#ive settled on a last name and perhaps a rough appearance for her

[blahblahwritings]

Contracts and Captains. - IV

A/N: Remember how I posted something before one of my other fics saying that I had been consistently updating for weeks? Neither do I lmao who was she? Don’t know her anyway heres the fourth chapter of this black sails fic.

Words: 1823. Honestly I’ve been writing this since about 12pm I don’t know how its so short and its probably shit bc I haven’t written anything in months.

Warnings: Mentions of vomit as per the last chapter. Think thats it lmao. See you in three months.

As your eyes opened, there were a blissful couple of seconds where the previous night’s encounter didn’t exist in your memory. But, just like the sun flooding the room, unwanted flashes of vomit and slurred words rose like a tidal wave in your minds eye. You rolled over, burying your face and groaning into the pillow out of sheer embarrassment as a dull throbbing started in the depths of your skull. 

Why did you keep drinking? You could’ve simply had one or two before retiring for the night and you wouldn’t have met that boatswain or thrown up on your own boots. What was his name again? Ben? Boyd? No, they weren’t quite right. Either way you made a mental note to apologise again whenever you next saw him. 

Slowly, you tugged your still clothed limbs from the thin sheets, trying not to jostle your stomach too much for fear of whatever was left in there making an unwelcome appearance. Your pants were scuffed from where you took a tumble outside the tavern, your shirt was half undone, probably from a failed attempt to undress before not-so-gracefully falling into bed. A single boot was thrown on the floor alongside your coat, the other still stuck on your foot. What a mess. 

A hot bath, that's what you needed, and a hearty breakfast if your insides don’t bring it back up. Pulling on the other boot, you made your way to one of the girls working downstairs, trading her coin to fill the tub in your room. You must’ve looked rough as you passed her to get to the man at the bar because when he turned to look at you, his brows shot up, disappearing behind his hair. 

“You look like you could use a little hair of the dog, love.” He chuckled, eyes scanning your disheveled form. A grimace was your immediate response. “Some food then.” He offered, filling a bowl with something that you didn’t stop to look at as you practically inhaled it. The man watched you with a knowing smirk and had you not felt so terrible you’d have spat out a snarky comment. You chose to gulp down your water instead.

“Thank you.” You huffed with a small nod, tossing some money on the counter before you headed back upstairs. The state you were in just added to this morning's growing list of regrets but you weren’t quite sure if you cared how you looked to anyone else right now. All that was on your mind was a piercing headache and a good soak.

Stripping off, you stepped into the water, sinking down slowly as your body got used to the heat. Finally, with a heavy sigh, you rested your head on the back of the tub, your aching muscles beginning to relax. Scented oils and soaps were left on a stand by the bath. Working a generous amount between your palms, you massaged your limbs and torso getting rid of any tension and purging the memories of last night’s… festivities. In the quiet of your room, you took a moment to trace the small scars that littered your form, fingers landing at last on the freshly healed knife wound from only a few weeks ago. The soft pink flesh was still tender, and if you moved the wrong way it would ache. It was dangerous to be alone on this island, in this line of work. You needed friends, not just contacts. A crew, perhaps. 

Letting your mind wander, you thought about your new found place among Flint’s men. You had to keep bringing in leads to be of any value to him, lest you risk being tossed aside and left in the dirt. He and his crew were among the most revered on the island, therefore cementing your part in that would bring security. It would ensure that other crews would leave you alone, as you were important to someone they feared and the consequences of harming you could be severe. 

Then again, there was a little more than security on your list of perks as you thought more about the taller man from last night. He was kind to you, not that the others weren’t having bought your drinks and all, but, he made sure you were safe and fed. Billy Bones. You recalled. Replaying the meeting in your head, you winced at the slurred introduction and the puking soon after. Why did you care about how he saw you? Was it because he was the crew’s boatswain or because he was handsome and softer than most pirates you’d met. 

Catching that last thought, you shook it from your head, refusing to let it take root in your brain. Attachments like that are a weakness here and you cannot afford to have those. You’d only met the guy once and he probably didn’t want anything to do with you anyway, especially after that drunken show you gave him. Cupping a handful of water, you splashed your face, scrubbing any further thoughts of the man from your head, instead, choosing to focus on finding a new lead for Flint. 

They would be leaving to chase down the details you gave him yesterday in a couple of days, if not sooner, which meant you probably had around two weeks to find something of substance upon their return. You’d struggled last time but after sending out letters to old friends in neighbouring ports, you were hopeful something would turn up. 

Padding your way to the dresser, you pulled out some fresh clothes and got ready, feeling much better than you did even an hour before. The food had settled your stomach and the water you guzzled seemed to bring some life back into your face as when you left to go hunt down some work, the barman from earlier spouted something along the lines of ‘A whole other woman’ when you walked by.

---

An uneventful morning led to an uneventful afternoon. There were no new letters or leads and the streets were pleasantly calm compared to usual. You certainly weren’t complaining, you had been feeling better since this morning but your body was still recovering. The easy day was probably just what you needed. You were sat on the beach, sipping some water and watching passersby as you sketched in the journal you kept.

It was something you’d taken to keeping since arriving in Nassau just over two years ago. A small leather book to help keep track of potential jobs and record anything interesting that happened. Really, though, you just loved to draw. You’d already filled a couple just like it with sketches of people, ships and landscapes that caught your eye, often accompanied by your messy scrawl. You were just about satisfied with your latest addition when Mr Gates clapped you on the shoulder making you jump and slam the journal closed. You’d never shown anyone the contents before. 

“Sorry, Miss Devereux, didn’t mean to startle you.” He began, chuckling lightly at your reaction. “I heard you and the lads had quite the night..” He moved to stand by you as you got to your feet, dusting the sand from your pants. Tucking away the book, an amused smirk finds its way to your face as you look at him. 

“Depends on who you ask.” You replied. “How were they this morning? Feeling sorry for themselves?” Your brows raised in question as you both started aimlessly wandering along the shore. A snort met your ears as his head fell forwards, looking at the ground then back at you. “I didn’t see the majority of them until at least noon and they were still in a sorry state, although I wonder how you must’ve been. I heard that you hurled your guts up right after meeting our boatswain.” Gates mused, eyes crinkling as he watched your entire face turn a lovely shade of red. You tried to keep your cool but your expression faltered into one of sheer embarrassment. Apparently, this was hilarious as Mr Gates exploded into a fit of hearty laughter, and as much as you told him to stop you couldn’t help but have a good chuckle yourself as you covered your face with a half-sandy palm at the thought.

When you both regain your composure, he gives you a reassuring pat on the back.

“Don’t worry, the only people who know are Billy and myself, the men still think you can hold your drink.” He winked. You made a move to argue that you could in fact hold your drink but he began talking about the plan to set sail the day after tomorrow. You listened intently and explained that you were awaiting correspondence from friends in other ports to supply more promising leads upon their return. 

---

It had been four days since the crew left in search of another haul using your most recent information. Nothing out of the ordinary had happened, you’d made some money here and there through smaller jobs and pickpocketing but overall, there was nothing of real interest. You spent the days reading anything you could get your hands on or drawing and you’d even had your eye on some paints in one of the markets, but all you could do was wait. Checking for mail at the front desk of the inn you were staying at every morning had become a routine, desperate for any work or ships that you could relay to Flint. It was on the fifth day that you had gotten a response from someone in Port Royal.

As you read over the letter for the third time, you could feel your eyes widen in disbelief, your heart hammered in your chest and you released a breath you didn’t know you were holding. This was far too good to be true. Surely this was a myth. A prize of this magnitude was simply unheard of. Your eyes scanned over the paper again, barely able to focus on the words because your hands were trembling so violently. Calm down. You told yourself. It can’t be the truth. You thought as you stared at the other envelope that had arrived alongside it. At the bottom of the letter it read:

“P.S

Should you doubt my information, I sent you the correspondence shared between the dead man and the merchant with evidence pertaining to this gold. Best not ask how it came into my possession.

Your dear friend,

Josiah.”

You ran to shut the windows to your room and close the drapes. If anyone found out you had this information and the evidence to go with it, you would surely be killed for it. Tearing open the paper, you unfolded its contents. It was all here. The initials of the merchant, R.P., details alluding to the existence of this gold and the name of the dead man involved in plotting the course it would be on. 

Vasquez.

[blacktofade]

For @wooshie-woosh​, who prompted, “they wouldn’t let me visit you in the hospital room unless i was family so i told them we’re married.”

*

Shane’s eyes are closed when Ryan steps into the room and shuts the door behind himself. He’s breathing evenly, but the silence is punctuated by intermittent snores, so loud that Ryan knows he must be on some kind of medication because Shane never snores. There’s a chair beside the bed that Ryan carefully lowers himself into before resting his fingers at the edge of Shane’s sheets. He wants to touch, but isn’t sure he’s allowed.

“You idiot,” he says gently. “You’re such a fucking idiot.”

Shane snorts on a particularly deep inhale and jerks himself awake, hands flailing and tugging at his IV line in a way that looks uncomfortable. Ryan quickly reaches out to grab his wrists, making sure he doesn’t hurt himself as he settles.

“Wha — ” Shane says, voice rough and confused, like he has no idea what’s actually happening.

“It’s just me,” Ryan tells him. “It’s Ryan.”

Shane looks over at him and blinks for a moment, before slumping into the pillows, his arms finally relaxing where Ryan has them pressed to the soft fabric of his hospital gown.

“Ryan?” he asks and turns his hand to grip at Ryan’s fingers like a lifeline. “You came to visit.”

“You stupid fucking idiot,” Ryan says and Shane’s gaze is sluggish, a tinge of sedation to it, like they’ve given him the good stuff.

“‘M thinking that’s not the first time you’ve said that.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Physically or mentally?”

“Shane,” Ryan implores and Shane lets out a laugh that doesn’t quite sound sober. It cuts off almost immediately as Shane pulls his hand away to press it to his side.

“Don’t make me laugh, Ryan,” he pleads and Ryan moves his hands to rest beside Shane's body, fingertips barely brushing the covers over his hip.

“What did you do, dummy?”

“I’m hurt, Ryan. You're legally obligated to be nicer to me,” Shane says, rolling his head to the side to keep watching Ryan without moving any further.

“No, I'm not,” Ryan snaps. “If you die, I need you to know how fucking stupid I think you are.”

Shane laughs again, but his hand finds Ryan’s once more like that’s the way it is now.

“I already know that,” Shane tells him. “But I’m not going to die. Just a few cuts and bruises.”

“Shane,” Ryan says in disbelief, “your lung collapsed.”

“Yeah, and I got a cool tube to reinflate it — want to see?”

He lifts his arm like he’s going to push aside his gown and show it off, but Ryan drags it back down with an emphatic, “No, Shane.”

Shane watches him for a moment before saying, “I didn’t do this on purpose.”

“I know,” Ryan replies, dragging his fingers through his hair in exasperation. “If you weren’t so stupidly tall, you wouldn’t have fallen so far. Why were you even standing on that chair?”

“I was helping with lighting for a video. I didn’t mean to lose my balance.”

Ryan hadn’t seen it happen, but he’d heard the commotion and when he’d gone to investigate, had seen Shane sprawled on the ground, gasping for breath and looking far too pale.

Ryan drops his head down, pressing his brow to the cool metal of the railing at the side of Shane’s bed. He takes a steadying breath and lets it out slowly. There’s the light touch of a hand on his neck, and Shane’s fingers rub across his skin soothingly.

“You okay?” Shane asks gently and Ryan laughs and finally raises his head.

“Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that?”

“I don’t know. So far all you’ve done is call me stupid.”

Ryan doesn’t think he has to say aloud that it’s his own way of admitting how much he cares. He hopes Shane already knows and the softness of his expression hints that he does. He goes to open his mouth and maybe try to put words to how he’s feeling, but there’s a knock on the door.

“Hi, Shane,” says the woman in scrubs who opens it and steps inside, and Shane lifts a hand to wave at her like they’re well acquainted. She glances at Ryan and smiles softly. “This must be your husband; they mentioned someone was visiting.”

Ryan can feel Shane’s gaze burning into the side of his head, but he avoids turning to look, praying that Shane knows to go along with it.

“Ryan Madej,” Ryan lies, holding his hand out for the nurse to shake, which she does.

“Arlene,” she replies. “You must be the Ryan he was asking for when he was sedated.”

Ryan actually turns to look at Shane then because perhaps they both have their own secrets. Shane doesn’t quite seem able to meet his eyes.

“I’m just here to change your dressing, Shane,” Arlene says, moving to the side of the bed opposite Ryan. “I’ll get out of your way soon — I know you guys probably want some quality time together after everything.”

Arlene is methodical as she exposes Shane’s side only enough to peel away the old bandage and check whatever it is she’s actually checking. Ryan, thankfully, can’t see much from where he’s sitting, but he can see the uncomfortable expression on Shane’s face and it’s the easiest thing in the world to slip his hand into Shane’s own and squeeze encouragingly. Shane squeezes back.

“He’s been a good patient,” Arlene tells Ryan as she carefully tapes a clean dressing over Shane’s side.

“I’m your favorite,” Shane jokes and Arlene makes a thoughtful face.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” she replies coolly and Shane laughs, clutching at his ribs again.

“You guys need to stop that,” Shane complains. “It hurts.”

Arlene pats his shoulder and then tucks the sheets back around him.

“You’ll get your next dose of pain medication with lunch,” she promises, before adding, “Don’t do anything that might pull at your tube.”

“No handstands,” Ryan tells him and Arlene glances over like maybe she was thinking Ryan would be the one to exacerbate things.

At his frown, she says, “No heavy petting.”

Ryan’s face heats. “We wouldn’t — ”

“That’s what they all say. Just keep your hands to yourselves,” she advises, but then she’s moving towards the door. “It was nice to meet you, Ryan.”

“You too,” Ryan replies weakly and the door shuts behind her, leaving them in silence.

There’s a beat, and then another, before Shane says, “Ryan Madej?”

Ryan drops his head back to the bed railing and lets out a heavy breath.

“They wouldn’t let me in unless I was family,” he admits. “In hindsight, I should’ve just said I was a cousin, not your husband.”

Shane huffs a laugh and sounds fond when he says, “Oh, Ryan,” even though it also sounds like he thinks Ryan’s an idiot.

Ryan sits upright to meet Shane’s gaze. “Yeah, well, what have you got to say about apparently asking for me when you were high?”

Shane gives half a shrug, looking casual. “If you’re trying to embarrass me, it won’t work.”

“Because you have no shame?”

“‘Cause I’m not embarrassed about asking for you.”

Another flush hits Ryan’s face and he clears his throat. “Cute.”

“Is that why you married me?”

“Shane,” Ryan pleads, but Shane doesn’t look repentant.

“I’m marriage material.”

“You’re on very strong drugs that have weakened your inhibitions,” Ryan tries to joke and Shane frowns.

“How dare you,” he says. “How dare you suggest I’ve ever had inhibitions.”

“Is there a button I can press to get Arlene back in here to knock you out?”

“This’ll end in divorce,” Shane says and Ryan finally reaches across to press a palm over his mouth. Shane looks at him with soft eyes that crinkle in the corners like he’s smiling under Ryan’s palm.

“Shane, shut the fuck up.”

He pulls his hand away and Shane almost lasts a full thirty seconds before he speaks.

“You always say the sweetest things.”

“I'm never going to hear the end of this,” Ryan mutters and Shane grins crookedly.

“It doesn't sound right, you know.”

Ryan glances down, trying to hide the disappointment in his voice as he says, “What? Us being together?”

“No, you taking my last name. Shane Bergara sounds way cooler.”

When Ryan looks up at him, Shane's watching him like he knows each and every dark secret Ryan has, like he knows just how panicked Ryan's been over the past day, trying to get to Shane's side. He sets his hand over one of Ryan's own and rubs his thumb along Ryan's knuckles.

“You know,” he says and Ryan can already tell that whatever it is that's about to leave Shane's mouth won't be good, “Arlene said no heavy petting.”

Ryan frowns at him. “Yeah, I was here for it if you’ve already forgotten.”

“I mean, she didn’t say anything about light petting.”

Ryan has to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “What?”

“If you wanted to lay one on me, you could.”

“Lay one on you,” Ryan says as blandly as he can manage with his heart trying to thunder its way out of his chest.

“I could lay one on you, but you'd have to help me sit up and that would defeat the purpose.”

Ryan stares at Shane, feeling like maybe the drugs he’s on are stronger than he first thought. Shane stares back and Ryan becomes aware of an incessant beeping that pulls him from the moment. Looking over, he finds it’s the sound of the heart rate monitor Shane’s hooked up to. He blinks and Shane clears his throat.

“No cheating,” he says and Ryan looks back at him.

“What?”

“I’m over here trying to play it cool. Pretend you can’t hear that.”

Ryan realizes then that the uptick in Shane’s pulse is because of him. As calm and collected Shane appears on the outside making his little jokes about kissing, he’s internally freaking out, and Ryan can appreciate that, because he is too.

“Are you panicking because you don’t want me to do anything?”

“I’m not panicking,” Shane lies. “But if I were, it might be because I thought I was going to die earlier, which, looking back, I’ll admit is dramatic, but I kept thinking about how you might never know what I want.”

Ryan swallows. “What do you want?”

“Mostly you,” Shane says, causing another uptick on the heart rate monitor and it’s endearing how Shane tries his best to ignore it. “Maybe a cheeseburger.”

A silence stretches out between them as Ryan tries to organize his thoughts, but Shane’s expression shifts, like he’s thinking Ryan isn’t saying anything because he’s trying to find a way to let him down gently.

“I can only give you one of those things,” he blurts out, which doesn’t seem to help until he clarifies, “and it’s not the cheeseburger.”

The heart rate monitor kicks into overdrive then and Ryan glances at it, worried. “Are they going to think you’re having a heart attack in here?”

“Arlene is definitely going to assume there’s heavy petting going on.”

“What are rumors without a little truth to them?” Ryan says and Shane looks at him, his cheeks beginning to redden.

“So you are going to lay one on me?”

Ryan pushes himself up out of his chair and stands flush with the edge of the bed, peering down at Shane who looks anticipatory. With the beeping echoing around the room, Ryan gently sets a hand against the side of Shane’s face, feeling the heat of his skin while he bends at the waist to press their lips together softly.

Shane makes a quiet noise against his mouth and immediately tries to deepen it. Ryan pulls away, using his other hand on Shane’s shoulder to keep him from rising up to try to chase him.

“You call that a kiss?” Shane complains and Ryan swipes his thumb along Shane’s cheekbone.

“No heavy petting,” he reminds him and Shane scoffs.

“No heavy petting doesn’t mean no tongue. Kiss your husband like you mean it.”

Ryan blows out a breath and shakes his head. “I don’t know why I was worried about you. You’re still an idiot.”

“Okay, Ryan Madej,” Shane says, shifting a hand to the back of Ryan's head and pulling him in for another kiss. Ryan doesn’t fight it because it’s exactly what he wants and Shane’s mouth is soft against his own. Slowly, the beeping from the heart rate monitor evens out and Shane carefully pulls away. “See? You’re good for my health.”

Ryan rolls his eyes, but presses back in for another kiss, knowing it can tell Shane everything he can’t put into words, and for now, it’s enough.

[tannithvibes]

so i was having some Thoughts on creating a love interest for my oc Murphy, decided i wanted a name that had a meaning similar to "wave". ended up going through water/ocean related names...and you'll never guess what name showed up. bc apparently i never actually looked up what Murphy means as a name (its "sea warrior" by the way)

[bitsandbobsandstuff]

Safe with me (14)

Summary: When an unknown threat enters your life, protection is offered at the highest level. As Bucky Barnes comes into your life, the game changes, and you realise falling for the man tasked with keeping you safe is the last thing you expected.

Characters: Bodyguard!Bucky Barnes x Reader Warnings: Bad language. Graphic descriptions of violence. Minor character death.

A/N: Bucky has methods to his madness and you are just done with these people. Stuck in the middle of a battlezone is a terrible place to be.

Tags for this story are CLOSED Link here for posting schedule

SAFE WITH ME MASTERLIST PREVIOUS CHAPTER

Previously…

The room is silent.

All eyes are on Bucky, who stands at the screen with his hand still raised. Steve releases him slowly, when he feels the panicked movements go suddenly rigid. From behind, a peculiar shapeshifting appears to take place. His posture changes, his neck flexes, his shoulders roll back.

Bucky stands up straight.

When he spins around, even Steve takes a step back at the sight.

Deadly rage burns like blue fire in the Soldier’s eyes.

*****

MID-1990s

Jack Bernstein pours a cup of coffee and parks himself behind the large wooden desk, propping his boots on Pierce's crisply folded suit coat. He takes a long drink, coughing when the scalding liquid scorches his throat. No matter. He enjoys the pain, because he needs something simple to ground him before he buzzes out of his skin.

That was exhilarating.

Every fantasy he's entertained about this day, about meeting the Soldier for the first time, all of it pales in comparison to the real thing. In life, everything about him was infinitely more than Jack ever imagined. Harder. So obedient. Beautiful and perfect. What a marvelous gift.

Scanning the white walls and bits of clutter adorning the small office, Jack memorizes every detail. He knows he'll remember this day for the rest of his life.

Sighing in contentment, he selects the top folder from a large pile, one appropriately stamped with the word "INDUCTION" in chunky red script. He begins to read.

-----

BASIC HANDLING INSTRUCTIONS The Asset requires minimal formal care, but it is biologically enhanced and dangerous if not handled properly. The following instructions will minimize risk to handlers. See related appendices for detailed information.

Removal from cryofreeze: Asset will be sluggish and non-responsive. Hosing down with cold water is recommended before wiping. Clothing is optional, but not preferred during removal phase.

Wiping process (see detailed instruction manual): Asset will tolerate wiping process as long as it is completed shortly after leaving cryofreeze.

Nutrient management: Asset does not eat standard food. Calories should be administered in the form of IV fluids.

Drug enhancement: Adrenaline may be given through injection but should be used sparingly as it enhances agitation levels. 'Oblivion' can be given in limited amounts. Technicians are recommended to hold Asset's jaw shut until clear the drug has dissolved / been swallowed.

Weapons selection: Asset will select its own weapons. DO NOT try to remove weapons from the Asset's body once they have been strapped in place, may result in loss of life or limb.

In the unlikely event of death due to mission failure, Asset has no personal affairs or effects to manage. If available, body should be cremated to reduce risk of knowledge transfer.

-----

He moves slowly through the Asset's files, absorbed in hundreds of pages exploring every detail of the disturbingly long life. Memorizing lab reports and doctor's notes, tracing wondering fingers over the blunt block letters of his mission reports, captivated by photos showing bullet holes and knife wounds littered across a broad chest.

Shivering with delight at the idea that all of this belongs to him.

He was disappointed to put him back on ice, but the Algeria mission was unnecessary and it's best to be patient. He has years to learn him, to understand his Soldier inside and out. Every intricate nuance of his body, every sparking neuron in his brain. How to obliterate everything and how to piece him back together.

A perfectly indestructible toy.

Jack tips his head back and laughs, the sound bouncing around the small room.

And after all – toys are meant to be played with.

*****

PRESENT DAY

5 HOURS AND 10 MINUTES AFTER ABDUCTION

To this day, Bucky marvels at the difference between a Hydra mission and a mission for himself.

Now, Bucky takes blisteringly hot showers before every mission. He despises the cold, hated it during the war, hated it even more with Hydra. He doesn't have time tonight, so instead he stuffs heat packets in the pockets of his tac pants. He loves the way they make him sweat.

Now, Bucky doesn't rely on IVs and pills and manufactured enthusiasm. Instead, he drinks a special cherry flavored Gatorade Bruce had engineered especially for him and Steve, and he raids the Tower cabinets of every king-size Snickers he can find. Chocolate and peanuts make him happy and help him focus, and Bucky swears their tagline was written for him. He is definitely not himself when he's hungry.

And now, perhaps the most stunning difference, are the personal affairs he puts in order. As the Soldier, Bucky had less than nothing. He remembers the vague feeling of wistfulness, of emptiness, that often intruded before a mission – he consistently took unnecessary risks, because he had nothing to draw him home. When he joined the Avengers, he behaved the same way – until Steve reminded him that he had his own real life with people and possessions he loved. So, Bucky sat down and wrote a will. He still doesn't have much, but now the little things he cherishes all have a place to go when the inevitable end arrives.

On that note, Bucky digs out the sheet of paper from the bottom of his desk, finds a chewed-up Bic pen, and makes one small amendment.

Under the Brooklyn apartment, he adds your name next to Steve's.

*****

5 HOURS AND 20 MINUTES AFTER ABDUCTION

Steve can actually feel his body thrumming when he reaches Bucky's bedroom, tension climbing over his skin. Pausing outside the door, he steels himself for a full-scale brawl, because as he well knows, his best friend is a stupid god damn fucking idiot.

Throwing open the door he stomps inside, kicks it shut, and starts speaking.

Loudly.

"Look, I know you're pissed as hell right now, but you need to take a beat and think about things. You can't go barging in, shooting everything on sight with no back-up. It's fucking suicide."

Bucky hums in agreement, fishing through his loose change jar for the key to his bedside weapons cabinet.

"Seriously Bucky, we need a plan. This is very obviously a set-up."

The small key snicks when the lock clicks open, revealing a cache of knives and guns, several old grenades and a handful of Widow's Bites he won off Natasha in a poker game.

"They know you'll come. They expect you'll come. Traps, Buck. There'll be so many traps."

Bucky nods along with the tirade, but the absentminded move proves he's not listening. Frustration bubbles over and Steve's now yelling.

"James Buchanan fucking Barnes, why are you such a stubborn asshole all the time?"

At the words, Bucky looks up in startled surprise.

"What the hell Rogers? Why am I an asshole?"

"I don't know Buck, why are you an asshole?"

Tossing an armful of knives on his bed, Bucky plunks his hands on his hips, head tilted in genuine confusion as he stares at Steve.

"What am I – "

"You're not going alone Bucky."

"Whoever – "

"There's no guarantee you're not walking right into a god damn trap."

"No sh – "

"Why the hell can't you ever let anyone help you?"

"Steve, I – "

"Jesus Christ, you're an insufferable prick!"

Bucky looks on the verge of laughing.

"Are you done? Can I talk?"

Steve grabs a bottle of cherry Gatorade off Bucky's dresser and chucks it at him, growling when Bucky dodges the missile.

"Yeah I'm done. Jerk."

Bucky sighs patiently. "Steve. I'm not going in blind and obviously I need your help. Assumed the whole damn team was coming, so I'm not sure why the hell you're standing here. Stop being a little bitch and suit your self-righteous, spangly ass up."

Steve opens his mouth to argue, but – yeah, he's got nothing. Bucky raises his eyebrows and goes back to sorting knives, separating his favorites and setting them aside.

"Well," Steve clears his throat, still spoiling for a fight, but struggling for a reason. "Well okay then. Long as we're clear. About time you stopped acting like a self-sacrificing dumbass."

Bucky snorts. "You should talk. Meet me in the lab in 10, we leave in 40. Only got a few hours until the sun rises. I want this finished before then, I'm not leaving her there a minute longer."

"Good," Steve grunts, and turns to go. The door's almost closed when he hears the question.

"Steve?"

Spinning at the sound of Bucky's low voice, Steve's heart skips a beat when he sees the expression. The façade has broken, harsh emotion filtering through the cracks. In the entirety of their crazy fucked up lives, Steve's never seen his best friend look so desperate.

"If he kills her – I won't stop. Not until every last one of them is dead." A dark look settles on his face in place. "I'm telling you right now, don't get in my way. Don't make me stop."

Steve contemplates him for a long moment.

"I know you won't. And I'll help you do it."

Thank god for Steve Rogers. Bucky gives him a brisk nod and goes back to his knives.

*****

5 HOURS AND 25 MINUTES AFTER ABDUCTION

Bucky storms into Tony's lab, a wraith in head to toe black. The silver arm is emitting a constant whir, endlessly clicking and shifting, a physical representation of the anxiety pulsing through his veins.

"Stark, I need your help."

Tony looks up at his arrival, blanching at the image. Mission ready, Barnes is just a little terrifying.

Black tac pants are tucked into a pair of comfortably worn combat boots, and each boot holds two long serrated blades, rough black handles within easy reach. Strapped around both thighs are matching holsters, the right side holding a Sig Sauer P320, the left side holding a Beretta M9. A black utility belt sits low at his waist, holding extra clips of ammo, a cylindrical tube with five round mini-grenades, and a pack of bandages. Flat against each hip, are two fixed blade combat knives, and tucked into a holster at his lower back, sits his Glock.

Strangely, the most striking feature about the whole ensemble isn't the ridiculous amount of weaponry. It's the ordinary black tank top he wears.

Normally refusing to let anyone see the thick red scars streaking down his shoulder, he always ignores the curious questions or dismisses the thoughtful comments with an icy glare. But tonight, for the first time Bucky appears oblivious to the furtive glances and open stares.

Well, he's not actually oblivious. He's just totally out of fucks to give.

Rubbing both hands down his face, Tony slaps them on the table, fingers splayed wide. Disappointment rolls off him in waves, and Bucky thinks he knows what's coming.

"Stark, listen – "

"I'm sorry," Tony interrupts, curling his fingers into hard fists, rapping his knuckles restlessly against the table. "I screwed her tech up, that's on me. I wasn't – "

"Stop," Bucky holds his hands up. "Seriously. I'm sick and tired of us taking the blame for the shit these assholes do. Forget it and help me fix it."

Tony Stark and Bucky Barnes stare at each other for a long moment. Their relationship's been disproportionately burdened by a shared history, but with this common purpose, each is relieved to find the other willing to wipe the slate clean.

"Done," Tony says tightly. "What'd you need?"

"Remember the throwback outfits we had for that charity event? With Steve's stupid USO outfit and my Commandos uniform?"

"Sure," Tony says, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. "They're in storage. Why?"

"I need the blue jacket."

"You need it right now?"

"I need it right now," Bucky confirms.

"Are we stopping by Fashion Week on the way? You're not wearing it on this mission, are you?" Tony asks, bemused by the odd request.

"I most certainly am."

Tony purses his lips and chooses his words carefully.

"Uh, not that I don't condone wearing whatever makes you feel comfortable with your bad self, I mean clearly I love red since it highlights my boyish good looks and all, but you're supposed to be stealthy. That's kinda your thing. The blue is bright, Barnes. No clue why Howard ever made that dumbass design, they'll see you a mile away."

Bucky doesn't reply. Instead, he offers a slow smile and there's something so astoundingly sinister, it makes Tony's teeth chatter. Bone-chilling and lethal, he sees the anger simmering just below the surface, Bucky's murder face on full display.

"Ah. Right. So. The color was bright on purpose," Tony guesses. "You wanted to be seen."

"I did," Bucky affirms, his tone easy and conversational. "And now I want every one of those fuckers who took her to shit their pants when they see me. I want them to know exactly what's coming for them."

*****

6 HOURS AND 5 MINUTES AFTER ABDUCTION

Down in the cargo hold of the Quinjet, Bucky's screams grow louder and louder. Sitting quietly on the above level, the team remain stoic.

*****

6 HOURS AND 30 MINUTES AFTER ABDUCTION

The world around him is dark and blessedly quiet.

Alone now, Bucky leans a trembling forearm against the window, rests his aching forehead on the cold glass and takes a shallow breath. The beads of sweat dripping down his face finally begin to dry, so he shuts his eyes and lets his mind wander, searching for something sweet to calm the nightmare still wracking his body. Like a slideshow, the pictures in his brain flip at lightning speed, until they stop on his apartment in Brooklyn and zero in on the book you left tucked under a fuzzy velvet blanket.

The Book Thief.

When he watched you pick it up that day, Bucky fought back a smile. It's one of his favorites, something he's read a dozen times. When he feels anxious and fidgety, the story is soothing, the pages crinkled and bent, the poetic words smoothing the edges of his soul in a way he could never explain. Tonight though, Bucky begins to understand why the story holds so much appeal.

Through the horrors that made up the bulk of his life, first during his war, and later as the Soldier, a concept always played in the back of his mind.

Some people are born into this life with the desire to command, to play God. Some demand the role and some accept the burden when it's given. That was never him. No, Bucky was always asked to play one role above all others, one that led him to find a kindred spirit in the narrator of his favorite book.

Death.

It's been his calling card since the first day of Basic, when the US Army plucked him from obscurity and shoved a rifle in his peculiarly steady hands. From that day forward, he owned every life around him. Some he spared, some he protected. Some he reaped with a broken neck in the dead of night, some he bartered with a sharp blade and a sharper tongue. This has been the way of his life for so long, it boils down to a single truth.

Most of Bucky's life – has always been death.

Now he stands silently, accepting once again the bleak mantle laid across his shoulders and he thinks of you curled in his leather chair, warm in a patch of afternoon sun, your finger unconsciously marking his favorite quote as you drift to sleep, not realizing you equally loved the one line that always gave him pause.

"Even Death has a heart."

Most of Bucky's life has been death, but that's okay. Because those words are a poignant reminder that he can be so much more than the hollow shell he was. In this life with you, he finally understands how his head and his heart really are better together.

So, he holds the words in his mouth, tests them on his tongue, accepting that if the inevitable happens, he has a reason to come home.

"Even Death has a heart."

He certainly does, Bucky thinks wryly. He opens his eyes and gazes into the star strewn blackness, his heartbeat a steady rhythm driving him forward, back to you. And it's all hers.

*****

All you can think right now, is that this compound is freezing and you'll rage kick anyone who comes near you.

Slouched in the chair from earlier, a constant throb of pain shoots up your awkwardly bent arms, still secured behind you with a plastic zip-tie. Earlier struggles had done a number on your wrists, the unforgiving plastic slicing open the delicate skin and even now, blood oozes from the lacerations. It offers a small amount of warmth though, the sticky liquid running down your fingertips and catching under your nails.

You're a little disappointed when it cools.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

How did you not know?

You knew Jack. You knew him. He supported you, encouraged you. Offered helpful life advice even when you didn't ask for it and bought you a bottle of champagne to celebrate your first by-line. How could you not see that charming, amiable façade, hid a full-blown unhinged psychopath? How was it possible to be so utterly wrong about someone?

Maybe you should fire yourself for being the world's worst investigative journalist.

Huffing in frustration, pain flares anew when you shift, searching out a comfortable position. The stripes on your arms burn, your ribs are bruised, your jaw aches.

Everything hurts.

Bucky, where are you?

Closing your eyes, you let your mind drift, reaching for the imaginary comfort of your favorite place. An apartment in Brooklyn filled with piles of fuzzy blankets and soft pillows. Shelves of books and bowls of peanut M&Ms. The fresh scent of the river and Bucky's laughing blue eyes.

Did he see the video? Did he know where you were? Would he figure it out in time? The grim reality of this whole thing, was that you desperately wanted to leave, to be back in Brooklyn, warm and safe in his arms, but there was one glaring problem.

You wanted Bucky to find you.

You wanted Bucky to never face these people again.

Success was an impossible duality.

The faint sounds of movement outside your door grow louder, inaudible voices making you tense. Electronic beeps sound and the door whooshes open, revealing two men dressed in faded combat fatigues. One is tall and lanky, bald head shining under the fluorescent lights. He spares you a brief glance, before striding to the table and rifling through the knives and lengths of rope.

The other man is short and thin, with red hair buzzed military short. He gives you a little smirk as he ambles inside, making a show of locking the door and letting his eyes roam over you.

"Don't worry sweetheart, we're just here to tidy up," he says.

Sauntering over, he stops beside you, cocking his head and staring down, waiting for you to acknowledge him. Fixing a bored expression on your face, you ignore him, keeping your eyes trained on the door handle straight ahead.

"I'd look up if I were you," he advises. Heart pounding at the implied threat, you stare forward in silence. Suddenly his fingers are gripping your jaw, pressing into the bruises left by earlier knuckles, and the startled gasp melts into a groan as you struggle away from the rough hand.

Tears prick your eyes when you look up, meeting his mocking stare.

"There she is," he croons, pinching your jaw tighter. The pain makes your vision swim and you blink rapidly, fighting to stay conscious.

"I gotta say, we've been running real low on women around here. Be nice if you could help some of the guys out," he says casually. "Maybe later, once we get your man back under control. Hell, maybe he'll even have a go. I hear he'll do anything if you know the magic word."

Releasing you, he drags the tips of his fingers over your face, tracing the bruises, swirling his fingers through the blood still leaking from the gash high on your cheek. The pads of his fingers come away stained red and he brushes them over your mouth, painting your lips with the taste of salt and copper.

"How about it sweetheart?"

Eye level with you, his thumb is still rubbing your lip, waiting for an answer.

You can almost hear Bucky's voice begging you not to do it, but you're so god damn pissed off.

The taste of copper appears again, when you snap your teeth, sinking them into his finger. He screeches and jerks the hand away, hugging it to his chest as he stumbles backward.

"Bitch," he rasps furiously, raising his hand while you brace for the hit.

"Dude, would you get away from her? You're not allowed to mark her up," his partner cuts him off with a sharp rebuke. "Wait until the Asset's finished and packed away, you'll get a turn after. If there's anything left."

The nonchalant way they speak about you should make your skin crawl and it does. It really does.

But the way they speak about him, about your Bucky, as if he's nothing but a mindless animal and not the sweetest, snarkiest, most infuriatingly wonderful man in your life, makes you shake with anger.

"Makes your nervous, huh?" The redhead sneers, sucking petulantly on his damaged finger. "You should be. I hear he's a beast once he gets going. Brain's so fucking fried, he'll probably get confused halfway through, won't remember if he's supposed to fuck you or kill you, but either way – sucks to be you."

Nothing would be more enjoyable in this moment than stabbing this prick in the eye with a rusty knife, but you'll have to rain check. Taking a soul cleansing breath instead, you settle for your best Bucky Barnes murder face impression, letting a grim smile slowly lift your lips, while glaring in total silence.

"What the hell?" he grunts, unnerved at the creepy expression.

A long-suffering sigh comes from the bald man. "Stop talking and help me."

"Aw come on man, I'm just – "

The sound of a low sonic boom suddenly vibrates the floor beneath your feet.

Both men freeze, turning wide-eyed to each other.

"What the hell was that?"

"Something in the upstairs lab?" the other guesses wildly.

A long pause follows, the world quiet.

The second boom knocks the wind from you, raising dust from the floor. Lifting your eyes, you watch a long crack appear in the plaster ceiling, stilted bursts of movement as it spiders outward.

Silence follows again.

Then the distant pop of gunfire reaches your ears.

"Shit," you hear one of the men behind you whisper in panic.

The surge of happiness floods through you, promptly tempered by the panic of knowing Bucky was here, surrounded by these bastards once again.

"How'd he get here so fast? Bernstein said it'd take a couple days for him to figure it out!"

"How do I know? I wasn't planning to be here when he – "

There's a high-pitched scream in the hallway that's cut short.

Silence.

Suddenly the screeching whine of metal on metal rings through the room when something heavy slams against the locked door.

Once.

Twice.

"Fuck," the bald man spits out, lifting his gun and taking aim at the shuddering door.

Three times.

Next to you, the redhead draws a pistol from the holster under his arm, and you close your eyes when you feel the cold kiss of a metal barrel pressed against your temple.

Silence.

You can hear the ragged, panting of the man above you, deafening in the quiet room. He smells stale, like fear and cigarettes, the scents bleeding from his skin.

Silence stretches on, further and further, and you pray Bucky won't pass, that he knows, that he comes back.

The respite forces a shift in the room. Weapons lower slightly, muscles soften. Perhaps the Soldier has moved on.

A rookie mistake.

A catastrophic mistake.

With an ear-piercing metallic crunch, the door in front of you explodes open, ricocheting off the wall. A knife whistles through the air, cold steel whispering past your ear, before the wide blade lands in the man's neck with a wet thunk. The force of the throw knocks him flat on his back, fingers scrabbling uselessly at the rough hilt, and you squeeze your eyes shut when the gush of hot blood splatters across your face.

Roaring gunfire sets your ears ringing as the bald man fires five hasty bullets at the hulking presence in the doorframe, but each one is swatted away with a lazy flick of a metal hand. There's a sharp retaliatory crack, and the man wobbles for a second, before collapsing to the floor, a bullet drilled straight between his eyes.

Bucky steps into the room, gun raised while his eyes scan the corners, check the ceiling, sweep under the table. Swinging around, he catches the edge of the door and slams it shut, before grabbing a chair and jamming it beneath the busted handle.

When he stalks forward, a small fraction of your heart cowers in fear at the viciousness in his face. This is him, the unreal ghost story, the legend in the flesh.

"Don't look," he orders harshly, bending down to the twitching body beside you. Eyes closed, you turn away when you hear the cracking noise the knife makes as Bucky jerks it from the man's throat. A brief bloody gurgle follows, before it's effectively silenced, and you hear the sound of a body dragging across the concrete floor, landing with a soft thump.

Breathing fast, sharp little pants that make your chest ache, you keep your eyes closed and wait.

A moment later, you feel the light touch of cool metal on your swollen jaw. Opening your eyes, your heart leaps into your throat.

Leaning over you, he gently cups your face, patiently waiting for you to see him. And now, looking into those blue eyes, you wonder how on earth you could have ever been afraid, because this isn't him, he's not the Soldier.

This is your Bucky, through and through.

Reaching down to his boot, he pulls up a long knife, slipping it behind you to snap the plastic on your wrists. They feel like deadweight after being locked in that position, so he helps ease them forward, working out the aching kinks. Two quick flicks and your legs are free, and you see a minute tremble in his fingers when he returns the knife to his boot.

Kneeling before you, Bucky looks up, the penitent man with his heart on his sleeve. He swallows thickly, throat working as he gathers his courage.

"Hi," he finally whispers.

"Hey," you whisper back, voice cracking.

He sees the cuts and bruises scattered over your face, the raised welts down your arms. Reaches a tentative hand to your neck, fingers brushing over the thin line of rope burn, a broken sound rising from deep in his chest when he feels the raw texture of your skin. That sound alone is more painful than anything you've experienced, so you reach for him, cradling his face between your hands and his eyes close. Leaning into the touch, he turns to press his lips to the palm of your hand.

"You came for me," you murmur.

"I’ll always come for you," he responds, lifting blood-stained hands to cover yours, tangling your fingers together. "I love you. I love you so god damn much and I'm so sorry for everything."

Tears flood your throat at his declaration, at the heat behind his words.

"God you're such a pain in my ass Bucky Barnes, but I love you too. More than you can imagine," your voice is painfully hoarse, but his response makes each syllable worth the strain.

Speckles of blood cover one side of his face, sweat plasters strands of hair to his forehead, and there's white dust caught in the dark stubble covering his neck, but at your words, the grime and exhaustion fade away. Bucky's face lights up and his excited smile steals your breath.

"Really? Seriously?"

"Really seriously," you confirm with a smile, voice still weak but growing stronger. "Take me home Bucky."

"I will," he promises. "I'll get you out of here, I swear."

Taking your hand, he curls a warm arm around your waist and stands, lifting you carefully to your feet. Swaying at the move, you lean heavily into him and he wraps his arms around you, folding you close to his heavily padded chest.

And sure, the world may be falling to pieces outside that door, and god knows what you'll find when you leave, but in this moment, the only thing you need is the solid presence of the man surrounding you.

Comforting and stable and brimming with love, he is enough. He is everything.

Finally, reluctantly, he lets go. Stepping backward, he pulls his Glock from the holster at his back, cocks the hammer and flips it around. He presses the grip in your palm.

"Listen to me. We get out there, and I want you to shoot first, ask questions later. If you feel threatened at any point, pull the trigger, okay?"

"Okay," you agree.

"You remember everything I told you?"

It takes a moment, but you fish for the memory and reel it in, remembering that day at the Tower gun range.

"Yes. Squeeze the trigger, don't jerk. Both eyes stay open. Be ready for the recoil," you repeat.

He looks surprised but pleased at the automatic recitation. "I honestly didn't think you were paying attention that day. That was – kinda hot."

"Your face is kinda hot," you sass back instantly.

Pulling a fresh clip from his belt, Bucky snaps it into his Sig Sauer and grins. Watching his movement, you notice something new, something different.

"Hey. The blue jacket – it really did match my dress. I like it. You look really handsome in blue," you say softly, tugging his sleeve. "Sorry, I've been super behind on your compliments. Lots of catching up."

There's a blazing look on his face at your statement, and he wraps a gentle hand behind your neck and steps closer, resting his forehead against yours. Closing your eyes, you breathe each other in, a swirl of blood and death, of safety and protection.

"I love you," he murmurs the words again, reveling in the pleasure they bring.

"I love you," you answer, pressing a light kiss to his chin.

He hums at the response, giving himself one more delicious second to enjoy, before grudgingly stepping away. His voice shifts and he speaks quickly, sharing the basic intel necessary before leaving the room.

"There should be very few people left out there, I swept the majority of the lower level before I found you. There were people here, but it wasn't heavily guarded. Which makes me nervous. I don't know exactly what this place is now, but it used to be a secondary research lab. This is – it was here, where I met him. The first time."

It's clear who the him is in this scene. And while Bucky's voice is calm, you notice a flicker of confusion cross his face, and that small waver makes you want to find Jack and cut his heart out. Gripping his hands, you give him a small shake, forcing him to meet your eyes.

"Listen to me. You got out. You won. You never ever have to go back," he clings to your words, riveted by your conviction. "You came here to get me Bucky, but don't forget – I've got you too."

"I know," he agrees heatedly, pressing his lips to your knuckles. Then he shifts the chair blocking the door and squares his shoulders. "Alright, you ready?"

"Ready," you confirm. "Let's go fuck shit up."

Fingers pause on the handle and he sighs, equal parts exasperated and entertained. Glancing over, he looks like he wants to say something stern, but the serious expression melts and his shoulders shake with laughter.

"I really fucking missed you," he nudges you.

"Same," you whisper back, elbowing him in return.

Keeping one hand fisted in the smooth cloth of his jacket, you take a deep breath as he pulls open the door and steps outside.

Once in the hallway, his demeanor switches back to the man who kicked your door down only a few minutes before. He's overwhelming in this form, towering and tense, confidence in every move, so obviously capable it puts you at ease.

The corridors are eerily quiet, the tracks of fluorescent lights lining the ceiling giving off a steady buzz and the occasional flicker. The smell hits you in that moment, a strange burnt earth smell floating through halls, of gunpower and guts, and it makes your eyes water. People don't seem to talk much about what it's like on a battlefield, the visual horror and the stomach-churning smell. Now you see why.

Turning the corner, you see bodies scattered along the hall, the stench of blood a dense fog hanging heavy in the air. Bright red halos spill around surprised faces, and you see now that bullets leave very large holes. It draws your eyes with each body you pass, and your breath comes faster.

"Breathe through your mouth, not your nose," Bucky urges, his voice a grounding force as he propels you forward. "Look at me or close your eyes, okay? I won't let you fall."

"Yeah," you say weakly, turning your face toward calming blue. "Yeah, okay."

Rounding the next corner, the hall is thankfully empty of human remains. Bucky keeps his gun raised, eyes sweeping along. All seems deserted, until the whisper of rolling wood, like a closet sliding open reaches your ears and you see part of the wall begin to shift. Bucky swings around, but your finger already hovers dangerously over the trigger, and without thinking, you squeeze.

The bullet makes a solid thwack when it hits, and a body crumples to the floor.

A sickeningly familiar body in fact. One with a faded red tattoo crawling up his neck.

He groans, curling around himself, gasping as blood pumps from his abdomen. In one quick stride, Bucky is standing over the writhing body, and he stomps down, grinding his boot into the man's wrist. Screaming in pain as his bones are crushed, he drops his gun and Bucky kicks it away.

Walking slowly forward, with the smoking gun still raised, you stare down into the face of the man who's haunted your dreams for the better part of your life. Who spent the last several hours smiling while he slapped your face. While he snapped a leather strap across your arms. While he tightened a thin rope around your neck.

Who smiled the day he shot your father and took away the only person you had in the world.

Bucky's pistol feels perfect and right in your hand, as you point it at his face. Vengeance, retribution, revenge, whatever word fits, you're feeling it right now, surging adrenaline making you light-headed. Finger brushing the trigger, you steel yourself for the final shot, for the chance to end this on your terms.

The moment drags on and on, the sounds of his wet gasping the only thing in your ears.

"Come on little girl, do it!" he manages to taunt, choking on the words.

Pull the trigger. Pull the trigger. Pull the trigger.

This man killed your Dad. He tortured you. He destroyed your childhood.

Pull the fucking trigger!

Your arm begins to tremble, precious moments allotted for escape now lost as you stare down. A strangled sob suddenly breaks through and your heavy arm begins to lower. Tears fill your eyes, and you rub them furiously away, trying to raise your arm again.

And then Bucky reaches over, gently pushing the gun down. Looking at him, the tears spill over, sliding down your cheeks, dripping from the tip of your nose.

"You're not a killer," he says quietly. "Once you pull the trigger, you can't take it back. If you want to do it I'll help, but don't become something you're not, just because you think you should."

Firm and compassionate, his familiar voice shakes you out of the haze. Sniffling, you hesitate for another moment, before letting the gun relax at your side. With a deep breath, you turn away instead, snipping the strings tethering you to the survivor's guilt that's hung around your neck for so long.

Bucky nods encouragingly, and together you walk away from the bleeding man. Putting his arm around you, he pulls you in tight. Covers your ear and presses your head against his shoulder, muffling the world.

Then he raises his arm behind him and fires one quick shot.

The hallway goes quiet once more.

*****

Moments later, you turn another corner, relief palpable when you hear Bucky speak.

"We're close, there's an exit in two turns," he mutters, his body still tense, eyes wary as he tugs you along. He taps the comms in his ear, letting it go to the loudspeaker so you can hear as well. "Steve, we're near the north exit, where are you?"

Clear as a bell, Steve's voice comes through sounding annoyed. Gunfire sounds in the background and you hear the clatter of tin cans on concrete, followed by a slow hiss.

"We're coming, just – finishing something up. Apparently Nat decided this was the right time to test Stark's new gas grenades."

"Don't be lame Rogers, these guys are assholes," you hear Nat laughing in the background.

"Yeah no shit, just wondering why – ouch, god dammit – why you couldn't wait 10 seconds. Buck, we'll meet you at the rendezvous point in 10 minutes. Did you find Bernstein?"

"Negative, no sign, I think he ghosted from – "

The comms crackles and goes off. Bucky taps it impatiently, but it stays quiet.

Stark technology will not fail a second time and it takes a split second to connect the dots.

Something is happening.

Swearing fiercely, Bucky pushes you behind him, his arm keeping you pressed against his back.

"Stay against me. Do not move away," he grits out, eyes scanning the empty corridor, searching, searching, searching.

He hears the sound before he sees it happen. It raises the hair at his neck, and with sizzling burst of heat, a web of electricity blooms before you, a curtain of transparent white light. Spinning around, you find the same thing behind, a crackling fence of fire trapping you together.

"Fucking hell," Bucky hisses, eyes whipping back and forth, assessing the electric barriers. Hesitating slightly, he stretches a tentative metal finger forward.

"Bucky, don't – " the warning is still leaving your lips when his hand makes contact. The harsh zap flings his arm back.

"Dammit, I didn't think these'd still be here," he growls in frustration. His fingers curl into a hard fist, metal plates whirring as they reset after the electric shock.

Looking through the waves of energy, you can see beyond them, but there's no possibility of passing. "What are they?"

"Fry zones. Barricades to trap people," he mutters. "When a building was under attack, they were set up like alarms. Someone must have triggered them earlier, because I killed everyone else in the building."

"Well that's just awesome," you mumble, pressing close to him. Bucky turns to face you, hugging you against his chest.

"Okay, it's alright. The team are coming this way, they'll find us when we miss the rendezvous, so we just wait. Can you do that for me?"

"Yeah," your voice is muffled against the thick fabric.

Bucky leans down to press a feather-light kiss to your forehead, the barest hint of a touch. For a second, you wonder if the sound of electricity is still the walls around you, or if it's the feel of his mouth on your skin. Snuggling closer, you relax in his arms, while his hands rub long, soothing strokes up your back.

For a long, happy moment, all is well. The world is right. A bright future together is so close.

But inevitably, it doesn't last.

The measured, deliberate click of dress shoes on concrete rises above the steady hum of electricity, and Bucky's body goes rigid. His arms tighten around you, but when you raise your head, his jaw is clenched and his face is white, sweat already slicking his forehead. His eyes are fixed on something above you, beyond you, and still clasped in his arms, you slowly turn.

Jack stands on the other side of the barrier, his face flooded with desperate, hungry longing as he gazes at Bucky. He licks his lips and comes closer to the cage, and even through the thick fabric of his jacket, you feel Bucky's heart racing.

"So, here we are then. After all this, there he is," Jack breathes fervently, moving closer, unable to help himself. "I see him under there Barnes. Let him out to play. Let him come home."

Bucky lets go of you, tugging you behind him and extending both arms, widening his stance.

"Drop the barricade and let us go," he says calmly. "She has nothing to do with this."

With a snort, Jack shakes his head.

"Wrong. She has everything to do with it. It's because of her that you're even here. She's a weakness. She's your weakness, don’t you see that? You think you're in control, but she stole that from you. Look at you! Following her here like a pathetic dog. Jesus Christ, what did you do to my Soldier, you've ruined him Barnes."

"Seriously Jack, eat a dick you dramatic piece of shit," poking your head around Bucky, you try to move in front of him, but he holds you in place.

"Don't, it's not worth it," he murmurs warningly.

Jack looks amused for a moment, but it fades as he considers an idea.

"She's scrappy, I'll give her that. We could make a deal you know – give me back my Soldier and I'll let him keep her if he wants. She can be his pet, something soft and breakable to entertain him. Maybe that's what was missing before."

Bucky feels a swoop in his stomach as he considers Jack. Hearing his voice now, he's baffled how in seven hells he could have ever forgotten this man. It's so clear, so god damn obvious he wants to scream. But in the midst of that anger, Sam Wilson's voice pops in his head, and Bucky suddenly remembers the closing remarks of his first group therapy session down at the VA.

"Some things you leave behind, some you carry home. It's your decision what you need to let yourself heal."

Bucky understands it then, the choice he made. The only way he could let himself heal, to get better and move on, was to let go of the horrors in his past. Including this one.

"No deal you sick fuck," he says flatly. "Let us go or I swear to God, I'll rip you to pieces with my bare hands."

Jack shrugs at the response.

"Alright then, if that's what you want," he steps even closer to the barrier, so close you can see the gleaming white of his eyes. "I gave you a chance, so – just know that what happens next is your fault Barnes, it's all on you. I hope you remember that. In the end."

Jack reaches behind him, grasping for something in his pocket, and Bucky crouches slightly, a snarl on his face as he settles into battle stance.

When his hand reappears, Jack's holding a thick paperback book.

He smiles.

*****

Next Chapter

*****

[complexmagrparchive]

                                  A RETROSPECTIVE’S BLISS

NAME › Ji Sungjoon D.O.B. › 07 05 1985 (32) OCCUPATION › Creative Director at Complex INSTA › @57jsj​

content warning: mentions of death

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central saint martins, london (BA with hons)

INTERNSHIP

high cut –– general / editorial intern ( may – sep 2009; 24 y/o )

EMPLOYMENT HISTORY

vogue –– assistant to content manager ( oct 2009 – oct 2010 )

arena homme –– assistant to production manager ( jan 2011 – sep 2011 )

elle –– production manager ( oct 2011 - nov 2013 )

grazia –– fashion market director ( dec 2013 - dec 2015 )

complex –– creative director ( feb 2016 – present )

OTHER INVOLVEMENT

london fashion week, sep 2010 –– sep 2015

asian fashion week london, 2011 –– 2014

seoul fashion week 2016 & 2017

DETAILS

the change in scenery wasn’t unwelcomed, but it did take sungjoon a little longer than expected –– to settle in, to knock apart old habits. his mother spoke words of promises, of a fresh and better beginning, and this was what he would remember. his stepfather was a nice man albeit a tad withdrawn from personal relations.

he was (barely) remembered as the reticent kid through high school, always seated alone at the back of every class. they were his only friends, only companions that made tedious days tolerable.

graduation, military service and college –– distance was inevitable and contact was at the minimal, with everyone moving onto different trajectories, and him moving to another country.

art school wasn’t unexpected, considering his forte for sieving through the seemingly mundane and common for something that had potential to be the next trend-setter. grades and (what little of his then) portfolio worked in his favour to land him in a prestigious school in london.

the competitiveness within the curriculum unearthed him, yanking old habits by the roots and planting unfamiliarities. gone was the boy who’d always been meek and hesitant with speaking his mind, and in its place was someone unforgiving, ruthless, and with a tendency to burn through his short temper fuse.

the internship with vogue in his last year of college kickstarted his career with an offer upon graduation. and he’d soon come to realize that there was absolutely no space for contemplation, any moment of soft-heartedness could have him thrown under the bus instead.

moving onto grazia was by choice –– surviving in and adapting to new environments were never really much of a problem. moving back to korea, though, was by chance. sooyoung’s untimely death had shaken him to the core, so much so that what was meant to be a brief trip back for the funeral ended up as a prolonged stay.

wanting to pick up where she’d left off, accomplish what she’d planned to, he accepted an offer shortly after and began work as a production manager in one of south korea’s most prestigious fashion publication, COMPLEX. three years later he was promoted as the creative director and had been in the position since. life was what he’d begun to know it to be: tedious routines and grooves, working in tandem as gears in a cut-throat industry.

things appeared to be on track, right up till his ill-fated meeting with nara. for all thirty-two years of his life, he’d never met someone who’d grated his nerves in all the wrong ways possible. with his stepfather’s career switch from a businessman to running a campaign for the office, everyone remotely related to him was trapped under a microscope.

the marriage wasn’t so much romance than it was terms and conditions marked out in black and white, and all of a sudden words of congratulations had never appeared this dreary and meaningless.

( I. ) LESSON ONE: two beginnings.

the redacted: shabby walls, air heavy and congested, burnt out cigarette stubs hidden in every nook and cranny of the apartment –– responsible for the residual and suffocating scent of smoke, empty cans stacked in a corner with no order whatsoever, cold and clammy hands that brushed against his albeit rarely, deadweight like winter was trapped within, hushed whispers that were probably not meant to be heard (he couldn’t understand what they were talking about anyway), sullen eyes holding more than he could comprehend. the replacement: a fresh coat of paint, polished jade and wood embellishing shelves, their voices echoed within spaces (too much of it), unfamiliar hands with a different kind of warmth, tranquility like fresh spring — promising albeit a tad distant, sense of normalcy reconstructed and years of childhood redefined.

( II. ) LESSON TWO: blessing in disguise

––– in a year’s time, he’d forgotten how his father looked. in two years’ time, he’d forgotten the warmth of his father’s hand, how the rough creases used to rub his palms and cheeks as though in unspoken apologies. –––

his stepfather was very much a nice man, just a tad too withdrawn from anything too close to heart. having been sloughing through years of business management and socialising on a corporate basis, he had simply never gotten out of playing the ideal businessman role enough to indulge and engage in the ways of a father. joon liked him –– the man had his heart in the right places but had never lifted the barriers of his work enough for joon to be completely comfortable with him.

nonetheless, the simplicity of things sat well with sungjoon; he reckoned this could’ve ended up much worse.

( III. ) LESSON THREE: patterns

“c’mon, i promise i’ll stop asking if you come with us once, just once, please? they’re nice, i promise, hm?”

high school was characterised simply with the same routine of: books, exams, late nights, and repeat. he was (barely) remembered and spoken of, always the same reticent kid seated in the same corner of the library and always alone. they were (she was) his only companions that made tedious days tolerable, only friends that filled lonesome school years with something memorable.

sooyoung was amiable, warm, outspoken, humorous and everything he wasn’t. her inherent ability to effortlessly coax him into just about everything and anything was frustrating to say the least, yet most of the time he found the results to be tolerably satisfactory and at times, rewarding.

it was one too many late nights spent in empty classrooms and the art room, the occasional chanced glances that he could’ve sworn were not wholly just coincidental. she’d never asked, but he’d always walked her home afterwards, hands in his pockets and heart remaining in his own chest, beating, beating, waiting.

***

the tool in mind worked faster than the hand, always steps ahead with what he’d attempted to translate into actuality, in which encapsulated unvoiced words. coherency and sanity were found in the simplest of sketches and varying intensity of strokes, shifting his mind into an ideal state of tranquility, in between consciousness.

it was therapeutic: the seeking and creation of patterns, seeing things neatly arranged and categorised in a way that few others could echo with. in these lands that he’d created for himself ( and occasionally for an audience ) — projected from a fraction of reality, fantasised and malleable, he learnt to find comfort in solitude.

( IV. ) LESSON FOUR: wolves without teeth

what had begun as an interest throughout his high school days had grown to become a steering force, directing him onto this trajectory that he’d adamantly embarked on despite his stepfather’s initial wishes of a business major.

college was far from home and cold, and he was alone once again.

***

trust didn’t come easy in an industry that gave little to no room for mistakes and hesitation. the ebb and flow of things rinsed out the outdated and slow, and he had to learn fast. a sticky situation with a fellow intern was resolved with the immediate termination of the other’s contract. sungjoon had justified it as such: it was the right thing to do when one’s idea was on the verge of being plagiarised, the only thing to do. perhaps he could understand where the other was coming from, but as the field expanded, it had in place this bottleneck filter that retained only the minority, the cream of the crop, and the only direction sungjoon knew was up.

––– savagery was inevitable; it was fangs kept hidden from plain sight until the right moment, always a game of waiting for the right timing, and finding the perfect opportunity to strike. –––

( V. ) LESSON FIVE: the hardest part about you leaving is that i lost all the words i had to say

in place of the usual messages, this particular one was succinct.

date: xx/xx/xx venue: xxx, seoul attire: formal suit

it hadn’t wholly sunken into his head yet, not even when he boarded the flight back to seoul. he’d been expecting to hear from her, from them, but not like that.

silence reigned in a way that it’d tuned out the mourning and the tears. words of condolences were ready on the tongue, but were never spoken –– he couldn’t. a neat little frame with a photo that was likely to be taken recently, he mused at how time had been kind of her as though she was still seventeen. for the longest time he stayed in front of it, wordlessly, knees sore and chest heavy; as though he was still seventeen, still the same boy who’d always been waiting, waiting, waiting for her to lift the silence for the both of them ( and his heart along with it ).

***

resigning from grazia for an extended stay in korea, the following months were spent in absolute agony, dwelling on the uncertainties and the could-have-beens. though if there was something he could do fairly well, it’d be to translate negativity into motivation –– wanting to pick up where she’d left off, accomplish what she’d planned to but couldn’t.

spring, 2012: he moved back to korea and officially commenced employment with complex.

( VI. ) LESSON SIX: another chapter, a different beginning

a seemingly unrelated career switch by his stepfather, had an unpredicted implication of sort on sungjoon. having a member of the family run a campaign for the office meant that everyone remotely related would be trapped under a microscope. the media and opposition were more than prepared to magnify any bit of flaws that could possibly taint the campaigns and effectively swayed the voters’ minds to their favour.

an almost hook-up, booze-fused words with the heavy, bitter taste of regret on his tongue. granted, she was one of the most stunning women he’d ever met and she tasted of cherries and rum with a tinge of honey; granted, alcohol and a lightened mood had lowered his inhibitions enough for words to run loose, unguarded, unfiltered; granted, he could’ve apologised but he refused to compromise his own standards. in his defence, he’d thought that’d be the last of it ( of her, of them ).

they were but a product to be exchanged, manipulated; chess pieces placed rather strategically such that there was meant to have two winners. it wasn’t romance as overly depicted by the media –– it was terms and conditions in black and white and a deal meant to benefit both parties.

and all of a sudden, words of congratulations had never appeared this dreary and meaningless.

[chronal-anomaly]

This was originally supposed to be short drabble for @slingerscng but now it’s over 2k words and four pages long so. Thank you, Ember for dealing with my weird questions bc you’re one of my favorite McCrees and I stole a lil bit of him for this I’m sorry ;;

This is set in Blackwatch days, too. 

Also this is sorta inspired by that one fanart of Jesse tied to a wooden pole and beat up but I can’t find it. If someone could link it I’d be ecstatic! 

Trigger warning for torture, blood, medical torture.. I think that’s it but let me know if I need to tag anything else. 

“Pathetic.”

Wide fingers gripped at his jawline, digging into the bruises already left there. Hard eyes full of hatred stared down at Jesse, who met the gaze unwaveringly. No matter the pain that lit every nerve, no matter the amount of torture they put him through, McCree had never lost the mildly amused, cocky twitch to his lips.

               The brute that had been assigned for his abuse that day left his limited sightline, placing the cowboy on edge. Behind him, something clattered. As coolly as possible, Jesse turned his head against the rope that had been slipped around his neck like a noose, meant to hold his head as straight as possible. It gave little to his movements, instead pressing against his throat until he found himself short of breath. Jesse would have to simply wait to see what they had in store for him when they decided they were good and ready. He settled in to count the seconds.

               Finally, after the seconds of his life ticked away, the brute returned. He was met with a relaxed stare, the infuriating half-grin still dominating McCree’s face. Though Jesse’s body burned from the sheer abuse it had sustained—bruises, burns and long lacerations dominating the already-scared surface—he refused to quit his childish act, and was far from giving them the information that they demanded of him. Something would have to give eventually though, lest he be driven insane.

               “Gabriel Reyes. What’s his next move?” Clutched tight in one hand, a set of jumper cables that snaked around the pole Jesse remained lashed tightly to, connected to a power source somewhere in the darkness. The gunslinger resisted a shudder, only barely covering the soul-shaking fear with the mocking grin. “One last chance,” the brute repeated, sparking the plugs against each other. This time, he winced. Blackwatch had trained him hard and well, taught him to take pain and abuse well beyond what many could dish out. This was beyond anything that he had ever imagined.

               His response was a tight wad of blood and spit, landing directly in the brute’s face. With a growl, he surged forward, pressing the cables directly against exposed skin of Jesse’s core.

               There was an ungodly screech as he thrashed, fighting against the rough rope that held him tight to the wood post. Fresh blood burned bright against the darkened skin as the delicate skin around his wrists was broken. It was only when blood dripped from McCree’s nose that the brute released the electric current, pulling back and grinning at the mess that was Jesse McCree.

               Jesse sagged against the rope, facing the ground. For a moment, the cocky façade fell to reveal the extent of the torture that had been inflicted on him. His captor grinned victoriously, moving in to grip at his jaw again, pulling that terrified face up, just to spit back into it. The gunslinger didn’t flinch; perhaps he was even used to it. “Blackwatch plans, McCree. Just tell us, and we’ll let you go.”

               He took a staggering breath in, attempting to refocus wandering eyes. Jesse wasn’t sure if he was fit to spell his name, let alone explain the highly-confidential and complex plans of the organization. The grin was carefully reconstructed, prepared, before he put it back on. And just like that, Jesse McCree had replaced the mask that 14 volts of electricity had shattered.

               “M’boss is sure gonna be mad atcha’. This was the prettiest face he had in Blackwatch.”

               The man hissed in disgust and snapped a punch in toward Jesse’s core. There was an audible snap and a faint, pained exhale of air that announced the broken rib. Frustrated, his tormenter flipped off the dim, single bulb in the cell and slammed the door behind him. Alone, Jesse took advantage of the brief peace to slide his eyes closed and silently pray for God, or Gabe, or both, to deliver him home.

               They moved him at some point while he was unconscious. Instead of the dusty basement that had been Jesse’s cell for the week that had passed, white walls and the cool smell of antiseptic surround him. Kinda like Angela, he noted absently. Without the torture, of course.

               Somewhere above his head, two people conversed. One, the large brute from earlier, and the other was a quieter, more feminine voice. None less vicious, though. This wasn’t salvation, just a fresh form of hell. Desolate and suffering, Jesse let out his first protest in the form of a long groan as the tender skin of his skull fell back on the cold metal table. The newest prison.

               The woman shoo’d the brute away, who simply growled at Jesse as he passed. She clipped over, staring down with gray eyes that betrayed nothing. A lock of graying brown hair slipped from the tight, military style bun. There were smiling lines, and thin lips that pursed into a scowling smile. She was not a nice woman, he could tell that right off the bat. More pain would come to him, perhaps worse than the man and his jumper cables.

               There was a smile that Jesse swore made his teeth rot. Yellowed, organized teeth shone as she tightened a buckle on his wrist and ankle restraints. “Jesse McCree. Son of Carmen Sandovol and Malcolm McCree.  Delinquent. Runt of a gang. Picked up by—“A wetted finger flipped the page of her clipboard, retrieved from a nearby counter—“Marcus Rucks.” She stuck out a hand, finger still glistening, before wincing dramatically at his binds and dropping the narrow digits to her side. “I’m Dr. Orbe.”

               McCree couldn’t deny the small wave of terror that shivered through him as she rattled off facts that not even Gabe was allowed. No longer was he simply McCree, the deadly gunslinger. He was Jesse, a simple man that enjoyed a simple life and in the long run, didn’t want much trouble in life. The mask slipped some, revealing the doubt in both himself and those that relied on him to keep the secrets that rattled under those dark locks.

               “Don’t suppose yer gonna’ let me outta here.” Jesse mumbled, squeezing both eyes shut. “Be real good for m’health to not be tortured.”

               “No, the opposite, unfortunately.” Her voice didn’t reflect the sentiment as a vial was retrieved, red liquid sloshing in the glass tub. An IV that had been missed early was retrieved, Dr. Orbe aligning the needle with the clear tubing. “This is Acetonitrile. It’s not meant to hurt you in small doses, but this is three times the recommended dose. It’s going to hurt, Jesse. I suggest you tell me what we need to know now, before I use it. The thrashing is going to make it damn near impossible to return your ribs to their proper condition.”

               Tanned skin paled at the sight of the needle, so close to the IV. No longer was McCree dominating his mind, the idea of a man that couldn’t care about life nor death or what came first. It was Jesse, a ten-year-old with a dead daddy and an imprisoned mother. He was Jesse, who turned to killing as a necessary part of life, who cried silently over every expelled bullet and downed man. But Jesse was still devoted to Blackwatch and those that pulled him out of a life of a downward spiral.

               “I don’t gotta tell ya where he is.” Jesse carefully took in a breath, all too aware of the faint burn of broken ribs. “ ‘cuz he’s gonna be here. T’ get me out. Then you gotta deal with him and believe me, he ain’t gonna be happy if you’re gonn’ be injecting some kinda’ Aceton in me.”

               The doctor shook her head, but wouldn’t deny the vicious look that resided in the creases of her face. “You’re making a mistake, Jesse.” She offered him one last nightmare-inducing smile before setting his very blood on fire.

               His first instinct was to freeze. The drug crawled through his veins slowly, turning the blue into a dark, rich purple that stood out in sharp relief against the tanned muscles. Nothing appeared to happen for a moment, both Jesse and the doctor waiting apprehensively. Finally, it struck. A faint moan forced itself from his hoarse throat, McCree tightening against the tight bounds that held him. Both eyes squeezed shut, worn teeth gnashed as he struggled. Mumbled groans quickly turned to faint whines and whimpers, and finally into full blown screams. His very blood was set alight, the drug burning through his flesh and bones. Jesse was melting, he was convinced. There would be no escape from this, not when the fire burned him from the inside out.

               “I’ll be back soon enough to give your next dose.” The doctor clipped out, a satisfied shrug to her shoulders.

               Jesse screamed until his voice broke.

The next time someone came in, McCree had slowly reformed his resolve. The poison had worked itself from his system, filtered through his liver until only traces remained. There would be no way that they would get Blackwatch’s movements, no way that he would give up Gabe. No matter the amount of shit and manipulation that Gabe and the others had put him through, Jesse was simply too stubborn to release that crucial information.

A thick noise resounded against the floor, the sound of several heavy boots clattering against the clean tile. Much different than the click-clack of the woman’s heels. Brown eyes flickered open warily, pulling gently against the noose that remained around his neck to keep his head straight. He searched the ceiling above him for the source of the sudden change. Last time there had been change, McCree had ended up with the evil doctor. Whatever fresh hell that they had prepared for him, Jesse was uncertain of how much more his body could take.

“Jesse?” Came the incredulous growl that made McCree flinch. The boots darted closer, McCree tensing in preparation for the incoming blows. Instead, a familiar face floated above him. Fear was an emotion that Jesse had never seen on Gabe’s face, and decided right there that he would avoid causing the man any more disconcert right there. “You good, cowboy?”

Gabe moved, ripping the knife from his belt. Involuntarily, Jesse flinched as he went somewhere above his head to saw at the rope that constantly choked him. Below him, Genji released the shackles, freeing legs that had long since gone numb. Soon enough, his wrists were released and Gabe helped Jesse to raise to a sitting position. Blood, pus, and embarrassingly enough, tears, leaked from his form. Someone pressed a cloth against his face, wiping away the stray fluids; Gabe let out a quiet noise as the broken man leaned into the hold.

               “I’m good, boss.” His voice rasped quietly, torn apart by earlier screams. “Ya’sure took a long time gettin’ here.”

               “You lived. Can you walk?” Gabe straightened up, leaving the rag in Jesse’s hand. He slipped between the two personas with scary ease. “C’mon, kid, we’re going to get you outta here.”

               His head swam as he nodded. Gabe gripped at one shoulder while Genji wrapped his arm around the other. Carefully, they pulled the man from the table, only narrowly catching him from falling to the unforgiving ground below. Boots dragged against the ground, unable to support his body weight. Thankfully enough, Gabe and Genji managed to carry Jesse out to the waiting transport truck outside. There would be punishments later, Gabe making him run until he puked or something similar, for slipping up and getting himself captured. For now, though, it was time for healing. It was time for Jesse to rest, to watch old westerns until he hated the sound of John Wayne’s voice and play board games with the new girl, Oxton, until she twitched weird and ruined the board. It was time for him to go home and heal and get right back out into the field to do it all over again.

Jesse fell asleep on the ride home and didn’t wake up again until Mercy was standing above him, asking him this and that about his injuries. Once her fussing had been satisfied, Jesse fell back asleep.  

[serve-the-legion]

The Prodigal Son: Part VI

~ The Cleansing 

( Part I ), ( Part II ), ( Part III ), ( Part IV ), ( Part V )

Teron’gor sat there alone, dazed and with no company save the siphoned-dry corpse of Nar’dok. Shaken to his very core thanks to what he had seen, the young orc stared absently into a rockface - petrified. Ironic that such a horrifying spectacle took place on such a pleasant night. The breeze was cool and the glow of the moon basked everything in the watercolor of dreaming. 

When Gul’dan finally returned, Teron’gor didn’t bother looking at him, an action made far more by numbness than fear. In as high spirits as he had been in some time, Gul’dan nimbly scooped up his staff which lay next to the shriveled husk of his first victim that night. The warlock put a hand out to his companion yet the companion did not take hold, still staring off into nothingness. 

A rough exhale seeped out of Gul’dan’s mouth as he knelt down to be at Teron’gor’s level. Glancing up at the sky briefly, Gul’dan spoke. 

“You no doubt have questions of what my business in that cave was...” 

Teron’gor didn’t speak. Gul’dan decided to continue. 

“He’s dead... Waste Scar. By my hand.”

Teron’gor had assumed as much thanks to thundering explosion he heard. Gul’dan didn’t care, he spoke for himself more than anyone else.

“Yet... This is not over. In the village below are those who harbored him - those who kept him alive... his people.”

Slowly shifting his glazed-over gaze to Gul’dan, Teron’gor began to come alive again, hanging on the warlock’s next words very carefully. 

“They are brutish and terrible things, Teron’gor. They intend to barter an orc into bondage... to OGRES, the same as you were... Are we to let that happen?"

Heavy breathing heralded a hoarse and quiet response from Teron’gor.

“But there… there are children…”

“Children who in time will be no different than their mothers and fathers... The cycle must be broken.”

Glassy eyes twitching for a moment, Teron’gor placed his face into his rough hands, falling silent again. Gul’dan sighed lightly, placing a hand firmly on the former slave’s shoulder. 

“This world has done nothing but take from you... Take from it now. Avenge those who you lost and gain all which I have to offer you-”

Green ethereal ribbons danced all along Gul’dan’s hand, he rose it for Teron’gor to see. 

“-I have heard the whispering of power without end... HE bestowed this gift unto me and I can, in time, teach you that which I know... You shall want for NOTHING!”

Teron’gor shook his head, eyes sunken. Silence for such a lengthy time... then response. 

“I- ............... I can’t.”

Gul’dan stared for a breath before standing up rather sluggishly. With a flick of the hand he put up his hood and sneered down to Teron’gor. 

"What are orcs without our vengeance? Settle as you desire... I go alone.”

With that, Gul’dan turned away from Teron’gor and left the curled-up orc to himself amidst the hills. 

---

Gul’dan had gotten lost. Without a guide to show him these twisting paths, it was nearly impossible to know just where one was going save toward the foot of the hills. A precarious ravine was on one side of Gul’dan as he walked, a thick wall of thistles and stone on the other. Cursing under his breath, the warlock would glance over his shoulder from time to time, checking if a certain orc would come to their senses and follow... the certain orc never showed. 

When his attention should’ve been on his footing, it was over his shoulder - a chunk of earth gave way - Gul’dan slipped. Heart leaping into his throat and hands swinging through empty air, he spilled over the edge and into the ravine. Death seemed a swift and inventive outcome yet in all of his flailing Gul’dan was able to grasp hold of thick foliage hanging from the ravine’s edge. The orc then smacked into the ravine’s rocky face and let out a sharp snarl as one of his tusk’s connected particularly harsh, chipping its tip. 

He was alive. At least for now. If he died here the only signs of his entire legacy would be his staff on the ravine’s edge and his rotten bones below; far from the destiny Gul’dan planned for himself. Heavily panting, he began to pull himself up the tangled mess of vines, eyes set to the distant ledge above him. Yet this ascension was not to last; half way up his lifeline tore, and Gul’dan was forced to grab hold of the uneven stone. 

Eyes wide with rage that swallowed all fear, Gul’dan snarled toward the sky.

“No- NO!! It cannot end like this!”

Growling with animal-like determination, Gul’dan clawed up some way only to lose his grip and plummet down for a panicked moment before grabbing hold of the wall again. Letting out a bitter roar, Gul’dan hung his head, sweat dripping from his brow. He had wasted a great deal of energy trying to get back up there... his grip was beginning to fail him now.

So this is how it ended? Receive godlike power only to fall into an earthen crack and die. Perhaps, Gul’dan thought to himself, this was The Elements final cruel act toward him? What abhorrent and foul thing was circumstance to allow- 

“Jeso?”

Wait. A voice. Carefully did Gul’dan turn his gaze upward to the ledge of the ravine. Upon the ledge stood a figure the likes of which Gul’dan had never seen, yet he knew immediately what it was... it was a draenei. 

The draenei looked down to Gul’dan directly, jolting when he realized that there was in fact someone holding on for dear life down there. Endurance fading with each passing moment, Gul’dan snarled up at the stranger.

“You there!” he nearly lost his grip, grunting and clawing till he had it again, “Help me!”

Frantically nodding his head some, the draenei gestured widely as he began to kneel down, continuing on in that language Gul’dan didn’t understand in the least.  

“A’deit edos! A’deit edos!”

Slinging his large pack off his back, the draenei rummaged through its contents with great haste. Gul’dan was growing impatient, yet how could he not route for whatever plan the alien was concocting?  It wasn’t long until the draenei pulled out bundle of rope from his bag, holding it above his head and triumphantly declaring, “Aar-don'sha, ki kahl'dos!”

Gul’dan snarled and rolled his head as an agitated beast would, he yelled back up to the draenei.

“Extraordinary. THROW IT DOWN!!”

The draenei tied off the rope to a thick-enough bush’s trunk then threw down its length to Gul’dan, who sloppily took hold and started to make his way up with the help of his savior. Heaving and sweating all the way up, Gul’dan collapsed with fatigue when he finally reached safety. Pulling Gul’dan away from the ravine’s edge, the draenei let out a hearty chuckle, patting the orc as he tried to pulled away from the embrace.

“Tor nai mili’edos, eh, LOK’TAR! Heh heh?”

Gul’dan rolled away, panting and nodding his head. 

“Yes. Yes. Victory...” 

The orc glared over his shoulder at the beaming draenei. He muttered a single phrase to it, however much it splintered into his pride.

“My thanks...”

Standing himself up, Gul’dan rolled his shoulder’s to an orchestra of pops and cracks. The draenei handed the warlock over his staff, this warranted a quarter-nod from Gul’dan. Yet the orc was tired of his interaction with the draenei already, so he began to make his way back down the path yet was halted when the draenei called after him.

“Onamah’ein tos Rahma! Edos?” he put a hand to his chest and repeated, “Rahma.”

Growling ever-so slightly, Gul’dan turned halfway to look at the one presumably named Rahma. He put a hand to his own chest and bluntly stated.

“Gul’dan.”

And that was the end of that, Gul’dan would have no more and so he moved along again. He’d find the village eventually - it was just a matter of time.

Rahma waved merrily after Gul’dan.

“Antiana, Gul’dan!”

---

It took Gul’dan far longer to leave the hills than it did to find his prize within them. All through the night he traversed the winding paths and obstacles they presented, guided by moonlight and walked with greater caution than before thanks to a near-fatal mistake. Destiny would have it though that Gul’dan eventually came upon familiar ground, a tucked away path led him eventually to the main one which had taken him up to Thal’dan’s cave hours before. 

The sun was just beginning to rise when Gul’dan finally reached the village, his hood up and visage concealed. For how early in the day it was, the village was apparently aflutter with activity already. Orcs were rushing to the large communal area at the center of the village, or so it appeared. This excitement made it quite easy for Gul’dan to slip in undetected. He didn’t have an answer for where his two companions were, after all.

Following the crowds to the center of the community led Gul’dan to a sight as much spectacle as it was business; an auction. There, chained to a post atop one of the many large, large flat stones, was none other than the orc who Gul’dan and Teron’gor had seen on their way out of the village the previous day. Looking over her were three ogres, ogres who looked a great deal like the one who had ‘owned’ Teron’gor. They were all stroking their chins thoughtfully and bartering with the village’s chief. 

“HmMm... She looks HALE enough, I suppose.” one ogre grumbled.

“Hale enough for you not able to afford her...” another growled. 

“We're looking for the highest bidder - Doesn’t matter to us what’s done after...” the village chieftain grunted.

This orc about to be sold had fight in her, that much was apparent. Why else would’ve they used so many chains? She spit on one of the ogres, was slapped upside the head, then spat again (this time with a bit of blood). Gul’dan mingled in with the crowd, keeping his gaze on the transaction. He was surrounded by the entire village practically. No one had noticed him slip in and what came next would be all too easy... it would be a slaughter. 

Scanning his surrounding, Gul’dan took in every detail he could. He didn’t want anyone escaping yet he also would like to spare the chained orc and perhaps find a disciple in her. Though his power was being honed more every day, it still had the generally accepted effect of a bomb going off. 

Gul’dan closed his eyes and began to blot out all the noise which surrounded him, focusing inward as the voice crawling around in his mind had advised during the night. Control, or at least the confidence in it, began to build up until- WHOOOSH! Something flew right over his head! The sound that followed was the sick SMACK that a blade plummeting into flesh creates. Gul’dan’s gaze shot ahead of him to see one of the ogres swaying side to side with an ax lodged his head before crashing to the ground with a THUNK! The orc chained to the post began to laugh madly, she was ecstatic and found whatever just happened remarkably amusing. 

Spinning around to look behind him through the hysterical crowd, Gul’dan came to see a very familiar figure standing alone about 15 meters back; it was Teron’gor, and he was pointing another ax toward the ogres. Eyes wild with that rage only orcs could conjure, Teron’gor roared at the top of his lungs, retaliation already rushing toward him.

Gul’dan was impressed, if not shocked. Teron’gor’s swift and violent outburst stirred up the perfect chaos in which Gul’dan could unleash his power. In the blink of an eye fel fire ignited like a cyclone around him, heralded by a crack like thunder and a torrent of screaming and cries. 

All who were directly around Gul’dan vanished in a flash of fire, evaporated to ashen remains before the screams could even leave their throats. Teron’gor stumbled back, eyes wide at the explosion of power. A maddened spark within him contorted the young orc’s face into an expression that could only be descried as admiration. Yet admiration would have to wait, soon Teron’gor found himself engaged with a cluster of orcs charging him. They weren’t what he wanted dead; it was the ogres who were his prize.

The remaining two ogres attempted to run off, one trampling over the village’s chief, yet the chaos that was being caused got the two brutes locked within the countless droves which were rushing ever which way to escape the demonic holocaust that was only just beginning. 

As Teron’gor pushed through the ranks of his orcish attackers, Gul’dan tore through the village. Sloppily hurling out explosions of fel fire, the warlock began to eviscerate the crowd about him, none able to even touch him. The horrific orchestra of screams where not excluded to just the warriors of the village, the cries of mothers and their children added to the unholy music. While Gul’dan wielded his power with terrifying effectiveness, his mastery of it was novice at best compared to the being who bestowed it to him. Towering blasts of fel went off like geysers, sending entire clusters of orcs flying into the air, screaming and blazing with twisting green fire. These blasts were stirred up into the clouds above the village. Gul’dan turned to the sky and the twirling fel energies which were accumulating. The voice in his head returned, it sounded pleased.

       “Reach...

                               to the heavens...

                                                             that power...

                                                                                         IS YOUR OWN!”

Heeding the words of The Beautiful One who crawled about in his mind ever-so-often, Gul’dan reached up with his foul will and began to churn the storm above him even more. Awe filled his glowing eyes, awe which slowly devolved into a maddened laughter which echoed throughout the pandemonium. 

“ALL WHO STAND AGAINST ME SHALL BURN!!!”

With a single yet awesomely powerful pull down, Gul’dan heaved streaking bolts of flame down onto the village, exploding the walls into an inferno. No where to run now.

Yet the fires of fel where not the only dark force to claim those who Gul’dan now slaughtered. As the warlock blasted through the villagers, some that were not even in direct contact found their strength seep away and their life drain.

Teron’gor pushed through the fleeing crowds and leaped over the piles of smoldering dead, chasing after one of the ogres caught up in the mess. Clamoring up a rock, Teron’gor hurled himself into the air roaring and landed upon the ogre’s shoulders, hacking down upon the beast with his ax over and over again until it collapsed. Rage cooking the young orc’s mind to nothing but a weapon, he voraciously leaned forward and sunk his jaws into the throat of the ogre before yanking back and tearing it, releasing a fountain of blood. 

The fires had grown so extensive by this point that Gul’dan needn’t conjure any more, instead powerful motions of the arms flung waves of fel over crowds of would-be-attackers and innocent bystanders. The last remaining ogre plowed through a crowd of those fleeing to outrun one wave, only to be consumed screaming by another. 

His dark hair wildly bellowing in the boiling wind, Gul’dan turned quickly where the would-be-slave was chained up. She was looking around slowly, flabbergasted and barely believing what she was witnessing. Eventually her gaze met with Gul’dan and the two stared at each other for a moment - she began to hysterically laugh, throwing her head forward and relishing in the madness (or was it salvation?) of it all.

Not even having to control their path now, Gul’dan turned away from the fires which even now consumed entire clusters of orcs without his guide. Steadily he made his was across the sea of shriveled corpses, eventually coming to stand before the laughing orc. The warlock looked over the orc for a moment before grabbing hold of the chains which tied her to the post with a burning hand. After only a few seconds of his hand upon the chains, they crackled and popped apart, clattering to the ground. Flicking molten metal off of his hands, Gul’dan tilted his head slightly and spoke.

“What do they call you?”

Rubbing her wrists some, the orc nodded a mad grin on her face.

“Czak’ra... you?”

“Gul’dan... Consider this freedom.”

Czak’ra nodded her head some, black (yet singed) hair bouncing up and down. She gave a leisurely pan over the fiery hellscape which she now stood in the middle of. 

“Power like this... It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen! How- How does one-”

Her eyes flicked back quickly to Gul’dan.

“I wish to follow it... if it would have me.”

Czak’ra knelt down, bowing her head to the Lord of Nightmares before her. Gul’dan put a hand out to her, she glanced up and grinned, taking hold and helping her up. After Gul’dan pulled Czak’ra up to her feet he descended from the stone where the auction would’ve taken place. 

His eyes took notice of a survivor among the dead, the village shaman attempting to crawl away, the entire lower part of her body shriveled and drained-dry of life. Gul’dan calmly stepped over the dead and began to close the gap between himself and the shaman. She took notice of this soon and panicked, screaming and trying to claw away yet given how many dead littered the ground it was impossible.

Teron’gor stumbled into the area again, covered head to toe with blood and ash. He glanced over to Gul’dan before collapsing onto the ground, exhausted. His eyes alone showed the orc who had once lived inside was gone.

The panicking shaman had the shadow of Gul’dan now looming over her, screams piping up so hoarsely they were barely describable. The warlock shook his head, putting a clawed finger to his lips.

“Shhh, shh, shhh. There is no need to call unto the elements, shaman... they cannot hear you.”

Gul’dan knelt down beside the old orc, she froze up in terror and started to weep uncontrollably. With a few gentle pats, Gul’dan placed a hand upon the shaman’s head. 

“After all, what does does it matter? ... In the end we all serve... well. They will see.”

He burst the shaman’s head into flames and smashed it into the ground. 

Taking a deep breath in, Gul’dan closed his eyes and relished in all the fuel which now bolstered his entire being. Rising slowly up from the ground with hands outstretched the warlock began to chuckle, a chuckle with sharply turned into an invigorated growl. To say he was drunk off power would be an understatement. 

“This is only the beginning, my friends! NEVER AGAIN will any who follow me answer to this world - BEHOLD!!”

Gul’dan gestured wildly to the waves of green fire all around them.

“EVERY TESTAMENT OF MY UNDENIABLE POWER WILL RALLY THOSE WISE ENOUGH TO ABANDON THEIR PROSAIC WAYS!! AND YOU- “

He looked between Teron’gor and Czak’ra, both who were hanging on his every crazed word.

“-You shall aid me. You shall walk with me TOWARD THIS SALVATION! For none- NONE MAY STAND AGAINST THE MIGHT OF DARKNESS INCARNATE!”

The raving orc turned quickly to Teron’gor, pointing to him.

“TERON’GOR! You have tasted it, have you not? The nectar of vengeance! It gives you strength, my friend! This is not the end of it either- no, no. WE WILL FIND THE REST OF THOSE OGRES IN TIME AND MAKE THEM PAY FOR THEIR ACTIONS!”

Teron’gor slowly nodded his head, his expression devoid of life save the sick smile that was growing. Gul’dan mirrored with a smile of his own, yet this one was full of pride as it was teeth. 

“WE NOW TAKE AS WE PLEASE FROM THIS WORLD FOR IT GAVE US NOTHING! THIS IS OUR TIME - OUR TIME TO CONQUER!” 

Gul’dan gazed upon his two disciples, those two lost disciples. The first of many. 

The village burned up. No soul ever knew what did it. Three orcs left. The world burned up next.

---

THE END

[tune-collective]

The Songwriters, Collaborators & Producers Behind Kendrick Lamar's 'DAMN.'

The Songwriters, Collaborators & Producers Behind Kendrick Lamar's 'DAMN.'

DAMN. is right. Like a cannonball leaping into the hip-hop pool, Kendrick Lamar dropped his splashy and highly anticipated fourth album (if you count the beloved Section.80) this week to near-universal raves from critics and a wave of adoration from fans.

His first studio album since the Grammy-winning To Pimp a Butterfly, DAMN. is classic Lamar in full glory: mellow, poetic and rough around the edges. Featuring a range of collaborators from all spectrums of music — including superstar hip-hop producers, fresh up-and-comers, an experimental jazz quartet and even craftsman who created hits for Adele and Sia — here are some of the most notable names who worked with Lamar to bring DAMN. to life.

Sounwave

One of Lamar’s most frequent and earliest collaborators, Sounwave (the moniker of Mark Spears) produced eight tracks on DAMN., making him the busiest name on the album. Makes sense, considering the Compton-raised producer is one of Top Dawg Entertainment’s in-house beatsmiths (dubbed Digi+Phonics) and worked with Lamar on his self-titled 2009 EP, as well as his breakout track “Bitch Don’t Kill My Vibe.”

“He knows what his sound is and he knows what he wanted it to sound like,” Sounwave told The Fader in 2012 about working with the rapper. “If he has a melody in his head he doesn’t care what time it is, he’ll show up at my house unannounced and just hum it to me. I’ll play it on my keyboard, he’ll probably take off and then an hour later I’ll send it to him. That’s usually how all our beats come about.”

Mike Will Made-It

One of three producers to receive sole credit on DAMN. (the others being Sounwave and The Alchemist), Mike Will Made-It’s production stylings can be heard on three tracks: lead single “HUMBLE.” as well as “DNA.” and the U2-featured “XXX.” The credit is just the latest notch on the superstar producer’s belt, whose debut studio album Ransom 2 dropped in March. He’s also the EarDrummers mastermind behind the success of Rae Sremmurd (producing their viral smash “Black Beatles” as well as initial hits “No Type” and “No Flex Zone”), and gave Beyonce a breakout hit with “Formation.” And who did Miley Cyrus call on when she was trying to shed her good girl image? You bet it was Mike Will, who produced her 2013 hit party anthem “We Can’t Stop.” Perhaps it was inevitable that the producer and Lamar linked up as they’re repped by the same manager, DJ Mormile.

Teddy Walton

Alongside Sounwave, Greg Kurstin and Anthony “Top Dawg” Tiffith, DAMN.’s 10th track, “LOVE,” featuring Los Angeles artist Zacari, was co-produced by rising 24 year-old Teddy Walton. A Memphis native who was discovered by A$AP Yams, Walton broke onto the scene co-producing A$AP Rocky’s “Electric Body” from his second album AT.LONG.LAST.A$AP.

Walton and Lamar met through a Top Dawg rep, and the two hit it off. “[Kendrick] was like, ‘Actually play anything… sounds… instruments… like anything you have, it don’t even have to be a beat,’” Walton recently told Noisey. “So I just started playing all my older songs that I’m not even done with, just instruments and stuff and actually at that moment, he kind of didn’t seem too interested in some of the stuff that I was playing.”

Later, a Top Dawg rep followed up. “They said, ‘Send the tracks out, send the tracks out please. Send whatever you played.’ That’s how I found out I was officially on his album.” According to Walton, Lamar himself had high hopes for the track. “Kendrick looked at me and said, ‘Yo, this is going to be big.’”

Greg Kurstin

One of the more unlikely names found in DAMN.’s credits, Greg Kurstin is arguably best known for his collaboration with Adele on her earth-shaking smash “Hello,” a recent Grammy winner for song and record of the year. Kurstin also scored a Grammy for best producer, which could be why Lamar recruited his sharp talents to spruce up DAMN.’s 10th track “LOVE.,” originally concocted by the aforementioned Teddy Walton. The producer behind everything from Niall Horan’s debut solo single “This Town” to the 2014 Sia smash “Chandelier,” Kurstin is reportedly currently helping Paul McCartney craft the legend’s next album.

James Blake

DAMN.’s fourth track, “ELEMENT.,” features both writing and production work from none other than the English singer-songwriter James Blake. Coincidentally nominated for the best new artist Grammy in 2014 alongside Lamar (both lost to, you guessed it, Macklemore and Ryan Lewis), Blake is no stranger to helping out with blockbuster projects. He’s collaborated in the past with a range of boldface names, from Frank Ocean (on his video album Endless) to Beyonce (on her blockbuster Lemonade).

Cardo

Launching his career upon giving Wiz Khalifa beats after the rapper’s show, Denver, Colo., native Cardo (real name Ronald LaTour) has since produced tracks for everyone from Drake to Jay Z.  Cardo co-produced DAMN.‘s 13th track, “GOD.,” a collaboration between him and Lamar that began when the two worked on music for his 2016 compilation untitled, unmastered.

According to Cardo, when speaking to Complex last year, Lamar told him: ‘”Bro, you’re not going to put out another album without me being on it.’ We both just started laughing, and he’s like, ‘I got you, I got you.’ I was like, ‘Come on, bro, I need to be on the next project.’ That eventually happened, and I thought that was really, really crazy.”

BADBADNOTGOOD

Co-Producing “LUST.” (alongside Sounwave and DJ Dahi) is Toronto quartet BADBADNOTGOOD (Matthew Tavares, Chester Hansen, Leland Whitty, and Alexander Sowinski). Bursting onto the scene after releasing jazzy and experimental covers of tracks by everyone from Kanye West to Odd Future, the band has also collaborated with a host of other artists including Earl Sweatshirt, Snoop Dogg and Danny Brown. “LUST.” also features original vocals courtesy of the rising Kaytranada, an announcement BADBADNOTGOOD made on Twitter.

so very proud to be apart of “LUST.” produced by @DjDahi @SounwaveTDE additional vocals @KAYTRANADA —-⭐

— badbadnotgood IV 😉 (@badbadnotgood) April 11, 2017

Bekon

Credited on seven songs throughout DAMN. (“BLOOD.”, “YAH.”, “ELEMENT.”, “PRIDE.”, “XXX.”, “GOD.”, “DUCKWORTH.”) , it’s a feat that could mark Bekon’s big break after working for the better part of the last decade under the name Danny Keyz and crafting tracks for a range of rap legends including Eminem, RZA, and Snoop Dogg. Last year, Bekon nabbed a Grammy nod for his co-writing work on BJ the Chicago Kid’s album In My Mind. Bekon (real name Daniel Tannenbaum) also co-wrote and lent his vocals n the Dr. Dre Compton cut “All in a Day’s Work.”

Terrace Martin

Another one of DAMN.’s jazzy contributors (in addition to the aforementioned BADBADNOTGOOD), Martin is a Grammy-winning producer who previously worked with Lamar on his landmark To Pimp a Butterfly. Teaming up with everyone from Stevie Wonder to Busta Rhymes, Martin is now reportedly at work producing new music for jazz legend Herbie Hancock.

The Alchemist

One of the most veteran collaborators Lamar worked with on DAMN., The Alchemist (born Daniel Alan Maman) has been a major player in hip-hop since he was part of the duo The Whooliganz in 1991 (His partner was the actor Scott Caan). Since taking a solo rap career, he’s done everything from create the soundtrack for GTA V to DJ for Action Bronson. Of course, he’s produced as well, crafting tracks for Bronson, Dilated Peoples and Joey Bada$$. On DAMN., The Alchemist co-produced “FEAR.”

Rihanna

Is any hip-hop record worth their salt this day and age without a song featuring Rihanna? Hot off of her recent team-up with Future for “Selfish” off his HNDRXX album, the superstar lends her impressive, yet sometimes elusive, rap skills to “LOYALTY.” Elsewhere on DAMN., Lamar mentions Rihanna’s multi-million dollar 2012 lawsuit against her former accountant stemming from shady business practices. (The two later settled out of court for a cool nine million bucks.) “I read a case about Rihanna’s accountant and wondered/ How did the bad girl feel when she looked at them numbers?” he raps on “FEAR.” “The type of shit’ll make me flip out/ And just kill somethin’, drill somethin’.”

U2

Lamar and U2 may sound like an odd team-up, but the superstar band and Compton rapper meld together perfectly on DAMN.’s edgy track “XXX.” Produced by the aforementioned Mike Will, the song is a politically charged anthem that touches on various themes concerning post-Obama America and features the legendary Bono belting out “It’s not a place/ This country is to be a sound of drum and bass” in his full glory. This isn’t the first time Lamar collaborated with a rock band, teaming up in the past with the likes of Imagine Dragons and sampling indie rock favorites Beach House on his album good kid, m.A.A.d. City.

This article originally appeared on Billboard.

http://tunecollective.com/2017/04/19/songwriters-collaborators-producers-behind-kendrick-lamars-damn/

[fate-ad2021]

11. “Four of Thirteen”

Session 11, Feb 5, 2017

Word count: 7,138

In-Game Date:  Saturday, June 12, 2021

In which the group meticulously digs up plot points.

I. Servant Identities

While the Servants are out playing rescue crew, Valentin remembers that he wanted to try to determine Lancer’s identity.  He recalls the name of her Noble Phantasm, so starts by searching for that.

He does find a few bits and pieces of information:  the cursed crimson lance is associated with a legendary figure from Irish mythology.  Unfortunately, the name that he keeps coming across is the Hound of Ulster, Cúchulainn – definitely a male figure.  Val is fairly certain that the red-eyed woman is not Cúchulainn, but at this point in the War, he decides to refrain from making such a judgment call.

Likewise, Jim attempts to learn more about Saber.  The group knows already that he is called the White Knight of the Sun, but anything else that they can find would be helpful.  Although jim comes away with the certainty that they are dealing with a Knight of the Round Table, but unfortunately, what little they have seen of the man could fit many of the knights.

II. Fruits of Their Labor

At around 2 o’clock in the afternoon, Granny and Magnuson both get back to Jim and Val respectively.

Granny Gertrude confirms what they already knew about Grigori Vasilyevich:  that he is a Russian researcher who is known for his work on energy storage.  She also discovered that he has had contact with Rocco Belfaban in the past.  None of it is particularly new information, but it serves to shore up some of the holes in narrative that the group has been uncovering:  it is possible that at one point Vasilyevich had legitimate business with Belfaban, but he must have used that precedent in his ruse to get McFarrell to make the shipment to the Vatican.

Granny also made a truly interesting discovery:  Grigori Vasilyevich is the nephew of Anastasia Cartwright, the mastermind behind the American Grail Wars.  Jim passes this on to Val, but neither of them can figure out what the implications of that information might be.  Clearly, it explains his connection to the War, but how?

Meanwhile, Magnuson gets back to Val with information about Orsino Veronesi.  According to his research, Veronesi retired from being an Executor ten years ago.  The official reports that Magnuson found say that it was for age reasons:  the man was pushing 60 years old.  But that itself struck Magnuson as odd; most Executors tend to succumb to the dangers of their line of work before that age.  After all, Executors take the mandate to be “soldiers of God” quite literally, and it turns out that they often possess magic circuits like mages but are not strong enough or well-placed enough to become proper magi.

A little more digging revealed that the Church had similar concerns.  Veronesi displayed “unusual vitality” for a man of nearly 60 years old, particularly one in this profession:  he regularly shrugged off hits that should have killed him like they were nothing.  Rumor has it, Magnuson found, that Veronesi’s superiors wondered if he had made a deal that a man of God really should not be making.  Regardless of the source of his power, it did not seem to change his basic nature as a compassionate man:  he would often use his newfound vitality to defend people, even people who other Executors may have left to die.

The question remains, though:  why is he back now?

Val and Jim are both hanging up from their respective phone calls when their Servants return with their captives.

III. We Didn’t Start That Fire

“… the latest in a string of terrible tragedies on this gloomy Saturday:  a fire has broken out at an apartment complex in Ostiense.  The blaze led to the deaths of as many as fifty people.  Officials are still investigating the cause, but they estimate that the fire started at around noon.”

Siobhan turns up the volume on the television as the Servants drag the unconscious Jordan and Petri in the door.  The scene behind the reporter clearly shows the wreckage of an apartment complex:  if it is not the one that the Servants had been in two hours prior, it is an eerily similar location.  A replay of a shaky cell phone film shows fire crews rushing to douse the flames as emergency vehicles haul out what are almost certainly corpses.

Siobhan turns on the Servants, fury and betrayal written on her face.  “What the hell were you up to over there?”

“That wasn’t us!”  Assassin protests, as she passes Jordan’s unconscious form to Caster.  Caster in turn motions for Val to help him carry the burdens.  They head back the hall with the two men in tow while Siobhan continues to glare at Assassin.

“So the apartment where you were just conveniently catches on fire around the time that you’re there?”  Siobhan counters.  “And you didn’t think to mention it?”

Jim shoots Assassin a confused look.  “I thought you only burned some incense!”

“I did!”  Assassin insists as Siobhan throws up her hands.  “I started a very small fire to set off the alarm, and then I doused it!”

Jim turns to Siobhan.  “Would you believe me if I said she was telling the truth?”

“I would believe that you believe her.”  Siobhan does not sound convinced.

Jim shook his head.  “I mean, I was watching the whole thing.  We had the whole vision-sharing thing going:  I watched her set the fire under the smoke detector and get everyone out, and I watched her douse it.”

“What happened then?”  Siobhan prompts.

“I entered the apartment that Jordan had gone into,” Assassin explains.  “And Caster entered it as well, to try to locate Petri.  When we got there, there was a group of the cloaked figures that attacked you last night at the bridge, and a… Well, it seemed to be a faery.”

Siobhan’s eyebrows lift sharply, but she says nothing.

“The faery disappeared, but not before it commanded the cloaked things to kill Jordan and Petri.  We dispatched all of the cloaks and brought Jordan and Petri back here.  We suspect that they were connected to Berserker, and we would really like to know how.”

Siobhan searches Jim and Assassin’s faces for a long time, then sighs and pushes her glasses up.  “I want to believe you.  It’s just been a very rough couple of days.”

Lancer pipes up.  “I would also like to believe them.  They’ve been valuable allies, and it would be a terrible thing for this alliance to have to break down now.”

“What do you suggest?”  Siobhan asks.

“I will go with one of them to investigate the site of the fire.  I will report to you what I find.”  By the intensity of the look that passes between them, there seems to be more that Lancer does not say aloud.  Whatever it is, Siobhan must find it reassuring, because she nods.

“I’ll go back,” Assassin offers.  “I would like to know what happened.”

Lancer nods.  “That it is settled.  We’ll go, while you oversee the questioning of the two they brought back.”

“If anyone starts breaking fingers,” Siobhan warns.  “I’m leaving.”

IV. Looking Behind and Ahead

While the others talk, Val and Caster set up a back bedroom to look like a basement.  Caster sets illusions in place while Val sticks the two captives back-to-back in chairs in the middle of the room.  To make sure that their assumptions are correct, Val pulls Petri’s gloves off to reveal that he in fact has half of a Command Seal to match Jordan’s.

Once the two are secure, Caster steps out of the room and centers himself.  He can sense his Master’s concern about Stella, and if he is honest with himself for once, he is concerned as well.  He also found the appearance of the faery from the apartment surprising and worrisome.  Luckily, the Mad Prophet has just the right tools as his disposal to gain insight on both of these things.

He closes his eyes and lets the magic of his heritage reconstruct memories he should not possess…

She did try to get to them, that night on the bridge. It really wasn’t her fault that she got held up. Valentin had called her to practically beg for her help against that damned creepy kid, and she was reluctant and unhappy about it but she did leave the apartment. She was halfway across the city when she ran into the damned priest. The damned priest appeared out of nowhere with his damned knight and made her an offer she couldn’t damn well refuse. So here she sits, in a rather nice office in a rather nice church that feels much more like a prison cell than the actual prison cells that she has been in. Caster’s chuckle at the gunslinger’s internal monologue threatens to boot him out of the memory stream.  He tamps down on his amusement and dives further, seeking the image of “that damned priest”, and is unhappy but wholly unsurprised to see Veronesi’s gently determined face cross Stella’s memory.  He tries to search around more, but something holds him back – the sense of a powerful boundary field surrounding his target.

“Strong enough to keep even my vision out…” he muses.  “It must be the Vatican.”

Continuing his investigations, he flings himself ahead in the time stream with a new target in mind.  The faery proves to be a slippery foe to track down, but he finally locks onto her several hours ahead:  early that evening, she will be at the warehouse to the northeast of town.  Caster sees her standing in the midst of the rubble, staring down at the seal that they had uncovered a few days ago.  He cannot see where she goes after that, but he knows that she will be there.

He drills down further, trying to get a sense of who she is and what is important to her.  She is no one who he recognizes – he has not dealt with her personally before.  But she is a being of light and magic, and she carries with her a sense of powerful loyalty… Not to Faerie itself, but to another figure.  Perhaps the one who summoned her, Caster thinks.

He lets the image go and drags himself back to the present just in time to hear someone suggest that the group should consolidate their information before they start asking Jordan and Petri questions.  Caster stretches and heads back out to the living room to join the others.

V.  Information Consolidation

Sitting around the living room, the group compares notes and tries to nail down all of their current knowledge.

They start by discussing the parties that know about the Holy Grail War, both in general and specifically the one in Rome:

They know that all three branches of the Mage’s Association – the Clock Tower, the Sea of Estray, and the Atlas Academy – know about it.

Reines had told them that the Vatican suspected that this War was coming.  She had also suggested that members of the Red Flower Society – veterans of the American Grail Wars and their associates – may be aware that the War in Rome was looming.

Siobhan points out that her compatriots in the Druidic Reconstruction movement knew about it; they sent her, after all.

The group also knows that the Sophia-Ris know about the Wars in general, and they suspect that the current Sophia-Ri heir – a man named Emil – knows about this one specifically.

They also discuss their knowledge of persons important to this series of Wars:

The late Anastasia Cartwright masterminded the American Grail Wars; Grigori Vasilyevich, her nephew, is a researcher who did work with energy transfer and storage before disappearing form the public eye a few years ago.  They suspect that he is probably the Master of Saber in this War.  They know that whoever Saber’s Master is, he is down a Command Seal after ordering Saber to retreat.

(At this mention, Siobhan rubs her hand, a reminder of her own missing Command Seal.)

The group has learned that the Sophia-Ri family hired Cartwright to figure out how the Holy Grail Wars worked, and that they put out a Sealing Designation on her, probably to stop her from spreading what she learned.

They know that the Sophia-Ris own a number of warehouses that had strange happenings like the fires.  The foreman of one of those warehouses – a man named Thomas McFarrell – had a geis put on him, likely by Vasilyevich, to compel him to start at least one of the fires.  The group also discloses to Siobhan that they sent McFarrell to stay with Reines for protection.

They also recall that McFarrell told them about a delivery from the Mage’s Assocation to the Vatican.  The package allegedly originated from Professor Rocco Belfaban, but they suspect that it was actually from Vasilyevich.  McFarrell had mentioned that the priest who received the package at the Vatican was unusually serene.

The group also recalls that Stella di Presagio, who was part of the War as a favor she owed to someone she could not name due to a similar geis, told the group that her patron has another “known variable” planted in the city for the War.

The discussion turns then to Orsino Veronesi, the priest who is currently working on covering up the bridge incident.  Veronesi is a heretic priest, an Executor brought out of retirement, who all of them can tell is unusually serene, matching McFarrell’s description of the man who received the package.  The group is still uncertain about how he factors in to the War. They also know now that Jordan and Petri – the other potential candidates to be Reines’ representatives in the War – were involved in something and have partial now-scarred Command Seals on their hands.  They resolve to question the two of them about this, as well as the Faery’s mention of the name “Emil” – who was he to them, and why did the Faery say that they had failed him?

Finally, they compare notes about the Masters and Servants who that have encountered:

Jim and Val know the identities of three of the Servants, including their own Assassin – Morgana – and Caster – Merlin.  Siobhan does not press them for that information, nor does she offer up Lancer’s name.

They suspect that Saber is one of the Knights of the Round Table – they know he is called the White Knight of the Sun and that he is devoted to his king and his country, but that is all.  They agree that they think Vasilyevich is his Master.

(Val points out that Saber is “very blonde”.  Caster replies, “So are you, Barry.”)

The group knows that Stella is the Master of Archer, who may or may not also be a Knight of the Round Table.

They suspect that Jordan and Petri were both attached to Berserker, although they do not yet understand how.  They all know that Berserker was Mordred, though, and they are able to establish that there is a strange prevalence of figures from the Arthurian mythos without giving too much away.

The only Servant that they have no information on so far is Rider.

VI. Know Your Enemy

It is around 3 o’clock in the afternoon when they decide that it is time to wake their captives.  Lancer and Assassin take the opportunity to return to the apartment complex in Ostiense to investigate the fire while the others head back the hall to their false basement.  Siobhan reiterates her apprehension, but she seems to relax when Jim and Val both invite her to stay and supervise.

Petri and Jordan are still unconscious when the group enters the room.  After a moment of deliberation, Val and Jim both get an idea which lights up their faces.

“I’ll take the nice one,” Val whispers as he sidles over to stand in front of Jordan.  “You go have fun with Petri Dish.”

Jim nods gleefully and moves to stand in front of his target.  He and Val hold up one finger, then two, then three… and of one accord, they raise their hands to their mouths and bellow, “WAKE UP!”

Both men yelp as they jolt awake, and continue yelling in confusion while their captors double over laughing.  Petri demands an explanation, complete with namedropping his own long lineage, but Jordan silences him with a pinch and turns back to Val.

“Thank goodness it’s just you two,” Jordan sighs.  “I thought I tried to be civil with you in the candy shop.  Here’s hoping it paid off.  Did you…” He glances toward Caster, who is still wearing his guise of the man in the red coat.  “Did you save you from those things?”

“That One,” Val says, jerking his thumb toward Caster, “figured you’d be more useful alive than in pieces.”

“Better prove him right,” Jim adds, cracking his knuckles.

“Now, see here—” Petri begins, drawing an exasperated sigh from Jordan.  Val is ready, though:  from behind his back, he pulls a roll of duct tape.  He wiggles it with a flashy grin before tossing it to Jim, who deftly applies it to Petri’s mouth.

“We’ll talk to you in a minute, Petri Dish.”  Jim pats his cheek in imitation of Val before grabbing another chair and taking a seat.

Val also grabs a chair and spins it around to sit in it backwards, facing Jordan and leaning his elbows on the back of it.  “So,” he begins cheerily.  “Why don’t you tell me what the hell you got yourselves into?”

“Where do you want me to start?”  Jordan asks.

“How about you start with why you double-crossed Reines?”

Jordan glances quickly between Siobhan and Caster, then back to Val before sighing.  “Alright, that one’s easy.  We were never working for Lord El-Melloi.”

“That how’d you get involved in this in the first place?”

“How did you?” Jordan shoots back, clearly unwilling to give without a little information in return.

Val and Jim exchange a look around their captives, then Val offers, “I work for Reines.  I’m one of her spies.  She trusts me, so she asked me to do her a favor.”

Jim pipes up, “I really need a scholarship.  She just kind of called me out of the blue.”

Jordan looks surprised by both of these answers and seems to mull over his own before replying, “I’m from the United States.  I’m a researcher, mostly a chronicler.  A little while ago, I came across something about energy storage; I thought it was really interesting, but most of the papers that I could find—”

“—were in Russian.”  Val and Jim both finished for him.  Jim goes on, “Let me guess:  authored by a guy named Grigori Vasilyevich.”

Jordan seems surprised, but nods.  “That’s right.  When Emil called me, I thought that was why he was pairing me up with Petri.  I figured that Petri was going to be my translator on the project.”

Behind him, Petri makes a face and loud – although muffled – noises of protest.

Jordan goes on, “Emil also promised me – us both, I suppose – a huge amount of status down the line.  All we had to do was get him this one thing.”

“And you didn’t think this was weird at all?”  Val asks.  “With the American Grail Wars and everything?”

Jordan shakes his head.  “They had crossed my radar, but they weren’t my focus by any stretch.  I just figured they were a weird thing that happened, so I didn’t pay much attention to talk of them.”

“So, how did you get caught up with Reines?”

“She called me,” Jordan tells him.  “Emil said that everything would be arranged, and then Reines called.  I didn’t think twice about it until he called again to make sure I’d met up with Petri, and by then… Well, by then, it seemed like it was too late.”

Here, Jim cuts in.  “So, did you summon Berserker?  Or did Petri?”

Jordan hangs his head.  “We both did.”

Everyone present raises an eyebrow at that.  “How?”  Val asks.

“I thought it was one Servant, one Master.”  Siobhan chimes in.

Both Jordan and Petri seem to notice her for the first time, but she says nothing else, only waves for them to get on with their explanation.

Jordan shakes his head.  “It’s supposed to be, but… it turns out that by altering the summoning ritual, the would-be Master can ensure that their Servant becomes the Berserker class.  And, it turns out, that two people providing energy to the summoning circle leads to both of them getting stuck with the Servant.”  He huffs in apparently self-directed annoyance.  “If I had been paying more attention… But by the time I knew what was happening, the kid was already there and we were both stuck with them.”

“Do you even know who you summoned?”  Jim asks.

Jordan shakes his head again.  “I just know that they’re terrifying.  Or… Well, I guess that they were.  Thank you for taking care of that, by the way.”

Again, the captors exchange a glance filled with malicious glee.  “Should we tell them?”  Val asks.

Jim nods vigorously.  “Yeah, you guys managed to summon Mordred.  You know, dread Red Knight, likes blood a lot, killer of King Arthur, all that.”

Jordan and Petri both look horrified, causing Jim and Val to burst into laughter again.  When they quiet down, Jordan looks pensive, then decides, “It makes sense, given what Emil had us pick up from the vault.”

“Which was?”  Caster presses.

Jordan gulps, clearly nervous about being addressed by the person who is likely a Servant.  “Well… Emil used us to pick up a bunch of random stuff from the vault, but the thing he was really insistent on was a crystal-encased piece of wood.  I did some research after we grabbed it, and… it was a shard of the Round Table.”

Jim and Val remembered this piece of information from Reines, but it was news to Caster and Siobhan, whose surprised gasps can be heard in the silence following the declaration.

Caster leans forward.  “Where is it now?”

“We don’t have it anymore,” Jordan replies.  “Emil had us leave it in a dead drop when we were done, and when I checked later, it was gone.”

“So Emil probably has it now,” Val guesses.

Jordan shrugs.  “Or maybe a street urchin got ahold of it, for all we know.  Uh,” he glances over his shoulder at Jim, who is glaring at him.  “Not that I have anything against street urchins.  I just mean that we don’t know where it wound up.”

Val frowns for a moment, then says, “Well, thanks.  We’ll have to double-check your information and all that, but I appreciate your honesty, or at least your deceit with a straight face.  Can I get you anything?”

Jordan starts to shake his head, then coughs and admits, “Water would be great.”

“Should we untie his hands?”  Val asks the room in general.

“It would make it easier for me to drink, yes,” Jordan quips.

“I don’t want you trying anything funny with magecraft!”

Jordan gives Val a critical look, then tells him, “I don’t need my hands to use magic.  I mean, I don’t know what they teach you in pretty boy rock star school.”

Jim laughs in response and unties Jordan while Val goes to retrieve a glass of water.  He returns bearing the water and his guitar.  Jordan sits on the floor against the wall near Siobhan while the captors return to Petri.

Petri continues to make loud noises of protest as Val settles down and begins idly strumming his guitar.  Jim distracts him, though, as he towers over the noble – who looks much smaller without his ridiculous hat – and, glaring at him with all the force of will he can muster, swiftly rips off the duct tape.  Petri howls with resentment, and Siobhan and Jordan wince in sympathy.

“Alright,” Jim demands.  “Why don’t you tell us how an upstanding prick like yourself got drawn into working… under… someone?”

Jordan nearly chokes on the drink he was taking, and Siobhan claps a hand over her mouth to muffle her own laughter.  Val and Caster have no such qualms, though, and again burst out laughing.

Petri huffs and twists his face in displeasure.  “I am a proud scion of the Wilhelm line, and I will not be treated this way!”

“Yeah?” Jim leans forward a little more, his towering frame looming over Petri.  “If the Wilhelm line is so proud, then what gives?”

Petri’s blustering confidence begins to falter.  “We just need… a little help, that’s all.”

Jim and Val exchange another look.  “They’re out of money,” Val translates.

“Socially bankrupt,” Jim muses.

Caster chimes in, “Morally bankrupt as well, I’d imagine.”

Petri blusters for a moment more, then seems to deflate a little.  “Well… Yes.  It is true that we’ve fallen on… fiscally difficult times.”

“And you got into this because…?”  Jim prompts.

“Because I thought Jordan was a financial advisor!”

Jordan looks almost as horrified as he had at the revelation of his Servant’s identity.  Jim throws up his hands.  “Did neither of you two assholes talk to each other?!”

“Well…”  “…No.”

Jim puts his face in his hands.  “So you thought that Emil will pairing you up with a financial advisor, and you ended up summoning a national disaster and getting intimidated by a tiny woman in a restaurant.”

Siobhan and Jordan both look surprised but amused as Petri sputters some more.  “How… How did you know about that?!”

((An attentive reader will recall that all parties at the incident that Jim refers to were under the disguises that Caster had woven for them, besides Assassin, who is not present at this time.))

“Look,” Val says, addressing both of the ex-Masters.  “You got conned.  You get played by a guy named Emil Nuada-Re Sophia-Ri.  Is that right?”

“Sophia-Ri?!”  Petri gasps.  “But… they don’t exist anymore!”

Jim shakes his head.  “People keep saying that, but they definitely do.”

“Not in any meaningful way!”  Petri insists.  “They used to have quite a lot of influence, but not anymore.”  He twists to look at Jordan.  “And as for your paper-writer, Vasilyevich?  I don’t think anyone has heard from him in… oh, at least five years!”

“Well, that’s nice,” Jim drawls sarcastically. “Because that guy has two very shiny Knight hands in this War.”

“What do you know about that Faery, by the way?”  Caster asks.

Petri thinks for a moment.  “If Emil is a Sophia-Ri, as you say, then I assume he summoned it.  His family was always well-known for their summoning proficiency.”

The group exchanges a look of concern and questioning.  Then Jim says, “Alright, one more question:  Where’s the dead drop where you left the Shard?”

“It’s at the Colosseum,” Petri tells them.  “Right outside, I suppose.  At the northwest entrance, there’s a stone in the wall that moves.”

Jim keeps his glare up for another long moment, just to be sure Petri is telling the truth, then relaxes a little and turns to Siobhan.  “I guess we should check in on how they’re doing with investigating the fire.”

“Fire?”  Jordan asks.

Val nods.  “Yeah.  Your place… kinda caught on fire after we got you out of there.”

“Oh!”  Jordan, dismayed at the news, nearly drops his glass.  “My notes!”

VII. Apartments in Ostiense

The scene at the apartment complex has calmed down somewhat since the news report:  fire crews have contained the blaze and most of the bodies seem to have been recovered.  Assassin confirms, to her dismay, that it is the same place from which they rescued Petri and Jordan.  She points out the apartment where the two were staying, and she and Lancer decide to search invisibly so that no one can oust them.  Since they won’t be able to sense each other, they agree to start their searches at opposite ends of the complex and meet on a nearby hill to discuss what they find.

When they meet up half an hour later, they both report the same grave news:  more than one death seal was set at the site.  They seem to have been set up at regular intervals throughout the apartment complex, as though whoever set them either wanted to burn it all down, or had a specific target but was uncertain of where that target would be.  Like the rooms in the warehouse, each of the units seems to have caught fire individually; there is surprisingly little damage to the connecting structures like walls and hallways.  Lancer notes that this is unlike the Pantheon fire, but Assassin points out that the Pantheon was more or less one giant room for the purposes of such a spell.

Assassin also counts the casualties and confirms what the news report said:  at least 50 dead in the blaze.  Lancer observes that most of them were in their apartments at the time, which reasonably absolves Assassin of guilt:  she did set off the fire alarm and watched as people filed out.  The damage is a few hours old, but Assassin and Caster did not see it; they figure that the blaze must have started at 12:30 or 1pm, after the two Servants had left.

As they are mulling over their evidence, Lancer gets a pensive look.

“Yesterday afternoon,” she says.  “After our Masters met for coffee, Siobhan and I went to investigate another warehouse that had caught fire.  The origin of the fire seemed to be magical; like this one, each room seemed to have caught on fire independently.  I did not know what to look for at the time, but I am willing to bet that were we to go back, we would find evidence of this same seal.”

Assassin tilts her head, puzzled.  “Did they have the sense of death as well?”

“No,” Lancer answers.  “Assuming that the fires are from the source, the sense of death seems only to occur when the seals take lives.”

Assassin hums thoughtfully.  “A test run, perhaps?”

“Perhaps,” Lancer agrees.  “What are the commonalties here?  Is the intention to kill, to cause many casualties?  Or to hide evidence of some other wrongdoing?”

“The only common point that we have found so far is the link to the Sophia-Ri family:  the warehouse was owned by them, and it seems that Petri and Jordan have a connection to them as well.  But that does not excuse the attack on the Pantheon.”

“You mentioned last night that it may be a statement of attack against you,” Lancer reminds her.

Assassin nods in confirmation.  “Yes, that seems likely.  But there was also a lot of death from that, as your Master unfortunately had to witness.”

Lancer thinks for a moment more, then frowns.  “This man, this Vasilyevich – what did you say his specialization was?”

Assassin blinks.  “Storage of energy in… Oh.  I have a terrible thought.”

“Speak it,” Lancer invites.

“Vasilyevich was researching storing energy in ordinary objects.  He is likely the one setting the seals.  What if the energy from the deaths was somehow being redirected into the Grail’s vessel?”

Lancer blanches.  “That would be… not good.  I am not sure exactly how not good, but definitely not good.”  She hesitates, then asks Assassin, “How much do you know of the Grail, of its function?”

“Only what I learned upon being summoned:  that it requires energy from the Servants, and that the last one standing will get whatever they wish.”

Lancer leans against a nearby tree and sighs heavily.  “That is also what I learned.  But I fear that this will fall into the same category of all the other wish-granting tales:  there is always a catch, or a terrible price.  I have a terrible thought.”

“Speak it,” Assassin invites gently.

“To my understanding, the filling of the Grail comes not from the Servants’ summoning, but from our passing.  Our deaths are what pour our energy back into the vessel.  I fear that six of the seven of us will be insufficient.  I fear that in order to fully manifest and perform its function, the Grail needs to take us all.”

Assassin feels the speculation like a cold lump in her gut.  She presses on, though, following the line of thinking:  “So then if the lives taken by these seals are being redirected into the Grail, what happens?  How many mortal lives are equal to the life of one Servant?  Will the vessel fill faster, or become overcharged?”

Lancer shakes her head somberly.  “I do not know.  Perhaps it will simply be transfigured, twisted into something terrible by the nature of the energy poured into it.”

Assassin nods.  “I imagine that this Holy Grail War is like any other ritual:  what you put into it must matter and will affect the outcome.  It’s like a cauldron in that regard.”

Both women freeze and lock eyes, the same thought crossing their mind at once:  there is an item that both of them know too well, that could reasonably be considered a vessel for the Grail, and that would be a terrible thing to transfigure for evil purposes.

“Assassin…” Lancer says slowly.  “You know of Pair Dadeni, do you not?”

“The Cauldron of Rebirth,” Assassin confirms.  “I know it, although its location was not known in my time.  It is said to be buried somewhere—”

“—in the country that is called England now,” Lancer finishes.

“Surely the Mage’s Association would have recovered such a powerful artifact by now,” Assassin adds, putting the pieces together.  “And that association did recently make a suspicious shipment to the Church…”

Lancer covers her mouth with her hands and closes her eyes briefly.  When she opens them, she looks both terrified and determined.  “Let us return to the safe house.  I believe we need to phone your Master’s sponsor.”

VIII. Thirteen Seals

It is a little after 4pm by the time Lancer and Assassin return to the safehouse to report their findings.  Caster is equally disturbed by their discoveries and fears, agreeing that pouring death energy into the Grail – whatever it may be – would probably end in disaster.  So, while Petri and Jordan sit in the back room discussing what to do now that their Servant is gone, the other Masters gather around the coffee table in the living room to call Reines.

She picks up after the second ring.  “Hello?”

“What do you know about the Cauldron of Rebirth?”  Val gets right to the point.

Reines is silent for a moment, and Assassin jumps in.  “And while we are on the topic, what do you know of how the Grail is supposed to work?  How does it fill?  What happens when it’s full?”

“Oh,” Reines breathes.  “Damn it all.”

“Talk to us, Reines,” Jim pleads.  “This could be really important.”

“I know, I know,” she replies.  “I only just found out about it myself.”

“Found out about what?”

The chorus of six voices must be surprising, because for once, Reines sounds flustered.  “Belfaban’s shipment.  I did some digging – there were hardly any records – but I finally found out what it was.  Whoever pushed it through accelerated the timeline of a shipment that I had put in place.”  She sighs, almost a groan.  “It was Pair Dadeni.”

“Shit,” all three Servants breath.

Then, “Why?”  Assassin asks.

“It was to be a peace offering,” Reines explains, sounding pained.  “A sign of cooperation and trust between the Clock Tower and the Church.  I arranged it, but it wasn’t supposed to happen for months!  There’s no way that Belfaban could have cleared the shipment; he was out of the country at the time.”

“It was accelerated for the War,” Val guesses.

“Probably by Vasilyevich,” Jim adds glumly.

The group can hear the sound of Reines typing on her laptop, then she says, “You asked me about how the Grail works.  Truth be told, no one is sure.  It’s the core of the ritual, of course, but from War to War, its function seems to be variable.  As for how it fills up… I assumed that once most of the Servants were dead, it would just… happen.”

“How did the other Wars end?”  Val asks.

Reines hums in thought.  “The Fuyuki Wars never manifested the Grail.  It was destroyed every time.  At least one of those was by a Servant’s Noble Phantasm, and led to a considerable amount of… property damage.  In one of the American Wars, they say that the Grail was used to allow some of the Servants to manifest permanently.  In the other American War, the ritual got shut down peacefully and without too much collateral damage.  The Red Flower Society knows more about it – many of their founding members were there – but they don’t talk about it much.”  She pauses.  “You think the Cauldron is the Grail vessel, don’t you?”

The group exchanges a tentative look, then nods as one.  “Yes,” Assassin answers.  “That is our collective fear.”

She explains their theory that the death seals are being used to accelerate or augment the filling of the Grail.  Reines listens without interjecting.  Assassin also decides to mention at this junction that there is a suspiciously high number of Arthurian or Arthurian-adjacent spirits in the War; Reines makes a surprised noise at that.

“Out of curiosity,” she says coolly, “how many death seal fires have there been?  Specifically, ones that have caused casualties?”

The group deliberates for a moment, then answers, “Three:  one at the warehouse, one at the Pantheon, and the one today at the apartments.”

“Do you think they are trying for a one-to-one replacement,” Assassin asks, “of batches of ordinary death in place of Servant death?”

Reines hums again.  “As most of you know, ritual runs on concepts.  The Holy Grail War is no different.  Given the prevalence of Arthurian spirits in this War, it may be time to look at Arthurian concepts.  Take the Round Table, for example:  there were thirteen knights seated there.”

“So, are they aiming for thirteen sacrifices?”  Jim asks.

“By my reckoning, they would only need six if all goes as planned.”

The group exchanges a confused look.  Reines must take their silence for the confusion that it is, because she goes on, “If no one picks up on this, it’s the perfect plan:  the other combatants continue to fight, eventually wiping out all seven Servants.  Were six death seals to result in casualties before that…”

“Then there’s a death for each place at the Round Table,” Caster concludes.

“Yes,” Reines agrees.  “And there is an obscure part of the legend that suggests that each seat at the Round Table was associated with a seal, locking something away.  Thirteen knights, thirteen seals.”

“What does it unlock?”  Assassin demands.  Even she has never heard this part of the legend.

Reines sighs.  “I don’t know!  I’ve never heard anything more of it beyond the theoretical existence of the seals!  But if this is the case – if this is where this War is going – then you’re already down four out of the thirteen.”

The group all nod somberly.  Between the three successful death seals and their fight with Berserker, the ritual is halfway to completing Reines’ predicted mundane death quota, and one Servant in to the Servant count.

“So what do we do?”  Val asks.  “Stop killing Servants?”

“That’s going to be difficult in the coming days,” Caster predicts, and they all know that he does not need prophecy to tell that much.

“I would settle for preventing further civilian casualties,” Reines tells them.

The group agrees.  Then, Val snaps his fingers.  “One more question:  what do we do with Bookworm and Petri Dish?”

“With…?”

“Jordan and Petri!”  Jim and Val chorus.

“What?!  Where…?”

“It’s a long story,” Val tells her, “but the important part is that we have Jordan and Petri with us now.  They were Berserker’s Masters, and now they’re not.”

Jim adds a little more context: “They’re sitting in the safe house we’ve been using, because our Servants rescued them from more of those creepy shadow things.”

There is a beat of silence.  Then Reines exclaims, “Why do you keep sending me strays?!”

“We’re not—” Val begins, then thinks better of it.  “Okay, we totally are.  But they shouldn’t stay here!  They’re not safe!  What if the things come after them again?”

There is a thunk sound that the group assumes is Reines dropping her forehead to the desk, then she heaves a sigh and they can hear her typing again.  “Alright, fine.  I’m booking them tickets for tonight, 11pm.  Just… keep them safe until then, and get them to the airport in one piece.”

“Will do!”  Val chirps.

“Is there anything else?”  Reines asks, sounding as though she dreads the answer.

Assassin pipes up again.  “There is one more thing, if you have it.  Is there any record of who picked up the shipment to the Vatican?”

Reines grunts.  “There’s hardly any record of the shipment being processed, let alone who picked it up.  But I think I know your suspicion, and I share it as well:  Orsino Veronesi may be the Master you have yet to encounter.  If he is the one who received the shipment, then it would make sense for the Grail to tie him conceptually to itself.”

“Can Executors even be Masters?”  Val asks.

“There is precedent,” Reines says slowly, “and it never turns out well.”

After that, the group exchanges evening pleasantries and hangs up.  Jim sets his jaw and looks around at the rest of them.  “We have to take down Vasilyevich.”

Val nods in agreement.  “Definitely, before he can get anybody else.”

Siobhan nods as well.  “I agree.  Lancer and I will stay with you, at least until we see that fight through.”

“Speaking of,” Lancer asks Caster, trying and failing to sound casual.  “Where did you say that you had located Saber’s probable base of operations?”

Caster’s ridiculous mustache twists into the dourest frown that he can muster.  “You are hardly in any shape for a showdown with another Knight.  Even if I did maim him on our last visit.”

Seeing her dark glare of disappointment, Assassin chimes in, “Don’t worry!  I swear to you that we will bring you along on the trip to fight Saber.  I, for one, would love to see you punch a knight.”

Caster stands, stretches, and adjusts his illusory hat.  “For now, though, the only action you are going to see is going to find that faery.”

Lancer raises an eyebrow at him.  “In my experience, Magus, if you want action, you do not go seek out a faery.”

Her deadpan delivery brings out laughter in everyone, a much needed dose of lightheartedness that carries them through their preparations for that evening’s journey.