#its four lanes and no streetlights

[theprissythumbelina]

People in my city legit play chicken on the main road at 11 at night

So people just cross the road here? Like they don't wait for the light every time? When I was a kid everyone told me that if I jaywalked I would get run over. I was walking around yesterday and a bunch of people just jaywalked right in front of cop. The cop was doing something else but wtf! If you are from Boston could you please explain this to me.

[kinetic-elaboration]

May 16: Daria/Jane, Kiss

Daria/Jane, ~900 words, ~35 minutes

In the same 'verse as this fic, but it also takes place before so like, post-canon, basically. This was inspired by a comment from/conversation with @riotsquirrrl on that fic about how D and J might have gotten together. I really liked it, so I decided to play around with it.

How can it be that Daria thinks it's cold enough for snow and yet Jane's not wearing anything as heavy as a real jacket? It's because Daria is from the South and doesn't understand what cold is or what almost-snow feels like either. So.

*

The forecast says snow flurries but the air feels like incipient heavy snow, as bitter-cold as it is when Daria opens the door and steps outside. These are the last flickering days of the year, the in-between time, the neighborhood dark by 5pm and illuminated only by streetlights. She stands in the cone of light from the Morgendorffer's front-door light and shrugs her shoulders up toward her ears, crosses her arms against her chest, and Jane pulls the sleeves of her red BFAC sweatshirt all the way over her hands.

She'd volunteered to walk Jane out but not all the way home, so there's no reason now to linger out here in the cold, breathing out faint misting gray breaths, thinking about how it won't really snow, not in Lawndale in December. It never has.

But Jane just shifts her weight from one foot to the other, glances out in the direction of the sidewalk and then back. "Hey--so." She mimics Daria's posture, crossed arms to hold in body heat. "Thanks for letting me hang out all night and avoid my house."

"Thank you for distracting me from having to spend time alone with my family." A half-joke, and Jane half-smiles at it. They're not so bad, really. She's just not so used to being home, as if she'd traveled back from Boston in a time machine and now she's in high school again, Quinn telling stories about the same teachers, the same gossip, the same football team. As if Daria's four months at Raft never happened. As if time had shifted in some jarring, abrupt way, but only for her. Only somewhere in her body, in her consciousness.

"Could be worse," Jane answers. Could be her place. Wind's moved back in, half-taken over. Trent won't last the year with him, though he hasn't admitted it yet. And Jane's mom has been away for six months now, the sort of absence that must make even Jane wonder if she'll ever come back, and as far as Daria has ever been tell, Mr. Lane has never really lived there at all.

Maybe familiarity is better. At least she has somewhere to come home to.

"What are you doing tomorrow?" she asks. She means it as a lifeline but selfishly, too.

Jane shrugs. "Sleeping. Painting."

"Busy schedule. Do you think you can find time for pizza?"

"I might be able to pencil that in." The corner of one side of her mouth lifts up again, a smirk but, because it's just them alone, there's softness to it. "I should go."

"Yeah."

For a while now, maybe a couple of months, Jane's been in the habit of kissing Daria on the cheek when they part ways. The reason why has never been obvious, and Daria has stopped trying to remember quite when it started, or what she thought of it then. Maybe Jane does it because separating always feels so much more weighty now, when they won't see each other for days or possibly weeks, instead of hours. Maybe the gesture comes from how much more often they touch, now: jostled together on the subway; falling asleep in each other's dorms; leaning on each other sometimes, when they study side by side in the same bed. Or maybe it's an art school thing, or just part of Jane changing and growing, in some more abrupt or sudden or meaningful way than she did in high school--some change in her that somehow Daria can't see in its entirety or fully understand.

She likes it, though, this new sort of ritual. Never knows how to respond, never initiates, but likes it. When Jane doesn't do it, she always thinks, well that's over now, and then is pleasantly surprised when the habit picks itself up again. Last time, she reached out after and squeezed Jane's arm, just before they parted at the train station in Boston, which was her attempt at speaking the same language back.

But this is Lawndale and it's different here. They're nineteen; they're fifteen; the world is very small, the neighborhood familiar even in the darkness. Flakes of snow too light to even count as flurries are getting caught in Jane's hair.

Somewhere in the direction of the neighbor's lawn, some sound like the movements of an aggressive squirrel rattles through the stillness. "I'll see you tomorrow," Jane says, and Daria turns away from the noise just as Jane leans in to kiss her cheek, and the kiss lands on the side of Daria's mouth instead.

She turns very slightly to her left, like a correction, but doesn't otherwise move. Doesn't pull back, doesn't press forward.

Interesting.

Jane steps back again, blinks a few times; her eyes are unusually wide. "Sorry about that," she says.

Daria shakes her head. "Don't be."

And then Jane's shoulders fall back down, and she laughs like she's letting out some coiled-up nerves. "All right. Tomorrow, then."

"I'll stop by."

Maybe she should be doing something else now, saying something else. Jane leans in one more time and this time kisses her cheek, like she'd meant to, and then she sticks her hands in the front pocket of her hoodie and starts off down the front walk. Daria stays outside and watches her, moving in and out of the brightest lights, until she disappears at last down the street.

[silverjetsystm]

Its Wednesday. Its 2am. She could fly home, she supposed. Whisk herself there on the Bifrost of her own power. Summon a storm, wreck the city. But she doesn't. She doesn't. She stands on the sidewalk and raises her arm at the glowing lights. Raises her arm in a prayer to some semblance of normal. Some new routine. Something. Something. Anything.

A cab. A driver. An escape from a bar filled with colourless souls and watered-down drinks. Cabs arent aimless. They're the opposite. Cabs have a purpose. A duty. A direction.

She slides into the first one that pulls up, wearing jeans and a blouse and smudged gold liner around tired blue eyes. A god in a taxi. No one would bat an eye at it in this city. It's why she's there, she supposed. In city where gods could get into taxis.

"Hi. How are you?" Her accent lilts in the small space. A pause for a reply. A genuine ear for it. He asks where she's going. She tells him a block from her actual address and puts the seatbelt on; if only to get away from the curb faster.

She's used to immediate travel. Click of the fingers travel. Anywhere she wants travel. What she wants is ash now. Dust. A ride in a cab feels measured compared to that. A god in a cab. A routine. Something to do. "How long will it take?"

The sun was long gone. Humidity clung to the late night (so late it was early again). Schvitz clinging to his shirt. Trusty a/c could do so much during the dog days of summer. For the third time today, Lockley wished for rain. He’d take the shift of city stench and hazards over the current oppression.

It would give everyone something else to kvetch about.

His next fare is a woman, blonde hair reflecting gold from streetlights. She slides in, social cue welcomed. “Hey. Doin’ alright.” Lockley is an easy smile, toothpick rolling to a corner of his mouth. Regulations and whatnot kept him from lighting up on the clock. What's off the clock is his business. His owned vehicle. What the T.L.C. don't know won't hurt them. “Where you off to?” Wherever it was, had to be better than barflies congregating around overpriced swill.

Her accent delivering the destination clocks her as not from around here. Scandinavian. Plenty of theories buzzing in Lockley’s mind. He can speculate later. “Sure thing.” Rough fingers start the meter. $2.50 flickers red from its box on the dash.

Seatbelt click from her, a foot on the pedal from him. They’re off. Her question is common. ‘We'll get there when we get there’ is for difficult types. For those who get stuck in traffic and complain. He knows city currents better than any GPS. "Bout fifteen minutes. Maybe less." Closer to ten, he rounds up. The walk would be longer.

Engine and a/c hum add their own parts to the 2 A.M. mezzo piano. A four on the speaker scale. Silence isn’t on the menu. Almost peace is why Lockley drives 5p to 5a. There’s breeze, less crowds and go-go-go. Aforementioned barflies. Delivery scooters taking advantage of emptier lanes. Construction corners. Skyscrapers metallic shadows looming far above the cheery yellow cab.

Toothpick pointed towards the roof, he glances in the rearview mirror towards her. “Not a good night?”

@valkxrie

[hibewriter]

Eyes to Welcome You Home

Masterlist   Read it on AO3

Shadow & Bone | Darklina | 7.3K | E 

Tags: Age Gap | Dry Humping | Car Sex | Stair Sex | Coach x Player Relationship

Logically, Ravka is just like any other country. Within its borders citizens in its largest cities mull about, going to and fro from jobs of a different caliber than the citizens of the countryside. Its roads are an intertwining bramble dictated by terrain and populace, a web when laid out on paper — all seemingly combining to a point at the country capital of Os Alta.  

But the most important roads, the major ones that nearly every citizen found themselves on at one point or another, were the two cross-country highways. Like all major roads in Ravka, country-Way 270 and Country-Way 40 intersect at the heart of Ravka in a spiraling complex of ten lanes and confusing exits. 

Most preferred CW-40, outside of the city at least. Once its lanes died down into a manageable system of three that traveled from the very highest point at the Fjerdian border to the very southernmost point of Shu Han. Few people minded the small airport along its route, for the traffic was rarely overbearing. 

Yet, on CW-270, which stretched from the port coast to the intersecting border of Ravka, Fjerda, and Shu Han, many found themselves in a hate-hate relationship with the long stretches of construction, passing fields and fields of farmland only to transition into worn buildings of an industrial era long gone. But, should one decide to take the cross-country road trip, they might find interest in the passing exits of small towns. Isolated stretches of road that seemed to have slipped into an ethereal space, lone streetlights, and cracked asphalt that stretched to the very depths of darkness themselves. 

It’s on one such road, two hundred and eighty-four miles away from the coastline, just before the final exit before the border crossing, was a foster home. Normally, one would not find a foster home on the edge of Ravka’s civilized society to be significant. One casually does not pay mind to the small town of Ketterdam, just twenty miles from CW-270. The old industrial buildings were covered in decades of salt and wind, brick weathered dull but still standing out vibrantly from the paneled homes and patched roofing across the town. Even less than minding the small town, people minded the downtrodden foster children. All of them were forgotten the second they were deposited on Ana Kuya’s doorstep, government checks were often “misdelivered” for months at a time. 

But that didn’t stop the house from bringing a vibrancy often lost in the grey skies of Ketterdam. 

“Malyen, get OUT .” A voice, high and sure rang through the crumbling four square. The chipped painting probably suffered from lead and other toxic materials that lined the walls, and cramped hallways with boxes full of various belongings. And currently banging on the home’s lone bathroom door, was a girl of five foot four, jet black hair swishing like silk down her back as her entire body moved with her fist. 

“MALYEN, I SWEAR TO GOD IF WE’RE LATE DROPPING OFF ROSE I WILL BREAK YOUR ARM!” She swore, continuing her pounding as a girl, no older than twelve with blonde pigtails destroyed by sleep, peeked her head out of the door across the hall.

“Linka? I need your help with my hair.” The dark-haired girl, Alina Starkov, spun abruptly, eyes wide as she regarded her foster sibling.  

“Of course, Rosie, why don’t you go ahead and get your bookbag together and I’ll grab your brush from the bathroom." She watched carefully as the girl rolled her eyes and slipped back into the room. As soon as the door softly clicked shut she spun on her heel, fire returning to her eyes as she accessed the door. 

‘Malyen, you have to the count of thr–”

The door swung open, and she was suddenly face to face with her foster brother. Had it been years ago, and she was still idyllic with her little crushes based on physical appearance, and that alone, she might have been given pause at the shirtless boy in front of her. His build was bulky as muscles strained under his skin from years of football practice and eating more than his fair share during dinner as Ana Kuya looked the other way. But instead of being charmed by his lopsided grin, she pushed her way past him, furiously turning the water to begin brushing her teeth. 

"Morning to you too, Alina." 

She fixed her eyes to glare, not responding as she rushed. He merely chuckled, seemingly amused by her frustration. She wasn't sure what was so funny. They had fifteen minutes to get dressed, eat, and load into the car – least Rose, Alina, and Malyen get detention for being late. And none of them could afford that right now.  

"Jush hurreh up Mal." She groaned around the brush in her mouth, trying not to rush through her process too much. This was her last year, she forced herself to remember. The last few months of struggling through mornings like this. 

"Relax, Lina," he sighed, heavy feet padding down the hallway. "I'm driving today remember? Ana gave me the car for the weekend!"  

She cursed, spitting the sudsy paste into the sink with fever, barely taking a second to rinse before she, too, was in the hallway. 

“What?! I need it to get to work! And practice!” She yelled, ire building as she heard the deep laugh from the boys' door. Ana was taking Charles to daycare already, their caretaker often gone before dawn. How she found a caretaker to take the boy before the sun rose she'll never know. 

"Too bad! Use a cab!" 

She scowled, sure that steam would rush from her ears if the shockingly violent cartoons were accurate. But instead, her face just grew red. Splotches of anger dotting otherwise flawless skin, fist coiled by her sides. She didn't have the money right now. Not after –

"Linka, my hair!" 

A lump swallow in her throat, closed eyes as she rushed through her calming. One, two, three –

"LINKA,"

"One minute, Rosie!" 

It was going to be a long day. 

She was right, of course. She sat through mind-numbing class after mind-numbing class. Notes were taken with a drying glitter pen – lines and loops not fully connecting but it didn't really matter. There was a good chance she would not remember a lecture about the industrial revolution in Ravka. What did it matter, when all it left in its wake was a crumbling building in Ketterdam where she listened to Mr. Botkin spew historical talking points from the country curriculum? Half the information needed was to be parsed on the single laptop Ana brought home when it was clear that the textbook – first written nearly a hundred years prior – would not do. 

And if in the margins, where she should take specific notes on figureheads and notable politicians whose influence died with them, she doodled pictures of dark eyes that welcomed her home every night then…that was her prerogative. 

Besides, as the hands on the old clock above the door ticked slowly towards two-thirty, she grew more and more restless. Even the bolt from the building to the gym, nearly a mile away, could not quell her anticipatory movements. Her pen tapped restlessly, her foot moving even faster as she lost the plot of whatever her professor said. 

Ring .

Foot met the pavement faster than her teacher could scream after her. The bell doesn't excuse you , would not work. Not today. Not as she sprinted out of the two-story building, cracked sneakers hitting concrete, then asphalt, not even sparing a glance at the parking lot. Malyen and his friends probably didn't even stay after lunch, the old 4Runner long gone from its designated space. 

One mile. Ten minutes. Part of her wished she'd taken cardio more seriously, her down days could've been spent on a treadmill (if Matthais was the one working desk at the town’s only planet fitness) or around the school's track. Even if there were cracks in the rubber walkway, sprouting leaves, and grass that the caretakers weren't paid enough to attempt to remove. 

It was good, the necessity to move fast. She couldn't feel the wind, scraping through her thin jacket. December air at the base of the mountain, nearly single digits, and yet her windbreaker was her only source of warmth. The cutting edge of air as she attempted to avoid lateness. If she were late he would notice. 

You didn't want him to notice your deficiency. 

Her lungs felt like she'd been stabbed, the sudden exertion with no stretching (another thing he'd yell at her for, but the circumstances made it unavoidable). But she persisted, ignoring the weight of her backpack and gym bag slapping against her spine with each hurried step.

2:47 . 

She attempted to slip in, unnoticed as she sprinted to the locker room. Thirteen minutes. Her limbs were a flurry of motion, clothes discarded for her practice leotard, (hand washed every night you didn’t want to waste too much water using the washing machine). Hands and feet powdered with a quickness that couldn't achieve proper usage, wrapped so quickly after she was sure there was probably a step she missed.  

She refused to be embarrassed, however. Not as she slipped into the main practice area, her legs perhaps moving faster than normal to get to her stretching corner. She ignored the pointed looks from the redhead, normally so sweet, already in the middle of her stretches. Steadfastly pretended she couldn't hear the dark-haired girl, normally not-so-sweet, muttering about her timing. She could do this. Pretend everything was fine and it wasn't a million-dollar race to even get here. No matter if she was three minutes late. 

"Starkov." 

She winced, closing her eyes as she leaned into a split. He noticed. He always notices. Aleksander Morozov may have been an army captain, or a general, with his precision. The way he demanded perfection, and if you couldn't give it to him…well then what use were you? 

"Yes, Coach?" She tried to feign confusion, slowly opening her eyes to see the man himself. Dark pools stared impassively into her eyes. Unimpressed. More likely disappointed. Not welcoming as she dreamed of them.

"Is the posted time for practice not in your email?" His voice, neutral in tone, still carried an edge to it. He could be laughing, speaking about his greatest joy, and she would still believe him seconds from brandishing a knife to stab her with. Maybe flay her and eat her. 

"It is in my email, coach." 

"Then do you simply not respect the time and sanctity of this gym?" 

"I do, coach. I'm sorry. It won't happen again." 

His arms crossed, the black t-shirt straining against his biceps as he regarded her. She wished she could tell what he was thinking. What he wanted. 

"Thirty laps after stretching. You'll work the floor today." 

"But it's–" 

"Bar is for people who show up on time, Starkov." 

Silence. She could feel the eyes on her, other athletes waiting to see what she'd do. But seconds passed, her form unmoving as she looked into those eyes. She needed to practice the bar. It was her worst event, and she needed damn near perfection if she wanted to –

It didn't matter. She swallowed her fury, finally tearing her gaze away from stern eyes and leaning into her stretch. When has she ever been able to say no to him anyway?  

"Of course, Coach." 

Her legs ached. Thirty laps had crossed into thirty-five because five of those laps were walked, Starkov. Go again. Her floor routine was in shambles. Simple tumbles had fallen flat, final landings nearly causing her to roll her ankle. 

It was two hours of failure. Two hours of his eyes on her. She felt them hovering on her – as if the other students didn’t need assistance. He didn't have to say a word. Nothing since she began but she fucking knew. The disappointment was evident when carved into stone, its edges sharper and more biting the more it sets. By the end, her mouth tasted like copper. Her breath came out in pants as she glanced at the clock. 

Maybe if she could go one more time, fix her double axle… Her eyes tracked the empty mat, ignoring her fellow athletes leaving the space as she tried to figure out what was wrong with her. 

"Practice is over, Starkov."  No dice. She sighed, dropping her hands from her hips in an act of defeat. It was no use begging for more time. Time she didn't have before she had to leave. She was already cutting it close. 

"I'm leaving, Coach. I get it." She muttered, not sparing him a glance as she slowly turned and made her way to the lockers. I wouldn't want to keep the disappointment in here either.  

She was slower this time, peeling her leotard off in a daze. Her brow furrowed as she thought of every mistake. Sprung too early on the salto, fucked up the twists, and made it seem like a salto. Constantly fucked up the landing, her balance was practically nonexistent. 

Her thoughts followed her in a haze as she jogged the next three miles to the city grocery. 

Technically, the city had an ordinance on minors working. No teenager in Ketterdam was supposed to work past eleven-thirty, nor lift more than sixty percent of body weight in a work environment, and there were mandatory fifteen-minute breaks per four hours worked. But, working at Brekker Grocery had its…well advantage isn’t quite the word. But it did tend to help you skirt around the ordinances of the city. No official paychecks meant no logged hours, which meant that she could work as late as the store was open (until one in the morning, every night of the week except Sunday when they closed at midnight). It was the only flexible job in town. The only place that would hire her. 

"Hey Kaz," she muttered as she strolled inside, past the only other cashier in the store. At least he didn’t have a choice. The son of the owner typically gets dragged into these things, whether they want to or not. 

“Hey! My dad’s out of town so it’s just me and you tonight.” She had a feeling, not seeing the rusted pickup Mr. Brekker normally drove to the store outside. But, she merely sighed, switching into the red half-apron that was probably older than her. It’s not like she could turn around now. 

“So what, did you not go to class today?” Friendly conversation. She could do that. 

“Don’t need class when you got street smarts.”

She rolled her eyes, a huff escaping her lips as she walked away from him. Kaz was two years older than her, yet they were in the same grade. She didn’t want to chalk it up to days like this, where Mr. Brekker would disappear and force his youngest to take over. But when it was a constant, something she barely had to ask about, well. It made sense.  

Shelves needed to be stocked, and she needed to spend the next…seven hours pretending she was busy. To be fair, she wasn’t certain she was necessary after ten, but who could say no to more cash at the end of the night? 

Maybe, if she didn’t open her mouth so much, she would’ve been correct about a slow night. Then she wouldn’t be dealing with a sudden influx of students, out well past their curfews, barging into the store with less than an hour to closing. Where she was forced to stand at the register while Kaz “counted” the closed registers. She didn’t know what exactly he got up to back there. Just knew that her drawer was short once, and after screaming at him for nearly an hour that night, it was never short again. Mr. Breaker wouldn’t fire his son, not for simply skimming what was technically his profits. But he would fire the little foster kid from down the road. 

And maybe she needed the job. Maybe she still did. Or maybe it was pride, mixed in her fury. 

Either way, the kids in the store gave no reprieve to her night. The sun was long gone, and she could see the sky, opening like a flower in spring. Slowly, then all at once, white powder fell cautiously from above, as if afraid to touch the ground. Deep inhales, then a sigh as she watches it begin to accumulate. Her sneakers had a hole in the sole, something she’d meant to fix this morning before she was so late. Something that would bite her in the ass as she walked back. Ice would seep into her feet, the socks would grow wet, and she’d have to be careful about falling on the ice. 

Little things in life provided much relief besides the approach of black grippy shoes, manager’s keys swinging from side to side accompanied by the carefree whistle of someone who lived two minutes from the storefront where they worked. A sound she was all too familiar with, eyeing the lone clock above the entryway. Only one-twenty-three in the morning. Maybe she’d get home before three. 

“Alright, sunshine. Get out of here.” She was out of her apron before Kaz finished his sentence, ignoring the shake of his head as she nearly sprinted to get her bag. She could go to sleep, she could rest…

If only. Exiting the grocery store was a nightmare. While the snow fell around her, silent and bright on the dimly lit street, the wind raged. Drastic and powerful, her light jacket was little more than a sheet, wet and soaking mere seconds after stepping foot outside. She held her arms close, hoping beyond hope that her body would provide the barest warmth against the elements.

She walked along the main road for just a few minutes, the street lamps illuminating her path, though as she continued her march south, toward her home and shared bed, She found herself taking more and more steps between each light. Shadows seemed to follow her, clinging to her form with each crunch of her shoe. 

The alley, her shortcut behind the town's only bar, was already layered with the week's trash, topped with fresh snow that did little to mask the smell. Her shirt, pulled up and over her nose, was not much better. But soon enough, the hazy blues and reds of The Fold's neon signs reflected off the fallen snow. A welcome sight as she stepped onto the frosted sidewalk.

"Starkov." 

She froze, turning to face the bar awning. Or more importantly, the man standing underneath it. He hadn't changed since practice, the same black joggers and t-shirt adorning his body. But his voice was just as sharp, like a predator approaching prey.

Briefly, she wondered how he could stand to stand outside, the bar door firmly shut behind him. But the lit cigarette dangled precariously out his mouth, soft smoke floating like a stream past his face, and it occurred to her that maybe he was in a rush to get outside when he stepped out. 

"Coach, I didn't see you there."

He stared at her, dark eyes roaming her underdressed form, the same bags, and jacket from practice on her back.

"You should be more observant," he said, pulling the cigarette from his mouth. " It's dangerous to be out so late."

"Yeah, well, not much of a choice these days," she shot back. She startled at her tone, eyes growing wide as she recognized the annoyance slipping into her words. She clasped her lips shut. Practice tomorrow would likely be torture, should he find himself in a bad mood. Silence stretched between them, encompassed by the air whipping around them.

She shivered, clutching herself tighter as she turned her head to look down the street. Just a few more miles until she was home. Her ears were on fire, reddened by the wind. Her hands tucked precariously into her armpits – a small shield from the growing storm. 

“Where are you going?” His voice finally broke, cutting through the wind like a sheet of paper. She sniffed, turning to look back at him. 

“Home,” her legs shifted, dancing from setting her weight on one side to the other. Maintain the blood flow, and warm yourself. It was only a few more miles. “Hopefully. Mal has the car and he went out of town. So I was walking. It might be colder than I anticipated earlier.” She paused, eyeing his patient face. It was almost expectant, how he looked at her to explain why she would be out so late, on a Friday, in the middle of a storm. 

She bit her tongue, turning her head towards the darkness once more. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this, I should go.”

“Stay right there,” he sounded so sure, dropping his cigarette and stomping it out. The bar door opened in a burst, a flash of movement and suddenly it was like he never even stepped inside. A heavy jacket and keys in hand as he approached her. His hand was warm around her arm, slowly taking her toward a black truck, one she hadn’t noticed before. 

“I can walk you don’t have to leave your night,” she protested as he led her to the passenger side. She couldn’t see the face he made, the exasperated look as he opened the door. 

“Get in the car, Alina.” 

She scrambled into the seat, barely registering the door slam before the driver’s side was opened, the truck rumbling to life at the press of a button. She wanted to huff, but the heavy jacket was placed over her arms, her coach leaning over and pulling the seatbelt across her lap. She tried not to inhale him, the smoke – while fresh – took a backseat to the woodsy undertones of his body wash, still evident even after a long day in Ketterdam. 

She watched as he straightened, turning the heat up before jumping out of the car again. The snow, piled on the windshield, slowly disappeared – brushed away with precision. A well-practiced movement, years of living in the mountain town honing skills she’d yet to master. It was almost calming, watching him prep the truck for movement, her body warming to the heat flowing into the cabin. The jacket provided a weight, a smell, that had her sinking into the cool leather of the seat. 

“Do you need to tell Ana where you are?” His voice rang as he climbed back in, shaking flakes of snow off of his hands. She shook her head leaning back. 

“Rosie is staying the weekend with a friend, so Ana doesn’t really care where I am.” 

She felt him tense, the way most people do when they figure it out. She was just a second pair of hands to raise the kids, not a kid in her own home. She sighed, eyeing him carefully. 

“It’s okay. Like I don’t mind it.” She tried to explain, tried to push away those feelings. She knew what it was, the pity, the confusion. Not knowing what to do when a teenager tells you that nobody cares. “It gives me a lot of freedom, ya know. Can’t get into much trouble when you’re always busy, right?” 

She tried to laugh, but it was met with a furrow of his brow. And it was like he was looking right through her. Right through her words and into the insecurities she shoved deep down. As if he suddenly pieced the jigsaw together, even though he’d been on the edges of it for years. She’d just never let him close enough to see all the pieces. 

“Do you do this often?” 

“Do what often?”

“Walk home in the middle of the night.” 

She could tell he was itching to ask something else. Anything else really. Something more personal, more accusatory of neglect, or how life was unfair. As if she didn’t already know that. As if being the only shu girl (in a town that, despite its proximity, did not seem to care for those over the border) didn’t already teach her this. But she just shrugged, noncommital as she looked out the window at the snow falling again. 

She tried to feign indifference as the truck jolted, pulling out of the parking spot to go into the road. Braving elements she was ill-equipped to do on her own. Ignored the rumbling in her tummy as street lights began to change, the soft rumbling of the truck cabin caused her eyes to close, if only for a minute. 

“Yes, I’d like to order a deluxe chicken sandwich meal and a ten-piece nugget meal.”

“And what will that be to drink?”

She blinked her bleary eyes awake, surprised at their sudden side adventure. The sleep shook from her bones as she cast him a curious glance. The light from the restaurant illuminated the lines on his face. Sharp edges fell into shadow as he leaned against his car door, speaking to the poor drive-through attendant. 

What would it be like to touch the beard on his face?

She didn’t have much brain power, not as he pulled around, money exchanged for food placed on her lap. Drinks were placed in the cup holder. It wasn’t until he pulled into an empty space that she spoke. 

“I thought you were taking me home?” 

“I am,” he replied, pulling his sandwich from the bag. She looked at him curiously as he began rifling through their food, sauces laid between them as he began to eat. 

“You didn’t have to get me anything.” 

He swallowed his bite, turning to look at her with a skeptical brow raised. 

“Oh, and when’s the last time you ate?” 

She opened and closed her mouth, several times, before finally giving up. Honestly, it hadn’t been since she scarfed down that English muffin the morning before, in the sprint to school. Her cafeteria balance didn’t have enough for food this afternoon, and she couldn’t go off campus for anything. Unless she wanted to get stuck walking during lunch too.  

Attention turned to the bag, and she tried not to immediately scarf down the hot fries and chicken nuggets. Eating in silence next to the man as he seemed intent on ignoring her growing uneasiness. 

“Why are you being so nice to me?” She asked suddenly – after her last nugget was gone and she began placing trash back into the bag within which it came. He shrugged, taking a sip of his drink before slipping his own trash into the bag alongside hers. 

“I’m not a monster.”

“You’re not nice either.” 

At this, he laughed. Shrugging a bit before looking away from her, out the window at the continued snowfall. For a moment she wondered if he’d taken her to the fast food outside of town, an extra ten minutes away from everything else. It was closer to the highway, it stayed open later. Did he really just get this food because he was hungry? Did he feel bad?

“Demanding precision and dedication from someone with your skillset rarely correlate into niceness, Alina.”

“You called me Alina.” 

He turned back to her, dark eyes boring into her own. Part of them made her want to shrink away, a growing darkness that could not only be attributed to the night filling his irises. But the other part of her, a part she rarely wanted to indulge in, was drawn to it. Wanted to explore, and see just why his eyes seemed to both push and invite her in. 

“That’s your name.”

“You call me Starkov.”

“Professional context. This isn’t a professional situation.”

She blinked, mind numb at the thought. Non-professional. They weren’t friends. They rarely saw each other outside of the gym. She never thought he'd even want to see her in a non-professional manner. 

"Of course, I do," Oh. She must've spoken out loud. "But I am your coach, that would be inappropriate." 

She scoffed, shoving the last of her fries into her mouth before collecting their trash. Ignoring his amused brow as she unbuckled her seatbelt, switching positions with the trash. They'd been close before. His hands as they adjusted her legs, her arms. Holding her steady before a bar routine, catching her occasionally if she needed it. 

But there was something about this – sitting close proximity in a car, fluorescent lights traded for the dim haze of his car radio. 

"So because you're my coach we can't be friends?" 

"No."

His voice gave no room for leeway. He was resolutely not looking at her, hands firmly in his lap as his eyes gazed into the darkness. She almost felt stricken, as if he'd hit her. Her face framed red as she felt the sting of rejection for something she hadn't even allowed herself to fully want until five minutes ago. Suddenly she wanted to hide – from him, from the snow-capped shadows that encased the car. A lump formed in her throat, a pit the size of her fist blocking her throat as her eyes began to sting with unshed tears.

"Why?" she begged. He shifted as if to lean away from her. As if to leave. Her hand flew out before she could stop herself, grasping his bicep. "I'm eighteen. I can decide who I can and can't be friends with." 

He sighed, weighed by whatever plagued his thoughts. His eyes closed as he took a sobering inhale.  

"You're only eighteen," he began, the tone of a father chastising a child that didn't understand just why you couldn't have ice cream for dinner. But she didn't want a father. She didn't want to be treated like a kid.

"Yes, I'm eighteen. I can make decisions for myself."

"That's not what the world thinks, Alina."

She bristled, shifting with ease. Fitting herself in the space between the steering wheel and his chest. His entire body tensed, unwilling to move a single millimeter. Her breath ghosted his nose. His eyes remained clenched. She wanted to smack him and force him to look at her if he was so intent on being a professional. If he was turning her away he better have the audacity to look her in the eye. 

"The greatest of champions are not made because of society's expectations, but in spite of them." She stared at his face after she spoke those words. Eyebrows furrowed as he waged war within himself. Her hand came up without thinking, fingers drifting over the crease of his nose. She wanted to bask in the hitch of his breathing, the slight drop of his shoulders as he let her touch him.  His hands twitched, indecisive, before her lightly grasped her hips. 

"You deserve normal friends," his voice whispered as he shifted her further away. She almost pressed against the horn of the car before her free hand flew to rest on his chest. 

"You're –"

"A thirty-five-year-old and an eighteen-year-old are not a normal friendship, Alina." His eyes opened, dark and obsidian as the night. There was an urgency in them. A pleading for her to understand what he was saying. "One of them always wants more than the other."

The pit in her throat returned, double in size as she stared back. She couldn't look away – drawn into his gaze and unable to look away. It was like how his mere presence drew all the attention in the room, but the room was just her. 

"Do you think…" she choked on her words, blinking finally as she shifted in his lap. Trying to get right in the middle of wrong.  "That you're the only one who wants more?" 

His eyes closed again, and he leaned forward as he groaned. A pained exhale as he tried to maintain the rigid composure he had with her. For too long , she thought. Her hands rested on his forearms, eyes staring at the grey leather of the truck wall as his head landed on her chest. 

For a moment, she was just there. Feeling his warmth seeping into her bones as he breathed. And it felt right – his hands on her hips, his breath on her chest. The tickle of his hair under her chin. And it was with sudden clarity, like a lightning strike, that she felt her resolve solidify. That she knew what she wanted. What she needed from him. 

"Take me home, Aleksander." She felt him stiffen again, tension evident in him as he attempted to regain composure. Her hand flew to his hair, a soothing thread of her fingers on his scalp. "Your home. I want – please take me to your home." 

She didn't move from his lap as he sat back. Instead, she allowed herself to follow his movement, tucking her head into the crook of his neck and shifting her hips closer to his. She relished the slow rumble of the truck, its shaky movements as it backed out of the parking space. Each foot shook the cab as he tried to carefully drive with a girl on his lap in the middle of a snowstorm. 

But she didn't mind. Each bump and rumble brought her hips closer to his. Hardness pressed against her center with each movement. She bit her lip, clutching his shoulders as he navigated the streets (he did choose the fast food in town after all), but that could not stop the small whimpers she left with each rock of her hips. She barely noticed when they pulled into his driveway. Her hips still moved on their own accord, her whimpers no longer hindered as she mouthed at his neck. 

In a flash his hands were back on her, increasing the pressure as he brought her hips down harder. His head flew back, giving her more access as she began to pant. She was encased in the smell of him, woodsy smoke, and a basic soap. Each roll of her hips was a push towards a cliff, the coil inside her tightening with each roll. But it was the sound of him, the low groan in her ear as she moved that sent her over the edge. A small cry left her as she did. The flood of relief filled her body as she clung to him, thighs shaking.  

She panted, eyes lidded as she came down. Each limb seemed to come back to her separately. Her toes unclenched, and her fingers slowly released the fabric of his shirt. Each breath renewed her resolve. 

"A-Alina," he breathed. He was still hard beneath her, clutching her as if he was afraid she'd run away. "Text Ana you're spending the night somewhere safe." 

How he had the wherewithal to think of that she'll never know. And it was obvious that Ana wouldn’t care. But she did as she was told, slowly peeling herself away from his shoulder. She raised her hips slightly, reaching in her pocket for the phone she had for emergencies only. 

I'm safe, Coach took me in when he saw me walking in the storm. I'll be home when the roads are clear. 

She hissed when he turned the truck off, cabin lights blinding her. But he shifted her off his lap, opened the door, and climbed out. When he turned he offered her his hand, and she blushed as her eyes traveled past it, a noticeable bulge and a small spot of wetness staining his pants where her hips were. She wondered if she had the same stain on her jeans. 

He had her in his arms before she could blink, snapping her out of her haze. She barely absorbed the home, another two-story four square. It was better kept than Ana's, even in the dark. Floorboards that didn't creek under the weight of both of them as he carried her – legs wrapped tight around his waist – through the front door. 

Her feet were set on solid wood, a brief moment of clarity through the fog as he turned to close the door. A solid click of a lock. And then, his lips were on hers. 

Soft, demanding. If she thought she was consumed by him before, this must be what it meant to be devoured. Hands, rough and calloused, cradled her face. His thumb was against her cheek, pulling her closer as if he couldn't get enough. His fervor, all-consuming and suffocating ignites her own. Her hands tangle into the hair at the base of his neck. Her chest pressed to his. 

Their bodies moved as if possessed. Hands everywhere as they moved, lips only parting for seconds as shirts flew off with the wind. Legs moved on their own accord, strong arms pushing against furniture from his entire life – blindly leading her to the stairs.  But as her ankles hit the first step she fell back, their kiss breaking as she lay on the carpet runner. His eyes were somehow depthless as he gazed at her, eyebrow cocked as she bit her swollen lips.

"We can go upstairs," he offered. She shook her head no, her hands drifting to the front zipper of her sports bra. His eyes tracked the movement like a hawk, an almost audible gulp forming in his throat. 

"T–The living room?" Again she shook her head, her chest bared to him as he knelt. Finally, he was to feel the tightness in his chest, the same twisting feeling she felt in his presence. Breathless and needy as she unbuttoned her jeans. 

"No," she nearly whispered. "Here." 

His hands shoved hers aside, kneeling in front of her as he pulled at the fabric at her hips. Her jeans and panties disappeared in a flash. He was between her legs in a flash, the edge of the step holding her cunt to his eye level. 

"Such a pretty cunt," he murmured, leaning forward. She blushed, raising her hands to her face before he looked up. He placed a kiss on her stomach, eyes fluttering as he began to kiss down. "Don't hide from me, malyshka . I've waited long enough for you." 

She could barely get a whimper out before he licked a broad stripe down her cunt. 

It was hard to believe, as he feasted hungrily over her. She hadn't known that she could feel sparks fly in her. That her entire body would arch off the staircase as he seemed on a mission for his tongue to find every nerve in her clit. There was no feasible way for her to contain the sounds she was making, even if she wanted to.

Her fingers threaded through his hair, tugging and pulling as a finger suddenly filled her. She felt stretched wide. Far more than she could attempt herself during muffled nights, attempting not to wake her sleeping foster sister as she fantasized about eyes darker than the shadows that held her. 

And he took his time, working her into a frenzy as he slowly thrust that finger inside her. His tongue continued blatant teasing, almost torture as he pushed her closer and closer to the edge with each stripe. It was overwhelming, a plethora of senses coming together to wind her higher and higher with each passing stroke. She was hardly coherent when she broke, half sobs and moans flowing freely from her mouth as she thanked saints she no longer believed in for his tongue. 

He barely let up. His fingers, before one was suddenly two, stretched her already overstimulated cunt as he rose to kiss her. 

The salty tang of his mouth on hers, the juices from her that coated his lips, tasted like ambrosia as his pants met hers – discarded to the wayside as she felt a hardness against her side. Thick and hard as his fingers worked to bring her to that edge again. 

"Please Sasha," she whimpered between breaths, hands uselessly clutching at his sides. His fingers found that spot, pressing against her front wall as she shook, ripping a moan from her. He made to pull away, earning him a whine and a pawing at his sides like a kitten when you try to take away their favorite toy. 

"Gotta be safe, malyshka ," he murmured, attempting to get up again but she just pulled him back.

"Uh uh," she whined, adjusting so he fell right between her legs. His cock brushed against her oversensitive clit, eliciting a moan from both of them. "Wanna feel you. Is just been you… please, Sasha." 

He groaned, a soft nod as he used one of his hands to notch himself at her entrance. Her nails dug into his sides as he began to press inside, his cock larger than his fingers prepared here for. She whimpered as he pressed in an inch, only to pull back and press in another. Each time carving a space for himself. Each press split her apart so that she could be molded just for him. 

Soon their hips met, an ache scratched as he practically laid on top of her. Chest to chest, nose to nose, he didn't look away from her as he slowly pulled away, only to thrust back into the hilt again. Her breath knocked out of her throat, each thrust removing the air from her lungs and placing it in his as their bodies became one,

"Fuck," he muttered, revenant as he looked down, a bulge in her lower stomach looking suspiciously like the cock inside her. " You take me so well, so good for me. Always so perfect. " 

Each stroke hit something inside her. A stroke to flame, a second wave ( or was it the third? Fourth?) threatening to crash as his hips drove hers into the stains beneath them. There would be marks in the morning. Bruises around reddened skin, signs of how well he filled her. Signs of how little she cared about the pain when the pleasure crescendoed to the clouds. To the home of the saints.

He kisses her, mad and fervently as his pace begins to falter. Hips slam against hips, mouths at war to see who could taste who the most. He snakes a hand, switching all his weight to a side, down her torso to meet her clit, causing her to cry out.

"One more, Alina," he panted into her lips. " One more for me." 

She was never good at denying him. She'd been following his instruction for nearly four years. And he was always right. Just a few more and her toes curl, lips parted in a silent cry as her body falls apart. The pleasure overwhelms her, turns her brain to static as all she thinks of is him.  

"Fuck, so tight," he groaned, forehead falling to rest on the stair at her head. "All mine, my Aina ." It became a chant. His Alina. Over and over until he buries himself to the base, pressing into her so hard she wondered if she’d feel the phantom of his hips long after they separated. But the thought gets washed away with the tide of warmth that fills her cunt as he fills her more than she thought possible. 

Ana doesn't notice her absence for the three days Alina spends in Aleksander's bed. Nor does she notice that Alina no longer spends long nights walking home from the grocers. The woman has no time to, and another foster child was sent to her home during the winter break. A boy this time. And Alina would've helped care for the youngling, had she not been planning her departure. 

Less than a hundred and fifty-two days and she would shake off the town of Ketterdam. She would wash away the rust and dust of the city, Os Alta in her sights with a fresh diploma printed in her hands. This time she wouldn't be the only one dreaming of her own gym, a child to hold and eyes dark as the night to welcome her home. She would pack all her belongings in a new duffle bag, purchased as a reward for her acceptance to the Ravkan Olympic team. The bag would get tossed into the back of a black pickup truck, and she wouldn't think about the city again.

[everythingne]

double dealing: two wheeler (ls2)

there's no real need for you to get on two wheels--considering logan's four work just fine. but it comes in handy sometimes (requested by @dozyisdead, thank u love!!)

double dealing verse / last logan installment

notes/warnings: this delves into more of the 'double dealing' esc side of this whole little series sooo... illusions to planned car accidents, minor injury, smuggling documents

a call from Alex so late at night is unprecedented. Sure, its not the most random thing on the planet, but its odd considering you're not even in Austin yet. Zipping along the highway, you send him an auto reply message, a quick 'I'm on my bike, I'll stop and talk to you soon!' but the Thai driver doesn't seem to care.

He calls again. And then again, and by the time you've found a safe spot to pull off--down an exit ramp and in a gas station, he's called sixteen times.

It's two in the morning, so you park your bike to get gas anyways, and answer his incessant calls.

"Alex, what the hell is going on?" You huff out, poking the 'Regular' button on the gas pump as you hear the phone connect.

"Hey, Carrie... what highway are you on?"

Oh, motherfucker. You think, he's using codenames.

You shove the nozzle into the tank, clicking back the pump's trigger as the fuel pours out. It can't move fast enough, "Uhm... after I get gas, I'll be back on I-10, is there a problem?"

"Yeah, uh..." Alex sighs and you can picture the way he's gripping his shifter as you hear his car roaring under his voice, "Bandit's caught in the mix transporting some goods, we think there was either a mix up with Godfather's intel or if Payday's got some sort of bet going on."

You watch the price of the gas click up, your hand tensing as you wait for the meter to fill, murmuring to Alex, "Doesn't he have the newbies with him?"

"That's the reason we're calling you in." Alex's car screeches and you can imagine him Jersey sliding into an exit lane, "I'm with Lion and Shades, we're gonna divert the goods with Bandit, see if we can figure out what Payday and The Minister are doing. All I need to know is if you can fit the kids on the bike."

The loud clunk of the gas filling up has you slamming the nozzle back in its holder and closing your tank, kicking up your stand as your bike roars to life, "If Ollie can hold on to the other kid tight, then yeah, probably."

"Meet us at the Walmart in Manor--off 290." Alex says and you nod sharply, pulling out of the gas station. You're not far, like maybe twenty or so minutes out.

"Got it. See you in twenty." You say and end the call. You don't know Texas well enough, but luckily tou knew Manor was somewhat close by. You'd gotten off at Exit 720 for Brenham, following Highway 290 up to Austin. Originally planning to stop for gas and food when you got low, which ended up being in McDade.

McDade to Manor, twenty minutes roughly. But you were sure you could shorten that.

The streetlights pass in a blur of color as you dip between the few cars--and ride alongside the big rigs, in the mostly empty roads. You can't even really think, or breathe right, until you pull up alongisde three cars in the back corner of a Walmart parking lot. Which is.. painfully American. Alex's--or, Smokey's 1970 Pontiac LeMans, Max's--or The Lion's 1999 Subaru WRX, and finally George's--or Shades' 2000 Porsche Boxster.

"Here's the deal," George is quick to say as you click up your visor so they can see you better. You find taking the whole helmet off would be redundant. You'd just delay departure at that point.

"Bandit's got two newbies with him. They were supposed to be with Goss but he was out of commission. So, we figured since this is a low urgency run, it would be fine." George rubs his jaw and shrugs, "seems like someone caught wind."

"Which," Alex cuts George off, "makes no sense. No one should be going after this, it's a deal from the county police chief. If we do this run, they won't bother us with the racing, classic corruption shit, y'know? We do it everywhere, building rapport, doing favors, and what not."

Max nods, walking over to lean next to George, "Obviously, we don't want the kids--if you can call Franco a kid, I guess, in all this shit so soon. They're supposed to do the basic shit, the street racing, the parts running. Not this stuff. We also wouldn't pull you into this unless it was dire."

You nod. Logan had told you countless stories about 'ascending' through the ranks. How the most senior racers, like Fernando or Lewis, handled the most egregious shipments and situations while newer drivers like him or Oscar did base level stuff. You were also surprised to find out all of it is voluntary, and for a lifetime, when Logan did a run with Sebastian Vettel a few months back.

So, even if Logan went to Indycar or NASCAR, or wherever--if he was in the area and they needed him, and he wanted to, he would go.

"We need to get Franco and Ollie out of that car. They aren't even really indoctrinated into this all yet." George hums, "The others in the area are on a bigger drop, or just not able to come out. Hence, why we reached out to you."

"You know Bandit's driving style well." Alex hums, "and while we distract Payday and whoever's with him--I think it's... Minister, we should be able to get him to a secure location and pass the kids to you."

Max eyes your bike carefully. You can tell he's not too keen on the idea of shoving you and two lanky boys on one bike, but it's all you have. He hums, then murmurs, "Can you even fit with two of them?"

"It'll be a tight squeeze and not at all safe but... I think as long as they hold on we can make it work." You eye your bike, having absolutely no idea how to make it work, "If possible, could we do it somewhere close to a drop off point?"

"Yeah." George nods, "I can call Hotshot again and see if he's in Austin now can swing by and take them from you... probably somewhere between Austin and Cedar Park. Bandit's southbound, maybe twenty minutes out from Cedar Park now, so we should get moving."

You nod, "So I'm just trailing Bandit?"

"Pretty much." Alex nods, "stay close, follow hand gestures. We'll have to get you a radio to communicate with us for next time."

"If. There's a next time." Max hums, then nods his head to his car. George quickly follows suit, but Alex pauses to give you a fist bump.

"We got this. Don't worry about it." He smiles. As the cars roar to life, you follow suit, and out of the highway the four of you go. Just a year ago, when you had been in Australia with Logan and Oscar, when you'd gotten all tangled up in this... you hadn't owned this bike. But afte expressing your love for highspeeds and the feeling of the wind rippling across your skin, you'd sold your car and bought the bike.

Less practical, sure, but a hell of a lot more fun. Plus, Logan's car could fit your suitcases and whatever you needed for traveling, so it didn't matter to you.

The three cars in front of you move at perfect speeds, and at Alex's command, you all go dark and slowly exit off to 183, where Logan should be travelling southbound. Luckily, you are able to spot him zipping down, two cars hot on his trail. The first car dips in, a sporty Porsche Cayman, and nearly knocks the back of his car.

Logan dodges, but nearly skids into the gaps in the guard railing. You don't want to imagine it piercing his car, but you can't help it.

You grit your teeth as Alex turns on his lights and dips across the grass median with Max behind him doing the same. They bound acorss, but perfectly time slipping into the gaps in the guardrails right behind where Logan's speeding down the highway--Alex nearly plowing into the side of the Porsche.

George stays on the other side of the road and signals for you to follow him off another exit. Blowing two red lights--and praying that this run is successful so that won't come to bite you in the ass later, you end up about two miles behind Logan and the rest.

Pulling up alongside George, he waves for you to stay back, and peels forward. You stay within eyesight, but hold off a few hundred feet. You can see Alex has put himself between the Porsche--which you think is Lance's, and the Toyota 86 you know is Checo's. All three cars are a bit dented up, you assume from the cheap shot pit maneuvers Lance was attempting.

Max comes up alongside Checo, and through hand gestures, you see the Toyota come back, falling alongside George. And you're waved up. You come between the two cars and a small parcel is handed to you from Checo, and you toss it into George's passengers window--very precariously, before backing up again at your cue. You don't want to think of what it is.

Looking ahead, it seems like they're having a harder time getting Lance to get off Logan's ass, and so you drift off to follow the right hand lane as they see what they're doing.

Eventually you realize they're trying to box Lance into the left lane. Max splitting the lanes in the front, Alex on his right side with Logan ahead of him ready to peel off, and George and Checo holding up the back in the back.

You can imagine the radios filled with excessive swearing as Lance nearly ramming into the back of Max's car is met with George tapping the back of his car.

Finally, Logan dips off to an exit and you gun off, following him and glancing aside to see George swerve big time to avoid Lance just absolutely obliterating the side of his car. You follow down, flicking your headlights off when Logan does. Your heart is in your throat as Logan merges off into a side street and slows down significantly. You boht move, only lit up by streetlights, before coming to park under an overpass.

As Logan's car slows to a stop, you glance back behind you. Other than houses and trees, the area seems vacant. Logan's car shuts off and you follow suit, propping your bike up on its stand and throwing your leg over as you clamber off it and watch the three across from you.

"You guys alright?!" You shout and the three nod. Logan helping the two climb out of the back seat. Even in the hush of the back road, there's a lot of tension from Ollie and Frnaco, the two almost jittery as Logan slams the drivers door closed once they've gotten out.

You can't blame Logan for being pissed, the lives of two kids who weren't even really involved was in danger.

You take off your helmet, setting it on the seat, and make your way over to where Logan's popped open his trunk and is digging in it for something. You look over to where Franco and Ollie stand off to the side, murmuring amongst themselves, then back to Logan as he places his helmet in your hands with a bit more force than needed.

Unluckily, you catch a glimpse of what he's been asked to smuggle--a few guns, semi-automatic weaponry you try to blink out of your eyes as the trunk slams shut. It's the loudest noise in the area, other than the hum of someone's air conditioning unit down the side road.

"You can fit them?" Logan asks gruffly and you shrug, reaching out to intertwine one of your hands. A soft, soothing rub of your thumb along his skin as you hum out your reply,

"Don't have much of a choice."

Logan lets out a low whistle, and you can imagine when there's more time and more context, you'll talk about the whole thing during a late night drive. Probably back home in Florida.

"We both need to get moving." He murmurs and you nod, pulling him closer by the hand for a chaste goodbye kiss, and you're both murmuring at the other to be quick and safe. The night chill on your hand is more prominent when Logan lets go, making his way back over to his car.

Opposite of him, you make your way over to Franco and hand him Logan's helmet. Ironically, it fits well enough. So you shove your helmet on Ollie's head.

"Listen," You point at them and challenge them with your best attempt at a stern, motherly tone, "I have no idea if this is going to work, but you two need to hold onto me like you will die if you let go, because you will."

Your phone buzzes, and you look down to a text from Alex. 'District park nearby, go there.'

You quickly plug the address into your phone, luckily the place is only fifteen or so minutes away. Logan starts his car and you wave him on as he peels off into the night, and after four or five attempts, you manage to squeeze both Ollie and Franco onto the back of your bike. Driving much slower than you usually would, you take the backroads to the park, and are delighted when you see Lando waiting outside the gates.

It's a bit of an adventure getting them both off again, and as you kill your bike and pop it onto the stand, Lando claps, his voice chiming with his hysterical laughing, "I'm impressed no one fell off!"

"i almost did!" Franco complains, popping Logan's helmet off his head and shaking out his hair, "because Ollie can't sit up all the way!"

"I had nowhere to go!" Ollie whacks Franco's arm, and as you watch, you can't help but laugh to yourself. It's just absurd. How the hell did you get all tangled up in this? You have a feeling it won't be the last time.

After the Austin GP, you're sitting on Logan's trunk. Your bike is parked alongside his car, the modernity of your bike somehow working with his older bodied car.

"Ay!" A voice chimes and you glance over to where Ollie jogs over with an almost happy hop to his steps, very much like a puppy, "guess who finally got a callsign!"

"A radio nickname," A much slower Charles Leclerc trails behind Ollie, but pauses at the sight of your bike and whistles, "Nice two wheels, Logan."

Logan hums in confusion before looking at what Charles is ogling, and you can't help but giggle at the mans shock when Logan informs him the bike is yours.

"I wasn't aware your girlfriend was cooler than you." Charles smiles, crossing his arms, and Ollie launches into the story of fitting him and Franco onto the back of the bike. And now, you feel like Charles thinks bikes are death traps a little bit more, just judging the white sheen that crosses over his face in the track lights that illuminate whatever race is going on.

"Did you ever figure out why Payday was on our ass?" Ollie asks Logan, and you watch your boyfriend sigh, leaning on his trunk and smiling at Ollie.

"I did, yes.." He trails off, glances to Charles, and then out onto the track, "we'll call it... bad faith and bad intel."

"Come on, I've got a name now! I should get to know." Ollie complains, and you smile as Alex and George drag Lando and Oscar over, laughter ringing in the air. These were the moments with the racers you loved the most.

"You're just a driver." Charles hums, giving Ollie a whack on the arm in good faith, "Not even a runner yet, Ollie. Don't get a big head about it now."

Ollie nods, a little bashful, and is quickly swept off in conversation with the group about what car he's gonna get and 'not-tracks' they want to take him on to see how he can drive out on the highways. Logan pats your thigh to gain your attention, and when you glance over, Alex hands you a little box--inside, a kit for a motorcycle radio.

"We convinced Max." He smiles, "Welcome in Carrie."

You smirk, giving Alex a fistbump as Logan leans into your side, the night stars twinkling above, the rumble of cars zipping by on bet fueled races. Nights like these you could get used to. But you might need to invest in a side car or something.

double dealing taglist (open!)

@colmathgames2 @sialexia

general tag list (open!)

@d3kstar

[randomnightlythoughts]

Thoughts

As I sit here at the close of my birthday I reflect back on the past 31 years. What a wild adventure of memories, adventure, pain and progression. The memories I hold dear to my heart grow fuzzy as the years keep moving forward and the future truly scares me. I dont think anyone will ever really realize that my 17 year old self is different from who I am today. How it hurts that 31 years ago, I was brought into this world but those who brought me into this world havent even said a single word to me.

What comes to mind when I think back to 17? I think back to the joys of meeting with friends from all over town and having to be back before the streetlights came on. How bike rides seemed like forever when traveling around the small town. The wind running its cool fingers through my hair, the one time I could think and be myself was on that bike. In that very moment I had nothing to worry about. But the dreaded moment came when I would have to head home. Face whatever had happened or was going to happen for the rest of the night.

I think back to the fights I would get into with my parents. How I always wanted to be a “street” kid and live with friends. But the responsibility of being there for my siblings took more from my childhood than anything. I think back to the times my dad would get so mad and his voice and character would change. Many times plates would go flying at dinner. In one particular fight, I remember spaghetti plates being thrown against the wall. Watching the noodles slink down the wall like the old sticky hands you’d win at the arcade. I remember the nights of rolling blankets out on the floor and my siblings sleeping in the “girls” room as I sat on the staircase listening. Listening to the footsteps below and the way they sounded on the cold grey tiles, all the while holding the metal end of the vacuum cleaner in case a split decision needed to be made.

One would think these are the secrets that hide in the closet and stayed in the house. But things like this would happen on vacation. I remember many things about the vacations we would take. We would take the Camper or RV to visit my grandfather. Sometimes if we were luckily we would stay at his cottage. I remember nights at the cottage that mom and dad would be fighting. They’d go outside thinking the world was asleep but in actuality one of the four children stayed up, just in case. Maybe thats why I find such peace in the night now. I remember looking up at the moon and wishing for the quiet to find the cottage. Almost like looking for the Blue Fairy in Pinocchio, but wishing we could enjoy one summer with no fighting.

Summer was always us on the move. My parents always wanted to go see some museum or landmark so we could talk about it in school. But looking back at my memories, I dont remember them. I remember being there and being able to say “i’ve been there!” But the memories must have faded or maybe there are other things blocking it.

The last vacation we ever took as a family was the car accident that I still have nightmares today about. No one knows the effect of watching someone you look up at walk away from a situation that is terrifying. Or the pain that even years later you buried deep and in the depths of the night keeps you awake.

I remember this night as clear as day. Mom was driving and had a bag of chocolate donuts. She had the radio on and kept reaching into that bag as if they were the best donuts in the world. Dad was in the passenger seat asleep. We were in a GMC truck and my sister and I were asleep on the bench seat. My youngest brother was in a car seat and my other brother was laying across the floor. The trucks were zooming past us in the fast lane and the truck would shift cuz of the wind and the camper. I remember my dad muttering something. Then almost like in slow motion I watched my father reach over, grab the steering wheel and jar it. I remember my mom screaming and everything going black. I remember waking up to my mom trying to wake me up from the driver seat. She had blood all across her face and there was glass everywhere. I remember sitting up and my head hurting and I looked around at what happened. We were in some field and my father, the police officer, was 50-75 yards away from the car in the headlights. Then everything going black. I remember waking up and someone lady (mom calls her the angel) pulling off and asking if we needed help. I remember getting in the car but then nothing else. I dont remember who was in that car or if my parents were there.

Now you are probably wondering, does this all really matter? Havent you moved past it?

I thought I had.

But again as I reflect back on 31 years, I realize I made my personality, at this moment, all about my family. Putting on the show to make sure that no one knew things were wrong. No one knew that my family was hurting. I learned to bury my true emotions and pretend everything is fine. Yet the child in me who witnessed all this, is screaming. She’s screaming because she was forced to grow up. As many times as she thought about suicide or hurting herself so her parents would pay some sort of attention, she is screaming.

I remember going to a birthday party and we had gone to the movies. When we returned I was picked up and brought straight to the house where there were cops. I remember being confused because I had such a nice time out. To finding out later that dad had beat the shit out of mom. I dont remember anything else from that day. I just remember one day before heading to high school my mother made me listen to the recording of my dad beating her. Her idea was that then I would understand that men could not be trusted and they may say they love you but they dont mean it. I remember listening to the 45 minutes of recording and going to high school as if nothing happened. I can’t remember the feelings of that day or what happened. I must have blocked those days out. But I do remember telling myself I needed to protect my mother.

Again, why dont I move on from this? Cuz the high schooler is screaming. She wanted to be a normal teenager and couldn’t. I had a helicopter mother who kept us busy with church if I wasn’t busy with school. I remember that is when my mom became more involved with the church. She was staying away from home and would be at church. Again, the high school me screams because I remember there being times I needed to be picked up and I would sit for HOURS waiting for her or for the activity bus. I dont blame my mother. I just wish my parents would have gotten help.

Now here we are, fast forward to tonight. Its 12:30 at night and my father just texts me now Happy Birthday. My mother and I arent talking because she thinks I stole stuff from her. Is this where I wanted to be at 31? Is this the life that high school me, little me or even my 20’s me thought I’d be at? No. The pain of these memories are just like ripping a bandage of a cut that hasnt healed. Maybe, I just need to get help. That’s why I’m where I’m at because I chose to be comfortable. I was so afraid of being alone for the rest of my life that I chose comfortability.

So, I sit here… on my 31st birthday with tears running down my face wondering where could I have changed the path I was on. At what point did the Adjustment Bureau put me on this path that now I wish would change. Cuz here I sit on my 31st birthday, wishing for change. Rebelling and ready to start living my 20’s in my 30’s. Married to someone who I dont think understands me, but doesnt like who I am becoming. I dont’t even know who I am becoming. I’m not even close to the person I was at 17. Which I guess, is a good thing?

Edit: Then again, do I want people to become close to me? Or do I push them away because the puzzle of my life is tossed in with many other 1,000 piece puzzles and it isn’t worth trying to separate the pieces. Or am I just afraid no one will understand me and jump to conclusions. No, the adult me is stuck protecting the little girl, the teenager, and the adult and putting a smile on everyday. Even though everyone is screaming and I can’t find the light switch to turn the lights off so we can sleep.

[writerofblocks]

*sneaks this in* Bridget/Troy - things you said with no space between us (or) things you didn’t say at all

This was. From a long ass time ago. BUT ITS FINISHED NOW SO IM POSTING IT.

Sleepless in Stilwater

“Three.”

“Hmm?”

Troy held up three fingers. “That’s the third time you’ve yawned in as many minutes. And I’d be okay with that if you weren’t, you know, doin’ seventy on a forty-five mile an hour highway.”

Bridget broke eye contact with the road long enough to give him a sidelong glare that would wither a lesser man. “I’m not the only one doing their best Fast and the Furious impression out there,” she irritably shot back. A sports car rushed past them with an ear splitting squeal that made Troy jump, and she gestured at it. “See?”

Troy sunk back into the leather seat of the [insert car model here], returning her glare with one of his own. “That’s not the point and you know it. The point is I’d rather not end up a red smear on the pavement because my wheel man fell asleep at the goddamn wheel.”

“Oh, is that all I-” Her mouth cracked open into another face-splitting yawn; she barely managed to hide it behind her hand. “-all I am to you? Your wheel man?”

“Four. And don’t give me that crap, you’re the one that called dibs on driving.”

“I only called dibs cause you drive like a grandma on a broken scooter.”

“You mean I drive the speed limit.”

Bridget ignored him. “Besides,” she said, swerving around a semi-truck sharp enough to make him grab at the handle above the passenger window, “I’ve got places to be after this. Julius called me about a-” she let out another yawn. “-about a storage place, said the Rollerz keep their best wheels there.”

A smirk crossed Troy’s face. He waited until Bridget’s attention was on him before he held up five fingers and wiggled them. It was worth it to see the way her eyebrows dropped into a sharp V before she jabbed a finger in his direction. “Don’t you fucking say it.”

“Don’t need to say anything.”

The one finger swiftly flipped upward into giving him the bird as she returned her attention to the highway. “You’re lucky I don’t throw you out on the highway this second,” she growled, though a smile playing at the corners of her lips undercut the hostile tone.

Troy chuckled, then settled back in his seat enough to look out the car window. Stilwater was a shithole on a good day, but the oranges, purples, and blues of sunset colored the world into something more palpable to take in. Light bounced off the towering buildings of Downtown, harsh edges and cold, reflective glass softening under the gentle touch of twilight. But you could only watch buildings whiz by for so long. His gaze, as it so often did in these rare quiet moments, returned to her.

As much as he bitched about it, there was one thing he didn’t mind about Bridget being the go-to driver. It allowed him time to just… take her in. Look openly, without other people seeing and giving him crap for being lovestruck. Without her giving him crap for being lovestruck, because even after the months they’ve been together she still shied away from open affection more often than not. She cuts the sentiment with a joke, or by teasing him, or some combination of both. He doesn’t mind it- he wonders sometimes if he’s a glutton for punishment, given his career path and choice of romantic partner, but he doesn’t mind being so. Not with her around.

So he looks at her. The way her eyelids keep fluttering slightly, only for her to stubbornly hold them back open. The dark circles he’d think were black eyes if they weren’t only on her lower eyelids. She’s tapping her fingers on the steering wheel, jiggling the leg not in charge of the pedals. Any motion to tell her body it isn’t time to sleep yet. He’d make a joke about looking in a mirror if seeing it didn’t bother him so much.

That was the downside of being undercover. You got real good at seeing things people tried to hide. He had to say something. He opened his mouth, and...

“For real, though. You look like shit. Have you slept at all?”

And of course something stupid came out. Miracle of miracles, she scoffed instead of chucking him onto the highway. “Bold move to question my sleeping habits. How many used coffee mugs are on your desk again?”

Troy chose to ignore her words. “Look man, just-” He sighed, running a hand down his face. “-go home. Take a shower or something. Get some food. You need a break, Bridge.”

Bridget’s face was impassive, staring straight forward as she shifted the car into the express lane. “Can’t. Julius-”

Enough of this. “Did he tell you to do it tonight?” he asked, cutting her off before she could restate whatever bullshit task Julius had given her to do on top of everything else he’d piled on her. For fuck’s sake, sometimes it felt like she was carrying the whole gang by herself in between the tasks Julius sent down the pipeline and the duties she’d taken on herself to perform.

The glare she gave him could melt permafrost. “No.”

“Then do it tomorrow when you’re fresh.”

“I’m fresh enough,” she bit out. “You’re worrying way too much-”

The words burst from his chest before he could vet them. “I’m worrying the right goddamned amount for someone watching a person he cares about take way more shit on than she needs to.”

Bridget’s eyes went wide, whatever she’d been about to say dying in her open mouth.

Troy ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know if this is some macho attempt to prove yourself or some shit, but you don’t have to do this. Slow down. Take care of yourself. Just- please.”

She was quiet for several minutes, eyes locked on the road as she slowed to match the speed of traffic. He’d almost given up on getting a response before she spoke again. “I won’t go to the storage place tonight. It’s-” She swallowed. “It’s late. Rollerz’ll be getting the cars out for races by now, there’s bound to be way more hanging around than during the day.”

He knows those justifications. Her saying he’s right without saying it directly. When she spoke again, her voice was careful. “Got anything else going on later?”

Manila folders scattered across a coffee table, a rapidly growing pile of cigarette stubs as he figures out the best way to ruin his friend’s lives-

“Nothing that can’t wait.”

When Bridget had first joined the Saints, Troy had thought her unreadable. It was easier now to read her once he knew what to look for. Her rubbing her thumb against the side of her index finger- something self soothing. Bouncing her leg- buying time to think. The lift of her head to look at him directly- she was searching him, weighing his reaction. “Feel like staying over?”

Always. “If you want me to.”

The tension in Bridget’s shoulders dissipated, and she gave him a small smile. “Of course I do, that’s why I asked,” she replied, punching him in the arm. “Dumbass.”

===

Rain tapped an improv jazz rhythm on the glass of Bridget’s bedroom window, and Troy couldn’t sleep. Blame the cigarettes, the coffee, the crippling anxiety and paranoia. The cause ultimately didn’t matter, the effect was the digital clock on Bridget’s bedside table hit 2AM and he was no closer to falling asleep than he was when he originally lay down. Bridget, though. Bridget had been asleep the moment her head touched the pillow. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel a moment of satisfying vindication.

He rolled over, resting a hand on her arm.

It was strange to see Bridget asleep. If Bridget was awake, she was moving- tapping her foot, shifting from side to side. She bounced her heels if a meeting went too long, rattling the table until he placed a hand on her thigh to get her to stop (among… other reasons). If she chose to talk, she talked with her whole body, her hands dancing in the air. Even when she was seated and still, a part of her still seemed to tremble with energy, anticipation and eagerness. Not now, though. Now she laid there, the rise and fall of her chest the only motion. Light drifted through the cracks in the blinds from the streetlight outside her window, resting softly on the freckles on her cheeks.

His hand traveled down her arm, into the dip of her waist, over the swell of her hip bone. Bridget wasn’t a paper-thin waif by any stretch of the imagination, but without the bulk of her sweatshirt to fill out her usual silhouette, she looked… smaller. More vulnerable. Which was ridiculous, he’d seen what she could do with a gun- hell, forget a gun, he’d seen the havoc she created with her fists alone- but somehow. Somehow that veneer was stripped away in the hazy orange light of a half-dead lamppost bulb, and the only thing left was a tired twenty-one year old who needed a hell of a lot more sleep than she was getting.

Christ. She really was twenty-one, wasn’t she? The face she wore around the other Saints made her seem older than that. It was all harsh angles and stony silences, only a twitch of a smile or a slight furrow in her brow betraying the emotions running electric through her veins. The uncertainty there at the beginning had long since suffocated under a rap sheet he hated to tally up in his head. It was a thing with no remorse, and little room for mercy.

And yet that face was forgotten in her sleep. The ever present tension slackened, releasing that hardened shell and letting it fall away in favor of something softer. She denied the existence of that softness, but he knew. He was allowed to know, he realized, warmth settling in his chest at the thought. Of all people, she’d offered that gift to him.

And it’s a gift you’ll lose soon.

The thought cut a sharp line through the haze, frozen against the warmth of the moment. Troy stilled, his hand resting on her waist. Somewhere in between the light on her cheeks and the slow, steady rise and fall of her chest, he’d forgotten what would be waiting for them. That as much as he tried to dodge and delay, the day Chief Monroe decided it was time to pull the plug on the Saints was coming sooner than later- and Bridget, ambitious and unknowing, was only hastening that end.

His sigh was frayed, thin and trailing off into nothing. This relationship was never going to last forever. He’d known that going in, had willingly condemned them both to heartbreak, but it hadn’t mattered then. That future had drowned in the affection in her gaze. The warmth of her laughter. The spark of her lips on his. But now…

Troy cupped Bridget’s cheek, pressing his forehead gently against hers as he closed his eyes. “I’m gonna miss you,” he whispered. He had to say it, just once. Even if she didn’t hear it- since she would never hear it- it needed to escape before it withered under his held tongue. It needed to exist, just for a moment, all his regrets pouring into that simple, weighted phrase.

At some point she’d wake up, either through him gently shaking her or her own merit. Either way she’d grouch at him for not waking her up sooner, blinking blearily at him in a hopelessly endearing way she’d punch him for if he ever mentioned it. She’d whip the covers off of both of them, laughing when he protests. Showers would follow, breakfast of some sort, and time would continue to march forward to that inevitable, heartbreaking point.

But that was a future they didn’t have to face yet. For now, they could stay like this- curling into each other, breath to breath and at peace.

For now, he’d save her a rude awakening.

[corpse--diem]

The Four Horsemen | Marley, Felix, Roy & Erin

TIMING: Current LOCATION: Warehouse by the docks PARTIES: @detectivedreameater @streetharmacist​ @theshadowandvalleyaremine​ & @corpse–diem SUMMARY: “And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.” CONTENT WARNINGS: Gun use tw, Head trauma tw

Felix and Marley would be here any moment. Erin hadn’t slept. Couldn’t after the events from the night before. More death--needless death--had befallen innocent lives. How many had been killed in pursuit of one man now? More than she could keep count of, she knew that much, and even more had felt the aftershocks of ever blow. She thought she had readied herself for the cost. Whatever it takes. Another one of her mantras. Her gut twisted stubbornly anyway, a big fuck you to the mantras and the autopilot mode she locked herself up into the past few months. There was a limit to everything and her’s was quickly approaching.

Rather than pace a hole into the floor, she came here, pouring herself into their notes, crossing off businesses and people that were no longer a threat or under Roy’s finger. Made a note of the attack on the witches, the locations he had hit. It was all over the place and trying to figure out where he’d go next was like fumbling through Tommy’s image still sat unmarked. Purposefully. Didn’t feel like her box to check off. Sunlight burst into the dark room, painful for a moment after huddling in the dark for so long. Wasn’t hard to figure out who the silhouette belonged to. “Hey, just in time,” Erin greeted Marley, hunched over the metal table she’d been using for a desk. They didn’t have time for whatever tension remained between them. With Roy’s next move pending, it was nothing but a distraction. Gave a nod to the images on the wall. “I was saving the honor for you.” Marley hadn’t been the one to slay him herself but she more than earned this much. Held out a marker to her, the closest thing to an olive branch as she was going to get right now.

The light at the end of the tunnel was a little too cliche for Marley’s taste, but it really was the only thought she had as she made her way to the docks that afternoon. The three of them were meeting up for a strategy talk, because their two biggest obstacles were now out of the way. It almost felt fake to think, like she’d somehow believed all of this would never end. They’d be caught in the eternal loop of fighting and losing and hitting back and winning. That was how altercations between crime rings and police usually went, but Roy wasn’t just a crime boss, and the three of them definitely weren’t just police. Speaking of, Marley slid her badge into her back pocket as she turned down the lane towards the warehouse Erin had told her about. Though there was no one around, being followed was not something she could allow to happen. She stopped, waited a few minutes by the bus stop, before slipping into the alley. By the time she made it to the door, she was well and alone.

Erin’s voice rang out and Marley glanced around before letting her eyes land on her form, hunched over a table. She was squinting over at Marley, but the dark lighting of the warehouse didn’t obscure Marley’s sight at all. She moved into the room, shutting the door. When she came over to the table, Erin had all their notes splayed out and was holding up the red marker to her. “How sweet,” she said, taking the pen. Things were still a little tense between them, but their little forest foray had eased some of the anger Marley felt. And right now, anger didn’t matter. She needed to save it for Roy.

Her hand hovered over Tommy’s picture for a moment-- her face stung at the image, all the thoughts and worries and strife he’d caused her and the others crowding her head, but something underneath it all bubbled up, something stronger, and she jabbed the pen down, marking off his image with a bright, obtrusive X right over his face. A satisfied smile fell onto her face. She remembered his body, alone in the forest. Remembered the feel of the blade as she cut through his skin. She only wished she could have been there to see Roy’s face when he saw Tommy’s head, packaged so neatly for him on his doorstep. “The honor was all mine,” she said, setting the pen down and turning to look at Erin. “So what’s the plan, now? Felix here yet?”

Felix wanted to take every streetlight that he passed by, avoided, in hand and crush it. Half in light and half in shadow. The fae hungered to paint the whole fucking town black. If he could kill the sun itself, he would climb over every star to do just that. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. They weren’t done yet. Soon enough they would be. He felt pretty damn sure of that. Assurance came in the form of a paper thin glass dagger. If it was enough to wiggle between Roy Chambers ribs and snuff him out, good riddance. It would have to do. His head ached as he walked toward their meeting place. He had a feeling the ache might stop when Roy Chambers stopped breathing. It was the kind of thought that would have warmed him under different circumstances. All it did lately was make his steps quicker, his eyes sharper.

The door to their warehouse opened and shut quietly as he stepped through. He snapped the umbrella he had closed and tossed it aside. “I’m here now,” Felix said as he moved toward the table. He deftly undid the buttons of his suit jacket and took out a carefully folded piece of red fabric. His gaze shifted between Erin and Marley as he set it on the table. A hand slid into his pants pocket. “That’s our ace in there. I’m keen to see just how sharp it is.” He kept his tone level even as his disposition shifted back and forth like a ship in rough waters. A brow lifted over the rim of his glasses. “Guess they’re down a bear, huh?”

A once colorless array of images lined that wall, starting with the bossman himself, to Tommy. Many dead, some in jail, and the most cowardice of the few had fled. Turns out fear and money inspired limited loyalty. Even Dale was up there, his stupid grin marked off with a fat, red X - the very first. Triumphs spread slowly, but steadily, the crimson marking them one by one until only the last remained. “Feels pretty good, huh?” Erin asked with the whisper of a smile hiding behind furrowed brows. It was important to remember these moments. To appreciate the wins, big or little, because they sure as hell wouldn’t be forgetting their losses. Helped remind them why it was worth it, why they were doing this at all. “I’ve got a couple ideas, but I’ll wait for Felix to explain,” she answered, smoothing out the corner of the map she was looking over.

Almost on cue, she watched him slip through the door. His demeanour was far different than she usually recalled. Darker. Sharper, like the knife beneath the red cloth. Not even Felix, who’d made a point to keep his participation quiet, hidden in the shadows, had gone untouched in this war. She waited just a moment, eyes bouncing hesitantly between the two until she reached for it, anxious to reveal it live and in-person. The hilt was simple, sturdy, but once removed from the sheath, her eyes never left the glass blade. “This is it, huh?” An image of the blade sinking into undead skin, watching the life slip from his eyes, brought a dark sense of satisfaction she wasn’t prepared to admit or indulge. “Sturdy enough to crack that thick skull, you think?” She asked, teasing a smile for just a moment. “Thank you,” she nodded at him, gesturing towards the dagger. Slipped it back into the sheath and set it onto the table. Took a deep breath. “I know it wasn’t easy. None of this has been. It’s not about to get easier. But we’re almost there,” she glanced between them both, trying to hold back some of the smugness in the curve of her lips. “We’re gonna get him.” It wasn’t a question, or a matter of if any more.

Marley’s eyes went to Felix when he entered. His entire demeanor had changed. She didn’t even need to be a body language expert to see that. But what she did see that others wouldn’t was the darkness in his step. It wasn’t hidden inside of him anymore. After his loss, after everything they’d all given up to get here, it made sense. It was now a darkness they all carried. The three of them together. Marley didn’t move when the knife was placed between them and Erin unraveled it like it was the answer to all of life’s questions. And, for their purpose, it sort of was. It glinted in the dim light and reflected Erin’s eyes. Marley watched her closely. Victory was so close she could taste it, but being hasty would ruin it. She reached out and put a hand over Erin’s. “He’s going down,” she reassured, “we just have to make sure we do it right.” It felt a little hypocritical after what she’d tried to pull with Tommy, but Erin had been her voice of reason back then and now she needed to be Erin’s. “Right?” she urged, giving a little squeeze. She could feel the eagerness inside her own bones as well. When they were finished with this, things would be better. Safer. She wouldn’t have to be looking over her shoulder or worrying if someone was going to show up at Anita’s. The strange anxiety of worrying about other people was still making Marley’s stomach churn with a sourness she wasn’t used to. She’d questioned once or twice whether she truly was cut out to care about others, but if she didn’t try, she’d never know. Never prove everyone wrong. And this? This was the ultimate test, wasn’t it? Her gaze turned to Felix. “We should strike at night,” she said, turning to face the table, “we need to figure out the best place to confront him, too.”

“Don’t mention it,” Felix said with a slight nod. As the knife came into view, he couldn’t help a slim smile. It was the subtle sort of knife. The kind he could appreciate on its own but could appreciate more when it was sticking out of someone, their face frozen in shock. “Consider him dead already.” He said it easily enough, hardly a breath between. He ran his thumb along the line of his jaw as he thought. “It’d be best to get him where he’s most comfortable. A fat cat like that? I’d wager a nightly house call could do it.” He looked over towards Marley with a small smile. They had done one hell of a job before and he was sure they could do it again. As many times as they needed to. The grin widened, sharpened, as he looked toward Erin. “It’s exciting, right?” He shook out his shoulders some. Roy had made it personal for every single one of them. Whoever had said that an eye for an eye made the whole world blind just wasn’t cut out for it. “Whatever we decide, we do it now or not at all. We got all the pieces. We just need to make the moves. Checkmate his punk ass right into the gutter.”

A night attack was the only thing that made sense when your partners thrived in the safety of shadows. Erin couldn’t help the slight twinge of anger that pulled in her chest at Marley’s words. Hard to forget the panicked wallop that had socked her in the gut after Marley ran off on her own, determined to take Tommy down herself. Damn near jeopardized the whole mission. Did Marley really think she’d pull something like that herself now? It was tempting, sure. But she knew better. Wasn’t like she stood a chance against the guy on her own. “Right,” she assured her, a curt nod following. None of that mattered now. There was one goal and everything they had left had to focus on that. Nothing else. Erin squeezed her hand back before jumping right back into it, moving back to the map on the table. “Alright, so, I haven’t been able to locate exactly where he lives yet. The guy doesn’t want to be found or bothered, right? My guess is somewhere on Harris Island or in one of the gated communities in East End.” Felix was right though. This was exciting. Even found herself fighting back a smile as she spoke. “Even if he’s juiced up on someone else’s magic, there’s three of us and one of him. I think my best bet, and our best bet, is to have me slip in at the end with the knife after you’ve distracted and beaten his ‘punk ass’ down enough--”

“Wow. Seriously--wow.”

A loud, slow clap suddenly boomed from the otherside of the warehouse. Footsteps followed with a booming laugh that made every bone in Erin’s body freeze up. She knew that laugh, that voice. Couldn’t forget it if she’d tried, not with the way it haunted most of her waking thoughts.

Roy stopped clapping long enough to slip his hands into his pockets, dark eyes peering not at the three of them hovering around the table. He spared a few glances but he couldn’t stop staring at their board, the notes taped to the wall, like this was a full fledged investigation. He seemed more… disheveled than usual. Manic almost. “I’ve gotta hand it to your rag tag little group here, Nichols. You all have been nothing if not thorough, haven’t you?” A seething smirk lifted the corner of his lips before he gestured with a nod from the way he’d just come. “Although, with that in mind, you’d think you’d remember to lock the back entrance to your super secret club hideout.” He glanced towards Marley, then to Felix. “Or even hide your tracks a little better on the way here. Rookie mistake. You’re new at this, I get that. Mistakes happen.”

He took a few steps closer, slow, never daring a move that could jar them into action. Not yet. Even when he stiffened at the sight of Tommy on the wall. Took more self-control than he initially anticipated but he worked his jaw, regaining his composure. That shit-eating grin replaced the hard line he’d momentarily allowed to slip onto his features. “Mr. Doyle. Ms. Stryder,” he nodded at her two companions. “You wanted me, right? Well, here I am. You’ve got me.”

The chill that ran down Marley’s spine was one she was sure she’d caused others to feel many times. On herself, it felt wrong. Foreign. The clapping had cut through the air around them like knives and she’d turned stiffly to watch Roy stroll from the shadows and straight towards them. Her hand twitched to her gun, but she knew it wouldn’t work. Perhaps slow him down, maybe, but it would not kill. It could not. But it was her only line of defense right now, since the sun sat high in the sky. She swallowed, watched him closely, subconsciously taking a step to put herself between Roy’s path and Erin. Felix was closest to him now. Her eyes narrowed behind her sunglasses-- no, she wasn’t completely defenseless. If he could feel fear, then she could use her ace in the hole. Getting him to look at her would be the hardest part. “Didn’t your mother teach you to knock? It’s rude to just come inside uninvited,” she growled, standing perfectly still, eyes unblinking as she glared him down.

Felix looked at Roy head on as he walked in. His own movements were small, casual, as he reached into his pocket to produce a lighter and a pack of cigarettes. “Don’t they just, old sport.” Flame kissed the end of his cigarette. His anger was barely contained under false human skin. The weight of his head felt uneven as he tipped it to the side. A puff of smoke faded and brought his own grin into view. “You went looking for us, huh? Smart. Can’t blame you at all. You know, we were thinking of doing just that ourselves. Nice to see that we broke even on that one, huh?” He shifted his posture slightly, stood up straight and angled his head once more. The next drag he took of his cigarette was slow and deliberate. He gestured towards Roy with the hand that held it. “Say, we do something to set you off there, pal?”

There was an unsettling fury radiating from Roy. Erin could sense it even from here, could see something not quite right in his eyes. Every step, every word eased out of him methodically. Even the way he rolled the cuffs of his sleeves up seemed tempered, brimming with the same unease she saw in those dark eyes. But she only stood, unmoving, tensing every time Felix or Marley quipped his way, agitating him a little more each time. Slowly, so slowly, she moved her hand towards the clothed knife--

“Ah, ah--I see you, Nichols.” Roy’s dark eyes were firmly on her now. Mid-air, her hand hovered above the knife. Still himself, except for the jostling that loosened his silk tie until his neck was completely bare. That sharp smile returned when he watched the smoke curl loosely around Felix’s hand. “Oh, I’m doing peachy keen, friends. Thanks for asking.” He tilted his head slightly, gesturing towards Marley with one hand as the other sunk into his front pocket. “Well, you know, thank you for asking Felix. I’m doing swell. I mean, outside of the fact that you murdered one of my best men. That one did kind of sting a little.” He shrugged, face and nose crinkling with a feigned apathy. “I’m tired though. Aren’t you guys tired? You’ve been at this for--what? A few months now? Blowing up buildings, fighting, getting people killed.” He put a hand to his chest, the corner of his mouth lifting again. “I’m ready for this to be over. What about you? Hm?”

There was a long pause, as if he was waiting for some particular sort of answer. Satisfied after a moment, he nodded. He pulled his hands from his pockets, fingers splayed outward. “That’s what I thought. Let’s get this show on the road, shall we?” He felt the warmth trickling from his fingertips, the magic pulsing from every dead vein, and without hesitation, his fingers snapped inward, balling into a fist. Every single window in the warehouse crackled, glass bursting out as light poured in. “Much better,” he laughed, though it was swallowed by the deafening shattering. He moved, hands outstretched as he inwardly switched gears, flipping through the coven’s magic like an arsenal. Ribbons of fire stretched from his fingertips, shooting out at the table they all hovered near, very pointedly setting the wall of images up in flames.  

Marley’s eyes watched him closely, every movement, every twitch. It was clear he was going to attack. The only thing to figure out was when. Marley felt her chest tightening, pounding. Tommy was dead because of her, and her face was scarred because of him. She would not reveal her hand yet, though. They needed to play it cool, needed to think of a strategy first. She did not answer any of his question, only stayed poised. When his hands came back up out of his pockets, she knew. The windows shattered around them, a loud booming. The rain of glass sounding like a terrifying waterfall of shards. She covered her head, her face, immediately standing back up once it was over. The fire lashed at the wall they’d put up, setting it quickly ablaze. Marley grabbed Erin and pulled her out of the way, holding up her gun. Fired once, twice, directly into him, knowing it was simply there to provide a distraction. If Felix could get to him, they would be okay. That’s all Erin and Marley were now, distractions. “Go,” she hissed at him, “we’ll cover you!” She shoved the gun into Erin’s hands and reached down for her taser baton. “C’mon, big boy!” she hooted at Roy, “must be tiring being so old and ineffective.”

“One of your best guys, huh? You hate to see it.” The twitch of a smile lifted the corners of Felix’s mouth. That telltale smell of magic was thick in his nose. Reactions in the air, the give and take. It wasn’t quite fire and brimstone. There was too much light in the room with the windows busted but they would have to make do. There was no other option. Marley and Erin would be fine. They had to be, even as glass rained and gunshots fired. And now Roy was alone whereas they were three. But sometimes, numbers didn’t mean much. Maybe that wouldn’t be the case here. They had shit to make even. The fae flicked his cigarette aside and sought out the dark where he could. There wasn’t much. Any sunlight would sizzle him and if he stayed in it long enough… He shed the human skin he wore. It wouldn’t do him any good. Any effort would need to be put into getting close. Close enough to get his metaphorical teeth around the magic that Roy spilled over with. He slipped his glasses off and tossed them aside. As much as he wanted to spit venom, it was counterproductive. He slipped along the walls where the light didn’t touch, his steps light. Roy was close. Close enough that Felix’s blood crackled with potential magic and his mouth watered. But not close enough. Not yet.

The bullets sent Roy back a few steps, like taking a bat to the chest a few times, splicing through undead skin and muscle. “Cute,” he huffed, a thin, razor sharp smirk filling his features as he shot a glare at Marley. Wasn’t his first time taking a shot to the chest. But it was Felix who caught his attention, thick black wisps and bright eyes birthing from the solace of what little darkness remained. “Oh, there he is!” Roy shouted excitedly, peering into the darkness. A lampade. Huh. Seemed Erin had a few tricks left up her sleeve after all. Made sense now, the resiliency of their efforts. She’d only stood a chance because she’d been the only human in the room. Either way, he’d have to be more careful about where he threw his magic around now. “What happened there, bud? Get caught on a chandelier or something?” He smirked, peering over, careful not to look directly into his eyes but it was hard to mistake the space where a second antler should have been. Barely casting the two women a glance, he switched his elemental ammunition. That coven had been a goddamn goldmine.

A gust of wind this time, as strong as a draft from a hurricane, hurtled them both back, sending the crates in the room and shards of glass with them. “Come on! Let me get a good look at you,” he practically chirped. With a flick of his wrist, he used the same current to drag debris and the metal table Felix’s way.

Shit, he’d seen Felix already. Marley went to bolt forward, but in the next moment, she was being thrown backwards by a gust of wind. She landed hard on her back, tumbling a few times over before coming to a stop. Her eyes first searched out Erin, standing despite the struggle for breath in her lungs. “Get up!” she said, grabbing her and hoisting her up. “Get behind something!” The table was flying for Felix, and Marley decided now was the time to act. Invulnerability or not, she had to do something. Felix was their only bet of getting out of this alive-- he was their queen on the chessboard, and that meant Marley was nothing more than a rook or a knight. Perhaps even just a pawn. Somehow, she was okay with that. Despite all of her years of self-preservation, of putting herself and only herself ahead of others needs and wants, she felt in this moment that she wasn’t the most important person in this room. She felt as if her role was already decided. And she was okay with that. She had to be.

She made it up to Roy in no time, swung her baton, and watched it smash into the back of Roy’s head. “Wonder how your bear felt in his last moments,” she chided, purposefully looking to egg Roy on, turn his attention away from Felix. “Do you think he begged for his life? Do you think he felt like a failure?”

There wasn’t enough dark in the joint for Felix to blend in the way he wanted to. Wasn’t that just the way of things? Not going exactly how they wanted them to? He grit his teeth. His eyes brightened by a slim margin as the table came his way and he rolled away from it. With a crash, it collided with the wall. Rays of sunlight burned down on his darkened fingertips and he quickly pulled his hand into his chest. His eyes widened as Marley threw herself at Roy, baton in hand like some warrior. She sure fucking was a warrior but that didn’t seem to phase Roy as he tossed her aside. “Marley!” Roy was a large man with a large shadow, the way he stood with the sunlight pouring in. It was large enough that Felix might be able to fit into it. Something seemed to change in the air as the fae crept closer. It felt heavier.

Erin barely had a grip on the gun before her and Marley both were swept off their feet. This wasn’t the fucking plan. It was the only thing racing through her mind before her back hit the wall. A crack and a seering, burning pain ripped up her chest, making it hard to breathe. Even harder to move even when Marley yanked her back to her feet. Fuck. Hide? She could do that. It was about the only thing she could do. Wincing, she scooped up the gun from the debris and slid into position behind a sturdier looking metal crate just in time to see Marley book it. No, no, no.

Roy let out a low growl of pain when the baton connected, grabbing a fistful of the mara’s hair. A different kind of anguish gutted him. He’d never give the woman the satisfaction of knowing her intentional jabs were doing exactly what she intended them to do. If she wanted to piss him off, she’d done it alright. He gripped her hair tighter, the glamour keeping his corpse-like disposition at bay flickering with the intensity of his anger. Tommy wasn’t a failure. If anything, Roy had failed him. He grit his teeth, pulling her closer, dark eyes boring down at her. “I don’t know, do you?” He didn’t need magic to toss her away, clear across the room. She was nothing. They were all nothing. Gnats that needed to be swatted away, to be crushed under his palm. It was high time they remembered that.

The whistle of a bullet shot by his head. Then another--missed, again. The third one hit right in the shoulder and he turned just in time to see Erin gearing up for one more. So determined, so utterly human in her futile attempts, he’d almost forgotten she was even in the room. That dark smile returned and his hand shot up as he stepped forward. A new magic trickled through his veins, different than the ones he’d stolen from the coven. This was from the boy at the bar. He’d known it the moment he’d siphoned the magic but testing it here and now? It just hit different. He’d have to find him again, get another taste so he could practice. It took more focus than he realized but the pressure enveloping her skull was starting to take hold. When she dropped the gun, his smile widened at the sound of her screaming. Oh, this was fun. He liked this. He could feel the pressure building, as sure as he held her head in his palms. “Give your parents my regards, will you?”

Marley didn’t struggle when he grabbed her hair, yanking her up and holding her still. She just smiled at him, knowing what was inevitably going to happen when he let go. She would not give him the satisfaction of her fear. Like she’d told Erin not a week ago, fear wasn’t a weakness. She was surprised, however, when her feet left the ground and he tossed her away. Sure, she was flying through the air, but he hadn’t straight up killed her. That would be a mistake. When gravity claimed her and she came tumbling back down, it was with a resounding crack as her back hit the ground hard enough to steal all the breath from her lungs. She could feel the ribs snap and splinter inside of her as she finally came to a stop, wheezing as blood curled up her throat. It leaked down the side of her mouth as she lay on the ground, unable to move, her entire body screaming in pain. Fuck, this was bad. All she could do was hope that it had given Felix enough time. Tried to turn her head to look, but a scream from the other side of the room pierced her ears instead.

Erin.

“N-no,” Marley coughed, forcing her body against every protest to move, rolling over. Pain spiked through her chest, her side, her stomach, but she ignored it. Pushed herself up with her one good arm. “No…” She could see Roy’s hands, lifted up as if he were actually holding her head. She couldn’t see what was going on around Erin, but the way he was walking towards her, the way Erin was writhing in pain-- he was doing something to her. He was killing her. Marley’s entire stomach leapt into her throat. A fear like none other gripped her heart, shaking her to her core. Erin couldn’t die. She just-- couldn’t. Marley’s mind couldn’t comprehend it, couldn’t figure that as an option. Erin didn’t deserve to die. She needed to live. She had to live. This wasn’t supposed to be how this ended. They’d fought for months for this, lost so much and so much-- this couldn’t be how this ended.

“No!” Her body moved on its own. She gave one last glance towards Felix, telling him with just a look to make sure he finished this. She would give them the opening to. That was her lot in this after all, wasn’t it? The distraction. The sacrifice. It wasn’t something she’d ever thought she’d find herself thinking that, let alone acting on it. She’d always lived for herself and no one else. Maybe this was to make up for all the bad shit she’d done, then. Maybe this was how she saved herself as well as Erin. Maybe this meant her life wasn’t for nothing. Her body barreled into Erin’s with a heavy step, knocking her out of the way. Shoving her far enough out of his reach that she wasn’t a part of this anymore. Her eyes locked with Roy’s as she felt the pressure lock on to her, increasing around her head. It pounded and tore and folded her up. She let out a groan of pain, the inside of her skull vibrating. Through the haze, she grinned. Blood was already trickling down and out her nose, her mouth, her ears. She needed to make sure he focused only on her. Make sure he forgot about Erin and Felix and everything else. If she could just get him to look at her in the eyes, if she could just get him to look.

“I bet he d-died a-alone and a-afraid,” she growled through the taste of blood, the increasing pain, “I bet he s-suffered.” Let it all egg her on. “All because of...me.” She fell to her knees, still looking up at him, waiting, but he wouldn’t look into her eyes. If this was it, then maybe it was worth it. Maybe her life had meant something after all. God, Anita was going to be so mad at her. “What’d his head look like, in that bad? Was it r-rotted by the time it got to you?” She swallowed a mouthful of her own blood, grinned through the blue staining her teeth, her lips. “All because I sent the hunters after hi--” but she never finished. The crack! of her skull echoed in the warehouse, and her eyes rolled up into the back of her head as her body crumpled lifelessly to the ground.

Roy’s magic cup runneth over and Felix felt greedy. His shadowy skin sizzled as he stepped between light and shadow. It was a matter of time before he was meant to meet the sun. Today wouldn’t be that day. As for Erin and Marley, it wasn’t their time for the sun to set on either of them. They had been through too much, hemorrhaged out people as well blood. The thought of Jane dead alone in the wounds, what she might be had she not been bitten. The second attempt on Bea’s life and the thought of her wrist cold, still under his thumb. Erin’s home had been reduced to ash. Bones had been broken. If it could have, his inhuman shadow would have overtaken the room that had been their sanctuary. As much as they had plotted, they had laughed too. Shared toasts to victories and sat in silence at their losses. Erin’s scream and Marley’s wheezes had him crossing the great distance between him and Roy. If to burn meant victory, he would step into the light unphased.

The air was thick with magic as he waded through it. There was so much of it. He could see the blood trickling from Marley’s face when he crossed over to Roy, the way she went still. His hands grabbed the fext’s face and violently tugged his head over to look at him. Wide, unblinking moons stared into the depths of Roy’s eyes. The fae clawed his fingers into the fext’s human face and as Felix hissed through his teeth, he drank. His blood sang, his grin widened to something monstrous. It felt good to so readily take power from the powerful. To watch them wither.

“Look at me, Chambers,” he said as his eyes flashed. “I wanna see your fucking light go out.”

It was like all at once, Erin’s humanness caught up with her, handicapping her into a near useless form on the playing field. The same one she’d been a formidable player in, behind the scenes, moving the pieces up until now. Her strategies and her will meant shit all with Roy Chambers in front of her. When he set his gaze on her, the powerlessness and the pain was uncomparable. Like someone squeezing her skull, making sure that she felt every ounce of pressure being applied with every grating second that passed. Couldn’t think, couldn’t speak, couldn’t even hear herself screaming. This was it. Checkmate. It was over. This would all be fucking over--

Suddenly, with a jolt and a hard shove from the side, it stopped. It wasn’t over. Not yet. But--no. Marley. Her senses were slowly unclenching, but blurry as everything was, she could see Marley screaming at Roy, falling to her knees. Blinked again. Saw the blood dripping down her chin and the sickening crack that followed.

Marley’s body went limp.

He didn’t--he couldn’t have--no, no, she wasn’t--

Ice filled her veins and red filtered her vision. She wanted to howl and scream, to rush to Marley’s side. Wanted to rip his throat right from his goddamn neck. Felix had beat her to him. Almost instantly, he was rendered motionless, the glow brightening Roy’s face. The knife. Where the fuck was the knife? The red cloth filled her vision just up head. It wasn’t far. Hope struck like lightning in her chest. Gave her the strength to crawl forward, aching ribs bellowing in protest. But her fingers wrapped around the hilt. She could do this. She had to do this. She glanced at Marley, like she was waiting for her to move, to get up, to keep fighting. She wouldn’t--couldn’t. Erin grit her teeth and kept moving.

That bitch. She’d gotten what was coming for her. Tommy would’ve loved the way she fell to her knees, how her gaze gleaned over as her body slumped to the floor. Would’ve eaten his full of the woman. But the satisfaction that came with the crack of Marley’s skull was short-lived. From the depths of the shadows, Felix reared into view and all Roy could see was that intense light. Held firm in his grip, there was no avoiding it. Ensnared like a fawn in a hunter’s trap. He howled, a rage building in him like nothing he’d ever felt. He lashed out, dug his fingers into the lampade’s eyes, what little of his mind that was still tethered in place fighting back. But it was too late. He shed his glamour completely, his decomposing form paling beneath the rays of sun trickling in.

With a resounding, inhuman roar, like an animal gone feral, he hurled Felix back. Magic. He still had some of his magic left. Much of it had been devoured but there was enough of it coursing through his fingertips to finish the job. A swipe of his hand and another crate flew threw the air, slamming into the lampade to keep him down. He stood in front of him, the throws of exhaustion slowing him down. Every little exertion mattered. His hands rose up, slowly, burning with all the magic he had left. “You first,” he growled, though his lips curved into a wicked smile.

“Will you shut the fuck up, already?”

Roy perked at the voice just behind him and then stilled, completely, jerking still with a throaty groan. Not another word. Erin had sunk the knife into his throat, pulled it out, and dug into the soft flesh of his temple. She didn’t have a chance to linger on how good it felt when he grabbed her wrist. It snapped in half with one twist as he flung her off of him. She watched from the ground as he pulled it out, stumbling forward, practically disintegrating before her eyes. He was reaching for her, arms outstretched, but she couldn’t quite meet him in the eyes. Rage burned in those black voids, darker than anything she’d ever seen. Even now it horrified her, sending her clambering backwards. With a final step, he launched himself at Erin, the last of his skin peeling, melting to the floor. Grabbed her ankle, he hauled his rapidly decaying carcass forward, sheer will and pure, unadulterated hatred fueling those last moments on earth.

He knew his time had come but even now, he refused to accept it, desperately clinging onto this plane until his body no longer gave him a choice. His eyes locked on hers when he finally, finally stopped moving.

Felix could see it. The snap, the slight unhinge of the mind. The disconnect. It had been awhile since that old familiar thrill sat on his shoulder and grinned with him. It was a comfort to have one of his oldest friends back in his time of need. Even when Roy rounded on him, tossed him aside like something weightless, he felt grounded. Whatever magic Roy had coursed through the fae, who clutched his wounded stomach and wounded head yet still grit his teeth. He knew he would remember this, the moment when Roy’s lights went out and failure greeted him like a proverbial knife to the throat. As the fext withered and looked at Erin with the eyes of a man who knew he was dying, the fae snapped his fingers and laughed. He wanted it to be among the last sounds Roy heard.

As much as he would remember the fall of Roy Chambers, he would also remember the ones who had started it. Memories were a gift and he vowed to himself as he looked at Erin and Marley, that they would never be forgotten as centuries came and went. The weight against him fell away and he brought himself to stand on shaky feet. He could taste dark blood in his mouth and he blinked rapidly to right himself. Roy Chambers was nothing more than lifeless meat and bone. Bone that might be useful. Profitable. What better way to honor an enemy than by profit. He went to Marley and as he carefully assessed her head, he looked at Erin with dim eyes. Looked past the pile of flesh that rotted into the ground. It’d be impossible to thoroughly clean up.

“Didn’t really go according to plan, huh?” His voice was quiet and ragged. He didn’t smile. “It’s done and done but we gotta get her outta here, Nichols.”

Roy was dead. Erin sunk the blade in herself, twice, and his lifeless corpse sat rotting before her eyes. She kicked away the bony hand clutching her ankle. He was still again. Eyes glued to him, waiting, watching, like she was merely biding time before he spring back to life. When that moment didn’t come and Felix’s voice finally reached her, it took all she had to pry her eyes away. Glass crunched under her as she slowly pulled herself to her feet. Only then did she register the unnatural slack in her wrist and how it screamed in protest at the slightest movement. Her chest stung and every breath felt pricked like knifes against her ribs. Roy was dead. It was done. Felt like more than her brain could properly process, not when--Marley. Fuck. The icy fear that consumed her when she heard that sickening crack returned with a fury. They couldn’t stay here. Felix was right. Erin nodded, the world and most words not coming back to her as quickly as she needed it to. Roy was dead. It was the only thing truly processing, repeating over and over. As if she thought those three words long and hard enough, comfort or relief or anything would follow.

No, no--she didn’t have time for this. Marley didn’t have time for this. Felix wasn’t looking too hot himself but he probably fared better than either of them. “Can you drive?” She asked, rushing to Marley’s side. Still breathing. That was good. That was a good sign. Right? Fuck. Fuck. “Marley?” She called out to her, touching her cheek, willing her to wake up. Nothing. “You don’t get to tap out now, alright? You promised. We see this through to the end. Remember? You promised.” Dread built in her gut. She’d pushed her out of the way, took the blow. That could have been Erin. Should have been Erin.  

Roy was dead but that black fire still roared in her chest, as ugly and hot as ever as she helped Felix carefully lift her unconscious body. Panic swelled alongside fear, gripping her so hard she could barely breathe. Roy was gone and this had to be worth it. This all had to be worth it.

[quillsareswords]

Crooked Grin

Damian Wayne

Your smile shouldn't look like that.

[Reader lives with John Constantine, and is similarly a demonologist and magic user. About 16-18.]

Prompt List // Masterlist (in bio)

"Are you ready to go?"

You turn away from the book on the table, and face him. "Sorry?"

"Are you ready to leave?" he repeats. He leans against the doorjam, arms crossed, clad in black, much like yourself. He doesn't look impatient, but he does look a little anxious.

You cock an eyebrow and shoot him a lopsided grin. "Nervous, Birdy?"

He rolls his eyes as you snap a leather bound journal shut. "Please, I've assisted you before."

You set the book on your dresser. You shoulder a messenger bag on your way to meet him at the door. "Sure, but you already know what I'm up against this time."

"I didn't see it," he argues.

"But you felt it."

He doesn't answer you. Turns away before you can get a proper reaction.

You shut the door behind you, and enter the Wayne Manor. If anyone were to open the door again, it would be an empty closet.

Ah, how you loved your little door trick.

It was fairly simple magic, something you learned quickly. You could simply replace doors—switch one with another, if you will. With a rune and a mumbled phrase, you can make any door lead to any room that has a door you've marked with the same rune.

"Tim's the one who saw it on CCTV."

You stopped in front if the bookcase in Bruce's office, allowing Damian the grand honor of pulling the right book and pulling the hidden door open. "Video footage isn't exactly trustworthy when it comes to paranormal—haven't I told you this before?"

"Probably," he answers, throwing you comical wink.

Now you're the one rolling your eyes. "One if these days, you're gonna wish you listened," you sing, beginning your decent down the metal grate stairs.

He starts down after you. "No I won't." He slows his pace when he's next to you, "Because you'll be there to remind me." Then off he goes, taunting you to chase him clear down to the cave, through the secret hideout, and clear over to the vehicle bay.

You've never liked riding on Damian's bike. Or Robin's bike, rather. You much preferred his Lincoln, all leather seats and metal walls. Though he insisted it would be faster tonight, so you relented. The bike felt less secure, gave you less of a chance if anything were to happen.

Don't misunderstand; Damian is a fantastic driver. You'd rather him behind the wheel than yourself any day. It's more the people in the city he calls home you don't trust.

You've always had a love-hate relationship with Gotham City. You love the dreary atmosphere, the rainy days. You adore the old buildings and even older libraries. You live for the underground, more-than-human clubs and shops peppered throughout the streets.

You hate the crazed clowns, killer plants, and murderous penguins. You despise the snobby people and jacked up prices. You detest the crumbling ruins left to decay alone. Most of all, you abhor the other side of the coin.

Gotham has no shortage of darkness. In its people, under its streets, below the waters, above the rooftops. Though it sends a shockwave of thrill through you, the danger only you seem to be aware of is forever just around the corner. From ghouls to vampires to demons to dark witches, Gotham is crawling with things darker than its skies.

You, if course, stay in your lane unless absolutely necessary. Demons, ghosts, angels. That's your specialty, after all.

You're who the Bat Gang calls when things get a little too weird. Your father figure isn't one to drop and run at anybody's beck and call (except, perhaps, yours), so you're the one who gets the call first. You don't conplain—you enjoy the practice.

Damian slows and steers the bike off the backstreet, into the tiny parking lot of a little abandoned church. Little, meaning most likely one big room, and maybe a backroom and a bathroom at the end of the building.

He twists the key and silences the engine, one foot anchored on the asphalt, then removes his helmet.

You unwind your arms from his torso, lifting off your helmet as you slide off the machine behind him. You stare up at the stark white building and the wide brown mounted to the front of it. "How long has it been empty?" you inquire.

He dismounts the motorcycle and pockets his keys. His eyes find the same spot yours have: the busted glass of the front door. "Three weeks."

You turn to him, incredious. "Three weeks? Really?" You face the building again, studying the sprawling vines and waist-high grass by the playground, the chipping paint and the grimy windows.

In the light if dusk, it wasn't a place you'd want to find yourself on any Sunday morning.

"Three weeks," you breathe. You steal another minute or so to run through your mental database. What causes such decay so quickly? What was powerful enough to take residency in a church?

You head up to the doors, treading over busted asphalt and shattered glass and dry leaves on your way. Damian follows you closely, peering around at the surrounding buildings and streets.

The streetlights flicker on behind you, but you're too busy trying to get a good look at the inside before opening the doors to notice.

You try the handles first. It doesn't budge. You don't want to risk irritating whatever is inside before you're ready, so you duck down and carefully slip through the bottom pane of the left door, which had been shattered. Outwardly, you note. Whatever broke the glass came from inside, leaving the shards of glass scattered on the sidewalk.

Damian hesitates before he follows you. His muscles tighten the moment he crosses the threshold.

Beyond a short hallway consisting of three flimsy doors, you find the sanctuary. It's laden with over turned or broken pews, stained red carpet, and papers and pamphlets scattered all around.

Damian joins you in the middle of the isle a moment after your entrance, footsteps muffled by the thick red carpet. "The two doors on the end of the hall are bathrooms. I didn't see much there, besides some blood splatter in one of the sinks."

You nod, gaze shifting around the alter. "What about the far end? Have you been in that one yet?"

"No," he answers, "but if the other two were bathroom, it's most likely an office or a kitchenette."

You point to the far end of the sanctuary, at a door looming in the corner. "That's the office, I bet." You turn to face the entrance doors. "Let's check the door in the hall first, that one over there's giving me a bad vibe."

He follows you to hall, but you make him wait by the sanctuary doors.

When you nudge open the ajar door with the toe of your boot, Damian's suspicions are confirmed. A slim white refrigerator, four feet of vinal counter top, and a shallow sink. The only thing out-of-the-ordinary is the rancid stench and the cock-eyed chair by the window.

You dig out a maglight from your messenger bag and click it on. Light floods the dim room as you wave it around, gliding over counter tops and in open cubords. "Nothing in here," you report absently, fingers hooking around the refrigerator handle. You yank it open, just as a precaution.

You gasp suddenly, more out of shock than fright. You puff out your cheeks with the excess air, staring down the red and white mess caught in your flashlight beam with high eyebrows. "Found what's making that smell."

"What?" Damian stalks into the room, posture tense and guarded.

You press the door closed to save him the scaring image of three dead, mutilated chickens and a severed cat head. "Some sacrifices, apparently. Looks like they've been in here for a few days, maybe. A week, at the most."

He tries to look again, but you slam the door too quick and push him out of the room.

You know he's seen far worse, and frankly so have you, but one less thing to pop up in nightmares could make all the difference.

The pair of you make your way back through the hall and down the sanctuary aisle, to the flimsy wooden door at the very back, behind the podium and the alter.

However, your gait hitches a few feet yards away. You stick out your arm to stop Damian.

He looks to you for an explanation, but you don't hear his question.

You're too busy skimming the room with your eyes. The air seems to cool around you, raising the hairs on the back of your neck. You mentally recite the hand motions and spell for a barrier rune, just in case.

The streetlight outside flickers six times exactly, before it goes out completely.

The room is considerably darker now, leaving shadows to dance upon every wall, to whisper in your ears, to nip at your ankles.

Your growing paranoia gets the better of you, and you jump closer to Damian as your light darts in the direction of quiet crunch, eyes narrowed.

A gray cat scurries out of the way of your light, skinny and panicky.

You exhaled slowly, light beam passing through the room one more time before you turned back around.

Damian knows better to comment on it. Not that he would have—he just thanks his lucky stars you jumped, too.

You hook your index finger with his before you move forward, beam still highlighting all areas within close proximity to the door.

Shielding rune and defensive spells fresh in your mind, you waste no time in opening the door. You bypass the formality of the knob this time, and decide instead to kick it wide open.

The handle crashes against the wall, thundering echo bouncing trough both rooms. You search the ceiling thuroughly before entering, sure to hit every inch of the textured surface with the beam of your light.

When you are confident there's nothing hiding there, you move past the threshold cautiously. As you tightly swing your light around the room, a story unfolds.

This room, that appears to an office with cheap bookshelves of holy literature and a desk right out of an Ikea magazine, more closely resembled a warzone. Books strung throughout the room, some flipped over, some split open, some with pages in taters, and some with their covers ripped clean off.

The windows on the north and west side are so thick with spiderwebbing fractures, neither of you are able to see through them properly. The carpeting is shredded in random places, as if wild cats had been set loose to ruin it. You look back to the windows, at the curtains, and wonder if that could possibly exactly what's happened here. But with a spotlight on the paintings and pictures on the wall, you decide that cats have nothing to do with it.

You approach one of the paintings slowly, light focused on the face of what you guess is Mother Mary. Your mental check has you listening to Damian's boots crunching on discarded pages as you observe the hollow place where her face should be.

"Look at this."

You turn away from the image at Damian's call. You find him in you beam, crouched in the middle of the room, hunched over an open book, his micro light poised between his thumb and his index finger.

"What is it?" you inquire, crossing the room to lean over his shoulder.

"There are words written in this one." He points to the red, black, and blue circles highlighting specific words.

"It was very swift?" You squint at the page. "Why would you use three different pens for that?"

He shakes his head. "We're investigating a possible demon and you're questioning why somebody would use different pens in a book?"

You roll your eyes once again. "Firstly, you should always assume poltergeist before demon, and secondly, who do you know that would make any kind of mark on a book in a church?"

"Point taken." He stands, waving his light around by the wall you'd come in by. "Closet."

You turn again to find where his light is pointed. "Awesome," you heave, stalking toward the feeble sliding door. You motion Damian away from its direct path, positioning yourself on the opposite side.

In one swift motion, you jerk it open.

"Shit!" You jump away as a man falls out, his head hitting the floor with an awful thud.

"I really hate closets," you hiss, pulling the high neck of your shirt up over your mouth and nose, the stench tumbling out with him.

With his shirt fitting the way it does, Damian is left only with a sneer and his hand.

You narrow your eyes and refocus your beam on the mystery man. With your boot, you roll him over.

Black button down, white collar, brass belt.

"Preacher," you announce. You take a closer look at his face. Bald head, strangely proportioned features. "A weird one, though. Looks more like he belongs in a trenchcoat at a playground."

Damian nods, fearing that if he opened his mouth, he'd have to taste the smell of rotting skin.

"What exactly were you doing here, buddy?" you ask aloud, half expecting an answer. When none comes, you look to Damian again. "I would say it was just straight up murder—maybe a robbery-gone-wrong—but this guy doesn't have any marks.

A look passes over your face, as if you've just reminded yourself of something. "Get me a pencil off the desk."

Damian creeps the short distance back through books and scattered paper in the now pitch black room, relying heavily on his tiny (yet impressively bright) flashlight to keep him from tripping on anything.

At the desk, he reaches across it for a pencil from a plain white cup, but stops short when his gaze snags on a book spread open there.

Thick black lines scrawling across thick, yellowing paper that alarmingly resembled dried skin, thin and black red letters in a language he only vaguely recognized. He could only guess a few words; that one could be blood, this one might be chicken, over there could be human. He knows better than to touch the book at all.

He returns to you quickly, though you're already looking at him. He holds a sharpened No. 2 pencil out to you. "When you're finished with him, there's something you should look at."

You accept the pencil, flipping it in your hand so you were using the eraser for whatever you were planning to do with it. "What is it?"

He watches you gently press the eraser to the preacher's eyelid. His brows furrow, but he doesn't ask. "It's a book. The pages don't look like paper, and I don't recognize the language. It's partly Latin." He grimances as you carefully push one eyelid open. There is no eye, only a round black, coal-like stone. "And some runes, or something alike."

You turned to look over your shoulder at him. "Really?" You look back down at was once an eyeball. You're quiet during your examination, poking your way all around the poor man's face.

Damian stands at the preacher's opposite shoulder, watching from above. He doesn't ask what you're looking for. As whip smart as he is and as quickly as he learns, he gets lost in the centuries-old homemade terms and lack of scientific logic.

Finally, you stand. "He's been possessed," you concur. "The skin's gone cold, so it's been a least a week. And the rot in his mouth is pretty progressed, so it's probably been a little over that." You meet his eyes in the dark, as if you're expecting something.

"I don't have any intent to ask, beloved."

You bob your head with a little smile. "Fair enough. Desk, then?"

"Desk."

You follow him back across the room again. You lean over the surface, pointing the wide beam down on the old book. You kept attentive to how close you were to the edge of the desk, as well as how far your many necklaces and bracelets hung above the miscellaneous items and papers strung about the flat wood.

"This is an old language, one of the original ones the first demonologists and occult studiers used to record everything and communicate with each other—"

"Why did they need a separate language?"

You kept your gaze focused on the open page. "Most serious demonology—outside of Bible stuff—and focused paranormal study started around the same time people were called witches for curing sicknesses, Dame."

"Ah."

"Anyway, I'll stop boring you with the history lesson. It's basically a mashup of Latin, Greek, and little freestyling."

"Can you read it?"

"Yeah, I read stuff like this in the House Of Magic's library pretty often. It's similar to what is used in modern day demonology."

You squint down at the page, scrutinizing the dull lettered lines. Damian noted that you weren't blinking.

"It's . . . It's labeled as an invocation, but it's a summoning." Your eyebrows gather above your nose. "Which is pretty obvious, considering–"

"(Y/N), as much as I adore hearing you talk about the things that interest you, what exactly does it summon?"

You fall silent, eyes darting further down the page, to the two intricate symbols scribed there. Finally, you announce, "Crossroads demon—for making deals. But it doesn't make sense, because crossroads demons don't need this much, uh, drama."

"What does that mean?" A creak echos from the sanctuary. He moves quickly and quietly, back to the door to see what's caused it.

You speak a little louder to be sure he can hear you. "Well, a crossroads ritual is so much simpler than this, and you don't need any kind of rune, symbol, or anything, really. As basically as I can put it, you put a box in the dirt and beg for it to work." You grab your longest necklace in your hand and pull it away from the desk, allowing you to lean closer to the book without the programed stone touching the desk. "And this right here would mean–"

You eyebrows unfurrow immediately. That would mean I summon thee to take my soul. Your eyes dart wildly across the page, rereading and rechecking every letter of the old text.

That isn't the right center for a crossroads demon.

You mentally run through everything but of information you'd compiled since last night, when Tim had shown you the footage.

You bounded down the stairs, Damian on your heels, as you chattered on about Constantine's rotten habits and The House's typical invasions of privacy.

"Speak of the devil." Tim throws you a cocky, yet oh-so-tired grin.

You jump the last three grate steps, landing with a hard thump on the cement. "Close, but not quite," you laughed, sauntering over to join him at the massive blue screen. "What can I do for ya, Trombone?"

His eyebrows slant together in annoyance at the aged nickname. You try to play a trombone one time—one time. "Found this yesterday," he grits. His pinky tags the tab button, just as Damian joins you.

The black and white CCTV clip is taken from a security camera, focused on the building across the street. Nothing seems to be happening.

You lean closer to the screen. Maybe you're missing something? You doubt it's a prank, considering the last time they tried to jumpscare you. Your gaze bounces around to all the windows and the doors, the dark corners and the shadowed strips.

Then, out of the blue, the three streetlights bordering the parking lot and accompanying sidestreet flicker off. Then on again, then off.

You blink. Squint. "Rewind it."

The footage speeds backward a few seconds, then takes proper motion again. You focus on the windows. A shadow moves just inside the door. "Right there," you point at the glass entry doors. "Go back and watch the edge of the left door."

The accelerated decay of the property.

The dead animals in the kitchen.

The intact cross.

The flickering streetlight.

Possessed priest.

This is for something far stronger.

You pull away from the table and shoot forward, nearly tripping over an outstretched arm. "Damian!" you bellow, stumbling out into the sanctuary.

He's halfway down the isle, flashlight swinging to face you in surprise. "What?"

You run through the room to close the gap between you, beam of light cutting through pitch black empty space, peeling back inky air from the ruined room. Paranoia swells in your chest, knowing something was looming in the shadows so close to him.

He subconsciously reaches out and grasps your arm. "What's wrong?"

You're still steadily searching the room with your light. "It isn't a crossroads demon, it's worse, it's bigger, it's meaner. We should go back to The House, regroup, get some tougher stuff."

"What do you mean?" Now he's skimming the room with his light. "What is it?"

You shake your head. "That's the bad part, it wasn't specific, so I don't know for sure."

"For sure. What do you guess it is?"

"Educated guess?" You flick your light behind you. "Fourth ring—bad news."

"Aren't all demons bad news?"

"Not the ones you can reason with."

You both spin on your heels to face the crashing commotion by the entrance. Your light caught it just in time to see pages settle on the ground around a newly over turned pew.

"We're leaving," you state firmly, pushing against Damian, a silent order to move your ass.

His light must have hit every edge of the room as he creeps forward, step by step, toward the entrance of the sanctuary. You walk backward behind him, keeping your eyes from settling on one thing for too long.

When the pannel doors slam shut with enough force to knock the remaining photographs and painting off the wall, you feel the pressure of Damian not only stopping, but jerking back a step against your back.

Your beam settles on the office doors. "The doors shut?"

"Yes."

"Did you hear the lock?"

"Watched it."

"Fuck."

"Shit."

You move your beam to the podium. Then the fractured statue of Jesus nailed to a cross on the furthest wall. The head and arms had been broken off, laying sadly at his sides.

"Damian?"

"Yes?"

"We're going back to the office."

"Obviously." He spins around to stand at your side. "I'm far more comfortable with the remains of the living than the presence of the dead."

"Not really the dead, but I know what you mean."

You lead the way down the main isle, light skimming and skipping through the room as you went. You listen intently, for any sound that might tip you off to intentions or locations. Demons lower (or higher, depending on how you looked at it) than a Sixth Circle require a body to walk the living plane. If you're right, there must be a form of some kind around here some place. A physical body.

You reach out absently, hooking your index finger around his pinky. You've had people and things snatched away in silence before, and you weren't about to let it happen to Damian.

He doesn't say anything. No typical snide remarks or well thought jabs. The first few times he'd accompanied you to an exorcism or a hunt, he'd been just as cocky and arrogant as the day you met him. He'd laughed when you whipped out a canister of table salt.

The third time, though, he'd been pinned to a wall by something he couldn't see or feel. He couldn't fight it, couldn't intimidate it, couldn't distract it.

He never mocked a thing about your practice after that.

Another crash echoes from the left side of the room, drawing both of your attention. Your light finds the broken crucifix, now toppled over and laying across the podium it knocked over on it's way down. Your light lingers.

"Go ahead into the room," you poke a thumb in the direction of the open door. "Set Carl back up in the closet, if you don't mind."

"Carl?" Damian edges his way back to the open door, using your favorite tactic of keeping an eye on him. If he was still talking to you, odds are, he's just fine.

"Yeah, I named the poor guy. Didn't want to offend him with that dead dude on the floor." You creep closer to the crucifix.

"And you chose Carl because. . ?" he pushes the door the rest of the way open, the creak bouncing off the walls, throwing the sound in every direction.

You kick a shredded Bible out of the way. "Just what came off the top of my head," you answered honestly. You shift your gaze from the broken religious symbol to the surrounding area, just to make sure.

"What about Davis?" He sets his little flashlight between his teeth to free his hands. He hesitates, but hooks his hands under the dead man's shoulders, grips his shirt, and lifts him back to a near-standing position.

"No way, look at the stubble of his chin. No Davis would let it get that bad."

He stuffs the body back into the closet with as much grace and pride as he can manage. He shoves the door shut double checks the latch to make sure it doesn't swing open with the added weight. "Mark?"

"No way." You nudge the wooden cross with the toe if your boot. It must weight at least seventy pounds, and it from the six inch industrial screws on the back of it, it was bolted to the wall. "Not with hair that thin."

He shakes his head. What to talk about now? "Find anything out there?"

"Not yet." You crouch, running a hand over the carved robe.

He sweeps the room with his light again. But this time, it catches on the farthest corner from the door.

His heart leaps. His spine stiffens, his blood runs cold.

It's staring right at him.

His mind reels, grappling for something—anything—you've mentioned about dealing with a demon face to face.

He's panicking. Why is he panicking? He works well under pressure, one might even say best. Why now? He feels terror grip his heart, and his breath is coming and going in short, silent bursts. Terror floods his mind—but why?

Why, why, why?

He was raised for this sort of thing, groomed for it even. He's never reacted this way before–

It's a demon, he reminds himself, through muddied thoughts of escape plans and defensive manuevers.

It's got to be messing with him. He remembers you mentioning things like this, both in idle conversation and over sparring.

He does his best to push it away, keep the blood rushing in his ears at a manageable level.

What does he do?

Does he yell for you? Will that startle it, or push it to action? Should he make a break for it? Is there even a chance he could get to you before it gets to him?

What if he takes you from the equation entirely? What can he do? Can he hit it? He can see it now, mostly, at least. What about shielding himself?

"Damian?" Your voice sounds like church bells ringing on a dark and foggy morning.

There's his out, if all else fails. You'll be coming to check on him in a few seconds if he doesn't answer, and he's finding speaking more difficult than usual anyway.

He tears his eyes from the piercing red and orange globes hanging in font of a foggy face. An old, dogeared bible lays on the floor. Surely that would do something.

"Hey, Dame. Everything good?" He doesn't hear anymore movement from you. You sound more focused. "Damian?"

He holds his breath. Counts to five. Releases. Counts to five. Another breath.

"Damian, I swear if you're just too focused to listen to me. . ." Your warning trails off as you draw closer. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees you moving around the corner, coming through the doorway, and then you stop.

He doesn't look away from the thing in the corner. He knows you're looking at it. He knows, because you haven't called his name again.

He nearly jumps and your voice, cold and level. "You nasty bastard."

The thing's glittering orange irises slide slowly to you. The rest if it doesn't move.

He takes the diverted attention to get a better look at it.

It looks like a man—all the pieces are there, the arms, the legs, the hands, the feet—but it just looks wrong. Like. Poorly designed animated character that was meant to resemble a real person, but was just off enough to be nearly unrecognizable.

And the face. It was distorted in an indescribable way. He could almost pick out the details—a nose, a mouth, even eyebrows—but it was like they were just out of sight. Like looking through a foggy mirror, but the air was perfectly clear.

"What brought you to Gotham, then?" you question.

Damian tries to sneak a step backward. You're only a few feet away, and if he can get to you, you'll be able to tell him what to do. Give him something to hit with.

Unfortunately, the discarded papers and books scattered along the floor expel any and every chance of stealth he thought he had.

Orange irises flicker yellow and snap back his way, and he finds himself unable to look away. Panic is starting to rise again when you take two daring steps sideways.

"Hey, what the hell, man? We were having a conversation, you know. It's rude to look away when someone's talking to you." You're only a foot away from blocking him entirely.

It's eyes are back on yours now.

"As I was saying, what brought you 'round this side of town?" Damian sees your hand sliding into your back pocket. "Thought you'd be up in the skyscrapers, ya know, with the big dogs in fat ties with fatter checks." You slide on a pair of knuckles.

Damian shifts his weight. You're about to charge it, he can read it from your body language. As loudly as his instincts are screaming, he knows he'll only be in the way if he stays where he is. His best bet is to at least get out to the sanctuary, so you can get your job done without worrying about where he is.

You're both silent for exactly two seconds. Muscles curled tight, like wild animals waiting for the right time to strike.

Then, in barley a blink, you're leaping forward, words of a dead language flying off your tongue, bring orange shapes he doesn't register encasing your hands. He's swerving behind you, slipping on papers in his rush for the door.

He speeds around the first row of pews, and takes the farthest left right isle. He makes it to the double doors at the back of the room, before discovering that the doors are still very firmly locked. Thankfully, the doors were cheap and easily gave way to Damian's forceful convention.

He shoves one side the rest of the way open, and discovers exactly why such a task was so difficult in the first place.

The dining table from the kitchen had been lodged in the doorjam.

He blows out a breath when the leg catches on the wall of the hallway. It's not going to open without shattering that table leg, which he doesn't have time for.

You let out an angry shout, shoving forward the spinning, glowing sigil you're using to shield yourself from the demon's razor-like fingertips.

You thrust it through the doorway of the office, quickly pinning it down on an upright pew.

Damian swears under his breath and ducks past the doors, opting instead for a more stable place to hold his ground, should things get as bad as they were looking.

The room is nearly pitch black, both his and your flashlights abandoned in the office, providing the smallest amount of light to the most obvious parts of the room. The only other sources of light are your magic and your eyes, both a mesmerizing shade of dark orange, glowing fiercely in contrast to the stale dark air surrounding you.

There were times when those glowing irises were a calming, steadying presence; something to lean against to keep himself grounded.

This is not one of those times.

At the moment, he's hunkered down behind a church pew, waiting for you to tell him to do something, watching sparks of magic fly around the room as you battle against a demon you weren't entirely prepared for. The great room is filled with encantations in a language he doesn't care to understand and ungodly shrills and growls.

Then, he hears a pained shriek so deafening and strangely pitched, his hands involentarily fly up to cover his ears.

The room goes quiet and still, papers settling back on the cheap red carpet, dust finding it's way back down to the wooden surfaces.

He peers over the edge of the church pew once more, eyes flicking through the whole room in a near desperate search for that orange glow. It couldn't have been you that made that noise, could it?

Finally, he finds two tiny, bright orange circles flickering around the room as well. The palms of your hands still have a soft glow to them, in the fuzzy outlines of your veins.

"Damian, where'd you go?" Your voice is level—you aren't worried. You know he didn't go far enough that you couldn't be heard.

It always left him just a bit tender in the chest when you reminded him just how well you knew him. "Right here," he beckons, straightening out and picking his way back across the room to the doors, where the dim beams of the streetlights out side have away his outline.

You start up the isle immediately, eyes still piercing the darkness. "Do you want to go get your light?"

He doesn't answer you right away. "My–? No, I have more at home. What happened to the demon?"

"Killed it," you answer dryly. "Or mostly did, anyway. Either way, we better go before we find out."

He's about to follow you back up the rest of the way to the doors, but stops halfway. "Wait, I do need something from that office."

You turn to ask what is, but he's already running back down the main isle. Your grip tightens on the strap of your messenger bag, the same strap that had been sliced in two at some point during your little skirmish. Eyes dart around the great room. You raise your maglight again, and click it back on. You'd gotten yours from the office, but Damian's was too small for you to waste much time looking for it. You point it after him, and when he vanishes into the mostly dark room, you direct it to the darkest edges of the room. When you're satisfied, you pinch the light between your jaw and your shoulder, drop your bag, and set your hands to work with moving that blasted table out of the way.

You've just about got it completely clear when the sound of the office door reaches you. You turn halfway, just to check. And then, your heart drops along with your flashlight. It feels like the floor's given out from under you when your light catches him.

You start to shout, but the words get caught in your throat. Your hands twitch and suddenly the world seems like it's slipped into slow motion.

Then, your knees are bending and the rubber soles of your boots claw against the carpet. Your rushing toward him, but it doesn't feel fast enough.

Faster, faster, faster.

Your heart is palpitating and your mind is reeling already, and all you can hear is the premonition his screams.

You come to a near-screeching halt in the tiny space between your lover and the charging black mass, fully intending to push him clean to the exit, eyes hardly focused before it happens—

Something hits you, hard, fast, and cold. Your eyes roll back and ice shoots through your veins, you can feel it, and the pain is overwhelming as you stumble backwards with the world spinning around you and—

Damian feels it in his chest before he sees it. Heavy and tight. He spins around, though it takes a measure of courage and willpower, because he has a feeling he knows what's happened, but he doesn't want to see it.

You're a few feet away, crumpled, hunched in on yourself as you sit on your knees, between two intact pews. Your back heaves with every strangled breath. Your hands are out of view, pressed firmly against the rough red in front of you to anchor yourself.

"(Y/N)?" He braves a step or two forward. "What happened?"

You don't answer.

Chills rush over him in waves. The temperature in the air hadn't been in any way warm to begin with, but his breath billows out into the stream of light from the flashlight he'd managed to pick up on his way out of the office. He tries your name again, and this time, you side to your feet.

You don't stand, mind you, so much as levitate gently until your feet are beneath you. You turn very slowly, with jagged and barely controlled movements.

You grin widely at him, but it's crooked and too sharp at the ends. It reaches tour eyes, sure, but really wishes it didn't.

Part 2; but I can't link it because Tumblr is still being a bitch with links. I am so sorry. If you go to profile, it should be the first post until further notice. 🙄

because Tumblr apparently has a limit of 250 text blocks per post

[semperintrepida]

The Sellout: chapter four

four: the first thaw

This was a mistake.

Kassandra only had time for that one, brief regret as she toppled backwards into the display case. A bang clapped through her skull and left her ears ringing, and a manic grin loomed before her as the world desaturated to grey, then black... and then her vision returned in a shock of light and color as crisp as sunshine on fresh snow. Then time slowed down, down, down and she stopped thinking and started moving: finding her feet, grabbing fistfuls of the man's coat, and launching herself forward. She pushed him along, gathering speed as she angled him towards the windows, and then she threw him into the wooden bar hard enough to send the stools on top of it flying.

He bounced off the edge of the bar and landed on the floor in a sprawl, and as she sank to her knees, she heard the slap of his shoes against wood, then the door opening and closing, and then silence.

Every straight line in the room curved in on itself, and she pressed her palm into the floor to keep from falling over. Her chest was a furnace, each hot breath harsh in her ears, and she knelt there, staring at a knot in the floorboards, fascinated by the way it punctured the woodgrain around it.

Footsteps approached her in a hurry, then a voice, thin and tight, said, "Are you— Hang on, okay?"

Kassandra studied the cracks radiating out from the center of the knot. A weakness in the grain. Stupid. She'd thrown herself in harm's way for a woman who hated her. Why? She didn't even know the woman's name. So stupid.

She heard metal jangling against metal at the door. Then the footsteps returned, and the woman knelt beside her, a phone in her hand, its screen bright enough to sear a halo into the edges of Kassandra's vision.

"I'm calling 911—"

Kassandra put her hand over the screen, and as their skin touched, the woman jerked her hand and the phone away as if scalded. Kassandra sighed. "Don't."

"Don't what? Call?"

"He's long gone. The cops'll never find him, and they'll bring you more trouble than it's worth." And more trouble than Kassandra wanted to deal with to keep her name out of the newspapers and off of Twitter.

"Fine. No cops. But you should still go to the ER."

Her head ached too much to shake it. "No. I hate hospitals."

"Everyone hates hospitals."

"No ambulance."

The woman exhaled, sharp and quick. "Then what do you want to do?"

"Call an Uber, and go home." Despite her aching head and stiff neck, the burn in her lungs was fading, and the lines of the floorboards, and chair legs, and table tops were straightening back to true.

"That's a terrible plan."

Kassandra shrugged, and then she started to climb to her feet. She got as far as raising herself on one knee before her body refused to move any further. She swayed precariously. The floor seemed a long way down, and she imagined how it was going to feel when she smacked face-first into it — but hands grabbed her by her shoulders and held her upright. So much strength in those hands, but not an ounce of warmth.

"Sit here and don't move," the woman said, guiding Kassandra down so she rested with her back against the window. "I'm calling an ambulance."

Desperation drove Kassandra to catch her by the arm. "Don't. Please," she said, and the light in the room chilled from warm yellow to cold fluorescence, and instead of coffee she smelled disinfectant. She shuddered with the memory of medication and pain and being trapped in beds in white rooms, and it set off a fresh round of ringing in her ears.

The woman stared at Kassandra's hand wrapped around her forearm. "Okay, fine," she said, and when Kassandra released her, she rocked back on her heels, putting space between them. "Have it your way."

Kassandra shivered again, her spine cold where it pressed against the glass window.

The woman frowned and leaned closer. Her irises were rimmed with red, and graphite smudged the skin below her eyes. She clearly hadn't been sleeping much.

Kassandra could guess the reason why. She looked down at her hands. Stupid, coming back here — she should have left things to her research and legal teams and stayed out of the way.

"How does your head feel?" the woman asked.

"I've got a headache."

"Did you lose consciousness?"

"For a moment, if that."

"Stay here, okay? I'll be right back."

Footsteps, then rustling, and a drawer opening and closing. More rustling. More footsteps. And then the woman was back and handing her a bag of ice wrapped in a clean bar towel.

Kassandra took the ice and pressed it against the back of her head. "Thanks."

"Don't thank me. This wouldn't have happened if I'd locked the fucking door like I was supposed to."

"And you didn't because I was distracting you."

"You sure as hell did." The woman shook her head irritably. "Offering to buy me out. You don't even know what my books look like."

"I don't even know your name."

Her eyes widened a fraction. "Don't you have... people to figure stuff like that out for you?"

"Yes, but I was holding out hope you'd volunteer it."

She snorted. "Even after I told you to fuck off."

"I guess I'm just optimistic."

"No, you're just used to getting whatever you want."

It's called winning, Kassandra's brain offered unhelpfully, but she clamped her mouth shut around the words just in time.

They stared at each other in a silence that grew more and more awkward until the woman sighed and gave in. "My name's Kyra."

Kassandra extended her hand purely out of reflex. "Kassandra."

"I know," Kyra said dryly, and after the slightest of hesitations, she reached for Kassandra's hand and shook it.

A handshake was a message, and Kyra's said I don't suffer fools gladly. Her grip was firm but not crushing — though the muscles in her hands certainly held the strength to do so. Solid muscles, calloused skin. Powerlifter? No, too lean across her shoulders and thighs. Her mystery remained unsolved.

The ice was working its magic, tamping down the ache in Kassandra's skull. "I'll call that Uber now," she said.

"How did you get here?"

"Drove."

Kyra said nothing for several seconds, lost in thought. Then she gave a quick nod and said, "Look. I'll drive you home, or wherever. If you want. It's the least I can do after you..."

She didn't say ended up with a concussion on my behalf but she could have. Kassandra considered the offer. Passing out in her own car was more appealing than passing out in some random Uber, but there'd be a stranger at the wheel either way. She could see herself now: out cold in the front seat of her Audi, a flash of brake lights, the door opening, then Kyra dumping her into the nearest gutter...

Of course, if she was that worried about it, she could just call an ambulance.

"Okay," she said.

"Okay." Kyra sat back. "You all right with waiting a few minutes? I've got to close out the till."

"Sure."

Time passed in the form of sounds and silence, and then Kyra was crouching in front of her and asking, "Ready?" and when Kassandra nodded yes, Kyra offered a hand and helped haul her to her feet.

The room tilted out from under her, the floor bending like a rubber band.

A strong hand slid under her upper arm and steadied her. "You gonna make it?"

"I'm fine." She stared at the floor until its planks straightened again.

"Sure you are," Kyra said, but she didn't let go. She guided Kassandra around the stools that had fallen from the bar, and only released her when they stood before the door to the shop.

Kyra unlocked the door with a twist and jingle of metal keys, and then it swung open and Kassandra stepped into cool, night air. She waved Kyra's hands away and took a deep breath. The damp breeze sweeping in from the river was almost enough to cover the greasy carbon smell of exhaust. Around them, the sidewalks were already empty. No city packed up and went home as early as Portland did.

Her Audi sat by itself a few spaces up the way, lit by a streetlight. "I'm assuming that's yours," Kyra said, nodding in its direction, and she could have been pointing out a garbage truck for all the enthusiasm in her voice.

"Yeah." Kassandra walked gingerly to the car. The streetlight blazed down, bright as a spotlight. It made her eyeballs throb, and she squinted as she opened the passenger door and eased herself inside the car, grateful for the darkness of its interior.

It was disconcerting, sitting on this side of her own car, a mirror universe where everything was reversed and a stranger was sliding into the driver's seat. Kassandra leaned back so her head held the bag of ice in place — and then she pulled her seatbelt extra snug.

"It's like the cockpit of the space shuttle in here," Kyra said, as she ran her hands over the steering wheel and eyed the blank computer screen that took the place of a gauge cluster.

Kassandra grinned. "Push the big red button to start the launch sequence. Just don't... stomp on the gas."

But Kyra didn't leap at the chance to drive it like she'd stolen it. She took her time adjusting the mirrors and getting comfortable in her seat, and only then did she push the button to start the car, biting off a curse at the sudden roar of a hundred explosions a second being contained in the engine right behind her. Then she checked her blind spot and pulled onto Belmont as Kassandra worked the navigation system to make the route to her condo appear on the display.

Kyra's driving was competent and composed, and Kassandra began to relax despite the growing silence between them. They knew next to nothing about each other, and what they did know was something neither wanted to talk about.

The car turned as smoothly as a greased bearing onto the Burnside Bridge, the river an oily black ribbon below. At the far end of the bridge, the big "Portland Oregon" sign flashed its lightbulbs and neon, a vintage throwback that set the tone for the neighborhoods behind it.

Kyra changed lanes. "I'm surprised this thing doesn't drive itself."

"In a few more years I'm sure they'll come out with one that does, unfortunately."

"Unfortunately?" The passing streetlights lit her face in alternating stripes of light and shadow.

"I like driving. The sound, the feel of it."

"Driving one of these, sure. You're like a shark among the sardines."

"True." Kassandra couldn't imagine driving a beater Honda in rush hour traffic, and was glad she'd never had to experience that particular displeasure.

They glided downtown in a smooth bubble of movement, and whether that was from the car or from Kyra's driving, Kassandra couldn't say. Downtown, where food trucks clustered under high-rise office buildings and tent cities squatted within sight of every luxury hotel.

Burnside Street took them to 10th and the Pearl District — a neighborhood as clean, shiny, and multilayered as its namesake. Dig far enough and you'd hit the industrial sands it was built upon.

"Turn into that driveway on the left," Kassandra said as she fished her keycard out of her wallet. The gate lifted and let them inside, and she guided Kyra through the cramped nautilus of the carpark until they reached another gate. This one led to her private garage, isolated and secure.

The garage had three bays, but she hadn't bothered to ship any of her other cars here. Instead, she'd brought a pair of motorcycles: her favorite Triumph custom for the street and another bike for the dirt. The riding here was supposed to be some of the best in the world, but she'd rarely had any free time to find out.

Kyra eyed the bikes as she shut the engine off and opened her door.

"You ride?" Kassandra asked from the other side of the car.

"Nah," Kyra said. "I'd never have the time." A shame. She'd look good swinging her leg over that Triumph, wearing a black leather jacket to go with the red lumberjack flannel and jeans she was wearing now...

Her voice brought Kassandra back to reality. "You've got someone at home to watch you tonight, right?"

This is what Kassandra would come home to: high ceilings, tasteful furnishings, a spectacular view of the city — all of it very, very empty in its solitude. She'd have to admit it one way or another, but if she stayed silent she wouldn't have to hear herself say the words out loud.

Kyra looked at her. "You don't," she said quietly, and Kassandra couldn't tell if she was surprised by it or not. "I fucking knew I should have driven you to Legacy and bounced you onto the doorstep of the ER."

"I'm glad you didn't," Kassandra said. "And now that I'm here, you've done your good deed and you're free to go. I'll call an Uber for you, or a taxi. Whatever you want."

"Oh no, I'm not about to let you go on alone, just so you can die all by yourself."

"Wanting to watch is a bit bloodthirsty, don't you think?"

It was a good thing there was a car between them, because Kyra looked about ready to strangle her. "That's not what I meant."

Kassandra couldn't help herself, and she laughed even though it made her headache flare. "Well, come on, then. You can hate me up close all you want."

Up close is exactly what they got: in the stairwell, in the narrow hallway to the private elevator that serviced the upper floors of the tower, and in the elevator itself, where Kyra stood as far away from her as possible. Kassandra slapped her keycard against the reader. The numbers on the floor indicator ticked higher and higher, until they weren't numbers at all, just "PH".

The elevator released them into a small foyer.

"I don't hate you," Kyra said suddenly.

"Jesus doesn't like it when you lie," Kassandra said as she used her keycard to unlock her front door, and whatever Kyra's answer would have been was swept aside by their arrival.

The lighting and window systems woke up as Kassandra's smartphone connected to her home network. A soft glow from unobtrusive fixtures brightened the open interior of the space, while the windows shed their tint to put the city skyline on full display.

Kassandra crossed the room and sank onto the low-slung couch with a grateful sigh. She kicked off her shoes, then set the melted bag of ice down on the glass end table beside her.

Kyra was still lingering by the door, where the nearest wall displayed a triptych of poster-sized, black and white photographs. A lone dirtbike outracing a dust storm across the desert. A crumbling building made abstract in shadows and light. A landscape of the mountains encircling the bowl of Death Valley.

"Who took these?" Kyra's voice echoed from across the room.

"I did." Back when she had time to ride and travel. Now most of her shots were hurried sketches taken with her phone.

Kyra's circuit of the wall pulled her past the flatscreen TV, past Kassandra's bookshelves, until she stood in front of the windows. "It's so beautiful," she murmured as she gazed at the twinkling panorama of the city's east side.

Kassandra nearly got lost watching Kyra enjoy the view before she remembered her manners. "Can I offer you something to drink? Beer? Water?" She grinned. "Coffee?"

That made Kyra turn and approach the couch. "Is it from Starbucks? Then no, thank you." She picked up the soggy bag of ice on her way past, holding up a hand when Kassandra sat forward. "No, don't get up. I can find my way to your fridge," she said, glancing at the kitchen in full view before them. A trace of humor instead of irritation. Seemed this evening would bring Kassandra one surprise after another.

But no surprise would top the fact that there was someone else here with her. She'd never invited anyone — no friends, no lovers — to her home, or to any of her homes, really, and now some stranger was rooting around in her refrigerator and cupboards.

She closed her eyes and listened to the sounds of Kyra making herself right at home: the fridge and cabinet doors opening and closing, a quiet "Ahh!" of surprise as Kyra found her coffee stash, and then the kettle being filled and a gas burner igniting.

Then there was a gentle swirl of air beside her: Kyra, perching on the armrest of the couch, offering her a fresh bag of ice and a bottle of water. "You should drink this," she said.

Kassandra raised the bottle in thanks and took a swig.

"You've got beans from Camber and Sweet Bloom. So you do know something about good coffee."

"Not as much as I should. But coffee's not really my gig," she said, well aware of how it sounded. "I know a lot more about buildings and the land they sit on." She'd cut real estate deals and maximized returns on investments for over a decade, always high enough up the chain where the numbers involved had at least seven digits, insulated from ever having to see that the mom-and-pop competition belonged to real people instead of numbers on a spreadsheet.

Kyra's jaw clenched around a response. "I hope you don't mind me dipping into your stash," she said instead, keeping up the détente between them. "I'm going to be up awhile."

"Have as much as you want."

The sound of the kettle whistling drew Kyra away, and when she returned a few minutes later, it was with a mug cradled in her hands. She sat at the edge of the armchair across from Kassandra and closed her eyes as she inhaled the steam. "I'd offer you a cup, but I'm not sure you should with..." She gestured vaguely towards her head.

"I'm fine with this," Kassandra said, tilting her water bottle. "Which one did you pick?"

"The Sweet Bloom." Kyra sipped from the mug, then shrugged. "Aspirational, I guess, given our circumstances. And this particular roast cuts a nice profile."

"How so?"

"Light, honeyed, lots of florals. And brewed right, the results are"—she sipped again and smiled—"amazing."

That smile was enough to fill Kassandra with the irrational urge to keep her talking. "Who's your roaster?"

"Heart, here in town."

"Ahh, I should have known." They had a coffee shop of their own just up the street. "Why them?"

"They're local. And they haven't sold out to Wall Street like Stumptown did." She stood up, abruptly, and took her mug over to the windows, drinking from it as she watched the city lights. "Do you know why all the indie roasters started focusing on lighter roasts?"

"No."

"Because Starbucks went in hard on the dark roasts." Then she laughed, a brittle sound that bounced off the window glass. "I got into this business as a barista first, because I love how the best coffee tastes. I still do. I'll never serve anything less." She gazed pensively at the city, seconds stretching into minutes. Eventually, she turned to Kassandra. "How's your head?"

"Sore, but I'll live." She turned her neck experimentally. Still stiff. At least her head wasn't ringing anymore.

Kyra returned to the armchair and sat down. "Tired?" she asked.

"A little." More than a little. She'd been up since five and it had to be well past midnight by now.

"Sleeping would actually be good for you."

"Really? I thought it was the opposite," Kassandra said, remembering being poked and prodded on team flights and buses, kept from sleeping by assistant coaches after games where she'd cracked skulls with some opposing player. But that had been a long time ago.

Kyra flashed her a wicked grin. "That's why I'll be here to wake you up every couple of hours, to make sure you're just sleeping and not slipping into a coma."

Kassandra had been prepared for awkward silences, and perhaps some talking spiked with vicious, vicious words. But falling asleep while Kyra had free reign of her home... This was a terrible plan.

Kyra's grin grew wider. "Don't look so scared. My face is all over your security cameras and you know exactly where to find me." She made a show of studying her manicure. "Besides, murder's not really my style."

She had a point — and an actual sense of humor. Kassandra smiled. "I'm not so sure. You seem to know a suspicious amount about head injuries."

"I've seen enough of them to pick up a thing or two."

"I didn't know the coffee business was so dangerous."

"Not at the shop," she said, rolling her eyes. "Out on the rock, and in the climbing gym."

Rock climbing. How had Kassandra missed that connection? "Cliffhanger."

"My three loves put together."

Coffee, climbing, and books. "Tell me about them?" Kassandra winced at how inane the question sounded.

"I can definitely bore you to sleep if that's what you want."

"If I fall asleep, it won't be because I'm bored." And right on cue, she yawned.

"Well, this won't take long, then," Kyra said brightly. "So speaking of the folks at Heart — they called me up last week, all hot about this small, family farm they'd stumbled across the last time they were in Honduras..."

And Kyra talked, about heirloom coffee, and how roasters searched the world for the most interesting varieties, and Kassandra stretched out on the couch and listened, sometimes asking a question, but mostly resting in silence, mostly thinking about what it was like hearing another voice in a room that was usually so quiet and still.

And much later, she woke up to Kyra's hands gently tucking a blanket around her. "I'm awake," she murmured, wriggling in the blanket's soft cocoon.

"So you are," Kyra said wryly. She settled back into the armchair and picked up the book she'd set aside. "Go back to sleep."

"Not yet," Kassandra said, her voice thick and drowsy. The blanket was warm, like Kyra's hands had been. "I want to know what book... you're..." And then her brain tucked itself in and said good night.

Chapter four of The Sellout. Continued in chapter five...

[anoddreindeer]

The Price of Doing Business

It's a dark night in the city that never sleeps.

There are noises in the distance, the sounds of revelry and business and factories that ran twenty-four hours a day, but in this section there's a tense sort of silence. The kind of silence that happens because people are afraid of what'll happen if they make noise, if they draw attention to themselves. Not even Company enforcement cars prowl these streets, most of them too busy hunting their prey elsewhere.

Just one cruiser pulls slowly down the lane, only the dimmest of lights on as it creeps further and further into a neighborhood where its compatriots had howled at high speeds not hours before. Eventually it stops, about halfway down the block, and the lights on the front of it go out. A dark figure climbs out of the front seat and walks around to the back. It opens the door and roughly hauls a taller figure out; a flash of silver cuffs catches the streetlights as the taller figure stumbles under the force of the yank.

The shorter figure doesn't wait for the taller figure to catch its balance, however, merely hauling the taller figure so roughly that it has no choice but to follow. The two make their uneven way a few steps further up the block and dip into an alleyway. The shorter figure slams the taller one up against the wall not far down from the mouth of the alleyway.

"The void did I tell you? The void were you thinkin'? Joinin' up wit' the Morellis, and now look atcha!"

"Least I didn't join the Voiddamn Company, the void wit’ me! The void wit’ you! What'd Ma say?"

"The void do you care! We was starvin' and there weren't no more jobs to get! You knew the Morellis was bad news, and you went wit 'em anyways!"

"A job's a job, and it's not like they got you doin' any different 'n me. Sendin' you all goons to pick us all up like you was better or somethin'. Whatcha gonna do now, break both my legs? What's Ma gonna say when she hears about what they got you doin'?"

A long silence stretches, broken only by the sound of heavy breathing.

"Ma..."

"No."

Another long pause.

"What. Happened."

"I told you. There weren't no more jobs be had. So I joined up, but they wasn't paying much 'cause everyone was joinin' up."

"So, what, you ain't scrounge enough?"

"Me? ME?! The void were you doin'?! You never come home! For all we knew you was DEAD!"

"Yeah, well, I ain’t! An so help me, if you left Ma out to dry 'cause you was the one working..."

The meaty thud of a fist hitting a face echoes down the alley.

"Don't you DARE say that ta me again! I went to work like to collapsin' I was so hungry, just to make sure Ma had enough!"

"So what, you expect me ta believe Ma died what, a natural causes?"

A gusty sigh winds its way down the alley.

"You...You know Ma. Knew Ma. She ain’t never let a kid go hungry in her life. Morrises, three doors down, just had their new kid right before all this shit started."

"Void. What's that make, four?"

"Five. Two cute little boys and three pretty little girls - and they still got 'em, every one. Ma..."

"She didn't."

"Fuck you, you know she did."

“That ain’t fair. Ain’t right.”

“Like you know anythin’ about fair. Or right.”

A big sniff echoes loudly down the alley.

"It was the day the shield went down, can you believe it? I'd just heard the news over the wireless. Peoples was dancin' in the streets. I asked to go home a little early, make sure Ma knew the news. When I got home, she was sittin' in that rockin' chair Dad got for her for their weddin' - you know, the one made a' real wood from Bloom. By the time I got there she was already stiff but - smilin'. She musta known."

"Void. I'm-"

"Don't say you're sorry. I told you, you knew, you coulda come home at ANY TIME. Don't you dare say you're sorry now. Not after joinin' the Morellis. Not after missin' the funeral. Don't you dare."

Silence reigns for a long moment.

"So, what, you gonna kill me? Gonna off your older brother too on orders from on high?"

"No."

"No?"

"No. 'M tired a killin'. 'M tired a bein' someone Ma'd be ashamed of. Soonest I do this, I'm turnin' in my notice."

"...What're you gonna do?"

The shorter figure draws a Void blaster and calmly shoots the wall beside the taller figure's head. The shot echoes loudly up and down the alley, and the silence seems to become even deeper afterward as if anyone who had even been thinking about motion dismisses the thought.

"You's dead. I did what they said. Arrest all known associates of the Morellis, or kill 'em if they won't come peaceable. So you's dead."

"What-"

A soft rustling noise stops the question in its tracks.

"These is new papers. New name, new life. You couldn't be bothered to keep up wit’ your old one, and Ma'd be even more disappointed in us if we killed each other. So you take these, and you go down to the docks, and you get on the first ship outta here and you don't never come back, you hear? If I hear you's back in the City - any part a' the City - I'll find you and kill you myself. You wanted not to be part a this family so bad, well. You ain't any more."

The click of handcuffs releasing is loud in the still night.

Silence reigns for a long few seconds.

"Maybe you're right, maybe I ain't got the right to be sorry about leavin', about not comin' back, about thinkin' I had more time. But. I'm sorry for your loss. And...thanks."

"Go to the Void. And don't come back."

The taller figure darts out of the alley and down the street, rapid footsteps fading into the labyrinthine streets. Another loud sniff comes from the alley.

"Wherever you are, Ma, I hope you're finally proud of me."

The shorter figure walks out of the alley and slowly gets into the Company cruiser. Lights off, it pulls away from the curb and into the night.

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

A second part, set much later, to https://anoddreindeer.tumblr.com/post/642137561808175104/hard-times

[persona-5-for-want-of-a-nail]

Chapter 1 - New Horizons

4/9

Megumi adjusted her glasses as the train continued to clatter along. She held her bag closer to herself, trying to get any semblance of something homey from it, though it was to no avail. 

“Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for riding with us today,” As the voice on the speaker began, Megumi glanced up to catch sight of the nearest one. “We’ll be arriving in Shibuya shortly. This is the last stop for this line. Please transfer here for all subway lines. The doors to your left will open.” 

Quietly, she stood up and grabbed onto one of the dangling handles above. Grimacing as a pit formed in her stomach, almost as a bitter reminder of why she was in Shibuya to begin with. 

The glare of the overhead streetlight, the innocent woman’s cries for help, the stench of a hopelessly drunk man, the thud on the pavement, the shouting, and above all else, the harsh grip of the very police officers she had called for help.

Without thinking, she ran her fingers across her bicep, practically feeling the strong fingertips that had dug into her flesh that short time ago. 

“What? Are you for real? A mental shutdown?” The chatter of two nearby girls dragged Megumi out of her trance, glancing over in curiosity. 

“It’s the truth!” The other retorted, a certain conviction in her words.

“To a person though?” Her friend asked, skepticism in her voice. “That’s gotta be a joke.” Still, she giggled, pointing to the phone in the formers hand. “You really love that occult stuff, don’t you?”

Mental Shutdowns…?

Odd.

After dismounting the train, Megumi made her way up into the station square. Her grip tightened on the strap of her bag as she slowly weaved through the crowds. This certainly was different from home… 

A beep from her phone drew her attention back to the device in her hands. Her brow creased as she looked at the screen.

“What on Earth…?” 

Casting on the screen was an app she was unfamiliar with. She knew she didn’t download it, so what was it? She stopped in her tracks and tapped on it, though it didn’t seem to open properly. Megumi sighed prepared to reboot her phone, but then she noticed something. Everything seemed to have stopped in its tracks. 

Even the birds overhead. 

The most striking thing of all, however, was nestled right in the center of the scramble.

Raging azure flames danced and licked away at the skies, though they soon formed together, making a coherent figure, standing tall and proud. Just as soon as it formed, it dissolved, and for the briefest of moments, Megumi could have sworn she saw herself in it. 

And just like that, the world was once again turning. 

Megumi looked back and forth. Was she just seeing things, or…?

Whatever, it didn’t matter. She was probably just tired from the train ride. That was what she told herself, anyway. She looked back at her phone screen, gently setting a finger on the offending app and dragging it to the trash. 

She still kept a tight grip on the straps of her bag as she dismounted yet another train. Yongen-Jaya, this was the place all right. Her steps were slow as she left the station, not wanting to miss the place she was staying- it probably didn’t help that her sense of direction wasn’t perfect to begin with but that on top of how out of touch she’d felt that day, it simply wasn’t a good mix.

Still, she didn’t know a lot about Yongen, but from what she could see, it felt rather homely from the get-go. She gave everyone who paid her any mind a gentle wave as she weaved her way through the area’s backstreets. Sojiro Sakura was the one she was in the care of, if she recalled correctly, but where on earth was…? 

Let’s see… A second hand shop… What looked to be a theater, that could be fun… Takemi Medical Clinic? At least something like that was local, same for the supermarket.

Emerging from the short alley where the clinic was nestled, Megumi sighed, holding her head in her hands. Was she really not even going a day without directional issues?

“Excuse me, Miss.” A gruff sounding voice had asked- no, not asked,- told her, and in response her head shot up, meeting the eyes of a rather menacing officer. Unconsciously, her grip tightened around the cuff of her sleeve. 

“Ah, yes, sir?” She had asked, voice just a touch shaky. The last thing she wanted right now was to cause trouble.

“Are you alright? You’ve been wandering around this area for a while now, you aren’t up to anything suspicious, are you?” Without thinking, her back straightened as she shook her head.

“No sir, I was just wondering where the residential area was.” 

The officer shook his head with a sigh, pointing over to the girl’s left. 

“Just down that way, take the first left and you’ll be there.” 

Offering a quick thanks, she continued on her way.

Don’t make waves.

In a way, it was almost fortuitous. The first house on the left had a small brass nameplate, the surname ‘Sakura’ embossed on its surface. She shuffled from heel to heel as she gently pressed on the doorbell, but received nothing in return. She chewed on her lip. Was he out, or perhaps was there another ‘Sakura’ living in the area…? What to do…

“Ah, looks like no one’s home…” 

Megumi glanced over her shoulder, noticing a delivery man with a parcel under his arm. It was clear he hadn’t noticed her, attention on other things.

“I suppose it makes sense, Sakura’s usually at his cafe around this time. Although, LeBlanc’s in the back alley, I’d probably be best off working on my other deliveries first…” 

Megumi had hesitated for a moment, though she supposed this wild goose chase would have to bring her something at some point. She was thankful, though. It wasn’t nearly as tricky to find LeBlanc. 

Slowly, she pushed open the door, the lingering scents of coffee and curry spices that danced out into the cold air calming her down considerably. It felt… homely. 

“A public transit bus was driven down an opposing lane with its customers still in it! The citizens can’t live in peace if this keeps up.”

...Oh Heavens. 

Megumi craned her neck over to catch sight of the TV mounted on the wall at the far back of the small cafe. Sure enough, a news report of an incident from just a day prior. Maybe it wasn’t in her best interest to stay here after all…? Though it wasn’t like she had much choice in the matter.

“How frightening.” 

Soon, she found her attention on an elderly couple in one of the establishment’s booth seats.

“What could be going on?” The man’s wife had asked, a clear concern on her face. “Didn’t something similar happen just the other day?” Her words made Megumi’s stomach twist. 

“Vertical is… the name of a shellfish used for farming pearls…” 

The manager of the place however, seemed to have minimal concern, simply focusing on a crossword, pen between his index and middle fingers flicking back and forth. Soon enough though, he caught sight of Megumi. His brow creased as he put the crossword on the countertop behind him.

“Right, they did say that was today, didn’t they?” 

She nodded, not even sure if she was supposed to reply. 

“We’ll be going now. The payment’s on the table.” The older man had said, both him and his wife getting up from their table, a small amount of coins left behind on the smooth surface.

“Thanks for coming.” The manager had said, only glancing at the couple for a moment before he looked back to the teenager in the doorway. Still, the couple continued to ‘joke’ on their way out of the shop.

“At least this place is in the back alley, there’s no worries of a car crashing in here.” The man had said, mostly to his wife but the manager picked up on it.

“A what?” 

“Oh? Haven’t you heard? There’s been an entire string of those rampage accidents. I just hope that none happen around here…” 

The manager shook his head, looking as unimpressed as ever.

“It’s none of my concern.” He had said curtly. The elderly man had laughed before bidding his farewell and leaving with his wife. Once the bell had chimed, signalling the door had shut, the manager sighed.  “...Four hours for just a single cup of joe.” He looked away from the table that had been occupied for so long, back to the only other person in the shop. “So, you’re Megumi?” 

She nodded, straightening her posture without thinking about it.

“That’s right. Is Sakura-san here?” She had asked, shifting her weight from foot to foot. He had smiled at that- not a friendly one, but an entertained one.

“Yeah. I’m Sojiro Sakura. You’ll be in my custody over the next year.” His gaze flicked up and down over Megumi’s form. “I was wondering what kind of unruly kid would show up, but… You’re the one, huh?” She didn’t blame him for being confused, she would be too. She was, to a degree. “Have you been told? A customer of mine and your parents are good friends and-” She nodded along with his explanation, which he seemed to notice after long enough. “Well, not that it matters. Follow me.” He turned around and motioned for her to follow, bringing her up a rickety staircase to a large attic at the very top.

The attic was big, if cluttered, one on shelf large bags of coffee beans sat, while miscellaneous junk covered the entire left of the room, a desk in the back covered in old and worn magazines and folders. There was also a small worn bed in the corner opposite the desk, just as dusty as the rest of the room. In the center of it all was a large cardboard box- that she had recognized. 

“This is your room.” Sojiro had said curtly, sweeping over the place with his gaze. “Oh, I’ll at least give you sheets for the bed.” Again, she nodded, an action she was getting used to very quickly, as she stared into the distance. “You look like you want to say something.” He had told her, as if he was testing her.

“It’s just a lot bigger than I thought it would have been.” Megumi had told him, staying as polite as possible. She set her bag down on a table next to the stairs, resting her hands on her hips as she looked the room over again and again. “..Could be cozy though…” She mumbled, more to herself, though it’s not like Sojiro hearing would hurt her.

“It’s up to you to clean up the rest.” He had said, hand lingering on the back of his neck. “I’ll be leaving after I lock up each day.” Sojiro looked back toward Megumi as he spoke “You’ll be alone, but don’t do anything stupid; I’ll throw you out if you cause any trouble.”

“Okay.” She had replied, quickly and quietly. 

Don’t make waves.

“Now then, I got the gist of your situation.” He had begun. Megumi still hadn’t moved from the top of the stairs, standing straight and tall like a tin soldier. “You protected some woman from a man forcing himself on her, he got injured, then sued you. Right?” 

“Mmhmm.” 

“That’s what you get for sticking your nose in a matter between two adults.” His expression was sour, not like he was scolding his own child for doing something wrong, more like scolding a puppy. “You did injure him, yeah?” 

“We-” 

Before she could even begin, Sojiro cut her off.

“And now that you’ve got a criminal record, you were expelled from your old high school.” She didn’t particularly mind that part. She didn’t have much attachment to her old school, much less friends she would miss. “The courts ordered you to transfer and move out here, which your parents also approved. In other words, they got rid of you for being a pain in the ass.” 

He looked so smug at those final words. She knew it wasn’t like that, her parents just didn’t have many other options…

“It’s best you not talk about anything unnecessary. I am in the restaurant business, you know. Behave yourself for the year. If nothing happens, your probation will be lifted.” 

“Yes sir.” As much as she wanted to say that that was her plan, she didn’t want to seem smug, especially after only being in the attic for two minutes. She knew her sentence would last until next spring, but she figured it’d be best to at least try and make the most of it.

“Just remember, cause any problems, and you’ll be going straight to juvie. We’ll be going to Shujin tomorrow.” 

“...Shujin…?” Megumi had mumbled, moreso to herself, but Sojiro still heard it. 

“Shujin Academy. The school you’ll be attending.” He had said so matter-of-factly, an underlying tone of exhaustion in his voice.. “We’ll introduce ourselves properly to the staff there. You’re lucky there’s a place that’ll accept someone like you, you know.” He sighed to himself, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What a waste of my Sunday.”

Megumi stayed quiet. She wanted to apologize, but was sure she’d only get snark in return. 

“Your ‘luggage’ arrived a little while ago. I brought it up here for you.” Sojiro gestured to the large cardboard box in the middle of the room. Without another word, he went back downstairs to the cafe. 

A few moments after he left, Megumi finally broke out of her soldier stance, stretching out and looking at the box from home. She knew a lot of what she needed was in that box, clothes, three spare pairs of glasses and a few other odds and ends. 

She ended up opening the box with a mechanical pencil in her bag. She didn’t want to bother Sojiro by asking for a knife or scissors. No matter the impracticality, it got the job done. Taking the opportunity, she changed into some more comfortable clothes- a grey turtleneck sweater which happened to be her favourite shirt she owned, and a simple pair of black pants. 

Megumi looked around. Cleaning this place would probably be a good start…

It was nothing too complicated, just a bit of dusting here, a bit of mopping there, putting fresh sheets on the bed, piling a couple trash bags on the table with her school bag and tucking away all the loose magazines underneath the table. She didn’t throw them out in case they held any importance to Sojiro.

It was just as she was pushing the cardboard box with her belongings into a low shelf when Sojiro had come back upstairs. 

“What the heck? I heard you making all sorts of noise up here, but I didn’t think you’d be cleaning.” He had said almost as soon as he came up the stairs, looking around the room. Megumi had opened her mouth to apologize- what for, she didn’t actually know, but Sojiro had interrupted her before she could even speak. “Actually, the place doesn’t look too bad. Though it’s only natural you’d want to keep your room tidy.” 

That was the first time she even tried to smile in days. Even if it was rather backhanded, she would take the praise regardless. She stood up straight, but before she said anything in reply, she yawned. What time was it, anyway…?

“Why don’t you go to bed for tonight?” He had suggested. “You don’t have anything better to be doing, right?” Sleepily, Megumi nodded, getting a nod from Sojiro in reply. “I’m going to close up shop and get out of here myself. Just remember that I’m not the one who’ll be taking care of you if you get sick from staying up too long, got that?” 

“Mhmm…”

Megumi had changed into her soft, creamsicle-coloured pajamas, and looked around the attic once more. She debated doing more work with the cleaning, but she really didn’t feel up to it, practically ready to pass out as soon as she hit the sheets. 

As tired as she was though, she couldn’t sleep. She kept thinking about everything that led up to now. Arrest, then trial, and now a criminal record and probation. What else was she supposed to do though? 

One thing had led to another and she ended up getting home late, she remembered worrying as she checked her watch. She knew her mother would be worried sick about her, but here she was, lightly jogging through the neighbourhood, but slowly her steps became uncertain. 

“Just get in the car!”

She stopped in her tracks completely. Gently, she chewed on her thumbnail. The yelling was coming from her left, but that was the opposite way of home. She was late enough already… Maybe it would just be a second? Megumi found herself trying to rationalize things as her steps guided her toward the voice. Maybe it was just someone trying to coax their pet into their car. At… 8pm. Though she soon found it was hopeless to be optimistic, as she soon picked up on a younger woman’s voice alongside it.

“N-no! Let go!” 

“You dare cross me?!” 

Again, Megumi stopped. She could see what was happening now. She could see under the glare of the streetlight the silhouette of a man forcing himself on a younger woman, and she could see her struggling rather noticeably. Could she even do something about that? Quietly, she took out her phone and dialed for the police, voice barely above a whisper. She was a bit relieved to hear that the police were on their way- what a mistake that would turn out to be.

“No…!”

“Don’t give me that shit.”

“Ow! P-Please, stop…!”

Letting out a sharp breath, she moved forward, her legs carrying her without a second thought. It didn’t matter if she could or couldn’t stop it, she just needed to try. As Megumi approached, she began catching the heavy scent of alcohol looming in the air. If anything, it made her stomach twist more. 

“Tch… What a waste of my time. You think you’re worth causing me trouble? Huh?” The drunken man continued, not letting up.

“I’ll call the police!” The woman had squeaked out. Her nails gripped onto his arm as she desperately tried to pry him off.

“The police are my bitches.” He had growled out. “They’re not gonna take you seriously.” The look of fear on her face only increased at his words. Only moments later the sound of police sirens pierced through the tense atmosphere. The man’s eyebrows furrowed in frustration and anger. “Someone called the cops, huh?” Both his scowl and his grip on the woman tightened. “Get in the car!” He had yelled. “Incompetent fools like you just need to shut your mouths and follow where I steer this country!” 

Megumi felt her blood freeze as the man finally noticed she was there, his gaze staring daggers at her from behind his orange tinted sunglasses. 

“...What’re you looking at?” He snapped out. “Get outta my face!” She took one step back, gripping onto the strap of her bag. “This ain’t a show. Get lost, kid.” His hand slid off the woman’s body as he began fronting on the high-schooler. Before he got closer, he sneered at the woman again. “See? This is all because you’re so damn slow! Get in the car!” He ordered. 

Megumi sighed and shook her head. There was no use even thinking about it now. It was far too late to think about anymore. Just as she felt herself begin to drift, her phone had played it’s little note, trying to grab her attention, which it had. She nabbed it from the floor, and whatever it had tried to notify her on had been pushed to the wayside as she noticed the strange app from just that morning. Her index finger loomed over it, puzzled. Did she not delete it? She thought she did, but she supposed it was entirely possible she didn’t. She was quite frazzled after all. Without another thought, she dragged it off to the recycling bin and placed her phone back on the floor. 

Her eyelids were getting heavy and her consciousness began to drift. She’d be scoping out her new school tomorrow, so maybe this would be her lucky break in disguise. Potential friends, potential experiences… She was optimistic, but she’d have to see the hand fate felt like giving her. 

Megumi wasn’t sure when she had awoke, but nothing about it felt right. Sure her bed wouldn’t be called luxurious, but it wasn’t this uncomfortable… 

The rattling of a chain made her shoot up to sitting, though that only made her notice the chain on herself, going from one wrist to the other with a little bit of give, cuffs linking them to one another. She swung her legs over the side of her ‘bed’ and clutched her head. Sure she could excuse it as a dream, but her wrists certainly did hurt. A chuckle dragged her attention to just outside her new cell. 

Just outside she could see two girls, awfully young looking ones at that. They weren’t identical- she didn’t think so anyway, but they shuffled closer together in sync, as if they were moving in a mirror. As Megumi approached, she only found herself stuck at a point, only to look down and pin the cause as a ball and chain. Now what in the world was this…? Megumi only stared at the two girls, hands resting and gaining a loose grip on the bars in front of her, loose striped sleeves sliding down her forearms. 

The girls stared back, their uncovered eyes unmoving, though the both turned away, no longer blocking Megumi’s view of the long nosed man in the center of the room. He had offered a hand that she could never grab, and announced in a low, booming voice.

“Trickster… Welcome to my Velvet Room.” 

“So, you’ve come to, Inmate?” One of the girls had asked, glancing at Megumi from the corner of her eye. 

“The you in reality is currently fast asleep.” The other had continued, her voice just a bit softer than her cohort. “You are only experiencing this as a dream.” She clarified. 

“You’re in the presence of our master. Stand up straight!” Without hesitation, she did. She could swear she saw the tiniest grin pop up on the younger girl’s face, but said nothing.

“Welcome.” The man in the center had started, the two girls at either side of you falling quiet. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance. This place exists between dream and reality, mind and matter.” He continued. Megumi’s grip only tightened on the bars. “It is a room that only those who are bound by a ‘contract’ may enter. I am Igor, the master of this place. Remember it well.” Igor continued to drum his fingers, which were just a touch too long on his desk. Megumi told herself that she probably wouldn’t forget this even if she tried. “I summoned you to speak of important matters. It involves your life as well.” She furrowed her brow, not wanting to make waves.

“Important matters?” She asked. It was just a dream, that's what she told herself anyway. Just a strange, strange dream. It probably wasn’t that important overall, but there was no reason not to play along. Igor only nodded along at her words.

“Still, it is strange…” He looked around, as if searching for something. She glanced around too, unsure of what the problem was, besides the obvious. “The state of this room reflects the state of your own heart. To think a prison would appear as such…” His gaze returned to her. “You truly are a ‘prisoner’ of fate.” Igor pointed at her, index finger only drifting around; lingering. “In the near future, there is no mistake that ruin awaits you.” 

“Ruin…?” She repeated, concern growing on her face. Igor simply chuckled.

“Worry not. There is a means to oppose such a fate. You must be ‘rehabilitated’. Rehabilitated toward freedom… That is your only means to avoid ruin.” He stared at her again, eyes boring deep into her. “Do you have the resolve to challenge the distortion of the world?”

Megumi stayed silent, though considering Igor’s inclination of doing the same, she realized he was looking for a reply. 

“Well, I’d like to avoid ruin…” To this, he grinned even wider than he already was. 

“Then allow me to observe the path of your rehabilitation.” As he finished his words, the two girls turned on their heels to face her once more. “Ah, pardon me for not introducing the others. To your right is Caroline; to your left, Justine.” Her gaze travelled as he said each direction. “They serve as wardens here.” 

“Hmph,” Caroline huffed out. “Try and struggle as hard as you like.” 

“The duty of wardens is to protect inmates. We are also your collaborators.” She couldn’t tell if Justine was trying to calm her. The words seemed sincere but her tone and demeanor was of ice. “...That is, if you remain obedient.” Megumi decided her uncertainty was best left where it was. 

“I shall explain the roles of these two at another occasion.” Again, as Igor finished speaking, the wardens turned on their heels in perfect sync to face their master. “Now then, it seems the night is waning… It is almost time.” Almost time for…? “Take your time to slowly come to understand this place. Surely, we will meet again, eventually…” At the flick of his wrist, sirens began blaring in the small prison. Caroline snapped her attention to Megumi. 

“Now hurry up and go back to sleep.” 

Megumi was confused, but soon enough found her consciousness fading yet again.

[nikxation]

This Is the End of Us I Swear

Summary: It’s been a month since the science fair accident, and for both Stan and Ford, moving on has proved harder than either of them would have thought. Decisions are made, words are said, and in the end, both of them just do what they think will make everything right again.

Based on Glendale by Clans and this art  by @julientel.

Tags: 10k, Canon Compliant, Hurt No Comfort, Based on a song, based on fanart, Pre-college, post-science fair, Stangst, might write a second fix-it chapter one day, seriously this is just pain, (more warnings listed in notes before fic on AO3)

Link to AO3

~ ~ ~

The sun is just setting behind the horizon, the sky’s final rays of colored light fading into the black. Small pinpricks of light peak between the clouds, the last of the neon lights on the boardwalk finally flickering out. The streetlights themselves are only a few minutes from waking up and chasing the growing darkness back into the alleyways. The occasional car chugs down the street, the asphalt crunching under its tires. It’s quiet, even in the Pines residence where Ford, having spent the majority of his day packing, just barely manages to shove his favorite advanced calculus book into the last moving box and tape it shut.

Ten boxes are all he was allowed. Sure, he did the math, and he knew they could fit fifteen in the car if they were very careful about how everything was stacked and how full the boxes themselves were. Eighteen if Ma just stayed home instead of insisting on coming to see him off to his new home for, God forbid, the next four years. Eighteen boxes would be plenty space to fit everything he would need plus maybe some non-essentials like changes of clothing. Hell, he could fit a significant number of textbooks in fifteen boxes if he was very careful about maximizing every micrometer of space.

Pa limited him to ten, no arguments. Ma insisted on packing six of them herself, leaving him with only four boxes for his essentials.

A tragedy, to be sure.

The entire day was spent weighing the pros and cons of each combination of textbooks until he reached what he knew was the best option given his limiting circumstance.

It’s still heartbreaking looking at all the texts still lining his shelves and knowing they probably won’t last for long in Pa’s house, probably to be sold or trashed within the week.

He hoists the last box up, grunting at the weight because of course textbooks are heavy, but he never really considers how much fifty pounds is until he’s staggering across the room awkwardly with it in his arms. Fifty pounds isn’t a lot, is it? It always seemed effortless when Stan would bench twice that—

The box thwumps on the carpeted floor at the bedroom door, stacked with the other nine, all ready to be packed into the car come tomorrow morning.

It was strange how vacant the room had felt after the first box had been packed. Not so long ago, every square inch was covered with knick-knacks and pictures and life. But the more he took and packed, the more barren it felt. With every random item he uncovered from days long gone by, the more it felt like setting aside some small part of him to either be forgotten again or left behind. A subtle nostalgia, a longing tinged with an inseparable bitterness he only wishes he could forget or move past.

And now that the packing is finally done… Well…

There’s something to be said for a half empty room.

Well, half of a half, if the empty bottom bunk is anything to go by.

A three-quarters empty room, so to speak.

He stares at the bare mattress on the bottom bunk for a moment, stains and tears on full display since its sheets were ripped away and stored in some remote closet of the house just under a month ago. It’s almost as jarring as the empty room, has been since the day Ma came in empty-handed and left with a bundle of cloth and a wobble to her voice. He usually tries to avoid looking at it for long. It makes something uncomfortable twist in his gut, something that he tells himself is betrayal because he’s afraid if he thinks about it for too long, he’ll realize it’s something else, something he doesn’t think he can handle.

He gives the box of textbooks a soft kick to line it up with the others before turning back and climbing up onto his bunk.

He really ought to stop thinking about the room as only half his.

There are a few graphs and diagrams pinned up on the wall next to his bunk that he thinks he could fit inside his bookbag to take along with him, so he starts the methodical task of unpinning it all. The wall is thoroughly covered in layers, some pins holding up multiple pages, some tables hiding in the back that he’d forgotten about. It’s a stroll through memory lane in the same way that the rest of this day has been.

He pulls out a pin holding up a resistor band diagram, but something behind it slips out behind the bedrail and slides straight to the floor. He huffs, considering leaving it but then immediately deciding that’s a bad idea, since he’s not entirely sure what it is and it might be something important. So he clambers back down from his bunk, fully prepared the shimmy himself under the bed to find whatever it is that fell.

It didn’t go straight to the floor like he thought it did. Instead, it landed on Sta—the bottom bunk. Facedown, probably the size of a four-by-six photograph, a bit worn around the corners.

It’s probably not as important as he initially thought.

The moment he flips the paper is a rude awakening, digging up deeply entrenched memories of hot days on the beach and splinter-covered hands and sun-burnt shoulders and tales of treasure and adventure. It’s a small spark of warmth in his chest, a sun beating down an a pair of boys climbing around the shambles of an old boat, the hot sand between their toes, the reflection of the sun off the crashing waves blinding them, the raucous screams of the seagulls drowned out by their laughter.

He forgot he still had this picture.

It’s strange, the exact memories it brings back. Like him bartering with an old sailor for a rusty anchor while Stan snuck around and grabbed a throw ring. Or Stan crawling inside the hollow boat and coming out with at least three different kinds of bugs caught in his hair. Or Ma finding out about their newest project and insisting on taking a picture of them with it. Stan taking his hand and hoisting him up onto the deck before clambering up to the highest point on the boat and posing like it’s where he belonged. A breeze grabbing the makeshift sail not even seconds after the picture was taken, shaking the boat enough for Stan to lose his balance and fall back into the sand, sputtering with laughter while a worried Ford hopped off the boat and helped him back up.

He smiles at the softness of it all, at the comfort and freedom of happier times. Simpler times. Times before colleges and science fair projects and grandiose expectations and disappointments. Back when their biggest concerns were having enough sunscreen and being home in time for dinner. Before it all fell apart.

He glances from the dilapidated boat in the picture out to the rebuilt one just barely visible in the darkness outside the window, docked down at the pier. It’s only a day’s worth of work away from being ready to sail. Just need to seal off a few small leaks in the hull and patch the tear in the sail. Leaps and bounds further along than the remains of the boat in the picture. A decade of afterschool work culminating in an empty, almost-finished boat bobbing on the waves.

He hasn’t set foot on the pier since the incident.

It’s all so different now.

He hates that he almost misses him.

He tells himself it’s just the adjustment period. Eighteen years of falling asleep to someone else’s snoring only to be replaced with sudden, deafening silence. Eighteen years of four people sitting at the dinner table now becoming three, the other side of the table empty and left unset. Eighteen years of someone at your side leaving a gaping hole in their place when they’re gone.

It has to be an adjustment period.

Because how could he miss the person that betrayed him?

That stabbed him in the back and ruined his future, all in the name of treasure-hunting?

He couldn’t.

He can’t.

Pa keeps telling him that he’s going places, that he’s got a bright future ahead of him, that his brother was just dragging him down. He tells him that he wishes he’d kicked him out sooner, then all of this would have been avoided.

Couldn’t just screw up his own life. Had to go and screw up yours too.

Pa tells him to forget and move on. To go back to his room and keep studying.

And he tries. He really does, because that has to be the right thing to do. That has to be the best way forward.

He should hate him.

And part of him does.

Part of him recoils at the mention of his name, some seed of anger burning red-hot when the fond memories give way to thoughts of broken science fairs projects and shattered trust. It coils and churns in his stomach, fueled by the acceptance letter to Backupsmore and his father’s disappointed scowl when that’s the only acceptance letter that arrives and the random items still hiding around the room that don’t belong to him and the name mix-up at graduation and the folder of maps and guides still on the bookshelf of that damn boat…

Part of him is angry. Rightfully so.

And yet…

The photo creases slightly in his hand.

His insides burn, and he tells himself it’s anger because the other thing, the thing that he pretends doesn’t exist, remembers how desperate and alone Stan looked that night out on the sidewalk with a bag on his shoulder and his hand raised up towards the window. It remembers and it remembers and it remembers. And it burns.

It has to be anger, because at least that makes sense, and at least that doesn’t keep him up at night staring at the ceiling and hating how quiet the room is.

It’s what he tells himself.

But even then, he still hates that hot coal of resentment in his chest, a heavy weight still dragging him further and further down. He hates feeling this way. He hates how, no matter how hard he tries, he can’t seem to forget and move on. Hates it with every fiber of his being.

It’s in the past so why won’t it just stay there?

The pier lights finally kick on, bathing the dock and the Stan O War in flickering fluorescent white. It’s a shadow looming on the waves, still docked peacefully as if nothing ever happened, as if the whole world wasn’t just flipped on its axis. As if everything was still alright.

Simpler times.

Distantly, he wonders if that boat was ever really his dream, or if he was just happy to be living it with Stan. He knows there was one point when he did want it, can remember it the same way he remembers the sand between his fingers and the taste of the sea air. But then they told him he was smart and that he had a future and that he could go to college and that he could change the world.

Somewhere along the line, his priorities changed. And Stan refused to see it, to accept it.

It’s been almost a month, and that boat is still just sitting there, a reminder of everything that went wrong, of how empty everything suddenly feels, of the remnants of a future left for him, and he hates it, hates Stan. He has to, right?

He has to.

The weight sinks lower in his chest and burns and burns and burns.

He’s angry. He has to be.

And it’s Stan’s fault.

Him and that stupid b—

Something… clicks in his head. Like a moment of clarity, suddenly telling him exactly what he needs to do, that it’ll make everything better. Make everything even.

He doesn’t think about it too hard.

He just shoves the picture in his pocket and leaves the room, making a quick stop by the kitchen on his way out the front door.

~ ~ ~

The treasure-hunting business has been… lackluster, to say the least. Apparently, gold is some kind of “rare metal”, which really throws a wrench into his whole get-rich-quick scheme.

Stan’s been driving since sunset, the window rolled down so he can taste that familiar salty ocean breeze as he makes his way down the coast, the wind pulling at his hair and roaring in his ear as he sails down the highway. The north end of the state had been a complete bust. With the help of his totally-legally-acquired, not-at-all-stolen metal detector, he’d only managed to scrounge up a couple dollars’ worth of coins, a few cheap wedding rings that he pawned, and a surprising number of fake teeth. All in all, he barely had enough money to feed himself and keep gas in the Stanleymobile, and even that was pushing it at times. So now he’s heading south to try out the bottom half of the state.

Not that he’s hesitant to leave New Jersey altogether or anything.

As if staying in the state will make his circumstances seem a little less real, a little less permanent.

The sign welcoming him to Glass Shard Beach whizzes by, momentarily caught in his headlights before disappearing into the encroaching darkness behind him.

It’s been a month, and he still has a hard time believing everything that happened actually… happened. There’s this part of it that still feels unreal, like it happened years ago or just to someone else altogether. It feels like he’s driving home instead of through what used to be his home. Like he should be pulling up to the pawn shop and heading upstairs, giving the cat a pet while Ma shoots him a devilish smirk as she works the person on the phoneline, Pa silently reading the newspaper in his chair, the floorboards creaking in a familiar pattern as he heads up to their bedroom, Ford reading some textbook on his bunk, laughing at whatever ridiculous story Stan has to share from boxing practice before they head down to the beach to work away the last of the sunlight fixing up the Stan O War.

When he finds himself on an all-too-familiar road by the boardwalk, it’s almost second nature to slow down as the Pines Pawn sign rolls into view. He knows he should just drive past without a second glance, because screw them all. But at the same time, he’s almost… curious? And maybe that home-sick part of him is saying just one peek wouldn’t hurt anything, and then he’d be on his way again, off to make his fortune, make them rue the day or whatever.

He ignores the hunger pains in his gut as he slows the car to a crawl on his way past, peering out the passenger window cautiously, ready to nail the gas and book it out of there if he’s spotted.

Ma is sitting in the upstairs window like always, phone up to her ear while she twirls the cord and the sucker on the other end of the line around her little finger. Pa is downstairs cashing out the pawn shop, counting down the money in the drawer for probably the third time of the night. Everything looks… normal. Peaceful. Not a thing out of place or out of the ordinary.

His chest aches when he realizes almost nothing seems to have changed since he left.

He isn’t entirely sure he expected anything different, but seeing it in-person still hurts more than it has any right to.

Their His The bedroom light is on, but the room is empty. From this angle he can barely make out the mostly bare walls and bunks, leaving him wondering if Ford already left for college.

Or wherever he ends up going, since Stan really screwed that one up for him, didn’t he?

There’s a chance he’s still in town.

His stomach churns at the thought of seeing his twin again. As hurt as he is by everything, as much as the memory of Ford closing those curtains stings, he still misses him. He misses that feeling of always having someone at his side, through thick and thin. He misses feeling wanted.

Though, if Pa’s words are anything to go by, then maybe he was wrong about that feeling from the start.

He takes it all in for one last second, telling himself that this is it, he’s not coming back, this is the last time. He keeps telling himself that for another second. And then another. And another.

It’s not until Pa pauses from counting the money that he finally startles back into gear and pulls off before the old man looks out the window, barreling down the street way over the speed limit because, suddenly, it’s the very last place he wants to be.

How bad would it look if Pa saw him sitting out here?

He’d look stupid. He’d look like even more of a failure, as if he was too scared to leave, as if he just came crawling back like a dog with its tail between its legs in defeat. He’d be admitting they’re right about him. He’d be giving up.

Would they even let him come back?

He shakes the thought off.

It’s been a month, and he’s not done yet. He’s on his way to success yet, he can feel it. Pretty soon, he’ll be rolling in all the cash Pa could ever hope for, and then he can rub it in their faces, make them regret ever kicking him out and abandoning him.

He’ll show them.

His stomach growls again, dragging him back to reality for the moment. He only has a dollar and some spare change in his wallet, which won’t buy him very much food-wise. And the owners of the local convenience store have known him for as long as he can remember and know to watch out for his “tendencies”.

He’s going to need supplies.

It’s almost completely dark now, the moon barely a sliver in the sky, the saltwater spray from the ocean coming off the boardwalk as he coasts alongside it. Out on the water, a barge stands barely lit, far out on the waves, a pinprick of light on an otherwise dark and desolate sea.

It gives him an idea.

~ ~ ~

Ford still remembers the day they first pulled the Stan O War out of that cave, the memory a spotlight in the fog of distant and long-forgotten days.

They’d spent a good hour trying to scrounge up enough rope to haul it out, one of them always stationed right outside the cave to make sure no one went in and claimed their find. And when they finally got the rope, it took them another hour to figure out the best way to tie it up and pull, breaking off a few more chunks of the decrepit boat than either of them would care to admit. But once they got it moving, it was, well, smooth sailing from there. There was a bucket of paint, he doesn’t remember where they got it, but he remembers the debate they had before finally settling on the name and painting it on the side. He remembers the terrible sun burns they both had that night, and how Ma had to cover them in almost half a bottle of aloe. It didn’t even come close to stopping them from going out again the next night. And the night after that.

The first year or so, it had been their own personal playground. They’d play pirates or adventurers, taking turns coming up with monsters to fight or treasures to find (or, in Stan’s case, hot mermaids to win over). The little half-boat had been their home away from home, a safe haven for them and only them.

Then they actually started rebuilding it.

Suddenly, what had been a call to adventure was now becoming a reality. The dream to go out and explore the unexplored and find the unfindable was finally looking like it was coming true. All with his twin at his side.

Building that boat gave him some of his favorite memories.

And then things changed.

Dreams changed.

And now he’s sitting on the deck alone, the soft splashing of waves and the gentle knocking of the hull against the dock the only sounds outside his own thoughts swirling in his head.

He was resolute when he first left the house, sure of what he had to do. But the walk here gave the doubt time to settle in, made the weight in his pocket seem impossibly heavier.

It doesn’t make any sense.

It should be easy, but…

He remembers when they sanded the deck, how they had to choose between the electric sander or the water-proofing epoxy because Stan’s part-time job at the gym couldn’t cover both. The subsequent weeks were spent sanding the entire boat by hand with the little hand radio buzzing in the background. He gently runs his hand across the glossy wood, remembering the splinters and cuts they both got every day. They’d always been so sure it would be worth it.

Was it?

Ford had considered building something to make the process easier, their own homemade electric sanders. But Stan had talked him out of it. Said it would come out so much nicer if they did it themselves, that it can’t take that much longer to do it by hand, right?

Stan always liked doing things the hard way.

Well, that’s not true. He found shortcuts wherever he could, cut every corner possible to get to where he needed to go. That’s why he always managed to almost make it through school with straight Cs.

But things that he cared about, things that meant something to him, he always took his time on, took the extra minute to be careful with.

Too bad he didn’t care too much about your future, then.

His nails scrape against the deck, his shoulders drawing together around him.

He still can’t for the life of him figure out why Stan did it, what drove him to sabotage his entire future. It couldn’t have been an accident. Stan would have warned him. He would have come clean before the science fair. It had to be on purpose.

Right?

It had to be on purpose.

Because Stan has to care about his treasure-hunting and his own dreams more than he cares about his brother’s.

Because if he’s wrong, then…

Then Stan…

That stone in his chest sinks a little deeper, burns a little hotter.

He shoves himself to his feet, steadying himself against the railing as the boat sways slightly underfoot.

He has to be right.

Because he’s not sure if he can live with being wrong.

And no matter how much his chest hurts, he guesses the result was the same no matter if he meant it or not. Because either way, he’s going to some worthless school where he’s going to have to work ten times harder just to get anywhere in the world.

And Stan…

Stan was going to leave home anyways. Stan had no plans on staying anywhere near Glass Shard Beach and is probably already hundreds of miles away doing absolutely fine. This was just a hiccup for him. Ruining Ford’s life was nothing more than a speedbump. He got kicked out, but he was probably a month away from leaving anyways.

Ford had his dream stolen from him.

And Stan—

Carefully, he climbs up onto the railing of the boat and steps back onto the dock, digging his hand down into his pocket.

This boat is Stan’s dream. Not his.

He pulls out the matchbook he grabbed from the kitchen, fingers fumbling at he pulls out a single match.

An eye for an eye, right?

He strikes it, the matchstick catching with a hot spark. The single flame is warm in his fingers, dancing side to side in the light ocean breeze, the cheap wood already burning down, blackening and curling in on itself in the heat.

He ruined you.

He deserves this.

Before he can second-guess himself again, he tosses the match onto the deck.

~ ~ ~

Stan’s thinking about those food rations they stored in the hull of the boat, trying to map out how many days he can make them last if he’s careful.

He smells the smoke moments before he pulls into the parking lot at the top of the boardwalk.

Barely gets the car turned off before he sees the flames and starts running.

The boat is already halfway gone, the fire spreading across the entire deck and making its way up the mast, panic settling into his bones as he books it towards the pier.

There’s a shadow of a person standing in front of it, and all he can manage is to scream something, he can’t even remember what, and the person startles and then runs. By the time Stan makes it down to the pier, the person is already halfway down the beach, and there’s no chance at catching them, so he turns his attention to the boat.

I can save it.

I can fix this.

There are sirens in the distance. He can barely hear them over the crackle and roar of the flames. There’s a bucket on the deck of the only other boat docked, so he grabs it. Gets to work.

There’s so much of that span of time that’s a blur, a sequence of repeated motions all a backdrop to his frantic thoughts.

Lay on the dock to reach the water.

I can do this. I can do this.

Scoop as much as you can into the bucket.

How could this happen? Did that person standing here have anything to do with it?

Stand up.

What if I can’t save it?

Pour it on the flames.

He’ll never forgive me.

Repeat.

Never.

Everything’s a rush. The fire spreads across the entire deck, no matter his efforts. No matter how much water he heaves onto it, it just keeps growing, spreading, the smoke burning his lungs the way cigarettes never could, stinging his eyes, heat radiating through the air around him.

He keeps working.

I have to save it.

I need to save it.

If I save it, maybe he’ll forgive me.

The wood creaks and snaps over the sound of the flames, charred and crumbling. But he keeps working.

If I can’t, he’ll never forgive me.

Useless. Worthless. Mistake.

It’ll be the end of us.

Bucketful after bucketful, flames creeping to the top of the mast, the sails turning to ash, everything crumbling and burning right before his eyes and there’s nothing he can do to stop it but keep working.

He’s getting another scoop of water, and the bucket slips from his fingers, getting pulled down beneath the surface faster than he can react. It disappears into the black waters, pulling a curse from him.

I can still do this.

He’ll start scooping with his hands, if that’s what it takes.

But then someone grabs him, and it’s the first time he realizes how close the sirens are. They pull him away from the flames. Instinct kicks in. He’s kicking and screaming to let him go, he needs to do this, he can’t let it burn down, he can’t let it disappear, it’s all he has left, let him go—

A group of people run by in the flickering darkness as the other person keeps dragging him back, and something in his brain finally connects the sirens to the people around him, some of the panic settling into relief when he sees the long water hose the ones running down the pier are carrying.

Because there’s this inkling of hope that it’s not all lost. That it’ll be salvageable.

And then they’re blasting water at it, and his blood runs cold.

It’s almost an instant reaction, the twist in his gut at the sound of cracking wood as the mast bends to the side under the force of the water, then snaps completely and splashes into the waves.

And then he’s screaming at them, begging them to stop because can’t they see they’re making it worse? They’re destroying it. They need to stop. He needs to make them stop.

He’s flailing against the arms holding him back, throwing blind punches even though nothing’s connecting, and his insides feel more and more hollow the more steam they fill the air with and the more the boat creaks and groans.

Something finally connects, and the arms let him go, and then he’s running again, every pound of his feet on the dock lost in the hiss of the water battling the flames, battering the boat.

He hasn’t made it far when a resounding crack splinters through the air, freezing his feet in place.

Through the swirling mist, he sees the entire boat list forward, quickly taking on water. His feet are rooted in place as, within a span of seconds, the entire front half of the boat is submerged. And the back snaps in half. Falls into the waves behind it.

He doesn’t feel his knees hit the wood dock.

What’s left of the Stan O War sinks beneath the waves, a few broken boards the only things marring the surface of the otherwise now undisturbed sea.

And just like that, it’s gone.

It’s just… it’s just gone.

And he doesn’t even have the barest hope that there’s any way to bring it back.

Hands grab him again and pull him back up, but it’s all numb, the voices around him hollow and muffled, a million miles gone. He can’t look away, gaze locked on splintered wood and ash, eyes burning from the smoke and the saltwater that might be seawater, might not.

It doesn’t feel real.

It can’t be real.

Because if it is…

His throat catches, seawater rolling off his cheeks in rivulets, leaving trails in the ash and soot covering his face.

Because if it is, then I really did ruin his life, and there’s nothing I can do to fix it.

Something inside him breaks at that, crumbles, the hands on his shoulders finally turning him away from the wreckage.

His insides collapse into themselves, and it’s all he can do to stop the rest of himself from following suit, to keep himself walking away from the very last semblance of hope he had to fix everything.

This is the end of us.

~ ~ ~

Ford’s running as fast as he can, his lungs heaving with every step, sand and glass shards kicking out behind him, the roar of the flames dying out the further and further he gets. It isn’t until they fade into the sounds of the waves lapping against the shore that his legs finally give out and send him to his hands and knees under the weight of what he just did.

He’d stood there watching as the fire caught, watching as the epoxy coat on the deck bubbled and charred until the wood underneath finally started to burn. He watched, waiting for that feeling of relief as the fire spread, the air getting warmer and warmer, the smoke slowly getting thicker and thicker. He thought he’d feel better about it, thought it’d cut the final string tying him and his brother together and finally let him be free of him. But instead, the fire inside him just fizzled out as the flames crept higher and higher. And he kept waiting and waiting, hoping for something new and better and good to take its place inside him, to feel the vindication he’d sorely been hoping for when he finally tossed the match on-board.

Nothing came.

There was only a distant voice, yelling at him to put the goddamn fire out what are you doing? And that had sent him running, because common sense reminded him that arson is a crime, and something about the voice clawed at his insides so deeply that he was afraid to realize why. So, he ran. And he ran and ran and ran, hoping in vain that at some point the weight pushing him further and further into the ground would lift, would let him breathe. That maybe some of the fire would come back, or something, anything but this emptiness, this detachment.

The first law of thermodynamics states that energy is neither created nor destroyed, only transferred.

He wonders if that’s why that fire inside him died the higher the flames got on the boat, leaving nothing but ashes behind. Or, he wonders, if this is one thing that science can’t solve.

He doesn’t have an answer for any of it.

He’s on his hands and knees, the fire flickering in the distance, all his anger spent and gone and leaving him numb and cold and feeling something heavier than gravity pulling him towards the center of the earth.

His arms tremble under it, tears stinging his eyes.

How did Stan do it?

There are sirens in the distance, his chest shuddering with every breath of briny air.

He wants to feel satisfied with what he did, but instead it just feels like he scraped out his insides, tearing himself to ribbons and swearing he was doing it to someone else, like he’s ripping open the same poorly healed scars over and over again, hoping he’ll finally heal whole for once. Telling himself that it didn’t matter that it was also years of his own life spent working on that boat, that it still meant something to him. What mattered was that it meant something to Stan. He shouldn’t feel a damn thing.

But Stan’s not here to feel anything; it’s just him.

Just him.

Alone.

How was Stan able to do it so easily?

Every moment, the guilt tears at him more and more, and he swears it can’t get any worse, it just can’t. But then he remembers exactly why he lit that match, and it makes something vile turn over in his stomach because how could he do that to his own brother? How could he ever do that to someone he’s supposed to care about? And then every moment feels like a new low, some fundamental boundary shredded by a blinding moment of anger. An utter betrayal that cuts him to the core when he realizes its consequence, some combination of shame and remorse gripping his throat and squeezing when he remembers how he wanted Stan to feel.

The light behind him dies off, the last flames flickering in the distance, dancing off the glass shards scattered in the sand around him before disappearing into the darkness.

How was Stan able to completely ruin him and not feel a damn thing?

None of it makes sense. A voice that sounds eerily like Pa tells him it’s because Stan is useless, a con, some punk that only cares about himself and doesn’t give a shit about any of them. But that doesn’t settle right in him, doesn’t feel like the boy that yelled at the bullies that threw rocks at them and blew off a date to drive him to a science convention out of town and came into their room after an argument with their Pa with a swollen eye and pretended it was nothing. It doesn’t sound right, but neither does that same person ruining his one chance at a future and then playing it off as no big deal.

It doesn’t make sense.

It doesn’t make sense that Stan would do this to him. It doesn’t make sense that burning the boat down hurts so badly. That he suddenly feels more alone than he ever has, crouched on that beach and surrounded by a black sea and an empty boardwalk and knowing that has nothing to do with the hollow feeling inside his chest, aching like it’s lost some vital piece of itself.

It doesn’t feel fair.

This was supposed to help.

Instead, all he’s left with are tarnished memories and an amalgamation of confusing emotions that all just boils down to pain, pure and simple.

He shouldn’t have done it.

Hell, he regrets coming out here at all.

It feels like hours before the wailing sirens finally go quiet, and he shakily pushes himself to his feet, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand as he begins the long walk home, the pack of matches left behind lying in the sand.

~ ~ ~

There are little things that Stan never really thought to miss after he left. Little, every-day moments that aren’t necessarily significant, but still fall somewhere in the realm of normalcy and routine and fill some little gap in his life. Gaps that are small enough to not notice once they’re empty.

The flipping of book pages late at night. The small bit of light filtering in the window from the streetlights outside. The way the boxing mat moves and yields underfoot. The shift of his gloves when he throws a punch because they’ve always been slightly too big. The feel of sanded wood dust between his fingers. Hauling the toolbox out to the Stan O War every day to work. The smell of the shop the day after Pa gets the floors waxed. The tinkle of the bell on the door when someone walks in.

That last one ushers in the thought of the rest.

Hearing that bell when he cautiously walks into the pawn shop the next morning, it makes him wonder about all the other little things he’s forgotten to remember, forgotten to miss.

“What part of ‘you’re not welcome here’ did you not understand?”

Or just simply forgotten on purpose.

“Nice to see you too, Pops,” he says, aimlessly glancing around the shop, feigning interest in the various wares (most of which were here when he got kicked out left). Mostly, it’s just an attempt to avoid looking at the man standing behind the counter.

“If you think you can just come crawling back here after—”

“I’m not,” Stan says, his voice hard. “Just had to come and make sure Ford’s okay before I head back out of town.”

“Course he’s okay,” Filbrick says. Stan can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief that Ford wasn’t somehow tangled up in the fire. That he’s alright. That he maybe doesn’t know about it yet. “No thanks to you.” Stan bristles.

“The hell is that supposed to mean?”

Do they know he was there? Do they know he couldn’t stop it?

“It means he barely managed to get a scholarship to some run-down nothing school thanks to what you—"

“I’m not talking about the science fair! I’m talking about—”

The backdoor of the shop, the one that leads up to the apartment, opens. The tell-tale creak rings another bell in the back of his head, some other forgotten detail of his life that he’s not entirely sure what to do with. He turns at the sound and immediately locks eyes with a distorted reflection of himself.

“What do you want?” Ford’s knuckles white where they grip a backpack slung over his shoulder, but he seems almost confused, his brow ever so slightly furrowed. The door clicks closed behind him, seeming impossibly loud in the now-silent room.

“Hey, um.” The look throws him off, considering he was expecting hate or anger or even an immediate dismissal. Then again, maybe confusion makes sense too. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Why wouldn’t I be okay now that you’re gone?

He doesn’t think that’s what he meant, but it doesn’t make the comment sting any less.

“There was a fire,” he says slowly, “down at the pier.”

It’s almost imperceptible, the way Ford’s eyes widen ever so slightly at that. Stan knows he’s the only one that would ever notice it, even if it’s not entirely the response he would expect.

He’s not sure what he would expect at this point.

“Pa, there are still a few boxes upstairs,” Ford says, watching Stan for another second before turning to the man still behind the counter. “They’re a bit too heavy for me. Would you mind bringing them down? I’ll watch the shop.”

Pa doesn’t have to have his glasses off for Stan to know the exact looks he’s giving them: a judgmental squint, probably aimed more at him than Ford, a quite calculation running through his head before he grunts out that he’ll be back in five minutes. He gives Ford a semi-awkward pat on the shoulder before heading upstairs, the door clicking shut behind him.

Ford faces back towards him the moment the door closes, his arms crossed in front of his chest, hands tucked in his elbows. His eyes are glancing around, refusing to meet his own.

“You, uh, going somewhere?” Stan asks, not entirely sure how to break the silence that settled back over them.

“Why are you here, Stan?” Ford’s still not looking at him, his voice tighter than it was just a minute ago, yet somehow impossibly exhausted, detached.

“I just… I was driving through and happened to go by the pier last night. The Stan O War was on fire.” He watches for a reaction, waiting to see if Ford knew, if he cared. But there’s nothing. No waver in his expression, not even some acknowledgement of what he said. Just his eyes still looking anywhere else in the room. “Just wanted to see if you were nearby, make sure you weren’t hurt or—”

“I’m fine.”

“Do you know what hap—”

“No.”

“And you weren’t anywhere near—”

“I’m fine.”

The silence settles again, the air tense and uncomfortable between them. There’s an enormous elephant in the room. More like a couple, if he’s being completely honest. Neither of them seem willing to address them. It only makes the atmosphere seem that much heavier.

“It’s been a while, huh?” Stan says, not able to stand the quiet any longer. “Over a month by now, right?”

“Twenty-seven days.” He states it plainly, like one of those facts from a textbook. Cold and detached and simple.

“Yeah. Yeah, sure. That sounds about right.”

Ford’s eyes seem to have settled, his gaze locked on something behind him, just to the side of his head. Enough to see him without having to look at him.

He won’t even look—

“Basically an eternity for us, huh?” Stan says, an awkward laugh forcing its way out. “Don’t think we ever went more than an hour without seeing each other before and now—”

“Was there something else you wanted to say to me, or was that it?”

“I…” It takes him aback, the iciness in Ford’s tone, the way his arms pull closer to his chest just the slightest bit. “What?”

“You came here to check on me?” Ford asks, his voice so flat it barely registers as a question. “That’s it?”

“I mean, yeah I guess?” Ford’s still not looking at him, and it just sinks something deep into his chest, leaving him floundering to say the right thing. “I was worried, you know?” It doesn’t feel like enough. Must hate me for not saving it. “But I tried to save the boat and everything. By the time I got there, there wasn’t much I could do.” He sees it, Ford’s arms tensing as he clenches his fists, his teeth grinding down. He’s saying the wrong things and he knows it, so he switches gears. “Look, I mean, I get if you’re mad at me for not stopping it. But the hull still seemed partly intact. I can, like, stay in town a while and help you fix her if you want. Not that you probably don’t hate me now, but I’ll stay out of your way and—"

“Get out.”

That ache in his chest drops like a weight, and suddenly he’s drowning.

“W-what?”

“I have nothing left to say to you, Stanley.” His fists fall to his sides, shoulders squaring back, his eyes still locked behind him. “So get out, and don’t make me say it again.”

It’s a slap in the face, one that stings all the way down to his core. He knows this is going badly. Doesn’t take a genius to see that.

Isn’t this what you expected when you walked in that door?

But he can’t let it end. Not like this. Shouldn’t it matter that it was an accident and he did everything he could? Shouldn’t it matter that he didn’t mean to hurt him?

“I came here to try to fix things,” Stan says, but Ford just blinks at the wall behind him, swallows.

“I don’t want you to.”

There are a million questions buzzing through his head, “when”s and “why”s and “how”s colliding and fracturing all while he sinks further and further down. He tries to grip back onto that anger from the first night, the night they threw him out onto the concrete with next to nothing and he swore the world would never see him coming. He tries to grab onto that righteous fury again, but it just slips through his fingers, lost in the backache from sleeping in his car and the suffocating silence and the stomach pains from so many days with barely enough money for food. Instead he just finds himself longing for everything that was, for the smell of Ma’s cooking and Pa’s annoyed grunts when they came in late at night and the jingle of the pawn shop bell and most of all—

“Please Ford,” Stan says. “I miss us. I can’t let everything get thrown away just over some stupid mistake! Just let me try to fix this.”

“A ‘stupid mistake’?” Ford scoffs, lowering his head with a shake. “Your ‘stupid mistake’ ruined everything. You ruined my life, Stan. There’s nothing left to fix.”

“But it was all an accident!” he says. “I didn’t mean to bump the table, and the boat was on fire when I got there. And I know, I know there’s nothing I can do about your college, so at least let me try to fix the Stan O War for you, and then maybe—”

“Would you shut up about the stupid boat already!” It’s practically a shout, the first time he’s raised his voice like that at him, his fists visibly shaking and his eyes locked on his shoes. Stan takes a small step back.

“W-what did I do wrong?”

“What did you do wr— are you kidding me?” And for the first time, Ford meets his eyes. Stan expects to see seething anger there, bubbling fury that shakes his entire frame as it threatens to boil over. He expects flames. But instead, he’s met with a detached coldness, solid ice that pierces down to the bone. “All you ever cared about was that stupid boat and your stupid treasure hunting! Did you ever stop to think about what I wanted? No, you didn’t.”

“I thought we wanted the same thi—”

“I let you drag me into your dumb, idiotic dreams that are never going anywhere. But not anymore. I’m done, Stan. I’m not letting you—you— hang on my coattails anymore. I’ve got a future ahead of me and I’m through with letting you keep me from it. There’s nothing left to fix because there is no more ‘us’. Get it? So just leave already.”

Every word stings, cutting deeper and deeper until Ford finally seems to take a breath, and Stan’s left feeling like the entire weight of the ocean is crushing into his chest.

Is that really how he felt?

He thought the boat, all of it, was their dream. He thought it was the future they both wanted the moment it was possible. That’s what Ford had said up until the science fair. Was he wrong? Did he really make Ford this miserable? Did he really hate him from the beginning? Were they really—

“I didn’t—”

“And you know what?” Ford says, voice shaking, bordering on hysterical. “I’m glad you couldn’t put out the fire, because I was the one who started it in the first place!” Stan swears he feels his heart stop in his chest, something in the back of his throat seizing. “So at least this once you didn’t screw up something for me.”

“Y-you burned—?”

“And it was the best decision I ever made,” he says. “Dumb adventures, treasure hunting, that boat, you. I’ve moved on. It’s all behind me now. I have a future ahead of me. So just leave me alone and, for once in your goddamn life, get out of my way.”

It’s all your fault. All your fault.

He’ll never forgive you.

Never.

This is the end—

“Stanford, I’m sor—”

“Get out.”

“Sixer please—”

“I said get out!”

The shout dies as fast as it escapes Ford’s lips, but it leaves Stan’s ears ringing. He’s stuck in place, the world revolving around him and Ford glaring holes through his skull and everything feeling all too real and not quite real enough as that ache in his chest claws at his insides, tears him apart.

It’s too quiet.

It’s too quiet, but his head is buzzing, and there’s no way this is real, but it is. It’s more real than the day he got kicked out.

It’s too quiet, and his insides are screaming that this is wrong, this is his nightmares come to life, that it can’t of all fallen apart that easily, that it can’t be over, that this can’t be the end.

But it is.

And it hits him with a sudden, startling clarity.

All the derision and hate from his father, he never saw it in Ford. But maybe it’s always been there, and he was just fooling himself by thinking otherwise. Telling himself that if no one else wants him, then his twin, the brother he’s quite literally spent his entire life with, would have to care about him. That he must be willing to go to the ends of the Earth at his side, together against the world, forever and ever.

He never realized “forever” only lasted until the end of high school. That maybe he was more alone than he ever thought.

The shock subsides, but it leaves something bitter in the back of his throat, the rock lodged in his chest twisting like a knife, the very last shred of hope he had of fixing things between them withering and dying.

He takes a step back and grits his teeth through it.

Because none of this changes the fact that he’s still going to make his millions. That he’s still going to rub it in their faces. That he’s going to make them regret ever kicking him out and doubting him and thinking he’s nothing but a waste of space, a walking mistake.

He tells himself for the hundredth time that he doesn’t need them.

That he’ll be fine on his own.

Because if that’s how he really feels, then—

“Fine,” Stan says, straightening his back and swallowing down the pain scraping its way up his throat. “If that’s what you want, fine. I’ll never bother you again.” And he turns on his heel, the bell jiggling as he yanks the door open, sunlight and ocean air barreling in. “Have a nice life, Stanford.”

And he walks.

~ ~ ~

Stan’s not sure how he made it to the car, let alone how he already made it this far down the highway. It’s all a blur, thoughts and memories lost to the tears already streaming down his face. He wipes at them with his arm, but more and more come to replace them, dripping down his cheeks, his chin, onto his shirt. He feels hollow, like someone scooped out his guts and left him to rot, but the tears just keep coming and coming, the knot in his throat slowly getting tighter and tighter.

All it takes is a sign whizzing by outside.

Leaving Glass Shard Beach.

Thanks for visiting!

It’s like a dam breaking, the agony and the hurt and the betrayal and the anger all coming up in a rush that he tries so hard to choke back down, to bury like he’s always done, like he was always taught to do. But it’s like holding back a hurricane inside his chest, and there’s nothing he can do to stop the sobs that force their way through and catch in his throat, tears falling heavier than raindrops and threatening to drown him.

It’s really over.

It’s really the end.

He bites down on his lip to try to keep it in, but more just keeps bubbling up.

He knows he shouldn’t be crying like this. Not here, not now. Hell, not ever. He’s the strong one.

One of what?

It’s not supposed to hurt this much, to feel like such an utter rejection, to be impossibly worse than the first time a month twenty-seven days so long ago. He’s supposed to be tougher than this. He’s supposed to take any punch, any pain the world throws at him, and grin back with bloody teeth and not a care in the world. This shouldn’t—

And then he’s angry, angry that Ford would do this to him, would treat him like garbage after everything they’ve gone through. He’s angry that his brother tossed him to the side the moment he got a better offer. He’s angry that one mistake cost him everything he ever knew, and Ford just closed the damn curtains. He’s angry that Ford decided to burn down the boat, their his dream, everything inside of it that he could have used or sold to keep himself alive. He’s so angry at Ford, at his dad, at that dumb school, at all of it.

Somehow, he’s the angriest at himself for going back and hoping things would be different.

He’s angry that he was dumb enough to think he still had a brother.

“Stupid,” he says between strangled sobs, his throat constricting around the word.

He’s angry that he’s still crying over something he can’t change.

He’s angry that, even after everything that happened, he still feels guilty for hitting that table.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid!” Every word is punctuated with his hand smacking the steering wheel, each one harder than the last. As if it’ll get the anger out. As if it’ll make him feel more in-control again. As if it will make it all hurt just a little less if his hand stings a little more.

“Stupid Ford.” Smack. “With his stupid school.” Smack. “And his stupid project.”

His palm is tingling.

It’s nothing in comparison.

Did he ever care about any of it in the first place?

Was all of it a lie?

That angers boils, a tight pressure behind his ribcage that still feels suspiciously like devastation, like heartbreak, but he tells himself its anger because then at least hitting something should make it go away.

So he wails on the steering wheel, cursing every god under the sun and everything and everyone that ever wronged him. And it feels good at first, giving the hurt somewhere else to go for the time being. Venting the frustration and the pain and the wrongness of it all. So he curses and he screams and he punches that damn steering wheel until his hands feel raw, and he’s yelling at Ford for starting that damn fire and Ford for hating him all this time and Ford for pretending he wanted a brother and himself for believing it and himself for wanting it and himself for hoping and dreaming and thinking he was finally going to get to be happy when of course that’s horse-shit because why would anything ever turn out alright for him and Ford for still getting everything he ever wanted and himself for still feeling proud at that and Ford for thriving while he’s barely surviving and— and—

He’s better off without you.

His throat hurts, and he’s still choking back sobs through it all, tears soaking his cheeks. His hand connects with the steering wheel one more time, but it’s almost hesitant, tired. He can feel himself crumpling inwards, everything caving in, as if now that everything he ever had is gone, there’s nothing left holding the last pieces of him together, the last bit of anger draining out and leaving him nothing in its wake.

He’d be better off if you—

A car horn wails, but he knows it wasn’t him, and he blinks up through blurry eyes to see another car heading right towards him.

It must be some kind of instinct that has him yanking the wheel to the side. The car jerking back across the median. Off the side of the road. Everything jolting as he slams the brake on the shoulder. The tires squealing before everything finally stops.

There’s a long moment, as the blare of the other car’s horn fades into the distance, tears still streaming freely, when all he can do is sit there. He doesn’t know how his brain can simultaneously feel like it’s full of cotton and full of bees, his heart slamming in his chest.

His hands are trembling as he fumbles the car into park.

And then the moment breaks like shattered glass.

“Shit,” he breathes, his voice wobbling, still wet with the tears dropping from his chin. His hands find the steering wheel, squeezing the fake leather until his knuckles turn white so that they’ll just stop shaking. “Shit, shit, shit.”

He tells himself he’s angry. He tells himself, because the other thing is more than he can handle right now. More than he think he’ll ever be able to handle.

Should have just driven by when you had the chance.

Maybe he’d hoped he could fix things. Maybe he’d hoped Ford would forgive him. Maybe he figured there was no way he could make things worse anyways.

Maybe maybe maybe maybe maybe

Maybe he was wrong.

And just maybe when he’d thought he couldn’t get any lower than rock-bottom, he’d gone and dug himself a deeper hole.

He supposes that’s what he gets for hoping.

It wasn’t supposed to go this way.

But it did. And it went to hell, just like everything else you touch.

He knows he’s a screw-up in every meaning of the word, but he never thought he’d manage to mess up the one thing in this world that actually mattered.

He never thought he’d lose—

He can’t even finish the thought, because that makes it true, and he’s not sure he’ll be able to handle that, either.

Shouldn’t have gone back.

Shouldn’t have gone back.

Shouldn’t have—

He rests his forehead on the steering wheel and just tries to breathe, one stuttering breath after another.

He tells himself the water still spilling down his cheeks is rain or ocean brine or something other than what it is.

He tells himself it’s just anger.

He tells himself he doesn’t need any of them.

He tells himself things will be better one day.

He tells himself a lot of things.

But just below the surface, he’s well aware that every single one of them is a lie.

So he just sits there on the side of the road, alone, and… tries to breathe.

He just tries to breathe.

~ ~ ~

He’s already turned around long before the bell on top of the pawn shop door rings to announce Stan’s exit, has already slammed the door to the apartment behind him. He takes the stairs two at a time, and he faintly swears there’s something wrong with his legs, some slight wobble, something wrong with more than that.

He doesn’t think about it too hard.

When he comes into the living room, Ma is sitting on her window perch, watching him, and he tries not to register the hurt in her creased brow, the slight tug downwards in her lips. Pa is in his armchair, face hidden behind the newspaper. He doesn’t even look up when Ford comes in.

He makes a beeline to their the his bedroom, his eyes following the familiar treaded path in the carpet to the stairs. That way he can’t see Ma’s disappointment, Pa’s—

“Son,” Pa says, voice gruff. The word is a command, one that stops Ford in his tracks with his foot on the first worn stair, his spine going rigid. He hears Pa flip the page of his newspaper, the beat of silence stretching for far too long before— “I’m impressed. Glad you finally got up the nerve to kick that no good, low life—"

He doesn’t remember the rest, only the sound of the bedroom door clicking closed behind him as he breathes out a long, low sigh. The wood door is hard against his back as leans his whole weight into it, his mind buzzing numbly, the thoughts in his own head still blissfully absent, hopefully left behind in the pawn shop until they dissipate and stay forgotten.

He has too much to do now. Too much to worry about.

He can’t afford to think about certain things too hard.

His chest feels tight, so he takes a deep breath in, closing his eyes to feel the air filling his lungs. He never changed out of his clothes from last night, the smoke still embedded in the fabric of his shirt. He can still taste it in the back of his throat, bitter and raw.

He pushes himself off the door, aiming towards the center of the room, determined to do one last check to make sure he got everything of value. But something catches his attention when he moves, giving him pause. There’s something in his front pocket, bending and slightly pressing into his leg. Confused, he reaches in, fingers gripping and pulling out the piece of paper, smooth to the touch and thick enough that it—

…

Something twists harshly in his gut, something that registers as guilt.

He tells himself not to think about it too hard, but the thoughts still drift up from the shop below like smoke. Every word, every glare, every bit of cruelty replaying and overlapping and reverberating in his head like some discordant canon. The utterly destroyed look on Stan’s face seared into his memory. The taste of acid on his tongue as the words trapped inside his head finally spilled out.

He only ever cared about the boat. Not about you.

Not about you.

Only his treasure-hunting.

You were just convenient.

He tells himself not to think about it. To move on.

If that’s what you want, fine. I’ll never bother you—

He stuffs the picture back in his pocket, trying to forget the pair of twins smiling up at him, standing proudly on the remains of an old boat, carefree and naïve.

There’s just too much to do, too much to worry about right now.

He tells himself it’s all for the best anyways.

He swallows past the lump in his throat and moves to pick up the last packed box, purposely turning away from the empty bunk bed as he heads out of the room.

For the best.

The door closes behind him with a soft click.

He doesn’t look back.

[japanmars-tomh]

Midnight Club

Midnight in Tokyo’s Shuto Expressway, a 70km stretch of tarmac that traces the shoreline of Tokyo Bay. Lanes, three or four abreast, illuminated in the orange haze of sodium streetlights, the peace broken only by the occasional late-night street sweeper at work.

You could hear them before you could see them, which, given the extent of their wild modifications, was an impressive feat. The silence of twilight splintered with the sound of highly-strung, highly-tuned engines, a dozen modified cars thunder past at savage velocities, their taillights ribbons of blazing crimson slashed temporarily across the still night air.

They were the members of Middo Naito Kurabu, also known as the Midnight Club. One of the most well-known and highly-respected group of illegal street racers in the world, the gang shot to worldwide infamy thanks to its combination of dangerously high racing speed and aggressive driving styles, but also for its clandestine operations and strict code of ethics.

The club was bound by a strict moral code which dictated that members must refrain from putting any other motorist in jeopardy, regardless of whether they were a fellow racer or an innocent bystander and, despite operating outside of the law, the Midnight Club was highly regarded as a gang which put pedestrian safety far above their own.

[clatteriing]

3 AM, the time when “nothing good happens”―stars splinter everything; the chapel's forgotten its God. I want to go out there: where a hand pumps the spray and out comes art or 'urban decay'. Insomniacs with tiny vacancies for heart chambers cruise the strip for something with legs. There is nothing left but vibration―I am sidewalk fare, where suburbia stops at midnight when I start: this poem. That cigarette after four months in the clean. A handshake reaps a bag of glass and a dollar is the currency that unmakes the happening of every dollar. Nothing here is deadened in daylight, by the sun's cruel habit of illuminating everything― the stoop trash is supposed to be there, this is the new regeneration and I'm the transfusion of the blood, that bubbles and boils in the streetlight hum and the thrum of desire that builds in breast and bursts in song. It is when I want to walk. When conversations converge over Waffle House coffee and two lanes merge on I-81. A truck's taillights pass through morning. It is here I remember it all, the name for the hot web of desire that woke me from damp sheets and dreams that hitchhike rides from 3rd eye weavers of euphoric probability. Elsewhere, there are clean-cut cul-de-sacs where skirted girls sit playing jax and father still knows best. Art lives with baited breath, in the safety stretched to canvas, pressed by glass. It is the tasteful language of hotel pleasantries, one touch before the fuck of this ghetto, my time: the street hustlers and the sound of someone else's sleep. *** A car idles too long at a stoplight. My bones are small. I'm not supposed to be here.

About Sleeping Women by Leigh Phillips

[skepticalwinchester]

The Town

Whoever coined the phrase “silent as the grave” probably never visited Castine, Maine.

     So far, we have done four ghost hunts. Our iOvilus app has recorded five pages of text from those combined hunts. Our night in Castine alone recorded four and a half pages of text. It seems the dead here may be gone, but they are making sure they aren’t forgotten.

     Founded in the winter of 1613, Castine predates the colony at Plymouth by seven full years. It is as old as places get here in America (speaking in terms of colonization, of course). Castine is, in a word, darling. It is a postcard you walk around in. Charming homes which belonged to sea captains line quaint streets where people greet you as you walk by. Part of that may be due to the fact that our unofficial tour guide for the evening grew up here and knows approximately everyone. Our honorary Skeptical Winchester for this hunt:

     Carrie - historical whiz kid and ghost magnet (apparently)

     Our tour started at the Adams school, which houses all the students in town (K-8) and sometimes boasts a graduating class of two.

Carrie tells us that the bell was taken out of the tower ages ago. Rumor has it the bell fell and killed someone and now the attic of the school is haunted. If anyone is up there patiently awaiting the return of the bell so they can ring it once more, they didn’t have anything to say to us as we strolled by. Our app was quiet...but not for long.

     As we walked further into the town, both Carrie and the iOvilus began a running commentary.

Carrie: “This inn is where Revolutionary War soldiers would stay.” iOvilus: (as I step on the porch of the inn) “War.” Carrie: “This sign marks where masons gathered to discuss how to get the    British soldiers to leave.” iOvilus: “Remove.”

     We approached an empty field where a large hotel once stood. It burned to the ground leaving nothing but the stairs...which are still there. This is the view from those ghostly steps.

Carrie and our app continued their chat. They conversed like old friends fondly remembering a town they both loved.

iOvilus: “Factory...cans.” Carrie: “Yep, right in front of the hotel on the waterfront is where the old cannery was.”

We descended those disembodied steps toward the waterfront while the lifeless voice of the app, which normally speaks once every few minutes, kept up a stream of consciousness narration, “Jon...drink...hours...under...Adam.” The closer we got to the pier, the more rapidly the words came. Grace pointed out a small boy on a scooter and, almost before the words were out of her mouth, the tinny voice intoned, “Play.” Things were getting a little spooky.

     From there we headed to the Catholic church, which is nestled just off the edge of a cliff and from which you can see the lights of the boats docked in the harbor.

Unlike the school, the bell of the church was intact and we rang it, much to Carrie’s horror. Subtle the Skeptical Winchesters are definitely not.

I am also including this creepy cross by the sea just for its Exorcist/Damien vibes. Shudder.

     We decided to head back to our cars and drive up to Fort George, which was a British stronghold for 5 years during the Revolutionary War. We were now several blocks from the waterfront where our app had been the most active and it had gone strangely silent. Carrie was pointing out anchors used as fence posts (did I mention how cute this town is?) and recalling stories that went with the adorable houses peppering the lanes when the street light we were standing under quite suddenly and inexplicably blinked out.

I looked up and down the street. Every other street light glowed brightly in the descending dusk. We were all frozen -- mid-step, mid-sentence -- when the phone in my hand said,

“Speak.”

Were we supposed to speak? Did someone want to speak to us? Not knowing, we continued on. I glanced over my shoulder and watched as the streetlight sprang back to life.