#can this dumpster fire collapse on itself already

[ranger-kellyn]

you know i really just fucking LOVE coming back to work and having a mountain of bullshit to do because even though when anyone else goes on vacation I'M tasked with doing their work while they're gone, but APPARENTLY. THAT'S NOT A FUCKING TWO WAY STREET!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[luffyrose]

Mistaken - DC x DP

Idk man- this one fully just came to me. So have fun. Cry.

~~~~~~

Another rogue attack.

Bats coming to save the day.

It was a never-ending dance between the two.

Casualties were often low. People got hurt but fewer and fewer people died. Even major injuries had lessened over the years. It wasn't the focus of the villains to necessarily kill people, it was simply a byproduct of their goal.

So why was it different?

Why now?

Sure, Gotham's rogues weren't afraid to kill to gain attention, but this was different. The attack came from nowhere, no sign of it before it had already begun, and when Batman arrived...there was no villain there. Just the destruction in its wake.

He'd been quick to call the others for help searching for injured, and no doubt dead from the destruction, before getting to pulling people from rubble and fires. His kids arrived and did the same until another call came from Oracle. The fire department and ambulances had arrived, so they left it to them.

It had already been nearing the day, so when they finished dealing with some goons, the family had turned in for the night. Yet Bruce couldn't stop thinking about the explosion. The camera's from the building, he'd learned it was a lab of some sort, were far and few, really only showing the entrance. Even then they cut out before the explosion.

The news was talking of it, the owner of the lab was on it by now claiming it was an accident with some chemicals and they were investigating possible causes. He knew it was a lie, and from his children's faces when they heard it, they thought the same.

It didn't take him long to head there, not as Batman, but as Bruce Wayne.

He had planned to speak to the owner of the Lab, he really only remembered he wore a pristine white suit. Parking nearby, and offering help to those he saw as he passed, Bruce slowly made his way toward the main part of the crowd.

A quiet sob and cough made him freeze in his tracks. It was so quiet he doubted anyone would have noticed if they weren't trained. Glancing around, he slipped into the alleyway he'd heard the noise from. It was close to he accident, but far enough away no one would look down it...so why was someone here?

Bruce cautiously looked through the alley, his gaze hardening as he found a smaller figure curled up on itself, trying to hide behind a dumpster.

"Hello?"

The kid, because it really could only be a kid, flinched eyes darting toward him.

And Bruce froze.

Green eyes were staring back at him. Glowing, Lazarus, green eyes. Yet, his eyes were quick to drift from the color to the blood soaking the boy's clothes. Gritting his teeth, he crouched, holding up his hands. He couldn't see the boy well with this distance, but he couldn't risk not finding a way to help the kid.

"I'm not gonna hurt you...I promise."

The glow fluctuated for a moment before the other tried to move, wincing harshly as his arm gave out and sent him careening into the floor. Bruce had moved forward when he fell, worry clear on his face, and when the boy growled, only for it to fade into a whimper, he paused again.

"Let me help you. I can get you to a hosp-"

Panic filled the other's eyes, scrambling further away. "No! No, hospital. No, no, no no nononono-" Bruce kept his face from changing at the boy's voice. It was hoarse as if he hadn't used it or had been screaming.

Putting his hands up placatingly, he carefully shifted on his feet. "Okay. No hospital. But you need help...can I help you?" The boy seemed to be looking for something in his face, maybe a lie, but after a few moments, the kid's head bobbed before he collapsed onto the ground completely.

Taking the moment, Bruce moved beside him, careful not to touch him as he pulled out his phone, messaging Dick and Leslie. She would need to prep for some stitches no doubt from the blood, and he definitely couldn't get the boy elsewhere without some help. As he finished sending the messages, he felt a hand grab onto him weakly. Looking down at the boy, his heart absolutely sunk.

He could see him now. How his black hair fell over his eyes. Blue eyes. The green was temporary, probably powers, but now with those blue eyes, he looked like one of his many children. More specifically...a younger Jason. His heart clenched, gently taking the boy's hand despite himself.

This wasn't Jason...it wasn't.

It was clear the boy had started to grow delirious, his eyes unfocused for the most part, but staring so intently at him.

"...dad...?"

Oh.

Bruce could hear the harsh swallow he did, but smiled softly at the boy. Carefully sitting, he dragged the boy onto his lap, gently moving his hair. "You're gonna be alright..." It wasn't Jason, and he knew that...but that didn't mean he couldn't comfort the boy. If he happened to look like his father...Bruce wasn't going to try and correct him when he was so delirious, not when it may give him some kind of comfort.

He couldn't help the pain in his heart though as the kid practically melted into the touch, unfurling slightly and revealing some of his injuries. It wasn't his kid. It wasn't.

Maybe he could have comforted any of them like this if he'd listened in the past.

Shaking his head, he pushed down the feelings. He couldn't focus on that, not right now. Looking back at his phone, he saw a message, saying Dick was almost there. Part of him hoped he was alone...he knew that probably wasn't the case.

"I'm scared..."

Gazing back toward the kid, he put the phone back in his pocket. Putting his hand on the boy's cheek, he gently rubbed away some tears that had begun to fall. Before he could respond the boy's eyes drooped the little consciousness he had fading. "Hey, come on, try to stay awake." It was no use as the boy drifted off, only the too-slow rising and falling of his chest assuring Bruce he wasn't fully gone.

"Kid, come on you can't sleep yet-"

Two pairs of footsteps came from the entrance of the alley as Bruce tried to wake the boy, glancing back to see his oldest boys. What was slight, but worried, amusement turned to horror the closer they got, seeing the pool of blood. "Leslie is waiting." Without needing to say anything else, Dick was quick to carefully scoop the kid up, looking back to Jason. He seemed shell-shocked, staring at the boy. Bruce couldn't blame him.

They looked so similar.

~|0|~

Danny had...what had he been doing? He remembered the GIW, and lab equipment-

Oh.

The lab.

He had gotten out...but someone had seen him. Where was he now? Fighting to open his eyes, he saw the ceiling of a car. He could also see two older guys. He was in the back seat with his head...on someone's lap? Or was it a ghost? They felt like a ghost...but not.

Frowning, his eyes slowly drifted shut again. He'd thought he'd seen his dad...but, the man had been too kind. His- Jack was...he wouldn't have ever comforted him like that. Not now. Not in the past. Feeling himself drift off again, he felt small tears fall down his cheeks.

Why had his dad never comforted him like this stranger had? Why had he hurt him? Given him to the GIW after he'd told them what he was? If they truly hadn't believed him...if they had thought he was mimicking "their beloved son" then why not do everything they always said they would.

More tears fell, but he felt someone wipe them away again. It was a different hand...it was still rough, but gentler than the other had been. With a stuttered breath, Danny let the darkness take over his mind again. He probably wouldn't have let himself fall asleep again...but he would rather these people who reminded him of his family have him. Hurt him or not...he just didn't want to be alone.

A hum was the last thing he felt, a warmth he couldn't remember having in a long long time rumbling beneath his skin.

~|0|~

Jason had felt something when he'd seen the kid. The pits went quiet before pure worry erupted from them. He didn't know why...but it didn't help that this kid look like him. Looked like that little kid who'd never gotten help.

It didn't help that deep down Jason knew that this kid hadn't either.

He'd ended up carefully cradling his head in the back seats while Dick drove and Bruce messaged who he could only assume was Leslie or the family group chat. Either way, when he felt something wet land on his hand, he hadn't expected the kid to be crying.

Gently wiping the tears, he felt the frown on his face grow. "He's crying." He heard Bruce shifting, probably looking at the two, yet he ignored the other, just wiping the small tears. As he did, a warbling cry made him jump slightly. Glancing toward the other two, he saw the shock on both their faces.

"Well, he's definitely some kind of meta."

Bruce hummed, but Jason simply looked down again. The pit was silent for a moment, the non-stop worry having paused at the noise. So when a rumbling almost purr-like hum came from himself, he almost froze. Almost. His shock had been overrun by how the kid seemed to relax, one of his hands gently grabbing onto him.

"That...that was new."

He didn't need to look to know the two were even more shocked, if not worried. Jason couldn't bring himself to care for once, wiping the last of the falling tears before running his fingers through the fluffy and bloody locks of their mysterious meta-kid.

He wasn't a meta...he knew that deep down as well.

It didn't take long after for them to get to Leslie's clinic, taking the boy inside in a rush. He was quickly moved onto a stretcher and taken into one of the more medically equipped rooms. The three weren't far behind, entering the room as Leslie worked on removing the bloodied clothes, mainly his shirt.

A large y-shaped and inflamed gash met all of their eyes. It wasn't the cause of the bleeding, but it clearly had been done not too long before the large gash next to it. They weren't the only injuries he had, and he'd had plenty if the scars were to say anything. The most concerning was a Lichtenberg scar that stretched from his hand across his entire chest.

None of them had been ready for it. Dick covered his mouth as Jason audibly took a deep breath. Bruce was silent, but from the stare, they knew he was just as horrified.

Leslie was equally as horrified to find a child in the condition he was in, but gritted her teeth and got to work. It took a long time, but the boy didn't stir. She and the others had checked his vitals multiple times just to make sure he was still fine. He was...if the low heartbeat and temperature were normal. The temperature probably was to an extent at least, they'd figured that out after a frost had covered the bed he was on.

Finally, his injuries were stitched, but as Leslie left to get everything he would need the boy bolted upright.

His breathing was heavy, flinging himself out of the bed and into a corner. Jason reacted the fastest, getting over to him and enveloping him in a hug. It was definitely not the right thing you're supposed to do, but he'd done it before he'd even thought about it.

And when the boy's arms tightly wrapped around him, a loud echoey sob being muffled against his jacket he knew it had been the right instinct.

Neither let go nor did they move.

Dick came over, carefully sitting beside them and hugging them both, taking a moment to wipe a tear that had fallen from Jason's face...when had that happened?

With a quiet click of a door opening and closing, Jason buried his head into the younger black-haired boy's head. Leslie wouldn't have had silent footsteps. Bruce had left the room. He didn't know whether he was thankful or not for that. From the brief information, he'd told them, the kid thought Bruce was his dad.

"...I'm sorry..."

Shaking his head slightly, not bothering to lift it, Jason rubbed the other's back.

"Nothin' to be sorry for. You're alive."

Another rumble noise escaped him, but he couldn't bring himself to worry and wonder about it yet again as the kid clung tighter, a similar yet much sadder noise coming from him.

Both could feel the short breath of a small laugh from Dick, who still held them both.

"You both sound like birds, your nicknames pretty fitting now, Jaybird."

A laugh came from the boy, slightly startling the older two. But, it was a welcome sound, the rest of the tense air finally fading.

After a bit of silence, the kid spoke again.

"I think I called your dad my dad."

Jason couldn't help the smirk that grew on his face.

"Just sounds like you're the next sibling to be adopted."

"New baby bird!"

Danny was both incredibly confused and...pleasantly surprised by their words. He knew for a fact they'd seen his powers at some point. But then again, the one he was clinging to, Jaybird if the guy's nickname was to be used, wasn't entirely alive either.

"Honestly I should apologize for thinking he was my dad...he's probably worse."

Jason snorted out a laugh. He probably shouldn't, but damn if the kid with the scars all across his body said it, he was probably right. Dick made the noise he does whenever Jay makes a joke about his death, only causing the kid to look over.

"What, it's a very grave mistake."

[luna-rainbow]

Dear Nonnie who just sent me an ask: I won’t post it verbatim here because I don’t want this to turn into a ship war 😅

*Puts on my Sambucky hat* (it’s like a once a year event now) I think there’s a lot you can unpack from the final scene in CATWS. Here’s Sam, who almost got killed twice by the Winter Soldier, who looked at the picture of Bucky suspended in cryo next to a picture of him smiling faintly in army gear and said — “I’m coming with you.” You could read that as Sam’s strong loyalty to a guy he fought alongside once, but I think it also suggests Sam, between Steve telling him about the best friend he had lost and now, had already changed his opinion of Bucky. They’re not off to capture a monster, but to find the good man whose life got completely derailed by Hydra. Sam had lost his wingman recently too, and maybe he put Riley in Bucky’s shoes, and knows he’s going to go after him just as Steve would.

I tend not to take AoU as canon for multiple reasons but in Sam’s short appearance, it’s clear he’s the one busy chasing Bucky’s tail, so the…intellectual? Emotional? attachment is definitely there. Notably, he called it “our missing person’s case” — it’s a soft term to use: not hunt, or pursuing a fugitive; it makes no reference to the Soldier’s murders or past crimes. “Missing person’s cases” speaks of longing, an emptiness that needs filling, and a wish for closure. That’s what Bucky was to Sam — at the very least, a ghost story he wanted to bring into the present and bring closure for.

Civil War was unkind to every on-screen relationship (yes, including Steve-Bucky), not just Sam and Bucky, who barely exchanged a word. What I do want to point out is that when Sam went down to the basement (after Zemo activated the code words), he did not walk in there armed and ready to attack. He knew Bucky’s capabilities but was still worried enough to see all the collapsed bodies that he had let his guard down, because he was worried for Bucky’s safety. Bucky overpowered him quickly because Sam wasn’t expecting Bucky to be like that, i.e. Sam implicitly trusted Bucky. Trusted him because he said to Steve he didn’t do the things in Vienna and that he doesn’t “do that anymore”. Sure, Sam played the devil’s advocate with Steve to make sure he doesn’t let his guard down, but when push came to shove, Sam wanted to trust Bucky. And their fight against Peter shows that Sam was right to trust Bucky, who grouches at him non stop but would jump in front of him to take a hit.

And I’ve said this before, while their presence (and sad expressions) at the funeral itself is up for debate, there’s something so tender about the way Sam gently rubs his thumb along the groove of Bucky’s prosthetic shoulder to comfort him.

To be absolutely fair, the MCU’s consistency has been a dumpster fire from day one, and pretty much every fan I’ve seen picks and chooses what they want from canon. What that also means is there are multiple ways of interpreting a scene, and there aren’t necessarily right or wrong readings (although some readings might be a bit more of a stretch than others). As shippers though, we inevitably empathise a lot more with our blorbo/s and it’s hurtful when we see readings that frame them/their dynamic in a negative light. The best way to deal with that is to block people liberally.

[eureka5215]

…yeah this is BS lol. There are like. Several reasons that them doing this feels like such a cop out.

1. When BotW came out they literally said this was the end of all timelines/all timelines lead to those games. BotW and TotK actively make use of locales, enemies, and character references from all three timelines. You can’t just carve off a timeline from it and say that this was intentional, not after over 7 years of these games being out and being part of this series.

2. A lot of the lore becomes a gamble now on if it still applies. Sure everything preceding Ocarina of Time is still guaranteed, but why do the Rito exist now? Why are Rauru and Sonia considered the first rulers when we know the kingdom existed before? Zelda literally references all the heroes in the memories when doing the ceremony for Link and now chunks of those aren’t relevant anymore? Or at least shaky on why she’s know them? Ther’s no guaranteed basis to build the game’s lore on anymore, even if it was vague before there were certain thing so we now that we now don’t.

3. It just kinda feels…disrespectful? Like the community spends so much time trying to piece the timeline together and there are some genuinely incredible interpretations out there! We’ve spent years building this thing up and giving meaning to the timeline and consequences to the fallout from each and just…nope! New timeline! Little references that the game quite literally built itself on are just that. The Hero of Twilight being a summonable ally? Just a fun nod for buying the amiibo and having the Wii U TP port! Sidon outright saying he’s Ruto’s descendent? What a funny little OoT reference! Like��a timeline shows us that these games are part of a greater world, that these games have a greater impact on it beyond their own game. Just reducing these references to a little nod towards literal decades of stories they’ve built is just…sad.

The timeline is a dumpster fire no matter how you look at it, but that’s something that we’ve already found our own ways to tackle. Some people place it at both ends of the timeline and tackle the rito’s existence that way. Some people split Age of Calamity into one of the known timelines and BotW/TotK into one of the others. I like the idea that the timelines collapsed and BotW Hyrule is an amalgamation of the three origins. To make all these years of theory crafting and creative ideas null and void and retconning things already said for the sake of giving an easy answer like “oh they’re not that related to the others actually!” honestly feels like a slap in the face. If the only way you can think of having a story told in this universe is to inherently separate it from the other games and make things so different, then maybe this isn’t the series to make the game in. And if you still do it and can’t, or don’t try to, make a creative way to actually tie it in with the rest of the series then maybe listen to the community that plays them, they have a lot of love for the series and some incredible ideas, don’t undermine that because you can’t be bothered to do something more interesting than “Forget it being all of them! Shiny new timeline! Now stop asking.”

Nintendo has confirmed that #BreathOfTheWild and #TearsOfTheKingdom exist in a separate timeline within the #LegendOfZelda universe, distinct from previous entries.

They stand alone despite fans' attempts to fit these open-world games into the established #Zelda chronology. The official timeline reveals that after Ocarina of Time, the series branches into two paths—"Hero is Defeated" and "Hero is Triumphant"—which further split into "Child Era" and "Adult Era." However, Breath of the Wild and Tears of the Kingdom do not align with these branches and exist separately.

This was revealed at Sydney's #Nintendo Live 2024, underscoring Zelda's timeline's complexity and evolving nature and reminding fans that the series' lore may be more of an evolving sandbox than a neatly interconnected story.

[hms-chill]

The RWRB gang involved in a sort of shooting or something at a really huge international event. Worst-Injured Character (Henry) Half-Conscious And Begging To Know If The Others (Alex most especially) Are Okay.

“The Olympics, Six Years Later”

"I can't do it. I need a big, strong athlete to carry me; my legs are too sore," Alex complains. "There were so many steps yesterday. I'm going to die."

They're only halfway to their seats for the 2022 olympics, but after their trip to the Great Wall the day before, they're all starting to feel it. Bea, June, and Pez had opted to take the skylift to the top, leaving them well rested to enjoy the wall itself (which was comprised almost entirely of more stairs), but Nora had dared the boys to take the stairs with her and raced them to the top. It was a great idea in the moment, but between that and the number of steps on the wall itself, they're all regretting it the next day.

"Race you to the seats," Nora says, and Alex perks up almost immediately, pushing past the others to elbow her out of the way and get what could only be described as a "running" start if his bedraggled slouching upward counts as running. Nora's not far behind. They're both out ahead of the others, muscles straining, panting and laughing and elbowing each other, when it happens.

The next day, someone will say it was just bad construction. The stadium went up too quickly, and some things didn't set just right or get checked well enough. Someone else will say it was sabotage; sugar mixed into the concrete to weaken it as an act of resistance. Someone else will say a bomb went off, and people will talk about whether it was too early or too late or right on time. But in the moment, all Henry knows is that one second, he's trying not to be too obvious about watching Alex's ass, and the next, the steps below him are falling away. He barely has time to scream.

Alex and Nora feel the steps shake. There's a crash, the sounds of collapse. Someone screams. They turn around a second too late to see it happen. Henry's gone. Pez is gone. June and Bea are on the other side of a hole in the stairs, one that goes straight down to the basement of the stadium, where it ends in a pile of rubble. Bea has her hands over her mouth, a picture of horror, and Alex's brain starts to short circuit as he tries to process Henry's absence. Beside him, nora is running forward. He's not sure if she's going to try to jump over the hole or look into it, but he grabs her arm to hold her back just in case. She leans over the edge, then shouts.

"He's... he's... Alex, help me." She's reaching into the hole, and when Alex comes level with her, he can see Pez, clinging to a broken piece of metal with wide eyes. Alex lies down beside her, and between the two of them, they get Pez out. Nora wraps him in a hug immediately, but Alex is back to the edge of the hole, looking frantically. Henry has to be there somewhere, too. He has to be holding on. He has to be safe.

"Henry! Henry, where are you?" He doesn't realize he's crying until there's a hand on his shoulder, and Bea's pulling him up and into a hug. "Henry... he's... he's down there somewhere. He's not... He's still here. I know it. I... He's not... I'd know if he was."

Bea just holds him close, and they're both sobbing. There are other arms around them, and June starts trying to guide them up and away from the hole. Alex only lets her move him down the stairs to the ground floor, where he and Bea both settle as close to the rubble as they can get and refuse to go anywhere else. Alex knows that if he moves, if he leaves, he won't be there when they find Henry. He has to stay, because when they pull Henry out of the rubble, Alex has to be there to love him right away. So he stays put, and so does Bea. There are people moving around them, crews starting to move rubble and officials shouting in what feels like every language on the planet. Alex barely processes any of it. He refuses to process anything beyond Bea's hand in his and the pile of rubble in front of him, because anything else, anything more than this terror, will destroy him.

-

Henry knows, logically, that he must have blacked out as he fell. Because even if he is surrounded by nothing but darkness, death shouldn't hurt this much. He tries to shift, tries to move, but he can't. Something's pressing down on his legs, something else on his chest. He's lucky to have his head and an arm relatively free. Instead, he does what he can to take stock of his situation, asking himself what's happened, what hurts, and what he can control. His mind won't focus. At least the answer to what hurts is simple: everything. Every part of his body is in pain, and when he tries to cough the grime out of his throat, the pain that shoots through his ribs makes everything flash white. In the pitch blackness, it's almost a relief.

In his pocket, his phone buzzes. It's enough to make him laugh a bit, though that hurts as much as anything else. Even at the best of times, he doesn't answer his phone for anyone but--

Alex.

Alex had been higher up. He'd had farther to fall. It's a miracle Henry survived, but Alex...

No. He isn't dead. If he was dead, Henry would know. But if he's not dead, that means he's down here somewhere, running out of air and probably hurt worse than Henry is. He's hurt worse and probably buried deeper, and Henry feels his heart start pounding at that. It's going to hurt like hell, but he takes a deep breath anyway and shouts, "Alex! Alex!"

He barely manages those two before he's reduced to coughing up the dust he's inhaled, trying to hear any sort of response over it. Deafening silence. In theory, he knows yelling won't really change anything. He should protect his throat, make sure not to make enough noise to unbalance anything, and wait for someone to find him. He'll have enough air for a while, and he doesn't seem to be bleeding, so he should be okay. Unless he's bleeding internally. Or unless someone digging shifts something the wrong way. Or unless this was an attack of some sort and the area isn't safe enough for relief teams at all.

He's thought about dying, of course. He's probably thought about dying more than the average twenty-something, given the number of 'Someone-Might-Try-To-Kill-You' lectures he grew up with and the raging dumpster fire that was the years after his dad's death. But he hasn’t thought about it all that much recently. With Alex and their friends, with things as perfect as they are, death seems miles away. It’s not something Henry’s wished for since they got together, and not something he’s given much thought to recently.

He thinks about it now, and he's surprised to find himself a little scared. He pushes it down, and quotes float to the front of his mind, snatches of other people’s words, glimpses into their views of death so he won’t have to imagine his own.

“... the moment we enter crying to the moment we leave dying...”

“... dulce et decorum est pro patria mori”

“... look for me under your boot-soles...”

Henry tries to cling to those, tries to piece together enough bits of their thoughts and words into an idea of his own. But faced with the possibility, with the idea of actually leaving behind Alex and the others, of abandoning the future they could have together, he can't seem to think of anything else.

When another thought surfaces, though, it courses through him with a pain worse than anything he's felt yet. It's a reminder that Alex fell, too. He had to have. If Alex fell, or if any of their friends did, that means his own death isn't the one Henry needs to worry about. If he loses Alex, if he loses Pez or Bea or any member of their group, he's going to fall apart. New words replace the old, words of grief indescribable, the life he could find beyond this mess.

"...while I had him the rest seemed good enough/ But he ain’t here...”

“... he is lost among the stars...”

“... I cannot now accustom myself to your absence...”

And that's when the tears start to gather in his eyes, when the sobs begin to tear out of him, shooting pain through his throat and ribs that only amplifies them. He's scared. Looking at how badly everything could go wrong is terrifying, and even imagining how much he could have already lost is the worst thing he's ever felt. If he's lost them, or if he's about to make them feel the pain he's terrified of, he's not sure things would ever be alright again.

His tears have slowed, and he's starting to get dizzy when a shower of pebbles hits his forehead. He realized he's probably bleeding from somewhere around the time his eyelids started to droop closed, but he forces them to open. There's nothing to see but the blackness he's been surrounded by since he fell, but something's happening. The pebbles have to have meant something. When he was a kid, getting briefed on what to do in case of a fire, they taught him to tap the floor so that rescuers could find him. He's not sure what it will do in this case, but he has to try. His hand feels like lead as he lifts it, but he manages to tap three times. Three little taps, just like he’d do on Alex’s knee or the back of his hand somewhere public. Three little taps, like the ones he’s gotten used to getting in return, when Alex needs his attention or when he’s given an interviewer an answer that Alex particularly appreciates.

Three little taps: ‘I love you’.

He tries to force himself to do it again, but his hand is too heavy. It’s getting hard to think now, and the sliver of light that's opened above him feels like the other end of the universe. Still, he fights to keep his eyes on it. Because somewhere, somewhere in that light, is Alex. He knows it.

-

When they pull Henry free of the rubble, coughing, he’s the same color as the sheets on the gurney. His throat is rubbed so raw from the gritty air that breathing hurts, meaning his voice is shot, but he manages to rasp, “Alex? The... the others... is Alex okay?”

The paramedic smiles slightly, but moves aside without answering. Henry’s fighting to keep his eyes open, to look for Alex as best he can. He has to find him. Then there’s a hand grabbing at Henry’s, and he can hear Alex’s voice, wrapping around him like a blanket as his eyes drift closed. He doesn’t trust himself to speak, not with the condition of his throat and his lungs, but he taps Alex’s hand three times. The gurney starts to roll as he hears Alex sniffle, but the hand never leaves his. With all of the chaos around them, the plethora of languages and the shouting of the paramedics, the only thing Henry can focus on is Alex’s hand in his. He knows he’s probably lost consciousness at least once, but for every moment he’s even marginally awake, Alex is holding his hand. And more times than he can count, Alex is giving it three little taps. When he manages to give them back, he's rewarded with a kiss to the back of his hand, and he could swear he hears Alex sniffle a bit more.

-

He wakes up properly in a bed with clean sheets, Alex’s hand still holding his despite the fact that Alex is deeply asleep in the chair next to him. It hurts to breathe, hurts to think, hurts to move, but he turns as far as he can toward Alex anyway, trying to see if he’s hurt.

He’s dirty, covered in the same layer of grime Henry is. But he’s not obviously bandaged, and he’s not in a hospital bed. He seems to be okay. Across the room, June, Pez, and Nora are piled nearly on top of each other on a couch, some sort of arrangement that only they could ever make comfortable. Bea is in an armchair next to them, sleeping as well. Henry smiles and taps Alex's hand three times, and Alex squeezes back. Henry lets his eyes close again. Alex is okay, their friends are okay, and that means that everything else will be okay, too.

On AO3

Notes:

The 2022 olympics are in Beijing! And I've been there, so I can write about it a bit more easily, which is fun given how important the olympics are to these boys! And from what I remember, there are just... so many god damn stairs to get up to the top of the Great Wall, y'all. Then once you're up, there's just... more stairs. It's all stairs (until you take the slide down, which is awesome).-

This is a bit odd, but if anyone’s good at reading cover letters, please let me know! I’m applying for some things I really want, and I’m scared. On a similar note, if you want to, you can buy me a Ko-fi here! Thanks y’all!

-

Sources for quotes (all of which are gay):-Todd, Dead Poet's Society-"Dulce et Decorum Est", Wilfred Owen-"Song of Myself", Walt Whitman-"The Lost Pardner", Badger Clark-"Last Meeting", Seigfried Sassoon-A letter from Lafayette to Washington, 1799

[idealistsinc]

better off

content warning: arguing, some nsfw dialogue, then tooth-rotting adorable

When it came to matters of presentation, reining in Rin Weise was as futile as laveering a schooner in a storm.

Rin had swathed the sofa in every last tunic and pair of trousers Vhox owned. Vhox languished in a nearby armchair as he watched Rin gnaw a hangnail, pacing from one rumpled, sun-bleached shirt to another with a brow so furrowed it looked like it was trying to migrate to his chin. He had only agreed to let Rin choose his outfit because Rin had already bitten his fingernails to the quick over this whole Maelstrom business; letting Rin expend his nervous energy on something productive tended to go far better than the alternative. Anyway, thought Vhox, draping himself over the arm of the chair, at least he had an excuse to lounge about shirtless without Rin accusing him of being deliberately provocative. If he could just get Rin to stop fretting for long enough to look at him…

Rin paused from wearing a hole in the rug to hand Vhox a sedate white shirt, miraculously unblemished by seawater, sweat, or other unmentionable substances. “Try this one.”

Vhox held it up for inspection with a suggestive flex of his bicep. “Y’know,” he said, raising his eyebrows, “I think this is th’ one I wore on that Lower Decks tavern crawl, when you dragged me off be’ind the dumpsters an’—”

“Thank you,” said Rin. “I recall. Please put on the shirt, Vhox.”

Sighing theatrically, Vhox navigated his arms through the sleeves. “Never thought I’d see the day where y’wanted me to put on more clothes.”

That didn’t elicit even the ghost of a smile. The moment Vhox had his head through, Rin attacked him with all the deadly focus of a predator, tugging out wrinkles, straightening sleeves, and tightening the collar so that it near strangled him (“You tryin’ t’kill me?” Vhox griped. Rin, rolling his eyes, graciously undid one more button than his sense of propriety demanded). Then, Rin stepped back and looked Vhox over with such a critical gaze that Vhox resisted a childish urge to squirm.

“The sleeves are rather billowy,” Rin remarked, finally. “A bit too high seas.”

“The Maelstrom’s an armada. High seas’s what they’re goin’ for.”

“Point taken.” Rin frowned, then reached to brush Vhox’s bangs out of his face, a gesture Vhox mistook for affectionate until he added, “We ought to do something with your hair.”

Vhox’s stomach wrenched like a rudder grinding against a rock. “Nothin’ wrong with it,” he said. He caught Rin’s wrist; Rin pulled out of his grip in a huff, his tail twitching.

“Perhaps not, if what you’re going for is ‘lawless rogue.’ I’m only going to tie it back—”

Yeah, thought Vhox, because that fuckin’ tattoo will go over so well. He could imagine the sight he would be, a beaten-down, washed-up wharf rat parading himself in front of a Maelstrom lieutenant with a godsdamned cult brand on his cheek. He moved out of Rin’s range, hurt sharpening his voice. “Hell no. It’s one thing to pick out somethin’ nice, but I ain’t gonna start puttin’ on airs.”

“It’s not about ��putting on airs.’ It’s about getting your foot in the door,” Rin said, with the infuriating patience of a parent for a tantruming child. “The Maelstrom administers to eight other squadrons. You’re going to need to show more than your usual bureaucratic finesse; I expect their standards aren’t exactly lax.”

If before the rudder had merely scraped on a rock, now Vhox felt the jolt of the whole bloody ship beaching on the shore, splintering the hull like matchsticks and throwing half the crew in the bay to drown. He’d been standing there for all of five minutes. If Rin judged that he didn’t pass muster, what the hell was Vhox even doing, thinking he might have a shot at making something more of himself than a lawless rogue?

“You think I can’t get in.”

Rin, reading the change in Vhox’s face, stilled. “I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t need to.” Vhox swung an arm at the tangle of tunics and jackets sprawled on the sofa. A prickling heat burned beneath his collar. “That’s what all this is, ain’t it? You don’t think they’ll take me ‘less I’m somethin’ I’m not—”

“That isn’t what I—”

“—so I’ll save us both th’ godsdamned time. Why go?”

“Because they might pay you,” said Rin. His voice went pitchy in his attempt not to raise it, cracking like a prepubescent kid whose balls had just dropped. “I’m sorry you feel that’s encroaching on your bloody gods-given right to do whatever you want, but what do you want me to say? That appearances don’t matter? That nothing you do will make a difference so that you have an excuse not to try? Because they do matter, and it does make a difference. Here in the adult world, sometimes you have to play the part just long enough to get hired.”

“Yeah?” Vhox said, before he could think better of it. “How’s that workin’ out for you, Rin? Tell me all about how good you're doin' at your job."

Rin’s expression blanked. Just like that, like closing a window, and just like that the air was crushed from Vhox’s lungs in a horrible vice of regret.

A fortnight past, Vhox came home from hauling nets at the docks to find Rin frozen in the grips of a panic attack so severe he couldn’t catch his breath to tell him what was wrong. Vhox had held him for nearly an hour, feeling the pounding staccato of Rin’s heart against his sternum and his shallow gasps on his neck, before Rin calmed down enough to give a disjointed and dissociative explanation: Rin had made a calculation error on a shipment through Maelvann’s Gate. It was a minor error, but such a taxing and expensive fix that Rin’s boss had called Rin into her office to suffer a formal reprimand, which utterly convinced Rin he was as good as fired—without an income, Kallu couldn’t go to school, Luma would never forgive him, and Rin would lose the flat and everything in it—without the flat, Rin would have to move back in with Isha’a, they would argue because Rin had never learned how to keep his damnable mouth shut, and Vhox would be turned out on the streets and maybe starve, maybe wind up stabbed to death in the gutter—

There were other inevitabilities that whirled in Rin’s head, Vhox was sure, but Vhox didn’t get to hear about them. By the time he got to the part where Vhox would clearly die without him, Rin was sobbing too hard to finish.

That was the funny thing about Rin. When Rin believed he needed to play a part, he played it so well that not even Vhox had seen the burden on Rin’s shoulders until Rin had already collapsed beneath it. Vhox realized that day he had no idea when Rin had begun to take on Vhox’s well-being as his responsibility—and it was for that reason, and that reason alone, that Vhox had sought out employment with the Maelstrom, determined to relieve Rin at once of that weight.

In the present, Rin forged doggedly through the silence. “I am trying to help you.”

“An’ I didn’t ask for your help!” If taking that burden off Rin’s shoulders was Vhox’s aim, his failure was already writ in the stress-carved canyons on Rin’s forehead and the heavy bruises under his eyes. Rin was trying to help him, and how did Vhox repay him? By shouting at him. By pissing away the last twenty-odd years of his life, time from which Vhox might never be able to recover into the kind of person who could hold a steady job, the kind of person who might actually be deserving of— “I never asked for you to feed me or put a roof o’er my head. I ain’t a godsdamned charity case, some beggin’ starveling needin’ you to play benefactor—”

“No, you’re not.”

“Then maybe don’t act like you’re doin’ me such a favor, dolin’ out gil to stroke your own dick—”

“By the bloody fucking Twelve, Vhox!” said Rin, very loud. His frustration trembled in his legs; he strode up to Vhox and took him firmly by the shoulders, but...even upset as Rin was, his touch was gentle. “Is this what we’re doing now? Being vulgar for the sake of it, hoping I’ll storm out in disgust so you can tell yourself what a terrible person you are? Because you’re not, and I won’t. You can’t push me away—shockingly, I take care of you because I love you, you brainless twit—”

Vhox heard nothing else Rin said. It was as if the floor had pitched beneath him and dropped him to his knees, knocking the breath and the anger out of him in one fell swoop.

“What?” said Vhox.

Rin paused. Vhox saw him mentally backtrack through his tirade, saw the moment Rin realized what he’d said cross his face. All at once, the tension between them sagged like an empty sail. Rin’s fingers clenched in Vhox’s shirt, his chest deflating in a long, defeated sigh. “I love you,” he said again. “That’s—that’s not how I imagined I would say that, but…”

Vhox didn’t know what Rin meant to say next, and somehow, he didn’t care. An eddy of warmth had washed through him, a feeling like the heat in his stomach on the first sip of ale, like sun-warmed skin on a summer afternoon; and he noticed for the first time the flush in Rin’s cheekbones that made his markings pop, the curl of his hair over the rims of his glasses, those wide eyes behind them. Gods, but he really did have the prettiest fucking eyes Vhox ever saw. The color reminded him of the sky right at sunset, when the sun seemed to douse itself out in the sea in a final burst of violet—

Before Vhox could think about what he was doing in the slightest, he was already kissing Rin.

To be fair, Rin kissed him back. Then, as though Rin suddenly remembered he was supposed to be upset with Vhox, he pulled away, bewildered. “Wait. What are you…?”

“I’m a fuckin’ blockhead,” said Vhox. His hands settled in the familiar and well-tracked groove at the small of Rin’s back, and Vhox tugged him closer, enjoying the shiver that quailed up Rin’s spine. “Why would I wanna argue with you when there’s so many other things I can do wi’ my mouth—”

“Are you seriously—you’re flirting with me?” Rin barked a short, baffled laugh. “We were just in a row. I legitimately thought I was going to strangle you. Perhaps we should, I don’t know, talk about that?”

“Later. I wanna make it up to you.”

“And how, pray tell, are you going to do that?”

“I was thinkin’ I’d start with a blowjob,” Vhox said. He considered, then added, “The stranglin’ can be negotiated.”

Rin stared at Vhox long enough that Vhox almost let him go, suddenly anxious he had come on too strong after an argument the caliber of the one they’d just had. But then something in Rin’s face thawed, and Rin twined his arms about Vhox’s neck with the kind of laughter that always buoyed Vhox’s heart to hear—his real laugh, soft and somehow shy.

“Far be it from me to turn down such a compelling offer,” Rin said. Then, his smile turned suggestive, a promise that often led to future orgasms for Vhox—which was to say, if Vhox had at all been thinking before, he certainly wasn’t now. “With ever so much to make up for—well, you’d best get started.”

And Vhox, indeed, got started.

. . .

Some bells and several orgasms later, Vhox and Rin lay entwined beneath the sheets. The light ebbed through the window, leaving shadows in its wake as the sea leaves shells. Vhox fought against a sated, comfortable sleepiness by staring up at the ceiling and counting the cracks in the plaster. Over the years, he’d seen many ceilings, usually while a buxom woman rode his cock—smoke-yellowed ceilings, ceilings splotched with mold, cobwebbed and fissured and sometimes falling in. But Vhox already knew this ceiling. Rin led a furious crusade against the spider infestations with a broom for this ceiling, mopped the walls when the seaspray made the room too damp, and already talked about whitewashing over the lone crack—

Llymlaen’s tits, Vhox thought, catching himself. It’s just a godsdamned ceiling.

It wasn’t just a godsdamned ceiling, though. It was Rin’s ceiling. Vhox didn’t know why, but that seemed like an important distinction to make.

The problem was that the warm, steady weight of Rin’s head on his chest kept dredging up all manner of complicated and incoherent feelings. Vhox knew he would have to wade through them sometime, plumb down to the bottom of the muck where Rin’s confession rested like a small, glimmering gem and take it in his palm, see if its facets would cut. Maybe, though, for only a moment, he could just…

Rin moved away from Vhox to prop himself up on his elbows, his tail weaving in restless sweeps against the mattress. Vhox was a little disappointed, but not surprised; Rin’s post-nut clarity always came in the form of anxious tidying. “I should iron that shirt if you’re to wear it tomorrow,” Rin said, proving the point. “As I recall, it was rather unceremoniously discarded in the hallway.”

“Leave it,” said Vhox. “I’ll take care of it later.”

“Vhox, you’ve never ironed a shirt in your life.”

No, he hadn’t. But if it was important to Rin to iron that shirt, goddammit, Vhox would iron the bloody shirt. “It’s a metal bit an’ some heat. What could go wrong?”

“You could burn the flat down.” Rin sat up and shifted his legs over the side of the bed. “I won’t be very long. I’ll just—”

Vhox grabbed his hand. He hadn’t expected to do that, and so for a blank string of seconds he just limply held it, forgetting everything he might have wanted to say. “Rin,” he finally managed, his name soft in his mouth. “Stay here a while.”

Rin hesitated. Then, crossing his legs beneath him, he stayed.

Vhox didn’t believe in that gooey bullshite about two bodies fitting perfectly together. He had seen enough bodies to know that, whether they were lithe or bulky, gangling or lumbering, bodies were awkward. They shat, smelled, vomited, leaked out snot or tears, came too soon or not soon enough, fumbled, choked, and sometimes jabbed him way too hard in the side with those bony fucking elbows, Rin. But...as Vhox folded Rin into his arms, tracing the delicate skin that hardly clothed the cage of his ribs, Vhox found himself staggered beneath a surge of protectiveness for this particular body, a built-up flood with nowhere to go. It would be one thing if Vhox had to protect Rin from the pirates, bandits, and thieves that nested in the dark corners of Limsa Lominsa—Vhox could throw a punch like nobody’s business—but that wasn’t the threat Rin faced, day after day after day.

The most dangerous person in Rin’s life was, and had always been, Vhox himself.

“Sorry we fought,” said Vhox. “I didn’t mean that shite about the…I just…”

I, what?

But Rin spoke before Vhox could name that shipwrecked feeling. “No, you were right to be upset. I was much too critical,” he said, drawing idle lines between the freckles on Vhox’s forearms with a ragged fingernail, his ears folding back. In Rin’s words, Vhox heard the blistering echo of a man Rin tried so hard not to be—for that alone, Vhox would’ve decked Senan fucking Weise in the goddamned teeth. “It’s not that I think there’s something wrong with you, only that…people are judgmental. I—I wanted the Maelstrom to give you a chance.”

“You didn’t need me t’fix my hair or any o’that to give me a chance.”

Rin scoffed. “The way I remember it, you hardly gave me a choice in the matter. I couldn’t have avoided you even if I wanted to.”

Vhox remembered, too: Rin’s dull, stringy hair. The sharp, hollowed angles of his face. The preternatural stillness with which Rin had held himself, a living ghost of a person. Rin had bitched the whole walk to the Bismarck, of course, but what Vhox remembered best was how his eyes came alive at that first taste of Bianaq bream. Gods, how Vhox had craved him. How badly he’d wanted to see how he might come alive at the tang of a malty Limsan old ale, or the flavor of Vhox’s tongue in his mouth—

“Did y’want to avoid me?” Vhox asked.

“…No,” he said, as though it were some kind of confession. “But I wouldn’t have admitted it on pain of death—I suppose I had my biases, too.” Rin faltered, his voice falling. “You don’t have to wear that shirt tomorrow, you know. I didn’t intend to be quite so forceful about it—”

“It wasn’t about that. I was—” What was it Rin had said earlier? “I was bein’ vulgar for th’ sake of it. Pickin’ a fight.”

When Vhox didn’t continue, Rin prompted, “What for?”

“I dunno. ‘Cus...” Vhox drew an uncertain breath, something in him quavering like a loose sail in a hurricane. “‘Cus I’m scared, I guess.”

Rin turned his head as though to look at him. Vhox squeezed Rin tight to keep him still, already more exposed and vulnerable than he would have liked to be, and so was surprised when Rin nudged his face into the soft space under Vhox’s chin and, very faintly, began to purr—a gentle rumble against Vhox’s pulse that evoked not so much a memory as a primal bond, something that soothed even as it bound, something that growled, Mine. Vhox closed his eyes and let himself, for a moment, be comforted.

“I don’t have a handle on this ‘steady job’ thing,” said Vhox, when he was again capable of speech. “Even if the Maelstrom takes me…I don’t know what the hell I’m doin’. I’ve been runnin’ from th’ law my whole life, not bein’ its bloody arm. An’—th’ job’s dangerous.”

Even as Vhox said it, though, he knew that wasn’t what he meant. When he dug down to the rotting root of it, every fear was really one fear: What if I hurt someone?

It wouldn’t be hard. One stab, one shot, one punch too many and Vhox would slaughter someone he hadn’t meant to kill, waking up again with pooled ichor squelching beneath his nails, waking up again to the fear like drowning of not knowing whose blood it was. And Rin. Rin would come for him even if Vhox got thrown in gaol. Rin would come even if Vhox was hurt, even if Vhox was the kind of hurt that made him do worse—

Vhox had never harmed Rin so far, and by the good graces of the entire pantheon of the Twelve, even motherfucking Azeyma, Vhox prayed he never would. But that didn’t stop Vhox from thinking about the flintlock pistol he made Rin keep in the bedside drawer, ostensibly for security reasons but really for Vhox’s own peace of mind. That didn’t stop Vhox from trying and failing to scrape together the courage to tell Rin outright what he wanted him to do with that gun if Vhox ever went feral in Rin’s presence again.

That small, glimmering gem had a sharp edge, after all. Even if Vhox was killing him, Rin would refuse to shoot.

“I’m dangerous.” Vhox swallowed. Though Rin already knew, admitting it still felt like opening up bleeding wounds in his throat. “An’ I think sometimes you’d be be’er off with some Sharlayan milksop whose job doesn’t come wi’ a risk of killin’ him, somebody who ain’t got a chance in hell of layin’ a finger on you—”

“Vhox—” said Rin, twisting to face him.

“Hang on. I’m not finished talkin’ yet.”

Rin’s tail flicked uneasily against his thigh. Vhox's gaze dropped to the clean line of Rin’s collarbone, his narrow chest that rose and fell with each quiet breath—and then a soft hand cupped his jaw, a thumb gliding over that scarred tattoo Vhox always hid beneath his mop of reddish hair until, finally, Vhox lifted his eyes to Rin’s. He didn’t know how he felt about what he saw there except that it ached in an inarticulable way, like prodding fingers into a healing bruise. The lesson Vhox had learned in his twenty-odd years of life: the people in his life didn’t come back. The people in his life didn’t stay.

But Rin did.

“It’d be for the best if you left,” Vhox said, an echo of something he told Rin once in a cave in bumfuck nowhere, Gyr Abania, and something he still in his heart of hearts believed, “but I...I don’t want that to happen. I don’t want you to run off with some struttin’ prick from Sharlayan. I want you to be wi’ me—an’ that? That scares the everlovin’ shite out of me.”

Because Vhox had never felt like that before. Because Vhox had drifted unanchored through his life until that day Rin had gored a ravenous, insatiable hole inside of him as he left, ripping away that which Vhox hadn’t even known he had to lose. Because when Rin left, Vhox wouldn’t just lose Rin. Vhox would lose the screams of Rin’s violin as he practiced, a barrage of tuneless notes like a streetcat’s mating call that, when Vhox least expected it, resolved into a chord so full it raised the gooseflesh on his arms. Vhox would lose the sweet familiarity of tossing his jacket over the same chair every evening, falling into the same warm bed with freshly-laundered sheets, never worrying he might get shanked in his sleep, his money stolen halfway to Ul’dah before his corpse was even stiff. Vhox would lose that little hiccup in his chest he got every time he washed up into Bloodshore after dark and saw that Rin had hung a lantern for him, though Vhox hadn’t told him he would be coming by that night—or any night, because Vhox refused to take a key to the flat on the grounds that he couldn’t bear to love this place and then be forced to leave it.

But, somewhere in him, Vhox also knew that there wouldn’t be a when. There were words for that knowing, and they were...

Rin kissed him before he could speak, lips brushing just long enough to pull the air from Vhox’s lungs. “I am a strutting prick from Sharlayan,” he said softly. “So if that’s what you want, I’m not going anywhere.”

If that’s what you want. As though there might actually be a fucking time when Vhox didn’t want him. As though Vhox’s wanting Rin wasn’t built into the fabric of the universe like death, taxes, and people jacking off.

“I love you.”

Rin obviously hadn’t been expecting Vhox to say it. Neither had Vhox—but now that Vhox had said it, he felt that warm, gentle wash through his chest again, like the calm waters of a tidepool. Instead, it was Rin who seemed stripped of his armor, small and unsure in his arms. “Are you certain?”

“I’d swear it on my honor, if I had any o’that,” said Vhox. Rin’s face wavered, so that Vhox felt compelled to keep talking in the hopes he might stumble on something stupid enough to make him smile. “What else do people swear on? Fresh out of mothers' graves, uh. I’ve got my life, for whatever that’s worth, an’—”

“Vhox?”

“What?”

Rin did smile, then. He also made a strangled little coughing sound in the back of his throat, because Rin was, in fact, heroically trying not to cry. “Your life will do,” he said. “Now, for Thaliak’s sake, stop talking and kiss me.”

And who would Vhox be to say no?

vhox still somehow belongs to @mimiorzea maybe we share custody by now, who knows

[quakerjoe]

A CUPPA JOE for 21 January 2020: Let the Games Begin

Today, the Impeachment Trial of trump begins and I’d like to remind you all of something. This is not a trial to see whether or not trump is going to be removed from office and then tried for his crimes. This is not about trump. We already KNOW Moscow Mitch is going to do everything he can to whisk this whole thing on through, sloppily and haphazardly, and he’s going to exonerate the permanently impeached angry orange.

 This trial is about you. It’s about all of us in the United States, and the world is watching. WE are the ones on trial today. We KNOW beyond shadow of a doubt right now before this even begins that trump is guilty of a multitude of corruption charges and abuse of power to enrich himself. It’s been clear since before, during and after the Mueller Report. There’s enough evidence in the REDACTED version of it to warrant trump’s removal from office. The recent interview with Parnas has just pissed a ton of gas onto this dumpster fire and we know it, even if a fifth of what he said is true.

 Here’s what’s likely to happen. Fuck-all nothing. McConnell’s “rules” set this sham of a trial up to be done after midnight and during a time that will minimize the time Chief Justice Roberts can attend. He’s setting things up so that not only will new evidence NOT be admissible, but that the EXISTING evidence won’t be either. He thinks he’s got enough GOP support to pull this off, and he may be right. The Democrats have many, many charges to throw at this administration, but so far they’ve lead with their weakest hand and everyone’s having a nutter over it.

 WE are on trial now. WE must decide if this is a severe miscarriage of justice being carried out by the GOP and the Senate, of if we’re going to show the world that we simply don’t give a flying fuck and that we’re perfectly happy to let a corrupt bag of dicks tear down what little is left of our Republic and full-on burn the Constitution to ashes as we slip into Kleptocracy and become a Oligarchy; a Fascist state run by the rich and supported by the feckless idiots who can’t be bothered to study a bit of political science on their own because schools don’t really seem to teach it anymore.

 WE THE PEOPLE are the ones on trial here. We’ve literally reached a point where we’re trying to save not only our nation, but to save sanity, reason, our place on the world stage, and most importantly, the planet itself. If the GOP doesn’t hold an actual, fair trial complete with accrued evidence from before the submission of the Articles of Impeachment as well as after and allow for the calling of Witnesses (like an ACTUAL TRIAL does and this IS a trial) then they’ll have demonstrated that they are irrefutably corrupt and MUST be recalled by their states and summarily FIRED. They CAN do that. Kentucky, for instance, CAN recall McConnell and fire his sorry ass if they 1- even KNEW they could do that (it’s not like the GOP would make that public knowledge) and 2- really WANTED TO. The eyes of the nation are looking at them and wondering “Why do you keep sending this asshole to DC?”

 EVERY Senator today is on trial. We, the VOTERS are the judges, juries, and executioners come time for the election. If YOUR members of Congress have been hampering the investigation into ‘Individual 1’ and have supported measures to protect him from the reach of Justice, then you had damn well take notice because one day it may be YOUR guy on the dock and looking at a trial. The GOP had NO problem with interviewing everyone-and-their-mother during Bill Clinton’s impeachment trial but now the complete opposite is the accepted norm for trump? Fuck off, GOP; seriously? Right out in the open you’re doing this crap? You don’t even pretend to want to carry out justice anymore. YOU are the ones on trial, GOPers. YOU on the Left aren’t out of the woods either. If you Dems don’t get your heads out of your asses up there at the DNC and LEARN from 2016 that we are in a time where brave, bold measures are needed to unfuck the situation we’re in and that a centrist, “Status Quo” candidate will only get trump re-elected come 2020, then We the People need to replace ALL of you from the top down apparently.

 Once this sham of a trial is done and over with, and it will be oddly quick and not remotely thorough, trump is going to walk back to the White House or, more than likely, Mar-A-Lago, and sleep like a babe. This WILL happen. He’s going to curl up to go to sleep, laughing the whole time because not only did he win, but We the People LOST. We ALL lose this trial. Rule of Law will not mean fuck-all NOTHING. What little respect there is left coming from our allies around the world will be gone. Nobody will trust the USA be it fighting terrorism or trade agreements. Meanwhile, the GOP will continue to wield power, your rights will wane away, and the economy, while seeming great for the rich twats on Wall St. will continue to be stagnant for the Average Joes out there and this notion of the “Middle Class” will become simply “The Working Poor” altogether.

I mean, face it- the Middle Class are the Millionaires. The Upper Class- Billionaires. The Poor- That’d be YOU. You think you can retire at a certain age? You think your pension will carry you through retirement? (I hear most of you asking ‘my what?’ here) You think you’re safe from crippling medical bills? You think the GOP cares about YOU? Don’t be thick. You think Democrats are coming to save the world? Bollocks. They’re paid to lose. Centrist assholes like Biden are the GOP if yesteryear. This is why Clinton lost in 2016, people. We the People do NOT want the goddamn status quo, but the Dems will offer us that because we’re spiraling down the drain under the GOP so to them, they’ll get to keep the corporate cash because they’ll be slowing down the rate of decay compared to the GOP. Yeah; great choice, Democrats.

 Until we get more BRAVE Democrats willing to take a Progressive stand and call the Corporate Dems out on their bullshit and make trump and his cohorts accountable for their crimes, we as a nation are going to lose this trial that We the People are under right now. We ALL are going to lose, from the stupid fuckwits who thinks trumps just all that, to the frustrated, disenfranchised Independent voters who are going to throw their hands up and just NOT vote because there’s NOTHING to vote for. We are ALL on trial today. Today we will see, not the shit-show going on about trump, but the absolute, Olympic-grade fuckery of the Senate under the GOP, and if YOU, the Average Joe, don’t get active and recall those GOP assholes or at the VERY LEAST vote their asses out of office come November and hold them ACCOUNTABLE, then YOU lost this trial. We will have lost our nation, and from here on out, as the wings of liberty collapse, the wages plummet, and the inevitable rumblings of revolution grow louder to the point where the nation collapses into the next Civil War, we’ll have nobody to blame but We the People Who Did Nothing and we’ll deserve the horrors that follow. Let’s not let it get to that, eh?

Once this little shit-show is over, it’s up to YOU to get the current GOP shit-birds OUT so that an actual FAIR trial can happen. If Pelosi is every bit this legendary mega-mind her fans are raving about, then she’ll see to it that NEW charges are compiled and that trump becomes the first to be impeached TWICE. With a new Senate and a REAL trial to work with, maybe then justice will be carried out. Today’s inevitable debacle will be, or at least SHOULD be a wakeup call to ALL of us that the GOP is unwilling to uphold the Rule of Law that oddly enough the rest of us are expected to obey. The time to hold them and their supporters accountable is past due- Democrats needed to take the Senate last election cycle, not JUST the House. It wasn’t this big Blue Wave like they’re advertising. Loss of the Senate has led to where we are now and that’s on We the People. This is why there’s a mile high stack of passed, bi-partisan legislation sitting on McConnell’s desk right now collecting dust- because ‘We the People’ allowed him to remain in charge of the “Get Nothing Done” Senate.

 So, I wish you good luck today. Pay attention, because with our current track record here in the US, We the People seem incapable of actually having the balls to call out our own government’s fuckery and we’re about to see nothing happen at all and the consequences will be the collapsing of the pillars of which hold this nation up. We’re witnessing history with this, and I’m betting that this is the beginning of a very horrific end of the United States of America. This is, of course, a bet that I’d be more than happy to lose.

[artificialqueens]

living on the edge of the law (biadore) - lily2

bianca is beginning to feel the heat from her old job in brisbane as a personal assistant and planner for a large cooperation record label and now she is being transferred and thrown in the middle of santa monica where she is assigned and paid to be on the tail of up and coming singer and songwriter, adore delano: who is definitely the most lazy and adolescent thing bianca had ever encountered thus far but things can change, can’t they? [ au where adore is a famous singer and bianca has to chase her around and be her personal assistant to get her income, mainly biadore but side ships and plots of course ]

blog

— *.✧

Bianca was a bit unsure what to think, what to do even, while she stood in the midst of Brisbane Airport. Clenching her carry-on as she just had her two suitcases weighed and sent off to what would hopefully be Santa Monica in thirteen damn hours, unless the Qantas airline staff somehow threw her luggage in the fucking Pacific Ocean she should be safe and so should her luggage which mainly was a accumulation of clothing, cosmetics, stationary & a dozen other things that Courtney had helped her pack yesterday as they shared one last drink before forcing themselves to wake up almost three in the morning for Bianca’s early, early flight. The coffee in her hand making her the only thing fully able to function, she prayed to get some sleep on the plane and was thinking she would since her best friend she should upgrade to the new business class seating, just to try it out and what better time to than a flight that would take more than half a day off her life, over the clouds, planning to do nothing but get wasted on discount white wine’s and gaze her eyes on her laptop which was already harboring a million emails from her transfer company about her position, her hours, schedule, whatever the fuck they wanted to write about they seemed to write about and send to her. “Wonderful.” She muttered to nobody but herself as she sat dull and already half asleep in her gate’s seating. It would be about another twenty minutes before her section would get to be boarded though Bianca didn’t expect so many on a casual six in the morning flight to Santa Monica, landing in LAX. — “I think you should accept the job.” Courtney spoke as she hit her best friend’s shoulder and grinned ear to ear, knowing it would be fun to be back in her own country of birth, “You’ve been trapped down under for almost six years, go and see the motherland again!” The Australian’s lips curling into a viciously attentive smile as the girl next to her simply rolled her eyes and clutched her glass in hand, swirling the alcohol around as their eyes meat briefly.

“I’ve never been to Honduras or Cuba—” correcting Courtney on the fact that America was indeed not the true motherland, it was where she was born and grew up and New Orleans itself could be considered a different fucking continent with all the culture and languages and diverse communities living in one big, united city. “I haven’t heard the best of things about America in general.” Referring to the news in which Courtney could only snicker, “Bad things go on in every country, every city and everywhere! Go and have fun, you know I will come to visit anyway.” They embraced in a small hug before the Australian girl wiped her growing red eyes, Bianca moaning.  “Bitch if you dare get one tear on me I will make sure to whoop your ass so you hard you certainly won’t need a ticket to be in Santa Monica, I’ll express mail you.” Her tone only teasing though she knew deep down, Courtney was the only real person and best friend she had currently, struggling to get back in contact with old friends from America as the time came. “And maybe you’ll meet someone cute—” elbowing Bianca until she almost rolled Courtney off the bed with a yell, “Don’t even think about it, I came to work and maybe party once in a while, get better money but not for love. Besides, name me one decent American who isn’t taken, straight or a celebrity? You can’t, that’s the point.“  “Whatever happens you know I’ll annoy you and call you constantly, just the usual and casual girl things.” She hummed, the singer folding one of Bianca’s last articles of clothing. “If you didn’t I would murder you and unfollow you on all your social media, don’t test me motherfucker!” She spat as Courtney collapsed into her lap, “You can cry on Instagram live to all your five million Instagram followers!“  — Finger tips pressing against her IMac’s keyboard she begun to respond to a work email, this was one of the more interesting ones, about as interesting as assignments and work went but still something to do in whatever time she had left before she would just repeatedly listen to whatever shuffled on her phone once the airplane was in the air. She had already found out that her job was basically to do what she did with Courtney: boss her around, manage her social media, make sure she was healthy, laughing, whatever shit she needed and help with planning any kind of events, concerts, meetings, anything the record label asked for and needed. To: biancadelrio@gmail.com Bianca,  We are so excited that you have accepted the offer and I’m hoping the weather pulls through for your flight, you are our first new hire in a few seasons if I may be honest, most can’t handle the pressure, American records and singers are far more different than what it sounds like in Australia!  I have made sure to tell Katya, our head in our department, to ship the packet to the address you provided! I understand the move, I went from Chicago to Santa Monica and it can be alot so please if you need a place to stay let me know! The packet should have exactly what you expect and a few other goods because we try and make it as welcoming as possible, not us being cheesy, us trying not to get fired to be completely real.  Do not lose your ID, even if you use the pin to get in, security is really strict especially with all the mass hysteria with guarding and violence in the past few years, it’s required to clock in, clock out and even enter the bathroom, it sucks, I know but safety comes first I suppose.  Thank you and see you Monday! — Shea (sheacouleee@me.com)  Atleast it was an actual human beyond the emails so far, better than some rich executive who was scarfing down his fifth coffee of the afternoon and forcing his personal assistant to quietly tap against the grain and send all emails with the same format, copy and paste all day. “Gate 10 will now boarding flight from Brisbane to Los Angeles, California.” She stood and reluctantly shut her laptop before putting it in her case, in her carry on and bringing out her passport and boarding pass, chugging some of her overpriced bottled water that she had to purchase after security along with a stash of dark chocolate large enough to last for most likely a week. Bianca made a very decent salary at her last job and would be making even more at this one however she was not ever one to spend more than she had to, Courtney for a singer who was booming in media and charts was suprisingly frugal with her spending most days, which made it twice as fun when they both would go all out and do their once a month goose chase of a spree around town, getting in all the stores they wanted in the span of one single day. “Well, let’s do this thing.” The words leaving her lips as she sent one last picture to Courtney of her passport and coffee, sending it with the text message of: If you don’t hear from me in twenty hours, I’m probably drunk!  *.✧ The announcement came on and the lights flashed for them to be able to take off their seatbelts and Bianca completely had crashed course after one Hallmark movie, some wine, a Sprite and one entire chocolate bar. She was quick to jump up before she felt completely lagged and dizzy, quickly sitting back down until the rest behind her had gotten their luggage and begun approaching the exit of the plane, cleaning her garbage before she tossed it and grabbed her carry on, absolutely bolting for the door as fast as possible knowing it was a good forty minutes in a regular car to make it to her new studio apartment for god knows how long, Courtney didn’t tell her a thing about it expect her cousin had hooked them up and leased it. Thanking the staff she quickly felt her entire body want to collapse and throw up, maybe both at the same time, on the rugged floor of LAX, turning her phone off airplane mode and turning on her date plan she had decided to buy the night before just so she could be ready and set for when she landed, knowing Courtney would throw a hissy fit if she wasn’t the first person she texted. Fingers gliding across her iPhone she grinned, I’m in fucking america! can’t wait to grab some damn takeout and just collapse, meeting someone to take me, call you probably whatever the next time I wake up is! She had done the math in her head, it was about 7:20 PM here but almost 2:20 AM in Brisbane, timezones were about to be hell on Earth but they would make it through. An absolute dumpster dive of suitcases later she had found both of her own luckily, now heading for the International Arrivals entrance, Bianca had only been to LAX recently and it was for Courtney’s tour, before that she hadn’t really cared for or visited California much, staying in her own bubble. It truly was the epicenter of an entire universe however, as far as crowded airports went, this one was definitely the winner! “Jinkx!” She shrieked to her auburn haired friend who quickly winced out of her own delusional fantasy and screamed, running towards her oldest friend and happy to have collapsed and almost blacked out in the one person who could understand what it was like to be sleepy and tired though Jinkx had explained a million times that narcolepsy was very different than what movies and shows showed it to be, it was just in very relaxing and quiet surroundings, when she wasn’t doing anything and wasn’t focused on a task. “I’m so tired but I don’t even care, it’s so great to see you—” Jinkx shaking her friend in her own arms happily before Bianca had to pull away, not wanting to cause a meltdown or throw up on the expensive sneakers she seemed to have on. Grabbing a suitcase much to her newly arrived childhood friend’s concern, “Let’s go, my car is parked and she’s all charger for the trip!” “I forgot you have a fucking electric car.” “It’s red to, it has a seat warmer! That’s the biggest perk but also you can program it to do some cool things, I only got the car recently, DeLa was begging me to—” the mention of her college roommate who was also from Seattle made Bianca realize how long she had actually been gone. “I hate to be an absolute prune the first ten minutes but can we please stop and eat if that’s okay, I don’t wanna eat in your car but fast food inside is fine by me, I texted everyone I need to so now I’m all yours and I’m sure traffic will delay us another fucking three hours.” Finishing her water she tossed the bottle as Jinkx almost smacked her across her back, causing Bianca to choke a bit. “You really think I won’t let you eat in my car! Jesus Christ, this isn’t our senior year of high school where I had to keep my car spotless, of course we will get food, since you’re in California now we have to start with the local favorite, ever had In N Out?” A stammer before a tilt of her head came, Jinkx gasping, “I can’t believe self proclaimed critic of food, Bianca Del Rio hasn’t even tried it, much less heard of it.” Cackling, Bianca raised a hand, “Now hold on you shady bitch!” They made their way to the wonderful Tesla after an influx of stop signs and people shoving to simply get out of the airport. Bianca was definitely impressed, she had seen the cars before but they weren’t her style, it was much more different to actually sit next to Jinkx who immediately pulled out of the car and had her music blasting before Bianca lowered it a bit so she and Jinkx could atleast have a conversation, the girl beside her seeming to know what to do and where to go from here. “You can type in your address after we go and get some food, so tell me about what it’s like down under, I’m sure you have some stories.” Smirking, Bianca relaxed into the leather seat and sighed in relief, leaving her phone to charge with her portable charger as she crossed her arms and stared out the front view with Jinkx who was barely even focused on driving given the fact she had the rules of driving out of LAX down, the clouds and sky beginning to turn into a wonderful assembly of warm colors mixed with a vibrant purple. “Well since you asked.”

[thanksjro]

Eugenesis, Part Five Scene Three: Kup Atones For His Crimes I GUESS

I don’t know that I’ve quite recovered from the last post, but the show must go on, as they say.

We’re back at Delphi, and it looks like Swerve and Pincher are hard at work trying to figure out how to deal with this aqua fortis stuff. Neither of them seem to be able to figure out what it is exactly.

Both of these guys have been to Earth, so its honestly a little surprising that they don’t know what nitric acid is, or at least have access to a database where it would be listed. Then again, these two have already more or less proven that they have no business being in a lab, so maybe it isn’t very surprising at all, actually.

Pincher’s spent the last little while trying to find equipment that won’t just straight-up melt on contact with this stuff, and is currently being super-duper careful with a pipette when Galvatron crashes in through the door and startles him into pouring the stuff all over himself. Of course, after seeing what happened to Swerve’s hand, everyone starts breaking out the first aid kits and screaming, only to find Pincher completely unharmed by the event.

You see, Pincher is a Pretender, and his shell seems to be completely unaffected by the acidic qualities of aqua fortis.

Getting back to the raging dumpster fire we’d left at the end of the last post, the Quintessons have decided that the best way to get at the Transformers inside the Institute is to pick up the entire building and shake them out like the last few errant crumbs in a bag of chips.

Learned that move from Wheeljack, he did.

Delphi is ready to receive the robots at the Institute through the teleport. Red Alert and Soundwave run through the halls grabbing folks and telling them to get their asses in gear while Chromedome goes to help Perceptor man the teleport. At this point, all faction-based prejudices and other such nonsense have flown off with the wind. It’s all about survival now.  

Or, uh, it will be about survival, once the damn teleport gets up and running.

Kup put Hot Rod in there, didn’t he? Like week-old leftovers in a Tupperware container. Just can’t let the poor guy go.

The teleport roars to life, much to everyone’s relief, including my own, and then everything gets deathly quiet. Ground troops are moving in from the outside. Good thing the boys are ready to go now.  

Razorclaw is an idiot, and Soundwave, as well as Perceptor make sure to tell him that.

Coordinates are set.

Back at Delphi, Siren’s ready to receive a whole mess of people, when Swerve and Pincher run in to share the good news about the Pretender shells.

Siren, this was like the only reason you were in this room. Pay attention!

As Delphi’s finest discuss the pros and cons of building more flesh-suits, Red Alert, Dirge, and Throwback burst through the portal.

On the other side of the teleport, Perceptor is shooing in the next batch of robots, while Soundwave is trying to convince him that they should be doing things fairly, with a 2:1 ratio of ‘Cons and ‘Bots per trip. Now really isn’t the best time for this, and Chromedome seems to agree with me, seeing as he just starts shoving as many robots as he can, as fast as he can, into this portal while the two argue.

Swindle was at Darkmount when shit went down. How the fuck did he evade capture? The guy isn’t exactly built for speed. Shit, the Decepticons left from Sixshot’s place, how did he get there?

Soon, it’s only Perceptor, Soundwave, Chromedome, and Kup left. Small problem: someone’s got to stay behind to destroy the teleport tech, otherwise the Quintessons are going to find Delphi and this whole thing will have been for nothing. Perceptor’s pretty set on being the one to do it, but then Kup pulls out his gun and says that he’s the one who’s staying. Chromedome, not wanting to argue with the suicidal old man waving a weapon in his face, peaces out through that teleport without much of a fight.

Perceptor asks for any last requests on Kup’s part. He just wants Hot Rod buried in a nice little plot, and for Prowl to be told… he doesn’t say, but after the last couple Parts, I’m going to assume it’s a tossup between a hearty “fuck you” and just giving him the bird.

Perceptor goes through the portal and Kup destroys it immediately after, ready to fight the Quintessons for the last time. He thinks back on all the things he’s done, all the things he hasn’t done. He realizes that he doesn’t want to die, not really, but at this point there’s nothing else left for him to do.

Oh, now that’s interesting. An old, grumpy man on the brink of his twilight years, trying to go out with a little dignity as his body fails him. MTMTE’s Ratchet seems to pull a lot from Eugenesis.

Over at Delphi, Perceptor’s made it safe and sound.

Percy, a man just committed suicide via heroic sacrifice, at least give it a couple minutes before you go and start being cheeky. Is everyone here just so shell-shocked at this point they’re unable to process the horrors unfolding around them? Or are we just not doing upset anymore?

Nightbeat pulls Siren aside to ask if he’s okay. Siren’s not really enjoying having his super-secret base filled with Decepticons. Get with the times, Siren. There’s bigger things than the multi-million year war going on right now.

Yeah, Nightbeat, quit being such a bummer about this ongoing genocide of our people.

You’re not one to talk, mister.

Perceptor catches up with Nightbeat and pulls him off into another room to chat. Seems that Percy wants to hear about the wormhole. Not too interested in Nightbeat’s lost team members, but the worm hole- now THAT’S some hot shit right there.

Well, it’s hot until Nightbeat actually describes the thing. Then Perceptor’s not so into it. Sounds like the wormhole’s dying off.

Perceptor, please.

Perceptor wants someone to go guard the wormhole, that way the Quintessons don’t get ahold of it. That would be a very bad thing, after all.

Nightbeat’s calling you out, Percy.

So, if the wormhole’s on its way out, they should get Optimus back to the 80’s before it’s too late, right?

No, actually.

Perceptor doesn’t think anyone but Optimus can handle the nightmare situation they’re currently grappling with, and spouts the science-bullshit that surely he makes it back to his own time before the wormhole collapses in on itself, because they wouldn’t be here otherwise. Nightbeat calls this science-bullshit out as being bullshit-science, despite the fact that he had been using this same train of logic back during his fugue state episode.

Meanwhile, in the Hall of Villainy, Quantax is pissed. He was so proud of that little ploy he pulled with Rev-Tone, and what do the Sharkticons bring back?

Well, at least he doesn’t have to worry about his hands anymo- no, that’s tasteless, I shouldn’t.

Quantax had been expecting a bit more, especially since he’d sent out so many troops and ships to the coordinates they’d gotten.

He slaps Inhibitor Claws on the troops who failed to bring him the Autobots, not listening to their excuse of there being a teleport. These poor bastards are going to Kledji to be prisoners.

Quintessons need to unionize. Overthrow the ruling class, eat the rich. It’s time, boys, get on it.

Quantax takes a whole lot of pleasure in punishing his subordinates, and he revels in the feeling of just being a complete dick as he calls up Xenon to ask when all those shiny new recruits are coming in. Xenon says that that’s not what the Seedlings are for- they’re going to be a force of enlightenment, not brute strength.

Of course, Quantax isn’t terribly happy with this news, but why should Xenon care? He’s already gotten what he wanted.

Y’know, that sentence can have multiple interpretations.

Xenon is under the impression that once they’re done retrofitting Cybertron to their tastes, the Quintessons will be a peaceful, trade-centric race.

And with dialogue like that, who can argue with such a vision for the future?

Something tells me Quantax might throw a wrench into Xenon’s plan.

[anneapocalypse]

[RvB 17.09] Succession

FIRST Spoilers

BOY HOWDY we've got a lot to unpack here!

This was a very dense episode.

I kinda wish more of an effort had been made to show Tucker having to hide what he's doing to keep the timeline straight, instead of doing very obviously strange and out of character things right out in the open—as though Wash and everyone else are going to see Tucker deliberately sabotaging his own team in a serious battle where they very nearly all die and just be like "Huh, weird" and never bring it up again. I know I'm asking too much of this fix-it plot, but for me it really detracts from what is otherwise a serious plot point where a lot is at stake, both narratively and emotionally for Tucker.

Tucker talking to himself right out loud in front of Felix is written off as a concussion, sure, but it still gave me unbearable secondhand embarrassment.

But here's what I loved: Tucker's moment of self-reflection. It was pretty much perfect. I won't say it erases the mess that was season 16—I don't think that's possible—but it's about as good a reframing of it as we could possibly get, and I think I love it.

So much happens in that moment!

This was one of the worst moments of my life. But it reminded me of something. I became a leader on Chorus. And since we left it, I've been trying to act how I thought a leader should: cool, macho, totally self-confident. But somehow I forgot that I wasn't any of those things while I was actually leading. I was scared all the time, constantly second-guessing myself. But when shit got bad, I was the one to step up and make a decision. That's all it is! And right now, Donut's doing a better job of that than anyone. So yeah, I've got faith. What have you got?

Tucker remembers what made him a leader on Chorus: not boundless self-confidence or self-inflated posturing, but simply the will to act when necessary, even when he was scared and filled with self-doubt. And not only does this bring back our more thoughtful and less impulsive Tucker (thank the gods), it also drives him to a deeper respect for Donut.

It's really good, and a relief on multiple levels.

I also love that Sarge fucked up his timeline fix the first time, and had to go back and fix it. And Donut having to get up close and personal with the Meta in Valhalla was pretty funny too.

Then we come to Wash and Carolina. I have mostly positive feelings about this bit, again with one big complaint, so I'll get that out of the way first.

The "I see you more as a brother" line felt kind of... look, I get why it's in there. It's in there so that the fans who hate Washlina as a romantic ship don't lose their minds when they say they love each other a few lines later. It's so they can show Carolina and Wash as unambiguously close without getting the kind of backlash season 15 got. And while I don't want the ship to be canon (I like it in fanworks; I don't trust the show itself with portrayals of m/f ships that aren't meant to be total dumpster fires), there is... sort of a history of a certain subset of non-shippers in the fandom using "they're SIBLINGS" very aggressively as a bludgeon against shippers, and canon fueling that, especially if it's a response to the season 15 backlash, feels Not Great, and I'll leave it at that. I also have complicated feelings about the fact that a relationship between a male and female character has to be stated to be sibling-like just to pre-empt it being read as romantic? Wash has already used the word "friend" at least twice this season, once in this very episode, and friendships actually aren't necessarily analogous to sibling relationships, so having Carolina interject with "more like a brother" after Wash specifically calls her a friend is kind of a weird note in-universe and out of universe it feels like it's trying to telegraph something else to the audience and I'm not wild about all the subtext going on there.

But to get out from under that subtext, the rest of their conversation is pretty great. I knew this was coming—in the euphoria of good character writing over the last few episodes, it was easy to forget that to fix the timeline completely, Wash had to go and get re-shot. But Wash has known that all along. And he took a moment specifically to talk to Carolina about it, to make sure she was prepared for what had to happen.

This is the most emotional we've ever seen Carolina get in canon. Carolina has never cried, not once, and for some of us, I think it's actually pretty hard to hear. I think I understand now why Jen Brown said she had to dig deep for this season. Historically, this is not how Carolina's tended to express strong emotions. I've written before about how Carolina has tended to express negative emotions as anger, because it's a way to mask her vulnerability. That she is able to be so vulnerable with Wash here speaks to her individual character growth as well as the growth of their relationship.

In short: Carolina crying here is good actually.

I think she's pretty clearly still struggling to come to terms with the idea that Wash's brain damage doesn't mean he's gone. Wash is more at peace with it; he knows he'll still be himself, that the condition will change things but can be managed. For Carolina... I think she's still remembering how alone and scared she felt during the months she spent with Wash on Chorus, watching him struggle with his recovery, seeing his memory lapses and hoping they would eventually get better. She hasn't yet realized, maybe, that's it's because she never talked to Wash about it that she felt so disconnected from him. When they both know what's going on and can be open about it, I think she's going to feel a lot less alone and scared, and will realize that the Wash she always knew is still there.

That's if Wash does get re-shot.

I have a theory I think it is about 50% likely to happen that he's not going to.

First, I get the feeling somebody doesn't want to deal with having to write Wash that way in the future, whether it's Jason or Miles or both of them thinking about whoever comes after. They did have him revert very early in the season, and with so much happening and so many characters to juggle, it's kind of understandable. I will not be at all surprised if they decide to keep him un-injured going forward for that reason.

And from an in-universe perspective, I can see exactly how it could happen. We've already established that the danger of paradoxes is specifically freeing Chrovos from the cage, not, you know, collapsing spacetime as we might have thought. And we've just learned through this episode's mandatory exposition dump scene that Genkins, unsurprisingly, really just wants power for himself and is perfectly willing to double-cross Chrovos to get it.

So the answer's simple: Genkins kills Chrovos. With her dead, the cracks in the timeline no longer matter, and the Reds and Blues' objective becomes killing Genkins. They then have the option of resetting the timeline where they choose.

I mean, sure, there are holes in it, but this season's plot is already swiss cheese, so... I just think they might do it. But we'll see what happens next time.

[lux-i-fer]

Believer of Faith and Mortality 

Ao3 link

Synopsis: Lucifer and Chloe’s victim shouldn’t be alive, but the fact that he’s currently alive and giving a statement says otherwise. When more and more miracle cases begin popping up, Lucifer believes that their lives aren’t being spared out of the goodness of his Father’s heart. The knock at the door only proves his theory.

Rating: T

Notes: Here it is: the emotional dumpster fire itself (and no, I'm not talking about Lucifer this time). I'm needy but thanks for putting up with it moonatoms and titc ;) pats and cats all around.

Chapter Number: 1, 2, 3

Chloe’s hands shook as she poured the wine, somehow just barely managing to keep any from spilling on the counter. She forced herself to keep her mind on the task. It was imperative for her sanity to keep watching the wine. It was two grand a bottle, according to Lucifer.

God Lucifer. The reason she was awake to answer the door. The reason John Decker was sitting on her couch.

No, bad Chloe, she chided herself, don’t think about him. Just keep thinking about the wine.

But she could only pretend to be distracted for a few more moments. The second glass was almost full and Chloe knew she couldn’t avoid this forever. Finally, she finished pouring.

Drawing in a deep breath, Chloe let herself look at her father. He looked exactly as she remembered him, the same soft eyes and smile lines outlined his face. Her stare drifted down to his chest and tears began to well up.

There was no bullet hole. No blood spatters, no gauze, and no sign of the suit they’d buried him in. It was just him.

Chloe blinked away her tears, and began to walk out of the kitchen. At the sound of her footsteps, John looked up from the crime scene photos still scattered around the room.

Same soft eyes, she reminded herself, as their eyes met. Chloe quickly handed him a glass, before snatching her phone off the coffee table.

“I’m gonna make a quick call,” she said, voice tight with emotion.

John eyed the phone and nodded. “Okay, Monkey.”

A bolt of recognition shot through her. The cool she’d been barely managing shattered.

And then she ran. She fumbled with the lock on the patio door. Ripping it open, Chloe bolted out into the night air. Her hand slipped on the handle, and the door slammed shut, rattling the frame.

As the noise faded into the sounds of the city, Chloe felt her legs wobble. She walked all but two steps before collapsing in the wet grass. Her wine sloshed on her hand and soaked her jeans, but all Chloe could do was numbly drain the rest of the glass.  

When it was gone, she felt lightheaded. Her heartbeat was skipping left and right. She tried to take deep breaths to drown out those words. Those familiar, heartwrenching words.

Her lungs burned and a frustrated sob tore from Chloe’s throat when she realized she couldn’t breathe.

In the back of her mind, Chloe knew if she didn’t calm down, she’d start hyperventilating, but God. Those two words were strangling the life out of her. She dropped her phone and brought her free hand to her chest. Her breaths grew heavy and short, and she was certain something was forcing its way up her throat.

With one final frantic whimper, all of the tears and hysteria that Chloe’d bottled up for two decades spilled out. She clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle to the sound, but it only made her sob harder. Her other hand squeezed the wine glass stem, some part of her hoping it would shatter so at least she could feel something other than this.

More tears streamed down her cheeks when the glass stayed cold and whole in her palm. Chloe let her head fall back, and welcomed the dizziness that came with it.

The night was clear, and through the film of tears, Chloe could just barely make out the brightest stars in the sky. She dragged a hand across her nose, wiping away tears and snot, not caring that it smeared into her shirt sleeve.

Chloe wasn’t sure how long she stared at the stars. Her head felt fuzzy from crying, and her eyes were swollen with more unshed tears. She sniffled and reached for her phone. Instead of shaking like they had before, her hands felt heavy and filled with cotton. Still, she managed to dial the one person who she knew would be awake.

Once the dial tone sounded, Chloe put it on speaker, and let her forehead rest heavily on her wrist.

“Detective?” Lucifer’s tinny voice called through the phone’s speakers. His obvious worry was muffled by Lux’s nighttime crowd.

“Hi,” she said weakly, hoping he couldn’t hear how scratchy her voice sounded.

“Darling what’s wrong?”

Of course he’d noticed, Chloe thought, she sounded terrible. She tried to giggle, but it stuck in her throat. “Why did you assume something’s wrong?”

The background noise quietened, telling her that he’d moved to one of the private upstairs booths. “Chloe what’s going on? Do I need to come out there?” His voice was higher than it had been when he’d answered.

She felt the wine in her stomach sour. “No--I--” How was she going to explain this to him when she barely understood it herself? When she’d first opened the door to see her deceased father standing there, she’d slammed it in his face. Only when she’d heard him call her name had Chloe let him in.

“Chloe?” Lucifer’s voice was reaching frantic now.

“My dad’s back,” she blurted out.

There was silence on the other end of the line. Lucifer was so quiet, Chloe could hear the pounding bass and the drunken conversation from the next booth over. “What?” he finally said, tone hard and flat.

“My dad’s back.” This time her voice broke. She sniffled again, trying to keep the angry tide of emotion from spilling out of her again.

“Your dad’s back,” Lucifer repeated slowly.

Chloe nodded even though he couldn’t see it. “Yeah I--I got--there was a knock at the door. I answered it and it was my dad.” She gulped down the lump in her throat. “Lucifer I don’t know what to do, he’s been dead for like twenty years, and now I don’t even know how he’s back, and what to tell Mom and Trixie and--”

“Detective, I’m coming over there.”

Chloe stood up frantically, as if it would stop him somehow. “No!”

The pause told her Lucifer was taken aback by her outburst.

She took a deep breath and started again. “No,” she continued much calmer. “Finish your set. I want some time to talk to him--alone.”

“Darling--”

“Please."  Her intensity surprised her. She’d been so caught up with the how and the why she hadn’t even thought about what this really meant. Her dad was alive. She could see him and touch him and he was real. For all Chloe knew this was the end of spending time in the dingy graveyard where his headstone sat, and having to walk past the plaque with his name on it every day.

A kernel of guilt buried itself in her mind as Chloe remembered how skeptical she’d been of his appearance. She needed to go back in there.

“I have to go,” she said abruptly. “Please stay and finish your set, I love you.”

Lucifer sighed. Chloe imagined him pinching the bridge of his nose in defeat. “I love you too. Be safe. And--”

“If anything else happens I’ll call,” she finished. “Bye Lucifer.”

“...Bye.”

Chloe hung up. She took one final breath, and looked around the yard. The light pollution bathed the patio furniture in a dusky yellow glow that reminded her of the streetlights outside her parents’ house. Wiping her eyes again, she opened the door.

John stared at her when she came back into the living room, undoubtedly studying her puffy, red eyes and wine stained jeans. Chloe didn’t say anything as she sat down next to him, the bottle of wine she’d grabbed off of the counter clinking against her empty glass. She poured herself another glass, trying to ignore his presence and her pounding heart.

“I was calling my partner,” she finally said after recorking the bottle. Chloe threw her phone onto the coffee table and drew her knees to her chest, something she hadn’t done since her dad was alive.

“Oh?” The tenderness in his voice made Chloe tense.

“Yeah, he’ll be here later.”

“What kind of partner are we talking?” She could hear the gentle teasing in his voice.

Chloe finally let herself look at him. “We work together, but we’re also… together.” There was no use hiding it, Chloe figured. He would find out one way or another, and she’d much rather him know that detail before he accidentally found them in bed together. Chloe found herself grinning at the memory of her sixteen year old self forgetting to lock the bedroom door, and John walking in on her making out with Jeremy Davenport.

John smiled back at her, as if he too was thinking back to that day. It was in that moment that Chloe could almost let herself believe she was sixteen again. Like it was just another Wednesday night, like her dad was sitting on the couch with her, like a normal family, living a normal life.

“I can show you a picture,” she suggested as awkwardly as she had when sixteen year old her had asked him to close the door.

John took a thoughtful sip of wine. “Yeah, sure.”

Even before he’d said anything, Chloe had already grabbed her phone and began scrolling through her photo gallery. She already had the perfect picture in mind: a selfie Lucifer had taken of the two of them after the precinct’s annual Christmas charity ball. Chloe had twined her arms around his neck, face rosy with sangria and smushed against his stubbled one.

She turned the screen towards John, who took it with his free hand. A look that Chloe couldn’t read flashed across his face as he stared at the picture, and more specifically, at Lucifer. After a few moments, John blinked and the look was gone, replaced with one of sad pride.

“You look beautiful,” he whispered as his eyes traced the elaborate updo that Lucifer, of all people, had pinned her hair into.

This time, the smile came easily to her lips.

John’s hand shook, and the phone fell. At the last moment, he snatched it up, bumping the screen as he went. The picture switched to one of her, Dan, and Trixie. Chloe watched as his brow furrowed in confusion.

“That’s my daughter and ex husband.”

Chloe choked on the word ex, suddenly embarrassed by its implications. Her parents had been married for twenty five years before John died; Chloe had given up after only eight.

To her surprise, John didn’t even seem to care. Instead, his face lit up. He gave her the brightest smile of the night, his crow’s feet crinkling even more than usual. “I’m a grandpa?”

All she could manage to get out was mhmm. The tears threatened to well up again, and she sniffled to hold them in. “Her name’s Trixie, short for Beatrice.”

His thumb reached out to stroke Trixie’s smiling face, accidentally swiping back to Lucifer’s selfie. John blinked in surprise. He handed the phone back to Chloe, seemingly not wanting to break the touchscreen.

“Can I meet her?”

“Yeah, of course,” the words were out of her mouth before her brain could register what she’d just agreed to. She continued to speak, hoping it would distract her from all of the what ifs beginning to pop up. “She’s at Dan’s for the rest of the week, though. He took her so I could work on my case.”

The warm glow in John’s eyes flickered out momentarily. “Case?” He glanced down at the case photos, as if just making the connection. Grabbing the one closest to him, a close-up of Nicholas’s stab wounds, John inspected it with careful eyes.

It was only when he looked back up at her, did Chloe tell him. “I quit acting.”

“You’re a cop?” he asked softly.

“Homicide detective,” she corrected wearily, hoping her face didn’t look as terrified as she felt. She prayed he wasn’t disappointed, she was too raw to be able to handle it tonight.

When John glanced back at the photo Chloe felt her stomach drop, and she desperately finished off her second glass of wine. His face seemed to harden, and Chloe wished she could hide away and bury her head in the sand so she’d never have to see that expression again.

Just as she was about to open her mouth to try and do damage control, John wrapped her up in a hug. She returned it instantly, almost out of habit. A long, out of practice habit, but a habit nonetheless. One she hoped when he’d passed that she’d never forget.

“I’m so proud of you, Monkey.”

Chloe shuddered, remembering way back when Lucifer had said almost the exact same thing. “You are?”

John pulled back, his hands resting on her shoulders. “Of course I am.” The look in his blue eyes was so sincere, Chloe thought they might shatter just as her life had the moment his lifeless body had hit the floor.

Right. His body. Her dad had been dead for seventeen years. Chloe had to remember that.

The warm feeling of comfort that had been so inviting a moment ago drained out of her body. In its place, cold, lifeless doubt numbed her limbs.

The other “zombies”, as Ella had started to call them, had only been dead a few hours. How could her dad, of all people, come back to life? It stung to admit that maybe Lucifer had been right, this was all too coincidental. Too weird.

John’s hands tightened gently on her shoulders, and Chloe frowned.

“How did you get here?” she asked, brain switching into detective mode.

John’s expression faltered, and his hands fell limply into his lap. “What do you mean?”

A warning bell chimed in the back of her mind, and Chloe forced her tone to stay neutral. “How are you here? In my apartment, in this city, in my life?”

Dammit, she mentally kicked herself, her voice had slipped at the end.

Something bitter twisted itself in her stomach. Some part of her regretted not letting Lucifer rush to the apartment. What had she been thinking? She didn’t even know if the man sitting across from her really was her father.  

Chloe internally shuddered at that thought. For once, she was glad Trixie was with Dan.

John sighed, drawing her attention back to him. “I...don’t know, Monkey. I just woke up a few blocks away, and something just told me I had to come here.” He smiled, and Chloe felt the floor drop out from under them. “I guess someone’s watching out for me upstairs.”

She swallowed hard, not liking the picture he was painting. “Dad, you’ve been dead for seventeen years, aren’t you just the slightest bit confused as to why you’re back?”

The look in his eyes told her he hadn’t thought of that. “Who am I to question a miracle, Monkey? I love you and your mom, and that’s enough for me. I don’t need to know why I’m here, I just need my two favorite girls.” John touched her arm in an attempt to be comforting. It didn’t ease Chloe’s nerves.

She sneaked a peek at the time: 3:17AM. An hour until Lucifer would be home. Chloe reached to fill her wine glass a third time. She could hold out for another hour. She could pretend that everything was okay for one more hour.

Chloe took a swig of her wine, not caring if the room was beginning to tilt. She took another, trying to dampen the god-awful thought that the man next to her was anyone but her father.

“Chloe?” John said gently.

She didn’t meet his eyes in fear of finding hurt within them. Chloe let herself be swept up in the drunken dizziness that had settled in the corners of her mind. She listed heavily into John’s shoulder, all thoughts of zombies and angels being coated in a fuzzy sheen of alcohol. She could deal with them in an hour. For now she’d pretend.

“Tell me a story,” she mumbled sleepily like she used to when she was six.

John’s hand came to rest on her back. He’d started talking about something, Chloe could feel the rumble of his voice, but she couldn’t understand it. She tried to bring her glass to her lips to finish off the last of it, but her hand was numb. Everything was numb.

Maybe for now that’s what she needed.

John had been staring at the pictures scattered around Chloe’s living room for what felt like forever. He’d all but memorized the size of the stab wounds on the first victim, and the cold face of the second one since she’d fallen asleep. But John couldn’t bring himself to care. He had Chloe back.

He glanced down at her in his arms. She was drooling on his shoulder and had taken over three fourths of the couch, but John had never loved her more. He searched her face for any trace of the girl he remembered. There was a heavy crease in her brow that he’d never seen before, and he hated to think about what had caused it.

John wished he could remember what had happened in between getting shot and now, if only to help her make sense of all of this. But out of those missing seventeen years he could only recall a dark silence and a hand clasping his. Every once and a while he’d look at something that would seem so familiar, but no matter how hard he racked his brain, the memories wouldn’t surface.

After a few minutes he’d just give up and let his thoughts wander to Chloe and Penny.

Penny. One of the names John had hoped Chloe would mention but never did. He knew she and Chloe had never gotten along the best, especially as Chloe’d gotten older. John hated to think that they’d drifted completely apart from one another. He also hated to think he’d been the reason.

John vowed to ask Chloe about her in the morning. He just hoped he’d like the answer.

The sound of locks clicking made John tense and instinctively draw Chloe closer. He quickly scanned the room; Chloe’s gun was on the breakfast bar, out of reach. Before he could jump up to grab it, the door swung open. A man in a bespoke three piece suit strode through, jacket draped delicately over his arm. When his eyes fell on John, they were full of calculating intensity. Without even acknowledging him, the man closed the door quietly, tossed his keys on the kitchen table, and draped the jacket meticulously over a chair back.

Something about the practiced flourish of his fingers and the way his mouth quirked up brought on a new wave of familiarity. This was different than the other times. John knew for a fact that he’d seen this man before. When the man finally stepped into the living room, the memory clicked.

This was Chloe’s partner.

John extended his hand towards him. “John.”

The man’s dark eyes studied his outstretched hand before reaching out and shaking it. “I know.”

John’s grip almost slipped when he heard the gentle lilt of an accent roll off the man’s words.

As the handshake ended, the man’s gaze drifted to Chloe, his hard smirk seamlessly blooming into a dimpled smile.

But in place of the soft smile, John saw a strained, all teeth grin cracking at the corners. He blinked and the memory was gone, replaced once more with reality.

Memory? Why had he called it a memory? He'd never met this man before in his life. At least not that he remembered.

John watched the man’s fingers card through Chloe’s hair, delicately sweeping it out of her face. She leaned sleepily into the touch, and his dark eyes teemed with a thousand unsaid words. Without revealing any of them to John, the man gathered Chloe into his arms.

“-cif’r?” she mumbled, seemingly still half asleep. The man gave a hum of affirmation, and Chloe buried her face into the crook of his neck, happily dozing off once more.

John selfishly wished the name on her lips hadn't been so muffled. There was something familiar about the oddly composed man. John had seen the pristine black waistcoat hugging his torso before. And the rich rumble of his voice had almost too easily found a center pitch in his ears, as if it was a forgotten melody from his past rather than a strange new sound from his future.

John had seen this man before, he was certain of it.

“Wine makes her tired,” the man said, almost absently to himself.

John blinked again, filing his puzzle away for later. “What?”

“Wine makes her tired.” He shuffled Chloe in his arms, as if to clarify which “her” he was referring to. “It's nothing you did.”

“I didn't think I did anything. It's 4:30 in the morning.”

The man cocked his head, another familiar tic. “Yes well, I'm going to put the Detective in bed. I'll be down in a moment to sort…” Another head tilt. “This out.”

John almost asked to follow him, afraid if Chloe left his sight, all of this would dissolve into nothingness. But instead, he kept his mouth shut and watched the man disappear up the stairs. When he was certain he was gone, John stood, muscles stiff from supporting Chloe for so long. He stretched, gathered up the wine glasses and almost-empty bottle, and took them to the kitchen.

It was only as he was washing the glasses out that the harsh reality settled in: he was useless to Chloe. Before, it had always been his job as her father to dry her tears, hold her when she was upset, and take care of her when she was sick. But a lot had changed in seventeen years. Chloe had him now.

John wasn’t blind, he hadn’t missed the fact that this man had ran out in the middle of the night for Chloe, or that he’d lifted her as if she’d weighed nothing. Clearly John’s role had been filled for quite some time now. God help that man if he ever decided to give it up.

“Right, now unless you have any pressing questions I think we can save all talks of resurrected family members until the morning, yes?”

John jumped, and nearly dropped the glass he was drying. “Jesus.” He whipped around to find Chloe’s partner fiddling with his cufflinks and giving him an expectant look. John hadn’t even heard him come down the stairs.

The man smirked. “Not exactly, I’m afraid.” He clasped his hands together, the dim lighting casting menacing shadows across his face, triggering another memory in John’s brain. “You can stay in Maze’s room, she’s out on a bounty.”

Without waiting for John’s response, the man began walking towards the stairs. John hastily set the glass down, and scrambled to catch up to his host. He didn’t know who Maze was or really what anything else in that sentence meant, but he had a feeling he really didn’t want to.

The man lead him to the end of a dark hall, without so much as a glance back to make sure John was still following. Finally, he stopped in front of a door, and eased it open with his shoulder. John couldn’t make out much in the dark, save for the outline of a bed and were those chains?

He gulped. What the hell was this woman mixed up in? And how the hell had Chloe met her?

The man chuckled. “You’re lucky, the sheets are clean. Just don’t look too closely in any of the drawers.” He gave a cursory glance at John, seemingly satisfied with his hospitality, and began to walk away.

John stood in the doorway, speechless. He stared at the room for a few seconds, before turning back with an undoubtedly stupefied look on his face. He found Chloe’s partner with his hand on a door handle at the opposite end of the hall.

“Um...thank you?” He said lamely.

The man’s eyes hardened. For a brief moment, they bored into John’s, until he nodded solemnly and vanished into the room. As the door clicked shut, John heard a few drunken snores coming from inside.

That was Chloe’s room. And apparently sometimes her partner’s , he thought bitterly.

He turned back to his room for the night, not wanting to think about that anymore. But his thoughts drifted there anyways, and John found himself thinking once more about the strangely familiar man that had replaced him.

For some reason, John thought there was something missing to the man. He tried to sort through what it could be for a few minutes, but when his brain refused to cooperate, he shook his head and walked into the bedroom.

Whatever it was, it was waiting until the morning. It was obvious that the man would never hurt Chloe, so what was the point in worrying about him right now?

John shifted his attention to the more important matter at hand: sleep. He stared mournfully at the sheets that were supposedly clean, then glanced around the rest of the room. When his eyes caught sight of a whip, he’d made up his mind. Sighing, he kicked off his shoes and collapsed on the bed, not bothering to even try to pull back the comforter. He shut his eyes, trying to forget that there were leather somethings hanging on the back of the door.

And when John drifted off to sleep, he dreamed of straight-laced wings and snarling shadows.

John woke with the taste of tar in his mouth.

He’d had the weirdest dream...that he couldn’t remember at all. Oh, he was certain he’d had a dream last night, he just couldn’t remember anything about it. Nor could he recall what had woken him up. Before he died, he’d always been able to remember what had woken him up, whether it was Chloe sneaking home after curfew or the rare thunderstorm. Now he had no clue.

John sighed. It was disorientating to just not know anymore. He was used to knowing what to do, how to help, but now his family had learned to function without him. He was basically useless. John wouldn’t be lying if he said it stung a little. But wounded pride or not, John was going to figure out what woke him up. He could at least do that.

The pathetic excuse for sunlight peeking through the blinds told him it was early morning or early evening. He hoped the latter wasn’t the case. Either way, it was unlikely the sun had woken him up. A quick check around the room, and silence on the other side of the door also ruled out Chloe or her partner waking him.

John sat up. What could it be? He had to know.

He allowed his eyes to drift closed as he took a deep breath, inhaling the smell of...eggs? John’s eyes popped back open.

Eggs. He smelled eggs.

John scoffed to himself. He’d been woken up by eggs, of all things. He took another breath, and this time his stomach rumbled angrily in response. Now that was something that made sense. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d eaten.

John shrugged, it was weird. He felt pretty good for a guy who’d been dead for seventeen years and only three hours of sleep.

Seventeen years. God that was a long time. John couldn’t even fathom the number of changes that had occurred since his death. Before his train of thought could go too far down that road, John packed all of his feelings into a box in the back of his mind, not wanting to face all of the baggage attached to them just yet. Instead, he let his stomach guide him out of the room and down the stairs.

He half-expected to see Chloe at the stove, but when John saw her partner in her place, he couldn’t help but feel cheated. John looked around for any sight of her, but when Chloe was nowhere to be found, John pulled out a bar stool and sat down.

The man’s back was to John, fiddling with something in the skillet. The black suit from the night before had been replaced with a soft charcoal one. He seemed more relaxed than he had the last time John had seen him. The tension in his back was still obvious, but today it didn’t look as painful as it had before.

“Jonathan,” the man greeted without turning around.

Suddenly, something inside John broke and his mind went deathly silent. “What did you call me?”

The man finally turned to face him, skillet full of eggs in hand. An odd look crossed his face. “Your name,” he replied, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

The Earth seemed to stop turning. John felt himself beginning to shut down, as his mind began to work out everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours. His heart was pounding in his ears, and every instinct was telling him to run.

He knew why this man seemed so familiar now. A pit was forming in his stomach just thinking about it.

“You’re the angel.” John hadn’t meant to say it like that, but something had just forced the words up his throat.

Chloe’s partner had the audacity to look surprised. “Not anymore.”

“You had wings when we met,” John sputtered.

The man cocked his head to the side. It was a perfect recreation of the one from John’s memory of Limbo. “We’ve never met.”

John couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He knew their meeting had been real. He needed it to be real. “Yes we have. In Limbo.”

The man’s spine straightened, just as it had when they’d reached Heaven. Slowly, without ever breaking eye contact, he scraped the eggs onto a plate. Something akin to understanding colored in his dark eyes, and his jaw clenched. “Now I remember you.” His voice pitched low and predatory, just as it had in Limbo. John refused to be intimidated by it. Without the wings accentuating the man’s looming stature, it was easier to pretend he was just a man. “I never forget a face.”

John decided not to tell him he just did. “Why are you here?” He asked instead. “Where are your wings?” When the angel remained silent, John fought the sudden urge to run upstairs and check on Chloe. “What do you want with Chloe? ”

The angel’s fingers twitched at Chloe’s name.

He carefully set down the empty skillet. “To be fair, you were the one who suggested LA. As for my wings--” he paused, eyes glazing over for a beat before winking back into focus. “They’re gone.”

“And Chloe?”

The angel cracked a small, brittle smile. “The Detective was...unexpected.”

He was avoiding the question, but John let it slide, if only for a moment. He knew he’d get his answer eventually. “Why aren’t you in Heaven?”

The angel’s smile morphed into an outright frown.

Bingo.

John hadn’t forgotten about how dismissive the angel had been towards Heaven in Limbo. The fact that his back had tensed in the same exact way as it had last time, told John he’d hit a nerve. And if there was one thing John remembered from his time on the force, it was that irritated suspects were always truthful ones.

The angel’s eyes narrowed. “Have some brekkie, Jonathan.”

Just as he’d thought: avoiding the question. John pressed him again. “I never caught your name.” The threat under the words was evident.

“It’s not important.”

“I think it is.”

Just as the angel was about to reply, footsteps sounded on the staircase.

“Lucifer?” Chloe’s voice called.

Whatever thoughts swirled around in John’s head melted with the frown on his lips.

No. There was no way he’d heard that right.

The angel was still frozen in place, but his eyes had flicked in the direction of the name. His name, John realized with a feeling of dread settling in his throat.

“Lucifer?” Chloe called again.

The angel’s eyes locked back on John’s before he answered. “Yes, love?”

[sandstonesunspear]

Gertrude the Hellhound Service Dog

Thanks to @nerdsbianhokie for the idea and @go-sullivan for being my sounding board for a bit.

In hindsight, Alex really should have seen it coming. Waking up from a two week long coma after suffering considerable brain trauma without serious deficits rarely happened. So maybe she had been just a slightly arrogant enough to think that she was one of the rare cases. Could anyone blame her? She was Alex Danvers, slayer of Hellgramites and Kryptonians. She had piloted a Kryptonian shuttle into space, saved Supergirl and, despite having taken a brunt of the Myriad wave, had ended up in better shape than more than 200,000 people.

Except, now she wasn’t. Now, she was trying hard not to vomit in the middle of the sidewalk. A car horn blared in the street. She bit back a whimper as pain lanced through her skull. Migraine. Henderson had warned her that there would be side effects from the damage Myriad caused. Migraines had been one of them. This particular one had come without its usual aura.

This walk was a bad idea. She had wanted out of her apartment. She was tired of being cooped up. Fresh air, a little sunlight, some city smog. Just was the doctor ordered. Or not.

Alex took a shuddering breath. To the outside observer, nothing was amiss. She was keen on keeping it that way. She slowly made her way to a nearby alley. She was careful to keep her movements steady. A spiking heart rate was the last thing she needed right now. It was hard going but eventually she made it.

As soon as she crossed the threshold into the alley, Alex let out a breath she didn’t know she was hold. She collapsed, out of sight, in the shadow a dumpster. Already things were quieter. The bricks were cool against the back of her skull, providing a modicum of relief from the pain.

Breathe in. One slow breath. Breathe out. An even slower exhale. The scent of vanilla started to register with her senses. Her stomach turned at the smell. At any other time, she would have welcomed it. Right now, though, it was a reminder and warning that she didn’t have long before things got much worse. Still, better late than never, she supposed.

Alex curled in on herself and closed her eyes. A large black, smokey mass went unnoticed as she focused on her breathing. If she had been paying attention, she would have noticed that it looked like a very large dog.

The mass looked over the curled human curiously. It sniffed the air. It could smell that something was wrong with the human in front of it. The human’s eyes were squeezed shut. Their breathing was laboured. It tilted its head. It had seen something like this before… Ah! The human was experiencing pain. But why? A crash and sharp yowl had it baring its teeth and snarling in the direction of the noise. A flinch and a quiet whimper from the human drew its attention back to them. So the noise was making the human hurt.

It slowly approached the human. They took no notice. It dug it’s paws into the asphalt and focused on the human in front of it. Then, it engulfed them.

Alex felt the air shift. Everything grew quiet. She dared to open her eyes. She was surprised to see that the world had grown just a shade darker, like someone had dropped a dark filter over the sun. It was a relief to her sensitive eyes. She slowly pushed herself to her feet.

“Ugh…” She swayed for a moment and had to brace her hand against the wall. Her brow furrowed. It felt like something was helping to keep her standing.

I have to get home. She doubted that whatever it was that was going on that was making things easier would last. Home had her medication. Home she could keep as quiet and as dark for as long as she needed to.

Alex made her way out of the alley way. She fully expected to have squint and cover her eyes as soon as she was out. But to her surprise, everything remain muted. It filled her with a sense of relief she hadn’t felt in ages. She turned right and headed towards her flat.

People paid her no attention as she shuffled down the sidewalk. If anything, they seemed to be avoiding her. Alex noticed how they would either veer to the far left or far right. It was like something was guiding them away from her. It was weird, but she wasn’t going to complain. It meant one less thing to worry about. Still, she couldn’t help but feel as though something was dogging her footsteps.  

-

Alex readied her keys. She tensed, prepared for the sound of her key scraping against the tumblers of the lock. Whenever she had a migraine, it was one of the worst sounds and it never failed to make her flinch. This time, though, the sound never reached her ears. The key slid in smoother than it ever had. She would’ve raised her eyebrows in surprise, if her head hadn’t felt like an overripe melon waiting to explode. She pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The moment she did, there was a rush of wind. She brought her arm up to cover her face. For one brief moment, she thought that Kara had flown into her apartment. When she lowered her arm, she was greeted by a very different sight. A dog the size of a small horse stood in front of her. Or at least, she thought it was a dog. Except, dogs weren’t usually made of oil, smoke, fire, and bones, were they?

Alex blinked. What the fuck. The last time she checked, migraines didn’t cause visual hallucinations. She rubbed her eyes. Yup, the dog was still there.

“Did…are you the reason everything got quiet?” she asked.

A wide canine grin stretched its way across its face in response.

Huh. Alex was too tired to come up with a verbal response to that. A giant canine that looked like it came straight from hell was the least of her worries. Right now, all she wanted to do was pop an ibuprofen or two, curl up under the covers, and sleep until the pain had passed.

“Well, thank you,” she said awkwardly. “Uh… you can go now?” It came off more as a question than she would have liked it to, but honestly, she had no idea what else to say.

The dog didn’t appear to agree with Alex’s suggestion. If she didn’t know any better, she’d say that it was frowning. It slowly plodded up to her and pushed its nose into her stomach. She flinched involuntarily at the sensation. It took a few more nudges before she realised that it was trying to get her to move to her bed.

“Alright, alright, I’m going,” she said. “Sheesh.” What a weird dog.

It huffed behind as she slowly made to her bed. This human was out of her mind if she thought it was going to leave her alone in her current state. It was obvious that she required assistance.

Alex reached for the bottle of pills by her bedside. Or at least, she tried to. Not for the first time, did she curse the impact migraines had on her motor skills. Before she could reach down and grab it, the dog had already grabbed the bottle between its jaws. There was a pause, then a crunch as it split the bottle open. A warm, bony nose met her open hand. Two pills appeared seconds later.

“Thanks.” Alex tossed them back and dry swallowed them. She had to take a few short breaths to keep her stomach from rebelling at the action. Once she was sure she wasn’t going to throw the medication back up, she got under the covers and curled up into a small ball. Her eyes started to slip shut, only to fly back open when the dog curled itself around her.

“Uh…”

She received a huff in response that fluffed her hair. Things grew dimmer and quieter. Ah. Well, who was shift to look a gift dog in the mouth? Besides, she could better assess the situation in the morning. Right now, she was exhausted and in pain, and the medication was finally starting to kick in.

“You know…” she drawled out. “I can’t just keep calling you dog. You have a name?”

Another huff.

Alex hummed. “How about Tacitus?” A disgusted scoff.

“Asta?” A pause, then a noncommittal huff.

“Gertrude?” Another pause. Then, Alex could make out the sounds of blankets being ruffled as a tail went wild. “Gertrude it is then…”

Alex’s eyes slipped shut. Gertrude looked down at the human underneath her in alarm. It quickly faded when she realised that her human had finally fallen asleep. She shuffled around, careful not to disturb her charge, and let her own eyes close.

-

“Holy shit, Alex!”

Alex sat up abruptly at the cry. Her hand instinctively went for her weapon before her location finally registered. She was at home. She blinked. Gertrude was still on the bed. She glanced in the direction of the noise to see Kara standing by the window She looked alarmed.

“Kara? What are you doing here?”

Kara held up a bag of donuts from Noonan’s. “I brought breakfast.” She pointed at Gertrude. “What is that?”

Alex looked at Gertrude, who looked right back at her. A long tongue made of fire extended from her mouth as her jaws stretched with a large yawn. Half a second later, a thin tail wreathed in smoke began wagging happily.

Alex glanced back to Kara. “This is Gertrude, my…service dog?”

Kara just stared.

[stoweboyd]

Work Futures Weekender - Postnational in the Postnormal?

The top 1% will hold 64% of the world’s wealth by 2030?

2018-04-08 Beacon NY - Rana Dasgupta, the award winning novelist and journalist draws a deeply unsettling portrait of our time in The demise of the nation state, where he lays out the collapsing ideal of a world of nation states giving way to a post-national mess defined by broken power systems, kleptocracies, and tens of millions of refugees who are effectively stateless, and outlawed by the developed world. Other research projects that the wealthiest 1% will own two-thirds of all wealth by 2030.

After cataloging the chaotic dumpster fire the world has become, he says we can fix things, but it won't be easy:

This is not a small endeavour: it will take the better part of this century. We do not know yet where it will lead. All we can lay out now is a set of directions. From the standpoint of our present, they will seem impossible, because we have not known any other way. But that is how radical novelty always begins.

The first is clear: global financial regulation. Today’s great engines of wealth creation are distributed in such a way as to elude national taxation systems […], which is diminishing all nation states, materially and symbolically.

[…]

Second: global flexible democracy. As new local and transnational political currents become more powerful, the nation state’s rigid monopoly on political life is becoming increasingly unviable. Nations must be nested in a stack of other stable, democratic structures – some smaller, some larger than they – so that turmoil at the national level does not lead to total breakdown.

[…]

**Third, and finally: we need to find new conceptions of citizenship. **Citizenship is itself the primordial kind of injustice in the world. It functions as an extreme form of inherited property and, like other systems in which inherited privilege is overwhelmingly determinant, it arouses little allegiance in those who inherit nothing.

Dasgupta is preaching a new global system, a vision of a postnational world.

On the eve of its centenary, our nation-state system is already in a crisis from which it does not currently possess the capacity to extricate itself. It is time to think how that capacity might be built. We do not yet know what it will look like. But we have learned a lot from the economic and technological phases of globalisation, and we now possess the basic concepts for the next phase: building the politics of our integrated world system.

Where do I sign up?

And more cogently to my focus here: what does this mean to the way we think about work, and our place in the world?

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On Performance Reviews

Jinseok Chun, Joel Brockner and David De Cremer wrote the aptly named People Don’t Want to Be Compared with Others in Performance Reviews. They Want to Be Compared with Themselves. People hate performance reviews. Hate. I am using the word hate, here.

According to a survey of Fortune 1,000 companies done by the Corporate Executive Board (CEB), 66% of the employees were strongly dissatisfied with the performance evaluations they received in their organizations. More strikingly, 65% of the employees believed that performance evaluations were not even relevant to their jobs.

This is unfortunate considering the amount of resources that organizations devote to conducting performance evaluations. CEB research says that when we take into account how much money organizations are investing in their performance appraisal technology and how much time managers are spending to evaluate their employees, on average U.S. organizations spend $3,000 per year, per employee. This implies that billions of dollars are spent across the country because more than 90% of American companies provide performance evaluations at least once a year.

Why are employees so frustrated about the way they are evaluated, despite all the time and money being spent on these evaluations? What are organizations missing? We believe that one clue lies in the fact that 71% of the American employees thought that their evaluations had problems in the domain of fairness.

The authors ask the right question: what are the specific things that organizations can do to increase perceptions of fairness during the process of performance evaluations?

People are much more likely to find reviews fair is they are based on the employee's own past performance, showing progress over time, as opposed to comparing the worker's performance compared with others in the same period.

On Futurology

David Evans, the former chief futurist of Cisco, lays out his thoughts on being a futurist:

I often get asked how I predict the future. Let’s be clear: Predicting the future is impossible. In fact, being a futurist is less about predicting the future and more about understanding where the world is now and where it will be tomorrow. (Feel free to ditch those crystal balls.) It’s impossible to exactly predict how technology will impact our lives 10, 20, and even 30 years from now. However, there are several proven techniques that narrow down the countless possibilities to prognosticate a probable future.

His techniques (which are mine, too):

Read. A lot.

Apply proven principles like Metcalfe's Law, Moore's Law, Cooper's Law: Avoid linear extrapolation, expect exponential change.

Backcasting, or looking backward to look forward. Evans lays out a situation, like the idea of flying cars:

Consider a future world in which flying cars are everywhere. “What steps are needed for the vision to become reality in the future?” Now come back to the present and think about all the things that would be required for flying cars to be developed and used effectively. Such a list could include vehicle costs, air traffic control considerations, energy sources, acceptable flying ranges, take off and landing requirements, safety of “drivers” and the public, collision avoidance technology, networking and computing systems, and alternative solutions.

Next, determine the viability and timeframe of each consideration. The information created from this analysis form a picture of whether or not flying cars are possible–and if so, when.

I like this Marshall McLuhan quote, that sort of lines up with Evans' technique:

We look at the present through a rear-view mirror. We march backwards into the future.

We can’t know the future, especially today in the postnormal era: the new normal is there is no normal. But next year is unlikely to be like the last one.

Remember that when we look into McLuhan’s rear-view mirror we are seeing ourselves just as much as the road behind. And walking backwards into the future means we have to sense our way, cautiously stepping backwards and listening for the echoes.

Quote of the Day

The fact that a question is unsettling is not a justification for avoiding it.

| Jeff Sebo, Should Chimpanzees Be Considered ‘Persons’?

On Automation of Policing

This could be spinned as some chilling tale of surveillance, but I prefer to think of it as augmenting inadequate police resources in increasing public safety. Daniel Oberhaus reports on China Is Using Facial Recognition Technology to Send Jaywalkers Fines Through Text Messages:

Emblematic of this unprecedented surveillance apparatus are the facial recognition devices deployed in Shenzhen last April that are meant to deter jaywalkers. These devices take photos of offenders and display them on large LED screens above the intersection, along with their name and part of their government ID number. (There is also a website showing photos and information for jaywalkers in Shenzhen.)

Now Intellifusion, the Chinese artificial intelligence company behind these devices, is taking them a step further by partnering with mobile carriers and social media platforms such as WeChat and Sina Weibo to send text messages directly to offenders as soon as they are caught jaywalking by the cameras.

Since implementing the devices, Chinese traffic police have identified nearly 14,000 jaywalkers at a single Shenzhen intersection alone, according to the South China Morning Post. Moreover, Chinese officials claim that the devices have lowered the number of jaywalkers in the city.

I'm still waiting for the headgear that tells me the names of people that I have been introduced to, and can't recall their names. Of course, this week we can't talk about how Facebook could provide that service for us.

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Question or comment? (Can be private, or public: your choice. I occasionally publish public comments or questions.)

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More media, politics, and social commentary on stoweboyd.com, including bio.

[dong-hyucks]

fear is our enemy. | na jaemin [4]

➳ genre. spy!au, future!au, angst, minor fluff ➳ warnings. mentions of blood and death, character death in later chapters, swearing ➳ word count. 3.2k+ ➳ author’s note. admin cj wrote this b l e s s we are in the midst of a talented wriTER - admin. jade ➳ synopsis. [Y/N] Park, the adopted daughter of late director Park Minjun, crosses paths with Na Jaemin, a spy known for his aloof tendencies. now, they have to save her brother from an unexpected enemy.

➳ masterlists. | 1. | 2. | 3. | 4. | 5. | 6. | 7. | 8. | 9. | epilogue. 

  “That’s my brother sleeping,” you said, your voice soft and shaky. “And that,” you zoomed in, “is a shadow of a man with a gun.”

  Slowly, your whole body began to quake. Terror consumed even the darkest depths of your body, and Jaemin’s eyes went wide. If he could have one million tries to peg your personality, this wouldn’t even be in the top ten thousand. He never thought he’d see you look so broken. The pain in your eyes was almost unbearable, and the way your stitches gnarled your—what he could only assume—once gentle features was horrifying. 

  Jaemin just stared at you in disbelief for a few minutes. If you started to cry, he didn’t know what he would do. He didn’t think your emotional spectrum was big enough to encompass this unbelievable amount of sorrow painted across your face—just anger and the occasional sprinkle of happiness that trickled through you daily life.

  “Hey,” Jaemin’s utterance was quiet—almost inaudible—his gaze burned into your tell-tale glare, “does his phone, perhaps, have a tracking app on it?” In an instant, your eyes brightened slightly and you dashed past him to Donghyuck’s cubicle-type office.

  You were sore all over, but none of it mattered. None of it fucking mattered. It wasn’t important that every time you placed your foot on the ground you flinched because it mimicked the sound of a gunshot, nor was it important that you had just left your assigned partner in the dust once again. All that you needed to find out was where Jisung was, and if he was safe. Your little brother had nothing to do with this, he was never involved. This was purely a dig at you.

  Baekhyun’s words were like an unhappy spirit that wouldn’t move on. They wouldn’t let go … not of you, not of anyone. The sentence was etched into your memory with the same knife that had cut through your skin. Through the blazing heat of your anger, you could remember bits and pieces of what he had said. “Chanyeol.”

  Then, Jongdae’s stammering response came back, “Park,” he had stammered, “Park Chanyeol.” Shuddering, you kept going, trying to clear your mind, but also stuffing it with new ideas simultaneously. Jaemin’s curt calls from behind you meant nothing as you walked down the seemingly endless hallway. Your breathing was unusually heavy and your heart was beating rapidly.

  Jaemin’s quick pace—one he rarely took—soon matched yours, but you paid no attention to him. “Y’know, you could’ve at least waited for me. It was my idea after all.” His utterance pierced the thick atmosphere like a sharp knife. The fiery glare that you cast at him did you no good, as he shot one back. Rolling your eyes, you scoffed and shoved him out of the way to open the entrance to Donghyuck’s work area.

  “What?” He paused. “No snarky comment? That’s new. I kind of like it; silence is a good look on you.” That remark set your insides ablaze. Your face burned with fury, but your mind was as cold as ice.

  “Oh,” you replied cooly, “I thought you already knew I didn’t care. Would you like me to say it out loud?” The gleam of amusement in Jaemin’s eyes hardened and he sneered at you, huffing and puffing as he made his way into the chilled space. Internally, you smirked triumphantly, but on the outside, your brow was creased in worry.

  As you walked into the cluttered sector of HQ, you grew surprised. Papers were strewn everywhere, computer parts were scattered about on the floor, and most of the desks were messy. Donghyuck’s eyes widened when you tapped his shoulder to bring him from the trance-like state he fell into while cleaning.  

  “I need your help.” Your voice softened word by word as you looked at all the cuts and bruises crowding his face. A grin played on his lips—it took away from the ugliness of the wounds. In an instant, the previous rage that had filled your body came back, and you whipped around to face Jaemin. His eyebrows flew up like they were challenging you to something, you sniffed and swiveled back to Donghyuck, trying to ignore Jaemin’s presence looming in the background.

   “Always,” he smiled, “what can I do for you, [Y/N]?” Donghyuck stood up and strolled to his computer, throwing glances over his shoulder every so often. When he reached his chair, he collapsed and spun to place his questioning gaze back on you.

  “Do you remember when you met my little brother?” Donghyuck nodded. “We put a tracker in his phone, right?” Nod. “Can you find it?” Nod. “Can you do it quickly?” Another nod. You pondered that fact, thinking back to your hacker days, trying to recall the day when Jisung had accidently saw you at “work.”

  “Just track it,” Jaemin interjected, breaking your train of thought. Despite your obvious dislike towards him, you silently thanked him, because you weren’t sure you would’ve been able to say it without mentally shutting down. Slowly but surely, you could feel the strong wall you had built up against reality begin to crumble, and it was killing you. You weren’t doing a great job convincing yourself that you could keep it together.

  Sneakily, Jaemin was peeking down at you—not in the least concerned, just validating his selfish worries. He couldn’t work with you if you were going to be a child—but you had no plans on doing so. Every time his eyes fluttered down to you, he noticed your hands doing something different. The first time, they were fiddling with your hair. The second, you were twiddling your thumbs. And, the third, your fingers flew across the keyboard, answering the security questions needed to access the tracking program.

  “Damn it, Jisung,” you cursed, “how the hell would I know the name of your first pet?” Jaemin laughed humorlessly to himself—and you, being trained in picking up small noises—pivoted your head, staring at him. “Would you like to try, Na Jaemin? Since you find this funny.”

  He straightened out immediately, and his solemn expression floated back onto his features. He stalked to the square letters and began to type, “F-L-U-F-F-Y,” he muttered under his breath as his long digits typed in the less-than-professional word. Pressing enter, he gazed victoriously at the screen. 

  “Find My iPhone is now locating—Park, fire emoji, fire emoji, Jisung’s iPhone.” As the speaker spat out the name, you looked up at the ceiling, and sent a silent prayer to anyone—or at this point anything—that happened to be listening. Fire emoji? Couldn’t it have just left them out? You just hope it found the phone fast.

  “[Y/N],” Donghyuck’s voice broke the tension in the air, “it’s in the alley behind Hakoya Ramen.” He copy and pasted the address, clicked into a new window, and tried to enhance the photo of it. “The only thing back there—” Donghyuck paused for awhile, seeming to have a mental debate on whether he should let the words slip from his mouth, or not, “—is a dumpster.” 

  In that instant, your heart stopped, and you felt yourself careening to the left. A dumpster. A dumpster was the worst place that Donghyuck could’ve said. You gripped your temples with both hands, and Jaemin whacked the back of your head with the palm of his hand. Donghyuck looked at him as white as a piece of printer paper, and rapidly rotated his chair to face the screen. Like an owl searching for its prey, your gaze whirled to meet his.

  “Standing there with your hands to your face isn’t going to get you to your brother faster,” Jaemin snorted, already on his way out. You hurried to catch up, not wanting to be in his shadow.

  “I was thinking of a plan, Jaemin,” you replied, voice taut. He exhaled sharply, wheeling around on the ball of his right foot. “Remind me to never ask you to make a quick decision then.” With that, a quietude fell upon the night, and neither of you spoke until you had reached the sleek, black travel vehicle. Jaemin gave the operator a slip of paper and muttered a single word before sitting back in his seat.

  “Drive.” 

  Arriving at Hakoya, the two of you were extremely conspicuous whilst climbing out of the van. If you were anywhere else—like on a mission, or at the airport—you wouldn’t have been noticed, but in front of the noodle shop, all customers could do was stare. You tilted your head down, partly because you didn’t want Jaemin to see the tiny tears that pricked at the corner of your eyes, and partly because you didn’t want anyone to recognize you. Admitting to being paranoid was an understatement.

  Jaemin wrenched your arm, pulling you into the dark backstreet. As soon as you caught a glimpse of the ineffably large trash heap, you stumbled a bit, feeling your stomach fold in on itself. He caught you just as you put a hand over your mouth. The slow, flaming sensation of vomit crawling up your throat was overwhelming, but you pushed it back down with a forceful swallow. Jaemin’s steps echoed as he neared the giant garbage can.

  “He’s your brother,” Jaemin chuckled, a bitter edge to his laughter, “you get to dumpster-dive.” Inching towards the metal contraption, you screwed your eyes shut and turned your nose up at the smell. It was almost unbearable, but you pressed on, hoping to locate something useful. Jaemin was showing no symapathy as he watched you dig through trash—but in his eyes, there was a glint on amusement. His gaze would’ve irritated you if a strong odor hadn’t captured your attention. 

  Soundlessly, you waved him over, no longer caring how much of an ass he had been. He awaited a comment, and you could sense him becoming impatient. It was only after a few minutes that you spoke.

  “Please,” you pleaded, “please tell me that it doesn’t smell like blood.” Jaemin walked to the place where you were pointing, and was suddenly bombarded with the foul stench of stale blood and sweat. He wrinkled his nose in protest, but kept feeling around—for anything, really. Jaemin’s body froze as his hand came in contact with razor-sharp shards of glass. Hastily, Jaemin retracted his gory appendage and muttered a string of profanities. After the spell of pain, he went right back in. But, this time, he pulled something out. While inspecting the object in his grasp, you became as still as a stone statue.

  “Goddammit,” Jaemin’s use of colorful language jerked you out of your living nightmare, “[Y/N], take the fucking thing out of my hands.” You speedily grabbed the picture frame, and watched as Jaemin ripped a portion of his black sleeve off to tie around the grotesque lacerations. Scrutinizing the rusted structure, you noted the crimson flecks that coated the outside of it. Instantaneously, the feeling of nausea—which you had become so dreadfully familiar with—washed over you. You choked on your own spit, trying to prevent yourself from heaving your protein bar up and onto the ground.

  “That’s—” your voice hit a snag, “that’s Jisung.” Jaemin trudged over to you, clutching his damaged arm to his side. You recalled the picture in vague detail. It was in the summer—right after Jisung’s school was out— and all of your family, your mother, your father, your older brother, and Jisung were all beaming. It was a sight to see. Everyone in your family—happy. The picture was unusual to say the least, but it was a treasured possession of yours, and you always left it with Donghyuck for safekeeping ... at his desk. 

  The seriousness of what was at hand was just beginning to set in, and your knees screeched in pain as they crashed to the cement below. Your youthful body should’ve been able to take the blow, but all you could do was sob. You knew where this picture was taken, and you knew where it was stolen from. It was photographed right after a successful mission against EXO. Your recollection explained the huge smiles on everyone’s faces—everyone except for Jisung. He was oblivious to the truth, he didn’t know that his whole family was apart of NCT, and that made your heart ache. When the break-in occurred, Baekhyun or Jongdae must’ve taken the photo as well as the documents. The thought itself was chilling, and you shivered, continuing to cry.

  All the while, Jaemin had already contacted HQ, getting the car to come back and pick the two of you up. In a few short minutes, he thumped the top of your head with a week-old, rotting newspaper. 

  “The car’s here.�� His voice was strained, almost like someone was compressing it between both hands. “Get up, and let’s go.” You struggled to stand, and Jaemin grabbed your arms and roughly pulled you up, yanking you around the corner and onto the street. The van waited patiently, as you clambered into it.

  It drove into the darkness quietly. The engine humming a sweet melody as the yellow lines on the road began to move faster. The air was still, but it lacked the peace that one would usually find within it. As the seconds of the clock ticked by, your anger stewed and bubbled. 

  “Chanyeol,” you muttered, an acidic taste flooding your mouth, “Park Chanyeol.” Jaemin cocked a brow, but you didn’t offer him another word. You peered out the tinted window, hoping that you would see a corpse on your way back—preferably Park Chanyeol’s.

  You stormed back into HQ. Johnny tried to speak a hello, but you took no notice of his attempts at conversation. The look on your face should’ve been enough to send him—and others—running for the hills. Jaemin trailed closely behind you, lurking wordlessly in your wake. He knew exactly where you were going, but he decided not to disturb you, fearing for his life—and other, unmentionables he would like to keep.

  When you reached Taeyong’s office, your face was beyond the color red. In fact, it was almost blue. Jaemin couldn’t tell if you hadn’t breathing out of worry or if you were really that enraged. He didn’t know which choice scared him more, but he tried to keep his cynical remarks to a minimum.

  The loud clang that occurred when the metal structure of the picture frame crashed onto Taeyong’s desk resonated throughout the room. Sluggishly, Taeyong turned to peer at you. His eyes had a serious glint in them, one that practically spelled danger out on his forehead. But, in all honesty, you couldn’t have cared less. You stared back into his gaze with just as much ferocity. A twinkle of pride flashed across Taeyong’s features.

  “I want this DNA tested,” you growled, “now.” Taeyong clicked his tongue and drummed his fingers against the chipping wood of his work space. Though his stance was cold and his statements were sharp, you could just barely hear the empathy in his voice. 

  “I think you’re forgetting something, [Y/N].” The wide grin that spread over Taeyong’s mouth was enough to make the terrifying dread—that had consumed you once before—come back. In his challenging glare, something else skulked. It meant something, you could tell—and it wasn’t something good. You willed yourself to think back to the actual task at hand after capturing Baekhyun. 

  The documents. 

  “Oh. Oh, God,” you murmured, dizziness swamping your being. Jaemin exhaled deeply, and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. Working with you was exasperating, but it was a change from staring at a too-bright computer screen, in a too-dark room, in a too-boring place—so he would take it.

  “Didn’t you say something about a guy—” Jaemin’s ill-defined question penetrated the hushed feeling of the room jaggedly, “—Park, something?” Your eyes gained the small sparkle back, and Jaemin followed you out of Taeyong’s office as you carelessly sped down the hallway.

  “Chanyeol’s in on this,” you muttered, to no one in particular, “I just have to find out how.” It hurt Jaemin as he saw you trying to place all the pieces together in you brain. He wondered if you might literally blow a gasket if you worked any harder.

  “Are you sure you can handle this.” The teasing was back. “It’s looking a bit rough over there.” With a scowl that could kill a whole nation with just one glance, you glowered at Jaemin. He held his hands up in a fake surrender, waving them like tiny flags. “I was just saying.” The tone of his voice was mocking and it made your nostrils flare. At this point—steam was probably forming from your ears.

  “I don’t need you to say,” you retorted, “I need you to do.” Jaemin pursed his lips and frowned. You could tell he didn’t necessarily like your utterance, but he’s been alongside you for long enough now—Jaemin knows not to complain. “Now, go down to Donghyuck and see if he remembers anything from the occurrence.”

  The command was velvety and soft coming from your voice that was thick with sadness, but Jaemin complied, not daring to question you. As he disappeared into the darkness of the hallway, you finally let yourself go. You backed into a wall, and sunk into a crouch. If Jaemin saw you like this, the taunting would never end, and it would be no one’s fault but your own. Warm tears trickled down your cheeks and dribbled onto your arms. The thin liquid tormented you as the salt stains became clear on your face. You buried your face in your crossed arms and wailed. At times like these, it was helpful to have soundproof corridors.

  “[Y/N], what happened?” Chenle’s innocent inquiry rang out from the other side opposite end, where the entrance to Taeyong’s office was. “Weren’t you just with Jaemin?” When Chenle mentioned Jaemin’s name, your head snapped up from where it was hanging, but you were undoubtedly disappointed. He hadn’t come back with information. It was just Chenle— which made you no happier than you had been a few moments ago.

 “It’s Jisung, Chenle.” Although your reply was low and hard to hear, it cracked and broke just the same. Chenle stared at you—his eyes glazing with pity and sorrow. They fragmented your already crushed heart. “He’s gone.”

  “Wh-Who would’ve done that?”  Even though you had no concrete evidence, you eyed Chenle murderously. The gleam in your eye was venomous enough to kill even the most poisonous snake. He stumbled back a bit—having never seen you like this before. You could practically feel his heart beating like a nervous rabbit’s.

  “I think you know who, Chenle,” you snarled, ripping yourself viciously from your place on the brick patterns, “what I need to find out—is why.” Your words were a big indicator for him, and his mouth dropped open.

  “Chanyeol?” He asked. Nodding grimly, you began to walk to the computer rooms with Chenle in tow.

  “I’ll tell Donghyuck to start tracking as soon as I find him.” Chenle’s declaration was music to your ears, and you faced him, brandishing a wicked smirk. He struggled with himself, trying not to run to his desk, scared out of his mind. Whipping back around, you carried on to where the light of outside met the blackness that dimmed the compound.

  “Good.” 

previous ⇠ | ⇢ next

[itsjustmeowrooh]

Don’t Believe Everything You See || Septiplier (Non-Romantic) || REWRITTEN || Chapter 4 || Wrong Place, Wrong Time || KNR

Summary: “Don’t be so quick to believe what you’re told; lies spread quicker than the truth.”   The school goes into lock-down as a pressing threat enters the campus. Jack, still sauntering through the hallways, hears the menacing din of a firearm and finds himself in a vital rush. Though he knows the procedure; move swiftly, find a class that is open, get inside, and stay as far away from the windows and doors as possible, little did he know that these next five minutes would change his life forever.

Warning: This book WILL contains scenes of graphic violence, torture, and use of profanity! Proceed with CAUTION!

Tags: @craftypeaceturtle @serendipity-cloudy-dreamcatcher@wavesofpolarity

   At least a thousand thoughts began swimming throughout my mind, all loosely following the same basic idea -- finding an escape. I couldn’t help the smile that crossed over my face at the thought of finally getting out.

   Alright, awesome, an escape. And if he comes back? Inner me argued. I stopped dead in my tracks, realizing the actual possibility I had at leaving this hellhole. What if he realizes the mistake that Amy made and he comes back to find my cell empty? Or runs into me as I’m trying to escape? I’ll be dead before I even get the chance to realize what hit me.

   But, this may be your only chance at escaping. Take it while you have it! You may never get this lucky again! I ran my shaky hands through my hair and balled them into fists as I thought.

   After what felt like ages of a debate, I finally turned back to my cell with a sigh, realizing that my decision was stupid but that I’d find a way to make it work. I pushed my cell door closed, that way if Felix did come back, he’d see a closed door and wouldn’t think twice to check. Hopefully, at least. I turned back to face the long, empty corridor, sighing deeply as I contemplated my next step. Erh, few steps, to be literal.

   A minuscule mouse trapped in a house filled to the brim with cats, all ready to pounce. How hard could it be? I decided to ignore the fight my mind was causing with itself and carried on. As I made my way down the hall, I felt my legs beginning to give out. It was like I would collapse onto the ground at the slightest incorrect step, giving away my position to the other prisoners, starting an uproar, leaving me no other choice but to turn around and head back to my own little cell to slowly but surely lose my mind. All I’d be missing are padded walls and a straight-jacket.

   Oh, but you closed your cell, remember? Your door would be locked and you wouldn’t be able to get back inside. You’d be beaten lifeless, left to rot on the floor in a pool of your own blood. I brushed away the uncomforting thought and pushed on, stepping out from the hallway only to find myself even more doomed than when I had started.

   At least a dozen other hallways stretched alongside each other both in front and behind me. Looking back from where I just came, there were twelve doors, six to each side. Assuming that all the halls were the same and considering the fact that they were all lettered A through N, that’s fourteen halls with twelve prisoners down each. Not counting myself and the two that had already passed away, that’s one hundred sixty-five unlucky persons who all happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Damn. Guilt came over me like a crashing wave.

   I’ve been here for, what, barely two weeks now? Who knows how long these people have been here. They’ve probably suffered much worse fates than I. But it’s not like I can do anything about them, anyway. I don’t have the keys to any of these cells.

   There’s nothing you can do to help them. Just keep going. Pushing all guilt aside, I carried on, heading towards N-Hall in hopes to get my bearings. I’d passed down all these halls a few times today, but Felix’s grip was always too tight, giving me absolutely no chance to look around to absorb my surroundings. But still, I wish I had at least tried a little harder to pay attention.

   I finally came across a split in the halls that looked familiar. If I continued straight, it’d lead me right to the Rink. Right to Wade. I shuddered at the thought of that man, then turned to the right, only to be greeted by a door with the words “Exam Room” slapped on the front of it in big, white lettering, so I figured that was a nod to negative. But to the left was just a dead end.

   “Crap,” I sighed, turning around and going back the way I had come. “This place is like a damn maze.” I was only halfway down the hall when the all too familiar shriek of agony filled my ears, only to be followed by a gunshot moments later, silencing the stranger’s distraughted self.

   My heart rate sped up by at least twice its original rate and breathing became almost impossible. In an instant, I was on the floor and the memories of that god awful day came flooding back into my mind.

   It was fourth period and I was supposed to be taking a test in Biology, but it completely slipped my mind and I had forgotten to study for it. So, as soon as I walked into the classroom, I dumped my bag by my seat, told Mr. Johansen that I was going to the restroom, then ducked out of the room without even hearing his okay. I dug my phone out of my pocket and sent Mark a quick text asking if he could meet me there to help me out a bit. Thankfully, he had just had Mr. Johansen third period, and Mark usually seemed to know what he was doing, so I trusted the guy.

   I leaned against the counter, running my hands in circles along my chest -- a nervous habit that I had adapted -- and finally decided that I needed something else to do. I checked my phone one last time to see if Mark had responded and sighed after realizing he hadn’t, then turned to the sink to flick it on and wash my hands.

   After cleaning my hands, I ran my fingers through my hair, almost regretting the fact that I didn’t brush it at all this morning but also not totally despising the look, all things considered. It may have looked like I slept in a dumpster all night, but hey, at least I didn’t smell like I had.

   My phone buzzed in my pocket, pulling me from my fashion crisis and I hurried to dry my hands on my jeans. Silently praying that it wasn’t just another unknown number texting me absolutely nothing but gibberish, I fished my phone out from my pocket but wasn’t given the chance to read it. A gunshot firing from the hallway made my heart stop in my chest and my stomach turn somersaults. My phone buzzed again. Looking down, I noticed that the first message was, in fact, from Mark. He had simply said, “okay.” The other message, however, was from this unknown number who I now can only assume belonged to this gun-wielding stranger in the walls of the school simply by the choice of words alone.

   ‘Shouldn’t you be in class, Jackieboy? :)’ The message read. My stomach did another flip and my heart jumped up into my throat.

   I’m gonna be sick. I started heading towards one of the stalls when I realized that this person, whoever they were, probably knew where I was hiding and would come in search for me. I turned back to the door and reached for the lock… that was apparently non-existent.

   “Fuck!” I cursed, probably a little louder then I should have, then made my way back to the stall, stepping inside and shutting the door, locking it shut. It was a start.

   The bathroom door then creaked open but I barely heard it due to the sound of my pounding heart. It was silent for a few moments until a voice spoke up.

   “Jack?” It was Mark. I let out a sigh of little relief and felt myself deflate just a tad. “You still in here?”

   “Y-Yea, Mark, I’m still here,” I replied, my voice breaking. I heard him sigh as well as I unlocked the stall and stepped out.

   “Are you okay?” he questioned, stepping forward and examining me. A painfully sarcastic titter pushed past my lips.

   “Absolutely fuckin’ terrified. Is Officer Tate’s office open?” I asked, and he shook his head in response.

   “He left not too long ago. But Mr. Young’s class is open. If, uh… if we go now, we can make it.” He stuttered, pushing me towards the door. “But we have to hurry, Jack, yea?”

   “No, screw that! I’m not goin’ out there!” I exclaimed, stepping away from his arms and further into the bathroom. “They’re lookin’ for me, Mark! I’m not-”

   “Jack, it’ll be fine. His class is right down the hall, we’ll make it, but the longer we sit in here and argue, the less of a chance we have at getting to his class. It’ll be shut by the time we finally get out.” He explained, to which I hesitantly agreed with a nod.

   My steps were heavy as I made my way into the hall, and I glanced to my right to find Mr. Young’s door open, just like Mark had said. He noticed us in the hall before shutting his door and he motioned for us to hurry the hell up. Another gunshot rang out, tempting me to move faster and I was just about to step into the class when I felt an arm wrap around my neck and a gun press to my temple.

   “Don’t. Move.” Mark’s voice, shattered and quivering, came like a whisper into my ear, sending shivers down my spine. My hands instinctively shot up to pry his arms away, but I was far too weak and although his hands trembled against me, his hold was firm.

   “Mark? C’mon, kiddo, what’re you doing?” Mr. Young asked, stepping forward with his arms outstretched, but Mark responded by taking a step back, pulling me along with him. “Easy, son, just… just settle down. Hand me your gun and let Jack go. Nobody has to be hurt here, alright?” A few of the students were just beginning to notice the situation at hand and stared on with looks of horror glued to their faces while the others remained completely and totally oblivious. Mark’s grip around my neck then tightened ever so slightly and I could hear the rattling of the gun as his hand shook.

   “Y-Yea, that’s not gonna happen.” I could hear the brokenness hanging like a thick cloud in Mark’s voice.

   “Mark, what’re ya doin’?” I gulped, still trying to escape his grasp but it was no use.

   “Shut up, just shut up!” He harshly whispered. I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling hot tears prickling in the corners. “J-Just go back into your class, Mr. Young. Please. I have to do this.”

   “No, you don’t, we can find you help.”

   “You don’t get it!!” He shouted, another gunshot firing as those last few words rolled off his tongue and into the air. I tensed, waiting for the pain, but found myself puzzled when I felt nothing. I finally regained the strength to open my eyes, but I wish I hadn’t. Lying in a motionless heap on the ground was Mr. Young, blood pooling underneath him. The students inside screamed and scrambled to get out of their seats, rushing to the back of the class.

   “What the hell?” Mark spoke, voice trembling, obviously just as dumbfounded as I. The man who took the teacher’s life just moments ago kicked his lifeless body away from the door, then slammed it shut.

   “Just get a move on.” He barked, pulling a potato sack from his back pocket and stepping towards me. His bare palm clasped over my mouth as he leaned in close, the smell of mint intertwined in his breath and a look of insanity stitched in his eyes. “Hi there, Jackieboy.” He smiled. I pulled away from his grasp and he laughed lightly, shaking his head.

   “There’s no reason to struggle, Baby. No one’s here to help you.” He grinned devilishly, gave the sack a quick shake, then pulled it down over my head, cuffing my hands in front of me soon thereafter.

   “Jesus Christ, Mark, what’ve ya gotten us into?” I hissed as the man pulled me along by the chain of the cuffs. Another gunshot rang out, followed by the clink of glass shards on linoleum.

   “I’m sorry, Jack… I’m sorry.” Mark whispered, but I paid no attention to his words. I tried ripping my hands free from the stranger’s grasp, but to no avail. I felt a hand clasp down on my shoulder and I knew in an instant that it was Mark. That bastard.

   Then, very faintly, I heard Miss Kyler’s voice from the office shouting into a phone, begging for the police, only to be shot down moments later, her voice dying down into nothing but silence.

   “Mark, pick it up!” He ordered and he obeyed, pushing me along. I stumbled over the broken shards of glass and felt one knife into the bottom of my shoe, sending a twitching pain up my leg, only getting worse as we continued on.

   Over the sound of my beating heart and heavy breathing, I heard a car engine start and felt a tear roll down my cheek.

   “No,” I muttered, but my voice went unheard over the sea of sirens wailing closer and closer to the school, but not nearly close enough to catch us before we were gone. “No!”

   “Shut him up and get him in the fucking car!” I turned away from Mark’s arms, but it wasn’t long before I was trapped again, being pushed back into the vehicle.

   “Help!” I cried, voice breaking terribly and tears streaming down my cheeks. The potato sack was then ripped off my head and a rag was placed over my mouth. Darkness engulfed my vision in an instant.

   A strong hand tightly gripped my wrist and yanked me up onto my feet, another hand shooting up to cover my mouth.

   “What the hell are you doing out?” Mark growled in a low voice. Of course, My thoughts began. How foolish of me to think I’d be able to escape that easily.

   “Well, what does it look like?” I replied.

   “It looks like you’re being an idiot.” He bit back sarcastically, pulling me down the all too familiar hall. “You’re lucky I found you instead of Felix.”

   We got back to the cell I so wholeheartedly despised and he pulled a ring of keys from his pocket, jamming one into the keyhole and ushering me inside. I stumbled in with a huff and immediately shot a glare over my shoulder in his direction.

   He was about to shut the door when he paused, eyes filled with sorrow and regret. No, scratch that. It wasn’t regret, it was disappointment. But who is he disappointed in, himself or me? He then sighed.

   “Jack, I’m sorry.” I scoffed at this, throwing myself against the corner wall and sliding down to the ground. “I didn’t want to help him, but he has my family, and if I don’t cooperate, they die. I can’t…” He paused, sucking in a sharp breath of air.

   “I can’t have that happen.” A tear rolled down the far side of my cheek and I showed no urgency to brush it away. The room was silent for a long while before he finally spoke up once more. “You’re my best friend, Jack, and I love you like a brother, but I can’t put you first.” With those last words echoing in the back of my mind, he stepped back into the hallway, pulling the door shut until it clicked into place. As if I had just swallowed a lit match whole, a fire began to burn in the pit of my stomach, anger bubbling inside of me like boiling water in a kettle. A growl rumbled in my throat as I rose to my feet, pounding my fists against the cold, hard metal of the door.

   “I hate you!!!” My throat burned as my rage escaped me, but the words stung more than the shout.

[trbl-will-find-me]

Every Exit, An Entrance (11/?)

There are two (and only two) possibilities: either she led XCOM to victory and they are now engaged in a clean up operation of alien forces, or XCOM was overrun, clearing the way for an alien-controlled puppet government to seize control of the planet.

She’d really like to figure out which it is, but asking hardly seems the prudent option.

Read from the start here

They’ve got a solid lead on the local Resistance. Recent signs of life and regular heat signatures bode well for their hopes of making contact. But, it would seem she’s forgotten the first rule of war, maybe even the first rule of life: anything that can fuck you over, will.

The images before the feed cuts out are horrific, civilians scrambling to evade well-armed, well-armored troops dropping from ships onto the ground below. The adrenaline kicks and blood pounds in her ears.

Deep breaths, she tells herself. No good decision has ever been made as the kick comes. You have to think this through. You have to think. Have to —

“Commander, we have to do something!”

It was always the terror attacks that used to get under his skin. Of all the things the John Bradford she knew could not abide, it was civilian casualties. XCOM’s men made a choice. A death reverberated through the ranks for weeks after; the alcohol stores ran dangerously low. But he’d remind her that their men believed in a cause and were willing to die for it, that they’d find a way to make that sacrifice mean something. Truth be told, she was never sure if he’d said it for her benefit or his.

But civilian deaths were something else entirely. XCOM’s job was to stop the unstoppable, to save the un-save-able. They were meant to be some bastion of strength, of hope. They weren’t supposed to watch as families were slaughtered, as lives were cut short without regard, as parents lost children and children lost parents. Civilian casualties never sat well with Central.

They could spend weeks after an attack analyzing the footage, playing and replaying decisions and tactics. Could they have been faster? Should they have sent in more mobile forces? Should they have taken a more offensive stance, or would a more defensive one have spared additional lives?

“Go,” she says, nodding towards the controls. “Shen,” she continues, pressing a finger to her ear. “We’re headed in to deal with ADVENT in one of the havens. Do what you can to prep some extra medkits and take stock of what we can spare to help them back on their feet. Tygan, get ready. We’re gonna have wounded.”

“I should be on that team,” Sally says somewhere behind her. “You’ve gotta know that.”

“No,” Central growls.

“I’ve been through these. You’ve seen me. I know what to expect.”

“No.”

“Look, I get that I’m grounded, but come on. This isn’t about me wanting to be in the field; this is about me being damn well qualified for this. How many did we survive?”

“I’m not having this conversation with you.”

The ship thrums to life around them.

“What was the point of teaching me to shoot if you’re not gonna field me when I could help?”

“Drop it.”

“What’s the point of me being on this ship if you’re not gonna trust me on an op?”

“You want off? You’re eighteen at the end of next month, but right now, we have a job to do.”

She looks up in time to see the hurt flash across the girl’s face.

 “Fine,” Sally says. “That’s how you wanna play this, maybe you’ve got the right idea.”

“Bien fait, ma —“

“Thomas,” the Commander snaps. “Go prep the gear. We’re not gonna have time to spare.”

Royston’s hands curl into fists and then slowly, reluctantly unclench once again. Wallace offers her a sympathetic look from his position and she manages a small, miserable smile in return.

“Kelly, Gunda, Krieger, Zaytsev, gear up,” she says, turning her attention to the Hologlobe. “You’re being deployed to an in-progress retaliation. Let’s go, guys — we’ve got people counting on us.”

–

“I think the Council might have had a point,” she says, sitting down at the edge of the pool. “About me not being fit to command anymore.”

Central shakes his head, arms resting on the concrete next to her. “I’m sorry. Did I really just hear you say the Council might have a point?”

“Yeah, she says, setting her boots next to her and dipping her feet into the water. “Or, in any case, that’s my worry.”

Once again, the urge to jump in flits across her mind. She chalks it up to stress.

They are four days out from the completion of the isolation labs and the energy spikes are coming more and more rapidly. Something is coming, something is coming, drones her inner monologue. Something is coming and you have to do something and this is your fault. Don’t forget that. Something is coming and it’s your fault and you need a plan.

“You really wanna have this conversation here?”

“I don’t wanna have it somewhere with an audience.”

“The fact that we’re having it at all is unbelievable.”

“I can’t shut my head off,” she shrugs. “I already made one bad call because I was distracted, and we really can’t afford another.”

“No, you made the right call given the situation at hand. There was a bigger problem. Besides, the civilians who were freed from that stuff seemed fine — and you haven’t found anything contradicting that. You couldn’t have pushed the pods; it wouldn’t have made sense. You would have wasted time we needed — we wouldn’t have survived the hit to the base without the improved gear. Don’t forget that.”

“The spikes are getting more frequent.”

“And if we were still running on conventional weapons, we wouldn’t be here to track that.”

“What if I make another bad call?”

He furrows his brow. “Have you not been listening to me?”

“No, I mean it. I can’t … I can’t shut my head off. Ever. It’s one long panicked stream of consciousness. No one’s fit to command like that.”

“You really think if I had concerns I wouldn’t have said something?”

She pauses, considering the question.

“If I thought you couldn’t appropriately command this operation, you and I would have had a talk. And if that hadn’t been enough, I would have gotten Shen and Vahlen’s backing and had medical declare you unfit for duty.”

“That’s … oddly comforting, actually.”

“You have responsibilities and so do I.”

She sighs. “You’re sure?”

He cocks his head at her. “This really has you rattled, doesn’t it?”

“I dunno. It’s not just this, to be fair. I think, even if this, whatever it is, weren’t on the horizon, I’m still not sure I’d be able to shut my head up. I’m always expecting something. Like … you’re gonna laugh. I don’t know that I believe in ‘normal’ now, knowing what’s out there, what could be coming for us. I guess that’s worrisome in and of itself.”

“You looked into the abyss and the abyss fired back. You think you’re the only one who’s been changed by what we saw? What we did? Because I’ve got news for you.”

She manages a short chuckle. “Touche. But they’re not the ones making judgment calls.”

“I’d like to think I make some, Commander.”

She considers him for a moment. “It’s eating you too, huh?”

He nods. “Believe it or not, I didn’t always sleep with a gun under my pillows.”

“Isn’t that uncomfortable?”

“Beats not sleeping at all. Besides, I’m not about to start popping pills. I don’t want to consider the ramifications of doing that.”

She nods, remembering a snowy funeral a month prior to activation. They’d cremated his father out of convenience, though she knows he hasn’t had time to spread the ashes. They sit in a small, metal urn at the bottom of his footlocker, patiently waiting a more permanent final resting place.

“It’s no surprise,” he’d said at the time. “Give Dad a drink, and. Well. This was the only way it was gonna end.”

Instinctively, she covers one of his hands with her own.

“It’s not even on my radar, Lizzie,” he offers. “I’ll stick to chamomile and melatonin. I’m not going anywhere.” He takes a breath. “But you can’t either.”

She nods. “But if you get the slightest inkling—“

“If I’m worried you’re unfit, you’ll know. That’s a promise.”

Again, a nod. “Good.”

–

She hesitates to say it is going well, but Resistance forces on the ground have done what they can to corral civilians and are putting up a good fight against ADVENT. There are still too many bodies on the ground, in the ramshackle buildings, and in forgotten corners for her to truly feel good. If they keep up, though, the haven will have a halfway decent shot at survival, and that will have to be enough.

A Stun Lancer emerges from behind a dumpster, striking the nearest civilian in the chest with his electrified mace. The man falls dead with a scream, their third casualty since landing.

“Commander —“

“I see, Central. Krieger, do what you can to take him down. He’s one of our last hostile signatures.” The specialist shoots and misses spectacularly, her bullet lodging in a nearby tree.

The Lancer takes the opportunity to dive into cover, flattening himself behind a rock and within strike range of another civilian.

“Kelly, can you do something about that?”

“On my way, ma’am.”

The ranger weaves through the wreckage, then takes a flying leap, bringing her sword down hard on the assailant’s head. There is a sickening crack and the attacker falls to the ground.

“Good work; we’ve still got a —“

She’s cut off by a noise out of her nightmares, something wet and gelatinous and almost certainly in motion.  Her eyes bounce from camera feed to camera feed, looking for the source, but there’s nothing –nothing– that should be making that sound.

Until jet black claws slash through Zaytsev and Gunda, leaving one unconscious and the other with a red halo blossoming around him.

“Take that thing down!” Central shouts.

“Krieger! Kelly! Keep clear of those claws, but do what you can to end whatever the hell that is.”

The local fighters take aim and fire, unloading clips into the creature. Krieger nabs it in the eye, and Kelly delivers the final blow, a shotgun blast to the side. It melts, rather than collapses, a pile of liquefied peach-colored goo.

“All hostiles down,” she says, checking the scanner. “Go triage the other two. We’ll get a team down there to assess the damage.”

“Roger,” Kelly answers. “Wilco.”

The Commander lets out a long sigh. “Jesus Christ.”

“We’ve had rumors of shapeshifters,” her XO offers. “Not surprised to find out they’re substantiated.”

“Yeah, but the question becomes are they sleeper agents or do they drop as infiltration?”

He shakes his head. “Not sure. We might have to settle for keeping an eye on it.”

“Commander? Central?” Kelly’s voice wobbles. “I think we’re looking at a head injury. Zaytsev’s stabilized but Gunda’s still not … she isn’t coming to.”

“She’s got a pulse,” Krieger cuts in. “So, she’s definitely alive.”

“But she’s not waking up,” Kelly counters. “I think we’ve got a problem.”

“Tygan,” Central says, pressing a finger to his comm. “They’re gonna need you on the ground. Now. Possible head injury. “

“Civilian?”

“One of ours.”

“I’m on my way.”

She rakes a hand through her ponytail and draws a breath. She suspects they’re woefully unprepared for a brain injury, assuming Kelly instincts are correct. Tygan is brilliant, no doubt, but molecular biology and biochemistry are not neurology. They are not rehabilitation. The Avenger does not have the facilities; an infirmary is certainly on the list of things to build, but they can only work so fast, and they needed comms. They needed the proving grounds. They need another power converter.

And now, she thinks, dejectedly, we need an infirmary.

She rubs at her eyes for a moment, then turns her attention back to the task at hand. “Attention, all hands,” she says into the comm. “We’re putting down on the outskirts to help with clean up and rebuild. Our job is to get these people back on their feet, and to do it quickly. Shen and Central will coordinate efforts on the ground; they’ll have more specific assignments for you soon. In the meantime, remember these people have just had a really bad day; we’ve all lost people, and today, it was their turn. Be gentle.”

And say your prayers that we don’t lose one of our own, she adds silently.

If the first rule of war is that anything that can fuck you over, will, its corollary is this: anything that can save you, won’t.