#but I at least want to somewhat believe if Athena was in her right mind. she wouldn't have been so awful to Annabeth in HOO

[creative-hanyou-girl]

In the 1st book series I can have at least a little bit of respect and hope for Athena being a caring mother (as caring as the gods can be anyway).

But TV Athena? I wanna march straight up to Olympus and have a little....chat, with the Goddess of Wisdom about being a somewhat decent parent, possibility of being smited be damned.

I like both of these interpretations of Athena btw, even if TV Athena makes me want to commit a crime (preferably against her).

[shootingstars-or-airplanes]

Alright it's time for a rant! Let's talk about canon vs. fanon. This is gonna be a long one folks, so buckle up!

I see a lot of people complaining about fan interpretations of characters in art or fan works or even headcanons not lining up with the canon depictions of the characters and this always sort of bugs me a bit. I think we need to reframe how we approach the idea of canon vs. fanon.

I want to start off by saying I'm a writer. I have a degree in creative writing and have had at least one publication at the time of posting. I know what it's like to pour your heart and soul into a project and into creating these characters and the world they live in. So I can somewhat see where people are coming from when they talk about the importance of sticking to the author's vision. The author put a lot of love into that character and their interpretation is, of course, paramount. But I don't think that this necessarily means that contrary fanon interpretations can't exist.

I'd like to draw a comparison to mythology, if I may. Ancient mythology is one of my special interests and I took multiple classes on different mythologies during my time in undergrad. The professor for those classes was amazing and one thing that he said that will always stick with me is something he'd teach on the first day of any of his mythology classes: "Myth is multiform".

Ok so what does "myth is multiform" mean? Well in simple terms it means that when it comes to mythology, there is no one "correct" telling of the story. Mythology at its root was an oral tradition. It didn't have an author. These stories were built and shaped by the dozens or hundreds of people who told them. And with each telling, the new storyteller would add a little bit of their own unique flair to the story. They might change a detail they never liked or couldn't remember correctly or they might add in details where there weren't any the first time they heard it. And as this keeps happening, the story changes a lot between people and cities and villages and even time. So if you hear one story where Aphrodite's hair was blonde and another where it was red, which detail is correct? Both. Because myth is multiform. The story is changed and affected by those who interact with it.

This can even be seen in modern interpretations of classic myth. The way we tell the stories now is drastically different from how they were told back then. For example, a lot of people who are really into Greek mythology see Athena as somewhat of a feminist icon. A lot of modern depictions of her show her as a strong and independent woman. But the Athena of ancient Greece, while strong, was a model goddess for upholding the patriarchal system of society at the time. She was known for following laws and customs to the letter, including and sometimes especially misogynistic ones. To put it bluntly, she was not a girl's girl.

But today we emphasize the parts of her that feel strong and empowering. We see the goddess of justice and war who fights for herself and stands up for what she believes is right. So which Athena is real? I mean, one is directly from the time period, so that one must be the true one, right? Wrong. They are both the real Athena. Because myth is multiform.

"Yeah, ok," you say, "but modern media isn't mythology. It's not an oral tradition. It has authors and we can identify exactly what the original story was." And that's true. But once a story exists, once it is shared with others, it becomes more than itself. Even on the most basic level, an author isn't capable of conveying literally every detail and meaning they had in mind while creating it into the actual piece. Some things--many things, really--are left to interpretation. That's why we have high school literature teachers asking why you think the curtains are blue in some random scene of a book.

And every person is going to bring their own prior knowledge and life experiences to that story which will impact how they interpret it. So as soon as one person has heard your story, there are already two versions of the story in existence--the one you wrote and the one they read. The words on the page might be the same but all the little gaps are filled in differently depending on the person. There are things an author can do to steer their audience in the direction they want them to interpret things in, but your reader/listener/viewer is never going to get 100% of the meaning you put into it.

All this to say, when a story reaches fandom, it essentially becomes myth. All the slightly different little versions of these worlds and characters are floating around in people's heads and as they talk to one another about it and share their ideas and interpretations, those versions grow and evolve beyond the original work.

Fanon versions of characters don't come out of nowhere; they're slowly molded and shaped by the community surrounding them using the basis of the source material and then combining collective experiences and attitudes of fans. They grow with the community, just as a myth grows with its culture.

So my point here isn't to say that all interpretations of a character are equally true to source and should be treated as such, but rather to say that characters evolve when touched by the hearts of people who love them and enjoy their stories and while the canon character is valid and beloved in their stagnancy, fanon versions can exist at the same time without threatening the canon character's status.

Just because an interpretation of a character that you see a lot might be wildly different from the character's existence in canon, that doesn't inherently make it bad. It shows the impact of human experience and community on art and the two characters can coexist separately without one needing to wipe the other out.

[thejudgingtrash]

Annabeth is a good person,but not a nice or pleasant one,IMO.

YES.

That’s it. That’s the post. Pack it up everybody, we just cracked the case and cleared up one of the most compelling fights in the PJO fandom since forever. Good job everybody, clap it out and there’s the door! Don’t forget ordering the drinks at Starbucks, Mitch! They’re on me!

Okay, but on a more serious note: YES. YES EXACTLY.

And before some of you roll your eyes or grab your pitchforks – put your biases aside and hear me out for once. I like Annabeth. She’s my in my top three characters only second to Percy himself. I love Percabeth. It’s my favorite ship in the entire series and to be frank, the only ship that I care about PJO wise. Hell, I spend my time creating my own headcanons or writing my own fanfics with Percabeth being the star in them.

But that is not to say that I’m unable to see how certain things have developed over the years or where they stand now in regard to Annabeth. I’m not here to ignore things that have been said and/or done due to or in the name of Annabeth and I’m not here to vilify anyone that doesn’t like her. And I’m here to admit that I’m guilty of some of the things that may be addressed in this meta essay that you will read in just a second. However, I try my best to assure you, that I’m for once able to recognize my own bias.

Warning: a monster essay lies right upon you.

This should count as a paper of its own.

Back to the statement on top: I would go out even further to reframe your claim, anon:

Annabeth Chase is a good character but not a nice or pleasant person.

Annabeth is a wonderful character but she isn’t a nice one. Or at least not nice to everyone. She is (construction wise if I dare say) the best character out of the series. She has her positive traits (she’s caring, she’s emotional, she’s encouraged and volunteers, she fights for what she believes in, she forgives (even if doing so begrudgingly)) but she also has her negative traits (she’s stubborn, she’s brash, changing her mind takes forever, she is prejudiced, she baits others). That balances things out. She is branded as the intelligent kid but does irrational things (like I’ve just said a) she’s a kid and b) she’s not a robot). She should probably know better, but we all make mistakes and hopefully grow and learn from them. The clouds in the sky do blur and cover our visions sometimes.

Annabeth had clashes with other characters or was about to have fights due to her stubbornness or jealousy (Rachel, Reyna, etc.) and has of course her problems with the mortal world and her family but she also found new friends, some things cleared up throughout the narration and she was/is quite popular in Camp Half-Blood.

The thing is: she doesn’t have to be nice or pleasant (as a character). Or at least not all the time. Her character is humanized. That is what or who she is. Human. She does stand out as a character, not just because she’s the (future) love interest. She feels like someone you could meet in real life and either adore from the top to the bottom or declare as your biggest enemy. And that’s totally okay if you lean either way – liking or disliking her. Or even feeling indifferent about her. Also great!

To say that she has been the best character that Riordan has crafted is easy to say, because she has been sculpted after Riordan’s wife. He had a model he could rub some of real-life events or traits on. That’s not the problem. The problem truly doesn’t lie on Riordan’s side for the most part for once.

The problem is inherently on the fandom’s side. What the fandom does, how it acts and how it treats Annabeth as a character is the problem. The problems vary but it’s mostly the mischaracterization of Annabeth, starting fights and fan/ship wars, internalized misogyny (in some cases) and how some of the Annabeth stans lash out (ha, got firsthand experience in that field among many of my friends and mutuals!). There is a reason why many people are wary of people that have Annabeth or Percabeth related URLs.

The fact that we see Annabeth mostly through Percy’s lens and (until the Heroes of Olympus saga hits) we never really see her in chill everyday situations is essentially Riordan leaving the back door of the house open, ready for all of you asshats to rob his mansion in Boston. Because a frame on a character means that we don’t get to see the character in its entirety (unlike we do with Percy in PJO for the most part). That means a bunch of stuff is left open for interpretation which is the reason why Annabeth gets so many polarized headcanon and opinions tossed around. I think that is one of the true appeals of Annabeth. You can add on stuff and it necessarily doesn’t have to contradict itself.

We have people calling her abusive due to a (n admittedly stupid and unnecessary) judo flip and we have people that act like she’s never done anything wrong. People sorta use this excuse to form and shape Annabeth however they want and distort her characterization.

People in the fandom act like Annabeth is some weird prized possession. We perceive Annabeth mostly through the eyes of others (Percy, Apollo, etc.) and when we had some sort of insight in her ways (MOA, HOH) it felt… weird? Somewhat? Like Riordan left two bullet points of her characterization and told the ghostwriter: aight, fuck it up, gringo, see you on Tuesday and greet Fred the next time you see him for me. 

There have been many posts lately (by Tharini, Simi, Sawasawako, Jewishpercy and Annie I believe?) that HOO Percabeth felt weird. That they felt weirdly constructed, that there was no conflict, no growth. It felt stagnating, like we’re turning back. We had five books prior where we had Annabeth and Percy slowly shifting from disliking to liking and crushing each other. True development. And when we finally got the cake it felt… dissatisfying. Like the cheap box stuff and not the delicious exquisite taste that we were promised.

I said it previously in my Percabeth ship roast, but let me repeat myself: many Percabeth related things are straight up fanon. Some of it is very old fanon so that’s been unable to distinguish unless you’ve read the books recently and subtract nearly 99,9% of things you see on Tumblr (and occasionally the other shitty parts of the fandom like Reddit, IG, Twitter. Although they mostly steal and recycle tumblr stuff oh well. But back to the topic).

The way people treat Annabeth is so strange. She’s either an innocent fluffy smush baby that’s never harmed a fly and all that she wants for Christmas is being Percy’s lapdog or she’s the devil incarnate, broke into your house, killed your parents Batman style, kicked your puppy and didn’t flush the toilet on the way out. I think this is what mostly makes people hate her or the ship Percabeth. And both extremes are wrong and right at the same time? She is multifaceted so both stereotypes are true and untrue and sorta cancel each other out in the same way.

The true reason why people dislike Annabeth is because the stans are doing the most. (The haters as well, don’t get me wrong, but oh boy. Piss of a stan and you’ll know what I mean). That isn’t inherently new. Are you guys old enough to remember the ship wars that have happened cross platform? Perachel vs. Percabeth? Oh boy, oh boy. I saw some kids on tumblr a few months ago trying to infiltrate both tags and start shit (and also fail). The fact that Rachel still gets used as the bitchy (ex) girlfriend in fanfics? It’s 2020 guys. I know this apocalyptic year is far from perfect and over but I think we can let this trope die, right? Right? I thought we’ve established that Rachel is a pretty chill charcter by now… right?

If you posted your stuff on FFN back in 2010-2013 and it wasn’t the typical cutesy Percabeth story (Goode High, the gods read TLT, punk/prep Percabeth, college AU, etc.) people would’ve come for your fucking throat. Not because the story or the narration was shit. But because the pairing wasn’t Annabeth and Percy (in the sense that Annabeth had to be paired with Percy. I mean Percy gets shipped with everyone and their mother but for Annabeth it was strictly Percy. As annoying as this whole Connabeth thing is – the people behind it actually had a point. She never had a different love interest unless it’s a Percy centered story and he goes off dating Athena, Artemis and Zoe at the same time for some odd reason. Yeah, FFN Percy ships are something). Or it wasn’t the action filled canon compliant story or it wasn’t an AU that was popular.

People were really stubborn, snobbish and wanted their stuff in the four five boxes that were the most popular ones and that’s it. People have been bullied off the site in many fandoms, so it’s not a PJO-only thing but it’s still sad that it happened. (Off-note: most of these FFN tropes are still alive and well and thriving on AO3. Don’t be so snobbish and pretend that every piece you’d find there is a holy grail. There’s a lot of trash you have to waddle through. Same with Wattpad, Tumblr or anywhere else where fanfics get posted. Also had this discussion with Annabeth stans. Sigh).

And Tumblr back then? Forget it, wasn’t much better.

That view has sorta changed (at least for people that have been in the fandom for several years or have managed to find a way to navigate through it) but some of the negative sentiment from back in the day has survived. Be it by new fans coming in or from old fans that never let their stance die. The aggression feels differently and somewhat not. (I don’t know if the anon function had been abused that much back in the day. I was an observer not a participant in the fandom).

Crack a joke at Annabeth’s expense (Kal’s famous “Annabeth is a Republican” post or Dee Dee’s and many others “Annabeth has the education of a second grader, chill with the college plans, girlie” stance) and you have people insulting you, making callout posts, unfollowing and blocking you (based on only that? Okay, honey), making aggressive counter-posts, etc. in a minute. If you respond with “It’s a joke, it’s not real” you have a 50/50 chance of either getting blown off or embarrassing them so that they apologize for once.

This isn’t just about jokes. You can make a headcanon that’s not the cozy cute convenient mainstream saga and people would react the same way. Or art piece (no, not including the whole Tannabeth Blackchase shtick done by Viria and others) or fanfics.

People project so much onto the unfinished canvas that is Annabeth Chase that any form of negative sentiment as little as someone not liking her to straight up criticism, regardless of how tiny it may be, seems like an affront. Like an invitation to a fight. Like an insult to them, their character, everything they believe in. Let me state something:

You are NOT Annabeth Chase. Annabeth Chase IS NOT you. Annabeth Chase is NOT real. Her feeling cannot be hurt. Someone criticizing, disliking, joking about her or even insulting her will not bother her. Someone making a statement about her is not an insult to YOU.

Let me repeat that:

Annabeth Chase isn’t real. Annabeth Chase isn’t you.

So think a little before you act? I get it when you’re a kid and new to fandoms or haven’t been up with fan cultures in the past and are back in the scene. But if you’re in your late teens or even older as an adult and you’re unable to understand that you aren’t what you like – you aren’t the extension of a fictional character – I feel incredibly sorry for you. Because that’s just incredibly sad. Someone disliking something you like isn’t an attack of your character. It shows you that you are you and the other person is a human just like you. That they just have different taste. Disliking something you like isn’t a crime, you know? But me feeling sorry for the way some of y’all act won’t mean that that’s even remotely okay. Especially if you’re no longer in the intended audience for PJO age wise and should know better.

This isn’t a “white stans” only thing. I’ve seen and witnessed firsthand how people of color, mainly women of color, act the same or not even worse when it comes to her character. People have projected their problems and real-life occurring events into her character (I’m sure that she isn’t the only character nor that this is the only fandom where this is happening) and in some cases like I’ve said cannot separate their own personality from the fictional world. Fights with woc happened because of Annabeth fucking Chase. So many things have happened in the fandom the past few months, mostly due to people being forced staying at home because of the quarantine but I’d say it’s 10% on quarantine and 90% on people for acting up like this.

So here’s a little story: There was the act of Riordan blowing the fandom up because of his own stupidity and being unable to apologize for his mischaracterization and lack of research (the whole Piper fiasco) back in June (?) and admits the upset fandom, people on Twitter, Tumblr and Discord legit thought that none of that mattered and that the outcry was destroying Annabeth Chase’s birthday. That’s right. People thought that Annabeth Chase’s non-existing birthday because she’s a fictional character had a higher priority than the rupture and prevalent racism in the fandom. Okay. This isn’t a great look, Annabeth stans. And this of course pissed a lot of people off. I made a post about it and someone not only berated three other people on said post but no, we had a mighty argument which had disrupted many friendships in our circle which haven’t recovered until this very day. We both had our parts in it and no one is innocent. But the cause of this still remains Annabeth Chase or how people prioritize her non-existing well-being. Anyway. I’m getting agitated just thinking about it.

Let’s go back to the characterization thing with Annabeth. Let me remind you:

Annabeth Chase is an asshole. There I’ve said it in a post ages ago (too lazy to look it up, sorry) and I’ll say it again. And that’s not me insulting her. That’s me actually loving that about her. Annabeth is one of the very few unapologetic female characters that really showed all young readers across the world that you can be a girl, a badass, smart, strong, standing up for yourself and what you believe in. You don’t have to be nice. You don’t have to hide your feelings. You don’t need a man in all cases but it’s also okay to accept help and defeat.

A large reason why I think she’s an incredibly important character in children’s literature/YA because many other novels (mostly (sadly)) have the “Oh, I’m a white skinny dark-haired girl that likes unconventional things like READING. I’m not like the other girls, that take care of themselves and pamper themselves by enjoying shopping and wearing make-up. No, I’d rather be one of the boys but a sweet cute little boy and not the jock fuck that drank vodka shots out of a filthy shoe once. Despite me calling myself hideous every man in a 10-kilometer radius falls in love with me and tells me I’m oh so sexy and by the way I’m only 16 years old” shit going on for no goddamn reason.

Yes, I do blame Twilight for this mostly in recent years, but this trope isn’t by any means knew. Pretty sure that you could even use classics as Pride and Prejudice and dissect them in the same manner (Bold statement: Lizzy Bennet is the OG Bella Swan. There. Go fight somewhere in the corner, people). The new wave of YA focuses on girls belittling themselves and only starting to believe in themselves because someone else (mostly the male love interest) tells them they’re worth it. And these books hit the mainstream because they’re incredibly bland and picture perfect white.

With Annabeth it’s different. She shows up for the job and is done with it. (Brie Larson would probably be the perfect in real life version of her. You either like or dislike her. Or you really don’t care). That is what is so refreshing about her. Her unapologetic nature. Can it be off-putting? Yes. Is it annoying? Yes! Hell, every time I read The Lightning Thief, I want to rip her goddamn head off. And it’s just so well written. Her shift from mistrusting Percy but secretly still believing in him to her opening up. Wow, Riordan did something right there.

Annabeth Chase isn’t a young character. She has existed along with PJO for 15 years. She’s on her way to the second decade. I’m pretty sure that with the success of Percy Jackson (and Harry Potter) many lives have been warped and shaped.

But when I say the problem lies mostly in the fandom, it doesn’t mean that Riordan’s completely innocent. The only problem that I have with Annabeth lies not truly with her but the fact that Riordan is only able to produce three variations of female characters:

The sweetheart (Hazel, Silena, Calypso, Hestia)

The strong feminist (Annabeth, Piper, Thalia, Reyna, Artemis)

The bitch (Drew, nearly every female goddess in the goddamn Riordanverse next to every female monster)

And these female characters only know three endings:

End up married with a mortgage, three kids, two dogs and a cat somewhere in Connecticut by the age of twelve

Get dumped into the hunt

Chill on Mount Olympus and only come down to be a nuisance and/or give a cryptic message before going back and doing a godly rave party or something

We know Annabeth as the badass strong female first (or the bitchy character we’re supposed to actually like. Choose your approach), the blueprint so to speak, so some of the other characters feel almost pale in comparison and almost not needed? Doesn’t mean that other characters can’t behave similarly, but it feels kind of redundant especially if their character arcs end in a rather anticlimactic way (Thalia, Reyna). The new additions are the much needed woc as the main story with PJO was inherently white (anyway stan black!Percy and Grover, folks). So it’s not to bash on the new characters, it’s more Riordan’s fault more than anything.

Since Riordan only knows three female character arcs it feels like he tried to copy the formula several ways with different nuances. Some more or less successful. This is where fandom actually comes in handy and helps create more distinguished and fleshed out characters in form of headcanons or fanfiction.

But even in these cases people still make it about Annabeth when it’s time for characters of colors to shine. Remember that whole spiel and discussion that broke out when people (Kal, diver-up, Caitlyn, Bee, reynaisalesbian, etc.) joked about or criticized that Annabeth thinks that she’s having it harder because she’s a blonde? In front of Hazel and Piper? If she would’ve been a real person that’s an invitation for getting decked. And then all hell broke loose because Annabeth stans couldn’t accept the fact that in the real world and/or in fictional worlds the woc/coc have it harder? That the white woman wasn’t the victim that needed the coddling? Yeah, that was mad pathetic.

I hope you people get my point?

Well fuck. I wrote so many things and have the feeling I’ve said nothing. Anyway, I hope I made sense. This is way too long.

TLDR: Chill about Annabeth please. She’s an important character but that doesn’t mean that everyone has to like her, regardless of being a character in the books or a reader/fan of PJO in real life. She isn’t nice or a sweetheart all the time. She also isn’t the monstrous asshole that some try to make out of her.

Peace out.

[anamariamauricia]

Another excerpt from my post S3 Annamis fic:

Once more chocolate had been brought, Anne held her cup in her hands and waited for her next guest to make her appearance, ruminating the whole while on how Milady de Winter had gone from being a threat to someone she considered a friend. Not a close friend, not yet at least, but after all she'd done for Anne and her family, after all the nights spent with her and Aramis playing cards or simply talking whilst perpetuating their ruse of Milady and Aramis' relationship, she certainly considered the woman to be more than someone who merely worked for her.

"I was just with Porthos' wife and daughter," she explained once Milady had arrived. "I hope you don't mind using her cup."

"Just so long as it was the wife's and not the baby's," Milady replied dryly as she took off her cloak.

"Oh, give me your hand," Anne quickly instructed, grabbing Milady's hand and pressing it to her belly where the baby was kicking. "Can you feel that?"

Milady's knitted eyebrows sprang up as she blinked down at their hands. "What a strange sensation."

"Strange and sometimes uncomfortable, but always wonderful." Squeezing Milady's hand, she let go so the woman could sit down in the chair next to her in front of the fireplace. "Aramis was able to feel it only recently. I nearly had to pry his hands off this morning, he was so reluctant to leave."

"And where has our esteemed First Minister gone off to?"

"Athos and Sylvie welcomed a baby boy a couple weeks ago. Aramis, Constance, and d'Artagnan went to see them."

Something flickered on Milady's face as she stared at her. "Athos has a son?"

"Yes, they're calling him Raoul," Anne informed her. "I wonder if it is a family name."

"His uncle," Milady answered to her surprise. "He left him his sword in his will," she added in a distant voice, her gaze having fallen to the floor.

"Oh," said Anne. "I don't think Aramis knew that."

"Wouldn't surprise me," Milady replied in her normal voice. "Athos likes to pretend that his life before the musketeers doesn't exist, that he just sprung out of Tréville's head, fully-grown and armed, like Athena."

Anne chuckled at the image. "And how is it that you know of his past?"

Milady's green eyes were piercing when they met hers. "Because I was a part of it."

                                                  MMMMMMMMMM

"How were things here?" Aramis asked brightly after telling her all about his trip.

"Oh, terribly boring with you being gone," Anne answered.

"Not even any interesting gossip from Milady?"

She swallowed past the lump that had suddenly formed in her throat. "She told me, about her and Athos, that they once lived as husband and wife," she said, and watched his gaze fall.

He nodded, and shifted in his seat. "Porthos and I knew that he'd joined the Musketeers because the woman he loved had died. That was all he ever let on until the Cardinal's attempt on your life. After that he had to reveal who she was, that she had survived the hanging."

Anne shuddered as she thought of the marks the rope had left on Milady's neck. Even now she could feel Rochefort's cold garrote against her own neck, and had to resist the urge to raise her hand and brush her fingers along its ghostly imprint.

"I didn't want to believe her," she admitted, "that Athos would have condemned his own wife to death so easily." It was something Louis had done to her, and she would have never thought Athos to have had such a thing in common with her late husband.

"If there's one thing I do know about that whole ordeal, it's that his decision was anything but easy. It haunted him in the years that followed; it still haunts him, I'm sure. But he thought he was doing right by the law."

"And she was defending herself from a man who tried to force her," she lightly countered.

"Thomas was his brother, and she had lied to Athos from the beginning about who she was and where she came from. In an unbelievable situation, her lying about what had happened made the most sense to him."

She mulled over Aramis' words. She hadn't known Thomas, and she did know Milady to be a liar and a seductress, but she also knew what it was like when a man you trusted turned on you, and the lengths he would go to have you. "If I had killed Rochefort instead of injuring him, should the King have condemned me as a murderess?"

Aramis recoiled. "Of course not. You-"

"Lied to Rochefort about what I did with the crucifix he had given me," she pressed. "About my relationship with you."

Deflating somewhat as he exhaled, Aramis set his drink down and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "Ana, you did what you had to do to protect yourself and your loved ones, and I believe Milady did the same. I don't think what Athos did was right, and he has to live with the decisions he made for the rest of his life. You and I both know though, that Athos is not the same man that even we once knew."

"No," she agreed. "He definitely is not. And she's changed too."

Aramis leaned back into his chair with a sigh. "If only she had told him the truth about who she was before they married, or even soon after; I'm sure he would have forgiven her, and then he would have been more likely to believe her about Thomas. The confrontation between her and Thomas might not have even happened then."

Anne thought of her decision to make Louis believe that he was the father of her son. She had a choice to come clean to him about what happened at the convent and then ask him to still proclaim Aramis' child as his own, but she was scared. Scared that he did not love her enough to forgive such a transgression, and scared that he would not accept her child. She shook her head. "She was scared. She didn't want to risk losing the love that she had."

Read the rest of the chapter: ao3 / ff.net

Start from the beginning: ao3 / ff.net

[violetwolfraven]

Brooklyn Ain’t Home

In honor of the first draft of the javid portion of the Reincarnation AU being done (here comes obsessive editing! chapters 2 and 3 will probably be out within a few days!) here’s a thing that takes place after the sprace portion!

Tw: major character death mentions, grief, and referenced past death.

...

Spot was unhappy, and Race didn’t know why.

They’d found each other again after a century apart two days ago.

Well, technically, they’d found each other a couple weeks ago, but they’d only remembered two days ago.

Race was happy. He finally had Spot back, after peaceful decades floating in the void and then years not knowing who he was missing.

Naturally, his old insecurities from last time were flaring back up. That he wasn’t enough. That Spot didn’t love him as much as he loved Spot.

Race wanted to smack his insecure, angsty, 1899 15-year-old self with a broom to make him shut up.

That was still weird. Having two lifetimes in his head. Sure, the first one had been cut short, but Race remembered as much about his first life as he did about this one. He felt somewhere between the kid he’d been before remembering and the adult he’d been when he died. It was complicated.

But he was still... himself, just like each of the others were still themselves. Circumstances in this lifetime had somewhat mimicked the previous enough to preserve everyone’s personalities. Jack was still fiercely protective. Crutchie was still sarcastic yet compassionate. Romeo was still eccentric and big-hearted.

And Spot was still strategic, smart, and untrusting. Race hadn’t quite had his trust yet in this lifetime before they remembered, so he wasn’t really sure where they stood right now.

He didn’t know how to bring up this conversation, to ask what they even were, to ask if Spot was confused by his feelings or anything in this big bright world where being gay was legal, but it wasn’t currently the biggest concern.

The biggest concern was helping Spot move in with Denton, because he’d gone back to his parents’ house Saturday morning to grab a bag, and then run to the Larkin house. Since Medda had a rather strict rule about her boys’ boyfriends sleeping over, they had to look for somewhere else for him to live, which was when Jack piped up that Denton was looking at adopting a kid, and when asked, was happy to let Spot crash with him.

So far, his parents hadn’t come looking for him. They’d just have to hope it stayed that way.

And... and so far, neither Denton nor Medda were showing any signs of remembering anything. According to Davey, Sarah, and Les, neither were Mr. or Mrs. Jacobs.

Well, you couldn’t have everything. This whole reincarnation thing was trippy.

And if none of the good adults remembered, that meant none of the bad ones remembered either. At least, Race hoped so. He had to believe that. Otherwise, he couldn’t imagine Snyder the Spider would be happy about being outwitted by Jack Kelly and Racetrack Higgins in two lifetimes.

Not that Race was too worried. Medda and Denton didn’t remember, after all. And he had Spot to protect him if Snyder did somehow remember.

At least... he hoped he had Spot. He still wanted Spot.

His insecurities just weren’t sure if Spot still wanted him.

Race was thinking of all this as he and Spot sat on the couch at Denton’s house, watching a movie.

‘Watching a movie.’ Neither of them was really watching it.

Race knew what was on his mind, but he wished he knew what was on Spot’s. He didn’t know if he should ask.

“They ain’t all here.”

“What?” Race asked.

When he looked, he was alarmed by the amount of pain on Spot’s face.

“They ain’t all here,” he repeated, “Vince. Graves. Twitch. They ain’t here. Ain’t home.”

Oh. Spot had never been especially good with emotional talks. This was his rather blunt way of letting Race know he needed to talk.

“They’ll come eventu—“

“No,” Spot interrupted, “We all remembered on Friday cause we was all in one place for the first time that night since 1917. All. Everyone who came back.”

As much as Race wished he could argue, he had assumed that logic, too.

But he had known those Brooklyn kids, too. He hadn’t thought to miss them yet, but—

“Blue,” he realized, “Bluebird. She’s not—“

“I know,” Spot said tightly, “Scarf ain’t, either.”

Scarf and Bluebird had been two of the younger Brooklyn kids. The two Spot probably had felt the most responsible for, considering he’d practically raised them and had to kill once to protect each of them.

Bluebird had taken over as king when Spot aged out, because she had all his strategic mind and toughness and all Race’s charisma. The two of them had practically raised her. They’d taught her to fight after Spot killed a gangster to protect her. She’d been as close as they ever got to a daughter, or at least a little sister to both of them.

Scarf hadn’t been close with Race, the kid was so shy, but he’d moved into the Brooklyn Lodging House early, too, after Spot killed his monster of a father. He was later Blue’s second for a while.

Race remembered seeing Scarf around camp when they were at war. He remembered how devestated Spot was when he died.

Neither Scarf nor Bluebird were here. Hell, Race didn’t even know how Bluebird had died, though she must be dead by now.

“We got a choice whether to come back or not,” he said slowly, trying not to let his voice shake, “I guess... I guess not everybody took it.”

Spot nodded, clearly trying hard to control his emotions, too, “Yeah, I guess not.”

Still, a kind of morbid curiosity overwhelmed Race. It was probably a bad idea, but he needed to know.

He pulled out his phone, “Did Blue ever tell ya her last name? She only ever told me her first.”

“Yeah, it was ‘Li.’ Why?”

Athena Li. There couldn’t be that many obituaries on women named Athena Li, could there?

There were, actually, but only one could possibly be her.

A picture on the internet of a newspaper from 1918. Checking the birthdate, it matched up.

“She died not a year after we did,” Race breathed, “In the influenza pandemic.”

Spot was silent for a heavy few seconds, and his answer was choked up when he spoke.

“She did?”

Race nodded, swiping his sleeve over his eyes. God, he knew Crutchie was the last to die, but he’d really hoped Blue got a long life, too.

She was 29. Unmarried and alone. Crutchie had apparently written her obituary because nobody else alive cared enough to do it. All her friends—her family—were already dead.

“Do ya think she got the offer and just... turned it down?” Spot asked quietly.

Race shrugged, “I think we all got it ‘bout the same time, so... I guess she really ain’t comin’ back. They ain’t comin’ back.”

“I guess it’s only fair.”

“How can ya say that?”

Spot sighed, “Brooklyn and Manhattan got a second chance, but have ya seen anybody else? Huh? Those of us back, most of us died in the same unit, but what about those who didn’t? I ain’t seen any former Bronx kids back. Or Midtown, or... guess it’s only fair we don’t get everybody.”

Fair, maybe, but that didn’t make it pleasant to think about.

“Do ya know Scarf’s real name?” he asked quietly, “I could look for...”

He stopped, because Spot was already shaking his head.

“I don’t wanna know, Race. I don’t wanna know what—if anythin’—got put in a pape for him. I watched him die. And he was so skittish, I ain’t really surprised he didn’t take a second round.”

Scarf had been skittish. Race remembered that much about him. But that had never stopped him from being best friends with Bluebird, and later Les. Those three were quite the chaotic trio when they were kids, and when they got bigger, Race remembered how Les had cried when Scarf got shot. How much it had hurt to write to Blue and tell her he was...

...wait a second.

“We’s all the same age this time around,” Race realized aloud.

“Yeah, and?”

“And Les ain’t. He’s the same amount younger than Davey and Sarah as he was last time.”

Spot was silent for a second, realizing what he was saying.

“I can see Scarf not takin’ the offer,” Race admitted, ��But Bluebird? You know our girl would do it. She just ain’t here cause... cause she didn’t die with the rest of us!“

“Crutchie didn’t, either,” Spot pointed out.

“Exactly,” Race grinned, “That just proves it. Crutchie got to come back, and he wasn’t in our unit—neither was Joey or York or any of your other kids that came back ‘cept Hotshot.”

“But we could only remember once everyone met each other again. Race—“

“I’s been thinkin’ ‘bout that. I don’t think that was what it was. I thinks it was Les. He was the final piece—he was with the last group of us in the war when we died.”

“Kath, too,” Spot muttered, “They were what we was missin’.”

“Exactly.”

Spot smiled hesitantly, “So... the other Brooklyn kids might be out there. And if they are, we’ll find ‘em someday. Bring ‘em home.”

“We will,” Race promised, “I’ll help ya look.”

“You don’t even know any of their real full names.”

“Shut up. I’m tryin’ to be helpful.”

“You do help,” Spot assured him, smiling softly, “Love ya, Racer.”

“I love you, too.”

[crazybagelbitch]

Pt 2 of chim and buck stuck in a cult, but from Maddie and Bobby perspective and maybe buck and chim and the woman trying to come up with a plan to escape. Wherever your mind wants to take you.

Part 1

Hi I’m so sorry this took me this long and I hope this is at least somewhat worth the wait!!

“I know they didn’t die from that earthquake, Athena,” Bobby shakes his head, and for a moment he thinks he’s just stuck in the denial stage of grief before he remembers his reasons, “we know which house they went to, we know where they were. If they had died there, we would have found their bodies.”

“Bobby--”

“I-I know they might still be dead. I’m not stupid, I know it’s been weeks,” Bobby cuts her off, knowing that look in her eyes, “but something had to have happened.”

“You’re saying you suspect foul play?”

“I’m not saying I think they were murdered,” he sighs, “but I’m saying something had to have happened. They responded to a scene of a reported injury and vanished. The damage of the earthquake wasn’t devastating enough to make that make sense, you know that.”

Or at least, he hopes she knows that because otherwise maybe he is stuck in the denial stage of grief.

“It doesn’t make sense, you’re right,” Athena sighs, placing a mug of tea down in front of him, “I don’t think... I don’t see it being the earthquake unless they drove a car somewhere in the road... but why would they be driving a car? They were on duty, with the ambulance and the fire truck, and neither of their actual personal calls. It’s weird, I’ll give you that.”

“Yeah, weird. It’s just... how am I supposed to look Maddie in the eye anymore? Maddie who is two months out from giving birth and has potentially lost the father of her child and her brother, and I’m just supposed to tell her I don’t know what happened and probably never will? They were on shift, under my duty--”

“No, stop,” she shakes her head, “I am not letting you blame yourself for this, not for one single second. You were doing your job and you did no wrong.”

“I sent them in there.”

“Because you were doing your job.”

“But they’re just-- gone! Gone and I have no explanation and what does that say about what kind of captain I am?”

Athena takes a breath, looking at him with wet eyes before she speaks.

“A good captain who got extraordinarily unlucky that day.”

.

“I mean, there’s gotta be someway out of here, right? They got us in, so there has to be a way out.”

“First of all, lower your voice,” Chimney hisses, not wanting the two of them to be “punished” for insubordination again, “second of all, yeah, but we don’t know how we got in because we were hit over the head and than drugged.”

“Well, we’ll be able to figure it out, right?”

“I guess, yeah.”

“You’re not seriously giving up, are you?” Buck whisper shouts, “my sister is pregnant and needs you. Your baby needs you. You don’t get to give up!”

“I’m not giving up,” he whisper shouts in return, “I’m just saying, I bet every other single person in this room believed they’d be able to find their way out, and none of them have. Maybe if they had kept trying but... they’re brainwashed. They’ve been manipulated and they had to adapt to survive.”

“So, we won’t let them--”

“I don’t think it’s that simple, Buck!” he spits, “your blind optimism is really starting to get on my nerves.”

“My blind optimism? It’s better than caving after what, a few weeks? I never thought--”

“Don’t fight,” a voice behind them chastises, and they both jump before they realize it’s not The Leader or his “wife” who is almost definitely under the age of 18 but it’s Leah, the young mother they’ve befriended who also has not lost her sanity yet, “that’s what he wants.”

“I’m sorry,” Chimney sighs after a moment, “I shouldn’t have called it blind optimism, Buckaroo.”

“I’m sorry, too,” Buck mumbles, “we probably need some of your realism if we’re going to plot our way out of here.”

“Wait...” Chimney whispers, tugging on the sleeve of Buck’s shirt before turning to look at Leah, “maybe we’ve got the wrong objective here.”

“What? We’re trapped in a creepy underground bunker and you think we’re wrong for trying to get out?” Buck asks incredulously.

“No, no, what I mean is,” Chimney starts, shaking his head, “maybe it’s not about us physically fighting our way out but getting a message out. You don’t think if he catches us mid break he’ll just pull out his gun and shoot us all?”

“But, how would we get a message out?” Leah asks, crinkling up her nose, “we don’t have phones our wifi everyone here is completely off the grid, including the horrible leader who kidnapped us.”

“But it can’t be just him,” Chimney insists, and given the looks on Leah and Buck’s faces, they’re still not following up, “he can’t be completely off the grid, he just can’t. And he can’t be the only one in on this. Someone either down here or in the real world has to be helping him. I mean, come on. Successful abduction of two fit firefighters. This is someone who either had help we didn’t realize he did while we were unconscious or had help on standby he could call if needed. I mean, the way he got us was planned. Do you really think he was the only person hiding in that house? He’s gotta have contact with someone, and if we can figure out how he has contact with him...”

“What? You think there’s some secret payphone down here?”

“No, Buck, I-I don’t know what or how but maybe if we can figure out... no, you’re right, it’s stupid. False hope, I’m sorry.”

“No.”

“No, Leah, I thought I had something there but I didn’t, and--”

“No, you’re right,” she shakes her head, lowering her voice and looking around to make sure no one is listening in on them, “there was another person. A woman with him when I got abducted, right before he knocked me out. And I don’t think... none of the women here look like her. He has help on the outside.”

“Okay, so there are two evil psychos,” Buck concedes, “but how does male pyscho talk to female psycho?”

“That’s what we’ve gotta figure out.”

“Maybe it is a payphone.”

“Buck,” Chimney rolls his eyes, “there’s not gonna be a payphone down here.”

“But... there might be one nearby. Which means we’d have to figure it out how to get out still, but think of it. What’s the best way to communicate all your psycho criminal cult fantasies without tracking it?”

“...Payphones.”

“So... our hopes are pinned on somehow breaking out of here and then finding a payphone?” Leah asks, laughing in that sad, crazed way.

“Seems like it.”

“Yeah, maybe I am a bit of a blind optimist, Chim.”

[letsbenditlikebennett]

Who Are You || Ariana & Kaden

TIMING: Current PARTIES: @chasseurdeloup & @letsbenditlikebennett SUMMARY: Kaden shows Ariana how to make proper croissants and they share some real talk about what happened with Lydia.  CONTENT: Mentions of sibling death and gun use

If you had told Ariana seven or so months ago that she’d be hanging out at Kaden’s apartment and getting a baking lesson, there was no way she should have believed it. By nature, they were supposed to be at odds. At least, that’s the narrative that the world tried to thrust upon them. Growing up with Celeste, she never fully bought into it, but Kaden had seemed to be a diligent hunter. One who she feared the moment she realized what he was, but that fear was far from her now as she rolled out the dough for the croissants with a determined look on her face. The layering on these required more precision and concentration than she preferred. Cooking had always been preferred to baking, but the latter had started to grow on her. She was careful with the rolling pin and looked back to Kaden once the last layer was rolled out. “You said we chill the dough again after this, right?” With confirmation, she set the dough back in the freezer and smiled at Abel who was diligently waiting by the entrance to the kitchen in hopes of some scraps. “Sh- Putain,” she looked back at the freezer, “Sorry croissants. Are all French pastries this challenging? These make biscuits look like a cake walk.” 

 “Yes, chill it and we’ll go from there. Oven has to preheat still, too.” It was strange to think that Kaden was willingly inviting a werewolf over to his apartment. And not to kill them, either. If it wasn’t for the pinpricks parading down his spine, he wouldn’t really think of Ariana as a werewolf at this point. She seemed so human. And she was a good person. That much he didn’t doubt, not at this point. Still not something he could have pictured a year ago. It should feel wrong but instead, there was some comfort in having her there with him in the kitchen, to not be alone. “Not all of them, no. Some of them are more challenging than this,” he said with a smirk as he continued to prep their work stations. He wasn’t sure what exactly it was about baking that was so calming, stabilizing in a way. Maybe it was because he could focus on just what was in front of him. And none of it had anything to do with monsters or nightmares or any other bullshit. Just flour, sugar, butter, a recipe, precise steps that had some room for experimentation, but still straight forward enough that there was minimal guess work. And as much as he’d resisted ever becoming a teacher or trainer for hunter bullshit, he was almost enjoying sharing what he knew with others. Another weird thing he never expected. “It’ll be worth it though; the work. There’s nothing quite like a fresh croissant. You’ll see. All others will be ruined for you.”

 Ariana nodded along to Kaden’s instructions in regard to the croissants. They were somewhat familiar with her’s and Athena’s previous attempts. Apparently baking with hunters was one of her new hobbies. It was strange, being so firmly planted in the middle of two so very different worlds. Even with Alcher coming around and respecting her way of thinking, everything left her feeling like she didn’t quite belong anywhere despite her dream of finding her own supernatural community. A pack of sorts. But she had to believe she was making a difference. Kaden, a werewolf hunter who by all indications had been good at hunting and believed in what he did, had her in his home yet again. Though he seldom liked to admit it he cared for her. A whole ass werewolf. A small one, but still a werewolf nonetheless. He saw her as a person. He saw Regan as a person. Morgan, too. He even chose not to kill Lydia. His connections had to be making some sort of impact and she had to believe she was helping make things better somehow. The spaced-out look on her face was brief as she quickly remarked, “More challenging? I guess that’s why French cuisine is so renowned.” Still, a question sat on the edge of her tongue, but she smiled calmly anyway though her fidgeting hands likely gave her away. “If these aren’t the best croissants I’ve ever had, I want my money back,” she joked knowing full well she didn’t pay for any of the ingredients. Finally, she bit the bullet and leaned against the counter not caring all that much for the flour getting on her. She looked to Kaden somewhat cautiously. “Can I ask you something?” 

 Kaden smiled as he watched her try to process a baking process more complicated than what they were doing now. “Hey, there’s a reason I usually stick to pies.” He made sure the counter was sufficiently floured and ready to work, double checked the oven. Yeah, all the could do now was wait a few minutes.”Not that I don’t enjoy a challenge, just sometimes it was nice to work with a little less precision, a little mindlessly, I guess,” he added with a shrug. Especially if he was looking for some relaxation. Pastries where one wrong decision ruined the whole thing was far from relaxing. Stress found him easily enough outside of the kitchen, he did what he could to minimize it here. “Yeah, yeah. You’ll get your heavy investment back if these don’t turn out, Ari. Don’t worry.” He almost said he promised. Almost. He ought to know better than to use that word by now. Somehow the air around them shifted slightly. He couldn’t describe it. At first he wondered if it was just the chill down his back nagging at him once more, but that wasn’t it. “Sure. What?” he responded as he rested against the counter across the way, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

 This was easily the most relaxed Ariana had personally ever seen Kaden. They’d spent a good chunk of the afternoon baking and joking around. It felt like this was the way things were supposed to be more often than not. “Well, you make damn good pies and I get to eat the pies so no complaints here,” she said with a small smile. She hoped the question she had to ask wouldn’t completely ruin the mood, but it had been on her mind for weeks now. With how evident it was he cared for her, it was clear something changed and her curiosity had never been easy to keep at bay. With confirmation it was okay to ask, she assured, “I know I’m not supposed to use this word, but you’re not fae and I want you to know I’m serious-- So I promise that no matter what the answer is, I’m not going to judge you or think any less of you.” After all, it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing he chose not to kill someone. She leaned against the counter and softened her features though her eyes were still inquisitive. “Why didn’t you kill Lydia? What stopped you?” It wasn’t a question that could be sugar-coated, but she kept her tone soothing as if to verbally cue that she was upholding her promise. 

 Kaden’s mouth pulled into a thin line at the word “promise.” Sure, she had a point, but it did nothing but make his stomach churn at this point. The word was laced with so much pain and turmoil now. Funny how much a stupid singualr word could mean. But this was Ari. It was safe. Safe as it could be at least. Weird enough he thought of a werewolf as “safe.” Still, he waited, arms crossed, and nodded, waiting for her question. He didn’t know what he expected her to ask, but it wasn’t that. He pulled back his shoulder blades, shifted his stance and looked away, as if the answer could be found by staring off somewhere in the distance. His fingers pulled at the cloth of his shirt around the crook of his elbows. It didn’t help him sort through anything much. “I don’t--” He bit at the inside of his lip, pulling back his words. Even if he wasn’t sure how to articulate his answer, he knew there was one. Somewhere. He knew. Deep down. It was somewhere. “I just…” He sighed and dropped his arms and rubbed his temples. “I just couldn’t.” He couldn’t meet Ari’s eyes either. “I was there and I had the knife to her chest and I just… I couldn’t do it. Something about…” He shook his head again and struggled to find a way to describe it. Nothing about explaining felt right. His choice felt wrong no matter how he framed it. But at the same time, he didn’t think he’d have done anything different when push came to shove. And what he made of that, he didn’t know. “I just couldn’t, alright. I-- I couldn’t be like her.” 

 Ariana watched him calmly as he struggled to answer her question. It was a loaded one, she knew that, but it was also important. Kaden wasn’t exactly the most open when it came to verbalizing what was on his mind and even when he did, it was mostly French swear words. Not that she faulted him for as much. The more strained Kaden’s words sounded, the softer her own features became. He needed to know that no matter where he was currently at, she wasn’t going to fault him or abandon him. Something told her he was getting better, seeing other supernatural people as well… people. “You mentioned that before,” she said calmly, “There just has to be a why there. Even if you haven’t figured it out yet.” Then what he said next caused something in her to crack. Her head snapped up abruptly and she looked a bit alarmed by what he said. She quickly assured, “You could never be like Lydia.” Even if in their own ways, they had both been killers, intentions mattered. While Lydia needed to eat, she didn’t need to torture those poor humans. She didn’t need to use her words to hurt others who weren’t even her food source, but Lydia did all of those things with little regard. That wasn’t Kaden. She struggled to make eye contact as his own gaze cast away from her, but she continued, “You’re nothing like her and you won’t ever be like her. I can get that Lydia had to feed, but what she did- she tortured people needlessly. She hurt people intentionally just because she could. To exert her power or whatever. That’s not you. Even if you- You do what you do to help people.” 

Still, his answer left Ariana with more questions. Questions she wasn’t sure wouldn’t make Kaden lose any sense of cool he was trying to maintain, but even if he did get annoyed with her, she was sure they’d be able to snap back so she asked, “Do you see her as more than a monster then? It’s okay if you do. I don’t think I could have killed her either as much as I don’t mourn the fact she’s gone.” 

 Kaden wrung his hands together in thought. So much so that when he looked down, all the flour he’d coated them with had been wrung away. Putain. He turned to wipe them with the white powder, coating them just enough to repel any of the dough they would be working with. Not that he needed to right then, they weren't going to handle the dough for a bit. But he needed to do something. He had to. He hadn’t done anything in that clearing. Well, that wasn’t true. He did something, but it wasn’t enough, was it? A group had to clean up after him, after his choices. Ones that nearly got him killed. A few times. He’d been rubbing his hands back and forth to shake off some of the excess flour, but he’d realized once again that he’d wiped off too much. Fuck. 

“I-- It’s not like that,” Kaden started, wanting to run his hands through his hair and thinking better of it, settling to rub the flour deeper into his skin instead. “I know I’d never torture or-- But that’s not…” He pinched his eyes closed and shook his head. He wasn’t sure if this was who he should be having this conversation with of all people. As much as he cared about Ari, as good hearted as she was and as instrumental as she was in taking Lydia down, she was still a kid. Right, sure. A kid who to deal with so much death already. Things no one was prepared for. He looked back at her and tried to remember himself at that age. What Oscar would have thought he was ready to hear, and what Kaden at that age would have thought in comparison. Maybe he shouldn’t use Oscar as a goal post. Still. Maybe this was fine. Right? Putain. 

“She nearly killed me, Ari,” Kaden said, looking back down at his hands. Hands that had destroyed as much as they helped create, maybe more. Deadly hands. He took a sharp inhale before looking back to her. “She had a gun to my heart. Point blank. And I got lucky it was out of ammo.” He’d been there on the other side of the gun, of the death. He saw the look in her eyes before she was sure she was going to kill him. The fear had left her from earlier and all that was there was cold determination. The clarity that she was right. The look he was sure so many creatures had seen painted on his face before the twist of his knife or the bullet left the gun. He’d faced death hundreds of times in his life. But he’d never been on the other side of the hunt like that. Not once. Usually it was a kill or be killed that was still the prey fighting back. This was… different. “I was on the other side of it and I-- when the tables turned. I couldn’t choose it. To be what she had intended to be.” It made him weak, foolish. To let her go after all that. To abandon all his training for the sake of some stupid thought of his soul and its fate. What did his morality matter for the greater good? Apparently more than it had in the past. “I don’t know if I see her as anything other than a monster. She was-- That wasn’t the point. Not-- I couldn’t be on the other side of the knife. For some fucking reason.” The dough had to be ready by now. He swung the freezer open and pulled it out and placed it on the counter. Like it was of any importance. Like he was allowed to play at being normal. 

 Ariana watched him intently as he processed what she’d asked him. The way his hands couldn’t seem to keep still was more than indication this wasn’t an easy topic. She’d never been under the illusion it would be, but it was still difficult to watch Kaden struggle all the same. His hands kept brushing the flour away only to re-coat them in flour moments later. As if the physical movements could tie any of this together in a nice, simple way. But that’s the thing, this wasn’t simple. There was no way it’d ever be simple, but it was important. She wished Celeste was here. If anyone could help Kaden figure all of this out, it was her. But she wasn’t here. She wouldn’t ever be here to offer her wisdom again, so Ariana would try to bring some of her energy to the conversation the best she could. “Alright, maybe it’s not the point, but it’s still an important distinction. Something you stand for.” 

Prior to the mention of nearly killing Kaden, Ariana had still been leaning against the counter keeping her arms calmly at her side. The idea of Lydia killing Kaden made her hands ball up into fists. Her anger was all directed at Lydia, but she tried her best to keep her features gentle though her face ended up looking like more of a grimace. It reminded her just how much Kaden getting killed was a distinct possibility. The thought only made her want to lock him away in this apartment, but she knew he’d never stand for that. “You’re only here because the gun was out of ammo,” she said, her voice coming out as a strained whisper and her fists clenching even tighter. The more he spoke, the more questions she had. He couldn’t be her when the tables were turned, but hadn’t he been so many times before? Lydia was far worse than any werewolf she’d ever met so she was having a difficult time understanding. She took a few deep breaths and reminded herself, Kaden was still here, and even if this didn’t make sense to her, they still had each other. 

“You couldn’t be on the other side of the knife… or gun,” Ariana asked slowly, still not entirely sure on what to make of that. The fact she was important to him was enough to show Kaden’s values were changing, but not in a way that seemed concrete as of yet. Now she felt tense. She wasn’t sure how to clarify without making Kaden feel defensive. She’d meant what she said, that there was no judgment on her part. People were capable of some pretty amazing things when people believed in them and hell, she believed in Kaden. Maybe other wolves would think she was foolish for it, but time and again, Kaden had showed up for her when it mattered most. “Look,” she started, “I’m not trying to- What I’m going to say, I don’t mean it in a bad way. I just want to understand. And I think you need to understand. You need to know where you stand so you don’t get killed out there.” There was a good chance he’d tell her to drop it, but even if he at least thought about it, he was one step closer to making his own way. Keeping himself safer by not putting himself in a position of fighting someone he couldn’t kill. She let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and finally let her hands relax. “You’ve been on the other side of the knife before,” she reminded him gently, “Something has to be different-- even if it’s you.” 

 Something he stood for. Right. More and more, Kaden wasn’t sure what he stood for. Everything had softened from black and white to shades of grey and it was harder to have a clear picture of what he did and didn’t support. And if that was good or bad, he couldn’t say. His hands clenched into fists for a moment before releasing them, a small puff of flour floating in the air around them as he let the tension fall away. It was strange to hear it put so plainly, coming from her mouth of all places. He’d be dead if the gun hadn’t been out of ammo. It just lent credence to the question of whether he should have even confronted her in the woods by himself. Maybe not. Probably not. What good had it done. He wanted to slink down against the counter and fall to the floor to sit, just collapse into himself with the whole thing. But he wasn’t alone. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Ari, tense and clearly struggling to calm herself down. He wasn’t going to fall to pieces in front of her. Not if he could help it, so he gripped the edge of the counter instead, held himself up, like nothing was wrong.

His knuckles went white as he held it tighter, a little more with every difficult question she posed. “That’s what I said, yeah,” Kaden confirmed, tersely. He wanted this over and done with. Nothing would change by dragging this up, would it? And she was too young to carry all this. He was sure of it. But she kept poking at it, prodding. “I know that,” he said, his voice snapping harsher than he’d meant to. “I know,” he repeated, softer this time. “I know I need focus but it’s not…” It wasn’t simple or clear anymore. “I’ll figure it out. Don’t worry about me, alright?” He turned away from her, and back towards the fridge to grab the dough, a silent savior from his thoughts. The sooner they were baking, the sooner he could drown all this out. “That was my point, Ari. I’ve been on the side that kills. Not the one that--” The lump in his throat didn’t let the rest of his words flow free. “So yeah. I don’t know. Doesn’t matter right now. Grab the rest of the dough, alright?” 

 Ariana watched on as she could see Kaden struggling with himself. While his distress and confusion were both visible, they didn’t quite make it to his words outside of a bit of a bite in his tone that he immediately softened. Her own flour covered hands started to fidget. This was something he needed to face, but maybe this wasn’t the time or she wasn’t the person. Part of her longed for Celeste to be here, she could help him through this and he wouldn’t feel obligated to be the strong adult in the room. She sighed and finally said, “Okay then. You can say that, but I’m still going to worry about you. Kind of comes with the whole giving a shit thing.” She tried to convey understanding in her features. There was no furrow in her brow or scrunch in her nose. Just calm eyes that tried to let Kaden know he wasn’t being judged here. “And that’s okay. You know that, right? I hope you know that. Maybe I can never really understand, but it does matter. Even if it’s not me, you should talk to someone and figure it out… though I have been told I’m wise beyond my years.” She said the last part a little more lightheartedly to get Kaden to stop looking like he might further grind down the flour. “But yeah, yeah, I’ll grab the dough and you can show me how it's done.” 

 Kaden paused a moment, still facing the dough on the counter. He would have to turn and face her eventually. Where the conversation went from here was up to him. “I haven’t been out. If that makes you feel better. On the full moon. Not for a while.” He looked down and noticed he’d been tracing small circles in the flour on the counter. He quickly used his palm to brush them away, clear the slate. He took a deep breath and finally faced her, letting it out as a sigh as he saw her face, seeing how hard she was trying to reach out. He tried to focus on what he knew. Ariana was a good kid. He wasn’t going to let her die. She was also a werewolf. He hunted werewolves. Where did that-- No. Focus. She was a werewolf who he wanted to protect. Even though she’d nearly killed him. So that meant he was questioning his codes. It had to. There was no other way to frame that, as much as he wanted to. That was something he had to grapple with. And soon. But he wasn’t sure how. Putain. Ari was so willing to help. But at the end of the day, she was still a kid, though. As much as she was like her sister, she wasn’t her. He gave her a smile, genuine but still small. “Thanks. For, uh. Just thanks.” He grabbed a small handful of flour and threw it at her, biting back laughter. “But no more bullshit. It’s time to bake.”

[athenaquinn]

The River Styx is High & Wide || Deirdre & Athena

TIMING: Sunday (11/29) Evening LOCATION: An abandoned barn outside of town PARTIES: @deathduty and @athenaquinn SUMMARY: Athena and Deirdre have a fun girls’ night. CONTENT: Gore, abuse (mentions), references to torture, vomit (mention), death (if you’d like a summary, please feel free to message either of us!)

If there’s charm in abandoned barns outside of town, Amanda can’t see it. Her eyes were swollen shut long before she entered, and only now possessed the energy to stare at the entrance. Her head bobbed, caught between fits of moaning and crying. She found her vision lodged in a cycle of closed door, dirty floor, closed door. She couldn’t sleep like that; every creak or cricket chirp jolted her upright with a quiet yelp before she returned to her bobbing. She watched blood plop against the ground, soak up, and drip again. Yet, she didn’t find the cycle strange, she didn’t think much of anything now. Closed door. Bloody floor. Closed door. Bloody floor. Open door. Athena.

“Athena!” Amanda sprung to life, like a wind-up toy twisted to start its motor. “Athena--” Her voice was raw, ravaged by hours of begging she could not remember, and crying she hadn’t stopped doing. “Athena.” She sobbed for her, jostled in the chair she was tied to for her. In the swinging light above, she bared her wounds for her--a cacophony of cuts and bruises, a dagger in her shoulder. Deirdre’s only issue was that she had no wings for her to break; justice would not be completely fair.

The banshee emerged from the shadows swiftly, standing in front of her display. There was nothing she wanted to say to Athena, truly, not more than telling her that her life was forfeit now, but life could be unfortunate. And some people would live, even when she didn’t want them to. “Come any closer and I’ll kill her.” Amanda whimpered behind her, letting Athena’s name catch the air in desperate whispers. “You know I can do it,” Deirdre reiterated in a hiss, “I wouldn’t even have to move.”

She’d gotten a message on her email from Deirdre and Athena hated that, to start with. Since she couldn’t so easily kill the other fae, the mere act of messaging felt like a taunt. She knew that that was her reasoning whenever she’d messaged Deirdre over the past few months, at least. While she absolutely didn’t want to have anything in common with a fae, she did know that there was a certain way of thinking and that maybe, for that one bit, they shared a line of thought. Regardless, that was not the point right now.

The point was to find Deirdre and track her down, stop whatever it was she was doing. Athena had driven, hardly paying attention to the roads, only halfway noticing the cars that beeped at her as she took priority and four-way-stops that she didn’t have the right for. Her arm was still in its cast - she knew she’d be able to get it out sooner than average but that was never soon enough for her, fingertips drumming impatiently against the wheel of her car.

She pulled into the lot by the abandoned barn, and if she weren’t concerned, she might’ve scoffed at the utter horror movie cliché of all of this. Athena jumped out of the car and didn’t even grab her bag, just her cell-phone in her jacket pocket. She pushed open the door with the toe of her boot and she wondered if she was going to be sick, for a moment. Amanda. So the message hadn’t been a falsehood. “It’s okay.” She said, doing her best to keep her voice even. Doing her best to avoid looking at all of the many injuries all over Amanda’s body. “I’m here.” Except Deirdre appeared then and Athena’s expression shifted from one of comfort to one of disgust. “Just let her go. She’s done nothing.” Her fingers fiddled with her ring - Amanda’s birthday present to her - “I know. I know you could, but don’t. I could get back at you, even with one arm somewhat out of commission.” She glanced back over at her friend - Amanda’s eyes wide and terrified. “You want me. Not her.”

It was ironic to hear Athena play the hero now, so terrible that Deirdre barked in laughter, erupted like a wild animal. “Didn’t Lydia beg you?” She asked, circling the trembling Amanda. “Didn’t she ask to be let go? Didn’t she offer promise? Just for her life? And remind me what you did to her now?” Deirdre laughed again; Lydia wasn’t here to see it, but she thought the leanan-sidhe would find it funny too, in that appalling sort of way. And maybe she’d tell her to just get on with it, instead of letting the theatrics of poetry claim her. But Deirdre liked her words; she wanted to watch Athena writhe in her hypocrisy. “Didn’t you think--Athena--that a banshee would know? And if all fae are such monsters, shouldn’t you have considered the things I could do to the people you love? One by one, until you feel what you’ve done to me; what you took from this world. Don’t you know how justice works?” She burned to hurt Athena, her hands tensed into fists at her sides. Patience, she reminded herself, would go a long way. “I saw. I know. I need names and I need faces. Who else was there? I only want them, and anyone else who ever lifted a finger against my sister.” She turned to Amanda, a whimpering mess, who cycled through quietly begging for Athena and prayer. “You would know about sisters, wouldn’t you?” She grinned at the warden. “Your whole sorority seems big on that. Oh, but you don’t live there, do you? Maybe I should see who you keep in your apartment, hm?”

Don’t look at her. Athena thought to herself, wholly unsure for the moment which her she was referring to. She didn’t want to look at Amanda, at how much pain she was in. She didn’t want to look at Deirdre - the urge to spit in her face - to do far more than that - was all too present. “I did what had to be done.” Her lips turned around, unsure of what expression to make. A phantom pain shot through her arm as she could feel what her brother had done to her. What Lydia had made her brother do, because she held no anger toward her brother but instead had it all directed toward Lydia - which had been dealt with in its own way, she supposed - but she focused back on the present moment. “I - I mean yes, but -” she twisted her lips. “I don’t want to!” Her voice raised to a higher pitch than was necessary. Don’t cry. “Get the hell away from her.” She practically screamed, watching Deirdre’s hands ball into fists. “I’m not telling you.” Her mind flashed to her brother - to Luce - to Winston. She didn’t want any of them to get hurt. Not when all any of them had done was to help make the world a better place. Even if Luce wanted nothing to do with her. She bit her lip. “I would.” She narrowed her eyes in response to Deirdre’s grin. “Yes, we believe in sisterhood but I don’t - I - I’m president but -” She stammered, feeling her breath halt for a moment. Not Ariana. No. Never. “I don’t - why would you do that?” She heard Amanda whimpering, crying, and she held her hands up and over her ears, willing it all to stop. It was too much, the sound, the sight, the way her skin crawled given her proximity to the fae all too overwhelming. “Stop it!”

Deirdre frowned, she had expected more from Athena. Something fun at least. Wasn’t she accustomed to what pain looked like, just like Deirdre? “You want this to stop?” She questioned, narrowing her gaze on her. “Didn’t Lydia ask the same thing of you?” She looked at Amanda, her crying shifted from bargaining to confusion. She whimpered Athena’s name with a measure of betrayal; her hero had abandoned her, after all. Her hero wanted it to stop. But shouldn’t those have been her words? Wasn’t she the one sitting bloody on the chair? Deirdre smiled at her; it was a nice touch, narratively fitting. The banshee lifted her gaze, brandishing a knife. “I can make it stop. You can too. That’s on your shoulders now, Athena. Will you give those people up, or will you let poor Amanda here die?” She grinned, sharp and lopsided. “I’m just doing what has to be done.”  

Her gaze was wandering around the barn, trying to figure out any way she could get Amanda out of this. Athena could think of at least half a dozen ways to knock Deirdre onto the ground, but Deirdre’s words caught her attention again. “Hm?” She raised an eyebrow. “She had it coming.” A shrug, followed by a nod in Amanda’s direction. “She doesn’t.” Fought away the quivering of her lip, the way her whole body wanted to shake right now. How had Deirdre even found Amanda? Except Athena was foolish -- all it took was a quick look on social media - on Instagram, namely - to find smiling photos of the two of them, grinning with pride. Sometimes with Katie, with Amanda’s younger sister. God, Katie. She’d never look at Athena again if she didn’t get Amanda out of this. She wanted nothing more than to rush over to Amanda, but even if she hadn’t watched many horror movies, she knew some of the mechanics of them - and wondered if Deirdre would have something to hurt Amanda even more were Athena to move closer to her. She glared at the knife, shiny and silver, glinting even in the dim light. “Neither. I’m not giving anyone up and Amanda is coming home with me.” She pulled out one of her own knives (sharp and silver in appearance and made from pure iron) out of one of the many hiding spaces she kept them on her body. I’m just doing what has to be done. How many times had she uttered those exact words? She looked over to Amanda for one moment - a mistake - because her friend was trembling, wholly unlike who Athena knew her as. Amanda was brave and strong and was able to come up with a snarky remark with ease. Had a gift for words, even. Athena flipped her own knife in between her fingers. “No, I think you are mistaken. What has to be done is you backing away from her.” Her voice broke, and Athena cursed herself for it, internally. “You’ve done enough.” Amanda’s body was a collage of what Athena had done to Lydia, almost. Not quite - she was more alive than Lydia had been at the end of Athena’s handiwork. “Back the hell away from her, right now.”

“Doesn’t she? Don’t they all?” Deirdre snarled, grip tight around her knife. All humans were like this; horrible, hypocritical creatures with no spine to them. They all died one day, sooner than the rest, and yet they had the gall to assert that they mattered just as much. Humans were lower than dogs, worse than the cattle---arrogant beasts of dirt, never knowing their place. But they would. Athena would. She’d know it now. “Then make me, bitch.”  She grinned wild, eyes wide with battle-hungry intensity. “What are you going to do with that broken arm, huh?” She couldn’t kill Athena, and her throat hadn’t healed all the way from her encounter with Ariana, but she could have her fun. And, well, if her hands slipped and her knife did end up lodged in Athena’s neck, Deirdre wouldn’t be sad about it. There were looser lips elsewhere. She took stance and beckoned Athena to hit her, goaded her with her smirk and twitching fingers. “I want names Athena, and you’re going to give them to me.” And if Athena won, iron knife to her heart, well it wouldn’t be so bad to be where Lydia was.

“No.” Athena narrowed her eyes. “Amanda has never done anything deserving of this in her life.” She was born to better the world, born to make the world a better and safer place. Which meant protecting humans - there were other hunters in her sorority - heck, Lilia, who was in her sorority family was one, but not Amanda. Amanda could hold her own usually and yet Athena knew she had to protect her - in the broader sense, but even more specifically right now. She wanted to be sick. Her head was spinning and she knew that she shouldn’t be going out right now - but she had to - she had to make sure Amanda was safe and sound. Even if Athena had to care for her, even if Amanda had to go to the hospital, all that mattered was that she made it out of there alive. She felt a shiver run through her body each time she looked at Amanda in the chair she felt a shudder course through her body. “I killed Lydia with this, you think I can’t save someone too?” She spat, her words full to the brim with venom. “I am not going to.” She twisted her voice into something falsely chipper, refusing, obstinate, her knife hanging between the fingers of her good hand. “I will not betray anyone. Just let Amanda go, and perhaps you and I can just talk this out. How does that sound?”

“But you have. You do. You deserve to suffer.” Deirdre spat, letting anger coil around her body--a blanket of familiarity and warmth. It didn’t matter to her that Amanda was innocent, more or less, the pain she felt was indescribable. And all fae--her family--were innocent; were better; deserved more. She wanted Athena to know how it felt to lose someone senselessly; like their future didn’t matter because someone had already decided their present. Athena held Lydia’s life and chose to end it with cruelty, Deirdre would do the same. “She begged you,” she hissed, “if you won’t give me what I want, you’re not leaving this place alive.” And if it were not for the scream that she let rip towards Athena, fire to her damaged throat, she would have promised it. She was too weak to kill her like that, and too haughty to do anything more than stun the warden, but she wanted the time to close distance between them and flick her blade across Athena’s chest--a taste of what she’d done to Lydia. “You hurt her!” Deirdre heaved, ravenous with fury. “And I’m going to do the same to you, cut by cut!” She rose her blade to the air, eager to strike again.  

“No.” She repeated again, her voice firm. Or perhaps she did deserve it - if what her parents had done was anything to go off of, maybe she had deserved it. Given what she’d done to her brother, maybe she did. She deserved what he’d done to her - even though she loathed that he’d been promise-bound into it, Athena still couldn’t shake the fact that at least she deserved that. Not this, though. Not at the hands of a fae. Of vermin. “She had already predetermined what would happen. Given what she did, given how she lived.” Athena felt her whole body stiffen up as Deirdre began to scream, though it was still something - given what she was. Except she was stunned for a moment, faint ringing in her ears when she felt a sharp sensation across her chest, just enough to graze the surface, not enough to do what damage Athena had inflicted on Lydia. “I delighted in it,” Athena spat back, offering a small glance of sympathy over to Amanda - she could see the tears staining her cheeks and Athena knew that once they got out of this she’d do anything at all to make Amanda feel better. “You’re not.” She replied, side-stepping Deirdre as she ran her own blade across Deirdre’s arm - not too deep, but she knew the iron would burn and for now that was satisfying enough. “Amanda.” She whispered, beginning to move toward her friend. Not too close, not yet - she didn’t know if Deirdre would use that as an advantage to do more harm. “You are vile. She was vile. I regret nothing that I did to her. Not once, not ever.”

“You don’t get to say what’s predetermined! Fate does!” Deirdre cried, she hoped it sounded like a roar, but she knew better. Her voice was broken, not only by injury but by the pain that seized her heart. She wanted Lydia back, she wanted the world as it was just a month ago. But she knew it was impossible, that alone was enough for grief ten times anything Athena could dare to know. Deirdre had lived more of this cruel life, she knew the horrible ways it functioned. Athena’s iron blade seared across her flesh, but Deirdre did not flinch or hiss. Pain like that she was accustomed to, and pain like that was nothing to her grief. “If that’s your logic,” her rage simmered to something she didn’t understand—something carnal and illogical. She didn’t think about whose pain she wanted—Athena’s or her own—but she wanted it. “Then your death is too.” She whipped her arm around, sending her knife flying through the air, purposeful. But Athena was a trained creature, a fast one, all she got was her shoulder before the blade sailed past and dug into the old barn wood. “Oh,” she grinned, standing straight. “Then I have no regrets either.” She smiled into the dark behind Amanda, and gestured for Athena to go forth. Yes, save the girl. See how it feels.

“You are an expert on that - or claim to be, at least, right?” Athena raised an eyebrow, recognizing that the evenness of her voice might be jarring, but she delighted in that. She knew that shuttering away her emotions was not something most would praise - but she also knew that she’d been expert at that since she was a child. Once even having bandaged herself up after falling from the monkey bars, only looking curiously up at her teacher when she’d come over to ask what Athena was doing, finding herself wondering why she was supposed to have gone to the nurse and not just done it herself. Her eyes narrowed as Deirdre didn’t respond to the iron blade across her arm. “Not yet.” She worried her lower lip. “Not just yet.” The knife whipped past her, but she knew that she could count on her reflexes to minimize the damage done, only just cutting through the fabric to graze her shoulder. She’d bandage it up later, once she got out of this. Once she got Amanda out of this. “I know. You’ve never regretted anything you’ve done, have you?” Didn’t focus on the fact that much of the same could be said about her. Finally, she turned. She could handle anything, she’d grab Amanda and she’d pin Deirdre to the side of the barn if she had to, just like what Luce had done to Lydia. Still holding her knife in one hand, Athena inched over to where Amanda was, still whimpering and Athena could feel a chill run down her spine. I’ll make this right, she silently promised Amanda. Make this right and you’ll be okay. At the chair, she moved to first brush some of Amanda’s hair out of her face, sticky with sweat. I’ll loan you the best body wash, you’ll be okay and - her hand cut through where Amanda’s head should have been, and suddenly there was no whimpering. Suddenly her hand hit something solid and Athena screamed when she looked down, Amanda’s body slouched over, cuts covering her chest and her shoulders, blood soaking her sweater - one from J. Crew, cashmere, the softest thing I’ve ever gotten, Athena - and Athena jerked her hand away, bile creeping up her throat. “You killed her!” She screamed, finally. “You - she did nothing!” Her hands had remained unstained after Lydia, but she looked down and dropped her knife, both of her hands covered with blood. Too much. There shouldn’t have been that much.

The bugbear Deirdre hired jumped back, careful to keep distance away in the shadows. Deirdre had made a big deal to him about how quick and easy this would be—I’m a banshee, I can kill with my breath—and while he was all for revenge against hunters, this didn’t look like that to him. She was taking too long, and he’d told her that his illusions couldn’t last under touch. But he didn’t leave, not yet. He tried to bring Amanda back but could only get her cries to echo through the room. He shuddered, trying to meet his client’s eyes in the darkness, but she was set on Athena.

Deirdre smiled, perverse in her delight. “Do you get it now?” She jeered at the warden, hand to the burning slash on her arm. “Do you feel it now? At least you have a body, Athena! Do you know what I got?” She drew a new knife, she had enough on her for Athena, but not amount would truly be enough. “I got ash!” She shook with grief, trembled with rage, she quivered so much she dropped her knife, lunging at Athena with her bare hands. She’d just choke the life out of her, she’d just choke it out. She tackled her to the floor, vision blurry with tears, and tried.

Amanda’s cries returned and Athena fought away the urge to cover her ears, to shut it all out. She was supposed to save people she cared for - like Amanda - Amanda was as good as an actual sister to her - and yet she hadn’t been able to. Her crying, her whimpering - it was too realistic and she didn’t know where it was coming from. She could tell it wasn’t Deirdre’s doing, but she didn’t have the energy to figure it out. It doesn’t matter because Amanda’s dead. Amanda’s dead and you as good as killed her.

“No. I -” she began, her voice threatening to tremble. So much blood. Too much blood. Athena had seen it, down in the basement of her home. But that was always for the sake of scientific curiosity. She could hear her father’s words and now was not the time for that and her lips curved into a smirk. “Still more than you deserved. What she deserved.” She wanted to and tried to side-step Deirdre again but this time the fae got a hold of her, knocking her to the floor and she did her best to break her fall with her good arm. It hurt, pain shooting through her body again. “I should have done so much more before.” Now it didn’t matter what she said, Amanda wasn’t here and Amanda couldn’t hear her anymore. She pushed herself against Deirdre’s body, twisting the two of them around. She was tired. She was tired but she wasn’t going to lose, not against a fae. She felt the iron pool under her skin and she grabbed onto Deirdre’s wrists, straddling her, pressing down, willing her skin to burn. “You - you’re a monster, you know that?” Her shoulder ached, her chest stung where the knife had crossed it, but she didn’t want to let that distract her. “This is why people like me need to exist.” She kneed Deirdre in the stomach. “To make certain that you and whoever that fae was who I killed - what’s her name? Lila? I cannot recall, you know.” She giggled. “Not that her name matters. It is my purpose to make sure that the world is protected from those like you.” She bit down on her lip, because so much was so overwhelming but she wasn’t going to cry. Wasn’t going to cry and wasn’t going to be sick because that would only give Deirdre more of the upper hand.

“I’m going to burn you,” Deirdre growled in Gaelic; a language she was sure Athena’s parents would have taught her. This was the cycle they were doomed to be in: death and violence. The warden killed the fae, the fae killed the warden, forevermore. She had her years and her size on Athena—and a scream, though she’d gotten it screwed in her head that she wanted to do this with her hands. She wanted to feel it too. Knee to her stomach, she heaved. And still, she knew this was nothing compared to Lydia’s pain—this truth mixed with her rage fueled her. “Then fight me like I am one instead of fucking about!” She hissed, no flinching from the iron burns. Her mother taught her well, she’d remember to thank her later. Deirdre slipped her wrist free from Athena, whipping another knife free to cut across Athena’s chest again in a graze and shove her off. “Lydia!” She shouted, throwing her knife aside. “Her name was Lydia!” She straddled the Warden now, landing a fist to her face. “Why didn’t you leave a body!?” And another. The air filled with an odd smell, piercing through the odour of old wood and dust, but she paid no attention to it. “Why did I get ashes?” Unlike Athena, she was not opposed to the tears she shed, free and splashing against Athena. She didn’t care for what advantage it gave Athena. She wasn’t here on a calculated plan, all she’d wanted was pain.

“Fire only serves to forge iron,” Athena quipped back, her voice cutting and bitter. Matched the fae’s Gaelic, though her knowledge of the language didn’t make her entirely fluent (yet, she reminded herself - there was always more time), yet it satisfied her deeply to ensure that even that, even something so beloved wasn’t able to be exclusive. “I am!” Athena screamed, finally, the sound echoing around the barn. Except Deirdre knew more than Athena would have wished for her to - she was more skilled than other fae that Athena had fought, others that she had killed. Done away with. Rid the world of for the greater good. She winced briefly as the knife cut against her chest again. “I don’t fucking care!” She spat back. The fist to her face did nothing - not the first time, not the second either. That was basic fighting technique. Deirdre’s weight pressed against her caused Athena to fumble for one of the fallen knives with her good hand, grabbing it in the palm of her hand as she cut through Deirdre’s clothing and into her skin, right below her ribcage. Dug the knife in, just enough. She wouldn’t kill her, not now. Giving her a reminder that she could, though - that was satisfying, deeply so. “Because that’s all she deserved.” A giggle escaped her lips again, cruel and haunting. She spat at Deirdre again, knowing that was a children’s game, a child’s fight, but it felt good, nonetheless. “You should be lucky there was anything left of her. We should’ve ground her into the dirt.” She twisted, pushing Deirdre back onto the ground as she stood up, giving her side a kick with her boot. “Killing you would be too much of a kindness. You know that, right?” There was a certain smell in the barn now, not one of a dead body, nor anything else she could immediately identify, at least not when she was more focused on other things.

“What the fuck does that even mean.” Deirdre wasn’t shocked to hear the Gaelic, of course she knew it. It was why the Aos Sí had their own languages and dialects, after all. Some things simply belong to them; language, life. But she enjoyed this simplicity, Athena was a warden, and this game was predictable. She gasped as the knife plunged into her, her eyes darted around to survey the knives on the floor. Her knife, her knife…. She didn’t feel it at first, but the flames of iron blossomed under the puncture. What luck, what cruel Fate, that the knife Athena picked was her own. Deirdre smirked; and what comedy that when given the chance to kill her by sheer luck, Athena’s arrogance set in. She could feel the warden holding back, a mistake on her end. Deirdre would make sure it was a grave one. “And you’re not a kind person, are you, Athena?” Deirdre coughed, drawing the iron knife out with a quivering hand. Pain bloomed from where she was kicked, and she coughed harder, though her smile did not falter. She slashed at Athena’s leg with the knife, with what energy left of it, finding poetry in getting Athena with her own knife. She threw the weapon aside quickly, stumbling up to her feet, wound clutched. “You don’t—you don’t know what it means play, child. I’ve done this with wardens better than you.” So said the woman bleeding a river. She’d never done this sleep deprived, injured and grieving before. “You think this ends at Amanda? What about your brother? Hm?” She grinned, teetering on her feet. The smell grew to unbearable heights, but Deirdre refused to be swayed from her mission. Pain; there hadn’t been enough of it yet for her to be satisfied. “Only one of us leaves here, and I think you know that. So either you kill me like you claim you can, or you let me do what I came here to.” And she had just the strength in her throat for one good scream, enough to split Athena up.

“It means whatever you do only serves to make me stronger,” Athena replied. She wished, for a moment, that her speaking Gaelic was more of a surprise to Deirdre than it seemed to be, but that was neither here nor there, and right now she had far more important things to focus on. “I have never claimed to be. I can be kind, but that does not mean I am an inherently kind person. Though neither are you, I imagine.” She shook her head, “Not at all. Though you fake it, you cannot be.” She couldn’t hold back a small wince as Deirdre slashed against her leg with the knife, cutting through the fabric of her jeans. It hurt, though the knife that she was cut with was her own and so she knew that Deirdre would also be in great pain, the iron burning against the palm of her hand. The delight in that fact did at least something of a job to distract from the blood, from the sharpness of the cut. Deirdre did work through her pain fast, which meant that killing her could be something of an incredible delight. Wardens better than you. “I am one of the best there is, you know.” Athena knew she sounded arrogant, and she fought away a frown, pushed down the urge to yell about that - you are the best, you are one people should look up to, you - she forced her parents’ words out of her head, because now was not the time, but at least the context made sense, at least it wasn’t when she was baking or when she and Ariana were getting ready for bed because though part of her knew why that was the case then, it made everything feel too wrong when it wasn’t supposed to be. At least with this, she knew that what she was doing was what she was supposed to do. “Don’t lie to yourself. It will only serve to cause you more pain than you already have.” She suppressed the laugh this time. “No.” She shook her head. “You know what I do to people who so much as touch my brother? It never ends well, even for the humans.” She seethed. She moved closer to Deirdre, pushing against her with all her weight, doing all she could to knock her off balance. Knock her off balance and slice open her throat. Get her in the place that she likely held most pride in.

Athena was a warden like all the rest, Deirdre mused; haughty, hateful, and stupid. But she’d rather have a warden’s warden than a warden by another design anyday. There was a familiarity in this, even for every bit of pain that throbbed to life with growing intensity. The extent of her injuries were unknown to her, but her body coasted well on rage and memory alone--she didn’t spend her childhood preparing for this only to fall victim to a warden now. Pain and destruction and death were her callings, she knew how to answer. “If you live another decade, maybe you will be,” she smiled, offering a genuine compliment in the midst of it all. “But right now? You’re just a child. You couldn’t save Amanda, you won’t save your brother.” Not that Deirdre was doing anything to her brother, but she could and she would--any thread to pull to bring Athena sobbing on her knees. Anything to let loose the horror of grief that she felt, let it infect everyone involved. Would you be proud of me, Lydia? She asked in silent prayer in her mind. Can you rest with peace now? Athena quipped on, and Deirdre found her mind light, her body growing heavy. Would she be at peace now? It wasn’t hard to push Deirdre out of her battle hungry stance, Athena did it with skill and ease. But before Deirdre could fall, flame erupted in a burst around them--fueled by the heavy stench of gasoline, now what she remembered of the horrid smell that’d been filling the barn. Deirdre stumbled back and laughed. “She’ll be ash! She’ll be ash too!” Amanda’s body was still tied to the chair, fastened tighter in post-mortem as Deirdre orchestrated her body to look mutilated by torture. In her delight and delirium, she didn’t turn to run from the fire. They could all be ash now, just like Lydia.

“I think I am now, and I plan to live many more decades.” Athena replied, “you, I am not so sure about.” Deirdre, much like Lydia (or at least what Athena knew about Lydia) was over-confident in what she did. “I -” should have saved Amanda. I’m so sorry. She looked over to Amanda’s body, pressing her tongue against the roof of her mouth, before the second half of Deirdre’s sentence caught up with her. “Touch my brother and I will kill you.” She fought away the urge to scream - the image of her brother dead, the idea of her brother dying. She could see what had happened at the carnival (that stupid vision), could feel bile in the back of her throat again. Athena wanted to scream - she didn’t fail, but if that was true, then why was Amanda dead? Athena knew that she should have been able to keep Amanda safe. Before she could be sick there was a sound, almost as though something was exploding, and flames suddenly appeared in the barn. “She won’t!” Athena screamed back, pulling one of her knives out, cutting into the ropes (too tight, so tight they’d burned Amanda’s wrists) quickly, pulling Amanda against her body - they were of a similar size but Athena had always had that little bit of extra strength and she could feel the blood against her hands and her body and she could feel tears on her cheeks, every one of her senses going haywire. She pulled Amanda’s body quickly away, back toward the entryway. It was all she could do now - if she couldn’t have actually saved her then she could at least get her out of the barn - the stupid dusty rotting old run-down barn. “You can burn all you want.” She hissed, unsure of if Deirdre could even hear her. “I don’t just give up.”

There was a strange discordance in watching the world turn from the blue of night to the hungry red of fire. Almost as strange as the levity of her body, equal parts peculiar and concerning. Deirdre felt cold despite the growing heat, and watched Athena move through blurry vision. “Give up…” she repeated, remembering Morgan’s words from when they’d gotten Niamh. “I don’t give up either.” But that wasn’t true, she hadn’t moved an inch to run out of the building, all she’d done was fall over. And now that she was staring at the ceiling, it occurred to her that she might just die here. And what did she have to say for herself? That she’d killed a child because she wanted to make a warden feel pain? What would Lydia say to her? She’d done all that work to save her life, and she’d burn up just the same because she couldn’t manage her emotions. By the time the world turned black, she realized just how wrong she’d been.

Athena laid Amanda’s body out on the dying grass just outside of the barn. Brushed her hair away from her face before she felt herself be sick, turning away - the grass was dead and so what did it matter? She wiped her mouth with the sleeve of her jacket, still trying to fight the tears away. She didn’t want to look over at Amanda - didn’t want to think about what she’d have to do - find a way to report this to the police, and tell Katie after the fact - explain it and hope that she didn’t hate Athena, though she wouldn’t have blamed her if she did. After all, Athena knew that she’d never forgive anyone if they had even the faintest thing to do with Rio dying. Don’t think about that. Focus on anything else. Athena took in big, gasping breaths of air, the cold November air biting at her throat. Her eyes caught sight of the barn - unstable, in disrepair, abandoned - all of a sudden burst into a wild glow - red and orange and yellow and so, so terribly horribly and beautifully bright. It wasn’t like Luce’s fire, it was bigger and something both horrifying and entrancing all in one. She found herself unable to turn away for a moment, before she took in a breath, the air smelling of smoke and burning wood, and looked back over to Amanda. “I won’t let you down again.” She whispered. “I’ll - I’m so sorry.” She bent over, halfway falling into herself for a moment and she couldn’t help but let a sob escape then. She didn’t care who heard her, not right now. Perhaps the smoke that was filling the sky would block it out, she wondered, though she knew better than to give false hope to something like that.

The bugbear had no loyalties, least of all to strangers. But Deirdre had paid him well, and he didn’t want more murder than there had to be. He’d set the barn on fire because it was the right thing to do, he dragged Deirdre out in his jaws for the same reason. He ran on all fours, noticing the fae gave no fight to being carried, and no sounds to imply she lived at all. He’d never held someone who felt so cold before. Then, satisfied with the distance he created from the scene of the crime, he put Deirdre down by a tree and stared at her. He had no loyalties, least of all to women with death wishes. But he knew the fae liked the forest, and he knew she’d be taken care of somehow. Or he hoped for it, at least. In a world that birthed hunters and the hunted, torture in righteousness and death for revenge, hope was a sacred commodity. He had no loyalties, but he offered it to the dying fae anyway.

When he left, mind stuck on the fae, and Athena and Amanda, he was happy it wasn’t his problem. He’d hate to be stuck in either of their shoes, and only partly because he had big feet. It would just be so terrible, he thought, to be someone so haunted by pain.

[raywritesthings]

Bird in a Storm 16/17

My Writing Fandom: Arrow Characters: Laurel Lance, Oliver Queen, Moira Queen, Thea Queen, Roy Harper, Quentin Lance, Jean Loring, Lucas Hilton, Frank Pike, Athena, Tommy Merlyn, John Diggle Pairing: Laurel Lance/Oliver Queen Summary: The confrontation between the Hood and SWAT on the roof of the Winick Building goes differently, altering the course of Laurel’s career, relationships and efforts to save her city forever, the shockwaves of such an altered path making themselves felt throughout her family and friends. *Can be read on my AO3, link is in bio*

Oliver couldn’t find it in him to try and intimidate his sister’s boyfriend as they drove the twenty miles out of the city to his family’s manor. For one thing, Laurel was keeping up a steady chatter with Roy since the two were friends of a kind, and for another, his mind was too preoccupied with the talk he planned to have with his mother once the visit with Roy had concluded. It was long past time to get to the bottom of his mother’s involvement with Tempest, especially now that he knew for himself how entrenched the company was in the city’s institutions. The campaign contributions to Councilman Kullens and Councilwoman Pollard alone were damning.

He had not turned over to Lance what he knew about his mother’s involvement or the Gambit because he wanted to give her the chance to come clean first. He had to hope that she would. As much as it would hurt him, Thea would be even worse off if he was forced to turn his mother in just two weeks after the news about Walter.

“Mrs. Queen really isn’t as scary as she might seem,” Laurel was coaching Roy. She had put on a white sundress for the occasion with a jean jacket. Her favorite leather jacket that had been torn in the fight with Stein’s people was in her friend Anita’s trusted care, as the woman said she knew how to repair tears in leather. 

“Her main thing is that her children are safe and happy, and since Thea seems pretty happy with you, you have nothing to worry about.”

Roy, for his part, wore his black work pants and a red button-up shirt, probably the nicest clothes he owned. A vase of what Oliver was pretty sure were tulips sat on his lap, courtesy of Green Glades, as Laurel and Pam had helped the young man pick out a hostess gift.

Oliver couldn’t help a soft smile as he watched Laurel continue to talk out of the corner of his eye and thought about the circle of friends and neighbors she had built for herself since moving to the Glades. The cautious, embittered woman wary of letting anyone in that he had found when he returned from the island was gone, and Laurel’s giving heart was once more on full display. She had, to pardon the pun, flourished in the face of adversity.

“Now what are you smiling about?” She asked slyly, whether sensing his gaze or just noticing him, he wasn’t sure.

“Just had a funny thought, that’s all. You’d hate it, it was a dumb joke.”

“Yeah?”

He was about to reply, but Oliver frowned as a cop car raced past them going in the opposite direction. Roy tensed up in the backseat as they passed.

“No sirens,” Laurel murmured. “Maybe a dispute they settled at one of the manors out here?”

“Maybe.” An uneasy feeling settled in his gut, solidifying as they pulled into the drive and he spotted Thea’s hunched form on the steps, the front door wide open. A second cop car was still pulled off to the side, though the officers were nowhere in sight.

Oliver threw the car into park and was out the door, Roy right on his heels. Laurel met them around the other side. “Thea?”

His sister looked up and flung herself into his arms as soon as he reached her, sobbing into his shoulder. Oliver looked around, trying to spot some sort of source for whatever had caused this kind of distress. He noticed Raisa enter the doorway, drying her hands on a towel.

Laurel saw her, too, and walked up to his family’s maid. “Raisa, did you see what happened?”

The older woman shook her head. “No, I was finishing icing the coffee cake, but I heard raised voices. There are officers upstairs, but I did not find Mrs. Queen.”

“They took her,” Thea said in a shattered voice. 

Oliver looked down, trying to get her to meet his eyes. “The police?”

“The police. Detective Lance,” she added, spitting the name out. Laurel winced. “He’s accusing her of murder just like he did to you, Ollie. Why can’t he leave our family alone?”

Oliver swallowed. It was obvious Thea was angry and didn’t believe Lance’s accusation in the least, yet he couldn’t share her certainty given the little that he knew. His mother, after all, had covered up the Gambit wreckage. But that hadn’t been because she was involved. It wouldn’t make sense.

“Look we’ll- we’ll head down to the station, okay? Get this sorted out.”

“I’ll talk to my father,” Laurel promised, coming back down the steps and laying a hand on Thea’s back. “See what has him acting like this this time.” She met Oliver’s eyes, and they shared a significant look. Whatever Lance’s intel was, Laurel was their best way of getting a hold of it short of using another worm on the SCPD’s systems.

“He said s-something about Unidac,” Thea told them, wiping at her eyes and clearly trying to calm herself down. “The company Walter bought last fall.”

“Excuse us, ma’am.” Two officers carrying what looked like his mother’s computer monitor and hard drive stepped past Raisa through the front door.

“Why do you need her stuff?” Roy asked, scowling at the officers.

“This is an ongoing investigation, young man. These have to go downtown, and that’s all we’re allowed to say about it.”

“We’re coming downtown with you,” Oliver told them firmly, and the officers seemed to know better than to argue. “Speedy, I have to drive, so…” He slowly extricated himself from his sister’s hold and gestured Roy forward. Roy seemed to not know what to do with the vase in his hands now that he was also being given charge of his girlfriend.

Thea’s hand went up to her mouth and a half-laugh, half-sob left her. “You brought flowers.” She hugged her boyfriend and Oliver heard her murmur a muffled “Thank you.”

Raisa came and took possession of the vase, and Oliver led the four of them back to the car, Roy helping Thea into the back while Laurel sat up front with him again. He quickly caught up to and surpassed the officers in their squad car, his first priority reaching his mother. “Could you call Jean for me? I don’t know if mom will have yet or not.”

Laurel nodded, taking out her phone. “And John?”

“Not yet. He was taking A.J. to the park.” He had thought, aside from confronting his mother, that today would be a relatively normal one. How had things changed so abruptly? If nothing else, the confrontation was being forced. He needed to know what his mother knew if he was going to help her.

Once Laurel had finished arranging for Jean to meet them at the station, it was an otherwise silent drive. Thea rested her head on Roy’s shoulder the whole way, while Oliver took the hand that Laurel offered palm-up. What were the charges his mother was facing? Was she guilty, or was this truly all a misunderstanding? Something told him it wouldn’t be so simple, no matter how much he wanted it to be.

---

Moira sat in an interrogation room, the same one which her son had sat in several months prior when Detective Lance had attempted to blame him for the Hood’s crimes. Moira didn’t have the same hope of having the charges dismissed as her son’s had been, however. What little she knew of them meant that they might not be so inaccurate.

She had requested her lawyer and stated her intent not to speak until Jean had arrived, so the officers had left her alone in here with her hands chained to the table. The phone with which to make her call seemed to be taking its time to arrive, and she didn’t doubt it was meant to be an intimidation tactic. That was fine; Queens were not so easily intimidated, not with tricks like this. No matter where her speculations took her, outwardly she maintained an aura of calm.

Detective Lance had mentioned what Unidac was building. That could only mean the earthquake device. For the police to know about it, this meant she had been betrayed, but by whom? Had one of the others decided to make their own move to get out from under Malcolm’s plans? Had it been Frank? He’d been suspicious of her at the memorial, but she had counted on his cowardly nature keeping him from doing anything rash. Unless perhaps the police had caught on to him, and he was throwing her over to save his own hide.

The door opened at last, admitting Jean herself to Moira’s surprise, though it faded somewhat as Oliver and Thea followed her into the room. One of her children must have placed the call for her.

Jean took the chair across the table while her children pulled chairs around either side of her, Thea reaching for her hands. Her daughter’s eyes teared up as she looked at the handcuffs. Oliver’s expression, by contrast, was unreadable.

Jean set a folder down on the table and sighed. “I’ll come right out and say it, Moira. The charges you’re facing are incredibly severe. We need to do what we can to disprove them immediately.”

“They read me some of the charges, but not the specifics,” Moira said, side-stepping around the question of if they could disprove them for now. “Who is it that I’ve kidnapped and murdered?”

“I don’t like this one bit, but the kidnapping charge is for your second husband, and the murder charge is for you first along with the crew of the Queen’s Gambit, Miss Sara Lance… and there’s an additional charge for Malcolm Merlyn.”

Moira couldn’t quite stop herself from sucking in a breath at the last name. The others, she was not guilty of anything other than knowing about them, but Malcolm… what was to be done about Malcolm?

“That’s crazy,” Thea exploded beside her. On Moira’s other side, her son only bowed his head.

“Oliver?”

He looked up, pain in his eyes. “Dad… he thought that something wasn’t right about the Gambit’s destruction. That it could have been sabotaged.”

“Okay, but mom didn’t do it, Ollie,” Thea said pointedly.

“Of course not, but — is there something you know about it, mom? Something the investigators could have found out?”

“The more we can cooperate with them, the greater our chances are of seeing a better outcome,” Jean advised.

Moira’s hands shook. What could she say? Someone was blaming her for Malcolm’s crimes, but without Malcolm present who could she point to as the true guilty party?

“Mom.” There was something far more serious in Oliver’s voice, the way he had sometimes gotten this year. She found it hard to look away from him. “What is it you know?”

“I think,” she began, “I think I’m being framed.”

“Wait, so the Gambit was actually sabotaged?” Thea asked. “Why?”

Her world was coming down around her, and Moira didn’t see a way out of this. Not fully, at least. The lies she had told and the pretenses that she had put up could not withstand this, not when the police had in their possession a device designed to create an earthquake built by a company under her purview. She had always suspected Malcolm had not wished to bid on Unidac personally in order to separate himself to some degree should the worst happen, and Moira fervently wished someone else at Tempest had been given the instruction to purchase it instead.

If the police had taken her things, they would be able to see for themselves that she was not the mastermind behind this. It would be better for Moira to come clean about Malcolm’s role at the head of Tempest and what he had done to ensure her cooperation before they read about it. But first, she needed to come clean to her children, before they assumed the worst.

“What you both need to understand is that this family has been under threat for a long time,” she finally revealed. “And everything I have done is to protect you both.”

Oliver and Thea exchanged a nervous glance, and Jean’s lips pulled into a thin line.

“Your father was going on that trip all those years ago because he had learned about a terrible plot. A plot I asked him to put a stop to. If I hadn’t, he might still be alive.”

Thea gasped, but Oliver remained almost totally still as he asked, “Who was behind it?”

“Malcolm,” she answered, watching all three of their eyes widen. “And when he had the Gambit destroyed, I had no choice but to become his accomplice in order to protect Thea.”

“His accomplice in what, mom? What was his plan?” Her son could have passed for one of the officers wanting her confession if he put on a uniform, and the hairs on the backs of her arms seemed to stand up as Moira couldn’t help but be reminded of a different man’s pointed questions to her months ago. But it couldn’t be. She didn’t want to think what that would mean if it was true.

“He… he commissioned a device.” Moira’s mouth had run dry, and she swallowed once. “To level the Glades and everyone in it.”

Her eyes squeezed shut, unable to stand watching the shock and revulsion she knew had to be there in their eyes.

“Oh God,” Jean murmured under her breath.

“Mom, no,” Thea begged, her hands drawing back. “Please.”

A chair scraped back, and Moira could not stop herself from looking. Oliver had stood up, a hand passing over his face and eyes betraying far more emotion than she was used to seeing in him ever since he had come home. “Oliver…”

He shook his head, turning away as both hands braced the back of his neck. Her own son couldn’t even look at her.

“Did Malcolm Merlyn have Walter abducted?” Jean asked, seeming to have gathered herself enough to get down to work.

“Yes. And killed,” Moira added.

“The police don’t have Walter’s death listed as one of the charges. There’s no record of his death here,” her old friend said, sorting through the papers.

“It was a federal agency that found the proof, wasn’t it? Oliver?” She looked back to him in time to see him freeze for a moment.

He turned around slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll have to see if Mr. Diggle’s friend can send us the proof. But mom… why?”

“I told you, I had to protect—”

He raised a hand. “Not why did you do it. Why was Malcolm going to do it?”

The absolute disbelief in his eyes caused her trembling to finally stop, and as she looked around she realized he was not the only one struggling to process this. It was difficult remembering that to most people, Malcolm had been a well-liked and respected figure. That he had seemingly died a martyr. They would never have the opportunity to know him like she had.

“It was for Rebecca,” she finally managed to answer. “He never forgave the city for her death. The Glades in particular. He believed it needed a ‘fresh start’, and he was going to provide it.”

“But he — what about the people, mom? What about Roy? Laurel? Everybody going to Ollie’s club at night?” Thea seemed to be shocked beyond the point of tears, though her eyes looked glassy with water that had gathered in them and not fallen.

“I did what I did to keep you and your brother safe.”

“Then you’re going to need a better defense,” Oliver snapped, his voice harsh once more. “This isn’t — we’re talking hundreds or maybe thousands of lives. We weren’t worth that.”

“You are to me,” she argued back. “I don’t expect you to understand that. You’re not a parent. There is nothing you aren’t willing to do for your children. It’s why I- I tried to put a stop to Malcolm’s plans after the Hood attacked me.”

She watched as Oliver seemed to lose all color. He drew back from the table again, totally silent.

“So the hiring an assassin charge…” Jean trailed off. Moira bowed her head.

“I can’t believe this,” Thea muttered, and she stood as well, opening and shutting the heavy metal door with a slam. After a moment’s hesitation, Oliver followed more quietly.

She had lost them. The one thing above all else she had wanted to avoid.

“Let’s just try to get our facts together, Moira, to present your case in the best light possible,” Jean advised. “I can’t make any promises as to how this will turn out, not without definitive proof that what you’re saying about Malcolm Merlyn is true.”

“My files should take care of that,” Moira replied. It wasn’t the smoking gun of the Gambit wreckage, but it was better than nothing. And if she could just determine who had placed her in this position, she would know who among Tempest might be her potential allies still. And who were her enemies.

---

Laurel’s heart seemed to plummet further and further with each line she read of the file. If all of this was true, if Mrs. Queen had really been planning to detonate a bomb underneath the Glades, how many people could have lost their lives? Anita, Jerome, Pam, Hank and his son, Mrs. Ross, Ted and his gym patrons, the members of her capoeira class, John and his sister-in-law and her son, Raisa and her family, Roy, her. Every person whose life she had protected the last couple months, all gone in a terrible catastrophe.

How would she have died? Falling into a newly-created ravine? Crushed by a falling building? Suffocated while trapped under a pile of rubble in a depleting pocket of air? It was horrific. How could a person even plan such a thing?

“You’re not supposed to be looking at that,” her father scolded in a low voice as he came back into the interview room with two coffees.

“I needed to know what’s happening so I can support Oliver and Thea through this,” she excused, accepting her own cup as she added, “And it’s not as if you haven’t snooped on me, you might recall.” That wound was still fresh thanks to her father’s recent use of the vigilante phone, not that she could ever tell him she knew about that.

Predictably, he grumbled something that was an attempted apology. Laurel let it go. What was done was done, after all.

“I just can’t believe she could have been planning this.” Both of her children worked regularly in the Glades, had friends or loved ones there. Did Mrs. Queen even realize she was dooming her own longtime cook and housekeeper with this kind of monstrous machine?

“Well, soon as she’s done speaking to her lawyer, we’ll find out why.”

“She couldn’t have been doing this all by herself,” Laurel mused. She knew for a fact that at least one other person had known about the Gambit since John had overheard the woman talking about it with an unknown man. “Who even is the source of this information?”

“Honey, you know I can’t tell you that. Even if you weren’t so close to the family.”

Laurel frowned. “She has a right to face her accuser.”

“Yeah, in a court of law,” her father said. “That’s not right now. Look, this source has reason to be worried for their life, alright? She‘s had more than one whistleblower dealt with.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean both her husbands, for one thing. According to our source, Robert Queen had just found out about this plan before she had his yacht sabotaged.”

“What, so she was stopping him from traveling?” That didn’t add up with what Oliver had said about his father. Mr. Queen hadn’t told Oliver to right his mother’s wrongs, but his. “Why would she have let Oliver go on the trip if she was planning to blow up the yacht?”

Hilton came back into the room. “Frank thinks we give them five more minutes.”

“Alright. Look, why don’t you go keep an eye on that Harper kid for me while you wait for Queen and his sister?” Her dad suggested.

Laurel knew she couldn’t expect to keep sitting in on this with her father’s coworkers and superior coming back soon, so she slipped back out the door. She felt a little silly passing by other cops and detectives in their practical gear while she was dressed for brunch, but she soon found Roy sitting in a chair out in the hall.

“How bad is it?”

“Pretty bad,” she told him bluntly. “But I think they’re missing something.”

“Like the evidence?”

Laurel raised an eyebrow.

“The cops with her home office stuff should’ve gotten here by now,” Roy pointed out. “They weren’t that far behind us.”

“They haven’t come through?”

The door to the interrogation room flew open, Thea storming out with teary eyes. Roy immediately stood up. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing. Just my mom’s a crazy murderer.”

Laurel shushed her younger friend, glancing back down the hall towards the bullpen. “Thea, whatever you’re feeling right now, you need to be careful. Anything you say has the potential to be used against your mother, too.”

Oliver had stepped out by this time as well, far more calm though that said little for what he might really be feeling. He was far better at hiding that than most people. Laurel walked up to him.

“Hey.”

“Hey, can we?” He jerked his head in the direction of the back alley. Laurel nodded, leading him away from the younger couple. Thea had at least let Roy wrap her in another hug, so hopefully that would avoid any further outburst.

When they exited and headed down the short few steps, Laurel glanced around to make sure the alley was empty. “You mother confessed?”

“Not to everything. She- Tommy was right. Someone did hire a hit man to kill his father, and it was her.” Before she could react to that, he continued, “The thing is, she’s claiming he was the one who had the Gambit sabotaged and commissioned this device to- to—”

“The earthquake device, I read my father’s file,” she finished for him. “Oliver, if Mr. Merlyn was the one behind everything, then why would someone be framing your mother for it? Why not just expose him?”

He frowned in thought for a long moment. “Because exposing him isn’t their goal. I’m not even sure exposing this plot was the goal. It’s revenge.”

“Revenge for having Malcolm killed? But then…” She didn’t even want to voice it. The deep pain in Oliver’s eyes said it all.

“Tommy’s their source.”

Only weeks ago she would have denied it. Tommy would never do something so underhanded. But he had changed so much this year. They all had. But how could he have condoned what his father had been planning enough to want to avenge him while still knowing those plans would damn Moira Queen in the eyes of the law? How did he reconcile it?

The precinct’s back door burst open. “Ollie, the cops are really upset about something,” Thea said in a panic. “I think there’s more people dead!”

They exchanged a quick look before hurrying back indoors. A number of officers were arguing heatedly in the bullpen, one shaking an evidence bag containing two black-tipped arrows stained with blood. She felt Oliver tense behind her.

“By the time we made it to the car, Groves and Jones were dead. Shot straight through the heart,” the partner of the officer holding the bag of arrows said, a deep scowl on his face shared by many. “Evidence was gone.”

“What would the copycat archer want with it?”

“Could Queen have hired him?”

“She’s been in our custody the whole time,” Hilton pointed out steadily, but Laurel’s heart sank when he asked, “How do we link it back to her?”

“This isn’t good,” Laurel said, looking back at Oliver. “If your mother’s computer had communications between her and Merlyn on them—”

“Then the Dark Archer just took care of them,” Oliver said through gritted teeth. He glanced at Thea and Roy, who remained close by them watching the officers. Laurel knew he didn’t want to risk saying anything more.

It wouldn’t matter what he said, especially to her father and his precinct right now. This case had become about more than the Glades for them; they were going after a cop killer, and Laurel knew Mrs. Queen’s situation had just gotten a whole lot worse.

Officer Washington, who Laurel remembered had been put on desk duty while completing his full physical therapy regimen after the injury he sustained from the Royal Flush Gang last fall, came into the bullpen. “Detectives! We’ve got press in the lobby. Somehow they got a hold of the Queen case.”

“Damn,” Laurel muttered under her breath, and it was echoed around the room at varying volumes. If she’d had any doubt about this being a play for revenge rather than justice, that was out the window now.

“How did they find out?” Thea asked, though only their group of four seemed to notice. 

Lieutenant Pike was busy joining Washington, though he turned to point around the room. “Nobody talks to the press! This is an investigation, not a TMZ exclusive!”

“They’re really gonna want to talk to you and your brother,” Roy said to Thea. “We better get out of here.”

“That’s a good idea,” Oliver agreed. “We’ll head out the back for the car, hope to avoid them. Come on.”

Oliver had her take the lead while he brought up the rear, keeping Roy and especially Thea sandwiched between them.

They made it around the side of the building and halfway to the car before they were spotted. “Oliver! Thea!”

A woman from Channel 52 led the charge towards them, but Oliver quickly wrenched open the back door and lifted his sister bodily inside. Laurel jumped into the passenger seat before he felt the need to do the same to her, and so he and Roy ran around the other side of the car and got in, Oliver starting the engine and swerving straight out into traffic.

“What now?” Laurel prompted him. She could see his mind working hard to play catch-up to all these developments; his mother’s confession, the Dark Archer’s reappearance, the media picking up the story, Tommy’s very likely part in all this. They couldn’t afford to just keep reacting, though.

“Now, we need to figure out how far this goes. Thea, you’ll come with us to the club and stay there with Roy. I’m keeping it closed tonight, so it’ll be safest there.”

“Okay,” his sister agreed. “Where are you going?”

“I’ll just be in my office,” he replied. “Trying to do damage control.”

His phone started buzzing. Oliver took it out of his pocket and passed it to her without looking. Laurel glanced at the caller ID. “Looks like John isn’t waiting for one of us to call. Hello?”

“Laurel? Where’s Oliver?”

“Driving. He’s with me, and so is Thea and her boyfriend.”

She thought she heard John release a breath of relief. “I’m guessing he’s seen the news?”

“Not exactly, but he knows what’s going on. We’ll be at the club in ten.”

“Then I’ll be there.” He hung up, and Laurel set the phone down in the cup holder. At Oliver’s questioning look, she nodded.

“We’ll do what we can, Ollie.” She couldn’t promise it would be okay. As they passed by clumps of people watching screens both in windows or on their phones, Laurel truthfully didn’t know how it could be.

---

Athena returned to the top office of Merlyn Global, removing the head covering of her League uniform as she went. She carried the hard drive to Moira Queen’s personal computer under one arm; the rest was unnecessary and had been left behind.

“As you all just saw, the children of Moira Queen were indeed at the downtown precinct just now but left without answering any questions,” a female news anchor spoke on the screen at the desk. “This seems to indicate that they are not under arrest along with their mother, though it is unclear how much they know about what documents have identified as the Markov Device. We’ll keep those of you at the station and at home updated as events unfold. This is Susan Williams, Channel 52.”

Athena took the liberty of shutting off the video feed rather than listen to inane jingles and set the hard drive on the desk. “It is done.”

Thomas turned away from the windows overlooking his city, a city that was just about tipping over the edge into chaos. Athena had to admire it in a way; for all his aversion to killing, the man had a vindictive streak beyond anything she had seen since his father.

As if to reiterate that point, he asked, “Did you have to kill them?”

“No matter how similar my uniform is to your father's, the authorities would have realized their Dark Archer had suddenly shrunk a foot. It was better to remove the witnesses and leave the rest something to remember me by.”

Thomas sighed, but nodded with closed eyes. “Alright.”

“You will soon learn the art of killing or not killing yourself,” Athena reminded him. “You have made an enemy who deals in such extremes. It is time to train you to be ready for him. Have the preparations been made?”

“My father’s things are packed, and an acting CEO has been assigned,” the young man confirmed. “My private plane is ready to leave at my signal.”

“Very good.” She looked forward to leaving the trappings of modern life behind and to re-educating the son of Al Sah-Her in their ways. As much as she regretted the father’s death, Athena was beginning to realize that none of this would have been possible without it. Rather than switching her allegiance from one strongman to another, she would be creating her own in her image.

Thomas got out his mobile device, glancing at the screen. “Just like I thought. An advisory not to go to the Glades tonight. They’re already looting and rioting.” His face twisted with contempt. “These are the people Ollie and Laurel are so determined to save, people who can’t even keep from destroying their own property and livelihoods.”

“Sickness and evil, when faced with nothing else, will consume itself,” she agreed. “And we shall let it burn. There are greater things waiting for you, Thomas. Let us depart.”

He nodded and picked up the hard drive.

“Why did you wish to keep it?” Athena could not help asking. She would have burned it without hesitation if he had asked, to ensure the true nature of Tempest never was revealed.

“Call it insurance,” he said. Then he strode to the elevator.

Athena followed in his wake.

[danetobelieve]

As Mime Goes By || Harsh, Ricky, Rio and Winston

Winston looked over at Ricky as they pulled over to the agreed point they would park. Turning to Orion and Ricky, they swallowed before looking out the window. They’d taken the essentials of course, flashlight, tablet, camera, everything that you needed when you were doing recon, not to mention lots of energy heavy snacks for when they inevitably over did the magic. They hoped that wouldn’t be a problem, but just in case they’d brought a baseball bat. “Listen, these,” they waved their bat as they got out the car, “are just precautions, we’re just looking around and Rio is here because he’s you know you’ve got the whole,” Winston flexed and grunted before continuing, “going on and Ricky is here because he looks like that. So recon. No fighting, oh and this guy’s name is Harsh. So no funny jokes about it, please.” 

It was the unspoken rule of heists that the guy with the truck drove, and so Ricky was the one behind the wheel as the three of them pulled into their destination. Winston had asked them to tag along and Ricky was in the habit of doing whatever Winston wanted because well it was nice to have more members of the family. He snickered a little bit as Winston dragged the baseball bat out of the car before tucking one of several hunting knives he’d picked up into strategic and easily accessible points around his person, “Uh huh. It doesn’t help that the last time the three of us went someplace together we almost blew up a restaurant. We probably need more than a baseball bat but, that’s why you’ve got me and muscles over here.” he pointed to Rio and shrugged, “Harsh isn’t the weirdest name I’ve ever heard. As long as they don’t feed us to the mimes I’m chill.” 

This whole thing was a terrible idea. Harsh shouldn’t have agreed, hell he shouldn’t have suggested it. Oh well, too late to back out now. Winston seemed decent, so he couldn’t just let them and their roomies go it alone. He lingered in the shadows, watching as the car pulled up and parked. Those looked like the guys. Lifting a hand in greeting, he made his way over. “Winston? This is our backup? Nice to meet you, I’m guessing Winston already told you about me. I figure we just go around, try to keep quiet and see if we spot anymore of those assholes wandering around. As soon as we run into trouble though, we run. I fought one of those things already and I’m not up for doing it again tonight.” He shifted on the spot, glancing back toward the restaurant. The area nearby seemed way too normal for some place that should have been blown up recently. “So, you ready to head in?”

Another day, another potentially dangerous and absolutely stupid thing that Orion had let himself get dragged into. The things he did for his roommates. “I detest being called muscles” Rio spoke nonchalantly from the back seat. He wasn’t serious for the most part, though he wasn’t exactly a fan of using the super strength unless necessary. And he was currently praying to the God he didn’t really believe in that it wasn’t necessary. He was getting pretty sick of mimes trying to kill him. “Nice to meet you mister. I’m Orion, or Rio.” He introduced himself to Harsh. “I like the running idea. We should bring you along more often.” The only reason he agreed to come along was because he was afraid his roommates were going to get themselves hurt. Plus he had night vision. “If I say no, do we get to leave?”

Rolling their eyes, Winston wished to all hell that they could just walk away from here. But with their mime attempting to murder them multiple times now, enough was enough. It was time to find a solution. Skylar was losing her mind, Roland was mute, Athena too. It was too much. Something had to be done and Winston might be able to do it. Hopefully. “Yeah, I’m Winston and this is my other friend Ricky,” they wished that they had someone like Nic with them, but it seemed weird to come to a hunter with a random problem when they didn’t know them and they DEFINITELY weren’t talking to Athena about this. “Let’s get this over with so that we can begin planning how we solve this problem.” Winston crept slowly down the deserted street. Which was weird for this time of night. It shouldn’t be this empty right? Was it also really necessary that the street lights were flickering? 

Ricky flashed a peace sign as Winston introduced him, “Yo. I’m Ricky. I drive the truck, get stuff off tall shelves, and have some knives for mime stabbing. I would love not having to rip anyone else’s throat out with my teeth. That’s like…. Stretch goal for the evening.” He followed closely, if not nearly as stealthily, behind Winston as they made their way slowly to the restaurant “There are… uh there’re street lights, my dude. I think they can see us. Also if we were gonna be sneaking you should have told me so I didn’t roll up in a fucking bro tank and skinny jeans. Archer would be so disappointed in me.” He glanced quickly behind him to make sure Rio was still in his field of vision. Hunter revelation aside Ricky felt a certain level of protectiveness over his new roommate. He wasn’t the biggest fan of the fact that there was a real chance they’d all get murdered by a fucking mime. “Yo. W.” he got closer to Winston and lowered his voice, “Is your new friend chill? If I have to go all bitey again I don’t want someone freaking out.” 

“Oh yeah? I think I heard about that throat ripping thing, nice work on that, man,” Harsh said, with a little grin. “But yeah, I’d rather run than have to resort to that.” He kept pace with the others, eyes flicking this way and that. It was quiet, way too quiet. There was a knife tucked inside of his jacket, but he didn’t plan on going for it except as a last resort. As they drew closer to the restaurant, he frowned, an odd smell catching his attention. It was almost… sweet? “Hey, you guys smell that? It’s like… pastries? The place is supposed to be closed isn’t it?” His frown grew slightly. Wait… he knew this smell, the last time he had noticed it was at Flipped, right after he had cut that mime’s throat. Not a great sign there. His eyes drifted around again. “Anyone see anything moving? I think… those mime things, when they bleed, they smell like this.”

Orion crept along with the group, keeping an eye around the place to see if anything caught his attention. “Maybe they cook overnight?” Rio asked curiously, but he could already tell that he couldn’t hear any footsteps or anything from within the restaurant. That didn’t seem to mean much honestly, he also hadn’t heard anything when Erin’s mime chased them or when Rio and Blanche’s mime had broken into the house. Somehow these things moved completely silently. For someone that was so used to hearing everything, it was a bit unnerving. “I don’t see anyone moving around inside but…” He hopped a bit, trying to get a better look inside, “I see something on the floors.” It was dark, almost viscous. It only took a moment for Rio to realize that it looked remarkably similar to whatever it was that the mimes bled. “I think… I think you’re right,” Rio looked over at Harsh. “I can see the stuff on the floors inside. Like trails of it leading somewhere.” Rio personally had no desire to figure out where it led, but something told him he wasn’t getting off that easily. 

It would be a dream come true if Winston was able to believe that that bizarre smell that had enveloped them was from them cooking overnight. Whilst they were sure that was something that a normal thing that restaurants did, but this was as far from being a normal restaurant as it was possible to be. Their baseball bat felt somewhat unwieldy and Winston was regretting not bringing a knife along with them like the rest of them. They guessed ultimately they wouldn’t be doing anything other then trying to use magic to work things through. “That stuff looks kind of like … tar?” Winston hadn’t really ever seen tar before but this was exactly how they imagined that it looked. Winston crept closer, were those foot prints? “Hey guys, come look at this, looks kind of like someone walked in that stuff. Maybe we weren’t the first ones here?” 

The smell and the look of the footprints on the floor immediately gave Ricky flashbacks to the Al’s parking lot and his first face to face run in with the mimes. “I don’t want to be the bearer of bad news… but… well we’re all in a fucking mime restaurant in the dead of night tracking killer mimes we all knew this was gonna be bad news from the fucking start…” he toed the goop on the floor a little, “This be the shit those fuckers bleed. Smells like baked goods, looks like tar, tastes pretty fucking gross too if you were wondering.” He walked over to wear Winston was standing, glad that for all his color blindness his dark vision was actually pretty fucking good. “My incredibly uneducated yet fantastically handsome guess wouldn’t be that someone walked through it. Maybe… secreted it? Trailed it from them when they were birthed into this world from whatever screaming fucking hellscape breeds clone mimes? We should probably all stick real close together.” 

Great, just fucking great. Harsh clenched his jaw, focusing on any slight sounds. He followed after Winston, keeping his head on a swivel, watching for the faintest hint of movement. Crouching down, he tentatively dragged a finger over the print. “It’s dry. I think these have been here a while. I’m no tracker, but I don’t think whatever left these is still around. Or I sure hope it’s not.” He straightened up slowly, wiping his hand absently on his jacket, even though the stuff hadn’t stuck to him. Just touching it dry made him feel like he needed to wash his hands. “So… is everyone else thinking that at least some of those things came from here? I think it’s not just their blood. This is gonna sound weird, but… I think they’re made of this stuff, whatever the hell it is.” He grimaced as he turned toward the doors of the restaurant. “It looks pretty empty in there,” he said slowly, glancing at the other three. “I agree, let’s stick close, maybe circle around the place, see if there’s more footprints.” 

Orion cringed when Harsh bent down and touched the stuff. “Ricky, stop giving theories you’re gonna give me nightmares.” He should have offered to wait in the truck, be a getaway driver in case they needed a speedy getaway. Anything to keep him away from here. He had goosebumps trailing his arms. “Well they’re clearly not human. Whatever they are they burst into smoke when they die. It’s uh… well I don’t like the idea that they’re coming from a restaurant. Where food is made.��� Not that Rio had ever eaten there, nor did he ever plan to. “Just make sure you keep an eye out for anything. This sounds crazy, but they don’t like, make noise. Footsteps, heart beat. Nothing.” 

Somehow, not that Winston was sure how it was possible, the smell here seemed to be even stronger. “It doesn’t seem like a bad theory that these things are related to this goop in someway.” They could help but crouch down alongside Harsh and examine it as well, though they hadn’t touched it out of fear of what it might do. Harsh seemed fine though and Winston put the thought from their mind. “Maybe they could be made from this stuff, do you think this means that this stuff is made here?” They wondered if it was some kind of weird magic or something else. Whatever the case, Winston didn’t want to know what was going on. Not really. Not enough to actually be here. The urge to bolt and sprint from here was irresistible. But they managed. “We should see if we can see anything else, maybe see if we can get around the back.” Winston was sure it wasn’t going to be there. “Just be careful, I had a run in with something weird here a little while back.”

“Rio if you get nightmares I’ll read you a bedtime story and fix you a glass of warm milk with vanilla and cinnamon. My mom used to swear by it.” What Niamh Cordero had actually sworn by was mackerel before bed but there wasn’t any reason for Harsh to get the idea that Ricky wasn’t human. Not at least until it was unavoidable. “It is nice that for once at least my near deafness isn’t a detriment. We’re all gonna be fucked for hearing!” When Winston suggested checking around the back Ricky took point, pulling a serrated knife out of its sheath tucked into his jeans, “You know…” his voice was low as they all crept towards the back of the incredibly fucking spooky restaurant, “It was entirely too easy to buy like all of these knives. There’s literally a section in the farm goods store off route 48. It’s practically a whole “get ready to skin trespassers” department back there. He peered through the oval window of the swinging door back to the kitchen, not seeing anything immediately visible. “I’ll go through first. Since in classic horror trope the dumb jock dies first.” He had expected at least a little squeak from the door but the hinges were whisper quiet as he slowly pushed through.

“I don’t know, it could be coming from this place, but what even is it? If this place is making this stuff, I don’t want to know what kind of food they serve.” He followed after Ricky, eyes lingering on the knife. “You have a lot of those? Listen, if we see another one of those mime things, I’d rather bolt than try to fight it. The first one of them was hard enough to take out.” Harsh stopped by the door, watching Ricky head inside. He looked over Winston and Orion. Maybe it had been a bad idea to ask them to tag along. They were both young… and scared. Shit, this whole worrying about people thing was a pain in the ass. “You two hang back, I’ll go in after him. Just keep watch out here. If you see anything, yell and we’ll come running.” He shook out his hands at his sides before following after Ricky, careful to keep his steps light and quiet as possible. Only a few steps in, he froze. There was something, the faintest of sounds, like… like footsteps, but wrong. Reaching out, he lightly tapped Ricky’s arm, trying to get his attention as he more mouthed the words than said them: “There’s something in here. I don’t think it’s human.”

There was a certain amount of relief that Orion felt when Harsh told them to hang back. He was also worried, and scared and anxious but he spent most of his life being those things. At least out here they could keep an eye on things. A few seconds later and Rio and Winston were standing alone out in the darkness. They had been alone a lot since the two had first become friends, first within the Scribe building after Winston’s night of sleepwalking, which Rio often regarded as one of the luckiest nights of recent memory. Now within the house too, if Ricky was gone and Rio and Winston found themselves hanging out. Things felt different now than they had when they first started hanging out. He wasn’t sure if it was because of the Athena revelation or from… something else. And because Rio had no time to start panicking about that particular revelation, he decided he needed to distract himself from thinking about what that something else might mean. “Dying at a mime restaurant would be the worst.” Rio whispered randomly, wandering around the open space because he couldn’t stand still at the moment. As he wandered, he noticed some sort of smell. He wasn’t sure what but… it wasn’t a good smell. The bakery smell of the gross liquid had mostly kept it covered up, but there was definitely something else around here too. “Hey, I think there’s something over here.” Rio warned before heading off to try to find the source of it. And… well unfortunately he did. 

Thank God Winston wasn’t expected to be taking point here. They made a mental note that they had to make more friends with people who were far more capable then they were so that they didn’t have to continue taking point in potential life or death situations like this one. “Oh I don’t know, better to die in a mime restaurant then a clown rodeo or something equally absurd, besides, the french have the best cuisine right?” Winston rolled their eyes and sighed, this was as from their idea of fun as it was possible for them to have. “What the hell is that?” they moved away from where Harsh and Ricky had gone, wondering if there was something other then terrifying footprints and the smell of pastries here. Moving as stealthily as they could (which was not very) Winston crept across the room. The first thing that they witnessed was what looked like a very heavily chewed hand. Bite marks littered the fingers and here and there the flesh was entirely stripped away, leaving clear sections of bone exposed. Then there were more body parts, and more bones and more chunks of flesh. What Winston had originally decided was the tar like substance was actually a grotesque mixture of the substance and blood. It had congealed together into a viscous mucous like liquid and Winston had to stop themselves from being sick, but that seemed clear to them that it could only mean one thing. Eyes flashing up to Harsh and Ricky, they lurched to their feet and sprinted after them. The thing they’d found with Regan. It was clearly still here, but if they shouted they’d draw it’s attention faster then before.

“I have a lot of them now that there are killer mimes on the loose in the town. I decided to make a “you might die horribly but at least you can try to defend yourself first” shopping trip before this little outing” They crept through the kitchen as quietly as they could; the smell of yeast and dough turning from something appetite-inducing to something bone-chilling “I would also like to run since I don’t really fancy getting a chunk taken out of my shoulder again but I’mma make sure Winston and Rio make it back to the truck before I do. I managed to kill mine last time. So I’m 1-0 for mime slaughter.” The tall stainless steel of coolers reflected the dim emergency exit and Ricky nearly had a heart attack when Harsh reached out to tap Ricky’s arm. He turned and watched the other man’s lips move, spelling out a sentence he desperately hadn’t wanted to hear. Nodding tersely he kept his head on a swivel, trying to see what was purely shadow and what was a murderous stereotype waiting to devour them. It was only by chance that he happened to see the reflection of something in the glass door of the tall rotating oven. He grabbed Harsh’s arm and tugged them towards the relative safety of a small alcove that seemed to hold spices and flavorings. He hoped his wide-eyed panic and pointing to the general direction of whatever-the-fuck that thing had been was getting his point across properly. 

Shit. Harsh had known this was a terrible idea from the start. He really had to start not diving into these things headfirst… and dragging random strangers into them with him. That was probably the part he should feel bad about here. At least that hollow inside had plenty of room for gut wrenching fear. He didn’t resist the pull on his arm, letting Ricky tug him into the alcove and flattening himself to the wall. The knife in his pocket was in his hand before he could think about it. If they could wait, stay quiet, maybe the… whatever it was would pass. But then he heard it, footsteps--Winston’s footsteps getting closer. Shit, they weren’t in cover and that thing was still out there. “It’s coming,” he muttered to Ricky. Whatever it was, the damn thing was almost dead silent, but it wasn’t invisible. Harsh saw movement and made a choice. “Grab Rio and go, I’ll get Winston. I’ve got a couple tricks up my sleeve, but that thing won’t be confused forever.” He shifted, moving to the edge of the alcove as he held a hand next to his mouth. “Over here, frenchy! Suck on this baguette, asshole!” The yell was his, but his voice came from the far corner of the restaurant. Those skittering feet turned on a dime, heading toward the sound. Harsh looked back to Ricky. “Go, now,” he said before darting out of the alcove. He reached Winston’s side with admittedly inhuman speed, but now wasn’t the time to worry about keeping pesky little secrets. Grabbing at their arm, he tugged. “We gotta go.”

Whatever the leftover remains that Winston and Orion had found was, it seemed abundantly clear that they were human. Rio felt sick, and his vision blurred a bit before he realized that Winston had ran off to find Ricky and Harsh. “Winston!” Rio whisper-yelled after them, but they were already gone. “Crap.” He crept toward the entrance, slower and more cautious than Winston had. This was not going as planned. Rio was ready to get into the room when he all but crashed into Ricky. “What the heck is going on?” Rio questioned, hearing Harsh yell some expletive. He was… distracting something. That wasn’t a good sign. “Truck, trucky” Rio said, turning and running off for it. Ricky was the getaway driver, so Rio needed to figure something out. He slid into the door, running too fast to have time to stop himself and through it open. “Why do you have a hacksaw?” Rio asked as he dug around in the backseat. Between that and an axe, Rio didn’t have a lot of options. “I hope you aren’t super attached to this.” He exclaimed, grabbing the axe, “Get the car started.” Then he took off running to another side of the building, taking a deep breath before he swung the axe at the window, shattering it and making as much noise as he possibly could.

As Harsh yelled, Winston knew that they had been too late in their mission of preventative warning. They were by their side alarmingly fast and Winston didn’t need anymore convincing that it was time for them to get out of here. They had seen that thing that had been behind the restaurant snapping up a cat and they didn’t want to see what would happen if they were given the opportunity to try and eat Winston again. They were running headlong from the restaurant when Winston saw an axe that looked shockingly like one of Ricky’s axes in Rio’s hands. “Hey, is that Bertha?” Winston grunted as they turned and saw their friend setting off for the other side of the building. It was their turn to do something about this all. “Uh, cover your eyes!” they pulled to a stop, the mime monster thing scrabbling after them, taking a deep breath they summoned their energy and hurled a bright spark of energy through the air in the direction of the friend. It exploded with a bright flash. “That’s like maybe a few seconds right?”

A lot of things happened in really quick succession, and Ricky wasn’t really sure he was prepared for any of them. Harsh threw his voice in a way that was decidedly not some expert ventriloquism and between the two of them they divvied up the friends waiting in the dining room. Ricky couldn’t run as fast as Harsh could apparently, but when the choices were hustle or being eaten by whatever the fuck had been stalking them in the kitchen, he could pound the pavement with the best of them, “We’re going now!” he grabbed Rio’s sleeve and kept running, charging for the truck that waited just down the street. “Not the axe!!!” he tried to stop Rio from throwing what had been a $250 investment in a hand-forged Swedish axe but it was far too late. “Yeah that’s Bertha but we’ll mourn her later. Everyone in!!!” Winston threw up a truly impressive magical flashbang grenade and Ricky started up the truck, “Everyone in?! Sound off quick cuz I’m about to floor it and I don’t wanna leave anyone in the dust.” 

Apparently he wasn’t the only one with tricks up his sleeve. Harsh made a mental note to ask about that when they weren’t being chased by some kind of horrific spider mime or whatever the hell that thing was. He wasn’t really in the mood to stop to get a better look. On Winston’s command, he ducked, throwing up a hand in front of his eyes, shielding them from the worst of the light. “Not bad,” he noted before grabbing Winston again, half lifting, half dragging them to the truck. Offering an arm, he boosted Winston into the truck before throwing himself in behind them. “We’re here, let’s move!” The flash had definitely thrown the whatever-it-was for a loop, and he couldn’t imagine the crash of the axe had gone unnoticed either, but sticking around to make sure was not high on his list of priorities.

Orion made a beeline back to the truck after throwing the axe and jumped for it, missing the door and smacking into the side of the truck. “Ow.” Rio ring out before correcting himself and climbing into it. Ricky peeled onto the road once everyone was in. “Oh god oh god I can’t believe we just did that.” He was breathing heavily and staring at the ceiling of the truck to try to calm himself down. “I’m sorry about your axe” Rio apologized to Ricky, trying to connect the dots from what they had found. Had they even found anything? “What was in there? I never even saw it.”

Shuddering gently, Winston settled in next to Ricky and sighed as they drove off into the night. “That was enlightening, obviously whatever it is that is causing this seems to be coming from the restaurant itself…” Winston frowned and tried not to think about whatever that thing was. It seemed to have gotten somehow more dangerous. “As for whatever that was, I don’t know, but I sure as hell don’t want to find out.” 

[blackhakumen]

Mini Fanfic #394: Big Sis Maya (Phoenix Wright Ace Attorney)

Maya: (Happily Walk Alongside Apollo) Soooo you're ready to spend some quality time with your Big Sis Maya, Polly?

Apollo: (Rolled His Eyes) Do you always have to call yourself that?

Maya: Well, I'm four years older than you....(Smirks Teasingly) So yes. I have.

Apollo: Figures....I think I'm starting to see where Trucy gets her sass from....

Maya: Just be lucky I call myself that instead of "Your Senior".

Apollo: (Thought Long and Hard about That Wording....Only to Shutters on the thought) ....God, that would sound weird to hear you say that....

Maya: Right? I am wayyyyyy to young to be labeled as a Senior.

Apollo: (Gives Maya the "Really?" Look) You....do realize a Senior doesn't only means being old, right?

Maya: ('Scoffs') Of course I do, Polly. Who do you take me as?

Apollo: Mr. Wright's Former Assistant?

Maya: Uh correction: I'm Nick's First Lady Assistant/BBF, A Spirit Medium....Still in Training, Trucy's Mommy, Pearly's Favorite Cousin in the World, annnnnnnd....(Hugs Apollo's Arm) you and 'Thena's Proud Big Sis~

Apollo: (Rolled his Eyes While Smirking a Little) I'm..... somewhat honored.

Maya: Not the response I was expecting, but I'll let it be for now~ (Giggles Softly)

...................................................................

1:00pm at a Burger Joint.....

Maya: (Munching and Enjoying the Cheeseburger she Ordered)

Apollo: (Chuckles Lightly at the Spirit Medium) You really like burgers that much, huh?

Maya: Mmmhmm! They're sooooooo goooood!

Apollo: At least try and finish your mouthful before speaking?

Maya: Oh! (Swallows her Food Before Smiling and Blushing) Sorry.

???: Herr Forehead! Yoohoo!

Apollo: (Turns to see Ema, Klavier, and Wocky making their way to his and Maya's Table) Hey. You guys made it.

Wocky: (Smirks Cocky) Like we missed a day of lunchtime.

Ema: (Shrugged) Or anything involving breaks....

Klavier: (Noticed Maya Sitting Next to Apollo) And who might this lady sitting next you, my good friend?

Maya: (Turns to Apollo) Yeah, Polly. Who's your friends?

Apollo: (Turns to Three of his Friends) Guys, I like to introduce to Mr. Wright's former-

Maya: (Bump Apollo's Shoulder with Hers)

Apollo: ('Sigh') - I mean.....(Rolled his Eyes) Mr. Wright's Number One Assistant from way back and Spirit Medium, Maya Fey. (Turns to Maya) Maya, this is Klavier, Ema, and Wocky. My Acquaintances.

Ema: (Starts Smirking) And a few of his actual friends besides his boss, his little sister Magician, and a Fireball for his Girlfriend.

Apollo: Athena's not a Fireball, Ema...

Ema: (Shrugged) Could've fooled me.

Maya: (Smiles Brightly) Nice to meet you guys. Mind telling me what you all do besides being Polly's friends?

Klavier: (Smirks Proudly) Well, I, for one, am a Prosecutor by day and Rockstar by Night. As well as being Herr Forehead's only rival, of course. (Winks at Apollo)

Apollo: (Gives Klavier an Unconvinced Look) (Says no one.....)

Ema: I'm just a Simple, Proud Scientist.

Klavier: (Raised an Eyebrow at his Girlfriend to tell the truth) Ema.....

Ema: ('Sigh in Defeat') Fiiiiine.... I'm also a detective in training or whatever.....

Klavier: (Smiles Brightly) And the girlfriend of mine whom I'm proud of very much~ (Gives Ema a Kiss on the Cheek)

Ema: (Starts Blushing and Looking the Other Way) S-Stupid Fop........

Maya: Awww~ That's sweet~ (Turns to Wocky) And what about you, Wocky?

Wocky: I'm a son of a family of gangsters.

Maya: (Eyes Widened) Wait What?

Apollo: (Facepalms while Sighing) They're former gangsters, Maya. They have a Muffin Business now.

Wocky: (Smiles Prouder) Damn right. I wanted the Business to be called the "O.G. Crackers" but my old man insisted on calling it "O.G. Muffins" instead. It's a weak name, but at least the place is booming with profits.

Klavier: (Smirks Playfully) If you couldn't tell by now, our Friend Herr Wocky here is the "Little Brother" of our little group.

Wocky: (Glares at Klavier) Says who?!

Ema: Says us. You're clearly younger than out of all of us in this table.

Klavier: (Chuckles Lightly) Plus, you're so easy to make fun of.

Wocky: Like Hell I am!!

Apollo: (Rolled his Eyes) Really starting to prove his point right now....

Wocky: (Glares at Apollo) You wanna take this outside, Justice?!

Maya: (Giggles Softly at the Scene) I'm glad our Polly made some friends besides us of course.

Ema: (Chuckles Lightly) Yeah... Apollo's maybe a Dork, but he's our Dork.

Apollo: (Gives Ema the Look)

Ema: (Smirks at Apollo) Hey, you're not the only one in our group who's easy to make fun of.

Klavier: (Shrugged with a Smile) It's the truth.

Wocky: Ha!

................................................

1:30pm Outside of the Burger Joint......

Maya: (Happily Walking Next to Apollo) Your friends seems pretty fun to be with.

Apollo: They're unbearable to be around, but I loved them all the same. (Smiles a Little) I'm glad you liked them.

Maya: Me too. You guys kinda remind me of me and Nick's Group of Friends from back in the day.

Apollo: Were they also as crazy as ours?

Maya: Nah.....(Smirks Playfully) They're a lot worse.

............................................

1:35 p.m. at the Park's Bench.....

Apollo: Hey, Maya?

Maya: Hm?

Apollo: You said your sister was Mr. Wright's Mentor, right? What was she like?

Maya: (Smiles Brightly) She was only the Best Lawyer/Big Sister in the World! You'll love her, Polly. She was THAT amazing at what she do.........(Sighs Before Frowning Sadly) I missed her so much....

Apollo: (Frowns As Well) Mr. Wright told me what happened to her once I joined the agency.... I'm so sorry for your loss.

Maya: Thanks......On the bright side, at least she's in the better place now, right?.....

Apollo: Yeah......('Sigh') You know, I lost someone who was precious to me too.....

Maya: Really? Who?

Apollo: My best friend, Clay. He was an astronaut......(Looks Down on the group) Until he was murdered that day.....

Maya: ('Gasps') Oh my gosh.... Apollo, I'm so sorry.

Apollo: It's fine. Athena and I was able to find his murderer together and put him to justice afterwards.....so there's that at least.....('Sigh') Doesn't change the fact the I missed him though....

Maya: (Gently Grab Apollo's hand) Hey. I know it's sad to miss the ones you love, but it's what I said about sis, your friend is in a better place now. I'm sure he wouldn't want you to be all sad about his passing all day, right?

Apollo: Yeah.....(Chuckles Lightly) He would probably start lecturing me on being sad and moody as we speak. And on a brighter note, I have you, Athena, Truce, Pearls, Mr. Wright, and all of the other people in my life. So I'm not entirely alone.

Maya: (Happily Hugs Apollo) That's right! Life can be pretty hectic and cruel sometimes, but as long as we still have those in our life who loves us, I'm positive the both of us will be just fine.

Apollo: (Smiles Softy while Tears Falling out of his eyes) Yeah.....I....(Hugs Maya Back) Honestly Believe you're right on this, Maya. Thank you.

Maya: You're welcome, Polly. I'm always here for each and everyone of you guys, okay?

Apollo: I definitely know that now....

...................................

2:14 p.m. on the sidewalk to Everything Wright Inc. Office...........

Apollo: (Smiles Softly as he Walk Next to Maya) Not gonna lie, I honestly had a great time with you today, Maya.

Maya: (Smiles Brightly) Aww~ I had a great time with you too, Little Brother Polly~

Apollo: Seriously?!

Maya: Yes. (Smirks Playfully) I'm older than you, remember?~

Apollo: (Rolled his Eyes Once More) At least I'm taller than....

Maya: (Pouts at Apollo) Being taller doesn't matter when you're still younger than me?!

Apollo: (Smirks Playfully) Says the short lady next to me.

Maya: ('Hmph') Now I'm starting get where you get your sarcastic, smart mouth from....

Apollo: (Raised an Eyebrow) From who exactly?

Maya: Your boss.

Apollo: (Was About to say Something....but Decided to Agree what Maya is saying) Yeah.....I think I starting what you're saying here....(Smiles Softly) Still, you were pretty to hangout with.

Maya: (Smiles Brightly) You too, Polly.....Even if you are dork.....

Apollo: Hey!

Maya: .......Whom we all Love very much!~

Apollo: ('Sigh') Be lucky I consider you my sister figure at all.....

Maya: (Giggles Softly) I already am!~

@cyber-wildcat

@apollo-justice-for-all

@keyenuta

@26shann

@chompycroc

[fineliines]

okay so before things get misconstrued, i have seen the post @pocmuzings posted and i have quite a lot to say at least to explain my side of the story. you guys can make the choice to believe me or not but everything on this post is the truth on my end. this is very long and i hope everyone takes the time to read it but it’s just a warning this is long.

first and foremost, you need to understand that i have never once in my entire life said the n word. i grew up in a household where i always knew the weight of that word and it’s heavy connotations my entire life; my mom, grandma and cousins always used the word despite being spanish because they were very racist and stereotyped the black community. i knew of that, i was young when they used the word (probably around elementary school age) and never spoke up because i was a child. however, i’ve always known it’s not the right word to say or is it my place to say it as a non-black poc. i’m unsure if the person sending the anon meant to say i was using the word or if it was my friend at the time in the post but i have never EVER said that word. i would never use that word, i’m not ignorant on it and have always known what it’s implications were.

secondly, the problematic friend in question was someone i knew in my real life. we went to high school together, we met through a mutual friend who looking back on it, that mutual friend sexually assaulted me at one point and BECAUSE of that incident and numerous other things that happened in that small friend group, i pulled away and found solace in this person. his name was cameron, he’s no longer in the rpc so i really don’t care about putting his name out there to help keep track while i write this out. to give more background on this, cameron wasn’t the kind of person i could simply “get rid of” like i could have if he’d been someone i met online. like i said, we went to high school together, we lived in the same town, we became INSEPERABLE-- i vacationed with him and his family on MULTIPLE occasions. my mom and his mom became friends, we spent holidays together, etc. this wasn’t someone i could write off. we met when i was around 15 years old and he was 17 and we stayed friends from me being 15 to around the age of me being 21... in fact, i believe our last outing together was my 21st birthday but that’s irrelevant. i am now 24. throughout the time that we were best friends, however, i got him into rping and we were in the rpc together for an extended period of time. cameron has always been extremely problematic and this was something i didn’t necessarily become aware of until later on in our friendship. we started rping together in american horror story roleplays which is where i first started and in general, those rp’s were very very problematic and dark; it was a completely different time in the rpc compared to now and i am 100% aware of that. 

cameron became notorious for causing drama wherever he went. in the ahs rp we were in, something happened between my character and someone else’s, anon hate was sent to the gossip blog or w/e about my character and it got to the point where i, myself, was being told to kill myself through anon hate because of whatever ship drama was happening. i was 15 years old and people on the internet were telling me to kill myself. cameron stepped in, defended me in the only way he knew how, started drama with the admins for not doing anything to stop the stuff being sent to me or help me and we got kicked out of the group as the solution to their problem. from that moment on, cameron simply never stopped causing problems and i often found myself getting dragged into things with him because we were friends and i stuck up for him because he usually stuck up for me. at some point as i got a little older, maybe 17/18, i can’t remember, me and him joined this subplot rp that this person who sent in the anon was running. yes, cameron and i became friends with the person, she was the admin, things were fine for a while and eventually, things in the group started getting slow so cameron wanted to leave and me, being the person i was at the time, followed him because he was my best friend. i remained somewhat friends with the anon but i always felt like things were strained between us BECAUSE cameron was always up to something; whether it was causing problems in the anon’s various groups she joined or simply leaving because he got bored or just being a general bully, befriending people and manipulating them and being ugly and problematic and racist. i can’t remember the anon ever talking to me about being uncomfortable with his actions because it was years ago and i’ll admit that at the time, it wasn’t important to me because i thought things were fine because her problems with cameron weren’t ever explicitly told TO me. i will admit that from the ages of 15-18, whenever cameron started drama or was problematic or did shitty things, i blindly followed him and never spoke up. i didn’t speak up because i felt like he helped me and defended me and PROTECTED me from my assaulter in real life and all the anon hate i got from this group that i owed him my loyalty. again, please keep in mind, i’ve been friends with him since we were both in high school, he wasn’t someone i could simply write off or get rid of at the time.

i started realizing he wasn’t a good person when i got a little older. i decided to open up a group that was based off college kids and it was based off the college i currently attend, ucf--- genuinely i don’t remember the url of the group but @wonclerland was in it with me because we were friends. cameron joined, obviously and at the time that i was admining, he didn’t do much. people joined who i’d met through a previous rp and to be honest, that group of people and i were 100% a really stupid clique of mean people. they were really mean and petty and ugly and i never said anything to them or about what they said because i wanted to fit in and again, i admit to that. some girl joined the group who went by the name athena or it was her alias, i don’t really know but apparently, she had beef with that group of people who joined and they claimed she was racist but could never properly pull up proof to show me or whatever. as an admin, i was caught in the middle trying to hear every side of the story. cameron befriended athena and all hell broke loose.  i ended up going to playlist live for a day and mistakenly, i had asked one of the people in the little clique of mine to run the main while i was gone for the day. in the span of the 8 hours i was gone, the clique had posted athena’s unfollow despite her not wanting to quit and blah blah blah. i shut down the group because i didn’t know what to do and it make me anxious and stressed. cameron and athena formed a group of friends FROM that group and started to go on the girl who posted the unfollow’s instagram and comment hateful, bodyshaming things. they went as far as editing a picture of the girl on photoshop to look like shrek. i saw this all unfold and realized what kind of person cameron was and decided to TRY to sever ties with him. multiple times after this, i attempted to call him out on his ugly behavior on the tail end of our friendship. we would get into really violent fights in person and he’d come to target where i worked at the time to scream at me and yell at me in person. i called him out for being racist and problematic and using the n word- in return, he took down an entire roleplay we worked on together because he made all the graphics and left the page empty and blank while i was at work and couldn’t do anything about it. him and his boyfriend would call me names, made fun of me when i confided in them and came out as bisexual and told me i was just looking for attention and many other fucking instances where i was made to feel like shit. every time i called him out about stuff he did or said at all, i had to deal with abuse from in person and because i didn’t know how to approach the situation or deal with it, i let him get away with treating other people in the rpc like trash.

cameron and i grew apart after he quit the rpc. he ran out of aliases to use to destroy groups and i was working on actively trying to get out of the wake of destruction him and the friend group that yes, i followed around, left behind. i put forth the effort to work on learning about racism more in depth, i went to therapy to deal with the assaults and stuff i was going through and i used writing to cope with it and found a solid group of people that were actually decent. i admit that i was part of the problem by not saying anything to cameron, i was terrified of him and losing the only friend i had in my real life at the time. i know what he did hurt a lot of people in the rpc, including now the anon, and i realize that my silence until much later was not of any help at all. my activism now isn’t performative--- i’ve tried so hard over the last few years to learn and educate myself on the blm movement and i’m still learning every day. my intentions and heart have never been malicious and i deeply apologize to you, oksi, if you read this because i know it’s you that sent that anon. i’m sorry that my silence and lack of maturity and balls to confront cameron hurt you and i’m sorry for being a part of the problem. i’m sorry to whoever knew me back then and saw the people i surrounded myself with and that i was so focused on fitting in and belonging to a group (even a really fucking shitty one) stop me from speaking up when it mattered the most. i wish that this had been addressed to me privately so i could’ve talked to her and heard her side of the story but i understand that she probably felt uncomfortable and unsafe given our past and who she used to associate me with. i do not and will not ever stand for racism, i’m working every single fucking day to learn and spread resources and educate myself and to not overstep my boundaries or talk over the black community because it’s NOT my place. i can’t speak for the other person mentioned in this post and i hope she comes forward if she feels inclined to and tell her side of the story but this is mine. holding myself accountable for being a part of the problem. 

i’m sorry if any of this upset anyone and if this means i’m going to lose friendships or mutuals over this. i understand and it’s fine. i’m not looking to victimize myself at all and i’m admitting to the fact that i was complacent and silent and i’m really sorry. i’m not like that anymore and i’m always one of the first people to call horrible shit out, probably too much because i spent so much time NOT saying anything out of fear. and if you read any of this, thank you? i don’t know what this is going to do but i hope it helps shed light on my side of the story. again, oksi, i’m really fucking sorry- you don’t have to forgive me at all and i don’t expect you to but i hope you’ll at least hear this out and try to understand i’ve changed and i actively try every single day to be better than i used to be. thank you and sorry again.

[fantasyfandommaiden]

ML Counsellor AU: Sass’s Session

Carmine gets an interesting visit from another kwami one night. It’s not Tikki or Plagg, but another one who calls himself Sass.

Dedicated to @nerdasaurus1200 for their wonderful idea about previous snake hero’s.

[[MORE]]

It was now becoming a common sight for super hero’s and Kwami’s to make an appearance at her apartment, to the point where Carmine had placed a small sign on her back balcony door that said ‘Open’ on one side and ‘Closed’ on the other. If her friends ever asked, Carmine simply said it was so birds would stop saying into the glass door, which was partially true.

So when she returned one day after buying groceries and saw that the small stress balls she used as kwami chairs were on the table, she knew she had company. She closed her door and locked it behind her as she walked towards the kitchen holding the bags of groceries “I’m alone.” She called, giving a sort of all clear for the small god like beings “Although you guys are very early.” She placed the bags on the counter and looked over to the table to see the Kwami’s... and saw one she had never seen before.

The kwami itself resembled a sort of lizard almost, but Carmine guessed it was suppose to be a snake. He had sea green skin with dark green diamonds running down its back, he also had small fangs and piercing yellow eyes.

The kwami looked at her appraisingly before speaking, his speech having a slight lisp to it. “Greetings.” He said to her, his ‘S’s extended in a hiss like a snake “You are the psychologist Plagg and a Tikki spoke of I take it?” He asked her.

Carmine looked at him long and hard, confused, was there a snake hero and no one told her? “... yes, although I would hope you checked before coming into a strangers home, least you get discovered by someone else.” She said slowly “Do you drink tea, Mr...”

“Sass.” He stated evenly “And I believe Plagg and Tikki was said to call you Carmine, correct?”

“Yes, my name is Carmine Regal, it’s a pleasure to meet you Sass.” She said as she brought over a tea cup for herself and a small doll one for Sass. She sat down, looking st the Kwami somewhat confused expression as the kettle boiled.

Sass sat down on one of the stress balls, looking up at Carmine “You are wondering why I am here, correct?” He asked her, seeming to answer the unasked question.

Carmine nodded “I know that Plagg and Tikki aren’t necessarily suppose to be speaking to me, and I know the other Kwami’s for Queen Bee, Rena Rouge And Carapace are protected when not in use, so this is somewhat surprising to me.” She said calmly.

Sass nodded, looking thoughtful for a moment “... The Guardian doesn’t know I am here, but Carapace’s Kwami does. He didn’t approve of this either, but he understands enough to not tell the Guardian unless I don’t return.” He explained to her “I’ve come for a similar reason as Tikki did her first visit.”

The kettle chose to whistle at that moment, making Carmine stand up and got get it for the tea. Tikki’s first visit had been to speak of her previous Chosen, Joan of Arc and her tragic downfall... “Do you have a preference of tea?”

“... I think Sideritis would be fittingly you have any, it is also called mountain tea or shepherds tea.” He said. Carmine looked over her shoulder at the kwami, nodding “If it’s a tea I most likely have it.” Low and behold she did.

She brought it over, and allowed the tea to brew as Sass spoke again.

“One of my chosen had a very rough beginning to life.” The snake Kwami began “Her legend is well know, however the true story has been forgotten.” He looked up at Carmine with his yellow snake eyes “You know the legend of Medusa, yes?”

If Carmine had been drinking her tea she would have spat it out. Instead she looked at the Kwami in shock “Um, yes...” she said slowly “... she was one of the Gorgon sisters, who had been cursed by Athena when Poseidon had his way with her within Athena’s temple. She was cursed to have snakes for hair, becoming hideous and that anyone who looked upon her turned to stone.” She stated, looking at Sass who held a neutral expression “... I take it some of that isn’t true.”

“Indeed. Most points are true. Posidon did have his way with a Gorgon within the goddess temple, and Athena was responsible for the curse of Medusa, and any man that did stare into her eyes was turned to stone.” He said to her. “However some facts were altered to better suite a male ego, as well as was lost to time.”

The snake Kwami took a sip of the tea, looking at Carmine “The woman was a priestess if Athena, she had been defiled by Posidon. She was not in the wrong and Athena knew this. However she had to keep up appearances with the other gods. She had to make the priestess ‘suffer’ for ‘defiling’ her temple.” He stated “So, she cursed the child that came from that awful union with a curse that made her ‘hideous’ and snakes for hair that turned men to stone, for what was worse to a god than to be hideous and to never allow themselves to be near a male without turning him to stone.” He said with slight eye roll.

“What the gods failed to realise was that Athena, in her own way, had given the child a gift. No man could ever do to her what had been done to her mother, she could never be hurt like her mother had. Women were safe from Medusa’s gaze, thus why here symbol was and still is used as a symbol for shelter for women escaping their abusers.” He said smiling “... my little Medusa was an amazing snake... her mother, had she lived through the child birth, would have been proud.”

Carmine looked at Sass “... how did you meet her?” She asked slowly, and Sass smiled “... I was with her from before the day she was born. Medusa’s mother, May she rest in piece, had been the guardian of the Kwami relics at the time. It was a great responsibility, and Medusa’s mother took it very seriously, as did Medusa when it was her turn to look after them.” Sass explained, a small smile on his face “... I was the one to name her ‘Medusa’. It means ‘Guardian and protectress’. Any woman that came to her sanctuary was protected from their abuser, none dare crossed her.”

“... my little hatchling was filled with so much anger.” Sass continued sadly “Anger at the men, at the gods, at Athena for the ‘monster’ she had become. Myself and the other Kwami’s tried to help her as best as we could however...” he looked down sadly into his small tea cup “... she never truly got over her rage. She wasn’t always angry, not when she protected the woman who came into the temple for her protection. But of course, history forgets the kind things she did, for they had to paint her as the perfect villain, the most hideous monster. Not the sad, scared small child who was put into a situation beyond her control...”

The snake kwami takes another sip of his tea, letting out a sigh “... Humans have this notion, that there should always be two sides. The right and the wrong, the righteous and the villains.... they have a hard time looking at the whole picture.” He looks up at Carmine “... I just want my hatchling to be remembered for the kind, protective woman she was, not the monster they painted her to be.”

Carmine gave the small being a sad smile “... I understand that.” Carmine said softly “Maybe not to the same degree, but I understand wanting to be remembered in a better light, and not the shadow.” She took a sip of her tea, looking at the small snake kwami “Do you have time to tell me more?”

Sass gave a small smile “... I believe I do, if you don’t mind.” He said, before speaking again about his beloved, of misunderstood wielder and the good she had done for Greece.

[overdrivels]

The Way to a Heart (15)

Wow that took longer than expected, but I hope it was somewhat worth the wait. The next chapter should have some certain things revealed.

<<Chapter 14

It is not something Hanzo would have or could have known beforehand, but the sheer number of things that come to light after the failed attack is earth-shattering, and not even half would be covered by day’s end.

It starts with Lúcio and Soldier rushing you out of the kitchen and toward the medical bay with Zenyatta floating behind, who gives him a painfully meaningful look without being able to change his expression at all.

The look keeps his feet glued to the ground, stops him from chasing after them.

Not that he had any good reason to do so. There was nothing he can do. Assassin as he is, he cannot help a dyi—an injured person except to end their suffering. That fact and the memory of Zenyatta's silent request keeps his feet stuck in place.

Soldier barks an order to Mei who comes rushing in, looking grimly resolute and with her homemade gun in hand, taking aim and sealing the Cellar door with a well-placed ice wall before pointing it at their new found prisoners.

Never before had Hanzo seen such a look on the bubbly scientist—it is so alien on her, but so eerily familiar; Hanzo sees it in the mirror and on the veterans who turn away when their faces are cast in the dark. He grits his teeth and turns away, lamenting his inadequacies.

If only he were faster. If only he had known. If only he dug deeper, pried harder, tried harder, then none of this would need to happen.

It’s not until this moment that he needs to know what is in that Cellar more than ever and what occurred here.

But that need is quickly forgone (but not forgotten) when McCree arrives on the scene, a little winded and more than willing to be put to work, helping Hanzo and Winston ‘escort’ the Talon agents they have in their grasp down to the few holding cells the base has, leaving Mei and Snowball to fend for themselves.

“I’ll be fine. Go on ahead,” she manages through a forced smile before turning her attention toward the sealed door.

The cells are not well-fortified or separated enough from the rest of the infrastructure, but they’ll have to do. It will at least keep any more blood from being spilled if he so chooses to beat their faces in.

McCree calls the shots here, instructing Winston who clumsily tries to follow with the hands of someone who has never had to restrain or frisk another living being before.

Questions upon questions crowd in his head which he has to stuff away into the very recesses of his mind where an avalanche of other, older questions reside, threatening to spill over and out of his mouth in an endless stream. He clamps down on that urge, focusing on his current task, methodically checking the belongings their prisoners, divesting them of all weapons, communicators, or anything remotely useful.

This, at least, he is familiar with and good at (and if he had a choice, he’s just strip the people naked and yank out the circuits of the Omnics and leave them—though he knows that would not stop the best of assassins like himself).

It’s a good distraction.

He even has the presence of mind to search the inside of their mouths and common areas where small implements could be held (not that he believes any of them have that sort of resolve, but it’s always best to be thorough—he cannot fail his responsibilities).

One or two of them put up a token resistance, but they're no match for Hanzo, McCree, or Winston. It’s cute, if irritating.

Looking through their belongings yields nothing. It's the standard fare of guns, ammunition, night vision goggles, and the like. The communicators are encrypted with more than just the standard fingerprint scanner.

The end result is a pile of junk that is left for Athena to process later.

“All right, boss, how d’you want to do this?” McCree asks after he’s inspected Hanzo’s and Winston’s work. The cowboy is a lot more thorough in looking at them, nearly getting spit in his eye for it. Strangely enough, it didn’t seem to bother him; he just moves on like he was used to it.

Winston looks confused, a little unsure. It’s hardly the look of a leader. “Pardon me, but do...what?”

McCree jerks his chin at the three cells Talon occupies, who watch them all with defiant trepidation. (It's hard to take them seriously when they've been relieved of everything but their underthings.) “What’re we gon’ do with ‘em. Turn ‘em over to the Gibraltar authorities or hang on to ‘em?”

“We interrogate them, of course,” Hanzo snaps without hesitation, pulling his shoulders back and glaring at each Talon agent with a look that makes nearly every one of them flinch.

Winston looks taken aback. “Interrogate—?”

"Hang on jus' a sec."

McCree walks over to a control panel nearby and does something that makes hard light walls appear in between the empty spaces of the bars.

"It's so that they can't hear us but we can hear them," he explains as he returns, his back to the cells. "And s'much as I’d like t’ agree, I can’t condone that, partner. Or if we do, we gotta do it lawfully.”

“Since when did you care about the law?” Hanzo sneers, more biting than he had intended.

The cowboy just throws him a shrug that looks like it took more effort than it should’ve to seem nonchalant and then looks at the cell where Talon is being kept.

“Since we became ‘Overwatch’, I guess.”

He bites back a snappy remark to that, because as much as it stings Hanzo to admit it, McCree had a very good point.

This isn’t Hanamura or the right political climate to do the stuff that Hanzo would have liked. Hanzo's brand of interrogation ranges from literal heavy-handedness to threats that are often followed through. He had the luxury of doing so because his Shimada clan was the law. This is different. Trying to rebuild Overwatch and establish its legitimacy is already a herculean effort; adding further criminal activities to the fray would only hinder their efforts now and in the future.

"I say we hold off until we have a better grasp of the situation," Winston suggests. "It's unclear if this is the only attack or if this is just a scouting force. We should try to regroup and solve this together."

McCree scratches the side of his face thoughtfully before he shrugs.

"You're the boss."

"...understood."

So he has no choice but to (figuratively) sit on his hands while Winston tries to gather his thoughts and the statuses of every reachable agent.

The questions come back again along with a new sort of unease that slithers beneath his skin, the why’s and how’s chipping away at his concentration.

This unease is not brought on by instinct—that has long faded away—but by the familiar makings of his own mind.

Each recollection of you brings about a different detail for him to focus on. It replays for him over and over in an all too familiar way.

The paleness of your face. The shallow, shuddering breaths that shook your body. The amount of blood, too much and already coagulating, and what seemed like it could have been viscera peeking out from the bullet torn portions of your shirt—regular civilian shirt.

You weren't even wearing your uniform.

It's such an innocuous and negligible fact, yet the thought of it is shocking.

You never intended to return, did you?

Talon may have very well forced you here in the middle of whatever you were doing.

If so, what is Talon after? Is it supposed to be a message? To whom? What’s the message? And why did it involve you?

The simmering anxiety rises, twists in his stomach with a mix of cold, dripping horror and perverse intrigue.

What is your involvement with this? Or is it because they know you’re involved with Overwatch and they wanted to make an example out of you just to show they’re not above such means? But if that were the case, then they would've been more flashy about it, not sneaking around like thieves.

Maybe you yourself were involved in Talon’s operations and you had been double-crossed by them?

He shakes his head violently and runs both hands through his hair, which he thinks he can feel grow even more grey with each unanswered question that ailed him.

No. It’s not possible. You’re just a chef. Like the many times he’s told himself before, you’re not capable of something that would get you in trouble with people so dangerous as Talon. It's illogical—what would Talon have to offer you that Winston couldn't get for you? Money? Fame? Threatened your friends and family?

His head snaps up with a potential realization, startling McCree whom he pays no mind to.

Is that why there are no other chefs? Were they captured and used as hostages?

But then wouldn’t Winston have known about it? Underneath the roof and protection of the once-mighty Overwatch, a few chefs shouldn’t be a problem for Winston to send protection for. (Though Hanzo knows the reality wouldn’t be so simple given Talon’s underhanded tactics and Overwatch’s current reputation.)

But even if the other chefs were captured, there should be no reason for you to risk health and hunger. There would be no reason for you to be kind to anyone or work so hard in the middle of the night.

The more cynical side of him rears its head: unless it’s a ploy for you to get closer to everyone. Listening in on conversations, stealing plans and passing along information while pretending to care about them.

“Y’mind thinkin’ any louder? I can almost see the steam risin’ from your head.”

Hanzo shoots McCree a glare, but he doesn’t seem the least bit cowed by the look. Instead, he seems amused.

“I guarantee whatever you’re thinkin’, it’s probably not what it looks like.”

The audacity. What would McCree know about what he's thinking? He bites back a scathing comeback that he so desperately wants to make. Instead, he settles with an "Is that so?" through clenched teeth.

"Yep." He looks fairly confident, flashing Hanzo a grim grin that looks a touch menacing behind the shadow of his hat. "Either you're assumin' Chef sold out or we're gettin' played like a deck o' cards."

Hanzo says nothing, sour. It's irksome to know that McCree is already several steps ahead of him in something that he should be good at.

"Bold assumption."

"It's only logical."

"Even if those were my thoughts, how are you certain it is neither of those options?"

McCree chuckles but it's bereft of any actual amusement. It's bitter and sticks to him fiercely like there's a story that needs to be told and is begging to be heard.

"Let's just say I got my sources."

"Either provide answers or do not bring it up all," he snaps. With the situation being as blackboxed as it is, he has no time to be playing idiot mind games. Those days of political tiptoeing and nasty implications are over and Hanzo prefers to keep it that way.

McCree seems to consider that for a minute before reaching into a pocket and pulling out a silver case, popping it open to get an unlit cigar to mull on.

The urge to smack it out of his mouth is tempting, but he crosses his arms, hands firmly tucked beneath his armpits hard enough to at least numb them a little so McCree would have a bit of a fighting chance should it come down to it.

"Since you asked so nicely," he starts sarcastically, casting a glance at the Talon members in their cells. "Been checkin' up on the chef since it ain't usual to go AWOL so long. Chef ain't too good at keepin' secrets or duckin' under the radar like the rest of us. So I did some trailin' and found out a few things."

He pauses, looking briefly to the ceiling. More solemnly, he says, "Whatever happened last night wasn't supposed t' have happened. Chef bit off way more than I think even any of us can chew. Heart's in the right place, but…”

McCree hums around his unlit smoke. “Sometimes when you’re too single-minded tryin’ to do something for people, y’ end up hurtin’ everyone around you.”

Something dark wells up from the bottom of Hanzo’s stomach, muting the unease throughout his body.

He utters coldly, “Are you implying something?”

“Nope.”

Hanzo squints at McCree, trying to ascertain the truth behind his words. McCree raises his hands, palms up in clueless surrender. It’s vexing that he would know so much and give so little. It’s not an unfamiliar game with him but usually he had the power to end it.

“And what is it that Chef did?”

The cowboy takes the cigarillo out of his mouth, rolls it between his fingers, and holds it. He takes a pensive breath, and leans forward.

"To help—"

“Agents, your presence is requested over Channel 6. Please check-in,” chirps Athena from out of nowhere.

Hanzo stares at the ceiling in disbelief. This sort of thing could not have been accidental.

He sends McCree a look that he hopes conveys very clearly that this conversation is not yet over. He only gets a shrugs in return before they both tune into the 'official team conversation' on their communicators.

The screen is split into parts and the only ones who look like they're in the same place are Winston and Soldier, who surprisingly, is missing his signature jacket. Winston clears his throat loudly, shuffling some papers that look like they're more for show than any actually notes. There is the noted absence of several people—the most notable being Genji—and he can't be sure if he's grateful or resentful of the fact.

“Thank you everyone for being available on such short notice."

A chorus of echoed sentiments sound off.

"For those who are unable to make it or have become unreachable, we will update them as soon as possible." There is also the distinct lack of Junkers though Hanzo isn't sure if that's intentional or not. "But since this matter is most pressing, allow me start.

"At 0451 today, seven Talon members entered Watchpoint: Gibraltar proper. The exact method of entry has not yet been confirmed. The chef was injured as a result and is currently undergoing treatment. The connection between Talon and the chef is not known at this time.”

Morbidly, Hanzo thinks that Winston has gotten a bit better at speaking to crowds and probably took some time to actually pull himself together.

“Unfortunately, we are unable to confirm this. It seems all cameras inside the kitchen were turned off some time ago—”

"Wait. The cameras? In the kitchen? They were turned off?"

Winston fumbles, stuttering at the sudden outburst from Fareeha, ruining any semblance of confidence or authority he had at the beginning.

Athena explains, “Several months ago, the chef had asked for them to be turned off for privacy reasons."

Security agent that she is, the dumbstruck look on her face is almost expected. Winston seems to know this, shrinking just slightly. “How could you let that happen? A chef does not get to override basic security protocols! Who even authorized this?" she shouts, fist raised and ready to strike, but she unfurls it and presses her fingers to her head, muttering, “What were you thinking?”

Suddenly Hanzo is reminded very vividly that she is Ana’s daughter. It seems that he’s not the only one with that thought as Soldier looks away from the screen for a moment to cough away something that sounds suspiciously like a laugh.

“As the kitchen currently belongs to the chef, the request for privacy was granted after some consideration.”

“The kitchen is Watchpoint property and is a public space. There is no expectation of privacy in a public space," she stresses, irritated and grumbling beneath her breath. “Are they turned on now?”

“Affirmative, though leaving them on 24/7 will expend a large amount of power that the Watchpoint cannot sustain, I recommend setting up motion sensors in the kitchens using the remaining inventory.”

“We’ll do that then." Clearly, the Helix agent had a lot more to say, but her lips are pulled tight and the glare she has aimed at Winston does not alleviate any of the tension in the room. “Continue.”

Winston clears his throat, takes a breath, and raises three fingers. “Right. So here's the plan. We regroup. We secure the base. And we get answers. Tracer, will pick up as many agents as possible in the next two hours. After that, Tracer's group will meet up with Ms. Vaswani who will then use her teleporter to bring everyone to the Watchpoint."

A globe appears on the table in front of Winston, the blue light illuminating the shadows and weary lines on his face. Red dots appear with a bubble of several agent's faces, a line mapping the course for Tracer connecting each of them.

"Agents Pharah, Reinhardt, Symmetra, and Torbjörn are projected to be in your path for pickup. The second round will likely have Mercy and several others. As several agents are still not responding with their locations, we will do an availability check when the first group returns."

"Hey! What about me?" A new voice chirps from what seemed to be Reinhardt's screen. From the back of the giant of a man, a ponytail peeks out before the curious face of a young woman appears.

"Oh! Brigitte!"

"Of course you can."—"Of course you can't!"

Reinhardt and Torbjörn stare each other down from their respective screens. The effect is diminished when they’re looking in different directions on Hanzo’s screen.

"No civilians," Soldier stresses.

"But Dr. Zhou is a civilian."

At the mention of her name, Mei jumps to attention, the slightest bit of a blush on her face, hands up defensively.

Soldier: 76 looks like he's holding back a sigh; the weight of it can even be felt through the screen. "Dr. Zhou was formerly Overwatch. A different branch, but still Overwatch."

"Then what ab—"

"No, Brigitte. I told you not to get involved."

"But Papa!"

Winston holds up a hand and pinches his head with the other. "Please. Save your bickering for later."

"Coming anyway!"

"Brigitte!"

Winston clears his throat loudly, picking up and tapping his stack of papers against the table. The map disappears at his silent command, as does the family argument.

"You all have your assignments. Details for pickup and transportation will be sent through a series of secure messages. Time is of the essence if we don't want another surprise attack. Is everyone clear?"

""Clear!""

"Yes, sir!"

""Crystal!""

"Understood."

"Right, then meeti—"

“Wait, Winston?”

“Yes, Mei?”

Mei puts down the hand she raised, concern etched all over her face. “How...is the chef's condition?"

The conference falls silent, all eyes on Winston who sags just a little bit as though the weight of everyone’s gazes are pinning him down. Hanzo unconsciously leans forward into his screen, pressing the volume up button twice.

"We're waiting for a full diagnosis from Dr. Zielger. Until then, we can't say." After a pause, Winston adds, "However, based on the information I received from Zenyatta, the chef’s condition may be...precarious.”

Hanzo sucks in a sharp breath.

“Bu-but not to worry! Dr. Zielger is currently working remotely and is overseeing the treatment along with Zenyatta and Lúcio.”

“Why did Talon hurt Chef?” Zarya asks from her panel. “Chef does not fight, does not leave, has no business with Talon.”

Winston shakes his head. “We’re still trying to find the answers. We have to wait until Chef is better or until Talon decides to talk.”

“Oh, we’ll make them talk, all right…” mutters Torbjörn beneath his breath, his metal claw clinking menacingly. No one else seems to disapprove of the idea, and it is the slightest bit relieving.

They wouldn't let you die. If there was one redeeming quality about this mess of a ragtag peace-keeping organization, it's that they would never abandon one of their own (for better or for worse). At least they all seem to trust in you, believing in your innocence even if Hanzo is still skeptical.

"Winston, a moment.” Satya looks as prim as ever, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I recall Watchpoint: Gibraltar and it's perimeter was fully equipped with turrets prior to this incident. From which point did Talon manage to enter the premises?"

"That's, ah, still being investigated."

"Give us a break, Winston!” Torbjörn shouts so loud that even his screen shakes. “It's the Cellar, isn't it? Always knew that'd be trouble."

Again, it’s Fareeha with the hard hitting questions and demands. “Winston, I think it’s about time you tell us what’s in the Cellar. If Chef was attacked in the kitchen, there is no way Talon got in through the front doors. So talk. What’s in the Cellar?"

The tension becomes palpable even through the screen as everyone’s attention is focused on Winston. His eyes dart around, seeking answers before they settle on Soldier, after which he closes them and takes a deep breath.

“To tell you the truth,” he says ever so slowly, “I don’t know.”

"What do you mean 'you don't know'? You're the commander—"

“That information is classified.” Soldier uncrosses his arms and leans heavily into the table before him. It’s strange to see it now, but he really is much more well built than his silhouette implies, scars running up and down his shoulders and arms. Hardly the look of someone who calls himself ‘old’.

Several people have the decency, including Hanzo, to look affronted.

"Classi—"

"—he just said he didn't kno—"

"Stop playing dumb—"

Winston holds up his hands. "Please. Soldier. I think it's time you told us. I admit, I, too, am curious about the Cellar."

From above, Athena warns them, "It is not a wise idea to do so without the chef's expressed permission. I have assure—”

"We should not need permission from the chef," Fareeha states, voice full of the authority she likely uses with her team at Helix. “This is a matter of security. Life and death. We can prevent this from happening again and putting everyone’s lives on the line because of a promise or privacy is foolish.”

She raises a hand. "Vote: everyone who wants to know what's in the Cellar, hands up."

First, it’s Torbjörn, though from the way he speaks, he already knows. Then it’s Zarya. Satya. The girl behind Reinhardt. Ever reluctant and with a wary eye on Soldier, Winston.

Hanzo hesitates. He wants to know, but not likely this: given to him on a silver platter instead of his own prowess and investigative skills.

But knowing would be for the greater good.

He does not raise his hand. Neither does McCree.

"There. Majority.”

So quietly that Hanzo thinks he imagined it, he could swear she grumbles, "Shouldn't have to do that in the first place."

Soldier looks like he feels the same way but in a different context. He rubs the skin above his mask and gives Winston one final look that—if the mask weren’t there—might have been pleading or exasperated. The scientist returns it, lips drawn in grim determination.

Voice weary, Soldier begins his story.

“The Siege Tunnels of Gibraltar. When Watchpoint: Gibraltar was built, the architects incorporated some of it into the design plans. After the Watchpoint was built, the Head Chef at the time decided to expand the kitchen and incorporate an abandoned section of the tunnel. That expansion was the creation of the cellar.”

“How come we didn’t know about that until now?” Fareeha asks.

“It was omitted from all blueprints. The chefs kept it secret and never let anyone else near it long enough to have it mapped.”

McCree snorts from his holovideo. “‘Secret’, sure.”

“Secret enough to keep anyone from actually finding it until now,” Soldier snaps back. “Everyone knew the Cellar existed, but no one's been in there beside those cooks. If you want someone to spill their guts about it, check the operating room.”

“Listen Jack”—an icy hush falls over the room—“you knew the tunnels were down there. You knew it was a weak point. You knew Chef was there and what it’s being used for. So if you knew so much, why didn't ya stop it?”

There is something in his voice that implies the question is far deeper and far more than what is being asked.

Though is that Soldier's true name? Jack?

“I tried.”

“Tried doin’ what? Not eatin’ the chef's food?” McCree snorts, voice increasingly accusatory and taking on an edge of outright defiance and authority that Hanzo has not yet heard before from him. "You know each ‘n every single one of 'em are stubborn as a mule. You don't eat, you get it forced down your throat. You knew, Jack. You knew this would happen.”

Winston speaks up, hesitant and meek. “I—I suppose I'm partly to blame. Soldier: 76 did want to get rid of the chef because of this exact reason. I stopped it. I just didn't realize just how accessible the kitchens were. By all accounts, it is actually one of the most secure areas on base—”

“I ain't askin’ for excuses, Winston. No 'ffense, but this wasn't a decision you should've made. ‘Sorry's can't fix what landed Chef upstairs.”

“Agreed,” says Fareeha. “Security detail is not your expertise. Jack is at fault for withholding crucial information, and you made a bad call based on it. That's called...what was it again, Jack? Misconduct?”

Hanzo has long given up on keeping track of these secrets.

“So you all knew,” Soldier mutters.

“My friend,” Reinhardt says solemnly, quieter yet more powerful than Hanzo has ever heard him, “we never thought any less of you.”

There's a moment of silent agreement among all members on the call until Fareeha mutters, “I did.”

“Fareeha!”

She rushes onward, McCree’s momentum seemingly too infectious not to take advantage of. "Even if Winston is in charge, you had a responsibility as a part of Overwatch to disclose this weak point.”

"We never had the chance,” Soldier shoots back. “Chef was always there up until the past two weeks. We would ha—”

“—when Chef was gone, you could have at least taken the time to patch up your holes! What if Chef wasn’t there last night? Would you have waited until everyone got shot in their sleep?”

“That isn't the point. We needed a plan and—"

“Oh, please! You know that's not the case! Everyone could have died—"

"We had countermeasures!"

"What countermeasures? Your stup—"

“If Ana were here—”

“She’s not! You’re a fuc—”

“Everyone, enough!”

The yell pierces through Hanzo’s earpiece and everyone flinches away from the sound and the image of Winston, halfway through a transformation of primal rage. An oppressive silence descends upon them all until bit by bit, the standing fur on the scientist flattens once more.

Steely, Winston announces with unwavering authority finally befitting of a leader: "I believe we have extracted enough information as of now to determine next steps. Standby and await your instructions. Meeting adjourned."

The feed cuts off.

The tense silence from the call carries over between himself and McCree. The meeting definitely did not turn out the way either of them anticipated, but what's done is done and nobody can take back the secrets that have been spilled.

“He’s Jack,” McCree says bitterly. “Jack Morrison.”

Where has he heard the name before? It’s so…

Hanzo balks. “Jack Morrison? The Strike Commander of Overwatch?”

“Former Strike Commander.” McCree turns away, practically rending the cigarillo in half with his teeth. “Former.”

“...and you all knew.”

He grunts, taking a moment to compose himself. “Sorta. Had a huge inklin’, but I wasn’t gon’ bust some secret in case he had some reason for it.” Underneath his breath, he mutters, “‘s a fuckin’ coward, is what he is.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that, doesn’t know the history behind it to even try, but what he does know is that this may be the first time he’s clearly seen the darker side of McCree that he has been constantly hinting at.

To think...the legendary Jack Morrison was among them. He thought the man had perished, having heard nothing about them since the incident in Switzerland. By then, Hanzo had been on the run already, seeking his next kill rather than political angles he could abuse.

His father had kept a wary eye on Overwatch, smiling wryly whenever the then-Strike Commander came on the news to speak, silently dissecting his words and judging him. When he was feeling indulgent, his father would point out the missteps and hidden meanings in Jack Morrison's televised appearances. Other times, he would ask Hanzo to give him his thoughts, and he—not knowing Morrison personally or expecting to ever meet him at any point in his life— spoke harshly and loosely.

It was silly posturing at the time.

He could not have guessed the silver-haired man with the abrasive tongue could be the man once cloaked in gold—fool's gold.

If that's the case, truly, then why is Winston leading this operation? Why not allow the former leader to take his place? Is there infighting already? Or did Morrison not want the position, already scorned and disillusioned by his previous tenure?

Hanzo supposed he'll have to ask the man himself, but it's not important who the leader is or what Jack Morrison's reasons are. He is supposed to just follow orders.

He raises his head and squints at McCree, who seems to be in no mood to continue speaking. While he wants to know, he's not so tactless as to ask about you now. Or about Morrison.

The awkward silence stretches out between them until Athena takes mercy on him and breaks it.

“Agent Hanzo, your presence is required in the kitchen.”

For a foolish iota of a second, his mind switches immediately to the thought of food—that you're calling because he's late for lunch, and his stomach responds accordingly, stirring awake and hungry.

But no, the reality of that is crushed far too swiftly when Mei comes down through the stairs, still armed. She smiles at them both, clearly strained but trying to maintain a brave face.

"Hey there."

McCree nods at her and Hanzo does the same, dumbfounded that she would be the one to take his place.

“I’ll be here to help until Torbjörn and the rest get here.”

It’s uncharacteristic for him to hesitate, even for a moment, but he does and asks, “Are you certain?”

“Oh, don’t worry about me! I’m not as good as you, but I’m going to do my best.”

Internally, he cringes at that. Once upon a time, he may have wanted to hear those words from all of his peers, but hearing them from Mei just feels criminal.

McCree just waves at him. "Jus' git, we'll take it from 'ere."

They both nod at him, urging him to go.

It should unnerve him to leave Mei with a bunch of criminals, but she has McCree there. McCree seems like the type who would rather die than to let a friend get taken. He resolves not to think on it, making his way to his destination.

The mess hall lives up to its namesake a little more than usual: dirty, dragging boot prints from Talon draw a clear map from the kitchen to the door where Hanzo stands; the kitchen counter still covered by a block of ice, near white from the number of bullets it had to take and probably two more hits from shattering, a puddle of water already pooling around the base. The floors will warp, no doubt.

He could see you now, getting angry over the blockage of your counter. You'll probably bash at it with the back of a ladle by yourself, not ask anyone for help. Maybe you'll make everyone's least favorite foods for them or give them a lecture.

It's be preferable to whatever is happening to you now.

He almost dreads going through the double doors again. It feels like every time he goes through them, the scene behind them only get worse.

They stand impassively, waiting for him to make his move, betraying nothing of what happened several hours ago. Like they always do.

With a deep breath, he places his hands on either door. Even at his gentle touch, they begin to part. Another push and they swing open completely.

There, he is greeted with the still fresh carnage in its entirety and Soldier: 76—Jack Morrison, former Overwatch strike commander—who has his jacket back on. Chillingly, the front of it is covered in a brownish stain that reminds Hanzo far too vividly of what has transpired this morning even more so than the destruction around him, and he has to look away.

"Took you long enough," Soldier says gruffly.

"I apologize; I was not aware I was being timed."

"You weren't, but you sure stood outside long enough. Thought Talon might've gotten you."

Despite his mortification and offense, Hanzo schools his face into something neutral. "Unlikely."

"Hmph. We're still waiting on Fareeha, but I want to make sure you have the right equipment on you."

At that, Hanzo jumps to attention. "What is it you require?"

"Your Sonic arrows, for one. The path is straightforward, but there are rooms in there that need to be inspected for any agents in hiding. Close range weapons, and this."

From one of his many pockets, Soldier produces an earpiece with a short microphone which Hanzo takes, giving it a quick inspection. It looks like an older radio wave receiver. He doesn't recognize the model but it bears the well-worn symbol of Overwatch on it.

"We'll be using those for communication. The signal in the Cellar is bad, and we likely won't be able to contact each other without it. It's already set to the right channel."

Hanzo closes a hand around it. "Is it secured?"

Soldier snorts. "Nothing is 100% secured. Talk loud enough, it won't mean anything."

It's hard to overlap the image of the bright-faced Jack Morrison with this cynical old man. Though, a few years a leadership position and a building falling on top of you amidst a blazing explosion could help in changing a person.

"Understood. What is our mission?"

"We'll get to that when Fareeha gets here. Any minute now." The last part is muttered so low that Hanzo's not sure he should have heard it.

She does not magically appear, unfortunately. Hanzo wants to say something about it, just to give the older man a hard time, but the appeal is not high when there is so much else happening.

"Was the kitchen inspected?"

"Already did. But you're welcome to do a once-over." Soldier jerks a thumb behind him. Even his gloves are colored with the brownish stains. "Couldn't hurt to get a Shimada to give it a seal of approval."

The comment strikes a strange chord inside him: pride and a touch of shame and irritation. He can't be sure the true intent behind Soldier's words and says nothing. Instead, he puts on the counterpart contact lenses for his sonic arrows, the earpiece which he gives a successful test before he surveys the area under Soldier's watchful eyes—he can pretend he's not watching all he wants, but there's no mistaking the tingling on his back where his red gaze lands.

Hanzo ignores it. There's more pressing matters at hand than Soldier's perverse curiosity.

Looking around, the kitchen is a complete mess. Strangely enough, this mess makes it feel more homely and personable than the pristine condition you had kept it in, almost like you were trying to preserve it.

After all the excitement of hours ago having long faded from his ears, the kitchen is also eerily quiet. There are mechanisms running still, but there is a distinct lack of sound and rhythm and calm that Hanzo had long begun to associate with this place. It's not the first time he's thought this, but being in the kitchen is by one's self is a very isolating and lonely experience—and not in the comfortable way either.

Even on the run, Hanzo still had interactions with people (some food, some bad), but you don't even get to see anyone's face. Objectively, your customers may as well not exist.

And if you were truly a traitor, it would make your job that much easier to never know the faces of the people whom you would eventually betray.

He shakes his head. No. That still hasn't been confirmed yet. More evidence is required, and most of it should be in this room and the Cellar beyond. He just has to find it among all the rubble.

As he walks around, he makes mental notes of everything out of place. The normally well-organized drinkware and container racks were all smashed. There’s a sink or two that have their faucets knocked off, the water still gushing from it quietly. Bullet holes riddle the walls and every available surface. Even the ceiling wasn’t spared.

The glass doors to the walk-in freezers haven’t been fixed or replaced, chilly air leaking out in waves, the faint scent of rot lightly entwined in it and curling at his shins and ankles.

Stepping gingerly inside the cooler through the outline of what could've once been the shape of a person, the smell becomes more pronounced and the chill makes even the hot-blooded Hanzo shiver, the wind blowing straight through his clothes and hair. Glass and spilt vegetables at his feet become an obstacle course to navigate around; a deathtrap for anyone who wants to navigate through this space.

Food and raw ingredients sit in their boxes, some wilted, other visibly rotting and off-colored. There's a hefty amount of food here lining the wire racks from floor to ceiling where an industrial fan continues to spin loudly.

Looking around and tapping his feet against the floor for any sounds or signs of trap doors, he could find nothing out of the ordinary among the steely walls and tiles.

The other walk-in freezers are similar. Nothing of interest or suspicious (beside the floating tuna fish whose dead eye stares at him from beyond it's cryogenic prison).

In the last freezer, just as he is about to leave, something catches his eye in the corner of the freezer and Hanzo does a double-take, nearly stepping straight into an unfortunate pile of some reddish, chunky sauce which has long lost its aroma in his haste.

Miso.

...there's miso in here. Not just one type, but several small containers of it, the name and brand labelled in Japanese: white miso, red miso, yellow miso, and more from different regions in Japan like Yamanashi and Nagoya.

What are they doing here?

The contents of the transparent containers seem untouched. Were you planning on cooking with them?

What would that be for other than Japanese food? Why so much if you were going to make anything at all? Surely you didn't know how to use them all.

Maybe, he thinks, maybe you bought them long ago and left them to rot—ferment—like miso does.

The expiration dates stamped onto each container says otherwise, too far out in the future to have been an old purchase. You were planning on using this.

He dares not let himself hope it could've been for him. It had to be for the team. There’s just too much of it., yet each container is small. You must have just been waiting to experiment.

It could be for Genji.

A sinister voice in the back of his head reminds him harshly that Genji cannot eat. Another whispers that awful reminder: it's all Hanzo's fault.

He shakes his head, backing out of the freezer with less finesse than before. He can't afford to speculate on something so silly. It's just miso. There could be hundreds of foods that use miso and many reasons that does not involve himself or Genji. There had to be.

But somehow, it didn’t feel as convincing as he would like it to be.

Ignoring that thought, he searches the rest of the kitchen with Soldier dallying in the background. Maybe having been at the top of the food chain puts these sorts of activities beneath the great ex-Strike Commander.

However, no matter how he looks, there doesn't seem to be anyone else around. The rubber mats on the ground hide the footprints Hanzo would've needed to determine the exact number of people in this room (except Zenyatta). He mentally maps out the markings on each counter, the dents, the skid marks, discarded equipment—everything he can to piece together a moving picture of each strike and attack that had taken place until he can determine that yes, it seems that everyone in this room had been accounted for.

The final piece of the puzzle is the Cellar door.

It seems as sturdy and unyielding as when he first encountered it that fateful night he discovered you were—are—so painfully human and learned the hard way that you did not allow trespassing without a semblance of a fight.

The only clues he has are the obvious dried blood on the hand scanner and the faint dents of the ammunition fired against the door. He runs a hand over the ones near head-height, the divots smooth and dusty except for one which is singed with something dark. He rubs his fingers together.

Just how much firepower could this door withstand? What is it made of? What could be so important that this door was made to withstand even a barrage of bullets and pulse munitions?

The smear of a handprint, fingers pointed downward.

At the bottom of the door, blood pools in a thin line as though trying to get in. Hanzo crouches down to get a better look. There is a trail beneath the holes of the rubber mats, but nothing substantial enough to indicate it was swept down from the floor itself. It had to have come from directly above.

"This blood is…?"

"The chef's," Soldier says matter-of-factly. "As you probably guessed, the door has a hydrophobic coating. The scanner is the only thing that doesn't. Must've worn off over the years."

The scene in his mind becomes clearer.

Talon likely injured you and you stumbled back, leaving behind a trail that seeped in through the floor mats. Your clutched at the wound, and then held your hand out to activate the scanner. Talon continued to shoot. There are gouges near where your head might be. Someone had tried to get you in the head for an instant death, but clearly did not succeed. They may have gotten you once or twice before the door opened.

It is not likely any of them managed to come after you. You were still alive when he saw you, after all.

A now familiar grip on his stomach gives him pause.

You’re definitely still alive.

"I see."

“So, what’s your analysis?”

Hanzo glances over at Soldier: 76.

“...based on the facts, there does not seem to be more enemies. Though, given the number of Talon agents in our custody, I’m afraid that...they will not be handled adequately.”

Soldier gives a sharp nod. It's very likely he was just as uncomfortable sending Mei down to watch over Talon. “When Torbjörn and Symmetra arrive, we’ll have turrets available to monitor Talon. I also want Genji to get here and stay with Lúcio and Zenyatta just in case the chef is far more involved than we thought.”

Hanzo raises a thick eyebrow. “You have proof of Chef's involvement in this?"

“Talon came through the Cellar without a doubt. Who else has access to them?”

“The chefs.” Hanzo narrows his eyes dangerously at Soldier. “And you.”

“Nice try, Shimada,” Soldier says, not sounding the slightest bit amused but not overly angry either. “We're going down there to change that. It's for the chef's own good. And ours.”

"You've already done the chef harm based on the conversation before."

"...it wasn't intentional."

"Hard to believe anything you do is not intentional, Jack." Fareeha steps in through the doors, quietly holding them back from making noise. She’s not in her usual gear—no hover jets or rocket launchers. Instead, she's in fatigues and a sturdy vest, a stern look decorating her face.

The thickest part of Soldier's neck quakes like he wants to turn away, but forced himself to be still and face Fareeha.

"Good, you've made it. We can finally get started."

He tosses her an earpiece and she snatches it out of the air with ease, giving it a similar check before putting it on. "So, what's the plan?" she asks, unconcerned with the fact Soldier blew off her sarcasm.

"Tunnels need to be checked for Talon soldiers and any other surprises they might have left in there for us. I conducted a sweep before but I didn't find anything at the time."

"When did you get the chance to do a sweep?" Hanzo asks.

"Before tonight."

Fareeha waves him off. "So that information is useless then. Let's get in there and do a thorough check; leave no rock unturned. Has this kitchen been checked?"

Hanzo nods. "Thoroughly."

"Great." He could see her eye the kitchen as though itching to do it herself. The assassin and ex-clan head inside him is offended that his work would be doubted, but Hanzo understands the feeling of needing to check the work of others just to be sure. There have been cases where his subordinates have made very human mistakes that cost someone a finger here and there, and in other cases, a head. Cases like these should be handled like any other security incident: with several fine toothed combs.

"Fareeha, you'll be doing a security assessment while we're down there. Hanzo, you'll be the lookout."

"Obviously." Hanzo glances over at Fareeha. He doesn't remember her being so irritable before. It reminds him of McCree a little.

"Understood."

Briefly, they all go over the hand signs they plan on using and what to expect in the Cellar. Apparently the place is outdated with low ceilings and stone walls. Fareeha will likely be documenting any issues she finds and Hanzo will be constantly checking for traps and taking care of any enemies. Soldier will be supporting them both. Once everything was agreed upon, they all came face to face with the Cellar door.

"Good. Let's go.”

Soldier places his hand on the scanner, right over the dried blood. Hanzo can't help but wince internally, breath running short as the image collides with a memory where the panel is replaced by tatami.

As usual, the door beeps and slides open immediately, inviting everyone inside with a rush of air. Finally, the chance to see what is inside, but…

Hanzo says nothing as the three of them take their first steps inside. Hanzo's heart thuds loudly in his chest, picking up speed with every single step.

The tunnel goes straight down, sloping slightly. Long lights flicker above them. Wires cling tightly to the half-heartedly fortified walls at the very top corners, some sagging and hanging down, low enough for Hanzo to touch. The tunnel lacks the distinct cold, musty smell that most stone tunnels have. The air is not stale or overly humid either. He deduces there’s an air filtration and environmental control system somewhere, and if Athena isn't the one maintaining it, it has to be manual or done by some other AI.

Their pace is slow, careful.

However, not even a few meters in, Hanzo lingers, something on the ground catching his eye and his stomach plummets as he recognizes it for what it is.

Blood spatter.

"You don't look very enthusiastic, Shimada. Remembering the time Chef threw a tantrum at you?" Fareeha teases softly.

Hanzo’s head snaps up and he scowls. To her credit, she doesn't flinch or seem intimidated.

"..."

"Thought you would've wanted to look inside here. The bet with Jesse and all."

Unconsciously, his lip curls. "That is between us."

"Well, you better get moving if you're going to win. Doubt the cowboy made it this far. Ever."

"Less talking, more moving."

Fareeha and Hanzo simultaneously make a face at the man's back. He whips around as though in tune with their thoughts. Hanzo barely manages to return to a neutral expression in time and wonders if Soldier's reaction isn't due to extensive experience.

Still, he is begrudgingly grateful for his intervention. The bet is tertiary at best, the mission is first and foremost. To that end, his eyes drag across the ground while his ears listens for anything out of the ordinary.

The trailing blood spatter continues your story: you were stumbling backward, shoes stepping into the puddles you left behind, bumping against the wall a few times, the bleeding growing worse or bleeding through whatever was being used to stem it. Your hand, maybe. There are two sets of prints, one leading into the tunnel and a different set leading out. His first conclusion is Talon, but then it doesn't explain why they didn't finish you off or take you hostage.

You fell down, hand prints where you tried to catch yourself clear. Rested a while and let yourself bleed. Then you tried to drag yourself up with the wall, stumbling but determined until you fell again, dragging your hands down.

The story ends with an oddly shaped puddle, too large for the stay to have been short. It's here that Hanzo finds it hard to breathe, his heart having leapt into his throat and blocking all air and words. This is also where the second set of footprints begin. Whoever it was came from the opposite end of the tunnel.

"This where Chef was found?" Fareeha asks solemnly, kneeling beside the dried puddle.

Soldier nods, arms crossed. "Yeah."

There are things that Hanzo wished he never knew—Genji's first sexual encounter for one—and being able to deduce you were on the verge of shock based on the size of the stain is another. Perhaps you had already begun to slip into it when Soldier had retrieved you. You couldn't have been doing well and knowing just how close you were to the other side makes his stomach sink lower and lower. Were you still conscious then, gasping and fearing your mortality? Did you regret being involved as you felt your life drain away into the ground?

Beside the puddle is a glimmer of hope—a discarded biotic emitter, and he doesn't dare voice it but the weight that lifts off his chest upon seeing it is liberating.

Did you carry one on you and use it when you realized your life was draining away?

Before Hanzo gets a chance to take a closer look, Soldier snatches it up from the ground and stuffs it into his pocket.

"We'll get Mercy to recycle these."

Faint boot marks that look like they stopped to face you. Someone knelt down beside the blood. Maybe it was from when Soldier came to fetch you. It only made sense.

Either way, you were still breathing when you were found. You were receiving treatment. You…

You had already lost too much blood.

And the blood stain on stone then overlaps again with tatami.

He pulls in a sharp breath, shakes his head, teeth clenched tight to stem the churning in his stomach. You’re with Zenyatta and Lúcio. Two of the most soft-hearted people—beings—on the base. They won’t let you die even if you were on the very verge of death.

He forces himself to exhale. Guilty or not, they won’t let that happen.

Soldier turns his back to them. "We should get going."

Eventually the tunnel walls are no longer fortified by steel; instead they’re back to stone and doors are carved into them. Old fashioned wooden ones with the knobs, barely able to withstand a kick. Soldier signals both Fareeha and Hanzo who press themselves against the walls.

All nearly identical and some marked with number signs, nothing to indicate what could be inside. At Soldier’s signal, Hanzo fires off a sonic arrow which lodges itself into a door frame.

There’s no sign of life or a reaction from any of the rooms the sonic waves can reach, and he gestures back such.

They’ll have to look into them one by one, just in case.

Soldier takes the nearest door on the left, Hanzo takes the door on the right while Fareeha keeps watch on the tunnels, ready to provide backup and noting any security issues.

Hanzo's room looks like a storage room. Tall racks on wheels and spare kitchen equipment, all caked in a sheet of dust. Nothing interesting here or anything to indicate someone ever entered this room recently.

“All clear,” grumbles Soldier through the earpiece.

“No intruders found,” Hanzo responds back.

They both leave their respective rooms and continue down the hall just like that, one by one, going through doors.

Eventually, Hanzo finds himself in what seems to be an office or document room too small and jam-packed with stuff to harbor any actual criminals. The humming of an air vent is loud here. On a wall of glass were words, unintelligible and, when Hanzo runs a finger through them, they do not smear or budge. He can barely make out words like 'glace' and 'framboise'.

Old fashioned books that had withstood the test of time lined the uneven shelves drilled into the stone walls and were strewn about the room. Some were even opened, enticing Hanzo to read their contents.

To his disappointment, they are just cookbooks. Recipes written in a language that looked like it could be French. The other books have are similar but in different languages and with varying amounts of now faded, but still delectable-looking pictures caked in dust.

In the side of the room, behind a tall shelf, there is a computer, however.

As he approaches, two things stand out:

One: the area around it was used more recently than the rest of the room.

Two: the computer is still on.

Hanzo raises a hand to his ear, never taking his eyes off the power button, breath coming up short. “Pharah. I have found a computer. It's still on."

“Great. That might be just what we're looking for. Standby.”

He waits, not paying any attention to the banter that started between Fareeha and Soldier in his ear.

Was it you? Sitting alone in this room and tunnel, facing a computer doing whatever it is you were doing? Or was it Talon who sat here, stealing data from a machine that looks like it is ten years out of date?

Slowly, he approaches the desk, eyeing all the scattered papers that added to the mess. They were small rectangular papers, the top edges torn and the lines filled with near illegible scribbles.

It seems that whoever wanted to protect this terminal forgot the number one rule of security: never write your passwords anywhere. Instead, there’s a little note with the words “username” and “password” clearly written. For a place with such a sophisticated door guarding it, everything else in here is ridiculously shabby. Whatever fool designed this place must have assumed the Cellar door would solve all their security problems.

Hanzo rolls his eyes. Not that it would’ve stopped him regardless, but this was just sloppy.

Before he can do anything with the information, the door swings open and Fareeha comes in, signalling for him to switch with her.

He debates asking to stay but knows when to concede; computers just aren’t his expertise. Besides, everyone has their role, so he stands guard outside, watching as Soldier walks into another room on the opposite side of the hall.

It takes some time, but Fareeha is back, a scowl on her face as she turns around and marks an inconspicuous place on the door frame with a sticker of sorts, probably for later identification.

“What did you find?”

“It looks like this controls a few places here like the HVAC system, but not everything. Judging by the traffic, there's a few more endpoints on the same network, different VLANs.”

“Meaning?”

“We got ourselves a lot of work to do." She shakes her head and pulls out her communicator.

"Athena.”

“Yes, ho—may I a—ist?” She frowns, raising it up for better signal.

"Athena."

"..."

“We’re in too deep, I think.” Fareeha waves a hand at the walls surrounding them. “The rock and whatever else is here is messing with the signals. We'll have to run a line here after we secure the area."

From across the hall, Soldier comes out from the room he was inspecting and shakes his head. Nothing.

Hanzo can't say he's disappointed with the results, but it is underwhelming. There are only two more rooms, bathrooms with multiple stalls and showers and lockers. Nothing exciting.

If Soldier has found anything more interesting, he says nothing of it.

Further along, the path splits into another few parts, but even after investigating, they still came up empty-handed. Dead-ends and more storage rooms. There was even something that looked like a common area, equipped with well-worn couches and tables and even a water cooler.

It feels strangely voyeuristic as they move from room to room, like he’s peering into your personal life and history.

But if you used these facilities, it would be no surprise he never saw you leave the kitchen; you have all you need here.

Seeing all this, however, deep in a tunnel away from anyone’s knowledge and prying eyes, your existence seems even lonelier than before. He can’t say why, but knowing all this brings an ache to his chest.

He takes back what he says about the cafeteria and kitchen being a sanctuary.

It’s a prison.

Your prison.

With yourself and the past as the guards.

Prisons are meant to keep people in, but in your case, perhaps it was to keep everyone else out?

The realization nearly bowls him over.

Maybe he has been misinterpreting your isolation. What if he sees this from a different angle? What if you were trying to keep your contact with the other agents as scarce as possible, put up a literal and figurative wall between you and them, kept the kitchen as pristine as it is in the hopes that when your other fellow chefs returned, they’d be returning to something familiar?

That would explain so many things. It would explain your discomfort in asserting your own rules even in a space that you would be considered the master of. It would explain why you never ate with them despite your excuses. Your isolation, self-imposed, is all preparation for when you are no longer needed.

You’re hoping to fade back into the background when the Head Chef—if he’s even alive—returns.

The realization settles heavily in his stomach, holding back his pace and his mind scatters, plunged into a white noise.

What would the Watchpoint do without you?

Sure, he's always thought of a chef as dispensable and a luxury that the current Overwatch cannot afford, but after suffering through takeout and MREs, he doesn't know if he wants that anymore.

Having a taste of that luxury, of homemade meals and warm drink whenever he wants, has spoiled him once more.

Hanzo barely manages to catch himself, nearly crashes into Soldier: 76 when he stops abruptly.

He's almost about to demand an explanation when he hears it: voices.

His stomach clenches, the anticipation of an ambush strums in his veins. Finally.

All of them take their positions seamlessly, directed by Soldier's silent orders. Creeping toward the source of the echoing voices, they find themselves at another crossroads. Hanzo grabs at another sonic arrow and moves in front of Soldier, slipping just slightly past the mouth of the room to take aim at anything other than rocks or metal.

But then, he catches a glimpse of their mystery guests.

Releasing the pull of his bow and his breath, he lowers his weapon, annoyed.

“Junkers.”

Junkrat jumps into the air, clearly startled and not expecting anyone but themselves. Roadhog doesn't even react.

“Heya! What's you lot doin’ here?” He points at them accusingly as everyone files out from their hiding spots.

“What are you doing here?”

Fareeha grunts in what seems to be disgust, waving a hand in some vague direction. “You blew a hole somewhere in the Siege Tunnels, didn't you?”

Junkrat can only laugh nervously, poking his index fingers together, looking the most sheepish he's ever been, bare shoulders the slightest bit pink (though that could just be the lighting of the place).

Soldier looks like he's barely holding himself back from decking the Junker across the face.

"What are you doing here?"

"Ehehe, well, mate. We—ah, what's it again, Roadie?—oh yeah, makin' ourselves a home!"

"...at home."

"Right you are! At home!"

In unison, Soldier's, Fareeha's, and Hanzo's face fall into a skeptical deadpan.

"In the tunnels?"

"Is just like the Outback."

"Hiding what you're doing?"

"Just like home."

"Trespassing and blowing things up?"

"Whad' I tell ya?” Junkrat stretches out his arms, presenting the gate behind them. “Home sweet home."

Behind the Junkers is certainly a room protected by a large man-made wall. It’s dome-shaped and white, the stark contrast so strange, Hanzo wonders why he never saw it before.

At the base is a segmented gate, large enough for a vehicle to go through. On the very edge are doors, probably for people. The door itself looks like it’s seen better days, flowers of black marring the white paint all around its edges and barely hanging onto its hinges, propped closed by a shovel, of all things.

Is this where they've been hiding this whole time?

Annoyed that they were able to go into the Cellars before him, he grinds his teeth together.

They are likely covering up the treasure, coveted it for themselves. Probably already sold it off for a shiny credit. If there was alcohol in there, Hanzo has no doubt that they probably drank it all, leaving nothing for them.

There goes his bet with McCree. (A small voice in the back of his head wonders if he can't just buy some and pretend it was found in the Cellar; it's not like the cowboy had ever made it down here. He would hardly know the difference. But the deal was to split the alcohol—hardly worth it if Hanzo had to pay for it all.)

Soldier takes a few steps forward as does Fareeha, but Roadhog is quick to move in their way, using his bulk to protect most of the choke point between room and tunnel.

"Do you mind?” Fareeha asks.

Ever the silent wall, Roadhog only stares down at her, daring her to do something.

Soldier opts for a different tactic. “We’re here to check for Talon. The Watchpoint got attacked. Seen any of them?”

Junkrat vehemently shakes his head, waving his arms, but that does not assure any of them in the slightest.

“Nope, just us!”

“You're sure about that?”

“Ey! Have I ever lied t—”

“Just us,” Roadhog insists. To punctuate this point, he taps on his shotgun, gripping it by the handle.

It seems that no one would be able to pass so long as they were there.

Soldier, Fareeha, and Hanzo look at each other, a silent conversation held between them.

Fareeha straightens herself up, refusing to be dwarfed by either Junker. "Fine. We'll be going. But if there's anyone—"

"Just. Us."

Roadhog stands just a little taller to lord his height over everyone else and Junkrat scrambles to follow suit, not quite managing to pull himself out of the near permanent hunch he's gotten himself into, but he tries nonetheless to look intimidating.

The standoff drags on for several moments, neither side budging.

They silently agree they'll come back when neither of the Junkers are here.

They can hear the echoes of the Junker’s conversation—

“’s a close one, right, Roadie?”

“Hrmph. Work.”—and the sound of a door opening and closing.

The journey through the remaining of the tunnel is short; there isn’t much left and Hanzo's beginning to think they'd never find any signs of Talon or evidence that they came through here.

Fareeha glances backward, past Hanzo’s shoulder and the bend. "Are you sure it’s okay to leave them alone, Jack?"

He shrugs one tense shoulder. “I doubt Talon would be with them. Or have anywhere to hide in there.”

“So you know what’s inside?”

It takes a moment for him to answer but he only replies, “Never been."

The answer grates on Hanzo’s nerves harder than expected. Knowing now who Soldier: 76 really is, the space in between his lines only seem wider. But he holds his tongue, deciding there’s no point in stirring a pot that he doesn’t know the depth of.

Eventually, the tunnel leads to a room with mismatching stone walls that look like parts of it has been excavated and modified, tables, chairs, metal shelves, and hand trucks stacked up against the side of the room, bright lights hanging from the ceiling where a ring of metal is embedded, creating a gateway into a room above. Directly below the ring is a truck with a familiar logo on its side: a heart with green scales, each one fading from a darker to a lighter green.

Hanzo squints at it, sifting through his memory. He knows he's seen this more than once. Soldier stops them before they all make it into the room, gesturing for Hanzo to make a move.

It takes only a few moments for him to fire off another arrow, confirming there is nothing resembling a person or omnic lying in wait.

Fareeha wastes no time, already taking pictures, documenting it and everything else around the vehicle. Hanzo doesn't even manage to take a step before Soldier's arm shoots out, stopping him in his tracks.

"Stay back. Let her do her assessment," Soldier orders. The two of them hang back, the itch of inactivity settling into Hanzo's skin almost immediately. Each of Fareeha's movements seem to have slowed to an unbearable crawl, her inspections too slow and too thorough.

Patience. He needs patience.

There's a tense moment when Fareeha gets to the back of the truck. Her hand rests on the handle and she gives Soldier a very hard and meaningful look, one that conveyed a message Hanzo couldn't hope to decipher before the sound of a lock echoed in the chamber and the rhythmic clacking of the door sliding up counts down the potential bite of a deadly trap.

Clack, clack, clack, click.

The door rises up fully and silence reigns over them. Shining a light into the interior of the truck, Fareeha disappears for a moment, the truck visibly sagging beneath the added weight before springing back up.

Relief comes when Fareeha gives the all-clear signal, allowing the two men to approach and do their own investigation.

Hanzo checks the front seats, immediately noticing the pile of clothes on the passenger's seat, almost thrown there haphazardly along with a courier's cap. The color is familiar, too, and cautiously, he opens the door, a watchful eye for hidden wires or other traps.

There are none, luckily. Instead, he ends up holding up the shirt that's been discarded haphazardly onto the seat like whoever took it off was in a rush. On the arm of the shirt is the exact same logo as the side of the truck. Was it yours? The size seems just about right, and you definitely wore a similar uniform when he first saw you in person—as a person—maneuvering through the kitchen and challenging him with those angry, unerring eyes.

What is your connection to this logo?

“Do you think this belongs to Chef?”

“Most likely. I can't imagine Chef being able to leave Gibraltar wearing the Overwatch uniform."

Fareeha's joke falls a little flat, but it still elicits an amusing image of yourself strutting around Gibraltar, advertising Overwatch's return with your apparel.

The possibilities run through his brain, each nearly landing on identical solutions: you're a traitor. And McCree is not as clever or in-the-know as he may think.

"Found something."

Both Fareeha and Hanzo rush over. In between Soldier's fingers is a small device barely larger than a fingernail.

Inhaling a sharp breath, Hanzo hisses, "Tracker."

It's a sobering piece of evidence that perhaps you were only a victim and used for your connection to Overwatch. Chances are you never told Talon about this tunnel or they didn't trust you and planted the tracker without your knowing.

"Under this truck. This type of adhesive meant it was temporary. Whoever put this here just needed to track this vehicle long enough to get the general path."

"Talon?"

"Likely. But this looks too commercial." Soldier flips it over, holding it up to the dim lights. "Not a lot of dust. Either it's newly installed or…"

"The truck hasn't been driven much," Fareeha finishes, crouched by the vehicle in question, doing her own checks. "Hard to tell since this dust and dirt is old. If we get this truck into the base, Athena can analyze its data and maybe find out from its inbuilt GPS what it's used for. But..."

Hanzo shakes his head. "It's too risky."

"Right. If the tracker really is Talon's work, who knows what other presents they could have added."

They all unanimously agree to leave the truck alone for now lest they find out the hard way the entire thing is rigged to explode. The tracker itself gets stuffed into a special pouch Fareeha has brought and placed carefully on her person.

The room itself yields nothing else out of the ordinary or interesting other than the work bench where tools of different sorts are mounted and a closet so chock full of equipment, Fareeha barely managed to close the doors before it all came toppling down on her. (They were more careful about what they touched from then on.)

Finally, they turn their attention to the lift, slightly out of date with a round hoverpad on the ground and a single terminal. All three of them look at each other and nod wordlessly.

They all board, pressing themselves as close to the edge as possible. There’s only two levels: up and down. Down does not produce anything, so up it is. As soon as the button is pressed, blue hard light comes up around them, stopping just past waist level, and the lift begins to move.

Hanzo breathes slowly, arrow nocked and ready. The gate above them slowly opens up and immediately, Hanzo’s arrow flies out into an arch, hitting the floor immediately above.

There’s mere seconds left.

The signals from the sonic arrow flood the area.

To his surprise and relief, Hanzo signals there’s nothing, but nocks the next arrow just in case.

Slowly, the lift comes to a halt. A gentle 'ding' lets them know they’ve reached their destination, the force field around the elevator sinks back down into the ground.

Nothing.

It's the darkness of the night, the quiet of nature that greets them. Hanzo’s heart knocks against his ears. Cautiously, they all step off the lift and Hanzo retrieves his arrow.

It's a garage of sorts. Small enough to house two trucks, but little else. Even more baffling is the lack of anything in this place. Soldier: 76 braves shining a dim light around. Everything looks ordinary by all accounts. Except for two muted glints.

Hanzo signals to the others. "Cameras. By the doors."

They were hard to see in this darkness, but even without it, they were well hidden in the architecture of the beams that crossed right above them.

If there were cameras, that means they had to have footage of what occurred last night.

Fareeha signals them both, crouching by the only door leading out of this place, peeking out from a sliver.

"All clear...there's no sign of omnics or humans around us," she says after a few moments, glancing at the device around her wrist. “GPS tells us we're close to the border to Spain.”

“We’re close to the Watchpoint then.”

“Is this all then?”

“There weren’t any other paths we could’ve taken except the one where the Junkers were.”

While Soldier and Fareeha speculate, Hanzo slips into his own thoughts for a moment. Is that all there is to it? You risked everything to protect a tunnel not even a five minute drive from the Watchpoint? A stupid tunnel?

He inhales sharply and breathes out as slow as he can, trying to stem the rising heat inside. Briefly, he pinches the bridge of his nose.

No. There’s still the possibility of the Junkers hiding what you’ve been protecting. There’s a possibility that you were angry that your cooperation with Talon would be discovered.

Even with all the clues at hand, he can’t piece together the entire picture. Are you guilty or are you an innocent victim?

All of that remains unanswered.

“Hanzo, get into position, we’re opening the door.”

That snaps him out of his thoughts easily enough. Right, he still had a mission to do.

Bravely, Fareeha presses a button on the side of the door. Groaning and creaking, the sheet of metal slowly rolls up, allowing the three Overwatch agents to take their first steps outside where the city lights of Gibraltar glitter at them and the sun wavers out of sight.

The air is crisp for once and wraps around Hanzo, caressing his face. Hanzo breathes in deeply, drinking in the sight of the city and the horizon where the dusk skies pull in the night and its stars.

It’s beautiful, relaxing in a way that makes the last few hours feel surreal; a stark reminder that life goes on and cares very little about the minute details of anyone's life. It makes him and his troubles feel so infinitesimally small.

—

Their return is even less exciting than their departure. They go back the same way they came, finding nothing new or of interest while Fareeha locks up doors and gates behind them with some of the gear on her person. Briefly, they debate going back to check on the Junkers—maybe they’re not there and can actually determine for themselves if there truly are any enemies around—but they decide against it in the end. It’s a foolish move, but it would be even more so to incur the wrath of the two biggest wildcards in their team.

Though, the biggest surprise when they return at the number of turrets that immediately swivel at them from the very edge of the Cellar door when they step out.

“Vaswani’s been busy, I see.”

They don't have a lot of time to admire the handiwork; Athena calls them all for another meeting. Despite the attendance, there is still no sign of Genji or Mercy.

Winston, looking a little like he is about to fall asleep on his feet, announces, "Thank you everyone for all your work today. Now that we are together, we can now share what we have discovered. McCree, I’d like to being with you, if you would."

“Y’ got it," McCree says from his holovideo, still apparently down with their prisoners. Though strangely enough, the number of Talon agents seem to have diminished.

“Here’s what we know.

“Talon’s been planning this attack for a while. No idea who gave the orders or what they were really after, but we do know they’ve been skulkin' 'round these parts for weeks.

“They finally went after someone named ‘Tanuja S. Deshmukh’, former Overwatch.”

Winston tests the name in his mouth quietly as do some of the other agents, but McCree presses on.

“Singh gave up intel that Chef’s been heading between here ‘n’ there in exchange for immunity.” Something bitter tinges McCree’s voice, but it’s overshadowed by his grave professionalism. “Talon’s been tailin’ Chef and found out ‘bout the tunnels.

“Chef was just at the wrong place at the wrong time and walked in on ‘em right as they were strategizin’. ‘Cause surveillance in the kitchen was turned off, Athena didn’t know ‘til it was too late.”

A flood of refreshing relief washes over Hanzo. You weren't involved. It was an accident. You never tried to betray or take advantage of them. But the relief is short lived, engulfed by an undercurrent of guilt and disgust. This is Overwatch, where people trusted and believed in each other. Yet here he is, having doubted your intentions even as you lay injured upstairs, taking bullets and spilling blood meant for people like himself.

"Athena, who is Tanuja Deshmukh?" Winston asks, seemingly unable to come up with an answer.

A pause.

"Tanuja Singh Deshmukh. Former Overwatch Operational Department, Field Logistics division."

"The Field Logistics division?"

"They're in charge of making sure supplies get to the front lines and negotiating with vendors, land owners, and ensuring services and goods have been appropriately delivered."

"Glorified mailpeoples," Torbjörn mutters darkly.

"Right," says Winston slowly, pointedly ignoring the comment. "Now where is that communicator?"

"According to our records, it has been in Gibraltar for the past several years."

From her screen, Mei seems to be with McCree still. "I'm surprised she didn't answer Recall. What could this person have to do with Chef?"

"Their communicators seem to have been in close proximity. We can conclude both the chef and Tanuja know each other."

"They knew each other? Oh, I guess they must have if..."

Reinhardt butts in. "Ah, but all chefs knew everyone. Always greeted me by name and knew how I liked my eggs!"

"They knew you, big guy!" McCree retorts lightly.

Zarya crosses her massive arms, glaring down at the screen, "We should find this person, bring here, and ask questions. Convince this Tanuja to talk."

"Whoa, there, partner. S'much as I'd like to dispense some good ol' fashion justice, don't think that's the right approach this time."

Fareeha snorts. "That's rich coming from you, Jesse."

He holds up his hands. "All I'm sayin' is that there's different priorities right now. Chef's with us now and ain't goin' nowhere. 'sides, Chef probably don't want to see the face of the person who sold 'em out. So I vote we focus on securin’ our blind spot t' keep Talon out and t' keep Chef from looking for revenge. How’s that goin’, ‘reeha?”

She nods sharply. “There’s a lot of work to be done, starting with connecting Athena’s network with the standalone ones in the kitchen and back, but we should be done in four days given that we have the supplies."

"So the Cellar was controlled through a separate network," Winston muses. "We knew that was the case, but the extent of its scope is still not yet known to us."

"We're not 100% sure if everything it controls without getting a network topology, but that shouldn't be too difficult to figure out." She tilts her head toward the ceiling. "Athena? We will need you to visualize a topology once the connections have been made."

The AI takes a few moments to respond. "...while that is indeed possible, I would like to inform the chef of these proceedings."

"Are we still on that? Chefs are not equipped to decide on security matters! They cook! That's it! No further discussion."

A flash of irritation strikes Hanzo straight in the gut. How dare she.

"I understand. I merely wish to keep Chef informed."

It's strange to think that a faceless AI has more compassion and a desire to protect a promise to you than anyone else here does. But Fareeha isn't wrong either despite the irksome way she speaks of you as though this is entirely your fault. You have been temporarily cleared of blame, but there are still many questions that require your cooperation to answer before anyone can make a judgement call.

“Fine. But Chef doesn’t get to make decisions about it.”

Reluctantly, Winston agrees. “Right. We will be...making an executive decision. All security matters will be handled by Pharah and approved by myself.”

“Hmph. Can’t wait to see this,” Torbjörn mutters, a sly smile on his face.

"Back to the point. Once we have a topology, we can then begin to make the necessary changes to the network and protect it. The computer the chefs were using doesn’t have the right security updates on it and needs to be locked down. Additionally, we found the other end of the Cellar. There was an abandoned truck and a lift to an abandoned garage. We’ll need at least two people to guard it until we can put the right defenses there.”

“Interesting. Please give the coordinates and we’ll see if we can find who the building is registered to.”

The Helix agent's face turns dark. “We also found the Junkers in a part of Cellar.”

Winston groans. “What are they doing there?”

“They apparently found something interesting and didn’t let us through. They insist Talon isn’t there with them but we need to be sure.”

“I see. I’ll...have to have a word with them, it seems.”

"Feh, you'll need a lot more than just words," Torbjörn grumbles. Hanzo is inclined to agree—they didn't seem like they wanted to leave for any reason; only a whole arsenal of Ana's tranquilizers would be able to put a dent in them. "Sounds like they found the Head Chef's project, though," Torbjörn continues. "Loads of scrap went into that thing and I don't think the chef's ever really knew just what it could do. Chances are those Junkers'll do better. Who knows."

“What project?” Hanzo asks faster than he could stop himself.

Torbjörn waves him off. “Nothing you’ll be interested in, that’s for sure.”

"That is for myself to decide."

"Yeah? And I decided it was none of your business."

Anger swoops down on Hanzo and he only manages to lean forward, a scorching retort at the ready before Winston steps in and demands that the meeting remain on topic and to take any bickering outside. They both grumble but acquiesce.

Beyond that, the meeting focused on securing their base of operations and next steps for handling Talon. (Someone even jokingly asked that the kitchen get fixed first so you wouldn't have a fit, but no one was particularly amused by the suggestion.) It's risky to keep Talon here, but they couldn't just give them back either. Shifts for watching over them was decided and next steps required Soldier—now openly referred to as Jack (and not in a particularly nice way by some), Ana, and Winston.

Winston told everyone to break for dinner; more instructions will come in the morning.

Among all the excitement, Hanzo had forgotten he was hungry at all. It only serves to remind him that the reason they're in this mess is because of you (and for you).

Hanzo pauses at the fork in the hall looking down the one to his right, the medical bay. No one had emerged from that area yet to disclose the news of your wellbeing to anyone.

He shouldn't go down that way, he has no right, especially not after considering even for a moment that you were complacent in Talon's schemes. You were just a pawn. An innocent victim.

The more he thinks of it, the more the hall seems to stretch, running away from him and expanding the distance. Further and further away.

Until the sound of heavy footsteps cut through his illusions and Lúcio appears, crossing the hall in absolutely no time, making a joke of the imagined distance Hanzo put between himself and you.

“Hey, Hanzo. What’s up with you?”

“How the chef?” he blurts out, a little mortified but unwilling to take it back.

Lúcio wipes his hands, a persistent grimace on his face that he can't hide even when he forces a smile.

"Chef's gonna do great. Mercy really came in with the clutch, handled the surgery remotely, going in and out and zap!" His smile fades a little and Hanzo's stomach plunges miles below hit feet. "Though, it was a little rough. Some wounds were starting to heal over and we had to actually...make more cuts and redo the injuries and a bit of intestine had to get taken out. Won't be eating any of that for a while. Ugh."

Hanzo pointedly ignores the intestines comment.

"Is…" He swallows, suddenly nervous and tries to not blink too many times or breathe too deep. "Is Chef able to receive visitors?"

Lúcio's brief grimace lands heavily against his chest. "Sorry, Hanzo. Mercy says not yet. We should let Chef rest for a bit. Or a long bit. Long, long while. Some good old peace and quiet will go a long way…” There is something unspoken behind his words that sound suspiciously like ‘I hope’, and Hanzo hopes so too.

It’d be an insult if you died at the hands of the very enemies they’ve all been fighting against. Even with Talon in their custody, it would still feel like they won if they took away your life.

"Whoa, Hanzo, you—you okay there man?"

Blinking away his thoughts, he regains his focus on Lúcio who has taken a step back.

"You were...lookin' kinda...feral there."

"No, I'm fine. I just, had a thought."

Immediately, Lúcio perks up, clapping his hands together. Likely an attempt to change the solemn mood. “Yeah? I also got one! What’s for dinner? I’m starving!”

Even with Lúcio leading him down the hall, he could not help but look back at the long stretch of the medical ward where, in one of those lonely rooms, you were laying, and how he’s once again walking away from another person he does not and cannot help.

Though the food is spread out in front of him, he doesn't have the appetite for it; the sauce transforming into the blood puddle in the tunnel, the taste drying up in his mouth. Hanzo polishes it off quickly, forcing himself not to think of how unsatisfying it is or just how odd the texture of the meat is.

No one talks to him and he likes that just fine. Everyone else seems to be locked in their own heads, most just taking their meals with them to do whatever work they were assigned, the air practically humming with tension.

There is much to process and even after a quick shower, he has not untangled the mess of information from today.

He sinks into his bed, the excitement and revelations finally descending upon him like a mudslide in his moments of solitude. The facts and opinions are difficult to sort. You’re innocent. The cynical side of him feels justified in accusing you—you’re always putting up a wall between yourself and the other agents, your behavior is too suspicious. But another part of him that he thought dead asks for rationality—you’re too softhearted and tied too deeply to your past.

It’s probably your softheartedness that got you into your current situation, and his gut clenches with a heat that could be anger and irritation. How could you get yourself so injured to let yourself get protected by the Cellar instead of protecting it?

Most of the mystery of the Cellar has already been solved. It’s not as exciting as Hanzo expected it to be, but it is definitely not what he expected. Though, the chances of a ‘treasure’ still had to exist in the white, dome shaped gate that the Junkers have made their home. That looked like it could be hiding something good, and he can’t even get a hint as to what it could be—the Junkers liked anything and everything.

Then there was McCree and his secrets, Soldier and his, you and yours.

A drink or eight would be the perfect distraction from this, but as much as he wants to, the memory of having made an absolute fool of himself adds to the weight of today, and he decides against it, letting all of his thoughts smother him into an uncomfortable sleep.

There is much to do.

Chapter 16>>

[secretiveauthor]

4.4- Sleep in Abandoned Car

She decided to sleep in the abandoned car

=============== 

“I guess it’s the car then...“ Athena wasn’t very fond of the idea, but she’d choose it over the Abandoned house without a doubt. Walking to where the fence entrance was, she realized she would have to push her way through to get to the other side. It was more like a gated small parking lot. Nonetheless, it had something that could house her in for the night.

Athena wasn’t very strong but she still was able to house her strength. She was small, a 5′2, 25- year old working as a waitress at a nearby diner. Back in her high school days, she was an athlete. She did track and graduated top of her class. But all of that was years ago.

She got most of her interests from her father. Before he passed away when she was 17, she had always admired her father working in the DPD and how big and strong he was- not to forget smart as well. She wanted to be just like him. In College that all changed when Cyberlife kept coming out with new versions of androids. Athena was so fascinated by the idea provided by Elijah Kamski, that, Athena decided she wanted to become a mechanical engineer.

So she worked hard and managed to graduate top, valedictorian just like her father and Hank had done. Not wanting to dwell on the past anymore, she did one final push before making it to the other side. Athena quietly closed the gate behind her and took a look around. The small house light shining on the abandoned car- seeing the passengers side with a broken window, as well as the car hood, being fully exposed to the rain.

The area wasn’t small nor was it big. But it was big enough to house a car. The car itself had windows, or at least whatever was left of windows but Athena didn’t mind if a little water sprayed her here and there. Walking over to the broken down car, Athena reached over to open the back seat. It was the most reasonable spot, seeing how the windows were in tack.

The door was surprisingly unlocked, allowing Athena to craw in. A smile spread across her cheeks as she silently squealed. A subtle smell was emitting from the back seat. It smelt like cigarettes and ash, the aroma finding its way to Athena’s nose as she scrunched up at the smell. It brought her back to when Jonah would come home smelling like some type of drug. Red Ice to be exact.

Flashbacks played in Athena’s mind. The senseless beating. The screams and name-calling. It truly made Athena shudder in fright.

“It’s just for tonight...“ Athena told herself, wasting no time getting in the back seat. The seats weren’t rock hard, but they weren’t soft either. Closing the car door, Athena pushed herself all the way to behind the driver's seat, resting her back and head against the door frame. She let out a small sigh, hearing the soft rain patter against the hood of the car. It was somewhat calming to Athena. It relaxed her just a bit.

She saw something on the back of the car, just behind the back seat headrest. She reached up to grab it with her hands, the feeling of -soft- material. It was another jacket. She quickly discarded the one she was wearing, seeing how it was soaking wet from the rain and put the leather jacket on her naked arms. The feeling of new warmth spread through her upper body, leaving Athena to let out a satisfied sigh.

She made her way down to the seats where she put her arms under her head as a pillow and brought her knees up to her chest. The smell of the old leather fabric didn’t bother Athena too, too much. It provided her warmth and that’s all she needed. 

She closes her eyes and dreams of a better place in her mind where everything was peaceful and free.

===============

November 6, 2038

10:25 AM

===============

Athena’s eyes cracked open at the dawn of sunlight coming through the windows. It was early and to Athena’s surprised she felt well-rested despite what had happened last night. She figured the cops were already on her tail so she decided to make a move before anything could escalate.

Crawling out of the car, she took a look around. To her dismay, she could see police officers surrounding the main area where she had been.

“Shit...“ Athena’s eyes scanned the area, seeing policemen litter every corner, trying to search for her. Or so she thought. With this many police officers looking for just one girl? Jesus, it was just a small murder not a threat to the entire state. Athena figured that there had to be more than that.

Coming out from the little area where she slept, she put on her hood and put her hands in the pocket. From as far as her eyes can see, she did spot one familiar-looking man. God, its been years since she’s last seen him. The last time she saw him was when Athena was going off to college. She did take a gap year to deal with her father's death -at 17- before getting back on her feet and getting her degree in Mechanical engineering...

During the day time, there were a lot more people that were out and about so Athena thought it would be easy enough to blend in with the crowd. Hide in plain sight is what she learned from an Assassin’s Creed game a long time ago.

Crossing the street, Athena kept her head low, hearing the officers talk about where she could have gone... As well as other people who were in the area too. Athena felt her heart rate increased, the feeling of anxiety and adrenaline surge through her body as she was coming up on a couple of police officers.

As Lieutenant Hank Anderson and his partner, Connor, were walking around the area, Connor noticed something suspicious. Say she wouldn’t get too far but with this many people around walking in the area, it could be an easy escape to blend in and get to their destination. That’s when Connor scanned the area and saw how far away the nearest train station was. 273 meters. She shouldn’t get far.

“Lieutenant, you wouldn’t think she would hide in plain sight, would you?“ Hank stopped talking to one of the officers and turned to Connor, barely hearing what he had said to him.

“The fuck you talking about?“

“If you wouldn’t want to be found in a public place, where would you hide?“ Connor turned his head to the crowds of people passing by and then looked back at Hank, seeing his face come to the realization of what he meant.

“Hide in plain sight... Shit... She could be any one of these people...”

Athena hurridly passed by the first set of officers, going shoulder to shoulder with the random people next to her. She was sure that they already know what they look like so she wasted no time in looking up at the sighs of where the train station was. Seeing a couple of officers coming her way, she quickly spotted a group of homeless people and squatted down in front of them. She made up a conversation with the group and heard the officers right behind her. 

She held her breath and hoped they wouldn’t notice her. Athena’s fashion attire blended well with the homeless so it was easy enough to see that the officers did not notice her on the ground.

The android watched her every move, slowly walking up to her and trailing her from behind.

After the officers walked right past her, she got up from her spot and moved on. She had failed to notice the walking android behind her, which is what the Android had hoped for. Athena was too caught up with trying not to be seen that she failed to even notice the android right on her tail. The android though of using a fake tactic to get her attention. Something believable and something to catch her off guard.

Athena then felt a tap on her shoulder.

“Excuse me, miss. You’ve seemed to have dropped something.“ Athena’s heart jumped when she heard the mans voice behind her. The gentle tap made her heart race, even more, the android detecting a high jump in her blood pressure and heart rate. He had her right where he wanted her.

“Oh- I’m sorry, you must have the wrong...“ Athena’s eyes traveled up and saw the blinking blue LED on the side of the man's forehead. Right then and there, Athena’s entire world had stopped. Her eyes widen as she had been caught red-handed trying to escape and run away from the person in front of her.

She pushed the android down and made a full run for it. The android fell on his back, letting out a grunt- even though he felt no pain from the fall.

“She’s here Lieutenant!“ He called out. Hank jogged over to Connor and grabbed his hand, helping Connor get back on his feet.

“What the hell are you waiting for, Connor!? Chase her goddamit!“ Hank wanted Athena no more than Connor wanted her. He needed to see his little girl again.

Athena pushed people out of the way, her hood falling off her head revealing the silky blond hair she had. It was easy enough to spot Athena from just her hair color. Connor had done the same, knocking people down to the ground and yelling at the officers to block any sorts of entrances to the street or to the train station.

Athena ran at full speed, turning into an alleyway, her eyes staring straight ahead as she saw a woman with a child with the exact same mindset as her. They were hoping the fence when Athena approached them. The woman had gotten down and held the child's hand in hers.

They both exchanged stares at each other. Athena could already hear footsteps approach her quickly. She quickly looks back and realizes that she wouldn’t even have enough time to climb the fence and escape. Instead, she decided to surrender herself and give the woman and her daughter enough time to escape and -hopefully- make it to the other side.

“Go.” Was all Athena said to her. The woman nodded-mentally thanking her- and took the little girl- possibly her daughter- by the hand, sliding down the dirt hill and at the edge of incoming traffic. Another police officer comes up, clocking his gun at Athena. The android from earlier puts a hand up to the officer and tells him not to shoot. 

Connor had just caught the two main people he needed for the investigation but one of them was on their way to escape while the other would be taken into custody for questioning.

Athena puts her hands up, watching the woman and her daughter cross the highway. She watched intensely, wanting to see if they would make it to the other side or become roadkill. She had hoped they would make it and live a free life. 

“Oh fuck, that's insane!“ Athena turned around as the tall android moved to her side. Hank pointed at her, the pure rage could be seen in his eyes but also  jubilation could be seen as well.

“Hank I-“

“Don’t you fuckin’ move.“ He cut her off. Hank was out of breath but the words he said were stern. It hurt Athena to hear him say those words with such hatred and emotion, but she knew this was his job. She thought he would be somewhat happy to see her, just as she is right now.

The android beside her had his hands gripped on the fence and was about to climb the fence but Hank grabbed his shoulder and pushed him back down.

“Hey! Where you goin’?“

“I can’t let them get away!“

“Connor- it’s not worth it! They’re already on the other side, you’ll never make it alive!“

“I can’t take that chance.“

“Hey, you will get yourself killed! Do NOT go after ‘em, Connor, that’s an order!“ Connor obeyed Hanks orders and backed down, giving up on chasing the woman and the little girl. Athena felt someone what prideful, knowing that she saved two people. But she was also envious of their escape as well. The policeman that pointed the gun at her, handcuffed her as they all watched what was happening down on the highway. 

The last thing Athena saw was the woman and the little girl had successfully made it across the highway, safe and sound and on their way to freedom.

===============

--> Continue

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[sofiahahaaa]

Demigod Delinquents | Pt. 8 | Percy and Mera become *Besties*

| MASTERLIST |

Summary: Percy kinda sorta pretty much spills the tea with Mera. And awhh he misses Annabeth! I miss her too. I like writing her scenes.

Rating: I don’t feel that there’s much to warn. Percy is shirtless? Ah, so scandalous... yeah, that’s it.

A/N: I know, I know, we just had Percy. But it was either Percy or Jason, and I didn’t have any good Jason ideas… so I went with Percy. Please don’t kill me. I love Jason and Leo, too, but Percy is a lot easier to write for, and he and Mera are going to have some more conversations like last chapter (oops, spoiler)... so I kinda need Percy for this one. Again, don’t kill me. Please?

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Percy’s POV ~

I lay awake in bed. 

Yard time had already started, but I didn’t feel like leaving. Besides, Jason had told me he would cover for me if anyone asked.

No human interaction. So unlike me.

I pretended I didn’t know why I was laying in bed instead of socializing. But I knew. It was because of the recurring nightmares. I wanted to get some restful sleep, but the nightmares came– and being awake was lonely without Annabeth. I wondered when I’d see her again.

I heard footsteps, and I sat up. Mera stood in the doorway, holding a plate of… blue cake? Blue food! Yes! “You didn’t come out.” She said calmly. I sighed.

"I can’t.” Mera raised an eyebrow in question.

“Well, I brought you a slice of blueberry cake. Jason told me you had somewhat of an obsession with blue food." I scratched the back of my neck.

“Um, yeah…" I got out of bed, only then remembering that I didn’t have a shirt on. She hid her eyes. I rolled my eyes. 

“Clothes? Do you know what sleeping in clothes is?" I snickered, reaching for my orange jumpsuit.

“Alright, I’m dressed. Now to the blue food.” Mera put a hand on her hips.

“Are you going to tell me why you didn’t come out?” She stared at me. I gulped.

“Sure." I took a deep breath, running a hand through my hair. "It’s because of the nightmares," I paused and looked at her. “You get them too, right?” 

She wouldn’t meet my eyes. 

“Me and my girlfriend, Annabeth– she’s amazing. You should meet her.– we fell into Tartarus. Ever since then, they’ve gotten worse. And this is the first time I’ve been so far away from her. It’s really hard to be away from her." Mera’s eyes widened. I chuckled. "Being awake is lonely and being asleep is scary. But– we’ve been fighting alongside each other since we were 12 years old… and separated I feel weak. I miss her so, so much.” 

“Tartarus? Are you serious?" I bobbed my head up and down. “Oh my gods.” She seemed speechless. Then she raised a finger, like she had just figured something out. “You weren’t in a prison before this, were you?” She shook her head. “No, no. You aren’t a delinquent, not on purpose at least." I bit my lip. I wanted to go on but I knew Jason would be upset.

"It’s true. But if you tell the others," I shook my head warningly. I decided to turn the tables. “Alright. Something’s bugging you.” She had an excellent poker face, but her eyes were too easily read. "I don’t know what it is, but I see the same face I have. You’re sad. And you only lose the look when you’re having fun with Keaton or Ari." I smiled. " It has to be about family, right?” It felt like a cartoon, where a light bulb suddenly turns on above your head.

“You are smarter than you look, Percy.” She commented. I scrunched up my face.

“Yeah, I get that a lot.” She smirked.

“Alright. I’ll fess up since you told me about your girlfriend.” Success! “My father was killed by mania. I... I don’t really know what that means. But it haunts me, day and night.”

“Jason has dealt with them firsthand. I know enough to be scared.” She nodded.

"I don’t know who my mother is. I’m aware that she is a Greek goddess, but so far everyone has neglected to tell me." I bit my lips again, trying not to speak. "I… I survived for what seemed like an eternity with my sister. We fought side by side, survived off each other, and shared our worries about the strange mobs that came to destroy us. We always rose to the top, though. My sister was– is, exceptional, and I was cunning. Together we could make ourselves heard.” She sighed. “But it was around a year ago that we came across the Hunters. Do you know them?" I hunched my back.

“Yes. I am a good friend of Thalia’s. I am acquainted with many of them.” Mera huffed.

“They offered us immortality if we would join their group. Swearing off boys, surviving forever. You know of this offer?" I nodded, remembering Bianca. “Yeah… She was so scared, once they told us about the monsters. She was afraid that know that we were aware, we would be overtaken. So she accepted without a doubt. She was blinded by her fear.” Mera choked up. I put a hand on her shoulder. She looked at me gratefully. “And I declined. I would not swear off boys. I didn’t want to be immortal. So I left, and I found Ari and Keaton. I recognized that they, too, were demigods. We’ve become like family. Sometimes I wonder if my sister is still alright…" I tried to comfort her.

"I saw her. I did.”

“That’s good…” She sighed. “Someday, when I meet her again– she’ll look the same as she did when she left me. And that pains me. I’ll grow older, and she’ll live eternally.”

“That’s how I feel about Thalia. I’m 17 years old. And her… she still looks about 15. The fact that she will never age–" I was at a loss for words. 

“Yeah…” She smirked. “Why am I telling you this?”

"I dunno!" I admitted. “But can I take a bite of that cake?” She rolled her eyes.

“Here.” She handed me the cake, and I bit into it, devouring the whole thing in no time. "I can’t believe you just ate that in, like, a tenth of a second." I laughed.

“Get used to it." I made my bed quickly. “Alright. I’ll join you guys.” Mera smiled and we walked out.

“Do you want to know what I think?”

“About what?”

“About your mom.” She looked at me quickly, picking at her nails.

“Sure.”

“If it were me just guessing, I would say that you are a child of Athena. But– personally, it doesn’t matter. Your godly parent shouldn’t define you. And, either way, I think you’re great. So, keep that in mind.” She let the edge of her mouth curl a bit. 

“Thanks. That was really nice, considering how I’ve been treating you.”

“Anytime.”

We entered the dining hall, finding our group of misfits.

“That took a long time,” Leo said, picking at his roast beef.

“Yeah…" I racked my brain for a quick excuse. “She wouldn’t give me the cake so I had to chase her.” Keaton laughed.

“Why didn’t she give you the cake?”

“‘Cause she thought I was being antisocial," I raised my hand. "I wasn’t, honest. Just… tired.” Jason caught my eye. It swirled with radiant blue like he was reading my mind. I stared right back at him, lifting my chin. Then I turned to Keaton and Leo, who were hunched together over a project of some sort. “What is it?” I asked them. Leo held up a finger.

He was stooped over a hatch in the object, tweezer in hand. He carefully plucked a bright red wire and slipped it so it made contact with a metal plate. “Yes!” He dropped the tweezers on the table. “Yes, yes, yes!” Keaton smiled and closed the hatch. “I got it, Percy!” Keaton handed me the thing.

“What is it?” I studied the exterior. It was a box, by the looks of it. He grinned.

“It’s a safecracker.”

“Don’t they already exist?” (It is totally against Leo’s principals to create something common or known)

“Yes, but this one can crack 30 digit codes, digital or traditional in under a minute. And, get this– it acts as an explosive!” I whistled.

“How’d you figure that out? And how’d you get the materials?” Leo shimmied his hands toward his toolbelt.

“First of all, I already have this baby.” He coughed. “And you’d be surprised by the number of spare wires they have around here.” Keaton bit his lip.

“Those weren’t spare wires. They were wires from the AC units in G wing.”

“Ah, minor complications. They’ll be fine.” Leo put a finger to his temple. “Actually, I didn’t give credit to this genius.” He pointed at Keaton. Keaton smiled sheepishly. “This man– I was looking for a reactor… like something to– agh! This is hard to explain. But Keaton here understood. He just thought for a moment and fished a pen out of his pocket.” Leo nodded, petting his project. “Smart guy, smart guy.” Mera giggled.

“Of course.” She patted a loose strand of Keaton’s hair down.

Keaton reached into his pocket. “Actually, I’ve been working on a whole lot of stuff with pens. They’re really useful.” He took out a normal-looking pen. “Poisoned pen knife–” He grinned as he uncapped it. The razor was one that could be taken from a pencil sharpener.

“Poisoned?” Ari questioned, taking the pen.

“Yeah. Rat poison.”

“Do you have to insert that into their system orally?” Mera said, peering over their shoulders. Keaton shrugged.

“Maybe. I’m not an expert in the poison department. It’s just an experiment…” He fished out another pen. This one was attached to an elastic rubber band and was duct-taped to an inkjet.

“Crossbow?” Jason guessed. Keaton raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, Actually.”

“Ni-ice.” Leo called.

“But Leo– why did you make a safecracker?” I asked him, taking the tool into my hands again.

“Why Percy, I’m so glad you asked.” He grinned mischievously.

“Oh?”

“Yes. You’ll see tonight.” Leo tapped the box. Mera’s eyes lit up.

“You decided it was tonight?” Mera inquired, sitting down next to Keaton. Keaton drummed his fingers on the table.

“Yes! Oh, this is crazy. The moment we’ve been waiting for… for forever, practically!” I raised my eyebrows.

“Alright– I guess you guys are really excited about this… endeavor. I–” Just then, the PA crackled, and a booming voice resonated through the yard.

“We will see prisoners 120-122 and 456-458 in the Director's office. Stat.” I looked down at my uniform, watching Jason and Leo do the same. Mera, Keaton, and Ari grumbled. Their jumpsuits read 120, 121, and 122 respectively. I cursed. Mine was 456.

“Well, that’s us, I guess.” Leo licked his lips. “It was only a matter of time.” Jason’s lips tightened, but he said nothing.

“This is the third time this month.” Ari glared at the loudspeaker.

“Just go.” Mera clenched her jaw and led us forward, preparing for a blast.