping an eye out for someone missing, if you want to get technical.”  

The stranger’s eyes widen with surprise. “So was the man I’m supposed to be meeting.” He sighs again, disappointed. “Well. It’s been days, so if he hasn’t come by yet, then either he gave up, or they caught up to him. And I don’t think he was the kind to give up. And that means that they have to know that he was talking to someone on the inside. They’ll be watching everyone closesr now. I knew this was a mistake!” He leans forward and puts his head in his hands. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” Tan says, reaching over to pat him on the back. “It’ll be fine, uh…”

“Chauncey.”

“Chauncey! It’ll be alright. My partner and I will help you out, too.”

Arcade’s heart skips a beat. Givien Chauncey’s current state in staring at the ground, he decides that grabbing himself a glass is entirely the right call. He stands up and walks over to the far side of the steam room, where Chauncey had placed the tray on the highest step. He clambers up the first step, careful not to lose his footing on the slippery tile, and parks himself next to the drinks. It’s a lot harder to breathe up here, but hey. Drinks. 

Chauncey hasn’t responded, just keeps muttering something about “them” finding him. Tan tries again. 

“Hey, so, uh. What were you supposed to discuss here, with whoever you were going to meet?”

“I was supposed to meet that investigator, the one looking for the missing girl. I know what happened to her.”

Arcade takes a sip of champagne and, damn. It’s good. Refreshing, bright, and most surprising of all, still bubbly. “How do you know what happened to her?” he asks, moving to the lower step. He reaches across the room to pass his glass to Tan, who nods gratefully, before getting himself another. 

“Because I distracted her fiancé while they took her,” Chauncy moans, sinking lower. “I’m not proud of it! But I had to. They could see I was having second thoughts. See,” he sits up suddenly, making Tan jump back a little, “some of the White Gloves began meeting privately a while back, started talking about how we lost our identity. I started attending because I thought it was abbout changing our politics!” He doubles over again, head back in his hands. “But then they started talking about returning to the old ways, and there was no way out. They’d kill me for the things I heard them say!”

Tan glances over at Arcade, who only shrugs. Dealing with people is anything but his forte; he’s happy to sit back and let Tan take the lead. 

“Chauncey, you keep saying ‘they.’ Who’s ‘they?’ Who are you so afraid of?”

“Mortimer!” he sniffles, sitting up just enough to wipe at his nose. “If he realizes it wass me the investigator was planning to meet, he’ll have me killed!”

“So…Mortimer’s behind both of the disappareances?”

Chauncey nods. “Mortimer and some of the others have regressed to their old ways. They’ve taken plenty of people over the last few months, but always from Freeside or secluded places. Where they wouldn’t be missed.”

Arcade almost chokes on his champagne. All of his frustration from seeing the pool room before comes rushing back, leaving him feeling lightheaded from the sheer amount of inequality and lack of compassion on display. Constantine catches his eye, wearing a sympathetic expression. At least there’s that. At least they’re going to do something about it now. 

“What about Ted Gunderson?” Tan asks. He passes his champagne to Chauncey, who drinks it all in a sinigle gulp. Arcade waits until the White Glove leans down again before handing Tan the last glass. 

“It wasn’t enough,” Chauncey says. “Lately they’ve gone for tourists right here on the Strip, even in the hotel. I guess that’s the hazard of a cannibal becoming a gourmet—it’s hard to please a refined palate.” He says the last words like he’s spitting out poison. “As for the kid, he’s alive as far as I know. They’re trying to keep him fresh, since Mortimer has special plans for him. And before you ask—no, I don’t know where they’re keeping him. I wasn’t in on it, since some of them have stopped trusting me. But you can bet they’re keeping them near the Gourmand.

“Our chef, Philippe, has an obsesion with fresh ingredients. Every night at seven, in our private section, the White Glove society has a banquet. Mortimer wants to reintroduce humans into our cuisine, and since eating people is a crime we punish by death, he’s going to do it in secret. After everyone has eaten it, he’ll tell them. With no real way to punish everyone—in Mortimer’s mind, anyway—their minds will be open to the idea of eating people as a delicacy.”

Tan stays silent for a moment, swirling his champagne around. “Wouldn’t they punish Mortimer for the deception?” he asks before taking a sip. 

“They might,” Chauncey says with a despondent shrug. “But to him, the legacy of returning to the old ways is worth his own life. I don’t think he expects it, though. I don’t either. Nothing is more important to the society than being on the cutting edge of New Vegas cuisine. Mortimer’s idea will appeal to that need—he just needs to get them over that taboo.”

Despite the heat, Arcade shivers. Cannibals. Real fucking cannibals, right here in the heart of “society,” without the excuse of being chem-addled or desperate enough to justify themselves. It’s bad enough seeing the things that the poor folks on the outskirts will turn to just to survive, but to see that kind of brutality from high society? Well, it makes sense, yes, given that the elite have always had a callous disregard for anyone besides themselves, but witnessing it this close makes his blood run cold. 

“What about Ted’s father? He’s rich, he’s got resources. Why haven’t you approached him?”

Chauncey snorts. “Because he’s the kind to pound in a nail with a wrecking ball?” When Tan keeps his gaze level, he sighs and elaborates. “Look, that might be true, but the man has a reputation, and it isn’t for calmness and impartiality. They call him ‘Hurricane Heck’ for a reason. He built his entire empire by hiring mercenaries to drive off the competition, and he’s been attacking our Brahmin suppliers to take over their business here. If you give him the whole story on this, he’d be liable to raze the entire hotel—and god knows what he’d do to the rest of the Strip.” 

Taking it all in, Tan slumps down to the same position as Chauncey: elbows on his knees, eyes to the floor. Arcade wishes he could help more, but this kind of shit is exactly why he joined the Followers. He can’t make these big decisions, these giant steps to decide how to face corruption. Those kinds of choices paralyze him, and he gets caught up in the panic of justifying why he gets to make any choice at all. It’s always been easier for him to be the one cleaning up afterwards—stitching up wounds and standing behind those going to fight for the ideals he supports. He’s never been able to shake the idea that by doing so, he’s just embracing his own cowardice, but at least since joining up with Tan, he feels more like he’s on the front lines of things, rather than picking up the pieces of the aftermath. 

“Is there anything you can do to help me, here?” Tan asks slowly, like he’s already working on piecing together a plan to take Mortimer down. 

“I could sponsor you as an honorary member…The White Gloves are always looking for people who can elevate their status. You’d certainly fit the bill, since…well, correct me if I’m wrong, but you’re the guy who helped out at Gomorrah, yeah? And walked into the Lucky 38? And drove Benny out of town?”

The last part’s news. Hell, the first part is, too. Arcade looks to Tan for answers, but he’s still got his head down. He makes a note to ask him about it later. He had no idea he even went to talk to Benny, let alone run him out of town. Tan had mentioned Gomorrah, but hadn’t gone into specifics. What had he been up to this past week? Hell, the last…seventeen days? 

“That’s me,” he says, nodding. “What would a sponsorship help with?”

“Well, it’d get you into the members-only section, and you wouldn’t get shot on sight if people knew who you were. It’s a bit of a process, and I’d have to talk to Marjorie about it. Otherwise, you’d have to find some way to get in quietly. I could give you my key if you had a disguise, but you’d be hard pressed to separate a member from their mask and tux.”

“Hey, yeah, why is that?” Arcade wonders out loud, realizing far too late that maybe a third glass of alcohol wasn’t the best call on an empty stomach. 

Chauncey looks over at him, then back to Tan. “Well, it’s our dress code, courtesy of Marjorie when she founded the Society. There’s only one rule to it: we must dress in such a way that no one can be said to have dressed better than us. Her words, not mine. As for the masks, I’m not allowed to tell you. We’re sworn to secrecy.” 

The vents stutter to a halt, letting some of the steam in the room settle. For a moment, Chauncey seems uncomfortable—well, more uncomfortable than usual—as he tugs at the collar of his shirt. Frankly, the fact that he’s still wearing his whole ensemble is equal parts impressive and concerning. Arcade has half a mind to check for symptoms of heat stroke before Chauncey speaks up again. 

“Actually, that’s a lie. That’s just what we’re supposed to say. I think Marjorie just likes them for the mystery they create, and the way they make it clear that we’re different from everyone else. But you didn’t hear that from me, okay?”

Arcade nods, while Tan half-fumbles an NCR salute. “So how do we get Ted out, once we’re in?” Tan asks, downing what’s left of his champagne. 

Chauncey seems in higher spirits, if not significantly more sweaty, when he sits up to think. “Hmm…well, they’ll all be sampling pre-war wines before the meal.” If he sees the way Tan waggles his eyebrows at Arcade, he ignores it and carries on. “It could be as simple as drugging them, although…that wouldn’t stop any future kidnappings. The only sure way to do that is to expose Mortimer. But he’s going to confess anyway.”

Tan sets the glass down next to him and taps his foot, thinking. “What if…what if we just smuggle Ted out mid-speech? Call Mortimer’s bluff?”

“That could work.” Chauncey nods. “But you’d have to make sure that his revelation was a lie, that no one ate human flesh besides him. If you could replace Philippe in the kitchen and serve a convincing substitute…but that’d be dependent on you knowing to cook.”

Arcade scoffs, causing everyone to look his way. “Trust me, he can cook,” he says. He doesn’t try to hide the pride in his voice, and is glad for it when Tan beams at him and sits up a little straighter. 

“That’s settled, then,” Chauncey says. I know Philippe’s been trying to replicate—well, approximate—the taste of human flesh for years. He has to have a recipe stashed somewhere. And once you get the meals out, and Mortimer gives his speech, you can just parade Ted right through the middle of the room!”

It’s surely the alcohol, but Arcade thinks they have a pretty solid plan. Constantine thinks so too, and says so. 

“I think we’ve got a really solid plan here, Chauncey. But if I may—I vote you go get yourself somewhere safe. And dry. I really don’t know how you’re not passing out yet, you’re soaked through.”

For the first time, Chauncey grins. “It’s okay, I’ll hole up somewhere. This is the most hope I’ve had for this place in so long! Let’s plan on meeting up again as soon as—wait, did you hear something? Were you followed?” 

As Chauncey trails off, Arcade tilts his head to try to hear, as does Tan. The  vents have turned back on, churning out more heat and steam, disguising any subtler sounds. There doesn’t seem to be anything of note, no matter how hard he strains to hear, so he looks over at Tan to shrug. 

The door bursts open, obscuring his view of the rest of the room. One, two, three gunshots. Silence. 

His first thought is, thank god the gun has a suppressor, since he can still think through the ringing in his ears. His second thought is—

“Shit! Tan?!” 

The door slams against its hinges with the weight of two bodies being thrown against it. There is the sound of the gun going off again, but this time Arcade sees the rain of dust crumbling from the ceiling tile where it hit. Something pounds against the door multiple times, and then something clatters to the floor—the gun?—before it’s kicked to the far side of the room. 

And then Tan screams. 

He still can’t see—not just because the open door is in his way and he’s essentially locked in, but because his glasses are still on the shelf on the other side of this stupid room. All he can do is sit with his back to the hot, wet wall and breathe in the copper taste of blood, listen to the unmistakable sound of a fist colliding with a face. Tan yells in exertion, something large skids across the floor and hits the opposite wall, and then the door finally closes. 

The steam vents pick now as the perfect time to turn back on, but even without his glasses, even through the thick haze, Arcade can see the violently red gash across Tan’s chest, can see a river of blood pooling underneath Chauncey’s limp form where he’s collapsed, unmoving against the wall. 

“Stay there,” Tan croaks, and yeah, Arcade can’t see well without his glasses, but he isn’t blind. Constantine’s brow is knit with worry, but his eyes are unlike he’s ever seen them before: dispassionate, monstrous, set upon a single outcome. He supposes that Tan’s usually looking through the scope of his rifle in a fight, not at him. Never at him. 

He manages a stiff nod, and tries to point at the attacker getting to his feet behind Tan, but it’s too late—the assassin lunges, and there is the sickening sound of metal ripping through flesh. 

Tan falls to his knees, crying out in agony. The attacker grabs him by his hair, his long, gorgeous hair, and heaves him across the room. Arcade flinches when Tan collides with the back wall, his flailing limbs knocking down and shattering the champagne flutes that had been on the seats nearby. There’s no way he got out of that without a shattered rib, and god, all that blood. The attacker steps towards him, tensing his grip on the knife, and Arcade looks around for something, anything to defend himself with. The drink tray is near Chauncey’s corpse and might work, but he’d have to lunge past the assassin to get it. No, all he can do is raise his arms up in front of his face and hope he has enough time to roll away after the initial strike. 

But then the man howls and whirls back around to kick Tan, who has managed to crawl too close. Arcade lowers his arms and makes for the drink tray, noticing a new trail of blood on the floor from where Tan has managed to stab the man’s calf with a shard of glass. Before he can think better of it, Arcade takes the tray and brings it down on the attacker’s head, denting the cheap metal. The man sways, otherwise unaffected, and starts to turn back to Arcade, knife at the ready. 

To Arcade’s amazement, Tan peels himself off of the floor and charges, screaming, throwing his full weight at the assassin to topple him down. The man’s head hits the tile with a crack. Arcade scrambles over the slippery tile steps, hoping he can intercept before the man raises his knife to do more damage, but fuck, fuck, Chauncey’s body is in the way, and he can’t find any purchase to stand so he just has to watch as the knife plunges deep into Tan’s shoulder. 

Constantine roars, swings out his right hand, and stabs at the side of the man’s head, the broken stem of a champagne flute glinting in the misty blue light. There is a horrible squelching sound; the man’s face distorts into a silent scream. With one hand fisted in his hair, the other gripping his jaw, Tan turns his face and slams once, twice onto the tile floor, until the base of the glass is flush against his ear, a perfect stopper for any blood or brain matter. 

The steam vents whir loudly, then click off. All is silent save for the dripping of Chauncey’s blood onto pristine white tile and Tan’s labored panting. 

“Fuck,” Arcade rasps. “Fuck, Tan. Fuck!” He clambers to his feet, careful not to step on Chauncey, or Tan, or the dead assaillant, and crosses the room to retrieve his glasses. He puts them on, willing his hands to stop shaking. Tan’s here, and he’s bleeding, and Arcade just stood by and watched, as always, and—no. 

He shakes his head. Not the time. “Tan, talk to me. Say something. Keep talking, don’t stop until I say you can.” 

Truly the picture of insanity, Tan laughs. “Aye, aye, captain,” he slurs, hauling himself into a seated position from where he’d collapsed on top of the dead man. He’s swaying, and still breathing heavily, but he clears his throat to speak. “I need you to check their pockets. Their everything. Might have a key, and we gotta find the investigator.”

“Sure,” Arcade agrees, not really listening. The knife wobbles where it’s embedded in his shoulder, probably stuck against his scapula—but it looks worse than it is. The gash on Tan’s back is deep, though at a glance it hasn’t hit any bone. The length of it gets close to a kidney, though, so the sooner he can drag him out of here and into a room with better lighting and less fucking steam the better. “We can do that after I get you patched up. Can you stand at all? I need to try to get you to a seat.”

Tan groans. “No, ‘Cade, listen to me. Just dump me on one of these seats right now and search their pockets, quick. People will have heard. People will be coming. The doors on the other side of the pool lead to the hotel rooms, if one of them has a key we can go hole up there. Please, Arcade—”

He cuts himself by trying to stand, a strangled whine escaping his throat. Arcade puts his hands out to offer some support in lifting him, but Tan slaps him away. “It just hurts,” he says through gritted teeth. “I can do it myself. Search Chauncey…and close his eyes.”

The definition of stubborn, Tan hoists himself up with no uncertain effort, and wobbles his way over to the seats by the door. “Search them,” he huffs, resting his head backwards. “I’m your time limit.” 

Arcade sighs and considers if he can just carry Tan out of here himself, but no, as usual, the asshole’s right. They’ve already come this far, and it’ll be for nothing if they don’t follow through on Chauncey’s intel. So he sets his mouth in a thin, angry line and starts patting down the poor man’s pockets. 

Chauncey’s pockets are woefully empty, without even a key to a hotel room or two caps to rub together. Arcade closes his eyes, mindful of Tan’s scrutiny, and moves onto their would-be assassin. 

By now the blood around the glass shoved in his ear has darkened some, but not dried, given the moistness of the room. Though brutal, Arcade has to admit, it was quick thinking on Tan’s part, and impressive use of an improvised weapon. Once again, he shoos away some stray thoughts of self-loathing at his own inaction, focusing on the attacker’s many pockets. He’s not dressed in formalwear, instead clad in some dirty beige cargo vest with matching pants. Both are covered in pockets and pouches. 

He groans and hazards a glance back at Tan. The courier looks up, noticing a distinct lack of rustling fabric, and meets his eye with a weak smile and a shaky thumbs up. Arcade goes back to searching. 

For the first few pockets along his vest, there’s nothing of note—a few spare magazines, a fucking grenade, a folded up handkerchief. The right side pockets of his pants yield nothing, either, but he hits paydirt on the left side. In a zippered pouch he finds both a hotel key and a stimpak. 

“We’re good,” he exclaims, and gets to his feet. “Come on, let’s get out of here.” He takes Tan’s hand and helps him stand, happy to let him wrap an arm around his waist to steady himself. 

“Gotta get our stuff outta the changing rooms,” Tan mumbles, leaning his head on Arcade’s shoulder. 

“Can I please do something about you bleeding out, first?”

“Nuh-uh. They’re gonna close stuff down, probably. Getting in here later will be impossible. Need the disguises.” 

Arcade lets out another long sigh. “You’re right,” he grumbles, angling them towards the changing rooms, “but I hate you for it.” 

The sauna is empty, as is the pool, and without any guests to splash in the water or chat in the alcoves, an eerie pall has settled over the grandiose bath house. Pipes creak and tremble, the fluorescent lights above whine their incessant hum. It feels like a tomb, a mausoleum to bygone days of waste and excess, and Arcade can’t help but shiver. Plenty of innocents had been preyed upon by the casinos pre-war, and though it wasn’t quite as literal, there’s something sad in seeing the same kind of cycle play out hundreds of years later. Always the poor dying to the the pointless games of the rich. 

“—not listening.”

Arcade blinks, looking over at Tan. He’s already emptied out their locker and shoved their clean clothes into the duffel along with the disguises, and was working on getting an arm around Tan to lead him back out the door. “What was that?”

“When we get to the room,” Tan says, sounding sleepy, “you’re gonna need to go talk to Marjorie. Get a key to the members only section. I’ll coach you on how to lie to her.”

He stops walking. “Look, Constantine—” 

“Uh oh. The full name’s coming out.” Not just sleepy, then. Delirious. 

“Constantine.” 

“Arcade! I can do it, too. Why aren’t we walking? Thought you wanted me to lie down sooner rather than later.” 

Sometimes he wants to strangle him. “When we get to the hotel room, you are going to lie down and stay down until I’m done patching you up, even if that means I have to knock you out myself.”

Tan mumbles something into Arcade’s shoulder, but waves a hand by way of agreeing. It’s as good as he’s going to get. 

He gets them through the double doors to the hotel and down the hall, over to a room right by a set of stairs. He unlocks the door, dutifully ignores the corpse in the center of the room, and maneuvers Tan onto the bed, laying him on his side. 

“There’s a dead guy in here,” he says, trying to sound as calm as possible so as to not rile Tan up now that he’s finally horizontal. “I’ll try to figure out what his deal is in a little bit. First I’m going to change, and get you patched up. Please stay put.” 

Tan mutters something that sounds like “roger that,” or maybe “larger hat.” Good enough. 

His hands had been shaking before, coming down from the adrenaline of the fight, but here, here he can finally be useful. He gathers up the towels from the bathroom and the spare sheets from the closet by the door, changes into half of his outfit from earlier—he opts to leave off the collared shirt, since it would only inhibit his movements—and washes his hands in the bathroom, wetting a few of the towels while he’s in there. 

He makes a list of what he needs in his head. “Do you have any more caps on you?” he calls out to Tan. 

“Shome. Maybe a hundrrd. Why?” 

He sounds like he’s talking into a pillow. Arcade sticks his head out of the bathroom to check and, yeah, he is. At least he’s trying to get comfortable. 

“Stay put. Don’t do anything stupid. Lie on your back, use one of the towels to keep pressure on your chest. I’m going to go ask Marjorie for a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice, and a sewing kit. And a bottle of whiskey.”

Arcade walks out of the bathroom, having confirmed he’s as put together as he can be given the circumstances. He grabs the room key, the extra bag of caps, and heads for the door.

He stops short. 

He turns around and walks over to the bed. “I’ll be back in two minutes. Don’t die,” he commands, and kisses Tan on the cheek. “There’s a stimpak on the nightstand but don’t use it unless you’re sure you’re going to die; it’ll be easier to stitch up your wounds if they’re not actively trying to close up on me.” 

A few White Gloves wander the hallways and he hopes, hell, he prays none of them are heading in Tan’s direction. There’s no time to stop and check; whenever he sees someone, he slows down to an acceptable powerwalk, but otherwise, he sprints through the halls until he pushes through the double doors leading back to the main casino. He powerwalks the rest of the way, making a note that the guy in the top hat—Mortimer—isn’t at his desk. 

Marjorie is particularly apologetic when she hears there’s been an incident in the bathhouse, happy to comp them the bottle of champagne, especially since Arcade buys a bottle of whiskey, too. It takes her longer than Arcade would like to find a sewing kit stuffed somewhere in her concierge desk, but she does aquire it eventually, all smiles when she hears that the other investigator invited him and his partner over to collaborate. She gives him a friendly reminder that the pool is closed until further notice, and that dinner is in about two hours, and then he’s finally fucking free, powerwalking back down the hall, running back through the maze of the hotel, and back to Tan. 

The door is open. He closed it, he definitely closed it, but it’s open. His heart drops to his stomach. 

“Tan?” he calls out, quietly, in case it îsn’t Tan behind that door.

A Tan-sounding grunt answers from inside, so he immediately pushes open the door and slams it behind him, locking it before he even has the chance to forget. 

“What the fuck, Constantine? It hasn’t been five minutes!” he yells. 

Tan’s sprawled out on the floor, leaning up against the foot of the bed. Two more dead bodies have joined the investigator on the ground, their fresh puddles of blood seeping into the carpet. 

“Hey,” coughs Tan, smiling up at him. His teeth are covered in blood and he’s holding a hand over his side. 

Arcade drops what he’s holding and practically jumps at him, carefully wrapping his arms around his middle to hoist him up. 

“What happened?” he asks, voice pitched high with worry. “Are you hurt? More hurt?” 

“Mmm. Ambush. Think they figured we were colluding. One had a gun.” Tan’s speaking quickly, like he’s not sure his voice will stay steady enough to go into more detail.

Arcade has to try very hard not to trip and dump him onto the bed when he hears about the gun. 

“Hand off your side, Tan,” he instructs instead. He dumps the ice in the bucket out onto a towel, and goes to fill up the bucket with warm water. “Keep talking.”

“Mmkay.”

It’s bad when Tan’s conscious enough to be a good patient. Returning with the bucket, Arcade breathes a sigh of immense relief upon seeing his right side; Tan was only grazed by the bullet, not fully shot in the abdomen. He grabs one of the wet towels he had set aside on the bed and dips it into the bucket, wrings it out, and gets to work. 

“I said keep talking.” 

“Mmhm,” Tan mumbles. “They threw some punches, Don’t think they were planning on using the gun. Was already trying to disarm him when it went off.” 

Content with how clean it is around the graze, Arcade moves on to cleaning the slash across Tan’s upper chest. The blood here has already dried a fair amount, so he presses down to soften up some of the crustier portions. Tan whimpers at the pressure. 

“Sorry,” says Arcade. “Have to clean you up.”

“I know,” says Tan. “Thanks.”

He sounds…miserable. More than just exhausted and beaten up, he sounds worried, regretful. Arcade has half a mind to ask him what he’s thinking about, if he weren’t more sure that he’d just deflect the question. Although, maybe half-dead is the exact kind of place Tan has to be in to talk about himself and what he’s feeling. 

Arcade wipes at the wound again, satisfied to see the blood is washing off. He makes a few more passes with warm water, then gets a towel for the whiskey. 

“This will sting,” he warns, patting the bullet graze with alcohol. 

“Yep! Sure does,” Tan hisses. He clenches his fists at his sides. “Could have given me a second.”

“The sooner I get you back on your feet, the sooner we stop this whole crazy operation,” Arcade says, repeating the process with his chest wound.  Both it and the graze are mostly superficial—deep enough to wound and scar, but not enough to be life threatening. “I’m going to help you turn around, now.” 

Tan nods his assent, and together, they roll him over to the other side of the bed. He mumbles something into the pillow, and when Arcade doesn’t respond, he shifts his head over and tries again. 

“You’re not…mad?”

Arcade pours some whiskey over the stab wound, the knife having falllen out at some point. In his one stroke of fortune so far, Tan’s shoulderblade stopped the blade from going too deep. It seems their attacker wasn’t particularly good at their job—either a cheaply hired thug from Freeside, or a White Glove whose only combat training was knowing the pointy end of the knife from the handle. He frowns, starting his cleanup on the gash across his back. “About?”

“…Today.”

The cut stretches from the bottom of Tan’s right shoulder to just above his left hip, and, mercifully, isn’t more than half an inch deep, sparing both Tan’s spine and his left kidney from any serious damage. He dabs around the wound with some more water, wiping away the last bits of dried blood. He’s so focused on swapping over to the alcohol-soaked towel, it takes him a full minute to register Tan’s question.

“Come again?” he asks through a mouthful of thread. There’s not much choice of color, so black will have to do. 

“About our date,” Tan elaborates. “About things going south.” 

Arcade almost spits out the thread laughing. “Constantine. We’re about to go take down a corrupt ring of elite cannibals preying on the lower class.” He pulls the thread through the eye of a needle and ties a knot at the end. “Can’t really top that, as far as dates go. I guess it would have been better if you hadn’t gotten hurt.” 

“Ha! Ow.”

“Until we get you stimmed, you should curb any laughing. Your ribs are definitely bruised, if not cracked.” He thinks back to that last kick the assassin delivered, the one right after Tan had stabbed his calf. “Hell, if not broken.” 

“Yeah, well. Stop being so funny, Doctor Gannon.” 

Despite himself, Arcade smiles. “I think you’re the only one that considers me funny,” he muses, beginning to stitch. 

“Fuck! Warning!” Tan turns his head into the pillow and groans. 

“I’m starting to stitch.”

“Know that now, asshole,” Tan mumbles. 

What remaining first aid Arcade has to administer passes without much issue or conversation. He keeps Tan awake by asking mundane pain scale questions, occassionally inquiring about his preferences regarding certain foods and drinks (he doesn’t care for gin, prefers whiskey; he hates Sugar Bombs, loves Insta Mash). Once he approves of the stitching along Tan’s back, he helps turn him over again. 

He has the needle of the stimpak lined up against Tan’s thigh, but this time, he stops.

“I’m going to give you the stimpak now,” he says, and waits. 

Tan takes a deep breath. “Okay,” he says. “Go for it.” 

Arcade pushes the needle in and counts the seconds while he depresses the plunger. He doesn’t have a gauze or bandage to put over the injection site when he’s done, so instead he rips a piece off of one of the unused bedsheets and presses that over Tan’s thigh. 

Before he can instruct him to apply pressure, Tan reaches down. He doesn’t say anything as he slides his hand under Arcade’s; he isn’t even looking at him. He’s looking pointedly at the white marble walls of the hotel room, like the veining of the stone holds some deeper secret of the universe. 

Arcade gives his hand a squeeze. “You know, it’s pretty frustrating,” he begins, rethreading the needle so he can stitch up Tan’s chest. 

“What is?” Tan asks. He still doesn’t look over. 

“I can tell when you’re overthinking. I just can’t tell what about.” 

However Arcade was expecting Tan to respond, going completely silent wasn’t the ideal outcome. He doesn’t say anything else during the entirety of the stitching along his chest, doesn’t even flinch—just raises his good arm up and over his eyes to shield them from the [buzzing ceiling lights] musty lamplight. It’s only when Arcade has threaded the needle for the last time, and shoved a pillow under Tan’s back to tilt his side up, that he finally speaks up. 

“I hate you seeing me like that,” he says. Still shielding his eyes, he sounds far away, half-present. 

Arcade tries to consider what he means. “As in…fighting? Tan, we kill things all the time. It’s always a shame when it’s people, but that’s just…post-apocalyptic America. I wish it weren’t the case, but it is.” 

“Yeah, but…” Tan chews on his cheek, thinking. “I don’t know. It’s different when it’s up close.” Quieter, he adds, “It’s different when I’m not behind a rifle.”

Thinking back to the other week, Arcade remembers when he had asked Tan about why he got along so well with Boone. At the time, he hadn’t really elaborated aside from their joint histories within the NCR. It hadn’t even occurred to him that they might share similarities in the way they approach war and bloodshed—that they might share similar traumas. Tan might not have been at Bitter Springs, but he speaks and acts as though he’s seen his share of battle. There’s no tactful way to ask how someone copes with loss, with killing, but Constantine has always taken to it so naturally that it seemed odd to wonder if he even struggled. 

He commands people’s attention effortlessly, leaving all who follow him waiting breathlessly for that moment when his eyes light up and he grins, face shining in the sun as he elaborates on his newest plan to turn a disadavantage into victory. He carries himself as someone whose temperament is perfect for war, something that had given Arcade cause to be wary when they first met. He hadn’t considered that Tan might not have been bred for battle, or even chosen it—as much as someone can choose to fight in a world so predatory by default. Tan very well could have been shaped to fit the mold of violence, by circumstances outside of his control. He might not have had a mother willing to advocate for his innocence, might not have had a choice for pacifism. He could have taken to bloodshed simply because he was forced to, and found himself horrified by the ease with which he took to it. 

Shame, by now a constant companion when it comes to his revelations about Tan, coils coldly in Arcade’s gut. He ties off the stitching along the graze and stands up, eager to find something else to do with his hands.  Tan is still covering his face, and for that much, he is grateful. It would be hard to look at him now, after this. It would be hard to meet his eyes and think, for a moment there, I didn’t realize you were a person. For a moment, you were just an ideal. 

Washing his hands in the bathroom sink, he looks up at the mirror. He wishes there were a younger version of himself looking back, a version that might have asked his mother for advice about loving his father. He supposes could ask what’s left of the Remnants—Judah especially might have some insight—but that would require doing more than sending letters. It would require being seen and known and found wanting, and he wouldn’t want to do that to them. Let them be proud of Mark Gannon’s son, let a version of Arcade exist where his past still holds meaning, still matters. 

He walks back out to the bedroom and, when Tan doesn’t say anything more, takes it upon himself to search the bodies. The investigator has a matchbook with a note saying to meet at the steam room at 4 pm, which they have already unwittingly followed through on, so there’s nothing useful there. Both of the Gloves are dead courtesy of a well-aimed shot to the head, and to Arcade’s delight, one of them has a key that he doesn’t recognize, presumably to the members-only section. 

The duffel was half-kicked under the bed during the fight, so Arcade retrieves it and sets to sorting out their respective White Glove disguises. One of the dead ones in the room is closer to his height, so with a muttered apology and some finagling, he gets him out of his tailcoat and pants and replaces his previous pieces. As long as no one looks at their shoes, the disguises should serve well enough. 

He changes into his disguise and folds away his previous outfit, but before he zips up the duffel, he fishes around in the bottom for Tan’s boot knife. It sits in his hand easily, effortlessly, its handle carved to fit perfectly against his palm. There is something intimate about holding it, something that fills him with the same tingling electricity as though he were holding Tan’s hand. 

He puts it down with Tan’s disguise and shakes out his hand.  Without anything to busy himself with, he feels those jitters creeping back into his fingers and his heart, threatening to spill out through his words, his touches, the set of his jaw. He clears his throat and sits at the edge of the bed, where Tan is still laying with his arm over his eyes, breathing deep. 

“Hey,” he says softly. He reaches up and trails a knuckle over his cheek. “How’re you feeling?”

“Like the crusty underside of a Lakelurk’s asshole,” comes the gravelly reply. Regardless, Tan lowers his arm, though just enough to rub at his eyes with the heel of his palm.  “But we have to do this.”

“I got your disguise ready. Mask and all. One of the goons had this on him,” he brandishes the key, “so we should be good to head right to the kitchens and get to work.” 

Tan nods absentmindedly, seeming more focused on looking Arcade up and down. “Well don’t you dress up nice,” he says, a dopey half-smile settling upon his face. “Told you you didn’t look terrible.”

Arcade stands up and rolls his eyes. “Come on, I’ll help you get dressed.”

Tan laughs through his nose, scooting himself towards the edge of the bed. Arcade helps him sit up, noting where there are still areas of tension or restrained movement in Tan’s motions. Another stimpak later would help speed up recovery, while a dose of med-x would be perfect in getting him through their current predicament. He makes a mental note to keep an eye out, on the off chance the kitchen has drugs. Since the Society kidnaps plenty of people, it’s not like it’s out of the realm of possibility. 

Constantine manages to get his pants on without help, by lying back on the bed and lifting his hips to shimmy them up the rest of the way. The dress shirt doesn’t hinder him either, aside from needing to be tucked in, which Arcade helps with since Tan can’t rotate his shoulder back without pain. To speed things up, Arcade also helps him put on the tailcoat, going so far as to fasten the buttons himself. If Tan notices anything about their reversal of roles, he doesn’t say anything, just wears a little smile and looks up at Arcade with a fondness that makes his heart feel like gelatin. 

After he attempts—and fails—to put his own boots back on, his injured ribs preventing him from leaning over that far, Tan acquiesces to Arcade’s help once more. The left boot is no trouble, and neither is the right, but at the very end, Arcade retrieves the boot knife from its place on the bed, the last piece of Tan’s ensemble. 

He doesn’t say anything as he clips it on to the side of his righgt boot, and rolls down his pant leg to cover the weapon. He doesn’t even look up at Tan as he does so. But he does let his hands linger there, just a second longer, to remind himself that this is as much a part of Tan as those other things he likes—his hair and his honey brown eyes and his full lips. Constantine is his easy smiles and charming jokes and his helpful attitude; he is also his bloodied knuckles and sweat and wild eyes. And all of him is beautiful. 

“Alright,” he says, shaking his head to clear his thoughts lest he accidentally voice them. “Let’s get going.” He helps Tan get to his feet, watches as he gives a few tentative stretches. He packs the gun from the White Glove into the duffel just in case, figuring they’ll come up with some excuse for the bag if pressed, and with that, he and Tan head out into the hallway and lock the hotel room behind them. 

Navigating to the member’s only area is simple: down the stairs just outside their room, through one set of double doors, then another. No one looks twice at them when they enter, even with the duffel bag in tow. Every well-dressed White Glove seems too focused on their own business: wrapping silverware in napkins, polishing a wide array of wine glasses and champagne flutes, sweeping up around the grand dining table in the center of the room.  A few members walk around the room twirling heavy-looking canes, prompting Tan to lean over and whisper, “Those are the same kinds of canes the goons that attacked me had. My guess is they’re security.” 

They maintain a wide berth, though even with the patrolling bouncers, the two make their way over to the bar unmolested, towards a door labeled “STAFF ONLY” in bright red lettering. With nowhere else in the member’s area that could conceivably lead to the kitchen, they go in, passing through a staff locker room and down two sets of stairs until they come upon a long, dark maintenance hallway. Overhead, pipes shudder and hiss, and faint red lights illuminate every door along the hall. In the distance, Arcade can just make out the sounds of flamers, and he grimaces to imagine their purpose.

“Now we just have to find the kitchen,” Tan says, keeping his voice low. “Hopefully we don’t have to try every door. Let’s just look into all the open ones, first.” 

Arcade nods and readjusts the duffel on his shoulder. Tan had made sure to scrounge them each up a pair of relatively clean boots for today, which he couldn’t be more grateful for in this moment; the boots are soft and muffle their footsteps, in sharp contrast to what sounds like the distinct heel click of a pair of dress shoes heading down the hallway in their direction. 

“Tan…” he starts, but Tan just shakes his head. He places a steadying hand on his lower back, leading him to meet the heel clicks head-on. 

Arcade gulps. Trying to stay cool while talking to Marjorie was only possible because Tan’s life was on the line. Now? He just hopes Tan will do most of the talking. 

A masked White Glove rounds a corner and strides purposefully toward them. There is no time to duck into a side room or turn around; Tan just keeps them moving, keeps their pace confident. 

The Glove speeds up to meet them. “You two,” he calls out, voice high pitched and nasally. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Under his mask, Arcade is sweating. He knows better than to say anything, no matter how much he wants to blurt out the first excuse that pops into his head. 

“Hey,” Tan says from next to him. He sounds irritated. “Mortimer sent us to move the kid. Thinks one of his own might betray him,” he adds, elbowing Arcade in the side like they’re sharing some sort of in-joke.

“Uh, yeah,” Arcade adds, trying not to sound nervous. “He interrupted my break for this.” 

The White Glove looks them over, expression unreadable given the mask. The flamers have stopped, so they’re left standing in a silent hallway, the drumming of the pipes above just barely louder than Arcade’s pounding heart. 

Finally, the member sighs. “First he’s too trusting, now he doesn’t trust any of us! It addles the senses. I suppose caution is the desirable course at this point, it’s all of our necks if something goes afoul. Fine. Go ahead and move him, see if I care. It’s your necks if something goes wrong tonight.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tan nods. “Nothing I haven’t heard before.” He starts to walk forward, bringing Arcade with him, which forces the White Glove to step to the side and let them pass. Arcade looks over his shoulder, but the man is already striding down the hall, not even giving them a second thought. 

“Holy shit,” he exhales, only registering now that he had been holding his breath. “It is so much easier when you do all the lying.”

Tan laughs under his breath. “What lie? We’re moving the kid. Mortimer doesn’t trust his followers. Nothing I said was untrue.” Coming up on an open door, he slows down their gait. “That’s the art of it. If you don’t believe what you’re saying, no one else will, either. It’s easier if you don’t have to try to believe it, since it’s true.  Stay here while I peek inside.” 

Arcade blinks. He would have been frozen in place even if Tan hadn’t instructed him to stay put. This whole time, he’d been thinking of Tan, with all of the gaps in his memory, as something unfathomable, deeply unknowable without access to a time machine or some magical cure for grievous brain trauma. Tan lied easily, he lied well, he lied believably—could it truly be so simple? Is the authenticity that Arcade has been so worried about never knowing actually right there on the surface of everything he says and does, rather than being hidden beneath layers of falsehoods? 

God, he feels stupid. 

He needn’t have worried about Tan’s lies or untruths or secrets. He wasn’t worried about them. It’s the ghosts of his own sordid past that haunt him, clad in Tesla armor and speaking in the voice of his father. It isn’t Tan making him uncomfortable in this seventeen-day thing. It isn’t Tan he doesn’t trust. Maybe this whole infatuation isn’t even about Tan, maybe it’s just his own damned obsession with being free from his past. Maybe it’s less about being with Tan, and more about just being him.

“Alright, this way,” Tan whispers, reappearing at his side. He rifles through the duffel bag and pulls out his collared shirt from earlier, quickly shedding his tailcoat and dress shirt while he talks. “We can go around the side. It’s just the chef in there, and I think I’ve figured out a way to get him out of our hair.” He stuffs his disguise back in the bag and sets off.    

Arcade follows him numbly, down the hall and through a wine cellar, hardly paying attention to the rattling pipes and the (now much louder) flamers turning on and off from what sounds like a few doors down. In the kitchen, the lone chef stands at his stove, muttering angrily to himself and completely oblivious to their presence. 

“Just cross your arms and look like you were escorting me,” Tan instructs. “Don’t say anything if you can help it.” And then he stands up, slicks back his hair, and walks right up to the chef. 

“There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you!” he exclaims, wearing a broad smile. “Chef Philippe, if I’m not mistaken?”

Without turning around, the chef laucnhes into a tirade. “What the fuck are you doing down here? Do you think the world waits for you while you stand there drooling? Get out there and get back to work!”

Tan laughs and leans up against one of the counters like he belongs there. “I think you may have me mistaken for someone else, Chef.” 

Philippe whirls on him. “Oh really? So despite your filthy face and your vacant expression and your complete lack of human dignity, you’re telling me you’re not a server?” He looks him up and down, frowning. “And where the fuck’s your uniform?” 

Another laugh. “Chef, Chef. You’ve got it all wrong, I’m here to talk business. I was told you were who I should speak with about putting out a top-tier cookbook, something to change the course of all wasteland cuisine. If I’m wrong though, I’m so sorry for wasting your time—I might have gotten the wrong casino…” Tan shrugs and pushes away from the counter, making to leave. 

“Wait, wait, you mean me? The supreme ruler of the Nevada dining scene? You want me to teach lowlife half-wits to. make food that doesn’t sell burning excrement?” Philippe scoffs and turns back to the stove, poking at some vegetable medley that he’s got on a burner. A moment passes where Tan takes a single step to go, and Philippe clicks off the burner and turns back around. 

“Do you think it would sell?”

Once again, Arcade is grateful for the mask, since it hides his incredulous smile. That’s it. The chef’s done for. 

“Of course! It’ll be huge,” Tan grins. “We’re a major publisher. Here, just while I have you—” he turns on his Pip-boy and flicks over to where he keeps his notes, opening up a new entry. “Do you mind giving me a brief rundown about yourself? Just an introductory statement.”

“Oh please,” Philippe sneers. “I’m the fucking god of New Vegas brahmin cuisine. Wait, no—that doesn’t even cover it. I fucking invented edible food! So for anyone who likes eating? They owe me their entire goddammed garbage existence. Including you,” he adds, gesturing at Arcade in the corner. For a second, Arcade is worried he might have more to add, but he just turns back to Tan. “Will that do?”

Tan taps a few more times on his Pip-boy. “That’s perfect,” he says, really leaning into the praise. “A couple more things before I can really get the rest of the publishing company on board, if you don’t mind. I’ll have to go grab my bag from my escort in just a moment, here, but I have an advance of 100 caps for any recipes you might have on hand? Plus half the gross, of course, once the book is out.”

Philippe seems to take a minute to think, straightening up the counters around him as he does. “Don’t get me wrong,” he says, “I love my job, but they don’t pay me what I’m worth. There’s too many people here skimming off the top.” He spins around, brandishing a notebook. “You’re lucky I’m so well prepared,” he says haughtily, shoving the book at Tan. “Just make sure no one makes any adjustments and we’ll be golden.”

Constantine nods vigorously. He adds another line to the Pip-boy notes, seeming to take this whole thing very seriously. “Last thing, Chef Philippe. We’d love to see how you organize your pantry—with a whole section dedicated to it, you might just revolutionize food storage and preparation.” 

“Oh, ugh, is that what sells these days?” the chef gripes. “Fine, if that’s it. I do still have a dinner to cook, after all.” 

“Of course, of course. After this, I’ll be out of your hair, promise.” Tan follows behind to where Philippe punches in a password on a nearby terminal, opening up the door to the pantry. He steps inside, gesturing to the shelves.

“Some people get real uppity about storing different kinds of meats on the same shelf, but I think it adds flavor. Insect meat has a certain musk to it that really brings out the umami in brahmin steak, so…hey, wait, what are you—” 

By the time he notices Tan tinkering on the terminal, it’s already too late. The door locks heavily in place, two inches of steel doing wonders to drown out the sounds of Philippe’s crazed ranting. 

Tan shoots Arcade a victorious smile. “Let me just finish up what he was cooking and then we can get the kid and get out of here.” He ties back his hair, rolls up his sleeves, and takes the chef’s place at the stove, looking like there’s nowhere else he’d fit in better. 

Arcade takes off his mask and comes to stand at a counter. “Anything I can do to help?”

Tan assesses the state of the kitchen. “Honestly? Not really. Guy had mostly everything done except for the meat, which, according to his notes…” He skims through the notebook, landing on a page called ‘Imitation Sweet Veal.’ “Just requires some brahmin steak that will have been marinating at room temperature for an hour. So that should be this bowl right here. Give that a good sear on each side, let bake for ten minutes, serve mostly raw, and we’re good to go.”

Arcade makes a face. 

“Look, it’s not my recipe,” Tan says. “Guy was off his rocker. If he thinks this is what makes up fancy cuisine, I’m certainly not going to argue. Waste of breath.” 

True to the recipe, it takes Tan roughly fifteen minutes to assemble twelve perfect little meat pies. He cooks the meat more thoroughly than suggested, and even braises the lot to really crisp up the crust, and garnishes them all with some herbs the chef had lying around. The kitchen smells heavenly, and Arcade’s stomach betrays him with a loud grumble. 

Tan chuckles, lining up the last of the pies on a tray for the waiter to pick up. “You’re hungry? After all this?” 

“It’s…been a long day, okay?” Arcade pouts. “And I like your cooking. I thought you said you’d stop teasing?” 

Tan winks at him from over by the intercom. “You’re right, you’re right. What’s that you say—mea culpa? That. Anyway, get your stuff and go stand by that other pantry door, I’ll be picking the lock in a second.” He pushes the button on the intercom, clearing his throat. “Hello? I have tonight’s dinner order ready to be brought out.”

“It is still ten minutes to service. I shall be down at that time. For your sake, the food had best not be cold,” a snobbish voice replies, and the intercom clicks off. 

Tan lets down his hair and procures a bobby pin. Arcade wants to ask him just how many he’s got hidden around his head, but before he can, Tan has the door unlocked and is shoving him into the pantry.. Another door greets them, this time locked with a terminal. Tan taps away at the keys, chewing on his bottom lip in thought. 

“How do you even know how to—”

“Shh! Gimme a minute,” Tan whispers. In less than that, he has the pantry door open, where a kid no older than nineteen stands glaring at them both. 

“My daddy’s gonna kill all you bastards when he finds out what you done to me!” he yells. The cowboy hat he’s wearing looks two sizes too big, as do his boots. No doubt about it, this is Ted Gunderson.

“Calm down!” Tan says, raising his hands up to show he means no harm. “We’re here to get you out. Your dad sent me.”

“My daddy sent you?” Oh geez. Now he sounds on the verge of tears. “Goddammit, I almost died in here. What the hell took you so long? Who did this to me, anyway? They…they hit me over the head before I got a good look at them.” 

Tan glances over to Arcade, shaking his head so slightly that anyone else would have missed it. Anyone who doesn’t stare at Constantine quite so much, that is. 

“I don’t know who did this,” Tan lies. “But we’re going to get you out. I have a plan in place, we just have to wait a few minutes, okay?” 

The kid sniffles. “Okay,” he says, sliding down the wall of the pantry to sit on the floor. Maybe a minute passes with Tan and Arcade listening intently at the door before Ted speaks up again. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. He wipes at his nose. “I’m sorry. I just…really wanted to help Pa out on this business deal, I wanted to do something instead of just taggin’ along and bein’ useless. And I went and messed it up.” 

Tan whips his head around to look at him. “Hey, no,” he says, sinking down to his knees to be level. “That ain’t it at all.” 

“But it is! I just…I just wanted to do Pa proud. He’ll never want to take me anywhere ever again.” 

Something flickers across Tan’s face, something melancholy and thoughtful. It’s the face he makes when he remembers something with no context, no meaning—just memories and emotions bearing down on him like a storm. He sits down fully, placing a hand on Ted’s shoulder for comfort. 

“Hey, Ted. It’s okay, really. I’ll even help talk to your dad, if you’d like. It’s not a bad thing to want to help out, you know?” He takes a deep breath, choosing his next words carefully. “It’s…it’s okay to want to matter to what made you, to mean something to where and who you come from. It’s noble. It’s good, Ted. And we’re going to get you out of here, and your dad will be over the moon to have you back.” 

Arcade’s blood runs cold. “Your father loved you,” he hears in his mother’s voice. “You’re just like him,” he hears in Johnson’s. God, there’s a letter from Daisy burning a hole in his lab coat pocket back at the 38. The death of his father, his exodus from Navarro—they’re just grains of sand to Tan’s vast mountain of loss. His family, his childhood, anyone who ever loved him…hell, his name if it weren’t for the ragged stitching on the brim of his hat. He speaks up before he can think better of it.

“Constantine.” 

Tan pats Ted on his shoulder one more time and braces his elbow on his knees to stand. “Yeah? D’you hear something?”

“I don’t—I don’t need to know where you come from. It’s okay if you don’t know, either. You matter to me.” He cups his face in his hands, looks deep into his warm brown eyes. “You matter to me.”

Tan jolts backwards, but Arcade moves with him, and for the first time since that morning, his mask slips. Really, it’s the first time it’s truly come off at all these past seventeen days. All his charm and confidence, his lopsided smile and playfully raised brow—gone. Arcade can’t remember ever seeing him this off kilter, though, not even when facing down Deathclaws or Super Mutants. His breathing speeds up and his eyes dart to the door, then back to Arcade. He starts to say something, but it dies on his lips. 

For a moment, Arcade worries that he might have misjudged him, might have spoken too fast, too soon, or said the wrong thing entirely. But then Tan surges forward and wraps his arms around him in an embrace so tight it’s as though he’s worried Arcade will evaporate from in front of him. 

“Thank you,” he says, and his voice is so small and scared and hopeful Arcade suddenly can’t bear the thought of letting him go, not when he fits so perfectly in his arms and against his chest, smelling like sweetgrass and cigarettes and blood and new beginnings. 

There is the sound of someone clearing their throat, and both Tan and Arcade jump apart, remembering Ted’s presence in the room.

“Are we, uh…gonna get me back to my Pa now?” he asks awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck.

Tan puts an ear to the door. “Sounds like the coast is clear. Since everyone ought to be at the dinner, the way should be clear, but let me scout ahead to check. When you hear me whistle like this,” he demonstrates a long, low whistle, “follow after me.” 

Arcade and Ted nod in tandem, so Tan gives them both a quick thumbs up and slips out the door. A minute passes, then another, the atmosphere in the pantry growing exponentially more uncomfortable with each one, until finally, a low whistle sounds from the very end of the corridor. 

“Alright, let’s go,” mumbles Arcade, slinging the duffel over his shoulder. “Stay in front of me so I can watch our backs..”

They make it down the hallway without incident, then back up the two sets of stairs and through the staff room, right in time to hear the unmistakable sound of Mortimer giving a speech. 

“…together not as members, but as a family, as a clan. And when Mr. House came to us with his proposal, we accepted, knowing we stood to gain much. Little did we know how much we’d lose in the process.”

Arcade makes sure the door closest silently, then joins Tan and Ted in crouching behind the bar. 

“As a society we’ve endeavored to sample the finest food and drink the world has to offer. But we are living a lie. There is a meat sweeter than the most cornfed livestock. Most of you have tasted it. All of you have coveted it. Among us, it is a crime to discuss a return to the old ways that unified our people! Tonight…that all changes. The taboo ends. Let me finish, Marjorie.” 

Marjorie isn’t the only one tired of Mortimer’s raving. Tan has a hand held up like a puppet, opening and closing its “mouth” in time with Mortimer. Poor Ted has both his hands clamped over his mouth, tearing up while trying not to laugh and break their cover. 

“You don’t know it yet, but you are all now guilty of a greater crime, one that ordinarily bears the harshest of punishments. Surely that you are all guilty warrants not only universal amnesty but also a renewed discussion! For our society to be truly elite, we must dine on the most delicious, the most exlcusive food known to us. And tonight, for the first time as a society, you are sampling that very dish: the meat we are forbidden to taste, the way it was meant to be eaten. Fellow members of the White Glove society…bon appetit.”

Tan had walked out from behind cover at least two sentences ago, leaving Ted and Arcade behind with the instructions of  “on my signal.” He’s managed to waltz up right behind Mortimer, and while the crowd at the table has noticed him and are looking between each other in confusion, Mortimer is none the wiser. 

That is, until Tan starts clapping. 

“Bravo! Bravo. Quite a rousing speech.”

Mortimer turns around so quickly that his top hat wobbles with the effort. “What the—who is this trespasser?”

“Bad news, Mortimer! No one’s eating Heck Gunderson’s kidnapped son tonight. Isn’t that right?” Tan waves over at the bar, motioning for Arcade and Ted to join him. Arcade lets Ted walk out first, and he waves shyly over at the rest of the Society members. They all gasp, and Marjorie has a hand held to her heart like she’s about to faint. 

“What are you…why is he there? Who are we eating right now?” Mortimer hisses. His face is turning a lovely shade of red. 

Constantine leans up against a nearby pillar and shrugs. “Sorry, Morty. Secret recipe. It isn’t human, though, I can tell you that.” 

“No! These are lies! I never kidnapped anyone,” he pleads, sweat beading on his brow.  “A-and even if I did, there’s no harm done. He’s alive, after all!”

Tan shakes his head. “Tsk, tsk, Mortimer. Too late, bud. You’ve already said too much.”

Mortimer looks around at the rest of the dining hall. “You’re all hypocrites,” he spits. “How can you claim to. be connoisseurs, yet deny yourselves the greatest of all meats? I am ashamed to have once called everyone here family.” He’s very clearly backing up towards the exit, gesturing wildly as though it’s any kind of distraction. Arcade glances over at Tan, brow raised as if to ask, are we really just letting him go?

Tan just shakes his head and goes back to puppetting Mortimer’s speech. 

“This isn’t over, though! I’ll begin anew! The White Glove Society will never achieve the greatness of my new order. Yes, you’ll all hear from me again!” With one final flourish, he throws open the double doors, knocking over a set of stanchions, and sprints away through the casino. 

Tan lets out a comically loud sigh. “Phew! Was getting older just listening to him talk.” He strides over to Marjorie and says something only she can hear. She nods quickly, and stands up from where she’s sitting, smoothing over her dress as she does. Tan beckons for Ted and Arcade to walk with them. 

“And in front of all these people, too!” Marjorie is saying, leading them over to a side room full of safe boxes and lockers. “He was always a bit of a pill, Mortimer. He was just so pouty when I decided to ban eating people, and now this. I should have paid more attention to the warning signs, can you just imagine what people would havea said? Why it would have been a complete scandal if it weren’t for you!” 

Tan nods along with her, and Ted seems more lost than anything. Arcade considers reminding the hostess that the pointless loss of human life is more deserving of her lamentations than social scandal, but he knows it would be a wasted effort. 

“Anyway, dear. For your trouble,” she says, and drops Tan’s very same bag of caps into his waiting hands. “And you are of course welcome back any time!” 

“Oh, I’m just glad I could help, ma’am. And, if I may—down in the kitchen you’ll find your very culpable chef, as well as a notebook of all his recipes. Including the delicious imitation meal you had tonight. I figure it’s up to you what to do with him.”

Marjorie clucks and pats Tan on the cheek. “Oh, you sweet thing. Thank you so much for looking out for us,” she croons. “And Teddy, do extend my deepest apologies to your father.”

With that, she gestures towards the exit, and makes her way back to her seat, tapping a fork against a glass to gather the attention of all her gossipping followers. 

“It’s Ted,” Ted grumbles. “Can we finally go see my Pa now?”

Tan tosses the caps over to Arcade. “You got it, Ted. Follow me.” 

Heck Gunderson and his bodyguard are already halfway down the hall when they bump into them all. There is no tearful reunion, just the gruff niceties of a young man trying to look tougher than he is, and a father trying to act less worried than he was. After looking Ted over, Heck claps a hand on Tan’s shoulder in gratitude. 

“You got me my boy back, son. I got no words. Though I hope you didn’t do no harm to the sonofabitch responsible for this. I wanna skin their hide myself,” he growls.  

“The guy who ran out of here, Mortimer? He did it. He had some insane plot cooked up, trying to…uh…cannibalize him.” Tan points towards the exit, a path of knocked over plastic plants and barstools evidence of Mortimer’s hasty escape.

Heck gets a fiery look in his eyes. “Well that does it,” he says, letting go of Tan’s hand so he can ball his own into a fist. “None of them maniacs will ever do business with Heck Gunderson long as they live. Hell, I’ll put me together a damn blockade, hit ‘em where it hurts. They control the food? Well there ain’t gonna be no food. Not for everybody in this whole damn town. It’s a goddamned monument to inhumanity. Let ‘em starve! Biggest favor anyone’s ever done this hellhole.” To put a point to his exclamation, he spits onto the floor. Both Ted and his bodyguard nod in agreement with him, mumbling their affirmations, and Heck claps Ted on the back, going into a lecture about “honest livin.’”

Arcade glances sideways at Tan, who looks to be worrying his bottom lip. “Listen,” he says, voice stern as he crosses his arms. He’s quiet, but forceful enough that he stops Heck and his son’s blustering, forcing both of them to lean in to hear—a testament to Tan’s air of command. 

“That’s just what they’d want. You’d be driving the city to eat each other, Heck. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying you have to do business with the White Gloves, I understand you want to wash your hands of them.” 

Heck starts to speak, but Tan puts up a hand to stop him. 

“Do business with me, instead.”

Arcade blinks. He wasn’t expecting that. 

Heck looks similarly caught off guard, but gathers himself up faster. “I don’t like this place,” he reiterates. “Whole damn Strip, really. Ever since I got here, the stink of it…it’s flooded my nostrils worse than brahmin shit ever could.” The old rancher looks around the hallway, lip curled in disgust, before leveling his gaze at Tan. “But…you got a point. They’re already hell-bent on depraity here, so all I’d be doing is helping them along. Let’s say I decided to take you up on your offer—who are you, to speak on these bastards’ behalf? Hell, anyone’s behalf?”

Tan rolls his lips. “I’m a man who got real lucky,” he says with a nonchalant shrug. “The very spirit of this damned city. Only difference is, I’m in a position to change things. Now, I could go ahead and list the things I’ve done that make the people of this city respect me, could go on and on about my deeds and credentials.” He uncrosses his arms and motions for the duffel bag, and when Arcade passes it to him, he retrieves his pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He takes his time tapping one out and lighting it, as though ignorant of everyone waiting for him to finish his thought. 

After a deep drag, he blows out a cloud of smoke down the hallway, away from where they’re all gathered. “But that won’t matter to you, Heck. You don’t care for this town, so it’d be a waste of your time to hear about how things run here. Only two things should matter to you when it comes to making a decision.” 

He holds up a finger and points at himself. “One: ask anyone running things around here about who I am, and they will all know my name. From the NCR to every casino, all the way down to Freeside.” Then, he points to Ted. “And two. I know I don’t  have to elaborate on two.” 

He stops pointing at Ted and reaches out for a handshake. 

Holy shit. Arcade notices he’s gone slack-jawed and quickly shuts his mouth. Tan’s always been able to charm people out of things—caps, weapons, junk—but it seems he’s graduated to business deals overnight. Unless, that is, this is just another one of those things that he’s always been able to do and never shown his hand until now, or remembered how to do courtesy of a memory. One of those things Arcade remains blissfully unaware of and might have to add to his ever-growing list of “ask Tan about this later.” 

Heck taps his foot and spits on the ground again. “Well, damn, son,” he says, a hint of respect in his tone. “You drive a hard bargain. You brought me my boy back, and I did say I would make it worth your while. What the hey.” He slaps his hand to Tan’s, shaking it vigorously. “You’re cutthroat. That’ll get you far.” 

Tan grins. “I do my best. And listen, don’t worry about nothin’ just yet—I’ll reach out with a representative soon enough. If you ever see a securitron rolling up to your farm someday, just know it’s from me.” 

“Ha! Alright, alright. Hey son, what’s your name? Don’t think I ever caught it.”

“Constantine Becker, sir. It’s a pleasure doing business with you.” 

Heck answers with a toothy smile and a raucous laugh, turning back to Ted to tell him something about how that’s the way to do business if you’re serious. 

Tan starts off down the hall, walking so fast that Arcade half-jogs to keep up. The smile he wore while talking to Heck disappears, replaced by a scowl. 

“Why do you do it, if you don’t mind my asking? Run your business the way you do. You know there was a man out there that wanted me to kill you because you put his farm, his family at risk.”

Arcade freezes. “Uh, Tan, are you sure this is the best time?” 

Neither Tan nor Heck seem to hear. 

Still smiling, Heck turns around. “After what you just saw and did, do you think being gentle would have solved anything? Could you have gotten out of this alive without getting those bloody knuckles, could you have saved an innocent boy without violence? Bein’ cutthroat is the only way to make sure there’s something left of me when I’m gone—something left to the people I care for. Ain’t no one gonna take that from me while I can still fight.” 

Tan doesn’t smile back. He doesn’t say anything back, just nods a curt goodbye and turns again, not stopping until he’s out of the casino and standing at the fountain. The sun dances low on the horizon, and while the Vegas skyline blocks out most of the pretty colors of sunset, a few streaks of purple and gold dance across the rippling surface of the water.  

“What was that?” Arcade asks, coming to a stop next to the courier. 

“Nothing,” Tan says. Arcade knows he’s lying. Nothing, he says—nothing to you, he means. A day ago, it would have driven Arcade out of his mind with worry and frustration. It’s okay if you have to be less than a saint, he would have said. 

Now, he reaches down and takes Tan’s hand. His own doesn’t instantly surge with electricity, doesn’t feel boneless and weak like before. Instead, he feels grounded, like he’s the only solid thing here. All of that sparking and tingling, that floaty weightless nothingness that spreads through his body when he touches Tan, it’s still there—but it doesn’t feel his anymore. No, it feels like it’s coming from Tan, a current flowing out from the storm surging in his head and in his heart, making Arcade feel like he’s the only thing holding him down. If that’s the cost of being so much more than, then Arcade can bear being something solid for him to turn to. 

And he does. Tan turns to him and smiles. He lifts Arcade’s hand to his lips and kisses his knuckles and walks steadily forward back to the Lucky 38, leaving behind the fountain with all of its colors and coins. Arcade casts one last look down into its shimmering waters. 

Pax per bellum, the coin says. Peace through war. 

[chiimeramanticore]

HECK YES FALLOUT NEW VEGAS MENTION ON THE TIMELINE!!!

What's been your favorite mission you've gone through so far? This is one of the few games where I thought the main storyline was just as alluring as the side quests, so I'm interested on getting your take on what has been the most fun/interesting so far. :)

YES I GET TO TELL THIS STORY ok so one of the first things i did after recruiting yes man was check out the ultra luxe cuz i hadnt spent much time there yet and i wanted to be like "haha our honeymoon in vegas, let's go gambling" and we quickly met heck gunderson at the bar who gave us his quest to find his son ted. i start asking around the employees and we learn about the rumors that the white glove society are cannibals, and that there's a detective investigating another disappearance at the hotel. so we go up to his room and hes Dead on the floor

and im like "shit i gotta investigate" and as i approach his body i hear yes man go "a pulled trigger's a happy trigger!" and im like "what the fuck are you doi- YES MAN NO THOSE ARE EMPLOYEES" and now there's 2 white glove guys dead right outside the hotel room too. i knew if yes man killed them they mustve been hostile anyway but im thinking we're gonna get in trouble for this. and then i realized this is the perfect opportunity to do the "take out the guards and steal their clothes for a disguise" trope so

anyway the detective had a note on him saying to meet someone in the steam room at 4, so we go down there and turns out one of the employees/white glove guys we talked to earlier is the person waiting for us! and he tells us that the white gloves used to be cannibals but not anymore, and it's only this one guy mortimer (who we talked to earlier as well) who wants to put humans back on the menu literally lol by tricking everyone into eating ted, the guy who went missing, and only revealing after the meal that theyd eaten human. this guy gave us like 4 different great ideas for messing up the plan but i wanted to sneak in as an employee, swap the meat in the meal out for something else, and then reveal that ted was alive after the chef did his own "reveal" bc that sounds insane

so we go down into the kitchen and . ok so yes man is bad at fitting through doors, he struggles w basically every door we go through lmao. usually it's fine but it didnt take long before he literally got stuck in a wall. and i was like. ok ill come back for you kdfhgk so i continue on and eventually find ted in the freezer waiting to be killed. and im like hey man im here to get you out, let's go

we walk outside of the freezer and immediately run into the chef. this wasnt a cutscene or scripted or anything it was just by chance he happened to walk in then. so im like Okay Time To Go and just BOLT back the way i came, barely caring if ted is even following me. as we start running, i get a notification that yes man is unconscious, meaning there's people trying to kill us, and neither ted nor i have our weapons because you have to hand them over when you enter the casino

we catch up with yes man who wakes up and gets unstuck from the wall. he starts following us back up the stairs and out of the kitchen and he's got laser blaster arms so now he's shooting at every employee that moves. we get out of the kitchen, run through the restaurant, through the casino, and out of the building, all hell breaking loose behind us while we do and yet somehow we all make it out of there barely hurt at all and it's AMAZING. my reputation with the white glove society is now Vilified lmfao. and then i realize ted's dad is still inside the building so we have to go back in LMAO

mr gunderson is understandably very pissed off that the family he's been a huge food provider for wanted to eat his son and says he's going to stop supplying his beef for them BUT with a good speech check (good speech checks are genuinely one of my fav parts abt this game) i convince him not to- saying the cannibalism thing was really only one or two people and that starving the white gloves also means starving the rest of the strip. this improved my reputation not just with the strip, but w the white gloves too, meaning i was able to finish that mission in the clumsiest possible way and Still managed to come out with everyone at least a little grateful for it

genuinely dont know if ill be able to beat this experience in-game, it was SO much fun . also i got to put yes man in the pool

[harmonyckrs]

Day 29 in Twisted Pleasantview: The World Gets Rebooted

THE PREVIOUS DAY

NAME: NOVA VIOLA MEADOW THAYER

LIFE STAGE: ROBOT

STATUS: DUPLICATED. 2/3 FUNCTIONING, 1 MALFUNCTIONED

SPECIAL NOTES: A robot built by Crystal and Lazlo before the takeover of Strangetown, now seized and used for malicious intent

---

Dear Diary,

Just as Puck and I were about to leave, we overheard one of the robots, Meadow, outside. We decided to flee upstairs as she stepped in, before proceeding to tinker with one of the machines as she talked to herself. She was saying a lot of repetitive stuff like how the Day of Domination was going great and how she didn't have to do as much work, but there was one phrase that she would speak in between all of this:

"I miss my dad"

I guess there was probably still some heart in her, but I didn't want to be stuck on the second floor balcony of the Gieke lab so I decided to get some water and throw it down at her. Somehow I managed to hit her, and she started glitching before Puck and I sprinted past her to go outside. The two of us were about to run back towards where Lazlo was being held, but then I felt something hit me in the head and that was the last thing I could remember.

Melody: We did it. Pleasantview is ours.

???: Wonderful. Now I can complete the third stage of my revenge plan...

Melody: To kill Mortimer, that cheating creep who left you for a woman half his age?

???: Yes, to kill Mortimer. You know me so well, Melody. You're far more intelligent than my other daughter...now, to reset all the survivors' memories to the day we took Dina.

Melody: Thank you, Bella. Hearing that means a lot to me...you're like a mom to me. I can barely remember what the face of my real mom looked like since she left...

???: I'm sure they'll come back one day. Now, let's check to see how Pleasantview is doing...

Dear Diary,

Today fucking sucked, like usual.

Dirk was sick today, so I didn't get to see him at school. And when Angela and I came home, I caught Dad sleeping with the maid. Angela didn't believe me when I told her, claiming that I was lying just to tear the family apart, so I doubt Mom will believe me either. Guess I gotta keep it to myself and laugh in their faces later once they see the truth. WE ARE NOT DOING THIS AGAIN

WAKE UP! WE NEED TO SAVE THE WORLD FROM HER GRASP

Angela: Lilith, I'm sorry.

Lilith: (TELL HER TO GO AWAY.) Are you?

Angela: I am. And I know you can't remember anything right now, but I really wish we could be friends again. You remember when Dad used to take us to the park and we'd take turns pushing each other on the swings?

Lilith: (TELL HER TO GO AWAY!) Yeah...Why are you bringing this up?

Angela: I don't know. I'm just trying to distract myself from my thoughts. There's a voice in my head telling me to fight you, but I don't want to. You can hear it too, right?

Lilith: (SHUT UP!) Yeah. It's loud.

Angela: Let's work together to fight it, then.

There's a distant strumming of a guitar in the distance, but nobody is sure where it's coming from...

Lilith: (shut up) That guitar sounds really familiar...

Angela: Yeah! It sounds like...Ripp?

Lilith: Ripp...Reed...

Lilith: (Ripp Grunt and Reed Vandermorgan are the same person...and we've met before!...and we've met so many other people, too!...some of which are no longer with us...)

Lilith: Ripp is using his guitar to distract everyone in Pleasantview...or someone is playing his music from a speaker...

Lilith: (I think he's trying to wake everyone up to save Pleasantview! But there's one last thing we need to do to help him...)

Lilith: Angela, I know how we can save everyone.

Angela: You do?

Lilith: We need to get to the Fairy Realm. There's a man trapped there who's our key for freeing not just Pleasantview, but Strangetown and Veronaville too!

Lazlo: Another day stuck in this hellhole, and the stove just had to catch on fire...

???: Lazlo! We remembered what happened now! We want to apologize!

Lazlo: Huh?...Aktu? Hamza?

Hamza: When we slipped into that coma from resurrecting Nina, our memories came back! We're here to bust you out!

Aktu: And we're really sorry about trapping you here for all this time...and we fully understand if you want us dead.

Lazlo: Oh, you guys! I was never even mad at you! We're all just victims of Crystal...where's Zoya, though? Don't you need her to break the barrier?

Aktu: Yeah, but if we remove our portions, you should be able to break through regardless...it'll take a bit of strength, but we'll help you through it.

Lazlo: ...Oh, the grass feels so nice...and the breeze, too...

Aktu: My power feels...replenished. I feel as though I can whip up a thousand paintings in mere seconds.

Hamza: Same here. I feel much stronger than before...but we should find Zoya before we lose her to Crystal.

Lazlo: Right!...do we even know where she is?

Hamza: No clue. The last thing Aktu and I remembered from the invasion was seeing Brandi and Vidcund, who helped us break out, but...Zoya never granted anyone a wish. She doesn't have anyone.

Lazlo: Vidcund! I have to tell him I'm-

Hamza: Not now! His memories got erased with everyone from Pleasantview. We need to find Zoya first, then stop Crystal once and for all!

???: We want to help!

Hamza: What? Pleasantview children?

Angela: We're teenagers! We enter college in about one semester.

Hamza: Okay, and? What are you two even doing here?

Angela: We want to help you find your friend Zoya and end Crystal Vu's regime.

Aktu: I mean...

Lilith: Think about Brandi and Vidcund. You care about them, don't you? Let us offer you our help.

Lazlo: Let's just bring them along! What's the worst that could happen?

Hamza: ...If you say so, then sure.

THE NEXT DAY

[theshakespeareproject]

Thoughts on King Henry the Sixth Part II Act IV

Okay so it’s been a while. I got addicted to Dimension 20 and forgot how to read. But it’s the first of March, almost the Ides, so I’m back on my Shakespeare kick.

So Act IV opens with a sea battle. It happens almost entirely just off-screen, if only there was a camera panning left or right, you could see the battle, but alas this is a stage. Where we are introduced to… The Captain. No not the guy from How I Met Your Mother, though picturing him as Kyle MacLachlan is fun. He also has this wonderful line:

“The gaudy, blabbing, and remorseful day

Is crept into the bosom of the sea;

And now the loud-howling wolves arouse the jades

That drag the tragic melancholy night”

Which has left all of tumblr poetry shook, scared, and panicking. He’s coming for your gig.

There’s a new(?) character called Walter Whitmore, I kept reading Walter White at first. I ultimately do not care for him.

This whole scene can be summarized really easily: Everyone wants to execute the Duke of Suffolk and the Duke of Suffolk responds “Noooooo.” And then they actually fucking kill him. Legitemately so suprised. 

The best line though, because it will be the perfect band name: “And wedded be you to the hags of hell,” So… teenagers everywhere, feel free to use something from there for your garage band.

Also at some point Julius Caesar is referenced, and that just feels like Shakespeare foreshadowing his career. 

The next scene introduces a ton of characters including: George Bevis (no Butthead), John Holland, Jack Cade (his name just feels villanous), and Dick (Willy Shakespeare I see what you did there). I thought Smith and Dick were like throwing shade towards Jack Cade as he talks. He would say a line, and then the two would turn towards the camera and say some snarky one liner like “A must needs; for beggary is valiant.” But I think, based on later developments, they were actually hyping him up to the audience. 

Later on, while arguing, someone yells out “The first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers.” And it feels so nice to know that Shakespeare is a big fan of Crazy Ex-Girlfriend.

A clerk gets introduced, it’s established that he knows how to write his name, and immediately is ordered to be executed. I think Jack Cade might be an anti-intellectual. 

Despite that, he at one point pulls out an epic moment of pownage. This one guy, Sir Humphrey Stafford, wanders in. He seems to hate Cade because Cade is claiming to be heir to the throne despite being a plasterer. And when Humphrey points that out, Cade responds to “And Adam was a gardener.” Sometimes a good biblical reference is all you need.

What follows is basically a montage. Scene after scene, almost all are sparse in lines and stage directions. In one scene both Stafford’s (there were two!?) die, but in the stage directions introducing the scene. Jace Cade casually tells Dick “You shalt have a license to kill.” Thus revealing that he is James Bond to the audience. 

The Queen wanders in cradling the Duke of Suffolk heads and the King, in his only scene, notices how the Queen is mourning Suffolk more than she will ever morun him. She denies it, I don’t believe her. Also a Messanger says “They call false caterpillars.” I have no idea what it means, but it felt notable.

This random guy Lord Scales appears and says he will send Matthew Gough, Who dies two scene later without saying a line.

In another scene, I hope it was meant to be comedic because I found it hilarious, Jack Cade claims that he should only be called Lord Mortimer, and immediately kills one of his own soilder’s when they run in calling him Jack Cade. 

Finally the Duke of Buckingham comes in, with this guy Clifford. Together they are the ambassador to the King. They offer a pardon if the rebels agree to leave. What follows is this fickleness of the masses, where they will cheer for whoever just spoke, even if it immediately contradicts what they just cheered for. Cade berates them, but Clifford seems to win out by getting the masses to part, with many abandoning Cade. Leading to him fleeing.

The King receives a message from the Duke of York, claiming that the Duke of Somerset is a traitor. It would be a dramatic moment… if it wasn’t read right in front of the Duke of Somerset. Maybe take a quick peak around the room before you speak Mr. Messenger.

The last scene. I kid you not. Is a random character named Alexander Iden killing Jack Cade. This guy, introduced (I think), in this Act, literally leads a massive rebellion that could be its own story, and is killed by a character introduced in this very scene. All because Cade hid on this guy's land. And then, like an idiot, Cade reveals his identity when he was stabbed. Instead of denying this guy the reward for his head. Because Cade is an idiot. The anti-intellectual little fuck. 

[ask-the-scout-siblings]

To all: What are your thoughts about Mortimer, Riley, Nick, and Daisy? Anything that you like and dislike about them?

"Aha! I told you we'd get an ask!

"Wait- We actually did?!-"

"Anyways! To answer your question;"

"Mortimer is a manipulative asshole, the very opposite of his show counterpart. None of us really like him that much, he's way too controlling"

"But, he is good fellow to chat to, sometimes..."

"You CHAT WITH HIM?!?!"

"Mostly during tea time, he offered to have a talk with me in his office, a few minutes after I failed my first test run"

"..So that explains why we cant find you during those times..."

"Dude, you gotta have balls of steel to that-"

"W-What do you guys chat...chat about?"

"...Bri'ish stuff-"

"Moving on!"

"Riley is an obvious one, she's a bitch and a huge jerk, aswell as a very strict teacher. Most of us arent really well liked by her, except for Bonnie"

"She's sort of a me-mentor figure to me, a sadistic and...and twisted one to be exact-"

"Its probably because Im the only one who obeys her co-commands withought protest...and also because Im not...not stupid-"

"What did you say?"

"Nothing!-"

"Tho I will say, she's fun to annoy and pull pranks on"

"Now that I agree"

"Nick is a cold blooded maniac, aswell as an overly dramatic theater kid, probably the least threatening of the Handeemen-"

"He's a pathetic, shitty person, who cant seem to know what true talent is, even if it was displayed RIGHT infront of him!"

"Are you still salty about him ca-calling your...your design utter trash?"

"NO!"

"...maybe-"

"Same thing with Riley, tho, we once teamed up with eachother to pull a big prank on his rival as somekind of revenge shit. But then, he betrayed us right after we get caught. He did let me have some of his stolen spray paint, so I guess he's sort of a cool??"

"I heard a rumor that he was hidding secret portraits in his room, not sure what they are but its apparently something very embarrasing"

"Im hoping its just poorly drawn stickfigure shits or something-"

"What else could it be?"

"You dont want to know"

*Ehem*

"Moving on!"

"Daisy is probably the only Handeemen we like the most, although, her danger mode is also the scariest.."

"Pro tip; Do Not swear anywhere near her, Radley learned the hard way-"

"I can still taste the soap in my mouth..."

*Shudders*

"She's re-real nice, abit...abit of a mother hen, but nice!"

"She taught us how to bake a pie once, but, we were shortly banned from the kitchen when the stove caught on fire-"

"Not my fault no one told me shit about greese fire and water not mixing well!"

"Didnt...didnt Riley taught us about that during one of her ca-classes?"

"Not my fault her classes were too fucking boring for me to give a fuck!"

"And you wonder why she hates you so...so much.."

[harmonyckrs]

Day 22 of Twisted Pleasantview: The Lost Specter

THE PREVIOUS DAY

NAME: OPHELIA (nee Nigmos, Smith) SPECTER

LIFE STAGE: ADULT

STATUS: ALIVE, FUNCTIONAL

SPECIAL NOTES: Wants to befriend one of the Freelancer fairies in order to resurrect her dead husband, Johnny.

---

Dear Diary,

Today I met Ophelia!

She's sweet. A little strange, but nothing more unusual from a Specter. She claimed she developed psychic powers sometime after her husband died and Strangetown got taken over by Dr. Vu, which I assume could be effects of the chip.

Ophelia also told me that Olive, Orpheus and Pascal all had their chips deactivated some time ago because they kept fighting each other. I didn't really think about whether Strangetown members fighting other Strangetown members would cause the chip to deactivate, but if what she's saying is real then it means I have less work to do. I wonder if anything happened to Tank and Vidcund when they were abducted? I guess we can test it and hope that nothing too bad happens lol

I was going to ask her about Lazlo but then I remembered that her chip was probably still active and after what happened with Don I'm not sure if it's a good idea to accidentally cause another disappearance. Who knows what would've happened if it was someone that I actually cared about?

Also on TV, someone had apparently been flying a drone over the Fairy Realm, which looks exactly like Bluewater but with more flowers. Everyone at school watched it for a while, until it switched to the police mentioning that they were doing everything in their power to make sure that Don gets home safely. There was a brief moment of unity within the entire class, as we all booed at the TV until the teacher told us to stop.

After that there was a pre-recorded announcement from Reed Vandermorgan himself, who said that Tom Vandermorgan had disappeared and that he was going to pay whoever was able to bring him back alive a million dollars and a date if the person who found him was a teen like him. Very tempting stuff. Dirk's amazing and all, but this is Reed Vandermorgan we're talking about! The international rockstar superstar! I'm sure he'd understand, right? If he got the opportunity to go out with Reed Vandermorgan I'd probably let him too. I guess I can wait until he's back and ask him then. Don't want to be like Mortimer lol

The broadcast then got hijacked and a man with red hair appeared on screen. He introduced himself as "Dr. Gieke" right before telling us that Bella Goth was alive and that she was out for revenge. Right before he could say anything else though, there was a loud gunshot and he fell on the floor. Naturally we all started panicking and the TV was turned off, and everyone had to take a break to process what had just happened before lessons continued

A man just straight up DIED! And he was just about to give us whereabouts on Bella, too! Like what the heck man! Who knows what else he has? We're never going to find out, are we?

Fuck.

THE NEXT DAY