#anywho we got the shelf back and now everyone wants to kill me

[peanutbuttaz]

Yay I just had the worst meltdown of all time and everyone in my house wants to kill me

[kn1feinthec0ffee]

in too deep (part 5) - jules

jules x reader

TW: drugging

warnings: beating, homophobia, threat of death, i think that’s pretty much it??

notes: ooooohhh we’re getting closer to the end! not that i’m excited for this to end, but i’m just excited for you guys to see it

i really hope that me putting homophobia in this story doesn’t make you guys think i’m homophobic bc that’s the farthest thing from true. since i changed the gender of the mickey stand-in, i felt like it might be more interesting to add another dynamic into the story so it wasn’t just a word for word copy of the original except with a girl, bc that seems really one-dimensional to me. i feel like i need to put one of those things they have in movie credits like “the views in this film in no way reflect the views of the studio that produced it” kinda thing

also i think this may be my favorite part that i’ve written, bc if you didn’t notice, i’ve never left the reader’s perspective during the whole thing, so i had to improv a bit during the parts of the movie we didn’t get to see with mickey, and maybe i’m just a lil proud of myself :’)

******************************

for the first time since you came up with your brilliant plan to siphon the gas, you actually felt a glimmer of hope. jules was smart, she’d surely find a way out of the house; and she was damn loyal, too, so you knew there was no chance she’d leave you behind. 

sadly all those hopes were dashed when you heard the basement door creak open again. 

fuck, this whole plan was dependent on the fact that no one else came downstairs! your hands clammed up, your heart rate quickening as footsteps descended the stairs, stopping dead in their tracks once they reached the bottom. 

  “where the hell’d that little bitch go?” george roared, scanning every nook and cranny in the basement to see if jules was hiding anywhere. “answer me!”

you stayed silent, more out of fear than some sort of strategy. you quickly realized this was the wrong decision as george viciously backhanded you across the face. your head whipped to the side, eyes blinking back into focus from the impact. you felt something sticky on your lips and realized it was blood. 

  “you’re so angry,” you groaned. “why? just ‘cause you’re shooting blanks?” you pouted in mock sympathy. this sudden boost of confidence seemed to be a mistake as you saw george’s expression shift into a dangerously content one. 

  “i’m gonna rip your fuckin’ heart out.” your face dropped as he spoke. “i understand you not wantin’ to tell me where she is. in fact, if i were in your position i suppose i’d do the same. but god almighty i’m gonna watch ya’ die. i’m gonna hurt ya’.”

you were stunned into silence but you decided saying something, anything, would be better than nothing. “she’s gone, man. you just need to give it up.”

this seemed to strike a nerve in him. he turned towards you again and delivered another swift slap, knocking the wind out of you. he smacked you again, the back of your head knocking into the pole and causing your consciousness to fade for a moment. 

  “you think i’m full of hot air, don’t you? only good on roughin’ you up?” he asked rhetorically. “you know i worked as a door-to-door salesman for a few years? learned a lot, but the most important thing i learned was how to read people. and at the end of the day, you’re just an open book, sweetheart.”

the name sounded like poison dripping from his lips. it made you sick, that name belonged to jules. 

  “i know your type, believe you me, i’ve seen quite a few in my time. you see, you like to think you’re tough, strong, resilient, but at the end of the day, you just value her life above yours.” he laughed to himself. “am i right?”

he chuckled again when you didn’t answer. “that’s alright, you don’t have to answer, i know i’m right. well, you people are more loyal than i thought. guess i gotta give credit where credit’s due.”

  “fuck you.” you spat. “don’t fucking talk about her like that.” he stood up again, this time grabbing something from a shelf before making his way back to you. 

  “alright, no more pussyfootin’ around, time to get down to business.” he revealed the knife, positioning it under your ear as he prepared to slice it off. 

  “sheisn’tgoingtothecops!” you breathed out quickly, hoping he’d let you keep both ears with the statement. 

  “what? what’d you say?” he seemed caught of guard by the sudden admission, backing off of you. 

  “not yet, anyway.” you took a moment to catch your breath. “i told her to wait. yeah, we got a little meet up spot. now if i don’t show up there in an hour or so, then yeah, cops galore. you’re fucked, buddy. but, if i do show up, we just continue on our way like none of this happened.”

you took another shaky breath before you continued. “if we’re being honest here, i don’t want the cops involved any more than you do. y’know, the whole ‘not gainfully employed’ thing? the cops aren’t a huge fan of that one.”

george seemed to take this into consideration, nodding quietly to himself. “what about sweetiepie?”

  “her? i don’t give a fuck about her, she’s the whole reason i’m in this mess.” you winked at her, hoping she’d understand the message. 

george snapped the blade shut, producing the key from to the cuffs from his jacket pocket. 

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

  “any last words for this son of a bitch?” george asked gloria as he trained the pistol on you.

  “oh, i do wish you’d handled things differently. we could’ve had somethin’ beautiful here.” she smiled sadly, mourning what could’ve been. 

  “i’ll see you in hell,” george mumbled as he opened the door for you. you stepped into the doorway, only to stop dead in your tracks when you heard your girlfriend’s voice. shit.

  “stop, don’t kill her!” jules shouted from the top of the steps, baby doll in hand. “i will smash it!” she held it over the railing, dangling precariously above the hardwood flooring beneath. 

  “whew, that was close.” george laughed, closing the door behind you. “unhand my baby!” gloria whined. 

  “alright, missy, calm down. no one’s gonna get hurt.” he kept the gun aimed at your head, but gloria quickly pried it out of his hands and took a shot at jules. she crouched to shield herself from the bullet that thankfully missed, but in doing so let go of the baby that plummeted to the floor, shattering into hundreds of pieces. 

  “get your ass down here or i’ll blow her brains out!” george shouted gruffly as jules descended the staircase. she ran to you, hugging you close and helping you to stand on your injured leg. 

gloria rushed out of the room, bloody pieces of ceramic in hand as george turned back to you. “look what you gone and did. what did i do to deserve you two?”

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

  “cooking’s a zen art for my dear gloria. i’ve found there’s a method to it: the more upset she is, the bigger the dish it takes to pull her out.” george explained. “needless to say, i think the two of you just summoned up a banquet.”

the two of you had been crudely duct-taped to some chairs in the dining room, forced to listen to the stuffy dialogue between the husband and wife. “why? why do you keep her down there?” jules asked. 

  “it’s not what you think.” he looked over his shoulder to make sure she wasn’t listening. “my gloria, she’s always wanted a child. unfortunately, the good lord did not have that in his plans for us. so, i had to take matters into my own hands.”

  “oh, so you kidnapped her.” jules stated bluntly. george glared at her, but continued his explanation. 

  “as you get older, things get... complicated, and i swear to god i had no ill intentions. i just wanted to make my wife happy.” he smiled. “and she was for a bit, until she started to remind her of what she couldn’t have. she asked me to make her go away, but i couldn’t bring myself do that, so the basement is our compromise.” 

  “dinner is served!” gloria announced, wheeling in a cart full of dishes of shepherd’s pie. she placed one on everyone’s plate before she sat down. they quickly said grace before digging into their food. 

  “so are you guys gonna kill us or...? what’s the deal?” jules asked matter-of-factly. you wanted to nudge her shoulder and ask her what in the hell made her so bold, but you didn’t want to cause a scene. 

  “george, you didn’t tell them?” gloria asked confusedly. “i wanted to make ‘em squirm a bit,” he smirked. 

  “t-tell us what?” you cursed yourself for stuttering but you couldn’t help it, it came out when you were anxious. 

  “we’re not gonna kill you.” george mumbled, almost sounding disappointed. “i said we’re not gonna kill ‘ya, what are you deaf?” you stifled a grin at jules, not wanting to change their decision to set you free. “we’ve decided that, despite your piss-poor behavior, the logistics of it just don’t make no sense for us.”

  “sooner or later someone’s gonna come lookin’ for you two. now, i can hide a body like the easter bunny hides an egg, but the two of you have been sweatin’, spittin’, and pissin’ all over this place.” he paused to take a sip of his drink. “anywho, i’m bound to miss a spot. i figure we have a better chance of hitting the road. we’ll give it 48 hours, tip off the police, they’ll come by and pick ya’ up. i reckon you’ll do some time for whatever the hell you two did, but at least you’ll still be drawing breath. so congratulations, you should be thankful. you just won the damn lottery.”

jules spared a glance at you as if to say, what now? “take your time eatin’ you got another couple days in those chairs.” george muttered as he took another bite of his meal. 

screw it, you thought. we’re hungry and going to jail in the next two days, what harm could a nice meal do? you both picked up your forks and knives and tucked in to the plate in front of you. you nearly let out a moan in satisfaction as the food hit your tongue. you scooped up more greedily as you had no clue if and when the next time you’d get fed would be. 

  “wait,” jules swallowed the food in her mouth. “what’s gonna happen to her?” gloria glanced over to george, waiting for the answer to the question as well.

  “well, i’m sure they’ll put her some place nice. these orphanages, i hear they’re like five-star resorts.” george answered. 

  “does that upset you?” gloria turned to jules, a smile of mock empathy on her face. “anything’s better than down there.” jules mumbled. 

  “you got a heart of gold, jules. is your full name julia?” jules nodded in response. “my mother’s name was julia. she had a good heart, too, you remind me of her.”

  “she died of cancer when i was real little. it was a slow, painful process, but i was with her every step of the way!” she grinned as her husband blew her a kiss. “the day before she died, she told me to look in the closet, that i’d find a special surprise for me in there. it was a package, wrapped up nice and pretty, with a tiny card with my name on it. she insisted i opened it, so i wiped away my tears, tore open the paper and there it was. a doll.” 

everything stilled. every sound, the scraping of cutlery on the plate, the sound of everyone breathing, even the breeze blowing through the window decided this was a nice time to take a break. 

  “she said it was a magic doll,” she continued. “that no matter how sad i became, and believe me, i became very sad, i’d always have him with me. my ethan.”

your gut instincts finally kicked in as you spat out the food that was in your mouth, the gross pile of chewed up beef and potatoes looking oddly blurry to you. jules looked equally as mortified, probably even more since she was the one who brought about the end of the magic doll. 

  “and she was right; he was magical. and you took him away from me.” she grinned her creepy stepford wife grin once more. jules mumbled something but everything sounded miles away from you as your head swam. 

  “wha-what is this?” you slurred, the bright colors of the table morphing into one another. 

  “this is a drug overdose, y/n.” he chuckled when you sluggishly turned your head towards him. “i know, i know, i fibbed about lettin’ you live, but see, you had a veritable pharmacy in that bag of yours. you two just munched down enough pills to put a bull to bed,” his voice muffled into indiscernible nonsense, though you knew he was still speaking. 

  “f-fuck you,” jules managed, still keeping her head up. you, on the other hand, were slumped over, teetering on the edge of unconsciousness. 

george got up from his seat, pulling your head up by your hair. “not so tough now, are ya’?” he jested. 

jules muttered something in your defense, but as soon as your head dropped, you were down for the count; just missing the hopeful ring of the doorbell, possibly signaling you might live to see another day. 

******************************

i should probably put a link to previous parts at the top but i have no clue how to do that lol

tags: @emmyrosee​ @flowers-in-your-hayr​ @willyourecognisemee​ @bill-skarsgard-owns-my-ass​

[exothermic-filth]

First Shot’s Mine pt. II

Ya boi’s back with a continuation of this Junker!Reader x Junkrat fic :) Non-binary reader, SFW (violence and swearing warning!)

Thank you for the support, y’alls! Especially to @motherfucking-breadcrumbs for the kind words <3 Hope I did your expectations justice! 

Finale (Pt. III)

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It’s been a few days since Dusty came into work. You didn’t blame the young man: he drank enough liquor to happily satiate three grizzled Junkers. The hangover must be killing him right now. Deep down, you knew he was avoiding you: tussling with the internal conflict of turning in Junkrat. 

You straighten up, hearing your back crack. You’d been cleaning for three days straight to remedy the mess of Founder’s Day. The place looked… alright? 

You tut and take mental stock of things that needed to be replaced: you needed probably 4-5 new chairs, 2 new tables, countless mugs and glasses… 

You shake your head and walk behind the counter, thinking about everything at once is too much. You mind races back to Dusty. He’s a good kid. Hard-working kid and big dreamer. Unlike most Junkers whose aspirations started and ended at the Scrap Yard’s betting booths, Dusty wanted to see the outside world. 

On the flip side, he had a quick temper and often gave in to short-term indulgence without much thought for the consequences. The shotgun gleams in front of you, hanging patiently on its hooks. Maybe if…The passing thought makes you sick to your stomach: Dusty’s the age Jamison was when you two met. 

You purse your lips and bite them absentmindedly. Junkrat purposefully didn’t tell you his plan. You reasonably and realistically knew nothing. Dozens of other Junkers saw him in your bar, another Junker tipping off the Queen wouldn’t do much. And yet, the thought gnawed at your inside, making your skin crawl.

You give a sharp, annoyed sigh (though you’re the only one in the bar) and grab your shotgun off the wall. 

~ ~ ~ ~ 

After a quick trip to the market, you’re making your way through Junkertown’s lower east end. It’s a series of cobbled together apartments made up of the old inner workings of omnium. Crafty junkers from who knows when had split it up and boarded up walls into makeshift living spaces. 

You’ve carried Dusty home many times before. This, this was the first time you were visiting him. Your grip tightens on the sack you’re carrying, feeling the shotgun burn into your back. It was a hot day. 

You clear your throat and knock, “Hey, Dusty, it’s me, *your name.*”

You hear a bit of rustling and a thump, the sound of cans being scattered about and a bit of swearing. 

He opens the door, looking extremely worst for wear, “Oh, hey boss! I… I wasn’t expecting guests.”

“It’s fine, I probably should’ve given you a heads-up that I was coming,”

Dusty shuffles a bit in the doorway then sighs and pulls the door wide open, gesturing you to come in, “Well, no need for formalities. You’ve seen my place. Dragged my drunk ass back here plenty of times.”

You step into the apartment and close the door, “You alright?”

Dusty flashes a smile, “Never better.” 

“You’re.. you’re missing a tooth,” you grimace, setting the sack on the kitchen counter. And by kitchen counter, one means the shelf against the wall with a single hotplate on it. Unplugged. 

He laughs a bit, “Yeah, I lost it at the betting cages last night.” 

You purse your lips, “I brought you some food. Well, mostly hangover remedies.” 

Dusty turns on his heel and heads for the sack, patting your shoulder, “Aw, thanks! Make yourself at home!” 

While he rummages through the sack, you take a seat on the mattress in the corner, as it is the only “seat” in the entire room. Dusty has not a single chair to his name. The nightstand/dining table/desk (aka an upturned wooden crate purloined from the bar’s stock room) is crowded with empty liquor bottles and beer cans. 

“No, way! How’d you get this?” Dusty admires the glass bottle of orange soda in the sunlight. 

“I have friends,” you smile, “Also, said friends smashed half my bar, so the least they could do is sell me their goods at half price.”

Dusty whistles, “Still a pretty penny.”

“It’s going towards something good,” you shrug. 

He smiles for a bit, but stops. He sets the bottle back on the shelf and turns to you, “We.. we should talk.” 

You blink, “Uh, yeah, sure. What is it?”

“I.. I, uhm..” Dusty coughs, “I want to quit.” 

You feel the oppressive heat all at once, “Quit? Why?”

“I’ve been doing something thinking, *your name* and I want to leave. I want to leave Junkertown.”

You can feel the tightness in your chest relax, “That’s really admirable, Dusty. But do you have the funds? The resources?” 

“I’ve saved up quite a bit, made a nice fat stack last night at the betting booths,” he points at the missing tooth. “So, with your uh, permission… I’m quitting.”

You chuckle, “Dusty, you don’t need my permission to do anything.”

“I do for at least one thing in this world,” he looks at you with sad, sad eyes. 

Your breath catches in your throat, “I’m sorry, Dusty.”

“Nothing to be sorry, about, *your name,* it’s just.. I hope this is really what you want.” 

You bite your lip, “Yeah.”

He walks over and sits next to you on the mattress, “How’d you meet him?”

You feel the heat rise in your cheek, “You really wanna’ hear the story?”

He nudges you with his elbow, “I figure I should know who beat me to the punch.”

You roll your eyes but smile, “He had a five year head start on you.”

Dusty scoffs, “*Your name,* I was too drunk to make this point a few nights ago, but you’re literally three years older than me.”

“Fair enough.” 

“When… when did you meet him?”

You look up at the ceiling, tracing the cracks with your eyes, “I was eighteen and he was twenty. I was doing a delivery run for Mick, my first real, paying job, and my motorcycle broke down right in front of Junkertown gates.”

Dusty rolls his eyes, “Fuck, *your name*, didn’t think you were the type to swoon for a man if he fixed your bike.”

You rib him sharply, “I didn’t finish, idiot. Also he didn’t fix my bike, he tried to steal my cargo.” 

Dusty pulls a face. 

You continue, “Idiot damn near blew my arm off. But he didn’t carry his grenade launcher back then, hadn’t made it yet. Just strapped on as many bombs as he could to his body.”

“I can’t tell if you’re being serious or just fucking with me,” your barback shakes his head. 

You give a small chuckle and continue, “The idiot ended up hurting himself. Didn’t predict shrapnel trajectory when he threw a mine at me. Ended up ripping up his arm reaalll bad.”

“This story is clearly romantic as shit.”

“I could’ve left him there for the dogs. But, I don’t know… Mick had just taken a huge risk and gave me a job. Trusted me out of the blue. Junker’s don’t do that. So, I… I helped Junkrat,” you laugh, a bit cynically, “It’s fucking funny that the first time I was inspired to be selfless was for that prick.” 

Dusty shakes his head, “So you’re telling me, I lost on out on you because Mick was a decent person?”

“It’s… more complicated than that. I mean, don’t you want to be more than just a Junker, Dusty?” You ask.

His head hangs a bit, “More than anything.”

“Junkers are merciless. We steal, cheat, and murder. We run businesses for the sake of normality and slight order, but deep down… it’s everyone for themselves,” you stare at the dust motes, floating lazily through the air, “If I had killed Junkrat that day, or left him for dead… I think I wouldn’t be the person I am now.”

“So, showing mercy changed you?”

“Showing compassion changed me,” you nod, “It’s just so happened that it was Junkrat.”

“So what after?”

“Carried him and the cargo into Junkertown. Delivered it. Found him a medic.”

“And what? He just fell head over heels for you.”

“Nah, he hated me for a while. Thought I was making fun of him,” you smile wistfully, trying to snatch a golden mote out of the air, “You know, like I let him live to prove a point. I think he tried to kill me that same week.” 

“Christ, you know how to pick ‘em don’t you?”

“Yeah, yeah,” you chuckle, “After a few weeks of trying to kill me, he finally confronted me. Got real emotional and angry and defensive about it.”

“I… I can see that,” Dusty nods. 

“Going on and on about how I wounded his pride by letting him live and insulted him by having the nerve of getting him help. I was pretty annoyed by then too. He was making me late for every delivery I got assigned and Mick was getting annoyed too.”

“As one does.”

“So, I just told him, ‘I saved your life because I was trying to be a decent person.’“

“That must’ve set him off,” your barback snorts. 

“Oh, Dusty, you should’ve seen him,” you laugh. “He nearly fucking self-imploded. I told him if he didn’t believe me, then he should just leave me alone.”

“He didn’t, did he?”

“The man literally goes and finds my boss and goes off about how I’m the worst, most cruel person on earth. And how I should be fired immediately from my job for lack of professionalism.”

“…when are you going to tell me how you fell in love with him?”

“Patience, patience,” you pat his knee, “Anywho, Mick isn’t an idiot so he got him locked up for attempted theft of his goods. This was back when Mick was a good friend of the Queen and was in her good favor.”

“Oh, wow, huh, never would’ve thought that was possible,” Dusty looks slightly impressed and surprised.

“Yeah, I went and talked to Mick. Explained the whole ordeal, and Mick ends up laughing so hard he nearly threw him up his lunch. Let Junkrat go with a warning, an official one from the Queen. Would’ve fined him too but Mick convinced her that fining a penniless Junker wasn’t going to result in much.”

“An official warning… they roughed him up?” Dusty pulls a face. The Queen had a thing for making examples of people. 

“Roughed him up, pretty good,” you shake your head, “So much fucking’ blood.” 

“That how he lost his arm and leg?” Dusty asks softly. 

“Nah, those were… separate occasions. I dragged his sorry ass to the medic and this time around, he was incapacitated enough he couldn’t try and kill me.” 

“Ah, played nurse and he fell right into your arms,” Dusty swoons dramatically. 

You allow yourself a small laugh, “Not quite. While he was bedridden, I got to have an actual conversation with him. Managed to convince him that I really wasn’t making fun of him or insulting him. I was just… just trying to be something else. Something different.” 

“He fall for you then?”

“Every time we talk about it, he says that while I was talking, something ticked inside of him. Like he was seeing ‘life for what it could be’ for the first time,” you say, then laugh, “But I’m almost certain it was the drugs. He was high off his ass.” 

“No, no, I can see what he’s talking about,” Dusty pulls his knees to his chest. 

“And… I guess that’s that. He started hanging around the gate more and I’d stop after my delivery routes to talk to him.” 

“Huh,” Dusty muses. 

“I know, I know, it’s a bit of a lame story.”

“Still haven’t told me why you love him.”

You take a deep breath and get, pacing the small room, “He… he’s wild, reckless, but adventurous and brave. He’s courageous and resilient in the face of absolute defeat. He never gave a shit about the Queen’s rules and honestly, out here that means something.”

“I thought you and the Queen were chummy, like mates and all,” Dusty frowns.

You take another deep breath and lift your shirt up, revealing the jagged, snargling scar stretching across your stomach and up your side. 

Dusty leaps up and is immediately at your side. 

You look at him, “She made an example of me ages ago. She’s only kind to me now because I bend my knee like the little pet I am. Just another loyal follower.” 

Dusty tentatively reaches out to touch you, but he stops himself, “I’m sorry, *your name.* You should’ve told me.”

You smile, “It’s not your problem. I can handle myself.” 

“Is he really worth all this? If the Queen finds out, she’ll do worst than make an example of you,” his voice rises in panic.

You cup his face with your hands, “I’m fine, Dusty. I don’t know anything. You saw it yourself. I was just as surprised as all of Junkertown when he showed up.” 

He leans into your hands, nudging them gently with his cheek, “I… I don’t want you to get hurt. Especially since you’re with… with him.” 

You speak softly, quietly as though the walls could hear, “The Queen is not who she appears. She’s cruel. Manipulative. And a liar. No one here knows much about the outside world and she sings the same old song about revolution and war to keep us content with isolating ourselves. Don’t do that to yourself, Dusty. Leave here if you can.”

He gulps and embraces you, his voice cracks, “I will. I just wish you’d come with me.”

“My job isn’t finished here,” you smile, parting from him. 

“He’s… he’s fucking lucky to have you,” he says, starting at the corner of the room rather ruefully. 

“I think so too,” you try a small joke but he doesn’t laugh, “I’m gonna’ get going, Dusty.”

“Oh yeah, right,” he clears his throat. 

You begin to turn to leave. 

“Uh, *your name*, your gun,” he hands you the weapon, a distinct waver in his voice as he did. 

“Oh, yeah, thank you, Dusty,” you take the gun back. 

“Well, thanks for stopping by boss. And thanks for the snacks.. and..” his voice trails off as he suddenly grabs your hands, “Thank you. Truly, for everything. And thinking I can be better than all of this.” 

You can feel your eyes growing wetter. You clear your throat, “Of course Dusty. If you need anything, just let me know.”

“I’ll make you proud,” he nods his head firmly, “And maybe I can help you too, some day.” 

He smiles and closes the door. 

You walk a couple steps down the long apartment hall, before stopping and leaning against the wall. You choke back some tears and chastise yourself for even bringing the gun. Dusty is no fool. He knew why you brought the gun. 

You finally compose yourself enough to complete the walk out of the building. You thank the heavens and stars for not having to use it. And you wish with all your heart that he have safe passage across the Outback and away from this hell hole. 

~ ~ ~

The next morning felt strange. Quiet. Usually when you came into bar, Dusty would already be there. He’d hit you with a smart-ass comment and you’d banter back. The place felt different. Colder without him. 

You set to start the third round of cleaning when two armed Junkers walked through the door. 

“I’m sorry, friends, bar’s closed until-” You note the their armbands. “Ah, the Royal Guard, what can I do for you?”

The Junker closest to you gives you a brief nod as a greeting, “The Queen heard that Junkrat was in your bar a few nights ago.”

“That he was,” you nod. 

“She’s pulling in any Junker who saw him and asking questions, but so far-”

You give a friendly smile, “They’ve all been drunks. I get it. Give me a second, let me pack up shop.” 

“Thank you for cooperating,” the guard grins back. “Queen’s really got it out for this wily fuck.” 

You keep smiling, “Anything for an old friend.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

The guards escort you to the Queen’s palace. It’s been years since you visited the Scrap Yard. The distinct smell of rust and cheap booze sting your nostrils. Past the mech battle grounds stands her throne. An impressive long weapon rests against it.

You’re admiring the large open throne room when your eyes land on the Royal Guard standing adjacent to the throne.

You knit your brows in confusion, “Dusty?” 

He meets your eyes and he looks so… sad. So guilty. 

“What’s going on?” You ask, but you already knew. You could feel it in the air. 

“Glad you, could join us *your name*,” a very familiar voice greets you.

You drop immediately to your knees, placing an arm across your chest in salute, “Your highness.” 

“*Your name*, darling please, no need for formalities, we’re all friends here,” she gently pulls you up. “Now, I heard a little rumor that Junkrat was back in town? In your bar?”

“Rumor’s right. He burst right in during peak business hours. A full fucking brawl broke out and ruined my bar,” you scowl. 

“Didn’t think to tell me?” She pouts a bit. 

You put up your hands disarmingly, “I apologize, my Queen. I honestly thought you’d hear about it your own guard. They were drinking there that night as well, and well… I have my business to worry about it. But you’re right, I should’ve also notified you as a citizen of Junkertown.”

“Ah, no worries, no harm done really, besides to your poor bar.” 

“Is this all, my Queen?”

“Not quite,” she sits back on her throne and toys with her gun, “Lovely, ain’t it?”

“Exceptionally,” you nod.

“Now, tell me *your name* how does Jamison plan on ‘getting back’ at me this time?”

You feel your heart skip a beat, “Excuse me?”

She smiles, “I know you’re his lover and thus his weakest link.” 

Your eyes flit towards Dusty. He doesn’t meet your eye and you clench every muscle in your body.

The Queen gets up, with her terrifying gun in hand, “No use running, love. I have you surrounded. But back to the point… Darling, I adore you. You’re not like the other Junkers in town. You’re smart, decisive, and above all else, compassionate.”

“Uhm, thank you?”

“You know why I love compassionate people? They’re predictable. They care. Once they care, they have a weakness that can be exploited.”

You gulp quietly.

“Jamison never had a weakness. The man was wild, reckless, a total nuisance since he came to this town,” she practically snarled while thinking about him, “But you, you made him weak. You gave him a weakness.” 

She’s standing inches away from you, smiling. Smiling that awful shit-eating grin of hers. 

She continues grinning, “How do you do it *your name*? All of these weaknesses, so easy to exploit. You even gave your poor barback a weakness.”

You turn to Dusty, feeling your heart drop, “Dusty. Why?”

He balls his fists up, “You can’t be stupid enough to think things will go well if you stay with him, *your name*.”

The Queen nods, pulling a sympathetic face, “Listen to the cute barback, *your name*, he only wants the best for you.” 

Dusty walks up to you and clasps your hands, “Please. The Queen is willing to fully pardon you of harboring a fugitive, if you just give him up.” 

You shake your head, the horror and disgust welling up inside you, “Give him up?”

He holds your hands tightly in his, you can see tears forming as he chokes them back, “You don’t have to love me *your name* but I can’t fucking stand by and watch you throw away your life because of him.”

You break free from his grip, the anger in your voice is biting, “What about quitting? About leaving Junkertown? About wanting MORE? Or was that just a fucking lie, Dusty?” 

He doesn’t say anything. A single tear rolls down his cheek. 

The Queen walks up next to Dusty and pats his shoulder, “Young Dusty here was offered a position last night. Usually, there’d be a test but he offered some tantalizing information about Junkrat. And Junkrat’s apparent weakness… He’s a smart young man. He knew if he left then there’s a good chance his one love would be hung right next to the criminal. So Dusty valiantly gave up the criminal to save you.” 

You take in a deep breath, the reality of the situation hitting you. There’s no escape. 

“I wouldn’t have pegged him as your type. You’re too sweet,” she steps towards you, “Too… good for him.”

You take a deep breath, “You know nothing.”

She grins, but you can feel like something has cracked beneath the surface, “Know nothing about him? I know he is a worthless, conniving, rotten piece of shit who doesn’t know the front end of a fucking missile if it was hitting him balls first.” 

“…I don’t know what beef you have with him-”

The Queen laughs, an unsettling cackle, “Darling, you have no idea.” 

“I don’t,” you say flatly, “I really don’t know anything.”

She growls, “Liar.” 

“I. Don’t. Know,” you huff. 

She looks like she could strangle you. But the look suddenly passes and she’s back to her smarmy, shit-eating grin, “Oh no, oh darling. Can’t you see what’s happening?”

You knit your eyebrows together. 

“He doesn’t trust you,” she tuts. “He cares more about his plan than you… that he rather not have a liability.”

“You’re wrong,” you interject firmly, a bit too indignantly for your liking. 

“My dear, this man has successfully left Junkertown and trekked across the entire fucking world on his mad crime spree. And now he’s back. He could’ve gone back for you, but no. He’s back for me,” her smile is maddening. 

You take in another deep breath, “It’s clearly important to him.”

“Is this really the man you love? His thirst for revenge outweighing the desire to be with you?” The Queen shakes her head. “For someone this smart, you sure are stupid when it comes to men.”

With steely calm and composure, you look at her, “I know what you did to him.”

Her smile fades and she eyes you coolly.

You keep talking, “And I respect what he has to do.” 

The Queen growls and moves towards you in a blur, “You think this is a game?!”

“No, I do not,” you snarl. 

She grabs you by the neck. She’s terrifyingly strong, “What. is. he. planning?”

“Fuck you,” you wheeze.

Her face contorts into the ugliest, angriest expression you’ve ever seen.  

You barely knit your eyebrows in confusion when it hits you.  

You feel searing pain in your left knee and suddenly you’re on the ground, the sound of a gunshot ringing in your ears. Your head slams into the dirty, sooty ground and your vision ripples, blurring. Everything moves so slow, the air feels so thick. And your leg. Your fucking leg is alight with fiery pain. You try to prop yourself up but there is no energy in your limbs. 

“YOU PROMISED YOU WOULD’NT HURT *your name*!!!” You hear Dusty scream… his voice sounds so far away. 

You feel your eyes grow so, so heavy. You blink just in time to see the Queen walk towards you. She stoops down and gives you the sweetest smile, caressing your cheek with the back her hand. She looks up at him, “I lied.” 

[perkoform]

Opinion Piece:Copyright Issue:

FOREWORD

All my stories are called ‘you gave it away’. As in: you gave away the story line, do you get it? Haha, anyways, and they will be published in volumes with numbers indicating that they are in fact different to each uvahs, just with the same title, is all. So like, ‘you gave it away: vol. I’, ‘you gave it away vol. II’, etcetera. That’s the full pronounced etc., not the shortening. All my best sellers start with this title. All of them, oh yes. Hm hm. But don’t worry! I know what the public need in a good read, do you know what I mean, I mean, a good literary hook line sinker. Thrills. Spills. Also detailed explanations just for the prying eye to get every gory little cunt of a detail, strangle the last drop a juice outta there and make up rounds of hot steaming gossip served up on a stainless steel tray with little walls to keep one meal separate from the other. Oh yes, we keep that separation when we give it all away, like the ending and the climax, ha ha oh yeah…so, don’t. worry. I gave my editor a bow and arrow with a rope tied to the end one day to batten down best seller, cannot let giant escape. Must feed best seller many pigs and barrels of wine, for its gargantuan size proportion, sustenance and pleasure.

Bigger people have more blood in their bodies and the rotary pump fookin’ poomps weigh harderr too (heard in Scottish). It pumps over fields a kind of real-estate-agent n’ all them fields may grow. In this film clip I saw about man who had laid down on a beach and afterward cut out his heart. In this movie I saw where these people darnced around an bon fire then cut out mans’ heart and threw it in that fire and when sacrifice-man tried to call the cops they rock up and simply join in too. Morbid. In this song I heard about Hannibal Lecter, and this other one about ST. Martens College, he doesn’t know why but he started it somewhere, I think he gave it away. For a best seller. Damn capitalist. Hm hm. Anywho, do you like to party? Oh thank god the relief. A bit and above board, li’, well ajoosted an sooch (kind of English accentuation). Those nice guys who squat about tigers. When I take drugs they’re legal in my immediate consciousness, but the one less accessible consciousness of my mind must dabble only in prescription. Heh, do you get what I mean? Where do choice come from, is it same place as baby? Is it same place as glitter? Is it maybe same place as dog medication? Who knows. Msg me. 04 fuck sakes 789. 989 is the extension (of perfect friendship and harmonious incorporation). Do you get it?

The small man screamed, “I’ll leave you in HELL!!”

The big man whispers, and keeps you small.

You say, “ugh, effeminate!”

No I say it but with a different tone.

I am a…puppet. I am a…monster-mash. I am a…know what to say, gets a ‘very pleasing’ in reaction. I am a…1-2-3. I am a…quick be me! I am a…dabbler only in subconscious prescription. That’s right batter up, prescribe, next one in line, come one come all, one by one (eventually…).

Download as e-book, subscribe, fuck right off? You know, any…  

This whole thing about human interaction is definitely “similar to predictive text”, I mean that’ll probably do hey. Like once I get to know you and everyfing…so like we’re just robots that kind of assume shit and are correct like 80? Percent of the time? Yeah? Yeah that’s so the Amedeo Path, pfft. I guess it depends how well you know some other guys’ reactions, your friends’ (reactions) I mean. Minimalism is go-wing two clean up this shit, and so is comedy made by Jewish (looking?) Americans, and also…I don’t know any writers…PLATO, yes, Plato will clean this up. This Nietzschery, like, stream of consciousness vomit nightmare like that is like, giving you a weird anxiety that seems to like, lie in the muds around here as well, though… unless you don’t feel that way, phew. Un-de-tectable hm hm…wink. It’s because of the heart cutting-outing cult mentioning thing. Awful.

I stop, I think, haha I do reeeeaaallly come on, I stop and think…REALLY!   Heh reeeeeally…I found a piece of tyre on the side off the road from a big truck that…popped its tyre and so there were little bits of it left about the road…side. I got my foot stuck in a fence. I wasn’t fence sitting, my foot was stuck, had every intention of climbing right over, and everything. oh yes, right over to the ‘other side’ whoa…where grassy around around around, so much greener. Oh my god the worst thing in the fucking world happened to my housemate AGAAAAAIIIIN, OH NoooOOOO. That’s how I swear when I break an actual leg or like, lose millions in shares, not a spoonful of sugar…quen? Holy fuck the ridicule like stares back out at you from like where it is, staring, back at you…

You have less than 50MB left…I never read the rest of the sentence. I want to make up the rest of the sentence, it goes – on your credit account with Vodafone. Do you need money at the start of the week yet get paid at the end?

 MAIN STORY

I went walking along the side of, then I found, and when I got there you’d never believe the size of the thing. So I was halfway across a bridge in town near a coffee shop on a hill with a view of a bridge and there was water underneath it. And so, I went strolling along the water there. I was over and under and over and under. All around my eyes followed on with the rivulets and the water flashed and trickled by the moonlight in the dark dark night near the house gate. Someone went on past me and ahead of myself, and they were walking quite quickly and I could not catch up unless by jogging rather briskly, and what long legs they had like they were ten feet tall, towering above me like a tree shadow, wobbly and faint. They turn a corner and no, not any longer.

Waiting a while. Bang bang. Rise flames.

Onward onward, when there was a hoot and a wing and a star. A fog rose and in I went, out from the cold into a place. (flaming tinkle). Bar at 9:30pm. Nineteen-eighties box television, heavy grey brown colour. (brown corn). Very fuzzy reception in the lobby for the waiting people to watch. Americans are good people. The folk in the village are good good.

 I have no booking. Make one. Nearly home from about here. Still wondered why and got no response because the other guy thought it was okay and all the rest, if you know what he meant, to say to you when he saw you last time around. Never mind bother. Don’t. So up there on the stairs over through the carpeted hall where the key fits the right door and my head hit that ol’ pillow, nothing more said, it’s a done deal with a smile.

My father was always the early riser, heh heh, in the family.  Awful stuff it was, sickly green muck, glop of some description, and it was definitely…oh my god is it dead? Ohh…it’s dead…outside is nice I thought today. Outside of this head mess! Get out banish bequeath, scatter, go! Around and around the chu-chu train for my pleasure was coming for me, I’m scared of. Not long now but that was just when and they were so delighted to find out and moon and sun and huff huff huff. Hello, they all said, utterly stoked. Laughter. In disbelief, took off his hat to his heart and so sincere a nicely man. Back I am at home in my cradle of memorial liveliness, with the souvenir I put on your shelf that had some space, atop of it. Oh you, there. Love. love.

The welcome mat, the doggy lil’ barking, Stolen. Bunt. Scone. Bread. Pancake. Jam drop ha ha ha oh yes mother fed me up. Big cuppa tea and my ol’ gurl who we love dearest always is where the heart is time to go fishing ,a spot of it. Off he went. Over the bridge, past one in every town (couldn’t get away quick enough little legs swollen swelt puffing, hanky, oh sir may I? Not). Everyone Isme. In Isme’s eyes. up and down and up and ohp, up there bit my pinky, it was fun for the whole family sunset.

Next day: long forgotten.

And the next day: to forget.

I still remember how to. Been a while, but I can remember, now. I spent so much of the time, doing it and all that time I have not forgotten yet, and tomorrow, to work, to make. And that is, this is the life. Hum de day, the life.

What about the time? That’s age old there, let ‘value’ have its way with you, making children humble and installed in all the hearts and minds you can get up to with a big stick and scream Pinata Pinata!

So I have this the work to do, the food in the ol’ bel’, but what about when did it last time on the news on the T.V. or at the homemakers centre? What year are we speaking with? Where is the day is it? Who? Flashing television drone I don’t know why this is happening. Pang so hard to fight it! Zap. Zap. Someone kill the button and get away from it! Snooze.

Getting to, it all came to a head one day when I found out by the familys’ friendly lawyer that the advertisement jingle was actually a 1920s show tune you’d bother with dead. I came up with that how did they fall on the same day? was I blanking a horrible panging memory back from, I demand a genius grant.(?) Prove it they said to the mystics, anyway.

The story is written that I exactly majicked the, very same tune in my own little head. So what would compel you to blimming, rip me off?! He said from his grave he enquires by channelling the lawyer in an office-style séance?! I never heard it before in me life. I swore. Who has the rights to this equipment, like the skills or the interest in investing, let’s take her for a spin. Jingling keys, ya know…and so I say, I don’t know sir why, I blimming ripped you off okay! A dabbler with no real musical talent or like that is something obscure. Like, so obscure, I couldn’t believe my very ears and sorry, which Dutch master wrote that? La la la buy – a – roasted – cock – from – joe’s cock – shop - la la la. Sounds just like it, a real chip off the ol’ jinglin’ block. Heh. But anyways I must’ve heard it, somewhere, definitely as a child. Would’ve got away with it. Plagiarism can not be sailin’ me away like hog in fat house. I whisper to you, “they tell me I’m crazy in about three seconds, three, two…”

“We’ll just get the right to the song and um, it’s like a reference.” Said the lawyer, “oh no, she’s dead, you killed her, they know…”

Ol’ Maud would have it, see, she’s families with the old Dutch Master ghost and she’ll put me out of work but in her Will. Score. I studied and have a music degree today, every day, really. Well when the gun went off I forgot.  Heh. That’s what I remembered reading in the headlines and like the idea is that there’s a fetish and some thing about like, sound vibrations and humberts’ painful memories. All the rest, I shot her in her home on a Tuesday, in the sunshine while the house burnt down as I sputter some tear water and bite my lip and wring my hands like a good New Yorker Jew (not affiliated). Piñata Piñata! Ha ha this time, quietly…now I’m fit to marry. Said the Sir, who took me on my day trip from street to home van back down the rabbit hole. That’s where they put the trash can for faulty this and faulty that and it’s never really good fuckin’ enough fuckin’ is it?! Mutha fuckor.

But I can’t remember where I heard that, again when the scientists might want to know that. The first step is admitting that. Okay. Yeah, tell us how they found out you did killed ol’ glutton-for-royalties-Maud. I mean (I woke up like this) it’s flawless to the lie-detector anyways.

What I’m trying to say is ‘the fires of hell aren’t hot-hot-hot enough, to burn Maud’s skull till nothing’s left a ha’, to burn-that bullet hole, so, I was caught and arrested yah’, oh sing it with me. I suck at this, nice place the loony bin. Food water bedding, flash-television washing cars away, down live-stream.

It’s so pathetic story, it’s just about dodgey un-well-thought-out murder fraud, written all hweird (hwhiskey). It reminds me of guy who kill Peter Parker’s uncle’s life story or something. No one cares or goes that in depth into those character’s lives dude. Sub-psycho reptilian over fiend who’ll escape jail by opening an alternative plane of reality with crystal that play jingle on radio (while you escape, it’s a short walk) if you stick crystal in a lemon or however. And one day…he’ll resurrect Maud who has the knowledge of the sacred jingle songh, and is the key for the final throe. What about Dutch Master, has no problem with women after all. “Hey the reptilian totally mocked the human raaaaace…” ( I said that in slow motion, like, my voice sounded deeper heh)

Making me sound smart and funny and fresh, is how these medications work on yo system. They work and work like miners in a mine, mining. Through the brain cell around the memory of the jingles shape in my brain and the gun fire and the heart disease tablets are also very good indeed for my health. Well-being is most important, around, around, around, and rest. Nice and grassy, tall fence. The doctors wiping off sweat from brow, riled up, had altercation, but he’s okay now. Prescribed for me something…I can’t feel my face. Snooze.

I remembered today, I wrote it in pen on the poster with flower drawings and felt happy, do you?

Like staringat black.macks oueew forrgett

[inexchangeforyoursoul]

... look. There’s no guarantee that I’ll ever finish the next chapter, which is... about halfway done, maybe. As for the whole thing? It will never survive till the end. I just know it- my attention span is shit, as soon as I hyperfocus on another thing it’s adios, amigos. Also, I don’t write a lot and my style is rather convoluted, sorry about the consequences- you are already experiencing them. Anyway, I’ve never jotted down any of... these types of ideas, ever. So there’s that, too.

Either way, here lay the specifics: series is One Piece; the basic setup is an unfortunate body swap; this is a self insert fic with an insert that borders an OC- little is specified about the female insert’s looks, but a lot about her personality. This might change, but let’s stick to the topic. If -and let me emphasize IF- I get into this far enough, it will be, like, OCxCanon, with Law as a target.  But since I have logorrhea and such, we’ll never get there.

I also like to stick to Gen, sfw, and also canon while randomly entering other territories on a whim. I also have really dumb jokes.

If I get as far as 2 chapters, I’ll scrape together a title for an AO3 upload and put a link here (which is now a thing... here’s the link), until then you’ll have to tolerate my blog’s looks. The combination of Ctrl and +/- are your friend. Anywho, without further ado...

„I imagine... this is pretty high on your list of 'worst decisions ever made'.” is all she can muster in a voice that has an unfamiliar tinge of a higher pitch while looking down at an extended arm that is definitely not hers. As in, things she wasn't born with.

“I...” he starts, trying to rationalize the situation, but cuts the sentence off right there. The face, which used to be her playing field, looks just as stern and vaguely embarrassed as his would, and is quickly losing color, then gaining more than usual. A slim hand halfheartedly twitches into motion to reverse the mistake, to no avail- another digs into now longer hair in disbelief.

His devil fruit was, naturally, left with his body- a body which now she resides in. So if they want to regain their... privacy should be the word, well...

She looks back at her “new” hands- this doesn't feel all that different. Apart from her head not hurting from hitting it into a shelf yesterday, that is- instead, there is an easy to ignore stinging in her left wrist and side which might as well be from straining or a fall. As far as powers are concerned, though... she has no idea where to even begin if she wanted to give them a try. She's not even sure how Law ended up swapping them in the first place; after the first few hours of acquaintance it's clear that it takes little talent to push the man's thinly veiled buttons; playing dumb is beyond effective, even if it's sarcasm, -to which he is no stranger to in the first place, so what even is his deal?- but no matter what happened, he always kept his head straight. At least he did in this almost-week of acquaintance. He didn't drink as far as she knows, either, nor had an especially bad day, so... what was it that pushed him over the brink?

The handful of eye witnesses are also frozen in shock.

“Holy shit,” is all that Usopp breathes as the 'yes, that just happened' sinks in. Chopper keeps slurping from his straw, even though his cup of milkshake has been empty for the past ten seconds. If the legends are to be trusted, they've experienced the consequences firsthand, and are also connecting the one, big, problematic dot in the picture based on it. Shachi and Penguin, who have presumably witnessed the effects more often, seem to be taking it better. Seem to.

“Well... thiiis is awkward,” states the latter.

“And will remain so until it's... fixed,” adds Shachi, scratching his nose. “... does this mean we have, like, two captains now?” he asks a second later, wondering.

“Well... I ain't no captain of yours.” The statement in the de facto voice of their actual captain ups the awkwardness by multiple levels.

Grimacing, Penguin looks at Law, who has been staring at a nondescript wood grain on deck and is holding his head as he's likely trying to figure out something to deal with the problem; then shifts his attention to his captain's body and her in it, where he's greeted with a shrug. “As nice as it would be to have a cute captain, I guess we better hurry and do something as soon as possible.” He summarizes. Shachi hums.

„Shucks, thanks~” The uncharacteristic tone makes the boys rather squeamish  at this point while Law is reconsidering his life choices. The girl continues unfazed, though: “As for the fix, it's not that I couldn't... try. What's the worst that could happen, right?” Unsettling visions of many kind flash in front of everyone's eyes; before the occupant of her body could say anything, she states her own conclusion: “Ripping out some vital organ and killing us both in an instant is what it is.” She scratches her beard- this is a thing she has now. Which is actually pretty cool, because sometimes she muses over growing one, just for the hell of it- but then keep shaving for the rest of her life whenever she doesn't want it around? No, thank you. Now she gets to experience it free of charge, if this can be said about the situation.

Also, she's so... tall. She could get used to this, yes... feeling it. A lot.

“Is what it is,” he speaks up finally, ignoring the amused half-smile that's slowly spreading over the girl called Kat's new face; “You'll need to go through some training before we even attempt this, or anything else, on a living target. Until that...” he takes a hard-to-identify look at himself, “we'll... have to get by as we can.”

“No need to overthink it, alright. Should be fine.” she assures him. “The longer I think about it, the more enjoyable this adventure seems, actually.” She couldn't hide her grin if she wanted to. And even if she could... that glint in her eye? Whatever she's thinking of, it's a No and earns a suspicious look on Law's part.

“No funny business with my body.” As the imagination if the boys is taking an obvious and immediate turn towards uncharted, wild, wild territories, he feels the need to clarify. Really now, if these hooligans had popcorn lying around, they'd be munching on it as if watching some especially exciting play unfold. “You will stay put; as in, right here. On board of one of the ships. Meanwhile I will stay put as best as I can while managing my crew, too, got it?”

“Yes, yes, geez,” she says, rolling her eyes. Her place is right over there, down the coast past the docks, within plain sight, but whatever. He's lucky that right after the weekend there's a holiday, so she's free to play along for roughly six days despite having had other plans.

He doesn't look convinced. Well then.

“I will not promise to stick to your diet, training plan, music taste, or... whatever your daily routine is, okay?” she continues, counting out the items on her hands- those tattooed to hell-and-back hands. Steering her attention back on topic, she straightens herself to pledge in as official of a manner as possible, even forcing herself to keep eye contact for more than one second: “But I hereby also declare to do my best not to get your body maimed by marines, headhunters, or any of the people you've pissed off with your attitude in the past twenty-something years.” She closes her left hand, save one finger. “Pinky promise.” After a moment of consideration, she adds 'you better give me a list, though'. He is a man of many secrets and twenty locks on his mouth, after all. Also, she doesn't actually know shit about him past being as much of a wallflower as her, possibly having a degree and also a Reputation- keeping up with the news in general is not Kat's forte.

Law pulls his mouth to the side, but seems more relaxed upon hearing that. Then he turns around, leaving the expectant audience somewhat disappointed. “I'm... going back to my room. Come down tomorrow at 8. And do not fool around with the devil fruit powers until then.”

“... should I just tell people who come to me that you fucked up?” she shouts after him before the door of the submarine could close. It stops halfway and stays ajar for a while. A harder pill to swallow than expected, huh.

He needs a minute to consider how to answer- the initial thought was to groan an exasperated “no, pretend everything's normal”, but... getting his body back may take anything from a few days' time to... straight-up months, depending on her skills and outside forces. The option also leaves way too much room for shenanigans, which, based on the past two days, this woman here appears to indulge in. The harmless ones, yes... but she didn't appear to be one for Strawhat-brand tomfoolery at first, either, and what did he know. All in all, he's better off being safe than sorry. “Don't advertise it outside the alliance for both of our sakes, if you please. Also, they should look for me--- I mean, you, if my skills are needed. The remaining ones, that is.”

“Aye aye, captain~” he can hear from not too far away, with sarcastic tinge still intact. Law closes the door, staying still for a few seconds before making his way down to his chamber- does he really sound like that? He really needs to sleep on this if he can. Also, he has a rather big bump on his head and it stings.

The cool winds of the early night dissolve Kat's excitement from a mere minute ago, and she can feel her inner clock hitting one before bedtime. As she's about to turn around and get her stuff, it occurs to her that she's not supposed to go home- which gives her another rush of blood, and a slight sense of alarm.

“Wait... where will I sleep?” she snaps back, expecting the answer from the four silent judges still idling by.

Chopper stops slurping.