#like how they handle the murder and the aftermath is the juicy part right. this is all just setup right….

[mummer]

ok watched the first 2 eps of ripley im not even mad girls im just confused. why is he so. charmless. even slimy? they really commit to them being in their thirties so like the entire premise doesnt make any sense anymore like you are grown ass men be SERIOUS. the whole subplot with the suitcase is extremely weird and telling abt how they characterize tom— it would make sense if he was like 20 and a bit naive which hes supposed to be. youre telling me a supposedly street smart fully grown man thought drug running would be a hilarious lark and easy to sell to dickie? you’re nuts if you think that. like the big thing i keep coming to is that this tom doesnt even seem smart! what are we doing the UNTALENTED mr ripley here?? it’s like his whole thing that he’s extremely clever in a tight spot and a great bullshitter (bound to fail eventually but not an idiot) but im not getting that from this at ALL! i have no idea why dickie would find him charming enough to keep around and i have no idea why tom wants(/wants to be?) dickie. everyone is flat and lethargic seeming. the whole pace is lethargic. the best part of the book is this constant pace of events that wont let up it has urgency. but stretched to 8 eps we’re left lazing around. and thats not even touching the weird way they handle the gayness of the story. so it’s not gay but he is gay but not really and it doesnt matter. huh? rn it’s like they barely even seem like friends at all. you dont understand why dickie would let tom live with him. they need to be at least platonically enamored by one another for the premise to make LOGICAL SENSE. the cinematography is so deeply beautiful and gorgiana but like… in service of what???? They wont let my boy andrew scott have interesting emotions im furious rn.

[whatdoyouexpectthistime]

MJS Aftermath - The Return

This follows on from MJS Aftermath - Six Feet

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

<3 B

A knock at the door.

Knocks on the door are usually fairly innocuous.

And this one was punctuated by the excited barks of two puppy greyhounds named Kaga and Ishigami.

“Oh, come on you guys,” Miho complained, following the excited loping bounce of her dogs. “There is no need to bark at absolutely everything that approaches the house.”

Apparently, the puppies disagreed, and continued to bark as if a world full of murderers were congregated on the other side of the door.

“For fuck’s sake, Kaga,” she huffed, dancing to dodge the poochies underfoot. “Get out of the way!”

She was so preoccupied by not dropping the baby cradled against her chest, that she didn’t bother to check the intercom before pulling the door open.

He looked tired and his clothing was wrinkled, but upon first glance, Seiji Goto seemed to be in one piece.

For all of about two seconds before he was bowled over by both dogs, who had grown since their daddy had gone away.

As he fended off frantic tongues, whipping tails and excited butt wiggles, Miho remained standing just inside the doorway, staring at her husband as she bit down on her lower lip. Since their last and fleeting moments in the park months ago, she had not seen or heard from him, and now suddenly there he was without warning.

There were many things she wanted to say to him, to express the depth of her longing to have him back, the difficulty of maintaining the ruse when his own mother and father thought he was dead. But now, and he tucked a dog under each arm, and smiling got back to his feet, she couldn’t manage a single word.

“Ahh, I didn’t think I was gone that long,” were his first words, inclining his head toward the infant she held, but it totally didn’t compute.

“Huh?” she blinked finally.

“The baby?” he clarified, placing the dogs back down and moving closer to her.

“Oh uh, it’s not ours,” she declared, as if he actually thought it was, then managed to summon some emotion to the surface. “Ours is inside.”

“Wait, what?” Goto blurted, looking up and down her body.

“Not inside me, inside, inside,” she chortled, stepping aside to give him room to pass by.

Definitely confused, Goto grabbed his bag, and with it slung over his shoulder.

It was only as she passed where Jazz had put Mika’s baby bag down on the loungeroom couch, that Miho realised her company wasn’t expecting…

“Seiji?” Jazz gawped, frozen in the open glass doors that led to the small backyard, a squirmy little shiba inu puppy struggling to get out of her grip.

“Oh um… yeaaaah,” Miho stalled, trying to figure out the best way to handle the fact she’d not been able to tell even Jazz about Goto’s undercover investigation. “And before you ask, he’s not a zombie.”

“I… can honestly say I was not going to ask that,” Jazz managed.

“Why don’t you go put your bag in the bedroom,” Miho suggested, awkwardly. “Grab a shower?”

“Good idea,” he nodded, looking a little sympathetically between the two women before disappearing.

“Soooo, I have to tell you some things, since, obviously I can now and I couldn’t before even though I wanted to - gah you have no idea how much I wanted to - But Ishigami said it could jeopardise everything and put Seiji at greater risk and so - it was so hard to keep this from you!”

Wringing her hands, the guilt was written all over her face.

Slowly, watching the bedroom door like she expected Ghosto to come floating back out rattling chains or something, Jazz moved into the loungeroom and sat on the couch, the puppy continuing his battle.

Following suit, Miho then continued to blurt out the circumstances of Goto’s death without going into any police details, and how she had come to discover the truth about just how deep his undercover operation had gone. There was a lot of apologising, begging even, but once Jazz overcame the shock of seeing a friend return from the dead, she was quick to assure Miho there were no hard feelings.

“Tell me though,” she grunted, wincing a little as the puppy bit her finger. “Do all your husbands rise from the grave?”

“Umm,” Miho murmured.

“I mean, are you keeping other secrets? Like you’re a necromancer or some kind of voodoo priestess?”

“No other secrets, I promise,” Miho laughed, clearly relieved, glancing to the bedroom door for the hundredth time, gnawing the inside of her cheek.

“This must have been really hard on you,” Jazz frowned, finally putting the puppy on the floor, where he promptly prepared to pounce Kaga who was curled up on the rug. “Keeping this to yourself, pretending.”

“It was,” Miho agreed. “But not as tough as actually putting him in the ground.”

Again she paid the bedroom door some attention, and Jazz got to her feet and reached down to take her daughter.

“Okay, well, I imagine you’ve got some - ahem - catching up to do,” Jazz smirked, lightly bumping Miho’s foot with her own. “So I’ll get going, but I expect there to be some kind of resurrection party in the not too distant future.”

“No doubt,” Miho grinned, and followed Jazz to the front door, handing her the baby bag at the last minute.

“And I’m going to want all the juicy reunion details,” Jazz added, widening Miho’s smile.

But as soon as Jazz was gone, and the door was closed, Miho’s cheeks fell and an all too familiar anxiety began to twist in her stomach.

She was nearly oblivious to Ishigami who walked in slow step with her, didn’t notice the way he looked up at her with concern as she tentatively headed toward the bedroom. There was no soft hiss of water, and it cut slashes of doubt that she’d just imagined everything, that when she reached the bedroom, her husband would not be there.

Swallowing, she crossed the threshold, expecting emptiness like all the other times she’d come home in the last few months - but there was a man standing in front of the wardrobe with his back to her in nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs, his hair still damp.

All those words again stuck in her throat, and her eyes burned unlike any other time she had cried before.

It was a gasping sob that made him stop feretting around for a shirt and turn to see his wife overwhelmed - her shoulders slumped from exhaustion, face a mural of relief and joy and a resurgence of all the pain she’d felt in his absence.

“My love,” he said, the resonating warmth in his voice chipped away the very last of Miho’s armour.

When she fell against his chest, he locked his arms around her and buried his face in her neck.

“I missed you so much,” he exhaled, then filled his lungs with her. “And I’m so sorry I put you through this.”

Usually articulate and unreserved in expressing herself, Miho still could not verbally reply.

“I love you,” he declared honestly, sliding his hands up her back and taking her head between them. “I love you.”

The only way she could manage a response, was to fiercely claim his lips - desperately parched in the desert, finally finding life-living water.

And in that kiss they conversed in a way only soulmates could, in reaffirmation of all the promises they’d shared and all that would be shared in the future.

What began in tenderness, however, became far more visceral when Miho pulled Goto to the bed and dragged him down on top of her. She knew every contour of his body by memory, but her fingertips searched anew, discovering each muscle, each blemish and scar with invigorated  relish.

Eagerly, Goto pulled at her clothing - even the thinnest of barriers between them was too much when the distance between them had stretched so far for so long.

Then he let out a sharp yelp and rolled to the side to look down.

Ishigami and Kaga had entered the room at some point and silently flopped onto their beds, but the little shiba inu was snapping at Goto’s ankles and making a big show of how tough she was.

“And who exactly is this?” he laughed, swooping on the furious fluff and dropping it on the bed next to Miho.

“Our baby,” Miho answered, scooching up to her pillow and relaxing, all urgency lost to the euphoria of having more than dogs on her bed. “Her name is Mochi.”

“I was going to guess Soma,” Goto nodded, lying on his side and offering the puppy his hand to sniff. “Ishigami and Kaga weren’t enough?”

“It was Kurosawa,” Miho sighed, watching blissfully as Puchi pounced on Goto’s hand and began to gnaw on his thumb. “He thought, or, thinks you’re dead so - he wanted to cheer me up.”

“I should have known,” Goto chuckled. “He’s the only person I know whose go-to present is puppies.”

“So, he knows now, right?” Miho probed, her eyes fixed on Goto’s face, the soft expression he made as he played with the pup. “And the others?”

“Not yet,” he answered, rolling Mochi onto her back and scritching up and down her belly - much to the jealousy of Ishigami and Kaga who leapt up to join the rest of the family. “I debriefed with Captain Ishigami out of the office then got clearance to come straight home. He understood.”

“Or maybe feared Liana would be angry if he kept you from me any longer,” Miho offered, snuggling Kaga up against her, while Ishigami sat against Goto’s legs. “Other than Ishigami and Namba, she’s the only other person who knew.”

For several minutes, the only sounds were Mochi’s irresistibly cute growls as she fought her battle with the hand monster.

“Captain Ishigami will brief my colleagues tomorrow morning, then I’ll head to the Academy.”

“What about your family?” Miho asked quietly, flicking one of Kaga’s ears back and forth.

“I was hoping my wife would help me face them,” he smiled hopefully. “They’ll receive an official letter, then I thought we could invite them here for a short stay before…”

If he said, ‘before I go back to work’, Miho knew she was going to cry again.

“... before you and I go somewhere,” he finished, moving closer to Miho though there were three dogs sandwiched between, one of them now trying to stick her tongue in his nostrils. “I have a considerable amount of vacation time owing, and I just want to bask in your presence for every minute of every day and night until you’re sick of me.”

“So never? You have that much vacation time?” Miho posed, rolling off the bed to stand, and continuing to undress.

“I guess I could retire,” he mused, watching her drop each item of clothing onto the floor, even though she was not making a particular show of it. “You could be the breadwinner, and I’ll stay at home , cook, clean and raise our furbabies.”

Miho laughed, finally tossing her panties at him and coiling her hair up into a bun.

“You’ve improved since I’ve met you, Seijo Goto, but you’re a far better cop than you are a cook.”

“And where do you think you’re going dressed like that?” he frowned seriously when she moved toward the entrance to the ensuite.

“I like to masturbate before going to bed,” she announced airily. “In the shower after a long day, imagining myself pinned to the cold tiles with you pressing into me.”

“Imagine no longer,” he grinned, pushing all poochies aside to follow her into the bathroom.

[greenninjagal-blog]

Even If it Kills Us (but it wont hopefully) pt8

hey, Hey, HEy, HEY! Sanders Sides mafia au! That erased itself four times and made me cry twice. :) Sorry for the long wait, I rage quit for a few weeks.

Part Seven is here for those who need a refresher (aka me) and Part One is here for anyone new around! Summary: Virgil is a normal college student, who is also the heir to a mafia he didn’t know existed, and he’s currently being arrested for it. At least he knows to wear a seat belt.

TW: knives, tasers, poisons, 

Quick Taglist: @a-she-monster @average--human @calvindientesblancos @crysthefangirl4ever @deathshadowrules @dierotenixe @drmephistofaust  @emo-nithtmare @enderperson43 @fandomobsessed-nerd @fireflysinmystomach @ilovemygaydad @iolanomsgranola @itsrandompostime @jadeace115  @just-another-rainbowblog  @kindly-falling  @laragazzadellluna @lefaystrent @levy-the-b00kw0rm @logicality-vs-prinxiety @meep-by-boredom @mirror2thespirit @my-analogical-romance @ninja-wizard101 @oodlemydoodle @pattons-cookies @punsterterry  @reeama-the-slytherin @sanders-sides-rebloger @seaspider10 @skittlesun  @skullfire2004 @spookilyfingergunsoutofexistence @superwholocked-for-life @sylveon-lover-crazyfangirl1415 @that-ghost-in-the-corner @the-anti-virgil @the-parentheticals  @theradicalrainbow @chelsvans @felicianoromano @jemthebookworm @holliberries @stricken-with-clairvoyancy @treasureofpriam

(lmk if you want to be added!)

“I am Logan Ackroyd, Undercover FBI,” Logan says, one hand-- his non shot hand-- casually fixing his tie, “And I’ll be taking these two into custody.”

Virgil thinks of all the times he’s previously been arrested.

There are none.

Instead he’s stuck with all his limbs unresponsive like a computer that’s been disconnected, his head worrying with a faint buzzing from where he’d head hit the ground after Logan shoved him away (hand on Virgil’s bare collarbone, cold and heavy slipped past his shirt collar and his jacket), and his mouth overwhelmingly tasting like burnt popcorn.

Virgil’s knowledge of police procedures come completely from the stolen few minutes of Criminal Minds he caught on TV occasionally as a child 

(before his mother caught him, before she yelled and tore at his hair and told him never to let the police get near him)

And really, what more had he needed to know? 

Don’t do illegal things! That was easy enough!

Virgil thinks, as his rights are read to him, and his hands are cuffed behind his back, and he’s loaded into the back of a police car in front of a crowd of bypassers coming to the diner for a midday brunch, he failed, majorly.

He doesn’t even know what crime he was being arrested for.

Was it the suspicious activity of people shooting at him in the movie theater? Was it the reckless speeding through town that he had been a passenger in? Was it the murder of two assumed police officers in the diner five minutes ago?

All three?

None?

“Wow, the real deal!” A local police officer says from somewhere Virgil can’t see

(which is pretty much everywhere, considering the only thing he can see is a black ant scuttling through the grass inches from his nose and getting closer)

“Hey, Wally, check these guys out! They’re real FBI!” The officer says again.

“Wouldja look at that! A real FBI badge!”

Virgil wonders if they knew the difference between a real one and a fake one. He has his doubts concerning the two officers who tried to apprehend them inside the dinner.

“Yes,” Logan’s voice says coolly, coldly, icily, “I am a real FBI agent with real paperwork to complete and this mess to take care of.” 

Virgil is really not a fan of how he says “mess”. 

Like Virgil is month old take out that started to reproduce, like the sticky mess of spilled energy drinks that Virgil carelessly left across his desk which ended up gluing the entire back cover of his Western Civ textbook to the wooden surface, like the aftermath of an execution and the blood had spilled into the grout.

“Remus,” Logan’s voice calls out, “Time to go.”

Then someone picks up Virgil by his shoulder and another by his feet and all Virgil can think is people touching him, hands on his body, and he cant move. 

He wants to scream, but the effects of the taser are long lasting (apparently) and he can’t even get his tongue to unstick from the top of his mouth, much less open his jaw at all. 

The idea of forcing air out of his already uncomfortably compressed lungs?

forget it.

He’s vaguely aware that on other side of him, Dee was carefully loaded in, completely useless, completely unconscious.

Virgil gets the feeling he’s just a passenger in his own body. Part of him wants to feel humiliated by the way the he’d been manhandled into a police car in front of a dozen families and two news crews.

Part of him wants to revoke Dee’s kneecap privileges for being so fucking dense that he hadn’t even noticed anything was weird about the dinning experience.

Part of him wants to lunge forward and wrap his arms around Logan’s throat, and strangle him between the links of his handcuffs and the headrest. (not that Virgil would act on that one; there’s clearly a metal mesh between the backseat and where Logan has slipped into the driver’s seat to prevent that exact scenario from occurring)

Because really, he was FBI?! He was undercover?! He had been playing each of them in oh so many ways-- How long had he been fooling Roman? What had he done to Roman and Patton when Virgil had left? What was his actual goal here?

And did it involve Virgil being alive at the end of it?

(Virgil wants to think so. Logan wouldn’t have gone to all this trouble to keep him alive just to kill him--)

Logan’s partner slaps a hand on the window, inches from where Virgil’s head had fallen, and grins at him as he opens his own door and slips into the seat in front of Virgil.

The look Virgil gets is brief.

And also terrifying.

Virgil knows that face.

Knows that face as well as he can, the partial of it seared into his brain as the moment Virgil’s life ended and this twisted nightmare began.

Its the face of the gunman that had tried to shoot him in the face at the movies, the gunman who Logan had tackled to first save his life, the gunman who Virgil hadn’t spared a second thought about because since his appearance, it had been run and duck and please don’t let me die. 

“Oh! He’s pretty cute back there!” The partner says, “I love when they’re all tied up like cute little piggies!”

Logan’s head shakes in a way that suggests he’s rolling his eyes.

The car hums to life, and Logan breezes by the crowd the second the police line widens enough for them to escape. Once they leave the public eye, Logan’s partner’s seatbelt comes off and his feet go up on the dashboard with something dancing between his fingers causally.

“FBI!” The partner laughs, “I can’t believe they really bought those fake badges of yours!”

“Remus, seatbelt.” Logan says without looking away from the road. “And they are real.”

Remus laughs. He makes no move to reattach the belt.

Virgil’s eyes flick to the side mirror in front of them, just in time to catch sight of the butterfly knife the man is expertly twisting around his index and middle finger. Remus catches his gaze in the mirror and blows him a kiss with a wink.

Virgil wishes he was in control of his body, enough to shudder, enough to snarl, enough to throw himself from the car and the oncoming traffic hits him just right--

“What a kid,” Remus sighs, perhaps dreamily, “Do you think I can keep his head for my mantle?”

“You don’t have a mantle.” Logan says, “You don’t have a house.”

“Yeah,” Remus agrees. “But also he’s a kid.”

Logan uses turn signals, Virgil notices, faintly. He feels very faint.

Like a balloon that’s floating away.  And one day he’ll reach the upper atmospheres where the decreasing air pressure will cause his insides to expand until he explodes into a 

“mess” 

that Logan will have to clean up.

The air in the car is tense. Virgil can’t breathe

It might also have to do with the fact he can’t move and there’s a murderer in front of him talking about killing him and-- and--

“Interesting,” Logan says, using one of his turn signals to switch lanes, “I wasn’t aware you got metaphoric cold feet over assassinations.”

The knife flips in the air. Virgil squeezes his eyes closed, forcing his chest to move. 

“You’re telling me you don’t have any qualms about killing a college brat? Any at all, Mr. Undercover FBI?”

“I’m not paid to have morals, Remus.”

Logan sounds cold, colder than ice. The vibrations of his tone wash over Virgil like a ocean, and suddenly he’s drowning.

He’s drowning on dry land and Remus is laughing.

“Surely if you want to-- how they say, “flake out”, you’re welcome to open your door and take a walk.” 

Virgil’s pretty sure Logan speeds up as he talks; the white line on the edge of the road blurs, Virgil’s head’s rumbles against the window until he’s sure he’ll never be able to see straight again.

“Aw Specs!” Remus laughs. Logan’s head twitches at the nickname, the same nickname that Roman had called him oh-so-long ago. “No way I’m gonna let you handle all the juicy stuff yourself! You already got all the credit for Roman Prince’s!”

All the energy in the car turns to white noise.

Virgil’s chest,

halts,

in the middle of a breath.

and he can’t think

because that’s not right

can’t be right.

Roman-- Roman trusted Logan.

Logan had taken a bullet for him.

why did--

how did--

Logan fixes his rear view mirror with his non shot hand. Perfectly fluid.

Virgil can see it in his mind’s eye suddenly: the memory of Logan throwing himself into Roman and taking that bullet and bleeding and getting close to Roman, being right next to Roman, demanding that Roman equip him with another gun despite his dominant hand being out of commission. 

He can see it suddenly: the second that Virgil had stormed out, Logan had put two in Roman’s distracted gut. While Virgil had been racing the in the purple car, Roman had been bleeding out on his own kitchen floor, and Patton must have joined him. While Virgil was arguing with Dee, Logan was getting paid for the murder of two people who trusted him.

Logan was ambidextrous.

Virgil doesn’t know where the strength comes from.

All he knows is he threw himself forward battering against the metal mesh with an angry ferocity that made Logan’s injured hand lose hold of the steering wheel. The whole car shakes as Logan swaps hands and curses.

“Why?”

It’s barely a breathe between his tense jaw and his thick tongue and numb lips. The word itself feels like a dagger in his own chest just to say.

“Interesting,” Logan says again, this time with his eyes in the rear view, and they stare directly at Virgil. A scientist’s gaze. “The box jellyfish poison should have shut down most bodily functions but it appears that it is wearing off faster than I anticipated.”

(Hand on Virgil’s bare collarbone, cold and heavy, slipped past his shirt collar, and leaving the skin numbed. The poison sinking into Virgil’s skin while the taser had him immobile)

“It’s a good question!” Remus!! Says!! excitedly!! He turns in his seat, flipping the knife close with one hand and wiggling his fingers through the mesh with the other, like a taunt. 

“Pardon?”

“Why did the straight and narrow, hard working FBI agent Logan Ackroyd, decided to throw it all away so suddenly?” Remus sings. Virgil can see something left in his mustache, a something red like jam.

Logan switches lanes again.

“If you must know,” He says his fingers curling on the top of the steering wheel. “The pay is more suitable to my tastes.” 

Which is a fancy way of saying Logan had managed to put a price tag on people.

That Logan looked at Roman and actively thought, “I could kill this annoying man for X amount of dollars in cash”

That Logan looked at Virgil and saw dollar signs rather than the terrified kid he was.

“Oh, you nerdy little dork!” Remus hums, “You’re speaking my language now!”

“Of course I am. English is both our first--”

“Dork means whale penis. Basically, I called you a whale penis!”

Virgil wonders if Logan was being paid enough for this; by the way the car speeds up, he doubts it.

Virgil clings to the anger in his chest. He squeezes his eyes closed, thinking of the past twenty four hours, of Roman in his house, of Roman talking about his cars, of Roman speeding down the street and laughing, with those stupid sunglasses in his glossy mused hair. He thinks of the feel the gravel under his knees, of the sound of his best friends voice, of Patton’s elbow on his hooked and swinging and even if it was all a lie and Virgil was just an assignment Patton had completed--

Virgil thinks of the boy he was closest too, and thinks of how the feel of his broken glasses under Virgil’s knuckles and the look of shock on his freckled face. 

And of the hollowed hours since where Virgil swore to himself he didn’t want Patton by his side.

Where Virgil lied because he wants Patton here very badly even if hes mad even if they’re fighting even if he can’t ever forgive Patton.

Where Virgil was busy being angry and upset and his best friend was being killed by the cold hearted, side switching, asshole in the seat in front of him without a seconds hesitation.

 Virgil clings to that, clings to the anger that explodes in his chest, and the thudding of his heart that breaks his own ear drums. He reaches out of his limbs--

Because he was not going to just sit here and let that bastard take kill him for money, kill his friends for paper and coins and get away with it.

For once, Virgil breathes a thanks to his mother for telling him all the ways to kill a person, a bedtime story that Virgil felt for the first time he was willing to actually implement. 

And if he can get angry enough, his limbs will move, because that’s what always happens in those movies.

He thinks his heavy numb fingers manage to twitch when Remus speaks again.

“I don’t know if I’m alright with the split we agreed on.”

Logan’s head tilts ever-so-much. The car pulls on to a single lane road. The trees come next, covering them in the flickers of shadow and sun.

“Elaborate.”

“I want seventy percent.”

Logan scoffs.

“It just seems that I deserve more than you!” Remus says, “In fact, I think I’ll take it all.”

Virgil blinks and the butterfly knife is at Logan’s throat.

“Let’s talk math, kid genius.”

the car swerves as Logan’s eyes leave the road for a second to look at the death at his throat. Virgil feels as his foot comes off the pedal, slowing down in the middle of a forest that looks like private property.

“Keep driving.” Remus hisses delightedly.

Logan presses down the gas pedal and the trees begin to blur by. Virgil has a hard time watching.

It has nothing to do with the stirring that suddenly comes to his attention next to him.

“Isn’t this fun?” Remus asks, “You’re going to drive to the clearing and park the car. I’m going to kill you, and the little emo in the backseat--”

“You said we were going to talk.” Logan says indifferently, “I’m afraid I have some bad news in regards to that course of action.” 

“Remus?” A voice speaks up groggily. 

“Oh hey, Dee!” 

“Wha--” Virgil thinks its a weird to see the other heir so disorientated, and he’s only known the other heir for a maximum of three hours.”What are you doing--?”

“Me and Logan were having a chat about how we’re going to divide the reward for the death of Virgil Sanders!”

“Yes, and unfortunately, Roman Prince informs me I’m a terrible conversationalist.” Logan says, and then slams on the breaks of the car and sends seat-beltless Remus straight through the front windshield.

Part Nine