#but the news is only reporting about the fire itself and not about its impact

[skaldish]

I have some Concerns™ about Canada's air quality and I'm not seeing much reported on it here in the states.

Canadians, you all okay up there??

[mariacallous]

Classical music lovers can debate for hours over which Mozart melody has made the biggest impact. Maybe the first movement of the “Jupiter” symphony, perhaps the Queen of the Night aria from The Magic Flute, or what about the “Eine kleine Nachtmusik” serenade? Those who know the great 18th-century Austrian composer only through the movies have an easier time of it—the sound they’ll remember best may not be music after all but the whinnying, immature, and disobedient laugh heard throughout Milos Forman’s masterpiece Amadeus.

Amadeus, commonly accepted to mean “beloved by God,” was not technically part of Mozart’s name. (He was baptized as Joannes Chrysostomus Wolfgangus Theophilus Mozart, with Theophilus having a similar translation.) After his death, however, the moniker stuck as a way to venerate him. It’s perfect for the title of this movie, in which rival composer Antonio Salieri allows his jealousy over Mozart’s genius to build into a personal war against God. But expanding on some fudged truth is also in keeping with the spirit of the entire project, as the movie’s central conflict is almost entirely made up. (Even better, then, that the original trailer featured the tagline “Everything you’ve heard is true.”)

Based on a Tony-winning play by Peter Shaffer (inspired by a short 1830 play written by Alexander Pushkin, itself inspired by gossip that Salieri was somehow to blame for Mozart’s early death), Amadeus is celebrating its 40th anniversary this year. As such, a new 4K restoration is screening in specialty theaters across North America in advance of a new Blu-ray release. This, plus an eventual availability on streaming, is the first time the version that people originally saw back in 1984 will be available in years. (More on that in a bit.) An upcoming British television miniseries based on Shaffer’s play is in production currently, but we’re skeptical it will have the same magic.

The film’s story is told in flashback, with an old, institutionalized Salieri (played by F. Murray Abraham) “confessing” how he murdered Mozart (Tom Hulce). We are then witness to how Salieri, court composer to Emperor Joseph II (Jeffrey Jones), has his world turned upside down when Mozart bursts onto the scene. His musical instincts are on a level no mortal can comprehend and clearly, Salieri feels, handed down directly from above. But while Mozart’s work is divine, his demeanor is coarse and bratty, which turns Salieri’s understandable envy into an existential rage.

As the winner of eight Academy Awards, including best picture, best director, and best actor for Abraham’s Salieri, Amadeus’s legacy is secure, but any excuse to get more people to see this perfect film is a good one. I can personally report that not one, not two, but three millennial friends of mine came to this movie kind of dragging their feet, watching it only out of an obligation to check every Oscar winner off their list. Each one of them was blown away with just how funny and poignant and entertaining it was.

“I thought this would be boring, not bitchy!” one pal beamed after a recent screening I hosted with Paul Zaentz at New York’s Paris Theater. That energetic spark is evident in the script but catches fire in the movie thanks to its director. Forman’s resumé is one of the best from the 20th century, but Amadeus is something special, not just because it is about a maverick artist who has to do things his way (a recurring theme in both Forman’s life and work) but because the expatriate who fled communist-era Czechoslovakia to follow his calling was able to shoot the movie in Prague and Kromeriz. As Mozart cackled in the face of propriety, so Forman was able to poke his thumb in the eyes of those who had previously censored him.

Forman was born in the town of Caslav in 1932. Both of his parents died in Nazi concentration camps. He attended a school for war orphans where he befriended future filmmaker Ivan Passer and playwright-turned-politician Vaclav Havel. He began working on documentary crews and eventually made short films of his own that blended fact and fiction, getting better material from non-actors than trained professionals. His first feature, Black Peter (1964), focused on a timid teenager, and its follow-up, Loves of a Blonde (1965), was a similarly naturalistic look at awkward romance. Its deadpan, somewhat bleak style ran counter to the splashy films coming out of Italy and France at the time. Both films are early entries to what became known as the Czech New Wave, leading to Forman’s first bona fide masterpiece, The Firemen’s Ball (1967).

While The Firemen’s Ball—Forman’s first film in color—was understood to be a grand metaphor for the inefficiency of the political system at the time, one doesn’t have to know a damn thing about Eastern Bloc history to respect it as an iconoclastic farce not dissimilar from something like South Park. It was immediately banned in Czechoslovakia, but it and Loves of a Blonde were both nominated for best foreign language film at the Oscars.

Forman was in France raising funds for his next project during the Soviet invasion of Prague in August 1968. He was fired from his Czech production company and ended up emigrating to the United States. His first Hollywood film was the 1971 counterculture farce Taking Off (in which square, bourgeois parents try to get groovy with their kids, to embarrassing effect), which led to one of the most influential movies of the 1970s, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.

After the anti-authoritarian Cuckoo’s Nest—which won five Oscars, including best picture, best director, best actor for Jack Nicholson, and best actress for Louise Fletcher—came his adaptations of the musical Hair (1979) and E.L. Doctorow’s novel Ragtime (1981). With that all under his belt and his hands on the rights to Schaffer’s hot play Amadeus, Forman went back to Prague in triumph.

Amadeus is set mostly in Vienna; still, Prague, which was generally left intact after World War II, certainly looks good on camera. And Prague was also an important city for Mozart. He made two lengthy visits there and found a very welcoming audience. Indeed, he wrote Don Giovanni with the intention of premiering the opera in Prague, which he did at the Estates Theatre in 1787. And it was at the Estates Theatre where Forman filmed many of the movie’s best scenes—ones of Mozart conducting opera, filmed with the alacrity and exuberance normally reserved for an action-adventure sequence. (The use of pyrotechnics in the Don Giovanni scenes caused a lot of worry on set, what with the old theater’s interior being mostly wood.)

Shooting a Hollywood movie behind the Iron Curtain naturally had some hardships. (Fruit and fresh vegetables, rarities at the time, needed to be trucked in from West Germany.) Given Forman’s background, the eyes of the state were on them. During that recent New York screening, Zaentz, who worked as a production coordinator on the project and is also the nephew of film producer Saul Zaentz, said secret police were essentially hands-off, except for one time. During off-hours, some members of the crew would hang out and watch VHS tapes of Hollywood movies and were unaware that some of those titles had been banned. The company was soon requested to keep to only approved films.

Perhaps more poignant was when they were shooting on the Fourth of July during one of the opera scenes. The Czech crew surprised Forman and the actors during one take. Expecting to hear the music of Mozart play back from a PA system, some well-wishers instead cued up “The Star-Spangled Banner” while others unfurled an enormous American flag. Everyone stood up and sang along, except, according to Forman, the 30 or so secret police who had been dispersed among the extras.

One can easily read the moment as a victory for Forman. Alas, Mozart’s fate was a little different. Though no one knows for sure why he died at the young age of 35—other than the fact that every case of the sniffles had graver implications back in 1791—the movie shows how Mozart’s queasiness with authority shaped him as a hand-to-mouth freelancer and how his lack of a permanent position and persistent money woes were bad for his health. After Amadeus, Forman continued to make movies about troubled-yet-visionary mavericks: Andy Kaufman in Man on the Moon (1999), Francisco Goya in Goya’s Ghosts (2006), and, um, Larry Flynt in The People vs. Larry Flynt (1996).

As for the Salieri yarn? There’s no historical evidence to suggest that the two composers weren’t just colleagues. (It’s true that Mozart did have a paranoid streak and maybe did think that “the Italians” at court had it in for him.) Salieri certainly did not live in chastity out of some pledge to God in exchange for musical inspiration. Indeed, he had eight children. He was also plenty famous at the time of his death and, later in life, was a tutor to Mozart’s youngest son. Nevertheless, no one should let reality get in the way of watching this incredible movie.

This 40th anniversary rerelease is especially exciting for old-school Amadeus-heads as it restores the 160-minute theatrical cut. All one can find out there now is the “director’s cut,” which is 20 minutes longer. As Zaentz explained to me, that version came out in 2002 during the first DVD wave, when home-video distributors were loading up packages with deleted scenes. Rather than have isolated bonus chapters, Forman decided to just release the longer version instead, though never really considered it the definitive cut. However, over time it became the only version in circulation.

While the longer version has a few splendid moments (some backstage zings with Christine Ebersole as Caterina Cavalieri), it also contains one scene that I am happy to see once again excised. In it, Salieri goes a wee bit too far and humiliates Mozart’s wife, Constanze (Elizabeth Berridge). It’s important for Salieri to be a scheming twerp but also someone who still holds your sympathy. The controversial scene only found in the director’s cut pushes him too far into the role of villain.

So sometimes edits are important! It is said that Mozart never revised, that he took dictation from God. As with so much else about the man, the truth is a little different.

[msclaritea]

As AI Destroys Search Results, Google Fires Workers in Charge of Improving It

by NOOR AL-SIBAI

YESTERDAY

BEATA ZAWRZEL / NURPHOTO VIA GETTY / FUTURISM

"THIS IS WHAT AI WORK LOOKS LIKE WHEN WORKERS HAVE NO SAY IN THE PROCESS."

Enshittification

Amid a massive wave of tech company layoffs in favor of AI, Google is firing thousands of contractors tasked with making its namesake search engine work better.

As Vice reports, news of the company ending its contract with Appen — a data training firm that employs thousands of poorly paid gig workers in developing countries to maintain, among other things, Google's search algorithm — coincidentally comes a week after a new study found that the quality of its search engine's results has indeed gotten much worse in recent years.

Back in late 2022, journalist Cory Doctorow coined the term "enshittification" to refer to the demonstrable worsening of all manner of online tools, which he said was by design as tech giants seek to extract more and more money out of their user bases. Google Search was chief among the writer's examples of the enshittification effect in a Wired article published last January, and as the new study out of Germany found, that effect can be measured.

With CEOs' short-sighted AI gold rush claiming ever more jobs, the termination of the Appen contract is particularly harsh not only because of how crappy Google Search has gotten, but also because of how crappy things were and are for people who work for the Australia-based AI training firm.

Hunger Games

In a shocking exposé published last October, Wired revealed that people who attempt to make ends meet by doing gig work for Appen often make as little as two cents per training task, often netting only a dollar or two per day when work was slow. As one young man in Pakistan put it, working for the company was tantamount to "digital slavery."

As the union presenting workers at Alphabet, Google's parent company, stated in a press release earlier this week, the contract termination will impact at least 2,000 workers, or perhaps more given that "contracts with Google account for roughly one-third of Appen’s business revenues."

While Google rushes to pour billions of dollars into AI, it also, as the Alphabet union points out, chose to terminate the Appen contract without any severance benefits, much less "transparency or accountability" about how or why the decision was made.

"This news should be a wake-up call for workers in the tech industry and anyone concerned about the impacts of AI on working people," Toni Allen, the union's executive board secretary, said in the statement. "As subcontractors for Google we have been a canary in the AI coal mine calling out the precarious labor conditions we face being the human workers standing between large language models and their end users."

"This is what AI work looks like when workers have no say in the process," Allen continued. "It is time that the world heard our voices before this situation repeats itself far and wide."

[visbankingnews]

Are U.S. Consumers Expecting Accelerating Inflation?

Though some experts have downplayed continued inflation, a new survey suggests that consumers may have other expectations. The most recent University of Michigan Surveys of Consumers found that respondents expect accelerating inflation in the future. Why would consumers expect accelerating inflation? The latest survey marks the second straight month in which price hike expectations increased. In fact, respondents said that they expect an average of 3.2% inflation over the next five years. According to the survey’s author, consumers haven’t been that pessimistic about long-term inflation since 2011. The survey’s results may prove confounding for the Federal Reserve and other experts. Public policy makers have repeatedly cited a decline in the rate of price hikes. Surprisingly, they seem bewildered by consumers’ stubborn refusal to believe that inflation has truly slowed. As many observers have noted, however, there are very good reasons for consumers to reject that narrative. In the absence of deflation, those rising prices are cumulative. That means that Americans are still seeing the prices of many staple goods rise each month. And no matter what policymakers say, consumers will always believe their shopping receipts over the prevailing narrative. To put it bluntly, consumers expect prices to continue to rise because—wait for it—prices have been continually rising for several years now. Moreover, many Americans undoubtedly believe that policymakers seem to be waiting for the problem to resolve itself. Without a serious plan to bring the economy back into balance, it’s only natural for consumers to prepare for the worst. A different take from the Fed Notably, the University of Michigan survey stands in stark contrast to the Fed’s own survey results in October. That survey found that respondents expected the rate of price hikes to decline to 2.7% five years from now. The disconnect may be as simple as a decline in response rates to government surveys. As Bloomberg observed earlier this year, those response rates have plummeted since the pandemic. And without respondents willing to provide data for analysis, government economic numbers may be less reliable. Of course, the big question is how consumer expectations may impact rising prices. The last thing the Fed wants to see is consumers becoming accustomed to the thought of higher inflation. The danger in unanchored expectations has been acknowledged for decades. As the Brookings Institution notes, these types of unanchored expectations played a key role in the last major battle against inflation: “As a result of the persistently high inflation in the 1970s and 1980s, inflation expectations became unanchored and rose with actual inflation—a phenomenon known at the time as a wage-price spiral. This cycle plays out as follows: high inflation drives up inflation expectations, causing workers to demand wage increases to make up for the expected loss of purchasing power. When workers win wage increases, businesses raise their prices to accommodate the increase in wage costs, driving up inflation. The wage-price spiral means that when inflation expectations rise, it is difficult to bring down inflation, even if unemployment is high.” The bottom line is worrisome and could pose a risk to the Fed’s efforts to combat rising prices. If consumer expectations become focused on accelerating inflation, it could potentially add fuel to the existing inflationary fire. Related Articles: - New Labor Dept Report Confirms Accelerating Inflation as Household Expenses Rise - Citi Ramps Up Tech Spending, Accelerating Its Transformation Plans - Goldman Sacks, BofA Predict 3 More Interest Rate Hikes in 2023 - SURVEY SAYS BANK EXECS SUPPORT INDUSTRY PURSUIT OF ‘SOCIAL GOOD’ - ABA Survey: Mobile Banking Apps Continue to Be Consumers’ Preferred Banking option Read the full article

[silverstarlightwrites]

ah yes, the idea for yet another variant of this au chain

Team Seven take the mission to the Land of Waves. On the bridge, they fight Zabuza and Haku.

On the bridge, Sakura dies.

For a moment that lasts forever, everything seems to freeze. It’s shock, initially, on every face. Haku’s mirrors are in the midst of cracking apart, Naruto and Sasuke standing bloody and back-to-back between them, while Haku lunges across the expanse of stone to protect Zabuza from the shrill and deathly lightning in Kakashi’s hand.

Even Sakura herself seems stunned, rotating midair as if in slow motion. She seems unsure of herself, or how exactly she got where she is - bolted from one end of the bridge to the other, abandoning her post as Tazuna’s bodyguard to intercept Haku on their way to Kakashi.

And she’s made it, to her credit. Caught Haku just before they reach Zabuza, tagged them with her kunai. There’s blood on their clothes, a stark red streak against pale skin and fabric.

They’ve spun at the contact, reflexive, defensive. Somehow, even with the Chidori roaring in Kakashi’s palm, the world goes silent as Haku’s senbon sinks into Sakura’s neck. It’s all too slow as the strike transfers momentum, as Sakura’s feet lift from the ground and the senbon tears out of her throat. Sasuke stares on with Sharingan ablaze, unable to breathe, unable to look away as his eyes dutifully and traitorously record Sakura’s death in minute, excruciating detail. He doesn’t know, just yet, what the cost of his clan’s power truly is.

But Kakashi does, only too terribly well, and as time catches up with itself and Sakura goes crashing into the bridge, he strikes. His hand punches straight through Zabuza’s ribcage, tearing through his heart until Kakashi’s fingers protrude from his back. The surprise on his face is overlaid with the relief on Rin’s, and Kakashi yanks back, turns away, refuses to look at her ghost with the blood on his hands.

Sasuke is frozen, unblinking, struggling to breathe. He can’t drag his gaze away from Sakura’s body, and she looks so small where she’s crumpled on the bridge, utterly motionless in an expanding puddle of her own blood. He can’t see colours, except for the crimson, as if everything else has been spontaneously switched off.

She’s still breathing, barely, a weak flutter that-- Gods, Sasuke thinks he might be imagining it, actually, he can’t tell, and her body is outlined in white fire that he knows isn’t real, Sharingan whirring, head spinning. The world rotates.

It ruptures, all at once, as Naruto lets out an ear-piercing scream at Sasuke’s side. Whatever was holding it all snaps, and Sasuke whips around to check on Naruto, and sees the menacing red bleeding into blue eyes, sees the way his teeth are cracking and elongating in his jaws, the fangs that are too big for Naruto’s skull, the ink creeping out from the birthmarks on his cheeks, winding back along his temples and down his nose.

There’s a shout, Kakashi’s voice, but Naruto has already vanished in a blur of sticky red chakra and the shattering of the stone under his feet, and by the time Sasuke can find him again he’s already torn into Haku like a wild animal, cracking bone and shredding flesh. Their head rolls away from their body, before Naruto pounces on it.

The skull pancakes under Naruto’s hand, a splatter of brains like a water balloon bursting, a tongue poking from between his fingers and an eyeball popping into the air and arcing away. Naruto is snarling, glowing, and there’s blood dripping from every footprint he leaves, his skin melting and boiling as fast as it heals under the cloak of-- of-- oh gods, and Sasuke doesn’t even know, can’t even comprehend what it is that he’s seeing. A Naruto that isn’t himself, isn’t even human, and there are ethereal tails forming and lashing from the dark red chakra itself, two-- three. Long curves that look like ears, deep gouges in the stone as his nails-- claws, they’re claws, wickedly sharp, and they look more like bone than fingernail, like the animal is too big to be contained by Naruto’s real body.

Haku is in pieces under Naruto’s attack, and he won’t stop slashing and biting and shredding. Nausea boils up, fear and panic and Sasuke doesn’t fucking understand but he’s pretty fucking sure that he doesn’t want to, and it’s almost a relief when he has to turn away to vomit.

Kakashi’s voice is in the air, and every fibre of his body wants to help ruin the people who’ve killed Sakura right in front of them, wants to sprint to her side and try to save her - but he can’t, he knows, and he can’t lose control like his kids are. He’s the leader. He’s the adult. There’s too much blood under Sakura already, her carotid artery sundered by the attack, and she’s just a child, she’s beyond help, beyond Kakashi’s rudimentary skills in medical ninjutsu, she’s already gone and there’s nothing Kakashi can do to save her. Because there’s never anything he can do to save her.

But he can’t lose control, and he needs to triage the situation as best he can. If he fails to act, then he’ll lose Naruto too. He’ll lose Sasuke. He’ll lose all of them. So he sprints to Naruto, tackles him to the ground, ignores the sudden searing agony of the Kyuubi’s chakra biting into his skin. Naruto is wild, lost in the onslaught of his demon and grief, but where the Kyuubi’s domination brings with it new and unique strengths, it also brings weaknesses.

It takes more chakra and effort than Kakashi has, but he makes Naruto look him in the eye, brings as much of the Sharingan’s power to bear as he can. For a minute, struggling to keep Naruto down while he howls and snaps his teeth and tries to bite through Kakashi’s wrists, nothing visibly happens. Kakashi is shaking by the time Naruto finally stills, takes a deep breath, lets out a noise like a dying animal.

When Naruto slumps, the Kyuubi locked back into its cage, Kakashi goes down with him.

Sasuke’s approach is slow, shuddering, uncertain. His eyes are burning, and he can’t tell if it’s from chakra or from tears, but he doesn’t care. Naruto and Kakashi are breathing, tangled together in an unconscious pile, and Sasuke can’t even begin to think what to do with them so he ignores them. Goes to Sakura instead. She’s sprawled, her skin scraped and raw from her impact and tumble against the bridge, her throat torn open. Sasuke’s never seen what the inside of a larynx looks like before.

He turns away as he gags, but there’s nothing left to come up except a violent ache so deep that Sasuke thinks, for a moment, that he might be about to die as well. Sakura is limp when he tries to pick her up, warm and pliable and lifeless in his hands. He can’t get them to stop shaking, makes a mess as he tries to wipe her hair out of her face. Smears blood everywhere. It’s matted in her hair, the normal pink warped into a blurring crimson.

It’s the ninken who actually take control. Pakkun sets Bull and Shiba to guard Tazuna, even though the threat to him is gone. The cold reality is that they’re acting more like prison guards than bodyguards; Konoha has lost a genin and nearly lost her whole team, and it rarely forgives such offences. Guruko establishes a small parameter around the scene, and Akino keeps the remaining civilians in a tight group. Urushi comes to sit vigil with Sasuke, and they let him cradle Sakura’s body to his chest and cry.

With only a few words, Pakkun has Ūhei unsummon herself, and she vanishes in a puff of smoke to report to the Hokage and get a rescue team sent after them. With Bisuke’s help, Pakkun himself sets to untangling Naruto and Kakashi and ensuring they’ll live through this. Shiba, the only ninken with a lightning affinity, is pulled off Tazuna duty to give Kakashi a chakra transfusion; he jolts and moans when it’s delivered, but it’s a necessary agony and he doesn’t fully wake.

When Gatō makes his appearance, Bisuke vanishes and reappears on his shoulders, and his entourage is sent fleeing in panic as she rips out his throat too with delicate, savage fangs.

By the time that Ūhei returns with a rescue squad at her side, Naruto is awake again and he refuses to let anyone take Sakura’s body from him but the masked Anbu simply picks them up together. Gai is firm but gentle as he carries Kakashi - not quite awake, but beginning to stir. Sasuke tries to stand - he’s numb and hollow, and he thinks that he should feel like he did when he found Itachi over the bodies of their parents but he doesn’t. He doesn’t feel anything.

Perhaps he should feel guilty for that.

His legs fail him, however, and maybe he should feel pathetic for not even being able to pick himself up from the ground but he can’t bring himself to care as he’s carefully lifted up by Asuma. Sasuke wants nothing more than to stop existing while he watches his team over Asuma’s shoulder, stares unblinking at the way Naruto shakes and begs Sakura to wake up. She won’t.

She won’t ever again.

The ninken make the trip back with them, and if it is a quick affair then it is also a haunting one. Naruto doesn’t shut up the entire time, alternating between talking to the girl who cannot hear him and muttering quietly to himself. If Sasuke looks closely enough, he can see the flash of fangs in Naruto’s mouth that never quite flatten again.

The report to Hiruzen lasts for a lifetime, and is over far too soon. Kakashi is lucid by then, standing on his own feet but with Gai’s continued assistance. His report is... empty. Perhaps that’s as it should be - he does not cry, for death has already wrung from him as many tears as he could ever give it, but his voice is icy and his gaze is bitter and grim. He recommends, as emotionlessly as he explains all the rest, that Konoha execute Tazuna for his crimes.

Naruto finally surrenders Sakura’s body when her parents arrive. He and Sasuke will never forget the way they break when he does, the collapse and the howling and the way that Sakura is stiff and pale in their arms. Her eyes are still open, glazed and green and unseeing.

Why are her eyes still open?

Afterwards, after Sasuke and Naruto are released from Team Seven’s trip to the hospital but Kakashi is coerced to stay, two of the ninken stick around. Ūhei sticks to Sasuke’s side like a parasite, a warmth and stability that Sasuke finds himself loathing, while Bisuke trails Naruto at a short but definitive distance.

Naruto doesn’t let Sasuke wander home alone. He wants to, desperately, wants to hide away in the ocean of death that he lives in and-- gods, and what, exactly? Showering is an option that should be appealing, but it’s not. Even the thought of washing Sakura’s blood off himself - of erasing the last tangible evidence of her life - is sickening. They’d been cruel to her, in life. Sasuke had expected little of her at all, and he hadn’t cared if she’d known it. Naruto, with his puppy-love, hadn’t been better.

Except she was dead, and in the end her strength hadn’t mattered at all. Any one of them could have been caught the way she was - and it was bravery that had killed her, not weakness. She’d left the safety of distance and thrown herself in the way, in between their sensei and an incoming attack, and there was no way of knowing if Haku could have hurt or killed Kakashi in the attempt but Sakura had prevented it from even being an option.

Had she known? Had it been a decision on her part, or had it been instinct and desperation? Had she ever realised that-- gods, had she ever known that her team loved her?

A glare isn’t enough to discourage Naruto from following Sasuke home, as it never has been, and there’s a chance that Sasuke could make him leave with words but--

He can’t bring himself to speak. Not once, not at all. His voice feels like a weight in his throat, like he’s swallowed marbles, and that’s fine, really, because what right does he have to fucking use it anyway? Sakura’s voice has been stripped away. She’ll never speak again, and Sasuke deserves to far less than she does.

Did.

The dogs never leave their sides over the following weeks. Ūhei and Bisuke are their most common company, but all eight of the ninken rotate in and out. Naruto refuses to go back his own home, wherever the fuck it is. At first Sasuke hates him for it, hates everything, but eventually Naruto is absent for half a day - training, he says when he gets home - and Sasuke panics.

So much is gone. Almost everything is gone. Sakura is gone. And gods Naruto is annoying - but he understands, actually, Sasuke can see now, despite the absurd and cheery exterior he’d worn before. He’s always understood, and the cheerfulness was a lie. Or, perhaps, a choice. And the fear of losing him to is so overwhelming that Sasuke simply never asks him to leave.

They attend Sakura’s funeral. It’s... eerie. Too many people and too few people at the same time. Some that Sasuke doesn’t recognise - too many that he does. Sasuke stands between Naruto and Kakashi, and Kakashi doesn’t say a word to them, to anyone, and Sasuke lets Naruto hold onto his hand with a crushing grip. Ino approaches them, afterwards, and habit has Sasuke bracing himself but there’s no admiration in her eyes this time. She snarls at them. “It should have been you.”

It’s hard to argue with her.

Sakura’s parents are... unbearable. The agony in their expressions is so familiar, so intimate, and yet they’re so kind to Sasuke and Naruto despite the fact they let their daughter die. When Mebuki learns that they’re living on their own - not a parent between them - she begins visiting them. They’re not social calls, not really, and she doesn’t linger too long, but her visits are scheduled and regular, and bring with them meals put together for Sasuke and Naruto and whatever cleaning they haven’t managed between them. After the first week, she brings small snacks for whichever of the ninken are with them as well.

Kizashi gives them two stuffed animals and Sakura’s hitai-ite. The toys are generic - a very round bird and a fox, both worn by time and use - but they were hers, and beloved when she was small. Naruto tries to refuse the hitai-ite, because surely her parents want to keep such an important thing, but Kizashi insists. He doesn’t want it, he tells them. He would rather remember Sakura as his daughter, and not as a Konoha soldier.

Perhaps there’s merit in that, but Sasuke and Naruto set it between her toys on the dresser in their room, next to their team photos, and they can’t bring themselves to work out the bloodstains in the fabric, but the plate is kept perfectly polished. Maybe her parents just don’t understand - but Sakura was proud of her position as a Konoha-nin, and she died fulfilling it.

It’s a little shameful, of course, that Sasuke is sharing his room with Naruto - but Naruto disagrees, and Sasuke can’t bring himself to care. Sleeping alone has proven... difficult. And pride is worthless.

The dogs never leave, but Naruto and Sasuke don‘t see Kakashi after Sakura’s funeral. There are meetings with Hiruzen, visits from some of the other jōnin, and no matter how vehemently they protest, they’re assigned a new sensei. It’s hideously uncommon, and it’s not Kaede-sensei’s fault, but Sasuke can’t help but hate her too. She can’t replace Kakashi, and Sasuke resents her for even trying, no matter that Kakashi-sensei has abandoned them. At least they’re not given a new teammate. As if anyone could possibly replace Sakura.

“The dog-Anbu is back,” Naruto says one day, while they spar under Kaede’s watchful eye. “I think... I think it might be Kakashi-sensei.”

And Sasuke knows about the dog-Anbu, of course. Though he rarely speaks himself, Naruto has no such compunction, and his chatter has become a familiar comfort. A Naruto who’s talking is a Naruto who’s alive. He’s told Sasuke all about growing up, about the loneliness and the dread. About the hatred of the village. The dog-Anbu had been the most familiar regular amongst the quiet tail of Anbu who’d watched Naruto his entire life - and yet never intervened. Had it been willful, or were they under orders? Hard to say, given that they were almost never given direct trouble anymore. The civilians who saw them out and about - on the rare occasion they were - were either too sympathetic or too wary to confront them. There was no opportunity to intervene even if the dog-Anbu wanted to.

That the surreptitious Anbu presence was back should have been concerning, but... Naruto had always found comfort in the recognisable dog-Anbu. Maybe it was contagious.

And if Kakashi was still watching them, then he hadn’t abandoned them. Somehow, it made Kaede’s training more welcome.

Jiraiya becomes part of their lives. He’s an irregular and brief presence, but he drifts in and out. They meet him early, and Naruto refuses to leave Sasuke’s side to fulfill whatever task Jiraiya has for him, and so they learn together the truth of the beast caged inside Naruto’s skin. Jiraiya works on the Seal, repairs what he can from the damage Naruto did on the bridge, ensures its continued integrity. He’s hard to like on a personal level, but they don’t begrudge his visits when they happen - making sure Naruto has control of the demon is imperative. He can’t use a power he can’t control.

Because that’s their secret, of course. In the dead of night, in the quiet of the Uchiha compound, when it’s just them and the ghosts. Naruto practices, with Sasuke on hand - Sasuke who’s learnt from Jiraiya that the Sharingan can manipulate the Bijuu, who finally understands what it was Kakashi did to bring Naruto down when Sakura died - and Sasuke practices with him, and forces back what power slips beyond Naruto’s grasp when they break open tiny cracks in the Seal.

And Naruto helps Sasuke too, offers a barrier of stolen demonic chakra that is the only thing, they’ve found, that can provide any resistance to the sticky black flames Sasuke can conjure. It makes his eyes bleed, and the chakra cost is like ashes in his veins, but creating and controlling the Amaterasu gets easier every time he does it.

They’re going to need it. Sasuke isn’t sure if Naruto simply needed the context of Sasuke’s quest for vengeance or if Sakura’s death made him understand the purpose of revenge, but they’re in it together, now. Naruto refuses to leave Sasuke’s side - and if that means following him down the path that leads to killing Itachi, then so be it. His power, despite what Sasuke had once thought, is immense and - somehow - at Sasuke’s disposal.

It’s strange, he thinks. How Naruto can still have faith in people, the differences in how he talks to Sakura’s ghost as if she’s watching them, as if she’s not simply gone, as if she might be proud of them, and how Sasuke can never bring himself to say a single word. Stranger still, how easily Naruto throws that faith away when Sasuke asks him to.

Strange, but comforting. Love, perhaps, if Sasuke lets himself dare to contemplate so fragile and dangerous a thing. And if Naruto will forsake his morals at Sasuke’s behest, then the least he can do is hold true to them. Because one day, when they’re ready, when they’re so strong that nobody will ever be able to rip away a life they love ever again, they’ll hunt down Itachi and make him pay for the lives he tore down.

But first - and maybe it’s practice, or maybe it’s vengeance, or maybe it’s both - they’ll return to the Land of Waves, once they’ve got enough control of their strength, and they’ll burn the Great Sakura Bridge to the ground.

[3fluffies]

I struggled to wrap my mind around what was happening that day. Now I have trouble wrapping my mind around the fact that it’s been 20 years. The memories are still so vivid.

I was a 20-year-old intern in my Congresswoman’s office at the Cannon House Office Building right next to the U.S. Capitol, fulfilling every political science major’s dream. I was one week into the internship.

I remember the sound of our legislative director, Bob’s voice from watching CNN in our boss Karen’s office as fellow intern Orrin and I opened mail in the foyer, right about 9 am: “Oh my god, a plane hit the World Trade Center!”

It began far from us, just an awful event on the news that our Representatives would need to know about and react to, as we all wondering who had family/friends in NYC. We watched the broadcast a few minutes then went back to work.

I remember the pitch of Bob’s voice shouting about “another one”. I remember how we all stampeded back into Karen’s office. I remember my shoe falling off as we did and not going back for it. I remember the strange sensation of reality shifting, to see the replays of that second plane, recognizing what it meant. No accident. An attack on a scale our nation had never faced before.

I remember talking to Mum on the phone briefly, both of us just dismayed and worried at the implications.

I remember junior staffer Paula and I seeing a report of “smoke at the Pentagon” and half-joking: “You think?” Mentioning it to Bob and him shrugging it off, “Nah,” because there had been construction going on at the Pentagon.

Then another report of a “large plume of smoke and significant fire” at the Pentagon. Again, my sense of reality starting to shift a little and Paula and I calling out at the same time: “…Bob?”

I remember all cellphone signals jamming, then even the landlines jamming. Trying to reach any member of my family with no luck. For the first time in my life, my immediate family had completely separated only a few weeks earlier: @hazelhills to start her freshman year at college, me for my DC internship, Da for his new job in Oklahoma, and Mum back in Gainesville finishing up the move from our old house. My folks had been sad and stressed about it even before that day. As rumors swirled of a bomb at the State Department, a fire on the National Mall less than a mile away and as many as 6-8 planes missing, I knew my family had to be frantic.

I remember Karen arriving with more staff, one reporting confirmation that a plane had hit the Pentagon as she commuted to the Hill. I remember the crowds filling the streets as the Capitol itself evacuated, watching them stream past our second-story windows. First questions and discussion of whether we should evacuate, then Karen deciding we would head for her house a few miles away when reports came in of another plane headed our way. Figuring out who would ride in the few cars.

I remember riding in our chief of staff’s van, staring at the Capitol dome that I loved so much, wondering if I would see it explode with the impact of a jet like Tower Two had. I remember all traffic stopping hard at once at the sound of jets - fighter jets, scrambled to defend Washington.

I remember arriving at Karen’s shortly after 10 am and being appalled at all the smoke in NYC. Remarking that I couldn’t even see the Towers now, and hearing Karen’s voice: “They’re gone. They’re both gone.” Trying to grasp what she meant until the videos of the collapses played.

I remember seeing the Green Berets forming a staging area nearby, directly across the Potomac from the Pentagon and that massive, black smoke plume we could now see.

I remember eventually going home once the Metro reopened late that evening, and the dazed silence in the trains, all conversations murmured.

I remember the stories and shock among my fellow interns in the emergency program meeting The Washington Center held in our building. Then sitting alone in my bedroom, looking at my calendar and saying aloud several times, “September 11, 2001”, knowing this date would never be normal in living memory again. Labeling it in my journal as “the day the world came crashing down.”

I remember feeling patriotic and inspired by the unity in the days that followed, but disgusted by the ignorance, racism, and Islamophpbia. Believing at first that the “divisions” of the Clinton years had ended and Democrats and Republicans would now come together in response. Realizing more and more as time went by how wrong I was, as the Bush Administration seized on the tragedy to grasp and manipulate and destroy on whole new levels.

I remember my grief and anger as Karen was gerrymandered out of her district in 2002. Moving back to DC in 2003 and marching against the invasion of Iraq. Learning a classmate and friend had died in Iraq just before I started law school.

20 years of “war on terror.” The blood of thousands on our soil, the blood of millions on our hands. Bush, Obama, then Trump. The faith I once felt in our Constitution and our institutions faded to a dull echo of memory.

On January 6, 2021, watching the news from my law office in Florida, I did something that I hadn’t done on September 11, 2001: cried. Raged. Seeing the Republican Party achieve what even Bin Laden couldn’t - the penetration of our seat of government, waving hideous enemy flags and mocking our sacred halls.

On September 11, 2001, I watched the world spin so sudden and wildly off its axis, knew nothing would ever be the same, but vowed and believed with complete confidence that our attackers would not achieve their goal of a demoralized, broken America. In the 20 years since, in the gleeful opportunism, greed, and power lust of the Republican Party, the endless appeasement by the Democratic Party leadership, and the complacency and cheerful apathy of the center and the majority of the population, I’ve had to face the fact that those 9/11 attackers are closer to success than any American would have thought possible.

[tomtenadia]

A Little Braver  - Chapter 4

So, chapter 4 is finally here.

It has a few funny moments but it also has angst.

This fic has so much more angst that i originally planned. 

Anyway... enjoy it.

-----------

The drive to the hospital did not take long but once inside they noticed the waiting room was swamped.

“Whitethorn, this is pointless,” she said when he placed her on an empty chair “we’ll be here for hours.”

“I don’t care, we are getting that knee checked.” His tone did not admit any protest from her.

Aelin grunted “I hate you.”

“Is that news? Tell me something I don’t know.” Rowan took a seat on the empty seat beside her  then took her injured leg and lifted it on his lap. Aelin winced.

It was three hours later when Rowan started to loose his patience “that woman came after us and she went in already.” He protested a bit too loudly for Aelin’s taste. Why was he caring about her wellbeing all of a sudden?

“Maybe she is worse than a busted knee.” She shrugged but he glared at her.

“She walked into the A&E on her own two feet. You just dealt with that damn inferno with that busted knee.” He protested and the hint of pride in his voice moved something inside her.

“I don’t need the red carpet.”

“Some fucking attention for people who bust their asses to save other people lives would be appreciated.” His tone got a bit louder still. Rowan did not seem the type to cause a scene but he seemed a bit too annoyed and to be honest she did not know much about the guy. She just hoped his military training would kick in and restrain himself.

“Doctor save lives too.”

He grunted and stood and Aelin braced for the worst. She saw him walk with purpose to the reception desk with perfect military stride. She would have laughed if it wasn’t that she was scared of what he would do.

She saw him talk to one of the nurses behind the nurses station. A few times his arm pointed at her and she made herself small and invisible. 

Then she went back spying on him and studied his posture and gasped. The man was flirting with the nurse. Stick up in the arse captain was flirting with the nurse to get her in early. She was dumbfounded. She could not believe that he had it in him.

He came back five minutes later with a smug face “Someone will come for you soon.”

Aelin’s mouth fell open “Did you just flirt with the nurse to have me seen earlier?”

“I did not such thing,” and he looked away, scanning the waiting room.

“She is looking over here. I think she is interested in you and is now wondering how it would feel to bag an airforce captain.”

Rowan huffed “not interested.”

“She is pretty.”

“Not my type…”

“Oh come on grampa, she could even play sexy nurse with you.”

Rowan rolled his eyes “you really are a menace.”

She was about to add a snarky remark when a doctor stopped in front of them “Aelin Galathynius?”

Aelin’s head snapped up “I am here.”

“I am doctor Yrene Westfall. Follow me.”

Westfall? Was she Chaol’s wife?

“Did you say Westfall? Is Chaol your husband?”

“Yes. Do you know him?”

Aelin nodded “I am a firefighter, we work a lot with the police. He was at the embankment fire tonight.”

“He told me, apparently it was hell. His own words.”

“It was bad.” Aelin stood and swore as sharp pain shoot from her knee up her leg.

“Why did you do that?” Rowan protested and lifted her again in his arms.

“You are making the nurse jealous.”

“Shut up and let’s follow the nice doctor.”

“Put her down here,” Yrene pointed at an empty bed.

Rowan placed her gently on the bed and stepped at the bottom of it. His hands behind his back.

Yrene lifted the leg of her trousers and had a look at her knee “This look quite bad, why did you wait this long to come to the hospital?”

“I was going to… but then city emergency and all and it slipped my mind.”

Rowan snorted and Aelin glared at him.

“And you walked all day on it?”

“Kinda…”

“You might have made things much worse.”

Aelin leaned back on the pillow and sighed. She knew and with the performance review on its way it had been very stupid of her.

“How did it happen?”

“We were in the middle of a drill this morning. The explosion happened, the shockwave made me  loose my balance and I fell down the ladder face first and my left knee took the impact.”

“You might have broken your kneecap. I need to send you for an x-ray and see what is the situation.” She went away and came back five minutes later “Someone will come and get you soon. You captain, can wait here until she is back.”

Rowan nodded and pinched her big toe when he noticed her worried expression “Do you want me to come in and hold your hand?”

“Screw you, Whitethorn.”

He pinched the toe again and his lip quirked up in a tight attempt at a smile.

Aelin wondered if she’ll ever see him smile or even laugh.

The porter came and rolled her bed away. She snatched a last look at Rowan and saw him standing where her bed had been I’ll be here. She saw him mouth to her.

Rowan began pacing back and forth in a very nervous state. His phone pinged and saw a text from Lorcan asking for an update on behalf of her squad. He texted back saying she was getting an x-ray.

He sat down on the chair near where the bed was and took out his phone to scroll through the news of the fire at the warehouses. In one of the articles he saw a great picture of her. She was staring at the inferno in front of her and with her hand she was pointing at something, maybe giving an order. He saved the picture on his phone then went on reading the article flushing with pride at how the journalist had praised her for handling such an emergency with professionalism and doing a great jobs at keeping the victims to a very low level. Turned out they only had lost two workers. Considering what he had seen he was impressed because it could have been far, far worse. He read a few more articles and almost seethed with rage when a journalist had the courage to criticise the TFD for having a young girl in charge of such an emergency.

It was an hour later when Aelin and Yrene came back. Aelin’s face told him that the news was bad.

“Her kneecap is badly fractured. She will need surgery. I have contacted the orthopaedic surgeon to see if he can squeeze her in tomorrow.  Then she will have to stay in the hospital for a few days. Once she gets home she can move around with crutches but it might take up to a month before she will be able to do rehab. The whole thing should last around three months if she cooperates.”

Rowan stared at Aelin and he saw her heartbroken expression. 

Once Yrene excused herself saying she was going to get her a room, Rowan moved closer to her.

“Don’t. Don’t you even try and say what you are about to say. I do not need your pity.”

He knew that the idea of not being able to participate in the performance review was killing her. Gods he wanted to hug her again like in her office and offer comfort. But that was a skill he had always been bad at. 

“Do you need anything?”

“Yes, being less fucking stupid.” She growled through gritted teeth “I knew that explosion was coming. I knew we had fucked up the exercise and let it run longer than meant to. Aedion and I had planned that explosion. I knew it and I still let it knock me off like a blasted newbie.”

She breathed deeply “I am too stupid to be a captain.”

No, he was not having that.

“Now you are talking shite.” He snarled back. He was not having her accusing herself os something like that. He took out his phone and opened the first article he read. The one with the great picture.

“Captain Galathynius has showed nerves of steel while handling a double fire that could have had catastrophic consequences. She masterfully deployed two teams to tackle emergency after emergency without ever backing down from the constant challenge. And when it seemed that the situation was taking a turn for the worst, she pulled a rabbit out of the hat and convinced the stiff necked airforce posh boys to join and help tackle a raging fire, far too big for three fire engines. Captain Galathynius and the two teams deserve more recognition for their incredible job. Far more than a pat on the back.

All the firefighters involved tonight had showed great heroism and excellent skills. Every day these men and women place their lives on the line to keep our city safe. The government should keep it in mind at his next budget review and find in itself to invest in money in services the city deeply deserves like firefighters, the police and the health services instead of flushing it down the drain to fund fancy planes built for destruction.”

“Uh…. He really does not like you guys.”

“I don’t care,” said Rowan quickly “What matters is what she said about you. She doesn’t think you are stupid. And I don’t think it either. This stiff necked posh boy thinks you are amazing.”

“Liar.”

“I am not lying. Why would I? I agree with this woman. You were fucking amazing tonight. All of you. And yes, you deserve far more credit than what you will get.”

His eyes glistened with pride and his words had helped a bit ease her anger.

“So you think I am amazing?”

“I do.” His voice much softer all of a sudden.

Yrene came back in that moment and broke the spell. She had a feeling she and the captain were about to have a moment but the magic had passed.

“I have a room for you.” And she had a wheelchair with her.

Rowan grabbed Aelin again and lifted her into the wheelchair and offered to push her.

“Chaol was my saviour tonight,” she giggled while Rowan rolled the wheelchair along the corridor following the doctor.

“How so?”

“He knows I hate reporters. So as soon as he saw a few coming at me he came and saved me before I could punch them. Plus, he and his men did an outstanding job at crowd control. I know it doesn’t seem like a lot, but when you have people running terrified from a building on fire it can end badly. And they also kept an eye to all the curious monster who come and have a peek and film it to post it social media for a five minutes of glory. Police let us concentrate on the emergency without worrying about what’s happening in the background.”

“Thank you for telling me.” The woman smiled at her.

“Make sure you give him an extra cuddle tonight.”

Both Aelin and Yrene burst out laughing.

“I will reward him accordingly, captain.”

They finally reached the elevator and the three got in. Not long after they were in the room and Rowan lifted her in bed. Yrene left them to get her settled in.

“You need clothes, damn it.” He looked around him as if to find an answer in an hospital room.

“My house keys are at the station.”

“Fine I’ll go and get them and grab some clothes for you from your house. Give me the address.”

“No.”

His face turned confused “why? You can’t stay in your uniform.”

“I am not having you in my house, going through my drawers and my clothes.”

Rowan sighed “tell me where you keep t-shirts and shorts and I will just go straight to that one. I am not a creep I swear.”

“Fine.” She texted him the address “my keys are in the black messenger bag in my locker. There is a small pocket at the front. They are attached to the hook. Actually take the whole bag with you. I have a charger and other stuff in there that I might need.”

“Ok, I’ll be back as soon as possible.”

“Captain?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

He nodded and before leaving he turned once more “you could start calling me Rowan, by the way.”

“Thank you, Rowan.”

He left thinking that his name on her lips was the most beautiful sound ever.

He reached the fire station not long after. He met Ress in the corridor.

“Captain.”

“Ress, isn’t it?”

The man nodded.

“How’s Aelin? 

“She will need surgery. She is not happy as you could imagine.”

“Damn.”

A tall man joined them a moment later. His uniform was white.

“This is chief Havilliard.” Said Ress.

So that was the young Havilliard. 

“You must be captain Whitethorn.”

Rowan nodded.

“Thank you for your assistance tonight.”

Rowan shook his head “it was Aelin’s idea. The credit goes to her. I just follow orders.”

“How is she by the way?” And Rowan could see concern in the man’s eyes.

“She will need surgery. Her knee is busted pretty badly. They are trying to book her for tomorrow. I am heading to her place to get her some clothes.”

“I will update the squad.” Dorian said “I will also try and beg the board to postpone the review. Aedion will be home tomorrow but he will be off for a week and Aelin looks like she will be out of commission for a while. And I need them to train the team. They are my golden duo.”

Rowan took an immediate liking to the chief.

Once Dorian took his leave, Ress took Rowan to their changing rooms and pointed to Aelin’s locker.

“Tell her that the team is behind her and that she was awesome tonight. Also let us know where she is in the hospital so we can come and visit.”

“Room 252 in the orthopaedic ward.”

“Thank you sir.”

Ress left him. He grabbed Aelin’s bag and his eyes spotted the pictures attached to the door and the walls. He saw some pictures with a man and he had a feeling his face was familiar. The photos portrayed a couple in love and for a very brief instant a very strange emotion he could not decipher set into him and then it quickly went away with the same speed it came.

He ignored it. Slammed the locker shut and left the station.

Fifteen minutes later he reached her house and let himself in. The house was gorgeous and very modern. He stepped into the living room and noticed the wall were painted a light yellow giving the room much more brightness. He smiled at the insane number of bookcases bursting with books. So, she was a book worm. Good, something to talk about if they had a chance to have a conversation that contained less insults and vitriol.

He walked to the door she had indicated and reached her bedroom and froze for a moment. He knew he had her permission but for an instant he felt as if he was invading her privacy.

The room was painted a pastel blue and a huge bed was was in the middle. At one end he noticed the drawer and walked to it and froze when he noticed there were two middle drawers.

Shit, she had said the middle drawer but which one. Damn, he had promised.

He opened the top one and slammed it shut when he saw the content. That was her underwear drawer. He turned and leaned against the piece of furniture. Bras… 38A she had said and now his treacherous brain was picturing the piece of clothing filled by…

“Damn.”

He opened the other one and breathed relieved when he noticed t-shirts and shorts. Good. He grabbed a few of her TFD t-shirts and placed them in the duffel bag at the bottom of her bed.

His phone went off. It was Aelin.

“What?”

“Gee, you sound grumpy.”

“What do you need m’lady?” His voice dripping with fake pleasantness.

“I am giving you permission to open the second drawer from the top and grab me some underwear as well, please.”

“You are kidding me.” Aelin could clearly hear the panic in his voice.

“Ro, I am not. I have an emergency and I will soon need new knickers. So yes, get in that drawer and grab me my underwear.”

His hand ran through his hair in a nervous gesture.

“Also, there is a small convenience store around the corner, could you please buy me tampons?”

Rowan almost choked. 

“I am sorry what?”

“You heard me. I assume you had been with other women before. You know we get periods, right?”

“Fine, I will phone you back once I am in the shop. I have no idea what to buy.”

“Just don’t blush too much.”

And he could hear the grin in her voice.

He hung up and breathed deeply and opened the drawer. The selection was… incredible.

He picked a few sports bra thinking that for an hospital stay they would be the better option. Definitely the lacy one were not proper. He rummaged a bit and looked again for something more sober when all of a sudden he found in his hands something that had little or no use as underwear but his treacherous mind painted some very sexy pictures.

Damn, that was torture. He grabbed a nice selection of the sober pieces and closed the drawer from hell in relief. He stuffed everything in the bag and walked out, in desperate need of fresh air.

Next stop he drove to the convenience store and braced himself for the next task. He walked in and sneaked to the correct section feeling like a perv for lingering in a section where he clearly did not belong to. He looked at the boxes and he had no idea that there were so many choices. He phoned her.

“Oh, you are still alive.”

“I am in the shop. Which one do you need?” He almost growled.

“Tampons.” She said matter of factly.

“I am a bloke, Fireheart. I have no idea of what you are talking about.”

He heard her sigh “the ones that looks like bullets.”

“Ok, which type?”

“At the bottom they have guidelines with drops. One with two drops and one with three. Actually make it two each.”

“Does the brand matter?”

“I am not fussed.”

“Okay. I got it.”

“I owe you another one.”

“That’s two now.”

“Fine, fine, Buzzard.”

“What?”

“I’ll tell you later, get your arse back here.”

“So bossy.”

 He hang up and had a look at the brands. She had said she was not fussed but he had decided to get her the expensive ones, hoping it meant they were of a better quality as well.

He walked to the counter to pay “For my wife,” he muttered embarrassed, paid and got out quickly.

She owed him big time. Not for the water drop but for this.

When he got back to the hospital he went to her room and dumped the bag on her bed and moved away from her.

“Gee someone is on edge. Did my underwear scare you? The fearless pilot got frightened by lace.”

He scoffed an ignored her.

“Seriously man, never had a girlfriend or a date wearing sexy lingerie for you?”

“Of course.”

“Well, so what’s problem?”

He sat heavily on the chair “I was probably dating the person at the time, which implies other things.” She could still see the embarrassment in his features “you and I are just work partners. It was very weird.”

“Well, at least now you know how big is a 38A.”

The top of his ears turned red. She loved so much to rile him up.

She had look at what he had brought her and was very happy when she noticed he had picked sports bra. He had actually put some thought in it. Then her eyes caught the boxes of tampons “Rowan, these are very expensive.”

“I just thought… you know… better quality, perhaps? More comfortable? I don’t know. Again, I am a bloke.”

She wished she could stand and kiss him. He had been amazing. She never had put Sam through such torture. He would have probably died at the idea of buying her feminine products.

“I am very grateful. For everything.”

He gave her a smile. It never reached his eyes but the effort was there her heart fluttered at the precious little show of emotion.

He stood “I’ll let you change.” He made to walk away but stopped when he noticed her face.

“You need to use the facilities I guess.”

She nodded.

He lifted her in his arms and walked into the bathroom and deposited her on the loo.

“Let me know when you are done.” He left the room and walked to the corridor and sat on a chair. He took his phone and started browsing some old news about firefighters. He was still thinking about the man he saw in the picture in her locker. He had seen that face in the news.

He searched for a while until he found an article about a fireman called Sam Cortland. He opened and began to read. Shit. Sam and Aelin had been an item for five years and according to the article they had been engaged. He had been a captain at west station. He got killed while fighting a fire in a warehouse. Shit. His hands shook. They had in common more than just books. He pocketed the phone and walked back to the room.

“Are you okay?” He called through the door.

“Almost ready.”

He leaned against the wall and tried to calm down. It had been just over a year. Was she okay?

“I am ready.” He shoot off the wall and opened the door of the bathroom and saw her in her TFD t-shirt. He lifted her in his arms and he never would have wanted to let go of her.

“Back to your bed.”

Her arms were around his neck and it felt as if she lingered like that a bit longer on purpose. 

Or maybe he had just imagined.

“Do you need painkillers? Something to eat?”

Aelin shook her head “I am officially fasting. My surgery has been scheduled for tomorrow at 9.”

“That’s great.”

“I am a bit nervous.”

He sat down on the bed, just in front of her. Her hands were on her lap. He took her hand by grasping just the tip of the fingers “I can stay with you. I can be here when you wake up, or I can call someone else whose company you enjoy more.”

Aelin squeezed his hand back. She wished she had the strength to tell him that somehow she had enjoyed his company very much in the recent hours. But things were still very weird between them and she was positive he still did not like her.

Then she looked up and saw his eyes staring at her and realised that maybe she was wrong. In those beautiful green eyes of his she had noticed a spark of emotion, albeit for a fleeting moment.

“Keep me company, please.” He nodded and sat back on the chair.

They chatted amicably. She had told her about the station and her friends, then he reported that Lorcan was officially smitten by Elide and the two started making plans to set up the two of them.

At her first yawn, Rowan ordered her to go to bed. He tucked her in and went back to his seat.

When he woke up the next morning it was pretty early. He stood and stretched his back, sore from a night asleep on a chair. Aelin was still asleep so he sneaked out of the room and went in search of the cafeteria for a coffee. Then he had a look at himself in one of the doors and noticed he was still in uniform, now a mess, and a shadow of stubble on his face. His academy CO would have his head for walking around in such horrible state while in uniform. He shrugged, got his coffee and went back to the room. Jotted down a note for Aelin. He needed to go home, take a shower and get fresh clothes. He would be back by the time she returned from surgery.

On his way home he phoned Lorcan to give him an update on his whereabouts. He asked also for a few days off to help Aelin and the man agreed. Rowan snorted. Being in love was doing miracles on the old bastard.

He got home, relaxed, took quite a long shower and eventually he had breakfast and caught up with the news and saw that the big fire was still making the headlines. Then a photo caught his attention. Apparently the community had turned in support of the fire stations. They had flocked in front of the government building protesting in light of the new spending budget. Many of signs called for a cut in military spending and to give due value to corps such as firefighters and police. He realised that he would have probably been there as well if it wasn’t that his presence would guarantee him being kicked out of the force immediately. He had been disgusted when he saw how much the airforce got for the repairs. So much more than asked and then Aelin and the guys had to beg for a second engine. Yes, he was in the airforce but he did not agree with the amount of money that often got thrown at them. He eventually got dressed and headed back to the hospital but once he arrived he spotted a few reporters.

“Bloody leeches.”

He tried to walk unnoticed, but alas, his silver hair was not the most inconspicuous of traits.

One woman blocked his path and flung the microphone at him “Captain, how does it feel to save the day?”

Rowan looked at the woman puzzled. How on earth did they know who he was? He had been on a plane the night of the fire.

“You and your team stopped the fires. Without you, the firefighters would have failed.”

Anger. Fiery anger surged through him in a savage wave.

“I think you have read the news wrong.” He tried to calm down “The real heroes are the firefighters,” he shouted for all the reporters to hear “They are the ones who put their lives in danger. They are the ones who jumped into an inferno saving as many workers as possible.” He looked at all of them “over an hour. They were at it for over an hour, with no break, no one to cover for them or take their place. Captain Galathynius supervised the whole thing while injured and barely being able to stand. And you give all the credit to us?” He roared “We showed up because the captain had the amazing idea of using us. We swooped in at the end of the game, when one of the building was almost off. We just dropped some water and you call us heroes?” His hand were now in tight fists “I flew one of those planes and I do not want glory. I do not deserve glory. East and west station do. The police do.” And he walked away furious. Bastards. He hoped that someone passed the interview live, so his real words would pass on. He did not trust reporters.

He ran upstairs and when he arrived he noticed Aelin in bed and half asleep. He gave her a big smile.

“Hey you, tight-pants.”

He chuckled and sat beside her “how do you feel?”

“My hand moves funny.” She said moving her hand in front of her face and Rowan realised she was still quite drugged up from the surgery.

She was quite funny.

“Your hair is white.”

He brushed his hair with his hand “do you like it?”

She gave him a goofy smile “you are sooooo pretty.”

“Oh thank you. No one has called me pretty in a very long time.” He took her hand in his.

“I have a secret” she said and placed a finger in front of her mouth.

“Can I hear it?”

“Yes. But don’t tell the captain.” Who did she think she was talking to?

“I won’t, I promise.” He played along.

“I think  I like him. A lot.”

For a brief instant something flashed in her eyes and Rowan had a feeling she was quite lucid. 

He jumped off the bed in terror.

“I like him a lot, but he hates me.”

Sadness. That was definitely sadness in her voice. He took a step back.

She turned her head to the side.

“I really, really do.” And he saw her close her eyes.

He took another step back and walked out of the room. Once outside he ran to the car and leaned against it closing his eyes. Her words kept ringing in his ears. And her voice. It had changed so much when she uttered those words. It was her. She was fully lucid when she said it. He placed a hand on his heart and found it racing. He wanted to go back to her and say that he did not hated her. That he… he had no idea what he felt. He groaned and jumped in the car and decided to go for a drive. He had to clear his head.

Lysandra found Aelin with her head turned to the window and she thought she had heard her friend crying.

“Hey you…” Lysandra sat at her side and caressed her friend’s head “what’s wrong?”

Aelin sniffled loudly “I think I have said something stupid.”

“More than usual?” But when Aelin did not laugh she realised it must have been real and bad.

“I woke up from surgery and I felt funny for a while. I think captain Whitethorn was here. I am not sure. And I think…” she stopped, sobbing a bit more “I think I told him I like him.” She finally turned her face to Lysandra “I remember his terror and then he left.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I think the drugs were wearing off and I felt a bit more lucid. I think it was him.”

“Oh darling.”

“He hates me so much that he ran away.” Aelin resumed sobbing heavily “am I such a horrible person?”

Lysandra hugged Aelin tightly and cursed the man. If she got her hands on him he would be a dead man. Or she could unleash Aedion on him. He was just as protective of Aelin. 

“He is an idiot. A big tall idiot.” Lys brushed Aelin’s cheek “you need to rest now. You just had surgery.”

“How’s Aedion?”

“At home. Sore and bored already. The doctor gave him a week off but he is not happy. Well, you know him.”

“I heard Dorian mentioning that he might try to get the review postponed. It’s not fair on you guys.”

Aelin sighed “I will still be out.”

“I know, but at least Aedion will be there. One of you at least.” Lysandra reassured her.

Aelin put the tv on and gasped when the tv showed Rowan. It was just outside the hospital.

“What the fuck?”

“Put the volume up,” said Lysandra.

“They were at it for over an hour, with no break, no one to cover for them or take their place. Captain Galathynius supervised the whole thing while injured and barely being able to stand. And you give all the credit to us?” She heard him raise his voice“We showed up because the captain had the amazing idea of using us. We swooped in at the end of the game, when one of the building was almost off. We just dropped some water and you call us heroes?” His hand were not in tight fists “I flew one of those planes and I do not want glory. I do not deserve glory. East and West station do. The police do.” Aelin saw him walk away and she had a feeling that it was when he came back to her. He had normal clothes on. When he took her at the hospital he still had the uniform on.

“That is definitely not the speech of a man who hates you.”

“Lys, not helping.”

Aelin flipped through the channels to see the interview again.

“Don’t think too much about him.”

“Yeah,” Aelin stared at the tv “no worth it, right?”

“Totally.”

Lys kissed her head “Babe I need to go home and tend to Aedion. I don’t want to leave him alone for too long. I know the guys are planning to come as soon as they are off shift, which will be tomorrow morning.”

“Go, I will be fine.” She patted her hand and gave her a tight smile “go and look after Aedion.”

Once Lysandra was out of the room she grabbed her phone and texted Rowan. She waited an hour and tried to phone and realised his phone was off.

“Fine, message received.”

Rowan had driven all the way to the coast to Ilium. It had taken him two hours but it had been worth it. He had spent the afternoon sitting on the beach, his phone switched off. He lay down in the sand and closed the eyes, enjoying the peace of the beach. He almost thought that he’d love to take Aelin there but as soon as his brain said the name he had been ignoring for the past two hours his mood was soured again.

He had fled. Like a coward. She just had surgery and he had left her on her own because he had an issue dealing with his feelings. He was the worst human being ever existed.

Was it so wrong if she was in love with him?

His mind flashed him a name. A name he had tried to bury in the depths of his mind.

He groaned in frustration and stood and started walking on the sand along the beach. The place was beautiful.

He wandered until it was late then decided to go and find a room for the night. He was not in the mood to go back to Orynth. Then he went for dinner and finally dragged himself to a pub. Alcohol. He definitely needed a drink. Something that he hadn’t enjoyed in a very long time. Damn he was so boring. How could anyone be in love with him?

He had a few whiskies in one shot and the liquor burned his throat. He was not used anymore and the booze already started spreading a welcomed numbness through his body and mind. Good, oblivion is what he wanted.

He ordered two more whiskies and chugged them down again in one single motion. 

He looked at the tv behind the counter and he discovered the news were passing his interview. He lowered his head and realised straight away it was a stupid idea. His silver hair stood out like a sore thumb. 

“I think you look prettier in person.” Said a voice at his side, then he felt a pair of hands on his arm.

He turned his head and there was a woman at his side. Smiling sensually at him.

“Well, you need glasses.” He turned his head again and kept watching the tv ignoring the woman.

“I am Remelle.”

“Good for you.” He ate a couple of the peanuts on the small plate on the counter.

“Why is such a good looking man all alone in a place like this, drinking whisky shots?”

“None of your business.” She moved closer and her hand traced the length of his arm. He had a t-shirt on and his tattoo was on display.

“I love your tattoo.” Her fingers traced the lines of it.

Rowan got off the chair “I am sorry, but I am not interested. Not in the mood and you are being very rude.”

“I can help you make forget about her. You look like pining about some mysterious woman”

Rowan had enough. He stormed out of the pub and ran all the way back to the beach and fell on his knees. He looked up at the dark sky and then closed his eyes.

He had feelings for Aelin. Somehow his treacherous heart had decided to play tricks on him and make him feel again. Something he had forbidden himself from doing for a while. But Aelin had struck him dumb since day one with her big mouth, her defiance. The woman had fire in her and a part of him felt irremediably pulled to her, no matter how much he tried to deny it. He confessed to himself that he had enjoyed fussing over her, looking after her and even try to cheer her up when she had been down. He had told her the truth, he was in awe of her, of what she had done  and he hadn’t been in awe of anyone in a very long time. 

He had feelings for her, big damn feelings and all he could do was flee instead of facing them. But he was not ready yet. That was his biggest fear. That’s why he had ran out of the room, because her admission had touched a part of him that hadn’t healed yet. Just like her he had loved and lost everything. His feelings were just budding. He had better repress them before it got worse. It was better for both of them. He was positive she deserved someone better than him.

Rowan sighed and sat in the sand in silence, staring at the sky until the fog in his mind started to clear. Eventually he dragged his pitiful arse back to his hotel and crashed in bed fully clothed.

TAGS:

@rowaelinismyotp

@jlinez

@swankii-art-teacher

[bellygunnr]

Checksum

[Previously...] [Next]

Chapter 2: Profit Margins

PILOT ORVILLE FREEBORN MCS JAMES MACALLAN // TITAN BAY 4 EN ROUTE PLANET TYPHON, IMC-CONTROLLED SPACE

The simpod's indicator light winks green. Orville watches it, lulled slightly by the deep hum of the egg-shaped machine while his colleagues talked around him. They were clustered together, talking freely about the two men semi-unconscious in front of them, though he had long since lost the thread of conversation. He never paid much attention to gossip and he wasn't about to start now.

Besides, the rifleman wasn't that interesting. He seemed quiet and never looked anyone in the eye. What Lastimosa saw in the man, Orville didn't know. But Lastimosa had only told them what he was doing-- not why he was doing it.

The kid could be his son, for all he knew. At the end of the day, the lone notion of the kid simply became the Marauder Corps's worst-kept secret.

"Say, Freeborn," Shaver says, nudging his shoulder.

Orville starts, dragging his gaze away from the 'pod to focus on his mate, Crane. He raises an eyebrow.

"You think Anderson and Grenier are even alive by now?" Crane asks.

His tone is light and conversational. Orville hums, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

"Sure, right? Why would they be dead?" Orville says.

He glances up at the crouched Titan behind them, BT-7274. It's focused intently on Captain Lastimosa, but he hasn't any doubt it's eavesdropping on them. Captain Cole has taken to opening and closing an electric lighter repeatedly, filling the space with anxious clicking.

"Apparently, the SRS outpost we had here went dark," Crane explains.

"So? That's just standard protocol. We've had ops like that more than once, Shaver," Orville says, gaining an edge to his voice.

"But this one just seems weird, y'know? Some backwater IMC planet, a mystery testing facility... Very hush-hush, I've heard."

"El-Tees Shaver and Freeborn," a deep, smooth, but still clearly synthesized voice erupts, "you are in violation of confidentiality codes regarding Oscar-Two-One-Seven."

Crane has the good sense to wince and Orville crosses his arms over his chest, rolling his eyes. For a second, he wanted to retort, but...

BT wasn't wrong. With Cole and the rifleman in the hangar, they really shouldn't be so loose-lipped.

"Sorry, BT," Orville says.

There's a pause as they both wait for a response from the Titan. Predictably, he says nothing, but the shutters in his optic suddenly twist, that blue pinpoint of an eye leveling on the 'pod. Orville, Crane, and Cole all turn their gazes to it, curious.

The green light was now blinking. It turns solid amber.

"They must be finished," Cole says.

BT-7274 draws itself to its full height with an abrupt scrape of metal. At the same time, the lights in the hangar stutter, plunging them in a half-realm darkness. Orville reaches for the pager at his belt, tapping the screen on, his chest already tight with alarm.

There's nothing on the pager. The lights flicker again.

"I thought they fixed this shit back at Harmony," Crane says.

Tai jerks to life with a start, the same instant the simpod beeps and pops its latch open. Orville turns to stare at a dazed Jack Cooper.

Alarms start blaring. Five pagers go off at once, shrill with the sound of a non-standard alert. The intercoms crackle, but it's not the ship's AI that speaks. It's the captain.

"All hands, abandon ship."

"Abandon-- but we haven't--?" Crane stammers, shocked. "What?"

"Get off your ass and go, pilot," Tai snaps. "Prepare for Titanfall, everyone. Rifleman--"

Orville hurries after Crane, where his Titan resides, already crouched and open for embarking. He jams his helmet on and flops into her palm.

He had a bad, bad feeling about this.

BT-7274 MCS JAMES MACALLAN // TITAN BAY 4 IN ORBIT PLANET TYPHON, IMC-CONTROLLED SPACE

The faux field BT-7274 finds itself in is reminiscent of the prairie surrounding much of the Militia's HQ back at Harmony. He takes it in cautiously, scanning the horizon for threats despite being fully cognizant of the simulated war fog obscuring the distance. A considerable distance away, Tai and the rifleman stand, both excited.

"That's my partner, BT. He's a Vanguard-class. Homegrown Militia technology... "

BT-7274 pushes himself upright.

"The first Titan chassis we designed ourselves. One we didn't have to steal from the IMC. Now, go ahead, Cooper. Call in your first Titan."

He flicks his gaze skyward to witness the sky ripple, a pixelated rift bubbling and expanding, spitting the under-rendered silhouette of a Titan-- a mere copy of himself-- to the ground, high-speed.

Before it can land, that rip in virtual reality explodes. The system error that rocks the simpod flashes in the corner of BT's own HUD. Quietly, he detaches  itself from the program.

Titan Bay 4 is in chaos. Pilots and ground crew run between his legs, shouting orders and clambering for their gear. BT-7274 checks his own inventory compulsively.

"They're killing us down there, rifleman. Trying to, anyway," Tai says.

SHIP AI UTAH to ALL UNITS: ABANDON SHIP. REPEAT, ABANDON SHIP.

BT-7274 splays his massive hand out flat for Tai to step onto, cockpit already open, obscuring its vision. It would take them fifteen seconds to return to their ejection stall. In a few ticks, he was pulling sensitive information from the ship's AI and the MacAllan's internal systems reports.

"We're going to see a new planet today, Cooper. Maybe even die on it. I'll see you down there, alright?"

Tai settles down with a grunt that's lost in the din. He shuts the hatch before BT can get to it, but pauses, allowing the neural link to wash through them both.

"Transferring controls to pilot," BT-7274 says. "You know I do not like it when you say that."

Tai chuckles. "But it's the truth, BT."

"Again, I ask-- do you want to die on these planets?"

The conversation keeps its nerves, so to speak, steady, as they move with haste to their stall. The platform dips beneath BT-7274's colossal weight, groaning in protest as it carries them into position.

"The 9th Militia Fleet has encountered a formidable screen of orbital defenses. Apparently, two of our own have already been lost," BT explains, summarizing the data he'd just pulled. "It seems our intel from Anderson was wrong."

The ship shakes violently.

UTAH to BT-7274: GET OUT OF THESE CHANNELS.

BT-7274 to UTAH: I will soon be out of effective range.

Odd, that it's now that Utah chooses to stop BT from looking where he shouldn't. He extracts himself from the MacAllan's diagnostics.

Tai and BT-7274 hunker down and lock their joints for impending Titanfall. The automatic ejection system rotates them outward, even as another hit jostles the mechanism. BT shutters his optic against rapidly strobing lights.

"Please wait," intones a modulated, cheery voice. "Titanfall in 10... 9... 8-- 8--"

The hydraulic frame holding BT-7274 and Tai in place shudders, then appears to fold in on itself, collapsing the floor and pushing its chassis through. Coordinates, speed, and other targeting information flies through BT-Tai's head, coalescing into a single point.

"Well, that wasn't normal," Tai says cheerfully.

"Planetside in 17 seconds," BT states, splashing a timer in a corner of their HUD. "Expect heavy IMC forces."

CLAY NGUYEN CICHLID SQUAD, 34th DIVISION JUNGLE CANYONS TYPHON, IMC-CONTROLLED SPACE

Clay wipes the sweat off his hands and compulsively triple checks his station, useless as it was in the deep, suffocating darkness of the jungle-like canyon. He could see nothing beyond the loose perimeter his team had setup, a consequence of the moonless nights that had been become the new norm, as well as the lightning storms that started around the same time. But who was keeping track, really?

Not him, surely.

"The Militia should just hurry up and get here," his partner grumbles.

"Why? So you can watch the drones do all the work?" Clay shoots at her.

It wasn't like they were going to be doing any fighting-- not against ground forces, anyway. But they'd been here for hours already, since the sun went down, and had nothing to show for it.

That was fine with him. His team? Not so much.

A bright flash illuminates the darkness. Clay looks around for the source before finding the good sense to look up-- where a web-like pattern had flared to life, suspended and writhing miles above their heads.

"The anti-ship cannons," Clay breathes. "Jesus."

"Look alive, Cichlid," crackles their radio. "There's reports of Militia drop pods starting to enter Typhon. Look out for ships, too-- it's quite the fireworks show above our heads."

Clay can sense his partner starting to move, but he's fixated on the sky above. Pinpricks of light were rapidly exploding into white streaks that descended into obscurity.

"Archer's showing potential targets," Suvia announces. "Would you get off your ass already?"

She shoves his shoulder. He pushes her back, momentarily rankled, but hurries to where the second rocket launcher stood. The tiny digital screen offered several potential targets, but no locks.

"I think it's just--" Clay starts to speak, but a colossal, bone-shaking boom drowns him out.

His teeth chatter, then his world turns over, as four distinct booms impact the earth. It's all he can do to keep his grip on the Archer despite the hail of rock and soil raining on his position.

"Suv, you okay?"

"I've got dirt in my mouth!"

When the initial spray clears, Clay sees fire, smoke, and the battered, conical frames of drop pods. He has to remind himself that they're Militia. The IMC war paint was from capture and thievery, but only two had met the ground levelly.

The other two had smashed against the jagged rocks hard enough to ignite something in their internals.

"Some of the pods hit the rocks," Clay says tightly. "Shit,  they're firing."

"They don't know we're here," Suvia says. "Here comes our birds."

He watches the Archer's targeting system instead of the evolving battlefield. He wasn't interested in the slaughter. He wasn't interested in facing a Titan, either, but...

The Archer chirps. Clay adjusts his grip on the launcher as it automatically adjusts itself on the tripod, tracking a blue blip in a sea of red and yellow.

"Titan," Clay calls. "Tone's good."

"Tone's good," Suvi repeats.

Clay searches the sky briefly. It's difficult to make head or tails of what he sees, but the enemy Titanfall attracts his gaze by triggering its Distortion Brakes. IMC technology again, a little voice reminds him.

The enemy Titan unfolds itself and sticks the landing gracefully.

Two Archer rockets zip toward it, trailing smoke.

[hizashis-lil-bunbun]

Like a Moth to a Flame Pt. 3

Back at it again and this chapter was fun! Next one we’ll be getting into some more juicy bits but I needed a setup for the scene. So enjoy my friendly little deviants!

Mild TW: mentions of blood, violence, attempted assault, and (very) minor character death

As always, I thank/blame @miscellaneous-bnha for the inspo

Part 1 Part 2

•••••

You feel numb walking down the darkened sidewalk towards home, shock and frustration making it difficult to put one foot in front of the other. It had been several weeks since you last saw Mirio, and there hadn’t been any reports of strange, paranormal activity in any other part of town. At least, not according to the papers. Even after the landlord had coughed up the money to replace the ruined fire escape, you’d yet to catch another glimpse of the golden mothman. Night after night you’d put out bowls of sugar water, stayed up late, even pulled a few strings of old Christmas lights out of storage to decorate your portion of the new railing. But come morning, you always found the bait untouched and it left you feeling drained and disappointed. You knew your nightly routine was starting to feel unhealthy, obsessive really, and that your performance at work had been gradually slipping as a result. But it wasn’t until today, when your boss called you in after your shift ended and handed you that soul-crushing pink slip, that you realized just how far it had fallen. And on top of all that, you’d missed the last bus home, forcing you to take a literal walk of shame back to your apartment.

“What am I gonna do?” You breathe into the crisp night air, unconsciously reaching into the pocket of your coat to fish out your phone. Without even looking at the screen, you unlock the device and open your camera roll, tapping on a folder marked “Moth” before finally looking down. There was only one picture on file, but you’d seen it so many times it was practically burned into your retinas. The image was grainy and blurred (not to mention overexposed beyond the point of recognition due to the flash), but you couldn’t give a damn about any of that. The only clear part of the image, the only part you cared about, was the pair of bright blue eyes staring back at you. For some unknown reason, the camera hadn’t distorted them, perfectly capturing their glassy, sapphire hue and wide-eyed expression of curiosity.

And you had spent countless hours poring over it.

In the beginning, you’d convinced yourself it was nothing more than a piece of evidence, proof of your sanity and a confirmation of his existence. But as the days passed, you’d come to take comfort in it, more often than not allowing your mind to wander freely back to the memory of his voice in your ear and the warm weight of his head on your shoulder. You hadn’t even posted it to any of the online forums, jealously hoarding it the same way a dragon protects its treasure.

“Mirio.” You exhale softly, thumb absentmindedly brushing over the cracked surface of your phone screen. “I wish I could fly away from my problems like you. Must be nice having wings…”

“Hey there, baby!”

A gruff, slurring voice abruptly snaps you back to reality, head whipping up to see a trio of men leaning against a rundown building across the street. Their faces are indistinguishable, partially obscured by shadows thrown from a lone street lamp shining over their heads. But you can clearly make out the brown paper bags they have clutched in their fists, the material crumpled and molded into the tell-tale shape of liquor bottles as they continue to heckle you.

“Why dontcha come over here and hang out with us?” The biggest brute calls out, beckons you closer with a crook of his finger. “We’ll show ya a good time.”

“Yeah, a real good time.” The man to his left cackles. His lewd remark earns him a few snickers from his seedy friends while a wave of revulsion courses down your spine. Catcalling wasn’t exactly foreign to you; in this part of town, it was practically expected. But their drunken words and leering eyes make you acutely aware of just how empty the streets are right now, devoid of other people or passing cars to offer protection (or witnesses) should they decide to take things too far. Still, you straighten your spine and snap your eyes forward, long-since trained to know it’s best to ignore their booze-fueled jeers and keep walking.

“Awww, don’t be like that, baby!” You hear one of them call from your right, “We just wanna have some fun!”

You keep your gaze trained on the looming silhouette of your apartment complex, soles of your shoes clicking against the cold pavement as you grip the phone in your hand even more tightly. You’re close enough to see some of the lights are still on your neighbors windows, probably cleaning up from dinner or settling in for a smoke and a drink. With the promise of safety so close at hand, you cast a quick glance over your shoulder….

And feel your blood run cold as you see the men casually strolling across the empty street to fall in line behind you. They’re whispering amongst themselves as they take a few more swigs from their bottles, their shuffling gait and longer legs quickly closing the gap between you. You pick up your own pace in turn, walking much more briskly now and earning a reproachful growl from the men behind you.

“Hey! I’m talkin’ to you!” One of them snarls, “Didn’t your mama ever teach you it’s rude to ignore people?”

You don’t respond to his jab, too afraid to speak regardless, and set off at a jog, determined to put as much distance between yourself and these morons as possible. But that action proves itself to be a grave mistake, as you hear the footsteps behind you pick up in speed. Before you can fully register what’s happening, one of the men appears over your right shoulder, laughing maniacally as he gives you a rough shove and sends you careening off course and into an adjacent alleyway. The unexpected move knocks you off balance, sending you sprawling to the ground and knocking your head into the concrete with enough force to set your teeth rattling. Even worse, you lose your grip on your phone, hearing it skitter off into the darkness as the men crowd into the alley after you.

“I think she could use a lesson in manners! Ain’t that right, boys?” Their leader asks mockingly, seconds before he grabs you by the hair and roughly hauls you back onto your feet.

“Please!” You yelp, both from fear and the pain shooting throughout your scalp, “I-I have money. You can take whatever you want!”

“Whatever we want, huh?” He says with a sneer, his face close enough you can smell the sour aroma of cheap bourbon and old cigarettes on his breath.

“Then gimme a kiss, sweetheart.”

His mouth is on yours in an instant, his free arm wrapping itself around your waist to keep you in place as he tries to force his tongue past your sealed lips and down your throat. Your screams for help are muffled by the kiss, and it’s all you can do to push against his chest and thrash wildly in his hold. His companions stand faithfully behind him, egging him on with bouts of derisive laughter intermingled with hoots to “hurry up and get on with it” so they can have their turn. After a few moments he pulls away for air, arm leaving your waist and clapping the hand that was tangled in your hair over your mouth. Meanwhile, his buddies move to either side of you to grab you by the shoulders and force down on your knees.

“Since you didn’t feel like talkin’…” He growls dangerously, free hand toying with the buckle of his belt. “Let’s see if that pretty little mouth is good for somethin’ else.”

Your eyes widen as his belt comes undone with a soft clink, tears pricking at the corners as he leers down at you. Instinct takes over as he attempts to undo his fly, and before he can move his hand you jerk your head back to partially free your mouth. Then you bite down. Hard.

“Fuck!”

He hastily wrenches his hand from your mouth before you can do any more damage while you take in a desperate lungful of fresh air. A quick glance at his hand shows you’d successfully broken the skin, leaving a perfect, crescent-shaped indent that was quickly beading up with fresh blood.

“Help! Somebody help! Rape! RA-!”

You’re abruptly silenced by a quick blow to your right cheek, delivered by one of the men still holding you down. Throbbing pain radiates out from the point of impact, making your vision white out and earning a cruel laugh from your captors.

“You little bitch!” The injured man spits at you, “Think you’re so tough, huh?”

A small click forces your eyes to open, only to be met with a glint of metal in the light of the full moon: a switchblade.

“Let’s see how tough you are when I slice up that pretty face of yours. Starting with that fuckin’ mouth.”

With a twirl of the blade, he advances towards you, relishing in your helpless state as greedy eyes roam the plane of your terrified face. You’re too scared to scream anymore, eyes squeezing shut as you brace yourself for the first cut. But instead of searing pain, there’s an odd rustling noise, followed by a colossal thump that seems to shake the very earth beneath you. The men holding your shoulders abruptly release you, backing away amidst a slew of bewildered curses. Slowly, you crack one eye open to find a new, dark figure standing in front of you, blotting out the moon itself and effectively shielding you from your would-be rapist.

“M-Mirio?” You gasp, voice wavering from disbelief and shock. The golden cryptid looks over his shoulder at you, only giving a chittering cry at the sound of your voice.

“What the fuck!?” The man behind him screeches, “The fuck is that thing?!”

Mirio’s head snaps around to face the terrified thug, wings slowly raising in a show of strength and dominance as he lets out a low, menacing growl.

“Y/N…” He snarls, taking a short step forward and shifting into a crouch. “Mine.”

“S-stay back!” The man stammers, jabbing the switchblade into the empty air in front of him like a puny saber. “I’m warning you!”

Mirio gives a low hiss in response, wings fully extended as he lowers himself to place one hand on the ground. You’re frozen on the spot, hardly daring to breathe as you sense the slightest movement could set him off. For a moment, everything is still. And then, spurred on by loyalty, liquid courage or a combination of the two, the other thugs charge Mirio from behind. Moving faster than you could comprehend, Mirio whips around with a high-pitched shriek, landing a powerful swipe to the center of one man’s chest and sending him crashing to the pavement beside you. The other one was luckier, successfully jumping onto the monster’s back and causing Mirio to rear up on his back legs once more. The attacker then attempts to wrap his arms around Mirio’s neck, perhaps hoping to cut off his air supply or at least distract him long enough for the third man to join the fray.

But Mirio was obviously stronger and smarter than he was expecting.

Clawed hands scratch at the attacker’s face and shoulders before the winged behemoth suddenly flops onto his back, bringing his full weight down on the foolhardy attacker with a sickening crunch. Rolling back onto all fours, the man is left gasping for air on the ground, possibly with a punctured lung or (at the very least) a few broken ribs. Undeterred by his pitiful cries for mercy, Mirio looses an unearthly roar before grabbing the man by the front of his sweat-soaked shirt, rising to his full height, and tossing him towards the empty street like he weighed no more than a ragdoll.

“MINE!” He bellows, “MIIIIIIINE!”

“Fuck you!” The remaining man screams in return, rushing towards the towering beast with his switchblade held aloft. “Die, you fuckin’ freak!”

Mirio shifts back into a fighting stance, his back to you as he lets out another spine-chilling howl and rushes forward to greet the oncoming attack. At the same time, the moon moves behind a cloud, throwing the alleyway into inky darkness as you shriek and cover your head with your hands. With your eyes screwed shut, all you can hear is the man’s incensed grunts and yells, overshadowed by Mirio’s own enraged roars and the scratch of his nails on the dirty concrete. After a few seconds of struggle, Mirio gives a piercing cry, followed by the wet sound of tearing flesh and a strangled, gurgling noise. The fight ends as suddenly as it started, the only sounds now coming from your own terrified whimpers and the clatter of the switchblade falling to the ground.

Peeking out from between your fingers, you find the sky has started to lighten once more, the moon reappearing from behind the clouds and washing the bizarre scene in an unsettling, ethereal hue. The scrawniest attacker is still sprawled out next to you, unconscious but mercifully alive given the force of his impact. Mirio stands facing towards you, breathing heavily as the wings on his back shiver and shake. And at his feet, eyes wide and lifeless, is the leader’s body, his face covered in deep claw marks and a puddle of blood seeping out from underneath him like an oil slick.

“You… you killed him.” You breathe, “Mirio, h-he’s dead.”

Mirio doesn’t make any move to acknowledge your words, simply sinking to his knees with a rumbling groan. He seems almost sad, remorseful even, with the way he hangs his head and curls his bloodied hands into fists atop his knees. In this new light, you also notice something on the mothman’s left forearm: a clean, shallow gash. That must have been the cause for his shrieking earlier.

Slowly you stand once more, swallowing the lump in your throat to take a few tentative steps toward the creature.

“Are you… hurt?” You ask softly, noting the way he jolts and then shrinks away from you. You’re only a few feet away now, close enough to make out the faint stripes and eye-spot pattern on his wings. You nervously crouch down, balancing on the balls of your feet but keeping a safe distance should he turn aggressive. A chilly breeze blows through the alley, pushing against your back and making the creature raise his head up slightly, sniffing the air. His gaze locks on your face, glassy eyes wide as he slowly puts his palms on the ground and gets back on all fours. He moves one clawed hand closer to you and you start for a second, taking a quick step back before catching sight of the streaks of blood dripping from his forearm once more.

“Hurt?” You say again, pointing a shaky finger at the wound. His eyes follow to where you’re pointing and he lets out a chittering mewl, lifting up his injured arm. His long, slithering tongue snakes out from his mouth and he begins to lap at the blood, wincing at the taste. You’re unsure if this is real or an act. On the one hand, it’s hard to believe a creature so obviously powerful as him would be so concerned over little more than a scratch. Then again, you feel certain Mirio is too much of a gentle soul at heart to fake the whole “kicked-puppy” routine.

“No. Don’t do that.” You chide gently, tone forcing the monster to stop licking at himself and look up at you. Moving slowly so as to not startle him, you reach into the pocket of your coat and fish around until your fingers close around a crumpled, but thankfully unused, piece of tissue. When you pull it out of your pocket, Mirio’s eyes narrow into slits and he bares his teeth to let out a small, warning hiss.

“Easy, boy.” You say soothingly, “It can’t hurt you. See?”

You extend your free hand and pat the tissue against your own palm, demonstrating it’s benign nature. Mirio’s face gradually relaxes as he watches your display, eventually crawling over the corpse on the ground to get closer to you. You’re now practically nose-to-nose with the mothman, dropping your empty hand by your side and using the tissue to gesture at the cut on his arm.

“Let me help.”

Mirio gives a short blink before shifting into a squatting position similar to your own, carefully extending his injured arm towards you. Doing your best to not cause him any pain, you carefully start to dab at the areas around the cut, mopping up the spilled blood as the monster watches you work.

“Y/N.” He says softly, his voice causing you to look up from your task. Mirio raises his other hand to touch the right-hand side of your face, sending a bolt of prickly pain shooting through your skull and making you wince. You’d been so caught up in the chaos and adrenaline-fueled high that you’d forgotten about your own injuries. No doubt you’ve got a sizable bruise forming from where that thug had punched you earlier. Mirio’s stiffens up at the your response, brow furrowing in concern as he quickly pulls his hand away.

“H-hurt?”

“A little…” You mumble in response, “But I’ll be alright.”

He stills for a moment and you offer him a small, pained smile, hoping to reassure him. And the next thing you know he’s moving, clutching you to his chest in a protective embrace and nuzzling his face into your neck. You squeak a little at the unexpected move, body going rigid in fear of being attacked. But soon his sweet scent and warmth fully envelop your senses, causing you to relax in his hold.

“Hurt.” He whimpers in your ear, “Y/N hurt. My fault.”

You can feel your heart clench at his words. He sounds so guilty. Helpless even. Like a child crying to their mother for comfort. Before you can think better of it, you wrap your arms around him in return, worming your hands underneath his wings to rest on his well-defined shoulder blades.

“Oh, Mirio no! It’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything to hurt me.”

His body begins to shake, his breathing turning into ragged gasps as he squeezes you even more tightly. One hand leaves your back to cradle your head, the sheer size of his fingers tangling in your hair making you feel like doll-like. The two of you stay locked together like this for a few minutes, holding onto each other in the moonlight as Mirio continues to tremble beneath your touch.

“Mirio. I-” You softly breathe, causing him to raise his golden head and look you in the eye. You have so many questions for him, so many things you like to say. But all that comes out is a quiet, “Thank you.”

He cocks his handsome head to one side before a smile begins to tug at the corners of his mouth, pearly teeth reappearing as he gives a short nod of understanding.

“Mirio… keep Y/N safe.”

“Yes. Yes, you did.” You say with a weak chuckle, reaching up one hand to brush an errant strand of blonde hair away from his face. “I’m safe now.”

Mirio coos as he presses his cheek into your palm, the same way he’d done outside your apartment complex all those weeks ago. His eyes close contentedly and you can’t help but smile at his blissful expression.

“Y/N. Mine.” He purrs.

You freeze at the bold statement, pulling your hand away and earning a disappointed mewl from Mirio.

“You said that before. Mirio, what do you mean–?”

“You there! Freeze!”

A familiar voice cuts off your question nanoseconds before a powerful flashlight is aimed directly at Mirio’s back. Even though you can’t see around his massive frame, you can tell it’s the same officer who caught you the last time Mirio visited you.

Only now, the cornered cryptid hadn’t had the chance to fly away.

“Hands where I can see them!” The officer demands, flashlight in one hand and a pistol in the other. Mirio makes no such move. Instead, he rises to his feet, hooking one arm under your thighs and taking you up with him.

“Wait! Mirio, don’t!” You shriek, desperately grabbing at his chest and mane as he turns to face the officer. It’s a terrifying sight for the poor man: three bodies strewn across a bloody alley, a blue-eyed beast, and a helpless civilian seemingly taken captive.

“D-drop the hostage!” He stammers out. “Do it, or I’ll shoot!”

You can tell from the way the light wavers that he’s shaking and you suspect the only reason he hasn’t fired his weapon yet is because he doesn’t want to risk hitting you. Your eyes flit wildly between his and Mirio’s face, finding his fangs are bared as he lets out a warning hiss.

“Y/N.” Mirio snarls, wings slowly unfurling behind him as he bends his knees and tightens his grip on you. “Mine!”

With that final declaration, Mirio gives his wings a powerful flap and kicks off from the ground. You scream as you take flight, tiny fingers digging into the solid muscle of Mirio’s chest and neck for safety. Between the sound of rushing wind and your own heartbeat jackhammering in your ears, you can barely make out the officer’s voice telling him to stop, followed by a rogue gunshot. And then there’s nothing. Nothing save for the wind in your hair and Mirio’s howl of victory as he carries you ever higher into the starry night sky.

“Stop!” You shriek, cold air stinging your battered face and forcing your eyes closed. “Put me down! Mirio, let go!”

Mirio doesn’t respond to your demands, either unable or unwilling to hear you as he sets off over the rooftops. After a few minutes of careful flying, he abruptly changes course, veering off westward and heading for the woods that ring the city limits.

“Keep Y/N safe.” Mirio says resolvedly, his voice rumbling through his chest and directly in your ear.

“Y/N… mine.”

•••••

Tags: @middevil465 @delightfully-anonymous

[listentothelittlebird]

Today I bring you: an alternate Super Sons meeting! (This is a scrapped scene from my Code Bat series on ao3, but I think this is still enjoyable without context!)

The rewrite of this is here!

“I told you, coming with me would be boring.”

“Tt. Whatever, Drake.”

The nickname had long lost its malicious tinge. Tim rolled his eyes, trying to quell the fond smile that was twitching at his lips by ducking his face back down towards the paperwork on his table.

He was in a usually vacant office, at the Wayne Enterprises building of New York. Damian was playing a video game of some sort on his phone. Tim leaned over to peer at the boy’s screen. Damian tried to jerk away from his view, but Tim had already caught sight of the display.

Tim snorted, “Is that Dragonvale?”

“Shut up,” Damian snapped, his emotions betrayed by the reddening of his cheeks. Tim laughed lightly before returning to his work, the office descending into companionable silence, the only sounds coming from Tim shifting around the papers and clicking and unclicking his pen.

Damian had insisted on coming along for Tim’s business trip to New York. Not because he wanted to have a hand at the business, no, but because the young artist was interested in sketching the streets of the city - especially from the more illegal perches they could find on the tall buildings.

A ping from Tim’s phone caught his attention. He frowned minutely, enough of a change for Damian to raise an eyebrow from where he had positioned himself in the corner of the office, right next to the window overlooking the street below. Damian had already grown bored of the same view, having sketched the same perpsective for three days straight.

“So much for a peaceful business trip,” Tim murmured, signing quickly to Damian from behind his desk, where the camera in the room was unable to see, “K-O-N is in town. Pursuing T-O-Y-M-A-N.”

Damian tilted his head to the side, a silent question of “How?”, because New York was not exactly a neighbour to Metropolis. Tim shrugged with a disgruntled look, “Let’s go. I’m pretty much done with what I have to do right now. The rest can wait until later.”

Damian kept pace with Tim as he made a quick detour to access his spare costume before exiting the building. They were becoming more and more like real brothers each day - just the fact that Damian was here with Tim, without any of their other family members, already spoke volumes on their improving relationship. “What do I do?” Damian wondered curiously, “I know you’re intending on meeting up with him. Would my presence be distracting?”

Tim pursed his lips in thought. He had to admit, Damian’s new costume - the robe dyed with faint colourings - was pretty neat, but also very easily located. Damian would definitely stand out, if he did suit up. Not to mention that Damian had little to no exposure to any metas besides Duke, and would struggle to hide from Kon’s super senses.

“If you’re ready to make your debut, then I’ll see you at the destruction zone,” Tim clasped his hand briefly on Damian’s shoulder before ducking into the nearest alleyway. Damian would take more time to make it to where Toyman was currently wreaking havoc, since he had left his robe in their hotel room.

Sure enough, when Red Robin swooped down from the nearest rooftop to land a direct hit on Toyman’s newest creation, the flash of Damian’s white costume was still nowhere to be seen.

There was, however, another tween present. It did not take a genius to realise from the boy’s red cape and blue Superman tunic that this was Kon’s younger brother, Jon.

“How did Toyman get all the way to New York?” Red Robin aimed the question at his teammate, electing to ignore the presence of the younger boy for the time being.

Superboy huffed, visibly annoyed. “He let loose a ton of smaller toy robots, miniatures of the one he’s currently on,” Kon pointed to the UFO-like contraption that was zipping about the skies. He then directed a glare at his younger brother, “And somebody decided to ditch homeland, so that their Pa has to do all the work taking the robots down himself.”

“Pa can take care of the robots just fine!” Jon yelled, angry tone still dangerously close to a whine, “And I can help you! It all works out!”

Kon looked ready to argue back, so Tim cut in with a quick, “Less talk, more work. We can deal with family squabbles later.” Both Superboys instantly fell silent.

Toyman was rather irritable, Tim realised. Particularly so for him, since he was unable to fly and was restricted to the rooftops or fire escapes along the sides of the buildings. It was one of the few times that he wished he had incorporated his gliding wings into his Red Robin suit instead of his Gotham suit.

The villain also seemed to have a shield around his robot, preventing them from inflicting much damage on the UFO he was in. Tim was also constantly weary of the civilians - they were unable to properly clear out of the way, since Toyman kept switching streets and running off in different directions.

Jon tried to punch straight through the shield, but the shield deflected the force of his blow right back at him with a displacing wave of energy, sending the boy hurtling into a nearby building. The boy growled and got back to his feet, aiming to punch the shield a second time. The buildings around them were already unstable from the force of the first blast.

“Kid, don’t!” Red Robin called, but Jon had already flown straight into the shield, forcefully flinging his fist into the barrier.

-

Damian arrived on scene just as the buildings began to crumble. He stayed crouched a distance away, just shy of the main impact zone of the concussive wave.

Damian first noted the failing infrastructures of the buildings nearest to the blast. He was moving before his thoughts had fully formed, diving quickly through the sizable hole in the building and sprinting towards the unlucky civilians that were caught up in the chaos. He had to clear the building fast, before they were crushed under it.

He lowered the last person to the ground with his grappling hook, only to look up and note the presence of not one, but two Superboys. The smaller one looked to be around his own age, which was both intriguing and concerning.

The second Superboy now looked down at him from where he was holding up the upper half of the building he had just exited. “Who are you?” the boy asked in bewilderment. Damian backed away before ducking into the alley beside him, making his way onto the rooftop of a stable building.

“I could use some help!” Red Robin yelled from one street over, where Toyman had retreated to. Red Robin was using what looked to be electrified bird-a-rangs, which were just barely able to get through the shield, but were not doing much in terms of damage.

Damian slipped a small throwing knife into his hand, aiming his shot carefully. Toyman was facing away from him, and his control panel was on full display from where Damian was crouched. He waited until Red Robin readied another bird-a-rang, before throwing his knife in sync with him.

The shield malfunctioned for a split second once more, and it was all that was needed for the knife to slip through at the same time as the bird-a-rang, planting itself neatly into the controls. The wiring fizzled for a brief moment as Toyman cried out, whipping his head back to meet Damian’s blank mask.

The shield disappeared, and then Superboy - Kon-El - was delivering a sharp punch that crunched through the robot’s metallic body easily. The younger Superboy came soon after, hanging back as Red Robin and his older brother subdued Toyman properly.

The boy wrinkled his nose briefly, before looking directly at Damian, his expression brightening. Damian took a cautious step away from the edge of his rooftop even as Superboy flew up to him, landing heavily enough to crack the concrete slightly.

“You’re the guy from earlier!” Superboy enthused, and extended a hand, “Hi! I’m Superboy!”

Damian gazed warily at the boy’s hand. “Will you crush my hand if I shake yours?” Damian blurted out. This was his first time holding a conversation with one of the Kryptonians, he realised.

Superboy froze, and his face fell as he retracted his hand, “Ah, maybe. Sorry, I- I’m new to the hero gig,” he smiled hesitantly, glancing around him, “This is the first time I’ve been Superboy in any city other than Metropolis, actually. It’s… different.”

“I can imagine,” Damian commented, shifting tensely on his feet. Superboy frowned at him, “Your heartbeat’s going kinda fast. You know you don’t need to be afraid of me, right?”

Damian huffed, wondering belatedly how his brothers dealt with their own teammates. “I’m not afraid,” he clarified, “But it isn’t every day you meet an alien.”

“I’m not- okay, fair,” Superboy paused abruptly to glance down at the street. Kon-El and Red Robin appeared over the rooftop’s edge.

“Who are you?” Kon-El questioned, more forcefully than his younger brother’s harmless query. Damian shrugged. “Canvas,” he offered, “That’s what I would prefer to be called.”

The older Kent’s eyes narrowed. “That doesn’t exactly explain who you are very well,” he stated slowly, “What were you doing in the area?”

“Passing through,” Damian quipped easily. Kon-El’s frown deepened, but lifted as Red Robin pulled up several news articles on his holo-glove.

“His appearance matches reports of a white-robed traveller in numerous countries,” Red Robin summarised, and Damian knew immediately that the older boy had planned this statement, “Reports say that he was always found returning something, like an artefact or valued possession, to the communities he visited. He was also reported fighting off supernatural beings and protecting civilians from them.”

When the two Superboys looked back at Damian again, their expressions were contemplative. “So you’re a solo vigilante who’s even more nomadic than Red Robin,” Kon-El concluded, earning a disgruntled noise from the aforementioned person.

The younger Superboy suddenly lit up in an excited grin.

“Bro!” the punch that he gave his older brother made Damian wince slightly, “Teen Titans! Let me join!”

“I’ve already said no, countless times,” Kon-El stated in exasperation, “I’ll only let you on if-”

“If I’m ready, I know, but what if I go through like, a trial period, you know? Just in case I really am ready,” Superboy pointed towards Damian, “And Canva can accompany me, because he’s experienced already, then he’ll be able to tell if I am ready!”

“It’s Canvas,” Damian snapped, before the boy’s words sunk in. Teen Titans?

“You need to ask him for permission,” Kon-El scolded, before turning towards him, “Well? Are you interested in joining a team?”

“I…” Damian was at a loss as to how to respond. This was not what he was expecting.

“How about this,” Red Robin suggested, pulling a communicator from one of his pouches and tossing it over. Damian caught it on instinct.

“Contact us if you’re interested. The offer is open.”

Damian pursed his lips under his mask and nodded mutely, pocketing the device before taking off.

[ldcu-12stem2-group4mil]

Media Evolution and the Changing World

When various media sites began to emerge, internet usage grew in popularity. It continues to produce new platforms that anyone can easily access. Anything you wish to get can be reached with just a click of your mouse. Imagine having complete control over the Internet but before we did achieve this freedom our media did evolve from time to time, so let see how our media did evolve. 

According to AKN Production, we are designing and modifying the message as it evolves with the medium throughout time. How? We've all become the Medium since we're all connected via the Internet. The term "media" has undergone numerous changes, including "mass media" (broadcast television, movies), "interactive media" (games, websites, apps), and "cross-media" (Transmedia), Multimedia, New Media, Social Media, etc... but these are just different mediums. What technology and the Internet have done is allowed us all to be a part of the media without having difficulties. 

MEDIA EVOLUTION

Media has been through a lot of processes from using only the sense of hearing (Tribal Age), the invention of paper (Pre-Industrial Age), the widespread production of newspapers (Industrial Age), the first electronic computers and television, the use of smartphones (Electronic Age), and also the new way of conveying information via technology and social media platforms (Information Age).

Tribal Age (According to McLuhan, it is the 1st period in history)

Tribal Age, according to McLuhan, is an acoustic environment where the senses of hearing, touch, and scent were formed. Hearing helps you to be more aware of your environment in the tribal era than sight. Hearing and smelling offer a sense of things we can’t see, which is important in the tribal period.

Pre-Industrial Age (1500 B.C. - 1500 A.D.)

Between the usage of the first stone tools and the present, there was a period of human activity known as prehistory.

The development of writing systems, the first of which appeared 5,300 years ago, occurred 3.3. Million years ago. Technology that precedes the written word. History is both the study of the past through the use of written records and the record itself. Prehistoric (meaning “before history”) refers to everything that existed before the earliest written chronicles of history, including early technology. The technology originated with the first hominids, who used stone tools to light fires, hunt, chop food, and bury their dead around 2.5 million years before writing was invented.

Industrial Age (1700s-1930s)

The Industrial Age is a historical period marked by the replacement of hand tools with power-driven machines such as the power loom and steam engine, as well as the concentration of industry in big institutions, which began about 1760 in Great Britain and later in other nations.

Electronic Age (1930s-1980s)

The transistor’s creation signaled the beginning of the electronic age. People began to exploit the transistor’s power, which resulted in transistor communication being more efficient. 

Information Age (1900s-2000s)

The Information Age, also known as the Digital Age, is an era in human history marked by a change from conventional industry to an economy centered on information computerization, as a result of the Industrial Revolution’s industrialization. With the introduction of personal computers, gadgets, and wearable technology, the internet cleared the path for the advancement of microelectronics. In addition, speech, picture, sound, and data have all been digitized.

The list of media tools could go on for pages, and technology is changing at such a breakneck pace that many industries, including corporations and news organizations, are struggling to stay up. Newspapers, firms, governments, and other forms of leading institutions in the conventional world merely had to disseminate information, which people would read or look at. According to Inquiries Journal many traditional and non-traditional news organizations report and comment on how the Internet and social media, particularly social networking, have begun to have a significant impact on news organizations and how they operate. Although newspapers are currently facing a dilemma in terms of how to make journalism profitable in the digital age. 

Why is MEDIA important in today’s society?

With each passing by, today’s society becomes more socially focused. It’s not just a fleeting fad; social media is here to stay. 

The media is an integral aspect of our lives and has a significant impact on our society. Because of the high level of connectedness that exists throughout the world, the relevance of media is rising by the day. As a result, all must critical that all of us become conscious of the media’s influence. This enables us to evaluate all of the information we get on a regular basis. 

One of the reasons why media is important is because it’s one of the ways to distribute information. Its importance in industrialized countries is worth noting because it is the primary source of informing the public about political concerns and current events. It's also one of the most important pillars of entertainment.

Although the media is an important element of our culture, too much meddling in everything is unsettling. In certain cases, like what Chamzad said, unimportant news is given so much detail and priority for the goal of a bigger income that the true news is rarely noticed. Despite its intellectual bias, the importance of media cannot be overstated, especially in this age of globalization and liberalization. The media's jobs and responsibilities are growing every day, and there is still more to be done for the development of society. So always do things for the betterment of everyone and remember that "If you are not part of the solution maybe you are part of the problem." Be responsible when using media platforms, since we are all creators of media and its future.

References:

https://www.sutori.com/en/story/evolution-of-traditional-media-to-new-media--BkcHVPKVx3vjJSBvcFEGxhb4

https://evolutionofmediaorg.wordpress.com/2016/09/06/tribal-age/

https://impoff.com/importance-of-media/

https://www.ssim.ac.in/blog/role-of-media-in-society/

http://www.inquiriesjournal.com/articles/202/the-social-media-revolution-exploring-the-impact-on-journalism-and-news-media-organizations

https://www.googlre.com/445664-argumentative-writings-and-competition-essays-the

[giftofshewbread]

It’s Satan

By Daymond Duck    Published on: August 1, 2021

The writer of this article was recently asked, “Why do the globalists who are supposed to be very intelligent make decisions that are so clearly wrong?”

Most don’t realize it, but Satan is behind their evil.

He has blinded them to the extent that they don’t believe the Bible is the Word of God.

They push a godless world government, world religion, same-sex marriage, tracking everyone, etc., because they are not Christians (even though some falsely claim to be good Catholics, etc.).

Many were appointed by like-minded people, not elected by voters or nations.

They wouldn’t dare have an election because they don’t believe they can get elected.

The globalists overlook what the Clintons and Bidens have done because they share similar views on the issues listed above.

Their puppets impeached Trump twice because he opposed their views.

Their prosecution of Trump supporters for what happened at the capitol on Jan. 6, 2021, while ignoring the rioting, looting, destruction of property, etc. by Antifa, Black Lives Matter, and others, should concern every conservative and Christian because when the globalists get the upper hand (and they will), they will destroy the U.S. Constitution, and persecute and destroy those that disagree with them.

When they give their Antichrist power, he will go forth conquering and to conquer (Rev. 6:1-2; 13:4-7).

The following events indicate that the latter years and latter days, globalism, global pandemics, food shortages, persecution, etc., are on the horizon.

One, concerning the Battle of Gog and Magog in the latter years and latter days: on July 20, 2021, Sen. Lindsey Graham said, “The Iranians are progressing (on their development of nuclear weapons) at a dangerous pace.”

“Israel may need to take pre-emptive military action against Iran.”

“I’ve never been more worried about Israel having to use military force to stop the program than I am right now.”

Two, also concerning the Battle of Gog and Magog: it was reported on July 21, 2021, that Israel’s military and foreign intelligence agency said Israel needs a variety of plans to sabotage, disrupt and delay Iran’s development of nuclear weapons, and they will probably be asking for the money and resources to do that.

Three, also concerning the Battle of Gog and Magog: Israeli Prime Min. Netanyahu and Russian Pres. Putin agreed that Israel would give Russia advance notice of Israeli attacks in some areas of Syria, and Russia would not intervene.

Israel jets recently fired several missiles at Iranian targets near Aleppo, Syria, and a Russian official said Syria used Russian-made anti-missile systems to shoot down all of Israel’s missiles.

On July 24, 2021, DEBKAfile, an Israeli intelligence and security news source group, reported that a Russian official confirmed that Russia has changed its policy on not intervening in Israeli attacks in some areas of Syria because Russia has received confirmation from the Biden White House that the U.S. does not condone the continuous Israeli raids.

Thus, while the Biden administration is publicly saying Israel has a right to defend itself, it is telling Russia that some of Israel’s efforts to do that are unacceptable.

The Bible clearly teaches that the merchants of Tarshish and all the young lions (perhaps includes the U.S.) will not help Israel during the Battle of Gog and Magog (Ezek. 38:13).

Corrupt world leaders, deceit, and lying are also signs of the end of the age.

Four, on July 27, 2021, i24NEWS reported that Israel has notified the Biden administration that Iran is on the verge of crossing the nuclear threshold, and it could happen at any moment.

Because Pres. Obama sent Iran a planeload of money during his administration and seems to be influencing events in the Biden administration, notifying Biden might be a waste of time.

This may help explain the belief that the U.S. will not help Israel during the Battle of Gog and Magog (Ezek. 38:13).

Five, concerning famine: it is common knowledge that the Covid-19 lockdowns disrupted the world’s food chains (farmers and farmhands were quarantined; stores ran out of toilet paper, some foods, etc.; food processors closed or cut back; some trucks stopped rolling, etc.).

On July 23, 2023, it was reported that there are still bare shelves in some food stores in the U.K., the food supply chains are “at risk of collapse,” millions of workers have been ordered to self-quarantine, the food industry is running out of workers to keep the stores supplied, and the U.K. could be just a few months away from a major crisis.

Under the guise of stopping the spread of Covid, the U.K. government may be creating “food shortages and mass famine.”

Note: It was recently reported that Senate Minority Leader Mitch McConnell warned that there will be another lockdown in the U.S. if American citizens “don’t wise up and get vaccinated against Covid-19.”

Note: On July 28, 2021, in an interview on “Fox & Friends,” Stuart Varney said an important business group is predicting that supply shortages will last until 2023.

Some prophecy teachers believe that Covid-19 is a created crisis (a pretext, a set-up, perhaps an engineered cluster of catastrophes) that globalists are using to prepare the world for a world government.

According to the pro-liberty group, Brighteon, on July 22, 2021, “very few people are prepared to survive a multi-layered, engineered cluster of catastrophes that are unleashed on top of each other.”

God’s Seal, Trumpet, and Bowl judgments during the Tribulation Period will be multi-layered catastrophes (pandemics, famine, economic collapse, etc.) on top of each other, and very few will survive.

Note: This writer believes we could be watching the development (early stages) of those multi-layered judgments.

Six, concerning deceit: on July 20, 2021, Sen. Rand Paul said on Sean Hannity’s T.V. program, “I will be sending a letter to the Department of Justice asking for a criminal referral (of Dr. Anthony Fauci) because he has lied to Congress” (about the involvement of the National Institutes of Allergy and Infectious Diseases in the research at China’s Wuhan Institute of Virology).

Note: This writer does not know how to verify it but has seen reports that Fauci owns stock in one or more of the companies that have been approved to sell the Covid-19 vaccine (If true, he is likely profiting off forcing people to be vaccinated and opposing the use of Hydroxychloroquine and Ivermectin).

Second Note: It has been reported that Fauci could spend up to 5 years in prison, but it is the opinion of this writer that the globalists (also called the Shadow Government, Deep State, super-wealthy elitists, etc.) will protect him because they are pro-vaccination. They want him to keep using his ever-changing fake science.

Seven, concerning world government and open borders: on July 21, 2021, it was reported that keeping the U.S. border with Mexico open is costing about 3 million dollars a day in suspension and termination payments to contractors to guard steel, concrete, and other materials they have in the desert.

Eight, militant Muslims say Jews should not be allowed on the Temple Mount because the entire Temple Mount is an Islamic site and none of it belongs to Israel.

For this reason, Jewish officials have allowed Jews to visit the Temple Mount at certain times, but they have not been allowed to pray on the Temple Mount.

On July 17, 2021, the eve of Tisha B’ Av (a holiday for remembering the destruction of the first 2 Jewish Temples; July 17-18 in 2021), it was reported that Jews were praying (and some were teaching Torah, a name for the Scriptures in the first 5 books of the Bible) on the Temple Mount.

On July 20, 2021, Prime Min. Bennett came out in support of freedom of worship for Jews on the Temple Mount.

This may lead to more violence, but it is worth noting that the Jews have gone from not being allowed to pray on the Temple Mount to praying and teaching on the Temple Mount, and Israel’s new Prime Min. supports it.

According to the Bible, the Jews will eventually get permission to rebuild the Temple.

Update: On July 25, 2021, it was reported that the temporary truce between Israel and the Palestinians is fragile, may be coming unraveled, and another war could be on the horizon.

Nine, concerning pestilence: on July 22, 2021, Israeli Prime Min. Bennett said as of Aug. 8, 2021, Israeli citizens will not be allowed to enter synagogues and other facilities without a vaccine certificate or proof of a negative Covid-19 test.

U.S. citizens are not having to prove that they have been vaccinated to attend places of worship, but some companies are requiring it.

Ten, concerning natural disasters: on July 26, 2021, it was reported that June in North America was “the hottest in recorded history.”

Record high temperatures were broken in several western states.

On June 28, 2021, the temperature was 117 degrees in Salem, OR; 110 in Redmond OR; 110 in Quillayute, WA; 110 in Olympia, WA etc.

The southwest U.S. is experiencing the worst drought in 122 years.

It covers almost 90% of the southwest, and much of that is classified as severe to exceptional drought.

Reservoirs and rivers are drying up, fish are dying, wildlife is suffering, farmers and ranchers are hurting, crop and cattle production is down, some ranchers and dairy farmers are going out of business, water rationing is beginning to kick in, and more than 60 million people are impacted.

Lake Mead, a 112-mile-long water reservoir, is at its lowest level since it was built 85 years ago (It is now only 35% full).

Utah’s Great Salt Lake has reached a record low.

86 wildfires are burning in 12 states, drought conditions have made them worse, two major wildfires have merged, and more than 10,000 houses are in danger.

The long-range forecast is for the high temperatures to continue through the fall.

Call it what you want; some officials are already blaming it on global warming because it fits their globalist agenda. But natural disasters will be like birth pains (increase in frequency and intensity) at the end of the age, and this record-breaking event seems to qualify.

As I close, understand that as bad as things are right now, Satan and the Antichrist are limited or partly restrained (II Thess. 2:7-9).

But the time will come (the Tribulation Period) when Satan and the Antichrist will no longer be restrained, and the events will be worse than anything that has ever happened or ever will happen (Matt. 24:22).

Finally, are you Rapture Ready?

If you want to be rapture ready and go to heaven, you must be born again (John 3:3). God loves you, and if you have not done so, sincerely admit that you are a sinner; believe that Jesus is the virgin-born, sinless Son of God who died for the sins of the world, was buried, and raised from the dead; ask Him to forgive your sins, cleanse you, come into your heart and be your Saviour; then tell someone that you have done this.

[skyfire85]

-An ASM-135 slung beneath an F-15A on a captive carry flight. | Photo USAF/Edwards Flight Test Center

FLIGHTLINE: 99 - ASM-135 Anti-satellite Missile

On 13 September 1985 F-15A 76-0084 launched an ASM-135 ASAT which destroyed a satellite in orbit.

Almost immediately after the launch of the USSR's Sputnik satellite, the US began to research anti-satellite weapons. On 13 October 1959, a USAF B-47 launched a modified Bold Orion ALBM which passed within 4 miles of the Explorer 6 satellite, orbiting at an altitude of 156 miles. Starting in 1962, modified Nike Zeus ABMs were tested as ASAT weapons under Project MUDFLAP, with mixed results. Intelligence reports of renewed Soviet interest in their own anti-satellite system pressured President Jimmy Carter into directing the USAF into developing a new ASAT missile. A 'crash' program initially designated the Prototype Miniature Air-Launched Segment (PMALS), then retitled the Air-Launched Miniature Vehicle (ALMV), resulted in a contact being awarded to LTV Aerospace for an air-launched, multi-stage missile.

-A CASM-135, used for captive carry trials, on display at the Smithsonian's Steven F. Udvar-Hazy Center. | Photo: G. Edward Johnson

-Cross section of the ASM-135's upper stage and MHV. | Illustration Sven's Space Place

-Cutaway view of the ASM-135's MHV. | Illustration: Sven's Space Place

The ASM-135 was mainly comprised of off-the-shelf components, allowing a rapid development and production. The first stage was a modified AGM-69 SRAM, while the second stage was an Altair 3, originally developed for the Scout launch vehicle. The third stage of the ASAT was the Miniature Homing Vehicle (MHV), which incorporated a Honeywell laser ring gyro and a Hughes-developed IR sensor. The seeker was eight strips of indium bismuth arranged in a precise formation to track targets as the MHV spun. Two liquid helium dewars, one in the F-15 (replacing the ammunition drum) and a second smaller tank in the MHV, cooled the sensor head. A ring of 56 solid rocket motors set around the MHV's circumference, controlled by a "bang-bang" system, guided the vehicle at the target, while 8 lower thrust "end-game" motors provided fine control just prior to impact. A group of four RCS motors at the back of the stage maintained a stable spin. The MHV did not include a warhead, the MHV's own momentum was sufficient to destroy the target in what is known as a kinetic kill.

A typical mission would see the ASM-135 mounted underneath an F-15. The fighter's computers would be programed with the target's orbital path, and the HUD would provide steering instructions to the pilot. The Eagle, flying at Mach 1.32, would then execute a 65° climb while the IR sensor scanned for the target. Upon acquisition, the missile would automatically launch at approximately forty thousand feet. Prior to release from the second stage, the ASAT would be spun up to 30rpm, then separated. This spinning motion allowed the IR seeker to see the target as it crossed the detector strips, providing course-correction data.

Five total test launches were carried out, in addition to an unknown number of captive-carry flights beforehand. The first test, on 21 January 1984, did not include an MHV, but proved that the rest of the missile worked. A second test on 13 November of that year was aimed a star, but the MHV failed to track. On 20 August 1985 President Ronal Reagan authorized a test against a satellite ahead of a Congressional ban on ASAT testing, expected later that year. In order to complete the test in so short a time, an existing satellite, the Solwind solar observatory, was designated as the target.

-The Solwind satellite, prior to launch. | Photo: NASA

On 13 September 1985, Maj. Wilbert D. "Doug" Pearson, flying F-15A, tail no. 76-0084 and nicknamed the "Celestial Eagle", launched an ASM-135 ASAT about 200 miles west of Vandenberg AFB. The 30lb MHV collided with the Solwind, which itself weighed a ton, at closing velocity of 15,000mph, destroying the satellite.

-The ASM-135 separates from F-15A 76-0084 on its sole live mission. | Photo: Paul E. Reynolds (USAF)

-Seconds later, the 1st stage motor fired as the F-15 banked away. | Photo: Paul E. Reynolds (USAF)

In addition to proving that the ASAT worked, the test also provided NASA with data on the results of a hypervelocity impact in space, as well as changing thinking on orbital debris. It had been previously assumed that debris caused by a collision would be reflective and easily tracked, but the results of the test proved that, in fact, the pieces were so dark as to be almost undetectable visually, the result of soot from vaporized plastics and other compounds. Of 285 known pieces of Solwind, only two could be seen by optical tracking, the rest identified by USAF IR telescopes and a reentry radar deployed to Alaska. The rubble also did not persist in orbit for as long as predicted, with all but eight pieces having reentered by 1998, the result of increased heating and expansion of the atmosphere due to solar activity.

Two further tests were completed on 22 August and 29 September 1986, though both were directed against stars to comply with the prohibition against live tests. The USAF intended to procure 112 ASM-135s, with 20 F-15A fighters, from the 318th Fighter Interceptor Squadron based at McChord Air Force Base in Washington and the 48th Fighter-Interceptor Squadron based at Langley Air Force Base in Virginia, modified for the anti-satellite mission. However, the program was canceled in 1988, the result of increasing costs and push-back against the wider SDI program.

Fifteen ASM-135s and CASM-135 captive carry simulators were produced, and two of the CASM-135s are on display, one at the USAF Museum in Dayton Ohio, and the other at the Smithsonian's Steven F. Udvar-Hazy Center in Virginia.

The Celestial Eagle was restored to F-15A standards and remained in the USAF inventory, eventually assigned to the 125th Fighter Wing at Homestead AFB in Florida. Doug Pearson, now a retired Major General was reunited with -0084 on 13 September 2007 when he, along with his son (who is also an F-15 driver), visited the 125th as part of a USAF event to commemorate the mission. The aircraft was mothballed at AMARG in 2009 as the 125th transitioned to F-15Cs.

-Retired Maj. Gen. Doug Pearson (left) and Capt. Todd Pearson (right), 390th Fighter Squadron pilot from Mountain Home Air Force Base, Idaho, with the Celestial Eagle. | Photo: Senior Airman Erik Hofmeyer (USAF)

Though the USAF did not take the ASAT operational, the missile did play a part in the 1986 Tom Clancy novel Red Storm Rising, where it was used to destroy several Soviet satellites during a brief hot war between the USSR and NATO.

[concussed-to-pieces]

The Mettle Of A Man; Part Nineteen

Fandom: Fallout (4)

Pairing: Eventual Paladin Danse/Female Sole Survivor

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: Welcome, one and all! I hope your day is going well. Tagging @anonymouscosmos​, @culturalrebel​, @mercy-and-malice​, @deepkittycollecto​, @nelba​, @mechanicalism​ and @commandershepardshtole. Enjoy!

Part One: ArcJet

Part Two: The Prydwen

Part Three: Orders

Part Four: Finding Brandis

Part Five: Weston Water And Oberland

Part Six: Meeting Preston And Matthew

Part Seven: Radstag And Radstorm

Part Eight: The Return To Sanctuary Hills

Part Nine: Domestic Ruminations

Part Ten: Institutionalized

Part Eleven: Two Weeks, Three Days

Part Twelve: Haylen’s Warning And The Glowing Sea

Part Thirteen: Under Fire

Part Fourteen: Dichotomy

Part Fifteen: The Litany Trial

Part Sixteen: Nice Try

Part Seventeen: Preparations

Part Eighteen: Divide And Conquer

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains distressing flashbacks, gratuitous violence and extreme emotional duress. Stay safe!]

Paladin Logan Danse, pride of the Brotherhood of Steel, had never really considered that he may not be the sharpest tool in the shed. Oh certainly, he had heard many a 'Paladin Dense' joke in his time with the Brotherhood; his name made it far too simple to engage in semi-witty wordplay.

  Here and now though, facing down seven coursers with nothing except his laser rifle and power armor, he was beginning to slightly... slightly doubt his own intelligence. 

  The first courser was managed easily enough, rushing him in a suicidal dash. Danse blew their head off without missing a beat, continuing his march forward. The worst part of it all was the silent hatred he felt radiating from the coursers, like a thick miasma of ill will. He wondered pointlessly whether this was how he would meet his end. Trapped in the sterile halls of the Institute, torn apart by this rabid crew of synth hunters.

  "I escaped from you all before, if your records are accurate." The paladin snarled as two of the coursers vanished into thin air. "I doubt any of you would recall. I myself do not recall much of this place."

  The spinal recalibration chair crouched in the center of the white room, needles gleaming in the brilliant light--

  A laser pinged! off his chest plating and Danse bared his teeth, taking another step forward. "I know all of your weaknesses, every last one of them. You might as well give up and face Commonwealth justice." He advised them sternly, brandishing his laser rifle in further threat. 

  "Forget about him, go and find Vega!" One of the cloaked coursers spat from somewhere behind Danse's back. "Father wants her dea--" The paladin pulled a sharp turn, putting a laser bolt directly through the invisible courser's skull with... alarmingly precise accuracy. Of course, that may have been their tactic to begin with. A body crashed against his back and Danse heard the tell-tale alert beep of an unmounted fusion core.

  "A Brotherhood soldier is nothing without their power armor." The third courser taunted while Danse slowed under the ponderous weight of his armor. However, the courser's confidence was short-lived as the paladin used the little momentum he did have to instead fall backwards, crushing the synth beneath the massive frame of his armor. 

  The fusion core clattered and spun just out of reach on the floor, but Danse didn't even have the time to think about moving to grab it before two coursers were on him. Gloved hands clawed at his helmet; a fist slammed into the side of the metal with a resounding impact. Thank Steel the gorget seal held, and Danse managed to move his arm quickly enough to batter one of the coursers away with the sheer bulk of the gauntlet alone. The courser crashed into the wall and slumped to the ground, lifeless.

  Danse frantically tried to count in his head, tried to recall how many coursers he still had to manage. He could barely move, already stringing himself along on little but adrenaline and the promise of seeing the sun again. How many hours had they been down here? It seemed like an eternity.

  What would the EMP do to him? God, should he even risk it? 

  The paladin dragged himself up onto one knee, scrabbling at his waist for the grenade while that other courser seized the back of his helmet and ripped it off. The crackle of his mouthpiece dislodging itself from the helmet to dangle limp over his gorget seemed almost too loud.

  Danse pulled the pin on the EMP as the square barrel of a laser rifle buried itself beside his ear, and his world went white.

  …

  The smooth, cool surface of the floor that his cheek rested on was the only thing he could feel. 

  - No! Voice cracking, screaming as he was wrestled down into the chair by the scientists, needles punching through his skin until the largest caliber ground into the nape of his neck please don't please don't -

  - No! Cutler shrieking, misshapen green flesh pouring out around the strangling confines of his armor, his eyes gone mad but it's still him it's still him I can't -

  - No! Elizabeth collapsing on top of him, the heat of her blood soaking through his shirt, her whole body thrown between he and Maxson no no no no NO -

  Danse noticed, with a sense of detached horror, that his heart appeared to have stopped. The lack of pulse rang in his ears, one agonal gasp crushed his chest and then another rattled his body while everything in him fought to inhale. His consciousness was fading, flickering out like a candle in a gale as his rate of respiration continued to plummet.

  Elizabeth, I'm so sorry .

  His eyes were heavy, gritty with exhaustion. He should sleep. Just for a moment. 

  "- anse? Danse! Paladin Danse!"

  Someone was yelling his name, and another voice that was closer shouted, "Open fire on the courser! Advance to secure the paladin!"

  Suddenly, his heart shuddered to life, his pulse returning with a vengeance that seemed like it would deafen him. Danse heaved in a gasp of air, wheezing, body awash with clammy sweat as he tried to turn his head. Nausea sent his stomach rolling at the motion and a headache throbbed behind his eyes but he was alive --

  Boots on the floor beside his head, someone standing over his body. "Grab his core and plug it back in! We need to get out of here!" Minutemen, Minutemen . It was Delta squadron doing their final sweep. Muskets roared overhead like death from above, the cacophony serving to further deafen the battered paladin. 

  He forced himself up onto his left elbow so that one of the Minutemen could slam the fusion core home in his back plating. The servos in Danse's armor creaked and groaned once more, and the paladin rose with relative ease. 

  "Our egress has been secured, sir!" A young soldier informed him loudly, her cheek smeared with the blood that trickled from her left ear. 

  Danse, still queasy and unsteady after his near death experience ( had he technically died? Did synths die? ), simply nodded and reached to accept his helmet from another Minuteman. 

  A laser bolt cracked! off the side of the helmet and the Minuteman dropped it in surprise. Danse lurched around, hauling up his gauntlet to shield his head from the next bolt that came. His free hand shot out of its own volition and he grabbed... something , slamming it back against the wall with all his strength 

  The courser flickered into view, Danse's gauntlet wrapped around his throat. The paladin almost wanted to wonder at his good fortune, but then the synth simply evaporated out of his grasp. " Dammit , his emergency relay." Danse swore hoarsely.

  "Sir, we don't have time. The reactor is due to go at any second!" The armored man was all but dragged along, pushed and herded by the soldiers around him. His heart kept skipping beats, leaving him breathless and lightheaded as he struggled to keep up with his battalion.

  "What news do we have of General Vega?" He yelled to anyone that would answer him. The shot from the courser had entirely destroyed what was left of the two-way transmitter in his helmet, rendering him unable to communicate with their main forces.

  "No news, sir! Alpha squadron has already pulled out! We have reports from squadrons Echo, Foxtrot and Golf that synths have been sighted relaying in to their respective territories!" One of the soldiers replied, his tones clipped to be heard over the sound of the cabal's battle-rattle. "No word from Beta squadron on casualties yet, and Charlie is still waiting on us as of two minutes ago!"

  The paladin cursed under his breath, his step hitching and nearly causing him to fall. Elizabeth, please , please be alive! He wasn't sure who he was praying to, or even why the hell he was bothering. He should have known better than to think his foolhardy plan to secure her escape would work.

  Back through the old robotics area they stormed, everyone moving doubletime at this point. Alarms blaring overhead, PA system calmly announcing their fast-diminishing window to flee. Blood trickled down into his eyes from somewhere up on his scalp, stinging badly enough to briefly take Danse's mind off of his other injuries.

  The door at the top of the stairs was wide open, and Danse's relief was crippling when he spied Sturges still at the control panel. The engineer whooped upon seeing the ragged group of men and women. "First in, last out! Now let's get the hell outta' here!" He shouted, waving the soldiers into the relay area. "We only got a minute or so until the whole place goes!"

  Danse opened his mouth to ask whether Sturges had already transported Vega, but he was too late. Blue-white energy crackled and fizzled around him and the next thing he knew, he was being unceremoniously deposited on the ground in the shadow of the Prydwen.

  …

  "General, it's time." Preston said quietly. Backhand stared off into the distance, every fresh crackle of radio static making her heart drop. "We have to get this done. It needs to be finished," he continued when she stayed silent. "If you can't push it, that's fine. I know we did our best." 

  Reports had come in left and right that synths were being sighted across the Commonwealth, emergency relays dropping them in the most random of places. Every squadron had been accounted for, aside from Delta and Charlie. 

  "Did we do the right thing, Preston?" Backhand breathed. "Just think of all the good -"

  "I don't think we'll ever know for certain, General. That's the reality of these kinds of scenarios. But you don't need me to tell you that." Preston interjected, his practical words shoring up her limited resolve. "You want me to do this?"

  Vega closed her eyes, nodding rapidly. She heard the rustle of that outrageous coat, and a moment later there was the soft click of the charge being armed. 

  "It's done, General."

  "Thank you, Preston." Vega sank down on the rooftop, tugging her knees into her chest and burying her face in them. The distant explosion tore a sob from her throat and as the Institute collapsed in on itself, General Vega dissolved into tears.

  It felt like an eternity before Preston coaxed her to her feet, the lieutenant pressing his canteen into her hands. "Drink." He urged, his own eyes less than dry. " Drink , General. You're gonna' be okay. We'll get back to the Prydwen, back to your son. It'll all be just fine."

  "I know." Vega mumbled through a mouthful of stale water, doing her best to ignore the plume of smoke that rose in the distance. "I'm okay, I promise. It's just a lot. I'm okay." She tried to assure Preston, huffing at his watery chuckle.

  "No, you're not. You're exhausted and busted up and scared. This is a hell of a thing we've done, you've done. It's okay to be overwhelmed." Preston reasoned, grimacing. "We've got a decent walk back, if you need to talk."

  "What about you , though? How are you holding up?"

  "I'm not sure if it's real yet." Preston admitted. "It'll take some getting used to. But...I'm glad to know that we don't have to fear the Institute anymore."

  His lapel radio crackled, Pride squadron requesting verification on successful detonation.

  "Relay our message to the Castle: mission accomplished, the Institute has been leveled. I repeat, mission accomplished." Preston replied into the handset, seeming a little shell-shocked at being able to say the words.

  Mission accomplished .

  Backhand sniffled, a new wave of emotion threatening to send her spiraling yet again. 

  Shaun . The synthetic child. A child. A son . A second chance that she didn't deserve.

  She fished the holotape he had given her out of her pocket, slotting it into her Pip Boy after a momentary struggle. To her shock, it was Father's voice that issued from the speaker.

  " If you are hearing this, then whatever conflicts you and I have endured are over… "

  …

  Danse wandered across the airport tarmac, some distant part of him aware that he was in a state of shock. He had dropped his helmet. Where, he couldn't say. His head was still bleeding and he was certain that other areas of his body needed medical attention, but he couldn't seem to get himself to stop searching the area for Elizabeth.

  He hadn't seen her, the child or that courser that had warned them of the ambush. His heart sank as he wondered whether the synth had simply been a tool to get him out of the way, separating the paladin from Vega.

  Why had Vega parted from Alpha squadron in the first place? Oh surely, he knew exactly why. She had wanted to confront that man who had once been her son on her own. But it had been reckless , and it may have cost them dearly. 

  Danse groaned, very nearly attempting to rub his eyes before he remembered he was still in his armor and he would probably blind himself in the process. 

  All around him were wounded Minutemen, scribes and aspirants rushing back and forth to try and mediate the damage that had been done. The synths and scientists were easy to spot, each one clad in brilliant white Institute garb. They huddled together in small groups, some crying, some silent, others staring around wide-eyed in wonder. 

  Danse realized suddenly that this would be the first time many of them had even seen the sun. He must have been like them once, all curiosity and fear. He shook his head, more blood dripping into his eye causing him to wince. The paladin grunted, clumsily smearing the trickle from his hairline across his forehead with his gauntlet. It must be mixing with his sweat. 

  "Danse!" That voice…

  The paladin racked his brain, trying to recall the name of the person who owned the voice. 

  It started with a P. 

  Writing. Writer? Wright .

  Piper?

  The woman materialized out of the throngs of scribes, her cap set at a steep angle. In her hand she clutched a battered notepad, and she waved it furiously as if to get Danse's attention. "Hey, big fella'! Over here!" She called, rocking on her heels impatiently while the paladin trudged towards her. "What the hell happened to you in there? You look like a stretch of lonely road!"

  Danse hiccupped, trying for a salute. His arms felt like lead. "I...There was--I-I was separated-" The words wouldn't come, the paladin still reeling from his near-death experience, the loss of Vega, everything , it was too much.

  Was he crying?  

  "Oh Danse, hey, c'mon, easy." Piper soothed, one hand tentatively hovering over his right gauntlet. "It's okay big fella', it's alright." 

  Danse shook his head, utterly mortified as he tried to regulate his sobs. 

  "I was about to ask for a full run-down from a tactical perspective. Y'know, to uh, ease the fears of the Commonwealth populace at large. but I can see that you're in a...er, state right now." Her attempt at delicacy didn't go unnoticed and Danse gritted his teeth. His hands clenched into tight fists as he fought to get himself back under control. These damn emotions-!

  "The operation appears to have been successful." He rasped finally. "We are still...waiting on confirmation. But I am c--I am confident in our success. I am...uncertain of our losses. My two-way was destroyed in the fracas." He gestured at the mangled mess of wires and what was left of the coupling attached to his gorget. God only knew where he had dropped his helmet, but it didn't really matter. If the coursers tearing it off of him hadn't broken the two-way wholly, that final laser had finished the job. "I have no method of communication, I'm afraid. We should...we should find the field scribes and comms."

  Danse could feel the haze of trauma dissipating the longer he spoke, the tactical compartmentalization that had served him so well taking over once more. There would be time later to mourn what he had lost. Right now, it was the Brotherhood's sworn duty to ensure that the Commonwealth remained safe and, more importantly, informed .

  "Come with me, Miss Wright." He ordered, using the advantage of his height to search for the elevated ground of their radio shelter.

  "It's Piper ."

  …

  Vega's boots kicked up a cloud of dust, her footsteps weary. Preston was silent alongside her, the young man clearly deep in thought. Backhand was still reeling from the holotape, Father's words playing over and over in her mind...

  I had hoped to gift this child to you as some sort of consolation for losing me all those years ago, but your actions have proven you unreasonable. If you are hearing this message, no doubt you have found this unit's corpse and stripped it clean.

  Did you think I had no idea you were working with the Brotherhood? The Railroad? You cannot be so naive, Mother. I am merely stunned that it took you so long to gather your forces.

  On the off chance that your bloodlust can be slaked before the total destruction of everything I have built, I would ask that you still take this...synth. This boy, rather, as you would no doubt insist on calling him, has been programmed to believe he is your son. Should he survive you and whatever rampant destruction you have planned, I ask that you raise him as your own. 

  You have no real reason to do so, of course. There would be no tangible benefit, and I know all too well of your callous disregard for life.

  Sleep easy tonight, knowing that you've rid the Commonwealth of its greatest hope for prosperity.

  Backhand cleared her throat. "Preston, do you-" She hesitated. "What if I'm not...what if I'm not cut out for this mom stuff? What if all I'm good for is military shit?" The woman asked plaintively. "I was willing to do anything for my son, back before the bombs dropped. But now...I mean, what the hell kind of life can I even offer to the...to Shaun?"

  "A life at all, I suppose. The freedom to choose." 

  Backhand closed her eyes, forcing a breath out. "Yeah?"

  "Yeah. I think so, anyway. You've fought so hard for folks you don't even know, General! And it isn't like you'd be doin' it alone." Preston reasoned with a smile. "If it seems a little too overwhelming, just remember: there at a moment's notice . We're with you, no matter what."

  "I was kinda' hoping I'd put you guys out of a job!" Vega tried to joke.

  "Nah, we've still got a lot of work to do. Commonwealth's a big place, General." Preston patted her shoulder, waving to the sentries on the Brotherhood retaining walls at the airport. Far overhead loomed Liberty Prime, all gangly steel limbs as its head slowly turned back and forth in a scanning motion.

  Vega began skimming the crowds of wounded from force of habit, her eyes stopping dead at the sight of a black leather coat.

  X6-88 . The courser looked dazed, a singular patch of reddened gauze gracing his forehead. His body was still wrapped protectively around the child, around Shaun , who seemed to be sound asleep. The synth kept snarling at anyone who got too close. Vega wondered who on earth had managed to dress his head. Had someone just tossed him a gauze pack and fled in terror?

  She received her answer a second later as Curie emerged from the crowd, the young woman sporting her usual nearly-spotless white coat to denote her medical ability. X6 would have known her by a different name, however.

  G5-19 . 

  Backhand's heart broke at the way that the courser was obviously struggling to contain himself, the general watching Curie swap out the soaked gauze for a fresh bandage. When Curie reached for Shaun though, X6 said something to her that made her tilt her head in confusion.

  "- know me? Monsieur Courser, I am afraid I do not have zee pleasure." She was saying as Vega and Preston drew within earshot.

  "You were...in the Institute, I...we knew each other." X6 replied in a fragmentary fashion.

  "Ah! I must apologize, Monsieur Courser. I am afraid zat zis body was wiped nearly clean when I acquired it. Zee original owner was in a catatonic state. Somezing about EMP grenades and raiders, if I recall." The former Nanny bot squinted at the courser, pursing her lips. "And yet, you are... strangely familiar! Ah, zis body is a marvel." She continued cheerily, producing two small, plastic-wrapped snack cakes from her doctor's coat. "One for you, and one for zee child when he wakes." 

  X6-88 accepted the prepackaged treats with a nod, spotting Elizabeth over Curie's shoulder. "General Vega, is it?" The courser asked, his voice weary.

  "How you holdin' up, X6?" Vega queried in turn, startled when the killing machine offered her a tight-lipped nod.

  "The wound is not too grievous, even with the limited amount of medical prowess it seems the surface has. She appears to believe I will survive."

  "Madame Vega, it is such a relief to see you in one piece!" Curie exclaimed warmly, the synth hauling her into a hug and planting a kiss on either cheek. "It would appear your mission was a success, yes?"

  "I'd say so." Preston answered for Vega, the lieutenant observing the courser with a fair amount of trepidation. "General, are you sure you...uh. Well, y'know."

  "Lieutenant Garvey," Preston flinched when X6 used his name, "If I intended to cause you harm, you would already be dead." 

  Remarkably , that attempt at reassurance did very little, and Vega smacked herself on the forehead as Preston went a touch gray. "You sure keep some interesting company, General." He commented, his voice cracking.

  "Listen, I said you'd be safe and I'm a woman of my word. But please don't give any of these Brotherhood weirdos an excuse to shoot you." Backhand requested of the courser. "If you want, I'll take over on babysitting duty and you can get the hell out of here. I know it probably feels like you're sitting in the middle of a hornet's nest."

  X6-88 hesitated, his eyes darting to Curie and then back to the general. "I will stay, ma'am." He answered her staunchly, looking weary all of a sudden.

  "Okay. But if you do want to leave, just have them walkie for me. Find basically anyone with a radio. You don't have to stay if you don't want to, I need that to be clear. You're free to go wherever you want, X6."

  "I…" The courser's brow furrowed and he merely nodded silently after a moment, readjusting his grip on the sleeping Shaun. 

  Vega knew she had so much to do, so much to continue planning, but she took a self-indulgent second to brush Shaun's hair back out of his eyes. Dark, dark brown, almost black, just like his father…

  Elizabeth smiled sadly, and then set off in the direction of the communications tent.

  …

  "No word from her yet, sir. Lieutenant Garvey told us of the success of the mission, but it is unclear if she is with him or not." 

  The field scribe's words burrowed into Danse's gut like a knife. Fear, anxiety, the unstoppable creeping sensation of realizing that he had been too late or not enough -

  The paladin shoved the emotions down, all too aware of Piper waiting at his elbow with baited breath. "The reports from the other squadrons then, Scribe."

  "Emergency relays began to activate at five minutes to meltdown, sir. Several synths were spotted in the outskirts of Diamond City and were quickly scooped up by the citizens of Goodneighbor, or Golf squadron, in conjunction with John D.'s forces." The young man replied, tugging one side of his headset off of his ears. "Foxtrot and Echo encountered the most resistance, as a platoon of coursers and gen one synths were sent to both the Castle and Bunker Hill. It seems that both locations held out well. Minimal casualties reported."

  "What's your take on this whole situation, bud? Would you consider this a victory?" Piper asked, leaning around Danse to speak with the scribe. "Enquiring minds want to know!"

  "I-I am not at liberty to pass judgement, civilian, b-but it seems that the operation has gone well!" The scribe stammered, darting his eyes at Danse as if fearful of the paladin's discipline.

  Danse snorted, a touch amused despite the distress that threatened to engulf him. Piper was far more formidable than a cursory glance would assume. It wasn't Danse that this young man needed to be concerned about.

  The doorway at the other end of the tent was flung open, sunset light pouring in with the influx of more bodies from the triage area. Danse didn't really pay any mind to it, more invested in hearing the rest of the field scribe's report. 

  That is, until a certain voice broke through the dull roar of radio static and muffled transmissions. "I need news of Delta squadron!" Vega barked, "particularly of Paladin Danse! Who has eyes on Danse?"

  The scribe across from the dumbfounded paladin looked up at him slack-jawed, then bolted to his feet. "G-General Vega, ma'am! The paladin-!"

  "Elizabeth." Danse breathed, his voice nearly inaudible as he straightened up from the table. 

  When her eyes met his, it was as if something broke inside him. Danse covered the ground between them in a heartbeat, gathering her into a fierce, armored embrace. " Logan! " Vega cried, her arms flinging open to cling to his sides. He almost dared to believe that she sounded relieved or delighted . "You're okay, you're okay, thank fuck ." She mumbled against his breastplate, clutching the lucky bandanna she had tied to his arm like she wasn't sure if he was real. "We did it, we did it, holy shit." 

  Vega appeared to be in a state of shock, finally lifting her head from Danse's chest when Piper hollered, "Blue!", the reporter hugging her from behind and sandwiching the general between herself and Danse. 

  Danse's heart ached as he watched Vega dissolve into tears, Piper gripping her tight and his own hold unwavering. Preston entered the tent as well, the younger man clapping Danse on the pauldron to congratulate him on his survival.

  We did it .

Part Twenty

[snarkymonkeyprime]

Xerynn doesn’t care for Jac’s inability to understand his place in the world.

Also, this was a prompt of “jealousy” from @magic-ramen after she’d had a shitty day (sorry it took so long, babe!)  <3<3<3

Any other day, Xerynn likely would have ignored the news report.  Besides, it was information he’d already been well aware of.  He’d known the moment Lillian had died.  And how.  That her death was reported, however, was more of consequence.

Xerynn never did concern himself with being known. Given the fragile nature of mortals, they tended to make their own conclusions regarding why a defense attorney from Portland also appeared to be criminally connected and eerily similar to supposed paternal relations.  However, that did not mean he enjoyed the attention.  It was nothing to sway the minds of police but given the option, he would much rather not have to expend the energy to do so.

He scowled at the article on his laptop.  And when that attention came from tools better used in other situations, he grew doubly irritated.

He tapped a button under his desk.

“Yes?”

“Ms. Lusk,” he began, “do contact Mr. Sayer and inform him he’s required at my office.  Sooner rather than later,” he finished.

“Certainly, Mr. Warrgott.”

He sat back, tapping his index fingers against his lips. He would never have this kind of complication with Natalie.  Nor Kai, bizarre as that was to admit.  His brow furrowed.  For as much of a mouth as that man had on him, he held enough sense to know not to cross Xerynn in a way that created impact.  It was abundantly clear, however, that his latest acquisition had not yet come to that realization.

He lifted his chin, glancing toward the ornate doors of his office. Across Portland, he could sense Jac’s intention towards his office, proving that Natalie was once again prompt.  The emotions there were the same as he’d felt the first day he’d noted the assassin; arrogance, confidence, desire, violence.

Initially, he’d found it amusing that Jac still wore the veil and refused to see Xerynn’s godhood.  The idea that someone as steeped in blood and violence, who’s inclination rarely wavered from sadism, could refuse to believe in old, primal gods was charming in its way.

Now it was frustrating.

Less than half an hour later, Jac sauntered into his office, unbuttoning his peacoat as he moved.  “You rang?”

“Sit.”

Jac paused, one eyebrow lifted.  He smirked as he slipped out of his coat, turning to hang it on the coatrack near the door.  “Uh, oh; someone’s in trouble,” he teased.

Not rising to the comment, he turned his laptop, aiming the article at Jac.  “It appears that Ms. Rogers met with an accident last night.”

Jac didn’t look at the article, only kept his gaze with Xerynn’s, grinning all the while.  “Aw, what a shame.  She seemed awfully friendly with you the night before.  My condolences.”

The laptop shut with a thud.  “I do recall you seemed quite focused on her as well that night. Perhaps I should be extending the same,” he drawled.  He steepled his fingers.  “Shame indeed; she was quite useful.”

“Was she?”  Jac shrugged. “She was a pop culture blogger; she was probably at the gala because she’d shagged someone more important.”

Xerynn smiled then, the air around them growing still as his power curled along the windows and the shuttered door.  “That so?”  He pushed back, rising.  Jac’s eyes stayed on him but the smile had faded.  Xerynn smoothed his suit coat and slowly moved out from behind his desk. He stopped within arm’s length of Jac, hands folded neatly before him.  “Jac.”  His power shifted, surging through the room, lights flickering around them.  “Jac, Jac, Jac,” he chided.

The assassin’s brow furrowed but he stayed quiet.

Xerynn stepped close and lifted Jac’s chin.  “I’d suggest marking your territory elsewhere in the future.  Dare to piss on my property again and you’ll lack the ability to do so.”  He let go and lifted his brows, the lamp behind him popping, the expensive porcelain shattering and tumbling to the floor. “Have we an accord?”

Jac craned around Xerynn, frowning at the broken lamp. “Guess they don’t make them like they used to, hm?”

Oh, I see.  You believe you still retain control. Xerynn grinned then, lips drawing back, teeth bared.  Before him, Jac tensed as he shifted back.

“If I deign to employ another, you will accept that.”  His grin grew, reshaping his jaw as it widened.  “If, by chance, you decide your opinion matters more?”  He leaned down, teeth splitting from his jaw, razor-sharp and brilliant.  His voice boomed through the room, pictures rattling against the wall, glass trophies sending shards tumbling to the floor.

“I’d advise you to retain said opinions unless I require them.” He read confusion in Jac’s eyes as the man obviously struggled to reconcile with Xerynn’s horrific appearance.

“She . . . was useless,” he managed, voice rough.  

“Do recall that I required her there.”  The skin around his jaw split farther, bone elongating, the rage of war twisting his visage into that of a charred dragon.  Darkness crowded around them as he pulled Jac into his realm, drawing him into that same darkness he appeared to crave so much.  “You insult me with your petty actions,” he stated, words hissing out with strings of fire and smoke.

Again, he read the discomfiture in Jac’s mortal eyes.  The man wanted so badly to believe he retained all control.  That he alone directed his life and path.  That life and death were so neat and tidy in his blood-soaked world.

Xerynn laughed then, the sound a clash of stone and steel.  “You are more the fool, Jac Sayer,” he warned.  “Understand that I alone now own your soul.  That I decide when you will move.  When you will speak.”  He leaned close, those hazel eyes muddy with desperate turmoil.  “You are a tool, Mr. Sayer.  You will stay sheathed until I decide.”

With a snap, the light returned and they were once more standing in his office, pictures hanging neatly, trophies gleaming under bright lights.  

Jac blinked, frowning as he tried not to glance around.  But even so, Xerynn heard his rapid heart.  The swirl of thoughts as he tried to rationalize what he’d experienced.

Shame.  You would be so much more useful without the veil. A failing, certainly.  One that Xerynn hoped would correct itself sooner, rather than later.  He could force the tearing of the veil but unfortunately, it often left mortals more useless given it tended to overwhelm their fragile minds.  Jac’s was already poisoned enough of its own; no need to encourage further degradation.

He shifted in his chair, clearing his throat as he smoothed his shirt sleeves.  “So.  Done with my punishment?” he rasped.

Xerynn’s eyes narrowed. Still so haughty.  Had it been Kai, he would have left it there and ordered him out.  For all his insolence, Kai was by far the most accomplished Servitor he’d retained.  He allowed the man a long lead.  Jac, however, clearly needed more restraint.

“If I find that you have allowed your baser thoughts to interfere with my business again, our working relationship will be severed.”  

Jac laughed then.  “Oh, please.  You’d never find anyone half as good as me.”  He preened and winked at Xerynn.  “I’m one-of-a-kind.”

Mortals and their egos.  So trying. Xerynn didn’t rise to the comment. He watched as Jac removed a gun from a well-used under-arm holster, checking the clip and letting it hang loose from his hand.  He tilted his head at the action.  “Is that meant to frighten me?”

Jac’s amusement tempered, his mouth struggling to hold his cocky grin.  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he purred, lifting the gun slightly.

Xerynn’s hand snapped out, grabbing Jac’s wrist and yanking the man to his feet, the gun falling with a thud to the floor in the process.  “You think yourself untouchable?” he mused.

The assassin swallowed but continued his attempt of controlling the situation.  “You wouldn’t have employed me otherwise,” he pointed out.

Xerynn tutted sharply.  “You, my boy, are not the marvel you consider yourself.” He began to walk, pushing Jac back, the man struggling to keep his feet as Xerynn clasped his wrist.  The bones beneath his fingers creaked and he knew, with a single additional squeeze, he could shatter that fragile framework.  He could rid himself of Jac in a moment, reduce him to nothing but skin and organs.

But the man was useful.  He was violent and effective.  And there was no doubt the man was pleasurable to use.  Recalling that, he shifted his grip to Jac’s neck as he slammed him into the door to his office.  The sudden boom would likely require an apology gift for Ms. Lusk.  A small matter.

He leaned in, whispering low, Jac’s pulse rapid and hot under his fingers.  “You are unique, Mr. Sayer,” he began.  “But there will always be another:  stronger, faster, far more obedient.”  He tightened his fingers, the air bubbling under his grip.  “Do not encourage me to locate them.”

Xerynn straightened, careful to retain his grip on Jac’s throat.  He recognized swirls of anger and arousal in the deep hazel.  He smirked then, amused again that even near death, the man’s mind remained on its singular track.

Even as he struggled to remain conscious, Jac lifted his chin, smug as ever.  “If you tried to get rid of me,” he forced out, “I’d only kill the idiot you wasted time on.”

It was almost amusing, in truth.  That Jac thought himself so highly prized.  Xerynn certainly hadn’t dissuaded him from the idea in the beginning; after all, he needed a confident assassin in his employ.  To do otherwise would be asking to be questioned by authorities at every turn.  But now it grew tiresome.  Mortals and their afflictions had long been a bore for Xerynn.  And he certainly didn’t need to deal with the jealous moods of a killer.

Xerynn didn’t smile. “And who is to say you would even be alive to attempt it?”

For the first time, he saw the assassin’s confidence slip.  A shadow of uncertainty across his face.  Enough to know the words hit home.

“Tell me, Jac,” Xerynn hissed, feeding his power outward.  “What is it that you see?”  He tightened his fingers around Jac’s throat, knowing he could crush the man in a breath if he wished.  It would be simpler, to be fair.  Jac was rapidly proving to be more trouble than he was worth.  Yet, it was rare for Xerynn to find such an exquisite weapon amongst the mortals.  He loathed washing his hands of such a find so quickly.

Jac’s swallow moved rigidly past his fingers.  “A reliable client.”  The words were barely there but Xerynn heard them all the same.  

“Client.”  Xerynn grinned.  He caught a thread of doubt in Jac’s eyes, his power once more manifesting in that moment.  His fingers brightened, gleaming like steel.  Threads of crimson began to bead along Jac’s neck, dripping along paling skin.

“Oh, my dear boy,” he breathed, “I am so much more.”  Skin split further under his bladed fingers, runnels of fluid warm and sticky against them. “I am what you crave.  Without me, you are nothing.”  He leaned in, licking Jac’s ear, catching the strain of his heart and air.  “Were I to be undone, your very existence would lack purpose.”  He pitched his voice lower.  “Do not believe you know what I require.  You will never kill without my direction.  Do so again, and yours will be the last blood you feel through your fingers.”

The beat of the heart under his fingers slowed, growing sluggish.  The blood was thicker now, leaving the man’s crisp, white shirt sodden and dark.  He let go then, snapping his fingers.

Jac’s neck was whole again, his shirt unmarred.  The assassin grabbed for his throat, eyes wide.  He stared at Xerynn, once more struggling to understand.

Xerynn raised an eyebrow. “Have we an accord?” he asked again, voice low and cold.

The man swallowed and straightened, holding Xerynn’s gaze.  “Understood,” he remarked, the arrogance long gone from his voice.  He tugged on the collar of his shirt, a fine tremor on his fingers.  “Anything more, Mr. Warrgott?”

Xerynn smirked then. He reached out and stroked Jac’s cheek, cupping his chin.  “I have no targets for you as of now.”  He swiped the warm, lower lip with his thumb.  “Be at my home in one hour; I have a better use for you tonight.”

The cocky light returned and Jac opened his mouth, sucking Xerynn’s thumb in.  “Of course, Mr. Warrgott,” he purred.  “I’m at your disposal.”

“You would do well to remember that, Mr. Sayer.”