#sic em on me boys

[mylittlegayass]

ah screw it.

if this gets like. a decent amount of notes (ill make you all decide) by uhhhhhhhhhh march 7th. (2 months since post date airhdk)

ill finish at least 2 of my wips. AND properly set up my desk to comfortably work :)))

[alshaverpressbox]

(u shouldn't have rbed that)

FMK: patty, moose, jeek :)

this is unconscionable

fucking patty because. well. you understand.

marrying marcus "milf" foligno......being so real. marrying kind of all time & could fix me in some ways

killing jeek so he's legally dead for thirty (30) seconds & resuscitating him immediately. then I personally help him through the recovery & he swears fealty to me for life. also I think this experience would only make him stronger: goodbye mr. september hello mr. year-round

sleepover weekend!

[moonythejedi394]

oh you liked how in my fic for him. bucky didn't fall from the train well what if he did?

His phone buzzes. Steve picks it up and sees a text from Hill, then another one comes in. They’re both phone numbers. The first one is Becca’s and the second is Benny’s. Benny’s name is still Barnes, but Hill’s text has Becca’s last name as Proctor. Steve exhales, then he calls Becca.

It rings for a long time. Steve bites his lip.

“Hello?”

Becca’s voice is rough and cracking with age, but it’s her. Steve exhales heavily.

“It’s Steve,” he says quietly. “Hi.”

There’s silence for a moment.

“What flowers were at your wedding?” Becca asks. 

Steve smiles, bittersweet, but it’s just like Becca to be suspicious. “Red carnations and daisies. Bucky had a daisy in his lapel,” he adds. “Your ma did all youse’s hair with daisies, too. And you and Betty had matching dresses, little cap sleeves and empire waists and a bow in the back, and your ma bought both of you a pair of kitten heels, even though you were only eight, they were yellow with bows, too. Benny had a dress with a big poofy skirt and she kept grousing about it, even though she tried to get me to wear a wedding gown with a poofy skirt. I let Benny pick the color of your dresses, though. She picked pale yellow because she was obsessed with lemons back then. The wedding cake was lemon because of her, lemon and lavender.”

“Steve…” Becca exhales. “Is it really you?”

“Yeah,” Steve whispers, trying to hold back sudden tears. “Becca, Bucky – Before he – Before –”

“What?” Becca asks gently. “What did Bucky do?”

“‘M pregnant,” Steve confesses.

“Oh, my G-d,” Becca whispers. “Oh, my G-d. You’re pregnant?”

“Three months,” Steve then tells her, his voice almost breaking. “I’m about three months in.”

“Did Bucky know?”

Steve lets out a watery sort of laugh. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. He – He said I could go on one last mission, the mission to get Zola, then he was gonna tell Colonel Phillips and get me discharged. We didn’t know for sure, but…”

“Oh, Steve,” Becca murmurs. “Where are you, honey?”

“Brooklyn,” Steve whispers. “Bedford-Stuyvesant,” he adds.

“Okay, honey, I’m gonna come pick you up, alright? I got a spare bedroom, you can have it. Bucky wouldn’t want you to be alone. What’s your address?”

Steve bites his lip hard, fighting back tears. But she’s right.

“Alright,” he mumbles, then recites the address for Barton’s apartment building. “I don’t have a lot of things right now,” he says. “I – I, uh, I’m trying to get the Smithsonian to give back all our stuff…”

“I heard your collar got taken out of the exhibit,” Becca says. “You have it?”

“Yeah,” Steve answers. “I had to get a new key fitted for the lock. Buck–”

He can’t say it. Bucky had had the key on the chain that held Steve’s dog tags. It had fallen with him, to be forever entombed in stone and ice.

“It’s okay, honey,” Becca tells him. “I won’t be long, just an hour. Have you got a nest set up yet?”

“No,” Steve admits softly. “I – I want –” His voice cracks and he swallows. “I want my nesting stuff. It’s all in the Smithsonian. They’re saying it all belonged to some Omega I collared.”

“I’ll sic my grandkids on ‘em,” Becca says. “What have you eaten today?”

Steve groans and drops his head back against the wall. “Protein bars,” he mutters.

“Anything else?”

“No.”

“Bucky’s gonna come back from the grave and take a double-folded belt to your ass if you don’t start taking better care of his property,” Becca offers kindly.

Steve laughs a little again, then wipes tears from his eyes. “You’re right.”

“What have you got other than protein bars?” Becca asks.

“Protein shakes,” Steve sighs.

“Oh, boy, Bucky’s rolling in his grave.”

Steve almost laughs. He squeezes his eyes shut and takes a shaking breath.

“If you need to cry, you should,” Becca says. “It’s good for you.”

“Call me when you get here,” Steve murmurs. “I have to pack.”

“Alright. Just an hour, big brother.”

[nikoco11]

NOT ME!!!! SIC EM BOYS

edit: okay wait LOL just block them i got the reporting covered i think. i thinkkkk

[in1-nutshell]

Bot Buddy crushing on another Autobot and their friend Jazz finds it out

SFW, platonic, romantic, Cybertronian/ Bot reader

Oh boy.

Listen, Jazz is probably the best bot to find out Buddy has a crush. Especially if the bot in question is in his circle of friends. Once he gets a whiff that Buddy might have feelings for someone in the Autobot ranks, he wants to know everything.

“Buddy, my bot, a little birdie told me you have optics on a mutual friend of ours.”--Jazz

“…What do you mean?”--Buddy

“Buddy we both know what it means.”--Jazz

He won’t push Buddy in saying who their crush is. He is respectful of their boundaries. If Buddy wants to tell him, he knows they will come to him. Jokingly tells Buddy that he will sic Prowl on the crush if the bot is a douchebag. If Buddy is good friends with Jazz, there’s a good chance they work with Prowl and becoming his friend despite him calling them coworkers.

“Jazz I don’t think Prowl would be interested in finding out who my crush is, not that I have one of course!”--Buddy

“They’re right I don’t want any part of this plan Jazz.”--Prowl

“Uh huh. Okay keep telling yourself that Prowl. I know you want to do some digging in this crush.”--Jazz

“…no?..”--Prowl

“Prowl!?”--Buddy

Prowl would 100% go over and interrogate the poor bot if he gets the chance. And if Buddy is really good friends with him, it’s going to be sooner rather than later.

There is a good chance that Jazz has met the bot before or at least heard of them. He gets around fast and gets along with a lot of people.

“So, who are the suspects?”--Jazz

“I have a full file on potential ‘crushes’ Buddy might like. None seems suitable for them though.”--Prowl

“Aww. You care Prowl.”--Jazz

“… Anyways I have a board with the top 5 potential bots on a rating of—”--Prowl

“Prowl? Jazz? What are you guys—”--Buddy

“We’ve been discovered! Hide the evidence!”—Jazz

“Ten steps ahead of you already!”--Prowl

“What did I walk into?”--Buddy

Let’s say that the bot in question fall in Jazz’s Good Guy book. Jazz would 110% be Buddy’s wingman. He would help come up with romantic scenery and ideas if Buddy doesn’t know what to do.

“Jazz, I don’t know about this. Maybe I should wait a little longer.”--Buddy

“Listen, there’s a full moon is overhead and several Madona songs are going to be on the radio when you’re with them on patrol. Its perfect timing, now go and get ‘em tiger!”--Jazz

If he ever came across the bot in question, he would definitely put in a good word about Buddy so casually no one notices.

“Hey man, you know who is perfect for this job? Buddy. Buddy has to be one of the best in the business. Hold on I’ll go get them.”--Jazz

“You know Buddy could definitely tell you what’s going on with this. Really, they can tell you so fast and save you the extra paperwork.”--Jazz

However, he will be honest with Buddy if the bot doesn’t seem worth it. Which brings the question to what would happen if the bot was in Jazz’s Bad Guys book.  Not many end up on his book but if they are there it means that they are definitely not worth it.

Would be serious about sicing Prowl on them if Buddy gets hurt.

“Buddy, I’m telling you. They are no good. They aren’t worth it.”--Jazz

“But Jazz—”--Buddy

“I have a whole file on their history and things they have done.”--Prowl

“Prowl!”—Buddy

Overall, would be happy if Buddy found someone who could potentially become their significant other.

But will not stray away from violence if the need arrives.

[stealingpotatoes]

hi! i have a question/compliment about how you do characters if thats ok. you are able to draw thing like their hair and clothes very consistently in your comics, how do you do it? (also its amazing btw) is there a specific thing you do to make them look very similar or is it just practice? also i love your silly comics, they always make me smile!

here is a horse wearing a hat for your time

GASP THAT HORSE IS FULCRUM!! SIC 'EM BOYS!!

ok bein fr oo thats a very good question!!! the very simple answer is yeah, it is just practice lol -- but that's not a helpful tip so I'll elaborate!

Drawing a character consistently is down to 2 main things, imo. the first one is the most obvious: identifying the key features and shapes of the character. think big, don't get bogged down in getting all the tiny bits perfect -- most people won't notice if the little details change lol.

+ if it's a character I draw a lot, I'm usually drawing them from memory, not reference! and I think that rlly helps w making a character (at least seemingly) consistent, bc I will only be drawing the most memorable aspects of their design -- which is what YOU identify them as easiest!

BUT I will also reference my own art sometimes!! actually knowing how you drew them last time definitely helps lol!! REFERENCE YOURSELF!!!!

good exercises to improve character consistency: drawing in their simplest form w no detail (/drawing them timed), drawing them from memory and (obviously) just drawing them a lot!

the second thing is basically a more general version of the first -- it's having a consistent Way of drawing things. i don't mean "your art style needs to never change!!" cause consistent artstyles are bs. you just need a consistent perception/ way of looking at things and a bit of muscle memory!

like here's a character in 3 different "styles" but you can still easily tell it's the same character (and probably the same artist lol) bc the way my brain thinks abt each aspect of the character doesn't change! the rendering changes but the shapes (ie the hair, the jawline, the lines of the facial hair) remain the same bc thats Just How I Draw lol! makes him look consistent

the bad news is this is something you just achieve with practice. BUT doing those above exercises should speed things up for stylisation too!! but yeah its all abt identifying key features and having a consistent way of looking at things!

[mackdizzy]

[my gift for @thecooleraveragejamm , for @mcyt-valentines !]

Okay, so!

My giftee was interested in c!Technoblade and a playlist, so I made a little song cycle! The cycle is in 8 parts (acts) with 7 songs each, and the whole thing will take just under 3 hours to listen to, with each individual act being 20-25 minutes. I'm posting the graphics, song lists, and spotify playlists (there are 8 separate playlists) in order, but if spotify isn't your jam, isn't accessible, or if you'd rather all in one go, at the end of this post (along with some more info about the cycle) is a youtube playlist that contains all 56 songs all at once!

Act 1: World Conqueror • I'm Born to Run (American Authors) • Taking Over the World (Coyote Theory) • Aulon Raid (The Mountain Goats) • Renegades (X Ambassadors) • Ends of the Earth (Lord Huron) • Everybody Wants to Rule the World (Lorde) • Immortals (Fall out Boy)

Act 2: (We Have) The Blade • The Horror and the Wild (The Amazing Devil) • Revolution (The Score) • Riot (Hollywood Undead) • Legend (The Score) • The Phoenix (Fall Out Boy) • Raging Fire (Phillip Phillips) • Unstoppable (The Score)

Act 3: Interlude; Peer Pressure • Borderline (Tame Impala) • Angry Too (Lola Blanc) • Victorious (Panic! at the Disco) • Blood (End Credits) (My Chemical Romance) • Bang! (AJR) • Sinners (Barns Courtney) • Never Going Back (The Score)

Act 4: Die Like One • Pale White Horse (The Oh Hellos) • Point of No Return (Starset) • Let's Kill Tonight (Panic! at the Disco) • Rebels (Call Me Karizma) • Enemies (The Score) • Born Ready (Zayde Wolf) • This is it (Oh The Larceny)

Act 5: Retirement or; • Thousand Eyes (Of Monsters and Men) • People I Don't Like (UPSAHL) • Whatever it Takes (Imagine Dragons) • Under the Pressure (The Score) • Another Way Out (Hollywood Undead) • Monster (Willyecho) • Ghost (Confetti)

Act 6: Welcome Home Theseus (Minor Acts of Terrorism) • Play Dirty (Kevin McAllister [SEBELL]) • Emperor's New Clothes (Panic! at the Disco) • Wrecking Ball (Mother Mother) • Glory and Gore (Lorde) • Bang Bang (Hippo Campus) • Allies or Enemies (The Crane Wives) • Novocaine (Fall Out Boy)

Act 7: It Ends Today (I'm a Person) • Roots (Imagine Dragons) • Wolves (Sam Tinnesz, Silverberg) • My Songs Know What You Did In The Dark (Light 'Em Up) (Fall out Boy) • Fire (Barns Courtney) • Wine Red (The Hush Sound) • Take Me To War (The Crane Wives) • Ready Set Let's Go (Sam Tinnesz)

Act 8: Sic Semper Tyrannis • Bit by Bit (Mother Mother) • Up The Wolves (The Mountain Goats) • Creature (Half • Alive ) • Kings (Tribe Society) • Run Like A Rebel (The Score) • The Ballad of the Broken Bones (The Low Anthem) • Hieroglyphs (The Oh Hellos) ━━━ ➼ ━━━━

I tried to pick music that aesthetically, musically, and lyrically matched c!Techno's vibes--the playlist follows his story from pre-DSMP to post-Doomsday (so not the whole thing, but a nice, peaceful ending point). The intention is for you to follow c!Techno's journey as you listen, and I think this playlist has a rather nice message about finding yourself and finding peace through rather hostile circumstances and worldviews. It gave me a lot of peace and joy to make, and I hope you enjoy, giftee and anyone else, and have fun listening! Youtube Link

[darklordofthesimp]

König and Sunny sparring together would probably be terrifying to watch

Honestly, no one wants to spar with Sunny other than Ghost.

They're fucking terrifying dude.

And when König finally recovers from he cracked egg incident; he wants to fucking smear Sunny on the floor like peanut butter on toast (affectionately of course. Like a big brother would)

König gets fuckin flashbacks to Birdy so he fucking haaaaaates sparring with Sunny at first. Eventually, Price kind of notices that he freaks the fuck out when training with others. So, as his own little version of therapy, Price sics Sunshine on him.

"C'mon Big Boy," Sunshine shoots him a feral grin. "I don't bite."

König's eyes are wide, his palms out in front of him. The sniper is circling him like a shark would circle its prey, herding him to where they want him.

"Are you sure?!" He's only half joking, the words tremoring as they're spoken.

"Well, I will if you want me to," Sunny winks.

Price rolls his eyes when Ghost shifts his position. "Easy, Simon."

"This is fuckin' stupid," the L.T. murmurs, glaring at the scene before him. He leans against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.

"Nah," Price smiles, "It'll be good for 'em both. Sunshine gets to let off some steam and he's..."

The Captain didn't continue, only offering a snort.

Ghost raised a brow from beneath the mask.

"I'm going to fucking eat you." Sunshine grins.

"You're gonna what?" König wheezed.

When the sniper leapt at him, every limb moving with precision and accuracy, Simon winced.

König never stood a damn chance.

[romanceyourdemons]

still very funny to me that whenever someone looked at that early 1700s french guy who made a living in england by claiming to be taiwanese, and asked him hey why are you white, he would be like “how would you know taiwanese people aren’t white……. unless you’re some kinda JESUIT!! sic em boys!” and a crowd of anglicans would beat that dude up

[jerksbitch]

thoughts on dean’s big ol eyes

there ain’t one scene in supernatural where he needs to be looking like this !!!! and why are his eyes always so bright & sparkling. like. it’s just not necessary for them to be this big and beautiful ! dean winchester sets an unrealistic expectation for how green eyes should look. Hello yes Police? this man here yea that’s him. the one with the sparkling green eyes and princess eyelashes and perfect nose and pretty mouth . yea that’s the one Sic ‘em boys

ask me something !

[these-emo-thoughts]

Pit Babe Anniversary Rewatch! Episode 2!

Getting into the end of Week 1 of the Pit Babe 1st anniversary rewatch just in time by finishing off my day with Episode 2! Looking very forward to this one fajsdfahkhs thoughts as I watch will be down below!

Okay yes I'll be changing my phone ring tone to Speed of Love, I'm too far own this rabbit hole lol

Oh we start off with Tony and his interview lsjdfalsfsa

Tony has perfected the "smile that doesn't reach your eyes" trope, he looks like he just wants to murder that reporter asking him all these questions

That direct look into the camera when talking about "old racer" Babe 👀

Uncle Alan always so caring, worrying about Babe being okay instead of the race betting 🥹

First "Daddy" of the series

Nefarious plot and flashback, ugh yes, sign me the tf up (again)

I mean look, Kenta managing to hold back Alpha Babe is pretty solid of him LOL

I love Babe's confidence, like even though he's got those bad memories he's not afraid to face up against his adoptive father

THE SHOULDER TOUCH, WAY 😭😭 BABE LOOKS LIKE HE'S UNDER A SPELL HERE, GOD, THE SIGNS FROM THE BEGINNING ARE SO BRILLIANT

Far out I'm not going to shut up about this am I??

Again tho, it has to be said - Alan in a singlet top 😔👌

And now Babe and Charlie in a singlet tops 😔👌

Of course Babe can't resist such a sunshine smile, man is already so smitten even while brooding and I totally get it haha

JEFF!! AHH! THERE'S OUR BABY BOY DRINKING HIS PINK MILKSHAKE!! 😭

Lol I can't, every time I see 'UAC' I think of University Admissions Centre 🤣

Damn Kenta is doing the work - and he looks so happy too he probably thinks this is gonna make Tony love him

This obsession with cars of any kind amuses me but like, I also wanna build a track and play too 🥲

BRUH the omegaverse, I know I watched this entire thing but I still get so 😮 when I see it manifest on my screen, what a time to be alive

Puppy Charlie 🐶 these two are so cat and dog coded

There he is, there's baby boy Jeff coming to save the day 🥹

Show 'em Jeff, show 'em how good you are and get that job!!! Haha I'm writing him so much more insecure in my current fic but I love seeing him so confident in himself here ahaha

The duck under Alan's arm kills me

LMAO Dean, North, Sonic please, laughing like that at poor Alan who can't even get a handshake 😭

LMAO I forgot Babe calls Jeff cute here, and Way too like almost winks at him, bb boy is just too adorable 😭

I'm like honed into whatever North and Sonic are doing in the background at any given moment, js

Look at North, such a gossip lol

But also the instigator, damn, Babe is not playing

He also says he's not jealous that Charlie is talking to Jeff but we all know that's a lie lol

He also says he's not angry but welp, LOL

Again with Babe's jealousy, look how happy Charlie looks about it AHAHA

I actually do like that Babe is teaching Charlie in between all the 'concetration' he does

KIMMMMMM WHAT'S UP BOY!! WELCOME

Winner, I can't believe by this point you've been on my screen longer than bb Jeff AHAHAH

Winner: *Trash talks Babe into fighting with him* Also Winner: *Sics Kim on Charlie*

The attraction that Babe has for Charlie in this moment is peak *chef's kiss*

This is a great fight scene actually goddamn

AYEE go go Charlie

Winner once again losing at life (I'm going to keep a tally, this is loss number 3 for him so far in the series since he copped it twice already in the first episode AHAHA)

Bad idea to be smacking Kim against the wall, Winner 👀

Told you, there goes your fkn wrist babes do I could this as a loss for the tally AHAHA

AYEEE CHARLIE IS GETTING HIS CAR! 🙌 and what a choice he makes, the car that made Babe King of the Hallows

Way is quaking

There's gotta be a work for the kink Charlie has for Babe's coaching because he's really enjoying himself but I'd be crying 🤣😭

Dean is so chill, but look at how his words are cutting Way deeply haha

UGH MY HEART HURTS AT THIS BEAUTIFUL FRIENDSHIP BETWEEN WAY AND BABE AHHHHH WHY 😭😭

PLEASE that kiss Babe planted on Way's cheek healed my soul 😭

"Alai-wa"

"You're my best friend but complain like my boyfriend" lmao Way WISHES 😭

Here are the terrible two ready to cause trouble! Now being asked to keep an eye on Charlie.

Charlie has been called a puppy 3 times this episode ahaha

North is drunk but can see clearly that Way loves Babe

NORTH SAYING IF HE AND SONIC WERE EVER CLOSER THEY'D BE LOVERS 👀👀👀

Poor Alan lmao everyone always laughing at him

Way switches from supportive friend to bitch real quick and I'm here for it - but goddamn, he's harsh to Charlie

WAY HATES CHARLIE SO MUCH HE LITERALLY TELEPORTED TO INTIMIDATE HIM 🤣

I swear to god I was not planning on thirsting over Alan while rewatching this but lo and behold here I am. Thirsting.

Kenta, baby, sorry but Alan is not going to give you his son Pit Babe, no matter how much you offer - though that is a great way to end the episode ahh 👀

PETE IN THE PREVIEW YESSSS the family's all here!!

ALAN GIVING JEFF A KISS ON THE HEAD JKSFHSKJADHFJSKA

The no-kissing rule gets broken next ep, YESHH

And my favourites, the behind the scenes 🥹

Ep 2 is done!! Right in time for Week 2 of the anniversary event, yay!

[twothpaste]

Thoughts on Lucas’s portrayal in Smash Brawl’s Subspace Emissary? Long game to give a character in a fighting game character development (less scared in preceding entries) or horrible mischaracterization that hurts to think about? At the end of the day those fics where Lucas and Ness are chilling in the smash mansion are peak though.

oh boy, this is a good ask! i have a lot of thoughts about lucas in subspace (and the fanon surrounding subspace lucas). so i'll answer up top, and put all the hot takes & extra shit under a readmore.

i actually think lucas' portrayal in subspace is totally fine. honestly, he got much more than anyone should've expected. he stars in several cutscenes, he's one of the only characters to get any sort of arc, and that arc is clearly based on his character development in mother 3. he grows from a scared kid who's overwhelmed & unsure of himself, to a courageous hero who protects the people he cares about. it's not deep or 100% faithful, but for real, no character's smash incarnation is either of those things - esp not in subspace. for a silly fighting game story mode with limited cutscenes & no dialogue, i think they did as good a job as we were ever gonna get! i'm glad brawl introduced me to the little goober that'd later become my fav character ever, and that it introduced him to the west at large. if not for subspace lucas, most of us probably wouldn't be enjoying mother 3 today, so i've gotta put some respect where it's due.

realtalk though: what bothers me about subspace lucas isn't how he's handled in the game itself, but how fans took all the wrong impressions and ran with 'em. it's like folks only watched his first couple cutscenes at the abandoned zoo, then constructed their whole conception of Lucas around that. never mind all his other cutscenes where he makes a good friend (red) & fights by his side & learns to be brave. never mind how even before mother 3's timeskip he was siccing dinosaurs on fascists at age 10, with the grief of his mother's death still fresh on his mind. never mind his entire canon story. nah. he's just a sniveling helpless terminally lonely crybaby forever i guess. awesome. this is more an issue with smash fans who've never played mother, but it's always seeped a bit into mother fanon by proxy, and it's profoundly not my favorite thing in the world 🥲. (the perhaps inevitable pitfall of smash being lucas' only appearance in the west, and the foundational fanon being developed in 2008, before emulation was well-known or easily accessible.....)

i'm also really unfond of fanon that paints ness as lucas' savior, the only one who can pull him from his lonely misery, etc. cuz it's got nothing to do with lucas' actual character. in subspace he does look up to ness, but he spends more time with red, and grows stronger for red's sake. so lucas clinging to ness isn't even really in line with smash lucas' characterization. in mother 3 lucas takes initiative on his own, builds close friendships & makes lots of allies, proves himself to be an inspiring leader in his own right. and the game generally emphasizes finding light & joy in the world despite dire circumstances - i feel like hinging that joy on idealized codependency misses the point. ness & lucas could have a really interesting dynamic, and i've def seen it done in fanworks before! but i feel like most of the fanon around these two is based solely on The Wario Cutscene, ignoring lucas' later development & any possible context from earthbound or mother 3. which kinda bums me out.

it's probably outlandish to wish we'd gotten More Mother Content in A 2008 Crossover Party Game On The Wii - but i really do wish there'd been one more cutscene where ness & lucas got to interact again. maybe working together to fend off a threat, lucas relieved that ness is ok, ness acknowledging how much stronger lucas has become, exchanging a nod or a handshake? it wouldn't have to be much. just something to bookend their story, and indicate that they're on equal footing by the end.

yeah though, subspace itself is fine. admittedly i consider Smash Lucas & Mother 3 Lucas to be two separate entities, and Smash & Mother to be two separate canons / fandoms. they can overlap or cross over a lot, and it's neat when details from smash can fill in some gaps & inform how we see the characters. as far as fandom stuff goes, i'm way more interested in mother than smash, myself. but i've got no beef with how the smash devs portrayed lucas (aside from how particularly terrible he looks in brawl's ugly graphics). i think it's sweet how his model was perpetually frowny in brawl, then he came back smiling in 4 & ultimate. secretly would love to see another smash game with some sorta story again one day, though i'm not holding my breath for it.

[saltlickmp3]

Dreamboys review, probably from either 1979 or 1980

To sufferers from THE DREAMBOYs

Peter Capaldi. Some people are born to be stars. Carrot red hair, white makeup like he forgot to put the rest on. A speed-freak Vincent Price. Rhoderick. A gaelic dwarf, no jaw jacking candyman here. Temple fends off a stagebound princess as she tries to tune his bass. Not so sexy when the stage lights go on and we eyeball your panty line honey bear. A jolly time. The Dreamboys play for the kids, the crumb catchers freak out over 'The Passenger' previously performed by some washed up old tosser from Detroit. They blow their energy on the bubbling, bopping 'Genius is Pain', with drums chopping and riding like a yacht on the China Sea. They are so much more proffesional [sic] now, no more slogging through the toilets of Glasgow publand, remember the Bungalow? I know it wasn't the Waldorf Astoria but where else can dirt go to die? Threes to you Pete as we catch him on the flip with the St Vitus single 'Bela Lugosi's Birthday'. Some kinda wonderful. We're talking about the Dreamboys. The Beat goes on. Tree top tall. Get yourself on their handle. You'll not live to regret it. Mr Henderson works the mixing business and turns 'em up boy. The breakers are bobbing and Pete takes a drink. Could this be where it's at? I celebrate this evening with the swish niterie[?] and at this short-short I catch the train at one o'clock in the morning and I'm glad i [sic] can still hustle a lift with my slutty charm. Scream down that noise on me. Pete's 'insect [sic] Pie' is delicious, a nice taste from a ripe slide of our celtic talent. Will they crack it? Around me it's the same evening, a disco jockey from the local record bar spins the promo 12 inchers as the dance floor becomes crowded with everyone who is anyone plus a lot that are'nt [sic] but look as though they should be... Hey!! LOOK the Count of Monte Cristo, or at least, the Count of Monte Cristo dressed as a wimp. The Dreamboys are heading for the barn and it seems like the end of transmission for sure for sure. All this and the dole queue goes platinum.... Mercedes McNeill + Simon Clegg

[101ocs]

Leslie Transcript

Note: I just wanted to do this for funsies giggle :3!

[Leslie’s ability, “SIC,” allows him to call upon his dog, Bullet, to attack any victim close enough to him. Bullet cannot kill a victim himself, but can incapacitate them if their health is low enough.]

Feed Grandpa

- I’ll read you a story after this is all done here, grandpa.

- Here you go, Grandpa! A lil’ snack!

- Johnny didn’t mean to, Grandpa…we��ll fix it.

- I gotta present for youuu! Say ‘aaah…’

- I wish you were up n movin’ again. Things would be so much easier.

Victim Found

- Hey, that’s my hidin’ spot!

- What’re you doin’ in there, babe?

- You thought I wouldn’t check here? Really?

- Sorry, babe. Cat’s outta the bag.

- Peekaboo!

- You shy or somethin’? C’mon out.

Victim Hit

- I’m tryna be gentle!

- Awh, yer blood’s so pretty! Lemme see a lil’ more, ‘kay?

- Gotcha good there!

- Why’re you squirmin’?! That just makes things worse!

- I’ll make it quick, babe! Just stop movin’!

Blood Trail

- I’ma have’ta clean this up, y’know…

- What did I say? I told you I’d be nicer.

- Man, I really don’t want clean up duty again.

- Phtt…someone’s havin’ a bad day, huh?

- Yeah, that’s it. Leave Bullet somethin’ to rat you out.

Match Start

- Bullet’s gonna have a field day with this one!

- I’ve never really done a chase like this before…gotta stay on my toes.

- I might be young, but I ain’t dumb. I’ll find ‘em.

See Victim Escape

- We’re really gonna get it this time!

- Shit! This can’t be happenin’ right now!

- I’ll send Bullet after ‘em.

- Goddamnit. I gotta tell Ma.

Idle

- I gotta prove that I ain’t a kid no more!

- That girl Johnny liked…she was really pretty. I mean, really pretty. He didn’t have to do that…

- This may be my first rodeo, but that don’t mean nothin’! I’ll still get it done!

- Bullet should be waking up soon. (sigh) He’s such a good boy…

- Y’know I…I don’t really like killin’. But it is what it is. Gotta do what’s best for us.

Sees Enemy

- I promise I’ll be way nicer than the others. Just c’mere.

- It’s okay…c’mere, sweetheart.

- I’m sorry it has to be this way. Really, I am.

- It’ll be over soon, hun. C’mon over here.

- All of this is pointless. It’ll hurt worse if you squirm. 

Ability Denied

- Bullet can’t hear me from here…

- Nope. No scent for Bullet to track.

- Bullet won’t be able to find ‘em.

- Let’s wait a lil’ longer…

Use Ability

- Sic ‘em, Bullet!

- Get ‘em, boy!

- Find ‘em, Bullet!

- [whistle]

Execution

- Sweet dreams…

- Don’t keep the angels waitin’.

- There you go. You’ll find her up there…I promise.

- Night, night.

- Rest easy, babe.

Cook Seen

- Don’t be hollerin’ at Bubba, okay? You’re makin’ him nervous.

- Let me know if you need help, ‘kay?

- You seen anyone yet? Huh? Huh?

- I’m sure Johnny’s sorry for all this mess, alright? Can you just drop it please?

- Hey, hey, hey, what you gonna cook up for dinner tonight? (laughter)

Hitchhiker Seen

- O-Oh, my bad. I’m in the way…

- Did Grandpa really teach you how to make those traps? You’re so lucky!

- Hey, you should really stop mutterin’ ‘bout my folks, y’know…

- I think you should set a few more traps, man. They’re runnin’ around everywhere!

- I know you’re more experienced than me but…I don’t think messin’ around will do much for our cause.

Johnny Seen

- There you are, Johnny! Me and Bullet have been lookin’ all over for you!

- We should be more gentle with them this time…y’know?

- Johnny…is this about that girl? …Never mind that, we’ll get ‘em!

- I should start workin’ out like you do. My arms could use a lil’ more muscle! (laughter)

- Mama’s worried about you, y’know. Once we catch ‘em, I think you should try to work things out…o-or not.

Sissy Seen

- I’ll get outta yer way…

- Make sure you don’t overdo it with that poison, okay? Ma gets pissed off whenever you do.

- What’re you always singin’ anyway? I don’t get it.

- I’m worried one of these days yer gonna step on somethin’ and hurt yerself. You should really put some shoes on or somethin’!

- Yer flower garden’s doing real well, Sissy! Must be that fertilizer we make. (giggle)

- Y’know, I’m surprised to see you! Thought you were gone for good last time. I’m glad you came back…

Nancy Seen

- Hey, mama! Having any luck over here?

- We’ll definitely catch these kids with you ‘round, mama! You had tons of practice with me n Johnny way back when, huh? (laughter)

- Mama, you think I should call Bullet out soon? He’ll handle this like a champ!

- When I find ‘em, I’ll bring ‘em to you, mama! I promise.

- Need any help, ma?

Bubba Seen

- Woah! You work that saw real good, man! Real good!

- Make sure you’re havin’ fun, alright? We can hang out later, if you want!

- Sorry, man. I’ll get outta your way!

- Are they botherin’ you again? (sigh) Don’t listen to ‘em! You’re doing awesome! I wish I could be as cool as you!

- You’re doing great! Keep going, man!

Cook

- You oughta get yer brother and mother in line, boy!

- Stop yer whinin’ and get to work!

- C’mon, kid. We don’t have all day! Let’s find ‘em!

- If it weren’t for yer brother, we wouldn’t be in this predicament! I keep tellin’ him, but he just don’t listen…

- You better not go off and get us into trouble like this too!

Hitchhiker

- Y-You don’t know nothing ‘bout nothing! Yer just a k-kid!

- I-It’s funny how you n Johnny look alike…(snicker)

- Better hu-hurry or your mama m-m-might give you a scar next!

- You wanna hear a s-secret? C’mere, I’ll tell you a s-secret!

- You still scared of k-killin’? Huh? (laughter) I knew it! Yer shakin’!

Johnny

- C’mon, lil’ boy. Pick up yer feet.

- It’s like that game we used to play as kids! (laughter) Hope you learned a thing or two from that.

- Don’t give up on me now! Keep searchin’!

- Thatta boy, Les. Keep it movin’.

- You see, Les? This is what happens when you’re too easy on them kids! Gotta make sure you finish what you started!

Sissy

- (laughter) Well, aren’t you a sweet thing?

- You just haven’t found the light yet, sugar. That’s all!

- Oh, there you are! I planted some new flowers I want you to see once we’re done!

- Don’t start getting into trouble like your brother does, now. He’s enough as is.

- (laughter) Aww, sugar…you can hardly hold your shears without shakin’.

Nancy

- Breathe, sweetheart. You’re doing just fine.

- Remember what I taught you, Leslie. You’ll be alright.

- Hold those shears up, sweetie. You won’t hit a thing with it swingin’ like that.

- C’mon, Leslie! We can’t let them get away! Get focused!

- There’s a first for everything, Leslie. Don’t get cold feet now.

[crustaceanchauffeur]

OFF CASTE BLOOD COLORS

What is good my mutie crew!? it's your number one old planetary post ban from the Warren coming at you live!

This wipe we're talking BLOOD- The definin' trait of the offcaste, your blood's weird, wet, wacky, and WILD! Be it unrecognizable like our's truly Kankrizzle the Suffering Signless, blurring the hemospectrum like y'all sicknasty cuspies, or switching teams involun T-A-R-L to the Y style like yall funkilicious chromatic transition fellas out there.

So! Blood! You got it in your noodles! You paint it in your doodles! Get a lil freaky you can bake it in your strudels! We all know the 'leven on the spectrum but what about this off-caste biz? What funky hues in your shoes? Now lets get this flow started by covering them SICK base Sics.

The Leven ! You know em, you love em, statistically speakin you probably are one! Its no news to hues that burg through feu...rg.. fuchsieurg... Yeah. We got Burgundy, Bronze, Gold, Ollie, Jade, Teal, Cerulean, Cobalt, Purple, Violet, and the biggie Fuchsieurg. Nothin too inchwrestling in there, unless youve been livin deeper under a rock than even ol me. Naw- What gets you wakin' up are the Cuspies.

Is it hard to tell if you're green or blue? You look one caste in one light and another in another? You got traits of two neighboring castes? You migh' be a Cusp! Now bein' a cusp makes you just as illegal as any offcaste- you just have an easier time blending yourself right on in when y' bloods getten up all close n personal with two a the big eleven.

A good friend of mine- big goldie- real weird blood, real charmer- Now they has a theory goin' up n on that the hemospectrudle is straight up pseudoscience- a real artificial constraint keepin us down- an they think cusps are the numero uno proof. They gave me a counter argument though- real nitpicker, they- that maybe if the hemospectrum is the baseline natural order of thing an thangs and yall cuspies out there are how our spectacular spectrum bleeds together! Give that theory nuff time and hypothetically, the hemospectrum falls either way. Grub for thought I say, that that big oll order falls apart even when let live long and lone.

Some o' th weirder hemo schemos tcha girls beheldos come from what i've been told are called 'chimera,' or eggsplice for th rest o us. The eye to the dios mio es that when all yall of us are all up in big momma G, sometimes we eggy fellas get all mashed up into eachother, an some freaky stuff can hap to the gubabies. Most o the toast one o yalls prelarvas hot lava gets straight up consumed by the other. Not in a blood and food noodles way, but in a needlecritter way, slurpin' up all that good M the Grub Juise an remelting they egg pardner.

This ain' all th time though, sometimes them goopy lil gups get all globby and glue them gushers all gup and gover themgelves, getting gall gestalt and ghiit. This makes one grubtastic eggy with one itty bitty bippy in there with th amino springs o two. Two coexistin' sets jus all up in there harmonious and livin'. This makes some real strange blood and bod combos, on one prong yall can be real up there with the extra huskbits, Arms +1, +2, +3, eyes 100, thats what i call a netcritter-troll. On that otha prong yalls can be straight up indistinguishable from a typicolor grayguy. All depends how creative Momma G got mixing them gups. Supes easy be mistaken for cusphood, muddy blood hues, and blurs.

If your blood looks jus a tad diffrent depining on the limb it calls hive, might be that your crafting recipes a liiitle more diverse than you expect. Not even too many items got a good splanation for you there. And don't think you on-ies are free from splicehood, same caste chimera are a lit bit rarer an a lotta botta stealthier. Chimerahood don't just happen in duos either i hear from the big blue boy, this battle bus can be droppin' with player counts upwards of a whole clutch!

Somethin' thats right up there wit it, the nearhue of the caste mixing filial thicket is those hues that slide from one to two! Thats right yall, changing colors aint just for the ambitious goldies, mad scientists, and dyschromic! Sometimes that sweet slimey bod gets all gunkled up in the sack an apostrophe 'tivates too many acts and yall's amino springs get bouncin' out with a few too many hues! That big ol goldie i mentioned? Yeah his sizzlin sign assigned at pupation? Sagrist. When my man was pupa pan he had two horns straight like spears yet when he got just a lil past when he dodged that big ol fishies order to the borders, they crown was a straight four prong. Mothergrub's orb his prongs split and to this day like a goldie in gray my ashblood bud got a crown like an archecutioner pailed the helmsman. In all my ways an all my days for some U Enty K own reason, blue->au do be real common hue by comparizzle to the average drizzle- I seen three- Achievement get! Not countin' those with some lineated blood apostrophe lations that is.

...

Now tchagrillmaster turned that raw dogg right over and that underside real crispy flesh-carapace-o-tha-point fell right on down t' the smoulderin' smoulderclumps clumped down in the flames, an my pans slipped like y' ancient ancestor down a flight a terraced platform risers. In other words, topic do be switchmaxxing.

Now back round to big graygreen goldie, now I happen to know this tall dark and hornsome fella- real big troll- COVERED in horns all up like a grub got they candied maize picked pre pupate style cranked up a few times. Now when I met this bristly endertroll he wasn' pickin up cubes an zorpin, he was gettin' my good dehornin' friend to zaw right through one o' those big boney boys 'been blockin' his beautiful bulbs, an this cut was a deep cut- hornbeds byebye- blood 'n all an' yall never guess what color a paint this fellas had in his cellas.

Pitch at first second and third sight- cause that blood ain't changin'- color of hate so pure and true, straight up gravity-black oilstyle six ways from nubsday. Straight up color of the tyrant himself! Checked it out and 'was truly id to the cull. Splains the spikes now, dont it?

Now from the stealthy cuspie to the pitch black bloodbrother, Yall know some a the wonderful ways our hues do play.

The overdue yellow-green hue: Oftcas out.

[dogmetaph0r]

SIC 'EM

Chapter 4: ...and Stay

A/N: It's been...........literally two months slkdjgskljgs. Sorry y'all these just keep getting progressively longer and I got caught up in packing for vacation time. ANYway, it's here!! More mystery, more bickering, and more... weird, complicated layers of mistrust. Oh boy.

Pairings: M!OC x F!OC, M!OC x Tommy Shelby

Warnings: descriptions of violence, past child abuse, implied past CSA, blood and injury, vomiting, mental health issues, mention of suicide

Soundtrack: Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want - Deftones (cover) // Are You Satisfied? - MARINA // Who Are You, Really? - Mikky Ekko

Summary: Following the headlines that turned Sam's world upside down, the Shelby family makes sense of the disaster at Aintree. Sam sees a vulnerable side of the legendary gangsters, Tommy gets some much-needed perspective, and Finn is... Finn. An unexpected message complicates matters.

Tommy and Arthur’s side of the story raised more questions than answers. The pair took it back to the meeting point under the grandstand, somewhere just before the race had begun. Sam’s panicked retelling of his day, the incident with Little Tsarina especially, had sent an ice-cold shot of anger through Tommy’s heart, only worsened with the warning that the next leg of their plan had to happen immediately. Somebody had caught on, and word was spreading through the police that capital-T Trouble had bought tickets for the race that day. There was no time to speculate on how the authorities could’ve been tipped off; if they knew what to look for, the police would find them too quickly to patch the information leak. Tommy had to adapt quickly, had to think three steps ahead of the police. People needed to be switched around.

While John was substituted for his snow-high brother, Arthur was sent out to track down the horse beater, following the scent of a man whom Paul had bumped shoulders with on his way to the stables. The man was old and gray, in no shape for a jockey and dressed too cleanly in his linen suit to be a veterinarian or a stablehand. His exit from the building raised eyebrows. Arthur pressured him, spitting venom and gripping his ironed shirtfront with bruised, white-knuckled fists as he shook him. But that man hadn’t been the one, proffering certification of his status as a jockey’s sponsor with trembling, arthritic hands. The lead went cold.

Turning instead to the rows of betting stands, Tommy figured his brother might have better luck looking for anyone hawking Tsarina as the future champion, someone looking to make a blood-soaked buck on the misguided bets of the gullible. They were unlucky there as well– the gilded signs and mahogany-framed chalkboards certainly dripped with deceit and fraud, but not evil. No musky scent of horse hair, no flecks of blood dotting their white socks, and no black-eyed haze of violence driving their appetite for more, more, more: money, power, attention, women, success. Arthur reached into his pocket for the silver clip binding together his personal supply of petty cash, his way in through the crowd as navy suits and felt bowler hats beckoned him forward to lay his bets and line their pockets. Rather than feeling the worn softness of a bank note, his fingertips brushed the torn edge of a scrap of paper, fresh ink staining his thumb as he freed it from his coat. The little slip was smudged, hardly legible and freshly scrawled out as though in a hurry.

  Psalms 94:1.

It didn’t mean anything to Arthur outside of the haunting pang of cosmic guilt it inspired in him, the thought of crumpling and tossing the holy scrap unbearable. He shoved it hurriedly back into his pocket, tongue stumbling over a whispered prayer before turning his attention back to his own godless pursuit of more, more, more.

Tommy, meanwhile, had been keeping tabs on the movement of the police and the Blinders as he slipped like water through the crowd. Well-dressed and charismatic, he fit in enough to slither all the way to the VIP section, where a proper vantage point offered the best view of the plan marching along as it should. It didn’t take long for the police to catch wind of the brawl in the tent, and it didn’t take much longer for it to escalate to an all-hands-on-deck order. Tommy gave the signal, and the Blinders struck like wolves on fattened cattle.

Licenses were burned, safes were broken, and the vast majority of the rich company men dominating the Grand National betting were driven away with little need for force. Arthur and Jim, of course, needed the tang of blood salting the air to feel like their job was done, but the operation was otherwise one of their cleanest. Quick, quiet, quit the scene.

Or rather, it was clean until the gunshots. Pop, pop, pop. Those weren’t police, armed only with wooden batons at what was meant to be a very peaceful, posh event. Those loud bangs were from something– or someone –far worse. The Blinders’ departure from the racecourse had to be rushed, and their drive even more so. It had ultimately been too much for Charlie Strong’s thrice-reanimated truck, which sputtered and coughed a filmy black haze until it rolled to a permanent halt in the grassy riverbanks of Tern Hill, radiator hissing and spitting like a mad cat.

That was where Sam had gone hypoxic from the strain of running on a broken rib, breath so short and shallow where he’d slumped to the floor of the truck that Tommy feared their ride home would arrive too late. When he briefly regained consciousness, he’d muttered something about God not being done with him. That, Arthur claimed, was how he remembered the note, tucked shamefully away into the pocket of his overcoat. He didn’t mention it– didn’t have the time, between barking orders for the men and fighting the cocaine shakes –until later, when the sun had risen on another day and the paper had arrived freshly-printed in bundles to the newsboys’ stands. Instead, it burned a hole in his pocket and itched at the back of his mind.

There was no time for anyone to drive up to Haydock that day; Polly had to reach Florence at work and let her know what had happened over the phone when they arrived in Birmingham. Tommy had made that decision as soon as the car pulled up beside the hospital entrance, a finger glued to Sam’s pulse as the man drifted in and out of awareness in the backseat. Scudboat had driven them there in record time, and from that moment on everything was in Doctor Matheson’s hands. So far, so good, for what they were working with.

The next morning’s paper was what threw everything out of balance. Grand National in Disarray!, the headline read in large, blocky font. Unidentified woman killed in brawl, police blame gang activity. The article went on to explain a limited version of events, nothing too outrageous until the very last paragraph. Police received an anonymous tip that the event was orchestrated by individuals associated with organized crime. “May God strike these wicked people down!”

Tommy read that final plea over and over until the black lettering began to flash in negatives behind his tired eyelids, scrubbed into permanency by fingers pressed tight to tender eyes as his mind ran around the few details he had. Sam’s defensiveness about his faith, his insistence on maintaining plausible deniability, the information that he hadn’t properly conveyed to Paul until Tommy stepped in to hear it himself… it didn’t spell out good things for their newest co-conspirator. Arthur’s note, resurfaced with a horrified shout of recognition, only stirred the already-boiling pot. The only thing they could do in their powerlessness was stew over the possibilities, building and scrapping plots to weasel the information out of Sam one bit at a time. And then, so early in the morning that the world was still tinted blue by the retreat of night, Monday’s paper came.

The next paper was nothing more than a trash tabloid, a way to sell drama to bored housewives and gullible grandparents, but by the time Tommy and Arthur had pulled in front of the hospital they’d passed no fewer than fifteen early morning workers gathered around the paper stands with their smokes. Politician’s Wife Shot At Derby!, Tommy's copy read. Woman shot dead at Grand National identified as Mrs. Agnes Clarke, wife of parliamentary candidate Lieutenant Clarence Clarke.

There, plain as day, was the sketch. It couldn’t have been more clear who the suspect was meant to be, from the heavy-lidded eyes down to the hair-thin scar on his upper lip. The article once again threw the blame onto some mysterious threat of a crime ring, the flames of rumor only fanned by eyewitness statements from the scene. One man heard word of the fight escalating over a woman. Another added that the man in the sketch was the one to fire the gun. The third statement, perhaps the most concerning, anonymously implied that the shot was intentional. That the man in question must’ve been a political extremist targeting Lieutenant Clarke for his campaign to sniff out police bribery. The paper ran far with this theory, tossing forth claims of everything from IRA involvement to Sicilian mafia ties and just about anything in between. But of course, a cheap headline capitalizing on tragedy was nothing without a name for their assailant. The Hangdog Killer, they dubbed him. “The shame on his face spoke volumes!”

“Hangdog Sam,” John whistled. “That’s got a ring to it.”

Fia scowled at him from her place leaning over the Shelby kitchen table, each page of the paper spread out before them on the wood surface gouged and stained by years of use. Sam’s eyes drifted aimlessly over the jumble of letters, scouring instead the composite sketch for any indication that it might not be him. But those were his eyes, that was his nose, that was his scar. There was no other conclusion he could draw– the public thought it was him. Him, a murderer. Him, an assassin. A terrorist.

“You understand how this looks,” Tommy said seriously. Sam nodded, sat at the table with his eyes glazed over.

“I’m telling you, Tom,” John said, wiping his hands down his face. “It’s not him. And you know I’ve got no reason to want him around, so you’d best believe me.”

Sam was torn between wanting to pat John on the back and punch him in the face. He did neither, opting instead to keep staring listlessly into his own sketched reflection for some sort of answer.

“He might not have planted that note or shot that woman,” Arthur grumbled, “but that don’t mean he couldn’t’ve tipped off the police, somehow. He had plenty of time alone on the racecourse day-of. Could’ve even made a call from the hospital, if he wanted to.”

Tommy nodded. “The way I see it, John, the only thing you can undeniably vouch for is that you didn’t feel a gun on him. That doesn’t disprove anything, even if it makes some things less likely.”

Fia rattled off a handful of insults in Rokka, mostly half-abandoned sentences describing how she saw it. She was pink in the face, eyes brimming with unshed tears as she said her piece. Tommy took it in stride, nodding when Fia cursed his thick skull and sighing when she listed his own varied offenses.

“For what it’s worth,” Paul said, squinting over the small print of one of the articles, “I don’t think you could’ve managed it, lad.”

Sam laughed mirthlessly, shaking his head as he rubbed at his aching temple. “Would that hold up in court? Your honor, Paul says I’m too much of a fuckup to go to jail.”

Paul raised his hands apologetically with an exaggerated shrug. “All I mean is that you’ve been busy,” he said. “We had eyes on you the whole way over, and you clocked in late enough in the morning that you couldn’t have been alone in the stables. You’d been accounted for all day. Couldn’t have had the time to be questioned by police, and if your higher-ups at Aintree suspected something was off with you, we’d’ve heard from them by now. You couldn’t have ratted us out, you couldn’t have lamed the horse, and you couldn’t have shot anyone. Not all on the same day, certainly.”

It was a fair point. Sam already knew his innocence, knew that even if he’d blacked out and done something terrible out of fear there was no way he could’ve seen straight enough to shoot with how hard John hit him. Knew that there was no way he could’ve had a gun on him if he couldn’t even afford the bullets. Knew that snitching on the Peaky Blinders would have been the end of his and Fia’s little cushion of savings, if not Sam’s life. But it helped, knowing that there was something besides John’s word about the shooting in the tent keeping him safe from the wrath of the Peaky Blinders. Three possible offenses down, countless to go. “What are my options? Do I even have a chance to defend myself here?” Sam asked, addressing the room at large.

“I wouldn’t ask questions like that just yet,” said Pollyanna Gray, taking an elegant drag from her cigarette with an arched eyebrow. “You might not like the answer.” She flipped one of the pages over, underlining a few key sections with a pencil. Sam flinched as she tapped the cigarette on a chipped ashtray, situated perilously close to the flammable newspaper.

“Can we do this… elsewhere?” Sam asked Tommy. “I’m sure not everyone has to be here.”

Tommy looked up from where he and John were dissecting a paragraph, looking around at his makeshift court: Polly, John, Paul, Arthur, Fia, Sam, some adolescent whose name he hadn’t gotten, and himself. The look Tommy gave Sam was unimpressed, eyes boring so coldly into him that he could practically feel the frost crystallizing on his skin. He blinked once, slowly, before returning calmly to the paper. That in itself was answer enough on its own.

Sam opened his mouth to provoke Tommy into telling him something, anything, when Fia placed a warning hand on the back of his neck. “Well, we ought to summarize what we do know, then. Sam, tell us once more what happened when you were alone in the hospital the first night?”

He sighed. It was a detail they’d been over a dozen times, each time more frustrating than the last as nothing seemed to satisfy Arthur’s insistence that he could’ve somehow made a call without the guard at the door noticing. As if he could’ve gotten up out of the bed on his own. Sam was tempted to bring up the number of times they’d had to call in a nurse to help him upright just to make sure he didn’t piss himself, but at this point he would do anything just to get some peace and quiet. His head pounded, and the layers of conversation happening above his ducked head only made things worse. “I went to sleep,” he gritted out, “and I had a nightmare. I woke up to the nurses restraining me.”

“But you weren’t restrained before that,” Arthur said, punctuating his point with a finger aimed at Sam’s face. “Weren’t no guards set outside the door yet. You could’ve gone down the hall and tipped off the police.”

“I was coughing blood,” Sam snapped. “You saw it. I wouldn’t have made it far.”

Arthur grumbled, but with a pointed look from Fia, he nodded reluctantly.

“And the next night?” Fia prompted.

“He was sedated,” Tommy admitted. “We were there as he fell asleep, and after that Isiah was guarding the door with Bill.”

Isiah, the young man he didn’t recognize before, nodded. “I can vouch for him, Tom. He didn’t move an inch all day. The only time I saw him awake was when they were forcing some food into him, and I watched that all too.”

“All of those nurses are on our payroll,” John said. “Same as Dr. Matheson. Not a single leak.”

Tommy was silent, nodding to himself with his hands on his hips. It was a habit Sam had come to associate with Tommy’s brain puzzling with a challenge, dissecting and examining each piece.

“Great,” Fia said, exasperated. “So, Isiah, you know that Sam couldn’t have tipped off the police in the hospital.”

“Right,” Isiah said.

“Paul,” she continued. “You say he’s been accounted for the whole day by the Aintree staff?”

“He’d been working just about the entire morning,” Paul said. “Wrapped up with that speckled mare, the one with the lame front leg.”

“Yes, exactly. John, you can confidently say that Sam wasn’t the shooter.”

“I’d bet Arthur’s last rusty quid on it,” John insisted. Arthur cuffed him on the back of the head.

“And Arthur,” Fia continued, turning her attention to the oldest brother. “You’ve given us reason to believe that someone put a note in your pocket that was written just shortly beforehand. That couldn’t have been Sam, because–” she looked at Sam, who nodded, resigned. There was no point in defending his pride if it cost him his head. “ –because he’s not been taught how to write.”

“Hang on, then,” Arthur interrupted, leaning over the table with his brows furrowed. “We don’t know that. All we have is a claim from you and the other Lees, and– no offense, Florence –the Lees are notorious for tall tales, right? An’ the other Lees besides yourself don’t exactly like the Lovells. Not much reason to flatter Sam’s readin’ level.”

Polly finished her cigarette, leaving the butt to smolder a lazy trail of smoke from the ashtray. “I can vouch for his illiteracy,” she said, a smirk on her lips. “This morning, I wrote him a check for all the money owed to him from the Aintree job. I shorted him thirty percent, and he thanked me for my business.”

From his right, Fia gasped and smacked Sam lightly on the shoulder with one of the papers. “We agreed, no checks unless I give them a once-over!”

Sam huffed a half-assed apology, head in his hands as the embarrassment only made the invisible vice wrapped around his head tighten a notch further. It hurt to look up, hurt to look down, hurt to do anything more than squeeze his weary eyes shut and breathe heavily into his too-sweaty palms. Nobody saw him flinch when Arthur’s fist thudded like a gavel against the surface of the table, nor heard him whine nauseously when Fia’s voice reached a watery pitch that forecast frustrated tears. It was a small dignity that nobody noticed him gritting his teeth about what hurt and what didn’t, the former outnumbering the latter by the dozens.

“Boys,” Polly’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and stern yet greatly appreciated as the room went quiet in its wake. “You won’t accomplish anything by refusing to listen to anyone. How I see it is that Samuel is not your rat. Now, he’s no boy wonder–” Sam glanced up at that, frowning a bit at the self-satisfied look on her face when he opened his mouth to defend himself, “–but I do think he’s smart enough to not poke the bear, so to speak. He has no allegiances outside of the ones we already share.” She stepped away from the table, heels clicking as she circled around to look at another page. “That was why we wanted him, right? A lone actor in need of money?”

Tommy nodded contemplatively, stepping away to pace a bit through the living room with his arms folded across his chest. Sam cringed as the dust dancing in the light stirred, kicking up the memory of old cigarette ash. Every fiber of the fabric in this house seemed to be steeped in the noxious stink of old tobacco, foul and sulphuric. The more the Shelbys moved– pacing back and forth, grabbing a drink, sitting on a chair, fucking gesturing –the more it infiltrated his nose, roiling his gut.

“I think I need some air,” he croaked, making to stand shakily before a heavy hand landed on his shoulder.

“You’re not going anywhere until we figure this out,” Tommy ordered from across the room, and the hand (Arthur, he guessed, based on the way Isiah was busy reading the discarded sports section and John was off reasoning with Esme, who up to this point had steered quite clear of the nonsense) pushed him back down to his seat. The change in blood pressure and the grating in his ribcage was hell on Sam’s head, and he grabbed at his forehead in a futile attempt to keep his skull from pounding.

“Mate, he’s gonna be sick,” Isiah muttered, barely looking over the edge of the paper as the corner of his mouth twitched in a halted smirk.

Tommy huffed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Isiah, can you go keep Finn out of trouble for a bit, please? Go to The Garrison or something, tell Harry Fenton I’ll compensate him for a pint each for you boys.”

“Thought my perspective was crucial here,” he remarked, just a tad too sharp to be a joke. He folded the sports section and tucked it into his pocket anyway, patting Arthur on the shoulder as he passed. “Tom, seriously. He’s been ill all weekend. Nobody would be stupid enough to let him just wander about Birmingham like a stray. He can get some air, mate, nothing’ll happen.”

“I said,” Tommy snapped, pointing, “Go to The Garrison. Please.”

Sam put his head down on the table for a moment as Isiah’s irritated door slam rattled through his brain. Polly cast an admonishing look at Tommy, who glared exhaustedly at the front entrance.

“That wasn’t necessary,” she scolded. “He’s not a boy anymore. You can’t just order him around when he’s saying what you don’t want to hear.”

Tommy squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head as he turned away. “His presence wasn’t needed anymore. He was free to go. All I asked was for him to tell us about the hospital, and now he thinks he can tell me what can and can’t happen under me own roof.”

Polly lit another cigarette, eyes widened in bemused astonishment. “You and I both know it’s more than that.”

The man whipped back around, his shoulders a tense line and his jaw set. Sam was struck with dizzying deja-vu, a glimpse of the very same version of Tommy looming at the foot of his bed that morning. No longer cold ice and sharp steel, but hot blood and blunt words. “I have been working,” he hissed, “day and night for this family. I have a son I haven’t seen. I’ve been gathering evidence, I’ve been making calls, I’ve been doing everything to make sure that this doesn’t hurt our success in Liverpool. So forgive me if I’m not being polite enough.”

“Our success!” Polly threw her hands up with an exaggerated eye roll. “Oh, god forbid we can’t afford another car. What will we do, build one with the factory we own?”

“Ada’s gotten her ideas into your head, I see. You know damn well what this could do for us.” Tommy snatched his hat and coat from the rack by the door. “I need a break. John, take Samuel upstairs and crack a window for him. He doesn’t leave this house until we know what’s going on.”

The front door slammed again as he left, and it would’ve been Sam’s breaking point if he weren’t already being escorted upstairs with a hand under his arm. His vision swam and blurred with pain as they made their way slowly up the stairs, John complaining under his breath about his bruised, wrapped-up hand and Tommy being a stubborn prick.

The second floor wasn’t warm and decorated like the sitting room. There were no shelves of fine china or little crucifixes or painted vases, no heavy curtains casting a colorful glow to this hallway. It was plain. A time capsule of years past, Sam imagined. A life before the Shelby family grew into the Shelby empire. Here, the wallpaper was stained and curling at the corners, scribbled with pencils and shredded by roughhousing from years and years of dirty-faced boys growing up into dirty-money men. The cigarette smoke wasn’t so strong here, blessedly, but it seeped sepia tones into what must’ve been mint-and-white stripes once upon a time, now faded to gray and more gray. A single gauzy lace curtain hung limply at the end of the hall, framing a smudged window looking out over rows and rows of similarly dreary houses sharing the little corner of Birmingham called Small Heath. It was strangely comforting, seeing this soft underbelly of the people holding a knife to his throat. He could imagine Arthur growing tall as hell overnight like a skinny tendril of ivy, Tommy learning how to bargain by begging Polly for something he knew he couldn’t have, John learning just how much he could get away with.

But there were hints of another sort of childhood here. John led him past one room, the door cracked just enough for Sam to catch pink floral walls and the glimpse of a tattered old doll. Ada, the sister. Must’ve been hers. He hadn’t met the woman, but Fia had told him enough from Esme’s wedding that he could extrapolate the rest. She used to chase rats with a gun, Fia relayed to him. It was all John said. As in… oh, hello! This is my sister, the one with the rat-killing tendencies! Sweet Jesus, what a family. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like, being raised with wild wolves for brothers. It had been so long since he’d last known what brotherhood felt like.

The room John led him into was claustrophobic, even as bare as it was. The busy wallpaper danced circles in his sight, dizzying enough to obscure details besides the immediate ones: a thin mattress on a metal frame, a privacy screen, an oak dresser, a chair, a tiny fireplace. John let him sit gingerly while he crossed the room to open the window, letting in a blessedly rain-fresh gust of air to wash out the smell of people. The weather had been too poor overnight for the scent of pig and coal to linger, and it almost smelled like home. Like the barest hint of greenery, thick with mud and wet stone.

“My wife told me I need to apologize to you,” John said, shattering the blissful silence. “But I did save your arse from trampling and from Tommy, so I think we’re even enough.”

Sam hung his head and breathed out a laugh through his nose. “That’s fair.”

“Yeah.” John leaned against the wall, gazing out at the alleyway below the window. “If I thought you’d done it, I wouldn’t’ve defended you.”

Sam nodded. “I appreciate that. But I’d assumed that was the case?”

It was John’s turn to laugh, shaking his head as though Sam had just said the stupidest thing he’d ever heard. “Don’t assume anything. People out here will lie about anything to get what they want from you.”

“What, like loyalty?”

“Like loyalty. Or favors. Respect. Fear, even.”

“Why are you telling me this?” The wallpaper stopped shimmering like snakeskin the more cold air he took in, so Sam breathed as deeply as his ribs could manage without protest.

John shrugged. “I dunno. Guess I feel bad that I put you in the hospital. That’s usually Arthur’s thing.” He turned his attention towards toying with some glass bottles and wooden knick knacks on the narrow mantelpiece. “And I guess you’re going to be my niece or nephew’s dad, yeah? There’s something to that, like it or not. You might as well get used to how our world works.”

Sam snorted, shaking his head slowly. “My God. Is that you saying the feud’s over, John?”

John glared over his shoulder. “Don’t get cocky, aye? I’m being civil. I’m not your pal.”

Sam raised his hands placatingly, relaxing in the wood chair as the fresh breeze settled his stomach and nerves. “Heard loud and clear, mate.”

They sat in silence for a while, listening to the distant roar-hiss of factory fires and heavy machinery. Sam could focus his eyes long enough now to take in more details of the dark room. Behind the divider was another bed, similarly plain and lumpy. The floor was as scored and stained as the table downstairs, the baseboards similarly scribbled-on in layers of old graphite and half-scrubbed crayon. The walls were decorated haphazardly with pastoral landscapes and mirrors, and a peek behind the painting just above his head revealed the reason for the strange positioning: a fist-sized hole in the wall, hastily patched with plaster and concealed with the fake-gilded frame. Sam let it rest back against the wall with a light thunk, startling when he heard John clear his throat.

“This was our room,” John said, watching Sam glimpse behind the veneer. “Me and Tommy. Used to share everything, back then.”

Again came the imaginings of a life before the Shelby empire: John and Tommy arguing over who was making more noise, doodling crude words into hidden corners of the wall, wishing for a stroke of luck to change everything. He imagined their father, and then wished he hadn’t. Arthur Shelby Sr. was the sort of man his father didn’t want around him growing up. Rotten soul, he’s got, Sam was warned. He remembered being very little and standing by the canal with his mother at some horse auction or another, listening to a pretty woman with raven hair and cornflower-blue eyes tremble out excuse after excuse. He’s so lovely when he’s not angry. He really doesn’t drink so much anymore. Oh, I promise, it’s not all that bad. You know boys will tell all sorts of stories. All sorts. His mum told his dad, and his dad told Sam: You’re not to be around that deviant Mr. Shelby without me, aye, chavo? And no matter what he asks of you, you don’t do it. And that was it. No more business was done between the Shelbys and the Lovells.

Sam dared to stand for a look at the collection of items on the mantle, finding his ribs were just as broken as they were a minute ago, but that his legs felt less like jelly. His fingers drifted over a mismatched collection of trinkets: little chipped seashells, a perfectly smooth river rock, a rusty old pocket knife, and a few little wooden animals.

“You whittled this?” Sam ran his hand over the back of a horse in motion, the grooves and worm-bitten holes of the driftwood catching on his fingertips.

“Oh,” John said, laughing. “Naw, that was all Tommy. This one’s mine.” He crouched to reach under the lumpy second bed, pulling out a little tin biscuit box. Brushing aside the usual fare for a teenage boy (a few newspaper cutouts of pretty women from underwear ads, some loose change, an empty pack of cigarettes with folded love letters tucked inside), he offered him what looked to be a lump of…something.

Sam rotated it carefully. Made of wood, some clumsy score marks, a few dark brown spots of blood where John’s fingers had evidently slipped and he’d nicked himself…

“…Is it a rabbit?” Sam hazarded the guess with the sort of caution one might use to answer a Sphinx’s riddle.

John scoffed. “It’s meant to be a gun, arsehole— give me that.” He snatched it back only to toss it and the tin box unceremoniously onto the old mattress.

They were silent for a while as Sam stared out the window, taking deep diaphragm breaths to avoid the burning rise and fall of his chest. Factory smoke rose in thick ribbons into the gray sky, with furnace fires sparking fiercely enough for Sam to hear and feel it from where he stood. A few childrens’ squeals pierced the air, and an old drunkard was shoved roughly from the back door of a house with a shout to not return until sundown. A city of contradictions. The sort of city that would explain the Shelby family.

“You’ve got a…a nice place,” he said awkwardly, feeling quite dumb with the look John gave him.

“You don’t have to lie.”

“No, I mean it,” he said, finding that he truly did. “You have a solid roof over your head, a city you run, and a family who’s got your back. That’s lucky, it is.”

John shrugged, leaning against the wall beside the window. “Guess so.”

Sam hummed, turning his attention back to the window to watch a skinny man wearing a peaky hat hurrying down the alleyway, checking frantically over his shoulder before ducking around a discarded pile of refuse. He sat eerily still, tense and rigid against the courtyard wall where only a glimpse of his hat and a blood-stained sleeve could be spotted.

“Hey, John,” Sam said, slow and cautious.

John hummed his acknowledgement, pushing off from the wall to see what Sam was watching so intently. He frowned when he saw the man, eyes narrowing.

“Is… is that one of yours? A Blinder?”

“Yeah,” John responded, seemingly aiming for casual and landing more in the realm of anxious by the way his voice cracked. “Yeah, as a matter of fact, it is.” John’s shoulder brushed his as he turned away quickly, kneeling to dig under the lumpy mattress for something– a revolver and a box of ammunition, Sam realized as John clicked each bullet in place in a practiced motion. “Stay here. Don’t move, you hear me?”

Sam opened his mouth to make a smart comment, but John didn’t stick around for an answer, slamming the door behind him.

Tommy felt anger boiling in his gut, tunnel vision setting in as he strode aimlessly down the street. Who the fuck did they think they were speaking to? Tommy wasn’t clueless. He wasn’t some naive first-time gangster trembling at the sight of blood on his shoes. He was a professional. A father, a soldier, a goddamned clay kicker. If he said wait and listen, they waited and listened. If he said shoes off so the Germans don’t hear their footsteps, it was fucking shoes off. If he said “Isiah, go to The Garrison”, he went, and if he said “Sam Lovell doesn’t fucking leave”, then he fucking doesn’t.

He could’ve just shot the man. Would probably cost his rapport with Florence and, by extension, Esme. It would cause ripple effects and he’d probably see himself on the bad side of the Lees again as well as the Lovells. For all he knew, the extended family was armed to the teeth and Sam’s guileless, awkward self was the odd man out. So, no, probably shouldn’t shoot him. But it would’ve been so much easier. Less complicated to have a feud than a sneaking suspicion.

People parted around him like water, crossing streets and herding children away by the sleeves of their school shirts to clear the way. Thomas Shelby, King of Birmingham. Fucking fraud. The past few days were taking a toll on him. He was losing his edge, not enough power behind his voice to control a handful of people, much less an entire city. He needed to hear from Grace. Just once, just to check in. That was all he needed.

Without even making a conscious decision, his footsteps led him directly to The Garrison. There would be a telephone there, at the very least. He could make a call and ask Grace to put Charlie on the line if he’d already woken from his nap. At the very least he could ask how he was doing. If he missed his father. The doors swung open, the scent of beer and liquor souring in his nose with a whoosh of air. Blinking to adjust to the darkness inside, the first person to catch his eyes was Harry behind the bar. And sat before him?

“Isiah.”

The young man looked up at him, disdainful and irritated. “What, Tom?”

Tommy didn’t really have an answer for that. He leaned against the bar beside him, flagging Harry down for his usual: a glass of whiskey, Irish only. Isiah snorted beside him, shaking his head and taking another sip of his drink. A pint of beer, just like he suggested. 

“No Finn today,” Isiah mentioned, feigning casual. “Too busy chasing some tail. Unsuccessfully.”

Tommy sighed, ignoring the stickiness of the wood under his elbows as he shifted his weight. “Sounds like him.”

They were quiet for a while, the only sound between them being the clunk of Tommy’s whiskey glass as Harry placed it in front of him. Isiah didn’t seem outright angry at this point, but his jaw was tense as he watched the lingering foam of his beer dissipate and reform as more bubbles rose to the top.

I’m sorry I snapped at you, Tommy should’ve probably said. “I had John crack a window for him,” he said instead, taking a deep swig of his whiskey. The burn traveled all the way down to his stomach and settled there, a reminder of the fire that had quickly gone out when he’d opened the door to The Garrison, mild embarrassment taking its place.

Isiah hummed a short, sarcastic little tone of intrigue: is that so?

“Your input was appreciated,” he tried.

That got more of a response out of Isiah. “Why do you still treat me like a child? Finny I get, he’s your kid brother, but c’mon mate. I’m 19 now, and I earned my razors fair and square.” He flicked the brim of his flat cap, the metal sewn within glinting in the low light.

Tommy huffed a slight laugh. Even when cross, Isiah couldn’t help but be proud of his early onboarding into the gang. “That you did, Isiah,” he said. “That you did.”

They drank in silence, nodding awkwardly through their unspoken truce. Men, Ada often groaned. You can’t ever just talk to each other, can you?

“Right,” Tommy cleared his throat. “Gonna make a call home. Finn’s out, you said?”

Isiah nodded. “I’ll catch up to him somehow,” he said as Tommy rounded the corner of the bar to find the storeroom in the back.

The dust tickled his nose and the whole room smelled sour from spilt beer and Arthur’s occasional drunken overnight stay, but it was quiet and private enough for him to let his guard down and hover impatiently over the phone. The operator took her sweet time connecting him to Arrow House, but a melodic voice soothed that irritation immediately.

“Hello?”

“Grace,” he sighed.

“Tommy.” He could hear the fond smile in her voice when she spoke, warm and bright.

Christ, he missed her. Missed her gentleness, her wit, her ability to think circles around him. Perhaps that was why he needed her immediately, when he could’ve just left that night and been home by the time the nanny put Charlie to bed. She would know exactly what to say, whether she realized it or not. Whether it agreed with Tommy’s bullheadedness or not. He’d never admit it to Polly or his siblings, but that was probably a large portion of his decision.

He smiled, safe in the privacy of the storeroom. “All’s well at home? No problems?”

He could practically hear her roll her eyes, shift her weight onto her right hip, lean into the curve of the telephone receiver like a cupped palm. When she spoke to the people she loved, she was as predictable as the rising sun. It was possibly the only time he could consider her predictable at all.

“All’s well,” she replied. Then, more animated: “I’ve run the numbers on the Liverpool expansion ideas while you were out, but I can’t get past that zoning issue in the city proper. Would you talk to Polly about moving slightly more east? It’s closer to the racecourse, this new space I’ve plotted.”

Tommy sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Liverpool was perhaps the last thing he wanted to discuss, even with Grace. “Can’t you speak to her?”

She scoffed. “No.”

Well, figures. He chuckled, which coaxed a laugh of her own through the earpiece. “I will if you put the bossman on the phone,” he said, resting back on the edge of the small oak desk behind him.

“You drive a hard bargain,” she teased, the soft waves of her hair brushing the receiver as she switched the hand that held it. “He’s woken up a bit cranky, so we’ll need to tread carefully.”

Tommy gave her an understanding ahh, waiting patiently (“Just one moment, love.”) while she spoke to the nanny, biting his lip in anticipation. Then, the little man himself took to the phone.

“Baaa-h,” he babbled, inflected upward as though he were truly answering the phone on his own. He must’ve watched them use the telephone enough to know that the strange contraption had its own set of rules.

He couldn’t help the way his grin widened. “Hi, Charlie.” The warmth radiated outward from Tommy’s heart, relaxing away the tension he held from his neck to his temples as the little boy babbled and cooed over the line, Tommy oh-I-see’ing and is-that-so’ing between the mumbles and squeals.

Soon enough, though, Charlie began to fuss and needed some time to waddle about and stretch his legs, so the phone was once again relinquished to Grace.

“Quite a talker, our boy,” she laughed.

Tommy huffed fondly, shaking his head. Grace noticed the way he’d gone quiet, of course. How couldn’t she? Tommy had never met someone so cued in on the behaviors of others, even from such a distance.

“What’s wrong?”

Tommy ran a hand down his face, sighing. “The usual. Family breathing down my neck, business to take care of, and now this whole issue with Lovell…”

Grace hummed. “Run through it with me again?”

He did, recounting the events of the past few days and reluctantly admitting to where he’d been stumped in the last few hours. The more he spoke, the more it didn’t line up: how could Sam have planted the note? Did he even know how to shoot? By all accounts, it made no sense.

“Tommy,” Grace interrupted, right as a frustrated twitch was growing in Tommy’s eyelid again. “Have you considered that maybe… he hasn’t done it? That he’s just as confused as you are?”

It wasn’t really the answer he wanted to hear, but if she’d thought of something brilliant and he didn’t listen now, she’d hold it over him for the next month at least. “Go on.”

“Well,” she started, “of course I haven’t met the man, but does he seem the type to hurt a horse like that? Or let someone do such a thing under his watch? They’re important to your people, aren’t they? And he’s quite traditional, it seems.”

Tommy hummed.

“And–” a paper rustled (had she been taking fucking notes?) “ –from the timeline you’d given me, I don’t see how he could’ve had the time to play double agent.”

“And you’d know,” he added wryly.

“I would, thank you.” She didn’t take the bait, continuing on where she’d caught the scent of a theory. “Even if he had outside help, to threaten the King of Birmingham–” she added a bit of a sarcastic flourish, which was a bit warranted in Tommy’s mind, but nevertheless made him pout, “–and then manage to get caught up in the fray, leaving himself and his fellows vulnerable? That’s not strategic. The type of people who could pull this scheme off for this long would need to be brighter than that.”

Unfortunately, it made sense. Only a complete idiot would spearhead so many moving pieces without a way out, and no gang worth their salt would leave so many loose ends. So why would Sam, the man who objectively knew the most about Tommy and the Peaky Blinders than most people in the Liverpool area, be the disposable grunt they left behind? If he was too valuable for the Blinders themselves to snuff out, then any small-time gang up near Aintree would be downright salivating to keep him alive for their sake.

In a final act of resignation, he sighed, tilting his head back and fumbling in his breast pocket for a loose cigarette. “That’s what Isiah said earlier,” he admitted. “Said that nobody would be stupid enough to let him wander about Birmingham on his own.”

Grace vocalized her recognition quite the same way Isiah had just a moment ago, too perceptive for his pride’s liking at the moment. “And did you listen to his take? Or that of any of your foot soldiers, for that matter?”

“No.” He grabbed a packet of matches from a glass bowl on the dusty shelf, the newly lit end of his cigarette a warm glow in the damp, dimly lit room. “I only asked for the straight facts. Didn’t need conjecture.”

“Didn’t need conjecture,” she repeated, tutting. “But your own call is reliable enough? That this man is a traitor, that’s not conjecture?”

Ah, fuck. This was exactly where he didn’t need this to go. “That’s just how I am, Grace,” he rasped around the smoke. “Need to call the shots so that the blame doesn’t fall on anyone else’s bad move.”

Grace paused for a moment, her hums of consideration pointed but not unkind. “Think about why that is.” And then, with a quick goodbye and an I love you for the road, the line clicked and she was gone.

Tommy wandered back into the bright daylight to smoke a cigarette, feeling calmer but no less puzzled than how he had been before. In all honesty, he hadn’t ever really examined why he was the way he was. To Isiah, to Michael, to Finn. But it made sense, didn’t it? They just didn’t have that air of seriousness that age had given the people around him. Like they’d reached the right age but a switch hadn’t flipped, or like they were taking good care to wade slowly into the water so as not to break a single ripple. The war, he thought bitterly. The war was the switch. The war was that icy plunge. Perhaps it was what made Isiah more charismatic, or Michael more straight-laced, or Finn more forgiving. Nobody had pressed a shovel to their hands and demanded they dig for their lives. Nobody had made a soldier out of a boy like they did to—

“Tommy!”

The smoke caught in his throat, the shout so loud and close to him it forced the soot out through his nostrils like factory fire. Isiah had him by the upper arm, the grip a bit foreign and far-away like it usually was after he’d been lost in the mind’s tunnels for a bit. When had he gotten so close?

“Tom, there’s trouble,” he rushed. “Finn. He’s been—“

Tommy was moving before Isiah could finish his sentence, the young man jogging ahead to lead the way. Birmingham dispersed around them, women hurrying aside and old men bowing their heads to avoid eye contact as they passed. Curtains drew closed and doors locked in their wake as they swept through the town like a hissed rumor.

Tommy’s coat billowed behind him when he picked up speed. “Where, Isiah? Is he—“

“He’s alive. He’s fine, we made it out. But—“

“Fuck!” Tommy lost his footing on the cobblestones, slick with mud and…

Blood.

The wine red splash beneath his shoes hadn’t started to congeal yet, diluted by rainwater across the stones. But still, no sign of Finn. Isiah grabbed him beneath the arm, hauling him forward in a way that he never would have accepted had his baby brother not been in danger. “Not here,” Isiah said. “He ran off. Come on, this way.”

They found themselves on Watery Lane, but before Tommy could make a beeline for the house, Isiah skidded around the corner, hat nearly flying off his head as he sprinted down the back alleyway between rows of brown-bricked houses and dreary little courtyards.

Tommy saw three things in quick succession: first, Finn leaning against a wall, clutching his upper forearm with one hand. Second, the blood: slimy wet through the gaps of Finn’s fingers, dyeing the fabric of his sleeve pink. Third— and most crucial, this third —Sam Lovell, shoulders curled in and eyes wild, knife glinting in his hand. John’s hands were pushing back on his shoulders before he could advance far enough to crack the man’s skull on the rough cobblestone.

“Easy, Tom.” John sidestepped into Tommy’s sight line, snapping him from the daze of adrenaline. “He’s fine. He’s fine. Sam’s got him, we’re fine.”

Now Tommy could see that the knife was the small whittling blade from their childhood, so old it was no longer sharp or long enough to cause real damage. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, an unseen tangle uncoiling from his innards.

“Tommy!” Finn pushed up from his spot on the wall, hurrying to his side with relief written all over his expression. “Did you see it? Did you see the fight?”

Tommy frowned. “No, Finn.”

“Well, I won.” He preened like a boy five years his younger, as though he’d evaded a schoolyard bully rather than escaped with his life.

“Sure looks like it,” Tommy nodded his chin towards the wound Finn was busy clutching. Finn flushed, stammering out excuses before he was cut off by John.

“It looks worse than it is,” John said. “He’ll need to flush it out but it’s pretty shallow. Just in a bad spot.”

Tommy grabbed Finn by the arm, forcing him to straighten it out with a hiss. As John said, it really wasn’t that bad: a clean, razor-sharp slash across the inner elbow, deep enough to draw forth a dramatic weeping of blood but not so deep to cause any real harm. The blood on the sidewalk must’ve not been Finn’s, he thought, letting himself sigh deeply with relief.

Sam cleared his throat, shifting his weight awkwardly from foot to foot. “Can I, um…”

“Oh!” John exclaimed. “Right, yeah. Sam’s been keeping an eye out here while we sorted things out on the streets. And I know—“ he held out his hand to prevent Tommy from speaking his mind on it, “—I know, you said he can’t leave, but I couldn’t just leave Finn out here with fuck-knows-who, and Sam was already on his way out here by the time I got myself straight.”

Sam nodded, wiping his sweaty hands on his trousers. “Got a glimpse of one of ‘em trying to come back and finish the job, but she ran off.”

Tommy’s brows raised. “She?”

“I think so,” he said. “Couldn’t chase her down, though, because… well.” He gestured towards his torso, where the whole of his ribcage was bandaged tight.

“There were four total. I couldn’t see most of their faces,” Finn chimed in, eyes wide, “but the woman… oh, she was sport, Tommy.”

Tommy pinched the bridge of his nose, John and Isiah breaking the tension with barking guffaws and slaps on each other’s shoulders like a pair of giddy sea lions. Leave it to Finn. As difficult as it was to keep him sheltered and safe from the dirty business, the bizarre and unguarded things that came out of his mouth made it worth it– a glimpse of the boyhood he was lucky to have. Still, he couldn’t walk around thinking with his prick in a city like this. He needed to be careful.

“Is that how they caught you unawares, Finn?” Tommy shoved him gently in the center of the chest, and Finn had the decency to look properly admonished. “Women? A pretty face and you’ll let them slice you to bits?”

Finn shrugged, but said nothing to save his pride. Isiah, noble soul that he was, swooped to his defense. “It was a proper ambush,” Isiah said, pointing at the bruise just now starting to bloom on his cheek. “We fought as best we could, but we had to split at some point. Just too much going on. Didn’t catch anyone’s face, not even the woman. So,” he stepped back to pat Sam on the shoulder, who winced piteously, “thank the Lord Jesus for Sam being one scary bastard. Kept ‘em at bay long enough for John and Arthur to try and sniff ‘em out.”

Tommy hummed, thinking back to what Grace had said. Did you listen to him? Everything in him screamed danger-danger-danger, to not trust this ghost of a person with what matters most to him. He swallowed, dry throat clicking. Yes, he was an unknown variable, and yes, he had been looming in the corners of his mind since the Aintree job went wrong, but… hadn’t he kept his brother safe with nothing more than a pocket knife, injured and tired? Hadn’t he disobeyed orders to put himself in the line of fire for a family that was debating the necessity of letting him live?

Think about why that is.

“Samuel.” He stepped forward, hand extended. Sam shrank back an inch, wary. “Thank you.”

Sam got the message and shook the proffered hand, brows still scrunched tight and eyes narrowed in suspicion like he was putting his fist into the mouth of a wolf. Tommy’s brain procured the image of a stray being offered table scraps instead of a kick to the side; the way it might slink forward, ears back and tail tucked to make itself smaller. Born to trust, raised to fear.

“No worries,” Sam said. “Just did what anyone would.”

The adrenaline wore off quicker than Sam would’ve liked, considering how nobody seemed particularly keen on letting him relax anytime soon. He considered tossing the knife, making a show of being unarmed, but… well, it was a perfectly good knife. A bit dull, sure, but not terrible. Most importantly, it wasn’t his and he had no authority to lose such a thing, so he resolved to stumble back down the alley and into the house on Watery Lane with the rest of them, the muscles of his back and chest taut and rigid around the pain.

It hadn’t been so much of a decision to join the fray as it was an impulse, an itch under the skin impossible to ignore. Something didn’t sit right about the young man hiding in the alleyway. He looked too young, too unsure of himself, checking so frequently from behind his hiding spot that he risked giving himself away to whoever was chasing him. John was taking too long to get there, and Sam? Well, he knew what to do with a fucking pocket knife, at the very least.

By the time he inched his way down to the bottom of the stairs, Paul was long gone and Fia, Polly, and Esme were having a quiet, heated discussion behind the large wooden doors separating the parlor from the betting room. Arthur was nowhere to be seen; probably off with John, if he were to guess. It was easy enough to slip out the front door, unseen and unheard. From that alone, Sam knew whatever had happened must’ve been serious.

Still, when he approached John and Arthur halfway down the alley, it shocked him that he went unaccosted for leaving the house. But looking at the boy leaning against the wall, whimpering against the stinging in his inner arm, Sam knew exactly who this had to be. Finn, the youngest, his mind supplied. No wonder they’d broken protocol so readily.

“Sam!” John’s shout caught his attention. “Sam, stay here, alright?”

That confused him even further. First, it was stay inside, now stay outside? “But–”

John ignored him. “Arthur, you take north and I’ll take south. We flush ‘em out, wherever they’re hiding.”

And then they left them there, just Sam and Finn and a three inch blade. The very same one he’d stolen from Tommy and John’s childhood room, and the same one he waved threateningly at a young woman prowling from the far end of the alley, something sharp glinting in her own hand before she turned and fled. The same one he used to open the letter Arthur brought back with him.

“Couldn’t catch up, but one of ‘em dropped this,” he grumbled, panting with the effort it took to run back to the house. Arthur let a crisp white envelope with no return address flop onto the table. On the back, printed in dark ink, were just three words: Brummies, be warned.

As Arthur read the words out loud, Sam suddenly felt that he could throw up at any moment once again. Damn his sore head and weak nerves.

They let him do the honors (or, perhaps, didn’t want to touch whatever was inside), the knife sliding below the seal as they watched on eagerly. Fia bit the skin around her fingers as Esme wrapped an arm around her shoulders, one hand rubbing her arm comfortingly. It came open easily enough; Sam wasn’t quite sure why he thought there would be an issue, as though he were defusing a bomb rather than opening a stupid fucking envelope. He shouldn’t have been sweating the way he was. At least, he didn’t feel the need to sweat until he saw the contents.

An obituary. He knew it by the polite little boxes labeled with polite little names, a paragraph under each like paper tombstones. He knew the face printed there as the grim special feature, freckled and messy-haired with ears that stuck out and skin dotted with pimples– the jockey, George. The one whose dreams were crushed that day when he pulled the nail from Little Tsarina’s foot.

“I know him,” Sam mumbled, awestruck and horrified. “Oh, fuck, I know him.” He did get sick then, stumbling just far enough outside and away from the table to avoid getting everyone else caught in the crossfire as they swept in to read it themselves. They were speaking over each other, arguing about something, but Sam couldn’t find it in himself to give a shit about anything until Fia’s small palm pressed between his shoulder blades, rubbing soothingly.

“You’re alright, Sam,” she whispered. “You’re alright.”

But he fucking wasn’t, and he didn’t realize it until he noticed that he couldn’t see past the tears blurring his eyes and dripping from his lashes. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He retched once, coughing around the thick, dehydrated saliva coating his mouth and the effort of holding himself upright. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fucking fair. How could every single thing he touched die like this? What sort of curse had tainted his hands in such a way that wherever he went, plans failed? Dreams were crushed? People were hurt? He shook his head, flanks shuddering, shrugging off Fia’s valiant attempt at drying his eyes with a handkerchief. Things hadn’t been this way until the Shelby family entered his life… hadn’t they? Or had it begun before then, when the youngest Lee daughter decided to fall in love with him at 12 and then keep his baby at 24, image be damned? The more he ruminated, the more it sounded like he was the unlucky thing brought upon himself and everyone.

“It’s not your fault, Samuel.”

He looked up, not expecting Tommy to be standing in the doorway looking at him. He repeated it: “It isn’t your fault.”

Sam blinked at him, unsure if what he was hearing was genuinely coming from Tommy’s mouth or if it was some sort of cruel hallucination, a trick his mind was playing to make the shame easier to handle.

“I owe you an apology,” he gritted out, and just when Sam was sure he needed to be checked into a hospital for the insane, Tommy unfolded the obituary in his hand— that is, unfolded it all the way. Now Sam could see its entirety, complete with large black slashes of ink scrawled across the bottom of the full page. Fia gasped, covering her mouth with one hand.

“It’s the same handwriting as before,” Tommy explained. “Trouble’s followed us down from Aintree.”

“That’s- it can’t be from Sam,” Fia stammered. “I told you, Sam can’t—“

“Can’t read, I know.” Tommy stepped down from the doorway, handing the paper to Fia. “And that’s how I know he isn’t associated with whoever’s writing to us. Evidently, they have no clue.”

She took a moment to read over the message, frowning. Then read it again. And then a third time.

“Well?” Sam let the wall behind him carry his weight, the excitement of the day wearing off and leaving him exhausted and achy.

Fia shook her head. “It doesn’t make sense. Sam, it’s addressed to you.”

A cold sweat broke out on Sam’s skin, his stomach swooping like he’d dreamt of falling and woken with a jolt. He looked to Tommy for confirmation, denial, anything, his stone-cold demeanor betraying nothing. “What…what does it say?”

“Hangdog,” she read, voice tremulous, “keep your snout out.”

“And the back,” Tommy added, and now Sam could see without the obituary to hide behind that his face was ashen and gaunt. Had he slept any better than Sam these past few days? What a strange thought to have, worrying over a man who just an hour ago would have dumped his corpse in the canal if it meant going back home.

Fia flipped the paper, and George’s small, hapless face stared down at him like damnation painted on the apse of a cathedral. “Curiosity— oh, god.” She squeezed her eyes shut.

“Read it,” said Tommy.

A sigh, meek and resigned. “Curiosity killed the mutt. Revelation 6:8.”

The Book of Revelation. Images flashed through Sam’s mind like the movement of a zoetrope, too quick to grasp in his hands. His childhood, Sam’s mother holding his little hand in hers at a fresco-drenched cathedral now long gone, pointing, look! Look deeply and see the beauty of it. See the brushstrokes, see the light take shape. Horses, fearsome ones, thundering over the dome of the earth to rain hellfire. All manner of suffering to come, the sun blotted out by the wet, glossy eye of a ghastly thing; a slither of sinew and limp, rotted muscle bound up together around bone in the form of a—

“Pale horse,” Sam breathed.

Tommy and Fia shared a look.

“And I looked, and behold a pale horse,” he recited, possessed by the words like a man lit by the fire of Pentecost, “and his name that sat on him was Death.”

Tommy nodded soberly, taking the paper from Fia and folding it to fit inside his suit jacket. “I figured as much.” He glanced overhead, where the thin hazy gray of the sky was beginning to thicken into a thundercloud darkness. “The obituary didn’t say how the jockey died.”

Sam shook his head. “Wouldn’t be surprised if he killed himself, with the loss of a horse’s career like that. The time, the money… the bond, hell.”

“Or,” Tommy posited, “he was killed. Perhaps in investigating what happened to his pale horse, he learned something he shouldn’t have.”

“And now they’re angry because I intervened,” Sam said, crestfallen. “I was the one who told him it wasn’t an accident.”

Fia drew her shawl tight around her shoulders, expression grim. “And what does it mean for us?”

She was drawn into Sam’s side with an arm around her waist, going easily and sinking into the closeness. “Means we can’t go back to Haydock,” said Sam, voice laden with sorrow.

“I’d say it’s worse than that.” Tommy took a cautious glance up and down the empty street, then beckoned them in with a nod of his head. He shut the door behind them with a click, doing up three sturdy-looking locks with one last look through the peephole. “We still don’t know where they have eyes. Could be anywhere.”

Sam turned to see the rest of the Shelby family gone from the foyer, the sound of bickering over antiseptic and Finn’s pained yelp muffled through the kitchen door. With more time to process his surroundings, Sam could spy scattered evidence of many years of racketeering: a bullet hole patched in the wall here, a stain of god-knows-what scrubbed from the rug there. A gun safe tucked under the couch, even, the door flung open in Arthur’s haste to run after Finn’s assailants. Not a fortress by any means, if the twice-repaired bottom lock on the door was any indication, but somewhat of a safe haven for a family plagued by tragedy. A safe haven no more, he thought, shaking his head to clear the accusation away. No, this house had seen its fair share of violence before him. But this… this stalking, this couldn’t be normal going by Tommy’s reaction.

“I’m afraid,” the aforementioned man rumbled, “that Birmingham isn’t safe, either.”

Fia scoffed. An understatement from the start, her sidelong glance said.

“We can leave,” Sam said hastily, already grabbing Fia’s hand and making for the door. Tommy blocked their way, standing in such a way that there was no looking away from the winter coldness of his gaze. The fear in it, too, if Sam looked deeply enough.

“No,” Tommy said, patting Sam’s shoulder lightly. “No, no. Too risky to go alone. I couldn’t…” he glanced at where Fia had placed a protective hand over her belly, a habit she’d developed in the past few months, “...couldn’t live with myself if something went wrong.”

“Or you want to keep us under supervision, aye?” Fia grumbled, ignoring the way Sam shot her an admonishing look.

Tommy rubbed a hand down his face, visibly drained. “I want you to be safe,” he said. “It’s the least I can do. Just… just until this goes away. Until we can figure out who’s been after us.”

“Safe where?” Now Fia sounded anxious, the reality setting in that there really was nowhere to run if danger could be around any corner. “If we can’t go back, but we can’t stay here…”

“Warwickshire,” Tommy said. “I’ve property there, acres of it. Samuel and I,” he nodded towards him, which Sam rather wished he hadn’t, because the responding look Fia gave him was downright betrayed, “we discussed setting you up for the winter. The cold road’s no place for a new mother.”

Fia saw the reason in it. She had to, if she knew what kind of winter they’d be in for with a baby and a threat on Sam’s head. With one last we’re talking about this later look at Sam, she nodded. “If we have no other options.”

“Trust me,” Tommy said grimly, “there are no other options.”