#crossed wires; inbox games

[still-breathing-au-p3r]

It’s really nothing new to have a flood of texts and emails spamming his phone after class. The fact that it’s nothing new these days is very new. It’s such a wild change from how things were before he came to Iwatodai that sometimes it’s overwhelming. Minato actually kind of enjoys it despite that– or maybe a little bit because of it– even if he does leave most of them on read.

He’s never had so many friends before. If he’s completely, brutally honest with himself about it, he’s really never had any friends before. None that really counted, anyway. None that had stuck around after one too many conversations where he said too little, or worse– said something they didn’t want to hear.

Now he has a whole compendium of people who know exactly what he’s like and still not only tolerate his company, but actively seek it– and all of them want to hang out at the same time. So now it’s the opposite problem, maybe?

Most of them understand and don’t take offense. Sometimes Tomochika and Miyamoto are a little pushy– or very pushy in Miyamoto’s case– but otherwise it’s fine. It’s a much nicer problem to have, all things considered. It’s been what’s kept his head above water for the past two weeks.

Minato scrolls through his phone, reading through today’s invitations. The track team does have practice today, and lo and behold, there’s Miyamoto’s trademark capslock enthusiasm right at the top of his inbox– but that’s not what grabs his attention. Just below Miyamoto’s is a message from someone he definitely wasn’t expecting.

It’s Aragaki. The subject line reads “Need a favor”. 

Minato can count on one hand the number of times Aragaki has messaged him personally, so it must be important. But then why not say something about it when everyone had visited yesterday? He opens the email, curiosity climbing.

Sorry to ask, but I need you to grab something from my desk and bring it to me. You’ll know it when you see it. Door should be unlocked. 

Straight and to the point, just like always. He can practically hear how Aragaki would say it, the exact matter-of-fact tone he’d use.

He’s got no proof, but Minato has an inkling as to what Aragaki is referring to. Or at least, he knows what he hopes that Aragaki means. If his hunch is right, then it explains perfectly why he’s asking Minato for this favor instead of Sanada or Mitsuru, and why he wouldn’t have wanted to bring it up in front of everyone else.

He’ll be missing track practice today, it seems. Minato can’t turn down this request for anything. He hopes Miyamoto and Yuko will understand. 

–

He finds exactly what he’d been hoping to find in Aragaki’s desk drawer. 

He can’t help the soft smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth at the sight of  the familiar envelope. On the paperwork inside, the date and reason are blank, but…

The signature is unmistakable. That’s Aragaki’s handwriting. 

His smile falters. A part of him wonders if this is just some kind of mind game. Maybe Aragaki just intends to tear the form up, and he knows Minato is the only one who would blithely bring it right to him. He doesn’t want to think that Aragaki is that cruel, but…

Well. Okay. Minato knows he isn’t. While that’s certainly the sort of sick prank that the world might play on him, it’s not something Aragaki would ever do. He’s kind of surprised that such a vehemently bitter idea even crossed his mind.

So maybe he is still… a little miffed… that Aragaki so blatantly lied to him. And went off to die without a word. And catapulted him into the nightmare memory of another hospital bed, another figure being consumed by wires and machinery. That last one isn’t really Aragaki’s fault, but Minato still can’t help being upset. 

It really is the lie that bothers him the most, though. It’s a little unnerving, how much it’s getting under his skin, when normally Minato wouldn’t be this upset, or even upset at all, about being lied to. Minato hadn’t felt this way when Yukari confronted Mitsuru about all the secrets she was keeping. He hadn’t cared what Mitsuru had been hiding. Honesty just never has been a sore point with him. So…why does this feel so different?

The only way he’s going to get any real answers or closure is to see this favor through to the finish. Minato pockets the envelope and makes his way back to the hospital. 

The smell of antiseptic hits him like a truck as soon as he crosses the threshold into the lobby. How does Junpei stand spending so much of his time here? Or Sanada, for that matter, who had come here every day since Aragaki was admitted. It makes him want to sprint right back out into the open air just thinking about doing the same. 

He arrives at Aragaki’s door. He seems to have skipped a few steps– he’s gone straight from the entryway to the patient wing without a single recollection of speaking to the receptionist or walking through the halls. Aragaki is awake in there, Minato sternly reminds himself. It’s his friend on the other side of that door, not an empty shell that used to be him. 

He knocks, and obeys when he’s bid to come inside. Aragaki regards him quietly for a few seconds. There aren’t any other visitors right now; Sanada must still be in practice.

Minato nods and produces the envelope from his pocket. Aragaki nods as he takes it, but his expression is subdued and unreadable.

He tucks it away into the drawer on the small side table to his left. He looks back at Minato and frowns.

Minato doesn’t respond. Aragaki blinks, surprise softening his features for half a second before the scowl settles back into place.

Minato doesn’t feel his face doing anything in particular. He wonders vaguely what Aragaki sees in his expression, but decides it’s better not to ask. Time to move on.

Minato must be making another face, because Aragaki rolls his eyes.

He’s got permission to leave if he so chooses. That’s clearly what Aragaki expects, but leaving things like this on such a sour note doesn’t sit well with Minato at all. 

Neither of them are good at talking, but there’s quite a bit Minato knows needs to be said. As leader, it really is his job, and… it’s his job as a friend, too.

Aragaki must take his silence the wrong way again and scowls at him.

Part of Minato does really want to tear into him, craves the catharsis of it. Aragaki even seems to want him to as well, as if to prove some kind of point to himself. But Minato doesn’t think there’s anything he could say that Sanada wouldn’t have already. 

Besides, being angry is exhausting. Minato’s already tired enough.

He settles himself in one of the chairs at Aragaki’s bedside and folds his hands in his lap.

“I…want to apologize,” he says.

“Huh?” Aragaki looks surprised again. Minato wonders if having his emotions put on shuffle like that is as draining for Aragaki as it would be for him.

“Everyone else visited you at least once before you woke up, but… I didn’t. I was too scared. I didn’t want to see you like that, Senpai.”

Aragaki just blinks at him, as though Minato’s apology is so far from what he’d been expecting that he’s stuck in a frozen state as he tries to process it. Minato wonders if this is what people mean when they tell him that his long silences and stares make them uncomfortable. 

“You…” Aragaki shakes his head, exasperated.

Minato pushes forward. “So… I’m sorry. For being such a coward.” 

“Cut that out, seriously. You don’t need to– I wasn’t even awake. S’not like I would’ve known if you were here or not.”

“Still.”

“The hell d’you mean, ‘still’? Just forget about it. It’s fine.” Aragaki sighs hugely, and his voice softens when he speaks again. “I mean that. It’s fine.”

“It’s really not though. Not to me. I don’t want you to think I don’t care.”

“You’re really sayin’ that like it ain’t your catchphrase?” Aragaki scoffs. 

“Got me there,” Minato says with another ghost of a smile. Now that he’s on the other end of it, Minato suddenly has a better appreciation of what Aragaki said to him a month ago at Hagakure. It really is refreshing to have someone say something to you straight instead of beating around the bush. “But I’d like to visit now, if that’s okay.”

“...Look, that’s real sweet and everything, but I ain’t really in a chattin’ mood right now.”

“That’s fine,” Minato replies. “Neither am I. I pretty much never am.” He digs into his bag and pulls out a book, opening it across his knees. He runs his thumb over the edge of the pages, worn to moth-wing softness by age. “But I’ll still be here.”

Aragaki doesn’t answer, so Minato shifts his attention fully to his book. He only gets through about a page and a half before Aragaki’s grumbling voice cuts into the silence again. “...Anyone ever tell you you’re a goddamn weirdo?”

“Junpei says that a lot, actually.”

“Hmph. Well don’t tell Junpei I agree with him on that,” Aragaki says, his mouth twisting wryly to one side. “It’ll go to his head.” 

“You got it, Senpai.” 

Aragaki makes a sound that might be a scoff, but might also be a suppressed laugh, and just like that the tension in the air dissipates. The next couple of hours pass mostly in silence, but pleasantly. Minato doles out books to Aragaki, and to Fuuka and Sanada when they arrive. They have occasional fragments of conversation amongst themselves, particularly after Mitsuru arrives near the end of visiting hours.

It feels comfortable, normal. The smell of old paper and bookbinding glue overpowers that of medicinal sterility. Minato even manages to forget, for just a moment, that they’re in a hospital at all.

[kelyon]

TMI Tuesday!

Happy Boxing Day, Tumblr!

After a few weeks of things being more than a little hectic, both in my personal life and at work, I had an absolutely MARVELOUS Christmas weekend. It was simultaneously relaxing and productive. It was very chill, very calm. There was no talk of politics or social troubles. I wrote an entire chapter of Courtship over the course of two days.

Paradise.

You may have noticed that my long-promised winter solstice fic didn't get posted on the Solstice. We're just gonna have to live with that. Between this and Live Wire, I've learned that just because I have an idea for a long, that really isn't an indication of its potential as a good story. I do intend to finish Solstice and post it... at some point. The story is a sweet moment, but it didn't come with a hard deadline like my RSS fic, or a compelling plot like Courtship.

Speaking of which, Courtship is going to start posting on Friday January 5. I'm gonna try a weekly schedule for this one, instead of bi-weekly. I can't wait to show you guys how Lacey French became Mrs. Gold.

On Saturday, I posted my Rumbelle Secret Santa fic, Wrapping Up Her Christmas Gift. It's a loose sequel to my old fic Begging on His Bended Knees, another session with the same characters. This is two chapters of cross-dressing, pegging and pining. Kinky emotions, that's my jam.

I have been having lots of fun reading the RSS fics that my fellow Rumbellers have posted. I love this event, especially nowadays, because it seems to get people to come out of the woodwork. New authors have an excuse to get started, new readers have something to read, old writers and readers can both get back into the game. It's a magical time of the year.

In addition to being open to questions about my new fic, I am also going to post a list of "year in review" kind of questions. I don't know how much I'm going to get to them today. There are still parties and things to do between Christmas and New Year's. This might end up being a TMI week. Feel free to ask me anything, and have a fabulous day!

Wrapping Up Her Christmas Gift is here

My Inbox is here

[containatrocity]

Post-Apocalypse Post-Modern

"Huntsville, welcome to 2021- at least."

Below the cut is the details of iNARiOS 1.0 and it's functional applications until further updates, these are the only apps and functions of the communication system Cyan has set up in Huntsville. (5/6/23)

REQUIREMENTS: A wired home computer or laptop wired into the system Cyan has set up. Phones, tablets, and other mobile devices still do not work, as they cannot be connected to the wired network that makes up the entirety of the computers Cyan was given access to. Game consoles can also make use of this functionality to play 'local' games together but remotely. THERE IS NO WAY TO USE THIS FUNCTIONALITY ON THE GO, YOU ARE REQUIRED TO HAVE A WIRED CONNECTION, PHONES AND TABLETS CAN BE SIDELOADED WITH THE INFORMATION, BUT ARE NOT ON THE NETWORK. Each computer must also load into the secondary OS, iNARIiOS, to access the network as a whole, though this is simple enough, as Cyan has left a desktop shortcut for this- a neon blue and purple fox clutching a scroll in it's mouth.

MESSAGING APPLICATION: YATAGARASU aka "CarrierCrow"

A Chatroom system with usernames, profile images, status messages, and 'group' options, CarrierCrow is the IM service of iNARiOS. stylized with the presence of a 3 legged crow and a sleek black and gold theming, it takes a lot of functionality similarities from discord, just heavily stunted, a basic text display in the center of the screen with messages tagged by usernames. This also contains the email system, allowing users to send messages in real time and into a holding inbox as well. There's cute little emoticons too- themed after the animal gods used in the applications.

DOCUMENT SHARING/CALENDAR WORKSPACES: KOMAINU aka "LionShare"

The workspace app themed after komainu statues, LionShare is where document writing and sharing, calendars, spreadsheets, and other file sharing is carried out, each user has their own specific key, and folders and documents can be set to be accessed by only specific keys, or the entire town, depending on the wants of those making the documents/calendars/sheets/etc. It carries over the usernames from within CarrierCrow, for ease of access, and Cyan has made a handful of public tutorial documents for the applications in iNARiOS, as well as an auto-updating spreadsheet including the screen names and contact information of the people around town, just in case you need to get in touch- but you'll still need their permission to send messages.

GAMES AND ENTERTAINMENT: KIRIN

KIRIN is a small-scale entertainment launcher containing games created by K1TSUN3 CO, a brightly colored, friendly logo of a scaled unicorn greeting users. It currently contains both games for PC, and ones that can be sideloaded onto compatible smart phones.

-Pocket Inari: A virtual pet akin to Tamagotchi featuring the animal characters of the OS itself in many colors, patterns, and pre-programmed personalities, it's simplistic, but with over 60 collectable characters and a charming, plinky set of chiptunes of modern songs, it's a solid distraction.

-K1TSUN3 KHA0S: A slash-em-up dungeon crawler featuring a fox-masked cyberpunk protagonist fighting their way through a neon lit, monster infested future, it features around 40 levels and a in-built progression system and a surprisingly capable story, for something a handful of criminals wrote to steal data, initially. It's known for being quite difficult- at least it's cross-progression between the PC and mobile versions.

-Turnibs: A cute farming sim game akin to stardew valley or story of seasons, once again you take the role of one of the handful of animal gods (a Fox, a Crow, A stone Lion, a moon-rabbit, or a dragon-like Unicorn) in a cutesy pixel style, running a small farm outside of a town populated by similar creatures. it's rather bare bones, but is cozy, peaceful, with lots of customization of the farm, farmhouse, and player character. It's multiplayer too- just have to enter the code on the main screen to become a turnip capitalist together!

-Megalophobia: a text based horror RPG, placing the player in the shoes of a survivor of a zombie apocalypse- Cyan considered not adding this one, but given it's 70+ hours of play time through multiple endings and builds, he included it anyway- The rangers at the stations tend to like it, though.

-Moon Bunny's Cafe: the only appearance of Moon Bunny as a large theme and not an emote/player character, Moon Bunny Cafe is a match-4 puzzle game like candy crush, with a cooking mama-like set of mini games as well. Collect your ingredients by solving puzzles, then help moon bunny run her cafe by slicing, baking, and decorating various cakes, sweets, and making teas and coffee.

[shantytown-haint]

Throw in a 🎤 and a question and I’ll answer it in in audio

[bubblyhoney]

sarah i have thought of another fic request or like a cute idea i guess! i didn’t have anyone in mind when i thought of it so you can write it for whoever you want honestly :)

okay so the reader is a streamer but streams games like animal crossing, standew valley, etc. then (insert who you’re writing for) says they don’t like that game, but later ends up buying it and the reader is like “i thought you said you didn’t like this game” and they’re like “well i like you” and they confuses their feelings and they end up playing the game together and reader gives them a tour of their island or farm

i feel like this request isn’t good, but the scenario seemed cute and i wanted to share it. sorry if this is confusing or just too specific cuz i know it can be hard to write requests like that! but yeah i hope it gives you inspiration and you like the request <3

new horizons

warnings: language, a Marvel reference (hint: natasha said it about tony), stupid idiots who don’t realize they like each other, use of pet names, Uno rage, Hasan Piker's presence

words: 1473

tags: sapnap x gn!reader

A/N: i’ve been trying to catch up a little on my requests (i’ve only got a couple so i’m not super overwhelmed) but school and outside life has been taking up most of my time so this one took me a while to make! tbh— ive never played animal crossing so i did google some of the game mechanics and i apologize if anything is inaccurate about the game…. but i liked relaxing and writing this cute one so thank you for requesting hails :3

requests/inbox status: open

-

“This game is trash.”

Your head quirks, fingers stopped on the screen. You’re in the process of giving your character a cute new nickname; it’s kind of hard to decide between “awkward dude” and “elderly skater”.

“Excuse me?” Your chat comes alive with emotes and ‘KEKW’s, obviously entertained by you and your almost-more-than-friends-friend.

There’s a story for that later.

Sapnap’s rough laugh comes through your headset and he audibly swallows, the sound of a water bottle dropping onto his desk echoing.

“I’m just saying—it’s boring. It’s like Minecraft but you don’t like… do anything.” The grainy image of his bearded face shifts and you see him pull out his phone.

“It’s— you can’t even compare it to Minecraft! It’s a completely different game system—you actually interact with other people live in the game.” You huff out a dramatic sigh, slumping in your chair with a pout. “Just because you go into this lucid state where all you know is ‘touch block, hit George’ doesn’t mean this game isn’t fun.” (He scoffs at your awful impression of his voice. Your viewers love it.)

“Jeez,” he mumbles, fumbling with the cap of his water bottle. “Touched a nerve there, bud.”

You roll your eyes, getting back to the village in the game.

“Don't ‘bud’ me.”

The call falls comfortably quiet, the sounds of him tapping obsessively on his phone and you clicking away filling the silence. A gentle bedroom-pop YouTube playlist remains in the background, prompting you to hum along and glance at the chat to see a flood of “check twitter” and “Y/N TWITTER!!”.

“What happened on Twitter?” You mumble, confused, and pull the website up on another monitor. Sapnap just makes a curious noise, swinging back and forth in a circle. “Oh my God,” you say to yourself, fingertips brushing your parted lips.

“What?”

“Hasan Piker just followed me and retweeted one of my not even remotely political old tweets. Like from a year ago.”

“That’s— wow. Congrats?” Sapnap’s voice cracks, and his ears flush pink the tiniest bit when you glance at his face on Discord.

“I’m gonna go on record and say that he could get it.” You shake your head in disbelief.

Sapnap falls uncharacteristically non-hyper-verbal, so you look past the frenzied chat and to his screen— wait. He muted and turned his camera off.

“Um,” you start, furiously typing question marks in your private chat. “Where’d you go?” You mute and turn screen share off for your stream, concerned that he might’ve fallen off his chair and broken his neck and needs you to call the ambulance.

The characteristic ding of a twitter notification sounds through your bedroom, and you look at your phone quickly.

“That’s where I went.”

Sapnap Tweeted: “all Y/U stans can choke on my dick”.

“Jesus, Sapnap,” you say, and rapidly refresh to read the replies. This tweet was deleted. “That’s so— that barely makes sense, bro. Why— literally what?”

His snicker floods your ears and you relax in your chair. Crisis: averted. “Don’t fucking— what’s wrong with you?”

“I thought it would be funny,” he offers, shrugging, and fiddles with the straw in his water bottle, smile fading. “And also Hasan pisses me off.”

“Why, ‘cause he wants a piece of this? Jealous?” You think back to your viewers, knowing they’re probably spamming question marks and coming to ludacris conclusions about both of your absences. No offense to them. You remember your stan days very vividly.

“I mean, kinda.” He rubs once at his nose, glancing at the camera (and what feels like you) before taking a sip from his water bottle.

“Wow.” You watch one strand of his hair fall from beneath his hat and brush against his full eyebrows. “I’m uh—I’ll get back to my stream. You coming? Or is it time for a Sapnap-snack?”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” He snorts and leans his chin onto the balance of his arm.

“That means you like to take a little snack break mid-stream and come back approximately nine hours later and you didn’t even eat.”

“You know what— fuck you.” He flicks the camera as you laugh at the look on his face.

The teasing mood is easily kept as you switch games from Animal Crossing to Uno, all the while slamming Sapnap with +4’s and skipping the newly-arrived BadBoyHalo at any chance you can get. It unironically pisses him off and he has to take a Sapnap-snack break midway through (only a fifteen minute break this time, during which you and Bad take a “What Kind of Bread Are You?” quiz). The rest of the night is filled with devious cackles (you), loud and sudden bangs that sound suspiciously like someone hitting their desk in anger (Sap) and the stupid barking of Rat, AKA Lucy (Bad). She’s cute but a menace to the sound quality of Bad’s microphone. You sign off stream around 2 a.m. with various forms of thanks and kisses blown to the camera. It’s been a refreshing night, actually; you’ve been busy organizing a partnership stream all week and all your friends have been busy filming or editing or what-not. Quackity had time for a little Roblox every couple of days, though. He’s got your back.

The next time you see Sapnap is after a two hour stream of him try-harding in Valorant and you finishing responding to an email from your partnership in the VC.

“Okay, I’m back.” You hear him shift in his chair and click a couple more times on his keyboard. You perk up in your chair, closing the email browser you’d been looking at.

“Do you want to play anything else? I’m down for anything.”

“Absolutely not Uno. You can go to hell for giving me 6 cards that one time,” he jabs. You scoff, crossing your arms and leaning back in your chair.

“Okay, the +4 was on me but it’s Bad who gave you the last two. That’s not my fault, sweetie.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbles, trailing off as the clicking of his keyboard stops. “Hey, um—Guess what?”

Your heart beats loud in your ears at the tone of his voice. He sounds nervous; that’s never good.

“I’m scared to guess,” you try, playing with a little Minecraft dog figurine you have on your desk with fidgety fingers. “What?”

“I bought Animal Crossing.”

Silence. You stare at his discord icon blankly, trying to reroute the wires of your brain.

“Tell me you love it.”

“Well… I haven’t actually played it— but you said you liked it, so.”

“So,” you repeat him, ears warming but continuing on. “Is that what you tell all your friends when you buy something they like? That it's because of them?”

He seems to choose his next words carefully, pausing a beat to consider your questions.

“Well, I don’t have a crush on all of my friends.”

“You—what?” You stutter, caught off guard and stumbling. What did he just say? “Don’t tell me you mean you have a crush on me.”

“I’m almost positive I just did.” His discord icon stares right back at you, taunting.

“You know, you’re very casual for someone who just admitted they like-like me.” Your cheeks flush pink and you have to press a hand to your chest to keep your breathing sounding stable.

“Yeah, I’m kind of cool like that,” he offers, a huff of a laugh punctuating his statement. The conversation moves into a lull that you can’t help but know is because of you. He must expect you to say something about it, right?

“You are very cool, Sapnap.” You tilt back in your chair, sucking in a breath to prepare yourself for your next words. “And—Isortakindofhaveacrushonyoutoo.”

He must understand you, for you can hear the grin in his voice when he asks “Really?”

“Y-yeah.” You feel like a preteen again, all shaky and giddy in front of the boy you just asked to a middle school dance.

“Um, alright. What do we do now?”

“I don’t know,” you answer genuinely and swing in a happy little circle in your chair. “We could play Animal Crossing.”

“I’m down.”

You swear you’ve never heard more beautiful words.

He keeps his camera off for most of the time you two play, too focused on creating his island and asking you questions about how to fish to turn it on. He silently flips it on when you help him decorate his lawn, needing to show you in real-time the decorations he has bought and where you think he should put them. He looks cute. I mean, of course he does. He always does.

You tell him goodbye late in the night, eyes saying a little more than just “see you tomorrow”.

You like him. He likes you.

It’s even better when you two have matching gardens.

-

A/N: anybody and everybody (especially my precious hailey) let me know what you think!! :]

[mandoalorian]

I’m so excited to make this announcement. I’m working on a brand new project!

I’m gonna start making fandom jewellery!

I’ll start of with beaded bracelets and necklaces, but I hope to learn how to make earrings and wired rings too! Fandoms I will be creating for:

Pedro Pascal

Oscar Isaac

Star Wars

Marvel

DC

Video Games (eg. Resident Evil, The Last of Us, Stardew Valley, Animal Crossing and more!)

If you have anything in particular that you’d like to see me create, let me know! I can create for just about anything, including jewellery with the name of your favourite character, actor, ship, quote, etc!

My Etsy shop should be up and running this weekend; so stay tuned. I’ll also be accommodating to custom orders and hosting giveaways!

If you want to support me on this journey, reblogs and follows would mean the world. 🤍 I also have a Ko-Fi, where I will be using the funds donated to purchase the tools needed to make the jewellery.

Link to Ko-Fi is in my bio!

I can’t wait to get started on this journey and share my creations with you! If you have any questions or general wonderings, my ask inbox and private messages will always be open!

[qqueenofhades]

Are you still taking prompts? We are thirsty and were hoping for “bite me” in a fivan vampire au. Pretty please? What’s that you say? That’s not on the list you shared? Um, oops? I said we are thirsty! 🤤

Ahaha, okay, I think this is going to do it for the prompts for now. I want to get back to working on PEL, and I have (mostly) given the people what they want. But before you hasten to my inbox to request more of this (which I know the Very Hungry Lot of you will do, and I love you so much for it): do know that this is indeed related to a larger project and this is just the first bit of it.

What is that project? Shh. I am not telling you just yet. It's a secret.

Belgrade, Kingdom of Serbia

June 1896

The summer evening is warm and purple, lit atmospherically by both the older gaslamps and the newfangled electric lights (there is a Serb in New York, a man by the name of Tesla, whose great scientific inventions and experiments with alternating current may soon illuminate the entire world), and the well-dressed crowd flows toward the café in a tide of rustling satin, silk, and velvet, ladies in evening dress and men in top hats and monocles. The establishment is the Golden Cross, in Terazije, a bustling neighborhood just south of Stari Grad, and the attraction is an exhibition of the marvelous moving pictures of the Lumière brothers – the first such show in the Balkans, and indeed outside of Paris, after they were first premiered in great triumph six months ago. Or at least, so it is for most of the attendees tonight. Fedyor Mikhailovich Kaminsky has a different task.

He stands apart from the milling throngs, well dressed in a high-collared coat and silken cravat, dark hair parted ruler-straight and face freshly shaven, a old golden watch tucked in his breast pocket and his shoes polished to a perfect sheen. While the people hurry past almost close enough to jostle him, they have a peculiar difficulty in registering that he is there. They sense something, yes – a cold breath on the back of the neck, a prey animal’s inborn reflex to warily search the shadows – but it never quite clicks. They continue on their way without being troubled in their own sense of reality, or ever realizing who – what – is standing there with them. It is just one of the odd, disjointed experiences that Fedyor has had to come to terms with, in the twenty-two years since he became a vampire.

By habit, he checks the horizon. These summer days are late and long, and Fedyor is still young enough that he can’t tolerate more than a few minutes of sunlight. It has taken years to be able to go out by day at all, half-thinking he had dreamed the waking world, become wholly one with the shadows and the night. When he emerged in the last gasps of afternoon, when he felt the golden warmth on his face for the first time in almost two decades, he wept. It still causes him vestigial pain, but not as much. Not so much that it cannot be borne.

He pulls the slip of paper out of his pocket and checks the name again. Then he puts it back and slips smoothly into the crowd. At the threshold, he feels that faint, telltale twinge, the knowledge of entering another creature’s territory without being explicitly bidden to do so. The Golden Cross belongs to the vampire king of Belgrade, who is rumored to be five hundred years old and a veteran of the Battle of Kosovo in 1389 (which, so far as Fedyor can tell, the Serbs have never gotten over losing to the Turks) and Fedyor is not interested in pissing him off. But therefore it is, by Conclave law, a place where all vampires in the city can freely congregate, so long as they haven’t committed some terrible crime. It also means that Fedyor may find the man he is looking for in here, and not have to cross into enemy turf.

A rich reek of wine and brandy, of hand-cranked ice cream in cut-glass bowls, of ladies’ perfume and men’s cologne, of sweat and starch and thrumming hot blood, rises into Fedyor’s nose as he inhales, as his senses have been honed a hundred times more acutely than what he was previously used to. He searches the crowded room, on high alert for another supernatural. Nothing, at least not thus far. But it is a delicate and fiddly bit of bloodsucker diplomacy for which he is here tonight, having to do with the rumor that a local group of creatures have formed a shadowy secret society called Црна рука, the Black Hand, with the aim of expressly interfering in human politics. This, of course, is strictly against the rules, and they need to be reminded of that fact. Fedyor would very much prefer not to fight an anarchist rebel vampire in the middle of a café crowded with oblivious humans, but the thought crosses his mind that this is an excellent soft target. The eyes of the entire city, the Balkans, the international art community, are fixed on this place tonight. If something went wrong – if the Golden Cross and all the souls within it were blown to smithereens –

Fedyor orders a drink at the bar – he has been promised that one day he will again also be able to eat human food if he craves the taste, but it will not nourish him – and sits down near the back, keeping a sharp eye out. Andre Carr, the Frenchman who has traveled from Lyon as the Lumière brothers’ representative, is setting up the unwieldy projector and barking at his assistants to be careful with the fragile, bulky spools of film, his mustache bristling in agitation. Fedyor gauges the mood of the crowd, the din of their heartbeats, their eager interest, their whispered gossip. Still no other supernaturals that he can sense, but that doesn’t mean that they’re not here. The vampire king and his underlings will have plenty of ways to conceal themselves from a relative child like Fedyor. As will the Black Hand.

He leans back in his chair and samples the whisky. Not bad, he thinks, though it’s been a long time since he drank human libations. It’s nice to be out among regular people, but he always has to keep strict watch on the part of himself that yearns to feed, that wants them to run, to fear, to fall. Fedyor has been a vampire long enough to control the hunger, to drink mostly from animals and space out his feeds on humans, to ask them for their consent or pay them for their trouble, but it’s still a struggle. He understands the urge that drives vampires to sequester themselves, to only live among their own kind, to keep drones and other willing human servants to feed from, so that you are not put to the trouble of chasing down a stranger and politely asking to bite them in the neck every fortnight or so, don’t get mixed up as to whether the mortals are your dinner company or just your dinner. It is a deuced bloody bother of a business. Fedyor always feels like an idiot whenever he tries.

Carr and his minions sort out their difficulties, and eventually the lights go down, provoking another eager murmur. Fedyor is not immune to the lure of whatever they are about to see, and he could have done much worse for a new home. He arrived here six years ago from his hometown in Russia, once his lack of aging became too difficult to conceal from his friends and family. Belle epoque Belgrade is a cosmopolitan, cultured world of stately opera houses and marble palaces, grand balls and gaslights, synagogues and streetcars, mosques and museums, bohemians and bordellos and broad balconies, telegraph wires and trolley cars and twisting lanes, churches and coffee shops in the Viennese style, with white-aproned waiters and colored mosaics and demitasse cups of Italian espresso. It is an ancient city, placed in a lethally strategic location at the confluence of two rivers, fought over in almost a hundred wars and razed almost forty times (and doubtless there are still more unmakings yet to come). Fedyor has found a place among the vampire community here, enough that he is trusted to deal with the Black Hand, despite his immortal youth. As to how that will go, well…

He watches the film with half an eye, impressed by the moving pictures just like his human counterparts, and then he feels it. The coldness on the back of his neck, the chirp of a sixth sense, the unshakeable awareness that he is being observed by a fellow bloodsucker. Though that term is considered somewhat dated and passé these days, mildly offensive. Vampires are eager as humans to participate in the scientific and industrial revolution, to concoct more enlightened regulations for themselves, to create an academic literature for their origins. There is talk among the sophisticated supernatural set of organizing an Academy for Preternatural Science, to hire vampire scholars, to establish a university. It’s a nice thought, if somewhat too ambitious (or so Fedyor thinks) for a race of beings that has only just decided that solving every problem with blood feuds to the death might not be the best idea. He wonders if one of those unreconstructed barbarians is behind him now.

Slowly, smoothly, so as to demonstrate that he is perfectly aware of being hunted, Fedyor turns around, and catches sight of the newcomer across the way. He is handsome – but then again, most vampires are, as it’s one of the benefits of the transformation. This one, however, is possessed of a roguish, rough-hewn attractiveness that seems genuine, still close to the face he wore as a mortal man, and not the eerie, glossy, imperturbable beauty that Fedyor sometimes finds so off-putting about his compatriots. This vampire is also wearing good clothes, and his overcoat is dark red, embroidered with curling black patterns. He looks at Fedyor, their eyes meet, and he nods once, half an inch. Game on.

Fedyor does his best to sit still until the lights come up, and the crowd claps rapturously and disperses to fetch more drinks and gush about the performance. Then he gets up and drifts toward a velvet curtain, slipping unobtrusively behind it. Back here, it is dark, dusty, and smells of candlewax and grease paint, the remnants of another performance, a conjurer’s closet. He steadies himself, turns around, and –

“Good evening,” the voice says, cold and curt. “I believe you were waiting to speak to me.”

“Yes.” Fedyor does his best to smile and appear charming and in command of the situation. “My name is Fedyor Kaminsky, and I am a representative of the Conclave. They have sent me here tonight in hopes of locating Ivan Sakharov, of the Black Hand. Is that you?”

The other vampire regards him flatly. His eyes are brown, as is his hair, which is cropped military-short and kept as sharp as his face. When he folds his arms, his muscles bulge, even through the sleeves of the well-tailored coat. “And if I was?”

“Then,” Fedyor says, “I am authorized by that same Conclave to deliver a warning to you and your associates that your current activities fall outside the bounds of the common supernatural law, and if you persist in pursuing them, there will be consequences.”

The other – well, he hasn’t denied it, so this must indeed be Ivan Sakharov – looks back at him with an utterly unimpressed expression. “Oh, so the Conclave found a new stooge to do their bidding? You’re a bit younger and fresher than the usual corpses those desiccated old tightwads usually send out after us, I’ll give you that. How long have you been in Belgrade?”

“How long have you?” Fedyor is almost sure he recognizes Ivan’s accent; they’re speaking Serbo-Croatian, but in both cases with a familiar cadence. “You’re Russian, aren’t you?”

That catches the other vampire by surprise. He hisses, baring a pair of white and very sharp fangs, and his eyes go briefly black. “You think so?”

“Yes,” Fedyor says. “But older than me, I think. Possibly quite a bit, though by how much, I can’t be sure. If we were to – ” he switches languages smoothly, in midsentence – “continue this conversation in Russian, would that be more to your liking?”

Ivan Sakharov eyes him icily. He must know that if he speaks their native tongue, he risks giving away his age by the style of his grammar, or perhaps his place of birth, and that is dangerous information for an unknown quantity to hold over you. There is a whiff of the emperor’s court around him, or perhaps the empress – does he hail from Catherine the Great’s day, Fedyor wonders, or earlier? There’s a long, crackling pause. Then Ivan says in brittle, too-correct English, “Or perhaps we should converse like this?”

Fedyor inclines his head, accepting that he has – for now – been outmaneuvered. They still haven’t taken their eyes off each other, standing close together in the dim velvet-draped shadows, near enough that if they were human, they would feel the other’s heat. There’s nothing but the faint wintry chill of unliving flesh, though a certain hunger rises unbidden in Fedyor’s stomach nonetheless. Then he says, “This does not have to be difficult. Cease your lawlessness and tell your friends to do the same.”

Ivan takes another step, close enough that their noses almost brush. “The Conclave has no power over me, Fedyor Kaminsky.”

“Do you want to test that?” Fedyor breathes, struggling to keep his focus at the other vampire’s threatening-but-thrilling nearness, the way his blood is singing under his skin in an entirely different way than he expected or frankly, that he wants. Just because Ivan Sakharov is annoyingly attractive (and also Russian) does not mean that he is not a dangerous, war-mongering, secret-cabal-plotting megalomaniac, and Fedyor does not need that sort of nonsense in his life. “If you did, I would, of course, be authorized to place you under arrest.”

Ivan looks at him goadingly. “I would like to see you try.”

Oh, so he is indeed one of those immortals (read: the kind who really need to experience mortality just to be kicked very hard in the balls). Fedyor struggles to contain his irritation. If he shows that this handsome bastard has gotten to him, this will only get worse. “If you promise to desist,” he says, “the Conclave will drop this matter and consider it closed. You and the rest of the Black Hand will not be subject to further investigation. That, or – ”

“How do I know that you are even from the Conclave? That you are who you say?”

“Why would I lie about it?”

Ivan shrugs. “I want proof.”

Fedyor grits his fangs. “What do you expect? A badge?”

“No. But I will accept your blood.”

That catches Fedyor off guard. Not that it should, necessarily. Since vampires can sense the thoughts and feelings of the creature that they’re feeding on, it’s a quick and time-tested way to prove that there is no funny business going on (or at least, no business that is funny beyond the usual). The obvious difficulty, however, is that it requires a possibly unfriendly rival to bite your neck or at the very least, your wrist, and one can understand why there would be a natural hesitation to yield one’s neck (Fedyor happens to be rather fond of his) to the clutches of the likes of Ivan Sakharov. But if he says no, he looks like he is weak or that he has something to hide, that he doesn’t trust Ivan or regard him as an equal, and the already-febrile situation with the Black Hand will only get worse. As bluffs go, Fedyor could call this one. But it would be very risky, and if it blows up in his face…

“Very well,” Fedyor says, chillingly correct. He pulls aside the collar of his evening coat and tilts his head, exposing the side of his throat. “Test me all you like.”

Ivan looks at him with something that makes that thing in Fedyor’s stomach rise up again, hot as an ember left burning in a brazier even when all the other lights go out. He hasn’t been warmed like this, not even by the sun, ever since he was turned in 1874 by a vampire named Dmitri Karamazov. He does his utmost to force it down. If Ivan bites him and senses that –

There’s a final pause, soft as tissue paper, fine as crystal. Then Ivan steps forward, looking almost impressed, as if he expected Fedyor to find some reason to back out. He flexes his jaw, bringing out those two impressively white and sharp fangs again, and reaches out, gripping Fedyor’s waist with his big hands and drawing him somewhat closer than is strictly necessary. Then he whispers, “As you wish, Conclave whore,” and bites.

He’s not entirely gentle about it, not that vampires usually are and not that Fedyor wasn’t expecting it. But all at once, as Ivan sucks at him, his mouth pressed hungrily to Fedyor’s neck, wet and raw and savage, Fedyor goes weak in the knees. He’s been fed on before, tested before, and this is different from any of those. He utters a mewling noise of need that he is shocked and deeply outraged to hear from himself, pressing still closer, knocking Ivan a few steps backward into the wall. His hands come up, seeking purchase on the other’s broad shoulders, a smoky curl of desire rising through him like rich incense. “Mmm,” he mutters. “Mmmgh. Yes. Like that. Yes.”

Ivan doesn’t answer for obvious reasons, since his mouth is otherwise occupied, but Fedyor can feel the little frisson of pleasure that travels through him at those words. That takes him aback. Not that he should rush to generalize, since most vampires are fairly flexible in their intimate preferences (you don’t live that long without wanting to sample everything that is on offer, carnally speaking) but for some reason, he just assumed that this tough, frightening, hard-as-nails secret anarchist supernatural idiot wouldn’t be inclined to gentlemen. Not that Fedyor is necessarily objecting. This feels far better than it has any right to do, considering that it started out as a naked challenge to his veracity. Agh, fuck, he should not think about naked. That makes the arousal burn even more hungrily, as he arches his back and presses himself wantonly against Ivan and knows that he’s hard as a rock and that this utter menace can definitely feel it. Ivan is in no hurry to pull away. He drinks for a few more seconds, past when there can be any reasonable doubt that Fedyor is telling the truth, and then slowly, deliberately breaks contact, fangs still half in Fedyor’s throat, as he withdraws with luxurious leisure. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and growls, “Ah.”

“Yes, ah,” Fedyor says, trying not to stammer, as pulses of hot and cold rush through him from head to toe. “Are you satisfied?”

Ivan gives him a wicked smile, drops of Fedyor’s blood still glistening heart-scarlet on his lips. “Maybe.”

God almighty, kill me now. Difficult, of course, when one is – strictly speaking – already deceased. (And now deceased in a different way, which makes it two kinds of dead at once, which makes Fedyor a prodigy.) He wants to ask if Ivan will perform the customary service of licking the bite wounds closed, but he’s also afraid that he may physically incinerate if Ivan does so, and since fire is rather famously one of the only things that can harm vampires, it is better not to take the risk. Instead, Fedyor pulls out his handkerchief and dabs at his throat, with as much casualness as he can muster. “Well,” he says. “You’ve had my word, Ivan Sakharov. Will you give me yours that you will bring your illegal organization to an end and return to the rule of Conclave law?”

Ivan looks him up and down, eyes lingering on the too-tight fit of Fedyor’s pinstriped trousers. Then he leans in, so close that Fedyor truly does think they’re about to kiss and momentarily blacks out, and whispers against the shell of his ear, “Absolutely not.”

And with that, and no more than a rush of air, he is gone.

[mengyan]

Do you do headcanons?? If so can i get some domestic carulia headcanons 👀 like after carmen spends some time in argentina but then she misses jules so she goes back to england but jules is sad she left her so abruptly and isnt taking her shit so carmen moves near her and like has to re-win her over🥺🥺

anon, i absolutely do headcanons!! my brain is practically a dump for headcanons, you’ve come to the right place :D and if anyone ever wants me to write any just leave me a request in my inbox!

here is part one of my classic fic style headcanons based off of the prompt you’ve given (which is SO good by the way please i am so tempted to write it into a full fic and add to my mountain pile of drafts rn-):

carmen loves her mother, she really does. she’s sweet and kind and her family. it’s all she’s ever dreamed of. after carlotta sees her standing on her doorstep, her warm brown eyes freeze and then she gasps, launching forward and hugging her equally as shocked daughter.

“your eyes. my god, i would recognize them anywhere. [given name], is that you?”

“it’s carmen, actually,” she manages to say, her mother hugging her like it’s the end of the world. and her mother doesn’t question it, merely letting go and smiling at her with tear filled eyes.

“well, carmen, it’s nice to meet you.”

things aren’t perfect after that, of course. there are questions, so many of them that they stay up the entirety of the second night talking (not the first, carlotta insisted that she had to get some sleep). carlotta doesn’t seem fazed when she tells her about VILE and stealing from them, cries when she brings up her father, but they push through it because now they have each other.

it’s strange, then, the feeling she gets a month or so later. she’s lying on the couch after a few rounds of games with the orphanage kids, and she doesn’t feel... satisfied. she should, shouldn’t she? this is what she’s spent her life searching for. she left her team behind to focus on this, to give something to herself for once.

it’s maddening. she can’t figure it out, talking to player as she bounces a ball against the ceiling. her mom worries, asking her what’s wrong, but she can’t answer her because she doesn’t know.

another few weeks pass. she’s cleaning her tools, sorting through her red coat for some nostalgia. a slip of paper falls out, and written on it is the address to this house she’s living in, and-

“player- i never asked, and i’m not sure if you even know. who found the address?”

he hesitates. a beat, then— “your favourite ACME agent.”

oh. oh. jules. she hasn’t let herself think of her ever since she left them all behind, afraid of the memories of her brainwashed time being dredged up. julia probably hates her, and rightfully so.

but she’s buzzing. she feels like she’s onto something, like satisfaction is just out of her reach, and player is more than happy to check up on julia’s blog for her whereabouts. turns out she’s not in france but in england, visiting her mother, telling her blog audience that’s why she’ll be inactive for a while.

carmen laughs at the irony. player books her a flight.

fast forward and she’s halfway to julia’s mother’s place and in the middle of the sidewalk, she stops, suitcase rolling behind her. she probably shouldn’t be showing up randomly like this, no warning and dropping back into julia’s life when she doesn’t need it. julia’s had to have moved on by now, the girl in red just someone who was too afraid to meet up with her before she left.

“red, what’s up?” player asks her, staring at her unmoving icon on his screen. “you having second thoughts?”

“kind of, yeah,” she admits. “i’m just not sure if-”

there’s a tap on her shoulder. carmen turns around and feels her heart drop out of her chest.

julia argent stares back at her, arms crossed and looking exactly the same with her glasses and dressed in a casual tan coat, yellow sweater, and black jeans. she looked good, and, well, annoyed.

“hey, jules!” the greeting doesn’t come out as confident and suave as she hoped, but it suffices, and player speaks excitedly from his end. tell julia i said hi! he says, before cutting off.

“by the way, player says h—”

“ms. sandiego,” julia says stiffly, none of the playful flirting and easy tones that she’s gotten used to. “why are you here?”

“i thought you—” carmen stammers, reaching into her pocket and showing her the slip of paper. “you gave me this, and i wanted to thank you. also you know you can call me carmen.”

something in julia’s eyes softens at the sight of the paper, but then hardens again when she looks back at her. “you’re welcome. you didn’t have to come all this way to tell me, though. and calling you by a first name basis would imply that we’re friends, but it seems that we’re not, doesn’t it?”

carmen chokes a little, eyes widening. “we’re not- friends?”

“i would think a friend would at least say goodbye or get in contact with me any way before disappearing for months, so no, ms. sandiego, i don’t think we are.”

carmen’s first instinct is to feel offended, but she understands where the agent’s slight hostility towards her is coming from. this wasn’t just julia being petty, it was the consequences of her actions that she had to now make up for.

“jules, i’m sorry,” she says, going to grab her arm but drawing back at the last second. right. their subtle touches with each other were definitely off limits now. “we can talk about this in somewhere that’s not a public sidewalk, and i’ll explain everything, i promise.”

julia’s mouth twists into a frown, and she uncrosses her arms, one finger pushing up her glasses. she looks her square in the eye, her gaze cold and unflinching. “what is there to explain, exactly? how you left me- left us all so abruptly, and gave your closest family a note to remember you by? zack and ivy mentioned it to me- they’re being trained for ACME now, but i’m sure you knew that already.”

she didn’t. she hasn’t asked player for updates for a month. a heavy exhale escapes her, and she wishes she had player in her ear. julia lets out a humourless laugh at her lack of a response.

“i guess you found something better, ms. sandiego. i’m happy for you.”

the declaration is bitter- and with that, julia spins on her heel and walks away, heading to her mother’s house. carmen stands with her suitcase on the sidewalk, apologies on the tip of her tongue, wanting to chase after her. she swallows them down and drops onto the nearest bench, burying her face in her hands and tapping her earring so player can reconnect.

“red! how’d it go? what has julia been up to? is she-” player’s voice bursts through with questions, and carmen doesn’t say a word, a new mission in mind.

“do you know where julia is staying? not her mom’s place, i’m assuming.”

if player is surprised by the question, he doesn’t comment, and carmen can hear his keyboard clacking as he scans address books and properties. “she’s a couple blocks over, i’ll text you the address,” he says at last. carmen’s phone pings with the incoming text, but that’s not the actual thing she’s looking for.

“thanks, player. are there any houses up for sale near her street?”

“give me a second.” player pauses, scrolling through listings, and then continues. “there’s one like, diagonally across from her house, actually.”

“we have any funds left from our world saving?” she can tell player knows what she’s asking for now, from the telltale anxious drumming on his desk and the slower than usual clicking.

“a couple million, actually. i thought we were slowly distributing to-”

“i’ll make up for it, maybe nag some of the VILE stragglers and the remaining stolen artifacts and whatnot. can you set up a meeting with the house owner so we can wire the funds over?”

“this is a bad idea,” player cautions.

carmen grins. “and since when have i ever been known to have a good one?”

part two will be up as soon as i can get it written out! if you’re the anon that sent this, send me an ask about part two so i can answer it that way!

[clumsyclifford]

official request! don't you go sequel to your backseat serenade muke pleeease (if it was just a one time thing why are you still here with me)

instead of attending to the myriad other prompts that have built up in my inbox i wrote this one. why? great question. possibly just because i love don’t you go more than words and meghna you are truly inspired

so this is a sequel to the backseat serenade fic which i encourage you to read before you read this <3 don’t you go rights in this house

-

Luke wakes up confused.

For a moment he can’t quite figure out why he’s confused. Everything seems relatively normal; even the hangover from last night has mostly receded. He’s waking up alone, but he usually is.

Oh. Wait.

Michael.

Luke swallows. A glance at the clock reveals it’s noon. Jesus Christ.

And Michael’s…gone, apparently.

It feels so much more like a tidal wave than Luke wishes it would. That’s the game; Michael comes, and they fool around, and in the morning Michael leaves. It’s been months of this, so Luke shouldn’t feel disappointed, shouldn’t feel like he’s drowning. He knows the rules of the game. He’s been playing it too.

It’s just, well. He’d thought maybe it was different. He’d thought that when Michael had wanted to go back to sleep, when Michael had kept Luke in bed instead of allowing him to go make breakfast, that had meant something.

But apparently not.

Luke takes a breath so deep he feels it in his heels, in his spine; he sits up and kicks the covers off himself, then slowly gets out of bed and pulls a t-shirt on. Barefoot, he ambles to the kitchen. He’d planned to make pancakes, maybe, for him and Michael, but maybe he can make them anyway, just for himself. If that’s overkill, so be it.

He yawns and squeezes his eyes shut as he reaches the kitchen. For a moment he just stands in the doorway, bracing himself against the doorframe.

“Oh, good morning,” he hears, and his eyes fly open.

Michael is there. Michael is here. Michael’s still here. Michael is in his kitchen, holding a spatula.

Michael’s here.

“Oh,” Luke says dumbly. “Good, uh, morning?” He swallows. Michael gives him an uncertain smile. Luke knows he’s staring but he can’t bring himself to stop. 

Michael’s still here.

“I, uh,” Michael says tentatively, “I woke up before you somehow, so I figured I could make breakfast. Or, like, lunch. Whatever meal this is.”

“Yeah, okay,” Luke says. “Thanks.”

“So,” Michael says. “Pancakes.”

Luke exhales in disbelief. “Really,” he says distantly. “Inspired. Truly. Uh, I’m gonna go to the toilet.”

“Yeah, sure,” Michael says. He squints at Luke. “Are you okay?”

“Splendid,” Luke says, giving a thumbs up that he’s sure isn’t reassuring at all. “Back in a jiff.” Back in a jiff? Jesus. He stumbles out of the kitchen and to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him and locking it for good measure.

The Luke in the mirror has definitely had better days. His hair is disheveled, so Luke pulls an impatient hand through it, sorting the curls out until they’re at least vaguely presentable. 

Mirror Luke stares out at Luke, beseeching. Luke stares back. Is this a problem? he wonders to himself. He wants Michael to still be here, doesn’t he? This is good. So why is Luke freaking out? What the fuck is wrong with him?

“Get it together, Hemmo,” he mutters to himself, and turns the faucet on. Once he’s splashed some water on his face and brushed his teeth he feels better, cleaner. A shower would be amazing, but that will have to wait. He’s already been in the bathroom a suspiciously long time, and Michael will likely be wondering what’s happened to him.

The collar of his shirt is damp, so Luke tugs uncomfortably at it before resigning himself to the minor inconvenience. He gives himself a steely glare in the mirror and leaves the bathroom.

Right into Michael.

“Oh,” he says, surprised. “Sorry about that.”

“No problem,” Michael says, but he says it tersely, like there is a problem, and his eyes flit back to Luke’s room. “Um, the pancakes are done — I put them in the oven — like, I mean, to keep them warm.”

“Okay,” Luke says, confused. “We can have them now, if you want?”

Michael bites his lip. Luke watches. “Uh, you can. I think, um, I think I — I should probably go, I think.”

Luke’s heart sinks to his stomach. “What?” he says, feeling like he’s watching this happen from outside his own body. “Why?”

Michael blinks at him. “Because — that’s — it’s what we do. Isn’t — isn’t that what we do?”

And it is what they do, but Luke would give anything to change that.

His tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth, and all he can say is, “Um?”

“Okay,” Michael says embarrassedly. “I’m — just gonna grab my shit, and I’ll — yeah.” He steps past Luke, disappearing into Luke’s room.

Fuck, fuck, this wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Luke’s already had this crisis this morning, and once was enough. No, no, no way. It’s time to play an open hand; this is already a mess, wires too crossed to ever come untwisted organically. The only solution is to cut them at the source. 

It’s too many metaphors, but it boils down to this: Luke has to be honest.

He turns on his heel and follows after Michael into his room. Michael is pulling on his jeans. “Don’t go,” Luke blurts out.

Michael’s head snaps up. “What?”

“Don’t go,” Luke repeats. “Please. I don’t want you to go.”

Michael studies him, guarded. “This isn’t — that’s not what we do, Luke. This is a one-time thing.” A one-time thing more times than Luke can count on his fingers, but, he supposes, it’s a one-night stand in the sense that Michael never lingers.

“Then why are you still here?” Luke challenges him. “You could have left, this morning. You had the chance.”

“I should have,” Michael says tightly. “Don’t push your luck, Luke.”

“I’m not forcing you to do anything. Just hear me out.” Luke steps closer, right hand curling around his left, nails digging into his palm. “You always leave, and this time you didn’t,” he says quietly. “And I don’t want you to leave. I know this isn’t what we do, but it can be. You can stay. I want you to stay.”

Michael stares at him, lips parted in surprise. “You didn’t seem too pleased to see me cooking in your kitchen,” he accuses.

“Okay, I wasn’t expecting you to still be here. Can you blame me?”

“Yeah, because this isn’t what —”

“Stop saying it’s not what we do. I’m part of it too, you know. I know that just as much as you do.” He takes another step, and Michael doesn’t move. His gaze holds Luke’s steady. “Are you hearing what I’m saying?”

“You’re saying I can stay,” Michael says. Luke nods, tilting his head, like, well? Michael ducks his head. “It’s not a good idea. The band.”

Luke laughs incredulously. “Hate to break it to you, mate, but I’m pretty sure the bad idea already happened when we slept together, like, a hundred times.”

Michael cracks a small smile. “Fair enough.”

“Just stay.” Luke finally gets close enough to reach out and touch Michael, so he does, curling his fingers around Michael’s forearm. “Have breakfast-lunch with me. Don’t go yet.”

Michael looks up into Luke’s face and his smile grows a bit. “Okay,” he says at length. Luke beams. “Alright. Pancakes.”

“Pancakes,” Luke agrees, so Michael stays for pancakes.

And then he keeps staying. He stays for dinner, and stays after to play Fifa, and he doesn’t go.

(“We can take it slow,” Luke offers, and Michael shakes his head and cuts him off with a searing kiss.

“Little too late for that,” he murmurs, and Luke inhales sharply, thinking that this is a train wreck, bound to end in fireworks or flames; thinking there’s no one he’d rather crash and burn with, nothing else that he would rather do, to do it with Michael.)

[holoster]

”People are talking about us” Rev and reader pls?

Sure thing ✨

I never wrote a x Reader-Fiction so if I made any mistakes I am truly sorry and constructive criticism is welcome! I really enjoyed writing it though 🙌🏻

If you have a request for me to write: My inbox is still open and the prompts are reblogged💕

Anyhow I hope you enjoy what I wrote for you dear Anon ☺️

„Why are you here?“

You can see Revenants eyes glooming in the distance as you enter the darkened apartment. Carefully you take one step at a time as your eyes adjust slowly to the darkness. The only thing guiding you is Revenants voice, the gloom of his eyes and the streak of light that falls through the apartment door you left open.

„I saw you was damaged during today’s game, I came to fix you up.“ You finally dare to speak up clenching the toolbox in your hand.

For a moment you have been inattentive and now you can’t see his eyes anymore.

„Rev-?“

You freeze in fear as a ghostly breeze roames through the room.

„Where are you?“

Suddenly the door falls shut violently after that the lights in the room turn on. Scared and blinded by the sudden change of light conditions you finally hear his voice.

„I am right here“

Revenant stands infront of you lifting your chin with one of his long fingers, for you to look at him.

„Foolish little skinbag, I told you if you come here shut the door....

People are talking about us...“

„I am sorry, I just want to help-“ You try to explain yourself but you are caught off by a displeased, arrogant sound the Revenant makes and you know it’s time for you to shut it.

Your eyes scan over his tall body and soon you found the spot Wraith pierced her Heirloom through the metal of Revenants armor. She must have hit some hydraulic lines, which explains why his right arm just hangs down motionless.

„Will you let me fix up your wound?“, you ask for permission and as Revenant agrees, you both sit down on the floor.

You remove the armoring and carefully start to fix up the broken wiring. For a while, Revenant just stares into thin air before his glooming eyes cross your gaze.

„I really wonder why I am still so eager to be close to skinbags like you... Don’t you think it could be considered as weakness?“

As Revenant says this, you drop your tool to lean up against him. Your hand softly caresses his chest. You wonder if he can feel your warmth or your touch.

„I don’t think so, everyone longs for something“, you try to explain.

Revenant says nothing and looks to the mirrored wall right next to you.

„Shall I show you what I long for, little human?“

You look up to his eyes, which are still fixed on the mirror.

„Yes... please?“

Revenant finally looks at you, right into your eyes, as if he was searching for your soul. Then you feel a piercing pain that takes your breath away. You can not even scream. Tasting copper in your mouth, you feel blood swashing over your opened lips.

„Death is what I long for“, is the last thing you hear.

Revenant holds you close, caressing through your hair while your sight gets darker and your pain finally turns numb.

[asidian]

Week 9: Wall

September 14, 2036

The wall at the end of the hallway is exposed brick, a deep red, and hanging on it is a crucifix that’s half as long as Jacob is tall.

Jesus isn’t looking so hot. His skin’s this sickly grey, the blood from the thorns on his head trailing slow and unchecked down his cheek. The look on his face is hurting, and tired, and drawn.

He looks like a dying guy. Jacob’s seen enough dying guys by now to know.

They’re not here to see the sights, though. They’re here to make progress - so Jacob turns his focus from a savior who couldn’t even save himself to the door just to the right, at the end of the hall. He reaches out and tries the handle, careful. He isn’t even a little surprised when it jiggles but doesn’t turn.

“Locked,” he says, making a face.

If he had Hurricane right now, he could’ve cut straight through the handle, but here he is, in jeans and a hoodie, no fancy  gauntlet-mounted blades to lead the way. He oughtta see if Yoshioka can make him a pared down version, for when he’s in civvies, some kind of fancy sci-fi bracelet with a touch release.

That’s for later, though. Right now, they’ve got other stuff to worry about.

“C’mon,” says Jacob, turning to go. “We better keep looking.”

Xia grins, the kind of grin she usually reserves for suggesting something that’ll get them in trouble. “Who says we gotta take the long way?”

She’s fishing in her pocket, and for a second he wonders if she has some kind of blade on her — if she’s one step ahead on the high-tech bracelet plan. All she comes out with is a twisted-up piece of wire, though, and pokes it right into the keyhole.

“Dude, you can pick locks?” says Jacob, surprised and more than a little impressed.

“Gotta have one rogue in the party, right?”

Xia’s smirking when the door finally clicks open. It doesn’t even take her all that long — and a good thing, too. They’ve got maybe five minutes left before their guide comes looking for them in the room where they’re supposed to be waiting, and Jacob doesn’t want to find out what happens if they aren’t there when he shows up.

They slip inside the newly-unlocked room and close the door behind them, leaving Jesus where they found him, staring out at the empty hallway.

On the other side of the door, filing cabinet after filing cabinet stand all in a row, and on the far end of the room, solid wood bookshelves fill up the entire back wall. There’s a desk tucked into the corner, piled high with a stack of papers in the inbox, but no one’s sitting at it right now. The floor is covered with a carpet that looks like someone stole it out of a museum: intricate shapes and patterns, among them the form of a dove holding an olive branch and the cross, repeated over and over again.

Above the door they just came through, another crucifix holds another dying Jesus, staring down at them.

“Man,” says Jacob, eyes scanning the mess. “Dead end, huh?”

He idly opens the drawer of one of the filing cabinets nearest him, flipping through papers. It looks like residency files for refugees to this area of Kyoto. Every one of them includes an oath of loyalty, swearing to give love and life and eternal soul to the church.

“No one locks something they want people to see,” says Xia. “There’s got to be something good in here.”

Jacob shuts the drawer and opens another. “You sure? I mean, look at this place. Who even keeps files on paper anymore?”

The folders in the second drawer hold construction planning, to create new housing for the influx of new arrivals.

“People who don’t wanna get hacked,” says Xia. “You know if any of this was on a computer, Tenno’d be all over it in five seconds flat.”

Jacob considers that for a beat or two of silence. “Point,” he says, shrugging — already reaching for the third drawer.

When it comes open, he pauses.

The contents of this one don’t seem to be quite so bureaucratic. Page after page, file after file, contain the same handwriting, longhand cursive, hard to read. It’s sloppy enough that Jacob has to squint and turn his head sideways to make it out, and he skims a few words: “Lift up your heads, O gates, And be lifted up, O ancient doors, That the King of glory may come in! Who is the King of glory? The LORD strong and mighty, The LORD mighty in battle. -Psalm 24:7-8”

“Lift up your heads,” is underlined. So is “o gates,” and “ancient doors.” The phrase “The LORD mighty in battle,” has been circled four times.

The next page contains the phrase, “While he was saying this, a cloud formed and began to overshadow them; and they were afraid as they entered the cloud. -Luke 9:34”

There’s something paperclipped to the back. It’s a snapshot, the kind taken by those old-fashioned cameras that spit out pictures right away, with thick white borders all around the image. It shows the sky, overrun with clouds, crimson and bruise violet, the way it looks just before the harbingers begin to appear.

Jacob feels cold, suddenly, and a little ill. “Hey,” he says. “Xia?”

“Yeah?” she says.

But there’s another noise, under that. It’s muffled, and faint, but it sounds like a person, almost.

Jacob cocks his head to one side, listening. The sound comes again, soft but insistent, from somewhere below them. It’s almost as though someone’s screaming, the sound cut by distance and floorboards.

“You hear that?” says Jacob.

She hears it. He can tell from the way her eyes widen, just a little, then dart toward his.

“Sounds like it’s coming from downstairs,” she says. “C’mon, we don’t got much time.”

She reaches for the door handle again, but Jacob hesitates. It sounds too close to be all the way downstairs, and anyway — anyway, he’s played enough of those dumb escape room puzzle games on his phone not to try.

“Hold up,” he says, and grabs hold of the edge of the carpet. “Don’t creepy cults always have like secret passageways and stuff?”

“If there was gonna be a secret door,” says Xia, “it’d be the kind where you pull on a book and the whole shelf swings in.”

But she waits for him to check under the carpet, all the same.

There’s nothing at first — just smooth wood flooring. He pulls it up a little at first, then further, awkwardly gathering it up in his arms as he goes. It’s a big carpet, and the more of it he lifts, the dumber he feels for checking.

They’ve got maybe two minutes left, tops, and here he is wasting time looking for a trapdoor that probably doesn’t exist, like he’s in some dumb YA novel with puzzles for the protags to solve before they can save the day.

He half-turns to Xia, opening his mouth to say sorry for holding them up with the world’s stupidest plan.

Then another inch or two of fabric peels away, and the trapdoor comes into view, and he doesn’t feel quite so stupid, after all.

[benevolenterrancy]

Dva/bridgette, "Built" (cuz my girl lindholm is built as fuck amiright)

last but not least of that inbox game, because I couldn’t just write a summary for this. I’ve never even considered this ship, but I am delighted.

-

“Built”Dva/Brigitte

Hana Song lay slumped across the hoodof her mech, defeated.  What was it that had finally felled thisintrepid hero, so much beloved by the South Korean people and theworld of online gaming?  A hoard of omnics, overwhelming in numbers? A final battle, glorious in its ultimate failure?  A moment ofreckless bravery that for once she wasn’t clever and lucky enough tosurvive?

That, at least, might have been moredignified.

Currently, Hana Song was laid low bya technical difficulties.

She had only been with Overwatch afew months so far, and it was both everything she could have dreamedand nothing she had expected.  They were doing so much work. Hana valued what she contributed to the front lines of the Crisis,of course, she was here first and foremost to defend her people,but… sometimes when you were getting up every morning and beingdeployed again and again before a persistent press of omnics, youbegan to feel like you weren’t making any headway.  A constant grindwith no objective in sight.  Overwatch was different.  Overwatchwasn’t just playing the game, it was rewriting the rules.  It wasexciting.  It wasfull-tilt, life-or-death, world-hanging-in-the-balance sort of work,and Hana was thriving.

Hermech, unfortunately, was not.

Because this wasn’t Overwatch of thegolden days, this wasn’t like the heroes her dad had told her storiesof as a girl.  They had no funds, no support, no legitimacy.  Winston(an actual, talking gorilla, how cool!)was sending out hooks all over the world and they were getting bites– people were slowly, covertly, trickling in, but it meant that thegreat workshops of the Gibraltar Watchpoint were almost entirelyempty.  One corner, near the massive bay doors, now housed her andher mech.  Over these months, she had been alone in her efforts torepair the damages as they appeared; she fixed what she could andignored the rest.  But now that one of the mech’s arms had gone dead(in the middle of a fight too, with everyone watching!  Uh, she musthave looked like such an amateur) she couldn’t really look the otherway anymore.  Something needed to be done, and she couldn’t figureout what it was.

In anothersection of the room, Lucio had a table that was covered in wires andtubes – for maintaining his skates and amp.  He smugly told her allabout how he’d pilfered and repurposed the tech from some companycalled Vishkar, and he at least seemed to know what he was doing. More so than her at any rate, though even he had been rather helplesswhen she’d brought her mech problems to him.  

Then there wasthat weaselly guy, Junkrat.  Hana wasn’t sure how she felt about him. He could be pretty funny, but she also couldn’t shake the feelingthat if push came to shove he wouldn’t hesitate to render her asmoldering crater.  He was given a space the furthest away fromeveryone else and very explicit orders from Winston about conduct. Because Junkrat?  He worked with explosives.  Hana didn’t know muchabout explosives beyond the “stick in mech, fire at omnic” sideof things, but she couldn’t help but feel that someone so… twitchyshouldn’t be messing with them.  She knew for a fact that he wassomeone who shouldn’t be messing with her mech.

And then therewas that short, grouchy guy, Torbjörn.  His portion of the workshopwith filled with a massive forge and huge work tables – he was theonly one who really seemed to know what he was doing in here, theonly one not self-taught or learning on the fly.  He had a tendencyto mutter when he caught anyone else trying to work in the shop, asif they were all just little kids trying to play with lego in hisworkspace.  Rude.  

Though, Hanathought, rather moodily as she kicked her feet accusingly against thehull of her mech, she did feel a bit like that right now, like a kidpretending to know what she was doing.  She was a soldier though, nota mechanic!

The fact of thematter was simple and unavoidable: the mechs weren’t made for thesort of sustained abuse.  Normally, with MEKA, they hadmicro-rotations.  They’d be deployed, hit hard, and as soon as thebattle was finished or relief was deployed, the previous pilotsreturned so that the mechs could be serviced, strengthened, andreadied for the next deployment.  After a certain number ofrotations, the entire mech would be replaced with a new one.  Themechs were made to take damage, but they were still complicated,delicate machines and for that sort of tank role to be maintained,the mech must be as well.

Sowhat options did that leave her?  She was, technically,on loan to Overwatch.  Sort of.  It was very hush hush, under thetable.  Overwatch wasn’t supposed to be operating at all, but someonein the South Korean government (or military, or something) must havedecided that if the omnic-crushing force of old was looking toreassert itself, it would help to have Overwatch as friends.  Hanawas very aware this was conditional though.  If it looked like thingswere going to go bad with Overwatch, or if it became too complicatedor too inconvenient, all association would be denied and she wouldget pulled… and that had quickly become an unacceptable outcome. She needed to be here. So she really didn’t want to ruffle feathers with HQ by requestingher mech be taken halfway across the world for servicing.  So thatleft figuring it out herself, or capitulating and asking Torbjörn. He got a funny look in his eye when he stared at her mech though, andso far she had avoided letting him feel it up.

It might be acase of the lesser of two evils though, she had to admit.

She was savedfrom needing to confront this sad reality by the sound of theworkshop doors sliding open.  Without looking up, she called out“That you, Lucio?  Please tell me you had an epiphany because Idon’t know what to do.”

“Uh, sorry todisappoint, but I’m not Lucio,” said a clearly strained voice, itsaccent one that sounded familiar but which Hana couldn’t quite place. Given that this was a secretive paramilitary base on a mountain thata bare handful of people had access to, this was alarming.

It was with thisshock that Hana jerked up and swung herself around, peering down fromher mech to stare at this strange newcomer.  It didn’t actually tellher much, because the person was almost completely hidden behind atowering stack of strangely shaped hunks of metal.

“Who are you?”demanded Hana, before she could think better of it.

“Brigitte,”said the person as she staggered across the room.  “BrigitteLindholm.”  It was strange, there was something asalmost-but-not-quite familiar about her name as about her accent.

Brigitte wasstill talking though, “Is Reinhardt in here?”

“Who?”

“Ofcourse he isn’t,” she grumbled.  “He saidhe’d bring the rest of the armour in here so I could get set up andstart repairs but no,of course not.  Uh, knowing him he’s found some old friend.  I washoping to avoid that until we got set up, or else I’m never going topry him away.  You have no idea how much that man can talk.”

Hana slipped downfrom the hull of her mech and landed heavily on the ground.  “Who’sReinhardt?  Are you new members?  Do you need any help with that?”

Brigitteseemed to take the barrage of questions in stride.  “Massivebonehead,” she said.  “Also just massive, trust me, you can’tmiss him.  And, uh, yeah, kind of new memebers, I guess?  Lena justdropped us off like twenty minutes ago.  I mean, technicallyReinhardt used to be a member before and he’s coming back – again,because he’s a bonehead – andso I guess I’m here too.  Dad’s going to throw a fitbut I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.  And oh god, yesplease.”

Hanawas already reaching for whatever was in this new woman’s arms and sodidn’t register the following warning: “Be careful, this stuff ispretty heavy–” until she’d tried to heft one of the pieces, wascompletely thrown off by exactly howheavy it was, and promptly dropped it on her toe.

It was a goodthing she was the only one who spoke Korean on the base; her tonguehadn’t exactly been squeaky clean as a professional gamer but joiningthe army had not helped matters and there was nothing like anunspeakably number of kilograms of metal falling on your foot toencourage one to show off that sort of vocabulary.

“Sorry,” saidBrigitte, “let me just…”

With a deafeningclattering, the rest of the woman’s load was dumped onto the nearestwork table, and Hana got her first real look at Brigitte Lindholm. She promptly forgot about the pain in her foot.

Ittook her a moment to remember to close her mouth because wow…which had pretty much been the first thought in her head.

Thesecond thought had been: arms. Because Brigitte definitely had those.  Two of them.  Two very,very, very musclyarms. Yes sir.

Hana doublechecked to make sure her mouth was closed.

Brigitte was alsogetting her first look at the room.

“Wow,I’ve heard stories of this place but it’s really nothing likeactually being in here, you know?  Seriously, there is so muchroom… nothing likethe Ironclad Guild, but considering I’ve been working out of a truckfor the past few years this is like – whoa!  Whoseis that?”

At first Hanaassumed she must have caught sight of Lucio’s gently thrumming amp,which was partially disemboweled and casting beats of yellow andgreen light across the ceiling, or the terrifying toxic waste dumpthat was Junkrat’s corner, so she felt herself swelling with pridewhen she realized Brigitte’s gaze was hard-locked on her mech.

“Mine,” shesaid, as if it was no big deal, what girl doesn’t have a spare,million dollar, top-of-the-line battle mech sitting around.  “I’mHana.  Hana Song?  Top pilot in MEKA?”

“Ohmy god, I’ve never seen one up close before,” said Brigitte, alittle breathlessly.  “These are amazing. Like a mix between power armour and proper battle ship – you’vegot the protective hull of an armoured assault vehicle, but way moremobile than anything imaginable in that class… it’s even got theCrusader beat on that front.  It’s almost as versatile as powerarmour, but it’s not going to crumple like paper towel if it getscaught in a firefight.  These are brilliant. And adapting them to be piloted by people – MEKA is seriouslyworking on a different level with these.”  She rounded on Hana, hereyes gleaming with fascination and admiration; Hana beamed rightback.  “And you actually pilot it?  It must be unbelievablydifficult… it was originally designed to be run as a drone afterall, the sheer number of functions for one human to keep on topof…”

Hanashrugged with as much modesty as she could muster.  “I was thenumber one StarCraft player for three years in a row.  That’s whythey went for gamers, you know?  Better response times, multitasking,on the fly strategizing, working in teams and solo…  It was apretty natural transition, when you’ve got a knack for it,” shesaid, leaning against one of the mech’s pink legs.  This would lookmuch more impressive if she was actually wearing her flightsuitrather than the grease-covered work jeans and a baggy old sweatshirtthat used to be her father’s, with a faded picture of a droolingmurloc printed on it.

Thenagain, Brigitte was wearing what looked like steel-toed boots and ashirt with the sleeves (gloriously, gloriously)torn off so maybe Hana could pass this off as an aesthetic and notjust grubby laziness.  She wouldn’t know unless she tried, right?  Sowith the same sort of confident bravado that Hana faced most of theproblems in her life, she jumped in feet first and hoped for a goodlanding.

“You,uh… you want me to show you around?”

“Absolutely!”

Hanacould have crowed with delight.  Nailed it. Of course, the next problem was that this was a compact,single-person mech and there was only so much “showing around”that you could do, but Hana would happily use it to stall for timeand she thought out her next smooth step.  Besides, she loved talkingabout her baby.  With practiced ease, Hana used one of the mech’sarms to swing underself up onto first it’s crouched leg, and then soshe was perched in the crook of its elbow.  Brigitte followed suit,and Hana tried to resist watching the swell of her biceps as her feetsearched for purchase on the mech so she could haul herself up.

Andso Hana talked Brigitte through the ins and outs of the battle mech. Brigitte peered in at the complex array of controls inside thecockpit, listened in rapt fascination as Hana described its featuresand the battles she’s seen with it.

Soonit became much less about impressing a really gorgeous woman, andmore just… talking.  Brigitte was really, really nice.  She laughedeasily, and had a sharp, snide sense of humour, and kept up with Hanaeffortlessly as she got into the more interesting minutia of themech’s features.  Oh, lots of people were interested in here theexploits of Hana Song, South Korean MEKA defender, and they would oohand aah at all theright parts when she told stories about being flung into the ocean bya towering, twenty foot brute of an omnic, or when she had had notchoice but to self-destruct her own mech, barely escaping that onewith her life, but she had never had someone stop her mid-tale to askabout the actual model variants of said omnic or what expulsionmechanism the mech used that managed to get her clear of such ablast.  It wasn’t even annoying to be interrupted – it wasexciting.  Likesomeone was taking the time not to speed run the conversation but topoke around and unlock all the secrets along the way.  Or something.

Completelyoblivious to the emotions banging around in Hana’s head, Brigittepeered at the newly upgraded missile system Hana had been pointingout and said, “I knew I was behind on the latest and greatest,since I was following the big guy around the boonies for the past fewyears boonies, but how did I miss this? MEKA must have gotten a new energy core if they managed to pullsomething like this off!  Keeping this thing mobile, flight-capable,and defensive was already pretty much clocking their core as much asyou could safely expect… how the heck they did keep all that up andadd a missile system?  I mean, you can’t just go make the core biggerwith a living pilot in there, that’d be getting way to chancy.”

Hana rolled hereyes.  She’d commented about the mech’s wimpy power core before, senther complaints as far up the chain as she could manage, only to get areply back telling her to stop being a fool-hardy daredevil thatwanted to throw her life away and to smarten up… or, well, theprofessional, military equivalent.  It seemed to her the only way abigger power core would really be that much of a compromise was ifyou were letting omnics blow you up, and Hana had not intention ofletting omnics blow her up, thanks, so really it was a non-issue. High risk, high reward.  But whatever.

“Nope, sameold, same old,” she told Brigitte.  “It was more of a remodeling. I’m the first to test it out.  We diverted some of the power thatwould have otherwise been used by the defense matrix and fed it tothe missile systems.”

Brigitte’seyebrows went up.  “What?  You’re compromising defense for this? But the defense matrix is one of the things that actually makes amech remotely viable against heavy projectile damage, otherwiseyou’re just a big,” she gestured vaguely to the mech, “pinktarget waiting to blow!”

“Pssh,no.  We’re supposedto be mobile, that’s the whole point!  We’re not there to shield,we’re there to hit hard and fast and get out before too much damageis laid down!  The defense matrix just makes us sitting ducks –with the missiles we can actually attack from a distance beforeneeding to get up close.  Waybetter strategy, trust me.”

Brigitte hummed,but seemed to be considering it.

“Any chance Icould see a test run?” asked Brigitte.  “I’ve only ever seenvideo.  I’d love to see it in person.”

“Absolutely!”said Hana, without hesitation.  How was she supposed to say no tohaving the admiring gaze of a cute girl on her while she did what shedid best?

And then came thecrushing recollection of why she was here in the shop in the firstplace.  The arms, while not as crucial for movement as the thrustersystem, still acted a little like rudders; they were directionconnected to the yokes which controlled all movement.

…Still, it didmean flying the mech would still be doable, even with one arm down. A little clunky, maybe, but she’d managed to get herself through thatlast battle with it down, right?  And it’s not like there would evenbe Talon agents trying to shoot her down this time.  It would befine.  Completely fine and totally work it.

She hesitatedagain.  Common sense was screaming at her to listen for five seconds.

Because on theother hand, she couldn’t help but suspect that an genuine, bona-fidemechanic might not think it was brave or daring or romantic to getinto a damaged craft and push it even harder rather than runningmaintenance.

Damn her and herbad luck.  She was going to have to say “no sorry, I broke thesuper cool mech and am grounded” and watch this amazing woman say“oh no problem” and then remember she had her own work and leaveand never get another chance to talk to her.

Better thannever getting another chance to talk to her because you fly yourselfoff the cliff face and burn to deaths on the rocks below, hermind rebuked, in a voice that sounded frustratingly like her father.

“Actually, Ican’t,” Hana admitted bitterly.  “I’m having some issues with oneof the arms.  Kinda goes past my expertise.  I’m probably going toneed to contact MEKA and see about getting it replaced or something.”

“Well you’realready doing better than Reinhardt on that front,” said Brigittedryly, with a nod towards the pile of metal she’d hauled in.  “Youhave no idea how long I’ve been hounding on him to take a break andget some actual replacement parts for that scrap metal he keepsinsisting on strapping himself into.  But it you like, I could take alook at the mech with you?  Maybe we can figure out what’s wrongtogether.  No idea when Reinhardt’s going to actually show up and Ican’t work until I’ve got the rest of the armour, so I’ve got time. We could make an afternoon of it, get to know each other a littlebetter.  And give me an excuse to dig into some really awesome tech,”she said cheerfully.

Hana couldn’tactually believe her luck.  This was too much.  “You know how oneof these is built?” she asked.

Brigitteshrugged.  “Not really, no.  Not besides for the basic schematicsthat anyone can access with a bit of digging.  But I didn’t know howthe Crusader worked either besides for some of Dad’s stories, and most  of those were just complaining about how Reinhardt treated itand which bits he’d needed to bang out today.  I’m pretty good withthis sort of stuff.  Let me poke around a bit, and I’ll bet I canfigure out what’s wrong and how we can get you mobile again.  …Um,you okay?”

Hana wasn’t eventrying to hide her staring.  What were the odds – she was lamentingabout needing to contact MEKA and risk losing everything over thisstupid mech, and here comes with woman with her pretty eyes andpretty hair and pretty arms and pretty impressive knowledge ofhigh-tech combat systems offering to fix all her problems.

“I couldkiss you,” said Hana, words shooting cheerfully past her mentalfilter and straight to her mouth.  

Brigitte laughed,but Hana still hadn’t decided if she was joking or not when theworkshop door opened and a voice boomed.

“Brigitte! There you are!”

Brigitte roundedon the speaker, hands on her hips.  “You mean right where I’msupposed to be?  Yeah!  Where were you?”

This had to beReinhardt.  When Brigitte had said massive, she’d been understatingit.  The man had to be nearly as tall as her mech, with a shaggywhite beard and huge, blinding grin.  Tucked under his arm like itwas a jacket on a warm day, was more of the insanely heavy armourBrigitte had been lugging when she first got here.

As Reinhardtmoved further into the room, Hana caught sight of who was with him –oh joy, Torbjörn.

“Brigitte!”he called.

Brigitte eyesimmediately locked on him, and the stern face she’d been directly atReinhardt immediately melted.  “Papa!” she called, and racedover.

Papa?

Hanawatched with a sort of mute horror as Brigitte wrapped her father –her father – up in ahug and pressed her face to his shoulder, clearly ecstatic to see herfamily – her family– again.  Torbjörn was patting her back warmly, and theconversation quickly switched to a low, warm Swedish.

That would explain why the accent had been so familiar, just said in a different voice. That would explain why the name was so familiar, though she’d only heard Torbjörn’s surname the one time, when they’d first been introduced.

Atsome point during this, Reinhardt had ended up closer to Hana, givingthe other two space.  He introduced himself, and offered Hana amassive hand to shake; his grip was bone-crushing, but Hana was stillto shocked by all the revelations she had been hit with in the pasthalf an hour to care.

“Theyhave a big family,” he told her companionably.  “They would neveradmit it, but I think both have been missing it.  Very protectiveover each other.”  He chuckled a deep, rumbling chuckle.  “It’s agood thing I brought her back in one piece, I’d hate to think whatTorby would do if I hadn’t.”

Hanamade a vague noise of acknowledgement.

Brigitteand Torbjörn were no longer hugging, and by the tone it sounded likethings had descended into some sort of disagreement over something. Hana choice to take that moment to make herself scarce.  If Brigittewas sticking around, she could always find her later for engineeringhelp.

-

Hana Song layslumped across the length of Lucio’s bed, defeated.

“Were you…flirting vicariously through your mech?” said Lucio from where hewas perched on the edge of his desk, amusedly watching the unexpectedguest who had thrown herself into his room half an hour ago.

“You’re reallynot focusing on the important part of this story,” Hana told thebedsheets.

“Right.  She’sapparently Torbjörn’s kid.  Which is… bad?”

“Yesit’s bad!  It’s sobad!  Can you imagine needing to go up to Torbjörnand saying ‘Hi, your daughter’s arms are builtand I would love for her to cradle me sensually in them’?  Huh?  No! I’m doomed!”

“Uh,yeah, no, I would really not recommend that being your opener forlike… anything, ever.  Especially if you want to actually get adate with her first.”

Hanagroaned pitifully into the mattress.

Hoppingdown from the table, Lucio gave Hana’s shoulders a sympathetic pat.

“Justdon’t think about how awkward breakfast is going to be tomorrow, whenyou’re sitting across from him and trying not to project how into hisdaughter you are,” he said cheerfully.

Agroan.  Hana Song was doomed.

[jamesginortonblog]

Spoilers after the break

Alex got busted by fiancé Rebecca and it was the day of reckoning in Mumbai. As the series reached its midway point, here’s all the talking points from McMafia's eventful episode four…

The god of Mumbai is no more

It was Breaking Bad, Bollywood-style. After the tip-off from the mysterious Mexican shipping tycoon Antonio Mendez (Caio Blat) in episode three, ambitious young pretender Dilly Mahmood (a raw, swaggering turn from Nawazuddin Siddiqui) was ready to steal a one-tonne drug shipment from under the nose of reigning Indian godfather Benny Chopra (Atul Kale).

We watched the heroin get slid through pipes to bypass the barbed wire fences along the Pakistan border, then get welded into washing machines for transporting. A dirty business indeed. It’d take more than a boil wash to get those moral stains out.

With the help of a nocturnal raid on Benny’s office, his hapless late-working accountant (coldly shot in the head for his trouble) and terrifyingly talented hacker Jay “Jammy” Chohan (Vishwas Kini), Dilly gleaned all the info he needed to pull off an audacious heist. It was knuckle-gnawingly tense as cargo containers were intercepted and fake security passes checked, but he pulled it off and the fateful Srikkanth Steel container was last seen driving off into the Mumbai night.

I found myself rooting for Dilly, despite his mercurial moods that turned on a rupee – quick to slap (or shoot) those who displeased him. The final scene saw some enterprising young urchins take Dilly to Chopra’s corpse, dumped and undignified on a rubbish tip – presumably executed by silently seething Russian mob boss Vadim Kalyagin (Merab Ninidze) for bungling the operation.

“Who’s god now?” snarled Dilly, respectfully closing the dead man’s eyes – before spitting on his corpse and striding off to seize control of his new criminal empire. It was a changing of the gangland guard.

Kleiman put it on Alex’s conscience

Puppet-master politician Semiyon Kleiman (David Strathairn) ensured it was hedge fund manager Alex Godman (James Norton) who gave the heroin heist the go-ahead. After all, the intel had come from his source, he’d transferred the necessary funds and even found the crucial computer hacker.

This seems to be the manipulative strategy of choice in McMafia world. Kleiman had made Alex responsible for Reznik’s death in Prague two episodes ago and now we saw Dilly do likewise with the unlucky accountant.

When Alex gave the nod – a cryptic “Let me know how it goes” down the phone – he crossed a line. He wasn’t just sitting behind a keyboard anymore. His soft banker’s hands had blood on them and it wouldn’t come off in the shower – even if that scene did fulfil the Norton flesh quota for this episode.

Heroic hackers ran the show

How very 21st century. It was two computer hackers who became the key cogs in the global crime machine.

When Godman Capital’s “heavy metal IT guy” Tobe Miller (Joshua James) was mentioned in passing in episode three, we suspected he’d have a bigger role to play. And so it proved. With suspicious sidekick Karin (Kemi-Bo Jacobs) sniffing around his shady global fund, Alex rehired Tobe on a freelance basis to cover his electronic trail.

We enjoyed Alex and Tobe’s wary stand-off becoming a budding friendship. “Fortunately for you, I know as much about financial fraud as you do about cyber-security,” said the sarky IT nerd, shyly avoiding eye contact and sporting a T-shirt by real-life Indonesian hardcore band Burgerkill.

The pair then bickered amusingly over who worked harder, had more friends and the most fun, before Tobe shrugged: “Trust me, in this world, you’re an innocent.” I wouldn’t be so sure anymore.

It was Tobe who recommended chatroom buddy Jammy as the best hacker in India. Dilly soon barged into his Bangalore home for some of his unique brand of persuasion – sweetened by a cricket bat signed by Indian superstar Virat Kohli for Jammy’s cricket-mad son. (A neat echo of this came later, when the slumdogs pointed out Chopra’s cadaver with an altogether scruffier bat.)

Jammy duly did Dilly’s bidding by hacking into a circuitous chain of restaurant booking systems, email inboxes, chocolate vending machines and, ultimately, the wi-fi network at Mumbai Port Authority. “It’s like Pac-Man,” said Dilly with grudging admiration. But will it soon be game over?

Is Rebecca and Alex’s relationship doomed?

Back in London, Karin found that Alex’s new fund wasn’t just password-protected but he was running it solo, with no reports filed to colleagues. Meanwhile, fiancé Rebecca Harper (Juliet Rylance) found his secret second phone.

The two women met up to discuss their worries at the historic and aptly-named Hung, Drawn & Quartered pub in Tower Hill (half a Guinness for Rebecca – a hint that she’s about to fall pregnant, possibly?). Rebecca’s discovery that Alex had also been checking the weather in the Cayman Islands, Cyprus, Dubai, Tel Aviv and Geneva confirmed her suspicions and she confronted Alex.

“I invest in emerging markets,” he explained. “I work in these places and so do you.” “But I don’t visit tax havens and offshore sinkholes to launder some corrupt politician’s dirty money,” she retorted, as all her speeches about ethical capitalism came back to bite him.

His insistence that “You’re all I care about” followed episode three’s assertion: “Without you, I have no idea who I am.” For Alex, his relationship with Rebecca maintains his delusion that he’s still got “moral integrity” and is “doing things the right way, without my family’s involvement”. If he loses Rebecca, he might well lose his remaining moral compass too.

He came clean – well, partially – and promised to pull out, now that his business is back on its feet. Yet surely he’s in far too deep to escape now? And has all trust gone between the golden couple?

Prague problems led Vadim to rumble Kleiman

Determined to get his counterfeiting operation back on-track in the Czech capital, Vadim coldly shrugged off the murder in episode three (“A cop? He was a thief, stealing my goods”) and put new nemesis Karel Benes (Karel Roden) under surveillance.

The ex-policeman was too careful, so this proved unfruitful – but FSB insider Ilya Fedorov (Kirill Pirogov) found a way. He had drugs planted on Benes’ wildchild daughter, hacked her phone and piggybacked onto her father’s.

The call log soon revealed that it was Kleiman who was backing Benes’ sabotage of Vadim’s business and that they met in Prague shortly before Reznik “fell” from his apartment balcony. Crucially, Vadim also learnt that Kleiman had “an assistant” with him.

Remember Mendez admonishing Alex for lax security after travelling under his own passport? As Kleiman had warned his new protégé: “It won’t be long until Vadim traces it back to you and me.” The Russians could be coming, like they did for Uncle Boris (David Dencik).

Our hero’s family is falling apart

Since his infidelity was exposed in episode three, Dmitri (Aleksey Serebryakov, who also plays the titular medic in the Russian remake of House MD, fact fans) has been well and truly in the doghouse. Wife Oksana (Maria Shukshina) refused to chink her husband’s glass during the most awkward engagement drinks ever, and later told him: “You and the children are my whole life. You have spat on my soul.” Dmitri was on his knees begging for forgiveness. None was forthcoming.

We’re concerned about Alex’s sister Katya (Faye Marsay) too. She kicked off about the quality of her father’s champagne – cava, how ghastly – before the sound of breaking glass as she rowed with long-suffering boyfriend Femi (Clifford Samuel). Katya also seems to increasingly have the cocaine sniffles.

With all this talk of family being everything – by both Oksana and Alex – could Katya be the way his enemies get to Alex? The business end of the series promises to be explosive

[trainwreckgenerator]

In TAZstuck who's who??

theres been a lot of different tazstuck aus flying round my inbox lately but the one i originally came up with goes kinda like -

magnus has more or less johns role in that his is the suburban house where he lives a fairly normal life, except he lives alone with his glowing white goldfish steven which somehow takes care of him and which he never really questions.

taako and lup are rose and dave - taako lives in an upscale new york apartment and is SUPER fuckin into wizards, and deals regularly with his brother sazeds abusive mind games. lup entered the universe already dead and always sat in an urn on taakos shelf, until she and an umbrella get prototyped into taakos sprite. lup is sorta like davesprite in that regard i guess?

merle is essentially jade, living on an island while his adventurer grandad pan spends most of his time away from home. merle is a kid just like the others in this au, he just talks like an old guy (jake?)

these 4 were originally part of a group of 12 trolls - the ipre and bob - who were about to enter their new universe and reincarnate as humans (something specific to their game) at the end of their game when the door on the platform was slammed shut as the hunger arrived. it closed right as lup was passing through, killing her as she entered, and the other 8 trolls were trapped in the veil.

lucretia has vriskas role in that she (enacts a drastic plan that starts misguided but ultimately results in victory and) uses her cerulean blood psychic powers to wipe 6 of the remaining trolls’ memories, because of plot things i wont get into. barry (aradia kinda) escaped the wipe and was consequently exiled as a liability and vilified by lucretia.

davenport is a gold blood and her psychic powers crossed wires with his in a way that destroyed his mind (mituna sorta). angus is a fuchsia blood who refuses to do harm (feferi kinda). magnus is bronze and loves animals (tav a lil). i think thats it as far as similarities people have with the homestuck character associated with their blood color, most of the parallels were unintentional or because of characteristics of the caste rather than the trolls themselves. you can get more details from the first post in my tazstuck tag

[daughterof-chaos]

Chasing Fire

Author’s Note: Hello loveys and welcome to the first imagine for Music Monday #3! This is a Juice Ortiz imagine based on Just Like Fire by P!nk as requested by the lovely @thejulietfarciertlove. I hope you all enjoy! Let me know. This one kind of got away from me, length wise, what can I say, Juicy Boy was speaking to me. This imagine is rated T+ for language. (also, what I wrote about hacking in this, I don’t know if it’s right. I used my very minimal knowledge gained from watching different shows, so if I’m wrong, sorry ahead of time)

This is my work–originally posted to my old blog @callmemrskozik which is no longer in use. Just wanted to put it out there so people don’t fill up my inbox accusing me of plagiarism.

Chasing Fire

-XX-

I know that I’m running out of time I want it all, mmm, mmm And I’m wishing they’d stop tryna turn me off I want it on, mmm, mmm And I’m walking on a wire, trying to go higher Feels like I’m surrounded by clowns and liars Even when I give it all away I want it all, mmm, mmm We came here to run it, run it, run it We came here to run it, run it, run it Just like fire, burning up the way If I can light the world up for just one day Watch this madness, colorful charade No one can be just like me any way Just like magic, I’ll be flying free I'mma disappear when they come for me I kick that ceiling, what you gonna say? No one can be just like me any way Just like fire, uh

-XX-

She knew it was stupid of her. She was constantly on the move; so why she had even turned on the laptop in the first place, she couldn’t understand. Something told her to she supposed. The same something that led her to her old virtual stomping grounds, led her to Juan. And after four months of literally zero contact with anyone, it was nice to talk to someone.

She smiles just thinking about him. That was six months ago, and even still she couldn’t begin to tell you what he looks like, but somehow she knows him, inside and out; the same way he knows her. Which makes the situation she’s found herself in that much harder. She got too comfortable, and in that comfort came complacence, and complacence always led to mistakes, and she made one. A big one.

“You don’t have much time Julie, what’s it going to be?” the voice sounds bored and lifting her head she studies the man before her. He’s dressed in a carefully tailored suit, and he lifts a hand to study his perfectly manicured nails. The sight of him makes her sick.

She’s tasted more freedom in the last ten months of zig zagging the country then she did in the entirety of her life and she isn’t ready to give it up.

“I’m not going back with you Evan,” Julie states trying to sound strong, but her voice shakes, and when he smacks her she doesn’t let out a noise. She just straightens her shoulders and smiles. Nothing has changed with him. She should have known.

“What are you going to do Julie? Whore yourself out to some piece of trash biker? Maybe you were hoping they’d pass you around…” Evan’s voice is cold despite the anger that rages in his eyes. Julie’s eyes widen in disbelief. How did he know about Juan? “That’s right Julie, I know all about him.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Julie offers weakly, as she settles back onto the edge of the bed.

“You never could lie…”

::

His eyes flick to the clock, and licking his lips he feels the nervousness building inside of him. For the past six months at exactly the same time she’s popped up on his messenger, and they talked, their conversations covering anything and everything. She was the first person he felt he could be the most authentic version of himself with.

He can be just Juan, and for her, that’s enough.

His laptop pings, pulling him from his thoughts and he can’t help the smile that crosses his face when he sees her name flashing on the screen.

‘Juice…’ he stares at the screen in confusion. Julie never calls him Juice. Ever.

‘What’s wrong?’ he types back and while he waits for a response he chews nervously at his thumb.

‘Found me. Time up. Game over.’ He reads and re-reads the words, trying to understand, and before he can ask her what the hell is going she signs off.

“Son of a bitch!” the words rip through him and pushing away from the counter he starts to pace. He has to find her but he doesn’t even know where to begin.

-XX-

And people like to laugh at you ‘cause they are all the same, mmm, mmm See I would rather we just go a different way than play the game mm, mm And no matter the weather, we can do it better You and me together, forever and ever We don’t have to worry 'bout a thing, 'bout a thing We came here to run it, run it, run it We came here to run it, run it, run it Just like fire, burning up the way If I can light the world up for just one day Watch this madness, colorful charade No one can be just like me any way Just like magic, I’ll be flying free I'mma disappear when they come for me I kick that ceiling, what you gonna say? No one can be just like me any way Just like fire, fire, fire Run it, run it, run it We came here to run it, run it, run it

-XX-

“You caused a lot of trouble Julie,” Evan’s voice is calm as he leads her by the elbow to the waiting BMW. Everything inside of her builds with dread. She doesn’t want to go back. She can’t. She’ll die if she does; maybe not physically but her spirit would surely succumb to the pressures of the life she was expected to live. “Hopefully this little, stunt, was more than enough to prove that you can’t make it on your own.”

“I’ve been making it on my own for ten months Evan. Ten months,” Julie says trying to pull her arm from his grasp but he just tightens his hold, and she knows the anger he’s capable of. She’s counting on it. “What pisses you off more? That I don’t need you the way you wanted me to believe I did, or that I don’t want you?”

His jaw clenches tight and bracing herself she’s ready for the blow, but nothing comes of it. Instead he pulls open the back door and shoves her inside.

“You’re going to learn your place,” he says getting in the driver’s seat. “This time, you won’t ever forget it.”

::

“So let me get this straight,” Chibs’ words are slow his voice calm, “the last six months you’ve been talking to someone online, and you’re convinced, because she called you Juice, that something is wrong.”

“Something’s wrong because she told me so,” Juice says through clenched teeth. He’s spent the last couple of hours trying to get him to understand the seriousness of what’s going on, but they can’t seem to get past the whole “online” thing.

“Sounds to me like a bored housewife whose husband found out what wifey’s been doing while he was away,” Chibs says on a laugh, and shaking his head Juice snaps his laptop shut.

“Forget it,” he says, and as he moves to get up Chibs lays a hand on his arm. The older man’s eyes search his face and letting out a breath he shakes his head.

“You’re serious about this girl?” Chibs asks and Juice nods. “Start at the beginning. Don’t leave anything out.”

::

“And you’re sure she isn’t married?” Chibs asks blowing out a steady stream of smoke.

“I’m sure. She’s engaged. Or she was. Until ten months ago,” Juice says rubbing a hand over his head. It feels weird letting someone into his and Julie’s world. “Old money, that’s really all that she said about the guy. She wouldn’t give me his name, said the last thing she wanted was to read that he had disappeared under mysterious circumstances.”

“You think he tracked her down?” Chibs asks and with a sigh Juice shrugs.

“If he did it’s because he paid someone too. That’s what his type does.”

“So, why don’t you work your computer magic and track her down?”

“You think I haven’t tried that already? Julie’s smart, and she’s damn good. She used dummy I.P addresses, never stayed connected to one for too long, made sure to constantly jump them, she was all over the map. I can’t pinpoint her,” he says and he can’t help the tone of pride that rings in his voice.

“So what can we do?” Chibs asks putting out his cigarette.

“Nothing we can do but wait.”

-XX-

So look I came here to run it Just 'cause nobody’s done it Y'all don’t think I can run it But look, I’ve been here, I’ve done it Impossible? Please Watch I do it with ease You just gotta believe Come on, come on with me Oh, what’s a girl to do? (What, what?) Hey, what’s a girl to do? (What, what?) Oh, what’s a girl to do? (What, what?) Oh, what’s a girl to do? Just like fire, burning up the way If I can light the world up for just one day Watch this madness, colorful charade No one can be just like me any way

-XX-

She’s exhausted, down to the bone. She couldn’t begin to say how long she’s been walking, but she keeps moving. One foot in front of the other. She had to do it. She had no choice. That’s what she’s been telling herself since she walked away from the smoldering car. She couldn’t leave Evan in the smoking wreckage; no matter how much she hated him, she wouldn’t have his death on her hands, so she pulled him free making sure there was a safe distance between him and what was left of his BMW. Sure she may have caused the accident but for her it was the only way that she felt she was going to be able to get away.

She used Evan’s phone to call 911, and to send one message, and she hoped to hell that he understood.

::

His phone buzzes across the nightstand, and with a groan he throws his hand out, searching for it, and when he finally finds it he lifts it trying to read the words through sleep blurred eyes. He doesn’t recognize the number so his first instinct is to ignore it.

‘Where there’s smoke…’ his eyes are sliding closed with the words tumbling in his head and then he’s sitting upright, all of his muscles tensing as the meaning behind the words sink in. He jumps from his bed and fumbles as he drags on his jeans, and with only one arm through his shirt he’s racing down the hall to bang on Chibs’ door.

“Chibs, we have to go! I know where Julie is!” he calls frantically through the door and without waiting for a response he’s dashing down the hall, and as he turns the corner her runs face first into Opie who laughs.

“Slow down Juicy boy, where’s the fire?” Opie asks with a grin.

“I don’t know,” Juice answers honestly as he runs, “but I’m going to find it.”

::

He stands, hands at his waist as he studies the twisted wreck of metal. The fire department had the fire out relatively quickly, but there were more questions than answers, and absolutely no sign of Julie. Every clue that would have been left in the car was gone, destroyed by the lick of hot flames, and according to the tow man, the guy the car belongs to was found lying unconscious on the side of the road, but he hadn’t been thrown from the impact. No, he was pulled free.

“Julie,” her name is a whisper as he fights the smile; where he would be all too happy to let the man suffer, Julie would save the sorry son of a bitch.

“There was no girl found at the scene brother,” Chibs says and with a grin Juice snaps his helmet back into place.

“That’s because she’s on the move again. She wouldn’t stay, even if she’s hurt. If she has the chance to get away she’s going to take it, no matter what,” he says and climbing on his bike he brings it to life with a roar.

He parks his bike in front of another diner, and letting out a sigh, he’s ready to give up. He’s searched for a couple of hours now, scoping out diners and rest stops, watching for any sign of Julie, but there’s nothing.

He tells himself that this is the last place he’s going to look. He can’t chase fire forever.

-XX-

Just like fire, burning up the way If I can light the world up for just one day Watch this madness, colorful charade No one can be just like me any way Just like fire, burning up the way If I can light the world up for just one day Watch this madness, colorful charade No one can be just like me any way Just like magic, I’ll be flying free I'mma disappear when they come for me I kick that ceiling, what you gonna say? No one can be just like me any way Just like fire, fire Run it, run it, run it Just like fire Run it, run it, run it

-XX-

She swirls the straw in the glass in front of her, fighting to stay awake. She’s dozed on and off, grateful when the waitress gave a knowing smile upon seeing her and led her to the booth in the darkened corner.

“Hey sugar, are you sure you don’t want anything to eat?” the waitress asks on her next round and though her stomach rumbles loudly she knows she can’t pay for anything.

“I’m fine,” Julie says with a soft smile, before taking a sip from her water, “more water would be great.”

“Alright,” she says her attention turning to the door as the bell overhead gives a cheerful ring, “well isn’t he just a cutie…”

Julie tilts her head to follow the woman’s gaze and when her eyes land on the man, her heart skips a beat.

“Oh my God…” she whispers, and then she’s sinking down in her seat. She never imagined he’d find her. She hoped sure, dreamed of the moment they’d see each other, face to face, she however didn’t think that when that moment came that her face would be streaked with dirt and blood, clothes torn and tattered. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”

“You okay sweetheart?” the waitress asks and with a nod Julie starts to slide from the booth.

“Yeah, fine, listen I need the bathroom…” she tries to call as little attention to herself as possible as she moves towards the bathroom.

“Julie?” the voice comes from behind her, freezing her footsteps, and letting out a steady breath she turns. Her heart hammers in her chest as she looks at him. He’s in baggy jeans and a black zip up hoodie that lays open over a black t shirt. To say he’s cute is an understatement that has her internally cursing the fact that she looks like a mess.

“Juan,” his name comes out on a rush of air as he wraps her in a tight hug, and after freezing for a few seconds her hands curl into the back of his shirt.

“I found you,” he whispers against her lips as his hands cup her face.

“I knew you would,” she says sliding into the kiss, and with a smile she’s finally done running.

[advancingretail]

CART Weekly Report 5/2/19

AMAZON’S PROFIT MORE THAN DOUBLES ON 17% RISE IN SALES | Wall Street Journal

Gary’s Take: Some readers will remember in the 1980s when then President Reagan harnessed the powerful US economy to burgeoning military innovation, triggering an arms race that eventually bankrupted the Soviet Union and ended the Cold War. This strategy became known as the Reagan Doctrine. Well today we have the Amazon Doctrine. Jeff Bezos has linked his company's massive financial resources to tech innovation in a bid to completely disrupt many sectors of retail. Amazon's just released record profits, linked with investing in speeding delivery to 1 day for Prime members, is the Amazon Doctrine in action. While other companies have tried to base strategy on tech what is different now is the point in time we are at: We are at the inflection point on the exponential growth curve of technology and Amazon is opening up a growing gap with competitors. Speeding up delivery is a 'prime' example.

WILL SHOPPABLE ADS HELP WALMART’S VUDU COMPETE WITH AMAZON AND NETFLIX | Retail Wire

Sterling’s Take: Free content will most always be a draw to some degree. And if the shoppable content is easy to use and meaningful to users, it will only add to it. Sounds like many brands have already bought in … but Walmart has some catching up to do with regards to original programming. Amazon and Netflix are so far ahead in creating really great (sometimes viral) content — it remains to be seen if Walmart can carve out a viable niche with “basic-cable” content.

AI-POWERED, VOICE-CAPABLE CHATBOT HELPS SHOPPERS MAKE THE RIGHT CHOICE IN STORES | RetailWire

Sterling’s Take: To me it’s a question of where they can add meaningful value, and I think BevMo! has found a use case here with SmartAisle. It’s something that (especially at this stage) isn’t appropriate for all retail verticals or chains, but I can definitely see them complementing more sales associates in the not too distant future.

WHAT’S REALLY DRIVING DISRUPTION? (HINT: IT’S NOT TECHNOLOGY) | RetailWire

Sterling’s Take: 100% — innovation + disruption has very little to do with technology and everything to do with our thinking (decoupling or otherwise). It’s why Steve Jobs could take an invention from Xerox 20 years prior and create the personal computer industry. Or why RC vehicles were my favorite as a kid, but today we call them drones and they’re doing everything from delivery to military duty. Technology is the enabler and sometimes the result — not the disruptor in and of themselves. The biggest missing amongst retailers and brands today is an innovation culture, a group of people that can cultivate new ideas and perspectives beyond the status quo — and execute on them. Labs, innovation groups, etc. can help, but they tend to be siloed. What we can do is bring that kind of “startup” thinking, self starting and exponential aims into the entire organization. Is it confronting? Maybe … Does it work? Definitely.

KOHL’S GOES ALL IN ON AMAZON RETURNS | RetailWire

Sterling’s Take: My mom used to have a saying for this — “it’s cheaper to milk a cow than buy one.” That is, if everything Amazon is looking for from Kohl’s comes at a low cost, why do they need to move forward with anything else? I’m sure Kohl’s is keeping their fingers crossed for a deeper relationship, but Amazon will only drive from the data, numbers and performance that makes sense.

FEATURED BLOG OF THE WEEK:

PERSONALIZATION AND RELEVANCY CAN BE A GAME CHANGER FOR INDEPENDENTS by David Kiehle, Senior Vice President and General Manager at Smart.Market, Inc

HAPPENINGS:

COMMERCE IN THE CONSUMER AGE: HOW HUMANITY AND TECHNOLOGY COME TOGETHER TO CREATE A NEW VISION FOR RETAIL - Criteo Commerce Forum May 9, 2019

CREATING ROI IN THE FUTURE OF AR/VR IN RETAIL: HOW RETAILERS ARE USING VR/AR TO ACHIEVE GROWTH, PROFITABILITY, AND CUSTOMER EXPERIENCE GOALS - May 14, 2019

Questions? Contact Retail and eCommerce Committee Event Co-Chair, Sterling Hawkins via email:sterling.hawkins@advancingretail.org

DISRUPTIVE LEADERSHIP & THE SELFCARE REVOLUTION​, Boston Immersion Event

Apply to present at Retail Tomorrow Labs: Boston - Applications due June 15th, 2019

Full Agenda

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