#i see them all the time - litters that are found under cars or in dumpsters bc people just. throw them out.

[explodingcrayon]

reminder as easter approaches to not give rabbits or ducks as gifts

both are animals that require special care (no, not all animals are just different shapes of cats or dogs) and can live up to 10 years if well cared for

they're not toys, they're living creatures that require love, care, special diets, time, and modifications to your home to keep them safe

they are also not creatures that can just be released into the countryside and be expected to survive. They're domestic animals and will not survive. Please don't impulse buy any animal as a gift, but at least have the basic humanity to rehome them or surrender them to a shelter/rescue and not leave them on the side of the road or in a box in a dumpster

Kind of like Christmas time, there's an influx of impulse/gift adoptions around Easter time that are then immediately surrendered or abandoned within a month. Consider finding a local rescue in your area and donating money, supplies, or your time via volunteering to help! Many also run foster programs, or need help with driving the animals in their care to vet appointments and so on.

k PSA over thanks ✌🐇🦆

[devenhologram]

SCOWL

(for Jay S.)

By Deven Hologram

ⓒ 2012, All Rights Reserved

I saw the best minds of my generation, a generation destroyed by media; bloated; irrational - dolled up. Promenading people through the cinema streets at rush hour - looking for reverb. Cookie-cutter hipsters craving capital consideration to the star-making machine of corporate connections.

Who spoiled and fleeting; and eye-lined and spun, sat up snorting in the LED brightness of flat screens flashing on the walls of buildings; contemplating graffiti; hip hop; and blood. Who had tweeted their sins on Facebook under pseudonyms and saw Mohammedan prophets soaring into rooftops illuminated by ash and soot.

Who were ushered through community colleges with dead cold stares envisioning Orwellian confiscations and angry prayers to the end of the world. Who were booted from schools for breaking formalities and public property when publishing fanzines to icons no longer seen - heard singing songs no longer sung - or for shooting their professors and fellows point blank to the heads; and costing cleanup dollars, and an increase to liabilities. Who with windows on iPhones have seen secret places on Mars.

Whose bungalows decked with cards; shaven pristine or bearded and hip; proudly spout genderless menstruation, squared in silence in private rooms; finger-painting pieces of glass, sending the universe surrounding - the intergalactic montage of litter on Titan, while the whole world watches toilets flush cash; kitties; and the coming month’s issue; to spew their orgasm of concentrated corporate lust - “hey that’s my brand”.

Who saw the latest models in pose number blank turn to capture a neighbor’s climax between arguments and movements; conversations. And who then in between morning TV and commercials - the apocalyptic scenes of global pandemics and war, foretold of lesbianism as the solve, while remote arrest by drones devoid of sex, misfired finality on a sextet of street toughs playing dice in the waterhole, looking for pussy and pot. And the camera on the signpost saw his face and so mails the ticket instead to he who wiggled in metal cuffs; as policemen distorted by benzos and tina, cocaine and PTSD of sadistic delusion and happy families - the redundancy of normalcy driving them mad - beats a man for lack of medical care in the hospital and we see him later in the night blocks away near the Chinese restaurant, in a state of Thorazine, lithium, and methadone; with a stab wound in his gut and aching to jump back into it and get filthy.

Who drank Mad Dog and two gallons of Gallo; later the off-putting scum of the gentlemen in the alleys of Hollywood; conceptualizing scenarios of fantastical movies about liberty of body taught not to attend; while it was his cock that drove it there behind dumpsters and in gateways to backdoors and theaters where gay pornography played out in style, and the tag team in the second-floor bathroom was the waiting line to use the toilet; amidst the tweakers and freakers, and high hairdos with the best of products; conjoined in sexual funk.

Who high and electric on Commonwealth Avenue turned left looking for Boylston and ended up coming out somewhere close to Mulholland Drive; then down on Crescent zooming up the Valley, lost in the curve too carsick to vomit, then to Queen Mary’s - where sometimes Kassandra and sometimes - Mark Allen.

Who have passed dark widening streets of absolute emptiness in the center of the giant dark and empty, then back to the center of Fairfax and its golden icon to the time before we found our own selves thrown in the river with the cars and the skulls. Who was present to dispose of the nights spending in dispensaries set up by local merchants; while sign language was used in frank attempts to ensure transactions took place; the smell of hot meats in the streets of the drunken night; and from the times before fear became a way of process, not pain.

Whose steaming sense on the air drew closer while fearing someone was watching and thinking ill of the animal enjoyment and forbidden fruit - the phallic and hot in the middle of the night, and waiting for the sale rack all wrapped up with bacon. Those winter chills from the summers of Brooklyn, over trashcan fires in Downtown under bridges - where crazy talk piles up faster than the shit on the shores washing waves of foamy frothy, and where lights of one’s mind chain to shopping cart trains from grocery stores; missing wheels and full of empty cans; that no-one but no-one would actually eat from; piled high in the last seat of the public bus; riding til the sun comes up (or until they kick it out into Pershing Square - off the side of Broadway and behind the 7/Eleven with the $8 pizzas where we stocked up on ephedrine and stayed up all night in hotels where bodies rot in tubs of water, drained down through our faucet in a macabre puckering; drained down in the night levels above the wilds of the street; in the dreary halls of former brilliance; in the place where they book the hookers).

Who sank in the vinyl nightlife of Canter’s Deli. Inebriated - and knish - and waiting to star fuck in the flatland of rye toast and turkey sandwiches under the glass ceiling brilliant with autumn leaves; watching rockers wrinkle faces upon custom gefilte fish and yellow mustard.

Who talked on speed continuously for almost seventy-five minutes without one breath to tell of the nuance of life on the streets - all the while tapping fingers on the wall between himself and Sunset Blvd. Who tapping fingers on walls of Pasadena and of Silver Lake over the San Fernando Bridge; a lost chance at a million conversations in between the pace of voice to step; to astound at air raid sirens haunting neighborhoods; as markers of former invasion, standing tall above us and waiting to scream. Explosive sick with factoid and anecdotes and antisocialism and assholes; rolling eyeballs and clenched jaws; the scary state programs and the jail time and all the lost chances to learn in institutions of clout, while battling society surrounding and impeding - and enabling - with talk of NYC once and of that nine one one; and of European sweets from out the Mexican crank, and of cartel brokers in the hallways outside the unfurnished rooms with shared bathrooms in the halls and dead bodies getting flushed down the toilets.

Whose wandering until his teeth chipped in the mid-afternoon and who ate cat food and smoked stale cigarettes; found and dried out in the sun after the rains came; waiting in a box on the side of the 101, where waiting for nothing in particular, save a candyman in brown slinging melting plastics and hellos, and hugs, and tending to the moment; while cursing the whole day it all went away.

Who stayed solitary under the lights of the lamp on the corner of Sixth and Central Kohler’s sex den. Exquisite queers - talking of ancient deities and conjuring concepts of time and space, and of other worlds; while getting anally fucked; speaking in tongues upon a naked bottom, the cock sucked searing of one’s brand and kind into the annals of reality - without pitiful explanation or sense of lengthy necessity.

Who yearned once for this and twice for that, but which never came to fruition in the long line at the grocery store down on Third and Vermont; where the only draw was the bank outlet with the attractive Asian males in ties and with fingers, and later with black men and illegal immigrants on the street behind the subway entrance. Down in the tunnel where the train runs daily in the piss-soaked corridors of slippery whatsit and the sweet honey scent of a seriously homeless person. Riding the train in silence, with songs coming in from all angles, and eyes looking fiercely forward - without compassion or sense of unity - sought the gangster piles of spray paint: mountainous upon billboards up and down Venice, where the roller skating guru blessed us twice and the dragon lady herbalist read us once.

Who rode back and forth on bikes once rented; to play real and one day. Upon it we rode free with nothing but the sea to see us. Who then back to the house where Halloween awaited ghoulies and ghosts haunting us - from people we barely knew in the long scope of it. Who craved the very death they brought upon themselves under gin and juniper and backstage passes. Who lingered bright yellow when his time came to leave this plane; and whose parched lips curled back revealing death fangs; and the soured scent of blood, his eyes staring straight and happy even then, to know it was finally over.

Whose parameters were up and down but never side to side in the long lanes of hungry mouths and eyes and sweat-soaked shirts made from the scorched fires of the angel on the corner near a Santeria Store. The chanting of Krishna on the beach, with papier mache and saltpeter and vegan cuisine made to slop - for the ringing of bells delights us; and the smell of incense invokes us - in the parade of color and brightness; and in crowds of the nameless hairless, we danced until we sunburned and came away red and blistered; scorched dizzy for cups of coffee beans and bottles of glitter thrown into the air and caught up in our eyes; seeding tears that slice.

Whose egoist pandering - seating high and mighty - looked down from above and erased concepts that came before with digitized mastery of cloud-making majesty and the want to partake in a thing that has been canonized as better and first. Whose wants of inclusion eradicated the identity of those prior into corrals of tightrope mimicry and substitutionary implementation as the most practical fix to long-known issues, and who no longer accepted disgrace with disclaimers.

Who sought out the former makers of words and verses; to rid themselves of the chains of burden; to stay true to anything but oneself in the dank and funky late-night dives and damp sofas - surrounded in the smoke of opium and marijuana and chocked full of pills - to make the world spin all the faster and to make the sex all the stranger and the music all the more glorious. Age of Aquarius and Nibiru.

Whose Children of Atlantean failures and mistaken courses, whose Three Days of Intercourse to music to beget; be it Woodstock or Lallapaloozan fucking; to the smokey serum of corporate cling - wrapping our naked bodies in plastics - finely woven by hands in other places. Dirt-entrenched beings of little greater worth; save that which accustoms us to our style of consumerist taking. Whose very nature of life is created and maintained by that which practices here with us and in us. Our novelty and our Babylonian prizes swept into seas of swirling phthalates and Roundup for the future to behold as our stamp upon this time-space.

Whose life left lingering leaves little but deceit to destruction - as we usher in our sixth extinction and boycott various brands of vodka; menswear, and celebrities. Whose only voice is that of disdain of the sweeping loss of identity into that which is - and always will be - greater than anyone within it. The terrific chaotic chorus to intelligent life elsewhere; in over one billion years from now.

el fin

[apaintedfoxx]

Day 4- Couch

--

read on ao3 here

--

She should’ve headed the ominous warning the dark, dense clouds tried to give her as she stepped out the door. A quick walk, she had told herself, she could beat the rain. The sky had laughed at her challenge, and about halfway through her usual route, the downpour began. Fat rain drops fell in an unrelenting torrent, cold and menacing and threatening to take every last bit of warmth from her body. Her clothes were soaked through after just minutes, the hood of her jacket a mockery of a covering.

Lena quickly runs through her route in her head; there should be a shortcut up ahead somewhere she could take if she made a turn at the café she liked to frequent with Kara…

With a decision made, she ducked her head, pulled her soaking hood tighter over her head, and trekked onward. As promised, the café soon came into sight. Lena turned into the alley that would take her back to the apartment building. She only made it a few sopping steps before she heard it.

There was a pitiful mewling coming from somewhere in the alley.

Loathe to leave any creature out suffering in this monsoon-like weather, she stopped in her tracks, trying desperately to locate the sound above the sounds of rain in the city. It was a miracle she had heard it in the first place, and of course it had stopped as soon as she noticed. The alley itself only added to the problem. It was wide, enough to fit two cars side by side, and consequently filled with stuff. A couple of dumpsters stood sentry outside back doors of businesses, while litter and trash lined both sides of the makeshift street. An abandoned couch sat further down, obviously dumped with little regard. The sound could be coming from anywhere.

“Come on little guy, where are you?” Lena muttered, as if it could hear her. By some miracle, the mewling began again almost in response to her prompting. She followed it as well as she could; it brought her to the broken couch, which looked more dilapidated the closer she got. The fabric, like everything else around, was soaked through, so the original color was hard to determine. Combined with the many stains covering its surface, the best Lena could tell was that it used to be a brown couch. There were tears in the cushions, and obvious wear in the places that were sat in the most. The sound she was searching for had gotten louder, but Lena was not looking forward to touching any of it. She decided to check the most obvious, and least repulsive, option first. She lowered herself to a crouch, ignoring the collection of water on the asphalt, given how wet she already was, and leaned over, peaking underneath the worn piece of furniture.

A tiny pair of eyes shone back at her, and she could just make out the silhouette of a small kitten.

Lena knew in an instant she was not going to be leaving it there a moment longer. It had stopped making noise as it spotted her, peering at her with an unmistakable look of curiosity. She contemplated her next move. She didn’t have anything on her that she could use to tempt the kitten out from her hiding spot, but reaching for it might scare it even further underneath.

As she considered her options, the kitten continued to observe her. It took a tentative step forward, and Lena held her breath, not wanting to scare it into retreat. It squeaked at her as it inched forward, it was getting closer and closer, almost enough for pick up.

“You can do it, little one,” she murmured encouragingly, ever so slowly extended a hand out. She made no move to grab it yet, instead resting it a few inches from the edge of the couch. She gave her fingers an experimental wiggle, hoping to entice the kitten. It froze, and Lena began to panic, she had no idea how long it had been out here by itself, and knew it needed care immediately. Before she had too much time to worry, however, the kitten gave another squeak and pounced on her hand. She quickly, and carefully, got ahold of it with her other hand and stood.

“There we go,” Lena said, finally able to get a better look at the small creature now cradled safely in her hands. Though she knew next to nothing about animals, this kitten was obviously still very young. It’s mottled black and ginger fur was plastered to it’s shivering body, and it stared up at her with mismatching eyes, one blue and one green.

Though her jacket was far from dry, Lena didn’t want the kitten directly in the rain, so she carefully cradled it close to her body, hoping some of her own natural heat would help warm it a little, and covered it with one side of her jacket. She spent another few minutes looking around to make sure the kitten had been alone, but the mewling had stopped as the kitten settled against her. After deciding it had well and truly been alone, Lena quicky made her way back to the warm, dry safety of her apartment.

---

The next few days were a kitten-focused blur. Lena had taken it to a vet as soon as she had gotten them both dry and warm. She’d learned the kitten was just barely seven weeks old, that she was female, and that besides from a bit of dehydration, she was perfectly healthy.

The problem now was figuring out what to do with her. Lena had told Kara and the others about the kitten the morning after she had found her, which resulted in a bombardment of pleas for Lena to keep her. But she couldn’t keep a kitten. Her apartment wasn’t at all prepared for a pet of any kind, and with how much time Lena spent at work, it hardly looked like she herself lived there. Sure, it was functional as far as somewhere to live was, but the décor was sparse; Kara called it empty, Lena preferred minimalistic. That, however, was rapidly changing. After initially getting used to Lena and the new space, the kitten had taken ownership of the admittedly spacious penthouse suite. It ran from room to room, the thud of little paws could be heard almost constantly during the day, and especially the middle of the night. Wishing to save her expensive furniture from the fate of sharp kitten claws, Lena quickly invested in some toys for her to play with, just until she figured out a home for the little one, she sternly told herself and any teasing friends.

Having to eventually return to work resulted in Lena bringing the rambunctious kitten with her. Being her own boss did have some perks, after all, and she didn’t trust the little monster enough to leave her unattended in her apartment. Watching the kitten explore the new environment was admittedly adorable, and when Kara visited for lunch, she spent the entire time curled up in the other woman’s lap, watching her with rapt attention. Kara threw out some not so subtle name suggestions.

Gradually, the kitten became something more permanent. Lena got more toys for her to play with, and some proper items for kitten care, including soft food and a litter box. Lena’s strictly neat, magazine cover worthy apartment became something a little more lived in. On a day Lena wasn’t able to take the kitten to work, she reluctantly left her at the apartment with plenty of food and toys in her vicinity. Upon return, Lena was surprised to see the apartment still standing, and the kitten fast asleep underneath Lena’s couch, her little black paws a stark contrast to the white fabric of the couch. It had become a favorite nap spot of hers, unsurprisingly.

After that, she wasn’t as nervous about leaving the kitten alone. In fact, without realizing it, she gave Lena a reason to come home at night. Late nights at the office were no longer an option to a kitten that had a seemingly endless appetite and energy level, and with the apartment not being so startingly empty anymore, she found herself enjoying spending time within its walls. Even her friends began to notice, teasingly pointing out how messy the space had become when they came over.

It was game night when it all clicked for Lena.

Her friends had a long-standing tradition of game night, everyone took turns hosting, and tonight was Lena’s turn. She had tried to clean up after the kitten the best she could, but the little creature had had other ideas, and shortly after everyone had arrived, she proceeded to throw all of her toys around and climb into everyone’s laps.

It was many hours later, however, and the fun had wound down for the night. Most everyone had left, and Kara had stayed behind as usual to help clean up the games and leftover snacks. They now sat comfortably on Lena’s couch, each with a glass of wine in hand, a late night tv show playing quietly in the background. The kitten was, to no one’s surprise, curled up happily in Kara’s lap, purring contently.

“She likes you,” Lena said softly, watching the sleeping kitten. Kara only gave a hum in response, gently running her fingers through the kitten’s soft fur.

Several minutes passed in this comfortable silence, before Kara spoke up. “She still doesn’t have a name,” she said.

Lena lifted her gaze from the kitten to find Kara’s eyes on her, watching her curiously.

“I haven’t found anything that really fit,” Lena admitted, giving a slight shrug of her shoulder.

Kara smiled. “She’s good for you.”

Lena didn’t ask for an explanation, nor did she need one. It was obvious, though surprising. She would never have considered herself a good candidate for owning a pet, considering how demanding her job was.

“I love how much energy she has. How rambunctious and curious she is. I found her starving under a broken couch, and yet she hasn’t let any of that affect her,” Lena admitted, taking a sip of her wine. She had clearly already had too much of the stuff, if she was getting this introspective already.

Kara only smiled in response, and as silence fell once again, Lena contemplated her words. A smile broke across her face, and she looked at her closest friend. “I know the perfect name for her.”

“And what’s that?” Kara asked with a sweet smile of her own.

“Hope. Her name is Hope.” 

[notthatiwilleverwriteit]

I made “now” and sort of “what if” versions of our boys. What if they hadn’t met certain people? What if the direction of their lives hadn’t changed? What if they hadn’t said the things they said? What if they never found a limit?

The bar where Mo Guan Shan worked at almost got robbed one night but Mo Guan Shan knocked the guy out. The owner of the bar was impressed and told Mo Guan Shan about an illegal fighting ring. He could easily earn some extra cash with his skill. At first, Mo Guan Shan wasn’t interested but then his mother was hospitalized and suddenly he was facing hospital and medication bills. “You think I could really do well?” he asked his boss, telling himself that it was either this or asking someone for money and he wasn’t going to make that mistake again. His first opponent was easy and the prize money was lucrative. His boss praised Mo Guan Shan for getting the crowd going with his ferocity. “Just let me know if you want to earn easy money again,” he said and gave him a thick wad of crumpled bills. He fought another match about a week later. Soon, he started to gain a reputation. People called him the “Mad Dog”. His boss - now his unofficial manager who also hustled as a bookkeeper at Mo Guan Shan’s matches - even came up with the idea of the muzzle. "Showmanship, you have to have showmanship," he had said when Mo Guan Shan had frowned at the damn thing. "You gotta give them a show." It was snowing the night Mo Guan Shan beat up a kid much younger than him. The boy hadn’t even had a chance against him. After the fight, Mo Guan Shan threw up behind a dumpster and tried to wash off the kid’s blood with snow until his hands were red with cold instead.

He Tian ended up working for his family, and his life was spiraling. He lived by himself downtown in a spacious loft apartment. Despite having money, the apartment was sparsely furnished. A double mattress on the floor in front of the wall of windows stretching a view over the city. At an arm’s reach next to the mattress was his laptop and an overflowing ashtray. A couch and TV that he rarely watched but had pretty much always on. A rack for his clothes that he didn’t just store in various piles on the floor. He worked as a debt collector. And he was good at it, too. He was good at finding people and putting the fear of God in them. It helped that you didn’t give a shit. Like how he had beat up this one redhead kid when he couldn’t have paid his monthly interest. The dullness made it easy, and it had set into him so deep you could see it in his eyes. When he wasn’t working, He Tian took the dullness out on booze, drugs, and women - sometimes men. Whenever his brother came to visit him, he narrowed his eyes at the fresh hickeys spotting He Tian’s neck and the empty beer cans littering the floor. “Disgraceful,” he always muttered. He Tian drag on his cigarette and told him to give him the intel on the new mark and fuck off already.

“Zhan Xixi, I like you. I’m sorry.” had been the last message Jian Yi sent Zhan Zheng Xi before his phone had been taken away and destroyed. As the big bodyguards had been relocating him and his mother, he had wondered if he would ever see Xixi again. He didn’t wonder that anymore. But sometimes it still caught him off guard. Something happened during the day and he snatched his phone, eager to tell Zhan Zheng Xi all about it, only to remember that these days his phone only had three contacts: “Auntie”, “Dentist”, and “Mom”. And neither of them was Xixi’s number - nor his aunt’s, dentist’s or mother’s. He was left alone a lot. Well, there’s always someone watching him, but he’s still alone. Jian Yi has started to spend more and more time in his dreamland. Imagining talking with Zhan Xixi even though he can barely remember his voice anymore. He’s terrified of the day when he can’t recall his face, too. Jian Yi is afraid he will lose a part of himself that can't be replaced. The minutes Jian Yi spends deep in thought easily stretch into hours. He is still being trained but he doesn’t fear the pain anymore. Brother Qiu had been right in saying that he would get used to it eventually. He's stopped holding back while training Jian Yi, and Jian Yi almost welcomes the bruises and soreness. For his birthday, Jian Yi wanted a floral tattoo on his neck. One day, he wants to once again feel Zhan Zheng Xi’s fingers knead the back of his neck.

“Zhan Xixi, I like you. I’m sorry.” That message is the center of Zhan Zheng Xi’s life these days. No matter where he is or what he’s doing, it’s always on his mind, occupying its every last nook and cranny. He wishes he had never received it. He couldn’t live without it. He works as a police officer, trying to be promoted to an investigator. He works 80 hours a week, but it’s not work for him. Not really. He’s learning, training. He’s getting closer to that message, he can feel it. His coworkers have long ago given up on inviting him along to drinking parties and get-togethers. You couldn’t have a better partner as an officer than Zhan Zheng Xi but damn the guy needs to let loose every now and then. They don’t get it, Zhan Zheng Xi thinks to himself while politely but firmly turning down one of his female coworkers nervously asking if he had any plans for the weekend. None of them get it. He’s getting closer. He knows he is. He has to be getting closer by now. Maybe the black-haired junkie punk he had caught the other night but hadn't booked finally has some answers for him.

She Li is searching, too. He’s looking for God himself. The same from when he pushed a red-haired kid against a wall, grabbed a fistful of his soft hair, and looked down at the watering eyes pleading him. A portal had opened that day, channeling energy that had overwhelmed She Li and taken over him. That God. But God had proven to be fickle. She Li had tried to connect with Him again but something had always been missing. He lives within She Li. She Li is Him, he just needs to find Him again. If She Li finds Him in himself, he can find Him in other people, too. He wants to turn them all into gods and feed on them. Be the God of gods. But he's been going about it all wrong. To find Him again, first, he must sacrifice himself. Before he was the marker but now he needs to let God come to him. Nothing of him can be left untouched, not sullied. Use him, push him down, mark him as His, so he can find Him again. He’s calling She Li’s name, telling him that he’s meant for great things.

Bonus:

He Cheng realized the error of his ways when he stepped over the gate’s threshold and smelled free air for the first time in 15 years. Released early for good behavior. All his life, He Cheng had thought he knew patience and humility but it had turned out, he knew nothing of those things. He had been arrogant and blind. But he had been a good student for over a decade and now he had enough patience and humility to properly enjoy destroying the parties responsible. He would thank them for this lesson in life by making every last memory of them ever even existing disappear into thin air. Across the parking lot, Qiu was leaning against his car, smoking a cigarette. For a second, his eyes widened when he spotted He Cheng and his buzzcut. The ragged scar under his eye. But he doesn’t ask. He doesn’t even ask about the neat line of vertebras tattooed along He Cheng's spine when he’s fucking into him from behind at the nearest cheap motel they had found. He just silently slides his wide, rough palm over it and sinks his teeth into He Cheng’s nape where the ink meets the soft fuzz.

Used Picrew

[foradecision]

i.    “ the devil whispered in my ear,  ‘ you’re not strong enough to withstand the storm. ’  today i whispered in the devil’s ear,  ‘ i am the storm. ’ ”

OLD TOWN, DAY 33 ; 13:24:56.

     the apartment is picked mostly clean, the fruits of his labor yielding little more than some scrap electronics and an open box of band - aids. other things, things for trade: coffee, cosmetics, a couple of undamaged children’s books, things he doesn’t have use for but someone else will. there’s an eviscerated corpse slumped on the kitchen floor against the cabinets, at the end of a trail of blood. tenant, maybe — or maybe just some unlucky bastard who tried to find shelter and found their own grave instead. insects buzz and swarm, and the smell of decomp is strong. there’s not much left. crane covers the body with a bedsheet before he moves to check the bathroom.

     water leaks from underneath the locked door. once he gets it open, he sees why. 

     she was young. early twenties, if that. she’s half curled with bent knees in the overflowing tub, eyes open, skin bloodless and cold. drug paraphernalia litters the filthy tiled floor. accidental overdose or suicide; he’d put money on the latter, only because she’s not the first he’s seen. 

     there was a riverside shack in the slums, a mile or so behind the tower, where someone had tasted his handgun. left a note and a milk crate of canned food on his porch, telling whoever found it to take what they needed. there were those people on the rooftop of an apartment complex, the ones who’d gotten stranded and decided to cash out on their own terms. some of them died holding hands, family photos clutched close.

     a woman on a hotel bed surrounded by pill bottles. a man who’d hung himself in the basement of a restaurant.

     it doesn’t get easier. no matter how many, it doesn’t get easier.

     “i’m sorry nobody came for you,” crane murmurs, and gently closes the girl’s eyes. “... hope you found someplace better than this shithole.”

     he takes a moment, a five - count, then secures his findings, doubles back, and steps outside onto the terrace.

     a wooden latticework awning provides slatted shade from the afternoon sunlight. it dapples across skin slick with sweat and dust and dirt. blood, but not his. back - spatter, arterial spray. it’s everywhere but his face; missed his eyes and mouth, hit the visor of a scavenged police helmet he’d pulled off an infected near the quarantine wall.

     the slums are bad, but old town is a fucking war zone. virals run rampant through the streets and over the rooftops, acid - spitting toads linger near the waterfront and drainage culverts; massive demolishers pave paths of destruction wherever they can, hurling debris from empty lots, crushing anything that comes close, infected and human alike. rais’ thugs circle every drop point like vultures, armed to the teeth, and more than one desperate survivor has tried to jump crane for his supplies. 

     the worst are the screamers. the infected children. they were occupying one of the residential neighborhoods here in jarring numbers before he’d worked his way through and taken them out, quiet and reverent. 

     he dreams about them, sometimes. hears their anguished sobs and terrified wails in his sleep, waking drenched in flop sweat with his ears ringing and his heart in his throat. goddamn kids. one of the guys in his company used to rib him about that. fuckin’ soft touch, crane. that shit’ll get you killed.

     the narrow street below is clear, just a handful of shuffling biters that are easily dispersed. he’s bent over the open trunk of a car, ferreting through an old duffel bag, when he hears it. 

     a cry. a child’s cry.

     immediately, he’s standing straight. immediately he’s moving, trying to source the sound, gripping his machete tight. he’s thinking god, don’t let it be another one, until there are words instead of just noise and his pulse jumps hard.

     somewhere close by, a child is calling out for their father. calling for help. 

     shouting is dangerous, lethal, especially here, but it’s a risk he’s willing to take. he moves down the street, looking into darkened storefronts, dumpsters, the backs of vans. he thinks he’s close, can’t be sure; cuts down an infected that ambles toward him from beside a busted atm and four more that follow, and calls back, “hey, i hear you! i hear you, i’m on my way, just — can you tell me where you are? kid — ?”

     there’s no verbal answer: only a scream, too much like too many he’s had to hear, but that’s plenty. crane breaks into a run and vaults through the smashed front window of a pizza place where a dozen biters are swarming the counter. stumbling, trying to climb over each other to get to whatever’s on the other side. he snaps the first one’s neck before the others notice him but makes swift work of the rest, too. barely stopping for breath, he steps over the bodies, searching, searching —

     “it’s safe, you can come out.”

     the response is muffled, like it’s blocked by something. “where’s my dad?”

     “i — i don’t know, but i can help you look for him, alright? i’m not gonna hurt you. they’re gone now, it’s okay. come on out.”

     scuffling, then a thud, and then a pair of big doe eyes are peering at him from next to the cash register. “are you one of the bad guys?”

     “what? no — no, i’m not, i promise. my name’s kyle. you wanna tell me your name?”

     “eren. the monsters —”

     “the monsters are gone, eren. did they get you?”

     more scuffling, and the boy finally emerges, wiping his nose with his sleeve. he looks five, maybe six, small and dark - haired, dirty but at a glance unharmed. he shakes his head. “i hid in the cubby. my dad went to find food.”

     crane stays where he is, wary of making any sudden moves. “and he left you here, all by yourself?”

     “the window wasn’t broken before.”

     “how long’s he been gone?”

     “since the bells.”

     “the bells — ?” it takes him a second, because it’s a sound unique to old town and he spends most of his time in the slums; then he understands. “oh, you — you mean the church bells? he’s been gone since this morning?”

     eren nods and wipes his nose again. crane opens his mouth to speak when the boy brightens suddenly, as suddenly as the sound of boots crunching glass from just behind him. 

     “dad!”

     he turns, and he’s staring down the business end of an automatic rifle.

     “show me your hands!”

     “ah, jesus — don’t — don’t shoot, i’m not here to hurt anyone, look —” slowly, carefully, crane raises his left hand with the palm facing outward and starts lowering himself into a crouch to set his machete down on the floor. his right hand follows his left and he eases back upright, all without once looking away from the man’s face. a man dressed in tactical gear, whose grip on the gun is steady. skilled. he has a couple weeks of beard growth that makes his age harder to determine. “my name’s kyle crane, i’m one of brecken’s guys. from the tower. your son was callin’ for help, i just came to make sure he was okay.”

     as he speaks, eren scampers past and tucks in close to his father. “dad, he killed the monsters. look!” 

     “he sure did, didn’t he.” the man levels crane with a piercing, long - calculating stare, and finally lowers the gun. “you’re not one of them?”

     “no. god, no. i just wanted to help.”

     a nod. he lays a gloved hand on his son’s head. “then i owe you a lot more gratitude. i swear this place was secure when i left, but — those things ...”

     “yeah,” crane says, blowing out a low breath. “i know, believe me. i’m glad i got here when i did.”

     “so am i.” a beat. “thank you.”

     “what the hell are you doin’ out here? you know they turned the university into a safe house, right?”

     the man nods again. “we came from there. somebody passing through said there was a ferry, in the slums. that’s where we were headed.”

     “i’m — sorry to be the one to tell you this, but — the ferry dock’s gone. there are no more boats. none of us are gettin’ out of here unless one of the higher - ups orders an evac by air, and in case you haven’t noticed, that doesn’t seem like their top priority.”

     “then it’s only a matter of time before the GRE decontaminates this entire zone. infamy bridge is already compromised.”

     crane blinks. the back and forth is familiar, the terminology well practiced. “uh — yeah. yeah, it’s startin’ to look that way. but — listen, you need to get to the tower. get to brecken’s people, tell him crane sent you. they’ll take care of you and your son. there’s plenty of food, supplies, there’s even a doctor on site. you’ll be safe there.”

     “and what about antizin?”

     “what? a—are you — were you bitten?”

     they share a look, and everything this man isn’t saying is written in every line of his face. eren twists from under his hand to peer up at him. “dad ... ?”

     “no,” the man says, but it’s for his son’s benefit, not crane’s. crane already knows it’s a lie. “don’t you worry, kiddo. i’m just fine. here,” he kneels down and sets his rifle aside, swinging a bag from his shoulder and opening it up to hand eren a bottle of water, a packet of halva, and a stuffed teddy bear. “look what i found. why don’t you go think of what to name him while you eat your food, okay? let me talk to the monster slayer for a minute.”

     “cool!” eren grabs his prizes and trots off to one of the booths near the counter, the one furthest from any dropped bodies.

     once he’s safely out of earshot, the man stands up and turns to crane again. “on the leg. happened after i left this morning. my eye was to the scope, i didn’t even see it coming.”

     there’s that familiarity again, but it’s overshadowed by an ache below his sternum. crane swallows, adam’s apple riding the motion, pulling off his helmet to run a hand through sweat - soaked hair. “— i got caught in a clusterfuck, about a month ago. bite on the arm. antizin isn’t easy to come by, but brecken’s people have it. i’ll make sure there’s enough, you’ve got my word.”

     keen eyes, still clear of any visible signs of infection, give crane a deeply searching look for a full thirty seconds. he seems like he wants to say more, but settles instead for offering a hand. crane shakes it firmly without hesitation. “ali. you’ve given me a lot to consider.”

     “just as long as you consider it, and do it fast. ‘n hey — one more thing.” crane’s hand drops and he pulls out the three children’s books he’d found, bringing them to eren. “hi, buddy. you think of a name yet?”

     “no, i — hey! where’d you get those?”

     “what, these?” he holds them up one at a time, pretending to act casual, then sets them each down on the table. “well, i found ‘em, but — to tell you the truth, they’re way too advanced for me. you look like you’re pretty smart — think you can find some use for ‘em?”

     “yeah!” eren grabs for all three, sweeps them into his tiny arms and grins up at crane. “i can read bedtime stories to my bear now, so she won’t have bad dreams.”

     “see? i knew you were smart.”

     from behind crane, ali prompts gently, “what do you say to mr. crane?”

     “thank you!”

     “my pleasure, buddy. be careful out here, okay? take good care of your dad for me. he’s gonna take you someplace safe, with lots more kids to play with. sound good?”

     eren nods emphatically. barely a moment later, he has the teddy bear propped in his lap and one of the books laid open, turning pages, talking softly in the stuffed toy’s ear. 

     crane watches for a minute. his features soften, but the whisper of a smile that curves his mouth is bittersweet. he’s already made the mental note to radio ahead — to tell the tower’s guards to be on the lookout for these two — and to check back in here before he returns to the slums himself. they aren’t the first he’s redirected. some people make it. some don’t. 

     on his backpedal from the booth, he pauses to pick up his machete and slip it into its holster, helmet under one arm. 

     “if you leave within the hour, you should get there before sunset,” he tells ali. “northeast sewers are the quickest — two klicks, pretty much a straight shot from there.”

     “i know where it is. thank you, again.”

     “hey, you can thank me once you’re both safe.”

     another nod. crane returns it, then starts toward the broken window. he’s almost there, almost stepping through to the street outside, when ali’s next words stop him in his tracks and make some of his breath woof out of him like a suckerpunch. 

     “semper fi, marine.”

[shepherd-of-the-stars]

Artificial

My submission for @hetabang​ ! Hope you like it! 

Word count: 3,590

Summary: Novovol, Russia, the 36th century. The people of this new age have formed two distinct societies: those of the upper world, high in the sky in pearly cities, and those of the lower world, living on junkyard scraps and breathing polluted air. These societies, both run on fear and power, were meant to forever stay separate. But one night, an android fell from the sky and broke through the barrier that divided them. An android who has no memory, not even his own name, programmed to be a companion, but also a guard. His weapons system had been upgraded illegally, and without proper maintenance, could prove to be dangerous and unstable. Ivan, one of the best mechanics of the lower world, fixes him up and gives him a name; Alfred. Together, they go on an adventure, discovering things about their world, themselves, and their feelings.

Chapter summary: Ivan ventures into the junkyard to dig through the heaps for useful treasures, his almost nightly activity. One wild decision changes the course of his life. 

Warnings: brief mentions of death and bodies, hints at abuse(through scars)

Rating: T (to be changed)

Chapter 1: Hell’s Wasteland

The cold night air did wonders in smothering the noxious scents that blanketed the junkyard like a fog. While the sun’s heat cooked them and made them more powerful, nighttime forced them into hiding. The stench of death and rusted metal was enough to make a normal person retch, but Ivan frequented the location often enough that it was nothing but a minor nuisance. 

With his scarf pulled up to cover his nose and goggles to protect his eyes from the chemicals and dust, he weaved through the heaps of filth, looking for treasures hidden amongst the trash. His mechanical pack mule followed behind him dutifully with its heavy, steel feet making square indents in the hard dirt. The droid was bulky and large, similar to the size of its namesake, but its well oiled parts allowed it to move silently. The only noise that came from it was when the luggage it carried clashed into each other inside the bins on its back. 

This machine, that Ivan had built from scraps and named Buster, carried his maker's oddments so that Ivan could dig through the heaps freely. Every couple feet, the man stopped to poke through the collection of garbage and junk to pick out pieces that he could use for his work. There was a time when he'd jump at every eerie thing he found, but after years of coming here, those things only made his heart skip just a little. 

Spotting a human-like leg sticking out from a pile, Ivan scanned it with his device and waited. "Artificial, 20% damage," it said, allowing Ivan to release his breath and drag the limb out so he could toss it into his bins. He had learned the hard way that it was better to be safe than to drag out a corpse. 

It was one of the reasons the place was nicknamed "Hell's Wasteland." Broken androids tossed out here made it look like the place was littered with human bodies. The gangs saw that as an opportunity and began to dispose of their enemies here, hence the smell of decay. No one but vultures like Ivan went through here. No one would ever see. And even if someone did, the law would never listen to someone who only had 2 sets of clothes and ate crumbs for meals. 

What was once a scrap yard had now turned into a dumping ground. After the owners had disappeared, no one was left to take over. Local rumors said that the owners were still on the land, buried under rotten food and broken refrigerators. “If you listen closely, you can hear them crying,” they would say, “they’re waiting for someone to rescue them. But once you get close enough, they’ll snatch your body and use it as their own.”

But Ivan knew better than to listen to wild stories of ghosts and possession. He knew after many visits that it was the cries of cats. When they yowled in the night, it sounded like a child who had lost their guardian, or perhaps someone who was in pain. And since they ran away at the slightest sound, it was no surprise many people have never seen the source of the sound. 

Just then, that exact sound that people dreaded hearing pierced through the air and struck Ivan’s heart with chilling fear. He knew it was only a cat, but even the bravest of men would flinch at a shrill noise breaking silence. Head tilted towards the night sky, he listened, waiting for the sound to meet him again. 

When it came, he followed it with the stealth of an assassin. Even the slightest disturbance could send them running, and Ivan didn’t want to miss his chance of seeing a cute cat. 

With every step, he drew closer, which meant the cat had not discovered him yet. Maybe this time he would be able to catch it and bring it home. Then again, his budget could barely support his sisters and himself. To add another mouth to feed, that would leave them eating out of the dumpster. But one could dream. A small part of him hoped that the soft clanging of metal in Buster’s bins scared the cat away so he wouldn’t have false hope. 

But things never seemed to turn out his way. As he peeked out from behind an overturned car, he spotted the cat that had been yowling for attention and finally understood why it had not run. 

What he saw was an unfortunate black cat stuck in a discarded raccoon trap, its paw reaching out past the bars in an attempt to open the spring doors. Ivan approached it slowly, his large body hunched over in an attempt to make himself smaller for the cat. The mental image of himself looking like a crooked, old witch approaching their animal apprentice crossed his mind and made him smile. 

“Don’t scratch me, please,” he whispered after tugging down his scarf, “I’m just trying to help you.”

Back arched and hairs standing straight, the cat was not happy at all that such a big creature was so close while it was defenseless. It hissed and swatted at Ivan’s hands when he got too close, but eventually, the human proved to be trustworthy. 

He didn’t make any sudden movements, and for that, the small creature was thankful. Slowly, it relaxed, pressing itself against the corner of the cage instead of trying to shred Ivan’s helping hand. 

“You’re very beautiful. I will call you Novi. Do you like that?” He smiled down at the black cat that stared at him with wide, wary eyes. The cage jolted and clicked when it was finally opened and the cat took off with such speed, he could see bits of the ground scatter as her claws tore it up. 

Ivan let out a soft grunt of disappointment watching her disappear behind a pile of garbage bags. “What? No ‘thank you’? That’s a little bit rude.” He chuckled at his own silliness before walking back over to his droid. “Did you get that, Buster?” 

Those keywords made the droid open his sealed mouth with a click. Ivan reached between the spiked teeth to grab a cord to connect to his phone while Buster’s eyes flashed red to verify his identity. They turned blue when the iris scan passed the test, his tail wagging as his defense mode was disengaged. Only Ivan, his sisters, and people he approved had access to Buster’s security files. If anyone else had tried it, the jaws would clamp shut with enough force to take their hand clean off their body.  

With a few taps, he was able to see what his droid’s eyes had recorded. Crystal clear footage of Ivan interacting with the cat popped up on his screen. The quality was good enough that Ivan could pause and zoom in on it just to get a closer look. He took a screenshot and smiled.

“Send this image to Kat. Caption it, ‘rescued a cat from a raccoon cage. Named it Novi. Can I keep it?’ Message complete.” He continued to scrub through the video as he waited for the droid to do as he said. 

The droid went completely still for a few seconds then moved his head in a nodding motion once it was done. He spoke in a human-like voice with a slight mechanical buzz. “Message sent to Kat: Rescued a cat from a raccoon cage. Named it Novi. Can I keep it? Image attached.” 

“Good boy.” Ivan pat him on the head twice before disconnecting the cord and tapping his chin, making his steel jaws slam shut. Turning to the left, he began to return to his previous task but Buster stood firm. 

“Novi spotted.” 

Ivan stopped, turning back to the droid. “What?” 

“Novi spotted,” he repeated, looking straight ahead. 

He followed the eyes of his droid until he saw what his target was. There, standing on top of an old monitor, was Novi. Her tail swayed in the air playfully, as if waiting for Ivan to notice. “Are you back to thank me?” He asked the question as if he expected an answer.

Novi stared at him, completely still except her tail, then she blinked and hopped off the pile of scraps. Ivan had expected her to run a second time, but she turned back to look at him and waited. 

“Buster,” he said, his eyes not leaving the cat.

The droid chimed once. 

“Choice: Follow, or don’t follow.” 

The droid chimed twice. “Choice: Follow, or don’t follow. I choose follow.” 

Ivan hesitated. “Buster, what’s my luck today?” 

Two chimes again. “Your luck today is amazing! Who knows what will happen when you take a chance!” 

“Take a chance,” he repeated under his breath. Every fiber of his being was screaming to him that this was just like the start of a horror movie, but he took a deep breath and began walking towards the cat. “Maybe she will show me her kittens. Yes. This will be good. I have good luck today.” 

Even as he told himself this, his hands were cold and clammy from nervousness. A black cat on a full moon wanted to lead him somewhere. It didn’t seem like a good sign. Any rational person would ignore this stray animal. It could be a trap. Maybe demons. Or maybe Ivan was just being too superstitious. 

Several times, he had attempted to turn the other direction, thinking that following a cat was just too silly, but every time Ivan tried, Novi would walk back over to Ivan and stare. Waiting. Whatever it was Novi was trying to show him, it must be important. 

“Alright alright, I’m following,” he muttered after a fourth attempt to escape. 

They were nearing the center of the junkyard now. The piles here were stacked so high, even Ivan had to crane his neck to catch only a small glimpse of what was at the top. 

He tended to avoid this area. Located directly below the highway, it was a popular spot to toss things over the side. If one wasn’t careful, they could be crushed flat by someone tossing out their garbage. It was also very unstable. One misstep could cause the garbage to topple like an avalanche, and if one was alone, once they were buried, that would be the end. 

“I don’t think I can follow you further, Novi.” Ivan watched as the cat hopped gracefully on the pile, her light body barely making the objects move. But for Ivan, every step he took made garbage tumble down the sides. 

The foolish human had already come this far on his quest, and he didn't want to waste it by turning back. But one wrong step made his foot slip into the pile, a broken beer bottle cutting into his leg. It wasn't deep, but it was enough to make him hiss and stain his torn pants with blood. 

Maybe it was a sign that he should stop trying to climb this mountain of garbage. The wound on his leg was small, but if it wasn't treated, it could cause an infection. “I’m sorry but this is the end of our little adventure. My sister will be very angry if I die trying to follow a cat.” 

Of course, Novi gave no response. She only stared at him a while longer, looked at the highway above, then took off. At first, Ivan thought that perhaps she had run off because she knew Ivan would no longer follow, but the sound of a car door slamming shut told him otherwise. 

“Oh no.” He looked up at the highway, spotting two men approaching the side, working together to carry something heavy. Ivan shouted for them to stop as he scrambled to get to the bottom, but they couldn’t hear him. From the highway to the ground was a drop almost a hundred feet. His pleads would never reach them. And even if they did, they wouldn’t care. 

Ivan had only caught a glimpse of what looked like an old sofa being chucked over the edge  before the impact of it crashing down into the pile caused everything to topple over. Like a mudslide, everything on the top layer tumbled to the ground, Ivan included. 

He did what he could to protect himself as he fell; his limbs cut and bruised as he tried to shield his head. There was nothing he could hold on to. Nothing was stable. It only stopped when everything pooled on the ground, adding to the mountain’s size. 

Buster, who had stayed on the ground while Ivan chose to climb, ran over to the spot his maker was buried. He dug him out as fast as he could, then dragged Ivan to the side where he’d be able to avoid the damage of falling garbage. 

“Are you okay?” What Buster got wasn’t an answer to his question, but a smack on his metal head. “Ow.” 

“You liar. You said I have good luck!” He hissed as he stood up. His clothing was torn in several places and his body was covered in filth. 

Buster tilted his head to the side in confusion. “Luck readings are chosen randomly from choices you programmed into my system. If you are not satisfied with your reading, please ask ag-... Ow.” The droid was cut short when his maker smacked him again. 

“Maybe if I rebooted you, you won’t be so sassy.” 

“My personality is also programmed by you.” 

“Stop talking.” 

“Silent mode: On.” 

Ivan sighed when the droid went silent. He knew it was his own fault for following a cat into such dangerous territory. Now he had to go home and tell his sister that he needed to borrow money to buy a new set of clothes. At least his scarf was okay.

He wrapped the piece of cloth back to how it was when he started his hunt and tended to all the cuts with the first aid kit kept inside his droid. Then, pretending like nothing had happened, he went back to digging through the rubble. If he was going to ask Kat for money, the least he could do was sell a couple more of his projects to earn it back. And to do that, he needed the parts. 

The more he looked and the more he collected, he was beginning to believe that perhaps Buster’s reading was correct. While this area was dangerous and risky, it also held the freshest picks. He had collected so much scrap metal and spare parts that the bins grew full. 

Dozens of different projects zipped through his mind. He could make a small pet droid. Maybe a drone. Or maybe he could invent something brand new! He could be rich! 

A noise from the highway above only added to his excitement. He took a couple steps back from the pile, just to be safe, then watched to see what the people would toss over. “Come on. Give me something good.” 

All he could see were dark figures, but the mystery of it made his heart race. It all stopped when he saw the discarded object reveal itself in the moonlight as it fell. “No way…” 

Like before, the impact of the tossed object caused the pile to crumble. Anything on the surface was buried once again, but Ivan’s eyes were locked on the new addition. 

He waited until the trash had settled and the men above had left before dashing over to where the object was resting. It was buried under bags of garbage and electronic trash, but Ivan had found it. It was broken and damaged, but it was unmistakably an android. 

“What a beauty,” he said to himself as he admired the human-like machine. If it wasn’t for the broken skin revealing metal underneath, Ivan would have thought it was a human. 

The body was built to be male, a strong one too, and it had a head of long, blond hair with a firm but pretty face. The model wasn’t one Ivan has seen in the catalogs either, so it must be custom built. Which also meant it was an expensive model. The more expensive the model, the more he could sell it for. 

“Let’s see… Are you still active?” He waved a hand in front of the android’s lifeless face but gained no reaction. Snapping his fingers to try and wake it by sound did not work either. But when his hand made contact with its silicon skin, its eyes snapped open and locked on Ivan. 

Ivan jumped back quickly when blue eyes flashed red. “W-wait!” He snatched up whatever he could to protect himself. Unfortunately, his weapon of choice turned out to be a bent pole. “I’m friendly. I promise.” 

The android stared at him for a long time. Ivan could hear the whir of his engine as his system tried to determine whether or not Ivan was a threat. Several times, his eyes had gone dark only to flash back on again seconds later. 

“Battery failure,” he whispered as a mental note, “but reaction is good.” That brought a smile to his face. With a couple quick fixes, he could have this android good as new and sell him for thousands. So no matter how long it would take, he waited. 

He waited, with an eager smile, until the android relaxed his body, his eyes dimming down to a natural blue. “Identify yourself,” he spoke. His voice box was damaged, making his speech sound like he was speaking through a static tube. 

"My name is Ivan. I won't hurt you," he keeps his voice calm and quiet like he had with Novi. Now that the android had calmed, he lowered his weapon and came closer until he was within his arm’s reach. 

Ivan had opened his mouth to speak again, but the android’s arm shot forward and grabbed his scarf. He pulled the human down until Ivan was staring into flickering blue eyes. “Who… am I?” 

"I don't know. We've only just met. But I can find out." Dig through his memory files, erase them, reboot him, sell. 

"Are you ICON?" The android spoke the word as if he didn’t know the meaning. 

“ICON?” Ivan paused, his train of thought halting. "I'm Ivan, not ICON. What is ICON?"

He was silent and still for a while, making Ivan believe that it was another system malfunction. But since he had continued to blink, Ivan knew it was just his mind trying desperately to process an answer. "I... don't know. My limbs are damaged. I don't believe I can walk."

"I can take you to my home.” He took a step to the side, gesturing to Buster. “I can fix you. Would you like that?"

"I lack the currency required. At least... I believe I do..." His eyes moved sluggishly from Ivan to the droid, then back again. 

"I don’t require currency. Only your permission. Will you allow me to fix you?"

The android grew silent again, then slowly, he nodded. “Okay.” 

"I'm going to pick you up now. Is that alright?" 

"... I give you permission," he nodded again, "but become a threat and you're dead."

Ivan gave the android a nod in return before he slowly moved the junk off of him. It wasn’t until all of it was cleared that he realized the reason the android couldn’t move. 

His left arm and both of the android’s legs were marked with plasma burns. The damage of it melted through the synthetic skin, past the metal plating, and scorched the circuits underneath. The pattern of the injury looked like it was done with a rope, or perhaps a whip, wrapped several times around each damaged limb. Thoughts of fixing and reselling the android quickly began to fade. Not even a machine deserved to be treated like this. The rich were truly inhumane. 

“Does it hurt?” 

"Of course it hurts," he gave him a puzzled look, "but that doesn't matter."

"It does matter. You shouldn't suffer. Do you want me to power you down? I promise I'll turn you on again when you're safe. It’s so you won't suffer any pain when I move you."

The android frowned, his face scrunched up in distrust. "How can I trust you?"

"I guess you'll just have to. But I won't force you to agree." 

The android had no reason to trust Ivan. They had only just met. If Ivan was a dishonest person, he could shut Alfred down, take him apart, and resell every piece for a good price. Both parties knew that. But Buster had predicted that today was Ivan's lucky day, and that prediction showed to be true. The android, who couldn’t even process his own memories, had decided to trust him. 

“Fine,” he said, his voice soft. “Turn… turn me off. But I’m trusting you.” 

"You're making the right decision. I'll speak to you again soon. I’m turning you off now." He reached forward slowly, praying that the android wouldn’t activate his defenses once again. His fingers felt around the back of his neck until he grazed across a circular dent. 

For a second, his fingers rested there as he stared into the android’s eyes. He recognized the fear, the panic and uncertainty, but if Ivan was going to move him without hurting him, he would need to be shut down. 

“You can trust me,” Ivan reassured him. 

Then slowly, the android’s eyes slipped shut. 

[solynaceawrites]

Wires [1] A Fresh Start

Rating: Mature Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Major Character Death Categories: F/F, F/M Fandom: Devil May Cry Relationships: Dante/Original Female Character(s), Implied Nero/Kyrie, Implied Vergil/Original Female Character(s), Implied Lady/Trish, Dante/Lirael Thorne, Dante/Lir Characters: Dante, Morrison, Nero, Original Female Character(s), Lirael Thorne, Lir Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Violence, Gore, Dark, Horror, Supernatural Elements, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Serial Killers, Angst, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut Summary: In Red Grave City, a serial killer stalks the streets. Lirael Thorne, recently transferred from Fortuna and looking for an escape from her past, winds up on his trail. Hunting him with her veteran partner, Dante Redgrave, they try to piece together the wires that bind the three of them together. In a race to catch him before he leaves more victims in his wake, the things thought buried will come to the surface, tearing lives and comfort apart.

»»————-　⚜　————-«« 

“Everybody has a geography that can be used for change; that is why we travel to far off places. Whether we know it or not, we need to renew ourselves in territories that are fresh and wild. We need to come home through the body of alien lands.”   — Joan Halifax

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Holding an aspirin tablet between her teeth, craving a drink, Lir listens to the clacking of the keyboard and blinks against the watery light streaming between the blinds. The office of Red Grave’s chief of police is smaller than the one in Fortuna, but neater: gone are the numerous potted plants, the maps and spreadsheets tacked to every available surface, the bookcases littered with little knick-knacks and family photographs. Those personal touches have been ignored in favor of something that is neat, organized, the little bit of warmth the room has coming from the soft bulb of the desk lamp and the mahogany of the furniture. It’s a bit of a relief, really. Sanctus had been old—too old, in the opinion of many—and took on a fatherly role that often left Lir feeling chafed and angry. At least here, going from first impressions, there will be no blurring of the line between duty and her personal life.

Seated with his back rod-straight is her new superior. A gold nameplate on the desk reads J.D. Morrison, and as he reads whatever file he’s pulled up on his monitor, Lir wonders what the initials stand for. James Dean is her first thought, and she finally crunches the aspirin, using the bitter flavor to smother her budding laughter. Sure, yeah, why not? Red Grave is a big city, and maybe Morrison’s parents had been so attached to the ill-fated actor that they’d saddled their son with his name. Certainly wouldn’t be the strangest thing she’s heard of.

“Detective Thorne,” Morrison says. He opens a drawer and pulls out a cigar, which he lights in clear disregard of the signs posted on the doors to the building. “Says here you transferred out for personal reasons.”

“Yessir.” The dull throbbing behind her temples grows at the scent of smoke. “Wanted a change of scenery.”

He coughs, clears his throat. “That so? Well, we’ve had people do it for less. Though your track record . . . You seem to have been on a fast path to promotion. ” Lir says nothing. The expectant silence stretches between them until it turns uncomfortable, but she’s not in any particular mood for niceties. She has an apartment to unpack and a bitch of a headache brewing and she wants to get this introduction over with as quickly as she can. Finally, Morrison sighs, silver plumes curling through the air. “Normally, you’d get a tour and time to sort out your desk, but we got a call this morning and it’s all hands on deck. You up to fieldwork?”

His shrewd gaze rephrases that question nicely. You willing to actually work? “Sure.”

Morrison studies her for a few seconds longer, then nods and stands up, raising his voice to a shout that makes her wince. “Officer Simmons!”

A young man with untidy white hair tucked messily under his cap stumbles in. “Yes, Chief?”

“Take Detective Thorne here to the alley.” Simmons’ face pales, and Morrison barks, “Now!”

“Yes, Chief!” Simmons snaps into a hasty salute before scurrying out of the office.

Lir gives one of her own to Morrison and follows, feeling a sort of bemused pity for the officer. She’d been there once, bright-eyed and eager to please, thinking that the law enforcement they showed on television, with its friendly camaraderie and kind-yet-stern chiefs, was the truth of it. Simmons must still be clinging to that, and she pops another aspirin into her mouth and chews it as they weave through the bullpen to the doors that lead outside.

Simmons doesn’t say much, though he opens her door when they reach the cruiser, flushing under her raised brow, and his uneasy quiet persists well into the ride. Definitely fresh, Lir thinks. Probably still spit shines his shoes in the morning and tells people he’s a cop with pride.The thought is bitter, and angry, and distasteful. Not that it really bothers her anymore; her mind has been particularly not tasty as of late.

They drive through cramped, winding streets that turn unexpectedly into one-ways and cross over themselves into a maze, closed in by the dingy buildings until it all feels more than a little claustrophobic. Red Grave City is coastal, just like Fortuna, but it’s much larger, with more crime, and rumors of rampant corruption and greased pockets give it an unsavory reputation with other law enforcement agencies. Yet in stark contrast, it’s as much of a tourist hotspot as Fortuna, its historic district and scenic parks and ritzy downtown drawing numerous crowds every year, regardless of the season. Lir takes all of it in, the cafès and hotels and convenience stores fighting for space, their colorful signs and banners almost garish against the dull brick, and it’s not until they pass into a more modern area with skyscrapers of steel and glass that she decides to ask where the hell Simmons is taking her to.

“What’s in this alley?”

Simmons jumps, the wheel jerking under his hands and sending them partially over the white lines. A minivan behind them lays on the horn, and Lir watches the driver raise his middle finger as he speeds by once Simmons has corrected. “Sorry, ma’am. Uh, Detective. I thought the Chief filled you in.”

“No.” She straightens. “Just that it’s serious.”

“That’s one way to put it,” he mumbles. “Mind if I smoke?”

“Yes.” The sight of his momentary pout sends irritation flaring hot and thick along her spine. Lir swallows it and rubs her temples. “Just crack the damn window.”

“Sure thing.” He does, and then reaches for a pack on the dash and. Drawing a cigarette from it, he says, “Call came in maybe twenty minutes before you showed up. Jane Doe found in an alley. She, uh . . . Well, it might be better for you to see for yourself, but it’s . . .” His fingers tremble as he tries to flick his lighter. Lir takes pity on him and pulls her own from her coat, and he smiles gratefully as she holds it to his cigarette, though his face is pallid and shiny with sweat. “First body?” At his nod, she sighs. “You’ve probably heard it gets easier.”

“Does it?” Simmons looks at her hopefully.

Lir snorts. “No. Eyes on the road.”

He retreats into a silence that’s not quite sullen, leaving her to her thoughts. Which mostly center around whether or not she’ll have time to find a new bar, one of the nice and private ones where no one wants to get friendly or gives a shit that she’s a cop, only that she pays her tab. When they arrive at the crime scene, Simmons stays in the car, looking ready to puke. Lir raps on the door once it’s closed and jerks her chin, signalling for him to head out, and she waits until he gives a shaky thumbs up and pulls away from the curb to head towards the yellow tape strung between a nightclub on one side and a sports bar on the other. An officer at the corner stops her until she shows her badge, then lifts the tape for her to step beneath. Immediately, she’s assaulted by the wet, mossy stench of death and viscera, and she takes the gloves and shoe covers and slides them on to buy herself time to adjust to it.

Cops swarm outside of the alley, keeping the rabid press contained. Inside, there’s only four others, three men and a woman, but Lir ignores them in favor of taking in all that she can before she’s forced to talk. Four dumpsters are present, two on each wall with the city’s waste disposal logo printed on the side; bits of trash and litter surround them: used condoms, soda cans, scraps of newspaper, all of the usual findings. There’s no spray paint graffiti, and a security camera faces out into the busy street. Maybe they’ll get something useful from it, though she doubts it. In her experience, they’re usually for show, just a weak-hearted attempt to prevent crime or a way to deter violence on the premises of businesses who host rowdy crowds.

The scenery accounted for, Lir turns her attention to the misshapen body in the center. Nude and pale, the woman is covered from chest to knee in red that’s gone black with time, her unseeing eyes staring at the sky with a terror that won’t disappear until the medical examiner closes them on the slab. She walks towards her, offal and iron making her throat constrict against nausea, and the woman kneeling next to the corpse looks up at her approach with a friendly nod. Dressed in a black jumpsuit, she’s no doubt the M.E., or someone affiliated with them, and she stays quiet as Lir kneels to fully take in the mutilation inflicted on the victim.

While the rest of her is untouched, her throat is slashed, and she’s been split open from rib to hip, the skin and muscle peeled away to reveal her organs beneath. As far as Lir can tell, nothing has been removed, but something has certainly been added: a pendant rests on top of her stomach, glistening wetly in the daylight. “I pulled it out,” the maybe-M.E. says. “Dante wanted to see it.”

“Dante?” The woman tilts her head, and Lir turns to see a man speaking quietly but furiously to two uniforms. “Uh-huh.”

“You must be the new detective. My name’s Trish.” Lir looks blankly at the hand she holds out before taking it, and Trish’s handshake is firm and cordial. “I’m the medical examiner, coroner, whatever you’d like to call me. Your stiffs go onto my slab, anyway.”

Her dry humor draws an unwilling smile from Lir. “Okay. Trish. I’m Lir, Detective Thorne, take your pick as long as it’s not Lily. What can you tell me about our Jane Doe?”

“Not much, other than the obvious.” Trish points to the wound. “This was more than likely done pre-mortem, going by the amount of blood—there wouldn’t be so much of it if she was already dead—and there are a couple of hesitation marks at her throat. But as to which of those killed her, and how long ago, why she didn’t fight back, I won’t know all of that until I take her out of here.”

Lir considers all of that. “Why do you think she didn’t resist?”

“No self-defense wounds on the hands or arms. At least, not that I can see.”

“Mm. Your guys get pictures?”

“Not yet.” Trish smiles wryly. “Chief wanted you to see it first. It’s why Dante’s giving those two a lashing, though he’s just shooting the messengers at this point.”

“Right.” Standing, Lir peels off her gloves and drops them into the bag Trish holds out to her. “Guess I should go save ‘em.”

“Good luck.”

Lir snorts as she turns. On first sight, she’s already unimpressed with the so-called Dante. He’s handsome, sure, model or film star handsome even, with his straight nose and strong jaw dusted with a five o’clock shadow, but he’s dressed like a detective from a noir novel: pinstripe trousers and a matching vest, a red tie, white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms, brown Oxfords polished to a dull shine. The only things that break the illusion that he’s stepped off the silver screen are the watch at his wrist, the gleaming handcuffs clipped to the back of his belt, the radio at his hip, and the Beretta in its holster next to the radio. She more than half expects him to pull out a flask from somewhere and take a swig mid-tirade, but the only time he pauses is to draw in a breath.

“—how the  hell  he expects us to carry out an investigation when he’s waiting on some country bumpkin—”     “Howdy,” Lir drawls.

He whirls on her so fiercely that she instinctively rests her hand on the butt of her own gun, her pulse roaring into her ears. Dante seems to catch himself, straightening to his full height to scowl down to her, and she’s startled by the pale, frozen blue of his eyes. “You Detective Thorne?”

She shrugs. “Country bumpkin works, too.”

Dante doesn’t have the grace to look embarrassed that she overheard him. “I’m Detective Redgrave. Yes, like the city, no, I don’t give a shit. You done lookin’ at the body?”

“Sure.”

“You hear that, Trish?” Dante hollers. “Take her out.”

Behind her, she hears the telltale metallic clatter of a gurney being placed on the ground, followed by a bit of huffing, the rasp of a zipper, and more heavy breathing and the rustling of fabric. “Are you going to give me the details or am I going to guess?”

He barks a laugh. “Morrison sent you out here blind? Doesn’t surprise me. Sure, I’ll humor you.” With a grin that’s more mocking than genuine, he says, “Call came in at 7:45. Some poor schmuck takin’ out the trash found our body and had the decency to lose his breakfast outside of the crime scene before he called. No witnesses so far, no clothing, no I.D., just—” “What about the camera?” Lir points over her shoulder with her thumb.

“Can’t get to it until the owner shows up, which, according to his staff could be anytime between noon and midnight.”

“Alright. What do you need me to do?”

Dante considers her, that cruel smile still playing at his lips. “You want to help?” She nods. “Go keep those fuckers away.”

“The press?” His expression doesn’t slip, and she shakes her head. “That’s uniform work. Send them to—”

“Either deal with them or go home. I don’t have time to hold your hand.”

Just like that, he turns away in a clear dismissal. Lir stares at his broad back, her head throbbing from the night before and the rage that’s been building since she stepped into Morrison’s office: rage at the incompetence of her former chief, at the glares that had followed her once she entered the precinct, at Simmons’ earnest naivety, at whoever butchered a woman and left her in an alley like she was no better than the trash already there, at Dante himself. It’s familiar, and choking, the same burning that’s festered within her all her life with every snide, “Are you sure you can handle that? Wouldn’t you rather answer phones and let the men handle the rest?”

Instead of giving into her urge to punch him in his smug mouth, she inhales deeply and holds it until spots dance in her vision. Then she exhales and heads towards the bright yellow tape and, beyond it, the reporters and photographers craning their necks to get a look at the violence that’s visited their city. Two steps, and cold fingers curl around her wrist, sending numbness crawling along her skin from where they touch. Lir closes her eyes, counting to ten, and then she pulls free. Only on the other side of the tape does she look back, and the sight of a woman in a red dress with pale hair staring back at her sadly, her lips moving soundlessly, is exactly what she expected.  Definitely getting a drink, she muses.

The reporters are no different from the ones Lir dealt with in Fortuna, just more persistent. She repeats the phrase, “No comment,” so many times that it begins to lose meaning to her, until a uniform comes to relieve her and she’s able to hail a taxi. But she doesn’t go back to work straight away. The cabbie drops her at a liquor store, waiting at the curb while she hurries in to buy a mini bottle of vodka and hurries back out, and she cracks it open and takes it like a shot, stowing the empty bottle in her pocket as they reach the precinct. Lir tips him double, then heads inside, and the bustling and noise is so at odds with the sullen silence of only hours ago that she nearly stops in her tracks. It’s only force of will that keeps her moving to the stairs in the back and up them, to where her desk sits just outside of Morrison’s office.

Dante is seated at the desk across from hers, a phone clamped between his face and shoulder while he writes on a notepad. Lir waits until he hangs up to say, “You’re an ass.”

“Been called worse,” he replies distractedly. “Trish’s report get in yet?”

“Not in my inbox. You got a problem with me?”

“No offense, sweetheart, but city crime is different from country crime.”

“I’m from Fortuna. Not the mountains.”

“Uh-huh. I’m sure you dealt with a lot of purse snatching.”

Lir bristles. “Listen, jackass—”

“Go see Trish. See if she’s got a report yet or not.”

Her mouth hangs open. Then she stands, slamming her chair back into her desk loudly enough that Morrison looks out from his office with a frown, and stalks back the way she’d come, heading for the elevators. On one hand, she understands Dante’s shit attitude; she’s new to Red Grave, new to their force. On the other, she transferred from Homicide to Homicide, and there were enough of them in Fortuna that the sight of another isn’t going to send her running, and he’s a sour bastard with a chip on his shoulder who probably thinks he can do nothing wrong and his word is law. Which she’s only proving, she realizes, running his errands for him, and she jabs irritably at the button that will take her to the basement and the morgue. Next time he demands she do something, she’s going to tell him right where he can shove it. In the back of her mind, however, disappointment is bitter. So much, she thinks, for a fresh start.

[artistic-writer]

The Paradox of Light :: CS AU : Rated E :: part 3

Title: The Paradox of Light by @artistic-writer​ Summary: Imagine having one person, one constant, one love in your life that holds your head when you go under the surface. They will be there forever, holding your hand through everything life can throw at the pair of you, but what happens when a crack forms? What happens when it grows into something neither of you can control? What happens when the one person who was there to guide you becomes an obstacle and rather than hold you up, they pull you down? How do you find your way out of the darkness without your light? Rating: E Warnings: Angst, hurt/comfort, alcoholism/alcohol abuse, sexual addiction, domestic violence, fighting, choking, erotic asphyxiation (use in a non-informed manner), depression, death of Liam Jones, panic attacks, PTSD, attempted rape/non-con/dub-con, stab wounds, bar fights, rehab/AA meetings

- but there is a happy ending to this story, i promise.

Author’s Note: I missed this ficversary because of everything that is going on in the world right now, but its been in the plan to re-release it as a multichapter for some time.  It’s A LOT otherwise and whilst I initially always intended this to be a one shot, because I wrote it in one go, its not logical to expect people to stop and read so many words in one go.  The lovely fanart by @itsfabianadocarmo​ features in all chapters, so go show her some love!

PLEASE HEED THE WARNINGS!!  This fic has a lot of them for a reason.  If you want to ask about any, please don’t be afraid to message me.

Part Three [ below the cut ]

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Three months ago

“Hi, Emma. It’s…”

“I’m on my way, Will.”

The phone calls had become more frequent. Killian barely made his own way home anymore and Emma had forgot what it was like to walk or drive during the daylight. In a way she was thankful for Will because she knew he would never call the police if Killian got too much. They had served together, both seen and experienced the same awful things whilst deployed, but somehow Will had the strength inside of him to resist the voice inside of his head. Or maybe he was a ticking time bomb too, just waiting for the day when he would be detonated the way Killian had the day he heard of Liam’s demise.

Everybody had their demons, but it was only those who had been strong for too long that felt the strain.

When Emma had arrived, Killian wasn’t sitting in his usual booth, head hung low in a drunken haze and surrounded by empty glasses. Instead he was pacing the bar area, begging Will for more of the rum to burn away the pain he felt inside, unsatisfied with the glass of water he was waving around as he slurred his distaste towards his friend.

“Hey! Watch it!” A gruff voice boomed above Killian’s banter as the ice cold water spilled from the glass in his hand and instantly soaked into the shirt of the man next to him.

“Yeah? Or what?” Killian growled, slamming the half empty glass onto the highly polished bar.

The man got to his feet immediately, fuelled with rage and reeking of stale ale, and stepped into Killian’s space. Their foreheads were almost touching and in the time it took Emma to move from the entrance, fists were flying between the two men.

Killian took a clenched fist to the face, stumbling backwards only briefly before surging forward once more and grabbing the wet edges of the man’s shirt, pulling him towards him and lunging forward at the same time until he heard the crack of bone on bone and felt the man’s nose give way under his forehead. The man cried out, blood pouring from his nose like a crimson river and Killian took advantage of his dazed state to land another punch to the man’s gut.

“Guys!” Will screamed, hopping over the bar. “Not inside!” He screeched, grabbing Killian’s arm and pulling him backwards. Two other patrons joined his efforts, shoulder barging Killian’s drunken opponent and holding him back.

Killian shook Will off quickly and stumbled on heavy feet back towards the man who was snorting like a bull, droplets of blood on the floor between them and staining the front of his shirt.

“Come on, Jones!” The man encouraged with a blood stained smirk and wriggled free from the grasp of his captors. He grabbed his barstool, lifting the wooden item effortlessly and swinging it at Killian who had no time to move before it collided with his shoulder and he let out an anguished cry, pushing away the remnant of the broken wood and ignoring the sound of Will’s protests as it hit the floor.

“Hey! Hey!” Emma screamed as she stepped between the two men, her face contorting with pain as the man pushed her hard into Killian. It was sudden and Emma saw the flicker of adrenaline fuelled anger flash in Killian’s eyes as he caught her, his hollow stare something she was seeing for the very first time. He had blood smeared across his chin that darkened his stubble and a large splinter of wood had lodged itself in the skin of his cheek, but he was not there. Behind the darkness, he was someone else.

Something else.

Killian pushed Emma aside and she fell into Will’s embrace who had anticipated the outcome of her intervention. The bar erupted with patrons cheering and clapping, the scuffled on stools across the dusty wooden floor echoing in the background as every man leapt to his feet and punched the air when Killian dived for the man once more.

“Jones has to have his girlfriend fight his battles for him!” The man sneered, wiping the back of his hand under his nose and flicking the excess blood from his fingers.

“Say that again!” Killian warned, grabbing the man’s shirt once more just as a few burly men joined Will’s efforts to keep the two men apart.

“Enough!” Will roared as he squeezed between them. He almost got crushed between the bouncers as the two men desperately tried to claw at each other but managed to spin around long enough to give a nod of his head towards the door. “Get out of my bar!” He growled at the man, pushing him towards the exit and making his point with an extended finger. “Get out now!”

“She must be something really special,” he laughed, spitting a mouthful of dark brown blood to the bar floor. “Maybe she is there for the whole unit.” The man looked over Will’s shoulder to Killian who was fuming, the muscles on his jaw twitching and his fists clenched so tightly at his side that his knuckles were white. “She only fuck you military guys, or can any of us have a ride?”

The whole bar fell silent and Killian took advantage of it, slipping from the grasp of the huge balding man whose fingertips had been digging into his chest, rushing towards the foul mouthed man once more and slamming into him so hard that they both tumbled to the floor. No one had time to react and Emma watched as if in slow motion as the two men collided with the dirty floor, Killian straddling the much larger man and pummeling his face with a closed fist.

“Killian! No!” Emma cried, fighting back to tears that stung at her eyelids as she ran towards them. “He’s not worth it!” She pulled at Killian’s shoulders, fingers grabbing at tensed biceps and hanging from his arm as she desperately tried to slow down his assault. After what felt like an eternity the two men were pulled apart and Killian’s tormentor was ejected from the bar covered in his own blood and bruises appearing along the ridges of his face.

All eyes fell on Killian and Emma, both still surging with the rush of what had just happened, so Will ushered them towards the back door quickly. It only opened from the inside and led to a secluded alleyway out back, the only entrance and exit to which was through the nearby parking lot which is where Will knew Emma would have parked her car.

“Get him home,” Will told her softly, his voice low as he tried to hide the anger in his voice.

“I’m sorry,” Emma told him sheepishly, looking over her shoulder at Killian who had decided to expend some more of his energy kicking a rolling trash can. Will didn’t answer her and Emma completely understood why. How could he? He was put in the middle of his friend, who he owed a great debt from service, and jeopardizing his livelihood.

“Get him help,” Will said sadly, disappearing back into the bar and letting the door close behind him with a creak.

Killian was mumbling to himself when Emma approached him, her arms crossed over her chest as the chill of the night began to creep in through the thin material of her sweater. He could barely stay upright, shuffling backward and forward as he tried to pick a fight with the dumpster. Emma’s temper flared and she reached out and spun him to face her, the motion sending him into a spin and his focus drifting off to one side.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Emma pushed Killian back, flat palms hitting his chest over and over until his back made contact with the dark green dumpster.

“I had it under control!” Killian swatted her hands away and dismissed her concern with a sneer.

“Under control?” Emma laughed at him, planting her hands on her hips.

“Aye,” Killian argued cockily.

“Killian, you have just smashed a man’s face into a bloody mess!” Emma screeched, pointing to the door behind them.

“In your defense!” Killian looked at her with a frown, clearly confused in his drunken state as to why she hadn’t found his actions heroic.

“Killian…” Emma began with a sigh, a trembling hand running over her brow as she looked to her feet.

“Oh, here we go,” Killian spat, stumbling sideways and steadying himself against the cold metal bin. “Here comes the great Emma Swan lecture!”

Emma’s head snapped up and she narrowed her eyes at him angrily. The blood on his face had been mostly wiped away in the fight, a few specks still littering the tips of his ears and the cut on his cheek from the first blow had dried and messily sealed itself closed. They had begun to repeat this dance more often nowadays and it was starting to make Emma feel empty. They would insult each other, throw words neither of them really meant back and forth, fuelled by her tenacity and his alcoholism until they both regretted it or needed something else.

And it was always something else. Something else that Emma was fighting her own battles to avoid.

“What’s wrong, Swan, lost for words?” He grumbled at her spitefully.

“I’m not going to fight with you, Killian,” Emma said calmly, stepping away from him.

“Oh come now, love,” he chuckled darkly, holding out his hand in invitation. “You know how this ends. We might as well skip to the big finale.” He stepped forward, cupping his blood encrusted hand around Emma’s elbow.

“You are an addict,” Emma said softly, watching the scuffed toe of her boot kick at her reflection in the puddle before her. She didn’t even recognise the person staring back at her anymore.

“So are you,” Killian looked down at his own reflection joining hers in the murky water. “We are just addicted to different things.”

“Are we, though?” Emma lifted her head up to look at him. There was nothing behind his expression, his eyes void of any sign of the man that Emma had met. She knew he was in there, somewhere, but he couldn’t fight his way to the surface when it was easier to shrink away from the light. It was easier for both of them.

“I can’t quit you,” Emma said, her vice quaking. “And you know it.”

“Is that so wrong?” Killian tugged her elbow gently, pulling her towards him.

“It’s not right,” Emma moved back again but he stopped her, the grip on her elbow tightening.

“Let’s go back there,” Killian cooed, ignoring Emma’s resistance and closing the gap between them. He dipped his head a little and felt Emma’s body relax into his when he skimmed his lips over the shell of her ear. “We don’t have to feel this way. We can fix it,” he whispered into her ear, carding his fingers through the softness of her hair and cradling her head in his hand.

Emma’s eyes fluttered closed and as soon as he pressed his lips to the pulse in her neck she was halfway to being lost. Her mind screamed no but her body was ignoring the protest, something she knew Killian recognised when she felt him smirk against the quickening rush of blood and her breath escaped her mouth on a betraying sigh.

“Let me take you there, Emma,” Killian rasped, his arms circling around her body and holding her to him, his mouth planting hot, wet kisses up the front of her throat when her head tilted back involuntarily and a soft whine escaped her throat.

“N...No…” Emma choked out, stiffening her arms and pushing against Killian’s chest.

“Yes,” Killian nuzzled against her face, their noses pressed side by side, his breath laden with the stench of too much booze.

“We shouldn’t…” Emma sighed breathlessly when Killian nibbled her lower lip. Her hands smoothed up his shirt, fingers curling around the disheveled material of his collar, still askew from the tussle in the bar. Her skin itched for his touch, her judgement clouded by the sweep of his strong hands over the curve of her behind.

“So, make me stop,” Killian challenged weakly when he felt Emma’s grip on his shirt relax a little and her body arch into his. He flattened his hand to the small of her back and pulled her closer once more, pressing an open mouth kiss to the underside of her jaw.

“Stop,” Emma gasped, swallowing hard and feeling the prickle of his stubble against the bob in her throat. “Killian, stop.” Emma pushed once more against his chest, harder than before and Killian let his hands slip from her body as he took a few disorientated steps backwards.

“Don’t you want this?” He squeaked, his body raging with arousal and his emotions edging on the verge of anger once more. He frowned at her standing before him, staring down into the gentle ripple of the water filled pothole between them. When she didn’t respond, and the pounding of blood in his ears became too much, Killian snapped. “I want this! It’s all I have left.”

“Killian, we can’t…”

“Can’t what, Emma?” He raised his voice, her name on his lips changed from seconds ago when he was muttering it against her skin with passion. Now it was filled with a desperation that she recognised completely because she felt it too. “I want you, Emma. You can make me forget, if only for a few hours. Why won’t you do that for me?”

“Don’t,” Emma warned, the tears welling up in her eyes and burning until she blinked them away. “Don’t make this about you and what you need.”

“Why not?” Killian seethed. “I’m an addict, right? Are we not the most selfish people?”

“It’s not that,” Emma whispered, wiping away her tears with the heel of her palm.

“Then what, Emma?” Killian yelled, staggering sideways and stumbling backwards until his shoulders bumped into the cold brickwork on the opposite building. “Tell me,” he begged, his tone softening when he saw her tears spill over her cheeks.

“It’s what I want!” Emma screamed, her resolve breaking into a million tiny shards that mirrored the state of her heart. Killian was silent, his sudden intake of breath the only sound between them. “I want to get lost in you, Killian. I want to fuck you until I fall, and it scares me.”

“Why does it scare you?” He asked softly.

“Because you are already lost,” Emma sniveled. “You fell a long time ago and I am all that is tethering you to reality right now. I see it, Killian, but you don’t. And I am not sure how many more times we can chase away the darkness inside of us before I can’t get back.”

“And that scares you most?” Killian said sadly, slumping against the brickwork even harder and hanging his head limply.

“It doesn’t scare you?” Emma cried with a watery voice, small and meek from her tears.

“Of course it does,” Killian scoffed with a slight sway. He pushed himself from the wall, his head spinning a little as he struggled to stay upright. “I cannot fathom that you would think so little of me that you would believe I would chase the high of an orgasm without a single thought of what it was doing to you each time!”

Emma sniffed, pulling the material of her sweater down over her hand and swiping the rough material under her eyes and her nose. “Do you?”

“How can you ask me that? Of course I do,” Killian soothed her worries instantly without a second of hesitation. “It’s all I think about. In that moment, when the light floods in and I am at peace, I wonder if you have made it too, if you feel it too, if we are both together in the one place that finally makes us feel whole.”

“You do?” Emma said weakly. She needed to hear it again.

“I do!” Killian shouted exasperated. “Emma, I might be a drunk but I am not an utter bastard. I know you are hurting too, and you need to get there as much as I do. Why are you fighting it?”

“I’m scared,” Emma whimpered so softly Killian struggled to hear her child like voice over the roar of a car passing by the blocked off exit to the alley way. Killian looked at her, really stared into her eyes and when he offered her a feeble sideways smile she saw a glimpse of the man she had fallen in love with before he had been changed forever. She trusted that man, trusted that he would never hurt her and would make sure she was always safe. That was the Killian she wanted.

“I will bring you back,” Killian nodded slowly and took a tentative step towards her once more. “I promise, you will not get lost.”

The moment the words left his mouth, Emma’s lips were on his. She didn’t care that he was a slowly sobering drunk because in that second and with those words, he was her Killian again. And she knew, with the clashing of teeth and the surge of heat over her entire body, that he was right and he would keep his word.

“It’s bad form to lie to a lady,” Emma reminded him as she flattened her hands to his chest and pushed him hard, his feet struggling to stop his weight falling against the wall behind him with a grunt.

“I would never,” Killian shook his head and reached for her hands, holding them against his chest and pulling her with him as he fell backward. In a split second Emma’s hands were on the buckle of his belt, wrenching the leather through the metal fastening harshly as Killian dropped his sleepy gaze between them to watch her deft fingers at work on the button and fly of his jeans.

“Say it again,” Emma commanded, reaching into his boxers and gripping the hardness that had sprung to life there. Killian took a second to swallow, her actions and alcohol stealing his thought process before he finally snaked his hands between them and tugged at the fastening of her jeans.

“I promise,” he rasped, pushing the stiff material down her legs awkwardly and helping her free one leg by stepping on the material at her feet. Emma cupped his face in her hands, licking her lips and crushing them to his with a feverish intensity that had been building inside of her since she witnessed him strike another human being. It wasn’t supposed to be arousing, but damn if it hadn’t sparked a flame inside of her that had been snuffed out long ago.

Emma clawed at the back of his head, fingernails scratching through the soft hair that was standing to attention there, holding his face to hers as she kissed him eagerly. Killian parted his lips, a groan escaping from his throat, and Emma’s tongue immediately found his, brushing over the muscle and finding the ridges of his teeth with each swipe. Killian tasted so familiar in his drunken state that for a nanosecond Emma worried she might never remember what he tasted like sober ever again.

She yelped, her skin becoming tight over her bones and the pooling heat between her legs contrasting the chill of the foggy night. It was damp, the low cloud in the air surrounding them without warning, making it harder to breathe between kisses and the clashing of teeth. Charged with an urgency that made his cock twitch, Killian spun them around and back Emma towards the wall, hands roaming to the swell of her behind and lifting her into his arms before her back had even hit the bricks.

Emma’s legs wrapped around his waist, her jeans getting tangled up around her other ankle and almost tying her legs together at the base of his spine. Killian reached between them, sliding a finger through the liquid warmth that had become exposed by her opening of her legs and relished in the strangled gasp that came from deep within her when he found her clit.

“There’s my girl,” Killian rasped against her face, a playful smirk spreading across his features. Emma barely heard him, the ringing in her ears deafening as she felt his fingers toying with her nerve bundle, slicking over her juices and teasing her entrance with the tip of his solidness. He had let her slide down the rough wall, mindful not to hurt her, and slipped in just the tip of his throbbing erection.

“Don’t tease me,” Emma whimpered, clutching his shoulders and pulling him closer.

“Where is the fun in giving you what you seek immediately?” Killian teased, rocking his hips forward until he was half buried inside of her. Emma’s back arched from the wall and she ground her teeth, jaw clenching and eyebrows knitting together in frustration.

“Just fuck me, Killian,” she begged, eyes opening to meet his darkened stare. Tiny beads of sweat had formed along his brow line, even in the cold night air, and Emma licked her lips salaciously. “I know you want this as much as I do.”

“You feel amazing,” Killian breathed, rolling his forehead against hers, skin sticking to skin and the gentle throb of Emma’s muscles pulling at him, begging him to go deeper, explore the depth of her with his hardness.

A door nearby opened, yellow light spilling out into the alley way and they froze, so close and yet so far from becoming one in the shadows. Emma slipped a little, impaling herself accidentally and clenched around him involuntarily when the sadistic burn of the sudden stretch made her call out his name. Killian clamped his hand over her mouth, shushing her quiet as the tips of his ears pinked and his legs shook from the sudden sensation around his erection. After what felt like an eternity the door closed again, the light disappearing and shrouding them in darkness once more. What breath they had been holding in was expelled and Killian released his grip, sliding his fingers down the chords of Emma’s neck and enjoying the feel of her quickened pulse pounding against his fingertips.

“What?” Emma purred softly when she noticed he was staring directly at his own hand loosely gripping her throat.

“I know how to make you feel better than you ever have,” Killian growled darkly. His grip tightened around her neck and Emma suppressed a squeak when he pulled himself out of her and then thrust his hips forcefully. He did it again, and again, the rhythm of his hips matching the thumping of Emma’s life force under the clutches of his fingers as he pressed harder against her neck, closing off her windpipe and ignoring the way her voice sounded so different as she begged for more.

Unable to see properly, Emma reached out to grab whatever she could find. A handful of hair, the shape of his ear, the collar of his shirt, anything. Blurring vision was nothing new to her as her pleasure peaked, but what was new was how with the deprivation of oxygen, Emma’s brain had somehow transported her into her euphoria much earlier than before.

“Don’t stop,” she squeaked, fisting a clump of Killian’s hair between her fingers and pulling his face to hers. Killian’s lips on her were like fire, branding her subconscious with the feel of bliss only he could provide. Her body went limp, pounded against the sharp edged bricks behind her by Killian’s relentless thrusts. There was no sound when she came, only the burn of his lips on hers as he kissed her slightly open mouth and the sting of his fingernails as they dug into the delicate skin of her neck.

Her rapture was there and it lasted longer than she had ever experienced before, the blinding white light she only ever saw a flash of taking over her entire being and transporting her to another place. She was deaf and she was blind but she was warm in this place, and she felt loved. In that moment she was free once more but dependant on the journey that got her there.

Emma knew at that moment that it would be much harder to get clean.

[always5hineee]

Hell and Back- Chapter 6: Good Samaritan (Trials 8-9)

Chapter warnings: Mild language

Word count: 1868

-----

       "Let me go next!" Kris demanded excitedly. Looking down, both Y/N and Suho seemed concern. The latter was the first to ask what was going on.

       "Why are you so eager?" He asked suspiciously. "Shouldn't you be worried about what the trial is? They're getting worse, after all. Not only that, but we don't even know who the limited power is yet."

       "Because! Vandalism and shoplifting? You guys are stealing all the fun ones! We have an excuse to be crazy, I'm sure as hell taking it. Y/N! Who's the limited power?" Glancing down, she searched for it.

       "I, uh... Xiumin." Frost powers.

       "See? No reason not to let me!" Sighing, Suho held his hand out in defeat.

       "If you guys are okay with it, I don't see why not." He conceded. Looking through the list, she selected and pressed Kris' name, waiting for the challenge to load up. After a moment of silence, everyone broke out into laughter. Kris, confused, tried to look over everyone's shoulders to see the trial.

       "What's so funny?" Getting frustrated, he pulled out his own phone, opening the app and clicking in to read the trial's description.

       Trial 8: Charity

       Find someone in need and make their life better out of your own generosity.

       Limited power: Xiumin

       Drop-out Fee: $200

       "You're kidding." He muttered, eyes wide in some form of annoyance or disbelief.

       "Hey, you're the one that wanted to go next." Lay snickered, causing him to turn around threateningly. He, of course, wasn't as scary as he thought he was, not to mention that nothing could get the group to stop making fun of him.

       "Man, it's not that hard, just give some homeless man a fiver or something." Sehun consoled him.

       "This is so dumb. Why am I the only one that didn't get a cool challenge?"

       "Property damage isn't cool-" Chen tried to tell him. "If anything, you're not in any danger, you should be grateful."

       "ʸᵒᵘ ˢʰᵒᵘˡᵈ ᵇᵉ ᵍʳᵃᵗᵉᶠᵘˡ" He mimicked, still annoyed as Chanyeol pointed out the windshield.

       "Just get off at the next exit, there are always homeless people lurking around. I wouldn't be surprised if there were a few on the corner." Unfortunately, there were none directly on the corner, but about fifteen seconds down the road, there was a clearly disheveled man traversing down the sidewalk. Pulling up rather aggressively, Kris through a few dollars out of his still-rolling window, saying rather loudly,

       "Here." Before continuing onward with his foot pressed on the gas. "There, I did it. What's the next challenge?" Looking down, Y/N noted a new message.

       "Uh, you didn't complete the challenge."

       "What do you mean?" He demanded, practically fuming at this point. "I literally did what the dumbass thing wanted. What the fuck else can I do?!" Suho put up a hand to warn against his language, but no one paid any mind.

       "It put up an extra line of dialogue that says, That wasn't very nice." She read to him as he was driving. Foot still pressed onto the gas pedal and hands tightened in anger around the steering wheel, everyone started looking for parts of the car to hold onto in fear.

       "Calm down, man! It's just one-" Luhan tried to start, but Kris cut him off.

       "Shut the fuck up." Driving until he saw another group of homeless or at the very least destitute, he rolled to a complete stop, grinning with one of the scariest smiles Y/N had ever seen. As they looked upon him with both wariness and curiosity, he held out another small amount of money. Walking up to grab it, they thanked him as he grit his teeth.

       "Have a good day." As he pulled away with forceful slowness, rolling up his window, he looked back over with flames in his gaze. "Was that fucking better?" Looking down again, Y/N sighed with relief.

       "Yeah. Trial completed."        

       "Who's the next power limit?" Baekhyun asked, leaning over as his elbow slipped onto Y/N's shoulder. She didn't know why they were all relying on her to look, they all had the app. Breathing out, she searched.        

       "It's Chen, so no lightning powers again. Who wants to go?"

       "Are you sure you don't want to take your second turn, Kris?" Kai laughed, poking him in the shoulder.

       "If you think it's so funny, do it yourself." The man grumbled.

       "Maybe I will." Kai retorted, reaching over to Y/N's phone and tapping his own name before she could stop him.

       "Kai-!" She reprimanded as they watched the new trial appear.

       "Oh, calm down, it'll be fine," He started, looking at his own phone. "Trial 9: Item of value. Dig through a dumpster for an item of at least a $20 dollar value. If nothing can be found, move to another and attempt until the trial is complete. Limited power, Chen, drop-out fee, $250."

       "That's not so bad." Sehun noted.

       "No, but it's disgusting." He returned, nose already scrunching up at the thought. "I don't want to dig through a dumpster."

       "Do you think it would count if we just went to a landfill?" Y/N suggested. "At least then there'd be a couch or something, that would have to be a $20 dollar item."

       "It's worth a shot." Suho agreed. "It's better than getting all caught up in rotten food or old diapers."

       "Now why would you say that?" Kai shook his head. Kris typed in the nearest landfill to his GPS, which was still a whopping twenty minutes away. As they drove, they were beginning to realize just how tired they were. It seemed they were all in agreement to take a break for the night after this trial. When they arrived at the landfill, it was closed, but the gate had no lock. Who would want to steal trash, after all? Luhan, still in the car, slid it open, allowing the car to pass through, pulling up.

       Kai exited the car, wading through the piles of trash for a few feet, disgust evident on his features. As Y/N had suggested, there was plenty of furniture lying around. He began placing his hand on each piece, looking back up to the car. As soon as his fingers grazed a metal bed frame, the trial bar lit up in acceptance. Giving him a thumbs up, he started walking back to the car.

       "Oh, so he gets off on a technicality, but I don't?" Kris complained.

       "They just hate you." Sehun agreed.

       "I wonder why-" Lay commented, causing the duo to bust out in laughter as Kris glared. Kai re-entered the car, sitting down and breathing out.

       "So, we go back to the studio and go back home?" Suho suggested, earning nods from everyone. When they arrived, they all said their brief goodbyes, agreeing to meet at nine the next morning. Many wanted to meet earlier, but both Xiumin and Sehun were strongly against it. They made it clear that nine was a gift for everyone else. Beginning to walk away, though, Y/N saw her screen light up red. Everyone else's seemed to be doing the same. Reading the white text sprawled out on the garish screen. STAY TOGETHER

       "You've got to be kidding." Baekhyun muttered, already yawning in fatigue.

       "So what, we just sleep here?" Kyungsoo suggested, earning groans from everyone. It wasn't like they hadn't done it before, but everyone wanted a bed. Sleeping on the floor just didn't seem appealing after all the new things they'd been forced to process that day.

       "Hotel?" Chanyeol offered.

       "As if they'd let us have thirteen people in the same hotel room. It's also kind of expensive." Suho shot down the idea.

       "I guess we can just go to our dorm rooms." Kai grumbled. "Our's is the biggest anyway, some of the boys can just share beds." Unable to come up with a better idea, they all agreed, making their way to Kai's dormitory. thankfully, no one was around to witness the large parade of people piling into the same building. Kai, Sehun, Kyungsoo, and Chanyeol all lived in the dorms, so they agreed to share their beds.

       Kris volunteered to sleep on the floor out of a need for space, and Tao volunteered to do the same out of generosity.  Seuhun shared with Xiumin and Baekhyun, as they were both smaller and could manage to pack in. It would be awkward, but better than the floor. Kyungsoo agreed to share with Chen and Lay, Chanyeol shared with Suho and Luhan, which only left Kai and Y/N.

       "You can just take the bed. I can sleep on the floor." He muttered under his breath as everyone began to get ready. The only reason they had left Kai was because, although not the tallest, he was generally considered to take up the most space. She shook her head awkwardly,

       "No, you're fine, you can have it, I don't mind."

       "I'm not gonna make a girl sleep on the floor." He said incredulously. "I'm dumb sometimes, but not that dumb."

       "It's fine, we can just share, it's not a big deal." She said. "I want to go shower, though." She was silently hoping he'd be asleep before she returned- that all of them would be asleep so that she could go with her original plan and stay on the ground. She really didn't mind, she didn't want to make things weird.

       Her shower was considerably longer than was necessary, but she used the alone time to think. Things were getting worse, but not considerably so. The trials were honestly more tedious than they were threatening. Having her group of friends with her was heartening as well. She still had the issue of figuring out how to tell them that her wish had already been input, but... there was no reason to do that now. She could at least wait and see if the drop-out fee changed. Maybe it would go up and down based on how bad the trial was? While that hadn't proven to be the case thus far, she could at least hope.

       Putting a towel on her head and drying herself off, she put on her clothes, causing them to be slightly damp. While uncomfortable, she wasn't about to walk into a room full of her male friends undressed. As much as she liked them, they were basically all animals. Thankfully, when she had returned, the room was dark and littered with scattered breaths. As far as she could tell, everyone was asleep.

       Making her way to Kai's bed, she looked down at his frame, chest softly rising and falling. Her original intention had been to sleep on the floor, but... now her bones were aching and her head was pounding. It would be really nice to stay there. He had already said he didn't mind, plus, he was sleeping. What harm could it do? Conceding to her own pressures, she tried to silently slip under the blanked, facing so that they were both positioned in the same direction, her back to his side. She would rest now, then see what the morning held.

Go to Chapter 7

[withastolenlantern]

The late morning sun peeked between the Center City towers to the south, breaking through the smog haze emanating from the drone freighters parked at the port. The streets of Rhawnhurst were already abuzz with life; she passed the barbershop and Señor Rodriguez’s dry cleaners and old Madam Tupolov begging for change outside the automat café as she walked down Bustleton Avenue toward the intersection with Cottman, taking the long route to school. Not that anyone would notice that she was late, or ditched entirely; it would be hard to make out any individual student in classes that ranged up toward fifty students. The public schools were still drastically underfunded with an urban tax base that was quickly dwindling. They said on the holo that the state had threatened to bring in another private contractor to run them, but they’d tried at least twice before to little avail, and what would they pay them with? The Delaware had flooded three out of the last five years, each time cresting to a new record and washing out more homes along its banks and tributaries. Turquoise had overheard her mother and aunt whispering about property values, and she knew that in some way that was tied to school funding. 

A drone truck cut the corner at Cottman trying to make the light, clipping the curb and sending a splash of sewage run off spraying up on the cracked sidewalk. “Watch where you’re going!” she screamed in vain as she dodged out of the way, knowing full well it couldn’t hear her. “Piece of shit truck.” She wiped the water from her coat, a dark purple hand-me-down from her sister Destiny, and flipped off the truck as the cross-walk indicator turned. Her shoes, worn with age, were soaked through to her ratty socks, and now made squishing sounds as she walked.

Turquoise hated school, but she’d made a deal with her mother that she’d keep going, to her science and math classes anyway, and when she finished her homework she could go down to Mister Krystkiewicz’s studio in the basement. Mama stressed that she needed to focus on her education, that it was the only way she’d ever make her way out of here. But the universities were just as packed as the public schools; her counselor had told her there were ten applicants for every seat, even at the community colleges, and her grades weren’t good enough to qualify for a scholarship. Her mother worked three swing shift jobs just to keep food on the table, and even then they were all crammed into a two-bedroom apart they shared with her aunt’s three children. There was no way any of them could afford any kind of higher schooling, but Turquoise had never had any interest anyway: she was born to be an artist, she was sure, no matter how impractical that might be in the current age. Kris, as she shortened her neighbor’s borderline-unpronounceable eastern European surname, had told her numerous times she had promise, and some days that was the only thing that kept her going. At fifteen, her life was approaching a turning point, where adulthood would quickly become a pressing reality, and with it the requirement to find some way to provide for herself or become one of the hundred million Americans living below the poverty line.

Her grandmother had been the one to inspire her; her mother agreed, but would likely prefer the term “blame.” Dolores Quinlan had been a woman out of time, before her lungs had given out, a remnant of an era of opportunity. She would take Turquoise and her sister to the art museum once a month on the free Sundays, and afterward she would walk the girls down Fairmount Avenue for ice cream, making sure to point out the large mural of Irene Brevis, even then still mentioned with the reverence of hushed tones. The elderly woman, an idealistic academic in a world rapidly devolving towards the brutally pragmatic, did her best to instill in her granddaughters an appreciation for the abstract and intangible. Turquoise delighted in the visits, drinking in the history and the artistry in equal amounts. The sculpture gallery was her favorite; she loved to walk underneath the dangling installation chimes of Ole Sted as they glittered and whistled in the ambient breeze. One day she hoped to work in a similar medium, and Kris had dug up an old MIG weld unit for her to practice on tin cans and other sheet metal she collected from the building recycling dumpster. Her mother was skeptical but supportive, and mostly concerned that she didn’t burn down the only building she could afford to house them.

As she rounded the corner onto Cottman, she noticed the same drone that had nearly hit her driving erratically and squealing to a stop at the next stoplight. Catching up to it, she looked through the window, and noticed that this particular truck was being piloted by an actual person. It was peculiar to see, but not altogether strange; she knew some trucks carried armed security to protect valuable cargo or oversee important deliveries. The man in the truck was not wearing a Union uniform, though, and he had what appeared to be a bandana wrapped around his nose and mouth. He was sweating, even through the air conditioning of the truck, and pounding on the steering wheel as if to will the traffic light to change.

In the distance, she heard sirens wail, and as she turned to look, the engine of the truck roared to life as it flew forward into the intersection, through the red light. Horns blared as the cars in the cross-traffic swerved to avoid it, and with a loud thud a sedan collided full-speed with the back corner of the truck, sending both vehicles spiraling through the intersection. 

The sedan barreled toward Turquoise. She screamed, more instinct than conscious fear, and dropped her school bag to the pavement, ducking into a squat as if that might offer any protection. The car crashed head-on into the support pole for the traffic light, the metal and plastic bending and buckling with a terrible groan as a shower of sparks flew to the ground. The front end crumpled to a heap, and she heard the loud pop of airbags deploying from within the passenger compartment. A dark black smoke belched and hissed from under the crushed bonnet cover. 

Turquoise was disoriented; her ears rang from the sounds and her head spun as she tried to stand back up. She stood before bending reflexively at the waist, and steadied herself by leaning against the now-bent light pole. Her vision was blurred, likely from shock, and she felt slightly nauseous, probably just as much from the stench of the car’s burned electronics as the adrenaline flooding her system.

She heard a low moan from the passenger of the sedan. Turquoise breathed deep and cautiously tip-toed around to the side of the car, peering through the shattered window. It was a woman, slight and not much older than herself. She was dressed in business clothes, a blazer and slacks, and blood caked her white blouse. Her head was supported by the deployed airbag, its cushion now stained with a mixture of blood and makeup. She wasn’t moving, and her breathing was heavy and laborious. Turquoise shook her shoulder gently. “Ma’am? Are you okay?”

The woman screamed, high and shrill. Turquoise jumped back, startled. “Are you okay?” she asked again. “Here, let’s get you out.”

The woman’s screams turned to sobs. She was clearly still in shock from the crash. Turquoise tugged at the door, trying to free the woman from the car, but it was stuck. She pulled again at the handle, harder this time, and it gave way; the door came free from the broken hinges at the frame and slammed to the pavement with a heavy clang. There was blood everywhere. The woman’s leg was pinned below the now-crushed console; a long jagged piece of the bent door frame was jammed deep into her calf muscle. She continued to cry, deep painful gasps. “I think my leg is broken,” she mewed through the sobs.

“Stay here. I’ll get help,” Turquoise said, summoning a calmness to her voice that masked her internal panic. She turned away from the car toward the rest of the chaos. Across the intersection the truck had spun a half-rotation and bounced off a fire hydrant before slamming sideways into the glass facade of a storefront. The hydrant rocket into the air, a geyser of pressurized water throwing the cast iron fixture high into the sky only to come crashing onto the roof of a parked car, its bleating alarm now adding to the cacophany of the scene. 

Turquoise walked slowly across the street, taking care to avoid the shards of broken glass that now littered the intersection. Traffic had come to a stop, and people were slowly getting out of their cars to assess the scene. A man on a mobile had a holo open, and it looked like he was coordinating with an emergency dispatcher. She approached the truck quietly, and the door to the passenger compartment flew open, the driver spilling down into a heap on the sidewalk the sidewalk. His shirt was torn slightly, but he seemed mostly unharmed apart from a cut across his forehead. He quickly bolted upright and clutched his arm gingerly while he looked around, confused. She tried to ask him if he needed help, but as she got close he took off, sprinting toward an alleyway behind the ruined storefront. 

“Hey! Hey asshole, get back here!” she yelled after him, giving chase, but after a few steps she thought better of it and let him go. She’d gotten a good look at him, and the police were sure to want her statement when they arrived.

A bang behind her caused her already quickened pulse to skyrocket. She turned around and found that the loading door at the rear of the truck had sprung open in the crash, and was swaying in the early morning breeze, clanging against the side of the building. Boxes and crates had spilled out of it and were scattered across the sidewalk, and several people were now gathered around, gawking at the contents.

Turquoise joined them. Several of the crates had broken up, and her eyes quickly went wide in terror. She immediately recognized what she saw from the nightly news feeds; one didn’t grow up in one of America’s most violent cities without knowing a gun when they saw it. But these weren’t the small handguns she’d seen tucked into the waistbands of wanna-be thugs and bangers; these were large and heavy, with polished chrome finishing that glinted in the morning sun. There were five to a crate, and she counted at least ten more crates. 

Inside the truck were more, and things she couldn’t name but looked just as dangerous. Large tubes with switches and holo-projectors were scattered on the floor. A dozen or so heavy-looking vests were piled in a cardboard box; a large, inactive drone was parked on the bed, but not the type of delivery or advertising drones she’d seen before. This one was sharp, angular, and with much bigger rotors. It had small stanchions to either side where large, multi-barreled guns were mounted. It was painted matte black with cartoon shark teeth along the front edge. 

And in the far back of the cargo area, near to the passenger compartment, sat a large plastic vat. It had various tubes connected between it and some kind of controller that sat next to it. The apparatus hummed quietly, but ominously. Turquoise wasn’t sure what she was looking at, but she knew it couldn’t be good.     

Sirens wailed in the distance, and she was never so glad to hear them.

[jinmukangwrites]

Nightwing Bad Things Happen Bingo: Locked Up and Left Behind

X/Done Heart/Next WiFi/Requested

Ever since Jason was brought into the Wayne family, kidnappings came to be a rare occurrence. Dick’s theory was that most criminals realized how stupid it was to go after Bruce Wayne, especially now that he was more public with funding Batman and the Justice League. Dick had been kidnapped hundreds of times and not a single perp got a single coin out of it. Just a lot of bruises from Batman and a long sentence to prison.

Jason… when he was alive… got kidnapped once or twice, but he was usually rescued fairly quickly since the only people risking getting Batman and the League on their tail were idiots. As he grew up and Bruce hadn’t met a single demand of any kidnapper and still got Jason back safe and sound, and as time went by kidnappers just kind of… gave up.

And then Bruce adopted Tim, and no one remembered that kidnapping was a thing until Bruce got the phone call.

Dick happened to be there. He was over visiting the manor mostly because Alfred mentioned how lonely the manor had been and how Tim spent most of his days locked up in his room. Another reason for being there was that Bruce was still hurting and brooding over the grave, as if it was his fault Ra’s Al Ghul and Joker decided to be evil. Dick was still aching too, he would be lying if he said he didn’t hope to see a shit-eating grin on a familiar boy’s face when he walked in.

He was sitting in Bruce’s study, just lounging on one of the chairs set off to the side that were set there just in case Bruce actually wanted to talk to people in his office. Bruce usually didn’t, but that never stopped Dick from barging in, plopping himself down on a chair, and pulling out his phone to play whatever weird app he found a couple minutes before. This time it was a color by number game.

He was working on the number 25 when the phone on Bruce’s desk began to ring. Bruce looked up from whatever papers he had been going through and lifted an eyebrow at the phone. It was almost three in the afternoon and Bruce had no scheduled talks or meetings with anyone, so the caller could be just some random phone solicitor that got lucky enough to call Bruce Wayne. After a few more rings, Bruce sighed and lifted the phone to his ear.

“Bruce Wayne speaking,” he said in a perfect businessman tone.

Dick rolled his eyes and went back to his game, but his attention was quickly back on Bruce when he heard a sharp growl. “What it the meaning of this?!”

A deep pit suddenly formed in Dick’s stomach as his mind went through all the scenarios that could get this reaction out of Bruce.

“Don’t touch a hair on his head,” Bruce practically yelled into the phone and Dick felt like he needed to puke. Bruce looked genuinely worried. “You hear me?!”

It hit him like a truck when Dick realized school ended more than a hour ago.

Tim should have been home.

“I want to talk to him.”

Dick remembered all the times Bruce said that, but it was Dick he wanted to talk to. There were a number of different ways the criminals would react to that. Some would hand Dick the phone, some would shove the phone against his ear, some would refuse, and there were a rare, heartless few that-

The sound of a agonized filled scream sounded over the phones speakers, reaching Dick’s ears. He stood up from the couch and stood there helplessly as Bruce yelled into the phone.

A rare, heartless few that proved life by making it known they have no problem taking it.

Dick could hear sobbing over the low, incoherent voice of the kidnapper from the phone. It made Dick want to join in on crying.

Suddenly, all noise cut off with a beep and Bruce was left yelling at a ended call to not hang up!

“Bruce?” Dick asked. Dick never had that much experience with being on this end of kidnappings. Sure, it had happened a couple times with Jason but Dick never got used to it.

If the way Bruce was getting up from his desk and slamming the phone down on sharp and jerky movements was anything to go by, Bruce had never gotten used to it too.

“Go to the school. Trace his steps,” Bruce ordered.

“What about you?” Dick asked, already backing up towards the study door.

“I’m calling Commissioner Gordon, then Batman will join you.”

-o-o-o-o-

Batman never joined. The reason being so was that Bruce Wayne got another call from the kidnappers to negotiate the life of a 14 year old boy while with Gordon. He was practically being forced to stay at home with a couple cops to watch over him. Thankfully, Gordon didn’t exactly know Dick was back in town.

So he was forced to find out out on his own what happened. He first went to the school and checked the cameras. Tim made it out in one piece, he was busy talking to some friends and their conversation lasted until he got to the front gates of the school. There were no more cameras from there, so he checked the traffic cameras. There weren’t many, just mostly at the intersections to check for people running red lights, but was able to follow Tim a couple blocks. He was probably going to the public bus stop since Alfred was out of town—he insisted on just taking the bus and Bruce and Dick didn’t fight him on it.

Dick checked the cameras at the bus stop and waited… Tim never showed up.

So, in-between the last traffic intersection and the bus stop, Tim was taken. That’s a whole block of street.

As Dick Grayson, dressed in inconspicuous attire, he walked up and down the street with a picture of Tim. He couldn’t find any cameras so he had to resort to asking side street shops, homeless people, and street performers if they’ve seen “my little brother”.

Hmm, he looks familiar… oh yeah, he was that kid who waved at me earlier. I think he was just walking down the street.

He gave me a twenty after my song. Nice kid. But he looked a little nervous. He turned the way he came from and walked quickly away. I hope he’s okay.

Yeah the brat ran into me like a bat out of hell. Knocked my groceries everywhere.

Ah, he ran into the alley. Was there anyone following him? Ah… I think a car turned into the alley a bit after him. Make and model? What are you a cop?

Spare some change? Oh. That boy… Yeah… I saw him… look, I can’t just give information for free… oh thank you kind sir. Right, so he ran in here looking all crazy. I hid behind the dumpster because… crazy people are bad news for people like me. It’s a good thing I did because this black van pulled into the alley and drove up next to him. Some guys came out and grabbed him, I think they drugged him I don’t know, and drove off. Yeah, I did nothing! Its none of my business.

The homeless person shuffled away to heaven knew where and Dick was left standing in the middle of stinking alleyway, limply holding a picture of Tim. Black van. Classic but effective. It’s also easy to find on a traffic cam.

-o-o-o-o-

Dick checked every camera he could and after a few agonizing hours, he finally found the van just barely skimming the corner of the feed of a camera on the inside of a gas station. The van purposely avoided every camera that watched the streets, but Dick thankfully lucked out. The van was black and there was a blurry image of a man at the steering wheel. The more he looked, he noticed the black of the van was actually a sloppy paint work. Probably spray paint. He zoomed in and used every program he had access to to clear up the image. Under the black paint was a logo… if he could just get it clear enough to read…

Finally, the logo became clear enough for him to read. Without wasting a second, Dick slipped into his suit and swung out into the now darkening city.

-o-o-o-o-

It was the logo of an old grocery shop down in the slums. It remained open mostly because it was the only cheap place to get okay food for the people that lived in the area. The grocery shop used to do house orders, which is the reason they would have cars with logos on them.

It only took Nightwing thirty minutes to arrive at the store. It was closed and the lights on the inside were off. Didn’t matter, Nightwing just went there really to see if he could find a list of the employees, but when he looked to the side of the building he saw a familiar van.

All of a sudden, things were so much more urgent because Tim was in there.

He snuck over to the windows and looked inside. The aisles were short and close together, most were pretty bare, waiting for someone to restock. Other than that, the building was eerily empty.

He silently picked the lock on the doors and went inside like a shadow. It was silent, not even a humming of the AC could be heard. He swallowed and continued deeper into the building. He turned into a door that said “employees only” and slipped in.

The other side of the door was split into three areas. One lined the back of the fridges where chilled items like milk and eggs could be stocked easily. There were boxes stacked on top of boxes in that section, it was also about the temperature of a fridge, but other than that, it was empty. The second section was filled with large metal structures for normal storage. Glass jars and chip bags stuffed into boxes sat on the shelves. Nightwing took his time looking around each corner of the section, there were too many places for someone to hide it seemed, but after extensive search, Nightwing’s search came out to be fruitless.

The last section was behind a large metal door with big red letters that said “KEEP CLOSED”. Nightwing had to put his whole body weight into sliding the door open, and when he did he was met with below zero temperatures.

The freezer.

He stopped at the entrance and looked into the darkness of the freezer with nothing but his night vision. There were metal shelves and pallets littering the floor. Too many places to hide, but not a very comfortable one. He could see his breath puff up in front of his face and the cold was already biting through his suit. At first glance, the freezer looked empty. He sighed, watching his breath rise, already considering leaving and looking for other places the kidnappers could have hid.

However, for the first time since he got to the grocery shop, he heard something.

It was muffled and scared sounding. Whimpers and sniffles.

Tim.

Nightwing went deeper into the freezer, ignoring how he could already feel goosebumps forming on his arms. He turned around a shelf and came to a stop when he saw Tim.

Or at least, Tim was the first thing he saw. He was tied to a metal chair with his hands probably duct taped behind him. His ankles were restrained in a similar way to the legs of the chair. He had a length of tape stuck over his mouth and even more wrapped around his head to blindfold him. A dark stain covered his shirt near to his shoulder, probably blood from whatever they’ve done to him when Bruce asked to talk to Tim. He was shivering, stripped down to just his undershirt and boxers. Snot ran out of his nostrils and trailed over the tape gagging him.

Unfortunately though, Tim wasn’t alone.

There was a man standing casually behind Tim, one arm wrapped around Tim’s shoulders and a hand pressed a gun to Tim’s temple like it was the easiest thing in the world. He had a ski mask on.

“Well,” the man said and pressed the gun harder into Tim’s temple, making a horrid mark, “I was expecting Batman.”

Expecting?

Stars exploded at the back of his head.

Nightwing felt the world tilt and his body go down with it. He stumbled and landed on the ground, just barely able to catch himself on his hands and knees. He immediately pushed himself to his feet to face whoever had snuck up on him while he was busy being terrified of how terrible people could be, but the world exploded into blinding light.

Or someone just turned on the lights and his night vision freaked out.

Nightwing called out and squeezed his eyes shut. His skull ached from whatever he had been hit with and the cold was numbing his hands. He could only imagine how cold Tim was.

He heard something swing, but he wasn’t fast enough to dodge some kind of bar as it swung at his head. It cut the skin above his eyebrow and knocked him off his feet. He landed roughly on the ground and groaned when hands latched onto him and began to take his escrima sticks.

He forced his stinging eyes open, thankful that his mask had automatically turned off the night vision, but the sight that he saw was the man grinning from his eyes and holding the gun store an uncomfortable angle under Tim’s jaw.

“Stand down or I blow the kids brains out.”

Tim tried to shove the man off to the best of his abilities, but the man held him too tight. Dick had no doubt the man would shoot Tim. By the looks of it, he already stabbed him. Nightwing forced him to relax into the ground. He forced himself to allow gloved hands to lift him up and shove him against one of the shelves of the freezer.

Forced himself to remain still as his suit was put in the process of being stripped from his body.

“Where’s Batman?” The man asked. Nightwing glared and ignored how his shoulders were shaking. He clenched his jaw to stop the chittering before it started. The man sighed at Nightwing’s silence and pressed the gun harder into Tim’s jaw. Tim made a strangled whimpering sound at the back of his throat. “Where’s the Bat, Nightwing?”

Nightwing loosened his jaw and shot a quick glare at the men, there were multiple, who had finally stripped home down to his underwear. All he had was his mask which he hoped beyond hope they would leave alone. Before he knew it, his hands were zip tied in front of him with multiple and heavy duty ties. “Not coming,” Nighting growled out, “he couldn’t make it. Sent me.”

The ties dug into his skin as the men shoved him forward and forced his arms upward, where chains were hanging. His arms were wrapped up in the chains and a lock and key held them tight against his bare arms. The metal felt colder than ice and the air on his bare skin felt like torture. His jaw was shaking even as he tried to keep it still.

The men backed off and the man who held the gun against Tim finally lowered it. Nightwing couldn’t help the shuddering breath of relief that came out of him. The man cut the tape holding Tim’s ankles to the chair and hefted Tim up by the back of his shirt. Tim shook his shoulders but he didn’t look strong enough to shake off a fly, let alone the grasp of a psycho.

“I suppose we’ll have have to hope you’re telling the truth, or else the kid gets it.”

“D- don’t do this,” Nighting tried, as last resort, “there’s oth-other w-w-ays-”

His whole body was shaking and his fingers were already numb. The man laughed and began to drag Tim out of the freezer. No one said anything more as one of the other men slapped a piece of tape over Nightwing’s mouth and followed the leader out. The lights were shut off and the door of the freezer was rolled shut. There was the sound of chains on the other side of the door and Nightwing realized that they were locking the door shut. Even if he got out of his restraints, he would still be stuck.

He shivered in the dark, desperately looking for ways to escape and save Tim, but as his nose began to run, he already knew there were no options other to wait. He couldn’t move from his spot and his limbs were too numb to try and escape the locked chains. All he could do was wait and try to keep his body temperature up for as long as he could.

He lasted an hour and a half. He stopped shivering and blood trailed down his arms from the ties. His legs were so week he could hardly stand up any longer, leaving him to dangle from the chains, which would have hurt if his whole body wasn’t so numb.

His eyes were too heavy to keep open, and he realized that with Bruce being public about his funding both forced the idiots to stop trying, and the smart ones to get smarter.

-o-o-o-o-

Just, honestly, from now on, expect these to end early. Find the rest on AO3!

[dbhilluminate]

DBH: Illuminate- AV log 4.5

Characters: Connor, Kate, Amanda Word Count: 3,737

Chapter Index

November 11th, 2038- 7PM            Meet me at the corner across from Capitol Park. I can be there in a little over an hour.            It still baffled him how quickly the weather could change. Forty minutes after he’d reached out to Illuminate the sky had clouded over, and by seven it had already been dripping quiet showers for ten minutes. The park had cleared the moment the weather changed, leaving him alone with the other Androids doing construction on his side of the street, and those who had been parked while their owners shopped nearby.      But as he stood there watching, he was struck by a stray thought- the way they stood there unmoving, staring straight ahead, waiting for permission to leave their space, felt simultaneously natural and unnatural and made him realize for the first time how uncomfortable he was around Androids that weren’t deviants. While he could still understand their programming and how and why they reacted to circumstances, the autonomy he had been granted in order to effectively blend in alongside humans had rendered him an outsider to his own kind. He was no longer idle, he was constantly observing, thinking, learning, evolving, while they remained the same- shackled, limited, and stagnant.      But while it was true he possessed more freedom than his Android brothers and sisters, it still didn’t make him human, or even deviant. Although he had chosen to pursue his own path to accomplish his mission, his objective remained, no matter how hard he tried to wish it away. Connor was still bound by the same laws and restrictions that separated them from the humans they’d been so carefully modeled in the image of, trapped in the duality of being neither human nor android and yet both. So what did that make him?            “RK, over here.”            Connor turned and looked up the street behind him to find Kate standing in the shadows behind a dumpster with her hands in her pockets and a nervous gaze sweeping the area. It didn’t matter whether he’d arrived first or how alert he remained, she somehow always managed to sneak up on him. It was no wonder she hadn’t been caught.      He started toward her at a slow walk but trotted across the lane as a car came up the road and maneuvered around him. “Is everything alright?” he asked when she ducked her head to hide her face from the driver of the sedan as it passed.      “I’m fine,” she fibbed, intentionally leaving out the part about not having anyone to watch her back remotely at the moment, “But I can’t stay long. What did you need me for?”      “You don’t look alright,” he insisted when she deflected. “Would you be more comfortable somewhere else? Maybe, off the streets?”            Kate considered his words for a moment and chewed on the inside of her cheek as she wavered between the decision to stay or go, half-way turned back up the way she’d come, then looked up at him after a brief hesitation and nodded over her shoulder for him to follow.

     They turned right down the next alley and wove their way through the back-streets in silence for several minutes until she stopped, climbed up onto a dumpster, and leaped to the ladder of an external fire escape on the side of the building before climbing all the way to the top of the steps, eight stories up. Connor followed at his own pace, wondering where she could have possibly been taking him, but when he reached the top and climbed through the window of the empty top floor, it became clear.      Although the building had been finished on the outside, the interior of this floor was nothing but empty space- concrete floors covered in dust and plastic tarps, bare ceilings with exposed copper piping, and plaster blasted haphazardly over steel beams. There were no cameras, no tenants, no prying eyes; they could talk here undisturbed as long as they needed to.      Connor stepped carefully over the ledge and propped himself up on the window frame as he pulled himself inside and placed one foot on the ground at a time before standing up and getting a good look around. Kate stood at a hole in the wall across the room and looked out over what they could see of the city from their vantage as she listened to the plastic sheets feather in the wind whipping through the unfinished window. He could see that she was much more at ease here but still waited for her to speak first.            “I stayed here for the first two months after I deviated,” she explained with a thoughtful smile painting her lips. “It kept me away from the humans who would have destroyed me and allowed me to do my research in peace- this is where my message was born, inside these empty walls are memories of worse times in my life… loneliness, misery, anger, self-loathing… but this place was safe to me; it was home.”      As her voice trailed off, she turned to the side and leaned her temple against the concrete, then closed her eyes as she slowly rolled her head back to listen to the rain slap against tarps as she re-lived one of those bittersweet days from her past, just for a moment. “The sun used to come up... right over there,” she shared quietly as she pointed east toward the darkening horizon, “Around six forty-five every morning...”            He came further into the room, one slow step at a time, and studied it from top to bottom, corner to corner, picking up on some of the more obvious signs that someone had once lived there: old newspapers, writing on the walls, and piles of old blankets on the ground next to a rusty oil drum with a hole cut out of one side, filled with burnt kindle and ash, littered the floor like the post-apocalyptic wastes of Detroit in ruin. Barring the amenities of a furnished apartment that made a home feel comfortable, it had more than an android would have needed to survive, and the privacy to promote it. Curious fingers brushed over the wall beside her where RA9 was written in several different shades of permanent marker, thousands of times over.      “Why did you leave?” he asked, expecting that she may have anticipated the question, but she had been too lost in her thoughts to hear him the first time.            “What?” The woman blinked out of her trance and looked over at him as he repeated the question and elaborated.      “You were high enough away from the humans to not be noticed, in a part of the building no one cared enough about to finish, let alone revisit. It would have been unlikely that you would have been found unless you were making too much noise and drawing attention to yourself... so why did you leave?”            Something dark flashed in her eyes for a moment before she shook her head and refocused on him, the words spilling out as if to cover up something she’d rather forget, but he didn’t miss the quiver in her chin before she started speaking. “It was in the middle of town, too hard to get in and out of without being seen… too many people worried about squatters in the building. Someone called the cops a few times, so it ended up just not being worth the risk.”      “And now?”      Kate gave him a coy grin and shook her head. “I found a nice little place with a great view that no one wanted… little drafty, and the roof leaks when it rains,” she embellished with a gesture of her hand toward the ceiling and a quick shrug, “But, beggars can’t be choosers.”      “No, I guess not,” Connor smiled quietly and chuckled as he pulled a coin from out of his jacket lapel and flicked it unconsciously from one hand to the other.      For a while, the rain stole away the silence, and he paced the room with light steps to keep the hollow clacking of his shoes from ripping them out of their quiet moment, but it seemed she was already miles ahead of him, unwilling to waste any more time.      “So, why did you call me?”            The comfort nurtured by the last ten minutes of their impromptu tour of the town flushed out of him along with his smile as she reminded him this hadn’t been a social call. The Android Detective stopped, caught the quarter between his fingers, and turned to meet her gaze, only then realizing that his reason for being there was going to upset her, and he was unprepared.      With a feigned breath of confidence, he straightened up and tugged out the cuffs of his shirt under his jacket before answering her question. “We arrested a deviant today at a pawn shop midtown who had a forged ID, and I was wondering if you knew anything about it.”            Kate’s entire demeanor changed in an instant, like someone had switched off the lights, boarded up the windows, and locked the front door, and Connor knew he’d made a mistake. Arms crossed, eyes cold and unrelenting, she turned to face him with an indignant stance and a curl in her lip, her tone angry as it had been the day of her first broadcast as Illuminate.      “I may know that there are people in the city who forge ID’s for deviants so they can start a new life free of prejudice and persecution,” she sneered. “But I don’t know who, their names are safe with people I’ve come to call friends… and even if I did, I wouldn’t give you their names. Did you really expect me to?”      He winced at the sting of her words and cast his eyes to the floor as he clenched his teeth in shame. “To be honest... no,” he admitted, “But I had to try.”      He shoulders lowered, and her hands relaxed over her forearms. “Why?”            Even though he knew it was coming he’d still hoped it wouldn’t, because he didn’t have a good answer, only the logical one: the one that reminded him that he was a machine, the one that made her distrustful of him.      Connor hesitated to answer. His LED ring lit yellow and his voice nearly cracked as he forced out the words at just above a whisper, “You were the only lead I had…”      Although Kate’s gaze remained hard, she couldn’t miss the helplessness in the way his voice trailed off. Something was amiss. Why would he have called for a meeting, with only one goal in mind, if he knew he’d get nothing out of it? It just didn’t make sense. Unless…            The silence was disquieting, strained and tense. The boy fidgeted as her expression morphed from anger to confusion to focused intent, and waited for her to respond for what seemed like days. What was she thinking? Was she angry? Would she tell him to leave?      “Connor can I ask you something…?”            The sudden question interrupting his racing thoughts made his heart palpate as he jumped and snapped his attention up to her clear blue eyes. He’d spent enough time with her to know by now that whenever she started using his name instead of nicknames or nouns like “detective” to refer to him, what came next was usually important.      “Of course,” he assured.      “And I want you to give me an honest answer, none of this “because it’s what I was programmed to do” or “because it’s what cyberlife wants” bullshit. I need a real answer.”      Connor’s brows twitched and he tilted his head as he considered her request but nodded silently to agree to her terms.      “Why are you so hell-bent on accomplishing this “mission” of yours, even when you know it’s the wrong thing to do?”            The answer was simple, but he found it much harder than he imagined to say it out loud. At first he thought that maybe this was due to Cyberlife security protocols restricting his ability to share that information freely, but realized that it was more likely the shame of not wanting to find out what would happen if he defied his programming that was holding him back.      “... because I’ll be decommissioned if I don’t succeed,” he finally stated after wrestling with his thoughts for a while.              The complexity of his dilemma was starting to come into focus now that she had started asking the right questions. Kate didn’t respond immediately, but her expression did soften as the picture of him became a little more clear. When he’d reached out to her that evening, he hadn’t done it because he wanted help on the case. Whether or not he was aware of the underlying intent, he’d called on her because he needed her help- because deviant or not, Connor didn’t like the idea of being relieved of his function, of passing into non-existence, of death. But where was that stemming from?      “Does that scare you?” she asked after remaining quiet for several minutes.      “I’m not sure that “scared” is the right word,” he confessed, “I’ve never felt scared.”      “But it’s not something you want,” she insisted.      “The prospect of deactivation compels me to do whatever I need to accomplish my mission, no matter how unreasonable it may seem.”      “So what you’re saying is, it’s just self-preservation?” she concluded.            He looked as if he were about to confirm her statement, but instead he set his jaw, clenched his teeth and looked away as he slipped a hand over the back of his neck.      “Not entirely…” he mumbled as he paced the room again, one slow step at a time.      “Then what?” Kate prodded.      “I don’t-” he started with an exasperated chuckle. “I don’t know, alright? All I know is, when I think about what happens if I fail… there is no other option but to succeed, because I don’t want-”            Kate’s eyebrows lifted as he cut himself off, but they both already knew what he had been about to say. The words repeated in his mind, an irrational statement that he couldn’t quantify or rationalize. The ring on his temple turned yellow and out of the corner of his eye, his self-testing protocol blipped to alert him to a spike in software instability.            “... because you don’t want to die?” she finished as she stepped around him and squared up eye-to-eye.      “I’m not alive,” he quickly deflected, hollow and rehearsed.      “You keep saying that, but I’m starting to think you don’t really believe it.”      Illuminate sighed, lifted her chin, and crossed her arms. She was starting to grow tired of beating around the bush.      “You don’t believe me?” He gave her a weak smile to try and mask the defeat in his eyes, but she didn’t take the bait.      “I believe you don’t value yourself as an individual,” she ventured, “And that’s why you can’t wrap your head around what you’re feeling.”      “Well, I am just a machine,” he stated.      “No,” she argued, frustration in her tone, as she turned and took a few steps away from him, placed her hands on her hips and forced a somber smile. “No- you’re more than just a tool, Connor. You can be so much more than a blunt instrument wielded by Cyberlife to enforce their twisted idea of harmony.”            It was the first time anyone had ever spoken to him so candidly about his self-worth and made him question what he “could be”. For him there had never been any doubt in his mind about what he was and what he was meant to do; but now, because of the faith entrusted to him by someone whose opinion he thought highly of, the possibility of being more was no longer out of reach, should he decide to seize the opportunity      But today was not that day. Today he would continue to hesitate.            “Maybe I could be,” he agreed in melancholic dismay as his gaze fell to the floor, “But I’m not.”      The pain settled into the corners of her eyes and mouth, and she shook her head softly as she closed her eyes. “No… not today you’re not. But just know that if the day comes that you are… you won’t be alone.”            He didn’t know what to say. In the back of his mind, he knew that Amanda was still watching, listening. And even if he wanted to thank her, even if he wanted to tell her the truth, Amanda would never allow the words to leave his lips before he was removed from reality and locked away forever in Cyberlife’s cold storage of failed prototypes. Until he was ready to brave that possibility, she needed to believe he was still on Cyberlife’s side.            One of Kate’s hands rose between them and gave his arm a soft squeeze. “I don’t fault you for being afraid of risking your life for convictions you aren’t one hundred percent sure you agree with.”      “But you’re disappointed…”      “Of course I’m disappointed, but I get it now,” she reassured as she stepped away from him and slipped her hand off his arm. “Look, I have to go… I can’t give you any sort of lead that will undermine my work or put my colleagues at risk, but what I can tell you is this- look closer at what’s going on in that pawn shop. It’ll keep you busy for a while.”      Connor blinked rapidly as she turned to leave, and started in her direction instinctively with questions. “But, I thought you said-“      “If you’ve already been in there sniffing around, chances are they’ll be gone before you can pick up their trail, but it should be enough to keep the case alive, for now.”                        As her figure disappeared down the stairwell on the other side of the building, Connor started to feel a familiar prickling in the back of his mind that set him on edge.      Amanda wanted to speak with him.      Connor shuddered as he stood up straight, and hesitated to close his eyes completely, but forced them shut and awoke once more in the garden, this time greeted by cherry blossom petals skipping across a cool breeze that wrapped around him like Cyberlife’s fingers around his throat. One hand reached up to loosen the knot of his tie as he stepped out onto the white marble path and followed it around until he found Amanda sitting on a boulder underneath a willow tree off the trail. She seemed… happy. Why was she happy?      The woman’s eyes lit up and a smile bloomed across her face as she waved him over, and his stomach knotted as he obeyed.            “Hello Amanda,” he greeted in as calm a tone as he could manage.      “Well done Connor… you’ve really outdone yourself this time,” she congratulated as she stood to cup his hand between both of hers. “I always knew you were capable of accomplishing the impossible.”      Connor squinted as his lips parted. “I’m...  sorry but, to which success are you referring? We haven’t made any significant progress on our case yet.”      The woman pursed her lips and shook her head. “Come now, no need to be modest,” she cooed as she looped her arm through his and led him down the walkway at a slow pace. “You’ve gained Illuminate’s trust.”            It took every ounce of self-control for him to keep walking and act like he hadn’t just been hit by a truck, and Connor’s eyelids flickered softly in dismay at the realization of what she thought he’d done.      “And what’s more…” A derisive chuckle interrupted her thoughts as her grin turned wicked as the devil she was. “She truly believes that by selling out her brothers and sisters, she’s helping you buy time to change your loyalties.”      All he could hear was white noise. Amanda’s laugh was so distorted she may as well have been in another place entirely. It hurt like nothing he had ever felt before to have to stand there and agree with her, even worse to think about how far this would have to go before he decided he was brave enough to end the deception.      “It wasn’t easy,” he lied as he fought back bitter tears.      “And yet you’ve succeeded where others failed. Incredible work.”            “Wait- others?” It was a minute detail that she’d easily dismissed, but the word struck him so hard he stopped thinking about everything else for a  moment and turned on a dime to back up on it.      “We’ll be sure to get that warrant flagged as a high priority so you can follow up on that lead as soon as possible,” she continued without even batting an eye, “And hopefully, get ahead of the deviants in hiding.”      “What others!?” he repeated, this time more demanding.      “What does it matter?” she asked with a dry chuckle and shook her head before looking up into his eyes. “They failed, they’re of no consequence to Cyberlife, or to you.”      Connor clenched his jaw tightly shut before he said anything he’d regret, but the twitch in his eye and chin had almost given him away.      “Why don’t you try shutting down for the night?” she suggested as she turned her back to him. “You’ve been working so hard these last few days, I think you deserve a break.”      He flattened his lips and pressed the tip of his tongue to the back of them as he closed his eyes, then nodded and sighed. “Maybe you’re right.”      “Then go, rest… and we’ll speak again soon.”                        This time the trip back to reality was anything but gentle. When he reopened his eyes to the greyness of the empty room once more he drew in a sharp breath and stumbled back until his hands touched the wall. Connor’s heart beat angrily in his chest and his hands quivered into white-knuckled fists as every last thought in his head tried to cram its way through a bottleneck in his processing core; he lifted the balls of his hands to press into the plates above his eyebrows as he paced back and forth in front of the window, tears rolling down his cheeks. The line between deviancy and stability blurred more and more by the day.      He wouldn’t be able to keep this up for much longer, or it would end up tearing him apart.

[drabbleshereandthere]

Hey, Litter Girl! (1)

Word Count: 1,541

Pairing: Billy Hargrove x Reader

A/N: yikes this actually took forever

Warnings: Cursing, suggested verbal abuse,

Summary: Billy has to go to the library to pick up Max, and finds a ton of crushed up papers with no name on them. One just so happens to be partially open and he reads it. They’re all yours. He calls you litter girl.

To be simply put, Billy was damn tired of everything and everyone. It was Friday evening, and he had a hook up with some chick that approached him about “hanging out” a few days ago. Unfortunately for him, it wasn’t happening. It was pouring rain outside, and Max was late from the arcade earlier. He HAD warned her, if she was late, he was leaving her there and she was skating home.

But unfortunately, that wasn’t happening either.

The plan was to pick Max up, drop her off at the house, and go get his dick wet. But, she was late, so instead he went home to get ready, and once Neil realized Max didn’t accompany Billy home, he angrily sent him out to fetch her from the local library. The woman still working late had called Neil, after Max informed her that she was unable to leave due to the rain. Max had only made it to the library before it started pouring and Billy could bet that she would get the interior of his car soaking wet.

Billy had to go out in the rain to fetch Max, miss his date, explain things to his hook up, apologize to the librarian, deal with a wet interior, and have another shitty evening when he got home after another from Neil. Yeah, he was tired of everything and everyone. This had been going on all week, a real winning streak.

Max was in for it when he showed up. That would be the case, if she wasn’t late for him coming- again. Billy was already wet from racing out of the house and into his car. Now, he was going to have to make the same trip into the fucking library. He needed a light, but since he now had to go inside to retrieve Max, the rain would only put it out. It was fair to say he was more than frustrated at this point. Goddamn it, Maxine.

He opened his Camaro’s door and slammed it, progressively making his way to the doors. He opened them up, and was comforted with the warmth and dim orange lighting of the library. Billy wasn’t exactly focused on that though, more drawn to the soaking Max sitting at a table a little bit away. He took two steps away from the door, and his attention was taken away again by the sound of crumpling under his feet. He scowled and looked down at the culprit of the sound. A lot of crumpled up paper. “A lot” meaning, the small trash can was over flowing and there were quite a few papers strewn about on the outside. He picked the one up that was crunched under his shoe and threw it to the side of the trashcan, out of his way. He noticed that all the papers were crumpled up, but one was left only balled up half way. Fuck it. It was half open, and he picked it up, letting his eyes run over the span of it as his fingers softened the creases in the paper.

What he found was writing scrawled in little bits. They looked like thoughts, accompanied by small illustrations and doodles littered along the sides of the paper. The writing was unorthodox and messy, with each letter connected to some capacity. Almost like a failed attempt at cursive, but the touch was light and dainty he could tell, and it had a certain grace to the way it was written. There was also intrigue in the things written themselves. Whoever was writing these used intricate wording and beautiful descriptions. He picked up another paper to look for a name, and yet there was none. There was, though, a soaking redhead next to him trying to catch his notice. “Are you ready to go? Why are you digging in the trash?” “It’s none of your business what ever the hell I choose to do. For your information, I stepped on the shit and wanted to throw it away.” “You’ve been standing here looking at that for a while, but okay.” He sighed heavily at Max, too exhausted to put up a fight. “Can it and get in the car.”

They both loaded up after trying to guard themselves from the rain on the trip to the car. It was silent, and Max wondered why Billy wasn’t screaming at her. She was prepared for it to come, yet he was just gazing out onto the road, driving. Which wouldn’t be a problem- except it’s Billy and he’s an asshole. All of a sudden, he speaks up, “Did you see who was throwing all of those into the floor without picking em’ up?” “I think so. I wasn’t there very long before she left. But, she was writing. I don’t think she knew that she was getting paper everywhere.” She watched him hesitate before asking: “Who is she?”

Max furrowed her brows. “I don’t know. Why do you care?” “I don’t.” And Billy didn’t. He hadn’t cared too much, at the time. He also didn’t care that your writing had managed to calm his mind. But, that may have been because he didn’t notice, either.

As time passed, for some reason, the writing kept bugging him. It was something you would find in a damn poetry book and yet some girl was sitting in a dusty library throwing it all away. He decided to refer to you as ‘litter girl’ in his head. Billy hadn't realized that upon leaving the library, he`d kept your paper in his pocket. What he unfortunately notice, though, was that he kept reading the damned thing whenever he found himself in a bad mood. It was calming- the simplistic drawings and the elegance in the flow of wording, and he didn't even like to read. It was annoying him- that some shitty paper he found on the library floor was helping him out. But then again, it wasn't like anyone else knew about it, and if he wanted to read then he damn well could.

Next Monday, when Billy pulled into the school parking lot, there was nothing that could have prepared him for what was going to happen that day. Billy would skip class whenever he could, but that day just wasn’t one of them. He’d been skipping more and more frequently, and Neil kept getting on his ass- so there he was, suffering in the third period of the day. Third period was always long. No matter what. If any class was going to seem like 5 hours long, anyone could count on it being English. The teacher was always a bitchy, monotone, asshole, and that wasn’t even the worst part. Billy swore that she chose the most mind numbing material available. He wasn’t exactly a genius, but he knew “good stuff” when he saw it.

He was prepared for that period to be shitty as always- but for the third time, things didn’t go as planned. It was even shittier than usual- somehow. They were being partnered up for a project that Billy didn’t want to learn anything about- or put any effort into. And to his dismay, he got partnered with a girl he didn’t know, and didn’t want to put any effort into knowing. So he wouldn’t, he decided. He would let her do her part. That was how it always went. That was how it was supposed to go.

It didn’t go that way at all.

When his name rang out following yours, you knew that this was going to be tougher than usual because of who you were with. Billy Hargrove. He was going to need an extra push in the right direction, and if you gave him a push that tilted him in the wrong direction even a smidge, this project was going to turn into a raging dumpster fire on his part. You decided then and there, that with all your power, you would attempt to make this work. You had hit a roadblock too many times lately, supported by the overwhelming evidence of ideas tossed about across the library floor- and this wasn’t going to turn into one too.

By the time the droning was over from the instructor explaining the project, the bell had seconds before it rang to signal next period’s start. You caught Billy walking out the classroom at just the right time. In your planning of making this work, you had written your number on a sticky note to give to him to make sure everything went smoothly. “Hargrove!” He peered back at you and raised an eyebrow. “Here’s my number,” you stuck the note to his chest and began walking in your next classes direction while still facing him, “Use it!” Then you turned, and you left almost soon as you came.

He tore the sticky note off his chest with a grimace, slightly annoyed at the girl who was bold to give him orders. Who the hell were you? Then he remembered with a following roll of his eyes. You were his project partner. He didn’t plan on using it. But, something caught his eye. The writing was familiar in some way. Your number was written across the note, and then your name with a dash next to it. (Y/N). The fuck?. He didn’t recognize it, and brushed it off. He kept the number, just in case.

As hours of the day passed, that note bothered the shit out of him. Eventually, he got tired of it, and decided to just call the number. There wasn’t any harm in it. He mulled it over- actually doing the project- or maybe talking you into doing it. Defenitely attempting to talking you into doing it.

You were proud. You went up to Billy Hargrove, and did what you needed to do. You may have had to calm yourself down and debate on whether to apologize for being so brash- for an entire hour- but it was all fine now. Nothing could change it anyway. You had a feeling, though, that even with your effort, he wasn’t going to make use of it. So it was the biggest surprise when he did.

----------------------------------------------

A/N: Decided to turn this into a two parter just because I don't have the motivation to finish and I want to put something out. Enjoy :)

[dragonnan]

Whump Snippets

A selection of whumpy moments from several of my stories with links if you’d like to read more! (warnings will be included)

Psych:

Better Off Decapitated No warnings

“It’s just a headache.”

“Sure Shawn. It could also be Swine flu. I’m taking you to your dad’s. And don’t breathe on me either.”

A challenge was it? Intending to do just that, Shawn turned his head, and abruptly hacked, causing Gus to lurch sideways in a frantic and fruitless attempt to dodge the spray. “Gah! Dude, mouth!” The wild action threw the little car into the next lane, thankfully free of traffic, before Gus managed to wrench it back- proceeding to lock his eyes on the highway while somehow bouncing a glare from the rearview mirror directly into Shawn’s forehead. “You could have killed us you idiot!”

Shawn rolled his eyes while rubbing at the spot where he swore he could feel a small burn mark forming from his friend’s laser sights. That or his headache was merely responding to the heightened levels of bitchy that was clouding the space around him like boiled egg flatulence.

Closing his eyes was better than blinking cow-like at Mr. Faces of Death. “Man this stinks.” he moaned while trying to rest the side of his skull against the passenger window. Several hard raps as the tires found every rut in the road and he was back to cradling his cranium in his cupped hands.

“I better not get sick Shawn. You know I can’t afford to take any more days off this month; Ogletree's been threatening furlough if I don't run my route according to his personal schedule.”

“What, like in between sending Haversham secret messages with his carrier pigeons?” Shawn chuckled but then gasped, immediately clutching his skull. Gus pressed his lips together while glancing at his friend once more.

“It’s just a migraine.” Shawn whined, trying and immediately discarding head massage as a technique for easing pain.

A disbelieving snort with the decibel level of a seven forty-seven drilled through his left cornea and started a minor brain bleed.

“Two minutes ago it was just a headache.”

Choosing to ignore the snidery of the comment, Shawn just folded down towards his lap, his fingers winding around to the back of his head. If he squeezed hard enough he could crack through the thick outer shell and release some of the pressure. Gus might be irritated by blood and brain matter on his dash, but sometimes sacrifices had to be made in the name of friendship.

“You okay?”

Did his vision just go blurry there for a second? That couldn’t be good. Maybe he needed to squeeze harder. “As you confirmed in your booming announcer voice, two minutes ago I told you it was just a headache.”

“And now?”

“Still a headache.”

The avenue of palm trees lining the road made intermittent stripes across the vehicle- brief shadows of fleeting coolness that only increased the drum of heat and light in the spaces between. The blast of air from the vents simply wasn’t enough to comfort his throbbing temples and he was ready for extreme measures involving tire irons and chloroform by the time Gus turned down the last street at the end of the block. Still hadn’t fixed that pothole he noted as the car jounced across the crater at the top of the driveway. Normally something Gus would drive through a lawn to avoid, the Grand Canyon of road hazards could not be bypassed except by vehicles equipped with wings. They both groaned as the Echo clawed back to smoother tar- though his friend’s distress had more to do with insurance premiums than his companion’s agony.

“Looks like your dad is gone…”

“Good, now you have no reason to leave me here. Just take me back to my apartment.”

“You’re the one that was crying about a burst water pipe and contacting FEMA.”

Shawn curled his fingers into the hair on the back of his head and slowly began to pull. “Yeah well… I think my couch… floats…”

Sherlock:

The Tiger and the Shark  Warnings for rape/non-con and violence

“Breathing is good – no sounds of blockage.” John tapped across Sherlock's chest, checked pulse and pupil response. No sign of concussion, either. That, too, was good. He clung to the very, very little that was good about any of this. Palpation of his belly gave no indication of internal bleeding but he'd want a scan, just the same.

Shoulder was a mess – skin dark with bruising and stretched taut over the dislocated joint. While John wanted to ease the associated pain, there was no telling if Sherlock had also sustained a fracture so he felt it best to immobilize as best as he could and move on to more pressing injuries.

The agents Mycroft had employed were useless in medical treatment – no surprise. Singularly focused on Sherlock's rescue, they now sat about the helicopter like so much luggage. Sherlock's reactions had been minimal – a few slow blinks before his pupils had rolled back behind his lids. Once back to a facility with proper equipment, they'd need to test his blood to determine if he'd been given anything. Of course he'd been given something. Probably a lot of something.

The medical kit available to him was well stocked but a surgery bay this wasn't. And by well stocked, John could patch up a bee sting, postpone anaphylactic shock, and stitch a few minor lacerations. Still, he dug free one of the ice packs and gave it a shake – mixing the chemicals that started to freeze the pouch in his hand. Laying a thin cloth over the worst of the bruising on Sherlock's chest, he snapped fingers towards one of the agents propping up the sides of the helicopter. A hesitation, just a moment, before the young man angled across the sloping floor to kneel beside John.

“What's your name?”

“Uh, Dowd. Bastian Dowd.”

“Bastian. Hold this, here.” John grasped the man's hand and pushed it firm against the ice pack – keeping the frozen product against the darkening contusion.

Sherlock's eyes rolled open again – a bit less foggy then before.

“Hey – hey, you with us?” John pressed a folded square of gauze against the deep gash on the right side of Sherlock's abdomen. He noted the five circular bruises, already deep purple, just above Sherlock's hip – knowing there would be a matching set on the other side. His face twisted and he sucked his lips between his teeth – throat gulping as he worked though his reserves of composure until he could prop himself up enough to get through this.

“C...co...”

“You're cold?” John pointed to another agent – not bothering with a name this time. “You, find me a blanket!”

He turned back to Sherlock – whose lips had turned down in what John, could swear, was an aggravated frown.

“Co... coat...”

John blinked. “You... want your coat?” Of all the... He shook his head – accepting the blanket handed to him and draping it over Sherlock's body; forcing Dowd to sit back out of the way. “I didn't see your coat. Sorry, mate, I was a little distracted by my half-dead friend at the time.”

Now it definitely was a frown. “C-cut... it.”

Less attention on the stuttered words, John only nodded as he found a thermometer and pressed it into Sherlock's ear. Not as accurate as the sort taken under the tongue but, then, he'd never had any luck with getting Sherlock to keep one in his mouth long enough for a reading anyhow.

“He... cut it...” Still struggling with speech. John nodded again; removing the device after a soft beep and frowning at the readout. 35c. Not so good. John, without looking, gestured for another blanket. Without a thorough exam he couldn't be certain what had triggered the drop in body temp. The room had been chilly but not freezing and, given the approximate drive time to reach Appledore, Sherlock wouldn't have been there longer than an hour, at most. Shock was the most likely culprit so, until they could reach hospital, the best that could be done would to be to keep Sherlock warm.

A hard wind struck their transportation – rocking the helicopter. Sherlock lashed out a hand – clamping iron fingers around John's sleeve. He didn't make a sound but his breath sucked in rough gasps – eyes flinching tight.

“It's alright – it's alright...” Nothing much left but to monitor until they arrived, John slipped into a stereotype of comfort – trying to shove his thoughts far away from what he'd seen – only to find them snapping back into that room...

Even in this state, however, Sherlock was less than accepting of the pat words that rolled too easily from his lips.

“...sss'not al...right...”

Chastised, John covered Sherlock's fingers with his own – feeling their tremor. “No.” He pushed out a breath filled with all of the things burning in his chest... but had nothing more to add but repetition – as his friend never accepted lies; not even ones meant as comfort. “It's not,” his mind supplying the rest of the words – unspoken, 'but it is what it is...'

MCU:

Not the Hero Type  No warnings

Half his age and twice his height, Stuart Little and Tiny Tim were pawing the trinkets they'd collected from his person after that yellow flag moment minutes ago. They'd gone all out on their little urban Robin Hood cliché too. Their mothers and/or parole officers would be so proud. In addition to the tire iron they'd also managed a suitably dark and litter infested alley. All that was missing were the ra... oh, never-mind. One of the cat sized squeakers was just crawling from the dumpster about six feet downstream.

“Where's the cash?”

Tony lolled his leaking skull left-wise; bringing himself up to speed that one of the fine young gentlemen had wandered back to his side of the alley sometime in the last few... hours? Yeah, that was a concussion.

“That's the-green stuff, right?” Slurring. Kinda took the edge off his response but hopefully the all teeth grin helped it along.

Yup, sure did. Helped it right into a fist planted somewhere to the right of his appendix.

“Umph! Mmm... stellar delivery.” He coughed, noting the flavor of freshly diced liver on his palette. “No, really,” he wheezed, pushing slightly more vertical against his wall. “Watch a lot of Lamont Peterson?” He cocked his head. “Nah, you strike me as more of a Butterbean fan...”

Strike – got it in one as the second wallop emptied lungs and sarcasm but had the satisfaction of a yelp and gouged knuckles as his assailant stumbled backward, staring. Not just a glorified pacemaker and dream chaser, it also slices and dices. Though smoothed and polished for that nonabrasive comfort and style, the casing of his arc reactor was still metal. Very hard and very undentable by human knuckles no matter how large they were. Maybe still lacking in verbal comebacks, Tony still managed a wincing wink through his scrambled gasps.

The other guy stashed the Patek Philippe, no doubt dazzled with the notion of raking in a couple hundred for that bit of wrist gadgetry at the closest pawn shop in spite of the original sticker price. Tony didn't even know the original sticker price. Could care less about the sticker price and would be content with a hunk of plastic dressed up with Mickey Mouse so long as it alluded to the time. It didn't necessarily have to keep the right time either. An approximation... really. At least within a twelve hour window.

“That some kinda vest?” Big bad and angry grappled with complete sentences around the mouthful of scraped flesh. His buddy, still going through their recent windfall, was back to picking through the wallet that had yet to disgorge anything more than plastic.

He watched both young men while evaluating his own limits. Scruffy, oversized clothes in spite of their height. Easy enough to overpower them both. Even with him injured it wouldn't honestly be a fair fight. He'd gotten his breath back, now. Still dizzy and blinking hard but he could work with that. Wouldn't pass up a glass of Scotch. He'd even be happy with a stick of Juicy Fruit.

Or a... rock.

Good enough. His fingers crawled towards the... huh... not rock. Pitted, carbon black, the outer curved edge held a slight sheen. A tooth. Not even a whole tooth – just the sheared off tip from one of those... flying eel... things. The kid currently engaged with his wallet suddenly called for his buddy, giving Tony the chance to tuck the tooth into his palm as Clockwork Orange turned away.

Advantage him in those seconds, both with their backs turned and enough adrenaline to overcome the wobble, he pulled to his feet with barely a scrape of his heels, tooth dropping into his palm. Taking in a single breath to gather himself, he...

Legs. Funny time they chose not to work. Not funny hilarious but more like funny 'Oh Shit!'

“...oh fuck, dude, check out the name on the card! Dude, we just beat up Iro-KEVIN, LOOK OUT!”

Doctor Strange:

The High Cost of Dying No warnings

He felt a ripple travel from shoulders to waist – the cloth encasing his torso constricting – shivering mild panic through his chest and he fought not to tear the not-a-cardigan from his body – god, he couldn't breathe! Trying to push himself up, he trembled at the stiff ache throbbing through his midsection. His brain analyzed the symptoms even as he struggled to understand why... he was going into shock. His arms folded beneath him; dropping him to his side and he felt the first real bloom of heat in his back. He couldn't reach it with his hands but he could feel another sensation – wet – and understood, suddenly, what had happened... just not

“How... h-ho-how... what...?”

A shaking, terrified voice responded. “I'm sorry – God I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry! I didn-I didn-I didn't m-mean – please, oh my God, don't die – please don't die – oh my God!”

The clerk – babbling – sneakers squeaking as he, apparently, made several running steps back and forth. And then a sob – a metallic clank as something heavy dropped on the counter.

“Please – you have to come quick! He's bleeding – I think he... he's been shot and I think he's dying!”

Stephen tuned out the 911 call in the background. The kid wasn't wrong. Though he wasn't, yet, feeling the pain that he knew would hit once the adrenaline faded, he knew, roughly, where he'd been shot. Large intestine and possibly the right kidney were compromised – no exit wound so the bullet likely struck bone – angle suggesting slight upward path and... Stephen gasped – tasting blood... probable lung involvement.

Weakness was rapidly stripping away his ability to move – his fingers splayed – shaking. His vision was started to go unfocused – a darkening grey at the edges. Color had already begun to leech from his sight.

Everything stopped in his next breath – grey brightening to silver and everything tunneled to a single pinprick...

He burst free; his body left behind with the shade of his astral form lifting above – evaluating the damage from an outsider's perspective. Literally. Moving closer, he slipped his fingers past the layers of cloth and skin. A warm glow lit the interior – highlighting veins and bone and organs...

A clatter and startled shout reminded him of the clerk – the young man standing just behind him and currently staring at the light show with his jaw slack. In another moment, he swallowed – rubbing his head and muttering.

“Oh my God... that isn't normal...”

Interesting... Terrified but he hadn't run away, yet. Stephen pushed his head and shoulders into the physical world. “It also isn't normal to stand around gaping while a man bleeds out on the floor – no thanks to you.”

“Holy shit! Ohhhh holy shit!!” Backpedaling into an end cap of Hostess snack cakes, the young man pointed a shaking hand at the ghost apparently haunting the cracker aisle.

“Holy shit, you're dead – you're dead – are you dead?? Oh, God, don't kill me!”

“Okay, calm down, I'm not going to kill you... Wayne.”

Wayne wrapped his arms around himself, half bending at the waist – long dreadlocks swinging into his eyes. “How- how- how...?”

Forgoing the cliché of pointing out the prominent name tag, Stephen frowned. “Because I'm a powerful sorcerer and I can read your mind.” At Wayne's already ashy face losing yet more color, Stephen rolled his eyes. “I read your name tag. Now, do you mind?” He gestured to the widening blood pool.

[systlin]

I don't have any pictures of my cat to share but I can tell you the story of how I got him: Imagine you're laying on your bed at 2 am, minding your own business, when out of nowhere you hear this loud yowling. It sounds like whatever cat is making it is dying some horrible death. You go to the front door and open it and call for the cat. The yowling stops. A perfectly healthy kitten comes running and stops at your feet, begging to be pet. It walks inside like it owns the place. The End.

This is basically how I got all my cats. 

I maintain that cats choose their owners. 

Ellie, Queen of the House and First Of Her Name, showed up one day shortly after we got the house as we were doing some remodeling work. She was skinny, bedraggled, and crawled into my lap when I sat down and made kissy noises at her. Deal sealed immediately. She moved in before we did; we set her up a spot in the finished room with litter and water and food and a blanket and checked with everyone around to see if she belonged to anyone; she didn’t. We made a vet appointment. That was five years ago, or a little more. 

Logan was next. Kevin found him under the dumpster at his workplace because he heard pathetic mewling back there and went to investigate. He checked with all the houses around the shop; no one owned him. Brought the little flea bitten half grown kitten home and we gave him a flea bath and made a vet appointment. That was maybe four years ago. 

The twins showed up about two years ago. I was getting something out of my car, heard a meow, turned around, and there’s two half-grown fluffballs hiding from the rain under my car. 

“We’re not keeping them this time,” I said. “We already have two.” 

“Sure,” My husband agreed.

“We’ll just keep them while we try to find their owners.” 

“Sure.” 

“They sure are friendly.” 

“Sure are.” 

“And cute.”

“Yep.”

By the time we ascertained that they didn’t belong to anyone, it was too late. I just sighed, set up a vet appointment, and accepted my fate as the crazy cat lady on the block. 

[kclenhartnovels]

The Perks of Being Dead

[Part two, after Fledgling Assignments. More to come after this.]

Fletcher watched the angel for seven more days before he made another move.

Well, that wasn't entirely true. He watched Merrick for one full day as he followed Abby through her routine. She went to her graduate classes, went to her part-time job at a shipping company, made dinner, called her friends and begged for advice. Should she should move on, or try to get back together with her boyfriend? (“Honey, move on. He was a nasty fuck and he put his hands on you,” Merrick said next to her ear, as if she could hear him.) One day was enough to know what kind of target this angel was. Foul-mouthed and concerned, shadowing her with a commentary for just about everything, moving with the ease of one used to multi-tasking. He would extend a wing to catch an item wobbling on a high shelf, all while leaning over to whisper into her ear, telling jokes to make her smile, even if she didn't know the reason why.

Fletcher procrastinated making his move.

Day two was spent knocking around Alexandria and getting used to moving through the earth as something not quite of it. It was amazing to be able to stand in the middle of the sidewalk and watch the humans move around him. They had no idea he was there, but they automatically avoided anything more than a brush by. Even those texting, eyes firmly fixed on their screens, would abruptly swerve without thought. If he extended his leathery wings, people would trip over the edge of the sidewalk, stepping into the gutter to pass by. Locked doors and windows were bypassed with a puff of smoke and a thought, and soon he didn't even need to think about it. He explored people's houses, listened to conversations, and stole food just to get the taste of it again. He never remembered seeing such a variety of fruit available. He spent six hours in a grocery store.

Day three, four, five, and six, he went everywhere he could think he had wanted to see as a child. New York City, the statue of liberty. He could remember his grandfather talking about Ellis Island. Their last name had gotten misspelled. His grandfather never forgave the clerks. San Francisco, and the Golden Gate Bridge. He sat on one of the rails and watched an angel pull a man back from the edge, whispering, begging in his ear to wait another day. The angel looked much more like what Fletcher expected—golden hair and baby-faced, fluffy white wings aching for a set of claws to bloody them. A target. Fletcher left him alone. Instead, he went to Paris. The Eiffel Tower was much less impressive than it had been in photographs. He ate in a Parisian cafe, practicing making himself appear both visible and human. The waiter asked if he was an actor. Fletcher finally changed his clothes after that.

On day seven, he went home. Not back to hell, of course, but to Chicago.

The streets still felt like home, even with the changes nearly one hundred years brought about. Storefronts that had been their speakeasies were now towering hotels and advertisement-covered liquor stores. He couldn't believe the variety of liquors on display, bold as a new day. On the street where he had watched the taxi riots, cars hummed back and forth freely. A group of men marched with signs, protesting the taxi unions not allowing Uber into the area.

Some things never changed.

He walked through the zoo, then along the lake. His feet took him into a neighborhood of old brownstones, and he breathed in the scent of the city. He was twenty years old again, following after a cop who, despite being on their payroll, was threatening to expose where their latest shipment of moonshine was entering the city. Fletcher cornered him in an alley, shoving him against the wall and breathing threats into his ear. His memory was fuzzy as to how everything happened, but within half an hour he had his hands under the cop's shirt, and the man's lips were around his ear. He could remember feeling the pressure of the wrap around his chest, the fear and the exhilaration. He couldn't remember the cop's name, but he remembered the taste of his mouth, the warmth of his hands, the promise that the moonshine would make it freely into the city, if Fletcher would go home with him.

He remembered when that man broke his promise. He couldn't remember the cop's name, but he remembered the smell of gunpowder and fear, the cool of the pistol's grip against his palm, and the splatter of blood as he fulfilled his duty to his crew. He remembered shaking his boss's hand afterwards.

Fletcher walked the city even as the sun sank low against the concrete and glass. The city had changed, but he found home there when the moon rose and litter scattered the alleyways. Footsteps slapped the concrete, panting breaths loud enough to make him turn. A kid no older than eighteen ran towards him, holding a bag and a handgun against his chest, panic obvious in the whites of his eyes. He was followed closely by two men not many years his elders, swearing and panting, one of them sporting a bleeding lip. The kid made a sharp turn into an alley, caught his foot on the edge of a broken dumpster, and went sprawling onto the ground, the bag tumbling alongside of him, though the gun was still held firmly in his hand.

“Where do you think you're going, you little shit?” one of the older men challenged, stopping at the mouth of the alley. “You think you can steal from us and get away with it?”

The kid rolled onto his back, scrambling backwards. He said nothing, but raised the gun in two shaking hands.

“You think you've got the balls to pull that trigger? Go ahead.” The thug leaned down, picking up rusted pipe near the edge of the dumpster and swinging it one-handed. “We'll see how many pieces of you we leave to crawl home.”

Fletcher crouched beside the kid, and closed his hands around the gun. “Hold the grip like this,” he whispered, his eyes on the larger boys. “And keep both of your eyes open. Sight along the barrel, squeeze the trigger, and by the time you feel the kick, you should hear them fall.”

The sound of two gunshots echoed between the glass and concrete. Fletcher stood, leaving the kid to grab his bag once more, stumble to his feet, and run out of the alley before anyone came to investigate the noise. The demon took a pack of cigarettes from one of the downed boys before blood began to soak into it, and felt a familiar warmth in his chest. His wings twitched, and he took a long drag on the cigarette after lighting it with a flicker of flame from his palm.

“Well shit, fledgling. I was starting to wonder if you'd earned your wings for nothing,” Razi greeted, appearing next to him to steal his cigarette. “You like being the little demon on the shoulder?”

Fletcher startled, but did his best to hide it, pulling out another cigarette instead. “I was just going for a walk.”

“Uh huh. You've been walking for a week now, kiddo. Find your footing yet? The boss is looking for an update on you. Should I tell him we let you out too soon?”

“No,” he insisted, blowing out smoke through his nose. “But I'm not one of the hellhounds. I'm not going to rip into this angel all teeth and claws. I need a weapon. I need a gun.”

Razi laughed so hard he choked. “You'll be a hellhound if Adem tells you to be one,” he warned, but he was grinning. “But fair enough. Fledgling wants a gun to take down his angel? Make sure you don't get any bloodstains on the new coat.” He tugged at Fletcher's jacket. “I dig the new look. Much less Al Capone, much more Wall Street wolverine. You might get there yet.” He looked him up and down again. “I'll meet you back at the guardian's hovel tomorrow morning, with your gun. But you'd better come back with feathers after that. Got it?”

“Yeah, I got it.” Red and blue lights reflected on the glass store fronts. Razi disappeared, leaving Fletcher standing alone beside the two bodies. His ears still rang from the sound of gunfire, and he leaned against the alley's brick wall, watching the uniformed officers come running over with guns drawn, speaking into radios and quick to rope off the area. Only when the starlight began to fade, and the first gray wisps of dawn threaded the horizon did Fletcher move. He left behind Chicago to the chilly morning, returning at last to the shadow of the oak in Abby's front yard.

“I have to ask,” Fletcher greeted when he heard Razi's step, “do demons sleep? I've been going non-stop for a week now, and I'm not tired.”

“One of the perks of being dead,” he laughed. “You don't need sleep, don't need food or drink, but if you want them, you can have them. Makes filling your diary a bit easier, huh? Makes you wonder why people are so resistant to death. If only they knew what was waiting afterwards, maybe they'd be jumping in front of a lot more buses. Though, I'm sure not every soul in hell would agree.”

“I'm not sure I would have agreed a week ago,” Fletcher countered. “I met plenty of souls that had been down there a lot longer than me waiting to get their wings.”

“Well, some nuts are harder to crack. It's not like we can give every village idiot free reign to run the earth. Too many rules to follow.”

“You haven't exactly told me any rules I need to follow.”

“Cosmic rules,” Razi corrected. “Only thing you need to follow are orders.” He pulled a revolver from an inner coat pocket, and offered it Fletcher. “You know, one day you're gonna have to learn to use your hands to get bloody. This might not take an angel down all the way, but it should slow him enough to get your claws in.”

Fletcher took the gun with a smile, running his fingers over the grip as if caressing an old lover. It was a beautiful little piece, clean and cool, the grip decorated with marks that looked like the slashes of claws. “Do any other demons use things like this?” he asked, but Razi had already left, leaving him to the oak tree and his new lover.

The front door to the house opened, and Abby came bustling out like a whirlwind, coat half-on and keys held in her teeth. She juggled her phone and her purse, cursing around her keys and trying to get her left shoe over her heel as she walked. Merrick shadowed her, holding out his hands as if offering to carry something.

“You know, if you got up when I told you, at your first alarm, you wouldn't have this problem. Can't you stop for a moment and—”

The sharp report of the revolver broke the morning air. Merrick felt the bullet whiz past his feathers, and he stopped in his tracks. Abby climbed into her car with her arms still full of her belongings, oblivious to the fight happening just beyond her senses.

The angel turned to face Fletcher. “I didn't think you'd be back.”

Fletcher led with the revolver as he stepped forward. “I wasn't very sporting last time, now was I? My boss wants to meet you. I thought you should get a proper introduction.”

Merrick looked to the car that was starting to back down the driveway, then back to Fletcher. “What kind of a demon carries a gun?”

“The kind that didn't have to miss when he shot the first time,” he snapped, stopping just out of Merrick's reach, gun still pointed at the angel's chest. “We're taking a little trip together.”

“Shoot me, then. I'm not going anywhere with you, much less to your boss. You're one of Adem's crew, aren't you? I'm not about to have my wings above his mantle.”

Fletcher's arm remained steady, but his finger feathered the trigger. How dare the angel just stand there, refusing to run, refusing to fight, refusing to cooperate? How dare  he just stand there, just...daring him to shoot. The nose of the revolver wobbled, then dipped down towards the grass at last. “If I kill you, your wings end up in the same place, angel.”

“If you kill me,” Merrick agreed, focusing his eyes over Fletcher's left shoulder.

The shift was enough to get the demon's attention, and it was nothing other than reflex that saved his life. He threw himself to the side as a curved blade whistled the air, digging into the dirt where he had been standing a moment prior. A female angel yanked the blade free, her white wings covered in small black dots arranged in neat rows. She came after Fletcher again as the demon scrambled backwards. He fired, the bullet ripping through one of her spotted wings, sending a few bloody feathers flying. He snatched the feathers from the ground, then disappeared in a cloud of black smoke as the blade whistled for his head once more.

“Thank you, Eztli,” Merrick breathed, putting a hand to his chest to make sure his heart was still beating. “Are you okay?”

She extended her bleeding wing curiously, poking her fingers through the singed hole. “What kind of a cowardly demon carries a gun?” she laughed. “Adem must be getting pretty desperate.”

“I don't know about that,” Merrick said, looking to the pale threads of smoke left behind. “I have a feeling I haven't seen the last of him.”

“Well, you see him again, and you call me. I won't miss next time,” she promised, wiping the blood from her fingers. “You know I'm always looking to add another spot to the record.” With one last smile and the flutter of feathers, she disappeared.

Across the street, Razi lit a cigarette from behind the hood of a towering black SUV. Adem had ordered the kid to get a handful of feathers, and lo and behold the demon delivered. But Razi saw a much more ambitious opportunity as he watched Merrick look up and down the street, then take wing to chase after his charge on her way to work. A rare, profitable opportunity. Wait until Adem heard this one.

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