#and the smoke (be it from cigarettes or otherwise! as a tip!) can cloak your magics

[theinfernalcalypso]

Was torn where to post this (here because im insane and yeah this is insane and nuclear tbh, or the witchblog i have bc witchcraft) but like

If you have a witch moving out of your house (specifically in context of a break up), don't "accidentally" put your own shit in with theirs because maybe, MAYBE they'll look at it and reconsider how they feel or even just be careless because idk you somehow mix up your underwear into theirs when they're packing

Because you just gave them a tag of your energy. The closer you've kept it (i.e., YOUR UNDERWEAR?) the more potent whatever they can cast on you is

I'm just saying

From personal experience

As the witch

Because my ex is 100% a fucking dumbass

And would actually forget I'm a witch just because I didn't do spellwork very often

And tbh, was originally getting irritated at his shit being in mine when unpacking

But now? A golden opportunity lay before me like a gift, and they say to take it easy sure

But I sure will be fucking taking it, with a side of Trinidad scorpions and carolina reapers

[miracle-sham]

Die Like the Butterfly Shoot With Their Guns.

| {Jasonette July 2021, Week 2, Day 7: Guns} |

Chapter 1 of Sheltered by Darkness not yet Moths to the Flame.

| [Ao3 Link] | | [Masterlist Link] | | [Spotify Playlist Link] | | [Chapter 2] |

———

| Sometimes a family can be a gang comprised of eleven vigilantes, and their AI robot, fighting against the father of one of their own. |

| Or alternatively: after falling through the cracks, they do what they must to survive. And if that means committing crimes in order to bring down the Big Butterfly and all the other corrupt businesses in the city, then so be it. |

———

| Tonight's the night. Half of them will strike one of the Big Butterfly's warehouses that just so happens to contain some fancy new gun tech. Besides, it'll be in better hands with them than the Big Butterfly or his associates. Now all that matters, is that nothing goes wrong! |

| Word Count: 3,322. |

| Warnings/Tags: Cyberpunk/Criminal/Gang Au, Explicit Language/Swearing, Hacking, Breaking and Entering, Theft, Mentions of Bombs and Guns, Mentions of corrupt/shady businesses, Fluff, Gang/Team as family/family dynamics, Found Family. |

———

| A/N: It is Cyberpunk Au time! This is a twoshot, so have a looksy to see if you can find all the snippets of foreshadowing I've set! Also this is mostly Action/Fluff but beware of the warnings regardless. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy! |

| Also side note, Don’t Like? Don’t Read. Also also, please do not criticise any of my writing. This was written for fun and receiving criticism, even in a compliment/criticism sandwich, is the exact opposite of fun. |

———

Rain patters against the concrete, sound mixing with the low hum and high buzz of electricity. The ground is slick with murky puddles that never seem to clean the pavement. Still just as filthy as before, permanently dyed with dried bloodstains, mud stains, electric scorch marks, and far worse. The air is heavy with the smell of cigarette smoke, ozone, and that ever underlying decay that clings to the city.

It's dark—dead of night—but the streets are awash with flickering neon lights. There are a few others haunting the street though most of them are sticking to the areas of light, avoiding the shadows.

Which is where Marinette, also known as the ruthless gang leader Fantôminou, is lurking.

Jason—Red Hood, her co-leader—snarls as he drops down onto the shadowed fire escape beside her. “We've got a rat. Someone's tipped off the big Butterfly and security has been increased around the perimeter. Most likely interior security increased too.”

Fantôminou flexes her glowing clawed gauntlets, “I suppose we should check in with our local pied piper, before we strike, hmm?”

There's a bzzt in her earpiece as the channel is hijacked by the familiar voice of their gang's hacker, Max aka Raijack. “I wouldn't worry about that if I were you, our pied piper has already been contacted. Whoever they were, they didn't reveal which location we were targeting, so it's just a general security increase.”

She hums. “Raijack, link us up with the rest of the strike force.”

“Got it, 'Minou.” He responds, and not a split second later, the earpiece makes another bzzt and there's the faint ping of the rest of the channel being alerted at someone joining.

“Look, I think you could totally pull off the—oh, who just joined the channel?” Adrien, Cheval Mallet, asks in surprise.

“Just me and our anthill tiger.” Red Hood announces, snorting at the glare Fantôminou sends him.

Silence echoes across the line before a scrabble of hushed but excited voices causes a ruckus.

Fantôminou sighs, “I know we're all excited to hit the big Butterfly hard by stealing some of their new fancy gun tech. But let's leave the yelling for when we inevitably set off the alarms!”

“Hey!” Raijack protests. “I'll have you know I have produced a new virus that has a ninety-eight per cent chance of not setting off any alarms!”

Red Hood rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, but you've still not worked out how to get your viruses to deactivate the bombs in the crates yet, huh?”

“I will one day, until then it's your job to stop the bombs from triggering the rest of the alarms!” Raijack counters with a huff.

Fantôminou sighs again, this time with an added sprinkling of are-you-kidding-me. “Red Hood, Raijack. I can and will kick your asses if you do not shut up so we can discuss final prep before we begin the pesticide protocol.”

Bumping shoulders with her, Red Hood snorts again. “I've got nothing against being beat up by someone as pretty and buff as you Minou, you know that!”

“Oh, I think we can all agree to wanting to get crushed by Minou's guns.” Cheval Mallet pipes up once more.

Fantôminou sighs very wearily. “Nevermind, are you all ready?”

Red Hood salutes at her, and despite his mouth being covered, it's easily telling that he's grinning cockily underneath. “I'm ready. My guns are ready, and I've got the bomb defusal kit at the ready.”

“I may be holding my horses but I'm saddled to giddy-up on the go!” Cheval Mallet cheerfully announces.

“This has to be one of your worst attempts at horse puns yet.” Raijack comments, “otherwise, I'm in position and ready to hack on your call, Minou.”

Red Hood exchanges a glance with Fantôminou as silence falls over the earpiece channel. “Hold up, where's Arsenal? Shouldn't he have checked in by now?”

Taking his hand gently, Fantôminou gives it a reassuring squeeze.

“He already did but because you two had your issues getting into position and avoiding the unexpected police patrol, Arsenal had to deal with another issue that popped up which would've threatened our plan,” Raijack informs, sounding nonplussed.

“Well, you don't sound concerned.” Fantôminou points out the obvious. “Has he got back up?”

There's the faint tapping of a keyboard through the earpiece channel before Raijack responds, “Chèvrapide is on her way to back him up, don't worry.”

“Then that's everyone accounted for. Let's rock and roll.” Red Hood orders, dropping from the fire escape and landing in the rain-slick alleyway with ease, conveniently right beside the hoverbike they had stashed here.

Fantôminou hops down after him, except she manages to flip and expertly land in the driver's seat. “I'm driving Jay, you're the one with the guns after all,” she all but states, putting one gauntleted hand up and flexing just to hammer in the point, “I'm close range only right now and you know it.”

Red Hood throws his hands up in mock surrender. “Hey! I'd never complain about getting to watch you drive this beauty of a hoverbike.”

Fantôminou snorts. “Just get on, pretty bird!”

“Well, if you say so, pretty kitty!” Red Hood teases back, vaulting onto the back of the bike behind her. He wraps an arm around her waist and rests the other hand on his sheathed-for-now gun.

She revs the engine of the hoverbike and steers out of the alleyway with practised ease. There's no directions on the hoverbike's holoscreen, but it's not like they need any—the directions to where they need to be outside the warehouse have already been memorised by each and every one of them.”

Down the left street, take the right at the T junction, pass under the flyover street, then take a further two lefts and then straight on until the block of office buildings forming a protective extra layer between the warehouse electric razor wire tipped fencing and the road. Easy.

“All networks in the office buildings have temporarily shut down. As far as the tech will be concerned, it'll look like the networks just decided to not work today.” Raijack announces through the earpiece channel, voice coming through slightly more robotic than usual.

“So no security cams?” Fantôminou checks cautiously, circling like a hawk around the small stretch of street between her and the office building she and Jason will be entering through. The rain has slowed to a drizzle but that doesn't make the circling in it any less mildly uncomfortable, at least inside it'll be dry.

There's the familiar clack of keys once more. “Not quite, they're a little harder to crack than entering in through the backdoor via someone's unprotected webcam in the office. Thank you, Shodan.” Raijack pauses, keys continuing to clack in the background. “Unfortunately, the Big Butterfly's got tech security smart enough to keep the security system on a closed network so I can't hop from webcam to computer to network to cams. However, they didn't account for Markov, suckers!”

Red Hood snorts. “Isn't Markov a little obvious for this kinda mission?”

“Oh, did I forget to tell you?” Raijack says, in a voice that very clearly conveys he didn't forget so much as purposefully neglected to mention, “I recently upgraded Markov, outfitting him with the currently most highly advanced cloaking system. Thanks to some help from Fantôminou's knowledge of cloaking and camouflage fashion.”

Red Hood leans his head onto Fantôminou's shoulder. “I'm hurt, you knew and didn't tell me? I want cloaking guns! Think of how much cooler I'd look with them!”

Fantôminou merely hums in an unamused response. “Raijack wanted it to be a surprise.”

He huffs. “I see who your favourite person in our gang is then!”

“You're right! It's me!” Cheval Mallet cheers, jumping into the conversation.

“Fucking 'ell!” Red Hood curses under his breath. “I thought you were gonna mute whilst getting in position.”

Cheval Mallet's laugh cuts in and out across the earpiece channel. “And when did I hay that!”

“Hacker voice, I'm in!” Raijack interrupts. “Looks like the security system was perfectly untouched by whatever minor error caused the main networks to crash, how lucky. Which is to say, looping is in process, and we now have free entry.”

“Got us a place to park yet, though?” Red Hood asks.

Raijack doesn't immediately respond, but the sound of the garage door connected to the office building opening, is answer enough. “I might.”

Fantôminou snorts. “Thanks, Raijack. Hood and I need to split here right, just until we get past the fencing right?”

“That's right.” Raijack responds, “good luck, and Markov and I will see you all on the other side.”

“Break a leg, or three!” Red Hood calls over the earpiece. “Preferably some else's though!”

Fantôminou pulls the hoverbike into the garage, keeping her gaze ahead. “If I could elbow you without fucking up my parking, I would.”

Red Hood cackles quietly in response, trying to at least keep to the stealth part of the mission plan.

In the blink of an eye, the hoverbike is securely parked. Perfectly hidden in plain sight but easily accessible for a quick and clean getaway should nothing go wrong. And well, if something were to go wrong, there's not going to be any hoverbike left for evidence. Though, that's not to say a small part of Fantôminou's brain doesn't anxiously hate how they're practically sitting on top of bombs ready to blow up at the slightest hint of things going wrong. However, they've been through enough strikes like this for the concern to be mostly easily ignored.

———

With the hoverbike parked, Fantôminou and Red Hood part ways.

Fantôminou heads up through the internal stairwell connected to the garage, whilst Red Hood takes one of the external doors leading to the office building next door.

The stairwell is like any other maintenance stairwell. Grey concrete walls, metal railings and steps. Even Fantôminou's light footsteps clang loudly against the ridged metal stairs. It's cold, just as cold as the garage was and barely warmer than it is outside in the rain. The air is stuffy but at least the respirator hidden beneath the bandana wrapped around her mouth makes it bearable to breathe. Other than the aforementioned clanging of steps, and her breathing, Fantôminou is alone with the ominous silence of a liminal space.

The stairs stretch on upwards for what seems far longer than it should, but eventually, Fantôminou reaches the final steps to the roof entrance door.

The door is unlocked, and so Fantôminou opens it as quietly as possible. She walks out into the rain once more and scrunches up her nose. A quick glance of the roof yields no immediate signs of danger or anything of note, so she continues to the edge of the roof.

Fantôminou rests one foot on the lip of the roof and flexes her gauntlets, lights switching off for stealth. Carefully, she turns around and crouches on the lip, gauntlets gripping the edge and toes of her boots braced against the wall. Bit by bit she descends, gauntlets making it more than easy to stay attached to the wall.

Two-thirds of the way down, Fantôminou climbs onto a window sill. The fence is only a metre below, with a further four-metre drop. No security drones in sight, yet—but no alarms have been triggered yet either.

A shadow drops down the building and over the fence on the other side of the compound. Not a second later is the double buzz of the earpiece signalling that someone is in position.

Fantôminou smirks beneath her face coverings, not one to be so quickly outdone she leaps forwards in a dive—spinning midair as she begins to plummet. Clearing the razor wire fence with room to spare.

She hits the ground in another diving roll, and immediately uses the momentum to throw herself up and run towards the nearest warehouse building. As soon as she reaches the wall, she double-taps her earpiece to send the double buzz signal to others.

A moment later comes the third double buzz, soon followed by the fourth and final signal.

“Markov is covering our air support.” Raijack's voice clips across the earpiece channel, “Fantôminou, you and Red Hood are on opposite ends of the same warehouse. I've unlocked the doors for you. You know the drill.”

“Thank you, Raijack. Entering now.” Fantôminou responds, she slinks over to the warehouse doors and cautiously pries open the now unlocked door.

Fantôminou heads straight for the terminal, and knows Red Hood is doing the same. Slipping Raijack's new and improved virus into one of the terminal's ports. Seconds pass.

“Interface secured,” Raijack informs.

Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Red Hood prowling over to her. She nods to him and taps into the terminal with her gauntlet.

Red Hood readies his bomb defusal kit as she instructs the internal warehouse drones into delivering the goods to them.

The drone, blinking yellow—a sure sign of Raijack's virus in effect—hovers over and drops a large black cased crate before them.

As soon as the claws of the drone release the crate, Red Hood is immediately on it, pulling it open and weeding out the bomb.

They wait with bated breath. Red Hood tinkers away. The earpiece channel is silent as the team focuses.

He hisses through his teeth, and Fantôminou tenses—ready to grab him and run, in the worst case—but he only packs the kit back away and sighs in relief.

He taps the earpiece thrice—signalling success.

Raijack and Cheval Mallet don't respond, so Fantôminou and Red Hood stuff their haul into Fantôminou's Miraculous, for ease of transport, and begin making their way towards the warehouse the other two were hitting.

By the time they reach the nearest warehouse doors, the earpiece triple buzzes. Success, again.

They pause only to exchange a nod between the two before continuing to meet up with Cheval Mallet and Raijack—no rendezvous needed this time so far.

It takes forty seconds to cross halfway to the other warehouse, where they meet the other two along with Markov in the middle.

Cheval Mallet waves a hand and the five of them skulk over to a small shed off the side of another warehouse. He raises his horseshoe weapon and calls out, “Bon Voyage!”

The portal forms and Markov flies through first. The remaining four exchange glances then bolt forwards, racing to see who can get through first.

The blue light blinds them all for a second, despite how used to the power they are.

“Mission success!” Fantôminou cheers breathlessly once the blue fades, throwing her hands up in celebration.

“WOOH!” Cheval Mallet yells, jumping up and punching the air.

Red Hood snorts, “but more importantly I so won!”

Raijack hums, “let's see what Markov has to say about that.”

Markov makes a series of boops and beeps, yellow LEDs flickering. “Red Hood is correct, he won the portal race.”

“YES!” Red Hood crows.

“Oh come on!” Raijack grumbles.

Footsteps and clapping approaches. “Well done,” Félix praises, “but perhaps leave the celebration until after you've all gotten into jammies.”

Cheval Mallet giggles, “Flicks, I can't believe you can somehow still sound pretentious whilst saying something as childish sounding as "jammies"!”

Félix raises an eyebrow, “you say this every time I call pyjamas that. Now come on, I've ordered pizza and Roy, Alix, Luka, Artemis, Kori, and Bizarro are already waiting for you lot, in the lounge, so we can get the party started.” He turns on his heel and walks out of the utility-changing room.

Markov, as the only one not needing to change, shows the tongue-sticking-out emoji on his LED screen and zooms after Félix.

Jason, Marinette, Adrien, and Max all start changing out of their gear as quickly as possible.

“Oh no!” Adrien gasps, half undressed, suddenly remembering something. “We forgot to take the motorbikes back!”

Marinette groans, “I knew I was forgetting something!"

Facepalming, Jason sighs. “We were all too caught up in everything going well for once.”

Max snorts. “Oh don't worry! I anticipated this, all it took was a little hacking into our hoverbikes and now they're on autopilot to one of our empty storage bases.”

“Oh. Well, that's good then.” Adrien says, looking a little embarrassed.

“Yeah… anyway come on, we don't want to keep your cousin and the others waiting any longer! They'll eat all the pizza!” Marinette exclaims.

They all finish changing into loungewear and pyjamas just as music starts to play from the lounge and so frantically, they all dash towards it, trying to shove each other out of the way and laughing playfully as they do so.

They've won a battle, they've successfully gotten in and out with a good haul of gun tech. No alarms tripped, nothing went wrong. Hoverbikes undamaged and on the route home. For once, everything went smoothly. And that, is cause for an evening of celebration.

Leaving the worries of the rat for tomorrow.

———

In a dark observatory with a closed butterfly window, a folder is tossed across a desk.

Papillon glances down at the folder with indifference. He rests his elbows on the expensive polished wood and steeples his fingers. “You said you had acquired information that you believe will interest me?”

The man in a black suit sitting opposite Papillon, smiles patiently. “My informant went through quite the lengths to acquire this. Why not take a look inside.”

Papillon purses his lips, “this better not be a waste of my precious time, Lex.”

Lex Luthor raises an eyebrow in amusement. “I assure you, Gabriel, you will find what is inside most interesting.”

There's a moment's pause as Gabriel waits. Nothing happens. He nods and then opens the folder. He spreads the papers inside in arc across the desk. In the middle of the papers, is the photo of a smiling teenage girl with bright blue eyes, and blue-dyed hair. “Marinette Dupain-Cheng?” He reads out, lips curling into a contemplative frown.

“Poor little girl,” Lex croons mockingly, “missing—presumed dead—after her parents' bakery was destroyed in an Akuma attack. Her name should be familiar to you though, won your one-day derby hat competition at her school.”

Gabriel's fingers still mid-steeple, and he moves one hand up to his chin in thought. “Ah yes, I remember that designer. The one with the feather derby whose design was stolen and copied. That signature embroidery was impressive work.” He recounts.

Lex grins, “yes, however most distressingly, it would seem this up and coming star of a designer has lost her glow.”

“How so?” Gabriel responds, furrowing his brows.

“Well you see, my informant has found… evidence, that our poor little designer here fell through the cracks into the shadows after the loss of her parents and bakery. It's rather obvious that the larvae have taken her as their own, some of their masks and clothes fit perfectly with what we know of her unique incorporation of her signature, as well as stitch work.” Lex explains, waving a hand towards the rest of the photographs and documents spread from the folder.

Gabriel frowns and eyes a few of the other papers with interest. “I see, that is most unfortunate.”

“But.” Lex cuts in before Gabriel can say anything more. “I'm well aware you're plenty familiar with fixing larvae with damaged wings and frayed wires. As such, a strange little cold case brimming with potential for your program, would do quite nicely for your collection, wouldn't you say?” Lex insinuates, rising from his seat as he continues, “rescue the poor larvae, craft it a chrysalis, and nurture the Pupa into something radiant. Not unlike what you did with the Macrothylacia Rubi, and your replacement wife.” With that, Lex smiles smugly down at Gabriel and then strides out of the observatory, not giving Gabriel a chance to respond.

And leaving Papillon to the folder and his musings.

———

| Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this little fic! Comments, likes, and reblogs are much appreciated! |

| Behind the Names: Fantôminou is a portmanteau of Fantôme (Ghost/Phantom) and Minou (Kitty). And she's called that because I thought the Black Footed cat fit her, and they're nicknamed Anthill Tigers. They also have the highest successful hunting rate! |

| Raijack is a portmanteau of Raiju (lightning dragon) and jack plug (the connect-y bit on headphones into a phone for example) but is also a play on the word Hijack. |

| Cheval Mallet is an evil horse spirit that offers rides to weary travellers and kidnaps them. Yes, there is a reason behind this. It's covered in Chap 2 |

| Chèvrapide is a portmanteau of Chèvre (Goat) and Rapide (Fast). |

| Also feel free to send me any comments with any questions you have regarding this fic, I’ll be more than happy to answer! |

| @jasonette-july-event |

[citrinekay]

Roadtrip prompt! They’re going somewhere together (not for work). it’s just really domestic and they bought snacks and everything ❤️

There’s just something about these two driving in cars together that I can’t get enough of. Thanks for the prompt!

Bill hadn’t given any consideration to his mounting vacation days for some time until Wendy had announced she was taking a trip to the Florida Keys, and Holden had remarked that he hadn’t taken any days off in awhile either. He’d quickly turned to Bill to point out that they shouldn’t let Wendy have all the fun. 

Bill shrugged. He hadn’t gone on a real vacation for a few years because he’d been too focused on work. He wasn’t complaining, though, because their work is important. 

He’d forgotten about the conversation until the next morning, when the idea was fully gestated in Holden’s mind. 

“We should go see the Grand Canyon.” Holden said, sitting up in bed with his disheveled hair and eyes wide and alert despite it being seven o’clock in the morning. 

“Okay.” Bill said, rubbing a hand over his sleep-laden eyes. 

“I always wanted to go as a kid, but my family never had the money for out-of-state vacations.” Holden said, “How many vacation days do you think you have?”

“I’m not sure. A lot.” 

“I think we should drive.”

“What? Why? Don’t we drive around enough together as it is?” Bill asked.

Holden turned around to cast him a mischievous smile. “It’ll be an adventure. Please?”

Bill sighed, “It’s a what? - two or three day drive? Maybe more if there’s construction and traffic accidents - which there’s bound to be. Are you sure?” 

“Yes.” Holden said, flopping down against Bill’s chest to pander with wide, pleading eyes. “It’ll be fun. Will you at least consider it?” 

Bill considered it for all of one day, though “considering it” was a loose term. He could see that Holden already had his heart set on the trip, and wouldn’t be letting the idea go anytime soon. Besides, as it turned out, he had more than enough vacation days compiled to allow for driving time and a full week in Arizona. 

They’d struck out two days ago on an early Saturday morning, bags packed, cassette tapes, snacks, and bottles of water stashed in the front seat for the drive ahead. Holden rolled down the window and sang along with the radio as they crossed the state line between Virginia and North Carolina, and all of Bill’s misgivings sailed out the window into the summer air along with the upbeat lyrics of “Tiny Dancer.” 

Holden’s high spirits remained through the brief trip across the tip of North Carolina and into Tennessee. By this point, Bill had grudgingly given into his urging to sing - or rather somewhat hum - along with the music. Bill smoked another cigarette while Holden shelled peanuts out the window, popping them in his mouth in between mutterd song lyrics. 

As they sped across the threshold into Arkansas, Holden leaned over to tuck his head against Bill’s shoulder. His fingers crept over to trace Bill’s knuckles and the back of his hand before nudging them in between Bill’s fingers. They were quiet for a long time as the landscape changed around them, rolling green hills rising up into rocky mountains peppered with miles of trees that seemed to go on forever. 

Eventually, Holden sat up and started talking again, reminiscing about some of the different places his family had lived throughout the Midwest. Somewhere in between a story about Milwaukee and St. Paul, he’d made them both promise not to bring up anything work related. Bill agreed without complaint.

 The sunset slipped across the sky in hues of gold and pink as they crept towards Oklahoma, the land dipping down into flattened stretches of grassy fields that allowed the dome of the sky to swell above them. Holden sank down in the seat, breathing a happy sigh. 

“Thank you for this.”

“For what?” 

“This trip.” Holden said, casting Bill a faint smile. “It means a lot to me.”

“Hey,” Bill said, catching Holden’s hand and bringing his knuckles to his mouth, “If seeing the Grand Canyon is what you want, I’m going to give it to you.”

“I do want to see it.” Holden said, a smile tugging at his mouth while his eyes went soft and hazy as a lake on a foggy morning. “But this is more important to me … You.” 

Bill cleared his throat as emotion hit him suddenly in the chest, a yearning and a satisfaction that seemed to compete for residency in that space all at once. 

“It’s nice, right?” Holden asked, sparing Bill having to respond immediately. “Driving, just the two of us.”

“Yeah.” Bill said, “It’s really nice.”

It was past ten o’clock by the time they made it to the hotel that Holden had booked in advance. Bill got out and stretched his legs, relishing not being cramped in a car for less than half an hour before falling into bed exhausted. 

He woke the next morning to Holden curled up against him, golden sunlight through the window making the dark brown of his hair gleam luscious chestnut. Bill carefully traced his bare shoulder as he leaned in to plant a kiss on Holden’s neck, inhaling his familiar scent, drowning himself in the quiet solitude of his moment. 

Quantico seemed to fall far behind them, a disant, gray outline that he could have seen in a book somewhere. This reality, his arms wrapped around Holden, felt like it was the only one that shoulder matter. It took all his willpower to get out of bed to face another day of driving, but Holden’s eagerness to reach their destination urged him along. 

They drove for two more days, passing through Oklahoma, the northern edge of Texas, and New Mexico before the sign for the Arizona state line heralds a closing end to their journey. 

Night descends on the desert like a shroud, plunging the colors of the cloudless sky through shades of blue, purple, and black before the pinprick of stars and the half moon hanging overhead are the only source of illumination outside of the intermittent streetlamps dotting the interstate. The radio plays at low volume, a hushed lullaby that had Holden’s head slumping down against the leather seat cover over an hour ago. 

Bill carefully rolls down his window to light a cigarette. The scrape of his lighter cuts through the quiet bluster of the wind, unanswered by the echoing void just outside of the car. As smoke pours from his lips, he casts a glance over at Holden’s lax expression of blissful sleep. A smile tugs at his mouth.

 Not two hours ago, Holden had been pressing whether Bill wanted him to take a turn driving or not as Bill had spent most of the trip behind the wheel. Bill had said no, he prefers to drive; more than that, he prefers to watch Holden sleep, rocked to dreamland by the steady motion of the car over never-ending asphalt. 

Bill turns his gaze back to the road ahead illuminated by the yellow swath of headlights making out the black strip of road ahead. 

Everything is quiet now with Holden slumbering beside him and the interstate all but vacant of traffic. Against the black backdrop of the sky he can begin to see the narrow, crooked outlines of the Grand Canyon’s myriad rocky formations beginning to emerge beneath the milky moonlight. The idea of driving them all the way into the town where neon lights and streetlamps could dispel the sense of distance that this place gives him seems like an offense he can’t abide. 

Easing his foot on the break, Bill brings the car to a crawl, and guides them off the shoulder of the road into the sand. He puts the car in park, and turns his gaze to Holden’s slumbering expression cloaked in shadow. 

He takes a drag of his cigarette and exhales slowly in the silence. The car engine ticks as it cools, but otherwise he can’t hear anything - not even the wind. 

Taking off his seatbelt, Bill leans over to press a kiss against Holden’s cheek. 

Holden stirs, uttering a moan. “Are we there?”

“Not quite.” Bill murmurs, stroking his thumb across Holdens temple where his hair begins to curl. 

Holden’s eyelids flutter open in the darkness, searching the shadowed corners of the car and the street ahead for landmarks. “Where are we?”

“Just outside of Flagstaff.” Bill says. 

“Why are we pulled over?” Holden asks, pushing himself upright in his seat to survey their location on the side of the road. 

“Come on.” Bill says, nodding toward the desert. 

Holden frowns as Bill shoves the door open with his shoulder, and gets out of the car. Sand shifts beneath his feet as he stretches his back, easing out the knotted kinks from hours behind the wheel. 

Holden clambers out of the car, and peers over the hood at him. “What are we doing?”

Bill shuffles around to lean against the hood of the car, and waves a hand for Holden to join him. “Just come here for a minute.”

Holden hesitates for a moment before pushing the car door shut. He ambles around the hood of the car, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with his knuckles. Sitting on the hood beside Bill, he drops his head to Bill’s shoulder and suppresses a yawn. 

Curling his arm around Holden’s shoulder, Bill draws him closer, and breathes out a quiet sigh. 

“This was a good idea, you know.” He says, quietly. “Getting away for a little bit.”

“Now you agree with me?” Holden asked, teasing gently. “You spent the whole first day complaining about your back hurting.”

“Yeah, you got me there.” Bill says, uttering a low chuckle. 

Holden laughs quietly, tucking his cheek tighter against Bill’s shoulder. 

A slow breeze creeps in from the desert, void of the daytime humidity that is sure to come with the rising of the sun. Holden shudders softly, and Bill draws him closer, rubbing a hand over the goosebumps prickling his arm. 

“Cold?”

“No.” Holden murmurs, defiantly. 

“We can go if you want.”

“No, this is nice.” Holden says, tilting his head back to look up at the sky. “I’ve never seen stars like this, have you?”

“No.” 

Holden lifts a hand towards the sky, his fingertips drizzled in pale, pewter light as if he could dip his nails into the smattering of stars. 

“Big Dipper, Little Dipper, Orion’s Belt …” He murmurs, naming off constellations as his fingers wander across the blanket of the sky. 

Bill slips his fingers under Holden’s jaw and turns his mouth into a kiss, interrupting the whispered string of names. A quiet whimper rolls off Holden’s tongue into the gentle stroke of Bill’s mouth, and his lips fall open to the gentle touch. Bill strokes Holden’s cheek, savoring the softness of his skin and the sweet taste of his mouth, the weightlessness in his chest while this moment unfolds privately in the darkness. 

When he pulls back, Holden swallows hard, his nostrils flaring gently with a deep, shaky inhale. He leans his forehead against Bill’s, closing his eyes against the warm, wandering caress of Bill’s thumb working its way down his jawline and throat. 

“What if we just kept driving?” Bill whispers. 

“What?” Holden asks, offering a choked little laugh. 

“We see the Grand Canyon like you wanted, and then we keep driving.” Bill says, nudging his forehead against Holden’s.

“Really?” Holden asks, despite the smile fighting underneath the bite of his teeth. “And never go back?” 

“Yeah, why not?”

“I don’t think your back would make it to the West Coast.” Holden says, muting a laugh when Bill begins to scowl. 

“Fine, forget it.” Bill says, leaning back. 

Holden gazes at him sheepishly from beneath his eyelashes. “It’s a nice thought, though.”

“Yeah,” Bill says, scanning the dark shadows cloaking the landscape around them. “It is.”

They sit on the hood of the car for a long time, Bill smoking a cigarette, Holden resting his head on Bill’s shoulder. He tries to catalogue each second in his mind - the cool breeze, the endless desert making them small, the weight of Holden’s head on his shoulder, the warm gust of his breath on his neck. 

Things have a way of slipping out of your hands when you aren’t watching, he thinks. Everything changes so quickly. Moments you think will last forever disappear in the blink of an eye. But not this one, not this time. 

Half an hour later, they’re back in the car, driving into Flagstaff where the hotel awaits and the next day promises adventure just as Holden had predicted. Bill casts a glance up at the sky as they leave the desert behind. The moon hasn’t moved despite the distance traveled, and some things, like the stars, are forever.

[ton-e]

Sometimes, the silence gets a little colder.

The churning waterdrops drizzle from the showerhead at a whipping pace, heavy like a hailstorm punishing his face and upper body, blanketing Harry entirely in ice. His hands itch to twist the water tap to red, to clog the Immense shower cabin in mist, make fog out steam, but time was dripping in the drain in tow with his attention.

His eyes avoided the string of red enjoining the running water after grazing his scalp harsh enough. He only wished the jet could rinse the shame in his chest as easily.

The drizzle halts. He stays cold, thermostat tipping 34°, three layers of clothing, leather jacket, sweater and cotton tank top, later. The rigidness unfamiliarity cloaking the Osborne penthouse, bankrupt of tenderness, humanity, trumped any warmth in the room, artificial or otherwise.

Monotone fingers butting down on a keyboard, steadfast and infuriatingly precise, reigned over the living room. Norman must be working nights, he thinks absently, silent stepping to the man's turned back where he stayed hunched on the plush leather stool, vigilant as though avoiding landmines.

"I'm presuming that wherever it is that you're heading, you'll be going alone, " Harry feels his tongue burn with the words he pushes back. Phantom fingers hook into his shoulders, preventing him from advancing, two cinder blocks caging his ankles. Norman's voice was as much of a cage as his eyes. "I don't speak mute, Harrison. "

The right side of his cheek bleeds. "I'm just... Been invited to a party. School's been a bit much lately.Thought it'd be a good opportunity to have some fun. " He meant to pass the invitation to Penny and Ned, but decided it was best not to waste their time, especially not involving an event he knew they'd dread, nor something leaping outside the borders of May's approval.

Intoxicated underage teenagers throwing up over one another in dark rooms with their senses flooding of the acidic stench of vomit blending with flimsy cigarette smoke wasn't the most appealing image.

One of the two reasons Harry will be present is because May has not been made aware of the shenanigans taking place tonight, and he shudders to think about what could happen if she was to discover, and because if he'd decline the invitation he'd question his worth as a human being for a week.

They wouldn't want to spend extra time with him anyway. Harry doesn't blame them for it, - If he could, he'd leave himself behind, too.

The subtle hardness of the pressure punching the keyboard makes Harry's hair stand. As calm as ever, Norman asks coolly: "An opportunity to run, you mean?"

"You're nothing to run from, -" Anger. Red, mild, flashy. It strikes like a match, ready to kiss gasoline.

"What?" Norman's tone shifts, from composed chill edging on the string of indifference and boredom, switching to a concern too naked to be genuine. Falsified elegantly, adapting adequately to the big screen and gullible reporters. Like a fish on a worm. Harry's been burned by that end before. "Harry, I asked if you took your medicine. Are you feeling okay?"

Confusion strikes deeply, startles him to kick up his defenses. Carpet flying from under his feet, strings tugging at his bleeding wrists in too many directions. Uncertainty, laughing, and mocking his misfortune. "No, you said, - You just told me, - I'm not taking the fucking medicine! I know what you're doing! You always do this, -"

"I understand Harry, I do, " the silky voice makes Harry want to crawl in the deepest hole of earth, bathe in darkness where tears can't be seen, reject all light. "All of these responsibilities, the duties, the studies, the work... Heavy crosses break weak backs. This... Insufficiency, of yours, its frustrating, isn't?The constant lacking, in almost everything you do. School, social life, friends, relationships, Oscorp.

You're climbing the Everest, and every time you get close to touching the peak, it gets taller. And now, you want to fall. That's no fault of yours, isn't it? It never is."

Air stabs through the constricted cage of his ribcage, an invisible force rears around him, engulfs him, peels his skin down and takes residence beneath his body, punching down the quips of oxygen slithering their way inside his lungs. He swallows down his misery before it can swallow him.

The room seems to lower in temperature.

"... But! I hope you have fun. Do me a favor, Harry, and try not to be a complete embarrassment for a change, " the jab is light, disguised in a relaxed smile, easy on the lips and full of fondness. Harry watches the discrete squint of his eyes, the soft light reflecting into the minuscule, slit like iris centering maroon eyes, eyes that stare back in every mirror, and could drown in the disdain.

He feels fire under his heels, all-consuming and powerful as he practically dashes for the door, like a frightened hen darting aimlessly with its head slashed off. "Oh, and Harrison?" Norman sounds like himself. Hollow dark, satisfied cold. "Say hello to your mother for me."

Harry's vision blurs, and soon, the thumping of his own footsteps falls empty to his ears. A marionette dragging itself above the concrete pins, prickling like needles under the skin of his feet, rhythm befalling under noir song.He can't complete the puzzle of how he managed to get into the car. It's misshapen.

Senses blaze bright and burning. He's hyperaware of everything, smallest detail voluming up to the high of extremity, grabbing at his being from all sides. Puffs of breath take shape of hurricanes, the burn of pain gained from bashing his fists against the steerwheel waxing his skin in firestorm, almost as straining from the roar painting his throat red.

"Stop, " He cracks, syllables mangled and chopped as he wipes furiously at his eyes, scrubbing violently at the tear streaks on his cheeks. "Fucking stop it already, stop, it's nothing, it's no big fucking deal so why do you have to feel so much, -"

With a tremble to his joints, Harry reaches for his wallet. A river of creatively colored swear words leave his lips as he struggles to unbutton the front, sleek, deep green leather, usually smooth but feeling as rough as sandpaper now, shakes violently in his palms for a juncture of time ticking on slow motion.

The photograph protected by the layer of sheet plastic in the front section of the wallet doesn't deprive his mother of glow. Her sunbeam smile dances happy and warm on her lips, so radiant that the sun itself wishes it could become it.

[kafkasgods]

new year’s eve event: adam & audrey

adam hudson

as entertaining as it was, there was a certain stress to such a big shindig like this. adam wasn’t a partier and he hadn’t yet been coerced into drinking enough to get drunk, so he mostly felt out of body. taking some time out from it, he made his way outside, reaching for the cigarettes he kept on him. it wasn’t a vice many knew about it, and he did his best to keep it hidden. there was someone else here and, reflexively, he almost pushed the box back down, but remembering the anonymity of the mask, he was fine. “do you want one?” he asked politely, gesturing it towards the girl.

audrey ngo

sure enough, as the night went on, audrey had gotten progressively more intoxicated, and found herself pushing towards the outdoors and a breath of fresh air. it was hard to come by in her mask, which was fun but practically stifling. she was about to remove it when someone spoke, surprising her a little at the offer. she’d been good after throwing out her own, but the siren’s call of it and the alcohol buzzing in her bloodstream was too great. 

“hm, twist my arm,” she murmured, closing the distance and accepting a cigarette before handing the carton back. she was close enough to take in his attire, and admire his commitment to the bit. a masquerade indeed. “better avert your elf eyes, legolas. the mask is coming off.” she positioned herself to stand back to back to him and held out one hand for a lighter, nudging his elbow so he'd know where to look.

adam hudson

adam couldn’t help snorting at the nickname, but did as told. it wasn’t the first time he’d heard the nickname, but he couldn’t place the familiarity. after handing her the lighter and getting her started, he took the lighter back. with a quick click, the fire lit up his cigarette and adam felt himself getting calmer as he inhaled the smoke. “you having a good time at the party?” he didn’t know if it was better or worse to speak, but he’d rather be overly polite than rude. “it’s okay on my end, but i think i would have had more fun if my friends were here. or if i knew who they were. i don’t know how people can get out of their skin and leave themselves behind.” if adam didn’t get it, why was he doing it now and sharing with this perfect stranger?

audrey ngo

the motions were familiar. audrey stood holding her mask in one hand and her cigarette in the other in quick order. she leaned back, delighted to find that since she’d lost her shoes, she was the precise right height to settle against his back like the trunk of a tree. honestly, thanks to the cloak, he was a great windblock. 

“really? i figured that was entirely the reason why everyone was so secretive about what they were wearing in the first place. maybe now you can make new friends, though. put yourself out there.” last time she’d partied, halloween, she ended up pouring half her sad life story to poor ellis. “of just lurk out here and blow through your pack.”

adam hudson

there was a weight on his back, and he was a little put off how comfortable this girl was with him already, but he stood rigid for her anyway. at her suggestion, adam made a light grimace though she couldn’t tell. “i have enough friends.” he lifted his shoulders. “i don’t mind lurking or skipping out all together, but people expect me to be here and to have fun, so here i am. it’s alright, i’m just vibing, i guess. do you think anyone’s really getting a good and mysterious night out of this?”

audrey ngo

audrey pretended the motion of his shoulders didn’t rub against her head. it was what she’d signed up for, leaning on him like that. “i never said you didn’t have friends,” she pointed out, her tone completely reasonable. “but if you’re vibing...” she smirked a bit between drags, because it sounded like something she would say. “please, i’m having a magical night. making men avert their gaze from me is like, wish fulfillment to the extreme.”

adam hudson

adam laughed. “being perceived is the worst,” he agreed. the weight that he’d been carrying suddenly felt much lighter. it was hard to tell if it was the smoke or the company. “sometimes. i’m tired of being a solid pillar for people to rely on. sometimes i just want to do things for me and not feel guilty about it.” where did the confession come from? adam didn’t know, but he supposed it was a truth of some sort. “what are you tired of?”

audrey ngo

her companion’s words had audrey’s eyebrows lifting. it was on the tip of her tongue to crack about how if he wanted her to stand up straight, he should just say it. but it was a little too sincere for her to dig into him. he would’ve simply just moved aside otherwise. “i think that’s perfectly reasonable. maybe 2021 is the year you quit being a doormat. i support you, bud.” 

 his question, posed rather suddenly, threw her off her train of thought “what am i tired of?” she mused aloud, exhaling smoke and eyeing the cigarette between her fingers. “i hate to say it, but i think i’m tired of avoiding all my problems. the really deep-rooted ones, i mean. i’m coming to terms with the fact that i can’t just run away from everything. i’m not sure how to tackle that one, though, so i might put it off for another year.” she smirked, despite the fact that he wasn’t able to see it. “i did quit smoking recently, though. this is my first cig in months.”

adam hudson

“i don’t know if it’s as extreme as a doormat,” adam supplied unhelpfully, inhaling his smoke. doormats were pushovers and he most definitely wasn’t a pushover. “i’m not being asked to do anything. i just do it. because it’s right. but sometimes, it’s like, what even the fuck am i doing it for? no, that’s not true.” the truth came to him quickly. “it’s to prove i’m not trash like the rest of my family. you can’t change blood though.” a long stream of smoke poured from his mouth, evaporating into nothing. 

 “ah shit.” the words left his mouth before he could help it. “was that my fault?” regret, that he couldn’t begin to access now, settled in his chest. just another mistake he’d made. it wasn’t like he could rip it from her hand now. “i don’t think you’re alone about your problems though. this is the first time i’ve even talked about mine. would you get a kick out of working yours out a little with me? i’m told i’m a good doormat.”

[readbookywooks]

It was thicker than any normal staff, mainly because of the carvings that covered it from top to bottom. They were actually quite indistinct, but gave the impression that if you could see them better you would regret it. Albert brushed himself down again and examined himself critically in the washstand mirror. Then he said, 'Hat. No hat. Got to have a hat for the wizarding. Damn.' He stamped out of the room and returned after a busy fifteen minutes which included a circular hole cut out of the carpet in Mort's bedroom, the silver paper taken out from behind the mirror in Ysabell's room, a needle and thread from the box under the sink in the kitchen and a few loose sequins scraped up from the bottom of the robe chest. The end result was not as good as he would have liked and tended to slip rakishly over one eye, but it was black and had stars and moons on it and proclaimed its owner to be, without any doubt, a wizard, although possibly a desperate one. He felt properly dressed for the first time in two thousand years. It was a disconcerting feeling and caused him a second's reflection before he kicked aside the rag rug beside the bed and used the staff to draw a circle on the floor. When the tip of the staff passed it left a line of glowing octarine, the eighth colour of the spectrum, the colour of magic, the pigment of the imagination. He marked eight points on its circumference and joined them up to form an octogram. A low throbbing began to fill the room. Alberto Malich stepped into the centre and held the staff above his head. He felt it wake to his grip, felt the tingle of the sleeping power unfold itself slowly and deliberately, like a waking tiger. It triggered old memories of power and magic that buzzed through the cobwebbed attics of his mind. He felt alive for the first time in centuries. He licked his lips. The throbbing had died away, leaving a strange, waiting kind of silence. Malich raised his head and shouted one single syllable. Blue-green fire flashed from both ends of the staff. Streams of octarine flame spouted from the eight pouits of the octogram and enveloped the wizard. All this wasn't actually necessary to accomplish the spell, but wizards consider appearances are very important. . . . So are disappearances. He vanished. Stratohemispheric winds whipped at Mort's cloak. 'Where are we going first?' yelled Ysabell in his ear. 'Bes Pelargic!' shouted Mort, the gale whirling his words away. 'Where's that?' 'Agatean Empire! Counterweight Continent!' He pointed downward. He wasn't forcing Binky at the moment, knowing the miles that lay ahead, and the big white horse was currently running at an easy gallop out over the ocean. Ysabell looked down at roaring green waves topped with white foam, and clung tighter to Mort. Mort peered ahead at the cloudbank that marked the distant continent and resisted the urge to hurry Binky along with the flat of his sword. He'd never struck the horse and wasn't at all confident about what would happen if he did. All he could do was wait. A hand appeared under his arm, holding a sandwich. 'There's ham or cheese and chutney,' she said. 'You might as well eat, there's nothing else to do.' Mort looked down at the soggy triangle and tried to remember when he last had a meal. Some time beyond the reach of a clock, anyway – he'd need a calendar to calculate it. He took the sandwich. 'Thanks,' he said, as graciously as he could manage. The tiny sun rolled down towards the horizon, towing its lazy daylight behind it. The clouds ahead grew, and became outlined in pink and orange. After a while he could make out the darker blur of land below them, with here and there the lights of a city. Half an hour later he was sure he could see individual buildings. Agatean architecture inclined towards squat pyramids. Binky lost height until his hooves were barely a few feet above the sea. Mort examined the hourglass again, and gently tugged on the reins to direct the horse towards a seaport a little Rimwards of their present course. There were a few ships at anchor, mostly single-sailed coastal traders. The Empire didn't encourage its subjects to go far away, in case they saw things that might disturb them. For the same reason it had built a wall around the entire country, patrolled by the Heavenly Guard whose main function was to tread heavily on the fingers of any inhabitants who felt they might like to step outside for five minutes for a breath of fresh air. This didn't happen often, because most of the subjects of the Sun Emperor were quite happy to live inside the Wall. It's a fact of life that everyone is on one side or other of a wall, so the only thing to do is forget about it or evolve stronger fingers. 'Who runs this place?' said Ysabell, as they passed over the harbour. 'There's some kind of boy emperor,' said Mort. 'But the top man is really the Grand Vizier, I think.' 'Never trust a Grand Vizier,' said Ysabell wisely. In fact the Sun Emperor didn't. The Vizier, whose name was Nine Turning Mirrors, had some very clear views about who should run the country, e.g., that it should be him, and now the boy was getting big enough to ask questions like 'Don't you think the wall would look better with a few gates in it?' and 'Yes, but what is it like on the other side?' he had decided that in the Emperor's own best interests he should be painfully poisoned and buried in quicklime. Binky landed on the raked gravel outside the low, many-roomed palace, severely rearranging the harmony of the universe.[8] Mort slid off his back and helped Ysabell down. 'Just don't get in the way, will you?' he said urgently. 'And don't ask questions either.' He ran up some lacquered steps and hurried through the silent rooms, pausing occasionally to take his bearings from the hourglass. At last he sidled down a corridor and peered through an ornate lattice into a long low room where the Court was at its evening meal. The young Sun Emperor was sitting crosslegged at the head of the mat with his cloak of vermine and feathers spread out behind him. He looked as though he was outgrowing it. The rest of the Court was sitting around the mat in strict and complicated order of precedence, but there was no mistaking the Vizier, who was tucking into his bowl of squishi and boiled seaweed in a highly suspicious fashion. No-one seemed to be about to die. Mort padded along the passage, turned the corner and nearly walked into several large members of the Heavenly Guard, who were clustered around a spyhole in the paper wall and passing a cigarette from hand to hand in that palm-cupped way of soldiers on duty. He tiptoed back to the lattice and overheard the conversation thus: 'I am the most unfortunate of mortals, O Immanent Presence, to find such as this in my otherwise satisfactory squishi,' said the Vizier, extending his chopsticks. The Court craned to see. So did Mort. Mort couldn't help agreeing with the statement, though – the thing was a sort of blue-green lump with rubbery tubes dangling from it. The preparer of food will be disciplined, Noble Personage of Scholarship,' said the Emperor. 'Who got the spare ribs?' 'No, O Perceptive Father of Your People, I was rather referring to the fact that this is, I believe, the bladder and spleen of the deepwater puff eel, allegedly the most tasty of morsels to the extent that it may be eaten only by those beloved of the gods themselves or so it is written, among such company of course I do not include my miserable self.' With a deft flick he transported it to the bowl of the Emperor, where it wobbled to a standstill. The boy looked at it for some time, and then skewered it on a chopstick. 'Ah,' he said, 'but is it not also written by none other than the great philosopher Ly Tin Wheedle that a scholar may be ranked above princes? I seem to remember you giving me the passage to read once, O Faithful and Assiduous Seeker of Knowledge.' The thing followed another brief arc through the air and flopped apologetically into the Vizier's bowl. He scooped it up in a quick movement and poised it for a second service. His eyes narrowed. 'Such may be generally the case, O Jade River of Wisdom, but specifically I cannot be ranked above the Emperor whom I love as my own son and have done ever since his late father's unfortunate death, and thus I lay this small offering at your feet.' The eyes of the court followed the wretched organ on its third flight across the mat, but the Emperor snatched up his fan and brought off a magnificent volley that ended back in the Vizier's bowl with such force that it sent up a spray of seaweed. 'Somebody eat it, for heaven's sake,' shouted Mort, totally unheard. 'I'm in a hurry!' Thou art indeed the most thoughtful of servants, 0 Devoted and Indeed Only Companion of My Late Father and Grandfather When They Passed Over, and therefore I decree that your reward shall be this most rare and exquisite of morsels.' The Vizier prodded the thing uncertainly, and looked into the Emperor's smile. It was bright and terrible. He fumbled for an excuse. 'Alas, it would seem that I have already eaten far too much —' he began, but the Emperor waved him into silence. 'Doubtless it requires a suitable seasoning,' he said, and clapped his hands. The wall behind him ripped from top to bottom and four Heavenly Guards stepped through, three of them brandishing cando swords and the fourth trying hurriedly to swallow a lighted dog-end. The Vizier's bowl dropped from his hands. 'My most faithful of servants believes he has no space left for this final mouthful,' said the Emperor. 'Doubtless you can investigate his stomach to see if this is true. Why has that man got smoke coming out of his ears?' 'Anxious for action, O Sky Eminence,' said the sergeant quickly. 'No stopping him, I'm afraid.' Then let him take his knife and – oh, the Vizier seems to be hungry after all. Well done.' There was absolute silence while the Vizier's cheeks bulged rhythmically. Then he gulped. 'Delicious,' he said. 'Superb. Truly the food of the gods, and now, if you will excuse me —' He unfolded his legs and made as if to stand up. Little beads of sweat had appeared on his forehead. 'You wish to depart?' said the Emperor, raising his eyebrows. 'Pressing matters of state, O Perspicacious Personage of —' 'Be seated. Rising so soon after meals can be bad for the digestion,' said the Emperor, and the guards nodded agreement. 'Besides, there are no urgent matters of state unless you refer to those in the small red bottle marked “Antidote” in the black lacquered cabinet on the bamboo rug in your quarters, O Lamp of Midnight Oil.' There was a ringing in the Vizier's ears. His face began to go blue. 'You see?' said the Emperor. 'Untimely activity on a heavy stomach is conducive to ill humours. May this message go swiftly to all corners of my country, that all men may know of your unfortunate condition and derive instruction thereby.' 'I . . . must . . . congratulate your . . . Personage on such . . . consideration,' said the Vizier, and fell forward into a dish of boiled soft-shelled crabs. 'I had an excellent teacher,' said the Emperor. ABOUT TIME, TOO, said Mort, and swung the sword. A moment later the soul of the Vizier got up from the mat and looked Mort up and down. 'Who are you, barbarian?' he snapped. DEATH. 'Not my Death,'said the Vizier firmly. 'Where's the Black Celestial Dragon of Fire?' HE COULDN'T COME, said Mort. There were shadows forming in the air behind the Vizier's soul. Several of them wore emperor's robes, but there were plenty of others jostling them, and they all looked most anxious to welcome the newcomer to the lands of the dead.