#blasting it in the car on an empty highway you get to really zone. and it's a nice one to do that to because of that breathing? sorta?? idk

[foundationsofdecay]

one of my favorite bits of audio mixing in tmbte is in dywtylm, how during the verses in particular you have the inhale and exhale that provides a slight audio escalation leading into the chorus but also providing the an organic through-line of sorts in the track to help counterbalance the rest of the mix, like trying to breathe slowly to calm yourself when your mind is racing out of control

[schrijverr]

And finally see what it means to be living

Eliot’s life, from his teen years to the disillusionment of the military through the soulless wetwork all the way to his team, seen through his connection to the song Fast Carby Tracy Chapman.

On AO3.

Ships: none

Warnings: none, but tell me if I missed any

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Eliot remembered being a teen, lying on the grass in the middle of the night, having snuck out with a radio with as excuse to his father that he was with a lady friend. That was if he even cared to ask, which was never the case, but just to be safe.

He remembered one night in particular, the one that made him come back out there with the radio each night, hoping they would play the song he wished to hear most as he lay under the galaxy, wishing he was far away, among the stars.

It had been a bright night with clear skies, a full moon and a million stars in the sky. He was lying on his blanket, some radio station played that he tuned out most of the time. Then the radio announcer had said: “Next up is Fast Carby Tracy Chapman, gotta warn y’all it’s one for the heart.” And somehow it had gotten his attention and he’d listened.

He’d listened, yet somehow he’d felt heard.

Right there on the radio had been someone, who was stuck in a town as well, with a shit father, who wanted nothing more than to live and get out.

While he had nobody but himself to get him out of there, the song gave him hope. He hadn’t heard the full lyrics, but enough to hit home. The radio announcer had been right when he’d said it was one for the heart.

You got a fast car And I got a plan to get us out of here I been working at the convenience store Managed to save just a little bit of money We won't have to drive too far Just 'cross the border and into the city You and I can both get jobs And finally see what it means to be living

He found himself humming the song, singing the second verse under his breath the next day, letting the feeling of the song build up in his chest and carry him through the day as plans of getting away swirled in his mind.

Even now he knew that his best out was either a sports scholarship or the military and he wasn’t a college man. He also knew that his father would never let him join, so he’d have to wait until he was eighteen before flying away.

While he might not have a fast car, he and a few of his buddies had boosted one often enough that he could find one when the time came, he just had to get there first. Just until he was eighteen, then he was out of there and far away, for now he would just work at the hardware store and save the money to get out of here.

Anxiously, he had waited until he could sneak out again after that night, tuning into the same radio station, hoping it would be played again.

They didn’t play the song the first night, nor the one after that, but the third night they did. He was sitting next to the radio, armed with a tape recorder that he smashed on the moment the announcer introduced the song.

Afterwards, he played the song so often on his Walkman that the tape wore down until he had to record it onto a new one.

The late nights under the stars, alone with his dreams, stayed. He still played the radio on the same station that had first played Fast Car, but he often found himself listening to the tape, repeating it until he had enough peace to rest.

His mind got stuck on the first part of the song after a while:

You got a fast car I want a ticket to anywhere Maybe we make a deal Maybe together we can get somewhere Any place is better Starting from zero got nothing to lose Maybe we'll make something But me myself I got nothing to prove

He repeated the words to himself, alone in his room or in the safety in his mind whenever the world got too much. Well, his dad got too much.

Then he would just grit his teeth and tell himself that he had nothing to prove and that any place would be better, he just had to go somewhere. Didn’t matter that he started at zero, just like her, he would live.

Just a year more then he’d be eighteen.

Eliot had never belonged in that small stuffy town, no matter how well he played his part. He was never that into football or the girls at the school. He went through the motions, but wasn’t built for settling down, for taking over the store and staying there forever.

For a while he thought that Aimee got that, that she got him and that they would achieve the dream together and get away from the town where everyone knew everyone and the only good thing were the horses.

She was also done with some of the people at school, though she went to church and she loved the horses and maybe he should have thought more about it when he mentioned leaving and she stayed quiet, but he wanted to get out so bad that he couldn't imagine anyone wanting to stay.

So, slowly he started to picture them, in a car – maybe even one he’d bought – driving on the highway, the town disappearing the rear view mirror as they went off to see what it meant to be living.

It was a dream that got crushed.

Aimee wanted him to stay, tried to talk of the horses and what they could built and he’d just listened dumbly and nodded.

Faintly he heard himself making her a promise about coming back then and giving her the ring he’d bought for her birthday, hoping to make it real in a church that was not run by the same Father he’d been forced to confess his sins to since he was a boy.

And he wondered how he had ended up there when he had always told her about his dream of being far away.

But then again, maybe he hadn’t told her. Maybe to her, he was complaining about the town just like she did, like everyone did. Maybe in her mind she had built a future like he had, just on a different set, cast in different rolls. Maybe neither had said enough.

He snuck out again that night and laid in the field, his field. He lay on the wet grass and stared at the constellations he knew so well, wondering why the endless sky suddenly seemed less a place of escape and just another facet of his stupid town where everyone but him seemed to want to stay.

His mind was just not comprehending how anyone couldn't see there was so much more than what was around them. That there was more than church on Sunday, the footballs games, the potlucks or the gossip that had been recycled a thousand times.

On the tape Tracy Chapman sang:

You got a fast car But is it fast enough so we can fly away We gotta make a decision We leave tonight or live and die this way

He’d heard the lyrics a million times, but that night it was those lyrics that hit him in the heart, more than it usually did.

Aimee was a fool. He had a fast car, he could get out, fly away, just a few more days and he’d be gone. If she didn’t want to come that was her decision and that was fine, but it didn’t have to be Eliot’s. He wouldn’t remain here.

He would not.

‘Weleave tonight or live and die this way’ that’s what Tracy sung and he’d already known on that night when he’d first heard the song that he would be driving off alone. He had tricked himself into thinking Aimee would come, but there had never been a we. Not for Eliot.

So on the night of his eighteenth birthday, he told his dad he was enlisting and fought with him, trying not to think of the lyrics ‘somebody’s got to take care of him,’ because even Tracy had seen she’d deserved better.

Still, even after he packed the last of his stuff, he swung by Aimee, asking her again, more urgent, more permanent, before promising he’d back for her. In case she needed him or if she’d changed her mind.

Then he was gone, off into the sunset. And as he tore down the highway, a tune blasted out of the radio.

I remember we were driving driving in your car The speed so fast I felt like I was drunk City lights lay out before us And your arm felt nice wrapped 'round my shoulder And I had a feeling that I belonged And I had a feeling I could be someone, be someone, be someone

And his foot on the gas peddle was intoxicating. He was going so fast that it was dangerous, but he didn’t care. He was riding to his future, to far off places and adventures. He was going to be someone.

That idea lasted approximately the ten weeks it took to train them, before shipping them out to an active war zone.

Though it had been chipped at relentlessly before already. Quite hard to be a someone in a cohesive unit. Not that it mattered to Eliot, he had a place to belong now, while his dream hadn’t matched Tracy’s, he was glad she had gotten him to this, with his brother’s in arms, even through all the horrors.

Yet, despite all she’d done for him, he forgot her and Fast Car.

There was not much room to listen to your own music and he was already a country hick, so he didn’t really need to amplify that more with a country music station.

He was fine fitting in the way he did. He wrote to Aimee, even if it was less and less, letters filled with empty promises made out of a sense of obligation to her and home. He didn’t speak to his father, nor his siblings. He stayed far away from everyone as his hands colored a dark red on foreign soil.

His bright and promising military career soon turned into a promotion to black ops where he didn’t exist to the government unless he came back.

The color of his hands didn’t change, it just got more pigmented as it dripped until wetwork was just a step to a better future. He had already killed so many people, getting paid almost nothing for a government that didn’t care. Why not do it for more money?

So, he had emptied his soul, filled it with money he didn’t truly need and more enemies around him, hoping it would be enough.

He had disappeared completely.

Eliot Spencer was no more, not really.

The man might still walk the earth, but anyone who met him didn’t live to tell the tale, so friendship was hard to come by. Maybe that’s why Moreau was such a welcome change in his life. There was a man, who might be powerful, but who would never have enough security against Eliot, smiling at him and offering him friendship – with money and a bit of violence thrown in – like Eliot was just another being he could own.

And by god did Eliot want to be owned. He once more longed to belong like he had done in the army, but he no longer was innocent enough for the army, which was an ironic sentiment that was true enough to hurt.

He had walked through pools of blood he had made, hoping no one would follow the bloody footsteps he left behind, but here there were others, who had walked through the same red sea as he had and who found each other under Moreau.

It was brutal work, soulless too. It was nothing more than destruction in exchange for power that was a fire with no ash left behind, just bare rock where nothing grew.

And Eliot was home.

Later, in a future he didn’t know he could have, when feeling returned to his limbs and he saw how his pools of blood had turned into seas had turned into floods and it was too late to turn back. Only then would he look back and hate himself, but not now.

Now Eliot was on top of the world. Sitting at the side of the most feared and most powerful of the underbelly of the underbelly, while remaining in an bright spotlight was the best place to be. He was untouchable and unfeeling.

He had always been weak for belonging, for seeing the world and making someone of himself and Moreau was the best salesman there was. He sold Eliot a unfulfilled dream with labor for Moreau as payment without the hitter every realizing.

So he went through the motions. He got more skills, he learned new things. He stopped enjoying life, though he would only later come to know that.

Eliot Spencer had disappeared under Moreau and not just from the records. He was no longer the boythat had driven out of a small town in Oklahoma to sign up for the army in the hope of being more than his neighbor.

Though, he supposed he had his dream. In a way. Here he was, more traveled than he could have ever hoped for with experiences so far from the norm that no one from his class could have ever matched his tales.

He had become what he had always dreamed to be, so why did he feel so hollow?

The answer came to him in the most horrific way he could imagine. He’d just pulled the trigger, he kept on doing it like he was supposed to but oh god- he’d done that. He killed them and he hadn’t even given them the time to beg, to spark humanity in his heart, because his heart had died long ago.

He needed to get out.

He needed to get far away from there.

From Moreau.

Why it had to be so extreme before he could finally see, he didn’t know. But it had. It had to get terrible, unforgivable. He had to see that the man he had been and wanted to be, was dead and that he was a devil with no chance at salvation.

As a hollow shell he’d ran. For a long time he had wondered if it was worth it to keep running, but slowly the people who chased him dwindled as less and less returned, until he knew he had been given a second chance. A chance to make it right.

It was Toby, who hammered in that lesson. The man might not have knownEliot’s complete tale, but he was familiar with the haunted look in his eyes, so he took Eliot under his wing and showed him how his hands were made for more than violence.

Eliot laid his guns down there and took up a knife, vowing to only fight where he could get hit in return, level the playing field. He’d never liked the power that came with a gun and now he wouldn't pick one up again to be tempted by that voice.

He wouldn't be that man anymore. He refused. He would stay in Toby’s kitchen for now, figure out a plan that would carry him forwards as a better person. Not good, just better.

So it came to be that, one night, when he was alone in the kitchen, slicing up some onions for the prep for the next day, while tune played on the radio.

At first he hadn’t even recognized it, but still he listenedclosely, now scoffing at some of the lyrics, until one of the last verses played.

You got a fast car And I got a job that pays all our bills You stay out drinking late at the bar See more of your friends than you do of your kids I'd always hoped for better Thought maybe together you and me would find it I got no plans I ain't going nowhere So take your fast car and keep on driving

How ironic, he thought. He had always been so focused on the start of the song, on the getting out and leaving everything behind that he had never fully listened to the ending. To the fact that Tracy never got the ending she’d wanted.

He’d been stupid to think he’d ever get a happy ending. He’d been far less deserving off it and fate was never kind. He always prided himself on knowing better, but he’d been more foolish than anyone in his class.

‘I’d always hoped for better.’

And by god, he had. He had wanted so much, dreamed so big and set goals so unobtainable that he would always have keep on climbing.

So maybe he had never been Tracy, maybe he’d been the dick that had promised her the world and then never delivered. He thought of Aimee and how he had never been a settler, but someone that kept on disappointing and leaving.

The far car had not always been a car in his life, but he had always been on the road, always had been going somewhere, or maybe he’d just been running away.

Maybe now he had stopped running? Though, if he hadn’t been running, he’d been hiding. Here in Toby’s kitchen he had made a little haven away from everyone that had hurt him and that he had hurt. And he didn’t deserve that. Not after what he did.

Eliot made a vow to himself that night, listening to Fast Carin the back of a restaurant, both reminiscent and nothing like when he had first heard it. He would leave there and face the world, never kill again, just survive and try to do better.

He could at least try to do better.

So, he said goodbye to Toby and went off into the world. Toby wouldn’t go anywhere, but Eliot had to. He would remember Toby, however, carry him with him whenever he ate a new dish or went on a grift as a cook. It was a good time, one of the best he’d had since the army, maybe even since Aimee.

Still, he didn’t look back, not to her or Toby. He had things to do, people to help, as well as himself a bit. All of his funds from working from Moreau had disappeared and he needed to survive if he wanted to repent.

Somehow that road led him to a prick named Nate Ford and a job to get the plans of a plane back. It led him to Hardison, a nerd he liked more than he wanted to admit, and Parker, who made him smile with her antics as well as give him heart problems. It led him to Sophie, who had so many masks that he could relate to her and feel safe in his nobody-ness.

It led him to a team, more than a team really. After a while it reminded him of the army with all his brothers, family was closer, but he had no reference for family, except them.

Even Aimee told him they were, because he’d come back to help her when she needed him and part of him felt lighter on that promise fulfilled. It felt like a start. Not a new start, because it would never be fair to everyone he’d hurt to erase those sins like that, but it felt like he had a bucket and soap and the color of his hands might fade to a light pink one day.

And Eliot worked.

He pushed himself into more grifting, learned a bit of hacking, scaled building hanging from a tiny rope and learned to think of more than just strategic exits and weaknesses in physique. He completed the jobs they were hired to do and he helped people.

What he had dreamed off when he had first joined the army, he found at Leverage. He found family, a home, a sense of duty and belonging. He was changing the world for the better.

It was amazing and more than he had ever hoped for himself, even on those nights alone with the radio, he couldn't have hoped it would end like this. He was someone. He practically had his own brewpub and a recent memory he could be proud off.

And he was proud as he reminisced alone in the kitchen of their office/apartment, where he was preparing some stuff for dinner for the next day. It was late and once this was done and in the fridge, he was done for today, but it would take a few more minutes.

Impulsively he put on the song on the speakers like Hardison had showed him. He hadn’t listen again since Toby, when he blamed himself and found himself on the other end of the song, but maybe now it would be different.

You got a fast car And we go cruising to entertain ourselves You still ain't got a job And I work in a market as a checkout girl I know things will get better You'll find work and I'll get promoted We'll move out of the shelter Buy a big house and live in the suburbs

Before he had never related to her dreams, just her drive to get away and make something of herself, but he could understand now. If he ever got too old for his job, then he wouldn't mind living the way he was now, with Hardison and Parker in the brewpub, making his own menu’s, serving people food.

He knew that for Tracy, she had to tell someone to leave, before she could make a move to get there. Still, he liked the verse now more than before. It spoke of a hope, of a view of the future and a certainty about the destination.

The lyrics he had scoffed at when he had just left Moreau, were dear to him now. ‘I know things will get better,’ it was stupid, but maybe- maybe Eliot could believe in that too now.

Without thinking, he put the song on repeat, before gathering the supplies for his marinade as he danced a bit around in the kitchen. It wasn’t as if there was anyone to catch him.

So, he remembered the stupid boy he had been, the heartless man who had forgotten and guy he was becoming now. Until the end of the song:

You got a fast car But is it fast enough so you can fly away You gotta make a decision You leave tonight or live and die this way

And it wasn’t the way the lyric was intended to land and Eliot’s life had went down a way different road than Tracy’s, but those lyrics where him.

He had a thousand ways to leave and had left a thousand more. He could fly away if he wanted, but it was in the fact that he had run that he had found strength. He was no longer a faceless soldier in the army or Moreau’s attack dog. He was Eliot Spencer and he was alive.

There had been a million moments when he could have made a different decision, but he hadn’t and even when it seemed he had been running away all his life, maybe he’d just been running towards this instead.

‘Leave tonight or live and die this way.’

Huh, he wouldn't mind dying for these people, he wouldn't mind living for these people. He was content to be and never leave. All those times he’d snuck out and dreamed, he had never dreamed here, but he was someone and he had found a place to belong.

So he made the decision and stayed. Till his dying day and all that.

~~

A/N:

I love Christian Kane’s cover of Fast Car so much and I played in on repeat while writing this. The original version of the song also still has a soft place in my heart though.

((the song is not in order and some parts are missing, but you know, you don’t always learn a song in the right order and other parts speak to you at different times))

[echo-three-one]

Whatever It Takes

Still recovering from the injuries when they rescued Samantha and Maxine, Soap and France er- John and Francine sits out on the next mission and enjoys a little rest and recreation. Comfy right?

Chapter 8 to another story made by Ray (echo-three-one) Comments and Reviews appreciated! I hope you enjoy! Love you all ❤️

Previous Chapter : Alex - Just Like Old Times

"Experiment 001"

John 'Soap' MacTavish

Task Force 141 - Off Duty

London, United Kingdom

John barely passed the Physical Test and he was excited that he made it just in time with their next mission. But what he didn't expect was that he was already too late to tag along. They were headed to an Augustus base from a lead they got from Alex, who actually convinced the whole local militia to join his cause. He noted not to underestimate him despite the lack of limbs as that was his specialty back in the CIA.

Now, with enough time and approved Rest and Recreation, he can't believe they're driving to London. He didn't know how it happened but a few nudges and teases from France and they were actually driving his trusty jeep on their way to a local coffee shop she wanted to visit.

"You seem happy for someone who sits out in a fight." Soap commented as France's hair blew softly as the jeep sped across the empty highway.

"Well, I can't force myself out there, might as well enjoy the little freedom from the gunfire and chaos." she cheered, raising her hands openly like a tourist or someone from a music video. Soap rolled his eyes toward her behavior but when he thinks of it, he might use some relaxation himself.

"So, we're really driving to London for coffee? We could've just brewed some back at the base, you know?" he informed, eyes turning to the road. 

"Oh come on Soap! Live a little! It's the relaxing background I'm looking for, the one that yells "Rest up Francine and shoot tangos later!"" she teased, Soap was still not convinced about this, he's all too focused on work, living up to the 'elite' part of the task force.

Soap continued driving and couldn't help but momentarily turn to her, how she shook her head when her hair got in the way, how she giggled at the bumps on the road and how she badgered him with a lot of questions. All of those things he seemed to like. She even told him to slow down so she could take pictures of the view and show them to Maxine when she finally remembers her, along with a few selfies with Soap.

~

"So, Soap, this is your vacation? On your phone with a cup of coffee?" France crossed her arms as she sat in front of Soap. The Scottish looked at him, brows raised.

"Don't call me Soap out here. And I'm actually checking German news channels." he informed while not batting an eye on her.

"Really, what should I call you then, Dove?" She joked, while Soap remained unamused.

"John." he muttered.

"Really?! You don't really look like a John. Maybe... a James.. James MacTavish? Sounds better." she mused as she looked at the problematic mohawk man as he keeped raising his phone looking for a signal.

"Hey check your phone. Do you have reception or something?" Soap finally looked at her and turned to the direction she's looking at. A young woman was raising her phone just outside the cafe.

"What is she doing?" France pointed out and Soap was rendered speechless. Moments later the phone exploded into an EMP blast shattering the café windows causing the two to cover under the tables.

"Shite." John muttered and looked at France who was inches near him. France's hands were covering her ears as the ringing continued.

"Come on! Let's leave here before our ears bleed!" Soap roared, enduring the pain of the ringing as he pulled France to safety. People scattered around looking for a spot to stay which was just a few yards away from the phone. Everyone stood still and murmured as the person holding the phone crippled in pain from the said blast.

Francine forced herself off of John's strong grip and winced as she reached the blast zone, enduring the mental pain as she tried to rescue her. John took a while before he helped her up as his ears started to bleed from the ringing. Halfway through safety the phone exploded and the screeching stopped.

911 immediately responded assisting the three of them as well as those who suffered from injuries because of the blast. While being tended from behind the ambulance, a tall red-headed lady with a slick leather jacket introduced herself to them, flashing her INTERPOL badge.

"Hi. I'm sorry you got caught on the crossfire." she apologized, her tone was strict yet calming.

"Aye. It's alright ma'am. We're kinda used to it." John chuckled and Francine nodded. 

"This is kind of my case. Can I ask you for details surrounding the event that just happened?" she blindly fished her notebook and pen from her back pocket and the duo honestly told their story.

"Oh. Thank you very much. um Mr and Mrs…?"

the two of them looked at each other.

"Oh no no no. You've got it all wrong maam!" Francine quickly interrupted.

"Aye. There's no way I'd ask this woman out." John added causing them to argue and bicker like old people.

"Okay Okay. I'll address this differently. You two don't have to fight, okay?" she scolded as she answered her already ringing phone.

~

The sun was already setting when they drove back to the base. The ride was cold and quiet and the two of them didn't say a word after they bickered back at the city. Soap momentarily checks in on her while driving but France just crossed her arms and blasted music through her earphones.

John tried to talk to her about it but he hesitated, her body language was enough to tell him that she didn't need any bothering from him today, or maybe ever. So instead of saying words, he quickly turned to a small path just before the Base's entrance and drove seriously.

"Hey hey hey Mister, where are you bringing me?!" She motioned to eject herself from the car by detaching herself from the seatbelts.

"Oi Oi! Calm down. I just thought you needed a breather." he hit the brakes. They were at a small elevated area just below the river that ran behind their base. Francine slowly calmed herself down enjoying the beautiful view as John exited his jeep and walked to a tree stump.

He sat down and faced the river, the moon illuminated his hair and half of his face while France slowly descended from her seat and looked at his blue eye glow as the moonlight hit his face. 

"Cigars aren't allowed at the base. And we're still technically outside." he winked and offered her a light, a sneaky smirk escaped from his perfectly shaped mouth. 

Francine gulped.

"I don't smoke. Thanks." she gestured a no at the Scot and slowly walked toward him as soon as he turned back.

"Mmhmm.. Suit yourself." he teased as he huffed the cigar and released smoke from his mouth, pouting his lips and looked up at the sky. Francine fell quiet, but she could hear her heart thumping, telling her to say the words she wanted to say the moment they met. But she hesitated, there's no time for admiration in the middle of war. She inhaled deeply and sighed.

"This view looks spectacular." she mused, John just chuckled and puffed another breath of smoke.

"What's with you women and beautiful landscapes? Sometimes I don't get it. Like, it's just water and the sky." he complained. Francine smiled telling herself that it's a different view she was referring to. 

'The spectacular view I'm referring to is you, John MacTavish.' she smiled and told herself.

Task Force 141 Base - Lobby

Soap and France just got back inside the base and Shepherd was already looking for them. Word has it that their involvement from events that occurred earlier today alerted the General and called them into briefing.

"Agent Ryder, I believe you've already acquainted yourself with these two members of the force?" Shepherd introduced.

"Yes. It's Mr. MacTavish and Ms. Winters." the redhead nodded to them as a greeting.

"Good." The general seated himself and let the Agent begin talking.

"The case earlier was that of a Jane Doe, an American who used her phone to create a long lasting EMP blast capable of destroying nearby signal receptors at a set range. Coincidentally, one of your members also reported a bigger machine capable of doing bigger blasts back in Germany. While this may be purely coincidental, the interpol assigned me to further investigate this phenomenon as part of my job as Anti-Terror Weapon Division." she briefed, Shepherd had already talked to his higher ups and they already assigned her as part of a joint operation. 

"Furthermore, Our team wants to quickly eradicate traces of such weapons in order to restore peace and order across Europe." she added. Soap nodded in agreement, he was one of the few ones who witnessed the weapon's power and would like to take part in destroying such machinery. 

"Well Ms. Ryder. We have already discussed this. Welcome to the 141. These two will escort you around, make sure you feel comfortable and well fed with all the data you need." he muttered and shook hands with her. She nodded and thanked him as Soap and France gave her a quick tour of the base.

The tour consisted of mostly France talking, she actually got close with Agent Ryder quickly, and Soap was just there following like a dog. And he hates dogs.

"It's good to have someone like you in a place full of men. It eases off the pressure." the Agent thanked her as they dropped her off her quarters. France smiled and held her hand.

"Don't worry. These men may look tough, but then you get to know them, they're actually sweeter than us. Right, Soap?" she turned to him. 

"What are you talking about?" he easily dismissed rolling his eyes, looking everywhere but their direction.

"See?!" France giggled and Agent Ryder laughed along.

"It's a pleasure to be part of this team. Call me Alexandra. Alexandra Ryder." She said.

"Welcome to the 141, Alexandra." France shook hers and smiled. It may feel like a simple handshake but Soap felt that it was going to be an alliance that's going to last for a long time.

Next Chapter : A surPRICE Visit

Notification Squad, my beloved

@samatedeansbroccoli @smokeywhalee @enderio @whimsywispsblog @ricinbach @beemybee

[cno-inbminor]

a/n: drabble dump time aka random stuff i just felt like writing! ft. spy!au, iwaizumi x fem!reader. all characters are aged up. 

warnings: description of an explosion, presumed reader death, unedited. mainly angst

It’s not often that Iwaizumi wakes up like this, drenched in sweat, chest heaving, and lungs screaming desperately for oxygen. Anyone can agree that it’s never fun to wake up to a damp pillowcase and sheets that stick to skin, yet here he was, experiencing just that. What pisses him off more than anything is the fact that he knows the exact reason why he’s been acting this way. He knows the reason and yet, he’s unable to do anything about it.

When he shuts his eyes again, the vivid nightmare plays on his eyelids like the screen of a movie theatre. His vision fights to discern details through the smoke and dust, his ears are ringing from the blast, his feet stumble over broken concrete and cobblestone, his hands tremble in their hold on his spare pistol; he’s searching, pleading to an unknown force, that you’re around here somewhere.

He brings on hand up to use the collar of his shirt as a temporary dust filter. His choice of weaponry has never felt so heavy before, but he was trained to fight against the strain and the odds. You always stand back up. When you have no choice but to run, run. This was one of those moments where he’d be advised to run.

“Damn it, where the fuck are you?” Iwaizumi curses to himself, trudging through the half-collapsed building to find any sign of you. You had been too many meters away from him and out of his sight when the blast happened. There was no way for him to determine just exactly where it had come from, especially when the licks of flames behind were only growing higher and higher towards the skies. He was on a countdown to find you and get you safely to the rendezvous point, something he never thought he’d have to worry about.

He decides to take his chances and yells out your name, his voice cracking and breaking as the dust scratches at his throat like nails on a chalkboard. Gritting through the pain, he calls out again, looking in every possible direction. The earpiece in his right ear comes alive, static crackling before a familiar voice comes through.

“—jime, can you hear me? Hajime?”

“Fuck, yeah, I’m here, Kenma,” he bites, eyes still flitting everywhere.

“Are you okay? Where’s (y/n)?”

“Really fucking beat up, and trying to find her right now. I can’t see shit though.”

“Tooru’s coming around to the rendezvous point in three minutes and you need to be there. Local police and firemen are already on their way, we have to get you out.”

“Can you locate her?”

“Signal’s lost. She was last seen on the north side of the building.”

“Well fuck,” Iwaizumi groans as he recalls the layout of the building in his mind. “That side’s entirely in flames, do you think…”

“She wouldn’t go down that easy. Two and a half minutes.”

“She has to be here somewhere,” Iwaizumi argues, tone becoming frantic. There’s nothing he can do but turn back towards the fire, desperate for any sort of clue. “(Y/n)! Are you there?”

He stumbles on the path once traveled, scouring the floor and in the rubble. Then his eyes catch a flash of rose gold, buried underneath fragments of brick and stone. His fingers and knees protest when he kneels down to push all of it aside, reaching to pick up the dust-covered chain. His heart sinks past his feet and into the earth beneath him when he gets a good look at the design.

In his hands is the very necklace he had gifted you months ago, one that you never took off, one that he had eyed and seen in many nights of passion, one that he had personally clasped underneath your hair. A thin rose gold chain holding a circular pendant of the same material, no larger than the size of your fingernail, with a small diamond suspended in the middle.

It can’t be.

“Hajime, ninety seconds. You need to get out of there.”

“But—”

“We’ll find her. You have to go.”

Iwaizumi takes one more look at the fires just a foot in front of him before standing back up and heading for the nearest exit. When he stumbles out, a sleek black vehicle pulls up and he wrenches open the passenger door. Not a second longer after his bottom hits the seat, Oikawa steps on the gas, the force aiding Iwaizumi in shutting the door. With deft skills and hands, his longtime friend secures an inconspicuous escape, merging onto the highway in the direction of their headquarter facilities.

Both ignore the incessant beeping from the car, the vehicle protesting the fact that Iwaizumi isn’t wearing his seatbelt. Oikawa only needs to take one look at the chain hanging from Iwaizumi’s fist to understand the situation, quickly letting Kenma know that the retrieval was a success and they were on their way back. His eyes take a glance in the rearview mirror to ensure no one is following them before addressing the elephant in the room.

“She probably made it out and went into hiding,” Tooru hypothesizes. “Maybe she left the necklace as a sign.”

“She better fucking have or she’ll never hear the end of it from me.”

“Must you be so harsh on your girlfriend, Iwa-chan?” He attempts to tease, but it falls flat. Iwaizumi lets out a staggered sigh and leans back against the seat, staring out the tinted window. His heart beats heavily against his ribcage, hoping that in the next few hours, you’ll securely contact them and let them know you’re safe and sound.

But night comes around and there’s no word from you. Iwaizumi can’t sleep, not when the other side of his bed is empty and cold. The morning sun peeks above the horizon as Iwaizumi downs his second cup of coffee, his phone out on the dining table, sitting silent and motionless. Even when Sugawara hands him a bowl of rice, miso soup and natto on the side, Iwaizumi only eats a few grains at a time. He skips his workout routine for the day, instead taking a seat silently by Kenma and scourges through the footage of the previous day’s events.

The hours turn into days, and the days turn into weeks. The agency begins to lose hope and when the two-month mark hits, Iwaizumi watches in despair as your photo in the database gets slapped with an ‘M.I.A.” stamp on it. Oikawa tries to convey his comfort and own pain through the hand placed on his friend’s shoulder. For the rest of the day, everyone who passes by Iwaizumi gives him their best apologetic look. He can only nod and train his gaze to the floor to avoid the pity. Losing a partner is never easy, and even more so when you’re romantically attached to them.

Yet inside his gut, he doesn’t believe it. Kenma had shown him the crime scene report as well as the autopsy results – all bodies found were accounted for and none of the samples matched to any characteristics describing you. There were no Jane Does, nothing that indicated you were there besides the necklace. Whether you had hacked into the database yourself before Kenma got to it or you had just simply disappeared into the flames, you were simply…gone. It just didn’t make sense and Iwaizumi needed to get down to the bottom of all of this. You were alive – he could feel it.

The head of the agency gives him fewer missions and often pairs him with Oikawa, the best person to keep him on his toes. Iwaizumi shuts off his emotions during these times, completely zoned in on the objectives and goals, senses on high alert. He trains and trains until his abs hurt and his arms are jelly, causing Daichi to forcibly lock him out of the gym and demand that he takes a day off. This happens more times than Iwaizumi can count on his fingers and toes, so he spends his free time searching for clues. Sometimes, even Kiyoko and Yachi come by to help.

He’ll find you. He has to.

-

Four months after the incident, Iwaizumi takes a train into a small town in Germany. Thankfully, there are very few people in his cart, and he looks like the odd visiting businessman. He’s got a messenger bag leaning against his body with a worn journal in his lap, one that he had found under the floorboards of your apartment. This was the third place your journal had strung him along to, and he was really hoping you would be here.

“You have two months,” the head told him. “If you don’t find her…”

You’ll need to give up.

The unspoken words had left a bad taste in Iwaizumi’s mouth. He was a month in and beginning to lose his sanity. Reading your journal made him realize how there was so much he hadn’t learned about you, yet you knew so much about him. Had he given over his heart too easily? Were you toying with him? Did you even want to be found?

The train comes to a stop, ripping him away from his thoughts. He steps off and looks around before spotting the street he wanted. Down that road would lead him to the main plaza of the town, the one that had been vaguely mentioned in your writings. Iwaizumi begins setting himself up for disappointment so the pain would be more bearable if he doesn’t find you here in the next few days.

It’s about a 15 minute walk – cream-colored houses in an old European style tower over him as he ambles down the curvy street. He passes by bikers and crepe stands, sometimes the occasional antique store. The ambient noise of nature begins to melt into sounds of spoken word, Iwaizumi’s first sign that he’s nearing the plaza. Eventually, the street opens up into a large square. He’s greeted by restaurants and gelato shops, many people enjoying the fresh air in the outdoor seating. Children run around playing with balloons and each other, no care in the world except for their current enjoyment. Iwaizumi looks around and freezes.

There you are, sitting at a shaded table by a café, sipping on what he presumes to be a latte. A book is spread open on the metal surface and you haven’t noticed him yet. He drinks in all your features, noticing your hair color has changed and your face thinner than before. But despite these concerning changes, you still look as beautiful as ever to him.

He can’t believe it. He finally found you.

As though you felt his eyes, you look up from your book in his direction. They bore right into yours and you process all the emotions running through him. There’s confusion, pain, determination, exhaustion, but most of all, there’s love. Your heart aches at the sight of him – with no doubt in the world, there was nothing, no one you missed more than Iwaizumi Hajime, the love of your life. But it’s too early for him to find you. There was something that you needed to do, and you had to do it alone. For him.

Iwaizumi watches you warily stand from your chair. Your body is tense and ready to act, and he recognizes that stance all too well. No, don’t – !

You run.

But he’ll be damned if he doesn’t chase after you.

[theangriestpea]

Crime and Punishment

Summary: When your boyfriend Sweet Pea pulls you over for speeding, he has the perfect punishment planned in place of giving you a ticket. ((Anon request))

Pairing: Sweet Pea x Reader x Fangs

Rating: Mature // Explicit

Word Count: 2.2k+

Warnings: shameless smut, handcuffs, double penetration, threesome, some knife play, unprotected sex (wrap it if you tap it xoxo)

A/N: I waited so long to post this so that I could finally participate in my first event by @riverdale-events ! Welcome to Kink Week! This falls under Theme Two: The More the Merrier. Thank you for reading!

It was the perfect day. The temperature was just hot enough that you could roll your window down and let the wind whip through your hair. Your favorite rock song was blasting on the radio and you found yourself belting out the lyrics in an animated fashion, head bopping and dancing in rhythm with the bass. The sky was mostly clear with a few fluffy clouds speckling along the horizon.

Your right foot pressed down further onto the gas pedal, the engine revving as the small needle on the speedometer jumped higher. It ticked passed the 100 mph mark as you sped down the empty highway.

You didn’t hear the siren. Rather, you couldn’t hear the siren over the music. The flashing blue lights that illuminated your rear view mirror made you curse loudly, heart jumping into your throat as you slowed down your old sedan. You pulled off to the shoulder and cursed again, not wanting yet another speeding ticket.

The cop car pulled in behind you, lights still flashing though the siren was now cut off. You reached over and pulled out your license and registration, trying to think of a good excuse for going over a hundred in a sixty mph zone. Maybe you could say your friend was having a baby and you had to get to the hospital? No…your grandma was in the hospital? You frantically tried to think of something that would be the most plausible as there was a tap on your window.

You rolled it down before looking up, a sigh of relief exiting out of your body as you saw the very tall, extremely good looking deputy standing outside. “Thank god it’s you.” You breathed as a smile replaced your worried expression.

Your boyfriend did not look pleased. You couldn’t read much of his expression as the aviator sunglasses covered his eyes. “License and registration.” He said coarsely.

“Sweet Pea, is that really necessary?” You asked, batting your eyelashes up at him, “I wasn’t going that fast.”

His frown deepened, “Y/N, you were going a hundred and six. You do know what the speed limit is through here, don’t you?”

You gave him a sheepish look, “sixty…” You mumbled mostly to yourself as you began to feel guilty. “Please, Pea, I can’t get another ticket. I’ll lose my license!”

“Step out the car, Y/N.” He said, stepping back to give you room. Your muscles tensed as you opened your car door and got out. You looked up at him with a worried expression, not understanding why he wasn’t being lenient with you. “Hands in front of you.” He ordered as you notice him pull out the linked metal bracelets.

You started to panic, holding your hands out to comply as he tightening the cuffs around your wrists. “You can’t get a ticket, huh?” He asked, voice still serious. “Then you’ll have to pay for this some other way.”

You weren’t exactly a stranger to intense sexual acts and scenes since you started dating Sweet Pea over a year ago. He was very…imaginative in bed. He never bored you and often surprised you with something new to try. You briefly wondered if this was one of those situations. Hopefully for your driving record, it was.

He led you to his car and you saw his partner in the passenger’s seat with a grin on his face. Fangs could never hide his excitement. It was one of his few flaws. His eyes lit up with anticipation as his eyes connected with yours.

It clicked. He had been trying to get you to do a threesome with Fangs the past week and a half. You hadn’t been sure, having never been with more than one partner before. Sweet Pea was going to use your vulnerability to his advantage. A trade off of sorts. Some new kink scene in exchange for getting out of having to pay whatever hefty fine he’d assign to you through a traffic ticket. You cursed for a third time.

Sweet Pea guided you into the back of the cruiser and buckled you in. “Is this really necessary? What about my car? Pea, please, you don’t need to handcuff me.”

“You been very bad, baby girl. Law says I have to lock you up.” Sweet Pea said with a devious smirk. He got into the driver’s side of the car and started the engine. Sweet Pea and Fangs exchanged looks of excitement and smugness.

You huffed stubbornly in the cramped back seat, having to turn your legs to the side to even fit comfortably. The seatbelt was digging into your collarbone and you tested the strength of the handcuffs, no doubt leaving red lines along your wrists under the metal. It was no use. You were at the mercy of your boyfriend and his best friend.

It didn’t take long to figure out that he was taking you back to his trailer in Sunnyside. He pulled into the dirt driveway and turned off the car. After radioing in the position of your car so that it wouldn’t get towed, he turned back to look at you through the metal grate. “You’re awfully quiet princess. You won’t be for long.” He said menacingly before getting out and retrieving you from the back seat.

Fangs got out of the car as well, his infamous smirk plastered onto his face. You really wanted to just wipe it right off of him in that very moment as Sweet Pea grabbed your shoulder and led you inside. He was being forceful but not in a painful way.

Once in his bedroom, he forced you to sit onto the bed. You watched, anticipation growing inside you as you squirmed, clenching your thighs together as you got a good look at him in his uniform. You always did have a thing for him in khaki. Fangs looked equally good and they appeared to be taking off their pants in unison. The heavy belts thudding hard against the floor.

Their shirts were also quickly discarded so that they were down to their boxers. Your eyes shifted between the two deputies, the ever growing desire in their gaze lit you on fire.

“Sit behind her, Fangs, and hold her.” Sweet Pea said as he grabbed his switchblade from on top of the dresser. Fangs moved so he was sitting behind you, his chest pressed firmly against your back as he held your arms firmly in place.

You gave Sweet Pea a defiant look, “Pea this is my favorite tank top!” You protested, knowing he wasn’t about to un-cuff you. He pressed the flat of the blade against your lips to silence you. You quickly shut up as you felt the cold metal against your mouth.

He drug it down across your jawline and down your neck, “should have thought of that before you begged me not to give you a ticket.” He said in a low tone, edged with what you recognized as lust.

The blade moved to your shoulders and he cut through the straps off your bra and tank top. You let out a groan of protest as this had been one of your good bras that he just destroyed.

Sweet Pea tore the fabrics away, leaving your chest bare. Fangs’ hands moved under your arms to wrap around you so he could grab your breasts and knead them between his fingers. You knew he always had a thing for boobs, not being able to resist touching them now that they were free.

You bit your lip to keep from moaning, leaning back against Fangs as you felt his erection nestled against your ass. He moved his hips in a slow motion to rub himself against you. Sweet Pea practically ripped your shorts and underwear off, making you yelp in surprise.

Fangs chuckled into your ear as Sweet Pea just looked pleased with himself. Your eyes looked down to his boxers, seeing the tent being pitched by his hard cock. Fangs decided to pinch your nipples then and a pent up moan escaped from your throat.

Sweet Pea slipped his boxers off and stepped between your legs. He grabbed your wrists and brought your hands closer to his throbbing erection, “touch it.” He demanded as you wrapped one of your hands around his base. He grunted as you lightly stroked him, your hands being awkwardly forced together because of the handcuffs.

After a few pumps he pulled himself away. “Turn her over.” He ordered Fangs who pushed you forward long enough for him to take off his own boxers. He helped you turn around so you were straddling his lap. He laid back, pulling you on top of him, his penis rubbing against your already slick folds.

You looked at him with glossy eyes as he rubbed his tip along your entrance. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do this.” He said in a hushed voice that made your face flush with embarrassment. You had no idea how much he wanted to fuck you. No wonder he was jumping at the chance.

Without much warning he suddenly entered into you, gliding in easily due to how ready you were, “God, she’s so fucking wet.” He said to Sweet Pea as he held still, enjoying the moment. You moved your hips in an attempt to feel more, but Fangs grabbed them to hold them still and you whined at him in response.

“No one said you could move.” Fangs replied in a growl, moving so that he was pressed into you as much as possible. With your hands on his chest you gave him a puppy-eyed look, trying to persuade him to move.

Sweet Pea let out a chuckle as he opened a bottle of lube to rub onto himself. You knew what he was preparing to do, and you immediately tensed. “You better use your fingers first,” You said in absolute protest.

“Only good girls get fingers.” Sweet Pea replied in a deadly tone and you knew you were officially screwed.

Fangs continued to hold you steady as Sweet Pea pressed his tip against your ass. You let out a whine of protest as he pushed in. He knew that if you wanted to stop it then you’d use the safe word, but you hadn’t so he wasn’t about to let up. You had thought about using it but honestly with Fangs inside of you already, all you wanted was release.

You braced yourself as Sweet Pea edged into you slowly, trying to relax so that it didn’t hurt as much. Your teeth clenched at the pain. It wasn’t fully unpleasant although you knew you were going to be sore afterwards.

Once they were both fully inside you, you let out a deep breath. Suddenly your head was yanked back by your hair. “Now you can move.” Sweet Pea said and you slowly began to move your hips so that they both moved in and out of you simultaneously.

It was almost too much, the sensation of both of their dicks inside you completely overwhelming. You had to stop after just a few minutes, both boys surprisingly still.

“Now.” Sweet Pea said and both he and Fangs started to move their hips at a feverish pace at the same time. You cried out in ecstasy, feeling overwhelmed again. You thought you were going to break as Pea pulled on your hair even more so that you were forced to arch your back, hands still planted firmly on Fangs’ chest.

At first they moved in unison, but eventually they began moving at their own paces. Fangs had quicker, shallower thrusts while Sweet Pea was moving himself almost completely in and out at a slightly slower pace. They could feel each other through your walls, the sensation new and exhilarating. This was definitely something they were going to rally to get you to do again.

You were moaning loudly, not knowing whose name you should be saying so instead you went with “God” and “Fuck”. Groans of pleasure left them as well, the trailer filled with sounds of intense fucking. Skin slaps, squelches, curses, all mingling together like they would in a professional porno.

You came first, screaming out something unintelligible as the boys kept going hard, both of them increasing their paces. Pleasure ran over you in a manner more intense than it ever had with just Sweet Pea. You weren’t entirely sure if you’d ever tell him that either, in case it hurt his sometimes fragile ego.

Sweet Pea released your hair finally so he could grab onto your hips and pound into you to finish himself off, the action subsequently making you have another orgasm that left you limp against Fangs’ body.

They came at almost the same time, being only seconds apart. You weren’t entirely too sure who was first as you just felt equally wrecked and used. Their semen filling you as they pulled out.

You couldn’t move but you did hear the snap of a phone camera that caused you to jerk your head quickly to see what Sweet Pea was doing (as Fangs was trapped beneath you). You gave him a murderous look that caused him to shrug. “Had to photograph the evidence, babe.”

“You suck.” You murmured as you relaxed against Fangs again, his arms entwining around your waist as he laid there comfortably.

“Pretty sure that’s you.” Sweet Pea replied with a laugh as he grabbed a towel to clean you up with. You whimpered as he rubbed your still sensitive clit with the rag. He chuckled at your reaction and you just pouted in response.

“Next time you speed,” He warned, “we’ll go for three.”

“Sweet Pea!” You yelled in protest but the boys just laughed.

[corvid-knight]

Demon Eyes - chapter 5

https://archiveofourown.org/works/13740258/chapters/31715238

tw for description of a car accident, blood, and death

You don't panic the next morning.

To be fair, that may be mostly because Karkat's not cuddled up to you when you wake up. He was there all night, though, and you're pretty sure he hasn't been gone long—even though the air mattress sheds heat faster than a normal bed would, the space where he was is still warm when you roll over into it.

Which is...good. Really good. You relax and pull the sleeping bag over your head to block out the morning light, realizing as you breathe in that Karkat must smell like honeysuckle and...okay, this is the absolute worst thought, but puppies.That's a pretty big component of the scent he's left on the blanket; that smell that anybody who's spent time around dogs too young to get bathed knows, warm and neither pleasant nor unpleasant, at least not to you. And with the sweeter and almost floral scent layered on top of it, you kind of wish the result wasn't so damn faint.

"Jesus fuck, Dave, do you ever think about anything normal?" Karkat sounds somewhere between confused and exasperated, and you uncover your face just in time to have a clean shirt and a fresh pair of jeans fall on it, blinding you again. "I didn't need to know I smell like a fucking puppy, okay?"

Oh, god, he heard all of that. Kill me now. "Why the hell did you have to listen?"

"It's not my fault all your mental blocks go down when you're half asleep!"

"A gentleman would stop listening when he realized it counted as spying, asshole." You huff, yanking the sleeping bag back over your head so you can start the slightly-complicated process of getting dressed without either getting up or having skin show. It probably looks weird as fuck to anyone watching.

Sure enough, Karkat's laughing as you struggle into your shirt, little half-muffled snorts that make your heart reconsider the proper cadence of your pulse. You can't even see him right now, and you're still smiling like a lovestruck idiot.

Lovestruck. Your smile fades as you get your pants on. Love. Do I—no. Fuck, no. I can't. I can't, he'll—

"Hey." The blanket over your head is pulled back, and you blink up at Karkat, who's leaning over you with a concerned expression that's rapidly becoming very familiar. "There's no 'he.' He's gone. It's okay."

"Who—fuck." Get that damn tremor out of your voice and try again. "Who said I wasn't okay?"

It's a little bit difficult not to flinch when his hand comes down toward you—you're in such a vulnerable position, flat on your back and tangled up in blankets and the clothes you just changed out of. This is very nearly a textbook example of what to never do around a demon, around anyone or anything dangerous...

All he does is smooth your hair back from your face.

"You're still not all the way awake." When Karkat takes his hand away, you realize you were leaning into his touch. "Which means you don't have to say shit for me to know it. I think I could've told you weren't okay anyway, though—it was pretty fucking obvious."

"I—" What? What, exactly? What the fuck are you going to say to him?

He saves you from having to figure that out by shrugging and interrupting you. "There's more granola bars on the driver's seat, plus a thing of crackers. It's a shitty breakfast, but we can stop somewhere and get you more later."

"Eh, I can run on what we got."

"Like fuck you can. Eat what there is while I pack this shit up, and we're stopping to get you more food later." He crosses his arms and scowls, and you make the decision to not start another argument right now.

Instead, you grab your clothes and hop down off the tailgate, going around to sit in the driver's seat and examine what Karkat's left there for you. It's kind of funny, actually—you kind of remember hiding these. It was a good six months ago, but Bro was going through one of his periodic phases where he pretty much left you to fend for yourself and sabotaged you every way he could. Acquiring and stashing nonperishable food items was the only thing you could do about it, and you guess there were some left that you never had to eat.

Pretty fucking impressive that Karkat managed to find them when Bro couldn't, though...

"Thanks. Remember that I'm more perceptive than that asshole, though." The demon opens the door to toss the neatly-rolled-up sleeping bags and air mattress in the back seat, then slams it again and comes up to your open window, grinning at you. "Do you want me to drive, or are you good?"

"I'm good." You shove the empty wrappers in your pocket. It's a shitty reason to want to be the one to drive, but that puts me in control of something. Feels better.

"Hey, I wouldn't call that shitty."

"Look, just 'cause you can hear me thinking doesn't mean you gotta respond to it."

"No, but sometimes you think things that come across as fucking stupid, and I have to clue you in that they are fucking stupid." Karkat snorts and steps away from the window; you retrieve the keys as he walks around to the passenger side. As soon as he's in you start the truck, and he nods. "We've got two more days of driving. Or one, if you want me to pull an all-nighter, or three, if you want to take it slow. Your choice."

"It's too early to make choices, man."

Another snort, this one suspiciously close to being a laugh as he picks up the phone. "Fair enough. But I'm still going to make you choose somewhere to stop for breakfast."

"Oh, fuck you." But you grin and shove back at him when he shoves at your shoulder.

You still refuse to actually choose, just to annoy him. Karkat talks you into stopping at the second McDonald's you pass, though, and he orders for you again. This time you eat before you let yourself zone out.

Three hours later, Karkat stops playing with the radio and goes perfectly still in his seat, and you drag your attention off the road and back to him. His face is perfectly blank, giving you absolutely no clue what's going on, but you can see too-sharp teeth in his half-open mouth, and unless you're imagining shit his skin's gone whiter and his hair darker. Closer to how he looked when he killed Bro; closer to fully, obviously demon.

"Karkat, what—"

His attention snaps onto you as soon as you speak, and you can't help but flinch and look back at the road. He's so fucking intense right now that having him look at you is like catching on fire.

"Pull over," he growls. And it really is a growl; deep, rough, and terrifying in a way that cuts through the logical part of your brain to the base programming, the leftover instincts from when humans were prey animals. It's a reminder that to his kind you might as well still be prey.

"But—"

"Fucking pull over! Now, Dave, fuck, pull the fuck over!" When he slams his hand against the glove compartment, you almost drive straight into the ditch. "Stop the car, stop the fucking car, stop—"

"I am, I swear, ju—just give me—give me a sec, I swear—" Shit. You can't finish talking. Karkat stops shouting, though, unclipping his seatbelt and continuing to growl as you manage to pull over onto the shoulder.

Before you can even get the gearshift into park, he's got the door open and he's gone, dashing across the road without even bothering to check for oncoming traffic. By the time you manage to get out of the truck, he's vaulted the median barrier.

"Karkat!" The demon might not even hear you. He sure as hell doesn't turn around. Shit. You pop open the glovebox, grab the first gun your hand touches, and shove it into the back of your waistband as you follow him.

You're climbing over the median when you actually figure out where he's heading, and you very nearly faceplant on the asphalt. It's a double dose of shit you're terrified of: a cop car with lights flashing but the siren silent, pulled over on the shoulder because some poor asshole's gone off the road and flipped their car. This one's as bad as any accident you've seen, too—the whole side of the car's crumpled, and the cop's kneeling on the ground next to a person so bloodied that you can't make any judgements on their gender or age.

Oh fuck no. I'm not fucking going over there. I don't want to see it, I can't see it, I can't—

That's what you're thinking, but you're still moving towards the wrecked car instead of away. Because that's where Karkat is.

By the time you get close enough to hear what's going on, the cop's on his feet with his hand uncomfortably close to his gun. Since he's got Karkat a few feet away from him, snarling like an animal, you don't totally blame him. Karkat, what the fuck are you doing—

He looks at you and whines, red eyes so wide they seem to take up half his face again, and you get a blast of anxiety and empathetic pain from him that makes you stagger back almost into the road. There's no words in the thought you catch from him, but you get what he needs anyway.

"Sir, I'm going to need you to step back—" The cop's talking to Karkat, but his eyes flick over to you. Good. You want his attention, although depending on how fast he can move that might mean you're about to get shot.

"Nah." You reach back and pull your gun, leveling it at him. Never mind that your mind's listing all the reasons this is a fucking horrible idea. "Hands up, buddy. Take a step back."

Don't shoot him, Dave.

The fucking safety's still on, man—nobody's getting shot here. Well, unless you fuck up. Then you're probably going to get shot. "Get your gun. Slow, 'cause if you point that fucker at me you're definitely going to the hospital." Bluff. The cop still does as you tell him, though, keeping his hand on the outside of the trigger guard and his eyes locked on yours. "Check the safety and throw it across the highway."

Once he's done that, you risk looking over at Karkat. If the cop jumps you now, you can probably take him. "Karkat?"

He's crouching next to the car, yanking at the door. Even from here you can tell that it's jammed, but you're not going to bet against his ability to get it open. Metal's already bending and warping further; the tradeoff is that he's even more obviously demon than he was before. Fuck.

"Go sit by your car," you tell the cop, lowering your gun. "Hell, sit in it for all I care. Call for backup if you want, just leave us alone for a couple fucking minutes."

"There's two kids in there," he says, and you barely manage to cover up the fact that that bit of information makes you want to freeze up and not listen to anything else.

"He'll get them out." And you jerk your head at Karkat, who's just jerked the car door not just open but completely off, dropping it on the floor and leaning into the interior.

"There's an ambulance on his way, you should wait for people who know what they're doing—"

"You know what? Fuck off. Have a little fucking faith and cooperate. Or don't. I don't give a shit." And you shove the gun back into the waistband of your jeans and turn to Karkat. What the fuck are you doing, man?

Fixing shit. Be quiet, Dave, I need to concentrate. The demon's kneeling next to the first person you saw; it's a woman, you see as you get closer, a young-ish woman with the side of her face so lacerated you can't bear to look at it. Try and calm those kids down?

"I can't talk to kids, man, c'mon," you mumble. But you still step over to the two toddlers who're sitting right where Karkat set them, the smaller one bawling and the bigger one just staring at his mom.

The bigger kid—he's maybe five years old—is the one you scoop up in your arms first. He doesn't struggle as you lift him up enough to get a look at his eyes, which is good, because you don't know enough about holding kids to be sure of not dropping him if he did. There's blood running out of his nose like the tears that his younger sibling is currently covered in, but his pupils look okay, and there's no other marks on him.

Not that that means he's okay. Even if he's not hurt, the poor guy's got to be at least a little fucked in the head right now.

You settle him on your hip and gently push his head to where he isn't looking at his mom, wincing as he decides to bury his bloody face in your chest. There goes another shirt.

The cop's still standing right where you left him; you look over at him and point at the crying kid. Thankfully, he gets the point without you having to say anything.

You make sure to stay between the cop and Karkat, though. Once the former has his hands full with wailing toddler, you look down at the latter. "How bad is she?"

"Worse than you were." His voice is still a growl, and he looks more demon than ever. You're very careful to not look at how his hands are slowly stroking across the woman's bloody throat. "Not as bad as the guy in the car."

"There's another one?"

"Yeah. Leave him. You can't help him, I can't help him, he's gone." Let the humans deal with their dead. If I don't talk her blood into staying where it belongs, there'll be two corpses when they get here instead of one. He raises one hand to shove dark red curls back from his face.

The blood shows up dark against his white skin and blends seamlessly into his hair. Your stomach lurches.

I'm going to throw up. I'm going to pass out. I'll wake up and I'll be in jail, for some fucking reason, I know there's a reason they could arrest me—

Except you can't pass out, because you're still holding a five-year-old with a bloody nose, who just saw his mom almost die. Dropping him wouldn't be fair.

Closing your eyes doesn't really help, but you do it anyway. Hugging the kid closer to your chest helps a little bit, even if it gets you started thinking about how the wet patch soaking into your shirt is blood. A kid's blood.

Jesus fuck.

"I'll be done in a minute, I swear," Karkat murmurs absently, still not looking up at you.

"You keep her alive, I'll wait as long as I gotta." If you get any dizzier, you're going to have to hand the kid off to the cop.

Thank you, he says in your head, and you feel him push at your mind just a little. For a second it hurts. Then the sick sensation fades away a bit, leaving a calm that you can tell isn't natural.

Natural or not, it lets you stand there and wait and shush the kid you're holding when he does actually start to cry. You don't think about anything.

After some length of time that you can't measure at all, Karkat sits back on his heels and wipes his hands on his already-filthy shirt. You hand off the kid to the cop and offer the demon a hand up.

Surprisingly, he takes it, and lets you pull him to his feet. You have to steady him as he staggers. "Hey. You okay?"

"We need to go." That isn't a fucking answer, but the way he leans on you might as well be. "I can't pass for human right now, we need to be gone before anyone gets here..."

"Yeah. I know, man, I know." Thank god that there's not much traffic, because you're taking most of his weight as you head back toward your truck. God, how am I going to get him over the barrier?

"I'll make it over," he mumbles, and immediately stumbles over something, almost falling despite your support. You're in the middle of the road, struggling to get him on his feet again, and you can't stop thinking about what'll happen if another car comes along.

A car door slams. A second after that the cop's on Karkat's other side, taking his arm and hauling him upright.

Karkat glances up at him for a second, then just lets his head fall forward. "Make sure she gets a transfusion."

"Can do."

That's all he says, all any of you say. The cop helps you haul Karkat over the median barrier, gets him into the truck when you can't do the lifting yourself, and shuts the door. He doesn't even look at you as you get the truck started and pull out onto the road again.

You're grateful for that.

There's absolutely no chance of you being able to zone out, though. You're too fucking worried about Karkat, who isn't moving at all. He's conscious, you think; if you glance over at him you can see a sliver of dark red under his eyelids.

When you've passed a dozen or so mile markers, you take one hand off the steering wheel and lean over to touch his shoulder. "Karkat?"

"I'm here." He only sounds half-awake, though, and although he jerks his head in your direction he doesn't raise it. "...for a little bit longer. Shit kicks my fucking ass, Dave..."

Fuck. If he's dying—

"Calm down. Gonna sleep, okay?" The demon's hand moves up and finds yours, patting you gently. "Stop somewhere 'n get food. When I wake up, I'll need it."

"Food. Okay. Anything else?"

Karkat doesn't answer for a moment. When his hand slips off yours, you look back over at him and see that his eyes are all the way shut now, his head rolled to one side.

He's out.

Despite the pure fear that shivers through you at seeing him still, with blood on his face, you don't try to wake him.

Half an hour later you pull over on the side of the road and change into a shirt that doesn't have a bloodstain on it. Your clothes don't fit Karkat, you're too fucking skinny for that, so you wrestle him out of his bloody shirt and into one of Bro's. It doesn't fit either, but on the too-large side rather than the too-small. A clean corner of your shirt and half a bottle of water takes care of the blood on his face and hands.

He stays limp through all of that, even the cold water on his face. Your fear is getting worse, even though you tell yourself that it's baseless right now.

Two more hours, and you finally admit that you're not safe to be on the road. Every car that passes you, you jerk and barely catch yourself before you pull the wheel too far over. Either you stop soon, or you're going to get both yourself and Karkat killed.

You pull into the first fast food place you see—Taco Bell—and tell the person who asks for your order that you want five of everything on the dollar menu. She makes you repeat that twice, either because your voice is so fucking shaky she can't understand it, or because she can't believe you didn't misspeak.

The why doesn't matter. By the time she tells you to go ahead and pull forward, you're a shaking, almost sobbing mess.

Thankfully, an order that large takes them a couple minutes to get together. You spend that time with your forehead pressed against the steering wheel, gripping Karkat's hand tighter than you'd dare to if he was awake and taking deep, forcedly even breaths.

The phone rings while you're waiting.

You can't bring yourself to even look at it. After a while, it stops.

Almost as soon as it does, a guy with a slightly confused expression is handing you a series of food-heavy paper bags. When you hand him the money he very visibly relaxes; you guess that he wasn't a hundred percent sure this wasn't some kind of prank.

He turns to get your change, and you're out of the parking lot before he turns around again. Fuck the change, you think.

You wince when Karkat doesn't react to that at all. It's amazingly easy to get used to the intimacy of telepathy, isn't it?

It's twenty-something more miles before you hit a rest area. Further than you really wanted to drive, but there's no way you can handle checking into one of the hotels you pass. They'd call the cops on you as soon as you walked in; shaky, obviously upset teens who can't even look someone in the eyes are at the top of the fucking list of people who trip suspicion switches. You know that, and you fucking hate yourself for not being able to turn off your physical signs of stress and anxiety.

At least you manage to keep the truck on the road and in your lane. Even when the phone rings again.

You still don't answer it, although this time you rationalise that decision with the thought that it'd be outright dangerous to talk and drive right now. Plus, it'd totally get you pulled over if you had the bad luck to have a cop pass you. This is the right decision. This isn't you being a coward.

Fuck but I'm so bad at lying to myself.

There's a very badly placed trash can at the rest area, and you come pretty damn close to hitting it. Thank god that you don't. Once you get pulled off to the side, you turn the ignition off, drop the keys in the cupholder, and lean over to put a hand on Karkat's shoulder.

"Hey, man. Karkat. Hey." Come on. Wake up. You're very careful to be gentle as you shake him. Don't hurt him. Don't fucking do that. Fuck, Karkat, please..."Karkat?"

There's absolutely no response. Yeah, he moves, but only because you move him, and the way his head rolls to first one side and then the other as you shake him makes you stop doing that.

Karkat looks dead.

You lay your hand on his chest and feel it rising and falling with his breath. He isn't dead. Don't be a dumbass.

"If he was awake he'd ask me why I just called myself a dumbass." Your voice sounds weird even at the almost-nonexistent volume you're keeping it at. Okay. No more talking to myself. When he wakes up I can talk.

He might be out for a while, though. Need to get shit set up to spend the night.

Okay. That, you can handle.

There's no way you're going to be able to lift Karkat into the back of the pickup. Getting him out of the truck at all is going to be tough, really, but you'll cross that fucking bridge when you come to it. A couple minutes of hunting through the backseat turns up exactly what you need: one stupid lil' tent that you're fairly sure hasn't even been out of its bag. Thankfully, that means that the instructions on how to set it up are in there with it, because without those you'd have a much longer and more frustrating setup ahead of you.

Even with the instructions it takes you twenty minutes, and you're almost sobbing again by the time you finish. You unroll the sleeping bags, spread them out in the tent, and go back to get Karkat.

He's heavy. He's very fucking heavy, or at least it seems to you like he is. Some of the difficulty might be due to the fact that he's not exactly helping, but still. This shit makes you feel useless as fuck. But hey, at least those feelings of inadequacy have the added effect of forcing you to grit your teeth and do what you need to do.

God, my back's gonna hurt tomorrow, you think almost ruefully as you carry the demon's limp form to the tent and lay him down in the nest of blankets.

You want to lie down next to him, curl up and stop thinking so you can stop worrying. Instead, you go back to shut the truck's door—and grab the phone, since you do need to see who the fuck keeps trying to call you. In a minute. I'll do that in a minute. Once I'm down there with him.

(Again, you're shit at lying to yourself. You're not going to check the damn phone tonight, and you know it.)

Of course, the fucking thing rings again while you're trying to figure out how to settle next to Karkat, so you don't have a choice. You wrap one arm around him, grab the phone with your other hand, and swipe to answer the incoming call. "Yo."

"Dave?" Well, its not Dirk. You recognize this voice, you really do, but all your mind's coughing up right now are simple observations instead of a name: it's feminine, she's at least concerned and maybe downright worried, she knows who you are. "Are you all right? I called Jake for a reading after you didn't answer the second time; what he came up with was worrying to say the least—

Okay, you do know exactly who this is. She stood in front of Bro when she was ten years old, arms crossed and face set in stern disapproval, and said those exact words. That his methods of hunting were worrying to say the least. (And you tried not to flinch when she said it and wondered if you'd have to step in between him and her.)

"... Rose?"

"Hmm. I'm happy you remember me, since I seem to have forgotten to introduce myself." You can imagine the quick, self-deprecating smile that flashes across her face. "Apologies. To repeat my question, are you all right?"

That's a very fucking hard question. "I'm okay. I'm fine. I'm okay." You really wish you didn't sound like you were trying to convince yourself.

"Dave, Jake told me the cards he drew for you and your companion. His interpretation was lighter than mine, but we both agreed that 'death,' 'danger,' and 'distress' were present in the spread."

Explain this shit to her. Come on. Do it.

You pull Karkat half onto your lap and switch sides with the phone, running your fingers through his hair. Smoothing out the tangles is doing you more good than it is him, probably. "There. There was an accident."

"A car accident?"

"Y-yeah."

"Gods, Dave, are you all right? How bad—"

"No, fuck, not like that. We weren't—I wasn't in the accident." You're going to freeze up, thinking about it. The fucking blood.

"I don't quite understand."

You take a deep breath and look down at Karkat, focusing on how his face looks peaceful instead of how he's not moving. He's asleep, you tell yourself. You have to do the fucking talking, you're the one who has to explain to Rose. You can have a meltdown after you do that.

"Dave?"

"I'm still here, yeah. We, uh." Breathe. Tell her. Don't tell her he's a demon, but explain what happened. "The guy with me, he saw—there was a car crash. We st—we stopped, okay, he's g-got some magic, healing shit—"

"I didn't know demons had that."

Your stomach ties itself in a terrified knot, and you open and close your mouth a couple times before you manage to say anything. "He's not a demon—"

"Karkat?"

"Yeah, but he's not—"

"Dave, it's alright. He told Dirk he was. We already know that." Rose's tone is reassuring, but all you feel is sick fear.

I'm taking him to be killed. I'm leading him straight to more hunters, hunters that aren't whatever the fuck I am, and his cover's already blown.

You can't breathe.

"Dave? Dave, are you still there?"

"No." Damn your instinctive responses.

"You said Karkat had healing magic. Did he use it? Is that what's wrong? I mean, I can't imagine why that'd make you so upset—"

"He used it, and he's fu-fucking asleep, and nothing I can do wakes him up." But then again, you're a hunter, like I should be. You'd want him to die, wouldn't you?

"Ah." There's a muffled sound that you recognise as Rose covering the mic on her phone with her hand, and maybe half a minute of even more muffled speaking. Two voices, hers and someone else's. Then, "All right. Is he breathing?"

Your arm's across his chest; you don't have to move to check the answer. "Yeah."

"That's good. Has his body cooled noticeably?"

He's still warmer than you are, so... "Not that I can t-tell." Damn your fucking stutter.

"Kanaya said you'd be able to tell, if his temperature started to drop. Unless he's clammy, that's all right." She sighs, an almost staticky noise through the speaker you have pressed against your ear. "He'll wake up, Dave. He'll be hungry when he does—"

"He told me that."

"Good; I assume that means you planned accordingly. Give him a while. Healing of any kind is an enormous expenditure of energy; it can take time to recover from, even for a demon."

Goddamnit. The reminder that she knows about Karkat's nature is like a kick to the ribs. "He's not a f-fucking demon." If only the tremor in your voice didn't point out your blatant lie.

"It'd be a pity if he really wasn't; John's quite excited to meet him."

Shit. "If he hurts Karkat I'll—" What? You'll what? Kill a hunter, kill the guy who was your best friend back when Bro let you have friends? Would you do that? Could you do that?

"Dave, please." That almost-pitying note of reassurance is back in her voice, and you have to bite down on your lip to keep back a sob. You don't deserve that shit from her. "No one wants to hurt Karkat, I promise you. If I thought there was a chance Dirk or John or Jake would be a danger to him or you, I'd fly down there and intercept you before you reached them."

"He's a demon." Fuck. That's the exact opposite of the point I should be proving."They'll kill him if they know that, Rose, they—"

"That isn't how things are, Dave." Gentle. So gentle. Like she's explaining something to a little kid, and now you are definitely and inescapably crying, even if you can almost keep it quiet. "Not for us. We don't kill demons and cryptids for no reason. If he's killed someone, perhaps—"

You can't fucking help it. You close your eyes and give up on stifling the painful, full-out sobs, because he did kill someone. You know he did. You watched him. And you can't fucking lie, you know you can't lie—if any of the hunters ask, they'll know the truth more or less immediately.

I'm going to get him killed. You shake your head and tighten your grip on him. If he doesn't die here, he will later, and it'll be my fault...

"Dave, please, talk to me, tell me what's wrong—"

Oh. Yeah. Rose is still on the line, getting further into worry by the sound of it. You switch ears with the phone again, swallow back a sob, and start talking without letting yourself think about what you're saying.

(Which is, admittedly, a stupid fucking move.)

"See, he's fu-fucking dead, then, and 'm dead too 'cause I ca—I can't let him go down without a fight."

"What?"

"He did kill someone." Your voice steadies again, maybe because you've slid down so you're lying on your back with Karkat pulled half on top of you and your arm slung across his shoulders. "Saw him do it."

There's a noticeable pause before Rose responds. When she does she sounds surprisingly calm, although there's a good chance that's deceptive. "Who, and why?"

"Bro." Deep breath. Tell her. "And because I asked him to."

Silence. You can hear your pulse beating in your ears and nothing else. Before she speaks again you count fifty heartbeats, enough that you wonder if she hung up on you.

"...I can't say I'm surprised." She still sounds calm. How the hell is she doing that? "Would you like to know something, Dave?"

"I—what?"

"The first thing I intend to do when I see your Karkat—and I do plan to see him; you're going to have to stay with Dirk long enough for me to make a trip down there—the first thing I plan to say to him is thank you. That seems horrible if you look at it without context, doesn't it? This demon killed one of my blood relatives, and I'm going to thank him for it.

"It isn't horrible, though. Or if it is, it's decidedly less horrible than the man himself was. I knew him, Dave, and so did Dirk. I'm going to guess that we didn't know the worst version of him—you may have, but he tailored his behavior to seem somewhat presentable for us—but what I knew of him was bad enough that I won't grieve him, and I will thank Karkat for killing him.

"Dave, are you still there?"

You barely manage to choke out a "Yes." That's how hard you're crying.

"The moment Karkat chose to protect and care for you, he became family, demon or no. You should know that."

"I—I d-do now." You sniffle and realize that she had to hear you do it. Fuck. "R-rose? Rose."

"Yes?"

"Thank y-you."

"I just wish Dirk had thought to clarify this matter. You shouldn't have had to be afraid for Karkat."

"Not—it's not his fault."

"I suppose that's true." She sighs again, and you know she's shaking her head with a small smile. "I'll still be scolding him as soon as this call's over."

"Be nice."

"Don't worry, I won't be too harsh. Just a reminder that most people can't read minds, is all." That sentence tenses you up for just a second, but then you remind yourself that there's no way she could know about the weird shit you and Karkat have. "Would you like to talk for a while longer, or would you prefer to be alone with Karkat?"

"Uh. I can't talk, Rose, not right now, I'm sorry—"

"Dave, it's all right. I'll call sometime tomorrow. Love you."

"Love you too." You say it without hesitation this time.

A moment later the phone beeps, and she's gone.

You set the phone down out of harms way and wrap your arms around Karkat, pulling him closer. He's still limp and unresponsive—and you really hate that—but Rose said he'd be okay. She said he'd wake up.

This'll be okay.

You curl up close to him and close your eyes.

Even as worried as you are, it's easy to fall asleep this time.

[one-of-us-blog]

A View to a Kill (1985)

Today Drew is forced to watch and recap 1985’s A View to a Kill, the fourteenth James Bond adventure. Bond is tasked with finding out how the KGB is getting its dirty Soviet hands on special microchips, but along the way gets tangled in a plot involving bombs, horses and eugenics. Can 007 survive his latest assignment, or will be blown out of the water?

Keep reading to find out…

Eli, I’m so sorry this recap is coming so late! I’ve had a lot on my plate right now; if I’m not tromping through Louisiana alongside one of my newest favorite superheroes, the Swamp Thing, then I’m flying through the cosmos with the characters of one of my newest favorite books, Leviathan Wakes, or examining the highs and lows of humanity alongside Rod Serling as we traverse that mysterious realm known as The Twilight Zone. Needless to say, I’ve been a real busy bee these last few days! But I’ve been so busy enjoying all of the fantastic content we’re discussing in OneLimited that I’ve failed to appreciate all of the fantastic content being generated by you right here on One of Us! I’m loving your take on The Golden Palace, and I totally agree with your assessment of this series’ take on Miles. Why’d they have to do my boy Nick Carbone dirty like that? By the way, did you hear that Nintendo had enough money to finally get Snake back in Super Smash Bros., but they didn’t have enough left in the budget to get his juicy posterior to make a cameo? It’s a whole thing, but I know you’re not really big on keeping up to date on Nintendo news so I’ll move on. You’re doing great work, Chief, and I’m going to make a real effort to get back on track with my James Bond recaps (especially since I have a little something extra planned for the next month or so)! Without further ado, let’s get into it!

Buttocks tight!

Screenplay by Michael G. Wilson & Richard Maibaum, film directed by John Glen

We start off with a disclaimer that no characters or companies portrayed in this movie are based on real people, which is always a fun way to set the mood. After a barrel shot, we head to the snowy Siberia where James Bond is digging the body of 003 out of the snow. Man, first 009 ate it in Berlin, now 003 is out for the count, too! The 00’s are dropping like flies lately! Bond retrieves a microchip off his fallen comrade, and then it’s time for a good old fashioned ski chase. This franchise absolutely loves showing us people chasing each other around on skis! Like, a lot. Bond decides to switch things up by snowboarding while… Is that The Beach Boys playing? Oh darlin’, strap in, folks. Bond blows up a Soviet helicopter and finishes up his snow surfin’ safari in time to hitch a ride on an MI6 sub disguised as a glacier. A beautiful young woman is piloting the sub, and Bond happens to have some caviar and vodka on him so it’s safe to assume they bang for five days straight honkin’ down the highway on that long promised road toward home.

We cut to our blacklight-drenched title sequence while Duran Duran croons “A View to a Kill”. I can hear music, but I’m so distracted by these trippy visuals that it’s hard for me to focus on it! It’s O.K., I can always look the song up later. I guess that’s why God made the radio, right?

With the title sequence behind us, Bond arrives at MI6 where he’s greeted by the eternal Miss Moneypenny who’s dressed to the nines and looks like she’s ready for some hot fun in the summertime. There’s no time for California dreamin’ right now, though, as M calls Bond right into his office. Bond is greeted by Q, the man with all the toys himself, who’s busy playing with his new pet robot. Man, I don’t know if I’m still recovering from the season finale of Westworld or I’m flashing back to Rocky IV but I don’t trust that robot as far as I could throw it (which, admittedly, would probably be pretty far since it’s so little). Q boasts about his little problem child before M tells him to get down to business. Q mansplains how microchips work and explains that the chip Bond got off 003’s corpse is impervious to the sort of tech that would take out most modern computers. Seems like the KGB is gettin’ hungry for that kind of tactical advantage, because they’ve managed to get their hands on some super chips, too. M explains that the plant producing the chips was recently bought by Zorin Industries. MI6 couldn’t find a leak in the plant, so Bond assumes Zorin himself must have given the chip to the Reds. Zorin is an influential dude with a big male ego so Bond will have to tread carefully while investigating him.

We cut to Bond, Q and Moneypenny taking in a race at the Ascot Racecourse and enjoying the warmth of the sun. Or, at least, they would be, if Bond wasn’t busy scoping out Max Zorin (Christopher Walken) and his immaculately-dressed bodyguard, May Day (the incomparable Grace Jones herself), while Q and Moneypenny get absolutely fuckin’ jazzed about the horserace. Zorin’s horse wins the race, but Bond suspects the horse is juicing. May Day singlehandedly reigns in the horse with her super-human strength when the horse gets out of line, and Bond scurries off to sort of do some spy work.

Bond meets up with a dude who’s ready to spill the tea about Zorin juicing his horses and the two take in an honestly inexplicable show involving a lady and some fake butterflies. Thanks to some good timin’ the snitch is killed before Bond gets the intel he’s after, and even though he gives chase the assassin (who’s obviously May Day) manages to slip on through his fingers by base jumping off of the Eiffel Tower like the goddess she is. Bond chases after her as she soars through the skies, giving us one of our more bonkers car chases in the franchises herstory, but Zorin picks her up in a speedboat the two leave Bond in their dust while having an absolute blast.

Bond meets up with M and decides to crash a horse sale Zorin is having at his palatial estate. Bond and Zorin meet, and Bond decides it’s a good time to let Zorin know he knows he was behind that guy getting killed at the butterfly show. Why keep a low profile, right? Bond’s ready to do it again so he makes a move on a lady at Zorin’s party, but May Day swoops in to cock block him. Here comes the night and that means it’s time for Bond to snoop around in Zorin’s stables. He finds a hidden lab and gets proof that Zorin is doping his horses to make them run faster. What does this have to do with the whole secret microchip thing? God only knows. Zorin’s people figure out Bond’s snooping around so he has to make a hasty retreat. Zorin and May Day are wrestling around and on the verge of banging when they’re interrupted by the intruder alert. Zorin instantly suspects Bond, since Bond went out of his way to be suspicious earlier and all, and May Day suddenly remembers that he was the man who chased her off the Eiffel Tower. They race to Bond’s room and find it empty. May Day heads to her room to get dressed in her fiercest spy killing outfit, only to find Bond, who knew he couldn’t make it back to his own room and had to improvise, waiting for her in her own bed. Zorin gets a kick out of this and gives May Day the okay to cuddle up. Hold on dear brother, you’ve never had a night like this before.

There are no tears in the morning as Zorin calls Bond into his office to bullshit each other about buying horses. Zorin uses his computer to identify Bond and arranges for him to go on a test drive with a doped-up horse. Zorin leads Bond through a boobytrapped obstacle course and flips the switch to activate the horse’s stimulant and let him run wild. None of that really mattered, though, because Bond survives and Zorin just pulls a gun on him, knocks him out and has May Day push the car he’s in into a lake. Bond manages to stay underwater by breathing air from the car’s tire long enough to make Zorin and May Day think he’s dead.

Zorin gets in trouble with the KGB for killing 007 without permission. Turns out the KGB engineered Zorin in a lab and they think they own him, but he lets them know in no uncertain terms that he’s gone rogue. Soon after, Zorin meets with a group of executives and lays out his plan to become the world’s leading microchip developer by flooding Silicon Valley. One of the executives gets cold feet, so May Day throws him out of the zeppelin they’re in. Did I mention they’re in a zeppelin? They’re totally in a zeppelin. Anyway, Bond knows Zorin’s in San Francisco and heads there to meet with his CIA contact Chuck Lee (David Yip), who informs him that Zorin is the result of the experiments of a Nazi scientist.

Bond heads to an oil rig where he catches spots KGB operative Pola Ivanova (Fiona Fullerton) trying to kill Zorin by planting some explosives. Her plan fails and she barely manages to escape, running right into Bond afterward. Bond and Ivanova have run into each other before and Bond can never learn not to love so of course the two end up naked in a hot tub together. Ivanova tries to sneak out while Bond’s in the shower, but he’d already swapped out the tape she’d made while spying on Zorin so he’s able to listen in on Zorin’s plans. Bond later recognizes the woman May Day prevented him from banging and finds out she’s Stacey Sutton (Tanya Roberts), a geologist and the daughter of an oil tycoon whose company Zorin is attempting to buy. It’s about time for some action, so some of Zorin’s goons attempt to attack Sutton shortly after Bond broke into her house. Bond and Sutton manage to fight off the goons and later share a quiche and some wine. Sutton explains she’s trying to keep her family’s company out of Zorin’s hands, but you need a mess of help to stand alone against someone as rich as Zorin and she’s had a hard time with it.

Thanks to Sutton’s knowledge of geology Bond figures out that Zorin is planning to blow up some faults. Chuck’s ready to let Washington know something is afoot but he’s too nice for this game of heroes and villains and he’s killed by May Day before he can let his bosses know what’s up. Bond and Sutton head to City Hall to look at some plans or something, I don’t know, and they figure out this is all tied to a silver mine Zorin owns. Zorin and May Day arrive in person, drag Bond and Sutton up to the office of the chief geologist. Zorin has the chief call the cops to report a break in, then kills him with Bond’s gun to frame Bond. They then have Bond and Sutton stuck in an elevator and start a fire to kill them. Zorin is nothing if not dramatic!

Bond and Sutton escape the fire, of course, but the San Francisco cops think Bond’s a murderer (which is not untrue) so he and Sutton have to flee in a firetruck filled with cool, cool water. After some goofy firetruck antics Bond and Sutton manage to get away and head for the silver mine. Inside, Sutton finds a handy map that allows her to figure out Zorin’s plan. He’s going to blow up some lakes above the Hayward and San Andreas faults which will cause the faults to flood. Zorin can’t get enough of those good vibrations, though, so once the faults are flooded he’s going to set off another bomb which will cause both faults to move at once and flood Silicon Valley.

Zorin and May Day discover Bond and Sutton, and they barely manage to escape as Zorin orders the mine’s entrance be sealed. May Day chases after Bond and Sutton while Zorin flips the switch to flood the mine, killing many of his own goons and leaving May Day to die. Zorin mows down any surviving workers with a machine gun, because he’s just a real sumbitch. Sutton and Bond get separated, with Sutton making to the surface while Bond and May Day are stuck together in the flooded mine. May Day’s pissed at Zorin’s betrayal, and she’s down with Bond’s plan to wipe out Zorin. First things first, they’ve got to stop the second bomb from going off and flooding Silicon Valley.

It takes all of May Day’s goddess strength, but she’s able to haul both Bond and the bomb out of its hole. They set the bomb on a cart and try to wheel it out of the mine, but the brake sticks and May Day has to manually keep the cart going. Bond tells her to save herself, but she believes in love again and she’s such a hero that she’s willing to die to stop Zorin’s plot. She rides the cart outside just as the bomb blows up, killing her.

Boo! Booooo!! Boooooooo!!!

Zorin swoops down to drag Sutton onto his zeppelin. Bond grabs a rope and Zorin tries to kill him by ramming him into the Golden Gate Bridge, but Bond manages to tangle the rope in the bridge’s cables. Sutton wrastles with Zorin while he’s trying to get his zeppelin in order, giving Bond time to reach her. Bond and Zorin fight on the bridge, and Bond sends Zorin falling to his death. Zorin’s Nazi doctor tries to blow Bond up with some dynamite, but only ends up blowing up the zeppelin.

Afterward, the KGB gives Bond an award, but it turns out MI6 thinks Bond is dead. Luckily Q is a massive pervert and he sends his awful little robot into Sutton’s home, where he spies on Bond and Sutton fucking in the shower. Q lets MI6 know Bond’s alive, and Bond throws a towel over the robot before Q has time to rub one out.

Sail on, sailor.

The End

~~~~~

Jeez louise, that was a really wild ride! This movie was really all over the place, but, to be honest, I loved it. I mean, Christopher Walken? The immortal Grace Jones? This level of camp and goofiness? There was basically no way I wasn’t going to love this movie. Is it a hard hitting spy drama? Absolutely not. Is it a whole lot of fun? To quote Sutton: “You betcha.” There was absolutely no reason for that horse juicing subplot or any of that stuff about Zorin being a KGB experiment gone rogue, but, I mean, what the hell, right? If you’re going to goofy, go goofy as hell. My one major complaint is that May Day deserved a hell of a lot better than she got. I know Bond was supposed to end up with Sutton, but May Day will always be this film’s true Bond Girl in my eyes.

I give A View to a Kill QQQQ on the Five Q Scale.

Check back in soon to catch Eli’s next round of The Golden Palace recaps as he covers “One Old Lady to Go” and “Ebbtide for the Defense”, and after that I’ll be back to cover the next James Bond film, The Living Daylights.

Until then, as always, thank you for reading, thank you for having fun, fun, fun and thank you for being One of Us!

[coreymichaelsmithson]

An Imperfect Mirror

Pamela and I were rocketing through the big empty dark of southern Utah … a darkness broken only the moonlit silhouettes of the Wasatch Range … happily blasting Led Zeppelin and scaring off all the jackrabbits, when her gas warning blinked on. Over the last several hours of driving, the needle had been dropping too close to E for my comfort, but we hadn't encountered a single gas station for hundreds of miles. We had no choice but to press on. This wasn't a matter of forgetfulness; I'd made sure to fill up Pamela's tank before we climbed the twisting passes leading away from Bryce Canyon. But when the dreaded yellow symbol finally appeared, inevitable as a utility bill, we were still 69 miles from salvation, and running on reserves. We had no cell phone reception, no other traffic to speak of besides the occasional horn-blaring big rig, and nothing to assuage the feeling that we were in real trouble.

I tried to remember what to do in situations like this. Should we just try to coast through? We were, after all, in very hilly terrain, with lots of steep grades and long slopes … maybe we could just roll through most of the remainder? I tried to position myself behind trucks, following in their wakes to lessen our drag, but that didn't seem to make much difference. I put my hazards on whenever we climbed a hill, as I didn't dare give her too much gas, and I braked sparingly. But the yawning desert darkness remained, thick and menacing, and now it was being interrupted less frequently by porch lamps or distant feed lots or ... well ... anything. We were in the high desert now, the real deal, nothing but rocks and sagebrush and, presumably, the skeletons of stranded motorists.

Desperate, my thinking veered towards the magical. I prayed, I cursed, I bargained. I even changed the music I was playing, as if any particular genre or sound might tax Pamela's resources too heavily. "Nirvana? Nah … too intense. Gotta stay calm. Calm, calm, calm. WE'VE GOT TO STAY CALM. Sondheim? Too wordy. Nat King Cole? Perfect."

The moon rose from the horizon, looking sanguine and engorged. There were only a handful of hamlets on this stretch of road, and not a one of them offered gas. Town after town had "NO SERVICES" emblazoned on their exit signs. Assholes.

But somehow, by dumb luck or the grace of benevolent angels, we limped back into civilization. Just barely. We coasted into the gas station, sputtering as we arrived at the one vacant pump. I'm convinced that Pamela wouldn't have made it another fifty yards. It is a staggering miracle that we landed where we did, when we did. All of the tiny decisions I made (or didn't make) on the road, all of the accidental delays … like the open-range cattle plopping themselves on the highway, the recklessly leaping deer, the long traffic light, the occasional photo opportunity … everything came together so perfectly, like the tiny wheels of a fine watch, just so that Pamela would cough out within feet of a pump.

I shouldn't be so surprised, though. Utah has been challenging me with such suggestions of perfection, over and over again.

I had started out my day in a completely different but equally spare environment. After a stunning sunrise over the Bonneville Salt Flats, one of the weirdest ecosystems on our planet, I chugged down a bunch of bad gas station coffee and drove a considerable distance to reach Bryce Canyon, one of my biggest "bucket-list" items. Between the Great Salt Lake and the upper edge of America's Grand Staircase lie hundreds of miles of cattle ranges, broad mountain valleys, and abandoned mine shafts. When you see a car commercial … you know, the kind of commercial where throaty rock music and vaguely pornographic narration lends some machismo to a gas-guzzler, the kind with plenty of helicopter shots and acceleration, all for an SUV with the name of a desert town or a Native tribe … this is the landscape they're driving through. Long stretches of the road were almost cartoonishly perfect, with fluffy white clouds in the blue and just the right number of horses prancing across the sagebrush. I enjoyed some of the longest stretches of empty road I've ever seen, right up until I arrived at the touristy zoo of the park.

The dramatic forms of Bryce Canyon were formed by not only the usual suspects of wind and water, but also by the expansion of ice. Water seeps into existing fissures, and then it freezes, which helps to pry the cracks further open. This unrelenting freeze/thaw cycle acts as a giant chisel, whittling away the softer rock layers and leaving weird stacks of the hard stuff behind. The same thing happens over and over again: a protruding plateau gets weathered down into a fin, which is then undercut by a number of small holes, holes that slowly grow into windows and arches, and the lashing rain and howling winds continue to do their work, until eventually you're left with only a freestanding tower … a hoodoo. In this particular area, where the process seems to have been magically sped up, the collective results of all this sculpting are simply mind-blowing. Thousands of these pinnacles are clumped together, standing in such close proximity and order that they have the organized look of soldiers, or sentinels. Some of their forms seem architectural. With a little imagination, your mind transforms these shapes into the components of a fantastic castle: spires, turrets, crenellations, a portcullis.

As I stood at the rim, gazing down with absolute astonishment at the natural amphitheater, an elderly woman standing next to me whispered, reverently, "It's just so perfect." And she was right. The canyon feels like a living sculpture. Studying its spatial complexities, color palette, and fine balance of space and density, one might struggle to grasp how it's all just one big geological accident. It just looks so … designed.

Beyond the seeming perfection of the landscape, though, I was struck by the perfection of my arrival time. I had somehow managed to get there when the horde of tourists … pink noses and plastic visors and big woven purses and sunglasses with the stickers left on … had thinned down considerably, leaving me alone for long stretches on the rim trail. The weather could not have been more pleasant, not too hot and not too cold, but occupying that wonderful Goldilocks zone of "just right". The ratio of clouds to sunlight meant that my view was full of roving shadows and dazzling beams. I had rolled in just as the giant buses were rolling out, at the hour when the ponderosas provided some shade but the canyon remained brilliantly lit.

On the surface of things, my time at Bryce Canyon might seem utterly distinct from what I experienced earlier at Bonneville. It's hard to believe these two different environments could occupy the same planet, much less the same state. But their spiritual impacts were quite identical: first there was awe at the visual grandeur, and then there was a deepening appreciation for the forces at work, and then there was a profound gratitude for the timing of our arrival.

Let me take you back a little, to the night before.

The Bonneville Salt Flats, as the name suggests, is a broad, flat expanse of hardened salt, the compressed remnants of a long-evaporated inland sea. The crust of crystals is so thickly packed that it makes a surface durable enough to drive upon, even at high speeds; as a result, Bonneville has become a world-class destination for racing and speed trials. Many world records have been broken on this stretch, and many movies have been filmed before its fantastic backdrops.

For much of the summer, the flats are bone dry, swept clean by the winds coming down off of the Silver Island Range. Occasionally, though, some water collects on the surface. It's never much, maybe only two inches deep or so, but the whiteness of the salt, and the water sitting atop it, are enough to create the effect of a huge mirror. Throughout the day, the atmosphere and mountains are reflected, creating a spectacular symmetry at the horizon. As visitors wade across the shallow pool, this sight gets disrupted in a jarring way … everybody seems to be tiptoeing across the sky.

The flats are supervised by the Bureau of Land Management, which allows the public to visit and explore the region at will. It's a pretty sweet spot for camping, though everything you own will get encrusted with salt, and the brackish solution will totally rust out your vehicle's undercarriage if you don't promptly wash it out. The single road that leads onto the crust only goes about three miles or so, and then it kind of peters out. Everyone leaves their shoes behind at this threshold, and for good reason … take just a few mucky transitional steps beyond where the asphalt ends, and your feet are standing on the hard salt.

After a few hours of wandering about, I struck up a conversation with an angelically beautiful engineer from Illinois. He was traveling through the West, wandering at will, camping in his pimped-out van and filling his phone with neat pictures of national parks and monuments. Together, we decided to venture out a mile or so across the waste, watching the light change as the sun sank behind the mountain peaks. The salt crust was hell on our bare feet … really, just murder on our poor soles … but the water felt soothingly warm, the breeze remained refreshing, and the total scene was electrifying. A faint haze on the horizon, the fuzzy edges of which blended into the deepening blue of the water, got tinted the most delicate salmon pink by the sunset; it was so particular a hue, so subtle, that no photograph could ever do it justice. It was the kind of evening light that manages somehow to be both gentle and vivid, the kind of light that makes your eyes feel really alive. It cast a special mood over things. Our voices remained quiet, though our shared amazement rose. I was happy to share this walk with someone else.

This liquid mirror never remained entirely smooth. The wind would skim across the surface, creating lots of little chevrons and moirés. And as my new friend and I walked, and chatted, our ankles sent more ripples outward, ripples which encountered various small obstacles … pebbles, forgotten bits of tire tread, a rusty nail, irregularities in the salt surface … and then these got split into other, lesser waveforms, which in turn further fragmented the clouds and mountains. The crust would sometimes slough off a few flakes or clumps, which whirled and bumped each other like tiny rafts caught in opposing currents. But, somehow, all of these imperfections served only to heighten the sense of unreality, the surreal and dreamlike quality of it all. It felt like we were two bold explorers, traversing an alien landscape for the first time. We watched in awe as the twilight deepened, and the stars emerged, and then the moon, nearly full and orange as a pumpkin, rose above its shimmering counterpart. At one point, as the last of the sunlight dimmed behind the peaks, the color of the sky/water precisely matched the engineer's eyes, so much so that it seemed like he was of a piece with the environment, or that he was perhaps an embodiment of the experience itself. And it is this collection of odd details that I will remember most fondly from my hours at Bonneville … the smile of the stranger with sky-colored eyes, the unexpected flowering of friendship in a flowerless place, a shallow lake that twinned the moon and doubled the stars, a reflection with plenty of compelling flaws, an imperfect mirror, the essence of perfection.