#i really like our party size and composition

[undoundue]

the pinch hitter

I. 

World Series. Game 7. Fifth inning. I, a pinch hitter, a mere benchwarmer, smack an outside pitch into the right field stands, giving the Dodgers the lead. Mookie and Freddie slap me on the back as I enter the dugout, and to celebrate we go for burritos at a Mexican place inside the stadium. How can I say no to the all-stars? And yet, isn’t it a bit irresponsible to eat such a heavy meal between innings? 

“Kike…” Mookie says (referring to teammate Enrique Hernández), “…he don’t know how to read.”

“He can read,” Freddie amends, “but he lacks literacy.”

“His comprehension is terrible,” Mookie says. “In a way, that’s worse. More dangerous. It makes him susceptible. Susceptible to influences.”

“Oh, he’s susceptible, that’s for sure,” Freddie says. “You agree, pinch hitter?”

My burrito is dripping. The sluggers are looking at me expectantly. Dodgers fans on their way to the bathroom are stopping, staring, wondering whether we’re the real deal.

“He’s basically illiterate,” I say—nervous grin, no conviction. 

It’s the worst of both worlds. Mookie and Freddie know I’m just saying it to fit in. They’ll give me no masculine creedence. But the crowd will take it seriously. The rumor will get out and hurt Kike. 

Poor Kike! And they’ll think I’m racist, too.

Next thing I know I’m burning rubber on the way to my Motel 6. They can pinch hit for me—why not? I pinch hit for them.

I call my friend, the promoter, and tell him, Fuck the Dodgers, we’re celebrating my home run. Get a party going. 

He’s like, Aw yeah.

But the party is a bust. The motel pool reeks of chlorine and has cloudy white streaks in it of unknown composition. There are too many dudes, not enough chicks—not enough of either, really—and all of them trashy. Short notice for a celebration. 

In the shallow end, my friend is fooling around with a white girl with pale pink hair—the color of chewed bubblegum. 

He waves at me, like, Her ass is open, you wanna fool around with her too? 

But I don’t. I am sullen. I swim over the side of the pool and do a little cocaine off the bill of my Dodgers cap. 

My Dad wades up to me. His attitude: craven, appeasing.

“Are you having a good time, son?” he asks.

I grunt. “Not enough chicks.”

My Dad gestures at the pink haired girl. "She used to be a ninja.”

“That's cool,” I say, scornfully. What, so I’m supposed to feel sorry for her?

Both my Dad and I are naked, and our penises are erect. Our penises are nearly identical in size, shape and coloration. They only distinguish themselves when a pool wave passes over, distorting one but not the other.

It makes me mad—I’m twice the man he is, and my cock should reflect this. The cocaine was insufficient in quantity and it’s serving up more of an irritable than a euphoric high.

I’m also starting to really miss the Dodgers. At least there I have purpose. There’s a big scoreboard past the diving board, and it shows that we’re tied. I flip on the TV just in time to see Kike Hernández hit a walk-off home run.

Holy shit! We won!

II. 

Back at the stadium, Kike and I take the stairs to the clubhouse.

“Kike, that was…” I shake my head in awe. “Epic homer, man.”

Kike adjusts his glasses. He has a proud, yet whispery voice. “Yes, it was epic. But, excuse me, if you look at the metre, you’ll find that it was a Spencerian, rather than Homerian epic. Yes? Yes? Do you know what I mean?”

I don’t—I have no idea what he’s talking about. I wonder if he’s mad at me.

“Kike…whatever you heard, I never said you needed a literacy program. I never said your SAT prep was insufficient. Mookie and Freddie, they said—” 

“Shhh…quiet now. Let us get our prizes,” Kike says. 

The clubhouse is pretty standard, I guess: sofa, TV, coffee table, bowl of mints. On the floor is a cardboard box with PRIZES written on it. I reach inside and…I’m not sure how many Magic boosters to take. It seems like there’s plenty to go around, but I decide to start slow, re-up if I need to. I take five.

Turns out this was a mistake. None of my teammates takes more than four boosters—some fewer—even though, I’ll repeat, there are plenty to go around. Dirty looks.

I consider putting a booster back, but wouldn’t that be even more cringe? Should I own my greed, my rebellion, my outsider status?

I’m overthinking it. I crack the boosters. My teammates are no doubt focused on their own problems. Even though we won the series, the mood in the clubhouse is grim. Now that the season is over, the hard part begins: card development.

It’s written into our contracts. If you don’t know the business of baseball, now you know: The tickets and television rights are a loss leader. The money is in the trading cards. Baseball would be nothing without its stats.

The Dodgers’ owner, Frank McCourt, bursts into the clubhouse, chomping a cigar.

“That’s a Pokémon,” he says, pointing at my pack’s rare.

It is: a Typhlosion. I’m not sure how to explain this.

“It doesn’t have any attack moves,” I point out, “It just has a special ability.”

“A Poképower.” Freddie Freeman can’t help himself. “That’s the term.”

I cough when Frank exhales a cloud of smoke.

“I don’t give a rat’s ass,” Frank says. “This is a tribal set, and goblins and elves are OLD HAT. I need a new tribe by TOMORROW. A goddamn POKÉMON isn’t going to CUT IT. Do you understand? DO YOU?”

I’ve never read Frank McCourt’s memoir, Angela’s Ashes, but I’ve heard it’s a compassionate and moving portrait of an Irish-American family in the mid-20th century. Based on that, you’d think Frank would be a gentle boss. 

You’d be wrong. He’s a tyrant. Whatever empathy writing requires, it doesn’t seem to translate into one’s style of running the Dodgers—or so I’ve painfully learned. 

“Do you understand,” Frank says, his voice like a cattle brand, “benchwarmer?”

Next thing I know it’s an eyebagged sunrise and the floor has fallen out from the blow and I’m burning rubber on the way to the police station. 

I go straight to my friend’s office—he has a Tom Selleck mustache now; he’s quit being a promoter and taken a job as chief of police. I look at him sadly.

“You used to hate cops,” I tell him. “We used to argue. I’d say more cops, less prison. You’d say, more prison, less cops. What happened, man?”

“I haven’t changed a bit. I’m as good as four pigs. That means if I’m working, that’s three less pigs on the street. Now, why are you here?”

“I want to go undercover and help take down my boss, Frank McCourt.”

“Why?”

“He’s corrupt.”

“Hmm, interesting. We’ll need to fake your death,” my friend says. He sifts through some files on his desk. “Go to the evidence room and wait for me there.”

The evidence room is sparse: a bare bulb, a coffin, a mirror. I get in the coffin and pull the lid closed.

Time passes.

III.

When I get out of the coffin, my friend directs me to look in the mirror. My hair has gone silvery-gray. My cheeks and eyelids droop.

“You’re old,” my friend says. “That’s good. McCourt won’t recognize you. And if he does, he won’t think of you as a threat.”

My friend waits for me outside the room while I change from my uniform into a grey sweater, slacks, and a black leather jacket.

Then my friend beckons me to his office. He has a framed photo on his desk that I don’t remember from before: him, a pink-haired woman, two kids.

He hands me a semi-automatic pistol, which I tuck into my jacket.

“We’re still investigating your allegation of corruption. But in the meantime, you’re going to be McCourt’s underboss—his majordomo.” 

He tells me an address in the warehouse district. Kike is waiting for me there. He raises an eyebrow in what might be recognition, but he doesn’t tip his hand.

“You’re now one of the most powerful men in North America,” Kike says in his serpentine whisper, “Did you know that? Please. Please. This way.”

Kike takes me to a box-like room, barren except for lamp, desk, and chair. He closes the door and motions me to sit. When I do, he puts a sheet of paper on the desk in front of me.

“Should we ice him?” he whispers.

I consider the paper: a grainy, black-and-white mugshot of a man I don’t recognize. 

“I don’t think so,” I say.

Kike puts the paper in a beige folder, and replaces it with a mugshot of a different man.

“Should we whack him?”

This man is noticeably ugly. Otherwise, there’s nothing on the paper to guide my decision. 

I’m not sure how to make these calls. But I don’t want to admit my ignorance, or appear too soft and risk blowing my cover.

“Yeah, I’m thinking we should whack this guy.”

Kike nods and leaves the room. I hear a gunshot. He returns and puts a plastic-wrapped peppermint on the table along with another mugshot.

“This man—shall we pop a cap in his ass?”

This goes on for a while. After the twelfth gunshot—eleven mints piled on my desk—Kike returns, carrying a tall stack of papers in both hands. 

He says: “McCourt is pleased with your work.”

“McCourt,” I say, “When can I meet him?”

Kike smiles. He drops the stack of papers on my desk.

“Now that you understand the basics, we will switch to a more efficient mode of processing, yes? We will talk when you finish your work.” 

Kike leaves. Now it’s all names, no pictures. 

1. Shall I steez him…Samuel Tibbs? 

2. Should I rub-a-dub him…Bruno Comber? 

3. Shall I bring unto him…Harold Feibleman?

4. Should he expand indefinite…Roman Milbrath? 

5. Does a new life await for…Albertius Beck?

Can these really all be idioms for murder? I wonder, bubbling in the provided Scantron with the provided number 2 pencil. And just how much power do I have? 

It seems like I’m playing God for hundreds of people. And yet I am a blind God, who cannot judge fairly, or see the effect of his work.

At one point I encounter my own name. The question is: “Shall he be compleat?”

I’m not sure what that means, so I bubble in “No.”

I’m a thousand names deep when the chief of police knocks on the door.

“You’re off the case,” he says. “Pack it up.”

“Off the case!”

“The investigation is over. He’s not that corrupt.”

I stare at him, broken-hearted.

“Go home,” he tells me, gruff, but with an unmistakable note of relief. “Hit some baseballs. Find a nice girl. You don’t need to…”

He gestures at the papers.

“He can’t get away with it,” I tell him.

My friend nods. He was expecting this. He peels off his mustache and lays it on the desk.

“I’ve done what I can.” He grins wryly. “One less pig on the streets, eh?”

My friend leaves.

I bubble the Scantron for another thirty minutes before doubt strangles faith. I hadn’t thought at all about the ethnicities of the names I was judging. What if my choices are publicized and seen as racist? Could this be Kike’s scheme?

Even God could be so cancelled. I put on the mustache and leave.

It’s a blue, warm, and breezy twilight, and there are only two cars in the parking lot: my Ford Gran Torino and a black limousine. I crouch behind my car. To my surprise, a man in a black hoodie is already crouching there.

“Who are you?” I demand.

My Dad turns. “My name is unimportant. I’m here to kill the President.”

I have no patience for this. “Murder is wrong.”

“Your mother…”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“My point is, is it still wrong if it’s the President?”

“Yes. Yes! But I’m not here to argue philosophy. You have neither the aim nor the conviction needed for this task. You need to leave! Leave! Let me do the wrong thing!”

My Dad looks hurt. That’s fine. He’ll forget. I give him a peppermint and he slinks away.

The sky has gone from blue to black when the warehouse doors open and McCourt appears. 

He’s puffing a cigar and holding court with Mookie, Freddie, and Kike. Obsequiously they smile at his jokes, as if any reward is worth submission. I decide that I want him to see me before he dies. 

“Frank,” I say, stepping from behind my car. 

McCourt pales. “Malachy!”

I raise my pistol and shoot. Freddie and Mookie scatter. But Kike jumps in front of the bullet. I can’t believe my eyes. Something—guilt, I suppose—drops the bottom out of my stomach. 

Poor Kike! He really believed!

McCourt takes a revolver from Kike’s pocket and shoots me six times in the chest.

I slump against the Ford. I should be dead. McCourt thinks I am.

He walks towards his limo.

But he doesn’t realize that my black leather jacket is filled with densely packed Magic cards, offering protection not unlike Kevlar. 

A seam must have been injured, because they flow torrentially from the bottom of my jacket and into the parking lot—some of them punctured, bloody.

One of them hits McCourt’s shoe. He turns and sees me holding a gun on him. My hands don’t shake.

“There’s no point punishing someone just because you’re old,” he says. 

I say nothing.

“You can’t eat statistics. Someone should have taught you that. And if they didn’t well, I’m sorry, but I don’t give a RAT’S—”

I shoot him in the head.

I can hear police sirens. My friend must have left a few cops nearby. My lips make a horrible, life-denying sneer.

I put the gun in my mouth and pull the trigger.

Click.

But nothing happens. It’s out of bullets.

The cards are still pouring from my jacket. I pick up one of them. It’s a baseball card for a player with no name. It just says his position: The Pinch Hitter.

The sirens are getting louder, but I make no attempt to escape. 

Slumped against the car, I wait for the law to arrive.

[pb-dot]

Film Friday: Pacific Rim

My last Film Friday got devoured by the Needs To Finish Editing beast. I figure it's time to get back on it or the Can't-Be-Arsedosaurus is going to devour this habit entirely. Today I have my mind on my monsters and my monsters on my mind, so let's talk a bit about monsters, Kaiju to be more precise, and the giant robots that fight them in Pacific Rim

So earth is being invaded by giant semiaquatic lizard monsters called Kaiju, which is a bad time for all involved except possibly the Kaiju . Instead of devolving into secterian violence and short-sighted ass covering, however, humanity takes the NERV approach to the problem and builds some goddamn giant robots called Jaegers to show the aliens that humanity is not going down without a fight. It is, however, not easy for a regular-sized human being to pilot one of those darn things, and to lessen the load of the body-melding technology that makes it all work, each giant robot has not one, but two pilots, working in hopefully perfect tandem.

The most interesting part about Pacific Rim for my money is how absolutely confidently the movie establishes and delivers its world building. The entire setup in the above paragraph is delivered in the start of the movie, and there's very little dwelling on any of it. Other stories would've had ponderous origin stories or lengthy exposition that they desperately try to justify by having characters walking, or ideally running, and talking, or having a character that just don't know anything about anything.

Not pacific rim though, it sits you down and goes "Ok, here's the shit you need to know and some symbolism to boot, now things gone screwy and Our Guy needs to do some hero stuff." It's perhaps not the Saving The Cat-approved approach, but you know what? I admire how TCB it is, it seems like Guilermo Del Toro really wanted to get to his giant robot story, and didn't want to waste any time to get there.

In general, the movie is full of efficient storytelling like this. The Drift, which is to say the shared mind state that the pilots enter to control the Jaegers is an instant character backstory revealer, allowing both the characters and the movie as a whole to spend less time on it. No need to wonder what the hell Mako's problem is, we saw a montage about it just a few seconds ago, and both the characters and we know that there is a difference between knowing what a problem is and knowing how to deal with it, so there's no real drop in the interpersonal drama because of it either.

Anyway, I have gone WAY too long in this here essay about the Giant Robots Fighting Godzilla-movie without talking about either at any length. So, let's get nerdy on it why don't we. The Kaiju vs Jaeger scenes are spectacular, the Kaiju designs are all fun and unique but visually unified enough that they very much read like a united force. It does, admittedly, stretch the suspension of disbelief that these monsters are all unique and yet get custom names mere seconds after being spotted, but I like to believe there's one Kaiju nerd in the cellar of the Shatterdome whose sole job is coming up with code names for the monsters.

As for the Jaegers, I will say this is the closest a bipedal combat robot big enough to use a cargo ship as a wooden sword has come to making sense. The VFX and especially compositing is excellent for the time it was made, and there's some very real-feeling weight to how they move and some close-enough-to-real physics to their abilities and weapons that makes them feel very present. The same is true for the Kaiju, but we've seen giant godzilla monsters pull that trick off before, so it's not so impressive although I will admit the fight scenes do benefit from both parties feeling like they belong.

If I may diverge from my usual formula here, I feel I must say this, and this seems like as good a place as any. Holy fuck is this movie a blessing for the bisexuals in the audience. Charlie Hunnam and Rinko Kikuchi, playing protagonists Raleigh and Mako respectively, are attractive people, hope I'm not blowing anyone's minds there, but their chemistry in this movie is just Something Else, and it's honestly developed in a way that I see way too seldom.

It isn't just that they're good actors doing good work either, although I'd argue they are, but a question of being given good material. There is a relationship between these two, this, I would claim, is unambigious. That said, exactly what these two are to each other can be curiously hard to pin down. I still can't tell if it's romantic, sexual or platonic in nature after many re-watches, but whatever it is, it's great and intense in a way that's hard to describe. In some ways they even seem a bit like rivals, like how Raleigh sasses Mako for disproving of his sparring partners and Mako shooting back that it's Raleigh's bs she's disapproving of. In a lesser movie, this would've been awkward or played out with a joke. In this movie, which is great, our two heroes duke it out in a sparring match that is charged with some kind of energy that, if nothing else, tells us that these two will either make each other better or way way WAY worse

Actually, while we are talking about queerness, let's keep it up for a spell. It isn't explicit, but I personally find the relationship between excitable Kaiju Nerd biologist Dr. Geiszler and choleric stick-in-the mud mathematician Dr. Gottlieb deliciously queer. It could be their impeccable Bernt & Ernie-vibes, as expertly portrayed by Charlie Day and Burn Gorman, respectively, or how they both realize that their goals of understanding the Kaiju requires that they each cede grounds to each other and their respective fields and risk life and limb for each other in an experience that changes them forever. It's not an open-and-shut case as far as I'm concerned, but I like it better when read to be queer, so it's worth a mention.

Before I close, I will indulge in another thing I don't do often. In general I try to avoid arguing with the nitpickers and the plothole brigade of the world because that's an endless drain on my limited mental resources, but there is one particular such plothole that have been bothering me for a while. At a particularly dramatic point in the movie Mako and Raleigh deploys a retractable sword to deal with a flying Kaiju, which, apparently, has the CinemaSins wannabes of the world pipe up shrilly to ask why they didn't use the sword before in the prolonged Kaiju battle that this exceedingly anime move ends.

The interesting part about this plothole is that there are two good answers to it that coexist in my mind. For one, they didn't need it, as the Jaeger's other weapons did just fine, arguably better than a sword would, and in the time before Kaijus coming out two at a time, running out of ammo for the Big Very Sufficient Plasma Cannon just wasn't a problem. For the other, the world building actually explains this one, as the opening exposition montage mentions that the blood of the kaiju is hazardous and the source of some sort of malady nicknamed Kaiju Blue. Now since this is a movie, punching and kicking yields only small amounts of blood, while swords all but exsanguinate people on the first stroke, so better to stick with punches and kicks and the occasional self-cauterizing plasma burn. Now, as to why our heroes didn't deploy The Anime Weapon a bit earlier in the process of being dragged into the stratosphere, I couldn't tell you. I could argue that the added altitude could make the kaiju blood disappate over a wider area and thus prove less of a problem, but odds are good this one's just for dramatic effect, which I'm honestly fine with.

Anyway, to try to wrap this up. If my gushy, infodumping tone wasn't a clear indication, I love Pacific Rim. It's a movie that doesn't try to self-consciously excuse its genre trappings, it goes "yeah, kaiju, you know those, giant robots you know those, let's have some fun with it." Despite being made out of many familiar parts, it's arranged in a fresh and exciting way, and the joyous love the filmmakers show for the source material goes a long way to making it approachable. This is the greatest translation of old nerdy interests into a fresh new IP since Star Wars, and it makes me sad that it didn't transform the industry in a similar way. It's what nerd cinema should have become in the time of global streaming, but alas, the passionless nerd pandering turned out to be easier to make and, probably, more profitable. Alas, what could have been, I suppose. At least we'll always have that kickass Ramin Djawadi soundtrack.

[mirrorforevers]

here, there, and everywhere • graham coxon/reader

this fic is based on two prompts y'all sent me:

and

this fic really tested all of my blur knowledge holy Fuck. blur as talking heads au i guess. how cool would it be if they

1. had a girl bassist instead of the cheese tory dude

2. werent as unhappy as they were in the mid 90s (just a bit)

3. were just a little 🤏🏻 bit more female friendly lets just pretend this is a universe where the blurjob passes didnt exist heh

it took me everything i had to make this sound as realistic as it could be. u know these girls who think they could fix patrick bateman or don draper? perhaps y’all could fix blur

consider this a gift n not only me writing for your prompt, @nottuned! thank u so much for all your support n encouragement n for always bein so sweet 🥺 i hope u enjoy reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it!

let’s see how many references to unfortunate britpop moments y’all can find in this

also i hope i captured the silliness of the gossip and drama in that era well. if you enjoyed it, please leave an ask telling me more! ur feedback is rly important to me 😔✊🏻

tw (?) reader has shitty parents

word count: 7.938 (this one's quite long!)

smut. set in the 90s. au.

You were unlocking your door when you heard your house phone ring. The shrill sound echoed through the empty corridors as you hurriedly unwrapped your scarf, tossing your keys and backpack on nearby furniture as you ran to answer the call.

“Hello?” You answer, panting.

“Y/N?”

“Dave?” You smile, that call was a very welcome surprise. Your friend owed you an answer.

-

A few weeks ago, Dave Rowntree, your music classmate who became a close friend, told you that he had teamed up with two other proficient musicians to form a band. Dave was ecstatic, and every day he had new stories about his new friends to tell you between breakfasts and lunches that you shared between the countless hours of rehearsals. Even though you weren't part of the group, you already felt that you knew Damon and Graham like the back of your hand. Yin and Yang. One was expansive, ambitious, vain, impulsive. The other, shy, introspective, anxious and careful.

Damon Albarn wanted to be an actor, Graham Coxon had a firm foot in the visual arts. One was a fan of grand classical compositions, the other was a Beatles fan. They had been friends since they were children, in a seemingly unbreakable bond. Damon dropped out of his theater class not only because out of a sudden he had found a bigger calling in music instead of acting, but also because he couldn't stand being away from his best friend for so long. You found yourself often imagining their faces and voices while trying to make all of the wild and endearingly funny stories Dave told you more tangible in your head.

It was not long before Dave started dropping little hints that they needed someone else for their project. “It’s not that Graham isn’t good at bass,” he’d say, “but we could do better.” It wasn't at the top of your plans to be part of a band right now, especially as you were preparing intensely to join the Royal Academy of Music, and he knew it. When you mentioned the conversations you had with Dave about the boys on your family dinner, in quiet wonder and timid want of being part of something really exciting, your parents wrinkled their noses. Focus on the greater things, they’d say. Don’t let these boys distract you from your goal.

Our goal, they meant to say. Since you were born, you never knew if the things you wanted were really your will or theirs.

But anyway.

That dynamic went on for a while, until the day Dave invited you to audition for them while you shared a Diet Coke in the tube home.

“Will it take too much of my time?” You asked, coyly.

“Bold of you to assume we’ll let you in that quickly.” He chuckles, amused by your confidence. You playfully elbow him in return. He knew how good you were at what you did, though, and there’s lightness in his tone when he continues, “But no, unless you let it. You’ll probably have to stand up to Damon every once in a while.” He sips the drink, handing it over to you.

“What about Graham? How much is he determined to make it big?”

“Damon’s the one who wants it the most. Graham’s studying Fine Arts at Goldsmiths, so. There’s still cautiousness in him.”

“Huh. Okay then.” You reply, thoughts running wild. “Do we have a time and date?”

“Is tomorrow ok to you?”

“Sure. After our class?”

“Perfect.” The train reaches his station. He ruffles your hair: “See you tomorrow then.”

“See you.”

You don’t tell anything about it to your parents, you just warn them that you’ll arrive a bit later than usual. Dave’s intel was crucial to your choice of songs: knowing Graham was the beatlemaniac and also the rational brake to Damon’s tireless ambition, you knew who to please and have as an ally, so you build an innovative and fresh mashup of Paul McCartney’s greatest basslines to play for them. Of course it could backfire, but you didn’t care. You had a hell of a good ear anyway and if Damon wanted you to play anything out of the blue, you would improvise beautifully over it.

The day comes. You didn’t know why you were that nervous for an amateur audition. You weren’t even sure if it was the right path to follow, given that, depending on how focused Damon really was and how contagious his aspiration was, being part of a band could really take you out of your predestinated course. The reason why you were so nervous, now thinking a little more about it, may be because deep inside, you want your path to be a little less predictable. You didn’t want to fill your heart with hopes that you might make it big and travel all over the world because you didn’t even know them. But… what if it clicks? You knew some people in the scene whose work was getting seriously recognized out there.

Meeting them for the first time was an enigmatic experience. Damon was incredibly brash and cocky - not the first theater kid you’ve met in your life. Graham was way more approachable, though also a bit conceited when pushed just right. You wondered if you’d fit in that boys’ club, and decided you wouldn’t be an easy target for discredit or any kind of shit they might give you. “Took me a while to fully get their trust. You’ll do just fine”, Dave said, out of their earshot.

That gave you more fuel to play amazingly well. Damon definitely wasn’t one to be impressed quickly, but he was, when you finished your set. So was Graham - Graham was starry eyed with your performance, actually. Albarn showed you a song and asked you if you could improvise to it, just as you imagined. Of course you could, on the first play. You even suggested some adjustments to its structure. Your feedback was welcomed and noted.

-

Even though everything went surprisingly well, you still weren't sure if you would be a member of “Seymour”, as they called themselves. (You knew it wasn’t the best name, but you didn’t have a better suggestion at the time so you’ve kept your opinion to yourself.) Graham became eerily quiet out of a sudden and wouldn’t cross eyes with you the entire time you were there. Damon, well, was Damon. Perhaps he thought you were too ordinary and mainstream for deciding to play Beatles when he’s trying to be the new avant-garde Jesus.

But Dave's news was different than you expected. “They really, really enjoyed your audition. As I thought they would.” You can hear the smile in his voice. "When can you rehearse with us?"

-

Months after, on your first gig as a fully formed and integrated band, Damon was hit in the face by a guy twice his size, Graham vomited onstage and you and Dave had to take care of both. A beautiful way to close the already exquisite day you had, after you fought with your parents, got kicked out of your childhood home and gave up on entering the Royal Academy of Music two days after you received your acceptance letter featuring rave reviews of your entrance exam.

Dealing with these boys - no, grown-ass men - was hard, but not completely unpleasant. If it were totally unpleasant, you wouldn’t give up on your entire life to embark on such an adventure.

You - plural you - were so gifted and Damon’s compositions were so good. You could see that artsy pretentious mess of an act going somewhere. Of course, you were a bit lost in your life, but so were they, as you ran from city to city meeting new people and trying new things in your journey to fame.

Loneliness, once a close friend, became a distant acquaintance. One you didn’t know anymore.

You confess you were getting worried, though, with how much money you had left on your savings and how much you were spending lately now that your parents weren’t an active part of your life. Wanting to eat something you cannot dream of buying without that money being really useful in a much more critical situation, not having nearly enough money to replace something important that broke or got torn off was frustrating. Some basic things became luxuries out of a sudden.

One day in particular, you very briefly mentioned that you were dying to eat a slice of chocolate cake, but your voice was so small and everyone was so immersed in their duties you thought no one gave two shits to what you said. Two days later, Graham arrived late at rehearsal with a small chocolate cake in his hands, handing it over to you like it was a completely ordinary act. Nothing in the way he acted told you he expected a reward, it was so natural and… gentle. You knew no one in your band could buy a chocolate cake without it being apocalyptic to their personal finances during that time.

That day, you were assured by fate that feeling lost together was better than feeling guided alone.

-

The band finally got on track - strictly musically speaking. Personally speaking, many contemporaries who followed you at parties and other events described you as an ever-growing odd, annoying and intermittently disarming bunch - and Blur and its members became household names, at least in the UK. It became harder and harder everyday to impose yourself as an entire industry and its target public aimed to tear you down. Men couldn’t understand.

(Graham Coxon was the one who tried the hardest to.)

It was four in the morning. You’ve got used to following your bandmates to hospitals, running away from trouble or knowing when to relish in it. But it was the first time you offered yourself to clean up dried blood from one’s face, given how much you hated seeing the fluid and even fainted when younger whenever exposed to it.

You, so delicately, wipe the saline solution-soaked cotton across Graham’s face, who flinches at the cold sensation on his still sensitive skin. He stares at you with the eyes of a child, and you couldn’t help but give him a slight, warm smile in return, which he retributes. Your face conveyed gratitude and affection towards the one you were taking care of. Your hands still struggled to stay completely still after the surge of adrenaline your body received a few hours ago.

Being the only girl in a massive band, and one the music magazines and mainstream media loved sexualizing, meant having paparazzis in your window in odd hours (not that that’s acceptable in any hour, but you had to lower your standards even more these days), meant having different photographers trying to pressure you to get into all kinds of uncomfortable angles with skimpy-ass dresses and just count on the intervention of your fellow bandmates so they would stop, also having invasive male fans who would try to harass you in any way they could.

Of course the day where one of your bandmates would get into a fist fight with one of these men inserted into these categories would come. And even though they were all protective of you, each in their own peculiar, increasingly contradictory way, Graham’s dedication to it was sometimes commendable.

You were making your way through a small corridor of people on your way to the stage when a random guy cupped one of your breasts. It’s not like the venue was incredibly tight, it could not have been on accident and it made your blood boil. You turned around to scream at him, and Graham, who was just behind you, threw a punch directly towards the man’s face, without thinking twice.

And oh boy, took a lot of people and a sweet amount of time to separate the two after that.

After all was said and done, Graham had a few scratches, a black eye and a cut brow. He kept dodging your many “sorrys”, “you didn’t have to do this” and other expressions of guilt. “You have nothing to be sorry about, he deserved it”, he kept assuring you, like a mantra, just giving in to your pleas when you supplicated to take care of his wounds during intermission and after the show.

“I get why you did what you did, Gra. I hate that you took such a risk because of me, but I understand.�� you say, voice cracking from not using it for a while after spending some good minutes in complete silence taking care of him. “However,” you soak another cotton ball in the saline solution a roadie got you, punctuating the word with a squeeze to the cotton to remove excess liquid. “I was worried sick about you. What if he… had a knife or something? You could’ve got seriously injured. Or killed.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m perfectly able to have a good fight,” after wincing from the contact of the cold wet cotton with his dried blood, he purses his lips in a forced, shy smile, trying to light up the mood. He notices your hands are still shaking from the adrenaline, and takes one of them in his bigger ones, trying to calm you down. The fact that he did this for you, coupled with the fear and how tired you felt of having to go through that kind of situation once again, made you cry-laugh from how overwhelmed you felt.

His expression changes to one of pure compassion in an instant. “Hey, don’t--oh my,” he gets up from his chair to embrace you as you pour your frustrations through fat tears running down his shoulder.

“It’s so exhausting,” you mumble, through sobs. “Now I’m putting you in danger too. I feel like I did and I’m still doing everything wrong. I should be the one giving you a shoulder to cry on.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong! Anything at all, I promise you,” he says, tenderly, running his hands through your hair, still holding you tight. “It was his fault! I decided it was the right thing to do. You’re worth the risk. What people have been putting you through is unacceptable.”

“I’m not worth the risk!” You break apart from his arms, trying to get your point across. “What would I do without you if someone killed you? You need to be more careful!”

The silence hangs heavy between you two thanks to the weight of your words.

“You should’ve asked me before you lunged at him, at least. I don’t know.” You wipe your many tears as you move towards the nearest bottle of water to try to calm yourself down. “It’ll never end. I’m so afraid that these situations will get even worse. That,” you motion at his wounds and dirty clothes, “is a bloody tragedy. It’s a tragedy things escalated to this point. You can’t do that forever.”

“This is just a consequence. And something I would do for you in a heartbeat whenever necessary.”

“Graham, I don’t want you to get hurt because--”

“They hurt you. I won’t let you go through that alone. Besides,” he comes closer to you again. “As I already told you, I can take care of myself, most of the time.” He takes your face in his hands, his fingers so delicately running across your cheeks to dry your tears. You knew that gesture wasn’t his way of asking you for anything you weren’t ready to give him yet. He just wanted you to feel safe. “And I want to take care of you.”

“I’m the one cleaning your wounds.”

“A great partnership, I think.” Coxon chuckles softly, and finally gets a smile out of you. As he always does. “And they make me look cool, don’t you think?”

“Shut up.” You giggle, still feeling too emotional to return to the stage. You sigh: “Thank you for being there for me. You know I’m still not very used to it. Just please be safe.”

The roadie returns, a little flustered by interrupting your little moment together. “5 minutes and you’re back, guys.”

“Okay!” You both turn to answer her.

“I’ll be. No need to thank me for anything, Y/N.” He answers, giving your forehead a little kiss. “Let’s go.”

“Give me two minutes. I’ll be right behind you.”

-

“What’s it like, being the only woman in the band?”

Four eyerolls at once don’t seem to faze the interviewer. She waits for your response.

Apparently the thousand invasive questions regarding Damon’s love life and the same bullshit treatment of women as either rare specimen or sex dolls is what pleases the audience of music TV shows these days.

“What do you think?” is what you say.

“Must be a thrill to have these beautiful boys around you all the time. And we’ve heard you never even took advantage of it!”

You don’t like where this is heading. “Is that… a bad thing? I don’t know what you mean.”

“Perhaps some of our lady viewers might think it is. No judgement though!” She raises her hands. “You do you, it’s just that it’s quite unexpected to see prudes in non-Christian bands. I mean… from what we’ve heard.”

“I’m sorry? What are you trying to say? What did you hear?”

Her tongue clicks while she stares at you with defiance and mischief on her eyes, as she goes a little further and raises her voice so it can overlay yours. “Oh love. You do know what I’m talking about. There’s no need to be ashamed of being a virgin.”

Your cheek burns intensely and the only thing you wished for was for the ground to swallow you whole. Dave and Graham are especially uncomfortable. Damon’s a bit amused. The three knew almost everything there was to know about you. The one topic that surprisingly they didn’t know about is that you’re still a virgin.

They know you’ve been single for a long time. They know that’s part of what draws so much attention and twisted lore regarding you and your past, but that’s not something they felt they needed to know about you at all, and you truly never felt the need to comment about that with any of them, and they haven’t asked. Not even Mr. “the way to be successful in this game is to make all the boys wanna be you and all the girls wanna sleep with you. In your case that’d work in reverse” Damon Albarn.

“Is that even something that should be discussed in an interview about our music? Is that what your boss told you to ask her about?” Dave answers, his tone venomous.

“Musicians are way more than just music. You’re entertainment in every sense of the word.”

“Who told you that about me?” You asked, not sure if you want to know the answer.

“A lovely elderly lady who lives in Elgin Crescent. She knows you so well.”

That’s your mum. That’s how far low your relationship has degraded. You’re not surprised. That doesn’t feel less like a punch on your gut, but you don’t feel like tumbling again. Not today.

“I know who you’re talking about. Tell her I asked her to go fuck herself and burn in hell. In that order.”

“But that’s your--”

“Yes, she is my mum!” If people are going to expose you anyway, then why don’t you do it on your terms? “We’re truly entertainment in every sense of the word, aren’t we. Not everyone’s mum’s a cunt. Some of us aren’t that lucky.”

“You want to be the next Gallagher sister with the spicy remarks?”

“Not sure. But I do want to be the last person you ever get to interview.”

-

The management of the band wasn’t at all surprised your interview became UK’s topic of the week. People were heavily divided between family is family and we shouldn’t hate our relatives and blood isn’t everything, family can be shitty too. Your bandmates were proud of you. The management was angry but tried to understand, and didn’t press you for further explanations. They suggested a two-week break from everything so Blur could rest their image and start a fresh cycle after that, and you gracefully accepted it.

The whole thing seemed so ridiculous the more you thought about it. Did your mum tell the reporter about that gratuitously? What was their conversation like? How did that even happen?

You became the butt of jokes in some places. You saw other famous people doing challenges between them, countdowns, all sorts of crude remarks. What a pathetic, sad chapter of your career.

You dial Graham, and you feel like your heart was about to burst out of your chest.

“Hey, Gra. It’s me.”

“Hey, Y/N.” He sounds pleasantly surprised. “How's it going?”

“Better, I guess. I have to take my mind off all that chaos though. Are you available right now?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ve been owing me a movie night for quite a while now and I miss spending time with you. Wanna come over?”

“Aww. Sure, I--um. Do you want me to bring anything?”

“I’m pretty sure I got everything we need here--ah… I think I don’t have any more beers.”

“I’ll buy some then. See ya in a few minutes.”

Actually, you couldn’t take all that chaos off your mind because that was the only thing in it. You’re feeling so nervous.

The main reasons sex wasn’t a priority for you until now were:

You didn’t have any real opportunities of losing your virginity in your teens. You were impossibly introspective until, like, 3, 4 years ago, and the way your family worked hasn’t really allowed you to get really close to people. Be it boyfriends, girlfriends or just friends. Anything that threatened to take time off the various tasks and classes your parents assigned to you just couldn’t be part of your life. To be honest, you still struggled a bit to form meaningful connections with people thanks to how you grew up.

The moment you stopped being shy, you noticed it was a real man’s world out there, especially in music, classical or not. You didn’t want anyone to think you fucked your way up to the top, you didn’t want any messy affairs. Also, you had yourself, and you didn’t get all of the hype regarding the concept of screwing someone. But apparently there’s a lot you’ve been missing, given the importance people seem to give to it. After that incident, even though you swore to yourself you wouldn’t give in to any kind of misogynistic pressure, that was one that really got under your skin.

You never really found someone who you felt 100% safe with in that sense until the one who’s about to arrive at your house appeared in your life. Bloody hell, and you don’t even have anything romantic going on. By the time you were a Blur member, you’ve fooled around a bit, but not all the way. You knew how to kiss, knew how to touch yourself and even brought manual satisfaction to some random fool you thought you were into one time. But perhaps this is the time to go all the way. Why not? Everyone knew how close you two were. He made you feel special. He was so kind. And gorgeous. And--

You hear a knock on your door. It’s him. Beers in hand, hair somewhat in place, twitchy as ever.

He comes inside and you feel like your legs will give up anytime. It was not the first time he visited you. It was one of many, actually, and he noticed you were acting… different.

“Y/N, are you okay?” He asks after a brief dialogue between you two, after plating some snacks for both of you.

“Graham...” You sigh, being really careful with your words. “What is your perception of me?”

“My perception of you?” He smiles. “I… think you’re great. You’re fun to be around. You’re one of the best musicians I know, if not the best. Why are you asking me that?”

“N-nothing. It’s nothing. Also, I asked the wrong question. What was your first perception of me?”

“Uh… the day of your audition?”

“Exactly. You barely talked to me that day.”

His eyes lower to his own feet. “I was really timid, actually. I wasn’t used to being near any girl, especially one who… w-would spend so much time around me if everything went well.”

You giggle. “I thought you hated me.”

“Never!” his smile turns into a full blown laughter. You melt at his confession. “Also because it seemed like you were trying to read my mind or something.”

“Of course! Because I thought you hated me!” Now that was a laughter you two shared. You do a voice: “‘Why is that pesky girl trying to get in my band?’”

“My goodness, no! I don’t even sound like that - you know what, I changed my mind. You suck. Because, besides the fact you don’t even know what I sound like, you still haven’t told me why you are asking me that in the first place.”

You couldn’t help but notice how he slightly cornered you physically in one of the kitchen corridors. Graham could be really persuasive when he wanted to.

“Okay. Right. Um. I’ve been thinking about some stuff.”

“What, exactly?”

“Everything that happened this month. The great virginity debacle,” you roll your eyes, and he scoffs.

“You don’t own anyone any information about what you do or don't do with your life. Everyone’s being so invasive. That was incredibly childish of the reporter to do, and we talked about that hundreds of times.”

“Yeah, but… you know what, forget it.”

“Tell me, Y/N. I just said that because I want you to know you were not in the wrong.”

“I know. It’s just… I’ve been thinking that maybe it’s silly for me to… keep closing myself for affection. Any kind of affection.”

“What are you talking about?” His brows furrowed in curiosity.

“I’m not sure if it’s the pressure that finally got under my skin, but… I’m willing to learn what all the fuss is about. Maybe it’s silly that I’m still a virgin.”

He bites his lips, still processing what you just said, expression unreadable. Perhaps you’ve treaded a ground you shouldn’t. You step back both literally and figuratively. “I’m sorry I even brought that up--”

“No, no, don’t be.” He assures you. “I’m just… surprised, that’s all. I swear.”

“And...” You know what. You already went too far, so why not go all the way. You’ve already gone way past the point of no return. “I was wondering if… you would… popmycherry?”

His eyes widen, yours still closed. When you finally open them, he’s closer to you again.

If his head was a machine, you’re sure it would be releasing lots of steam and shaking due to overprocessing. You felt like you just ruined everything.

“Y/N, you don’t need to do it if you don’t really want to.”

“But I want it! At first I thought I didn’t, but then I thought...”

“I don’t want to be part of that if you’re just doing it to fulfill weird expectations.”

“But it’s not that. Not just... that. I asked about your perception of me because I really like you, Gra. I think we should be more than friends and I wanted to know what you think about me. And I want to know what the fuss is about, yes, but I’m not telling you that just so I can lose my virginity to prove some point. I’m telling you that because I like you, I want to kiss you, and I think it would be a great idea if you showed me what it’s like. Y-you know, sex.”

“I-I can’t believe it. Did you even have any movie in mind?” His smile’s back, but you’re still not confident about what his answer will be.

“I didn’t. I’m sorry. You don’t have to--”

He sighs. “I was in love with you the moment I first saw you, actually.” He says it like he’s releasing a huge load out of his back, his arms crossed. Now your eyes widen, and you hold your breath without even noticing. “I didn’t want you to feel pressured. I know how you feel, or, felt about relationships, so… there wasn’t any reason for me to tell you that. And what I said about being timid was just half of the truth.”

“Huh?”

“I also was really intimidated by how pretty you looked. You can’t imagine how.”

“No way.”

“It’s true. I felt like I wasn’t even worthy of looking at you, really.”

“You’re joking. That’s mean, Gra.”

“I’m not. I’m really not.” He doesn’t look like he is joking. He looks relieved. “I’m really not. That’s why I’m so surprised by your request.”

“I’m nothing special.”

“You are everything to me. But I can’t accept your offer, not now.”

“Are you… seeing someone? Am I too late?”

“No. Definitely not. I just want you to be sure you’re not doing it because people are saying you should.”

“Graham, I’m a grown woman.”

“I know.”

Graham carefully presses his slightly chapped lips to yours, kissing you for a few precious, heart stopping seconds before pulling away; his voice is impossibly silky when he suggests, “Let’s watch a movie. How about The Godfather? I heard it’s airing tonight. Then, if in two weeks you don’t change your mind, tell me and I’ll be glad to help you with what you want. Do we have a deal?”

“That’s so unfair. I want you so bad.” You whisper.

“Tell me if you still do in two weeks.”

You sigh, defeated. “...Deal.”

-

You definitely notice the subtle shift in Graham’s personality and actions after that fateful night. If you were already close, both figuratively and literally, it now seemed like he would use any excuse to always touch you, be near you, sometimes tease you. The shift was subtle, though, don’t forget it’s still Graham Coxon we’re talking about - the constant “is it okay if”s or “is it alright if I”s were still there, as careful as ever. You don’t even talk about your deal that entire time, or even kiss again - sometimes you wondered if it was even real or just a fabrication of your mind.

The way he now caressed your hand discreetly when you listened to Damon’s ramblings, the way his hands now went directly to your waist when your games became too handsy, the way he seemed to be madly in love with everything you were and still are from the start - made you realize you were ready for this man to be a consistent part of your life.

The dust of the controversy was settled, and your own intentions were 100% clear to you now. The societal pressure has waned. The need for Graham to be your first persisted. After exactly 2 weeks have passed, you call him again, yearning to share the answer with him.

One beep.

Two beeps.

Three beeps.

Four beeps. “Hello?”

You release a sigh hidden deep inside of your lungs. “Graham, it’s Y/N.”

“Oh. It’s been two weeks.” You could hear the contemplative tone of his voice.

“...Yeah. That’s precisely the reason I’m calling you.”

“Do you still want to…?”

“...Desperately.”

“Ok.” He chuckles, flustered as hell on the other side of the phone, probably one of the prettiest sounds you’ve ever heard. “Right. Ok. Your place or mine?”

“I think there’ll be an element of mystery if I go to your place this time.” You lose some of the constraints this silly shyness has been tying you on. “Do you have everything we might need there?”

“We don’t need a dungeon, you know.”

“The basics.” You make your smile heard.

“I do have… I do have the basics.”

“See you in a few minutes then.”

“Will you want to… ease into it? Or just go straight to it?”

“God, don’t make it awkward!” Your cheeks burn, your smile turning into contagious laughter. “Maybe… I don’t know. Ease into it, I guess? A movie night… but with s-something else?”

“Okay. Sounds good.”

“Alright then. See you.”

“See you.”

-

You don’t choose any particularly fancy or sexy clothes, instead settling for a slightly oversized yellow striped shirt he gave you as a birthday present some months ago and some skirt that fit you well. He wasn’t one to lavish his loved ones with gifts all the time, but few things were as precious as the look on his face whenever he saw you wearing something he gave you or, hell, even eating something he paid for you. You’re thrilled to see it again when he opens the door for you, it easing some of your deepest doubts.

2001: A Space Odyssey is already playing on the TV when you arrive. Despite it being one of your favorite movies of all time, and his, you’re not mad it was already halfway through when you arrived. It wasn’t your main priority to rewatch it for the 17th time tonight.

He offers you some wine, which you accept to ease the nerves. You sit on his couch, and he shares the cozy space with you, now mindlessly throwing one of his arms around your shoulders. You cuddle up to him, and everything seems peaceful in the world for a while.

The tip of his fingers softly caress your lifted knee, absentmindedly. You couldn’t help but notice how well his body fits with yours, how your skin was apparently made for him to touch, and the anxiety rumbles in your stomach like a storm in a wild wavy sea. After some minutes, you raise your head, his big brown eyes meeting yours as if asking you a silent question. You leaned up a bit more to press your lips to his, in a silent answer. The sweetness in him makes this moment as precious as every other moment you ever shared with him. His hands enter your hair, making you shiver a bit from the unfamiliarity and the electricity of it all - but it doesn’t sway you from deepening the kiss, wanting more of his taste, more of this, more of him.

“Do you wanna take this to the bed?” He whispers, after noticing your moans were becoming more frequent and needy. You nod, and you are taken by surprise when he carries you bridal style to it, hiding your excited giggles in his broad shoulders.

Graham wasn’t exactly the most organized man in the world - so the fact that his bedroom was now impossibly tidy was something that positively caught your attention. He put some planning into this. He lays you down and you part your legs, beckoning him to meet you between them. He does, and you go back to the breathtaking makeout session. You notice he’s holding himself back a bit, taking his time, his warm tongue moving smoothly, not hurriedly, against yours. His self control falters a bit though, given how he can’t stop grinding against you. You follow the rhythm of his hips a bit timidly and not nearly as in sync as you’d really like, though the pressure his covered cock is creating against your core can already be felt and some particular thrusts are able to fill at least partially the aching, wet need growing within you.

“How do you feel about oral?” He asks, breath warm near your ear, his voice raspy and spent by his desire for you.

“Um… It would be my first time receiving or doing it.”

“Would you like me to go down on you?”

“Wow. I never thought I would hear you saying something like that.” You smile, still assimilating the situation you’re in, trying not to show how badly his voice is affecting you. “Sure.”

“I never thought I would get to propose this to you. Aren’t we full of surprises lately.” He smiles back, warmly. He notices your hands trembling a bit from how anxious you are while you’re taking off your underwear with his help, and as he lowers himself to where you need him most, he takes your hands in his as an act of reassurance. “Tell me what you like. Tell me if what I’m doing works for you. I want this to be a great experience.”

“You want me to get addicted to you, that’s what you want,” He chuckles, lovingly kissing your thigh as a reply. “Okay, Gra. Guess I’ll find out along the way.”

You quickly take a peak below you to see the lower half of his face disappear in the middle of your thighs. The sight alone sets your fire ablaze, as he hooks his arms around your thighs and lifts you closer to his mouth, his lips ghosting over the curls between your legs tantalizingly and his breath catching when your hips jerk forward.

As he begins his ministrations, you immediately notice it’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt. That feeling was completely alien to you. It was even wetter than you expected, and weird, but powerfully pleasant. Before this exact moment, you had a firm belief that hardly anyone else would make you feel the same way, or better, than you do yourself, but apparently you were very wrong. Thankfully you were wrong. “My god,” you gasp as the flat of his tongue drags over your folds, too much and not enough, and you jerk at the contact. “This is great. So weird, but-- great.”

He moans at your response, his movements carefully enthusiastic. He works his tongue between your folds and traces up to curl the tip of it around your clit, and it’s quite endearing and madly arousing to see how he eats out you like you’re the sweetest and tastier dessert he has ever tasted. You involuntarily buck against him with a desperate sound the moment he moves his tongue and lips in a particularly wicked way, something that definitely doesn’t go unnoticed by him, but you still feel the need to highlight in case it didn’t - “That. Keep doing that, please,”

And he does. The building of this climax is also different than the ones you already had by your own hands, and is more coy. As he sees the drops of sweat sliding along your soft skin and the expressions on your face as you get lost in this new but enchanting sensations, his hesitation and self-control fades away; there’s nothing uncertain in the way he buries his face in your cunt now, nothing restrained in the groan he lets out as he devours you and drinks you down as if you’re the first stream of water he has seen in days.

His tongue glides deeper in your folds again and again, swirling up through the wetness you’re coated with to tease at your clit while he grunts and strains closer, squeezing your thighs with both hands tight. The wave of heat inside of you is cresting so fast, you don't even know how to tell him, how to signal that you’re nearly done for and, in the end, it happens too fast to even try. He sucks at your clit, circling it with his tongue, once, twice, and then you’re crying out, shaking underneath him, trying to keep your thighs from clenching too hard around his head as he laps you through it with with urgent whimpers and moans, as if he cannot have enough of you.

You’re still trembling when he rises, the look on his face revealing to you how proud he feels by making you feel this way. It looks so good on him.

You fail miserably at the simple task of connecting words together after that, choosing instead to collect your remaining strength, prop yourself up and beckon him again to keep kissing him and learn, through his talented tongue, how you taste. He kisses the thin fabric of the shirt at your chest that covers you from view, your throat, your jaw, and before he reaches your impatient lips, he notes, sinfully, “Seems like you enjoyed yourself, love.”

“That was… unbelievable. Stars, I want to make you feel good too. Please show me how.”

“Keep kissing me,” he begs, voice still strained from how aroused he is. “I want to be inside you so bad. Let’s get you prepared.” You’re still so sensitive, you tread on overstimulation when his fingers lightly touch your clit, making you break the kiss in a hiss. He traces a line on your folds, inspecting the impact his mouth had on you. “So wet for me.”

“Bit slower, Gra,” He complies to your breathy plea, his fingers now more tame as he slowly spreads your wetness throughout your pussy. He stretches towards the nightstand to grab a bottle of lube, interrupting his contact to spread some on his fingers before unhurriedly slipping his middle finger inside of you. The coldness of the gel makes you shiver in surprise, the easiness brought by it very welcomed. Again - the sensation is odd. Completely unfamiliar. The feeling of having something inside of you for the first time, going further than you ever dared to try, probing, exploring; the coldness of the lube clashing against your burning hot cunt. But it also felt nice. The focused look on his face was adorable, he looked like he was a scientist in the middle of very complex research.

Despite the panting, the messy hair and the fire in his eyes.

Your body already has a lot of new sensations to process simultaneously, so when he asks you to take off your bra and shirt so his tongue can work on your nipples - which you gladly accept, you feel like you’re on sensual overload. His tongue, again, so talented, takes your mind off the slight burning you feel when he introduces his ring finger to your soaked, throbbing core, his focused, carefully overpowering and constant stimulation driving you insane.

“Does it feel good?” He asks, voice muffled by your breast. You nod, carried by the wave of pleasure sweeping you.

“Yes. God, yes.” You pant, tangling your fingers tightly on his thick hair as an encouragement, a desperate sound escaping from your lips the moment he reaches a certain point within you you didn’t even know existed, hot mouth continuing to lick and suck your nipple. Even though you were spent by your last orgasm, he was indeed getting you addicted to those new feelings, and even though this was heavenly, truly heavenly, you needed more. “Gra, I’m ready, I think.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. Please.”

Releasing your nipple from his lips with a sounding pop, he eagerly frees himself from his trousers - hard as a brick - and puts protection and lubrication on, swiftly positioning himself between your thighs while stroking himself to the sight in front of him. You motion to take off your skirt, and he holds your hand, not letting you. “Don’t. It’ll be really hot to fuck you in this.” He confesses, giving your forehead a kiss in a very different context than before. He aligns his forehead with yours, each of your lips just barely touching while you breathe each other’s air. He looks deep into your eyes, slowly running the tip of his cock between the slick folds of your pussy, coating himself in the remnants of your pleasure. “Do you trust me?”

You trust me to know your limits? Not to go any further if you don’t really want me to?

“Absolutely.”

The only response you get from him is a shuddering, helpless moan into your mouth and you hold him tighter to you, grinding your still sensitive cunt up against his cock while he pulls hard at the soft fur next to your head. You feel your soaking pussy lips part around the solid curve of his length and gradually coat the underside of him in slick with every gentle circle and roll your hips make, as he finally pulls away from your mouth to drop his forehead to your neck. He then, very slowly, penetrates you, stopping when he hears the noises you make indicating you’re struggling to adjust to his presence. Out of everything you’ve felt in the last minutes, this was by far the most painful sensation. “This-- is new,” you note, your face completely incapable of hiding the discomfort. He also notices that.

“Are you okay? Do you want me to stop?”

“It’s okay. I’ll get used to it.”

“It’s not supposed to be about endurance, you know.” He says, a bit breathless and worried, caressing your hair. “Tell me when it’s okay to move. Or if you feel too much pain.”

After some long seconds and some deep breaths, you say: “Okay. Go on.”

“As you wish.”

He moves inside you at a very slow pace, the lubrication clearly making it easier for you to handle it. It still hurts, significantly, but the sensation of being filled is also surprisingly arousing.

His hand moves to your sensitive clit again in small, measured circles, your little moans being a mixture of the pain of penetration and the sheer ecstasy of seeing him falling apart because of you. The way his chest heaves while the drops of sweat start pearling his fair skin, the furrowed brows and broken groans, the thickness of him as he rests heavy up against your entrance, the way his voice presses deliciously tight in his throat as he gasps out into the quiet room - everything’s making your chest burst in love and satisfaction. You tighten your grip around him and roll your hips up into his cock, letting it break you open nice and slow; it stretches you wide with a deliciously sharp fullness and pleasure rips through you, and Graham becomes even more vocal as he picks up a steady and gradually faster pace. He turned all of your keys, it’s about time you turn some of his.

“Graham, deeper,” you whimper, continuing to tighten your legs and hoist yourself up, lifting your hips to take his cock deeper inside you. His name rips itself from your throat while Coxon clenches his jaw and starts to lose himself in the pleasure, holding you down into the bed while he allows your desperation to guide him to the perfect angle and speed to sate you. He found denying you to be impossible.

He snarls and curses as he holds you down and rails you, determined to make you sing again before he finishes, and to his delight, your heightened sensitivity gives him what he wants. And this time, he couldn't hold on.

Graham kisses you one last time as he groans and gives in, head dropping to your neck again. You didn’t reach a second climax, but stars, what an experience you just had.

When he comes back to himself enough to realise he still had you practically folded in half, he carefully pulls his softening cock free, taking the condom off and taking the strands of hair out of your face as you struggle to catch your breath. You suggest a shared bath, a suggestion he gladly accepts.

Too tired and too sore for pillow talk, comfortable silence falls as your hand finds his, and you lay, listening to each other’s breathing slowly settle.

I could get used to his little snore on my chest, is the last thought that twinkles on your mind before you fall asleep snuggled with him.

[drahtphotography]

Look at this! Eric has some words to share! Draht Photography

New Post has been published on http://www.drahtphotography.com/the-windy-canmore-wedding-sampler/

The Windy Canmore Wedding Sampler

Our wedding sampler for today takes place in Canmore, Alberta on a windy fall day on October 16th. We had tried to video the ceremony, the loud waves and incredible wind made for a lot of background noise. That being said though, it led to some unforgettable photos.

Our day begins as the sun rises. For fall weddings, because of the early sunset, you need to plan your day to begin a bit sooner. Everything was ready for me right away. Rings, dress, and flowers.

The rings found me, in the form of a little dachshund peaking through the grass.

And the dress…the dress was completely incredible. As the clouds were covering the sun, I went for a bit of a simpler composition.

Over at the guys, our groom was getting ready for our noontime ceremony, in his snazzy custom suit.

Upstairs, our bride was doing the same.

The ceremony took place at the beautiful Lake Minnewanka. The waves were high, making for dramatic compositions – just my jam! And oh my goodness, did these two look stunning!

I was especially thrilled with the spotted light!

You can see what I was talking about. The shadows were so dark, and the sun was so bright. It made for such a contrasty, dramatic image. This is certainly something you don’t expect to see in the middle of the day!

And something else you might expect to see, is this party of a bridal party! As you can see, we fought a battle with the wind, but the bright sun kept us warm!

And these boys!

All together we made a pretty great crew. There were a LOT of bridal party photos. These are some of my favourites. The tall grass, sun, and mountains make for some pretty incredible compositions!

And of course, my favourite. A bit of time with this bride and groom. If you know them, you know they’d like anything but ordinary, and I’m happy to acquiesce. Even though, the wind had other ideas.

And so, we ran against the wind.

That last shot has a story. I had noticed a beam of sunlight coming through the skies, we we stopped right there. There’s an actual spotlight from the sun.

And speaking of spotlights, we weren’t even near finished. We trundled into the woods for some even more artsy photos!

We aren’t even close to done, I had scouted a few places the day before. This one really stood out to me – it’s across a road. Which is the downside….

But the view is incredible, when cars aren’t aren’t driving by.

And this took my breath away.

Unfortunately, this is where I’ll have to leave you. Can you believe the size of this sneak peek? It’s over 50 images! Of course, if you’d like to be put on the list to see the photos once they’re done, you’ll find the pre-registration link here.

If you’d like to save any of these images, just right click them on the computer, or long-click them on your mobile device! It should be savable and shareable from there.

Lastly, thank you for reading this far! These sneak peeks take me quite a while to put together, so you can imagine how glad I am that you’ve enjoyed this one! If you’d like to follow my work, follow me on instagram, tumblr, or facebook!

[felassan]

Thoughts on Dark Fortress #1

(This post is under a cut due to spoilers.)

NB, my thoughts on the first pages that came out in the preview are collected here [spoilers at link], so I won’t repeat myself.

Okay here we go :D I’ve posted up my fav panels but always want a space where I can burble at length.. (I’m late in posting this bc recently for the last few days I’ve been obsessing over politics in my country as it’s the run-up to election time.. I haven’t read anyone elses’ thoughts on it either so I could be behind on prevailing speculation or whats known or something) The preview pages ended at the panel when Aaron says “Vaea is right”, so that’s where I’m beginning.

I can’t put my finger on why but I really like the “don’t tell me I’ve had too much to drink” panel showing a Tevinter street. It’s a neat blend of “Tevinter is advanced relative to much of the rest of known Thedas, but also ominous, but also a place where people live and go about their lives, and also not going too heavy on the cyberpunk angle”. I dig the composition ‘leading’ the eye up the street and the consistency with the recently-seen DA4 materials that have red lighting in Tevinter buildings, similar building shapes etc. ig I’m pretty obsessed with the idea of the DA4 PC & party walking up streets like these.

I wonder how Aaron felt witnessing Tractus’ drunken scenes in the pub :(

Tractus’ attitude towards the barman here shows the influence and power Magisters wield in Tevinter, and the fear of them common among the mundane populace

digging the Tevinter-y motifs & design of the bartop, bar shelving etc. it feels like thought went into it

I’d watch a spinoff show or read a story where Marius and Ser Aaron have to team up in order to achieve something

Vaea is so badass and agile! I appreciate that the shot of her up high was tasteful and didn’t like, weirdly contort her body, have a weird leering angle or emphasize things in that way comic art often does for women at moments like these

so in Tevinter, lamps give off red light (seen in the bar scene). are the windowpanes themselves also red?

good thinking Vaea grabbing the staff. great sense of snappiness and motion in this panel. her landing reminds me of squirrels doing the superhero pose landing actually :) 

tfw you and a dog burst out of a wardrobe

Tractus recognizing Fenris, it seems - did they encounter each other when Tractus was young, or does he just know of him (distinctive markings and all that)? if the former, I have a feeling we might get a flashback scene to that time in a future issue

cutting to look at Francesca when Tractus talks about Fenris murdering his father is GENIUS. look at the sadness on her face here; “you murdered your father” is exactly what she’s been telling herself and struggling with all this time

nice to see staff-less magic in action

Tractus seems to have drawn power from the red orb set in his staff. he reaches out to it and it responds by glowing and the staff moving, but he wasn’t doing a Jedi ‘use my Jedi powers to make my thrown lightsaber [staff] return to my hand’, as you might expect, he was instead charging up and drawing magical energy/power from it [the orb], as seen by the red light in his hand in the next panel. this reinforces my earlier wonderings that the red orb is notable and that there’s some connection between it and his red eyes. later in the panel when he’s trying to cast on the floor his eyes seem lit up (altho it could just be lighting & dramatic effect)

I wonder if Fenris thinks of Anders and Justice when Tractus says “justice”. There was once a mage in Fenris’ life who was really focused on justice..

the combat scenes are beautifully drawn, thought out and colored

Fenris’ lines here are really metal, badass and impactful. I could hear Gideon Emery’s voice in my head as I read these bits - the word choice of “hounded” helps with that I think, it immediately recalls Fenris talking with anger about how Hadriana denied his meals and hounded his sleep. they nail how Fenris speaks, the pattern and words he tends to use, etc

PHASING POWERS in action!! this is very cool to see, this ability of his didn’t get touched on much at all in DA2 outside of combat or a few scenes

I enjoy the contrast between the red and blue glows

Fenris is understandably merciless 

“Perhaps if you had it carved into you” feels like foreshadowing for the ‘red wraith’

:( the reminder that the very thing Fenris struggles with feelings of hate and fear towards is carved into his skin for the rest of time and always will be

Vaea is brave to step in, standing up for what she believes is right and also re-centering focus on the critical mission at hand

;___; Autumn helping keep Tractus on the ground. she is such a good girl. she Help

“You’re lucky the mabari is here” - having Fenris in a dark light here relative to the rest of the panel is nicely symbolic

oh shit!! some plot advancement in terms of the ongoing story of the wider world. The Antaam have now reached Neromenian!! the invasion is progressing further and further into Tevinter. how far will it have come by the time of DA4? will there be an active war front not far from Minrathous? I appreciate the comics from this team a lot, here and there they push forward the ‘story of Thedas’ not just the story of the comic’s focus. also, I like that the Qunari soldiers here aren’t clones of one another but all look different. different hairstyles, sizes/bodies, clothes

love how our group work together, everyone has a strength and a role to play, the teamwork, the delegation, they’re like a DA basegame party or a D&D party

the way Fenris’ hand and arm glow in this sequence has been drawn/colored is smart - calling to mind the image of blue veins running through someone’s arm or below the skin on the backs of their hands

Fenris has surely picked up Fereldan sayings from Hawke.. stop .. my heart ;__;

the Fenris/Autumn exchange

this is so intense.. why do I get the feeling that Fenris has used this sort of torture technique before in his hunting and extermination of Danarius’ adult children campaign and/or his hunting of slavers as the BW with Shirallas campaign. it feels like he has done this sort of thing before in the time post-Kirkwall. I like that they didn’t hold back with a bit of gore here and there in this issue (phasing a hand and then solidifying it inside someone’s body, the Qunari attack portion in the street etc), while at the same time not being excessive with it.

this miniseries so far has good pacing, things moving along nicely and not being too slow or meandering

it’s smart having Tractus’ explanation of how to get in stay off-screen to the reader while we follow Francesca calling the alarm. It means we get to find out as we watch them infiltrate

omg those puncture wounds from his talons

when Fenris is about to kill Tractus after he tells him what he wanted to know, I’m strongly reminded of how he promised to let Hadriana go then killed her anyway, regardless of player choice. he has his ruthless streak and it feels like a callback. and before, when he was standing over Tractus when he was on the floor, echoes that scene in A Bitter Pill when he stands over Hadriana on the ground, who also reached for her staff

Tractus pale with bloodloss and fear

lmao @ Fran and Autumn’s faces when they walk in on this scene

Fenris listening to Vaea is nicely consistent with his character too imo - there are times in DA2 when Hawke can be like “Fenris no don’t do the Thing” and he doesn’t do the Thing

I have missed the way Fenris’ nose bridge crinkles when he’s angry

I wonder what the consequences of leaving Tractus alive will be. [tv announcer voice] FIND OUT NEXT TIME ON DARK FORTRESS

so the ritual will only take minutes to complete huh 👀

wow Neromenian has truly fallen, reeducation of the people of Tevinter continues as in Three Trees to Midnight in TN

explaining that they are speaking in Qunlat is a nice immersive touch and shows attention to detail of the lore of the world

bobbly-shoulders Qunari, Legolas hair Qunari, septum piercing Qunari, bobbly-brow Qunari, undercut Qunari. I wonder if the shoulder and brow protrusions are aspects we’ll see in the Qunaris’ latest design in DA4?

poor Tractus can’t catch a break lol. it has Not been Tractus’ day

Karasten: an infantry field commander

bit of Tevinter lampshading, lil fourth wall break with “This land and its obsession with magic. There is always a forbidden ritual with them” hhhhhh

Ringwraith on a horse moment at the end there

strong ending, can’t wait for next month weww.. 👀

[minmotl]

Chapter 30: Sui Zhou is Upset That Tang Fan Wants Him to Marry

Context: Follows directly after Chapter 29. We left off at Sui Zhou bringing Tang Fan home to see his grandmother. Grandmother loves Tang Fan and after the dinner, Sui Zhou is unhappy that Tang Fan is pushing for him to get married. At the end of this chapter, Sui Zhou is called away for business and Tang Fan ends up being taken to the palace by Wang Zhi.

Introduction Post | Masterpost

—

Highlights under the cut

Sui Zhou says this in such a domineering manner that everyone is stunned speechless for a moment, glaring at Sui Zhou.

This is not Tang Fan’s place to say anything. In the first place, he does not have any right to speak out, but this does not hinder him from habitually using the eyes he usually applies on his cases to analyse the personalities of the people before him. Brushing his eyes past them, from the way they talk and act, plenty is revealed.

For example, Sui Zhou’s parents are both honest people, otherwise when Sui Zhou’s sister-in-law Lady Jiao spoke, Sui Zhou’s mother would have spoken out to stop her. And also, taking a look at Sui Zhou’s brother and the way he kept mum, this is actually quite similar to the way Sui Zhou is, but Sui Zhou doesn’t speak because he finds no need to. When he is analysing a case and is required to speak, he always says only as much as is necessary, while Sui Zhou’s brother seems to simply be a man of few words and is quiet out of character and habit.

Tang Fan shakes his head inwardly. He heard Sui Zhou say before that Sui An wanted to take the Imperial Examination, but with this kind of personality, even if he manages to get lucky and is selected, it’s likely that he would not last as an official for long. Which high-ranking official is fond of a subordinate who refuses to speak?

Compared to her husband, Lady Jiao is talkative and knows how to adapt to her situation, but she’s too eager to bring attention to herself. Her elders are both honest people and cannot keep her in check, so she probably does as she wants when she’s at home. No wonder Sui Zhou ended up moving out.

With Sui Zhou’s declaration, Tang Fan can no longer keep silent. Taking a step forward, he puts up both his hands in greeting to Madam Zhou, “I am Tang Fan, courtesy name Run Qing. Madam Zhou you can just call me Run Qing. I am a judge at Shun Tian Prefecture and a good friend of Guang Chuan’s. Today I’ve brought my younger sister Ah Dong to celebrate Madam Zhou’s birthday, I wish Madam Zhou an abundance of fortune and to live a long life.”

Ah Dong greets Madam Zhou obediently as well, “A thousand fortunes for Madam Zhou.”

Then, she brings the present they brought with them to Madam Zhou.

Madam Zhou laughs openly, “Good, good! Since you are close to our family, then there is no need to be too fussy. It’s so rare for my Ah Zhou to bring a friend home and wish me well for my birthday, I can tell that you must be a good child. The young lady looks beautiful and smart, this is good, this is good!”

It is a popular trend in recent years to open gifts in front of everyone as it doesn’t matter if the gift is cheap or expensive, as long as it is well-thought out, the person celebrating their birthday would be happy.

Lady Jiao takes the gift box and pulls at the string over the box, opening it. She sees a Longevity Peach carved out of jade. The colour of the jade is warm and the item is both intricate and cute. The size of a palm, it’s most suited to be played with in one’s hands.

For Madam Zhou’s birthday, the palace also sent some gifts over, but she has been frugal all her life and does not wish to announce it, so her birthday banquet simply involves her daughter’s family and a dinner. Seeing this gift, Madam Zhou is both stunned and flattered, “It’s good enough that you came, why did you splurge on such an expensive gift?”

Tang Fan smiles, “I didn’t spend any money on it. I don’t mind letting Madam Zhou know that my salary is low, if I really was to buy it I wouldn’t be able to afford it. This Longevity Peach is an heirloom passed down in my family, and since my parents and elders are no longer around, I took it out as a gift to give to you, I hope Madam Zhou does not refuse or dislike this gift!”

He may have said this humbly, but just from the colour composition of the jade, Sui Zhou knows that the price of this jade peach is not cheap and it looks like the jade has aged well. To be able to collect and keep something like this, it’s clear that the Tang family was well off.

From this gift, it is enough to see the Tang Fan’s thoughts and well wishes.

Madam Zhou is the Empress Dowager’s sister and the Sui family as seen plenty of powerful officials and wealthy individuals. The Ming dynasty also has a tradition of respecting the elderly, so instances of an old lady yelling at an official on the streets, lambasting them to the extent of carriages carrying officials having to move around the elderly are possible. When Sui Zhou first introduced Tang Fan as a judge from Shun Tian Prefecture, the Sui family was not the slightest bit shocked. After all, Sui Zhou’s father and brother both have titles within the ranks of the Embroidered Uniform Guards.

With this jade longevity peach however, Lady Jiao takes the hint and shuts up.

Madam Zhou is still shaking her head, “Don’t spend so much money the next time! It’s good enough that you are visiting. I’m really happy to see the both of you!”

Tang Fan grins, “That’s where you’re wrong, Madam Zhou. When it comes to your eightieth, ninetieth birthdays in the future, not only will I spend, but I will spend even more! When that time comes, I will find a bigger longevity peach for Madam Zhou!”

Madam Zhou is so tickled by that, that she burst out in laugher, “Such a glib tongue, Run Qing. You’re more than a hundred times sweeter than Ah Zhou and Ah An. It must have difficult for you to be able to be friends with Ah Zhou. If he bullies you, you must tell me, I will support you!”

Listening to this, why does Tang Fan feel as if he’s about to marry Sui Zhou? Then again, he supposes that Madam Zhou is already so old, sometimes she may speak without thinking, and so Tang Fan brushes the comment off with a smile.

Although it is a family banquet, but the dishes on the table were obviously intricately cooked. While the Sui family isn’t fond of words, with Tang Fan around, he manages to entertain Madam Zhou well. Sui Zhou’s sister Sui Bi is older than Ah Dong is by a few years, but the two young ladies become fast friends and shortly after begin to talk in low voices with one another.

In comparison, Sui Zhou’s parents and older brother look to be guests at the table instead. They don’t say much and concentrate on eating from the start to the end. Lady Jiao of course wants to interrupt and say something, but Madam Zhou seems to not be fond of speaking to her. Holding Tang Fan’s hand, she continues to talk to him. Once she hears that Tang Fan’s parents died early and his older sister is married off out of the city, and moreover, Tang Fan has yet to marry, she sighs, “What a poor thing. Being an official in Jing city all on your own, and you don’t even have a soulmate to accompany you at your side no matter what. Someone of your character, I’m guessing the matchmaking ladies must have been dying to step through your doors. What kind of women do you like? Come, tell me, I’ll help you look around!”

Once Tang Fan hears this, his skin goes numb and quickly, he uses Sui Zhou as his shield, “Madam Zhou, I remember that Guang Chuan seems to be older than me by a few years, I’m sure he’s more eager to get married than I am?”

He’s just finished speaking when he feels someone staring at him from the side, obviously unhappy with the way Tang Fan is creating trouble for him by diverting it from himself to Sui Zhou.

“Run Qing has high expectations, don’t randomly connect the red string for him,” Sui Zhou speaks, finally shifting the old woman’s attention from Tang Fan to him.

Madam Zhou is unhappy with what he said, “Nonsense, will you not marry if you have high expectations? It’s no trouble for me to go and find the Empress Dowager and let her pick some, if he doesn’t like a common woman, I’m sure a princess or a royal member will do?”

Tang Fan doesn’t know whether to cry or laugh and is about to stop her, but Lady Jiao sourly half jokes, “Madam Zhou you’re really biased. You haven’t known Run Qing for even half a day and you’re already helping him to find a match, if people didn’t know, they would think you took in another grandson!”

Madam Zhou chuckles, “Run Qing this child and I get along well, so what if I play matchmaker for him? Don’t tell me you want this too? I’m of course more than happy to get Ah An someone from the royal family, but then you’ll have to give up your position, no?”

At that, Lady Jiao becomes silent.

Tang Fan manages to convince Madam Zhou to dismiss the idea for now, and after the meal, Ah Dong and Sui Bi look to be getting along well as well, and so she’s invited to stay for the rest of the day. Tang Fan and Sui Zhou then bid Madam Zhou farewell with the promise of coming to visit her often, and it’s only then they are allowed to leave.

After exiting the house, Tang-daren wipes at his cold sweat, “Guang Chuan, the old lady in your family is really persistent. Luckily I did not give in, otherwise Madam Zhou would really have gone into the palace and asked for a princess from the Empress Dowager for me!”

“Is a princess no good?” asks Sui Zhou.

It sounds as if Sui Zhou is teasing him, but the man’s face is cold as ice, even the way he speaks is cold and without feeling. However, Tang Fan has long gotten used to this poker face of his and does not mind, only shaking his head with a laugh.

Is marrying a princess good or not? All women that exist are precious and treasured despite their status and are naturally good. However, becoming a Prince Consort by marrying a princess, this means he will not be able to participate in politics. Even those who were originally officials will have to quit their roles and go home, but this rule is aimed only at civil officials. For officials in the military, this rule is not enforced as strictly. For example, the Prince Consort Jing Yuan who died protecting the late Emperor during the Tu Mu Fortress Rebellion was also an official and was allowed to lead the army during wars.

However, for civil officials this is a death sentence! After marrying a woman from the royal family, their careers are as good as dead, so men with ambition see marrying women from the royal family as turning their backs on their careers. While Tang Fan does not obsess over his position, but he has after all studied so hard for more than a decade, all to continue on his life’s path to service the people and be able to do something for them.

After their meal, they steadily walk back home in the direction of their house to digest the food they just ate. Their steps are slow and steady, as if they are very relaxed and free.

Tang Fan then teases him, “But Madam Zhou said something right. You’re not young anymore, you should be getting married. Don’t wait a few more years and by then no one will want you.”

Sui Zhou glances at him, “You truly wish for me to get married?”

Without waiting for him to reply, Sui Zhou adds, “If I marry, you will have to move out.”

Tang Fan nods, “That makes sense, after all, we have to prevent tongues from wagging.”

“You’ll have to find a house on your own.”

“Houses in Jing city are really hard to find,” Tang Fan sighs.

“In a few years, when Ah Dong is old enough to marry, you’ll have to cook by yourself again.”

“That makes sense…” Then he considers that again and finds that the prediction is wrong, and adds, “Then I can go find one to marry too, no?”

“And let her find out that you’re writing erotica fiction, and that it’s selling pretty well?”

“…”

“Or maybe you’d like to explore further with her, let her write some, so that she can contribute to the family expenses as well.”

Tang Fan laughs, “It wouldn’t be so bad?”

“Judging from your current salary, aside from your massive food expenses whenever you run out to eat, when Ah Dong marries, you still have to put together a dowry for her and then after you get married, you will need to feed one more person. When you have children, that’s even more mouths to feed.”

The more Tang-daren hears, the greener his face becomes.

Sui Zhou continues to analyse it, “And it’s also likely that you will end up marrying someone like my sister-in-law, if our wife is not virtuous, that is disaster for the family that will end up harming your children and grandchildren.”

“Don’t say anymore,” Tang-daren says weakly, “Marrying a woman is so scary, I think I won’t marry any time soon.”

Sui-baihu makes a noise of assent, his expression stern and firm, obviously having the same thoughts as Tang Fan.

[samantharay2]

[Fuyuhiko x Reader] Love! Love! Chapter 6: You’ve Got Mail!

1,899 words

Warning: Mature; Danganronpa 2 spoilers

Italicized text = emphasis / inner dialogue / sound effects

Arrows (→) = section breaks

Curly braces ({ }) = letters

Last edit: 2020-11-27

Masterlist

On that fourth day, Monokuma had informed you that an organization by the name of World Ender is responsible for bringing you to the islands as well as bringing about the end of the world.  He also claimed that the alleged traitor is working for the said organization, to which Monomi had no comment.

On the fifth day, Nekomaru and Kazuichi confessed to having tied up Nagito and leaving him in the dining hall of the old hotel building.

And on the fifth night, Monokuma unveiled the next “motive” for the killing school trip: Twilight Syndrome Murder Case .

⇢

On the sixth day since arriving on the Dangan Islands, you return to your cottage from breakfast to find a small, white envelope sticking out of your mailbox.  You pull it out to discover that it's blank and stick your head inside to check for anything else that you may have missed, finding a decent-sized box stuffed all the way in the back.  You reach your arm in to pull it out and learn that it is unaddressed, too.  You bring the batch of mail to your room and set the items at your desk.  The box was unexpectedly heavy.  

You open the white envelope to uncover a letter handwritten in bold, black print as if etched by a heavy hand.  It's marked with today’s date on top:

{

I might have found a clue that pertains to you.  If you wish to discuss it, meet me at the diner on the second island at 8 pm tonight.  I advise you not to discuss this with anyone else, and come alone.  If you’re worried about this being a setup, I'm leaving my gun and knife with you.  Don’t shoot yourself.  Don’t cut yourself either.

- Kuzuryu

}

You nearly drop the letter and swivel over to the cardboard box.

TH-THERE’S A GUN IN THERE!?!?!?

Suddenly you notice your heartbeat pounding in your ears like iron against an anvil.

You have to see it for yourself.

Box cutter in hand, you cautiously inch your way over to the box, pick it up, and carry it to your bed.

You take a deep breath.

You drag the blade along the rusty cardboard and empty its contents.  Sure enough, there is a pistol and tanto laying on your bed.

Well shit.

It takes approximately sixty seconds for your heartbeat to calm down before you can even think about how to proceed.  

Well, I can’t just leave them here.  

You punctiliously inspect the items before you:

You recognize that the pistol is the same one that Fuyuhiko had used to disable the machine gun.  It feels cold, metal, and heavy, like a block of lead in your hands.

The knife, by comparison, is light but razor-sharp.

You secure the items inside your bag.  

Clearly, you have no use for them as the Ultimate Diplomat.  However, seeing as Fuyuhiko went through all the trouble of delivering them to you, along with the letter, you figure that he must really want to talk to you.  By relinquishing his weapons to you, he is disarming himself and leaving himself vulnerable.  You can’t imagine he’d be hiding any other weapons within his suit, considering that the only thing he had on him in the classroom were the clothes on his back, and while he could undoubtedly kill you with his bare hands, somehow, you don’t think that’s the case, especially since you are the one who is armed now.  

You fold the letter back up and place it back inside the envelope, put it in the box, leaving it on the floor beside your desk.  You resolve to meet Fuyuhiko at the diner at eight pm tonight.

⇢

Fuyuhiko is sitting at the middle booth under the only light on in the diner.  He is staring past the large, yellow envelope he had set in front of him, fists under folded arms, when you walk in, your usual, cheery self.

“Hey, I got your letter!  You said you wanted to speak to me about something?”

He motions for you to join him.  He looks more tense than usual and attempts to clear the qualms scratching at his throat. “Yeah, thanks for coming.”  

You set your bag down on the seat next to you.  “No problem!  So, what did you want to speak to me about?”

He directs your attention to the yellow envelope on the table between you and slides it across to you.  “I found this while I was on the islands.  I was wondering if you could look at what’s inside, and tell me what you know about it.”

“Sure!”  

For the second time today, you open a mysterious envelope, and for the second time today, you are blindsided by a piece of paper.

Shit.  This is a waste of time.   Just from the look on your face, Fuyuhiko can tell that you don't know a thing about what lay inside the envelope.  He had been studying you ever since you walked through the door, and upon witnessing your reaction to what lay inside the envelope, your e_c eyes had become the most innocent eyes he had ever seen.

Your eyebrows were raised as if they were desperately trying to let in as much light as possible from the dinky light fixture above to discern what exactly it is that you are looking at.

What you are holding in your hands is what appears to be the spitting image of you and Fuyuhiko outside Hope’s Peak Academy, dressed in its signature brown and white school uniforms.  Your gaze is unfixed at some point beyond the foreground, with your ever-present smile parted as if caught in the middle of telling a great story, complete with sweeping hand gestures.  And on your right is Fuyuhiko, whose gaze is fixed on you, with relaxed eyebrows and a soothed smile as if you are the most interesting thing in the world to him.  He looks completely smitten.

You drop the piece of paper as if holding it any longer would cause you to burn.

"Wh-What is this?"  you ask the Fuyuhiko before you.  He was unmoved.

"I don't know."  

"Where'd you find it?"

"Does it matter?  Do you know anything about it or not?"

Seeing as this is a one-way conversation, you search the image for a brush mark or stroke—any sign of forgery or digital alteration—but... nothing .  You sift through your mind, searching for a memory, but... nothing!     

Yet you cannot deny that this is a photo of you.  It has all your flawless imperfections, even the ones that you didn't know you have. Plus, there is something strangely familiar about it.

"No.  I don't," you say.  "But I can see why you think I would, but…"  You search your mind for a memory, but… nothing.   "...I have no recollection of that!   You and I only first met in the classroom at Hope's Peak Academy before being directly transported here, and I haven't even received my school uniform yet, so how can this be possible?"  you exclaim.

"I don't know either..."  Fuyuhiko admits.  He looks distressed.  Then, it suddenly dawns on you.

" ...Unless...—! " You gasp.  "Do you think that what Monokuma said is true!?  That we really did attend Hope's Peak Academy together and lost our memories of it?  That they were stolen!?"

Fuyuhiko is hesitant to answer.  "...That would make sense, wouldn't it?"

"It did remind me of Mahiru's photos…" you muse.

He just felt like a lead weight had been dropped in his stomach.

"Wh-What do you mean?"

You think that the Fuyuhiko looks pale, but that it may also just be a trick of the single light fixture casting a shadow over him.  So, you continue, "It reminds me of the photos that she's taken of us at the beach and at the party on the first island," you explain.  "Candid photography is her specialty, and, I’m no expert myself, but it looks like it was taken by someone who knows how to use a camera.  It makes good use of lighting, composition, and focus, and it looks like it was snapped at just the right moment.  It has all the makings of an Ultimate Photographer.”

The Ultimate Yakuza tightens his fists.  He wants to break something.  He wants to break someone.

“Are you okay?”

Your concern startles him out of his premeditation.

“Y-Yeah...Is that all?”

“That's all I can think of for now at least.”

He looks out the window.  It’s already nightfall, and the only sources of light out are the diner’s whirring neon signs and the streetlights in the parking lot.  8:30 , his watch reads.  His words are coarse and dry like sand.

“Sorry for making you come out so late.  I’ll walk you home.”

He takes the yellow envelope, leaving the picture on the table for you to take.  You go to put it in your bag when you suddenly remember what you had been carrying with you.  "Wait!  I have something for you, too!"  You present the inside of your bag to Fuyuhiko.  "Please take your weapons back.  I've never used a gun, so much as a knife before, so I might end up hurting myself or someone else.  Besides, they’re way more useful in your hands than in mine." you say, remembering how he saved all of you at the ancient ruins.

He stares at them blankly for a moment before taking them up in his jacket.  “Fine.”

⇢

On your way back to the cottages, Fuyuhiko leads the way, gripping the yellow envelope, with you following him closely behind.  Still, you can’t shake the feeling that something is bothering him.  As you go to leave the parking lot and make a left towards the bridge to the central island, you catch a glimpse of the drugstore on the right and stroll up to his side.

"Are you sure you're okay?  We can stop by the pharmacy and pick up something if you want.  They have over-the-counter medicines like aspirin, too.  Or, we can go to the supermarket."

He rebukes you tersely.  "I said I'm fine, and, if I were you, I would worry more about myself, and I wouldn't share that photo with anyone.  Someone might get the wrong idea and think that we're the traitors."

"...Do you think that I'm the traitor?"

He practically scoffs, "No."

"I don't think that you're the traitor either," you smile.

The two of you walk the rest of the way in silence and finally arrive at your cottage.  He waits for you to unlock your door to make sure that you can get inside safely.  He doesn't want any needless casualties on his watch.

"Thank you for walking me back, Fuyuhiko, and for telling me about the photo.  If I think of anything else, I'll be sure to let you know," you assure him.

"Good night," is all he says before turning to walk back to his own cottage.  

"Good night," you reply.  You close the door to your cottage and put the photo in your desk drawer for safekeeping before falling asleep trying to remember a memory that you cannot yet remember. 

⇢

Meanwhile, Fuyuhiko stays up writing yet another note and places it, along with and the rest of the photos he won from Twilight Syndrome Murder Case , into the yellow envelope.

A part of him wished he hadn't told you at all.

Taglist: @shigarakis-fifth-hand

[oosteven-universe]

Undiscovered Country #15

Undiscovered Country #15 Image Comics 2019 Written by Scott Snyder & Charles Soule Illustrated by Giuseppe Camuncoli & Leonardo Marcello Grassi Coloured by Matt Wilson Lettered by Crank!    "POSSIBILITY," Part Three     As our team sails deeper into the chain of "possibility" islands, they discover a devastating secret.    It has been a while since I’ve reviewed this series as well.  I like that I have the time to get back to some of these series.  I really like the opening here and this look at the early life of Opiyo, or Ace, and we see how he got the moniker that he goes by.  Also it’s a great look at a part of the world, in this case Manila, ten years after the sealing and how that event changed life in places such as this.  Once the United States builds the wall and shuts out the rest of the world it has that ripple effect and it’s nice to see these effects.  Now Uncle Sam has been ferrying the group to their next stop and this one I like for a myriad of reasons leading up to and including the cliffhanger ending.  What we see opens up this realm of possibilities to be explored and if Ace is supposed to write an epic story this is certainly one of those important stops on his journey.    I am very much enjoying the way that this is being told.  The story & plot development that we see through how the sequence of events unfold as well as how the reader learns information is presented exceedingly well.  The character development that we see through the dialogue, the character interaction as well as how they act and react to the situations and circumstances which they encounter.  This really brings these characters to life beautifully and shows their personalities as they evolve through each new encounter.  The pacing is superb and as it takes us through the pages revealing more of the story we’re really engrossed by these turns of events.    How we see this being structured and how the layers within the story continue to emerge, grow, evolve and strengthen is extremely well rendered.  I love that the layers open up these avenues for exploration and while some work with the larger picture others don’t and regardless they all add this sensational depth, dimension and complexity to the story.  How we see everything working together to create the story’s ebb & flow as well as how it moves the story forward is achieved exceptionally well.    The interiors are incredibly solid.  The linework is clean, crisp and strong and how we see the varying weights and techniques being utilised to create the detail work that we see throughout the book is really rather exceptionally well rendered.  The faces and facial structure we see furthers the characterisation extremely well.  How we see backgrounds being utilised to enhance and expand the moments as well as how they work within the composition of the panels to bring out the depth perception, sense of scale and the overall sense of size and scope to the story.  The utilisation of the page layouts and how we see the angles and perspective in the panels show a remarkably talented eye for storytelling.  The various hues and tones within the colours being utilised to create the shading, highlights and shadow work show a solid eye for how colour works and how to apply it for its maximum effect. ​    The more that these United States that are explored the more warped and interesting the book becomes.  The sections, factions, zones or however you want to think of them all have these different purposes and filled with both good and bad denizens the fact that this fractured nation is even madder than the Mad Hatter at one of his infamous tea parties.  With strong writing and interesting characterisation wrapped up in these incredibly solid interiors and state of the union looks more and more like a possible future than a fictional story.

[glam-apollo]

Title: Mr. Yellow Dies

Fandom: Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency

Summary: When Jane Oliver approaches Dirk Gently's Holistic Agency about a murder she thinks might have happened years ago without any clues, evidence, or even a victim, the agency quickly agrees to take the case. Dirk, Farah, and Todd find themselves at the Oliver family's Halloween party while investigating and have to participate in the family's Halloween tradition: the murder mystery party game. Will solving this fictional murder help them uncover anything about the real crime they're investigating, or is just a distraction from the actual case? And who died, anyways?

Written for the Halloween @dghdabigbang! @browneyes-asiandragon made some lovely artwork accompanying the story so please go check it out! It’s really amazing!

I’ve included the fic on here but you can also read it on ao3 if preferred.

~

Mr. Yellow Dies

Knock! Knock! Knockity-Knock!

There was a pause before the sound of footsteps could be heard coming from inside the house. The front door creaked open. The man opening the front door was tall, well-built, with dark hair that flopped nicely over his forehead. He smiled at the trio that stood on his doorstep but his eyes betrayed confusion. "Can I help you? You seem a bit old for trick or treating."

Todd Brotzman looked at the man standing next to him out of the corner of his eyes. What were the three of them doing there? They certainly were an odd trio--Holmes, Watson, and a Care Bear, all a good fifteen years too old to be ringing doorbells asking for candy. What was his plan? He'd been vague as ever on the way over, assuring Todd that it was a party, a party for the case, and everyone loved parties, now, didn't they? So come along! 

The whole ordeal had started with a simple statement. “I’ve been invited to a party twice,” Dirk Gently announced to his friends proudly in their agency’s office. “And, as much as I’d like to think this shows I’ve come far in my social standing, I’m afraid there will be no possible way for me to attend this party twice at the same time.”

"Two invites?" Farah Black said. “You got two invites to the Olivers' Halloween party?”

“Indeed I did, Farah!” Dirk said. 

Todd set down the files he had been sifting thru. “How’d you manage that?”

“My natural charms and talents, of course,” Dirk said, pretending to be offended. “Geez, Todd.”

"What’s the plan, then? I don’t want to sit around, waiting for a report of two party-crashers getting shot." Farah pursed her lip. “No offense.”

“None taken,” Todd said. “I’ll stay back.”

"Au, contraire!" Dirk said. "Farah will be accepting my invitation from Jane. I will be going with my invite from Lenny. And Todd will be going as my date."

"Right, okay," Farah shrugged.

"What?" Todd said.

That had been five days ago. Since then it had been a flurry of finding costumes, Dirk obsessively dragging Todd and Farah into any Halloween themed store he could find, arguing he hardly ever went to parties, much less costume parties, so they should indulge him. Todd secretly thought that it was very likely Dirk had a long streak of elaborate costume parties from his days back in England, but he held his tongue. Seeing Dirk delighted by styrofoam coffins and confused by slutty fireman costumes was worth keeping his own suspicions withheld.

In the end, Dirk had somehow managed to convince Todd that a Sherlock-Watson duo costume was a good idea. “You see,” he pointed out, “no one would suspect actual detectives to dress as detectives for Halloween! That would be absurd.” Todd agreed that, yes, it would be absurd. Dirk bought him a bowler hat anyways. 

Farah had been quietly indecisive about her costume all month. Todd hadn’t been sure what she’d go as--she’d shown interest in a variety of things, from a champion scuba diver she said was a childhood hero to the main character of the action novels she’d been obsessively reading during downtime in the office. In the end, she ended up with a Care Bears onesie Tina had lent her after, from what Todd understood, a very long phone call about how stressful Halloween was and a subsequent long drive to Bergsberg on the 30th. 

Back at the front door, Dirk smiled at the man questioning them. The man was quite handsome, with a square jaw and tough cheekbones. Almost too classically handsome, Todd thought to himself. But it worked with his costume--some variation on Dracula--which became apparent when he opened his mouth and showed off his tiny fangs.

"Max Oliver?" Dirk asked confidently.

"Yes," the man said, eyebrows raised, fangs revealed in the O his mouth formed. "And you are?"

"Dirk Gently," he said, pushing the front of his deerstalker cap out of his face. "I was invited by Lenny. This is my date, Todd, and this is the lovely Farah Black, who was invited by Jane."

"I've never seen any of you before in my life," Max admitted. "I didn't know guests could invite guests, either."

"It would be a bit awkward to send Todd home now, wouldn't it?" Dirk said pointedly.

"Dirk," Todd groaned.

"No, I mean, I didn't realize Lenny could invite guests," Max said, shaking his head. "Although, I suppose he's never really been one to follow our family's ideals."

"Is that so!" Dirk said, giving his friends a pointed look.

Max nodded. "It isn't my place, of course, but I consider him an outsider to our family." Max stared up and down at the three of them, as if to make a point that they were even more outsiders than Lenny. After a beat, he sighed and opened the door for them. "You might as well come in. I’ll at least give Mother the final call on you three."

Dirk smiled and gave his companions a thumbs up before walking into the house after Max. Todd and Farah followed, Todd already regretting his itchy costume, Farah already regretting her lack of weaponry. 

Max led them into a lounge where five other people sat around in couches and chairs, chatting quietly to themselves. Todd only recognized one of them--Jane Oliver, their client. She was the reason they were here in the first place, the reason the case had been opened. She was small both in size and presence, the youngest of the three Oliver siblings, still in her teens. She was wearing a mostly plain, long red dress, which Todd assumed must be some sort of Princess--Princess Bride? Cinderella? Sleeping Beauty? He hadn't the slightest clue.

Jane was sitting next to an older woman, presumably her mother, the infamous Cordelia Oliver. Cordelia was the owner of the local community theater and a force to be reckoned with. She had lost some of her dazzle with the passing of her husband, Jules. Jules Oliver had been her partner in the theater, her partner in their home, her partner on the stage. Losing him meant she had lost love. Yet none of her fierceness faded; if anything, it grew into a strong and steady resentment towards the world and life itself.

Dirk smiled at two men sitting on the couch opposite Cordelia and Jane. "Lenny! Daniel!" he said. Daniel Oliver was the middle child of the family. College-aged and somewhat unmotivated, he was a stand out in his family of determined extroverts. His boyfriend, Lenny Anderson, seemed to represent everything the rest of the family couldn't stand about Daniel and worse. His lazy nature, lack of care for anything, inability to make and hold commitments annoyed the Olivers on the best of days. Lenny couldn’t keep a job, stay on a major, anything. At least he made Daniel happy.

Max flocked to a woman standing alone by the bookshelf. Adrianna Waye. She was the star in most of the local theater productions and Max's fiancé. She was gorgeous, elegant, and, by all accounts, extremely unpleasant to be around. Cordelia loved her.

Farah and Dirk had been doing most of the research on the family, while Todd had been going back and tracing old case files, trying to find a crime or a missing person or an unsolved murder that would otherwise connect with the case. He hadn't found anything, not anything they could confirm at least. Todd reflected on how this had all started. Jane Oliver had stumbled into the agency one day, clutching a yellowed composition notebook and trembling a bit, explaining that she had seen a crime, a murder, as a child. She had blacked it out and forgotten it until now, but going back through her diaries, she had found her recounting of the crime. It was dark, she explained, so she couldn't really tell them who or what. She thought it was a man--or maybe a boy. It was someone with a small build, and they were attacking another person brutally. She couldn't remember what happened after that, just terror, sheer terror.

They had a murder to solve. With no evidence of the murder having actually happened besides a child's diary. No suspects, no victims, nothing. Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency gladly took the case.

The crime had taken place in the backyard of this family property, Halloween ten years ago, when Jane was only six. At least, she said, according to her diary. Her memories of that Halloween were all jumbled--something about her family, lots of yelling, some sort of dispute. And the crime, the attack that she could only remember that she forgot.

"Max?" Cordelia asked. "Who are our other new guests?"

"I don't know, Mother," Max answered evenly. "Why don't you ask Lenny? Or Jane?"

Cordelia narrowed her eyes and focused her gaze on Lenny. "Leonard?"

"Geezy, m'am," Lenny sighed. "I invited Dirk here as a plus one."

"You're already a plus one!" she shrieked. "And what about these other two?"

"Todd is my plus-one!" Dirk chirped.

"A plus one can't invite another plus one who invites his own plus one!"

"Ah," Dirk said quickly, "but wouldn't me having invited my own plus one make us our own set of guests?"

"Daniel, do you know these men?" Cordelia demanded.

"A bit," Daniel said without looking up from his phone.

"And what about this woman? Who the hell is she?"

"Ah," Jane said softly. "Mother, I invited her." After Dirk had determined who was accepting what invitation, they had reached out to Jane to tell her about Farah, not wanting there to be any mix up. They had decided on a brief backstory and that was that.

"Who is she?" Cordelia demanded.

"She's a school tutor. She tutors me and some of my friends in the library," Jane answered evenly. Todd wondered if they should at all be concerned about what ease and grace their client was able to lie through their teeth. But really, he thought, that was what they were all doing. They had no reason to be at that party.

Cordelia Oliver knew that.

She was a queen surveying her kingdom, and she was not pleased with what she saw. Todd felt himself holding his breath, ready to be kicked out at any second. To his surprise, she sighed, deciding this battle was not worth fighting today. "Fine," she said. "You can stay. You're lucky the party kit I bought comes with extra characters."

"Party Kit?" Todd said, feeling any ounce of relief of not being kicked out dissipate.

The Olivers had a tradition, a tradition that went back for at least the last eight years, maybe more. They would every Halloween have a murder mystery themed party. They would purchase a "party kit," either from an online retailer, or, some years when they felt particularly excited, commissioned from a friend. The kit would give each guest at the party a character and a few clues. In the course of three rounds they would develop their characters, discover and investigate a "murder," and have the murderer finally revealed in the third and final round. It was truly perfect for a family of actors, though as the kids grew up and her husband passed away, it was something Cordelia clung onto more than anyone else. The schitick was getting old. But she wouldn't let go.

Cordelia started passing out envelopes with character names on them. "You all know how the game goes," she said, a stage voice taking over, complete with pause for dramatic effect. "Tonight, one of us will die. Tonight, one of us will kill. Tonight, we will all solve a murder." Jane looked white as a sheet hearing her mother's words and looked to Dirk. Dirk smiled back at her reassuredly.

"We have a few extra guests tonight," Cordelia continued, handing an envelope to Adrianna and another one to Max. "Let us hope they survive the night."

"God, Mother," Daniel said, continuing to focus on Candy Crush rather than the manila envelope he'd been slipped. "There's no need to be so melodramatic."

Cordelia paused and looked at him with stony eyes. "Tonight," she said, "we are all actors. Whether we like it or not." Lenny smiled at his boyfriend encouragingly, reminding him it wouldn't be too bad. Daniel glared back at him. He knew this tradition far too well and was not pleased to put on a performance for his mother’s sake.

"Great!" Dirk said, happily accepting his envelope. "So, how does the game work exactly?"

"There are three rounds," Max said, walking away from the wall to behind the sofa his mother sat at. "Round one, we all open our envelope and look at our character and the clues we are given. We mingle as the characters, deciding whether or not we want to share our clues with the others."

"Round two!" Cordelia jut in. "Someone will have instructions telling them they will 'die.' After their 'death' occurs we will have another round in which to mingle and see if we can discover which of us might've had the motive to 'kill.'"

"I feel as though we've grown out of this, mother," Daniel said. "It's just glorified Mafia. When will you give it up already?"

"I find it very fun, Daniel," Cordelia snapped. "It's the least you could do for your poor mother."

Daniel sighed.

"And what about the third round?" Farah asked lightly.

"Third round, we open this envelope," Cordelia said, holding up an envelope that. Unlike the manila ones she had handed out, was a deep red. "It has the answers in it. Then we will find out who was right and who was wrong and who was the killer."

"What a dreadful and yet surprisingly delightful game!" Dirk enthused. Cordelia narrowed her eyes at him.

"Quite," she said. "Now, let the games begin."

Everyone began opening their envelopes. Todd ripped the top off of his, wondering how this was in any way going to help them solve the case. Had Dirk known they were going to play this game? He gave Farah a look, who seemed just as lost as him. She shrugged and went back to reviewing the papers from in her envelope.

Todd reviewed his envelope. He was playing as a character called “Mr. Red,” an older gentleman who was a banker. The only clues he was given was that he suspected Mr. Yellow, one of his bank’s employees, of fraud, and that his character saw Madame Orange and Mrs. Indigo discussing something in hushed voices on his way home from work one day. Todd grimaced. They were really about to play live-action Clue.

"Todd." Todd jumped up in surprise as Dirk slipped up next to him. "You know I'm not one for a classical approach," Dirk said, keeping his voice hushed, "but I must admit this situation compels oneself to do some very non-holistic detecting."

"Wouldn't the fact that the situation has arisen at all make it holistic?" Todd pointed out.

"Ah! Great assisting, Todd, or should I say," Dirk looked down at Todd's papers and then back up at him with a pleasant smile, "Mr. Red."

"You're excited for this, aren't you?"

"Quite! But seriously, Todd. Please consider trying to use this as an opportunity to ask key questions that seem like they're about the game but are actually about our investigation."

"Dirk, we still barely have any idea of what we're investigating," Todd sighed.

"Having time set aside to mingle and interrogate should help then!" he replied before disappearing into the room.

"Let round one," announced Cordelia Oliver, "begin!"

Todd sighed, feeling out of his depth. He looked around the room, seeing that people had already begun to talk quietly and exchange clues amongst themselves. The one person left by themselves besides Todd at this point was Daniel Oliver.

Todd sat down next to him. "Sherlock abandoned you, ey, Watson?" Daniel asked, raising an eyebrow but looking otherwise completely disinterested in the appearance of a new person in his vicinity.

Todd laughed nervously. "Dirk? Ah. Well. He's playing the game, same as all of us." He swallowed. "So... what's your character?"

"Mr. Maroon," Daniel said with a slight roll of his eyes.

"I'm Mr. Red," Todd said.

"Practically the same names," Daniel complained. "I know there aren't that many colors in the rainbow, but they could've come up with a better theme. Colors? Mysteries? Incredibly overdone, if you ask me."

"You'd know better than myself," Todd said.

Daniel snorted. "I know far too well. Do you want my clues?"

"Sure," Todd said. "Are you just supposed to give them to people like that?"

"Not if you want the game to be harder," Daniel said. "But I'd rather this be done as quickly as possible. So my character doesn't trust Mr. Yellow or Mrs. Grey."

"I also suspect Mr. Yellow," Todd admitted.

"And it's supposed to be a mystery." Daniel shook his head.

"You've done a lot of these, then?" Todd said.

"Every year. Since what feels like forever. Mother has gotten persistently more annoying about it since Dad died." Daniel looked resentful. "She can't let go of it."

"That must be hard for your family," Todd said.

"Maybe for them," Daniel replied evenly. "I'm glad he's dead."

“Oh.” Todd said. "You don't feel like you're one of them, then?"

"No. I don't want to act. I don't want to be the center of attention. All of them are hardworking attention whores. I truly feel like this tradition is the pinnacle of that. It makes me feel sick."

Todd felt his stomach curl in an uncomfortable way. "You should be careful," he said.

Daniel rolled his eyes. "What, are you going to impart some wise-wisdom on me? I don't care. I don't even know you."

"You're right," Todd said, trying to ignore the feeling that he needed to get Daniel off of the track he was on, lest he fall into the same self-destructive hole of lies that Todd did when he was his age.

"I'm sure you think I'm ungrateful and selfish. But they're cruel to me. And they don't like Lenny either."

"No?"

"No. They hate him even more than me. If I'm a black sheep, he's an entirely different animal to them."

"Five more minutes of round one!" Cordelia shouted from across the room.

Todd stood up from the couch awkwardly. "I should talk to some more people," he said. "Nice to see you, Mr. Maroon."

Daniel rolled his eyes.

Todd wandered around the room, trying to find someone else to talk to, and eventually ended up tapping the shoulder of Adriana Waye, who had been standing by herself in the corner of the room. She flinched and then turned around, her bright green eyes first looking a bit surprised and then totally disengaged.

"I'm Ms. Grey," she said. "I'm Madame Orange’s maid, working for her and her daughter, Mrs. Indigo, and her son-in-law, Mr. Yellow. And you?"

"I'm Mr. Red," he replied. "Uh... I'm a banker."

"The bank owner?" she said quickly. "The man who owns the bank Mr. Yellow works at?"

"I think so," he said.

"Hmm," she said, and Todd got a very distinct feeling that she did not like him at all, although he could not tell if the impression came from her acting or real judgement she was imparting on him.

"I, uh... I think Mr. Yellow is committing bank fraud," Todd said lamely, looking at his notes.

"Would you kill him if he was?" she said, her blue eyes hard and intense.

"What?" Todd said, shrinking back.

"In the game,” she said, her gaze softening slightly. “Obviously.”

"Oh," Todd said. "Wouldn't it be strange for me to suspect myself? I mean, wouldn't that kind of defeat the point?" He paused. "And we don't know Mr. Yellow is going to be the one to die, yet!"

Adrianna looked across the room at Max. "Mr. Yellow is certainly going to be the one to die," she said. "You’ll see."

"How do you know?"

"It's the way these games always work," she said. "God, who invited you again? Have you really never done this before?" Todd shook his head and Adrianna looked exasperated. "Cordelia should've kicked you out."

Todd didn't have a good argument for that. He coughed nervously, feeling weirdly squeamish looking at her dark grey eyes. "So what are your clues?"

She looked absolutely done with him. "You cannot ask me for my clues as yourself. You need to discuss the situation with Ms. Grey as Mr. Red."

"I guess I misunderstood," he said. "You really enjoy the acting part of this, huh?"

"It's a good thing I do," she said. "I'm our theater's biggest star for a reason."

"Cordelia likes you a lot, then?"

Adrianna shrugged. "She likes me. And she loves Max. And Max loves me. It all works out."

"One minute left!" Cordelia shouted. 

Adrianna looked irritated. "I really spent some of my time talking with you, huh?" she said, stalking off before Todd could answer.

Todd slouched, taking a deep breath, looking around the room before making eye contact with Farah and meeting her across the room. "I'm Dr. Violet," Farah explained. "I’m Madame Orange’s physician. And you?"

"Mr. Red," he said. "They seem like an awfully happy family, don't they?"

"Mr. Yellow and Mrs. Indigo? Or the Olivers?"

"The latter. Although the former might be true, too, I'm having a hard time keeping up."

She nodded. "Fictionally and factually miserable in both cases. I have a good feeling about our case, though."

"Yeah?"

"I was talking to Jane. She's sweet, you know? And I think we're very close to cracking the case."

"She didn't do it, though. Right?"

"Oh--no. No. But I think someone here did."

"That doesn't exactly make me feel incredibly comfortable being a party crasher here."

"That's the end of round one!" Cordelia shouted.

Dirk noticed Farah and Todd talking together and walked over to them enthusiastically. "Well!" he announced. "I'm not sure what I just learned, but I definitely learned something, which will definitely help solve one, if not two, cases! It's true one has a bit more importance to it, but I'd like to think that in solving our fictional case we'll solve--"

Dirk was cut off by a loud scream from across the room. Max Oliver let out another large cry, holding his hand to his chest, before having his knees buckle underneath him, falling down on his knees, letting out a final sob before collapsing on the floor.

"Oh my god," Farah said.

Cordelia walked over to where her son lay sprawled across the floor and then looked up across the others in the room. "A murder," she said. "Has been committed. Mr. Yellow is dead." Adrianna gave Todd a pointed looking from across the room, her hazel eyes piercing. Todd looked away.

"How ghastly," Dirk said with some enthusiasm. "What a wonderful performance."

Max sat up from his place on the floor and beamed. "Thank you," he said, fangs sticking out.

"Now, for round two," Cordelia announced. "Max will not be able to participate. You must talk amongst yourselves and try to discover which one of you is the killer. We will have ten minutes. Let round two... begin!"

"Alright," Todd said. "I suppose we should get back to mingling..." He looked over to see Dirk's eyebrows furrowed, deep in thought. "Dirk?"

"Todd," he said quietly. "Farah. I have the strangest feeling the case of Mr. Yellow is much more tied to our case than we'd thought."

"How so?" Farah asked.

"I'm not quite sure," he said. "Let us try and discover who killed Mr. Yellow. And perhaps that will reveal it to us."

The three nodded and scattered across the room.

Todd found himself in the unfortunate position of being under the immediate scrutiny of Cordelia Oliver.

"I," she announced, "am Madame Orange. I'm afraid we've never had the chance of meeting before."

"Mr. Red," he said shortly. "Banker, Mr. Yellow's boss, I think."

"Ah, yes," she said, face sorrow clouding his face. "My son-in-law’s employer. Isn’t it tragic what has happened to Mr. Yellow?"

Actors, Todd thought, are insane.

"Right," Todd said. "Erm, do you have any idea who... killed him?"

His willingness to play along seemed to please Cordelia. She raised an eyebrow playfully. "I have some idea," she said. "He had a few enemies. I heard," she leaned in, her voice taking on a conspiratorial tone, "he owed some people money. Would you know anything about that? As the banker?"

"Oh," Todd said, trying to remember if he did. "Uh, no. I don't think I knew that. Although I..." he paused, grabbing his notes and looking them over. "I suspected him of committing some sort of fraud."

"Hmm!" she said. "Fraud at the bank isn't a good look for you. Do you think that could stir yourself to kill?"

"Uh--no?" Todd frowned. "I guess I don't know. Am I supposed to defend myself?"

Cordelia seemed disappointed at his breaking character. "It's up to you," she said tightly. "But if you've killed someone, we'll find out in the end, when we open the envelope with the answers to the case."

"Oh," he said. "Well--I guess I don't think Mr. Red, er, me, did it." He paused a beat. "And... why didn't you do it?" he asked, knowing giving Cordelia an excuse to talk should lighten her up.

"Mr. Yellow was my daughter Indigo’s husband! I loved him as if he were my own son. I wouldn’t lay a hand on him unless he did something to hurt my daughter.” 

"But what if he did?” Todd pointed out. He looked at his notes. “I saw you discussing something with Mrs. Indigo the day before his death. That doesn’t look particularly good for you, Madame Orange."

"You don't look unsuspicious yourself, Mr. Red. Although I don't think you killed Mr. Yellow."

"No?"

"No. You don't have it in you."

Cordelia turned on her heel and went away to talk to someone else, and Todd felt weirdly stung by her harsh assessment of his fictional banker self.

He wandered across the room, trying to find someone to talk to. He walked past Max and Adrianna who were talking in hushed tones in a language that didn't sound familiar to him. He decided not to interrupt them and turned around, nearly running into Jane Oliver.

"Oh dear," she said. "I am very sorry, Mr. Todd."

"It's okay!" he reassured her. "And tonight, I'm Mr. Red."

She nodded. "I'm Mrs. Indigo." She sighed. "I'm Mr. Yellow's wife, apparently. A bit awkward, I think, for several reasons."

Todd smiled. "Fair enough. I am--or was?--his employer at the bank. I suspected him of fraud. Would you know anything about that?"

"The only way Mr. Yellow was ever a fraud or a phoney was in real life, Mr. Red," she sighed, playing into her character lightly. "I do believe he was having the most awful affair with Mrs. Grey."

"I suppose that made your character--you, I mean--pretty upset."

"Yes." She sighed. "I think it's likely I did it. Or--Mr.s Grey’s husband, Mr. Maroon."

"It's kind of funny suspecting yourself."

"I think it makes the most sense," she said evenly, then in a lower voice, "thank you, by the way. Dirk said you and Farah have been invaluable in helping with..." She looked around. "...with a case."

Had he been helpful? Had any of them been helpful? Todd felt as though he was getting nowhere, stuck in a sludge of clues and names and characters and confusing bits in the middle. He wasn't sure he had done anything effective to help Jane Oliver. He thought about denying her claim, telling her to take it back, telling her that her impression wasn't true. But he swallowed it in his throat. Be nice, Todd.

"You're welcome," he said. "We're trying our best. To solve..." he paused, and added, feeling kind of silly, "...Mr. Yellow's murder." That made the girl laugh, which pleased him.

"Speaking of Dirk," Adrianna said, "here comes Mr. Green." Dirk approached the two of them, grinning brightly.

"Todd! Jane!" he addressed them both with enthusiasm. "I've got half a mind that this is going somewhere!"

"I sure hope so," Todd said.

"I'm glad you think that," Jane said with her shy smile. "I think I'm going to go try to talk to Adrianna." She made a face. "Tell me what you find, later?"  she asked Dirk.

"Of course," he promised, waving at her as she made her way across the room. "Todd!" he turned to Todd, his deerstalker hat flopping in front of his eyes. He pushed up the rim. "I think I've found out my motive for killing Mr. Yellow!"

"That's great, Dirk, but.... what? Do you think your character killed him?"

"Oh, no," he said quickly. "I'm Mr. Green, by the way, if I hadn't mentioned it to you. And I don't think it's awfully likely I am the killer, but I love my brother Mr. Maroon a lot, and his wife Mrs. Grey cheated on him with her employer Mr. Yellow!" Dirk sounded enthralled. "The way this game is played is absolutely fascinating, wouldn't you say? I think we should definitely buy one of these for the office during holidays."

"Dirk," Todd said, "there are three of us who work in the office. And... Mona sometimes. I don't think that's enough people."

Dirk frowned. "I guess not."

"Do you have any idea who actually killed Mr. Yellow? Or... about the other thing?"

"No," Dirk admitted. "Well, maybe. There's so many different threads in this game. And it's not exactly... how I do detecting. I think you or Farah would have a better idea, quite honestly. I’ve had a very fun time getting into character and developing Mr. Green, though. I wasn't given much, so I gave him a new profession! I've decided he works for the secret--"

"Dirk," Todd cut him off. "We need to focus. Right?"

Dirk looked a bit put out. "Can't hurt to have a bit of fun, too."

Todd backtracked. "Sure, of course, but I think we're running out of time to investigate--"

"End of round three!" Cordelia announced loudly. The chattering continued. "End! Of round three!" she holler. This time, a hush fell across the room.

"Everyone," she said, her voice commanding the space, "let's gather round in a circle and discuss our theories of who killed Mr. Yellow." She stood behind where Max sat on the couch and put her hands on his shoulders protectively. The party goers made their way to the couches and chairs situated in a nice circle around the coffee table. Once everyone had settled down, Cordelia smiled, although she continued to stand behind Max instead of sitting in the circle herself.

"If someone can say who killed Mr. Yellow and why, with certain accuracy, they win the game." Cordelia held up a bright magenta envelope. "Once everyone has given their input, we'll open the envelope and see who was really the killer. If you are accused of being the murderer, you may defend yourself if you think someone else has done it. Now who would like to start?"

Todd felt Dirk beside him tense in excitement. He wondered if this did have any connection to the case they were here to solve, or if it was a red herring, a detour that would eventually lead them somewhere completely different in order to actually solve the case.

"I'll start," said Adrianna. "I think Mrs. Indigo did it."

Jane frowned. “My character? I guess I don’t think it’s entirely impossible I did…”

“You found out Mr. Yellow was hiding some things from you,” Adrianna said. “Including his affair… with me, Mrs. Grey. So you killed him.”

“Jane?” Cordelia asked. “Do you have someone else you think could’ve done it?”

“I think Mr. Maroon would’ve had half a motive, for the same reason as I.”

“Leave me out of it,” Daniel groaned. “I think it was… uh…” He looked around the room, seemingly trying to pick someone else to become the scrutiny of the conversation. “Madame Orange. She found out Yellow cheated on her daughter.” He shrugged. “She’d be as mad as anyone else.”

Cordelia pursed her lips. “That’s assuming I even knew about the affair. Perhaps I didn't even know until he died! How would you know?”

“Everyone wanted to kill Mr. Yellow,” Dirk muttered to Todd.

“Madame Orange was angry after her check up with Dr. Violet before the murder happened,” Farah pointed out. “Although she didn’t say why. It could’ve been about the affair.”

“Everyone wanted to kill Mr. Yellow!” Dirk said again, sounding surprised. Todd looked at him and he grinned back. 

“I was upset because my gardener, Mr. Turquoise, had quit in a huff.”

“You fired me!” Lenny butted in. Todd realized he’d barely spoken to half of the people playing the game, feeling suddenly like he’d shown up for a test he hadn’t studied for. “And I certainly didn’t kill Mr. Yellow!”

“Alright,” said Cordelia. “But I deny that I did. I still find Mr. Maroon awfully suspicious.”

Daniel glowered at his mother. “If you won’t admit it, I’ll accuse someone else. Like….” He looked around the room. “...my brother. Mr. Green.”

Dirk smiled. “It could have been me,” he said. “I love my brother, Mr. Maroon. I found out Mr. Yellow was having an affair with his wife. And I felt this was an affront to my family. But I think we are focused much too narrowly on the what and the why. In fact,” he said. “I think we are far too focused on this game.”

“Too focused on the game?” Lenny said. “Isn’t that the point of the final round?”

“The point of the final round,” Dirk said confidently, “is to find out who killed Mr. Yellow and Max Oliver.”

“Oh,” Todd said softly. Dirk had solved it. 

“I am Mr. Yellow,” Max said.

"Exactly! So the question we have to answer," Dirk continued, "is who killed Max Oliver. I, of course, have my own theories, but I would like to share last. Mrs. Cordelia. I still find you a bit suspect. Why don't you tell us again why you aren't the killer?"

Cordelia stiffened in offense. "Why am I not the killer? You must be kidding me! I just went over this. I wouldn’t hurt my own son!"

"Ah, but perhaps Max wasn't the child you wanted. And neither was Daniel. And neither was Jane. You wanted a child who was a star, Mrs. Oliver. And you knew you'd never get that if you didn't intervene yourself."

Adrianna narrowed her eyes. "He knows this is a game, right? We aren’t our characters."

Dirk's eyes lit up. "Ah! And Adrianna Waye. What an interesting piece of this puzzle you are."

Adrianna shifted uncomfortably. "Don’t even bother accusing me of killing him. I was the one who was having an affair with him. I was one of his only allies. It wouldn’t make sense."

"No, you're right," Dirk agreed. "It wouldn’t make sense. Besides that, a lady such as yourself seems unlikely to get her hands dirty with murder." He paused. "She'd make someone else do it."

Adrianna turned to Max and laughed. "What is he talking about? This isn't connected to the game at all."

"You know what it's about--"

"Ah!" Farah cut in. "I have a theory. Did Lenny's character actually do it? Mr. Turquoise was Madame Orange’s gardener, so maybe he saw something at the house, like the affair. Blackmail gone wrong type situation."

Dirk nodded. "Lenny seems a bit suspicious, doesn't he?" He looped around the living room, ending behind Lenny's chair. "Lenny, what do you have to say to that?"

"I don't know,” Lenny said. “I don't think my character ever actually interacted Max, though, did he?"

"Exactly," Dirk said. "Lenny is too much of an outsider. He might not like Max, but there was no reason he would want to kill him. He wasn't even present at the crime scene. Now, Daniel, however..."

"Wouldn't it be my luck to pick the character who's the killer three years in a row?" Daniel sulked, shooting his mother a look.

"Of course Daniel could have been jealous of Max. Jealous of how his mother adored him and doted on him. But... that doesn't explain why he would kill him." Dirk turned to Jane. "Do you understand what I'm getting at, Miss Jane?"

Jane's eyes widened. "But I still don't understand! Who--who did I see die on that night?"

“Who did you see die on what night?” Cordelia turned to her daughter, her eyes narrowed. “Jane, is there something you’re not telling me?”

“Sorry, mother,” Jane whispered softly. “But yes. Ten years ago, I saw a murder.” Dirk gave Farah a small nod and Farah quietly moved to block the one door that led out of the study. Todd moved towards the window, having a strong feeling that any possible exit was soon going to quickly need to be blocked. Jane continued, “These people have been trying to help me solve the murder, mother. But… But I don’t know who did it, or who even died…” She trailed off, looking small and lost in her big velvet chair.

“You’re detectives?” Cordelia demanded. 

"Indeed,” Dirk said. “Quite a good disguise, right? Now, Jane, the person you saw being murdered on that night was your brother, Max."

"But that's absurd!" Cordelia burst out. "Max is right here!" Max stood behind his mother, his expression stony.

"That," Dirk pointed to Max, "is certainly someone going by the name Max and living his life as if he were Max Oliver. But that is not your biological son, Max Oliver. He was killed on this day, ten years ago, in your back garden."

"Don't be absurd," Max cut in, his voice cold and stiff. "You've been talking nonsense all night."

"Have you ever," Dirk said, "met an actor who was so incredible that sometimes you didn't even know they were acting?" Todd got the very distinct feeling Dirk was thinking of Mona. "I have. And I will tell you this much. When someone who is talented enough chooses to not be found, they won't be."

"You're crazy," Max said. "You have no proof."

"Alright," Dirk said. "Maybe I'm wrong. Then answer me this. How come you and Adrianna talk in a language no one has ever heard when you think you're alone?"

"What?"

“Oh!” Todd cut in. "And is that why Adrianna’s eye color shifts so dramatically? I wasn’t imagining that?"

"People's eye color can shift--"

"Not from light blue to deep brown they can't,” Dirk said, nodding at Todd. 

Max snorted. "Just because you're dressed as a detective doesn't mean you can say whatever you'd like and expect it to go over."

"Alright," Dirk said. "Let me read from this journal," Dirk said, reaching into his trenchcoat and pulling out a copy of Jane's diary that they had photocopied and brought along. Todd hadn't realized Dirk’s intentions in bringing the copy along--but he wasn’t sure Dirk had known until this exact moment, either. 

"’October 31st, 2008,’" Dirk read aloud. "’Dear Diary, Today I saw something very frightening. It was during the Halloween party, I went out in the back garden to get a bit of fresh air and because everyone was very loud. When I was out there, I thought I heard someone screaming. I thought maybe it was one of my brothers, and so I ran. I saw a figure in the dark standing over someone else, but when I got to where I saw their silhouettes across the garden, they were gone. I saw something I thought could've been blood or beer or water but it was too dark to see. I'll go and see if it's still there tomorrow. I don't know what I saw. I went inside and told mama and papa about it. Papa joked that I'd seen a ghost on Halloween. I don't know. Love, Jane.’"

"I know who Jane saw that night," said Dirk. He pointed at Max. "She saw you. And she saw her brother, Max."

"I am her brother Max," Max replied evenly.

"Oh please," Dirk said. "Will you give that up already? You may live as Maxwell Oliver but you were at least not born that way. You weren't born in this town, or, quite frankly, even this planet."

"What're you going to do about it?" Adrianna said, rising to her feet.

"Adrianna," Max snapped. "Sit down."

"I'm going to..." Dirk said confidently, and then stopped. "Well, I hadn't really thought of that."

“It’s true,” Jane said softly. Cordelia had stepped away from Max and was now standing behind her daughter. She placed a hand on Jane’s shoulder, looking tense. Jane looked up at Cordelia. “It’s true, mother. It was Max I saw on that night. It must’ve been…”

Max frowned. “Are you really going to believe this, Mother? Believe all this slander about your favorite son?” His eyes narrowed. “I’ve been so good to you… an absolute star, in fact. Don’t tell me you believe some sort of alien-murder plot thought up by a stranger over the word of your own son?”

Cordelia Oliver's eyes clouded over. "I'm not sure, Max."

"I cannot believe this," Max said. Adrianna fidgeted in her chair uncomfortably. "Do you know everything I've given for this family? Everything me and Adrianna have given for you, Mother?"

"What are you?" Dirk asked curiously. "You must be something quite interesting. And..." He paused, his nose bunched up. "...and either undetectable or fifteen years new to this planet."

"We were undetectable," Adrianna said.

"Adrianna!" Max barked. "Will you shut up?"

"Oh, give it up, Max," she said irritably. "He's caught us in our game. Might as well admit it." She turned to Dirk. "You wouldn't really believe it if we were from a different planet."

"I certainly would," he said. "I've come across a fair few extraterrestrials in my time. I don't suppose you communicate through music on your planet?"

"What?" she snapped. "No. Don't be stupid. You were right, we communicate in our own language. And these weren't our original forms." Max glared at her, his lips pursed in determined silence. "But there's no way for you to prove that, you know? That's the best thing about what we are."

"Oh god," Cordelia said, holding her hand over her mouth.

"And what is that?" Dirk asked.

"Can't pronounce it in your language. In fact, you numbskulls hardly have the language to describe it. Leech? Reincarnate? Phoenix?" Adrianna seemed almost pleased by this, as if the fact that she was somewhat undefinable was a final act of rebellion against whatever separated her from them. "The point is," she said, "we take on different forms over our lives. We essentially could live forever--as long as we kill before our vessel dies. When that happens, we take on the form of whatever we last killed."

"Woah," Dirk said.

"What happens to the body?" Farah said, eyeing Max and Adrianna nervously while still guarding the door.

"We become the body," Adrianna said as though it were obvious. "The last vessel we occupied turns to dust once we leave it for good, once there's no use for it anymore."

"And you killed Max and took his body," Jane said softly, looking Max straight in the eyes. Max frowned and looked away.

"What--what now?" Daniel asked nervously, looking between Max and Adrianna. The room was filled with a tense air.

Max sighed, breaking the silence. "This is truly awful," he said, his tone almost bored, "I never wanted it to come to this, and I am very sorry. I did love you, Mother," he said to Cordelia. "Unfortunately..." He reached into his coat pocket, pulling something small and metallic out, "...the two of us will have to kill all of you now that you've discovered our secret."

Max Oliver had a gun. The room broke out into hectic noise. Cordelia screamed, Daniel let out a large stream of profanities, Todd started to argue with Max, and Dirk shouted something about everyone needing to talk this out, please, and not have so much killing all the time. Everyone was on their feet in a few seconds. Todd and Farah exchanged a look, guarding the door and window respectively, not sure if they should run or stand their guard. The only person who remained sitting was Max Oliver.

"No one move!" he barked. "Shut up!" And he was pointing the gun, and the room quickly fell silent. "You see," he said. "You all have made this so hard for me and my dear EtTew0si." He stood up from where he sat and went to the bookshelf, grabbing a candlestick. He handed it to Adrianna who smiled at him and kissed his cheek.

"Now who's first?" Max said, sounding almost bored. Todd gave a sideways glance to Farah and mouthed the word "gun." She shook her head, mouthing back a long sentence. He had forgotten he couldn't read lips.

"Oh Jane," Max said. "Why not you? This whole dilemma is your fault, now, isn't it?"

"It's not my fault," Jane said, trembling but holding her voice steady. "None of this would've happened if you hadn't hurt Max."

Max pursed his lips, ignoring her comment. "Come here, and we'll make this quick and painless," he said.

"No," she said, holding her ground.

Adrianna shoved her forward from behind, pushing her with the end of the candlestick. "Do what he says!" she said.

Jane opened her mouth to make a retort but decided against it. She looked back at the other people in the room, staring hopelessly.

"My dear sister," Max said, pointing the gun at her head. Adrianna stayed behind her, holding the candlestick up. "I am sorry it had to come to this."

"No, you're not," she said, tears forming in her eyes.

"You're right," he laughed. "I'm not."

The next few seconds were a whirlwind. Farah leapt up from her place by the door to in front of Max, grabbing Jane out of the line of fire as Max pulled the trigger. Adrianna, not realizing what had happened before it was too late, didn't dodge and instead was hit squarely in the head with the bullet Max had fired. Adrianna barely had a second to let out a cry of pain before her body turned to dust, drifting down to the floor, lifeless. Max whirled around, still holding his gun, pointing it at Farah and Jane where they sat on the floor. 

"You think you're real smart, huh?" he demanded. "What--"

A bang fired in the room.

Max stopped talking.

Max stopped breathing.

Max fell over onto the floor, fading into a pile of dust.

Across the room, Cordelia Oliver held up her pearl handled pocket purse pistol, smoke still drifting off the tip of the weapon, tears streaking her face.

*

The next week, Jane Oliver visited Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective agency. She knocked lightly before walking into the office. "Hello!" she said.

"Jane Oliver!" Dirk said, his entire face lighting up. He jumped up from his desk. "How are you doing?"

She smiled sadly. "This whole ordeal has been a lot for my family... but I think we are better for it. We've all been trying to understand, of course. But it's brought us closer too."

"I'm glad to hear that," Farah smiled, looking up from her desk. "Thank you for visiting, Jane."

Jane nodded. "I’m to give you these." She passed two envelopes to Dirk.

He looked at her, confused. "What?"

"For the case," she said softly.

"Ms. Jane, I was under the distinct impression that we were not taking payment from you," he said. He passed the envelopes back to her. "In fact, I insist on it. I don't want to take money from you."

She laughed. "It's not from me. It's from my mother. She's going through a lot, as we all are, but she's extremely grateful to you guys." She shrugged. "She didn't actually tell me what was in those. Just to deliver it to you three."

"Well, thank you," Dirk said, surprised, taking the envelopes back from her.

"Yes!" she said. "And thank you guys... for everything. The truth is hard, but I'm glad I know it. And..." she turned to Farah, "thank you for saving my life."

Farah smiled awkwardly. "I mean, yes. Of course. That is... yes. You're welcome."

She beamed at them. "I'll be sure to recommend you guys, although I don't know how many other sixteen year olds have use of a detective agency."

Dirk smiled. "Thank you Jane."

She nodded once more. "Goodbye!" They waved and wished her well and then she was on her way.

"I wonder what Cordelia sent," Todd said.

"Let us see!" Dirk said. “This first envelope is addressed to ‘Dirk Gently & Co.’ Fancy!” He tore the envelope open, pulling it out and looking it over. His eyes widened.

"What?" Farah said.

"Yeah, what is it?"

"I don't think we'll have to worry about agency finances for a while," Dirk said, eyes wide. He passed Farah the check from inside the card. 

She raised her eyebrows. “Oh-kay!” she said. “Well. We should definitely send a thank you note.”

“She wrote a note, too,” Dirk said. He read aloud, “‘Dear Dirk and Company, I never did like Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. However, the three of you I found quite tolerable. To think I would’ve lived with and loved an imposter my whole life if not for your agency. Much thanks. Sincerely, Cordelia Oliver.’”

“I guess she’s got a heart under her mean exterior after all,” Todd said.

“‘P.S.,’” Dirk read. “‘I am assuming you will be quiet about the disappearance of my ‘son’ Max. I hope this check more than manages that.’”

“Oh,” Todd said, and Farah laughed. 

“Well!” Dirk said, setting down the card. He smiled at his two friends. “I think that’s another case solved with arguable efficiency.”

“What’s the other envelope?” asked Todd.

“I don’t know…” Dirk looked at it. “She wrote something on the front...  ‘I couldn’t be bothered to open this after what happened. but I thought one of you care want to know more than I. Sincerely, Cordelia.’”

“Oh!” Farah said. “It’s the envelope from the game--the one that has the killer in it.”

“I didn’t even realize we never revealed the fake killer,” Todd said.

“I did,” said Farah. “Open it?”

Dirk nodded, pushing a pencil thru the top, ungracefully breaking the seal. He popped the envelope open and looked inside before pulling out a tiny slip of paper.

“Oh God,” he said, sounding exasperated. “Of bloody course it had to be.” 

Farah raised her eyebrows and he passed her the paper. She looked at it and frowned. “Crazy coincidence, that’s all.”

“Let me see that,” Todd grabbed the paper.

“Farah, nothing ever ends up being mere ‘coincidence’ with me,” Dirk said pointedly. “Ever.”

“Alright, that’s weird,” Todd said, tossing the paper back onto the desk in front of Dirk. The three of them started at the paper for a moment, saying nothing.

“I say we break early for lunch,” Farah broke the silence. “My treat.”

“Avoidance,” Todd said. “I like it.”

“Burgers?” Dirk chimed in. “I love it.”

The three of them stood up and cleared out of the office, turning off the lights and locking the doors to the office. In the now quiet office lay the small slip of tangerine paper on a desk. It read, in plain cursive, Madame Orange is the killer.

*

End

[limited-practice]

Mutual Bonding Through Salt

Just a quick thing I wrote that started off with talking about Sunder infiltrating the DJD, which led to the possibility of Tarn's voice killing ability being blocked, which brought in Hubcap, which led to him bonding with Nickel because the DJD and Wreckers are big idiots and they just get so weary dealing with them at times.

(Sunder isn't in this one - undercover mnemosurgeon in the DJD is another fic for another time)

3311 words of Nickel and Hubcap nonsense are under the cut.

“If you eat the salt that’s around the rim of your glass, it will put you in the medibay for a week. Possibly a month. Possibly two months.”

Hubcap froze, and the salt rimmed glass that was just about to touch his lips didn’t make contact. But only just. He slowly lowered his glass. And as he did so, more and more of Nickel’s deeply unimpressed face was revealed.

“I’m telling you this not because I care about your well being, Autobot,” she said, “But because I’m the one who’ll have to waste time treating you. The medibay on my ship is light years more advanced than yours, and since Tarn’s ordered us not to kill any of you or allow anyone to succumb to an unfortunate series of unpreventable accidents, I don’t want to disappoint him.”

Hubcap glanced around. They were sitting at the bar of a backstreet establishment in a run down town on a grimy planet hollowed out from the fallout of their civil war. In a desperate attempt to scratch out a living, the surviving inhabitants had made it clear they welcomed all races and factions. Organic, mechanical, neutral, Decepticon, Autobot, undecided, renounced, it didn’t matter. Your legally and illegally acquired money was most welcome here.

His eyes hovered over a large mass of shapes in the corner behind them. The Wreckers and the DJD were deep in discussions about a ‘business opportunity’ that had recently prevented itself. He was one hundred percent convinced it was illegal and one hundred percent convinced that it would somehow end terribly for him. Hence the need to drink as soon as possible.

Hubcap carefully rotated the glass, causing the thick neon yellow liquid inside to spin slowly. The electric blue umbrella in it bobbed happily. “That - ha! - doesn’t seem likely? It’s part of what makes this cocktail a cocktail? Look, it’s in the menu. On the menu I mean. The menu with all seven drinks listed?”

Nickel looked at Hubcap like he was the most pointless robot in the world. “Do you even know what you ordered?”

Hubcap glanced down at the plastic coated menu that was on the bar counter. He put a finger underneath the name of the drink he'd ordered. The plastic was warm and sticky.

“Pleasant Painkiller,’” he read out loud. “‘Cure what ails you with this tropical blend of high grade energon, creamy energon extract and refreshing crushed salt garnish. Chase down the tears and blood and cranial fluids of that filthy traitor with this indulgent signature creation that’s guaranteed to leave your fuel tank thrumming with-’”  Hubcap’s eyes widened. “I don’t- What? What? I don’t remember reading that. That wasn’t there when I read it before ordering.”

“Yes it was.” Nickel’s voice was flat. “That’s a DJD drink you ordered. Was the large purple badge and screaming victim next to it not clear enough?”

“I don’t- are you sure? I don't think that I...?” Hubcap peered closely at the menu. The Pleasant Painkiller was listed under the  Mechanical-Cybertronian-Decepticon category. He squinted to make out the small print next to his cocktail’s name: ‘DJD Speciality! Only the best of the worst can handle this!’

Hubcap’s secondary cooling fan clicked on. He slowly slid the menu away with his fingertip as far as his arm would stretch. He lifted his finger up and the menu stuck to it. “I mean- why?” he asked, waving his hand to shake the menu off of it.

"Why can't you read?" Nickel supplied. "Beats me."

"No, that's-" he shook his hand harder, worried that he’d somehow cursed himself and the menu was going to stick to him forever.

"That drink isn't going to kill you," Nickel said witheringly, as she watched the menu finally break free of his finger and float down behind the bar. "We're not in the habit of poisoning each other. But that salt will poison you. I know its composition and I know your frame type and processing specs. You can't digest it. You’re too weak. Too puny.”

“That’s not-” Hubcap said, heating up. “That was uncalled for. I can’t help that I was born with this frame. Why did you have to focus on that? Why are you being mean?”

“Oh I’m sorry, did I just say puny? I meant that you’re puny and piss annoying.”

“...I’m just...trying to have a drink here.”

“You’re trying my patience, that’s what you’re doing. Wipe that salt off now, and then you can have that drink you don’t deserve.” Without waiting for a response, Nickel shot out a hand.

Hubcap snatched the glass back just as her fingertips touched it, and cradled it protectively against his chest. He held it somewhat sullenly.

Nickel pointed one of her fingertips at him. “You’re going to lick that salt off just to spite me, I know you are. I know your type.”

She sat back on her stool and picked up her own drink with a casualness that wasn’t faked. “And when we’re back on my ship and you come crawling into the medibay holding your stomach and complaining that your teeth feel like they’re melting, I’m going to ignore you. And if you don’t drag yourself back out, I’ll ask Tess to do it for me.”

Hubcap looked at her. This time there was a thread of steel in his voice when he spoke. “My frame has survived more than you could imagine.”

Nickel widened her eyes as far as they’d go. “Oh gosh really? Let me just- let me just topple off my seat in awe and wonder here. You’re telling me that you experienced physical and emotional pain and suffering during millions of years of war but still survived? Wow. Just- wow.”

Hubcap squeezed his glass tighter, and hoped he wasn’t blushing too hard. “I...ha, I know I’m not that special. I’m not special at all. I’ve been told I’m not special my entire life. If people notice me in the first place that is.”

“I,” Nickel said slowly, “Have prised things out of Helex’s mouth that gave me nightmares. I’ve scrubbed off encrusted liquids that release a vapour known to melt steel. But never - never in all my years as the Peaceful Tyranny’s Chief and Only Medical Officer - have I ever had a stomach ache. Until I met you. Until I listened to what you just said. Your pity party of one is making me queasy Hubcap.” She put a hand on her stomach and held her drink out towards his. “I feel my delicious drink churning. You’re ruining this for me.”

Several different emotions rolled across Hubcap’s face, before it settled on uneasy irritation. “It’s not easy to get people to pay attention to you. And it’s even more difficult to get them to notice the good things you do, let alone appreciate you. Not when you’re so small. Not when you’re so weak. You of all people should know that.”

Nickel slowly put her glass back down on the counter. It hit the metal with a sharp clink. She stood up and rolled forward to where Hubcap was sitting. He leaned back as she glared up at him.

“Of course I know that. I’ve always known that. And do you know what I do? Do you know what I do when they’re all ignoring me and refuse to come in for their check-ups?”

“Go crying to Tarn?”

Nickel shot out a hand and sunk her fingers into Hubcaps neck cables. She yanked his head forward until their noses were almost touching.

“I get up in their faces,” she whispered to him. “I force them to pay attention to me. I don’t ever accept them saying ‘no.’ I make myself known. Because that’s what people of our size have to do. We have to DO something. Skulking around underfoot the big bots isn’t going to get you noticed. It’s going to get you stepped on. You want your Wrecker friends to notice you? To appreciate you? Then you get up into their smarmy faces and don’t. Back. Down.”

Nickel put her hand on his forehead and pushed him away. Hubcap wobbled on his stool but kept his balance. His drink sloshed onto his lap. His face showed all kinds of alarm.

“Um...OK?”

Nickel sat back on her stool. She waved a dismissive hand at him that said ‘Yeah, sure you will. I know your type, and I know you won’t.”

There was a swell of loud voices from the corner followed by one, two, three glasses smashing into something. The voices got rougher and louder.

Hubcap shook his head. The only reason he’d been brought along to this business meeting on neutral territory was to use his Outlier ability to block Tarn’s voice from killing them all. He’d weakly told Springer that he could project a signal block from Debris and that someone should stay behind to keep the ship in secure orbit around the planet. But Springer had betrayed him by asking him a sensible question that he felt compelled to answer honestly. No, Hubcap had told him - my signal block wouldn’t be just as effective from Debris as it would be if I was in the same room as him. It would be zero point zero zero five percent less effective. Springer had looked at him kindly, and told him it would do him good to get off the ship and have some shore leave. Have a drink and relax while they took care of business. He could look after himself when- if, if - things got rough. He knew which way to point a gun didn’t he?

“I’m keeping the drink,” Hubcap said. “I paid for it and I’m keeping it.”

Nickel looked up at him from her drink. “Are you doing this just to keep the tiny umbrella that came with it?”

“...what?”

Nickel nodded her head towards his drink. “You’re being careful that it doesn’t touch the killer salt barrier. You care about it.”

“It’s a cheap plastic novelty umbrella.”

“Then give it to me.”

Hubcap looked down at the tiny umbrella floating in its yellow cocktail sea. He plucked it out and gently engulfed it in his hand “...no.”

Nickel rolled her eyes skywards. “Primus spare me.”

“HOW MUCH??” An incredulous voice roared. The other patrons of the bar froze.

“SAY THAT TO ME AGAIN AND I’LL RIP YOUR EYES OUT WITH MY TEETH.”

Some customers started whimpering.

“I’LL BLEND THEM INTO A NEW COCKTAIL FOR YOU TO DRINK.”

Some customers slowly slid onto the floor and began to crawl towards an exit.

“I’LL MAKE THE REST OF YOUR TEAM TAKE TURNS HOLDING THE GLASS UP TO YOUR LIPS.”

Some customers closed their eyes and prepared for the end.

Hubcap and Nickel casually glanced over at who was bellowing threats and who was receiving them.

Nickel tutted. “Why did he say that? That’s a back-up threat, not an initial salvo. We practised this. I wrote it down for him.”

“FEED ME MY EYES AND I’LL SPIT THEM IN YOUR FACE AND BLIND YOU SO THAT YOU’RE THE ONE WITH NO EYES.”

Hubcap winced in embarrassment. “He always says that. Always. And no-one takes him seriously. Why would they?”

“YOU’RE A LIAR!”

“NO YOU’RE THE LIAR!”

“I’LL FIGHT YOU!”

“NOT IF I FIGHT YOU FIRST!”

Something breakable smashed into someone’s head, a giant fist connected with a face, the DJD snarled and the Wreckers roared.

A fight erupted.

Hubcap and Nickel locked eyes. They shared a flat and weary look that said “Do you see the kind of shit I have to put up with every day?” It was a perfect moment of mutual understanding.

The fight intensified.

Nickel sighed. “It will take me hours to clean them up. They don’t bother with basic maintenance at the best of times, and these injuries won’t be quick to fix. They don’t listen to me. And I keep telling them not to fight when there are witnesses around, but they don’t listen to me.”

Hubcap watched tables, chairs, glasses and framed objects get torn down and used as weapons. He sighed as well. “That will all have to be accounted for. All that stuff they’re ruining. I’ll have to draw up a detailed inventory, calculate their value, source replacements, and spend days carefully filling out a hundred different forms to prevent us from getting imprisoned due to a grammar mistake a sharp eyed lawyer will pick up on when the bar owner inevitably works up the courage to sue us.”

A circular table rolled past them on its rim. It left a track of dark energon in its wake.

“Tarn would appreciate you,” Nickel blurted out. “He loves competent administrators.”

“My entire team would appreciate you,” Hubcap said. “We don’t have a medic. We have Impactor and his drill hand.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah.”

The fight climbed up a gear. It got louder. It got more dangerous.

Nickel shook her head. “If I don’t put an end to this soon we’ll never get that deal signed, and then we’ll be stuck orbiting this armpit of a planet until they regain consciousness. The medical machines drain our power supply when they go at it like this. They suck it nearly dry. And the upkeep needed to ensure they’re in constant working order, that’s never ending.” She shook her head again.

“We had Springer on life support for years,” Hubcap said. “And do you think anyone undertook routine maintenance on it or sourced replacement parts or kept detailed records of his vital signs and regularly cross checked them with all known injury outcomes on file?”

“I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say that only you did all of that. I feel that pain.”

“It’s a pain like no other.”

“You got that right.” Nickel put both hands on the bar counter and prepared to heave herself up onto it.

“Wait, what are you doing?” Hubcap asked in alarm. “Don’t make yourself an accidental target. Their aim is terrible.”

“Someone has to put an end to this,” Nickel said in a tight voice. “And as usual, it’s down to me.”

Hubcap put a hand on her shoulder. And snatched it back when she glared at him. “Sorry, I just- I mean you don’t have to do it. This time. I can.”

“You can put an end to this?”

“In less time than it takes for you to finish your drink.”

Nickel looked at him for a second. And then lowered herself back down onto her stool. “OK then - show me what you’ve got.”

“I, ah, need your auditory frequency codes. Primary, secondary and tertiary. All of you. I’ve got the Wreckers on file. And myself. Obviously. But not- not yours. Not your team’s.”

“Why do you need to know the frequencies we hear sound at?”

A whump of fire shot towards the ceiling. Chunks of metal rained down. A special ops ghost gun was primed with a chunk-chunk-krik.

“So that I can stop all of this.” Hubcap stretched out an arm to encompass the room. And withdrew it immediately as pieces of broken ghost gun flew towards it.

Nickel paused, weighing up the risk of trusting him against the extra work this fight would give her. She gave the frequencies to him.

“What are you going to use them for?” she asked.

“I’m going to use them to break that up.”

There was a ROAR and a clash of titanic metal upon colossal metal as the fight burst wide open and the bar’s fire, invasion, and panic alarms all tripped simultaneously with a whoop-whoop-whoop.

“How?” Nickel yelled, covering her head and ducking as a jagged disc flew over it.

She couldn’t hear what Hubcap said over the roar of noise in the bar, but she could read his lips. “Like this.”

Hubcap’s entire body shivered. An unnatural bright light entered his eyes. He tilted his head, gripped the tiny umbrella harder, and unleashed a split branch sub-atomic frequency wave that wouldn’t be identified and classified by science for another three million years.

The DJD and the Wreckers simultaneously slammed their hands over their ears and collapsed to the ground howling.

Hubcap tilted his head the other way. The screeching trio of alarms were silenced.

“Not bad,” Nickel said approvingly. “Not bad at all.”

“It’s just a basic frequency,” Hubcap shrugged. “Just a modification of one I’ve used on them before.” He straightened his head. His eyes dimmed back to normal.

“Yeah but…” Nickel looked around. Everyone was laying still and silent on the ground and taking stock of what had just happened. Impactor jumped to his feet and tried to yell out in anger but immediately collapsed again. He whimpered pathetically. Kaon carefully stood up and made every effort to stay still and silent. He held his arms out for balance. He stayed on his feet.

“That’s not just not bad. That’s amazing. You’re an Outlier, aren’t you?”

“No. Yes. I mean- Well. It’s just- it’s just something I can do. It’s easy. I don’t have to think about it too much. It just comes to me.” Hubcap said this simply, without a hint of fishing for praise. “The frequency wave boosters won’t break down until everyone’s on their respective ships. Which will give me enough time to barricade myself into my office and beam a detailed memo to each of them explaining what I did and why I did it.”

“And it will give me enough time to prep the medibay and get my tools laid out. I’m going to sharpen all of them. And explain in detail how I’m going to use them. And then I’m going to write up reports on everyone. Even Tarn. They’ll be so dreadful that Tarn won’t have any choice but to put everyone on Corrective Action Plans that will last for months. Including himself.”

“Ping me if you want any help with the wording. I’ve got a lifetime’s experience writing those.”

“Thanks. And- thanks. For doing what you did.”

Hubcap rolled the umbrella between his fingers and nodded. “Any time. Except I hope it won’t be any time soon. Or any time again. But eventually it will be. You know, time.”

“It is time for us to leave.” Tarn’s voice ate through the air like a virus.

“Yeah, let’s move it.” Springer jabbed his thumb over his shoulder at an exit. “Get back to Debris, sort yourselves out, and prepare to leave for the Peaceful Tyranny in two hours. We’ve still got business to attend to.”

The huge mass of the DJD and the Wreckers divided itself into two. Everyone moved slowly and carefully and quietly to one of the two exits.

Hubcap and Nickel slid off their bar stools.

“And- thanks for not including me in your silent take down,” Nickel said.

“You weren’t part of the fight. You weren’t a threat. I mean you’re obviously still a threat, but- but you didn’t need that. You didn’t deserve that.”

“But it would have been the perfect opportunity to take revenge on me,” Nickel persisted.

Hubcap smiled faintly. “Nothing good comes out of wanting that. Believe me. It will eat you up and destroy you.”

“Spoken like a true Autobot.”

“Ha! I’m not one of them. Not really.”

“...ever thought of becoming a Con?”

“...yes. But they aren’t for me either.”

“You’re yourself.” Nickel nodded. “I get that. And now I get you.”

Hubcap reached over and carefully placed the mini umbrella in her drink. It was wrinkled and bent but not broken. “No you don’t. Not really.” He hesitated. “Not yet.”

Nickel looked down into her drink. “I’ll give you a check-up when you come over in a couple of hours,” she offered. “If anyone’s put a dent in you, I’ll deal with them personally.”

“Thanks.”

“Any time.”

They left the bar without looking back.

[alarawriting]

Poodle Pressure

(I wrote this for my first college-level creative writing class, in 1987 I think. The assignment was for a group of us to take an existing classic title -- ours was “The Turn of the Screw” -- and re-imagine a completely different story based on the title. We decided to write about a college student who is cracking under the pressure (I wonder why college students would pick such a topic... :-))

I have edited this slightly to remove some cultural references from the time period that don’t make sense anymore and add some from later time periods that do, and I’ve changed the title, and it’s nowhere near complete enough to be a story on its own -- mine was part 2, and I also did the part 4 but without 1 and 3 I can’t actually even see how 2 related to 4 anymore -- but I thought I’d post it because I didn’t know jack shit about neurodivergence then but I bet a lot of people will find this relateable.)

TW for fantasized violence against dogs. No actual dogs within the fictional universe were harmed during the making of this story.

--

That damn dog is barking again.

It never fails. Every goddamn morning at 7 am, the dog wakes me up. There’s this idiot down there who won’t walk the dog until 7:30, and never mind how many people the dog wakes up. Maybe I should organize a lynching party. You know, maybe get together with ten other people who aren’t too stoned to help. “We’ve come for your dog, lady!” We could grab the dog – and the girl would be screaming, of course, “My puppy, my baby! Don’t hurt my Tootsie!” or whatever the thing’s name is. Then we could drag it out and hang it by its leash to a telephone pole. Cut its throat, maybe, to warn the other dogs. All its fluffy purebred fur all bloody. This can happen even to a purebred poodle, you mutts. So shut up!

What would we have then? Dog retribution? Would the neighborhood Shepherds and Dalmations and Dobies circle around my door at night, with a Gary Larsonesque human doll to burn in effigy? Ah, the hell with it, Berke, you could never get a lynch mob together anyway. Not even a petition.

Why don’t I get up and tell that woman off? “Lady, get your dog to be quiet or I’ll burn off its goddamn fluffy fur.” Yeah, that’s it. Think I will…

Berke, who the hell do you think you’re fooling?

You know, I was up late last night, studying for my goddamn Bizarre Equations class, aka Physics That Make No Sense If You’re Euclid or Newton. I don’t need this. Don’t need a fluffy dog yapping because its mistress (take that any way you want) won’t let it out. It’s 7:10 AM, do you know where all your cramming went? Do you know where your sleep went? Don’t you want to kill that dog?

Why don’t I just put on my slippers and go downstairs and knock on that woman’s door? “Lady, get the lead out, you’re gonna have to scrape your dog off the wall if you don’t let it out.” I said this already, didn’t I?

Okay. Truth time. I don’t have the guts. That’s it in a nutshell. What if I went down there and she called the cops on me? That’d be all I need, with a goddamn exam coming up today. Ol’ Papa Einstein, “I want to know God’s thoughts, the rest are details.” Okay, Al, why don’t you tell me what God thinks of a barking poodle?

You know, I bet if her window broke, that poodle would jump right out and splat itself all over the ground. And wouldn’t that be something. Release, you know? The poodle’s all bottled up in the environment, full of energy. Lots of pressure. So you puncture the apartment and release the poodle pressure, and the poodle comes rushing out and turns itself into a bloody pancake.

---

I don’t know why I did that.

I thought I had it all out of my system, you know, writing it down’s supposed to be the next best thing to talking to a shrink or a friend, assuming you have one of either, right? So I just finished writing about the poodle, but it was just getting me madder and madder. So I picked up my sneaker, went out on my balcony, leaned way over like this is one of those cautionary tales where the young man planning mischief falls ten stories to his death, except I was smart enough to keep my foot chocked against one of the bars so the worst I’d have done is shatter my tibia, and I took my big heavy waterproof hiking sneaker and I threw it through her window, just to the right of her balcony.

As in through. As in it didn’t bounce off like I half expected it to. It shattered her window and went in. And now I have no sneaker.

I don’t know why I did that. I mean, the dog didn’t shut up or anything, in fact it just got louder, and now I’m going to have to go around in my socks all day. How the hell am I supposed to go to class in my socks? I could cut class, but what do I do about my exam? “I couldn’t take my exam because my sneaker was stuck in some lady’s apartment because I was too chickenshit to go ask for it back.” What the hell kind of excuse is that?

I suppose I could try to steal the sneaker back. When she takes the dog out – and it still hasn’t shut up, you know – I could sneak downstairs and into her apartment and take the sneaker. I mean, I can’t ask her for it – “Excuse me, I’m the guy who threw a sneaker at your window, can I have it back?” Maybe I could make an excuse. “Uh, yes, I was – I was testing the wind, yeah, I was testing the wind by holding my sneaker out the window, and it slipped, yeah, that’s it, and, and the wind blew it through your window. Yeah, that’s the ticket!” Nah. I’m gonna have to steal it back.

My God what’ll happen if she catches me? She’ll know it was my sneaker. It fits my foot. “Excuse me, sir, but why the hell did you throw a sneaker and break my window?” What can I say? “Your dog was bugging me?”

Oh, fuck, this is not going to work. Maybe if I wear six or seven pairs of socks, nobody will know the difference. Yeah. “Hey, Berke, like your new shoes.” “Uh, yeah, they’re the latest thing. Flexible Footwear. They’re eco-friendly.” I could say I was adapting to Japanese custom – “I left my sneakers in the lobby. I didn’t want to mark up the nice floor.” “It’s covered by a rug, moron.” “Well, uh, I was Japanese in a past life, you know?” No. That won’t work. I better steal the thing.

What if I cut? “I had to miss the exam on Einsteinian physics because of dire emergency. I had 24-hour AIDS.” Oh, yeah. Right. “I broke my leg but Magic Leg Glue helped me fix it right up! Only $29.99 if you order now!” “My mother died and I had to be present at the reading of the will or miss out on $30 million bucks, you can have a million of it if you just pretend I took the test and got an A.” No, I can’t cut. But how’m I going to steal that sneaker back?

Well. What if I call her up and pretend to be her boyfriend. I’ll tell her to meet me at the usual place, and I’ll burglarize her apartment while she’s out. Only one problem. I don’t know if she even has a boyfriend. Or if she even likes guys. Or her phone number. Or what her name is. That’s four problems, I’ll come in again.

I don’t even know her goddamn name, and I’ve broken her window.

There she goes! Walking her dog! I can just go downstairs now and get my sneaker back. Just slip on down…

There’s someone fixing that window from the inside.

Oh, shit, this has got to be a nightmare. Things like this don’t happen to real people. Why the hell did I throw that sneaker? Did I really believe the poodle would jump out? It was just so vivid… And so stupid. How the hell could I be that idiotic? Why did I throw that sneaker?

I’m tired…

---

My exam is taking place right now. I can’t go. I’m a sneakerless prisoner here.

Maybe I should borrow a shoe from Wood. He’s an asshole, but he’s my size, or close enough… still time…

I think I’ll go back to sleep. When I wake up everything will be normal again and I won’t have lost my sneaker and I won’t have missed my exam. Okay?

You listening?

---

I met a girl the other day.

She wasn’t what you would call a real girl, she was a fake girl, you know? Like some mad scientist boiled down a hundred girls to get to the essence of girl and then poured it into a composite body. Like the Bride of Frankenstein, All-American version. Or what if Professor Utonium didn’t put Chemical X in the mixture so Bubbles grew up without superpowers, as a pure construct of sugar, spice and everything nice. A 3-D printed girl from a high-res mold. One of those anime PC idol girls who comes to life. I kept expecting her to disappear in a puff of smoke or something.

---

I want to go home.

Which is not to say I want to go to my house, the place where I live. No, I want to go home. I’ve never been there before. I don’t think anybody has. I don’t think it exists.

I want to live in a sci-fi dimension where the laws of physics are the same but human nature changes so I’m normal and I’m not alone and I feel like I belong. I can’t even imagine what it would be like, a place where I could be at home. But if I ever find it, I’ll know.

[ginnyzero]

Completely Harmless Appendix 8

The Golden Hills Valley

Oh, the Golden Hills that aren’t really golden. Okay, so um, this is personal pet peeve and I know there are a lot of players that actually like the Golden Hills being an area of eternal autumn while the rest of the game is eternal summer except for the Valley of the Hidden Dinosaur. (Where nothing should be growing at all, so now it’s not growing anything except some super hardy magical thistles and lichen and that’s all I’m going to say about that.) And I get why they did it initially because they were using the old assets from the Seasonal games and it was a good way to recycle the Autumn Riders assets.

Completely unnecessary but I get it.

I simply don’t like that our Golden Hills are “red.”

So, I changed it. Instead of having maples, maples, everywhere. I know that birches grow fast and take over areas pretty quickly, so I decided that it didn’t make any sense for the birch forest not to continue into the part of Golden Hills that we see.

Then as you unlock more of the Golden Hills (that are only locked due to actual plot reasons) the trees change into beeches and aspens. And what birches, beeches, and aspens have in common is that they all turn yellow in the fall. I also included Golden Chain Trees. During the spring and summer they have trailing yellow flower clusters.

Apparently the Golden Chain tree turns orange and red a bit during the fall but bits of orange and red are better than all orange and red. Which is what Maple trees do. A lot of it also does have to do with soil composition, rainfall (and thus amount of sap) and light, but for the most part, maples turn red and orange. (If your maple leaves are turning yellow in the fall, there actually might be a problem with your maple tree.) While Apsens, Birches, and Beeches turn yellow.

So, thus, the Golden Hills would actually look Golden.

Then I researched for a bunch of yellow flowers and yellow-green foliage bushes to fill in the gaps during the spring and summer to make the Golden Hills yellow all year long.

The Northern Golden Hills, by the way, didn’t exist in the Star Stable Autumn and Winter games map. When you played Star Stable: Winter Rider, you could go up the mountain behind Meander Stable and look over Silverglade. It was really cool actually. However, when Star Stable Online added in the Valley of the Hidden Dinosaur, they created magic space and therefore pushed the Pine Hills area further north and created this area we now know nothing about.

So I made it up.

When I got to the point in the story where we needed to get past Castle Marchenghast, I asked my good friend, Becca, what she wanted to see in the Northern Golden Hills. And she pointed out that if we’re in a county, we don’t actually have anything that could be considered a County Seat. This was actually really helpful for me.

I grew up on the borders of what are two very rural counties with one huge town in them. So, I based the Northern Golden Hills on the one without a university and is slightly more rural.

So, I created a County Seat. The County Seat would have things like the Fair Grounds, a major station for the Jorvik Rangers, and the big courthouse, and even a jail. The Beeches Park is a green forested state park like area with playgrounds and a event pavilion and little pavilions you can rent for families to visit and throw little parties, let their kids play type of thing. There should also be a library, a school, a natural golf course, and so on. I decided that there should be a Baron for the Golden Hills District and the Count of the entire South New Jorvik County would also live in the Golden Hills at Castle Marchenghast.

Given Star Stable Online’s naming conventions it meant the Marchenghast Family was the highest ranking noble family in the area. I created another Baron, Baron Arthur Fairhaven, and he has his own castle, stable, and village. And lastly, I created Aspendell.

Yes, I know, a lot of A names to go with the A names already in the game, but I liked the name Arthur Fairhaven too much to let it go. It’s a fanfic. I can indulge in silliness.

The cool thing about Aspens is that they aren’t a bunch of individual genetically different trees. They aren’t siblings. Aspens send out roots under the soil laterally and from these roots grow more trunks. So, Aspens are actually one giant clone of each other. They are one complex organism communicating with each other via their roots. You know, like in James Cameron’s Avatar.

Due to drought and fires, there are several Aspen forests, one I know of in Britain, that are considered endangered. I thought it’d be neat to have an Aspen forest like that in Star Stable to bring attention or awareness to the area. Even if I wasn’t able to address directly in this “Chapter” of the story.

The other village in the North Golden Hills area is Eventide, a fishing village. Not a port, but a sea side fishing community that doesn’t have their own stable. I also added a privately owned vineyard to be competition or a new ally in the South New Jorvik County wine trail.

BEHOLD A HANDY LIST

Golden Hills Valley Past North Link/Castle Marchenghast

It’s the County Seat - Goldcroft

1.     Court House

2.     Jail

3.    Ranger Station

4.     Fire House

5.    Count Marchenghast Manor

6.    Goldcroft Stables

7.     Library

8.    Big Recreational Park (The Beeches)

9.    Camping Area/Natural Golf Course

10.  Event Concert Area/Oval Race Track/Rodeo Event Space near Fair Grounds

11.    Golden Hills School

12.   Goldcroft Riding Arena

13.   County Fair Grounds

14.   Large Town including Shopping Street Area (Goldcroft)

15.   Town Square Shopping (Goldcroft)

16.   Large Regional Post Office

17.   Castle Marchenghast Stable

18.   A Medium Sized Stable of Golden Hills Baron Fairhaven

19.   A Smaller Stable (Aspendell)

20.  Protected Quivering Aspen Forest (Shimmering Woods)

21.   Aurora Breeze Winery (Privately owned, no stable.)

22.  Farm 1 (county seat Goldcroft)

23.  Farm 2 (county seat Goldcroft)

24.   Farm 3 (village Fairhaven)

25.  Farm 4 (village Fairhaven)

26.  Farm 5 (village Fairhaven)

27.   Village Fairhaven(3 of 5 farms, Medium Stable, home of Golden Hills Baron)

28.  Village Aspendell (Small Stable)

29.  Fairhaven Riding Arena

30. Eventide Fishing Village

FOR THE ACCOMPANYING IMAGES PLEASE DO NOT REMOVE MY WATERMARK AND CONTACT INFORMATION. THANK YOU. I get it. Some of you might get excited and want to see this stuff in the game, especially the clothes, tack, and pets. However, the only way I want to see this in the game is if I get paid for it. If I see it in the game and I’m not paid for it, there will be hell to pay. You think I’m salty. I’d be angry. Personally, I’m not going to send this info to SSO. If you do, leave my contact information there! Don’t give them any excuses to steal.

Now, I’ll know you haven’t read this note if you leave me comments about how ‘salty’ I am about the game and if I hate it so much I should do something else. I am doing something else. It’s called Mystic Riders MMORPG Project. Mystic Riders however is a very baby phase game. You can check out our plans on the game dev blog. (Skills, Factions, Professions, Crafting, Mini-Games, 25+ horse breeds!) If you know anyone who would be interested and has money or contacts about game making, direct them to the blog.

[sellyoursoulforagoodfic]

Runaway Chapter 8

Vlad Masters x reader

Word Count: 1768

Summary: FLASHBACK TIME. AKA, how we got here

Note: This is edited a lot less, so I apologize if there are errors.

A short while later, the Fentons stood watching a wall-sized screen while Vlad operated the device and Plasmius stood inside the tube with a few probes on his head.

“Now watch the screen because I am going to show you the important parts of our early relationship so you will finally stop thinking I kidnapped her or something. It’ll be a composition from both of our points of view since we’ve been developing it together.”

With that statement from Vlad,  the screen started playing like it was a movie, showing Vlad’s self from a few years before walking down the street. His face looked like he was bothered by something as he entered a coffee shop. Imagine the Fentons’ surprise when they saw their daughter working the counter.

When she saw the depressed-looking man at the counter, a concerned look formed on Y/N’s face. She hurried to write something on the man’s cup before handing it over to him.

The ‘camera’ once again followed Vlad as he left the shop. It wasn’t until he reached his office that he saw the note on the cup near his name. “Sorry about whatever’s bothering you. I'm here if you need to talk.” A little smile formed on his face.

From his thoughts the audience of two could tell that he’d gotten a few notes from Y/N before. Meaning she’d instigated their relationship. Which was the opposite of what Jack expected. That was when Vlad’s thoughts tipped into the territory of asking this girl out for lunch and all of the insecurities that went along with that.

The next day, Y/N was just clocking out when Vlad entered the shop. “Hey!” she greeted happily as she stepped out from behind the counter.

“Hello yourself,” was his warm reply. “Thank you for your note yesterday, Y/N. It really helped.”

Pink tinted the tips of her ears. “You’re welcome, Vlad.”

“I do hope it’s not too forward of me, but would you go to lunch with me sometime?” His heart lurched at the beaming grin that spread across her face.

“I thought you’d never ask.” The image paused.

“That led to our first date,” present Vlad explained. “As you can see, we were both fully consenting to the whole thing. It was all rather domestic, actually.”

“What’s next?” Jack asked. After all he’d missed in his daughter’s life, this was proving to be quite enlightening.

“The next was when I told her about what I went through to get where I am now. Hospital and all. We’d been dating for a year.”

Tears fell down Vlad’s face as he remembered all those years he spent seething in his own hatred and fear of how he would pay his hospital bills with no income or family to help. All that stress was still so vivid even later after he had so much. “We’d been doing an experiment. I-I tried to tell Jack that something wasn’t right . . . I was caught in the blast. I was in that hospital for so long.”

Concern was etched into Y/N’s features while her hand went to his cheek; her thumb wiped away some of his tears. Both of her arms slid around his neck so she could pull him down into a tight hug. Her fingers combed gently through his hair since it was out of its ponytail for once.

“I was alone for so long,” Vlad whispered the admission.

“Well, you’re not anymore. I’m here to stay,” Y/N murmured.

Maddie gasped at Past Vlad’s little head shake. It’d never occurred to her that she and Jack hadn’t visited their friend after the accident they had caused.

Y/N leaned back to kiss his lips. “I’m sorry.” Another kiss. “I’m so sorry.” Inside, guilt was eating away at her since her own parents were the ones that put him through so much suffering.

“How about the first time we kissed?”

They were at a gala for Vlad’s company a few weeks into their relationship. Y/N had finally managed to get Vlad alone out on one of the balconies after an hour of trying to rescue him from the various press demanding conversations. The sounds of the party were behind them, only slightly muffled by the glass doors. A smile pulled at her lips at the sight of Vlad looking relieved to be able to breath without fans, employees, or press breathing down his neck.

On impulse, she stood on her toes to kiss him. At his lack of response, Y/N nervously retreated. “Should I not have . . . ?”

Vlad swallowed thickly, lacing their fingers together to keep her from moving farther away. “If it were any other time . . . I would happily return your affections. The problem is,” his grey eyes met her e/c ones, “if I kissed you now, I don’t think I’d be able to stop.”

Heat instantly flared in her face at what she was about to say. “Maybe I don’t want you to stop.”

“As tempting as that is, it would be highly improper for me to disappear from a party that I am hosting.”

She pouted. “Well that’s just no fun.”

“Perhaps,” Vlad trusted himself to brush his lips to her jaw, “we can make good on that offer after everyone leaves if you’re still up for it?”

A wicked smirk formed on her face. “Oh, I like that plan a lot.”

“Or maybe this?”

The Vlad on the screen was talking to his secretary while getting dressed for his date that evening. For their six month marker, they’d decided to go to a rather nice restaurant. “While I am gone, tell Eric to check with Research about that new PDA. I haven’t heard anything on it in almost two weeks.”

“Yes, Mr. Masters,” Sally nodded. “Sir, can I ask a personal question?”

“Of course, but I reserve the right to not answer it.”

“Fair enough. I haven’t seen you like this since, well, ever. Is it this woman that’s making you so happy?”

Vlad raised an eyebrow. “Well that is quite forward, but the answer is yes. She is . . . something I thought I’d never find, to be honest.”

Sally had a growing smile on her face. “By God . . . You love her don’t you?”

That made his heart beat faster. Y/N had been saying it for months, but every time Vlad was unable to repeat the words to her. Yet she was the one that made his heart race like no other. Not even Maddie back before the accident had challenged him as much while also making him feel like he was home no matter where they were. Even now he found himself smiling at the mere memory of her touch. 

“I suppose I do.”

Sally was all-out grinning by that point. “Good. I’m happy for you, Mr. Masters. You’d best get to your date before you’re late, now.”

“I thought I was the boss here?” Vlad teased.

“Go!”

“Or perhaps when I proposed to her will convince you that I didn’t force her into this relationship?”

“V-man, I think we’ve seen enough.”

“No, Jack, you haven’t, because I can still see the accusation written all over your goddamn face. Now sit and watch.”

Two years. They’d happily been together for two years as of that morning. Vlad smiled to himself as he looked next to him on the bed at his girlfriend sleeping there in one of his t-shirts. He resolved to ask her to marry him that day even though he hadn’t found a ring he liked for her just yet. Knowing her, that wouldn’t matter anyway.

Vlad carefully extracted himself from the bed to go make breakfast. He didn’t bother to get dressed; he just went down in pajama pants with no shirt.

Y/N stirred as soon as the door clicked shut behind him. She was rather groggy while getting up and following him out to the kitchen, meaning it took a lot longer than usual. The fog of sleep had lifted during the time it took her downstairs, however, so she fully enjoyed the sight of her boyfriend’s muscles flexing as he cooked.

“Mornin’, sexy,” she greeted as she poured herself some coffee.

“You’re supposed to still be asleep so I can bring you breakfast in bed,” he commented.

“Yeah, but my pillow abandoned me.”

That’s when he turned to look at her and froze at the sight before him. Seeing her there in just his shirt sealed it for him. Vlad reached behind him to shut off the stove as he spoke, “Well in that case take my hand.” He offered his free one to her.

“Why?” she asked suspiciously, putting her steaming mug on the table.

Vlad chuckled, knowing she was half expecting him to put her on the table and fuck her right there. “I’m trying to ask you to marry me, so take my damn hand!” he laughed.

Blue eyes widened dramatically at both the words and at Vlad’s look of genuine happiness. Aside from shock, only one thought was rattling around in her skull and she voiced it. “Why me?”

“Because you saw me when I was invisible,” he shrugged as if it was obvious. “Sometimes literally, but you’re the only one to ever just care about me rather than my money or fame. Because I love you. I don’t have a ring yet, but I’m working on fixing that. So will you--”

“Yes! Of course I will, you goddamn idiot!” she interrupted. Y/N tackled him by hopping up to wrap her legs around his waist, knowing he’d catch her.

“Now just what are you doing?” he asked with a chuckle as his hands moved under her as to support her weight.

“You are gonna put me on that table and fuck me on it until I’m screaming your name and we both collapse.”

“And that’s enough of that memory!” Vlad coughed awkwardly as he cut off the program. “I’d forgotten that that morning ended like that.” Another cough coupled with him scratching at his newly-short hair. “Anyway, I hope that all of that will convince you that what we have is real. Not an illusion or her wanting my money or whatever the two of you think is going on between us.”

“Fine,” Jack finally admitted, “there’s nothing wrong with you two being together other than your age. That doesn’t mean the ghosts aren’t possessing you.”

Y/N entered the room and therefore halted whatever Vlad had been about to say. “Fight that fight another time, Vladimir. I figured out how to reverse it, so they need to get the fuck out now.”

Vlad’s ensuing grin was positively evil. “You heard the lady. Leave.”

--

Note: And that’s literally all she wrote. As usual, I might come back and write some more if anybody wants it (or if I feel like it), but as of 11/4/2019 that’s it.

[the-original-b]

Archangel--Chapter 1: the Silvio Stakeout

Format: Prose / Ficton, multi-entry

Part in Series: 2 of 9 (Previous chapter)

Word Count: c. 6,100

Summary: Specialist Krueger follows a lead on the traitor to an exclusive vacation club in Miami, where he finds that there’s more to the plot against the Branch than initially suspected.

Trigger Warning(s): blood, violence, enhanced interrogation

“Good evening, Krueger,” Khai said over her headset. “Again, Mr. Wells extends his thanks for your help with the delivery the other day, and he’s begun to look for the leaks in his circle of trust, per your advice. He’d like your help with some of them.”

“I’m listening.” Krueger held an old flip phone to his left ear as he muted the television and sat down in front of his dinner—a lean cut of chicken with steamed broccolini and brown rice.

“We’ll start by addressing the bug you found in his office phone. Of all his lieutenants he only trusted three of them enough to grant access to his conference room. He’d like you to get some information from them.”

“Who’s the first one?” He held the phone in place with his shoulder while he cut a piece off his chicken.

“C.J. Silvio: internet personality and son of the Southeast Region’s Managing Partner, Charles Silvio. A man of night life, excess, and debauchery, your usual popup celebrity.”

“Charming.” He put the piece in his mouth and started to work on the vegetables.

“Once a month he retreats to Miami to confer with other Branch managers in the Region. They’re set to meet in South Beach, where he’ll spend the week indulging in all the decadence there before and after the conference.”

Krueger swallowed. “So we act when his guard is down.”

“Precisely. He’ll book his usual stay at the Aurora Club in a week, so I’ll arrange for your stay there to coincide with his.”

“Transportation?”

“I’ll take care of that, too. Business class flight to Miami International and car rental reserved for Sebastian Weber.”

“Rules of engagement?” Krueger took another bite.

“Observation only,” Khai clarified. “Mr. Wells was clear on that. Remember, the rest of our Branch still has no idea you’re with us, so there’s no need for unnecessary violence. And the last thing we want is to have the son of Silvio killed.”

Krueger swallowed. “I’m still going to need tools.”

“I’m curating your selection as we speak. You’ll just have to finalize it.”

“I’ll be there in forty minutes.” Krueger folded his cell phone shut to end the call.

 ``````

“I thought this was an observation job, Miss Khai.” Krueger examined the hardware before him and shot Khai an incredulous look. He’d already selected a directional microphone and declined a pair of military-grade binoculars.

“It is,” Khai confirmed, “but Mr. Wells and I agree it’s better to be prepared for the worst. Due to the nature of this task, however, I’ve narrowed the usual selection down and eliminated the more, conspicuous, options.”

“That wasn’t a complaint.”

“Excellent.” Khai sorted through the firearms and handed him one. “FN Five-seven USG.” Krueger took up the weapon and inspected it. “Lightweight polymer frame and slide, twenty-round magazine. Low caliber, high-velocity, armor-piercing. They might not go down at first, but accurate follow-up shots won’t be an issue with this one.”

Krueger was familiar with the weapon, having trained with one in preparation for a protection job some years ago. He racked the slide back and held it out with both hands to acquire the sight picture. It was as easy as pointing his finger.

Khai smirked. “Do you like it?”

“Tempting,” Krueger said. “But the idea is to not be noticed.” He put the gun down and picked up one of its 5.7mm rounds—a tiny replica of a rifle cartridge. “And these are very loud.��

Khai nodded. “I figured you might want something quieter.” She handed him another candidate, a .45 ACP Colt Government.

“Old Faithful,” Krueger noted, taking the gun into his hands. He examined the threading at the end of the barrel.

Khai handed him another piece. “AAC TiRant 45 suppressor.”

Krueger affixed the tube to the end of the pistol and looked down the sights, acquiring an accurate picture before dry-firing to test the trigger weight. He nodded in approval at Khai and placed the .45 on the tabletop beside him. “I may need to be quieter than even this,” he said.

“Do you want the karambit again?”

“I was thinking something less… permanent.”

“Right,” Khai nodded. “Rohypnol, then.”

  ``````

Krueger stepped off the plane and reclaimed his bag from the conveyor before heading over to Enterprise to pick up his rental car—a nondescript barebones mid-size sedan that was good for little other than getting him from point A to B. He had another stop to make before getting settled in.

Khai had his tools sent to Miami in the days before he arrived. They waited for him in the trunk of an unattractive coupe at a municipal parking lot. Krueger used a valet key duct taped inside the wheel well to unlock the car and reclaim his goods, and then headed to his lodging.

The illustrious Aurora Club. A sleek hotel located in the middle of South Beach, and a destination popular among Spring Break travelers with fake IDs young enough to be Krueger’s children. He pushed the thought of his seventeen-year-old daughter spending time in a place like this out of his head and strode to the front desk.

“Hello, sir. Welcome,” the receptionist said from behind his desk. “Are you checking in?”

“I am.” Kruger said. “Name’s Sebastian Weber.” He made a point to pronounce the W to make the receptionist’s job easier.

“Weber… Weber…” the receptionist checked the reservations. “Ah, there you are! Your reservation was made by a Liz K... paid in full, seven nights’ stay. Ocean view..! She must like you, huh?”

Khai had only shared with him where he was staying and for how long. She was mute on the details of the trip she booked for him. “She spoils me, yeah.”

“I’ll say...” He retrieved a keycard from under the tabletop and handed it to Krueger. “Room 1946. Enjoy your stay at the Aurora Club, Mr. Weber.”

“I certainly intend to. Thanks.”

``````

Krueger tapped his keycard on the reader immediately left of the door when he arrived at his room. He turned the door handle downward and pushed it to reveal a neatly organized room with a desk and lamp, flat panel television, marble-top night table with matching bed linens, a cozy couch in the corner, and just enough auxiliary luxuries to justify the cost of staying here.

Mr. Wells could write it off as a business expense, or see it as an investment. It didn’t matter to Krueger, ultimately.

Krueger placed his bags on the floor and walked through the sliding glass doors overlooking the beach. He retrieved the burner phone included in his kit to dial the only number stored in it.

“This is Khai,” she said after it rang thrice. Her tone was all-business, one he’d only previously heard when she first reached out to him so long ago.

“It’s me,” he said. “I’ve arrived on the premises.”

“Hello, Krueger.” Her tone pulled a one-eighty back to the warm, friendly one she usually spoke to him in. “How are the amenities?”

“Stellar. You really didn’t have to go so far out of the way for me.”

“Mr. Wells said to keep you happy, no matter what.”

He could see her grin in his mind’s eye. “I’m a man of simple tastes, Miss Khai, it doesn’t take expensive gestures like this to please me.”

Khai chuckled on the other end. “You’ll have to enlighten me some time, then.” She took a breath, getting herself back on track for the job at hand. “Young Silvio’s flight gets in tonight,” she said. “He’ll most likely commemorate his arrival at a nightclub, followed by an after-party at his suite… feel like getting in touch with your wild side?”

“I think I’ll stay in. It’s a school night after all.”

“I’ll leave you to prepare, then,” she said, laughing under her breath. “Best of luck.”

``````

Krueger’s Sunday night was spent in his hotel room studying the information Khai put together for him. Young Silvio’s picture, height, weight, build, preferred beverage. When he wakes up, goes to bed, when and what he eats, how frequently he uses the bathroom, the kind of women he attracts. He put a composite profile together and designed his plan around it.

Monday morning came and Krueger ran three miles along the beach before returning to the hotel for a lean breakfast. He studied a hotel brochure over black coffee and made mental notes of the services and suites offered there, deducing where in this labyrinth his prey was likely roosting. He went back upstairs to change into his swimwear.

That afternoon, when Silvio and his entourage were just starting their day at the pool area, Krueger lay on a bench drying off in his trunks and a sleeveless shirt, a small gym bag on the floor immediately to his right. He had his directional microphone tucked under the small of his back and pointed where he knew Silvio and his buddies would be while he listened in with a single wireless earbud. He would periodically turn pages in a copy of Michael Crichton’s Prey and peer over his aviator sunglasses at a passing woman every now and then to maintain the illusion.

Silvio returned to the pool area that evening, surrounded by young bikini-clad women he displayed like trophies to all the on-looking boys who didn’t know better. Krueger had the microphone tucked under his thigh toward the crowd as he stayed seated at the bar just far enough into Silvio’s peripheral vision that he blended into the background.

Krueger uploaded the recordings to a laptop supplied to him and studied the audio that night, finding no mention of Wells or the conference room. Between his public displays and audio logs, Krueger could safely hypothesize one or a combination of three things: C.J. Silvio was either clean, very smart, or very dumb. But tomorrow was a new day, he would solidify his theories then.

``````

Tuesday was mostly a repeat of Monday: Krueger went for his run in the morning and had his breakfast at the hotel and a swim afterward. He returned to the pool that afternoon for more surveillance on Silvio and his crew. He chose this time to not wear a shirt and display a lean athletic build that he maintained despite his age, left shoulder half-sleeve tattoo of dense tiger stripes, and stylized skull and crossbones tattoo on the right side of his chest to more casually fit in as he observed Silvio and his entourage from his pool bench.

He stopped when he noticed a more effective opportunity to gather information pass right in front of him. Krueger covertly shut off the microphone under him and slipped it back inside the bag just out of sight before standing up to follow this new lead, taking his equipment bag with him.

A young, supple woman with long, wavy dark hair in a canary yellow bikini and see-through sarong made her way to the bar and leaned against it. Krueger had seen her yesterday evening hovering around Silvio along with so many other impressionable women, but there was something different about her. And here she was again, associating with him although her body language practically screamed she’d rather not. She peered back over to Silvio again, the look in her eyes was almost contemptuous.

Krueger stood next to her and ordered a mojito. “Excuse me, miss?”

She turned to face him, taken aback at first by the lack of effort he put into successfully getting her attention.

He motioned Silvio. “I saw you hanging around that young man there,” he said sliding a few bills in her direction. “Let him know his next margarita is on me.”

The girl looked down at the money and back up at Krueger. “Uh, yeah. Sure, you bet.”

Krueger smiled and nodded. “Thank you.”

His play worked to perfection. Krueger watched peripherally as the girl in yellow and black handed Silvio a fresh margarita, and thumbed back in his direction. And before long Silvio stood up to swagger over to him, drink in hand.

“Hey man,” Silvio said, grinning behind a pair of single-lens sunglasses “I just wanted to say thanks for the drink!”

Krueger turned to look at Silvio from behind his aviators. “No problem. I saw how much fun you and your friends were having over there.”

Silvio laughed and bobbed a little. “I like this guy,” he said, apparently to an imaginary audience. “I’m Charlie!” He held out his fist.

“Sebastian.” Krueger met Silvio’s fist with his own.

“I’m hearing an accent, Sebastian. Where’re you from?”

“Germany.”

“Aah, Deutschland! Am I saying that right??” Silvio’s smile was earnest.

Krueger nodded in approval. “You’re very close.”

“Ha ha, nice!” Silvio gained his footing again. He was intoxicated even at this hour. “You here on business or pleasure?”

“I find, at times, they’re one and the same.”

Silvio laughed louder. “I love this guy!” he said. “You gotta come hang out with us!”

“Some other time, maybe. I have to get back to it, unfortunately.”

“No, no I’m serious,” Silvio said, patting Krueger’s shoulder and holding on to it. “You have to party with us tonight!”

Krueger tilted his head slightly, projecting the illusion of mulling it over. “Yeah, that might seem possible.”

“Yes!! We’re meeting back here at 9:30, be there!”

“Looking forward to it.” Krueger held his fist out for Silvio.

Silvio tapped it with his own. “My guy,” he called after Krueger as he left the area. “I love the tats, dude!”

``````

Krueger arrived at the pool area at 9:35, in a lightweight short sleeve blue shirt that buttoned up the middle and khaki swim trunks. Silvio warmly welcomed him among his entourage with a hug and a smile that he matched. He took a seat among the crowd—three other heavy-set men in t-shirts and shorts he had previously seen around Silvio, and about a dozen women in various assorted swimsuits who kept marveling at his eyes, telling him they’d never seen eyes like his before.

At about 11:20, Silvio broke away from the group, saying he didn’t feel great and citing how little he ate all day. He encouraged the rest of the group to keep partying in his absence, but by 11:40 all that remained was Krueger and the dark-haired girl from before, this time in a green bikini top and white capri pants. Even his buddies were nowhere to be found.

“I hope Silvio’s okay up there,” Krueger said.

“I don’t,” the girl said. “I hope he got food poisoning and it ruins his whole week.”

Krueger shot the girl a look. He could see she was deadly serious about what she said. “Why get close to him if you hate him so much?”

The girl recoiled a little. “My big sister, uh… got pregnant with his kid.” She shook her head. “That scuzzball dumped her as soon as she told him. I wanted to ruin him. Humiliate him somehow.”

Krueger knew that wouldn’t have ended well for her. For all his extroversion and charm, C.J. Silvio was still a man with connections to very dangerous people. “What did you say your name was?”

“Andrea,” she said.

“Andrea,” he echoed. “My daughter was almost an Andrea. She’s a few years younger than you.”

Andrea gave him a look. “No kidding. What’s her name?”

“Victoria. Her mother, my ex-wife, preferred it.”

“Victoria.” Andrea nodded, looking down briefly at Krueger’s left hand and confirming the absence of a ring on his finger. “It’s a good, strong name. My sister’s name… and you said you were Sebastian, right?”

“That’s right.” Krueger hated having to lie to Andrea, but he had a job to do. Fortunately, he thought of a way to both do that and help the girl out. “Andrea, do you want to get Charlie back for your sister?”

“Hell yeah..!”

“Meet me at the bar in fifteen minutes,” he said, getting up. “I’ll be back.”

``````

Krueger tapped the keycard at the reader just beside the door to Room 2000, the Conquistador Suite, where Young Silvio was staying. He’d known where to find him after recording him boast about booking the suite for the week, and lifted the key moments after it fell out of Silvio’s pocket earlier that night. He crossed the threshold to find the lights still on, empty liquor bottles and condom wrappers on the floor of the common area, and Silvio himself passed out on the couch across from his open suitcase. He figured Silvio staggered back to the front desk to get a replacement key when he realized he’d lost his first one and didn’t make it to his bed before succumbing to the Rohypnol Krueger slipped into his margaritas.

It was almost poetic, to do unto Silvio what he had no doubt done to others. Still, Krueger almost pitied the man, and he still had a job to do. He scanned the room quickly, spotting an open laptop in the kitchenette, and then moved silently across the floor to peer into each of the four bedrooms to find them all empty. Once he identified Silvio’s space, Krueger scooped him up under his arm pits and dragged him to bed.

Silvio murmured in his sleep as Krueger laid him on top of the mattress. “Don’t ever trust somebody you meet at bar, Mr. Silvio,” he said in response as he went for the door. “Especially not one who sends you a drink.” On the way out he flipped the lock in the doorknob and pulled the door shut behind him to lock it.

Then he went for the laptop. He tapped the mousepad twice to wake it up. The desktop icons and open windows greeted him.

“Kein passwort,” he said to himself. “Dieser idiot…”

He retrieved a USB flash drive and antenna from his pockets, plugging them in to Silvio’s laptop and running the scripts stored in them, designed effectively to run a copy-paste command of the entire computer—programs, files, keystrokes, everything—and transmit it downstairs to a receiver connected to Krueger’s laptop and write it to an external solid-state drive. It was over in ten minutes. Krueger recovered his devices and left the room the way it was.

Then he made his way back to the poolside bar, where he told Andrea to wait for him. He presented her Sivio’s room key. “Charlie’s in room 2000,” he said. “The Conquistador Suite.”

Andrea’s eyes widened. “No freaking way..!” She took the card. “How’d you get this from him?”

“He dropped it. His suitcase is open in the common area. Why don’t you throw his things over the balcony..?” he added with a smirk.

Andrea couldn’t help but laugh. She looked down away from Krueger to the key card in her hand and then back at him. “Why are you doing this for me? You don’t even know me.”

“Let’s just say I know a few people who would like to see Charlie Silvio calm down. And you seem like a nice girl who loves her sister and would do anything for her.”

Andrea gave Krueger a warm smile. “You know,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ear. “You’re probably the coolest, most genuine and honest person I’ve ever met at this place. And Victoria is lucky to have you as a father.”

Krueger blinked. “It means a lot that you’d say so. Thank you for that, Andrea.”

“No, Sebastian” she said, gesturing the key card in her hand. “Thank you for this..!” She smiled again and hesitated for a little before letting an excited squeal out and hugging Krueger, then backing away just as quickly. “That’s if I don’t see you again,” she said with a nervous laugh and shrug before trotting toward the elevator to Silvio’s suite.

``````

After Krueger’s run on Wednesday morning and breakfast on the hotel grounds, he took his laptop and the external drive to the Miami Beach Regional Library to study what he pulled from Silvio’s computer; when the library closed for the day he took it back to his room. Upon returning he turned on the local news to see the celebrity gossip reporter cover a story about C.J. Silvio scrambling to recover his clothes from the bushes surrounding a South Beach hotel before returning to his work. He sifted through the materials for hours—a collection of music, movies, pornographic images and video, Skype records, anything he could find—but finding nothing implicating him in the plot against Wells. He still had half the transcription to cover, he’d pick it up tomorrow morning.

Silvio left the hotel grounds Thursday afternoon with his three male companions to attend the conference with his father, the Southeast Region’s Managing Partner. Krueger didn’t need the directional microphone to know how that conversation would play out. The way he saw it, he and Andrea did Young Silvio a favor.

He returned to his room that night to continue his examination of the external drive. At 11:30pm he arrived at a string of Wrike instant messages sent between Silvio and another user, HeimdallrsEyez.

It was more a string of attempts at contacting Silvio. HeimdallrsEyez would initiate the conversation with a dollar amount. Silvio wouldn’t respond. A few days later HeimdallrsEyez would write back with a higher amount which Silvio would ignore. This happened three more times before Silvio finally responded with Fuck off already! I’m not doing it!

Krueger sat back in his chair to reflect on it. HeimdallrsEyez knew how close Silvio was to Wells, and was probing him for a price that would entice him to betray his boss. But when Silvio refused and the offers stopped coming, HeimdallrsEyez found someone else. This crystalized Krueger’s prior hypothesis.

He was taken from his thoughts by a knock at his door.

Quickly and quietly, Krueger hid the laptop and external drive in a dresser drawer and traded them for his Colt Government and suppressor. He fixed the extension to the end of the barrel and quietly approached the door, keeping the weapon trained on it as me moved.

He pressed the end of the suppressor can against the door and looked through the peephole at a young, attractive wide-eyed woman dressed in the hotel staff’s uniform. “Mr. Sebastian?” she called through the door to him. “I’m sorry if I woke you, but Mr. Silvio had me send this up to you.” She presented a bottle of champagne.

Krueger acknowledged the numerous red flags in this scenario, but holstered his weapon under his pale, loose button-up shirt and opened the door to accept the champagne. “Thank you, miss,” he said. He took another look at this woman; her name tag read Tessa. “That’s very generous of him.”

“Yeah,” another male voice to his left said. He recognized it belonged to one of Silvio’s boys. “It is.”

Krueger expected it. He turned his head to see down the barrel of a MAC-10, and the three of them lined up against the wall behind it. Krueger slowly put his hands up shoulder-high.

“Let’s go for a drive, Fixer,” the one holding the gun said.

``````

They escorted Krueger to an SUV in the rear parking lot of the hotel, got inside and all sat in silence as they took him south along Route A1A, turning left on 5th Street toward the MacArthur Causeway.

Krueger sat between two of the hit men in the back seat while the third one drove. He noted the MAC-10 in the lap of the man to his right and a semi-auto pistol in the hand of the one to his left. Krueger finally spoke when they made it to Watson Island. “When I checked on Silvio the other night,” he explained, “you three weren’t in the suite with him. Which tells me you’re not with C.J. Silvio, Wells, or even the Partners. You’re with the competition. And I’m guessing your room service girl Tessa is too.”

Their silence confirmed his theory.

“You were installed next to him to spy on him, report his daily activities to your superiors, and at some point in the future kill or kidnap him to lean on his father Charles Silvio.”

Right again. Their uncomfortable shifting confirmed it.

“The only question that remains,” he mused as he crossed his arms, “is what gave me away?”

Silence at first from the hit men, then the driver spoke up. “Well…”

“Mackie, shut it,” the man to Krueger’s left said.

“Gaz, come on, he’s gonna be fish food in five minutes. What difference does it make?”

Gaz shrugged. “Fair point, I guess.”

Mackie continued. “It was your eyes. One green, one blue.” Mackie steered the SUV onto an exit ramp as he continued. “There were rumors floating around the community of a fixer. A specialist with different-colored eyes and tattoos who offered his services to anybody willing to pay him enough.”

“Top dollar,” the man to Krueger’s right said.

“We suspected it was you when you sent Silvio’s kid the drink, but didn’t know for sure until that night, when we could see you without the sunglasses.” Mackie steered the vehicle off-road, finding a secluded place under an overpass in the northwest corner of Watson Island, away from prying eyes and ears. “We called the Company after baby Silvio went upstairs, then got the order to get rid of you.”

The Company: the ones responsible for the attacks on Wells’ shipments over the prior weeks and the Partners’ chief rivals. Of course it was them. “And you’ve chosen a fine place for it,” Krueger said. “Only problem is, you made a rookie mistake.”

“What’s that, dead man?” Mackie put the vehicle in park.

“You forgot to check me.”

Krueger grabbed hold of his handgun’s grip from over his shirt and sprang to face the man to his right, squeezing the trigger twice to shoot out the back of his own shirt and kill Gaz while he swatted the MAC-10 off the other man’s lap. Then he threw a hammer fist into his throat to stun him before Krueger pressed himself against Gaz’s body, drawing the gun from under his shirt, and shooting the other man once in the chest and head.

By the time Mackie realized what was going on behind him and he scrambled to recover his gun in the passenger seat, the muzzle of Krueger’s .45 was pressed against his head behind his ear.

“Mackie, right?” Krueger said.

His shock began to subside and was replaced with fear. “Y-yeah…”

“Let go of the gun and place your hands on the wheel, Mackie,” he ordered, his command void of emotion.

“Okay.” Mackie placed the gun back onto the passenger seat and did as commanded.

Krueger switched hands to keep his gun pressed against the back of Mackie’s head and reach over to the front seat and recover the gun—a .40 caliber AMT Hardballer. He switched hands again to open the rear driver side door and push Gaz’s corpse out through it before stepping out himself and keeping the gun trained on Mackie. “Step out of the car and keep your hands up,” he commanded.

Mackie did as instructed, leaving the still-running car and walking away from it, turning to face Krueger.

“Now take off your shirt.”

“What?”

Krueger fired, catching Mackie in the right kneecap. He let out a yelp as he fell to the ground and grabbed hold of his wound. “Your shirt,” Krueger ordered. “Take it off.” Between the blood and bullet holes in his, Krueger would need another one.

The Specialist’s lack of inflection and stern tone solidified Mackie’s terror. “Arrgh, alright! Alright, I’ll do it!” Mackie writhed out of his t-shirt and threw it aside.

Krueger kept his .45 trained on Mackie as he moved the shirt further away from him with his foot. He knew he only had the one magazine and had fired five times, so he would have to make his last two bullets count. “How many of you are at the hotel?”

“Wha—?”

Krueger shot Mackie in his left kneecap. “How many, Mackie?”

Mackie cried out in pain. “They’ll kill me if I tell you!” he shouted.

“I’ll kill you if you don’t. And then I’ll kill them.”

Mackie cursed under his breath as he winced in pain. “There’s ten of us. We were all watching Silvio.”

“And how many of them know about me?”

“Just us and the girl, I swear!”

Experience told Krueger that Mackie was telling the truth. He had no reason to lie after all. “Danke, Mackie,” he said. Then he raised the gun with both hands and put his last round between Mackie’s eyes. He looked off in the distance toward the mainland as he replayed the conversation over in his head. “Amateure,” he added.

Then he went to work. He fished in Mackie’s pockets for hotel keycards, finding one for Silvio’s suite and a second for Room 1014. He loaded Mackie’s body back into the SUV with the others, picked up the casings from his spent bullets, and tossed them into the car along with his own empty gun and underarm holster. He went back in for Mackie’s Hardballer to tuck it into his pants behind his back, and removed his ruined shirt to absorb as much of the blood on the ground as possible before throwing it into the car with everything else he was getting rid of. Then he walked over to the still-running car and put it into drive, letting it idle forward into the water. Finally he picked up Mackie’s t-shirt and slipped it on over his head before heading back up to return to civilization… by walking, he soon realized.

``````

Tessa rolled the room service cart to Room 1014, reading the note on the door to come right in, as it was propped open with the bar portion of the swing lock. She thought nothing of it as she crossed the doorway with the cart into the dimly lit room, kept a few lumens from pitch black by the tabletop lamps.

“Mackie?” she called out to him.

“I’m afraid not.”

Krueger’s voice took her by surprise. She stifled a terrified gasp as she sprang around to watch him walk out of the bathroom while he dried his hands off with a towel, wearing the same black t-shirt Mackie was wearing when they took him from his room. He turned to the room door to release the swing and shut it properly.

Then Krueger faced her and brandished Mackie’s Hardballer, thumbing back the hammer and pointing it one-handed at Tessa.

Tessa recognized the handgun. She began to tremble visibly as she shifted uncomfortably and reasoned what happened to Mackie and the others.

“I can see you’re new to the fold, so I’m going to give you a choice,” Krueger said. “You can call the others for help and die tonight—forgotten in a hotel room—or you can walk away and live.”

“I want to walk away,” she said immediately, her voice wobbling and lip quivering. “I want to walk away, please let me walk away..!”

Krueger returned the hammer to the resting position and lowered the gun. He stood aside and gestured the door with a head tilt. “Go,” he said.

Tessa bolted past him, stifling sobs as she wiped her cheeks and ran down the hall, leaving the cart behind.

“Gute nacht,” he called after her. Then he left the room himself, making a mental note to dispose of Mackie’s Hardballer in the morning.

``````

Khai was awakened at 2:50am by the vibration of her business phone on her night table. She reached out for it and held it up, squinting at first to see the screen and read the number on it. She sat up against her headboard when she recognized the area code, fumbling for her glasses before finding them behind the clock radio. She answered the call and held it up to her ear. “It’s Khai,” she said, filtering the sleepiness out of her response.

“There’s been a development,” Krueger said on the other end. “We weren’t the only ones watching Silvio.”

Khai moved to sit on the side of the bed and took a deep breath to pull herself together. “Give me a minute.”

She stood up and went to her walk-in closet, finding a bathrobe to throw over her satin nightgown before heading over to the bathroom and splashing cold water on her face. Then she headed for the spiral staircase down to the kitchen area, priming her laptop and switching to her headset.

“Alright,” she said. “I’m back,” she said. She turned on her coffee machine and placed her favorite mug under the spout, and then sat down to log into her computer. “Tell me what you’ve got.”

“The Company,” Krueger said. “Ten total on site, three of them close to Silvio.”

Khai cursed under her breath. “The Partners won’t like that.”

“They won’t be reporting back to their associates, I’ve seen to that. The ones closest to Silvio tried to kill me off-site. They failed.”

“But the damage may already be done,” she reasoned. “They could have been following him for years, who knows what they found out about the Partners from that, spoiled little shit..?” She took her glasses off and held them in her right hand while leaned back in her chair and tilted her head back, shutting her eyes tight and pinching the bridge of her nose with her thumb and first finger to compose herself again. “What about Silvio?”

“He’s clean,” Krueger said. “But I may have a lead on the mole in Wells’ organization.”

Khai sighed, opening her eyes again. “First bit of good news I’ve heard all week,” she said. “What did you find?”

“A message trail. I pulled it from his laptop with the tools you supplied.”

“I’m in front of my computer now,” she said, straightening up and putting her glasses back on. “Can you send me the messages?”

“Of course.”

Khai got up to respond to the gurgling of the coffee maker in the corner and reclaim her mug. Savoring its smell and warmth, she held it in both hands and took her first sip, shutting her eyes and letting out a quiet, satisfied sigh before returning to her workstation with her liquid bliss. “I see it,” she said. She read the usernames of the involved parties. “Heimdallr’s Eyes..? Interesting.”

“Is that supposed to mean something?”

“In Norse mythology, Heimdallr is the watchman of the gods,” Khai explained, “supposedly all-seeing. If he’s calling himself the eyes of an all-seeing deity, it’s safe to assume he either has a vast information network at his disposal, or works for somebody who does.” She looked away from the monitor for a moment before looking back and taking another sip. “Can you get me Silvio’s laptop?”

“I can have the cloned device stored on the SSD arranged for pickup by the Partners here,” Krueger said. “If you’d like to see it sooner I can try sending its contents to you.”

“That’s perfect,” Khai said. “Log in to Mr. Wells’ VPN and send it over the intranet, and then arrange for the drive to be picked up.” Khai stood up and walked over to the sliding glass doors overlooking her patio and backyard with her coffee. “In the meantime I’ll relay what you’ve shared with me to the interested parties…”

“Could you include a message for Silvio?”

“What’s that?”

“Treat Victoria right,” Krueger said. “He’ll understand.”

Befuddled, Khai shrugged and said, “I’ll just have to trust you on that.”

“Do trust me on that… I had to get rid of the gun, unfortunately,” he confessed. “Take it out of my check.”

“That’s… hardly a problem, but if you insist I can arrange that…” She sipped from her mug again. “You should try to get some rest, Krueger.”

“I’ll sleep when you do, Miss Khai.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “You were nearly killed on a reconnaissance assignment. You must be at least a little shaken up.”

“I’ve been nearly killed on almost every assignment I’ve taken for the last fifteen years. There is very little that can shake me up these days.”

Khai chuckled to herself. “Be that as it may, it’s past three in the morning. I’ll be awake with plenty to do on my end but your part of the job is done. You can relax now.”

“What does somebody like me do to relax, Miss Khai?”

“I’m certain somebody as creative and resourceful as you can figure out a productive way to spend the next two days.”

“I’ll send you a postcard from the gator farm, then.”

“Looking forward to it,” Khai said laughing to herself. “Good night, Krueger. And excellent work.” She ended the call and headed back up the stairs to her bedroom to make her bed and start her day properly.

(Next chapter | Masterlist)

[suzanneshannon]

A Font-Like SVG Icon System for Vue

Managing a custom collection of icons in a Vue app can be challenging at times. An icon font is easy to use, but for customization, you have to rely on third-party font generators, and merge conflicts can be painful to resolve since fonts are binary files.

Using SVG files instead can eliminate those pain points, but how can we ensure they’re just as easy to use while also making it easy to add or remove icons?

Here is what my ideal icon system looks like:

To add icons, you just drop them into a designated icons folder. If you no longer need an icon, you simply delete it.

To use the rocket.svg icon in a template, the syntax is as simple as <svg-icon icon="rocket" />.

The icons can be scaled and colored using the CSS font-size and color properties (just like an icon font).

If multiple instances of the same icon appear on the page, the SVG code is not duplicated each time.

No webpack config editing is required.

This is what we will build by writing two small, single-file components. There are a few specific requirements for this implementation, though I’m sure many of you wizards out there could rework this system for other frameworks and build tools:

webpack: If you used the Vue CLI to scaffold your app, then you’re already using webpack.

svg-inline-loader: This allows us to load all of our SVG code and clean up portions we do not want. Go ahead and run npm install svg-inline-loader --save-dev from the terminal to get started.

The SVG sprite component

To meet our requirement of not repeating SVG code for each instance of an icon on the page, we need to build an SVG “sprite.” If you haven’t heard of an SVG sprite before, think of it as a hidden SVG that houses other SVGs. Anywhere we need to display an icon, we can copy it out of the sprite by referencing the id of the icon inside a <use> tag like this:

<svg><use xlink:href="#rocket" /></svg>

That little bit of code is essentially how our <SvgIcon> component will work, but let’s go ahead create the <SvgSprite> component first. Here is the entire SvgSprite.vue file; some of it may seem daunting at first, but I will break it all down.

<!-- SvgSprite.vue --> <template>   <svg width="0" height="0" style="display: none;" v-html="$options.svgSprite" /> </template> <script> const svgContext = require.context(   '!svg-inline-loader?' +    'removeTags=true' + // remove title tags, etc.   '&removeSVGTagAttrs=true' + // enable removing attributes   '&removingTagAttrs=fill' + // remove fill attributes   '!@/assets/icons', // search this directory   true, // search subdirectories   /\w+\.svg$/i // only include SVG files ) const symbols = svgContext.keys().map(path => {   // get SVG file content   const content = svgContext(path)    // extract icon id from filename   const id = path.replace(/^\.\/(.*)\.\w+$/, '$1')   // replace svg tags with symbol tags and id attribute   return content.replace('<svg', `<symbol id="${id}"`).replace('svg>', 'symbol>') }) export default {   name: 'SvgSprite',   svgSprite: symbols.join('\n'), // concatenate all symbols into $options.svgSprite } </script>

In the template, our lone <svg> element has its content bound to $options.svgSprite. In case you’re unfamiliar with $options it contains properties that are directly attached to our Vue component. We could have attached svgSprite to our component’s data, but we don’t really need Vue to set up reactivity for this since our SVG loader is only going to run when our app builds.

In our script, we use require.context to retrieve all of our SVG files and clean them up while we’re at it. We invoke svg-inline-loader and pass it several parameters using syntax that is very similar to query string parameters. I’ve broken these up into multiple lines to make them easier to understand.

const svgContext = require.context( '!svg-inline-loader?' + 'removeTags=true' + // remove title tags, etc. '&removeSVGTagAttrs=true' + // enable removing attributes '&removingTagAttrs=fill' + // remove fill attributes '!@/assets/icons', // search this directory true, // search subdirectories /\w+\.svg$/i // only include SVG files )

What we’re basically doing here is cleaning up the SVG files that live in a specific directory (/assets/icons) so that they’re in good shape to use anywhere we need them.

The removeTags parameter strips out tags that we do not need for our icons, such as title and style. We especially want to remove title tags since those can cause unwanted tooltips. If you would like to preserve any hard-coded styling in your icons, then add removingTags=title as an additional parameter so that only title tags are removed.

We also tell our loader to remove fill attributes, so that we can set our own fill colors with CSS later. It’s possible you will want to retain your fill colors. If that’s the case, then simply remove the removeSVGTagAttrs and removingTagAttrs parameters.

The last loader parameter is the path to our SVG icon folder. We then provide require.context with two more parameters so that it searches subdirectories and only loads SVG files.

In order to nest all of our SVG elements inside our SVG sprite, we have to convert them from <svg> elements into SVG <symbol> elements. This is as simple as changing the tag and giving each one a unique id, which we extract from the filename.

const symbols = svgContext.keys().map(path => { // extract icon id from filename const id = path.replace(/^\.\/(.*)\.\w+$/, '$1') // get SVG file content const content = svgContext(path) // replace svg tags with symbol tags and id attribute return content.replace('<svg', `<symbol id="${id}"`).replace('svg>', 'symbol>') })

What do we do with this <SvgSprite> component? We place it on our page before any icons that depend on it. I recommend adding it to the top of the App.vue file.

<!-- App.vue --> <template>   <div id="app">     <svg-sprite /> <!-- ... -->

The icon component

Now let’s build the SvgIcon.vue component.

<!-- SvgIcon.vue --> <template>   <svg class="icon" :class="{ 'icon-spin': spin }">     <use :xlink:href="`#${icon}`" />   </svg> </template> <script> export default {   name: 'SvgIcon',   props: {     icon: {       type: String,       required: true,     },     spin: {       type: Boolean,       default: false,     },   }, } </script> <style> svg.icon {   fill: currentColor;   height: 1em;   margin-bottom: 0.125em;   vertical-align: middle;   width: 1em; } svg.icon-spin {   animation: icon-spin 2s infinite linear; } @keyframes icon-spin {   from {     transform: rotate(0deg);   }   to {     transform: rotate(359deg);   } } </style>

This component is much simpler. As previously mentioned, we leverage the <use> tag to reference an id inside our sprite. That id comes from our component’s icon prop.

I’ve added a spin prop in there that toggles an .icon-spin class as an optional bit of animation, should we ever need. This could, for example, be useful for a loading spinner icon.

<svg-icon v-if="isLoading" icon="spinner" spin />

Depending on your needs, you may want to add additional props, such as rotate or flip. You could simply add the classes directly to the component without using props if you’d like.

Most of our component’s content is CSS. Other than the spinning animation, most of this is used to make our SVG icon act more like an icon font¹. To align the icons to the text baseline, I’ve found that applying vertical-align: middle, along with a bottom margin of 0.125em, works for most cases. We also set the fill attribute value to currentColor, which allows us to color the icon just like text.

<p style="font-size: 2em; color: red;">   <svg-icon icon="exclamation-circle" /><!-- This icon will be 2em and red. -->   Error! </p>

That’s it!  If you want to use the icon component anywhere in your app without having to import it into every component that needs it, be sure to register the component in your main.js file:

// main.js import Vue from 'vue' import SvgIcon from '@/components/SvgIcon.vue' Vue.component('svg-icon', SvgIcon) // ...

Final thoughts

Here are a few ideas for improvements, which I intentionally left out to keep this solution approachable:

Scale icons that have non-square dimensions to maintain their proportions

Inject the SVG sprite into the page without needing an additional component.

Make it work with vite, which is a new, fast (and webpack-free) build tool from Vue creator Evan You.

Leverage the Vue 3 Composition API.

If you want to quickly take these components for a spin, I’ve created a demo app based on the default vue-cli template. I hope this helps you develop an implementation that fits your app’s needs!

¹ If you’re wondering why we’re using SVG when we want it to behave like an icon font, then check out the classic post that pits the two against one another.

The post A Font-Like SVG Icon System for Vue appeared first on CSS-Tricks.

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A Font-Like SVG Icon System for Vue published first on https://deskbysnafu.tumblr.com/

[queenarticlearchive]

Limp-wrist Section:

(Please read with a camp accent, stressing every second word)

New Musical Express

27 September 1975

Julie Webb

Forget those ‘Queen split’ stories - everything is just lovely. Elton is lovely as well. Freddie Mercury tells it like it is. By Julie Webb

It’s easy to understand how “Queen to split” rumours get under way. The band’s expected large summer gig never happened and the non-appearance of either an album or a single kept the silence at deafening point.

From America we heard that Brian May was offered a job with Sparks and in England there were stories to the effect that the band’s management situation was none too amicable. And throughout all this time the band remained stumm, giving no interviews and neither confirming or denying anything. Even a promised visit to see the band at Rockfield Studios was “put off” at the last moment. Is all well in Mercury’s trousers?

Still, all is now resolved. Queen now have a new manager, and their biggest headache in How The Hell Are They Going To Finish The New Album in time for November release. They are also planning a major British tour for late November and a single for October, so it’s time to zip up and get going.

It was three dishevelled members of Queen who were finally brought to bay at the studios in London. John Deacon was absent since they were adding vocals and I was informed he doesn’t participate overly on that side of things. Two members of Hustler - a quite different group - were sitting in the control room aghast at the meticulous way the band record.

If they sand “no no no” once, they sang it twenty times in the space of about ten minutes. And on each occasion someone would find fault. It must get exceedingly tedious.

The track in question is a Mercury composition “Bohemian Rhapsody” very much an operatic opus, taxing the vocal cords to the hilt. On playback it sounds truly magnificent, undeniably Queen yet with greater depth than on any previous efforts.

Mercury is bouncing about saying “Hello dear” to new arrivals. Brian May still looks fragile and Roger Taylor sits down rather wearily. They are scheduled to carry on recording till two a.m.

Mercury seems like he’s itching to talk and, yes, there’s plenty to ask. Like what happened with the old management, Freddie?

He takes a deep breath.

“As far as Queen are concerned they are deceased. They cease to exist in any capacity with us whatsoever. One leaves them behind like one leaves excretia. We feel so relieved.”

It appears to be an almost rehearsed answer. I plod on. How did the change of management come about - why change?

“We felt there came a time when we had got far too big for them to handle. We needed bigger handling. We needed a change. But I don’t want to delve into trivia…”

And on so to John Reid, new manager, also manager of Elton John.

“Actually we were approached by - and we ourselves approached - a series of top class managers to make sure we made the right choice. John Reid happened to be the choice because he flashed his eyes at me and I said ‘Why not’,” Mercury laughs.

“He’s great, actually, I thought he could do with another piano player so we could play duets all night. I said ‘What’s better than one piano player? - two piano players. In a way it’s just what we wanted and the combination is going to be startling. It’s the sort of combination we’ve wanted for years. The whole situation of record deals and his whole method of work, his whole approach is so right.

“He came in to negotiate the whole structure of recording, publishing and management.”

Mercury was present at the recent much-publicised John Reid birthday party last week (“we’re both Virgos you know”). This he pronounced “lovely”.

“I met his ‘other client’. He said ‘You must meet my other client, my other client wants to meet you.’ Elton John was wonderful - one of those people you can instantly get on with. He said he liked ‘Killer Queen’ and anyone who says that goes in my white book - my black book is bursting at the seams.”

The subject switched to the new album. Apart from the aforementioned “Bohemian Rhapsody�� what other tracks are there?

“Well the album is called ‘A Night At The Opera’. We’ve finished all the backing tracks and it’s beginning to sound better than we expected.

“With ‘Rhapsody’ we’ve squeezed to our limitations for four octaves and not slowed down the tape! John Deacon had written a lovely little ditty called ‘You’re My Best Friend’ and Roger has written ‘I’m In Love With My Car’ including lines like ‘I’ve got a feel for my automobile’.

“Brian has an outrageous mammoth epic track ‘The Prophet’s Song’ which is one of our heaviest numbers to date. He’s got his guitar extravaganza on it. You see, Brian has acquired a new guitar specially built so he can almost make it speak. It will talk on this track.

“Then there’s ‘Good Company’ written by Brian, a George Formby track with saxophones, trombone and clarinet sounds from his guitar. We don’t believe in having any session men, we do everything ourselves, from the high falsetto to the low bassy farts it is all us.

“Another track is ‘’39’ a little spacey number by Brian, a skiffle style of number which we’ve never tried before and the albume ends with something totally unexpected, a little virtuoso track by Brian. There’s also ‘Sweet Lady’ a heavyish ditty in stupendous ¾.”

Apart from ‘Rhapsody’, Mercury himself has penned four tracks, “one is called ‘Death On Two Legs’ I’m not going to say anymore - just listen to the words carefully kiddies. A nasty little number which brings out my evil streak. The words came very easy to me.

“There’s also a lovely little ballad, my classical influence comes into it, Brian is going to attempt to use harp, real life-size harp. I’m going to force him to play till his fingers drop off. It’s called ‘Love Of My Life’.

“‘Seaside Rendezvous’ has a 1920’s feel to it and Roger does a tuba and clarinet on it vocally, if you see what I mean. I’m going to make him tap dance too, I’ll have to buy him some Ginger Rogers tap shoes.

“‘Lazing On A Sunday Afternoon’ (not the Kinks’ or the Small Faces’) is a short track, just one minute six seconds. A very perky spicey number dear. Brian likes that one.”

Summing up, Mercury says “There were a lot of things we wanted to do on ‘Queen II’ and ‘Sheer Heart Attack’ but there wasn’t space enough. This time there is. Guitarwise and on vocals we’ve done things we’ve never done before.”

In order to finish the album on time Mercury says they will “work till we are legless. I’ll sing until my throat is like a vulture’s crotch. We haven’t even reached the halfway stage yet but from the things I can hear we have surpassed anything we’ve done before musically.”

All right. Now to the other stuff.

Is it true about Brian being offered a gig with Sparks? Was there any serious thought of splitting up the band? Own up…

Mercury is contemptuous of the whole thing.

“About nine months ago Brian was approached by Sparks who said they would like him to join them as guitarist. But we all treat that sort of thing as everyday and mundane. We’re so involved in what we do - anyway we’ve all had offers to join other bands. We don’t give it a second thought.

“But while, say, Roger and I would tell them to piss off Brian takes his time about being nice to people so sometimes they get the wrong idea. Brian is really too much of a gentleman which I am not - I am an old tart - but not for one moment did he consider leaving us.

“But that was nine months ago, so long ago that that rumour went out with the Boer War. Still it’s very flattering to get offers.”

The November British tour, however should dispel any split rumours forever. Preparations are already being made for that.

“I’m thinking of being carried on stage by Nubian slaves and being fanned by them - in fact I’m auditioning for them now. I shall personally select the winners. But where to find a slave?

“I’m also looking for a masseur. The other one is no longer with us.

What happened to him? “His fingers dropped off.”

Trouble with Freddie, he’s always concerned with his health. Still there are reasons.

On the last American tour a couple of gigs were cancelled due to throat problems.

“My nodules are still with me. I have these uncouth callouses growing in my interior (throat). From time to time they harm my vocal dexterity. At the moment however” (he allows himself a smile) “I am winning/”

How can he ensure the problem won’t recur?

“I’m going to go easy on the red wine dear. And the tour will be planned around my nodules. Actually I came very near to having an operation but I didn’t like the look of the doctor and I was a bit perturbed about having strange instruments forced down my throat.”

After the British tour the band go once again to America and thence on to Japan. Japan hold fond memories for Mercury.

With a faraway look in his eye he say “I will be able to be reunited with my bodyguard. I must stress we all had one each - our own personal bodyguards that is. Mine was called Hitami and was the head of the Tokyo bodyguard patrol. His entire job was to pamper and cossett me throughout the tour and make sure no harm was to come to my person. He was very sweet, he gave me this lovely Japanese lantern which I treasure.”

Is there any likelihood Queen may do some American gigs with Elton John?

“Well funny you should say that. We had an offer to do two gigs in L.A. but we were far too busy so we couldn’t do them. But although we’re all the same family Reidy won’t put us out as a package. He knows the difference in the audiences we appeal to. He wants us to be a force of our own in America to maintain what we have, and to do everything bigger and better.”

Mercury is not quite sure if Seattle is on their American itinerary. He remembers a young lady from that part of the world quite vividly.

“A young American tart” he starts getting very angry at the memory of it all, “came in and pilfered my contents … my jewels, bracelets etc and she was just evacuating the room when I accosted her by the elevator.

“I pulled her by the hair, dragged her into the room, emptied the contents of her bag in the room and everything but the kitchen sink came out. I retrieved my things, and said ‘get out, you Seattle shagbag.’

Why hadn’t there been any recorded material from Queen for so long? (Yeah, I know that was an abrupt change of subject).

“Actually that was the way we planned it dear, but we should have a single taken from this album out in October. The album comes out in November when we start our world tour. We’re planning on a much broader scale than before dear.”