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mostlysignssomeportents · 7 months ago

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Podcasting “Capitalists Hate Capitalism”

I'm touring my new, nationally bestselling novel The Bezzle! Catch me in Torino (Apr 21) Marin County (Apr 27), Winnipeg (May 2), Calgary (May 3), Vancouver (May 4), and beyond!

This week on my podcast, I read "Capitalists Hate Capitalism," my latest column for Locus Magazine:

https://locusmag.com/2024/03/cory-doctorow-capitalists-hate-capitalism/

What do I mean by "capitalists hate capitalism?" It all comes down to the difference between "profits" and "rents." A capitalist takes capital (money, or the things you can buy with it) and combines it with employees' labor, and generates profits (the capitalist's share) and wages (the workers' share).

Rents, meanwhile, come from owning an asset that capitalists need to generate profits. For example, a landlord who rents a storefront to a coffee shop extracts rent from the capitalist who owns the coffee shop. Meanwhile, the capitalist who owns the cafe extracts profits from the baristas' labor.

Capitalists' founding philosophers like Adam Smith hated rents. Worse: rents were the most important source of income at the time of capitalism's founding. Feudal lords owned great swathes of land, and there were armies of serfs who were bound to that land – it was illegal for them to leave it. The serfs owed rent to lords, and so they worked the land in order grow crops and raise livestock that they handed over the to lord as rent for the land they weren't allowed to leave.

Capitalists, meanwhile, wanted to turn that land into grazing territory for sheep as a source of wool for the "dark, Satanic mills" of the industrial revolution. They wanted the serfs to be kicked off their land so that they would become "free labor" that could be hired to work in those factories.

For the founders of capitalism, a "free market" wasn't free from regulation, it was free from rents, and "free labor" came from workers who were free to leave the estates where they were born – but also free to starve unless they took a job with the capitalists.

For capitalism's philosophers, free markets and free labor weren't just a source of profits, they were also a source of virtue. Capitalists – unlike lords – had to worry about competition from one another. They had to make better goods at lower prices, lest their customers take their business elsewhere; and they had to offer higher pay and better conditions, lest their "free labor" take a job elsewhere.

This means that capitalists are haunted by the fear of losing everything, and that fear acts as a goad, driving them to find ways to make everything better for everyone: better, cheaper products that benefit shoppers; and better-paid, safer jobs that benefit workers. For Smith, capitalism is alchemy, a philosopher's stone that transforms the base metal of greed into the gold of public spiritedness.

By contrast, rentiers are insulated from competition. Their workers are bound to the land, and must toil to pay the rent no matter whether they are treated well or abused. The rent rolls in reliably, without the lord having to invest in new, better ways to bring in the harvest. It's a good life (for the lord).

Think of that coffee-shop again: if a better cafe opens across the street, the owner can lose it all, as their customers and workers switch allegiance. But for the landlord, the failure of his capitalist tenant is a feature, not a bug. Once the cafe goes bust, the landlord gets a newly vacant storefront on the same block as the hot new coffee shop that can be rented out at even higher rates to another capitalist who tries his luck.

The industrial revolution wasn't just the triumph of automation over craft processes, nor the triumph of factory owners over weavers. It was also the triumph of profits over rents. The transformation of hereditary estates worked by serfs into part of the supply chain for textile mills was attended by – and contributed to – the political ascendancy of capitalists over rentiers.

Now, obviously, capitalism didn't end rents – just as feudalism didn't require the total absence of profits. Under feudalism, capitalists still extracted profits from capital and labor; and under capitalism, rentiers still extracted rents from assets that capitalists and workers paid them to use.

The difference comes in the way that conflicts between profits and rents were resolved. Feudalism is a system where rents triumph over profits, and capitalism is a system where profits triumph over rents.

It's conflict that tells you what really matters. You love your family, but they drive you crazy. If you side with your family over your friends – even when your friends might be right and your family's probably wrong – then you value your family more than your friends. That doesn't mean you don't value your friends – it means that you value them less than your family.

Conflict is a reliable way to know whether or not you're a leftist. As Steven Brust says, the way to distinguish a leftist is to ask "What's more important, human rights, or property rights?" If you answer "Property rights are human right," you're not a leftist. Leftists don't necessarily oppose all property rights – they just think they're less important than human rights.

Think of conflicts between property rights and human rights: the grocer who deliberately renders leftover food inedible before putting it in the dumpster to ensure that hungry people can't eat it, or the landlord who keeps an apartment empty while a homeless person freezes to death on its doorstep. You don't have to say "No one can own food or a home" to say, "in these cases, property rights are interfering with human rights, so they should be overridden." For leftists property rights can be a means to human rights (like revolutionary land reformers who give peasants title to the lands they work), but where property rights interfere with human rights, they are set aside.

In his 2023 book Technofeudalism, Yanis Varoufakis claims that capitalism has given way to a new feudalism – that capitalism was a transitional phase between feudalism…and feudalism:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/28/cloudalists/#cloud-capital

Varoufakis's point isn't that capitalists have gone extinct. Rather, it's that today, conflicts between capital and assets – between rents and profits – reliably end with a victory of rent over profit.

Think of Amazon: the "everything store" appears to be a vast bazaar, a flea-market whose stalls are all operated by independent capitalists who decide what to sell, how to price it, and then compete to tempt shoppers. In reality, though, the whole system is owned by a single feudalist, who extracts 51% from every dollar those merchants take in, and decides who can sell, and what they can sell, and at what price, and whether anyone can even see it:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/03/01/managerial-discretion/#junk-fees

Or consider the patent trolls of the Eastern District of Texas. These "companies" are invisible and produce nothing. They consist solely of a serviced mailbox in a dusty, uninhabited office-building, and an overbroad patent (say, a patent on "tapping on a screen with your finger") issued by the US Patent and Trademark Office. These companies extract hundreds of millions of dollars from Apple, Google, Samsung for violating these patents. In other words, the government steps in and takes vast profits generated through productive activity by companies that make phones, and turns that money over as rent paid to unproductive companies whose sole "product" is lawsuits. It's the triumph of rent over profit.

Capitalists hate capitalism. All capitalists would rather extract rents than profits, because rents are insulated from competition. The merchants who sell on Jeff Bezos's Amazon (or open a cafe in a landlord's storefront, or license a foolish smartphone patent) bear all the risk. The landlords – of Amazon, the storefront, or the patent – get paid whether or not that risk pays off.

This is why Google, Apple and Samsung also have vast digital estates that they rent out to capitalists – everything from app stores to patent portfolios. They would much rather be in the business of renting things out to capitalists than competing with capitalists.

Hence that famous Adam Smith quote: "People of the same trade seldom meet together, even for merriment and diversion, but the conversation ends in a conspiracy against the public, or in some contrivance to raise prices." This is literally what Google and Meta do:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jedi_Blue

And it's what Apple and Google do:

https://www.theverge.com/2023/10/27/23934961/google-antitrust-trial-defaults-search-deal-26-3-billion

Why compete with one another when you can collude, like feudal lords with adjacent estates who trust one another to return any serf they catch trying to sneak away in the dead of night?

Because of course, it's not just "free markets" that have been captured by rents ("Competition is for losers" -P. Thiel) – it's also "free labor." For years, the largest tech and entertainment companies in America illegally colluded on a "no poach" agreement not to hire one-anothers' employees:

https://techcrunch.com/2015/09/03/apple-google-other-silicon-valley-tech-giants-ordered-to-pay-415m-in-no-poaching-suit/

These companies were bitter competitors – as were these sectors. Even as Big Content was lobbying for farcical copyright law expansions and vowing to capture Big Tech, all these companies on both sides were able to set aside their differences and collude to bind their free workers to their estates and end the "wasteful competition" to secure their labor.

Of course, this is even more pronounced at the bottom of the labor market, where noncompete "agreements" are the norm. The median American worker bound by a noncompete is a fast-food worker whose employer can wield the power of the state to prevent that worker from leaving behind the Wendy's cash-register to make $0.25/hour more at the McDonald's fry trap across the street:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/02/02/its-the-economy-stupid/#neofeudal

Employers defend this as necessary to secure their investment in training their workers and to ensure the integrity of their trade secrets. But why should their investments be protected? Capitalism is about risk, and the fear that accompanies risk – fear that drives capitalists to innovate, which creates the public benefit that is the moral justification for capitalism.

Capitalists hate capitalism. They don't want free labor – they want labor bound to the land. Capitalists benefit from free labor: if you have a better company, you can tempt away the best workers and cause your inferior rival to fail. But feudalists benefit from un-free labor, from tricks like "bondage fees" that force workers to pay in order to quit their jobs:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/21/bondage-fees/#doorman-building

Companies like Petsmart use "training repayment agreement provisions" (TRAPs) to keep low-waged workers from leaving for better employers. Petsmart says it costs $5,500 to train a pet-groomer, and if that worker is fired, laid off, or quits less than two years, they have to pay that amount to Petsmart:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/08/04/its-a-trap/#a-little-on-the-nose

Now, Petsmart is full of shit here. The "four-week training course" Petsmart claims is worth $5,500 actually only lasts for three weeks. What's more, the "training" consists of sweeping the floor and doing other low-level chores for three weeks, without pay.

But even if Petsmart were to give $5,500 worth of training to every pet-groomer, this would still be bullshit. Why should the worker bear the risk of Petsmart making a bad investment in their training? Under capitalism, risks justify rewards. Petsmart's argument for charging $50 to groom your dog and paying the groomer $15 for the job is that they took $35 worth of risk. But some of that risk is being borne by the worker – they're the ones footing the bill for the training.

For Petsmart – as for all feudalists – a worker (with all the attendant risks) can be turned into an asset, something that isn't subject to competition. Petsmart doesn't have to retain workers through superior pay and conditions – they can use the state's contract-enforcement mechanism instead.

Capitalists hate capitalism, but they love feudalism. Sure, they dress this up by claiming that governmental de-risking spurs investment: "Who would pay to train a pet-groomer if that worker could walk out the next day and shave dogs for some competing shop?"

But this is obvious nonsense. Think of Silicon Valley: high tech is the most "IP-intensive" of all industries, the sector that has had to compete most fiercely for skilled labor. And yet, Silicon Valley is in California, where noncompetes are illegal. Every single successful Silicon Valley company has thrived in an environment in which their skilled workers can walk out the door at any time and take a job with a rival company.

There's no indication that the risk of free labor prevents investment. Think of AI, the biggest investment bubble in human history. All the major AI companies are in jurisdictions where noncompetes are illegal. Anthropic – OpenAI's most serious competitor – was founded by a sister/brother team who quit senior roles at OpenAI and founded a direct competitor. No one can claim with a straight face that OpenAI is now unable to raise capital on favorable terms.

What's more, when OpenAI founder Sam Altman was forced out by his board, Microsoft offered to hire him – and 700 other OpenAI personnel – to found an OpenAI competitor. When Altman returned to the company, Microsoft invested more money in OpenAI, despite their intimate understanding that anyone could hire away the company's founder and all of its top technical staff at any time.

The idea that the departure of the Burger King trade secrets locked up in its workers' heads constitute more of a risk to the ability to operate a hamburger restaurant than the departure of the entire technical staff of OpenAI is obvious nonsense. Noncompetes aren't a way to make it possible to run a business – they're a way to make it easy to run a business, by eliminating competition and pushing the risk onto employees.

Because capitalists hate capitalism. And who can blame them? Who wouldn't prefer a life with less risk to one where you have to constantly look over your shoulder for competitors who've found a way to make a superior offer to your customers and workers?

This is why businesses are so excited about securing "IP" – that is, a government-backed right to control your workers, customers, competitors or critics:

https://locusmag.com/2020/09/cory-doctorow-ip/

The argument for every IP right expansion is the same: "Who would invest in creating something new without the assurance that someone else wouldn’t copy and improve on it and put them out of business?"

That was the argument raised five years ago, during the (mercifully brief) mania for genre writers seeking trademarks on common tropes. There was the romance writer who got a trademark on the word "cocky" in book titles:

https://www.theverge.com/2018/7/16/17566276/cockygate-amazon-kindle-unlimited-algorithm-self-published-romance-novel-cabal

And the fantasy writer who wanted a trademark on "dragon slayer" in fantasy novel titles:

https://memex.craphound.com/2018/06/14/son-of-cocky-a-writer-is-trying-to-trademark-dragon-slayer-for-fantasy-novels/

Who subsequently sought a trademark on any book cover featuring a person holding a weapon:

https://memex.craphound.com/2018/07/19/trademark-troll-who-claims-to-own-dragon-slayer-now-wants-exclusive-rights-to-book-covers-where-someone-is-holding-a-weapon/

For these would-be rentiers, the logic was the same: "Why would I write a book about a dragon-slayer if I could lose readers to someone else who writes a book about dragon-slayers?"

In these cases, the USPTO denied or rescinded its trademarks. Profits triumphed over rents. But increasingly, rents are triumphing over profits, and rent-extraction is celebrated as "smart business," while profits are for suckers, only slightly preferable to "wages" (the worst way to get paid under both capitalism and feudalism).

That's what's behind all the talk about "passive income" – that's just a euphemism for "rent." It's what Douglas Rushkoff is referring to in Survival of the Richest when he talks about the wealthy wanting to "go meta":

https://pluralistic.net/2022/09/13/collapse-porn/#collapse-porn

Don't drive a cab – go meta and buy a medallion. Don't buy a medallion, go meta and found Uber. Don't found Uber, go meta and invest in Uber. Don't invest in Uber, go meta and buy options on Uber stock. Don't buy Uber stock options, go meta and buy derivatives of options on Uber stock.

"Going meta" means distancing yourself from capitalism – from income derived from profits, from competition, from risk – and cozying up to feudalism.

Capitalists have always hated capitalism. The owners of the dark Satanic mills wanted peasants turned off the land and converted into "free labor" – but they also kidnapped Napoleonic war-orphans and indentured them to ten-year terms of service, which was all you could get out of a child's body before it was ruined for further work:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/26/enochs-hammer/#thats-fronkonsteen

When Varoufakis says we've entered a new feudal age, he doesn't mean that we've abolished capitalism. He means that – for the first time in centuries – when rents go to war against profits – the rents almost always emerge victorious.

Here's the podcast episode:

https://craphound.com/news/2024/04/14/capitalists-hate-capitalism/

Here's a direct link to the MP3 (hosting courtesy of the Internet Archive; they'll host your stuff for free, forever):

https://archive.org/download/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_465/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_465_-_Capitalists_Hate_Capitalism.mp3

And here's the RSS feed for my podcast:

http://feeds.feedburner.com/doctorow_podcast

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/18/in-extremis-veritas/#the-winnah

#pluralistic #technofeudalism #yanis varoufakis #rents #profits #economics #podcasts #locus magazine #mp3s

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honeytonedhottie · 1 year ago

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educate urself໒꒱ ⋆ﾟ⊹ ʚɞ 🎧

the world is constantly changing. don’t be ignorant, please educate urself. we should be well informed and well educated not just for the good of others but for our own good.

here r some tips i got from another post to start off that i’ll link here : https://www.tumblr.com/csuitebitches/703658775314399232/on-becoming-well-read?source=share

read 3 academic articles a month

read the news everyday

if reading isn’t ur thing, watch TED talks on youtube, or listen to podcasts

some interesting topics to educate urself in :

the history of the country u live in or the country that u are from

basic international history

classical literature

architecture basics

prominent CEOS, politicians and families in ur country

industries that are becoming popular

messages - pressure points

jewelry - precious stones and metals

real estate

economics

philosophy

different belief systems and religions

music

also surround urself with people that u can learn from and sharpen from. bcuz who u surround urself with matters so at least surround urself with people who can help to further educate you.

#self care #self concept #it girl #becoming that girl #self love #that girl #self discipline #dream girl #it girl energy #self improvement #educate yourself #dont be ignorant

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holyprincenerd · 1 year ago

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yes yes rigged this cha cha that but please let’s not ignore this right now:

https://www.aftonbladet.se/podcasts/ab/episode/355975 Swedish “eurovision expert” Tobbe Ek (for those of you who aren’t Swedish, this is the same guy who accused Måneskin of doing coke on live tv back in 2021) and his posse of minions decided that it was time to spread some absolutely hateful rhetoric against the people of Finland by calling them shitty, idiotic, telling them they should be ashamed of not voting for Sweden (??? literally what???) etc etc, while also dragging in other contestants like Lord of the Lost and insulting them as a means of questioning why the Finnish public voted for them but not for Sweden. (You know. Because it totally doesn’t make any sense at all that a country known for having the most metal bands per capita in the world would vote for Lord of the Lost. Not at all.)

As the cherry on top of this xenophobic shit cake, they started to go on about how “There’s no way there were ten contestants who were better than Sweden this year.” (Again. Not only disrespecting the other contestants, but them pretending not to grasp the concept of a country known for preferring heavier music choosing to vote mostly for bands this year... Yeah... Couldn’t be their preferences...)

Again, this man is considered a Eurovision expert here in Sweden, yet this is the type of behaviour he and his coworkers display over a nonissue like the Finnish public not voting for Sweden this year. If there’s something shameful here, it’s this.

To reiterate: These are three grown-ass well past 40-year old people having a genuine meltdown over one (1) singular country not voting for them.

Why are we giving Tobbe Ek (and his irrelevant coworkers) a platform, again?

EDIT:

Hoo boy, there’s more. Because of course there is.

ALRIGHT here’s an article from one of our tabloids using quite suspiciously colonialistic sounding rhetoric about Finland being “the kingdom’s previous eastern half”.

https://www.expressen.se/noje/finska-sveket-mot-sverige-gav-noll-poang-efter-uppmaningen-rosta-taktiskt/

The specific quote in Swedish: “Tv-tittarna i tidigare östra rikshalvan gav nämligen Sverige noll(!) poäng under Eurovisionfinalen på lördagen.”

Translation: “TV viewers in [our] kingdom’s previous eastern half gave namely zero(!) points to Sweden during the Eurovision finale on Saturday.”

Yeah, Johan Bratell (the writer of the article) is technically not wrong about Finland having been a part of Sweden. But why bring this up now? This was so clearly meant as a condescending insult.

The article also talks about a throwaway comment that the Finnish commentator Mikko Silvennoinen made about tactical voting (or more specifically, an anonymous comment he read out loud about tactical voting). From my understanding this was a joke reference to the previous elections which took place recently in Finland and forced a portion of the Finnish public to vote tactically as an attempt to block a far-right party from getting into the parliament. It’s embarrassing how much these people are reaching.

And even if they were voting tactically, so what? Sweden won. Why are we so focused on the public vote of one (1) country, Jesus Christ this is embarrassing.

EDIT 2: WHY THIS MATTERS. A LOT.

For those of you who are not in the know about Swedish politics, these statements are reflecting some far-right political views that have their roots all the way back in the times when Sweden ruled over Finland. In recent memory, our far-right political party Sverigedemokraterna claimed that the Swedish minority group Tornedalians are not Swedish, because they may speak local dialects that blend Finnish into Swedish, or speak the minority language Meänkieli. Coincidentally, Meänkieli just so happens to be a minority language that blends Finnish and Swedish, as it is mostly spoken by people who live by the Torneå river, i.e. the Finnish-Swedish border. Here’s an article about this controversy (however you may not be able to read it unless you’re subscribed to said newspaper): https://www.dn.se/asikt/orimligt-att-tornedalingar-inte-skulle-vara-svenskar/?fbclid=IwAR33K_UVRhXlJhyPd3gY7GDXN_lotUdrtM1AeL-nRzWE26Tmq5BFE0lIUzw

Sverigedemokraterna also believe that the Swedish minority group of Sweden Finns should essentially cut their ties to their Finnish roots and that they should not be able to be citizens of both Finland and Sweden. https://aip.nu/sverigedemokraterna-och-de-dubbla-medborgarskapen/

This sort of rhetoric is ridiculously common here, and in situations like the ones that have occurred in light of the ESC, they almost never get called out. Because it’s common. Because it’s okay to call Finnish people names and to use colonial rhetoric against all Finns, both those who live in Finland and those who live in Sweden. Because this is “friendly banter.” Mind you, as someone who technically belongs to both of the aforementioned minority groups I’m completely fine with the actually friendly banter and piss taking that we usually partake in, because it is just that. Friendly. But this is not it. This is actually harmful. I have never seen so many Swedish people attacking Finns on social media as I’ve seen these past few days. The usual colonialistic and fennophobic insults have started to rear their ugly heads: People have started to insult the Finnish language (a fennophobic sentiment that goes way back to the days when Finland was under Swedish rule and the Swedish tried to get rid of the language), they have started to insult the way Finns look (goes back to fennophobic rhetoric of Finns essentially not being “white enough”), etcetera. For more information on how the Swedish government treated the Sweden Finns and Tornedalians (the fact that they tried to abolish both the Meänkieli language and the Finnish language from Sweden and have even done skull measurements as an attempt to prove that these minority groups are not equal to Swedes), here’s another article: https://www.svt.se/nyheter/lokalt/norrbotten/regeringen-tillsatter-sanningskommission

For those of you who speak Finnish and are interested in the topic, the book Kansankodin pimeämpi puoli by Tapio Tamminen goes into both issues, with photographic evidence of skull measurement incidents among other things. Meanwhile, the Finnish media is mostly just reporting on the tomfoolery of these “journalists.” Sure, there are a lot of Finns who are acting out as well and spreading hateful rhetoric against Swedes, but the difference here is that one group is punching up, while the other is punching down.

Whether Tobbe Ek, Jenny Ågren, Markus Larsson and Johan Bratell meant to cause this does not matter. They’ve still done it, in the case of the former group, they’ve even dragged other Europeans (and Australians!) into this mess.

They’ve gone ahead and spread fennophobic rhetoric on huge platforms: Sweden’s biggest national tabloids. They should be held accountable for this.

To reiterate: ALL THIS OVER THE FINNISH PUBLIC “NOT VOTING FOR SWEDEN” DURING THE EUROVISION SONG CONTEST OF 2023.

Edit 3: Just in case we need a bit of clarification:

I know this whole post may come across quite negatively. So let me make this clear: There is an issue with the Swedish culture and its normalisation of fennophobia, however, that doesn’t mean every Swede is maliciously fennophobic. It’s literally just so normalised here, that sometimes people don’t even notice when they’re partaking in it, and because of said normalisation, for many these fennophobic and colonialist insults have become a sort of knee jerk reaction to when there’s “actual beef” with Finland. (Which, obviously, is a fucking problem, because look who has to bear the brunt of that.)

Moreover, many Swedes aren’t even familiar with their shared history with Finland, and the discrimination Finland was put through during the Swedish rule (not to mention the discrimination the Sweden Finns and Tornedalians have had to face and still face). That part of our shared history simply isn’t taught in schools here, so a regular person would have to know to go out and look for the information. Heck, the only reason I’m aware of this is because at the end of the day, despite having been born and raised in Sweden, I am ethnically Finnish, and grew up by the border with very strong ties to the Finnish culture because of it. But less about me, and more about this issue. Most Swedes (and Swedish journalists who have any sort of sense in them and who work for respectable publications) have expressed their dissatisfaction with this years results as well. There’s a reason Cha Cha Cha is charting so well on Swedish Spotify. There’s a reason for why the Swedish jury and the public gave Finland 12 points.

So, Tl;dr:

1. Swedish tabloids are trash.

2. We have an undeniable problem with how normalised fennophobia is here, and it’s absolutely bizarre that this is how it’s getting exposed.

3. Most regular Swedes aren’t happy with this either, and are in fact not Finland’s and the Finnish people’s greatest haters in the world.

4. Tobbe Ek should get fired. At the bare minimun, he and his coworkers should probably issue some sort of apology for spreading this, seeing how it is actually hurting a lot of people.

Anyway, please don’t hate on the Swedes because of this lol, think about what Jere from Vantaa would think about that. 💚

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zepskies · 2 months ago

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Lost on You - Part 10

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x F. Supe!Reader

Summary: 1983 is a big year for you. You’re finally chosen to join the ranks of Payback, led by the most (in)famous supe in the world: Soldier Boy. He’ll never admit that he’s trying his damndest to figure you out. You’ll never admit that he’s actually growing on you. But the problem with this game is deciding who’s the predator, and who is prey.

AN: And we’re back! In today’s episode, we have a very special guest. 😉

Also, just so you guys know, my podcast interview with the Idling in the Impala podcast is now live! For all the timestamps of key moments, fic recs, and SPN writer shoutouts, see this post (you'll find the link to the video there too).

Song Inspo: “Wicked Game” by Chris Isaak

Word Count: 6.5K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! Smut, angst, drug use, PTSD, violence, and another big reveal…

🎵 YouTube Playlist || Spotify Playlist

🎙️ Series Masterlist

Part 10: I Need a Hero

Revenge could wait for one more day.

It all can wait, Ben thought. Despite how vehement he was yesterday, today, he was reminded of how good it felt to sleep in a warm bed with a beautiful woman.

He laid there behind you, on his side. He’d woken up to the sound of music somewhere downstairs, maybe in the dining room.

What time is it? It was hard to remember to keep track of that now, even with the digital clock on the nightstand. It was only midnight, but to his body, it felt like morning.

You were dead asleep. Occasionally you let out soft hums, and other semi-arousing sounds. His lips tugged upward.

Still moans in her sleep.

He drew down the comforter and sheets slowly from your back. He was greeted by smooth skin, except where some marks had been made permanent. His fingers traced carefully over a rough, scarred patch of skin above your hip, as if you had been tased there repeatedly.

His jaw clenched. He could still remember the sounds he used to hear—your screams through the walls of the compound. He remembered when you eventually stopped begging for it all to stop.

“You’re saying this is my fucking fault?!” he said. “Yes! It is your fault. Because you’re too much of a mean, callous, arrogant, entitled, selfish, fucking asshole to see that everybody hates you!” you spat.

For so long after that day, he hated you. He told himself that he didn’t give a shit about whatever was happening to you, because you clearly didn’t give a shit about him.

But the long months wore on to longer years, alone in the dark. Too often, your words would rattle through his head, reach through his chest with ragged claws. No matter how much he fought it, all he had time to do when he was alone, was think.

He vacillated between stubborn, angry indignation, and rethinking every interaction he had with you, with Countess, the rest of the team, and beyond. Slowly, he allowed himself to retrace his steps. If only in his mind, he began to regret certain things…at least where it came to you.

Ignoring you was both harder and easier, since he couldn’t see you.

That all changed a few days ago.

Eisenstein returned to his cell, but this time he wasn’t alone. Two guards held you bound and gagged. You were just as shocked to see him as he was you.

It felt like he was suspended in time.

He saw the signs of aging in your face, but it didn’t matter. Even now, you were beautiful.

The spell of it broke when they threw you down onto the metal table usually reserved for him. He saw now that they had you in a straitjacket to keep your hands covered. The anger built inside him, almost incandescent in his veins.

“What the fuck is this?”

The doctor held a glass syringe in his gloved hand. He drew closer to you with slow, measured steps.

A realization soon dawned on Ben, no matter how much he didn’t want to admit it. He saw your terror, the way you wordlessly pleaded with him, asking for help with your eyes.

Part of him still hated you, but he couldn’t take it. He wouldn’t allow this sick bastard to hurt you again. Not right the fuck in front of him.

You were still his.

His hand traveled down your bare shoulder, over the gentle slope of your side, and down the curve of your hip under the covers. You shifted and hummed, edging toward wakefulness. Ben settled in from behind, protectively embracing his body around yours in a perfect fit. He began kissing along your neck, slowly.

“Hmmm I’m sleeping,” you said, keeping your eyes closed. He smirked. His lips became more insistent, along with his hand spanning your thigh.

“Wake up, then,” he said. He teased the shell of your ear with his tongue, dragged your earlobe between his teeth. You shivered.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” you retorted, smiling.

Ben huffed. “Yeah, keep being a fucking brat. That’ll get me to stop.”

His beard rasped against your skin as his lips found a path down the column of your throat. Acquiescing to open your eyes, you sighed, tilting your head back to give him more room. Meanwhile, his cock pressed insistently against your ass.

You smirked and shifted your hips, grinding back against him. “Maybe I like working you up.”

“Oh yeah?” He moved your thigh over his to spread your legs for him. There the warm, blunt tip of his cock pressed at your entrance, nudging you open with shallow thrusts. You moaned in response, reaching back to slip a hand in his hair.

You were a wanton little thing, he thought, even as he reached around to bury his fingers in your pussy. Already finding wetness between your folds, he gathered some of it and rolled your clit smoothly between his fingers. You gasped his name, your hips bearing down against him.

He took the opportunity to sheathe himself all the way inside you, until his hips were snug against your ass. You made a sound of pleasure that had his balls clenching on reflex. Your voice was a curse, even without your powers.

For once, he fucked into you slowly, with long, unhurried strokes that still managed to rock the bed. Ben was surprised the frame and springs hadn’t given up yet.

“You’re fucking mine, you hear me?” he said, close to your ear. He punctuated his words with deeper thrusts. “Say you understand.”

“Yes,” you agreed on a gasp.

“Yes, what?” He laid more tantalizing kisses along your neck and jawline. “Tell me.”

“I’m yours,” you said, in a coarse whisper. Ben claimed your lips in a kiss, before he kept moving inside you in languid strokes.

You were a moaning mess, your eyes squeezed shut. You grabbed at your breasts and kneaded them yourself, rolling and pinching your nipples. He strummed more insistently on your clit, until he felt your inner walls finally start to throb around him.

Your orgasm hit you in a slow, long wave as you pressed your face into your pillow. And you clenched so impossibly tight on his cock, it triggered his release as well. His arm curled around your middle and pressed you tight against him as he uttered a sharp grunt. He finished hot inside you, panting heavily into your neck afterward.

“Well, good morning,” you quipped, despite trying to catch your breath as well.

Ben’s hazy reverie broke into a chuckle. He dropped a lingering kiss onto your shoulder.

“It’s the middle of the night,” he corrected.

You shrugged. “Whatever.”

When he pulled out of you, you shivered a little. He rolled onto his back, and regardless of the mess in the sheets, you turned over to rest your elbow on his pillow, leaning over him.

“I should probably tell you something,” you said.

He eyed you in suspicion. “What now?”

You smiled and laid a hand on his chest, dragging your nails through the fuzz there.

“My family’s from Brooklyn, not a small town in Indiana,” you confessed. "Made it up to make me seem more...down to earth. Doe-eyed and likeable."

Ben’s brows shot up. He took a moment to process that information, then he shook his head.

“Fucking figures.” His arm lowered to curl around your lower back, caging you against him.

“I grew up in a brownstone that we had to share with two other families,” you said.

“So you were broke.”

“Yep. When I was born, my family spent all their savings to contract with Vought, to give me Compound V,” you explained. “Their plan was something like, if I became a famous superhero one day, I’d bring us out of our shitty life.”

Ben sighed, shaking his head. “So they pimped you out to Vought.”

“Essentially,” you said. You paused. He could see it was difficult for you, but you talked more about your life—the expectations from your parents, the training, the grueling schedules and the robbing of your childhood.

“When my mom died, I…I realized just how much they took from me,” you said, gazing up at him. “Isn’t that horrible?”

Again, Ben shook his head. His hand had been caressing up and down your back, but it stopped now. Part of him was still reluctant, but he told you about the biggest lie of his life. That he hadn’t grown up poor or struggling. That his father practically owned half of Pennsylvania, and Ben had been a spoiled rich kid. He’d also gotten kicked out of boarding school after starting a fight.

“My father said I wasn’t worthy of his name,” he said, with a wry turn of his lips. “So I went out, talked to some of his golf buddies in the War department, and got myself into the Vought program. I became Soldier Boy.”

You listened with rapt attention. Not interrupting him, just giving him the time he needed to find his words.

“When I came home after the war, my mother was just as proud as she’d ever been,” he recounted. But he didn’t smile. “My father took a good look at me, maybe for the first time in my life. And you know what he said?”

You gave him a questioning look, silently prodding.

“He said I took a short cut. ‘A real man wouldn’t have cheated,’” he said.

When he eventually met your gaze, you at least didn’t look pitying. Just understanding.

“I guess we both have daddy issues, huh?” you said.

Ben shook his head. Then he eyed you. “You don’t look that surprised by all this.”

You smiled, a little sheepish. You stroked your thumb across his chin.

“I can sense when a man is lying to me, remember?” you said pointedly. “I clocked you a long time ago, pal. Mostly any time you told some fake war story... You didn't fight in the war, did you?”

He frowned in offence, even though you both knew he couldn’t deny it.

"I was there," he said.

You gave him a knowing look. "Ben."

"I fucking would've, all right, but by the time I got there it was pretty much..." He waved a dismissive hand. His brows were crunched along with his worsening frown. You felt his embarrassment, and as a result, his agitation. You were glad to finally get the truth in his own words, but you didn't want to work him up in that way either.

You tried softening him with a kiss to his cheek. You rubbed a soothing hand over his arm.

“So what do you want to do when we get our lives back?” you asked, purposefully changing the subject. “After the whole payback thing.”

Ben sat up with you against the headboard. His upset slowly faded away with your ministrations, your gentle touch, and his expression fell into contemplation.

“I always thought I had time, but uh…I thought I’d eventually settle down. Have a couple of rugrats of my own. Raise a family,” he said. “Thought I could do it better than my old man.”

You tilted your head at him with a certain measure of surprise. Out of everything he might’ve said, that one didn’t occur to you. Although, with his upbringing, you supposed it made sense. You smiled.

“You might have a few of those out there somewhere,” you said.

He chuckled. “I've always thought so.”

He looked at you in a way he hadn’t before, a bit gentler, with something else you couldn’t name. Your face warmed as something fluttered in your lower belly.

“So tell me then. What do you want?” he asked.

Once you worked through that bit of nerves, you thought about his question. It took you longer than you thought it would to come up with an answer, but when you did, it was the most honest thing you could think of.

“I want to be happy.”

He paused, not expecting that answer. Then he nodded, with a short hum.

You sighed. “Okay, if you really want to go after Vought, I think I have an idea of where we should start.”

I can’t believe it. This thing still fits me pretty well, you thought. You twisted in the mirror to examine yourself in your old black and violet supe suit, though you didn't bother with the mask.

Meanwhile, Ben was already with your generous host, sat with widespread legs on the couch while he smoked a large blunt. His smoke coiled out lazily.

“You gotta believe me, I didn’t know what they were planning,” said Arthur Cohen. AKA: The Legend. He had been forced into a chair, though Ben hadn’t bothered tying him up. The man knew better than to make a false move. He was a decade older, and lucky for him, even wiser.

His penthouse apartment in New York looked more or less the same. Hit records and old successful movie posters adorned the walls, like a true has-been.

“Yeah, you said that fifty fucking times already,” Ben snarked. “What you haven’t said, is why.”

“To be honest, I never asked,” Arthur said. His expression soured. “Stillwell and Stan Edgar shivved me out of that decision, those uppity fucks. Then they got me fired on some technicality.”

“Allegations of embezzlement, or so I heard,” you said, reentering the room.

Arthur raised a finger. “Not true. That money was well earned backpay.”

You rolled your eyes.

“You know I know you’re lying, right?” You approached the men and crossed your arms. “What’s the lay of the land now?”

“Well, Stillwell’s the new me. Stan’s the new CEO. They disbanded Payback after you disappeared. The others are either working new gigs or are in early retirement. But I heard Vought’s working up to creating a new team.”

You nodded and shared a glance with Ben. He looked a little too chilled out right now. Apparently, Arthur had the good stuff.

“Before we jump into the frying pan with this, I want to go see my family,” you said. “Would you…want to go with me?”

Ben blew out more smoke, gesturing at Arthur. “I’ll keep this one company until he finds our old team. Make sure he doesn’t fuck off to Rio.”

You felt the sting of disappointment, but you sighed and agreed.

“Just…wait for me to get back before you go anywhere,” you said. You saw Ben prickle a little at being “told” what to do. You lowered down to his lips.

“Please?” you said, plying him with a kiss, and a gentle squeeze of his hand. “I’ll be back soon.”

He tightened his hand on yours. His gaze drew over you, briefly with more clarity through his high.

“Fine,” he said. “Be careful.”

You nodded with a smile, giving him one more kiss goodbye.

Your father was the longer drive north than your brother’s house in Queens, so you headed up to find the former first after borrowing a car from Arthur. According to him, your father had moved upstate to Albany after your “death.”

Now, you understood why.

He lived in a two-story house on a whole acre of land, complete with three cars, a pool, and oh yeah, his new girlfriend. She looked good hanging off his arm in Atlantic City, as you saw from a picture on the wall—after you broke into the house, that is. To be fair, they’d left the sliding glass door open in the backyard.

Your dad was dressed like he just got home from the golf course, walking over from the kitchen to the living room. He dropped his glass of wine in shock when he saw you standing there, admiring the only framed picture of you, your mother, and Chris on one of the display shelves. Glass shattered across the hardwood floor.

“Hey, Dad,” you said. You turned to him, not bothering to hide your disdain.

He gaped for a few seconds as he tried and failed to make his mouth work. He pointed at you with a shaking hand, your name finally falling from his lips.

“It’s a beautiful place,” you said. You gestured widely at your surroundings. “It’s nice to see that you finally got what you wanted.”

He tried to go to you, to embrace you, but you held out a hand. Your lips trembled as you fought the onslaught of your emotions. If he touched you, you might not have been able to control your actions.

“Did you give any of the settlement money to Chris and his family? Or did my death just make you rich,” you asked.

Your father’s eyes closed. He released a heavy sigh before he was able to meet your gaze again.

“He wouldn’t take any of it,” he admitted.

Your tears stung in your eyes as you smiled a little. “Sounds like him.”

“Where have you been?” he asked. “Are you okay? Do you need help?”

Again, he tried to get closer to you, and again, you held him off.

“The only thing I need from you is to keep doing what you’re doing,” you said. “Keep living your life like you no longer have a daughter.”

With that, you stalked out of the house and shot out the door, back to your car, no matter how much he called out after you. You got into the driver’s seat and beat the wheel once, twice, venting your frustrations. But you forced yourself to take in deep breaths to calm yourself. You wiped the tears from your eyes.

He wasn’t worth it.

You wondered if you should go see Chris though. Would it be safe for him and his family? Was Vought watching them as a contingency, if you ever escaped?

You weren’t sure. You rucked through your purse lying in the passenger seat for the weird “cell” phone Arthur had lent you. You wanted to check in with Ben first, before you went anywhere else.

You started to dial, but a gloved hand shot out and injected a needle into your neck. You startled at the sharpness and the feeling of a chemicals rushing through your body. Your eyes darted to the rearview mirror.

All you saw was a blurry, black mask.

Meanwhile, Ben was fucking plastered.

He had been ever since you left yesterday morning. In his unrest, he’d moved on to a handful of whatever opiates Arthur kept in his medicine cabinet.

Christ I’m fucking bored.

He glanced down at the phone in his lap. The one Arthur gave him, along with a list of numbers that had been taped to the fridge. The first number on the list was the cell phone you were carrying. Ben read the rest of them.

Pizza place. Chinese. Swedish massage—hmm, there’s an idea. Handy man. BEST escort service…

Ben rose a brow. An inebriated smile curved his lips.

“What makes it the best escort service?” he asked, and loudly. Enough that Arthur came over from where he’d been making calls in his office, trying to find the rest of his former teammates’ whereabouts.

Arthur raised a brow at him. “You sure that’s a good idea right now?”

Ben shot him a terse warning look. The other man raised his hands.

“Eh, I’m three times divorced. What do I know?” he said, but he sighed and gave Ben a long look. “It just seems to me that you and Sirena got a good thing goin’, that’s all.”

The thought of you managed to cut through the haze of drugs clouding Ben’s mind. He frowned.

“That’s how Missus #1 caught me, with one of my ex-assistants in the jacuzzi,” Arthur said, with a mild grimace on his face. “She got that house in the divorce. Well, that and the kids.”

Ben looked over at him blankly.

Heaving a sigh, Arthur went back to his office.

Ben glanced down at the list of numbers in his hand, and the cell phone in the other. What the fuck was taking you so long then?

He dialed the first number on the list—your number. It rang several times, but you never answered. He called you again, waited a few minutes, then called you a third time. You weren’t answering.

His frown worsened, along with a suspicious prickling up his spine. Fuck...

He'd felt it the moment he let go of your hand, but he'd been too out of his mind to actually listen to his instincts; the same ones that warned him not to let you out of his sight. And more importantly, not to let you go.

He got up from the couch and stormed into Arthur’s office, shoving the door open. Arthur jumped in his seat.

“What? What’s the matter?”

“She’s not picking up the fucking phone,” Ben said. He paused. “Something’s wrong.”

Arthur didn’t ask him the predictable question: how do you know? He just took in the look on the supe’s face and knew it wouldn’t be wise arguing. He tried calling your father's home, but all the man would say was, "She left. She's gone."

Arthur hung up with the man, and for a long moment, he sat pensively while Ben angrily paced the small office, like a tiger confined in its enclosure.

“It’s possible that Vought knows you guys made it back,” Arthur said. At the dark look on Ben’s face, the other man rubbed his chin with a sigh. “Okay. I’ll try to track her down for ya. In the meantime, I’ve got Countess’s address. Maybe she'll even have an idea of where to look for Sirena.”

He slid a piece of paper toward Ben across his desk. He grabbed it, pointing a threatening finger at Arthur.

“Find her.”

You woke with a groan. You knew a drugging when you felt one, and this was it. Someone had given you a powerful sedative.

You were alone in a white padded cell, lying on a cot. It was all too familiar.

Except for the tall figure in black standing in the middle of the room, watching you. You gasped with a jolt, pressing your back against the wall after you sat up. You almost couldn’t believe your eyes.

“Irving?”

Black Noir stepped closer until he was sitting beside you on the cot. Tentatively, he raised a hand up to touch your cheek with gentle, gloved fingers.

Your shock gave way to anger. You slapped his hand away.

“What are you doing?!” you said sharply.

Noir backed off at once, as if you’d struck him a real blow. He got up, went over and grabbed a dry erase board that had been lying against the far wall, along with a marker off the floor. He wrote something down on it, then he showed you.

You shouldn’t have come back to NY.

You frowned, both at what he “said,” and in confusion. Why wouldn’t he just talk to you?

“What did you expect?” you asked incredulously. “For me and Ben just to disappear forever? To let you keep ruining our lives?”

Noir paused at that. He tilted his head with a long look at you. With your abilities, you were able to sense that he was disheartened, and even angry. He erased the board with his arm and wrote something else.

Do you love him?

You blinked at the question.

“Who?” you asked, even though you knew.

Soldier Boy

Emotion rose high in your throat, but you worked past it with a swallow, and a deep breath.

“That’s none of your business,” you said.

Noir just stared at you, his head tilting forward. The longer he stood there, watching you, waiting for an answer, the longer you prickled with unease.

He erased the board and wrote the same question again. He held it out for you to see, shaking it once in emphasis.

Do you love him?

You hesitated, but you didn’t want to lie anymore, even to yourself.

“Yes, I do,” you said. “I know what he’s done, believe me, but he isn’t a monster.”

Noir’s head twitched. You felt his anger intensify. He dropped the board onto the floor, startling you, but all he did next was slowly raise his hands to take off his helmet. He showed you what was left of his mottled, disfigured face—the burnt skin and the divot in his skull that had never fully healed.

Your mouth parted in shock as tears sprung in your eyes. You tried to avert them, but Noir stepped forward and grabbed your jaw, turning your face up to his and forcing you to look. Your lips trembled, but you met his gaze unflinchingly.

When he seemed to be satisfied, he released you and stepped back. He placed his helmet back on.

“I understand why you hate him,” you said at last. “But you made your choice when you let them take me too. You…you changed everything for me.”

You were satisfied to feel a lance of Noir’s guilt. You had scars too, and most of them weren’t physical.

“I’m not going to apologize for my choices now,” you said, with a firm glare. “So unless you’re going to kill me, you can fuck off, before I scramble what’s left of your head.”

Your eyes glowed with your power. You opened your mouth to begin your siren’s song, but Noir turned on his heel and exited the door, leaving you alone in the cell.

A fucking chimp sanctuary. Really? Ben thought as he broke into the boundary of the reserve. About a quarter mile into the tall grass, he found a large, if rundown country style house in the middle of the woods.

“Yes, Big Daddy. I’m almost ready for you. Just let me heat these up…”

Ben raised a brow, but he gritted his teeth and kicked through the front door. There she was, Crimson Countess in all her glory, holding a set of anal beads.

She gasped at the sight of him, but she ignored the “client” on speaker on her landline phone, and dropped the beads so she could aim a fiery blast at the intruder.

Ben jumped out of the way and tossed his shield. It hit her square in the chest and sent her flying back into the wall, destroying a bookshelf and the dining table. He walked over to it with slow, heavy steps.

She raised her head with a groan, but then, her eyes watered with disbelief…and fear, when she looked up at him.

“Ben?” she said. “My God…it’s really you, isn’t it? You... you look the same.”

“You don't,” he remarked. He lowered down to grab her by the collar of her suit and raise her out of the rubble.

“How much did the Russians pay you, Donna?” he asked calmly.

She struggled to escape, her nails scraping at his gloved hand. He tightened his hold.

“They didn’t,” she admitted. Tears leaked from her eyes under her mask.

“They didn’t pay you anything?” he said through clenched teeth. “Then why?”

You know why, came sneaking voice in his mind. He tried to pay it no heed, but Donna sneered at him.

“Because,” she spat. “I fucking hated you. We all did.”

Ben’s lips pulled at a humorless smirk. His chest prickled with heat. “I should’ve known you were a bunch of sniveling, backstabbing, fucking cowards.”

“Kill me then,” she taunted. “Is that gonna make you feel better? Going to make you feel less empty inside?”

Ben’s chest began to get that nuclear glow, but he managed to fight it down, back into embers.

“Not yet,” he said. He drew her in closer. She held onto his wrist, her feet scrambling over the debris on the floor.

“I need to find someone,” he said. ��And you’re going to help me.”

Ben and Donna sat across from each other on her living room couch, with the landline sat between them. The phone was on speaker as it rang. The longer it took, the more annoyed he became.

“This better work,” he said. She gave him a flat look.

Finally, a woman answered the phone.

“Good afternoon. Stan Edgar’s office. How may I assist you?”

“Hi Gloria, it’s me, Donna,” she said. “I need to speak with Stan as soon as possible, please.”

“Ooh, I’m afraid he’s in a meeting.”

“Trust me, he’s going to want to take this call.”

“Hmm, I’m afraid his next availability isn’t until next week. And next month if you want an in-person meeting.”

“Just tell him to call me back asap!” She said, hanging up the phone in a huff. Ben gave her an unimpressed look.

“That was your big fucking plan?” he said.

She huffed. “You think breaking into Vought is going to be easy? Let alone finding that weasel. He’s got the best security money can buy, and by the way, finding where they’re keeping your little girlfriend isn’t going to be any easier. They could’ve stashed her literally anywhere by now.”

You think I don’t fucking know that? Ben got up from the couch with an angry breath. He turned away from her and rubbed at his beard in contemplation. He shouldn’t have let you go anywhere alone.

I should’ve been there. The thought gripped him, deep in his gut. Guilt was an unfamiliar, uncomfortable feeling.

“We’re going to need help,” Donna said.

His bad mood took a turn for the worst. He glanced back at her.

“What, the rest of the fucking Scooby gang?” he snarked.

“Or you can try going in alone, guns blazing,” she shrugged. Her sharpened gaze met his. “How fast do you think they’ll kill her, just to spite you?”

Ben’s jaw clenched. Donna leaned back in her seat and crossed her arms.

“Or worse. They’ll put you back in a box and ship you back to the Russians,” she said. Her snide smile had him clenching his teeth. “Either way, you’ll never see her again.”

With everything in his being, Ben wanted to fry this bitch to Kingdom Come.

“Get up,” he ordered. “Pack a bag. We’re leaving.”

Donna’s expression fell. “What?"

"You heard me!" he barked, grabbing her arm to pull Donna to her feet. "Get the fuck up."

She struggled against his grip. "Where’re we going?”

“To find those fucking Twins.”

They took her car, a tiny sedan. Evidently, the end of Payback hadn’t been good for Donna’s career. Arthur had told him that, irony of ironies, she now sang at a Soldier Boy tribute act at Voughtland to pay her bills. And as he’d seen earlier, she needed to pad her income in other ways.

She was driving them up to Vermont. It was going to take days, and Ben was already sick of her.

It was a small blessing when they stopped at a gas station in the nighttime. She gave him her credit card to buy some snacks for the road while she filled up the tank. (He took the keys with him as insurance that she wouldn't bolt with the car.)

He returned with a far bigger bag than she expected. She forgot what a human garbage disposal he could be. He tossed the card back at her.

“Your card’s maxed out, by the way,” he said.

She glared at him, but she endeavored to let it go with a sigh, raising a hand to her temple. How the fuck had this become her life?

To minimize being overheard, she stepped closer to him while the gas pump kept going on her car.

“Gunpowder is the easiest one to find next. Mindstorm’s probably hiding in a hole in the middle of the woods some-goddamn-where,” she said, keeping her voice down. She gave her unwanted companion a sly look. “Though I’m thinking you want Mindstorm to stay wherever he retired.”

It brought up an unsavory memory.

After the team turned on him, Mindstorm had been the one to lock his gaze on Ben. For a moment, his feet had been rooted to the ground while Mindstorm tried to shove him deep into his mind. It had given someone the opening to slip a mask of Novichok over his face. He suspected it had been Countess.

Now, Ben turned to her with a glare at her audacity.

“You know, for a massive cunt, you’ve got some brass balls,” he said dangerously. “How the fuck didn’t I see what a vindictive little snake you were from the beginning?”

Donna scoffed in derision.

“I’m vindictive? Says the cheating, lying, bastard,” she snapped.

“Oh, shut your hole. You knew what I was doing, and you didn’t give a shit,” he said with a glare. He leveled a finger at her. “You used me to get exactly what you fucking wanted. Fame, money, and all the perks that come with it.”

Her lips pursed, like she didn’t want to admit it. But if they were airing out dirty laundry, then she wasn’t pulling any more punches.

“Well, I wasn’t the only one. Was I?” she said. “Anyone who ever smiled at you, fawned over you, or sucked your dick was trying to get something from you. Or, they were scared of you. Because you’re a bully. A fucking monster. And sooner or later, Sirena won’t be able to stomach you anymore.”

The thin leash on his temper finally snapped. He reacted, reaching out to grab her by the throat. He was truly thinking about breaking her neck.

Donna choked for air and gripped his wrist. “Without me, you’ll have no one. Good…fucking…luck finding her.”

Ben was furious, but he battled it down, expelling a breath of frustration.

He released her. She coughed and gasped and stumbled a few feet away from him, glaring at him all the while through her fear.

When she was eventually able to stand again, she and Ben shared a look of mutual loathing, but also, of understanding.

It was an uneasy truce. For now.

You were quickly unraveling alone in the dark.

You felt the phantom cold of your old cell. No matter how you rubbed your arms through the leather of your supe suit, you couldn’t get warm. You released a shaky breath and swiped at your tears.

You missed Ben. He had to know by now that you were in trouble, but you didn’t know if he’d know how to find you. Or worse, if they found him first.

You steeled yourself and tried to calm your panic. You counted to thirty. Your eyes flit to every small detail of your cell that you could name: the small crack in the gray linoleum tile, the line of ants slowly creeping along the corner, the brittle wool blanket you were sitting on, laid over your cot.

When your breathing was steady, you tried to think. You didn’t know where you were, of course, but you could try to sense how big the building was.

You did something you rarely did. You cast your awareness outward as far as you could reach.

There were very few male energies, and you only picked up on a few scattered thoughts.

Until you found one. It felt…strong, but young. A kid?

Jesus Christ, what’re they doing in this place? you thought.

What…who’s there?

You heard the voice in your mind, small and afraid and lonely. Before you could answer him, the door of your cell opened to a few familiar faces.

There was an older man in a lab coat that you recognized, but you couldn’t place his name until you read his monogram. Vogelbaum. Followed by Stan Edgar and Black Noir, who came to stand behind you. You knew that if you made any wrong moves, Noir would kill you this time.

Quickly you read their energies as you observed them.

Vogelbaum gave off mild interest in you, but it felt clinical. Stan felt resigned and calculating as he took you in.

“For what it’s worth, I do wish it hadn’t come to this, Sirena,” Stan said. “We didn’t intend for you to get caught up our deal with Russia.”

He may have been telling the truth, but that didn’t mean you cared.

“You’re in the most secure lab we have,” he said, gesturing to your wall-to-wall cell without windows. “No one knows you’re here, and no one will find you.”

You smiled dryly. “So what do you want from me?”

“I want to know how you and Soldier Boy escaped the facility in Russia,” he said, gathering his hands behind his back.

What he really meant was, How did you escape? So we can make the next cell even more effective.

You leaned forward and spat at his shoes.

Black Noir grabbed you by the back of your neck and yanked you back. Your jaw clenched in anger, but you didn’t struggle. Even if you opened your mouth to sing, Noir would snap your neck before your powers had time to affect him.

Stan remained unaffected by your outburst, though he glanced down at his shoes.

“These are handmade Italian leather,” he remarked.

“Even if you find Ben, you’ll never be able to kill him,” you said tersely.

“We don’t need to kill him. Nor will we need to find him,” Stan said. “He’s already looking for you.”

Your eyes widened. Your heart swelled with both hope and dread, though you tried to hide it.

“We have a plan to neutralize him. Several, in fact,” he added, and spread his hands wide. “Until then…welcome home.”

Smug bastard. You glared back at him.

He left, along with Vogelbaum. Black Noir glanced back at you once, then he was gone.

The lights in your cell turned off, leaving you in darkness. You heaved a breath and couldn’t help the tears that found hot paths down your cheeks. You curled your knees up on the cot and held them to your chest.

You squeezed your eyes shut, as if you could pretend the room wasn’t pitch black. You focused your breathing, in and out, until your heartbeat began to slow down from its panic.

The kid, you remembered.

You licked your dry lips and tried casting your awareness out again. When you found the familiar energy from before, you reached out to him.

Hey, are you there? you prodded.

Who the hell are you?

It’s okay. Don’t be scared, you said, and you gave him your name. Are you locked up here?

Y-Yeah.

I’m sorry to hear that. I am too.

How can you be talking to me…in my head?

Well, it’s complicated, you admitted. It’s a new power I’m trying out, thanks to my time as a human test subject.

Something told you this kid knew the feeling.

What’s your name? you asked.

Um…John. I’m John.

AN: 🤭 Oh, yeah, we're going there.

How did you like getting Ben's perspective on things? And his "forced" team up with Countess to find the rest of the cast of Payback. 😬 What could possibly go wrong?

Next Time:

Ben hated to admit it (so he wouldn’t), but she had a point. It took him a minute to wrangle in his ire, taking deep breaths to try and calm the power inside him. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t.

This time, it actually did.

His hand fell back to his side, letting the younger man breathe freely.

“Let’s go.” Ben turned on his heel and headed out.

“Where, uh…where’re we going?” Charlie asked, rubbing his sore neck.

“Looks like we’re getting the team back together,” Ben said grimly.

He tilted his head.

“Well. What’s left of it.”

▶️ Keep Reading: PART 11

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spiritsonic · 10 months ago

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Hey Evan! Wanted to run this by you, since I asked Ian already on tonight's podcast and he said he was curious about this as well... Hypothetically, would you say Nicole is capable of connecting to/interfacing with Belle or Whisper's mask? And would they be capable of hosting Nicole, for that matter?

I'd say yes to both, although Whisper's mask would be quite cramped for Nicole. She's a very advanced bit of software, so any stay would be temporary lest she end up melting the CPU. Maybe she could more comfortably stream to it as a virtual machine? As for Belle, Belle's as computationally powerful as Metal Sonic, and Nicole interfaced with Shard who is on par with Metal, so that would be very doable.

Man, now I'm thinking about how Nicole would be able to create a proper Wisp translator using Whisper's mask, and how well everybody'd get along. Ah well.

#idw sonic

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happypolicecherry · 2 months ago

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!A rewrite! Alhaitham x reader inspired by the podcast: Dangerously Yours (A radio drama series)

#Author note: have fun !! Rewrote this favorite piece of mine a year later because it needs its redemption. I hope you guys enjoy it

The room was suffocatingly quiet, save for the sound of their shallow breathing.

Alhaitham stood still, his face an unreadable mask as you pressed the cold metal of the gun against his temple. His calm demeanor only served to stoke the flames of your anger, your fingers twitching around the trigger. You couldn't believe it had come to this.

"You mean you're actually going to kill me?" Alhaitham asked, his voice as steady as ever, as he look down into your eyes.

"I mean just that." Your jaw clenched, the weight of the situation crashing down on you as you gripped the gun harder. The barrel trembled against his head, betraying, your inner turmoil.

"Well, go ahead." His eyes, those sharp, aquamarine piercing eyes, bore into yours, amused. He wasn't scared. In fact, he looked almost... certain. Certain that you wouldn't do it.

Thousands of thoughts raced through your mind. Each question, each doubt gnawed at your resolve, pulling you in opposite directions. You had been trained for this moment, prepared to take down anyone who stood against the agency, no matter the cost. But no amount of training could have prepared you for him.

Alhaitham, the man you had fallen for.

The same man who now stood as your target.

"Pull the trigger." His words cut through the silence, calm and deliberate. He could see the hesitation growing in your eyes, the tremor in your hand as your heart warred with your duty.

“I’ll do this my own way,” your voice shook as you pushed the gun harder against him, trying to convince him—convince yourself, that this was something you could do.

But it wasn't. Your hand quivered as you choked back the wave of emotions threatening to break free. This wasn't how things were supposed to go. You never asked for this. How had it come to this? How had the man you loved become the enemy? He was wanted by your agency for crimes you still couldn't fully understand, but the orders were clear: he had to be eliminated. And it had to be by your hand.

"You won't do it." Alhaitham's voice was soft, almost pitying. He didn't move, didn't try to take the gun from you. He didn't need to.

"You can't pull the trigger," he said, his hand reaching up to gently caress your cheek. His touch was soft, his thumb brushing away the tears that had begun to well in your eyes. His lips curled into that familiar, infuriating smile—the one that used to make your heart flutter, that used to make you feel safe.

But now? Now, that smile only made you feel sick.

"You can't pull it because you love me," he said quietly, his words sinking deep into your heart. And he was right. You hated how right he was. You hated that even now, with the gun in your hand, you couldn't bring yourself to end it.

Your shoulders slumped in defeat, your grip on the gun loosening as you pulled it away from his head. The shame hit you like a wave, drowning you in its cold embrace. You took a step back, your vision blurring as the tears you had been holding back finally fell.

Alhaitham sighed, the sound heavy with disappointment. He rubbed his face, looking away from you as though you were no longer worth his time. "That was pathetic, Y/n," he muttered, his voice laced with disdain. "I thought you had more pride than this."

He turned to face you, his sharp gaze cutting into you like a blade. "If you had kept that strong front from earlier, I might've actually considered this experience worthwhile," he said with a cold smirk.

You stood there, your heart shattering under the weight of his words. The man you loved was gone, replaced by the cold, calculating person standing before you now. And you couldn't take it anymore. The pain, the shame-it was all too much.

The sound of the gun clicking echoed through the room. Alhaitham turned to you, his eyes narrowing as he half-expected you to aim it at him, your tears fueled by fury.

But what he saw was something far more devastating.

You had turned the gun on yourself.

"But I can kill me," you whispered, your voice barely audible as you pressed the barrel against your own temple.

His eyes widened in shock, the mask of indifference cracking for the first time.

"Y/n-"

But it was too late. The gunshot rang out before he could even reach for you, the bullet finding its mark. You collapsed instantly, the sound of your body hitting the floor echoing in the now-deadly quiet room.

#alhaitham #alhaitham x reader #genshin alhaitham #alhaitham angst #genshin angst

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thekiltongrammarwriter · 3 months ago

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Your shadow is in whitfoshire Pt 1

AGAD Pippa Fitz Amobi x fem reader

Summary: Cambridge University, England. Pippa Fitz Amobi, still haunted by the events of her past investigations, stumbles upon a new enigma. The campus buzzes with rumors about the girl with dark circles beneath her eyes and a smile that conceals secrets. Pippa senses the weight behind that forced smile, the pain hidden within. The whispers echo through the halls: "Y/N? Oh, everyone knows her. Her family was at the center of that infamous case three years ago. Her older sister Amelia vanished without a trace, think she was abducted, and Y/N was the last person to see her alive. Quite Tragic annit?. The whole family unraveled-her barrister father lost everything to gambling, everything. her mother became quiet, doesn’t speak much. Yet Y/N remains the sole beacon of normalcy”

Warnings: LONG, A bit wordier than my other ficts so beware, Pippa Fitz Amobi being a curious cat at your arrival. AGAD PIP, MENTIONS OF BOOK TWO AND THREE IN DETAIL, Heavy mystery incorporated, pessimistic Pippa. Dark eerie thoughts. First try at anything in the mystery/thriller realm so take this with a grain of salt. To be edited at a later date. Part 1 of 4. Some light groundwork to set the scene and give a nice taste.

words: 6.453k

It was hard not to notice you, with your hands pinned behind your back and your eyes trailing the chancellor as he spoke softly to you. The pupils in the common room had all halted, breathes leaving their lungs as soon as you came into view, it was odd and distracting enough that Pip had to lift her head from her computer. Her glacial eyes took note of how the chancellor spoke to you all with soft eyes and a calm demeanor, almost like he was afraid of saying the wrong words.

Lord Sainsbury was not a very feeling man, nor was he a robot, but this odd cross of playing jacket potato and treating you with kid gloves piqued Pip’s interest. The chattering of the other students made it hard for Pip to read you, that and the fact that you were feet away, face set in such a warm smile that Pip was sure it was a ruse. For one thing the way you held yourself was evidence enough that you were aware of the eyes peering at you from the common room. Aware of the comments and hushed opinions.

Your hair was up in a decent ponytail, slicked back with ease, a smart pants suit adorning your body, only the best for Cambridge. Pip couldn’t help but let her eyes take in the way you chuckled at Lord Sainsbury, nodding with a kind sharp smile, your mouth moving in a whisper. From the way lord Sainsbury chuckled widely, a deep belly laugh Pip knew you were quite humorous, getting Lord Sainsbury to laugh or even crack a simple smile was the pupil’s life work, and somehow you had managed to do the impossible in a matter of minutes.

There was just something about you Pip could not quite put her finger on, though your face was eerily familiar, the lines and sharp cheekbones prominent. Pip hadn’t a clue why you looked so familiar. Had she seen you somewhere? Passed you on the pavement? That is till her sharp ears caught the tail end of Stella Chapman’s gossiping from the far end of the table. Pippa could sense the weight of your forced smile. could feel it in her bones. Usually, Pip wasn’t one to care for idle gossip, not if there was no concrete reason for it. She was already branded as Cambridge’s own “private detective” since the second popular season of her podcast, and try as Pip may she couldn’t outrun little Kilton, or the looming shadow of Jason Bell. She had momentarily quit her podcast, looking for some other options to pursue, options that wouldn’t make her mother gray with worry.

That wouldn’t turn her into a separate person, as she allowed the past cases too. That wouldn’t make her mind think back to the blood on her hands and the feel of the metallic hammer in her palm. The feel of duct tape sticking to her cheek. The heat of the roar of the fire as the smoke entered her lungs.

But it was the way you stood, face innocent and kind, yet something dark and sinister in your clouded eyes that made something in Pip preen. That too familiar dopamine effect, the same rush of victory and stomach-churning high she would get when her inner curiosity got the better of her. The same feeling she had felt the day she had connected the dots of who had murdered Andie Bell. The same rush, the after effect leaving her high and wanting nothing more than to sink her teeth into another case and maybe the fact that you were so achingly attractive had something to do with the way her ears perked up too. But she would never admit it aloud.

“y/n? Everyone knows her. Her family was at the center of that whitfoshire case two years ago, my father worked as a lead barrister for it. Never thought she’d be coming round here. Her older sister Amelia vanished without a trace, the police and my father believe she was abducted and I suppose what’s worse is that y/n was the last person to see her alive. Quite tragic really. The whole family unraveled- her father, the barrister for Whitfoshire solicitors lost almost all the family's fortune to gambling and had to open their estate for viewings from what my mums said. Not to mention the family’s reputation was slandered by the media. A sad lot they make. Yet y/n remains the sole beacon of normalcy it seems. Wonder how she managed to pay tuition”. The way the last sentence fell off Stella Chapman's lips made Pip’s fingers curl around her keyboard. One lesson Pip had learned from her investigating, people can be cruel. Can say the most vile things without a care in the world, can do the most vile things without repercussions.

That’s what her time had taught her. Elliot ward, Max hastings, Howie bowers, Becca bell, Charlie green, Jason bell. They all seemed to loom in her mind, like ghosts she couldn’t quite get rid of. Taunting her.

“she’s probably a trust fund baby, did you see her clothes? It’s a wonder she can afford that, from what my mum says her dad has been shagging his secretary-“the lid of the silver laptop pip’s fingers had been clutching had slammed, the echo vibrating the whole table, causing the many cups of tea to ricochet. Stella Chapman’s eyes immediately widened at Pip’s outburst. Her lips twisted into an uncomfortable grimace, “Oh Pippa! I didn’t know you were sitting with us. I don’t wish to offend” she began, sugar-covered words trying to snake out of her pink-frosted lips.

Pip’s throat gulped; her eyes somehow darker than usual. “Perhaps instead of providing idle gossip and analyzing a person’s life we could have some respect and be more sensitive to the topic. Not everyone is as unscathed as they seem” Pippa managed to get out, her accent smooth as she packed up her things, eying the group who all seemed to shut their mouths like school children being reprimanded by their mother. All sunken eyes and red cheeks.

“of course!! We didn’t mean to seem-“ Pippa with a quiet ease slung her knapsack over her shoulder, her signature saccharine smile on her lips, “Of course not Stella, you would never spread such idle gossip on a new pupil”. It was said with such sweet spite that as Pip turned on her heels she could almost feel the anger pulsing of the girl. It was a welcome feeling.

Pippa had found she had less patience these days, often feeling like a bomb ticking ever so slightly, eager to explode in the most mundane situations, and Stella Chapman had picked the wrong day because if anyone knew the reality of missing persons it was Pippa Fitz Amobi.

They had no clue the amount of emotional trauma she carried around like a knapsack too big for her back, of all the secrets she would greatly take to the grave, of all the words she had been called throughout the years following her involvement in the cases. It was akin to a slap in the face, Stella Chapman's words. Even as she had walked the school’s corridors, stopping into the library to check in some of her maths textbooks still her mind refused to stop, analyzing your facial features, the slight curve of your jaw, your eyes that were shaped in such a familiar position..

Pip shrugged it off afterward, she had much more important matters to tend to, it was a Friday evening and the campus would be closing, Pip still needed to grab a few things before her drive back home, she had promised her mother she would be home for dinner, after having missed so many. Josh was getting taller at this point every time she would see him, just another indication of the life she was missing out on. But how could she ever be the same Pip? Not after everything she had been through. That jubilant, clever girl was lost, lost in the wind just like Andie had been. And she was afraid she would never get her back.

It was at this thought that she felt a familiar hand on her shoulder and the scent of ghastly chewing tobacco. Headmaster Sainsbury. Lifting her steel blue eyes from her current book she held in her pale fingers she watched as the man smiled, bowing his head in regards to her. Pip almost smiled, Mr Sainsbury looked so out of place standing in the dusty old archive of the library, clutching his indoor hat to his fingers. He wasn’t exactly a large man, portly in stature.

Pip immediately put down her book, straightening her posture, “Mr. Sainsbury, what a lovely surprise, what can I do for you, sir? I was just about to pack for home, my mum is making Yorkshire pudding and I wouldn’t want to be late. Am I missing any assignments? Is this about my marks on my recent exam?”

Mr Sainsbury’s lips lifted into a creased smile, his hands coming up to wave the notion away almost sensing the young girl’s anxious thoughts, “Oh It pleases me to have such a young bright pupil such as you Miss Amobi in our midst. Do not fear Darling you shall make your dinner and as for your assignments, you are simply soaring through. I simply came here to ask rather a big favour from you, you see there is a new pupil joining our fine establishment- the young girl I escorted to the office today” At the mention of you Pip’s eyes shot to the man, her eyes narrowed.

“You see, she needs a tour around the campus, nothing big just a proper guide around the school and I-“ It was obvious Mr. Sainsbury was beating about the bush, it was almost like he couldn't quite make the words fly out of his mouth. Like he was struggling even to get the long-winded syllables out.

Pip’s eyebrows lifted, intrigue dancing in her blue irises, “You what sir?”

Mr. Sainsbury sighed, looking ashamed and somber as he eyed the stacks of wooden books before whispering softly, “Given the matter that surrounds her family, this is a great opportunity for Miss Y/N, She has bravely decided to get on with her life despite the-“ his eyes lifted as to find the words, “Unfortunate events that have been associated with her family. I had a whole list of well-qualified top marked students to welcome her but I soon realized after her little introduction in the great hall that she needs a rather caring hand, and seeing as how I and many other educators at this university hold you in such high esteem miss Amobi I find it is only fitting for you to give her the welcome tour, as you have a familiar shall we say experience with this topic?”

Pip blinked, the sides of her mouth creasing into a confused smile, her mind telling her to kindly decline, eying her yellowed watch on her wrist, it would be half past three in a few minutes, she had planned rather hastily a quick nip into her dorm to grab a few essentials before she made the small hour trip back to Little Kilton. Her mum had probably already prepared the table and made the mince pies that had been her favorite since childhood. But the way Pip’s heart seemed to dance at the thought of you made her mind take over, and before she knew it she was agreeing.

Mr Sainsbury looked relieved at her words, a smile so big and round filling his lips. “Wonderful!! Thank you so much, Pippa, this really means a great deal to me and her family. Now if you hurry you’ll just about catch her. She’s just in the chapel”.

Before Pip could ask any questions, the man was gone. Pippa eyed her watch, her mind logical as she thought, it would be half past four by the time she finished the tour, it would be cutting it close but she would still make it back in time for dinner. So, lugging her knapsack again before making a beeline up the old steps she quickly made it to her dorm, gathering her keys and a few gifts she had gotten for Cara and Ravi into her bag before descending the steps. Her steps were rather uncoordinated as she flew through the school’s corridors, eyes taking in the wristwatch as she ran up the chapel steps, excusing herself as she flew past the small number of pupils that were left loitering around the campus, her grip on her knapsack tightening as she came into view of the great medieval hall, eyes searching the crowd for you. Her eyes zeroed in and her heart seemed to leap as she caught sight of you, sitting near the far edge of the long table, book in hand, the reflection of the stained-glass mirror making the colour of your eyes pop. Her chest was heaving wildly as she willed her feet to move, the feeling so foreign. Her eyes took In the way your feet crossed under the table, your outfit now a rather studious aesthetic that made her knees weak.

Sighing, she made it in front of you, and your eyes flitted up to meet her own, and Pip couldn’t breathe. “Hi…. I’m Pip�� she settled on, sighing and offering her best smile, “Mr Sainsbury sent me to be your official Cambridge tour guide” she spoke, offering her hand. You put your book down, eyes flitting down her outfit, your lips quirking up, “Did you run here? You look quite out of breath” you assessed. Pip’s cheeks blushed but she nodded, “Very attuned to observation Miss-“you smiled, getting up from your spot, lifting your backpack on your shoulder, Pip listened as you told her your name, offering a small smile. Hand in hers as you shook it. Your fingers felt hot in her touch, and she quickly pulled back, stepping in front of you with her back turned to the hall, “Shall we begin your tour?”.

Pip began showing you around campus, regaling you with stories, the history of the school, and even showing you the original medieval structure of the school. She was keen to answer as many questions as she could, she took note of the way you were rather quiet, hands behind your back, eyes still that dark cloud, but just enough smile to look appealing, to fool just about anyone, but Pip wasn’t just anyone.

It was while Pip was walking you back to the dorms that you spoke, this time rather fast and anxious, “Please don’t find this presumptuous of me and if I am talking out of turn please forgive me but I’ve heard of the cases you solved, I just- I wanted you to know that as someone whose sister is-I wanted to thank you for what you did for Andie Bell and Jamie Reynolds, you gave my parents and me a lot of hope ”.

The words took her off guard, and she only eyed you. You were walking beside her, slowly, your skirt ruffling in the wind, cheeks a pale hue, but eyes remaining on the floor, the ghostly feeling of somberness overtaking the air. It was nice to be thanked, Pip was grateful for that, not many people had thanked her, not the Bells, the media, and certainly not the Police. They all saw her as meddlesome, as something to contain rather than set free.

But here you were, thanking her with your clouded eyes and broken stuttered words. It stirred Pip’s stomach, the sight of you in the pale winding down sun, looking as strong as you could, putting on a brave face, getting out in the world even if you wanted nothing more than to shut it out.

“I did what any decent person would do” Pippa stated, “In fact, I know many people who are inclined to disagree with you, and sometimes I think I am rather dense to have meddled in that-I-I allowed myself to get so consumed by the cases, I-I didn’t see the way I intruded into people's lives-“ Pip didn’t know why she felt so safe divulging her thoughts to you, perhaps she felt some sort of kindred spirit in you, you knew what it felt to be on the receiving end of her leering, knew what it felt like to lose someone and have no answers given. And perhaps it was a welcome feeling getting all these thoughts out. You stayed quiet for a second, your pale fingers tugging the ends of your jumper in a nervous act, Pippa watched your eyes turn downcast, your eyes glossy, but even as you spoke your voice never wavered.

“That’s because they had something to hide…I wish the police had been that lucky with my sister it’s been two years. Everybody says it gets better with time, but it really doesn't. It tends to mess with people's minds, shows you how fragile a human mind can be".

Pippa's head tilted as you continued walking, she knew what you meant. She had seen this to be true with Jamie Rennoylds case, had seen how Joanna and Connor had reacted, almost like they had lost a part of there soul. She remembers the dark undercurrents beneath Connor's usually pale eyes, the rattling of the desk as they both sat in class, and the dread that had swooped inside her stomach at the missing yellow knife. She remembers and remembers till she can see the image of Jason Bell clouding her mind, his sweaty perspiring skin as he held her to the ground. Her hands had begun to shake, and she quickly rubbed them against the fabric of her jeans, to prove to herself she was safe, to ground her rapid heartbeat, to prove to her brain that there was no blood splattered on the edges of her fingers.

Her eyes turned to you, her cobalt eyes tracing over your figure as you walked ahead of her, heading back to a quiet campus, the wind creating a cool undercurrent that whipped your hair, pulling at the edges of your slick ponytail and Pip wondered how you felt about the whole ordeal. About Amelia, the case, did you go to bed at night with an uncomfortable pit in your stomach? Did you replay happy memories over and over to yourself? rationalize with your brain? use logic to outway the way your world felt?

The way you had just worded it, your eyes a dark haze as you spoke the words like you were in some deep dark space, filled with haunting thoughts, possibilities of the unknown, of dark shadows that would follow you wherever you went. Like a ghost that you couldn't get rid of, like a silent companion. 'It tends to mess with people's minds, shows you how fragile a human mind can be"

Had it messed with yours? Were you as eccentric as she was? were you unsatisfied with the justice system? The whitfoshire police? just how fragile was your mind?

These thoughts plagued Pip as she brought you back to the pupil's dorm, her eyes tracing over you like she was assessing a case, like she was analyzing every movement, from the way your fingers stretched to accommodate the door handle, and it was then she noticed. Crescent moons on your inner palms, indented into your skin like a tattoo. It was hard to notice for others, but she was a keen observer after her cases. She was paranoid and often times looking over her shoulders. Eying teens as they trotted the campus with a cup of alcohol clutched in their hands. Because deep down she knew just what happened when you engaged in those activities. It meant heartache, hurting those you loved, bad choices, and in the worst-case scenario, death.

At the thought images of Andie Bell invaded her mind. It was funny how that worked. How Pip had never met the girl, but she knew her secrets, knew she slept with a pink bunny, and had a childhood pet named Roadie. Knew she had wanted nothing more than to save her baby sister from the same fate as the other victims of her father. Andie Bell, the girl who had in a way saved Pip. Pip often thought back to the girl with fondness. The girl who had died at the hands of her sister. A freak accident, the wrong place at the wrong time. Her eyes watched as you tugged open your dorm door with your key, your eyebrows struggling. Did Amelia look like you? The same strong nose and sharp cheekbones? the same pink frosted lips?

Did you feel the way that Becca Bell felt about her older sister? Did your older sister care about you? Was she kind? was she the sister like Andie who gave you love by hiding secrets?

"Did you love your sister?"

Pip hadn't meant to voice her own thoughts, but at that moment she felt that familiar pit in her gut, the one that usually made her stomach flip. She was no longer Pippa Fitz Amobi of little Kilton, she was that girl again sitting in front of Becca Bell asking about the calamity, the girl eying Nat de Silva as she refused to give answers. The girl weeping into Stanley Forbes eyes as she clung to him.

Her voice was brittle, keeping a soft edge to it.

The way your body froze on the lock, it was a calm type, which led Pip to believe you were more hurt than guilty. Your throat bobbed, and Pip watched the movement. Her eyes scanned over your soft neck. Your eyes were heavy, and you only whispered.

"I do.... it's not past tense" You held a sharp edge to your voice, eyeing Pippa's reflection in the mirror. "She's still out there I don't care what those prats say, my sister is still alive and well. because if she's not then-'' you halted, almost like a button was pushed and you came back to your senses. Your grip on the handle loosened, your eyes became less of a dark void, and you wiped quickly at a tear that had stuck to your eyelashes.

"No body was ever found. and the sniffer dog lost her trail up Abbots Road. The police say she could have gotten into a car, but I know my sister...she's clever, got her wits about her, like you-" your eyes flitted across Pip's.

You must have seen the way Pip's eyebrows creased at the words, "The minute I saw you sitting in the common room I thought to myself, Amelia would be like that. Too clever, too serious to care about the mindless chatters. Busy in her own world, she often was. but she made just enough time for me to feel special. so, when you ask if I love my sister the answer Miss Fitz Amobi is a resounding yes".

Pippa was good at reading people, she had a way of peering at a person's eyes, and she had done with any people and now as she eyed you, she felt it deep in her bones. You were 100% truthful.

"Thank you for the tour, Pippa, Mr. Sainsbury said you were observant, but I didn't quite believe him, till now. They say the eyes are the window to the soul and I could just about hear what you were thinking. Is she telling the truth? Believe me...I can read people too." the edges of your lips curved into a soft smile, like an understanding and then you opened the dorm door, and gone you went. Vanished into thin air.

Pippa watched your form leave, her breathing hard and cold as it flew out of her mouth, her thoughts loud and pulling her mind in all directions. It was only her phone vibrating in her pocket that brought her out of her trance, and she was answering it.

"Hello?"

"Pip it's half past five! where are you? Josh is beginning to wonder if you are coming at all! and Ravi just arrived!"

It was hard to snap out of her own head, which at the moment looked more and more like the murder board she had torn up as soon as Andie's case was finished. Invisible strings were being tied in her mind; questions written in crimson letters over your words. but Pip knew she could let herself fall for it, for the clues and the mystery. The truth, the justice. she couldn't let herself fall prey, she needed to lay low, focus on her studies, and get far away from cases. but was it truly falling prey if this case landed on her lap?

At the squeaky cadence of her mother's voice Pippa blinked, coming to her senses, she nodded and immediately flew in the direction of her father's old Volvo, "Sorry mum I got cornered by Mr. Sainsbury, There was a new pupil I had to meet, I'll be home as fast as I can...No I am not singing the seat belt song I am almost twenty mother!"

Even throughout the drive back to Little Kilton Pip could feel her nerves on edge. It always happened like clockwork, the way her body would react to the Little Kilton sign. It's emblem of a small country bridge used to be familiar, it was where she was born and raised, where Cara and Ravi resided, and her family, but all it brought up were ghosts. Andie Bell walking along the road and cutting along the churchyard to get to Elliot's house, not knowing her fate. Howie Bowers and his odd house on Weevil Road, the abandoned farmhouse where Andie's bones were found in the septic tank. and worse of all The Bell House. Because even though it had been months just at the sight of the house Pip could feel her heart, almost feel the sticky duct tape around the edges of her mouth, feel the sting and the metallic hammer underneath her nails.

To say she was running from the town would be an understatement. She knew as soon as she got out of her Volvo everyone would be there. Nat, Jamie, Connor, the Singhs. so, putting on her brave face she parked the car and was met with a large hug from Josh first, who had run to greet her, his boyish charms on full display, "Pippo hippo!!". The feeling of Josh in her arms instantly calmed her racing heart, just enough for her to feel normal. and soon she made her rounds saying hello to all her guests. Nat wanted to know all about university and Jamie as always hugged her tight, like he was thanking her every time for her help.

Ravi gave her an extra hug, "Been staying up late sarge? You look like the drive was long" he commented as they both sat, watching Josh eagerly flip through some Pictionary cards, having no clue what a word was and would flip to a next one, brows creasing.

They both knew what that meant, and Pip had no trouble stating her troubles, not to him. After all, he had been the one to come to her rescue after the Jason Bell incident, helping her tie up the much-needed evidence and in turn, she had given him back Sal, it was mutual trust A shared trauma.

"I can't sleep at night. most days I get an hour or two, I tried sleeping pills, but I have the worst night terrors. I keep seeing his eyes, that pale lifeless blue" Pip spoke, eyes on the laughing crowd in front of her, voice low. Ravi nodded, his eyes concerned, "I meant other than the obvious, how did you feel driving into town? It has been what two months since you've been back? I couldn't help but notice how long you stayed in the car".

Pip had to chuckle, of course, Ravi would notice, after all for a brief moment in time he had fancied her, she playfully slapped his shoulders, "Now whose stalking".

Ravi chuckled, he reached for his trifle, "Have you heard of the whitfoshire case?". The words were said with curiosity, which made Ravi's face crinkle, his brown eyes assessing Pip.

"The case from three years ago? The one with the girl who vanished. I've not heard much about it, why?".

Pip could sense his uneasiness, but she only continued, "Just asking. and it was two years ago, and that girls name is Amelia"

"you're not thinking of taking it on, are you? what happened to that Jane Doe case you were trifling about with?"

pip allowed her eyes to drift back on Nat, watching her cuddle up with Jamie, "It's not enough...I need more."

she knew how the words made her sound. obsessed, possibly insane, but what if that was her now? what if she was no longer the tidy and well-liked Pippa Fitz Amobi?

"More?" Ravi laughed, but it was a shocked laugh like he just couldn't quite believe her words. Like he was worried, he should have been. "More? Pip are you even focusing on your studies? what about your podcast? you need some counseling; I've done some and it's given me a much better out-"

"I don't need a shrink telling me I've gone off my nutter Ravi!" the words were gritted, and Pip got up, moving to the kitchen for some air, some space. she knew Ravi was only trying to help, he had the best intentions, but still, it was a sore point. Her grip on the kettle was tight and she was only brought to life again when Cara Ward entered the kitchen, brown eyes alight, she had just arrived as was evidenced by the snood nestled in her fingers. Pip without thought rushed to her, holding tightly and burying her face into her collarbone. needing that grounding touch only Cara had.

"You look like a ghost! Have you eaten Chica?"

Pip only brought her closer, "I need to talk" and so they did.

sat in Pip's room which looked the same as she had left it but somehow felt altogether different, Cara holding the tin of Jamie Dodgers and tea, oak eyes worried as Pip spoke. "You know that Jane Doe case I've been working on for my podcast?"

Cara nodded, eyebrows knitted, trying to decipher her words. "Yeah, last I heard you were asking DI Hawkins for the public records".

Pip bit her lip, putting her tea down, "Have you ever heard of the Whitfoshire case?".

Cara's eyebrows rose, "You mean the Amelia case? Yeah, I read up on it last year when Jamie went missing, fascinating. Why?".

Pip watched as Cara dipped her Jammie dodger into the milky tea, "Well her sister is in my year at Cambridge, and Mr. Sainsbury had me give her a welcome tour. That's why I was a bit late".

Cara halted, a twinkle in her heavy brown eyes, she knew Pip like the back of her thumb, "You fancy her already, don't you? Let me guess your detective side went all nuts and now you want to take on the case to show her what a clever girl you are".

Pippa wanted to argue, but it was no use.

"It's the exact opposite actually, I am trying to convince myself I don't need this case. It would only do me harm...plus what good would I be to y/n? I'd only bring her more heartbreak".

Cara was silent momentarily, her brows furrowed in thought. "Or you would be helping lay her thoughts to rest. That must be hard living her life. I cannot imagine how I would feel if Naomi went missing."

Those words seemed to drill themselves through Pip's head the next few days, invaded her senses till all she thought of was you. How had you felt? How did you feel? Could she really help you? Did you even want her help?

These thoughts plagued her, till finally she arose from her bed, hair a soiled mess and body refusing to lay still, heart a roaring fire. It was obvious the tell-tale signs, she would never get to sleep. Not when she felt like this. Hyperactive, every bone in her body a buzz. The sleeping pills void of work, and she had quit taking the other pills from Luke Eaton. Her brain felt like it was frying in the heat of her own skin, and for a second, she thinks its leaking out of her ears, the heat boiling up in her blood.

Pippa was a mess as she sat on her bed, chest rising and falling, pale complexion glistening with sweat, her heart a rapid beat as she eyed her computer sitting on her wooden desk. Her mind was at war with herself, half of her wanting nothing more than to sink her teeth into the case, to help you, but the other was wary. What would this case do to her? Would it aid her? would it calm her racing mind and her insanity that only seemed to make a home in her veins?

Her leg began to shake, small trembles as she slowly edged her way to the computer, her Shakey hands trembling as she opened the lid, her tongue moving to lick her lips as she moved to the search bar.

Her heart was a hammering mess, feral beats, her silver eyes dark. There was no going back from this, but underneath all the confusion and utter fear in the pit of her stomach she also couldn't ignore the way her body preened. The way her fingers eagerly searched up your name.

In an instant millions of articles met her grey hues, familiar names, The Guardian, The Daily Mail, The sun, The spectator--the list is various and long. Some of the titles are eager and fast gripping, 'The Whitfoshire conspiracy: unraveling the secrets behind the disappearance'

'The silent years: Amelia's family breaks their silence'

Pip skims through them all, but it's the BBC's article she halts on, her eyes seem to halt over the website, her blue hues taking in the picture atop the article, the words, 'Hope Fades: Amelia's haunting Legacy'

It's not the words that tug at pip's heart, nor the familiar backdrop of BBC. but the picture they have chosen. It's a lovely family portrait, done in front of a grand stone estate, the estate Stella chapman had mentioned just a few days ago.

Pip gulps, she's worked on two cases previously, she's well aware of the feelings accompanying them, but this feeling, this tightness in her chest is new. Almost like she's scared, almost like she doesn't quite know what she's getting into.

All she knows is that the way Amelia is hugging you to her chest while you squirm away, cheeks flushed and eyes smiling, beaming, makes it even harder for her to swallow because she had been right. You did look like your older sister. In every way, the same familiar slope of the eyes, the pale cheeks, the strong English cheekbones. But it's the way you look so genuinely happy, matching bracelets on your wrists, she knows this case will affect her the most than any other, why? Because maybe, just maybe Pip was starting to care about you more than she should.

She let her eyes fall to the rest of your family. Beside you was your mother, her smile looked painted, forced, much like Mrs. Bell. Pip knew the type, you looked like her too, same eye shape but it was your father's smile you inherited, a daddy's girl to be sure.

Pip's first impression of your father was rather muddled by Stella Chapmans words, he was a solicitor at Whitfoshire Solicitors, and apparently unfaithful to your mother. Wither there was any truth in that time would tell. Your father stood tall, looming over you, his shoulders broad, his eyes calm, yet Pippa couldn't quite understand why his smile was so.... charming?

A chuckle fell of her lips, she had yet to see your full smile, the one you only get to see if you know that person Intrinsically, but she had seen enough by the curve of your pink lips to know you had also inherited your father's charm along with his smile.

Something in Pip's heart made her eyes flit back to you, taking in your smile, the real you in your older sisters' arms. the real person you hid from others, from the media, from everyone. She could do it, finish the case, not just for her, for the sake of just needing a case, but for you. To help you, your family.

Or was it somehow the opposite? Was her mind throwing you in as a reason? Using you as some kind of shield to give herself permission? To prove to herself that Pippa Fitz Amobi still had that inner drive. To prove that she still was a good person.

The thought was alarming, and Pip quickly shut down her computer, the room no longer lit by the familiar backdrop. Her mind was a whirlwind, her emotions muddled, was she really going to do this again?

In an instant her fingers were on her mobile, dialing the only number she knew by heart. Every second the dial tone rang was a moment of eternity, but soon the familiar voice of Cara ward greeted her ears. It was a calming voice, one that often reminded her of days in the countryside as children.

“What on god's green earth are you doing at half past midnight? I am absolutely knackered- “

Pip didn’t waste time, she needed to know what Cara thought.

“I did it…I looked up the case…and I really want it Cara…” pip’s fingers curled against the mobile, “god Cara, I want it so badly…but I’m not certain it’s for the right reasons”.

Cara’s sigh was transmitted over the phone, but a small smile could be heard in her voice. “What are those reasons?”.

Pip chuckled sardonically, ruffling her bed head, chestnut curls unkempt as she ran a hand through them.

“I-I want to help her…. of course, I do…I think I’m growing rather fond of her Cara….and I’ve only just met her…it sounds daft, and I know. But…I want to know her…really know her…and maybe…it’s been a while since I’ve done a case…since I was truly committed. I know for certain that this is a chance to prove to myself…something I’ve been searching for”.

The line was quiet, and then Cara spoke. “Looks to me like you’ve got a case to solve. Be careful with her pip…and most importantly be careful with yourself.”

And then the line went dead.

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