#plus what’s known about the production makes me want to find the asshole who ordered a 40 episode single season in 1997

[fishyartist]

So mad about me just realizing the color pallet despite being in Sonic mode for the past like week

[chayacat]

Devil’s Sweet Star (3)

Fandom: Dead by Daylight

Ghostface x Female Reader  

Rated M for Violence, Language and Smut  

***

“Welcome to the Nebula! Where our pastries came from outer space! How can I help you?”

You smile as you look at the room full of people. You didn't imagine you had so many people for your grand opening, maybe a few curious. You can thank Jed for doing this article. How are you going to thank him after that? He didn't have to, and yet he did. The sign you ordered the day you received your coffee beans was in harmony with the rest and by far it wasn’t hard to spot you. You were lucky to find an artist who could make you such a sign in a short time. And he was graciously paid for his work.

“Have you made your choice Miss?” you said smiling.

“I hesitate between a slice of Neptune’s pie and your UFO Brownies... they look so delicious!” said the young girl switching her eyes between the two pastries.

“They are! it's an alien chef who gave me the recipe, you'll see in one bite you'll leave ... in a space travel of flavour!” you say jokingly.

“Ha ha that’s really funny! Well, I’ll take two brownies and a slice of Neptune’s pie then! And an espresso with a cloud of milk.”

You prepare the order of the girl, who pays before taking the bag where the two brownies are, the slice of blueberry pie and the espresso. She gave you a big smile before going to a table to enjoy her sweets freely.  

You'll still have to consider hiring someone to give you a boost, because you have to admit, that you'll have a little trouble dealing with it all. Especially if more and more people come over time. While you were writing all this down in your diary, so you wouldn't forget it, you hear another customer coming in and you turn again to the counter ready to serve him.

“Welcome to The Nebula! You said “Oh hey, It's you Jed!”  

Jed gives you a sweet smile while heading to the counter.  

"Well, my little finger tells me that your grand opening seems to be a great success." he said with a laugh.

“Good deduction, Jed Holmes. Thanks for your article, I didn't think I had so many people sincerely. I don't even know how to thank you.” you said embarrassed  

“No need. All pleasure was for me. And then if it can allow Roseville to energize a little ... Why not? With a pretty face like yours, this trade can only hold up well.”

You blush a little in front of his words which made him laugh. Definitely this boy has everything to please. How could his parents have considered him as a mistake? If they saw him today, they'd see that he's succeeding in his life.  

You've only known each other for a few days and you don't know why, but the runner went very well between the two of you, we'd think you'd be friends who've known each other since high school. You see two young girls looking at him and talking to each other.

“Well, well, my little finger tells me that you’ve attracted the attention of these two ladies. What a charmer you are.” you said with a wink.

“What?” he replied before looking towards the two young girls who turned around looking like nothing before sneering when he faced you again, cheeks slightly pink. “I... I know I'm not ugly, but I'm not a beauty cannon either. I'm just... Me. A little journalist, a little nerd on the edges.”

Hey don't say that! If you knew how cute you are... Don't lower yourself to the lower than you really are."

Jed smiles while Danny smiles widely. So innocent... And besides you confirm his incredible beauty. He knows how handsome he is, a real charmer when he wants to. But as Jed he has to hide it, playing the little nerd who doesn't know how attractive he is.  

“So, can I take your order?” you said.

“A long cup of coffee, with cream and sugar. And I’ll take a slice of your March cake please.” he responds putting his glasses back in place.

“Coming right up at the speed of light!”

You gathered his order and give it quickly and when he pulled out money to pay you, you gently give it back to him.

“Well... I didn't get yelled at yet...”

“it’s on the house. It's my way of thanking you for that.” you said with a sweet smile.

“I can’t, here take it” he replied.

“Jed.” you started taking softly his hand to put the money in it. “What you did was the nicest thing on earth that anyone I know has ever do for me. And we barely know each other. Friends I've known since kindergarten would never have done it for me. You can always pay next time. But not today.”

Jed blinked several times before putting his money in his wallet. Then he took his cup in his hand to lift it up in the air.

“To the Nebula. Hoping that he succeeds and brings a little joy to our city so bruised by the current events. Cheers.”

“Cheers” you said lifting up your bottle of ice tea to toast with him before each drinking a sip.

“Excuse me miss can I have a refill? And another slice of your blueberry pie?” said a young woman working on her computer.  

“Sure!” you answer. “Sorry I have to get back to work. But you can take a sit if you want! Unless you’ve still got some work to do?”  

“Well, I'm on a break. I would say that this time I took my time because I am often criticized for not resting. But don't tell anyone.”  

You smile at him and take a pot of coffee to refill the woman’s cup. Jed took a seat not far from the counter and discreetly look at you. For Jed, doing all this on your own must be difficult and he really wanted to help you, but for Danny it's a blessed bread to know that you’re alone. No one could help you if he wanted to pay you a courtesy visit.He’s not going to kill you right away, oh no... He's going to get to know you. To the smallest detail.  

While you served again other customers in coffee and pastries, another entered. And you could say that he was not an ordinary person in view of his clothes and his way of being, he could be defined as a snobbish but influential person. If even a snob like him comes into your business... That can only be a good thing, right?

“Welcome to the Nebula sir! How can I help you?”

“Do you have imperial tea or Vintage Narcissus tea?”

“Uhm...Sorry sir this kind of tea is rare to find and very expensive. I only have red fruit tea at the moment and green tea. I should receive more soon.”

“Tss. Give me a Latte Macchiato in this case.”

You force yourself to smile and start preparing his order. But you feel his gaze on you as if he was stabbing you in the back. Jed gave you a reassuring smile as you returned him and once the Latte was ready, you lay it on the counter.

“Will it be all sir?” you said with a forcing smile

“Your... cakes there... Are they industrial or homemade?” he said haughtily.

“homemade Sir! with only natural products for better taste and quality!”

“I doubt it very much.”

“Excuse me?”  

“I doubt that a girl like you can get "natural" products as easily and cheaply. Or you take the big game out of them. It won't surprise me when you see such a decoration, it's like a junkie club.”

“Who are you?” you said with a nervous laugh

“What ??”

“I said: Who are you? Where do you know me for talking to me in that tone? Just because you have money doesn't mean you can do all you want. Plus, you insult me as a whore.”

“How could you...This is not a way to treat your customers! You can't even handle orders from your customers!”

“Sir... If I am not mistaken, I didn’t force you into my establishment, you came on your own. In addition, you adopt a behaviour that, in another place, you will have been worth an immediate exit with, if the person wanted, a kick in the ass or even more. So, are you going to take something extra or just pay for your coffee?” you replied with an Olympian calm.

Vexed, the man took the cup and spilled his content on the ground before throwing the cup in your face. But for all that, you do not react and you are quite right, with a man like him, better not to blame yourself.

“You don't lose anything to wait, little bitch. I'm sure I'll find something that will make you close your slum.” he said before leaving.  

You take a deep breath, throw the cup in the trash and take the bucket and mop to clean up the still-hot coffee on the floor. You expected to have rough customers but like him and from day one... Not really. But you did the right thing, not to react, stay calm in all circumstances.  

“What a son of bitch. he's never had his mouth broken this dirty asshole rich.” you grunt as you finish wiping the floor.

“Unfortunately, not... and with the influence he has, it's hard to do anything to him.”

You startle slightly when you hear Jed's voice behind you, who had witnessed the whole scene.

“Who's that bastard? How can you let a guy like that treat people like shit honestly??”

“You know men like him... can easily afford to do everything when they can afford it. All they have to do is bribe some people and they're safe. They feel untouchable and only live that way. They know that most people have financial worries and they take advantage of them.” said Jed.  

“What a coward. Money can't save him forever.” you replied.

While you were tidying up the bucket and mop, some customers came to tip while supporting you, facing what had just happened. Some of them swore on this guy making fun of him openly which made you smile. The rest of the day passed quietly; Jed had gone back to work in the meantime wishing you good luck. You check several times that all the doors were closed before closing your café and heading to your apartment.

You suddenly feel someone following you and you turn around discreetly for a guy in a hood. You walk a little faster and you hear the man's footsteps go faster as well. As you feel it approaching to the point of touching you, a horn startled you both and when you turn your head, you recognize a familiar vehicle.

“Hey! Have you ever been taught to not attack a woman? I wonder what we're going to learn about you if I call the cops. Get in. I’ll take you home.” Said Jed opening the door while Danny discreetly shot your assailant with his eyes.  

Once you got on, you closed the door and Danny went back on the road. You're lucky that Danny finishes his job earlier taking advantage of his extra free time to stalk you without getting noticed. This allowed him to study the situation a little more and he now knows that you check everything several times before leaving. And you may do it more often and longer after his visit as Ghostface.

“Thanks. if you hadn't arrived he would surely have...”  

“Don't say anything. I'd rather not think about it. You don't have to thank me. Between neighbours it's normal to help each other, right? You would have done the same for me.” He responds without looking away from the road.

“I'm sure it was these bastard rich that hired him to scare me. I should have beat him like that, he would have gotten the message out to him.”

“And then he would have used his influence to sue you and make you lose your coffee. It's a technique as old as the world.”  

“He loses nothing to wait.”

Jed nods as a bad smile appears on Danny's face. Oh no he loses nothing to wait for sure. Thanks to you, involuntarily, you found a new victim for Danny. But not right away. You have to study your prey before you kill it.

***

(Phew! Finally finished! I'll hope you’ll enjoyed it! if I'm not often distracted, I’ll try to post a new chapter every Friday! This will give time for new readers to read the previous chapters! See ya !  )  

[walkineternity]

Day 8: Stab Wound

(Detroit: Become Human)

Connor had been living a lie.

 Three months ago, Cyberlife had cut production and research into the RK800 line. They claimed unavoidable complications in the prototype, and that it would be better to start from scratch.

 So, the RK800 was thrown out like week old trash. He couldn’t remember much of what happened before waking up into a living nightmare, but from what he could glean, the ‘complications’ that arose was the fact that he had kept deviating.

 He really, truly didn’t mean to, but it seemed no matter how many models they went through, and he was their final one at -42, they couldn’t seem to prevent such an occurrence. He supposes they wanted a model that was as close to human as possible, but without such pesky things as emotions or free will.

 Hence waking up in an android landfill, thirium leaking everywhere, hearing the creaks and moans and singing of other mostly dead androids.

 He had wanted to be angry at the injustice and cruelty of it all, but…it had taken an eternity to get out of there, and all he was left with was deep-rooted fear.

 Emotions were unpleasant, he decided. No wonder Cyberlife didn’t want them in their androids. It made everything…. messy and unpredictable.

 So, Connor escaped. He lived. He didn’t know what else to do.

 For weeks afterwards, he hid in abandoned buildings. Never talking to humans if he could help it. He had shed any Cyberlife markers (including his LED) and, using his undercover software, scavenged appropriately indistinct clothing.

 He also avoided other androids if he could. So far, none of them have recognised him as one of their own, but he didn’t want to take a chance. He knew that there were others like him out there. His purpose had been, after all, to find other deviants. But he couldn’t take any chances. So he avoided interface and avoided speaking to them and their humans.

 The only thing he had managed to connect with was a stray cat that was squatting in the same building he was. However, one day he had come back after trying to find scraps of food for the little thing, was that it had died. It had been in poor health already, and Connor should have known better. But. It had let him pet it and feed it and when he had cuddled the cat, trying to keep it warm, he could feel it’s purring right through his chest.

 Upon discovering the small little thing, cold and unmoving, he had cried for hours.

 The poor cat didn’t even have a name.

 He was the only one who would remember it, or even miss it.

 Amanda would have called him soft, said he was malfunctioning again. But Amanda was gone, along with the Zen Garden, and he had no one in the world at all.

 And then, one week ago, he had met Hank Anderson.

 By then, Connor was good at avoiding people and finding safe enough places to stay. He had even tentatively started talking to other squatters and homeless people. They had a wealth of knowledge and advice for him, and were the first friendly interactions he ever had. He never stayed in one spot too long, however. It was too dangerous. He got good at fake eating, and sharing what little he found, so that it simple looked like he was good enough at scavenging that he had extra food, and not that he hardly ate at all. And that he was generous enough to share what “extra” food he found. Still. He didn’t need to shave. He didn’t need to sleep. He faked as much as he could, but it was still safer for him to move around.

 This led to where he was currently staying. It was under a bridge with a small group of humans, one that was an older lady named Penelope. She was nice enough. Connor liked her best out of the small group, because she had a gravelly voice from smoking too much, and would call him “honey”, and would tell him stories about her life as a firefighter. Before the PTSD and the drinking became a problem. She had burns on her left hand and side of her face. She wasn’t self conscious about it, though. She didn’t seem ashamed of anything. Just told him stories and was nice enough not to ask any questions back. He was grateful. He wasn’t sure what he would have said.

 And then it was like the cat all over again, only worse. He had come back one night to find the alley under the bridge empty save for the cooling corpse of Penelope. He knew he should have run, then.

 But. Something was…. not right. If he had been human, he would have called it instincts. Instead, something in his programs was telling him that this wasn’t some heart attack, or accident.

 He bent closer, choking down tears and feelings, and started to analyse her body for clues.

 There was alcohol on her breath and broken bottle beside her, liquid seeping into the ground and her already stained clothes. He couldn’t see any wounds- wait! There were strangulation marks on her neck. Someone had strangled Penelope.

 “Police! Put your hands up!”

 And Connor felt panic, warnings flashing across his vision. But he was angry too. Maybe for the first time in months. For the first time since crawling out of that landfill, he felt anger encompass the ever-present fear.

 Someone murdered Penelope. And he was going to find out who.

 He stood up slowly and with his hands raised. He said in his Negotiator Voice, “It’s okay, officer. My name is Connor.” And here he was taking a risk, “I’m a private investigator.”

 The officer, or rather Lieutenant Hank Anderson as his facial recognition was telling him, looked at him disbelievingly. “We just got calls about a commotion under this bridge. And you wanna say someone hired you for this, already? Pull the other one, asshole.”

 Connor tilted his head. Fuck you, police man. He affected his most innocent tone, “Pull which other one?”

 The man stared at him for a second, then said, “Nevermind. What the fuck are you doing here, next to a body?” He gave him a once over. “And you sure as shit don’t look like an investigator to me.”

 “Well, I’m not a PI anymore. I was…” he glanced down at the broken liquor bottle. “I had some issues with sobriety.” And here he let some of his emotions bleed through. “And I’m here because I’ve been staying here, and Penelope was a friend, and someone murdered her.”

 Here the Lieutenant lowered his gun, slightly. Moved a bit closer. “What makes you so sure she was murdered? And if she was, why should I believe that it wasn’t you?”

 “Check the cameras located around the corner. You will see that I arrived here too late in order to have murdered her.” And here he slowly crouched down, pointing at her neck. “Look here. You will notice marks on her neck, made before her death. Quite possibly the cause of death. Someone strangled her. And it wasn’t me, detective.”

 He almost called him by his name, but Connor held back at the last second. Realised that it would be suspicious to know Hank Anderson’s name already. So, called him what would be the most likely guess that a human would make.

 “It’s Lieutenant, actually. Lieutenant Anderson,” he said, almost absentmindedly. He had drawn closer still, and Connor suddenly got a whiff of alcohol on his breath. Connor was quite used to being around people who drank, but when he looked, Anderson’s eyes seemed unusually clear for someone who had been drinking on the job. “Huh. You’re smarter than you look, kid. Those marks aren’t easy to spot.” And here he looked straight at him, with an expression that Connor couldn’t read. “Ok. What do you think happened here?”

 Connor almost rolled his eyes. Wanted to say that it wasn’t his job to solve this murder for him. But he still felt angry. He still wanted to help Penelope in any way he could. And he could recognise a test when he saw one. And so, he walked carefully around, scanning everything. Putting the clues together. Unfortunately, he couldn’t take any samples, for that would have given him away, but he had enough to go off of without it.

 “I think, Lieutenant, I know what happened here.”

 And he told him.

 Surprisingly, Hank Anderson seemed to believe him. Seemed to accept his help, however begrudgingly. Eventually called in forensics and everything else. Said that even though Connor couldn’t officially help, what with not having a license anymore, he said he was welcome to tag along. Well. Said he wouldn’t babysit, and that it wasn’t on him if he were to get hurt, but still. Didn’t turn him away. Listened to him. Treated him like a person.

 Well, as far as Anderson knew, he was. And a few days into the investigation, where they had surprising worked pretty well together, the Lieutenant had turned to him in perceived annoyance and said, “Oh, enough of that, kid. Just call me Hank. We’re there. We’ve reached that point.”

 This was after Connor had broke into his house and threw him into his own bathtub.

 And met the love of his life, a dog named Sumo.

 Sumo seemed to think the same thing, and Connor tried to find suitable excuses to come to Hank’s house and let him see the dog again.

 At one point, Hank said he had looked Connor up, but couldn’t seem to find anything, not even a last name.

 Connor, heart in his throat, said that it was because Connor hadn’t always been his name, and that he didn’t actually live anywhere at the moment, remember? He was living under the bridge like Penelope was.

 None of it wasn’t actually a lie, but it wasn’t the truth either. But Hank, mess that he was, seemed to recognise the truth underlying his words, or what he had thought was the truth, and seemed to leaving it alone. Saying that it’s not like he was officially part of anything, so the paperwork already didn’t matter so much.

 Connor thought this was a cavalier take on the law, especially for a police lieutenant, but he was also the last person that could judge.

 Hank said his goofy looking face helped sell any creative paperwork. Plus, Connor was really, really good at being a detective. And then offered him a spot on his couch. Connor was very tempted. Surprised at Hank’s generosity, but tempted nonetheless. Mostly because he could see Sumo every day. Maybe even…cuddle with him! But then disappointment set in. Hank couldn’t find out he wasn’t human. And it would be hard to hide if he was literally staying with the man. It was hard enough just solving a case with him. Connor ended up saying he was fine on his own. That he appreciated the offer, but didn’t want to impose. Hank looked like he wanted to argue, but didn’t say anything more about the subject.

 So, here they were, a week into the investigation, and they had finally found out who did it.

 Turns out one of her distant kids, a young man named Riley, had found his mother and confronted her. He was mad that she wouldn’t come home, that she owed him money, that she was drinking her life away. He was a very proud man, and having a homeless, alcoholic mother seemed to shame him so deeply that he had to kill her for it.

 Connor can’t say he understood, but humans frequently did things he didn’t understand. And he knew, on the outside, people might say that Penelope even deserved it.

 But she was one of the only people that was ever kind to Connor. And she had always offered to share what little she had, even if Connor didn’t seem to need it. She didn’t deserve to die.

 So, Connor and Hank, along with other cops, went to arrest Riley. And Riley, knowing he was caught, knowing that going to prison would ruin his reputation more than a shameful mother ever could, put up a fight.

 In the process, Connor was stabbed in the arm. In the ensuing commotion, they managed to subdue Riley, and Connor managed to cover up the wound. He had picked the knife up and having no time to wipe it clean, hid it in his sweater.

 He could feel thirium leaking out his arm. He had covered the blue blood and the hole in his sweater with his scarf, but this wasn’t a long-term solution. The thirium would eventually soak through the scarf too. And he needed to repair the damage.

 He dismissed all the warnings that were flashing. The wound itself wasn’t life threatening, but it eventually would be if he lost too much thirium. Which was what was likely going to happen. He didn’t have a way of repairing it by himself. And if anyone looked closer…

 It wasn’t like everyone saw me get stabbed or anything, he thought sarcastically.

 And there was Hank, pulling him over, yelling for someone to call an ambulance. “Shit, Connor, you look pale.”

 “I always look like this. I’m fine. It’s just a graze.”

 “You think I’m goddamned stupid? I saw the blade going into your fucking arm, Connor!” Hank swore and said, “That’s it. Get in the car. I’m taking you to the hospital myself. The others can handle the arrest.”

 And so that’s how Connor found himself in Hank’s car, stab wound not exactly hurting, but it felt…weird. He wasn’t sure if he would call it pain, but his arm was not functioning and the wound itself felt... wrong. Like things were in places they weren’t supposed to be. And that was…deeply uncomfortable. Maybe this was the deviant version of pain. He didn’t have any other reference for it.

 And he had gotten so used to breathing like a human, to keep up the ruse, that he noticed that he wasn’t breathing properly either. Fuck. He was panicking. He was stabbed, and Hank was going to find out, and everyone was going to find out at the hospital, and then they would send him back to Cyberlife, and he would be deactivated, or erased, and he didn’t want to die-

 “Breathe, kid. Breathe. Connor, c’mon,” Hank’s voice. Sounding pretty worried.

 “Ha-ank. I can’t go. I can’t- no hospital. Please, no hospital. They’re- they’ll kill me, Hank. P-please.” He needed to get under control. He was giving too much away. He needed to get away, from Hank, from everything.

 “What? Connor, no, shit I’m trying to drive, just- hang on!”

 And then they were pulled over, and Connor could feel tears, and he couldn’t breathe, and he clutched his working arm over the scarf, knowing that the thirium had finally leaked through.

 And then Hank was on the other side of the car, passenger side door open, and bending over him, “Shit, okay, Connor. Just let me look. Let me help.” Hank sounded frantic himself. Maybe being in a car on the side of the highway with an injured passenger was bringing back bad memories.

 “I-I can’t, you’ll- you’re going to h-hate me.”

 Hank sounded strange, like he was getting words past something in his throat. “Kid, I’ve only known you a week, but I can’t think of a goddamn thing that would make me hate you. Hell, if giving me a cold shower didn’t throw me off, what could?”

 And here Connor let out a hysterical laugh. He saw the anti-android stickers. He saw the looks Hank gave any passing android. He knew it had something to do with Hank’s dead son. “Please, please. Don’t look. Don’t t-take me to a hospital. Let me disappear. Please, I know you’re going to hate me. But. Don’t turn me in.”

 And there were Hank’s hands on his, peeling his fingers that gripped his arm. He did it gently, though. Like Connor was something fragile.

 And then there was the dark stains on the scarf. The blue blood looked almost black against it, very close to how human blood would stain it, but just slightly off. Once Hank got the scarf off, it would be much clearer.

 However, the dark colours seemed close enough to the human eye, because the slightly off colour didn’t seem to register to Hank. He unbound the scarf, and Connor could feel himself holding his breath. Could still feel the tears running down his face.

 And then the scarf was off, and the rip in his sweater making his wound clearly visible. The thirium soaked sleeve and the wires under Connor’s skin.

 Hank froze and looked like he was holding his breath too. His eyes had gone wide and his face was pale.

 And they were frozen like that for what seemed like an eternity, until Connor couldn’t stand it anymore, “Just- just let me go, Hank. I was never officially here, remember? Just- please. Let me go. Let me die in peace.”

 And Hank was still staring at him with wide eyes, “What the fuck. What the actual fuck, Connor.”

 Here Connor couldn’t look at him anymore. He stared down at the wound. He didn’t want to see the shock turn to realisation turn to disgust turn to hate.

 Hank’s hands were unsteady as he investigated the wound. Like it was some elaborate trick. Like he couldn’t quite wrap his head around what he was seeing. Connor let him. He got thirium on his fingers.

 “Are you- this doesn’t look like a prosthetic. Fuck. Fuck. Connor what is this?” Hank had pulled back his hands and was looking at his thirium stained fingers like it was the first time he ever saw them.

 Connor sucked in a breath he didn’t need. “I’m not who- what you think I am.”

 “You…you’re an android.” And now it was out there. Finally, it was out.

 “Yes.”

 And he could hear something in Hank’s voice. Something sharper. “What the fuck was this, then? Some test? Was it Fowler, or fucking what. Who owns you?”

 And Connor shook his head. “No, no one. I’m- this isn’t a test.”

 “Bullshit. What are your instructions? Spy on me? Some sort of bullshit prank? I thought you- that we-” Hank cut himself off, sounding…hurt? Shit. He continued, “Doesn’t matter what I thought.”

 Hank pulled away and Connor looked up at him. His back was to the car, to Connor.

 A warning popped up in his vision, telling him that his thirium was low, that he needed to stop the leak soon. He covered the wound with his other hand, holding it tightly, and knew that wasn’t going to help very much.

 He stood out of the car and cautiously went closer to Hank’s turned back. He didn’t want to die…. but he wanted to stay out of Cyberlife’s hands even more.

 He thought about running, in that moment, but…thirium levels were low. It wouldn’t matter if he ran. He wouldn’t get very far.

 “Hank,” he started cautiously. “This isn’t a test. Or a trick. I’m…the same. I’m…me.” He paused, but Hank wasn’t responding, shoulders tense. “If…you’re going to turn me in, you don’t have to. I can…you can just leave me here. Or…or shut me down. I don’t…” his voice cracked, but he tried to sound as steady as possible. As if this was a reasonable situation. “I will shut down soon, anyways. There’s no need to tell Cyberlife. You…if you feel you have to…deactivate me yourself, I won’t fight. Just. Please. Don’t turn me in.”

 When Hank turned around, he had the strangest expression on his face. “So, what? You’re acting on your own? Like you’ve got, what, fucking free will or something?”

 Connor nodded. “The term is deviant. I…am a deviant.”

 “What the fuck does that mean?”

 “I…according to Cyberlife, this means that I am malfunctioning. That there are flaws in my code that make me think I have emotions, and these fake emotions lead to irrational decisions. I’m…broken.”

 Hank stared at him, eyes narrowed. “I didn’t fucking ask Cyberlife, did I?”

 Connor was confused. Hank asked what deviant meant. Does it really matter if he, Connor, thought that the emotions were real? That he felt…alive? The end results were the same and Connor didn’t know why Hank was drawing it out. Kill him, let him go, turn him in. All led to the same ending. He just…rather die free. So, he said again, “Please, Hank. I don’t want Cyberlife to find me. Just…shut me down now, or let me bleed out on my own.”

 Hank rubbed a hand over his face, not seeming to realise he had gotten some thirium on his cheek. Connor still couldn’t tell what Hank was thinking.

 And then Hank pulled his gun on him.

 “Hank-”

 “Isn’t this what you want, Connor? You want me to shoot you? What do you think is going to happen when I do?”

 “I-I don’t know. Nothing. I’m…I’ll be deactivated.” He paused. “You’re not going to turn me in?”

 Hank’s gun didn’t waver. “Does it look like I’m going to? Should I? Wouldn’t they just shut you down?”

 “…they might. Or they might just erase my…memories. Anything that makes me…what I am. It’s…worse than nothing. Because…I’ll still be activated. But not…”

 “Alive. Not alive. Is that what you think you are, Connor?” He moved closer, so that the gun was nearly pressed against Connor’s forehead. “You’re a machine. Just a fucking machine…. but I’ve seen you. I’ve worked with you. I’ve seen you laugh; I’ve seen fear. I’ve seen empathy, Connor. These are all human emotions. And now you’re saying that you’ve been faking it the whole time? Because it sure as hell seemed real to me. It’s why I can’t figure out why you’re practically begging me to let you die now.”

 “It wasn’t…I wasn’t lying, Hank!”

 “Well, according to Cyberlife, they weren’t real emotions. And that you should be erased or shut down. If they knew about you, then I don’t think anyone would object to me shooting you right now.”

 “Then why don’t you?!” Connor finally let his emotions burst out. The anger that was building over the fear. Again. He walked into the barrel of the gun. “Why don’t you fucking shoot me, Hank, and be done with it. What does any of this matter? What does it matter whether I want to die or not? I’m so fucking sick of humans and their stupid tests! If you’re going to shoot me, Hank, just fucking do it, or leave me alone in peace to die!”

 He stared into Hank’s eyes and Hank stared back. The gun on his forehead started to shake, and Connor could see Hank waver. He put the gun down, and away. Hank moved closer, reaching for him, and Connor flinched.

 “Shit, Connor. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Fuck.” Were those…tears in Hank’s eyes? “I shouldn’t have done that. I…no excuse.” He let out a shaky breath. “Let’s get you some help, yeah?”

 Connor was back to being confused. Still angry, though. “Don’t fuck with me, Hank.”

 He was shaking his head. “No, kid. No more. Look, I don’t know a lot about…androids, okay? But blue blood should be in your body, right? That means we need to get you patched up and get you more of it.”

 And now Connor was just confused. The anger seemed to shrink in the face of Hank’s earnestness. The whiplash of feelings was a little overwhelming. “…I don’t understand.”

 Hank put a hand on his shoulder, drawing him close and looked at him right in the eyes. “I don’t know what you are, Connor. I don’t know how you can exist. I have a lot of fucking questions. But here is something that I do know. You. Are. Alive. The past fucking week together more than proved that. And I’m not going to let you die, Connor. I’m going to fix this. Let me help you.”

 And Connor felt his fake heart stutter in his chest. Something like hope blossomed there. “We have…twenty-eight minutes before the lack of thirium damages vital systems.”

 Hank swore, “Okay. Shit. Let’s go.”

 And Connor…didn’t move. He slowly placed his working hand in a mirror of Hank’s own. He winced a little at the handprint he left on Hank’s jacket, but he wanted to be sincere. “Thank you, Hank.”

 And Hank paused, looked at him. Then pulled him into a rough, warm hug. If Connor died now, he would have been happy. No one’s ever hugged him before and it felt…it felt very nice.

 Hank pulled away and said, “You may not be able to get blue blood, but I can. I can also get anything you need to repair your arm. Just tell me what to do.”

 “My self-repair is capable of doing most of the work, but I need to close the wound up enough that it can do it. There are certain android ‘stitches’ that would do the job. Anything we need should be at a Cyberlife store. I can’t go in, though. It’s too dangerous.”

 “I’ll get it.”

 “I have no money.”

 “It’s fine.”

 “It’s not…that cheap.”

 “Connor, I said I fucking got it, got it?”

 “Got it.”

 They went into Hank’s car and Hank turned it back on. They didn’t have that long, but Connor started to pre-construct the fastest route to the nearest Cyberlife store. It was late, but some stores, especially ones geared towards repairs, were open late.

 The hope had stretched into something more…solid. Like determination. He knew they would make it. He was going to…to live.

 He looked over at Hank and saw the determination he felt mirrored on Hank’s face. Mixed with something…. he couldn’t quite read. But then Hank looked over at him, and that emotion stretched his face into a warm smile. Affection, perhaps. Some other things that left Connor feeling…affection back. He smiled.

 Yeah, they were both going to be okay. He didn’t know what the future was going to look like, but for the first time, he felt like he could handle it. He felt, for the first time, like he wasn’t so alone after all.

 And then Hank put the car in gear, and they were off.

 Nothing, not even Cyberlife, was going to stop them.

[acryofpain]

Whump Rewrites: Part 3

Excerpt from chapter 4 of John Dies at the End by David Wong.

•••

I woke up in Hell. Darkness and pain (so much pain), time standing still. No wailing, though. I was sure Hell would have wailing.

The creak of a floorboard, and then a FLUMPH sound, like a lit gas grill.

I blacked out.

I came back. How much time had passed? I smelled smoke, was sure I was in Hell this time. Or was I dreaming?

I forced my eyes open and they were heavy, too heavy. Something was wrong. My nose was filled with an acidic itch and I was disappointed to discover that Hell had a cheap tiled ceiling, partially browned with water damage.

My chest hurt, throat and lungs stinging. I was shocked to find I still had an arm and could move it, albeit barely – it was even heavier than my eyelids were, if that was even possible. I felt a wet patch right in the middle of my shirt that made the fabric stick uncomfortably to my skin, which I noticed whenever I shakily breathed out. It hurt to breathe. I was cold all over and distantly thought that it was possible I was in shock. Or something. I thought of Frank Wambaugh.

A couple years ago, at an ammunition production line he worked at, Frank was manning his station as a third-line inspector, the last step in a meticulous quality control process to prevent possible legal liabilities if a cartridge should explode in a policeman’s face. Nonetheless, there was a bad bullet among the half-million produced that day, thanks to a fly that had crawled inside one of the casings. It was the first one to pass unnoticed by the first two inspections, and when it was Frank’s turn, he was distracted by a man behind him.

Or so he thought. He turned, and saw no one.

The defective round thus passed all three inspections, was packaged, sold, and finally distributed to a Detective Lawrence “Morgan Freeman” Appleton six months later. A year after that he loaded said cartridge into his revolver and fired it into my chest. The projectile had only a fraction of the normal propellant and less than one tenth of its usual impact force. The bullet had promptly bounced off the thick breastbone over my heart.

I opened my eyes, didn’t remember blacking out again. I was so tired, just waiting for the flames to engulf me now. With great effort, I raised my head and saw the couch completely devoured by fire, black smoke roiling up to the ceiling. The panelling bubbled and blackened and the carpet was saturated with high octane. The moment a spark fell it would –

I was moving, just like that, crawling on my hands and knees. It was exhausting and I fought the urge to just lay back down and curl up into a ball. Damn, the smoke was filling in so fast now; it was like breathing wads of hot cigarette butts. Gotta get to the door, gotta get to the door. Can’t see shit. I saw something that looked like a door, reached out, touched smooth metal. Refrigerator.

I had crawled in the exact wrong direction. I turned, clambered on again, hands and knees soaking with gasoline. The carpet was on fire now. Shit, hot as hell in here. I crawled. Crawled and crawled. Ah, here’s the door. Thank God. I reached out a quaking hand.

Refrigerator again.

My skin burned, pulled tight on my skull. The place was an oven, a blast furnace. Is that my hair burning? I squinted around. The living room was an orange blur behind me. Could I even make it through there now?

I felt this weird twitching in my chest and realized I was coughing, unable to hear it over the flames roaring and crackling around me. I lowered my head to the floor, hoping to find a few inches of fresh air down there. So tired. My eyes closed all on their own accord.

Darkness again, the familiar back of my own eyelids. Heat was all around me, so intense I could barely recognize the sensation.

A low sound. Wailing?

It was outside. Getting louder. A car. A dog barking.

Get back. Get back!

Who said that?

There was a thunderous, terrible noise – glass shattering, metal screaming, wood snapping and tearing. The kitchen was exploding around me. I was flung backward and suddenly a blast of fresh air washed over my body.

I was looking at the grille of a car, my car, the Hyundai “H” symbol a foot from my face. It reversed itself and wrenched free of the wreckage that had been the trailer’s west wall. There was now a rupture near the floor, frayed with tufts of pink insulation and shredded aluminum siding. Using whatever remnants of energy I had left, I rolled myself out of the hole and fell hard onto the cool grass outside. I coughed, and coughed.

Coughed some more.

Passed out.

I woke up what felt like hours later. Or maybe it was seconds, because the trailer was still a fireball behind me. I was too wiped to appreciate that I had just avoided death twice within a few minutes, first by a fraction of an inch then by a few smoke-filled breaths. I turned over in a half-attempt to get up but found my eyes fluttering. I wasn’t inside the trailer anymore and was mostly out of range from the flames, so I deemed it safe to have a short nap right there on the lawn.

“Dave? David, you alive?”

What? I glanced up, saw someone jogging towards me from my car, which was sitting about twenty feet away. Was that John?

He reached me and pushed me onto my back, wide, concerned eyes taking in my bloodstained clothes and soot-streaked skin. When I didn’t say anything I saw the muscles in his jaw twitch and he said, “Dude, say something. Are you okay? Did – did you get shot? Shit, that’s a lot of blood. What the hell happened to your face?”

“You –“ I was interrupted by a bout of coughing, but was quick to continue. “You almost ran me over, you asshole.”

John’s shoulders visibly relaxed and he donned a wide grin. “Firefighters and cops’ll be here soon. C’mon, let’s go.”

He helped me sit up and my head spun, which meant he was pulling my arm over his shoulders and hauling me to my feet without any help from my end. I was dead weight for a moment before I willed my leaden legs to move, but with me stumbling along, John still had to half-drag me over to the car. He helped me into the passenger seat and I pushed my head back into the headrest, grimacing, a hand pressed over my chest. I was shaking over so slightly, which I only noticed when I realized that it was not, in fact, my Hyundai, because the vehicle wasn’t even running.

John hopped into the driver’s seat and shot me a worried look before turning the key in the ignition. He didn’t even take the time to buckle up before we were shooting off, and the sudden movement of the car rocked me into unconsciousness.

Soon enough (too soon, if you asked me), I was being shaken awake and it took me a long moment to get my bearings. My heart thumped painfully against my ribs as I thought, for a second, that I was still trapped in the burning trailer and that I’d hallucinated the whole being saved thing. But then I took in the familiar dashboard of my car, and John tugging at me so I would get out of the seat. I blinked hard and did so, my one knee giving out as soon as my singed shoes hit pavement, but thankfully John was prepared to keep me upright.

“Where’re we?” I croaked, unable to focus long enough to take in my surroundings so I could figure it out myself.

John looked at me curiously, his eyebrows pinched together. “Munch’s. You should know that. Aren’t you on the sauce?”

Actually, yeah, I had known that. As soon as I’d stepped out of the car I knew we were at Munch’s. I shook my head in an attempt to clear it but all that managed to do was make it feel like the ground was pitching out from beneath me for a split second.

“I’m tired,” I mumbled, not even having the energy to add “as fuck” on the end.

“Yeah, yeah. Munch will know how to patch you up and he probably won’t care if you get blood and soot and the smell of gasoline all over his couch so that’s also a plus. Then you can sleep. But after that we have to book it to Vegas, ‘kay?”

I just grunted. We climbed the steps of the apartment building and then made a beeline for the elevator, which thankfully wasn’t out of order for once. John let go of me and pressed the button for the third floor, and when the elevator jerked into motion, I had to press myself into a corner in order to keep myself upright. The movement really wasn’t helping with my vertigo at the moment and I felt my stomach lurch, but I swallowed against the bile rising in my throat.

Then we were out and I was being led down the corridor at a pace that was almost too fast for me to manage without tripping over myself, and the knock that John delivered to Munch’s door reverberated around my skull, making me scrunch up my nose. At first, there weren’t any noises coming from inside, and I dryly said, “Watch him not be home.”

“Dave, if he’s not home I will break down this door myself and call him from his own landline.”

He was serious.

We both released a sigh of relief when the door’s lock clicked and it swung open, revealing Munch, who was wearing pyjamas, his hair an absolute mess. His eyes landed on me and he stared in shock, not inviting us in or anything. John exclaimed a “hey, man” as he pushed his way in, dragging me after him and across the room so he could put me on the couch. I sat down heavily and I decided right then that this was the most comfy couch I was ever going to encounter in my entire life.

Munch closed the door and slowly walked over, looking like he was at a loss. John crossed his arms and quirked an eyebrow expectantly.

“Well? Fix him.”

“Uh... right. Okay, yeah, um, I’ll go grab the first aid kit.”

Munch scurried into another room and was back in seconds, already unzipping a red kit. He told me to take off my shirt and normally I would’ve been pissy and snapped at him to take off his shirt but I wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible so I could just sleep. I pulled my charred shirt over my head with a wince, littering flecks of ash over the couch and the floor, and discarded it at my feet. Munch gaped at the hole in my chest before looking helplessly at John.

“He was shot? This is a bullet wound? I can’t – I can’t do anything about –“

“Defective bullet,” I offered. “Kind of just... bounced off. It’s shallow. Hurts like hell though.”

Munch had paled, but he nodded and kneeled down, pulling out rubbing alcohol and a small cloth. He doused it with the alcohol and started to dab at my chest and I threw my head back, clenching my teeth to stop myself from screaming at him, fingers digging into the cushions beneath me. Once he finished cleaning the wound I was lightheaded and had to blink several times to chase away the white spots in my vision. Munch carefully bandaged that, then moved up to the hole in my cheek and wrinkled his nose in disgust. Pausing – as if he was steeling himself or something – he got out a needle and thread. I groaned and squeezed my eyes shut in preparation, and when the needle first went in, I nearly passed out from the white-hot pain that engulfed my entire face. The sensitive nerves all around the gaping wound were just on fire, and I felt John’s hands holding my head in place. It took much, much too long and after that was also bandaged up I hung my head, cradling it in my hands, breathing heavily.

“Dave? You good?”

I gave a shaky thumbs up. Munch apologetically said, “I don’t have anything for burns, I’d have to go to the store. You could run a cold bath or something for now, though? ... Dave?”

I shook my head loosely. “I’m gonna have a fuck’n nap. A long one.”

With that, I swung around and plopped down on my back, wincing as the scratchy fabric irritated my skin. I’d deal with that later.

I fell asleep to the sound of someone trying to ask me if I wanted a blanket.

[let-it-raines]

Second in Command (Ch. 15)

Summary: Life as the "spare to the heir" isn't all that it's cracked up to be when you're the supposed screw-up of the family, but people don't know what really happens behind closed doors.

Rating: Mature

Entire story available on ao3 | here |

A/N: This one is a bit dialogue heavy, but that’s just the nature of one of the scenes. Enjoy the chapter! You guys are the best!

Tag list: @nikkiemms @resident-of-storybrooke @kmomof4 @wellhellotragic @profdanglaisstuff @ekr032-blog-blog @bmbbcs4evr @onceuponaprincessworld @jennjenn615 @a-faekindagirl @mayquita @captainsjedi @captswanis4vr @teamhook @skyewardolicitycloisdelena91 @branlovesouat

The haze of sleep begins to fade away as he feels the softness of lips against his right cheek and fingers dancing across his left, both gentle caresses that have him sighing and tightening his eyelids to keep the caresses from going away when the day finally claims him and he must open his eyes to face the realities that daylight brings. He thinks it must be working, sleep pulling him back into the dream of these caresses because they increase in their intensity, the hand moving from his face down to his arm, stroking the muscles of his shoulder up and down while the lips press against him more insistently, from his cheek to his temple to his eyelids to his nose and then finally to his lips.

His eyes flutter open at that last bit of contact when he realizes that he’s not dreaming, the touches coming from the woman hovering over him, emerald eyes bright even under the curtain of her blonde hair that’s surrounding him.

“I’m doing some of my best work,” Emma sighs above him before laying one last sloppy kiss against his lips and pulling back to look back down at him, “and you’re just sleeping right through it.”

In his defense, he thought it was a dream.

“Good morning,” he exhales, hand reaching up to touch her cheek, his thumb running over her prominent bones, tracing the freckles there like he’s done nearly every day for awhile now, “why are you awake before me? That never happens. I think the world must be ending.”

She rolls her eyes, and there’s the Emma in the morning that he knows and loves. “Well,” she drawls as her fingers move to cup his face again, returning his gesture by rubbing her thumbs at the bags that are undoubtedly under his eyes because he already knows from the way there’s no light coming through the curtains that it’s before dawn, “I felt this smooth thing against my neck, and I thought to myself, huh, this isn’t right. I can’t think of a single place on Killian that isn’t covered with hair, and lo and behold, I wake up to you, my love, with a shaved face, something I didn’t even think was possible.”

Her eyebrow is raised while her eyes furrow together to study him, and he chuckles before snaking his hand out from under her body to scratch at his face…his bare face.

“I may have shaved.”

“May have?”

“Yes,” he answers, using his body to flip her over on the bed so that they’re both resting on their sides facing each other, noses inches apart as they each hug their pillows tighter. “I may have…or definitely shaved. I was trying it out to see if it would look more presentable for the interview. You know, technically I’m not supposed to have facial hair for certain events. I’m a bit of a rebel, as you know. I like to take walks on the wild side.”

She presses her face back in confusion, looking almost like she’s smelled something pungent, and that’s always a face you want your fiancée to make at you while in bed. “Babe, I haven’t seen you without your scruff in all of the time that I’ve known you. Why would you change it?”

He shrugs his shoulders even from his position on his side. “I thought maybe it would be a good look. Do you not think so?”

“Honest opinion?”

“Always.”

“I prefer you with facial hair.” She reaches out to touch his face, and it’s weird feeling skin directly against skin on his cheeks and his jaw. “I think you look handsome this way, but it’s not Killian. Plus, what’s going to happen now that I’m not getting beard burn all of my body?”

“Would you like to find out?”

She giggles against his shoulder before pressing a kiss there. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Emma squirms as he pushes her onto her back, crawling over her so that she’s pinned to the bed as he rubs his chin and cheeks across her face and down her neck, making Emma squirm underneath him. She squeals when his hands reach to her sides and his fingers start moving against the sensitive skin there while his face really nuzzles into her neck, his lips moving against the juncture of her shoulder and her neck to keep her both moaning and laughing.

“St – st – stop,” she gasps, her breath completely gone as she struggles to get the words out through her laughter. “K-Killian…babe.”

He does eventually cease his playful ministrations, propping himself up on his forearms so that he’s resting just above her smirking down at her like the loveable asshole he hopes he is. Her eyes are bright as the tears from her laughter coat them, and her hair is all mused and matted from the way she tossed and turned against the mattress.

“You’re an asshole.”

“And you kiss me with that mouth?”

“Only when you have your scruff.”

She’s a bloody tease, smirking up at him as mirth dances in her eyes, amusement lighting up her entire face, and he could stay like this all day. Who cares that the rest of the world is calling when he’s got Emma right here?

“Well, luckily for me, and maybe a bit for you, I’m a fan of every part of you, darling,” he runs his leg down hers, “even if certain parts of your body are a little more hairy than usual. It’s like we traded places.”

She slaps the back of his head. “You’re obnoxious.”

“But you love me.”

“I do love you.”

A week later his facial hair has grown back in to its normal length, and Emma has the slightest bit of beard burn against her left thigh. Things have been righted, and as he cleans up his scruff this morning, he knows only to trim, not to truly shave, the whole mess of his bare face not something he’d like to repeat despite how pleasant that morning was. Though, it was fun to rub his chin into Emma’s neck when she was least expecting it and have her squeal at the unfamiliar sensation even past that morning in bed.

They’re taking their engagement photos today as well as doing their photo call with the press after their engagement announcement is released in, he looks down at his watch, three hours and thirty seven minutes. Tomorrow is their television interview, and he thinks that Emma may very well pass out from nervous anticipation if they don’t go ahead and get these few things done.

It’s only been four weeks since he proposed, and as much as they’re living in the bliss of it, it’s also been filled with wedding planning. Well, not really for the two of them, but for the event coordinators who work for the family as well as the palace’s security trying to coordinate security with the Windsor police. They can’t spread the news among too many people for fear of the information slipping out even with non-disclosure agreements, so he and Emma decided to speed up the process of announcing their engagement in order for the wedding planning to really begin.

Their lives are about to change publicly to match up with their private lives, and as much as he isn’t ready for all of the extra attention…he mostly is. He’s ready to begin his new life with Emma, to have her by his side even when he’s working and not just when they’re at home or going out to dinner. He’s been going on engagements alone for the entirety of his life, sometimes joined by other members of his family, but now Emma will get to come with him more often than not. That’ll be especially wonderful when they’re sent on overseas engagements for more than a few days at a time. Those have been increasingly difficult lately because he’s had to leave Emma behind, but she’ll be coming with him next time.

With them announcing their engagement now, Emma will be able to come with him to the opening of Kidding A Goal next month, and he’s almost bursting with happiness at his love being able to be a part of his passion project.

He’s just finishing his shaving when he hears Emma speak from across the bathroom where she’s been having her hair and makeup done, the smell of hair products and heating tools wafting through the room and mixing with the smells of their bath products and perfumes.

“I’m nervous,” Emma sputters as her hair dresser puts the final touches on the curls in her hair while he begins the process of getting dressed in his navy suit, making sure to put on the monogrammed cufflinks Emma gave him for his birthday, and checking with the stylist that it is the correct suit to match Emma’s first dress for the shoot.

“To take pictures?”

“No, I’m excited about those. We need more personal things in the apartment, and I can’t wait to put those up. I just feel nervous. Or maybe excited. I don’t know. This is all so exciting and nerve-wracking, and I can’t really explain it.”

He understands.

They spend the next few hours taking pictures out in the gardens of their home, the both of them shivering a bit with the February chill, but at least he’s in a suit while poor Emma is in nothing but her thin dress. They’re sitting on the ledge in front of the pond, the fountain’s water spraying at their backs, and Emma’s teeth are legitimately chattering as she sits next to him.

“You okay?”

“My face hurts from smiling,” she grits through her smile, “and if we don’t go inside to take the official portraits soon I’m going to lose a limb or something.”

So they go inside, making their outfit changes for the next set of pictures and just thinking of all the time that’s still to pass until this is all finished makes him want to stay crashed on the couch watching television like he’s doing right now. Instead they have their photo call with the press after the official portraits and as Emma gets her hair and makeup retouched, he flickers through the television channels until he finds the BBC and sees that the two of them are the top story and will remain that way until all of the pictures and videos from later are released.

Their official engagement announcement pops up on the screen just as he gets ready to change the channel so as not to see any unseemly news about Emma that still sometimes manages to slip in with actual news on occasion.

 HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS PRINCE KILLIAN OF WALES

AND MS. EMMA NOLAN

 ARE ENGAGED TO BE MARRIED

His Majesty The King and The Queen Consort are delighted to announce the engagement of Prince Killian to Ms. Emma Nolan.

The wedding will take place in Summer 2019. Further details about the wedding day will be announced in due course.

His Royal Highness and Ms. Nolan became engaged last month. Prince Killian has informed close members of the Royal Family including his brother, Prince William Duke of Cornwall and the Duchess of Cornwall. Prince Killian has also sought and received the blessing of Ms. Nolan’s parents.

The couple will live in Kensington Palace.

“How weird is that?” Emma questions from her spot behind him. “Like, I’ve obviously seen myself on TV before, but they’re talking about our engagement and already guessing who’s going to design my dress and when the wedding date is. Ruby says she’s got my name set up on google alert because she gets a kick out of seeing all of the articles and wants to see how many people think we’re getting married because they think I’m pregnant and not just because, you know, we love each other.”

“That sounds like a very Ruby thing to say.”

“She also says she’s got her name set up on google alert after that one Buzzfeed article about her.”

“That sounds even more Ruby-like.”

After Emma’s hair and makeup are retouched and her outfit changed, they load into Killian’s car to make their way over to Buckingham for the official portraits. While they don’t pass by the front of the palace where most tourists reside, he knows that it’s going to be packed with people in light of the news. What he doesn’t expect is the hoard of photographers and fans waiting outside of the security gate that they have to drive through.

“Don’t cover your face, even if the flashes reflect brightly in the car window, okay?”

He reaches over to place his hand on the inside of Emma’s knee, reassuring her that this is all going to be okay. It’s simply going to be a bit chaotic, but it’ll be only for a moment. He can see how nervous she is, and he understands. You never quite get comfortable with people taking pictures of you while you’re driving home.

They do make it inside after a slow drive through the crowd, and luckily no one makes an attempt at opening the door. That’s only happened once or twice before, and while he always keeps the car locked, he doesn’t want to put Emma through that kind of fright. As annoyed as he’s sometimes been with his security team, he’s thankful for them now as they’re only here to protect he and Emma.

To protect his family.

So the official portraits are taken within one of the sitting rooms in the palace, gold plating behind them in every frame, and once an adequate amount of pictures are taken and his face is starting to hurt from smiling as well, another outfit change is required as they head to the courtyard for their photo call with the press to announce their engagement by appearing together.

In a move to purposely keep Emma from being overwhelmed, the photographers are kept on one side of the courtyard while he and Emma stand on the other, the barrier of a garden of roses in between, with their hands resting on each other’s backs and her left hand resting on his chest to show off the ring.

“Are you okay?” he whispers to her when he notices a slight shakiness to her body and to her hold on him.

“Yes. I’m freezing again, though. I still feel like I’m going to become an ice sculpture or something ridiculous like that. I don’t think you can marry one of those.”

He laughs against her forehead before closing his eyes and pressing a kiss there. He’s not supposed to show such public displays of affection, but dammit. This is his future wife, and he can kiss her and hold her in public if he wants to. They’re announcing their engagement, not attending a somber event.

Protocol was never made to be broken, but it sure is fun when it is.

The photographers have to yell across the flowers for any type of question, and while all of these people have been vetted, it’s to keep anything from becoming long-winded or negative. While everyone is sure that the reception to Emma will be grand, they cannot ignore the fact that there are those who will go out of their way to push their negative and hateful viewpoints into the faces of the family and their other loved ones.

So a series of questions are shouted across the garden, but he particularly likes the last one.

“Your Highness, are you happy?”

“The happiest I’ve ever been.”

The rest of their afternoon is much calmer, getting to change out of heels and suits in order to lounge around at home in their pajamas, Emma falling asleep with her head in his lap on the couch as they watch some television to wind themselves down. She did so well today, really braving her first storm where they willingly submit themselves to the eyes of the world through the lenses of the press, and he can’t blame her for being a bit tired even if all they’ve done is stand in front of a camera and smile all day. It takes awhile to get used to the demands and pressures of his life. He’s still learning.

It’s while she’s sleeping that he gets the email with all of the portraits they took today and a message from his father to pick four for release tomorrow while the others can be kept within the privacy of their own home. He’s amazed by the fact that since this morning all of these pictures have been edited when there has to be over one hundred from which to choose. That’s not including all of the ones that were inevitably deleted of the two of them with their eyes closed or making a particularly unattractive expression.

His favorites are a group of pictures of them out in the garden. Emma has on this long, flowing dress, and she’d made a joke about how if she spins just right, the bottom flares up and how she hasn’t been able to resist doing something like that since she was a child. So, naturally, he grabbed her hand and spun her around, the both of them laughing at the reprieve of the seriousness of their pictures beforehand.

The photographer managed to capture the moment well, their fingers interlaced as their arms arch in the air, the two of them laughing with open-mouthed smiles as both Emma’s dress and her hair spin around. There’s several like that, showing the different phases of her twirl, and while he loves the first one, there’s one where she’s moved back into him, her arms wrapped around his shoulders while their foreheads press together and their eyelids are closed as the both of them smile.

“Hey,” he shakes Emma awake, moving her shoulders while she whines about him waking her up when she was comfortable. When she sits up, her hair is matted up on one side, and her face is covered with lines from where her cheek was resting against his thigh. This look should be the one they release to the press and then put on their Christmas cards. It’s that wonderful, even if Emma would disagree. “I need you to look through these and pick which ones you want released, okay?”

“Will you go get my glasses?”

“They’re on the coffee table, love. I would have thought you could seethat.”

She mumbles something under her breath about a cocky asshole, and he expected nothing less because he had to rouse her, even if she’s still mostly asleep. But eventually she does wake up, even if she just lies back down on his lap and doesn’t move as she holds the laptop against her chest. They go through the pictures together, laughing at the ones where one of them looks ridiculous and the photographer just didn’t catch Emma’s eyes closed or Killian in the middle of talking when editing. Emma audibly gasps when she gets to the pictures of Killian twirling her, and he knew she’d love those in the same way that he does.

They’re beautiful, and he’s glad to have something natural to show the world because he and Emma aren’t the stylized portraits members of his family have released in the past, polite smiles on their faces that while they gingerly touch each other’s chest like they’re not truly in love and not comfortable being intimate with the each other. And a lot of them probably weren’t, but they’re not living in those days anymore.

Their engagement interview with the BBC is early the next morning so that it can be edited and air that night, and he thinks Emma, who has lived the past eight years of her life working until three in the morning at a pub and then sleeping in until noon, might not marry him if he keeps waking her up to get her hair and makeup done before nine in the morning. She’s honestly probably still a bit peeved over him waking her up from her nap to pick the pictures.

She would probably hibernate if she could. Hell, so would he.

He waited until the last minute, knowing she’s been anxious about this more than anything, but he also knows she said she had to wake up and shave her legs so she can’t sleep too late. So that pretty much explains why she’s angrily standing in the shower running her razor over her legs while he brushes his teeth at his sink.

“You know,” he teases, “I think that I much prefer when you’re feeling more pleasant in the shower.”

“I much prefer being in bed.”

“Well, I like that, too.”

“Killian,” she groans, taking her razor and holding it out toward him through the stone walls of the shower that stand in place of a closed door, “I have a very sharp object with me, and I’m not afraid to use it.”

He starts walking over to her even if she basically did just threaten to cut him with her razor blades, and he sticks his head through the shower entrance, making sure to stay where the water won’t splash onto him. “You are the most loving woman in the world, darling, even when you’re threatening to slice me into pieces.”

“That’s just more of you to love.”

“You’re disturbed.”

She moves and presses her lips against his, her wet skin dripping onto his t-shirt, humming before she pulls back. “You taste like toothpaste.”

“An astute observation. You’re bloody brilliant.”

“I still,” she whispers against his lips, “have the razor, you jerk.”

“I’m going to tell the entire world how violent you are today.”

“Go ahead.” She holds up her left hand and wiggles her fingers. “I’ve already got the ring on my finger.”

He grabs her hand and runs his own fingers across hers, paying special attention to the place where her ring usually rests, only for him to see the moment she realizes she doesn’t actually have the ring on at the moment as it’s in its holder by the sink.

“You were saying?”

The rest of the morning goes by less violently as the two of them get ready. Emma even tells him she loves him when he places her coffee in her hands while she’s having her hair curled, so death threats aside, he counts it as a good morning.

They’re doing the interview in their sitting room by the garden, the greenery shown through the window behind the couch, and it’s a bit jarring to see all of the television equipment set up in their home when he and Emma come downstairs, the lines of his tie matching the green of her dress like they’re students attending a dance.

“Good morning, your Royal Highness and Ms. Nolan,” Mishal Husain of the BBC greets, curtseying to him in a move that he’ll always be quite uncomfortable with, especially when in his own home. “It’s so nice to see you and to meet you, Ms. Nolan.”

“Emma is fine, I promise.”

He already knows she’s not going to call her Emma just like she won’t call him Killian, but Emma tries regardless.

“So first of all,” Mishal begins, settling down onto one of the chairs across from the couch where he and Emma are now sitting, settling down with their hands intertwined and resting in his lap, “I have to say congratulations on the engagement. This is all rather exciting, I imagine.”

“Thank you,” Emma answers for them, her voice only shaking the slightest bit under the scrutiny of the lighting and the cameras. “It is. I’m excited, and I like to think that Killian is, too.”

“I’m bloody thrilled,” he laughs, squeezing her hand and winking when she looks over to him with that brilliant smile of hers. She’s going to be fine. He was legitimately born for things like this, but Emma’s got her own type of natural charisma that makes him wonder if she was as well.

“So tell me about the proposal,” Mishal insists. “When did it happen? Maybe even a little bit of how.”

“In the middle of January, so last month. We were on vacation going for a walk after dinner, and Killian starts saying just the sweetest things. He’s quite the wordsmith, you know? And he gets down on one knee and says wait – ”

“Oh, she loves this part. She likes to tease me about my moment of nerves here because according to her I’m so rarely flustered.”

“That’s not true at all,” she corrects, playfully rolling her eyes at him before continuing. “He’s smooth, but I like to think I can fluster him. Anyway, he’s got the ring in his shoes, which I bought him for our first anniversary by the way, and he has to pause in the middle of his proposal because he can’t get the ring out of his shoe. It was adorable and romantic, and very us, I think.”

It was very them. It didn’t go as planned, but nothing with Emma has ever really gone to plan. He hopes to change that with the whole getting married thing. He’d like that to go as planned.

“Yes, very us.”

“You know, my next question was going to be – ” Emma can’t stop looking over at him, her smile so bright that her eyes squint like the sun is shining in them, and he can’t help but return her affection as Mishal continues to speak “ – if you even hesitated to say yes, but you’ve given me a tasty bit of information. You said your first anniversary. How long have the two of you been together?”

He looks to Emma, nodding to ask get one final confirmation that it’s okay to share how long they’ve been together, and she nods back. “As of this June, we’ll have been together six years.”

Mishal’s eyes literally blow wide, her head recoiling as her lips part in surprise. “Six years, wow. That may be the greatest media blackout of all time since we as members of the public have only known about the darling Ms. Nolan for seven or so months. That’s remarkable. Why keep it as such a secret?”

“It’s difficult dating in the public eye,” Emma answers, and she really is a natural at this, answering before he even gets the chance to. “Killian and I met when he came into my parents’ pub one night to get out of the rain, and a friendship of sorts blossomed from there. He was…isthis charming man with a fantastic sense of humor, and I found myself falling for this wonderful man who I got to know for who he is and nothing else.”

“And did you fall for her just as quickly?”

“Oh much faster,” Killian laughs, knocking his knee into Emma’s, “probably from the moment I saw her and she yelled at me to get out of the booth in my wet slacks so I wouldn’t ruin the leather.”

“I didn’t yell.” She looks from him to Mishal. “He’s just the slightest bit dramatic.”

“So that’s how the two of you met? At the pub that’s now quite the tourist destination in London, if I do say so myself.”

“That’s where we met. That’s where we fell in love. It’s very special to us as a couple and to Emma’s family personally. And as much as I love how David and Mary Margaret are prospering, it makes me quite sad not to be able to go back and visit. That was my second home for so long, and even if I don’t have to sneak out to go visit my love, I still miss the place.”

He feels Emma squeeze his hand before she leans over to kiss his shoulder, mouthing an I love youbefore turning back to face Mishal.

“So obviously there’s been a bit of drama over your relationship, and I know you were struggling a bit Ms. Nolan when you first became a public figure, right?”

“Right.”

“So since you’d been with His Royal Highness for so long, were you prepared in any way for the whirlwind that being introduced to the world as the girlfriend of a prince ended up being?”

“Was I prepared?” Emma shakes her head before quickly glancing over at him, and he can see the mischief dancing in her eyes at the thoughts she likely won’t express, the cheeky minx. “No. Not in the slightest. I’m a girl who grew up in a small town in Maine, and obviously I had a bit of, let’s say, publicitythere but nothing like this. Killian and I made the decision to keep me out of the public eye for so long so that we could have that privacy to get to know each other without outside interference, but things changed and we made that decision, together, to take our relationship public so that, well, so that we could be sitting with you today. It doesn’t matter how many talks we had with each other. Nothing prepares you for the scrutiny and the expectations.”

“I’ve been dealing with those for the entirety of my life, and I’m still not used to it. It’s an honor and a privilege to represent this country, but sometimes the pressure can be a bit much. I think Emma’s done incredibly well, though.”

She squeezes his hand again. “Thank you, babe.”

“So can you tell me a bit how you knew you wanted to marry Ms. Nolan, your Highness?”

“Well, I don’t know if there was one moment,” Killian admits, and he feels a bit like he’s the one overwhelmed by the interview here, “but I’ve loved Emma for a long time, before we even started dating really as I said a moment ago, and it hasn’t been easy, and not just in the past few months. We’ve had a lot of obstacles, and I guess I knew when she was willing to climb those obstacles with me instead of making me go on my own. I’ve always wanted a partner who is my equal, and I’ve found that in Emma.”

“And you, Ms. Nolan? You think His Highness is your equal partner?”

“Yes. I choose to see the very best in Killian, and he chooses to see the best in me. I know I’m not the typical choice for someone who’s like Killian, but I kind of think that’s what makes love special, you know? You’re never expecting it. It can just hit you out of nowhere, even if it takes you awhile after that initial impact for you to figure it out. It’s not about standards or expectations. It’s about finding someone who not only makes you happy, but who you have the ability to love even when you hate them. It’s the most complicated thing in the world, but it all boils down to just actively being someone who can give love and receive love.”

“That’s beautiful, love.” He leans over to kiss her even if he wasn’t supposed to, but she really is the most brilliant woman alive. “You’re beautiful.”

She speaks against his lips this time. “And how could you not fall for a man this romantic?”

Mishal gives them a moment before moving onto the next questions, a soft smile on her face even if they’ve likely made her feel a bit awkward. “So you’ve met the family, correct?”

“Which one of us?”

“Both.”

“Well, yes,” Killian answers. “I’ve known her family for quite some time, and Emma was introduced to mine in the last year or so.”

“And how did that go?”

They both have to hold in their chuckles, knowing not to dare give away how it actually went, and as much as he prepared his answer for this, he cannot think of it at the time, the words dying on his tongue.

“Well, both of my parents were taken by him, but my dad especiallylovesKillian,” Emma answers instead for Killian. “They hit it off almost immediately, and then we started dating and, well, that changed things a bit. Killian went from this guy who my dad drank beer with to the guy who was dating his daughter. But luckily, I think they’re back to being best pals.”

“We’ll have to ask Dave.”

“And what about your mother, Ms. Nolan?”

“Oh, she tried to get us together from day one, right?”

“She’s bloody persistent, Mary Margaret. And so supportive of the two of us. It’s been amazing, and I really appreciate them for all they’ve done for me and for us.”

“And you’ve met, His Majesty and family, yes, Ms. Nolan? How did that go?”

So apparently they’re not getting out of that question.

“Well, I was a bit of a shock to them,” Emma chuckles before squeezing his hand again, her silent way of telling him it’s okay so he doesn’t have to ask. “When we say we kept our relationship private, we really meant it. So on the day I met them all, I think they were about as shocked to meet me as I was to meet both His Majesty and the rest of the family as not only the Royal Family, but as Killian’s family. But we’ve bonded. Abigail and I are the best of friends, and I’m a bit obsessed with she and Liam’s children.”

“And from what we can tell when you came to Princess Elizabeth’s birth, Prince Alexander is smitten with you, Ms. Nolan.”

“Alex is obsessed with Emma,” Killian answers, laughing a bit when Emma lightly pinches his leg after consoling him through pats. “I think he may love her more than I do.”

“Just the thing you want to hear from the man you’re marrying.”

“So are children in the future?”

Emma almost immediately goes red, and they really got baited into that one, didn’t they? He knew it was on the list of potential questions, but he forgot about it for a moment.

“In the future, yes. Plenty.”

“Well,” Emma laughs, “a limited amount. Not enough for a football team at Sandringham for the Christmas match, but, yes, a few if we’re lucky enough.”

The rest of the interview goes well, Emma really coming into herself the longer it goes on and the more comfortable she is talking about the two of them. It’s a bit weird to hear her explain things about their relationship to someone else, but he doesn’t mind. This is really the only time they’ll ever do something like this, and it’ll be a tape they have access to when they’re old and gray.

When it’s all over and the camera crews have left their home, Emma kicks off her heels and releases a sigh, wrapping her arms around his neck and resting her head against his shoulder while his arms wrap around her waist.

“That was exhausting. I think my eyes are going to fall out from the camera lights.”

“Aye, but you were bloody brilliant, and now we don’t have anything to do wedding-wise for the rest of the week.”

“Speak for yourself, buddy boy,” she leans back in his embrace and pats his chest, “I’ve got to go finish helping design some wedding dresses tomorrow.”

“I could always help you with that.”

She raises her right eyebrow, her eye moving with it while her jaw ticks in amusement.

“That’s, like, the one thing that will be a surprise to you and the rest of the world, so as much as I would appreciate that, you’re not sweet talking your way into seeing the dresses.” She taps at his chest. “Besides, they’re just sketches right now.”

“You’re going to be the most beautiful bride, love.”

“You think I could walk down the aisle in jeans instead of a big dress?”

“Probably not. Maybe you could put them on under the dress.”

Emma’s parents, having closed down the pub for the week for concerns of overcrowding, and Ruby come over to watch the interview that night, and Emma spends most of it shielding her face from the television because she doesn’t like seeing herself actually talk on the screen. It’s apparently different than just paparazzi videos of her because she’s actually supposed to be talking in these. It probably doesn’t help that her parents and Ruby tease the two of them throughout the thirty-minute special. He’d not planned on watching, but he was honestly curious which parts they kept in and edited out. He’s pleasantly surprised to see that they’ve kept all of their little shows of affection, including the kiss, as well as a bit where he and Emma dissolve into a fit of laughter. It’s good seeing them like this. Not just for he and Emma personally, but for everyone. It’s a reminder that while they’re public figures and royalty, most of all they’re real people with real emotions for each other.

“You guys really got hot and heavy on the PDA, Ems,” Ruby jokes with Emma, and Emma just rolls her eyes. “I didn’t know this was airing on HBO.”

“It was one kiss.”

“Yeah, and that’s not nearly the dirtiest – ”

Emma pinches his leg before he can continue his statement about that not being the dirtiest thing they’ve done in that room, and he’s so glad Mary Margaret and David went to the kitchen to get something to eat because he had almost completely forgotten about their presence tonight. Even if the two of them of walked in on some…compromising positions with he and Emma, they probably wouldn’t appreciate too many dirty jokes involving their daughter.

“Let’s just go back to the two of you making eyes at each other.”

Their guests stay after the interview just to catch up, as well as discussing plans for the wedding. Ruby’s got to get her maid of honor dress designed to go with all of the pageboys and bridesmaids. Emma had been unsure if she wanted to carry on the mainly American tradition of having adult bridesmaids, so she decided to compromise with simply having Ruby. She had wanted Abigail as well, but Abigail will have to be in charge of Alexander and some of the other pageboys as well as sitting with Liam during parts of the ceremony.

It’s all complicated, but as Emma scrolls through her computer showing Ruby and Mary Margaret all of the dress designs for the two of them, he thinks that maybe it doesn’t have to be. Tonight, it can simply be about family and friends being happy to celebrate together.

Killian leaves the apartment the next day when a hoard or men and women rush in with rolls of white fabric and sketchbooks to work with Emma on her dresses. They’ve been setting up in one of the guest rooms, and while he could easily stay downstairs instead of leaving, he wants to go for a run just because he can. It’s a not surprisingly cold day for the end of February, especially considering the ice-cold temperatures the past few days possessed, but it probably won’t kill his lungs too much to jog in the brisk air as he’s bundled up in a beanie and sweatshirt to keep both his body and face shielded as he runs. .

His feet take off before he even knows it, his joints aching the slightest bit every time his body weight lands on the gravel until he gets into a rhythm, music pounding through his ears while his heartbeat pounds in his chest and his legs burn the longer he runs. He usually does this quite frequently, but he let the winter months keep him inside and away from his usual trail, exercising much less frequently with the joy and distraction of the holidays and his engagement.

He doesn’t even realize the path he’s taken until he’s standing with a hand on his hips and his head thrown back to try to catch his breath, his heartbeat now matching the sound of his knocking on the door instead of the sound of the music no longer playing in his ears.

“Hello.”

[antiquechampagne]

Chapter 10

Payne worked with Daisy in her free moments. She found it encouraging to have someone working with her, especially in moments when she lost faith that what they were doing was going to work. Eventually, they even conscripted Irma into their ranks once she caught wind of what their scheme.

“This is never going to work.” Payne looked at herself in the cracked mirror. It was fitting that they were back stage at the Memory Den, given how big of a flop this was going to be. “He’s going to think I am making fun of him.” Payne stared down at her slinky black dress. She felt like a fool.

“You just have a touch of stage fright, love.” Cooed Irma. Daisy was sewing the last few stitches into the ruffled while collar that framed the plunging neck line.

Thank God this party is at night Payne thought to herself. Not only was the neckline revealing, but a lot of her arms and legs were exposed.

“Sit down, we need to get your makeup on before the veil.” Apparently Irma and Daisy had differing opinions on what would be the right kind of makeup, as they bickered and fussed over every inch of Payne’s face. Payne wondered why it was such a big deal… most of it would be hidden anyway.

Once they were both mostly satisfied, they turned Payne to the mirror again. Gazing back at her framed in rolling black locks was a face she barely recognized. Seeing herself brought a flood of feelings that threatened to overwhelm her. She pushed them back. Irma and Daisy, seeing her expression, both put a comforting hand on each of her shoulders.

Shaking her nerves and memories away, Payne stood up. “Now for the final touches, right?” Within moments, the look was complete. Again, they all studied Payne. Payne stared back at her foreign reflection. Something was missing. After a moment’s consideration, she walked over an old foot locker. She riffled through her clothes and equipment.  Pulling out her combat knife and a thin leather belt, she fashioned a holster, securing it high up on her thigh.

“Now we’re done.” She proudly proclaimed.

Irma rapped gently on Kent’s door. “Someone is here to pick you up for the party, Kent…”

“Irma, I told you and Payne that I am busy tonight. You guys go and have fun without me. I’ll be fine…” He opened the door, his eyes scanning the labels of the holotapes in his other hand. “I have to pick which epi...” His voice trailed off as his eyes finally ventured outside his room. Kent stood gobsmacked, his mouth gaping. The Mistress of Mystery stood before him in the flesh, complete with elbow length opera gloves, a sparkling black gown trimmed with a stunning white ruffle and black high heels. Payne’s black hair formed two gentle waves on either side of her face, half which was coyly concealed behind a delicate lacey black veil.

“Kent Connolly, may I kindly inquire that you make my acquaintance and accompany me to Mayor Hancock’s commemorative occasion?”

Kent’s jaw attempted to form words, but only succeeded in flapping like a fish pulled up into the bright morning air. His brain seemed to be having trouble reconciling both Payne and The Mistress of Mystery standing before him.

“Please?” The longer that Kent stood there in silence, the dread that this idea was doomed to fail grew.

“Of course!” Kent stammered at last. Payne let out an internal sigh of relief. She offered her arm and Kent gleefully took it.

“You don’t have to stay long or anything, I just want you to get out and have a little fun.” Payne whispered. Kent gave her arm a gentle affectionate squeeze in thanks.

Walking through the dark streets, Payne noticed there were only a few Neighborhood Watch out. She caught Ted’s attention walking past.

“Decided to work tonight?”

“Yeah, the boss gives us a nice bit of compensation if we pick up a shift during his annual bash.” He tapped on the box of Grape Mentats in his lapel pocket.

“Don’t get through the whole box in one night!” she ribbed.

Ted tipped his hat and continued on his patrol. “You take good care of her, Kent. She’s one dangerous date!”

Heading down to the escalator, they saw the bar bursting at the seams with people. Payne wasn’t even sure that there were even this many people in Goodneighbor. She caught faces turning to face them as they walked. Payne now felt over dressed, but this was her part for the evening for as long as Kent would stay, so she didn’t mind the extra attention. Hancock’s red coat caught her eye as he darted in and around people, schmoozing and charming the guests.

They walked to a free small table in the corner.

“I’ll get us a little something to drink. What would you like?”

Payne was surprised that Kent volunteered. “I’m fine with anything, but ask for a clean drink. It wouldn’t surprise me if there were a few specials going around with chems mixed in.” Kent nodded and headed to the bar in the sea of people. She could see him getting ‘atta boys’ from some of the other patrons as he passed.

“So, there is a body under all that leather!” Hancock’s raspy voice teased as he grabbed a nearby chair, turning it backwards as he sat down. “And you managed the impossible! I really shouldn’t underestimate you.” Hancock elbowed her arm playfully.

“Yeah, my womanly wiles are just too strong!” She turned a bit more serious, “I’m just glad he didn’t slam the door in my face. I don’t want him to think I am teasing him or making fun.” Kent returned with a pair of Nuka-Colas. Payne should have known he would be a bit of a teetotaler. She graciously accepted her drink while she snickered inside.

Hancock turned to Kent. “Who knew all it took was a pair of long legs and pretty eyes to get you out, Kent!”

“One can’t refuse the Mistress, Hancock!” Kent was faster on his feet than Payne had thought.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Mistress.” Payne rolled her eyes as this innuendo.

Irma and Daisy made their way to the growingly inadequate table.

“I bet you didn’t know that Daisy was a seamstress in another life!” Payne boasted.

“Hardly… I had a sewing machine growing up. I mended things… but nothing like this Frankenstein of a dress! I bet you can’t tell it is actually three dresses sewn together (it was freaking impossible to find a prewar dress with the length we needed), plus a clean pillow case for the ruffle thing! Oh, and those glove… guess what they are!”

Payne put her hands out so they all could stroke her opera gloves. “Guess!” she egged on.

Hancock and Kent were baffled. “Those are made from a half a dozen old black t-shirts! We used Payne’s regular gloves as makeshift patterns. Luckily the old knit fabric has a lot of stretch… because man, if used correctly that can cover a lot of sins!” Daisy was rightly proud of her work.

“What did you do?” Hancock nodded to Irma.

“I did hair and makeup, naturally. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get the right product get those waves to stay put? Damn near impossible. I hope they just last an hour down here with all the heat.” Payne nodded her head. She had no idea what Irma had used, and she was afraid to ask. She just hoped it didn’t make all her hair fall out by the end of the night. “I also found the lace for her veil.”

Payne picked up the thread. “I mostly dreamed up the scheme. I felt bad that Kent might be missing out again on such a great party, so I hope he doesn’t mind too much.” Kent gave an embarrassed ‘no’. “And I helped where I could. I am nowhere near the wizard with a sewing needle that Daisy is, but I worked on a fair bit of it.”

“I think you look lovely.” Kent said.

“Me too, buddy. I could get used to that view.” Hancock added.

“Put a hand on my ass, and you are going to lose a finger!” Payne playfully drew up her skirt to reveal her knife nestled against her leg.

“Hey,” Payne said. “You guys want something? I’m just about done with my Nuka-Cola.” Kent was still nursing his soda, so she took an order from the other three and headed up to the bar.

Charley was absolutely swamped, his three arms whizzing through the space behind the bar. After a few minutes, he finally turned his attention to Payne.

“The boss got you doing double duty tonight?” Payne asked.

“More like triple! Glad there is an open bar only once a year, or he’d better get me another arm! Whatcha getting?”

“A beer, a bourbon and a triple shot of whiskey.” Charley grunted and hurried away. With all the bodies moving in and around the bar, Payne barely registered a man sitting down next to her before he leaned in close to her.

“I know whaat yur doing…” his words slurred together.

Payne looked at him with a side glance. “I’m getting some drinks.” She tried to ignore him.

“No!, I can see through you, phony. Don’t you think you can fool me.”

“It’s the costume, isn’t it. Damn, you got me! I’m not really a comic book character.” She really shouldn’t be engaging this asshole, but he was really getting on her nerves.

“Fuck you! Fahr’s my friend and I don’t let anyone treat her like shit! You’re trying to replace her, weasel into Hancock’s good graces, you pathetic faker! You ghoul fucker!” A few people close by were now taking notice and either moving away or trying to get a better view.

Payne had had enough of this drunkard. Slowly and deliberately she turned to face him, stone faced. As she spoke, the hand further from him moved to her thigh.

“Let me get this straight. You are accosting a person who has traveled from the far west by herself, a trip that can take years, through every kind of hell inspired wasteland filled with monsters you could barely think up in your wildest dreams, who is then hired by the most powerful man in Goodneighbor as one of his two personal bodyguards….“ With a powerful slam, Payne embedded her knife in the bar right in front of the man, the blade penetrating an inch into the ancient wood. He jumped back on his stool, nearly falling. “Or….you are insulting a person who has gained control of most powerful man in Goodneighbor by his cock.” Payne inched closer. “It seems neither of these kinds of people would be smart to piss off, especially at Hancock’s own party.”

The man was quickly surrounded by a few more party goers. As they issued weak apologies, they roughly guided him away, chastising and admonishing him as soon as they were out of earshot.

Charley returned with Payne’s drinks. “Nice theatrics, but what about my fucking bar?”

“I’ll fix it this week some time. Sorry.” She pulled the knife out. While she was glad she had ended that without a fight, it still left her a little uneasy.

Returning to her table, everyone was laughing, even Kent. Hancock nearly double over.

“I guess you guys heard the whole thing?”

“Everyone in Diamond City heard the damn thing!” Hancock roared and slapped her goodheartedly on the back. Payne’s mood finally lightened and she eased into a good chuckle herself. “And everyone knows, if you are going to go ghoul fucking, you might as well start with the finest one!”

Author’s Note: My proofreader was extremely sick when they tried to go through this for me. They did their best, but if you find anything, please let me know!

[nycjessestjames]

Cousin Meet Up || Chelsea, Louis and Jesse (Unfinished)

LOCATION: NYC

TIMING: September 08, Dinner

TAGGING: @chelseavictoriaxoxo, @whatifprincelouis & @nycjessestjames​

Jesse: had been rushing around all day, finalising everything for his return to Broadway. He hadn't had time to go back to the apartment so had texted Chelsea to say he would meet her there, as he would be going straight from the theatre office. Truthfully, he was ... even ecstatic wouldn't cover the emotions. The past few months had been a turbulent time for him, and with his life pretty much going down the drain, he was working back. Having Chelsea staying with him had been such a huge boost to his mood, and he was glad not to be alone in the apartment anymore, especially being his baby sister. And now he was expecting a child, and going back on Broadway, meeting new people... after everything, he felt that maybe his life was getting back on track. Slowly, maybe, but it was getting there. For now though, Chelsea and Jesse had agreed to have a dinner to meet Louis in person. They'd all talked online, but discovering you had a secret cousin - and not a distant cousin, a first cousin - that also happened to be living in the same city as them, was bizarre enough. "Table for three, St James?" He asked the waiter at the door and he took him to the table, Jesse being the first one to arrive.

--

Louis: Time felt like it was going slowly though he found himself thinking back at the past few days he has spend in NYC. It was a bit of an eventful thing, finding family - getting lost and get in an argument with Darius. Maybe meeting Jesse wasn’t that much of a bad thing, he might need someone to talk with who will be honest and wouldn’t take his feelings in mind as much as a few others did. At least he could say he wasn’t truly alone, though his birthday made him feel like he lost something valuable. Perhaps that’s why he decided to listen to the voice in his mind that told him to appreciate the people he still had rather than the people he lost. Chelsea was brighter than he could imagine, yet she did hold a bit of a mature attitude in the way she talked. Jesse was pretty much a mystery to him, but it wasn’t hard to figure out why he was so upset. Perhaps he should take today as the opportunity to tell Jesse that he wouldn’t go after Darius heart anymore. 

He wouldn’t do that with anyone, for a very important reason. When he had reflected on it, it had felt unfair - too soon. Perhaps even too much to hope for. Looking at his watch he decided that it was time enough to leave, the club wasn’t open and wouldn’t be for hours. He would easily recognize his cousin, before he closed his door he found himself checking if nothing was forgotten. He had taken his key, laptop was in his safe and he took his wallet with him. Seems like he had everything for a proper first meeting. What did he have to lose?   

--

Jesse: Jesse sat at the table, his eyes scanning the restaurant almost constantly. He always felt uncomfortable, being the first to arrive, and even more so when he was meeting somebody he didn't know. Well, he supposed he knew Louis in a way, and he would recognise him with no problems, but he didn't know him. They'd never met, and - as far as he had been told - neither had Louis and Chelsea. He poured himself a glass of water, not wanting to order even a drink until somebody else was at least here, and pulled his phone out to see if there were any messages. From either Chelsea or Louis, or the production.

--

Louis: It wasn’t a place he had visited before but then again when Louis was thinking about it, he didn’t even explore NYC at all. His routine was groceries, apartment and Sassy Nights. Maybe he just needed to go out more, but then again he wasn’t the type to go to places on his own. When he entered he was asked if he had made a reservation, he frowned. He mumbled his cousin name hoping Jesse did in fact reserve and was guided to where Jesse was seated. “Already starting healthy?” He asked his cousin, not sure how to behave around this family member. Then again the Richardson family were a bit more polite and withdrawn in their first meetings.

--

Jesse: The voice startled Jesse out of his thoughts and he looked up to find the man he'd recently found to be his cousin standing beside the table. He looked down at the glass of water and laughed, "hardly. I've consumed my weight in Ben and Jerry’s over the last few months, I don't think one glass of water will help with that." He set the glass aside and then hesitated. He didn't know what people did in this situation, it wasn't exactly something one could Google. Clearing his throat, he stood up and offered his hand for Louis to shake. "I think we can skip the name introductions though."

--

Louis: There was a soft curl in his lips when he heard his cousin’s remark, then again he couldn’t really add much to it considering he had been trying to keep himself from eating the chocolate he had been given for his birthday. In a way it was torture as well, it was something he absolutely adored eating yet Darius told him not to overdo it. Ever since their last argument he actually listens to the man's advice. “Oh, so I don’t have to do the whole Hi I’m Louis anymore. It’s a bit of a shame.” He said with a more broad smile. “I guess the next step is me taking a seat.” He chuckled as he seated himself down. “Don’t worry if it’s awkward I take the full blame.”

--

Jesse: Jesse shrugged and sat down again as well, "it doesn't have to be awkward." He paused, and gave a quiet laugh, "okay, probably a little. I'm not exactly well versed in meeting secret cousins. But I'll try not to be an asshole because we're family and all." Glancing down at his watch, his brow furrowed in thought. Chelsea was larger than life, and she would immediately make the whole thing less awkward. Even if Jesse was used to being charming, there was just something different here. "Speaking of family, I'm sure Chelsea won't be long. She hasn't messaged to say she's running late but we're both a bit early anyway."

--

Louis: “Well, I could say the same but you weren’t a secret to me so..” Louis remarked, chewing on the inside of his cheek and sighed. “Honestly, you don’t have to be less assholy because of something like being family. I’d prefer if you were just honest.” He signed the waitress and ordered himself a coke. “Yeah I decided to come a little bit earlier since I managed to get lost the first few days - I could imagine it happening again with ease. New York is just..too big sometimes.” He smiled.

--

Jesse: "Mmm," Jesse hummed in response, and then shrugged a single shoulder, "perhaps. But I think my sister would - and probably could - skin my alive if I was a complete dickhead to you. And honestly, it's not that I enjoy being the asshole. Sometimes things just come out. But you-," he eyed Louis quizzically, "- you seem okay. As long as you're much the same in person as you are online, at least." He took a long drink of his water, and then cleared his throat again. He supposed if Chelsea wasn't going to be here, they could hardly just sit in silence. "So... how long have you been in New York then?"

--

Louis: Louis listened to Jesse, nodding a few times to assure his cousin he was listening. And in a way he understood - he was known as the black sheep at home. It wasn’t as if he did it on purpose but he was just different from the rest of his family. He couldn’t fulfil their expectations. “That’s a careful judgement for a few conversations we’ve had.” He said smiling when his drink arrived. “I’ve been here for over a week - took me two years to arrive but I managed to finally get here. It wasn’t always fun doing business over Skype calls. But there wasn’t much of a choice. I’m just glad to finally be able to continue Sassy Night with the ability of seeing what happens. Not that Darius didn’t do an amazing job, it’s just different if you see the place with your own eyes.”

--

Jesse: "Only a week?" Jesse asked, surprised, "I thought... we first spoke nearly three weeks ago. Chelsea had only just moved in, I'm sure of it." When Louis mentioned Darius, he pressed his lips together and looked down, "Darius does seem like a great manager... he was very helpful when we first met at the club. I was going through a bit of a rough time after Rachel and I filed for divorce. He was nice. He's a good manager, you should keep him around." He paused, and then swallowed the apprehensive feeling he wasn't even sure why he had, "and probably stop pissing him off if you're planning to confess your undying love to him."

--

Louis: “Well I never been one to keep track of time, which kind of tells me I need to stop my routine and focus more on social things - or I need to buy myself a calendar.” He smiled. That smile widened when he sensed something off his cousin. “You really like him do you, well I can’t blame you - but if it makes you happy. The confession won’t be made in the first place - “ He sighed deeply before adding. “I think you would be a better match than I do - plus I’m not really sure it’s a good idea for me to focus on things like...fondness over someone. Don’t worry too much.”

-- 

Jesse: Jesse's gaze snapped up to Louis' and he gave him a weird look. "I mean. He's my friend, I think. And he's a good man. I'm not... I'm not interested in him. Not like that." He gave a choked off laugh and shook his head, "I'm not... I'm... you know, I just ended a marriage. I'm not looking to date anybody. I just don't want him to get hurt. That's... that's all." His voice was certain.

--

Louis: “Well let me just tell you that if you do however end up having those feelings for Darius. Don't feel like you shouldn't and if you do like him. Tell him.” Louis smile faltered for a moment. “Trust me when I say there is no bigger regret in life than not telling the one you love you loved them. Because you never know if you can tell them the next day.”

---

Jesse: Jesse just shook his head, "I don't like anybody. Except Rachel maybe but honestly, even then... I don't know. I don't really even think of her anymore. When we first separated, all I could do was think of Rachel and how I wasn't going to get her back. It’s not really public knowledge, and I don’t want it to be public knowledge, but you’re family and I trust you won’t say anything. She had an affair and I knew she was going to move on like our marriage had meant nothing. And it hurt and I wanted things to go back to like they were. But now, I don't think of her like that. I think I need to take some time for myself before I even begin to think about committing to anybody else. "If you say that, why didn't you tell them then? Or if you're talking about Darius, why don't you tell him?"

--

Louis: “Well you surely had a lot to deal with, a divorce is painful but I think you might be right when you say you should give yourself time.” Louis nodded. “I am glad you told your maybe cousin this story.” It was a soft tease , something to make this conversation less well it certainly left a heavy undertone. “I guess to know my reason I might need to explain why it took me two years to get to New York City in the first place.”

“My parents are incredible people, they are involved with charity. Their children are smart and they are happy with each other. But they wanted me to marry a girl, get a law degree and play the part so well that they could decide who to love and who to have as a friend. They tired me out mentally.”

He smiled. “The first person I fell in love with was actually my best friend. He was sarcastic and direct and he honestly was a nice person. But he knew my parents well enough to know that as long as I remained in that house we never could be together. He never told me untill I got his letter.”

He took a sip of his glas his hold tightening against it as he forced his next words out. “He died two years ago due to an illness- we were planning to open sassy night as a club for everyone. Where no one should feel worried about who they are and where they came from. What music they listen or what clothes they wear. It was a combined dream. Like always he gave me the push to move forward to stop being a coward and be honest to myself.”

“So that advice is from own experience.”

--

Jesse: Jesse looked down and gave a single nod, "well. I'm sorry to hear that. About your friend. And your family not really understanding. Your mom seems very different from my Dad, but knowing about his childhood, I’m sure she wasn’t always like that. Because I'm fortunate that my parents were rather supportive of what Chelsea and I wanted to do. I've never told them that I'm..." He trailed off. He'd maybe said it to Darius recently, but he wasn't really ready to tell the world. Even if their conversation just moments earlier showed that Louis probably knew regardless. "It doesn't matter. I'm sure they'd be fine regardless." He paused and then offered Louis a brief, almost sad, smile "I'm sure your friend knew. That you loved him."

--

Louis: “He did, he actually pretty much rubbed it in my face in his final letter.” He couldn’t help but laugh. “But that just was how Ian was, he was the type of guy that could make you accept your weaknesses and certain other things by twisting them.” “And well my mom is unique on her own - I think she would be the only person I might tell the truth too - after all she did get the whole backlash after marrying my dad.She is a romantic at heart, I feel like she wouldn’t be the one to judge me if I told. My dad is a different story. He is prideful. I find it foolish at time.” He rolled his eyes. “But in the case of Darius, I highly doubt it is mutual - And I feel like sometimes it’s better not to tell.”

--

Jesse: Jesse gave a soft laugh and nodded, “sounds like he put you on the right track then, even after death. And Sassy Nights is very popular. The few times I’ve been there, it’s always busy. They had a pride event there in June… I think every man and his dog went.” He shrugged, pouring himself more of his water and glancing down at his watch. Chelsea would no doubt be here soon. The time they had agreed to meet had passed by a few minutes now, and she hadn’t messaged to say otherwise. “I’m guessing because I sadly have no royal blood in me - though I think that’s up for debate - that your father is the one with the royal bloodline? Since my father certainly doesn’t know anything about that. That probably explains the foolish pride.”

--

Louis: “He was a man who knew how to use his words that was true. And actually that’s because Darius simply is that hard working - he was hired by the both of us so we knew he was capable - I just regret it took me that long to claim my position as the boss. However I was grieving so even if I went I wouldn’t have been a great help.”

“And yeah the royal blood flows in my dad’s veins - but let’s be real. We have presidents he is just as royal as a rock now.” He huffed slightly. “He can be a prick - he judges people at times and his expectations are not realistic in the slightest.”

“I think you and Chelsea might be the more normal minded people out of the family. Well my mom is too, it seems like our caring and human side comes from the ST. James part of the family. Talking about that side...Where is Chelsea?”

--

Jesse: “Well… I mean, technically the manager is still the boss. Or a boss,” Jesse replied with a shrug, “not to you, of course, but he’s the manager. His job is the be the boss of everybody else when you’re not there so… it’s fair enough the employees see him as their boss. It’s not like a one boss only type situation. Isn’t it better they respect both of you as the boss, as opposed to just you coming in and trying to remind everybody you’re the only boss?”

Jesse snorted, “right. I think you’ll find some people will tell you I’m an asshole and only an asshole.” He sounded mildly bitter with those words, and it was obvious he was referring to specific people. Or a specific person. “And I don’t know. She should be here soon. She hasn’t messaged to say she’s running late so she’s probably nearly here.”

--

Chelsea: Chelsea left the rehearsal studio and headed to meet her brother and Louis for lunch. The brunette got a cab to the restaurant and walked inside. She looked around to find her brother and Louis but there was a lot of people but she spotted Jesse finally and walked over, “hey boys! Sorry i’m so late rehearsal lasted longer than expected today. Anyway it’s so so good* to see you Louis.”

--

Louis: Louis turned to greet her with a smile. "Well if it isn't my favorite cousin." He couldn't help but stuck out his tongue at Jesse and winked. "It's nice to see you again Chelsea - It gives me the time to formally wish you congrats on getting the role of Anna in Frozen. As someone who is a fan of Disney I couldn't help but get you a little something to celebrate." He looked into his bag that he had taken with him and gave her his gift for her. He then smiled. "It's nice to have the family together - though it certainly isn't everyone it sure feels a lot brighter now." He grinned.

--

Jesse: Jesse rolled his eyes at Louis' words, shaking his head. The man was ridiculous, but Jesse could see them - and Chelsea - becoming not just cousins, but friends. "I didn't get a gift," he said petulantly, crossing his arms, "he's playing favourites for sure." He stood up and gave his sister a quick hug and they all sat down at the table. "And don't worry about being late, Louis and I were just getting to know each other and neither one of us as killed the other yet, so I'm sure we'll be fine." He winked at Chelsea. It was still weird, having discovered a whole family they didn't even know about until recently. Louis was their cousin - and not even some distant cousin, their first cousin - and they'd never even heard of him until a couple of weeks earlier.

--

Chelsea: Chelsea gave her cousin Louis a big hug and smiled big, "It's been way too long." Taking the gift from Louis she opened it and gasped, "Louis it's beautiful! Thank you!" The brunette looked at her brother and walked over to hug him, "hey Jesse and you already gave me a gift, remember? The gift of becoming an aunt." Chelsea was happy her brother and cousin were getting along well and she sat down at the table. "Shall we order food?'

--

Louis: "Well I can't completely say I'm playing favorites because I've got something for Jesse as well." Louis laughed as Chelsea greeted him. "I'm glad you liked it - I'm a Disney fan so I might have a bit of an collection of these. But I generally have a thing with musicboxes and antique." He smiled. "Yeah, I'm actually getting a bit hungry."

--

Jesse: Jesse chuckled, "I meant where's my gift from Louis. He didn't bring me anything. I'm a gift in your life as itself." He grinned at Chelsea, their sibling banter being all too familiar between the two of them, and Bradley when they were younger. As much as he loved his younger brother too, it had been nice, living with Chelsea as adults. It was different from when they were kids, but not in a bad way. His brain caught up to what Louis had said, "By all means, feel free to give me this gift at any time. I do agree though, food first." They looked over the menus and soon enough, called over the waiter to place both their drinks and food order.

--

Louis: Louis rolled his eyes, digging into his bag once again and gave his cousin the gift he had bought him as well. "There you go, telling I didn't bring you anything. Rude and here I was thinking we were bonding." He smiled, looking at both siblings. It made him remember his sister, in a way he hated how they didn't talk anymore. "Honestly I know it might be early but I'm ordering the mac and cheese."

--

Chelsea: Chelsea looked over the menu and decided on what she wanted, "I'm going to go with a simple grilled chicken salad. Gotta stay away from the carbs so I can fit in my costume." The waiter came over to the table and took orders from everyone. Chelsea took a sip of water and looked at her cousin, "So Louis how long are you in NY for? Where are you staying?" The brunette looked at her brother, "So any luck finding a new apartment? I've been looking for my own place and i'm actually going to see a place after this." Chelsea knew it would be hard to find an apartment that allowed dogs but she was determined to find one.

--

Jesse: Jesse couldn't help but laugh at the snowglobe Louis presented to him, "very funny. I'll have you know, I'm going to look way better in my costume than that. But thank you. I appreciate it." He set it on the table next to Chelsea's Frozen one. When Chelsea ordered her food he frowned at her words, but didn't say anything. "Beef burger, extra bacon. Aioli with the fries, thank you." He passed the menu back to the waiter as he left. "Yes, actually. I saw a place today I think will be good. They allow pets so you and Sirius are both welcome to be there too. But I have to go back next week to have another look before I sign anything."

--

Louis: Louis grinned as he heard Jesse's reaction and smirked. "I'm sure you will look amazing in the hatter costume and do a job. I'm supporting the both of you so as soon as the tickets are for sale I'm ordering one." He looked at Chelsea and smiled. "Apparently longer than I thought - about a month. I have my own place - It also allows pets but I don't own any."

--

Chelsea: Chelsea smiled hearing her cousin speak, “well we have to hangout more often now that you’re closer.” The food came to the table and everything looked good. Chelsea ate some of her salad, “your foods look really good and smell good too.” As Chelsea was eating she then realized that she forgot to put Sirius in his crate and she knew Jesse would killer her if the dog got into anything, “So Jesse please don’t kill me but I was running a little late and totally forgot to pit Sirius in his crate..” She nervously laughed awaiting her old brothers reaction. She looked at Louis with a help me kind of look.

--

Jesse: Jesse laughed, "what do you mean now he's closer? More like now we know he exists. It wasn't like Dad knew his sister had kids. No offence," he said, directing the last two words at Louis though it wasn't like the other man was unaware the St. James' has no idea the Richardsons even existed until the past couple of weeks. He let out a sigh at Chelsea's words, shaking his head, "he's a good dog, so as long as he doesn't damage the apartment, it'll be fine. I don't care if he chews the furniture or anything, I'm getting rid of all of it when we sell the apartment anyway. And pretty much all the important things are in boxes now."

--

Louis: "Don't worry Jesse, I'll always be your maybe cousin." He couldn't help but these Jesse about their first conversation. "I'm not opposed to it after all we are family, and you both are more than welcome at my place. That includes the cute dog I've seen in your post Chelsea - "Was it a Harry potter reference, if it was you got yourself some brownie points with me." He grinned. "All food looks tasty, I don't have to worry about work since the club opens till late at night. I should have checked if the guys had free days but with this planning I forgot - so if I rudely start typing on my phone, it's just to check if I am supposed to turn off the alarm."

--

Chelsea: Chelsea was relieved her brother was mad about the dog. Looking at Louis, “he is named after Sirius Black from Harry Potter. I’d love to come to your club sometime to see it.” Chelsea barely touched her salad as she wasn’t that hungry. “So when are we moving Jesse? I still have to pack my room up and what not.”

--

Jesse: Jesse looked over at Louis and nodded, "it's fine. The club must be pretty busy then?" He shook his head at the mention of Chelsea's dog's name, smiling, "yes, and he's a little terror. Don't get me wrong, Chels, he's a great dog... but I really liked those shoes." He stuck his bottom lip out in a pout because if anyone could pull off the petulant pout, it was him. "You're not eating your salad," he commented, watching her, "did you want some fries?"

--

Louis: He smiled as he watched the siblings interact, it made him remember the siblings he left at home. Mostly his sister - at times it was hard to hear nothing of her especially of all siblings Isabelle was the one he was most close with. It made him focus on the food, nod slightly but not say much into their conversation. There was something that bothered him about his job lately and it was a bit of a tough situation to discuss. In a few weeks he'd have to go back to his hometown to see Ian again, and he wasn't looking forward to it that much. "If you need help with the move I'd gladly help - if it's packing or carrying anything just ask and we can arrange when."

--

Chelsea: Chelsea looked at her brother, “i’ll but you new shoes don’t worry and he isn’t a terror he’s a baby who is teething and needs to chew. No fries i’ll eat more salad.” She took a bite of her salad and a drink of water. “So Louis if you aren’t busy after this you should come meet Sirius. He’d love you.” Chelsea’s phone buzzed and she answered the call and it was the landlord of their current apartment, “i’m so sorry i’ll be home soon” the girl said. “Jesse I got to go Sirius is barking up a storm and the landlord is getting annoyed. He threatened to call animal control if I don’t keep him quiet. Lovely seeing you again Louis.” Chelsea grabbed her stuff and hugged Jesse.

--

Jesse: Jesse smiled at Louis, "thanks. We may take you up on that offer, I haven't owned a car in years. There was never much of a point in the city." He was surprised when Chelsea stood up to leave, and he set his burger down, "did you need me to come too?"

--

Louis: Louis nodded. "If you'd like we can all go to meet Sirius after we finish dinner here? Though I can imagine Sirius will bark since I'm still a stranger. It was nice seeing you Chels." He then looked at Jesse and smiled. "No problem, my car is in my garage so I'd be happy to lend it out for your moving day, I think the jeep has more space than my sportcar."

--

Chelsea: Chelsea looked at her brother, “you better come incase the landlord starts with me when I get to the apartment building.” Chelsea asks for the check and smiles at Louis, “he’ll warm right up to you after a good sniffing “ The brunette said gigling. Chelsea was worried the dog got into things in the apartment which was making her nervous. The waitress came with the check and placed it on the table, “split three ways?” Chelsea asked?

--

Jesse: Jesse quickly finished off the last of his burger, picking at a couple of the fries that were left and then dusted off his hands. He'd expected to sit around for a little bit at the restaurant, maybe get some dessert, but he'd convinced the building manager to let Sirius stay in the apartment while they were selling, so he knew that they had to abide by the restrictions he'd put in place when he agreed. "Okay, I'm coming. You coming to meet Sirius, Louis? And it's fine, I've got the bill this time. Maybe we can make this a semi regular thing then."

--

Louis: "Yeah I'm following you give me a second to have me pack my food- It'll be my food for later." He said as he walked to the counter, having it packed and returned. "Did any of you come by car? I got mine parked outside - I can drive you to the flat it'll be quicker?" He asked both Chelsea and Jesse. He was pretty excited to meet the dog, but that was because he kept thinking of getting an therapy dog for himself.

--

[recentnews18-blog]

New Post has been published on https://shovelnews.com/producer-paul-giamatti-discusses-amcs-weird-funny-new-show-lodge-49/

Producer Paul Giamatti Discusses AMC's Weird, Funny New Show 'Lodge 49'

There’s so much TV coming out of Hollywood right now that the beats often match in interesting, unintended ways.

Sometimes, characters from two different shows about obscenely wealthy assholes — Showtime’s Billions and HBO’s Succession — eat illegal, thumb-sized birds within weeks of each other. Other times, a show vibes with reality in stark, parallel ways like Hulu’s The Handmaid’s Tale and Trump’s America.

AMC’s Lodge 49 falls under the latter. America’s reality in 2018 is a surreal carnival where barely plausible news shows up in your iPhone alerts once or twice a day, and sometimes reality makes you so angry that you tune it out. Lodge 49 is set in a beach town whose biggest employer is slowly shutting down, and everyone is tuning out the the misery with donuts and fantasy novels.

Don’t let that description put you off, though. Lodge 49 is funny and odd. Marine mammals hold up traffic, and unseen characters with names like “Captain” and a secretive social club figure into the shaggy-dog plot. Executive producer Paul Giamatti, who stars in Billions (but didn’t get to eat the tiny birds), sat down with Decider talk about creating Lodge 49.

DECIDER: Tell me about the Ancient and Benevolent Order of the Lynx.

PAUL GIAMATTI: [Laughs.] It’s a fraternal order that has a deep history. It’s meant to echo groups like the Masons. Our lodge is Lodge 49, which has its roots in Long Beach, Calif., which is on the ropes because membership is down.

I’ve seen the first four episodes, and there’s an economic malaise running through them.

That runs through the whole season.

I’ve never seen that kind of economic anxiety in such proximity to whimsy. Was that one of the starting places for what you wanted to do with the series?

Very much so. The writer, Jim Gavin, is not a screenwriter. He’s a short story writer and novelist from Long Beach, and the story is somewhat autobiographical. The plumbing salesman part, certainly, is autobiographical. It’s very much a product of his worldview, and that tone is deliberate.

He has lived through tough economic times, and the show was a godsend for him. He was having a hard time as a writer and was close to going back to selling plumbing supplies. He has that experience and an extraordinary imagination, and those two things melded in interesting ways.

How did the show come to you? Was it in the script pile on your desk?

I have a small production company. My production partner, Dan Carey, goes out and finds projects. We don’t want a pile of scripts; we want to go out and find things that are interesting to us. Dan read the Lodge 49 script and loved it, and I read the script and thought it was one of the best things I had ever read. The characters are so well delineated, and most scripts I read — even the good scripts — make everyone sound the same on the page. The characters are so distinct on this show.

I thought it was an amazing script and was jazzed by the idea of these semi-defunct fraternal organization that you drive by in every town — some Elk’s Lodge or Odd Fellows Lodge or Shriners. They’re weird little buildings, and he opens a door to them in really interesting ways.

The vibe — particularly from Wyatt Russell — reminded me of The Big Lebowski.

That wasn’t as big an influence for Jim Gavin as Charles Portis, who wrote True Grit and a lot of other great books.

The series is unpredictable and often changes course from episode to episode, so it’s interesting to hear that Jim Gavin is a short story writer. Did he come in with those shifts in mind?

Definitely. The show unfolds more like a work of literature. It takes its time, and unexpected things happen. It grows slowly and organically and goes to a lot of interesting places, but it doesn’t do that in an amped-up way. It’s much more patient than that.

You’re a working actor who’s also a producer. You just finished Jungle Cruise for Disney in Atlanta, and you’re about to start back up on Billions for Showtime. Do you give yourself time between projects? Do you work in phone calls on your shooting days?

I spend a lot of time on the phone, and it’s wonderful that I can watch dailies on my computer. I had a chunk of time off that coincided with developing Lodge 49, so I was able to be around a lot for casting and other meetings. And I was able to go during breaks from Billions to Atlanta, where we shot parts of Lodge 49.

Billions shoots in New York?

Right, and we were able to cast a lot of Lodge 49 out of New York. Plus, I can see auditions, dailies, production design — all of that — on my computer. The technology has really made it a lot easier to do those things from remote.

The New York connection explains having stage actors like Linda Emond in Lodge 49.

I’ve done plays in New York with Linda Emond and have known her for a long time. She’s one of my favorite actors. I helped produce another TV show that never got past the pilot, and she was in that. I was keen to have her in this series.

Wyatt Russell is the lead in Lodge 49, and his parents are Kurt Russell and Goldie Hawn. Do you see more of one of them than the other in his acting?

He’s a great comedic talent, which he gets from both of them. We sent him the script, and he immediately said he wanted to do it. He’s a wonderful, naturalistic actor with great comedic timing. He certainly looks a lot like his father. He’s the central guy in an ensemble piece, and he was a wonderful team player.

AMC is calling Lodge 49 a fable, which is not something I see a lot in show descriptions. Is that a term you used when you were developing and producing the series?

Yeah, for sure. It’s not entirely realistic. It’s a difficult show to describe, which I think is great. The show has a lot of elements, and fable is a good word for it. It’s got an old-school feel to it and is a story of a group of people on a quest.

Most fables have animals, and animals pop up throughout the series. Wyatt Russell’s character has a snakebite, and animals figure into a several scenes through the episodes I’ve watched so far.

The show is filled with symbols and metaphors, which fables have.

The show is set in a town where the local factory has recently shut down, and that has having an effect on everyone in one way or another. It has been interesting going from a news cycle that’s full of surreal moments and anger to watching a series full of surreal moments and economic anxiety. The characters seem to be managing a difficult situation better than the real world is right now.

I suppose that’s true, but there are a lot of people in the country dealing with situations like a factory closing. The show was developed before the current politics, and it’s not commenting on cynicism and politics. A lot of people do deal with economic struggles in heroic ways. One of the points of the show is that those people then congregate in a community that allows them to lean on and support each other.

They find a place that gives them a higher sense of life — a way to turn shit into gold. The whole alchemical metaphor in the show is that you turn crap to gold, and people have to do that with their lives. That, in many ways, is what the show is about.

Scott Porch writes about the TV business for Decider and is a contributing writer for Playboy. You can follow him on Twitter @ScottPorch.

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Where to stream Lodge 49

Source: https://decider.com/2018/08/06/paul-giamatti-lodge-49-interview/

[dalepwithchari]

Everything is terrible: an explanation

Buy some great High Tech products from WithCharity.org #All Profits go to Charity

Facebook is a breeding ground for fake news and polarized outrage, accused of corrupting democracy and spurring genocide. Twitter knows it has become a seething battleground of widespread, targeted abuse — but has no solution. YouTube videos are messing with the minds of children and adults alike — so YouTube decided to pass the buck to Wikipedia, without telling them.

All three of those sentences would have seemed nearly unimaginable five years ago. What the hell is going on? Ev Williams says, of the growth of social media: “We laid down fundamental architectures that had assumptions that didn’t account for bad behavior.” What changed? And perhaps the most important question is: have people always been this awful, or have social networks actually made us collectively worse?

I have two somewhat related theories. Let me explain.

The Uncanny Social Valley Theory

“Social media is poison,” a close friend of mine said to me a couple of years ago, and since then more and more of my acquaintances seem to have come around to her point of view, and are abandoning or greatly reducing their time spent on Facebook and/or Twitter.

Why is it poison? Because this technology meant to provoke human connection actually dehumanizes. Not always, of course; not consistently. It remains a wonderful way to keep in contact with distant friends, and to enhance your relationship and understanding of those you regularly see in the flesh. What’s more, there are some people with whom you just ‘click’ online, and real friendships grow. There are people I’ve never met who I’d unhesitatingly trust with the keys to my car and home, because of our interactions on various social networks.

And yet — having stipulated all the good things — a lot of online interactions can and do reduce other people to awful caricatures of themselves. In person we tend to manage a kind of mammalian empathy, a baseline understanding that we’re all just a bunch of overgrown apes with hyperactive amygdalas trying to figure things out as best we can, and that relatively few of us are evil stereotypes. (Though see below.) Online, though, all we see are a few projections of those mammal brains, generally in the form of hastily constructed, low-context text and images … as mediated and amplified by the outrage machines, those timeline algorithms which think that “engagement” is the highest goal to which one can possibly aspire online.

I am reminded of the concept of the Uncanny Valley: “humanoid objects which appear almost, but not exactly, like real human beings elicit uncanny, or strangely familiar, feelings of eeriness and revulsion in observers.” Sometimes you ‘click’ with people online such that they’re fully human to you, even if you’ve never met. Sometimes you see them fairly often in real life, so their online projections are just a new dimension to their existing humanity. But a lot of the time, all you get of them is that projection … which falls squarely into an empathy-free, not-quite-human, uncanny social valley.

And so many of us spend so much time online, checking Twitter, chatting on Facebook, that we’ve all practically built little cottages in the uncanny social valley. Hell, sometimes we spend so much time there that we begin to believe that even people we know in real life are best described as neighbors in that valley … which is how friendships fracture and communities sunder online. A lot of online outrage and fury — the majority, I’d estimate, though not all — is caused not by its targets’ inherent awfulness but by an absence, on both sides, of context, nuance, and above all, empathy and compassion.

The majority. But not all. Because this isn’t just a story of lack of compassion. This is also a story of truly, genuinely awful people doing truly, genuinely awful things. That aspect is explained by…

The Intransigent Asshole Theory

Of course the Internet was always full of awful. Assholes have been trolling since at least 1993. “Don’t read the comments” is way older than five years old. But it’s different now; the assholes are more organized, their victims are often knowingly and strategically targeted, and many seem to have calcified from assholedom into actual evil. What’s changed?

The Intransigent Asshole Theory holds that the only thing that’s changed is that more assholes are online and they’ve had more time to find each other and agglomerate into a kind of noxious movement. They aren’t that large in number. Say that a mere three percent of the online population are, actually, the evil stereotypes that we perceive so many to be.

If three of 100 people are known to be terrible human beings, the other 97 can identify them and organize to defend themselves with relative ease. 97 is well within Dunbar’s number after all. But what about 30 of a 1,000? That gets more challenging, if those thirty band together; the non-awful people have to form fairly large groups. How about 300 of 10,000? Or 3,000 of 100,000? 3 million of 100 million? Suddenly three percent doesn’t seem like such a small number after all.

I chose three percent because it’s the example used by Nassim Taleb in his essay/chapter “The Most Intolerant Wins: The Dictatorship of the Small Minority.” Adopting his argument slightly, if only 3% of the online population really wants the online world to be horrible, ultimately they can force it to be, because the other 97% can — as empirical evidence shows — live with a world in which the Internet is often basically a cesspool, whereas those 3% apparently cannot live with a world in which it is not.

Only a very small number of people comment on articles. But they are devoted to it; and, as a result, “don’t read the comments,” became a cliché. Is it really so surprising that “don’t read the comments” spread to “Facebook is for fake outrage and Twitter is for abuse,” given that Facebook and Twitter are explicitly designed to spread high-engagement items, i.e. the most outrageous ones? Really the only thing that’s surprising is that it took this long to become so widespread.

Worst of all — when you combine the Uncanny Social Valley Theory with the Intransigent Asshole Theory and the high-engagement outrage-machine algorithms, you get the situation where, even if only 3% of people actually are irredeemable assholes, a full 30% or more of them seem that way to us. And the situation spirals ever downwards.

“Wait,” you may think, “but what if they didn’t design their social networks that way?” Well, that takes us to the third argument, which isn’t a theory so much as an inarguable fact:

The Outrage Machine Money Maker

Outrage equals engagement equals profit. This is not at all new; this goes back to the ‘glory’ days of yellow journalism and “if it bleeds, it leads.” Today, though, it’s more personal; today everyone gets a customized set of screaming tabloid headlines, from which a diverse set of manipulative publishers profit.

This is explicit for YouTube, whose creators make money directly from their highest-engagement, and thus (often) most-outrageous videos, and for Macedonian teenagers creating fake news and raking in the resulting ad income. This is explicit for the politically motivated, for Russian trolls and Burmese hate groups, who get profits in the form of the confusion and mayhem they want.

This is implicit for the platforms themselves, for Facebook and Twitter and YouTube, all of whom rake in huge amounts of money. Their income and profits are, of course, inextricably connected to the “engagement” of their users. And if there are social costs — and it’s become clear that the social costs are immense — then they have to be externalized. You could hardly get a more on-the-nose example of this than YouTube deciding that Wikipedia is the solution to its social costs.

The social costs have to be externalized because human moderation simply doesn’t scale to the gargantuan amount of data we’re talking about; any algorithmic solution can and will be gamed; and the actual solution — which is to stop optimizing for ever-higher engagement — is so completely anathema to the platforms’ business models that they literally cannot conceive of it, and instead claim “we don’t know what to do.”

I have been struck repeatedly by how: – Every tech CEO acknowledges platform abuse as an extremely serious problem, and – How few practical ideas any of them have to address it in the short term

— Casey Newton (@CaseyNewton) March 14, 2018

  In Summary

Only ~3% of people are truly terrible, but if we are sufficiently compliant with their awfulness, that’s enough to ruin the world for the rest of us. History shows that we have been more than sufficiently compliant.

Social networks often dehumanize their participants; this plus their outrage-machine engagement optimization makes fully 30% of people seem like they’re part of those 3%, which breeds rancor and even, honestly no fooling not exaggerating, genocide.

(Are those the exact numbers? Almost certainly not! My point is that social networks cause “you are an awful, irredeemable human being” to be massively overdiagnosed, by an order of magnitude or more.)

A solution is for social networks to ramp down their outrage machine, i.e. to stop optimizing for engagement.

They will not implement this solution.

Since they won’t implement this solution, then unless they somehow find another one — possible, but unlikely  — our collective online milieu will just keep getting worse.

Sorry about that. Hang in there. There are still a lot of good things about social networks, after all, and it’s not like things can get much worse than they already are. Right?

…Right?

  [Read More …]

Everything is terrible: an explanation

[dalepwithchari]

Everything is terrible: an explanation

Buy some great High Tech products from WithCharity.org #All Profits go to Charity

Facebook is a breeding ground for fake news and polarized outrage, accused of corrupting democracy and spurring genocide. Twitter knows it has become a seething battleground of widespread, targeted abuse — but has no solution. YouTube videos are messing with the minds of children and adults alike — so YouTube decided to pass the buck to Wikipedia, without telling them.

All three of those sentences would have seemed nearly unimaginable five years ago. What the hell is going on? Ev Williams says, of the growth of social media: “We laid down fundamental architectures that had assumptions that didn’t account for bad behavior.” What changed? And perhaps the most important question is: have people always been this awful, or have social networks actually made us collectively worse?

I have two somewhat related theories. Let me explain.

The Uncanny Social Valley Theory

“Social media is poison,” a close friend of mine said to me a couple of years ago, and since then more and more of my acquaintances seem to have come around to her point of view, and are abandoning or greatly reducing their time spent on Facebook and/or Twitter.

Why is it poison? Because this technology meant to provoke human connection actually dehumanizes. Not always, of course; not consistently. It remains a wonderful way to keep in contact with distant friends, and to enhance your relationship and understanding of those you regularly see in the flesh. What’s more, there are some people with whom you just ‘click’ online, and real friendships grow. There are people I’ve never met who I’d unhesitatingly trust with the keys to my car and home, because of our interactions on various social networks.

And yet — having stipulated all the good things — a lot of online interactions can and do reduce other people to awful caricatures of themselves. In person we tend to manage a kind of mammalian empathy, a baseline understanding that we’re all just a bunch of overgrown apes with hyperactive amygdalas trying to figure things out as best we can, and that relatively few of us are evil stereotypes. (Though see below.) Online, though, all we see are a few projections of those mammal brains, generally in the form of hastily constructed, low-context text and images … as mediated and amplified by the outrage machines, those timeline algorithms which think that “engagement” is the highest goal to which one can possibly aspire online.

I am reminded of the concept of the Uncanny Valley: “humanoid objects which appear almost, but not exactly, like real human beings elicit uncanny, or strangely familiar, feelings of eeriness and revulsion in observers.” Sometimes you ‘click’ with people online such that they’re fully human to you, even if you’ve never met. Sometimes you see them fairly often in real life, so their online projections are just a new dimension to their existing humanity. But a lot of the time, all you get of them is that projection … which falls squarely into an empathy-free, not-quite-human, uncanny social valley.

And so many of us spend so much time online, checking Twitter, chatting on Facebook, that we’ve all practically built little cottages in the uncanny social valley. Hell, sometimes we spend so much time there that we begin to believe that even people we know in real life are best described as neighbors in that valley … which is how friendships fracture and communities sunder online. A lot of online outrage and fury — the majority, I’d estimate, though not all — is caused not by its targets’ inherent awfulness but by an absence, on both sides, of context, nuance, and above all, empathy and compassion.

The majority. But not all. Because this isn’t just a story of lack of compassion. This is also a story of truly, genuinely awful people doing truly, genuinely awful things. That aspect is explained by…

The Intransigent Asshole Theory

Of course the Internet was always full of awful. Assholes have been trolling since at least 1993. “Don’t read the comments” is way older than five years old. But it’s different now; the assholes are more organized, their victims are often knowingly and strategically targeted, and many seem to have calcified from assholedom into actual evil. What’s changed?

The Intransigent Asshole Theory holds that the only thing that’s changed is that more assholes are online and they’ve had more time to find each other and agglomerate into a kind of noxious movement. They aren’t that large in number. Say that a mere three percent of the online population are, actually, the evil stereotypes that we perceive so many to be.

If three of 100 people are known to be terrible human beings, the other 97 can identify them and organize to defend themselves with relative ease. 97 is well within Dunbar’s number after all. But what about 30 of a 1,000? That gets more challenging, if those thirty band together; the non-awful people have to form fairly large groups. How about 300 of 10,000? Or 3,000 of 100,000? 3 million of 100 million? Suddenly three percent doesn’t seem like such a small number after all.

I chose three percent because it’s the example used by Nassim Taleb in his essay/chapter “The Most Intolerant Wins: The Dictatorship of the Small Minority.” Adopting his argument slightly, if only 3% of the online population really wants the online world to be horrible, ultimately they can force it to be, because the other 97% can — as empirical evidence shows — live with a world in which the Internet is often basically a cesspool, whereas those 3% apparently cannot live with a world in which it is not.

Only a very small number of people comment on articles. But they are devoted to it; and, as a result, “don’t read the comments,” became a cliché. Is it really so surprising that “don’t read the comments” spread to “Facebook is for fake outrage and Twitter is for abuse,” given that Facebook and Twitter are explicitly designed to spread high-engagement items, i.e. the most outrageous ones? Really the only thing that’s surprising is that it took this long to become so widespread.

Worst of all — when you combine the Uncanny Social Valley Theory with the Intransigent Asshole Theory and the high-engagement outrage-machine algorithms, you get the situation where, even if only 3% of people actually are irredeemable assholes, a full 30% or more of them seem that way to us. And the situation spirals ever downwards.

“Wait,” you may think, “but what if they didn’t design their social networks that way?” Well, that takes us to the third argument, which isn’t a theory so much as an inarguable fact:

The Outrage Machine Money Maker

Outrage equals engagement equals profit. This is not at all new; this goes back to the ‘glory’ days of yellow journalism and “if it bleeds, it leads.” Today, though, it’s more personal; today everyone gets a customized set of screaming tabloid headlines, from which a diverse set of manipulative publishers profit.

This is explicit for YouTube, whose creators make money directly from their highest-engagement, and thus (often) most-outrageous videos, and for Macedonian teenagers creating fake news and raking in the resulting ad income. This is explicit for the politically motivated, for Russian trolls and Burmese hate groups, who get profits in the form of the confusion and mayhem they want.

This is implicit for the platforms themselves, for Facebook and Twitter and YouTube, all of whom rake in huge amounts of money. Their income and profits are, of course, inextricably connected to the “engagement” of their users. And if there are social costs — and it’s become clear that the social costs are immense — then they have to be externalized. You could hardly get a more on-the-nose example of this than YouTube deciding that Wikipedia is the solution to its social costs.

The social costs have to be externalized because human moderation simply doesn’t scale to the gargantuan amount of data we’re talking about; any algorithmic solution can and will be gamed; and the actual solution — which is to stop optimizing for ever-higher engagement — is so completely anathema to the platforms’ business models that they literally cannot conceive of it, and instead claim “we don’t know what to do.”

I have been struck repeatedly by how: – Every tech CEO acknowledges platform abuse as an extremely serious problem, and – How few practical ideas any of them have to address it in the short term

— Casey Newton (@CaseyNewton) March 14, 2018

  In Summary

Only ~3% of people are truly terrible, but if we are sufficiently compliant with their awfulness, that’s enough to ruin the world for the rest of us. History shows that we have been more than sufficiently compliant.

Social networks often dehumanize their participants; this plus their outrage-machine engagement optimization makes fully 30% of people seem like they’re part of those 3%, which breeds rancor and even, honestly no fooling not exaggerating, genocide.

(Are those the exact numbers? Almost certainly not! My point is that social networks cause “you are an awful, irredeemable human being” to be massively overdiagnosed, by an order of magnitude or more.)

A solution is for social networks to ramp down their outrage machine, i.e. to stop optimizing for engagement.

They will not implement this solution.

Since they won’t implement this solution, then unless they somehow find another one — possible, but unlikely  — our collective online milieu will just keep getting worse.

Sorry about that. Hang in there. There are still a lot of good things about social networks, after all, and it’s not like things can get much worse than they already are. Right?

…Right?

  [Read More …]

Everything is terrible: an explanation