#lucky you! you caught the 2 tone steel wall off guard!

[payaso-gomi]

"You managed to knock the Venture compound's down with a swift hit! You just wanted her quiet, hell would raise if she wakes up the place's bodyguard. But when she starts getting up not too long after she was down, she doesn't even look mad."

saw something that kicked the art block so hard out of me i'm still dizzy lmao inspired by plastiboo's older works (particularly this piece) jesus christ pls check them out if you like spooky art and art that makes you feel like a piece of swiss cheese

[maatryoshkaa]

young god | chapter 14

chapters: | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11| 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | epilogue |

word count: 5.7k

warnings: mild violence, foul language, dark themes and mental health.

description: Han Jisung’s overheard confession sends the precinct -- and the rest of Miroh Heights -- into chaos, forcing law enforcement, police, and citizens alike to choose sides. While he’s locked up, though -- making the acquaintance of a strangely familiar inmate along the way -- Jisung remains unaware of just what lengths some of the people around him are willing to go to in order to save his life. 

watch the trailer here!

14| monsters and men.

The interrogation room held a chill that seeped deep into Jisung’s bones. 

Across from him, the woman — prosecutor — that had been questioning him tapped her fingers on the table’s cold steel surface, her thinning lips the only indication of her growing impatience. They had been sitting for over an hour now — granted, there was no clock on the room’s bare walls, so Jisung could only guess — and he hadn’t spoken a single word.

“Staying silent isn’t going to help your case, you know,” the woman reminded him for what seemed like the thousandth time. She had curling brown hair and tired eyes — it seemed to Jisung like a recurring trait amongst law enforcement workers — and a thin line of a mouth. 

She had been nice enough, reading him his rights and asking questions calmly, but Jisung just couldn’t will his lips to move. He’d been absently studying the handcuffs clasped tight around his wrists with his head bowed. Kang had grudgingly called in a physician to perform first aid on the numerous cuts on his body — including the shallow stab wound above his hip the blonde man had inflicted — and after spending hours in the cold interrogation rooms the sharp aches of pain had eventually grown numb. Every word they spoke to him sounded as if it were in another language, bouncing off before they reached his ears, as if Jisung was enclosed in a muddled, soundproof bubble.

They had brought in a psychologist, too, after he’d stayed silent for an hour — a stout man with watery blue eyes whose tone was too warm for Jisung’s liking. 

“On a scale of 1-10, how are you feeling?” 

“Can you tell me what’s going on in your head right now?” 

“I’m here to help you, kiddo — cooperate with me a bit.”

But another hour dragged by, and so the prosecutor had returned. 

Jisung’s mind kept wandering — to the sickly warm feeling of blood, your blood pooling onto his shaking hands, your blood drained face on the hospital cot, Chan’s feverish eyes as he’d held onto Jisung’s slack shoulders with a fatherlike sort of firmness.

Just as the woman let out a sigh of defeat, the metal door behind Jisung swung open with a screech. Behind his golden spectacles, Prosecutor Kang’s beady eyes darted from Jisung’s empty expression to the woman’s tired one and scowled. 

“He’s still refusing to talk?”

The woman nodded. Jisung felt the weight of their stares boring into his head. Kang jerked his head towards the door and the woman stood to leave as the older prosecutor took her place across the table. 

“You’re holding out longer than I thought.” When Jisung didn’t react, Kang continued with a smirk, “Though I suppose I would expect nothing less from a cold-blooded killer.”

Killer. The note of truth in the word stabbed through Jisung’s gut like a switchblade.

“Well, boy, you’re sly, I’ll give you that —” Kang narrowed his eyes, “But I’m warning you now, we’ve already gathered enough incriminating evidence. DNA from the crime scenes, CCTV footage — you’re only a couple of lab tests away from a guilty conviction, Han Jisung.”

He was lying, Jisung knew he was — lying to get him to panic and talk. Minho had long since erased all fingerprints and disposed of all evidence, after all. Jisung had watched him do it with his own eyes. 

Scowling at Jisung’s silence, Kang stood suddenly and slammed his hands onto the metal table, sending the pad and pen skittering. He leaned in closer, his voice a rancid whisper. “Talk or not, you’re not going to be leaving police custody anytime soon. I’ve seen cases like yours. You look all—innocent—on the outside—” Kang’s eyes were almost pitying, his tone condescending— “But deep down, inside? You’re fucked up to the core, and you know it, too. You know you’re a defect of society — so why are you trying so hard to pretend that you’re normal?”

Jisung didn’t realise how tightly he had been gritting his jaw until it began to ache, his clenched fists shaking white. It was like Kang was pulling every fear Jisung had ever had out of the dark crevices of his mind, forcing them beneath the harsh, burning light.

“No matter.” Kang drew back, raising his eyebrows. “You’ll crack sooner or later—just like you always do, eh?” He took off his spectacles, wiping them with a cloth from his breast pocket without taking his eyes off of Jisung. “Like yesterday morning, no? Two men dead and three comatose. Not to mention the poor girl hanging onto her life by a thread as we speak—”

At this, Jisung’s eyes flickered upwards for the first time since they had detained him. The light above him was bright and seared at his retinas, but all he could focus on was Kang’s jeering face. The older prosecutor raised his eyebrows, a flash of triumph rippling across his features.

“You haven’t heard? Or did you simply not care? An innocent young woman, and a switchblade to her heart—” Kang clicked his tongue. “The surgery isn’t going well, I heard. She’ll be lucky if she’s able to stay in critical condit—”

Jisung stood up so quickly his handcuffs banged onto the corner of the table and sent a bruising pain through his wrists. He whirled towards the door, already mapping out the shortest route from the precinct to the hospital—but Kang was onto him, rough hands seizing him by the back of his shirt and pinning him painfully against the desk with an echoing bang. He could feel the stab wound reopen beneath the bandages, a shock of fresh pain in the numbingly cold room.

“—go,” Jisung gasped out, his cheekbone crushing against the smooth steel. “Let me — need to see her, make s-sure she’s okay—let me—”

Kang’s disbelieving bark of laughter sent chills down Jisung’s spine. Jisung knew he could overpower him if he tried—but what about the officers standing guard outside, the dozens patrolling the precinct? The thought of the life fading from your eyes was enough to make him want to throw up.

“No need to pretend you care, Mr. Han—save that energy for the rest of the trial, yes?” At that, Jisung heard the metal door screech open again, and two officers’ hands replaced Kang’s on either side of his shoulders. 

The older prosecutor dusted off his hands, then fixed Jisung with a satisfied look. “You’ll be kept under custody until enough evidence has been gathered and processed to begin the trial.”

“Can I—see her? Please, you can—trail me, you can do whatever you want with me, I just—one moment—”

Kang cut him off. “You gave us nothing for nearly five hours. Even if you had, you have places to be, Mr. Han—the state prison, to be exact.” Seeing the confusion flash across Jisung’s whitened face, he continued with a savage glint in his beady eyes. “You’ll be a temporary inmate until you’re called for trial.” He glanced at his watch, then nodded at the officers, who began escorting Jisung from the room. 

Behind him, Kang called slyly, “You’ll be cohabitating with the worst of the worst—or shall I say, your own type?” He could hear the smile in the prosecutor’s voice. “We’ll see how long you last.”

━━━━━━━━

The bus ride to the prison was strangely peaceful.

Jisung caught a glimpse of the clock before he took a seat at the back. 12:00. Dead midnight. The streets were cleared, and there were nearly no cars on the road—the aftereffects of the lockdown had likely sent the citizens in a state of paranoia. Because of me, Jisung thought numbly. Because of the Mass-Murderer of Miroh Heights. Besides two accompanying officers and the driver, the shuttle was empty. 

No other inmates. Jisung was alone.

He had never really gotten used to the loneliness, though it had followed him his entire life. Each time it came back, it seemed more suffocating than the last. A voice in the back of his head told him that maybe this was how it was supposed to be. That maybe, for someone like him, he deserved nothing more.

The overwhelming feeling of emptiness began to numb his chest. Eventually the rocking motion of the bus pulled him into a cold wash of dreamless sleep. The last image he saw behind his drooping eyelids was your face.

━━━━━━━━

Jisung was woken two hours later, and they spent the early hours of the morning taking pictures and recording his information before he was given a change of clothes and finally escorted to a cell. Other inmates were waking up, some taking walks, but none spared him a second glance. They were all wearing the same stiff uniforms, with a number stamped on their breast pockets. Jisung almost laughed—for once, nobody cared who he was, who he might be. For once, he had nothing to hide.

The air smelled of dust and salt, and the inside of his mouth felt as if it had been stuffed with cotton. The prison guard motioned towards the last cell in the corridor, and Jisung stepped inside, watching the light in the room disappear as the heavy doors slammed shut behind him. As his eyes adjusted under what little patchy sunlight the barred windows let in, he realised with a start that there was another man in the cell.

“You planning to stand there for the rest of your sentence?” His voice took Jisung by surprise — it was mild, nonchalant — no hint of threats, hostility, or ulterior motives. Compared to the last forty-eight hours, it was like a breath of fresh air.

Jisung looked around the cell, not quite sure where he was supposed to go. The man chuckled and gestured across from him, and so Jisung awkwardly took a seat on the floor in front of him. The man was contemplating him with slightly raised eyebrows, and Jisung was beginning to get the feeling that somewhere, somehow, he’d seen his face before. His eyes had a familiar crescent lilt, and the corner of his lips were wide and upturned, making him look as though he were always smiling—fox-like features, but with none of the slyness. He was middle-aged, his thinning hair streaked with gray.

“You look like you could use a nap, son,” the man finally remarked, and Jisung subconsciously rubbed at his eyes. Son. Why did the word sound so strange to his ears? “What’s a kid like you doing in a place for monsters?”

Monsters. The old man certainly didn’t look like one. He looked like he could be someone’s uncle, professor, or father. He had said it lightly, almost as if he didn’t take it seriously, but the word still made Jisung’s heart sink. “Are you...a monster?” He finally asked, and the man laughed, but there was a sad edge to his voice.

“Well. That’s what they called me, ten years ago. You can make of that what you want, eh?”

Ten years ago. What had he done to earn such a long sentence? There was a brief silence, before Jisung felt compelled to speak again. It was as if the hours of silence had finally taken a toll on him now, and his tongue was beginning to burn with words and questions. “You don’t look like…”

“A monster?” The man raised an eyebrow. “Neither do you, son. But we’re both in here for a reason, no?”

“What’s yours?” Jisung was surprised at his own boldness — the man could turn on him any moment, after all. But he realised that he was already far beyond the point of caring whether or not he got hurt.

The man studied him for a long moment, and seemed to make a silent decision before finally speaking. “I...killed a man. I killed a man who had hurt someone dear to me.” He let out a deep sigh, and Jisung watched his face cloud over with memory. “A few said it was justified, but the prosecutor in charge was a stubborn one. Headstrong. The world of law is a cold one—killers are convicted without pardons, and murder is murder regardless of the circumstances.”    

Jisung swallowed a painful lump in his throat, but his voice still came out sounding like he was being choked. “I killed people who...hurt someone I loved, too,” he murmured quietly. For a moment, he thought the old man hadn’t heard—his voice was nearly inaudible—but when Jisung lifted his gaze, he saw that the man was listening intently, warm brown eyes focused on his face. “B-but in the end, I...hurt the person I loved the most. Because I couldn’t...stop.”

The man sighed. “I know.” 

This took him by surprise. Confused, Jisung followed his gaze to the corner of the cell, where there sat a stack of newspapers. The one on the very top had bold headlines that screamed, MASS ASSAULT AT LOCAL DINER. TWO DEAD, FOUR IN CRITICAL CONDITION. Just the black-and-white picture of Mia’s Diner on the cover sent a twist of nausea through his gut. “I’ve been following the case—the Miroh Heights Murders. It’s you, isn’t it?”

Jisung could only nod, exhaling shakily. “Unlike you, I...I deserve what they call me.”

They were silent for another couple of minutes, the man contemplating Jisung with that same, strangely familiar look in his eyes, and Jisung avoiding his gaze and staring at the dusty ground. He was already filled to the brim with self-loathing. The last thing Jisung needed was a convicted criminal looking at him in disgust, too—he didn’t think he would be able to take it. 

Instead, the man simply said thoughtfully, “They can—and trust me, they always will—call you what they want. Whether or not you choose to believe it, though, that’s up to you. You know what I learned, son?” Jisung finally lifted his head to meet the man’s gaze, hesitant but curious. “The more you accept those words and let them explain your past, your actions — the longer you let their voices replace your own…the more those words end up becoming your truth. You know yourself better than they do.”

Jisung looked down bitterly. Did he? “You can’t — make those excuses for me. I’ve killed people, I’m a killer, I’m a monster—”

“Are you the monster they claim you’ve always been?” The old man interrupted gently. “Or are you forcing yourself into the mold of the monster they’re making you out to be?”

Jisung was silent. The sun had changed positions while they were talking, the glare in the cell softening into a golden glow. “Why are you telling me this?” 

The man sighed, stretching. “I’ll be honest, I’m not too sure, myself. I haven’t talked this much in a while. I’ll say, though, boy, I’ve seen my fair share of monsters—been in here for ten years, and I’ll be in here for the rest of my life. You’re not one of ‘em. As a matter of fact, you remind me of...myself.”

Jisung looked over at the newspapers again. “Why were you following the case?”

“You need to find a hobby to keep yourself sane in here,” the old man scoffed. “I would usually say it’s out of boredom, but...not this time. I have a son,” he finally confessed, a softer note in his voice. He tilted his head, studying Jisung’s features thoughtfully. “He’s a few years younger than you. Just got into university, I heard. Miroh Heights. I worry...about how he’s doing.”

Jisung nodded, a sour taste in his mouth. Imagine living with the serial killer from your son’s campus. Suddenly, the lock clicked and the door swung open, revealing a guard. “Mealtime,” was all he said, and the old man stood.

Before they were escorted out, Jisung asked one last question. “What’s your— what should I call you?”

The old man thought for a moment, then smiled. “People in the town used to call me Old Yang.” He shrugged, a wistful look in his eyes. “Yang is fine.”

━━━━━━━━

Prosecutor Kang was in the middle of lighting a cigarette when Seungmin stepped outside the District 9 Precinct. The interrogations had just ended, and Seungmin had been told to stay behind and drive a couple of his higher-ups back to the law firm. Judging from the sour look on Kang’s already taut features, the questioning hadn’t gone well.

“Kim Seungmin,” Kang called by way of greeting, and Seungmin gave a curt nod. “As you may have heard, the serial killer — ah, the Han Jisung case, I should say—has been transferred to me.” When Seungmin forced himself to stay silent, Kang glanced over and gave him a clap on the back. “Now, now—don’t feel too ashamed, Kim. Everyone makes rookie mistakes. They may have assigned the wrong case to you, but rest assured — it’s in proper hands now.” 

“Is it?” Seungmin couldn’t help blurting, and instantly regretted it. Kang’s face darkened, and the older prosecutor turned to face Seungmin head on.

“Have something to say to me, Kim?”

Too much, Seungmin thought, except he could never get the proper words out of his mouth. They would bubble and foam on the tip of his tongue before his own anxiety and apprehension would push them back down hastily. “I’ve just — never understood the way you handled cases, sir.”

“Seungmin.” Kang took a short drag of his cigarette, then took a step closer. Seungmin could smell the bitter tobacco, mixed with mint, on his breath. “Allow me to share a word of advice. They won’t teach you this in law school.”

He took another drag, then continued. “Your job as a prosecutor is not to judge the defendant fairly.” When Seungmin opened his mouth in indignant protest, Kang cut him off. “If you want a smooth career...all you need to do is make sure you’re appealing to the right people. In other words, listen to what the public wants.” Kang jerked his chin; a couple of blocks down the street, the familiar flashing of police cruiser lights were illuminating Mia’s Diner. “Please the public; don’t waste a single damn about the defendant. You spent all your precious time worrying your little head over the killer’s motives, and now that we finally have him, you’re still worrying over the severity of his sentence. Murder is murder, Kim Seungmin, and actions speak louder than motives. You can show lenience towards a mass-murderer, or you can sweep his sorry past under the rug and bring closure to dozens of families. Which would make you a richer, more popular man?”

Seungmin grit his teeth, a sour taste flooding his mouth. “Is that how you got to where you are?” Everyone knew Kang was one of the most affluent prosecutors in the firm — no, in the entire city.

Kang only smiled, spectacled eyes flashing like a snake’s. “Think, boy. As far as anyone needs to be concerned, the cold-blooded killer is caught, peace is re-established, families are soothed, justice is served once again — and I come out the hero. You saw that boy’s wretched past. Even he can’t handle it. So why poke at wounds that aren’t meant to be reopened?”

Kang flicked his cigarette, not catching the way Seungmin was shaking with anger. “You think you’re being kind? Justice isn’t meant to be kind, Kim.” He shrugged. “Make up the easiest case to solve and do everyone a favour.”

Just then, the precinct’s glass doors slid open and a couple of prosecutors stepped out. Kang waved them over into one of the parked cars, Seungmin in the driver’s seat, and they sped off, leaving the parking lot eerily empty.

Yang Jeongin stepped out from the corner where he had been standing, concealed in the shadows, the confused nurse he had guilted into letting him “take a quick walk” trailing by his side.

“We best be going, sweetheart,” the old woman said worriedly, eyes darting nervously between Jeongin and the IV drip still connected to his arm. “Fresh air is good, but it’s best you don’t overexert yourself this soon.”

Jeongin nodded absently, and let her guide him back to the hospital while clutching his arm. He felt stronger, but his head was beginning to pound again. 

He glanced down at his other hand, where he had been holding out the voice recorder, and pressed END RECORDING.

━━━━━━━━

“Hey, chin up, kiddo. Look at me.”

Even though Bang Chan was sitting on the other side of the plexiglass, Jisung couldn’t bring himself to meet his friend’s eyes. He heard the detective sigh.

“When the trial starts. Plead not guilty, you hear? I know what you’re thinking, but if you plead guilty, that Kang bastard is going to eat you alive.” 

“I can’t.”

“Jisung—”

“I can’t, Chan. I’m not innocent. Shit, I — I can’t even remember half the murders they’re accusing me of, but I know my hands are bloody.”

“If you can’t remember, that factors into the investigation. A mental impairment, a handicap--” Chan was in detective mode, hands gesturing wildly as if he were moving his thoughts and theories through the air. “We need to find out why.”

“Woojin visited before you,” Jisung said in a dead tone. The police captain had been the most distressed Jisung had ever seen him, pacing the room with a locked jaw. It seemed to be a habit of his.

“Han Jisung, I’ve seen numerous murder cases before. This isn’t...right. Your sentence shouldn’t be as heavy as Kang’s making it out to be, but he’s removed both Chan and I from the investigation. We couldn’t gather more counter-evidence if we tried…” the captain looked up at him, his dark eyes troubled. “Unless you give it to us.”

The detective fell silent as Jisung repeated Woojin’s words. The younger boy’s voice was shaking with so much raw, unconcealed emotion Chan felt his own two hands clench into shaking fists. “And I won’t. So please, Chan—and tell this to Woojin, too—don’t throw away your reputations to save me. I...don’t deserve it.”

At this, Chan stood up abruptly, slamming his hands on the desk so hard the Plexiglass screen between them shook violently. “To hell with reputation. I’ve told you once, and I’ll tell you it all over again: Jisung, you don’t deserve the death penalty.” 

Jisung got to his feet, too, staring his older friend down with shaking pupils. “I don’t want to hurt anything — anyone — for as long as I live. Never really have, although I can’t exactly tell them that, can I? It needs to stop. This—I—need to stop. This needs to end — and if a death penalty is the only way to do it, I’ll take it.”

Chan raked a hand through his unruly blond hair. “Take a lawyer at least, ‘sung, haven’t they told you you have the rights to one? Hell — do it for y/n. She needs you. She needs you to stay alive.”

At this, Jisung swallowed a painful laugh. “I think I’ve learned better than anyone that in order for her to live, I need to stay out of her life. For good. She is the reason why I need to do this, Chan.”

Before Chan could respond, the timer buzzed and the door clicked open, and Jisung was dragged out of the distressed detective’s sight again.

━━━━━━━━

Fire.

That was the first thought that flashed in your head, the first word accompanied by a twinge of searing pain that pulled you ever so slightly out of the murky darkness. You were burning up, an inferno that sapped all the energy from your veins and made you want to curl up and lose what little consciousness you had just regained.

There were tiny pinpricks of light poking through your vision now, and the fire was beginning to concentrate on one area in your chest. Your lungs were aching, trying to steal back the air that the fire was consuming and as your mouth pried itself open to catch your breath your eyes shot open and you were thrust into a world of blurry white and muffled sounds.

Blinking groggily, you began to register your surroundings — a familiar white, speckled ceiling, the rhythmic beeping of a heart machine. A pinch of wires attached to needles biting into your arm. And the awfully sore, burning throbbing underneath your left collarbone.

A nurse that had been replacing the IV fluid nearly dropped the sack when she saw your open eyes. “Sweetheart? Can you hear me? Blink twice if you can hear me.”

You blinked rapidly, and she gave a sigh of relief. “I’ll call the doctor, you sit tight, alright?”

She returned with an older woman who spoke so quickly you could barely catch her words. You were lucky they didn’t have to undergo open-heart surgery—the wound was deep, but missed a major artery in your heart by a thread. Instead, you had a punctured lung they had resected, which explained the burning ache in your left side. And you had been unconscious for nearly three weeks.

You had been unconscious for nearly— 

“Three weeks?” You sat up suddenly and the nurse’s eyes bulged at your abrupt movement.

“You’d best not move too much if you don’t want to be unconscious for more,” she scolded. “You poor thing. Don’t you worry, though, sweetheart—that monster who attacked you’s supposed to stand trial soon. He’ll be paying for his sins in no time.” 

Her words only hit you after a beat of silence.

Stand trial.

Pay for his sins.

Han Jisung.

The memories came back in a violent flood—you had been woken by an echoing crash from the living room and gone back to sleep briefly. By the time you had thought to go and check, Jisung had been long gone. After a chase down dead ends under a growing thunderstorm, you had followed the muffled sounds of pain and fighting all the way back to the back lot of Mia’s Diner, where the only boy you had ever loved had been kneeling like an avenging angel over five unmoving bodies.

You had called out his name like a shout into the void.

And when he finally heard you, there had been a flash of pain that sent you doubling over. You remembered the switchblade sticking out from your ribs, how it had felt like your body was no longer your own. And you remembered the last thing you had seen before you had slipped unconscious—Jisung’s horrified, tear-filled eyes.

You had wanted to say something to him then, but the words hadn’t made it past your lips. They had echoed in your head when you slipped away, and they came back to you now.

Don’t blame yourself.

Because it was me who chose to stay. To listen. To fall in love with you — each and every part of you, Han Jisung.

And somehow, I don’t regret a single choice I made.

Your fingers absently trailed to your side, where a thick layer of bandages rose beneath the hospital’s scrubs, and found your mind wandering to a memory of Felix and Hyunjin. It hadn’t been too long ago — a couple of semesters after the three of you had first met as freshmen.

“Complexes?” Felix had repeated, and you nodded.

“It was the topic for my psych lecture today. It’s a core part of your subconscious — shaped by perceptions, emotions, and memories. It can be a fear, or a belief, but it usually has a theme of some sort, and like all subconscious influences it affects the way that people act. You know, like an inferiority complex, or an Oedipus complex.”

Hyunjin snorted. “Felix definitely has an Oedipus complex. I’ve seen him call his crushes “mommy” one too many times.”

Felix smacked the taller boy, mouth falling open in protest. “It was a joke, bro!”

The barista had rolled his eyes, pulling a new bag of coffee beans from the shelf. “Jokes always stem from truth, my friend. Anyways, if we’re talking about complexes, you can’t deny that y/n has a hero complex.” 

Felix had nodded rapidly at this, and you had raised an eyebrow. “Not that you want to be a hero or anything, but it’s like, you kinda want to save everyone, all the time. You can’t stand to see anyone suffering. I’ve never seen anyone more fitting — or less fitting, depends on how you look at it — to be a therapist.”

Hyunjin had made an amused sound of agreement before you could argue. “You remember that stray cat with a limp we found behind the shop in freshman year? She wouldn’t stop crying until we brought it to the vet. And the bird with the broken wing that crashed into the window upstairs—wouldn’t leave its side until it could fly again.” He shook his head, smiling at the indignant look on your face.

“Your complex extends to humans, too, you know,” Felix continued without missing a beat. “You walk home the little kids whose parents are at work during the winter because it gets dark early. That girl who used to get bullied by her classmates would come to Glow Cafe, every morning last semester, just to talk to you. The list goes on.” The blond journalist hummed thoughtfully. “Maybe we’ll make it a new segment in the paper: Good Samaritans of Miroh Heights.”

“Don’t you dare,” you had snapped playfully, “That sounds even more ridiculous than the damned Matchmaker of Miroh Heights.”

“You can’t save everyone, y/n,” Hyunjin had said, giving you a small, well-meaning smile. “Someone going into your field ought to know that, sooner or later. No matter how stubborn you are, no matter how much you want to.”

As if on cue, Minho’s words from the rooftop echoed in your head, sending a chill down your spine. There is little you can do for people who don’t want to be helped, y/n.

You gritted your teeth in defiance. To hell with it.

All you knew was that if there was something you were going to save, it was going to be Han Jisung’s life. 

The nurse opened the curtains, letting bright beams of sunlight cast their warmth into the room. The light was blinding, but it felt good on your face nonetheless. Before she left the room, she turned to you. “Is there anything I can get you, sweetheart?”

You bit your lip. “Can I have my laptop?” 

━━━━━━━━

Your paper was just as you remembered it — you had thought the rough draft was completed, save for a few points that needed tweaking and a few references you needed to track down and cite, but now you quickly scrolled to the bottom and deleted the entire conclusion. You had all the puzzle pieces in your hands — not just the voice recordings and notes from the final interviews, but you now had access to police statements (Chan and Woojin were one phone call away) and numerous newspaper articles. Now you knew which concepts to apply, now you had all the theories and evidence you needed.

This wasn’t just going to be a final paper.

You had to get it published as a formal case study.

By the time you had finalized your thesis and made the finishing touches, the moon was threatening to drop from inky night sky, the hues of dawn slashing through the velvet horizon. Your room was dim, but you could feel the city below — and the rest of the hospital outside your room — thrum with a sort of life, a neverending heartbeat. Your phone was still warm by your side, having made nonstop calls to whoever you could get ahold of that was working on Jisung’s case. You picked it up to make one last call.

You peeked at the clock. 5:02 A.M. “Rise and shine,” you muttered, and punched in the number.

He picked up on the seventh ring. “...ngh? Whuhsh hap’ningh?” 

“Felix,” you breathed. You hadn’t realised how much you’d missed your best friend, and his familiar, groggy voice made you smile. “Felix, it’s me.”

You heard him sit bolt upright and choke before clearing his throat, fully awake now. “y/n? Holy shit, you — are you okay? I mean, what the hell, of course you’re not fucking okay — when did you wake up?”

“This morning,” you told him. “Look—”

“Y/n, I’m so sorry. I— I don’t even know what to say. If I could go back to the day I set up that stupid blind date —”

“I’d let you,” you interrupted him, and you heard him fall silent in confusion before you continued. “Listen, Felix. If you really want to make it up to me, check your email and read the paper I’m sending over.” 

“You...want me to read over your psych paper?” There were a few beats of silence as the blond skimmed over the documents you had sent, and realisation dawned on him. “Y/n — these are — you mean —”

“Today’s Saturday. The weekly campus paper goes out on Monday. I need you to cover this story, ‘lix.” 

You heard him swallow uneasily. “Shit, y/n, I—you realise these directly contradict the local press? They’ve been throwing up story after story about how Jisung’s a — a cold-blooded psychopath, and that lead prosecutor keeps egging them on. The campus newspaper is far bigger than your average school newsletter, heck, I’ve been bragging about it since before I joined, but…” he hesitated before saying the worry that had been tugging at the back of your mind. “Will it even stand a chance?”

You exhaled slowly. For a long moment, all you could hear was your pounding heartbeat, synchronised to the high-pitched beeping of the heart machine by your bed. “We won’t know unless we try.” Your voice faltered, giving into your own creeping anxiety. “What do you think?”

At that, you heard him let out a slow, decisive breath, and something changed in the blond’s voice — a grit and determination you always saw when Felix was working on a new story, setting his mind to a challenge — and it immediately gave you a newfound surge of confidence, a feeling of assuredness you hadn’t felt in a while. 

“I think,” Felix began, and you could almost see the glint of determination flickering over his usually mischief-bright eyes, “It’s time to kick some prosecutor ass.”

[kazbrkker]

Chapter 1: Fog of War

Chapter summary: When the transported gas is stolen by insurgents, codename “Saint” is sent to assist Alex. (2325 words)

Warnings: mentions of blood, violence, mild torture. 

24 OCTOBER 2019. 0630 "Alex" CIA with Marine Raiders Verdansk, Kastovia

Pain.

That was the first thing Alex registered. The throbbing pain held his body paralysed with every breath he drew. Black started to seep in the corner of his eyes, he clamped down on his teeth, struggling to stay conscious.

A god damn RPG. He'd be lucky if he didn't break anything.

The ringing in his ears smothered the pulses of enemy fire over his head. He watched helplessly on the ground as more enemy trucks infiltrated the compound.

"Watcher to 3-1. How copy?! Alex, do you read- over!"

Hitman 7-5 ran over and grasped his hand, intending to get him to safety while 7-4 provided them with cover. "I got you- I got you, 3-1!"

Alex felt himself being dragged away from his burning armoured truck, only strong enough to watch his legs dig in the gravel. In a blink, a bullet lodged itself in 7-1 and his supporter collapsed onto the ground.

God damn.

Badly wounded, 7-1 struggled to get up. "Who the fuck is this!"

Behind him, a masked insurgent walked from the gas truck and fired, killing Hitman 7-1. Alex only felt 7-1's blood splatter across his bare arm.

The insurgent kicked 7-1's body, confirming the kill. Alex cursed through gritted teeth, his gas mask muffling the angry curse words. The insurgent paid no mind, briefly inspected the dead corpse, eyes wide when the Marines uniform came into view. Panicking, he quickly called for his leader.

The insurgents took the truck filled with chemical weapons and boarded it. "Move out- Go, go, go!" The truck drove away with the chemical weapons.

Bilingual... decent English skills.

Alex ripped off his gas mask, breathing heavily from his wounds. They were so close. "Shit."

The CIA agent swept around, he was the only survivor from the attack. "Echo 3-1 to Watcher."

"Alex! What happened?"

"Terrorist attack- Multiple Marines KIA- Gas stolen- We need EVAC, now!"

"Roger– Tracking multiple Russian forces headed your way. Sit tight. We're pushing to you for fast exfil. Watcher out."

He was in no shape to fight properly, but if he stayed on the ground, he's dead meat. Groaning, he pushed himself off the ground with every ounce of strength left in his systems, wincing.

"3-1 be advised, Hammer 2-1 is circling back to you for exfil. ETA 10 mikes."

Busy putting pressure on his wounds, Alex blindly sprayed his M4A1, getting a few good kills. "Roger that."

"Command is sending Saint, she will meet you back at base for debrief."

"Shouldn't she be in Paris?"

"She's redesignated. Command wants the Aces on this. Watcher out."

Alex sighed, feeling irritated for her. The assignment in Paris was personal to her, and knowing her, Alex could count on one hand how many things could affect her like that. But that's how it is in the agency, you never get to choose.

━━━━ SAME DAY. 0600. CIA with Rangers Unknown CIA Site, "Hostel", Paris

Leaning against the cold concrete wall, she crossed her arm and drummed her fingers in equal parts anticipation and boredom. Her dark hazel eyes were solely glued onto the restrained target sitting in the centre of the room. After three gruelling months, she finally caught him.

Fedir Boucher, a dirty bomb maker.

The CIA agent nonchalantly popped a piece of mint in her mouth as Ruddiger delivered another punch to Boucher's face, another spray of blood dribbling messily.

She crouched, levelling with Boucher. "Give me a name, Fedir, and I'll make it stop."

"Go... to hell," Boucher meekly lets out, a bloodied grin on display. "боягуз (Coward). A weak girl like you couldn't even hurt me if you tried."

Smirking, she dusted her hands and threw a cloth to Ruddiger to clean the blood off his knuckles. Meanwhile, the agent started to strip off her weapons. "Your lucky day."

She took her sweet time detaching the rest of her gear, leaving her weaponless. Her best way of working. "My friend here from the Army, he has protocols to follow so we avoid any international incidents. But I'm... different. I have no rules. I actually don't exist."

In a flash, she swivelled and snapped Boucher's right wrist into half. The screams that followed were raw, each one piercing to their ears.

"If there's anything you're holding back... Now would be a good time to confess." Her voice was calm and accentuated. She wasn't fucking around and this should make Boucher well aware of that.

"You- You need me alive! I am no use to you dead!"

Or maybe he doesn't. She mentally sighed, reaching for her revolver laid on the table.

She loaded a single round in her revolver and spun the cylinder. "You're useless if you don't give me a name in the next 10 seconds."

The agent only held a cold expression on her face. "I know all about the games you play with your victims, tricking vulnerable women and children." She took aim between his eyes, eyes cold.

"What you are doing is illegal!" Boucher hissed, heavily breathing.

She huffed, that's rich.

Ruddiger stared at the scene, eyes slightly widening. He was surprised that this line of interrogation came quicker than expected. Just as the CIA agent placed the muzzle against Boucher's head, he interrupted. "Agent."

Pausing, she lowered the revolver. Eyes still trained on her target, she spoke in a solemn tone, "You should leave the room now."

The absence of a metal door closing made her avert her gaze in surprise. Ruddiger stood rooted in the same spot, hands crossed authoritatively, "Sergeant, if you choose to stay here, whatever happens next must be excluded from your debrief. Can you do that?"

"No, ma'am. I took an oath, I cannot break it."

"Can you take one then?" She watched as his eyes flickered to the HVT on the chair, a cold-blooded killer who denotes bombs for his sole entertainment and now, whoring out for profits.

A decisive nod from Ruddiger sealed the deal. "Let's end this."

"Roger that", she took the lead and slammed the armed revolver against Boucher's temple. Fat beads of perspiration rolled down his temples.

Click, the sound echoed throughout the tiny interrogation room. Boucher squeezed his eyes shut, a shaky breath escaped.

"A name."

Boucher shook his head violently, "I don't know anything!"

Stressing her brows in annoyance, she pulled the trigger again. Click. "You're a very lucky man, Boucher. Statistically, you have a 66.7% chance of living. Are you game?"

She eyed the man, the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallowed, all signs pointing that he was about to break, "I never made contact with Valhalla!"

Sneering, she tightened a hand around his neck. "Lies! How did Valhalla get the package then?"

"I left it beside a poubelle at Bois de Boulogne! I never saw Valhalla or any of his men! I swear- I swear!" Satisfied with the steel proof sound of conviction in his voice, she forcefully released his face. Glaring, the agent shifted the revolver an inch shy of his right ear and fired twice.

Boucher flinched with every echo. Staring him dead in his eyes, she raised the barrel one last time, expressionless.

Her eyes flickered to Ruddiger, who didn't look bothered by her actions. She fired one last shot, this time, a loud bang escaped from the revolver.

Boucher fell sideways with the chair, thrashing. The absence of blood pooling around his body, or the fact that he remained alive startled the man. He groggily peeled his eyes open, the blinding white light left the woman standing over him to his imaginations.

"I..." He echoed incoherently about the afterworld.

She reached down to him, grabbing his chin. "Blanks. You're not dead, Boucher, fat wish. You're going to rot in a cell for the rest of your god damn life." Her revolver tumbled right beside his face, making him recoil, "But this? Consider this a fraction of the payback for the women and children who died in your hands."

The CIA agent exited the room with Ruddiger. They were met with two other Rangers standing guard at the door. "Did he break?"

"They always do." She smiled, "Said he dropped off the package for Valhalla beside a bin in Bois de Boulogne."

Blaze 0-3 nodded, "I'll call it in."

"I'll do it, I have something else to report. For goodness sake, go get some shut eye. I'll get some trustworthy agents to stand guard." The group grinned at her.

She tapped her wristwatch communicator, "Saint to Actual, Valhalla picked up his package in Bois de Boulogne. We're pulling up street cams for verification, over."

"Copy that, Saint, job well done. I've just received word that your Command has reassigned you. You are to leave immediately for Urzikstan."

"Sir? I retrieved the intel, I can catch Valhalla." She gritted her teeth, careful with her words.

"There's no doubt you will, Saint. This order came from Langley, my hands are tied. You are heading to Urzikstan, agent."

The CIA agent released her tightened fist. She should be used to this at this point, but this assignment... She wanted- needed to see this through. The group of Rangers passed her a solemn look, hearing it through the comms. "What about this mission, sir?"

"The CIA will assign another agent." She pinched her nose bridge and took a deep, controlled breath.

"Request permission to appoint handover, sir."

"Let's hear it, Saint."

Her hazel eyes went in search for Ruddiger, immediately spotting the 6"2 Marine. "Sergeant Ruddiger should takeover, he has been vital in this op."

A deep sigh came from the receiving end, "Copy that. I'll relay it as if it were my own, Saint. Whiskey 5 is en route to Hostel, get ready for egress. Charlie out."

She exhaled deeply, appreciating the Colonel's kindness. It made her reminisce about her times in the Army.

Urzikstan. That was Alex's assignment. She was hardly assigned to missions in such a hostile environment, it was Alex's speciality. They must really need her on this.

Ruddiger approached her, his tall figure towering over her 5"7 one. "Thank you, you didn't have to do that."

She scoffed, fidgeting with her fingers. "Nah. A new agent would take days to acclimate, that's precious time we can't lose. Plus, you've got heart, no better reason than why I recommended you. For what's worth."

Ruddiger noticed the way her last sentence lightly trailed off but didn't press on it. It wasn't his first day here, agents like her don't exactly have a choice. "I'm sorry about this."

"Me too." She mumbled softly, aimlessly fidgeting with her gear. "Just catch Valhalla. You'll be doing us all a favour, 5-1."

"Oorah." He passed a sincere smile.

"It was nice working with you for the past three months, Ruddiger. Appreciate it for... back there." She nodded towards the interrogation room. "I'll be sure to write up an excellent debrief for ya."

Ruddiger casually shook his head, smiling, "Just doing what I gotta do, Saint. But I gotta say, that name suits you well... Ma'am."

He mentally cursed, worried that he was trespassing. Some call signs were extremely sensitive. And based on what he has heard, so was hers. But could you blame him? He was still a little high off the adrenaline from the interrogation. Plus, a part of him would be lying if he wasn't curious though.

The agent merely cocked an eyebrow, interested. Standing before her, he was obviously nervous but didn't reveal much.

Huh, she noted, he'd make a good agent if he wanted to.

"What have I told you, screw the formalities." She said honestly, waving it off and Ruddiger visibly relaxed. "Go on."

Ruddiger scratched at the nape of his neck absentmindedly, sort of a sheepish look on his face. "Well, by the time you were done with Boucher, he was yelling something about saviours when we left the room. He must have thought you were there to save him.."

"Est mon sauveur. My saviour."

"Fitting." He hummed.

The agent only gave a smile that doesn't seem to reach her eyes, "Unfortunately."

━━━━ 24 OCTOBER 2019, 1500 CIA BASE, Urzikstan.

The CIA agent stepped off the jet, hands holding her go-bag. First thing she noticed? The atrocious weather.

Dressed in simple jeans and a loose black tee, her chestnut brown hair was neatly tied in a bun. Yet, she could already feel the stickiness on her body. Fun, she couldn't wait to be in full gear.

Amidst the blazing sun, Kate Laswell stood a few feet away from the landing strip, waiting for her. The agent took off her sunglasses and passed a knowing smile to Laswell.

"Station chief Laswell, it's good to see you again." the agent greeted with a professional smile, walking alongside Laswell.

"Wish it were under better circumstances, Saint."

She glanced around the base, noticing several tinted tentages everywhere. "When is it ever? I read the brief on my way over. To say we've got a big problem is understating it."

"Still not a sleeper, I see?"

She grinned, shutting the door behind her. "I never do on jets, Kate, you know me."

"It's military grade, Saint. It never crashes."

"I beg to differ." She grimaced, a distant reminder that made her skin crawl. "Anyhow. Where's Alex? Didn't the bastard know I was coming? I was half expecting a confetti ceremony the moment I stepped off the heli."

"I sure hope you weren't referring to me. Cause I got you something better." The door swung open and Alex came into view, his middle finger teasingly on display. Upon seeing Laswell, the other CIA agent swiftly retracted it, cleared his throat and pretended nothing happened.

She passed a rueful grin at Alex, rolling her eyes at his idiocy.

Alex was all smiles, spreading his arms wide. He sure was not holding back how happy he was to see his best friend.

"Alexis."

a/n: hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. masterlist here. want to be tagged? let me know!

[taliahvause]

730 Days? | Self Paragraph

DAY ONE

“How was your journey here? Did the escorting staff treat you good?” There was supposed to be some kind of empathy in the tone of the Officer, but they had been on shift since 7am and it was now almost 10pm. Vause just nodded, she understood what it was like to be tired. She felt exhausted herself. After spending hours crammed in what can only be described as a mobile metal casket travelling from Manhatten to the federal prison on the edge of the state line, all she wanted was to knock out. To forget she was even back in this shit hole. “Sign here, here, and here. Then we’ll get you in to the nurse, get you some clothes and down to the wing--” 

“She knows the drill.” Another, older Officer pitched in, making Vause look up from the paperwork. 

“How are you not retired yet, Hunt?” 

“Yoga. Keeps the mind, body, and soul young, Vause. You should give it a try.”. 

She scoffed, rolled her eyes and then scribbled her name on the last dotted line. She saw the doctor. Traded in her stuff for orange. Then glanced around the reception area, the one she won’t see again for 2 years. 24 months. 730 days... It was only 730 days. 

DAY SEVEN

Honey Brown. 1h. 6 s, 2 c. 23a. The note was stuffed in her pocket from the laundry workers and Vause sat down on her bed, holding it with both hands and staring at the writing. It had been seven days, seven days of those ringing fucking alarms, of torches shining through the glass waking her up every other goddamn hour. Just one hit, just to sleep for a night properly. She looked up and across at the picture on the wall. The one of her wife and her jaw tensed as she crushed the piece of paper in her fist. Then she glanced at the calander. 723 days. 

DAY THIRTY ONE

“Are you fucking kidding me?! I’m not moving!” Vause protested, shaking her head as she backed into the corner of her cell. “You can’t move me onto B wing, that’s Brooklyn fucking territory, you KNOW what they’ll do to a Harlem girl, come on!” She yelled as the Officer’s, padded up in full riot gear spilled into her cell. “Fine!” Vause pushed her sleeves up. “You want a fucking fight, assholes? Let’s go!” She screamed, running at the shield and rolling over the top of it, kicking one guard in the face and headbutting another as she landed between all of them. Fists flew, connecting with whatever they could until there was a winding thud in her back and all the air was forced out of her lungs as she was sandwiched up against the wall by the shielded screw. 

“Take her down to the fucking block.”.

The bang of the cell door closing was the start of the silence, of a seven day stretch with nothing but a metal bed frame, a shitty pillow and these four walls. 699 days.

DAY FIFTY THREE 

The segregation was tough, but it was over and it did its job. She didn’t get moved to B, instead she went to F wing with the rest of the Harlem lot. She’d made a few connections, a few... Friends... Though, she didn’t trust anyone. She knew from past experience that this place was a dog eat dog world. Everyone was out for themselves. The moment you get in someone’s way, or you become a burden to them you become nothing. “Eh, Vause, you’re on the visitation list you know,” one of those tender connections strolled into her cell. 

“What? No I’m not, it’s too far out for my wife to come. Don’t fuck with me man, I’ll roll your head off,” she threatened loosely with a suck of her lips and a shake of her head. 

“Nah, nah, man, you on there, go check it-- thousand sticks, V.” That was a bit of saying around the wind. Thousand sticks, meaning an a thousand cigarette bet. Vause’s eyebrow raised and, with a heavy sigh, she rolled off the top bunk, throwing the rubber band ball back up onto it and walked out the cell to the notice board. 

“Well shit...” For the first time in fifty three days, Vause smiled. This created quite the rally of cheers from her ‘friends’, who jokingly pushed her around a little in front of the board. “Fuck off everyone,” she groaned though the little smile on her face made it hard to take it seriously. 

Later that day, walking through those doors and seeing her wife’s face for the first time in months, despite it being through bulletproof glass, her heart skipped a beat. Then it sunk, though she hid that part because this was hard enough already. But, 677 days seemed like a lifetime. 

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND SEVEN 

Her head hung over the letter. She noticed the little things in it that weren’t words. The way some of the letters were uncharacteristically slanted. The few red droplets at the bottom of the letter. It was the first of two birthday letters she was going to recieve in these cold four walls, and she could tell Riley had been drinking when she wrote it. Vause gasped for a breath of air when she realized she hadn’t taken one in a while as a few of her tears joined those small red marks at the bottom of the page. “I’m sorry...” She whispers as her knees come up into her chest and she hugs the letter into her chest, falling back against the wall. 623 days...

DAY TWO HUNDRED AND EIGHTY NINE

“What do you mean ‘what is this’?! I ain’t ever seen that shit in my life!” Vause argued, hands in the air as the searching Officers stood before her asking where she had got the mobile phone from that they had just found in her pillow. “Unlock it, I won’t know any of the contacts in there. It’s not mine.” She wasn’t even lying, but of course they didn’t believe that. 

“What so someone just put a mobile phone into your pillow?” 

“There’s weirder fucking shit happening in this shithole!” Vause snapped back as she felt her breathing get heavier and heavier with anger as she thought about who the fuck had set her up. Was it the women that had tried to bring her into the drug ring that she turned down? Was it one of the women who wanted her to be their prison wife that she’d told to go fuck a cactus? Was it a fucking Officer? 

“You know phone finds mean two weeks in the block, Vause.” 

“IT’S NOT MINE! I CAN’T GO TO THE FUCKING BLOCK. C’MON, DANIELS, YOU KNOW I ADMIT TO SHIT WHEN I GET CAUGHT-- THIS AIN’T MINE! I HAVE A VISIT ON FRIDAY, IT’S MY ANNIVERSARY, I’M NOT MISSING IT!” She punched the wall, and instantly regretted doing that as she felt her knuckles crack. “FUCK!” One of the Officers grabbed onto her arm and she instantly tensed up and pushed him away from her. “FUCK. OFF. Don’t fucking grab me! I’ll fucking walk!” She spat, looking between them both before kicking the chair across the room causing it to smash and break against the far wall before storming out of the cell. Anything that wasn’t bolted to the ground on route from her cell to the segregation block was kicked or thrown in rage. “WHOEVER SET ME UP, I’M HAVING YOUR FUCKING HEADS!” She yelled out as she was escorted off the wing and down the stairs.

Once again, the heavy cell door slammed shut and once again she was left with nothing but the knowledge that there was only 441 days left... Only.

DAY TWO HUNDRED AND NINETY THREE

She had fallen onto her knees in front of the steel door, hands balled into fists pressing against the cold metal. Her cheeks were lined with streams of tears, head hanging as she thought about Riley sat in the visitation booth waiting for her. She had been screaming for them to let her out, to let her go, that she’d do anything, for the past four hours. The visit session would have been well over by now. It was their anniversary, the first one they’d not seen each other one and she felt like someone was ripping her heart out. Her body violently shook as she thought about who the fuck planted that phone, her nails digging into her palms and drawing blood. She couldn’t even write to Riley to tell her not to come. She couldn’t even warn her... What if it was an asshole Officer up there? What did they tell her?

I’m sorry... I’m sorry... 

437 days.

DAY THREE HUNDRED AND FIFTEEN

Vause was still shaking as she stood in the shower and watched the water mix with the blood that washed off from her knuckles. She focused on controlling her breathing, her teeth gritted together as she scrubbed the marks and evidence off her body. It had taken her no more than three days out of confinement to figure out who had planted the phone in her cell, and under the cover of most of the wing being out on the yard, she had paid them a visit and left them in a ball on their cells floor with a bloody face and a few cracked ribs. If it wasn’t for the one person she actually trusted being on lookout and seeing her start to loose control, and so intervening and pulling her away, she probably would have killed her. She made her miss her anniversary. She was lucky to still be alive. Vause stepped out of the shower, dried off, and pulled her clothes back on before wrapping her knuckles in toilet paper and then putting gloves on. Luckily, the prison was fucking freezing and it was the middle of October. It wasn’t exactly suspect to be walking around in a coat and gloves; in fact it was more suspect to not be. She wondered whether the guards knew anyway, whether they supported what she did, because she was never so much as questioned about what happened to that woman... Perhaps her luck was turning. It was about time. 415 days...

DAY FOUR HUNDRED

“Congrats, Vause. You’re going up a level, pack your stuff, you’re shipping out to inner state,” the Officer switched her light on and Vause initally groaned before registering what he had said, bolting up on the bed. 

“Wait-- I’m going back to the city?” 

“Yep. Good behaviour lessened your security level, you get to move on and we get a bigger asshole in to take your spot. They don’t know how easy they got it in state,” he rolled his eyes as he threw a few bags onto her bed. “C’mon, transport goes in an hour... Unless you’d stay, of course.”

“Yeah, fuck that,” Vause scoffed, throwing the covers back and jumping straight up onto her feet. “I’ll be ready in ten-- wait, my wife is--”

“Already told you’ve moved. Ten it is. Better get packing.”. 

She was going back to the city. Closer to her wife. Less restrictions. No glass between them at visits... Vause smiled. 330 days wasn’t sounding so bad... And they weren’t, until...

DAY SIX HUNDRED AND TEN

Leaving surgery behind... Switching to therapy... Moving away from the city. Vause’s head was spinning as she paced around her cell, going over everything they had spoken about in the visit. It was something that they had joked about before; running away from NYC the moment she was released, going and hiding away from the world and becoming one with nature. But, when Riley said she had given up her position at the hosptial... When she said she was going to switch to therapy. It just didn’t seem like Vause was in on the full story. She could tell Riley was drinking more than just a nightcap these days, but she didn’t exactly have a leg to stand on in speaking out against it. She was in fucking prison... Everything just seemed so-- out of control. Everything felt like-- she was in the eye of a hurricane. Then a note slid underneath her door. Cocoa puff bowl. 20stick. 2-12. Her breath caught in the back of her throat. That would make her stop pacing. Stop overthinking this. She was almost out, anyway, right? She was almost done. There was only... 120 days.

DAY SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY TWO

She must have been convincing when she had spoken about Riley moving down to their new town before she was released, because the blonde eventually got on board with it. Vause had come to terms with it all over the past few months, she realised that New York was her home but now it was the place where she would end up either incarcerated for the rest of her life; or dead. They had to get away from the Apple. Clearly, they both needed a fresh start, and if Riley could get away from the city before she could? Vause knew she wasn’t happy here anymore, in New York. Of course, she wanted her to stay so she could keep getting the regular visits but it wasn’t worth it... Vause didn’t want to let go of her today, and she didn’t until the final warning from the Officers. “I love you... Stay safe for me, I’ll stay out of trouble for you, baby...” She wasn’t supposed to, but Vause kissed her wife before reluctantly letting go, hands going in the air as she looked to the Officer with a little smirk. She walked backwards out of the visit hall, eyes staying softly on her wife, taking in every last detail of her features as if it was the first time she was looking at her; or the last... Well, it was the last time for a while. Vause blew Riley a kiss with a smile before finally turning around. It was going to be okay... There was only 78 days left. 2 and a half months. It was going to be okay. 78 days.

DAY SIX HUNDRED AND SIXTY NINE 

“Release day, Vause! Up and at em!” The sudden light made her pupils dilate and the early morning hours and breeze from the door made the statement even more confusing that it already was. She wasn’t due out yet. There was still more time to go. She blinked her vision into focus and saw that it was one of the asshole Officers and she groaned, rolling her eyes and falling back onto her bed. 

“That’s not fucking funny, Georgeman,” she muttered.

“What do you mean funny? You’re getting out, here--” he threw the clipboard at her which made her groan, sigh and sit up. She was going to lose her shit with this guy one of these days. Asshole. Vause pushed on her glasses and froze for a second. He wasn’t fucking around. There was her name, her prison number, and in big red letters RELEASE. 

“Well fuck-- that-- came around quick...” Vause swallowed, playing along, just waiting for the sike to come but then he threw the bags into the room and continued down the corridor to unlock the next release. She scrambled up to her feet and stuck her head out, half expecting him again to be stood out there laughing. But, he wasn’t, he was carrying on with his job... She was-- well, fuck, she was getting out early.

61 days early. 

That was 5 days ago. 

TODAY

Now she was down in Santa Ysabel, she was back with her wife. But it was strange... She still felt like she should be counting down the days. She still heard the sound of boots patrolling and torches switching on and off when she closed her eyes. She was still listening out for alarms. Everyone that passed her on the street a little too close almost got pushed back onto their ass. She had to control herself though. This wasn’t prison anymore. She was free. This was her home now... Riley was her home. It didn’t matter where they were. But, it was hard to readjust... And she couldn’t fucking sleep. Maybe she’ll sleep better in 56 days... When she was supposed to be out... Maybe she’ll stop dreaming about feds kicking down their front door and dragging her away from her wife again then... She can’t lose her again. She won’t.

[jennygirl2014]

Just Deserts-Chapter 2

(It’s finally here!  Sorry for the delay! I didn’t proofread or edit yet, so please don’t hate me, I will fix it up later. I just wanted to get it up.  Thanks for reading!)

Chapter Summary: Tawney goes over to Ransom’s for the first time, hoping to keep it professional.  But of course the arrogant asshole has to try and get under her skin.) Warnings: language, some mild racism.

Chapter 2

“This guy could be a murderer.” Kira’s voice carried over the kitchen.  She was busy getting her station set up for the day, having just arrived.  Meanwhile, even though it was only a little after ten in the morning, Tawney was cleaning up her mess for the day.  “Or a rapist. You don’t know.  Call him up and tell him to shove his deal up his ass.”

“And how else do I pay to have the car fixed without insurance?” Tawney replied as she placed the last of her dishes in the industrial dishwasher.  “He was gonna call the cops!”

“We could have a bake sale. You know people love your desserts. We could raise the money somehow.” Kira walked over, wiping her wet hands with a rag.  

“Cupcakes aren’t going to fix this, Ki.” Tawney finally looked her friend in the face.  “Besides, I don’t even have his number.”

“Even more reason not to go!” Kira fussed, “Seriously.  You’re signing up to be some creepy stranger’s house maid.”

“It’s just cooking and baking.  How else can I pay to have a freaking Beemer fixed?”

“A Beemer?  Fucking rich dickhead…” Kira scoffed.  

“If things get creepy, I’ll leave.”

“You better.  And you better not let him talk down to you.  If he does, slip something extra into a pie or something.” Typical Kira.

              Tawney knew her friend meant well, and she had every right to be concerned.  The truth was, Tawney really was nervous about the whole thing, but she didn’t see any other options at the moment.  After she had managed to get home the night before, she could barely sleep, between the adrenaline, the guilt, the anxiety of the unknown, and also not having a working air conditioner.  She still managed to roll out of bed and make it into work, extra early, at 2AM, just to be sure she could leave to get to this stranger’s house by noon.  Her lack of sleep was likely clouding her judgement as well, but she didn’t have time to worry about that.  She was just grateful that her boss loaned her a spare key and that he had given her permission to go in so early.  

              She had to use her GPS to find this guy’s house, which meant keeping her phone within sight, something that she was terrified over after how using her phone while driving had resulted the night before.  During the drive she was scolding herself for agreeing to this, this guy, Ransom, was a complete stranger.  Hell, he could have been a real perv, especially after how he jumped at the idea of being paid in other forms the night before, something that was not on her mind at all.  But he was a good looking guy, he was likely used to women just dropping to their knees for him.  Well, that wasn’t who she was.  And once she pulled into the driveway and finally saw this guy’s house, she was sure he was used to having all sorts of female company.  He was secluded, his house hidden by a wall of trees, yet practically the whole house was made of glass.  So many windows, so much to see, and like there was nothing he had to hide.  Just stepping foot into this house, she was going to feel exposed.  

              Her car rattled into a spot next to his and she parked it.  The damage on his car really wasn’t as bad as hers had been, and she eyed the scratched up side of his car before she fought with the broken handle to release the door to get out.  Every foot step up to his door made her heart pound harder, and her knife bag felt heavy as it hung from her shoulder.  When she was close enough to press the doorbell, she froze, thinking.  She still had time to run away, she could turn back and race out of there without him even knowing she was there.  How would he know?  How would he find her?  Maybe she could get away with this whole thing, no service required.

              Just as she started to weigh the decision in her mind, the door swung open and there he stood, the same man from the previous night. His blue t-shirt fit relaxed on his broad frame, but it still showed off a certain physique that caught her eye.  Hell, her eyes fell right onto his chest, and she instinctively held her breath.  “Good, you found the place.  I saw you walking up.” He spoke as he opened the screen door and held it open for her. Of course he saw her, all those windows. She still stood in place, like her feet were cemented to that spot on his top step.  She had a sinking feeling about stepping past that threshold, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. “Are you going to stand there, or are you going to come in?” he grew annoyed.  She put her guard up and stepped in past him.  

              Her eyes scanned the place.  Was this the place of a murderer, or a rapist, or a crazed pervert? It seemed more like the palace of a man who was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, a man without a care in the world, but all of the expectation.  It was big and spacey, and it made her feel so small, like she was being swallowed up. His furniture was leather, the hardwood was perfectly polished, and the smell in the air, dark and masculine, like pine, fresh and clean.  She did not belong in that house, standing in her already stained chef coat, wearing the sweat and smells of working eight hours in a kitchen.  This was all too pristine, too high class.  She felt vulnerable.

              She turned to him, to see him in his own habitat, and she was slightly alarmed to see him just standing there, eyeing her. She gulped and wet her lips, not knowing what to say, or how to even speak in such a situation.  Luckily, he handled that first awkward moment for her. Not to her surprise, this man likely has no sense of shame.  

“You look like you came from work.”

“I did come from work.” She replied.  

“Oh.” He shrugged it off, like working a full day before going to a second job was nothing. “Come on, I’ll show you the kitchen.” He walked ahead of her and led her into a large open kitchen. The countertops were marble, there was an island range and two ovens stacked into the wall on the far side.  Everything was dark rich tones with pops of stainless steel, perfectly collaborated.  This was her dream kitchen, a kitchen meant for hosting and cooking large elaborate meals, and it looked like it had never been touched.  He had no idea how lucky he was, or how much she envied him at that moment. “My maid, Maria, comes early every morning.  She just left, so, the kitchen is all ready and clean for you.” He informed her.  Tawney walked over to the island counter and set her bag down, looking around a bit more before opening up her bag and unrolling her tools.

“I clean up after myself.” She told him

“Why?  I just told you I have a maid.” He pulled out a stool and took a seat across from her.  

“Because I don’t like having other people clean up after me.” She replied as she pulled out a small notebook and a pen.  

“Suit yourself.”

“So,” she drew in a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves, and then sighed. “What kind of stuff do you like?”

“What do you mean?” she couldn’t believe his casual response.

“Like…what kind of foods do you like?” she paused, “You have had a cook before, right?  I mean, you said that last night.  Clearly they must have had some recipes you preferred.”

“Okay, miss sassy pants,” he took a small jab at her before he answered, “I’m a meat and potatoes kind of guy.  I like my protein.  I’m not a huge fan of vegetables or fish, but I’ll eat them if prepared to my liking.”

“Which means…?” she started taking notes down.

“Nothing boiled.  Sautéed is fine, roasted is fine.”

“Okay.”

“I like a good sandwich for lunch.  Breakfast I usually handle myself, just eggs and toast, so you’re off the hook there. At least for now.”

“At least for now?” she repeated his statement and looked up to make eye contact with him. “What…what does that mean?”

“It means sometimes I might like a nice cooked breakfast.”

“…I have a job, dude.” She reminded him.  “I have to work.”

“That’s not my problem.” He replied with a smug smile. “You damaged my car, which means you work when I need you, or I report it.  I’ll let you know ahead of time, that way you can work something out with your boss.”

“I’ll need twenty-four hours’ notice.”

“I was thinking more like a couple hours.”

“No, that won’t work.” She got annoyed.

“Okay, twelve.”

“Fine.” She gave in.

“And don’t call me dude.” He started to lecture her, “I’m not one of your homies.” That one wasn’t going to fly.

“Okay,” Tawney lifted her pen only to drop it and lay her hands on the marble as she addressed him. She wanted him to know how serious she was. “I may be young, and I may have damaged your car, for which I am sorry. But I’m here now, in a professional manner.  Which means, I show you respect,” she pointed to herself, “And you show me respect. Now it doesn’t take a detective to figure out we’re from different sides of the track, but…you will not talk to me like I’m some girl from the ghetto.  I worked hard to get where I am today.  And if you have any qualms about hiring a black girl, you can go ahead and call the cops about your car and then find yourself another cook because I won’t stick around for it.”

Ransom looked at her with wide eyes.  But then he scoffed and his expression turned to that of amusement.

“Wow.  Okay.  Well as long as we’re laying down rules,” he leaned in, “This is my house.  I don’t appreciate you showing up in a stained uniform, it looks messy.  And if you wanna talk about being a professional,” he tilted his head at her, “See what I’m saying?  So, bring a clean one.  No blasting music, no hanging out on your cell phone, you’re here to cook.  If I had guests over, I’ll let you know, but this contract is extended to them too.  If friends are here and they’re hungry, they’re going to get fed.  Got it?”

“Fine.” She felt like he was just trying to even the score some.  

“And I don’t have any qualms, just so you know.” He tossed that last part out there for affect. There was a moment of silence between them, like they were measuring each other up.

“We got off topic.” Tawney changed the subject back, “What do you like?  As far as food.” She clarified again.

“Italian.”

“There, that wasn’t so hard.”

“If you expect respect, then you’d better start giving it too. Missy.” He warned her.

“My name is Tawney.”

“That’s right, I forgot.” He rubbed his chin, “What kind of a name is Tawney, anyway?”

“Family name.  What kind of a name is Ransom?”

“You know I’m starting to regret not having you address me as Hugh.” He countered as he cut his eye at her.

“So, Italian,” she came back to topic, “What else?”

“Chinese.  Not a huge fan of Mexican.  Never been a fan of collard greens or chitlins.” He started to push her buttons again.  Tawney realized this was going to be a never- ending battle.  He thought he was being funny.

“Dessert?” she refused to let him see her get worked up.

“Oh yeah.  I’ve got a real sweet tooth.” When he finished his statement, she caught his eyes scanning her again.  

“Custards?  Cakes?”

“Cookies, pies, brownies…”

“Is that another cheap shot?”

“What?  Saying I like brownies?” he sat back and held his hands out in defense, but the smile was still sporting nothing but amusement. He knew what he was doing.

“What am I making today?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t thought that far.  But Maria brought groceries this morning.  Take a look around and see what you can come up with.” He stood up from the stool.  “Call it an audition.” He turned to walk away, but stopped and turned to her again.  “One more thing, don’t go snooping around the house.  The kitchen is on this floor, there’s no need for you to go upstairs.”

“Why would I go upstairs?”

“Exactly.” He paused, “I mean, unless you’re invited.”

Dick.

“I’m just fine right here.” She abruptly closed her notebook and turned to get to work.

              Ransom walked off into the living room while Tawney marched over to his fridge to figure out something.  She figured she would make enough food for him to last two days, he has said three days a week the night before, so maybe she could get away with not having to come again the following day.  She found some ham and roast beef for sandwiches, different cheeses, some ground beef, a couple tomatoes and a couple other things.  Then she went through the cupboards next, finding pasta, different spices, but not a whole lot.  She wondered what his previous cook had been doing, or how long he had gone without a cook. It was clear this guy wasn’t much into cooking for himself.  Then of course she had to come up with a dessert, since he had mentioned having a sweet tooth, and really, why not do one? There wasn’t a lot available, but she could figure something out.

“When was the last time you had a cook?” she called out to him.

“It’s been like a month I guess.” He replied from his couch, where he was sitting on his phone.  She wondered what rich people did during the day, by the looks of this guy, not much.

“What was your last cook’s name?” she asked another question as she found a bowl in the cupboard and pulled it down.  

“Tim…something…can’t remember his last name.  He didn’t stick around long.” Then he added, “They never really do.” His statement made her heart sink, she felt like her goose was cooked before she even had the chance.

“I’m going to need more things from the store, eventually.  There’s not a ton here.”

“Make a list, I’ll have Maria get them tomorrow.”

“Where does she shop?”

“God you ask a lot of questions.” He turned his head from the couch to shoot her an annoyed look.

“Never mind then.” She retorted and went about her business.  “Prick.” She muttered under her breath.

              Within a couple minutes, she had prepared him a sandwich with apple slices and some chips.  She arranged everything on a plate and called out to him when it was ready. He came over, took it from her, grabbed a can of soda from his fridge and went back to his spot on the couch to watch TV.  She figured if he didn’t like ham and cheese, he would say something, and when he didn’t, she figured everything was fine and she was ready to move on with tomorrow’s sandwich.  She caramelized some onions for a roast beef sandwich with swiss, and she made a garlic aioli and toasted the bread to keep it from going too soggy.  Next came a lasagna, which she threw together with the cans of tomato sauce he had in his pantry, but it was lacking without any fresh herbs.  Ransom saw this as he placed his plate in the sink.

“You’re using canned tomato sauce?”

“Well you don’t have a ton of fresh tomatoes or herbs, so…” she trailed off, keeping her eyes on the meat she was browning.  When she noticed that he wasn’t walking away she looked up at him. “I can’t make herbs appear out of thin air.”

“Just put it on the list.” He quickly reminded her of the list and walked away.  Tawney’s eyes went wide with annoyance, but she maintained her composure.

“How was the sandwich?” she genuinely wanted feedback.

“I like fresh tomato and lettuce on my sandwiches.  I would hope that a cook can dress up a sandwich…”

“I’ll put stuff on the list!” she snapped at him before he could finish.  The man shook his head and walked off.  She puffed out her frustration and rolled her shoulders.  He wasn’t making this easy.  

              The lasagna came out as best as she could manage without the ingredients she would have hoped for.  What was most annoying about all of this was that she knew how to make good food, and she wanted that good food on her own table, but she couldn’t afford to live like that.  The lasagna with canned tomato sauce was something she would whip together for herself, because it was cheaper.  Here he was complaining and it was out of being lazy.  Every minute in that house and every minute in Ransom’s presence reminded her of how different their worlds were.  The food still smelled good, and it would still taste good, but he was just looking to find fault in all of it.  Matters were made worse by the fact that she was exhausted, and that she was starving.  Her stomach was rumbling and starting to hurt.  It was almost like being teased, making so much food and not being able to eat. When Ransom came over to get a glass of water, he happened to hear her stomach growling.  She swallowed her embarrassment and looked away as he eyed her.

“Hungry?” he sounded like he was mocking her.

“I haven’t eaten in ten hours.” She defended herself.  Ransom leaned against the counter with his glass of water, watching as she washed up the dishes she had used.  

“Aren’t you going to make a dessert?”

“Yeah, I’m just cleaning up a little.” She tried not to make eye contact with him, but he lingered there.

“You can eat something if you’re hungry.” He offered.  Tawney was surprised by his suggestion; he didn’t seem the type to allow her to eat.

“I…I didn’t think you would…you know…” she didn’t know how to word whatever it was she was trying to say.

“I don’t care if you eat.” He snapped at her as he walked out of the kitchen.  It was odd, like he was angered by her assumption.  How else was she supposed to interpret his attitude? She settled on eating an apple and getting back to work.  

              The lack of ingredients made it difficult to think up a good dessert, but any dessert would have worked at that point.  She would have to settle for the idea of wowing him with a dessert another time.  The most curious part about making a dessert for this man was trying to figure out why she cared.  He wasn’t the nicest guy, and she was there to settle a debt, so what did it matter? It had to have been her love for baking that made her so consumed with the idea of making something special.  Afterall, she was in her dream kitchen, and not on a time restriction, she had the chance to make something special.  Maybe that was the silver lining in all of this.  Yeah the guy was a complete asshole, but she could really flex her culinary muscles in this kitchen.  She could perfect a couple techniques that could maybe lead to a better job one day.  Maybe it wasn’t all that bad.

              It was about half past four when Tawney finished cooking and baking.  She was exhausted and ready to call it a night, but she made sure to clean up and leave a detailed list on the counter.  As she was putting away her knives and tools, Ransom came back into the kitchen.  He looked around, inspecting the space.  The lasagna was sitting on the stove and a plate of cookies was sitting neatly on the counter.  He then turned to Tawney, as if waiting for her to explain herself.

“The lasagna just needs to be reheated, you can either cut a piece and put it in the microwave or reheat it in the oven.  It’s up to you.  I made a roast beef sandwich for you for lunch tomorrow.  It has swiss and caramelized onions and—"

“You’re not coming tomorrow?” he interrupted her.  Tawney managed the coolest face she could muster at the moment.

“You said three days a week. I made enough food that you shouldn’t need me tomorrow.” She explained to him.  He huffed and turned to look at the cookies. “These are lemon ricotta cookies. I figured there was leftover ricotta, and you had a lemon, and I couldn’t think of much else.  The glaze is lemon flavored with a little zest.” She described the dessert she had made.  Ransom reached out and snatched a cookie up from the plate, and he eyed her suspiciously as he bit into the soft cookie.  Tawney kept her gaze on him as well, trying to get a read on him.  It was like some kind of standoff, like he was trying to think of a reason to make her stay longer or come over the following day.  She was worried he may have hatched something in his mind, but when he looked down at the other half of the cookie in his hand and nodded to himself, she figured that was him expressing his satisfaction.

“Not bad.” He gave the closest thing to a compliment she was going to get.  Screw him, she knew those cookies were amazing.  

“The list is there on the counter.  Anything else?” her tone sounded triumphant, and why shouldn’t it?  She was proud of herself.  

“I guess not.” He sighed, “So Wednesday?” he confirmed.

“Yes, I’ll be here.  And in the meantime, please try to come up with a list of go-to recipes.” She politely requested.  Ransom dug into his pocket and pulled out his phone.  

“I still need your number.”

“Right,” she proceeded to give him her number and he shoved his phone back into his pocket.  

“I guess that’s it.” Ransom excused her, and she wasted no time in grabbing her bag and heading for the door.  She was beyond grateful to be leaving.  The thought of a shower and a full night of sleep sounded like heaven.  She hurried to the door, where Ransom opened it for her, and as soon as she stepped out, he closed it loudly behind her.  

              Tawney managed to stay awake on the drive home, probably because she kept her foot on the gas and the music blasting.  She felt like she could breathe again, like the air was fresher and clear once she left his place.  And she relished the fact that she wouldn’t have to go back the following day. She was hoping she wouldn’t hear from him, that he would just ask his maid to go shopping and that would be the end of it.  Her phone chimed in her pocket, and she was sure it was Kira making sure she was still alive and in one piece, but she wasn’t going to answer it until she got home.  Lesson learned.  Once the car was in park and she was only moments away from stepping into her muggy apartment, she reached into her pocket to retrieve her cell phone and read the text message.  It was from a new number, someone not in her contacts.  

You left some crumbs on the counter. Thought you were going to clean up after yourself.

              She could have thrown her phone out the window. Was this man hell bent on getting under her skin?  She didn’t even bother texting him back, there really was no need to.  He could be mad about it if he wanted to be, but she wasn’t going to waste her time with his nonsense, not while she was off the clock. But still, that message was another reminder of what she was getting herself into, and likely warning of what was yet to come.

“Asshole.” At least she didn’t have to hide her true feelings for him while she was out of his house.

Previous chapter here.

Next chapter here.

[anubislover]

Welcome to the Heart Pirates, Nami-ya Chapter 2: Check-Up

“I never agreed to this,” Nami insisted, hands on her hips as she stood her ground.

“You agreed the moment you signed onto my crew.”

“I agreed to work with you, not take off my clothes so you could ogle me like a pervert!”

It hadn’t even been a day, and the fiery thief was already regretting her decision. After finalizing plans with Haredas, ensuring the old man knew where and when to retrieve her in a year, Law briefly showed her around the Polar Tang before ushering her into the infirmary. It was nothing like Chopper’s sickbay; steel, sterile equipment gleamed ominously under the bright lights. The aroma of antiseptic and other cleaning materials hung heavily in the air, stinging her nose. Nothing looked warm or comfortable or pleasant, and she suddenly missed her reindeer friend. It was hard to feel nervous when a cute little guy like him was your doctor.

Unfortunately, instead of sweet, caring Chopper, she was under the penetrating scrutiny of the Surgeon of Death.

Slipping on a crisp, white lab coat and placing his hat on the counter, Law looked unimpressed at her defiance. “I’m both your doctor and captain now, Nami-ya; I have to ensure my newest subordinate is healthy, especially since we spend so much time underwater. For that, I need to give you a full examination, and for that, I need you to strip.”

Nami sniffed in disdain, then wrinkled her nose at the overpowering scent of latex and chemicals. Briefly, she wondered if Luffy had been just as disgusted by the smell. “A likely excuse. You just want to see me naked!”

Annoyance crept into his voice at the accusation. “I’m perfectly capable of keeping things professional. Surely this wasn’t a problem with your old doctor?”

“My old doctor was a talking reindeer!”

“…Maybe I should give you a psychological examination instead.”

Pink dusted her cheeks at his comment. It had been a long time since she’d considered just how unusual her crewmates were, but Law’s tone certainly made her feel like an idiot. “Oh, shut up. I’m still not stripping; you can easily check me over fully-dressed.”

Blue, latex surgical gloves encased his tattooed hands with a resounding snap. “I can also easily use my powers to remove your clothes without your consent.”

She blanched at the threat. Maybe he was bluffing, but she didn’t trust Law enough to believe he couldn’t and wouldn’t do it. Most of what she knew about him was through rumors and news articles, and none of them painted a pretty picture. Pirates—with the notable exception of her crew—were unscrupulous bastards, and the ones with Devil Fruits especially so. Besides that, men always seemed to find a way to use those weird powers for perverted purposes, so with how little she knew of Law’s particular abilities, it was better to err on the side of caution.

Teeth sinking into her lip, she hesitantly peeled off her shorts and top before kicking off her sandals, leaving her in nothing but her lacy white bra and panties. The infirmary’s cold air made goosebumps raise across her exposed flesh, or maybe it was the way the Dark Doctor studied her. It was at least comforting that his expression was serious and clinical; had there been even a hint of lust in his gold eyes, she would have slapped him, Supernova or not. “Try to cop a feel and I’ll not only bash your head in, but charge you 1 million belli,” she warned.

“Violent tendencies and delusions. Perhaps I’ve made a mistake recruiting you,” he said blandly, picking up a clipboard and beginning to fill in a chart.

Crossing her arms over her chest, she replied, “Then how about we consider the debt squared and you let me go?”

Lips curling upwards, he stalked forward, long legs invading her personal space in only a few strides. Brown eyes widening, Nami instinctively backed away, but soon found herself trapped against the wall with no choice but to look up at the imposing man before her. This close, there was no escaping his scrutiny, and she held her breath, waiting for him to attack.

“Unlucky for you, your pros far outweigh your cons. Now stand up straight; I’m trying to check your height.”

She blinked, then glanced to her left to find she was indeed next to a height chart. “Oh.”

With an amused chuckle, he backed off, jotting her measurements in his notebook. “You have nothing to fear in my infirmary, Nami-ya; in here, you’re my patient first and foremost. The Pirate Empress herself could be standing naked in front of me and I’d see her as nothing more than a body to examine.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” she challenged, even as she released the air from her strained lungs.

Bruskly and efficiently, the tattooed doctor proceeded to check her vitals, peering into her ears and mouth, observing the dilation of her eyes, and pressing along her throat in search of any irregularities or swelling. Though she tensed every time his hands touched her, they never lingered or strayed anywhere they shouldn’t. It helped that, while she could feel body heat through the material, the latex gloves provided a thin barrier between his fingers and her skin, making everything more impersonal. His expression, too, never changed, remaining stoic and professional. There was no evidence of his hungry stare from earlier, and though trust was still a long way off, Nami slowly started to give him the benefit of the doubt. That didn’t mean she wasn’t on her guard, though; the first inappropriate touch or innuendo, and she’d teach the man why even the Straw Hats’ Monster Trio feared her.

Wrapping the strap of a blood pressure gauge around her bicep, Law asked, “What’s your blood type?”

“X.”

“Good. Mugiwara-ya and Jinbei used up most of my type-F reserves, so if you got injured and needed a transfusion, you’d be shit out of luck until I can restock. Type-X is far more common, but I’ll still ask you to donate a pint of blood as a precaution.”

Orange eyebrows furrowed suspiciously. “You’re not going to do anything weird with it, right?”

“Damn, you’ve caught on to my plan to use your blood to ritualistically summon a hell-beast to help me take over the Grand Line,” he replied sarcastically, not looking up from the little pressure gauge as he steadily pumped.

Her cheeks puffed in indignation. “Hey, I travel with a talking skeleton, room with a woman who can sprout body parts anywhere, and regularly watch my captain’s body defy the laws of physics thanks to Devil Fruit. I may not believe in any of that superstitious crap, but that doesn’t mean your abilities couldn’t somehow use my blood against me.”

Removing the gauge and writing on her chart, he snorted. “I assure you, the Ope-Ope Fruit can’t use your blood like that. At least, not in any way I’ve tried, and I’ve experimented extensively.” Taking out a thermometer, he motioned for her to open her mouth. “Its powers revolve around space manipulation. Once I activate my Room, everything inside it is in my control. For example, say you were pointing a gun at me; I could switch the gun with whatever I had in my hand and shoot you instead. That’s not really my style, though; so anti-climactic. I’d rather remove your organs and replace them with bombs. Or perhaps rearrange your limbs so your legs are on your shoulders and your arms backwards on your hips. And of course, there’s always the old standby; ripping out your still-beating heart.”

She let out a squeak of fear around the thermometer, which coaxed a chuckle from the doctor. A glint of his old sadism had returned to his eyes, though it quickly vanished as he resumed his work. “Lucky for you, I save such things for my enemies, not my crew or patients.” His brow furrowed as her studied her temperature. “You run a little hot, Nami-ya, but you don’t seem to have a fever, so I’ll assume this is your norm.”

Jerking her head back, she mumbled, “You do that.”

Moving the stethoscope to her chest, he sighed. “Your heart’s pounding. I’d hoped you would have calmed down by this point so I could check it properly.”

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t have told me about all the horrible ways you could kill me with your powers!” she snapped. She was seriously second-guessing the doctor’s sanity; of course her heart was racing like a cornered rabbit’s, especially considering she now had terrifying confirmation that those horror stories about gruesome deaths weren’t just hearsay. The images he’d conjured sent a shiver down her spine. She’d always rivaled Usopp in terms of coming up with horrible scenarios, but Law’s sick creativity put even her worst nightmares to shame. She really hoped he was serious about not seeing her as an enemy.

“Please, that���s not even the worst of what I can do. But I suppose you have a point; I’ll endeavor to avoid such topics next time I give you a check-up.” Backing off a few paces, he made another note on his chart. “And now for the personal questions; any hereditary diseases or illness-related deaths in your family history?”

Nami grimaced, rubbing her arms. She really didn’t want to discuss her past with the likes of Trafalgar Law, but she understood the necessity of the question. “I wouldn’t know; I was found as a baby by a Marine in a ruined village. I have no clue who my birth parents are, and I’ve never really cared to find out. My adopted mother and sister were enough.”

That seemed to catch his interest, as amber eyes studied her closely. “Do you at least know what island you were found on?” When she shook her head, he made another note. “I’ll have to take a blood sample to run some tests on, then. It’s possible everyone was wiped out in a war or some natural disaster, I’ve also known of a city or two that the World Government that razed to the ground under the claim that the people carried infectious diseases,” he said, surprising her with the bitterness in his voice.

“You think I might be carrying something?”

“No, I’m just curious if you’re from one of them. If your village had succumbed to plague, I doubt any Marine would have risked relocating you and spreading it, baby or not.”

The scratch of his pen was the only sound between them for a few moments, the air tense—Nami could tell she’d stumbled onto a sensitive topic, and though she was curious, she knew better than to pry. Finally, the deep furrow on his brow smoothed out, professionalism resuming. “Your weather attacks—are those the result of eating a Devil Fruit?”

“No, I’m a normal human. If you don’t believe me, I’m happy to swim a few laps outside.”

“That won’t be necessary. Any notable past illnesses?”

“Nearly died from a Kestia bite.”

He actually paused, looking up from his clipboard. “Those went extinct over a hundred years ago.”

“Not on Little Garden they didn’t. Luckily Dr. Kureha still had some antibiotics for it.”

“Dr. Kureha? From Drum Island?” He sounded genuinely impressed, and Nami had to chuckle at how pleased Chopper would be to know that even the Surgeon of Death admired his old mentor.

“Yeah, she treated me and was the one who trained our ship’s doctor.”

“Well, you’re just getting more intriguing by the minute, Nami-ya,” he said with a small, sly grin, posture relaxing as he crossed his long legs. “A mysterious past, the ability to manipulate the weather in battle without a Devil Fruit, surviving prehistoric diseases, treatment from one of the most acclaimed and infamous doctors on the Grand Line—you’re definitely more than a pretty face.”

Unbidden, a proud smirk lifted the corner of her pink lips. “And don’t you forget it.”

“Oh, trust me, I won’t.” The amusement on his face vanished as he looked at the next page of his chart, his mouth twisting into a grimace. “In the interest of you not slapping me, you should know I’m about to ask some rather…delicate questions.”

“Taking the warnings of asking a lady’s weight seriously?” she joked weakly, rubbing her arms. For the most part, she’d gotten used to the infirmary’s chill, but Law’s gaze somehow continued to raise goosebumps along her arms.

“More like a rundown of your sexual history.” At her aghast expression, he held up his hands placatingly. “I need to know if I should check you for sexually transmitted diseases and what kind of birth control you take. Believe me, I’ve had to have this conversation with everyone on my crew, male and female. Now—and I’m going to need you to be honest—how sexually active are you?”

“I’m not.”

He raised a disbelieving eyebrow at that, making her blush. “I know I flirt and tease, but I’ve never let a guy get past third base!” Somehow, she found herself embarrassed and feeling defensive; there was nothing wrong with being a virgin, and she had plenty of reasons for it, and what right did Law have to judge her? Before she could stop herself, nerves took over, and she continued, “When you’re as good as I am, you don’t need to do more than bat your eyelashes to con a guy, so sex has never been necessary. It’s not exactly easy to have a relationship while travelling the Grand Line, either, and I’m not the kind of girl who likes one-night stands. Most of the guys that come onto me are gross, anyway. You ever have a creep with a lion’s muzzle sewed on his face try to force you to marry him? Stuff like that makes abstinence real appealing.”

“I’m not judging, Nami-ya; just surprised,” he said, interrupting her tirade. A severe frown darkened his face. “Though I now have to ask—”

Her fury cooled at his implication. “Sanji-kun saved me before anything could happen. I even had Chopper do an examination to make sure I wasn’t assaulted while unconscious.” She shuddered at the memory. Absalom might have been soundly trounced by the amorous cook, but that near-miss had been a stark reminder of how dangerous it was being a beautiful woman on the high seas. Not all her admirers were going to be good-natured, relatively harmless perverts like Sanji and Brook. Nor would she always find herself at the mercy of creatures who would never be physically attracted to her, like the Fishman Pirates.

So as proud as she was of her body, and as much as she loved using her looks to her advantage, the danger of attracting the wrong kind of attention was never far from her mind.

Nodding in confirmation, Law scribbled another note on her chart. “Are you on any form of birth control?”

“Chopper always made me some, but I couldn’t tell you exactly what he gave me. I haven’t been able to take it since Sabaody, anyway.”

“I’ve got a few options we can work with but notify me if you find yourself having any side effects or unusual symptoms. Once we know exactly what your body can handle, I can give you an injection that’ll last you at least a year; that way, you won’t have to worry about taking a pill every day or missing doses. You might not be sexually active, but a woman can never be too careful.”

Pleasantly surprised at how professional and forward-thinking he was being, Nami allowed herself to relax just the slightest bit. With his thinly veiled request for sexual favors up on the deck, she’d written him off as another creep, but maybe he’d just been testing her resolve? The Law she was dealing with now was far less intimidating, and while he was certainly cold and sarcastic, if he kept treating her like this, perhaps working for him for the next year wouldn’t be so bad after all.

The Surgeon of Death was dangerous, not just because of his abilities and status as a Supernova, but because he was, in his own way, quite attractive. Questionable fashion choices aside, he was the epitome of tall, dark, and sexy. His irises glittered like treasure, his voice was smooth and deep, and his perfectly groomed sideburns and goatee showed he took pride in his appearance. He was long and lean and walked with a sure, predatory grace. It was his confidence that pulled her in like a magnet, though; it was quiet assurance of his own ability, that easy smirk proclaiming he knew he was far above everyone else’s level as loudly as Luffy would scream about becoming the Pirate King.

Despite his appeal, Nami refused to let herself give in to physical desire. For her, rule number one was not to mix business with pleasure. Thus, she hoped his earlier flirting had just been a test, because spending a year under his command could end up being a test to her iron-clad control. If he managed to get under her skin, earn even a fraction of her trust, it would be so much harder to resist.

Another note was made on her chart before Law ushered her towards the center of the room. “Now that we’ve got that unpleasantness out of the way, turn around and touch your toes; I want to check your back for scoliosis and spinal irregularities.”

Instinct told her he just wanted to check out her ass, but she found it was easier for her rational mind to calm her nerves. Not that she wasn’t immediately put on edge when she felt his gloved fingers run down her spine, though it felt different from her usual fight-or-flight reaction. The shiver that rocked through her she desperately wanted to say was due to the cold, but the heat that lingered on her skin said otherwise.

“Spine looks good, Nami-ya, and I’m impressed at how flexible you are. I’m sure it’s advantageous in a fight or sneaking around.” The muscles of her back jumped as the icy head of the stethoscope pressed against them. “Take a deep breath.”

She did so, forcing her heart to remain steady. If she panicked again they’d be at this all day, and even if she no longer believed Law was looking to jump her the second she gave him an opening, she still had better things to do than stand around in her underwear.

“Glad to hear your heart isn’t about to beat out of your chest anymore. Good lung capacity, too.” Coaxing her to straighten up, she could feel his calculating gaze on her arm. “Who did your tattoo?”

“Dr. Nako of Cocoyashi Village, about a year ago.”

“Was he also the one who sewed up these cuts?” he asked, thumb trailing over one of the pale scars on her shoulder. The heat of his touch was instantly snuffed out as his fingers inadvertently traced the invisible pattern of Arlong’s Jolly Roger, and the Fishman’s cruel laugh echoed in her mind.

Flinching away, Nami grabbed her arm instinctively. “H-he did.”

Sensing they were straying from the comfortable bubble they’d built, Law simply nodded, again going back to his chart. She suspected he wanted to ask how she got such an injury; any decent doctor could tell it was self-inflicted just from the angle, but instead he stated, “I’ll assume the tattoo was done with sterile equipment, then, and I won’t have to check you for tetanus and the like. I’ve seen more than a few back-alley tattoos turn septic. I commend his work; very neat, and you could almost miss the scars if you’re not looking for them.”

“Who does yours?” she asked, eager to change the subject. Thoughts of her past were floating far too close to the surface for her taste. Hoping to banish her former captain’s ghost, cocoa eyes focused on Law’s fingers, easily imagining the bold, black letters beneath the blue latex. “Considering how a surgeon’s hands are his most valuable tool, I’m surprised you even took the risk. Was looking edgy really worth it?”

Leading her over to the table, he helped her hop up, smirking at the verbal jab. “Oh, it was absolutely worth it; the look on people’s faces when they see a doctor with DEATH on his hands is priceless. Ikkaku does all my tattoos. You’ll meet her soon; she’ll be your roommate during your stay. I think she’ll be happy to have another woman aboard.”

Nami sighed in relief. She hadn’t sailed with an all-male crew since entering the Grand Line, and she hadn’t been really looking forward to doing it again. Perhaps this Ikkaku woman would make her miss Robin a little less. “I certainly will be.”

“And here I assumed you’d want a ship full of men you could easily manipulate,” he said, grin widening.

Winking, she replied, “Oh, I do, but that gets boring after a while. I need someone who can talk to me without staring at my breasts.”

“What makes you think she won’t?”

That actually coaxed a small laugh out of her. “Then at least it’s someone I can hopefully borrow clothes from. I’m not looking forward to wearing the same outfit every day, and before you say it—no, I’m not wearing your crew’s uniform. They’re not cute, and bulky jumpsuits like that are terrible for sneaking around.” Secretly, it wasn’t even the ugliness of the suits that repelled her—it was the Heart Pirate’s Jolly Roger she’d seen emblazoned across the front and back. She may have agreed to a partnership, but she refused to wear another crew’s insignia. It made her think too much of Arlong, and how he’d forced her to walk around with that horrible tattoo. He might as well have branded her like cattle, showing how little he thought of humans.

It was one of the reasons she respected Luffy as her captain—he’d never even considered placing such a mark of ownership on his crew.

Nami had expected a fight, but the doctor merely thought it over before nodding. “I suppose I can give you that freedom; with your high internal body temp, I’d be concerned about you overheating. The sub gets pretty hot when we’ve been underwater too long, and Bepo certainly suffers for it. I’ll supply you a uniform for when we’re on islands with colder climates, but otherwise, I won’t hold you to the normal dress code.”

Pleasantly surprised at his leniency, she allowed him to gently push her back so she lay on the table, arms positioned above her head. Again, she blanched at how provocative the position was, but Law completely ignored the way her chest was thrust out, his hands instead poking and prodding at her stomach, carefully checking for any unusual lumps or organ placement. The muscles twitched slightly at his ministrations, and Law gave her a considering look. “Sensitive, Nami-ya?”

“Maybe a little ticklish,” she said, eyebrow raised, daring him to make an off-color comment.

A non-committal hum was her only response. Part of the fiery cartographer wanted to be insulted at how unaffected he seemed to be at having a beautiful woman like herself sprawled out before him clad only in her underwear. He hadn’t even given her a breast exam! She swiftly shoved that feeling down, though. How irrational could she get? Just ten minutes ago she saw him as a threat, and now she actually wanted him to lust after her? Clearly, the stress of the day was getting to her.

Upon finishing his inspection, Law held out a hand, helping her off the table. “Seems I can give you a clean bill of health,” he said, scratching a few more notes on her chart before handing over her clothes.

As she quickly dressed, the Supernova busied himself with filing her information away, giving her a small semblance of privacy.

“Just so you know, the majority of the crew knows basic first aid, but I’ll still expect you to report any injuries or illness to me. We’re in close quarters and sickness spreads quickly, so if you get so much as a cold, you’re quarantined until I give the all-clear. I take my crew’s well-being very seriously, so this is non-negotiable. In fact, most of my rules are. Uniform aside, I’m not in the habit of giving out special privileges without good reason. I want you to be aware that I won’t tolerate reckless defiance or ignoring my orders. As your doctor and captain, it’s in your best interest to do as I say without question. Do you understand?” he asked, turning to frown at her sternly.

“Absolutely,” she agreed, holding up her hands in surrender. She couldn’t guarantee she wouldn’t argue if she found a rule stupid, or try to get around them, but she understood there were limits, and it was best to pick her battles. Once she had a better understanding of the captain and crew, she’d have more wiggle-room and loopholes to work with.

She was momentarily distracted by the sight of the Dark Doctor’s white teeth gripping the edge of one of his surgical gloves, carefully pulling the tight latex off his hand. It was surprisingly arousing, seeing the tattooed, olive skin slowly emerge back into the light, his lips lightly brushing the newly-exposed flesh.

An image of him taking her clothes off like that popped into her mind, and she nearly slapped herself. Keep it together, girl! Nami scolded herself. Remember rule number one!

Not noticing her staring, or possibly just ignoring it, he tossed the gloves into the trash. “Good. I watched Mugiwara-ya nearly undo all my hard work, running around like a madman after I’d spent hours saving his life. I’d like to think you’re a bit more sensible.”

“A rock is more sensible than Luffy,” she said dryly, which earned her a slight smirk. Shrugging off his lab coat, he led her out of the infirmary, chuckling when she took a deep breath of the antiseptic-free air in the hallway.

A large, warm hand rested on the small of her back, and Nami jumped at the contact, turning to look up at the Heart Captain. His grin was lazy but confident, gold eyes once more regarding her with interest. No longer contained by the latex gloves, the heat of his palm radiated through the thin cotton of her shirt, seeping into her flesh.

“Shall I introduce you to the rest of the crew, Nami-ya?” he asked, long fingers curling around her waist when she instinctively attempted to step away. As if she were no more than a misbehaving kitten, he pulled her close, leaving little more than an inch of space between them. “They’d be heartbroken if they thought I was keeping you all to myself.”

Nami swallowed, pulse quickening as she realized something; Law had promised she had nothing to fear while in his infirmary.

He’d never said anything about outside it.

[friendlyneighborhoodborg]

Rose Appreciation Week 2k19| Day 3: Favorite Ship| “Angel -- Pt. 2/2″

Again, Ladybug ain’t mine.

I’m posting this past the R.A.W. deadline, but hopefully it’s still good.

[Link to Part 1.]

[Link to AU.] (to be added)

So, if you didn’t read Part 1 or the foreword to that, this will make no sense whatsoever.  I’m doing some weird things with Rose’s character, I thought they were cool, so... anyway, I’m sorry if it’s rushed or paced awkwardly, I finished this up in a rush and I may have missed some stuff.  Anyway, if you have any notes on my writing style, or if you’re confused about my Superhero AU, feel free to shoot me an ask and I’ll make sure to respond if I can.

(again, warning for OCs, violence, and language).

           The bolt sticking out of Leo’s arm was starting to smoke around the wound.  De Sang pushed the other two aside.  “Aspen,” she guessed, looking at the shaft.  “Be very careful when removing it, you might break it, and that will keep burning him if he doesn’t get it all out.” She took a deep breath, steeling herself.  “The longer it stays, the worse.”

           She took a firm grasp of the offending object and, apologizing, pulled slowly.  The flesh resisted, and Leo groaned in pain, but deliberate tension won over and the projectile was removed.

           She examined it.  “Intact,” she judged, relieved, tossing it aside, looking at Leo worriedly.  “Does that feel better?”

           He choked out, “A little.”

           De Sang looked at his shoulder, peeling up the scorched edges of his shirt.  “The burn’s not spreading.  That’s good.”

           She heard the whistle and acted on impulse, spinning around to whack the next bolt out of the air with her baton.  “That was a slow reload!” she shouted, sounding almost disappointed. “Even for a member of the Iron Cross!”

           “Iron Cross!”  Aria snapped to attention.  “They’re here?”

           The hero told Leo, “Get some iodine, that’ll disinfect it.”  And to all of them, “Make yourselves scarce, we’ve got someone who actually knows what they’re doing.  Stage entrance, I’ll draw their fire.”  At some of their worried faces, she smiled and nodded, assuring.  “I’ll be fine.  I survived you three, didn’t I?”

           As the other two vampires helped their friend to his feet, de Sang jumped onto one of the seats near stage left, on the opposite side.  “So!  To whom do I have the pleasure?”

           She waited a long moment for the reply, during which time the vampires fled.  Not even another crossbow shot signaled that she had been acknowledged.

           Then he stepped forward.

           He had wiry black hair, tied in the back, a tanned complexion and a crooked smile.  Green-tinted goggles with thick, black rims covered his eyes, and there was a brown-and-black crossbow in his dark-gloved hands.  He wore a beige capelet, and a brown leather quiver was strapped to his back. Under the capelet was an olive-green dress shirt and dark brown slacks, and de Sang presumed there was padding underneath. And he was much taller than de Sang.

           “They call me…” he said in an oily slick voice, “Èpouvante.”

           De Sang blinked and stifled a laugh. “Wait, they literally named you ‘Dread?’  And… they thought that was clever?”

           “Do not speak of the Iron Cross in that tone.” He grinned.  “Oh, just wait until they hear that I found you.  Wait until I bring you in.  Can you imagine what they’ll do you when they get their hands on you?”

           “That’s if you bring me in.  Do you happen to know who I am?”

           “Oh, of course I do…”  He walked slowly down the aisle closest to her, keeping his bow trained on her gleefully. “Madame de Sang.  What a fortuitous surprise this is.”

           “Hah!” she laughed.  “Finally, someone gets it. By the way, I notice you haven’t stopped aiming that weapon at me.”

           “No.  I’m not an idiot.  But I do say, you’re awfully short.”  De Sang frowned, but didn’t speak up.  “You’re not exactly what I expected from your stories.  I thought the dreaded mercy huntress was a veteran fighter.  Did you actually decommission thirteen guild members?”

           “I did.  Five resigned because they didn’t want to fight me again.  Eight were caught and arrested by police for multiple murder.”

           “I’d hardly call this murder.”  He gestured to the empty cage.  “Those creatures were about to condemn those humans to a torturous, cursed existence.  This is justice.”

           “Everyone makes mistakes.”  De Sang narrowed her eyes.  “This time, the damage was reversible.  How many lives have you taken?”

           “Countless.  You?”

           “None.”

           “None?”

           “If you’re lucky.”  Her hand slowly found a ruffle in her dress, which was a pocket. Inside was something she was going to need, if the direction Dread was glancing was any indication.

           “Bold words.”  He adjusted his grip on the weapon.  “But never any action.  Why should I be scared of you?”

           “You tell me.  Why haven’t you shot me yet?”  She smiled when she saw Dread falter slightly.  “You even let those ‘creatures’ escape because of your focus on me.  Apparently, I’m a bigger threat.”

           Dread didn’t answer, and his expression hardened.

           “Don’t worry.  I’ve heard it before.”  She hopped down from the chair and linked her hands behind her back.  “You’re scared of me, but you don’t know why.”  She took a few steps forward.  “We should fix that.”

           “One way or another.”  With a shot of his crossbow, the electric light in the center of the room shattered, plunging the room into darkness.

           He brought his hand to his face and adjusted a dial in his goggles, switching their function to night-vision.

           Right as Dread activated them, he saw a punch coming for his face that he didn’t have time to dodge.

           De Sang was also wearing night-vision goggles, having seen him adjusting his aim.

           Her baton found its mark, and the crossbow was smashed to the ground.  “Crossbows,” she said.  “So many little moving parts.  Very fragile.”  She armed a knife.  “I hope you brought a melee.”

           “As a matter of fact…”

           The swing of the baton was blocked by a pair of tomahawks from under the capelet.

           “Dual-wield,” observed she.  “Brave choice.  Let’s see if you’re any good with that.”

           As it turned out, he was.  Very good.  The axes were clearly under his complete control, neither one hanging loose at any time, and his grips on his handles were viselike.  Every blow that de Sang threw with her baton was blocked by one weapon, while the other went for the kill.  De Sang couldn’t match him.  De Sang only had one weapon.

           De Sang also had guile, which is sometimes just as good.  And throughout their whole fight, she never once stopped smiling, because she always had something to smile about.

           She allowed herself to be pushed back against the wall.  At the blow that came on her right, which held the baton, the Angel waited until the last possible instant before dodging to the right, and it had the intended effect.  The axe missed her by just a hair’s width, and his back was now facing her. The weapon implanted itself in the wall, leaving it stuck for just a second, and she seized her chance.  Dread’s hand was in one place while the tomahawk couldn’t move, so she swung at his forearm with her baton.  He was knocked away, and de Sang dropped her knife and pulled the axe out of the wall.

           “Second weapon down,” she said.  “Two-zero.”  She clipped the axe to her waist, where her baton usually went.  The weapon had a near-identical clip.

           “Blind luck,” accused her opponent.

           “Maybe it was.  It still worked.”  She went back into her fighting stance.  “Warning you now, I’m coming for the other one.  Once you lose the axe, you lose against me.”

           “I’m aware of the stakes.”

           “You hunters can’t fight without weapons.  That’s basic logic.”

           “Think you can take it from me?”

          “I got two of them already, didn’t I?  And I know how you hunters think.  For example, you didn’t come here alone, did you?”  She waited for a response, but Dread didn’t give one.  “I know I’m right.  They’re just outside, guarding the entrance.  They probably ambushed the vampires, and that’s why you didn’t go after them.”

           “So, what if I didn’t?”

           “You wanna know how I know?”

           “How?”

           “Because I didn’t come alone either.”  She cocked her head curiously.  “When’s the last time you saw your partner?”

           Dread lunged at her, axe swinging, and it clashed with the baton.  Now that they had one weapon apiece, they were much more evenly-matched, and de Sang had no difficulty in returning blows, finally going back onto the offensive.

           “I recall now,” Dread mentioned as he parried. “The Angel’s consort.  Your,” he sneered at her to accentuate his disgust, “bitch.”

           “You know, that wasn’t funny the thirtieth time.” No matter what, she couldn’t let the man get a rise out of her.  “You hunters need to stop thinking you’re so clever.  I heard fools rarely differ.”

           “That’s what it is, isn’t it?”  He swung, and she ducked.  “An animal.  A beast.”  She swung back, and he hopped to the side.  “My men will make short work of it.”

           “First of all,” she retorted, gritting her teeth, “she is not an it.  And you don’t get to talk about her like that.  Second,” she took a second to swat at his axe again before continuing, “do you think she’s survived this long because of me?  She’s been squaring off against your kind for almost as long as I have, bless her.”

            “My kind?”  Dread laughed heartily.  “That’s rich!  My kind is your kind, too!”

            For the first time in the fight, de Sang stopped smiling.

            “No, it isn’t!” She attacked him again, more ferociously than before.  “I fight monsters!”

            Still, Dread matched her, blow-for-blow.  “And so do I!”

            “No!” she growled.  It was very alien to her, growling, but this man was being particularly mean tonight. “You fight people.  Those vampires are people.  My partner is a person!” De Sang raised her baton like a club and brought it down as hard as she could, which the man blocked.  “You, however, are a monster!”

            She ran at him, and Dread grabbed her and flung her into the aisle.

            It was all she could do not to lose her balance.

            De Sang cursed her own lapse in judgement.  She should have seen that coming. She needed to calm down and steady herself, or she was going to lose.

            She felt the axe behind her right before it hit, and she rolled out of the way and back on her feet.

            “The Cross trained me!  Yes, it did!” de Sang shouted.  While her earlier words had been fueled by anger, these were fueled by strength.  “It trained me to hunt, and hurt, and it told me how to kill.  But I won’t kill.  You see that as weakness.”  She advanced on him with a newfound vigor.  “But life is precious.  And you are all tantruming children in a china shop, smashing every life within reach if you don’t think it looks pretty. That’s why I stopped!”  She hopped onto an aisle seat, never losing sight of him.  “It trained me since preschool, just like every other kid they draft into their web of murder. And this is how I repay their trespasses!”

            When the axe stopped the baton this time, the curved head hooked around the shaft of the baton, catching on the globe at the end when he pulled. De Sang pulled it away, and almost succeeded in pulling the axe out of his hand, but he persisted.  The ensuing tug-o-war lasted five seconds.

           The Angel smiled.

            Her grip slipped, and she fell from the chair to the ground from the loss in balance.

            Dread kept his balance.  “Pitiful,” he spat, and he was on her in an instant.  “Did you think I, a fully-fledged member of the most prestigious monster hunters’ guild in the world, would be so easily defeated by a child.”

            “Maybe,” she panted.  “But I bet you did too, for a minute there.”  The axe blade pointed at her head, and Dread was standing on her chest, preventing her from reaching her knives.  “Be honest, I had you on the ropes.”

           “Cease your prattling.  I’ll cut out your tongue.”  He chuckled triumphantly.  “Finally,” he celebrated, “the rogue huntress who’s been a thorn in our side for so long is defeated.  The dreaded L’Ange de Sang, all mine…”  He trailed off, looking his captive in the eyes, and his tone lowered as his suspicion grew.  “Why are you smiling?”

           She couldn’t help it.  “When’s the last time you saw your partner?”

           What?

           Oh.

           Dread turned around.

           The sneering animal roared in his face.  He swung at it with the weapon in his hand—

           Which, because his attention hadn’t been on de Sang, was no longer in his hand.

           “Three-one,” a voice chirped below him.  “Game, set, match.”

           A strong fist struck him in the chest, knocking the wind out of him and sending him flying through the air at the cage.

           “That is a remarkable sturdy set piece,” the Angel quipped as she ran after him.

           The new entrant to the fight gazed after them both.   She didn’t have night-vision goggles, but she didn’t need them.  Her eyes shined gold, even in the dark.  She was just as tall as Dread, by the top of their heads, but her pointed ears made her an inch or two taller.  Her padded top and leggings were midnight blue with swirls of gold and silver, and the top ended at her elbows.  Her bare forearms exposed coarse, black fur, and ended in padded hands with hard, sharp claws.  Her bushy tail poked out the back of her shirt.  She had black combat boots and an indigo-and-silver cloth mask that was tied around her head. Her hair was long and tied in a ponytail, and her jaw was long and fanged.

           A human-shaped animal: a werewolf.  Bigger, faster, stronger, and more precise than a human, particularly with how much training she put in with her Angel.

           She tossed the previously-discarded baton in her grip to her partner, standing over the disarmed Dread.  De Sang smiled and pointed with it at her defeated opponent. “You’ll have to excuse her,” she chirped.  “Eventide doesn’t like sharing.”  She turned and lightly chastised her partner.  “You sure took your time.”

           “You didn’t need me,” the wolf replied in a gravelly voice.

           “The guard out front?”

           “Two guards, actually.  Tough pair.  Till some vamps stopped by.  They took one, I got the other.”

           She laughed.  “I taught them everything they know.”

           “What!?”  The wolf brought a hand to her face.  “Oh, you would.”

           “I like seeing people do good.”  De Sang pushed her playfully.  “You love me for it.”

           She shrugged.  “Can’t argue with that.”

Dread tried to stand up while they were engaged, slowly propping himself on his elbows.

Eventide growled at him again, baring her long teeth.  Dread’s arms gave out.

           “Scary,” the onlooker surmised.

           “Too much?”

           “Well, you don’t scare me.”

           “Really?”  Eventide crossed her arms.  “Practically everything scares you.”

           This was met with a giggle.  “Not you, though.”  Without even looking, she tapped the man struggling for his quiver on the head.  “Oi!  Dread-man! Stay down.”  She aimed her baton threateningly, as if daring him to try and stand up again.

           Eventide looked at her, mildly confused.  “What are you doing?”

           “Getting ready to fight, Darling.  What does it look like?”

           After a pause, the werewolf reminded her, “Sweetie, you’re not right-handed.”

           “Shush. I was making him feel better.”  At Dread’s dismayed look, she relented.  “Oh, well, I suppose you heard that anyway.”  She tossed the baton to her left hand—her dominant hand.  “Yes, alright, I was holding back, but you know what?  You looked like someone who needed a confidence boost.  So sure, I let you have me on the ropes, just this time. Positive mental attitude really goes a long way.”

           “Again,” Eventide chuckled.  “Only you.”

           Dread looked fearfully between them.  “What are you going to do to me?”

           “Well, that’s the thing.”  Huntress turned back to monster.  “Evie, you called the police when he arrived?”

           “Yes, Angel.”

           Angel once again faced sinner.  “And I assume you called your guild buddies for backup?” Not even waiting for a nod, she crouched down and calmly explained.  “Well, depending on who arrives first, either you’re going to jail, or you’ll get picked up and retrained, and you’ll have to fight me again, and I don’t know if I can keep handicapping myself.”

           His eyes widened under his goggles.

           “Well, we’ll see.  I’ve got a bet with my girl here about who will win.  I’ll see you again, maybe.  Or maybe not.  Depends.” She shrugged.  “Night-night.”

           The hammer swung around and boxed him in the jaw hard, knocking him unconscious.

           The street that the stage door entrance led to was bare at this time of night.  Eventide’s form changed as they stepped outside, bones shifting and fur receding to become a teenaged girl with long, black hair and pale skin.  Her mask, boots, and attire changed with her to better fit her shortened stature, and glowing gold eyes faded to a coppery orange-red.

           De Sang had recollected her lost knives and replaced them in her bandolier, and she now was carrying a duffel bag.

           “We good to go?” Eventide asked.

           “How long were you standing there?” Angel replied. “Inside.  How long did your fight actually take you?”

           “It was shorter once your vampire friends stepped in.”  She looked down sheepishly.  “I came in right when you took his first axe.”

           Angel pursed her lips.  “So, you were basically watching me fight for a few minutes?”

           “You didn’t need me.”  She coughed, blushing.  “And… you looked breathtaking.”

           “And who do I have to thank for that?”  The Angel twirled, making her dress and cape flutter.  “I never could have asked for someone as talented as you.”

           Evie smiled shyly.  “How is it on your end?”

           She tapped her chin thoughtfully.  “Let’s see: stopped a conversion, gave some vamps something to be proud of, caught a few hunters.”  She smiled as she heard the sudden whine of sirens nearby.  “And look at that!  The police got here first this time!  And it’s only what, two a.m.?  This was a great night!”

           “And it’s Sunday now?”  Evie bounded over to her, quietly embracing her.  “This calls for something.”

           “I was thinking we celebrate right now, actually.” She held up the bag.  “How about we both slip into something a little more casual?”

           “A quiet night in town?”

           “A midnight stroll through Montmartre?” Angel suggested.  “Walking through the moonlit gardens to Le Mur des Je T’aime?  Or we dance down Place Jean-Marais, or promenade past the cabarets?”

           “Chérie…” Tempting as it was, the werewolf had to play devil’s advocate.  “Your dad still thinks you’re sleeping over.  And my mom’s gonna be waiting with the boat, and Montmartre’s in the opposite direction.  What if we get caught?”

            “But it’s close.”  Angel looked at her, her smile warm and her eyes pleading.  “Come on, Julie.  Let’s ignore the rules tonight.  We’ve earned it.”

           “Rose…”  The werewolf acquiesced.  “I can’t say no to that smile.”

           “Wonderful!”  The huntress gave her partner a quick kiss on the cheek.  “Let’s get out of here, first, we don’t want police finding us.”

           And so the girls fled, and their dark clothing blended into the night, concealing them from the sight of casual observers.

           Rose’s hooded sweatshirt covered much of her costume, and her duffel bag held the bulk of her supplies.  She looked normal enough that no one would look twice.

           Juleka stepped out of the restrooms.  She wasn’t bothered by the cold too much, but she still wore a zipped jacket and a pair of sweatpants over her padded outfit, and her hair was out of the.  “Ready?”

           “Thank you,” Rose said suddenly. Juleka looked at her quizzically, so Rose clarified.  “I forgot to say it earlier, but thank you.  For having my back tonight.”

           “Oh.”  Juleka took her hand and caressed it.  “You didn’t need to thank me.”

           “I do.”

           “You don’t.”  She grinned.  “I already know.”

           Assured, Rose pulled the goth girl closer and hugged her tightly.

           The two stood like this for several minutes, letting themselves relax from the events of the night.

           “I’m always going to protect you, Rose.”

           “And I’ll always save you.”

           They separated, and Rose offered her arm.  “So, mon amour?  The gardens first?”

(3315 words, so it’s still pretty long.  I think it turned out okay, but I’d love to hear what you guys thought of it.  So any nitpicks you have, tell me, please.)

Thanks again to @wearemiraculous / @seasonofthegeek for hosting this event.

[sinkingorswimming]

CONGRATION FOR 600 FOLLOWERS U DONE IT

more X-Men coming through, maybe not so “soft” anymore @linneakou

He could be doing a gig in DC at the 930 Club right now, but Ciao Ciao and his teammates are playin’.

An old friend of Celestino’s, Dr. Mireya Thomas, mentioned during a lunch date to check in and catch up her close neighbor’s son disappeared six months ago. She’d been searching for him—Leo had confided in her that he was a mutant, having moments where flames would appear on his body. Leo was a kind kid, she told Celestino—went to mass every Sunday, was in the church band, good grades in school, helped his local Kiwanis chapter—but he’d come to her because Mireya is a leading geneticist in the field of human mutation.

He prayed every night for a cure, he said then. 

Celestino handed her a tissue to dry her stoic tears and said he would try to find out what he could, keeping an eye out for posters or social media posts.

Thanks to some creative computing on Seung Gil’s part, they have the following—

1) There is some shadow org called The Right taking recently mutant-presenting teens.2) They have some kind of crazy financial backing that no one can properly trace. (”Yet,” grumbled Seung Gil with some acid.)3) Blackwater looking goons with masks do the aductions, and some shady dude who speaks only in a mixture of German dialects calls the shots.

Yuuri is in a costume that’s mostly different from his stage outfits. It’s black and made of some fabric Seung Gil calls “unstable molecules” so it’s fireproof, waterproof, bulletproof, shockproof, and Andre Leon Talley’s scathing critique proof. Chris handled the design, making a point to compliment its inventor on how it goes through a serger like a hot knife with butter. It’s a black-form fitting number covered in prismatic crystals, mesh inserts, and fingerless gloves so he can still use his Laser Hands (TM Phichit, not to be confused with his Laser Pants, also TM Phichit) and he puts in red contacts instead of the UV purple ones. His hair’s gelled back and the make-up that obscures his features is charcoal and crimson. 

Yuuri could dance before he could run, which is how he keeps ending up the point man. Little rainbow shimmers float in the air around him, a sublte method to distract people from paying too much attention to his voice or face. 

“I hate this.”

I know you do, Dazz, replies Phichit over their special earpieces. Just know Forge and I are right behind ya’ once you clear the security systems.

“He really can’t just hack it?” Yuuri arches his back, holding his right foot above his head in a Bielmann. The boots he wears have split soles like dance or wrestling shoes.

Sure I can, if I want the FBI on our door in two minutes, comes the inventor’s scating reply.

Yuuri stretches his other leg. Standing at the wall behind him, Longshot clears his throat. 

Yuuri gives him a look. Since he doesn’t have a secret identity at all really, he just lets his face show with nothing to conceal his features. 

His suit’s been modified by Chris to use the same fabric as Yuuri’s—instead of hot pink, he now wears a purple top attached to black fingerless gloves that begin at his elbows. His pants are a tight shimmery black like oil slicks, but his boots are more traditional combat style unlike the Dazzler outfit. The embellishments on his top are actually weapons—the cord doubles as a whip, the “braiding” is actually those short silver darts he throws, and so on. 

Longshot smiles, his eye glimmering with the gold burst for a moment. “Your lucky charm’s on stand by, beautiful,” he assures Yuuri with a wink.

Yuuri turns forward again so he won’t see that his cheeks now match his make up. He coughs, takes a look at the grid, reminds himself of his forays into acrobatics, aerial silks, and capoeira…and goes.

Phichit should really be doing this, he thinks as he manages to get a hold in a cloth banner above the laser grid, climbing it and then doing a triple somersault to the next one. He’s the one who can cling to surfaces that have friction and can freaking teleport. His eyes are better in the dark, too, but since they couldn’t get the schematics on where the grid stopped or if they continue inside the rooms in the facility (since if Phichit BAMFs into a room full of them, they’ll go off), Yuuri has to do it. 

He tumbles through, avoiding a moving grid with a randomized pattern using the steps from a Paso Doble Minako insisted he learn. There’s not much sound here, but it’s enough and when a random beam almost hits him, he manages to shield himself with a bit of white light at a differeing optical density so it refracts around him. 

Nice, Forge and Nightcrawler say in unison.

Only after doing a full split under the last few does he make it and disables the grid. He’s oddly not sweaty or throwing up or anything. Huh.

Longshot saunters to him, and when they’re face to face, he picks up Yuuri’s right hand, kissing his ring finger and then his cheek, the day’s stubble prickling against Yuuri’s skin in a way that makes his breathing stop and his heart stutter. 

The smell of sulphur and a black bit of smoke heralds Nightcrawler and Forge. Phichit doesn’t need a mask since his daytime appearance with the Image Inducer is one—his gold eyes, deep blue fur, and short fangs make him cute in a sinister manner. His costume is deep red and gold, while Forge wears a sedate gray-blue and black jumpsuit as Chris vetoed his idea for a loud costume like a rainbow.

They find an office with a terminal, and Forge cracks his neck and sets to work. It only takes him a few minutes before he can copy the relevant data. There’s a guard rotation but they timed their entrance with the shift changes. 

It only takes three minutes and they have six more before the gig is up. 

“Done,” Seung Gil says. He pockets the HD. 

“Jěng âh!” Phichit grins and his tail swishes like an excited puppy. The four of them link hands, Longshot giving Dazzler a particularly happy look, and they’re BAMFed out to an alley a couple blocks down.

Longshot pitches forward with a pain-filled cry. 

“Sorry,” Nightcrawler says with a sheepish shrug. “It’s hard on passengers the first…eighteen times.”

“I threw up twice,” Seung Gil adds in a voice that has no comfort whatsover.

Dazzler helps Longshot get back upright. “You okay?”

“It’ll be alright, beautiful,” he answers as Phichit sings some of the lines from Ellie’s “Something in the Way You Move” in the background. 

Yuuri might add it to his rotating encores after he punches Phichit for the heckling. It’s a moot point he forgets, because they end up back at the house Chris bought them—it’s a Park Slope multi-million dollar home that the Giacomettis have owned since it was built. 

Chris perfers a skyscraper’s penthouse so he can stretch his wings…literally, so since this was in disuse, they all moved in. There’s seven bedrooms—Celestino has the master, Seung Gil’s converted the parlor into his sleeping area and work shop, and Phichit keeps waggling his eyebrows that Dazzler and Longshot should double up.

Their rooms are the two on the second floor, which take up the whole thing. They share a bathroom and Yuuri let Victor have the room with the terrace access. 

The cellar has been expanded through the backyard, outfitted with steel walls, soundproofing, and Seung Gil’s hologram tech. It’s a gymnasium on steroids for all of them to refine their skills with their gifts, and boy did Seung Gil get a sour expression when Phichit called it the Danger Room.

He twitches every time someone else says it. He twitches a lot, because it’s caught on.

Chris happens to be waiting in their living and rec room when they get back—he’s discussing something with Celestio. Since he’s not acting as the face of Intoxicated by Giacometti or as a board member of Giacometti Corp, he’s wearing a shirt with a low back so he can have his wings out. 

Seung Gil boots up his computer to run the analysis of what they got. and Phichit BAMFs into the kitchen, returning with a bottle of Mekhong and glasses for everyone filled with ice. He pours and they all take one, though Victor looks at his from every possible angle like it’s poison.

“Mote gaow!” Phichit shouts, and they echo it as they drink.

Victor stares at his glass after his initial sip. He looks confused. 

“It’s more or less rum,” Yuuri explains. Victor doesn’t look like he understands better. Right. Alien. Not from Earth. “Uh, it’s a…sugarcane beverage that can get you drunk.”

Victor lights up. “Ah!” He takes longer sip, and things seem pleasant enough until Seung Gil does a literal sitcom-style spittake at his montior.

“That’s not gonna be fun to clean,” Phichit deadpans. 

“What happened?” Ciao Ciao asks with a serious tone.

“Chris—” Seung Gil begins. “When’s the last time you reviewed GC’s R&D budget?”

Chris pauses, thinks. “Five years ago, if I’m honest. Josef insisted on handling the line items and minutiae so I can be free to do the public appearances and philanthrophy without conflicts.” His expression shifts from thoughtful to grim. “I’m not going to like what you say next, am I?”

“…Let me ask a follow up in that…you’re sure Josef is okay with mutants?”

Yuuri’s spine goes rigid. Even Phichit stops smiling. 

“He’s always told me he is since I presented,” Chris answers with no emotion in his voice.

“Well—” Seung Gil says. “He’s clearly lying. GC-0963 Project: The Right. There’s dozens of mutants in here that have either been abducted for experiments or—”

The silence hangs heavy, leaden with horror and dread.

“How many?” Chris says.

“Chris, maybe—” Ciao Ciao begins.

“How. Many.” Chris snaps.

Seung Gil gives Chris a look uncharacterisically filled with sympathy. “198.”

Phichit gasps, dropping his drink before catching it with his tail.

“They’re imprisoned at a facility out in Montauk,” Seung Gil says. “It’s similar to Supermax but for mutants—they have power dampeners most likely, or they’re sedated.”

“Well, we’ll get them out,” Victor says with resolution and stilted cheer. “It’s a good old fashioned jailbreak!”

“No.” Chris stands, reading the data on Seung Gil’s screen. It all bears out, it seems given the pallor in his face. His eyes look haunted. “We’ll do this in a softer way.”

“You’re hitting him in the board room, then,” Ciao Ciao answers.

“Yeah.” Chris nods. “There’s a nuclear option I can employ with the Board to get him out—and I’m sure we can kill this Project: The Right easily enough too. I don’t want my family name aligned with bigotry or human rights violations, and I’m fairly confident they’ll agree.”

Chris narrows his eyes.

“Plan B though,” he begins. “You all are my Plan B.”