#i’m not an expert but i feel like being this rattled and tense probably isn’t great for strained muscles. thanks man good job 👍

[fullbrave]

god. got super unlucky with a walk-in doctor who was a triple threat (condescending, lowkey transphobe, highkey misogynist) but i got myself some otc meds and ice cream for my troubles and i’m going to have such a restful weekend starting now. or starting in like fifteen minutes when i stop being so upset about this dickhead doctor

[young-dumb-and-vaccinated]

The Sommelier (Hannigram x Female!Reader) pt. 25

Y/n puts an end to everything.

@dovahdokren @deadman-inc-bikeshop @lov3vivian @wisesandwichshark @scpdragon

⚠️HUGE⚠️ trigger warnings: rape, drugging, sex trafficking, VERY graphic descriptions of violence, physical violence (please let me know if I leave anything out)

Hannibal could walk through a valley of human suffering and not even flinch. You couldn't tell if that made him subhuman or superhuman. You, however, were just human.

You wanted to be a badass. You wanted to kick the door down and make a scene. But one woman was enough to break you.

She was wearing only a large t-shirt. A cloth bandage covered in blood covered her pubic area like a makeshift pair of underpants. She laid limply against a stone. Her arms were punctured where needles had been.

"I don't..." she mumbled, clearly intoxicated beyond function. "...don't make me..."

You knew you couldn't afford to stop. But compassion kept your feet firmly on the ground in front of her.

"What is Chase making you do?"

"I can't-" She said, pressing her forehead against the rock. "I can't be an unwoman-"

She began to slam her head against the rock with clear intent to take her own life. Without thinking, you grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her into the grass. She sobbed, a bloody, but thankfully, survivable, gash on her forehead.

"Tell me your name." You demanded, squeezing her shoulders.

"...Tiffany." She said with a sudden lucidity.

The name unlocked a memory in you. It was the still image of a sunny young girl, immortalized on a faded missing person's ad hung up at the grocery store. Tiffany Rose Pierce, it read.

"I'm gonna get you out of here, Tiffany." You whispered. "I'm gonna get all of you out of here."

"Vanguard won't like that." She said, slipping back into a state of minimal consciousness.

"Stay here." You instructed, pushing yourself back to your feet.

You readied your gun and slowly, carefully pushed the cabin door open. Suddenly, the stained glass window was the least of your worries.

The entire area was lined with cheaply-constructed bunk beds, like an overgrown henhouse. Women with distinctively long hair were shackled to the lower bunks. Their shaven counterparts, the unwomen, were forced to be the slavedrivers. They held the chained women down.

You heard the rattling of chains coming from the right. It was accompanied with screaming and wet slapping.

"Take daddy's cock you filthy fucking broodmare." A familiar voice grunted.

The only way you could look at him was behind the barrel of your gun. He was exactly how you pictured him while listening to his voice in the car. Unremarkable, middle-aged and serpentine.

"Pastor Armitage!" You yelled.

To hear someone call him by his title in the midst of violating a person was enough to send him into a panic. He sputtered and his entire face turned red.

He didn't suffer for long, though. A 12 gauge shell right through the face took care of that. Fragments of his head, his blood and brain matter splattered everywhere. His knees buckled and his limp body collapsed.

The room fell silent. Smoke trickled out of your barrel.

"Where's fucking Chase?" You asked the room.

Someone weakly pointed up the stairs. You met her eyes and nodded.

"Sorry about the mess."

Now you knew how Hannibal felt. Blowing someone's head off made you acutely aware of your own head on your shoulders. You held it higher. You felt no remorse as you ascended the staircase with your gun blazing.

You came across a room with some words etched in the door. 'Skin room'. You launched your foot squarely into the door, causing it to violently swing open. 

You examined the room from behind the gun. Chase had done a hell of a job dressing up this cheap cabin bedroom like a hotel suite, but the smell hit you before you could be fooled. A brick chimney, a wine cooler and a mahogany desk were positioned so the eye would gravitate towards the luxury while the nose picked up the brutality. The stained glass window was suspended in front of the real window, absorbing the mid-morning light and giving the room an eerie sepia tint. 

You cocked your gun to announce your presence. You heard the sound of running water, and then a side door swung open. 

“You’ll forgive me a couple minutes to freshen up.” Chase said, shaking his hands dry. “Cleanliness is close to godliness, after all.” 

You said nothing. You didn’t want to dignify him with a conversation. 

He bent over and pulled a bottle of wine from his cooler. He placed it squarely on the desk. You looked at it, then did a double take. He grinned sadistically. 

“Is that...” You leaned in to get a closer look. “1907 Heidsieck Monople Gout?” 

Chase shrugged. “You tell me. You’re the wine expert.” 

You’d heard many a conflicting story about the legendary 1907 Heidsieck. Some said as many as 2,000 bottles were pulled up from the depths of the freezing Baltic sea. Some said a single bottle could go for half a million dollars. With that kind of precedent, you never thought you’d ever have to worry about it. Yet, there it was. Right in front of you. 

“I’m saving it for a special occasion.” Chase said, suddenly reminding you where you were.

You returned to your gun. “For when you kill me?” 

“For when I save you.” Chase smiled, his unnaturally white teeth glistening in the sepia light. “See, Miss [F/N], you survived two of my attempts on your life. God has smiled down on you.” 

“Or, maybe,” You interrupted. “You’re just horrible at killing.” 

Chase raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.

"A knife through the hand hurts like a bitch, but it isn't fatal." You shrugged. "And you didn't do a good enough job beating the fear of death out of Catherine. Else she might have actually gone through with it. Maybe if you'd sent Tiffany-"

"God loves you." Chase interrupted before you could poke more holes in his attempts on your life. "Why you're still alive when so many less deserving of death have died is beyond me, but god works in mysterious ways, doesn't he?"

"She sure does." You smirked.

Chase cleared his throat. You'd pegged him as the type to get irrationally angry at the implication of god being a woman, so his reaction surprised you.

"Well, let's get down to business, shall we?" He gestured to a seat across from him.

You narrowed your eyes. "I don't think so."

"Pity." He pouted. "Not even for poor Mr. Graham?"

It dawned on you that he probably still thought he had Will, and you could use it to your advantage.

You held your gun at your side and hesitantly sat down in the seat. A gluttonous smile spread across Chase's face.

"So it wasn't wine after all." He said. "It wasn't even your own life. You're only willing to save your soul for the sake of your precious Will Graham."

"What do you care?" You growled through your teeth. "This is just a power grab for you. You wouldn't know what genuine empathy for another person feels like."

He grinned, as if someone had just flipped his 'on' switch. "Jesus does."

"Did Jesus use his influence to lure teenage girls into a sick breeding ring?" You sneered. "I don't remember that from VeggieTales."

"Genesis 1:28." Chase said. "And God blessed them, and God said unto them, be fruitful, and multiply."

"I suppose you also don't eat shellfish or wear mixed fabrics." You rolled your eyes.

"It's always the same arguments from you atheists." Chase scoffed, adding a distinct bite to the last word. "When are you going to show some actual proof that the bible isn't an infallible model for human morality?"

"Maybe when you stop eating shellfish and wearing mixed fabrics." You repeated.

"They are minor sins at best." Chase grimaced. "I have gotten right with Jesus. You, on the other hand, oh, you. Your sins are weighty."

"I did just blast a rapist's head off." You admitted. "And it's going to be two very soon if this one doesn't get to the fucking point."

"I know about your exploits." He squinted. "With Mr. Graham and the man with the Nazi accent."

"He's actually from Lithuania, which, if you wanna be technical," you corrected, just for the sake of being annoying. "Is an ex-Soviet state, but whatever."

Chase tensed up at being corrected. "I know about your hedonistic sexual activities with two men, your exploration. But in the bible, Satan approaches these two people called Adam and Eve..."

"No he didn't." You shook your head. "It was a serpent. The devil wasn't a concept when Genesis was written."

Chase gritted his teeth. "God made one man and one woman. Each to fill each other's sexual desires, within the context of marriage, entirely-"

"But Adam had two spouses, didn't he?" You cocked your head and smiled. "Eve wasn't even the first woman in Adam's life. That was Lilith."

Chase heaved a frustrated sigh. "How do you know that?!"

"I was raised catholic." You said in the tonal equivalent of smacking him upside the head. "I was forced into religion at a young age and brainwashed to hate myself."

"See, that's where we agree." Chase tented his hands, thinking he found a genuine point of connection. "Organized religion is a cancer on society. Christianity is fundamentally about a relationship with god."

You laughed. It was the first real, good laugh you had in a while.

"Don't laugh." He scolded. "I am sorry that that was your experience with religion and that the Catholic church modeled a false teaching of who god is and what he wants. Not all christians-"

You wiped a tear from your eye. "Homie, you killed four people in front of me."

He placed his hand over his heart. "And christ forgave me. And he can forgive you too."

"Alright, this has been fun and everything," you said, standing up. You aimed your shotgun and cocked it. "But, I did come here to kill you, so, open wide."

Chase put his hand squarely over the barrel and pushed it out of the way. "You don’t have the guts to pull the trigger."

You pulled the trigger and blasted his hand clean off. Any hope of reattachment was shattered, as bits of his hand painted the walls and floor.

You opened the gun and let the two empty shells fall to the ground while Chase screamed in agony.

Instead of going through the motions of reloading, you smashed him over the head with the gun. He wrapped his good hand around the barrel and attempted to wrestle it away from you. You took this as an invitation to corner him against the wall with the still-hot barrel against his neck. He smashed his forehead into your nose, sending you tumbling backwards.

The shotgun fell to the ground. You pinched the bridge of your nose to control the blood flow. Chase wrapped a champagne towel around his stump and picked up a small revolver on his desk. He let off a shot, which lodged itself into your shoulder. By the time he let off the second shot, you were on the ground. The third shot didn't fire, just let out a flash and a bang.

"Goddamn blanks!" He cursed.

He tore open a drawer and rummaged around for bullets, giving you a window to come up from behind and gouge your fingers into his eyes. He screamed, dropping a handful of bullets. He flailed aimlessly, then charged backwards, slamming you into the cheap drywall.

He felt around for the bullets without the advent of eyesight. You knew you wouldn't be able to take aim with your shotgun with a bullet lodged in your shoulder, so you dove for the revolver.

Chase grabbed you by the ankle and dragged you down. You hit the floor with a thud, the collision making the bullets jump. Chase grinned, using the sound to place them. He turned around and reached for one, while you scooped up another that had rolled under the desk.

You scrambled to your feet. Chase's hand was just centimeters from the revolver. Thinking fast (but not so thoroughly), you grabbed for the revolver. You wrapped your hand around the barrel, putting yourself at a disadvantage if he fired off another blank.

Chase, however, wasn't that forward-thinking, and opted for a childish game of tug-of-war instead. Knowing he had the brute strength advantage, you waited for him to pull back and released your grip. Chase tumbled, cursing on his way down.

With no thought on your mind but ending this, you launched your foot into his sack, causing him to scream and drop the gun.

Just as you thought it was over, just when the gun was in arm's reach, he kicked your knees backwards and you fell. You swallowed the pain and army crawled for the revolver.

"I don't think so." Chase spat, smiling like a maniac. He grabbed your face with his good hand and his fingers slithered down your throat.

"Choke..." he demanded. "Choke, demoness."

Strengthened by animalistic instinct, you crushed his fingers under your teeth. The sound of snapping bone filled the inside of your head and a sudden rush of blood flooded into your mouth. He withdrew his hand, leaving a finger behind to limply fall down your throat.

You coughed and gagged while Chase screamed. A single bloody digit dislodged itself from your windpipe, flew across the room and landed on the desk.

Chase sputtered something resembling a laugh. "Maybe you're not such a dumb bitch after all."

You grabbed the gun and pushed yourself up with the help of the desk. The finger stared up at you as you loaded the single bullet.

You positioned the finger onto the trigger and guided it with your gloved hand. Then you aimed it at his forehead. Dead by his gun, by his trigger finger. Bleeding on the ground in his private bunker while the empire he built collapses around him. A coward's death. It was poetic enough an end as he deserved.

"You want to say a prayer before you meet god?" You offered.

"My soul is saved." Chase said through ragged breaths. "My place in heaven is secured."

Bang. One bullet, right between the eyes. A bloody fingerprint on the pistol. You dropped the revolver and collapsed. You just laid there, listening to your phone buzz.

[buddiewho]

Begrudgingly, I re-watched the date scene. Now that I was actually paying close attention...it was an alarm sound from an iPhone. Therefore, this means Eddie did set an alarm to remind himself of the promise to be home in time to put Christopher to bed. Yet, my brain still keeps questioning the entire thing. Okay, Eddie's having a tough time with the fourth grade math. It's math, personally, I don't blame him. Anyhow, Ana makes her cute joke about 2+2 still equals 4. Then I thought, if it were that easy then why are we making the equation so damn hard? So damn hard that it led to Christopher being mad enough to run away to Buck. Super hard to the point Ana even mentions "taking a break" because Christopher is at this breaking point already so should we even move forward? "I don't want you going anywhere..." juxtaposed to Buck saying to your son, “I’m not going anywhere.” Which adds another piece to this equation because Christopher felt that he’d lose Buck to his Dad dating...? *cracks knuckles* If the equation is so simple. If it's 2+2=4 (and yeah I know they're 3), but if it's 2+2=4 then it's easy. The outcome should eventually look like Future Tense (4x03), but maybe with kisses between out and proud boyfriends co-parenting Christopher.  Really it's so easy to manipulate the 4x08 equation because it could've gone like this (if we weren't doing a slow burn, I suppose) and of course, I took many liberties as to imply one of them is already aware of the feelings they caught: 

"Hey Buck, I need you to come over. We're going to help Christopher with his math homework." There was groan on the other end of the line. "Why me? I can't do math," Buck announces without hesitation. He really doesn't want to do math, but it's Eddie and it's Chris so of course he was going to end up dragging himself over to the house.

"Come on. I don't get understand it. I need your help more than him. Besides, we might end up goggling shit, when Christopher isn't looking because I don't want him getting into that habit to do his homework. So get over here. We'll order pizza and maybe by the end of the homework session, we could play video games or something."

"Sounds enticing, but it's still math," Buck said as he was getting his shoes on. "Who am I kidding? I'll be there." Eddie laughed and hung up. __

"Buck!" Christopher said from the couch as he entered. "Hey, little man, I hear you need help with some math homework." "Did my Dad really call you?" "Yes, he did so apparently it's that bad. Don't know how I'm going to help. I was terrible at math." "Well, if it's the three of us, I think we'll do just fine," Christopher said so nonchalantly, but it tortured Buck's heart a little bit. It was a heart wrenching pang of sweet sweet happiness at the sheer acceptance from Christopher.

__

Pizza plates surrounded a notebook and worksheets. The three of them sat back on the couch; Buck and Eddie next to each other, Chris on the other side of Eddie. They were about fed up with this one problem. "I don't get it, Dad." "Yeah, me too," added Buck. "Yeah, me three," Eddie sighed. "We're nearly there, I think. If not I'm looking up the answers and that'll have to do."

"Wouldn't that be cheating?" Christopher asked. "Sort of," Eddie loosely explained. "Think of it as calling on an expert, a math expert, or a teacher," Buck explained some more. "But we don't use it every time. Just as the last resort." Christopher thought on it and then just changed the subject, "Can we take a break? Let's play a game before I have to go to bed."

"Yeah, sure. Let's take a break. I don't think it's due for a couple days anyway." Eddie agreed. Buck leaned close, their shoulders now touching. "So what happened to not looking up answers in front of him?"

"This math problem pissed me off," Eddie said through gritted teeth. Then he softened. "Thanks for the save with that explanation." "It's all good. So Christopher are we playing the usual?" "Yeah, the pirate against the wolf that's the fighting game we always play." "Maybe the two of you should try different characters?" "No," they both said in unison and Eddie just laughed. He started to clean up their mess as Buck jumped up to help Christopher get the game turned on. Eddie came back and Buck was surprised when he sat directly next to him instead of putting Christopher in the middle. Buck wasn't going to complain. Then something shitty happened. Something really shitty. Eddie touches their shoulders again and then whispers, "You know how I told you I ran into Christopher's old teacher Ana Flores. I should call her? It's just you mentioned teacher earlier and I thought..." Eddie's voice trailed off and Buck tried not to press the controller buttons harder than needed. When Buck didn't immediately respond, Eddie seemed to forget what he said because he went on to loudly say, "Buck, you really should change your character. You never win as the pirate."

Buck chuckled. "I like the pirate. I'd be a pirate if I could." "Of course you would." "And I'd be a wolf," Christopher interjects. "Nice choice," Eddie tells his son. "What about you Dad? What would you be?" "Probably a ninja or something," Buck offers. "Maybe," Eddie muses. "But I was thinking a simple, clean, and efficient boxer." "Practical," Buck rolls his eyes. "Where's the imagination?" "Okay, pirate, I'll be your first mate then." Buck smirks, wondering if there were any implications beyond that statement. "No, you'd be part of the crew, swabbing the deck of my ship," he jokes. "I see how it is," Eddie bit his lip. "All right. Expect a mutiny led by me then."

"I win!" Christopher announces, pulling them out of their imaginary world. "Of course, you do." Buck smiles. Eddie looks at the time, not believing that much of it had passed. "How about a story before bed?" Eddie asks Chris. "Not from Buck." "Oh, yeah, I don't blame you," Eddie gently elbows Chris. "It's because of the kid in the rotisserie isn't it?" "Yup," said Chris. "Hey! That was a cautionary tale." "Yeah, okay," Eddie gave him a playful glare. "All right, let's get to bed." They were at Christopher's door when Buck stopped Eddie. Christopher shuffled inside towards his bed. "I got a story for tonight," Buck stated. "And what's that?" "Hansel and Gretel." Eddie's fist clenched and he contemplated playfully punching Buck's arm, but he didn't. He just looked him square in the face and crossed his arms. Buck lost it at the sort of scolding Dad face, "I'm kidding. I'm kidding. We'll read something light and fluffy. Like Little Red Riding Hood. It has a wolf."

"Buck!" "All right, all right, I'm done." Buck held up his hands. Christopher had sat on the edge of his bed, half-listening to them. "So pajamas. Then a story and bed." Eddie rattled off. "I'm kind of tired so maybe no story tonight," Christopher yawned. "Thanks for coming over to help with my homework." Buck smiles from the doorway. "I'll leave you two then. Goodnight, Christopher." "Goodnight, Buck," Eddie and Christopher say in unison, making each other laugh. Buck smiles at them and skips to the living room where he left his jacket. He trots to the door and then looks down the hallway. Part of him wanted to stay, but he didn't want to overstep so he takes his leave. As he climbed into his jeep and started it, Buck suddenly couldn't get one thought out of his mind, what if Eddie called that teacher, Ana Flores? What if tomorrow or the next day, he calls her instead? __

It's just Ana offers to come over and help Christopher with his homework. And I kept thinking we're really making this math equation truly difficult because NO MATTER how INCAPABLE they are at math, there's someone already AT HOME that could help Eddie with his son's homework. So they had one good date and then the second date was, "Oh wait I could use her "apparent" math skills to help my son with his homework. Don't forget to set the alarm to be back in time for bed. Oh shit there's construction, I'm going to be late. Wonder if Buck got him to bed? Christopher is probably being stubborn since I'm late." Then of course by bringing her over before Christopher gets to see Tia or Abuela or even Carla seems strange. What's going on? Especially when everything seems fine without forcing Ana into the equation. Can you force equations? Manipulate maybe, more like a chemical/science equation [exactly how Eddie is doing it by forcing himself into this role]? I don't know. Equations do take work. Like the fact that Buck has stayed over BEFORE either to watch Christopher and tell stories and/or stayed long enough after a game night to see Christopher off to sleep and that night he decided to tell a cautionary tale- in which Eddie was apprehensive, but it's Buck telling it and Eddie's there too, Chris would feel safe- until that night Christopher couldn't get to sleep for the next hour.

Equations are long, complicated work and one has already been laid out between Buck and Eddie. 

The rest (as we've already agreed) is up to the universe.

[bosspigeon]

Adam versus that most evil of foes...the office printer?

two glass houses, twenty stones

Pairing: M!Detective/Adam du Mortain Word Count: 1711 Summary: Having recently learned that he is the target of a power-hungry vampire who wants to experiment on him because of his “special blood” (oh, yeah, and vampires are real, apparently), Detective Arlo Priestley deals with the aftermath. The aftermath, of course, including one Adam du Mortain and his sparkling personality.

So... I don’t even know what to say anymore. I get completely innocuous prompts and they become something COMPLETELY different than what i had in mind. so, uh, hope you enjoy an Arlo Character Study with a side of Printer Shenanigans! This takes place in Book 1, shortly after the detective finds out about, uh, everything. I had fun playing the unreliable narrator with Arlo! And I have a fun idea for a sequel that’s Adam’s POV! Title is from Type O Negative’s “I Don’t Wanna Be Me.”

“You can, uh, sit down if you’d like,” Arlo offers, picking at the chipped polish on his thumb.

Adam hardly glances at him, keeping his attention on the window that overlooks the rest of the police department. “I am fine standing,” he says shortly. It almost seems like he’s determined to not look directly at the detective at all.

Arlo winces a bit, blowing a loose strand of hair out of his face. “Yeah, sure. That’s fine too,” he mumbles, looking down at his pile of reports. He brushes the accumulated black paint chips he’s shed in his anxious fidgeting aside. He’ll have to paint his nails again soon, they’re looking rather ragged, almost to the point he can bite them again. He’s been trying to stop, he knows it’s sort of gross, but still…

He furrows his brow and starts thumbing through reports, absently flicking through his color-coded tabs that help keep him marginally organized even when his “system” doesn’t really work for anyone but him. He calls it improvisational. Verda calls it “slapdash.”

 He frowns, chewing on his lower lip and clicking his tongue when he notes his color system is out of order, and that one of the red tabs is missing. His eyes flicker up when he hears Adam shift slightly, but the vampire still isn’t looking at him, so he focuses back in, counting through reports again. He sighs and rolls his eyes, turning to his computer and pulling up his group chat with Tina and Verda.

big-depeche-mood: Tina, did you take my copy of Mrs. Holt’s police report?

big-depeche-mood:  And why did you change my display name again?

BubblegumB!tch: how do u know i did it? why do u always blame me? 😥

big-depeche-mood: Because Verda has no reason to care about Mrs. Holt claiming her ex kidnapped the dog when they separated.

big-depeche-mood: And if you mean the display name, you’re the only one with admin privilege, because you made this chat.

BubblegumB!tch: i am being unfairly targeted 😭😭😭

BubblegumB!tch: im taking this to HR

DoctorDILF: HR has found no evidence to support this claim.

DoctorDILF: Really, Tina?

big-depeche-mood: Just tell me if I need to print another copy, please.

BubblegumB!tch: 👉👈

Arlo rolls his eyes and minimizes the window so he can start the task of going through his backlog to find the digital copy of the original report. Once he’s found it and sent it to the printer, he pushes himself upright, groaning as his spine pops in several places

Adam finally, finally turns to look at him. “Where are you going?” he snaps.

Arlo flinches, clenching his jaw to bite back the nasty retort burning on his tongue like acid. “To the printer,” he grits out, jerking his hand towards the window. “Literally twenty feet away. So unless you plan to go get that report for me, let’s just hope the megalomaniacal vampire that wants to use me as a lab rat doesn’t decide to snatch me from a police station in broad daylight.”

Seems he didn’t bite it back hard enough after all.

Adam recoils, like he always seems to when he realizes he's stepped directly on Arlo's nerves. He feels a little guilty for snapping, but he’s had more than enough of being treated like an unruly toddler. He wants to snidely suggest Adam see about requisitioning a bloody leash for him, but he snatches up a pen and starts furiously clicking it until he can calm himself down instead. Adam’s lip twitches, and Arlo clicks faster.

Adam turns sharply on heel and stalks out the door, slamming it behind him so hard the window rattles. Arlo is just grateful it hasn’t broken.

He sinks back into his chair and rolls his eyes skyward, dragging his hands down his face and wondering what the hell he’s done to deserve this whole situation. It’s bad enough he knows there’s some mad scientist vampire wanting to experiment with his freakish blood, but being shut in the same room as Adam for multiple hours a day when the man won’t even look at him, much less talk to him, makes nerves squirm under his skin and sets his whole body on edge. Unfortunately for the both of them, when Arlo gets nervy, it gets much harder for him to temper what comes out of his mouth.

He melts into his chair a little more, ignoring the pings from his computer that are probably Verda trying to convince Tina to change his display name back, and Tina reacting by changing it to increasingly ridiculous things. He just closes his eyes and focuses on breathing for a bit, trying to remember a single thing from his anger management classes from years ago when his brain is still buzzing with a squirming twist of irritation and guilt, a desperate need to apologize warring with the urge to snap and unload every frustration this whole thing has got knotted up inside him.

It's some sort of cosmic joke that Adam occupies so much of his attention, when Adam seems like he can't wait until he can get as far away from Arlo as possible.

He's just pretty, Arlo tells himself. Remember the last time you let someone pretty get you all stupid? Maybe remember what you learned from that.

He almost falls out of his chair when he opens his eyes to see Adam in the doorway, his shoulders so taut they're making Arlo's hurt just looking at them.

Maybe stop looking at them, idiot.

He forces his eyes up and is confronted with perhaps one of the most bewildering things he's ever seen.

Adam du Mortain, stoic, no-nonsense, terminally brooding Adam du Mortain, is standing just outside Arlo’s office, looking almost... sheepish. Arlo has to blink a few times to make sure he’s not seeing things. He’d almost say he’s imagining things, but at this point he’s so familiar with Adam’s general stone-faced demeanor that any sort of change to it is almost glaringly obvious. The scrunch of his eyebrows, the twist of his mouth, the almost painful stiffness of his posture, as if he’s pointedly trying to look as unaffected as possible and failing spectacularly. Arlo’s a detective, and while he doesn’t consider himself an expert at reading people, he’s still fairly decent at it. Adam, from time to time, can be pretty easy to read, but especially when he’s trying not to be.

Maybe Arlo’s been watching him a bit too closely.

“Uh,” he starts, already cringing internally at himself, “what’s up?”

Adam is silent for a moment, and then he exhales sharply through his nose, as if he is trying to calm himself down. Arlo’s nerves immediately ratchet up a few notches. “There is an issue with your printer,” he says.

Arlo blinks. “Oh. Um, I didn’t think you’d actually—” He bites his tongue when Adam’s brows furrow harder. “Let’s go have a look, shall we?” he offers instead, standing up. He hesitates to approach the door until Adam takes a step back to allow him through unimpeded. He lets Arlo lead the way and Arlo tugs his braid over his shoulder so he can twist it between his hands, because there is something a bit unnerving about Adam behind him, silent but radiating a tension Arlo can almost feel. It’s likely his imagination, considering his annoying awareness of the man, but still.

Arlo sees the problem almost immediately upon arriving at the little alcove that houses the station’s printer. The top cover for the document feeder seems to have been pulled off entirely. He turns to give Adam a bewildered look.

“The paper jammed,” Adam says stiffly.

“Yeah,” Arlo replies, “it does that sometimes.” He lifts the cover and turns it over in his hands, to see that, yes, the little plastic hinges that attach the feeder to the tray are entirely broken off. He frowns a little. Adam is so tense next to him, so still, Arlo wonders if he’s even breathing. “I can just ask Verda if I can send it to his, then see about calling someone for repairs.” He snags a sharpie from Tina’s desk and pops open one of the other trays to pull out a blank sheet of paper so he can write a quick “Out of Order” sign and slap it on top.

Adam still hasn’t moved, staring at the printer as if it has somehow personally offended him.

“It’s fine, Adam,” Arlo insists quietly, stepping a bit closer with his hands raised, though he doesn’t dare to touch. “Really. It’s a shitty old printer. I bet the second I let Tina know, she’ll go pester Doug until he calls his dad about it. We’ll have a shiny new one in no time.” He offers a wry little smile. “Say what you like about nepotism, but it has its perks.”

That doesn’t seem to help in the way Arlo hoped it would, because Adam raises an eyebrow and gives him a sharp look that has him shrinking back. “I am surprised you have that attitude, Detective.” He doesn’t have to say he’s disappointed, Arlo can hear it loud and clear and hates that it bothers him so much.

He steps back and turns away so Adam doesn’t see the look on his face before he can smooth it over. “Well, it’s the reason I’m here, isn’t it?” he can’t help but snark. “And it’s the only reason you’re here too. Explains a lot about your attitude, I suppose.” No wonder Adam’s been so bloody sour about all this. Must be a pain to have to babysit your boss’s kid because she said so. His silence on the subject speaks more than he could hope to.

More than anything Arlo wishes Rebecca could just go back to ignoring him. Things were a lot less complicated then.

Shoulders tight enough to rival Adam’s, Arlo heads towards the stairs to the basement. “I’m going to get that report,” he tosses over his shoulder, trying and failing to sound casual as Adam’s eerily quiet footsteps begin to follow him. “I’ll try not to get kidnapped on the way,” he adds under his breath.

The way Adam’s footsteps falter tell him he wasn’t quiet enough.

[sicprowl]

The Fell-Star P2.3

The Fell-Star Series

Previous     AO3

{Ashe's Log} //FORMAT - TEXT// {DATE: ERA2 Ethereal Moon, 1184}

....................................................................

//LOCATION: KITCHEN//

……………………………………………………….

                                 LOG2

Subject

Girl

The Alien stands at 164cm - or about 5’5”

Weight???

Name unknown

Biology yet to be explored - see Mercedes

Light green hair with matching eyes (they glow?? How??  Why?)

Found on an Empire ship inside a strange egg orb

sample being looked at by Annette - note: don’t forget to visit later

Has a strange connection with the Prince’s Lance

Possibly knows what they are? Creators?  Original owners?

Takes very long baths

Likes kissing   Mute??

……………………………………………………….

”Why’d you cross that last one out?”

Ashe looked like he was about to have a heart attack when Sylvain appeared over his shoulder.  He watched the shorter boy fumble with his tablet, nearly dropping it before the red head caught it.

“A-Ah!   Sylvain!”  He reached up for his device - but the communications officer merely held it higher, reading over the data with a curious quirk of his brow.  Ashe frowned, “Can I have my notes back please?"

Sylvain grunted and began swiping through screens.  “Wow.  You’re really taking this research thing seriously.”

“Of course I am!”  The shorter boy managed to snatch his tablet back and held it close to his chest.

“This is probably the biggest discovery in history!”

“Mmhmm…”

Ashe narrowed his eyes at him, disbelief clear on his face.  “How can you not be excited about this?  It’s an alien!  There’s an alien on our ship!"

“Oh, I care.”  Sylvain shrugged as he glanced elsewhere.

The conversation wasn’t appealing to him anymore, more focused on the array of food set out on the counter top of their small kitchen.  Some of it were from instant packets - disgusting alternatives to real food (cheap too).  Others were various dried meats, rice, beans, and generally things that wouldn’t go bad when stored properly on the ship.  Their group had always preferred real food over the process stuff - maybe it was a Faerghus thing?

“I care about there being another pretty girl onboard~”

Ashe balked, “Sylvain!”

He gave Ashe a cheeky grin and slung an arm over his shoulders.  The communications officer ignored how the freckle-kissed boy tensed up, knowing he was a little too polite to brush him away like the others.   “Look.  Things have gotten real tense around here lately - you can’t blame a guy for getting a little excited, can you?"

“T-That’s not-!!  She isn’t-!!!”  Ashe turned pink while the grip on his tablet went white, “You can’t be serious!!”

Sylvain ignored the boy’s sputtering attempts at reprimanding him in favor of tapping the device’s screen, “Don’t forget to add ‘green fingernails’."

He blinked, “Huh?”

“ ’Green fingernails.’ ”  Sylvain repeated, using his forefinger to write it down.  It came out sloppy and bigger then the other notes on the list, but the red head was satisfied to be of help.  “She’s got these layered, green colored nails.  I guess it is a small thing to notice.”

Ashe looked up at him, brow furrowed and questioning.  The older male shrugged again, not really wanting to go into detail about how he always noticed those kinds of things when it came to girls.  They liked it when you complimented their looks so of course Sylvain would zero in on anything with color or make-up.  Hair was a bit harder; the slightest change was considered new to some girls and it could get a little frustrating.

“Just look at her hands the next chance you get - you’ll see what I mean.”

Sylvain abandoned the confused boy for Ingrid who was busy putting out as much food as she could fit on their dinky, stainless steel counter.  Plopping onto a stool, Sylvain looked over the array of food and whistled.   “Nice buffet you got going there.”

Ingrid shot him a dirty look when he spun one of the plates, watching the grey sludge wiggle suspiciously like jello.  “Don’t you have some place else to be?”

He gave her a noncommittal grunt, eyes trained on a tray of Sweet Bun Trio only for Ingrid to slap his hand away the moment he reached for one.  “Hey…”

“Those aren’t for you,” Ingrid huffed, ever immune to his pout and charming good looks.

Sylvain crossed his legs and slouched against the counter, eyes now trained on the entrance to the kitchen. “Where is the lady of the hour?  I thought she was done with the bath?”

Ingrid paused, eyes suspicious as to how the red head knew their guest was done with using the bathroom.  She almost questioned it, almost.  But she doubted Sylvain would tell her the truth anyways.  She’ll just have to keep an eye on him for now.

“Mercedes and Annette are helping her get some clothes,” she continued to place out more food before taking a step back with a nod.  It seemed like a good variety, so surely there was something here for the alien girl to eat.  “She can’t walk around in His Highness’ cloak all day."

A grin creeped onto his face as his hand reached for a sweet bun, “I’m sure His Highness would disagree~.”

She slapped him away, “No one asked for your opinion, Sylvain.”

It was at this moment the door to the kitchen slid open to reveal Annette and Mercedes, both standing on either side of their strange guest and talking to her despite the alien seemingly not listening.  Sylvain sat up and blinked, his gaze sliding over her new outfit with apprehension. A black top and shorts, both with boob and stomach window.  A corset to hold up her large chest, a bulky accessory of a falling star laying nicely in the center.  He looked down and noted the knee high boots and lace stockings.

“Are you sure you don’t want my opinion?” Sylvain gawked - wondering just what in the seven layers of icy hell she had on.  And why was she wearing the coat like that?  Did she rip holes in the sleeves??  No, this was too much.  He had to say something.  The red head sat up, giving the outfit an incredulous wave.  “I’m not exactly a fashionista but-"

“Look here, Sylvain!!”  Whoa. Annette was not having it today.  “Girls are built differently then men, okay?!  While you guys can share shirts and pants because your planks, us women have curves of all shapes and sizes and it makes shopping really, REALLY hard!”

The communications expert gave a nervous laugh and raised his hands, “I surrender!  Please, have mercy!”

Annette fumed, having been ready to defend the horrible outfit with her life.   It’s not their fault the poor girl was curvy in all the right places!   They had so much trouble finding the right sizes that the alien had almost slipped out of sight after they spent thirty minutes looking for pants.  It also didn’t help that they were all tired from storming that ship, and the adrenaline of finding an alien was keeping them all from getting any sleep.

Sylvain let her cool off before asking another question, unable to keep his curiosity in check as he stared at the green haired girl.  “So, whose stockings are those~?”

To his surprise, it was Ingrid that blushed - her gaze suddenly focused on organizing a plate of cut vegetables.  Suddenly, he was seeing his childhood friend in a new light.

“The boots are mine,” Annette pointed out.  “So is the tie.  The pants and coat are Ingrids and the tops belong to Mercedes.”

Sylvain’s eyes were suddenly on the alien’s chest, grin growing wide at how much perkier it looked with that tight corset on.  Ingrid smacked him upside the head before he could formulate a snarky comment, effectively rattling his brain enough to make him see the error of his ways.

“Anyways,” the blond clapped her hands together while her voice held the same tone she had when flying the ship.  “Let’s get started!”

“O-Oh, wait!”   Ashe fiddled with his tablet a moment before rushing to Ingrid’s side.   He held up the device and a tiny red light appeared on the back as it started to record.  “This is the starship Blue Lion with Officers Ingrid, Sylvain, Annette, Mercedes and Ashe.  Log input number three - subject - Food.”

“All right, Ashe.”  Ingrid made sure the alien was watching as she gestured towards the freckle faced boy.  She then looked to the other two girls.  “Mercedes, Annette,  are you ready?"

“Yes!” Annette grinned, taking the alien’s arm and tugging her towards the counter next to Sylvain.  The girl paused, as if suddenly remembering something.  “O-Oh!  Here you go, Ingrid."

Sylvain raised a brow when Ingrid nodded back, only to repeat the scientist’s name again.  He couldn’t help but feel like he was missing something here…

Once they got the alien situated next to Sylvain, Mercedes and Annette quickly gathered around for a closer look.  They all waited, watching the mint haired girl stare back with a neutral look.  Mercedes touched the woman’s back, causing the alien to turn and look at her gentle expression.

“It’s okay,” Mercedes encouraged.  “You can have anything you like.”

The communications rested his chin on his hand, watching the display with mild curiosity as the green eyed woman continued on with her blank stare.  If he was going to be honest, her face was a bit creepy.  There was never a clear expression there and whatever face she did make was sometimes so subtle that it was impossible to read.  Sylvain couldn’t help but be reminded of a porcelain doll the more he stared.  Her face was both sharp and smooth; beautiful and pearly under the certain lighting, yet also gave off an eerie feeling of the unnatural.

Green eyes suddenly looked back at him, startling him out of his thoughts with giant, grassy green orbs.  Sylvain swallowed, wondering if she was going to kiss him like she’d done to Dimitri.  That wouldn’t be so bad. Her lips looked pretty soft too.  Probably still moist and warm from her long lounge in the tub.  He bet they tasted good too - something exotic and sweet~.

Sylvain felt disappointed when she looked away to look over the buffet, now finding the grey jello stuff more interesting then him.  He ran a hand through his hair with a sigh, wondering why he even bothered coming here if she was just going to ignore him.  Why did any of them bother?  It’s not like she was trying to communicate with them.  Just what were they even getting out of this?

He was pulled out of his thoughts again when Ashe gasped.  The young engineer moved in closer with his camera and kept his eyes trained on the alien girl’s fingers as she palmed a lemon.  There against the bright contrast of yellow, just as Sylvain said, were the alien’s green fingernails.  They weren’t smooth and rounded like human nails.  More so they were layered like worn seashells, ridged and almost sharp looking as they faded from dark jade to lime, like soft watercolors.

Sylvain grinned when the younger male suddenly looked at him with excitement, pointing to her nails and nodding as if they were sharing an inside joke.  He snorted,  I guess seeing Ashe act like this is kind of worth it…

But their smiles were short lived when the alien placed the fruit back down to stare at them once again - silent, blank, creepy.

Mercedes looked at the others with worry, “What do we do?  She doesn’t even look interested in the food.”

Annette hummed, “Do we have anything else she might like?”

“Everything else we have has to be cooked,” Ingrid turned towards one of the tall, steel panels lining the wall.  She laid her palm flat against the surface and watched as the grey panel slowly turn translucent.  On the other side of the glass were shelves hidden behind a cold mist and ice that bordered the edges in tiny fractals.  Each of these shelves was some of their more expensive kitchen items - frozen meats, drinks, emergency supplies, and even alcohol - all stored away for special occasions like birthdays, holidays, suicide missions.

A blue circle of light formed around Ingrid’s palm as the glass collected the data from her hand-print.   Just a split second later, a series of charts and numbers scrolled down the glass, making the blonde gasp and try to hide it with her body.  “D-Don’t look!!”

Sylvain’s eyes lit up with interest when he stood from his seat.  “Was that your weight?!  You eat way more then that!!”

“Sylvain!”  Ingrid stepped away from the panel when cool air hissed out around the edges. Thankfully her health charts were gone so she didn’t have to hide all that anymore (who’s bright idea was it to take that setting off private?).  The pilot pulled open the panel, cold mist puffing against her cheeks as she grabbed a packet of ground beef and a herring.

“Okay, which one of these-!!“ Ingrid jumped in surprise when the alien girl was suddenly at her side, her eyes wide and staring hard at the frozen fish.  “O-Oh!  Do you want this?” The woman was practically drooling when she snatched the fish out of poor Ingrid’s hands.  Ashe suddenly yelled at her to wait, but the alien had already chomped down on the fish’s middle before dropping the frozen creature in shock.   Mouth gaping and hands up as if she’d been burned, the woman looked around at them in confusion.  Sylvain couldn’t help but laugh while Ingrid hurriedly picked the herring up.

“L-Let’s thaw it out first and then you can eat it, okay?”

But the alien showed no signs of understanding, merely held her hands to her mouth to touch her wiggling pink tongue.

“At least we know she likes fish,” Annette giggled along with Ingrid who placed the herring in a device above the stove.  The blonde input a few numbers before starting the defroster and looking to the rest of the crew.  Her eyes landed on the medical expert with a curious look.

“Do you think we should cook it, Mercedes?”

“Oh,” the other woman frowned thoughtfully, “Well…Ingrid, it seemed she was ready to eat it whether it was cooked or not.”

“Good point, Mercedes."

“Okay,” Sylvain’s face screwed up as annoyance bubbled up in his chest.  “What are you guys doing??  Why are you repeating each other’s names???"

Ingrid quickly rounded on him, “Just butt out, Sylvain.”

“Yeah, Sylvain!”  Annette added with a huff, “Butt out!”

The red head looked between them with wide eyes and wondered if he was in some bizarre nightmare.  “S-Stop that!!”

Sylvain was thankful when the defroster finished with a ding, a puff of mist spilling out once it’s door popped open.  They waited as the cloud evaporated before them, revealing the same fish they’d put inside, except no longer frozen.  It’s scales shimmered beneath the device’s tiny spotlight like it was freshly caught from the lakes of Faerghus; a sight that didn’t go unnoticed by their alien friend as she sidled close.  Ingrid grabbed the animal by the tail and held it up with a thoughtful frown.

“So…should I just give it to her?”  The blonde looked around for an answer, “It just feels weird not to cook it.”

Annette shifted in place, finger on her chin as she ran through different case scenarios.  “Well…  We could avoid her getting sick if we do cook it.   So I guess there wouldn’t be any harm.”

“Good,” Ingrid looked relieved.  She wasn’t sure she could stomach watching someone eat a fish raw.  Then she looked at the herring and bit her lower lip.  “I don’t think I’ve ever cooked fish before…”

“Oh!  I can do it,”  Ashe lowered his tablet slightly, but made sure to keep it trained on the alien.  “My dad used to own a restaurant. I helped out a lot around the kitchen, even as a little kid.”

Mercedes blinked in surprise, “I didn’t know that about you!”

The boy blushed, “It’s nothing really.  I just have a little bit of experience, that's all.”

Ashe frowned as he looked at his tablet, wondering what to with it until Sylvain held out his hand.  “I’ll take it.  Can’t stop recording now, right?  For science or whatever?”

“Oh!  Thank you, Sylvain!”

The red head twitched, deciding not to comment on the emphasis on names again.  He adjusted the device until he had everyone in view before giving them a wave.  “Say extraterrestrial!”

“Can you please take this seriously?”  Ingrid huffed as Ashe grabbed an apron and a pan from one of the cabinets.

“I am being serious, Ingrid.” Sylvain gave her a cheeky grin, his camera hand following the alien girl as she walked around his childhood friend with eyes trained on the hanging fish.  “I’m making sure our viewers catch every captivating detail.”

“Well, you sure aren’t-AHHH!!!”

Everyone in the kitchen jumped in surprise, Ashe’s pan and spatula falling to the floor with a clatter, Mercedes and Annette gasping, and Sylvain jumping out of his seat as he caught it all on camera.  The alien had surged forward at the hanging fish, her mouth latching onto the creature’s gills with rows of sharp teeth.  Her head jerked back, making Ingrid recoil and drop it to cover her mouth in horror.  The mint haired girl grabbed the bottom of the fish and pulled hard, severing it’s head with the fervor of a wild beast before she swallowed it whole.

“Oh my!”

Ingrid covered her mouth and hid behind Mercedes, “I think I’m going to be sick…”

Soon the girl was tearing into the rest of the fish, her tiny, prickly teeth tearing at it’s scales for a brief moment before she reared her head back.  Ingrid choked back her nausea as they saw the alien’s throat bob as something seemed to move forward to grab a hold of her meal and pull it down.

“A-Are you getting this!?”  Ashe gasped while his eyes grew wide in wonder.

“Yeah,” Sylvain swallowed.  “Unfortunately…”

“This is amazing!  I’ve never seen anything like it!”

Sylvain glanced over at the gushing boy and wished he could be as happy about this as him.  Because this was just gross.

So very, very gross. ~~~ ♫ when you're down by the sea and an eel bites your knee that's a moray! ♫ ~~~

[monstrosibee]

@blood-shepherd OKAY here it is, i went in to edit and i wrote an extra 600 words accidentally

               "She's so...squishy." The organic shifted in his hands,  her soft fabric outfit catching on one of his joints and causing every cable in Bumblebee's frame to pull tight as a drum. It unhooked easily as the purple skinned baby rolled against his chassis panel to curl into the heat pumping out of his fans. With a delicate touch, he adjusted the clothing out of its uncomfortable twist. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised about the purple though, because..."

"It's a good color!" Misfire finished for him, lounging on the couch with a glass of Bumblebee's most expensive spiced energon in his hand - perfect for colder mornings, but without the engex as he knew how to be a Responsible Babysitter. "Not as good as fuchsia or magenta, but still pretty good."

               Bumblebee was not used to this many people in his little apartment in Iacon, and even when there were that many people, it was mini-bots; Aileron and Rattrap and a pair of Divisiunians named Weld and Rotor. Even the smallest one was at least as tall as Starscream, and there were six of them. Grimlock on his own took up the entire of the space in front of the TV, in alt mode and curled up to be more comfortable on the floor.

               The yellow bot gently hefted the baby in his single hand, shifting in his position against the kitchen counter that faced out towards the media suite, and laid a palm on her stomach, feeling how warm and soft she was in comparison. "I mean, I guess. Not as good as yellow, but it's pretty nice. The Decepticon symbol's a bit heavy handed though, don't you think?"

               Krok shrugged where he had his legs and stabilizers thrust over Spinister's lap on the floor between the couch and Grimlock. He had energon as well, but Bee thought he could see the heavy glass of an engex flask tucked beside his hip. "Wasn't our decision. Her father thought it was clever. I think it's a bit tacky to be honest, but hey, it's not my face."

               Connie yawned wide, showing her toothless gums like a newborn kitten, and Bee seized up again, afraid of waking her. Misfire caught his expression and slid off the couch, bouncing gracefully over where Crankcase had fallen into recharge on the floor taking selfies for his boyfriend. "Bee-buddy, no reason to be so tense! It's just a baby, they don't bite." He popped his arms up under the baby and took her, cradling her like an expert nurse. "Your bud Roddy said you were a pro with the little organic protoforms. Thought that's why he turned us away at the door; figured you'd be psyched to see her."

               Rodimus had probably turned them away from the Lost Light because the last time Misfire had boarded, he'd taken the newly reconstructed Rod Pod on a joyride and totaled it again. Bee didn't say that though, choosing instead to lean over Connie cradled in Misfire's arms, tucked in her little outfit that looked oddly like some kind of many legged Earth creature. "No, I love kids...it just would have been nice if he had called before five strange Decepticons and Grimlock showed up on my porch with an abnormally large purple baby. War's over, but I'm still half the size of the average Cybertronian and a little paranoid."

               "Your personal frequency changed." Grimlock's voice was deep enough to nearly shake the floor where he lay. His mouth didn't move as he spoke, but Bee could see his optics now focused on the baby and him instead of the TV. "Whatever they did to bring you back, your whole body's new. Not the same frequency. Had a couple bots try to call, and all of them got an empty signal back."

               Frowning, Bee accepted the baby back from Misfire, who was eyeing Crankcase's abandoned energon. "I'll have to give out my new frequency...I forgot that no one on the Lost Light has heard from me since I woke up."

               The hand off must have been too rough, because just then Connie whined, then burst into tears. Crankcase woke as well, flailing his arms in his usual expressionless surprise and managing to knock Misfire off balance and to the floor. Grimlock watched Bee dodge out of the way with a slightly amused expression, rumbling softly as the yellow mini-bot jumped to the side and out of the way of flailing jet wings and angry 'Con limbs.

               The baby wailed again in Bee's arms, and he nearly jumped out of his kibble. Her little face scrunched and wrinkled in displeasure, her fingers grabbing out in the air for something. Unsure of what else to do, he carefully slid the end of his index digit into her tight little grasp, but it only quieted her for a second. Misfire had been effectively distracted by Crankcase, and they tussled on the floor, the former trying to grab the latter by his guns. The other Scavengers looked on in mild interest, as though the two thrashing bots on his floor weren't knock stuff over and making Connie cry even more.

               Wheeljack had been somewhat pressed for time when he put all of Bumblebee's parts together. The body had been grown from sentio metallico into his shape, like a forged bot, but because of the hurried nature of the construction and the...strange way the spark was lit, it had some interesting idiosyncrasies, almost like some of the early experimental MTOs he had known during the war.

               Some of them made his life a little more difficult - his knee injury had apparently become spark printed, so even now he walked with a cane on his worst days - but some were just strange. His optics would flicker different colors if he drank certain kinds of energon, loud noises could make his cooling fans start regardless of temperature, and...

               As his engine kicked in from the stress of having a crying child in his arms and the two mechs fighting on his floor, a high pitched droning buzz filled the air. It vibrated hard enough to shake his plating and rattle his denta, and he sighed and bit down so they wouldn't shake out of his head; Wheeljack had told him there was no way to fix it, since it was caused by the irregular pulses of his spark, but Primus if it didn't make him want to tear his engine out some days.

               Connie, on the other hand, seemed quite pleased. Her crying slowly eased as Bee's chassis and arms vibrated against her until it went silent, and she stared up at him with eyes a red so bright they were like tiny pools of nucleon. He paused, looking down at her in surprise, then smiled with his denta still clenched and cooed, "You like that? Little squishy 'Con likes the buzzy Bee?"

               Her giggle tinkled like Praxian crystal chimes, high and soft and sweet. Being so much bigger than her  human base, her voice was different and lower, but it didn't have that echoing tinny quality to it that Bee had never noticed Cybertronians did until he traveled off world and spoke to organics. Amusement pulled her face into a different set of creases and wrinkles, crumpling her nose and squinting and squeezing tighter on his digit.

               "Slagging Pits!" Misfire was suddenly hovering over Bee's shoulder, watching Connie grin toothlessly at the mini-bot's boxy face. Crankcase was still on the ground, wiping spilled energon off his legs. "Her pops said she'd been laughing, but I thought he was lying cause he wanted to make it look like she was some super baby! Damn, now I owe that slagger Scorponok fifty shanix. I'm never babysitting for him and that Cybertronian orange Julius ever again, they just take my money."

               Bee laughed, still staring down in sudden spark shuddering adoration at the baby in his arms.  "I thought you said you didn't know much about organics? For all you know, she should be up and walking already." Then the name the Scavenger had dropped processed, and pried his gaze off the baby to look up at Misfire. "Did you say Scorponok?'

               He nodded nonchalantly, waving a digit at the baby. "Yeah, him n' his little Autobot conjunx cooked her up in a test tube." He paused, biting his lip. "Well, I guess he's not little, he's actually only a little shorter than me but EVERYONE looks short next to Scorponok of 'Built like a damn combiner"..."

               Misfire chattered on as Bee felt his processes slowly detach from his physical brain module. His vision was unfocused as he looked back down at Connie, gummy mouth still clamped around his digit. In that moment, she felt smaller and even more delicate than before, and his engine buzz hitched with a touch of nerves.

               "Well, no one will ever mess with you," he muttered into his arms, loosening his grip so she could lay more comfortably. "But damn if that isn’t a big legacy to live up to.”

[flying-guinea-pig]

Season Finale 6/7

A/N: I’m still alive! I promise I’m not a ghost.

AO3 link.

The previous chapters.

Chapter 6: The Lower Levels (part II)

They must be far below sea-level now. The air was damp and smelled of salt and rust.

A bump against the corridor wall jumped up at their approaching light and hurled itself at Elisabeth. “Don’t leave me!”

“April?” Steve said. “Why are you alone? Where is everyone?”

“I don’t know!” said April, clinging to Elisabeth, whose heart now went a mile a minute after that sudden attack. “We noticed you were gone and wanted to look for you but John said to keep going, and then we went down here and everything went dark and I heard screams and my lights stopped working and I was all alone…”

There was something fishy about this. But she couldn’t detect any trickery in April’s terrified face.

“He said to keep going, huh,” she said, with a glare for Steve. “Your boss is just the best, isn’t he?”

“He’s very… focused,” Steve said. “The show must go on.”

“Good for him, but I’m not prepared to die for a B-rated reality show.”

“So what do you suggest?” Steve snapped. “You want to turn back? Go on, then. But I’m not leaving them down here. We’ve been through a lot with this show – you don’t want to know – and we never leave someone behind.”

“I’m not leaving,” Elisabeth said. Where would she even go? This place was a maze, and walking around on her own was just asking to be eaten by a ghost or whatever. “I’m just saying we should be pragmatic about this. We should get back-up.”

“The phones aren’t working, and even if we can reach Monifa on the ship, she’s even less qualified to banish ghosts than I am. At least I know the basics. We have to go on.”

“I understand,” April whispered. “We have to find the others, wherever they are. The only way we can get out of here is together.”

Elisabeth made a face. “That sounds all nice and motivational, but we’re still all going to die.”

Steve swung his camera to her face. “Can you repeat that? If we survive this, it’ll make a good bumper.”

“Shut up.”

The corridor opened out into a larger room, ‘large’ being relative of course. Everything down here was cramped.

“I don’t think the others came this way,” Steve said. “This place looks undisturbed.”

For some reason it reminded her of the demonology classroom – a half-circle of benches arranged around a clear spot, yes, it did look like some kind of small auditorium. But why down here? Space was already an issue in this bunker, why put this room here and not higher up in the oil rig?

“Careful,” Steve said, and nodded at the empty space the benches were facing. There was something on the ground there. No – someone.

A skeleton sat with its back against the wall, slumped sideways in death, its tattered clothes probably the only thing keeping the mouldy bones together.

April made a small noise.

“Look,” she said, and took something lying beside the skeleton. “Their knife looks just like the one on your belt. Same runes and all.”

“Standard demonology gear,” Elisabeth said, distracted. “It’s all rusted though.”

Wait a minute.

No wonder this place reminded her of the demonology classroom. Those markings on the metal floor – those were binding circles, encasing a summoning one she couldn’t identify. Had they been painted on? No – that wasn’t dried-out paint, it was too thin, too faint for that. This looked like… rust?

A small trail – the memory of droplets – led from the outer edge of the circle to the body.

Blood was widely used in summoning. It was all about the sacrifice. Someone had made the ultimate one.

But even that shouldn’t have been enough to keep this circle so pristine through all these years. The rust should have flaked off, the magic broken, without a force of will to keep it standing. Unless…

“How much willpower would you say ghosts have?”

Steve shrugged. “Depends. If it’s an echo, not much. If it’s a stranded soul – their own willpower is what traps them here. The feeling they have to do something more important than eternal peace – sometimes that’s revenge, but not always.”

“So theoretically, if someone died while holding a binding circle, they could keep the magic going after death?” Elisabeth asked, a sinking feeling in her stomach.

He shot her a funny look. “I suppose. You’re the expert here. Has something like that happened before?”

“No clue. I don’t meet many ghosts.”

“We should move on,” April said, backing away from the body. “Keep looking for - urk.”

Steve nearly dropped his camera in his hurry. “April? April, are you okay?”

For a moment there April had seemed frozen mid-step, one foot still slightly off the floor – now she turned her head and smiled.

Elisabeth glanced at the floor. At the smudged, broken lines of rust.

She wasn’t the type to curse unduly.

“Fuck,” she said, and grabbed for the spare spray bottle in her belt, the only thing she had on hand this quickly –

April – what had been April – didn’t attack. She ran.

“No, wait!” Steve called after her, before he too disappeared through the sidedoor.

That idiot! Hadn’t he seen what happened?

Damn it all! Where had they gone? The corridor seemed empty. She should be able to hear their footsteps, they had to be nearby!

In the silence, she could only hear her own labored breaths. She stopped running. The shadows were flickering over the walls again, moving in ways she didn’t want to examine closer...

Ding!

She nearly dropped her flashlight.

“Now what?” she said, grabbing her phone. “I’m kind of busy!”

Something was moving in the darkness. A dragging, approaching sound.

[Now will you listen to me?] the Alcor Virus said. [You have to call Dad! This is wrong.]

[I should be able to summon him, but I can't. I can't even reach the internet. This is wrong. Dangerous.]

The way behind her seemed clear of shadows. Could she return to the auditorium?

It was a relief to slam the door behind her and lock out the shadows haunting the corridor. The auditorium and its morbid occupant was at least not actively menacing right now.

She’d never felt so alone.

Ding!

Ding!

[Please.] The pixelated face was pleading. [He told me to keep an eye on you.]

Let’s see. Murderous ghosts. A mysterious summoning and binding circle, broken. One person possessed by a demon who’d been trapped for about sixty years and who couldn’t be happy about that… And yet it had ran off. Why? Demons didn’t run from mere humans like them. Not unless they had some other goal in mind…

Something was scratching at the door.

Damn it. She sighed. It was obvious what she had to do. It was just really annoying to admit it.

Elisabeth turned off her bodycam. The she flipped open the little pocket on her belt where she kept her chalk.

Time was of the essence, so against all better judgement she only drew a really rough and wonky binding circle on the surface. Her hands shook – must be the adrenaline. Were the lights flickering again? Another ghost... or something else?

She hissed between her teeth at the sting of the needle. It was a feeling she should be accustomed to, in her line of work, but with her nerves all tense like this everything seemed to be amplified. She pressed harshly next to the little wound, massaging more blood from it. A wonky circle like this might need more than just a drop to activate... At least she knew the summoning incantation by heart. That should be enough.

Darkness spread. But, thank god, not from the walls or the floor - it was contained inside the circle, and quickly bloomed into the familiar shape of her personal headache and part-time sidekick.

"Hey Adams," Alcor the Dreambender said, flashing her a shark-toothed smile. "I knew you'd miss me. Did you enjoy Alvie’s company?"

“No,” she said, and threw him her phone. He caught it with ease. His glance at the screen seemed to be relieved. “I’m in trouble and so are the people with me. You'll get the contents of both my freezers if you help me and the rest of us here out of this mess, okay?"

"Wow. What is the matter? Your deals aren't usually so vague."

"One of my companions is possessed. And I don’t know where the others are.” She tried to keep her voice level. “We were trying to release the ghosts of murdered cultists back into the reincarnation cycle. The Xuerus Cult, remember? Anyway, everything is getting recorded, I’ve got my cam switched off but the others probably don’t, so put on some disguise unless you want to be on national television."

"Hm. Maybe I do... Alright, fine." He shrugged and stepped out of the circle. His feet touched the ground and he seemed to grow, becoming tall and gangly and freckled. Bright red curls topped his head, his eyes bleeding from gold to poison green. "This okay?"

“It’s fine. Now –“

"Hold on, we haven't shaken on anything yet."

She made a face. In for a penny, in for a pound...

"Whoa," he said, as she took his hand without any more arguing. "You're... actually really worried. You're never that careless about making deals."

"Didn’t you hear what I said? Someone is possessed," she snapped. "Also, I forgot to mention, a lot of murderous ghosts. Right now, you’re the lesser of two evils."

“Am I blushing?”

“Shut up. And try to stay under the radar, okay? We're in Canada. Here I technically only have a license to bind and banish demons, not summon them." Sure, they were outside coastal waters, where things like 'illegal' were a bit... complex, but she'd rather not risk it. "Please pretend to be human. Unless necessary."

"No problem,” he said, passing her phone back to her. “I'm good at pretending to be human."

At least his disguise was less obvious than 'Tyrone Evergreen'. She swallowed. Had she made the right decision? She just ran for her life. Those ghosts had... really rattled her, to put it mildly. That probably hadn't been the ideal state of mind to consider summoning demons.

But no matter how she'd like to deny it, having Alcor around was comforting. Whatever would wait for her down there, she had some power in her corner now.

Of course he was probably just waiting for the right moment to do unspeakable things with her soul and she'd just shown how dependent on him she had become... but still. Not like she could reverse that decision now.

"I know that look on your face," Alcor said. "What's making you paranoid this time?"

"I am not paranoid," she growled.

"Are you sure? You were convinced one of your classmates was possessed by a demon."

“Oh, shut up and make yourself useful. Steve can’t be far, he ran after April when she got possessed and that was just a few minutes ago.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll find them.” He grinned. “I used to be a real pro in hide-and-seek."

"Who would play hide-and-seek with a demon?"

"You'd be surprised." Alcor seemed to focus for a moment. “Huh,” he said. “This is odd.”

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

“This place feels a bit… claustrophobic. Locked in.”

“We’re in a haunted bunker deep underwater, of course it feels like that,” Elisabeth said, not mentioning the masterwork of layered containment circles she’d crossed. If she could figure out how they worked… of course, she’d have to survive this first.

“True,” Alcor said, looking disturbed. “Shouldn’t affect me like this though. My magic feels… wonky.”

“Great,” she sighed. “So you can’t find them?”

“Shh,” he said, waving a hand. “I think I hear a heartbeat – follow me.”

The creeping shadows fled as they approached. No screams or creepy weeping this time. Elisabeth noticed the drag marks by the door, the scratches in the dust, and swallowed.

---

Steve hadn't wandered very far.  He was huddled behind an open hatch door, half hidden by the metal, holding his camera like a shield in front of him. The light of his screen illuminated his face with a pale glow, making him look a bit like a ghost himself.

He jumped to his feet when they saw him.

"Adams!" he said. “I thought you were right behind me – everything went dark, I lost track of April, this isn't a normal haunting anymore – who the hell are you!?”

Ah, he’d noticed Alcor.

"I got some reinforcements," Elisabeth said. "This is - er..." Damn, she couldn't call him Evergreen because this was getting taped, Alcor still used his Evergreen persona, she wasn't good at names… "Al."

Steve blinked at her. Turned to look at Alcor, then back at her. "Al?"

"Yes," she said. "Al... Star."

"Really," Steve said. "Al Star. That totally doesn't sound like a made-up name at all."

"I get that all the time," Alcor laughed, offering Steve his hand. There was no fire, but Elisabeth couldn't help a small shudder as Steve shook it without thought. "Blame my parents."

"Right," Steve said, slowly. "Okay then... Mr Star. How the hell did you get down here?"

"Helicopter," Elisabeth said. She kept her face impassive underneath Steve's unbelieving gaze. "He's the one I've been texting all this time."

Ding! said her phone.

"Now someone else is texting me, obviously," she said. That little demon virus had horrible timing.

[... Al Star? Seriously?]

"Yes, we're part of a secret agency," Alcor said, smiling just a bit too wide. "That's why our phones work in a place like this. Very secret. Don't tell anyone though!"

"Mr 'Star', you realise you're being recorded, right?" Steve deadpanned. "This thing I'm carrying here? Not a flamethrower."

Elisabeth rolled her eyes. "You're a real comedian. At least a flamethrower could've been useful."

"Hey, I've been useful! I banished that ghost - that stinking stuff you got all over us didn't do anything."

"Yeah, yeah." Enough dawdling. Did the overhead lights still work? Yet another narrow corridor, great. "Which way did April go?"

“I don’t know. She was so fast…”

“Maybe it’s a good thing you didn’t catch up with her,” Elisabeth said. “You could have been killed.”

“April wouldn’t kill me! She’s just confused –“

“Are you joking?” she said. “Did you miss the decades-old containment circle she disturbed? She’s possessed.”

“That makes no sense. No demon would hang around for sixty years just in case some victim might show up.”

“Unless it couldn’t leave. Until some idiot broke the lines!”

“Don’t call April an idiot!”

“Wait,” Alcor interrupted. “She got possessed, and immediately ran off? While you two were just there, within easy disemboweling distance?”

“Yes,” Elisabeth said. “Odd, isn’t it?”

“Very. I mean, if I’d been locked up for sixty plus years in a mouldering bunker, I’m sure I’d have some pent-up anger to vent. Wouldn’t you? The fact they didn’t... they must be planning something.”

Ding!

[That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!] the chibi Alcor said, frustration rolling off every pixel.  [There’s something down here, something big – I can’t get inside the electronics – I can’t get out, either. Something is pulling at me – are you even listening? Give me to Dad!]

“Your turn to babysit,” Elisabeth said, throwing her phone back to Alcor. “Just keep it.”

The overhead lights flickered out, leaving them with the glow of the camera screen and the phone.

She backed away from the gaping darkness until she nearly bumped into Alcor. “Great. As if we didn’t have enough to worry about.”

Mist spread through the corridor, glowing with a light from within. It coalesced into figures, humanish if humans were colourless and transparant and faceless and rolled out until every limb seemed double as long as it should be. Their distorted voices echoed against the metals walls, coming from everywhere at once.

̧̯̑͝ ̤͙̈́͘ḯ͙̤̤͙̈́͘͘ẗ͙̤̤͙́̈́͘͘'͙̤̤͙̈́̈́͘͘s͙̤̤͙̈́̈́͘͘ ͙̤̤͙̈́̈́͘͘ẗ͙̤̤͙́̈́͘͘ö͙̤̤͙́̈́͘͘ö͙̤̤͙́̈́͘͘ ͙̤̤͙̈́̈́͘͘l͙̤̤͙̈́̈́͘͘ä͙̤̤͙́̈́͘͘ẗ͙̤́͘ë͙̤́͘

̟̇͛͘ͅt̟̟͛̇̇͛͘͘ͅͅo̟̟͛̇̇͛͘͘ͅͅo̟̟͛̇̇͛͘͘ͅͅ ̟̟͛̇̇͛͘͘ͅͅl̟̟͛̇̇͛͘͘ͅͅa̟̟͛̇̇͛͘͘ͅͅt̟͛̇͘ͅe̟͛̇͘ͅ

̇͘ͅṫ̇͘͘ͅͅȯ̇͘͘ͅͅȯ̇͘͘ͅͅ ̇̇͘͘ͅͅl̇̇͘͘ͅͅȧ̇͘͘ͅͅṫ͘ͅė͘ͅ

"How about that banishing chant?" Elisabeth said, backing away even more until she was near the open hatch, Alcor safely between her and the ghosts. "Your time to shine, Steve."

"You're not calling it gibberish anymore?" Steve teased. "They don't seem threatening. Maybe we can communicate with them." He cleared his throat. "Dearly departed, we mean no harm. We are here to set you free."

̘̈́ ̴̤͙̈́͘ÿ̴̴͙̤̤͙́̈́͘͘ö̴̴͙̤̤͙́̈́͘͘ǘ̴̴͙̤̤͙̈́͘͘ ̴̴͙̤̤͙̈́̈́͘͘d̴̴͙̤̤͙̈́̈́͘͘ö̴̴͙̤̤͙́̈́͘͘ö̴̴͙̤̤͙́̈́͘͘m̴̴͙̤̤͙̈́̈́͘͘ë̴̴͙̤̤͙́̈́͘͘d̴̴͙̤̤͙̈́̈́͘͘ ̴̴͙̤̤͙̈́̈́͘͘ḯ̴̴͙̤̤͙̈́͘͘ẗ̴̴͙̤̤͙́̈́͘͘ ̴̴͙̤̤͙̈́̈́͘͘ä̴̴͙̤̤͙́̈́͘͘l̴͙̤̈́͘l̴͙̤̈́͘ ͘

̟̇͛͘ͅd̟̟͛̇̇͛͘͘ͅͅo̟̟͛̇̇͛͘͘ͅͅo̟̟͛̇̇͛͘͘ͅͅm̟̟͛̇̇͛͘͘ͅͅe̟̟͛̇̇͛͘͘ͅͅd̟̟͛̇̇͛͘͘ͅͅ ̟̟͛̇̇͛͘͘ͅͅi̟̟͛̇̇͛͘͘ͅͅt̟̟͛̇̇͛͘͘ͅͅ ̟̟͛̇̇͛͘͘ͅͅa̟̟͛̇̇͛͘͘ͅͅl̟͛̇͘ͅl̟͛̇͘ͅ

̇͘ͅḋ̇͘͘ͅͅȯ̇͘͘ͅͅȯ̇͘͘ͅͅṁ̇͘͘ͅͅė̇͘͘ͅͅḋ̇͘͘ͅͅ ̇̇͘͘ͅͅi̇̇͘͘ͅͅṫ̇͘͘ͅͅ ̇̇͘͘ͅͅȧ̇͘͘ͅͅl̇͘ͅl̇͘ͅ

"We will bring you peace," Steve went on. "We’re here to help."

The glowing figures melted together and a deep sense of despair permeated the corridor. It was so thick and heavy it took Elisabeth’s breath away. She was faintly aware of falling to her knees, her head spinning, pain and anguish and fear rolling like thunderclouds inside her head –

Something grabbed her arm and dragged her backwards. The loud metal clang of a hatch, slamming shut.

The darkness cleared, both inside and outside. She blinked open her eyes, to see Alcor’s currently freckled face hanging over her.

“Still sane?” he asked. “Well, as sane as you ever were, I mean?”

“Shut up,” she mumbled. “What happened?”

“The two of you stopped breathing. I figured that was a bad thing and got you out of that corridor.”

“… thanks. Help me up.”

Yet another corridor. How large was this place? They should be pretty close to the cult’s inner sanctum now, right?

Steve was sitting up next to her, his side leaning rather heavily against the wall.

Elisabeth glanced at him, still trying to catch her breath. "Not threatening, hm?"

Steve shook his head slowly. "I don't understand what I did wrong. Ghosts usually love to talk about their deaths. It's pretty much the only topic on their mind, most of the time."

“I don’t think these were the talking kind of ghosts,” Alcor said. “More the killing kind.”

Elisabeth rubbed her head, trying to dislodge the last traces of that horrible, alien despair she’d felt. “How good is Tenney again? Think he can handle this?”

“I don’t know,” Steve admitted. He met her eyes, his face haunted. "This is my fault.”

“What?”

“I did this. There's this ritual... Sometimes the legends exaggerate. Make for boring television. So we... give the ghosts a boost. But we didn't mean to - I mean, we didn't know! There was barely any haunting in the living quarters, this is supposed to be the season finale, we needed pazzaz!"

What the hell was he talking about? Whatever it was, it did not sound good.

"You jacked up the esoteric resonance of this place," Alcor said, as if those weren't just nonsense words. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't that a really illegal ritual?"

"Yeah, well, so is summoning demons in Canada without a Canadian permit," Steve snapped. "Don't think I don't know, 'Mr Star'. I'm not stupid!"

"You could have fooled me," Elisabeth muttered, and added a bit louder: "So you, what? Gave the ghosts here an upgrade?"

"That's one way to put it, yes. You had classes on magic, you know this."

"Working with ghosts was an elective," she said. "Didn't take it. Fine. You told me why you would do something as idiotic as that. But why in the ever-blazing hell did you make them so powerful they actually became dangerous? We nearly got killed!"

Steve looked away. "That wasn't supposed to happen. We thought... we thought they would be weak. So a little boost wouldn't hurt. But down here, they're not weak at all. So that little boost must have pushed them over the edge into -" he shivered, "- Category Twelves."

"Let's imagine for a moment I know nothing about the various classification systems for ghosts," Elisabeth said. "That's bad?"

"It's really bad." Alcor was the one who said it, his face troubled. "Those legends about the Grim Reaper? That’s actually a category ten. They just kill you. Twelves can do worse."

"Great. Thank you so much, Steve."

Alcor offered Steve a hand to help him up. The idiot took it, even though he had admitted a second ago that he knew what 'Al Star' was.

"You said 'we'," Alcor said, as Steve brushed away some dust from the camera lens.

"Oh. Did I?"

"Yes."

At least Alcor was good at making people squirm, even without unsettling demon eyes.

"Tenney," Steve admitted. "But I performed the ritual, so it's on me."

No surprise there. No one could smile that much at people and be innocent.

“We can figure out who to blame later,” Elisabeth said. “Right now, the important thing is to find the others and get them out of here. Without getting killed. And we will."

"I hope so," Steve said. "Why so sure, though?"

"We've got Al."

---

They had Al. Who was most likely a demon, so now they had even more than only murderous ghosts and a possibly possessed teammate to worry about.

Steve wished, not for the first time, he could send a message to his slightly younger self. A few hours younger, even. Not too much time travel. Just enough to warn him never to perform that ritual, and maybe get everyone off this oil rig before the darkness broke loose.

"So, Mr Star," he said, to distract himself from the whole oh-shit-I'm-going-to-die vibe he kept getting in these damp tunnels. "What did she promise you in exchange for your help?"

"None of your business," Adams growled. Heh. It was still fun to rile her up.

Mr Star grinned. Too wide, too many teeth. "She promised me meat."

Steve swallowed. Alright then. He did ask.

"And ice-cream," the demon added. "For dessert.”

“… right.” He turned to Adams. “Was this really a good idea? We don’t know for sure what happened to April, the others are all missing - and you really thought adding a demon to this mess would help?”

“He came by helicopter.”

Steve gave her a deadpan look. “I’m not recording right now.”

“In that case, yes. I did think he would help.” She sighed. “It’s not my fault he’s having performance issues.”

“Hey!”

“Performance issues,” Steve repeated, keeping an eye on the rattled demon. “Explain, please?”

“There’s something down here that messes with his powers,” Adams said. "He's basically useless, except for scaring away ghosts."

"Jeez, Adams, you always know what to say," the demon complained.

"Really?" Steve asked. Of all demons she could have summoned, she picked a weak one?

Though... Al. Al Star. That sounded vaguely like...

... nah. Couldn't be. Even she couldn't be that arrogant to summon that demon. He couldn’t be bound into service, everyone knew that.

“I don’t have issues. I’m very well-adjusted for a demon.”

Adams rolled her eyes. “That is such a relief.”

"This is normal for you?" Steve blurted out.

"What do you mean?"

"This, this whole - thisness!" He waved a hand. "You two act like, like you're in some kind of buddy-cop story or something!"

Mr Star had the gall to shrug at it. "This isn't our first cooperation, you're right."

"It should be our last," Adams said.

"You always say that."

"This time I'm serious."

"You always say that too," he sighed. "After all we've been through, Adams... I don't expect you to trust me. But even you have to admit that I've been a lot of help to you. We've had a lot of fun, too."

Adams was quiet.

Steve surreptitiously switched his camera back on. Working with Tenney had given him a sixth sense of a sort for when people were either going to argue or going to be dramatic or mushy towards eachother. Those moments made television.

"You have been," Adams said, after a long silence. She was avoiding Mr Star's earnest gaze. "I would probably not be here if not for you. You know that."

"That's not what I meant," Mr Star said, just as softly as her.

She shook her head, curled her arms protectively around herself. "I don't have nightmares," she said. The tone didn't match with her words. Her words said she didn't have nightmares - her tone and cold expression said she wouldn't have nightmares. She wouldn't allow herself.

"Don't sell yourself short," Mr Star said. "You were pretty amazing back there, too. We both got tricked, but you still won."

"Did we?" she said. "Did we both get tricked? Or is this just empty flattery, are you just telling me what I want to hear? I can't ever trust you. Whatever you say, whatever you promise. You have to know that. So why do you keep trying? Why do you keep pushing? You should know better! Do you think that I'll give in, eventually? That I'll be so blinded by your sweet-talking and helpfulness and friendship that I'll just hand myself over to you?" Her laugh was bitter. "Because it might just work. And I hate myself for that."

Mr Star's face fell. "Adams... that was never my intention. I mean... Don't hate yourself."

Her face was twisted in self-derision. "Just saying. How stupid do you have to be? You are what you are and I know better. And I still call for you. I shouldn't trust you."

"You just said you didn't."

"And I don't!" Adams snarled. She gave Mr Star a push, which he took without blinking. Her shoulders slumped. "...but sometimes, I lie."

"I wouldn't, you know," Mr Star said, after a painful silence.

"Wouldn't what?"

"Double-cross you. I'm not tricking you. Well, not in any big way at least - little tricks keep life interesting for both of us. But I'm not after your soul."

"Really," she deadpanned. She wiped her sleeve across her face, leaving behind a smear of grime of dust in damp conditions. "Then what are you after?"

"Companionship."

She looked at him. Steve barely noticed he was holding his breath.

Mr Star - a demon, whatever nonsense they'd cooked up about spies and secret agents and magical phones - was standing there, a tall shape huddled into himself, his eyes downcast.

It must be a trick. Because no demon had the right to look so... sad. So lonely. So much like a kid that had been kicked around by Fate too often.

Working with demons was tricky, Steve realised. But in the stories the demons came with teeth and claws and burning magic, a raging threat. Not this... creature with a sad face that asked for friendship.

Tricky indeed.

And Adams, licensed demonologist... was quiet. Just looking at Mr Star, her expression hard to describe, a small furrow on her brow.

"You've got others for that," she said, eventually. "Don't you?"

Something in Mr Star seemed to fade. His nodded quietly.

"Alright," he said. "Let's just… do our job, then."

"I mean, you don't need me," Adams added, as if the demon hadn't just spoken. "I'm bad company."

"I don't think so."

"You know what I said. I can't trust you."

"Alright. You made your point, don't need to keep rubbing it in." Mr Star shook his head. "Work. We were doing something important, weren't we?"

Adams looked at him, long and silently, until she finally seemed to make a decision. She nodded, and was suddenly all business again. "Yes. I suggest we go left - are you filming this?"

Busted. Steve lowered the camera slightly, but not enough to let Adams' glaring face drop out of view. "This is a show, you know," he said defensively.

It didn't work.

"If that footage ever sees the light of day I'll kill you," Adams snarled. "This was private!"

"Then you shouldn't have been talking about it in front of a camera - hey! Don't touch my stuff!"

He held the camera in the air until she stopped attempting to grab it.

"Hmpf." She took a deep breath. "That footage is going to be deleted. You hear me?"

"Well, you're just lucky we lost the livestream to the boat then," Steve said. "Down here there's no reception. Of anything."

A loud groan of straining metal shook through the walls. The floor trembled.

Adams was suddenly very, very pale.

"What was that?"

Steve ignored her. He put his free hand to the wall of the corridor and felt the slight shivers. Aftershock? Had they just felt an earthquake? This was bad.

"Those were ghosts, right? Just ghosts?"

"I don't think so," Steve said. "Maybe. Ghosts usually make things float, or mess with your head. Stuff like that. This felt big."

Monifa had mentioned a storm, hadn't she? Maybe the protective enchantments around the oil rig were less stable than they'd thought...

"You remember how to engage your underwater spell, right?" he checked.

Adams seemed to pale even more, if possible. "Please don't tell me the bunker is flooding."

"I don't know. Worst case scenario. Probably not. But let's speed up our walking, even so."

For once she didn't argue and just took his advice. The floor trembled again.

"Question," Adams said, after a long walk in silence, aside from the metal creaking of the walls. "What good is that waterbreathing spell and the pressure suit going to do, actually? If this thing bursts, odds are we will be stuck. Inside."

"It'll help us live long enough for the rescue team to come find us," Steve said.

"True. If they show up, and the boat hasn't been trashed by, I don't know, a storm or something."

"You're so pessimistic. The boat will be fine. And they would show up. This isn't the first expedition that went badly. We've had to be rescued a few times before."

"Alright, so let's say someone does show up, eventually," Adams agreed. "But meanwhile, until they find us down here... we'd still be trapped. In the dark. With ghosts and a really ticked off demon."

"I could tesser you out in a snap," Mr Star shrugged. "No problem."

"No problem, really?"

"Jup. You see, it's probably those wards around this place that are interfering with my magic. If they drop, well, you'll be sunk. But my limits would be gone, I bet."

"You're not sure?"

"Not a hundred percent, but it sounds plausible."

Adams rubbed her face. "Great. We're all going to die."

"Pessimistic," Steve sighed.

"I know, right?" Mr Star commisserated. "She's always like that. Too worried about everything to cut loose a bit."

Steve... really didn't want to be around a demon 'cutting loose'. He worried a bit about Mr Star's definition of that, but decided not to ask.

"I can hear you, you know," Adams said.

Mr Star nodded wisely at her. "You should relax more."

"Here and now? That's the advice you're giving me?"

The world shook again. There was something odd about the shaking, something Steve couldn't quite put his finger on. For a second, it had felt like he'd been floating...

Well, the mind plays tricks on you, underwater.

The corridor ended. There were no more doors, except for one. Another hatch in the wall, not very different than the ones before. Whatever this cult had been, they hadn’t cared much about style. The inner sanctum of a demon worshipping cult should at least have an impressive door…

“Looks heavy,” Adams said. “Can you open this for us, Alc- Al?”

No response. Mr Star had paused a few feet behind them. He seemed rooted to the floor, wide eyes staring at the flat X symbol on the hatch.

"No," he said, seemingly to himself. "It can't be."

"What are you waiting for?" Adams called. "A little help please."

"...coming."