#but those are reasonable concerns for a gun that's not non-gun colours

[sweetjegus]

There isn’t much time. Every day they grow stronger. 

Orson Krennic’s uniform was the unique situation of “got way too enthused for a design before learning more about the character” and “sweet diggity damn nothing will stop me from making the most impractical cape.” 

He ultimately turned out to be a power-hungry sycophant, but boy howdy did the man have style. 

Photos by @aqsphotography-blog! 

[thedefinitionofendgame]

I Love You, Baby

Sullivan X Andy one-shot | Rated M | Canonverse

A/N: Amidst my Surrera breakdown tonight after reading the episode synopsis for 4x16, I wrote this to settle my heart rate. I have no idea how the Station 19 finale will go, but hints about a Surrera baby are running wild, so this fic inspired by those and everything else *Rated M for non-explicit sex/TW regarding the mention of George Floyd’s death (briefly)*

•

You can read this work on ao3 and fanfiction.net as well

Written & cover by @thedefinitionofendgame (aka me)

The cover is split between 3 different sections, just because :)

Alarms blared and sirens wailed but Lieutenant Andy Herrera heard none of them. Her thoughts were too crowded with her husband’s voice. No, not the way he whispered sweet nothings against her skin in the early mornings or the outrageously sexy way his voice deepened when he fought with her over control in the bedroom. Instead, it was the things he had told her over the last few months when the whole world had flipped upside down. The coronavirus started which put enough strain on a marriage alone. Then Andy’s husband, Robert, and a member of her Station 19 family, Dean, had wound up in jail mainly due to the colour of their skin. Robert had even had a gun pointed at his head, as he rushed to his wife who had been shoved to the ground. Less than two months later, a man across the country had died claiming he couldn’t breathe, filmed for the whole world to witness and make opinions about. None of it made sense to Andy, but then again she didn’t see things in the same way she had just half a year ago before she married her husband.

She loved his eyes. They were kind and held so much emotion. She loved the way his hands held her face when his lips brushed hers, no matter how gentle or rough their kiss was. His firefighter-status fitness level was a definite bonus; his hands were way larger than her own but she liked that they fit around hers like a glove. These were just some of the physical features she loved about her husband. Not once did she think about the colour of his skin and how that affected her love for him. It simply didn’t, at least not in a negative way. Robert was her husband; the colour of his skin never made any difference to her one way or another. Until it did matter, although not in a bad way. Suddenly, he was a target and Andy was thrust into a world that didn’t see a kind and dedicated man when they looked at Robert Sullivan. They saw someone that Andy would never compare to her husband, all for the colour of his skin.

Our marriage is the only good thing in my life, he had told her. The only good thing was her. They both had no one else, no parents or siblings. Sure, they had Station 19 who were basically family and Andy’s aunt, uncle and cousin. But in terms of immediate family, it was just them. Robert’s comment had left Andy’s head turning. Maybe it was the truth in his words, maybe it was the desperation he had said them to her in. Maybe it was because Andy wanted more than just their marriage to be good in his life. And maybe it was a little bit of all three.

Whatever it was, Andy was sure the problems couldn’t be fixed with what she had in mind. Although her idea wasn’t rational, it was the only thing she could think of. Robert and her had talked about the prospect of it before but it hadn’t gotten farther than that. The question remained whether or not it would break them up or make them stronger. At this point, Andy wasn’t ready to find out.

Yet somewhere in the universe, a light shone. A spark was lit, a flame caught on and from there, it was an inferno. One thing led to another and soon a giant ball of fire was heading for the only good thing in Robert (and Andy’s) life. It was only a matter of time before it crashed into them, leaving nothing but a mist of smoke behind.

“Hey, are you okay?” Robert’s concerned murmur washed over Andy, as she slid back into bed next to her husband.

Andy nodded, desperate to feel the warmth of his skin against hers again. The early-morning air was cold and the firefighter wasn’t ready to get up yet. “Just had to use the bathroom.”

“Mhm.” An arm wrapped around her shoulders, making Andy feel safe. Home was wherever Robert’s embrace was. “Some long trip to the bathroom you took. Also did I hear you throwing up?”

Andy’s heart thumped in her chest. “No, why did you think that?”

“Thought I heard it. If you didn’t, it’s fine. Just wanted to check,” Robert pressed a kiss to his wife’s forehead. “We have ten more minutes until the alarm goes,” he informed her.

“So kiss me.” Andy’s reply was quiet but Robert reacted immediately. His lips moved from her forehead to her eyelids, her cheeks, her nose and landed softly on her lips. Andy shifted so that she was more upright, and Robert’s hands moved to cup her face. The kiss deepened, and the sheets soon ended up on the unoccupied side of the mattress.

Morning sex was something Andy hadn’t really indulged in during her hookups with Jack and Ryan. Sure, it was a better way to wake up than turning over and hitting snooze on the alarm but she was mostly concerned about not getting caught by her father or anyone else at the station.

The alarm blared, interrupting the couple’s post-orgasmic bliss. With a sigh, Andy pushed away from Robert and threw on his discarded Station 19 shirt from the night before. “Cereal good for you? I’m not in the mood for French toast which is the-”

“Only thing you know how to make for breakfast, I know.” Leaning back against the headboard. Robert put his hands behind his head and smiled at her. “You tell me every morning.”

“Hey, I’m just reminding you what you signed up for when you married me.” She threw on yesterday’s jeans (her own this time), leaving the room.

“I married you for other reasons besides my breakfast options!” Robert shouted after her. He heard her infectious giggle from the stairs, which made his smile stretch even wider. Andy was going to be the death of him, but he would happily go if it meant the last thing he saw was her. The thought was cheesy, Robert knew, yet that was the state the ex-battalion chief was constantly in around his wife. She brought out a completely different side of him that had been hiding for the years between his first wife’s death and him coming to Station 19.

His first wife was probably watching from whatever afterlife she was in, happy for him. A day didn’t go by that Robert didn’t miss Claire, but he knew she would want him to find happiness again. Lucky for him, Andy was the woman he never expected to fall in love with and he did anyways. He was a very fortunate man to get two loves of his life.

After stretching, Robert rolled out of bed and trekked to the bathroom. Water was splashed all over the counter, which made him shake his head. While his wife kept a fairly clean locker at the station, their bathroom had no idea. He grabbed a small towel off the rack and mopped up the small puddles, then turned on the shower. Taking less than two minutes to get clean, Robert had a towel wrapped around his waist and was brushing his teeth while observing himself in the mirror. Clearly all the workouts he had been doing recently to deal with the emotions he had been feeling were helping tone his figure. Raising an eyebrow at himself in the mirror, Robert let out a laugh. He felt a bit stupid, so he quickly turned off the light, rinsed his mouth in the sink and went to change for the day.

A pair of Andy’s socks showed up in Robert’s drawer, so he opened up her side of the closet to put them away. But before he could move, something solid caught his eye amongst the squishy socks. He was about to investigate, then realized it wasn’t his. It was Andy’s and if he looked, it would be invading her privacy. So he closed the drawer and went back to putting on his own clothes. Yet Robert’s curiosity was piqued and the wheels in his head were already turning with possibilities. A surprise for him, perhaps. Or many it was a female-related object, one that she clearly didn’t want him to know about. Or maybe it was a- “Hey Andy, do you own a vibrator?” The question escaped Robert’s lips before he could stop himself.

Robert had never seen his wife appear in their bedroom so fast. “Robert, what on Earth have you been doing in here?” She asks, alarm lighting up her face.

Feeling like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, Robert admitted to what he had seen in Andy’s sock drawer. “Do you own a vibrator?” He repeated, once he had recounted his story to his wife.

Andy let out a huff of laughter, as she turned towards Robert. “Um, I did, before I married you. But it’s long gone, so don’t worry you don’t have any need to get your feather’s ruffled.” She crossed her arms. “Would you have been mad if I did own one?”

“No way, I would’ve suggested we use it to spice up our sex lives even more,” Robert told her.

Andy smacked her husband’s arm, before turning to leave the room again. “You need to get dressed because we gotta go in like fifteen minutes. I got out the cereal.”

“Okay, thanks.” Robert listened to his wife, and joined her in the kitchen for coffee moments later. He offered her the coffee pot, but she shook her head. It surprised Robert as Andy wasn’t one to skip out on caffeine.

Andy could tell her husband was starting to get a bit suspicious, so she made her exit. “Gonna change, then we can go,” she said in a rush, then jogged up the stairs to their bedroom again.

Shutting the door behind her, Andy leaned against it, before sliding to the floor. It was getting a little exhausting trying to keep their teeny tiny surprise a secret, especially from her husband. Not that she wanted to be keeping secrets, but this one was too big to tell him yet. Andy wasn’t ready for him to know. Unfortunately, keeping it from him went against the main slogan of their marriage: no more secrets. Robert had told her that on many occasions, always with a kiss on her lips following. This was an exception, or at least that’s what Andy told herself to make her feel better.

The young woman shed her clothes and put on clean ones, then grabbed her purse and a pair of socks. She turned the hidden object over in her hand once, before slipping it back and smiling to herself. “Baby, you ready to go?”

“Yep, and I have coffee for you to go,” Robert handed Andy the travel mug, which she dutifully took. Hopefully she’d be able to pour the contents down the sink when her husband wasn’t looking.

They got in the car and drove to work. The streets were pretty empty, as it was barely six-thirty a-m. Andy silently prayed people would stay safe today, making their job easier but also keep people living. It also meant Andy wasn’t taking big risks, something she knew she should avoid for the foreseeable future. Robert didn’t think anything was different, as he reached across the center console to take Andy’s hand. She smiled at him, and he pressed his lips to her fingers. They were stupidly in love without a care in the world.

Once they reached the station, the couple changed into their work attire and headed up to the kitchen for their second breakfast. Andy realized she conveniently forgot the travel mug of coffee in the car, and sighed with relief. Except the second they came around the corner, Ben was offering a second coffee to Robert, and extended it to Andy.

“I’m good, thanks Warren,” she said, avoiding Robert’s gaze and scurrying to sit with Maya and Vic at the table. “Hey guys.”

“Hey Andy,” Vic greeted her.

“We were just talking about Pru’s recent development in mobility,” Maya explained.

Babies, Andy thought, I can talk about that. “Is she still doing the butt-scootch thing?”

Vic nodded. “Yep. Dean’s been trying to get her to take a few steps because she’s more than ready. But she’s a stubborn girl.”

It would be awhile longer, but teaching a child to walk was something that thrilled Andy. “I can’t wait for that,” Andy accidentally burst out, before catching herself. “I mean, I can’t wait for Pru to start walking.”

“Same.” Learning back, Vic looked like a proud mother, despite the fact that Pru wasn’t her kid.

Maya waited a second longer, before pushing her chair back as the rest of the A-crew took a seat. “Okay, Montgomery and Herrera, you two are on aid car today. The rest of you guys, make sure the truck’s in tip-top shape.”

After a chorus of ‘yes-es’, the team spread out. Andy and Travis were called to a house regarding someone who choked on a piece of sausage (the Heimlich was performed swiftly and effectively), while the rest of the firefighters were sentenced to putting out a warehouse fire. A machine had caught a spark, which spread to all the wood materials lighting on fire. Not a great combination, yet Station 19 was prepared and managed to evacuate everyone in record time. Maya commanded the radio outside, as Vic, Robert, Jack and Dean did a final sweep. The aid care, with Andy and Travis inside, pulled up just as Maya was about to call her firefighters back. No one was hurt, but it was good to have the care on standby just in case.

The radio crackled, and Vic’s voice rang out. “There’s one more person in here! They’re trapped under a wooden shelf.” Static, then there was a muffled noise, before a shout could be heard. “Dammit!”

Instantly Maya had the radio switched on. “What happened?”

“The fire just lit up the entire back wall,” Vic reported. Andy’s heart beat loudly in her chest, as she feared for her fellow firefighters’ lives, and most of all her husband’s.

“Get the person stable, and then get out,” Maya ordered. “Gibson, Miller, what’s the status on the exit?”

“Clear. The direct path has nothing structural that could fall. But the smoke is thick. We need to start putting out the fire in the main area or else it has the potential to block off where we need to go,” Jack reported.

“Okay, good. Get out and you can help the other stations spray from the windows.” The warehouse luckily had a bunch of windows, which made access to the fire easier. Maya had had the windows smashed in earlier.

“Copy that.” Jack’s radio went muffled for a moment, then two doors opened at the side of the building. “Hey Herrera, Montgomery, nice of you to join us,” Jack said with a laugh. Travis nodded hello while Andy didn’t even look in Jack’s direction. She was too focused on whatever fate her husband had. Recently her emotions and hormones had been all over the place, leaving her wanting to cry one moment and incredibly turned on the next. Right now though, Andy was scared for her husband’s life.

“We got them!” This time it was Robert’s voice on the radio. “Heading for the exit.”

The seconds ticked away as everyone who wasn’t spraying water at the fire, had their eyes on the double doors where they expected Vic and Robert to emerge from. Maya was worried, and turned on the radio again. “Sullivan and Hughes, where are you guys?”

The only answer was static. Andy thought she head a shout but it was too muffled to tell. Then one door pushed open, and she rushed towards it. Vic called out, “Help me grab the guy!”

Andy held open the door as Vic stumbled through it towing a man behind her. She coughed loudly, as the smoke was incredibly thick. Robert was nowhere to be found.

While Travis did his job and checked over the man, Andy turned to Vic. “Where’s Sullivan?” She asked, remembering to use her husband’s proper title since they were at work.

Vic didn’t answer her. Instead she spun around and fixed her helmet back on her head. “I’m going back in there,” she said.

“No you aren’t.” Maya stopped her.

There was panic in Vic’s eyes. “Sullivan is still in there. A huge beam came down just as I was rounding the corner to the exit. Sullivan jumped back just in time, but we were separated. The smoke is so bad, and I had the guy with me. I could see the exit, so I thought I could just drop him off and the go back for Sullivan.”

“You left him?” Andy whirled on Vic.

“No, I couldn’t get to him. I had a civilian and I told him I’d go back. I have to go back,” Vic repeated to Maya.

“No. No one is going back in there.” Maya stated firmly. She picked up her radio and said, “Sullivan, do you copy?”

There was nothing, except for Vic’s voice apologizing. “I’m so sorry, I just couldn’t reach him and I had the civilian and-”

“Nothing. You made the call and it was what was necessary.” Maya attempted to contact Robert via the radio again, with no luck.

Suddenly, there was a huge crash and a section of the warehouse roof began to cave in. Andy watched in horror as smoke billowed out into the sky and there continued to be no response from the radio. “ROBERT!” A scream left Andy’s throat as she lunged herself towards the doors her husband was still trapped behind. Much to her dismay, both Maya and Vic lunged after her, stopping her from charging in after him. She struggled against the women but soon gave up. “Somebody do something!”

Maya shook her head sadly. “It’s up to him to get out, I can’t risk another firefighter. Andy, he’ll be okay.”

“You don’t know that!” Andy was practically in hysterics, which wasn’t like her at all. She was normally pretty put together, even when his life had been in danger before.

Jack came over and looked Andy right in the eyes. “I know he’ll make it out to you. He’s been a firefighter for a long time, and will be fine. Trust him.”

“Okay.” Andy’s voice was small as she nodded. Jack gave her shoulder a reassuring pat, then stood off to the side. He was worried about his friend because she was rarely this emotional while on a call. Sure, she had broken down from time to time, but it was rare for to lose it at the scene. Maybe she and her husband-it was still weird to say that after almost a whole year-had had a fight beforehand, and she didn’t get the chance to work things out.

Water continued to rain down on the building but the radio remained silent. Maya tried over and over to reach Robert with no response. The panic was just starting to settle in, when someone shouted that they saw movement through one of the broken windows.

Inside the building the air was thickening with smoke and Robert was losing air fast. But he had someone to fight for, well two someones actually. He was not about to leave his wife the way his first wife had left him. Claire’s death had almost killed him, and he would do whatever he could to save Andy from losing someone else. Up ahead, Robert saw the exit that separated him from the love of his life. With a last surge of strength, Robert burst open the doors and stumbled a short distance before he fell to the concrete. Cold, fresh air filled his lungs as he took in gasping breaths. He looked up and saw that the sky above him wasn’t smoke but clear and blue with the sun shining too. I’m safe, he thought. I’m safe and I'm alive.

Seconds later, two figures reached him. One was Travis, thrusting an oxygen mask into his hands for him to put on, and the other was his wife. Her arms engulfed him in a hug, and she practically lay on top of him on the ground. At first, Robert thought she was just happy to see him alive and well, then he felt her shaking in his lap. “I’m safe, it’s okay,” he told her, pulling back slightly so he could wipe the tears from her eyes.

“I thought I lost you,” Andy told him, as she pressed the oxygen mask to his face. Travis stepped back and gave them a few feet of space, as the rest of the group worked to spray the flames.

“You’ll never lose me, I’m too stubborn to die,” Robert reassured her.

Andy nodded, but she wasn’t convinced, She was just thankful he had made it back to her, and didn’t leave her all alone to raise their child. “I love you, baby,” she managed to get out.

“I love you.” His words echoed back and he hugged her tightly again. Moments later, Maya appeared at his side, and Andy moved to get up off of the ground. “Hey Captain Bishop, things were getting a bit toasty, huh?”

“Just a bit,” Maya rolled her eyes. “You okay Sullivan?”

“Fine.” The man in question had regained enough oxygen in his lungs and strength in his body, to rise to a standing position.

“You should head over to the aid car and rest; we can debrief later.” Maya glanced around, then leaned over to her fellow firefighter. “Hey, is Andy alright?”

Robert raised an eyebrow. “She’s fine, why?”

Maya sighed. “She acted overly emotional when you were struggling to get out of the building. I totally understand why, but it’s unlike her. I just wanted to make sure things were okay.”

“Oh, I understand.” Pausing, Robert hesitated how to approach the subject of why when he knew Andy didn’t even know he knew about her secret. “I’m sure she was just worried.”

“Right,” Maya said. She didn’t look completely convinced, but luckily thought Robert didn’t get questioned any longer. He made his way over to Travis at the aid car and got his head looked at. It was just a bruise, which would heal in no time.

The fire eventually died down and lost the war against the firefighters and water. Station 19 began to pack up, and Andy came over to give her husband a check up of her own, before getting back into the aid car. Vic apologized profusely to Robert for leaving him, and he told her that he would’ve done the same thing, had he been in her position. As Andy and Travis pulled away, Robert was leaning over to give Vic a reassuring hug; all was okay.

Once they got back, chores needed to be done, then people started heading to the showers or to crash in a bunk room. Andy slipped away and went back to the barn, swinging herself up to sit on the back of the firetruck amongst the many hoses. It had been a long day, even though it was barely eight o’clock. All she wanted to do was go to sleep, with maybe a little loving from her husband first.

Speaking of Robert, his voice carried through the barn as he spotted her. “Hey, can I join you?” He asked.

“Yeah,” Andy nodded, moving so he could come up too. She let out a loud sigh, and ran a hand through her messy curls.

Robert watched her, concern in his gaze. “Everything okay?”

“Today was a close call,” Andy began, looking at her hands instead of her husband. “I’m glad you’re safe.”

Robert wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close. “Me too.” There was a moment of silence, until Robert decided it was time to rip off the bandaid. But first, he needed to tell her something. “I love you, you know that?”

Pulling away, Andy snuck a glance at Robert. “Of course, silly. I love you too.”

“Good.” Robert smiled slightly, then bumped her shoulder with hers. “Then I just wanted to tell you that I know.”

Andy whipped her head towards her husband. “You know what.”

“I know. Don’t try to hide it any longer.”

“What do you know.”

“I know.”

“I know you know, but what do you know?” Andy was very stubborn, and was not about to show her cards first.

Robert, who gave into arguments like this with her more often than she did, sighed and told her: “I know about the baby. That you’re pregnant.”

“Dammit.” She looked back down at her hands. “I was trying to keep it a secret for a little while longer. How did you find out? You didn’t look in my sock drawer, did you?”

“No, I wouldn’t invade your privacy like that,” Robert reassured her.

“Then what was it?”

“Well you’ve been acting funny the past couple days. Avoiding coffee, being way more emotional than normal-which there’s nothing wrong with but it isn’t like you normally-and disappearing to throw up at the same time for the past five days. You deny it but I know my wife.”

Shaking her head, Andy let out a sigh. “I can’t keep anything a secret from you.”

“So are you pregnant?” Robert wanted his wife to say it, to confirm his theory.

“Yes, I’m pregnant.” Andy nodded.

Robert didn’t hesitate. He leaned over and pulled his wife into the biggest hug, then began to press sloppy kisses all over her face. She laughed, swatting at him lightly. “I love you so much,” Robert gushed. “And I love you too, baby,” he said, looking down at Andy’s non-showing belly.

Andy took his hand and placed it where their baby was growing inside of her right now. “You’re not gonna want to miss this, ever,” she said.

“Never,” he agreed.

They were quiet for a moment, just breathing together. Then Andy spoke: “Before you tell me to lighten my duties, I planned on talking to Maya later this week. We have a girl’s night in the works, and I need to tell her before she suggests we go to a bar for shots.”

“Didn’t even cross my mind yet, but I’m glad you knew what I was going to ask in the future,” Robert said with a laugh. He pressed another kiss to Andy’s lips, then looked all around him.

“What?” Andy asked, as she watched her husband.

“I was just thinking, this is where it all started. Right here in the barn, when I was introduced as the new captain of Station 19. Who knew that we’d be here now, married with a baby on the way?” He lay back, pulling Andy down with him, and they tangled themselves amongst the folded hoses, snuggled together like they had lay that morning before getting up.

Andy confessed, “Not me. I hated you for a good while, before I realized I was using hate to cover up what I felt for you.”

Robert chimed in, “And I told myself I wasn’t going to fall in love with a firefighter half my rank. Look where that got me.”

“You love me.”

“I do.”

“And we’re going to be good parents, right?”

“The absolute best. First thing we’re going to do is teach them Spanish. After English of course.”

“Okay. Only if I get to teach them how to make French toast because-”

“It’s the only thing you know how to make for breakfast.”

[chameleonsallinvermillion]

153 Questions for Americans

Listen, as far as I am concerned, America is a place where movies are set. I know you’re all real but you don’t feel quite real, you know. Somebody actually grew up in New York? Impossible - that only exists on TV. I have questions. And somewhere out there, there is an American bored enough to answer them. Or at least some of them. 

I feel I should clarify that none of these are loaded questions. I’m asking these with no agenda other than burning curiosity. There’s no judgement or meanness behind them. I’m sorry that I sound incredibly stupid. 

1) Do you think of yourselves as American, or does your state come first? 

2) Where does the generic American accent come from? The one most people in movies have? Is it Californian, cos that’s where movies tend to be made? That’s my current working theory. 

3) Is it true that you don’t have egg cups? 

4) Is it normal to live in one state all your life and never go to another, even for a visit, or would that be weird? 

5) Are all school buses really yellow, like in movies? 5b) Why? Are they all owned by the same company or do different groups keep identical yellow buses for this one purpose? 

6) Do you have semi-detached houses in America? They’re never in movies. 

^^ These houses! Where two houses are mirror images of each other and share a joining wall. Do you have those? 

7) Turkey is your classic Thanksgiving meat, I think? So what’s your classic Christmas meat? 

8) There must be an insane number of colleges/universities in a country that size. How do you narrow down your choices? Do most people stay in their home state? 

9) Are school sports really as big of a deal as movies make them out to be?

10) How do you decide if your school is an obsessed-with-basketball school or an obsessed-with-football school? Is it regional? Have movies exaggerated this binary too much and I’ve got the wrong idea? 

11) Are there any girls’ sports teams at schools or is it basically just cheerleading? 

12) What is a pep rally and also why is a pep rally? Who goes to them? 

13) Do cheerleaders wear their uniforms around school casually like they do on TV? Wouldn’t a sports uniform need to be taken off post-training for cleanliness reasons? Do they only wear it before training to save the trouble of getting changed? 

14) Does the average American family own a gun or are they not as widespread as it is made to seem? Is that regional too? 

15) How similar is the culture between, say, Montana and New Mexico? Do they feel like the same country? 

16) Do you get sheriffs in cities or is it only out in the middle of nowhere? What’s the difference between a sheriff and a police captain? 

17) Is prom as big of a deal in real life as it is in movies? 

18) Are prom queens a real thing and, if so, how do they work? Are there duties involved or is it just wearing a tiara for a night? Can anyone be voted in or is there a pre-prom shortlist? Do you have to apply? 

19) What is stereotypically American, from the perspective of an American? I know what the stereotypes are over here, but how do you stereotype yourselves? 

20) Why does Alabama have a reputation for incest? Is there a historical basis or do people just not like Alabama very much? 

21) Is it true that you don’t have roundabouts, or do you just not have as many / don’t have them everywhere? (You might call them something else - the little islands in a crossroads that you have to circle round) 

22) If you were asked to name European cities, what would be the first ones you would name? 

Clarification: If somebody asked me to name American cities, my brain would immediately go: New York, Los Angeles, Chicago. By the time it had thought of those, it would already be saying: Las Vegas, Washington DC, New Orleans, San Francisco. Then, Detroit, Miami, Seattle, Boston, Baltimore. After that, I would have to actively stop and think of another one. So, if somebody just says ‘European cities - go!’ what does your brain immediately leap to? 

23) Are those gigantic supermarkets (superstores???) standard across the country? What do the big brands (Walmart?? Target?????) look like in cities? Are they still that huge? 

24) Do the big grocery brands have specific personalities/reputations? What are they? Which one do middle class people look down on, for example? 

25) Is deep-frying everything something you really do or is it more of a regional delicacy / special occasion type deal? 

26) Do the states that are more “famous” (California, and the like) feel more or less American because of it? Are you a cultural beacon, or are you an independent entity shackled down to the rest of them? 

27) Do the states that often get ignored (Montana?? Iowa?????) feel more or less American because of it? Does your isolation make you separate, or are you bound together into a greater whole? 

28) I get that different states have different laws. So say one state said you could get a driving license without having to take a test, but the next state insisted on standardised testing. Would a license issued by the first state still be valid in the second state? Could you cross the border to the state with easier specifications just to get a license?

29) Which universities / colleges are really the ones with good reputations? Obviously, places like Harvard and Yale are world-famous but I don’t really know any others unless a character in a movie is aspiring to one. Which are the names that command respect amongst real people?  

30) Is the average American’s knowledge of geography or history beyond the US as poor as it is commonly described? Or is that more of a joke and the average person is perfectly well-informed, with a few outliers?

31)  Are those red cups in party scenes a convenient movie prop, because they’ve become the stereotype of “oh, that cup has alcohol in it” or something, or are they actually used that universally? 31b) If they are that ubiquitous, what happens when red is the colour of the enemy sports team? That seems like something people would care about.

32) Do you really recite the pledge of allegiance at school every day? If yes, is it done sincerely or just because it’s tradition? 

33) Are flags as popular a décor choice as popular media seems to suggest?

34)  Which state has the reputation for having the most attractive / sexiest people from it, or the people you would most want to date? Why? (I’m assuming this won’t be fully universal, but there are definite stereotypes of ‘guys from this region aren’t the romantic sort’ and ‘girls from this region are easy’ in other countries so you must have something) 

35)  What kind of cheeses do you have? This probably sounds insane, or possibly a little patronising, but whenever you see cheese in an American context, it tends to be those little plastic squares that look like linoleum flooring. Yet Americans are really into putting cheese in everything, so there must be other types. But I couldn’t name a single type of cheese off the top of my head as being a known American cheese. So what are the standard cheeses of an American household? 

36) Is that “biscuits and gravy” thing that people sometimes post pictures of when talking about the difference in biscuits across the Atlantic actually a thing people eat? On what occasion? And if that’s gravy, what do you call the stuff you pour on meat and potatoes? Are they both gravy? 

37) Do young people really hang around at shopping malls all weekend, or is that a movie thing? 

38) Do Americans eat custard? I’ve never heard an American mention custard.

39) If you had to pick an area of the country that is “where rich city folk go to pretend to get back to nature despite being afraid of dirt” where would it be? Or does every state have their own bit where people from their own cities go to buy big old houses and complain about phone reception? 

40) Why do Americans still talk about themselves as being, for example, “a quarter Welsh, a sixth Irish, a bit Swedish, but mostly German”? I don’t mean the people whose parents moved there, but the people who have been there for generations. Do you really feel connected to the cultures/countries your ancestors were from? Is “American” more of a circumstance than an identity?

41) Is Easter a widespread secular event in America or purely religious-based? What would a typical Easter celebration involve? Do you have the fruit cake and funny hats, like we do? 

42) If you had to pick one song already in existence to be your new national anthem, what would it be and why?

43) I know that it is possible to be made to repeat a grade, possibly several times, if you don’t get the required exam results. How common is that? Does it happen a lot, or is it more of a threat to hold over kids? 

44) Are there limits on how early you can legally drop out of school, or could a child stop attending at any age? For example, where I grew up it would be illegal to leave school before the age of sixteen but movies seem to imply you can drop-out earlier in the US.

45) What is homecoming? Who is coming home, and where from? 

46) What is a more important social event: prom, or homecoming? 

47) Can anybody attend homecoming, even the freshmen? I have this vague idea sports has something to do with it and it would seem logical that some freshmen play sports but how does that work logistically? 

48) Does homecoming also have a queen? Do she and the prom queen compete in some way? Which one outranks the other? 

49) Are there buses in America? Other than the school bus or the occasional long-distance coach, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a bus in American media. Does a standard public-transport bus system exist? Is it only in some places? 

50) Why are trains not a more popular mode of long-distance travel in America? Or are they but it doesn’t make for as dramatic a movie scene as a desperate non-stop road trip? 

51) Are freshmen and sophomores really called that? Is it colloquial, or would you see it on official paperwork? 

52) Do teenagers get to choose which subjects they study to exam level at high school, or does everybody have to take a final exam in everything?

 53) Are places like Puerto Rico, or American Samoa, thought of as extensions of the country? Do they seem American to mainland Americans? 

54) Does Alaska ever feel left out, being up there on its own? 

56) Teen novels seem to suggest there’s an endless succession of school dances in high schools. Spring dances, winter balls, proms, homecoming, ladies’ choice dances… Is that true? If so, do people really care about them or is non-attendance no big deal? 

57) Is Halloween as big an event as movies suggest, or was Hocus Pocus not representative? 

58) Sometimes from the outside, it seems that we know more about what’s going on with American foreign policy than Americans do. Does it seem that way, as Americans, about other countries? That you’re getting information that is not being shared with their citizens? 

59) Do Americans really like British accents that much, or is that just a small but vocal handful on the internet? Do different foreign accents go in and out of fashion? 

60) What is the whole deal with white shoes and Labour Day? Or was that just a line in Legally Blonde? 

61) Do American teenagers really have sex in cars a lot or is that a movie thing?

62) Do American teenagers really sneak out of the house at night a lot, especially via the window, or is that also a movie thing? 

63) Are people as blasé about tornados as they seem or is that bravado? Are tornados really that common that people can just shrug about them and carry on with their day?

64) What age are the majority of people when they are learning to drive? Not what age can they legally learn; what age do most people actually learn. 

65) How many of the things you might call an American stereotype really only apply to one specific region? 

66) Are taxicabs yellow everywhere or is that just a New York thing? 

67) Are Sweet Sixteen celebrations a real thing? What happens at one? Is it just a particularly impressive birthday party or are there specific traditions? 

68)  Are sororities and fraternities as common or as important to college life as movies make them out to be? 

69)  Why would somebody join a sorority or a fraternity? What’s the point? (I know the phrasing of that sounds critical but I really don’t mean it like that. I just do not have the cultural context to understand what they’re actually for.) 

70) So, I know that the price you have on price labels isn’t the price you pay because of tax being a secret. I see you talk about this a lot. Does this mean the amount you’re asked for at the end is always a surprise, or are you all really good at mental arithmetic? Is calculating tax something you learn at school?

71) Do Americans generally have a good opinion of their fellow Americans?

72) Is New York the only place theatre really gets a chance to go big? That can’t possibly be true, it’s a massive continent, there must be incredible actors and writers and stuff hanging out somewhere in South Dakota or something. Is this why the people in Glee were so fixated on living in New York? 

73) The garbage-eating drains you have in kitchen sinks…where do they lead to? Can you put anything down them? 

74)  Which parts of America are the parts other Americans go on vacation? Is it different to where foreigners want to visit?

75) Do any American schools have school houses or is that absolutely not a thing at all? 

76) Do American schools have a system of merits or house points or some other way of giving a positive score for good behaviour that adds up to something eventually? Or is good behaviour expected and therefore not given special recognition? 

77) What actually is a hall monitor, and is it a position people respect or aspire to? 

78)  Is it as common for people to drive themselves and their friends to school as movies make out? How is there parking space for that many students with their own cars? 

79)  How did the town in Footloose have the power to ban dancing? Do individual towns have that much control over their laws and citizens? Does every town council get to make decisions that huge? 

80) Are big house parties the most common place for teenagers to get drunk and hook up? It seems like that in movies but surely that would be inefficient? You’d have to keep waiting for somebody’s parents to leave town. 

81)  What is the deal with Americans hating France? Is that a real thing or was it just a throwaway joke in enough media for me to think it’s a real thing?

82) Why do people not live in national parks?

83)  Which states actually count as “The South” and which ones are officially “The North”? Because it doesn’t seem like the line is just drawn across the middle. 

84) Whenever you see Americans talking about candy on the internet, it’s always the same six or seven items. Are those just the big favourites and there are lots of other candy types around the place that don’t get a place on personality quizzes, or are there really only a handful of familiar items that are widespread? Do different states have different candy?

85) Which sport is most central to American identity? I’d assume it was one of the three (baseball, basketball, American football) but is one of them more important than the others?

86)  Are all your prisons out in the middle of the desert or something? 

87) There’s this sort of mythology around an American idea of just getting a plot of land and building your home on it and making it your own, with an implication that you can grab anywhere and do whatever you like with it. Are planning laws that relaxed, or is that more something you could do in the 1800s that has taken up a place in cultural mythology? 

88) When kids are hanging out in someone’s yard or an empty lot on a summer day, what game or sport would they be most likely to be playing? It feels like American football, for example, wouldn’t be very good for that, and it’s hard to improvise a net for basketball. 

89) Is it strange to live in a large city that nevertheless is virtually unknown nationwide because all the attention goes to the enormous cities? Or are these places known nationwide and it’s just internationally that they get forgotten?

90) How far from somewhere would you have to be to consider yourself in the middle of nowhere? 

91) How localised are things like local news or local tv? Is it every state? Every county? Every major town and its surroundings? 

92) Does national television have to take place at different times regionally because of time zones? 

93)  Is there a reason why American recipes measure everything in cups, even the things that it doesn’t make sense to put in a cup e.g. solid items that don’t fill the space so could vary in cup-filling volume? A cup full of butter is a different thing if the butter is in blocks to if it is poured in, as it were, to fill to the edges completely. Is there a trick to it?

94) Is marching band the only kind of band you have at schools? Is there no orchestra? Swing band? Concert ensemble? 

95) Why do you have marching bands at schools? Where are they marching to? Do you have a lot of parades? 

96) If you had to choose one (non-reality) TV show that best represents what life is actually like in America, what would you pick? 

97) What is spirit week? Is it important? Do people take it seriously? I think it might be something that happens at schools but beyond that, I have no idea.

98) How big is a school locker? Apparently big enough to fit a person in but are they standing comfortably or curled into a tiny ball? If it were person-height, wouldn’t it have shelves in it? Does the victim go on a shelf? 

99) When you dress up for Halloween, can you be anything? I mean, could a kid going trick or treating conceivably wear any costume at all? It doesn’t have to be spooky? 

100) On a similar note, in movies there are always wild packs of children roving around on Halloween, filling the streets with their trick-or-treating. It’s crowded. Kids are running everywhere. There’s a gang knocking on every door. Is that movie magic or is Halloween really like an unofficial street party? 

101) Do you have half-term holidays? I assume you wouldn’t call them that. Mid-semester break, maybe? You know. The week off in the middle. 

102) Do you have days when you don’t have to go to work or school that aren’t for a special celebration? Just…days when the country stops working? Or, at least, most of it because cafés would always be open on that sort of day. 

103) Which is the bigger deal: Thanksgiving, or the Fourth of July? 

104) How diverse is the landscape in any given state? If you take, say, Ohio, does it all look like roughly the same place all the way through or are there lots of different landscapes going on? I feel like there should be, but there’s still this very typical image of what Ohio is.

105) Do people care about what clothes they wear to school or does the fact that everybody sees everybody every day mean that it all stops mattering? 

106) What makes something a diner rather than a café, a restaurant, or whatever else? What defines a diner?

107) What is the one, singular, most significant place in the USA? (I realise this could be controversial)

108)  What would you, as an American, say was the best thing America has ever done, or the most important contribution it has made to the world? There’s no need to be coy here, I’m not asking for a fully-analysed unbiased dissertation on the subject, I just want to know what people are thinking. A person, an invention, an action…whatever takes your fancy. 

109) How does a state fair work? Is it really a fair for the whole state? Wouldn’t it have to be the size of a city for that? Does all of that get taken down at the end of the week and packed away, or do bits stay standing? 

110)  Are music festivals an upper class thing? Coachella seems to be an upper class thing but, then, I don’t really know what Coachella is, only that celebrities are there. Are there other music festivals of significance? 

111) When Americans say things like “We drove from New York to California last weekend, didn’t even stop to sleep, no big deal”, is there an element of bravado to that or is it completely genuine? I get that you drive long distances very casually but is there a point where those distances do become a big deal and a serious trip, you just pretend they don’t to mess with non-Americans? 

112) Is summer camp a normal thing for people to do, or is it something the minority of people send their kids to but it makes for a convenient movie setting so we see it a disproportionate amount? 

113)  Is a maths summer camp a thing or was that a joke in one book I read once? What would you even do at a maths summer camp? 

114) Is standing just inside the entrance of a shop and yelling a greeting at anyone who walks in a real job or is that a movie joke I don’t have the context to understand? If it is a job, is that the whole job or are you expected to do other things at the same time? 

115) Okay, the thing about the gap between the door and the wall in a bathroom stall. Is that as widespread as people say? I mean, is it everywhere? If so, there simply has to be a reason for it, it’s too weird otherwise, so does anybody out there know what’s going on with that? 

116) What actually is Kool-Aid? Is it true that you can drink it and use it as hair dye? 

117) What is an American Girl Doll? It seems to be a big deal but I can’t really figure it out. Is it just a brand of doll or is there more to it? 

118) Are the indicator lights on your cars officially called blinkers or is that more of a colloquial thing? Or not a thing at all? Would they be called that on your driving test? In a car manual? 

119) What actually is a GPA? What is it based on? And what counts as a good one? 

120) Is pancakes for breakfast a normal thing or a special occasion thing? 

121) What are cooties? I feel like I ought to know this, it comes up so often in various bits of media, but I’ve never actually figured out what it means. 

122) Is going to a pumpkin patch and just hanging out a real thing? Do you take pumpkins home with you? How about when you go apple picking? Are all these cutesy autumn activities a normal thing to do or is it just in romantic comedies?

123) How do school qualifications work? Are the exams you take at the end of high school, when you’re eighteen or whatever, the only ones that count if you’re looking to get a job? Or are there, sort of, mid-high-school exams that could also count towards something? Is it just “high school” then “degree” or are there other levels, is what I’m trying to ask. 

124) What is making out? By which I mean, what makes something “making out” rather than just kissing? Where’s that line drawn?

125) I understand that school newspapers are a thing. But do people pay to buy them? Other students? What kind of things do you write about in a school paper?

126) How does seeing the doctor work? Do you book an appointment with a local practitioner? Are there clinics? Does everybody wait until it’s an emergency? They don’t see doctors on TV unless they’re dying.

127) In Glee, they had slushie machines in the school. Which were used as weapons of bullying. Is that real? Are you allowed slushie machines? 

128)  Why is the president addressed as “Mr President”? Is there some historic reason? It seems odd to me, like calling somebody Mr Shopkeeper or Mr Insurance-Salesman. Is it because it is so clearly not a peerage title and that was important when America began? That’s my working theory based on no history whatsoever.

129) I understand that tipping servers at a restaurant and so on is very, very important but does that extend to other jobs? Do you tip postmen, for example, when they deliver your mail? Or shop assistants for bagging up groceries for you? 

130) Is a school mascot a) a real thing and b) a position of prestige? 

131) How do Girl Scout cookies work? Do the Girl Scouts make them themselves from secret recipes? Is it just a cookie company they happen to have a good relationship with for bake sales? It seems important but I can’t unravel the mystery. 

132)  What’s Delaware like? No stories ever seem to be set there. Nobody ever really mentions it. What goes on in Delaware? 

133) Somebody mentioned something called “color guard” once, which I think is something that happens at schools, but I don’t know what it was or whether they were messing with me. I’ve never knowingly seen it in a teen movie. Tell me about color guards. It sounds so fake. What are they guarding? 

134) I know that legal drinking age is twenty-one, but what age would you say the average person started drinking? I don’t mean “had a glass of wine at a family dinner” but I also don’t mean “drank to black-out”. Just…drank socially with the aim of getting at least tipsy. 

135) I can already tell that this is a silly question but what is under the bleachers? People seem to have clandestine meetings there a lot, but I thought bleachers were just benches. How do you get under them, and what is there once you do? Is hooking up there something people do in real life?

136) How small is a small town? Is it based on population or more on facilities e.g. if it has a certain number of basic shops, it becomes a normal-sized town?

137) Movies seem to think that being involved in music or theatre at school is deeply uncool. This is so contrary to my own experience at school, that I have to ask whether it is true or not? If so, is there a reason why or is it just one of those adolescent mysteries? 

138) Does everybody have those netting screens over their windows or is that only in regions prone to, say, mosquitos? 

139) Do small towns tend to have their own little tiny high schools or do the students have a long commute every morning to a bigger high school elsewhere? How far is considered acceptable/normal to travel to get to school?

140) When it comes to prom, is it considered really important to get a date or do lots of people turn up alone / with friends? If you do have to have a one-on-one date, is it usually romantic or is it acceptable just to pair up with a friend? Movies are very intense about this and I’m not sure the portrayal is accurate.

141) Do most schools have big theatre auditoriums with fully-functional stages and raked seating, or is that just High School Musical? 

142) Is sex ed really as poor as people joke about it being, on average? Is abstinence education the norm, or is it rarer but we hear about it a lot because it’s so controversial? 

143) Are chastity clubs at schools a real thing? If so, why, when almost all students must be underage? I mean, I know people are having underage sex but why make a club about obeying the law? I don’t mean for this to sound all judgemental, I’m just really lacking the cultural background to make sense of this. 

144)  Which is the most popular state, the one the fewest number of people hate? Is there even one that is universally well-liked? 

145) Would you normally refer to your country as “America” or “the US” or “the USA” or, I don’t know, some other variation? It seems pretty interchangeable but is there a preference? 

146) Is the “no outside food in the movie theatre” rule as rigorously enforced everywhere as general media would suggest? TV shows make it seem pretty militant but they might be exaggerating for comic effect. 

147) Is kindergarten a part of the compulsory school system or is it more of an optional pre-elementary-school step that only some people attend? What do you do in a kindergarten?

148) What makes somebody a redneck? Is it just a catch-all for the rural poor or is there something more specific behind it? 

149) Why is spring break supposedly this wild party time? What makes that a more suitable time for crazy shenanigans than, say, the autumn? Or July?

150) What is the difference between college and community college?

151) If you could pick one place to add as a new state, where would you choose? 

152) If you had to get rid of one state, which one would you kick out of the union? 

153) What is a letterman jacket for and why is it called a letterman jacket?

154) Washington DC. How does it work? I understand that it’s not a state, but if it’s not a state in a federal system, who governs it? Who runs the schools? And if the big elections are held by every state collecting their votes, figuring out the majority, then passing that on or whatever, how does Washington DC vote? Do they have people in the electoral college, whatever that turns out to be? What is going on there? Do real people actually live in DC or is it just politicians / people who serve politicians? 

If you’ve actually read this far and have even the slightest intention of answering any of these questions, you are a true angel and I love you. I’m sorry they’re not divided up into thematic groups or anything like that. I’ve been collecting this list for a few years now and I thought I might as well just ask at this point. 

[all-things-are-nothing-to-me]

Antagonistic violence; Approaches to the armed struggle in urban environments from an anarchist perspective.

Introductory text for a debate with comrade Gustavo Rodriguez, at the Center of Anarchist Information (CEDIA), Mexico City, 8th of October 2011

Violence is only justifiable when it is necessary to defend oneself and others against violence […] The slave is always in a state of legitimate self-defense and so his violence against the boss, against the oppressor, is always morally justifiable and should only be adjusted by the criterion of utility and economy of human effort and human suffering”

Enrico Malatesta, “Umanità Nova”, 25th of August 1921

Before starting – for a matter of principles -, we consider it to be necessary to take a position; some sort of “statement”, where is affirmed our compromise with the antagonist struggles, with the anti-systemical war. So it is worth it to reaffirm, that in the issue of “armed struggle” – concerning the tittle of this talking -, we are not, neither we can be, neutral because neither the “official History” neither the means of massive alienation are neutral. The so proclaimed “historical objectivity” and “journalistic objectivity” don’t exist. Are a myth of the domination. The “official History” is, invariably, the manipulation of the fact for the benefit of the winners, the manipulation of reality for the benefit of Power, not mattering who has the power.

In the particular case of the anarchist struggle, the distortion done by the massive means of alienation and the historians is a constant. It really doesn’t matter if we speak about conservative and right wing historians or leftist and “progressive” ones, the result is the same: the premeditated distortion, the manipulation of the facts and the reductionism. In one word: lies. That’s what is produced in a “neutral” and “objective” way about anarchism. That’s why we shouldn’t be surprised by the anarchist action of nowadays to be approached with the same optic as it has been in the past. It is the premeditated work with clear propagandistic aims, that aspires to present anarchism as an “ideology”, in the sense of Gobel, which is to say, as false conscience, as a distortion of reality and corruption of the truth. Reducing the anarchist theory and practice to the futurist architecture and dreamed utopia, whether it is through “irrational violence” or by the hand of the banal “non-violence”, which is to say, through that unreal dichotomy (pre-fabricated by the Power) that presents the anarchist ideas and practice as “innocuous nihilism” and/or “sterile pacifism”; when in reality, none of the two tags correspond to the anarchist ethics. Which doesn’t mean that don’t exist supporters of anarchism located in both of these categories and even “supposed” anarchists that identify themselves with those postures that are totally far away from anarchism. The same ones that we have pointed out in lots of occasions as deviances, product of the constant intoxication of liberalism and Marxism. For such reason, here we will avoid the ambiguities and will takes sides for what we understand as just and necessary: the antagonistic violence. That doesn’t mean that we aren’t critical with our mistakes – historical and present ones -. Precisely, we understand critique as an indispensable weapon, as an inescapable part of the struggle. Therefore our emphasis in the urgent balance that may produce an historical “cut” and contextualizes the anarchic theory and practice. A pending subject since the defeat of anarcho-syndicalism in the Spanish state in 1939.

To us, the critique that doesn’t land in a concrete proposal is not an antagonistic critique. With this statement, we don’t frame ourselves in the positivist logic and, even less, align with the rhetoric of the “revolutionary activist” with its typical “Something must be done!”, so kindred with that “What to do?” that in practice is traduced in the very common “do what I say not what I do”. On the very contrary, we position ourselves in the context of the critique contributing with modest contributions to the libertarian armed critique. Therefore, when we affirm that the critique that doesn’t land in a concrete proposal is not an antagonistic critique, we look forward to conjugate theory and practice. We install ourselves in the praxis – using some Marxist slang now that we spoke about intoxications. Without any doubts, the critique keeps being irreplaceable at the moment of opening cracks in the anti-systemic pathway. But we not only refer to the critical evaluation of the past. The critique of our combative daily-life, to the day by day of unrest, is also indispensable. What grants a specific weight to the armed critique are the concrete teachings that it gives to us. To learn from the armed critique is the way to not repeat mistakes, it is the vehicle that feeds the antagonistic project, it is the path that will allow us the development of the refractory conscience through the transformation of apathy into antagonistic rage. Only like that, will we make concrete the self-management of the struggles and the generalized insurrection.

Now that we made our positions clear, lets start, then, with our consequent defense of the armed struggle, of the antagonistic violence, of direct action, as an effective means of struggle. As we have pointed out before, the sterile “non-violence” – that innocuous militancy of the idyllic pacifism -, not only is it alien to anarchism but also it doesn’t match with our general values. This posture comes at first from the Christian intoxication and from a certain “radical” liberalism that serves the citizenship ideology, that amorphous mass subjected to the State that reclaims a more elevated level of interlocution with papa State. We are referring to what the ideologues of liberalism denominate “civil society”. At first, this intoxication reached – mainly in the 70′s and 80′s – proportions of “tendency” in the interior of our “shops”, misunderstanding completely different concepts and identifying “pacifism” with “antiwar” and “anti-militarism”. The anarchists, by principle, are “anti-militarists” and, by consequence, we are “antiwar”. Which means, we openly and with all our strength oppose to the military institution, identifying it with all the different repressive corporations, as repressive agents of the system of domination. And, logically, we are “antiwar” because we oppose to the war. Not to the anti-systemic war but to the wars of the capital, to the wars between States, whether these are between potencies or between developed States of the center against peripheral States, or the ones between peripheral States, for border reasons, for the control of “natural resources” or just by pure chauvinism.

So, speaking again about armed struggle, we were saying that we defend the “armed struggle”. We support its effectiveness as a necessary vehicle to combat domination and we do it starting from our ethical foundations, as to say, from the ethics of liberty and the radical critic of power. Which doesn’t mean – remarking what was previously said – as the powerful of all colours use to tag us, an apology to the “irrational” violence, an expression that usually is used to qualify the “unexplainable” violent deeds using the false dichotomy “insecurity-security”, “violence-non-violence”, so in-fashion in these days of ultra imposition of the citizenship’s ideology.

At this point – with the intention of avoiding distortions -, it would be needed to underline the anarchists fight for the elimination of violence. Is to say, we fight against the present brutal force in the social relations. We fight against the systemic violence, or what is the same, we fight for the eradication of the capitalist violence and State terrorism. Logically, the only way to fight the systemic violence is to use antagonistic violence.

With this, we try to make clear that our critique is not to the guns per se, our critique is to the cult of arms that is done by certain armed groups. For such reason, our discussion is not centered in the use of guns but what is wanted to be achieved through their use. The arms are not the problem but who carries them and for what purpose is using them. In other words, it establishes the difference between the organization of vanguard party structure (by consequence authoritarian) and the informal, horizontal and autonomous configuration, therefore anti-authoritarian. Of course, the subject is not limited to an issue of forms. In this discussion arises an underlying problem. It’s a question of values, it’s an ethical dilemma: it is the question between means and goals. The contradiction that, logically, is erased by the authoritarian groups by justifying the “necessity” of any mean to achieve the goal. Even if, in general, that is the conquest of the State’s power or the imposition of an Order, whether it is an ideological or religious one (sorry for the redundancy).

For us, the issue is much more complex because it has to do with the anti-authoritarian struggle. We don’t fight to conquer the State nor to impose an ideological and/or religious order. We fight for total liberation, we fight against everything that dominates us. Our struggle is radical, which is to say, we go to the roots of the problems: domination, power. That’s why we really make a stand saying that the goal isn’t any other than the destruction of the system of domination. We pose the total destruction of all the complex net of contemporary domination. We don’t fight for “other possible capitalism”, as is shouted by the new millennium leftism, picking up the old Leninist thesis of the end of “war communism” and the implementation of NEP, with whom the State capitalism started in the former USSR. Neither we fight for the imposition of the “proletarian” State or the “proletarian dictatorship”, euphemisms to refer to the dictatorship of the unique party, generally headed by some sort of omnipresent messiah that exercises his mandate of “great leader” in an absolutist form. True authoritarian regimes that in practice have shown to be a giant retrogress for the emancipatory struggles.

Without doubts, all this ethical questioning, has always prevented “tactical” alliances and has limited our coordination with other political groups, with whom we saw ourselves being forced to “make company” in very brief trips, having them as “travel mates”. But – I insist – were very short “trips” and, in general, in different “vehicles”. Naturally, this brought up with it the regular condemnation by these political groups that accuse us of “sectarianism” due to being unable to understand this unchangeable posture of anarchism. And it’s normal that they fall in this kind of “reasoning” from their opportunistic positions. It cannot be another way when, firstly, different goals are being seek, and secondly when having ethical values that are completely opposed to each other. Let’s not forget, in the case of the urban guerrillas that proliferated in the decades of the 70′s and 80′s in western Europe, how lots of them, for example, in Germany, the Red Army Faction (RAF) and the Revolutionäre Zellen (Revolutionary Cells), operated with the support of Stassi (DDR secret services) and the Russian KGB and even happened to work as mercenaries under the orders of Saddam Husseins and Al-Fatah. Putting in evidence what we were focusing about the ethical differences and the incompatibility in the issue of means and goals. Undoubtedly for Leninist organizations there was no contradiction in collaborating and coordinate themselves with the minions of the German and Russian secret polices. From their perspective, focused to the take over of the State’s power, all these repressive agencies were “tactical” allies. With that bipolar vision of the East-West “confrontation” and the ideological confront between the “yankee’s imperialism” and the “Russian model”, everything was reduced to the simplistic scheme of “good ones” and “evil ones”, where the “good ones” were the Russian imperialism and its satellite States with their repressive corps at the service of “Communism”. That logic still persists and we corroborate it with the usual exceptions that are given to the denominated “progressive governments”, making the false distinction between “good” and “bad States and, therefore, silencing the abuses done by these “progressive governments” and justifying them with anti-imperialistic rhetoric, with the Machiavellic conceptions of “the enemy of the enemy is my friend” and with the social-democratic bet for the “lesser evil”.

Getting back to our subject. As Txema Bofill, an ex-member of the Groupes d’Action Révolutionnaire Internationalistes (Internationalist Groups of Revolutionary Action – GARI), points very well, the great merit of the armed action groups lies in not to swallow the domination system’s old fairytale that affirms that “Nothing can be done against the State, and even less if done from the part of a rebel minority”. In fact, the antagonistic action groups don’t believe in the invulnerability of the domination system. The enemy which we fight against is in front of us, in front of our noses. In this very same instant plans the conditions of domination of today, of tomorrow and of after tomorrow, that will allow it to continue to hold the power or, that in this precise moment, is sketching new repressive models that will permit to improve the domination when it takes the power, when it gets the power of the State. Undoubtedly, that is the biggest difference that we the anarchists have with the other political groups that lots of times choose the armed struggle. Our struggle is not the struggle for the State’s power but the one for the total destruction of the State, is not for the implementation of “another possible capitalism” but for the total destruction of the Capital. Therefore, we identify in the struggle against the institutional power another instituting power that generates within it the same evils that we fight against and, in consequence, we’ll have to keep fighting against once this power gets instituted, despite the fact of how much “revolutionaries” they proclaim to be and the verbiage – with libertarian pretensions – of their speech.

And well, after this intent to unlock this theoretical-practical nodes where the ethical differences about armed struggle are rooted, it would be worth it to start to get inside the “armed struggle in urban environments” subject. As a start, it would be needed to highlight that the origins of the so-called “urban guerilla” – despite the ones that took advantage of it through the years – is hundred per cent anarchist, as a concept, as organizational model and as strategy of struggle. It should be pointed out that the first manual where the subject of armed struggle was theorized, was elaborated in 1965, by the anarchist Abraham Guillén, during his exile in Uruguay, with the title “Estratégia de guerrilla urbana” (Urban guerilla strategy) – four years before Carlos Marighella had written the “Small manual of the urban guerilla”, inspired by the works of Guillén. In that same year, he would publish “Theory of violence”.

Also what would be needed to be remembered is that the most remote sparks of “urban guerilla” date back to that redundancy that’s usually called “illegal anarchism” and that we already have spoke about in other occasions. With this derogatory term, the differences between the anarchist practice and a pretended legal “anarchism” (concretely immobilizer and ideologically platonic, that would bet – and still does – in the human evolution) would be fixed. The ones who built the bases for the development of the denominated “urban guerilla”, with their tireless and consequent action against domination, were the 19th century’s “illegal” anarchists. Among these comrades’ basic principles are noticed the “direct action” and the “autonomy”, which is to say, the action without intermediaries nor hierarchies and the absolute freedom and independence of the groups and individuals. From this perspective, were developed methods of action according with such ethical values, attending in a punctual manner to the correspondence of means and goals. Among these methods we identify the “propaganda by the deed”, the “retaliations” (or attacks against representatives or ombudsmen of domination) and the “expropriation”. The majority of times, these actions would interrelate with each other and were and are – because we also exist in the 21st century – complementary to each other. Besides, these actions were almost always done (and are done) by the same affinity groups, although not all the groups necessarily incur in all the practices. Sometimes there are groups more dedicated to expropriation or to the propaganda by the deed or to attacks. However – going a bit deeper in the interaction between these methods of struggle – there are groups and/or individuals that, although are dedicated solely to the expropriation activities, they are in solidarity with the armed action groups through the donation of their expropriations’ product, destined to the acquisition of prime material needed for the fabrication of explosives or to buy ammunitions, etc.

Besides, we would have to insist, that this way of acting didn’t get circumscribed to the 19th century but that it kept on as modus operandi through out the 20th century and still keeps on as an anarchist practice in the 21st century. The profusion of anarchist armed groups had its zenith in the dawn of the 20th century in Europe, United states and all over Latin America, especially in Argentina, Chile, Cuba, Uruguay and Mexico, through the use of “retaliations”, propaganda by the deed and expropriations, in the urban environments. At the end of the 19th century the big urban zones had been converted in the natural center of the capitalist development, concentrating the industries, the banks, as well as the different power institutions. In their streets would grow the contradictions between the opulent bourgeoisie and the exploited and oppressed workers, a situation that would offer a group of conditions that would facilitate social confrontation. This allowed the development of antagonistic structures formed by small cells of action based on affinity among comrades. On the other hand, these small cells, of between five and ten comrades, would coordinate in an informal way with other affinity groups at the hour of doing joint actions, reaching a certain irregular strength without sacrificing their autonomy. Such ways of acting would give them mobility and would allow them to insure a maximum of effectiveness and a minimum of risk which turns impossible an “efficient” repression from the part of domination, as was pointed out recently by the Mexican insurrectionist and eco-anarchist groups, in a collective communiqué. This way of acting and organizing would serve as paradigm to the Federación Anarquista Ibérica (Iberian Anarchist Federation – FAI), a group that pushed forward the conditions that concluded in the attempts of Social Revolution during the installation of the 2nd Republic in the Spanish State.

The defeat of anarcho-syndicalism in 1939, would give space to put in practice the urban guerilla strategy against the nationalist military dictatorship. The anarchists in the Spanish State would combat Francoism, organizing the first urban guerillas in Madrid, Barcelona, Málaga, Granada, Valencia and Zaragoza. For almost two decades, from 1939 to 1957, the cells of the anarchist urban guerilla would put in check the Francoist dictatorship. In Catalonia the cells coordinated by Quico Sabaté and José Luís Facerías would stand out. In Málaga, Córdoba and even Madrid, the battle was being done by the anarchist group of António Raya, whom had found refugee in the mountains but would operate in the cities using the most unpredictable costumes reaching the point of masking themselves as military and priests several times. In Granada the group of the Quero brothers would be noticed by the spectacularity of their actions. The end of the harassment to the Francoist dictatorship and the pronounced diminishing of the anarchist revolutionary action, not only would be the logic consequence of the Francoist repression but also would be the product of the obscene negotiations between the “anarcho”-syndicalists of Madrid’s CNT with the Vertical Syndicates, that, mixed with immobility of CNT in the exile – that, paradoxically was controlled by FAI -, would provoke a strong internal split unleashing a fractional struggle that would lead to the profound decadence of the Spanish Libertarian Movement.

At the beginnings of the 60′s decade, a new generation of anarchists residing in the Spanish State and in exile, would substitute the one fallen, continuing the strategy of urban guerilla, developing the clandestine struggle and putting a full stop to the immobility of CNT and FAI in the exile and to the coward surrender of CNT Madrid. In July 1965 the FIJL (Federacion Iberica de Juventudes Libertárias – Iberian Federation of Libertarian Youth), would release one communiqué where it was stated: “We consider that the supreme objectives of the “tolerated opposition”, followed by the “classical opposition”, limited to the simple petition of “SYNDICAL FREEDOM” and “RIGHT TO STRIKE”, should be overwhelmed by a more general, more concrete, more urgent and more positive demand: FREEDOM TO ALL POLITICAL PRISONERS”. The libertarian youngsters, consistent with their principles, pronounced themselves for the “action groups’ autonomy” and stated as definitive “the rupture of contacts with the immobilistic sector represented by the CNT’s Intercontinental Office”, convinced that immobility was an “inseparable phenomenon of the legal existence of the libertarian organizations”.

April 30th 1966, the Italian media informs of the “mysterious disappearance of Monseigneur Marcos Ussía, church counsellor of the Spanish embassy in Vatican”. May the 1st, Luís A. Edo, would vindicate the kidnap of the diplomat-priest done by an anarchist group that demanded in exchange the release of the political prisoners kept in the Francoist prisons. May 3rd, would be published in the newspaper Avanti, a communiqué signed by the Grupo Primero de Mayo (Sacco y Vanzetti) (Group 1st of May (Sacco and Vanzetti)), where could be read: “We are a group of Spanish anarchists that have seen ourselves forced to use this form of action in order to make the Spanish ambassador in the “Santa Sede” to send a petition to the Pope, in order to this last one publicly demand to General Franco’s government, the freedom to all Spanish democrats (workers, intellectuals and young students) condemned to different sentences in the Francoist prisons […]”. With Grupo Primero de Mayo’s action, the anarchists would restart the antagonistic action in the Spanish state, under the flag of direct solidarity with the imprisoned comrades. According to Telesforo Tajuelo, beyond the theoretical differences, this insistence in solidarity would be, years later, the identification and connection point between the Grupo Primero de Mayo and GARI.

Since its beginning, the Grupo Primero de Mayo defended the coordination among the anti-authoritarian action groups across the world, putting the emphasis on the autonomy of the antagonistic groups. In such a way that, in the 20th of August 1967, the Movimiento de Solidaridad Revolucionária Internacional (International Revolutionary Solidarity Movement – MSRI) it would make its public presentation, having the Grupo Primero de Mayo as one of the most active components. That day, the American embassy would be strafed in London, an action claimed by MSRI. In November 12th 1967, eight embassies and two governmental offices were completely destroyed by very strong dynamite devices, in an action coordinated in different European cities. The 10 attacks with bombs were claimed by MSRI. In Bonn, Germany, were attacked the embassies of Greece, Spain and Bolivia; in Rome, Italy, the Venezuelan embassy; in The Hague, Holland, the embassies of USA, Greece and Spain; in Madrid, Spain, the North American embassy; in Milan, Italy and Geneva, Switzerland, the tourist offices of the Spanish government.

At the end of 1967, the Movimiento 22 de Marzo (22nd March Movement), releases in Paris several thoughts that will establish the theoretical bases that differentiate the anti-authoritarian action from the “focoism” that was imposed as a trend among the leftist groups, making clear that: “It’s imperative to abandon the theory of “leading vanguard” and to adopt the -much more honest- concept of active minority, that plays a function of permanent ferment, promoting the action without wanting to direct it. The strength of our movement comes, precisely, from the fact that it is sustained in an “uncontrollable” spontaneity, that impulses, without pretending to channel, without wanting to use it for its own benefit, the action that it started”. These premises would be considered by the MSRI and the posterior configurations: the Movimiento Iberico de Liberacion (Iberian Liberation Movement – MIL), GARI and, in the 80′s decade, the Comandos Autónomos Anticapitalistas (Anti-capitalist Autonomous Commandos – CCAA).

In the first days of April 1968, in vespers of the demolishing “French may”, the Grupo Primero de Mayo, sent a document to all the anarchist groups titled “For an international anarchist practice” where was pointed the existence of a “status quo” imposed by the States that pretended to be “irreconcilable” (USA, China, USSR) that counted with a wide spectrum of subjected countries conforming satellite circuits. So, given this fact, the anarchists should not only reaffirm their strong anti-statism but, more than that, to assume a rebellious attitude, of permanent conflict, taking as standard the critique to authoritarianism.

With these proposals, would flourish uncountable anti-authoritarian action groups in urban contexts, not only in Europe but also in the United States and Latin America. Highlighting in Germany, the Zentralrat der umherschweifenden Haschrebellen (Central council nomadic hash rebels), a group that year and a half after the assassination of a student at the hands of police, during the protests for the visit of the Shah in 1967, will radicalize, forming together with other anti-authoritarian groups, the Bewegung 2. Juni (2ndof June Movement -2JM), the most determined “anarchist guerilla” in Federal Germany. In Great Britain, around the same time, would appear on stage the popular Angry Brigade. This anarchist armed group would maintain the harassment against the system of domination for almost one decade, doing antagonistic actions since 1969 until 1984. It would be worldwide famously known in 1972, with the trial of 8 of its members in High Court. These fightful anarchists not only received heavy sentences from the enemy’s side but also the condemnation of the so-called wide left. The repudiation towards this anarchist structure was not only limited to the circles of the typical tolerated opposition, but also from the part of the so-called “organized anarchism”, which is to say, from the member clubs and acronyms, who were condemning them as “terrorists”, “adventurers” and “individualists”.

This populist vision that condemns a priori the action of the conscientious minorities, betting for the “revolutionary” evolution of the big herds, instead of understanding the function of the “permanent ferment” that the acting minority performs in the development of the anti-authoritarian conscience, still persists in certain anarchist sectors. The problems the Angry Brigade faced, were the same that were experienced by the active antagonistic groups in their times; without mattering so much their theoretical positions. All the groups that would deny the limits that the State imposes and would opt to overcome legality, radicalizing the struggles, were -and are- condemned by the extra-parliamentary social organizations, boxed in legalism. From the “workers movement” -still alive those years – to the legal anarchism, passing from the communist parties. Naturally, this phenomenon would repeat itself everywhere without establishing major differences between Leninists and anarchists. The ones that would opt for the armed struggle, the ones that were giving life to the antagonistic violence, would receive the unanimous condemnation from the social organizations and from the organized left in general.

In the United States, the history would be repeated, with groups such as the Weather Underground and the Symbionese Liberation Army (SLA). Also these armed groups were isolated by the “revolutionary” social organizations and condemned as “provocative” and “individualistic terrorists” that motivated the repression and, therefore, were a threat for the growth of the “mass movement” and of the “militant organization”. The testimonies of Martin Sostre of SLA about this subject, in which he affirms that the condemnation of SLA from the side of the left media was identical to the one done by the dominant class, are recollected in the compilation done by comrade Jean Weir about the Angry Brigade. According to Sostre: “The left movement’s press wants to make us believe that in order to overthrow the dominant class, we simply have to organize mass movements, protest demonstrations and to repeat revolutionary slogans”.

The condemnation from the social organizations, from the syndicates and from the “communist” parties, was based on what they denominated of “Anarchist syndrome”. In effect, by following to the letter the suggestions of Guillén’s Manual, as it was done even by the “anti-imperialist” urban guerillas, they inscribed their action in the anarchist logic, is to say, they were focused in the constant harassment to the domination system attacking its most known representatives and their faithful keepers. They recurred to expropriation, to documents forgery, to retaliation, to the propaganda by the deed, to police executions, etc. That’s how groups like RAF, Red Brigades, the SLA, even -here in Mexico- the Liga Comunista 23 Septiembre (Communist League 23rd September) would be cataloged, by the “specialists” on the issue, as “anarchist” groups.

From this side of the puddle, around these same years, I would highlight in Uruguay the Organización Popular Revolucionaria 33 Orientales (Popular Organization 33 Orientals – OPR 33), the armed hand of the Federacion Anarquista Uruguaya (Uruguayan Anarchist Federation – FAU) that made its presence public in 1966 as counter-measure to the focoism of the Movimiento de Liberacion Nacional – Tupamarus (National Liberation Movement Tupamarus – MLN-T). However, the Leninist contamination and the nationalist inclinations, not only would provoke the debacle of FAU but as time passed would lead to the formation of a vanguard party structure: the Partido de la Victoria del Pueblo (People’s Victory Party – PVP), as logical consequence of its Bolshevik deviation, to finish in our days as electoral party. Something similar would happen with the anarchist urban guerilla in Germany. The legendary 2nd of June Movement, would finish its days in 1980 with lots of its members joining RAF. If on the one hand their presence imposed a lightly libertarian stamp that would lead RAF to a prolonged process of re-thinking that would finish in its self-dissolution, on the other, the fusion with this Leninist group closed the possibilities of reproduction of anarchist armed groups in Germany.

Although being undeniable, as we have pointed out before, the anarchist etymology of the “urban guerilla”, nowadays, among the anarchist groups of antagonistic action is being put forward a deep discussion about the very concept of “guerilla” and the methodology that is inherit to it. In the last years of the 70′s and beginnings of the 80′s of the last century, there was noticed a decrease of the “classical” urban guerilla, which gave origin to a “new type” of urban guerilla that even questions the belonging to this strategy of irregular war. The year of 1976 and mainly, the Italian spring of 77 and the denominated “days of reflection” of January 1978, marked the deepening of the critique about the guerilla issue. The irruption of “Azione Revoluzionaria” (Revolutionary Action – AR) and its feminist structure: “Azione Revoluzionaria – Autonomia Femminista” (Revolutionary Action-Feminist Autonomy – AR-AF), would re-contextualize the issue of the anarchist urban guerilla in Italy. Even though, these structures admit in their “First theoretical document”, dating from January 1978, that they were born with one eye on RAF’s experience and the development of the struggles in Federal Germany and, with the other eye, centered in the particularities of the Italian anti-authoritarian movement that didn’t find any identification with the several armed vanguards that were conducting the guerilla warfare during those days. Like wise, they were deepening the critique to the leadership role that was deployed by these groups of the same style as the Red Brigades and putting forward a different organizational proposal, based on informal coordination and affinity groups where “the traditional link is substituted by relations based in sympathy, characterized by a maximum of reciprocal intimacy, conscience and trust between its members”, recommending them to remain as small nuclei in order to be able to conserve the characteristics that make able the organization based in affinity and to avoid possible infiltrations, guaranteeing a maximum of effectiveness with a minimum of risks.

In the same text, they would re-affirm (as some sort of actualization of the struggle and as a reliable proof of critique’s deepening) that “the new movement not only rejects the historical Sovietic Marxist monsters and the hybrid of the Italian Marxism” but also “rejects the myth of proletarian as a revolutionary class, a myth that has conducted the movement to a dead-end alley since 1968 until nowadays”. The really transcendent thing is that this is asserted by the AR’s comrades in a document from the 70′s! Assuring that the fact of having “got rid” of such a myth “will unleash energies from which the 77′ movement is just a foreshadow”. On the same hand, “Azione Revoluzionaria” would affirm in this “First theoretical document”, that the new movement doesn’t relegate the combat to “the classes” but “assumes it in the first person” underlying that “the direct action gets back to the individuals conscious of themselves as individuals that can transform their destiny and taking back the control of their own lives”. In this way “recognizes the inadequacy of the old socialist project in its several versions” and highlights that “all institutions and values of the hierarchical society have sold-out their functions”, insisting in the fact that doesn’t exist “any social reason” to save them. “These institutions and values, together with the city, the school, etc., have reached their historical limits. It’s all the social universe that is in the tunnel of the crisis […] But, precisely, in the way that now the crisis invests all the fields contaminated by domination, more the reactionary aspects of the socialist project are exposed, whether it is Maoist, Trostskyist, or Stalinist, that conserves the concepts of hierarchy, authority and State, as part of the post-revolutionary future and, as consequence, also conserves the values of property – “nationalized” – and class – “proletarian dictatorship”.

As if they would have written their document this morning, “Azione Revoluzionaria” correctly points: “The critical, constructive and utopian presence is a necessary condition but is not enough, such presence cannot be hegemonic nowadays, in parallel it is needed to develop a negative critical presence, destructive of the on-going processes. The destructive critique, the armed critique is, nowadays, the only force capable of turning any emancipatory project, credible and reliable […] The social and political forces are increasingly automatized in the masses and are more and more dependent of the State, they don’t have any other arm than the forced consensus, imposed by the terror to prevent by any means the increasing antagonism. The Father capital has called its faithful ones to recuperation. The defense to-the-death of the State, or in a better way, of its terrorist reinforcement, is what unites them.”

As if this categorical critique of the first days of 1978 could seem not enough, Azione Revoluzionaria would distribute a call during the III Congress of IAF (International of Anarchist Federations), celebrated from 23 to 26 of March of that same year in the city of Carrara, where it would be proposed a theoretical-practical “renovation” and an update of the anarchist “intervention methods” that it is worth it to take a look at; mainly, to those comrades that always insist in the “concrete” proposals, perceiving the propositions as “lines to follow”, for they don’t assume critique and reflection as indispensable tools to put the direct action in practice, renouncing to decide, having as starting point the reflective critique, what path to follow. In such a leaflet, AR would specify: “We make a call to all the anarchist comrades, gathered in this umpteenth congress, and that aren’t still sclerotic and old before time, due to the constant and exhausting task of frequenting the scene, some in the role of actors, others as spectators, of the Congregational assembly representation, and to the comrades that haven’t yet exhausted all their revolutionary spirit and energy in a practice that makes from waiting and defense its main prerogatives.” Comrades, I insist – just to not someone to think that this text was handled in the last Anarchist Congress in the Autonomous National University of Mexico – this leaflet was written in March 1978.

In that same text, they were exhorting the anarchists gathered in Carrara, to relocate the theoretical-practical scaffolding according to the needs of the moment: “Comrades, lets renovate ourselves once again, lets march side by side with the times or, even better, lets try to prevent the times. How can we pretend to be incisive if our methods of intervention, the already small theoretical propaganda, turned to be obsolete and exhausted reducing anarchism to a sterile and fruitless opinion movement, only capable of acting in the defensive terrain each time that power throws its repressive arrows […] Comrades, lets abandon the politics of slogans, of the schemes, of the information generated, in fact, a hundred years ago […].“

Undoubtedly, 33 years after that historical call of Azione Revoluzionaria, the abandonment of our old diagrams of organization and action and, the theoretical-practical renovation of anarchism, keeps being one of our pendent signatures. This fact shows to us, without doubts, how, since always, the anarchists have sought forms to update the theoretical-practical scaffolding that sustains us and to configure new organizational structures, overcoming the precedents – tolerated or ignored by the domination due to consider them inoffensive – with the goal of reconfiguring ourselves according to the context that we have to live, in order to give the needed weapons to the frontal struggle against the system of domination.

Despite the adverse interests of the “anarchist” officialism, those approaches of the late 70′s, would generate an intense polemic in the interior of our ambients, which would keep being shaped until starting to delineate the actual insurrectionist tendency. The debate around the destructive critique of the system of domination by means of antagonistic violence, by armed struggle, the propaganda by the deed, the expropriation and the direct attack against the power representatives, as strategy leading to the self-organization of the struggle and the spreading of insurrection, would generalize in wide sectors of the antagonistic anarchism, reaching an international dimension. “Appointments for an internal and external discussion”, would be the document that would synthesize the concerns and reflections of the first moment of the debate and would be entirely published in Anarchismo and Contrainformazione. These deep reflections, will inevitably lead to the questioning, from an anarchist perspective, of the pertinence of “guerilla” as concept and method of struggle.

The term “guerilla”, refers to the “small war” or “minor conflict” or “of low intensity”. Therefore, it is implicit in the term, the reference to “light troops” dedicated to carry out brief attacks of harassment to the regular forces. It started to be used as tactic in Spain during the Napoleonic invasion. Forming small groups of civilians trained and commanded by experienced military men, to assure the constant attack against the occupying French troops. Since then, guerilla, as a tactic and as strategy, was used to fight any asymmetrical war. Since those times, the term was used to designate those small civilian groups militarily trained, converted in irregular “troops”, dedicated to harass the army, through fast operations, having in favour the knowledge of the operational terrain, the mobility and the surprise factor. Contrary to the conventional wars, the “guerilla warfare” is flexible, less geometrical and much more mobile.

In the particular case of “urban guerilla”, this tactic, as we have mentioned at the beginning, has its beginnings in the anarchist attack to the system of domination, with the clear goal of inflicting systematic damage to the Power institutions (State-capital and clergy) and to the representatives of domination, to the persons that exercise the power and their lackeys. Its strategy is centered in the attack at the heart of State and capital: the city. The action of the urban guerilla is destined to affect “the good functioning” of the system. The whole of its attacks will be planned against repressive institutions (policemen, judiciary men, military men, etc.), combining the “armed propaganda”, the executions, the gathering of arms and ammunition, the expropriations, the sabotage of the productive apparatus, the destruction of commodities, the solidarity with the prisoners and the attack against the centers of massive alienation. This combination of attacks seek their extension and reproduction, deploying, at the surface, the combat against domination, being conceived to develop the “revolutionary conscience” among the alienated multitude. According to this strategy, the “common people” would abandon their usual passivity and would join the insurrection, once that they would realize the vulnerability of the system of domination. Nevertheless – and here’s the contemporary anarchist critic -, the practice of the classic “urban guerilla”, requires the use of “specialists”, of specialized “technicians” and that brings the acceptance of the denominated “professional revolutionary”, the cult of the arms and a series of particular “necessities” to be attended (the safe houses, the intelligence and counter-intelligence systems, the hierarchies, etc.) that at end finish to abandon completely the anarchist ideas.

In this sense, Alfredo Bonanno, reminds us in the “Armed Joy”, that for the traditional guerilla organizations is inevitable to fall into the technocratic danger, because, more sooner than later, they finish imposing their “technicians”. In this pamphlet, he points to us that the insurrectionist structure that finds the joy in the action directed to the destruction of domination “considers the means used to carry out such destruction as instruments, as means. The ones who use those instruments shouldn’t be converted into their slaves. As well as the ones that don’t know how to use them should not be transformed into slaves of those who know how to use them. The dictatorship of the means is the worst of the dictatorships […] It is needed to develop a critique of the arms. We have seen too much worshipping of the gun-machine and of military efficiency. The armed struggle is not something that only concerns the arms. The arms cannot represent, by themselves, the revolutionary dimension. It is dangerous to reduce the complex reality to only one dimension and to only one object. In fact, the game has this risk, of reducing the vital experiment to a toy, converting it into something magical and absolute. It is not by chance that the gun machine appears as a symbol of many combatant revolutionary organizations. We should go more forward in order to understand the deep meaning of struggle as pleasure, escaping from the illusions and traps of the representation of the commodified spectacle by mythical or mythified objects.” So, he suggests to us, to refuse all the roles, including the one of “professional revolutionary” with the objective of “breaking the magical siege of the commodity’s dramaturgy”, conscientious that the armed struggle has to avoid the division of tasks and the assignment of roles imposed by the ideology of production, refusing professionalism.

The “moral” that underlies this reflection, we repeat it again, doesn’t place the problems in the arms but in who uses them, how he uses them and for what; it centers it in the type of structure that is developed and in the role of the insurrectionist minorities. The obsolete about the classical “urban guerilla” is its “technical specialization”, is to say, the preponderant role that is given to the knowledge of the arms, their worship and the role of the “professional revolutionary”, together with all infra-structure that this supposes. This reflection makes clear that it’s not enough to spread the struggle everywhere but that it must be spread to each aspect of our daily life. That is where the self-organization of the struggle and the development of the antagonistic “factions”, of the active minorities, is rooted,. From the side of the anarchist reflection – based on the experience of the struggles -, we have understood the recuperative role of the old Leninist structures, and so we have reaffirmed our values of direct action to face the inflexible schemes of “professionalization” of the struggle, invalidated beforehand in the contemporary social war against the renovated domination.

We are conscientious that the antagonistic minorities run the risk of transforming themselves in the radical spectacle of the struggles if in the impulse of the permanent confrontation they are not able to articulate the spreading of the struggle through the development of the antagonistic conscience. The awareness of the anti-authoritarian conscience passes, unquestionably, by a process of secession. By a point of total rupture with the system of domination. The system has penetrated the DNA of the “citizen”. The State and the Capital are part of our body. That’s why they exist, because we reproduce them at each step. That is the reason why we so frequently find amongst us, the unconscious defense of domination, the defense of the State-capital. Each time we ask for more work instead of struggling for the destruction of work: we ask for more capitalism. In each occasion that we demand “security”, that we demand “bigger budget” for health, education, housing, etc.: we claim for more State. That path doesn’t lead to the total liberation, it is reduced to begging for some links to make the chain a little bit bigger.

The “ORGANIZATION”, like this with capital letters, that all are so much worried about and that in practice is reduced to acronyms, guilds and sects, will be fruit of the development of the antagonistic violence and of the extension of the struggles. The social war will impose the need for an organization, that is the true advance of the real movement. The permanent antagonism of the active minorities is the proposal of attack, here and now, to the structures of domination and the ones that impersonate them, to highlight, in first place, that the enemy is vulnerable and to show that the comrades kidnapped by the State, are not alone but instead that they count on all our solidarity. The specific weight of the antagonistic minorities, of the affinity groups in permanent conflict, is not shown by the number of attacks neither by the damages that each time stronger explosions give to the enemy. The gravitation of this acting minorities lies in the contagion, in the geometrical expansion of the struggle and the arise of anti-authoritarian conscience. So, behind every explosion, every bullet, every expropriation done, behind the putting into practice of any manifestation of antagonistic violence, has always to be present our ideal, making sure that our struggle is for total liberation, for the definitive destruction of the system of domination, for Anarchy.

[silver-wield]

Nobody asked for this one, but I said I was gonna do it anyway. Barret and Cloud's friendship development.

Don't worry, I'm not gonna make a mile long post. I'm just gonna hit on the key moments, but I think these two deserve a bit of spotlight.

Ok, spoiler warning for ppl who haven’t played – do I still need to do this? Eh ok, (I tag FF7R spoilers as final fantasy 7 remake spoilers) and it’s gonna be reasonably long.

Also, this is one person’s interpretation of the scene, so if you disagree that’s cool and we’ll agree to disagree.

You’re also gonna have to excuse the janky quality on some of the screens, I’m grabbing them from Youtube and it’s frustrating af trying to get the exact moment I want.

Other analyses if anyone’s interested.

Shinra HQ vision scene (Cloti/plot analysis) 

Chapter 3 (Cloti reblog) 

Tifa character analysis 

Aerith Resolution (plot analysis/theory – I should probably update this since I’ve had other ideas since then) 

Train graveyard (not really an analysis, but I got some sweet screenshots of Cloti) 

Clotiscrew tunnel analysis 

Cloti reunion analysis 

The Promise Analysis 

Andrea’s approval (Cloti ask response) 

Leslie analysis (not mine, but a good read) 

Cloti action touching 

Aerti friendship analysis 

Cloti body language chapter 3 

Cloti healthy disagreement 

Cloti post heliboss battle (chapter 15) 

Clerith playground scene 

Cloti body language plate fall 

Now, strap in and enjoy the ride.

I'm not recapping the whole game lol

Chapter 1: Barret isn't impressed one bit with Cloud. Watching back their early interactions and I keep noticing this sad look on Cloud's face when he's excluded. But then, I'm also like “Well you pushed them away first”. But I also wanna hug him.

Yeah, so Barret isn't impressed and he's outright hostile, calling Cloud names and antagonising him. He even shoots at Cloud and then raises his gun to take out a security bot. This man doesn't like Cloud and isn't afraid to show it.

You gotta remember, Barret is 6'5 and built like a brick shit house and has a machine gun on his arm. He's not someone to mess with. Taking that in, Cloud's dismissiveness is pretty impressive. I mean he's almost a foot shorter than Barret, after all, and his sword probably weighs more than him lol

Perhaps by the end of the chapter – after Cloud saves Jessie – Barret might have thawed a tiny bit towards him, but he's still mistrusting and doesn't like him.

Chapter 2 and there's not a lot of interaction between them. Barret does actually agree with Cloud when he says “what's done is done” in reference to the destruction. This shows Barret is pragmatic and not against Cloud himself, just his role. After that, Cloud's alone for the rest of the chapter until the above screen when he leaps into the cargo carriage of the train and Barret says, “You had me worried for a minute.”

He looks caught out when the others all look at him because he's been a total dick to Cloud throughout the mission, but this shows he cares about his team, even if he doesn't like everyone on it. Showing concern for his people is the trait of a leader and if the game were showcased differently we could assume that Barret is our leading man.

“The folks down here don't have the luxury of choice, you know.”

Still in chapter 2 and this is such a great moment between Cloud and Barret! There's no arguing, just Barret giving Cloud a different perspective that's not the badass merc “Idc” one he's showcasing. You can see once the conversation is over that Cloud grows introspective, so Barret's words clearly resonated with him. This looks like another marker on Cloud's chart of going from a douchebag to a decent human being. He thinks about how things are for other people. Later, Marle tells him to consider others feelings, too. To listen. I'm loving all these small moments that come together to build a clearer of picture of Cloud's development.

Barret actually removes his sunglasses – why is he wearing them at night? – to meet Cloud's eye. This is a gesture that shows his sincerity and belief in his words. He's not just blustering for the sake of it. He cares about the people and the planet.

Chapter 3 and we don't see Barret until near the end. He's back to being snappy with Cloud – understandable since he's being a dick going on about money.

(aside: can I just squee at Cloud smiling at Tifa through this whole bit. He's such a dork)

And when we see Barret again he's very professional and courteous. There's no emotion in his tone and his words are very formal. He could be talking to anybody. His head dips as he's speaking, in an effort to lower himself more to Cloud's physical level. On an emotional one, he's making himself non-threatening. This isn’t a confrontation is what he’s putting out.

Cloud doesn't look happy at the dismissal and something we know about him is his desire for acceptance, so this probably hurts, although he acts otherwise.

We're up to chapter 5 and this is a turning point between Cloud and Barret's budding friendship. Barret's in battle dialogue makes it clear he's trying to show off in front of Cloud, who's dismissive still. There's a lot of back and forth between them in the kind of guy banter that suggests they kind of respect each other, but they also just have to put up with each other.

The above screen is the second before Cloud says to Barret that he's better than that in response to his arguing with the Shinra manager. Barret seems surprised Cloud even tries with him, but what's more telling is this expression from Cloud shows he gave it some thought before speaking. He considered the right words to address Barret which shows he's thought about the kind of reaction Barret could have. He took in Barret’s words from chapter 2 and Marle’s from chapter 3. This is called character development!

Chapter and Cloud throws some shade and Barret blusters lol

Tbf Barret's grown a lot less hostile since chapter 1. He's not as combative to Cloud, nor is he maliciously insulting him anymore. They've entered a stage of snarky banter, which we all know is one of the big steps on the road to friendship lol

Clearly Barret being able to see Cloud in action and rely on him in battle – not to mention Tifa's enduring good opinion – are starting to colour his own opinion.

(Tifa actually rears back when Barret waves his arm around in this bit lol)

Barret looking to Cloud for back up here. I mean, they're all in the shit, but this is interesting that he's looking to Cloud for that reassurance they're gonna continue kicking ass. The fact Cloud agrees without even the tiniest disagreement is probably the first time they're genuinely on the same page through their own choice.

Let the friendship begin!

Now, I bet you're thinking I picked this one to showcase cloti, well you're wrong. This is an example of how Barret's mellowed towards Cloud from his chapter 1 hostility to now. Cloud disagrees with him and instead of getting pissed that his leader decision is overruled, he lets it go.This could be a moment of contention between them, but they’ve both grown enough over the game to get to the point that not everything between them is a fight.

Now, maybe Barret's saying this because he thinks Cloud is about to die, but that seems selfish and like he's saying it to make himself feel better after being a douchebag, and for a selfless man like Barret I just don't buy it. He's genuinely regretful of his past actions and this is the point between the two of them that they can start again and actually become proper friends.

There's no time for much of a guy reunion between them when Barret does see Cloud again all the way over in chapter 12 -- that’s a long ass time apart for Barret to think about how he treated Cloud -- and we kind of brush past Barret's feelings because the plate collapse takes priority.

After that, Barret is much nicer to Cloud, trying to get his praise in battle and being a proper support to him. There's still that snarky banter between them, but the hostile edge has gone. We see a culmination of their friendship development during the stairs climbing sequence. Where before their banter had a hard edge and combative nature to it, this is very friendly and full of jokes and warmth. Barret has definitely softened towards Cloud and considers him a real friend. You can't fake that shit.

Conclusion

Yeah, I kinda cut this short and didn't do the latter half of the game, but that's because it's much more clear than this early development. Focusing on the small interactions between them that built a gradual friendship, it took a huge shock to get Barret to reassess his opinion of Cloud and him dropping from the reactor, going missing and then showing up to save the day covered it. It was like he got a reset and from that he dropped his prejudiced preconceived ideas about Cloud and opened up to him more. Because there’s such a huge gap between the time Barret sees Cloud again, it’s easy to miss the middle part of their friendship. The part where it goes from dislike to like. It’s easy to remember Barret hating Cloud and then see them being a team after chapter 12 because those moments stick in your mind more. It’s the transition that gets lost.

I love their development and how they become friends. It's not the kind of friendship that Barret shows with Red. Those two are bros the instant they met. Cloud and Barret's relationship is more complicated because of Cloud's role and identity. It takes Barret a long time to see past that persona, especially when he's only got evidence of that to go on – unlike Tifa. Once he does, he gives Cloud his full support and trust.

I, for one, can’t wait to see how they go forward in Barret’s arc.

[evoedbd]

STARK

Summery -  Lucy James may have the girl, the house, the kids, and the money but one thing she does not have is closure. She visits her mother, Susan Kim, in prison in an effort to figure out just what she wants now that all the secrets are out in the open. Warnings for language, implied non con and violence.    ********************************************** “-the walls are too stark-“ That was the first thing Lucy noticed from her cramped chair as she filled out the guest registration. The scratching sound of her pen was soothing. A tick here, a scratch there. Dot the i and cross the t. Two years ago, it would have been effortless. Two years ago, she wouldn’t even have been here. She wouldn’t have needed to visit a prison. Wouldn’t need to answer invasive questions. HAVE YOU EVER BEEN ARRESTED? That question formed a pit in Lucy’s stomach, enough for her to let the pen come to a stop. Pristine white teeth dug into her light pink lip, teasing the gloss off as she attempted to think how to answer that. Two years ago, it would have been easy. Lucy Kim had been a stand-up citizen. Not even a parking fine to her name. She’d gone to school and graduated. She had a nice enough house in a quiet neighbourhood. A nice dog. Loving parents. She’d spent every weekend watching her favourite drama series and drooling over the lead actor and actress with equal desire. A desire only outclassed by her love for ice-cream and a comfortable robe. A lot had changed in two years, however. Lucy Kim had started so pure and sweet, until she had been forced to her knees. Until she had listened to men discuss whether to rape her first or just kill her. As she’d stared down the barrel of a gun her life had been chaotically ripped from underneath her. Lucy Kim had learned to fight. Learned to shoot. She even had even killed. Lucy Kim HAD been arrested. Arrested, but not convicted. She’d spent a terrifying night in a cell, alone and framed by her family as she panicked for the woman she loved. Steeling herself, Lucy continued to write down details. Questions of employment, some light medical. Mainly, questions about her legal status. Prison times, licences, if she had any history substance abuse. Again, her pen flowed, the scratch and pauses fluidly mixing with the turning of pages. Around her, others did the same, signing forms or talking in hushed tones on the phone. The soft background noise was enough to break Lucy out of her thoughts, until she came to a particular question. ARE YOU MARRIED? Where before there had been led in her belly, now it was molten fire. The giddiness flushed through her body like a tidal wave, causing her to bounce her feet off the cold ground in excitement. Of course, the sound of her shoes flapping was a change, but Lucy hardly noticed. Her mind was consumed with thoughts of chocolate hair and blazing eyes, the burn of vodka on her lover’s tongue. The saltiness of peanut butter around the rim of a shot glass, mixed with dark chocolate and a sweet yet strong alcohol. Of a black spade glistening over a toned belly, a naval ring just begging her to flick it. YES. The answer was the easiest and yet the most difficult one to answer. It was, after all, the reason she was here. Yet thoughts of her wife were so deliciously distracting. Even apart, Lucy could almost smell expensive lotion. Could almost feel Aurora’s hands all over her, which was not appropriate for a public setting. She forced herself to take a deep breath, wincing at the scent of cleaning products, air freshener and sweat. As her gaze lowered, she noted the light gleaming around her finger, catching in the diamonds of her wedding ring. A ring that had come after the impromptu wedding, and after the wedding night. “-is it hot in here?-“ she wondered, pausing to fan herself with her papers. HOW MANY CHILDREN That question was a dose of cold water to her libido, yet a spring breeze of hope and joy to her heart. Lucy’s lips peeled back into a huge smile as she thought of her daughter.    The paperwork was signed, the legal work done. Stella was now HER DAUGHTER. The little dark-skinned girl with twinkling eyes that were steel coloured, akin to hers, but twinkled with mischief exactly like Aurora’s. Those eyes had been the breaking point for both women with Stella. The little street girl who had reminded Lucy so much of Aurora she couldn’t bear to let her go. Lucy James in her mid-twenties had everything she’d dreamed of as a girl of Stella’s age. Well, except she had an inscrutable princess instead of a lug headed yet handsome prince. With paperwork completed, Lucy came to where her signature was required. Thoughtlessly, she allowed the pen to flow, pausing once she was through. It was a punch to her gut all over again. For all her life, she’d proudly signed Lucy Kim. Even after her parents vanished and after the crisis with the gangs, she’d never bothered to sign her name any other way. Now, now that name was ash in her mouth. It was a bitter reminder of all the lies, deceit and horrors she had been forced to face. It was not even her legal name. Angrily, she raked the pen across the signature, erasing the last name with all her fury. A slash for every ounce of pain she had suffered. A slash for the men who had discussed her rape or murder. Four. Five. Six. A slash for every man who had attacked her personally. Fourteen, fifteen. A slash for every time she had been attacked for the name Kim. Twenty-nine. Thirty. For her own parent’s gang who had drawn guns on her. Forty-Eight. Forty-nine. There, she had to pause, panting for a moment before she drew the pen downwards on an angle, crossing it through the mess from one direction. Fifty. For her father. She repeated the pattern on the other side. Fifty-one. For her mother. RIP. The pen finally tore through the paper, as if a knife had been dragged through flesh. A knife Aurora would take for her. The bullets they had faced. Every bruise and cut. It all came rushing back as Lucy did her best to stand. Her legs shook, knees rattling together bellow the line of her dark skirt as she took one shaky step, then another, and another. Each step was a new line in her mind. She was NOT going to back down! Not now. The words and orders passed in a blur as an armed man came to her side, guiding her through a door that needed a code and card to be unlocked. Lucy ignored the looks everyone gave her, the doubt written across the desk clerks face as she saw the state of the paper. It was CLEAR Lucy had issues, but she was not under arrest. She was calmly escorted into a private room, left sitting at a steel table patiently as the guards moved just outside the door. Lucy was not there as a prisoner, merely to see someone who was. “Lucy?” The soft, hopeful voice tore Lucy from her mental blank. It dragged her, kicking and screaming over melted glass and burning coals, back to the sombre reality as she stared into the hopeful hazel eyes of Susan Kim. “Mom...” was all Lucy could say in greeting, clenching her fists so tightly that she could feel her own nails bite into her palms. It was sharper than grazing. The amount of times Lucy had been forced to dive for cover, to crawl for her life, she was very familiar with the feeling of raw palms. The realisation brought more rage, but also deep sadness. “You look good.” Susan offered, almost as if speaking to a stranger. “-in a way, she is. She doesn’t know me anymore-“ Lucy’s realisation was as bitter as the fact she couldn’t stop loving the woman sitting across from her. The years and stress had taken their toll on Susan, turning the hair at her temples grey and adding deeper wrinkles to her forehead. Her cheeks looked that little bit gaunt, whereas they had always been like Lucy’s. Full yet not chubby, the perfect mix of high and petite that gave a doll like appearance. Almond eyes were droopier now, wrinkled in the corners. No longer were they wide and bright like her daughter’s. Her lips were also different. Cracked, with chunks taken out of the skin as if she had bitten down too hard. The shadows beneath her lips were more pronounced, as if a frown had dominated her face so utterly that its shadow even invaded her tense smile. “You mean I don’t look hurt!” Lucy bit back, partially to have a dig and partially to avoid the honest truth. Susan looked like utter, miserable shit. “You know I worry about you, love...” those were the wrong words for Susan to say, but Lucy held her tongue as the older lady continued. “Especially after that Hustler Whore dragged you into the Valentines.” Now THOSE were definitely the wrong words to say. “YOU AND DAD FORCED ME THERE!” Lucy’s scream exploded so violently from her lithe frame that the guard outside seemed ready to jump in. The blonde’s shoulders shook with effort as she placed her hands on the table, keeping them flat as she stared straight into her mother’s eyes. “And don’t you DARE call my wife a whore or you’ll never see me again!” “Lucy. You know she has a reputation,” Susan tried to reason. “Of course I do. I’ve seen the texts Rory sent to all the girls. I’ve seen the scandalous photos and met so many exes who want another night with AJ that I can’t count them. I don’t care to. Aurora NEVER lied to me about any of that. About her profession, who she was or who she fucked and why... unlike you.” the cuss tasted foul on Lucy’s tongue, uttered with such jealousy despite her best efforts that even Susan looked concerned. “If she was like that with so many women, lying to them all, what makes you special?” “For one, she never lied to them. She told them all time and time again that it was a fling, or just a hook up. She was never like that with me, Mom. From the beginning she asked me to call her Rory. Not AJ. Yeah, of course she flirted, aggressively, but she never took it too far. From the first night, I slept beside her. I slept in underwear for months, and never was there another woman. Or even me. She didn’t even try to touch me. She was all bark.” the words poured out of Lucy, drawn out by the alarmed expression in Susan’s eyes. “There was a pattern. As she said it. Woo them, use them, screw them then lose them. What mother wouldn’t be concerned hearing about that? Even if they didn’t know about her... activities” “You robbed her, then fled. You left ME with your name, debts and every gang in the city wanting me dead! The night the Valentines took me, they saved my life. I was held at gunpoint. By masked men. They were going to kill me regardless, whether they fucked me first or not,” Lucy sighed, her energy evaporating as she collapsed once more into the chair. The tension of those events bubbled over, causing the story to come tumbling out. It had to, Lucy couldn’t stay calm and sane if it didn’t. “I was on my knees, hit, gun in my face. I was alone and terrified... then two men in suits barged in. One was as cold as ice, the other was waving a sword. He brought a sword to a gunfight and won,” Lucy shook her head, unable to erase the memory of Yoshimitzu leaping through the door with a Katana. Of Chance, cool and collected as he strode in with his gun drawn. “They tried talking to me, somewhat, but had to throw me into the car during a firefight. My chicken of a dog trusted them at the start and jumped right in. Their hitman was cuddling my dog in the kidnapping car, pausing to shoot enemy gangsters.” Lucy shook her head again, remembering how quickly Seymour had settled in with the gangsters. How, despite their intimidating personas, they’d melted at the Dalmatian Great Dane. How quickly they’d all begun to spoil him, almost like a favourite child. “Aside from going with them that first time, they always gave me a choice. If I stayed with them, they would protect me. Provide me complete freedom so long as I stayed with my guard. They even let me choose, mom!   Jailers who let me pick my warden, and Aurora was...” Lucy froze, her ears burning as a blush violently flared up in her cheeks. She COULDN’T disclose how she had felt.  She couldn’t admit to how damn attracted to the dangerous woman she had been, or how just a finger under her chin was enough to make her melt. Enough to freeze her in her chair as Aurora had sat in her lap and calmly fed her all the cold facts about her parents. How Aurora’s hands had instantly found the one spot on her neck that undid all her tension. Those chaste, gentle touches had destroyed all shame and reservations Lucy could ever have about Aurora over the next month. Without Aurora even truly meaning to seduce her. Heck, with Aurora trying desperately to keep her devious hands away from Lucy. “We didn’t think they’d force you to hustle for them!” “They didn’t! I...” Lucy coughed. She couldn’t admit she followed Aurora to the cabana. How they’d played with cards in the fresh breeze until Aurora became overjoyed at Lucy’s natural talent. She couldn’t explain how sinfully Aurora had touched her, simply massaging tension from her shoulders until she was practically begging the gangster to ruin her. How just that simple affection and soft voice had almost undone every sane thought in her head. Or how she’d blindly agreed to help the older woman to pay off her debt, only to be signed up as a poker player. “She seduced you?” “No! Not exactly... Aurora wouldn’t touch me. That was the prob-“Lucy practically steamed in embarrassment, even as her mother’s own cheeks flamed up. Two hardened criminals, both blushing like teenagers. “She played cards with me, realised I had a photographic memory, she already knew I could do quick calculations. She figured out I could count cards if I saw even single one. More than one deck too. She offered to wave the debt if I could win a tournament she couldn’t play in after Chance’s father...” Lucy trailed off, shivering despite herself. A lump formed in her throat, tight and uncomfortable. Scarcely allowing her to breathe, let alone speak. “Franco Valentine.” Susan growled softly, her jaw working as if she could chew through an invisible knot. At that, Lucy nodded. She didn’t need to explain much more about the altercation. Save for Aurora. “He was terrifying mom, made me feel small and worthless without even looking at me. Aurora put herself between him and me, constantly shielded me from him. She wasn’t going to let me get hurt, and I knew it. Even terrified, I instinctively went to her. When she was angry, she never EVER hurt me. I wanted to help her. Wanted to get my life back. Then...” “You fell in love with her.” Susan surmised with a contemplative parental scowl. “Yeah. Everything about her is just... I can’t resist. She made everything feel possible. Made me feel safe and secure. She even let me drive home. The moment she saw the damage at the house she was absolutely distressed, even furious for me. She was so concerned that it sobered her up after half a bottle of whiskey! I had nightmares every now and again. About the broken glass. Staring down the barrel of the gun. Rory started holding me at night just to comfort me... Her being there chased that fear away when I had no one I could turn to.” “I’m so, so sorry.” Susan sniffled, guilt radiating from her being. “We never truly thought it would touch you. We were invincible and smarter than the underworld. We felt... like how Rory makes you feel. Brad and I became addicted to the rush, the thrill and games. It was always just one more time, an itch we couldn’t stop scratching. Then we were too deep, and we didn’t want you to drown with us. We were so stupid!” “I can’t say I haven’t been stupid. Chance told the gang not to touch me. Aurora and I, we wanted each other badly. Aurora wouldn’t even kiss me unless I could spell her name. For her reputation, she’s a sweet gentlewoman.” Lucy informed, her lips twitching into an exhausted smile at the thought of the Mexican born woman waiting for her. Rory was respectful of boundaries, but within the set lines she certainly misbehaved. “You’re telling me she treated you like you were her dirty little secret?” Susan demanded, anger beginning to flare in her again. The rattle of her cuffs didn’t go unnoticed, yet all Lucy had the true energy to offer was a shake of her head. A silent rebuttal. “We knew the risks, but we’re grown women.  We decided it was our right to decide who could touch us, not Chance’s. As we got more serious, we got caught. Skylar filmed us in the car, after the first round of the tournament. She used it to tilt me. Almost cost me the tournament. The gang got to see video of us...” the blonde bit her lip for a moment, cheeks flushing as she remembered the horror. The silence that had followed as Irving had quickly shut the laptop. Chance’s determination to see everything, even as Aurora had all but begged him not to. “The angle shown made things look more randy scandal and less teenage smooching. It broke a lot of trust. Plus, we’ve both gotten reckless chasing our families. Aurora even beat her brother up in the private casino rooms.” Lucy admitted, no longer bothering with her doubts and anger. She had once been so close with her mother, even her rage and the betrayals couldn’t destroy her instinct to dump everything. The long-formed habit of spilling all her secrets. “I don’t need to hear explicit details, but... does she treat you right? Even if I can’t look past, well, the criminal lifestyle. I would be a hypocrite to judge her for it entirely.” “We’re trying to get out, mom. We have Stella to worry about. And, OH, does she treat me right. She’s everything the rumours say she is as a partner, and more. She’s so giving,” Lucy swooned, her lips curling up hopelessly. The rumours of how AJ spoiled her women were true, but there were no rumours for her thoughtfulness. About how perfectly her fingers could seek out tension in Lucy’s body and erase it. Of how she delighted to rub her wife’s back until no knots remained after a shootout, just to know Lucy was safe. No rumours about how beautiful she was when she was half awake and smiling with her bed hair, or the way her hips swayed when she brushed her teeth. “I don’t need to imagine AJ in bed with my daughter, Lucy. The rumours are explicit enough without...” Susan gaped, lifting one of her cuffed hands to cover her face. Mainly to avoid the far away glaze of her daughter’s eyes. Lucy couldn’t help but laugh, the trickle of closeness growing more comfortable as she talked. The bleach blonde quickly realised what she said may have appeared less innocent than it was. Quickly, she went to correct her mistake, cheeks once more aflame. “Not just in bed. In everything. She gives me everything she is. She never does anything I don’t say yes to. Even if she wrecks me, she cherishes me too. She never just lets me win, she respects me. She’s always supporting me. She’s sweet and loving, even when she’s dangerous and possessive. She gives me the world, mom, and she is so amazing with Stella. She understands our pain and how to help us. She’s even giving up drinking. She started a little before we began dating but really put her soul into quitting the moment we were official. She’s learned she can talk to me, instead of unhealthy habits. I’m really proud of her.” Lucy gushed, her smile growing infectious despite it all. The anger was there, simmering in her breast at all the damage between them as a family. Yet, her mother appeared to be finally listening. Trying to understand. “I’ve seen how scary she can be. I’ve seen her kill. I know she’s not perfect.   It isn’t enough to make me leave. She‘s thrown herself in front of guns for me, risked her life because I was hurt or scared. She’s sacrificed so many of her lifelong rules and overcome so many issues just to be with me. She treats me right. I’m in love with her and I love her. I love Stella. I love you too, mom, but I need to build this up. You hurt me, you nearly shot the love of my life. You used the girl who is now my daughter as a weapon against Rory and I... I don’t even know if I want to...” “I understand. You’re my daughter. Your father and I were so convinced that Aurora was using you that we couldn’t listen, and we sacrificed any rights to our relationship with you with how we acted. You love us, but can’t forgive us.” Susan stated, hanging her head as tears dripped from her eyes. “You and dad nearly got me killed. Ruined my life. How can I just get over that, even though I love you?” Lucy asked, suddenly like a child begging for the answer. Her own eyeliner trickled down her cheeks as her own tears started to fall, burning hot in her eyes. How could she? How could she reconcile the burning hatred in the pit of her stomach along with the pain in her chest? “Please” Susan’s voice wavered, catching in her throat. It was raw desperation. Thick with horror. “I don’t know if I ever can...” Lucy sniffled, her voice remarkably level despite the sorrow dripping down her cheeks, and the slurp of snot in her nose as she took a deep breath. A piercing beep broke the air, signalling that their time in the room had come to an end. Lucy pushed herself to her feet, bracing her hands against the table again. The backs of her thighs were sticky, leaving sweaty imprints on the uncomfortable chair. Her backside tingled, recovering the sense of feeling after such a time spent under pressure. “I want to get to know Aurora, and Stella. Even with our history, it’s clear you love them both dearly. Every mother needs time to get to know their in-laws” “You lost the right to be called a mother when you chose scams over your daughter” Lucy informed, clenching her teeth as she sniffled once more. She roughly dragged the sleeve of her blazer across her nose, wiping away the sickly trails of mucus. It didn’t matter if she ruined her clothing, money could fix the damage. Her pride, however? Her relationship with her parents? No. “Please... Lucy... don’t leave it like this” Susan wailed, desperation breaking through as she stood up. The moment her backside left her chair, the guard rushed in, grasping the wailing woman by her elbow. The prison suit hung on the lithe woman’s frame, finally showing how old she truly was. No longer was Susan’s body well fed, rather ghoulish off prison fashions. Off her own guilt. “-she really does look half dead-“ Lucy noted, even as she spoke softly to the departing figures. “Goodbye, mom. I love you” “LUCY!”

[knowingoverseer]

Decisions Decisions....

Well, as far as you’re concerned you have got this. Sure, you were worried at first that you’d get overwhelmed, that working so far outside your element would turn up failure. But you’re here to laugh in the face of that self doubt! Or maybe you were laughing internally because you feel like you already completed this little project and you were far from done. It was hard to tell anymore.....

You’ve just re-entered your work room after making a visit to the stone shop in Lumiouse city. They didn’t exactly deal with jewelry making, but they had been kind enough to patch you through to one of the local companies they distributed for who did. Specifically working with stainless steel, which is what you had been doing. You needed the item, a very special gift, ion plated. Well, okay, you didn’t need to get it ion plated. But you had decided it would look much better blue than silver, and that was that. You had sent the item off, and it should be returned in a few days all nice and blue which was going to look absolutely lovely with the orange of the gems and oh!! Honestly, you were kinda excited by the whole thing, because while the process was currently Greek to you, it seemed like something that maybe, once you learned a bit more science, was something within your grasp of doing? Maybe? It was ion particles and oxidizing and... things! Sure you didn’t get it, but you understood what particles and oxygen molecules were! .... well, that they existed. UGH! This was why you weren’t the most confident in this project, not the ion plating (you really had only just learned of that recently), but the whole... science side of this. At least this part seemed like something you could learn one day. The technology side of it.... well. You throw yourself down into your main work chair and spin it around a few times for good measure, thinking something over that’s been on your mind since you started all this. Your portable Alchemiter is out next to the work bench; two portal portraits, each with a thick curtain covering up what appeared to be sunlight and bright green light, were set close by; and all the various prototypes of the gift were scattered around the workspace. There were also pages of concept work and notes strewn about. With a sigh you pull yourself up to the desk, picking up various pieces and looking them over: various electronics and their selectively bred amalgamations as well as the stainless steel trinkets you’d been working on by hand. You’ve been spending the last few days going through chain after chain of object alchemy, practically re-living your days of frog breeding. It had taken a lot of fenagling and refining but you had finally been able to get your outcomes to match up with what you had intended. A nice bracelet piece shaped like a figure 8, or Infinity symbol, that could wirelessly charge any device that can take a wireless charge in a 15 foot radius, that was solar powered to boot. It was cute and you hoped would be useful, remembering the long stretch of time it’s eventual recipient had seemingly burnt herself out of her main energy supply.  Once it came back, you honestly could call it quits there. It would be a nice gift and perfectly safe to take back to the.... uh, safety space harbor? Secret sanctuary? Ssssssomething, whatever word Serket kept using for her home. The place that didn’t like magic. Yes, there, the reason you can’t just magic this thing blue and call it a day. But still, this has been.... fun, if not frustrating, and proving you can fruitfully craft a non-enchanted gizmo trinket armor things. Well, okay, it’s not any form of armor.... yet. Which brings your think pan back to that idea you’ve been pondering. It’s nice, yeah. But like. What if it could do something more? Like.... produce a Hard-Light Shield. You look down at your initial few concept sketches. Technically, you had wanted to include a fuse-y gem too but there’s no way you’d be able to do that without enchantments so Hard-Light Shield was your next best idea. And you knew the perfect place to get ahold of the kind of tech needed for that! Aperture Labs! That big old abandon facility your brother was gifted like almost nine years ago. There’d be plenty of science junk in there to swipe and turn into alchemy fodder! Hard-Light generators and their necessary components to pump sunlight into them just happened to be a very specific thing you’d want to grab. Buuuuuuuuuuut, you just couldn’t seem to commit to the idea. Well, it’s more like you keep talking yourself out of it. There’s a little voice in your head, and while they normally laugh at your pratfalls surrounding this project, the alarm bells always seem to go off at this part. It’s dangerous, sure, but it’s not like the place is even in full working order. You’d be in and out! But you can’t shake that fear it seems. Maybe it’s because you almost died in that place once upon a time? Or maybe it was that feeling of meta-fear that if no one’s around who remembers the place then it’s too deus ex machina to just. Go to Aperture fucking Labs. On a whim. To get parts to try and make a cool badass light shield for your cool badass friend. Even if it’s been part of your canon for almost nine years and one of your favorite personal items, your Moon Boots, came from a similar alchemiter project and spoils from Aperture. Your inner voice is more snarky about it but you do think the later is having a big say in your hesitation. You sigh, honestly if you could just make up your mind, this would be the best time to go. You’ll be having some downtime for at least a day if not more. But, hey, if you do decide against it you do have some awesome threads from like. Half a decade ago you cooked up for another very badass Serket-named lady you could throw in. It’s not like Captain’s Ex (Or so you presume), would really have a need for them now. And the coat even has a fun blood enchantment that changes the accent colour based on what colour blood has been shed on it, Serket would love that right? She’s always changing blood colours. And the boots have guns for heels. It was.... like right after Bayonetta 2 released, it was a dumb inspiration, hUsh. But, that falls into the enchanted category and while she can have those things.... you are trying to avoid it. You scribble onto a piece of notebook paper your options, just to help you think this out. Though to be honest, you should probably quit while you’re ahead. Who’s to say your strings will have enough steam to even deal with another drabble like that? It’s amazing you got through this one! Anyhoo, that piece of paper, if you’d lot be so kind.

[whumpmeamadeus-blog]

Untouchable (Persona 5 Whump)

Non shippy fic of Iwai helpiing with Ren, who has gotten himself in a spot of trouble. From my fic ‘Vignettes of Comfort” on Ao3! (Trans-Akira, Guns, Threats, hurt, comfort, stabbing mention)

“Just stay under the radar, kid,” Iwai muttered, leaning against the cluttered desk in the back of his shop.

Ren looked him over; man, if he was 20 years older. Even 10. Damn. He banished those thoughts from his mind and tossed his hair from his eyes. “I pretty much live under the radar.”

That chuckle, more like a chainsaw revving than a laugh. “Good way to go through life, if you can. Now go on, get outta here. Ain’t got time to waste on a kid like you.”

“See you soon, then.” With a saucy salute, Ren bid Iwai farewell and left Untouchable. He was feeling pretty confident about his evening, knowing it had went well and that he was getting even more of a discount. Morgana, safely in his bag, chatted his ear off the entire way through Shibuya.

All in all, this had been a pretty good night.

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Honestly, at first Iwai had been annoyed by that skinny little nobody coming through and taking up his time with weird requests for things kids should never have been interested in. But he never heard of the kid doing anything illegal with what he bought. At least, nothing he got caught doing.

Iwai also knew, now, that the things Amamiya Ren bought from him were being used to a standard even he couldn’t complain about.

Kaoru would be jazzed to know about that.

Iwai finished up his work and went home. It was a simple night at home with Kaoru, something he didn’t get to enjoy as much as he should. But he was going to make more of an effort. He thought about seeing if maybe he couldn’t get Ren to hang out with Kaoru a little, take him to the batting cages or SOMETHING. They were only a couple years apart and Ren was a good kid; more importantly, he was a kid with a spine and a sense of justice. Kaoru was doing just fine, but maybe spending some time with a kid a few years older, who really seemed to have a handle on himself, would be good. He’d make a point to bring it up the next time Ren came by.

When a week later, he hadn’t seen the kid, he didn’t think about it. Sometimes he wouldn’t show up for weeks on end. What was Iwai gonna do about it? A kid was a kid.

A week and a half, and nothing. Iwai didn’t even pass by him on Central Street, which he had done before. Normally, he wouldn’t worry; it wasn’t any business of his what Ren got up to.

But something was gnawing at him. He tried to ignore it, and was doing a pretty steady job.

Half a week later - two in total since the last time he had seen Ren, if one was counting, which he certainly wasn’t - Iwai was doing some light dusting just to keep his mind off of things. Their shit country. That Shido guy everyone seemed to be all up in arms about (which he didn’t understand, the guy looked like a tool who collected toy skulls and made stupid sexist videos on the Internet). Kaoru was suffering in English, which Iwai was no good in either. Maybe, a little bit, he was worried about Ren.

He turned his back on the door and knelt to get something out of sight. Of course, the moment he did that, he heard the door open; always happened that way, didn’t it? “Just a minute.”

“Dad!?”

Kaoru’s concerned voice jolted him, and Iwai stood straight up. His son was still in his uniform, with his school bag, like everything was normal.

But he was also supporting Ren, who looked tired, almost gaunt, with faded, yellowing bruises under vibrantly coloured new ones running up and down his bare arms, and on his neck. Then Ren looked up and met his gaze; the blackened, swollen state of his eye was magnified through those gigantic glasses.

“How in the hell is THIS flyin’ under the radar?” Iwai grumbled, internally panicked that his old family had come after them after all.

“Well,” Ren said dryly, “I didn’t start the fight, if that helps.”

“Shut up.”

Iwai and Kaoru helped Ren get to the back room, where he all but collapsed onto the closest surface. Immediately, Iwai dragged Kaoru back out into the store. “Tell me what happened.”

Kaoru watched him go over and lock the door before clearing his throat. “I just went to the diner and he was there with like four empty coffee mugs in front of him, covered in bruises just like now. Except I only saw his face, his sleeves were rolled down.”

That was why Ren had looked especially odd to him - usually the kid was wearing a jacket, whether is was his uniform or something else. Iwai shook his head and lit a cigarette despite the look Kaoru gave him, the look that said You told me you were gonna quit months ago. “He say anything to you?”

“About what happened to him? No, I just asked if he needed help, he said no. I told him too bad and that if he didn’t come with me I was just going to call you anyways.”

“Good kid,” Iwai said. He was proud of his son for doing the right thing. “Listen, I got it from here - why don’t you get back to the diner and get started on your homework?”

Kaoru didn’t seem to like it, but listened - especially when he was given Iwai’s wallet. Iwai let him out of the store, then pulled down the grate before locking the door again. He didn’t necessarily want to send Kaoru out there again, if this kid had been hurt because of some ancient BS, but thought it might be easier to get Ren to talk if Kaoru was out of the way. He’d make it to the diner just fine; Iwai hadn’t raised an idiot, after all.

His more pressing concern was finding out what, exactly, had happened to Ren.

He got a bottle of water from under the desk, and a first aid kit, then moved into the back room. Ren was sitting exactly where they had left him, but with his eyes closed and head now leaned back against the wall. He was holding onto his phone, but it was dark. Iwai announced his presence with a sigh. Ren cracked open the eye with the least amount of damage. “Where’s Kaoru?”

“What happened to you?”

“That’s how you answer a question?” Ren asked, with that edge that Iwai liked, that reminded him of himself. “I just...got in something I shouldn’t have.”

Iwai took a drag from his cigarette and looked Ren up and down. He looked much smaller without that jacket. Maybe Iwai had been mistaken in thinking he was old for his age; this kid was hardly more than an ankle-biter. “No shit. But what?”

“It wasn’t anything like what you got into, if that’s what you’re worried about. I just got my ass handed to me last week, then again this week.”

They had what felt to Iwai like a battle of wills. With the kid so beat up, Iwai knew he was destined to throw the match and did so spectacularly, with a hefty sigh and a rolling of the eyes so hard that he thought he saw the top of his own skull. “Fine. Have your secrets.”

He leaned over to reach into a mini-fridge and pulled out a cold pack from the small tray that served as a freezer. “Put this on over your eye,” he said, pushing it into Ren’s hands. He didn’t take his eyes off of the kid until the gel pack was over the worst of the bruising. Then Iwai flipped open the first aid kit. After everything he had been through, he made sure to keep the thing pretty well stocked; not that there was much he could do for bruising. He found a cream for it, and tossed that to Ren as well.

“...I think I’m bleeding, too,” Akira said, and for the first time, Iwai thought he heard a hint of weakness in that voice.

He didn’t show that, however, and just nodded as he grabbed a package of gauze and medical tape, as well as bandaids, from the first aid kit. Iwai hoped this wasn’t bad enough that Ren would have to go to the hospital, because he would be a real hypocrite to his own ways if he dragged the kid there for this. He took a stack of napkins from some take-out meal or another and doused it in water from the bottle. “Lemme see.”

Ren hesitated, one hand playing with his dirty collar. Iwai just gave him a stern look. “Remember who I am, kid - I’ve patched up worse wounds than whatever you’ve gotten yourself into.”

With a sigh, Ren stood and turned around. Iwai swore under his breath; there was a gash in his shirt, and blood trickling through to stain the white, red. Ren slowly unbuttoned his shirt but instead of dropping it, just pulled it up to rest underneath his armpits. Iwai didn’t question it, just looked over the cut that stretched, thin but not too long, over the left side of his lower back; it was clearly a switchblade. He’d know the cut anywhere.

“Not too bad,” he said. “Surface wound, won’t need stitches.”

“I can clean it up,” Ren said, and Iwai was going to fight him on it before realizing that there were any number of reasons this kid wouldn’t want to be touched after a scrape like whatever he had gotten into. So he just gave the napkins to Ren and gave him verbal cues to wipe the cut clean. It took a little folding and maneuvering, but Ren eventually got the gauze positioned and relented, letting Iwai tape it down.

He let Ren do the bruises, too, and turned around to look through the first aid kit again, half to look for any ibuprofen and half to give Ren some semblance of privacy. There was a bottle in there, and the expiration date was still a year away. Perfect. Only when Ren said he was done did Iwai turn back to him, bottle in hand. Ren had his shirt pulled back down now, and was holding the cold pack to his neck. “...thanks.”

“Sure thing. I was an idiot kid getting into fights once, too.”

“It wasn’t a fight,” Ren said, and this time he sounded very serious. His eyes were hard, and Iwai held up a hand, palm upward, a man asking for more of an answer than that. “It wasn’t. I was jumped last week, and when I didn’t have enough cash on me, they beat me and said they’d be back.”

Anger bubbled up in Iwai’s gut; who the hell would do that to a kid? At least it didn’t sound like anything Iwai’s past had dragged them into. “And then?”

“Well I saw them all around. Think they knew where I lived. Saw them in my neighborhood. Outside of school even.” He shrugged. “Got cocky, figured they’d forget about me, or I could...persuade them otherwise.”

Iwai had wondered about that part; this kid was a Phantom Thief, after all. How’d this happen to someone like him?

“But things got away from me, and I couldn’t. They caught up to me, and...well. Here we are.. I didn’t have what they wanted, they got me, pulled a knife. Barely got out of there.”

Ren was trying to keep his cool, but Iwai could see the way his hands were shaking. Just a little. With a sigh, Iwai leaned against the table, arms folded over his chest. “You know who they were?”

“Just some low-level wannabe gang, I think. If I knew their names, I could…” Ren shook his head, then drained the rest of the water left in that bottle despite its tepid temperature. “But I don’t, so I need to figure out what to do next.”

“What you need to do is sit there and let me think,” Iwai said. He knew how to deal with up-shots who wanted more than they were worth. Because this wasn’t going to go down this way; these assholes weren’t going to harass this kid any longer. Iwai’s fingers just barely brushed the tattoo on his neck.  “You wanna end this once and for all?”

Ren looked at him, then said ‘no,’ quietly. Then again. “No, you don’t have to get involved.”

“Kid,” Iwai said, leaning forward and looking him in the eye. “It’s too late for that

“I’m in.”

Ren let Iwai take him home that night, accepting a ride in the back of a surprisingly clean and sporty car with Kaoru. No one was in Leblanc, and he heard Boss in the back. Moving he quickly, he called out that he was back and darted upstairs. Morgana, asleep under the bed with just his tail poking out, didn’t stir. Good thing Futaba had him today and worn him out; she had really taken a shine to that cat.

When he sat on the bed he did so quietly, not wanting to wake Morgana. He unbuttoned his shirt and looked down over his bruised stomach. The worst of it, however, something Iwai was never going to see, was under his binder. Usually he slept with it on, but with this bruising...Ryuji would kick his ass worse than this if he knew Ren was pushing himself with that thing. Of all the people who knew - which was only about five people, in the whole world - who knew that he was trans, Ryuji took it the most seriously. He had done all of the reading, searched online, learned everything he could. For Ren.

So it was with Ryuji in mind that Ren struggled out of his binder and abandoned it on the bed. It should be washed, but he couldn’t even think about that until he was covered. His chest was covered in bruises, and once it was no longer compressed the pain blossomed outward from there. First, Ren took a shaky breath and palmed the cream Iwai had given him. Yes, he should put this on, but...well, unless he was putting the binder on, Ren didn’t let his hands near his chest. It was too much for him. Later, maybe. He pulled out his pajama shirt and yanked it on, then his grey hoodie over that. What could he say? He was feeling vulnerable. Ren climbed under the covers and pulled his phone close to him. The minute he touched it, the device buzzed. A text from Iwai.

‘Keep an eye out kid. Come by the shop if you see those dicks.’

Ren would have chuckled at the wording alone - exactly how Iwai spoke - but if he was honest with himself, he didn’t feel much like laughing.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Two nights later, Ren was feeling shaky after a shift at the Beef Bowl Shop. All night long, he had spotted the men who were after him for something as trivial as money. Ren had money, he didn’t have to worry about that. This was the principal of the thing. He thought that, if he could get them talking he find out at least one name, he could take them down where he was stronger - Mementos. Then they wouldn’t be bothering anyone else, either.

Honestly, he wouldn’t have been worried if it was just one of them that he had spotted. One guy, he thought he could handle.

But there had been three separate guys out there through the course of the night, including the one who had cut him. Now, Ren did not consider himself a coward in any sense of the word. But this?

Well. It made him uneasy enough to send a text to Iwai. It was simple, just ‘3 @ the Beef Bowl Shop,’ because he didn’t know how else to ask for assistance other than simply telling him the facts. This would be different, he told himself, if so many people were not relying on him.

His boss had dismissed him 10 minutes before he sent the text. Only 5 minutes after he sent it did he hear a knock to the employee part of the building. One of his co-workers stuck her head in. “Uhm, Amamiya? A guy who says he’s your uncle is here?”

Then he really could have laughed. The man even came up with an excuse. He thanked his co-worker and went out to the main dining room. Sure enough, Iwai was there, leaning against the window and looking bored while a few of the customers looked on, worried.

“Thank for coming to get me, Uncle Munehisa,” he teased, his voice light despite the reason Iwai had come.

“Shut your mouth, kid,” Iwai said, but Ren saw the chuckle playing at the corners of his mouth. “Let’s get out of here.”

The moment they were outside, Iwai looked both ways down the street. “When was the last time you saw one of them?”

Ren started to move across the street, towards the alley that led to Untouchable, keeping an eye out as well. None of them seemed to be in the immediate area; maybe he had been hasty. But he did feel a little more secure with Iwai at his side. “Last two passed by maybe ten minutes ago.”

“We’ll just get to Untouchable and work from there, alright?”

“Alright.”

It was simple, really. Just get into the store and leave from there. Ren followed Iwai across the street and down the alley. He glanced at the Velvet Room; Justine did not meet his gaze. At least if things ever got too crazy, he could jump in there. Not ideal, but doable. Iwai pulled out his keys and opened the door to Untouchable. He held it open. “Get in.”

Ren moved past him, and the impending sense of danger did not come quickly enough.

A sharp pain in his back, over where he had been cut before, and he was sent reeling forward into the store. His vision swam as his head bounced with the impact of his knees on the floor. But Iwai’s grunt of pain hurt way more than that. He hoped that Iwai would stay away as Ren pushed through the pain and turned around. There were two guys on Iwai, who looked calm and collected as he slammed his fist into a jaw. Ren would have chuckled if the guy who had pushed him did not drop to the floor and push him back, to the ground, with his arm on Akira’s neck.

He had just been too distracted with Iwai to move quickly enough. With all of his might, Ren pushed against the man holding him down; the silky shirt, leopard print, slid around under his grasp. That STUPID shirt - Akira knew it well.

This was the man with the knife. Ren knew that before he even brought it out. “You think your ex-yakuza sugar daddy can save you? Too late for that - we got you.”

Ren thought about all of the bruises on him. He thought about how a group like this would never involve the police, so he shouldn’t be at any risk if he retaliated. He thought about his friends, waiting for him to lead them. And he thought about how Iwai was over there, fighting for him.

It became absolutely effortless to take his fist and drive it into that stupid leopard-spotted stomach. Ren was able to get the man off of him, but his main goal was to get the knife out of reach. Never mind that he was in a store full of replica weapons, many with blades triple the size of the knife - THAT was the one that had dug into his back, and the owner seemed pretty fond of it.

He yanked himself up using the counter, while the guy was still on the ground, and Ren made a quick decision to drive his shoe into his head. Not enough to seriously hurt him, just keep him down. Ren was still feeling winded from being knocked to the ground, and wished more than anything that he had the same skills in the real world as he did in the Metaverse - there, he could get knocked down a hundred times and get back a hundred and one. Here, he was just tired, his gun a model in his pocket, and Arsene felt a world away. But Ren was still strong, and after his arrest had a better hold on his rash behaviour. He no longer acted so quickly under stress, thought his actions out more.

Today, that action was to lower himself back to the ground and grab the man’s wrist. Ren twisted his wrist around until he had no choice but to drop the knife, then snatched it away. His instinct was to toss it across the store, but that was stupid. So he folded the thing and stored it in his pocket before jumping over leopard print, who was still moaning on the ground, and joining Iwai.

Who was doing very well. One of the guys was on the ground just outside of the shop, looking dazed, and Iwai was wrestling the other one to the ground.

“It make you a big man, huh? Threatenin’ kids?” Iwai growled, and Ren didn’t think he knew he was being watched. “Trash like you makes me sick.”

Then he moved his hands in a quick, expert way that Ren did not think he could ever duplicate, and the other guy dropped, too. He was still alive, coughing once he hit the ground, but looked down for the count. Ren moved over to the door, glancing behind him; leopard print was still down, too.

“Thanks,” he said, watching Iwai heave. It must have been some effort for him, and there was a pang in Ren’s heart for his own father, who would have thrown him to the wolves rather than fight for him. But then Iwai was on him, holding his face in those rough hands.

He turned Ren’s head gently every which way, then looked over the rest of his body. “They get you?”

“Not really,” he said. “I got pushed down and he came at me, but I’m alright.”

Iwai sighed and looked at the men on the ground outside. “Let’s get the other one out here and leave ‘em. They’ll wake up dazed but they should be fine.”

Ren nodded, even though at this point he didn’t care if they were fine or not. He helped Iwai move one out of the doorway, closer the first guy Iwai had taken down. That one was sporting a huge bruise to his temple. “What did you do to that guy?”

“...taught him a lesson,” Iwai said. He rolled one shoulder as they straightened up. “Listen kid, I’m gonna make sure punks like these don’t bother you again, you hear -”

A silencer on a gun does not silence it. A normal silencer takes the sound of a gunshot down  14.3-43 decibels, meaning that any shot is plenty audible. Of course, once a gun is shot, even if it is heard, there is hardly any time for a potential victim to move. That is not, usually, the main purpose of a silencer. A silencer is stop a sound from spreading, not to stop a potential victim from hearing it.

So when the man in the leopard print shirt, now on his feet, aimed his silenced gun at Ren and shot, both Ren and Iwai heard the blast. Already in the act of turning, Ren knew that the bullet was meant for him. He knew that it had left the barrel. And he knew that he could not drop to the ground or avoid it.

All of these realizations came to him in a nanosecond. One second, there was a bang; the next second there was pain shooting through his arm and he was on the ground. His ears were ringing, his arm was hot and wet.

And then, there was nothing but Iwai.

When he heard that gunshot, a million things ran through Iwai’s head. He was not going to let Kaoru be left behind again. He was not going to let everything he worked for fall to pieces. He was not going to let this punk end things for him. He was not going to let them hurt Ren ever again.

Then the kid dropped to the ground and Iwai’s world spun out of control. He wasted absolutely no time. The man in that idiot shirt aimed at him, but Iwai was quicker. Dropping low, Iwai closed the distance between them in four long steps, coat flapping out behind him. One second he was outside, across the alley; the next second he was under the guy, in front of him, and Iwai’s already bloody fist, knuckles threatening to bust open, sent his head snapping back in a powerful uppercut. The young guy went down, and he dropped the gun. Pathetic; he really was just the worst kind of guy. Before anything else, Iwai picked up the gun.

The butt of the handle against a thick cranium made sure this asshole wouldn’t be standing again for quite some time.

He dropped the gun into one of his pockets and flexed out his fingers as he stood and turned. Had it really ended so quickly? It seemed ridiculous. But that didn’t truly matter at the moment. What mattered was getting to Ren.

Thankfully, when Iwai got to the kid he was sitting up, leaning against the wall, clutching at his bloody arm. He was pale, though, rocking back and forth a little. Iwai knelt at his side and tilted his face up, bloody hand leaving a mark on Ren’s chin. His eyes were wide and the pupils were dilated, but his face was calm. His nostrils flared as he struggled to breath, though.

Luckily, Iwai was always calm under pressure. “Come on, if you’re gonna have a panic attack you’re not gonna do it out here. But before I can move you, you gotta tell me - did he get your arm?”

Ren nodded; at least he still seemed to possess enough of his senses to nod. He pulled his hand away, palm bloody, and Iwai was able to get a good look at his arm. It was an instant relief to see through the torn shirt that the bullet had not gone through him, only grazed him. The wound wasn’t deep at all, just kissing his flesh enough to bleed heavily. But Iwai was well-trained - he could tell at a glance that the bullet was long gone and had not gotten close to any arteries. “Good,” he muttered. “That’s good.”

“It’s...good I got shot?” Ren asked, and Iwai couldn’t even begin to fathom what sort of thoughts and feelings were behind the laugh that leaked from his lips.

Not what Iwai had meant, though. He gave Ren a look as he tore the rest of the sleeve away and tied it around the wound. Just temporary. “Well, it DOES mean you scared this guy enough or took a big enough gouge out of his pride that he thought he had to use a gun to get you down.”

That, of all things, made Ren smile. Cocky kid.

Iwai hid their attackers behind the old worn-out bikes in front of his shop. Once the store was cleared out and Iwai made sure that no one was coming to check out that sound of that shot, he brought Ren inside and made him sit behind the register. The kid was still a little shaky and Iwai was pretty sure that once he had time to process what just happened, he would probably be a mess. For the second time in a week, he got out the first aid kit. “Before you came along I used this thing maybe once a year. Gonna charge you for a new one if you start using up all my supplies.”

“Sorry,” Ren said, fingers prodding near the wound. “Next time I’ll get shot somewhere else.”

“Good thinking. Alright, let me see it.”

He untied the sleeve and let it drop the to the ground. The bleeding had staunched a little, which was good. But still…” You want me to take you to a hospital?”

“No,” Ren, said, suddenly on edge. “No, no...too many questions at a hospital.”

The similarity to something Iwai himself had said to a friend, a long time ago - a lifetime ago - was almost enough to knock the wind from his lungs. He turned the sound into a laugh. “How many secrets can a kid your age have?”

“One for every year, it feels like.” Ren let him clean the wound and blood around it the best he could. “If we go to a hospital, they’ll know a bullet wound, they’ll call the cops, and if the cops find out I was near real weapons...let’s just say, probation turns to jail time real quick.”

Iwai’s eyebrows shot up so quickly that they nearly disappeared under his hat. “You? Holy shit, Ren. You’re a wild ride.”

Iwai worked steadily to do what he could for the wound. The responsible adult in him screamed ‘Take the kid to a hospital!' The wild part of him, from long ago, told him that this kid was going places. But it was the yakuza part of him that took over, the part that said you never rat out a brother, you help him on his terms, you don’t break his trust. He got Ren’s arm as clean as he could, then doused the wound in something green and anti-septic. Ren hissed at that and tensed, but otherwise took it well. The wound, once it was clean, was in even better shape than he thought before. No stitches, just a jagged cut that might mean a scar later. But Iwai saw thick scars on the Ren’s arms and wrists already, and had a feeling that adding one more wasn’t going to be the end of his world.

He took care to wrap the wound gently enough to avoid pain, but tightly enough that the last of the gauze-like bandages from his kit would be able to do their job. Iwai sealed the end with an X of white medical tape then looked into his eyes. “You’re gonna be fine, kid.”

“Yeah, Akira said. “Fine.”

But Iwai saw that look in his eyes. There was a storm brewing inside that kid, and Iwai was going to keep him there until it was over. Iwai left out the back way of the store and got them dinner, called Kaoru and sent dinner home to him as well. Maybe the time alone would jump-start the freak out this kid was bound to have. It didn’t matter how tough you were, or whatever other shit you had been through in your life.

No one reacts well the first time they get shot. Iwai himself had thrown up and slept for 24 hours.

He sat with Ren as they ate, pretty quiet, meals the same shade of blue-grey in the dim lights on the shop. At first, he thought Ren was eating with his right arm at his side because of the pain. But when Iwai moved around to grab some napkins, he could see that Ren was holding something clenched in his hand.

“What ya got there?”

Ren looked down, not even seeming to realize that he was holding something. “Oh.” He gingerly put it on the counter. A folding knife. “Leopard print had it. He cut me with it last time, too.”

Iwai shook his head, and was about to respond when Ren’s hand formed a fist on the counter. “He could have killed me.”

There was no answer for that.

“He could have killed me over something as stupid as money. He could have come after you, or Kaoru, or any of my friends, for money.” Ren dropped his gaze to look at his knees. “Holy shit, I was stupid to think it would go away on it’s own. I’m usually not that fu-”

“Don’t start that,” Iwai said. “If you’re gonna freak out, if you’re gonna throw up, if you’re gonna cry, fine. But don’t start holding all that responsibility for other people’s shitty choices on your shoulders. If you start doing that, you never stop.”

He thought of Tsuda and took a breath. “So what’s it gonna be?”

Ren looked at him, then leaned back in his chair and put his hand over his eyes. “This is so stupid. I use all sorts of weapons every day as a Phantom g-goddamn Thief, and one gunshot wound gets me like this?”

His voice was thick with tears, and Iwai was honestly relieved. Better to let out whatever bullshit was going on inside then hold onto it until it destroyed him. He sat by and let Ren cry, let him hide behind his hand. That was all that there was left for Iwai to do, anyways.

But when Ren leaned forward and put his head between his knees, Iwai knew that some dam had burst and everything his kid - Phantom Thief, under probation - was holding on to was ready to come out. He didn’t want to disturb him, didn’t want Ren to think that he had to contain himself, but Iwai couldn’t let this kid suffer alone.

“Hey,” he said, sliding out of his seat. When Ren looked up, Iwai took his protective earmuffs off and slid the hat off. He placed the hat on Ren’s head, brim pulled down low over his eyes. The earmuffs, he readjusted a little bit and clamped over Ren’s ears. They blocked out all sounds and would leave Ren with some semblance of privacy.

Iwai stepped back, but suddenly a hand was holding his jacket. Ren was looking down now, but he had the hem of Iwai’s jacket in a vice grip. He pushed himself forward and the wheeled chair propelled him just a couple inches. Iwai was wary, but let the kid throw his arms around him. Iwai didn’t think he had been this close to anyone in a long time, but he wasn’t about to push him away. Ren buried his face in Iwai’s stomach, arms tight around his middle. He was crying in a way Iwai hadn’t in years, but he remembered the feeling. Helpless. Hopeless. Vulnerable.

The shittiest feeling in the world. Iwai put his hand on the back of Ren’s head and let him cry it out. Tomorrow, when it was light out, when this all seemed grey and distant, when Ren was safe in school or at home...Iwai was going to make sure that he didn’t have to worry about those thugs ever again. He hated guys like that, who had huge egos and lost it when they popped, who took on only people they thought they could beat, who took advantage of people. They deserved to be knocked down a peg, and Iwai would make sure it happened.

He still had connections, after all.

[horrible-on-main]

The psyker is on the floor, twitching. She can tell he’s the psyker they’re looking for, because his skin is still visibly sparking off into the air. “Jan, cover me,” Ariadne instructs grimly, approaching. “Everyone else, forward. Time’s a-wasting.”

This bit is like shoving her hands into a wild animal’s cage, but there’s no time to lose. Pity she doesn’t have 068 and his soul-sight to hand to tell her if the guy’s freaking possessed or not. A more highly strung team might just shoot the psyker and call it better safe than sorry... but Evelyn would have her head for wasting Imperial resources like that. She’s here to either return this guy to his posting or claim him as an Inquisitorial asset. Hopefully he doesn’t need putting down. She nudges the prone man with a boot - just barely at first, then more sharply. The second one gets a bit of a whimper. “Anyone alive in there?”

She gets no answer, but she also doesn’t get her face torn off. So she kneels down and flips the psyker onto his back. She’s glad of the mesh gloves that protect her from the residual sparks. He makes a choked keening sound at the movement, then falls quiet again. His hands are cuffed in front of him. His eyes are wide and unseeing. There’s blood on his face around the nose and mouth, and plenty of bruising. The poor thing looks terrified. “Hey.” She claps her hands above his face. “Can you hear me?” The response is incoherent, but it is a response, and it sounds a lot like an attempt at pleading. His eyes move, not quite focusing.

“Hush,” she tells him firmly. “You’re in safe hands. Keep your mind closed and don’t manifest, and we’re all good.” As she talks, she grabs the closest arm and runs her hands down it carefully, feeling the bones through the flesh. “I’m just going to check you for injuries.” And mutations. She doesn’t want him dying on her, but more importantly she doesn’t want him turning into a horrible monster. “I’m not trying to hurt you. Calm now, I’m going to get you out of here soon. Hush, hush.”

The hands she can check visually. The long bones she checks by touch, arms then legs, then the neck, the ribcage, the gut. No time to pull off shoes and check his feet - anything minor enough to leave the shoes intact she doesn’t really care about anyway. He whimpers and moans under her touch, and every time she finds a broken bone there are louder objections and more sobbed half-words. Some of it sounds like pleading, some of it like demands. She ignores it either way, keeping up the steady litany of firm reassurance. “You’re safe, don’t panic. I’m just checking your injuries. I’ll be done soon, then I’ll take my hands off you. Hush now, quiet down. You’re in safe hands.”

There’s a gunshot from up ahead - las from the sound - and raised voices. She can pick out her squad’s voices and those opposing, but she can’t make out any words. She doesn’t need to to hear the anger and tension. She itches to be there, but the psyker is higher priority and it’s not like she’s dilly-dallying here. And the troopers don’t need her.

The psyker whimpers a lot when she checks his skull and face, eyes tracking her hands fearfully - or trying to, at least. It’s more fear than pain, and she idly wonders what’s been done to him that he’s so worried about having his head touched. There’s a nasty bump on the left side, which might go a way towards explaining the incoherence. The eyes are a little bloodshot, but the colour looks natural and there’s nothing weird behind the pupils that she can see. His mouth is dry and bloodied - a couple of teeth broken, a couple more recently missing... The tongue looks swollen, which is a little odd, but nothing to be deeply concerned about. He seems clean, if hurt. Again, she wishes she had Tacitus to hand. But she won’t miss him if it comes to shooting, panicky liability that he is.

“I’m going to turn you onto your side now. It’s going to hurt but you’ll breathe a little easier, so don’t fight me. That’s right.” She rolls him onto the side where she could feel the ribs move under her hands. He’s still compliant, if a little noisy. “Hush, hush. Good psyker, nearly done.” She hikes his shirt up curiously before running her hands down his back. As she suspected, there are bruises layered over bruises. His file didn’t suggest any tendency to non-compliance. Her frown deepens.

“That’s it,” she tells him, “All done. I’m going to leave you with this storm trooper now, and I’ll come back for you shortly. Then we’ll get you to a medic for those breaks. You’re going to stay right where you are. Don’t move. Don’t try anything. Absolutely don’t manifest. There’s a gun pointed at you. Stay still and wait. Do you understand me?” The noise he makes in response isn’t really coherent enough to trust. “I can’t hear you. Do you understand?” A more firmly affirmative noise, and he nods his head a little. “Good. Keep still, and no one’s going to hurt you.”

She nods to Jan as she stands up, and the woman steps a little bit closer to train her rifle on the prone man. Better safe than sorry. Ariadne wishes she could take better precautions, but this will have to do for now.

By the time she reaches the kerfuffle, it’s all sorted. There’s a half-armoured thug out on the floor, and another two sullenly on their knees with their hands behind their heads. A couple of soldiers have just finished patting them down for concealed weapons. Ariadne recognises one as Resiah, and smiles grimly. “Decker, cover Jan for me.” She nods back that way. Decker nods and jumps to it. Two watchers are a little safer than one, at least.

The prisoners’ hands are promptly cuffed behind their backs, and they are shoved to the floor. Ariadne lets it happen before stalking over and ordering “Get her back up on her knees.” The criminal woman doesn’t look happy to be hauled back up. Especially with a hand on the back of her flak jacket keeping her restrained. “Resiah.” Ariadne smiles. “Has your latest acquisition been giving you trouble?”

The woman turns her head sideways and spits on the floor. “Filthy lil witch dun wanna perform.” “Really,” she drawls. “Well, you fixed that problem. I think the whole block saw the results you got.” “Lil fucker brought ya right to us, huh?” “Mm. I suppose that’s why you kicked the shit out of him, hm?” “Kicked im? I damn near shot im. Tha’s whatcha do wit janky witches, right?” “So why didn’t you?” “Well e was already on the floor an din’t seem to be glowin or frothin or nothin. Woulda, if e’d moved or tried enthin.” “Mmhm.”

There’s a lot of breaks and sprains for a single beating. And the fresh reddening marks she saw were overlaid on blue-and-purple bruising, and those in turn over fading green-and-yellow. “You’ve been kicking him a lot.” “Yeah, an?” “He was refusing to use his powers for you?” “Oh, yeah, whiny lil fucker...” Her tone is too casual. As if the refusal was a secondary reason. “Allays whingin too-much, or wrong-time, like e ain’t jus a thing to be used. Dirty witch.” Suspicions solidify into cold anger. But Ariadne keeps her tone light, pseudo-friendly. “So you’re telling me he did manifest for you, but he kept trying to stop?” “Yeah, s’about right, why?”

Instead of answering, Ariadne kicks Resiah in the teeth. She reels, blinking in shock. “You feckless, water-brained idiot,” Ariadne hisses. “You’re damn lucky you aren’t inside-out right now!” “Ow, wha??” Ariadne meets the eyes of the guy holding the back of the woman’s collar and nods downwards. She’s promptly thrown to the floor, and Ariadne puts a boot on the side of her face to make sure she doesn’t think about trying to get back up. “Do you have any freaking clue how dangerous that creature is?” “Ow, ey, yeah I--” “And you thought it was a good idea to push him past his limits when he was telling you he’d done too much?” “Ey! We was careful!” “Oh? Do share.” “We ad guns on im the ole time, kicked im erry time e did enthin funny, din’t stop til e stopped--” “And you beat him when he was too tardy about it too, hm?” “Well, yeah--” Ariadne cuts her off with another kick. She’s not sure if she breaks the idiot’s nose, but it certainly starts streaming blood. “You think people work better when you kick the hell out of them, do you?” She punctuates her words with more kicks, delivered now to the ribs. “Like this, huh?”

She lets up when the prisoner stops trying to talk and starts just plain howling. The storm trooper puts a boot on her back to keep her from moving as Ariadne crouches down beside her face. She’s panting, face bloodied, eyes wide. “You think you get someone’s best when they’re out of their mind with fear, huh? You think you can fix panic and exhaustion by applying more pain? Well. I have some questions for you, Resiah. And I’m going to teach you a thing or two about motivation while we’re at it.”

[demonsonthemoon]

Despite The Odds (We Keep On Breathing)

Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe Pairings: Sam/Bucky (platonic, there’s kissing though) Word Count: 3793 Summary: Sam didn't really know why Bucky stayed with him, after. Turned out he was pretty okay when he wasn't brainwashed and hellbent on killing him. Turned out Sam trusted him. Turned out maybe they could help each other. Note: This was written for Aggressively Arospec Week 2019. Basically I wanted to explore what trauma can mean for your sense of self/how you identify. I'm not in any way a specialist on anything relating to mental health, so take this with a pinch of salt I guess. Also it's my first time writing from Sam's POV! Woop! Featuring caedromantic!Bucky

Also available on AO3.

Sam didn't really know why Bucky stayed with him, after.

Maybe he thought that making sarcastic remarks at each other for months on end because they might be on the run together but they didn't have to like it was a form of bonding.

Maybe he thought they could help each other through the shared trauma of being left behind by their best friend right after having been brought back to life.

Maybe he didn't have anywhere else to go.

Maybe he didn't have anyone else to be other than Captain America's shadow.

Whatever the reason, the fact of the matter was that Bucky Barnes was following him around a whole lot. And, at this point, Sam felt like it was probably too late to ask why.

The thing was, it wasn't bad. Taking up the mantle/shield of Captain America meant that his life was on the line even more often than it used to be, and having someone watching out for him was invaluable. And the fact that it was Bucky Barnes doing the watching... Well, it turned out that that wasn't so bad either. Turned out the guy was pretty okay when he wasn't brainwashed and hellbent on killing him.

Sam didn't know everything that had happened to him, but he knew enough. And he knew it was a lot. And despite all of that, Bucky had turned into a mostly quiet man, one who got too sarcastic when he was either in a great or a terrible mood. He had been used as a weapon and killed dozens of people, and know he had a small smile he reserved for flowers peeking through concrete and dogs who tried to sniff him. It seemed to Sam that something had settled into him during his time in Wakanda. It was a fragile equilibrium, he knew that. That's always what it was. But he also thought it was probably much more than Bucky had let himself hope for.

Maybe Sam was projecting onto Bucky a little bit. Or maybe a lot. Sam was an adult, he could admit it to himself. Inhale, exhale, there you go. He was glad that Bucky was there with him. Because his own equilibrium was not so much fragile as holding on through duct tape and prayers. It was just... superheroing was lonely work. It didn't come with an adjustment period, and it was definitely not the kind of job where you could call in sick on bad mental health days. Sam wasn't living the kind of life where he had time to mourn. He also wasn't living the kind of life that could help him forget.

So, yeah. He was glad Bucky was there with him. He was glad someone was there to remember. Even when the guy was being an asshole.

“For fuck's sake! I told you to stop doing that!” Sam groaned, pushing aside the man he had just punched in the face and stepping over the one who had been shot by a bullet which had flown exactly a handspan away from Sam's cheek.

“I told you not to move,” Bucky said over their comm system, sounding totally unrepentant.

“Yeah, while a guy was trying to kick my knee in. It's not like I had much of a choice.”

He kept moving as he talked, shield held up in front of him in case of gunfire. There was always gunfire. Except when it was magic. Sam much prefered the gunfire to magic.

He kept moving, knocking a few more people unconscious and shooting one in the leg. It wasn't because he had picked up Steve's shield that he had to pick up his stupid habit of never carrying a gun.

He had finally reached the room where hostages were being held, and from what he could hear, the people inside had noticed something was wrong. That wasn't good. It meant they would be prepared for him, which usually meant a lot of gunfire.

“Gonna need some help here,” Sam said into his comms, voice low.

“You always do,” came Bucky's reply. Sam rolled his eyes. He had no idea why Bucky was in such a good mood when they were fighting terrorists. The guy was weird.

He also hadn't given him any information on what form his backup would take, but the sound of a window breaking was as good a sign as any that Sam should kick in the door and punch anything that looked like it wanted to kill him.

By the time he went to untie the hostages, his hands were shaking from the adrenaline. He could feel a dozen bruises starting to form all over his body, but right now the pain was an easily ignored buzz. He did his best to smile in a non-threatening way and reassure everyone that they were safe.

As usual, Bucky hung back for this part. By now, most civilians recognized Sam's uniform immediately, although there had been a transition period where a lot of people had awkward questions about Captain America turning black and sprouting wings. But Bucky was much less of a public figure, and his dark-coloured tac gear didn't exactly made him inviting. That, and Bucky was always on high alert after a fight. There was a stillness to him that was all concentration and held-back power. Sam used to be afraid of it too, so he knew what those civilians were feeling. Although, nowadays, he had to admit it was one of the few things that made him feel safe.

Going on missions together all across the world meant staying in hotels with very thin walls, and Bucky had a supersoldier's hearing, so it really was no surprise to hear a knock on the door after Sam had woken up from a nightmare that had launched him right into a panic attack.

“You can come in,” Sam struggled to say over his ragged breathing. Fuck, he hated nightmares. He nearly never got panic attacks during the day anymore, knew a dozen tricks to force himself to relax before they fully developed. But his sleeping self never remembered any of them, not when he was faced with conflated images of Steve stepping back in time and Riley falling from the sky and himself always helpless and left behind.

Bucky stepped into the room. The cold efficiency of his fighting mode – Sam did his best not to call it the Winter Soldier mode, not even jokingly – had disappeared. Instead, Sam was faced by a man in a soft white shirt and sweatpants, mussed hair falling over his face. The first time this had happened he had held himself small, light on his feet. Ready to bolt, but still making the effort to offer his help. Sam had been more touched by that than he had ever been able to express.

That night he was less tense. He knew this was allowed now. He knew this was welcome. Needed, maybe, though Sam had yet to admit that.

“Do you want to talk?” Bucky asked softly. “Or should I just keep watch?”

Sam didn't like being alone after nightmares. It didn't help that the new ones had abandonment trauma spelled out all over them. Sometimes just having Bucky stay in the room was enough for him to fall back asleep, knowing he wasn't alone, knowing he was safe. Bucky didn't sleep a lot. Didn't need to.

“Have to calm down first,” Sam replied. His breathing was beginning to deepen, a little, but it still wasn't comfortable. He could feel a headache starting. Panic attacks were the worst, because they made him even more tired than he already was from lack of sleep. Fuck.

Bucky pulled the chair out from under the desk in a corner of the room and sat down. It should have been weird, Sam sitting in bed, knees drawn up, head resting on his crossed arms, struggling to breathe, and Bucky watching him. But there was no judgment in Bucky's gaze. No pity, no overbearing concern. Just a quiet acknowledgment of Sam's presence and of his struggle, and Sam didn't know how he had managed without it all this time.

Slowly, Sam got his breathing back under control. He could still feel his heart beating fast and his head pounding in the same rhythm. He looked up.

Bucky was still there, watching him with the same soft and neutral expression. Sam felt something twist in his chest.

“You'd figured it out, hadn't you?” he let out, too tired to filter his thoughts.

Bucky twitched slightly, which was his equivalent of jumping in surprise, Sam figured. He probably hadn't expected the accusatory tone in Sam's voice. The accusation wasn't directed at him though. Not at all.

Sam ran a hand across his face. He'd started this, and he needed to see it through. Seeing from his nightmares, this unresolved business wasn't going to let go of him any time soon if he kept ignoring it.

“When Steve...” he hated the way his voice still caught on the name. Like he had died a death too horrible to speak of. (Like Riley.) But he hadn't. He had made his choice. He had lived his life. A good one. (Maybe better for them not being in it.) “... left. When he left, you said... You said 'I'll miss you.'”

Bucky's face was still neutral, but it had lost some of its softness.

“He was supposed to be gone for seconds. Only seconds. And when he came back... You weren't surprised, were you?”

Bucky turned his head to the side. His hair partly hid him from Sam's view. Bucky didn't let himself show negative emotions.

“Fuck, Bucky, I'm sorry, I didn't...” Sam hesitated before pushing his duvet to the side and moving forward so he could sit on the edge of the bed, facing the other man.

Bucky always asked him what he needed, but Sam had never offered the same. Bucky always looked like he would refuse. Now Sam hesitated, wanting to reach out a hand and not daring to. Staying within arm's length was his best bet, giving Bucky the opportunity to cross the gap if he wanted to.

The other man took a deep breath and turned back towards him. “Nothing to apologize for,” he said, voice flat. “You didn't do anything.

“Yeah, but I shouldn't have...” Sam started. Shouldn't have what? Hadn't he admitted just a minute ago that he needed to stop repressing all this? “Shouldn't have said it like that.”

Bucky shrugged. “You weren't wrong.”

His shoulders were hunched forward, a habit Bucky had caught to make himself look smaller, less threatening. It made him lean slightly into Sam's space. Sam tried not to read anything into that, but he had hopes.

“I... suspected. I didn't want to be right, but well.” He looked up into Sam's eyes. His gaze was intense. Focused. Dangerous.

It was the gaze of a hurt animal waiting for its chance to run.

“He wasn't the same anymore.”

There's so much that's left unsaid behind those words. How they're not the same either. How Steve hadn't been the Brooklyn kid Bucky remembered in a long time. How much it hurt that despite all of their effort none of them could go back to the way things used to be.

Steve had gone back in time, sure, but it had just been to a different future. Sam wondered, a bit cruelly, if he'd ever missed the past that Sam and Bucky had become to him.

“You should sleep,” Sam said. He stood up and put a hand forward, waiting for Bucky to carefully take it before he pulled him to his feet. Bucky didn't hesitate when Sam tugged him towards his own bed.

Sam didn't let himself think about it long enough to hesitate either.

When he woke up, Sam found Bucky's arm flung across his waist and one of his legs tangled in between Sam's. When he turned his head, Bucky's eyes were still closed, although Sam felt him move just the tiniest bit, as if trying not to let it show that he was already awake.

Sam found he was okay with that. If it meant they could stay like this a while longer, he was fine with letting Bucky pretend as long as he wanted to.

It was human, after all. Most people needed physical contact, preferably some that didn't come from punches and chokeholds.

Sam was only human himself. He felt warmth spread through his body and tension fade away as he let himself melt back into a half-doze.

He knew he and Bucky trusted each other. They had to, to fight together like they did. They had to, if Bucky was going to stand watch over Sam on the days he got nightmares. But this felt like another sort of trust. This was skin on skin, but without the sweat and the blood. Vulnerability without open wounds.

This felt too damn good, and for once Sam could tell himself he wanted it enough not to listen to the voice saying it was something he didn't deserve.

So, after a minute, he opened his eyes and said “Good morning.”

Bucky opened his eyes as well, looking back at him. “Good morning.” He immediately started untangling his legs from Sam's. The movement had a controlled languor to it. It was trying too hard not to draw attention to itself.

Sam caught Bucky's right hand between his, and brought it to his lips. “Don't,” he whispered against the fingers.

Bucky froze at that. Sam had gotten pretty good at reacting quickly, what with all the getting shot at he was doing this day, so it only took that half second for panic to settle throughout his body and for him to let go of his grip.

But Bucky didn't move away. He didn't punch Sam in the face nor broke his wrist, which was a relief. Instead, he drew in a breath, and then carefully ran his thumb along the length of Sam's lower lip.

That was... a thing. A thing that... did things. To Sam.

In that moment, he realized how long it had been since he'd dated anyone or even had a casual hook-up. The constant traveling and self-endangerment that formed the core of superheroing weren't conclusive to long-term relationships, and the chance to be recognized in a club and either kidnapped or assaulted by fans was high enough to make him stay away from them.

But right then, someone was touching his lips, and that someone was safe. That someone knew who he was, knew a big part of what he'd gone through, had gone through worse, and was still here and touching him like he was a tiny bird about to fly away.

Sam opened his mouth. Bucky did the same thing, surprise on his face, his finger still resting against Sam's lip.

Sam's entire body was one tense line, thrumming with too many emotions at once. The one that ended up resonating the loudest was very simple.

He didn't want this moment to leave him behind.

Sam would have very dramatically smashed his mouth against Bucky's if he could have, but the fact that they were both still lying on their side made the manoeuvring a little more difficult than that. In the end, they met in a soft press of lips that seemed to surprise Bucky even has he leaned forward to welcome it. His hand settled carefully on the back of Sam's neck.

Sam closed his eyes.

If he'd been asked, Sam wouldn't have thought kissing Bucky Barnes would be this way. Not that he had ever considered it. … Or at least not seriously.

But this was nice, if unexpected. Slow and careful movements, warm with the edge of sleep, too soft for Sam to hold back a sigh.

Bucky pulled away first. Then Sam opened his eyes once more.

He didn't know what he had expected the look on Bucky's face to be, but this wasn't it. This was much too neutral to his taste.

“I'm sorry,” Bucky said.

Those words were enough to make cold run through Sam's body, extinguishing everything else he'd been feeling until then. How could Bucky have misunderstood the situation enough to be apologizing to Sam?

“You've got nothing to be sorry for,” he replied, imitating the other man and sitting up. There was now a gap between the two of them, some sort of security distance that Sam felt like a tear in his own chest. Fuck, he hadn't known how badly he had been craving this kind of contact.

Bucky pulled up his knees and wrapped his arms around it. His face wasn't as much neutral anymore as tired. The kind of exhaustion that went much beyond the physical. After all, he didn't need much sleep anymore.

“I can't do this,” Bucky said, looking away.

Sam concentrated on taking long and deep breaths. He couldn't panic now. He had maybe fucked things up with the only person he trusted, he couldn't afford to panic. This wasn't about him, and he was not going to make things worse.

“What? What can't you do?”

“I don't know. Relationships. Stuff. Flirting. Fucking. Anything. I can't do anything, I just...”

“Hey,” Sam started, trying to find that perfect balance between forceful and soft. He waited for Bucky to look up before he continued. “Don't say you can't do anything. You save my life on a weekly basis, that has to be worth something.”

He had hoped for a weak chuckle from that, would have settled for a sigh, but was only met with silence. Tough crowd. Sam had had some of those before.

“Why do you mean when you say you can't do those things? That you're not allowed or that you're not able to? Or something else?”

“I don't know. It doesn't feel the same way. I don't want it the same way. I don't want it.”

Another jolt of pure cold. Bucky hadn't wanted it.

Despite everything Sam told himself about needing not to panic, something must have shown in his eyes. Sam actually felt pretty good that his poker face wasn't yet good enough to hide the horror he felt at having been well on his way to raping someone.

“Fuck, no. I didn't mean it like that. I did want that. I liked it. You must have felt that I liked it, right?”

“It's not that easy, man. Sometimes you're put in a situation, and the way your body reacts doesn't have anything to do with how you actually feel about it.”

“It wasn't like that! Fuck, sweetheart, it wasn't like that, I swear...”

Sam was feeling very confused right then. Also, relieved. But mostly confused, because Bucky had called him sweetheart before but only through at least five layers of irony. Never so... earnestly. And that had felt a lot like flirting. Which Sam was not going to think about because it was very inappropriate even if he probably hadn't physically violated his superheroing partner.

“Okay, good,” Sam replied, holding up his hands to show he believed Bucky. They were still sitting side by side on a bed. For some reason this made the conversation seem even weirder than it was. “That's good. What did you mean by not wanting it then?”

Bucky ran a hand through his hair. “It's weird. It's just... it's messed up. I'm messed up. I used to... I used to flirt with people all the time. I liked that. You feel that spark of attraction and you fan it, or something. It felt good. But I don't feel that anymore.”

“That's no reason to feel like you're messed up, you know. Loads of people don't like flirting or don't want to date. And kissing...” There Sam floundered a little, embarrassed. “Kissing doesn't have to be about sex. Sometimes you just need to touch someone. Sometimes it just feels nice.”

Bucky shook his head. “But I used to like it,” he insisted. There was something almost childish to his voice. Or maybe not childish. Maybe it was just innocent.

“I'm supposed to be... I know that's not how it works, but I'm supposed to be... fixed. Why can't I just...”

Bucky closed the fist of his prosthetic arm tightly. With his other hand, he covered half of his face. That was Bucky for you. Always showing you calm and control, despite the blizzard that must constantly be raging inside him.

“Hey,” Sam said softly. “Can I touch you?” He waited until Bucky nodded before slowly unfolding his prosthetic hand and sliding their fingers together. “You're right. That's not how it works. You went through a shitload of trauma, man. And the mental programming T'Challa's people took out of you was only the tip of the iceberg, right? But that's nothing to be ashamed of. Being a different person now than you were in the past is not something that has to be fixed. It's how humans work.”

“It was... It was so much easier to get better when I knew what I was supposed to be aiming for. When I was just gathering memories, trying to be someone...”

To be someone Steve knew, was the sentence Sam guessed hung between them. But Steve didn't need Bucky to be his old self anymore. Steve had enough memories to fill twice what Bucky had ever lost.

Steve had never managed to forget Peggy. Would Sam and Bucky ever forget him?

“Your past self isn't necessarily better, you know? I didn't know him, but I know you now. And I would say you're a pretty okay guy.”

Sam actually earned his chuckle this time, and he squeezed Bucky's hand in response.

“What you want or don't want... It's a big deal to some people. I get that. But it doesn't have to be. And sometime it changes. And that's okay. Sometimes it changes because of stuff that happens to you. And sometimes the stuff isn't okay. But the change is. Sometimes things change back to the way they were and sometimes they don't. There's no telling whether one or the other is any kind of recovery. And all of this doesn't have to be anything you define yourself by. But it can.”

Bucky sighed, letting himself fall back against the bed's headboard. “I guess I'm lucky the new Captain America has a degree in psychology.”

Sam let out a quick laugh. “Nah. This isn't anything I learned in class. You're just lucky I care about you.”

“Yeah, actually. I am.”

Bucky squeezed his hand, ever so softly, with fingers that could tear a door off its hinges in a second, and Sam thought:

I am too.

[quinzelade]

Making One’s Bones (chpt 3)

Chapter List

--

Porter Gage is in a pickle. Nuka-World needed a new boss and some woman just killed her way to the top. But a pre-war Mafia boss on the theme park's throne? Well...at least she'll have experience.

--

Domesticity

--

“Hey, it's your main man RedEye here, sending out some big congratulations to our brand new Overboss! That's right—if you haven't heard, Colter is toast! He's worm-food!”

Gage peered out of the window for what felt like the thousandth time that night, only half listening to RedEye’s voice blaring out of the radio in the background. He scowled as he caught himself doing it again, staring down onto the makeshift fortress that was Nuka Town. He was acting like the boss's mother, checking if she was back safe.

“—can't wait to see what our new leader has planned. At least...can't be any worse than Colter, right? Right?”

Gage knew his concern lay solely with his own neck—if the plan failed again, he was a dead man—but he was still irritated with himself. He stomped across the room, turned the radio off, and dropped heavily into a nearby armchair. It creaked under his weight, but held, and he folded his arms, glaring at the nearby door.

Any second now she’d walk in like he’d told her to. Tell him she didn’t fuck up everything up, that she was staying to sort this place out. Not that there would have been anything to sort out if Colter had just stuck to the fucking plan in the first place. Nuka World: an unstoppable force ready to take over the wasteland.

Trust Colter to fuck it all up.

Well, Gage thought idly, crossing his legs and then uncrossing them again. Not like he’s a problem anymore.

It surprised him how little he felt over the matter, but Gage supposed he’d made his peace with the situation a long time ago—anger was a hell of a stimulant after all, and Colter had brought this place to the very edge. Even now it might be beyond saving, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t try with the new boss...if she ever returned.

Gage closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. She’d bailed the second his back was turned. It was the only explanation for her absence, and meant he was a dead man.

He glanced up as the door opened, half expecting to see Nisha and the other bosses at threshold, ready to slice his guts out. Instead, there stood Bossanova, looking just as revolting, but with a drying stain of blood on her clothes. In her arms was a bundle made of plastic sheeting, tied up with old rope.

Gage jumped to his feet. “Where the fuck have you been? I told you to meet me here!”

Bossanova raised her eyebrow at him—or where her eyebrow would have been, if she had any—and regarded him like a back-talking slave. “I give the orders, Gage, not you. Do you have any eggs?”

“I—what?” Her question caught him off guard. “Yeah, in the cupboard. Mirelurk.” He stared at her as she dumped her parcel on the floor, walked over to where he’d pointed, and began rooting through. He was thoroughly unsettled now.

“I give the orders, not you.”

He’d heard a similar phrase from Colter, a counter to every bad decision he’d ever made, except coloured with a few choice swears. The words were enough to twist Gage’s stomach with rage. This was a mistake. This was a fucking mistake. She was another Colter, and he’d just put her straight into power like some fucking—

“Sit down,” came Bossanova’s voice, and Gage snapped back to reality. She was standing at an old counter, cracking a large egg into a pan set over a portable camping stove.

Gage stared at her as she worked, before finding his voice. “Where have you been?”

“Sit down,” she repeated.

Gage didn’t move. Finally, she turned her head and looked at him. It was a strange expression—not angry, or even threatening—but still a look that told him plainly he needed to sit his ass down right-fucking-now.

Gage sat.

“Thank you,” Bossanova said, smiling a little as she cooked. Gage had to admit whatever she was doing smelled good, and within minutes a hot plate of white mushy stuff was placed on the table in front of him with a mug of steaming coffee next to it. Still, Gage hesitated, glancing at the boss's withered hands, and she laughed, catching his eye as she splayed her fingers out to him.

“Nothing’s fallen off, I promise.”

Despite himself, Gage chuckled, but didn’t eat. She sat down opposite him, tucking into her own food, apparently oblivious to Gage’s lack of appetite.

“Boss,” he said after a few seconds, “Where have you—”

She raised a hand and he stopped, a surge of annoyance coursing through him. He rose up, clenching his fists, and snarled, “I’m not your fucking dog. Give me an answer!”

Slowly, she tilted her head up to face him, and smiled a benign smile. “I’ve been playing meet and greet with the leaders of this motley crew.”

Gage stared. “You...you already talked to them?” He had to credit her for initiative at least.

“Almost all of them. Didn’t get a chance with the Operators. Still, I thought it would be sensible to size them up, and offer the same opportunity.”

Damn right it was sensible, he thought. Maybe she wasn’t so bad a choice after all. 

Gage scowled. “You could have told me.” He tensed his jaw, aware he sounded like he was whining, but she would have saved him a whole lot of hassle by keeping him informed. “I’m here to help you. If I’m not in the loop—”

“You’re here to help yourself,” she replied, sipping her own coffee without breaking eye contact. “I picked up on enough in the arena. If I fail, you die. Which is why we’re having dinner. I want to know who I’m working with first.”

Gage snorted. “Raiders.”

She gave him another one of her odd looks, and slowly he sat down again. He didn’t know what to make of her. She was sharp and seemed to know the game, which was good. But the secrecy...Gage chewed on his tongue. That could get him killed.

“So...” Bossanova said after a moment. “I get the sense this little scheme, whatever it is, isn’t quite working out the way you wanted it to.”

Gage groaned, putting his head in his hands. “Understatement of the fucking century,” he muttered, his head pounding just thinking about the mess he’d been in for the last year.

“Tell me what went wrong.”

Gage rubbed his eye, suddenly feeling very tired. He hesitated, then let his hands fall into his lap. Shit, where to begin?

Gage leaned back in his chair, still ignoring the plate of food in front of him, while Bossanova regarding him with mild interest, waiting for him to speak while she slowly ate. He frowned, searching for the words, and then said, “You may have noticed our former Overboss, Colter, was a fuckin’ asshole.”

Bossanova’s cool demeanour slipped as she suddenly choked on a forkful of whatever she’d just put in her mouth. He watched her for a moment, perplexed. If Gage didn’t know better, he’d say she was trying not to laugh. The thought alone made him want to grin, but he fought back the urge, keeping his face blank. He had no intention of getting buddy-buddy with her.

Acting like he hadn’t noticed anything, Gage went on. “And that’s me being nice. Ended up being poison for the entire operation.”

“What operation?” Bossanova wheezed, still coughing a little.

Gage sighed, shaking his head. “Well...Christ, how do I explain this? Nuka World...shit, Nuka World was the dream.” He turned his head, staring out of the open windows wistfully, even though the town and the rolling landscape beyond was obscured by darkness. “A fortress with enough raiders to rule the region—best goddamn idea I ever had...and the riskiest.”

“Risky because of all the raiders?”

“Sorta. It’s not so much the numbers, but more what makes the numbers. We got three separate gangs in this place, as I’m sure you noticed when you went to play meet and greet without telling me.”

He couldn’t keep the resentment out of his voice, but Bossanova seemed unmoved. She nodded, pausing with her fork halfway to her lips. “The Disciples, Operators, and the Pack?”

“Yeah.” Gage ran a hand through the short mohawk that was his hair. “You also might have noticed the traders on your little detour around the park.”

“The ones wearing the slave collars?” Bossanova said. Her voice gave away no opinion on the presence of slaves, which Gage took to be a good sign. Most people who hated slaves got all high and mighty over it. He had a tendency to shoot such people.

“Yeah, those assholes,” Gage said. “They were the reason we needed three gangs in the first place. See, Nuka World used to be a trading hub, and the little bastards were dug in like ticks. Hired guns protectin’ them, with shitloads of ammunition and medicine to boot.” He grinned nastily. “But three gangs, man. Lotta raw firepower. We won in the end.”

Bossanova considered this. “But there were survivors?”

“Well, yeah. Someone has to do the shitty jobs we don’t want to. One of the perks of being a raider, see?” His smile widened. “Hence the collars. Any of them cause trouble, stray out of bounds—fuck, any of them just pisses one of us off and bang—they lose their heads.” Gage shifted in his seat. “‘Course, they ain’t too happy about the change in management, but screw ‘em.”

Bossanova perked a non-existent eyebrow. “So far so good then?”

“At the time. But once we’d stormed the gates...things went downhill fast.” Gage stared at a point somewhere over Bossanova’s shoulder, anger twisting in his stomach like bloatfly maggots. “Colter got lazy.”

“Ah.”

“He decided Nuka Town was more than enough for all the gangs—nevermind what he fuckin’ promised them,” Gage growled, the hot rage seeping upwards like bile. “I tried to tell him there ain’t enough room for three gangs in this one section of the park, but he wouldn’t listen—didn’t care that things were turning into a mess all around him.”

Bossanova’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of mess?”

Gage rubbed his forehead with his knuckle, the headache flaring up again. “It was little shit at first: heated tempers, arguments, the occasional shooting. Y’know, stuff you can laugh off over a beer afterwards.” Gage shrugged. “Got worse over time, though—people started finding excuses to turn on each other, and that’s when it really got nasty, even for raiders.” He lowered his hand and looked at her. “If somethin’ ain’t done soon, there might be no coming back from it.”

“You have three gangs under your control,” Bossanova said coolly, looking extremely unimpressed. “Get to it.”

Gage glared at her. “I ain’t got shit under my control—Colter did. And as I already said: lazy asshole.”

“Well now he’s gone. What’s stopping you?”

“Leading ain’t my thing,” Gage replied, shrugging. “Not got the presence. I prefer to...advise.”

Bossanova gave a mirthless laugh, her black eyes glittering. “Oh, I see. So you’re just going to paint the bullseye on my back instead?”

He bristled with indignation, sitting up straighter in his seat. “I’m just tellin’ you it how it is. Would you rather I bullshit you?”

She didn’t respond. Her attitude was starting to piss him off, but in all honesty, he couldn’t blame her. She’d been dragged into this without any choice. Then again, the fact she was comfortable giving a raider shit made him feel slightly hopeful about her competence.

Gage scowled at her for a moment longer, then settled back again. “I mean, yeah, I won’t lie...not making myself a target is part of the reason you won’t see me stepping up an’ runnin’ things, but not all of it. I got experience in gangs—the knowhow to keep us both alive. My talents are best put to use helping a new overboss get all this shit under control. You get me?”

“A raider with talents,” Bossanova said scathingly, forgetting her food for a moment and folding her arms. “Wonders never cease. What sort of talents would you say you have, Gage?”

He crossed his legs, staring her out. “Aside from being a good shot and having a foul mouth?”

The corners of her lips twitched.

“I've run with gangs nearly my whole life,” Gage went on. “I know how they think, what they're after. And I know how to use that to your advantage.”

“Tell me about the gangs,” Bossanova said, her tone business-like, her gaze sharp. Gage felt like he was being interrogated.

“Well…” Gage bit his lip, wondering how best to keep this short. “You’ve met them already, haven’t you?”

“I know, but I’d appreciate the insight, since it’s one of your talents.”

He shot her a withering look. She wanted information on them? Fine. “The gangs here ain’t nothin’ like the ones back in the wasteland. They’ve got strong leaders, they’re organised, and they all fuckin’ hate each other. Took a shitload of effort to stop them fightin’ for five seconds, never mind getting them all on board with the plan.

“The Disciples are run by Nisha—those are the crazy bastards wearing the masks. Love blood and violence—got a particular fondness for skinning people.” He suppressed a shudder, having witnessed Nisha’s handiwork far too often for his liking. “Nisha can have her reasonable moments...though that’s been less and less lately thanks to Colter’s bullshit.

“Then you've got the Operators, the guys with the suits under the armour—look a lot cleaner than everyone else. Spoiled rich kids, but doesn't mean they ain't ruthless killers. If you can impress Mags, she'll listen to you, and she knows how to rake in the caps.”

Bossanova nodded approvingly at this.

“And finally there’s the Pack. I'm not sayin' they're savages, but...well, shit.” Gage shook his head. “ They're savages. I don't know how Mason keeps them on a leash. They dress in bright colours and bones because they think it makes them look intimidating, like animals do or whatever.” He paused. “I think it makes them look fucking stupid.”

To his surprise, Bossanova laughed. She grinned at him. “Glad we agree on something.”

Her laughter rose his spirits a little. She had to cooperate for this to succeed—his life was on the line if she didn’t. Gage nodded. “All the gangs need is someone to lead them. You just gotta show 'em you're the right woman for the job.”

A long, uncomfortable silence followed these words.

“And why,” she replied slowly, her tone pleasant and yet somehow dangerous, “would I want to lead this disaster?”

Shit.

“Well, why not?” A jolt of panic shot through him. She’d seemed interested a second ago, even warming to the idea. “Just give it a chance, okay? You might even have a little fun.”

“Fun?”

“Oh come on.” He stared at her in disbelief. Maybe she wasn’t cut out for this after all, otherwise she wouldn’t be asking such a stupid goddamn question. “You take whatever you want, from whoever you want. Anybody has a problem with that, you cut 'em down. You telling me that doesn't sound like even just a little bit of fun to you?”

Bossanova pressed her lips together as if trying to stop herself laughing again. After a second, she allowed herself a small smile. “A little.”

Gage disguised his sigh of relief with a chuckle, his heart still beating nervously. “At any rate, if you leave now, that won’t go down so well. But if you’re gonna trust me on anything, trust me on this: I’m in it just as much as you are. There's already some blamin' me for supporting Colter all this time, including Nisha. This shit needs to work out, because if it don’t, both of our heads are gonna be on sticks. I like my head where it is and I intend to keep it there. You get me?”

Bossanova said nothing. She stared intently at him, making Gage feel like he was being analysed somehow. He was half expecting her to go back to communicating through taps.

After a few long seconds, he tried again. “So, what's it gonna be? We doing this together or not?”

She studied him a moment longer and then said, “So you’re that desperate you’re willing to place all your bets on the first waster that comes along?”

Gage raised his eyebrow. “You saw all those bodies in the Gauntlet, right?”

Bossanova nodded.

“Well then. Pretty obvious you ain’t the first. Lotta folks got fed to the Gauntlet and the arena—but the difference is you were the only one to make it out alive. Way I see it, surviving means you got what it takes. Or at least the potential. We need someone who can get shit done. Make real progress. That’s you.”

“I see.”

Bossanova returned to her plate of food and silence reigned.

Gage stared at her. He had the strange feeling he’d just passed some sort of initiation—as though all of her questions had served to size him up, to see if he was suitable for his position. But that was ridiculous. Nuka World was his idea. She couldn’t run the place without him.

More to give himself something to do, Gage pulled his own plate towards him, poked it awkwardly with his fork, and began to eat. Turned out it was still just egg, even if it looked like shit, but she’d done something to make it taste...different. Most likely the reason was ‘not being burnt to a crisp,’ but he suspected she’d added something too. Hopefully not poison.

Gage considered this for a moment and then shrugged. If she was trying to kill him, at least it tasted good. He continued to eat. Out of the corner of his eye, Gage saw her wince, but he didn’t care. Raiders weren’t known for their table manners.

“This is fine food,” Gage said with his mouth full, spraying egg everywhere, before swallowing and then picking up his coffee, slurping noisily from the mug. 

“I’ve had a couple of centuries to practice,” she replied delicately, setting her fork down onto her empty plate and watching Gage eat with an expression of alarm.

“Pre-war?” he asked, deciding to play along for now. She needed him whether she believed it or not. Otherwise, she’d end up like Colter.

“Yes, pre-war. I used to run a gang of my own before the bombs fell.”

“Oh yeah?” Now this piqued Gage’s interest, He’d heard of pre-war raiders, but no one who really ran with them. Shovelling the rest of his meal into his mouth, he looked up at the boss and said, “What was that like?”

Bossanova pursed her lips, drawing them up to her nose cavity as her brow furrowed, her cheeks moving from side to side. It took Gage a moment to realise she was wrinkling her nose—except she didn’t have one anymore. She flicked a piece of wayward egg off her arm, before leaning forward with a smile. “Back in my day, there was a bigger law presence. If you got caught, you could be locked away for the rest of your life. No hope of escape. Maybe even execution. So everything we did, we did it subtle. I intend to run things similar here.”

Gage burped and leaned back in his seat, coffee cup to hand. He’d visited enough cities to have an idea of what she was talking about. It was the reason most raiders stuck to smaller settlements. “The others won’t appreciate a quiet life, boss. You don’t give them what they want, they’ll kill you.”

She rolled her eyes. “They’ll get their blood and power, and whatever other itch they need to scratch. But that’s all they’ll get, and they’ll probably thank me for it too. I'm aiming higher than Nuka World.”

Gage blinked, the coffee cup halfway to his mouth. He frowned and lowered it. “Don’t run before you walk, boss. You need to sort this place out first.”

For some reason, she seemed pleased with his response.

“I like the way you think,” Bossanova said, draining the last of her coffee, and looked at him with a slight crease in her brow. “I’ve never had much faith in raiders, but you seem...” She set the cup down, her eyes suddenly distant.

Whatever he seemed, Gage never found out, because the wooden lift outside the window rumbled to life, and ten seconds later, Nisha rose into view. Out of instinct, Gage picked up his gun as he rose to his feet.

“Oh, I forgot to mention,” Bossanova said lazily, “I invited Nisha for a quick meeting.”

Nisha paused, staring around the room, before spotting the empty plates. She gave a soft laugh. “Never took you for a ghoul fucker, Gage. Can’t say I’m surprised, though.”

Bossanova stood up too, her hand on the hilt of her sword as she smiled. “I want to talk to you about a young lady that followed me from your hideout.”

Nisha didn’t move, but her mouth thinned slightly. “What lady?”

“Tall; muscular. Wore your uniform, smelled like a diseased molerat.” Bossanova shrugged, while Gage felt a pang of unease. “I use the term ‘lady’ generously. She decided to attack me.” A pause. “Did you know about it?”

His stomach tightened as Nisha’s mouth thinned so much it disappeared. He’d expected some resistance, but this far already?

Nisha said nothing, giving a sharp shake of her head. Gage relaxed a little. He knew her well enough to see she was being truthful.

Bossanova’s smile no longer reached her eyes. “I returned the favour.” She bent down, not breaking eye contact with Nisha, and picked up the plastic sheeted bundle she’d brought back with her. For the first time, Gage noticed a dark liquid was dripping steadily out of it.

Ah fuck.

Bossanova tossed Nisha the bag, and Nisha caught it by the rope. She pulled out a knife—causing Gage to grip his gun just that little bit tighter—and cut the bonds free so she could peer inside.

There was a long, quiet moment. Then Nisha began to laugh. A true, hearty laugh. She glanced up at Bossanova, wearing a wicked grin. “Looks like our little overboss knows how to get her hands dirty.” She threw the bundle at Gage’s feet and said, “I didn’t send her. I’m not that stupid. Lower your damn gun.”

Gage ignored her but stole a quick glance at the package by his feet. A severed head had rolled out from the plastic wrappings. He blinked at it, and directed his gaze back to Nisha, lost for words.

Nisha, on the other hand, was not. She looked at him, the corners of her mouth teased into the meanest of smiles, and said, “Seems you might deserve a second chance.”

“No.”

It took Gage a second to realise who had spoken. Both he and Nisha turned to stare at the boss.

“I’m the one giving you a second chance,” Bossanova said, her hand gripping hard at her sword hilt. All benignity gone, her gaze was cold and hard. Gage bit the inside of his cheek to suppress his grin. “If you say you didn’t send anyone, then I’ll allow a free pass this once. But keep your people under control. Now get out.”

Nisha laughed again. It was hard to tell what she was really feeling under the helmet, but her smile looked genuine at least.

“So, Gage found someone with a pair of balls.” She gave a short nod and folded her arms. “Good. Maybe you’ll shape up after all.”

Bossanova didn’t reply. Nisha turned and left, still smirking to herself.

Gage waited until the rumble of the wooden platform faded before letting out a low chuckle. “Nice work, boss. She knows not to fuck with you now. Might even respect you for it.”

“Do you think she sent the assassin?”

Gage considered the question, then shook his head. “Nah. Nisha ain’t stupid, like she said. She’d kill you given half the chance, but only if there was somethin’ to gain. Ain’t nothin’ to gain killin’ you now, boss. If she thinks you aren’t working to her benefit though, that might change.”

Bossanova nodded but didn’t reply, her rigid, hostile stance deflating as she sank into a chair. Maybe it was the light, but she looked a little pale. Gage decided not to question it. What the fuck did he know about ghouls? Instead, he took advantage of her silence and quickly outlined the needs for the park. The power had to be brought back on, but before they could do that, there were other sections to be claimed, each dangerous in their own right.

When he finished, she just sat there, staring at the opposite wall. Gage frowned. “You listenin’, boss?”

“Yes,” she said, still not looking at him. “Sounds like a solid plan to me.”

“Then why you giving me the cold shoulder?” The accusation slipped out before he could stop it. Gage readied himself for the shit he was about to receive, but she simply shook her head and smiled.

“I was just...thinking.” She paused, and then said, “I noticed you didn’t put your weapon down during our little meeting with Nisha. Thank you for defending me.”

Gage shrugged. He couldn’t claim credit. “I was saving my own skin, boss.”

“I know you were. But I appreciate it all the same.”

Gage frowned. She sounded sincere, but why?

She seemed to know what he was thinking. “So long as I work to your benefit, you’ll keep me breathing.” Bossanova smiled. “I trust your need to stay on top, and I trust your judgement of the park, but I don’t trust you about anything else. It’s as good a place to start as any.”

He stared at her. None of what she’d just said made a lick of sense to him. “I’m extendin’ your life expectancy. What else is there?”

Bossanova shrugged. “Many things.” She stood up and walked over to the severed head, nudging it back into its plastic nest. Then she picked the whole thing up, strode over to the window, and threw it out. “My trust needs to be earned.” There was a distant thud, followed by a string of curse words and a splash. Bossanova looked at Gage. “Up to you if you want it.”

Annoyance rushed through him, but he bit it back. She was trying to be cryptic, and he wasn’t going to stop her. So long as she got the park up and running, he didn’t give a shit about anything else. He waited for her to sit down again and then asked, “So...how did meeting the bosses go?”

“Well enough,” Bossanova replied with a yawn. She stretched in her seat and met his eye. “Mags and her brother want money, and that’s what I do best. I’ll seal the deal with them tomorrow. Mason wants someone to bully him around—I can provide that, too. Nisha wants blood...that may be more difficult. I’m in the habit of killing when it serves a purpose, or when someone crosses me. Not for fun. But we’ll see.”

Boring, Gage thought, resisting the urge to roll his eye. Then, before he could stop himself, he asked, “So why didn’t you kill Nisha? Disciples wanted back alley justice.” Gage held her gaze. He had to know. It felt fucking important somehow.

“Petty revenge won’t get this operation started. Nisha and her gang needed to be put in their place, but I could do that without killing her. There’s a delicate balance, and upsetting it isn’t in my best interests. Or yours.”

Gage stared long and hard at her. He felt a small spike of respect needle at him, but he pushed it away. She was pragmatic, but that didn’t mean shit. Their eyes met again, and he realised from the placid smile she was thinking the same thing.

“Get some sleep. We have a long day tomorrow.”

--

Gage woke to breakfast.

Not that he knew it at first. The plate of eggs—Christ, the boss liked her eggs—and something Bossanova called “brahmin bacon” had been served with a jab to the ribs, jolting him from his sleep.

He hadn't questioned what it was or why it had been given to him—a hot meal was a hot meal after all—and he tucked in enthusiastically. But like steam rising from a fresh cup of coffee, the concept drifted to the forefront of his mind.

This was breakfast. Gage stopped, fork halfway to his hanging mouth, and stared at the wall.

“God help me, boy, I will teach you table manners if I have to beat them into you,” Bossanova said, flapping an old rag in his general direction. “Shut your trap. I don’t need to see what you’re chewing.”

Gage clamped his mouth shut, swallowed, and then said, “This...this is breakfast, isn’t it?”

An amused smile flickered across Bossanova’s lips. “That’s traditionally what the first meal of the day is called, yes.” She hummed and continued to cook, the pan making a pleasant sizzling noise as she worked.

Gage stared down at the meal she’d made for him, as if trying to scry some great universal truth from the yolky mess. He let his fork fall back to his plate with a clatter. “What the fuck is this?”

Bossanova looked over her shoulder and raised a non-existent eyebrow. “As you so succinctly put: breakfast.”

Gage rose to his feet, sending the plate spinning. It shattered, scattering god knew what all over the floor, and he glared at her, his stomach lurching in a way he didn’t like at all. “You know what the fuck I’m on about. Who makes this kind of shit anymore? Breakfast? What’s your damn game? You’re supposed to be the boss, not making...whatever the fuck this is.”

Bossanova frowned. “It’s bacon and eggs. If you don’t like it, starve.”

She turned her back on him and flipped the slices of meat in her pan. The humming returned a few seconds later, though slightly strained. Gage stared at the ties on her apron—where the hell did she get an apron from?—clenching and unclenching his fists. This was stupid. The whole thing was stupid.

Breakfast.

The last time he’d had breakfast, he’d been twelve years old. A few hours later, the raiders came calling. And just like that, he’d slipped away.

Fucking breakfast.

Gage scowled at Bossanova and dropped back onto the sofa with a heavy flump. She didn’t turn around again until she finally moved from the stove. Her face was impassive as she stepped neatly over the ruined remains of his own meal, and sat down opposite him. He tried not to watch her as she ate, but within minutes his stomach rumbled. He frowned, staring anywhere but her, well aware of her eyes boring into him.

“Hungry?” she said eventually.

“No.” Gage said to his knees. His stomach betrayed him by rumbling even louder.

“Clean up the plate, and I’ll make you some more.”

His head snapped up to look at her. “Why the fuck—”

“Because I’m not an animal, Gage,” Bossanova interrupted, her gaze as sharp as her tone. “And when I get the opportunity not to live like one, I take it. Since we’re partners in this, I extend the courtesy to you. If you’d rather I treat you like the rest of the feral rats crawling all over this camp, say the word. Otherwise, pick up your damn mess.”

Her ferocity caught him off guard, and he leaned back into the sofa, eyebrows raised. “Feral, huh? Sounds like you got a grudge, boss.”

“I’m pre-war. I can’t help but judge by Old World standards.” She ate another mouthful. “Besides, you agree with me, otherwise you wouldn’t be in the position you are. Most of them are stupid, with no self control. No smarts. You’re different. Doesn’t take much to see who the brains behind the operation is.”

“Flattery is nice,” Gage shot back, feeling on edge again, “but don’t think it’ll fucking soften me. Because it won’t.”

“I know it won’t. That’s why you’re smart.” She finished her food and stood up. “So, do you want a second round?”

Gage glanced at the broken plate on the floor. Like hell he would pick it up. “No. I’m good.”

Bossanova shrugged. “Suit yourself. Grab your gun. We’ve got business with Mags.”

--

The Operator’s hive buzzed with activity as Gage and Bossanova strode through the front door of the Parlor. Thick red curtains lined the walls over a dimly lit, richly furnished room. Little tables were dotted around, complete with tablecloths and chairs, and dusty rugs covered the scratched wooden floor.

As they moved into Mags and William’s inner sanctum, Gage spied the—what had William called it?—chandelier he hated so much.

Gage rolled his eyes. Fragile and for show. Just like Mags’ ego.

The head Operator was sat at the end of a long table, her fingers locked together in contemplation as she stared down her prey. Her brother stood in her shadow, waiting to strike.

The place was far too clean for Gage’s liking. But for what it lacked in threatening decor and body parts, it made up for in smell. He appreciated not having to test his gag reflex, unlike every tense visit to Nisha.

Bossanova scanned the room, her face a mixture of approval and indifference. Whatever her “pre-war standards” were, the Parlor didn’t quite match up.

Mags laid her hands back in her lap and slowly got to her feet. Like her base, she was cleaner than the average raider, her blonde hair styled intricately, her features unmarked and distinctly beautiful. She reminded Gage of the posters of movie stars still clinging to the crumbling walls of city ruins. Her brother was more nondescript, with greying hair swept out of his face and a trim beard. But still.

Clean.

A real raider got their hands dirty. Gage worked hard to keep his features blank as Bossanova marched ahead. Whatever he thought of them, they knew how to make money.

“Overboss,” Mags said sleekly, her gaze sharp. “I wondered if we’d been forgotten, what with Nisha and Mason receiving private audiences on your first day.” She gave a nasty smirk. “One would think you were playing favourites.”

“I cut the head off a Disciple and put Mason in his place.” Bossanova folded her arms. “And now I have the chance to speak to you without risk of interruption. Take that how you want.”

Mags glanced over her shoulder at William. Her expression betrayed nothing, but Gage knew better.

He waited.

An Operator appeared at Mags’ side as if he’d stepped out of thin air, two glasses and a dusty green bottle in hand. He set them down, opened the bottle with a dull ‘pop’, and poured out the blood red liquid within. The Operator handed the first glass to Mags, the second to Bossanova. He shot Gage a withering look and then left. Gage didn’t give a shit.

Bossanova stood with her glass, watching Mags. Only when Mags drank did Bossanova follow suit.

Good. At least she’s expecting trouble.

“You know this place will struggle to accept a ghoul.” Mags paused, and eyed Bossanova over the rim of her glass. “What would you do if I addressed you as ‘ghoul?’ Hypothetically, of course.”

Bossanova’s smile remained fixed, but something dark flickered through her eyes. “I’d slice off your pretty little nose and feed it to Mason’s Pack.” She sipped her drink. “Hypothetically, of course.”

Mags raised an eyebrow. William, on the other hand, stepped forward and said lowly, and calmly, “I’d tear your head off first.”

“No doubt,” Bossanova replied. “Won’t get your sister’s nose back.”

William turned to Mags. They stared at each other for a moment, and then William returned to his place.

“Feisty one, aren’t you?” Mags drained her glass and sat down, waving her hand at a nearby seat for Bossanova. Bossanova remained standing, staring down at Mags. Gage chuckled, earning himself a sharp glare from William.

Bossanova sipped her drink, and smiled. “Word on the street is you’re good at making money.”

“Good?” Mags set down her glass and crossed her legs. “We’re the best.”

“That’s what I like to hear. So prove it.”

Mags frowned. “Pardon?”

“Prove it. Show me your outfit. Your schemes.” Bossanova finished her glass and placed it carefully on the table. “I’m Old World, honey. In my day, making money was my specialty. So let’s see what you have to offer.”

If Mags took issue to being called ‘honey,’ she didn’t show it. Instead, she sat up a little straighter. “I have some knowledge about pre-war gangs. Which one were you in?”

“Cosa Nostra.”

Whatever that meant, Gage didn’t have a fucking clue. Apparently Mags did, though, because her eyes widened. She glanced at her brother, who looked equally surprised, and then back at Bossanova. “Rank?”

“Boss.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Bossanova shrugged. “Does it matter if it’s true?”

Mags laughed. “Would certainly add a pinch of romance to this whole mess.” She leaned back in her chair. “And if you are what you say you are, you might be just what we need to get things rolling again.” She paused, and then said, more to herself, “Mafia…”

Gage frowned. Now that word he knew.

“Get on my good side and I might even tell you about it.” Bossanova gestured for Mags to stand. “How about you give me the grand tour?”

Mags stood without argument; without a hint of ill grace. Gage suspected later, when she came to her senses, she would rage over being ordered around her own base, but right now her sculpted features were filled with intense intrigue.

“Follow me, Overboss.”

Gage learned more about Mags’ operations in the next hour than he’d ever suspected or even cared to know. Most of it he understood—the basics of the schemes, including Lizzie Wyath’s ‘persuasion’ experiments. But when Bossanova started to talk technical about money—something Mags lapped up—he tuned out. The Operators were brought into the fold to run their complex scams, not teach them to Gage.

One thing he did notice was how at ease Bossanova seemed around Mags. Well...not quite at ease. Her subtle, guarded demeanour pleased Gage—she was taking this seriously.

No, Bossanova seemed in her element. Mags responded in kind. She even let Bossanova into her private quarters to show her the latest plans she was putting together. At one point, he thought he saw Bossanova’s hand reach out and take something off a desk, but it happened so quick, he couldn’t be sure. Mags and William didn’t notice, though, and carried on showing Bossanova around. By the end of it, Gage was half expecting Mags to announce their fucking engagement. Instead, the two women stared each other down.

“I hope you can follow through,” Mags said with a curt nod. “Would be a shame to replace you after such a promising start.”

“Likewise.Thank you for the tour. I think our money is going to be in good hands.” Bossanova inclined her head and turned to Gage. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

Gage matched her step as they strode from the building. Unable to resist it, he stole a quick look back at Mags and William. They were muttering to each other, not paying any attention to him. There weren’t any smiles, but there weren’t any frowns either.

Gage breathed a sigh of relief. Bossanova had bought them some time.

[theaceace]

Me? Writing more of the Stan and Richie roommates AU that would eventually become a fix-it for IT chapter 2? It’s more likely than you think!

“So how did you two meet?”

“Well, we were both part of the same hypnosis study group, and once you’ve watched a man believe he can carry an eighties power ballad non-stop for twenty minutes, you feel obligated to be his friend.”

  Richie knows a lot about Stan. He knows that he doesn’t have any allergies except mild hay-fever; that he loves birdwatching (and also birdwatching, which always gets Richie a cluck of the tongue and a smack to the arm); that he freaks out when Richie tries to do the dishes for them; and that he has an irrational fear of black holes. Riche knows all of these things, and doesn’t remember learning any of them.

Except the dishes thing. He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget that.

He doesn’t know where Stan grew up – doesn’t know which high school he went to, or the name of his first pet, or if he had any other friends.

This might have been more concerning, if Richie had known any of those things about himself.

Mostly, they try not to think about it too much. If sets off a series of sparks and stabbing pains behind Richie’s eyes whenever he really tries to remember anything more than vague impressions. He thinks his parents loved him – it feels distant but warm to think of them even in the abstract. He’s sure he’s known Stan for years – they came to New York together, there’s no way Stan would just up and move with someone he’d just met. Sometimes there’ll be a smell, or a voice, or a colour, and his mind flinches away from it so suddenly that Richie is sure there must be a memory there somewhere; but it’s never anything clear. Just notions, and guesses, and dreams.

So many fucking dreams.

It’s the reason Richie’s awake at three in the morning, hunched over the narrow and unsteady stove in the corner of the apartment they generously call the kitchen. He’d woken a sweaty mess with the echo of someone screaming in his ears and his hands clenched tight around his sheets like he’d grabbed for a weapon.

From experience, he knows there’s no getting back to sleep after one like that. So here he is, frying strips of beef for fajitas to last them the next two or three days.

It’s not that Richie likes cooking, because he doesn’t. At best, he’s ambivalent to the whole thing; at worst he sometimes stands in front of the fridge for an hour, staring at the ingredients and trying not to scream because he can’t, he doesn’t know why but he can’t. So no, he doesn’t like cooking.

But Stan doesn’t just hate cooking – he’s so fucking bad at it.

Richie doesn’t really understand. Stan is fastidious in everything he does; he follows recipes to the letter, unlike Richie who just throws things in a pot and prays. And yet, the only thing about Stan’s cooking that can be relied upon is that it’s borderline inedible. So, Richie cooks, and Stan refuses to let him wash the dishes, because he doesn’t do it right.

Up until he’d moved in with Stan, Richie reckons he didn’t know there was a wrong way to wash dishes. He doesn’t remember of course, so he can’t be sure, but that doesn’t seem like the sort of thing past-Richie would know.

People are usually surprised that Richie can cook well enough to keep them both alive and free of vitamin deficiencies. To be completely honest, Richie is surprised by it as well. He’s gradually getting the hang of laundry, and he can’t keep a consistent cleaning schedule, or tidy his room, like, at all – but he can do this. Of all the adulting skills he could have spontaneously developed, he thinks this is a pretty good one.

It’s always a bit of a shock, though, when people ask him why he cooks with so much fresh fish, or vegetables, or lean meat when they can barely afford to keep the lights on, and he finds himself rambling about malnutrition among young adults. The voice doesn’t sit right in his mouth – the intonation is all off, the machine-gun rattle of consonants around his mouth nothing at all like his own lazy drawl. There are statistics that he doesn’t remember when he tries to think of them later, and he doesn’t know how or when he learned any of it.

There’s a muffled thump from the next room – Richie leaps half a foot in the air and spins around with his heart pounding wildly, tongs held in front of him like a weapon. He slumps back and only just avoids burning himself on the hob when Stan appears in the doorway.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters to himself – he rubs his forehead and turns back to the stove so he doesn’t have to see the way Stan’s mouth twists.

“Sorry, wrong Jew,” Stan says back, easy as breathing. It’s an old joke, and Richie doesn’t know how it started. “Couldn’t sleep again?”

Richie grunts; they’re both quiet for a moment. “You?” He asks finally, watching the meat sizzle.

There’s a soft rustle that Richie knows is the sound of Stan pushing his hands through his mop of dark curls. A floorboard creaks, before he throws himself down into one of the lopsided chairs at the table that serves as dinner table/writing desk/pillow when Richie is really tired.

“Couldn’t move again,” Stan whispers finally; his voice is muffled like he’d got his head in his hands.

The meat looks pretty well done by now, Richie thinks – he switches the heat off and sets the pan to the side before washing his hands carefully enough that even… even Stan couldn’t find fault with it. He shakes his head, the little skip in his thoughts already a long way away, and moves to crouch next to Stan.

He knows that Stan won’t react well to being grabbed, or to being forced to look at Richie. There aren’t many things he can do to help when it gets bad like this, so he hooks a hand around Stan’s calf like an anchor, and doesn’t consider why it feels familiar.

“I’m here,” Richie says. “Wouldn’t let anything happen to you, Stanny. Not going anywhere, won’t leave you alone, you’re here, I’m here…”

Richie is fantastic at talking about nothing at all. He can do it for hours, often long after people have stopped listening to him.

Stan always listens.

“Thanks, man,” he says finally, lifting his head from his hands. Richie grins at him and ruffles his hair, curling his fingers gently against Stan’s scalp and thumbing at one of the silvery scars along his temple. Stan always thanks him after Richie talks him back to the present; it’s sweet, but Richie doesn’t think he needs to. Stan’s done the same for him more times than either of them count.

They don’t know what it is about their childhoods that they’ve repressed so much shit this thoroughly, but Richie thinks that’s probably for the best.

Healthy? Absolutely not. But definitely for the best.

Stan shuffles over to the sink to start running water for the dishes as Richie moves back to the chopping board to start going Eddie Edward Scissorhands on the peppers. He’s got two papers due that he’s barely started, even with the help of Stan’s colour-coded study plan, but he doesn’t have the room in his mind to stress about it now. He starts whistling Bonnie Tyler and grins almost too hard to continue when Stan starts to sing along softly.

It’s not the worst night they’ve had.

  “Okay, but how did you two meet?”

“It was wild night of fiery passion, but alas, I was flying out the next morning, so I left him with nothing but a note and a kiss, and he chased me across the country to declare his undying love for me.”

  “Fuck’s sake, Rich,” Stan says heavily – but he doesn’t leave. He’s already scraped Richie’s hair back into an approximation of a ponytail so that he doesn’t have to hold it back as Richie vomits, but he doesn’t leave. The bathroom really isn’t big enough for them both to be on the floor like this, but he doesn’t leave. There’s a glass of water near Richie’s knee, and a packet of chewy mints tucked into his pocket, but he doesn’t leave.

Richie groans, and narrowly avoids pressing his cheek to the toilet seat. The room is spinning gently; he feels icy-cold and clammy from head to toe.

There’s music with such a heavy bassline that he can feel it through the floor. Richie isn’t entirely sure who’s house they’re at – he thinks it’s someone from one of Stan’s classes. He’ll have to apologise to Stan later for making such an idiot of himself, as well as ruining the night.

Stan casts a disgusted glance at the toilet, and stretches across Richie to pull the flush.

“Do you even chew your food?” He asks – there’s a joke to be made there, Richie’s pretty sure, but he can’t clear his head long enough to come up with it. He grunts something that might be the distant cousin of a reply.

This isn’t the drunkest Richie’s ever been, not even close. In the brief period of time he actually spent at college, he’d made all sorts of regrettable decisions and tried his hand at pretty much every vice available.  In the slightly longer period of time he’s spent since leaving college, he’s gone back to try every single one again, to see if the outcomes would be any different. He has a set of repeatable data points now. It’s basically science.

So no, Richie isn’t that drunk. He’s not high. He almost wishes he was, because that would be a better explanation than whatever’s going on with his brain.

Downstairs somewhere – or maybe long gone by now – there’s a beautiful boy that Richie caught glancing his way once, then quickly again. A boy that had shook his head as if in a daze; had apologised in a voice that suggested he didn’t mean a word of it. Richie had grinned, said it’s okay and happens all the time and I have one of those faces while he drank him in. Short enough to tuck comfortably under Richie’s arm when they talked, leaning in close to be heard over the music, a whisper of breath against a long throat. Tall enough that he didn’t have to rock up on his toes to press quick, filthy kisses to Richie’s laughing mouth.

The anxiety that normally presses thorns up his throat when he so much as stares at another man too long had seemed a long way away. Smothered; strangled by alcohol, loud music, and low lights.

Fleetingly, Richie had managed to wrestle enough of his brain back under control to pull away and start to ask for a name, before being distracted by insistent hands at his shirt, tugging him towards the door. It hadn’t occurred to him to try again; Richie’d stumbled along in his wake and tried not to fall flat on his face because he couldn’t drag his eyes away from the curve of his ass long enough to watch where he put his feet.

They’d finally found a corner dark enough, and been drawn back together in seconds.

He loved this – loved the lines of warmth left behind by curious hands, loved the sudden drop in his stomach as all of his blood redirected south. He felt dizzy with want, with being wanted. They barely parted long enough to breathe; Richie can taste rum and coke when he presses his tongue into his eager mouth. That mouth pulls away after long minutes of driving him mad to smear a trail across his scruffy jaw, up to his ear and then his throat.

Richie had gasped at the sting of teeth at his collarbone. Tipped his head back with a breathy laugh and curled his fingers into dark, sweat-damp hair. Pressed his palms against his cheeks to drag that beautiful face back up for another kiss; met pale eyes with a fleeting sense of wrong and –

Don’t fucking touch me!

- staggered back, one hand pressed to his mouth.

There’s a bit of a gap in his memories (ha! Another one!) between then and now. At some point he’d made it to the bathroom, and had already evacuated his stomach by the time Stan found him. Richie’s hands keep opening and clenching uselessly in the hem of his shirt, like he’s grabbing for something – or someone.

Stan doesn’t ask what happened, because Stan is objectively the best.

But Richie – Richie wants to tell him anyway.

“It was a -” and here he runs out of words. He vaguely gestures at his head. “Thing. There was a guy, and it was great, and then a thing.”

Huh. Maybe he is drunker than he thought.

“How informative,” Stan says, and it’s dry but Richie knows Stan well enough to know that he’s waiting on Richie to sort his jumbled thoughts. It’s not the dismissal it sounds like.

“A brain thing,” he says, and from Stan’s soft ah, he’s starting to get the picture.

Richie doesn’t remember coming out to Stan – or Stan coming out to him, for that matter – but he knows it must have happened at some point. Richie’d asked once, not long after they moved in together, if Stan thought they’d ever hooked up and forgotten. Stan had been startled into laughing so hard he had to brace himself on the kitchen counter so he didn’t fall over, which Richie had tried very hard not to be offended by. He understood, though. It’s never been like that, for them.

Also, Richie may or may not have a definite type; as much as he loves Stan, he doesn’t quite fit the bill.

“You remembered something?” Stan asks, and he’s careful with it, fingers drumming anxiously where he’s laid a hand on Richie’s knee. Stan always gets cagey when Richie asks about memories, which he thinks is kind of unfair – but then, Stan’s not as good at lying, or blustering as Richie is. He doesn’t have any defences except getting cagey.

“Or something,” Richie snorts. “Could’ve been a memory, or just that pesky self-loathing the street preachers are always shouting about.”

“Think it was important?”

Richie pauses, and tries – actually tries – to think about it. Whatever it was, though, has already been screwed up and jammed down to the very bottom of his memory-safe. Or whatever; his metaphors get even weirder when he’s been drinking.

“Dunno,” he says finally. “Probably was but I guess it doesn’t fucking matter now, shit!”

It isn’t always like this. There’s usually a layer of quiet fear that blankets him whenever he gets close enough to another guy to reach out, to touch, to hold, but it isn’t always like this.

Sometimes, though, the fear isn’t quiet. Sometimes it shrieks at him.

He thinks Stan gets it.

“It’s okay, Rich,” Stan says, and tugs him close for a brief hug, which must be the most horrifying thing because Richie is aware that he reeks of vomit and sour alcohol, and that he’s vaguely damp and sweaty. But Stan doesn’t complain, even when Richie presses a smacking kiss to his cheek. And Richie stands up with him and almost vomits again even though there’s nothing left to bring up but acid, but Stan just rubs his back a little too hard to be soothing until the urge has passed. And Richie knows that Stan was looking forward to tonight, that he’s wasted most of it looking after Richie and now they’re cutting the night short to stagger home and Stan will hold it over him forever; but Stan doesn’t leave.

[verdigrisonamber]

Courier Six

Fallout New Vegas is my absolute favourite Fallout, because it’s fucking amazing. I only wish Obsidian had had longer to make it so they could flesh it out even further. The Legion don’t deserve to be the ‘straight up bad guys’ (especially when the NCR are so fucking hateful). And ED-E is my best friend ever. Here is some blurb about my Courier, Dolores. Name: Dolores Urquhart Nickname: Dolly, Aeris (Latin for Copper – Eye colour, hair colour being like verdigris.) Age: 28 Height: 5’7” Specials: STR 5, PER 5, END 7, CHR 8, INT 8, AGI 7, LCK 6

Eyes: Hazel Hair: Mohican, dyed teal Ethnicity: Caucasian Gender: Cis Female Body type: Athletic Sexuality: Bisexual Relationship Status: Friends with benefits/ Lovers Partner(s): FWB: Red Lucy, Jack (Great Khans) Lover: Vulpes Inculta. Family: Deceased. Mother (Jessica) & Father (Frank) were both Doctors (which is why Dolores is proficient in medicine). Dolores was 14 when they were murdered by raiders (looking for chems) that the NCR should have protected them against. No siblings or extended family.

Languages: English (first language), Spanish (asks Raul to help her become fluent) Disabilities/Illnesses/Injuries: Likely brain damage from being shot twice in the head by Benny. Multiple scars from injuries sustained whilst travelling. Scars: Forehead (left) scarring from when Benny shot her x2 and from Doc Mitchell’s surgery. Chest, head and spinal scarring from the Think Tank’s surgeries (the Auto-doc can only do it’s best to minimise these). Various limb & torso scars from buckshot & bullets, knife wounds to arms, scarring on knuckles from fist fights. Clothing: Regulator duster, Recon Armour, Stealth Suit MK II (the AI drives her mad and she is extremely grateful when Raul manages to silence it), Authority Glasses, Party Hat, Pre-War Spring Outfit, Sexy Sleepwear Fashion Style/Lifestyle: Wears Light armour to aid agility & movement, when relaxing likes to feel pretty (also likes to dress nicely for her lovers). Enjoys people’s reactions to wearing silly clothes especially if a situation is serious/tense. Weapon of Choice: Melee: Combat knife/Baseball bat. One handed guns: That Gun/A Light Shining in Darkness. Two-handed Guns: Hunting Shotgun/Sniper Rifle. Rarely uses Energy Weapons but likes Pew Pew. Doesn’t use Heavy Weaponry (she’s agile rather than strong). Skills: Proficiency with Repair, Lock-picking, Medicine, Speech. Has good endurance and athleticism (essential for Couriers). Will use Speech & charisma before resorting to violence. Weaknesses: Sarcastic, impatient, kleptomaniac Faction: Yes Man Friendly Factions: Caesar’s Legion. Due to relationship with Vulpes, she is able to trade with the Legion & visit the Fort. She saves Caesar’s life by scrounging parts for the Auto-doc (she isn’t proficient enough in medicine to perform the surgery herself). She carries out several requests by them but stops short of fully allying with them because of their treatment of women, her distrust of Lenius and her fears over the safety of Vulpes should Lenius take over the Legion from Caesar. Boomers: She realises they could be a great asset so clears out the ant’s nest and charms the kids with teddies, dinosaurs and rockets and finds herself readily accepted by the rocket-loving Boomers. Great Khans: Approves of their lifestyle & probably would have joined them if they had more power & influence. Enjoys a very casual relationship with Jack (until she meets Vulpes). Followers of the Apocalypse: Admires them greatly. Wishes she was a good enough person to join them. Attempts to aid Freeside because of them. Wishes Arcade would join with her, but he declines due to her reputation with Caesar. The Kings: Loves to visit The Kings to see Rex (H/C that The King & Rex are reunited once Rex gets a new brain), also enjoys the stage shows. Aided the Kings vs NCR because fuck the NCR. Hasn't as yet cashed in The King’s ‘favour’. Enemies: Is very careful to appear friendly to all factions, though loathes NCR. She thinks they are ineffectual, weak and will cause the collapse of New Vegas if they ‘win’. Hates bureaucracy & sees them as little more than ‘Enclave lite’. Of course blames them for her parents death. Fiends/Vipers/Jackals: Tries to keep far away from these groups as you cannot reason with them. Powder Gangers: Idiots with dynamite. Neutral Affiliations: Gomorrah: Despite herself, she finds Cachino charming, so helps him rid the casino of Big Sal & Nero. Warns Cachino that if he abuses any more women she’ll castrate him. Also aids Joana escape with Carlito. White Gloves: Stopped the cannibalism, would have burnt the whole place to the ground if she didn’t think the Strip needed the casino. Likes: Blamco Mac & Cheese, reading, repairing electronics & weapons, singing (badly) along with ED-E to the radio, dogs, Nuka-Cola, sleeping, exploring, hiking, hacking pre-war technology, swimming, fresh fruit, listening to Vulpes tell her tales from the Legion whilst they cuddle Dislikes: Cazadors, NCR, having your brain removed without being asked, stones under her bedroll, feeling cold, sleeping alone, litter/rubbish (can spend hours tidying before feeling comfortable somewhere. Both her parents were fastidious to the point of neuroticism and demanded cleanliness in the home as well as in their clinic, if Dolores is nervous or stressed she exhibits similar ‘clean freak’ tendencies to her parents.), bureaucracy & saluting. Friends: ED-E, Raul, Lily, Vulpes Inculta, Red Lucy, Jack (Great Khans), Rex, Fisto, Boomer kids Acquaintances: Boone, Veronica, Arcade, The King. Former friends: Cass (Cass disapproved of her relationship with Vulpes and her friendliness with the Legion, Dolores got fed up with being threatened by Cass so told her to fuck off, & wasn’t surprised or saddened when Cass did just that.) Enemies: Benny (feigned seduction, then stabbed him in the throat with a concealed switch-blade. Shot him in the head with Maria to make sure he was dead.) Personality: Sarcastic, dry sense of humour, intelligent, open, cheerful, charming, happy to help if she believes you are good for the world and her, sexually open. Trusts her gut feelings and easily becomes mistrustful; particularly after almost being murdered (you have to be or you’ll end up in a shallow grave), gets a thrill from stealing & finds it too hard to stop.                                   ______________________ Other info: Adores ED-E. Cried for a week after the Lonesome Road and wishes she could go back and blow everyone up to try to save ED-E #2 (Even though this doesn’t actually work in the game, you sadly lose the little dude no matter what you chose). Has Raul set up a long range radio receiver on ED-E #1, so she can find new radio stations because if she hears ‘Johnny Guitar’ just 1 more time she’ll kill someone. Loves travelling with Raul. He’s non-judgemental, funny, and she loves his Vaquero outfit. He helps her with her Spanish & repair skills, she helps him feel useful again. They make a great team of gunslingers. Raul moves from his cabin to live in Jacobstown in one of the spare cabins. Dolores is so happy she gets to visit Lily AND Raul when she visits Jacobstown. After Hoover Dam Doores is given one of the cabins meaning she can stay whenever she likes. Misses her ‘Grandma’ Lily and visits often when she feels it’s safe enough to return to the Mojave. Travelled with Boone to REPCONN but was terrified he’d kill her if he found out about her and Vulpes/The Legion, so let him return to Novac. Travelled with Veronica for a while. After returning from the Sierra Madre she tells Veronica about Christine, and together they return to the hotel so Veronica and Christine could be reunited. Knows she’s playing a dangerous game with the Legion and worries she’ll end up enslaved, and knows one day she’ll have to betray them. She is terrified of losing Vulpes or worse, that he’ll kill her or she’ll have to try to kill him. Tells Vulpes of her concerns re: Legate Lenius and begs Vulpes to leave the Legion & California before he’s murdered by Lenius. Vulpes disappears before the battle at Hoover Dam. 8 months later, Dolores can be seen travelling with a blond haired man and ED-E (the Playing Card set you can get from the Special edition has Vulpes with blond hair so this is why I h/c him bleaching his hair at the end as part of his disguise). Greatly enjoys being a Courier. She loves to explore and see other lifestyles and meet new people. The events of New Vegas take their toll on Dolores and she can feel her normally cheerful personality being whittled down. She becomes short tempered and judgemental, resorting more and more to violence. To try to temper this she spends time talking with Arcade. She knows how he feels about her affiliation with the Legion and is glad he still keeps friendly with her (despite declining to travel with her). Whenever she’s in Freeside or nearby, she makes a point to visit the Followers to not just add to her medical skills, but to spend time with those worse off than her so she can see how others are affected by the Legion & NCR. This helps her make up her mind to go with Yes Man.

[stellanault-blog]

Allegations Against Chidambarams Not Of Grave Magnitude

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[midnight-circus]

another fucking meme bitch

literally nobody can stop me 

this is the 3rd one of these ive answered for logan i really should give someone else a look-in

w e l p

Does your character have siblings or family members in their age group? Which one are they closest with?

Morgan’s three years younger than him, so close enough to the same age group. They didn’t get on very well at all growing up – Logan was jealous and Morgan was spoilt, which resulted in friction a little beyond regular sibling rivalry – but their relationship has improved with age. They’re not close and there’s still some definite tension, but it’s generally healthy as long as they don’t start talking about their parents. Or anything too personal.

Morgan’s never done anything wrong, that’s the thing. That’s probably what irritates Logan the most. He has no genuine reason to resent his brother and he knows it’s unfair, but he struggles to find a way to redirect the feeling because he’s already embittered towards their parents so like … where the fuck else can it go? He still struggles with it, and tries extremely hard to temper his feelings towards his younger brother mainly out of guilt. It’s not Morgan’s fault. Nonetheless, it is undeniably disheartening to watch his parents dote upon someone who, at the end of the day, is really not all that different to him in the long run.

What is/was your character’s relationship with their mother like?

Distant. Logan is an eternal disappointment to his mother, who had big dreams for her eldest son – indeed, he was meant to be her only son, before a little mistake came along three years later. From the beginning Morgan was an easier baby than Logan, and Madeleine subsequently funnelled her energy into the happy, bouncy infant rather than the rather aloof, introspective toddler. Logan was quiet, anxious and didn’t smile easily, and the more Madeleine withdrew the more he got the message – in childhood he would rather manage his independence and rely on himself than come to her for support, and as such her attentions on Morgan only intensified until it became uncomfortably clear to everyone that she had a very definite favourite.

In a nutshell, as far as Madeleine is concerned Logan can’t do anything right. There is criticism for everything, and if she can’t think of a snippy comment now then she’ll think of if later and ring him up to tell him. She is emotionally abusive, though she’ll never understand that – after all, she does love him (and in her mind, he hasn’t made that easy), but in all honesty she doesn’t like him very much, and he is more than aware of it.

It’s damaged him pretty badly, and as he grows older he distances himself more and more, reducing his contact with her to phonecalls and the occasional special occasion visit. Christmases are miserable. Madeleine, however, is a cakewalk compared to Edward.

What is/was your character’s relationship with their father like?

Non-existent. Edward is vile. A bitter, egotistical narcissist who is profoundly aware that his wife has more money than him and cannot let it go. Logan began butting heads with him at a young age and suffered for it (there is no contention over corporal punishment in the English aristocracy), and he honestly feels nothing but distaste and resentment for the man, verging into hatred. The feeling is mutual – Madeleine might be disappointed in her son’s life and sexuality, but Edward is actively disgusted in him, and he has no problem telling him that. Their relationship ultimately exploded in Logan’s late teens, on the night he was outed – after many years of belittlement and abuse, physical and otherwise, he lost his temper entirely and punched his father in the jaw. Edward put him through a glass coffee table for his pains, leaving him with his facial scars, and he left the house that night and never really went back. Probably should’ve gone to A&E, tbh.

Anyway, they don’t speak. Or rather, Logan doesn’t speak to him. On the few occasions they’re forced to be in the same room (Christmases are m i s e r a b l e ), Edward will attempt to goad his eldest into retaliation, but fortunately in those situations Elrick is generally there too and he is MORE than happy to engage on Logan’s behalf.

The very last time they interact is at Madeleine’s funeral, and it ends in an extremely public, extremely loud argument in front of the entire congregation that results in Logan storming out halfway through (‘causing a scene’, is how Edward later puts it to his fellows at the country club). They never speak again, and he does not attend his father’s funeral five years later.

On an average day, what can be found in your character’s pockets?

Not a great deal. His phone, his wallet, his keys – usual shit. He doesn’t cart stuff around for the sake of it and will remove anything superfluous before he goes out, so there’s nothing crazy in there.

Does your character have recurring themes in their dreams?

I’m no dream-diviner, but whatever relates to feeling like a complete and total fuckup. That’s a recurring theme.

Does your character have recurring themes in their nightmares?

He’s very claustrophobic and that tends to be a feature of his nightmares. In a modern setting, though, he’s not plagued by the constant nightmares he experiences in his original incarnation – they’re much more sinister in that verse, and they’re brutal. It’s a major factor in why his insomnia is so intense.

Has your character ever fired a gun? If so, what was their first target?

Depends on the AU. In a modern setting, which I’m pretty much answering for here, nope – shooting is a popular hobby for his mother and father, but he never participated. In most fantasy AUs, he knows how to use one, but he’s a pretty abysmal shot – he’s really only good with a gun in a few very select circumstances when it’s absolutely necessary. Original Logan is the absolute worst with a gun, hence why he doesn’t fucking carry one because it would definitely make more sense than carting a sword around if people keep on trying to assassinate you all the time.

Is your character’s current socioeconomic status different than it was when they were growing up?

It’s fluctuated. He grew up rich. Like … aristocratically rich. His family are Old Money. He wasn’t spoilt as a kid (that little honour went to Morgan), but he went to an expensive private school and certainly didn’t know discomfort.

When he left the home, that all stopped. He had no access to funds and his parents certainly weren’t prepared to give him any, so he made his own way. Ultimately, through a great deal of hard grafting and years of work, he clawed his way into Oxford, manhandled himself through law school and now earns a very comfortable living. He rejected any and all of Morgan’s attempts to help him (Morgan, who was given a ~small loan~ by his mother to start a business and has been a millionaire for pretty much all his adult life) and subsequently it took a long-ass time, but he’s proud of it.

Does your character feel more comfortable with more clothing, or with less clothing?

Generally more. He’s certainly not the type to fuckin chill around the house half-naked. Like what’s the point. Get your fuckin ass off that expensive sofa and go and put some trousers on for fucks sake.

In what situation was your character the most afraid they’ve ever been?

In a modern situation, the night he was outed. That PALES in comparison to his original incarnation’s Most Terrifying Moments 3 Day Compilation Storytime W/ Hi-Res Visuals & Audio, but still.

Is your character bothered by the sight of blood? If so, in what way?

Nope. He’s fine with blood – his, other people’s, whatever. It’s not an issue.

Does your character remember names or faces easier?

Definitely names. He tends to forget faces because he doesn’t really care much about them lmao but names stick in his mind as ‘data’, almost.

Is your character preoccupied with money or material possession? Why or why not?

Not preoccupied, but he does value money and possessions – he sees it as a status-marker. Old habits and all that.

Which does your character idealize most: happiness or success?

Success for sure.

What was your character’s favourite toy as a child?

Honestly, he didn’t really play much. He tended to occupy himself with puzzles rather than toys, even when young – colours and shapes as an infant, then on to shit like jigsaws and building blocks as he got a little older, things he could occupy himself very independently with. He used to draw a lot as a young kid, but incidentally is absolutely shit at it as an adult so who knows what happened there. He did have a stuffed toy lion that he carted around as a toddler, but Edward put a stop to his kids having comfort items by the time they were 4 so he didn’t have it for very long.

Is your character more likely to admire wisdom, or ambition in others?

Ambition. It’s the Slytherin in him.

What is your character’s biggest relationship flaw? Has this flaw destroyed relationships for them before?

He’s too independent, which translates to coming across as cold. He can’t bear relying on other people because he knows damn well he can manage on his own, and it takes him a very long time to delegate trust in a relationship. This has caused friction with people in the past, often alongside accusations of being too cold, too indifferent, too distant. In the three years that he and Elrick spent broken up, his self-reliance was pretty much the final straw for the rebound-relationship he was in for those years – in amongst a nest of other issues, the man in question (sorry Jaeger) simply got fed up of trying to break down a wall that clearly was never going to come down on its own.

In what ways does your character compare themselves to others? Do they do this for the sake of self-validation, or self-criticism?

Oh, only ever self-criticism. Everyone is doing better than he is in one way or another, and he will find that one way.

If something tragic or negative happens to your character, do they believe they may have caused or deserved it, or are they quick to blame others?

Externally he’ll assign blame to others, but he internalises every second of it as his own fault. It’s the inferiority complex. He knows he deserves it, but he doesn’t want everyone else to know that.

What does your character like in other people?

Integrity, which is pretty rich coming from him as he is no stranger to the odd lie here and there. He also appreciates a practical, realistic outlook on life – relentless optimism irritates him to no end. Sometimes things are really shitty, there’s no use painting it fuckin gold and calling it wonderful. He likes someone he can occasionally bitch and moan with (or more than occasionally), who will either contribute their own grievances or simply let him get on with it without trying to force him to feel better.

What does your character dislike in other people?

Literally we’ll be here forever. He has no patience for what he considers to be ‘stupidity’. A lack of punctuality. Bad spelling. Bad grammar. A lack of self-care. An obnoxious laugh. Anything that reminds him too much of his mother. More than two middle names. Weak handshakes. I could keep going. Best not to.

How quick is your character to trust someone else?

Months, if not years. Really only Elrick and Kat enjoy his full and total confidence. He wants to trust Morgan, but to be entirely honest he can’t shed the fear that Morgan’s going to go parroting it all back to Madeleine the first chance he gets, which is probably a very unfair assumption to make. He knows this. It doesn’t change it, though.

How quick is your character to suspect someone else? Does this change if they are close with that person?

He’ll suspect anyone of anything, given the right motivation. He doesn’t trust easily at all. More than once in the early years of the relationship he suspected Elrick of sleeping with his ex, for no other reason than the fact that he had an ex – he kept that particular concern entirely to himself, but it took a long time to shed.

How does your character behave around children?

Responsible. By the time he knew of Bastian’s existence the boy was already about seven, but he’s been babysitting Rowan since birth so he’s pretty comfortable by now.

How quick or slow is your character to resort to physical violence in a confrontation?

It’s an absolute last resort.

In the face of criticism, is your character defensive, self-deprecating, or willing to improve?

Externally defensive, but internally he absorbs it.

Is your character more likely to keep trying a solution/method that didn’t work the first time, or immediately move on to a different solution/method?

No point repeating something if it’s clearly not working. A second try might not be a bad idea, just in case a mistake was made in the first opportunity, but any more than two repeats is just setting yourself up for failure.

How does your character behave around people they dislike?

Oh bitch if he doesn’t like you, you will Know About It. He really doesn’t see the point in pretending to like somebody he doesn’t – it’s a waste of time and energy, and why bother giving that person false hope? Better to nip it in the bud.

Is your character more concerned with defending their honour, or protecting their status?

His honour’s all shot to the four fuckin winds anyway, but he will protect his status fiercely.

Has your character ever been bitten by an animal? How were they affected (or unaffected)?

His mother’s ancient African Grey parrot used to bite him on the regular, and as such he hates parrots.

How does your character treat people in service jobs?

It could be better. It could be worse, but it could be much better. He’s still kind of a classist snob at times.

Has your character ever had a parental figure who was not related to them?

Nope. He’s never really had a paternal figure at all. Or at least not a positive one.

Has your character ever had a dependent figure who was not related to them?

Not really – his only two dependents would be Bastian and Rowan, both of whom are blood relations.

How easy or difficult is it for your character to say “I love you?” Can they say it without meaning it?

It’s easy to say it when he doesn’t mean it (which he has done, in the past). It’s much harder to say when he does.

What does your character believe will happen to them after they die? Does this belief scare them?

He has no idea whatsoever. He was raised Catholic, but has considered himself an atheist since his mid-teens – however, it’s extremely hard to shed the guilt and fear of damnation when it’s all you’ve heard for a huge chunk of your childhood. He likes to think that life just stops and then that’s it, you’re done, but he can’t quite get rid of the little chirp of paranoia that says he’s going to Hell.

[theprojectatedensgate]

The Lamb of God (A FC5 multi chapter: Chapter one

Ft OC: Brooklyn “Ariel” Carter

The Beginning

Warnings: Swearing, Violence, 

“Montana... Big Sky Country... The Treasure State... People got a lot of names for it, I just call it home.”

“Lived here my whole life, still amazed at how beautiful it is.”

“Maybe that’s what blinded us to how ugly the people were getting.”

“And everything became perfectly still...”

“Good day to you Brother.”

“You don’t understand, no one took these groups seriously.”

“They were religious. Militant. It was a Goddamn Cult.”

“The Collapse is upon us my children...”

“They started buying up every farm for miles. Then the radio station. Not long after that they even had the fuckin’ cops.”

“Their own sovereign religious state. Built right here under our noses.”

“Ain’t no one comin’ to help us. Government can’t do shit. We’re on our own.”

“God demands we save those lost souls whether they want to be saved or not.”

“People don’t want to believe groups like this exist.”

“People are scared, man.”

“...Some will wish to harm us... Some will wish to destroy all that we have built here together... And some will betray us...”

“We don’t know what he’s capable of... Who? Their leader.”

“Joseph Seed.”

“They call him “The Father.””

“And those in the outside world are blind, they do not believe, they have no faith. Shhh.... But I will make them see...”

                                                  SERVICE LOST

“Hey Rookie... Rookie!”

Brooklyn’s mind reeled as she lowered the phone, the images of the man digging his thumbs into the cameraman's sockets flashed before her. The unsteadiness of the Chopper threw her from  thought, the Sheriff’s voice on the headset cutting through her.

“You’re wasting your time, there’s no signal out here.”

The Marshall shot her a grimace, glancing down to his to a paper in his hand. That must be warrant. Her gut lurched, they were going to arrest the man. The man who had just slaughtered someone without a second thought, The Father, Joseph Seed. Pratt’s voice came through the headset.

“The found footage, where was it found exactly?”

The sheriff rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous glance out the window.

“Just outside of the Holland Valley.”

“Crossing over the Henbane now.”

Out of the shadows of the Whitetail Mountains, a large block of white came filled her view, a stark contrast against the blue Montana night. Brooklyn lent closer to the window, her mouth dropping at the sight, Hudson exhaled through the speaker.

“Oh, fuck. There he is.”

A giant statue, arms out stretched, book in one hand, his other raised to the sky. Brooklyn couldn’t believe her eyes, a huge sculpture, The Father himself.

“Crazy MotherFucker.”

“Jesus.”

“Holy shit.”

“We’re officially in Peggie’ country.”

“How much longer?”

“Just long enough for you to change your mind, so we can turn this bird around.”

Brooklyn furrowed her brows, picking at her nails. She watched The Marshall and The Sheriff in silence. Why would he want to override a federal warrant? It’s all their asses on the line back at the Department if they didn’t go through with it. She had never met the wanted man before, only skimming quickly through his profile. He didn’t seem that dangerous at first, a calm looking man with certain notes of intensity, but after watching that video, after watching the Sheriff, she was beginning to doubt. The Marshall furrowed his brows, cocking his head to the side.

“You want me to ignore a federal warrant, Sheriff?”

“No sir. I want you to understand the reality of this situation: Joseph Seed, he’s not a man to be fucked with. We’ve had run-ins with him before and they haven’t always gone our way. Just sometimes... Sometimes, it’s best to leave well enough alone.”

The Marshall toyed with the paper, and Brooklyn watched him with anticipation She had heard things, whispers and rumours in the office, Joseph Seed was a madman, he would kill all who stood in his way. As a cop she couldn’t really rely on conjecture, they needed actual evidence. Which the Marshal had been more than happy to provide, he had been talking non stop about the case  since he arrived in Montana. Brooklyn listened to him politely, all she knew was they had to bring some man of God to the station who had a potential to turn nasty, nothing more.

“Yeah well, we have laws for a reason, Sheriff. And Joseph Seed is gonna’ learn that.”

The Sheriff sighed. Ahh good old Whitehorse, never got on well with the city folk. He sent Brooklyn a knowing look, she smirked straight back at him.

“Pratt, open a call with dispatch.”

“Ten-Four.”

Whitehorse pushed the mic to his lips, taking a deep breath.

“Whitehorse to dispatch. Over.”

The radio crackled with interference, Nancy came through on the end.

“Go ahead, Earl.”

“We’re approaching the compound, Nancy. Over.”

“Roger, Sheriff. Still planning to go through with this? Over.”

Whitehorse shook his head, breathing a sigh.

“We are -- Unfortunately-- Still trying to some sense into our friend the Marshal. Over.”

The Marshalled glanced at Brook, smirking and shaking his head. Her faced breached a smile, attempting to stifle a giggle.

“Alright. He’s lucky I’m not there... If you get into any trouble you just let me know. Over.”

“Ten-Four. Over and out.”

Pratt closed the call to dispatch, his grip still firm on the bird, he turned to Hudson, scoffing and titling his head to point at Brook.

“Maybe we shoulda Nancy along with us instead of the Probie. These Peggies wouldn’t fuck with her.”

“Pratt!”

“Hey fuck you Staci.”

The Marshall raised his brows at her, and turned in his seat. Whitehorse winked and she sent him a confident grin.

“Why do you keep calling them “Peggies”?”

“The Project at Eden’s Gate. P.E.G. Peggies. It’s what the locals call em’.  You know they started off harmless enough a few years back. But now they are armed to the teeth. Hell, they’re lookin’ for a fight.”

“Are you scared, Sheriff?”

He didn’t answer, and a bile rose up her chest. This was Sheriff Earl Whitehorse, he didn’t spook easily. He had taken her under his wing when she had arrived, if he was afraid, she needed to be too. Brook fiddled with her phone, her mind flashing to images of Cultist with belts of ammo wrapped around their necks, AR-C’s slung over their shoulders. She wasn’t a stranger to cults, growing up with her daddy’s stories in the ATF. She was proud of him and followed his path into law enforcement. She knew crime well, training for it everyday back home. Dealing with a cult directly however? That shirt had not been worn. Pratt disrupted the silence.

“We’re here. Compound’s just below.”

Brook lent forward towards the window again. Rows of white houses surrounded by a wire fence and trees, A church sat proudly at the head, white, fitting in with it’s surroundings. The pale moonlight and the flaming bonfires below basked the compound in an eerie light, a lump formed in her throat.

“Oh my...Jesus.”

Pratt exhaled sharply, attempting to keep the bird steady, Hudson exhaled along with him, sharing a glance.

“This is a bad idea.”

“Last chance Marshall.” The Sheriff’s voice stern.

The Marshall’s gaze lingered over the side momentarily before sighing and facing Brook. He looked at her with confidence, and she sent him a supportive nod.

“We’re going in.”

The Sheriff glanced upwards, swallowing before regaining his composure.

“Set her down.” 

Pratt hesitated, shifting in his seat, his expression full of concern.

“Pratt.”

“Roger, that.”

The slowly sunk to the ground, dust and dirt blowing up around them. The size of the church seemed to grow and so did the lump in Brook’s throat. She took note of the entryway, “Church of Eden’s Gate” wrought into the white metal fence. The Chopper hit the ground with a thud, bouncing it’s passengers in their seats.

“Dispatch, you still there?”

“Yes, go ahead, Sheriff.”

“You don’t hear from us in fifteen minutes send in everyone. Call the goddamn National Guard if you have to. Over.”

“Yessir, Sheriff. I’ll be prayin’ for you.”

As the blades of the bird died down, Whitehorse removed his headset, the rest of the team following suit, he turned to face them.

“Now listen up, Three rules: Stick close. Keep your guns in your holsters and let me do the talking.” He nodded at the Marshall. “Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Rookie?” 

“Yes sir.”

“Alright everyone, stay sharp. Let’s go.”

They scrambled out of the bird, Brook climbing out last, her eyes widening as she took in her surroundings, the video made sense. Their own sovereign religious state... Built right here. Pratt raised a thumbs up, keeping an eye from the Chopper. Whitehorse, Burke, Hudson, walked in a row, heading towards the Church.

“He’ll be in the Church. Stick close,”

“Eye’s open, these folk can spook easily.

That’s when Brook saw them, the “Peggies.”, just like she had seen on the found footage from those missing bloggers. Men with ragged, grown out beards, standing around the bonfires and keeping watch. There were women too, long un cut hair, guns slung around them just like their male counterparts, keen eyes trained upon the strangers. They adorned with light colour sweaters, the church symbol on their front. Dog’s barked in the distance and the smell of dirt, wood smoke and gunpowder filled them. There was something else too... Ammonia like. Brook trailed behind her squad mates, transfixed on the sights around her. The people had a thousand yard stares, the look of someone who knew all there was to know, experienced all there was to experience. It un-nerved her. Hudson must have noticed Brook’s reluctance spinning around to look at her.

“Brook! On me. Stay loose, huh?”

Brook straightened her composure, marching confidently forward. Mutterings came from the crowds of people, she only picked up a few sentences.

“We’ve done nothing wrong.”

“What are they doing here?”

“Be calm. Stay calm everyone. Just go about your business. This doesn’t concern you”

The Sheriff’s words had no affect, the crowd still focused on their every move, whispering and glancing at one another, glaring at the officers. 

“Somethin’ tell’s me they do not like law enforcement.”

Hudson nodded at Brook, before placing a hand on Whitehorse’s shoulder.

“Sheriff, I don’t like this.”

“Everything’s fine Hudson... Everything’s just fine.”

The Marshall stopped in his tracks, turning to the officers with astonishment.

“Jesus Christ, you’re wearing badges aren’t you?”

“Yeah but they don’t respect the badges much out here.”

“They’ll respect the nine millimetre.”

“Not every problem can be solved with a bullet Marshall...”

They carried on their way, passing the white buildings. Brooklyn noticed they were all named in Latin, she furrowed her brows  trying to figure out what it all meant. The Church loomed over the compound. The Moon casting a gloomy shadow beneath it, voices grew louder as they grew nearer. A familiar tune, hummed out by a choir of people. Brook almost found herself singing along, before shaking her head and focusing on the Church door. The same symbol on the cultists clothing, the Church of Eden’s Gate. There was writing etched in the wood, she couldn't make it out, layers of dirt and dust covering the lettering, she moved to brush her hand across it, pulling back as the Marshall wrapped his fingers around the handle, Whitehorse grabbed his arm.

"Woah, Marshall. Now we do this, we do it my way: Quietly. Calmly. You got it?"

The Marshall rolled his eyes, outstretching his arms in defence.

"Fine."

"Hudson on the door. Watch our backs. Don't let any of these people get in. Rookie -- On me."

Hudson stood with her back towards the Church, her hand ready at her side arm. The Sheriff turned to the Marshall once more.

"And you, just try not to do anything stupid."

The Marshall smirked at him, placing a gloved palm onto his shoulder.

"Relax, Sheriff. You're about to get your name in the paper."

Brook shot a look at Hudson, who also rolled her eyes. She glanced back towards her, concern on her expression.

"You'll be fine."

"I know."

Brook shot a reassuring smile back, turning to follow the Sheriff and the Marshall into the building.  Whitehorse pulled the doors open gently, the soft glow of candles illuminating the outside. Brook saw the backs of cultists, the long shadow of a man, stretching across the floor boards. A stern, powerful voice that reverberated and echoed against the walls of the building caught her attention.

"Something is coming. You can feel it, can't you? We are creeping toward the edge... And there will be a reckoning."

She moved forward, sticking close behind her colleagues, she caught eyes with the people in the pews, who rose to their feet as they walked on. Fear tingled at her neck, she kept her eyes forward.

"That's why we started The Project. Because we know what happens next..."

Her eyes started to adjust to a tall figure, stood upon the podium, the source of the voice.

"They will come. They will try to take from us. Take our guns. Take our freedom... Take our Faith!"

Brook turned to glance at the doors, the Peggies had started to crowd behind her. Panic surged through her chest and she tapped at the Sheriff's arm. He sent her a nod of acknowledgement, before nodding towards the figure.

"But we will not let them."

The Marshall picked up on Brooklyn's uneasiness, sending the Sheriff a look of confusion at the lack of action.

"Sheriff, c'mon."

"Just hold on, Marshall."

The figure was in  clear view now, dressed only in black jeans, Black boots surrounded by candles and a rosary clutched in his hand. A belt buckle that matched the symbol that shone behind him, enlightening his features, the symbol on the church. He hair was tied up in a bun, yellow shades fixed on his eyes, a beard like the others, tattoo's and scars adorned his chest and arms. Brook squinted to examine the markings. Two swallows resting below his collar bones, a crown on his chest and below that a lamp with the word "Eden" written onto it, what looked like a verse of some sort written along his waist, flowing down to his abdomen. She examined his scars, the word "Wrath" etched onto the underside of his forearm, "Lust" just above the lining of his pants.

"We will not let their greed, or their immorality, or their depravity hurt us anymore!"

"Sheriff-"

"Do not pull that trigger. Remain calm..."

"There will be no more more suffering-"

"No fuck this." The Marshall shoved the warrant forward. "Joseph Seed! I have a warrant issued for your arrest on the suspicion of kidnapping with the intent to harm!"

Brooklyn looked behind the preacher, taking note of man who stood to his left. A well dressed man, dark hair slicked back, long coat and sunglasses upon his head. He too had a beard, and Brook smiled a little at the resemblance. The man caught her gaze, raising at brow at her expression, heat flooded through her and she turned her attention back to the wanted man.

"Now, I want you to step forward and keep your hands where I can see 'em!"

Joseph raised his arms, pointing towards the officers.

"Here they are... The Locusts in our garden... You see they've come for me."

The peggies started grouping in front of him, forming a protective barrier. Brook's heart thudded against her chest, her eyes flicking between the defensive crowd and Whitehorse.

"They've come to take me away from you. They've come to destroy all that we have built!"

The crowd started yelling and yowling, raising their guns in the air as they pointed and shouted them. Brook's hand instinctively went for her side arm, the Marshall followed suit. 

"Alright, now. Put your guns down. Put your guns down!”

The Sheriff raised his hand against the Marshall and Brook, shouting over the Cultists, confusion gracing her features.

"Now hold on, do not touch that service weapon! Hold on and stand down! Stand down! Everyone calm down!"

Joseph stood off of the podium, silencing the crowd, he placed his palms on two of his followers, glancing back as the man on his left stalked behind him, his gaze fixed on Brook. He moved over to the right, now in clear view, crossing his hands behind his back. Joseph looked back at his followers with a grimace, as they awaited instruction.

"We knew this moment would come. We have prepared for it. Go. Go..."

He gently pushed them forward and the follower looked around with anticipation. Another figure had come into view behind him, a red headed man, arms crossed over his chest, a military jacket rolled at his forearms. He stood to his right, also staring at Brook. She began to feel like a caged animal, the Sheriff was right, they should have turned around. Reluctantly, the cultists started walking out of the church, sending filthy looks towards her. One more figure had joined the men behind him, a woman, dressed in a white knee length dress with flowers and bare footed, dirty blonde tresses snaking over her shoulders.

"God will not let them take me."

Joseph raised his arms in the air, facing towards the heavens. her

"I saw when the Lamb opened the First Seal, and I heard as it were the noise of thunder, one of the four beasts say, "Come and see..."

The Marshall tensed up, taking a step towards him.

"Step. forward." He lowered his arms, walking closer to the officers, raising a finger to point at the Marshall.

"...And I saw, and behold, it was a white horse..."

He looked over at the Sheriff, before finally meeting Brook's discomforted expression, his blue eyes filtered green through the glasses, boring into her with a powerful intensity, she felt like he knew everything about her, she felt vulnerable under his gaze.

"...And Hell followed with him..."

He extended his arms towards her , palms facing upwards as he pressed his wrists side by side. Readying himself for the hand cuffs. The Marshall smirked, shaking his head in his typical fashion.

"Rookie -- cuff this son of a bitch."

"God will not let you take me."

The spotlight was on her now, she stood in front of this man, a stage fright freezing her in place. He stare tore though ever fibre of her being, as if this man knew all the answers, for every question known to mankind. She reached a shaky hand into her back pocket, fumbling with the cuffs.

"Rook! Put the cuffs on him!"

"Put down your guns, take your friends and walk away..."

A small voice in the back of Brook's mind spoke to her, telling her she should drop this and leave. The staring of the group behind Joseph only served to make this worse. Trembling slightly, she slapped the cuffs around his wrists. The holy man stared at the floorboards, before shaking his head and smiling at her calmly.

"Sometimes the best thind to do... Is to walk away..."

Brook placed her hands on his shoulder, spinning him around to face the door, with one hand on the cuffs and on his shoulder, she pushed him toward the exit. The Sheriff nodded at her with approval, sending her another wink.

"Let's go."

The group of three that stood behind Joseph, watching the whole scene unfold, observed in silence as they walked their leader from the Church. The Marshall and the Sheriff both shoved the doors open, to meet Hudson's' terrified expression.

"We have to get the fuck out of here."

The sounds of engines from Trucks started pulling up outside the church, the crowd of people larger now, heckling and cursing at the officers. Brooklyn walked on with caution, keeping a firm grip on her prisoner. The peggies shouted, the dogs were barking.

"Marshall you take point."

"On it."

"Stay on the path Rook."

"Yes sir."

The Marshall grew skittish, unable to focus on everybody at once. A cultist lunged for him and he elbowed them into the ground. Hudson became panicked.

"Burke!"

"Everyone keep back!"

Hudson glanced back at Brook, her eyes wide with fear.

"Rookie keep up!"

The cultists came closer, almost cutting off their path to the bird.

" I am a US federal Marshall and I am ordering you to stand back!"

Rocks started raining down upon them, the drew their service weapons, pointing behind Brook. She ducked, speed walking towards the Chopper. The Marshall fired shots into the air, causing the cultists to move out of their way.  Hudson clambered into the bird, beckoning Brook with her hands.

"C'mon! C'mon! Get in!"

"Pratt! Get us outta' here!"

They stumbled into the chopper,  the blades whirring to life, the air filled with the noise of people shouting and an engine. Brook shoved Joseph in first before seating herself, the Marshall and Whitehorse following. All hell broke loose, people started throwing themselves at the bird, crying for their Father, scrambling all up the sides and clinging on to the aircraft. The Sheriff threw on his headset, calling for dispatch.

"Nancy?! Nancy are you there?!”

One of the peggies managed to get a hold of the Marshall's arm as they liften from the ground, he shot at them watching them drop like a stone. A woman grabbed hold of Brook, but she pushed her out of the Bird. Chaos was unravelling, Hudson, Pratt, Whitehorse and Burke all shouting over the top of each other. But something caught Brook's attention, she look at Joseph and noticed he was singing. The same song from the church.

"Amazing... Grace... How sweet... The sound..."

The chopper shuddered roughly, the sounds of metal crashing together made Brook's gut tie into knots. They started spinning, falling from the sky, another Peggie was thrown off the side, the speed of the fall increasing, Brook's hands clasped into her seat, the Marshal was pressed up against his, eyes firmly shut as he started to scream. 

"We're going down!"

The Sheriff grabbed ahold of Brook's hand and squeezed, but she was fixed on Joseph, she couldn't tear herself away.

"That saved... A wretch... Like me..." The tree's became a blur, her chest tightened with a lack of oxygen. She forced her eyes closed, bracing for impact.

"Was lost... But now I'm found..."

The smacked into the ground at speed, the bird rolled with the impact, flipping twice before landing. Blackness pooled in Brook's vision, her head becoming dark. Josephs voice becoming muffled as she faded.

"Was blind... but now... I see..."

Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think!