#don't touch the manager

[bluerosefox]

Phantomish Rogues

Team Phantom get ripped from their home universe into the DCverse. With no money or real ID's in this world. Now thats a problem.

Another big problem is that Danny is badly injured and his core kinda put him into a deep cryo sleep. He needs to rest and gather ectoplasm.

Bigger problem Team Phantom have no clue how to get home because they don't know how to decode the Fenton Portal blue-prints, not even Jazz who at the time didn't pay attention to her parents portal work anymore by the time they finished it. The only one who does have an idea is Danny!

Biggest problem, they landed in a place called Gotham that seems to be overrun with actual villains and heroes? (vigilantes). And for some odd reason many of them seem to find them no matter where the Team goes to hide.

Until they can get their hands on a safe space, tech, and money, Team Phantom might have to go a bit Rogue/Villainous if they wanna keep Danny safe until he wakes up.

[madphantom]

Had a divine experience this week when a very pretty man who has previously said he'd probably lose a fight against me randomly picked me up like I weighed literally nothing

[insteading]

As someone who’s done bereavement care for almost 20 years, I’ve observed again and again and again that it is not staying with grief that cuts us off from other people, it’s suffocating grief and suppressing grief. It’s impossible to repress grief without also repressing all sorts of other things like joy and memory. Actually, expressing grief naturally connects us empathetically to other people. It is not an accident that right now when there is such a profound suppression of global grief, we’re also finding ourselves in a moment of such isolation.

Rabbi Elliot Kukla, in them magazine

I sought out this piece because Rabbi Kukla was quoted in today's sermon in reference to the ongoing genocide in Gaza ("It is lifesaving to mourn our humanity in inhumane times").

But this paragraph about grief hit me so hard I wanted to single it out to share. It is relevant to corporate grief of the sort we might experience when a state is doing harm in our name (police brutality, displacement, execution). It is also relevant to individual griefs.

In the bereavement calls I do for hospice, I have noticed, this is precisely what gets people stuck in grief: the feeling that there is no safe space and time to express grief. Companies tend to give very little accommodation for bereavement, if they give any at all. Culturally we're expected to get over losses in a matter of days. But grief rewires us, and some losses-- particularly losses like war, displacement, and police brutality where a state or institution does the same kind of harm repeatedly-- are complex and ongoing.

Grief impacts sleeping, eating, executive function. (I don't ask people in bereavement calls, "How are you doing?" I ask, "How are you sleeping?" "How's your appetite?" Maybe "Are there moments from your caregiving, or from your [loved one's] dying, that keep coming up for you?" Because of course you're not fine! You just lost someone essential to you. What I want to know is, is your body getting a chance to repair itself as your mind and heart process what you've experienced?)

People have talked to me after a loss about feeling exhausted and overwhelmed by daily life. It's not unlike recovering from a major injury and having a sizable portion of your bandwidth given over at all times to the tasks of bone, muscle, and nerve repair that are not under your conscious control. When tasks you're used to thinking of as having one part suddenly make it clear how complex they are? Cooking a meal takes more out of you. Doing a load of laundry takes more out of you. If you're already an introvert, the cost of social engagement goes up, at a time when social engagement might actually be very helpful.

Doing some of our grief work with other trusted people shares the load. It recovers some bandwidth. But many folks learn early in the grieving process that they have fewer trusted people than they thought. Or that it feels like the wrong time to deepen an acquaintanceship they'd hoped might become a friendship. Or that they aren't as comfortable asking loved ones for help as they thought they would be.

And the bereavement model I'm trained in assumes that a grieving person has experienced one recent loss. We know that a recent loss might poke us in the tender spots left by earlier losses. But that's still different from the experience of a tragedy that affects a whole community at once (as in an entire region's population losing multiple loved ones in a very short time and being forced to flee).

I don't really have a conclusion here, but I'm finding the activism that feels most healing and hope-filled to me has lament built into it: a chance to name the people who've died in our county's jail, while advocating for better communication with families of people inside. A chance to call out the names of people lost to covid while advocating for policies that will mitigate risk to vulnerable people.

Maybe it takes days to name all the people impacted by ongoing genocides in Congo, Palestine, Yemen, while urging our government to end its role in those genocides. Maybe our systems and structures, which aren't even good at honoring our grief for members of the nuclear family we're taught is our primary world, are disinclined to give us that time. Maybe we ought to take it anyway.

[emeraldgreaves]

45 or 55 for moira red 👀👀? both seem sort of,,,thematically consistent with them LMAO

have 500 words of moirared to break the word curse.

55. tracing the lines on the other’s hand

They’re in the library cramming, as one always finds themselves doing during finals week; him for Planar Theory, her for Anatomy and Mending. And she knows she’s going to fail it, keeps dreaming that she opens the test booklet and discovers the whole thing is in Magid, or it’s the wrong unit, or the paper turns into a swarm of bats and flies right into her face.

And Red is a little bit of a flirt—this is well-established, mostly with people who find her an adequate shoulder to cry on after the fact, though she hasn’t joined their ranks quite yet—but even with how casual and unassuming he is about it, he’s never done so with her.

He asks what she’s studying, and she tells him it’s the parts of the hand, though at this point it’s reduced to flipping through her endless stacks of index cards and wishing for a proper diagram. And he says well, you could just show me, and holds out one of his hands.

She takes it, and it’s still unmarked, tan skin not yet scarred and callused from a decade’s worth of discovery, though someday it will be. She points to each segment in turn—distal, medial, and proximal phalanges, and anatomy doesn’t sound too far from an incantation as she lists them out, flipping over to his palm. And yet they’re not wholly blank. Here is the silvery-white slash of a scar across the spiderwebbed creases of his palm. Here is the mottled ghost of a burn from the time he snatched up a spell scroll and discovered the protection the hard way. Here is the stray freckled nestled in the curve of his wrist. Here are the formerly scraped knuckles and shadowed arteries running alongside taut tendon lines, the entire history of his exploration all in one place.

“If you want my opinion,” he says afterward, fingers still resting in hers, “I think you’re going to ace it.”

And she hadn’t expected him to pay attention—medical terminology is hard enough for Healers to memorize, let alone those studying an entirely different discipline that only happen to be in the same space —but seven years later they’re out for lunch again in the café. He’s through one and a half sandwiches, and she’s barely managed two sips of tea, but the conversation has always been the point of it, and she doesn't mind letting things settle. Somehow they’re on the topic of exams, the way they were half-killing themselves over knowledge but somehow in love with it all the same.

“I remember plenty,” he insists, the third variation on this particular theme.

“I’m not claiming you were completely oblivious,” she says. “Simply that you had plenty of your own projects to consider.”

And she always knows when something has caught his interest; a little light flares up in his eyes, and he leans forward, suddenly regarding you like you’re the most engaging thing in the world. “Really,” he says lightly. “Try me.”

He holds out a hand. After a moment she extends hers across the table. He takes it, turns it over carefully like she’s one of his precious artifacts, then bows his head and recites distal, medial, proximal--

“All right,” she says afterward, “maybe you do remember.” And he’d smiled at her over the rim of his teacup in a way that was familiar, and yet strangely not at all.

[caliburn-the-sword]

emma made me viscerally uncomfortable from season 3-6 and the reason is because it was like watching a barbarian multiclass as a cleric. like girl stop with the magical energy blasts!! just hit him with your sword!!! punch him in the face!!!!

[ssaraexposs]

I can't see him like this

[definitelyjunehomestuck]

incredible how youtube successfully integrated a tiktok-style format that endlessly feeds users algorithmic slop to farm engagement with the website, and then managed to absolutely ruin it by putting ads in it. how fucking stupid do you have to be to put interruptions that make people stop scrolling in the users-scroll-forever media format

[fluentisonus]

guy who's never once cut himself on scissors in a lifetime of sewing manages to cut a whole slice into his finger within two days of acquiring a sewing job he promised he was qualified for

[fitzselfships]

I doodled this real quick since I somehow managed to burn my stomach while putting pasta in a strainer. I'm inflicting this onto my self insert now >:] (Zooble is helping them take care of it <3)

Proshippers/adjacent dni. 100000 shark attack 🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈 also Zooble self ship doubles dni

[bedlamsbard]

feels like the tap water here shouldn't taste salty but what do I know

[meirimerens]

thinking about how mishandled the herb brides are because like. The Text tells us they're not sexual beings (P1 mentions them being virgins, engaged to the Earth, and not to be touched even by their husbands, almost, for a lack of a better word and to conjure an image more than anything, priestess-types) and that their dances are nonsexual and sacred (all all true and correct) WHILE. giving them detailed / 3D modeled nipples. topless. clothes very conveniently torn [in ways that would be unrealistic for actual dancing like in the fucking moshpit]. all pretty thin hairless white-passing blemishless 20-something women. being already sexualized as white-passing asian women, but if they looked more like other NPC models/members of the Kin like the Kayura models (which to me would make more sense because they are never mentioned to be mixed in the way Artemy, an indigenous man who's blonde blue eyes due to being mixed, is [while still very much being indigenous and it being a central part of his story]), it would be even more obvious and would steer even more into Very Blatant fetishization of asian women. and then one asks, are they white-passing because they're sexualized? are they sexualized because they're white-passing? was it an admission of guilt to not make them look like Kayura model, because it would be too obvious then? or is it an admission of lust for women more white-passing? is it about beauty in the eye of the beholder?

then there's bewildering and dehumanizing lore of members of the Kin being non-humans, through the existence of the Worms (literally half-soil), them being a (more or less literal) hivemind, and that being "less human"/closer to the earth (nice_dichotomy_what_lies_outside_of_it png but also... the game touches on that...) immunizes them to the Earth's disease... and yet the Brides look like women... pretty thin hairless white-passing blemishless 20-something women who someone found wise to give 3d modeled nipples to, still good for the ritual cutting... do you hear how i'm going mad yet...

edit to add because while i was so mad and it WAS in my mind i just didn't have the strength to add it when i first wrote:

and they're bought and traded between the odonghs they pair with (again, closer to cattle or things) ... ladies there's so much. there's too much.

[artsandstoriesandstuff]

If you don't mind answering, where will you be posting the Piper James pilot when (and if, dw there's no pressure) you complete it?

Peace and love 🫀

I don't mind answering!

While I don't plan on animating the full thing given my limited resources and time (and the trouble I've had animating on Krita before), I plan on posting the storyboard here in chunks once I finish the whole thing!

I can't do it all at once given it'll be 30+ images.

I would also like to put it on Webtoon or Tapas (or something similar) but I doubt either allows storyboards.

[necrotic-nephilim]

Fandom: Batman and Robin (Comics) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Underage Relationships: Dick Grayson/Damian Wayne Characters: Dick Grayson, Damian Wayne Additional Tags: Omega Dick Week (DCU), Omega Dick Grayson, Alpha Damian Wayne, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, First Time, Oral Sex, Dominant Bottom, Topping from the Bottom, Gentle Sex, Praise Kink, Soft Dom Dick Grayson, Control Issues, Unrequited Crush, Pre-Flashpoint (DCU), Dick Grayson is Batman Summary: Damian is pent up, lashing out, and Dick is just about at his wit's end about it. When he tries to talk to Damian about it, he learns that Damian is suppressing his own ruts to have some form of control over himself. Dick convinces Damian to give up control to Dick, instead. - Omega Dick Week 2024 - Day 7: Free Day

[b4kuch1n]

dip pen ink comm batch 4 complete! for Ezechiel, @ohwwhuv, and Leo :]

[beevean]

This scene was supremely uncomfortable to write.

~

A certain vampire hunter named Belmont had stepped foot into Wallachia. Hector had never heard of such a clan, but Lord Dracula hissed the name with hefty wariness, and every creature in the room knew that he was no trifling meat to mince: this Belmont could be a genuine danger to the castle. Isaac had noticed him, apparently, and eagerly reported the news to their Lord like a dog bringing a stick and expecting a treat in return.

In that moment, Hector knew. He had to prove himself.

It was not hard for him to enter back in Lord Dracula’s good graces. A few apologies that meant nothing, a couple of languid smiles that cracked his lips, and it was as if their last “conversation” had never happened. He kept his promise. Hector had always been special to his Lord, after all.

As his chewed, dried out remains laid there, cast away as he had fulfilled his purpose, the one thing that pushed him on his feet and dragged him through the vast hallways was the mirage of the forest stretched for miles.

He wanted to die so much.

No. One step further. He had to live for a little longer. Death would not take his soul so long as Lord Dracula held his leash; Hector would not allow it. After he had broken his leash, anything could happen to him. He would die soon, that much was certain; at his Lord’s hands, under the jaws of his loyal hound, or because eventually his body would give up on him. But as long as his grave could be a shallow hole in the forest, far from the enormous castle that used to be his home, he could take another step.

(I’m yours, he had sworn. He did not feel guilty for lying to his Lord, for leaving the kiss of Judah on his blood-caked hand. I can handle the Belmont myself, he had promised. He did not feel guilty for going behind Isaac’s back and taking away the one chance for him to prove himself. He was the lowest kind of sinner: it was what he was born for. He, too, could devour them to the bone. They would both be proud of him.)

« Don’t you look at me like that, » seethed Isaac. Hector started: when did he get back to his room? He didn’t notice himself applying healing oil on his neck. « I asked you a question. »

Hector wasn’t even looking at him, really. He just happened to be in the way of his gaze.

« I wasn’t listening, » he mumbled, hoping that Isaac would leave him alone and knowing he wouldn’t. And right as expected, everything fell into place: Isaac’s cutting glare, the tensing of his shoulders, the smell of a storm approaching. Hector had played the script one too many times.

« Of course you weren’t. Why would you? »

« Don’t start, Isaac. »

« Or what? Are you going to cry to Lord Dracula that I upset you? »

« I’m not being the child here. »

« Excuse me? » Isaac bristled. « Who gave you the right to speak to me this way? »

« According to your logic, Lord Dracula. »

At that, Isaac lunged at him; Hector flinched, body ready to receive a slap, but when he opened his eyes, he saw that Isaac had stopped in an awkward position, with his arm half-raised and teeth bared in a snarl.

Hector was less than grateful for Lord Dracula’s distant protection on his body. He wanted that slap, now. Not to make Isaac happy in his misery, but because it would break one of the many walls between them.

The man’s attention was caught by the fresh bites on Hector’s throat; he had a knack for spotting them, unless Hector buttoned his collar so tight that it clasped on his neck. Now, slick with ointment, they were in full display, the ghost of Lord Dracula hovering between the two of them.

Perhaps, the more he bit them, the more part of himself he infused in their bloodstream. Perhaps that was the reason Isaac passed a thumb on Hector’s scars, with an ugly mixture of scorn and fascination.

(What did that make of Hector?)

« I’m surprised you haven’t dropped dead yet, with how often our Lord feeds from you, » Isaac commented with the impression of aloofness.

« Why do you care? » One last chance.

« What does your blood have that mine doesn’t? »

Hector pursed his lips.

Interpreting his silence the Lord knew how, Isaac replied to it by jamming a long nail in a particularly sore bruise; Hector hissed, and his hand slapped Isaac’s away before he could think of doing so.

And the fuse went off.

« Stop looking at me like that! » Isaac’s face went as red as his hair. « Like I’m not worth a damn! Just because you’re the Lord’s favorite it doesn’t make me inferior to you! »

Hector had planned to leave quietly, without rousing suspicion. He was ready to leave Isaac behind without thinking twice about what he had planned to do; he couldn’t delve too deeply into the consequences. He could still walk past Isaac and ignore him, slam the door shut, leave him out.

The words rose from his throat before he could recognize them for what they were.

« Then perhaps you should do more to be worth something. »

« What…? »

« What are you doing, Isaac? Slacking behind and stubbornly beating your head over the wall instead of listening to me. Crying that Lord Dracula won’t praise you and taking it out on me. Pushing me aside except when you need a warm body. Why should I feel sorry for you, when you treat me like dirt under your heel? »

Hector’s own voice sounded distorted to his own ears, jagged and unpleasant. As unpleasant was the visceral pleasure that seized him at vomiting the thoughts he had buried deep for far too long, at the sight of Isaac’s eyes growing wide and him stepping backwards, away from him.

He should apologize. He would never apologize. Isaac deserved to hear that.

But his surprise lasted for far too little, and he counterattacked:

« You… You would be food for the zombies were it not for me! You threw me away the moment I was no longer useful to you! The only reason Lord Dracula is even sparing a glance towards you is because I felt sorry for you first! I was ecstatic when you came here to study the dark arts with me, I thought you’d be… » A crack where weakness should have been. « How could have I imagined that you would have ruined everything? You are standing on my shoulders and basking in all the glory, and have the gall to pity me! That’s all you care for, selfish bastard! »

Oh, if Isaac thought Hector would fold like he would have in the past, he had no idea of how utterly sick of it all he was.

« I don’t want the glory! I don’t want any of this! » How could ever be happy to be a toy, to be coated in his Lord’s sick touch and sicker lies and expected to be grateful for it?

« Our Lord adores you more than anyone here, more than His own son. What more could you possibly want? What else does the universe owe Saint Hector, for him to finally be happy? »

Why couldn’t he have asked sincerely? Why couldn’t Hector trust whom he thought was his closest companion? He did want, and he wanted too much for him to burden alone: he wanted more of that sorry excuse of an existence, he wanted to cleanse himself, he wanted to live, he wanted out!

He wanted a friend.

« I’m tired, Isaac, and you never noticed, because all you can think about is Lord Dracula. » He would not wipe any tear. Not in front of that man who would devour him at the first sign of fragility. « If I spoke, would you listen to me? Have I ever mattered to you? »

« What you want doesn’t matter. You don’t matter more than Lord Dracula. Don’t you even insinuate that. »

The lack of an answer burdened in Hector’s chest. He wished he could be furious at it.

« I would never. Your world begins and ends with Lord Dracula. »

« And that is how it should be! For being Lord Dracula’s favorite General, you are obnoxiously dense! » Isaac spread his arms like a proselyte. « We were born and made to be His tools to wield. I am honored to be used by Him! I do not need a reward, unlike you: it’s about loyalty! It is the bare minimum of gratitude I can show towards the only person who has ever cared about me. »

Hector took the jab in silence. He would not try to defend himself.

« Do you think he does? »

Isaac stammered. « More than you! »

Is that so.

« You are the worst kind of liar and hypocrite. » Hector dug his nails into his palms, and willed his arms to stop shaking, even though he wanted to hit Isaac so hard. « You say that you’re loyal, but are you really? Because if you were, you’d stop crying and accept how things are! You would accept that Lord Dracula doesn’t give a shit about you! »

« Shut your mouth! How dare you speak in contempt of our Lord?! »

« I don’t care! I am talking about you! » Hector yelled with more force than intended. « If you were a weapon like you claim, you would not be here with tears in your eyes because I’m trying to make you reason. Why do you refuse to see reality? »

« Oh, do you now? Are you speakings from the heavens now? » In the light of the candle, Isaac’s tired eyes flashed a sickly yellow; with his gritted teeth and bulging veins in his neck, he looked less and less human the more he spoke, unrecognizable.

« You make me puke, Hector. Look at you, with that disgusting veneer of superiority, even placing yourself above Lord Dracula… You dare talking about reality? Well, the reality is that you are nothing more than a selfish little boy with an inflated ego, spitting in the plate he’s been eating, expecting to be worshipped because you gift us with the air you breathe on us. » He jabbed a finger on his chest as if to bore it: his hand, too, was trembling. « Never forget that when we met, you wouldn’t even talk, you were that afraid of me. You are here, looking down on me like I am your damn scullery boy, because Lord Dracula tasked me with making something worthwhile out of you. And right now, I am so close to breaking your nose to teach you the lesson you deserve, and then we’ll see how perfect you are. »

Hector let Isaac talk without interrupting.

He should have been offended, he knew it. He should have sworn that he never thought Isaac was inferior to him, he did it all by himself. Somehow, Isaac’s words reached him like a vision through a foggy glass: he had a vague inkling of what they could be, but they didn’t leave an impact.

He, on the other hand, yearned to leave an impact, for once.

« But you won’t do it. Because you are terrified of Lord Dracula not loving you. »

Why wasn’t he furious? He wished he could shout like Isaac, have his heart hammering in his chest, be completely engulfed by rage like flames devour a house. The man in front of him no longer stirred his heart.

What grew louder inside him, instead, were the echoes of his demon friends, always within him as they had never abandoned him – no, he had allowed himself to become them, and just like back then, just like when his mother dared to hurt him… Isaac deserved a lesson.

« I used to be afraid of the world around me, yes. But you are, right now. You are so, so scared of ending up alone and unwanted that you do everything in your power to make sure no one wants you and loves you first! You will drag everyone down in your misery, because it’s easier than clawing your way out! Forget about me – why do you think Lord Dracula would ever love a thing like you? »

And Hector kept talking, and talking, his words a river in flood; he couldn’t stop, he wouldn’t stop, his voice spilled out of him like it was edging at the rim and it couldn’t wait to get out:

« You are a doll to Lord Dracula. You’re a cute toy to play with before putting it on its shelf, once he gets bored of you. You will never be anything more than a thing! And it’s all because of you. You chose to be a thing to be used and thrown away, because, because… because you truly believe you don’t deserve better, I suppose, and when I tried to convince you that it was not the case, you rejected me, because it scared you. You broke yourself into pieces for him, and it was for nothing, and now you’re angry, and you don’t want to admit it, so you thought you could break me with you. »

Isaac recoiled at every word like they were physical blows, and the more he acted like that, the more Hector felt the desire to twist the knife even further, because Isaac only roused desire in him when his eyes shone with bitter tears: he looked like the human he refused to be.

« You are nothing more than a pathetic, miserable thing, and you could have been so much more! I had always admired your passion, your wit, your knowledge! I thought myself so lucky to call you my friend! But there’s none of that in you anymore. You call yourself a weapon, but no, you’re a puppet. Who loves a puppet? Lord Dracula doesn’t need it. I don’t need it. »

And who cared if Hector no longer believed in that axiom, that the both of them had to earn their Lord’s love somehow? Hector had grown past that, but Isaac didn’t, still a child clinging onto the breeches of his father, and Hector felt vile and so satiated in plunging his fangs in Isaac’s heart to tear it to pieces, he would see how it felt, to be weak and powerless and despised! If he wanted to experience Lord Dracula’s love, then by all means, Hector would be all too happy to oblige!

« S-shut up… »

« Don’t you believe me? Why do you think that Lord Dracula refuses to give you all the love that you crave, but he’s forcing it on me? Whose fault is that, Isaac? What did I do, other than exist? »

« Exactly that, » Isaac snarled, and the sobs did not soften the spikes in his words. « Do me a favor, and go die in the next mission. Filth like you should have never been born in the first place! »

The air froze.

No one spoke. Isaac was panting, but Hector could not understand what he was thinking, he could not recognize his face. His head hurt as if Isaac struck a blow and his vision wobbled. It was not a moment too soon that Isaac spun on his heels and fled, and Hector let that stranger march out of his room.

The same mouth he had used to rip Isaac to shreds was covered in ashes. With numb fingers, he touched Lord Dracula’s marks on his throat, where he had ruined him. He decided it was time to go to bed. No map could have taken his mind off the flames dancing behind his eyes.

That night, Isaac left Hector alone, as he wanted.

He tossed and turned around in a freezing bed until the crows cawed and all of his focus had to go on the most important mission of his life.

There was no turning back.

[softquietsteadylove]

It’s time to read more about tomb raider! Let them meet again after the almost drowning incident and let there be teamwork fighting against a group of treasure hunters! :D

"Will you stop?!"

Thena - surprisingly - stopped squirming behind his back against her own binds. Her chair stopped rattling against the floor as she stilled. She huffed. "I'm sorry, were you trying to get some sleep?"

He joined her in her frustration. "I just mean conserve your energy. We don't even know how long we've been down here, let alone how much longer we have ahead."

She went quiet, and he was quite sure he was more uncomfortable with it than she was. Thena spoke two languages: yelling, and sass. He was unfamiliar with any quieter sides of hers.

"I'm sorry."

The simple words gave him chills. He whipped his head around but all it did was hurt his neck, and he couldn't even get a glimpse of her anyway. "What?"

"They followed us all the way out here and I had no idea."

"I didn't either," he interjected.

"I was the one who came up with the plans. The next time they come down here, I'll tell them I can guide them, but only if they release you." Now she was really talking crazy.

"What the hell are you talking about?" he grumbled, now starting the game of fruitlessly tugging at his binds again. "You think I'm going anywhere without you?"

"We may not be afforded another option," she bit back, also turning her head. He could feel her ponytail against the back of his neck. "If at least one of us makes it out, there's a chance of escape."

"There's no way you believe that if you cooperate they won't hurt you," he snorted.

"I didn't say I believed that."

He jerked his shoulders, attempting to get a look at her again. The backs of their chairs clanged together, although they were still technically bolted to the floor. What little movement they did get on them was from the general state of the ship's disrepair. "Don't be stupid, Thena."

She didn't even have a scathing retort about him assuming such a thing about her Ladyship.

"Once they come back, we'll reason our way through this." Sure, he didn't totally believe what he was saying either. But it was a better solution than Thena giving herself up as a bargaining chip for his life. "All they want is the bounty, right? Your plans were solid, and I doubt any of them can dive for as long as you can. We'll-"

"Gil."

She was right, there were few options they had which might lead to their escape. They knew the risks, running in the circles they did. There was always a risk.

"You have connections on the mainland," she continued to talk him through things like she was coaching him. "Tell them that they can collect your bounty if they return with you."

Rather then killing them both and leaving them somewhere.

"And what about you?" he just barely dared to ask.

She took a damn long time to answer, twisting his gut all the way around itself. "Karun and Druig always know the risks of our field. They have instructions should I fail to return one day."

Gil scoffed loudly, rolled his eyes, shook his head--all of it. Anything to convey to her just how ridiculous this was. "I am not going to just leave you here, let alone with those-"

"Gil-"

"They slapped you, Thena," he reiterated, since that didn't seem to matter to her as much as it did to him. "They backhanded you across the face. I'm not exactly counting on them to uphold a gentlemanly agreement."

He leaned forward, pulling at the legs of the chair, still bolted to the floor by a couple of rattling brackets.

"It wasn't how I saw our collaborative efforts ending," she tried putting on a lighter tone, as if that would distract him from the gravity of all this. "But I must admit, we make a good team, Gilgamesh."

He huffed, leaning as forward as he could, "don't 'Gilgamesh' me."

"Could we not spend what might be our last time together arguing?"

He paused in his efforts, partly to catch his breath, and partly to twist his neck again. "I thought you loved arguing."

"I love anything at which I can win."

Well, there was the Thena he knew and tolerated.

Her tone changed again, and he felt her hands move from being tightly balled up fists. Her fingers fluttered around, as if searching for his. "But arguing with you was always a byproduct of the job. Your company from the same side is far preferable."

If he didn't know better, he could think she was admitting to some fondness for him. But he did know better, and beyond that, this was not going to be the pre-burial-at-sea confession she thought it was.

"Who said you could talk?!"

The door slammed against the back wall. All the hinges in this place were falling apart. The men filtered into the room, fully armed and just as dark in expression as when they had found them.

Thena glared at them of course. "You didn't gag us. I don't see how you expected us to remain silent."

"Silence might do you some good." The same one who had struck her before raised his hand again, just barely in Gil's periphery.

He jerked in his chair, "don't touch her!"

They all laughed at his noble effort to protect her. The hand changed from an open palm to grasp her chin instead. She jerked back like a caged animal, but he grabbed harder. "Is she your pretty little treasure?"

Thena practically growled at them even with her cheeks smushed.

"That's all you want, right--the artifact we got sent here to find?" he clarified, doing everything but snapping his neck right off his shoulders to try and see what they were doing. "I'll take you, but only if she's unharmed."

"Relax, big guy," another one instructed, even slapping the grabby one's hand away from Thena's face. "The bounty from the artifact is only half of it. There's also the matter of you two."

Thena must have made a face, because they glared at her again. "We have no insurance policies on us, if that's what you're after."

"Not at all, girlie," he chuckled at her. "The museum will pay his ransom, surely. And as for you...you're sitting on an old family estate, aren't you? That will do nicely."

Gil was desperately trying to think of something but if anything, Thena relaxed. He kept his mouth shut though; they hadn't mentioned Druig or Karun, which meant they didn't know about them. They hadn't done reconnaissance on them or anything, they just happened to be their lucky catch of the day.

"You're right, you will guide us to the artifact." The men began gravitating towards the door again, one with his hand already on it. "And when we have it in our possession, then you'll make the ransom call for us."

The grabby one rattled the handle in his grasp. "We might have to rough her up some, just to make it believable."

Gil launched forward. The chair came clean off the floor as he cried out in his rage. He hunched forward, swinging the legs around as a line of defense. He turned, charging at their captors.

His shoulder jabbed into the most dominant one, crushing him against the handle of the door and doing some good damage to his back. He slumped down. He turned as fast as he could, using the legs of the chair to do some damage to the other two.

The grabby one grunted as he got hit in the gut. Gil positioned himself better, throwing himself back and ramming the legs into his shoulders. He screamed at the top of his lungs but Gil did little more than grimace. "Relax, it's not like I stabbed you."

He tried to get a sound out, but the wind had been knocked out of him. Gil looked down at him, holding out at a hand as if to plead for something. Unfortunately for him, that was the hand he'd used to slap Thena, and Gil wasn't feeling particularly forgiving.

Thena winced as he rammed the chair leg into his open mouth. "I never took you for the sadistic type."

But he didn't have a witty retort for her. He knelt down, feeling around the mess of bodies for a knife. "I'm tired of him yapping."

Thena sighed as stood again. "I suppose it's a better option for us. We still don't know how many of them are out there."

"Let's not be tied up when we find out," he groused. He walked back around her. "Got it?"

She did have it, grasping the knife firmly, passed from his hands to hers behind their backs. "You seem confident I won't slice anything essential"

"Like you say, we may not have a better option," he conceded. He strained the ropes tired around him, pulling as Thena attempted to pressure the blade against them. It wasn't a great angle, or a serrated blade. But he continued to pull as she worked, eventually pulling them apart before she could slice through the middle.

The knife clattered to the floor between them.

"Okay," he sighed as he finally pulled his arms around to his front again. They hurt, and usually it would be more ideal to move them slowly. But he swung them around, desperately needing their full range of motion sooner than later. "I've got you."

He worked at Thena's ropes more gently. They were tied tight, but he could see the red irritation in her pale skin more. "Do you know how far out we were when they found us?"

Her ropes snapped apart, and he immediately grasped her shoulders, rolling them forward for her slowly and gently.

"Well, someone was hogging the radar," he commented, and was rewarded with her turning in the seat, skipping over examining her wrists in favor of glaring at him. He grinned, "but I know the jetski you used to get to the boat is still being towed. If we can get to a railing, we can definitely swim under the ship and get to it in time to get outta here."

It wasn't his most risk-free plan, but they both knew the risks--had just gone over them, in fact.

Thena nodded, rubbing her wrists but wearing the usually determined expression he had come to expect. "Lead the way, then."

He planned on it, and not out of some need to protect her or anything. It just made good sense.

They hugged the walls all the way up. He really didn't know how many of them were on board, but he dreaded to think about the possibilities considering the expected crew for any boat this size. He looked over his shoulder and nodded his head.

Thena showed her understanding; they weren't far now.

He held out his hand. She gave him a look but he shook it at her. He wasn't going to let them get separated again. Begrudgingly, she slipped her hand into his. It was cold.

Gil looked both ways before dashing across the deck and to the railing. No life boats, of fucking course. He climbed over the railing while Thena crouched between the top and middle bar. He looked at her. "Ready?"

She didn't reply, but she let her hand give his a squeeze.

"Don't let go." He didn't know why he said it. There was no need, but he held her hand, getting ready to free dive into the water and potentially be chased down like wild animals.

"I won't." That was much more assuring than anything she could have said about them making it. She looked ahead, resuming her usual role of being the one to pull him along.

And despite their rivalry, he would follow her anywhere.