#i like building characters and making teams

[aldisobey]

HE IS RISEN

Here to share some of my favorites with you from the first two bits. It caught the moooood tonight. This morning. Its my friday. Below because obnoxiously long? You're warned

Well, as immediately as whatever was living on his gloved hands would allow. He often had to let it go through the voicemail the first time as he divested himself of gloves, but there was almost always an immediate second call.

Storytelling masterwork. Look at the character building. Look at all the information we get. A glimpse at the work he does, the urgency of the previous nannies. I love stuff like this.

The other was an incident involving Johanna the cat, which resulted in Emmrich talking her through the process of dismantling the basement drop ceiling.

Here it is again. That world and character building. We get Johanna the cat. We get Rook and Emmrich being pretty capable as as a team too, or maybe I just hate audio instructions. Also cat shenanigans.

Rook had offered insight into what such a partnership might be.

The way I can feel a tiny heartbeat in my throat. Dangerous thoughts sir.

But then, that thought veered too closely to something that Emmrich had spent a great deal of time trying to ignore over the last six month

Ah he knows. But circling round it. Has that peace to think. The insight to want such perhaps?

He couldn’t be blamed, therefore, for answering the phone with a hurried and abrupt prompt of, “What’s happened?”

And all that build up and charcter leads to such a heavy drop, and a deep knowing of his thoughts without having to spell them out in moment

“What’s wrong?” he asked, standing immediately to gather his things.

Few words heavy emotin. This paints the deep worry and concern. I live for it.

there was an odd quality to her voice—stifled, as though with congestion. She’d been experiencing no such ailment this morning at breakfast, when she’d come in from her apartment..."Oh dear," tutted Emmrich

You pepper the world building so perfectly. Now we now their living situation, their schedule, how aware he is how attentive she is, how they both might. Oh dear is alright Rook's having a medical emergency but skirt aaaaaaa. And the mug!!!

Minanter River the previous afternoon and likely wouldn’t surface until she’d gleaned the name of the man’s tax adjuster from the color of his liver.

More workd building more character building shile moving scrne along you do see how fuckin well balanced this is don't you

He comforted himself with it as he sprinted towards the parking garage, open suit jacket flailing behind him.

I just like this mental image. Pause here and watch him run a bit.

“You’ll be alright, my dear,” Emmrich said. “Where’s Manfred?”

AAAAAA the pause was worth it. Made that my dear SLAP

“That’s quite fine, darling. Breathe—slow, deep. You’ll hear the door open in a few minutes. It will be a neighbor coming to take Manfred. I don’t want you to get up. I’ll come find you when I get home.”

A DARLING THE SLOW THE DEEP A HALL OF FAME and just lay down he'll come find here??! Its wild over here!?

Nonetheless, he kept the touch as perfunctory as possible—a brief, chaste touch to the very apple of her kneecap.

He might tooo direct the preciseness of it. Thinkin a bit much about it him.

He’d nearly tried to convince her to let him carry her to the car.

Such a simple sentence. Having me grinding my teeth.

He made himself veer away from those thoughts when he realized that it was his own bed he was imagining tucking her into.

ITS ALL SO DOMESTIC wait i get it enlightenment later

“So you must be Mrs. Volkarin,” said Reldevar immediately, holding out a hand for Rook to shake.

Bless you Dr

“Your husband’s got it in one, Rook.

St. Reldevar I'm lighting candles in your honor. How he stayed silent snd not beat red. That strained smile oh he is GOIN through it

sort of car-crash impulse. It happened very quickly, and he couldn’t quite make himself look away;

This entire paragraph is simply wild i am. Its just a butt. Its just a man looking at a butt. Why cant I turn away something is wrong here

Emmrich floundered for his own self-control.

And then the

Rook tossed her head in Emmrich’s direction, seemed to almost wink.

I love you Rook you know EXACTLY what youre up to. I love you for it.

"Yes,” Emmrich murmured. “I can certainly do that.”

Ooh no look at the time intermission for me. I love this story. I'll read it again.

Nanny AU? Nanny AU.

Emmrich was somewhat used to receiving panicked phone calls at work. The nanny situation with Manfred had been tumultuous for quite some time—there had been a year or so there where Manfred had burned through nannies like a fire through kindling. Four professionals had come and gone, and Emmrich had learned that very few things were sacred when one had an overly precocious genius-level three-year-old at home; especially one’s work hours. He’d taken to answering the phone immediately upon feeling it vibrate in his back pocket. Well, as immediately as whatever was living on his gloved hands would allow. He often had to let it go through the voicemail the first time as he divested himself of gloves, but there was almost always an immediate second call.

That was, until Rook.

In the six months since hiring her, Emmrich had only received two phone calls at work. Rook seemed to almost pathologically respect Emmrich’s working hours, and only called during utmost emergencies. The first, only a week into the current arrangement, had been to inform him that Manfred had vomited at school and she needed him to call the school and give them her information so that she could pick him up. The other was an incident involving Johanna the cat, which resulted in Emmrich talking her through the process of dismantling the basement drop ceiling.

Rook’s respect of his work hours was one of the many reasons why Emmrich had come to deeply appreciate her presence in his life—aside from her positive influence on Manfred, of course, and her skill in helping to nurture and educate him. Emmrich had known, of course, that single parenthood was an undertaking not to be taken lightly, and he would certainly never regret the decision to create his little family, but the lack of a partner in the endeavor had rankled at times. Rook had offered insight into what such a partnership might be.

But then, that thought veered too closely to something that Emmrich had spent a great deal of time trying to ignore over the last six months.

In any case, the dropoff in sudden calls had allowed Emmrich to reclaim a piece of his own sense of peace that he hadn’t even realized had gone missing. He’d at least stopped walking into work while wondering what unplanned issues would arise during the day.

On the other hand, he now knew that on the occasions that his phone did ring at work—with Rook’s particular ringtone to indicate to him that it was her calling—it was truly an emergency.

He couldn’t be blamed, therefore, for answering the phone with a hurried and abrupt prompt of, “What’s happened?” when Rook’s ringtone pierced the calm and quiet of his office on a Tuesday afternoon.

“Manfred’s fine,” she said immediately, prompting yet another rush of gratitude from him—she was intuitive that way. The relief flooded back out of his system, however, when Rook followed it up with, “I’m really sorry to bother you, Emmrich, but I think I need to go to the hospital, so you should probably come home.”

“What’s wrong?” he asked, standing immediately to gather his things. On a handful of occasions, he’d been summoned home to take over care if a nanny had some unforeseen event—issues with their own childcare, sudden mid-day illness, and on one occasion an on-the-spot resignation. That had been a memorable and unfortunate day.

A medical emergency was a new and horrifying occurrence.

“Manfred crawled under the hedgerow and I had to chase him through the field behind the house,” Rook said, and there was an odd quality to her voice—stifled, as though with congestion. She’d been experiencing no such ailment this morning at breakfast, when she’d come in from her apartment in the guesthouse and helped him clean up the carnage of Manfred’s oatmeal. She, herself, had smelled of strawberries. Her skirt had fluttered just a little too high as she ran down the driveway to hand him his forgotten travel mug as he ducked into his car.

“Oh dear,” Emmrich tutted, locking his office behind him as he swept into the hallway. He made the split-second decision to simply text Johanna—the person, not the cat—that he’d had a family emergency and would follow up with her about the day’s cases at a later time. Johanna was unlikely to notice his absence, as it was; she was elbows-deep in some unfortunate soul pulled from the Minanter River the previous afternoon and likely wouldn’t surface until she’d gleaned the name of the man’s tax adjuster from the color of his liver.

“And he’s fine,” Rook reiterated, as though she genuinely thought that that was still his major concern after she’d told him that she was intending to seek emergency medical attention for something that Emmrich’s very own three-year-old had subjected her to. “But there was deathroot? Growing in the field? And I’m super allergic. Usually I just break out in hives, but there was so much of it, and I was wearing a sundress, and anyway I’m having trouble breathing—"

“Do you have an epi-pen?”

“No,” Rook said, “Like I said—it’s never been this bad before. I think I might have inhaled some of the pollen.”

“Calm down,” Emmrich said, sinking into his medical training and pushing the alarm to the back of his mind. It had been years since his practice had taken its turn towards the deceased, and he was unused to treating living patients, but the knowledge was still there. He comforted himself with it as he sprinted towards the parking garage, open suit jacket flailing behind him. “There should be Benadryl in the master bedroom ensuite. Chew two capsules, open a window and sit down. If you feel your throat closing or start feeling lightheaded, you need to call emergency. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Okay.” Rook’s voice was faint—less assured than he’d ever heard her.

“You’ll be alright, my dear,” Emmrich said. “Where’s Manfred?”

“I put him in his room with some toys. He’s probably making a mess, but there’s nothing he can hurt himself with and I didn’t trust myself—”

“That’s quite fine, darling. Breathe—slow, deep. You’ll hear the door open in a few minutes. It will be a neighbor coming to take Manfred. I don’t want you to get up. I’ll come find you when I get home.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Rook said, and the fact that this was her token argument showed her state.

“I’ll not let you drive yourself to the hospital in the state you’re in,” Emmrich said firmly. “I’ll be there shortly. Stay calm.”

Rook’s low, mumbled agreement and the tone of the call ending sounded as Emmrich started his car and the phone connected to the sound system. As he peeled backwards out of his assigned parking spot and executed a maneuver of suspect legality to merge summarily onto the roadway, he initiated a second call.

The line picked up immediately, as he suspected it would.

“Myrna,” he said, even before she’d finished her cool, perfunctory Hello? as she answered the phone. “Are you or Vorgoth working from the home office today?”

-0-

“I’m really sorry about all of this, Emmrich.”

For at least the third time since a nurse had led them into this awful little room, Emmrich offered Rook a strained smile and patted her knee. She’d put on leggings before his arrival at the house, probably to cover up the scrapes and bruises from her excursion through the hedgerow and deathroot patch, and his hand met nothing but soft, body-warm cotton. Nonetheless, he kept the touch as perfunctory as possible—a brief, chaste touch to the very apple of her kneecap.

“Don’t apologize, Rook,” he said, shifting restlessly in his plastic chair. Rook was perched in a large vinyl medical recliner, knees drawn up to her chest and face pressed to her own thighs. Her breathing had become slightly less labored in the last hour or so, after he’d arrived at the house to find her sitting on the chaise lounge in the master bedroom reading nook, face ashen and hands fisted into one of his mother’s quilts. He’d nearly tried to convince her to let him carry her to the car.

As her breathing eased, however, she began to itch and the rash worsened—large plaques of urticaria covering a vast swath of her skin. Emmrich kept a careful vigil on the patches, on the color of her lips, looking for any sign of a worsening reaction.

They had her on a pulse oximeter, which was beeping steadily at 74 beats per minute and 99% oxygen saturation—both good signs. A nurse had taken her blood pressure upon their arrival, frowned slightly, and left. Emmrich suspected this to mean that it had been slightly elevated, which was to be expected with the stress of the situation and the antihistamine he’d directed her to take earlier.

They’d been waiting for over an hour for the attending physician.

“I don’t know what’s taking so long,” Rook sighed into her knees, as she itched frantically at a plaque of hives on her shoulder.

“Unfortunately, with your vitals, you’re likely not considered top priority at the moment,” Emmrich murmured.

“I want to go home,” Rook muttered, a tone of abject misery to her voice, and Emmrich wanted nothing more than to fulfill her desire. Take her home, put her to bed and offer her something warm and comforting to drink.

He made himself veer away from those thoughts when he realized that it was his own bed he was imagining tucking her into.

A wholly inappropriate thought to have about one’s live-in nanny, said a voice in the back of his head, which unfortunately sounded too much like Johanna for comfort. You decrepit old popinjay, it added as though to confirm.

Emmrich indulged in a sigh of his own, buried his face in the heel of his hand, and said, “A little longer, darling.” When he realized what he’d said—and he’d used that word earlier as well, hadn’t he?—he looked back up in time to catch an odd, soft expression cross Rook’s face.

“I’m sorry,” he said, wearily. “Habit.”

“I like it,” she whispered. She looked very small, sad and…young sitting there, wrapped around herself in a tense bundle.

Before Emmrich could say or do anything, the curtain of the triage room slid aside. This, of course, was for the best.

“Sigrid?” said the man who’d just arrived—the attending physician, by all indications, given he was wearing the darker blue scrubs that this hospital used to indicate such a role, and Emmrich in fact recognized him as one of the ER physicians he’d had encounters with in his role as medical examiner.

“Yes,” said Rook, though it took Emmrich a moment to remember that yes, that actually was her legal name. The one she never used and seemed averse to anyone else using, either. To evidence this, she added, “Though, I go by Rook—it should be in my paperwork as my preferred—”

“Oh, it does say that,” said the physician, tugging a rolling chair several unnecessary feet across the cramped room. He mounted it backwards and tapped his clipboard. “Sorry, I’m still getting used to this whole preferred name thing. Us old dogs have to learn a few new tricks, I suppose. So you’re Rook, she/her pronouns, and who’ve you brought with you today?” He looked to Emmrich, furrowed his brows, and said, “Oh, Doctor Volkarin. I almost didn’t recognize you out of the morgue.”

Emmrich offered a brief, wane smile. “Doctor Reldevar.”

“So you must be Mrs. Volkarin,” said Reldevar immediately, holding out a hand for Rook to shake.

Oddly, Rook didn’t deny it—she shook Reldevar’s hand, though unsmiling, and offered Emmrich a brief shrug when the good doctor looked back down at his clipboard.

“Oh, sorry, stuck my foot in my mouth again,” Reldevar said, still examining the clipboard, “You kept your maiden name, huh? Lots of women doing that these days. Anyway, Rook, it looks like you’re in today about some breathing trouble?”

“An allergic reaction to deathweed, it would seem,” Emmrich said, taking the burden of speaking away from her—which she offered him a small, grateful smile for behind her knees. “Poor Rook is very allergic, and crawled through a patch this afternoon after Manfred—that is, my son—ran off into the field behind our house. I believe she inhaled some of the pollen and received quite considerable topical exposure. She was badly scraped by the thorns. I directed her to take an antihistamine to stop the worst of the initial reaction, but steroids will probably be necessary to prevent another, worse recurrence of the reaction due to the extent of exposure.”

Reldevar hummed, pursed his lips, flipped through the pages of Rook’s paperwork for a further moment, then snapped his fingers and pointed in Emmrich’s direction. “Your husband’s got it in one, Rook. We’ll fix you up with a steroid injection here in the hospital and we’ll watch you for a little bit to make sure the reaction is going down, and then we’ll send you home with…eh, probably a prednisone prescription and a topical ointment for those hives. How’s that sound?”

“Um, fine?” said Rook, still itching, and Reldevar presented her with his hand to shake again.

“Sounds good,” he said, and leaned over to shake Emmrich’s hand as well. “Take care, Doctor.” He winked. “Take the missus home and give her a day away from the kid, huh? Sounds like he’s a handful.”

Emmrich responded with nothing but a strained smile, and Reldevar took his leave back out the curtain of the triage room.

As the curtain was still swinging, Rook took in a deep breath and said, “I just felt like it was harder to explain the situation—”

“Of course,” Emmrich said, wiggling his hands equivocally in front of himself. “That’s entirely—”

“—and I thought, maybe he’d listen to me if he thought—”

“Oh, absolutely.”

They fell into an odd, awkward silence of the sort that they’d never really had to suffer through. Rook was almost universally easy to talk to, at least so far as Emmrich was concerned, and conversation had always flowed easily between them—whether it had to do with Manfred, various professional conversations that had to take place due to Emmrich’s position as Rook’s employer and de facto landlord, or conversations of a more personal nature.

Rook settled back into the recliner, looking small and tired, and Emmrich could do nothing but reach over to pat her knee again.

It took another half an hour for a nurse to arrive with the promised steroid injection.

“So this needs to go into a large muscle,” said the nurse. “We usually do the muscle in one of your glutes—meaning this area here—” the nurse gestured to her own rear, somewhere in the area where thigh became butt. “If that’s alright with you, I just need you to lift your dress and pull your leggings to the side.”

Rook sighed, but showed no significant reluctance to the idea—even despite Emmrich’s continued presence. He knew, obviously, that this was his cue to excuse himself or at least look away, but he was trapped by some sort of car-crash impulse. It happened very quickly, and he couldn’t quite make himself look away; Rook rose from her chair, pulled her sundress up around her waist and lowered her leggings just far enough to reveal the buttery expanse of one smooth thigh and asscheek. She was clearly wearing very scant undergarments. The only real indication that she was wearing panties at all was the barest peek of a dark purple thong cresting the apple of her hip.

“This might sting a little more than your average flu shot,” the nurse cautioned as she swiped an alcohol wipe onto Rook’s flank. “It’ll ache a bit tomorrow. But once we’re done, you can go home, so that’s good…”

Emmrich became aware of just how hard he’d been clenching his jaw when Rook gasped at the prick of the syringe and his mouth, quite involuntarily, fell open just slightly. He could feel his pulse in his teeth. His legs, crossed over each other in a habitual mannerism, ached from how tensely he was holding himself. Between them, his traitorous prick stirred, intrigued by a breathless sound from a beautiful woman and the sight of her nearly bare ass.

“Oh, shit, you weren’t kidding,” Rook said, fingers visibly whitening on the armrest of the chair she’d bent herself over. “That hurts. Oh, Maker, that fucking burns—”

“Sorry,” the nurse said, genuine sympathy in her voice as she capped the syringe. She dropped it into a nearby sharps container and fastened a piece of gauze over the pinprick of blood now welling up on Rook’s otherwise pristine skin. Emmrich floundered for his own self-control. “Good news is, you’re done! The doctor already sent your prescription over to your pharmacy on file. Your discharge papers are on the table here. Any questions?”

“Oh, I live with a doctor.” Rook tossed her head in Emmrich’s direction, seemed to almost wink. “He’ll take care of me, and I just really want to go home.”

“Medical examiner,” Emmrich said, perhaps a little louder than he’d meant to. Rook had yet to pull her leggings back up all the way—the purple thong abided, teasing him from underneath the hiked-up hem of her dress. “I do have—technically, yes, I’m a medical doctor—"

“Fair enough,” said the nurse, in what was perhaps the politest way possible to say I do not have time for this. To Rook, she added, “Feel better!” and then took her leave to the tune of the curtain rings rattling on the rod and the swish of scrubs.

“Your leggings, my dear,” Emmrich said into the subsequent silence—or, at least, the lack of conversation; the rooms around them were still full of sound. Beeping heart monitors, coughing patients and the tapping of shoes on tile.

“Oh,” said Rook, who in that very moment seemed to remember that her entire hip and most of her right asscheek were uncovered. She pulled them up, wincing at the drag over her recently abused flesh, and sighed into her palm. “Take me home, please?”

“Yes,” Emmrich murmured. “I can certainly do that.”

-0-

Upon walking through the door, Johanna immediately made her discontent at the hour of their arrival known. It was indeed quite significantly past her typical dinnertime, and she was a creature of habit—but Emmrich still considered the unrepentant yowling a bit excessive.

“Oh, hush,” he admonished her, ushering Rook in the door with a hand at the small of her back. She’d deteriorated rapidly on the car ride home—visibly tiring and becoming distressed and impatient with the persistent itching of her skin. She was bright red in places, including her shoulders and arms, and her normally pinned hair had come down in large drapes against her face and the back of her neck. At some point, Emmrich had offered her a discarded cardigan from the backseat, and she now wore it draped around her shoulders. It was gray, a little lumpy, and inspired an incongruous urge of possessiveness to curl itself around Emmrich’s heart every time he glanced at her.

“Rook,” he began as he turned on the foyer light, “It would comfort me greatly if you stayed in the guest room tonight, instead of returning to your flat in the guest house. It’s entirely up to you, of course, but it would ease my mind if—”

“Believe me, Emmrich, the last thing I want to do right now is walk all the way to the guest house,” Rook sighed. Hearteningly, she pulled his cardigan tighter around herself. “I’ll make up the bedroom for myself.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Emmrich said, in almost the tone he used to admonish Manfred when he indulged his more mischievous impulses. “I’ll make up the bedroom and run you a bath. It would be a good idea to remove any remaining material from your skin before you sleep.”

“Emmrich, I can’t let you—” Rook sighed, grunted, and attempted to reach her hand down the back of her shirt to, presumably, scratch at a patch of urticaria on an inaccessible portion of her back. “You’re my—I can’t put you out like that—”

“Nonsense,” Emmrich replied, determined to make that the end of the conversation. He mounted the stairs rapidly, using his superior height to his advantage for once, and he’d already begun filling the guest bathroom tub with nearly-scalding water by the time he saw Rook make her way into the bedroom through the cracked door.

Of the bedrooms in his house, one of them was the master—which featured a full ensuite bathroom with whirlpool tub and generously-sized rainfall shower stall. Manfred’s bedroom was attached Jack-and-Jill style to Emmrich's office via a childproofed bath that featured a toilet with a potty seat installed, child-height vanity and a shower bath strewn with all manner of toys. The fourth bedroom was smallest and therefore had the smallest bathroom—a simple three-quarters bath with only a tub, though it was claw-footed and generous in size. Emmrich knelt on the plush rug and ran the bath, peering through the cracked door and attempting to convince himself not to.

It was unlikely Rook wasn’t aware of his presence in the bathroom—she could hear the water running, and would almost certainly know that he hadn’t left it to run unattended, if only through habit given the current absence of three-year-olds on the premises. Even so, as she was meandering through the room and passing in and out of view, she was shedding clothes.

First the cardigan, which bared the angry rash on her arms and shoulders. Then the shoes and the leggings—when she next wandered by, Emmrich realized that she had scraped her knees up quite badly, likely while pursuing Manfred under the hedgerow. She stood center in the room for a moment (Emmrich drew a hand through the pooling water in the tub and, upon realizing it was scalding hot, switched the faucet to cool for a moment) and pulled the pins out of her hair. Disappeared. When she next came back into view—

Well, the dress had gone, and he discovered that the thong and bra set had a pattern of skulls.

Emmrich finally convinced his eyes downwards. He was unsurprised but nonetheless mortified to find the telltale swell of an erection evident against his inner thigh. He sighed and rubbed some of the cool water across his forehead.

If this woman was a test from the Maker—or something even more esoteric; a challenge to his vows as a physician perhaps? A sudden hurdle for his self-control and dedication to gentlemanliness to overcome?—she was certainly serving her purpose masterfully.

“Emmrich?”

She’d found a robe—fluffy and white, something he’d put in the closet long ago that might have been left behind when a lover made an unceremonious exit from his life. He’d laundered it regularly for years on the off chance that it would find use again, by a paramour or a guest. Emmrich was utterly unsure which of those labels Rook fell under, especially in the moment.

She seemed to almost know what she’d done—he would certainly not go so far as to say the parade in front of the bathroom door had been intentional, but she at least seemed not to care if he’d been watching. She at least seemed content with the idea that he knew the color of her underwear and the shape of the tattoo on her hip.

It was, interestingly, a black bird. A rook, if he wasn’t mistaken.

“Yes?” Emmrich responded, with an only slightly-too-long pause as she stood in the bathroom doorway and he attempted to make his tongue form sounds.

“Do you have any of that oatmeal bath left from when Manfred had HFMD?”

“Oh! I very well may.” Grateful for a reason to flee and collect himself, Emmrich did so. The colloidal oatmeal was in the back of the cabinet in Manfred’s bathroom—half a box left over from Manfred’s recent bout of Hand, Food and Mouth Disease. A disgusting five days of Emmrich’s life which he was not eager to relive.

Manfred’s fingernails were still regrowing.

Luckily, the thought of weeping blisters did wonders for the exorcism of blood from certain areas of the body. When Emmrich returned to the bathroom, his erection had flagged, and he was able to finish running the bath with all of the professional courtesy demanded of his Hippocratic oath and the employee-employer relationship he held with the attractive and berobed woman sitting on the toilet lid.

“Test the water temperature before you get in,” Emmrich cautioned as he turned off the spigot. “I’m afraid I may have run it too hot to start.”

He’d expected Rook to simply agree, or wait until he’d exited the bathroom, or at least simply use her hand to test it. To his incredulity, she immediately slunk over, pulled the hem of the robe above her knee and dipped a toe in.

The color of her nail polish matched her underwear. He did not know why—or perhaps he was just lying to himself—but it was this particular detail that brought his cock instantly, painfully back to full hardness.

He could not stop himself from imagining those toes in his mouth.

“I think I will also start my nighttime ablutions,” he said, perhaps hoarsely—he could not bring himself to care in the moment.

“Sure,” Rook said vaguely, watching the oatmeal swirl in the tub. “Thanks, Emmrich. Oh—would you help me put the ointment on after this? There are places on my back that I can’t reach.”

“Of course,” Emmrich said, feeling like his head would pop off his shoulders.

He put as many doors between himself and Rook as he possibly could. The guest bathroom, the guest room, his own bedroom door and then the door to his own ensuite. He spent a moment against the back of the bathroom door, eyes squeezed shut, talking himself off the edge.

“Oh, fuck it,” he hissed, and tore into his trousers with the furiousness of a man possessed. He stumbled to the shower, removing clothes as he went, and almost stumbled into the shower stall with his socks still on. The cold water did absolutely nothing to soothe his hot skin or boiling blood—as he slid down onto his knees and tilted his head back under the rainfall of the showerhead, he was already stroking himself with a franticness more typically seen in those half his age.

Maker, she made him feel half his age. When she pranced through his kitchen wearing a sundress and a smile. When she poked her head into his study at night to tell him that she’d read his son to sleep, asked him how his day had gone, sat on the settee and talked to him for an hour. When she let him call her darling and pretended to be his wife.

Oh, it was almost too easy to imagine it. To pretend.

He stripped his cock, pictured her hand. Her mouth. Her small breasts in their purple skull-and-lace vesture. The way he would worship her with his hands and mouth. How did she taste, how did she sound, what was the color of her—

He gasped, fingers curled into the tile of the shower floor, and came into the lukewarm water swirling around his knees.

The shame kicked in almost immediately, even as he watched the evidence of his depravity vanish down the drain. He was a man in his fifties, a father, a doctor. This sort of behavior was so completely below him, so completely inappropriate—

But damn, had it felt good. The last three years, since the blessing of Manfred came into his life, he’d allowed himself to become almost completely divorced from his own sexuality. It had been over a year since he’d had sex, and even masturbation had seemed like too much effort most nights. When he did work up the energy to reach a hand down, he did so while conditioning his hair and making lists in his head.

The relief of a true release was almost as stark as the accompanying self-loathing.

 Later, as he carefully rubbed the ointment onto Rook’s back and pointedly did not let himself look beyond the patches of rash he was focusing on, he mumbled, “I want you to know, Rook, that I…value you.”

Rook turned, hair pooled over her shoulder. She was not embarrassed of the fact that her shirt was hanging loosely off her neck, and he could not avoid seeing the peak of one brown nipple.

“I know,” she said, and Emmrich could almost convince himself that she was simply tired, or trusted him as a medical professional, or did not even consider that he might look based simply on his age.

Almost—were it not for the small, satisfied smirk he saw in the vanity mirror as she turned back around.

[imagining-in-the-margins]

Stuck Together Challenge

Hey everyone, I’m back with another monthly challenge! For the months of May AND June, I am formally challenging any willing writer to take a stab at writing fanfiction including characters that are "stuck together" (figuratively or literally) using their choice of Criminal Minds characters! Reader, Original Character, Character/Character ships, and Gen/Platonic fics are allowed! Please check out the Rules below the Keep Reading. There are prompts below the cut, so keep going!

(**This is NOT a request list for me—this is a prompt list of other writers! Feel free to request from someone else, and be sure to let them know about the challenge!)

Assorted Prompts 🪢

The infamous get-along shirt

There's only one bed/desk/car

Characters play seven minutes in Heaven

Characters get stuck in an elevator together

A threat to the BAU has Quantico in lockdown

Character has to ride on the back of a motorcycle

A storm warning forces Characters to shelter together

Characters are visiting a jail when it goes into lockdown

Characters are forced to go together on a work road trip

The flight is going to be a lot longer than anyone thought

Characters are put on the same team at the annual picnic

During office renovations, Characters must share an office

Characters have to give a shared presentation for the BAU

Characters both get seriously wounded and have to share a hospital room

Characters get briefly stuck in a freezer and have to huddle together for warmth

The stakeout feels like forever when Character is stuck with their “least favorite” coworker

Characters are tasked with digitizing the BAU’s records... all of them... In the tiniest filing room

Characters are tied together as fake-victims in a work training exercise and it takes forever to be saved

During surveillance, the two have to stay close together to listen through a single set of headphones... like, really close

Characters both try to hide in a closet to avoid an embarrassing discovery... then they get stuck inside

Despite their best efforts to avoid their coworkers, Character moved next door to their least favorite

Dialogue Prompts 🧵

“Just… stay on your side.”

“Are you… building a wall?”

“You have to stop moving.”

“Try not to make this weird, okay?” “Too late.”

“At least you smell nice.” “Please don’t smell me.”

“Is that a gun or are you happy to see me?” “It’s a gun.”

“This was not what I meant when I said I wanted to be closer to you.”

"You're a decorated FBI agent, and your instinct was to hide? Here? Really?”

“I can’t believe you’re the one to witness my end.” “It’s been five minutes.”

“Well, there’s one way out.” “You would die.” “That honestly sounds better than staying here with you.”

Rules ✂️

Your fic can be a Reader insert, an Original Character, a character/character ship, a platonic ship, or a Gen fic. It can feature any Criminal Minds character. AUs and crossovers are more than welcome.

Tag me in the fic, or send the link to me in a Direct Message. It can be already written, or you can write it for the challenge - I collect both! You can also tag “#mentioningmargins”

The fic can be any genre, but ONLY send me smut if your bio states you are 18+. I DO NOT WANT smut written by minors. Ever. At all. I will check. Platonic ships and pure, fluffy fics are 100% allowed. Please also include some indication of rating if it is NSFW.

Please include Content Warnings and a one-sentence Summary of the fic in your post. For xReader fics, PLEASE specify if your reader is Female, Male, or Gender Neutral.

The use of Generative AI is PROHIBITED. Please do not enter any fics that are written in whole or in part by generative AI. Thank you for respecting my boundaries!

The Masterlist of fics will (hopefully) be posted around June 30. If you finish after that, no problem - just send me the fic once you’re done and I’ll add it after-the-fact!

Feel free to message me if you want help developing a plot, have any questions, or just want to gush about your fic. I’m happy to help, and I’m happy you’re here ❤️

Happy writing!

[anonymous-dentist]

Genuinely? I think that trFoolish embracing the spread of the Corruption and risking the safety of his kingdom is kinda just like. The kind of wake up call that the kingdom’s members need?

I’m not saying he’s some crazy tyrant or that the kingdom is a cult or anything, I’m saying that their blind faith in him and in Yellow itself has led to genuinely so much alienation and hatred from so many characters from all different factions. The only people willing to join Yellow these days are the people who haven’t experienced them before, and even then it’s like. A coin flip, really, because all of Yellow is so close with each other that even new members can see red flags.

So when the king is just fine with one of the kingdom’s members being a literal Harbinger of the Fourth, one of the literal actual horsemen of the apocalypse, and when he’s chill with said harbinger spreading the Corruption everywhere, it’s like. Okay. Why?

But that begs the question of whether or not any of the kingdom members would actually question their king.

But that also brings to mind the one thing that actually unites a majority of the most active Yellow players: trPangi. trRos has unwavering faith in her king, but she’s seen firsthand how the Corruption can destroy a person down to their very soul. trZam is trPangi’s oldest and closest friend who is willing to do anything to get Pangi cured. Even trSneeg, who hates trPangi for the most part, acknowledged the dangers of the Corruption and tried helping find him a cure.

But does that mean that they’ll go up to Foolish and ask him to kick Ace out of the faction? For Zam, maybe, he’s loyal to a fault, but he also knows danger probably better than anyone else on his team; he’s seen apocalypses before. Maybe Ros, who already didn’t want Ace around anymore even before he started Harbingering all over the place. Possibly even Sneeg, who would want Ace gone for reasons besides the whole Corruption thing (being mean to Ros, maybe, or just because he’d see Ace as a threat to king and kingdom.)

And then that brings to mind Foolish himself, who is an immortal being literally affiliated with the element of Chaos and who makes a hobby out of seeing shit go down. He and Bad are two sides of the same coin: life versus death, yes, but also shared immortality and shared boredom. He cares about his mortals, but he also really wanted a war to happen. Like. Really wanted it. He Needs Enrichment!

Foolish wants the Keepers to suffer. He already hated them from the beginning- he was the first person they ever appeared to!!- but time only made the wounds deeper: Ros being taken and returned sick and traumatized, and then the Ordeals about not letting Zam and Sausage into the faction for waayyyyyy too long, and then the Keepers being way too hesitant in letting him give a life to Ros after the ball. And then they made him build. A. Statue!!!

The real question here isn’t necessarily if the kingdom’s members would confront or question Foolish about Ace and the Corruption and everything, I think the question should be whether or not he listens to them. He cares, of course, but he’s also the Totem of Death. He chose the Chaos room on Quesadilla Island. He thinks wars are fun. He’s immortal, and he isn’t infallible, and it’s quite possible that his beloved subjects might finally realize that in some capacity

[firstelevens]

in light of the thunderbolts pcs, angry kisses for sambucky pls

My brain is apparently so DnD-pilled that I stared at this for ten minutes trying to figure out what a thunderbolts player character was supposed to be before realizing you probably meant "post-credits scene." I have not in fact seen the film, but I have long since made peace with ignoring the proverbial Council's stupid-ass decisions and I will continue to do so. Here's a sequel to this fic, sorry if you were hoping for something more tied to canon!

56. angry kisses

The thing about Sam's relentless goddamn professionalism is that he has to find ways of clinging to it even when it's the very last thing that he wants to do. He's exceptionally good at it by now, years of facing off against scheming politicians and soliloquizing villains honing a skill that he'd already cultivated as a teenager. It's seamless enough that most people don't even realize when it's happening.

Maybe that's what makes it so fucking infuriating when he watches Bucky cross the room to have a few quiet words with Joaquín, who stands up a minute later and says something about having some food while everyone waits to debrief with the authorities. Like magic, the rest of Team Cap and all but one of the stupidly-named Thunderbolts file out to take the elevator to the Compound's kitchen.

Sam waits for the distant ding of the elevator to sound before he turns to Bucky, struggling to keep his voice even. "You giving orders to my team now?"

Bucky scoffs. "Please. Torres would never listen to an order from me."

"Yeah, the way I hear it, there's a lot of that going around these days."

"Is there?" asks Bucky, in the blank voice that he only ever uses when he's trying to provoke Sam. In a few strides, he crosses the room to stand in front of Sam, close but not quite in his space. "Seems to me like it's just you."

"I've never taken orders from you," snaps Sam. "And I'm not about to start."

"No one's telling you to," says Bucky. "But it used to be that when we were in the field together, you'd at least listen to what I had to say."

Sam crosses his arms, scowling. He can feel those threads of professionalism slipping away, and he tries his best to snatch at them. "If you want to start a conversation about who was listening to who, we can do that, but I don't think you're gonna like where it ends up, so maybe we should stop right here."

"Don't try to make this about me not sticking to protocol when we're talking about you putting your life on the line," Bucky says. "And Christ, stop using your press conference voice on me. If you're angry, just be angry."

He clenches his jaw because he can't clench his fist, keeps his tone as measured as he can. "You know I don't do that."

"You don't do that in front of strangers," snaps Bucky. "Whatever we are or aren't to each other anymore, I know for damn sure we aren't strangers."

"What do you want me to say, Buck?" Sam asks quietly. "You want me to tell you how tired I am? How much I dreaded coming here and having to work with a team that was built to spite me? How much bullshit gets thrown my way every day, how much easier that would be to handle if I still had a partner at my side?"

"I want you to say what you actually want to say," says Bucky, and there's something pleading in his face. "Whatever it is that you want to say. Be tired, be worried, be furious at me. Just don't be...that. That persona that you had to build just so you could get a foot in the fucking door. Not in front of me."

There was a time when Sam didn't have to be that, not with Bucky. There was a time when he could be that version of himself with the rest of the world and then come home, tuck his face against Bucky's chest and let himself be held as he raged at the whole rest of the world. Even now, Sam's hands itch to reach out to him, to pull him close so Sam can rest his aching head in the crook of Bucky's neck.

Sam keeps his voice even and pretends he doesn't see the hurt in Bucky's face, focusing his gaze on the windows behind him. "You tried to die today," he says, and feels the anger spike in his chest even as he says the words. "You told me to trust you and then you tried to put yourself in the path of something that would have killed you."

"It would have killed you," corrects Bucky, and Sam is torn between wanting to cry and wanting to punch him in the face. "It might have killed me. I was better equipped to handle it."

"It wasn't your call to make," Sam says, instead of don't you know that that would've killed me, too? "I had a plan. I always do."

"And that plan was what? You dying instead of me?"

"That plan was to make things safe for everyone else."

Bucky steps into Sam's space, his chest brushing against Sam's crossed arms. Sam tries not to notice that, either. "And you really think that a safer world exists without you in it? You really believe that any good would come of that?"

"Nobody makes sacrifices because they're easy, Bucky," Sam bites out. "People make them because it's the only way."

"Good," says Bucky. "Then you understand why I did what I did."

"I'll never understand anything you do, Barnes. I'll never understand why you're here, and I'll never understand why you work for the people you work for, and I'll never understand why you-" Sam cuts himself off, trying to calm his breathing. "Never mind."

"No, say it," says Bucky, right up in Sam's face now. "Say whatever it is. I'm tired of Customer Service Cap. Say what you need to say."

Sam sets his jaw. "Why? What do you need to hear so bad, huh? What's gonna change if I say it to you?"

"Hell if I know," says Bucky, "but whatever changes, it can't make things worse than they are right now, can it? You won't even fucking look at me, Sam."

"What do you need me to look at you for, huh? You have a whole team for that now, right? News cameras, too?"

"I have a team now because you sent me away, Sam. You ended things and you all but kicked me off the team. What was I supposed to do, fuck back off to the forties like Steve?"

"You were supposed to be safe," roars Sam, before he can think better of it, and the rest comes spilling out like water behind a broken dam. "They wanted to use you for wetwork and infiltration. They made a whole entire proposal about it. The Joint Chiefs approved it and everything. It was going to be a condition of you staying on the team, of them upholding the terms of your pardon."

Bucky's eyebrows knit together. "Sam..."

"They wanted to use you, and I sent you away to stop them, and you just ended up working for them anyway," says Sam, softer, and he can feel his face flushing, can feel the tears gathering behind his eyes. "So now you're gone and you're not safe."

Their time apart hasn't changed how clearly Sam can read Bucky's face, and he sees a flurry of emotions pass over him before his jaw takes on a determined set. "That wasn't your call to make," growls Bucky.

Before Sam can argue it, Bucky's hands come up to hold his face, palms against Sam's jaw while his thumbs wipe away the tears that Sam hadn't noticed escaping.

Half a second later, Bucky's lips are on his, bruising and desperate, and Sam can't help but reciprocate, uncrossing his arms so he can clutch Bucky closer, backing up until they ram into a wall, picture frames rattling precariously from the impact. He fists one hand in Bucky's shirt to keep him from going too far and slips the other underneath, trailing up his stomach until it reaches the center of his chest. Bucky's heartbeat thuds away under Sam's palm, familiar if a little faster than usual, and Sam feels the universe right itself where it had been knocked off of its axis.

He doesn't know what tomorrow looks like, or even three minutes from now, but he knows that he has Bucky in his arms again, both their hearts beating steady in their chests, and that's as good a place as any to start.

[ruins-of-tragedy]

I think the hot-headed part has some merit, even if it started off as a label imposed on Yang. A distinction should be made though. She is easy to irritate mostly during combat. And more often than not, it works at her own expense.

Yang strikes me as the kind to feel her emotions covertly. Buried under responsibilities both her own and that of others. There are not many people she can share her entire self with. Her true thoughts, emotions, what have you.

Her being quick to anger when fighting, as a result of simmering tensions within, makes sense to me hence. It's akin to a coping mechanism. Gives her an outlet for all the stuff she keeps locked in. Helps with her semblance 'cause the temper seems to enhance the oomph of her attacks against folks like Junior.

Am more sure of this since by the time V3 rolls around, the only major bits of information we know about her ranges from Ruby being her sibling, how her semblance operates, and the story she shared with Blake about their childhood (Honestly, this is an extremely significant step for Yang).

Her other qualities, we as the audience glean from her interactions with the rest. Even there, she is probably the most tame member of RWBY. (I still remember feeling a little frustrated 'cause Yang didn't have a lot of exposition. That makes sense to me from the point of view of her plot now.)

After V4, and this is even more noticeable following Team RWBY's reunion in V5, Yang is more open about her irritation and has small outbursts. Some of them are misdirected and uncalled for, like the remarks she throws at Maria, but I assumed that was her trying to let herself be present and just feel.

I view Yang in the earlier volumes to be the hyper independent kid who doesn't rely a whole lot on others unless there's no way out. People taking on this much need some manner of equilibrium and Yang achieves it via bursts of rage during combat. Not the most efficient method, for her mental health or physical, but it helps.

Though I adore the fact she never unsheathes her wrath on others outside of a fight, her head clouded by ire during one is a disadvantage to herself. Makes her more susceptible to taunts and manipulation. The doubles battle against Team FNKI is a good example of this. Neon twists and turns Yang like a fiddle initially.

As for the whole Tai of it all, I feel Yang being kind and loving at her core after everything has much to do with her parents. Tai, more so. He has been through A LOT. Lost not one but two people he wanted to build a life with. Yang recognising her father's pain and not holding the resulting actions against him speaks wonders on not only who she is, but also the bond they share.

I like to think when Tai isn't there, he really isn't. However, when he is, there's no doubt about it. This obviously doesn't change the ways he may have let her down. Doesn't bring back the days Tai closed in on himself. But it shouldn't also disregard his attempts before AND after Summer's disappearance, to be there for his kids.

Tai is the one integral to Yang's character arc in V4. And I feel it's because he has been there himself. Emotionally, at least.

Parents are complicated business. What matters to me is, Yang doesn't hold their past against her father. So I won't either.

EDIT: This started with OP mentioning Yang pulled herself up for Ruby. Does that mean when Tai finally came to, he did it for both Ruby and Yang? Maybe it took him longer, but am glad he got there in the end!

It's remarkable seeing this wave of posts about the messy Xiao Long/Rose/Branwen family and it's fascinating reading.

Here's a little thought I had just now though....

Yang actually did shut down after her trauma, just like Tai did.

The difference being, Ruby mattered enough to Yang to push her to fight through it.

Very interesting.

[frosty-cosmic]

F!READER/JOHN PRICE ■ EXPLICIT ■ IN-PROGRESS

SUMMARY:

You're a junior diplomat at the American Embassy in Bucharest. Even as tensions with Russia threaten to boil over, by the very nature of your job, you're more of the "ask questions first, shoot never" type. It's too bad military men don't really follow the same creed. tags: slow-burn, canon typical violence, minor character death

CHAPTER THREE, 9.6K

He may not be a God-fearing man, but in the lightning-charged dark, he feels the vague stirring of premonition. You're asleep for most of this one, but the world keeps turning in the night. Ozone is restless, the hunt is on in the city, and John Price takes a fall. But you can be a glorified babysitter for him, right?

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MASTERPOST

READ ON AO3 or continue below.

On the threadbare couch that the 141 filched from one of the empty breakrooms, Scarecrow is reading softly from his dog-eared copy of the Book of Psalms. His deep voice is confident and sure; he doesn’t stumble over the lines or mispronounce any words. He has the air, rather, of someone who has recited the same passages many times before.

And he has—Ozone can attest to that.

“He will not let your foot slip— he who watches over you will not slumber.” He licks his thumb and forefinger and turns the thin page. Crane is stretched out on the floor in front of him, leaned back against the couch and lazily cleaning his rifle. The kid's the lone Brit of Whiskey team. He and Marlin, the other SAS lad, are rookies to the 141 and had been split up to distribute their inexperience evenly.

“The Lord watches over you— the Lord is your shade at your right hand; the sun will not harm you by day, nor the moon at night.”

Ozone hums from where he’s picking through what the fridge has to offer. He isn’t a religious man—never has been, really. But he’s been listening to ‘Crow read from his sacred little books for so long that the sound of the words has become soothing white noise.

His own preferences aside, Ozone's found that most soldiers he's met during his service have at least some inclination toward spirituality. Some of them, like Scarecrow, are devout southern boys who were raised in the shadow of the Church, learning the lessons from the Good Book every Sunday. Others get converted somewhere along the way. 

Then there are others still who are part-timers, living fast-paced lives of indulgence only to pray when the bullets start flying and they're faced with the inevitability of oblivion.

No atheists in foxholes, and all that.

“The Lord will keep you from all harm—he will watch over your life.”

“You sure about that?” Crane snarks—but very quietly. Not quietly enough. Scarecrow taps the side of his head with one socked foot in admonishment.

Crane swats the offending limb away irritably. “Kicking your subordinates? I don't think that's very Christian of you.”

In turn, Scarecrow makes an obscene gesture that absolutely isn’t very Christian of him. Ozone smirks.

After waiting to ensure his recitation won’t be subject to further interruption, the sergeant turns pointedly back to the page. “The Lord will watch over your coming and going both now and forevermore.” He marks the passage and snaps the book closed.

“This is the word of the Lord,” Ozone concludes absently (he isn't such a heathen that he's ignorant to the traditional call and response).

“You don’t say that after reading from the Psalms,” Scarecrow chides as Crane automatically answers with a shit-eating little grin, “Thanks be to God.”

Having found nothing in the fridge and not feeling up to a second helping of whatever impromptu sermon Scarecrow is probably cooking up, Ozone slips away from their chatter and into the darkened hall.

At night, the interiors of the building are usually weakly lit by the thin shafts of moonlight that break through the windows. Tonight, however, the storm reigns. Thunder growls outside, and the rumble of it sneaks through the hallways to vibrate somewhere behind his ribcage. The bare floors and walls are thrown into sharp relief every few seconds by flashes of lightning. Wind batters the roof and the sides of the building, but other than that and the sound of thunder, the world is eerily silent. It feels a bit like he's stepped into a cliché old horror movie.

Catching the shadow of his reflection in the rain-lashed window, Ozone has to stop himself from flinching.

He may not be a God-fearing man, but in the lightning-charged dark, he feels the vague stirring of premonition. Like the world's about to tilt off its axis.

He isn't afraid, not exactly. Just...keyed up. Trying to ignore the prickling at the base of his neck, he turns into the bay that he shares with the other NCOs. Price, the lucky bastard, gets his own space—perks of being the top dog. As far as he knows, Ghost, Archer, and Peasant all bunk together in the next room down the hall, but their schedules are so vastly different that it's rare to see them together at once. The quarters are empty now, everyone who isn't in the breakroom currently concentrated in Old Town.

Everyone except for Peasant, who Ozone knows is lurking now up in the 141's hidden nest.

Creeping up to his own cot, he dons his helmet and shrugs the standard-issue black poncho over his head. Rifle slung comfortably across his chest, he ventures back out into the hall and mounts the stairs.

Only a firm grip on the door handle keeps it from flying out of his hand when he steps out onto the roof. In the storm-blurred glow of the streetlights, he can see the surrounding trees swaying in the gale. The wind catches the ends of his poncho, plastering it to his arms and legs as he fights to get the damn door closed. When he finally gets it latched, cursing, he yanks his hood down over his eyes and scurries over the open top of the building to the shelter of a parapet wall. Peasant is crouched there, a black outline against the dark-cloud sky.

The lieutenant doesn’t flinch when Ozone creeps up beside him, rain sluicing off his hood in tiny streams. He's forsaken his bulky layers and stripped down to his rain jacket, and Ozone wishes he had had the foresight to do the same. But the wall provides relief from the worst of the wind and he finds he can fetch up comfortably in the space left by his CO.

“Anything?”

The older man shakes his head, displacing a torrent of rainwater and raising his voice to be heard over the wind. “Nothing but me out here.” 

Overhead, thunder snarls. The light from the main road fails to penetrate the darker side streets, and Ozone reaches under his hood to pull his NVGs down.

“Ah, don’t bother,” Peasant advises, indicating his own. They've been tossed - apparently in a fit of pique - on top of his other abandoned gear. “Rain’s fucked ‘em.”

Ozone can see immediately what he means; the lenses are fogged. He reaches to wipe them with a gloved hand and curses. Now they’re bloody fogged and streaked. Anything he might have been able to see is obscured anyway by the rain. The downpour turns the night vision to static, every raindrop becoming a shooting star.

He flips the goggles back up and glowers into the storm.

This roof is the highest vantage point in the compound; on a good night, they can see well past the perimeter of the wall and to the surrounding streets and fields beyond. Good for the Captain's intended purposes; now that the grunt work of cleaning had been taken care of, the real task could begin.

With Bravo and Echo teams stationed in the heart of Bucharest, Peasant and the men of Whiskey team - Ozone, Scarecrow, and Crane - trade shifts to keep an eye on the perimeter. They're not guarding the embassy, not technically, but are merely watchers on the wall. Waiting for the car that lingers slightly too long near the gate or the vehicle that circles twice. Ready to report any such visitors to the men lying in wait in the city beyond. 

The radio on Peasant's chest is silent and untouched. No news is good news, but Ozone still inquires.

Peasant lifts one shoulder carelessly. "Haven't heard anything since they left." He gives Ozone a shrewd look out of the corner of his eye. "What's got you so antsy tonight?"

The storm. God. Or lack thereof, he's fucked if he knows. If he starts a philosophical debate here in the middle of the night, Peasant will think he's gone completely 'round the twist. He keeps his concerns to himself and only mirrors the other man's shrug. "Tired of waiting around, I guess."

That earns him a snort of disbelief. Highly perceptive teammates are useful against enemies, but annoying to deploy with for any extended length of time. "You've been doing this too long to get pre-op jitters."

Christ. Can't tell even a little white lie without getting clocked the instant he opens his mouth.

"There's too many people around."

Peasant raises his eyebrows and nods, conceding the point. Outside the wall, a car drifts by on the waterlogged road. They both stiffen, but it only passes on without cause for suspicion.

"Nothing to be done about the personnel," Peasant says. "Embassy got rid of everyone they could spare already. Wish they would have taken Surace with them, though," he tacks on as an afterthought.

Ozone grunts in agreement. The old man might be a civilian, but his mind is impossibly sharp. Very little escapes him, and he’s too stiff-backed to be cowed into silence. Already he had cornered Garrick in one of the buildings to try to get a read on their motives. More than once, Ozone himself had felt the weight of his icy stare like a dagger between his shoulders while walking over the lawn. 

Their saving grace thus far has been the fact that Surace and his deputy consistently vanish for days at a time, taking extended trips abroad to soothe the feathers ruffled by Russian officials.

As he surveys the embassy, his eyes catch on your office window and he remembers the conversation of a few hours prior. 

You, the little canary Surace had appointed to keep an eye out in his place, were out of your depth.

Your overture with the care package had been clumsy but might have passed for goodwill. Setting some of it aside to use as bribery? An obvious lure, but one they had been willing to bite on. Bored soldiers will take anything sweet.

Most telling had been the sudden turnabout from disdain to friendliness. Which isn’t to say that you’re outright friendly now, but you’re not happy keeping your distance anymore, either. You had gone out of the way to welcome them into your office, kept bumping into them out on the walk. The explanation could be innocent, but he smells marching orders; been on the receiving end of them often enough to recognize when they've been issued to someone else.

Ozone is rather fond of you nonetheless; at least, in the way a brother might fondly tolerate an irritating sister. You’re clever and witty—brave, even—and have shown more spine than some of the men he's served with. While you're no Jack Surace yet, Ozone can see the imprints of the man in your mold. One day, you'll be a true force to be reckoned with.

Until then, you're a junior diplomat in over your head. But a soldier, if nothing else, can admire tenacity in the face of steep odds.

Plus, you're just fun to rile up.

His and Scarecrow's earlier comments about auditions had been deliberately coy; designed to lure. You had turned away from the window fairly quickly, gathering up your things under the guise of outrunning the worst of the storm, but Ozone had practically seen the gears in your head turning.

Wondering how to best relay the new information to your master, no doubt.

You're no real threat, he's sure. But it's good to know who talks to who, so he'll let you chew on what you learned tonight for a while. And if Surace starts hounding them over it, they'll know for certain who's whispering in his ear. 

But that's a matter for a later time. An uneasy silence falls between him and Peasant as they look out into the storm.

Both waiting for the next roll of thunder.

------

“Bravo 0-7, this is Bravo 7-1.”

“This is Bravo 0-7. Go ahead, Johnny.”

“What did one raindrop say to the other?”

“…tell me.”

“Two’s company, but three’s a cloud.”

Gaz snorts—John sees his shoulders shake briefly— but otherwise doesn't move from his position. “Unbelievable.”

John reaches for his radio without thinking. "Keep the bloody comms clear."

"Heard."

"Yes, Cap."

He readjusts into his position, keeping his eyes on the busy pub below. Through the front window, he can just make out where Archer and Rook stand at the bar. Archer is pretending to laugh at something Rook said, leaning back on the bartop with a completely casual air. They're in public and dressed down in civilian clothes, but both have discreet mics and tiny push-to-talk buttons concealed in their palms. 

"Lighten up, old man." That's Archer. John can see how his head is turned like he's addressing Rook, but he's really speaking into the wire hidden under his collar.

John huffs. "Old man?"

Soap chooses that moment to bravely pipe up again. "Now who needs to keep the comms clear?"

He mulls over that for a minute, lets about a dozen creative possible replies drift by, and ultimately decides that any additional response will just rile everyone up further. He chooses instead to let a dignified silence speak for itself.

Can't blame them for being on edge, really. When the op had been decided, they had taken the forecast into account, but no one had predicted it would rain quite this hard. Pishin' it doon, as Soap would phrase it. Even that, John thinks, is putting it lightly. He's picked a relatively sheltered spot for himself on the roof with a clear view of the street, but the wind is pervasive. It howls down off the rooftops, bringing stinging rain with it. Whips around corners and down the collar of his waterproof jacket, soaking him to the skin.

John doesn't like it. The storm makes it difficult to see everyone's positions, and already he's had to ask for clarification twice when he couldn't hear a message over the gale. Things are already difficult enough to track when the action gets started, and the weather will only complicate things. But there's nothing to be done about it now. He's given the order to communicate all movement clearly and to keep alert, and that's the best any of them can do.

Bloody miserable, this.

And that's without even considering the pall that hangs over the entire city. The crowds had begun their slow return to the streets after the end of the rioting, but there's still a nervous tension in the air. Civilians press together in herds, like that'll save them, and they look twice at anyone who appears to be even vaguely suspicious.

On their way into the city, they had passed several of the buildings that had been damaged in the protests, their broken windows still boarded. Some of the more spirited townsfolk had tagged the boards with slogans in support of the RNF, the bright red spray paint as vibrant as blood against the grain of the wood.

Un glas ei mai așteaptă și sar ca lupi în stâne!

Adevărații patrioți răspund la apel!

They're professionals, and it'll take more than graffiti to rattle them. But John would be lying if he said the messages hadn't stuck with him, burning red against his eyelids.

Still, the rhythm and routine of the job had settled their nerves, with each man being happy to take their assignment to get the ball rolling. John and Gaz are up on the roof, watching over the street and the entrance to the pub where intel has placed their target. Archer and Rook are the eyes inside; they won't approach their man, but they'll be able to see who he meets and watch for what exit he uses. Soap and Marlin, only lightly armed, are blending in down on the street, waiting to corral the target into one of their nearby vehicles, where Ghost sits behind the wheel.  Royce is positioned out of sight on the other side of the building, watching the back entrance. The other SUV is parked in the mouth of the alley there.

It makes John's skin itch to make Ghost a driver when he could be putting the man's skills to better use. But the mask is just too conspicuous, and keeping visibility low tonight is more important than ever given the city's current state of fear. Ghost had been coaxed down to one of his black surgical masks and a tightly-drawn hoodie, but the black greasepaint around his eyes would still draw attention from a mile away.

Besides, Marlin needs the practice. The lad's still a bit wet behind the ears and burning with the desire to prove himself.

“Bravo 0-6, be advised.” Speak of the devil. Ghost’s voice cuts over the comms sharply. The warmth of his earlier banter with Soap is gone. Across the street, John sees Gaz's shoulders straighten almost imperceptibly.

“Mihalache approaching the front. Alone.”

John spots him quickly. Anton Mihalache is a slight man dressed in plain clothing, slipping through the sparse crowd without drawing much attention to himself. Though he's taken care to make sure he blends in, he glances over his shoulder before he enters the pub. Must be aware then, on some level, that he could be followed or watched.

His subtlety had extended to his support of the RNF, but he had overstepped himself a few times too many. The CIA had taken notice, and now the want him brought in for a nice little chat.

As he disappears inside, John sees Soap and Marlin adjust their positions, moving closer to the door. Soap's voice filters into John's ear. "Bravo 7-1 and Echo 6-1 are on the main door."

Gaz's outline shifts as the man reaches for his radio. "This is Bravo 6-2, in position."

Last to check in is Royce, but he confirms his position on the other exit.

Everyone in place, everything as it should be. Yet the rumble of thunder puts John on edge. Makes him instinctively grip his rifle a little harder.

With nothing left for the men outside to report, Archer immediately picks up the thread of communication inside. "This is Echo Actual. We've got eyes on him. Table near the east wall." Through the window, John watches as Archer and Rook split up to take flanking positions inside the pub, one near the front entrance and the other near the back. "Met up with two others already there." He rattles off succinct, yet precise, descriptions of both men. Ghost sounds off, affirming that he's taken down the information for later.

From there, it's a waiting game. John doesn't mind - gives him an opportunity to think of more contingency plans in case something goes wrong. They'd had time earlier in the week to survey the main road and the various side streets and alleys that branch away from it, but he sweeps over his surroundings again now. Takes stock of where a spooked target might run and where they might be able to go to cut off any escape.

As the minutes slip by, Archer and Rook both provide infrequent updates where necessary. The others on the street reposition periodically to keep their cover, moving with the crowd when they have to only to circle back to their spots when they can.

The wait also allows for the packs of tourists and locals to thin out. With the weather, that hadn't been much of a concern to begin with, but as the night deepens and the storm grows in intensity, the last of the stragglers begin to hurry home with their coats pulled tight around them. After an hour and a half, the street is nearly empty. Fewer witnesses, fewer potential casualties if things get dicey. John feels some of the tension begin to bleed out of his frame as the circumstances begin to turn in their favor.

A swift alarm from Archer has him straightening again. "Target is moving to exit now. Main door."

"This is Bravo Actual, the other two?"

"Still at the table. Target is alone."

He doesn't have to tell Soap or Marlin to be ready; they're already practically on top of the door. Marlin, in particular, bounces on the balls of his feet. John checks him sharply. "Steady down there, lads."

The rookie stills. At the same time, Mihalache walks out into the rain, pulling up the hood of his jacket and looking around before stepping onto the sidewalk. Soap moves in from behind, cutting him off from escaping back into the pub. Marlin approaches from the front. There's a moment where the two stare directly at one another, only separated by a few feet. Mihalache hesitates.

John curses - the man had seen something he didn't like. His back was up. "Take him!"

Marlin lunges, quick, but Mihalache is faster. There's a very brief struggle - the rookie's managed to get a hold of Mihalache's jacket - before the target sheds the coat like a snake, turning to flee up the street. Marlin abandons the jacket at once, giving chase with Soap hot on his heels. 

Fuck. The mission rapidly unraveling, the formal radio communication quickly breaks down into essentials-only.

"Stay after him, Soap, Marlin." John himself is already moving, boots sliding over the rain-slick tiles as he tries to stay level with the target on the ground. Many of buildings in the area are packed tightly together, and, in most cases, going from roof to roof only involves stepping over from one ledge to the next. John's thankful for that now as he flies across them, his only vague concern the twinging in his knees. "Gaz, stay on the other side of the street in case he crosses back over. Royce, get Archer and Rook. Circle ahead with Ghost to cut him off."

A half-dozen affirmatives sound in his ear.

Below, Mihalache's heels skid on the cobblestone, and John thinks that maybe luck is on their side. But the bastard rights himself at the last possible second, sprinting off the main road and making a break for one of the dark alleys.

"Shit!" Marlin's voice is strained. "He's going up!" John looks down over the edge of the roof in time to see Mihalache launching himself up a metal drainpipe a few buildings ahead. The man moves easily, climbing quickly up towards the roof. Right behind him, Marlin begins to follow.

Mihalache gains the roof at the same time as John himself vaults onto it. He takes one look at John and flees in the opposite direction, bounding over the rooftops like he had been born in the air. "Marlin!" John barks into his mic, the name coming out in a ragged gasp as he works to close the gap. "Get back down on the street, cut him off if he drops back down!"

Marlin's already moving up the drainpipe, stung by failure and desperate to make up for his mistake. "I can follow him-"

"Get back on the fucking street!" John doesn't have time to soothe hurt egos or wait to see if the command is followed. 

Ahead of him, Mihalache glides over the roofs and increases the distance, scaling chimney stacks and jumping between ledges with apparent ease. John is holding his own, but he's not as young as he used to be. He feels keenly every old wound, every bit of stiffened scar tissue that's accumulated over the years. 

The distance between the buildings is beginning to widen. Every longer jump to bridge the gaps costs him. A particularly rough landing where his feet nearly slip out from underneath him sends a painful jolt from his knees all the way up to his skull. John stubbornly shakes it off and wills himself to move just a bit faster.

Always a little further...

At the last rooftop, Mihalache skids to a halt. The space between this building and the next is too far even for him to cover, and the distance to the street two floors below is enough that he can't be certain that he'd survive without serious injury. John sees him frantically look about for another way out. On the side of the building, an old fire escape leads from the roof down to the street below. John spots it first and alters his path, already moving to cut Mihalache off. There's nowhere else for him to run.

As he makes to close with the man, John radios out one final time. "On the fire escape in an alley off of Lipscani. Be ready for him below." He barks out the nearby landmarks for the team to use for reference. Then, he's on him.

Mihalache’s hesitation has cost him the distance he’d gained earlier; by the time he spots the fire escape and makes for it, John's already there to meet him. But it's here that John's exhaustion finally catches up with him. The metal is slick from the rain, and the years have long since worn away any of the anti-slip paint that would have been applied. John's feet slide out from under him, and the rest of his body follows.

He flings out a hand as he goes, closing his fingers around the target's forearm in a vice grip. The man shouts, twisting away, but John will be damned if he lets him go now that he's got him. If he goes down, Mihalache is going with him.

There's a horrible moment of weightlessness as they both fall, enough time for John to tighten his grip and brace himself for pain. The metal stairs will not be kind.

His target lands first, absorbing the worst of the fall. Even so, the force of the impact punches the breath from his lungs and sends a shockwave of pain all up and down his left side. His wrist, pinned awkwardly beneath him, gives with a dull crack that's audible even over the sound of the storm. As they tumble down the steps and to the intermediate platform above the sidewalk, the right side of his face scrapes against the metal. Mihalache struggles, trying to break his grip, but if there's one clear thought John has over the pain, it's that he can't let go. 

Snarling, Mihalache brings his hands up to John's throat, taking advantage of his stunned stupor. Unwilling to let go of the man's arm and unable to use his other injured hand, John takes advantage of his greater weight and rolls them to the edge of the platform. For a moment, they teeter over the next flight of stairs. Mihalache attempts to roll them back away from the edge, but he's not heavy enough to move them both. Gritting his teeth, John twists and sends them both sprawling again.

The pair spill out into the cobblestones. This last drop is enough to jar Mihalache free from John's hold, and the target stumbles away to his feet.

John is slower to rise; it's all he can do to struggle to his hands and knees.

"Don't!"

Mihalache only flashes him a smug look. He's in as rough shape as John, but he's got the benefit of youth on his side and takes the beating well. John is done in, now - blood drips into his eyes from the abrasion on his face, his wrist is thrumming steadily with pain, and his ribs and back feel like he'd been hit by a freight train. He's not going to admit that he's been beaten, but Mihalache sees defeat clearly in his hunched figure and bloodied face.

What the man isn't counting on, however, is for Soap to come barreling around the corner of the alley. The sergeant had kept pace with them throughout the entire chase and, unlike John, he's relatively fresh. 

Again, Mihalache is forced to run. His retreat is almost instantly cut off when one of their SUVs pulls up at the other end of the alley. Here, Mihalache's speed works against him. He had almost made it to the main road when the car pulled up, and is now moving too fast to backpedal to safety.

One of the car doors swings open - Archer and Rook are waiting in the back seat. They don't even have to get out of the car. Their target's momentum carries him forward into the side of the SUV, and it's a simple thing for them to reach out and pull him the rest of the way in. 

Coming up behind, Soap slams the door after Mihalache, trapping him inside. Royce hits the gas pedal, and the SUV squeals away into the night, leaving behind only the sound of the storm and the remains of the team.

Mission bloody accomplished.

John allows himself to sag against the wall of the alley and closes his eyes. It had been a steep price for his body to pay, but no cost was too high to bring in a valuable target. Mihalache has ties to the RNF, but it's his Russian connections that truly interest the 141 and CIA. Familiar names, names they've been chasing for years, had leapt out from his file from the moment John had read it weeks before.

Someone lays a rough hand on his shoulder, giving him a gentle shake. "Fuckin' hell, none 'o that now."

John opens his eyes blearily to see Soap hovering over him. Behind him, two newcomers splash down the alley to meet them. Gaz and Marlin - the latter looking terribly guilty.

Soap pats his shoulder again in a bracing sort of way. "Gotta keep our eyes open, aye, Cap? Stay with us." He touches the radio on his chest as Gaz bends over John to get a better look at him. "Ghost? The target's secured. Bravo Team and Marlin are waiting in the alley with Price."

Gaz's face is creased with concern as he takes stock of John's injuries. "I'd ask if you're broken, but that's pretty obvious."

John stubbornly struggles to a more upright position. "'S not as bad as it looks." The wrist is fucked, there's no getting around that, but the pain in his side and back is already subsiding to a dull roar. His face might have been scraped up, but his head doesn't feel any worse for wear, and he counts himself lucky to have escaped the fall without a more severe head injury. 

As a driver, John knows that Ghost believes the fastest way to a destination is usually to just plow through everything in his way, and therefore isn't surprised to see the other SUV come screeching up mere seconds after Soap hails him on comms. Gaz and Soap gingerly help John to his feet, and Marlin hastily scrambles to hold the door open as the two sergeants wrangle him into the front passenger seat.

The other three pile into the back, Gaz already looking up directions on the fastest route to Royal Hospital from their current location. Ghost peels away from the curb, tempering his aggression behind the wheel only slightly out of care for John. 

"No hospital," he mutters as his head lolls against the window. His protests go ignored, and he's left to watch the streetlights blur into solid lines as they fly up the empty street, each light distorted by the the rivulets that race down the glass.

------

Mark Valentine, one of the mid-level officers from Public Diplomacy, texts you as you're walking in the door the next morning. You're already beginning to feel a bit harassed; the puddles on the sidewalk had been much deeper than they looked, and the result had been wet socks and pants soaked from hem to lower shin.

M. Valentine (PD): Did you see my email? You: Just got here, give me a minute.

Sloshing over the muddy tile floor in the entryway, you consider sending something sharper. Something along the lines of no, Mark, it's 9:00AM and I just bloody walked in but let me drop everything to read your email, but you hold yourself back in the name of inter-office comradery. The Public Diplomacy sector is usually a massive aid in helping the political officers determine the current social atmosphere of a state, and it won't do to get on their bad side. 

You toss your phone to the desk as you walk in, calling out good mornings to the various coworkers already logging in. The talk in the office is about what you would expect after last night ("Did you hear that thunder? Crazy.") and you can join in a few conversations just by nodding your head or adding vague commentary while you get yourself arranged for the day. Your head is still filled with the conversation from the previous evening, and the mental image of four men disappearing into the dark. 

You wonder if they found their man, and if you'd dare to ask given the opportunity.

The email Mark sent is sitting a few rows down in your inbox. A creature of some habit, you don't go to it right away, starting at the top and working your way down. There was to be a meeting among the remaining political officers later in the day. You mark down the time and location in your calendar. Delete. Next. A memo warning the staff about flooding near the gate. Noted. Delete. Next. And so on.

By the time you get to Mark's email, most of the chatter in the office has died down as everyone gets to work digging through their own correspondence. When you open it, you're a bit confused. It's a Reddit link of all things, linking to the r/bucuresti subreddit. It's one of those links that includes a preview in the body of the email itself, so before you've even opened it, you can see the title.

KIDNAPPING IN OLD TOWN???

You're not sure what you expected, but it isn't this. Leaning back, you frown down at the screen. It's certainly newsworthy if true...but why would Mark send it to you, unless it was an American citizen? Even then, it's more of a consular issue - the safety of American citizens abroad falls under their purview. But you suppose it never hurts to be braced for the potential political fallout of an incident.

Without being able to explain why, you glance over your shoulder before you click the link, like someone is going to appear at your back.

After the browser opens and the page loads, you're greeted immediately by a grainy video followed by a wall of comments written in Romanian. A little Would you like to translate this page? bubble pops up in the upper right-hand corner of your screen.

"Why, yes, I would," you murmur, clicking to accept. 

While the page translates, you watch the video. It's short, a little ten-second clip that loops back to the beginning once it's finished. It shows a dark and rainy street - the post is dated for early this morning, so you suppose it must have been taken sometime during the storm - and what's going on isn't immediately clear. You think you see a dark vehicle screech into the frame, and then a blur - a person running up to the car? - streaks by. One of the car's doors swings open, and the blur disappears inside. Another blur runs up behind the first, closing the door after them. The car peels away and the video ends. You watch it again, squinting at the screen and pausing the playback every couple of seconds to try to get the full picture.

As the car - a black SUV - pulls into the frame again, you blink. The implications of the scene cause goosebumps to break out over your arms. You can't really tell, but...didn't the guys leave in a car like that last night?

It doesn't have to mean anything. Special forces doesn't exactly own the market on dark vehicles. But the video and the caption combined with Scarecrow's words (looking for a man who can sing, he had said) are all together enough to make you believe that you know exactly what this user witnessed. A sense of foreboding crawls into your stomach, curling up and making a home there.

You scroll down to the caption of the video.

I live near Lipscani St. in Old Town. Bedroom window faces an alley. Storm woke me up and I got my phone out to film some of the crazy lightning outside. Can't believe I saw this - happened right when I opened my window! Two guys, idk what they were doing, were having some sort of fight on the fire escape on the building across the alley. They fell down to the street - one looked like he was kinda in bad shape, didn't get up right away. The other ran to the end of the alley. THEN, another man showed up and took off after him. That massive black car pulled up right when the guy they were chasing made it to the street...Couldn't really see with the rain and all, but it looked like the guy who was running away got pulled into the car. The guy chasing him closed the door behind him, then BOOM they were gone. All happened in like five seconds. Couldn't start recording fast enough to catch the fight at the beginning but did the best I could. Never seen ANYTHING like this before. Who are these guys? RNF? Or maybe some of those Americans that came in from Constanta? Thoughts???

Holy shit. Biting your lip, your re-read the caption again. One looked like he was kinda in bad shape. Which one could it have been? The video isn't detailed enough for you to be able to tell who the second man was who came in from the other side of the alley, and there was no way you could see who was driving the car. 

The post has generated a modest amount of interest already, and even as you start reading, new comments begin to appear. In true Reddit fashion, most of the top comments are sarcastic and doubtful, criticizing everything from the quality of the video to the sanity of the poster.

giving_overseer: What are we supposed to be looking at, exactly?

tatteredlongevity4702: If you close your eyes and spin around three times, it kind of looks like what his caption says

giving_overseer: HAHAHA

KnavishlyGripping: Increase your screen brightness and go frame by frame

giving_overseer: gee, thanks, that explains everything /s

positivelydeliriouspathos: Sounds like you need to go back to sleep, OP.

Typical social media discourse. You roll your eyes, but are partly thankful that no one seems to believe that any actual kidnapping took place. You can only imagine the level of backlash that would occur if the locals thought that a foreign army was invading their streets to pluck up their friends and neighbors. Still, as you scroll through the comments, an increasingly large part of you is irritated. These men are supposed to be covert. The best of the best. What were they thinking, getting themselves filmed like this?

Towards the bottom of the page are the more controversial comments, some of them having been downvoted into oblivion. The tone rapidly shifts from light-hearted ribbing of the original poster to meaner, more hostile threats. The more you read, the wider your eyes become.

antique_imprisonment: Called it. You all glazed these NATO pricks when they came in because you couldn’t handle a little protesting. Now they’re snatching our people off the street like they own the place.

HolisticCollision: Hope the RNF smokes these guys

literateby-election6172: WE WILL STAND AS WORTHY SUCCESSORS

WellVersedFoyer: “A little protesting” my brother they were trying to burn our own buildings down like yeah fuck America but can we not fuck up our own shit

nearly_unfinished_philosopher: Thank you this is scary but lets not pretend that the rioters weren’t just as bad

throwaway6082014546: Are we really “bad people on both sides” -ing this? Innocent Romanian citizens are getting kidnapped by fucking war criminals, come on now

WellVersedFoyer: Who said that guy was innocent?

coarse_scholarship: In all seriousness, why did we stop protesting when these guys came? NATO is NOT the Romanian Police.

PM_ME_YOUR_FUNCTIONS: Because the US thinks they own the rest of the world

literateby-election6172: This is what the RNF is talking about. They are NOT the bad guys here for wanting to protect the country from foreign invasion!

KnowledgeableEmbroidery: Can't believe people are still yapping about burning buildings. There was ONE fire in Old Town that was contained in a trash can

hideous_illustrator: Don't forget all the embassy windows smashed in… 

thespookydonkey: Where’s the US Embassy anyways? Didn’t see it downtown?

hideous_illustrator:  up in băneasa

plushacreage_4: They're next. 

You scoot your chair a few inches back from the desk, staring blankly at your monitor and trying to process what you had just read, and calculating the likelihood of it spiraling out of control.

If you were the type to leap to the worst possible conclusion every time someone made a threat against the United States, you'd have spent all your time abroad jumping at shadows. But the words they're next stand out starkly against the white page, the black ink seeming to bleed out of the screen. An icy finger of dread ghosts down your spine. 

You had been irritated before, but now you're furious. This is more than just a potential scandal - even if the video isn't clear enough to prove anything, the RNF can still use the rumor to drum up hatred against Americans and their allies. The rioting might have calmed down since the military reinforcements had rolled in, but these comments make clear that the organization's supporters are still around. And they're still angry. And angry people, you've learned, are liable to do anything.

This is going to get someone killed.

For a moment, all you can hear is the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead and the steady ticking of the clock mounted on the wall. The idea of moving feels like you're about to set off the landmine that's just been dropped into your lap. But you have to do something.

Seething, you print out the post and comments to have a physical backup of the page. Just in case. While the printer warms up, you forward the email with the Reddit link to Jack; he's in Ukraine now with Chris and - if he's kept to his schedule - will be in meetings all morning, but at least the post will be waiting for him whenever he gets the chance to look.

"Printing a book over there?" One of your coworkers jeers playfully when you get up and cross the room to the where the printer is finally beginning to cough out your pages.

Trying to play it casual, you laugh. It sounds high-pitched and nervous to your own ears, but you don't think he notices anything. "You know Jack - always giving us something to read."

That is true enough at least, and no one else challenges you on it.

The last page printed and stapled, you're turning back to your desk when someone cries out a greeting.

"Morning, Sgt. Garrick!"

Your pulse spikes, like he's someone who knows and you're about to be apprehended of wrongdoing. You turn around in time to see the sergeant duck through the door, giving the room a boyish smile as he comes in. With the exception of yourself, almost everyone in the room is at least ten years older than he is, but you swear you can hear one of the women give a heartfelt little sigh.

He gives a cordial greeting to the rest of your coworkers before approaching you. Your stomach tightens - you're still holding your printout.

From the moment he arrived and first shook your hand, Garrick has been nothing but polite to you. How far will that politeness go if he sees what you're holding?

I haven't done anything wrong, you think stubbornly. Someone sent me a link and I opened it. It wasn't your fault they had gone and gotten themselves filmed. But all the same, you feel they wouldn't be pleased to know that you're snooping around in their operations. Trying to be as subtle as possible, you turn the printout so it's facedown against your thigh, hiding its contents.

If Garrick notices, he doesn't say anything. He's innocuous enough in his approach, sliding his hands in his pockets and looking distinctly non-threatening with his neutral expression and easy-going stance. "Alright?"

Heart pounding in your throat and infected with a potent mix of anger and anxiety, you try to think of the blandest reply you could possibly make. "Can't complain."

An awkward silence stretches out between the two of you, like Garrick is waiting for you to keep up your end of the conversation. When you don't offer anything more than that, he changes tactics.

"Heard you gave out candy last week and I missed it."

Candy? What is with these guys and the fucking candy? When you had initially made the offer the week before, you hadn't expected it to be drawn out like this. The pages practically burning a hole in your palm, you gesture to the filing cabinet with your empty hand. "Second drawer down, take whatever you want..."

As your voice trails off, he thanks you and moves away to your desk. But you're not watching him anymore. Someone else has followed him in, broad frame filling the door and looking like death warmed over. It's Captain Price.

If the caption of the video had been true, you had already known that one of them had taken a fall. Even so, you don't have to fake your surprise as you take him in. His right arm is in a sling, the limb cradled gingerly against his torso. One side of his face looks like it had been scraped raw, like he had been dragged hard against a rough surface. And though his gait is even when he walks in, it's a little too deliberate, like he's trying to walk without favoring one part of his body over the other.

The captain takes in your shock with a grim little smile. He gestures to his arm with his good hand. "Training accident."

Right. "Some training," you quip lightly, not sure how else to respond. Saying I know exactly how that happened probably wouldn't go over very well.

He hums and makes no other effort to reply. Now that he's given you (a completely inadequate) explanation of his injuries, the smile slides off his face and his expression returns to what it had been when he walked in. Annoyed. There will be no playful winks or friendly jabs today, it seems.

His annoyance annoys you. Why even accompany Garrick if he's just going to stand there like a thundercloud in the middle of the office? 

Speaking of whom, the slamming of the filing cabinet reminds you that the other man is still around. Garrick wanders back over to where you and Price both stand uncomfortably. He doesn't have any candy.

"Didn't see anything I liked," he offers by way of explanation. "But thanks, anyway." He claps Price - very lightly - on the shoulder. "I'll just leave you both here to chat for a bit, alright?"

You frown at him. What?

Price seems equally put out, but not surprised. 

"Hang on a minute," you start to object, but Garrick gives you a friendly wave and sets off back into the hall without waiting to hear your protests. 

Staring after him with your mouth open and arms hanging limply at your side, you try to make sense out of what just happened. If you were a more paranoid person, you'd think they somehow knew about the Reddit post. But that would be impossible - you had just learned of it yourself. 

After he leaves, the office is silent. A quick glance around the room reveals that everyone is staring, mostly at Price, not even bothering to cover up their eavesdropping by pretending to work. The captain also does a cursory sweep of the office. It's almost funny how the quiet becomes oppressive under his scrutiny. You've tried his look before - brows pinched, mouth set in a thin line - to little effect. But a chill frosts the air when Price turns his focus to the rest of the room, and your coworkers cringe away from his attention like he's just dropped a live grenade.

You're not immune to the weight of his regard yourself, but you don't flinch when his gaze returns to you. "Fancy a walk?"

He's not really asking, but in the interest of keeping up the pretense, you smile and nod. With him looking as banged up as he is, you don't think you could refuse him, anyways. "Sure. Just let me lock my computer."

The relief at beating a hasty retreat to the sanctuary of your own workspace is short-lived. After tucking the printout away among a stack of other documents in a locked drawer, you reach for your mouse to sign out of your computer and freeze. When you had forwarded the email to Jack, you had clicked into your sent folder to verify that it had gone through. The preview of the post - goddamn title, username, video thumbnail and all - shows clearly in the body of the sent email, and would have been perfectly visible to anyone who had walked behind your desk in the last five minutes.

There's no way Garrick wouldn't have seen it.

"Coming, Miss?" Price asks from the doorway, looming large in the frame. 

You want to put your head in your hands and tell him to piss off. But the presence of your rabidly curious onlookers means that's not a possibility.

So you lock your computer and stand as gracefully as your anxiety will allow, pausing only to shrug on your jacket. His shitty attitude apparently doesn't get in the way of him being a gentleman as he stands aside to let you cross into the hall first. 

The moment you're both out of the hearing range of your coworkers, he sighs. It comes out like a disgruntled growl. "I've been grounded."

"Come again?" You blink up at him, trying to keep pace as you stride together down the hall. "Thought you might have grown out of that by now."

"Grounded as in medically non-deployable," he elaborates through gritted teeth, his brows drawing together in irritation. Even in the midst of your confused panic, you can't help but smirk a bit at his expense. He gestures again to the sling. "I'm out of commission for the next few weeks, and Garrick's under orders to keep me out of the way." He spits the last words like they taste foul on his tongue.

Reaching the end of the hall, Price moves to open the door for you, but you beat him to it. Chivalry or not, you don't expect anyone who's injured to go out of their way for you.

Outside, the skies have cleared and the sun has risen enough to burn away the morning dew. The shallower puddles have begun to dry up. Though a cool breeze tugs at the sleeves of your jacket, it's an overall pleasant day to have after such a storm, and you turn your face up to the sun and take a deep breath.

After a moment, Price's words catch up to you. You glance up at him to find he's already watching you. His face is softer; some of the frustrated tightness has left his jaw, and the furrows in his brow have smoothed themselves out. Heat rises to your cheeks and you look away, pretending to be intensely invested in the squadron that's doing drills on the other side of the compound. "Shouldn't you be resting, then?"

"Probably." You can tell he doesn't really care about what he probably should or shouldn't be doing and get the feeling that he's accustomed to ignoring medical orders. Shoving his good hand in his pocket, he stares out across the lawn. There's a tension to his mouth that suggests he wants to say something but is holding himself back. Wind rustles in the grass, and the sound is like static in your ears.

You wait to see if he'll bend. Doubt that he will.

But he does. His words are slow and halting, but he speaks nonetheless. "It's...difficult for me to sit back while everyone else does the work."

Now that doesn't surprise you, and you take a few seconds to think on how to respond. When Price had asked you to accompany him for a walk, you had thought you would be fending off uncomfortable questions, or perhaps that you might be dragged into an interrogation room. Instead, you find yourself in the awkward position of having to defend a man you hardly know from himself. "It's not a bad thing, to rest." Especially when you've just fallen down a fire escape. "Everyone needs some downtime every now and then."

He only shrugs, moody again, and you roll your eyes. Men! It's like dealing with children. 

As the conversation has gone on, it's become apparent that he isn't here to ambush you into a confession. You're so relieved that you even almost forget that you're angry about the post, burying that in the back of your mind for a later time. The tension in your neck and shoulders beginning to unwind, you cross your arms. "And where exactly do I come into all this?"

Is it your imagination, or do his cheeks turn the barest shade of pink? "The others are all busy." He tugs at the edges of his hat to adjust it, even though it hadn't been crooked. "Wanted someone to watch out for me, make sure I'm not overdoin' it."

"So they picked me." How ludicrous. You barely even know each other.

Price gives you a heavy look out of the corner of his eye. "No. I picked you."

He comes out with it like it's the easiest thing to admit in the world. But you look back at him, gobsmacked. Now, why would he go and do that? As if he's suddenly hyper-aware of your scrutiny, he fiddles with his hat again before quickly dropping his hand to avoid the tell.

"Why?" You ask, the whispered inquiry just barely rising above the volume of the rustling grass. So soft, he could have pretended to ignore it. You hardly expect him to explain himself regardless. 

But Price doesn't do overt avoidance, apparently, facing the question head-on. He finally looks back at you, his expression intense. "You're very generous." He leans in a bit closer, bending shallowly at the waist. You hold your breath, taking in the abraded side of his face and the darker line of blue that rings his irises. "And I've always had a weakness for sweet things."

The few encounters you've had with him had leaned towards playful, but nothing outright. This, however, cannot be disguised as anything other than flirting, and the suddenness of it almost startles you into taking a step back.

If your face had been warm before, it's positively flaming now.

To hide how flustered you are, you look him up and down with as much disdain as you can muster. "Well, if you went out of your way to ask for my company, then you can at least pretend like you want to be here. It's not my fault you went and broke your arm, you see."

Price looks taken aback, like he hadn't been expecting that. It hadn't been very diplomatic of you, exactly, but you can't find it in yourself to regret it, not when he's been sulking all morning. He retreats back out of your space, and you're sorry for the loss of the warmth you hadn't noticed until it was gone. For a minute, you're both silent. The wind moves in the trees, and the distant squadron marches away, a military cadence floating back to you on the breeze.  

He surprises you by inclining his head just slightly, looking properly chastened. "It's been a long time since I've been pulled from duty, and I'm not handling it well. But I shouldn't take it out on you."

Not technically an apology, but probably the best you can hope to receive. You stoically hold his gaze for a moment before giving in. "No, you shouldn't. But I'll let it slide." You look out again across the lawn before tacking on a cautionary warning. "Just this once."

You suspect that he's not threatened by your posturing if his quiet laugh is anything to go by. 

The mood is still heavy and you cast about for a way to break the tension, hitting on the little joke almost at once. You figure you're owed a little payback for the teasing you've been receiving since Price arrived, and find you're not above kicking him just a little while he's down. 

"Not allowed to play with your friends, throwing a tantrum about it, and you need a chaperone..."

He looks down at you when you peek up at him impishly, raising his thick brows. Your lip twitches before you can control yourself. His narrowed eyes warn you not to deliver the punchline, but you're only too delighted to ignore him.

"...you really are grounded."

------

Left behind on your desk, your phone lights up with a notification. It's an email response from Jack.

What did you send? The link in Mark's email just says that the post has been removed.

------

notes:

RNF: Romanian Nationalist Front

The RNF slogan “We will stand as worthy successors” was inspired by the line “Vor sta ca vrednici următori”/”They will stand as the worthy successors” from "Pui de lei", a Romanian patriotic poem by Ioan S. Nenițescu.

The phrase on the tagged board "Un glas ei mai așteaptă și sar ca lupi în stâne" can be translated into something like "waiting for the order to attack like wolves". Other translations are a little more evocative ("waiting for the voice to attack the sheep like wolves"), but I went with the broader translation instead. It comes from the Romanian national anthem, "Deșteaptă-te, române!", by Andrei Mureșanu. The second phrase, "adevărații patrioți răspund la apel", is my own creation that I used Google Translate for, so I'm hoping I didn't mangle it. According to Google, it means "true patriots answer the call".

Tumblr screwed up the formatting for the Reddit "post" - a version that's easier to follow can be seen on AO3

[lightgamble]

DAREDEVIL | 1.01

Our practice is relatively young, Miss Page, and we are aggressively pursing new clientele.

[basementnoodles]

Your emotional outbursts and the fact that you came in swinging with “you guys are NOT SMART” and still managed to miss literally every point I made. Impressive. If you can’t handle basic criticism without resorting to playground insults, maybe you’re not ready for this conversation.

Let’s be clear: Katara kissing Aang ≠ narrative autonomy. Saying “she kissed him, so she had agency” completely misses the actual argument—her story arc ends there. The kiss isn’t a symbol of growth; it’s a narrative dead end. The writers framed that moment like it was the climax of her entire development, then pushed her to the background.

Do you seriously think I wrote a full essay just to nitpick who kissed who? Be serious. The whole post was about how Katara, a rich and complex character, was reduced to “the girlfriend” by the franchise once Kataang became canon. That’s not an anti-Kataang take. That’s a common trope we see in writing, especially with female characters who get sidelined once their romance arc concludes.

You said:

“We don’t know JACK about their marriage or Katara’s parenting because it was NOT mentioned at all.”

Exactly. And that’s the issue. We know Toph started a metalbending academy. We know Zuko helped build Republic City and became a respected Firelord. Aang got legacy status as a global peacebuilder. Sokka became a Councilman. Even the Cabbage Guy got a successful empire. Meanwhile, Katara—war hero, the last Southern Tribe waterbending master, key member of Team Avatar, and teacher to Aang and Korra—gets reduced to....motherhood and healing.

If the writers cared, they would’ve given her something. A council seat. A statue. A line in a courtroom. Anything. Instead, her post-comic relevance is entirely tied to Aang or their children. That’s not a coincidence. That’s bad writing.

And bringing up “LoK wasn’t about them” as an excuse? Weak. LoK's writers took the time to incorporate Toph and Zuko in the story organically--having them support the main cast in ways in a way that was naturalistic and didn't take away from the main group.Katara is the most connected to the main cast---the story focuses directly on Katara’s kids and grandkids, and even then, Korra posesses the spirit of her ex-husband, and the second avatar Katara taught waterbending to.As I mentioned in my previous argument, Katara remains absent during family outings, uninvolved when her granddaughter nearly dies, and missing when her children and grandchildren are in mortal peril.

Meanwhile, Zuko at the grand old age of EIGHTY SEVEN gets on his dragon to the south pole to try to stop the Red Lotus and when he fails, he wastes no time in returning to the fire nation to defend his daughter, and Toph tracks Kuvira down personally the MINUTE she senses that Suyin and her grandkids are in danger. And you want to act like Katara’s silence is fine because “she’s just offscreen”? No. That’s not writing restraint, that’s neglect.Show!Katara values her family more than anything...you expect me to believe that it is in charather to just disapear the minute her offspring are in danger.

As for blaming “the anti-Kataang comic writer,” be serious. It’s not just one comic. It’s a franchise-wide pattern. Across multiple writers, Katara gets consistently sidelined once she becomes Aang’s girlfriend. “Imbalance” came years too late and still focused more on Aang than her.

Also, your tone? Frankly embarrassing. You came in name-calling and condescending while offering no actual counterpoints—just kneejerk defensiveness and fandom tribalism. Calling people “not smart” while missing the entire point of a critique doesn’t make you look confident. It makes you look immature and insecure.

You’re not defending Kataang. And you’re certainly not defending Katara. You call yourself a Katara stan and yet you're defending a version of Katara who only exists as a supporting character for the men around her—a version who would never have existed if the writers had actually followed through on her arc.

Oh and one more thing :

Your tags alone say more about your age and maturity level than anything in your argument. I’d call you a butthurt middle schooler—but honestly, I’ve met middle schoolers with more composure and better media literacy than what you’re showing here.

That katara take is not only incredibly silly, it misses the point of her relationship with aang by a mile. People really wanna see 'problematic' where there isn't any - god forbid some people date young and actually stay together, lmao

I want to start this off by saying that this isn't about bashing Kataang, or Aang for the matter.It's about acknowledging how Katara as a character gets sidelined the moment she and Aang become canon.

For context, I reblogged this post from @southslates

" I always feel bad for katara in the context of her life after atla because like, she's fourteen when this twelve year old avatar decides that she's his forever girl. and the whole world knows it and even if she'd eventually left aang, she would always have somewhat been the avatar's girl. maybe it looked like she had a choice but she didn't, not really. even if she eventually would have chosen aang that choice was taken away from her. that stings. "

That moment in the finale where Aang kisses her isn't just a romantic resolution—it’s a narrative full-stop on Katara's autonomy. From that point on, her development is flattened.Lets start with the comics, the direct sequel to the series.In the spirit of keeping things brief, I will not unpack every single interaction between her and Aang in all the comics but ill highlight the ones that stuck out to me the most, but if youre interested in a more throuought unpacking ill link @araeph's series, Katara : Consumed by destiny.I highly recommend checking it out, its a really interesting read.At this point in the timeline, Katara and Aang are officially together, and as such the nature of their relationship has changed..but to the detriment of her charather.

In the promise, Katara's role is diminished primarily to that of Aang’s emotional support. Her feelings and actions revolve entirely around him, and she never voices independent opinions or challenges him, even when she arguably should—such as when Aang is debating over killing Zuko.In s3, we see Aang's internal conflict about having to kill ozai and how he overcame it.Here we are a year later with a rehash of this problem--Aang, a 13 year old non-violent, peaceful monk anguishing whether or not to kill a tyrannical firelord. Not only does Katara offer no real emotional insight on this, but actively encourages him to not only go against his values but dosen't reflect how that might affect him, her and the rest of the gaang on an emotional level.Isn't Zuko supposed to be her friend ? Broski took a literal lightning bolt to the chest for her.

This pattern continues throuought the rest of the comics--In The Search, she essentially acts as Aang's body guard and she and Sokka are Zuko's role model for the Ideal sibling dynamic.We don't see her motivation for going on this trip at all--Its almost like the only reason she's there is because Aang is, or because she's a member of the gaang--so she needs to be there.If so, where are Toph and Suki ? Hell, It makes more sense for Suki to be there instead of her, since her job is centered around protecting the Firelord ! We also never get to see her feelings on the situation, or especially Azula ---Katara literally witnessed the Fire Princess try to kill two of her loved ones TWICE.You would think that the authors would delve into Katara's feelings on the matter.The last time Katara saw Azula was during the last agni kai and Azula was chained to a metal gurder and crying hysterically.You would think that Katara would have some strong emotions about the Fire princess.Anger at her for all the times that she tried to kill her loved ones ? Guilt for being partially the reason that she got sent to the asylumn,Pity because her current condition ?

On a similar note, why hasn't Katara helped her ?Since Katara's has been established as the emotional support member of the friend group, you would think that because of her caring nature, she would at least attempt to help Azula with her mental troubles, despite her complicated feelings towards the princess.This is the same girl who tried to help a starving village from a nation that she hated, the same girl who tried to heal Zuko's scar when they were technically still enemies, the same girl who was the first to reach out to Zuko and catch him from falling to a painful death despite actively hating him.

I don't have much to say about smoke and shadow except for the fact that there was no reason for Katara and her brother to not be there for the majority of the comic---The Gaang knows that the Fire Nation isn't a big fan of Zuko at the moment and I don't understand why she and Sokka couldn't have been there to help defend Ursa and Co as a show of support for their friend.And their help would have been invaluable during the Kemurikage crisis--showcasing Sokka's skills as a strategist and engineer and Katara's leadership skills during a search and rescue of the kidnapped kids as well as her waterbending .Show!Katara, defendor of the defenseless would NOT have left the fire nation if she knew kids were involved imo.The Rift tries to set up an arc for her to go down, but just as quickly she is pushed aside in favor of Toph and Aang's respective plotlines.

The comics do not provide Katara with opportunities to showcase her strengths, wisdom, or leadership qualities.By relegating her to the background and not making her an active participant in the plot, she becomes little more than Aang's arm candy.

This becomes more apparent in LOK.There are no statues of her while everyone else in the gaang ( except for Suki, because the writers completely forgot of her existence post comics-) gets at least one.We know nothing of what she did during her time in republic city.We know that she moved to the United Republic to start a life with Aang, but what did she do during that time period ? We know that she ( allegedly, since it isn't acknowleged in the court scene ) led the efforts to outlaw blood-bending, which is in charather for her to do and the most logical since out of everyone in her friend group, she was the most affected by the effects of blood-bending because of what happened with Hama in The Puppeteer. Yakone abused his powers to terrorize Republic City for years. Katara, famously known for her activism in the face of injustice should naturally have been front and center on that trial, as a founding member of republic city and representative of the SWT. But no.Sokka lead Yakone's trial and delivered the crime lord's sentence.Sokka, who although was also affected by bloodbending, should have been in the SWT, leading or at least preparing to take over as Chieftain of the tribe.

So what did she do during her time in republic city ? Become a stay at home and raise the kids on Air Temple island while Aang flew all over the world, settling disputes and building bonds ? While Republic City ran rampant with crime and discrimination ? Becoming a stay at home mother is completely fine, but it clashes who we know Katara is as a person.We know that she would not sit idly by and do nothing as injustice was happening right in front of her.As we speak of injustice...

Katara sat idly by as Aang blatantly neglected his two eldest in favor for their youngest, Tenzin.

Im not expecting Kataang to be the perfect parents.Katara lost her mom early on in her life and her father was absent when she and sokka needed him the most and Aang is also the Avatar but is also the last person of his kind--a group of people who had a different take on raising children then the other three nations.The very notion of a " Nuclear Family ", hell even marriage is one he didn't grow up with.However, Katara values family deeply, and as a mature emotionally in-tune woman would have seen the effects of Aangs ( unintentional ?) neglect on his other children.She would have known how they and been able to empatize with them, especially since she experienced the same neglect due to Hakoda anbandoning her and Sokka when they were younger.The Katara we know would have not idly stood by and let her children suffer--she would have talked to aang and ensured that all their kids got the love that they deserved. But she didn't.And Bumi,Kya and Tenzin suffered for it.In Korra's time, Katara's relationship with her family is superficial.Her grandchildren don't see her often, to the point that her youngest grand-child dosen't even recognize her.She sits idly by as her family and friends are targeted and attacked by their enemies ( Amon, the red lotus, Kuvira) while Zuko and Toph--charathers are moving earth and sky to protect their respective families.

Katara isn't even present at their successes--not joining them when they were in the SWT, not joining them family trips, and she certainly wasn't there for her Jinora's air mastery ceremony, even though what was left of the Gaang and Korra who was wheelchair bound at the time, attended.

Furthermore, Katara is the last member of the gaang who is narratively the closest to Korra.Despite possesing the spirit of her ex-husband, Korra is a fellow member of the SWT and her student.Katara personally helped oversee the young avatar's training--by that logic they should have been very close.Yet Korra rarely, if ever seeks her council, and when she does need her assistance, Katara is always unable to help her.Katara, who we are constantly told is the worlds best healer.

Katara, who post show was made to only focus on her children and her healing abilities, failed at even just that.

Katara always stood for agency, for compassion with conviction. But the franchise reduced her to caretaker and emotional backbone for the Gaang—noble, sure, but not a full reflection of who she is.

Katara never got the space to evolve as an individual after the war, and this lack of narrative focus reinforces the idea that once she became "Aang’s girl," her story was finished. A core part of Katara's character arc was her refusal to be defined by anyone—especially a man—but in the end, she was overshadowed by one. What’s truly painful is that it never felt like Katara had the freedom to make that choice for herself. That’s what truly stings.

In the end, this isn’t just about romance or ships—it’s about the integrity of a character who meant so much to so many. Katara deserved a future shaped by her own choices, filled with growth, struggle, triumph, and identity beyond just being someone’s partner or mother. The narrative didn’t give her that. It reduced a vibrant, driven, compassionate, and complex girl into a symbol of domesticity and emotional support, without ever exploring the cost of that transition. Katara was never just “the girl.” She was the heart of the Gaang, a master waterbender, a revolutionary, a sister, a friend, and a fighter. And it's heartbreaking that the legacy of such a dynamic character was ultimately treated as an afterthought. She deserved more—and so did we.

[refractionrailway]

on an unrelated note it's so funny to me that they keep making Heathcliff the defacto "we have an id who's in a position of leadership and we need someone to be their sidekick" sinner, guy who is so "hot dog or hamburger style boss" coded

[astra-terrapin]

Tails and Espio tied for second so I flipped a coin. Espio is now finished! Next up: Tails!

Closeups because zooming in to read sucks:

[bithand]

Every day I wake up and think how can I make the Lighthouse a toxic work environment?

[electric-plants]

synergy?? dps and supports?? um sure i guess that’s important but the main thing to consider when building teams is actually whether or not the characters are friends👉👈

[whumpbug]

GUYS IT'S TIME. i now introduce.....

THE SCARAB CREW!!!!!! 𓆣𓆣

(scarab is the name of the ship they are all on do you guys get it. because. whumbug. beetle. scarab. the ship is shaped like a beetle--okay im done)

the vibes/tropes are: sci-fi/space fantasy, dysfunction junction, found family, accidental child acquisition, AND MORE!!!

HUGE thank you to @lemlem21 for listening to me Yap about them and helping me iron out a lot of the details!!! also for recoloring some of the skincolors!!!!

i apologize in advance. this is a long post. please please feel free to ask questions because this can get confusing. there are 6 characters all with complex traits and names so please ask me for clarification if you need it! i apologize for all the reading guys (˃̣̣̥⌓˂̣̣̥⋆)

OKAY! ONTO MY SPACE SILLIES! they are Everything to me.

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THE EXPEDITION PROGRAM (TEP):

okay just before i start, i want to briefly explain why all these people are together on a ship.

in this universe, theres a central government that spans across many planets in neighboring star systems. this is known as the Provinces of the Allied Galactic Empire (PAGE). this is the explored and "civilized" part of the galaxy.

recently, there have been more attacks on PAGE-affiliated planets and systems from the unexplored galaxy (known as the Outer Sector, or just Outsec in shorthand) and PAGE intends to get to the bottom of it.

and that's where Scarab Crew comes in! multiple teams were formed of people with exceptional talents in their species/planets and were sent on multi-year long exploratory missions under the name The Expedition Program (TEP). the scarabs are one team of many!

TEP's goal is to record and report all that they find as well as identify threats and/or the planets responible for the attacks. they are to come back with information and new technology that would make PAGE stronger and more well-rounded!

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NOW ONTO THE SILLIES!! i used different picrws for each of them to match their Vibe

(also i added pronounciation guides to the best of my abilities i hope it helps im sorry in advance)

✮⋆˙

Captain Nieven Alaric (Nee-ven Ah-la-rik)

pronouns: he/him

role: captain/leader/correspondence with PAGE

planet of origin:  Asto’is (species: Asto’isian)

age and height: late '30s to early '40s / 6 ft. 0 in.

description: the competent, calculated, and and cold head of The Scarab. he was a well-off government official before TEP, but unfortunately, he lost his family in an attack by Outsec rogues. he is a man hardened by life and unwilling to get attached to others again and because of this, is very efficient when it comes to running his ship. still, efficiency is not always the most important thing when it comes to leading a team. this is something nieven must learn.

species-specific traits: horns on the top of the head-- very interconnected with the central nervous system. decorated as a sign of age and/or accomplishment. also, asto'isians have pointy teeth! they are carnivores!

✮⋆˙

Hari Khurana (Huh-ree Ku-rahna)

pronouns: relaxed he/him

role: engineer/medic/chemist

planet of origin:  Earth (species: Homo Sapien)

age and height: mid to late '30s / 6 ft. 2 in.

description: a simple human that started from the bottom. hari grew up in a trailer park, raised by his older sister when his father worked 3 jobs to put food on the table. since he was little, it was known he was a genius when it came to stem subjects. into adulthood, he excelled in every stem job he took on. still, no one expected him to get singled out when TEP was recruiting. aside from his smarts, hari is cheeky, sly, a bit of a Bastard™ but he also has tremendously big heart. he's passionate about what he does, no matter how hard it can be for him sometimes.

species-specific traits: despite his brains, hari is... a defective human. due to malnourishment as a child, he has a plethora of health problems that worry his team to no end. some include: asthma, lactose intolerance, allergies to many foods, marie antoinette syndrome, POTS, among others. he is also a below-the-knee amputee on his left leg due to an accident in his teens.

✮⋆˙

Nylathrania (Nyla) Qifir (Nye-lah-trah-nya Kee-feer)

pronouns: she/her

role: pilot/navigator

planet of origin: Harye (species: Haryen)

age and height: mid '20s / 5 ft. 7 in.

description: the haryan are an extremely superstitious, winged race that place an extreme importance on flight. when a child was born with in inability to even lift her wings because of nerve damage, you can imagine it did not bode well. nyla was passed around from household to household with no place to call home. she wants to prove herself to her homeland by becoming the most successful pilot in TEP with her pride and joy of a ship, The Scarab, but even that will never make her good enough for her people, and consequently, herself.

species-specific traits: the bat-like wings and short horns are trademarks of the haryen people. unlike nieven's, nyla's horns are simply bony-keratin structures as extra protection for her brain. her wings are a bit smaller than other haryen's due to muscle atrophy.

✮⋆˙

Ytzel (Zel) Mixca (Ee-tsel Micsh-cka)

pronouns: relaxed she/her

role: gunsman/conflict strategist

planet of origin: Huelxa (species: Huelxcan)

age and height: mid '20s / 5 ft. 4 in.

description: born to a planet of war, zel grew up around bloodshed and violence throughout her life. in her culture, getting close to people was discouraged becasue you never knew who would be on the other side of the next civil war. she was often forced to fight her siblings and friends (to an extreme level) as a test of strength, so she comes off as abrasive and rude because violence makes her feel in control. it's a familiar pattern. she hasn't yet learned that love does not need to be painful.

species-specific traits: the huelxcan actually have a second pair of arms! these arms sit slightly more towards her back, in the middle of her rib cage. the huelxcan people also have evolved with enhanced hearing, and wear accessories on the ears to enhance it further.

✮⋆˙

Vin’ri (Vinny) L’aoh (Vin-ree Luh-ow)

pronouns: they/them

role: scribe/recorder/photographer

planet of origin: Z’edin (species: Z’edinra)

age and height: late teens (17-19) / 5 ft. 9 in.

description: vinny is heralded as the voice of reason when tensions are high amongst the rest of the crew. they are level-headed and approachable, making them an instrumental member of the team. but their secret? they're so lonely. in their culture, it's customary to stop being affectionate with children when they reach about 14 to encourage growth and independence. vinny didn't have a problem with this at first, but now that they're so far from home? they feel the need for comfort more than they'd like to admit.

species-specific traits: the z’edinra all have a prehensile tail that is about an armspan in length. it is capable of grasping, and can hold their body weight. also, z'edin is an ice planet which leads vinny to be prone to overheating in even mildly warm environments quite easily

✮⋆˙

Ren "Alaric" (Rehn Ah-la-rick)

pronouns: he/him

role: healer/newest member (not with scarab crew initially)

planet of origin: Siea W5M (species: Amb’toman)

age and height: about 7 years old / 4 ft. 3 in.

description: ren's parent's were killed when he was only 4, and he was taken to Seia W5M to be sold as a commodity-- his species is sought after for their abilities. he was under the ownership of a man for a few years before he escaped and has been on the run ever since. he covers his eyes with a blindfold to conceal the signature trait of amb'tomans-- white scleras lacking a cornea. because of his years blindfolded, light tends to overwhelm him. he is skittish, flighty, and in need of people who will take care of and love him.

species-specific traits: the amb'toman are a desert-dwelling species that evolved healing abilities to cope with the harsh climate. the short version of how the abilities work is essentially: people spend a certain amount of energy to heal themselves of injury or illness. ren can spend that energy all at once on himself or another person to heal them exponetially faster. the draw back is gets extremely sleepy after healing, and tends to be unable to stay awake

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RELATIONSHIPS: ask me about them!!! there are Some romantic relationships but i also love platonic and familial relationships so ask about whoever you'd like! i'm aiming to start the story early on to when they first meet so it'll be fun to develop their relationships as i write!!

PICREWS: 1 2 3 4 5 6

BONUS: here is all their height differences (ren is itty bitty guys)

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and that's it!!! thank you SO much if you've read to the end, it honestly means so much. and like i said before please please PLEASE dont be afraid to ask as many questions as you want (about specific scarabs, or the crew as a whole but just know if its the crew it might not be as detailed because. theres 6 of them.) these characters can get confusing and i want to make as easy of a reading experience as i can!

i hope you enjoy my little passion project and im so excited to develop these sillies further!! (✿◦’ᴗ˘◦)♡

tagging: @sethlost and @mellowwhumps (≧▽≦)

[thisispoggers]

I love Toni Vern’s antics why is he such a goober when most of his schemes could have actually won him a game if he weren’t so egoistic and a dumbie

[timcassie]

I think Young Justice’s individual characters are better written as people but the Young Avengers are better written as a team.

[saberdramon]

i love making thoughtful digimon crossovers with carefully implemented worldbuilding around why there's digimon and how do digivices work and then looking like a nutcase if i share any of it because im the only person in this target audience