#as im getting older i realise what a fucking. steel chair to the head this website did to me from ages 18 to 22

[kil9]

i think everyone needs a microdose of "anyone who thinks ill of me is crazy or stupid" mentality, just a little bit in a nonserious way. because full scrutiny and criticism & taking everything to heart will get you nowhere and it will kill you inside. if youve ever cared at all what people think then youve already done your duty & youre not going to become evil and out of touch by just letting it go a little. be free. youre right about everything forever and everybody loves you.

[venusloveslobotomies]

Pyromania (Bucky x Reader) 4

 Summary: (Winter Soldier-Endgame Insert) You’re an enhanced HYDRA agent who negotiated her way out of being a weapon. You’re now the nurse/ aid of the Winter Soldier. You end up escaping with him and follow him in and out of danger while slowly developing feelings for each other.

Words: 1885 (approx) Chapter: 4/? Part 3

Selene Carter, age 22 (replaces Sharon Carter) (im sorryyyy)

  I sit to the side as a technician fixes Soldat’s arm. I was correct in that whatever Romanoff did to it, it really fucked with the functionality. I’m staring intently at him but I can tell there’s something going on in his head. He’s fixed his eyes straight ahead, barely blinking.   He suddenly shoves the tech across the room and instantly the soldiers point their guns at him. I’m on my feet and tensed as he sits there silently.     “Sir, he’s unstable, erratic,” The door swings open and in marches Pierce. The guns go down as he approaches Soldat.

   “Mission report,” Silence, “Mission report now,” Pierce walks forward and leans down slowly before smacking my soldier right across the face as hard as he can. My body moves before I can process my actions. I plant myself in front of him, hands sparking and muscles twitching. Pierce steps back slightly, fear flashing across his face before he can compose himself.     “Do that again,” I growl, “I dare you,” I feel a tapping at my hip and I step sideways.    “The man on the bridge. Who was he?” There’s something strange about my soldier’s voice. Pierce seems cautious as he speaks. Choosing his words carefully. His eyes keep flicking up to my face.    “You met him earlier this week on another assignment,”     “I knew him,” Pierce pulls a stool over.    “Your work has been a gift to mankind,”   I make eye contact with Petrovic who subtly motions with his hands at mine. I look down and they’ve burst into flames. I extinguish them and feel the warmth leave my back as well. Hair must’ve caught too. The other guards and officials in the room are studying me warily. Pierce is continuing with his weird speech, “And HYDRA can’t give the world the freedom it deserves,”    “But I knew him…” I snap my fingers to caution him. If he questions too much, they’ll wipe him again. And I hate watching it.   Pierce looks at me and then sighs and stands up. I walk over to my soldier and gently stroke his hair, tangling my fingers in it. He reaches up to shake me off before stopping and letting his hand drop to his lap.     “Prep him,”    “He’s been out of cryo-freeze too long,” I’m about ready to murder that tech when Pierce says the worst thing possible.    “Then wipe him and start over,” I feel Soldat start to shake. I push his hair back and kneel in front of him. It’s a painful process and it hurts me almost as much as it hurts him.    “Calm. Down. I’ll be right here,” I’m getting anxious now too but I push it down and put on a smile for him, “I’m right here. I’m not leaving your side,” His eyes reflect the fear I feel churning in my stomach as he stares at me. Petrovic taps me to back up. Soldat grips my hands and I almost just stay there but I know I’ll be forced away one way or another so I lean back down to press my lips to his head while I work my hand out of his grip.   I back up and the techs push him back into the chair and give him the mouth guard to prevent him from screaming too loud or breaking his jaw. The machine locks him in and lowers the face pieces. I know I’m shaking. Petrovic touches my shoulder in a gesture of comfort and I almost turn away but Soldat catches my eye and I know I have to watch.   I steel myself and I feel my hair, feet and hands catch. The flames snake their way up my legs, up my arms and up my neck. I notice people stepping away in my peripheral. I hear the electricity buzz its way into his head and he starts screaming. The flames turn blue then white with heat and I see Pierce walking away. I can’t bring myself to look away from my soldier screaming in pain.   I open my eyes with a start and the room is dead silent. I’ve hit the floor and am on my knees, burning the shit out of the stone ground. The procedure is clearly over but no one moves. They all have their eyes, and a few guns, trained on me. The Russians are used to it, as is Petrovic, and only watch with pity in their eyes but the Americans are tense and wary with their guns pointed straight at my head.   It takes a moment to regain my movement and as I move to stand, I notice the flames are flickering high but only orange and yellow. The heat has gone down considerably. I slowly bring down the height of the flames until there are only a few tendrils of red dancing around my hands and then only smoke clings to me.   I make my way slowly to my soldier. He’s awake, barely. I touch his arm cautiously. He eyes me warily before recognition kicks in and he relaxes. I’m lucky that due to the programming, the cryo and the simple fact that I’m the one constant in his life he remembers me despite the wiping.   He’s released from the machine and sits up. Petrovic recites the words and he switches immediately.    “Soldat?”    “Ready to comply,” I back up and tune out of Petrovic giving him the standard briefing of the situation and HYDRA.     “Y/n,” I turn back around, “You’re on site at S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters. Not backup, not first aid. You’re with Rumlow until this one kills Rogers and Romanoff,” I hang my head and let out a high pitched moan. I really really don’t like Rumlow. He’s a type A alpha male with some sort of superiority complex and just overall unbearable.    “Can’t I just shadow him?” I jerk my head towards my soldier.    “Sorry, I advised that but Pierce prefers him to work alone,” Petrovic shrugs.   I know he wants to do more. The older Serbain man does have a heart. And that’s rare around here. He does his best to keep Soldat and I happy. I’ve known him since he was young and I’m sure he doesn’t like aging as the decades pass while Soldat and I stay young and unchanging.    “I hate Rumlow,” I mutter under my breath.   I’m flown out with Soldat by my side. He’s still nervous. I can tell. There’s so many reasons why I hate the reprogramming process. Just one of those reasons is working through him trusting me again. It doesn’t take long but right now he’s still going through his memories of me and placing me as a friend and caregiver rather than a threat or another official. I’d rather be talking to him and holding his hand right now. But I know from experience he’s completely out of it right now, just a few hours after being wiped, his eyes have been fixed on me since he was released. It’s definitely not fun. He’s probably coming to the conclusion that I’m on his side but I force myself to ignore it.   I tap my foot anxiously and pull out the small handmade chain around my neck from under the uniform. I slide my fingers over the intricate metal and Chungae’s face flashes into my mind. She’s the one who made it. I wonder briefly if she’s still alive before putting the thought out of my head. Even if she was, I’ll never see her again.   We land with a bump and I’m taken to the main control center of SHIELD while Soldat heads off to find Rogers. I hang around for a bit, uninterested in all the technology that surrounds me while the soldiers walk around, both observing and guarding. I fiddle with my chain again and wander around the room.   I pick up a pad of paper and find a pen. I settle on the floor in the corner of the room and scribble for a bit. I’m not an artist by any means. I have a notebook back in Siberia full of my drawings. Mostly just bits I can remember from my dreams.   When I snap out of my thoughts I look at the page. It’s full of eyes, my soldier’s face, HYDRA’s symbol, a moon with a hauntingly familiar face but I can’t remember where I’ve seen it, my chain wrapped around a hand, Chungae’s face.     “That’s beautiful,” I look up and see a girl with short blue hair leaning over me and studying the page.    “Thanks…”     “Really, you should post them,” I’m confused until I realise she’s talking about social media. Another advancement I’ve never had the opportunity to experience. I shrug and fold it up, tucking it into a pocket in my pants.     “I don’t like sharing them,”    “Understandable,” She smiles at me and then walks back over to her desk with two coffees in hand. Weird.    “Attention all SHIELD agents,” I stand up quickly. A voice over the PA rings across the room, “This is Steve Rogers,” Muttering fills the room, “You’ve heard a lot about me over the past few days. Some of you were even ordered to hunt me down. But I think it’s time you know the truth,” He pauses, “SHIELD is not what we thought it was. It’s been taken over by HYDRA. Alexander Pierce is their leader.” I notice Rumlow getting tense.   I slip out of the room and start walking down the hallways, looking for my soldier, “The STRIKE and Insight crew as well. I don’t know how many more, but I know they’re in the building. They could be standing right next to you,” Around this point I tune out and start thinking about where he might be.   Before I can make a decision, I hear feet pounding down the hallway. S.T.R.I.K.E. I slip into an office quickly until they’ve passed and their footsteps have disappeared.   Something tells me I need to find my soldier soon. The instinct is strong but I can’t think of an actual reason to believe it. I put it down to years of missions and knowing Soldat. Something’s very wrong but I don’t know what it is.   I hear the sirens go off and the building shakes. They’re sending the helicarriers up. I lock myself in a dark office and decide to wait it out.   I don’t know how long it is before explosions shake the whole building. I sit for a moment before I take flight. I sprint down hallways to reach the stairs and run all the way down to the ground floor and outside. I watch as the helicarriers crash. My soldier. I notice figures falling into the lake.   I walk around to find myself in the treeline near the bank. I wait. I see someone dragging another person out of the lake. I recognise the silver arm of my soldier. He reaches the bank and drops what I assume to be Rogers. He stands still for a moment before turning and heading in my direction. I step out into the open and we make eye contact.    “Let’s go,” He says, holding his hand out.  I take his hand and, as I always have done, follow my soldier wherever he goes. 

Part 5

[maandags]

Eidolon (Angel!Keith x Demon!reader) {part ii}

im still alive! yay!

---

Summary: Keith is an angel, and he’s completed mission after mission for the Upper Hand, the organisation controlling all of the Above. He’s only failed a mission once: when he was assigned to kill you, a surprisingly charismatic demon. He roamed Earth–Middle Ground–for years before he was caught by the Upper Hand again, and things quickly go south.

Word count: 6.5K 

Genre: Angst -- CW: death mention, injuries, blood, hallucinations (?)

Notes: masterlist -- {previous} -- {next} -- yall........ hes trying his best ok

-- -- --

you did not break me  

i’m still fighting for peace

~ Elastic Heart, Sia

-- -- --

Keith bites his lower lip as he makes his way to your apartment. Every step sends a sharp jolt of pain up his right wing and he grimaces in pain, massaging his shoulder. The trip looked a lot shorter from where he'd been standing in the square, he thinks bitterly as he makes his way through the swirling crowd, shreds of conversation coming at him from all sides. He's actually surprised at how well he remembers the layout of the city–and how well he remembers the way to your home.

When he finally gets to the apartment building he hesitates for a moment. In the glass door he sees his reflection: black dirt coating every inch of his body, tear tracks streaking down his cheeks. His hair is an absolute mess, as if a particularly pissed-off fairy had tried to knot his hair in the most complicated ways. He tries to smooth the locks down, growling when it did nothing at all. His clothes are torn and crooked, and a wild–almost dangerous–light shines in his eyes, and he looked like he'd just escaped death itself. In a way, he had.

That's when he remembers his knife. A glance to his calf tells him everything he needs to know and he suddenly wants to cry again.

It's gone.

The knife he'd carried with him for so long, the knife that had saved him in many a sticky situation, one of the rare blades that could actually kill both angels and demons–and he'd lost it. Probably dropped it on the ground in the woods. The black straps he used to keep the knife concealed beneath his jeans served no purpose anymore. Keith bends down, ignoring the pain throbbing on his back and unclasps the sheath. Strangely, it's mostly undamaged, except for the dirt and mud that coat every inch of it. He holds it, weighing it in his hands. His leg feels oddly light without it.

Scrunching up his nose, he chucks it in the rubbish bin that stands beside the apartment entrance and pushes the door open.

He's slightly out of breath when he finally reaches your floor, cursing the weight of his wings under his breath, but his heart skips a beat when he finally arrives in front of your door.

He doesn't know what he'd expected, quite honestly. It was–well–a door. A plain white wooden door with a stainless steel doorknob and a number plate on the side; yours said 34. Bar that very number, it was completely identical to the other doors in the building. It didn't look very... well... demonic.

But then again, he hadn't really expected it to be. He takes a breath and knocks.

You open surprisingly quickly, and the sight of you makes Keith freeze up.

Your eyes are stormy and wild and widen only a fraction before they narrow down again, your lips pressing themselves into a thin line just shy of a snarl. The door is only just cracked open, and Keith can't see what's going on inside your apartment, but he forces himself to relax his muscles even though every nerve in his body is screaming at him about how wrong this is.

In the split second where no one said anything, Pidge's words of the previous day–had it really only been a day?–echoes in his ears: Is that why you need guarding every second of the day? Because you're a traitor to the Above? She would never know how right she had been, Keith thinks bitterly.

"No," you say, firmer than Keith had expected, and you cross your arms.

Keith blinks. "You don't even know what I was going to say–"

"I don't need to," you snap. "You look like you just spent a week running around in a jungle. You're probably in need of somewhere to stay. There's a shelter a couple of blocks away. You can take the underground."

"They'll find me there."

"Not my problem." You almost shut the door on him, and in a desperate attempt to keep your attention on him just a minute more he stumbles forward and slams his hand against the frame. You freeze and Keith notices how your muscles tense up–as if you were preparing yourself for a fight.

"Y/N."

You look at him now, eyes pools of swirling fire laced through with hatred, fear–but Keith also thinks he sees something like doubt, and he latches onto that with all his might.

"I need your help. Please." He takes a ragged breath. "I don't have anywhere else to go."

You close your eyes, fingers tightening around the doorknob. When you open them again, all sign of the doubt he'd seen before is gone, a grim determination having taken its place. "No."

That single word is enough to stun Keith into letting go of the doorframe, sending him swaying back. His thoughts are racing, emotions coursing through his body–most prominent of all the absolute terror of the fact that he was going to die. He was going to get found by the Upper hand, and they were going to kill him, and he was going to die. He'd just fucked up his last chance at staying alive a little bit longer.

He almost protests again, opens his mouth–then shuts it, and lets his head hang, sighing deeply. There's no point. You've made up your mind.

Your voice is quiet as you say it. If there had been a single other sound in the hallway, he most definitely would have missed it. But it's dead silent, and so he hears it: "Never ask a demon for help, Keith. You're only going to get yourself hurt."

His head snaps up, but the door is closed. It's like you've never been there at all.

He brings a hand to his face, turns and starts down the stairs again, every step sending a bolt of pain down his back. He flinches against the pain. Doesn't slow.

What was it again you said about a shelter?

The Kindness for All Adults and Children's shelter is a small organization located on the corner of a dark street, easy to miss if you don't know where to look. Except Keith did know where to look, so he found it just fine. He knocks on the glass door, is immediately let in by a short and stern-looking woman (but with kind eyes) and ten minutes later he's sitting on a stool (he's careful to avoid anything to rest his wings against, because even though he concealed them, they're still there) and a blanket puddled in his lap (again. Wings), sipping on a mug of hot tea.

Isabel–the woman who let him in–enters the room, frowning at Keith's dirty boots and overall grossness. "Honey, you'd better take those off. If you'd wait a bit, we have shower hour in just–" she glances at her wristwatch– "twenty-three minutes. We have a couple of other fellas here; hope you don't mind communal showers." She gives him a scrutinising look, and Keith has to fight the sudden urge to straighten his spine and salute. "You look like you need one."

Keith takes a long sip of his tea, rolling his shoulder. His stomach lurches at the mention of a shower. He does need one: he reeks of rotten plants and he's pretty sure he has multiple cuts on his legs and arms that probably need cleaning before they get infected. He didn't bother to check.

But staying here would only get these people in danger, and that was about the last thing he wants. The Upper hand was going to find out one way or another of his whereabouts. Now that he couldn't rely on your protection–he hadn't realised how much he'd just assumed you would take him in, no questions asked (stupid, stupid; he saw that now) to the point where he had no idea what his next move was going to be. He had made a huge mistake doing whatever it was that got him onto Middle Ground and he was paying the price for it now.

Besides–he couldn't fully hide his wings; not with the injury. He didn't want to have to think about what would happen if one of the other guys in the shelter saw a cut-up, bruised, dirty dude wash blood and earth off his body while water slid off a shape hovering above his back that looked suspiciously like wings.

"I won't be staying, Isabel," he finally mutters, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

The older woman frowns, shifting her weight from one leg to the other. "Are you sure?"

Keith nods, setting his mug down beside him and getting up from his chair, bunching the soft fabric of the blanket in his hands. "I'm sure. Thank you for your care."

"But–but where will you stay, then?" The edge of worry to Isabel's voice almost makes Keith smile. Humans... some of them were even more rotten than demons, but thankfully even more were better than the purest angel could ever be.

"I'll find a motel or something," he lies. He didn't have money. He didn't have anywhere to go. "I'll be fine." He sounds so convincing he almost believes it himself.

As he curls up on a particularly comfortable spot of hard concrete, Keith nibbles on a piece of bread he'd nicked from the nearest bakery. It hadn't even been hard. He probably should feel bad. He almost does. His stomach growls even after he'd scarfed down the bread. Angels shouldn't have to eat, he thinks bitterly. And in a sense, they didn't–but everyone had to bend to the rules of Middle ground to a certain extent. Having to eat and drink to, you know, live, is one of those rules.

A bottle of water sits beside him, half empty. It was the last gesture of kindness Isabel showed him before he'd exited the shelter and he knows he has to be careful with it and not drink it all at once, even though it was tempting. He also got to keep the blanket, and he wraps it around his shivering body now, and although it hadn't been designed for an angel and it's kind of small to fit both his body and his wings he made it work, and he's grateful for the warmth it provided in the chilly night, however little it may be.

The city buzzes around him, lights flashing and illuminating his surroundings every so often. He'd managed to find a building that looked pretty quiet and not the worst place to spend the night in–big, made mostly of concrete and red bricks, apparently abandoned years ago. It looks like it used to be a factory of some kind. Graffiti tags litter its walls, from stupid vulgarities to surprisingly intricate artworks Keith observes with a kind of admiration. They give him a strange sense of safety, somehow. You're not alone, the colourful letters seem to whisper in the dark. The wall he chose to make his hoe is decorated with a particularly interesting piece. It's different from the others, somehow–he doesn't exactly know what drew him to it, but with his back to the paint he feels a little better.

Now that he's sitting there, the outside noises faded into the background, he has time to think. Really think. Mostly about how he's going to survive the next... next what, exactly? Weeks? Months? Years, maybe, like last time?

He sets his jaw, huddling up even more in his blanket. No. He had to make sure this wouldn't be anything like last time, because he got caught last time. It wouldn't happen again.

The best way to avoid an angry and very powerful group of celestial beings was by constantly moving. Never spending more than a few nights in the same place. Changing the way you look, changing the name you go by. Hiding your wings (that one might be an issue). Not, under any circumstances, performing magic of any kind. And, most importantly, not standing out among the people.

If you want to hide among humans, you have to fool everyone into thinking you are one.

That was probably how you had made it so long, Keith reflects, ears perking up at the sound of water dripping onto a metal surface. It echoes around him. That, or you had managed to reconcile with the big guys from the Below. maybe you'd started doing missions again. Maybe that was why you couldn't take him in. You feared for your own safety.

Or maybe you just didn't want anything to do with him, Keith reminds himself. He screws his eyes shut, softly banging the back of his head on the wall behind him. How he had managed to hold onto the hope that a demon–a perfectly real demon–would be the one to save him was completely beyond him. He sees now how truly stupid he had been. There was no mistaking the fire he'd seen in your eyes for anything other than what it was: hatred. Pure and utter hatred. They're a demon, Keith mutters to himself like a mantra. They're a demon. A demon. It's his fault and his fault only that he's in the spot he's in. His fault.

And yet, he can't get the image of your eyes blazing up at him through that crack in the doorway out of his head. On the back of his eyelids, he sees the vision he had of you right before he'd exited the Above��your eyes had been swirling pools of and black devoid of any emotion, so different to what he'd seen earlier this evening.

Because there had been emotion in your eyes. It had been sort of a shock to him and he recalls how he'd flinched back at their glint. He doesn't know why your eyes affected him so much. They shouldn't have.

But the difference was so stark–and, in a way, almost unsettling–that he couldn't for the life of him banish the image from his mind.

– – –

You sag on your favourite bench, ripping pieces off a stale loaf of bread and chucking them into the pond for the ducks to eat with more force than necessary. You're in a foul mood this morning, you realise, and it's all you can do to scowl at the ducks and scream internally about how much of a moron Keith the Angel really is.

You'd called Allura. Of course you'd called Allura. You hadn't explained to her exactly what had gotten you worked up–maybe it wasn't the best idea to tell a human about the existence of angels and demons–but you'd asked her to meet you at the park. You hadn't needed to say where. Allura knew.

Here she comes, you think, and you drip even further down the bench when you spot the tall girl skipping towards you, her silver ponytail whipping in the wind. She holds two cups of what you recognise as coffee and a smile creeps up your face. Allura, Allura. I don't deserve Allura.

"Gimme." You stretch out an arm and sigh contently when Allura deposits a steaming cup of coffee into your open pal. "I love you and only you."

"I know, dear," Allura croons, graciously draping herself onto the bench next to you and sipping her own cup. "So what's got your panties in a twist today?"

If the question had been asked by anyone other than Allura you would probably have snarled at them to mind their business, but it hadn't, so you didn't. You sigh, handing the leftover bread to her. She starts cooing at the ducks, pitching pieces of bread to them surprisingly accurately. "It's just... I got a rather unexpected visitor yesterday."

Allura's eyes widen. "Greg from Accounting. I told you he's got a thing for you–"

You cut her off with a whack on the back of her head, but you can't hold back the giggles anymore. "No! No, you moron, not Greg from Accounting."

She pouts. "Who then?"

You bite your lip, taking a long sip of your coffee. It's then that you discover that the drink is actually hot chocolate, and you silently thank the Devil for the one good thing in your life as the warmth spreads through your entire system. Still, you hesitate if you should tell her. It'd only bring up more questions, and you don't know how you'll answer them because you have a ton of questions of your own.

"An old acquaintance of mine," you finally muse. You pause, frowning, unsure of how to continue. "I only vaguely know him." You don't know him, you remind yourself firmly. You don't know how he figured out where you live, too–but your questions had to wait, though you had a faint feeling you'd get the answer to them soon. It wouldn't surprise you if you were to run into him once more.

You look over at Allura. She raises an eyebrow, her coffee forgotten and her hand gone slightly slack. "... And you have no idea why he showed up at your door?"

You shake your head. But deep down you did know why he was there: he'd needed help. He was terrified and hurt and alone and he'd come to you for help. Even after you had told him to go away, the encounter had left you awake into the early hours of the morning as you rolled in your bed, getting your limbs tangled in the sheets.

You still don't know why you were so worked up over it. You were a demon, first of all–a rogue demon at that. You were busy trying to avoid the Below's own Managers ever since you'd failed one of their missions and decided that the average demon's life just wasn't for you, and you'd done a fine job of it so far. Taking an angel in could put all of that in jeopardy. Everything you'd worked for–it could all go up in smoke.

You have a life here, now. You have a job at the local animal shelter (not very demonic–but you'd noticed it was harder for Management to pick up your trail when you smelled of animals. Besides, you like the job). You even have a couple of friends: Allura was a prime example of that, and in a way she represented everything you could lose should you have chosen to help the confused Angel who had knocked on your door the day before.

"What'd he want?" she asks, and you start.

"I don't–I don't know," you lie, fingers curled around your practically-full cup of not-so-hot-anymore chocolate. "He didn't say."

Allura squints at you, pitching the last of the bread to the ducks. You watch as at least six of them frantically paddle towards the sinking bread, squawking as they try to get hold of at least a small part of it. Discomfort lodges in your chest when the bread is ripped to shreds in a flurry of flapping wings and spraying water. "I think you're lying to me."

Your eyes widen and you open your mouth, but Allura cuts you off. "It's okay. I know you don't like to talk about your past, and I'm not going to force you to do so," she says in between sips. "It's just–you've told me about how you cut off all ties with people you knew from before you came here. Would this dude have gone through all the trouble of finding out where you live, seeking you out in particular when he knows you don't want anything to do with him anymore if it wasn't serious?"

"I don't care, though," you say, pulling your sleeves down onto your hands. You sound like a whiny child throwing a temper tantrum. "I don't want to know what's got him here. Nothing can be so serious for him to come to me of all people. It makes no sense."

"All right, all right." There's a moment of silence as Allura drains the last of her coffee. "You have the week off, right?"

You nod, even though you plan on going to the shelter anyway. Better safe than sorry.

"There's a party in the old abandoned factory in two days. Wanna come?" The twinkle in Allura's eyes should have warned you that the night was going to get messy. But you'd never been one to deny yourself a bit of fun, and hey–maybe you could even throw up some graffiti on your wall while you were there. Allura knows she has you when you start to grin.

– – –

The cans in your duffel bag make clattering noises with the swaying of the underground. You grab onto a pole to stabilise yourself, sending a cautious look around you. This particular subway ride was quieter than you'd liked, with everyone either on their phone or staring out of the window, headphones on, but nobody seemed to hear the suspicious sounds coming from your bad. That, or they just plain didn't care.

The city was big, and there were a lot of factories around, but Allura hadn't had to specify which one, because it always was the same one. It had shut down years and years ago. No one knew why. No one knew what it used to be–the signs were all worn and unreadable. Most importantly, no one cared. There were lots of little rooms. A few big rooms with high ceilings. Clean, concrete walls perfect for graffiti. It hadn't been long before the young folk of the city had claimed it as their own.

You duck out of the subway as soon as the doors hiss open, jogging with your hands shoved in your hoodie pocket and your headphones hanging around your neck, making your way to the factory. You don't go in immediately, making sure to walk past it before you skirt back and sneak in through a hole in the fence at the back. Cheap trick, you know–but it had saved you many a times from getting spotted, because you were technically not allowed to go in there.

Allura waits for you a couple of rooms away from your wall. She's smiling, long red skirt billowing around her legs, and holds out an arm for you to take. She starts chattering before you've even properly entered the building, stepping over suspicious-looking stains and discarded beer cans. You'd asked her to come a bit earlier so you had time to at least make a start on a new design that you'd sketched out the same morning. Allura plops down onto a slab of stone (probably supposed to have become a bench) and props her chin onto her palm. "You have maybe an hour, babe." You give her a side-eyed glance as you set down your duffel, zipping it open.

You shake the can, cocking your head to visualise the piece on the wall. Your sketchbook is propped up against the wall, for reference. You stand there for a couple of minutes, shaking the can of red paint in an almost hypnotic motion before you take a step towards the wall and push the valve.

Slowly, the lines you put down start to take shape and form something more. The design is pretty simple, yet you work faster on this than you ever have on any other piece. It's as if you're racing against the clock, and you need to get it done or it'll disappear. The two silhouettes take shape: one white, one black, facing each other in a mirror image of themselves and red wings sprouting from their backs. You purposely approach the can of red paint to the wall to make drips. When you step back, it looks eerily like blood.

As you work, you try to banish the thoughts that worm themselves inside your mind. An angel. A demon. How much more obvious did you have to be? As much as you want to forget about him, you find that you just... couldn't. You feel sick in the stomach all of a sudden, but you bite your tongue and squint hard against the tears that threaten to fall, pressing down hard on the can.

You had already refused. It was done. You repeat those sentences over and over until you start to believe them.

When you're satisfied with the base layer, you check the time. You have maybe twenty minutes left. You shove the cans back into your duffel, grabbing the small paint container you always carry with you and the paintbrushes.

You like the way spray paint and regular paint look together in the same piece. It's the small thing that sets you apart from the other artist whose work cover the walls, the small details you add in with black paint that make your work really stand out. You get paint on your hands. You don't care.

It's weird how an hour can pass in ten minutes. Allura taps you on the arm. "It's starting." It is. Music drifts through the door-less doorway, closely followed by laughter and chatter. You nod, packing in the paint and the brush and taking off your mask. You were practically done anyway, and when you look over your shoulder one last time before following Allura to the party, you feel a burst of pride.

The warm feeling quickly disappears, though, when you notice something you hadn't seen before.

A grey blanket, stuffed into the far corner grabs your attention and you frown. The fingers around your bag's straps tightening, you walk to the corner and crouch down. There wasn't much else besides the blanket–yet it made you uncomfortable enough to pick it up and inspect it from closer.

Out of the blanket, two black feathers fluttered down.

Anyone else would merely have thought it weird, but wouldn't have thought much of it. They'd have laughed and moved on.

You, though, weren't just anyone else.

You'd recognise an angel's feathers anywhere.

You make a sound that's a mix between a sigh and a groan. You don't even try to pick up the feathers, knowing they'll turn to ashes if you try. Running a hand down your face, you consider your options–but you know that there really aren't any options to consider. If he's here, and he's found by the partygoers–he can't conceal his wings properly, you recall from a few days ago.

You heave a pained sigh. The risk is too big.

"Y/N?" Allura calls, irritation staining her voice. "You coming or what?"

You stand, clenching a hand around the blanket and stuffing it in your duffel without a second thought, sighing once more for good measure. "Sorry, Allura. I can't."

"What?" cries Allura, face falling and shoulders going slack. "Why?"

You shake your head, eyes scanning the room. If he heard you and Allura come (which he would have, with Allura's chattering echoing through the building), he couldn't have left through the main door, which meant he had to have gone through either the crack in the wall on your left or the big hole that you knew led to the empty staircase to the second level of the building. The bigger hole is probably your best bet, you reason.

"Sorry," you tell Allura, and you hope she understands that you really are sorry. "I'll explain later." But you flinched even as you said the words. Explain what, exactly? You feel yourself slipping back into your old skin: one tainted with memories of fighting, hunting, and betrayal.

When you turn around again, Allura is gone.

Setting your jaw, you duck into the hole and into the dark staircase.

– – –

Keith presses a hand against his side, panting and flinching against the pain.

Noise is coming from all around him. He hears music, people laughing, people talking, people screaming. It seems to come from the walls themselves, and grows louder with every passing second. He needs to move, but these last few days have been hard on him–his wing has gotten worse, to the point where he can't conceal them at all anymore. He's losing feathers, leaving a trail of them behind him wherever he goes.

His other cuts–the ones he dismissed as not being very dangerous–have grown red and swollen and hurt when he puts any type of pressure on them. Infection, the one part of his brain that still somewhat works whispers.

He hasn't eaten since that loaf of bread the first night, and his bottle of water is long since empty. In fact, he spends most of his time slipping in and out of consciousness, living and reliving horrible nightmares that have him jump awake and gasp for breath as he wipes tears from his cheeks that he doesn't remember shedding.

Even in his feverish state, he knows he has to keep moving. There has to be a place in this building where he can huddle up and wait for the people to go away. There has to be a spot where he can wait it out. He stumbles his way up the stairs, one hand gripping the railing as if it's the only thing keeping him upright. Sometimes he has to stop for a minute to catch his breath, clutching his stomach and coughing his lungs out.

He wanders through the upper level of the building. It's somehow cleaner than downstairs, with less graffiti staining the walls and less rubbish littering the floor. Guess it's not an ideal place to party, in plain view of the city, Keith thinks. He chooses a particularly comfortable-looking spot in a small room–too small to be an actual room, more likely a broom closet–to curl up on. Before his head hits the ground, he's asleep again.

– – –

You curse the angel's apparent stamina as you climb the apparently unending stairs, skipping one out of two steps as you race up them, your bag bouncing on your back. Every once in a while you glance down, looking for a feather. He was leaving a trail of them behind, a sign his condition was worsening.

"Swear–to Satan–" you mutter, wiping your forehead with the back of your hand. It may not have been warm, but running up a set of stairs for ten minutes was bound to make anyone sweat like it's thirty degrees and the sun is beating down on you.

You get to the top level and groan.

This part of the factory is relatively untouched, you know, because it was so easily seen from other parts of the city and there had already been people who had gotten caught by the police. But what that means is lots and lots of rooms you didn't know to explore, looking for on single guy who could, if he wanted, avoid you until you gave up. All it would take is a better knowledge of the place.

So you get to work.

You search as quietly as possible, as to not give yourself away, tiptoeing from one room to the other, making sure to check each and every dark corner. You don't need a flashlight: the city's lights have turned on, and the moon shines brightly in the sky, casting a cool light on everything it can reach through the windows. You silently thank the obnoxious city lights.

After ten minutes of checking rooms, you start to grow impatient and slightly worried. What if you're wrong? What if the feathers are already days old, and he isn't here anymore? What if you do find him–but you're too late? You shake your head, not wanting to think about it.

And what if you find him and he needs help? Even more than when he initially came to you?

You haven't even fully thought about that. When you did find him, you couldn't do anything else than bring him home with you, could you? You hesitate, slowing your pace and carding a hand through your hair, scanning the walls as if looking for an answer there. It isn't too late to turn back, a voice in the back of your mind whispers.

You can just go back downstairs, join the party. Make up some bullshit excuse to Allura as to why you left so suddenly.

You almost do. The thought of just leaving it–letting everything run its course normally without you interfering–is so tempting...

But then you hear a string of coughs coming from the room on your right and your legs carry you there before you can protest. When you see the shape on the floor, all you can say is "Oh shit."

It's him, all right. Unconscious, lying face down on the dirty floor of an abandoned factory, all curled up like a little newborn angel. He's shivering, you notice when you crouch down by his side. You put a trembling hand on his forehead and hiss through your teeth. He's burning up, the skin slick with sweat and his hair sticking to his forehead in a tangled mess.

"Okay," you whisper, getting on your knees and covering your face with your hands, taking a deep breath. "Okay, all right."

His chest rises and falls, though irregularly and barely noticeable–but he's breathing. He's still alive. You frown at his wings (they're all dirty and dusty and it makes you icky–it's a known fact that the state of your wings reflect your health) and wonder about how in the name of the Below you're going to get him out of there unnoticed. He's not exactly inconspicuous. You'll probably have to carry him.

You tap his cheek. He groans. You keep tapping until he cracks open an eye, and even then you have to coerce him into opening both eyes. They're unfocused and murky and filled with confusion and fear, but he's awake.

"Hey. Do you think you can sit up?" you ask softly.

He tries–you can tell he puts all the strength left in him to push himself up, inch by painful inch. You try to help him as best as you can, but even then he's panting with his eyes closed as he rests his head against the wall.

Then you remember your water bottle. Scrambling for your bag, you yank it out and unscrew the cap, slowly tipping it into his mouth. "Careful, careful," you mutter when he tries to take the bottle from your hands and starts taking bigger gulps, a bit of strength seeping into his system with every drop. "It's not good to drink so much after days of dehydration."

His eyes finally seem to focus on your face, and he frowns. "Y-Y/N?"

You only smile tightly in response. He blinks sluggishly. “But you–”

“I know, I know,” you mutter, running a hand across your face. “I’m probably going to regret this a lot. But I just…” You cast him a tired look. “I couldn’t just let you die.”

“Huh,” he whispers sheepishly, a ghost of a smile pulling at his lips. The small gesture is so strangely out of place that you just gape at him for a few seconds, only shaken out of your stupor when he doubles over and proceeds to hack a lung out coughing. You start, grabbing hold of his shoulders to steady him and whisper encouragement as he takes a few ragged breaths.

“Hey. I’m gonna get you out of here, all right? But you need to be able to conceal your wings. I can carry you, but you have to be able to do that for me, okay?” You speak to him in a low, rushed tone, only able to hope that he can grasp how important it is for the two of you to not be spotted all the way to your apartment. He sets his jaw and nods, weakly grabbing at your shoulders for support as he tries to hoist himself up.

“Okay, all right.” He’s standing now, still woozy and swaying slightly, but he’s standing. “There we go. Hide your wings.”

He closes his eyes. His brow furrows in concentration, beads of sweat beading on his forehead. His wings flicker in and out of sight twice before completely disappearing. “Okay, awesome. You’re doing great.”

You awkwardly lead him down the stairs, one arm around his chest and under his armpits as he steadies himself on the railing, muttering encouragement every couple of steps. His wings flickered twice more, and every time you almost had a heart attack–if he couldn’t keep them hidden when you were in the city, in full view of hundreds of people… you didn’t want to think about it.

When you reach the building entrance, you debate briefly in your head what your options are. You could walk back to your apartment, but that would take over forty-five minutes and you weren’t sure if the angel could keep his wings concealed for that long. But the other option would be to take the subway and risk someone seeing you and starting to ask questions.

Then again–it was almost midnight. Most people wouldn’t be out on the streets right now, and it was dark, and the ones who would be out would be exhausted and only wanting to get back to their own homes. With a little luck, you could find an empty subway cart. The ride home would be seven minutes long.

“C’mon,” you say quietly, tugging on the angel’s sleeve. He’s leaning heavily against you–but he’s walking on his own and that’s better than you could have hoped for. “The station is that way.”

The cart is almost empty, bar a teenager with bags under their eyes the colour of charcoal. They barely give you a glance as you stumble into the cart with the angel, only pulling up their hood and crossing their arms, pointedly looking out of the window. You don’t mind in the slightest. They probably think the angel is just shitfaced drunk, you think as you set him down on a seat–maybe a little rougher than necessary. He flinches. You feel only a bit sorry.

You had given him your sweatshirt before you left the factory, and now you rub your own arms up and down against the chill biting at the skin. You scowl, sinking down into the seat, wondering what in the name of all that is demonic was wrong with you to have made the choices that you did. Taking the angel in could very well be the cause of your capture. Hiding a demon amongst humans wasn’t so hard, but a demon and an angel… That would prove to be a challenge.

But then again, you think as you cast a sideways glance at the angel who passed out as soon as his butt had hit the subway seat (he looks strangely serene in the flimsy yellow light cast upon the seats–you could almost believe he’s merely asleep), you had never been one to turn down a challenge.

[fightevilandthengetblownup]

Red Right Hand IX

—

Eleanor did not often have visitors over for tea. Even rarer did she have any gentlemen over for tea. However that afternoon, he found himself sat at the small kitchen table with a plate of scones and cup of tea before him.

Robert Singer found himsrlf scrubbing a hand across his face and into his beard as he watched the woman bustling about the room. Keeping herself busy. Keeping herself occupied. Keeping herself from the one thing she needed - to rest.

“Elle, love, you invited me for tea-” “Yes, yes, your tea. Did you need some more milk?” “For tea. Together. So sit before you give me an ache watching you.”

Eleanor started at his gruff tone, before she moved to sit down in the chair opposite him finally. However, her hands continued to flutter about the table top - pouring tea or adding honey, cutting scones or scooping jam and cream dollops - in a flurry.

Robert waited until she reached for the honey for the second time in a minute to grasp her hand in his own. “Eleanor. This will not go away by ignoring it.”

“Oh Robert, you don’t know what it is.” “You know I am not that foolish, Elle’. This is to do with your boys plans, and your girl going missing last week after that inspector detained her..” “Robert..”

The older man shakes his head at the tone as Eleanor turned her hands in his. The woman was so used to getting her way, of her boys following her orders and of their workers jumping at her very call, that she never quite knew how to avoid the demanding tone she would use. He often found it endearing, however staring down the blonde woman, he found it infuriating at that point.

“Where has Shada gone, Eleanor?” “What does it matter?” “Eleanor, if she’s been taken-” “She has not been kidnapped. Michael has sent her away.”

Robert shuffled in his seat again, dropping his hold on her hands as he rubbed his face again. If only it was not impolite to wear his hat indoors.

That what was occurring was concerning enough to require the young girl to be sent somewhere away for her safety worried him.

“In that case, I guess I know what needs to be done.” The older man pushed himself to his feet and rounded the table before his love could stand up. Sinking to his knees beside her, Robert took up her hands again in his, hoping she would take him seriously for once.

“Elle, my love, it’s time we left this behind us. The children are all grown, hell Mikey even has a child of his own. I’m old enough to retire without any problems. We can leave all this muck behind.. Go somewhere we can just live.” “Bobby…” “We can travel the world - take you to Paris and Florence like you always dreamed.” “Bobby…”

Eleanor’s look made his stomach twist as they stared one another down. He had tried this before, almost every year since his wife and her husband had passed away. They fit together, they made sense when they were together, but the woman had never once agreed to run away with him. Rubbing his thumbs over her wrists, Robert steeled himself to ask yet again.

“Go to America, see a real Broadway performance, go to that godforsaken swamp land you always talked about.” “Bobby…” “Say ‘yes’ for once, Elle, for fuck’s sake. Say it and I’ll take you far away from all of this. I’ve been askin’ you for your hand for years now, and we’re runnin’ out of time.” “Bobby!”

Eleanor jerked herself to stand, pulling her hands from his as she moved to fuss near the stove rather than look back at him. His hands felt cold as they closed around the space she left behind. He remained on his knee for longer than he realised, running over the words, over the way her eyes had closed tightly at his pleas, the watering look when she’d finally looked back at him. The way her face showed the same heartbreak he felt every time she pulled back from him.

Slowly forcing himself to his feet, the policeman moved towards the kitchen where the blonde was puttering with the water in the sink. Wrapping an arm around her waist, Robert ran his hands around her waist and tucker his head over her shoulder. “We’ll stay here then. Stay are face whatever your boys have rort. And then when it is safe...”

He felt his heart clench and then release as the woman relaxed back into him staring out the small window to the back alley courtyard where there were three of those little thugs that followed her boys around rolling tobacco and smoking.

“Yes, we will go... When it is safe.”

—

The stables were silent as the grave as the pair approached, only one groom was working at mucking out the stalls in the quiet morning hours.

Jeffrey had not gone to sleep after the pub had closed, he had taken his weekend winnings and spent them in the darkest hour of the night down the laundry lane. He had informed the other to meet him near the entrance to the warehouse-turned-stable as the sun began to rise, and was not surprised to find the girl slunk down in the shadows almost asleep on her feet.

“Come on then,” He growled, hand sliding its way around the small waist of her waist as he guided her into the building. The groom looked up from his work at their entrance, however a hiss from the Shadow had him scrambling to make himself scarce. It was a good thing Jeffrey was known to bring a girl or two for a roll in the hay back in the day, as he was sure no word would escape the building of their being here. “Lets go see this pretty pony for you.”

The blonde glared up at the slight to the horse more than his overly familiar touching as they moved down towards the stall that held the white beast. Since he had learnt of her real identity, he had noticed the wild flare under the friendly smiles; the pause before she’d moved or speak to most in that affected voice; the way she seemed unconcerned with propriety unless someone looked at her sideways.

Joanna slipped into the stall away from him as they reached it, and he found himself leaning up against the closed stall door as he watched her. The traveller moved her way to the horse laying on the straw covered floor with concern, voice quiet as she started speaking to it in that godawful language of her people.

The horse had been performing poorly in training for the last week. Their trainer had advised it may be something with one of its hooves, and then perhaps something to do with the food. The previous afternoon he had claimed it was something in the beast’s hind leg being shorter than the other. “Crock of shit” he had heard the girl mutter as she brought another bottle; and Jeffrey had the idea to take the original trainer to examine the tempestuous horse at that very moment.

The girl was knealt beside the beast, skirts tugged up over her knees and men’s pants clearly visible where she was seated, with her hands running over it’s neck whispering quietly. He could see the breathing slow and relax in the chest as it appeared to recognise the blonde, a calmness to it not seen since it had left the field five months ago. “There, Fhiáin, there. Calm now my beautiful boy…” Joanna’s voice was soft in the quiet stables, only the odd huffs and shuffles from the horses around them interrupting her. “Lets’a see what they’ve gone and done ta you.”

Jeffrey turned around to light his smoke, rolling his eyes at the antics of the other. The groom slowly approached, a fork in hand as he moved to start mucking nearby again.

“‘Nother trainer to check on ‘im?” “Something like that.” “Strange hour for you to be in, boss.” “Strange comment for you to be making.. If you want to keep your job and your eyes, kid.”

The groom scampered off at the threat. Jeffrey never enjoyed speaking with those outside of the family about business, he barely enjoyed speaking to those inside the family or his crew. Letting loose a stream of smoke, the Shadow bit down a groan of annoyance. He would be hearing about being kinder to their workers from Eleanor sometime soon if the kid spoke up.

“Oh, me darlin’ that’s the problem is it,” The croon broke his thoughts as he turned to see her massaging at the beast’s hind leg near the bend. He couldn’t see anything specifically, and entering the stall he still could not determine what the girl felt. “What ‘ave they gone and done to you, mesweet?”

“What’s the problem with your little pony, sweetie?” “Ye trainer caught ‘im with a cane at some point-” “And?” “The bloody imbicile broke skin in the fold of his hind, a’course!” “…And?” “It got fuckin’ infected, you balbh fuck, that’s what.” “So?”

Jeffrey had to fight back the smirk at the increasingly frustrated tone from the other as she ran a hand over the space gently in comparrison, until she threw herself to her feet at his last question. It was the spite and fire he got back that made him grin at her, arms crossed as he released a plume around her head as she approached him.

“So?” “So, ye got a fuckin’ butcher of a trainer workin’ my beautiful boy over, and seems balbh enough not ta see it. Or perhaps, he’s a lyin’ cheat who don’t want ta tell you boys that he’s gone and almost lamed your horse.” “The horse is lame?” “Could become lame. Get me some honey and bandages, a hot fuckin’ fire and that littl’ razor blade of yours and I’ll get him back on ‘is feet in the week.”

He found himself raising a brow, before letting out a loud whistle and leaning over the stall gate. The groom boy came running within seconds, staring frightenedly at the cobblestone floor. Jeffrey gestured for the girl to repeat herself, and smirked as she rattled off her need for honey, bandages and for a fire pit to be brought in in the same crude fashion she had to him. The boy’s eyes widened before he scampered away.

“Impressive, sweetie, you could make a real Shadow with a mouth like that.” “Sorry ta disappoint, but I don’t think I’d like bein’ a Shadow.”

“With a mouth like yours, and that little display few weeks back, you’re not far from one Joanna Harvelle.” Jeffrey smirked down at the blonde as she moved to rest against the stall door beside him. As he spoke, he reached out to grip her chin in two fingers with a wicked grin at her snarled response. “You must get it from your father, or was your mother as wild as you are too?”

“What are you askin’ 'bout me Ma for, Jeffrey?” “Just trying to work you out, sweetie. Between hiding who you are, and that little spell you’ve been weaving on the runt..” “I haven’t done anyth-” “No need to deny, you can break his heart if you want - I don’t particularly care if you do or not - I’m just trying to puzzle you out. Get under your skin, if not your skirts.”

As they’d talked, he’d turned to look her over, eyes running up and down her several times before tracing a hand along her hips at his quip. The Irish girl looked furious and slapped his hand away in response.

“I’ve told you before, darlin’, you couldn’t afford me.” “If the runt can, I can, sweetie.” “I’m not whorin’ for your brother, Jeffrey.” “That’s surprising then.”

Joanna rolled her eyes back at him, giving him a scowl as the young boy came running back up to the gate. Taking the few items from him, she moved back towards the horse while Jeffrey turned to help the boy drag the small pot fire into the stall and brushing the cobblestones free of the hay.

The boy left immediately after, and as the Shadow pulled a crate over to sit on he was surprised to see the blonde staring back at him, hand out stretched where she knealt by the fire. “I’ll be havin’ that straight razor now, darlin'…”

—

The sound of shouting echoed from the private family spaces, which in itself was not particularly unknown within the betting shop, that Friday afternoon. The voices shouting however, were extremely uncommon to be heard and unsettled the book keepers enough to clear out to the street for a smoke or three.

In the front room, Eleanor was in the midst of screeching down her eldest from his high horse. In response, Michael was shouting back just as unrestrictedly - glaring down at his mother in contempt.

Eleanor had intended to speak with him calmly about the whereabouts of his sister. She had intended to simply inquire as to where her daughter was, if she was safe, and how to contact her. She hand intended to ask how the plans with the Catholics had worked out since its formation, to ask how Jackson and Michael’s plans for gun running had taken shape yet.

“You left her alone and to the mercy of that monster!” “She’s a grown ass woman, Ma! Just because you’re bending over for a copper doesn’t mean the same happened to Shada.” “If your father were here, he would be ashamed of you. How far have you fallen, Michael, to treat us all like this? As disposable?” “Father was weak. You are weak. Shada is weak. We need strength in this family that you can no longer provide!”

Instead, they had found themselves at each other’s throats when Michael had sassed her question and she had accused him of throwing his sister to the wolves. It drew more blood from there with claims of destroying the family, of lacking the balls to do what was necessary, of being blinded by greed and envy, of being blinded by love for the wrong man.

“-left me with your drunk of a wife killing your daughter-” “-sent us to die in a fucking field while you galavanted about-” ”-dragged your brothers’ in after you, ruined their lives before they had to. Jackson didn’t even get to marry-” ”-blamed everything on me! I wasn’t the one that drove Da to the gun-”

There were teacups shattered, tables turned and chairs smashed against the floor; it was as if two natural disasters had met and clashed violently as both tore into the other as only family could. Strikes against each other that had been held inside for years can forward, pouring out decades of accusations and failures of the pair before either could think to deescalate the situation. If the words and jabs could draw blood, the room would be red with it.

“-tore this family apart-” “-driving us into the ground-” “-spiteful, narcassistic, egotistical-” “-deluded, pathetic, vindictive-”

The words continued to flow, blow for blow, jab for jab and cut for cut, until finally both Visyak’s were left panting and cowed as they sank into the chairs that remained upright, breathing hard and staring empitly at each other. Productive it had not been. Cathartic, perhaps.

As they slowly caught their breath, they rose as one - her towards the stove top to heat water for some tea, him to right the table and collect a dustpan for the broken crockery. The storm had come, raged, and slowly dissipated leaving behind only the destruction but none of the force as time continued to propel them forward towards what had been promised ever since the container was cracked and the contents were lead not liquor.

—

The headquarters of the Faceless Shadows rarely was visited by the police since the boys had returned from the war. Whether due to the number of greased palms, or the ease of finding one or more Shadow at The Fort in recent years, or the simmering hostility that officers met when entering the streets near the converted townhouses, was unclear. It was not a regular occurrance, however that Saturday morning found the tall blond officer ducking his way through the doorway to the gambling den without any pomp or circumstance.

A look to one of the bookies had Jackson summoned and appearing before his childhood friend within minutes. He led the taller man to one of the closed offices with a calm nod to the workers who appeared to await confirmation for work to continue.

“What have you got for me, William?” “Been hearing news that the Black Eyes and Catholics have been meeting.” “Where did you hear that? Whiskey or tea?” “Overheard the Winchester brothers and that cousin of theirs, Christian Campbell, talking about it. Tea this hour.”

Jackson frowned slightly over the thought, knowing that at least the older of the Winchester brothers in uniform had a connection to the Catholics. The connection of the third officer to the Black Eyes had been a subject of concern for a while within the Shadows when it first came to light. If William had overheard the three men talking, there was reason to believe the truth of the words.

There was no reason to disbelieve the officer who had always remained faithful and honest to his friend, if not others. William Reynolds had been the third of the group of boys of Jackson’s youth that had grown, aged and died together in the years since. They had formed their own small gang, seperate to the work Michael and his friends had been developing to become the basis for the Faceless Shadoes, seperate to the range of blood thirtsy and violent pre-teens that stalked the streets causing havok that Jeffrey and his lackies had made.

Jackson Visyak, William Reynolds, Richard Amon and Harry Spangler had made a strange collection of boys - some already starting their growth spurts at the age of ten, some yet to begin; some smarter and quicker than most adults they encountered, some more charismatic. However different each boy was, they had stuck together along the cold streets of Birmingham, had stuck together as they each found a different calling, as one fell into depression and mania, as one fell into the family business, as one followed the straight and narrow path, and one muddled along unalligned. They had stuck together as they crossed the channel and dug through the mud side by side; and when they managed to all make it back to Birmingham, unharmed but more scarred than they had left it.

Sticking his head out of the office, the dark haired man managed to flag down one of the lackies to bring a pot and milk as soon as possible while he thought over what the other had said.

“Jack, they are planning something. Something drastic from the sound of it.” “What does it sound like then?” “Movement. Lots of movement towards Birmingham from the Catholics. And recruiting from the Black Eyes.” “Movement, huh...”

Collecting the tray brought to him, Jackson proceeded to pour himself a cup and gestured for the other man to do the same as they both sank into chairs on either side of the desk between them. If the Black Eyes were amassing larger numbers, and the Catholics were filtering into the city; perhaps he would need to take a visit to see an old friend earlier than expected.

Jackso waited until they had both poured their drinks before he broke the pensive silence, jaw clenched tightly at the taste of both the poorly brewed tea and the bitter flavour his words brought out.

“I guess it is once more unto the breach, dear friend...”

—