#drug cartel au

[melfinawins]

I feel like the anti Claire Bear tag is gonna be chock full of new content in the next 80 hours.

And I think this character will unite the fandom like it did the last time lol

In hatred and exasperation.

Like, very few people like this character lmao I haven't seen that kind of shit since The Walking Dead days with Andrea.

[tintinology]

Modern AU where Tintin's editor begs him to please stay out of trouble for a little while after his latest adventure lands him in the hospital (again) and people take to Twitter to accuse the newspaper of endangering its employees for the sake of profit

[krotiation]

Can we see more of your sims?

I can post some screenshots every once in a while if people want it! For now y'all get to see everything catch on fire every 5 minutes

[divinekangaroo]

One thing I adore about PB is Tommy's approach towards modernity. Straddling the non-industrial past and the industrial/modern present; constantly positioning himself on the cutting edge, if not quite bleeding edge, of period/era technology. Cars, manufacturing, shipping, phones, typewriters. Medicine, psychology, and even bringing in incredibly modern concepts into politics in that era. He is constantly grabbing at the future. It's this striking characteristic in him, all the way from S1 when they install the phone in the Garrison - ~if only we knew someone else with a phone, we could call them~ - through to S6's final episode when he even wangles a seat on an airplane to get to Canada without wasting time. So uncommon at the time, but he just went: I need to get there with least time lost, and matched requirement to a borderline experimental non-consumer-available insider technology to do so.

(Sidestep: Such an interesting juxtaposition of all that, with the constant representation of the pre-industrial-era Romani threads in S6, too: Esme, the hills, the horse, the curse, the mythology, the vardo, all that slamming up against an actual cutting edge submachinegun, so ‘contemporary’ it’s actually anachronistic by a few years (if my research was right, it’s a WWII weapon that submachinegun, not to get on the symbolism, but). Arguably, Ruby in hospital having the most contemporary medical treatment available while Tommy goes walkabout to lift a curse is another notable juxtaposition.

There’s also an interesting slant of his modernity balanced against what I call his hoarding habit — the most cutting edge piece of tech or modernity in 1923 he’s still hanging onto in 1933. But yeah, even with that the juxtapositions are interesting because they can only happen if the forward reaching/modernity focus is there)

So, when I see contemporary-modern!AU takes of Tommy that are like, representing him as a relatively humdrum part of the capitalist consumer status quo, or even as a luddite who can't and won't use an Iphone, I scratch my head. I do think he’s *not* much of an innovator, but he is absolutely a considered first-gen adopter and recognises (and takes) opportunity regarding tech innovation with little concern for risk.

I have contemplated would rich modern!AU Tommy with disposable income finance startups if they pitched well: probably yes, because he takes gambles; with a personally vested interest in the innovators in the same way he had that vested interest in Bonnie. Startups as horses or boxers on a diff playing field, win some, lose some, etc.

[prosopagn0sis-a]

@cheshire-shuntaro, my beloved. missed you dearly. in this life and in every other.

we’ve met years ago, without the scorching sun kissing our skin and the ocean breeze caressing our faces as we walk with our feet in the sand around the nearest beach.

i wasn’t rich then — well, i still am not, relying on white rabbit’s money — the nickname not suiting him at all — but his money is mine, even if i don’t feel like it.

we’re married. whatever we have is shared between us two, split in half, his small fortune included.

shuntarō has his report today, as each sunday, but… something’s off. weird. as i wake up, i know the day’s gonna be different — maybe it’s the gut feeling i follow combined with the logic, or maybe i finally got the full access to morphogenetic fields and the knowledge stored there is telling me something i cannot decode yet.

i make my best effort not to wake my husband — oh, how weird it sounds, husband; i never planned to get married, but when he proposed, i just agreed without a second thought. i was seated on his lap in a strip club as he requested a private dance. he recognized me from college, i did not until he spoke to me.

“marry me.”

i didn’t think twice.

“under one condition. you will never get me this awful tea again.”

it’s not like we knew each other well before that encounter — we didn’t. i approached him once at the university while he was studying before an exam, correcting one of his chemical formulas. demanded tea for that. got it the next morning, a cheap and disgusting piss-colored liquid in the smallest size possible from a local chain coffee shop.

for some, my decision could seem impulsive. it was. anything to escape the life i was living after i had to drop out on my second year. everything else was better than that, easier to figure the solution for any problem i could encounter later on.

i didn’t have to worry; waking by shuntarō's side each day, staying by his side at all times. he never cheated, never lied, never left. also, he was honest about his profession from day one.

“this is my boss. he’s a gang leader. we make cocaine.”

it wasn’t a mistake to share that; i never left him and appreciated forwardness. this, later on, made me acquire the lovely title of cheshire cat — always doing whatever i wanted, however i wanted, choosing my own ways and paths instead of the ones demanded, never siding with anyone. i wasn’t officially a part of the gang, so what would they do, anyway? enrage their lead chemist by hurting me? as if.

i make my best effort to not wake my husband as i slip from under his arm and leave our shared bed. something’s off, i can feel it. time for me to change the routine, even by a little bit. besides, shuntaro’s been working hard these past few weeks. he deserves a little treat.

i like it here, i really do. despite the city being run by drug lords and cartels, i have this privilege of being safe. i stroll around the place just a little bit, visiting the bakery for the still warm loaf of bread and some coffee i know white rabbit would love. then, i make breakfast.

i do not wait for him, no; he’ll get up soon enough, his alarm never failed to get him out of the bed. nothing to worry for me. there was, in fact, a thing that did.

whoever followed me on my little walk around the neighborhood was about to meet his fate. i wouldn’t kill them right away, obviously; first i will get to know why would they do it in the first place and for whom do they work.

it’s nothing to inform my dear sleeping love about. he doesn’t need extra stress today.

and so, armed with the knowledge of thousands interrogation and torture techniques, the cheshire cat is off to the city, about to catch these filthy rats.

[andromedagarcia]

Wrote this for the Drug Cartel AU @cheshire-shuntaro created. Imagined Andro as Hatter's wife who is secretly in love with Aguni, and only married him because it was arranged by her father. Hope you like this. ☆

Gridded plots of flowers and herbs, hothouses she or any of the men or women who worked for her cared for around the clock, terrariums with the most exotic plants and insects. Andrómeda's favorite hobby had taken over the garden of the ridiculously big villa, property of her husband, El Sombrerero Loco. Her presence, however, had not taken over the drug cartel he led.

There was only a particular part of the garden that showed the hand of somebody other than the raven-haired Spanish woman. Here, different flowers grew; blue, cobalt, aquamarine, sapphire, periwinkle orchids, poppies, peonies. Blue, just what she was feeling. Blue. Like the dress she had been wearing the last time she had seen him. His favorite color, as well.

'Tienes que hacerlo.' You have to do it, had been her father's last words before passing away from the cancer that had consumed him from the inside in six stupid months, before softening the iron grip on her hand. A way to guarantee hers, and her siblings safety. Marry Takeru Danma.

She had complied, of course. Like any good daughter would. Submissive, yielding, malleable, with a smile plastered on her face. Knowing she would be nothing other than a trophy wife, a pretty little thing to show around in parties, arm candy. Knowing her heart belonged to someone else. She did her best to fit the role: workouts, expensive creams, hairdressers, manicures, pedicures. The best and tightest clothes money could buy, high heels that gave her vertigo.

Looking at this floral sea gave her an itch in the lower part of the back of her neck she couldn't shake off, no matter what way she moved her shoulders. A lump in her throat that wouldn't disappear, no matter how many times or how hard she swallowed. A pain in her stomach that wouldn't pass, no matter how many remedies she looked for. Hot tears filling her dark, brown eyes, as she remembered the nights shared, how he had helped when she had presented to her newly-appointed husband her plans for a beautiful garden. He had dismissed her, of course. 'That's why we have gardeners for.' 'Yes, but I want something of my own...' she had insisted. And again, and again, and again. And Takeru's answer had always been no, until Aguni had intervened.

'Let her have this. She'll be happier. And you know what they say, happy wife...'

Oh, I'll only be happy in your arms.

They both knew that. They both kept that like a secret, like an oath.

Since Andrómeda and Takeru had married, Aguni and her had never been alone in the same room. Which made it all the more surprising when he had approached her as she had been working on her garden one afternoon. Dirty with mud, hair unbrushed, skin red and full of freckles, kissed by the sun.

'Why don't you make that corner blue?'

'Blue? How many flowers do you know that are naturally blue?'

'You have the money. Your brother could engineer them...'

'He's a chemist. Not a biologist.'

She wanted to say more. She didn't want him to leave. But she knew she had to answer like that, with a hard edge coming into her voice. Not to give him any hope. Not to give it to herself.

Weeks later, she had found the first blue flower growing there. She hadn't planted it. He had. A secret message. Unspoken words. I still love you. I always will. As long as this garden is alive.

From that day onwards, she had made sure of one thing. Always wearing something of that same color. An answer, written in a language only lovers doomed by destiny understood. Your feelings are reciprocated.

Even now, that he had gone away, she still did it. Because the flowers kept growing. And as long as the garden lived, she'd keep watering it.

[cheshire-shuntaro]

Alice in Borderland - Drug Cartel AU

This AU here was inspired by @andromedagarcia telling me about a city of Sanlúcar and how a drug cartel operates there in the open, so thank you. In the story I wrote Hatter operates a drug cartel in Argentina and Chishiya is the head of the lab, responsible for producing drugs. I want to invite y'all to add your little brick to this AU. Anyone and everyone is encouraged to join! Ways you could participate: 1. Imagining your own muse as they find themselves in the story outlined here and writing it as an independed fic. 2. Talking with the fellow writers on here and writing an RP starter or a short thread within the AU 3. Making art or moodboards or anything other you feel inspired to make. 4. Make sure you tag your pieces #aib drug cartel AU so I can find them and compile them

The scorching July sun of Mar de Plata broke through the blinds, landing directly on Chishiya’s eyelids, jolting him from a distant dream of his homeland. In his haze he saw nights where the air is not made up of cocaine particles or the odor of death, restricting his airways to a point of having to regurgitate his stomach contents. Instead, he felt the sea breeze on his face, the familiar neon-coloured streets of Tokyo reflected on his pale skin. Shuntaro was aware that the snippets of his past reality slipping through his fingers like the ever present beach sand were just a collection of romanticized movie clips more than anything else. The fact was that he would loath his existence regardless of the location he was currently residing in, these visions simply reminded him of much calmer and carefree times in his life.

Life was not kind to him with the set of parents he was given, not in a sense of being underprivileged financially - his father owned a hospital after all, but in a sense of being left to learn the ways of the world on his own. His dad’s eyes and belt focused on him solely when he got into mischief or ignored his orders; as a result, Chishiya had taught himself to take every opportunity to spite him. At first, he made himself believe that he did so because he came to love the way his father’s visage twisted with red, hot anger to a point of cartoonish steam coming out of his ears.

With the insight of years under his belt, Chishiya came to the conclusion that those were simply desperate and pathetic attempts at getting a crumb of his father’s attention. His mother was not abusive herself, but permissive of her husband’s belt treatment and that was enough for Shuntaro to loathe her even more than his father. He can distinctly remember the last time she hugged him, he was about 12 years old, she had embraced him and whispered into his ear that this was the last hug she would ever spare for him, that from this moment on he was a man and that it would be in his best interest to start acting like one. After that, it was not uncommon for her to hold him down while his father beat him senseless.

Looking back at the years spent at his given parents’ house he could not help but think of himself as a lesser human being, for not taking any active action against the abuse. Many would say now that he could not have known because he was a child after all, but he still held a particular hatred in his heart for this no-good idiot who decided to stay there until he was 16 to search for alternatives.

Thankfully, these alternatives appeared as soon as he ran away from home with nothing but the clothes on his back and the deep purple bruise on his face. A man who called himself Mad Hatter extended a helping hand, not only towards him but towards several young men and women in need of stability and purpose in life. He ran a lucrative drug enterprise in the heart of Tokyo and had a particular knack for noticing hidden genius within a person. He correctly established that Shuntaro had a certain affinity for exact sciences, more specifically Chemistry, so since day one he would push, knead and mold his brilliant mind to work in his own favour.

It was merely a matter of years before Chishiya became the master of his trade, far surpassing Hatters’ expectations towards him. The lab was his kingdom, every day he would sway in-between solid metal tables glistening under the dim light of the warehouse, dust-mask and white scrubs on, making sure that all of his employees stick to the recipe. He got what he wanted out of life in the end — stability and power which both gave him opportunities to maneuver in directions sometimes beneficial to him, but, all good things come to an end one way or another.

For Chishiya it had begun with an announcement from Hatter and Aguni on one stormy night. Soon before it, the police busted and closed one of their biggest labs, the mood among the more experienced members of the gang was sour and hopeless. They needed, no, they craved a promise of grandeur, a slightly mad plan that would help them be born anew.

Argentina. There is a hole in the drug market there, waiting to be claimed and we were to be the colonizers who would discover and seize the land as our own, Hatter said. He was a very persuasive man with a spark of insanity within him, so, almost everyone believed him blindly when he uttered those words. Chishiya was not among the enthusiastic ones but he was soon proved to be wrong, because 8 years later he was laying on very expensive bed, with AC humming in the background and the sun he came to loathe so very much, prying his eyes open from the hazy memories of the past.

It wasn’t just the sun, the clock struck 8:00 on Sunday, which meant in two hours time he would be standing before Hatter, or as he demanded to be called here — El Sombrerero Loco, reporting on the in and outs of his labs here in Mar de Plata.

For Chishiya these weekly meetings with his once saviour were dreadfully boring and unnecessary, every time he sat in the leather seat before El Sombrerero’s desk he had a déjà vu. Yes the new formula is in the works, Chishiya just needs a little more time, yes the delivery to Buenos Aires went without hiccups, yes your new Bugatti is splendid, yes your wife is as radiant as always, yes, yes, yes — on loop, every week.

What made matters worse was his visibly deteriorating mental state, not only he grew bolder in the ambitions department, since Aguni decided to amicably split from his grand empire he lacked a counterbalance of reason to his ambition and slowly but surely spiraled into madness. The material things that he could have within a blink of an eye did not satiate his desire for ultimate, less tangible things, like power.

Naturally, he did not complain about the lack of it, but as it often is the case with authority those who already possess it usually never get enough of it. With passing years his interest in expanding or, at least, keeping his drug enterprise afloat waned as he turned his gaze to other opportunities. His ideas became increasingly more curious and... mad.

Last year, to give an example, he decided to run for mayor of Mar de Plata. He lost of course, so the locals felt his fist tightening around the throat of the city a little bit more, in various ways. It was no secret what he did and what he was, even the local police stood no chance against his twisted ways of covering his tracks.

So, here stood Chishiya, amongst the many sins of one man hungry for power inside his slowly crumbling kingdom, with a legion of people loyal to El Sombrerero or simply tangled within this mess, each with a different story to tell.

But, alas, this right here  is Chishiya’s story to tell, so let us get back to the Sunday sun. He woke up, an empty space beside him in bed, wondering where she might have gone to this morning or perhaps the previous night. That was in Irma’s nature - to wander the paths she chose; he became used to it over the time of their marriage.

The cold shower washed away the reminders of the prickly sunlight that had the audacity to wake him up, and the delicious breakfast consisting of tostadas served with mermelada and queso crema reassured him that perhaps the meeting with his boss would surprise him, a deviation from the dreadfully boring repetition of those.

He got into his car, put on the AC and drove to get himself a cup of coffee, as he had done every day for the past 8 years. „No Coffee, No Prana” was usually less crowded, but this Sunday morning the line for fresh coffee curled around the block, full of pedestrians from all walks of life in which he took the last place.

Chishiya was an incredibly perceptive person, he thought it came from observing the micro expressions on his dad’s face when he was beginning to lose patience with him. So naturally, it didn’t take him long to notice that he was, in fact, being followed. Two people. They had parked a few cars behind him, and right now they were sitting on the bench on the opposite side of the street, their eyes darting to him occasionally. What was most curious about them is that they were gringos as locals call them, from a mile away you could tell that they did not belong amongst the crowds of tan-skinned people so prevalent here. Americans, Chishiya thought. Foreign intelligence agents, perhaps? Or maybe it was just Hatter’s paranoia rubbing off on him, because by the time he had exited the cafe, they were gone, them and their white Volvo sedan.

He quickly forgot about them when he pulled up in front of Hatter’s ridiculously sized villa. It was a massive and luxurious complex, the crown jewel of his kingdom. First the visitor would notice ancient greek statues in his front garden (unclear whether they were originals or not - very likely that they were), exotic trees from all over the world, radiant, multi-coloured flowers encircling the whole complex.

The amount of flowers and abundance of sweet aromas was almost contrarian to the machismo culture Hatter had slightly adopted since moving here. He always said that the garden was his wife’s kingdom, which she apparently designed herself; his kingdom was inside the house. They did not have any children but the mansion could comfortably hold at least 4 families with 2 children each. It felt ridiculously overdecorated, each room consequently held in art déco style with its hues of gold, black and brown, curling metallic spirals and leaf-like patterns. Amongst the splendour trotted a legion of men and women guarding the grounds of the complex or simply tending to its many rooms and flowers. Each and every one of them greeted Chishiya with a courteous nod when he passed them by, entering the mansion, his steps echoing throughout the winding corridor until he reached El Sombrero’s office, he knocked thrice on the sharp-edged oak door, as always waiting to be invited inside by his superior.

„¿Quien va alla? [Who goes there?]” a slightly annoyed and startled voice boomed from the other side, indicating being caught doing something red-handed. „Mierda, en seguida, huh? [Fuck, wait a moment, huh?]”

„Soy yo, El Conejo Blanco, es éste un mal momento? [It’s me White Rabbit, is now a a bad time?]” Chishiya said, bringing his head closer to the door to suss out what is happening on the other side, but before he could do that, he heard the other door to Hatter’s office open and close very carefully.

„Oh, it’s you, hijo [son]! Come on in, come on in then!” Hatter said, beckoning him inside.

Chishiya didn’t have to be told twice, he pushed the door open and gave a nod to the man sitting on the other side of the desk. The 8 years took a toll on him, he was older and there were wrinkles in the corner of his eyes, his skin was tanned, his hair was salt and pepper now, pulled into a messy bun most of the time and a beard he sometimes shaved if the summer was particularly scorching.

„You are punctual as always.” Hatter commented, closing his silk robe meticulously, „Coffee, tea, something stronger?” He said, gesturing to a bar cart with various drinks behind him.

„You are most gracious, but no, thank you I already had my morning coffee.” Chishiya said, half-smiling. „I have been thinking about our latest shipment to...” He begun speaking business as the clock struck 10:00, it was time for the weekly report, and he thought to better get on with it, but before he had the chance to finish, Hatter blew a raspberry at him. He started to form the sentence anew but the same thing happened. „Is everything quite alright?” Chishiya asked, cocking his head to the side, confused.

Hatter unexpectedly pulled himself up from his chair and jumped on it, assuming a squatting position with his elbows on his knees.

„Yes! Yes! Yes! Thank you for noticing, you see, my front garden? It looks really... bland, not an ounce of character up in this bitch, I need something to freshen it up.” Hatter uttered these words at a speed which made Shuntaro raise his eyebrow slightly, his boss was clearly high on his own product.

„I need you to bring me a few of those cute striped kitties they are keeping in the zoo in town. There is a banquet planned for tomorrow and the Chief of Police is invited, so I am in need of something that has the wow effect, so to speak.” Hatter said, his eyes widening.

Cute striped kitties? He did not mean the endangered Andean Cat, surely? Chishiya quickly gathered that Hatter was in one of his moods, therefore, the best way to proceed without unnecessary drama was to nod and smile, so he did just that.

„Of course, boss, whatever you wish. We could not let the Chief of Police go unwowed, of course. Do you wish me proceed with reporting this weeks’ state of the lab?”

„No, no. Just send in your assistant, tell them to come in the evening.” Hatter answered, waving his hand dismissively. „You are free to go too, you have a lot on your plate right now, hijo.” He added, standing up yet again, leaning over his desk.

„As you say. I will see you later then, cats in hand.” Chishiya said, slightly taken aback by the abrupt order, but as told, he simply got up and started walking back to his car with a puzzled expression on his face.

This was the first time Chishiya saw Hatter in such a state; the jittering, the empty, gaze wandering around the room, were not uncommon, but, did not last long previously. They were but glimpses and blips in between the moments in which he was his usual, charismatic self. But this morning he seemed to cross the line between sanity and craziness. Also, the outrageous request that would most likely end up with him getting locked up for a petty crime in comparison to the mountain of sins he has already committed. Chishiya had never trusted his gut feelings, mostly relying on logic and hard facts but this time his gut was very insistent on the fact that this Sunday morning was the beginning to an end.

As his fingers curled around his car door handle his fingertips felt something that was not previously there - a soft, smooth material. He took the mysterious object out - it was a piece of paper stuck to the inside with a moist gum, indicating that whoever left it was still in the vicinity, he looked around before unraveling it.

„The lions are closing in, White Rabbit, if you don’t wish to get mauled with the rest of them, find me here, tomorrow at 6 — Av. Independencia 2602, white Volvo sedan”

It turns out that he was followed, after all. It was not particularly hard to keep his expressions neutral in case of prying eyes because he was always very good at it. But the fact that they knew not only his internal code name but where he lived, was really, really, really bad.

So, his gut was right, this was the beginning to an end, he thought as he put the piece of paper into the pocket of his trousers and started the engine of his car.

[thetiredassistant]

AIB Drug Cartel AU

— In a quiet streets of Mar de Plata, residing in a dusty yet homely bookstore— was Jordyn Parks. Or better yet known to his clients, El Sabelotodo. A man who has no loyalty to anyone except for his love for money (and other … things).

The Know-It-All. It’s said that if you enter this bookstore, and ask to see the valuable books. The ones that are meant to be kept in a quiet location, with set temperatures and no sunlight can touch them. He will lead you to the back, to his quaint little office where he had many secret compartments. Filled with everything and anything you could possibly want. And of course, if there’s nothing there you need, Jordyn is more than happy to find that out for you.

For a price, of course. And that always depends on what he’s feeling, and who you are. He’s a good ally to have, and will happily continue to feed you information (if it’s true or not, who knows?) if he is paid correctly. Does he believe in what El Sombrerero Loco has been doing to his town? Who knows. But he does know that things are happening. And Jordyn is excited to see what happens.

[j-ofspades]

♠️ Written for the Drug Cartel AU that @cheshire-shuntaro created. In which, Vessel is a contract killer working for The Ritual, like @jofdiamonds ♠️

The unnamed assassin. No, that wasn’t quite right. He had a name: Vessel. The faceless killer. That was more like it. 

Vessel scrolled mindlessly through the latest article about his most recent job. Crudely written, describing the murder in detail and yet… failing to capture the essence of it. Just as well. Vessel finished reading the article and tossed the stolen phone in a trash bin. 

He wasn’t in the habit of stealing phones to read about himself, but he’d caught a whisper in the evening news–an old radio droning on at the diner he happened to be in–that the police were maybe linking this latest murder to one that had happened a couple of years ago and Vessel couldn’t resist the curiosity to know how close they truly were. He’d taken the phone and slipped out of the diner unnoticed.

The police were wide off the mark, as usual. Good. The Ritual had nothing to worry about.

Vessel lowered his hood and resumed his way home. Home. This place was not it, but the way things were, it looked like he would have to make himself comfortable for at least a while.

He ran his fingers through his hair, messing up his curls rather than making them lie flat. He missed his mask. But the point of it was precisely to wear it only while he was working. He would never understand how some of his colleagues, for lack of a better word, refused to wear one.

The sun was setting in Mar del Plata but it was still light enough that the streetlamps hadn’t come on. Vessel walked unhurriedly to the tiny room he was renting downtown. Right above a bar. If he had known that little detail he wouldn’t have taken it. But as it was, the music didn’t really bother him anymore. He didn’t want to get too comfortable, no. He wanted to leave as soon as he could. So whenever the whims of his capricious client let him.

Why had Vessel agreed to come? Not loyalty. Since he’d started killing people (removing obstacles) for money, that was the only allegiance he knew. He’d started young, too. Not because he’d had limited options growing up but simply because he’d fallen in with the wrong crowd and then he’d realized he didn’t really mind doing the dirty work for people who couldn’t. 

Those first days, those first murders. He’d been clumsy, of course. Making a mess, probably leaving traces behind, risking being recognized. But a dark deity protected him, and he’d never been arrested, he’d never even been put on a list of suspects. Nothing. So he’d continued perfecting his craft, honing his skills. And those skills were for sale to the highest bidder. The only line Vessel drew was not killing children, anything else was fair game.

The business itself was exceedingly simple, too. The Ritual would get in contact with Vessel and inform him of his next target. After the job was completed per the requirements of the contract, Vessel received his payment. Simple. Or it would have been if his client could make up his mind. 

Vessel didn’t usually meet with his clients. The transaction didn’t require any face-to-face meetings. He got a name, a location and a method and that was it. But this particular client had insisted so much–and paid so much, probably–that finally The Ritual had agreed to send Vessel to him. El Sombrerero.

To say that the man was unhinged would be an understatement. Vessel would never speak ill of a potential client but Hatter was so extravagant, so outlandish, so out of touch with reality that Vessel couldn’t decide if the man was actually mad or perfectly sane and just pretending to be out of his mind. If it was the latter, then he was doing a fantastic job of it.

El Sombrerero wanted to hire Vessel to become something like his personal bodyguard, his cartel’s hitman. When Vessel refused, Hatter had contacted The Ritual. Whatever he told them must have been interesting enough for them to ask Vessel to stay a few days over there, “in case his services were needed.”

And so, here he was. Sitting on the tiny bed in his tiny room, the dim yellowish light from a single lightbulb on the ceiling flickering, threatening to go out, the piece of glass that hung on the wall–a sad excuse for a mirror–vibrating in time with the music drifting from the bar downstairs. Vessel closed his eyes and prayed for Sleep to come and claim him.

[jofdiamonds]

Wrote this for the Drug Cartel AU @cheshire-shuntaro created. Aki is a hired murderer (and well, anything else as long as the pay is good) working for the same organization as @j-ofspades ~

Aki wasn't a careful killer.

And that's about as much as anybody could say about him, closed as he was; he had left clues in every murder he had ever committed, confusing ones, yes, that didn't quite follow a pattern. Enough to continually play a game of cat and mouse with the police who were looking for him but not to get caught.

What could he say? Was there a way he could justify himself? He loved the adrenaline. It was a change from his usual way of feeling: he was continuously numb, like a body buried underwater, sounds and images blurry to him. His only companion? His thoughts and prayers. One would think oh, probably, he's hoping for a way out. A change of life, of scenery. Giving up on a life of stabbing, hanging, poisoning, breaking legs and arms, collecting money from people who don't have any... and they'd be wrong. Although, not completely.

He wanted to get caught. Destroyed, weathered to nothing.

He wanted to be able to wash away the blood of his hands.

He loved to show-off. Speak with his contracts before delivering the final blow. A sort of inside joke between him and the person whose life he was ending, an unbreakable bond he would treasure forever. Simple statements like beg for your life, somebody wants you dead, sleep now and forever... nobody said that being a good murderer had to come with a creative imagination, now, did they? Perhaps, secretly, she was hoping one of them was lucky enough to survive and go to the police. But, such a shame I am so good at this job.

He was sitting in a hotel room in the darkness, his only company as well as source of light the candles he had lit hours ago, and the wax dripping from them to the wooden surface of the table. A rhythmical sound. Tap, tap, tap. Like droplets of blood falling to the ground from a severed neck... Outside, wind hollowed incessantly. Sometimes, a little bit of it came through the old, tattered window, making the candles flicker. Like in horror movies, before something big happened. An ill omen.

A ringing, annoying, sound, all of a sudden. A phone call.

If Aki's calculations weren't wrong, it was around four in the morning. Who had decided to interrupt his slumber? Unknown call. Only could be one person, then.

The Ritual.

'Sir?'

'Go to Mar del Plata and accompany Vessel. He has a mission and it can't go wrong.'

I'm not anybody's nanny. Plus, the masked creepy man and I don't get along and don't work well together. Have you already forgotten about the job in Barcelona?

There was no point telling any of that to the chilling voice on the other line. So, with a simple yes, Aki hung up the phone.

He prepared to leave.

He blew out the candles.

[herculesgarcia]

Wrote this for the Drug Cartel AU @cheshire-shuntaro created, in which Hérc is one of the chemist working for Hatter, creating drugs... because he has no other choice, basically. ~

When Hércules had obtained his Master's, lab safety had been the most important thing. In fact, you couldn't even start working on any experiments until you had passed a shitty little course, for which you had to watch dozens of videos of people (most likely PhD students obliged to do these kind of things in exchange for credits) pretending to be in dangerous situations.

"Oh, no! He dropped some polypyrrole in his eyes, what should he do!? Well, if you've read the SDS, the Safety Data Sheet, you would know you have to rinse your eyes with pure water (no, water from the sink doesn't really work) for fifteen minutes and...'

Y una mierda.

He guessed it was different in legal labs, but in El Sombrerero's Cocaine Factory where he was nothing but a mere Oompa Loompa, dancing to the psychotic tunes of his boss' delusions, nobody wore gloves, or safety goggles. A few lab coats could be seen here and there, but they were stained, with holes in them from chemical exposure, and most of them the wrong sizes. As if they had stole them from a factory making crazy scientist costumes for children instead of from an actual laboratory equipment manufacturer.

It was a mess. Dirty, disgusting, which made it not so different from Hatter's house, in Hércules' opinion: a mishmash of different objects that were there just. To be. To show others he could pay them, to boast.

But the coca was real pure, crystalline white, and that was what matter.

'Potassium permanganate...' Do not use for products which come in direct contact with the skin. It can cause corrosion, which produces an irreversible damage to the skin; namely, visible necrosis through the epidermis and into the dermis. Delayed or immediate effects can be expected after short or long-term exposure. Careful with how you dispose of it, it can pollute watercourses... 'Sodium permanganate.' May intensify fire, because it is an oxidizer. Do not swallow. Severe skin burns. Toxic to aquatic life. Do not eat when handling this product. Wash your hands after handling.

Hércules repeated what he had to be careful about inside his head, not out loud. Every single time he had tried to make the other chemists a little bit more aware of the dangers these products could actually pose, he had been laughed at. Well, they could be blinded, for all he cared, but that wouldn't happen to him. He was, also, one of the very few who had actually studied for this, who had a passion for chemistry and research, despite the very small success rates.

Synthesis. The creation of molecules that had never existed before. The fact that he could play God, up to a certain point. Improving the properties of already existing natural materials or creating them from... nothing.

Making things better.

Making the world a better place.

But was he doing that, really? When he was creating cocaine, a highly addictive stimulant, that could cause chronic and acute conditions in cardiovascular health, as well as gastrointestinal problems, irritability, liver and kidney damage... death?

Had he really had a choice? Did people, ever?

If his father had never gotten himself involved in the business...

If he hadn't promised Andro's hand in marriage to Hatter as a way of securing their situation before his death...

If Hércules wasn't so fucking scared of what could happen...

Then, maybe, there would be a way out.

But, they were running out of time. And the next batch needed to be ready soon. And people couldn't feed themselves and their families out of ifs...

'Come on, boys! Let get this show on the road!"

[biggunsaguni]

Wrote this for the Drug Cartel AU @cheshire-shuntaro created. Aguni being depressy as is his right.

Aguni didn't really like sleeping.

The few times he closed his eyes and let himself drift off into the arms of Morpheus, he found himself in a gray fog. Voices, speaking to him. 'Call me El Sombrerero Loco.' Takeru's. 'You should never stop trying to do better.' Andrómeda's.

Would they be angry at him? For wanting out? Not only because he couldn't bear his best friend's obsession with power, the way it seemed to flow in his veins instead of blood and corrupt him from the inside, just as did the drugs they sold. Madder by the minute. His grip on reality escaping from him like grains of sand in a clenched fist. No, there was also the matter that Fernando García, the Spanish drug lord, had sold his oldest daughter to Takeru, as a sort of payment. Had he already been diagnosed with the fatal illness that would eventually take his life, or had it also been a move from a person thirsty for more? More influence, more money, simply more.

Aguni had committed many sins in his life. But falling in love with Andrómeda hadn't been one of them. If the Gods were feeling generous and benevolent, he was able to dream of the first night he had met her. Takeru and him, nothing but young adults with big dreams and empty stomachs, trying to make a name for themselves in a competitive, dangerous industry. They had attended a big party, in the south of Spain, giving fake names at the door, of high-ranking members of the Yakuza. It was a risk, but if went well and they could close a deal, it would prove to be worthy.

Aguni had made his way to the bar, and ordered himself a whiskey on ice, when a laugh had attracted his attention. A laugh coming from the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on; a few years younger than him, long, black, wavy hair, reaching the middle of her back. The darkest eyes he had ever seen, like an abyss any man would crave to jump into, slanted and with a spark of entertainment in them. A crooked smile, that seemed to whisper I see right through you. Pale skin, with freckles and a few beauty spots here and there, like constellations adorning the night sky. She was wearing a golden dress, the hem of it sweeping the floor. Even then, she was made to look like a trophy.

'What's so funny?' Aguni had asked. His English had never been very good. Takeru was usually the one in charge of making conversation. Much more charismatic, endearing. He usually just had to look strong and menacing.

She laughed again. And Aguni just knew, he could spend his entire life hearing that sound and never get tired of it.

'You.' She answered, in perfect Japanese. No accent whatsoever. She was clearly Spanish, but judging by the way she spoke, Aguni wouldn't have been surprised if she had claimed to live in Tokyo her entire life. 'I've met Hiroshi Nakamura and he doesn't look like you, at all.'

The man swallowed. Fuck, what would Takeru do in this situation?

'I'm... his brother.' If he had a gun, he would have shot himself right in the face.

'Oh, I had never heard of brothers who had the same name! What a lack of imagination, that of Mr. and Mrs. Nakamura...' She stopped, coming closer. The smell of flowers, cherries, vanilla. Intoxicating. 'My name's Andrómeda...'

'A beautiful name.' He quickly replied, thinking that maybe, if he complimented her enough, she would let it slide. But her smile grew wider. He had fallen right into her trap.

'If you like the tip, you're going to love what comes next. García.' She made sure to over-pronounce the three syllables composing her surname, rolling her rs as only a Spanish person could do. 'The daughter of Fernando García, the man whose party you're trying to crash.'

His shock seemed to amuse her. Aguni found himself opening and closing his mouth, like a goldfish, unable to conjure up the words that wouldn't get him kicked out of the event. He, of course, had known that Fernando García had four children: two girls and two boys. With weird names, difficult to pronounce and harder to remember. He just...

'Sorry if I seem surprised. Your father is such an unattractive man that I cannot believe he has such a gorgeous daughter.'

High stakes. Would that offend her? Quite the opposite, the young girl seemed satisfied with his answer.

'Ah, algo de garra, al fin... you can stay. As my guest. I'll have to know your real name to add you to the list, however, so if you would be so kind...'

'Aguni. Aguni Morizono.'

'Nice to meet you, Aguni Morizono. See you later?'

She made it sound like a question, but it wasn't. Andrómeda had him right where she wanted him.

The Andrómeda appearing in this gray fog plaguing his dreams wasn't the real one. It lacked her charm, her warmth. And yet, it was good to see her. A fierce longing, heart-ache.

She had promised him just that, the night they had shared their first kiss, reading his hand after it had traveled throughout the geography of her body, her hair spilling all over his chest.

'You will have two kids.'

'Yeah?'

'Sí. Two kids and... oh, look at the line of love.' Aguni had no idea which one, out of all the lines in his hand, was the line of love. Perhaps Andro didn't know either. It definitely looked like she was making all of it up. But he was used to her antics. 'It says you will face a lot of pain. It will be very difficult, a lot of yearning, a burning ache, for years, but... it will be worth it.'

'Does it say anything about who I will have them with?'

He had earned a playful smack, for that. A fierce woman, his. A fire burning inside of her, enough to warm anyone around her.

But still, time passed. For Gods, for animals, for human beings. For the ghosts of the past that haunted him. And the dreams ended.

And he woke up alone. In a big house, with enough money to never have to lift a finger in his entire life, but alone. Surrounded by people who were loyal to him, but lacking his best friend, too far gone for him to reach. Lacking the love of his life, who was treated like a property, more than a wife.

A lone blue flower in a crystal vase.

A hat hanging from a rack.

Remains of a life in which he had been happy.

[cassiopeiagarcia]

Wrote this for the Drug Cartel AU @cheshire-shuntaro created. Cass is a painter with perhaps too much imagination? A little help from above? Hope you like it. ♡

'He wants to do... what?'

An unplanned explosion of laughter, tears running down her cheeks. Dark eyes that looked for confirmation in her older sister's features, not believing what she was hearing. Cass had always known her brother-in-law was mad, but this... this really was something else. Stealing an Andean Cat.

'At least one of us finds it funny.'

'Come on! You have to admit it is kind of hilarious. I wish it had been my idea...'

But no joy could be found in Andro's perfect face. Not since that day in which she had answered "Sí, quiero" to the priest's question: do you, Andrómeda García, take Takeru Danma to be your wedded husband and live together in holy matrimony?

Worst mistake of her fucking life, if you ask me.

After wishing her a good night, Andro had left, ready to endure Hatter's emotional torture for one more night, the silence that haunted their bedchamber. He was fucking on the side, of course. Everybody knew it, but pretended they didn't; a blindfold covering their eyes, not seeing the honey-blonde woman sitting on his lap late at night, drinking from his cup, kissing his lips. That didn't stop him, however, from trying to get it on with his wife (or better yet, his appendage, because she was nothing more than that), if only because of his desire to get her pregnant, even if she wanted to claw his eyes out and spit in his face every time he was near.

But a King needed a Heir. Even his kingdom was made of nothing but white powder and counterfeit money.

Cass shook her head, feeling, once more, terribly sorry for her sister. It was not the first time thoughts of running away plagued her mind, but she knew they weren't realistic. She could get out, no problem. Hérc? Most likely. But the Queen was under constant vigilance, even if the only thing she did was tend to her garden. Blue, blue, blue.

The blonde woman went back to the painting she was working on.

A dreadful scene; a beheading. Her father, Fernando García, the executioner, holding the blade. Behind him, Orión, with sadistic eyes, capillaries bursting. Her sister, Andrómeda, the executed. Dressed in white; like a martyr, a symbol of purity, even if she had a child clinging to her chest. No tragic face, but defiance, on her expression. In the crowd, Hatter, with a smile. Aguni, horrified. Hérc and her, screaming in terror.

Was nobody going to stop this?

Could they not see how unfair this was?

After thinking about it for a few seconds, she grabbed the thinnest brush she had and dipped it in paint. Stroke after stroke, she formed a figure. A white rabbit. With its long ears and soft tail, looking at the scene knowingly. A wedding band on one of its paws, engraved with letters she couldn't make out. Did it say Fate, maybe? Next to it, a mask with six eyes and a red sigil. A card, the ace of Hearts.

Why? Divine inspiration.

A deity speaking into her ear, over the murmur of the wind: the tale is not yet over.

You can still win.

[airi-of-hearts]

♡ Written for @cheshire-shuntaro's amazing Drug Cartel AU ♡ Airi is an undercover detective who has infiltrated the cartel for personal reasons, and she's not exactly orthodox in her methods, her heart may get compromised along the way ♥

Three sharp knocks interrupted what she was doing. What they’d been doing. Airi smiled teasingly at Hatter, laughing internally at his sudden agitation, his flustered demeanor. Had he forgotten about his weekly report with his star chemist? She certainly hadn’t. Airi had known those three knocks would come precisely a minute before their regular meeting time. Like clockwork, she thought. 

Over the past few months, she had learned a lot about the workings of Hatter’s operation. Ah, no. El Sombrerero’s operation, was it? The name didn’t make a difference to her, he was still a narcissistic lunatic and that would be his downfall.

Airi winked at Hatter and swept out of his office the same way she’d come, through the door behind his desk. Why he bothered with the secrecy was a mystery to her. If he thought no one knew they were… involved, he was frankly out of his mind. But well, this much she knew.

Her bedroom—which was really more like an apartment in itself, and was connected to his, of course—had a magnificent view of the pool. Airi wondered if Hatter had intentionally assigned her a room that did not look out to the garden to keep her as separate as possible from his beautiful wife. 

‘Quel idiot,’ Airi muttered to herself. She stepped out to the balcony and leaned on the top rail to think about her next steps.

She had hoped to listen in during Chishiya's weekly report, not only because of the actual information, that she could find out soon enough. The real reason she had wanted to stay was because she wanted to see The White Rabbit’s face when Hatter told him what he had in mind for the banquet. A personal suggestion of hers, too. Deranged? Yes, of course. But that was very much the point.

On first arriving at Hatter's palatial domains she’d been afraid, she could admit to that. But now? She was getting bolder, more reckless. Of course, one could argue that volunteering herself to infiltrate a drug cartel at the highest level wasn’t exactly what a cautious person would do, but Airi had her reasons. One reason at first, actually. A simple one? Yes, but a very personal and strong one. Revenge.

Airi was well aware that her superiors had only agreed to send her because she was expendable to them. Proving them wrong was a secondary goal. All she cared about was avenging her brother. The one that Hatter had murdered in cold blood in Tokyo ten years ago. When it became clear that no one would do anything about it, Airi swore she’d do it herself. 

It had taken years, but now she was here. Her grief and her anger as fresh as when she’d first heard what had happened. Would Hatter recognize her brother’s face in her? Would he remember the scared little girl she had been back then?

Airi turned her face toward the sun and closed her eyes, basking in the warm feeling on her skin. She’d need to report to her contact soon. She knew they were losing patience and they might decide to pull her out any day now. She also knew that every day she spent inside of that mansion was a deadly risk. If Hatter—or anyone, for that matter—found out who she was she’d be as good as dead.

Kill him already. Be done with it, she scolded herself. Not yet, but soon.

Soon.

Infiltrating the cartel had been easier than she had expected. All it took was a rehearsed performance of perfectly balanced flirtatious admiration and cold indifference during one of his frequent visits to the most popular night club in Mar del Plata. Hatter had snuck Airi to the mansion that very night. 

She could have killed him in his sleep then and there. But she had stopped herself for two reasons. One, it would be dangerous for her; his goons had seen them together, if anything happened to Hatter that night, they would know she had something to do with it. And two… why should he get a swift death when she had suffered so much? That simply wasn’t fair.

No. She would play him as much as she could. By all accounts she was doing a fantastic job of that already. Airi had always known the man was prone to delusions of grandeur, arrogant displays of power; she had heard stories from back in the day when he’d run his operation in Tokyo. So she used the influence she had on him to fill his head with outlandish ideas. Like getting Andean Cats for his garden, for example. 

Whether Hatter actually got the cats or not was irrelevant. The point was that by communicating this nonsensical request, no, an order, he would also be conveying that he was losing his tenuous grip on reality. His cartel, his empire, would have no choice but to replace him. Yes. If Airi could have a hand in destroying what Hatter had built, what he loved the most, then she’d consider her brother avenged. And then she would kill Hatter.

[somatheking]

The Genie.

In which Soma and Chishiya have a talk about the future of Hatter's cartel.

At 7:30AM the sun begins to filter in through the blinds of Soma's apartment, casting a light over the activities he'd been engaging in the previous night. It bounces off the bottles of glass that are strewn across the floor, bending and breaking off in several directions, occasionally meeting a few coloured drops of spirits still inside (brown, mostly, because Soma favours rum and whiskey, but there are a few bottles dripping in fancy shades of green, which might be absinthe, and blue, which is either blue curaçao or something else Chishiya has no clue about). The floor is a kaleidoscopic mess of colours, refracted light and stains that stick to his soles if he steps on them, though the rest of his apartment is squeaky clean. The white of the walls is unperturbed and the cushions of the sofa are plump and symmetrically disposed on the two armrests. 

It's a strange scene to walk into at 7:30AM. Soma barely owns anything and his apartment looks more like a hotel room than a place someone's lived in for over six years, plus the dissonance between the debauchery the floor suggests and the normalcy of the rest of the apartment makes it feel like Chishiya just walked into a movie set, where the director might suddenly walk in shouting 'action!', they'll take their places, and the scene will start. It's a pretty badly organised movie set, one critics would shred to pieces for the obvious falseness of it all, but he knows Soma's cleaning lady only stops by once a week and it's a pain in the ass for a blind person to clean walls and sofas, so he'll let it slide. 

Soma is, surprisingly, taking into account his constant need for attention, not in the middle of the mess. He's with his side pressed against the wall, a bottle propped below his neck and another being cradled in his arms. Given how he took the time to painstakingly place all the other bottles across the floor, it feels like the one he's carefully holding might not have been a random choice on his behalf, though Chishiya can't see the label because it's turned to face Soma's chest. What he can see, however, is how his long palmar muscle is taut, the tendon bulging against the skin of his wrist. He's awake, then. The long palmar is a muscle not every person has, but Chishiya long noticed Soma did from the hours they spent together inside a lab, watching how it flickered between tense and loose as he picked up tubes and flasks and then put them down, hypnotic and rhythmic. He's making an effort to hold the bottle. He's awake.

"Are you dead?" asks Chishiya amiably, with his hands shoved inside his pockets and standing at a prudent distance from the man. 

Soma doesn't answer. Not straight away at least. He puts on the farce of groaning with deep, gravelly voice as if to simulate a hangover, and his mouth contorts in protest before opening to drawl out the following words: "Who is this?"

Chishiya snorts. He's pushing it, over-acting. "I thought blind people were supposed to have sharper senses to make up for the lack of eyesight."

"Yes, well," replies Soma with a half-smile, propping himself up on his elbows. Even though it doesn't make much difference, his eyes open and a sliver of light shines on his left one, as if it's a scar splitting his eye in two. "Drugs fucked up the other four senses. Some more than others."

Some more than others indeed.

Soma could and should be used as part of a drug prevention program. When he scrambles up, uncoordinated and pitiful, patting the floor to search for a walking stick that is nowhere near him and all the way across the room, Chishiya thinks of how one look at him would send most people running away, speeding to make it to the nearest rehab centre. Everyone who's ever snorted a few lines of coke knows they're probably not going to end the year with their nasal septum intact, some might know there's a chance they get to see the inside of an ER from having a stroke, but only a very select few are aware that side effects are not limited to things you only see in a doctor’s notes but won’t come face to face in a mirror. They can claim whichever parts of the body they want. 

In Soma's case, they had claimed everything. There's purple patches of skin on his nose, ears and cheeks, and though clothes are currently covering the rest of his body, his thighs, lower abdomen and chest are also affected. The correct clinical term is purpura, elevated purplish lesions that whiten and hurt like a bitch when they're pressed but don't seem to bother Soma much. It's as if his body is a beggar's cloak and he keeps patching it up to the point of discoloration, or as if he's Frankenstein's monster and the foreign limbs are starting to reject him and decay. 

The incorrect term, but what it actually looks like, is rot. He looks like he’s rotting from the inside out. 

"Alright, then," says Soma, who’s finally managed to stand up. "Beach?"

Chishiya doesn't question this, even if his reason for visiting Soma is by far not going to the beach like they're friends, and he just nods. 

"Get dressed. Or rather, undressed. In any case, there's swimming trunks in the second drawer of the black wardrobe, and you already know where the bathroom is, if you don't wanna get naked in front of a blind man."

"Sure. I need to go to the bathroom anyways," replies Chishiya, grabbing a pair of swimming trunks with blue palm trees and a greenish white colour from the discoloration of pool chemicals. If only to make things quicker, Chishiya hands him an orange one and his walking stick, which Soma acknowledges with a nod. 

"I'll just change here," he mumbles, already shimmying down his trousers without caring much about Chishiya still being there. The latter, before he can see more of Soma's body than he wants to, disappears inside the bathroom, but not before catching a quick glimpse of the bottle he’d been holding in his theatrical arrangement. 

And once he sees it, he understands.

—--

“A Captain Morgan,” says Chishiya, once they’ve trudged down the ramp that leads to the beach in front of the apartment complex Soma lives in and walked into the sea until water covered their knees. “I’m surprised you remembered.” Soma had so comfortably settled into his position as consigliere that it was strange to recall the days where he simply worked as a cocaine producer for Hatter. He’d changed so radically too (cut ties with all his friends, became blind, got levamisole poisoning and a reckless and flippant attitude that never died down) and left behind so many things that it was hard to believe he hadn’t also left behind his memories of that time. But there it was, clear as day, the Captain Morgan bottle being the one cradled in his arms, when back in the day when Soma half-pretended, half-began to dip his toes into alcoholism, they’d planted a Captain Morgan bottle in the lab whenever one of them noticed a bug. 

Soma scoffs in response, kicking his leg in response to an algae getting tangled in his foot. “Give me a bit of credit here, I’m still good at what I do, even if it’s a pain in the ass these days. And it’s the only way I could think of to prevent you from blabbing anything in my place. You’ve been so persistent in trying to find me for the past week that I was afraid you’d just blurt everything out the moment you saw me.”

If Chishiya’s annoyed by this horrible judge of character, it doesn’t show. All business, sadly, no time to catch up with an old friend and trade some barbs for the sake of old times. “How long has your apartment been bugged?”

“Hard to say,” he replies with a shrug. “Lately, it feels like any idiot with half a brain decides to plant a bug in my house just for kicks. They aren’t subtle about it, either; one day someone’s gonna get the brilliant idea to plant one up my ass or something. Got me inventing a whole new code out of fucking alcohol bottles out of all things so I can communicate with my usual associates.”

“And as a result, you get drunk.”

“Hey, I'm overworked," protests Soma, albeit jokingly. "I have to make some time for my hobbies, no?" 

"Sure."

Silence falls between them. Despite how talkative Soma is, for some reason, that had never applied to Chishiya. The once extroverted, amiable man had soon understood they'd get along far better if Chishiya was left to his own devices, and now, devious and cunning, he respected him enough to not try to wrangle information out of him, and the result of it was this. Silence, only broken by the cawing of seagulls and the waves crashing against their legs. 

“Do you know about Hatter’s latest request?” suddenly asks Chishiya, as he hears the rasping sound of a lighter and turns to look at Soma, who’s produced a cigarette out of nowhere and is in the process of lighting it up. Occupied as he is, he nods at Chishiya to continue, a cloud of smoke billowing out of his lips. “He wants me to borrow, or steal, two Andean cats from the zoo.”

“Well, shit,” says Soma, with a laugh and another cloud of smoke. “He’s really lost it.”

“You don’t sound concerned.”

“Not really. If he’s commanded you to do it, I’m sure you’ll find a way around it. And, hell, it’s not the craziest thing he’s currently up to.”

Again, if Chishiya is surprised by the half compliment, it doesn’t show. “I haven’t caught wind of anything crazier than kidnapping endangered animals for the sake of putting on a show for the Chief of Police, who’s coming over for lunch.”

A sly smile stretches the edges of Soma’s lips. “Like I said, I’m still good at what I do.”

It’s not like Chishiya knows, and he’s made sure it definitely doesn’t show, but for the past few months he’s been running around like a headless chicken, playing an incessant game of Whack-a-mole. One mole pops up, Soma hits him in the head with the hammer. As soon as that one goes away, another one appears, and then another one, and another one. Too many moles, both in the figurative and the literal sense; more and more people seemed to have switched sides to either another drug cartel or to the government’s witness protection plan, and paranoia was spreading. There’s only so many moles he can take care of, so much water he can bail out of a sinking ship.

“Look, as much as I’m sure the views from here are beautiful, I’d appreciate it if you just told me what you’re here for. There’s a lot of agua viva here in summer, and I don’t want to find out what a jellyfish sting would do to the parts of my body with purpura. I might be blind, but I’m not blind, you know. If you’re here, that means you want action. You’d have gone to that kid Jordyn if all you wanted was information.”

“I think it’s time for Hatter to retire.”

It’s hard to say which is stranger, how bluntly those words came out of Chishiya’s mouth, or how despite the fact that this couldn’t be taken as anything other than treason, Soma is nonplussed. Soma, who owed his entire life to Hatter, who picked him up when his father died and found a new position for him after he became blind. Who had given him a room of his own in his mansion for whenever he needed to stay over because of business matters. Hell, Soma had been nicknamed The Genie, el genio de la lámpara, he who made Hatter’s wishes come true. Not his right-hand man, but the one who got his hands dirty so Hatter didn’t have to. 

“Yeah,” he replies, his tone as steady and nonchalant as if Chishiya had announced tomorrow was going to be hot. “I think you’re right.”

[andromedagarcia]

For the Drug Cartel AU @cheshire-shuntaro created. A little interaction between Andro and @airi-of-hearts ♡

Flash. Laugh and nod, act like you heard them.

Flash. Oh, yes, we're trying for a baby. But we are still young, you know...

Flash. Look at Takeru as if you were deadly enamored.

Flash. I really can't do this anymore.

'I need a second, love, I'll be back soon.' Andrómeda excused herself, curving her lips upwards. It wasn't a smile — her dark eyes showed nothing behind them. Absolute void. But her full, perfectly painted red lips knew the deal. And so, she made her way towards the bathroom, waving and blowing kisses to people before her hands were busy furiously grabbing a drink from one of the waiters going around with trays full of them. Swallowing the contents of it in mere seconds, giving it to some other man in some stupid uniform. If this was real life, why did it seem like a scene from a movie?

Even the bathrooms of the club were extravagant. Everywhere she looked, Andrómeda saw her husband's hand; the sinks were made out of gold, for starters. Apparently, white porcelain didn't satisfy him. Just like she, or his many different whores, didn't. Couldn't. He always wanted more. He craved whatever it was he couldn't have. Playing with people as if there were toys, interesting as long as they were new, throwing them to the side once they started showing signs of wear.

Speaking about...

Takeru's latest obsession entered the bathroom. A pretty little thing, Andrómeda had to admit. A cute face, a nice body. Looked younger than she probably was, something enticing to any man. The boldness, bringing her to a party he knew his wife would attend. The disrespect. A concoction of sadness and anger inside of her, the feeling that she was about to explode. Suddenly, in her hand, the pin of the grenade and an event coming to motion. There was no stopping it, now.

'Are you getting tested for sexually transmitted diseases?'

Andrómeda's tone the same one she would have used to ask about the weather, as she rummaged through her bag, searching for powder to set her makeup with. When she found it, was also when she finally laid eyes on her. Airi. The spirit everybody pretended not to believe in, but absolutely everyone had seen.

'I don't know what he tells you. But he still sleeps with me. And with many others. I don't think you're stupid enough to believe you're the only one, yes?' What was she trying to do? Hurt her, destroy her? Let her know which was her place? She went back to looking in the mirror. To doing what she had been hired to do; be the most beautiful woman in the place. The envy of everybody else; men wanted her. Women hated her. She, also, wasn't stupid enough to believe her marriage was anything other than a business contract. 'I would be a lot more calm knowing you're clean.'

'Look, Airi...' her name, pronounced as an insult. 'There's no love between us. If there was, he wouldn't be fucking you. I don't know what it is that you want, but you're not taking my place. I would gladly hand it to you, if it was up to me, but it's not so... just leave. Go home. To your little apartment. Come when he needs you to, fuck his brains out, tire him enough so that he never touches me again, I beg of you. But I won't tolerate you here, or anywhere else, when I'm around. Understood?'

If words had been knives, the blonde woman would have one sticking out her throat.

'Now, if you'll excuse me.'