#shoving him into a modern verse is probably the best way to allow for that huh?

[lctibule]

got some thoughts rolling around in my head tonight for a modern verse for genji... technically i have one already where he's basically the rich, spoiled-ass youngest son of the head of a yakuza clan who goes to america for university (he's not really studying though, he's mostly partying)... but tonight i'm thinking specifically about later in his life, how i might translate canon events into present day.

i'm thinking he probably got dragged back home bc his father fell ill and was basically on his death bed. i think his brother still attempts to brutally murder him at the behest of the clan bc now that he's back in japan and clearly hasn't grown up during his time in america, he's likely to start making a scene and cause the clan to look bad all over again. it's less brutal than canon though, since it kind of has to be for him to realistically make it out alive lmao. loses a limb or two for sure, has some nasty scars, is basically in recovery for years... someone probably helps him get out alive, gets him medical care, helps him lie low... (maybe a friend of his father's? another clan or authorities of some sort who save him in return for intel on his family's clan? hmmm)

something something once he's recovered enough to like. function on his own again (and is less prone to trying to drink himself to death) he starts just travelling the world all minimalist style. tries to put as much distance between himself and his past as he can. maybe works odd jobs in whatever country he's staying in to keep himself in food & shelter? HMMMM.

basically less cyborg (still ninja tho. can absolutely mess you up if he wants to) and a little less trauma but like. still a little fratricide, still a lot of coming to grips with changes to his life and body, all that important thematic stuff.

[erosia-rhodes]

As much as I love binge-watching television, it's kinda fun speculating each week about what the hell is happening on WandaVision, a show that's made the brave choice to keep so much unexplained for so long. So, let me speculate:

Evan Peters is playing Peter Maximoff from the X-Men universe and not someone else in disguise.

Here's why:

Wanda has to use real people to populate her daydream If Wanda could make everything up from scratch, she wouldn't have to take a whole town hostage. She needs real people and real matter to fuel her daydream. Sparky's death showed that Wanda can't bring organic beings back from the dead, so that makes it impossible to resurrect Aaron Tayler-Johnson as Pietro. Instead, the next best thing is another speedster that could pass for Pietro, which is how Peter got plucked out of the X-Men universe. By whom? Either unconsciously by Wanda or on purpose by whoever is the secret villain of the show. Peter's real memories were blocked and new ones were implanted. I'd bet he only remembers events where Wanda was present because her magic is powering everything even if she's not totally in control. Some of her other memories might have bled through during the process, which would explain why this Pietro is somewhat aware of what's actually going on. Or X-Men Peter might be having fun with the whole thing and doesn't need as much of a shove as everyone else! He seems like a guy who would try anything once.

Out of character for the MCU, but in character for the X-Men universe Some people think Pietro is sus because he's acting out of character, but that's only true if you're comparing him to the MCU's Quicksilver. He's acting perfectly in character for Peter from the X-Men films, a twenty-something "man child" still living in his mom's basement who enjoys playing video games when he's not stealing things and pranking people like Wanda's Pietro does with his Halloween antics. X-Men Peter is also morally flexible, filling his basement with stolen TV's and Twinkies and breaking Magneto out of prison just for kicks. That's why he's not overly perturbed that Wanda is mind controlling a bunch of people. Peter's done crimes himself, and his dad is a super villain who tried to kill the president, so if he has a sister who's mind controlling a town, it just makes her fit into the family.

This place is insane, of course he has questions! Some people think Pietro was asking way too many questions, but anyone dropped into this weirdo town would have questions. The people in S.W.O.R.D. have nothing but questions! If he were the main villain in disguise, he wouldn't need to ask any questions because he'd already know how Wanda was doing things. People also thought it was suspect that Peter responded to most of Wanda's questions with questions of his own, but that was probably the writers' way of including exposition about the missing kids and what was up with Wanda's accent. We don't know if the villain can disguise themselves as someone else anyway, and if he could, wouldn't he just use the Aaron Taylor-Johnson version as his illusion? Why choose some guy no one in town recognizes?

This casting choice feels like more than just fan service I don't think Marvel would go to the trouble of casting Evan Peters in this role unless he really is the Quicksilver from the X-Men universe. Marvel has served up some good fan service over the years, but typically only when it makes sense for the story or it's been earned. I don't see any reason to use Evan Peters unless it's really X-Men Peter. If it's not him, it would be simpler to use a random person in town to play Pietro and pay the actor less. If it really is X-Men Peter, this development cracks open the multi-verse which we known is going to be explored in the next Dr. Strange movie and the next Spider-man film.

Ok, but who sent him? Probably the secret villain who is behind all this. (My money's on Nightmare.) Peter first appears when Vision is questioning Wanda about the nature of their reality. Quite a convenient way of derailing that conversation! Another theory is that Dr. Strange sent him as some sort of mole, but I don't think Pietro would have appeared when he did if that were the case. His distraction was too well timed to shut down Vision's line of questioning.

But isn't he too old to be X-Men Quicksilver? Ok, I admit, this is sort of a problem. The X-Men version of Peter was born in the 50's and the MCU is taking place slightly in the future because of the Blip. That means Peter would be well into his 60's. Does he not age at a normal rate? Are the universes slightly out of sync so the 80's are taking place in the X-Men universe at the same time the 20's are taking place in the MCU? Or did he get snatched out of time as well as location?

What's with the necklace? Pietro has been wearing the same necklace whenever he's on screen, even when it didn't match his Halloween outfit. It's like Agnes's brooch—something almost always worn, no matter the era. It might be a transformed version of his goggles or the headphones he always carries. Or perhaps it gives some sort of magical protection which allows him to realize this world is being run by Wanda? Not sure. If this ends up not being Peter, it could be something associated with whoever he really is.

If it is Peter, how will this end? It seems certain the hex has to end at some point. If Peter is still around at that time, he will be restored to his normal self, probably wearing a silver leather jacket over a t-shirt featuring a band's logo. (Twenty-One Pilots? Fall Out Boy? What modern band do you think Peter would dig?)

Most importantly, he will have created a true emotional bond with Wanda. Their relationship started out as fake, but they've spent real time together and she's opened up to him about how alone and empty she's felt, allowing herself to be vulnerable in a way she rarely has with anyone else. He also clearly loved being Uncle P, goofing around with her kids. (Please let the kids live! If they vanish with the hex, it will be heartbreaking.) Peter could be a true connection that helps bring her back to the world, particularly if he ends up retaining all the memories of Pietro and Wanda’s childhood. I don't think this is the end of their relationship. Honestly, Peter might end up thanking Wanda for all the fun he's had and ask if they can do Knight Rider or The A-Team next time. So, I see three options here:

Option 1) Peter hangs around for a bit because he's stranded in this universe and needs Wanda's help to send him back. Maybe Dr. Strange helps them with that in the next movie.

Option 2) He is able to return to his universe and invites Wanda back with him so she can avoid prison and start a new life. I mean, this woman is definitely facing charges, right? She may not have started this insanity, but she went along with it when she could have stopped it. At this point, she's the Patty Hearst of mind rape. She's either going on the run or spending a lot of time in prison or in a mental hospital.

Option 3) Peter gets expelled from this universe either by Wanda or the secret villain or someone else and never gets a chance to explain anything. This would be the least satisfying conclusion, but it's possible.

I guess we'll see what happens! I will be utterly devastated if this isn't Peter from the X-Men universe because I love all the implications of that. I'd also love to see more of Evan Peters in the MCU.

[roseskiesandbutterflies]

Pain Is So Close To Pleasure (modern!Queen x platonic!reader) - Chapter 2

Summary: As a recently promoted Soloist for the Royal Ballet, you move closer to Covent Garden with your three-year-old daughter, Rose. But your new neighbour turns out to be the last person you'd expect to pop up on your doorstep.

A/N: This chapter, but really this whole fic, has such a specific vibe and I love it?? Like I can relate to a lot of the things I describe, and I don’t know if that’s a me thing, or a British thing, or just a thing. Anyways I’m here for it. And if you’re not British and don’t relate to this fic in the way I do, and you’ve wondered what it’s like to live in Britain, this might give you a rough idea.

The chapter count for this crept up again because I’ve had about two or three more ideas for this. I think now would be a good time to mention that I’m treating this as more of a load of one-shots set in the same verse, rather than a story with a plot. That’s why it will start to seem more like a series of vignettes, not as a storyline.

As always, I hope you’re all doing okay with everything that’s going on, and I hope to have another update for you all soon. I hope you enjoy!

Warning(s): swearing

Word Count: 3.3k+

Inspiration: Incandescent by @immistermercury on AO3, Outed by @platawnic on Tumblr, Rock Angel by @mirkwoodshewolf on Tumblr, Brian’s Instagram, Modern Times Rock ‘N’ Roll by @rhapso-kei on Tumblr and AO3, this silly lockdown business, the fact that I should have gone to see Queen over two weeks ago but it’s fine

Taglist: @bhmay @briarrose26

Series Taglist: @banana-tree-freddiemercury @lillycarlyn (darling you didn’t say which taglist so if you want me to put you on the perm one then let me know)

Ask to be on either! Make sure to specify!

You popped your head round the door to the studio and smiled to yourself when you found it void of people. You switched the lights on, the charcoal-grey clouds outside casting a darkness over the Opera House; uncharacteristic for midday, but then it was London, and it was February. You couldn’t expect too much from good old British weather.

It wasn’t often that you had the opportunity of having a studio all to yourself, so when you did, you simply had to make the most of it. The way your timetable for the day had worked out meant that you had a longer lunch break than everyone else, not by much, but fifteen minutes was more than enough time to go over a routine you’d crafted yourself. So, seeing as you could afford to eat later on, and everyone else was either in the canteen or some café in Covent Garden, you decided to book one of the studios for your own use.

You connected your phone to the mostly unused speaker in the corner of the room and quickly found the song. Time was of the essence here, and you were most conscious of that. You lightly ran to the centre of the room, making sure you weren’t facing the wall-length mirror for watching yourself dance made you rather self-conscious, replacing passion with technicality. This dance was your own, you had created it, cradled it, held it oh-so-close to your heart; unlike anything you’d ever done professionally, this dance was all about the enthusiasm and the love with which you danced.

Freddie’s voice rang out through the studio, clear as day and filling each and every particle with the richness of his voice. The singular note was soon accompanied by harmonies and then the familiar piano motif of Somebody To Love. You smiled despite yourself as you began the routine.

You promised yourself that one day you’d perform this to someone, even if it was just Rose. But that day was a long way off yet.

The way you danced was unlike how you had ever done so on stage. You performed with a vivacity that many dancers lost so early on in their careers when they valued the physical quality of their dancing over the raw emotion of it. You considered yourself quite lucky that you hadn’t yet surrendered to that particular temptation.

You considered this song to be a crescendo in and of itself, just building and building as its many layers unfolded. You’d made sure that this was reflected in the choreography. Each section was grander a more extravagant than the last. You quite liked the simultaneous challenge and familiarity of it; it made for a good dance to return to when you found your head overflowing with your thoughts and anxieties. You made more and more use of the space as the song progressed, like you were contained by an invisible circle that gradually grew.

When the third verse came around, and Freddie’s voice temporarily faded into silence, fooling the nonchalant listener into thinking it was the end, you had a second to pause. You used it to inhale deeply before starting the fouettés that accompanied the acapella. One, then another, then another, more, more, more until you genuinely thought you were going to fall over. You persevered, however, pushing through all forty of the turns, and even though by the end you wanted nothing more than to lay on the ground and watch the world spin, you couldn’t stop yourself from beaming because holy shit you’d never done them all before. You shook off the feeling, allowing yourself to revel in it later; right now, you had the rest of the dance to get through.

You breezed through the rest of it, the highest jeté seeming insignificant compared to the dizzying hell you’d just put yourself through. When everything quietened down once again, and Freddie faded back into his falsetto, you came to a still in the centre of the ‘stage’, going up on pointe and gradually raising one leg into the air so that it was parallel to your upper body and then to your face. When the music kicked in again, you dropped it back down and returned to your original flow. With the last tiny piano chord of the song, you did a cheeky little jump with the biggest grin on your face, before curtseying to your non-existent audience.

Or so you thought.

A slow clap sounded from the doorway and you whirled round to look at the intruder, blushing furiously with the embarrassment of being seen without knowing. Your smile made a comeback, however, when you recognised the face.

“Wow, that really was something, (Y/N),” Brian whistled, “I’m impressed, truly.”

“Thank you,” you ducked your head, panting heavily. Your muscles screamed with exhaustion, and even though you wanted to just lay down and maybe have a nap, you stayed strong, refusing to appear rude to Brian.

Somehow, he seemed to read your mind, “You can sit down, you must be knackered. Don’t mind me.”

You smiled at him gratefully before sinking down in the corner of the studio next to your bag and grabbing your water bottle with desperation. You gestured to the spot next to you which he took gladly. “How much of that did you see?”

“Pretty much all of it,” he laughed, “I was about pop in for a chat but I saw you put the song on, and I thought I might as well watch.”

“Gosh,” you muttered, beginning to take off your pointe shoes to relieve your aching feet. You’d had back-to-back classes all morning and doing a routine such as that one after all of that just didn’t help.

“I didn’t know you guys danced to non-classical music,” he said.

You managed to get one shoe off, and you started on the other one, wrinkling your nose at the quite frankly disgusting smell that Brian was politely showing no reaction to, “We don’t. Well, I haven’t heard of it anyway. Even if people did somewhere, it would be an awfully long time before the Royal started doing it.”

He shot you a confused look, “Then how…”

“It’s my dance. I choreographed it a while back,” you shrugged, not really understanding what the big deal was, “That’s probably the best run I’ve done of it.”

“Wow, I,” he ran a hand through his hair, “That looked like something from an actual ballet.”

You ducked your head again with the kind of embarrassed pride that comes with compliments, “Thanks, Brian, that means a lot. I only made it a while ago. I,” you laughed self-deprecatingly before saying, “I’d just done quite possibly the worst audition of my life, and I couldn’t stop thinking about how shit it was. So, I just freestyled to some of my favourite songs and that happened.”

“You just made that up?” he asked incredulously.

“It wasn’t nearly as good as it was just then. I’ve been working on it for months until it became what you just watched. It’s been my little side project,” you mused, shoving your phone and both of your pointe shoes into your ballet bag. You poked your head up and peered through the huge window on the opposite wall, cringing at the heavy rain and how that wasn’t a good mix with the non-waterproof trainers you were now putting on, “Oh, shit, I thought it wasn’t going to rain until later. I don’t think I packed my umbrella,” you said, forgetting about your shoes for a second and rifling through your bag.

Brian placed a hand on your arm, “Relax, I have one, we’ll just have to share, if that’s alright with you?”

“Thanks,” you looked at him gratefully before returning to doing your laces.

“Where are you going anyway? You haven’t finished work already, have you?”

“Oh, I wish,” you laughed sadly. You did love your job, but today was just one of those days where you had no energy and just wanted to cuddle up on the sofa with a cup of tea and a box of Quality Street chocolates all to yourself and binge watch Miranda on Netflix. “No, I didn’t bring any lunch with me, so I thought I’d have a look and see which cafes have free tables. You’re more than welcome to join me if you want.”

About five minutes later, you found yourself running through Covent Garden Market while it was hammering it down with rain, sharing an umbrella with Brian that was way too small for the both of you. You were trying your hardest not to slip on the shining cobblestones beneath your feet, while also trying not to knock into any other pedestrians who, like you, were also running for cover. It wasn’t long until you reached your destination, a café that was a favourite haunt of yourself and Rose. It served at Rose’s Friday treat after she had finished preschool for the day, when the weather wasn’t too good and you couldn’t go to the playground in St James’s Park. You also frequented it on bank holiday weekends or half-terms where you’d been in the flat for three days straight and were in desperate need of some fresh air but had absolutely nothing to do.

You held the door open for Brian, hearing the little bell ring when it came into contact with the door, and you grabbed the umbrella from him as he entered. You shook it rather aggressively outside and popped it into the bucket next to you, filled to the brim with the umbrella of fellow patrons who unluckily got caught in the rain and had dived into the nearest establishment for sanctuary. You made your way to the only free table left while Brian queued up to order your food and drinks.

This wasn’t actually the first time you two had done this, though it was the third. The first time had been rather awkward, as from the second you put your shoes on to leave to the second you said goodbye, you were both repeatedly stopped by people wanting to talk to Brian. And even though neither of you ever complained, you had later admitted to each other that you had found it rather annoying. The second time wasn’t as bad, though at one point you had been stopped by a guy from some tabloid you’d never heard of asking for an interview. Much to your amusement, and Brian’s embarrassment, the guy had actually been looking to talk to you instead of him. You’d politely declined, offering to do it another time, but as soon as you’d sat down to eat, you teased Brian mercilessly about it, and still did every now and then. All it took was for you to say Brian look I’m more famous than you for him to blush furiously and ask you to please change the subject. Considering this was the third time now, the initial shock of oh my God I’m just casually having lunch with Brian May this is fine had passed. Now it was merely having lunch with a friend. Just that that friend just so happened to be an international icon. No big deal.

You looked up to see Brian making his way over to you, carrying a tray of food, and you smiled when you noticed that he’d remembered from last time when you’d told him what, in your opinion, was the best food this particular café had to offer. He sat down opposite you and plonked the tray down on the table, as you both started to work out who’s food and drink was who’s.

“How’s work been this week?” he opened up the conversation as he stirred his latte that had fake milk in it because I don’t know if their milk is locally sourced, (Y/N)!

“Not too bad, actually,” you said, taking a sip of your own drink and cringing when it scalded your tongue, “We’re just in our last week of rehearsals for The Winter’s Tale right now. Someone got injured on Tuesday, and our first performance is next Tuesday, so that’s not exactly ideal. But we’ll get through it, it’ll be fine, I’m sure,” you shrugged. The show must go on, you supposed. Pun not intended.

“Listen, (Y/N),” he started, his more serious tone intriguing you already, “I need to talk to you about something.”

You nodded slowly, “Okay…” You weren’t all too sure where he was going with this, and it was impossible to tell if the news he was about to impart was good or bad.

“I know this is very sudden, and there’s no guarantee that this will even happen, but I thought I’d ask you first,” he rambled for a moment.

“What, what are you on about?” you laughed impatiently.

He took a deep breath and said, “I have a business proposition for you.”

**************

The after-school pick-me-up was carnage at the best of times, let alone on a Friday which also just so happened to be the last day of half-term. Parents crowding around the doorway, desperate to reunite with their child and careless of who they had to shove out of their way in order to reach them. Children spilled out of the school, arms full of lunch boxes and month-old paintings that were meant to be rainbows and dragons but resembled something similar to an oil spill. Teachers waved goodbye with the odd word to the overly concerned parent, not-so-secretly relieved that their week off was edging closer, and hurrying everyone off because the sooner they left, the sooner half-term started. Something which parents had very split feelings over.

Not for you, however. You were more than happy to get Rose to yourself for the week, finding the flat way too still and silent and void of a child’s laughter for you to find remotely comfortable. And even though half-term would always mean a busy show week for you due to the sheer amount of families desperately needing something to do, you were still grateful for the time you got together. That may or may not be because you had spent the far majority of your adult life being a parent, but you weren’t complaining.

As per usual, you heard Rose’s shout long before you saw her face, but you decided that you wouldn’t have it any other way when you saw her run straight towards, “Mummy!”

You crouched down and hugged her tightly when she collided into your arms, almost overbalancing from the sheer force of it, “Hello, darling, did you have a good day?”

She pulled away and grinned at you, “Yeah! We had a dance party and we played games and we played musical chairs and I won and I got some chocolate!”

“Oh, wow, that’s really good Rose, well done you,” you bopped her nose and turned to the things she was holding, “What’s all this?”

She thrust a piece of sugar paper under your nose, “I did a glitter painting yesterday and it’s dry now! It has every colour in the whole world!”

You took it from her and looked at it, pretending to inspect it like a pretentious artist and putting on the poshest voice possible, “Well, I do think it’s rather splendid, if I do say so myself. Absolutely spiffing.”

She dissolved into giggles, “Mummy, you’re silly.”

You gasped in mock offence as you took her hand and started to lead her out of the crowd, “Excuse me, I’m not silly! I’m a very serious grown-up, don’t you know?”

“I don’t want to be a grown-up! Grown-ups are boring. I want to be little forever and ever and ever.”

“I’m a grown-up, do you think I’m boring?” you asked.

“Only sometimes,” she said very seriously, “Only when you talk about boring grown-up stuff.”

You chuckled slightly, “What about Rog and Bri? Are they boring?”

She laughed again as if you’d just said the funniest thing she’d heard all day, “No! They’re fun because they give me ice cream and they think of really good games,” she paused for a second, “Mummy, are we going to the park today?”

“Well, it is Friday so if you want to go then we’ll go. It is a very sunny day today,” you said, frowning when you noticed Rose’s face, “What’s up, sweetheart?”

She pouted as if deep in thought, “I don’t think I want to go today.”

“It’s perfectly alright if you don’t want to, darling. It’s half-term next week so we can always go another day,” you assured her, “Why don’t you want to go?”

“I feel a bit tired,” she said sheepishly, “I don’t want to fall asleep on the swings and fall off!”

“Oh, baby,” you said, heart swelling with the simultaneous silliness and adorableness of her logic, “I’d catch you before you fall, don’t worry. But we can go home if you want. We’ll find something else for your Friday treat.”

Her eyes lit up, “Can we have cookies? The nice ones with the big chocolate bits?”

“Good idea, darling, we can have cookies,” you did a quick mental run-through of what your biscuit tin was looking like at the moment and said, “I don’t think we have any of those ones at home so we’ll stop off at the bakery on the way home.”

“Yay!” she squealed before singing, “We’re having cookies! We’re having cookies!”

Rose spent the entire journey home singing that song, and even though you wanted nothing more than to never hear that tune again, you wouldn’t dare burst her bubble of joy. Besides, you didn’t think you could tell her to stop if you tried; she really was that cute. Or maybe you just told yourself that, so you didn’t feel like a terrible parent. You guessed you would never know. At least the lady who worked at the bakery found it endearing that a child could be that excited for something as relatively simple as cookies.

By the time you’d shoved the key in the door and the two of you had spilled into your flat, it was around half past four and Rose was positively exhausted, despite her best attempts to look and sound awake. You’d decided to have the cookies with some milk you’d warm up once you’d sorted out Rose’s stuff and gotten her changed from her long day at preschool. Then you just supposed you’d have some cuddles, and, with any luck, she’d fall asleep because the poor girl really needed it.

You put the radio on in the background before snuggling down on the sofa with her comfortably in your lap and your favourite honey-golden blanket draped over the both of you.

“I love you, Mummy,” she murmured against your chest before nibbling on the cookie that was bigger than her hand.

“I love you too, baby,” you said, pressing a kiss to the top of her head and feeling her snuggle in more, as if that was even possible. You suddenly remembered your lunch with Brian, and the news you needed to impart, “I had lunch with Bri today,” you started, feeling her nod and carrying on, “He had a very cool idea, darling.”

“What was it?” she whispered, large, curious eyes looking up at you.

“He asked me if I wanted to work on a film, and I said yes,” you smiled, watching her face light up with the muted excitement that was usually paired with some element of confusion.

“A film? Is it a big film? Like Tangled?” she asked, suddenly much livelier than before.

“Yes, sweetheart, a bit like Tangled, except there’s going to be real people in it instead of animated people,” you explained.

“What’s the film about?” she was getting more curious by the second and it just made your heart leap with pride.

“It’s about the band that Rog and Bri are in, darling. It’s the story of how they got famous,” you grinned.

“Who are you in it?”

“Ooooooh, I couldn’t possibly tell you that yet, I’ve got to keep it a secret,” you said judiciously, smiling when she pouted at you, “I’ll tell you another day, sweetheart, don’t you worry.”

“Promise?” she asked hopefully.

You brought her into a hug again and whispered, “Promise.”

[demigodsanswer]

Hazel Levesque: Into the Prophecy-verse pt. 1

Time for the prologue to an AU I’ve wanted to write for a long time and need to finally get out of my brain. Hazel is a little OOC in this, but that’s because it’s an AU where she grows up in the modern world, not the 1920s. 

Description:

Rome was a three-thousand year old empire, with two capitals - Old Rome in Italy and New Rome in America. New Rome was the powerhouse of the gods and their hero’s.

The children of the Olympian gods lived amongst mortals, the most powerful of them joining the Legion, and some even earning fame status when major prophecies thrusted one or a few of them into the spot light. 

Hazel Levesque is an unclaimed, unimportant demigod, unsuitable for the esteemed legion. And she’s about to find herself at the middle of a major prophecy. 

~*~*~*~

Alright let’s do this one last time

“My name is Jason Grace. I’m the son of Jupiter and for ten years, I’ve the one and only child of the Big Three. I’m pretty sure you know the rest: I saved a bunch of people, fell in love, saved the city, and then I saved the city again and again and again. I also did this [cut to Jason getting hit in the head with a brick]. We don’t talk about that. Look, I’m a comic book, I’m a cereal, did a Christmas album, have an excellent theme song, and a so-so popsicle. I mean, I’ve looked worse. But after everything, I still love being the hero. I mean, who wouldn’t? So no matter how many hits I take, I always find a way to come back, because the only thing standing between this city and oblivion is me. There’s only one child of the Big Three. And you’re looking at him.” 

Hazel was listening to her music too loud to hear Chiron calling her. She had her first day at some prep school for demigods, meaning she was leaving Chiron’s half-way house for unclaimed and untamable demigods. 

New Rome was overflowing with demigods who either hadn’t been claimed or had been rejected from the Legion. Lupa had deemed her and her friend Leo “too insubordinate” for the Legion. He set the wolf on fire (an accident) and she had told the wolf to eat shit (not an accident.) Demigods who didn’t fit in the Legion and couldn’t live at their home with their mortal parents (like Hazel, who’s mom had been deem “unsuitable”) or didn’t have mortal parents (like Leo) lived in one of the half-way houses. There was hundreds of them around the country, all named “Chiron’s Half-Way House,” but only the New Rome branch was actually graced by the old Greek Centaur. 

He did his best to train or rehabilitate problem kids, getting them ready for either the legion or the real world. He was the one who had insisted every demigod apply to some fancy, over-priced prep school. And Hazel was the only one of them dumb enough to be smart enough to get in.  

 “Do I have to go?” She asked Chiron, as he adjusted the collar of her uniform (which she already hated.) 

“This is a step in the right direction for you Hazel.” 

She tugged on one of her curls, pulling it straight in front of her eyes before letting it bounce back into place. Chiron led her out to the car. Leo was waiting out on the front porch. 

“Don’t forget us little people while you’re off becoming some famous hero or some shit, Levesque.” He said, smiling. 

Hazel pulled him into a hug. “Who could forget you?” 

“I’ll bust you out as soon as I can,” he whispered. 

Hazel sat, clearly angry, in the back of Chiron’s car. He couldn’t drive, being a centaur and all, so Argus, the thousand-eyed half-way house driver was behind the wheel, and Chiron lectured her about all of her opportunities. 

“I don’t care,” Hazel protested. “I don’t want to go, I’m only here because I drew some pictures.” Her scholarship was art-based, that was true. She was a good artist. Not a really notable demigod skill, though. Still, someone had to mosaic all of Jason Grace’s accomplishments. They were only one year away from some world-ending prophecy that the tabloids still had yet to leak. So it was only a matter of time before Golden Boy Supreme (as Leo had nicknamed him) added another line on his resume. And if Hazel was lucky, which she rarely was, she’d be there to sculpt the whole thing in marble. 

“You passed the entrance exam just like everyone else,” Chiron told her. “This is your opportunity, Hazel. Do you want to end up like --” 

He cut himself off, but she knew how that sentence ended. Like her mother. Her mom wasn’t perfect, but she wasn’t bad. She was actually pretty cool. The courts were just picky about who was allowed to raise demigod children. Even mega-Hero Grace grew up with a foster mom - Sally Jackson, poster mom for good demigod parenting. Literally, her picture was on the side of buses. She had her own book. She had been on The View with the nine muses. 

Her mom wasn’t Sally Jackson, for sure, but she always made sure Hazel had food, and she taught her how to draw. The court’s problem was her mom’s inability to hold down a job. The only thing she managed consistently was selling her own homemade jewelry. It was all bullshit though. If Hazel wasn’t a demigod, they never would have separated them. 

“Whatever,” Hazel said as they pulled up to the school. She grabbed her backpack and suitcase, and preyed to whatever god her father was that she would be kicked out by the end of the day. 

“Tie your shoes!” Chiron yelled after her. She ignored him. 

Hazel walked into a whirlwind. The school was huge. Most people were in their uniforms, although a few wore ancient Roman style armor over theirs. Some carried stacks of books, and other had spears and swords. Half her day was academic - Latin, literature, history, science, and math. The other half was training - weaponry, climbing, survival skills, and pegasus riding. At least they had Pegasi here. She had been trained well enough at the half way house, but there were unfortunately lacking in magic horses. Well, besides Chiron’s lower half, which Hazel wasn’t too keen on riding. 

“You’re shoe’s untied,” a stranger said, passing Hazel. 

“Yeah, I know it’s a choice.” 

The sneakers probably weren’t uniform, but she didn’t earn the label “insubordinate” for nothing. 

She found her locker, wide and tall enough for armor, weapons, and other demigod provisions, and shoved her suitcase in it. She figured she would move into her dorm later on. 

Someone opened the locker next to hers. “Oh this is so embarrassing,” Hazel said to her locker neighbor, “we are wearing the same jacket.” She laughed awkwardly, but the girl just rolled her eyes before walking away. 

Off to a good start, Hazel though before grabbing her backpack and moving on to her first class. 

Each class seemed to come with its own thousand pound textbook. And the long, winding hallways made it impossible to stop at her locker in between classes. By fifth period - history - she had four new text books and figured she was about to get one more. 

She walked in late. She hoped the darkness of the room helped cover her late arrival, but she cast a shadow in front of the projector. 

“Ah Miss. Levesque,” her history teacher, some old guy named Mr. Quintus, paused the movie, “you’re late.” 

She shrugged, “Maybe y’all are just early.” 

A girl with black spiky hair and dark eye make up let out a stifled chuckle. Quitus and Hazel looked at her. “Sorry, it was just so quiet.” 

“Please take your seat, Miss, Levesque.” He started playing the movie again. Some history documentary. The Romans loved those. This one had some young narrator, who would have been handsome if it wasn’t for the scar down his face. With his blond hair and blue eyes, Hazel could have mistaken him for Jason Grace, if Jason were twenty-five, not fifteen. 

“The Titan Saturn, lord of Time, was overthrown by Jupiter and his other brothers and sisters, and his remains cast away.” 

Hazel was just staring to tune the whole thing out when Quintus paused the video again. “Can anyone tell me the Greek name for the Titan Saturn?” The girl next to Hazel raised her hand. “Yes, Miss. Grace?” 

“Kronos,” she offered. 

“Very good,” Quintus restarted the film. Hazel thought about leaning over and asking her if she was related to Jason, but figured she probably got that all the time. 

A week later, Quintus stopped Hazel on her way out the door. “Miss. Levesque?” 

She walked over to his desk. “What’s up?” 

Quintus showed her the score from their history quiz the day before. A red 0/100 was written across the scantron. 

“A zero?” Hazel tried to look genuinely upset. “A few more of those and you’ll probably have to kick me out of here, huh?”

“If a person wearing a blind fold took a true or false quiz at random, what score would they get?” 

“Fifty percent?” 

Quintus changed her 0 to a 100. “That’s right.” He stood and faced the bored to start erasing that day’s lecture notes. “Are you familiar with the story of Icarus, Miss. Levesque?” 

“Uh yeah, he was escaping the Labyrinth with his father with a pair of bronze wings. But he flew too close to the sun, the wax melted, and he fell into the ocean. it’s about pride, right?” 

“Correct,” he said, turning to face her, “but you left out a crucial element. Yes, Icarus was instructed by his father not to fly too high. But he was also told not too fly too low, as the sea mist could also weaken the wax.”

“Why are you telling me this?” She asked. 

“You’re trying to quit, and I won’t let you. You must remember not to let yourself fly too low, it’s just as dangerous. I’m assigning you a personal essay. Not about history, but about yourself and the kind of person who you want to be.” 

Hazel had spent an hour at her desk, trying to write anything for Quintus or for her literature essay, but her ADHD was going off the rails. She wished Leo would make good on his promise to bust her out of there. 

But she decided not to wait for Leo. 

She hadn’t seen her mom in a while. She grabbed her hoodie before making her way down the fire escape. 

[builder051]

If you want to destroy my sweater (or my history midterm)

@mohini-musing‘s Chasing Ghosts ‘verse.

_____

Ever since Tasha hit the stage again, they’ve become good patrons of the arts, sitting in theaters on Sunday afternoons and watching an array of student choreography and attempts at filmmaking.  Sometimes James impressed.  Sometimes he’s not.  Mostly he just feels for the kids who get less-than-packed houses for their debut works.  

Tasha hasn’t danced since the last and, well, only ill-fated performance.  She blames the rolled ankle, but James knows there’s something deeper there that she’s not quite ready to face.  But no matter.  It gives her time to get a jump start on homework before James and Steve make it back to the apartment to join her.

That’s what Steve says, anyway.  James actually scoffed the first time he said it, knowing full well that Tasha will get a jump start on just about anything but.  She’s always been one of those kids who could ace tests without trying, if only she bothered to turn them in.  She’s gotten better about it since moving in with the boys, mostly because James rescues her finished papers from the printer tray and tucks them in her backpack for her.

“Hey, we’re home,” Steve calls to the seemingly empty apartment when they arrive home from today’s viewing of Swan Lake.  “It was good.  You should’ve come.”  Never mind the fact that Tasha had made vomiting sounds into her coffee when Steve suggested it this morning.  “It was weird.  Nobody had on shoes.”

“Huh?”  A similarly shoeless redheaded creature stirs from where her grey sweats camouflage her into the couch cushions.  “You can’t do Swan Lake without shoes.”  Tasha titters in slow motion, then brings her hand up to cover her mouth when it becomes a yawn.

“You can when it’s contemporary.”  Steve seems proud of himself for remembering the term, even though it’s still wrong.

“Modern,” James corrects, giving Steve’s shoulder a squeeze as if thanking him for trying.  “Kind of Límon-ish?”

“Huh,” Tasha says again, sitting up and rubbing her eyes.  “I guess that style’s kind of… flappy.”  She laughs at herself and almost collapses again.  

Steve looks confused, but James just shakes his head.  Tasha’s too smart to leave out a bottle or any other evidence and too guarded to tell him what she’s taken if he asks.  Instead he bites his lip and inquires, “How much?” as he crosses the living room and flops down at her side.

“I don’t know.  Not too much.”  Tasha’s eyes slowly focus to meet James, then slide toward crossed again.  

  It’s an outright lie and they both know it, but James still whispers, “Right.”  He tries again.  “How long you been sleepy?”  He does the math in his head.  There’s no way she could be this out of it unless she’d doped up before he and Steve left.  James curses himself for not seeing the signs.

Tasha shrugs.  Of course she does.  She doesn’t care.  

She is trembly, though.  And looks like she’s about to cry.  Maybe throw up.  James knows he can’t leave her like this, so he grunts, “Alright.  Move,” and uses his chin and one knee to direct her toward the corner of the sofa.  

Tasha goes grudgingly, crawling down the cushions on all fours before dropping dramatically with her head on a throw pillow.  James sits beside her and reaches over to feel her cheek with the backs of his fingers.  She’s not running a fever, he already knows, but it gives him a good chance to take in the blown pupils and red-rimmed eyes, the dry flaky lips, and the spray of rusty freckles that suddenly appear dark against her pale nose.

“Get off me.”  Tasha flails at him with a weak backhand, then falls onto her elbows practically in James’s lap.  

“Sure,” James says, lifting his hand and ignoring the irony.  He reaches down for where his laptop is stowed beneath the coffee table and opens it on his knees.  “I’m just gonna work on this for a while…”

“Yeah, you do that…”  

“Always having the last word,” James teases her.  He ruffles her hair and settles in to work, typing with his right hand and counterbalancing the keyboard with his left.  Sometimes he wishes the prosthetic would do more, like allow independent finger movements, but today he’s too preoccupied to care.  Actually, it’s probably better he take a long time with this assignment, if only to give Tasha an excuse not to stand up.

It’s obvious the girl needs to sleep, and within a few minutes she’s breathing in a slow, measured rhythm.  

“What do you think she got into?” Steve asks, taking a seat in the armchair across the room.

“Who knows?”  James shrugs.  “I clean out the stash under the bathroom sink once a week or so, but that doesn’t seem to slow her down.”

“... M’ not slow…”  Tasha mumbles, shifting her head onto James’s thigh and burying her face in the crook of his elbow.  Her knees appear against his body on the other side, her torso completing the horseshoe around his back.  

“No one said you were,” James reassures her, then looks back to Steve, who’s scoffing as he opens a book.  “Honestly, I don’t.  Robitussin, maybe?  Or your cheap-ass beer?”  

They share a smile, then Steve goes serious again.  “You want me to get rid of it?”

“No,” James says quickly.  “You’re an adult.  You do what you want.”  He sighs.  “And, you know, so is she.”

“Thas’ right…”  One of Tasha’s hands smacks the center of James’s keyboard, sending an explosion of V’s and G’s across the center of his screen.

“Thanks, Tash,” James murmurs, actively deciding not to roll his eyes.  “I ‘precciate it.”

“Just wanted to get your attention,” she slurs in response.

“And why’s that?”  James is only half listening; he expects gibberish.  What he gets instead is, “Feel sick.”

“Ok, come on.”  James practically throws his laptop and slides out from underneath Tasha, struggling to get a hold on her limp yet somehow also wiggly body.  

“I can take her,” Steve offers, already out of his seat as well.

“Nah, why don’t you go make tea,” James suggests.  “You’re good at that.”

“Sure, ok.”  Steve gives a sad laugh.  “I’ll leave you to deal with the hard part.”

James shakes his head, but he’s already halfway down the hall.  Good thing, too, because Tasha’s starting to buck convulsively in his arms.  “Almost there, hold up,” he warns, hoping it comes out as a reassurance instead of a command.  

He clumsily folds her down on her knees in front of the toilet, glad for once that somebody’s left the seat up.  “Alright,” James says, sweeping Tasha’s curls back from her face as he moves the prosthetic in circles between her shoulder blades.  “Go for it.

Tasha heaves, but inhales too quickly and winds up hacking.  

“Hey, slow down.  I didn’t mean that.”  James turns the movement from soothing to percussive.  

“Fuck you,” Tasha chokes.  She spits and looks up at him with one watery eye, then turns back to the toilet as something red and gunky starts to spill from her lips.  

“The hell?”  James looks over the lip of the toilet, at first thinking it’s blood he’s seeing.  It’s too red, though.  And too clear.  It only takes him a second to realize it is, in fact, the Robitussin.  And from the smell he can tell it’s cut with something like sour mix and grain alcohol.  “I thought sizzurp was kid stuff.”

“It is,” Tasha says, her voice echoing against the sides of the toilet bowl.  “I make the grown-up version.  And you don’t have any jolly ranchers.”

“I wonder why?” James replies sarcastically.  “You know I don’t do shit to be mean or oppressive or whatever.  You do what you want.  Just, for the love of Christ, be safe, why don’t ya?  Don’t mix shit like that.  Especially not when you’re home alone.”

“So you would’ve let me?”  Tasha sits up and rakes her trembling hand across her mouth.

“I…”  James bites his lip.  He can’t say it.  He just can’t.  “I… I couldn’t have stopped you.”

“Tea!”  The door creaks open behind James, and Steve steps in, cradling a mug between his hands.

“Right.  Good.”  James is glad for the distraction.  “Caffeinated?”  He looks at Tasha.  “I don’t want you going to sleep just yet.”

“The fuck am I supposed to do, then?”  Tasha does her best pitiful face.

“Mmmm…” James considers.  “Edit my paper?”

“Stoned?”

“Would you do it sober?”  James grins.

Tasha laughs and covers her mouth to contain a soft burp.  “Nope.”

“Well, come on then.”  He helps Tasha to her feet and shoves the tea at her.  “I’m not carrying you again.”

“You trust me with hot liquids?”

“Hey, I’m about to trust you with my History midterm.”  James raises his eyebrows.  “Don’t blow it.”

Tasha finally returns his smile.  “Pretty sure I already did.”

[rykerelias-archive]

TRANSFERRED FILE. || @cardshcrp Remy & Elias. VERSE: modern au. ( mutant. undercover. ) 005. THREAD: to be named.

   Another day another dollar, that was the motto he lived by, so far as any of the Guild members were concerned – and honestly, all in all, as lives went, as jobs went, this one wasn’t exactly unpleasant.  He’d never been any place quite like New Orleans, vibrant and alive and dark and musty all in one, wrapped up in an energy that he just couldn’t place, couldn’t name.  It felt OLD and primal… He liked it, and it unnerved him, all in one.   He’d been there nearly a year now, working his way slowly through the lower tiers of the Guild, doing his thing, keeping himself just enough on the radar to keep a slow upward momentum, pulling the jobs he’d been assigned with just enough finesse and gusto to get in and get out, careful to never leave too much blood in his wake. That wouldn’t sit well with ANY of the many eyes on him, unless it happened to be mutant blood, in which case he was pretty sure Stryker’d get his jollies off to it but – that was something that was entirely neither here nor there.

   He had an apartment, small, one bedroom, living room, small dining room attached to the kitchen, open terrace balcony that was one of his favorite parts.  A part time job covered the day to day expenses, unable to touch the pay that he’d accrued through his less than illustrious career under Stryker’s command.  The money from the jobs with the Guild was play money, but he didn’t often indulge. Maybe blow off steam, pick up a girl, get wasted, do a few lines and go back to business as usual the next day. Generally, though, he just stayed low, out of the lime light, keeping his ear to the ground, making his random meets and passing on whatever he thought would be most relevant, or whatever it was that Stryker was most itching to get the down low on.   Otherwise, he mostly just chilled, enjoying the little bit of freedom, or illusion of it anyway, he was afforded, unless he got called in to HQ.

   It wasn’t like they were required to give him notice, but he’d still half grumbled when he’d stared at the notification on his phone at six in the morning, an alert to be at the headquarters by eight.  Sure, they’d given him time, but that didn’t mean heWANTED to be awake.  Sleeping in was a luxury he hadn’t been able to afford most of him life, and he’d grown rather fond of the idea.  Still, he’d shoved off the sheets, clipped his way through his morning routine – short and sweet, still, and by 6:20 he’d been out the door to head to one of the local bodegas that served a local breakfast sandwich that he scarfed a couple of down on his way through the city.  He killed time for a good hour just walking; knowing the ins and outs of the place he’d called home had saved his ass more than once and with the winding, tangled mess of back alleys and avenues and streets that started as one name and ended as another – it was a fucking wonder anyone ever made it to their destination.

   Twenty til, he was at the doors to the HQ, passing through the checks to make his way inside, wandering through to the kitchen to grab a cup of coffee and out into the courtyard behind for a smoke, until the last glance to his wristwatch confirmed it was time to head back inside.  Stubbing out the smoke, downing the last of the coffee and tossing the paper cup, he made his way towards the usual meeting area – caught by one of the … clerks, he’d guess was the best term, and diverted to one of the lesser used rooms, a library that was probably worth more than he’d make in a few lifetimes, leather bound tomes stretching from floor to ceiling across the walls, some more fragile pieces displayed behind glass, marble busts and woven tapestries displayed at whim.  Ironically, a mine waiting to be cultivated, though not one of the members of the Guild would dare – nothing here was worth the wrath that the heads of the families would bring down on someone as idiotic as that.  

   A sweeping glance, his attention settling on a small cluster of people, mostly familiar faces, none that seemed to warrant the kind of setting –   There was a momentary pause, a half hitch in his stride as he made his way towards the center of the room, his gaze drawn, lingering, on the dark-haired figure that loitered casually behind the others. No FUCKING way.   His gaze drifted, his hands settling loosely, shoved into the pocket of his hoodie as he loping steps came to a stop just shy of the couch and settees the others were sat on, a light jerk of a chin in the direction of the others.   “Should’ve warned me the big dogs were gonna be here, my man,” he said, to the one that typically handled out assignments, doling out jobs to those he saw best fit.  “I would’ve worn my proper duds,” he protested mildly, a half smirk touching on his lips before his attention turned again, briefly, towards the one and only Remy LeBeau.  He didn’t try to offer a hand or introduce himself.  Either the man knew who he was, or he didn’t care to – if it was something else, he’d let him make the first move.

           AH, there’s his special interest. Not that he bothers to show he’s noticed, of course; he’s busy linking his arm through Baptiste’s, leaning down to whisper in his ear, something to make his old friend laugh condescendingly and leave the others to wonder what (or more likely WHO) he’s speaking of.

In reality, it’s just another bad pickup line, but it’s the APPEARANCEof things that mattered, and it works like a charm, as usual.

Remy takes his time with it, happy to let the newcomer sweat a bit. Crooking his finger at the assembled thieves one by one, he beckons them over - alone, in pairs, once a group of five - and speaks with them. It’s quick, concise, and thorough, accompanied by flash drives, file folders, and once a dagger. Specially tailored jobs for hand-picked individuals, each and every one more than capable of doing the work. Master thieves, fences, appraisers - they disappear as quickly as they’d come.

Forty-five minutes, and Elias is left alone with the King of Thieves. Cocking his head at the other, Remy allows a lazy smile to spread across his face, cheeks dimpling as he jerks his chin in a silentC’MON.

“C’MERE, HOMME,” he chuckles, and holds up a manila folder, waving it at him teasingly with one hand even as he extends the other for a shake. “I GOT WORK FOR YOU, MONSIEUR RYKER. OR D’YA PREFER ELIAS? EITHER WAY, IT’S GOOD TO MEETCHA.”

Waiting was a BITCH. Sure, it was a skill he’d had to cultivate over the years.  Waiting for the go call on missions, waiting for a target to make its appearance, waiting for the right time to strike – it was different, though, in combat scenarios. He’d known what he was waiting for, known that in the end the built up tension and adrenaline would lead to something, that all that pent up ENERGY would be released in a torrent of violence and bloodshed and that when it was over he’d go back to based, wash away the dirt and grime and blood and sleep like the dead for however long he could.  Lather, rinse, repeat.   But this kinda bullshit?  

This was the kind of waiting that made his teeth ache and his muscles burn, where he had to find someplace to set himself, some place to lounge and look placid and uncaring when really he was about as impatient and irritated by the whole mess as could be imagined.  The only thing that gave him the necessary control to ride it out, to drop back and lean against one of the STURDIER display tables, hips settled against the desk, one long leg stretched out over the other was the fact that he was currently in the room with the Big Dog.   The chances of him actually coming face to face with the guildmaster had been slim to none from the get go.  He couldn’t pass up the opportunity, just because he would much rather be killing time doing nothing on his own couch.

Of course, it didn’t help that one by one, little by little, the others got pared away, shuffled around, handed out files and jobs, weapons and equipment as needed, while all he had to do was sit and listen.  CLICK. The Zippo lighter lid flicked openCLACK. It closed.  Almost silently, quieter than it could have been, every thirty seconds or so, almost on the dot.  Counting.   Listening  Watching, all under the vague guise of boredom, observing the ongoing meetings with half lidded gaze, wishing he could snag a smoke more than anything.  But this was the kind of potential info he was here in the first place.   With each passing group, with each man or woman that departed, his stomach grew tighter, his jaw clenched a little longer.  Click.  Clack.

A tilt of his head, a slow jut of his chin came first in acknowledgment of Remy’s gestures and words, pushing himself up off of the desk, dropping his lighter back into his jeans pocket as he wandered towards wher Remy was, a vaguely curious look cast in the direction of the folder that the Guildmaster held in one hand.  His own hand extended, calloused and rough and strong, to shake Remy’s, briefly, curtly. He made no effort to impress or intimidate with it – there, and gone again, if released.  “Either’s fine,” he acknowledged with a shrug, his hands slipping back into the pocket of his hoodie once the handshake ended, his tall, broad frame sinking, folding down into the chair opposite of where Remy loitered. His posture was idle, lounge worthy even, but a sharp enough eye would see the stance beneath it all, ready to coil, spring away, dodge at any moment.  “Pleasure’s mine, for sure,” he replied, a faint tilt of his head in deferment. “So what’s this job and – not that I’m complainin’ or anything but – most of these other guys, they’ve been here a helluva lot longer than me so.  Y’sure you don’t got somebody better for whatever it is?”  A vague deferment, a hint of self depreciation, his language and drawl specifically targeted to make him appear non-threatening, a lesser species.

        “Mm.” Good handshake, even if the guy was a little too quick to pull away. Elias is cautious, that much is obvious. It’s a good thing, maybe. To be expected, anyway; he’s never met someone for the first time that wasn’t. Something about facing down a mutant that could blow the place sky-high in an instant made people real wary.

Remy takes his time settling, keeping the folder in his grip rather than sliding it across to the other. Not yet, not yet. “You can drop the humble shit,” he grins, cheeks dimpling. “If youreally wanna use that excuse? Half the people in the room was in this business before I was born, but here I am sittin’ pretty. Experience ain’t talent, and I like it when people stay straight with me.”

A beat, and then he shrugs, unable not to crack the joke that’s sitting heavy on his tongue. “Or decidedly not straight, whichever, but that ain’t the point at the moment.”

He taps the folder, sliding it over the table with a fingertip. “I like keepin’ an eye out for rising talent. And before you try wavin’ it off, shove it. You ain’t failed a job yet, and that’s unusual, however messy the execution is. That’s real good.”

Leaning on his elbows, he slides the mirrored lenses of his shades down and pins Elias with his infamous devil eyes, red and unblinking, for a long, long moment. “I like that kinda record.” A vague gesture at the file, and he’s pushing his glasses back up with an easy smile. “So, here we are. Don’t get too freaked out, handsome, if you think I’m singlin’ you out. I like t’make it a habit to drag promising new blood along wit’ me on the occasional recreational job that I take. It’s good experience for you, and it lets mehave a look at how you work.”

It’s the truth, but it’s a warning, too, and if Elias is smart? He’ll know it. It’s a quick way for Remy to tell him I’m watching, as well as implying his future personal endorsement should the other excel. All very cushy and neat, directly indirect.

“This ain’t anything too rough. My lovely wife and I have noticed some of her folk have been slackin’ off, so I’m gonna shake a little wakey-wake into ’em. In other words - ”

His smile widens, utterly saccharine.

“I’ll be breakin’ into a compound of assassins alone to teach ’em the wonders of security and provide a little free demolition for their new remodel, and I could use a little covering fire. Comparatively, your risk will be low, as long as you’re keepin’ a fair distance. Of course, you’re free to decline, but it’ll be fun, promise.”

And if you’re stupid enough to try shooting me in the back, you’ll find out the hard way I’m faster than a bullet, and I’ll find out you’re another ladder-climber to get rid of.