#best operations management experts

[caliber8info]

Prioritizing Talent Growth: A Competitive Advantage for Hiring Managers | Caliber8

Attracting top talent is only half the battle. Retaining and nurturing their skills is what separates good companies from great ones. This is where prioritizing talent growth becomes crucial.

Contact Caliber8 Recruitment – your trusted partner in building high-performing teams!

For more information read the blog here- https://www.caliber8.sg/blog/2024/06/prioritizing-talent-growth-a-competitive-advantage-for-hiring-managers

[onlineassignmentexpertau]

Writing an exceptional Operations Management assignment is no mean accomplishment for many. While writing this assignment, students must demonstrate their thorough understanding and knowledge of numerous modern concepts and illustrate operations theories from tactical to strategic levels. Hence, students often seek remarkable online operations management assignment help to relieve themselves from this assignment struggle.

[miss-nerd-alert]

How Milo Thatch Avoids Being A White Savior:

He doesn’t go to Atlantis to teach the Atlanteans the ways of the surface. He may be a linguist and cartographer, but Milo’s got the attitude of an anthropologist, he wants to observe Atlantean culture AS IT IS, and isn’t looking to change or influence it. He wants to know about THEM, he doesn’t want them to be like HIM; he approaches them as a student eager to learn, rather than an expert willing to teach.

He never assumes he knows more than they do. He specifically says to Kida “I can read and write Atlantean, JUST LIKE YOU CAN.” He never claims or acts like he knows more about Atlantean culture and language than Kida, and he’s genuinely upset when he learns the Atlanteans have lost the ability to read their own language. He’s also very aware that he’s most likely getting things wrong; after speaking Atlantean he asks Kida “How’s my accent?” and she immediately replies with “Boorish, provincial, and you speak it through your nose.”

Unlike Rourke, Milo does his best to respect and adhere to the customs and mannerisms of the Atlanteans, rather than assuming surface world behavior is best. When introduced to the king, Milo copies Kida’s bow, and advises Rourke to obey the king’s orders instead of just doing whatever they want. It may not be what he’s used to, but he goes out of his way to emulate Atlantean behaviors out of respect; this is their home, and he’s the foreigner here.

He gives credit for what he knows back to the Atlanteans. When he shows the others how to operate the flying fish, he specifically says “Kida showed me.” She was studying the flying fish and trying to get them to work long before he arrived, and he acknowledges her efforts by giving her the credit for the rediscovery. He even says to her “You deserve credit for even getting this far.” when she first shows him, since she couldn’t even read the instructions but still managed to mostly figure out what they said.

He gets permission. Kida specifically asks for Milo’s help in reading the written history to find answers, and he is INVITED to stay in Atlantis and teach them. The king begs him to save Kida and the rest of Atlantis, and GIVES him the crystal he uses in the battle. Kida welcomes him to Atlantis and shows him the city and it’s culture; he never just assumes he’s welcome or accepted.

[cretaceous-if]

“WELCOME TO CRETACEOUS ISLAND.”

DEMO: TBA

NOTE: While I am training as a palaeontologist, I do not claim to be an expert. Therefore, although I will be conducting research into portraying more accurate dinosaurs, there will be possibly be discrepancies or inaccuracies either due to my own research or the lack of (accurate) data available.

-> SYNOPSIS <-

Cretaceous Island is based on the Jurassic Park/World franchise. You will step into the role of the head T-Rex keeper.

You’ve been working as a T-Rex keeper for over ten years now and every day is as interesting as the last.

Unfortunately, not even looking after some of the deadliest creatures in the world was enough to prepare you for the carnage that was about to unfold.

When the system goes down and the dinosaurs escape with evacuation impossible, it’s up to you and a ragtag team to restore order and protect both man and dinosaur.

-> ROMANTIC OPTIONS <-

GRAY/GRACE COLLINS [M/F] - Your big boss is cool, calm, and ruthless. It is well known that they’re not someone to cross, however, they seem have a soft spot for you which some might consider strange considering they also happen to be your ex-fiancé(e). [Poly with Nikolaj available].

LEE MIN-SUN [M/F/NB] - As Operations Manager of the Island, Lee is no-nonsense, grumpy, and has no real time for the corporate side of things that xe’s forced to deal with, but xe has a heart of gold under all the bluster and would do anything to protect those that xe cares for. [Poly with Aija available].

NIKOLAJ OLESEN [M] - He’s your best friend and the embodiment of the term ‘golden retriever energy’. He’s also the head raptor keeper. You’re not entirely sure how those two things go together, but it seems that you’re about to find out. [Poly with Gray/Grace available].

CIERRA DE LA ROSA [F] - A tourist that is vacationing on the island for the third time. You’ve met her a handful of times during those visits, but you haven’t found out much about her beyond her name and the fact that she’s one of the most beautiful women you’ve ever seen.

AIJA MISHRA [NB] - Highly intelligent and more at home among computers than people, Aija is a techie who works in the control room. They’re one of the friendliest and sassiest people you’ve ever met, but, in a crisis, there’s no one you’d rather have on your side. [Poly with Lee available].

-> FEATURES <-

Customise your mc (gender, pronouns, appearance, personality, etc).

Five romance options to fall in love with and two poly options.

Story-driven IF coded using Twine.

Interact with staff, guests, and most importantly, dinosaurs as you look after the T-Rexes and attempt to deal with the biggest crisis the park has ever dealt with and try not to get eaten in the process.

Cuddle with some baby dinosaurs.

-> STATS <-

Personality stats are pretty similar to most other IFs. They will include kind/grumpy, bold/shy, reckless/cautious, genuine/sarcastic, reserved/energetic, and friendly/stern. If you have any suggestions, feel free to lmk.

Skill stats will include intelligence, charisma, marksmanship, agility, and science and technology,

-> WARNINGS <-

This is an 18+ wip due to blood and gore, character and animal deaths, explicit sex (optional), explicit language, medical procedures, violence and injury, and potentially body horror.

[angellesword]

BAGGAGE | JJK (12)

Summary: Drowning in debt and blood, Jeon Jungkook knows he's better off alone, lest he brings people down with him.

But one drunken night changes everything.

In a blink of an eye, Jungkook found himself drowning not only in debt and blood, but also in dirty diapers and judgmental stares from you, a.k.a his long-lost love and the guardian of the son he didn't even know existed.

Genre and warnings: best friends to lovers, co-parenting, idiots in love, slow burn—really slow burn, mutual pining, angst, fluff, implied smut, kissing, minor character death, slight getting back together, cursing, blood, stabbing, loan sharks, OC cusses excessively so watch out, hurt/comfort

Pairing: dad! Jungkook x adoptive mom!Reader

Word Count: 4.2k

← Previous Chapter (11) | Next Chapter (13) →

Baggage Chapter List

*****

You weren’t sure if your students prayed for your downfall after assigning them complex business cases to crack. But even if they didn't, you were starting to regret listening to Jungkook's suggestion. You missed the time when your students were your only worry. You weren’t stressed about school anymore. Unfortunately, you were experiencing frequent headaches in your business venture.

"What do you mean they won't pay?" You delegated business work to your people since you wanted experts to deal with issues you weren’t that familiar with. However, it seemed that was a regrettable decision too. Your accounts receivable manager told you the team couldn't collect your customers' debt.

"I'm sorry." The manager explained that the contract with customers was biding, so he didn't expect them to breach the terms. "They said they can't pay us on time since they're having difficulty with their operations."

"Tsk." You heard Jang Min make this sound on the other line. You were so stressed that you had to call your boyfriend and ask for business advice. As far as you know, Jang Min managed multiple lending companies. He would know what to do with delinquent debtors.

Sure enough, Jang Min rubbed his chin thoughtfully before covering his mouth with his hand. He looked as though he was deep in thought when he said, "Cолнышко мо, why don't you let my men handle those rats?"

"Rats?" Your brow knitted together as you gestured for your dejected manager to leave for a while. You were on speaker and didn't want your employees to think badly of you or Jang Min. You might be angry, but you care much about your team.

"Yeah, rats. Your debtors are filthy rats." Jang Min's face was unreadable. "My men would know what to do. Lee Sung-ssi will land in Korea in a few hours. Just say the word, and he'll handle them."

For some reason, Jang Min's way of helping left a bad taste in your mouth. Your heart was pounding, indicating that you wouldn't like whatever your boyfriend would say next. Still, you pushed through, "And how exactly will Lee Sung handle them?"

Jang Min paused—as if contemplating telling you the truth. He shrugged after a few minutes of deadly silence. "Lee Sung can visit them...they will talk. If the debtors insist on not paying, we can arrange some..." Jang Min trailed off, his eyes darkening. "Punishment."

You weren’t sure how you tolerated listening to your boyfriend despite your loud beating heart. Jang Min said the punishments range from mild to severe, depending on the loan amount. Some of his tactics involved intimidation and verbal threats, though he didn't recommend this as words didn't deter people. Harassment was an option, too. Lee Sung and the others could constantly call and show up at the debtors' houses and offices to scare them.

"We've batons and other weapons to—"

"Wait—Hold up." Your lips quivered as you stopped your boyfriend from speaking. You felt like your heart stopped beating, too. Was this true? Did the person you were dating really advise you to employ "Torture?" You gasped, taken by surprise. "You want me to give you the signal to torture my business clients?" 

The thing about you was you gave people the benefit of the doubt. You had no reason to think Jang Min was lying when he said: "No, of course not, Cолнышко мо. The weapons are merely a front to scare them."

Your therapist told you to trust your instinct, but how could you do that when, deep down, your whole being was screaming at you to run away from Jang Min? How could you follow your instinct when Jang Min never gave you a reason to distrust him?

Jang Min had been nothing but good to you. He loved you. Most importantly, he trusted you.

"How about we talk later?" You knew it wasn't best to keep running away from the worry at the pit of your stomach. You avoided your boyfriend every time you didn't like what he did or said. Until now, you and Jang Min hadn't discussed your minor fight regarding Soobin from weeks ago. You thought it would go away once he ignored it.

It was a wrong assumption as you realized that your doubt and anger toward Jang Min had accumulated in your heart. But still... you couldn't—not right now. Not when your mind still couldn't wrap around the thought of Jang Min not being the person you thought he was. It's too speculative and distrustful.

Jang Min didn't hold the line longer. You didn't know why, but relief instantly flooded your veins once the line had been cut off. You sat on your chair, absentmindedly turning it, until you felt dizzy. It didn't help that your office door burst open, with Soobin barging in after eating a bar of chocolate.

"Mama! Mama!" The kid was uncharacteristically hyper. Soobin used to be a quiet child who could sense whenever you needed some space. But since Jungkook started babysitting him, Soobin's childish nature became more prominent.

Your head hurt.

"What are you two doing here?" You didn't want to sound accusatory, but your tone and glare directed at Jungkook said otherwise. Jungkook hovered around the door, smiling proudly at his overjoyed son.

"I picked up Soobin from school. The kid said he wants to see you." The pick-up was a stretch when Jungkook never left the school premises in the first place. Soobin was recently enrolled in preschool since he was almost four years old. You used to have a homeschool tutor for Soobin in France, but you figured your son needed to adapt to Korea’s school system. Besides, Jungkook couldn't always look after the kid; he needed to work, too.

Fortunately, Jungkook wasn't fired from the fast food restaurant he worked at after proving that he was hospitalized. His manager reassigned him to a different duty, though. Jungkook was now a food delivery rider in the restaurant's parent company. He ordered himself the cheapest meal and had it delivered at Soobin's school just so he could 'deliver' it there and watch over his son from the start until the end of his class.

Soobin ran to Jungkook when his teacher gave him the signal to go. The kid learned to sing and play a tambourine. He asked his father if they could visit you in the office as he wanted to show off his new skills.

Soobin did precisely that. He tried climbing onto your lap while excitedly shaking his instrument back and forth.

"Soobin sing!!"

Your head immediately pulsated when your son opened his mouth while still 'playing' the tambourine. It was the worst. You gritted your teeth in annoyance, your patience wearing thin.

"Soobin." You lightly grabbed your son's arms to get him to stop. You looked helplessly at Jungkook, too, but he was downright oblivious.

"Twinkle! Twinkle! Star! Soobin wonder! What! You are!" Soobin tried singing the song he had learned. Unfortunately, you didn't appreciate it. You unconsciously snarled at your kid.

"Stop it! Why won't you listen to me? You're so naughty!" You got Soobin off your lap and onto his own feet. You tried to purse your lips to control your temper, but it was too late. Tears filled Soobin's eyes.

Normally, Soobin would softly call out, "Ma?" to you, but the kid's changed. He didn't like your reaction, so he flopped on the ground, whining like a true toddler as he kicked his feet in the air.

You stared blankly at Soobin, unable to wrap your mind in the thought that, for the first time, you didn't know what to do to pacify your son.

"Mama! Mean! Mean! Hate me!" Soobin sobbed mercilessly; tears fell from his eyes. His cheeks were bright crimson because of frustration. 

There was ringing in your ears. Distantly, you heard Jungkook call your name. You remained rooted in your seat, though. You physically couldn't tear your gaze from Soobin.

Crying. Soobin was crying because of you.

Jungkook was a wide reader who came across a book on how to calm an agitated child. If he wished, he could rush to Soobin and soothe him. But this wasn't his call to make. Soobin was yours before Soobin was Jungkook's. He couldn't impose but couldn't bear seeing such a heartbreaking scene.

Jungkook walked behind your back, gripping your shoulder. You froze, though you didn't shy away from Jungkook's touch. His warm hand was soothing. It gave you a sense of support, as though you could pacify Soobin on your own.

You could. But first, you had to calm yourself down.

"Breathe." Jungkook crouched down until his hot breath sprayed on your ear. "In and out. I'm going to count, okay? Be with me."

You followed the sound of Jungkook's voice until you felt your heart rate picking up its normal speed. You blinked as Soobin's cries filled your system, and suddenly, you crouched down.

"Oh, Mon bébé." You embraced Soobin, embracing him while continuously kissing his head. "I'm so sorry. Mama didn't mean to shout at you." You regretted not bringing pudding, but you figured it was best not to bribe your son with things he liked just to get him to stop feeling emotions. 

Jungkook didn't say anything to you. However, that small gesture supporting your back pushed you to snap back to reality and calm down. You'd probably scream at Soobin more had it not been for Jungkook intervening.

You felt shame stabbing your heart.

"I'm sorry, Soobin. Mama is very sorry." You forced yourself to stop crying as you soothed your kid. Soobin wasn't an unreasonable child. He calmed down after you gave him a few kisses and hugs. You tried to explain the situation to your son as calmly as possible. Every time you ran out of words, Jungkook would rub your back and say you were doing well. It also helped that Jungkook smiled at Soobin to assure the kid everything was alright.

"Wanna sing my song!" Soobin demanded when you asked how you could make him feel better. Your head throbbed again, but you nodded at Soobin.

"Alright, Mon bébé."

Soobin played his tambourine while singing his song. You felt dizzy; thankfully, Jungkook was there to rub your back and lightly distract Soobin from overstimulating you. Soobin played his music at least five times before he got tired and distracted by other things.

"Lego!" He dropped his tambourine on the floor and ran to the other room where you stored his toys. Jungkook was about to go after him, but you advised him against it.

"Let him be." You massaged your temples. "You don't have to monitor him constantly, you know? I didn't know you were clingier than me."

Jungkook's lips protruded. He flopped down the chair beside you. "I'm not the one constantly attached to the baby monitor at home."

"That's cause you're with Soobin all the time!" You snorted. "You don't need a baby monitor to see him."

Jungkook didn't correct you, simply shrugging his shoulders as he busied himself, looking at the scattered papers on the table. Jungkook had thirty minutes to spare before his manager looked for him. He booked five deliveries using different names and canceled them before the orders were completed. This was not honest work, but Jungkook couldn't care less. He missed Soobin. He liked spending time with his son—with or without your push.

"What's this?" Jungkook could not control his mouth or hands. There were documents on your table. Jungkook picked up the paper that caught his attention. "You're having a hard time collecting debts? What happened?"

Jungkook's eyes moved fast. He got the gist of your problem, so he didn't mind it when you snatched the paper from him.

"Don't you have work to do?" You uttered coldly, the paper in your hand crumpling. It was Jungkook's cue to shut the fuck up, but he didn't. He couldn't. His hands and feet were cold as Lee Sung's face flashed in his mind.

He hadn't seen Lee Sung in months now. Jungkook wasn't sure if the case of him getting seriously injured deterred the loan shark from bothering him. Jungkook tried not to think about his problems, but he couldn't shake it off now that he had read something about loans.

"You're not..." Jungkook's mouth went dry. Ugly thoughts circled his brain. However, he tried to fight them off. You were not like Lee Sung. You wouldn't hurt people just because of money. 

He changed his question, "How long is their debts overdue? Have you tried talking to them?"

"Jungkook." You crumpled the paper entirely. "I don't see how this is any of your business. Will you drop it? I'm already stressed as it is. Didn't you see how I snapped at my son? I..."

You inhaled sharply. You weren’t over what happened between you and Soobin earlier. It was your first big fight, and you both lost your temper. You didn't know what to do.

Jungkook was still antsy because of his issue with Lee Sung, yet his heart melted at seeing that you were struggling to adjust. Jungkook wasn't a stranger to business problems. He was like you before, afraid to voice his concerns as it was too stressful and it might affect his competency. He didn't want to appear like a sore loser before you.

You were headstrong and wouldn't shut up with your I told you so speech. But Jungkook didn't want you to go through the same problem he did. He wanted his best friend to be worry-free.

"You know Soobin throwing a tantrum is not bad, right?" Jungkook's tone was mellow. 

It didn't comfort you at all. You splayed fingers over your eyes, "I don't know. He's a good kid, Jungkook. He never cries like that."

Soobin usually demands crab spring rolls and pudding, but he was well-behaved. Jang Min even claimed that Soobin would just sleep around a lot. It was shocking to see him crying and screaming.

But Jungkook assured him it was fine. "Kids who throw tantrums are not bad, okay? It just shows that they're comfortable around you. Do you think Soobin will act all vulnerable with you if he doesn't trust you?"

Jungkook made sense. You were similar to Soobin when you were a child. You refused to let out your whines and sobs in front of your mother and those people at the club for fear of punishment. But with Jisoo, you slowly learned to be vulnerable.

It should be comforting, yet a scoff left your mouth as you said sarcastically, "Is that why you didn't act 'vulnerable' around me before? Because you don't trust me?"

It was petty—an attempt to throw Jungkook off because what did he know about trusting people? However, you didn't want to be in this position anymore. It was a constant battle between your past and current self. You didn’t want to stay loyal to your suffering anymore.

And Jungkook was trying. He had never done anything wrong since he first got involved with Soobin.

"I'm sorry," you said immediately. Because trust, you realized, was a two-way street. You shamed Jungkook for what he did years ago, but here you were, one step forward and two backward with Jungkook.

"That's not fair of me." You held Jungkook's cold hand in an attempt to show sincerity. The bastard's hands were warm. You wanted to press your face against them. "You're trying to be helpful. I shot you down."

It's okay. Jungkook wanted to say because, like he claimed weeks ago, he was not in any position to snarl at you. But it wasn't working anymore. No one said breaking down walls would be easy.

Jungkook needed an axe to smash those damn cemented walls.

"Then don't shoot me down anymore." Jungkook didn't pull his hands away. He wished he could caress your face. "Let me help you.”

You tongued the inside of your cheek, looking hesitant, but you nodded. 

Jungkook let out a long breath.

"Thank you." Then his face turned solemn. "There are many ways to make your debtors pay. I didn't see all your files, but I'm guessing they're merely accounts receivable?"

You did not want to have this conversation with Jungkook. You thought you were still discussing how to raise Soobin. You found yourself answering Jungkook's queries, though.

"Most are accounts receivable, yes." Your forehead creased. "But I have people who loaned money from my business."

"Are you taking legal action?" Suddenly, Jungkook couldn't breathe. His throat hurt—as if he was being choked. "Please listen to me. There's no point in imprisoning or employing violence to them."

"What do you take me for?" You scoffed, hiding your nervousness behind your mask. Shit. Did Jungkook know? Did he somehow figure out Jang Min's suggestion?

"No." Jungkook pulled you out of deep thought. "I'm just asking. It's not a good idea.”

He explained to you why legal action was not worth it.

"It's costly. The court will fix a payment date for them, but your debtors are not guaranteed to pay you. Besides..." Jungkook said imprisonment wasn't viable as it would hinder the debtors from paying you more. How could they make money if they were in prison?

"Sell your accounts receivable to factoring companies. You have products nearing the expiration date, right? They're in debt because they bought similar items from your company. You won't be able to sell most of them. This is Korea. We're strict about the dates, so just hand them as freebies to those who will pay you on a specified date. As for your loans receivable, wave the interest. Do you have an accountant in your firm?"

You couldn't follow how fast things were going. Jungkook solved your worries in seconds, and none involved pressuring your debtors illegally. They all sounded fair.

"I..." You blinked and wetted your lips, "Yes. I've several of them."

"Good. Schedule a meeting with them. You need management accountants to formulate strategies for you, but I have some tricks to speed up collection without hurting anyone. Are you familiar with the lockbox system?"

Your mind was floating. This was such a dreamy solution. Your weeks' worth of stress was rapidly crumbling down.

You smiled at Jungkook—a sincere smile. "Hold on for a minute. I'll call everyone involved, and then we can all discuss. Stay. I need you here."

Jungkook flashed a smile, too. He squeezed your hands. "I'm here, okay?"

You didn't mind that you were holding hands with Jungkook all this time. Good. Everything was good.

**** The first week of you and Jungkook teaming up to solve business problems passed without a hiccup.

You were both sleep-deprived, though.

"Drink." Jungkook placed a glass of hot milk in front of you. "You’re too hotheaded. Hotheaded people need milk to cool down."

"Tsk." You clicked your tongue, but you drank the milk in one go. "You're insufferable."

****

You faced some challenges in the second week. Fortunately, it was not something you and Jungkook couldn't handle.

"I miss Soobin," Jungkook complained while you were in a boring meeting.

"He's literally on the other side of the room."

Jungkook gave you a knowing look. You raised your hand in surrender. "Fine. I miss him, too. Go on, call him. If he doesn't quietly sit on your lap, I'll kick both of you out of this meeting."

"Always so violent, sweetheart."

You just shook your head. Jungkook was wrong. You didn't have it in you to kick him out anymore.

**** The third week was where you gave your all. It was finalized. Your company has partially recovered. It wouldn't take long before everything returned to normal.

"Thank you." You told Jungkook sincerely.

"No problem." Jungkook wiggled his brows playfully. "What are best—frie—"

It was painfully embarrassing (and endearing) to witness Jungkook looking for the right word to describe your relationship.

"Friends." You supplied helpfully. "We're friends now."

Relief washed over Jungkook’s face. It showed in his sparkly brown eyes.

"Thank you." The unsaid words went like this:

I won't fail you anymore.

****

The fourth week was when you proposed an official position for Jungkook.

"Join the company." You said without any hesitation. "Head strategist in finance. The team needs you."

It should be answerable by yes or no. Regrettably, Jungkook only murmured your name.

"What." You tried to remain calm despite feeling your heart falling. Jungkook was rejecting you. "You ventured with Jimin before, didn't you? This isn't any different. I guarantee you the pay is good. It's more than what you make as a delivery rider."

It wasn't said out of spite. You simply stated a fact, but Jungkook's lips were tightly shut.

The words 'come on, bastard' were at the tip of your tongue. You didn't voice it out, opting for a safer approach.

"You've done a good job saving us all. I owe you one." You patted Jungkook's shoulder and squeezed it in a friendly manner. "Let me treat you to a fancy dinner, alright? I already bought you a suit. Wear it. Forget everything first and have fun with me there."

The silence ballooned. You popped it after a few seconds.

"Then, at the end of the night, you can tell me your answer about the offer. See you, Kookie."

Kookie.

Jungkook's breathing hitched; by the time he could react, you were long gone.

****

In spite of his doubts, Jungkook was happy to go on a date with you.

A date.

Jungkook snorted at himself. He was pretty sure you didn't see your meeting as a date, but it didn't stop him from daydreaming. Months ago, his life was so messed up that he wished he could end it all. Now, though...

Jungkook looked at his figure in the mirror. He cleaned up nicely. The white suit you bought for him was akin to royalty. He knew you spent a fortune on this one.

It's going to be okay. Jungkook cheered, a rare thing he did. It was just dinner—he'd casually talk to you, and just like you said, you would have fun.

Your meeting was timed at 7PM. Jungkook went to the washroom to freshen up, expecting you to arrive when he returned to your reserved table.

Sadly, there was no sign of you anywhere.

Jungkook looked at the time: 7:35PM. It was rare for you not to show up on the dot, causing him to check the date.

He didn't get it wrong, though. You were really scheduled to go out tonight. Perhaps you had a difficult time looking for a babysitter?

But if so, why didn't you contact him?

Jungkook shook his head slightly. Never mind. He'd just wait for some time.

****

The clock said 8:15PM, but you hadn't arrived yet.

****

9:24PM and there was still no sign of you anywhere.

****

10:13PM

Jungkook brought out the company phone you lent to him.

Are we still up for tonight? He asked.

There was no response.

***

10:28PM

Jungkook's stomach growled. The server asked if his company would still be coming.

"She is." He said as he drank his sparkling water.

His stomach growled, but he had no money to order food.

Frankly, he wasn't in the mood to eat either.

****

11:08PM

Jungkook asked for the bill. He paid a small amount since he only ordered water.

"I guess my friend isn't coming at all."

The waiter looked at Jungkook apologetically.

It's okay. Jungkook wanted to say. I've been through worse.

The walk out of the restaurant and into your home was layered with lavender haze. It wasn't raining, but a storm was brewing in his heart.

Jungkook looked up at the sky. It wasn't okay.

****

11:42PM

Jungkook arrived at your house. He still lived with you. Truthfully, You gave him a spare key to go in and out of the house whenever he wanted. However, Jungkook wasn’t sure he could enter as he pleased because outside your home was an Aurus Senat car. Jungkook had the worst timing—he saw you hopping out of the vehicle; your expression was soft as you looked at the other person getting out of the car.

It was a man. Jungkook couldn’t see the man’s face as he was carrying a sleeping Soobin in his arms. The mysterious man stood near you, crouching down a little to give you a slow kiss.

Oh.

Pain flashed in Jungkook’s eyes as he witnessed the scene before him.

You were dating another man.

Jungkook knew he wasn’t entitled to feel anger or jealousy. Unfortunately, those were the exact two emotions that engulfed his heart—jealousy being more apparent than the other.

The green monster screamed at Jungkook to storm over there, possessively wrapped his arms around your waist, and carried Soobin in his arms.

That’s my child. Jungkook’s jealousy was taking control.

And you. You were….

Jungkook’s thoughts had been cut off when someone sneaked behind him. The emotions he had yet to process went down the drain in an instant—it was replaced by fear when he felt a cold metallic blade hovering on the side of his stomach. It was followed by an overly saccharine greeting.

“Hello there, Jungkook-ah. Long time no see.” Jungkook froze. The man behind him chuckled. “Stay with me for a while, hmm? We can’t have you ruining a perfect family reunion, right?”

The man harshly angled Jungkook’s face toward your direction to see the perfect image of a family.

Jungkook’s heart clenched, but he didn’t have it in him to feel jealous anymore. His days were numbered.

Lee Sung was back.

*****

A/N: I didn't use too much jargon, did I? What do we think about this chapter.

Reblog, like, comment if you can! It inspires me to write 🎀

it's 3AM i need sleep. i have work later. good night!

[pucksandpower]

can you do some Carlos sainz in honour of home gp?! first meeting or a surfer girl type reader?! 🥹🙏

Spice Up Your Life | CS55

Summary: Carlos Sainz is called “Chilli” for a reason and it’s not the one you might expect

Warnings: minor medical intervention but this is fluff galore

The lingering scent of antiseptic fills the air as you recline in the worn leather chair surrounded by stacks of patient files in your brightly lit office. The soothing hum of the air conditioner is interrupted by the creaking sound of the door as it swings open. Your eyes widen in surprise as you see a familiar face in the doorway — none other than Carlos Sainz. He stands there, blinking rapidly as a pained expression clouds his teary eyes.

You quickly compose yourself and greet him warmly. “Now this is a surprise though I’m sure you would rather be anywhere else. How can I assist you today?”

Carlos winces with his hand covering one eye. "I managed to get myself into a bit of a spicy situation here. A chili pepper decided to show me who’s boss during a team cooking challenge and now it’s really stinging.”

You chuckle softly, finding the irony quite amusing. “It seems you've taken the concept of spicing up your life a little too literally. But fear not, I happen to be the resident expert in pepper related emergencies.”

As Carlos takes a seat on the examination table, you approach him with a gentle smile and reach for your medical equipment. “Just close your eyes and trust me. I am about to put on a magical show of doctorly power to recover your vision.”

He smirks, playing along with your theatrics. “I always knew being a race car driver required a little blind faith but I never imagined it would extend to a physician’s office.”

You raise an eyebrow, feigning indignation. “Oh please. I may not be behind the wheel of a Ferrari but I assure you that my skills are just as impressive in their own way.”

With utmost care, you grasp a sterilized cotton swab and gently dab the corner of Carlos’ eye. He winces slightly but keeps his eyes closed, following your instructions.

“And now for the most crucial part of this operation,” you declare dramatically. “I’m going to need you to hold still, Carlos. This may sting a little.”

Carlos laughs softly. “I’ve driven through crazy hairpin turns at breakneck speeds, I think I can handle a little sting.”

You dip a cotton pad into a soothing saline solution and gently bring it closer to his eye. With a deft touch, you carefully clean away the remnants of chili pepper oil.

Carlos slowly opens his eyes as you finish, blinking a few times to adjust to the newfound clarity and lack of pain. A smile of relief spreads across his face as he continues joking. “You’ve truly worked your magic. My vision is back and the monstrous chili pepper has been slain.”

You bow with a flourish of your hand. “It was merely a touch of medical wizardry combined with a dash of charm. You’re not the only one who knows how to handle the heat.”

Carlos chuckles, gratitude shining in his still reddened eyes. “I must say that this is the most entertaining doctor’s visit I have ever had. Thank you for the exceptional service and the delightful company. And for making sure I don’t have to race in an eyepatch.”

You smirk at him playfully. “Well it’s not every day I have a Formula 1 star as my patient. Consider it an occupational perk.”

With a spring in his step, Carlos stands up from the examination table, ready to conquer the track once more. “If you ever need a driver, you know where to find me.”

You wave him off, laughter bubbling from your throat. “Thank you, Carlos but I think I’ll stick to my stethoscope as my trusty sidekick. If you ever need a prescription for an extra spicy dish, you know who to call.”

He manages to wink the best he can through tender eyes. “How about I take you up on that over dinner at my place? Can’t let the chili peppers think they’ve scared me off.”

“And that, kids, is how your father actually got his nickname.”

[milksnake-tea]

The Stellaron Hunters were a group renowned and hated across the galaxies, both feared and respected by the factions. But under those skillful manipulations and operations, was an organization as put together as a monkey circus. You should know this best, as a member of this menagerie.

stellaron hunter!reader (no specific pairings)

contains: cursing, possibly ooc, written before version 1.2, just a bunch of silly shenanigans, unedited, can be read as romantic and platonic !!

word count: 3.7k

a/n: i had to rewrite this like... 4 times bc tumblr kept deleting it :// anyways night dancer got me through this piece so :D u can tell i have a blade preference but listen he's hot

Before we get on with the sillies, let's lay down some groundwork.

Every Stellaron Hunter has a specific role in mind. Blade is the feral dog that you throw at people, Kafka pisses people off (and shoots ig), and Silver Wolf gets past all defenses.

You're the expert on espionage and disguise. With the power of masks, voice changers, and makeup, you can become basically anyone if you put your mind to it. Even people with completely different builds than you, you could pull off - as long as the holographs don't start glitching out.

You're often paired with Silver Wolf in order to infiltrate various bases. Silver Wolf can transcend any physical barriers, while you sweet talk your way into the inner circles of any leaders. Sometimes, you implant ideas into people's heads in order to guide them towards a certain path, sometimes you just do it for the fun of it.

Your favorite victim so far has been the Express. Ever since the Trailblazer joined, you've entertained yourself by posing as them or other members of the Express (the only ones you can't figure out are Welt Yang and the conductor, Pom-Pom).

And it was surprising, how easily you could trick March 7th and Dan Heng. You had no idea where the original Trailblazer was (probably up some poor soul's dumpster), but frankly, you didn't care.

You somehow managed to trick the two for the better half of a day. It wasn't until you didn't jump at the sight of the first trashcan on the Xianzhou Luofu that the duo realized that something was off.

"Who- Who are you?!"

March stepped back, Dan Heng already drawing his spear. But you weren't going to give in so easily. No, you wanted to see just how far you could take this.

"Guys?" You feigned hurt and confusion as you faced the two. "What're you..."

"Don't play dumb," Dan Heng cut you off, thrusting his spear under your chin. "You're not them. The real Trailblazer would've started ransacking that trashcan by now."

What kind of freak-

"C'mon guys, I have taste," you sighed, crossing your arms. "The trashcans here don't compare to the ones at Belobog. They're not as shiny."

"Trailblazer said that appearance doesn't matter when it comes to trash!" March shot back, her bow appearing in her hands. "Enough games, who are you really?"

You paused for a moment, contemplating your options. You could try to bullshit your way out of this, but you sincerely doubted you would be able to. What kind of freak personality did Silver Wolf program into the vessel, anyways?

You sighed, making the two tense up. Your face, still that of the Trailblazer's, twisted into a condescending sneer, before you doubled over in laughter.

"Ah... Damnit, and here I thought I was doing well!" You stretched your arms, March backing away from you. "Well, that just goes to show, I still have much to improve."

With a snap of your fingers, your disguise melted away, revealing your true appearnce.

"You're-!" March gasped. "You're one of the Stellaron Hunters!"

"Am I really that famous?" you pondered, leaning back on the railing. "And here I thought Kafka or Silver Wolf were more popular."

"What're you trying to pull," Dan Heng growled, "pretending to be the Trailblazer? What did you do to them?"

"Oh, nothing," you replied simply, popping your bone. "I just sent them a coupon for that restaurant down the street. So don't worry yourselves, I'm just here to have a little bit of fun."

Before the two could comprehend the stupidity of their companion, you jumped onto the railing, balancing on your toes.

"Well, it's been fun, Nameless." You waved cheerfully, taking a step back into the open air. "Let's meet again sometime soon, yeah?"

"Wait!" They rushed to the railing, adamant on catching you - but you had already vanished.

The world might see you as a complete weirdo, but honestly, you aren't even the worst of the Stellaron Hunters. In your humble opinion, you're the lesser evil compared to your comrades.

If you're going to survive in this job, you have to get used to Kafka bullying you. Don't worry, she does it to everyone, it's not just you. But signing up to become a Stellaron Hunter also means you sign up to a life of relentless teasing.

You roll your eyes at the feeling of a familiar gun barrel against your head. Kafka holds it against your temple firmly, but you know her finger isn’t anywhere near the trigger. It’s not like you’re Blade, who somehow survived getting thrown off a four-story building.

“Now who do we have here?” Kafka muses lazily. “A potential spy from the IPC? Or perhaps, one of the Xianzhou Cloud Knights?”

“Don’t fuck with me, Kafka,” you turn around, unimpressed. With one move, you pulled off your mask, glaring at her pointedly as you grab a bottle of water. “I know that thing isn’t loaded.”

“Oh, it’s you, [Name],” Your senior gasps mockingly, removing the gun. “When did you come in? I could’ve sworn an intruder-”

You throw the bottle at her. She dodges because of course she does.

And Kafka isn't even the least of your worries. At least she has a sense of financial responsibility.

There's no doubt that Silver Wolf is integral to the workings of the Stellaron Hunters, especially with her hacking abilities. She's certainly skilled with her work, and she has saved your ass many times before.

But sometimes, you have to play babysitter to her, because homegirl may or may not have a gambling addiction, especially when it comes to whatever those gacha games of hers. Whenever she visits the city's nearby arcade or casino, either you or Kafka have to be around so that she doesn't end up gambling all of your funds away. You would get Blade to do it, except he couldn't care less about your financial problems.

“Let me go! I’ve almost got it, I know I do!”

Silver Wolf kicked at your shoulders wildly as you hoisted her up. You paid her no mind as you left the arcade, Blade walking in tow. You kept a firm grip on his sleeve, making sure he didn’t run off and start any trouble. You saw the look he gave the claw machine. If you hadn’t dragged Silver Wolf away, he would’ve likely broken the thing out of impatience.

“I was so close!” The girl on your shoulder whined, like a kid who didn’t get their favorite toy.

“You already spent 500k on it,” you replied bluntly. “It’s a scam, don’t you know?”

“So what?” Silver Wolf retorted. “I would’ve won!”

“Yeah,” you shifted her up, your shoulder getting sore. You weren’t really built for hard labor. “After you spent another hundred thousand credits, sure.”

“I wasn’t!” She’d stopped fighting you, now hanging limply so that her entire weight pressed down on you. “I could’ve hacked it-”

“Really? You’d put that much effort into a claw machine?” Before Silver Wolf could argue, your phone dinged, as did Blade’s and Silver Wolf’s - successfully interrupting your bickering. You glanced at Blade as he checked his phone for the three of you.

“It’s Kafka,” he reported, typing out a quick response. “She says it’s time to go back.”

“Tell her we’ll be there in 10 minutes, if Silver stops her tantrum,” you said, looking pointedly at Silver Wolf. The hacker kicked you in response. 

“I am not throwing a tantrum,” she huffed. You rolled your eyes.

“Sure, whatever you say.”

Speaking of which, Blade is like your guard dog. A very intimidating guard dog. With a sword. And attitude issues.

Come to think of it, he's more like a cat if anything.

When he's not being launched at the faces of various enemies, Blade often finds himself acting as your shadow. He just follows you around, doesn't say anything, and the second he smells a whiff of a threat, the sword comes out and you have to talk him down before someone calls the cops.

It seems that you’re the only one unaffected by the suffocating tension clogging up the clothing store. There’s an obvious circle of space surrounding you and Blade as you browse through various suits, intent on finding one that would fit the man standing behind you. Elio’s next script required that Blade and Kafka go to a dinner party, and knowing Blade, the man didn’t have any clothes other than the ones you and the other Hunters got for him.

It wasn’t that Blade didn’t have an eye for fashion, rather, he simply didn’t care much for it. Shopping wasn’t exactly his cup of tea either. His hands itched for action, but he did have to admit that this was better than sulking around in his room all day.

You pulled out another suit that had caught your eye, a simple black one with a bronze lapel. It would fit the vest you’d already picked out for him. Holding it out in front of Blade, you squint as you try to picture what it’d look like on him.

Decent enough. You hummed in satisfaction, turning the suit around to show it to him. “What do you think?”

Blade shrugs, only giving the suit a brief glance. “It’s fine.”

You sigh, giving him a look. “Do you like it?”

“It isn’t the worst thing you’ve put me in,” he says nonchalantly. You huff, lightly hitting his chest. For a second, a glimmer of a smile flickers onto his face at your action.

“Watch your attitude,” you reprimand playfully. “Otherwise I’m giving you the shittiest suit I can find in here.”

“You wouldn’t,” Blade says easily as the two of you walk toward the cash registers. “Your heart couldn’t bear to do that to a face like mine.”

“Cheeky brat.”

You remember the day Blade was first brought to the base, picked up by Kafka and Elio like a stray cat. He had a strange resemblance to that of a drowned rat, being absolutely sopping wet.

Your seniors just kinda dropped him off into your room with the only instructions being "Make him look presentable", which didn't give you a lot to work with. You weren't sure how you were going to fix him, but after a lot of bathing, hair drying, and brushing, you soon discovered that the drowned rat had a pretty face.

So basically, you're the only reason why he looks remotely presentable.

And quite frankly, Blade does not make it easier on you. He doesn't care about how he looks, only how his enemies look - and that's dead and unmoving. Sir somehow manages to fuck up his fit every time he goes on mission, coming back with his very expensive clothes, mind you, covered in blood, and his hair messed up.

The audacity of him, to just walk into your room unannounced, clothes completely torn and hair a mess, and plop himself down on your perfectly clean chair and wait for you to fix him up. Granted, you'll do it (you wouldn't allow any of your comrades to leave without a decent haircut), but that doesn't mean you won't rattle his ear off with a scolding.

“Just what did you do to it this time?”

You grumbled as you cut away at Blade’s hair, the man in question sitting in your salon chair and scrolling through his phone. He had just come back from a mission, and this time he somehow managed to cut off the bottom half of his long locks, resulting in a horrendously uneven cut.

“You’re literally so photogenic and then you go and do this?” you huffed, blowing his hair into his face with a blowdryer.

“You can fix it, can’t you?” Blade didn’t even look up from his screen as he texted Silver Wolf, likely using this as an excuse to escape her pleas to game with her.

You scowl, venting your anger as you brushed his hair, cutting a few extra strands. “Just because I can, doesn’t mean I always have the time to do so! Now sit still.”

Oh, and another thing? There's no such thing as privacy when you're with the Stellaron Hunters.

You first learned this when you came back from a particularly grueling mission, early on in your career with the Hunters. You were covered in blood that wasn't (or was it?) yours, drenched from the rain and safe to say, not in the greatest of moods. All you wanted was to take a shower, and preferably, take an undisturbed nap on your warm bed.

Unfortunately, Kafka had other plans.

You opened the door to find her lounging on YOUR bed, IN THE DARK, ruffling through your makeup collection like it was normal. She didn't even seem bothered when you flicked on the light, didn't even acknowledge you until you threw a knife at her.

And what did she say when you made it abundantly clear that she shouldn't be in here? Nothing. She just scrunched up her nose and told you to take a shower.

And that is how you learned that having your own room is utterly useless because every single Hunter could pick a lock. You could try to use an electric one. Silver Wolf sure did. And to her credit, it worked, until a certain dog named Blade came around and just kicked the door down.

Out of all the Stellaron Hunters to creep around in your room, Sam was by far the worse. You could handle Kafka going through your makeup, or Blade judging your taste in books. You can deal with Elio having his fucking shoes on your bed because he's your boss and honestly what are you going to do against an actual seer? Exactly. Nothing. At least his shoes are usually clean.

But Sam? He doesn't visit so that he can go through your things, or just hang around. No. He comes around with the pure intention of scaring the shit out of you.

He just waits?? Outside your door?? In the dark?? Until you open it and he jumps you. It usually ends with someone getting punched, but honestly, it's nothing either of you couldn't handle.

Silver Wolf likes to pretend that she isn't as bad as the other because in her words, she "gives you a warning". Said warning is "You better be decent" before she barges in and starts rambling about the new game she bought.

One time you were not decent and someone had to pay the price. That someone was not you.

There is one good thing that comes out of all this invasion of privacy. Because whatever the others do to you, you get to do right back to them. 

“What does this button do?”

“Don’t touch that.” Kafka playfully whined as Silver Wolf snatched away the console in her hands. The hacker was less than pleased, having returned to her room only to discover that she’d been chosen as the Hunters’ victim for today.

You lean against Kafka’s shoulder, pouting alongside her at your latest toy being confiscated. “C’mon Silver, let us have some fun at least.”

“After you two invaded my room? Not a chance,” she replied, tossing the console to somewhere you and Kafka couldn’t reach. Kafka merely hummed at the loss, leaning back onto Silver Wolf’s messy bed.

“You know, you should really clean up around here,” she commented. “They nearly killed themselves tripping over a stack of DVDs.”

“Agreed, although I wouldn’t mention that last part,” you said, picking up another one of Silver Wolf’s consoles. This one had a fighting game on it. Silver Wolf rolled her eyes as you quickly busied yourself with fighting the boss she had left off on.

“If you don’t want to get hurt, then don’t come in,” she said, plopping down on the bed next to you. Kafka smiled.

“Sure, but where’s the fun in that?” she asked, watching you tap away at the screen. “It was just a suggestion, no need to get all worked up.”

“I’m not, but okay.” Silver Wolf hissed as your character took damage. “If you get my character killed-”

“I won’t,” you retorted, swiftly defeating the boss. You tossed Silver Wolf the console. “See?”

“You’re half dead,” Silver Wolf deadpanned.

“Doesn't matter. I still won.”

Your group chat is an absolute mess, with no one understanding Silver Wolf's slang or dialect. Blade's outdated brain short-circuited the first time he touched a phone, while Kafka just silently accepted her fate. You often have to translate because Silver Wolf sure wasn't going to.

Gambling Addict: Ykw blade

Gambling Addict: This is why u pull no bitches

Gambling Addict: Bc if [name] didnt yassify u 

Gambling Addict: U would have zero rizz

Gambling Addict: Negative rizz actually

You: I see no lie here

Gambling Addict: So stfu about my social life at least i can pull bitches

DONT PICK UP: [Name], translate

Gambling Addict: [Name] i have ur closet at gunpoint 

You: She means Blade can't attract maidens bc he has as much charisma as a blobfish

You: Also stfu silver I know you can't shoot for shit

Gambling Addict: [NAME]

Gambling Addict: Actually no, ur right

DONT PICK UP: Oh, I see

You: I'm always right 💅✨

DONT PICK UP: That does sound like Bladie

Gambling Addict: Listen

Gambling Addict: All i know is that blades been real quiet since i said that

Blade: Silver Wolf.

Gambling Addict: And so he speaks!

Blade: Count your days.

You like to fuck with the others by pretending to be them. Blade nearly murdered you because one time you got bored, and decided that slandering his nonexistent image would be ample entertainment.

In minutes, you turned yourself into Blade's lookalike, and spent the afternoon prancing around in a maid dress because what else were you going to use it for? Unfortunately, that also put you as a target for Blade's wrath. Fortunately, you have a lot of experience escaping people you pissed off.

Silver Wolf still has the pictures. Kafka laughed her ass off until you did the exact same thing to her. And that's when she started shooting.

"I can't believe you did this," you sniffed dramatically, fake tears falling from your face. In your hands was what used to be your pride and joy, the beautiful maid dress that you'd spent millions on (lie).

What used to be a gorgeous garment with frills and lace, was now in tatters from Kafka's bullets and Blade's sword. The two aforementioned culprits weren't the slightest bit guilty as they watched you lament over your clothes.

"You should've thought of that before you started walking around like that," Kafka blew at her smoking gun. Blade nodded firmly in agreement, holding his sword close to his chest.

"It was cute!" you huffed, shaking your head. You weren't actually mad at them. You could always buy another dress to mess with them. Besides, you already got what you wanted.

Your gaze met with Silver Wolf's, who grinned back, holding her phone in between her fingers.

None of the Stellaron Hunters know basic first aid, and that includes you. Most of you just slap on a few bandages, some weird smelling ointment, and call it a day. Silver Wolf doesn't even do that, she just downs three bowls of rice and walks off the broken arm like a Sunday hangover.

But one day, just as your luck would have it, you came back to base with an injury that you couldn't just bandage away. No one knew what to do, and you were bleeding out fast. So what did this hardened group of criminals do?

They googled it. They fucking googled it.

Silver Wolf deadass just searched up how to fix you while you were bleeding out next to her. Kafka, to her credit, did hold your hand to try and comfort you (albeit mockingly), and Blade just stood back and watched. If Elio foresaw a way to help you, well, he didn't say anything.

But it all turned out all right in the end. Eventually, Silver Wolf gave up and simply shoved a bowl of her fried rice in front of you. You still don't know how or why, but it somehow worked. It shouldn't have, but it did.

The scene in front of you reminded you of a bunch of school children watching a chemistry experiment for the first time. The Stellaron Hunters crowded around you, eyes trained onto your closing wound with unnerving fascination. Even Blade, who rarely had any emotion at all, was watching you with the faintest glimmer of awe.

"What the hell did you put in that thing?" you turned in disbelief to Silver Wolf, the only unphased person in the room. The hacker was already somewhere else, her thumbs tapping rapidly as she played another one of her rhythm games.

"Trash."

"WHAT." You almost throttled her before she quickly teleported a safe distance away, clutching her phone to her chest.

"Kidding, kidding, no need to get all worked up!" She sighed, clearing a level without looking.

"Just some solid water and protein rice, that's all."

"You mean ice?" You swatted at Kafka, who was poking at where your wound used to be.

"No."

Safe to say, the Stellaron Hunters are an... interesting bunch, to put it lightly. They're all assholes, including you, and seem to thrive over inconveniencing each other. The only time you all can somewhat work together is when you're acting out one of Elio's scripts.

But you'd be lying if you said you hated working at this job. You live for the thrill of things, and being a Hunter was the most fun you've had in a long, long time, even if your coworkers occasionally annoyed you to death.

None of you would ever say it aloud, but you wouldn't trade each other for anything in the world.

[rocks-in-space]

This episode of Burrow's End was absolutely incredible (I just started watching D20 and I'm losing it. This isn't scripted how is it so incredible? Like one of the best-"written" things I've ever seen).

So much happened, but I have to wonder if the whole stoats possibly intentionally causing a nuclear meltdown was in any way inspired by the time a weasel (and later, a marten) temporarily shut down the CERN Large Hadron Collider by chewing through wires.

See this article, which contains the incredible line, "It is unclear whether the animals are trying to stop humanity from unlocking the secrets of the universe."

Raccoons also once attacked the Fermilab particle accelerator, leading to this official report from the lab:

"At 1:24 a.m., Operations reported a raccoon attack in the Linac gallery. It seemed to be a coordinated effort. Fortunately, by 1:53 AM, a joint force of operators and Pbar experts managed to drive the raccoons out of their hastily made fortifications. Then at 4:18 p.m., the raccoons made what some thought to be a counterattack on the Division Headquarters, but others believed it to be only a simple reconnaissance incursion. No raccoons were either injured or captured during these encounters. Operator losses were low."

[bettercallstan]

V.II Snail - Second to One

Armoured Core 6 has an excellent story. The themes are well realised, the plot flows naturally, the world is coherent, but most of all the characters are layered and consistent. When you ask people who their favourite character from the game was most people will pick either V.IV Rusty, Handler Walter, Ayre, G1 Michigan, or G5 Iguazu. Armoured Core 6 has three endings and four major antagonists. The Fires of Raven ending has Ayre as the central antagonist, Alexa Lacta Est has Iguazu and Allmind, but the Liberator of Rubicon ending likely has the best antagonist in V.II Snail. Snail is the second in command of Arquebus’ Vespers and is often cited as a well written but fairly two dimensional character.

The first time Snail is introduced is just before Operation Wallclimber, where Walter is negotiating to send independent mercenary C4-621 on the mission. During the conversation Walter says ‘I hear you’re deploying V.I again. Must be rough having only one good pilot to rely on.’ He says this to insult Snail, as V.I Freud is the only person Snail can never be better than. Freud is ranked number one in the arena, he’s the highest ranked Vesper, and he’s both of those things without any of the augmentation that makes piloting an AC even possible for most people. Snail has many augments but despite that he can never catch up to Freud. In response Snail says ‘Are you suggesting your dog can take Freud’s place?’ This line is very interesting due to the similarities between Freud and 621. Freud may be the highest ranked Vesper but he isn’t loyal to Arquebus; he’s an expert AC pilot who only cares about getting to fight people he deems to be worthy opponents. 621 – the player’s avatar – is much the same, as what else is the player here for but for cool mech fights? Equally, 621 is a Gen 4 augmented human, a generation seen as outdated and subpar. So whilst not unaugmented, 621 needs significantly less augments than Snail to pilot an AC at the same level of mastery as Freud. Snail likely sees Freud in 621, and this is why he chooses to let 621 take Freud’s place on Operation Wallclimber. During the fight with the Juggernaut, Snail lies to V.IV Rusty about needing him to intercept incoming reinforcements, which causes him to leave 621 to fight the Juggernaut alone. Unfortunately for Snail, 621 wins, his plan fails.

After this failure, Snail becomes much less antagonistic towards 621. He takes a back seat in the story until the final mission of Chapter 3, Destroy the Ice Worm. In this mission Arquebus and Balam have agreed to cooperate, with Balam leading the mission under the command of G1 Michigan. Snail manages to nab himself the position of ground leader, and works with 621 and three other AC pilots to take down the Ice Worm. He’s mostly absent during Chapter 4’s descent into Watchpoint Alpha, because Arquebus have agreed to let Balam take the first shot at reaching the convergence. In fact Arquebus don’t even enter the watchpoint until halfway through the chapter. This is important as Snail seems to represent the ideology of Arquebus. His callsign – Snail. Snails are best known for being slow, and both Arquebus and Snail seem to embody the ‘slow and steady wins the race,’ mentality. This can best be seen when Snail lets his colleague V.VI Maeterlinck die so that 621 can defeat the Ibis series CEL-240 that guards the convergence. After the CEL-240 is downed, Snail ambushes 621 at the opportune moment and captures them, much like how Arquebus waited for the opportune moment to take down Balam by killing G1 Michigan earlier in the chapter.

At the beginning of Chapter 5, 621 escapes the Arquebus reeducation that Snail himself oversees. If that wasn’t already enough of an embarrassment, the player can choose to fight him on the Xylem and destroy his AC or ignore him. Both of these are incredibly humiliating for Snail; either he got his AC destroyed by an outdated pilot, or said pilot decided he wasn’t even worth their time. The other side of Snail’s callsign is that Snails are small, weak creatures that retreat into their shell when they feel threatened. In response to the incident on the Xylem, Snail retrieves the prototype Arquebus Balteus to try and finally put 621 to rest. This is a perfect conclusion for his character for a few reasons. Firstly, the main gimmick of the Balteus mech is its pulse armour; a spherical pulse shield that protects the mech from all damage, much like the shell of a Snail. But secondly, it relates back to his god complex being born of a feeling of inferiority. Snail sees Freud in 621 but even with this immensely powerful mech at his disposal, he can never overcome 621. He still loses. During his final fight he says ‘Raven the independent mercenary, you’re not the mutt I thought you were. You’re below that, you are vermin!’ During his conversation with Walter he called him a ‘meagre dog-sitter,’ so this shows how his hatred of 621 has deepened; he started off derogating 621 as just a dog, but now sees him as even worse than that because the only way he can feel better about himself is to put others down. No matter how hard he tries he can never be better than Freud or 621, so the only course is to bring them down to his level. During the fight he goes on a tirade, saying ‘Out of my sight vermin! That traitor V.IV, those dolts at command, but worst of all – you! The pest of Rubicon who stirred the cinders, you sicken me, all of you! I’ll crush you underfoot, I am Arquebus!’ Being stepped on is a common fear for Snails, so it seems he may be projecting somewhat here. Snails are incapable of ever crushing anything underfoot, just like how Snail can never beat 621 like he wants to.

However, the most interesting line to me is when he says ‘I am Arquebus.’ It’s worth noting that whilst Freud is V.I, Snail is the one with the power. Freud just does what he’s told if it involves cool mech fights, Snail is the one calling the shots at the Vespers. In practice he is the highest ranked member of Arquebus that we see in game. During his final fight, Rusty says ‘Snail may be V.II but he’s second to none.’ This is interesting because we know for a fact that’s not true – Freud is canonically the better pilot in every way that matters. What this actually tells us is that Snail, whilst not as skilled as Freud, was still skilled enough to gain Rusty’s respect. Snail had everything. He was respected as an ace pilot, he was in charge of the Vespers and of his rival, but he couldn’t see any of it because he wasn’t V.I. He was so obsessed with something that ultimately didn’t really matter that he failed to see just how much he has because at his core he is greedy, nothing he gets will ever be enough to satiate his inferiority complex, and it manifests in an arrogant, god complex personality that no one wants to be around. He ever says that 621’s greatest crime is trying to kill or ignore him. He can’t see how 621’s actions affect anything other than himself, and ultimately he dies inside Balteus for this failing.

In conclusion, V.II Snail is not as two dimensional as people say. He isn’t just arrogant, he isn’t just a man with a god complex. His character goes much, much deeper than that, and it’s one of the many reasons why I believe him to be Armoured Core 6’s best villain.

[nenelonomh]

emotional intelligence

emotional intelligence is your ability to perceive, understand, manage and use your own emotions in positive ways to relieve stress, communicate effectively, empathize with others, overcome challenges, and defuse conflict. it involves a set of skills that help you recognise, understand, and influence the emotions of yourself and others.

the key components of emotional intelligence are self-awareness, self-regulation, motivation, empathy, and social skills. emotional intelligence is considered a critical factor for success in life because it helps you navigate social complexities, lead and motivate others, and excel in your personal and professional life. some experts suggest that emotional intelligence can be learned and strengthened, while others believe it is an innate characteristic.

an example of emotional intelligence in action is the ability to approach situations in a healthy, curious manner rather than an angry frustrated one. instead of reprimanding when someone is not acting according to standard, you can ask the person if everything is okay and listen attentively, understanding that there can be external factors affecting the other's behaviour.

by managing your emotions, and remaining calm and supportive during similar conversations, you can create a safe space for the other person to open up, and solve issues without further drama or difficulties. after you learn the change in their behaviour, you can offer support and adjust your actions to accommodate for the other persons needs.

if everyone practised a little more emotional intelligence, the world would wholly be a better place.

but let me stress this: emotional intelligence does not in any way mean changing yourself so other people can operate better. it is not being nice, it is having empathy and awareness.

let's further explore the different aspects of emotional intelligence:

self-awareness: the ability to recognise your own emotions and how they affect your thoughts and behaviour.

self-regulation: being able to manage your emotions and adapt to challenging circumstances.

motivation: to harness emotions to stay focused on your personal goals.

empathy: the ability to understand the emotions of others and respond appropriately.

social skills: to be able to build and maintain good relationships through effective communication and conflict resolution.

i already touched on misunderstanding emotional intelligence as simply being nice, but there are several common mistakes that can hinder emotional intelligence.

high emotional intelligence can sometimes be used manipulatively, influencing others without considering their best interests. this is not right! while manipulation may yield immediate results, it can have long-term negative consequences. it creates a toxic environment, hinders genuine connection and stifles growth. not to mention that depending on the context, manipulative behaviour can have legal consequences and lead to social ostracism.

emotional intelligence requires openness and vulnerability, and being too guarded can prevent the development of meaningful relationships. being guarded limits self-awareness, which is a key component of emotional intelligence. it does this by not allowing you to fully acknowledge or understand your own emotions.

to end on a more positive note, here is how you can build stronger emotional intelligence:

practice active listening: pay attention to what others are saying without interrupting. listen to understand, not just to respond.

emotional awareness: acknowledge your emotions, especially the uncomfortable ones. accept them as a normal part of life and learn from them.

identify emotions within others: pay attention to body language, tone of voice, and facial expressions to better understand how others are feeling.

understand your stressors: know what triggers your stress and build strategies to manage it. this can help you to remain calm and clear-headed in challenging situations.

healthily channel your emotions: find constructive outlets for your emotions, such as exercise, meditation, or creative activities. engaging in creative tasks allows for contemplation, giving you the space to reassess problems in your life and make plans.

develop empathy: try to see things from others' perspectives. empathy builds connection and trust.

improve social skills: work on communication, conflict resolution and cooperation. these skills are vital for building strong relationships.

self-regulation: learn to control impulsive feelings and behaviours. pause and think before acting. self-regulation leads to better decision-making and letting you avoid impulsive reactions that you might regret later. it enables you to handle pressures and challenges effectively.

self-reflection: regularly reflect on your behaviour and emotions. ask yourself why you do the things you do and how you can improve.

seek feedback. be open to constructive criticism and use it as a means to grow. ask trusted friends or colleagues for their honest opinions about your behaviour.

remember that emotional intelligence is not fixed; it can be developed and enhanced over time with practice and commitment. by focusing on these areas of improvement, you can increase your emotional intelligence, improving your interactions and relationships in all areas of life.

i hope today's post was helpful! ❤️ nene

(photo credit: pinterest)

[caliber8info]

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[mysteryshoptls]

SR Ortho Shroud - Apprentice Chef Vignette

"Master Chef"

[Cafeteria – Judging Venue]

Master Chef ― Ortho Version ～Let’s Make Loco Moco 1～

―A short while before cooking begins

Ortho: ―Energy inspection complete. All functions, including the cooking and processing units, are operating normally.

Ortho: Everything activates without a hitch, great. I tried to make my exterior look similar to my brother's outfit when he took the class, does it look weird at all?

Azul: It looks fantastic on you, Ortho-san. However, I never expected to see you take an interest in cooking… I'm a little taken aback.

Ortho: It's only recently piqued my interest. Sometimes I hear my classmates swapping kitchen horror stories, you see.

Ortho: When someone said, "cooking is way too high level for newbies," it suddenly made me want to try to win against it… Which resulted in this gear being developed.

Azul: I see. And if you are to do a trial run of that gear here, the Master Chef course would be the best opportunity to do so.

Ortho: Exactly! I knew you'd get it, Azul-san.

Ortho: Not only can this gear cook food, but it's built with many other functions to manage proper nutrition or count calories and the like.

Ortho: I plan on getting the expert chef to check out my functions and test out what all would be useful for cooking!

Azul: I can see you're raring to go. Then, I'll wish us both luck.

Ortho: Yeah!

[Kitchen]

Ghost Chef: We'll have you make the "Loco Moco" dish for us today, Ortho-kun.

Ghost Chef: First, we'll have to prep the onions that'll be mixed into the hamburger meat. Do you know how to mince?

Ortho: Okay, I got this!

Ortho: ―Begining cooking procedures. Activating the Cooking Gear's Food Slicer Unit.

[whirrr… fsshhh…!]

Ghost Chef: H-HUUUUUUUUUUH!? HE TRANSFORMED!!?

Ortho: First, I need to adjust the shape so it will be easier to prepare. I need to swing vertically over the onion and… slice it in half!

Ortho: Great, looks like my knife is sharp enough! Umm, since this is for mixing in with hamburger meat…

Ortho: ―Executing command: "Target ingredient: Onion / Processing Method: Mince / Configuration: 3mm Squares"

Ghost Chef: W-Wow… The onion was finely chopped up in no time flat…!

Ortho: …Whew, I've finished with the onion. Will these be sufficient?

Ghost Chef: Y-Yeah, it's cut expertly, but… What exactly is that round blade that came out of your glove…?

Ortho: I took an industrial-grade cutter and downsized it so it could be used in cooking.

Ortho: It releases water as it cuts. This removes the necessity to clean both the blade and the ingredient.

Ghost Chef: You've sure come up with something interesting. But this is just too far removed from traditional cooking methods… Hmm.

Ortho: Different tools shouldn't cause any deviation from the recipe, though… Or should I have used a knife?

Ghost Chef: Well, I guess for your case, you have to cook like that… So I'll make an exception this time.

Ortho: Yay～! Okay then, I'm ready for the next part of the class!

Ortho: ―Activating Heat Sensor Camera. Calculating the temperature of the stir-fried onions… 38.2°C. Current temperature is 41°C lower than last measurement.

Ortho: According to my database, the best temperature range to continue cooking at after letting the dish simmer down is between 38～44°C. Chef, can we continue with the next step?

Ghost Chef: Sure, that's fine. So, next, take the ground meat, onions, and spices to form your hamburgers.

Ortho: Understood! ―Executing Command: Deploy Hand-Coating Gloves.

Ghost Chef: Woah! And now suddenly there are gloves attached to your hands. Is this another one of your technological applications?

Ortho: I'm using something similar to shrink wrap for this. It'd be pretty tough to do maintenance if my joints got dirtied.

Ghost Chef: Ah, that I can understand. It's just like how it's troublesome to have to wash everything that climbed up inside of an eggbeater.

Ortho: I thought as much. In the future, I'd like to equip some functions that would handle this effectively, but… This time, I want to try to knead it by hand

Ghost Chef: And why is that?

Ortho: It sounds like when my brother took this course, he didn't like this specific task.

Ortho: So I thought it'd be good to know the source of his stress, so I could factor that into the eventual kneading function…

[squish…]

Ortho: Hmm, maybe he didn't like how it felt when he touched it? Probably means if I can automate this task, everything'll be solved!

Ghost Chef: Sounds like you've figured out your answer, Ortho-kun.

Ghost Chef: By the way, your brother is Idia-kun, right? Has he changed at all since taking the course?

Ortho: Hmm, I don't think anything changed. He still doesn't really care about food at all…

Ortho: …Oh yeah! Maybe I can use this Cooking Gear to help improve his eating habits.

Ghost Chef: Eh!? You made all these functions without actually knowing what you'd use it for in the first place?

Ortho: Ehehe, so actually… I just made this because I wanted to "win at cooking!" So I didn't really have a particular use for it in mind.

Ghost Chef: Well, I guess that's a good enough reason to start. Also, even if it is an afterthought, I'm glad that you have a goal to strive for now.

Ortho: Yeah. Alright… Now I have to start improving this gear so I can make food that my brother'll want to eat!

[Kitchen]

Master Chef ― Ortho Version ～Let’s Make Loco Moco 2～

Ghost Chef: While we wait for the hamburger to cook, you can prepare the toppings. We'll garnish with cabbage and mini tomatoes for this dish.

Ghost Chef: The cabbage needs to be shredded, so… Are you able to adjust your cutting size in 0.1mm increments?

Ortho: By design, I should be able to. I would like to test it for myself, so could you tell me the specific size you're looking for?

Ghost Chef: Then, if you can, slice at 1.6mm.

Ortho: Got it!

Ortho: ―Executing command: "Target ingredient: Cabbage / Processing Method: Slice / Thickness Configuration: 1.6mm"

Ghost Chef: Woooah, very good! It was surprising when I first saw all this, but now it's really nice to see how quick and accurately you can cut.

Ortho: Simple tasks like these are a machine's strong point, after all! …Okay, I'm done! I wonder how the hamburger is coming along?

Ortho: ―Activating Heat Sensor Camera. Frying pan is holding steady at 16°C. Hamburger internal temperature: 34.5°C.

Ghost Chef: That's a pretty handy function, too. You don't need to take the lid off the frying pan to check how it's cooking, so there's no drop in temperature.

Ghost Chef: …Ah, oops. I let myself get a little too distracted watching your really neat functions.

Ghost Chef: Normally, it would take more time to prepare the toppings, but you're moving along smoothly.

Ortho: Ah! Then, while we wait for the hamburger to cook, can you explain to me more about the toppings?

Ortho: Cause toppings are kind of like power-ups from a video game, right? You don't really need them but it's better to have them.

Ortho: That's why I bet if I could know which toppings are the most filling, I could make my cooking even more efficient.

Ghost Chef: Hmm, that's a difficult question. It can vary depending on what you have on hand, and what you feel like using.

Ghost Chef: For example, I wanted to make sure there was nutritional balance, so this dish uses vegetables as a topping.

Ortho: If we were to remove the vegetables from this recipe… The vitamin intake would be reduced by 75%. It really would lose that nutritional balance.

Ghost Chef: In the past, I would serve it as a salad on the side, but there were so many kids who wouldn't even touch it, because they didn't want veggies.

Ortho: I get it, you revised the process fundamentally to help resolve your problem. I think that's a very reasonable method.

Ghost Chef: Haha, thank you. Yes, I'm glad I changed it up like this.

Ortho: Changes, hm… If I want to be able to add that as a possible function to the Cooking Gear, I'll have to gather a lot more data.

Ortho: If I can learn to swap out ingredients, it might help in dealing with my brother's bad eating habits.

Ortho: The more I learn about cooking, the more I can see all sorts of possible challenges, just like in a video game.

Ortho: ―And finally, I set the egg on top… Done! It's made to look like the dish I saw as the top hit in an image search.

Ghost Chef: Nice, you've plated it so beautifully and deliciously. I guess it's time for you to take it to the judging venue, then.

Ortho: Okay! I can't wait to see how the judge will react～

[Cafeteria – Judging Venue]

Leona: Ughh… What a pain. Why do I need to be a judge for this Master Chef thing…?

Ortho: Sorry to keep you waiting! Oh, I see you were the one to order this dish, then.

Ortho: Here you go, this is the Loco Moco you requested! Please, enjoy!

Ortho: I want to use your assessment of the dish to help improve my Cooking Gear, so please be as candid as possible.

Leona: …Hey. Why're there vegetables in this loco moco? There wasn't any last time I ordered it.

Ortho: I heard this was a change made to help people eat their veggies. Great, right?

Leona: …Tch, way to do something completely unnecessary.

[bite, chew, chew, chew…]

Ortho: I followed the recipe exactly as it was written, so there shouldn't be any issues with the flavor… What do you think?

Leona: The hamburger and the gravy sauce taste fine. But because of all the veggies you threw in there, it shouldn't even get a single point.

Ortho: Ehhh, why!? I made sure to follow the recipe and throw in the right amount, size, and cooking time for all the ingredients!

Leona: Why should I care? All that matters is the judge's opinion, yeah? The recipe means nothin' if it don't suit my taste.

Ortho: …So without considering any of the general judging criteria, this dish "doesn't taste good" to you?

Leona: Basically. But hey, maybe you coulda gotten high marks if you'd just left the veg out like it's always been made.

Ortho: By adding the vegetables, it gave the dish a better nutritional balance. But Leona-san would have preferred no vegetables…

Leona: Geez, can't believe you'd just ruin a good meal like that. Since the judging's over, I'm outta here.

Ortho: Ah, he left…  I can't really understand how someone could say a dish that satisfies nutritional needs "doesn't taste good."

Ghost Chef: Leona-kun must really hate vegetables, if he couldn't get past even this small addition.

Ortho: Ah, I should have asked why he hates vegetables to help me with figuring out how to change up recipes!

Ghost Chef: Ortho-kun… Are you actually happy with that result?

Ortho: Yes! The more data I can gather on any issues, the better I can improve my Cooking Gear!

Ghost Chef: Well, I guess I'm glad you're not sad after hearing that, but… Why does that make you that excited?

Ortho: Leona-san was already unhappy with the dish even before tasting it. That means he had already decided it wouldn't taste good just from looking at it.

Ortho: The challenge rating just shot up, now that I have to keep an eye on visual aesthetics, taste and nutrition… Of course that gets me super pumped up!

Ortho: I might be a long way away from being able to tackle my brother's bad eating habits, but… I'll definitely do my best to make my Cooking Gear even better!

Requested by Anonymous.

[i-am-vita]

A Diversion Dance 💃

A Mihawk x Oc Ghost Rose

👉 Main Masterlist

Based on my OPLA older guysxfemreader headcanons and this inspiration right here.

It just took a month and a half but it's finally done... the first part. Writing directly in a second language is not helping.

.

Summary: One year ago, you came out of semi-retirement to help the Phantom Pirates infiltrate the Hacienda of a famous Wine Producer during a party to recover and destroy some information. But you had to resort to some last minute diversions to maintain certain Warlord from a business meeting at the office being robbed by your crew. Warnings: SFW but sexy, some swearing (I managed to not used fuck that much). Use of You not y/n. Female Oc. Still probably Bad English. Consistent Time Tenses who? Expect: White collar robbery, falling while dancing, over the top improvised dance choreography, Cinderella trope but with smooches and eventual fighting, she's falling first (and in denial) but he'll fall harder, Mask of Zorro aesthetic.

.

1 year ago...

The probability of a Warlord walking to any ball, specially one in honor of the local Marine Base, was low but never zero.

Especially when you knew there was a Warlord’s meeting that day somewhere else, far away enough.

Unless of course that warlord was Dracule Mihawk whom you'd soon learn never assisted to those meetings but of fucking course would assist to a party hosted by the most famous wine producer in the Grand Line. The same wine producer who was being used by some associates as a cover for intel dealings regarding the Revolutionaries secret bases. The intel your Captain was handsomely paid to acquire and destroy. The same wine producer Mihawk was so interested to strike a deal regarding a cargo of their wines to be shipped to his residence.

You hated to do diversions but there was really no other option. Your two crewmates experts in it were already working on their own targets.

Meg having the two high officers most dangerous for the mission eating from her hand thanks to her perfumes that none of them would notice a stampede in the middle of the ballroom.

Meanwhile, Raoul had just disappeared with the party's Host to a little rendezvous in his office where he would confirm their intel of the layout of the place and hide the Den Den Mushi Transmitter which will deactivate the security on the windows so your infiltrators could get inside and steal the information from the concealed drawer in the desk and other goods.

Normally it would be you leading the infiltrating team but then Carlotta, dressed as a maid, almost shouted through her Den Den Mushi Comm of HIM having just entered the hall.

And now only one decision was there to make: the red or the black dress?

"Apologies, Warlord, my boss is currently setting up some business in his office with another... interested party." Your maid-crewmate heard the Butler explain nervously. "But of course we'll escort you to his presence as soon as he's finished. Meanwhile you're very welcome to the party. There're samples of our best harvests for you to try."

Well, fuck.

That would undo all your timing and ruin the entire operation. Who knows when you will have another opportunity to infiltrate the Hacienda this easily.

Your crew is so efficient and low profile that the Marine have connected you to just a handful of the real amount of your thieveries through the years. You were sure if the World Gobernment realize how much fuck up they really were thanks to the Phantom Pirates, your bounties'd be thripled.

And neither of you wanted that.

So the red dress it was.

.

Mihawk will never admit it to you until years later, but he saw you the moment you set foot in the ballroom. The daring color of your dress a startling contrast with the white of the marine officers and the most tamed and proper colors of the other guests, like a drop of blood over fresh snow. The asymmetrical cut of the skirt allowed the view of a long shapely leg encased in black stocking but not up enough to show its laces. Your face partially obscured by a lace half mask over your eyes and cheekbones like most of the guests.

He averted his gaze before you had the opportunity to make eye contact with him. Giving back his attention to the sommelier who was currently presenting him a collection of sweet wines the Warlord didn’t ask for (and boring him to hell) but still followed your path with the corner of his eye. Several gentlemen being equally ensnared by your entrance and trying to draw your attention or get a dance.

But you were set to one objective: lure Dracule Mihawk enough time for your team to break in and out of the office as soon as Raoul gave them the signal after the Host returned to the party.

Fuck, you really hated diversions.

Mostly because it implied being VERY close to certain unsavory or immoral characters that you'd rather cut their throat than make polite conversation.

Although, if there was a time for you to finally have to divert someone, there were worse options than the infamous Dracule Mihawk.

Your crew tends to keep his distance from the Warlords as the Phantom Pirates, your captain preferring to maintain any contact with the World Government and its associates through his real identity as a noble.

But thanks to Shanks, you may know a thing or two about the World’s Best Swordsman.

He’s a somber son of a gun. Gettin’ a smile out of that guy is like pulling out teeth. It’s all that stuffy dry red wine he likes. He’d totally like you! You two would hit it off!

How would you pull that off? You have no idea but if the Redhead wasn't right about his former rival, you were going to scrag him the next time you see him.

The Warlord certainly has the look of someone who you wouldn’t mind being approached by. His old bounty posters failed to state the real air of elegance he exudes, even from afar. His clothes, while stylish, didn’t seem appropriate for an up class ball. An open white ruffle shirt that showed off his muscled chest almost as much as if he weren’t wearing it, a golden cross pendant glowing in the candle lights. Black pants tucked in pristine tall black boots. His signature hat and coat were missing but a dark long cape hung from his shoulders embracing his figure in more darkness. Not helping with his look of power and danger. Certainly the great sword at his back added to it, the most famous Yoru. Does he ever take it off?

You arrived at the bar with as much nonchalance as you were capable and was immediately invited by the sommelier to have some of their product, who seemed to be so much into his exposition of sweet reds to not notice the growing irritation of his patron.

"Madam, would you care for a taste of our Starlight Night. The passing of a comet that year gave us a unique harvest like never before." And proceed to explain to you the importance of the stars’ position while harvesting. You like wine as much as the next person but your knowledge was limited to the type you liked and disliked. The man didn’t even bother to ask your preference and all his verbiage was making you a little edgy.

You have a job to do and this newbie was getting on your nerves, not to mention Mihawk looked like walking away any second, glass of his preferred wine be damned. You smiled broadly and gave an exaggerated gesture with a shoulder that you knew enhanced the line of your neck.

"Ohh, how thoughtful, sir. We've heard wonders of this exact method." You said with fake affectation accepting the glass. "Perhaps you'll be so kind as to explain it to my colleagues." You pointed to a group of guests at the other side of the ballroom.

The employee didn't take long to follow your suggestion and left with a trail of glasses and bottle for his next marketing victim.

With the useless fool finally out of his sight (really, what was doing such an amateur attending potential customers?), he took one of the bottles whose label convinced him the most and served himself a glass to finally have a taste of dryness and spices in his tongue to try to get rid of the bitterness of having to wait in this forsaken party of social climbers.

A loud sight from you got him out of his musings.

"I hate nothing more than an overseller.” You tested giving a side glance to the Warlord. “If their product is that good they wouldn't need such storytelling, would they?"

That got you Dracule's attention who turned his golden gaze towards you and raised an eyebrow. You could feel a not so unpleasant chill down your back at his intensity.

"Clever technique. I was considering just cutting the fool in half to shut him up." You couldn't hide a smirk at his dry humor, although unclear if it was a joke at all.

You took a sip of the dark liquid in your glass, getting a taste of unexpected sweetness, fruity and floral flavors.

"Well, our mutual wasn't as full of shit as I thought." You mentioned giving another sip to the sweet wine. By the Warlord's expression, you knew he totally differed. "Not keen on sweet wine, are you, my Lord?"

He gave you a little smirk and a side glance. You took another sip in defiance.

"I'm keen on red wine not berries juice."

This time you did have to control yourself to not let out a laugh and spit the wine still in your mouth, it coming out as a very undignified snort. You gave the man a playful killing glare over your glass that had the effect of widen his smirk.

Ha! Take that, Redhead!

Mihawk was feeling... surprisingly amused by this little interaction.

The amount of people capable of holding his gaze, let alone daring to joke with him was less than the fingers of one hand. Still, he could recognize an attempt at seduction no matter how subtle but the even fewer women who dared to approach him usually played a more submissive role.

He liked your boldness.

And the fact you look exactly like his type of woman with perfect golden tan skin, long legs and curvaceous figure… A shame he has no time for a rendezvous tonight, eager to get his business done and go on his merry way away from this Marine reeking party.

"So... What brings a man of your notoriety to this gathering, my Lord. Certainly not the honorable guests or the sparkling conversations." You said pointing with your head to the surrounding Marines who gave distasteful looks at his direction between murmurs and sips of wine.

Another raised eyebrow and what you hoped was an interested stare. So you did know about his status and reputation and yet were completely unafraid of approaching him.

"Only business. I wasn't aware of this little gathering." He said pointing at the ballroom with distaste in his voice. "Not my favorite type of... companionship. Although, the conversation may be... improving. Even if you have an abysmal taste in wine, my Lady."

Well, you didn't completely suck at this, you thought while still siping the sweet red with a challenging smirk of your own.

With the corner of your eye, you managed to catch a glimpse of Raoul coming inside the room, the Host mere steps behind with his Butler whispering in his ear. Your eyes found those of your maid-disguised crewmate, Carlotta, who gave you a small nod.

The clock was running from now on.

Several couples had just started to dance to the new song of the orchestra when you were hit by a burst of inspiration.

"May I have this dance, my Lord. Kill some time before your business meeting?"

You know you’re not the best at small talk and pretending attraction for someone but you love to dance… and you’d rather not think of the small pull you felt towards the Warlord as attraction at all.

"... Why not?" He answered by raising his hand in an inviting gesture. You couldn’t hide a small smile of relief and parted with your glass of wine to reciprocate his gesture.

Mihawk seized the moment to take your hand towards his mouth to place a light kiss. His yellow irises catched a small flush on your cheeks and an intake of air through your half parted lips.

He guided you to the dancefloor into a perfect waltz stance before leading you through it with long strides and wide swirls following the lively tempo created by the strings of guitars and mandolins.

The familiar dance steps lured you into a comfort state. It took you a few seconds to realize how was it possible, being in the arms of one of the most dangerous men in the world and any misstep in this heist potentially leading to a catastrophe to your crew, until it dawned on you.

Dracule Mihawk was an excellent dancer.

It wasn’t just the proper following of the steps but his gracefulness and fluidity and how he guided your body through it like an extension of his own.

What kind of swordsman would I be if I didn’t have perfect stance and footing? A memory came from so far away. Of the intense dark eyes of another man deep in your past, of that first time you set foot in a ballroom. How much you despised the process of it all until that young gentleman asked for your first dance…

"Something on your mind, my Lady?" Mihawk’s voice brought you back to the present and to the intensity of his own golden eyes.

"Apologies, my Lord, my mind wandered for a second."

"Oh? To whom may I ask?"

"Jealous, Lord Dracule?" You teased smirking playfully. You were aware you couldn't just lie to his face. One didn't come as high as him by taking any bullshit. So half truths it was. "Just... I was thinking how much I missed certain things in this life. I can go without all the pomp and small talk of these gatherings but I did miss... this."

Mihawk didn't expect such a candid answer. He could tell by the subtle change in your voice that your yearning was sincere.

"This...?"

"A good dance partner..." The thrill of the chase, the adrenaline of the lurking danger, your traitorous mind offered while starting to get lost in the eyes of one of the most powerful men in all the Blues.

"Have you been apart from this life for a while?"

"Certain responsibilities have kept me away from... indulging these past years. This is an extraordinary occasion."

"Extraordinary indeed..."

Who were you? He wondered while resisting the desire to bring you nearer to him and inhale that subtle fruity and flowery scent from your hair, much like that awful sweet wine you seemed so fond of. Certainly not a debutante seeking a match. Your beauty more akin to full maturity, probably closer to his own age.

Nor a widow, especially those of the upper class who tended to show off more of their riches on their bodies yet you were mostly unadorned save for a modest dark lace with a rose pendant on your neck. The same dark lace that adorned more than hid the upper half of your face. No earrings or bracelets. Although, were those steel rings on each of your middle fingers? Not gold or silver.

Or were you one of those unattached women who seek the protection of powerful men? No, you had mentioned certain responsibilities keeping you from indulging. The fact you have forgone gloves was telling. Your hands, while elegant, weren’t those of an upper class lady, with short and practical manicured nails, skin lightly calloused in certain places more akin to someone who worked with certain instruments. A business woman looking for some distraction?

Whatever of the above, at this stage most women were already trying their best tricks to lure him. Eyelash shakes, sultry smiles, casual intimate touches. Mostly pathetic and boring. Or were you so sure of your beauty to take this more neutral stance and wait until your natural allure and witt worked on him?

And then getting lost in your thoughts in the middle of dancing after being the one to ask him. Was what you said all you were looking for? A good dance partner or a dance partner?

Certainly he was so full of himself as to feel a little insulted that the first woman who caught his eye in years wasn’t actively seducing him by now even if he had no intention of letting himself be seduced that night and would walk away after this little distraction.

The waltz came to its end with both of you maintaining a proper pose and distance despite the intensity of his stare awakening a desire for nearness. The couples undid their poses to applaud the orchestra, giving you a moment to break contact with the deep golden gaze of the Warlord to collect yourself.

Over the shoulder of your dance partner, you saw Raoul making a circular move with his hand, signing you to keep going.

You noticed the Warlord's eyes scanning the crowd, no doubt looking for the Butler who would take him to his meeting at the office currently being robbed by your crewmates.

Time for the big guns.

"Would you care to try something more... robust, my Lord?"

That had the power to hold Mihawk's attention back to you. That spark of challenge in your eyes again. He had seen that same spark in many others who sought to duel with him.

So intriguing.

"Do you feel an equal to the task, my Lady?"

You gave him a wink and signal for a maid who approached you, whispered something to her and sent her to the small orchestra near the corner.

You guided Dracule to the center of the emptying dance floor, your arm extended to his with only your hands touching... until the first strings of guitar and brass wind instruments started.

Mihawk took your hand with firmness and drew you to his body. You let him guide you into a dip over his arm and then the other but then raised yourself meeting him face to face in defiance. Both started to dance around without looking away from each other's eyes, arms intertwining and departing, following the lively rhythm of the strings like swords in a battle.

His right hand finally caught yours and led you gracefully in a series of spins, making your dress flutter around your legs, before pulling you towards him until being face to face again. Your lips almost gracing. You tilt your head backward feeling Mihawk’s breath making a path to your neck and dangerously close to your cleavage.

That single motion had the power to leave you more breathless than the intense performance.

You back away playfully, arms raised as if in denial of his advance. Mihawk smiled despite himself, eager to bring you back to himself by trying some footing to approach you and catch your waist but you avoided him with a poise and grace he had yet to see in most swordsmen that had dared to duel him.

The dramatic twirl half undid your updo and left your back to him. You gave him a daring look over your shoulder between locks of dark wavy hair, arms extended as in invitation that he took by taking you again in his arms, your back to his chest, and sweeping with you across the dance floor. You could feel the warmth of his skin against yours through the back opening of your dress along with the cold of the golden pendant.

He stopped a moment to guide your hand to his neck, your fingers tangling in his dark curls, while his other hand wandered to your abdomen and just below your breasts, tightening his embrace and grazing his lips on your neck for a small second before a last crescendo of the music made you twirl away from him, like running from his attention towards you. But the Warlord was relentless in his pursuit, catching your hand and pulling you fiercely back to him, the momentum making you lift your leg around his waist where he took it to bring you even closer to him. The asymmetrical cut of your skirt allowed him to feel the texture of your stocking. His wide palm traced a path from your knee up to your tight. Almost grazing the satchel hiding your short dagger and small assortment of knives still hide under the fabric.

His free hand traveled to your waist leading your body in a low dip with the last strings of the song. You hold to his broad shoulders, one of your hands tangled in his dark curls guiding his bowed head up your abdomen, over your breasts and neck, lips mouthing the rose pendant in his wander, to almost touch his lips with yours as he lifted you back.

For a wild second, Mihawk considered taking your lips with his own, eager to know if they taste as sweet as the red you sampled. The sound of applause brought him out of his reverie, reminding him of his stubbornness of not letting himself be seduced that night, not matter his own pursuit of you during your enthralling dance. His sharp eyes focused on your glazed gaze, like you were waking up from a dream. He wondered if that would be your sight after rapture. Your eyes cleared after a second, opening in surprise as you were just aware of the position you had ended.

The sound of a clearing throat broke the moment.

"Ejem... Warlord, we've been looking for you. I was told you were interested in a purchase. Should we discuss it at my office?" Spoke a gentleman whom you recognized as the Host of the ball.

No fucking way!

"Of course." Mihawk answered, letting you go gently until you recovered your footing and finally breaking your eye contact to turn around to the newcomer. "In a moment."

Your eyes found the panicked sight of Carlotta shaking her head.

You still needed more time!

"Can't I convince you to extend your stay, my lord?” You asked, hoping not to sound as out of breath as you felt for what you were suggesting. “Surely, any other affair can wait until the morning..."

The hawk-like golden eyes of the swordsman wandered back to you and over your form, from the half undone updo, the free locks of hair falling in waves framing your slightly flushed face, to your red lips parted like begging to be kissed. Have you finally decided you want a partner for another kind of dance? You looked like temptation incarnated for him but it had been a time since he had let himself be distracted by temptations, no matter how captivating.

"Not today, my lady." He took your hand to his lips in a goodbye kiss that had no business being so sensual.

You'll lie to yourself all you wanted for the next year, but the idea of bringing that same hand to his cheek to draw his face to an actual kiss so you could steal his gold cross came after. In that moment you were desperate to scratch just one more second with him and taking a taste of his lips didn’t sound as bad as ten minutes ago.

You immediately felt his lips moving against yours and his hands at your hips drawing you to him. Your breasts pressed against his strong torso when you felt the cross and the idea hit your mind. You sneak your hand behind his neck to undo the clasp of the necklace in a swift movement, disguising it as a caress to his hairline and playing with the short curls there. Your other hand roamed his chest to collect the valuable item, being able to feel his warm skin and the defined muscles twitching under your fingers.

You were barely pulling apart when his lips started leaving a trail of kisses to your cheek and your neck. One of his hands moving up your back to the cutout of your dress to caress the skin there, the other getting tangled in your hair. You were unable to hold a small moan that had you almost dropping the gold cross but managed to hold onto it and hide it between the folds of your dress.

Mihawk had thought you bold before but daring to steal a kiss from him was a level not an individual had ever ventured. Your lips did taste of the sweet red wine from before, but infinitely better. And why on all the Blues was he resisting you? He wondered while inhaling the sweet scent of flowers and fruits in your hair. Whatever foul mood that plagued him upon entering this residence had melted away upon your first approach to him.

He was about to just whisper in your ear to fuck with his business and take you to his ship when another throat clearing was heard. With a hand still caressing your back, Mihawk turned to the Host, ready to dismiss the man until the next morning.

Before being able to express his change of plans, the Warlord felt two things at the same time. Or more like the absence of them. Your skin under his hand and the familiar weight of his heavy pendant hanging from his neck.

Dracule Mihawk turned around just to see you disappear through the doors leading outside… in such a swift movement almost invisible to the naked eye and just possible by an expert haki user.

.

You moved as fast as you could to the wide opening that led to the vineyards without drawing as much attention as you already had. You passed near a stunned Carlotta and murmured your only-emergency word.

“Cauliflower.”

Which was code for “don’t wait for me and get the hell out”. Last time you had to resort to it was 10 years ago and ended with a bounty poster with the byname “The Ghost Rose”. No image but the drawing of the rose carved knife you left behind.

This time, with a Warlord of the Seas after your trail you may have no such luck. Your only hope was being as fast as your abilities allow you.

.

.

.

Part 2 soon.

Kudos to those who get the cauliflower reference.

[love-and-deepspace-wiki]

Akso Hospital Expert Introductions: Dr. Cooper

Last but not least, let's meet Dr. Cooper. He's a talented doctor, but man was his bio a piece of work 😭 After reading Zayne's, the protagonist turns her head and sits down. We're talking fractions of seconds of screen time for his display lol. But I grabbed every word that I could and the best picture of his face that I could manage.

Oddly enough, his name display just says "Cooper". No title. But throughout his biography, they refer to him as "Dr. Cooper". So I'm referring to him based on his biography name/title. Here's his details:

Cooper

Attending Surgeon

Division of Cardiac Surgery

Expertise:

...surgical treatment of coronary...

...and congenital heart diseases and

...

Biography:

Dr. Cooper attended Changqi Graduate …e School of...

...Medical School in 2020 and received his masters in 2037. From 2037 to 2040, he studied at the School of Medicine at the School of Medicine at National University in the UK and obtained his MD in Cardiac Surgery. Afterward, he engaged in clinical research on the surgical treatment of coronary, valvular, and congenital heart diseases and heart transplantation under the supervision of Professor Zero, also known as the Mother of Heart Valve Surgery and an internationally renowned expert in cardiac Surgery. Having performed over 4,000 cardiac surgical operations, he is one of the most experienced specialists in the field.

In December 2046, Dr. Cooper became an attending surgeon. He successfully performed the country's first implantation of an artificial heart assist device (Evol-based) and Coronary artery bypass graft. He participated in developing a variety of new clinical technologies, such as total arterial revascularization (TAR). In addition, he was awarded the honorary title of Fellow of the National Academy of Surgery.

He has published over 20 academic papers, including 15 SCI papers and 13 co-authored monographs

[bizaar]

Cruel Summer - Part 17

First - Previous - Next

pairings: Eddie Munson x fem!reader

summary: After breaking up, you and Eddie do your best to soldier on with your lives, but you slowly begin to discover that there is a stronger line of connection keeping you together than just history…

word count: 10k

warnings: angst, swearing, medical descriptions, mentions of death/violence

A.N.: i had to split this last part up, we were near 25k words, Chat. Wayne Munson continues to be the greatest man alive and continues to suffer for it

“Are you the father of Edward Munson?” The woman’s voice is short and terse, and Wayne feels his heart seize erratically in his chest for it.   

He’s been waiting all week for a call, biding his time between shifts at the plant and days at the Motel 6 where he’s been sequestered out on the interstate while his home languishes in police custody.  

He sits by the phone, chain-smoking and flipping channels, doing everything he can to avoid any and all news perpetuating the ouroboros of misinformation about his nephew, but there is only so much he can do when it’s everywhere he looks.  

Nothing catches people’s attention quite like murder in Middle America, especially if there is even the faintest whiff of a Satanic connotation to it.    

That’s what they were saying about him last he heard, that it was ritualistic, that they’d brought in an expert to “consult” … that his boy had sacrificed that poor girl, like something out of a goddamn movie.  

It makes Wayne’s stomach turn, because how could they think something so terrible?  

How could they not?  

He was the one who found her, lying there in a twisted heap of limbs. He hadn’t known what to think, dragging his sorry carcass home after finishing up a mind-numbing twelve-hour shift, only to find that waiting for him.   

Really, he didn’t think at all – he saw what was left of that girl, and he turned right around and went back out to his truck where he closed himself up in the cab and smoked half a pack of cigarettes just to try and stop himself from shaking.   

He wanted to tell himself that whatever happened wasn’t his business, that he ought to just turn away and pretend he didn’t see that girl, lying there on his floor, but this is not the type of thing you can just shut your eyes against and ignore.  

Wayne is a simple man leading a simple life. He likes it that way. He doesn’t concern himself with things beyond his ken and as a result, the world more or less leaves him be — as a man like himself in a town like this, it’s more than he can ask for, but sitting there staring unblinkingly at the open doorway, at the single socked foot he could still see from the cab, he knew two things for certain: that girl was dead, whoever she was, and he needed to call the police.   

When he finally managed to get his legs working again, he made the half-mile hike to the nearby 7/11 to use its payphone to report what he’d seen, because there was no way in hell he was setting one foot inside his home while the dead girl was lying there.    

It wasn’t until Wayne was hanging up with the 911 operator that the shutter finally clicked over and his brain jumped back into working order. 

Suddenly, all he could see was the glaring problem with this scenario, the angry red sign flashing over and over, demanding he ask himself what is missing from this picture. Better yet, who is missing from this picture?   

Eddie.

Oh, Christ… where the hell is Eddie…?  

Before Wayne could untangle his thoughts enough to understand what he’d just done, the Hawkins PD was turning off of the road beyond and roaring down the dirt path like a swarm of bats out of a flashing red and blue hell.   

Despite knowing exactly nothing about the finer details of whatever it was that had occurred in his living room the night before, Wayne barely had time enough to consider what he ought to tell them and what he was better off keeping to himself as they came screeching to a halt in his front yard and piling into his home like invading forces.

Suddenly, it was all questions, a hundred and one right after the other before he could even begin to answer the first.

Nothing he said seemed to satisfy them, and no matter what they asked, they always circled back to one question, again and again like a bastardization of those ominous public service announcements striking fear into the hearts of parents across the Midwest:

It’s 10 PM. Do you know where your children are?  

Mr. Munson, do you know where your nephew is?  

Of course he didn’t. The boy’s business was his own, always has been, but with all these questions and thinly veiled accusations flying around, Wayne found himself wishing he’d paid a little more attention to his nephew’s comings and goings as he scrambled to provide the boys in blue with some kind of a credible answer.

He was desperate to drum up an alibi for the boy, but he couldn’t do it, much to his patent dismay, because he didn’t know where Eddie was, and he didn’t know what’d he’d been doing or where he’d been during those crucial hours during which the girl apparently died.

Wayne almost exclusively works the night shift out at the plant, so how could he possibly know what kind of shenanigans his nephew gets up to in the wee hours of the morning?

He tried in vain to tell them how he thought Eddie might have said something about staying after school to play that game of his – which can last for hours at a time, he explained, but that didn’t explain how the dead girl ended up on the floor in his living room.

It doesn’t explain where Eddie is now, or why their neighbor heard him screaming bloody murder and come flying out of the house like the Devil himself was snapping at his heels.   

In the end, Wayne was helpless to do anything but watch as the police came to their own conclusion, and very quickly their story fell neatly into place, like meticulously placed dominos.   

They were seen leaving the school together, Eddie and that girl.   

Now she is dead and Eddie is missing.   

Despite those glaring truths, Wayne knows without a shadow of a doubt that his nephew did not lay a finger on that girl, but more than that, he knows how hard it is going to be for people to believe that. Wayne is under no delusions about how people regard his family. He knows how this looks, and what people think of his nephew, but he knows better.   

Eddie couldn’t have done something like this, not even if his life depended on it, but all he has to back that up is his word, and what is the word of a Munson against self-righteous small-town prejudice?  

They don’t know him. They don’t know that the boy would rather lie down and die than hurt somebody, that he very nearly did last summer over the guilt hurting you caused him, but that doesn’t fall in line with the narrative they’ve worked so carefully to craft.  

As far as the people of Hawkins, Indiana are concerned, that’s not the Munson way, though only because no one has taken the time to separate Eddie from the image of his father, burnt into the memories of this town. Nobody cares enough to do so.   

People in a place like this are always going to need a monster. Al was more than happy to play the part for a good long while, and when he went away, they were happy enough to fit his son into the space he’d left in the zeitgeist.   

It must have seemed like a fair trade to them, what’s one Munson for another? The boogeyman is the boogeyman, after all, only they didn’t realize what they were doing, forcing a boy into the role that had been held so long by a man.  

You want to talk about a sacrifice?   

These good, God-fearing people may as well have offered his nephew up on a platter, the way they’re tripping over themselves to corroborate the story they’ve already decided on.  

That Eddie Munson is evil, and he killed that girl.   

Jesus wept.   

The press junket began with a relatively harmless photo of Eddie — one of his school portraits from his first year of high school, fresh-faced and bright-eyed, still riding the high of being freed from his father’s custody, before the world came crashing in and Eddie learned better than to hope for anything out of life.  

Wayne’s got no idea how the family photo album made its way out from underneath the couch, but suddenly there it was, on ‘round the clock display, occupying people’s homes throughout the duration of the morning, noon, and nightly news.   

The invasion of privacy makes his skin itch.  

Still, he knows the picture well, that first one they used. Wayne can see it when he closes his eyes: Eddie is still growing his hair out, and his face is stretched into that big goofy smile of his, teeth poking out, cheek indented in the illusive dimple the kid is more or less shy about. He was still under the hopeful delusion that he had a chance at winning his classmates over, back then. He didn’t know any better.

You can’t tell by looking, but Eddie has got a cast on his arm in the picture, sitting just out of frame. It was a final parting gift from Al Munson to his son, the straw that broke the camel’s back and lost him blissful custody of the boy after he marched him into Hawkins General with a broken arm and a lame excuse about how the boy had fallen off the bicycle he did not own.

One quick check from Social Services put the last nail in that tired old coffin, and the matter was finally — mercifully — put to bed.

Eddie went to live with Wayne that summer between eighth and ninth grade, Al was in prison for good by Christmas, and the rest is history.

Wayne can still see his nephew giving him an awkward thumbs up from beneath the plaster as he dropped him off that first morning school went back into session in August.

“Give ‘em hell, Kid.” Wayne had told him as he hopped down from the truck and slung his beat-up Jansport over one shoulder, and Eddie proceeded to do exactly that and then some for the next six years. 

There are only faint traces of the boy in that photo left in Eddie now, and yet here it is identifying him as the prime suspect in a homicide – condemning him.    

Ain’t that a kick in the teeth?    

That was days ago, back when Wayne was still glued to the television set watching the story unfold, guts seizing with every repeated instance of his home standing empty beyond some talking head speculating on what could have happened and who could have been involved.

Even before any names were named, the sight had Wayne’s throat closing up with anxiety – as if anyone in this nice little backwater hamlet was going to see that place and not immediately know who lives there.   

And then there was the photo of Eddie, all sweet and smiling.  

Seeing him on the news like that was a death knell rattling in the creaky halls of Wayne’s heart — they said his name.  

It was almost fine when it was all just speculation, when it was just him and the Hawkins PD, quietly turning over stones, looking for the boy while Wayne held out the hope that you would complete the secret mission he’d entrusted to you before anyone else would find him.

If he was really lucky – which he had never been before – by the time anyone turned up any shred of evidence, you and Eddie would be hundreds of miles away, and in time people would forget about his nephew.  

But they went and said his goddamn name, and there’s no taking that back.   

Regardless of how this all plays out, whether they catch up to him or you manage to get him far, far away from here, the name Eddie Munson will forever be synonymous with that dead girl … but at least they used that picture.   

At least he was smiling.   

It was about as much solace as Wayne could take in the situation for the few hours it lasted.   

The way he figures it, some ladder-climbing station executive must’ve decided that a big smiling face didn’t make Eddie Munson nearly scary enough for their ratings.

Probably the same ratfuck who thought it was a good idea to run that photo of a six-year-old Ed and his mother posing with a mall Santa under the caption Mother of a Monster – and God damn them for having the audacity, for bringing her into this.   

Not half an hour later, every channel had replaced the school photo with something a little less sanitized, an older, harder Eddie at some party, all done up in his chains and leather and ripped jeans with a cigarette pinched between his lips, making a rude gesture at the camera – it was the version of Eddie that they forced him into when Al went away, and it seemed to satisfy their craving for blood more than the smiling visage of a fourteen-year-old boy could.   

Wayne lays a thousand curses upon the head of whoever it was that sold that picture to the media – from that moment on affected devil horns, rock music, and midwestern fears went on to paint a bastardized image of the boy he’d fought so hard to raise right.

All it took was one photo to solidify him as the monster they all so desperately craved, and one slip-up from some fast-talking news anchor who insisted “...the whereabouts of Alan Munson are still unknown…” and there it was.   

What this was really all about.  

The sins of the father are to be laid upon the children…   

God damn this town and God damn his goddamn brother.    

With morning shows all the way to Terre Haute doing segments on the Munsons like they were the Mansons, Wayne turned off the news after that. Seeing his life and what is left of his family twisted so wildly out of proportion to fit their narrative is too much to bear.  

He can’t turn the television off entirely, however, because worse than the endless chatter is the silence. In the quiet, his mind starts to race.

He starts thinking about his boy, scared and alone somewhere, lost to the gnashing teeth of the world, and about that poor girl, lying twisted beyond comprehension in his living room.  

In the quiet, Wayne starts to wonder what on God’s green earth could have possibly happened to leave her like that, and his inability to come up with any kind of rational answer is what scares him the most.  

So, he leaves the television on and focuses on the background noise of sitcoms and sports broadcasts, going to work, coming home to the new normal, waiting and waiting and waiting for the phone to ring.  

And ring it does.  

“Sir?” The voice comes again.    

Wayne’s lungs rattle with the beginnings of a smoker’s cough as he removes his hat and wipes his brow with the back of a calloused hand, trying to remember what exactly it was the woman on the other end of the line had asked in the first place – Are you the father of Edward Munson?   

“Er, no, ma’am.” He says quickly, clearing his throat, “That’d be my brother, Al, but – uh – well, he’s out at Pendleton … been locked up goin’ on seven years now.”  

Above him, a fluorescent bulb hums with a thick static that makes Wayne feel like he’s underwater.   

He received the call at the plant, and it’s there he finds himself, standing in the breakroom at the telephone he’d been instructed to “pick up and dial 9” by the omniscient voice of the God that is Powerplant Administration.   

He can’t tell if he’s relieved about that or not.

Work was supposed to be a time of distraction, the other half of his life where he could busy himself with anything and everything that wasn’t the ramping helplessness he felt, swelling like a balloon behind his ribs with every hour that passed with Eddie missing.

Electrical technicians are the happy little worker bees toiling away in their subterranean hive, tending to the lifelines that provide power to the towns beyond, and tonight they are buzzing like someone just went and kicked the hive, thanks entirely to that bizarre earthquake that went and knocked out half the power to Roane County about forty minutes back.   

He’d been fully entrenched in the backbreaking duties of repairing connections, happy to have the distraction from the endless scroll of his thoughts when new instructions came through: collect call for Wayne Munson, please proceed to the nearest telephone.  

The list of folks who would be calling this late and would know to ask for him by name is not exactly long, he can count them out on one hand, but collect means one thing: whoever is calling is doing so from outside the plant, maybe even outside the county line, and it has him scrambling.

Work is supposed to be safe, but nothing is safe while Eddie is missing.  

Wayne dropped what he was doing and all but ran across the plant floor (at least as much as his middle-aged knees and tar-caked lungs would allow) past the nearest telephone and straight to the freight elevator that would carry him up three subterranean flights to the outside world where he could speak in relative private – no prying eyes or listening ears watching the man with the murderer for a nephew speak covertly into the phone while his co-workers discussed the game or the Russians or whatever it was that presently held their attention.   

Across the moon-bleached earth to the standing trailer that served as the technician's upper deck breakroom, Wayne vaulted the steps and whipped the hollow core door back hard enough to hit the flimsy siding with a loud bang that shook the entirety of the trailer.   

There was no one there to berate him for such an excitable action as it was thankfully empty, but that was to be expected, considering how this was the smaller, less desirable of the two break rooms provided for the technicians.

His coworkers tended to avoid this one unless absolutely necessary due to its lack of vending machines and central air, and normally Wayne does too, but tonight it serves him just fine as he picks up the phone and punches the third button down on the right. 

He finds no relief on the other end of that line. There is no calm and collected “Hi, Wayne,” in the chirpy lilt of your voice waiting for him on the other end of the line, though perhaps more disappointing, there is no long, guilty pause followed by a tentative greeting from his nephew, desperately trying to gauge Wayne’s frame of mind before diving into a stream of conscious tirade.   

No, just the next in a long line of brusque, terrifying questions that continue to knock the wind out of him.   

Do you know where your nephew is? Are you the father of Edward Munson?   

He would have sat down if he’d thought there was a chair there, but Wayne doesn’t fancy putting his ass down on hard flaking linoleum, so he locks his knees to keep them from buckling and stays standing.   

“Very well, sir this is –” He forgets the name the moment she gives it to him, all sense of identity washed clean by the direct follow-up of, “–from Hawkins General Hospital, we have an Edward Munson in our custody and we’ve been trying to get into contact with his parents—”  

Wayne does his best to breathe deep against the tightness forming in his chest as he fights to string together a coherent sentence through the bevy of thoughts and words and new information whirling around his mind and refusing to gel.

He is suddenly and woefully confused. If this woman is calling from Hawkins General, why in the hell would she use that word?

Custody.

It would make half a lick of sense if he was getting a call from Chief Powell or Florence, the Hawkins PD’s resident secretary for going on fifteen years now, but neither of them would very well be asking him how to get into contact with Eddie’s parents, would they?

They also wouldn’t be so goddamn formal about this whole thing – weirdly enough, that’s almost as jarring as any of it. Nobody calls the boy Edward, except for his mother and she’s dead, so what is Wayne supposed to do, direct this woman to the prison dispatch up at Pendelton? He imagines she’d have better luck with a Ouija board.

“Oh.” he says dumbly, for a lack of anything better to say, “Right. Well – uh – it’s-it’s like I say, the boy’s father’s locked up and likely to stay that way another twenty-odd years…”  

 “And his mother? Our records indicate her name is–” A short pause punctuated by the rustling of papers is the only buffer between Wayne and the name he is still not prepared to hear spoken aloud, even after a decade of distance – he grits his teeth to try and shield himself against it, “–Sherri Munson?”  

It hits him like a fist to the gut and Wayne makes himself breathe out as slowly as possible to keep from choking as his confusion deepens.

First Al, now Sherri? Like specters of the people who once populated his life, he sees their faces before his eyes and has to blink to banish them again.   

What are they asking about her for? Everybody in this goddamn town knows what happened to her, what Al did, even if only indirectly.   

Shouldn’t the good folks down at Hawkins General have that sort of thing on file? Death certificate or something? She only went and died on a slab in their custody.   

The word settles heavily in the pit of Wayne’s stomach as the situation finally begins to dawn on him.

Custody. They have Eddie in custody, which means something has happened.  

“She’s, uh—” he clears his throat in a futile attempt to remain calm, “She’s since passed.” He says slowly, “I look after the boy–”   

The woman doesn’t wait for him to finish speaking before she starts again.  

“You look after him?” She echoes in a way Wayne can’t help but feel is ever so slightly condescending, “Are you saying you’re his legal guardian?”

He nods quickly before remembering that the woman cannot grok non-verbal responses over the phone and scrambles to correct himself.

“Ah-yes, ma’am. I took custody after his folks…” He suddenly can’t bear to make himself say it, “Well … it’s like you said. I’m Eddie’s legal guardian.”

“Your name, please, sir?”  

“Wayne Munson, ma’am.”  

Another pause, the faint sound of a scribbling pen across whatever form this woman is clearly filling out.   

Wayne swallows hard and when his mouth stays dry and cottony, he swallows again. Somehow, he can’t shake the feeling that something terrible has happened, that this is not simply a courtesy call informing him of his nephew’s whereabouts so that he can come and pick him up.

Wayne does not have to wait long to have his suspicions confirmed.

“Mr. Munson, I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, but there’s been an accident –”   

He doesn’t hear much else of what she says after, his ears are ringing too loud. 

There’s been an accident… now, where has he heard that before?  

Wayne doesn’t remember the drive from the plant to the hospital, whether he informed his supervisor or even punched out before he hit the breeze.

He doesn’t remember whether he pulled into the structure or right up to the front in the ambulance bay, he only knows one minute the phone was slipping from his hand to dangle on its chord, and the next he was flinching under the gust of frigid air blasting down across his neck and shoulders as automatic doors whisked open for him.   

Wayne is accustomed to coming to Eddie’s rescue one way or another, but walking into this hospital is shades of the boy’s childhood in the worst way – the bad old days.

One very specific bad day, in fact. The last time Wayne was here, and the last time his family was intact.  

Stepping through those double doors, he is reminded of it so completely that Wayne half expects to see his good-for-nothing kid brother handcuffed to a chair, half out of his mind on something and trying desperately to convince him what had happened wasn’t his fault, as if anything ever was where Al was concerned.   

The ER is a warzone – every inch of the waiting room is crawling with folk he can only assume have been affected by the earthquake that he has very conveniently forgotten about until now.

There is no sign of Eddie, and Wayne can’t decide if he’s relieved about that or not, though with the violent way his guts are seizing, he’s leaning toward not.

“There’s been an accident,” is actually an extremely vague turn of phrase when he really thinks about it, and a bigger part of him than he is readily willing to acknowledge had almost been expecting to find his nephew sitting slumped in a chair off in some corner, a frightening mirror image of his father but otherwise fine, sulking and awaiting collection and the subsequent lecture to follow on the long drive home.

No such luck. 

Wayne has to fight to make his way to the check-in – the frazzled young nurse stationed there visibly pales when he tells her his name, and who he is here for.  

He watches, all but dumbstruck as she jumps up and runs for a doctor. Literally runs. That’s never a good sign – that’s what happened last time.  

The room is all but the same as it was the night Al went and wrapped Sherri’s sedan around that telephone pole out on Cornwallis – the one that is still cracked and half bent over from being struck at sixty-five miles per hour by a rusty blue Volkswagen Dasher.

People leave flowers at its base sometimes, and Wayne can’t help but marvel at the incongruity of it all, that this town would condemn Eddie Munson in one breath and in another, pay homage to the spot where his mother had been sent sailing to her untimely death through the windshield of her car.  

The waiting room has remained virtually unchanged in the decade it’s been since that night, save for the way it is suddenly filled to brimming with desperate souls.  

For as familiar as it all is – the squeaking of shoes across mottled linoleum, the arctic central air chilling him through his canvas jacket as he stares out at the same cluster of back-breaking chairs, the same hotel art, and informative posters he’d spent hours staring at a hundred years and a short lifetime ago – it’s completely foreign because Eddie isn’t sitting home safe this time.

He’s here somewhere, caught in the quagmire of whatever the hell just happened to this town.  

Cursed town. Cursed family, more like.     

Wayne still remembers the look Eddie gave him that night, the last time someone had been very sorry to tell him that “there’s been an accident” after he shook him awake and informed him he’d be going next door to Mrs. Downes’s trailer. 

That news went over about as well as expected.    

“That lady smells like cat piss,” an eleven-year-old Eddie mumbled with a mighty pout and little fists crammed into angry, sleep-swollen eyes.

Wayne couldn’t even fault the boy for his language, because as kindly as she was that lady did indeed stink something awful of the half a dozen cats she kept, but among all his neighbors, she was the only one who could be trusted to look after the boy for a few hours.    

“Yeah,” Wayne muttered, snatching up the same canvas jacket he wore now and ushering his moody, pajama-clad nephew down the steps, “That’d be the cats.”  

He had no idea just how long that night would be back in the summer of ‘77, and standing here now, he can’t help but get lost in a creeping sense of Deja vu.  

It takes no time at all for the doctor to arrive, a short bespectacled man with his face pulled into a severe grimace. With a shy hand at his elbow, he coaxes Wayne into the back hallway for “a quiet place to talk”, and his removal from the public eye has him breaking into a cold sweat.   

It is a truth universally acknowledged that it is a very bad sign when a nurse runs for the doctor. And when that doctor pulls you out of the way for a quiet place to talk, it means he’s got something really hard to say, and he wants to make sure you hear every syllable of his hushed words.  

That’s another thing about hospitals that Wayne hates, how doctors drop their voices to impossibly muted tones when they know they’ve got to ruin your life, leaving you hanging on their every word.

It was true back then, and it’s not different now, standing in the hallway behind the nurse’s station, watching the Doctor’s lips move in a desperate attempt to make out what Wayne cannot hear him saying.    

It’s a lot of medical jargon, most of which goes right over his head, but he gets the cliff notes.   

Your nephew is in the ICU. Severe trauma. Emergency surgery. Touch and go…  

A lifetime and only a few years ago, he’d been told more or less the same thing in the same way.   

Your sister-in-law is in the ICU. Severe trauma. Emergency surgery. Touch and go…  

“Can I see her?” the Eddie who belonged to that different life whimpered, looking so small, still in his pajamas with the soundtrack of Saturday morning cartoons playing in the background as he sat stuck among the fraying couch cushions with wild hair and big wet eyes — his mother’s eyes.  

“‘Fraid not, Bud…” Wayne had told him with a quavering voice, speaking softly as he ruined his nephew’s life.   

It feels like some kind of karmic justice, having to relive this moment, tragically reversed. Wayne’s never felt so small, so helpless.    

“…C-can—” He clears his throat with a harsh grunt that echoes much too loud in the silence of the hallway, “Can I see him?”  

The doctor pulls a pained face that Wayne imagines is meant to read as sympathetic.   

It skews more indigestion than apology.    

“Ah—hmm… I’m afraid not, Mr. Munson,” The man says, skipping over the syllables of his name like most folk do when they extend him the courtesy, “Not until we can get him stabilized… your nephew has lost a lot of blood…”   

It’s the vagueness of that statement that hits him, like a fist to the gut – it’s only then that he notices the sleeve of the doctor’s coat, the faintest hint of red staining the hem. He feels his knees wobble and lies to himself that it’s just pen.  

Doctors carry lots of pens, the cheap kind that leak if you look at them wrong – only ink doesn’t have the funny little way of drying dark, and the stain on this man’s sleeve is suddenly much more brown than red.   

Wayne manages to stay on his feet, though only just barely, because Sherri didn’t do any of her bleeding on the outside, and he doesn’t realize just how fiercely he’s been clinging to the terrible familiarity of that night until its cold light is snuffed out, leaving him shivering in the dark.

The conversation fizzles from there. The doctor scurries away as he receives a page and leaves Wayne to find his meandering way back to where he belongs.   

He is in shock as he makes his way out of the hall, relying heavily on muscle memory as he takes the long march back to the slow doom of the waiting room.   

Waiting… waiting… waiting…  

The door whooshes quietly shut behind him and the din of half a hundred people all in varying stages of the worst day of their lives comes rushing back in, giving him an instant headache.   

He needs a smoke – more than that, he needs an excuse to get out of here, at least for a little while, but his legs have turned to concrete, and he can’t make his feet move far enough to carry him out to the curb, so Wayne slumps into the nearest chair he finds and stares blankly at a frame of muted pastels he thinks is supposed to be some kind of pastoral scene.

If he had been cognizant enough, he might have noticed that it was the exact one he’d spent hours staring at last time, but he’s too caught up in his racing thoughts and his thundering heartbeat as he braces against the misery roiling over him in crashing waves like the high tide as he tries to untangle the web of everything that has happened in the last week.

He stares at the picture, watching it begin to shift and move and blend together, and he’s reminded of a story he’d once read, of images of women creeping behind swatches of grotesque yellow wallpaper, rattling their bars, demanding to be let out. He’s reminded of Sherri.   

Folks like to say that Misery loves company, but she doesn’t love anybody like she loves the Munsons.   

Wayne never pictured himself as a family man, partially because of his natural proclivities, but mostly because of the funny little way that the men in his family tend toward turning into raging monsters when they have children, if they stick around long enough to even meet those children, that is.    

Even before Wayne knew he didn’t like girls – which he has known since he was old enough to realize there is a difference between boys and girls – he swore he would be different, and more to the point he wouldn’t give himself the chance to prove himself wrong.      

Al could never be bothered to worry about shouldering the task of breaking that cycle of violence and apathy, he was too busy indulging in his worst whims. Al Munson’s top priority had always been and would always be Al Munson, and everybody else could choke. 

Wayne knows he should have been a little more worried about what was to come when Al met Sherri, but he wasn’t. At the time, he didn’t rightly care, he was just glad someone else was finally going to be in charge of cleaning up his brother’s messes.

They got married fast – too fast if you were to ask him, but nobody was, and it was none of his business, anyway.

When they picked up and moved to Indianapolis, just a couple of wild and crazy kids in love, Wayne shelved the matter entirely, relieved that he could finally go back to living his own life, free from the responsibility of collaring his brother and once again safe from the monster in their genes that made life unsafe for anyone who hadn’t already survived a childhood as a Munson.

It was less than a year before Wayne received that first call, like some kind of bad joke, run ragged and kept in the closet to be trotted out at family gatherings: Al got drunk and had knocked the shit out of Sherri, busted her lip and broke a couple of her ribs, because of course he fucking did.

What else did anyone expect?

Their grandfather had been a monstrous alcoholic who regularly beat his family within an inch of their collective lives before dying thankfully young of cirrhosis of the liver, and the terror of his youth had turned their father into a flighty man who could never seem to make up his mind about staying or going.

And now here was Al, falling dutifully into place, continuing the cycle of violence.

Sherri was frantic when she called, talking a mile a minute through a bad connection from some payphone halfway between there and Indi. She was out of gas, and she’d run out of the house without stopping to grab her bag. She had no money, no plan, and not even a pair of shoes as Wayne would see when he went and picked her up.

She didn’t take a breath in the forty minutes it took to get back to Hawkins. Anyone who thought Eddie could talk and talk and endlessly talk until he was blue in the face had obviously never met his mother.

That woman spent the duration of the ride to safety working herself into a tizzy.

She was practically foaming at the mouth, ranting and raving about what a bastard Al was, how blind she’d been, and how she wasn't going to stand by and let him treat her that way.

She swore she’d kill him first, and by the time the headlights hit the front of the trailer, Sherri had made up her mind about leaving Al. Wayne advised her to do exactly that if she knew what was good for her, and he warned her, perhaps too late, that the only thing you could trust Al to do was disappoint you, and the safest way to love him was to do so at arm's length.

Of course there was no way he could know that by then it was already too late. In all the talking she did from Indianapolis to Hawkins, she very conveniently failed to mention that she was pregnant, already nearing her second trimester, and ever the smooth-talking snake that he was, Al pulled out all the stops to convince her that this was their second chance at doing it right.

One last second chance for Al Munson, just so he could slam the bars shut on his wife before she could escape, trap her behind the peeling yellow wallpaper. 

Sherri’s disappearing act began slowly during her pregnancy. Suddenly she was styling her hair differently and wearing big thick sunglasses in a blatant attempt at covering the bruises Al put there.

There was nothing Wayne could do to save himself from the guilt that ate at him, watching as the months and abuse chipped away at her until there was almost nothing left of the woman he knew.

His friend. 

They met while working at the plant. They were friends, and he knowingly fed her to the gnashing teeth that was his kid brother. Some part of him knew better, that there would be nothing but misery waiting for Sherri down the line with Al, but after a miserable six-month stretch of letting his brother crash on his couch while he got clean, Wayne was desperate to foist him off on someone else.      

He’d stupidly thought it would be different with Sherri. She was tough in a very kind and endearing way – she didn’t take people’s shit, and he’d thought that maybe she could straighten Al out, be a gentle guiding hand to lead him back up the destructive path he’d been headed down since he was fourteen, back to the person Wayne knew and loved. Back to his brother. 

He should’ve known better than to hope for something like that. He made a choice, and Sherri paid for it.  

If he had been a little kinder, a little braver, maybe Wayne would have taken responsibility for his actions and done everything in his power to free Sherri from his brother’s captivity.

He would have put her on a bus with her baby boy, sent her somewhere far away from his cursed family, and done everything in his power to keep his brother from ever finding them again, but he wasn’t, and he didn’t, and as a result his hands would never be clean of Sherri’s blood. 

Al was driving the car that night, but Wayne was the one who introduced them, who stood by, who put his head down and minded his own business while the bruises got bigger, darker, more prominent, so which one of them was truly responsible for her death?

And who is the one who continues to pay the price for the sins of the past? Eddie.

Wayne was never supposed to have a family, but he fought like hell to make sure he got custody of the boy when Al lost it. Call it penance for what he did to Sherri, he was going to do right by that boy, even if it meant he was never going to get his life back on track, even if it killed him.

He never wanted kids, but the moment Sherri thrust Eddie into his arms, Wayne would have done anything for that boy.

Six weeks old, red-faced, and screaming his little head off like he was absolutely furious at the very act of having been born, Wayne knew.

Without a shadow of a doubt, without a thought for himself or what was right or even decent, he knew.

He would do anything for that boy, including but certainly not limited to beating his kid brother within an inch of his life in front of God and everyone in attendance of Sherri’s funeral.

Thankfully, all the good folks who had been decent enough to remember her had extended that decency far enough to put in a word for him when the police were called, and the only one of the Munson brothers to be taken away in handcuffs that night had been the younger. Al went to sleep it off, and Wayne went to find Eddie, because Wayne always went to find Eddie — his boy, from that first moment he'd held him and looked down into those big, wet eyes.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Sherri had muttered, half out of her mind with exhaustion, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say that was your boy, right there.”  

She was joking, even if only half so, but never had a truer statement been spoken into words.  

This was his boy.  

His boy — who was always too kind for the world he’d been thrust into.

Who stayed out all night tending to stray kittens, waiting for their mother to come back when he knew well enough that he’d seen her carcass spread flat on the road on his way home.

Who shared his meager lunch at school with the kids less fortunate than him, even though there arguably were no kids less fortunate than him in Hawkins.

Who at the age of six turned world-weary eyes up to his uncle and told him in a voice wise beyond his years “I wish you were my dad,”. 

Who lives a little too loud and feels everything a little too big. Who tries and tries and tries so hard, bashing his head against the powers that be, trying not to be vulnerable, to protect himself, and still getting his heart broken wondering “Why don’t they like me?”  

Eddie is the last of them, and in spite of all their efforts, the very best of them.    

All Wayne has known his whole life is loss, he can’t lose anybody else. That boy is all he has left in this world.   

He can’t lose Eddie.    

It’s been decades since Wayne set foot in a church. He stopped going to Mass after his mother died, she was the only reason he ever crossed that threshold in the first place, considering he and God never exactly tended to see eye to eye, but like a security blanket, like a crutch to lean on, Wayne suddenly finds himself muttering a familiar string of words under his breath.

There’s nothing he can do for Eddie; he’s got to leave it in the hands of the doctors. He won’t presume to leave it up to God, because he doesn’t believe in the bastard, but Wayne is not so jaded that he doesn’t recognize that this is one of those moments.

Those thresholds of faith that people tend to come to in times of great strife, where they must decide between two outcomes, only there are no choices waiting for Wayne on the other side of this. There’s just the darkness, the fear, the guilt.  

He doesn’t know what to do, so he prays. 

Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven... 

Wayne might have been shocked that he still remembers the words after all this time, but good old Catholic guilt is the kind of thing that’s not so easy to shake, and the words fall in line one right after the other without any hint of hesitation like God’s just been waiting for him to come crawling back. He hates to give him the satisfaction, the all-powerful son of a bitch, but it's as they say, desperate times and all that bunk... 

He stares at that same pastel pastoral without seeing, twisting itself into images and faces that aren’t really there. Somewhere, the doctors work to save Eddie’s life while Wayne watches the painting move and mutters those tired old phrases under his breath – he prays.

He prays.

He prays until a commotion draws Wayne’s attention, and then – moving like he’s submerged in molasses – he turns.

There at the nurse’s station stands a handsome boy with sharp features and a half-deflated hairdo, arguing with the lady in the scrubs whom Wayne had spoken to when he first arrived – the runner.  

The boy is caked in the gray-green layers of something that can only come from having lived through a natural disaster, but much more curious is the way he’s spattered in something indiscernibly viscous, black almost like blood but thicker – darker.  

The blood on the doctor’s sleeve was dark enough… Eddie’s blood.   

The handsome boy is openly bleeding from a long cut, sliced across the expanse of his high cheekbone, and there is an angry black and purple bruise wringing his neck like he’d recently escaped the pull of a noose.   

“We can’t wait any longer, Lady,” He stresses, slapping an open palm on the counter before gesturing wildly to the far end of the room, “She’s bleeding like crazy–”  

Wayne doesn’t know why the statement catches his attention — he tells himself it’s nothing but good old-fashioned American curiosity and not the morbidly cathartic need to witness somebody else bleeding their life away.  

Your nephew has lost a lot of blood.   

He follows the boy’s aggressive pointing across the room over to a far corner where he spies a gaggle of kids, all roughly Eddie’s age, standing in a tense huddle. They’re all torn up, battered, and bruised, and dressed in a bizarre collection of costumes like they’d gone rifling through the bargain bin of an army surplus store.

Every one of them is caked in the same weird muck as their friend, looking like little commandos straight out of the bush as they stand fretting over whatever it is that has their attention, the object of the handsome boy’s tirade – someone sitting in a chair, Wayne realizes, the she who just so happens to be “bleeding like crazy.”  

He can’t see her, but he is struck as he realizes that under the dirt and grime, they are not all entirely unfamiliar, that group of kids.   

There stands that boy, the one with the braces who had been sitting in his living room with the rest of Ed’s friends, playing that game of his only a few months back – the same one he’d witnessed come flying into Benny’s like a bat out of hell looking for you.  

Strangely, it lights a fire in Wayne’s belly and breaks up the stone casing holding him to the spot.  

He moves with no real idea of what he means to do, pushing up from his chair and shoving past the handsome boy, still arguing with the nurse. That curly-headed boy, whatever his name is, has got a guilty look about him, and somehow Wayne knows he’s wise to what happened to Eddie.  

That boy knows something.   

He’s not looking to blame someone – he learned long ago that it doesn’t do anybody any good, shit happens, people get hurt, and pointing fingers doesn’t change that.  

But answers — answers change everything.  

Shouldering through the crowd, Wayne makes a beeline for the far corner of the waiting room where the boy stands with the other kids – the strangers.   

Strangers are no good when it comes to Eddie, strangers can’t be trusted to do right by his boy — it makes his blood boil.   

He’s never put his hands on a kid before, but he’s got half a mind to seize the boy by the scruff and shake him until the answers start to fall into place, then he steps aside, and Wayne sees what it is that’s got the boy arguing with the nurses so worked up.   

It’s you – it stops his nervous heart in his chest.   

He supposes some part of him figured that with Eddie here, you’d be hidden away somewhere too, but he’s been too caught up in the nurse’s reaction, the doctor’s words, the blood on his sleeve – your nephew has lost a lot of blood – to even remember that you exist.    

That part of him wants to be relieved to see you, that you kept your promise, that you’re here, but somehow, he can’t muster anything but blinding, gut-wrenching horror.  

It’s not your presence that stopped him in his tracks, it’s the sight of you.    

Beneath the cuts and bruises (of which there are many), you’re a hollowed-out version of yourself, pale, gaunt – the ghost of the girl he knows, sitting slumped in your chair, trembling, and staring off into space.    

Worse than that is the blood, soaked through the front of your shirt, flecked up over your face and arms, streaking down where it has dried sticky over the expanse of your bare legs to darken the scrunched cotton of your socks.   

There’s so much of it, too much of it, and Wayne suddenly can’t imagine that it’s all yours.   

Your nephew has lost a lot of blood…  

“Oh, my–!" someone squeaks to his left, startling him back into semi-working order – it’s that boy, the one with the curly hair and braces. "M-Mr. Munson–!"    

He’s staring at him, wide-eyed like the Devil himself just parted the crowd to approach their group, and Wayne has to take another one of those wheezy breaths to center himself, to try and remember what he was doing here.   

Answers… he was looking for answers about Eddie.   

‘Where’d, uh – when-when did you get here?” The boy stammers. “I-uh-I guess you heard about…”  

He trails off under the hard look Wayne gives him, just daring him to say Eddie’s name.   

Still, he can’t think about that right now. He can’t bear to think of his boy on a slab, tubes, and scalpels, and emergency surgeries, so Wayne pivots to the next best thing, the most pressing matter in front of him.   

You. Why aren’t you being looked at?   

He stares back at the boy as the gears in his head turn and he tries to fit the pieces of the puzzle together. It doesn’t make sense.

Folk are milling around the waiting room in varying degrees of distress, but you are arguably worse off than any of them, so what are you doing just sitting there like that?

Why don’t you have a room and a bed and your own team of doctors and nurses fretting over you? He imagines that’s what the boy at the nurse’s station was going on about.   

We can’t wait anymore, he’d said. She’s bleeding like crazy, he’d said. Wayne can see as much for himself, so why aren’t the nurses looking at you?   

The pieces of this puzzle don’t mesh - it’s the square peg round hole kind of nonsense that only comes with the Munson territory, and though you aren’t a Munson by name, you’ve certainly tied your wagon to their train, and by the looks of you you’d gone and paid for it. 

Just like Sherri – too much like Sherri.    

Wayne is still staring at the curly-headed boy, long enough that he’s starting to fidget under his steely gaze, then he thrusts an accusatory finger out to you, and the boy flinches.   

He doesn’t take his eyes off him as he speaks, mostly because he can’t bear to look at you again just yet.   

“Why’s she just sittin’ there like that?” Wayne growls, “How come she ain’t been looked at?”  

The boy pales and shakes his head.  

“S-Steve’s–” he starts before thinking better of whatever it is he was about to say, “He-he’s already… th-the nurse said–”  

“I don’t give a shit what the nurse said. That’s your friend sittin’ there bleedin’, so quit your woolgatherin’ and go and get her some help.” And when the boy remains frozen to the spot, he grits his teeth, “Now.”  

The boy takes off like a shot, hobbling across the room and fighting to squeeze through the throng of people.   

He’s got an impressive limp, and Wayne feels the first rumblings of remorse for having gone and bitten his head off like that – he didn’t realize the boy was hurt – but the thought passes through his mind without taking root and is instantly gone again because you’re in dire need of attention.   

You’re not alone, sitting in the chair. You’re flanked by two other girls and one of them he recognizes as the one who’d come asking about Victor Creel, the reporter.   

She’s got a delicate hand resting on your shoulder in what he can only imagine is an attempt at comforting you as your trembling form shakes with every ragged breath you take.    

The other kids edge away as Wayne’s attention snaps over to you, clearly not keen on receiving any portion of whatever is left of the vitriol he’d just dealt their friend, but the reporter stays where she is, watching Wayne with a cautious eye.   

He calls your name, perhaps a tad too brusque for the situation, but he’s never been great at regulating his tone when he’s scared. And if there is one thing that is true in this moment, it’s that Wayne Munson is scared out of his wits, standing there in the waiting room, still bracing against the rushing tide of misery battering him from all sides. 

You fail to respond to his call, which would be troubling even without the blood and the way you’re sagging low in your seat – there is a terrifying, far-away look in your eyes, dim and empty, glazed over like you’re staring without really seeing anything.    

When he gets close enough, Wayne kneels in front of you, despite the way his knees curse him for it.   

He steals a glance at the reporter girl, and she purses her lips in a way that seems almost apologetic – he can’t help but wonder what that could possibly mean, what she’s got to be sorry for.   

Wayne says your name again, trying in vain to bring you back from wherever it is you’ve gone. He needs to talk to you, to ask about Eddie — out of anyone here, you’ll know the truth and more to the point you’ll tell him with unflinching honesty, but you’re not answering him when he calls, and he can’t get the words out around the lump swelling in his throat.   

The guilt is creeping up his spine again, clawing at his throat. This is his fault, whatever happened. 

He asked too much of you, expected too much. He knew you wouldn’t refuse him when he saw you come stumbling out of the trailer, led by the same hands of the police sifting through his home and preparing to point the finger of blame at Eddie. You were there when you were needed, a tad too little too late, sure, but you were there all the same.

You came running without being asked to and that meant something, didn’t it? It was enough to leave Wayne feeling justified in asking a little more than was rightly fair, at least.

And was it really such a selfish thing to do? All he asked was that you find Eddie and that you don’t leave him, no matter what – keep him safe. Easier said than done, he’s sure, but what’s moving heaven and earth when it comes to his boy? His son? Nothing – child’s play.   

Only suddenly he is starting to realize how he may come to regret that request. The price, it seems, is far steeper than he ever imagined it would be when he’d pressed the crumpled billfold into your hand … when he gestured aimlessly to Al’s scruffy form and introduced him to Sherri.   

Wayne rests a tentative hand on your knee and gently tries one more time to rouse you from your catatonia.   

It’s the touch that finally does it, and just like that, you’re back in the land of the living.  

“Huh?” You stammer, blinking rapidly as if you’d only just woken from a deep slumber – the way you’d been staring, Wayne would not be surprised to learn that you had.   

“Where are you bleeding, Honey?” He asks quickly, heart pounding against his ribs – it's not the question he’d had waiting in the wings, what happened to Eddie was what he’d intended to say, but the state of your emergency has suddenly trumped all other thoughts in his head. 

You’re clearly hurt bad. He suddenly can’t help but get the feeling that he’s under the threat of a ticking clock here.    

You stare back at him, unseeing and unknowing, looking too long before recognition finally flashes across your features.   

“...Oh – Wayne…” You rasp.  

He does his best to smile.   

“Hi, Sweetheart.” He says gently, “Tell me where you’re bleedin’ from.”   

You blink sluggishly, brows furrowing like he’d said something unbearably cryptic, and you have to work to untangle the secret message hidden in his words. Then, you make a slow effort to look yourself over, scrunching your features like you can’t quite be sure what you’re looking at.  

You’re a visitor from Mars as you regard yourself, wrists turned to the sky, hands shaking. A glint of silver draws Wayne’s eyes down as you uncurl your fingers, and his mouth goes dry: there are Eddie’s rings, clunky burnished silver sitting in a slick wet jumble, pooling red in the palm of your hand.   

He makes himself breathe in deep through his nose to keep from reacting and lies to himself that it doesn’t expressly mean anything.   

The doctors are working on him… the doctors know what they’re doing … just like they’d known with Sherri?  

It’s the wilting sound of distress you make that rescues him from that line of thinking. When you turn your gaze back up at him your eyes are swimming with tears.   

“It’s—it’s not mine.” You rasp, looking through him rather than at him. “It’s not…”  

You get caught on a sharp intake of breath like a gasp that rattles audibly in your chest.   

Yeah, that’s what he was afraid of… Wayne can't stand to consider what that indicates, but more so he can’t stand the look in your eye, an unbridled terror like you’re seeing something beyond, something terrible.

A lazy drip drip drip of something pooling shallowly on the linoleum beneath you finally draws Wayne’s attention,  notice of the dark strip of cloth you have tied off at the top of your thigh, and more specifically, the belt pulled tight over the space above it - tourniquets.

He realizes with a start that he recognizes the buckle – the gaudy handcuff that Eddie had once argued was purposely offensive, and his chest swells with pride at the thought of his boy acting quickly, trying to save you from whatever happened, maybe at his own expense.   

Your nephew has lost a lot of blood…  

Suddenly, Wayne is awash with a strange parental clarity and he moves without really thinking about what must be done.    

He couldn’t save Sherri, and there’s nothing he can do for Eddie except try and follow in his fumbling footsteps. Wayne can finally do some good for once, break the cycle, and try like hell to do something for you.  

“...It’s not mine...” you’re still saying, a muttered utterance of those three words over and over like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to your body.    

“Some of it is,” Wayne tells you, then takes gentle hold of your elbow, “Come on, Babygirl, let’s get you looked at.”

[covid-safer-hotties]

The Long Covid Groups say patients are being abandoned as dedicated clinics close despite a rise in UK cases - Published Sept 8, 2024

As the UK Covid-19 Inquiry resumes with a focus on healthcare systems in each of the four nations, the Long Covid Groups (comprising Long Covid Support, Long Covid SOS, Long Covid Physio and Long Covid Kids) are shocked and deeply concerned to learn that Long Covid clinics are being closed at a time when reported cases are continuing to rise.

Charities and many medical experts have long maintained we are in the midst of a global health crisis. Without a concerted effort to address this issue, the closures will only add to the significant burdens already being faced by healthcare systems and economies.

Recent data from the US has suggested that Long Covid may affect up to 7% of the population and prevalence could rise further. The latest ONS updates have shown that incidence of long-term sickness is at record levels and has been on an upward trajectory since early 2020. Staff shortages and high levels of school absenteeism are frequently reported across the UK. The annual productivity loss in the UK resulting from Long Covid is currently estimated to be £1.5 billion.

This stark picture contrasts with the lack of support Long Covid patients are receiving. At the start of the year, there were close to 100 Long Covid clinics for adults and 13 hubs for children and young people (CYP) in England. Earlier this year however, the highly regarded NHS England national programme was stood down with responsibility for Long Covid services being delegated to each of the Integrated Care Boards (ICBs). In recent months, patients and staff have reported the closure and a severe scaling back of clinics including Devon, Hampshire, Hertfordshire, Lancashire and Surrey. Key personnel and resources are being subsumed into other NHS services and, in some cases, staff are leaving the NHS altogether. Some CYP hubs are being forced to take on patients from those that have already closed with no extra funding.

In the other UK nations, the provision of Long Covid services is individual to each health board with no centrally agreed model on what Long Covid clinics should look like. They mostly focus on therapies designed to help patients manage their conditions rather than being clinician led. There is only one service dedicated to paediatrics in Scotland with none in Northern Ireland and Wales.

The Long Covid Groups urge all governments and healthcare providers to adopt a service model that prioritises dedicated clinics supported by experienced clinician-led, multidisciplinary teams. Given the complexity and multi-faceted nature of the condition, the Long Covid Groups stress that specialists from each of the relevant disciplines should work collaboratively. In partnership with patients, they call for a healthcare framework that is dedicated to successfully diagnosing, treating and preventing Long Covid; this will contribute towards relieving the operational and financial pressures on the NHS.

Amitava Banerjee, Professor of Clinical Data Science and Honorary Consultant Cardiologist & Long Covid SOS Trustee

“The evidence for the health, healthcare and economic effects of Long Covid, whether on individuals or societies, is unequivocal. Therefore, we must ensure that coordinated research and care are prioritised for Long Covid."

Sammie McFarland, CEO & Founder, Long Covid Kids

"Appropriate funding and resources would provide clinicians with the best possible opportunity to improve patients' lives, but this hasn't been forthcoming. Rising school absenteeism and Long Covid in children are red flags demanding immediate action. Closing specialised clinics risks creating a healthcare vacuum with far-reaching consequences for healthcare, education, families, and the future workforce."

Professor Mark Faghy, Vice-Chair of Long Covid Physio

“The scaling back and closure of services around the UK at a time when the prevalence of Long Covid is rising seems counterintuitive. Before these decisions were made, there were calls from patients and healthcare workers to grow services and ensure consistency across the UK but it seems to be going the other way.”

Nikki Smith, Founding Member, Long Covid Support

“With many people now getting Covid-19 multiple times, the risk of having on-going symptoms of Long Covid is increasing, which will result in more pressure on the NHS, fewer people able to work and an even bigger hit on the economy. It must be a priority of our new public service Government to ensure effective Long Covid clinics that are up to date with the latest research, are accessible by all.”