#sandwich attack

[danieldavidreitberg]

From Amateur Hour to Organized Crime: The Growing Sophistication of Sandwich Bot Networks

Remember the early days of DeFi, when sandwich bots were clumsy scripts written by hobbyists, easily detectable and swatted away? Those days are gone. The landscape of MEV (Miner Extractable Value) exploitation has evolved into a sophisticated ecosystem, with well-organized networks employing cutting-edge tools and coordinated strategies to fleece unsuspecting users.

From Solo Players to Syndicates

Gone are the days of lone bots lurking in the mempool. Today, MEV teams operate like criminal enterprises, pooling resources, expertise, and infrastructure to maximize their gains. These teams leverage:

Advanced bots: Employing AI and machine learning, these bots can predict market movements, identify profitable opportunities, and execute complex arbitrage strategies in milliseconds.

Flash loan manipulation: Borrowing vast sums instantly, these teams manipulate markets, trigger liquidations, and extract hefty profits before disappearing.

Front-running bots: These bots predict user actions and place transactions ahead, denying them the intended price and reaping the difference.

Distributed networks: Operating across multiple nodes and blockchains, these networks are harder to detect and disrupt.

The Stakes are High

The impact of these organized attacks extends far beyond individual losses:

Market manipulation: By manipulating prices, these bots distort markets, creating unfair advantages and undermining trust in DeFi.

Exacerbated volatility: Their rapid arbitrage activity fuels market volatility, discouraging participation and hindering adoption.

Centralization concerns: Large, well-resourced teams gain an unfair edge, raising concerns about centralization within DeFi.

Fighting Back

The good news is, that the fight against organized MEV exploitation is not one-sided. Here are some promising developments:

MEV-resistant protocols: Projects like Flashbots and MEV Boost offer infrastructure to mitigate certain MEV exploits.

Layer 2 scaling: Solutions like Optimism and Arbitrum aim to reduce MEV by processing transactions off-chain.

Collaboration and research: Ongoing research and collaboration between developers, users, and researchers aim to develop fairer and more efficient mechanisms for distributing MEV rewards.

The Future of MEV

The battle against organized MEV networks is an ongoing one, requiring constant vigilance and adaptation. By staying informed, supporting responsible projects, and advocating for fair and transparent DeFi, we can ensure that this revolutionary technology benefits everyone, not just the digital robber barons of the mempool.

[coinxpense]

MEV Bot Borrows $12M, Nets Only $20 in Sandwich Attack

According to Arkham Intelligence’s report on September 5, an MEV bot borrowed nearly $12 million in Wrapped Ether for a sandwich attack but only made $20 in profit. An MEV (Maximum Extractable Value) bot recently obtained a $12 million flash loan, but it only generated a meager $20 profit from a sandwich attack, which is scarcely sufficient to purchase a sandwich. The bot borrowed nearly $11.97…

[geekeryisafoot]

I have been slowly chipping away at a fic where Jon has a panic attack and goes to Damian for help, and honestly the entire thesis of this fic is that, like, if you're panicking and emotionally drowning under the weight of not knowing what to do, then it must be relieving as fuck to have a hyper competent freak of a bestie who you trust with your entire heart and soul start ordering you around.

[too-lit-for-fanfic]

mumbo, skizz and grian immediately become those annoying little gnats that buzz around your head upon joining the sub-one club

[violentvaleska]

levi is gay as hell, self-inserts are crazy for missing it😭

Go cry about it somewhere else 😇 I have no place for delulu, canon denying anons

[falkecat]

My first attack this year against @ecuwe! :D

Lamb has such a cute design, she was a joy to draw! Everyone is having a yummy lunch out hehe

[vaultedoverthehorse]

Ponyboy would read about one freak accident and think it would happen to him.

[dark-side-blog3]

not really a request! just saw ur tf2 post and uhhh about went a lil feral at the mention that u may consider writing for the characters? 👉👈 love ur content so much pls pls if u choose to write for tf2 i will be in ur debt- 🙏

no pressure tho pls write what u wanna! love ur blog!!!

I really like the idea of the power imbalance that could come from a victim who can't use the respawn machine; especially if everyone else on the base can. The isolation that comes with being a new member of the team that already has years of chemistry, knowing that assassins don't exactly get an HR for interpersonal conflicts on the job site, anyway. You're more vulnerable, socially and physically. If a Pyro decides to light you up, you're permanently dead. Even if you manage to kill someone, they'll just come back a few minutes later.

Maybe Medic or Engineer saying it will only take a week or two until your respawn is available (and "delaying" it more and more, simply because it's funny to watch). Pauling calling you and saying they're not planning to give you respawn until you manage a higher killstreak.

Everyone in the base is a sadist. They probably don't even like you, let alone feel deeper emotions when they all nearly kill you during off hours.

It's probably only after months of constant near misses that one of the members starts to think of just how far they could take your desire to stay alive. Your respawns still not up, so you're not in a position to say no...

OR, for your consideration: someone on the other team realizing you don't have a respawn because there isn't a version of you on their team. Spy is probably the first to pick up on this (maybe Medic is a close second) since keeping a level head and multitasking is his job description. He knows you're vulnerable. And then it just becomes fun to try to single you out every round.

[the-most-humble-blog]

<div style="white-space:pre-wrap"> <meta patriarchy-defense="non-negotiable"> <script>ARCHIVE_TAG="DOWN_WITH_THE_PATRIARCHY::EAT_SHIT_SANDWICHES_EDITION" EFFECT: gender delusion collapse, biomechanical laughter, unsolicited DM seizure TRIGGER_WARNING="dark comedy, biological facts, gender role slander, satire that hurts" </script>

🧠 BLACKSITE SCROLLTRAP FEATURE* — “DOWN WITH THE PATRIARCHY? COOL. START BY LIFTING A BACKHOE WITH YOUR FEELINGS.” [SURVIVAL GUIDE FOR THOSE ABOUT TO STARVE IN A WOKE APOCALYPSE]

Let’s get this out of the way fast:

No, I’m not down with the patriarchy. Because I like electricity. And clean water. And roofs that don’t leak when it rains. And pavement that doesn’t turn to death-sludge when it rains. And food. Specifically not shit sandwiches.

But sure. Let’s tear it all down because Twitter got spicy.

—

You ever notice who screams “down with the patriarchy” the loudest? It’s never the woman with a wrench in her hand. It’s never the woman scaling a transformer at 3AM during an ice storm. It’s never the girl removing a possum from a flooded sewer drain in a Hazmat suit. It’s always some cupcake in a cardigan with a minor in Gender Literacy and an iPhone made by child slaves. Tapping the words "abolish masculinity" on a device that runs on cobalt mined by men.

—

Let me make this clear:

I don’t give a flying wombat what label you throw at me. Misogynist. Toxic. Problematic. Hell, you can call me daddy like half of you do in the DMs after dark. But the one thing you will never call me?

Delusional.

Because delusion is what happens when you think civilization runs on emotion. That bridges are held up by affirmations. That skyscrapers exist because you journaled hard enough.

Sweetheart. This isn’t TikTok. This is physics.

And the patriarchy? That’s not oppression. That’s your Wi-Fi. That’s your plumbing. That’s the brakes on your car.

You don’t smash the patriarchy. You stand on it.

—

Let’s do a quick Reality Check Starter Pack.

📌 You want to abolish men, but who:

Builds your roads?

Installs your HVAC?

Puts up the steel framing in your Whole Foods?

Hauls your trash?

Fixes the sewer backup when you flush a face wipe?

Let me guess. You’ll manifest a clean bathroom with girl math. Or summon a backhoe using oracle moon energy.

No, babe. The dude with neck tattoos and a Gatorade bottle full of dip spit is the only reason your UTI doesn’t turn medieval.

—

And let’s talk about machines.

You ever hear a woman say:

“We don’t need men, we’ll build robots to do the hard stuff.”

Yeah? With what strength? Who’s lifting the titanium? Who’s mining the ore? Who’s welding the frame?

Siri doesn’t work during a power outage.

And your dishwasher doesn’t run on dreams.

It runs on coal. Diesel. Blood. And brute male force.

—

But you’re independent. You don’t need no man. Except when the sink leaks. The AC dies. The check engine light blinks. Or there’s a noise outside at 2:13AM.

Suddenly? Every feminist forgets Krav Maga.

Suddenly? That misogynist neighbor becomes “just so handy.” Suddenly? Your pepper spray isn’t cutting it. And you remember what protection actually looks like.

—

Call me cruel. Call me patriarchal. But don’t call me when the bear breaks through your window because you defunded the man who used to hunt it.

Let’s be real. If men disappeared tomorrow?

Women would be feral within the month. Not because you’re weak. But because civilization doesn’t run on vibes. It runs on sweat. Risk. Sacrifice. And testosterone-induced problem solving.

Let's break it down.

📊 WHO MAINTAINS CIVILIZATION?

🔧 Power grid maintenance: 97% men 🧱 Construction workers: 91% men 🪠 Plumbing and sewage: 96% men ⚓ Fishermen: 99% men 🪵 Lumberjacks: 100% men 🧯 Firefighting: 93% men 🛠️ Road repair crews: 95% men 🚚 Long-haul trucking: 94% men 💣 Military frontline combat: 99% men 🧼 Men who die so your hot water works: Countless

But sure. Tell me again how “gender is a construct.”

You know what isn’t a construct? Gravity. Back injuries. And sewage pressure blowing out a 40-foot pipe valve.

You want to see gender roles collapse? Turn off the grid for three days.

Suddenly?

“Down with the patriarchy” turns into “Help me, my bathwater’s brown and I think something’s moving in it.”

—

Now to the spicy part.

Let’s talk about power play.

There’s a reason men like me aren’t taken seriously by women who peg their boyfriends.

Because she’s wearing the strap. And he’s wearing the shame.

But me? I don’t bend over. Not for validation. Not for networks. And sure as hell not for you.

That’s why I get called toxic. Misogynist. Outdated.

While you watch my posts in the dark, wet and mad and fingering yourself through the hypocrisy.

Yeah. I said it. This is Blacksite Literature™. Not BuzzFeed therapy.

—

Let’s be even realer.

📌 Who sends the hate messages? Who calls me dangerous in public, but follows me from a burner? Who saves every post and quotes me in arguments with men they don’t respect?

You. The same ones crying “patriarchy” from the shelter it built.

—

Let me ask you this:

If every “toxic man” disappeared tomorrow, who do you think would protect you from the rest?

From the ones who don’t care about your pronouns? The ones who don’t negotiate over consent? The ones who see weakness, not value?

Do you think they’ll listen when you quote feminist theory? Do you think the evolved bear that’s learned how to unzip tents will stop because you explained the wage gap?

Nah.

You’ll wish someone like me was still standing. Still armed. Still “toxic.” Still dangerous to everything that wants to reduce you to meat.

—

So no. I’m not down with the patriarchy.

Because I’m not down with starvation. I’m not down with mud huts and period huts and ritual stonings from the Taliban 2.0 with better Wi-Fi.

I’m not down with pretending that 500,000 years of physical infrastructure was a gendered conspiracy.

It was sacrifice. It was risk. It was dying younger, working harder, being disposable, so you could live longer, safer, and freer.

And now you throw rocks at the house that keeps you out of the cave.

—

So call me whatever you need to sleep at night.

But understand this:

The patriarchy isn’t oppressing you. It’s keeping you alive.

And if you ever get what you claim to want?

You'll die under your own empowerment. Starving. Freezing. Bleeding. Unshaved. Unarmed. Unloved.

While some rewilded bear figures out how to undo a sports bra.

🧠 Read more scrolltrap reality and biological warfare satire at: 👉 My Linktree 🛡️ Masculine polarity. Dirty truth. Fuck your feelings. 🚪 Warning: This post may cause involuntary cervical twitches, existential dread, and an urge to admit he was right.

📊 FINAL REALITY CHECK STATS 📊

94% of workplace deaths: men

99% of infrastructure roles: men

90% of violent criminals stopped by: men

Feminist utopias built without men: 0

Women DMing this post's author while denying it: 3 confirmed since this draft started

</div> <!-- END TRANSMISSION [WHEN THE GRID GOES DOWN, YOU’LL WISH YOU HAD A MISOGYNIST WITH A TOOLBELT.] -->

[loganscactus]

[danieldavidreitberg]

Trading Like a Pro: Outsmarting Sandwich Bots in the DeFi Jungle

The Wild West of DeFi is rife with opportunity, but also lurking dangers. Sandwich bots, like cunning predators, exploit unsuspecting traders with lightning-fast maneuvers, stealing your hard-earned profits before you even blink. But fear not, intrepid investor! This guide equips you with advanced strategies to outsmart these bots and trade like a seasoned pro.

Understanding the Bite

First, know your enemy. Sandwich bots capitalize on frontrunning, placing trades before yours to manipulate prices and snatch your gains. They exploit the Mempool, a waiting area for pending transactions, where they see your trade details and react faster than your blink reflex.

Arming Yourself for the Fight

Now, let's sharpen your trading arsenal:

Gas Fee Finesse: Don't underestimate the power of a well-timed gas fee. While higher fees might seem like a pain, they prioritize your transaction, leaving bots scrambling in the dust.

Advanced Tools: Utilize tools like MEV estimators and flash bots protection services to gain insights into bot activity and shield your trades.

Strategic Timing: Avoid peak trading hours when bots are most active. Consider placing trades during off-peak times or utilizing scheduled transactions for more control.

Stealthy Swaps: Explore alternative DEXes with built-in MEV resistance features or privacy-focused protocols that obfuscate your trading intentions.

Community Power: Join forces! Collaborate with other traders to share bot spotting techniques and develop counter-strategies.

Beyond the Battlefield

Remember, the trading landscape is ever-evolving. Stay informed about the latest bot tactics, emerging countermeasures, and the ongoing battle for a fairer DeFi ecosystem. Don't be afraid to experiment with different strategies and adapt your approach as needed.

Trading like a pro isn't just about technical know-how, but also about mindset. Cultivate patience, discipline, and a healthy dose of skepticism. Remember, every trade carries risk, so prioritize informed decisions over impulsive moves driven by greed.

By mastering these advanced strategies and staying vigilant, you can navigate the DeFi jungle with confidence, leaving the sandwich bots whimpering in your wake. Remember, knowledge is power, and in the DeFi arena, it's your ultimate weapon.

[angrybatart]

Wore himself out from doing science all day. Don't worry! Wes PROBABLY doesn't mind.

[manchesterau]

random but one of the things i was most proud of growing up was my ability to build things (and lift heavy objects) my parents always bragged about how i put together my own dollhouse as a kid and that whenever they need me to build something i do it and my mom still calls me whenever she needs something built.....so you can probably tell that when teenage me figured out i was a lesbian i was very happy that this was my thing i was known for in my family bc in a way i was a stereotypical lesbian kid who liked to build things

[notbecauseofvictories]

I know this is not an earth-shattering revelation, but there's just something about a sandwich. Literally watched someone make one in front of me, carefully assembling it and slathering it in butter, grilling it, and despite knowing (knowing) this is not a particularly sophisticated achievement, I've never been so viscerally attracted to anyone in my life.

[gatorinator]

As someone who eats a salad every day for lunch, Brennan’s comment about a salad taking him 40 minutes to get through was so real . . . Yes it does take me a dedicated 25 to get through my lunch. And that’s if I’m dedicated. There are so many leaves I have to chew.

[mydeerfellow]

Ye Mighty, Lay Down Your Arms

synopsis:

Rosie, as a professional fixer-upper, just wants to fix up Alastor. Inside AND out. Alastor just wants a few stitches, not the Spanish Inquisition. Vox just wants to play N64

AO3 link

It took a special sort of stupidity to cross into the Cannibal Colony with an open wound, where even the youngest child had a nose as good as any dog, and the populace was prone to swarming any potential meal. Yet, Alastor didn’t have much choice, and so he hurried his pace as well as he could without spraying blood everywhere, which would be problematic on a number of levels.

Truthfully, the wound itself was something Alastor probably could have handled on his own with a mirror and steady hands. The problem was his current lack of steady hands, and the fact that he couldn’t look at the damage without hearing his own heart pounding in his ears.

The problem was that Alastor did not want to be alone at the moment, but he also didn’t want to put on airs for the rest of the night in front of a group of ecstatic fools.

He needed to exist without a facade for a few hours to lick his wounds and compose himself, and for that, he needed Rosie.

“Ugh, I smelled you coming from half a mile. What are you doing, walking in the rain? You and the drama, I swear.” The door opened before Alastor had reached it, and he didn’t protest when he was hauled into the darkened emporium by the elbow, then led diligently up to the living quarters above. “In, in, come on. Take off your jacket, I’ll get it cleaned.” He was herded through the familiar-feeling kitchen and straight into the bathroom, catching a glimpse of some fresh hands sitting half-chopped next to a stock pot. “Now, don’t be a baby.” Rosie scolded preemptively.

Alastor tried to ask why, but he was interrupted when she yanked his dress shirt off his skin, peeling the half-dry blood that had been holding things together. He uttered a muffled shout and pulled back, which apparently fit Rosie’s definition of a baby, based on her thunderous expression.

Defeated without a word, Alastor sat on the edge of the old-style tub, balancing a bit precariously on the rim of it. He stared at the ceiling, practically relishing in dropping the act, even for an hour. Of course he continued to smile, but it was flat and unaffected. After a few seconds, he blinked hard and refocused on Rosie. “Hello.” He laughed sheepishly.

“Hello to you, sweetheart!” She replied warmly, raising her brows. “I guess it all worked out in the end, didn’t it?” As always, Rosie didn’t pry, even though she was clearly interested and had a stake in the whole venture. Alastor loved her for it.

Alastor flexed his fingers and uttered a laugh that was more of a heavy tsk. “It did, as far as I can tell. I had hoped it would.” He replied curtly, uncomfortably aware that even his voice was flat and tired. The radio effect was too hard to keep up when his body was trying to stitch itself back together and the primary catalyst of his power was in pieces.

“Alastor, darling, only you would pick a fight with an angel and have the absolute gall to come back alive and still cry about not winning.” Rosie laughed. “Is that all this is? Embarrassment?” She poked playfully, and Alastor felt his ire rising like a viper, catching a light in his eyes even as he caught himself before snapping at Rosie, who stilled immediately. She gave a sympathetic smile. “Not just that, then. Are you gonna tell me, or do I have to guess?”

Both were plausible, because Rosie was better at putting feelings into words than Alastor was. Whenever he tried, he ended up flustered, or trying desperately to dance around talking about the actual issue.

“I can’ttell you.” Alastor said flatly. There was a crack in the ceiling that was going to drive him to madness.

Rosie tutted. “Ugh, of course you can’t. Always with the secrets. And the mystery.”

There was a fork in the road that Alastor hadn’t anticipated. He had the opportunity to blissfully brush Rosie’s questions off as he usually did, allowing her to believe it was simply for the sake of drama. Or this was one of the few opportunities he would ever get to confide… withoutconfiding at all, thus maintaining the damnable deal. “I can’t tell you.” He repeated.

“Yes, you said that.”

“I can’t tell you.”

“I know, sweethe— oh.” He didn’t bother looking at her face, mostly because he didn’t want to see her expression. It was humiliating enough for the knowledge to be shared at all. “Oh, I see.” There was a rustle of fabric and then Rosie was sitting beside him on the edge of the tub. “Well, let’s address what we can fix, shall we? No sense crying over spilled blood.” She tutted, taking in the ugly wound. Most of the bruising on his back and shoulders had faded to sickly yellow skin, but the open wound was still festering, bleeding in spots.

Alastor sensed that Rosie was on the cusp of saying something else before she reconsidered and merely set about pouring hot water into a shallow dish, muttering something about her sewing kit. That was what he liked best about Rosie - she was smart enough to glean what she needed to know from what Alastor was willing to say, and she was, unlike most, content with her answers rarely being answered directly. “You know, you won’t like hearing this, but you really are lucky you didn’t end up in two very cute pieces.” Rosie pointed out, moseying around the overlarge bathroom, which was so unnecessarily decadent it was nearly comical. She started to rummage in a cabinet on the far side of the room. “Lucky for you, I always stock up before Exterminations.” She canted her head with a beaming smile, brandishing several small mason jars.

“I know.” He smiled back, feeling slightly relieved already by the weight off his shoulders, knowing there was at least one person aware of his predicament. “I’m surprised your contact is still alive.” Alastor admitted with some interest, taking the first jar from her and sniffing it. The paste inside was pungent, but distinctly fresh-smelling, and when he scooped some out, it was a pleasant forest green color. It stung the shit out of his chest when he applied it, but Alastor knew better than to doubt anything Rosie advised.

“Oh, no! The first one’s been dead for years, darling. Ugh, bless him. Frederick. Sweet boy, very tender.” Rosie corrected with a hoot of laughter. “If you paid any attention to politics outside the Pentagram, you’d know that plenty of hellborn demons are happy to help!” She held out the second jar, which smelled like the ocean… or as close to it as Alastor could remember. “They’re always flicking back and forth to Earth anyway, so it’s not hard for them to pick up some ingredients! Especially hellhounds - their noses are perfect for this kind of thing.” She noticed the way Alastor’s lips curled at the mention of hellhounds and absently slapped the back of his hand. “Oh stop. Keep your biases to yourself.”

Alastor rolled his eyes but didn’t reply, because Rosie was correct and it was a personal bias that kept him from wanting anything to do with hellhounds. Alastor didn’t like the way they looked, or the way they smelled, or the way they sometimes made doggish sounds when he least expected it. “Are you not going to pry even a little?” He asked instead, sounding amused.

“Would that make you feel better?”

“Not particularly.”

“Would you be able to answer anythingI asked.”

“Probably not.”

“Well, then that answers your question!” Rosie chirped, clapping her hands down on her lap as she sat next to him again. “I do wonder what in hell would possess you to do something so stupid, but…” She patted his shoulder fondly, and Alastor had no desire to rip out her throat for touching his bare skin. In fact, he amiably leaned into her side. “Well, stupid is as stupid does, as I always say! You’ve always got your reasons, even if they’re shit.” Rosie chuckled, then gently squeezed him against her side in a loose hug. “I suppose the only real question that matters is if you’re okay.”

Alastor was abruptly brought back to his first meeting with Rosie, when he’d been in Hell less than a week and practically crawling between hunger and pain, having stumbled from one bad situation to the next for days on end. Frankly, Alastor attributed much of his current success to Rosie’s kindness in those first months when he had nothing to offer her and she still chose to house him and feed him.

Rosie was good. Rosie had his trust.

“No.” He admitted softly, after enough time had passed that Rosie looked surprised. “No.” Alastor shook his head, feeling his heart speeding up and starting to skip a beat or two along the way. “I don’t want to die.” He elaborated in a high, panicky tone, dragging a hand through his hair as his ears flattened against his scalp. The room felt small and airless. Wasn’t there a window in here? Why was it so hot? “I don’t want to die. I don’t want to be at a disadvantage every single time.” Alastor added, speaking faster as his panic finally caught up with him, feeling like he had a knot tied around his throat, cutting off his breath. “I’m weak like this! I’m— they— I don’t need—” His voice crackled with interference and his eyes took turns ticking.

Rosie, who knew what to do in every situation, patted his hand calmly and was content to sit and wait as seconds crackled by. Eventually, when she seemed sure he wouldn’t sprint out of the room like a hunted animal, Rosie spoke up. “Well… I think that’s the risk you took, sweetheart, doing what you did. Aw, now don’t look at me like that.” She tutted when he wheeled on her with unprocessed anger brewing in his face. “I’m not saying what you’re feeling is wrong! It’s not! You think you’re the only one who’s probably scared to death with all this going on? Hah. Honey, please.”

“I’m weak.” He repeated hoarsely.

“To who? Some two thousand year old angel? Honey, we’re all weak next to that!” Rosie chided gently. “Or do you mean your deal?”

He couldn’t confirm it even if he wanted to, but his sullen look seemed to speak volumes.

“Hmm. Well, I guess that’s a little trickier…” Rosie sighed, standing up and pulling a small stool over from the corner so she could sit in front of Alastor. “What are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t know.” He said tightly, lifting his chin so she could start sewing his skin together without his nose in the way. He sighed at the ceiling. “I don’t know. I can’t find a backdoor.”

“Mm, well, you know what they say: Every deal’s got a backdoor.” Rosie reminded him as she set to work. “I’m sure yours is no different. You just need to find it.”

Alastor winced at the first poke of the needle. “And what if there is no backdoor?” He wondered bleakly.

“Then you’re stuck, and you might as well learn to live with it.” Rosie laughed. “Not what you wanna hear, I know, but you could be doing worse for yourself, Alastor. Look where you are. Who you’re there with!” The needle dipped a little deeper than before and he hissed softly. Rosie didn’t seem to care as she chattered on. “That Charlie’s a little peach! A bit naive, maybe, but she’s got a good head on her shoulders. Stick with her, and I think it’ll work out.”

Alastor sighed, because Rosie was right (as usual), but that didn’t make her advice any less grating on his nerves. “Well, at least that won’t be a struggle” He muttered bitterly, then dragged a hand through his hair again, anxiously mussing his ears. “Maybe.” Alastor added as a brooding afterthought, knowing better than to try predicting the mind of any demon besides himself. The one holding his leash could change their mind on a whim, and he wouldn’t have any say in the matter.

Rosie hummed thoughtfully as she knotted the last stitch and nipped off the thread. “I see.” She suddenly had a third jar of something-or-other in her hand and dabbed it on the stitching. It smelled spicy. Foreign. It made Alastor think of some far-flung desert. “It’s interesting that you would say it like that.” Rosie laughed softly, taking his hand in hers before Alastor could think to pull away. “It’s so odd to see you worried. You really are fond of that little hotel, aren’t you?”

He immediately bristled, taking offense at the suggestion that he was blinded by misplaced affection for a plan that was, at best, wildly unrealistic. Alastor tried to yank his hand away, but Rosie had a grip of iron when she wanted, and he had a better chance of cutting his hand off than getting it back from her. “Oh stop, sweetheart. You’re so dramatic!” Rosie sighed irritably. “I wasn’t insulting you, so you can put your incorrigible male pride away for the time being. It’s not a sin to be fond of people you live with!”

“I’m not—”

“Dear.”

“I do not—”

“Darling.”

“I just—”

“Sweetie-Pie.”

“I’ve never—”

“Alastor.” He looked up at her sudden shift in tone. “Shut up, honey. You know how much I hate it when you lie. It’s an insult to our friendship.” Her smile was an unpleasant, jagged, and anxiety-inducing thing. Alastor deflated rapidly, ears flat against his head and shoulders sinking. “Thank you, sweetie.” She patted his shoulder warmly. “I think we’ve got you about as patched up as you’ll ever be.” She added as an afterthought, standing up and wandering out of the bathroom for a few moments, giving Alastor a chance to catch his breath, eyes pinched shut and expression pained by more than just the searing wound on his chest. Out in the main room, Rosie was talking (mainly to herself) about how happy she was to help.

“Of course, there isn’t much I can do for your silly little stick.” Rosie was still chattering away as she came back with his shirt and jacket, both meticulously cleaned.

“I didn’t expect you to.” Alastor laughed curtly as he pulled on his dress shirt, grimacing when the stitches strained against flesh. “That’s the next stop.”

“Well, best to get it all over with in one fell swoop, isn’t that right? No need to drag out your own suffering.”

Alastor shuffled his arms into his jacket, adjusting his clothes until he felt presentable enough to leave the sanctity of Rosie’s luxurious bathroom. “Oh, I don’t know. I imagine it’s going to be dragged out whether I like it or not.” He raised his brows at her significantly and she had the decency to at least appear sympathetic. “I continue to suffer for the fact that I have ever agreed to any deals.” He couldn’t help whining one last time as he was shuffled towards the door.

“Oh stop. It’s what, twelve hours? You can handle that! Look at you! You survived an angel, I think you can handle a television.” Rosie pulled him into a tight hug that Alastor reciprocated after a pause. “The door’s always open if you need it. Tell Vox I sent him kisses.” She added cheerfully.

Alastor grimaced. “See you in twelve hours.” He muttered, sucking in a long-suffering breath as he nudged open the door with his hip and slipped out onto the street, begrudgingly making eye contact with the stupid drone that was eagerly floating around in the pissing rain, one red light flashing rhythmically, just in case he needed even more confirmation that Vox was being, as the children would say, a fucking creeper.

“Well, you’re going to have to wait. I’m not tolerating you until I’ve eaten.” Alastor bared his teeth at the floating camera in what was more a snarl than a smile. “And I am not going to that ludicrous eyesore of a tower.” The drone, of course, didn’t speak, but Alastor was more than capable of having a one-sided argument with the fool on the other side of the camera. “You maycome to the hotel in one hour. Assess the damage and we can go from there.” He pinched the bridge of his nose irritably, unable to fully comprehend that he was still forced to adhere to a deal he’d agreed to almost sixty years ago.

Frankly, the fact that Vox still held onto it was pathetic… though Alastor had togrudgingly admit that he had no idea what he would do if he was left to his own devices with the tangle of wire and magic that was his microphone.

“You can go now.” He waved his hand at the drone, which made an unbearably happy trill with its motor as it followed him down the street. “Do you think I’ve forgotten how this works? You fix my cane and I go along with whatever absolute idiocy youforce upon me for twelve hours.” Alastor pointed angrily at the drone, which continued whirring cheerfully until a tendril of darkness crawled around it, sending it clattering onto the pavement. “That twelve hours starts when I say it does. Not when you feel most aggravating.” The drone blinked a few more times as the tentacle overcame its sensors and Alastor’s shape started to morph into something lanky and dark. “You may come to the hotel in one hour. Any earlier than that and ł’ⱠⱠ ₥₳₭Ɇ ɎØɄ ⱤɆ₲ⱤɆ₮ ł₮.” He snapped his teeth at the drone just before it disappeared into the void, then pulled back with an aggrieved sigh, losing all his ponce and drama immediately.

It was going to be a very long night.