#altered carbon cast

[lavender-town-radio]

Her given name is actually Nadia Makita, Quellcrist Falconer is the pseudonym she goes by after she starts her revolution. This pretty much only comes up in passing during the show. I think it's mentioned like... once, that Quell is not her given name.

resubmitting because i forgot a picture the first time, sorry!

big fan of Quellcrist Falconer from Netflix's Altered Carbon (not necessarily an endorsement of the show). she invented a way to transfer consciousness via technology, then spent the rest of her life as a revolutionary trying to destroy the tech, once she realized it would only be used to maintain inequality. She led a group called the Envoys, and (among other things) taught them how to use their minds to hack/break free of VR simulations they might be put in.'

Quellcrist Falconer. Hell of a name. Damn lmao what did the show do 🤣 actually no don't tell me. It's Netflix. Oooooooh that concept is always interesting. That whole "what have I done, what has my brilliance created." Like Oppenheimer except, you know... Nvm let me not. This is definitely something Hot Chocolate would like, I'll show it to him.

Hot Chocolate: Ice was right, I LOVE this. Like she said, Quellcrist is a hell of a name... I ain't gone lie, it kinda sounds like it came from a name generator. Regardless! Black woman invents immortality? Realizes corporations are using it for evil and builds a revolutionary force to take them down? Sign me up for her army AND this show. We are Envoys! 💪🏾 I've heard this show was good but never heard anything of the premise.

[sailorrlino]

Rodeo | lmh (m)

𓆩⟡𓆪 Pairing: hitman!Minho x arms dealer! F. reader

𓆩⟡𓆪 Summary: Minho’s relationship with you is like a good weapon - uncomplicated, refined, and trustworthy. He likes it that way. When you appear on his target list, his relationship with you becomes quite the opposite - complicated, rough, and unreliable. 

𓆩⟡𓆪 Word Count: 18,249

𓆩⟡𓆪 Genre: Cyberpunk | Smut | Angst | Peers to Something

𓆩⟡𓆪 Rating: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately. 

𓆩⟡𓆪 Warnings: Violence, world building, murder, discussion of murder, depictions of blood and fight sequences, brief mentions of drugs, depictions of wounds and treating them with syringes if you don’t like needles, explicit language, depiction of an anxiety attack, angst and self-doubt, Minho being an idiot, gun fights and scenes with weapons, some vague terms and references specific to the world building, sexually explicit content featuring oral (f. receiving), vaginal fingering, unprotected sex, cum eating, bodily fluids, and mentions of spit in several places. I think that covers everything, for the most part. 

𓆩⟡𓆪 A/N: This is what happens when writers just write what they're inspired for. After almost two months of being unable to write, I got this random idea and I just went with it and took advantage of the moment and... genuinely had so much fun writing this. It got so much longer and more complex than I meant to, but I hope you enjoy.

𓆩⟡𓆪 A/N 2: This work is heavily inspired by Fallout 4, Blade Runner, Altered Carbon and the lovely song Rodeo by WayV. I imagine Rodeo playing during the shootout scene at the bar. Additionally, a fun fact: I use the nato alphabet to communicate Minho's targets and reader's target in this spells out 'reader' in the nato alphabet :)

𓆩⟡𓆪 Posted: Sunday, March 3 2024

𓆩⟡𓆪 Disclaimer: All members of Stray Kids are faces and name claims for this story. This is entirely a work of fiction and by no means is meant to be a projection, judgment or representation of real-life people. Any scenarios or representations of the people and places mentioned in works are not representative of real-life scenarios.

| Masterlist | Ask | Tag List Request Form | Song Inspiration

Any work is good work. 

Minho isn’t so sure that his father would say that as he crouches down next to the body on the living room floor. His thigh muscles protest, aching and tight from hours of sitting crouched across the street in the chill of a high-rise building waiting for his prey to enter this very building. 

Neon light bleeds through the foggy window behind him. The room is awash in watery pink as he pulls out his scanner with one hand and leans forward with the other, pressing his gloved fingers to the man's chin to push his head to the side. It rolls easily, giving a fleshy sound that might make someone squeamish as the man’s cheek hits the floor. 

Any work is good work, Minho thinks as he scans the man's non-existent pulse with his watch. He sees the blue ring of the biochip flash beneath cooling flesh, his watch flashing green with a soft buzz. The man’s entire life flashes on the screen - full name, date of birth, ID number, blood type, and place of work. Everything about him casts a sickly green glow on Minho’s sharp face.

Tapping a few buttons on the watch face, he waits, holding his wrist near his mouth as the sound of a dial tone chimes once. It’s silent in the apartment, though he can hear the hum of airborne traffic a few blocks off as the roar of adrenaline winds down. 

“Receiving,” a male voice answers. Minho doesn’t know who it is - he just knows he’s one of any of the Delegators who work for Collect Co. 

“Collection request number alpha-echo-tango-delta complete, served by Collector 102598.” 

“Collected alpha-echo-tango-delta confirmed. Please place a beacon before you leave. All credits for this Collection have been transferred to your account. Please wait five to seven business days before funds are available for use. Your next collection is in four hours, seven minutes, and eight United Seconds.” 

The line goes dead. The glow of the watch makes him squint before he can lower his brightness, scrolling to his bank account. He sees the credits added with a transaction pending. When he was a kid, the number glowing at the bottom of the screen to indicate his balance might have excited him. Now, it’s just a number on a screen that confirms the power won’t go out at his apartment and that he won’t go hungry.

Minho’s knees crack as he stands. He groans and leans backward, pressing his hands into the small of his back. A series of cracks slither up his spine, making his eyes roll back as he shuts them for a moment and shivers. 

He’s so goddamn sore.

Leaving the body on the carpet of the living area, he goes over to pick up the handgun resting on the counter. The energy weapon glows at his touch, syncing with his interface briefly before he holsters it inside his jacket. 

While he is technically within the law to eliminate targets for Collect Co., Minho finds that most people find it unsettling when Collectors walk around with weapons. He hasn’t given much thought to what people think about him, but it certainly causes a lot less trouble when he looks like an average businessman going to and from work instead of a licensed killer.

The gun isn’t technically legal, either. He would probably get away with it if a United Enforcer stopped him. The hitmen of the privately funded but government-sanctioned Collect Co., do not technically outrank the government’s militia, but no one with a badge is going to tell a Collector no. Not if they can help it, anyway.

Tossing a beacon on the counter for the cleanup crew to track to the apartment and get rid of the body and clean, Minho heads outside into the rain. He ducks his head down against it, water sliding off the slicker jacket he hugs a little tighter. He feels warmth kick in and his mouth twitches at the sign of the heating system in the body armor on his chest is doing its job. A nifty little upgrade from you, he knows. 

At the thought of you, Minho turns north toward the speed train, remembering that he needs an adjustment on his armor that is out of sync with his watch, and JumpPacks. He already used the last one about five hours ago and he feels the numbness of exhaustion buzzing at his edges, a warning sign that if he doesn’t get a jump or sleep he’s going to pass out.

Whichever comes first. 

Smears of color splash across the wet sidewalk as he jogs down the steps to the train. It smells wet and foul, making him tuck his chin to his chest as he rushes to the fast-closing door of the train. He steps over the threshold just as the doors clang shut, the hissing of an airlock barely finishing before it launches forward. 

He tenses to avoid being pitched forward into one of the standing railings. As the train rocks, the fluorescents above nearly blinding him, he finds a seat toward the back of an empty car. This late at night, there are only two other people in sight, both of them curled heaps of clothes on a seat, fast asleep. 

Sleep tugs at him the moment Minho sits down. He has a twenty-minute ride to North Ward Three, dropping his head against the back of the seat and closing his eyes. 

The light still hums behind his closed lids, making a splash of colors. There’s no sound save for the whine of the magnetic rail beneath his feet and the occasional mechanical creek as the vehicle sways. 

He melts into the seat a little, limbs loose. Fuck he needs a JumpPack. The last forty-eight hours awake are wearing him thin at the edges, stretching him like fabric over a surface far too wide. The forty-eight-hour mark is when he starts to decline, and as soon as he starts to creep toward seventy, he knows it’ll get messy. 

Minho is a lot of things, but he is ultimately human. The JumpPack can help him push beyond shaky hands, imagining things that aren’t there and the foggy thinking, but they won’t keep him sharp forever. 

As if proving his point, Minho hangs somewhere between awake and asleep, suspended in a dreamy space where he can still feel the rocking of the train but doesn’t feel the ache in his limbs or the pressure growing behind his eyes. 

He flinches when the chime echoes above him at the next stop, eyes flying wide for a moment as his gaze sweeps the train car, his hand on the inside of his jacket where he grips the handle of a very nice knife. 

No one enters the car. It’s just him and the other two sleeping people - he isn’t sure they’re even alive, really - and he relaxes, cursing at himself. This time when he drifts, he does so with a little more awareness, hand tucked warm against his chest and wrapped firmly around the blade.

It’s a unique little knife, snug in the sheath that’s buckled to the leather harness under his jacket. The handle is firm and made from non-conductive material that fits his exact grip from the meticulous measurements you took of his hand. You crafted the blade from a metal alloy you’d been playing around with and lined it with a highly conductive silver alloy you’d perfected.

When the button on the end of the handle is pressed, 5,000 volts of lethal electricity pulses through the sliver, finishing off a victim if he manages to fuck up a killing blow. It’s saved his life a few times in situations like now when he’s exhausted and his guard is blurry, or when someone has decided to make him the target for robbery. 

A lot of your little gadgets have saved his life. You like to remind him every time he visits you. He doesn’t mind, though. You’re an easy enough arms dealer - easier than anyone else in the city, really. You don’t ask the kind of questions that he doesn’t want to answer, and you’re always two steps ahead of him. Even your prices are fair, which he used to find suspicious. 

But Changbin and Jisung both swear by your tech and your business, and Minho is just happy that he doesn’t have to worry about you trying to give him a shitty deal or fuck him over. 

The Collection industry is made for fucking over. He knows the system can be fucked with, especially the closer to the top you get. 

Almost everyone tries to fuck Minho over. More than once he’s shown up as a Collection Request. He doesn’t know if it’s the system trying to clean up after itself or someone pulling strings to get him out of their way. It’s probably both, but every time it happens, he’s managed to evade it. 

A Reverse Collection, those in his industry call it. In a way, it’s sort of like a pop quiz. He gets attacked or shot at, and if he wins, he passes the test and reverses the Collection, earning him more time without any coworkers trying to murder him. The Delegators don’t seem to care which Collector murders the other, and he’s never suffered for coming out on top. 

Any work is good work. 

Minho snorts at the thought, feeling the deep twinge in his extremities as he rouses himself, the train coming to his stop. 

Rain sluices the streets in North Ward Three. Here, the streets are busier with an assault of people, smells, and sounds. LED umbrellas float along like jellyfish as people walk from pleasure house to food stand to fight arena. The hologram advertisements and neon signs are louder here, inescapable. 

“The United Republic stands for justice, equality, prosperity and freedom, bought by the noble sacrifice of the United Church. Join us today-” Minho presses the ad blocker on his watch. 

Immediately the holograms vanish and there’s just the neon watercolor reflecting off the umbrellas as he walks down the stairs of Neon Rodeo, the orange lights making his eyes throb as he reaches the door manned by two guards. 

They know him immediately but they scan the biochip in his neck anyway. When they’re pleased, they step aside and the door slides automatically, the base vibrating his ribcage as he steps into the dingy light, hesitating to let his eyes adjust.

True to the name, there is neon fucking everywhere. The servers are dressed in chaps with LED lights and glittering tassels, their cowboy hats flashing smiling faces on top of their head. The neon here is low-grade and covered in layers of dust, giving the air a dusky, burning sort of glow as he walks around tables.

Eyes follow him as he goes. The regulars are familiar with him, tipping their head in greeting though he doesn’t do more than watch them from the corner of his eyes. The servers all slow-smile at him, teeth too white and too glittering. He finds them more unsettling than attractive, and he quickens his step to the unmarked door at the back where Hyunjin sits on a stool.

Hyunjin is perhaps the most unsettling thing in the Neon Rodeo. His eyes are a strange grey, looking at Minho as he approaches. There is a predatory gaze in Hyunjin’s eyes that never fades, a sort of knowing in them that Minho can’t shake. Minho knows Hyunjin is entirely human, but every time he approaches the man, Minho is suddenly unsure. 

Nightcrawler.

Minho has heard the whispers about Hyunjin. He believes them, too. Everything about Hyunjin is like a carefully balanced blade, ready to tip in either direction. His senses are honed to perfection and he has a habit of both blending in and standing out depending on his mood. 

And he can kill. Minho has seen the lethal man in action a single time when someone tried to push past him into the Builder’s sanctuary. Hyunjin had been so fast that even Minho had a hard time keeping up, struck by how efficiently and quickly the former assassin moved.

Unnatural. Everything about him is uncanny, which is in line with everything Minho has heard about the underground sect of killers. What Minho does is legally sanctioned murder. The Nightcrawlers do something far more sinister, their skills going beyond the natural desire for order in the United Republic. 

Agents of disorder and chaos. That’s what some say. Minho isn’t sure where his opinion lands on the spectrum, but he gives them a healthy distance and respect either way.

Even the way Hyunjin sits on the barstool is unnatural, one foot kicked up on the bar between his legs, the other stretched out in front of him as he leans forward, his hand on the front lip of the seat. 

“Hello, Cowboy,” Hyunjin greets, voice deep and smooth. 

His hair is blonde today, slicked back out of his face, the ends touching his shoulders. He’s dressed in a black button-up with a cow print pattern across the shoulders and white, beaded tassels outlining the pattern. His dark pants are tight and he makes no effort to hide the gun on his waist or the knife handle peeking out the top of his cowboy boot.

“I don’t like when you call me that.”

Hyunjin’s smile makes the hair on Minho’s arms stand on end. “I know, but I like it.”

The guard makes no move to let Minho in and he tries not to show he’s irritated. By the way the grin spreads on Hyunjin’s face, Minho can safely assume he isn’t doing a great job. “Is the Builder in or not?” 

“Who is to say?” 

“Just tell her I’m here.” 

“If she’s in, she already knows.” Hyunjin nods toward an empty stool at the bar. “You can wait, Cowboy.” 

Gritting his teeth, Minho turns on his heel to sit on the stool a few feet away. Hyunjin’s uncanny eyes follow him, never leaving him once. Minho ignores him in favor of asking for water at the bar, the headache pressing behind his eyes growing more intense with the loud music and the choking smell of cigars. 

When the water comes back, it’s warm without ice. He glares at the bartender who has already moved on to paying customers. The water is tepid and a little sour, making him cringe. He’s pretty sure it came from the faucet, but he sips on it anyway, eying the grimy fingerprints on the glass. 

A cowgirl slides up next to him, her pink vest pulled tight across her chest, showing sweat-slick skin. She smells like vanilla, the scent overpowering as she leans in, lacquered lips grinning.

“Don’t,” Minho grunts, sipping the water. “Not interested.”

“But you’re so pretty.”

A severe reprimand dies on his tongue as Hyunjin appears like a wraith, leaning in close to murmur, “Builder is ready for you, Cowboy.” 

The cowgirl cowers away from the Nightcrawler, pressing up against the counter and fleeing as soon as he slinks away. If Hyunjin is offended, he doesn’t show it. He slips back onto the stool with that same eager lean, watching Minho through narrowed eyes as the Collector gets up and walks briskly to the now-open door. 

Minho doesn’t turn around when the door shuts behind him, immediately cutting off all sound. The door leads to a step of steps, mirrored walls on either side with glowing orange light strips above them. He climbs the stairs as quickly as he can, his head swimming a little as he gets to the top. 

The entire second floor is a massive, open-concept workshop. Tables covered with papers and instruments are placed in a chaotic maze, glowing screens with slow-spinning schematics and drawings giving the space a clinical, blue light. Workbenches with user interfaces hum along the corners of the room. Closed metal doors and offices stretch down a hall toward the pack, all under high-tech padlocks and surely protected with some sort of weapon system, if Minho had to guess.

Amid the organized chaos is you. The Builder. 

Minho hates calling you that. He thinks it’s a little ridiculous of a title, but it suits you. There is nothing in this room you haven’t built and no weapon on his person that was not carefully crafted by you. He hesitates to watch you, standing at the edge of your luminescent domain as you lean over something, a small welding tool in your hand. 

“Do you need a formal invitation, Cowboy?” 

He doesn’t mind the name from you. He tells himself that it’s because, despite his predisposition to not liking people, he doesn’t dislike you. You’re easy to deal with, sort of like the weapons you make. You make his life functional and you’re to the point. He admires that, and he’s willing to take a little bit of prodding and joking from you as a trade-off.

Wordlessly, he floats toward you. You don’t look up to greet him, but you kick your foot out and hook the toe of your boot underneath the leg of a stool to pull it out for him to sit on. He can smell a hint of jasmine and amber wafting from where you sit, making him clench his jaw as he fights a shiver. 

“I don’t have long,” he says, forgoing the seat. “Just need JumpPacks and wanted to drop off my armor. It’s having trouble connecting with the interface of the watch. I hit it pretty hard last night and I think I damaged the receiver.” 

That gets your attention, drawing your sharp gaze up to him. But instead of dropping your eyes to his chest where the flexible armor stretches across his chest, you zero in on Minho’s face. 

Your silence is uncomfortable, but he remains unmoving, willing himself to stay in place under your calculating gaze. You lean forward, eyes drinking him in, examining him the way you would a schematic for a weapon or a complicated piece of data. 

Minho busies himself with looking at you in return. There’s a crease growing deeper in your brow and your pretty mouth - he doesn’t remember when he started thinking it was pretty - begins to dip, displeased at something you find in his face. 

“When is the last time you slept?”

“Are you psychoanalyzing me?” You level a stare at him and he feels his mouth twitch. Minho thinks besides the occasional joke from Jisung - which he defines as Jisung accidentally hurting himself - you might be the only person who makes him want to smile. “Fifty-two hours, eighteen minutes and forty United Seconds.”

“No to the JumpPack,” you say finally. “Sleep.”

“I have another target in three hours, twenty-eight minutes and fifteen United Seconds.” 

“Down the hall and second door on the right. Sleep for two hours. It won’t kill you.” He opens his mouth to protest you cut him off, “I’ll be done by the time you’re up. Take off your armor.” 

His hands open and close. You’ve never declined a JumpPack before. You’ve definitely never offered sleep before. He stands buoyed by his confusion before he reluctantly sheds the jacket. It crinkles in the silence as he shucks it from his shoulder and neatly folds it, placing it on the stool you had intended for him to sit on. 

Next, he sheds the holster, his gun, and a few knives clanking as he does. You seem amused by the amount of weapons he’s managed to shove in the leather straps and he shrugs a little at your arched brow. 

Minho’s shirt is more armor than a shirt. It’s made from highly coveted synthetic material with hard but flexible geometric pieces stitched in that sync with his watch to turn on a light energy shield, pulse when there’s an energy weapon aimed at him, and generally keep anyone from being able to stab him. You’ve also added little things like warming sensors and anti-theft. 

Delicately, Minho peels off the shirt. He marvels as it moves, surprised at the give and flex of the material every time. He hands it over and you snatch it, tossing it on your work counter as if it’s not the most expensive piece of technology he owns.��

Immediately he’s covered in goosebumps. Your studio is bitter cold and you always wear sweaters and jackets with sleeves pulled over your hands. You’re dressed as such now, the too-long sleeves on your arms pooling over your hands as he stands there, trying not to shiver. 

You pay no mind to his armor, instead standing up and twisting your mouth in a frown as your gaze skirts his chest and stomach. For a second he feels self-conscious, which he thinks is a little ridiculous as he glances down his chest. He realizes there is bruising blooming across him, spider webbing across to show when the armor unsynced and he took a few hard punches. 

Minho holds his breath when you lift your hands, as though you’re going to brush the tips of your fingers over each wound. Your hands are smaller than his and far more delicate, nimble fingers reminding him of artists. His mother was an artist. Her slim hands and careful brushstrokes are one of the few things he remembers about her. 

That, and that she chose to leave him.

Minho finds himself so hypnotized by your hands that your voice startles him when you say, “Three hours, twenty-seven minutes and five seconds, Cowboy.” 

You drop your hands and step away. He nods and sheds his watch as well, handing it over. “Alright.” 

With heavy footsteps, he follows the directions to the appointed room. He’s a little off balance, his hip catching the corner of a table as he goes. He curses loudly, hands shooting to his hip where pain blooms from the jab. Your laughter trills behind him and he scowls over his shoulder at you, but you’re unfolding his armored shirt. 

Muttering under his breath, he goes to the hall to the second door on the right. He’s never been in the hall before, but there are several doors lining each side. He carefully tries the handle, glancing up at the ceiling where a camera stares at him. 

The handle gives under his hand easily and he swings the door open to what looks like a very small and well-kept medical room. He raises his brows as he steps in and closes the door behind him. There’s no lock on the door, his finger brushing across the handle to find one. He thinks about grabbing the chair tucked into the desk and sticking it under the handle, but the thought evaporates as quickly as it forms.

He’s not in danger here. 

Slowly, he trods to the cot. It’s a standard size with a thin mattress and scratchy blankets. Carefully, he sits down and immediately his body sighs. Minho’s eyelids flutter as he sags for a second, shoulders rolling inward as he curves in on himself, exhaustion pressing in. 

He needs to take off his boots, but his arms feel heavy. He promises himself that he’ll do it in five more minutes before he gives up and lays down on his side, kicking his feet up boots and all onto the cot. The room is cool so he reaches for the blankets, uncaring that they scrape against his bumps and bruises. 

The last fifty-some-odd hours begin to press in on Minho, a physical force that squeezes everything out of him until he’s fading fast into a heavy, dreamless sleep. 

-

A gentle knock pulls Minho from a heavy sleep. He feels the dregs of it like a weighted shadow he can’t shake off, groaning and blinking at the ceiling a few times. His limbs feel heavier than ever and his neck cracks as he rolls it to the side to look at the room he’s in.

He suddenly remembers where he is, flinching a little as he sits up, movements jerky with nervousness. The room is still dark and cool, the itchy blanket falling to the floor as he sits and stares toward the door where there’s another knock. 

“Come in,” he rasps, voice deep and rough with sleep.

A crack of light appears in the doorway as you slip in. You’ve got your arms full of stuff, using your elbow to smack the touchpad near the door. Dark orange light fills the room, gentle enough that it doesn’t hurt his vision but bright enough to see that the stuff you’ve brought in is food and several bottles of water and some sort of blue liquid.

Minho eyes all of it warily, straightening as you stand in front of him, holding it out. He doesn’t move to take it and your mouth presses in a flat, firm line. “I know Collectors don’t have to be smart, but I do assume you know how to utilize the main food groups of the pyramid.”

He can smell the jasmine and amber again, soothing. “Why did you bring me food?”

“Because you look like shit, Cowboy. Don’t go losing your mind over a small gesture of goodwill.” 

Chagrined, he snatches the items from your hand. He immediately realizes that there are energy bars, protein bars, and packs of gel that will replenish immediate levels of hormones and vitamins. He eyes you curiously as he sets the pile on the bed next to him, ripping a foil back open with his teeth.

You cross the room to lean against the medical table in the corner, crossing your arms over your chest. When he doesn’t eat right away, you raise your brows, waiting. He pops the end of a gel back in his mouth and squeezes, immediately tasting blueberry and lemonade. It’s not half bad, making him hum in fascination.

That gets a grin from you, his mouth twitching at the corner again as he works the gel in his mouth to break it apart.

“Fixed your armor. How hard did you knock the watch?” His guilty expression tells all and you scowl. “It’s made with durast carbonate. It’s pretty shockproof.” 

“Didn’t mean to. Some guy’s goons jumped me when I was calling in the Collection. It um… took a bullet.” 

“How did they get the jump on you, hmm?” He stares. “Were you tired?” 

Instead of answering, he tosses the empty gel back on the bed and picks up a protein bar. He looks at it, squinting his eyes in the dim light. It’s peanut butter flavored, which he enjoys. He rips it open with his teeth and tears into it, realizing just how hungry he is.

Minho has no idea when his last meal was. He thinks you know his line of thinking, but you don’t say anything more. You’ve already gotten your barbs in and you don’t intend to poke until he’s truly annoyed or embarrassed, which he appreciates.

Without another word, you push off the desk and head to the door, slipping back through to leave him alone while he chews absently. 

Alone, Minho realizes the importance of accepting food from you without second-guessing it. He slows his chewing, contemplating about that. 

Minho’s relationship with you is like a good weapon - uncomplicated, refined, and trustworthy. Your tech has never failed him, you’ve always been reliable for a fast turnaround time or understanding of what he’s asking for, and you’ve never sold information about him.

Ever. He had tried to buy information from you on himself through multiple channels and pseudonyms just to see if you would, but he’d been met with steely silence each time. 

He eats with a little more enthusiasm as he realizes he does trust you. You’re as steadfast as the guns you build, and there is a confidence in that that he can at least resonate with.

Examining the contents of the blue liquid, he realizes it’s electrolytes and mineral compounds. As he takes long gulps, he realizes he feels infinitely better already, senses sharp, aches a little less terrible, and his headache is gone entirely. He’s not at a hundred percent, but he’s a hell of a lot better than if he had waited around for his next Collection. 

When he finishes, he crumbles the trash together and tosses it into the incinerator. He hears the fire hiss as it destroys the waste and sends the fumes somewhere to be turned into energy. 

In the main part of your lab, Minho spots you. He hesitates in the hall for a moment, watching you play with his watch. Movement in the corner of the room makes him tense up, hand going to the knife in his boot. He realizes it’s just Jeongin sliding across the room on a rolling chair, pushing away from his computer to examine what you’re doing.

Minho only relaxes marginally. He’s still getting used to seeing your apprentice in your workspace, and though the youth is excitable and intelligent, Minho refuses to let Jeongin near any of his builds. The trust he’s established with you over the last three years does not extend to apprentices he’s only known for a few months, no matter how much you trust them.

You trust the Nightcrawler too, and Minho cannot fathom why. 

As though sensing you on the edge of the room, you turn and look at him over your shoulder. The corner of your mouth lifts up and you beckon him eagerly before hunching over whatever you’re working on again. He strolls over, crossing his arms over his chest to lean against your worktable on the other side of you, eyeing Jeongin on your other side.

“Hello, Collector. How are you today?” Jeongin asks politely, giving Minho a smile that touches his eyes.

Minho says nothing. You elbow him sharply in the ribs and he coughs, clutching his stomach as he mumbles, “Fine, you?”

“Doing great, thanks! This piece of tech is a marvel.”

“My watch?”

It is his watch. A green light flashes on the underside of the face, the bio scanner that connects with the one with his neck to monitor his nervous system. You push the watch toward him and he carefully picks it up, brushing his thumb across the cool, glass screen.

An interface lights up again. He can’t figure out what’s so special until you gesture for him to put it on. It fits nicely, the perfect size. As he slides it into place and looks at the watch face, a diagram of thin body armor comes up, spinning. Except it looks different than the diagram that he’s used to, giving you a questioning look. You point to the corner of the room at a mannequin.

He walks over to it, cocking his head to the side as he stops in front of it. It’s far different from the armored shirt he wears. The contraption is equal parts ribcage and the thorax of a spider. The material looks like leather but feels hard to the touch like metal. 

Skirting his fingers to the hem, he bends the bottom of the shirt, watching as it flexes easily. It makes no sense to him how something could be so hard and flex immediately. If he were to guess, whatever the cloth is made from is a newer technology than he has access to. Perhaps more bio-engineered spider web. 

Minho’s fingers skirt inside of it, brushing across a strange, prickling fabric. It doesn’t hurt, but he brushes his fingers back and forth, rubbing the material between his fingers. It’s abrasive, but he can’t imagine what it is.

Blue flashes on the diagram on the watch. He pauses and presses his fingers to the needle-thin fabric. The watch flashes again and lines of color light up on the diagram, showing his nervous system in different, complex colors. He raises his brows. It’s far more sophisticated than what he came in with.

“The needles,” he calls, not taking his eyes off the contraption. “Do they connect with me?”

“Yes. When you put it on, it syncs with your biochemistry.” You get up and walk toward him. “You won’t even feel them. They’re the smallest on the market right now, and incredibly accurate. They use them in military armor to report back live health reports and status during enfighting. They’re more accurate than the sensors lined in your last one.”

“What’s the point, though?” 

You reach out and tap the watch. He watches curiously as a series of icons pop up, each a different color. “Inside of this,” you instruct, tapping the hard shell, “Is a series of chemical compounds. When you have on the armor underneath your shirt, you can tap to inject what you need. The needles don’t push deep, but they’re high-grade enough to break the barrier needed to disperse the compounds.” 

Minho looks up at you, silent. You don’t notice his trepidation, carrying on as you go into salesperson mode, explaining everything. “Blue is elektrolytes,” you instruct, pointing to it. “Green is a chemical compound of cortisol and adrenaline. Yellow is endorphins and an incredibly high-dose painkiller.”

“And purple?”

“Jump,” you deadpan. “But a compounded version Jeongin and I have worked on that lasts longer with less damaging effect. You should be able to sleep easier after using it. And you won’t need several JumpPacks a day to keep going. I can give you refills too, since it’s non-addictive.”

Minho stares. “What?”

“What part didn’t you get?”

“This is for me?” You scowl but he immediately notices the way you divert your eyes. You glance up at the ceiling, shifting from foot to food. “This is worth a million United Credits at least. I can’t afford it.”

“Do you see a price tag?”

“You can’t give me this for free.” 

“Of course I can. It’s just a prototype, so if it accidentally malfunctions and sends all injection options to your body at once and kills you, well…” You shrug. “At least you didn’t pay me. Consider yourself a test subject. I’ve never integrated the needle network into armor before. I don’t have the builds the military uses, just intel. I had to do it from scratch, so it might not work. Your current armor doesn’t protect you from plasma. This does.”

Minho doesn’t buy your bullshit for two seconds. He knows you wouldn’t give him this if it would risk killing him. For all your jesting and affectation, Minho has learned how to read you pretty well, and the way you blow him off and scoff tells him everything he needs to know. 

It is a favor and a gift, and a new sort of olive branch that he is unsure how to accept or take from you. Taking this gift worth more than his entire salary complicates things.

Did you make this specifically for him? He’s not sure. But the fact that he wants the answer to be yes is worse than anything else he can think of. 

Minho has peers. You’re a peer. Always have been. Anything else would complicate the simplicity of the relationship, and Minho immediately steps back and removes the watch. You watch him with razor-sharp intelligence, drinking him in as he holds out the watch to you. 

“The one I have is sufficient enough, Builder.” 

You snatch the watch from him, pivoting on your heel and walking with a ramrod-straight spine back to the table. For a second he thinks you’re going to kick him out but then you take a breath and melt into a smile, though a little sharp at the edges and not reaching your eyes.

“Fixed the connection. I also reinforced it again. Give me a moment to sync to your old armor.” 

Old armor. As if the new one is still his. His stomach flips and he grimaces. 

The affectation in your voice makes Minho uncomfortable. He doesn’t move, watching you tap viciously against the screen on your work desk. Jeongin spins a pen in his hand, glancing between the two of you nervously. When he notices Minho glaring at him, he grins awkwardly and pushes his chair behind one of the clear screens, his face distorted by blue lettering and diagram.

Wordlessly, you hand him the watch and turn away when he takes it. You say nothing else, moving on to a different project as Minho delicately picks up the shirt. He slides it over, feeling the warmth seep into his cool skin. He meticulously pulls the hardness with weapons on, followed by his jacket.

Fully dressed, he waits for you to say something. He doesn’t know what he expects - or wants - you to say. But he pauses anyway, eyes on your bent shape. His gaze flits to your hands, delicate fingers typing wildly, tense as you wait for him to leave. 

It feels like a stone has sunk to the bottom of Minho’s stomach. He doesn’t move for a few minutes, torn between walking out and preparing for his next Collection and staying to… what? He doesn’t know. He has no idea what to say or do, but he feels the palpable shift in your mood. 

So Minho chooses the easiest option. He nods to himself and heads toward the exit. You don’t spare him a second glance but he certainly looks at you out of the corner of his eye. Your jaw is clenched and you tap with a ferocity that thinks might shatter your desktop interface. 

As soon as the door opens, Minho is drowning in thumping base and synth again. Hyunjin leans on the stool, this time with his back against the wall and his glittering eyes focused on Minho. Though the former Nightcrawler wasn’t in the room, Minho has a sneaking suspicion that Hyunjin knows everything that happens in the Builder’s workshop. 

Hyunjin’s smirk is all-knowing and Minho storms by him, hating him for it. 

Rain no longer falls from a dark sky. Opaque, charcoal skies stretch above him, lines of moving air traffic creating layers of latticework. Looking at the watch - which shows his normal armor once more - tells him it's in the early morning hours now. 

The streets are not as busy as the night before. There are still glaring advertisements and he spots a group of cloaked United Church members walking around to accept alms and recruit, but the energy is muted outside of the clubs and pleasure houses. 

Morning commuters fill the speed train tunnels. United Travel Agents lurk in the crowd, watchful eyes on anyone causing trouble or trying to double up on the scanners as travelers pass through, machines charging their United Credits as they go. 

Minho falls into the dull buzz of morning travel. Glancing at his watch, he knows he has enough time to go home and change. He likes to receive his calls while he’s at home anyway. He tries not to replay the last conversation between the two of you. The offer you’d made him. The meaning behind it, whatever it may be. 

It’s nearly impossible, but he manages. Especially once he gets into his apartment, sinking into the routine of showering, changing, and sliding back into his clothes like a second skin. As soon as he reties his boots, his watch begins to ring. 

“Receiving,” he answers, straightening up. 

“Collection echo-tango-foxtrot-bravo has been assigned to Collector 102598. You have five United Hours to complete your Collection.”

“Collection accepted.” 

The line goes dead. Minho slides his weapons into their holsters, then pulls on his rain jacket. It always rains in the city, like God is weeping for what he has become.

Any work is good work. 

Minho leaves the apartment to take another life. 

-

The water runs red in Minho’s shower. He stares it for a while, hot water rushing down his neck, shoulders and back in rivulets. It turns pink the longer he stares, the wound on his leg bleeding less and less. 

The irony is not lost on him that if he had accepted your gift, he might not have taken a gnarly hunting knife to the thigh. He was lucky that it was an energy weapon, the blade cauterizing the wound immediately. He’d had to pick the wound back open to flush out the dead, burned skin and pour burning antiseptic on it.

Shifting, Minho examines the wound. Pain blooms in his thigh as he turns, making him suck in a sharp hiss. The wound is to the bone. He knows he’s lucky it was not a well-made weapon, the ion pulse too weak to sever his limb. Still, it’s a deep wound and it would surely fuck him up if he didn’t have the next twenty-four hours to himself. 

If the knife had been one of yours…

A pulse of frustration echoes through him. He presses his closed fist to the old tile of the shower wall, feeling the dissonance between the scalding water and cool tile steady him. His knuckles are sore from the last Collection - which had gone wrong in every way possible - and he’s brutally aware of just how much everything hurts. 

Yet the ache isn’t what bothers him. His Collection target getting the jump on him from inside intel isn’t what bothers him. Minho has had that happen enough times that he no longer feels surprised when a Collection knows he’s coming.

What fucking bothers him is the ripple effect of his rejection of your offer made. 

Minho shuts off the water and steps out the water carefully. He can barely put weight on the leg, gritting his teeth as he grabs a towel and hobbles out of the bathroom, the steam billowing out into the tiny apartment and dissipating. 

Blue neon lights from the shop across the way burn in his window. He hardly needs to turn the lights on in his own home to see in the dark, the ever-present glow of blue guiding the way. 

Carefully, he sits on his bed. Another pulse of pain from the wound makes him shiver and take several deep, steadying breaths. He peels back the towel at the waist, revealing a single, thick thigh with a horrible cut right in the meat of it. 

“Fuck,” he whispers. Walking around has made it bleed again, scarlet trickling toward the towel. 

Trying not to disturb the wound, he reaches for the medical kit under the bed. The metal is cool to the touch as he flips the latches, rummaging around the bandages, antiseptics, and gels until he finds what he’s looking for.

Minho takes the single, long syringe and uncaps it with his teeth, spitting the cap on the floor somewhere. He flicks his hand a few times, holding it up to make sure there are no bubbles in the vial. Holding his wound carefully with one hand and with the syringe in the other, he inserts the needle deep into the flesh, the sting minor compared to the throbbing ache the cut itself emanates. 

The compound burns as he injects himself. He clenches his teeth, pushing down on the plunger with steady pressure. He can already feel the numbness spreading in his leg as the local anesthesia takes root. He knows he’ll be itching when it wears off, the tiny nanobots working to stitch the muscle and tissue back together already making his skin crawl. 

DeepStitch is an expensive thing to have. He pulls the syringe out carefully, glancing at the medical kit. It only came with one, meaning he was going to have to replace the vile. Medical compounds made for healing abnormal wounds cost a fortune, especially the type with micro-technology to assist the process. 

Tossing out the empty syringe, Mingo lays on his bed, uncaring if he’s damp and in a towel. The numbness in his thigh spreads, making him shiver. He tries not to think about the fact that there are thousands of microscopic bots working on internally stitching his muscles an tendons as quickly as they can before the blood in his body deteriorates them.

The medical advancement of this world is beyond Minho, but he’s grateful for it as he drifts in a half-sleep. He finds it harder to sleep after using JumpPacks, his body unable to adjust from the constant state of false energy and adrenaline. 

It makes him think about your stupid fucking offer again. A piece of armor that could sync with him and balance his hormones and chemical compounds at the tap of a wrist. Something that high caliber for a low-level contract killer was beyond him. 

There was crazy, and then there was that. 

Minho wonders if you’ve been charging him fairly, suddenly. He’s always thought the weapons and tech you provide him with were good prices. They were well-made but always within his budget, albeit he stopped looking at what you were billing him a long time ago. Now that he knows you’re willing to offer something that he’d only find on a United Praetor in the military, he wonders if you’ve been cutting him deals.

He’s never asked the others. Changbin and Jisung seem friendly with you, enough to make Minho wary about asking them questions. Though they’re the closest things that Minho has to friends, he doesn’t trust them whenever it comes to you. 

Jisung already thinks it’s sweet that Minho is nice to you, and he hates that. Even if it’s true. 

Time fades away as Minho circles his conversation with you over and over again. He examines every moment of it. When he can surmise nothing else of the interaction but you offering an olive branch of friendship, something a step beyond peers, he goes back to all of his other interactions.

He remembers almost every one of them. 

Minho’s memory is fine-tuned. It has to be in his line of work. But the memories of you are particularly sharp. He’s able to recall the way you always poke fun at him to the exact line of his tolerance, the way you always know how to get in a good jibe without actually pissing him off. The way that you let Jisung and Changbin have it in front of him for his benefit, especially after they’ve irritated him, like you’re giving him a gift or saying I’m on your team. 

Thoughts of you ultimately lead to other things like the way your eyes reflect the blue light of your many screens. Or the way you always smell like jasmine and amber. The way you pull your sleeves over your hands in sweater paws because it’s bitter cold in your studio to avoid explosions and corrosion of items. The way the nickname Cowboy runs so smooth off your tongue, making his toes curl. 

Minho’s fingers twitch when he thinks about brushing the backs of his knuckles against your soft skin. He’s thought about it before and immediately cringed at the fantasy. Now, between exhaustion clinging to him and the numb limb, he doesn’t jerk away at the idea.

He finally falls asleep thinking of you and what it would be like to accept that olive branch. 

-

The ringing of Minho’s watch wrenches him from sleep. He sits up straight in bed, gasping and hand shooting toward the nightstand where there’s a draw with one of his guns. He realizes that his wrist is vibrating and when he looks at the screen, he sighs with equal parts tension and regret as he realizes it’s work calling. 

Fuck. He slept for almost twenty hours straight. 

Clearing his throat, he answers. “Receiving.” 

“Collection romeo-echo-alpha-delta-echo-romeo has been assigned to Collector 102598. You have five United Hours to complete your Collection.”

Information flashes on Minho’s watch and he feels the world disappear from underneath his feet. Your name, age, permanent place of residency address, and anything the government has both legally and illegally obtained flashes before him. He’s never even seen your full name before and there it is, glowing on his watch as he stares at the information.

It feels obscene to know any of this. He flicks his wrist, turning off the display. He doesn’t want to see any of it, doesn’t want to see when you were born, doesn’t want to see what ward you pay taxes in, doesn’t want to know your criminal history. 

Minho’s ears are ringing. The Delegator does not confirm that Minho has heard or received the assigned target for Collection. Minho stares at the wall, his vision blurring at the edges as the name - your name - echoes in his mind over and over again. He hears it at the same rhythm as his pounding heart, pumping blood through his system as his watch flashes a high heart rate warning. 

Your name. Your full government name and ID number. He’s only ever known your first name, but you’ve always been Builder to him anyway. Minho can’t remember if he’s ever said your name, and suddenly he wants to. He wants to know what it sounds like shaped by his mouth, what it tastes like on his tongue. Wants to say it so many different ways, laughing, smirking, sighing– 

Three years and he can’t believe he’s never so much as said your name, and now that very name is on his list to kill. 

Indecision roots his feet to the spot. This isn’t like a Reverse Collection where other hitmen try to kill him and he can get away with killing them instead, clearing his name for a little longer. This is a direct and finite order to eliminate you. There is no alternative to this Collection. 

Irreversible. 

Running his hands through his hair, he looks around his apartment. It looks unlived-in and completely impersonal. Just like the impersonal way he calls you Builder, as though not using your fucking name makes it more sterile. As if it keeps you further away from earning his trust.

Which you have earned. Implicitly. Minho can think of no one else he would let take care of him. That he would sleep or eat in the presence of. That he trusts not to kill him in his sleep while he’s unarmed. 

Now he’s supposed to murder you?

Bile turns in his stomach. He hears the ticking of the clock on the wall. Every second inches closer to the decision he has to make.

Will he or won’t he? 

Minho grabs his gun from the nightstand and walks toward the door.

He’s only a few steps toward it when he realizes he’s not dressed or prepared for whatever he is about to do - what is he about to do? He has no idea. All he knows is that he is dazed and his hands are starting to shake and his heart rate is climbing, his watch flashing a warning. 

The room begins to tilt as his breathing comes out in haggard breaths. He stumbles a little bit, the blood pumping through him roaring in his ears. He belatedly realizes he’s having a panic attack, blindly trying to get back to his bed where he can sit. 

What does one do during a panic attack? He has no idea, he’s never had one. He thinks of the last time he saw someone panic and immediately bends over to put his head between his knees, gulping air through his nose and out through his mouth. 

What was it that Jisung said about panic?

It’s hard to remember. He thinks maybe there was counting involved, so he breathes in for seven seconds and then out for seven seconds. Does it again. And again. 

Slowly, the world swims back into focus. He can feel the twinge in his thigh as he comes down from the momentary lapse of panic and judgment. When he trusts that he’s not going to vomit on his bare feet, he slowly sits upright, looking around the neon-blue room. 

Quiet blankets the apartment. The world outside is faint. He can hear the clock on the wall as the minute hand moves, each marking the passing of a United Second. With a deep breath, he moves. 

There are no thoughts as he goes. His mind is a single list of action items, marketing them off as he goes. Get dressed. Check his weapons. Arm himself to the teeth with things you’ve made him. Message Jisung a cryptic, one-word text that only the other Collector will understand. Arm a bomb. Leave. 

It’s clinical. 

Minho had always understood with absolute clarity the reality of his line of work. He’s always had a failsafe - or a killswitch, so to speak. From the first day of work, Minho’s only purpose was to kill until he died. He was always meant to die. And he tells himself that the single, little safe space he has in the world he started saving for… well. If you ever needed it.

Any work is good work. 

Clouds hold in their rain. The night feels ominous. Minho glances up at the choked clouds, wondering what they’re up to. The Ministry of Weather controls the atmosphere in some parts of the city. Minho does not travel in those parts of the city - those assassinations are beyond the abilities of a Collector and reserved for Nightcrawlers. 

Paranoia is imminent, but Minho tries not to look over his shoulder every five seconds. The mysterious nature of Collect Co. is still something he doesn’t understand, so it’s difficult to unravel the nature of his assignment. Without a doubt, whoever placed Minho as the Collector knows you supply his weapons.

That simple fact branches out into multiple possibilities. Perhaps the person who wants you gone simply thinks Minho is the best person for the job because he’s in your tentative circle of trust and a familiar enough face to slip through you’re defenses. Or perhaps the problem is him and they know he won’t complete the Collection, earning a job termination and his name showing up on the Collection list. 

Either way, it’s on purpose. Of that, he knows for sure. 

From his years working for Collect Co., there are only a few things that Minho is sure about. Delegators do exactly what their title suggests - they delegate kills. Callers are a tier above Delegators, calling the shots working the network of requests that come in for contracted kills. Legals do all of the paperwork and research before agreeing to a contract, and at the very top of the chain is the Floorman. 

Beyond that, Minho has no concept of the hierarchy or who is hiring Collect Co. for jobs. There are obvious manipulations to the system and it’s impossible to work objectively within a private company that works with but not for the government, and Minho has little doubt that the financial benefactors are who really control assignments. 

Which leads him back to the root of the question: why you? Is Minho the problem, or do you have enemies so large that they hold sway in Collect Co. He doesn’t consider that your deeds are nefarious enough to warrant a hit. What you do is illegal but you sell to the military, too. 

So it begs the question: is it you or him who they really want gone? 

Maybe it’s even a combination.

Still, he attempts not to seem paranoid. It’s easier than it should be, Minho’s mind so singularly focused on getting to you as he takes the train and traves to North Ward Three that he doesn’t have time to look around every corner or see if he’s being followed. There are other ways of keeping tabs on him, anyway. 

The rain still holds as Minho gets off the speed train and ducks into the street. He keeps to the sides, activating his ad blocker as he’s immediately slammed by a screaming neon world. His gaze and gait must be sharper than he realizes, because people veer away from him, his energy repelling them.

From the corner of his eye, he notes Watchers - people responsible for keeping an eye on what’s going on in the street for their employer - take note of him. Some melt into the doorway of their workplace, and others call for runners.

Trouble. Minho looks like trouble and he can sense the shift as they catch wind of him. 

The Watchers are no threat to him. Their entire purpose is to close the doors and pull back when they catch a sense of danger in the air. They’ll stay out of his way and won’t engage with him unless he threatens their clubs and shops. 

Minho has little intention of doing that. He wants to make this as painless as possible. 

Neon Rodeo burns like a dying sun. The orange falls over him as he jogs down the steps and lets the guards scan him. If they notice anything is off, they say and do nothing. Neon Rodeo is perhaps the only business without a Watcher, and it’s only because no one would dare interrupt the business with the Nightcrawler inside. 

Synth rattles Minho from the ground up as he steps inside. The cowboy hats and their little smiling faces float like phantoms in the night. He only has a singular goal and he looks at no one else as he heads towards the back, sidestepping sweaty bodies and perfumed hair. 

It’s full tonight, the weekend crowd packing the bar from corner to corner. It’s no matter. He cuts his way to the back where Hyunjin sits on a stool. Today, Hyunjin’s hair is blood red and his eyes are sharp, unnatural green. For a moment, Minho thinks of a chameleon before Hyunjin kicks a leg out and blocks the hall leading to the door. 

“Your patronage has been terminated, Cowboy.” 

Minho’s heart flips. Are you that angry with him? He drinks in Hyunjin’s dress and slowly his anxiety turns to understanding. Hyunjin is dressed in all black today. His shirt is armored and in place of pants with tassels are tactical trousers with pockets and weapons strapped to his thighs.

An assessment of the Nightcrawler tells Minho that there are weapons he doesn’t see. There’s a plasma pistol on his hip, a bandolier of small knives strapped across his chest, knives in his boot, and another plasma pistol on this calf. 

Hyunjin’s fingers drum against his thigh as he watches Minho with those unsettling eyes. “Want to try, Cowboy?”

“I need to speak with her.”

“No.”

“I’m not-” Minho grits his teeth. “I’m not Collecting.”

“Didn’t say you were.” 

Hyunjin knows. He doesn’t know how the Nightcrawler knows you’re a Collection on Minho’s list, but it’s clear in the way Hyunjin leers. 

“Look, you can go in with me. Let me get her to safety.”

“And what do you think safety is, Cowboy? Even if you’re not lying, they’ll come after you too.” 

“Listne, Nightcrawler-”

Hyunjin grins. It’s unnerving, and there isn’t much that unnerves Minho. “No, you listen. I tolerate you because I am ordered to. Now, I don’t have to. My only orders were to say no and to not harm you.” He leans back and spreads his hands and shrugs. The neon lights catch his blood red hair. “I’m always within my right to make a judgment call.”

“I’d never hurt her.”

“You’re not friends, last I checked.” Hyunjin cocks his head to the side. “You don’t have friends, right? That’s why you reject acts of faith?”

“What do you know of acts of faith, Nightcrawler?” 

“You’d be surprised, Collector.” 

Hyunjin is unmoving. Minho’s fingers twitch and Hyunjin’s eyes follow the movement. For a second, Minho wonders if he could beat his adversary to the draw. They could do it like an old fashioned movie, the bar the perfect setting for it. Hyunjin is totally unmoving and relaxed, not moving his hand toward his weapons.

He’s that confident in beating me. 

United Seconds are ticking by. Every minute Minho doesn’t make his collection is time lost. He licks his lips ready to mount another argument when Hyunjin’s eyes flicker and look over Minho’s shoulders. His eyes narrow a fraction as they dart back to Minho.

“Here’s an act of faith. Let’s see what you do this time.” 

The energy in the bar shifts. He feels the tremor go through the air and the hair on the back of his neck stands on end. Minho turns his head to the side, not enough to fully look back over his shoulder but enough to see the group of Collectors disperse in the crowd. 

Both, Minho realizes. The Collection had been for them both, and it was a good excuse to get them in the same place. He grits his teeth as he realizes how predictable he is. They might have come even if he didn’t arrive, but they might have sent a smaller force. 

Glancing at Hyunjin, Minho watches as the Nightcrawler does nothing. He waits for Minho, raising his brows and smirking. 

Act of faith. 

Normally, Minho doesn't believe in public acts of violence. Collectors are mostly prohibited from killing in public or endangering the lives of United Republic Citizens unless entirely unavoidable. 

Now, though, he causes a scene and pulls his gun, swiveling around and leveling it at the nearest Collector he has a clean line of sight on. He feels the hum of the weapon and the click of the safety as he squeezes the trigger, the pulse of the weapon barely perceptible as it fires. 

Plasma weapons are bright when they fire. It’s nearly blinding in the dark as he shoots, screams shattering the bar as the world turns into pops of energy and sizzling air. He ducks down as someone shoots at him, instincts kicking in as he grabs the leg of a table and yanks it toward him. 

Behind him, Hyunjin lets out a manic laugh and stands from the stool. He drops a small device next to Minho, drawing his attention for a second. Minho watches as it expands with a shimmer of translucent energy - a shield. He looks at the Nightcrawler who crouches with him, grinning as he peers over the table and shields with his green eyes. 

“There are eight. They’re just going to pin us here and shoot at us like fish in a barrel.”

“Is there a way through that door?”

“Sure there is. If they want to melt it down, I’m sure they have plasma blades, judging from the look of their very nice weapons. They can’t blow it without leveling the street.” 

“Does she have a way out the back?”

“No, then I would have two doors to watch.” 

A spray of metal and plasma ricochets off the shield that has molded to the shape of the table. Hyunjin gestures as if to showcase his point and Minho grits his teeth. Peeking around the table, he can see patrons hiding under tables and covering their heads. Collectors stand spread out, fanning the entrance and blocking the way, but they don’t come any closer.

They want to make the Collection, but they don’t want to face a Collector and a Nightcrawler together. 

“Aren’t you some sort of unmatched assassin, Nightcrawler?” Minho asks, checking the mag on his plasma gun. “Can you just take them all out? That should be light work for you.”

“I’m good at not being seen, Cowboy. I’m not inhuman.” 

“Oh good, so you’re actually useless when visible?”

Hyunjin’s face darkens. “You’d be surprised how often you don’t see me.” 

The threat isn’t lost on Minho but it doesn’t have time to sink into its full effect as bullets rain down on them. They cringe together to ensure they’re behind the shield, which whines under the plasma assault and flickers. Minho thinks it will hold, but it’s only as wide as the table it molds to and the table isn’t very large.

Hyunjin reaches into his pocket and pulls out a grenade. Minho grabs it, looking at him with wild eyes. Hyunjin pulls his hand away. “It’s a flash grenade,” he snaps. “I’m not going to kill everyone.” He pauses and smirks. “I don’t do that anymore.”

“That’s hardly less settling.”

“You know,” Hyunjin muses, pulling the ring from the grenad. Green light pulses on it slowly, counting down until it starts to release blinding white flashes. “One day you and I are going to have a talk about why you think your profession is so much different than mine.”

“One is legal, for starters.” 

Hyunjin lobs the grenade. “Right, so what you’re doing right now? This is legal?”

Minho is spared from having to answer as the world explodes in white. He and Hyunjin move at the same time, letting the memory of where the Collectors stand as they close their eyes and shoot. Minho’s shot blind thousands of times and it usually pays off.

It does for the most part now, the pair of them dropping Collectors as they shoot. The white light fades and there’s only a single Collector left standing by the door, his gun aimed at Minho. He swivels to shoot, but a bullet hits the Collector in the shoulder, twisting him backward from impact as he squeezes the trigger of his gun. 

The shot catches Minho in the shoulder, knocking him back a step. He curses but keeps his weapon trained on the fallen Collector until he hears high-pitched screaming. It stops his heart, the sound of the Collector’s voice reaching a level of madness that echoes even after he gargles and goes silent.

Minho looks at Hyunjin with an accusatory glare but Hyunjin juts his thumb behind him in answer, pointing to where you stand at the door with a heavy pistol in your and. Minho blinks a few times in surprise. 

“I think the nano-tips work, Jeongin.” You glance over your shoulder where the younger boy stands on the stairs behind you, armed to the teeth. “Remind me to write that down.” 

Silence stretches in Neon Rodeo, save the soft quivering crying and sparking sign that’s been shot over the bar. From the corner of his eye, Minho sees it flash between Rodeo and Odeo over and over again, bouncing between the two words as the ‘R’ tries to fight for its life.

Then there’s you. 

You stare at him with a guarded expression, drinking him in. Your gaze lingers on his arm, reminding him that it does in fact burn where the plasma bullet graze his shoulder. Next to him, Hyunjin shifts. The Nightcrawler barely moves forward, sliding part of his body between Minho and where you stand in the doorway to your studio, Hyunjin’s hand resting on top of his gun. 

“You gonna kill me, Cowboy?” Your voice wavers when you ask. By the twitch in your lip, Minho can tell you’re upset that it does. 

“No. I want to help.” Hyunjin snorts and Minho is reminded of his earlier question. What do you think safety is? “Consider it an act of faith,” Minho offers and Hyunjin’s snickering turns to curiosity. “I’ve rejected yours in the past. Let me off you the only one I have.” 

No one moves. Minho slowly lifts his wrist toward Hyunjin, displaying the information. The Nightcrawler looks it over and raises his brows, looking back at Minho. “What strange turn of events, Minho.” 

It’s the first time Hyunjin has ever used his name. He says nothing as the Nightcrawler heads over to you, murmuring quietly. Your face is inscrutable as you nod and look over your shoulder, saying something to Jeongin. He nods fiercely, face set in determination that makes Minho’s mouth twitch a little. 

The three of them join Minho wordlessly as he turns on his heels and heads up the stares. Hyunjin’s watch flashes and lets them know that the United Enforcers are three minutes out and they need to get where they’re going.

You take the lead then, hurrying out the door but not out into the street, ducking into a noodle shop three doors down from Neon Rodeo. You shout in United New Mandarin at the woman behind the counter, shocking him - not that Minho knows anything about you at all - and the woman waves you off.

Through the shop and into the stock room you lead everyone, hoping over bags of flower and starch until you reach a table that you climb up on and pull a vent from a ceiling. It’s far too large to be a normal vent, and his questions are answered when he realizes it leads to a small garage that faces the next street over. 

Once into the garage, Hyunjin takes the lead out into the street, weapon up. Minho brings up the rear, falling into a defensive unit as you go. Jeongin walks closely behind Hyunjin, his steps a little clumsy but his head on a swivel. 

Good, Minho thinks. Jeongin is alert. 

“Decided not to kill me?” you whisper as you skirt out into the street and hug the building face. 

Minho can barely hear you over the fabric you’ve pulled up over your face. He blinks and thinks to do the same, pulling the hood up on his jacket and sliding up a black gaitor over the lower half of his face. 

“I was never going to kill you.”

“Hard to tell with you.” 

“I… don’t have an argument.” 

And he doesn’t. He realizes that he’s kept you at arm's length despite your best attempts to spark some sort of friendship. What reason could he do that other than sparing himself if he had to kill you one day? It makes the most logical sense.

“I thought we were friends.” That makes him pause. You notice a few steps ahead of him that he’s stopped, looking at you. “We stopped being just business acquaintances over a year ago, Collector. My normal clients don’t get to test my new hardware or request as many JumpPacks as you do on the house.”

“They’re on the house?”

“Of course they are!” you snap at him. “Do you not look at your billing, Collector? How do you know I’m not overcharging you?” 

“I stopped looking once I trusted you weren’t robbing me.”

“See, that’s a funny word coming from you. Trust.”

A whistle catches Minho’s attention. You both turn to see that Hyunjin and Jeongin are nearly three-blocks away at the entrance of a nondescript shop. Color floods Minho’s face when he realizes the pair of you had stopped walking to have your argument and he curses himself as you start moving again. 

“I do trust you.” You say nothing to his comment. “I’m sorry I didn’t accept the armor.”

“It wasn’t about rejecting the armor, Collector.” The world Collector sounds dirty in your mouth. He suddenly wants to hear you call him Cowboy again. “It was about rejecting me when I thought we were already friends. I was wrong.”

Hyunjin leads them down into an alleyway that is void of anything besides dumpsters and murky puddles. The smell turns Minho’s stomach but he resists the urge to gag as Hyunjin bends down to pull up a sewer grate. He flashes his flashlight inside and nods before jumping down and vanishing. There’s a light splash as he lands and calls up for Jeongin. 

Minho crouches close to you as Jeongjin adjusts to follow Hyunjin down. 

“You weren’t,” he says as Jeongin jumps. You turn to look at him, confused. “Wrong. You weren’t wrong.” 

You look him up and down, hesitating. Hyunjin calls your name and you turn away from Minho, checking your legs and arms to make sure your pockets are zipped. Minho watches as you jump. He realizes his holding his breath until he hears your feet splash.

Quickly, he scrambles to the grate, pulling the top with him. Looking through the hole, he sees the orange light of glowsticks as you and Jeongin crack and shake them, lighting up the tunnel in a very small ring of light. Hyunjin has turned off his flashlight and looks up at Minho, gesturing for him to hurry.

Minho holsters his weapon and jumps down, bending at the knee as he lands to absorb the fall. His boots splash loudly in the tunnel, echoing for a few seconds. His shoulder wound aches as he straightens up. Hyunjin is already lifting Jeongin up to pull the great back over the hole. The scrape of metal on the concrete sounds much louder in the watery tunnel, making Minho cringe.

Looking both ways, he sees the sewer is less of a sewer and more of a tunnel. The cloth pulled over his face does little to keep out the rancid smell, and he winces when he sees fat, black rats scattering on the edges of the orange light. 

Something touches his arm and he jerks, hand going to his gun. You lean back and apologize, holding out a glowstick. He relaxes and takes it, fingers brushing yours as he does. He instantly gets a chill down his spine, though his fingers are warm where they brushed yours. 

Minho clears his throat and holds the glowstick up, looking around the tunnel. He can hear the faint echoes of dripping water and every movement of the group feels loud in the pressing silence of the dark. 

“What is this?” he asks, looking at you. 

It’s Hyunjin who answers, “Nightcrawler shit. You’re welcome.”

“Should we expect any of your former coworkers, then?” 

“They’re not so bad.” Hyunjin unholsters his weapon as he begins walking south down the tunnel, throwing Minho a sharp grin. “It’s the Darklings I worry about.” 

You fall into step behind Hyunjin immediately, ducking your head to murmur something to him as you go. The glow of your light gets farther away as Minho stands staring at Hyunjin, unsure if he’s serious or not. 

Jeongin steps up next to Minho. “He was joking about Darklings, right? The People Underneath are a myth?” 

“Have you ever heard Hyunjin tell a joke?” 

Minho leaves Jeongin thinking about it before the younger rushes to keep up with him, feet splashing wildly. 

-

Whether Hyunjin was joking about the Darklings or not, they don’t run into anything except rats and roaches in the underground tunnels. Minho finds himself itching to ask the Nightcrawler questions and demand where they’re going, but he doesn’t, 

An act of faith. 

It was an act of faith when Minho showed Hyunjin the safehouse on his watch. It was one of the few things that Minho protected more fiercely than his life, and he was hoping that when Hyunjin saw the coordinates, title of ownership, and Minho’s information, he’d gain a little trust. 

Minho had been right. Hyunjin, though still sharp at the edges, has become unnervingly benign with Minho, addressing him by his name. It’s not much to most, but he knows among killers it’s a huge step. One that means a little more trust, if not at least peers. 

You remain quiet for the most part. Your eyes stray toward Minho often and when he catches you looking, you don’t look away. Your gaze is hesitant and questioning, as though you’re trying to figure him out like one of the schematics on your screens. 

Biting into a protein bar, he quickens his pace to fall into step with you. “What will you do with your lab?” 

Your lips twitch. “Chemical fire. There’s a stop-line in the frame of the building so it should be controlled. I promised not to burn down Neon Rodeo when I established my office there.” 

“Who owns that place, anyway?” 

“Bangchan.” The name sounds familiar. “Reformed Nightcrawler.” 

“You keep unusual company.”

“Better than none.” 

That gets a little bit of a laugh from him. You smile when he does and he swears it’s brighter than the glowsticks you carry. “I deserved that one. I’m working on it, alright.”

“How do Jisung and Changbin deal with you?”

“The same way I deal with them.” You hum, nodding in understanding. For a few minutes, it’s just wet steps echoing in the tunnels. “What made you decide to come with me? I assume you have your own fallback plans.” 

“I do, but I don’t know. I wanted to accept your olive branch.” You look at him. “I wanted to trust you.”

He nods. His gut twists a little at that, both anxious and pleased. He’d been right about offering an act of faith in return for the one he scorned. Now, he just has to keep you alive, which he grows more confident in doing. 

“Where are we going?” 

He looks up at you. “Hyunjin didn’t tell you?”

“No, just said to trust you.” Minho’s brows shoot up and you snort. “I know. Whatever you showed him convinced him.”

“It’s a safe house on Isla de Suenos.” You look up at him sharply and he gives a soft grin. “My mother belonged to a very well-off family. I’m not supposed to exist, and she had to decide at a young age whether or not I was worth throwing away her family and their power. A single safehouse purchased with offshore accounts and through a network of money-changing and bought secrecy is the only thing she could give me.”

“She didn’t choose you?” He shakes his head. You think about that for a second and he lets the words sink in, waiting for the pity, which he hates. Instead, you hum. “No wonder you don’t choose people either.”

Your candor is a relief. You don’t tell him sorry or try to comfort him. You accept this as a fact of life, a normalcy that a mother would choose wealth and power over a child. “There are no records tying us together, but the title of the house is under what my name would have been if she’d taken me. Lee. My family name would be Lee.”

“What is it now?”

“I don’t have one. My father was servant-class. We don’t have family names.” 

“He worked for your mother’s family?” Minho nods. “Lee. I like it. Will you keep it?”

“Maybe. It’s who I have to be, now.” 

“No longer the Collector?” He shakes his head. “Good. Perhaps I like you more as just Lee Minho.” 

Minho bites back a grin. 

By the time they get to the surface again, they’re just outside of the city-proper on the northeast shore. Here, the night is bitter cold as the salty air blasts off the ocean, dark waves rushing and receding against the shoreline. 

They take a brief break once their topside, Minho gasping deep breaths of fresh air in as he gulps down water. Now that they can see without the glowsticks, they toss them into the trash and breathe in silence. 

Carefully, Minho peers at the wound on his shoulder. It’s caterized from the heat of the plasma, but the burn hurts something vicious. He has no medical supplies on him, and he examines the chawed flesh with mild concern. 

Seeing the injury, you get up wordleslly from the rock where you sit and come over. Your hand digs in one of your pockets and you produce a packet of burn gel and antiseptic, wordlessly gesturing to the wound. He nods and you offer a tentative grin before ripping the antiseptic open with your teeth, spitting the crinkling material on the ground.

With steady hands, you squeeze out the translucent gel on the tips of your fingers and peel the damaged parts of Minho’s shirt away from the flesh. He sucks in a breath when you apply the cool gel to the wound, the stinging of the antibiotic catching him off guard. You shoot him an apologetic wince before continuing to press it lightly into the burned flesh. 

You smell like jasmine and amber. Minho breathes it in deep, a soothing scent mixed with the salty air of the seat just a few yards away. His eyes flutter shut as your fingers work his shoulder, deft and skilled like an artist. 

“My mom liked to paint,” Minho says automatically, unsure where the comment comes from. “That’s one of the few things I know about her. She had artists hands. You have hands like hers. Graceful.” 

“Hmm, I wouldn’t say I’m an artist but I do draw designs for weapons a lot.”

“It’s a kind of art.”

“I suppose it is.”

Your closeness makes Minho dizzy. Instead of chasing you away in the past, he lets you linger and spread the burn gel on his shoulder. He doesn’t open his eyes, letting the sound of the ocean and the press of your steady fingers lull him into a moment of relaxation. 

He can almost pretend you both haven’t thrown your life away to head to some house he’s never been to with little to no plan but to arrive there alive. 

“Does it hurt?” he shakes his head at your question. You voice is soft and raspy, rising the hairs on the back of his neck. You’re so close he can feel the heat radiating from you, making him lean in on instinct, seeking the warmth. “If you let me give you better armor, plasma won’t hurt you.”

Minho’s eyes flutter open. “You brought it with you?”

“Of course I did.” Your face is inches from his, eyelashes fanning your bright, glittering eyes as you look up at him. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Hyunjin’s voice shatters the moment before Minho can respond. “Hello, yes, the child and I are still here.” 

“I’m not a child!”

“The child and I need to leave, however. Seungmin and Felix are waiting to escort us. I believe your friend left transportation for you, Minho.”

You whirl around. “You’re leaving? What do you mean you’re leaving?”

“I have some Nightcrawling to do with Bangchan and Seungmin. I’m taking the child to stay with Swan.” 

Minho has no idea who Swan is. He sees the uncertainty color your face as you regard your guard - your friend. “You would do that? Take him to stay with her?” 

“Of course. Swan likes strays.” 

“I am right here,” Jeongin reminds everyone, crossing his arms over his chest. “And I’m not a child.”

Hyunjin grins at him. It’s real and not a leer, something that Minho doesn’t think he’s ever seen. Hyunjin grabs Jeongin by the shoulder, pulling him along before flicking his poison-green eyes toward Minho and you. “Enjoy your evening. I’ll be around, Minho.” 

“Wait!” you bolt over to them, catching everyone by surprise as you throw your arms around the two of them and squeeze. The smile on Hyunjin’s face is so soft that Minho has to look away, equal parts something like jealousy and feeling like he’s intruding. “Here.” 

You divest several items from your pockets, shoving them into their hands. Medical gels, a few gadgets, and a little Scorpion figurine that you shove into Hyunjin’s hands. He raises a single brow in amusement but you say nothing to the Nightcrawler, rushing back to stand at Minho’s side. 

Hyunjin and Jeongin lift their hand in waves to Minho before turning and heading down the beach at a slow pace, their feet sinking into the sand. Cold wind whips at Minho as he stands watching with you silent by his side, waiting.

Without a word, he turns and beckons you, heading up the rocky coast before heading back down precariously to a tiny cove with a boat buoyed between the rocks. It’s hardly a safe-looking boat and he realizes it probably wouldn’t have carried them all, but it’s something. 

Minho climbs into the boat carefully before helping you step down into it. The rocking water throws you off balance and he steadies you, hands tight on your waist. You mutter an apology but he doesn’t let go until he’s sure you’re okay, eyes searching. 

A moment of tension passes, his fingers pressed into the fabric of your hips, your closeness overpowering the sea air again. You clear your throat and it passes. Minho lets you go as he finds the key and plugs it in to turn on the engine.

You busy yourself with untying ropes, your steps unsteady as the vessel moves unpredictably beneath your feet. Once you manage to get rid of all the lines, he begins to navigate out the cove backward, turning the wheel violently from side to side as he fights the tide. 

Thankfully with every swell that pushes the boat into the cove, it drags it back out. It takes about three swells before the craft is pulled into the ocean proper and he throws the throttle in reverse, water rooster tailing for a moment as he does. 

You join him at the helm and stand close as he turns it around and drives. Wind rips at his jacket, blowing back the hood. He’s thankful for the face cover fighting the icy wind, squinting as he drives in the late hours of the night across a rippling black ocean. 

The water gets rough as he turns to the east, glancing at the coordinates on his watch every once in a while. Your hand shoots out to grab his forearm on a particularly violent dip. He curses, pain radiating from his shoulder as you do. You immediately shout an apology and let go, but Minho snakes an arm around your waist, pulling you tight.

For a second, you stiffen, looking up at him uncertain. He remains steadfast in his hold, willing his heart to slowdown as he drives, determined to keep you from falling off the boat and into the water before you can even make it to the safehouse. 

You relax into him after a second, pressing closer and letting him hold on as you go. He relaxes when you accept his help, breathing out a slow breath that he didn’t know he was holding. 

It takes almost forty five minutes, but the dark shadow of Isla de Suenos materializes in the night. The city is a spec of light on the misty horizon as the waves begin to slow down until he can let down on the throttle, bringing the boat to a troll instead of a plane. 

The collection of islands that surround the massive, man-made mountain in the middle of the seat are all only about seven acres in size and are privately owned. The level of exclusivity is something Minho is incredibly unfamiliar with, and he gets nervous as they approach the barely visible shield surrounding the collection of islands.

“Minho, there’s a-”

“It’ll let us through.” He squeezes your waist on instinct, hoping it’s true. As the boat passes, he holds his breath. He feels the biochip in his neck flicker and then they’re through the shield. The water is falt calm on the other side of the energy wall, tapping gently against the hull. “It’s biometric.”

“And you were sure that was going to work?”

“Mostly.” 

“Mostly is not a great attitude in the invention field, Minho.” 

It takes a second, but he realizes you’re calling him by his name and not Cowboy. He likes the sound of it on your tongue, though he doesn’t mind the diminutive. 

Even in still waters, he doesn’t remove his arm around your waist, the protective instinct still high as he steers the boat according to his watch. Islands with lights hidden behind thick jungle and rockface slide past them. 

The beacon on his watch flashes and he turns the boat, trolling to a long, empty dock ahead of them. The island is no different from the rest, covered in sprawling jungle and foliage that look monstrous in the ominous night. 

Quickly, you tie off the boat and disembark. Your steps on the dock feel loud in the quiet night, the two of you hurrying along and up the shore until you hit the stone stairway that leads through the trees. Though he isn’t holding you close to him anymore, you still keep yourself pressed close, the back of your hands brushing as you begin the climb up the island. 

Minho has no idea what the house looks like. He only knows that it’s coded to his biochip and that it’s always been there if he needs it. He doesn’t know if it’s stocked or if the electricity is on, or if it’s been raided and taken over. He doesn’t even know if there are codes to get access.

It is the most unprepared he has ever been. 

A large estate springs up among the trees. The entire building is constructed on a platform with foliage and trees brushing along the foundations. It’s made up of windows and metal framing, the windows dark and hiding whatever exists within. 

It is exquisit. Minho has never seen an estate or a luxury home before in person, but he knows that’s what this is. The thought seems a little silly as he leads you toward the modular home, steps quiet as he glances around. He cannot imagine that anyone but he and his could enter the grounds, but he’s still on edge. 

At the door, there’s a single bioscanner. He leans his neck toward it, letting it flash over his biochip. The scanner turns green and he hears the hiss of an airlock. Glancing at you and shrugging, he tries the handle and pulls the door open toward him. 

Inside, the air is cool. He steps in first, hand on his gun as he looks around the interior. It’s sparkling clean and decorated with dark wood furniture and greenery. He takes a few steps inside, flinching when automatic lights come on and cast a warm, gold glow in the house. 

“You’ve been living as a fucking Collector when this existed the entire time?” you deadpan from the door.

No kidding, he thinks, turning to look at the multi-story wonder that is the home. It’s three levels of tropical opulence, making his head spin at all of the possibilities. 

“I didn’t know what was here, honestly.” He turns to look at you and nods. You step inside and pull the door shut, tapping the screen beside it. The locks click in place again and with another tap, he sees the windows darken to privacy mode. “I assumed she didn’t leave me something grand.” 

“It’s a good start on an apology. She’s still a bitch for leaving you and I think you should let me fight her.”

A ripple of fondness goes through him and he smiles at you, uncontrolled and large. You shoot a shy one back before looking away at the wonder of the home. 

Unlike him, you seem to relax immediately, kicking your shoes off to wander around the house. He follows suit after a moment of hesitation, peeling the cover off of his face and kicking of his shoes. He leaves his holster open on his weapons, hands hovering near them as he follows you.

The house is extravagent. Smaller than he originally thought, with only three bedrooms and two bathrooms, but the spaces for each are massive and sprawling with greenery. It feels like the jungle is a part of the house - and he realizes it is, at least in the atrium. There’s a large pool and something that looks like a hot spring behind the house, hidden from the world by think palms and palmetto. 

Each room is richly designed and cleaned, as though it has been kept for him all this time. He’ll have to worry about that at some point, unsure who has kept the house in such a presentable state while it’s existed. 

After you’ve fed your curiosity, you drift to one of the rooms with a private bathroom. He takes the room across from you, feet dragging as the exhaustion hits him. His limbs feel heavy and peeling off his shirt with the injure arm makes him curse and hiss. He doesn’t bother looking in the mirror, knowing the old bruises from a few days ago are still there.

Steam fills the bathroom. He’s a little put out when he realizes that the stone shower has a wall of glass to reveal the jungle on the other side, but he realizes there’s no one to watch him. He shakes the uneasiness and steps under the scalding water, moaning as he closes his eyes and lets it run down him.

A screen with a dozen or more settings sits in the rockface of the shower, but he doesn’t know how to use them. He hits another button hoping for what is more water pressure and instead gets a heavenly waft of eucalyptus. He leaves the settings alone, settling for tranquility over scrubbing himself.

Minho doesn’t know how long he stays in the shower. His fingers prune and the crust and blood eventually peel away. He spends a short amount of time scrubbing his own skin, eager to get out of the shower and check on you. 

Now that he has you, a new sort of stream of conscious has made itself permanent, always wondering where you are and if you’re okay. 

Steam clouds the bathroom as he steps out, wrapping a towel around his waist. Water clings to him as he ruffles his wet hair, strolling out into the bedroom. He walks toward the table by the door, rifling through his things looking for medical gel. 

A knock draws his attention and you open the door a crack, making a sound of surprise when you don’t expect to see him standing right in front of you. Your eyes dip down to where the towel is on his waist and back up, immediately opting to look at the ceiling. 

Minho’s lips pressed into a firm line, trying to eat the smirk threatening to take over.

“Sorry, I assumed you were still in the shower. I - um - brought more gel for your shoulder.” 

He steps away from the door, leaving drips of water as he does. “Come on in.”

“Are you sure?”

He shrugs and then winces, the burn pulling taught as he does. You enter immediately, shutting the door behind you and ripping the top off the packet as you do, eyes focused on the wound. You’ve got your fingers slathered in gel and pressing to his shoulder before you realize the forwardness, pausing to glance up at him.

Now, Minho does smirk. “I’m at your mercy.” 

“Sorry. I know it’s hurting you and…”

“You don’t want me to hurt,” he fills in, remembering your words from earlier.

You nod and chew your bottom lip as you work. He studies you closely. He doesn’t know if it’s his acceptance that you’re more than just someone he buys weapons from, the exhaustion or the little sliver of feeling he’s always pretended wasn’t there, but Minho suddenly feels a little bolder. 

A little braver. 

“I never had a chance to thank you.”

“For what?” You throw the antiseptic on the table and rip open the burn gel. “Anything. Everything. I don’t think I’ve ever said thank you.”

“There’s a lot of things you haven’t said.”

“So let me.” You dart a look at him, nervous. When you don’t interrupt he continues, “You were right. We stopped being industry peers a long time ago, and I’ve purposefully ignored multiple favors from you to keep the illusion that simple relationships meant I couldn’t be hurt. Or hurt others.”

“And now?”

“I realize it was silly.”

“Hmm. At least you admit your faults, Cowboy.” 

He smiles. You finish applying the gel, but you don’t move away from him. You linger, looking up through silky lashes at him. Your face takes on a dreamy look, mouth parted a little and he feels heat coil in his stomach at that look. 

“Why’d you offer me that armor?”

“I was afraid of how often you were working. I knew you were getting hurt and I wanted to help. Why’d you reject it?”

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

There’s a long pause. Your gaze drops to his mouth. You’re only a few inches away, the ghost of your breath against his neck. “What if I want you to?” 

Minho needs no other permission. It’s like a dam giving way, the past few days able to wedge their way in and open him up to let the rawness spill out of him. He surges forward, catching your mouth against his as he does so, hands shooting to your waist. 

You don’t push him away. Worse, you melt into him like it’s natural, hands skating up his arms and around the back of his neck to pull him in closer to you. Your mouth is warm and minty and addicting, scattering his thoughts to the stars as your lips move against his. 

Heat is trapped between your bodies. He feels like he’s burning up from the inside, squeezing your hips as his tongue brushes against your bottom lip. You open up for him easily, like you were always made to and he groans. 

Every time he has ever held back from you fuels him forward. He presses into you, turning you to push you on the mattress. You go willingly, opening your legs to let him slot between them. He leaves over you, mouth hungry. Devouring. Ravenous. 

You gasp between kisses, nails grazing down his flexing arms. He wants to fucking drown in you as he bites the edge of your jaw, tasting the soap on your skin. You smell like jasmine and amber, though now he can smell the eucalyptus too, driving him insane. 

You. 

The one thing he’s let himself trust. The one person he’s let in, even when he didn’t want to admit it. The one person he wants to have more than anything else. 

Greedy hands scrape up his chest. Your fingers are warm and searching as he nips the tender flesh of your neck, tongue laving over the bite to soothe it. The sounds dripping from your mouth are so pretty, driving him inside as he traces his desire with tongue and teeth. 

The fabric of your shirt scrapes against his skin, itchy and in the way. His hands pull at the hem and he hesitates, looking down at you through a heavy-lidded gaze and panting. You not frantically, hands pulling at his to guide the shirt upwards and off, revealing warm skin.

Minho wants to taste every part of you. You create art with your schematics and your weapons, but you are art. He worships you with tongue and teeth, hands brushing up your stomach to cup your chest. His tongue pulls a languid moan from you as he flicks it over the peak of your nipple. 

Fuck.

He’s greedy, sucking gentle on your pert bud, ensuring to scrap his teeth along the sensitive flesh. You writhe underneath him, unable to remain still. His other hand works you too, tweaking your stiff peak as he trails spit-slick kisses across your chest to wrap his lips around that nipple too. 

Minho looks up at you through his lashes. You’re a rendering of pleasure, head pressing into the bed, chest pushed up, a sheen of sweat on your collarbones and neck. It drives him wild, cock throbbing heavily as he trails his mouth toward, fingers pulling your pants as he goes. 

Your fingers twist in the sheets. Everything he does affects you and he’s drunk on it, heart thudding in his chest as he drops down to his knees. His towel falls and the cool air makes him shiver. He feels the sticky tip of his cock brush against his leg but he ignores the ache between his thighs, fixing his eyes on what’s between yours instead. 

Pretty and wet, all for him. For him. He gets to have you. But he doesn’t yet, making you wait and feel the personal hell it’s been for him to pretend he wasn’t yours as he kisses up your thighs, licking warm skin and digging his teeth in. 

“Minho,” you half gasp, half wine. He smiles against your knee, giving it a gentle peck. “Please.” 

“Yeah?” he switches legs, biting your calf. “Want it that bad?” 

“Need it.” 

He brings a hand up to your dripping cunt, dragging a curled knuckle through your wetness. You let out a keen and he grins against your leg even more, hypnotized by the way your petty little hole clenches at the contact.

Minho drags it out. Plays with you, dragging that knuckle slow-soft through your folds, avoiding your clit. You let out a sound that’s almost a sob and he chuckles, bringing his hand up to suck at the stickiness on his finger. 

“Hmm. Sweet.” 

“Bet it’s better from the source,” you shoot back, trying to make a jab and failing with how weak your voice is. 

“True,” he agrees, leaning forward. 

Your taste blooms on his tongue as he licks up your center, slow and patient. He savors the taste, humming as he does. You buck under his mouth and he grips your thighs, pulling you open. You’re warm and wet and perfect, and he listens to your breath hitch as he licks you slowly, making sure to circle around your clit each time.

One of your hands shoots to his hair. He doesn’t mind as you pull. The sting feels good and spurs him on, eating you out properly. He loves the sounds you make for him, loves the way your thighs twitch as he sucks your click into his mouth, tongue flicking over it. 

It’s wet and messy and just the way he likes it, slick dripping down his chin as he presses himself in further, desperate to fuck you into sanity with just his mouth. 

He doesn’t have a problem doing it. You buck against his face and he lets you, holding his tongue flat for you to grind against. Your fingers in his hair have him in a vice grip and he moans, a steady stream of mhmmm dripping sweet from his mouth into your heat. 

“Fuck,” you gasp. “Fuck fuck fuck.”

“Come on,” he mouths against you. “Take what you want, baby.” 

The endearment slips from him more natural than anything he’s ever done. His fingers squeeze your thighs as you undulate against him, his entire attention fixated on you as the begin to shake. Your hand twists in his hair and he groans, equal parts pain and pleasure as you come apart. 

He hums in satisfaction, keeping his mouth working on you, drinking you in as you continue to tremble. The power trip that comes with seeing you come is unmatched, lighting a fire in him as he licks you to oversensitivity.

“Minho,” you beg, voice squeaking. He grins, kissing your cunt before he mouths his way back up to you, capturing your mouth with his. You’re eager to taste yourself, tongue licking at him more than anything, smearing your slick on his lips. He feels his eyes roll back. You’re going to kill him. “More.”

Minho would conquer the world and call it yours if you wanted him to. There’s nothing he wouldn’t give you. Pretending otherwise was the great folly of man, he realizes, as he shuffles you up the bed and climbs between your legs, standing up on his knees.

You watch him, pupils blown and fucked out as he heaves. He can hardly catch his breath as he reaches down to take his cock in his hand, pumping leisurely as he watches you. The way you look at him like you’ll consume him whole makes him shiver. He wants you to. Want you to burn him up until there’s nothing left. 

Leaning down, he drops his cock out of his hand in favor of sliding a hand between you’re legs. You’re a mess of spit and cum, making the glide easy as he slips a finger into your heat to work you open. Your head falls to the side, giving him access to suck at your jawline as he fucks you open with his finger, adding a second when he knows you can take it. 

Your hips roll up to meet his thrusts as he scissors his fingers open, pressing against your warm walls to push the stretch further. You’re putty in his hands but he’s a mess in yours, too. He’s shaking by the time he slips his hand from between your legs to press the crown of his cock at your entrance, hesitating. 

Minho looks up at you. He already knows there’s no going back for him, three years of his own stubborn delusions robbing him of what could have been. But he asks, anyway. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve been sure for a long time. It was you who needed convincing.” 

“What a stuipd man I am.”

“Yes,” you agree. “But mine.” 

That drives him wild. Simple words and yet the very action of you claiming him erodes the last bit of resistance. He pushes into you and goes slow with a considerable amount of effort, shaking and panting as he tries to keep it together. 

You’re warm and tight and twitches of pleasure ripple through him from cock to stomach. Minho swears he comes alive for the first time as he seats himself in your cunt to the hilt, barely able to catch his breath as he ducks down to press his mouth against yours.

It’s not delicate, but it isn’t the same ferocity as earlier. It’s something else that lingers between madness and relief. He only begins to move when he feels your hips wiggle. He smiles into the kiss, retracting his hips before surging forward again. 

Delirious. That is the only word that comes to mind as he starts to fuck you slow and deep. Your mouths bump together but you’re both breathing raggedly, shaking together. Your hands card through his hair, soothing and soft. His lashes flutter as he drops his head further. You press your lips against his forehead as he picks up the pace, letting your hands worship him as he fucks you.

How could he ever think he was sparing you from him? How could he ever make the mistake that if he kept on the fringes, you wouldn’t leave him ruined like this? It seems unimaginative now. Like something that was always meant to happen. 

No wonder Collect Co. knew he would go running to you like a dog when they assigned you to him. Everyone else could admit it except him, an egregious error on his part.

But Minho has you now. Gasping his name and moving in his arms. Rolling your hips to meet his, your cunt clenching on his cock as he fucks you harder. He wants to dig into you and never let go. Wants to sink in to the very core and live there. 

“Mine,” you growl as though you can read his thoughts. “Even though you tried not to be. You are mine, Lee Minho.”

When you say his full name like that, voicing the boy who could have been and now who is, he starts to come apart. His pace quickens as he chases your second release, holding you tight to him as he feels you clench longer and longer around him until you’re sobbing his name and spilling down his shaft.

Minho all but growls your name as he comes. Never again will you be Builder. You’re his. First and last name his to say. The acknowledgment almost makes him cry as he slows his thrusts, gasping for air as he tosses his head back, heat escaping between the two of you. 

Finally, he stops fucking you, hands linked with yours as he leans up to catch his breath. He’s still seated in you, feeling the cum drip between where your ass is pressed against his thighs. He doesn’t care, feeling the sweat and the water from his shoulder drip down his back.

His arm burns where he’s used it. He’d been unaware of the pain while lost in you, but he feels it now, throbbing. He doesn’t care. He’d do it again a thousand times.

Slowly, he unravels from you. Your hands don’t let him go far, pulling him down next to you to roll toward. He smiles, tired and dreamy at the edges as he lets you. The bed is soft against his balmy skin, the cool air helping calm him down. 

Finally, both of you can breathe. He knows that he needs to shower again, but he doesn’t want to get up. He wants to keep you near. Now that he’s all in, he wants to stay all in. 

“We should call this place the Jungle Rodeo.” He cracks an eye open at you to realize you’re hiding a grin as you look up at him. “You know, since we can’t go back to Neon Rodeo.”

“What is it with you and rodeos?” 

“You find Cowboys at the rodeo.” 

“Oh?”

“And you’re here… so… it’s a rodeo.” 

He blinks at you. “Your intellect is astounding.” 

You laugh and it’s like taking a JumpPack straight to his bloodstream, a rush of energy and euphoria driving him upward and toward you. He smothers you with kisses, driving by the need to taste you again. You let him, giggling. 

“What do you say then, hmm?” he growls, nipping your bottom lip. “Want to go for another ride?”

“That joke was terrible.” 

“You know what they say. When at the rodeo.” 

You laugh again and Minho is a goner once more, just like he was the first day he met you at Neon Rodeo. 

-

TAG LIST:

@stayceebs97 @skzswife @bettybeako

[theaddictedwatcher]

Hello everyone!

The series I will introduce to you today is an American science fiction series categorized as cyberpunk. Created by Laeta Kalogridis (Avatar, Shutter Island, Alita: Battle Angel) and based on the novel of the same name written by Richard K. Morgan which was written in 2002, the first season of the series was commissioned by Netflix in 2016 and was released on the streaming platform in 2018. I'm going to tell you about the Altered Carbon series.

As always, let's start with a short synopsis: In a future where humans can transfer their minds from one body to another, Takeshi Kovacs -a rebel- is brought back to life 250 years after his death to solve the vicious murder of the richest man in the world -Laurens Bancroft- in exchange for his freedom. He must find allies, pay attention to every detail, and remember what he was taught as a diplomatic corps to succeed. And a short technical presentation : - Created by Laeta Kalogridis. Based upon Richard K. Morgan's Altered Carbon trilogy. - Music by Jeff Russo. - Main cast: Joel Kinnaman, Renée Elise Goldsberry, James Purefoy, Kristin Lehman, Martha Higareda, Dichen Lachman, Chris Conner, Ato Essandoh, Trieu Tran, Anthony Mackie, Lela Loren, Simone Missick, Dina Shihabi, Torben Liebrecht.

THE PRODUCTION

As I said in the introduction, Netflix ordered the series in January 2016, fifteen years after Laeta Kalogridis - the series's creator- optioned the rights for a film adaptation of Richard K. Morgan's 2002 novel Altered Carbon. According to her, the complex nature of the novel and the fact that the subject matter is rated R made it difficult to sell the project to a production company. But that was before Netflix launched the project as a series! In fact, the series was one of the many dramas commissioned in a short space of time by the streaming platform, which had committed to spending $5 billion on original content and agreed to make it a project for a mature audience over the age of 16.

Laeta Kalogridis co-wrote the script and was executive producer in addition to her role as creator of the project. Richard K. Morgan, the author of the novel, acted as a consultant during the production of the series. The first season - consisting of 10 episodes - was released in 2018 and the second season - consisting of 8 episodes - will be released in 2020.

In 2018, Netflix also announced an animated film derived from the series to ‘expand the universe’ by adding new elements to the story's mythology.

Titled Altered Carbon: Resleeved and released in March 2020, a month after the release of season 2, the feature film uses character designs by manga artist Yasuo Ōtagaki (Moonlight Mile). It is written by Dai Satō (Ghost in the Shell, Cowboy Bebop) and Tsukasa Kondo, directed by Takeru Nakajima (Sword Art Online) and Yoshiyuki Okada, and produced by Anima Studio. It also features an original soundtrack by Keigo Hoashi (Square Enix's Nier franchise) and Kinuyiki Takahashi.

Following the release of the second season and the animated film, Netflix decided in April 2020 not to renew the series. Unlike the cancellation of other series, the decision to cancel Altered Carbon was not linked to the COVID pandemic but stemmed from the lack of return on viewings to the production costs. In fact, the series is the most expensive Netflix production to date and, although production costs have not been disclosed, Joel Kinnaman - who plays Takeshi Kovacs, the series' lead character - said they had “a bigger budget than the first three seasons of Game of Thrones”.

Enough introductions, it's time to get to the heart of the matter! To be perfectly honest, I didn't enjoy watching this series, but I'll come back to that later. I didn't manage to watch it in full and haven't seen the film, although I'll give it a chance one day. In my observations and remarks, there could be questions that remain with me and which may have been answered in the episodes I couldn't bring myself to watch.

THE UNIVERSE

But let's start by giving you more information about the universe into which the series plunges us. The first season takes place in 2384, in a futuristic city called Bay City. In this future, a person's memory and consciousness can be stored on a disc - called a stack - implanted in the back of their neck. The shell can be human or synthetic. In the event of physical death, these storage discs can be transferred to a new envelope. However, if a person's disk is destroyed, then their death is final. While theoretically, this means that anyone can claim immortality, in practice only the richest people - the Meths - have the means to do so through the use of clones and remote back-ups of their consciousness. But these are very expensive and so reserved for a certain financially comfortable elite.

In this reality, Takeshi Kovacs - played by Byron Mann (Skyscraper, The Big Short) in flashbacks - is a political agent with mercenary skills. He is the only surviving soldier of the Envoys, a rebel group defeated during an uprising against the New World Order.

In the first season, which takes place 250 years after the destruction of the Envoys, Kovacs' stack is pulled from the prison where Kovacs was sentenced by Meth Laurens Bancroft. Played by James Purefoy (Solomon Kane, Churchill, Rome), the 300-year-old Bancroft is one of the richest men in the established worlds. Bancroft offers Kovacs a new shell - played by Joel Kinnaman (RoboCop, Suicide Squad) - and the chance to solve a murder and get a new lease on life.

The second season of Altered Carbon begins 30 years after the conclusion of season 1 and finds Takeshi Kovacs - played by Anthony Mackie (Captain America: Civil War, Black Mirror, Notorious) - the sole surviving soldier of an elite group of interstellar warriors, continuing his age-old quest to find his lost love, Quellcrist Falconer - played by Renée Elise Goldsberry (Hamilton, The Good Wife, Masters of Sex). The season picks up some of the characters from Broken Angels - the second book in the series - but has a plot closer to that of the third book in the series, Woken Furies.

THE POST-CYBERPUNK GENRE

The term post-cyberpunk was first used around 1991 to describe Neal Stephenson's science fiction novel Snow Crash.

In 1998, in an article entitled Notes for a post-cyberpunk manifesto, the writer and critic Lawrence Person identified the emergence of a post-cyberpunk current. Cyberpunk was popular in the late 1970s and 1980s (Ridley Scott's Blade Runner, William Gibson's Neuromancer). Lawrence Person defines post-cyberpunk as ‘bringing in characters and settings different from cyberpunk, and, above all, making fundamentally different assumptions about the future. Far from being lonely outsiders, post-cyberpunk characters are often an integral part of society. They evolve in a future that is not necessarily anti-utopian (in fact, they are often bathed in an optimism that ranges from caution to exuberance), but their daily lives remain marked by rapid technological renewal and ubiquitous computerized infrastructure.’ (Notes for a post-cyberpunk manifesto, 1998).

The following are the main differences between post-cyberpunk and cyberpunk:

Like its predecessor, post-cyberpunk describes a realistic near-future rather than distant futures set in space. The focus is on the social effects of technology deployed on Earth rather than on space travel.

Cyberpunk typically deals with addicted loners in a dystopia, whereas post-cyberpunk tends to deal with people who are more involved in society, from the middle classes of the population, and there are very detailed descriptions of the characters' environment.

The post-cyberpunk individual tends to be warm and funny, attempting seduction through optimism after years of seduction through dread with the cyberpunk individual, who is colder and more sinister.

In cyberpunk, the alienating effects of new technology are highlighted, whereas in post-cyberpunk, technology is society. Post-cyberpunk therefore allows more technocratic themes and themes relating to the downside of technology to be included than cyberpunk.

Post-cyberpunk also offers a more realistic description of computers, consisting, for example, of the replacement of traditional virtual reality by a network of voice, image, sound or holography based on the Internet, or the abandonment of metallic implants in favor of body modifications using biotechnologies (particularly nanotechnologies).

Post-cyberpunk undoubtedly emerged in part because science fiction writers and the general population were beginning to use computers, the Internet, and PDAs without suffering the massive digital divide predicted in the 1970s and 1980s. The underlying idea was therefore to humanize the construction of cyberpunk universes and bring them closer to the life that the world's population could envisage in the future with the new technologies that were flourishing. The nightmarish visions engendered by the genre, including and especially in the popular imagination, covered what such a future could contain that was desirable. This is not to say that technological paradise is just around the corner, but that it is possible to be healthy and sane in a hyper-technological universe.

Emblematic works of the genre such as Masamune Shirow's Ghost in the Shell, and the video games Deus Ex and Deus Ex: Invisible War by Ion Storm, Deus Ex: Human Revolution and Deus Ex: Mankind Divided by Eidos Montreal have all played a large part in democratizing the genre among a wider audience.

DIFFERENCES FROM THE NOVEL

As I haven't read the books, I'm giving you the information as I found it during my research into the series. I think I'll try to read the novels one day because, like the animated film, I'm very interested in the theme. As someone afraid of the direction our society is taking, of its relationship with technology, and in particular of its untimely and irrational use of artificial intelligence, I'm always interested in the warnings that artists try to convey through their work, whatever the medium. And I like to think that just because I didn't like an adaptation - it can happen - doesn't mean that the original material isn't worth discovering.

The first season is based on the novel Altered Carbon by Richard K. Morgan, published in 2002. This is the first volume of a trilogy recounting the adventures of Takeshi Kovacs, a post-cyberpunk techno-thriller series set on the West Coast of the United States at the end of the twenty-fifth century. Although the adaptation retains most of the main plot points of the first volume, the series introduces several major changes to its characters and organizations:

In the novel, the Envoys are elite soldiers of the Earth-based United Nations Protectorate, the complete opposite of the rebel freedom fighters portrayed in the series, who hail from Harlan's World where Takeshi Kovacs was born.

In the book, Takeshi Kovacs was imprisoned for his independent work after leaving the Envoys, whereas in the series, Kovacs is a captured rebel.

Reileen Kawahara's character in the novel was merely Kovacs' ruthless underworld boss and had no blood relationship with him, unlike their brother/sister relationship in the series where she is played by Dichen Lachman.

The Envoy who trained Kovacs in the book was Virginia Vidaura, whereas in the series she is only a minor character. The role of her trainer and her story are carried over to the character of Quellcrist Falconer, who in the third book is the messiah-like historical figure.

Falconer's rebellion did not take place during Kovacs' training, as in the series, but long before Kovacs was born in the books.

In Richard K. Morgan's novel, the Hendrix Hotel is a crucial character. It's not just a Jimi Hendrix-themed building, but also an artificial intelligence in the guise of Jimi Hendrix that has a strange bond with its only guest, Takeshi Kovacs. With Hendrix's estate refusing to license his image for the TV series due to its violence, series's creator Laeta Kalogridis chose the likeness of Edgar Allan Poe - played by Chris Conner - and a Victorian hotel for the replacement AI in Poe's image and said it would juxtapose well with the futuristic look of Bay City.

In the books, Kristin Ortega - played by Martha Higareda- is a much less important character. The main female character in the series, the dedicated detective doesn't have a devastating fight with the Ghostwalker, nor does she get a new super-powered arm. Her subplot with her family and religion isn't explored in the book and she isn't captured and tortured by Rei - although she is tortured all the same. Also, in the book her partner is called Rodrigo, not Aboud, and he doesn't date her mother.

And these are just some of the changes that were made when the novels were adapted for Netflix.

THEMES

Let's move on to the themes addressed in this dystopian work. Many of the themes addressed by the series - such as the human-machine interface, the alliance between technology and our society, cyberspace and objective reality, hyper-urbanisation and artificial intelligence - are recurring themes in cyberpunk and post-cyberpunk works.

Because of the technological implications, the subject also raises moral questions. Is murder always immoral if it is consensual and the victim can be reimplanted in a new body in the space of a few minutes? The police themselves issue permits for spectacular fights to the death, organized in the homes of the rich, with husbands and wives teaming up to fight to the death for entertainment (the winner receiving a new, improved body).

However, another major implication was raised during the first season of Altered Carbon, which Laeta Kalogridis herself underlines: the separation of soul and body and the question of gender identity. If you could choose your own body, would you choose the one you were born with? This is a critical question for transgender people or those whose gender is fluid, and, for the show's creator, the subject was only touched on in this first season. However, she told TheWrap in 2019 that she would like to explore this dimension in more detail :

“The idea that this kind of technology creates interesting intersections between your idea of your physical self and your idea of your inner or spiritual self, or your idea of being fluid in some way, certainly the idea of reassigning your gender, becomes a whole lot easier if you don’t actually have to do it surgically. At the very least it becomes different. You are still in a body you weren’t born in. And I think exploring the idea of being able to recreate the physical self in another different way, I mean we’ve barely scratched the surface of that. And LGBTQ, and so many issues, and the ways in which we feel comfortable or uncomfortable in our physical bodies, are things that I think the show is very right to explore but has not yet been able to do. Certainly first season. We touched on it a little bit — but not much. I mean if we did get a second season — which we don’t know yet — but if we were to get a second season, I would definitely say that was one thing we frankly didn’t have time to touch on and wasn’t dealt with in the book at all. We went a little further than the book did, but honestly, it was just about time.”

What's interesting to me about these themes is that the creators - Richard K. Morgan and Laeta Kalogridis - are both aware that technological developments of all kinds are changing the structure of the world, just as cars, air travel, the Internet, and cell phones have done, and that they're not trying to wrap a soft pink cloud around the dangers that could await us in a few decades.

COSTUMES

There's one aspect that surprised me, it's the costume work in the series. Having read that the production had created approximately 2,000 costumes for the series, including 500 unique, made-to-measure pieces, I was expecting to get a real kick out of this. And although the work of Ann Foley (Marvel's Agents of SHIELD) for season 1, Cynthia Ann Summers (The Last of Us) for season 2 and their teams is visible, I was expecting more grandiose costumes, especially for the Bancrofts who are one of the wealthiest families on Earth at the time of the story. The artistic direction chosen was to make simple, realistic costumes to illustrate the fashion of the future, while adding a color palette and specific details, notably for the Meths.

However, I really like the idea of subtle costume changes for characters who use the same body envelope to differentiate them, as with Miriam Bancroft and her daughter Naomi - both played by Kristin Lehman. Upon this subject, the actress declared that she was very interested in the challenge this ambivalence would require and that it was quite different from her usual roles.

SHOOTING LOCATIONS

The series was mainly filmed at Skydance Studios in Vancouver, Canada, where they stayed for eight months to shoot the first season. Most of Altered Carbon's scenes were created on green screen and in CGI to accentuate the futuristic effect of the universe.

Lead actor Joel Kinnaman told Canadian publication K5 News about the shoot:

"We had a set three soccer pitches deep. Around 400 or 500 extras were bustling around us, it was a real living city, with noodle stores, construction workers and police officers… You could just breathe in the universe without having to imagine anything."

Some of the sets were filmed in real locations, such as Laurens Bancroft's gardens pictured above which were filmed in the Rose Garden at the University of British Columbia, or the hall of the Marine Building, which served as the Bancroft family home.

The former Canada Post building was used as the setting for the Wei Clinic, where Kovacs was tortured. The scenes with the Envoys were filmed on the Sea to Sky Gondola suspension bridge in Squamish.

Other filming locations in Vancouver included the Convention Centre West Building, the VanDusen Botanical Gardens Visitor Centre, the UBC Museum of Anthropology and the Qube.

MUSIC

Finally, I'd like to mention the work done by Jeff Russo (Umbrella Academy) and his team on the series' soundtrack, which is, to me, the only real positive point of this adaptation. What I particularly liked about their proposal is that they managed to combine very modern tracks like techno or hard rock (e.g. Karate by BABYMETAL) with much older pieces like jazz masterpieces by Django Reinhardt or even classical music (Anton Dvorak or Mozart). Mingling this alliance with the original creations composed by Jeff Russo for the series allows this soundtrack to create the unique atmosphere of each scene, making it easier for viewers to identify the characters and the stakes involved.

To be perfectly honest, when I was writing this article, I was listening to the series' soundtrack which, even outside the series, is very catchy and captivating. Even though I wasn't really hooked on the series, it allowed me to immerse myself in this universe and draw some personal reflections from it. For me, it's one of the greatest proofs of a successful composer's work: managing to draw someone into a specific universe using a few pieces of music alone.

CONCLUSION

And we are done with the Altered Carbon series. If you've made it this far, thank you for reading and staying!

I'm a pretty tenacious person and don't like to give up on series along the way - even when I don't like them - so I have to admit I'm disappointed to have to add this series to the short list of abandoned series where it joins The Walking Dead and Breaking Bad (amongst others). Someday I hope that the animated film Altered Carbon: Resleeved will find favor in my eyes and redeem the adaptation of this universe, which at the moment still looks fun and interesting to explore.

Until that day comes, I'll leave you to it. Despite this setback for me, I can only advise you to follow Laeta Kalogridis' work and read this fine interview with her on the Refinery29 website, in which she talks, among other things, about her approach to nudity as a feminist weapon.

For those of you who have seen the series or read the novels, I'm curious to know your opinion, especially if it differs from mine. So feel free to leave a little comment below the article or send me a message, on the blog or on Instagram at @theaddictedwatcherreviews.

Have a great week, happy viewings, and I'll see you next time!

Eli.

[cerothenull]

“If I had a nickel for everytime that Joel Kinnaman was cast in a cyberpunk setting where he was a cop whose bodily autonomy is meddled with and taken over and basically enslaved by corrupt billionaires I’d have two nickels which isn’t a lot but it’s weird it happened twice.”

(Robocop 2014)

(Altered Carbon 2018)

[syntheticmortal]

I got tagged by the lovely @crownedinmarigolds! Thank you so much mate!! I'm absolutely charmed 🥰

Now my rat bastard spouse stole most of my tagging options on their post so to not double-tag I will add:

@skaerdir, @klaciate, @tzimizce and @vamp-orwave!!

If anyone who sees this wants to be an honourary tagee, then go for it XD

For those who don't know - Hi I am Alex! (He/They) and I'm a writer and an English immigrant to the USA!

3 ships: oh mate all of these are OCxOC with @c-n-i-d-a-r-i-a-n

Victor and Gloria – A Nos and his unbound Ghoulfriend. Making your touchstone one of your mission Ghouls is dangerous af but live fast love hard, lads.

Jeff and Lamb – Another of Vic's unbound Ghouls and the Thin Blood Nos that joined the Warren. Disgustingly fucking cute injected into the den of the rejected and disgruntled.

Ventan/Taakur Rig and Rozanin Rig – My and Daz's SWTOR PCs respectively. A Chiss Cipher Agent that ends up having to go hide with his Mandalorian hireling with her Clan and Roz's unrequited love becomes hella requited and suddenly Ventan/Cipher Five-now-Taakur has step kids??

I love it so much.

first ship: Oh god this takes me back to being little. Probably a Sonic one??

Shadow and Rouge if I had to take a guess??

last song: Temptation by Sean Paul! A proper bop

But honestly massive shout out to the second Nostalgia Synthwave mix by Odysseus on youtube

This thing keeps me sane, and has all the songs marked! – that opening one, Realign by Cerulean, can usually just melt my brain into peace whenever I hear it

last film: Snatch – Like VTMB it's a problematic fave that oozes style and characterisation throughout. Watched it as prep for a Setite I'm going to play in a V5 game >:D

currently reading: Altered Carbon by Richard Morgan as part of genre research. Finished The Vampyre recently too! Really I should pick AC up today, I've been working hard on my editing and outlining of my own pieces and neglecting the reading part of the craft for a few weeks >.>;

currently craving: So I'm drinking far less booze to save money whilst I'm out of work trying to get some Proper Writing done. So when I hit a good worthy milestone I'm getting a bottle of whiskey and I am ready.

fav color: Green! Sometimes purple!

relationship status: Maaarriiied to @c-n-i-d-a-r-i-a-n

last google search: I had to double check the spelling of Taakur for the ship section, so it was 'mandoa' :')

and before that I'm pretty use I searched Scryfall last night to go look at MTG cards even though I have no one to play with right now :'D (at least it's saving me money >.>)

current obsessions: Was tempted to add my own work here but I'll tag that on the very end XD

There's a lot of fandoms I don't leave – World of Darkness and Warhammer 40k predominantly as settings I always have another angle I want to see explored in!

I do however have the Magic the Gathering bug, even though I haven't really played in years and years now – but card interaction as a generation for narrative has always kind of captivated me? Like there's a couple big mean Ogre cards that make Rats more dangerous, but due to the way the systems work they also empower the Ratfolk of Kamigawa, the Nezumi, as they count as 'Rat' cards still. So big Ogre spellcasters improving Rat people as part of a contained bit of narrative kind of fascinates me as a concept.

Plus each deck presupposes a Planeswalker character who's casting those spells – and I was always intrigued by that notion and so most of my OCs are representative of decks I played (or wanted to :P) and then in turn each Planeswalker needs a Plane to come from, probably from a still existing culture on that Plane too, and so it can kind of wonderfully reverberate inspiration.

Like how every VTM Kindred OC presupposes a Sire!

BONUS ALEX SECTION

So if you want to get to know me, let me tell you about what writing I'm working on/have made recently.

Out now!

The Mutilation of Finley Reid

A short story of masculine horror, about a young man by the name of Finley who suffers in the pursuit of having his place as a man affirmed by his peers.

The world of Torranham Nights is an anachronistic reflection of England set in the coastal city state of Torranham, drawing from contemporary culture and folklore as well as the legends and reality of the cultures that came before – without being fetishistic about it like a lot of stories will.

Handle It

A short retail horror, about working the cash register of a butcher's counter, and the customer who orders increasing amounts of ground beef...

Inspired by my own work in a same spot, anyone who's done service work should get a kick out of this – plus it's free and only takes 20 minutes to read! XD

On the way!

Defector – name subject to change

A short story of grief, shame, suicidal ideation, alcoholism, and community. On the moon.

A Special Recon mech pilot, “Crash”, from Earth has defected to the Moon rebels, and now lives in Magnolia City, rotting away in her tiny apartment. Then the Provisional Government sends one of its elite commanders, a former enemy of Crash's, to pull her out.

Elhart: Arrival

The first of a short story fantasy anthology about a city of refugees at the edge of time and space, hiding from the end of the multi-planar universe. A super soldier has washed up with a near-fatal headwound and no memory, and she must learn to live in a far more peaceful world than the one her instincts suggest she came from. But who was she? And can she earn the trust of people who fear her potential to kill?

Neon Sun

A novel! Cyberpunk Vampires! If we're mutuals you can come ask about this but I'm not ready to share things too publicly for this one yet, but the outlining has gone beautifully in my opinion, and the worldbuilding is singing.

Speartip

I'm making a TTRPG!! It's a Powered by the Apocalypse engine game, about serving as the primary field agents of a faction of people who need your support and protection. Because if you're going to be a hero, who are you doing it for if not your kin?

Setting agnostic as hell, excluding some implicit need for magic in the class moves – I'm prepping to playtest this in sci-fi and fantasy settings to see how well my mechanics hold up in both swords and firearms based stories. Plus I'm going to explore a variety of perspectives of what the faction can be – from ethnic groups, to gangs, to guilds, to neighbourhoods.

I'm VERY excited about all this!!

[castalyne]

5 episodes into Altered Carbon.

-Altered Carbon is peak Joel Kinnaman hotness

-Altered Carbon gives off The Diabolic vibes. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Not a bad thing at all, The Diabolic is one of my favorite books. Things can feel the same or make me feel reminiscent or nostalgic of another media and it can still be a good thing.

-Depending on how I feel, I miiiiiight take a break between seasons 1 and 2 because I know that a good chunk of the cast changes and I kind of want to sit with season 1 for a bit.

-I still have The Killing and both Suicide Squad movies to go through in the mean time.

-Shit on Robocop 2014 all you want, it’s whats gotten me into 3 new fandoms this past year.

[mundrakan]

Masterlist Rare Fandom Kinktober

I think only ONE person was interested, but I have a certain idea who this person is and so I'll do it just for them. In hopes they see it and know that they are important to me :)

2023

Which one? - Witcher treesome

The dubious joy of worship - Castlevania

A story of love - Addams Family

The Knight's order - Don Quixote

Love thy enemy - Arthurian legend (and one of my favourites)

Blushing virgin - Beauty and the beast

Bat in a cave - Batman

Getting Sneaky - Sex Education

Special treatment - Glass Onion (and if you ever want to see a hillarious, perfect, wonderfun gay man, go watch it)

Training - NCIS

Professional medical opinion - Firefly

Canon - Peter Pan (and it is bizarre)

Losers - Futurama

Snow Crow - Game of Thrones

Fear and love - Spartacus - Blood and Sand

If it is like that - Sherlock (BBC)

Old stacks get mouldy - Altered Carbon

Honey trap - Lucifer

Acquisition - We are the night (if you can watch the German original)

Embarrassing urges - Zootopia

Unlucky - Shadow over Innsmouth

In between friends - Ghost in a Shell

More than words - Captain America

Tryst - Downton Abbey

Business - Gattaca

Creative Solutions - Matrix

Purgatory or Heaven - The Old Guard

Deep inside - Original (Dragon Rider Verse)

Mischief - Thor

Expections - X-Men

Half awake - Taboo

2024

Guilty pleasure - Van Helsing (Netflix)

Having a husband - Addams Family

The Risk - Dune

To make a Garou Child - World of Darkness RPG

At knife's edge - Hannibal

A win-win situation - Deep Space Nine

Walking in your shoes - Firefly

In his own cave - Illiad

If only... - V as Vendetta

Travelling - The Old Guard

The seed of success - Altered Carbon

Anxiety relief - NCIS

What I see - Sherlock (BBC)

The Tigress of Oldtown - Sin City

Horizontal Tango - Attempted vertically - X-Men

Sex on the Beach - Cast away (Crack)

Small Amends - Les Miserables

Unsolicited Interruptions - James Bond

Initiate - Frontier

A thief - Goncharov

British Education - Red, White and Royal Blue

Instead of Chocolate Icecream - Dead Boy Detectives

After the job - Witcher

Public relations - The Rookie

On the watch - Dungeon Meshi

Temptress - Gladiator

Object Teaching - Zone Blanche/Black Spot

Hide the Hide - Rings of Power

Female solutions - Dracula

Beneath the surface - Original work (Dragon Rider Verse)

If a link doesn't work, please let me know. Otherwise... enjoy, I appreciate ever read, kudos and comment you grant me.

[dndfantasygirl]

Amongst the Stars (Chapter 1: The Genasi Sisters)

Rating: Mature Word count: 2.6k Pairing: Astarion x Female Tav (named)/OC Warnings: violence, strong language, innuendo, brief mention of past child abuse, little sister, slow burn

Summary: Skye, a headstrong druid, embarks on a perilous journey with her younger sister to find a cure for a mysterious tadpole affliction, joining forces with a motley crew of misfits. However, as they navigate their journey, unexpected emotions surface, challenging their bonds and altering the course of their adventure.

*Link to AO3 Post

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

Beautiful. Gorgeous. All words others would use to describe him could be used to describe her, too. Long, cerulean curls trailing down her back. A flawless heart shaped face the color of the sky on a sunny summer's day. Freckles sprinkled across the bridge of her petite button nose and the top of her cheek bones. It was very obvious she was an air genasi. If it wasn't her complexion that gave it away, it was the way she spoke. There was a sort of breathiness to her voice like it carried a slight breeze. It was soft and beautiful, yet when she got angry, it came out like a destructive whirlwind.

Astarion won't ever forget the first time they met. He had tried to manipulate her. Wrestled with her in the sand on a cliff near the Chionthar and held a knife to her throat with a smirk.

Her younger sister traveled with her. Almost a complete carbon copy of her with the exception of a long tail ending in a crescent-shaped tip and black twisted horns that jetted out of her head beneath her pigtails. She struggled against Shadowheart's grasp as she desperately attempted to come to her sister's aid.

However, glancing over at the other two caused him to lose his guard for a moment. The air genasi gained the upper hand and switched their positions, baring her teeth at him.

The details of this memory that remained engraved in his mind were her large doe eyes, golden and blazing like the shimmering sun and the plump strawberry lips that rested just below her nose twisted in a scowl. She was a protector. He needed a protector.

"Who the fuck do you think you are? I knew I should've better than to help a lowly noble like you," she growled, pressing the dagger further against the vampire spawn's neck. "You're all the same."

"You know nothing about me," Astarion spat back, holding her intense gaze.

"And neither do you about me." The air genasi gave him one last deadly glare before slightly loosening the pressure of the blade against his neck. "I'm going to remove this dagger from your throat. If you so much as think about retaliating, you will cease to exist. Do you understand?"

The vampire spawn held her gaze for a few more moments before finally nodding. He rose to his feet as soon as the blade was casted aside. The two adventurers continued to stare each other down as they caught their breaths.

Suddenly, there was a sharp pain in both of their minds. It freaked them out once they realized they had accidentally caused a link to peer into each other's minds, seeing short, indecipherable glimpses of each other's memories.

Astarion witnessed flashes of images. Two older air genasi, faces scrunched up in rage, gestured angrily at the door of a hut. The air genasi's younger sister getting sliced in the face with the full force of a whip. Then, the younger sister again, unconscious, yet resting on the back of a large animal with soft sapphire fur.

When the images stopped, the vampire spawn opened his crimson orbs as he and the air genasi continued to pant from the short, yet exhausting experience.

"You're really not like them," he muttered, crimson eyes widening slightly in realization.

The genasi scoffed and crossed her arms over her chest. "Of course, I'm not. Instead of attacking someone right away, maybe you should be a little more perceptive."

Astarion briefly narrowed his eyes at her comment before taking a breath. "Well, I'm guessing that's all behind us now, hmm?"

"Oh, I wouldn't say that-"

"And here I was about ready to decorate the ground with your innards," the vampire spawn interrupted her with a wave of his hand and a sardonic smile. "Apologies."

The genasi raised an eyebrow, unamused at his sad excuse of an apology. She rolled her eyes once again and uncrossed her arms, moving them to her hips.

"Where are my manners?" Astarion continued in a voice so charming, it sounded almost fake. "My name's Astarion. I was in Baldur's Gate when those beasts snatched me."

"Well since we're apparently on good terms now after you blatantly tried to slit my throat..."

Astarion shrugged his shoulders with a bit of an amused smile.

"I'm Skye. That's my little sister, Misty and that's Shadowheart." As she pointed to each of them, Misty shot him a mischievous smirk while Shadowheart continued to glare at him.

"Wonderful!" the vampire spawn exclaimed with a clasp of his hands. "Now, what do you know of these tadpoles in our heads?"

Skye let out a deep sigh and rubbed the bridge of her nose. "I would assume just as much as you do, which is practically nothing."

"I figured as much."

Upon realizing Astarion wasn't as much a threat as an annoyance, Shadowheart finally let go of Misty's arm. The young girl ran over to her sister, who eyed her with a warning.

Misty ignored it, the mischievous grin on her face only growing. "You know, Skye, I think we need all the help we can get. I quite like him."

Skye shot a blazing glare at her mini-me. Meanwhile, Astarion grew rather amused by the interaction.

The older air genasi pulled her sister aside by the arm and scolded her out of earshot. "Did you forget that just minutes ago he held a blade to my throat?"

Shrugging her shoulders, Misty donned a look of indifference. "He said he was sorry."

Skye let out an exasperated groan as she ran her fingers through her hair. "This is where you're so difficult, Mist. We need to be careful. We need to watch our backs."

"We need a group of people to fight alongside us," Misty countered, glancing back over at Astarion, who was obviously trying to read their lips. "Shadowheart's already on our side, I don't think one more would hurt. Plus, if either of them turn against us, we'll just kill them. Easy, peasy."

Two firm hands wrapped around the younger genasi's wrists in frustration. Skye knelt to Misty's level, loosening the grip around her as she took a deep breath. "My job is to protect you. That's what I'm trying to do."

"You want to protect me, Skye? We need a team. They need a cure...I mean so do we, but that's beside the point-"

"Misty," Skye warned sternly.

"If you've taught me anything, sis...it's that anyone is stronger with a team. Maybe you should take a hint of your own advice."

Skye continued the staring contest for a moment before finally giving in with another loud groan. She whipped her head to the rogue. "Astarion, would you like to join us?" she deadpanned.

The vampire spawn's ears twitched at the question as another sardonic smirk crept onto his face. "You know, I was going to go at this alone, but maybe sticking with the herd isn't such a bad idea." Astarion's hands found his hips as he gave her a halfhearted bow. "Alright, I accept. Lead on."

Skye began walking again as he followed. Mischievous as ever, Misty trailed back with Shadowheart. "They're gonna get married one day. I just know it," she quipped before scurrying further ahead, unaware of the confused, yet somewhat amused look on the cleric's face.

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

For a child, the little wisp wasn't bad company. She was witty, sarcastic, and clever beyond her years. Astarion was never a fan of children. He found them to be quite pestering. Yet, this one was different.

By dusk, they managed to corral a whole group of misfits. A wizard who got himself stuck in his own portal and a fighter who apparently hated their cleric's guts already. According to Skye, they'd met the gith on the ship before it crashed, where the odd rivalry began.

After they set up camp, the little wisp decided to cause some mischief. Gale was drinking a bottle of Stagswift Tonic outside of his tent when Skye summoned him. Out of the corner of his eye, Astarion watched as the younger air genasi stealthily grabbed the opened bottle and dumped out the contents, replacing it with the dirty dishwater from their last meal.

The corners of the vampire spawn's mouth twitched in amusement as the little wisp scurried away, hiding behind a tree to witness the result of her harmless prank. Astarion pretended to be invested in the tome he was reading as the wizard returned to his tent and picked up the bottle.

As soon as the liquid hit his mouth, Gale's face turned a sickly shade of green. He spat it out in front of him, unaware of the stifled chuckles coming from beside the tree. Once the wizard regained his composure, he cleared his throat. "Very funny," he remarked dryly, scoping around for the possible culprit.

When he finally turned his back to the tree, the little wisp sprinted towards her tent and flew inside. Crimson eyes roamed the camp once again to find the older air genasi sneaking off into the clearing behind their camp. Intrigued, Astarion closed his tome and followed.

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

Skye moved silently through the dense forest, her breath mingling with the evening mist. The trees stood tall and proud, their branches weaving a canopy that obscured the sky, but she knew where she was going. The gentle rustling of leaves and the distant hoot of an owl were the only sounds that accompanied her. Her air genasi heritage granted her an ethereal grace, making her one with the wind as she moved. She followed the faintest hints of light, the barely perceptible whispers of the breeze guiding her steps.

Finally, she emerged into a clearing. The sky opened up above her, a vast expanse of deep blue velvet studded with countless stars. The moon hung low, casting a silver glow over the meadow, illuminating the soft grass and wildflowers that danced gently in the night air. Skye smiled, her eyes reflecting the starlight as she made her way to the center of the clearing. She lay down on the grass, her cerulean curls fanning out around her, and gazed up at the sky. Peace at last.

"Isn't it beautiful?"

Skye rolled her eyes at the sound of his irritatingly charming voice. She refused to look at him, keeping her gaze fixed on the stars.

"The stars, I mean. They're not nearly this bright in Baldur's Gate."

The air genasi sighed. "Can't say I've ever been there."

Astarion clicked his tongue, nodding his head. "Ah, right. The life of a druid." He approached Skye cautiously, gesturing beside her with a graceful flourish of his hand. "May, I?"

Golden eyes flickered to crimson for the briefest moment before landing back on the illuminating sight above. "Knock your socks off," she replied dryly.

The vampire spawn lowered himself next to her, crossing his legs in a pretzel. "You know, darling, we both got off on the wrong foot."

"I wonder why." Skye glared at him, the sun in her eyes blazing deep into his own. She studied him, noticing how he attempted to conceal the slight discomfort of his body language.

A soft chuckle escaped from his lips, causing a weird feeling to grow in the pit of the air genasi's stomach. "I suppose you prove a point."

It was at that point she noticed it. The crimson eyes. The pale complexion. At first glance, she thought he was an elf hybrid. Yet, those teeth. Those pointed teeth. As she continued to study him, she watched the little color he had disappear from his face. "You're a vampire, aren't you?"

Astarion blinked at her. "I'm sorry, what are-"

The air genasi's brow rose in slight amusement as he tried to deflect. "You aren't exactly doing a great job at hiding it."

"I'm not a monster. I feed on animals - boars, deer, kobolds-"

"Kobolds might be a bit of a stretch," Skye quipped with a hint of a smirk as the vampire spawn shrugged. She took a deep breath. "Listen, Misty and I...we didn't come from a great place and honestly, we've been through a lot. She's the only person that matters to me. So, I'll make a deal with you. I'll keep your secret, but if I catch those fangs anywhere near my sister's neck, I will kill you. Do you understand?"

Astarion met her gaze evenly, his crimson eyes unflinching. "You have my word," he replied.

There was a pause between them, yet it wasn't the awkward kind. It was quite peaceful, in fact. Skye drew in a breath as she returned her gaze to the stars. "How are you...able to walk in the sun? I thought vampires couldn't do that."

"It's true. Normally, I would burn to ashes by now, but it seems my tadpole has other plans."

The air genasi didn't respond, but nodded her head instead.

After another moment of silence, Astarion spoke up again. "You've hardly torn your gaze from the stars since I arrived."

"Jealous that my eyes are drawn elsewhere?"

"Well, obviously, darling. I'm the most beautiful thing to ever exist."

Skye scoffed softly, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "Keep telling yourself that."

Astarion let out a genuine chuckle without a hint of his usual insincerity. "Oh, I do, constantly. It's one of the perks of being me."

They laughed again before Skye took a deep breath and pointed to the illuminated night sky. "I draw my power from them. There are many secrets hidden among different constellations."

The air genasi pulled a dark blue crystal from her pocket and held it in one hand. She waved her free hand around it, generating an orb of golden light. Constellations began to project around them as soon as the light clashed with the crystal. Skye dispelled her magic and put the crystal away. "I've been studying this for twenty years. I don't really need it anymore. It's more so for Misty, now." She finally met Astarion's eyes, who was sporting an unreadable expression. Skye cleared her throat. "Speaking of, I should be getting back before she starts causing trouble."

"Oh, don't worry, darling, I can assure you it's already happened," Astarion commented with a cheeky smile as the air genasi slapped her forehead. They both rose to their feet. "I would say I'd return to camp with you, but I've yet to hunt."

Skye nodded with a soft smile and pivoted on her foot. "Goodnight, Astarion. I'll see you in the morning."

The vampire spawn watched her retreating figure until she disappeared into the darkness, his thoughts a whirl of contemplation. That went a lot better than he expected. To be honest, he didn't know what to expect when she discovered his true nature. He had braced himself for hostility, for rejection, even for violence. But Skye had surprised him. She had listened, assessed, and then made a decision based on more than just instinctual fear.

Not only had she lightened up around him after he promised not to harm her sister, but she had also shared a glimpse of her druidic magic with him—the dark blue crystal, the way it resonated with the starlight and projected constellations. It was a small gesture, but for someone as guarded as Skye, it spoke volumes. It was the beginning of trust.

Maybe she could be of some use after all, but she would never put him before the little wisp. Yet, she had shown a glimpse of trust, however tentative, and that sparked an idea—a plan.

"A nice, simple plan," Astarion murmured to himself, as if speaking the words aloud would solidify his resolve.

He would get her to fall for him.

The thought lingered in his mind, both audacious and calculated. If Skye developed genuine feelings for him, she would protect him, just as fiercely as she protected her sister. It seemed like a foolproof strategy—or so he thought...

[drones-of-innocence]

Could you do ❤️, 🌻, and 🎬 for the fanfic ask game please ☺️

❤️ What is your favorite line that you’ve written in a fic?

This is hard haha, I don't think I excel in the art of "lines" in terms of impactful writing. Objectively, the best line(s) I've written that brings the narrative together and suits the mood of the story is this from my fic Love Story:

“I’m in love with you, Princess. I always have been.” he sighed. “But you are the flame. I am the stupid moth. If the most beautiful butterflies cannot impress you, how can I?”

My favorite line that I've ever written though is in chapter 8 of I'll Never Let You Go, so I can't quite share that one yet 😆

🌻 How often do you read your own fics?

After sharing a fic, I'll read it over pretty often just because it's so fun to see it published. But after a while I'll stop and only return to read again after a few months or years. It's about time I reread Pancake, actually 🤔

🎬 If a movie or show were based on your fic, which fic would you choose and who would you fancast?

I definitely would love to see I'll Never Let You Go in the form of visual media. It's my biggest and most planned out project with so much potential for stunning space views 🤩 I would love for it to be animated either in a Studio Ghibli-like style or preferably in @elitadream's style ❤️ as for the voice cast, I'll try and break it down but my concept of the character's voices is very hard for me to describe.

I slightly draw Mario’s voice in my head from Manolo in the Book of Life. So if there is an Italian equivalent of Diego Luna, or if he could do a slight Italian accent, that would be ideal 😆

...That's the only specific voice I have in mind. And I don't know a lot of voice actors so you'll have to forgive me haha

For Princess Peach, I might cast Paige O'Hara (the voice of Belle in Beauty and the Beast) or someone who could do an equally sweet voice.

Rosalina would need a very slow and deliberate voice, probably a little lower and more serious with some echo-y effect. I think that Reneé Elise Goldsberry could do it. She played the most badass revolutionary leader in Altered Carbon.

Luigi needs someone a with a bit of range for his antics. He's kind of the comedic relief of the story. I'm not sure why but Steve Carell comes to mind 😂

Toads could be played by anyone who can do the little rasp haha, I don't really think I would have too much of a preference. The Brigade would probably need younger voices though, because in the story they are kind of a young group of admirers for Mario.

Luma would need an extraordinarily delicate and ethereal voice. Childlike and sweet. AURORA comes to mind, but there's probably an actual voice actor out there who could do it.

Bowser could be Jack Black, I think that would be funny to have him play the role again 😂

But yea. That's kinda what I'm thinking. I'm really not one for visual storytelling so it's hard to translate the narrative into something watchable I guess.

[cyberpunkonline]

Fear, Loathing, and Meat Puppets in the Cyberpunk Neon Glow: Is This the Natural Evolution of Dark Patterns?

In the vibrant tapestry of cyberpunk narratives, the grim specter of "meat puppets" looms large amidst the neon-drenched dystopia. The term encapsulates beings devoid of free will, their autonomy hijacked by nefarious puppeteers through the tendrils of technology. As we navigate through the entangled webs of our digital era, the eerie parallels between the cyberpunk meat puppet and the real-world menace of "dark patterns" emerge from the shadows, sending ripples of disquiet through the techno-societal landscape.

The term "meat puppet" has been etched into the cyberpunk lexicon through various mediums, painting a dire picture of a future where the essence of humanity is threatened by the encroachment of digital dominion. In the seminal work "Neuromancer" by William Gibson, and the cerebral intrigues of "Snow Crash" by Neal Stephenson, we delve into worlds where the human mind and body can be hacked, manipulated, rendering individuals as mere vessels for external control.

Mirroring this, the concept of dark patterns in digital design is a rudimentary step towards a meat puppet reality. Dark patterns are deceitful design elements that steer users into making unintended decisions, subtly commandeering their online behavior. The idea reflects a Snow Crash-esque narrative where memes or digital viruses infiltrate cognition, turning individuals into conduits for certain ideas or actions.

The silver screen, with movies like "Ghost in the Shell", and the pixelated realms of "Cyberpunk 2077", echo these themes, exploring the grim nexus between human autonomy and digital control. They hint at a world where the sinister use of technology can usurp human agency, paving the way for a meat puppet society.

Series like "Black Mirror" and "Altered Carbon" extend this narrative, portraying futures where the sanctity of human consciousness is at peril, where dark patterns could morph into more overt forms of control, pushing humanity closer to the edge of meat puppetry.

As our real-world society gallops towards a future shimmering with digital promise, the shadows of dark patterns stretch long and ominous. The proliferation of manipulative design in online platforms, coupled with the viral spread of memes molding public opinion, reflects the cyberpunk portrayal of a world teetering on the brink of meat puppetry.

The dance between dark patterns and meat puppetry isn’t just a fictional fear, but a cautionary narrative urging us to scrutinize the ethical dimensions of our digital interactions. The advancements in AI, neural interfacing, and the ubiquitous data harvesting are both a boon and a bane, holding the potential to either elevate or erode our human agency.

The journey from dark patterns to a meat puppet reality may still be unfolding, but the cyberpunk genre serves as a grim compass, cautioning against a future where the strings of puppetry are woven with each click, each shared byte of data, each meme that burrows into the collective psyche.

As we hurtle through the cybernetic frontier, the tales of meat puppetry intertwined with the menace of dark patterns serve as a stark reminder of the ethical quagmires awaiting us. The cyberpunk neon glow, while entrancing, casts long, dark shadows, urging us to tread wisely lest we morph into the very meat puppets we fear, our strings pulled by the dark patterns lurking in the digital alleyways.

- Rev1

[howlingguardian]

Smashed through Season 2 of Altered Carbon, and Anthony Mackie killed it with his performance.

I love how this series uses its concept of body swapping and memory storage to get the most out of their cast. Multiple people played by the same actor, subtle differences each time.

Plus the themes of confronting the past, living with your memories, and choosing to let go. It's stuck in my brain now.

[grigori77]

2022 in TV - My Top 10 Shows

10.  THE UMBRELLA ACADEMY (season 3, Netflix)

The lovable and deeply weird adaptation of My Chemical Romance frontman Gerard Way’s epic mindfuck of a cult comic book from showrunner Steve Blackman (Bones, Fargo, Altered Carbon) has pulled off a particularly impressive feat, managing to drop THREE essentially perfect seasons of TV in a row without ANY signs of flagging in quality, pace or sheer sense of fun.  After the bonkers time-travel shenanigans of the first two seasons, things in the timeline have REALLY gone to pot, and now the gloriously dysfunctional Hargreaves siblings have got a truly diabolical enemy to deal with, namely the Sparrow Academy, a far superior group of superpowered oddballs that were trained by their adoptive father, Sir Reginald Hargreaves (Colm Feore), when he discovered what a “massive disappointment” his original collection of inexplicable orphans would become.  Worse still is the fact that one of them is a new, far more unpleasant version of their late brother Ben (After Yang’s Justin Min), who instantly takes a personal set against them … absolutely bonkers and enjoyably irreverent, this show remains as unrepentantly mad as ever, with the entire cast shining throughout, although once again Robert Sheehan effortless steals every scene as louchely nihilistic clairvoyant Klaus.  Extra kudos of course have to go to the show for allowing Elliot Page to transition as his character goes from Vanya to Viktor, although we should also thank Netflix for seeing the good sense in picking it up for one more season after this given that whopper of a cliffhanger …

9.  OUR FLAG MEANS DEATH  (HBO Max)

One of the year’s biggest surprise hits came in the form of this riotously unique surrealist sitcom series based on the true life tale of Stede Bonnet, the gloriously flighty 18th Century Barbadian aristocrat who left his plush life of privilege and luxury in order to pursue his personal dream of becoming The Gentleman Pirate.  Problem was, he’s THE WORST pirate there ever was, a genuine embarrassment to the profession, who mostly rose to fame after he was taken prisoner by and become the object of playful amusement of the feared terror of the High Seas himself, Edward Teach, better known as Blackbeard. The undeniable highlight of this show has to be enjoying the sparkling interplay between the two leads – Rhys Darby is, as always, an unbridled delight as Bonnet, the most unflappably effervescent hopeful idiot to have ever lived, while Taika Waititi’s clearly having the time of his life presenting the most feared pirate who ever lived as a disenchanted but ultimately gentle soul who’s long since grown tired of the ferocious façade he’s had to cultivate for himself over the years.  The rest of the cast are huge fun too (none more-so than Ewen Bremner as Bonnet’s entirely bizarre first mate Buttons), while the characters and sparkling scripts crafted by showrunner David Jenkins (People of Earth) and his writing team are a veritable masterclass in how to present a perfect show about LGBTQIA folk and their daily struggles through the prism of delightful absurdist comedy.

8.  THE MIDNIGHT CLUB (Netflix)

Mike Flanagan continues his assault of sheer small screen horror brilliance with this pitch perfect (sort of) anthology series based around the tales told by a group of teenagers thrown together in Seattle’s Brightcliffe Hospice for terminally ill adolescents in the mid-90s as they attempt to deal with impending death and all the horrific emotional baggage that comes with it.  Iman Benson (Uncle Buck, Black AF) shines incredibly brightly in an astounding youthful cast as Ilonka, the desperate dreamer who’s checked in with the intention of discovering the source behind a little known cure for her thyroid cancer which may exist somewhere in the hospice, while Nightmare On Elm Street’s Heather Langenkamp is wonderfully complex as Brightcliffe’s firm-but-fair chief resident doctor Georgina, and a winning selection of Flanagan regulars show up in a variety of roles (along with the resident cast) in a variety of intriguing roles in the titular group’s cathartic late night pastime of telling each other spooky tales.  These are the undeniable highlight on offer throughout the series, covering a fascinating range of genres from mysterious whodunnits and ghost stories to time-twisting sci-fi brain-melters that never fail to impress as Flanagan gets a chance to stretch his range a bit, but the overarching storyline is intensely compelling too as we come to really care about and root for these kids.  As we’ve come to expect from his work, this is spooky, creepy and insidiously unsettling, but once again there’s as much emotional intensity on offer here as bone-deep spine-chilling terror.  Unlike the rest of his TV work to date, however, this one was CLEARLY intended to be a proper ONGOING series … so of course Netflix has gone and cancelled it. At least we’ve got his adaptation of Edgar Allan Poe’s The Fall of the House of Usher to look forward to, and he’s DETERMINED to bring Stephen King’s legendary The Dark Tower to the screen in far better style than the criminally awful 2017 movie, so there’s still hope …

7.  CYBERPUNK: EDGERUNNERS (Netflix)

Another big surprise hit sneaking in under the radar this year was this unexpected anime gem from Kill la Kill creators Studio Trigger, based on the cult tabletop RPG which spawned the troubled yet deliriously popular video game.  Anyone who knows me, of course, knows this is RIGHT UP MY STREET, I’m a total sucker for anything cyberpunk, as well as anime in general, so this was a perfect combo for me, but even so I was generally surprised by just HOW UNBELIEVABLY GOOD this actually turned out to be. It’s pretty short too – with ten episodes each clocking at around the 25-minute mark it’s pretty easy to binge in a single sitting – but thoroughly sweet, each instalment propelling the impressively robust story forward at quite the pacy clip towards a suitably explosive climax, with plenty of blistering action and compellingly dark techno-shenanigans along the way.  The real reward here, however, is the characters, a crew of dysfunctional misfits brought together over the course of the series who perfectly encapsulate the brilliantly crafted universe’s dark and dangerous criminal underworld – the central love story between teenage dropout turned cybernetically-enhanced mercenary David and born-survivor elite hacker Lucy is compellingly intense and realistically written, but the best addition here has to be hyperactive pint-sized cyber-badass Rebecca, who’s an ultraviolent delight from start to finish.  The animation is some of the very best I’ve EVER seen in anime, and the design work throughout is never less than stellar, wisely taking its lead from the impressively inventive game but still happy to carve its own path.  The end result is one of the best animated shows I’ve come across in quite some time (it’s not on Arcane’s level, but comes damn close), so it’s a shame that, since it was apparently intended to be a standalone, we’re unlikely to see any more in the future …

6.  WARRIOR NUN (season 2, Netflix)

Debuting in the middle of the Pandemic turned out to be a stroke of truly great luck for Continuum creator Simon Barry’s unique but also intrinsically challenging adaptation of Ben Dunn’s gloriously bonkers comic book Warrior Nun Areala, which became an impressive runaway hit for Netflix and made a second season inevitable.  Gods knew it quickly earned a rabid following (myself among them) who were champing at the bit for more, but shooting restrictions meant we’d have to wait a little bit … but it’s finally arrived and it is REALLY GREAT, actually IMPROVING on the previous run as we follow unlikely Warrior Nun Ava Silva (a truly spellbinding turn from the thoroughly adorable Alba Baptista) and her gang of rogue holy helpers on their quest to take down the Big Bad false messiah threatening to turn the world into hell on earth, the fallen angel Adriel (William Miller).  Along the way they get into an endlessly inventive series of scrapes, fights and misadventures that are a gleefully subversive joy to watch, but once again the real charm here is the will-they-won’t-they back-and-forth dance that continues between Ava and Kristina Tonteri-Young’s precocious but also thoroughly awkward Sister Beatrice.  Plotwise, things are tied off in a fairly neat little bow by the end of this season – albeit through an emotionally devastating climax which you definitely need to keep the tissues handy for – but even so there’s enough room for more that it’s a criminal shame that Netflix have decided to pull the plug on this one too.

5.  PEACEMAKER (HBO Max)

Whatever you might think about Warner Bros./Discovery in general regarding its current treatment of the future of the DCEU (especially after the shocking fate that befell the heavily anticipated Batgirl movie), and about filmmaker James Gunn in particular now that he’s taken over as the head honcho on the franchise itself, you can’t deny that he did a phenomenal job with this deliciously non-PC spinoff from his awesome 2021 Suicide Squad soft-reboot.  Michael Cena’s Christopher Smith was one of the film’s biggest hits, so a series following his exploits as the titular antihero was a damn smart move, the former wrestler-turned-actor once again proving what a comedic genius he is as he flexes, gurns and drops hilarious inadvertent one-liners as one of THE WORST SUPERHEROES in the entire DC Universe.  That being said, the show’s frequently stolen out from under him by Unreal and Time After Time’s Freddie Stroma, who’s even more of a blissfully awkward joy as Smith’s best friend/unwitting nemesis Adrian Chase, aka Vigilante, a ridiculously talented combat nerd who desperately wants to be a badass dark avenger like his bestie, while there are similarly game turns from Jennifer Holland and Steve Agee (both reprising their roles from The Suicide Squad) as the downtrodden ARGUS agents charged with keeping Smith under control along with Danielle Brooks’ geeky new recruit, and there’s an irreverent and perfectly scummy turn from Robert Patrick as the Peacemaker’s white supremacist supervillain father August Smith, the infamous White Dragon.  A riot from start to finish, this show is packed with over-the-top, ultraviolent action, jet black humour and an endless series of razor sharp winks, nods and homages from one of the best geek-master filmmakers in the business.  Best of all, though, has to be that STONE COLD GENIUS title sequence, choreographed to perfection to the brilliantly awful earworm Do You Wanna Taste It from irreverent Norwegian glam metal band Wig Wam, which is guaranteed to have you crying you’ll be laughing so hard.  Personally, I can’t wait for more of this one.

4.  GUILLERMO DEL TORO’S CABINET OF CURIOSITIES (Netflix)

Anyone who’s been following me long enough to know what I like should know that Guillermo del Toro is one of my favourite filmmakers of all time, I simply ADORE his work, so an anthology show of dark and disturbing horror stories shot-right-through with his irresistible geeky stylistic DNA was a no-brainer for me. ESPECIALLY since he opens every episode with an adorable intro where he presents his philosophical thoughts on what we’re about to experience in the style of Rod Serling. XD  The stories on offer, meanwhile, are an eclectic bunch, ranging from short-sharp-shock creature features to broadly satirical body horror, but there’s an impressive line in cosmic terror on offer here too, with several entries wearing del Toro’s deep-seeded Lovecraft influence on their sleeves.  They’re also consistently impressive, without a single dud in the selection, although the undeniable highlights of the whole bunch, for me, have to be the adaptations of actual Lovecraft stories, Pickman’s Model and Dreams in the Witch House, which perfectly encapsulate the author’s restless sense of endless low-key dread and horrific anticipation, with the eldritch horrors unleashed brought to deeply disturbing life through a selection of impressively palpable physical effects that’s become one of del Toro’s greatest strengths.  The production values on offer here are second to none, as is the quality of the ensemble casts and the directors bringing each story to life, which includes the likes of Vincenzo Natali (Cube, Splice), Panos Cosmatos (Mandy), Ana Lily Amirpour (A Girl Walks Home At Night) and David Prior (The Empty Man) - each filmmaker does wonders for their individual stories, showing spectacular flair and skill throughout, but every single episode still has the titular master of weird cinema’s fingerprints all over it.  Which is exactly what you want from such a wondrous tribute to one of the best visual storytellers out there right now …

3.  THE LEGEND OF VOX MACHINA (Amazon Prime)

Netflix really seems to have dominated all on the small screen this year, but Amazon have still managed to make their presence felt with one of this past year’s BEST OFFERINGS, in the form of a gleefully irreverent animated adaptation of the first Campaign of wildly successful Dungeons & Dragons-based live-play table-top RPG webcast series Critical Role. Most of my followers should already be keenly aware that I am quietly OBSESSED with the ongoing games, so when they announced this I was almost delirious in my excitement, and this first season paid off all our mad expectation MAGNIFICENTLY.  Starting out as a Kickstarter by the Crit Role gang themselves with the intention simply to make an animated special, the resulting support was SO STRONG they were able to spring for a whole series, which was then picked up for genuine syndication by Amazon, and the rest, as they say, is history … best of all, though, is the fact that, because it’s their baby, the original cast IN THEIR ENTIRETY are involved in bringing it together, from the writing to the character performances, and since they’re a collection of highly talented voice-actors they’ve done a STUNNING job here … but then THEY DO know their characters right to the bone.  Animated with EXQUISITE attention to detail by Titmouse (Metalocalypse, Star Trek: Lower Decks, Animaniacs and Pantheon among others), packed with stunning action and dark thrills and shot-through from start to finish with an infectious sense of humour, not to mention a veritable DUMPTRUCK’s worth of epic feels, this is an absolute riot from start to finish.  I’m waiting with eager anticipation for the imminent arrival of the second season, and am sublimely happy Amazon have already commissioned a third …

2.  STRANGER THINGS 4 (Netflix)

After season 4 ended in such a crazy place, with Eleven (Millie Bobbie Brown) depowered and Hopper (David Harbour) assumed dead but actually VERY MUCH ALIVE in a Siberian gulag, we were left with a hell of a lot of crazy questions, but we never had any doubt The Duffer Brothers would deliver those answers and more in style. That being said, they really pulled out ALL THE STOPS with this season, not only upping the scale to delirious levels but also massively increasing the overall runtime, which even prompted Netflix to employ a somewhat frustrating tactic of splitting the season into TWO PARTS with an entire month of waiting in-between … but at least the end result was some of the year’s most engrossing and thoroughly AWESOME television. Certainly this one packed the small screen’s biggest amount of WOW, as we’re finally given the fascinating but also thoroughly horrifying origin story to both the Hawkins Lab psychic experimentation project AND the Upside Down itself … giving away more threatens MASSIVE spoilers, but once again every aspect of the show deserves LASHINGS of praise heaped upon it, from the spectacular effects work (particularly some truly stunning prosthetic make-up work bringing the series’ ultimate Big Bad to life) to the uniformly astounding cast, with the ever-reliable returning players (particularly Brown, Harbour, Winona Ryder, Gaten Matarazzo, Sadie Sink and Joe Keery) once again doing their fair share of the heavy-lifting while the newcomers (most notably Joseph Quinn, Jamie Campbell Bower and Tom Wlaschiha) each make strong impressions going forward.  By turns thrilling, terrifying, heartfelt, funny and inventive, but always pitch-perfect in its nostalgic charm, this show continues to be one of the very best pieces of top-notch small-screen entertainment around, and I cannot wait to see what’s to come in the final season …

1.  THE SANDMAN (Netflix)

If ANYTHING was gonna beat Stranger Things to the top spot, it could only have been Neil Gaiman’s VERY hands-on adaptation of his own thoroughly beloved revolutionary cult comic book series.  Seriously, Gaiman changed the game with this title, so he was THE ONLY ONE we, the hardcore faithful, could possibly trust to bring his masterwork to life on the small screen, and after his astonishing efforts with the Good Omens show we had the utmost faith that he had the chops to pull it off.  We were not wrong … working closely with fellow showrunners David Goyer (Blade, Batman Begins) and Allan Heinberg (Grey’s Anatomy, Scandal, Wonder Woman), Gaiman has produced a series that wisely stays faithful to the original source material, essentially splitting this first season into two arcs, with the first realising Book 1 of the comic, Preludes & Nocturnes, while the second focuses on Book 2, The Doll House.  Tom Sturridge (The Boat That Rocked) was PERFECT casting as Dream of the Endless, one of a unique family of near all-powerful cosmic beings charged with the control and caretaking of various aspects of the Universe itself – Dream, obviously, rules over the province of the Subconscious, while his sister, Death (Killing Eve’s Kirby Howell-Baptiste), is pretty self-explanatory, but not at all what you’d expect.  After imprisonment for almost a century, Dream is looking to put his house back in order, but this brings him into direct conflict with various entities, including, dangerous “sorcerer” John Dee (David Thewlis), the Devil themselves, Lucifer (Gwendoline Christie), and monstrous rogue nightmare The Corinthian (a chilling performance from Boyd Holbrook), while the foundations for a far darker, more wide-reaching conspiracy are being laid by hands much closer to his heart … this adaptation is nothing short of a MASTERPIECE, Gaiman and his helpers bringing his creation to life in the most magnificent of ways in one of the most spectacular chunks of television I’ve ever had the privilege to witness.  Spellbindingly beautiful, emotionally devastating, spine-chillingly horrifying and effortlessly entertaining in equal measure, every single element of this show was brought to bear with the utmost attention to detail, and the results are nothing short of perfection.  Netflix have wisely picked it up for a second season, but we can only hope they maintain their faith in the series long enough for Gaiman to bring the entire saga to life …

Honourable mentions:

The Boys (season 3, Amazon Prime); Andor (Disney+); House of the Dragon (HBO); 1899 (Netflix); Star Trek: Strange New Worlds (Paramount+); Obi Wan Kenobi (Disney+); Reacher (Amazon Prime); Interview With the Vampire (AMC); The Man Who Fell To Earth (Showtime); Gangs of London (season 2, Sky Atlantic)*

*What can I say?  There was A LOT of great TV this past year …

[babehog]

A crucible is a ceramic or metal container in which metals or other substances may be melted or subjected to very high temperatures. Although crucibles have historically tended to be made out of clay,[1] they can be made from any material that withstands temperatures high enough to melt or otherwise alter its contents.

The form of the crucible has varied through time, with designs reflecting the process for which they are used, as well as regional variation. The earliest crucible forms derive from the sixth/fifth millennium B.C. in Eastern Europe and Iran.[2]

Crucibles used for copper smelting were generally wide shallow vessels made from clay that lacks refractory properties which is similar to the types of clay used in other ceramics of the time.[3] During the Chalcolithic period, crucibles were heated from the top by using blowpipes.[4] Ceramic crucibles from this time had slight modifications to their designs such as handles, knobs or pouring spouts[5] allowing them to be more easily handled and poured. Early examples of this practice can be seen in Feinan, Jordan.[4] These crucibles have added handles to allow for better manipulation, however, due to the poor preservation of the crucibles there is no evidence of a pouring spout. The main purpose of the crucible during this period was to keep the ore in the area where the heat was concentrated to separate it from impurities before shaping.[6]

A crucible furnace dating to 2300–1900 BC for bronze casting has been found at a religious precinct of Kerma.[7]

The use of crucibles in the Iron Age remains very similar to that of the Bronze Age with copper and tin smelting being used to produce bronze. The Iron Age crucible designs remain the same as the Bronze Age.[citation needed]

The Roman period shows technical innovations, with crucibles for new methods used to produce new alloys. The smelting and melting process also changed with both the heating technique and the crucible design. The crucible changed into rounded or pointed bottom vessels with a more conical shape; these were heated from below, unlike prehistoric types which were irregular in shape and were heated from above. These designs gave greater stability within the charcoal.[8] These crucibles in some cases have thinner walls and have more refractory properties.[9]

During the Roman period a new process of metalworking started, cementation, used in the production of brass. This process involves the combination of a metal and a gas to produce an alloy.[10] Brass is made by mixing solid copper metal with zinc oxide or carbonate which comes in the form of calamine or smithsonite.[11] This is heated to about 900 °C, the zinc oxide vaporizes into a gas, and the zinc gas bonds with the molten copper.[12] This reaction has to take place in a part-closed or closed container otherwise the zinc vapor would escape before it can react with the copper. Cementation crucibles, therefore, have a lid or cap which limits the amount of gas loss from the crucible. The crucible design is similar to the smelting and melting crucibles of the period utilizing the same material as the smelting and melting crucibles. The conical shape and smallmouth allowed the lid to be added. These small crucibles are seen in Colonia Ulpia Trajana (modern-day Xanten), Germany, where the crucibles are around 4 cm in size, however, these are small examples.[13] There are examples of larger vessels such as cooking pots and amphorae being used for cementation to process larger amounts of brass; since the reaction takes place at low temperatures lower fired ceramics could be used.[6] The ceramic vessels which are used are important as the vessel must be able to lose gas through the walls otherwise the pressure would break the vessel. Cementation vessels are mass-produced due to crucibles having to be broken open to remove the brass once the reaction has finished as in most cases the lid would have baked hard to the vessel or the brass might have adhered to the vessel walls.

Yeaaaaahhh now we're Crucible posting

[sinew-lattice]

I'm doing a run with a single scientist named Prime who wants to make a clone army of herself. I started her with *most* of the tech necessary to start cloning but I still had to do a lot of research to get accelerated growth vat learning so my clones would be competent at their appropriate tasks right out of the vat. Rn im building the cloning vats (this map has NO DAMN STEEL i think this is the first time i had to buy steel out of necessity) but I already set up this super cool nutrient paste network that feeds into a tap for colonists, a valve that when opened will feed into a machine that automatically produces chemfuel, (just as efficient as a biofuel refinery but takes no labor to function) and will feed into the growth vats for clone and a gene extractor that will automatically extract useful genes from any xenohuman prisoners i get while making escape impossible! This combined with raiding ancient biotechnology labs will let's me divide my clones into castes hyperspecialized for their job.

Eventually I will switch to the cloning from Altered Carbon mod, which requires lots of neutroamine instead of nutrient paste which I'll get from meat from a goeto toad farm.

This version of cloning is faster, let's me grant additional buffs, and let's me transfer and COPY the minds of my colonists, making every clone a true extention of Prime Herself instead of an imitation.

Once I'm done with this playthrough I want to do a vampire run and use xenogenes to make some real messed up thralls, I heard taukai are actually pretty powerful so I'll give my thralls cancer to make them work harder.

[dalmineflanges]

Types Of Flange & Flange Manufacturer in India

WHAT ARE FLANGES AND HOW DO THEY WORK?

Dalmine Flanges is a well-known Flange Manufacturer in India. A Flange is a forged or cast ring used to join sections of a pipe or any other machinery that requires a connection point in the middle. Stainless Steel Flange, Alloy Steel Flange, Carbon Steel Flange, and Nickel Alloy Flange are some of the most common types of flanges that are in high demand.

We are one of the largest Flange Suppliers in India. Flange comes in a variety of shapes, diameters, and thicknesses. Dalmine Flanges manufactures all products following international standards. Our business has been established a long time and has grown rapidly because of our customer service and the quality of products we provide.

Size, Standards, and Specifications for Flanges

A Flange is a type of gasket that is used in pipe fittings. It is a flat metal disk or other material placed between two parts to prevent leakage. Flanges are available in different sizes and standards, each with its specifications. We will explore flanges' size, bars, and specifications.

Flanges Type

Dalmine Flanges is a well-known Flanges supplier in India. They offer a wide range of flanges, including stainless steel flanges, carbon steel flanges, and alloy steel flanges. Their products are made to the highest quality standards and are backed by a 100% satisfaction guarantee.

Slip On Flanges

A Slip On Flanges is a type of gasket that is used in pipe fittings. It is a flat metal disk or other material placed between two parts to prevent leakage. Slip On Flanges are available in different sizes and standards, each with its specifications. we will explore flanges' size, bars, and specifications.

Blind Flanges

It is used to bring the end of a piping system to a close. The Blind Flange is essentially a flange without a hub or a drilled centre. Blind Flanges have the face thickness of a flange, a matching face type, and a bolting pattern that is identical to that of a flange. Blind Flanges can also be employed to seal a pressure vessel's nozzle opening.

Lap Joint Flanges

These Flanges can swivel flexibly around the pipe. This makes it easier to align opposing Flange bolt holes. Because Lap Joint Flanges Manufacturer are not in contact with the fluid inside the pipe, they are more durable. The Lap Joint Flanges in corroding or eroding pipe systems can be saved for re-use. 

Threaded Flanges 

Threaded Flanges are extremely robust and are made to accommodate a variety of pipe sizes. They are used as connectors in piping systems to link pipes to other pipes, tees, reducers, elbows, valves, and other piping equipment. We have cutting-edge facilities with the highest standards of technology, quality, and productivity at Dalmine Flanges.

We are one of the largest Flange Manufacturer in India These Gate Valves can be altered to meet the unique needs of our customers and are available in a variety of sizes, forms, and dimensions.

For more details

Website :dalmineflanges.com/

Source : Flange Manufacturer in India

[castalyne]

I'm honestly not one for 'binge watching' shows. I'm not really a show watcher in general, short attention span. 10 50 minute long episodes seems so daunting. I say this as someone who lays in bed and reads 500 pages books in 3 days. Altered Carbon season 1 has been finished. I don’t have many thoughts.Just vibes that I can’t put into words.

Everyone get on Lizzie's shoulders, she's carrying the team.

Okay, okay, not only does Altered Carbon give off The Diabolic vibes, but it gives off The Adoration of Jenna Fox by Mary E. Pearson vibes.

Joel Kinnaman as Takeshi Kovacs is so good looking and for what?

Okay, fuck it, the whole cast is so good looking and for what?

Definitely going to put off watching season 2. Don't really have the energy for an entirely new cast right now.