#now he has to be a bolt for the rest of his career

[ratatatastic]

tampa bay lightning @ florida panthers | 9.30.24

[d-criss-news]

Darren Criss on Bringing Robot Love to Broadway With ‘Maybe Happy Ending’

Chances are the multi-talented Darren Criss is as cross-eyed as the rest of us are with the twists and turns his career has taken over the past 13 years. In 2009, he began in television with six years of Glee, playing the lead singer of the Warblers, and helping power a Warblers focused soundtrack album to Number 2 on the Billboard album chart. Then in 2018 he switched fromsinging to spree killing, giving a stunning, steel-plated performance as Andrew Cunanan in Ryan Murphy’s American Crime Story: The Assassination of Gianni Versace. That got him a Golden Globe and a Primetime Emmy and set people to thinking there might be a serious actor lurking inside that singer.

Before that could be settled, the singer reemerged, as a replacement in a Broadway revival of How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying, raking in $4 million during his three weeks. That was followed with an Off-Broadway revival of Little Shop of Horrors at the Westside Theater and a stint in Hedwig and the Angry Inch at the Belasco Theater.

Two years ago, the actor was back when producer Jeffrey Richards hired him for some deep-dish David Mamet drama, American Buffalo. Now Richardshas returned Criss to the Belasco, and singing, for an original Broadway musical, Maybe Happy Ending—a very original musical, in that it’s about the love life of robots in Seoul circa 2064.

You’ll not find much of that Glee guy you know and love in the character Criss plays in Maybe Happy Ending, a lonely Helperbot robot who putters aimlessly about his tiny apartment, listens to jazz and devotes all his TLC to a favorite pot plant. That changes swiftly when a female form of Helperbot, Claire (Helen J Shen), drops by to borrow his charger. Sparks fly, then conversation, and inevitably a kind of amorous connection.

Despite the nuts and bolts, what we have here is basically a rom-com, with a charming book and score by a couple of NYU classmates.

Actually, there are two books and two scores, one in English, one in Korean. Will Aronson, 43, of New Haven, composed the music, and Hue Park, 41 of South Korea wrote the lyrics. Once they did that, they put their heads together and wrote “connecting tissue”—a play in praise of love’s rejuvenating effects. Even robots at the end of their warranty are susceptible.

Evidently, Hue won the toss because the Korean version premiered first—in Seoul, where the story is set—and proved to be such a success that stateside productions were put together. The English edition made its first U.S. appearance two years ago at Atlanta’s Alliance Theater, where The New York Times’ Jesse Green deemed it “Broadway-ready.” Thus, we now have a live-action robot show going strong on West 44th.

The terror of doing this kind of production, Criss confesses, is that actors are afraid they’ll look like cartoons of their character, taking big, blocky robot steps around the stage. “The show has no listed choreographer,” he tells Observer. But he feels he has that situation well in hand. He and director Michael Arden “have taken a particular interest in making sure the physicality is distinct,” he says. “And I’d be remiss not to mention  a teacher at Juilliard, Moni Yakim, who had some Zoom discussion with us about this.

“It’s kind of a cocktail of those three things: Moni’s suggestions, Michael’s pursuit of perfection and my own interest in physical theater. It’s a skill set that I’ve never been able to utilize—at least to this level. When I was in college, I took a semester off so that I could study physical theater at the Accademia dell’Arte, the performing arts school in Arezzo, Italy.”

A cast of four inhabit the show: Dez Duron, Marcus Choi, Criss, and Shen. You may detect a little kinetic energy between Criss and Shen. That’s because they both attended the University of Michigan—albeit, not at the same time. “She graduated about two seconds ago, and I may have graduated a little longer ago than that,” concedes Criss.

“She graduated two years ago, and 10 years ago my name was up on the marquee at the Belasco Theater. And to be able to come back to the Belasco—but this time to share that billing with a fellow Michigan grad—is a very special moment for me. I’m now the upper-class man to the freshman of Helen J Shen. This is her Broadway debut. It’s a big moment for her, and getting to see her through that on stage—to call that a job is really a special thing for me.”

The enthusiasm Criss brings to the stage is practically palpable—and he still remembers where it came from: encountering Robin Williams at an impressionably early age in the 1992 animated Disney flick, Aladdin, in which his outrageous Genie-jiving was almost heart-stoppingly hilarious.

“I was probably six or seven—and I noticed how this audience connected with each other and with this Genie on the screen. I was very taken with that idea, and I wanted to give people what this Genie was giving them. Then, I found out the voice of that Genie was Robin Williams, who was such a prominent figure out in San Francisco, where I grew up. That made it an accessible concept: ’Oh, Mr. Williams is an actor. I’d like to be an actor, too.’ So I hopped right on it.”

[cheerysmores]

Heavier than sin (1/2)

Pairing: Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford

Tags: Lavellan Inquisitor, Mage Inquisitor, Angst, Smut, (I just had a lot of thoughts about religious guilt)

Rating: E (18+)

Summary:

It takes him a moment to realise the hands against his chest are now pushing him away. She rolls off the desk as he steps back, her expression hidden by her hair. His heart plummets into his gut when she brushes it back. Her face is a pale mask, eyes shaking like a deer staring down a hunter’s bow.

It’s as if all the heat has been snatched away. He’s suddenly painfully aware of how loud he’s breathing, sharp bursts splintering the silence.

“Are you alright?” He tries to stifle his panic when she doesn’t answer. “Please. What did I–”

“I don’t want this.”

***

Cullen’s hands are on her face again. It’s almost funny how often they return to this, his thumb tracing the curving pine of her vallaslin and her cheeks flushing enough to warm through his gloves. Usually, such trysts are short: a smile, a breath, then a fleeting press of mouths and fingers before duty drags to opposite ends of this mountain, the same parting words cooling between them.

‘Inquisitor.’

‘Commander.’

It’s different tonight. His briefing dismissed and the door bolted, he can feel the weight of their next conversation hanging between his office walls. There’s much he wants to say, perhaps too much, enough unspooled rambling to fill any Circle’s library. She stays silent as he tries to compress them into a coherent sentence. Her violet eyes are wide, the shadows under them deep as bruises. He touches one, wishes he could sponge away the thought that had deepened it.

He knows it’s Adamant.

The noise of that battle still clings to his mind as well, even these weeks later. He’s heard plenty of screams in his career: abominations falling, allies choking their last breath, enemies gargling on the tip of his own blade– none pierced so deep as hers as he watched her fall into the Fade. When he shuts his eyes he still sees her clawing at the air, then the hours he spent numb and bloody thinking her dead.

He pushes the thought away. It doesn’t matter. Not now. She’s here, warm and breathing and so alive between his palms.

He brushes the curve of her jaw, letting his gaze rest on her chin. “I find myself wondering what will happen after��� when this is all over I mean. I do not know exactly what that will look like but I won't want to move on, not from you.” It’s almost too raw to admit. He can picture every inch of their battle-map, where to flank, to dig, to charge, but beyond that– nothing. It’s like some great blank abyss and her the only anchor within it. He feels his words trip against his tongue. “That is if you… I mean don’t know if you want–”

She cuts him off with a finger pressed to his bottom lip.

“I know,” she whispers, slipping her hand under his mantle and tugging until it falls behind him. “And I think that’s enough talking for now. Don’t you?”

Read the rest on AO3

[alphabetboyluvr]

throttle - jjk | seven

one/ two / three / four / five / six / seven / eight / nine / ten / eleven

warnings - oof. goes without saying, it's angsty, graphic depictions of violence, physical and verbal fight between jk + joon, they are VILE to one another, drug usage (mostly snorting coke), alcohol, clubbing, taking things too far, insinuations of dangerous driving, illegal boxing rings, blood, one mention of the dark knight, one harvey dent quote, disgustingly sweet daydreams from jk, lewd references to sex, political dynamics, no smut, important plot points

PLEASE take note of the warnings. The fight is nasty, and both jk + nj use the women one another care about as weapons. Both men take things too far in a bid to make the other angry. The women -the oc and nj's sis- are objectified, degraded, spoken about sexually and yeah, just really unpleasant. These characters are career criminals. They are NOT nice people. Please consider your own limits before reading - I've actually edited this to make it a little more palatable and it's still not very nice.

word count - 13.5k

minors dni // posted to wp late 2021 // series masterlist

Metal clatters against the concrete floor of Kang's boxing club as soon as Jungkook opens his locker.

He's yanked it open with such ferocity that one of the bolts has fallen to the floor. Just a small one; a washer that helps to keep a hinge in place, but an inconvenience nonetheless. He stops. Sighs. Looks down at it for a moment, tells it to stop being a little bitch, and then rummages around in his locker for the black jumper he left in there a week prior.

His t-shirt drags against his skin as he sheds himself of it, still damp. The fabric slaps against the floor, echoing his mistakes around him, reverbing in the empty room. They bounce from wall to wall. Taunting him. 

If he picks his shirt up off the floor, there'll be a stain of red on the ground.  

Jimin's locker, once pristine, crumples beneath Jungkook's fist, overwhelmed by an unavoidable truth: 

Jeon Jungkook destroys. 

His touch impacts. Makes impressions. Leaves marks. There's no straightening out the door, he thinks. It'll always be rumpled by the indent of his knuckles. Disfigured. Broken.

Jungkook has been a hurricane for as long as he can remember; a facilitator of misfortune for those around him. He engulfs the best of people and spits them out again when they're at their worst.

If he really wants to, he can pinpoint the exact date and time he transcended from human to meteorological system. He's been upgraded recently - was once a tropical storm, is now a typhoon. 

Destruction is just who he is. More fool him for thinking that clouds could break, and sun could shine. 

Perhaps it's why things always worked so well between you both when the skies were dark, nightfall hiding who he was from plain sight. Any unpleasantries could be chalked up to bad dreams.

He rids himself of the clothes dampened by the commitment he made to you, a little red stain drying around the nape of his neck.

Despite his best attempts to lock it in, there's still dye leaking from strands of his hair, only serving to further remind him that you were never meant to be permanent.

You'll wash away with the spring rains that are set to fall in the coming months, and all he'll be able to do is watch as you drain into the gutter with the rest of his best-laid plans.

For a moment, he considers running. Wind cracks the back door open, light from a streetlamp pooling in. Dust dances in the orange beam, free and unrestricted by the confines of life. It's a freedom he'll never know, not really. He has choices he can make. Liberties he can take. He isn't really as trapped as he thinks he is - but the mind is a heavy prison for those who have shackled themselves to a predestined fate that doesn't exist.

It's not like he doesn't know this. He's aware that the only thing in the world that's stopping him is himself - but his feet are bolted to the floor with screws branded with the names of the people he loves: his mother, his father, one for each of the boys.

They're wound tight, twisted through his flesh and bones. He's tied to Daegu by everything he loves, and the promises he made to ensure that he'll never forget them.

But there's a missing screw, and it's threaded right through his heart. There's a name on it he wishes he'd never learnt, messy, and carved out in a hurry because he didn't have the time to properly process the way he felt until it was too late.

It pinches as he moves, scrapes against his spinal column, etches the letters into his bone.

You might not be permanent, but the mark you leave is as indelible as the ink on his skin.

He laughs when he thinks of you. Laughs in a way that isn't really a laugh. It's full of scorn, and loathing, and longing. The kind of laugh that settles in his stomach like acid that will surely burn away at his soft tissue. He'll disintegrate from the inside out before he ever has the chance to make amends.

Jungkook is pulled, all rather abruptly, from his thoughts when the entryway door slams open. His heart lifts in his chest, that damn nail scraping away at even more of his bone as it does so, body temperature rising and falling all within the same second.

"Here he is," Jimin greets him like a long lost friend. He only saw him, what? Five? Six days ago, maybe? "Where the hell have you been? And Christ, the hell happened to your hair?"

"Home," he says, eyes vacant, no trace of a lie. Of course, it isn't a lie - but it is a half-truth. He ignores the question about his hair. "Went to check on dad."

"How is he?"

"Same old," Jungkook shrugs, not needing to explain the situation. Jimin grew up with Jungkook. Knows the intricacies of his family history. He doesn't pry, and is rewarded with unfiltered access to the most private details of Jungkook's personal life.

Well, almost unfiltered.

Jimin doesn't know about you. He guesses. Notices. Clocks the way that Jungkook sometimes smells far sweeter, far more feminine, after a night of unexplained absence from the boxing club. Watches the way Jungkook keeps his phone on silent, but presses the lock screen far more frequently than usual to check for new messages. Can tell whenever there is a message waiting, because of the way Jungkook's cheeks twitch, a smile tugging on the corners of his lips, of which he refuses to let form.

It's adolescent, how Jungkook thinks he's able to hide his affections.

Jimin might not know for sure that it's you, but he knows his best friend well enough to know that it's someone. There's been no mention of a girl, not since Namjoon forced him into the ring after he found out about Naejeon, so he figures that it must be someone new.

Someone worth keeping secret.

Someone a lot like you.

When he looks over towards his locker, a deep-rooted sigh escapes his lips. "Really? Couldn't have fucked up your own?"

"Accident," Jungkook lies. "I'll swap our doors over."

Jungkook is good at solving problems, but is so quick - so logical - he doesn't often consider that perhaps the problem isn't the issue; it's the circumstances that led to the problem which need fixing instead.

"'S'fine," Jimin shrugs, as he opens it up with a creak and tosses his bag inside it. Not much care is given, because he's already dressed and ready to go. Always early, always punctual, he follows the orders given to him with very few questions asked. "How are you feeling?"

Pretty fucking awful.

"Yeah, fine," Jungkook dismisses, but is painfully aware of how short he's being. He doesn't wanna talk, doesn't wanna give Jimin any ammunition to weaponize against him (not that he would), but knows he's being too aloof. Jimin will start asking questions. "Just wanna get it over and done with, yanno?"

Jimin laughs. "Why such a hurry? Not like it's an in and out job. May as well take our time with it."

Jungkook doesn't reply as he pulls the hoodie over his head, and waltzes up to one of the tattered punching bags.

He begins to bounce on his feet, hands unbound as they tap against the leather. "Just don't understand Jin. Why'd he decide now or never? Couldn't we have time to prep?"

"Beats me," Jimin shrugs, back resting against the cool metal of the lockers. "But we've been prepping for months, Kookie. Been ready since the start of the year, it's months since we said we were gonna do this. Think he's just fed up of waiting."

The younger of the pair grunts a reply as his knuckles slap against the weighted bag.

"Aren't you?" Jimin adds on. "Aren't you tired of waiting, too? Always having to go to that damn gas station. Bet you'll be thankful when this is all over."

He knows he won't be. Knows that Jungkook goes to the gas station far more often than he lets on - has trailed him a couple of times just to confirm. 

It hasn't gone unnoticed by Jungkook, mind you. He's never confronted Jimin about it, but it is why he's started parking a little further away from the gas station. Jimin's caught on about that, too.

"Mhmm," Jungkook grunts, not paying any attention to his friend, squaring up to the bag once more.

"Save your energy. Might need it later."

"Better fuckin' not," Jungkook husks beneath his breath as his fist begins to tap against the bag, the sound of flesh against leather saturating the air. Jimin doesn't hear him as he whispers, "listen to me, C. Please just fucking listen."

It's useless. No amount of manifestation on his part will ever make a difference to the choices you make. You're a woman of your own convictions; a bull trapped in a ring who doesn't take too kindly to that stupid fucking red flag. Especially not when Jungkook's been so careless, waving it around, taunting you, encouraging you.

This mess is one of his own making - and he knows this.

He tried to clean it up.

He really did.

But now your bathroom tiles are stained in red dye, and as hard as he may try, his attempts to clean will be as fruitless as that robotic arm that keeps leaking hydraulic fluid no matter how many times it tries to scoop it up. 

You had watched a video about it with him in the sanctuary of his bed, deceptively chilly sunlight peeking through ashy clouds, the musk of his early morning embrace keeping you glued to his side. 'Can't help myself' the installation is called, and Jungkook thinks of it now as the rear door of the club opens up.

The rest of the boys file in, Namjoon first and then Jin a few moments later. The air is heavy around them, yet none of them seem to give a fuck. Jungkook thinks they're treating this like a fucking jolly. Why don't they care about what they're about to do? Aren't they worried about what could go wrong?

The answers are no, and not really - the same answers he'd have given a few months ago, too.

He started this all with nothing to lose, everything to gain.

Kinda feels like you handed him an Uno reverse card the moment he stepped foot in that bloody gas station.

"Two cars," Jin begins to instruct as they gather around on the old beat-up sofas in the corner of the room. He's sat on an old oil drum, taking command of the situation like it's what he was born to do. "Kook, you drive the main car, Jimin be ready in back up." 

They both nod, Jimin's eyes on their leader, Jungkook's on the floor. His bottom lip is clamped beneath his teeth, which are softly nibbling away like some sort of coping mechanism.

No one notices his state of distress. You would have done, he thinks - but you're not here. 

And Jungkook really hopes it stays that way.

There's stoicism in how he stands; a single strand of seaweed still yet to be plucked by the Haenyeo women of Jeju. Wonders if they'll come back for him. Knows they won't. Knows it's too late. He'll be subject to a life of solitude; swaying to a soundtrack that emits at 52 hertz.

So enthralled with his woe is me parade, Jungkook doesn't realise that Jin watches him with intent. He notices that there's something off about his gaze, how he's refusing to meet anyone's eyes. 

Jungkook's always been a bit of a liar, always been fairly good at it too, but he's never been without his tells; his eyes.

Always his eyes.

Windows to the soul, some say. It scares him. Doesn't let anyone look in them for too long, for fear of them finding out there's something sinister hidden behind them.

"Kang wants this done asap. Elections are coming up and if we don't strike now, it'll be too late," Jin begins to explain, hoping it will stem the questions that he knows Jimin is dying to ask. "We need to get the mayor distracted, off his game. Have him fretting over his family, not thinking about the polls, but equally not able to share his troubles with the public. The mayor will want the situation resolved quickly, which means we can probably put our demand up, ask for a higher price - and all the while, it will give Kang an advantage in the polls."

Jungkook rolls his eyes so hard he can almost hear them turn. He really does hate politics. 

"How much are we talking?" Namjoon asks, because the money is all he's really here for. Doesn't like the mayor, doesn't care for politics, doesn't really care for anything. Just money. "For the girl? Was 150mil, wasn't it? 150 million won?"

"Was," Jin nods. "Kang reckons we can go for 180, easy. Maybe even 200."

"180, five-way split," Namjoon begins to muse. "That's, what? 36mil each?"

And it's stupid, because the money used to excite Jungkook. Oh, if only you'd have heard the conversations they've had about what they'd spend it on, how they could blow it all in a single weekend. Yet despite the higher margin, the bigger gain, Jungkook scoffs.

"36 mil. We're doing this shit for 36 fucking mil. You know how long we're risking behind bars for this if it goes tits up? How long they put you away for for abduction? Blackmail? All for the sake of 36 fucking million."

It's on par with what he should be earning annually. Before he met you, before any of this, it's what would have been on his end of year tax return, or near enough. So much has been lost to you; time, energy, brain capacity. Finances are the least of his worries these days.

If he'd have just worked a little bit harder, put in some more hours, he could have kept on top of the repayments he's been making to the loan sharks who circle in the shallow waters of Busan, just waiting to sink their teeth into his father. He could have been back home, been present. Stopped all of this mess, all of this nonsense. He wouldn't know you. Wouldn't feel like his ribs are splintering whenever he thinks of you. In fact, he never would think of you.

Can't imagine it, now. His brain is a spongy mess of badly sung 80's songs and crying cat memes. Corrupted by you; preserved in such a way by his own desire to keep you around. He surrounds the memories of you in salt to keep the demons away, despite the fact it dries out the very essence of him. His brain will shrivel and rot, and all that will be left is you.

"It's not gonna go tits up, though, is it, Kook?" Namjoon pushes back almost immediately.

"It's not," Jin answers for him. "We get in, get the girl, get out. That's the hard part. Everything else is easy."

Jungkook's jaw is tense as he looks at Jin - and then he's looking away again. 

"Look, Kook, if you're not up to this, then  say so - but you're the one who came to us hell bent on taking her father down. You're the one who came up with this whole plan, you're the fucking mastermind - but we've got Kang on our backs now and we have to deliver. Either you're in," Jin shrugs. "Or you're out. Your choice."

"I'm in," Jungkook almost spits in retaliation. "I'm fucking in."

"Good. So go start the car. We're running late."

He pauses. Bites down on his lip, and nods. Does as he's told because it's the only way he can leave the room without raising suspicions. 

He doesn't breathe again until he's in his car.

His engine hums as it basks in midnight lunar light, predatory in the way his headlights stalk out the shadows. He turns them off, thinks he won't need them. The roads are quiet. If he gets pulled over, he'll feign naivety. 'Oh, sorry officer. I'll turn them on.' He doesn't wanna be seen. Doesn't want to announce the way he's coming into your neighbourhood. Doesn't want you looking for him like a lighthouse. Wants you to crash. It'll be easier, that way.

꾹: i can explain everything. just trust me.

꾹: go to yoongis. i need you safe.

꾹: give me a little time. i'll tell you everything, c. please just go to yoongis and let me know you're okay xx

His messages drop in your chat feed. They never deliver.

He's joined in the car by Jin, and then it's go time.

The drive is silent, and Jungkook sort of just blanks it out. Doesn't remember how he got from A to B, but before he knows it, he's on your street. Outside your apartment block. Wishing for a sinkhole to open up and swallow his beloved car, with him still inside it.

He's been told to sit, wait. Cut the radio, keep the engine going. Jin and Namjoon are doing their job. Breaking and entering; stealing the only thing of any value in your shoebox apartment. 

The idea of you looking at them, brows contorted, heart nice and bloody on your sleeve, plays on loop in his head. He wonders if you'll comply. Know you'll most likely fight.

Jungkook sits and stews in hushed cacoethes. He desires only you; the most forbidden of all the fruits. There's an ache in his chest, and a heat pricking at his skin. Poison, he thinks. That damn fruit. Damn you.

He needs to see you. Needs to know you're okay. Needs you in his passenger seat as you escape the city, forget it all, leave it all behind.

Ashtray mind and tobacco-stained eyes; there's nothing in his heart but the residue of things that will kill him. His lungs are all covered in the tar of you, too. Not like they matter. He left them with yours. Hasn't been able to breathe since he left your apartment, he doesn't think.

The road ahead is clear. 

Dark and wide, it's lit only by street lamps, and the occasional neon light, that will no doubt lead late-night revellers to karaoke rooms. They're all basement level; a passage to the underworld of sin that swells beneath the belly of the metropolis. Impiety laces the streets of a city marred by cult churches, no closer to God than the shit beneath their shoes. 

He doesn't believe in God, and certainly doesn't believe in the burning red crosses that sit atop the cult houses. They defile Buk-gu in debauchery; at home with the heathens, obscuring the ordinary. 

He does, however, consider asking for forgiveness; repenting his sins. He'd be suited to a confessional; the glare of impure light pouring through the slats, disfiguring the face you've grown to adore, like the shadows of a prison grate. 

He hates this place.

Hates why he's here, hates why he's stayed, and - funnily enough - hates that there's no longer any reason for him to stay. Not once his business is done.

He wonders if this could have played out differently. Maybe if he'd have been honest with you from the start, it wouldn't have come to this. You could have played along, maybe. Did what was asked of you willingly.

The door opens with a rough crack, far too much force being put on its old hinges. "Woah, woah- careful," he shrieks, drawn away from thoughts of you for a split second.

That is, until, he sees the look on Jin's face.

It's unfamiliar. Teeth bared. Snarling, almost. Eyes hard, jaw tense. 

Oh, fuck.

"Drive," Jin hisses. "Fucking drive."

But he doesn't.

And he won't. 

Not until he knows you're okay.

"The girl?"

"Don't act fucking dumb, Jungkook," Jin spits as he slams the door shut, imprisoning them both.

"I don't know wha-"

"Driv-"

"Where's the girl?" Jungkook snarls right back.

"Not fuckin' there!"

This is bad, he thinks. Real fucking bad.

But then he's overwhelmed with how fucking good it feels. You weren't there. You listened to him. You trusted him. He could laugh. Could cry. Might do both.

Not yet, though. He's still wearing his lies well. They sit atop the crown of his skull with pride. Liar of the year, 2022. Jeon Jungkook.

"Why isn't she there, huh?" Jin barks, spit gathering in the corners of his mouth. And then he's shouting. Shouting so loud that the whole fucking neighbourhood will wake up. "Again? Every fucking time Jungkook, she's just never where you say she will be. But you know what is where she should be? Huh? A bathroom stained in red fucking hair dye. Flannel shirts we both know damn well belong to you. Tell me, Kook, why didn't you want us to do it tonight, huh? Scared we'd catch you two at it?"

"You've lost your fucking mind, Jin. I don't know the ins and outs of her life."

"Oh, but on the contrary," Jin scathes as he slaps a receipt on the dash. It's branded. Jungkook thought he'd left it in the restaurant; that little pizza place in Busan. Hadn't realised you squirrelled away momentoes like that. Is still learning about you, apparently.

It's Jungkook's card number along the bottom of it. Jin won't know that. 

But he's got eyes. Can read. Your handwriting adorns the top corner, right above the date and location. Jungkook feels sick.

Dinner with JK <3

"No?" Jin presses. "So you don't know who JK is? Don't know why the fuck she was in Busan when you were? Don't know why she's drawing fucking hearts next to his initials, huh? Somethings not adding up, JK."

"I've never been good at maths," Jungkook retorts, tone flat.

"You ain't no good at lying, either," Jin growls, crumpling the receipt and throwing it at Jungkook. It hits his chest, right where his heart used to be. Sinking back into the passenger seat, Jin curses. Shakes his head. Sighs. 

"Just fucking drive, Jungkook. Just fuckin' drive."

────────────

Daegu tarmac is always a little harder in the winter. Jungkook prefers it, for there's less pull against his wheels as he hurtles down the streets.

He's vaguely aware of the fact he needs to check the wear on the inner treads of his tyres. They're pulling even less than usual, and he knows that he needs to adjust the tracking, but it's been the last thing on his mind lately.

Jin instructs him in the direction of the boxing club, and Jungkook almost refuses. Almost takes a left by the bridge to bomb up towards Palgongsan. He wants to see the city. Escape it. Look down on it; on you. Keep watch. Keep you safe.

It's an impossible task though, so he does as he's told - and quickly, too. He runs not one, but two reds. The streets are clear, marred by darkness of a midnight sky, so he's not concerned about getting caught - and if anything, it would probably do him a favour.

A night behind bars would be preferable to a night in the ring with Namjoon.

He's childish, and a grade-A dick when he wants to be, but Jungkook's no stranger to the way it feels when Namjoon's knuckles kiss his cheek.

A fight has been brewing ever since the last, Namjoon displeased with how Jin intervened, but Jungkook has fucked it now.

Even Jin is pissed at him - and rightly so. He's done exactly what he's been accused of.

He's betrayed them.

Been disloyal. Abused their trust.

Done things he said he never would.

"We in this?"

"In this shit for life."

Seems stupid now when Jungkook replays the memories back. He never should have promised the rest of his life. It was never feasible. He, himself, had seen how quickly life could change within the blink of an eye; but more importantly, how the change could be so slow, so gradual that he didn't even notice until it was too late.

It had happened with his mother; her illness slowly but surely taking hold until she was a shadow of herself. It had happened with his ex; her withdrawal from him so incremental that he didn't even notice the evenings she spent with Taehyung instead of him.

More recently, it's happened with you.

He should have known better. Hell, he did know better. Knew what would happen if he let himself get a little bit too comfortable.

There was a reason why he's been single for so long; why he never lets anyone get too close.

See, Jeon Jungkook is just as romantic as he always has been.

His heart has been broken, and misery has ravaged his veins, but he still believes that there's a life out there for him that doesn't involve any of those things. He believes that he could have a happy ending.

And it's foolish.

Foolish because nobody gets one of those. Foolish because people like him certainly don't.

Foolish because only fools fall - and lord knows he's been in the gutter ever since he met you.

It wasn't one of those first-sights, heart-palpitations, heavy-breathing types of situation, but it was something more than nothing - and when you're so used to drought, even the slightest spark can light the brightest fires. You had surged through him like a wild blaze, burning deep red, akin to the dye that stains his hair.

And now his bones are charred; irrevocably scarred by a girl who only ever sought to heal him.

So yeah, maybe he was a fool, but so were you for ever thinking he could be healed in the first fuckin' place.

Jungkook barely has the chance to shut his car off before Jin barks at him to get inside. Says that he's fucking lucky Joon didn't catch up with them.

He scoffs a laugh. "I'm lucky? I'm lucky? Joon's fucking lucky I haven't sparked him out before now. He's been on his high horse for far too fucking long."

"Yeah, and not without reason, Kook. The fuck have you been playing at, huh?" Jin asks, with genuine bewilderment, once they're inside Old Man Kang's boxing club. The air is cold, but the tension between the two men, who were once more like brothers, is even more so.

If Jungkook were to answer honestly, he'd say he doesn't know. Would probably cry a little bit, too. Maybe a lot. He's not really sure at this point.

He's not sure of anything. Not sure about his loyalties, about his motives. Not even how he feels about you.

The only thing Jungkook is sure of, is that Namjoon is going to be gunning for blood the second he storms through the door, and that he'd really rather not be here when it happens.

"I can fix this. Let me go and look for her, alrigh-"

"No."

"If anyone is gonna fin-"

"You've done enough, Kook."

"Jin, please-"

"Enough."

"But I-"

"You've done enough," he repeats firmly now, his eyes unable to grace Jungkook with mercy. He can't fucking look at him. Not after everything; not after all of it. They'd planned this together. Been in this shit together. A team. They had always had the same goals, the same motivations, and Jungkook had just thrown it all to the wayside.

He's never cared much for 'bros before hoes,' or any of that bullshit, but Jin thought there was an understanding between them. A common goal. Common ground.

Thought their friendship went beyond business.

He's known the kid for years. Watched him grow. Practically raised him after his dad couldn't afford to feed them anymore, his mother's life savings spaffed at the bookies every Sunday, then every Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday... He'd been Jungkook's parent when the poor kid may as well have lost both.

And this is how he repays him?

Jungkook tenses his jaw. Presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek. Nods. Curses as he lashes out at the pole marking the corner of the boxing ring. Yells a little as his bare fist cracks against the padded wood.

Jin just walks to the sofas in the corner of the room. Sinks into one of them, defeated. There's no point in arguing, not right now. Not while his head is all fucked up and his vision is marred by a shade of red that matches Jungkook's hair.

The steel of the fire exit door screeches as it scrapes against the pavement, too heavy for the hinges it's on. An easy fix which none of them have gotten round to doing yet. Too busy. Minds have been elsewhere - but Namjoon's mind is only on one thing as he hurtles toward Jungkook.

"You mother fucker," Namjoon spits, his fists rough as they grab onto the neckline of Jungkook's shirt. The friction burns a little, but nothing really hurts Jungkook. Not when it already feels like his heart has been cut straight from his chest with a craft knife.

He wants to hurt, though. Wants physical pain to match his mental torment.

"Joon," Jimin calls from the entryway, trying to draw him back, but it's futile. Bad blood needs to be drained in order to keep a body healthy, after all - and this band of brothers is dying. They need something - anything - to replenish their health.

It's a shame that Jungkook's on a suicide mission, really.

"Nah," Jungkook smirks, but his eyes are void of any humour. In fact, he's deadly serious as he says, "it was your sister I fucked, remember?"

He's barely finished mocking his former friend before a fist meets his face. The crack of Namjoon's knuckles against his skin echoes into the room, reverberating from wall to wall, like a chilling laugh sounding from the shadows.

"Is that all you've got?" Jungkook laughs, despite the fact a small red bead is forming on his bottom lip. It swells and drips, like the scarlet water that ran from his hair earlier that afternoon. He knows he shouldn't keep going, but he doesn't really care. Namjoon has a short fuse, and Jungkook feels like blowing up. "Even Naejeon liked it rougher than that."

For all his stupidity, the boy's got a sharp tongue about him. Knows just the right thing to say to get what he wants - this time, it's another punch to his face. His cheek. Gonna bruise like a fuckin' bitch.

Namjoon still has a grip on his collar and pushes him now, until his legs are pressed against the base of the ring, back against the ropes.

"Say another fucking word about my sister and I'll rip your fucking tongue out."

Jungkook laughs. Namjoon just makes it so fucking easy.

"Don't be like that, Joonie," he coos, the smile on his face borderline psychotic. "Naejeon reckons it's the only thing that ever made her cum."

When Namjoon punches him this time, he doesn't give Jungkook the chance to interrupt with any more quick remarks about his little sister. He was pissed at Jungkook for shagging her, pissed at Jungkook for ghosting her, but everything Jungkook's done since then only serves to make it so much worse.

"You," he spits, only pausing his words to land another punch against Jungkook's cheek. "Stupid" - another punch - "fucking" - again - "twat."

He grabs Jungkook's collar with both of his hands now, forcing him to stand up straight, face pink from Namjoon's knuckles smearing his blood all over it.

"You couldn't keep your dick in your pants, could you? First my fucking sister and then that fucking whore? Her of all people?"

Jungkook is laughing again. Sniffs back the blood dripping from his nose. Jin is sitting with his head in his hands, pretending like it isn't happening. Jimin can't take his eyes off it. It's like a car crash; a head-on collision between two boy racers, who always take it too fucking far.

"I can give you a comparison if you like?"

"Kookie-" Jimin tries to interject, but is silenced by Namjoon who snaps his head around to look at the most innocent of the bunch.

"Nah," Namjoon laughs. "Let him talk. Let him spew his bullshit."

And then he faces Jungkook again. Gets closer. Gets real close. Close enough that Jungkook can smell the cigarette he smoked half an hour ago.

His breath is hot against Jungkook's skin. Intrusive. Unwelcome.

Namjoon knows this. Knows that Jungkook hates people breathing on him. Hates it so much that Namjoon used to sneak up on him and breathe on his neck, specifically to get a reaction out of him. Used to find it funny.

He doesn't know that Jungkook never hated your soft sighs against his skin. Not against the crook of his neck during early morning embraces, not into his lips when the build of your climax got so intense that you couldn't focus on kissing him anymore. He doesn't know that Jungkook would do anything to hear the way you breathe as you sleep right about now; shallow and a little stuttered. His favourite sound. His very own metronome.

Namjoon doesn't know you were different. Wouldn't really matter even if he did know. Wouldn't change a single damn thing about the betrayal he feels. In his eyes, it's just one thing after a-fucking-nother with Jungkook. Kid's a liability.

"How long you been fucking her, huh?" Namjoon speaks quietly, breath warm against Jungkook's ear. It's hushed enough that none of the others can hear. Probably for the best. "How long have you been sinking your cock into your mother's corpse?"

"My mother's corpse?" Jungkook almost chokes, legitimately in a state of shock over what's just left Namjoon's mouth. It's probably worse than the stench of his ashtray breath.

"What?" He laughs. It's bitter. "Her daddy's the reason your mum's dead, isn't she? She's the reason. So you're fucking your dead mum by proxy, aren't you? There'd be no corpse if it wasn't for her."

It's good. Jungkook's gotta hand it to him. It's pretty fucking savage. He's not sure of the legitimacy of such a claim, not sure it makes any fucking sense, but the shock value? Yeah, Namjoon has him stumped.

Part of him knows he shouldn't bite. Part of him knows that Namjoon is only after a fight.

In fact, all of him knows this - but Namjoon's breath is all clammy on his cheek, and it makes his skin crawl in a way that rivals nails on a blackboard.

He doesn't wanna react. Doesn't wanna lash out. Doesn't wanna make this a fair fight, but he can't fucking help it as his head lunges forward, smashing against Namjoon's nose with a crack.

"Kook," Jimin tries again, sterner this time, but Jin shakes his head and tells him, 'let the kids have their squabble.'

"This has nothing to do with my mother," Jungkook spits as he stands up straighter now, taller.

"Oh, but on the contrary," Namjoon says, his posture slightly cowered from the impact of Jungkook's skull cracking against his own. He's feeling for blood with the back of his hand, eyes narrow. "It has everything to do with your mother. She's the reason you're here. She's the reason you wanted to take that bitch out in the first fuckin' place."

The worst part is he's right. Jungkook knows he's right.

"So?" He says before he spits, crimson phlegm hitting the concrete floor with a slap, red with blood from the inside of his cheek. "So what? So what if I fucked her?"

Namjoon's not even really concerned about the fact Jungkook's been fucking you.

If Jungkook had fucked you and not let it sway his judgement, Namjoon probably would have congratulated him for getting his dick wet and the job done well. Issue is, Jungkook started fucking with you with heart and thinking with his dick.

"Coulda fucked any whore in the city. I know you know where to find them."

"True. Did find your sister, didn't I?"

It's not Jungkook's finest hour. It's not been his finest few months, if he's being realistic - except for the fact it has been. The time he's spent with you, at least.

The training sessions he'd cram between leaving you in his bed and heading to work were always his best.

The days at work when he knew he'd be heading to your gas station afterwards were always his most productive. His area manager had been eyeing him up for a fucking promotion. His good, honest work is better because of you.

He doesn't understand why, he doesn't understand how - he just knows if he hadn't constantly had this huge guilt weighing down on him constantly, that maybe he'd have known what happiness felt like again.

He hates the circumstances that lead him to you. Hates the reality of your relationship. Hates that he's pretty sure you don't even have one, now.

But he loves that he met you. Loves that he got to experience you. Loves that you gave him hope where he'd only ever seen hardship.

It's useless now, of course. Down the fucking drain. Should have trained to be a plumber instead, he thinks. Maybe he'd have been able to salvage things.

He's an electrician though, and all he's done is keep you in the dark, until he blinded you with a spotlight. He's short-circuted everything now. Fried the motherboard. Destroyed everything you once were together. He knows there's no salvaging it.

But he's also questioning if there was ever anything there to begin with. Questions whether or not you really liked him, or just the way you perceived him - but it was no different from any normal scenario. No one shows their bad cards first. You're drawn in by the best, and learn to adore the worst, too.

For a long time, you thought that his worst card was the fact he used a 2-in-1 shampoo and shower gel. Used to tease him about it.

And now he's thinking of the way you laugh and he wants to fucking cry.

Joon can see it. See the shift behind Jungkook's eyes. Thinks he's won. Pushes Jungkook away from him. Spits on the ground. Walks away.

"You're pathetic, Jeon. Good for nothing waste of fuckin' sperm. Thank fuck you ghosted Naejeon. Thank fuck. Could think of nothing worse than sharing a bloodline with a coward like you."

Jimin breathes for the first time in what feels like hours, hoping that this is it. It's done now. Jin remains as he was, but reclines into the sofa as Namjoon saunters to meet him. He throws himself down into a chair and sighs.

"What now, boss?"

Good fucking question, Jin thinks. The plan is fucked. Jungkook knows there's no way it can be rectified. You know too much now. Know what to expect, even if not when to expect it. You don't know his motives, you just know they're not as pure as you once thought. Know that it's safer to hate him.

He wonders if you already do.

He turns to face the ring; holds on to the ropes, lets his body lean forward, heaving a little. All of this feels like a nightmare. The kind that loop, and replay again and again until insanity is the only logical explanation.

But maybe he is insane.

Insane for thinking that this could ever work. Insane for thinking that maybe he'd be able to mastermind a plan in which everyone got a happy ending. Insane for letting you into his home, insane for letting you into his sheets, insane for letting you into a part of his brain reserved for memories of his family before it all went wrong.

You're there now, though. It's permanent. The way you make him feel is something he'll never be able to shake, and he knows damn well that he's ruined for the rest of his life.

"Without the girl, we have nothing," Jin sighs. "The girl was our meal ticket. We needed her to get the Mayor's attention. Need her to make this whole thing work. Without her, there's no leverage. Nothing to work with."

"Hear that, Kook? We've got nothing," Namjoon taunts. "A little bit of sour pussy worth it, huh? Maybe I should just fuck her. See what all the hype is about. See if it's worth it. How'd she like it, huh? She like it rough?"

"Can the pair of you just stop?" Jimin snaps now. "You're like a pair of twelve-year-olds."

Namjoon ignores him. Sinks further into the tattered leather chair. Crosses his legs, and hooks an ankle upon his knee. Smirks.

"Bet she's a dumb slut with a rack like that," he says instead. "Her titwanks must be pretty fucking good, right?"

He knows - much to Jungkook's dismay - that Jungkook is a tittie guy. They've had enough conversations about it. Vulgar shit. Objectifying. Laddish banter, that was really just juvenile shit they both knew better than to say.

"That's what got you, isn't it, Kook?" Namjoon laughs. "Her tits? Your mommy issues are showing."

Jungkook's blood is burning as red as his hair, but he tries not to let it show.

"Not really," Jungkook lies, and they all fuckin' know it. "Her tits were good, but I can live without them. I mean, Naejeon's flat as a fuckin' pancake - and I fucked her for long enough, didn't I? Might see if she's free later, actually."

It's like they're playing a game of table football, each one of them trying to get one up on the other. It's Namjoon's turn, now.

"You never answered, Kook. How does she like it? Is she the kind of bitch that likes it rough? Likes it when you make them cry? She'd be good at that, I reckon. Crying. How long do you think it would take to get her crying?"

The thought of it makes Jungkook sick. Makes him want to cry. He's still leaning against the ropes, but it's mainly to stop him from falling down. His head feels like it's gonna fucking cave in.

"I dunno man," Jungkook shrugs, but he's a little breathless. Knows he sounds weak. Knows he has to go extra hard with the next insult flung Namjoon's way. "Given how tight your sister was, how much I had to stretch her little pussy out-"

"Shut the fuck up."

"I'm guessing that size runs in the family - so I don't imagine you've got much to make CC cry with, to be honest."

He says it before he realises - but the rest of them do. Notice it immediately.

"Sorry, who?"

"The fuck did you just call her?"

There's silence. Jungkook doesn't speak. Not till the question is repeated, this time by their leader. Jin's voice is stern as he asks, "What did you call her, Jungkook?"

"Nothin'. Doesn't matter. Just a dumb fuckin' nickname."

"A nickname?"

"Yeah, a dumb one. What does it matter?"

"How deep does it run?" Jin asks, genuinely concerned for Jungkook. This is so much worse than just hooking up. "This little affair you've been having? How fuckin' deep does it go?"

"Doesn't. Doesn't run deep, doesn't run anywhere. It's nothing," he spits. "She's nothing."

Saying it out loud makes him feel like a piece of shit.

You're everything.

"I'm sure she finds the lying all very endearing, Kook, but cut it out," Jin scolds him. "We're in this together. Just be fuckin' honest with us. We know you told her to run. You chose her over us. The least you can do is tell us how invested you are. How invested she was. Let us know what we're dealing with, here."

"Can't invest in something that you know will never give you a return," Jungkook says as if that makes a difference. He always knew the pair of you were doomed.

"She's not a financial investment," Jin debates. "And yeah, you can."

"But she is a financial investment."

"Joon. Not now."

"Well, I mean, she was," Namjoon adds a little mindlessly. "She isn't now. Golden balls has screwed it all up for us."

"I haven't."

Namjoon laughs. Looks at Jungkook as if he knows every fib he's ever told. Perceptive and well aware of Jungkook's tendency to tell white lies, there's no fooling him.

"You've been shafting the plans for months," Namjoon says with certainty. "The first raid? Tell me that you didn't have anything to do with it."

But he can't. And he doesn't want to lie anymore, so he remains silent.

"See, I told you," Namjoon nearly fucking yells. He'd gotten into much trouble for picking a fight with Jungkook after the raid, only to go and be proven right. "I fucking told you. You all told me I was overreacting but I fucking knew it."

His rant is ignored as the rest of them process what's been divulged by Jungkook.

"Ever since then?" Jimin asks quietly. His tenderness is noticed. Appreciated.

And so Jungkook nods. "Didn't know her back then. Not really. I just... I was getting cold feet. I'd never really understood that there was another human on the other end of the plan, yanno? I didn't want us to do something we couldn't take back. She could have been useful to us."

"Not sure Jungkook's personal cum-dump would have been useful to 'us' as a collective - unless you were planning on sharing?"

"Namjoon, will you ever just shut the fuck up?"

Jungkook ignores it. He knows Namjoon is just trying to get a rise out of him at this point. His face is aching enough now. They've had their fun.

None of them feel aggression towards him anymore. Not really.

They're scared, more than anything, knowing they have Kang to answer to if they don't deliver on their promise, and none of them enjoy the prospect of that too much.

"Things spiralled. I didn't mean for them to-"

"Ah, but you never do, do you?" Namjoon interrupts, but again, Jungkook ignores it.

"She wasn't there on the night of the raid, 'cause I was standing her up on a date downtown. Thought I'd try and figure some other plan out, but when I saw her next I panicked. Was trying to keep her on side."

He's downplaying it, granted. They're all vaguely aware they aren't getting the whole truth, but a half-truth is better than none at all.

"We ended up going out a week or so later. Both drank a little too much and - well, I mean, I don't need to teach you about the birds and the bees, do I? Pretty sure you know how the rest of it goes." There's a murmur amongst the boys, collectively agreeing not to ask more. "Things got out of hand. I panicked. I didn't know what to do."

"It's not an excuse," Jin says. "No fucking excuse at all, Kook. Your panic has fucked us all over. I hope you know how to fix this fuckin' mess, 'cause Kang is gonna have our balls for breakfast if we don't deliver. We signed a contract."

"Not exactly legally binding, is it?"

"Since when has anything Kang's ever done been in keeping with the law?" Jin asks, but the question is rhetorical. They all know the answer.

The cash counting machines in the back office, and the hostess noraebangs are a dead giveaway. Old Man Kang is bad news. Such bad news that Jin even fears having this discussion in the boxing club... just in case.

"Go home. I don't wanna talk about it anymore. Don't even wanna look at any of you, right now," Jin almost laughs, but they know he isn't actually joking. He's deadly serious. "We'll meet at mine tomorrow. I don't want Kang getting wind of this. Kook, clean up your blood, then get gone. Jimin, clear away the chair for the girl. Won't be needing it now. Joon, just get gone. I'll see you tomorrow. 9 am sharp. We'll figure it out."

He looks at Jungkook, and shakes his head. What a fucking mess that boy has made.

"We'll figure it out," he repeats, before adding, "together."

They all do as they're told. Jungkook is the last to leave, his hands a little stained in his own blood by the time he's done. He ignores the tightness of the skin on his palms as he drives, heading in the direction of home.

Jungkook's apartment is cold. He'd left the bathroom door open before leaving for Busan, and winter wind howls into the apartment as soon as he steps foot through the door. He doesn't close it. Just heads into his bedroom-turned-living area, flicks on the ondol and falls face-first into his bed.

He regrets it as soon as he picks up the scent of you on his sheets. You've not slept in them for the best part of a week, and yet you're still there. It's too late to put a washload on - his neighbour will bang on the ceiling with the handle of her broom again like she did the last time you'd had morning sex - but he can't stay like this. Can't stay suffocated by you.

He sits up. Sniff back a sob, and kicks off his shoes. "Stupid fucking prick," he laments, then catches sight of himself in his mirror. Sees his hair. It fucking stings. So fucking red. Looks like a fresh wound. He supposes it is; the remnants of his heart that were torn from his chest the second your eyes turned hard.

It had been dark in your room, but he could see the lights of your kitchen reflect with more variance as water began to grace your lashline. He'd made you cry and he couldn't even so much as give you a fucking hug to make it any better.

There's no enthusiasm in his steps as he skulks toward his bathroom. Doesn't bother stripping his clothes off. Just flicks the light on, twists the tap and sits on the floor as the shower chokes into action. The water is freezing as he sits, legs pulled up to his chest, arms hugging around his knees.

Slowly but surely it warms up, even if his heart doesn't. He doesn't even know what his aim is. Perhaps he's trying to recreate the last place he felt happiness - back in your shower, with you - or maybe he's hoping the water will wash away the remnants of you from his hair.

He's a warning light; a red flag that screams 'stay away.' He wishes he could. Would rather be with anyone but himself right now.

But there's a comfort to be found in the fact that he knows you're a walking red flag, too.

Eventually, he stands. Discards his clothes - he'll sort them in the morning - and rinses his hair through. His shampoo bubbles up all pretty and pink, but it isn't enough to reverse what he's done. Your relationship has stained him for all to see.

He deliberately avoids looking in the toothbrush holder. Doesn't want to see your one. Instead, he looks in the mirror as he reaches for his brush - it's thicker than yours, battery-powered, so it's easy to distinguish from touch alone.

It's as he's rummaging around that he notices an inconsistency in his steamed-up mirror.

It's in the bottom left-hand corner, discreet and hidden unless you know where to find it: a thin outline in the shape of a heart.

Jungkook didn't put it there, and there's only one girl who he's ever let stay long enough for a shower to be needed.

He has to grip the basin of his sink to stop himself from keeling over. Thinks he'll be sick. Actually gags a little. Never been so close to it without actually following through.

It's hard to tell what's making him feel this way. The guilt? The hurt? He's not sure. All he knows is that he can't fucking breathe properly. His shower is still pounding down on his spine as he hunches over, painful as the water slaps against his skin. He doesn't realise, but it's tender because your scratch marks are still running down it.

You're in his skin. In his head, his hair, his bed. You're still here, and he can't fucking shake you. You're haunting him. Taunting him.

Except for the fact you're really not. You're doing the opposite. You've gone ghost, yes, but entirely in the opposite direction. Radio silence.

He tries sending a message through to your chat feed, but it remains undelivered. He calls - this number is unavailable - and he calls - this number is unavailable - and he calls and calls and calls - this number in una- this number is- this nu- until he gets so frustrated he throws his phone across the room. Hears a crack. Knows he's fucked his screen. Just another thing to hate himself for.

He considers going to Yoongi's. Gets dressed, puts a coat on. His hair is still damp. He doesn't care. Gets in his car. Drives in fucking laps around the city. Thinks he sees you twice - doesn't see you a single time.

And he won't.

Jeon Jungkook had the luxury of finding you once. You're never gonna give him that again.

See when you left your apartment that evening, you did it on your terms. You packed your bag with the essentials: documents - some forged, some not -, money, and the hard drive that has everything your father wouldn't want in the hands of the wrong people. Up until now, you've been the wrong hands - but it seems like there are far filthier hands in search of it now.

You upturned a few items, made your life look as simple as you could; just a regular girl who had fallen for a no-good piece of shit. You pinned up a few photos. Scribbled some dumb nostalgic shit on a receipt.

And as you sit in the waiting room of the first terminal of Daegu Airport, you smile.

You imagine all the ways that little note could fuck him up. Wonder if they'll notice the shirts of his you left out, but neglect to think about the one you're still wearing. The blue one. Your favourite. Smells like him.

There's no time to dwell on it, mind you. A bell chimes. It's not the one in your stomach - you may as well have swallowed cement with how still it is, now. The bell echoes, and then a voice sounds. "This is the boarding call for flight 711 to Jeju. Please have your passport and boarding pass ready for inspection at gate 3. Flight 711 for Jeju, at gate 3. Thank you."

You sigh. Pretend like you can't smell the scent of his aftershave as you hook your bag over your shoulder, and head in the direction of gate 3. Doesn't really matter where you're going. All that matters is that you are going - and that Jungkook will have no fucking clue where to find you.

And yet part of you hopes he'll show up. Beg you not to board that flight. Tell you he's sorry, and that it's all a huge misunderstanding. Will buy a ticket, fly with you. Stay with you. Make things right on an island that's done no harm to either one of you. Not like the city you're leaving behind.

It's a hope you hold onto, even as you board. Even as the cabin crew begin safety demonstrations. Even as you begin to hurtle down the runway.

Jungkook's not a mind reader though, and so he sits, body all hunched up and crooked by your apartment door, waiting for you to come home. He's aware it's a little creepy. Knows you won't be happy to see him - but he doesn't want to fucking stalk you. He just wants to know you're safe. Wants this nightmare to be over.

He's woken the next morning, back in agony from his position, by the ajumma who lives across the hallway. He asks if she's seen you. She tells him it's none of his business, and to get gone.

Good old Eunhee. You've always liked her. She's always hated your boyfriends. It's a win-win.

Jungkook leaves his number with Eunhee, but she bins it as soon as she's inside her apartment. She knows if you want to call Jungkook, you will. She's old enough to know what men are like. Wise enough to know he's probably been up to no good. The ones who grovel always have been.

He walks home, just so he has an excuse to walk back to your area later to pick up his car. Forgets he's supposed to be at Jin's for 9 until Namjoon drives past him.

He expects Namjoon to hurtle off, but to his surprise, he pulls over. Tells Jungkook to get in. Doesn't speak to him the entire way there, but still gets him there ahead of schedule.

There are three cars outside Jin's apartment by the time they arrive. Jin's sleek Merc, Jimin's red Mx5, and a car that Jungkook hadn't expected to see: a Rolls Royce. Blacked out. De-badged. Discreet, but screaming importance. The plates are illegal. Decoys. The kinda shit used by criminals - which is fitting, Jungkook supposes.

"Shitting hell," Namjoon hisses beneath his breath as he pulls his keys from the ignition. "Looks like we've got a date with the Devil himself."

Jungkook laughs. "Don't think the Devil wears Cuban heels."

Namjoon smiles, too. Knows smiling won't be an option once they're inside Jin's apartment.

"C'mon," he says as he encourages Jungkook out of the car. Neither of them really wants to go, but both know their arrival will have been noted. Any slackness will have to be accounted for. Better men have lost fingers for less than tardiness. It's not worth the aggro. "Time to go face the wrath of Old Man Kang."

────────────

When Jin arrives at the boxing club that evening, Jungkook's skin is already glistening beneath the frosty glow of exposed lightbulbs. They're LED, providing no warmth to the shell of a room he's in - but Jungkook's been going at it for so long - been going at it so hard - that steam wafts from his body.

There's something stern in the way Jin is looking at him, as if he's willing for him to slow down.

Jungkook doesn't even so much as look in Jin's direction. His gaze is wasted, much like all of Jungkook's efforts of the past few months.

If he's being honest, Jin is surprised to see him at the club. He hadn't expected to see the kid for at least a day or two after Jungkook had stormed out of his place earlier that morning.

With a face of thunder, jaw tense, his jugular vein throbbing beneath his honey skin, he'd been royally pissed.

Credit where it was due, Jungkook had just about managed to hold it together for long enough to see Old Man Kang out the door - but only just.

He'd sat as quiet as a broken record player in Jin's apartment, leg jittering, teeth nibbling on his bottom lip. Had barely even looked at their boss. Didn't want to. Didn't trust his misplaced anger.

See, Jungkook has a thing for shifting blame; everything is always someone else's fault. Him losing you? Well, it couldn't possibly be his fault. Had to be Kang's. After all, he was the one who'd sent Jungkook on the first stakeout of GS25.

Maybe not the second one, though. That was all Jungkook's doing. As was the third, and the fourth, and - well, I mean, Kang certainly hadn't told Jungkook to ask you out on a date, the silly cunt. Definitely never told him to put his cock in you, either.

He'd got himself into this mess all by himself.

Didn't like that admission, though, so he stayed silently furious with Kang instead.

Which worked out in his favour, actually. Being preemptively pissed at the stupid old fucker meant that Jungkook's visible annoyance was minimal as Kang dropped a fucking bomb on them at Jin's dinner table.

"Forget about the girl for now. There's too much heat around her. That coworker of hers... he knows too much. You let him know too much. The second she's gone, he'll be pointing fingers - and if they land on you? They'll land on the boxing club too, and whose name is printed above the door? Mine. Too much risk."

Kang had been oblivious to the glances being thrown Jungkook's way - but of course he had been.

Again, Kang had nothing to do with Jungkook's quite frankly ridiculous choices. There really was no one to blame but himself.

And that's the worst part of it all: Jungkook knows this.

It doesn't stop the anger from fermenting in his chest though, so fucking torn apart by the fact that if everyone had just listened to him, just given him a little more time, he could have fixed things.

If Jin hadn't been so headstrong - had just given Jungkook one more fucking day - then he could have kept you. Maybe not forever, but for a little bit longer.

And there he goes again, shifting the blame.

The reality of it being his own mistake, his own failures, is too much for him to come to terms with. He'll deal with eventually, but for now, he needs to forget it all. Forget you exist. Forget the look in your eyes when you realised he'd been playing you like a fucking fiddle. Forget the anger that came when you snapped the strings before he could.

He thinks he's only ever felt sorrow once in his life, and it was what dragged him all the way to Daegu in the first place.

He's not sure that he would classify the way he feels right now as sorrow.

It's too strong of a word to associate with such a silly circumstance.

His heart isn't broken. He wasn't in love with you, for christ's sake. Was just fucking you a little too well. Forgot himself in the moments that he found solace in you; forgot who he was, what he was supposed to do.

This is all on him.

And that's what upsets him so much. He's usually good at this.

If his tryst with Namjoon's little sister had taught him anything, it was that it's easy to not care. It's easy to fuck around with the same person for an extended period of time and not catch feelings. Easy, peasy, lemon squeezy.

Was as easy as learning ABC's - except when it came to you, Jungkook found himself stumbling, mixing all the letters together, getting things all jumbled up. He was putting letters in the wrong order, but kept 'U' and 'I' side by side - 'cause even though he knows it's wrong, he likes the way it looks. Likes them together.

"Slow down, Kook." Jin's voice is stern as it bellows across the hollow room. "You'll tear something."

Beneath his breath, Jungkook mutters. "Good. Hope I fuckin' do."

"Heard that."

"Don't give a fuck."

He continues to spar against himself, the only enemy his own mind. There was no winning in this match, much like there was no winning in the life he'd chosen to live over the past couple of months.

"She's just a girl, Kook. There'll be others."

The statement hangs in the air like a rancid stench; foul and lingering for far too long.

Jungkook stops bouncing. Slumps his shoulders. Lets his gloved hands hang gamely by his hips. His laboured breaths fill the silence, but he wishes they wouldn't. Thinks it would preferable if he wasn't breathing altogether.

"I know that," he eventually says, rolling his head to his left shoulder and then his right. He bounces again. Taps his glove against the punching bag once, twice, then hits it with far more aggression than is really necessary. "Don't give a fuck about that. Don't give a fuck about her."

Jin wishes he wouldn't lie. There's no need to. The way Jungkook feels about you is stained into his fucking hair. It's not like it's black, or blue, or anything that could be explained away: it's fucking red.

Red like the blood that keeps him alive, and red like the heart that pumps a little faster whenever you're close by.

Red like the stop signs he charges through whenever he's in a rush to get to you, and red like the car you love to hate.

Red like your cheeks when you've had too much to drink, and red like the wires he'd cut on the night he raided the gas station, to stop the silent alarm from tripping.

Red like the sauce of the dakgalbi he'd shared with you on the first night you'd slept together, and red like his ears when his brother had asked if he was seeing someone new during the trip to Busan.

"You seem... I don't know.  You seem a lot like the Jungkook we used to know. Jungkook before everything happened. It's nice. That's all."

He's covered in red, head to toe and - because he doesn't like to ever blame himself - it's all because of you.

It's funny, 'cause reds always been your least favourite colour.

You like green best. Wear black like it's a religion. Always thought that if Jungkook was a colour, he'd be dark brown.

The colour of his eyes, americanos on ice - whisky, too. The indulgence of a chocolate cake, the stability of a thick bonsai trunk. The fur of the dog you'd petted together on Dadaepo beach, and the box of dye you're eyeing up in an Olive Young on an island you didn't know.

And more importantly, an island that doesn't know you.

You put the box back in place, and reach for black instead. The last thing you need is to be reminded of him every single time you look in the mirror.

He doesn't know this, though.

Whenever he thinks of you in the months that follows your departure from Daegu - which is pretty fucking often - he remembers it as it was.

He has intrusive thoughts of your hair, how pretty and red it was, and how he'd never had the chance to live out that little fantasy with you; the one where you'd walk down the street, hand in hand, and people would know.

"Cute."

"Their hair! They must be so in love."

"I wish my boyfriend would do stuff like that with me."

And, in Jungkook's delusions, you'd laugh about it, for you still wouldn't actually be a couple. You'd revel in the fact other people assumed you were, though. There'd be no reason for your lack of commitment; just the excitement of the unknown. The thrill of the chase.

One day though, inevitably, he thought commitment would come.

It'd be in your shared loft apartment, a dog sleeping at the foot of your bed, your initial tattooed on his ring finger after a bet gone wrong. He still wouldn't have asked you to be his girlfriend, but he'd press a kiss against your hair and say 'we should get married.'

You'd be in a courthouse by the end of the week, him in a blazer that didn't really fit him anymore, you in a dress picked up from a vintage store downtown. You'd look beautiful in white, he's sure, but when he pictures it, you're in champagne. Rings are foregone - he imagines there'd be a wait on your smoky quartz stone, due to the short notice of your nuptials - but Hairbo rings would be used in their place.

They'd be worn for the entire drive back to the hotel - the one in Busan where he'd decided that you were 'it' for him - and then he'd eat them off as some haphazard form of foreplay.

Not that he's given it much thought.

Barely even gave thoughts of you the time of day after you left.

He doesn't notice when two days ticks into two weeks.

Doesn't think much of it when two weeks becomes two months.

He'll admit that he thinks about you briefly when your father wins the election.

It's only 'cause Kang makes a big fucking fuss about how it's all Jungkook's fault, and that if he'd have 'just done that one fucking job', then maybe Kang would have won it.

In fact, he's sure he would have won it.

He tells Jungkook that next the time he wants to fuck around with a target - 'cause everyone knows, by that point, what Jungkook had gotten up to in the dark with you (thanks a fuckin' lot, Namjoon) - then he could consider himself a target, too.

He's lucky Kang likes him. Or not so much likes him, but recognises his potential.

Has him in the ring most Thursday nights, fighting scrawny fuckers from the neighbouring clubs, fat cats placing bets on them for sport. He's become quite the fighter. Doesn't see fuck all of the bets placed on him. Gets a 5% cut if he's lucky.

But it's that or face the wrath of Kang, and he knows which he'd rather.

Plus he kind of enjoys it. Likes to fight without consequence. Hasn't been fucking without consequence as of late, so it's a good way to rid himself of his frustrations.

Jimin tries to get him back out there, but every club night turns into Jungkook getting off his tits on god knows what was sold to him in the bathroom. Normally coke. He thinks it's pretty harmless. Just a little buzz. Something to get his heart beating in the same way that you used to.

Because Jin was right. You're just a girl. There'll be others. But while there isn't, he'll get his fix in other ways.

"Slow down," his friends would tell him on the nights he got coked up a little too fast, the house key around his neck dusted in white powder.

"Slow down," his friends would tell him when he was training too hard with fractured knuckles.

"Slow down," Jin would tell Jungkook when he's in the passenger seat, but Jungkook doesn't listen, too busy running reds.

Everyone wants him to slow down, but he doesn't understand it.

Slow down? Spend more time withering away? Spend more time thinking about you?

Slow down? Take longer to get over the fact that he's never gonna get the chance to apologise, never gonna get closure?

Why would the people who care about Jungkook wish that upon him?

And so he speeds up. The coke becomes a cocktail of whatever gets him fucked up fastest. He spends every spare moment training. Jin stops hitching rides from him, 'cause he fears Jungkook is becoming too reckless.

They're all concerned.

It's been months, now.

His hair has grown out and is back to its natural shade. He's filling in his tattoos, numbing his skin, covering the art he once loved. Gets a DUI, and only gets off because the superintendent is a spectator of Jungkook's fights; just another one of Kang's Pawns.

See, Jungkook's fights aren't exactly legal. The money made from them definitely isn't legal.

It's then that he realises he's a part of it now; part of the corruption. The same system that killed his mother, the same evil that he'd wanted to destroy from the inside out.

He thinks about Harvey Dent, and the way you could quote the Dark Knight word for word if you really wanted to. It was something he'd learnt about you by accident.

The film had been playing on his television- the Netflix accompaniment to your 'chill' - and you'd stopped midway through a fucking blowjob to do a god awful impression.

'You either die a hero, or live long enough to see yourself become the villain.'

At the time, he'd laughed; pulled you in for a dozen kisses and told you never to do the Harvey Dent voice while holding his cock again. That, and also that from now on, movies were strictly off the table whenever the pair of you hung out - only for him to snuggle up with you the next night, watching the Dark Knight Rises because you'd been too sleepy after work to do anything but nap.

The quote haunts him now.

He knows he's lived too long.

It's a Sunday - three months after you'd left - when he finds himself thinking about you again. Your father is launching a new campaign. Some bullshit about healthy family activities. Is opening more parks. A grand opening is being televised.

He doesn't watch it, 'cause why the fuck would he? Avoids that fucker like the plague. Has no idea how your father helped create someone so fucking perfect.

Then again, he supposed it does make sense. Your dad had ruined his life, and you'd ruined his ability to live one without you. Maybe the apple didn't fall too far from the tree.

Jimin is the first to enter the club that night. Keeps a safe distance from Jungkook. Doesn't think he's coked up, but hasn't been happy with him as of late. Is withholding his friendship until the stupid kid gets a fucking grip.

Tonight is different, though.

"Hey," he hums, slinking down into the sofa beside Jungkook. "How you doing, man?"

Jungkook shrugs. "Same old, same old. You?"

His question is met with a near identical answer. Jimin glances towards Jungkook as he sniffs, rubbing the tip of his nose.

"Clean," Jungkook tells him. It's been about a week since he last did gear. Didn't like the way it was fucking with his head. Was trying to cut back. "Just habit."

It's an answer Jimin accepts but doesn't necessarily believe.

Not after the broadcast today.

"You watch it?" He asks, nervous of Jungkook's reaction. The TV is playing on mute in the corner, and Jimin can't take his eyes off it.

"Nope."

Jungkook doesn't even need to ask what he's on about, for he knows. Of course he knows - just like Jimin should know that there'd be no way in hell he'd have been watching. His answer is met with a nod. Jimin nibbles on his bottom lip. Can't look at his friend.

"Kook, there's somethin-"

The sound of the side door opening interrupts Jimin, screeching against the floor because none of them had fixed the hinges yet. It's Namjoon, out of breath and a little flustered. Jin follows in behind him, completely stoic.

"Did he see? Did he fucking see?" He's looking at Jimin, but he's asking about Jungkook.

"See what?" Jungkook asks right back, not enjoying the wild beast look in Namjoon's eyes.

"Oh, Jesus."

"Joon," Jimin warns him, knowing that this was not the kind of thing Jungkook needed to hear so abruptly. It needed Jin's touch. Someone calm, someone able to manage a situation without freaking the fuck out like Namjoon was.

"You know and you haven't told him?!"

"Told me what?" Jungkook asks, knowing that whatever it is can't be good. News delivered like this could never be good.

Jimin glances over to Jin for a little guidance, who simply nods towards the TV in return. "Unmute it."

Jungkook's eyes fall on the screen, where a news reporter is talking about the new campaign with such little enthusiasm it's a wonder it ever got aired.

"Don't wanna see it," Jungkook says, despite the fact his heart is fucking racing. Forget the molly, forget the coke, forget the adrenaline that comes in the form of victories in a boxing ring - the anticipation of you outranks all of those. Has his heart resting in his throat. Threatens to choke him. "If she's there, I don't wanna know."

Oh, but it's a lie. Such a big fat glorious lie. His eyes have never been wider, the flickering screen reflecting in them as he watches some journalist try and set the scene. He doesn't recognise the place. Somewhere downtown according to the location stamp, but he can't place it. Can't get in his car and drive there just in case the campaign is still running.

In the top corner, the time reads 2:43PM. It's now gone 9. This was filmed hours and hours ago. Whatever his friends need him to see is long gone.

The camera cuts to your father. Jungkook's blood seems to rise in temperature. There's a ringing in his ears. Your father is spewing some bullshit about the importance of an active family.

Jungkook thinks that must be nice; having a family you can be active with. Shame the prick on the television screen had torn his family apart.

And then he's talking about his own family. His daughters. Plural. About how lucky he is to have them both. How grateful is he to have parented such intelligent, beautiful young women.

The camera pans.

He sees your sister. It's to be expected. She's always there.

But then the camera pans again.

And it's you.

It's fucking you.

3 months gone and then you're back, back in Daegu, back by your fucking father's side - and Jungkook is seeing red again.

Or he's just seeing you. Either or.

He'd somehow forgotten the effect you have on him.

Jungkook stands. Walks away. Paces a little. Takes deep breaths.

And then he crouches. Rests his head in his hands, wants to scream but is entirely silent.

Joon is the first to speak. "Thought you said she didn't agree with her Daddy's politics?"

Jungkook muffles a response. "She told me she didn't."

"Well, she was fuckin' lying."

He didn't think you were. You'd been riding his cock down a Daegu back alley at the time. Would have been pretty hard to lie, he thinks. Too much else going on. He doesn't tell Namjoon this, though. Doesn't want to speak about fucking you. Doesn't want to think about it either, but the mind is a cruel mistress.

"Does it really matter?" Jimin interrupts, knowing how the pair of them like to gun for one another in moments of heightened tension. Now was no time to be fighting. Not when Jungkook would already be fighting against the demons he's been running from ever since you left. "She's back, and she's untouchable."

It's smart. Oh, it's so fucking smart. Jungkook begins to laugh at how much of a clever little fucker you are.

"That's exactly why she's done it," he says. He'd be proud of you, if the circumstances were different, he thinks. "We can't fucking touch her. None of us. Not even me. Especially not me, actually. She isn't letting herself be vulnerable to us. She's protected by a public persona she didn't have before. Smart bitch." He pauses. Lets himself laugh. "Smart fuckin' bitch."

There's a smile as he says it. A little bit of awe, too. Far more sadness, though.

"Smart fuckin' boy."

The voice that echoes into the room has Jungkook frozen. He doesn't react. Thinks it's in his head. Thinks he really has been taking too much gear lately.

But then hears it again, and fucking hell, it hurts.

"What a pair we could have made."

And then there's the click of heels across the concrete floor. Jungkook can't bring himself to look in the direction of the noise - not that he really has a choice as you walk straight past his pathetically crouched body.

He's not the man he once was, you think. Shame.

His eyes are level with your hand, though, where a ring glistens underneath the cold lights of the club as you walk on by.

It's on the same finger he's been keeping spare in his imagination for months. The one reserved for Haribo rings.

You take a seat. Cross your legs. Smile at the dumbstruck faces of the stupid mother fuckers in front of you.

You had expected this reaction from one of them, but it's kind of satisfying to have them all choked out.

"Sorry I'm late, boys," you smile, all pristine and pure. None of them really understand what the fuck is happening. "I hear you were looking for me? Well, consider me found. Let's get down to business, shall we?"

minors dni // posted to wp late 2021 // series masterlist

[kelcemenow]

Touchdown - Chapter 2.

Pairing Travis Kelce x Reader

Words 825

Warnings Slightly less of a slow burn for this chapter, but we're still only getting started.

CHAPTER 1.

CHAPTER 2. 

Taking a long and deep breath, you held the phone in your left hand whilst your pen was poised over the blank page of the notepad in front of you. The relaxing hold music had been playing for what seemed like forever. Terry had said he would contact Travis personally and then transfer the call over so you could speak to him. You had run through a few simple questions to ask him, hoping that the call wouldn’t last too long.  

“Y/N?” Terry’s voice rang out.  

You suddenly sat bolt upright in your seat, “Y-yes, I’m still here.”  

“I’m putting Travis through now for you.” Terry had a hint of an American accent, but you could tell that he had travelled a lot. He sounded older, friendly but straight to the point when it came to the job.  

“Thank you, Terry.”  

There was a quiet click before a short period of silence. You glanced over at the phone to make sure you was still connected when a deep, slightly gruff voice rang into your ear. 

“Hey, Y/N? Travis Kelce here.”  

“Hi Travis, um, thank you for taking my call.” You said brightly, trying to sound as professional as you could.  

“Don’t sweat it.”  

You awkwardly cleared your throat, your eyes scanning the computer screen in front of you, “So, I just wanted to hear from you regarding your recent success. The fastest Tight End to reach 10,000 yards is pretty impressive. Tell me how you’re feeling after last night’s game.”  

“I feel awesome, obviously. But I couldn’t have done it without everyone. Pat, Andy and rest of the guys have led me to that win. I just want to play football and everything else is just a bonus.”  

“Sure, of course. Um…can you tell me…um…”  

“Y/N?”  

A nervous feeling washed over you. “Yes?”  

“Relax. We’re just talking.”  

You laughed under your breath as you furiously scribbled what he had said onto the paper, “Sorry, I’m new to this. I erm…”  

“Hey. I’ll make this easy. Football is more than my career, it’s my life.” You could hear a smile in his voice, “Achievements like this make it all worthwhile to make my family proud for all of those years taking me to football practice and buying my sneakers and jerseys year after year. How was that?”  

“Um, great, actually. Thank you so much Mr Kelce.”  

He laughed loudly, “Ah man, come on. It’s Travis! You don’t have to be so serious with me ma’am.”  

You laughed back, “You can’t call me ma’am then! It makes me sound so old.”  

“I’m sorry, my Momma brought me up right, especially when I’m talking to a lady.”  

You giggled and glanced up, a few colleagues were looking over at you. You cleared your throat and settled into your seat, resting your chin on the heel of your hand, “So, what is next for Travis Kelce?”

“More football, more victories and more good times. Anyway, we’re talking an awful lot about me here, tell me about you.”

You were taken aback, “Um…well…wait-what?”

“I mean, I’m sure interviewing football stars has been your life’s dream and all, but what’s your deal?”

You supressed a small smirk, “Why don’t you just let me ask the questions, Mr Kelce?”

“Ah ah ah, Travis.”

“We should probably keep this professional, Mr Kelce.”

There was a pause before he breathed a laugh, “Of course, do go on.”

“So, we’re about halfway through the season now and-“

“Are you single?”

You sighed, “Are you always this difficult?”

There was another laugh, “Only when I’m being interviewed by someone with an irresistible British accent.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should.”

You paused again whilst you tried to think of another question. He had you nervous, fumbling your words and distracted heavily from your work. You shook your head at yourself, failing at the first big job that had been assigned to you.

He broke the silence first, “Do you have any more questions?”

“Um, I think I’m done. Thank you for your statement and good luck for the rest of the season.”  

“That’s quite alright. I hope to speak to you again in the future.”

You paused, unsure of what to say. “You too. I…um, I mean…I-“  

He laughed again, “You’re cute. Peace.”  

“Yeah…bye. Goodbye.” You put the phone down before lowering your head to the desk. The cool wood against your forehead just highlighted how much heat was coming from your skin. You could feel your face turning red from embarrassment.   

“Not good?” Your head snapped up to see Hannah standing in front of you with her arms crossed.  

“I was an absolute idiot.” You smiled, “Please don’t say I have to do that anymore?” 

Hannah smirked, “I don’t know, maybe? Although if it was as bad as you think, you might not be asked to do it again.”  

Your head returned to the desk, letting out a small groan on its way. 

______________________________________________________________

I have so much planned for this! I am on holiday next week but the next chapter will be out soon! If you would like to be added to my taglist so that you never miss a chapter, just give me a shout!

Taglist @rd14 @dandelionwrites8 @keiva1000

[panbaric]

me! i want a fic snippet! me!

Lando asks him about it, only a few weeks after he joins McLaren. Gangly and spotty and doomed by his youth to be a romantic. They’re eating lunch one day at the MTC and Carlos is just about to take a bite out of the apple that Rupert insisted he grab, when Lando leans in, eyes wide and a head full of dreams.

“Rumour has it that there are a pair of soulmates on the grid,” Lando says, “Suppose there’s any truth to it?”

Carlos snorts, that kind of rumour has plagued the paddock long before he first stepped into a Toro Rosso, and likely will persist long after his last lap. It fits–after all racing is such an all-consuming concept, plaguing all of their lives from their earliest memories. But there hasn’t been a soulmate pair on the grid since Lewis and Nico, and even then their bond had only snapped in 2016. For the best, really. Lord knows what Toto would have done otherwise. They were lucky that there had only ever been one incident. 

(Dark thunder hanging low over Barcelona encroaches on the corners of his memory as he tamps down the long-buried bolt of fear that threatens to lance up his spine.)

“No,” he says, around a mouthful of apple, the taste of it sharper than expected on his tongue. “Only a few drivers on the grid are even known to have potential and well,” Carlos shrugs. Seb had revealed the truth about him and his wife after the incident, a PR move that likely had saved Lewis’s career, and Max–well, the less said about Max, the better. 

Lando grins, “Must be glad you don’t have any potential.”

Carlos feels his brow furrow and his shoulders tighten without command.

“Read it in the McLaren debrief. I don’t either but the other two rookies–Alex and George–they have it, and sometimes it’s all they bang on about despite not even being in a bond. Alex says there’s a couple of others–"

“Lando,” Carlos interrupts, setting the apple down on the table. “It is best we do not talk about these things, ay? These are our colleagues.” Carlos frankly could have gone the rest of his life without knowing that the next Mercedes big thing and the surprise youngster in a Toro Rosso have marks of divinity in their blood, just waiting to be tapped into. 

Land holds his hands out, “Mate I wasn’t trying to gossip I swear, it’s not a big deal now anyway��just potential. I mean, like twenty-five percent of the population have it or something, it’s so common.” Lando drags out the vowels in a way that makes Carlos’ mouth twitch. 

Carlos takes a breath, then changes the subject.

[communicationthroughlyrics]

I Like Your Blood On My Teeth Just A Little Too Much - 8

You’re a former military, career oriented security executive who has made quite the living for yourself- but it has always been lacking. Your non-committal attitude has led you down a playgirl lifestyle, never really settling. What happens when your new boss throws you a curveball, and as a result? You end up hopelessly involved with a Hollywood starlet.

A/N: I've got a long weekend, so I'm hoping to post this and Chapter 9. This is a shorter chapter, so let's see how this goes XD.

2.7K Word Count

Ch. 8: The Weight That’s Crushing Can Be Relieved

You had honestly driven just about as fast as you could to get to the tower as quick as possible. The anxiety alone that you were in the process of pushing down was almost crippling you at this point, years of unresolved traumas resurfacing with the reappearance of the only being that you hoped was dead somewhere for the last 8 years. This was one part of your past you never wanted to confront again, but ironically you had to deal with it now- for work, for a new client. The rest of the trip was anti-climactic, nothing of significance really happened. Kris had only called you about an hour ago, checking to make sure you were still on track to show up at the office around 2. You looked at the clock on the radio to the truck, seeing that it was now 2:18 PM as you pulled into the underground garage. The garage attendant did a double take, not anticipating seeing you here on a Sunday. You always made sure to give yourself 1 day off a week, usually Sundays. You rolled down the window, stopping by the all concrete office that he worked out of, complete with bullet proof one way glass windows. 

“Hey Ralph, how are you today?” You asked, handing him your work badge so he could swipe it, giving you a little ticket to stick to the inside of your windshield, signaling to all that this vehicle was allowed to park here. 

“Good Afternoon, Ms. Y/L/N, it’s a wonder to see you here today. I hear you gotsa big project comin’ up.” He handed back your card, leaning against the doorway to the office. 

“Yeah, I do Ralph. And please, call me Y/N.” You slid your card back into your wallet, before resting your right arm over the steering wheel to the truck and holding your chin with your left, which was resting on the armrest on the door. 

“Good luck with your project, Ms. Y/N. And get some rest, you ain’t looking so great.” He smirked, before closing the door to his office and retiring to his post. 

“There’s a real confidence boost,”  you think to yourself as you slowly pull forward, working your way up the floors in the parking garage to get to the highest floor, and finding your rightful spot in the level, complete with your title on the sign bolted to the wall. As you pulled in, you noticed that Kris’ car wasn’t there yet, so you glanced down at you phone to see if she had texted you. With no new notifications, you quickly typed out a message to her, hitting send and bringing down the visor in the truck to check your appearance. Ralph was right, you looked like absolute hell. It was obvious you hadn’t slept, the bags under your eyes a faint greenish purple hue, almost like you had two healing black eyes. Your eyes were red, like you could be a spokesperson for Visine, and the puffiness around your eyes betrayed the intermittent crying of the past few days. You felt your phone vibrate, glancing down at the screen. 

2:24 PM   YOU- “Hey, you close? I just pulled into my spot, I'll be in there shortly.”

2:26 PM   KRIS- “Yeah, I had to make a pit stop on my way in, I know you haven’t eaten anything but gas station garbage. I'll be there in 10.”

You smirk at how well she knows your habits, before climbing out of the truck and going to the passenger side to grab the duffel bag. You stretch briefly,  groaning at your joints aching from pushing through that drive after having been up for 17 hours prior. You brush yourself off, wiping off any crumbs that may be lingering from your road snacks, and any wrinkles in your clothes. You stood by the door to the elevator, swiping your security card and pressing the up button, tapping your foot while you waited for the elevator to arrive. The door dinged open, and you stepped inside, pressing the button to take you to your office. 

You slid the card to open your door, throwing your duffle bag onto the sofa at the far end of your office, and walked over to the private bathroom that lurked behind a faux wall panel. You looked yourself up and down, realizing just how terrible you really looked.  You reached over to the small cabinet on the wall, grabbing a cloth from within, and wetting it with cold water, wiping your face entirely, and wringing it out before soaking it in cold water again, and resting it on your eyes. Your stomach made a small grumble at its lack of true sustenance, and you heard the faint click of your office door opening, meaning Kris had arrived. You heard the click of high heels coming towards your desk area. Rising from the toilet, you removed the washcloth from your eyes, wringing it back out and draping it over the empty towel rack in front of you. You splashed some water onto your face, and ran your fingers through your undercut hair before opening the door and walking out to greet your assistant. 

“Thank you for meeting up with me, I know you value time off a little bit more than me.” You state, drawing the attention of the blonde in front of you, sitting in one of the arm chairs with her legs crossed. She had on a pair of light blue ripped jeans, and a simple black t-shirt, and her glasses sat on top of her head. 

“Jesus, Y/N/N. What is wrong with you?” She quickly rose and came over to your side, concern etched into her features. She could tell you were not doing so well right now. “What’s going on?” She rubbed your arms up and down, while you stared down at the hardwood floor. She shifted her head to interrupt your vision, stirring you from your trance, and grabbing your hands to try and ground you. When you winced in pain, she looked at the bandaged hand that was in her grasp. You motioned for her to sit across from you, keeping the barrier of the desk between you for this conversation. 

“Sit down, I’ll tell you. But you’re not going to like it. God knows I don’t.” You state as shed the coat you were wearing, and draping it over the back of your chair. 

“Do you want some food first? You look like you haven’t eaten for days. I brought you some tikka from your favorite place.” She motioned towards the bag sitting on a far table. 

“Right now Kris, I’m really not hungry. I ate some of a sandwich on my way here.” You reasoned, trying to reassure her that you had been taking care of yourself.Her face dropped, but she knew better than to try and force you right now. “But you can go ahead and eat some, if you want.” You nodded towards the bag, and she walked over, opening it and getting her containers of food set out. She brought over a few cups, one with rice, one with her masala, as well as a foil pouch which you knew held some garlic naan inside of it. On a normal day, you would absolutely devour some of this, and. Your mouth would water at the smell of the naan, but in your current state it made your mouth run dry, as you felt queasy. 

“Does any of this have to do with that creeper dude by your apartment?” She asked, staring down at the container of food in her hand, picking through it for the piece she wanted, before glancing back up at you. Your hand shook slightly at the mention of him. But you knew, you had to tell her some of what you had ‘discovered’.

“Yeah, it is. It’s all about him right now.” You state flatly, standing up and walking over to the windows in your office, grabbing the dog tags under your shirt and rubbing them for some form of comfort. “He was in McCall. Working at the general store.” You stare out the window of the high-rise, not sparing a glance over to the woman at your desk, 

“He what?!” She asked with a tone of disbelief. “Y/N, that can’t be a coincidence. Did he say anything?” She set her food down, leaning over to rest her arms on her knees to get slightly closer to you. 

“He approached me in the parking lot, trying to make a conversation about the Cobra. I pretty much shut that conversation down, then went in to get my groceries. When I checked out, he was the cashier. Went by ‘Fred’ at the store.” You glanced back over your shoulder, trying to gauge her reaction. 

“Have you seen him anywhere else?”

“No. Not physically, at least.” She narrowed her eyes at this statement. She could tell that you were being purposefully vague, and that irritated her to no end. 

“Not physically? What is that supposed to mean?” She asked, leaning back in the chair, resting her arms on the armrests. 

“When I got back home, I did some research. Turns out that ‘Fred’, or Mr. Steven Waters, was one of my Sergeants while I was in the Army.” You turned around at the last bit of information, wanting to see how she reacted to him being from your past as well.  He eyebrow raised, and she ran one of her hands through her hair. 

“So you know him?”

“Yeah, you could say that.” You express flatly, not wanting to let on that there was more to this story. “He’s a real swell guy.” You lace as much sarcasm as you could into the last of that statement.  “Looks like he’s had a rough go of things since his discharge. Battery, Aggravated Assault, Robbery, you name it. Man has been busy for the last 8 years.”

“That’s how long it’s been since you last saw him?” She asks, her tone alluding to the fact that she knows you are withholding information.

“Yeah. He’s definitely changed a bit since then. Which would explain why I didn’t recognize him at first.” You state. 

“But still, you have the uncanny ability to recall the most vague of details. Something isn’t adding up here, Y/N.” She stood, coming over to where you stood., looking you in the eyes. “Do you think that’s who was in that car behind you?”

“I know it was. He was driving. He had someone else with him, but I don’t know who.”

“How do you know? I mean, if you never saw him, it may have not been him.”

“He called me.” You mumble, walking away towards the sofa where your bag lay. 

“Wha…What?” She turned on an axis, stalking after you to try and withdraw more information from you. “What do you mean he called you?”

“Did I stutter? He CALLED me. On my cell. Twice. First time, I was at the house. He knows that I know he’s lurking around. The second time was to tell me that he knew I was heading to LA, so it didn’t matter what route I took- he would find me either way.” Kris stood there, mouth agape as she absorbed the information being relayed to her. “He knows where I live, he has my phone number, he knows where I work.”

“How? How did this happen? You’re so tight lipped and close to the vest about everything. You’re normally so careful.” She spoke softly, not wanting to insinuate that this was your fault. 

“Hes an ex-Ranger, Kris. He was one of the best trackers in the goddamn military. I learned from HIM.” You punctuate the last part, to let her know that he had been the teacher, meaning he knew more than you. “I may hate his guts, but he was like a goddamn bloodhound. You told him to find someone, and he would find them, their closest relatives, you name it. Witness Protection, Clandestine, didn’t matter. He would find you. He found out about this contract before I did. And it isn’t like I haven’t been interviewed and published. People still know about me, Kris.” She grimaced at this, knowing that meant he knew about everyone in your life by this point, including her. 

“So changing your number won’t help, I take it?” She tried to make light of the situation slightly, but you just glared at her. 

“No. It won’t.” You played with the zipper on your duffle bag. 

“So, if you know this guy, why do you seem so off about it?”

“Kris, thats exactly why I’m off. I know him.” The innuendo in that statement made your skin crawl. “I know what he is capable of. And all things considered, he is a man with nothing to loose. He is dangerous, and it sounds like the wrong people have a hold on him.” 

“Why did you come back early? Why not take the time to process? And why the hell wouldn’t you fly in?” You knew this would come up, and you weren’t sure you knew the answer. 

“Honestly, I just need to work. I need to figure out what this guy has been doing to warrant a top tier security firm being hired to protect an A List celebrity. I need to know the in between, and what he has been up to since his discharge that lead up to this point. He is too dangerous to just take time away- so I need to bury myself in work. Occupy my time. ” You state, sitting yourself down on the sofa. You didn’t want to tell her you drank yourself into a stupor and didn’t feel like flying would be safe. 

“Ok.” She left it at that, for which you were thankful. But you could tell she knew there was more. 

“Has there been any discussion as to what this guy has already done to the client?” You ask, moving your bag to the floor so you could rest more comfortably on the sofa. 

“The Client? Y/N, just say Scarlett.  And no, not to my knowledge. All I know is that this security threat has affected and rattled her to the point she lost her husband as a result. I know you care, but you need to rest first, so you can put your best foot forward. When was the last time you slept?” She asked, coming over to kneel by the sofa.

“I dunno,” you mumble, glancing at your watch, which now read 3:15 PM. “I couldn’t sleep, so I was up at 3 yesterday morning.” She shook her head in disapproval. 

“Y/L/N, you need to sleep. Do you need me to drive you back to the apartment?”

“No, I’ll head there in a little bit. I just need to rest for a bit and feel productive.” You don’t want to let her know that you’re planning on staying here, you know that he will be watching your apartment. You don’t trust him when he knows you’re alone. 

“Ok, Y/N. Get some rest, wash up and I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yeah. Thanks K. And thank you for bringing me something to eat.” You smiled briefly. 

“You know it. And Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“Take care of that hand. I don’t wanna know how that shit happened.” She narrowed her eyes at you, insinuating that she thinks it may be self inflicted. 

You watched as she left your office after placing your food into the small fridge located behind your desk. You made sure that she left the floor before moving your bag into the hidden bathroom, hanging up your work clothes so they wouldn’t be wrinkly for the morning. This is the time you were glad that they let you design your own office. You had hidden the bathroom, so no one really knew there was one in here but Kris, but even she had no clue that you had designed a full hidden Murphy bed into the wall as well. You pulled the book on your shelf that was responsible for the latch, and slowly eased the bed onto the floor. You flopped onto the mattress, pressing a button on the wall nearby to draw all the shades for the windows to the office, allowing the room to fall into darkness. You grabbed your phone and set a series of alarms, ensuring that you would wake up before anyone arrived for work in the morning, and so you could freshen up in the gyms showers.

(CHAPTER 9)

[pitviperofdoom]

So uh. About 12 years ago I thought it'd be fun to do Sherlock Holmes set in the Redwall universe. I wrote a bit for it, then lost interest and moved on to other things.

Well, between my Redwall reread and the Letters from Watson substack, I've recently found myself with renewed interest in both Redwall and Holmes stories, so I decided to dust off the ol' Redwall AU. I reread what I had, found it almost entirely unusable, and completely reworked it. And now I have a humble little introduction here!

Don't know if I'll continue this, but I've had a LOT of fun ideas over the last week, so we'll see!

*****

Extract from the personal journal of Lancejack Johnswort Swifteye, formerly of the Fur and Foot Fighters Border Patrol—

The first day of spring has come and gone. The days grow warmer and longer as we leave winter further behind—the Winter of the Sweeping Mists, by Abbey reckoning. By my own reckoning it was the Winter of Abject Misery.

For six seasons I have marched with the Fur and Foot Fighters Border Patrol, that intrepid unit that keeps watch on the region where Mossflower meets the sand dunes by the Western Sea. Most of my comrades were Salamandastron hares, but with the border patrol’s proximity to the forest, they had plenty of use for squirrels like myself. Like many of my kind I am sharp of eye and handy with a bow, and between my childhood of helping in the Abbey Infirmary and my later training under Lieutenant Lagsworth, I had the skills to make myself useful as a healer as well.

It all came to an abrupt and inglorious end last winter, when a Galloper from the Long Patrol came to us warning of a corsair ship that had made landfall not far from our position. Word reached us too late that the ship was in fact a full fleet, and in the resulting battle I found myself cut off from the rest of the patrol during our retreat. I went down with several wounds, not the least of which was a bolt from a searat’s crossbow in my leg, and I would have been killed if Corporal Pennyroyal hadn’t dragged me to safety.

The patrol suffered heavier losses than it should have, with its principal healer gravely wounded. Penny tells me it was touch and go for a while, before reinforcements from Salamandastron arrived, led by Colonel Kordyne himself. In the end I survived, albeit severely weakened and with a newly-acquired limp, my military career indefinitely on hold if not outright over.

Once I was well enough to travel, I was swiftly sent on my way to Redwall by shrew logboat, and had scarcely passed a week in the willing paws of the abbeydwellers when I was struck down with a ferocious fever. The days and weeks that followed were miserable, full of aches and chills and horrendous dreams—and precious little company, as I was kept away from other creatures so as not to spread my illness to the rest of the abbey.

To add insult to injury, I missed the Nameday celebrations entirely, and by the time I had regained enough of an appetite to enjoy the taste of food, every crumb of that glorious feast had been eaten or sent out to the denizens of the surrounding woodlands in need of extra food after the winter.

It is strange to find myself walking Redwall’s venerable halls once more. I was quite young when I left, creeping out in the cover of night so as not to alert the elders to my departure. Back then I dreamed of returning in glorious triumph, and here I am now, scrawny and scarred and hobbling about with a cane on days when my leg gives me trouble. I keep busy how I can, usually helping Brother Stonecrop in the Infirmary, but more often than not I find myself passing days in a fog. I miss my comrades, the smell of the wind off the distant sea, the feeling of good bark beneath my claws. Embarrassment about my situation has made me a recluse. Stonecrop and I were friends as Dibbuns, and he is still good company, but in spite of his best efforts, in spite of the many good creatures who make their home in Redwall, I cannot recall ever feeling so terribly lonely.

****

The sound of pawsteps on the stone floor reached John’s ears. Briefly he considered snuffing out the candle and waiting silently for whoever it was to leave, but the thought felt unbearably childish. With a sigh, he set down his quill and blew gently on the still-wet ink.

“So that’s where you’ve been hiding.” Brother Stonecrop poked his head around the cask. “By the fur, how can you stand being down here so long on the cold stone?”

“It’s quiet,” John replied. “And before you ask, my leg feels fine. How’d you find me?”

“You certainly didn’t make it easy.” The stout mouse eased between the barrels and sat down with him, fidgeting until he’d smoothed out his habit. “I checked the infirmary and the top of the belltower first, and then I remembered Pinn saying she’d seen you creeping down here the other day.”

“I really thought I’d given her the slip,” John muttered, before a cloth-wrapped bundle was thrust into his inkstained paws. “Stonecrop, what—”

“You missed lunch again,” Stonecrop informed him. “I managed to rescue some cheese and nutbread and a scone before the young ones scoffed the lot. There’s a beaker of dandelion cordial as well. Get your jaws around that, see if it puts you in a better mood.”

“My mood is perfectly fine,” John protested. As if on cue, his traitorous stomach growled.

“Says the daft beast as he broods in the dark, scribbling out his thoughts by candlelight.”

“Alright, alright.” John bit into the scone and almost groaned. “Hell’s teeth, that’s good. How is it still warm?”

“Alright, so I didn’t actually snatch it from the jaws of a ravenous mousebabe,” Stonecrop admitted. “I stopped by the kitchens for a fresh one. I thought if you were making yourself this hard to find, it was a scone-straight-from-the-ovens sort of day.”

In spite of himself, John couldn’t help but smile. “Thanks, Stonecrop.”

Stonecrop clapped him on the back. “Think nothing of it, old Swifteye. Somebeast has to make sure you don’t waste away to nothing.”

“I’m nowhere near old.”

“Is that a fact? I could hardly tell, when you’ve got a face on you like a decrepit frog more often than not.” Stonecrop’s tone, light as it was, betrayed his worry. “You know it wouldn’t hurt to attend a meal every now and then. It’d be good for you to have some company once in a while.”

“I know, I know, it just…” John sipped from the beaker to buy himself time to think. “It gets a bit loud, especially with how voices echo in this place. And the last time I was somewhere loud, it wasn’t one of my good days.”

Stonecrop frowned. “I would think Dibbuns shrieking at dinnertime was a far cry from a battlefield.”

“You would think.”

“Well…” John could almost hear Stonecrop’s thoughts whirring as he hunted for a solution. “Would it help to get out of the abbey for a bit? You’ve hardly left since you got here—obviously you couldn’t with the fever, but you’re hale and healthy now, besides the leg. A bit of fresh air never harmed anybeast. Matter of fact, I’ve been doing some spring cleaning in the infirmary, and some of my herb stores need to be restocked.”

“It… would be nice to walk among proper trees again,” John admitted. “Though with my luck, I’d go out for a leisurely stroll and run straight into a robber gang.”

“Good thing you’re in an abbey full to the brim with willing, helpful beasts,” Stonecrop pointed out. “Why don’t I send you and somebeast else out on a little herb-gathering mission for me?”

“I’m not some restless young one you need to keep busy,” John told him, finishing up the last of the cheese.

“No, you’re a restless fully grown squirrel who needs to keep busy before he crawls out of his own fur,” Stonecrop said dryly.

“Yes, yes, you’re right.” John sighed. “You’re right. I’ve just been… I don’t know how to explain it.”

“Lonely?”

“I don’t know if it’s that,” John flicked away the last few crumbs of nutbread. “But it feels the same whether I’m hiding down here or standing in the middle of a crowded Cavern Hole, so I may as well feel it without forcing my awful moods on somebeast else.”

Stonecrop placed a paw on his shoulder. “That’s no good and you know it, John. Starving the body won’t cure it of sickness, and starving the spirit won’t cure it of sadness, either.”

“I’m not sad, I’m just… I’m not exactly what anybeast would consider good company.”

Stonecrop took long enough to reply for John to finish the rest of his meal. When he glanced over again, he found the mouse looking at him thoughtfully.

“What?”

“It’s funny, I was just thinking… you’re not the first creature to say that to me in the last few days,” Stonecrop said, stroking his whiskers.

“So there’s another unsociable hermit in the abbey? I’m shocked we haven’t run into each other in the same hidden-away nook.”

“You’d be surprised,” Stonecrop chuckled. “But no, he’s been away from the abbey for most of the winter and just returned this past week. Bit of an odd one, but clever as anything. Knows the woods like the back of his paw, too. It was actually him I asked first about herbs, and he was all for helping until somebeast else came along with a more interesting problem for him to solve.”

“Not very courteous of him.”

“Oh, that’s just how he is,” Stonecrop said with a shrug. “But either way my stores need replenishing, and I’ve been busy with cleaning and early springtime sniffles. Would you be willing to lend me a paw?”

John sighed, trying not to smile and failing. “Well, when you put it like that, I’d be a real puddenhead to say no, wouldn’t I?”

“That’s the spirit!” Stonecrop heaved himself to his footpaws before reaching down to pull John up alongside him. “Come along then, let’s get you back out into the sunlight. Meet me in the infirmary and we can go over the list—I’ll go let Hemlock know I won’t be needing him after all.”

“Actually…” For a moment, John teetered on the edge of indecision, before he steeled himself and swallowed his ever-present doubts. “I think I’ll come along with you. You’ve got me curious about this Hemlock fellow.”

Stonecrop’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh? Well this is a pleasant surprise.”

“I rarely hear a cross word from you about anybeast,” John pointed out. “So if he’s odd enough for even you to remark upon it…”

“Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Stonecrop chuckled, a bit nervously. “Just try to keep an open mind.”

Curiosity piqued, John followed him out of the cellar, through the Great Hall and out onto the abbey lawns. From the looks of it, most creatures had taken advantage of the warming weather to have lunch outside. The food was cleared away, but rumpled blankets still lay strewn across the grass, and sticky-pawed Dibbuns dashed about playing while their elders cleared away dishes and napkins.

The gatehouse door stood ajar when they reached it, and Stonecrop knocked twice before pushing it fully open and stepping inside. “Are you in there, Hemlock?”

There was no reply, but the sound of pages turning told them that somebeast was inside, at least. The gatehouse was a cluttered mess, and the sounds of life came from somewhere behind the stacks of old tomes and loose parchment that covered the desk.

Before Stonecrop could call out again, the unseen creature gave a great “Ha!” before slamming a book shut and nearly knocking the chair over in a mad scurry for the door.

Behind Stonecrop, John froze, and his mouth dropped open.

There was a ferret in the gatehouse—better fed and groomed than others of his kind that John had encountered, but a ferret nonetheless. From head to toe his brown fur was so dark it was nearly black, with flashes of white over his muzzle and ears, and a thin layer of dust over all.

“Solved it!” he crowed triumphantly, waving a slip of parchment. “Terribly sorry for the wait, Stonecrop, Myrtus presented me with a puzzle the other day and it couldn’t wait.”

“Sounds like it was a real poser,” Stonecrop said.

“A decent diversion. How close is it to noon?”

“About two hours past,” Stonecrop replied.

The ferret beamed. “Excellent timing! This is the best part—come, this way, you’ll both enjoy this.”

Without waiting for a reply, the ferret seized them both by their sleeves and pulled them out of the gatehouse, then released them and took off for the orchards at a quick lope.

John was left staring after him, mouth still hanging open. Wordlessly he turned to Stonecrop.

“I did say he was odd and to keep an open mind,” Stonecrop sighed. “We’d better see what he’s found.”

They caught up to the ferret at the wall nearest the orchard, walking quickly along its length and tapping each sandstone block as he went. “Well, what is it, Hemlock?” Stonecrop asked.

“Twelve, thirteen—hush, I’m counting—fourteen, fifteen…” The ferret carried on until he reached the middle of the wall, then turned his back was to it and began counting his steps. Before long they were within the shade of the orchard, and the ferret had halted at a damson tree and was squinting at something on the ground. With a noise of sudden understanding he darted along its shadow until he reached its end, counted several more steps, and stopped at an apple tree.

“Here it is!” The ferret inspected the tree trunk, then stared up into its branches, before turning and locking eyes with John. “The smallest favor, if you don’t mind—could you climb up there and see if you can find this?” He passed the slip of parchment to John. Scribbled on it was the symbol of a flower with star-shaped leaves.

Luckily today was a good day, and his leg didn’t pain him beyond a bit of stiffness. With one last baffled look at Stonecrop, John scaled the tree with ease. This early in spring, the boughs were mostly bare of leaves, and it took him several minutes to find the symbol. It wasn’t carved into the tree itself, but engraved on a small bronze disk embedded in one of the branches.

“Found it!” he called down.

“Which side of the tree?” the ferret asked.

“South!”

“Thank you!”

John climbed down to find the ferret down on all fours at the roots on the south side, digging furiously into the soil with both paws.

“Would you like me to find Foremole?” Stonecrop asked.

“No, I’ve got it!”

Soil flew into a growing pile behind him; the ferret dug with single-minded determination until his head was fully out of sight. Minutes passed before John heard a thud and curse, and the ferret’s dirt-covered face poked back into view.

“It’ll just be a moment more, I’ve just hit it,” he said, before diving back down with renewed energy.

“Just hit what?” John mouthed to Stonecrop, who shrugged helplessly at him and crouched down for a better look.

Eventually the ferret rose again with a grunt of effort, and lifted out an old, dirt-caked chest secured with a rusted lock. The ferret dove down again, produced a sizable rock from the hole he’d just dug, and smashed it off. Then he lifted the lid, peered inside, and gave a bark of triumphant laughter.

“Well?” Stonecrop spoke up. “Don’t keep us in suspense, what have you found?”

“No gold or jewels, if that’s what you’re wondering,” the ferret replied. “These are the journals of Brother Mallowgreen, during the reign of Abbot Kastel. There’s a bit of a gap in the abbey’s history during that time, thanks to the abbot’s rather unfortunate penchant for destroying records he didn’t like. Luckily, the Infirmary keeper at the time had the presence of mind to hide his own scribblings, and was kind enough to leave behind a few riddles leading to their location.” He lifted himself out of the hole and dusted off his paws, gray eyes alight with satisfaction. “And I do love a good riddle.”

“And you took all of two and a half days to solve it,” Stonecrop remarked.

“As I said, a decent diversion.” The ferret’s eyes settled on John again. “Hello.”

“Ah, right—Hemlock, this is John Swifteye, an old friend of mine. John, this is Hemlock, who I told you about.”

“Pleasure.” Hemlock’s pawshake was firm but not so tight as to be painful. “I didn’t know Stonecrop’s friendships extended as far as the Fur and Foot Fighters of the western dunes.”

“I, er, haven’t been back here in some time,” John stammered out, caught off guard.

“Do your herbs still need restocking, by the way?” Hemlock asked Stonecrop. “I know it’s been a few days.”

“You know, I was just coming to let you know that I’d found somebeast else for the task,” Stonecrop replied. “But it looks like you’re free again.”

“It might be a two-beast job, given the state of your stores when I last saw them,” Hemlock pointed out, with a glance at John. “I wouldn’t mind the extra paws, especially if it means having an archer along. Never mind being out of practice—any ne’er do wells we find in the woods today will most likely flee at a warning shot.”

“Um,” said John.

“If you’re not averse to my company, of course,” Hemlock added with a smile.

“I—not at all,” John answered without thinking. “If you don’t mind slowing up for a squirrel with a limp.”

“Well then.” Hemlock scooped up the chest and tucked it under one arm. “I’ll go run this little find up to the attic, and then I’ve got to nip down to the kitchens for something. See you at the east wallgate, Swifteye.” With that, he was gone.

John waited until Hemlock was well out of earshot before jabbing his paw into Stonecrop’s ribs. “Out with it, Stonecrop, how many others have you gossiped to about me?”

“I didn’t!” Stonecrop was grinning. “On my honor, I never breathed a word about you, to him or anybeast else. I told you he’s clever.”

“What have I gotten myself into?” John asked.

Stonecrop slung a friendly paw around his shoulders and began leading him back to the abbey building. “Only one way to find out.”

They had only just reached the lawn when, behind them, the deep voice of Brother Bramlen the gardener rang out from beneath the trees.

“WHO IN THE NAME O’ SPIKES HAS BEEN DIGGIN’ UP ME TREES?” the hedgehog bellowed. “HEMLOCK!”

Squirrel and mouse beat a hasty retreat, laughing like misbehaving young ones.

****

True to his word, Hemlock was waiting by the east wallgate when John made his way down. The ferret was cloaked warmly for the lingering winter’s chill, and carried an empty basket with one paw and, oddly enough, what seemed to be a fully-packed haversack on his shoulders. John had a basket of his own, and had armed himself with bow, quiver, and a stout walking stick.

“Planning on spending the night, are you?” John asked, glancing at the pack.

“No,” Hemlock replied, and unbolted the gate. “After you.”

The sun was out, with more blue in the sky than gray. In spite of the warmth of sunlight, the air was still cold, even more so without the high abbey walls to block the wind. John’s injured leg gave a twinge, forcing him to lean on the stick a little more heavily than he would have liked.

Hemlock had taken the lead without a word, which was fair enough. Before he’d come limping to the abbey under the guidance of the Guosim, John hadn’t been this deep into Mossflower Wood since his nighttime escape as a wayward young one. Besides, if he wasn’t focused on pathfinding, it gave him a chance to size up his strange companion.

It wasn’t unheard of for vermin to live their lives in peace and quiet contentment. John had known of a few to the west—a weasel couple that farmed and fished in the woods, a solitary old rat that lived out in the dunes—and the patrol kept an eye out but otherwise left them alone. But that didn’t change the fact that, by and large, the vast majority that John had encountered had been… well. Roving bandits, robber gangs. Corsair fleets.

John glanced back at the sandstone wall looming over the tree tops, then again at Hemlock. Redwall’s charter had something or other about extending paws in peace and friendship, but that didn’t change the long history of vermin hordes showing up to try and conquer the place.

“Rest assured, that is not my intention,” Hemlock said dryly.

Startled, John nearly tripped. “I beg your pardon?”

“I was only a little older than a kit when I first came to Redwall,” Hemlock went on, picking his way carefully through a tangle of roots. “Rather a long time for a plot to simmer, wouldn’t you agree?”

John slowed, leaning heavily on his stick as he followed. “I didn’t—how did you—?”

“Your stare has been burning holes in the back of my head since we left,” Hemlock replied. At least he didn’t sound particularly offended. “And just now you looked back at the abbey as if to make sure it was still there, then very pointedly looked at all the spots on my person that might conceal weapons. It wasn’t difficult to follow your train of thought.”

“...Oh.” Sheepishly, John lapsed into silence.

Eventually Hemlock led the way to a patch of vervain, and John descended upon it. The plants were strong and healthy in spite of the recent winter, and before long the bottom of his basket was lined with it.

“I found feverfew not far from here, last time I passed through,” Hemlock spoke up suddenly. “Hopefully it’ll still be there—not much snow, this past winter, so it won’t have frozen.”

John pulled himself back up on his stick. His leg was beginning to ache, just slightly, but he could still walk a bit more. “Lead on.”

They found it near a massive fallen beech log, growing green and full out of the loam, though it was still too early in the season for flowers. Still, Stonecrop could do a lot with stems and leaves alone. When John was finished harvesting them, he found Hemlock sitting on the log waiting for him.

“Might as well sit for a bit,” the ferret said. “Rest that leg.”

“Oh. Er, thank you.” John leaned his stick against the log and climbed up to sit—not beside him, but near enough.

Truthfully, he was grateful. He hadn’t had much in the way of exercise recently, between injuries, fever, and moping. He could feel himself getting winded and tired more quickly than he ever had before. A long walk through the woods without rest was likely to make his leg worse.

Hemlock must have known. He certainly wasn’t resting for his own benefit.

“Can I ask you something?” John asked eventually.

“You may.”

“Stonecrop said he didn’t tell you about me,” said John. “Did somebeast else tell you who I was, or…?”

Hemlock’s gray eyes flitted up and down, taking in the whole of him again. “I hadn’t heard of you before Stonecrop introduced us.”

“Then how did you know I’m—I was one of the Fur and Foot Fighters?”

“Oh, a number of things,” Hemlock replied. “I looked at you and thought, here is a creature who carries himself like a trained soldier, with his best seasons before him but covered in scars old and new, with a freshly maimed leg and a recent bout of illness, in the middle of a vast forest that hasn’t seen much trouble from hordes and bandits in quite some time. The military bearing suggests the Long Patrol, but it’s extremely rare to see anybeast but a hare among them. And if you were in the Long Patrol, you would’ve rested from your hardships in Salamandastron. Then I remembered hearing of the recent visit from the Guosim, and that answered that. You came from the border between forest and sand, and your comrades saw fit to put you on a boat for home rather than send you on a long march over the dunes.” He paused. “The archery was easy enough—calluses on your paws and a thin patch on your inner arm where the bowstring wears at your fur when you fire.”

John gaped at him.

“It sounds complicated when I lay it all out, but it’s really not,” Hemlock finished. “Two and two make four.”

“And you know Redwall is ‘home’ for me because…?”

“The accent, obviously.”

“Obviously.” He hadn’t even known he had an accent.

“How’s the leg?” Hemlock asked.

John tested it, then carefully slid down to the ground. The ache was nearly gone. “Better, thank you.”

“Let’s be off, then. The infirmary’s stores don’t have a single stem of marigold left.”

Before they left, Hemlock shrugged the haversack from his shoulders and set it on the log. John watched him curiously as he wedged it in the fork of the roots so that it wouldn’t slide off.

“What are you doing?”

“Paying for services rendered,” Hemlock replied, leaving the pack where it sat. “Let’s be off.”

The ferret offered no further explanation. Something told John it would be useless to press.

****

“So what do you think of him?” Stonecrop asked later that evening, as they reorganized the herb stores.

“You were right,” John replied. “He’s an odd one and no mistake. Monstrously clever, though.”

“Oh, that he is.”

“He left a full haversack out in the woods,” John added, glancing at his friend. “Any idea what that’s about?”

“Ah, that.” Stonecrop grinned. “Don’t worry about that. You’ll find out soon enough.”

[beyblade-6-3]

Beyblade Metal Fury different skript

The original plot was a little disappointing for the big finish off the series. There was no evolvement for the Charakters, to many new introductions, no real arc, the villains were boring and the ending felt like a redesign of season 1. It had good ideas and wasn’t bad, but it could had been better.

While choosing different legendary bladders could have helped. I want to instead focus on 4 arcs. Which is Gingka, Ryuga, Ryo ( Gingka Dad ) and the villains.

The main villain team should start wich two siblings. Rago and his sister, who want to destroy the concept of beyblading itself. Not the world. They have to live on it so it made no sense to destroy the earth but destroying the sport could be understandable and be more personal for people like Gingka. Since Nemesis is the goddess of Vengance it would be cool if the siblings have issues with how Beyblade defiance their sociaty. Maybe they were mistreated because there weren’t strong enough in the past and couldn’t understand why there value was linked to a bey. So now that they have power, they want to use it to destroy the popularity of beyblade and forbid it even.

This leads into Gingkas arc who has to decide what he wants to do in live and after a talk with his father ( who says beyblade is only a Hobby for him but understands what it means to Gingka ) chose to make beyblade not only his hobby but his career since he loves it this much and cant think of anything more fun than battling with Pegasus. When the villains show up and want to recruit not only will the opposite perspective of love and hate of battling clash. But Gingka gets a real reason to want to fight the villains instead of just fighting the next bad guy. In season 1 the battle with Ryuga was personal as well so i see no reason not to make it so again. As little extra the idea of the villains winning could give him flashbacks of losing Pegasus in season 1 and the fear of it happening again. And who he would be without Pegasus.

Ryuga would not be a legendary blader ( he doesn’t need extra power he has enough ( L drago is the only one made from the first meteor so he never shared the power of the cosmos, so why should ne need a star ) ). However he would be relevant because he can absorb the power of the star fragments so he could be a danger for the villains. Which decide to kidnapp him so he doesn’t interfere. They would not be stupid enough to send bladers but instead thinks like sleeping gas, like the original series did. The reason for this is because i want Ryuga to be forced into a situation to talk with the villains. His arc will evolve from having been the bad guy, learned from it and now teach others not to make the same mistake as him. His interaction with Rago ( and Rago relationship with Doji ) will remind him of his mistakes so he will try to talk Rago out of what he does. There we could learn why the siblings hate beyblade, because Rago actually Bilds a bond with Ryuga and talks to him. while Ryuga will be able to change Ragos mind this will not work for his sister.

She will be the true main villain. While Rago had Nemesis in the beginning. Once he started to change sides because of Ryuga. She starts to get angry at him for abandoning the cause. During the argumenting between them Rago gets enough and decides to destroy Nemesis. He damages the face bolt and his sister attacks his for it. During this she ecedently throws him of cliff ( like Doji did ). Know she has Nemesis and is completely losing it. She doesn’t want to be responsible for her brothers death so she blames Ryuga and the rest of the world. Promising to become the Emperess of Vengance, fitting for her bey Nemesis. Her first act of vengeance will be against Ryuga. He should lose the think he loves most just like she did.

Ryuga would see Rago die, losing his friend and someone he was able to understand and know Ragos crazy sister wants to hurt him. Since he is Ryuga he would be angry and not afraid but this will change because the girl will not go for him but to his bey. She will take L dragos face bolt to replace the broken one of nemesis before destroying the bey completely in front of Ryuga. Who for the first time in his live would be begging someone to stop. He is prideful but L drago is his live, destroying it ( without a change to fight ) would destroy him. Also to start her new live she decides to take Ryugas crown because „he doesn’t need it anymore right.“ . This shows us the dark desendence of our main villain.

During the first fight with Nemesis the gang loses and Nemesis gets all the star fragments. Gingka and the gang reconise the crown and ask what happened to Ryuga. She tells them and during the mountain collapse they get Ryuga out. Ryuga and Gingka have a talk which ignites Gingkas fear because Ryuga was the strongest of them and know he has no bey anymore, the same could happen to him again. He try’s to chear Ryuga up but there are no Prototyps for L drago. Gingka feels for Ryuga and understands that Ryugas bond is even stronger to L Drago than his is to Pegasus. He is angry and wants to make Nemesis pay for it.

While the legendary blader train Ryuga spends time with Rago and Hikaru. They all talk with Hikaru getting over her fear of Ryuga and them bonding over the lost of battling. The same goes for Ryo who forgives Ryuga for nearly killing him and know try’s to help him.

The last battle happens like the anime except, it is still only about destroying part of the world to ruin beyblade. The battle doesn’t go well for Gingka since the golden power cant get into Nemesis core. But Ryuga shows up and tells Gingka that L Drago still exist inside nemesis, so if he gives all of his power to Nemesis. Ryuga can make L Drago absorb it and destroy nemesis from the inside. Medoka warns him that that losing all power could destroy Pegasus like the first time happened. Gingka says he has to try even if it could destroy Pegasus since he cant let beyblade go down, even if he cant be a part of it anymore. When Galaxy Nova happens during the impact the golden power leaves Gingka and goes into the black dragon, who starts to crumble and turn red ( ones Ryuga screams Ldrago ) from the inside and collapse. Only Pegasus in his blue power flys on into the monster and with Gingka screaming destroys it.

During the silence Ryuga goes to the dissolving bey of nemesis and sees L Drago face bolt still there glowing golden and than the bey fixing itself into golden L dragon from the internet. He is happy and thankful that Gingka brought back L dragon. He looks for him and we see Gingka stand before a Pegasus whose wings are torn. Pegasus is about to dissolve but Gingka stops him. Pleading for Pegaus to not leave him behind. Even if he is broken he can stay and they can heal together. He doesn’t have to be the strongest as long as he can still have his friends by his side. This includes Pegasus. Pegasus decides to stay.

After a black screen we see flashbacks of what everyone is doing know. Kyoya won against all legendary bladers except gingka and ryuga . Hikaru battles again. Ryuga became part of the WBBA like Tsubasa ( as his partner ). And the last flashback is Ryo giving burn fireblaze to Gingka. Saying that as a father he will make sure Ginkas dream becomes true. That he is no longer the immortal phoenix because its wings will become part of Pegasus. Helping him getting reborn. That that will not fix Pegasus but gives him the ability to fly again.

The flashbacks end and we see Ryo in the watching launch with Ryuga, tsubasa and Hikaru. Watching Gingka battle Kyoya. Kyoya summons Leon and Gingka summons Pegasus. Who know has blue and red wings. The clash end the season.

This version gives an end to plot points who were never probably addressed. Ryo near death and abandoning of Gingka. Hikaru fear. Gingka lose of Pegasus and how the future of the characters could look like. The character developments are much stronger. Ryo becoming a better father. Gingka actually having any development and Ryuga not regressing but evolving more, into a mentor like being. Even the villain gets more personal and attacks our heroes directly throw ideas and possible outcomes. The destroying of L drago not throw battle but because of unfair circumstances makes us hate the character instead of hating the plot point in general. Leaving her defeat more satisfactory. Starting with Rago as son of hades ( who is not a evil god ) and ending with a girl for the partner of nemesis ( who is a goddess of rightful vengeance ) and twist it into her believing her vengeance is right by blaming everyone else is more fitting than the original idea of having our final villain just being evil because of it.

Beyblade is not emotional but season 1 and 2 had good points, with tsubasa dark side, Gingka lose of Ryo, Ryuga character growd. So evolving those concepts should be possible. The amount of violence and death is the same as the original.

This version is only a possible different story, not perfect but i find it more satisfactory.

[sillyname30]

Darren Criss on Bringing Robot Love to Broadway With ‘Maybe Happy Ending’

The star of the new musical on learning to move like a machine and how he first caught the acting bug.

Chances are the multi-talented Darren Criss is as cross-eyed as the rest of us are with the twists and turns his career has taken over the past 13 years. In 2009, he began in television with six years of Glee, playing the lead singer of the Warblers, and helping power a Warblers focused soundtrack album to Number 2 on the Billboard album chart. Then in 2018 he switched fromsinging to spree killing, giving a stunning, steel-plated performance as Andrew Cunanan in Ryan Murphy’s American Crime Story: The Assassination of Gianni Versace. That got him a Golden Globe and a Primetime Emmy and set people to thinking there might be a serious actor lurking inside that singer.

Before that could be settled, the singer reemerged, as a replacement in a Broadway revival of How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying, raking in $4 million during his three weeks. That was followed with an Off-Broadway revival of Little Shop of Horrors at the Westside Theater and a stint in Hedwig and the Angry Inch at the Belasco Theater.

Two years ago, the actor was back when producer Jeffrey Richards hired him for some deep-dish David Mamet drama, American Buffalo. Now Richardshas returned Criss to the Belasco, and singing, for an original Broadway musical, Maybe Happy Ending—a very original musical, in that it’s about the love life of robots in Seoul circa 2064.

You’ll not find much of that Glee guy you know and love in the character Criss plays in Maybe Happy Ending, a lonely Helperbot robot who putters aimlessly about his tiny apartment, listens to jazz and devotes all his TLC to a favorite pot plant. That changes swiftly when a female form of Helperbot, Claire (Helen J Shen), drops by to borrow his charger. Sparks fly, then conversation, and inevitably a kind of amorous connection.

Despite the nuts and bolts, what we have here is basically a rom-com, with a charming book and score by a couple of NYU classmates.

Actually, there are two books and two scores, one in English, one in Korean. Will Aronson, 43, of New Haven, composed the music, and Hue Park, 41 of South Korea wrote the lyrics. Once they did that, they put their heads together and wrote “connecting tissue”—a play in praise of love’s rejuvenating effects. Even robots at the end of their warranty are susceptible.

Evidently, Hue won the toss because the Korean version premiered first—in Seoul, where the story is set—and proved to be such a success that stateside productions were put together. The English edition made its first U.S. appearance two years ago at Atlanta’s Alliance Theater, where The New York Times’ Jesse Green deemed it “Broadway-ready.” Thus, we now have a live-action robot show going strong on West 44th.

The terror of doing this kind of production, Criss confesses, is that actors are afraid they’ll look like cartoons of their character, taking big, blocky robot steps around the stage. “The show has no listed choreographer,” he tells Observer. But he feels he has that situation well in hand. He and director Michael Arden “have taken a particular interest in making sure the physicality is distinct,” he says. “And I’d be remiss not to mention  a teacher at Juilliard, Moni Yakim, who had some Zoom discussion with us about this.

“It’s kind of a cocktail of those three things: Moni’s suggestions, Michael’s pursuit of perfection and my own interest in physical theater. It’s a skill set that I’ve never been able to utilize—at least to this level. When I was in college, I took a semester off so that I could study physical theater at the Accademia dell’Arte, the performing arts school in Arezzo, Italy.”

A cast of four inhabit the show: Dez Duron, Marcus Choi, Criss, and Shen. You may detect a little kinetic energy between Criss and Shen. That’s because they both attended the University of Michigan—albeit, not at the same time. “She graduated about two seconds ago, and I may have graduated a little longer ago than that,” concedes Criss.

“She graduated two years ago, and 10 years ago my name was up on the marquee at the Belasco Theater. And to be able to come back to the Belasco—but this time to share that billing with a fellow Michigan grad—is a very special moment for me. I’m now the upper-class man to the freshman of Helen J Shen. This is her Broadway debut. It’s a big moment for her, and getting to see her through that on stage—to call that a job is really a special thing for me.”

The enthusiasm Criss brings to the stage is practically palpable—and he still remembers where it came from: encountering Robin Williams at an impressionably early age in the 1992 animated Disney flick, Aladdin, in which his outrageous Genie-jiving was almost heart-stoppingly hilarious.

“I was probably six or seven—and I noticed how this audience connected with each other and with this Genie on the screen. I was very taken with that idea, and I wanted to give people what this Genie was giving them. Then, I found out the voice of that Genie was Robin Williams, who was such a prominent figure out in San Francisco, where I grew up. That made it an accessible concept: ’Oh, Mr. Williams is an actor. I’d like to be an actor, too.’ So I hopped right on it.”

[kingofsummer93]

Ex Luna Scientia

Summary:

Lucien Vanserra, seventh son of the Minister for Magic, is as loved by his peers as he is hated by his family. But behind the charm and irreverence hides a secret, as dark and menacing as the scar on his face.

Elain Archeron, middle sister in a trio of muggle-born witches, has only one wish: for someone to truly see her. Because when she sleeps at night, she can see it all.

Or- an Elucien at Hogwarts AU.

Chapter 18: The Hall of Prophecy

Ao3 Masterlist

The weeks following the werewolf attacks were some of the worst Lucien had ever experienced at Hogwarts. It was all people could talk about- the breakouts, the attacks, the ministry’s promise to crack down on dangerous individuals.

“We will not rest until our streets are safe once more,” his father had declared on the front page of the Daily Prophet.

It made Lucien sick. The fact that ministry members were allegedly resigning as an act of solidarity and defiance did not raise his spirits, and neither did Professor Spell-Cleaver’s impassioned speeches.

It didn't matter, none of it. The harm had already been done. His father understood the power of mistrust and prejudice, and he was wielding them masterfully. Besides, Aurors abandoning their posts wouldn't achieve anything. The only thing that would ever begin to put an end to it would be for someone to put a stop to his father.

Not just to his career and political machinations, but to him. Lucien had never particularly felt any affection for his father, but the rage he now felt whenever he so much as thought of the man who had sired him surprised even himself. Sometimes he pictured himself lunging at the man and digging his teeth into his flesh until his mouth filled with the metallic taste of blood and his screaming filled his ears. Not during the full moon, but in broad daylight, like those convicts had done - like they had been forced to do, Lucien was sure of it. The thought of doing such a thing (of accidentally hurting someone because of what he was) made him sick- but if anyone deserved it was Beron. What would happen, if he somehow managed to bite him? The humans had been so badly beaten in the attack that they hadn’t survived their injuries.

But Lucien would make sure that Beron survived. Just one bite- just enough to draw blood, just long enough to make sure he was never the same. It would be a sick, twisted form of poetic justice.

These twisted thoughts being at the front of his mind was why, when the next full moon rolled around, he made his friends swear to not come to the Shrieking Shack. His thoughts were too dark, his mental state too unstable to risk their safety.

Convincing them had not been easy, but in the end they had relented. He had regretted it the second he had laid down on that musty four-poster on the second floor of the Shrieking Shack and felt his muscles tense with the incoming agony of his transformation, but it was too late.

He spent hours raging- howling at the moon, biting and scratching himself. He was transported back to those miserable years before his friends had given him the greatest gift he could ever have asked for. The scent of his own blood only enraged him even more.

And then, a few hours before dawn, another scent caught his attention. Something animal and vaguely familiar, even in his current state.

A large, smoke-grey hound stared at him coolly. A snarl ripped from Lucien’s throat, even as something registered at the back of his mind. But the hound only snarled back, holding its ground. Lucien bounded at him and the hound turned and bolted down the underground tunnel that led back to the whomping willow.

He chased the hound for hours through the Forbidden Forest, but he could never catch up. The hound was too swift, quick and graceful, leaping through the dense forest like a shadow.

When the sky started lightening with the promise of dawn his prey finally slowed. But instead of pouncing on him, Lucien only pawed at him playfully. The dog swiped back at him before running again, letting Lucien chase him. And on the chase went, but differently- no more than two animals, play-fighting in the woods.

When Lucien finally opened his eyes, splayed on his back in the Shrieking Shack, the hound was hovering over him, panting heavily. Lucien’s entire body was screaming with exhaustion and pain, his self-inflicted wounds stinging smartly. But his mind was mercifully clear, groggy with sleep but free of the spiraling anger that had taken a hold of him since Skeeter’s article.

The hound’s glowing amber eyes glittered as Lucien sat up gingerly. There was a flash of light, a faint crack, and then his brother appeared next to him. Before Lucien could say anything Eris’ fist collided with his face and pain exploded from his nose.

“Ow!” He clutched his nose and felt blood dripping between his fingers. “Fuck. What was that for?”

Eris leveled a long look at him. “For being a prick to your friends.”

Ah. So that was how Eris had known to be here. “I deserved that,” he mumbled ruefully, wiping the blood from his face.

His brother lifted his hand again and scuffed him at the back of the head. “Ow! I get it, stop hitting me!”

“That’s for chasing me all night,” his brother said simply.

“Yeah, fair enough…” Lucien agreed sheepishly.

He winced as his brother helped him to his feet but didn’t protest as Eris helped him clean his wounds.

“You really did a number on yourself, little brother.”

Lucien’s gut clenched with guilt. “I’m sorry.”

“There it is,” Eris said with a tight smile. “The magic words. I wasn’t sure you knew what they were.”

Lucien loosed a laugh and winced at the pain in his ribs. He’d need to stop by Madam Majda’s for an extra strong dose of pain tonic. “Ass.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Eris drawled, throwing him a set of robes. “Get dressed, we don’t have much time. I need to talk to you about something.”

The words sent his gut spinning, sending him dangerously close to vomiting as he remembered why he had been in such a rage in the first place.

“What’s he doing, Eris?” Lucien asked, gingerly slipping the robes over his head. “Those werewolves-“

“Helion thinks he’s building an army,” Eris said flatly. “He thinks Koschei’s somehow been coerced into commanding them with the Imperious charm. He was famous for it, you know, during the war with Grindelwald.”

“Helion? What…how…” Lucien’s groggy brain was struggling to keep up.

“Helion’s had members of the ministry secretly loyal to him for decades. I always suspected he must, and, well.” He grinned wickedly. “Not sure what I did, but it would appear I’ve finally made the cut.

Lucien had to laugh at that. “What a terrible mistake.”

Another scuff to the back of his head. Lucien groaned in pain and closed his eyes against a dizzy spell. “Ow! Fuck, Eris, stop hitting me.”

Immediately his brother’s arm was around his waist, holding him upright. “Sorry, shit, let me help you back up to the school-“

Lucien pushed him off with a half-hearted eye roll. “Quit your fussing. Helion- he thinks those people are being trained to fight? But for what?”

“I don’t know,” Eris said darkly. “But I’m going to find out. And I think we can perhaps kill two birds with one stone.”

Eris’ amber eyes were shining in a way that meant he was in the mood to get into some trouble.

“I’m listening,” Lucien said, sitting up straighter.

“Does Elain still want to get inside the Hall of Prophecy?”

Lucien immediately forgot about his aching body. “Yes!” He’d almost given up hope that Eris would find a way in. “But isn’t it chaos at the Ministry these days? How are we supposed to sneak in through that?”

Eris grinned wickedly. “We’re not. If my plan works we’re not going to need to sneak in at all.”

“That’s…Merlin, why do I have a bad feeling I’m not going to like this idea of yours?”

“You probably won’t,” Eris agreed with a wince. “Elain even less, actually. Here’s what I’m thinking…”

Lucien’s dread grew as his brother explained his plan. When he was done he simply gaped at him, his jaw hanging open in disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

---

“Are you sure you still want to do this?” Lucien asked gently.

Elain kept looking over her shoulder as they crept down the silent, deserted hallways, her eyes wide. She looked so tightly wound that she jumped at every little sound- every creak of a suit of armor adjusting their stance, every murmuring of the occupants of paintings they passed.

They had just slipped behind the tapestry that led to the secret tunnel that would take them all the way to the basement of Honeyduke’s in Hogsmeade. From there, they were to sneak out and make their way to the edge of town, where Eris would be waiting for them. It was reckless to sneak out of the castle like this, but it was hardly the most dangerous part of the plan.

And besides, it wasn’t that reckless for him. But for Elain…

Her fingers tightened around his so hard he almost winced. “Yes,” she said, taking a deep, shaky inhale. “Eris said it has to be tonight. Besides, he’ll be waiting for us.”

“If we get caught…”

“We won’t,” she said, her lips twitching despite the nerves and trepidation he could feel radiating off her. “And if we do, I’ll be embarrassed for your reputation as a trouble maker.”

Lucien huffed a laugh. “You know what, that’s fair. Still, if we get caught…”

“No word about the ministry and Hall of Prophecy,” she intoned, suddenly serious again. “We simply snuck out to Hogsmeade for a nighttime stroll. And if we get caught in London…”

“We won’t,” Lucien declared, as much to convince herself as to convince her. “Eris’ plan is fool-proof.” Foolish, dangerous, definitely idiotic, but, Lucien had to admit, also quite ingenious.

“Then let’s go,” she said with a grin. She stood up on her tiptoes and pressed a quick kiss to his lips before turning to the dark passageway. “Lumos.”

A silvery beam of light illuminated the damp stone, and they set off down the passageway. It became narrower and narrower the further they walked, until Elain had to let go of his hand to walk in front of him and Lucien had to crouch to avoid bumping his head on the ceiling.

Eventually the path turned into little more than a crawl space. Elain looked at him over her shoulder with a stern look.

“Sorry,” he whispered with a cringe. “We’re almost there, I promise. It’s the safest way out of the castle…”

Elain shook her head. “It’s not that.” He couldn't see her eyes in the gloom but he could hear the humor in her voice, and he could picture the exact way her eyes would be glittering. “Keep your hands to yourself, mister.”

With that she stuck her wand between her teeth and dropped to her hands and knees to crawl towards the end of the tunnel. Lucien chuckled as he followed suit, indeed appreciating the view. When they reached the end of the passageway Lucien shouldered open a trapdoor camouflaged in the ceiling, trying not to make a racket as he dislodged the heavy, dusty boxes that had been sitting on top of the trapdoor. He helped Elain climb out of the tunnel and felt her breathe a sigh of relief.

“I did not like that,” she declared, taking in great gulps of air. “I didn’t like that one bit.”

“Thankfully, actually getting to London won’t include any more tunnels,” Lucien reassured her.

“And is there a reason you haven’t told me how we’re actually getting there?”

Lucien grinned. “Oh, I think you’ll like this. Come on, there’s a door somewhere around here…”

They felt their way through the dark basement, the air thick and sweet from the boxes of candies and toffees piled all around them.

The back alley was deserted when they excited the shop, but they still kept to the shadows, dark cloaks lifted over their heads. If anyone spotted them they would simply look like two lovers out for a stroll.

The shops and little houses of Main Street were thinning out, and soon they were walking down the dusty road that led to the mountains in the distance. Lucien kept his gaze firmly away from the Shrieking Shack, sitting on a lonely patch of grass on the outskirts of town.

“Lucien,” Elain whispered. “Do you think this is a very stupid idea?”

“Well,” he mused. “Yes. But that doesn’t mean it’s not fun.”

Elain shook her head at him affectionately. “How did I know you were going to say that?”

The village fell away behind them, and they quickened their step as they spotted a familiar figure, leaning against a dark object. As they got closer Elain gasped.

“Told you,” Lucien said with a smirk. “I wasn’t sure how comfortable you’d be flying on a broom the whole way…”

“Baby brother,” Eris drawled as they approached. “Ms Archeron.” He tipped his head in a mock bow. “I believe you requested a ride?”

Lucien’s flying motorbike gleamed in the moonlight, two helmets and leather jackets resting on the seat. Eris’ broom was leaning against the side, and his brother wasted no time in grabbing it and zipping up his own jacket.

“Ready? We’ll go over the plan when we get to London. I want to get going now while we still have some cloud cover.”

Lucien glanced at Elain, who hesitated for only a moment before donning the helmet and jacket and climbing onto the bike. “Ready.”

Eris chuckled appreciatively. “You know, I wouldn’t have pegged you as the rule breaking type.”

“And I would have pegged you as a stuck-up daddy’s boy, but we all make mistakes,” she quipped back.

Lucien howled with laughter as Eris sputtered indignantly. With a tap of his wand the engine roared to life, and then they were rising, up, up, up into the night sky. Elain’s arms wrapped tightly around his middle as the country lane fell away until it was no more than a scratch cutting through the landscape. Hogwarts glittered in the distance, its hundreds of windows glittering like a beacon in the night.

Eris led the way, cutting a straight line south towards London. After a few minutes Lucien relaxed into the familiar rhythm of being high up in the sky, the wind howling in his ears and the scenery below blurring into a dark patchwork. Any lingering anxiety lifted off his shoulders, disappearing into the night around them.

They slipped higher still, until they were level with the wispy, dark clouds moving in from the West. The temperature went from cool to freezing, the air so damp Lucien could feel it in his bones.

“Remember the last time you took me for a ride on your bike?” Elain screamed over the howling wind.

Lucien laughed. “How could I forget?” He’d been an entirely different person then. Or- perhaps not different, but simply going about things the wrong way entirely. “I’m still surprised you said yes.”

He felt Elain shrug against his back. “I wasn’t blind, you know. Even if you were an ass.”

He flipped up the visor on his helmet and shot her a self-satisfacted grin over his shoulder, laughing again as she only shook her head at him.

On they flew, until his limbs started to feel numb with cold. They passed over muggle towns, the golden lights mockingly warm and inviting as they flew through the cold night. Just when Lucien was starting to dread the prospect of having to fly back, Eris pressed his nose to his broom and shifted into a dive.

London beckoned in the distance, tiny golden pinpricks eventually turning into houses, buildings, parcs. They kept to the cloud cover as long as possible, and then Eris flicked his wand on them to disguise them with a concealment charm. It wouldn’t last, but it was better than having muggle witnesses claiming to have seen a man on a broom and two teenagers on a flying motorcycle.

They landed in a dark alley that would have been nondescript were it not for the telephone booth at one end.

“Right,” Eris said, rubbing his hands together to bring some warmth back to his frozen fingers. “So. Like I said, Father travels to Azkaban every two weeks on routine inspections- or whatever the hell it is he’s doing there.” His amber eyes turned cold and scornful. “He’s there tonight, which means if he’s somehow alerted to a disturbance, we’ll have plenty of time to get out before he’s back in London. With that said, let’s try to avoid getting caught, yeah? It’s one thing to break in, but breaking out is another thing altogether.”

Lucien and Elain both nodded mutely. Lucien had conveyed the plan to Elain in a whispered conversation inside the Room of Requirements, at his brother’s suggestion. Eris hadn’t wanted any part of it written down anywhere, under any circumstances. He hadn’t even been honest with Tamlin, Jurian and Vassa about where he was going tonight. They’d be livid when they eventually find out, but more at having missed out on an adventure than at his dishonesty.

“The effects of the Polyjuice Potion will last exactly one hour. We go in, we do what we have to do, and we get the hell out before the effects wear off. If someone sees us, act like you belong there. And if we get separated or someone starts asking too many questions…” He trailed off, looking at them expectantly.

“We run for the fireplaces in the Atrium and take the Floo Network back to Hogsmeade,” Lucien said, repeating the instructions Eris had given him in the Shrieking Shack.

“Correct. Take the Floo Network back to the Three Broomstick, and if anyone sees you, just say you broke into the teacher’s lounge and took the Network from there. You’ll get detention but nobody will check the Network- not for two kids having a laugh.”

He reached into his cloak and took out a bottle of thick, murky liquid, and three smaller vials. “This won’t be pleasant, I’m afraid.” From the smirk on his face Lucien knew his brother didn’t feel bad for them at all. “Elain, you’ll be impersonating my friend from the Department of Mysteries. If we’re caught going in or out of the department, nobody should ask any questions. But if they do- remember that you have the right to be there, and whatever business you have down there doesn't concern anyone else.”

“Right…” Elain said, looking at the vile liquid in Eris’ hand uncertainly.

Eris uncorked the bottle and poured a third of it into one of the smaller vials before dropping in what looked like a single, long blonde hair. The potion bubbled slightly and started to froth, before settling into a murkish green shade.

“Here you go. Bottoms up!”

Elain grabbed the vial gingerly and sniffed the contents with a cringe.

“Cheers!” With that she tipped the liquid into her throat, gagging slightly at the taste.

For a moment nothing happened. And then Elain’s eyes went wide, and the empty vial shattered on the cobblestones as she clutched her stomach and doubled over, groaning in pain.

“Elain! Are you-”

Lucien reached for her in alarm but Eris held him back. “Just let it happen. It doesn’t feel pleasant but it only takes a minute.”

Lucien was strongly reminded of another transformation that only took a minute, but was even less pleasant. He watched with growing dread as Elain’s body shook with tremors, and then started to morph before his eyes. Her hair straightened and receded into her head until the tips brushed her shoulders, her body swelled in some places and shrank in others. It stopped as abruptly as it had begun, and then she looked up.

The effect was so bizarre that Lucien stumbled a step back. Looking back at him was a woman he’d never seen before, with a sleek blond bob and piercing sky-blue eyes. Eris nodded appreciatively and chuckled as Elain looked down at herself, touching her hair, her new, foreign body.

“It worked!” she exclaimed. “This is so bizarre.”

“You have no idea,” Lucien agreed.

“Right! No time to waste. One for me, and one for you.” Eris split the rest of the potion into the remaining two vials, dropping in a single hair to both. One seemed to boil for a moment before turning a vibrant, unnatural shade of red, while the other thickened into what looked like molasses.

“I still don’t understand why I have to be you,” Lucien grumbled as Eris handed him the vial with the red liquid. “Why can’t I be the Auror?”

“Because people have seen me and Lara together.” He inclined his head towards Elain-Lara-who was now holding her hands in front of her face in awe. “So if you two have to make a run for it, it won’t look that suspicious that you’re together. As for this guy…” he held up the vial with the thick black-brown liquid. “Let’s hope nobody is stupid enough to question an Auror’s motives.”

Lucien sighed. “Fine.”

Eris clinked his vials and lifted it in mock cheers, and then downed the liquid. Lucien followed suit, immediately choking on the smoky, spicy liquid. He felt it burn all the way down his throat, worse than straight Firewhiskey. The next moment he was doubled over in pain, resisting the urge to vomit as the burning sensation spread to his limbs. It felt foreign and yet horribly familiar, and for a wild second it was the full moon, and the wolf was taking over. His bones were melting, his blood sizzling, his skin stretching until it split.

After what felt like an eternity but couldn’t have been more than a few minutes the pain faded, like a tap being turned off. Lucien looked down at himself and breathed a sigh of relief, shaking his head at his irrational thoughts. He hadn’t turned into the wolf-of course not. He was still himself, and yet not. His skin was fair and freckled, and when he went to run his hands through his long all his fingers found was empty air. Strangest of all, though, was his metallic eye, clicking and whirring away on the cobblestones at his feet where it had fallen straight out of his head. His hand immediately lifted to his face, feeling smooth skin where his scar should have been, and a squishy, decidedly natural eye where he should have felt metal.

“Huh!”

“Hmm. I’m pretty good looking,” Eris said with a grin.

His brother had morphed into an intimidating looking man with a shaved head and scruffy beard. Tattoos were inked into his shaved head, running down into his neck and chest, which was the approximate shape and size of a barrel. Lucien had to admit that if the goal was to look like someone who people would stay away from, it had been a good choice. He pocketed his golden eye, still clicking away in his pocket, as if it had been offended to be discarded in such a manner.

“Let’s go,” his brother said, in a voice that was deep and menacing and definitely not Eris’. “Stand up straighter, I don’t slouch like that.”

“Yes, brother,” Lucien replied, adopting Eris’ lazy drawl.

“This is so bizarre…” Elain repeated, looking at him warily.

They followed Eris into the telephone box at the end of the alley and watched curiously as he punched in a number. “Visitor’s entrance,” he explained. “We would have to prove our identity if we went by the employee’s entrance.”

A cool female voice filled the box. “Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and business.”

“John Dawlish, Lara Goldstein, and Eris Vanserra, on a…research mission,” Eris sad in Dawlish’s unfamiliar, rumbling voice.

“Thank you,” the voice said. “Visitors, please take your badges and pin them to the front of your robes.”

Three metal badges fell from a metal chute attached to the telephone. Lucien picked up the top one and snickered. Eris Vanserra- Research Mission.

“Visitors to the ministry, you are required to submit to a search and present your wands for registration at the security desk, which is located at the far end of the Atrium.”

“Too bad we’re visiting after hours,” Eris muttered under his breath.

The floor of the telephone box started vibrating, and then the ground was rising up to meet them as they descended underground. Darkness enveloped them, and then a moment later a soft, golden light filtered into their telephone box. The lift smoothly hit the ground and the door slammed open.

“The Ministry of Magic wishes you a pleasant evening,” the disembodied voice said.

The Atrium was deserted, the lights dimmed lower than Lucien had ever seen them during the day. The midnight-blue ceiling was painted with golden symbols that twisted and swirled, bathing the lobby in an ethereal, warm light. The only sound was the gurgling of the water from the fountain in the center- jets of water fell from the upraised wands of a witch and wizard, the point of a goblin’s hat, and the pointy tips of a house elf’s ears.

Eris silently indicated the row of lifts on the other side of the lobby, and Lucien cringed as their footsteps echoed against the marble floor. It had all seemed easy enough when Eris was describing the plan, but here, now- it was starting to seem like an incredibly stupid thing to do.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea to split up?” Elain asked, looking around the deserted lobby uncertainly.

“We don’t have much time,” Eris said. “Besides, this way if I get caught I can just say the Minister asked me to fetch a report for him.”

“How will you even know where to look?” Lucien asked doubtfully. If Eris got caught snooping into their father’s office…it was madness.

“I’ll be quick, and then I’ll come join you. Look for the door with the gold marking. Don’t go into any other doors, under any circumstances. Do you hear me?”

Lucien and Elain both nodded mutely, neither of them particularly inclined to disagree. Eris pressed the down button set into the wall, and instantly a lift clattered into place. Lucien winced as the golden gate slid open, causing such a racket that he was surprised nobody had come running yet. The gate shut between them and Eris, and Lucien looked at Elain expectantly.

“Oh, right.” She cleared her throat. “Department of Mysteries,” she said, looking up at the ceiling. “Please.”

The lift shot down, so quickly that Lucien’s stomach lurched. And then sideways, and up, then down again, until he couldn’t be sure if they were above or below the Atrium. It reminded him of the maze of railways at Gringotts, designed to discourage potential thieves.

The lift hit the ground with a clang. “Department of Mysteries,” it announced, in the same cool female voice from the telephone box.

They were in a long, dark hallway, lit with torches flickering on the stone walls. It reminded Lucien strongly of the dungeon classrooms at Hogwarts, and something about that was not comforting. There was a single door at the end of the hall, and it swung open on silent hinges as they neared it. The room beyond was circular, its walls lined with smooth black doors with no handles. In between each door was a torch of flickering blue flames, which gave the space an eerie atmosphere, almost like being underwater.

The door clicked shut behind them, and all at once the walls started spinning. Faster and faster, until the flame from the torches was nothing but a streak of blue light. Lucien heard Elain inhale sharply as she reached for his hand.

The walls slowed, and then stopped. The doors were identical and unmarked, but Eris’ friend had done them a favor- the door to the Hall of Prophecy would be marked by a small gold marking near the bottom.

Lucien lit his wand with a whispered Lumos and crouched, inching around the circular wall until they stood in front of a door with a tiny golden mark near the bottom, no bigger than a thumbprint.

“This one.” He glanced over his shoulder to the door that led back to the hall, wondering how Eris was getting on with his ransacking of their father’s office, and froze. The doors all looked identical- including the door that led back to the hallway.

---

Elain gaped at the doors, suddenly feeling ill. A dozen of them, all identical. And, judging from Eris’ warning, some containing things they definitely did not want to find out about.

“Shit,” Lucien swore under his breath.

“It’s ok,” she said, her voice strangely high-pitched. “Eris will come join us, he’ll know the way out.”

She didn’t know whether she was saying it to reassure Lucien, or herself, and from the look on his face he didn’t seem at all convinced.

“We made it this far,” she continued. “We might as well go in. I just want to look. I just…want to see them.”

Lucien’s face (Eris’ face) softened, and it looked so wrong and so absurd that she almost laughed. “Of course. Lead the way, Lara.”

Elain laughed, her voice deeper and huskier than usual. “After tonight I never want to take polyjuice potion ever again.”

“What, you mean you don’t like seeing me as Eris?”

“I mean,” she shrugged. “He is pretty handsome.”

She laughed again at the pure horror on his face, and turned to face the door. “How do we…” She pressed a palm to the cool stone, and the door swung open easily.

As soon as they stepped into the hall beyond, the door swung shut behind them. Elain heard Lucien curse under his breath as they stood there, taking in the space with mute awe. The hall was cavernous, with rows upon rows of shelves, all lined with glass orbs filled with swirling, foggy mist. Exactly as it had been when she had seen it in the Pensieve.

“Holy shit,” Lucien said, sounding slightly stunned. “Holy shit.”

“Yup,” was all she could reply.

“These are all…”

“Prophecies,” she finished for him. “Visions, whatever.”

“Merlin. No wonder this place is kept a secret.”

They started down the main corridor, Lucien still gazing up at the stacks with open-mouthed awe. Elain could hear faint whispers coming from the prophecies, and even though she was prepared for it this time it still raised the hair on the back of her neck. She knew better than to ask if Lucien could hear them, too.

The whispering grew louder the further they walked, until their echoing footsteps were dulled, and the only sound she could truly hear were those voices. They seemed to beckon her, deeper into the stacks. She followed the call- it was like something was pulling her, a thread of something warm and bright tugging her forward.

“Elain?”

She heard his voice as if he was very far away and not directly behind her, but didn’t stop. A turn to the left, further into the stacks, and then she lurched to a stop. She heard a gasp behind her, felt Lucien’s fingers squeeze hers almost painfully.

There, in front of her, were dozens of glass orbs, all marked with her name and various dates. All filled with shimmering, swirling mist. All whispering to her, taunting her.

Do you see? they asked. Look, and you will see.

Her fingers were lifting of their own accord, until they hovered near the closest prophecy. Something tingled in her fingers, and then her hand, up her arm, like a current of electricity.

And then- footsteps, loud and hurried and insistent. Too loud. Whatever daze she had been in was broken, and she jerked her hand back, stumbling away from those prophecies. From that gap on the shelf, where one had indeed been taken. She didn’t know what she had been expecting, but seeing it in a memory was one thing, and seeing it in person was another.

“Elain! Are you-Merlin, you went into some kind of trance…You were just standing there.”

Eris (no, not Eris-Lucien) was staring at her, amber eyes wide. The genuine concern in his gaze was so unlike Eris that the effect was comical.

Or, it would have been, were it not for the footsteps currently thundering towards them. Lucien grabbed her hand and turned, running back towards the door.

“What happened?” she whispered as they ran.

“I don’t know, someone must have spotted us.”

“Lara!” A voice boomed across the space. “Eris!”

“Shit!”

They cut to the left, and Elain slipped, bumping into the nearest shelf. Glass orbs fell to the floor with a crash, the mist within them releasing into the air. Whispers filled the space around them, words and phrases Elain couldn’t quite understand. The prophecies, she realized. She jerked to a stop and spun. There were images floating in the mist, a jumble of shapes and colors. And then, too quickly, the mist was gone, taking with it the prophecies it had contained.

And a figure was standing at the end of the row, wand out, face so menacing that Elain didn’t recognize him at first.

“Why were you running?” he demanded, panting heavily.

“Eris! Oh thank god!”

“Why didn’t you call our real names?” Lucien demanded. “You gave me a heart attack…”

“Don’t you know the meaning of being in disguise?”

Lucien opened his mouth to retort but Elain held up a hand before full-on squabbling took over.

“What happened? Why were you running?” she asked.

“We have to go,” he said simply. “Now.”

“What do you mean? Did you find the information you were looking for?”

Eris shook his head. “No. And honestly I’d be surprised if he even keeps that kind of information written down. But I did find this.”

He reached into a pocket of his cloak, and brought out a bundle wrapped in a piece of cloth. Wordlessly he peeled back the cloth to reveal a crystal ball, filled with swirling mist. A prophecy.

“Why did he have a….” Lucien trailed off as he surely realized what Elain already had.

“The stolen prophecy?”

Eris shrugged. “I don’t know for sure, but the fact that it was locked in a hidden compartment at the back of a cabinet in his office makes me think it might very well be.”

He wrapped the cloth around it again and handed it to her. Elain cradled it to her chest, feeling the slight electric buzzing of it even through the fabric.

“We have to leave,” Eris said again. “I must have triggered some sort of security system in father’s office.”

Elain’s stomach lurched in horror. If they were caught- by the Minister himself, no less…

“You’ll have to take the Floo Network back,” Eris called over his shoulder as they ran back towards the door. “Take a lift up to the Atrium, hurry to the nearest fireplace, and get the hell out.”

“And you?” Lucien asked. They reached the door and hurtled through it and into the chamber beyond.

Eris grimaced. “I’m going to lock myself in a toilet stall until the potion wears off, and then claim that I was burning the midnight oil and started feeling unwell.”

The door to the hall clicked shut, and before they could take another step the walls started spinning.

“Shit!” Eris swore.

The wall slowed to a stop, a dozen identical doors staring back at them.

“Yeah,” Lucien agreed. “Shit indeed.”

“Only one way to find out,” Eris said grimly.

He strode to the nearest door and pressed his palm against it. It swung open, revealing not a hallway lined with torches, but another room. It was dark inside, the only light coming from what looked like tanks filled with green water. There were things bobbing in the water, glowing strangely white.

Eris took a step back and slammed the door shut. “No! Definitely not that one.” He took out his wand and slashed through the air, and a glittering red X appeared on the door.

“What were those things?” Elain asked as the wall spun again. “Jellyfish?”

“Brains,” Eris said simply.

The wall stopped again, but this time one of the doors was marked off by a fiery mark, indicating the one they had already tried. Elain picked the next door, choosing the one closest to her.

When she opened it she almost stumbled backwards. She was standing at the top of what looked like stadium seats, facing a sunken platform. In the middle of the platform was an arch resting atop a dais, with a ragged black veil hanging from it.

“Do you hear that?” Elain asked, walking down a step. Whispers seem to come from the other side of the veil, which fluttered on a phantom wind. Like the whispers in the Hall of Prophecy, but darker- more menacing. Still, they reached out to her, and she took another step towards it.

Firm hands clasped on her upper arms and yanked her back into the antechamber, the archway and veil disappearing behind a firmly shut door. Once again it was like waking up from a vague sleep, or emerging from underwater. She shuddered violently as another red X appeared on the door, and the wall spun once more.

“Sorry,” she gasped, shaking her head as if to clear water from her ears. “Sorry.”

“Note to self,” Eris said in the Auror’s deep voice, “do not let a Seer into the Department of Mysteries by themselves.”

After trying three more doors in rapid succession they finally found the hall lined with torches. They hurried to the lifts, Eris tapping his foot impatiently with every second it took for the lift to appear.

“Remember,” he said as the lift twisted its way back up to the Atrium, “straight to the nearest fireplace. Don’t pause for anything or anyone. Just get the hell out and don’t worry about me. I’ll send word when I can.”

“Atrium,” the cool female voice said.

The lift doors opened onto a flurry of activity. Wizards (Aurors, if Elain had to guess) were stalking down the length of the lobby, waving their wands towards the fireplaces that lined the walls. Sealing off the exits, she realized.

“Go!” Eris mumbled through gritted teeth. “Go, now!”

Elain went to grab Lucien’s hand, but he wasn’t moving. He was standing stock-still, staring at Eris in horror.

“Eris…the potion…”

Elain saw it at the same time he did. Auburn hair was sprouting from Eris’ scalp, the tattoos disappearing from skin that was turning fair and freckled. She had taken the potion first, which meant…

The look on Lucien’s face (now a golden tan, his short hair lengthening) said it all.

“GO!” Eris roared.

They didn’t need to be told twice. Lucien grabbed her hand and hurtled towards the closest fireplace, lifting his leather jacket to hide his face. Elain held tightly onto the prophecy, cradling it to her chest like a small child.

“Hey! You there! What are you-“

The Aurors were halfway down the Atrium, but they halted at the sound of their footsteps.

“STOP RIGHT THERE!”

Elain almost lost her footing, struggling to keep up with Lucien’s long strides, but he hauled her upright before she could sprawl to the floor. A wind was blowing at their backs, propelling them faster, and she didn’t have to turn around to know who had cast the spell.

A heartbeat later they had reached the fireplace, and Lucien scooped up a handful of Floo powder from the jar hanging on a sconce next to the hearth. A gate slammed down over the fireplace next to them, but merry green flames had already burst to life in front of them.

“Hogwarts!” Lucien gasped breathlessly, and then they stepped into the flames.

For one desperate moment Elain thought it hadn’t worked, that Aurors had managed to seal their fireplace. But then the Atrium became a blur as they spun through the fire. Before the Ministry disappeared Elain had a last glimpse of the lifts, and of a figure disappeared behind a golden grill.

Just when she was beginning to feel nauseous from spinning the world slowed around them, and then stopped. They stumbled out of the gate, brushing soot from their clothes.

“Are you alright?” Lucien asked. The voice that spoke was the deep, rich one she knew so well, and when she looked up at him it was his face that looked back at her. Elain breathed a sigh of relief.

“I’m fine. Are you- what’s wrong?”

Lucien’s hand was clasped over his left eye as he winced uncomfortably. “Remind me never to take polyjuice potion again.” His eye was clicking loudly, whirring as Lucien blinked rapidly, clearly trying to get the metal eye back into focus.

Elain looked around the room, and then froze. “Lucien,” she whispered. “Did you say Hogwarts?”

Lucien froze, his metal eye quieting as it finally focused. “Oh, fuck.”

They had taken the Floo Network directly into the teachers’ lounge. The room was blissfully empty, given the late hour- save for a lone, pearly figure hovering near the ceiling.

“Well well well,” the Poltergeist jeered, swooping down to peer at them. “What do we have here? Ickle students out of bed, in the middle of the night? Snooping through the teacher’s lounge?”

Elain and Lucien shared a glance. Had the poltergeist not seen them coming out of the flames?

“Peeves,” Lucien said, his tone carefully neutral. “We weren’t doing anything…”

But the Poltergeist was already swooping towards the door, cackling madly. “Students out of bed! Students out of bed!”

Elain winced as Peeves’ voice echoed around the empty room.

“Peeves, I swear to Merlin, you-” Lucien trailed off as the Poltergeist disappeared through the wall.

Elain glanced at Lucien again, and then they simultaneously bolted for the door. Halfway down the corridor Elain stopped short.

“Wait!”

Lucien whirled, alarmed. “What is it? We have to go, Peeves is going to wake up half the castle…”

She glanced at the prophecy in her hands, and then back at Lucien. Understanding flashed in his eyes.

“I need a place to hide this.” If the teachers found her with a prophecy belonging to the Ministry of Magic, they would have a lot more explaining to do beyond simply being out of bed after hours.

“Come with me,” Lucien said simply, and then turned and ran.

They ran down the hall and then up two flights of stairs, and down another, until Elain was beginning to wonder if Lucien had a plan at all. And then she saw the familiar tapestry of Sir Cadogan, who blinked at them sleepily as they hurtled past.

“Oy!” he cried. “Who goes there?” The trolls in tutus snored around him, some of them grumbling at the sudden noise.

Lucien ignored the painted knight, shut his eyes, and walked back and forth in front of the blank stretch of wall that faced the tapestry. After the third pass a door appeared, and Elain didn’t waste any time before reaching for the knob and hurrying inside. Lucien followed her, shutting the door behind them.

“Why-“ Her question evaporated as she looked around them.

They were standing in some kind of cavernous hall, not unlike the Hall of Prophecy. But instead of shelves filled with glass orbs, the stacks stretching out in front of them were made of a wild variety of objects. Broken bits of furniture, books, paintings, boxes stacked ceiling-high. In a stack nearby Elain spotted a marble bust sporting a diadem, what looked suspiciously like an ordinary muggle lawnmower, and a wizard radio. A veritable graveyard of objects, lost or hidden or forgotten about. Generations of contraband, or treasures, or broken bits of detritus with no home. The perfect place to hide her own stolen treasure.

“How did you find this place?” She asked, looking around in wonder. If they hadn’t been in such a hurry she could have spent hours walking around, poking through the random collection of objects.

“We, ahh…discovered it when looking for a place to hide something,” he answered cagily. Elain rolled her eyes at him. “Turned out we clearly weren’t the first to require such a place. We can come back,” he added, as if reading her thoughts. “There’s some wild things in here. Rumor is there’s a Boggart somewhere…”

Elain froze with her hand halfway outstretched to an ancient-looking chest. “Really?”

Lucien’s eyes were glittering when she turned to look at him, and she shook her head at him. “Ass.”

Still, she no longer felt so confident poking around. She took a step back as Lucien pushed the lid open, peering inside. “Just some old moldy robes.”

Elain flipped back the fabric from the prophecy, taking one last glance at the murky, swirling mist inside. What knowledge did it contain?

Look, it urged her. See.

Another time. She covered it with the cloth and gently lowered it into the chest, covering it with a few robes for good measure.

“Let’s go. I’ve had enough adventures for one night.”

“Tapped out so soon?” Lucien asked in dismay. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

Elain opened her mouth to retort as they stepped back into the hallway, but then fell quiet. Professor Amren was standing with her arms crossed, wearing a thick wool robe and slippers and looking more than a little annoyed.

“Mr Vanserra,” she ground out ominously, “why is it that when something happens, it is always you?”

Taglist (let me know if you'd like to be added/removed!): @labellefleur-sauvage @headcanonheadcase @separatist-apologist @velidewrites @c-e-d-dreamer @queercontrarian @hallway5 @areyoudreaminof @tuzna-pesma-snova @corcracrow @vulpes-fennec @octobers-veryown @autumndreaming7 @sunshinebingo @asnowfern

[dukeswonderousmenagerie]

Have a favorite angsty Lupin idea??

Oh boy buckle up buttercup

cause there’s one I’ve been discussing with a few buddies of mine having to do with PT2 of my Lavender Series.

Lupin had been going through some mental turmoils after (and maybe even a lil before) the accident. The accident just cements its self cause for some odd reason compared to all the other times he can’t just bounce back from it and he doesn’t know why

Basically Lupin after the incident, had been hurt badly enough that he was forced to retire/take a break from thieving at least for a while.

Lupin was utterly WRECKED about it cause he’s not even in his prime yet, yet he’s now closed to being forced to give up thieving and he’s depressed as hell and is having a mental spiral

His life basically started falling apart bit by bit and Jigen tried to comfort him in saying that a break would probably do him good and that it’s not the end of the world if they take a few extra months off, but Lupin can feel that the end is coming to his career because something in his gut tells him that shit is gonna change, but knowing that he panics a lot and thinks negatively a bit, he can’t see it ending “good”

The crowning moment he realizes things are changing is when he practically lets Zenigata catch him because he can’t keep up with the group because he hurt to much to move fast enough and just. . .can’t run so fast like he use too, and the rest of the gang accidentally leave him behind and he sorta just “gives up” and lets Zenigata catch him and even Zenigata is concerned cause he’s never seen Lupin so out of it and despondent, let along willing to let himself be captured without a fight, and it makes Zenigata feel weird to arrest him cause it doesn’t feel like a fair trade-off because he wants Lupin’s capture to be fair, so he ends up just letting Lupin sleep in the police cruiser and a holding cell to relax and rest up until he has enough energy to make a “daring escape” later on that night and Zenigata just lets him go cause he can always chase after him later

So basically what happened is, his paranoia reaches a high note and Jigen (and maybe even his grandfather) find Lupin sitting in a chair by himself and Jigen tries to talk to him but Lupin is ignoring him

That is until he swivels the chair around and Lupin points his Walther at him,

Jigen thinks he’s joking, but he’s nervous, Lupin doesn’t look right, so he goes to take the gun from him, but Lupin actually fires it and there is bullets in it, cause one whizzes past Jigen and lands dead on in a flower vase behind him

Well basically one thing leads to another.

The first shot rings out, and the rest of the house come running to see what’s going on and suddenly it’s all the maids, butlers crowded around watching in from the open door as Jigen and lupins Grandfather are trying their damndest to just calm Lupin down and get the gun away from him

Well it doesn’t work, and after a escalating situation and 2 more gunshots fired, one in the ceiling one in the wall that just barely misses the head of a young maid on the opposite side, lupins walther is now empty when he goes to fire a fourth shot and the gun just clicks.

Jigen then makes a grab for the gun, but by that moment, Lupin just drops it and runs out the door, just bolts for the front door of the house while his grandfather makes a grab for him but just barely misses but trips, causing Jigen to turn his attention to the old man for just a split second.

However that split second is just enough time for Lupin to bolt out the front door and make a break for the car

in this it’s the Benz I’m sorry my lil fiat

While he’s struggling with the keys, it’s the moment that Jigen himself comes running out the front door, but by that time it’s already too late, not even Jigen banging on the front of the car in order to attempt to get Lupin to stop, stops Lupin from hitting the gas and nearly clipping Jigen with the car in the process before speeding off down the road

But as he’s driving down the road, Fujiko and Goemon are driving back towards the house, and they notice Lupin peeling down the road, and by the time they get back to the house everyone is in a panic and Jigen is basically frantic asking if the two of them saw Lupin on their way back and they both say they did just half a mile down the road and he in turn frantically asks for the keys to the Fiat, hoping he can catch up with Lupin before he does something stupid

So he Fujiko, Goemon and maybe even the old man, all pile into the fiat and they drive down to the spot Fujiko and Goemon last saw Lupin

But as their driving down the stretch of road, a plum of smoke rises up from just beyond the road.

It’s the Benz, crashed into the Guarder rail

Jigen tells the others to stay in the car while he checks it out

But there’s a problem

He turns around to look at them, and clearly and as plain as day, they all heard the words they never expected to dread

“He’s Gone?! He’s not here!”

Turns out, Lupin never made it that far down the road

He made it about half a mile or so before he lost control of the car and had slammed into the nearest solid object traction could find, which happened to be the roads guarder rail.

He hits his head on the steering wheel, leaving a bit of blood for the gang to find when they find the car, but other then that no trace can be found of him. He ditches the car and makes the rest of the way on foot.

a lot of other scenarios happen after this scene but I was recently discussing this idea with someone so it’s the first one to come to mind xD. So if you wanna know others just lemme know!

[spiritblossoming]

also here are the quiz descriptions for the OTHER uquiz except some of them are written from the perspective of some random reporter with access to google

Showmaker

Showmaker is simultaneously one of the biggest threats to international security and the most carefree, fun-loving person you will ever meet. Being both a skilled Summoner and an artificer, Showmaker crafts each of his cards by hand. When asked what his championship wish was, he simply replies, "I wished for more wishes!" The truthfulness of this statement is unknown.

Canyon

Widely renowned as one of the best Summoners in the world, Canyon is a force to be reckoned with as he shifts between beast and human as fluidly as water—water he now controls after conquering the Rift. His enchanted spear is the result of his and Showmaker's combined efforts after their embarrassing loss to G2 in 2019.

Scout

After living in the shadow of superstar Summoner Faker as his substitute, Scout managed to conquer the Rift in 2022 with EDG. He fights by draining energy from his enemies and converting it into magical bolts that do massive damage. Rumor has it that he never sleeps.

Meiko

Loyal and determined, Meiko serves as the support for EDG. He possesses the ability to heal people through physical contact with them, and can also induce happiness, energy and good dreams. Meiko is often referred to as the perfect support by his teammates, both in and out of battle.

Jiejie

At only twenty years old, Jiejie did what was thought to be near impossible: he defeated Canyon at the peak of Summoner's Rift using nothing but his blade and black mist. Sarcastic to the very end, he takes very few things seriously, except for his role as EDG's jungler. He is often referred to as the Third Prince of EDG.

Viper

Calm and collected, Viper serves as the marksman, or ADC, for EDG. He is often thought to be the strongest ADC in the world. Wielding five guns of moonlight as well as an inexplicable darkness, Viper strikes fast and hard, leaving his opponents no time to recover.

Teddy

Don't let his name fool you—Teddy is far from a pushover. A master of acrobatics and stealth magic, Teddy uses his crossbow to dispatch enemies with ease. He acts playfully for the most part, but never fails to be serious when the situation demands it.

Bjergsen

Bjergsen's years-long career came to a sudden halt in 2020, when a tragic accident resulted in the disappearance and presumed death of him and two of his teammates. However, it didn't take long for the star mid laner to literally turn back time, bringing himself back to life with the help of his enchanted pocket watch. Bjergsen: 1, Death: 0.

Spica

One of the only two surviving members of TSM 2020, Spica was the only one to remain with the team for next year. His control over shadows and mastery of the scythe help him to be one of the best junglers in all of North America, all without winning a single battle internationally.

Doublelift

The veteran Summoner known as Doublelift is the only member of TSM 2020 still missing as of 2022. His gun, which he designed and built himself, serves as an inspiration to a new generation of Summoners and rests at the foot of his monument in Los Angeles. At the feet of his statue lies an engraving of his most famous quote: "Everyone else is trash."

Keria

Although he's rather short and clumsy outside of battle, Keria is a force to be reckoned with. He is one of the few people in the world capable of adapting mostly defensive water magic to be able to heal. Many people consider him to be the best support in the world.

Gumayusi

With his support Keria at his side, there's (almost) nothing that Gumayusi can't do. His confidence is legendary in every region along with his sheer skill. Wielding a gun similar to Doublelift's, Gumayusi uses nets, traps and his near-perfect aim to secure a victory for his team.

Jojopyun

Jojopyun is the youngest Summoner to ever be crowned as a champion of North America at only 17 years old. He discovered his powers while streaming Fortnite on Twitch, accidentally cloning himself. Within 24 hours, he became an internet celebrity and was picked up by Evil Geniuses not long after that.

Danny

Danny is often regarded as one of the most promising talents North America has to offer. He carries a powerful secret: he is one of the first Summoners with his special brand of lightning magic, which he hopes to conceal from the world in order to have an advantage when he's ready to conquer it.

Ghost

It took him years of hard work and countless failures before he reached the top of the Summoner's Rift and achieved his dream. Ghost hides his face behind a mask and rarely speaks out loud, preferring to use his magic when possible. Although he seems incredibly cold, his teammates insist that he's a very different person when the mask is off.

Razork

With the power to summon both ice and lightning, Razork balances both to create a unique fighting style. He's full of energy and always has a joke or two at the ready no matter the situation. Although he's one of the best Summoners in Europe, he has yet to make a name for himself internationally.

Vulcan

Veteran Summoner and highly skilled support, Vulcan helps to lead the way for his young teammates in EG. He fights by controlling water, and, on very rare occasions, using his unnaturally long tongue. (Demonic deals have their side effects.)

Jankos

Although he's a world-class jungler, Jankos is best known for his tendencies to scream, make jokes, miss spears and flirt with his teammates. Famously lost to Canyon despite sharing the same powers and having beaten him last year. He works hard to lead his team to victory, one "zoning" spear at a time.

Rekkles

Handsome and outgoing, Rekkles is the golden boy of the European league—which makes it a surprise that he was rejected from all ten major guilds in 2022. He fought for Fnatic for nearly seven years before joining G2. Despite the high hopes for the new G2, he and his team ended up at the rank corresponding to his favorite number: fourth.

Biofrost

After TSM 2020's run on the Summoner's Rift ended in tragedy, Biofrost was thought to be dead. Although Bjergsen soon returned from death, it would take much longer for Biofrost to reappear in the land of the living. No one knows where he was, exactly, but there's new shadows to weigh him down no matter how bright his light shines.

Faker

Known as the Unkillable Demon King, Faker's very presence is enough to shake the heavens. There are very few people, living or dead, that are capable of matching Faker. He wields shadows like an extension of himself, bringing a swift defeat to his enemies with his razor-sharp blades. Faker is no normal Summoner—with the power accumulated from his three championship wishes, he is the closest thing to a god.

[judedeluca]

Jude's 33rd Birthday Wishlist Wishtravaganza

It's the most wonderful time of the year. My birthday.

I've been so busy this past year with my work and my writing, and with so much I have to do this month in regards to my career and the holidays I wasn't able to really think much about this so I stuck with mostly my usual faves and a couple of new ones.

So if anyone wants to write or draw something for me for the most important day of the year, by all means. I'll have a kink one later, but right now I also have to work on holiday fic prompts for people.

For those interested in doing anything WG or BBM related for me, I'm just reusing the list from last year. I realized I've been making practically the same list every year and that's a waste of energy on my end.

(https://judedeluca.tumblr.com/post/701977512921759744/judes-32nd-birthday-wishlist-the-bbm-version)

Arsenal Family: Roy Harper and his daughter Lian, alongside Lian's half-brother Tommy Blake Jr. adopted into the family. A concept that was never included in the comics proper because Roy and Lian never found out about Tommy.

Berzerker (X-Men Evolution): Ray Crisp, an updated version of one of the Morlocks added to the Xavier Institute as one of the New Mutants. He was said to be a hothead, but aside from a briefly seen rivalry with Sunspot, was admittedly rather mellow. He was implied to have a past with Evo's version of the Morlocks.

Black Orchid (Justice League): A human/plant hybrid created from the DNA of Susan Thorne. She was the last surviving Orchid after Carl Thorne slaughtered the rest. Taking the name "Suzy," she went off with her older sister Flora. After going on various misadventures of her own, Suzy grew and eventually took the Black Orchid name when Flora was killed for trying to wipe out humanity.

Bolt (Teen Titans Academy): An indigenous Australian speedster who lost her legs due to the actions of her criminal parents. Amanda Waller got her into the United States and a pair of prosthetic legs, but Alinta refused to comply when Waller demanded she act as her soldier. Was last seen as a member of the short-lived Teen Titans Academy, but hasn't appeared since.

Catholic Girl (Xombi): As her name indicates, Catholic Girl is a Catholic school girl who also happens to be a superhero. She generates light and energy, force fields, and can fly. She's a sidekick to the telepathic Nun of the Above and a friend to Xombi.

Coagula (Doom Patrol): Kate Godwin, a transgender woman with the ability to generate energy capable of coagulating and dissolving substances. Joined the Doom Patrol after defeating the Codpiece, becoming a sisterly figure to Dorothy Spinner and entering into an emotional relationship with Robotman.

Dark Angel (Wonder Woman): A demonic witch obsessed with making Donna Troy as utterly miserable as possible. She initially served as the Anti-Monitor's Harbinger, but overcame his control and fled into the Multiverse. Has fought Wonder Woman, the Justice Society, and the Titans on various occasions.

Erina Goldsmith (Variable Geo): A Japanese-American woman who spent years being bullied for her mixed heritage. She now owns and operates a restaurant called The Rival, where she and her staff dress as Playboy Bunnies. She uses a cigarette lighter to focus her energy, and keeps her tucked between her bust while fighting.

Forte Drums (Sleepless Domain): Debbie, the drummer of Team Forte. She's the cute one with the bowtie, thinks she can get away with anything. She's notoriously ranked lowest on popularity charts in the past, but she's the most popular in my heart.

Foxfire (Squadron Supreme): A criminal with the ability to create a bioluminescent energy capable of rotting anything, Olivia Underwood was brainwashed into becoming a superhero by the Squadron Supreme. The brainwashing was eventually undone, but Olivia couldn't bring herself to betray the Squadron because she'd fallen in love with Doc Spectrum and liked being a hero. She was stabbed in the back by the Mink after killing Nighthawk.

Harry and Alex Altman (Goosebumps #45: Ghost Camp): Brothers spending the summer at rustic Camp Spirit Moon. They're disturbed by the various "pranks" the veteran campers like to pull due to how violent they are. It takes a while before they discover the camp's dark secret...

Hourman III (Justice Society of America): Matthew Tyler, a robotic inheritor of the Hourman created in the 853rd Century. He travelled back in time and became a member of both the Justice League and the Justice Society. He lived with former JLA sidekick Snapper Carr to better learn about himself and humanity.

Hypnotia (Iron Man: The Animated Series): A villainess with hypnotic abilities who worked under the Mandarin. Among his entourage of lackeys, Hypnotia was the only one with any degree of competency and had the respect of her boss. Dreadknight and Blacklash often fought for her attention, while she was infatuated with Tony Stark.

Kim/Taurus (Zodiac Starforce): One of the most recent recruits of the new version of Zodiac Starforce. Kim's the sturdiest and most physical member of the team and actively enjoys fighting evil. She's in a committed relationship with her boyfriend Josh, which her teammates find either adorable (Savannah, Lily) or nauseating (Molly). Her dream's to be a pro wrestler.

Joker’s Daughter (Batman): Duela Dent's a confused young woman who flips between good and evil depending on how she feels. She introduced herself to Robin and Batgirl by pulling off a series of "crimes" under several different guises in order to demonstrate her skills to join the Teen Titans. Though she's claimed to be both Joker's daughter and Two-Face's daughter, the truth's more complicated thanks to extensive mental trauma she's suffered over the years.

La Pucelle (Magical Girl Raising Project): A magical girl whose real name is Souta Kishibe. Souta's always been a fan of magical girl stories but kept his hobby a secret from most. One day he was blessed with power by the mobile game Magical Girl Raising Project, gaining the ability to transfer into a female form and wielding a sword that can grow bigger or smaller at his command. As La Pucelle, he fights alongside his childhood best friend Koyuki, a.k.a. Snow White.

Oursonette (War Bears): A 1940s comic book heroine created by Alain "Al" Zurakowski, a werebear who aided the Canadian army during WWII.

Purple Tigress (Fox Comics): A minor Golden Age comic book heroine who only made two appearances in printed media before falling into the public domain. Heiress Anita "Ann" Morgan has eyes like a cat and dresses herself up as "her jungle namesake." Somehow no one recognizes her as the Purple Tigress despite her never wearing a mask.

Radietta Fanbelt/White Racer (Carranger): A young woman from another planet who fancies herself the biggest fan of the Carrangers, to the point she styles herself as their hypothetical sixth member, White Racer.

Rainbow Girl (Legion of Super-Heroes): A heroine rejected from the Legion of Super-Heroes, she later joined the Legion of Substitute-Heroes. She taps into the Emotional Spectrum, but her lack of control means she suffers from erratic moodswings.

Sailor Jupiter (Sailor Moon): Do I even have to say anything?

Serena del Mar (Wave Race: Blue Storm): My favorite, go-to racer from the Wave Race franchise.

Softkore (Local Man): A member of the extreme antihero team Third Gen. Softkore was a former R&B singer before her bod was coated in an experimental polymer.

Supergirl (Mae/Linda): Matrix was an artificial being from an alternate world. As she struggled to understand if she was human in any sense, she didn't hesitate to sacrifice her life to save a young woman named Linda Danvers. The two became merged, and due to Mae's sacrifice they gained new powers as an earth-born angel.

Talon (Spider-Man: The New Animated Series): An heiress named Cheyanne led a double life as the thrillseeking Talon, a thief who enjoyed stealing things which had sentimental value for their owners. In her civilian life she was slowly becoming a good friend to Harry Osborn and Mary Jane Watson, while as Talon her hatred of Spider-Man's patronizing attitude grew.

Tiara (Shamanic Princess): One of the earlier dark magical girls of the 1990s from the six episode OVA series Shamanic Princess. Tiara's a warrior from the Guardian World sent to retrieve its source of power, the Throne of Yord. With her new familiar Japolo, Tiara finds herself up against familiar faces as she realizes the struggle she's in is more complex than she assumed. She wants to do the right thing, but what IS the right thing?

Tormenta (Mahoney’s): A demonic sorceress connected to the Ebon Realms and a regular at Mahoney's bar for supervillains.

Fun fact, my interest in the character sparked Rich Carrington and Brian S. Dawson to use her more.

Tsumugi Wakana (Magia Record): A magical girl who loves enjoying good food and supporting good cooks. She made her wish for the sake of better supporting Manaka Kurumi, another magical girl who is also a talented chef. Tsumugi's wish gave her refined taste buds, allowing her to write deeper critiques by picking up on subtle distinctions in every meal she samples. Her weapons are a trident which splits apart to form a giant knife and fork.

Vickie Wheilson (Graveyard School): Vickie Wheilson, the neon-colored second top boardhead of Graveyard School alongside her more serious cousin Skate McGraw as THE skateboarder.

Wakaba Shinohara (Revolutionary Girl Utena): She is all that is good in the world.

[greywoodrpg]

𝕣𝕒𝕗𝕒𝕖𝕝 𝕣𝕖𝕪𝕖𝕤

he was born thirty years ago, is a witch, lives in white oaks as a mechanic at bolt's auto repair shop, and is in no coven. he looks an awful lot like ryan guzman.

"My hands are not clean, and maybe they never will be, but they can still carry you home when you’re ready to sleep."

tw: alcoholism, death mention, implied neglect

if you asked rafael reyes about his past, his life before greywood, before his son, he’d simply say he’d had humble beginnings, that there really wasn’t much to tell. of course, everyone has a story, and rafael is no different. his story started in the south side of chicago, where he grew up in the shadows of his father’s struggles, in an improverished neighborhood where people like his dear old dad were the norm. his childhood was marked by the clinking sounds of wrenches in his dad’s small auto repair shop and the lingering smell of motor oil that permeated their cramped apartment. his father, a skilled mechanic yet troubled man, battled demons in the form of alcoholism and grief that cast a dark cloud over his family.

as rafael matured, his resentment toward his father and the man’s vices fueled a burning desire within him to break free from his family’s cycle of poverty and despair. he refused to let his mother’s death, one caused by the birth of his younger sister, turn him into his dad. instead, fueling his frustrations into determination, rafael found solace and purpose within the confines of a boxing gym. under the watchful eye of a seasoned coach, a man more like a father to him than his own flesh and blood, he honed his skills and quickly rose through the ranks of the local boxing scene.

rafael's tenacity and raw talent eventually caught the attention of promoters, and he began to make a name for himself in the ring. as he’d just begun to ascend into stardom, promising a breakthrough onto the national stage, life threw an unexpected curveball at him. in the midst of his blossoming boxing career, rafael discovered that he was a father. the woman had been someone he’d hardly knew, a glorified hookup he’d only been with a few times. when she showed up, a newborn in her arms and a simple “he’s yours.”, rafael’s life was irrevocably changed forever.

facing a choice between his dreams and newfound responsibilities, rafael made what he felt was the only decision he could make, to put family first. the mother of his son dropped him off that day, seemingly uninterested in being in her child’s life. simply stating, even if rafael didn’t understand, she just couldn’t be. unwilling to commit to the world of boxing with a new son who needed him around, rafael gave up on his dreams and began working as a mechanic at his dad’s old shop, just as his father had before him.

while it wasn’t exactly what rafi had wanted for himself, for his life or even his family, having wanted better, and having wanted to get away from the shambles that was his family, working at the shop paid the bills and gave him more than enough time to spend with his son, jaime. time he wouldn’t have traded for all the money and fame in the world, thus rafael conceded, and remained working for his dad. he continued working there, in the shitty little shop in south side, until his father fell sick. once the old man had croaked, how rafael would so affectionately put it, the shop was now in raf’s hands.

really, he was sure he’d have spent the rest of his days there, working his fingers to the bone to give his son a good life — but when his son began to get older, as he started to grow, things started to change. his son started to change. doctor’s couldn’t explain the changes, and on a whim, his mother having been a spiritual woman herself, he took jaime to see his maternal grandmother, a known herbal healer. unlike the doctor’s of traditional medicine, his grandma knew exactly what was going on, and this was rafael’s first introduction to the supernatural.

his grandma, just like his mom, was a witch, unbeknowest to raf, and even rafi’s father. it took rafi time to believe, and a lot of explaining on his abeula’s end, but eventually it all made sense. jaime was a werewolf. it did explain the strange symptoms, the changes, even the attitude issues — perhaps this was why jaime’s mother had been so quick to run. maybe she thought, in someway, the child would have a chance to be a normal kid without her; and not be exposed to her world. unknowingly, however, she left her son who was just like her behind with a man who, despite his heritage, knew nothing of the world his son was growing to be a part of.

his grandma is who told rafi about greywood, too, a town in colorado filled with people like his son, people like him, and even some other creatures rafael had heard about in scary stories as a kid. knowing he’d be unable to help jaime on his own when the real changes started as he got even older, rafael sold the family shop and used the money to take the move to colorado. to greywood. he’d hoped here, when jaime began to mature and hit puberty in a few years, at least he’d have a community of his own to help him through it. and who knows? maybe rafael could learn more of his family’s own blood amongst the witches in greywood.

still deciding to embrace the family trade, rafael began working at bolt’s auto repair shop. and even if he’d pictured a different life, one filled with fans screaming his name and wins in the ring, he still found fulfillment in grease-stained hands and the whirring sounds of engines, and even more so, in jaime. plus, greywood’s atmosphere provided a much more nurturing environment for his son than south side eve had, and in all they’d been through together, rafael and jaime had built an unbreakable familial bond between father and son. on nights when rafael thinks of his old dreams, he’s sure now that nothing could match up to morning’s spent eating cereal and looking at his son’s smile. nothing.

“what power did he attain when settling in greywood?”

aside from aquiring the knowledge of the witch blood running through his veins just before his move to greywood, and his own potential to learn magic, he knows nothing of it and is entirely untrained, upon actually entering greywood, he also found he’d gained extra strength. he himself wouldn’t call it super strength, he isn’t inhumanly powerful really, but he’s stronger than he even was at his peak in his boxing career.

penned by... meg

[foreveralwaysanauthor]

Scattered Screams (Part 11/12)

March 5, 2023

Notes - Should I be posting this when I'm only 14 pages into the last part and nowhere near the end? No, but I know just how long it's going to take me to finish, so I'm giving this to you now in the hopes that it'll keep you going for the time being.

No matter what happens, you keep finding something to fight for.

Our eighth day in the arena is dark and dreary. Thick clouds cover the once-blue sky, casting everything in a dark gray haze. Heavy rain pelts the exposed decks of the ship and wind whips against the windows of the library enough that we hear them rattle more than once during breakfast. For safety, Riven has us move away from the windows for most of the day, keeping us between the rows of bookshelves leading to the secret passageway just in case we need to climb in there until the storm blows over. We stick together for the day, reading, eating, and resting between the mountains of books and nestled in a pile of blankets and pillows that we’ve dragged to our resting place. 

We wander the rest of the deck after lunch just to stretch our legs and make sure we clear out any potential supplies from the other locations on the deck, but even then, we stay fairly close to each other. Since our trip to the wheelhouse, Decks 11 through 13 have been dark, leading me to think that either the Gamemakers don’t care enough to turn the lights back on or we caused some serious damage up there that they can’t fix. Regardless of the reason, the darkness allows us to roam the halls without any trouble since the other tributes have begun avoiding the area. The only ones still around are probably Erica, Jade, and Lexi since they’ve holed up in the theatre, but after they took out three Careers in that area, I’m unsure if they moved to a new base of operations.

When we return to the library for dinner, we bring with us some supplies we took from a restaurant freezer and prepare for a rough night on the seas. The storm shows no signs of stopping - if anything, it looks worse - and it takes a while to adjust to the mild rocking of the ship as the waves increase. The first bolt of lightning flashes across the sky after dinner is finished and Riven is wrapping my hand in some ointment, gauze, and a bandage. We all jump as the lightning illuminates the room, but I feel Royce’s grip on my free hand tighten as thunder rumbles overhead, echoing through the ship’s corridors. I watch his expression quickly switch from panic to stoic as he swallows thickly, but I don’t push him for answers as he turns back to me with a reassuring smile.

I’m almost sure Riven saw Royce’s expression change too, yet it seems that neither of us has it in us to ask him what’s wrong. If he feels like telling us, he will. Once my hand is wrapped for the night, Riven pries Romeo and Juliet from Royce, whose hands are shaking so badly I doubt he would be able to see a word on the pages. Riven opens the book where we left off and tells us to get comfortable since, even though he may not be the best narrator, he plans on reading until either the storm stops or we fall asleep. I turn to Royce who doesn’t seem upset with the idea and we settle into our sleeping bags next to each other, resting on our stomachs as Riven begins reading to us.

Hours tick by with the storm showing no signs of stopping, but I suppose that’s exactly what the Gamemakers want. They must have noticed Royce’s unease with the storm and chose to prolong it to set him on edge. Thankfully, Riven’s reading is enough to lull Royce into some form of sleep even though the thunder and lightning surrounding us haven’t lessened in the slightest. Once Royce is out, I reach over and tap Riven’s leg, pointing out our slumbering friend, and he tucks the bookmark into place and sets the book aside for the night. 

He and I sit in relative silence, listening to the rain patter against the windows and watching the lightning illuminate the room, but Riven hardly ever sits still and I watch as he scours the shelves nearby for something to read on his own. After a few minutes, he settles down with a book and I roll onto my back to stare up at the vaulted ceilings while he busies himself with reading. I hear Riven snicker softly to himself a few times before he softly nudges my arm and whispers, “Hey, Pip?”

I turn toward Riven, meet his gaze, and whisper, “Yeah?”

“What did the mermaid wear to her math class?”

My eyebrow raises as I send him a look, “What are you talking about?”

“It’s a joke,” Riven claims with a sigh, holding up the book he had been flipping through. “Now, come on. What did the mermaid wear to math class?”

“Not a clue,” I grin.

“An algae bra!” he softly exclaims, a beaming smile spreading across his face as he takes in my reaction.

I try to suppress what laughter bubbles through me so Royce doesn’t wake up because of us as I quickly snatch the book from Riven and try to find a joke to tell him. I flip through a couple of pages before reading, “A moon rock tastes better than an earth rock because it's… meteor.”

Riven shakes his head with a chuckle, “That was dumb.”

“So was yours,” I argue lightly, hitting his leg with the book before handing it back to him.

“Yeah, it was,” he smirks. “But you laughed.”

I roll my eyes, “Yeah, but only because I feel like I’m losing my sanity being stuck in the arena with you.”

“You say that like you had any sanity in the first place,” Riven scoffs.

“Fair enough,” I chuckle as I lay back down “Are you going to get some sleep now?”

“Maybe in a little while,” he shrugs. “Get some sleep, Pip.”

I scoff, tugging the covers up over my shoulder and holding them close, “I’m not even tired.”

“Mhm,” Riven hums sarcastically. 

After what feels like only a few minutes have passed, I wake up to soft voices muttering words I can’t understand and something sizzling nearby, the sounds of crackling lightning and rumbling thunder long gone. It takes a nudge to my spine to make me move from my spot, but as I roll to my other side, I find Riven smirking at me while Royce tends to the small grill. “What happened to not being tired?” he teases.

“Fuck off,” I grumble out as I slowly force myself to sit up.

“Good morning to you too, sunshine,” Riven chuckles as he leans back against a bookcase.

Sending Riven a hearty glare, I question, “How are you so perky? You’re not a morning person.”

“I’m not,” he agrees, “but we got coffee from that shop yesterday, remember? I’m riding that caffeine high for as long as I can.”

“He left you some,” Royce adds as I join them. 

“You don’t want any, Royce?” I ask.

“I don’t drink coffee.”

“Not a hot bean drinker?” Riven teases.

Royce shakes his head, “I’m more of a hot leaf drinker. I’ll take tea over coffee any day.”

 I smile, “I enjoy both, but mornings require coffee.”

Riven makes a face as he pours me some coffee from the percolator he set next to the grill, “I will never understand the appeal of drinking hot, wet leaves.”

“You just have no taste,” I say with a roll of my eyes. I down a few cups as Royce and Riven debate the ins and outs of their morning liquids. Once breakfast is handed to me and things calm down a bit, I ask, “Any plans for today?”

Royce shakes his head, “Not that I know of.”

“Why don’t we visit our neighbors?” Riven offers. “We haven’t seen the girls in the theatre since we helped them from the wheelhouse.”

“Maybe we could trade supplies with them,” I suggest. “If they’re low on things after the fight with the careers, we could help them out.”

Royce looks between the two of us before shrugging, “I guess it could be nice to check in on them.”

We decide to head out after breakfast to see how the others are holding out. Riven helps me and Royce pack all of our things together after we’re done eating and we make sure everything else in the library are either things we deem non-essential or have been tucked into secure locations before making our way through the tunnels to the far side of the ship. We emerge from a large frame on the wall that I soon discover is an advertisement for a show performance that I doubt we’ll ever see. Riven leads us through the hallway we come into and we soon find ourselves standing at the edge of the theatre, looking down from the mezzanine to the stage and rows of seats below. It looks much like the Convention Center back home, only much larger. Since the ship could probably host a multitude of the Capitol’s finest pricks and their families, I suppose it’s only natural that the theatre would seat a majority of them.

Before Royce and I can make a move toward the stairs to get to the main floor, Riven stops us and quietly reminds us that the girls told us they had set up traps and that we have no idea where those traps could be. With a nod, I follow him and Royce over to the railing where we begin scanning the area, looking for the girls. The only one in sight is Lexi who is perched on the side of the stage, wrapping a bandage around her knee. Her neon pink shorts and matching swimsuit top stick out against the muted colors of the theatre, making her stick out like a spotlight in the middle of a desert. Riven calls out to her and we watch her jump, reaching for the only weapon nearby - an axe. She rises to her feet and looks around, dark eyes scanning the theatre until they finally land on us and we wave to her. Instead of simply coming off the stage and coming to show us the way, Lexi tells us to wait where we are and disappears behind the stage curtains. 

We don’t see or hear anything until she returns a few minutes later with Erica and Jade who seem excited to see us. One would think that, with only eight people left in the arena, they would be worried about having us around or be willing to drop our truce in order to win, but instead Lexi watches from the stage as Erica and Jade make their way to us and lead us back to the stage without setting off any traps. Erica excitedly tells us all about how our warning really helped them prepare for the fight and how they managed to take the Careers out fairly quickly and with little blood. Jade mentions that they tried to ask us to put the power back on, but when we didn’t respond, they assumed we had left whatever place we had been in. Riven explains the wheelhouse to them and how it burned, showing them my hand as evidence that the room no longer functions. While they seem upset about not having a place to observe the other tributes, they appear more worried about how we made it out without more severe injuries.

As we move onto the stage, I finally see just how incredible the theatre is. A handful of private seats perch high on the walls, presumably there for the upper echelon of the Capitol’s citizens. Considering I didn’t see a way to get to those private rooms, I assume they must only be reached through private halls away from the lower class of passengers. On the floor, rows upon rows of velvet chairs span further than I can see. Even though I presume the seating in the private rooms must be comfortable, I would probably find those thickly cushioned chairs just as comforting. High above where the audience will someday sit, three large rings span the ceiling, the innermost ring surrounding the dome-like chandelier in the center. Each ring has sections of lights that, like the rest of the decks the theatre spans, are dark. There isn’t much light at all in the theatre, but it seems as though the girls have handled the lack of lighting fairly well; flashlights shine out from the mezzanine balcony onto the stage, giving just enough light to see what is necessary.

The stage itself is quite impressive, spanning most of the back wall. Golden curtains are pulled back to show the full size of the stage, but we don’t stay out in the open for long and I have to help Lexi pull the curtains shut as the others head backstage. Most of her curly hair is pulled up into a puffy bundle on top of her head, but strands of it have come loose and she tries more than once to blow them away from her eyes as we work on the curtain. She turns to me as we stand together in the middle of the closed-off stage and asks, “How have you been?”

“I’m alright. How are you?”

“Could be better, but I’m alive for now, so I guess I shouldn’t complain.” Silence builds as we leave the stage, but before we join the others again, she asks, “So, Royce, huh?”

I stop and Lexi turns back to me with a small grin as I ask, “What about him?”

She gives me a shrug, leaning against the wall as she says, “Out of all the people to fall in love with, you fell in love with someone who could eventually kill you just to win the Games.”

“He wouldn’t do that,” I confidently claim.

“You’re not even the slightest bit unsure of that?” Lexi’s grin grows into a smile as I shake my head. “That’s good.”

“How come you care so much?” I have to ask. “Shouldn’t you be wanting me dead either way?”

“Probably,” she shrugs as she pushes herself away from the wall, “but I don’t. It’s good that you chose someone you’re sure won’t kill you even if the time comes for it. I’m glad you’re happy with him.”

Why would it matter to Lexi who I choose to love? We’re either going to live or die, what should it matter? Maybe my relationship with Royce reminds her of whoever she was talking about in her interview - a girl she liked. Maybe it gives her hope. Who am I to judge if it does? “What about you?” I ask her. Lexi turns back to me with an eyebrow raised and I reiterate, “You mentioned some girl you like. If you go back home, do you think the two of you will be happy?”

Lexi smiles, but I can see the hurt in her eyes as she says, “Even if I did go back home, it wouldn’t matter.”

“Why not?” I press.

With a sigh, Lexi turns away and answers, “Because she’s in here too.”

As Lexi walks away, I let her words sink in. She likes one of the other female tributes. Most of the people left in the arena are women - the only men of the 8 remaining tributes being Riven and Royce. Of the other six, it’s more likely to be either Erica or Jade, since she spends so much time with them, but I guess it could be almost anyone. Serena is a hard pass since Lexi has made it clear she can’t stand her. I can’t entirely rule out Lotus since I recall seeing Lexi with her a few times in training, but Lotus has stayed to herself a majority of the time spent in the arena, so it would be hard to tell. The only other options are Jade and Erica, but the two of them seem to have at least some semblance of interest in each other, so I can’t be sure. Maybe I’ll never know the answer. Regardless of who the person could be, I understand Lexi’s pain. The idea of having to hurt the person you love or, even worse, watching them die, is horrible.

With a heavy sigh, I head in the direction Lexi left, finding the others in a room with a wall of mirrors that each have lightbulbs framing them. Mattresses have been pulled from the staterooms nearby and placed on the floor for the girls to sleep on and a small plastic tarp of weapons, some sponsor parachutes, and other supplies rests under one of the mirrored counters. It seems as though this little back room has been made into their bedroom. With how far from the stage it is and how far into the Games they’ve made it by waiting in here, it seems like it was logical to stay here. By the time my presence is noticed by the room’s occupants, Riven is chatting with Lexi off to the side while Royce, Erica, and Jade pull me into their discussion about the wheelhouse.

We stay for a while, chatting about everything that’s happened since the Games began and, eventually, we even have lunch with them. After trading some of our supplies with them, we get ready to leave, only to hear a cannon blast. Jade’s hand freezes on the doorknob as the room falls silent. We wait a while, listening for any signs of movement in the vicinity, but Erica decides it must be fine as she asks, “There were only two others out there, right?”

Riven nods as Royce explains, “Serena from Four and Lotus from my district.”

“Suppose we’ll find out who it is tonight,” Jade sighs, slowly pulling the door open and leading us back to the hallway we entered through. They warn us every time we come close to one of their traps and we make it to the hallway a lot sooner than we would have if they hadn’t led the way. “Good luck, you three.”

Erica sends us each a smile as she says, “No offense, but I hope we don’t run into each other anytime soon.”

Royce and I don’t hold back our laughter, agreeing with Erica’s sentiment as Riven clears his throat and states, “Remember, be on the lookout for the girl from District 4. She is a little psychopath who is out for Vivien’s blood.”

“If we see her,” Lexi begins, “we’ll shoot on sight.”

“Thanks,” I tell her with a smile. All I get in return is a single nod before she and the others head back to the theatre. 

Once the others are out of sight, Riven leads us into the tunnel and helps me shut the poster we entered from before guiding us back to the library. Royce and I talk along the way, only stopping when we’re hushed by Riven as we approach the library. He pulls the door open and looks around before stepping out with a bewildered, “What the hell?”

Royce moves faster than I do for once and pokes his head around Riven, letting out a soft, “Holy shit.”

I wait until the boys are out of the way before stepping into the library, the door clicking shut behind me as my eyes widen in horror. Our safe haven, our library, looks more like a crime scene than a place to relax and read a book. Books have been tossed from shelves and discarded like trash, covering the floor in a carpet of torn pages. The piano hasn’t moved, but the door it blocks has been hacked away by something I can only assume was an axe. The windows near where we would sleep or eat or read now have a handwritten message on them in what looks like thick, dripping blood - “FOUND YOU BITCH.” 

Royce and I wander over to the windows as Riven examines the rest of the room. Our copy of Romeo and Juliet lies open on the table underneath the message, a dagger driven through the pages, slicing through the spine of the novel and into the table itself. I don’t have to assume who it was that did this. Lotus has been nothing but a sneaky little mouse, stealing things and running away, hiding inside the depths of the ship where nobody can find her; she wouldn’t risk chopping down a door just to steal from us and threaten us. This ferocity isn’t in her nature and Royce confirms that when I bring it up to him. The one person who wants my head on a spike is Serena and I don’t doubt this is her handiwork. 

Royce helps me pry the dagger from the book and table, slotting the blade into his belt for safekeeping as I examine the book. The spine of the hardcover book bows outward - some of it no doubt embedded in the wooden table at this point - and the pages form a gaping entry wound that renders the book illegible. My finger traces the now useless pages of the novel we had been reading as Royce brings a hand to my back.

“Are you alright?” he softly asks.

I shake my head, “Serena knew we were here. She could have killed us if we hadn’t left earlier.”

He looks ready to say something, but Riven beats him to the chase, “I don’t think she knew about us being here before today.”

I turn to Royce and we both find Riven’s gaze with confusion. “What do you mean?” I ask.

Riven glances back over his shoulder and shakes his head at us, “I think Serena forced the other girl to show us where we were or she would kill her.”

“How can you tell?” Royce asks. 

With a sigh, Riven hesitantly admits, “There are large pools of blood in the hallway.”

I turn to Royce, watching his eyes widen before he takes off for the door. Riven tries to stop him, but Royce tugs himself free and I follow him to the door Riven has freed from the piano’s hold. What’s left of the door has been pushed out of the way and a metallic smell hits me as I step into the doorway next to Royce. Crimson covers the once-pristine hallway, pooling into the rug, settling on the white walls, and gleaming off of the linoleum floors as the sunset beams in from the nearby windows. A majority of the thick blood is spread between the wall opposite the library and the floor, but a single, five-letter word has been painted in blood on the wall above where we can only assume Lotus took her last breath - sorry.

Maybe Riven was right and Lotus had no choice. I wouldn’t be surprised if she knew we were staying in the library. We didn’t exactly move around a lot like I bet she had to. It would have been easy for Lotus to simply come in and kill us if she wanted to, but she didn’t. Maybe she was hoping to try a tactic some girl from District 6 successfully tried a few years ago - live to the end and only kill one person. I guess her plan didn’t go the way she had hoped. I have to wonder if Serena found Lotus’ little hideout and threatened her. Maybe she was promised food or supplies in exchange for telling Serena where we were. When we weren’t there for Serena to kill, she took the easiest available option - kill the snitch.

Royce backs away from the doorway and I hear the choked breath he lets out as Riven pulls him in for a hug, guiding him away from the doorway as I follow behind them. I can’t imagine how he must be feeling. The fear of being discovered, the knowledge that Lotus died because of us, and the dread of knowing the blood-soaked hallway is someone he knew from home. Royce’s statement from what feels like forever ago rings in my head; Lotus told him that she felt like she had a chance at winning before Royce was reaped. I don’t doubt that same statement is pulsing in Royce’s mind, sending guilt crashing over him like a heavy wave. The pain of everything must be hurting him.

Royce allows Riven to push him to sit on a couch facing away from the door and wraps his arms around his knees as he brings them to his chest. I wrap my arms around Royce as Riven takes his other side and places a hand on Royce’s back. Neither of us can quite understand that pain and we both know this. Mick died and came back to life last year and, other than that, we have no knowledge of how this feels. We can’t comfort him properly if we have no way to know just how he’s feeling, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Well, it doesn’t seem like he does, at least. Royce is rigid in my grasp, unmoving as he steadies his breathing and leans out of my arms.

Royce takes in a deep, shaky breath, slowly uncurls himself from the tight ball he wrapped himself into, and glances between me and Riven before suggesting, “Maybe you two should go off on your own.”

“What?” I breathe. “No.”

He meets my eyes for a fleeting moment before staring toward the graffitied window and saying, “You two can win without me.”

“We’re not leaving you, Royce,” Riven promises.

“I’m the weakest link in this group,” Royce shrugs. “If we split up and Serena finds me, she’ll make me tell her where you are and will kill me off just like she did Lotus when I don’t tell her where you are. That would help you two win.”

“Would you let me give myself up like that?” I ask, already sure of the answer. Royce shakes his head, looking ready to say something as I tell him, “Then we’re not about to let you do it either. Besides, it’s me that she’s after; if we all split up now, she’ll just kill me and be on her merry way to victory.”

Riven quickly gains Royce’s attention by adding, “That means she and I need you to help keep her safe.”

Royce scoffs, “You’re a walking tank, Riven. You don’t need me.”

Before Riven gets the chance to argue, I take Royce’s hand in mine and softly say, “But I do.”

Royce meets my gaze and I watch his guarded expression soften as he lightly squeezes my hand. His determination to part from us is crumbling and I can see his resolve melting away as Riven gently tells him, “And I want to keep you safe, whether you like it or not.”

Chocolate eyes slide closed as Royce sucks in a sharp breath, turns to Riven, and asks, “Why?”

“Even if Vivien didn’t need you around,” Riven slowly begins, a serious tone making his words feel that much more truthful, “I would want to protect you. We’re all in the same shitty situation, kid, and you deserve to live just as much as we do.”

It seems as though Riven’s statement and my small confession get through to Royce, making him realize just how sincere we’ve been about this whole thing. Neither of us has been trying to pull the wool over each other’s eyes; we’ve been entirely genuine in wanting to keep each other and him as safe as we possibly can and as he lets out a shaky breath, I realize that Royce is only just coming to understand this. No longer are we potential threats. Perhaps now he realizes that, even if it comes down to the three of us, we won’t make that choice. Riven and I knew that we wouldn’t hurt each other a long time ago, but by the looks of things, this is Royce’s first time coming to that realization.

After talking things over with Royce, we gather our things, Riven leads us back into the passageway, and we make our way up a floor to Deck 12. According to the boys, Deck 12 is host to an array of large cabins and the ship’s medical center, making it the perfect place for us to bunk for the night. We don’t explore too much before bunkering down since the boys cleared most of the deck before, but we take extra time going through the medical supplies and taking things just in case. The medical center takes up most of the hallway space and, since the ladder leads us right into that room, it gives us easy access to supplies and a clear escape route if need be. Once we’ve bundled our supplies into a sheet from a gurney on the far wall, Riven allows Royce to lead us to one of the largest cabins on the deck - the Family Villa Suite.

Unlike the room I spent my first night alone in, the suite has two large beds in two separate rooms, a living room, and two private bathrooms. While I take time making sure the only way into the room is barricaded, Riven gets to work on dinner and Royce helps me pile stuff by the doorway. Once I feel confident enough in our security measures, I turn to Royce and sigh, “I think that should do for now.”

Royce smiles and nods, “Looks good to me.”

Before he can head down the hall to the living area, I pull Royce into a hug and mutter, “I’m sorry about Lotus.”

His arms come around my middle and I feel him relax as he says, “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I still feel bad,” I tell him as we slowly pull apart.

“You don’t need to.”

“But she was your friend, Royce.”

“I only really knew her because I went to school with her younger brother,” Royce admits, “but I know she worked her ass off to help her family, so I can only imagine how hard this is hitting them.”

“Maybe, when we win, we can donate some money to them,” I suggest. “It would help them get things in order in the meantime.”

A flicker of something flashes across Royce’s features before disappearing nearly as quickly as it arrived. However, instead of speaking his mind, he smiles and nods, “I would love that.”

Not giving me the chance to question him, Royce takes me by the hand and leads me to the living room where Riven has begun grilling some fish we traded the girls some bread for. The living room is cozy, but not nearly as cozy as our library’s various couches had been. The area consists of a small, two-person loveseat and a few single chairs which is more than enough for us, but I think we all miss the idea of sitting around the table or on the floor and eating together. In the end, we move the grill off of the coffee table and sit around it, chatting softly so as to not risk being overheard by anyone nearby.

The death recap plays long after we’re done eating, but the three of us watch through the window in silence for Lotus as her photograph and district shine against the inky, starless sky. Once the anthem is done playing and Lotus’ picture disappears, Royce sighs and tells us what little he knows about Lotus. Riven and I listen to him ramble about Lotus’ family and life back in District 6 for a long time before he slowly settles into the silence of the room. Riven encourages us to read something to relax before bed, but with the dagger holes marring our copy of Romeo and Juliet, we explain to him that we don’t have many available options. 

To both of our surprise, Riven hauls his backpack onto his lap and digs through the largest pouch before tugging out a set of books that he pulled from the library’s shelves before we left. “It’s no Romeo and Juliet,” he sighs as he places the books on the table, “but those were some of the books you two had set aside, so I wanted to make sure you got the chance to read some of them.”

The Outsiders, Gone With The Wind, The Fault in Our Stars, and Harry Potter are laid out for the taking, but I realize Riven is still holding onto a book that he places on the floor next to his leg. With a raised eyebrow, I lean around the table, trying to sneak a peek at the book he’s keeping to himself, “What are you reading?”

Riven beams, looking far too pleased with himself as he holds up the book and declares, “No Pun Intended.”

A chuckle leaves me as I roll my eyes, “Of course, you kept the stupid joke book.”

“Well, I couldn’t leave it for that psychotic little hobgoblin to take!” Riven proclaims. “Who knows what she would have done with it.”

“She probably would’ve used it for kindling or something,” I shrug. “You know, like it was intended to be used for.”

“Take that back, you little shit.” Riven gasps, every bit the dramatic idiot he is. “Will Livingston’s writing is a work of art.”

“Who is Will Livingston?” Royce questions.

I turn to him and smirk, “Probably whoever wrote the dumb pun book.”

Riven scoffs, “You just don’t have a sense of humor, Pip.”

My eyes find Riven’s and I find a mischievous gleam practically glowing in them - a silent challenge for me to find something funny about his little jokebook. “Oh, yeah?” Riven nods, not one to back down from a challenge easily. “Alright, buddy boy. Find one joke in that book that isn’t entirely shitty.”

Riven schools his expression as he sets the book aside and asks, “Did you know diarrhea is hereditary?”

Confusion floods my brain, sending my train of thought to a screeching halt as it flips off the rails. Where on earth did that question come from? What does this have to do with the joke book? I turn to Royce and find him looking just as lost as I feel. He and I share confused shrugs before I turn my attention back to Riven and ask, “What?”

Riven nods, a look of seriousness crossing his face as he says, “Yeah, it runs in your genes.”

It takes me a moment to catch on to what he’s said, but once I do, I close my eyes, roll them, and let out a soft chuckle as I turn my gaze back to Riven. Royce lets out an airy laugh as he and I watch Riven’s stoic expression melt into a proud, lopsided grin. Riven lets out a childish giggle as I clear my throat and sigh, “That was so fucking stupid.”

“You laughed, motherfucker!” Riven laughs.

“I did not!” I argue.

“Yeah, you did,” Royce adds, taking Riven’s side on the matter which earns him a high-five from my favorite traitor.

“You two are assholes,” I chuckle.

“Shitty ones,” Riven agrees with a nod.

A brief silence fills the stateroom as we share quick glances at each other, however, as our smiles broaden and our shoulders begin to shake, our silence shatters into oblivion and laughter fills the space. We spend a long time working our way back to silence, our childlike giggles reigniting every time we lock eyes with each other. Once we finally calm down enough, Royce picks a novel from the pile and begins spinning the story for us as I rest my head on his shoulder, following along to the words as he reads them aloud for me and Riven. Light raindrops patter against the windows as Royce reads, adding a sense of serenity we didn’t know was missing. Perhaps the rain is symbolic of us washing away the stress of the day and showing us that tomorrow will be a better day - a day to start fresh on our new deck and come up with a plan to handle the next few days. After a while, Riven tells us that we should get some rest while we can and tries to usher us off to the bedrooms, but I insist that I want to watch the rain for a while, so he wishes me a good night and kisses the top of my head before disappearing into the room closest to the front door.

Royce stays with me until I push for him to go get some rest, his yawns getting harder and harder to fight as time goes by. I press a kiss to his cheek before wishing him a good night and watching him disappear into the only bedroom left. Turning back to the window, I stare out at the endless ocean, watching the rain patter against the softly lapping waves that presumably brush the lower decks of the ship. I haven’t seen any of the decks lower than Deck 8, but I have no real desire to see them either. 

I don’t realize the sound of the rain and waves have lulled me to sleep until I jolt awake with my head pressed against the glass, the faint memory of falling from some high, invisible location fades into a distant part of my mind as I rouse from my slumber. A yawn tugs me toward sleep like a small child pulling their parent to the toy section of a store, dragging me from the windowsill seat I’ve perched myself on, and urging me to sleep somewhere I won’t be uncomfortable in. My first choice is to climb into the blankets in Riven’s room, knowing he wouldn’t fight me joining him if I needed to, but the loud snores I hear through his bedroom door encourage me to try the other room instead. Royce only takes up a small sliver of the bed I find him on, curled on his side with the blankets tucked under one of his arms. At first, I think my attempts at joining him will be easy, yet as I inch under the comforter and move further onto the mattress, Royce jolts awake, rolling over to find my wide eyes already focused on him.

Voice thick with sleep, Royce softly questions, “What’s wrong? Are you alright?”

I slowly nod and whisper, “I couldn’t sleep on the windowsill all night, so I was hoping I could join you without bothering you. If you’d rather I not stay in here, I can-”

“No,” Royce says, maybe a little too fast, too eager to seem calm about the situation. He clears his throat and I watch as he sends me a hesitant smile, “No, you’re fine. You can stay with me.”

“Are you sure?” I ask softly, perching myself on the edge of the bed. “I can always bunk with Riven if you’re uncomfortable.”

Royce reaches over and places a hand on the one I still have latched onto his blankets, smiling up at me from his pillows as he gently admits, “I would never turn down the chance to be with you.”

A smile tugs at my lips and I nod in understanding, easing myself further onto the bed and tugging the covers over myself before taking my glasses off and relaxing next to Royce. For a while, we simply take to watching each other, wondering which of us will be the first to admit defeat and allow sleep to take over, yet neither of us seems ready just yet. Royce is the first to move at all, rolling onto his back and offering me an open arm to curl into. I slide into his grasp and his arm closes around my back as I rest my head on his chest. His heartbeat is comforting, a steady pulse that calms me and reassures me that I’m not alone. All too soon, I’m drifting off into the sleep that has tugged at my mind for the longest time, allowing myself to find comfort in Royce’s gentle security.

The next morning, I wake up facing Royce’s back, my arm tucked around his middle and my fingers laced with his. The clock on Royce’s nightstand tells me that the day has already begun and that the sun should be shining outside the living room window. I lean away from Royce’s tangled curls as I hear movement outside the bedroom we’ve crashed in, but once I recognize the sound of Riven softly humming a song in the other room, I relax back into the pillows. We have time to simply rest if we feel like it, but Royce is already alert whether I want him to be or not.

“Good morning,” he mutters, gently squeezing my fingers with his.

I rest my forehead against his back and yawn, “Morning.”

I feel Royce chuckle as he says, “I think Riven is up if you feel like eating.”

With a shake of my head, I mumble, “These beds are too comfy; I don’t wanna move.”

“Neither do I,” he admits, “but I’m starving.”

I slowly push myself to sit up, peering down at Royce with tired eyes as a yawn pulls itself from me. “How long have you been up?”

“Not long,” Royce shrugs, watching me from his pillow as he rolls onto his back. “I heard Riven moving around and singing to himself a few minutes ago and that woke me up.”

“Well, at least that’s better than listening to him snore all night,” I chuckle. “He’s like a chainsaw when he falls asleep on his back.”

The door to our room opens and Riven enters with a knowing look in his eyes, “Listen, you little shit, I do not sound like a chainsaw.”

“You absolutely do,” I scoff. “You just, constantly-” I cut myself off by imitating Riven’s obnoxiously loud snores, “all fucking night!”

“You should get your ears checked when we get back home,” Riven jokes. “I think you need hearing aids.”

I grab one of the pillows from the bed and whip it in Riven’s direction as I laugh, “I will if I stay the night at your place again.”

Riven chuckles and drops the pillow on my head, allowing me to wear it as a hat as he perches himself on the end of the bed and smiles, “Well, in that case, maybe I won’t give you some sausage with your breakfast.”

My mouth falls open in disbelief and the two men in the room laugh at my expense as Royce pushes himself from the comfort of the mattress. Plastering an apologetic smile on my face, I turn to Riven and hesitantly offer, “I love you, Riven.”

“Mhm, sure you do,” he grins, nudging my thigh knowingly. “Now, get your ass out of bed and come eat before the food goes cold.”

I give him a mock salute as he rises from the bed, “Sir, yes, sir!”

Riven leaves the room and Royce stretches as he chuckles, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say the two of you were siblings.”

My head tips to the side as I jokingly question, “Why, because he’s such a massive dick to me in the morning?”

“I heard that,” Riven calls from the living room.

“You were meant to,” I holler in return as I slide my glasses onto my face.

Royce laughs, shaking his head as he leads me out of the room, “Nothing like some good, old-fashioned sibling love.”

We talk over breakfast about our plans for the day - none - and once we’re done eating, Riven helps me fix my braids once again. I sit on one of the living room chairs while Riven braids from behind me and I have Royce sit in front of me so that I can help him sort out the four braids make and I work on Royce’s hair, re-curling strands to their uniform coils before we finally decide that we’re all set for the time being. Riven adds a new braid to my hair, connecting the two ponytails by a thick strand before deeming his project finished. Upon my and Royce’s insistence, Riven’s hair is fixed by him simply running his fingers through it a few times and it sits neatly on top of his head as though he’s been blessed with effortless auburn strands that refuse to knot. That bitch.

Relaxation doesn’t come easy as we choose to venture out of our stateroom in search of a new place to hide out. Royce breaks out the notepad he’s filled with memorized notes of what covers each deck of the ship and we narrow down our choices fairly quickly. The upper decks are probably the riskiest places since they’re mostly open-air, but we could easily hide out on Decks 15 or 16 if need be. The maze in The Galaxy Pavilion on Deck 13 could be a great hiding spot and so could the places overlooking them, but the thought of returning to the place that the pair from District 5 died in pushes that deck onto our list of places to hide out only if we have to. The lowest decks on the ship are probably not the safest options either, since we’ve never explored them and as far as any of us know, there is only one stairwell in or out of them.

Royce’s notes help us to effectively eliminate most of the ship - Decks 5 through 7 and 17 through 20 being the riskiest places while the decks in between feel the most secure since there are a lot of places to hide and escape if need be. We come to the decision that we should explore the decks we haven’t seen yet, taking what we need and making our way through the ship before coming back and settling in for the night. Riven tells us to gather our things while he works on replacing everything that we piled in front of the door the night before and I help Royce gather everything into his bag before he helps me with my things. Riven has already finished pulling things away from the door by the time Royce and I get around to asking him if he needs help packing his things, but he insists that he’s ready to go when we are, so we grab our bags and follow him back to the medical center and into the storage closet where the ladder is. 

We follow him up a deck to Deck 13 and find nothing of much interest on that deck apart from The Galaxy Pavilion that none of us particularly feel like exploring, a short hallway of little staterooms that we can search just by opening the door, and the casino at the far end of the hall that reeks of stale alcohol and smoke. Deck 14 is different with a long line of staterooms on either side of the hallway and only the stairwell separating the flow of the hallway. We climb up to Deck 15 and find ourselves in a storage room off of a room full of cushy chairs and ornate mirrors. A large sign on the wall reads “Mandala Spa and Salon” but we don’t find much of anything useful there apart from some scissors and bottles of chemicals that we can’t pronounce. I discover a few bottles of hairspray on one of the counters with a mirror over it and Royce finds some matches on the front counter near some candles, so we keep them in case we need a makeshift flamethrower.

We use the stairwell inside the spa to get to the next floor, finding rows upon rows of lounge chairs and a large bar filled with bottles of alcohol. There isn’t much for us to take from there, so we venture out into the hallway, only to find some staterooms, a small restaurant with some outdoor seating, and a lot of open deck space at the back of the ship where a miniature golf course takes up most of the walking room. In the end, we settle in the restaurant for a while to eat lunch and discuss what we want to do next. As Riven cooks up our lunch in the kitchen, Royce and I perch ourselves on the open counters so he can hear us while we talk.

“Well, if we go up another floor, that could put us at risk of being caught,” Royce claims, tapping a pen against the notepad he took from his backpack. “There are more open areas up there.”

I sigh, “Well, it isn’t like we really need anything up there anyway. We could just head back down.”

Riven looks up from the grill and I watch his eyes flicker between me and Royce almost hesitantly before he glances down to the watch on his wrist, clears his throat, and goes back to cooking, “We should be set on food for another week if we stick to the amount we’ve been eating and we have no need for weaponry, but I would still like to check what’s up there.”

“Why?” Royce presses. “That would only put us in danger.”

“Maybe not,” Riven shrugs. “It seems as though most of the others are deeper in the ship, either searching for us or staying to themselves. We could be safe up there.”

I know Riven better than anyone else on this ship, but even I can’t decipher the look in his eyes. His strong desire to visit one of the decks we all deemed to be too risky throws me off. Normally, Riven would be too protective, too guarded, to want to go into a dangerous area for no reason. Regardless of how much I search his gaze and try to filter through any conversations that I can remember to find a reason for him to want to explore the seventeenth deck, I can’t find one. There must be a reason. Riven is far too logical for this. Hazel eyes meet my emerald ones and I feel a wave of confusion as I find him staring hopefully at me, pleading with me to convince Royce that we should go up another deck.

“Why do you want to up there?” I question him. “What happened to wanting to stay safe?”

Riven lets out a sigh of defeat, “I just feel like we could search around for any supplies the other tributes might have left behind. Everyone else is inside the ship and there’s a high chance we could find something useful up there, don’t you think?”

“I thought we cleared out the Cornucopia and all the things up there,” Royce claims questioningly. 

“We did,” Riven nods, “but I’m hoping that our mentors will send us something once we’re out in the open.”

“Like what?” I ask.

Riven picks up the meat from the grill and plates it before turning his gaze to me and Royce, stating, “Last night, I asked them to send us something to help us get out of the arena in one piece. I don’t know what they could send, but I’m hoping they’ll send us at least a note with something useful. Anything would help us at this point.”

He isn’t wrong, I suppose. We could use a way out and, if our mentors bothered listening to Riven’s pleas, I don’t doubt they’ll supply us with something of use. As Riven said, even a note with some simple words of advice could be helpful at this point. I turn to Royce and find that he seems to have come to the same conclusion. We haven’t needed much during our time in the arena and, collectively, we’ve only had two gifts - some food Royce earned on the first day and Riven’s now melted thermal goggles. If anything, our combined mentors will have a surplus of funds to send us something helpful. Royce turns to me and shrugs, a subtle sign that, in the end, it comes down to my decision.

My gaze falls back on Riven and his faintly hopeful grin encourages me to sigh, “If there’s any sign of danger, we can either go up a floor and take the slide or just go back to the ladder and hide out for a while, right?”

Riven sets the plates out for me and Royce to take as he nods and claims, “Of course.”

I watch his hopeful gaze as I pick up my plate, finding him watching me in return, anxiously awaiting my confirmation. I wonder what he hopes our mentors will send us. Whatever it is, it must be something good if he’s this worked up about it. Taking a deep breath, I glance between him and Royce before settling my gaze back on Riven and nodding slowly, “Alright.”

Sitting around a table in the outside seating area, we take in our meals and watch the rays of the sun glitter on the ocean around us. The topic of conversation Riven brings up revolves around our district tokens. We hadn’t really discussed it much before and I have no idea what his could be, but Royce tells him about the earbuds he brought that had once belonged to his brother, keeping certain parts of the discussion a secret from any potential cameras that could be trained on us. I tell him about my parents’ wedding rings and bring the necklace out from under my shirt so the two boys could see before tucking it back under my shirt and zipping it up once more. Riven shows us his token last, proudly pulling from his pocket the fraying bracelet I had made for him many moons ago - a simple string bracelet my mom helped me braid together with little letter beads for our initials wound into the strands of our favorite colors. 

“I can’t believe you still have that,” I breathe.

Riven shrugs, his lopsided grin making an appearance as he sheepishly admits, “I hardly ever took it off before it got too small for me.”

“Why?”

His eyes find mine and he smiles, “You made it just for me; why would I take off something so special?”

Maybe Riven was just as sentimentally stupid as Mick was, but who was I to argue that I wasn’t just as bad as they were? Mick made me a necklace after I joined her team and I refused to take it off until the chain snapped and she had to fix it. Not too long ago, Riven coded my computer to play some dumb music every time I log on, but to this day, I refuse to let anyone fix it. As stupid as it may be, I understand the desire to cling to something sentimental. I smile at Riven as he pockets the bracelet once more. I had no idea it meant so much to him. Maybe I should have made him a newer one once I noticed him no longer wearing the old one. Maybe that would have been proudly displayed on his wrist for all of Panem to see instead of some ratty old strand of strings that he’s kept tucked away in his pocket.

We finish eating after a while and ditch the dishes we used in the restaurant’s kitchen sink before grabbing some new ones and tucking them into the backpack Riven lugged around. After gathering our things and making sure not to leave any other evidence of our stay in that restaurant, we head back to the spa and find the ladder once more before climbing up to the seventeenth floor. Much like the hallway leading from the library to the theatre, a hallway is our landing area. The hallway curves to the right and back to the left, dipping down like a ramp before bringing us upward to a thin hallway that leads to a particularly large hatch that Riven stops us at before we dare to venture outside. 

“Let’s look around first,” he quietly tells us. “Even if the others are all downstairs, we don’t want to risk falling into any potential traps.”

Royce and I nod and, as Riven pulls open the hatch, we glance past him to the outside. From what I can see, which isn’t much at all, there isn’t a lot on the deck. The sun beams down on the ripples of a pool in the distance and rows of lounge chairs are only separated by large pillars that stretch up through the next few decks, but other than those, the deck appears empty. High above where the laddered end of the hallway must be, I can see the wheelhouse or, rather, what remains of it. Broken windows, billowing smoke, and the distant aroma of burning plastic fill my senses with memories of burned flesh and singed hair, forcing me to look away. As I look out over the deck in front of us, a small crow lands on the railing by the edge of the skip. I smile as it bounces around the metal bar, stretching its wings after a while and launching high into the air before I get the chance to tell the boys about it.

“Do you guys hear that?” Royce asks in a whisper.

Riven and I are silent for a moment in response, each of us shaking our heads as I say, “I don’t hear anything.”

Riven shakes his head, “Me neither.”

With a sigh, Royce leans closer to the door and looks around, trying to find the source of whatever noise he could be hearing that we can’t. It doesn’t take him long to stretch a hand out toward the pool at the other side of the deck, pointing to a silver parachute as it glides through the air. “There!” he exclaims, ducking under Riven’s protectively outstretched arm and rushing out onto the open deck before Riven’s fingers can latch onto his shirt and pull him back. 

I waste no time following Royce, but Riven snatches me back, telling me that it’s too dangerous, but I send him a firm glare and say, “If it’s too dangerous for me then Royce needs someone to keep him safe too.” 

I twist my wrist and pull myself free from Riven, turning on my heel and running as he follows closely behind me, urging me to stop. Before I can make up even half the distance between the doorway and Royce, he’s climbing the edge of the pool to snag the parachute from the air. Riven’s hand clamps down on my wrist and, for a moment, everything seems frozen in time as I turn back toward him. Then all at once, the ground evaporates from under me and Riven’s grip on my arm disappears as I’m blown into the air. A distant part of my brain registers that this must be what those dreams of falling actually feel like, but as I collide with the solid wooden deck and am sent rolling down the wood planks, thoughts flee from my mind. My body only stops moving as I slam into one of the large pillars that rise far above the deck, knocking the air out of my lungs. 

The ground under me shudders with leftover shocks, but I can’t hear any explosions if there are any. I can’t hear much of anything at the moment. Consciousness comes and goes in waves, making me lose all semblance of time as I struggle to find my senses again. An acrid smoke fills the air, which is certainly not the best remedy for someone fighting to regain the ability to breathe. After what feels like forever, the wooden deck stops vibrating and I slowly roll onto my side, hacking coughs wracking my body as the smoke in the air chokes me, yet I can’t hear a thing. The lack of air in my lungs and the fact that my glasses are long gone only add to my disorientation, but I find Riven was thrown quite a ways away from me, slumped against another pillar with something I hope isn’t blood slowly sliding down the pillar from near his head.

In one of my semi-conscious hazes, I realize that the machete Riven clung to mere moments prior is now closer to me than it is to him and I wonder how I didn’t wind up with it wedged somewhere in my body. Pushing that thought aside, I startle further into an alert frame of mind as one of my ears finally regains some semblance of hearing and the first thing I register is a loud boom that rattles through the area - could it have been a cannon blast? Frightened by the thought, I search around for Royce, but my lack of glasses and intensely blurry vision make it difficult to see anything beyond a certain point. I can’t spot Royce anywhere, making panic swell in my chest as I try to call out to him, my voice weak and my throat raw. By the time I turn back toward Riven, I find that he isn’t alone. The mess of curls is a welcome sight; the thought of Royce running to help Riven since he must appear worse for wear almost makes me smile. Perhaps he had answered my weakened call and I simply didn’t hear him over the high-pitched ringing that fills the one ear I can hear from. However, once my swimming vision begins to clear at least a little, I find the neon pink shorts the person wears are a stark contrast to the navy blue and cherry red ensemble I know Royce had no choice in wearing. There is only one person left in the arena who has been forced into that horrendous shade of pink and I swore she was on our side.

Sunlight gleams off of the blade Lexi has already begun carving Riven’s skin with, a glaring reminder that, in this arena, nobody can be considered a friend, no matter how much you trust them. Lexi, one of those few I trusted, is now perched over Riven with his blood on her hands, ready to kill him if she hasn’t already. I know I’m unable to do much; my arms are weak, my legs are no better than that, and my crossbow is nowhere to be found, but I find the strength within me to drag myself across the wooden deck to the machete that wound up just a few feet or so away from me. My hand wraps around the handle as I watch Lexi hunch over Riven’s limp, almost lifeless body. I have no clue what she could be doing to him, but now I have a way to stop her.

As weak as my body is, I find a way to haul myself onto my knees, my vision warping with every move I make. I won’t be able to stand, that much I know, but I have a better chance of landing my target if I sit on my knees than I ever would from my previously limp position on the floor. Taking in a shuddering, slow breath, I grip the machete and reel my arm back before sending the blade flying through the air with what little power remains in my muscles. The momentum of the swing propels me forward and I slump face-first to the floor in a pile, consciousness slipping through my fingers like water as my eyes slide shut and I faintly hear my name being called over the blast of a cannon.