#they’ve been in the community longer than me so people probably already know em

[nickorite]

Just gotta say, you deserve the praise :3 your artstyle IS really cool and neat and I gotta say I feel giddy whenever I see your art on my dash!

BRO I WAS JUST WRITING THE REBLOG ABT YOUR ART!!1!!

But thank youuuuuu lol :DDDDD you already know I notice ya every time ya reblog cause I love reading ya tags, and I don’t think I needa reiterate how cool of a person I think ya are as the first person in the community to talk to me :DDDD you’re a real one saisk, I never thought people would look forward to seeing my art on their dash AHHHH that makes me feel so happy!!! Thank yaaaa :DDD

[thedenimdentist]

Bleach Soaking my Warehouse 1001XX

Introduction

The proper way to wash selvedge denim (if you even believe in washing your denim at all) has always been a highly debated topic within the denim community. Since I first started wearing selvedge denim a few years ago, my beliefs, methods, and goals in washing my jeans has gone through a lot of the typical phases most “denimheads” experience. I initially never wanted to wash my jeans, hoping to get the most high contrast fades as possible. I never got into some of the more obscure denim practices, such as ocean washing or putting my jeans in the freezer to get rid of stench or “kill bacteria” or whatever, but I have played around a little with starching to try and achieve some of those SE Asian super crispy fades. 

Since then, my approach to washing my denim (as well as my taste in denim fades in general) has shifted dramatically. While I still can appreciate those super sharp, high contrast fades, I no longer really find them as desirable or visually appealing from a fashion perspective. They can be quite impressive when laid out flat on the floor or hanging, but when worn on body or worked into a full outfit, it just looks kind of bizarre and overly dramatic. That’s just my opinion, at least. There’s no “wrong” way to wash or fade your denim, so if that’s your cup of tea, more power to you.

As of late, I’ve definitely been more drawn to more classic fits and more vintage fades. Conveniently, this preference has also made wearing jeans much more comfortable and my washing practices much more hygienic! If you’ve been following along on my Warehouse 1001XX journey, you’ll know that this pair has been pretty much my daily driver for the past 8 months, and I’ve been washing them pretty much once a month (every 30 wears).

This time, at the 8 month mark (240 wear days), I decided to try something new (maybe even blasphemous within the denim community): I chose to bleach my denim. Not gonna lie, I was pretty hesitant and nervous, because I didn’t want to ruin a great pair of jeans I’ve invested 8 months on and am already pretty happy with how they've aged so far. However, I got over the initial fear and took the leap of faith, and am actually quite happy with the results.

Methods

I’m sure adding bleach to soaking/washing selvedge denim is not a ground-breaking, “never done before” technique to fading jeans. However, there is surprisingly very little information available online on how to actually go about doing it. Thus, I decided to give it a shot, and record exactly how I did it, as well as document my results for anyone else who may be interested in doing it themselves.

Step 1: To start, I just used the standard bleach I already had laying around for laundry: in this case, Clorox.

I’ve seen some videos on YouTube where they dump between half and the entire bottle of bleach into the bath tub to lighten a single pair of jeans. However, their goal was to take a standard darker to medium washed pair of jeans they found at the thrift store and lighten the hell out of em. I, on the other hand, chose to stay pretty conservative and only added about 50 mL of bleach to the bath. (I realize that 50 mL for an entire bath of water is fairly diluted, but as this is the first time I’ve done anything like this, I felt it better to err on the side of under-bleaching than over-bleaching.)

Step 2: I filled up my bathtub to about a finger length’s depth. (Clearly this is not a hard science, and everyone’s bath tubs are different. Nevertheless, I felt it necessary to give an approximate volume of water, as it affects the concentration of bleach added to the bath.)

Step 3: I then added the 50 mL of bleach to the bath and stirred the bathwater in attempt to evenly distribute the bleach. (I would've used a stick or something to stir the water, but I didn’t have one at the time. Instead, I just put on gloves and mixed it with my hands. (To be honest, I’m not really sure how necessary it is to wear gloves when touching bleach. I’m sure it’s not great for your skin, but the amount of time you're actually in contact with bleach is pretty minimal, especially it’s as dilute as 50 mL/an entire bathtub. But whatever. The teenage girl on YouTube told me it was CRUCIAL I wear gloves, so I did.)

Step 4: I completely submerged my jeans into the bathwater for 30 minutes, flipping them at the 15 minute mark. 

Things to note:

I left my jeans right-side-out for the entire 30-minute duration of the soak. My theory was, why bother flipping them inside out. What am I trying to do, hide the indigo-dyed warp from the bleach? Nah.

Do your best to lay the denim out as flat as possible. Not sure how critical this is, but people say you risk uneven bleaching if the denim isn’t super flat, and I’m not about to test their theory and end up with some ugly wrinkles or streaks on my jeans.

One extra step that I added was using a hard-bristle brush to scrub down the areas I wouldn’t mind some extra indigo loss (see photo below). I did this around the whiskers at the start of the first 15 minutes on the front, then on the butt pockets and honeycombs after flipping them over. 

Step 4: After the 30-minute bleach bath soak, I drained the bleach water from the bath, and filled it back up with plain water. I did my best to agitate and rinse out as much of the bleach water from my jeans as I could, and then flipped them inside out.

Step 5: I rolled up my jeans, wrapped them in a white rag towel, and ran them over to my washing machine. I then proceeded to machine wash my (inside-out) jeans on cold for 25 minutes, with the spin cycle turned off. (Note: turning “Spin” off does not mean the drum does not roll and tumble during the washing process. To my understanding, it just means it doesn’t spin quickly at the end to try and expel water out of your clothes (in this case, your jeans) before you pull them out to dry.)

Step 6: I hung my jeans to dry overnight. I sometimes hang them outside for better air flow, but I was lazy this time and hung them inside from a doorframe while blasting them with a fan. (I will note that, because the spin cycle was turned off, the jeans do come out of the machine dripping wet. I laid a towel down to absorb the bluish water drops and protect the hardwood floor.)

Results

I will preface this by saying that the results from this bleach soak are not all that significant. I would have loved to tell you that I’ve discovered the holy grail technique of achieving epic vintage fades, but I’d be lying. That being said, I’m in no way disappointed with the results! The bleach did bring up some of the high points in the fades just a bit, and definitely gave the color of the denim as a whole a bit more pop.

First off, here are a few side-by-side comparisons from before and after the bleach soak + machine wash. It’s a bit difficult to really tell what the fades really look like in the before shots (left), as they’re disguised by the shadows of the creases left from wear. The after photos (right) were taken immediately after hang drying flat, leaving just the fades clear and visible, unadulterated by shadows and creases.

Below are the standard views that I’ve been taking for all my post-wash updates. I just posted the side-by-side comparisons above because I thought it'd probably be helpful to see how drastic (or subtle) differences were in my fades immediately before and after the bleach soak.

Even with my Fuji X-T30, it’s difficult to really capture how the fades really look IRL. Thus, here’s a couple photos I snapped with my old iPhone 8 that I feel accurately depict how they looked after bleaching.

Man, so good.

On-Body

Lastly, here’s how they’re looking on body. Sadly, as always, I feel like my on-body photos never do my fades justice. There’s so much depth of color and texture to this banner denim, I just can’t seem to capture it from further away. Maybe I’m doing something wrong, but that’s why I always take so many detailed close-up shots—to best capture what I’m seeing in real life.

Conclusions

While very subtle, I am extremely happy with the results of this first bleach soak. The highlights in the whiskers, knees, train tracks, and butt pockets/seat pop just a bit more, and now I can even make out some visible honeycombs (which have always been lagging). In addition, I feel like it did remove just the right amount of indigo from the entire jean as a whole, bringing up some of the areas of deep indigo and revealing more electric blues. This Warehouse banner denim already had so much depth of color and texture, and I feel the bleach soak only brought out that character even more.

Is doing a bleach soak going to give you instant epic vintage fades? No. But are my jeans ruined forever? Not at all. Maybe bleach soaking isn’t for everyone. If you’re one of those people who are going for super high contrast, chunky, Southeast Asian fades, then no, bleach soaking might not be your thing. However, if soft vintage fades are more your speed, maybe adding some bleach to the mix isn't such a bad idea. 

All in all, I just wanted to document this experiment to prove that adding bleach to a raw denim soak isn’t as scary as people make it out to be. For those of you who may have thought about bleaching your denim in the past but were unsure of how much to do so or were afraid of ruining your expensive jeans, hopefully this will give you the confidence to give it a try, knowing the type of results you might get based on how my pair turned out. Just use your brain and think about what you’re doing and why, and you’ll be just fine. Like so many other strange techniques used to fade denim (most of which I find dumb or so obscure and not grounded in science, or even common sense), bleach is merely another tool you can use to fade your denim.

I’ll probably continue to bleach soak my denim occasionally moving forward. Heck, I may even try doubling or tripling the concentration of bleach to 100-150 mL next time, just to see what’ll happen. Cuz at the end of the day, they’re just jeans, so why not have some fun with it?

[patriciasage]

the tune of coffee

Author: Patricia_Sage

Fandom: Stranger Things

Pairings: Joyce Byers / Jim “Chief” Hopper / Bob Newby

Summary: 

Bob hands Joyce her coffee and kisses her gently on the lips. She smiles.

Then Bob walks around the bed and hands Hopper the other mug. Before the police chief can figure out what to say, Bob leans down to kiss him as well.

[posted in full under the break, or you could read on AO3]

Hopper fights through quicksand into consciousness. His thoughts are sluggish, and his mouth is dry. Slowly, he becomes aware of his body. There’s sun warming the back of his head and the sheets are soft. Not his place. He hears soft snoring behind him. Not alone.

The first sight that greets his eyes is Darth Vader. A Star Wars poster hangs above the dresser. There’s a ‘fun fact’ daily calendar on the bedside table. There’s faint clattering in the kitchen and a low voice humming. He knows where he is.

Hopper is grateful for his police training when he does not immediately leap out of the bed and wake the person sleeping behind him. Instead, he lays still and tries to think of an escape route.

His bleary headache flares as he slowly rolls over to face the ceiling. His arm touches the other person’s back. Joyce doesn’t stir. Hopper can’t help but smile a little as she continues to snore quietly. Her dark hair rests on the white pillowcase like ink.

Moving under the sheets makes Hopper acutely aware of his nakedness. Joyce seems to have put on pajamas before sleeping, but he had not. He rubs his free hand over his eyes as hazy memories of last night arrive. He chuckles quietly and then looks for his pants.

He expects them to be crumpled on the floor but instead he sees his clothes folded on a stool across the room, his hat perched on top. He carefully sits up.

Joyce wakes at the movement with a little snort. She mumbles a question and turns to face him at the same time that the bedroom door opens.

“Oh, wonderful, you’re awake,” Bob says. He enters the room with a radiant smile, holding a steaming cup of coffee in each hand.

Joyce pushes herself up to rest against the headboard while Hopper remains frozen. She reaches out for the coffee with an insistent groan. “How are you so –” She gestures to Bob’s general state. Bob chuckles.

“I didn’t have nearly as much as you two wild things. I get dizzy after a few drinks.”

Bob hands Joyce her coffee and kisses her gently on the lips. She smiles.

Then Bob walks around the bed and hands Hopper the other mug. Before the police chief can figure out what to say, Bob leans down to kiss him as well. The press of his lips sends flashes of memories behind his eyes of Bob’s soft body beneath him and Joyce’s breath in his ear. His skin feels cold when Bob removes his hand from Hopper’s bare chest.

“I made pancakes, come and get ‘em!” he says jovially and leaves the door open when he exits the room.

Joyce offers her coffee mug and Hopper automatically touches them together in a toast. She follows her boyfriend out into the kitchen. Music from the radio travels down the hallway and Hopper assumes they’re dancing from the way they laugh.  

Breakfast isn’t awkward, to Hopper’s surprise. He leaves the Byers-Newby house with his stomach full of food and his head full of thoughts.

*****

The next time they hook up, they’re much more sober.

The kids are out, sleeping over in a tent in the Wheeler’s backyard. Hopper is flipping through channels trying to find a movie to watch. He considers some of El’s favourite programs, but it wouldn’t feel right to watch without her.  Hopper is no longer used to being alone. He tries not to consider how it will feel when she grows up and moves out.

His phone rings.

“Can we come over?” Joyce asks.

He doesn’t think before answering. “Sure.”

Hopper doesn’t have wine at his place, so he offers Joyce and Bob a beer. They get through about half of their drinks, chatting about the kids and town gossip. Then Joyce climbs into his lap and Bob walks around the couch to rub his shoulders.

This time is infinitely better without whisky coursing through his system. They’re more precise, better at communicating, more responsive. Hopper has slept with women and men in the past, but never both at once. And never with people who somehow manage to make him laugh during sex without ruining the mood. It’s exhilarating and satiating in a way he’s never experienced. It feels right.

*****

They begin to go on dates, but it takes Hopper a while to realize this.

The three of them would often spend time together as friends and as parents of kids who are pretty much inseparable. But since they’ve started sleeping together it’s been different. Joyce sneaks fries from his plate and Bob puts his hand on Hopper’s thigh when he tells him stories.

Often, Joyce and Bob invite him back to their house afterward. Sometimes they mess around. Other times, Joyce and Hopper agree to let Bob kick their asses at his brain teaser games and Hopper leaves with a kiss for each of them.

Any time he thinks to define it, he pushes the thought away. It doesn’t matter. They’re adults. They’re having fun.

*****

Everything falls apart when Mike Wheeler sees something he shouldn’t have seen.

“Cheating!” El says forcefully, slamming the front door. Hopper looks up from the stove.

“What now?”

She stomps up to him, brow furrowed. “You are cheating.”

The hamburgers are done frying. He takes them off the burner. “It’s kind of hard to cheat at scrabble, kid, and you kicked my ass, anyway –”

“No, not games cheating. Relationship cheating. Mike told me.”

Hopper sighs and rubs the back of his neck. He had not expected to have this conversation with his daughter today. “You can’t cheat if you’re not in a relationship. And why does Mike have somethin’ to say about me, anyway?”

“He saw you kissing Mrs. Byers!”

Hopper’s hands still in the middle of putting hamburger patties into buns. He takes a breath. “I don’t know what Mike thought he saw – hey!” El pokes his arm forcefully. He doesn’t need her to speak to know what she’s going to say. He sees it in her eyes. Friends don’t lie.

“Look, kid. It’s complicated. Adult stuff.” Her mouth tightens and he puts up a hand. “Which I will explain to you in the amount of detail you need to know. Just not now, alright? Can we eat first?”

She looks over at the hamburgers, then nods. They have their meal in silence.

El finishes eating before him. She pushes her plate away and stares expectantly. Hopper rolls his eyes and wipes his mouth, chewing. “Okay. So what, exactly, did Mike tell you about…cheating?”

“When a person is in a romantic relationship with someone and then kisses someone else.”

“I mean, sure, that’s usually the gist of it. But he’s missing a key detail. Cheating is a secret that those people keep from the other person.”

She shrugs. “Okay. It’s secret. And it’s bad.”

“You’re right. But.” He sighs. “Listen, me kissing Joyce is not cheating because it’s not a secret to Bob. He is okay with it. So, it’s not bad.”

El looks confused. Hopper wishes this conversation wasn’t happening. “Adult relationships are complicated –” He’s saved by the telephone ringing. He gets up from the table gratefully.

“Hello.”

“Hey, Hop. It’s Joyce.”

“Hey.”

“So…Will told me that Mike saw us kiss.”

Hopper rolls his eyes. Great, all of the kids know.

“Yeah, I’ve got a similar situation happenin’ over here.”

“I- Look, can we meet up tonight and talk? The three of us?”

Hopper glances over at El, who looks like she’s trying to solve a very difficult math problem. “Yeah. Let’s clear things up before I confuse my daughter any more than I already have.”

*****

Hopper is talking before he sits down on the porch steps. “Alright, so, we tell them that it was a mistake. Maybe that you just wanted to see what it was like to kiss me and Bob gave you permission. One kiss. That’s it. A mistake. I know it’s still a little unconventional, but –”

Bob interrupts him. “But it’s not a mistake.”

“What?” Hopper looks over at the two of them. Their expressions are illuminated by the porch light, Joyce nervous and Bob resolute. “I mean, of course it wasn’t a mistake. It was fun. But that’s probably our best explanation.”

Joyce takes Bob’s hand and offers, “What if we tell them the truth?”

“The truth?”

“That we’re dating.”

“We are?”

There’s nothing but hope emanating from Joyce and Bob. Hopper feels something warm in his chest at the thought. His brain tries to push it down. It fails.

“Fuck,” Hopper says, “This is going to be front page news.”

*****

Hawkins already thought that they were a little strange. You can’t go through multiple alien attacks without appearing a little suspicious. Seeing the three of them publicly dating is prime gossip for a few months, but eventually it gets boring to most people. It’s just Joyce Byers, Bob Newby, and Jim Hopper spending a lot of time together. It takes Hopper’s coworkers much longer to stop teasing him.

The kids eventually get used to it, too. El and Will begin to act like siblings. Jonathan overcomes his embarrassment when he realizes how happy his mom is.

They’ve always been a bit of an unconventional family.

[razputinrp]

Family Matters

A Thicker Than Water What-If

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s the middle of the day, and the house is dark.

That’s the first thing Oleander notices as he parks his car. The second thing he notices is how Milla shifts at his side.

“I really wish you would have let me drive, Morry. The jeep can be so off-putting for some children.”

“The day I ride shotgun in that disco travesty you call a car is the day I’ve permanently lost my license to drive,” he grumbles, irritation that they’re having this conversation again overriding the fleeting anticipation about the place. They step out into the afternoon sun.

No one is there to greet them outside, which is uncommon but not rare; some parents just don’t want to acknowledge this day actually happening until the Psychonauts are literally knocking at their door. Which Milla promptly does, stretching over Oleander to reach the metal ring knocker. He scoffs.

Tall people. Who needs ‘em.

It takes a solid ten seconds before the door opens, and the two are greeted by a woman around Milla’s age who looks very frazzled and antsy. She ushers them inside as if any prolonged lingering will make the agents change their minds.

“Thank you so much for making a house pick-up.” Her voice is hushed and full of nerves. Oleander recognizes it as the one he spoke to over the phone. “I’m sorry I couldn’t drive her out myself.”

“It’s no problem, darling,” Milla soothes like she always does. “We understand that many families are unable to travel so far. Whispering Rock is quite the remote location!”

“But we’re here now, so let’s see the little soldier,” her companion says gruffly. They’ve been led past a fortune-telling parlor and into a living room, and while there’s a similarly-aged man sitting stiffly on the couch who stares at the strangers, there’s no sign of the actual child they’re here to retrieve.

“Oh, right, right. If you’ll just excuse me one moment...” The woman lets out a breathy, insecure laugh. “You’re welcome to sit anywhere while you wait, please.”

Milla smiles and opens her mouth, ready to politely decline the offer, but Oleander is already settling himself in a rocking chair. The woman tenses, as does the man on the couch, but neither of them say anything. The frayed mother only gives them another nervous titter and hurries up the stairs to retrieve her daughter. As soon as she’s out of sight, the other man turns to them in feigned nonchalance.

“Can I ask what you’re doing here? My wife was awfully vague about it,” he questions. It’s not accusatory but not entirely kind, either.

The pair share a surprised glance. Oleander is the first to recover. “We’re here to -”

“Zanobi!”

Both agents jump and Morry springs right back out of the chair. The man on the couch doesn't even flinch. He simply turns his gaze to the stairwell, and as the Psychonauts follow suit, they see who has shouted so loudly.

Making his way down each step with shaky legs but a deft maneuvering of cane, an elderly man gives the two a warm smile.

"Zanobi, why are our esteemed guests not being properly serviced in the parlor? My friends, I apologize for such lack of hospitality."

"Oh, no, no, no, kind sir, I'm afraid we're not here for your marvelous business." Milla offers a hand to help him down the rest of the way, which he waves off in good-nature. "But I must say, it is an honor to meet a psychic with future sight! It’s such a rare and beautiful gift!”

The elder smiles wider, pleased, but there’s a newfound sharpness to the edges of his eyes. “Thank you, signora. It is not often these days that such talents are recognized for the marvel they truly are. If you know my craft but are not customers, what purpose has brought you to our humble home and family?”

“We -”

For the second time their explanation is cut off as the woman comes down the stairs with a little girl and a suitcase in tow. They both stop halfway upon seeing the old man, who has half turned to them with a raised eyebrow.

“Zalto! You - you’re - I thought you were still taking a nap,” she stammers, knuckles turning white from how hard she’s holding the railing.

“I was.” Zalto says simply as he eyes the suitcase. His tone is mild, but something shifts in his aura that sets Oleander on edge for some reason he can’t explain. “Adelasia, dear, what is all of this about? Do you know these strangers? Don’t tell me you’re thinking of leaving us.”

The little girl seems to be trying to make herself disappear, hiding in the space between the wall and her mother. The action is enough to harden the woman’s resolve. She walks the rest of the way down the stairs, pulling her daughter behind her.

“I’m not leaving, Zalto, Mina is. These two are camp counselors. They’re taking her to a summer camp a few states away.”

Zalto’s head swivels back around to the agents. His friendly demeanor has been replaced entirely with a glare that could wither a cactus.

“Oh? And what kind of ‘camp’ is this?”

They feel pressure bear down on their minds, and immediately push it away on instinct. The old man sneers.

“Aha, psychics! I knew it! Are you trying to take mia piccola away from me?”

“Nothing of the sort, good sir!” Milla attempts to de-escalate. The old man falls silent, watching her with nothing short of pure loathing. “We were contacted about a budding young mind who was very interested in coming to our Whispering Rock Psychic Summer Camp! She’ll be able to explore her powers in a safe environment with other talented children! As a fellow psychic, I’m sure you underst-”

“Is this true?!” Zalto directs the question at the little girl, who has pressed completely against her mother’s side. Something ugly prickles at the back of Oleander’s skull. “Are your dear Nonna’s lessons not good enough for you, Guillelmina? Do you think she is going too easy on your ‘budding young mind’?”

“Now wait just a Sam Hill second,” the army man tries to argue, because the kid looks like she’s going to fold in on herself like an origami crane and the prickling is getting worse. Zalto doesn’t even look at him.

“Quel il ragazzaccio ti ha messo in testa queste idee assurde?”

There’s a newfound level of vitriol that hadn’t seemed possible from the old man until this latest sentence was uttered. Neither agent understands Italian, but neither of them miss how pale and panicked the girl has become. Milla twitches suddenly in an almost-flinch, but Oleander can’t pay her much heed with how he’s trying to keep separate the roaring of this patriarch and the roaring inside his own head.

The girl finally speaks for the first time in front of them all. Every word is trembling. “N-No, Nonno, this has nothing to do with -”

“This was my decision.”

Everyone turns to Adelasia in surprise; even Zanobi, who’d been doing his best to creep out of the living room without being noticed. She wavers under the stares, particularly Zalto’s, but holds her ground.

“I’ve been thinking about it for a long time. Mina could use the socialization at the very least, and a change of scenery and pace would also be good for her. She wasn’t even aware of this until I brought it up to her last night. None of the family was aware.”

There’s weight to that statement, a context that the two agents don’t have but recognize as significant regardless. Zalto’s eyes narrow dangerously.

“Absolutely not. I forbid it.”

It’s said so softly, so unobtrusively. It makes every single muscle in Oleander’s body stiffen like frozen meat. This man is gangly, and average-sized, and is so decrepit he could probably be blown away by a gust of wind. And yet the tone of his voice, the way he commands all attention and submission, pulls at memories that the agent would rather stay buried.

This man reminds him of his father.

Adelasia very nearly loses her nerve right then and there, but then her eyes land on Zanobi, who looks at her with a strange new respect, and it’s enough.

“It doesn’t matter if you forbid it, Zalto. I am Guillelmina’s legal guardian, I’ve already signed the paperwork, I’ve already paid the fees, and transportation has been provided. She’s going to that camp.”

An eternity passes in the span of half a minute as mother and great-grandfather square off in a battle of wills. But no matter what wordless communication is passing between them - and there is quite a bit of it, judging by the way Adelasia’s brows pinch and her lips tremble - he is unable to make her back down.

Finally Zalto concedes, stepping to the side so that Guillelmina can pass unharmed and unbothered to the side of the Psychonauts. She does so with great reluctance, and despite the fact that they’ve ‘won’ so to speak, Oleander knows a hollow victory when he sees one.

Whatever family fallout this will cause, it will be devastating.

“Well, Mina, is it? Let’s head out to the car. We have a long drive ahead of us and I’m sure you’d like to get to camp sooner rather than later!”

Milla ushers the shell-shocked child towards the door before anyone can change their mind on the whole endeavor. Her partner starts to follow, and only pauses because he has to make sure he heard it correctly.

“Thank you.”

Hands twitching at his sides, Oleander gives Adelasia a long, grim look. She doesn’t know that she’s thrown her child into the fire, into his fire, but something tells him she would take that risk even if she knew.

“Ma’am,” he says to her with a tilt of his head. He can’t even look at Zalto.

“Sir.”

Milla is waiting patiently for him right outside the doorstep. They acknowledge each other and Mina, now between them, before heading for the army man’s jeep.

They stop as they realize the girl is no longer walking with them. She’s stopped completely about a foot behind them, looking at the car as though it’s a mirage.

“Darling? Are you coming?”

She nods once but doesn’t move. The agents share a glance; they’ve been doing that an awful lot in the past ten minutes, and it would be funny if not so concerning.

Guillelmina turns to look up at the house. She stares at the second story window, partially covered by curtains but otherwise open and seemingly unoccupied. Whatever she sees there - or doesn’t see - it’s enough to make her turn back to face the jeep again.

A glowing orange hand appears in front of her, startling the Psychonauts almost as much as it does the girl. It hovers a moment as if unsure before pressing against the car’s back door and pulling at the handle. Tugging the door open, the telekinetic hand waits patiently for her to enter, almost like a chauffeur.

“What a lovely display!” Mina praises. “Look at how far you’ve come already all on your own! You’re a natural, darling!”

Mina starts crying.

It lasts only a moment before she’s wiping her face on her sleeve and holding her head up high, but it doesn’t escape notice by either Psychonaut.

“Mina? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” the girl says in a cracked voice. She climbs up the jeep and settles herself into the backseat, watching as the TK hand closes the door gently behind her. It presses palm-up against the window and she returns the gesture with her own physical hand, a thin barrier of glass all that separates them.

The orange glow dissipates, and no evidence is left of the encounter.

Oleander and his partner are quiet as they get into the front and buckle up, but they can’t help staring into the rearview mirror at this odd little child, who has curled up with her suitcase at her side and the Whispering Rock pamphlet held between her hands like a lifeline. And perhaps it is a lifeline, just not in the way the two agents are assuming. Oleander starts the jeep and they head off.

It’s the middle of the day, and the house is still very, very dark.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

@the-family-fortune​ and I spent a long night talking about Thicker Than Water and some of the implications of how it might have changed if Raz hadn’t tried to run at the end. It inspired me to write this monstrosity. I have more ideas so there may be a part 2 someday, but for now have a fic of a totally normal child leaving a totally normal family to go to a totally normal camp :)

[flightofaqrow]

old friend

qrow + Glynda ( @professor-goodwitch​ ) [VOL 8 AU: Inner Circle Jailbreak]

qrow’s not sure where Glynda came from, why, or how she seems to know more about what’s going on than even he can piece together after it all, but. it’s okay. probably. it’s probably going to be okay. 

brothers, his body and soul have never felt heavier in his life.

he can’t deny it’s about all he can ask for to see an old friend right now - a familiar face, alive and well and willing to stand on his side. 

“Glynda,” he gruffs, “…thanks.”

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“ Get some rest, Qrow. I know recent events had you exhausted. I made sure our hide out is well protected and hidden.”

It was a surprise to see Glynda here helping Qrow and his companion Robyn out of Atlas’ vehicle. She knew for herself that he had nothing to do with that murder unless it was absolutely necessary. He didn’t even have to explain nor did Robyn.

All Glynda wanted to know was what happened to Atlas and James, but that can wait.

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qrow’s not sure where Glynda came from, why, or how she seems to know more about what’s going on than even he can piece together after it all, but. it’s okay. probably. it’s probably going to be okay. brothers, his body and soul have never felt heavier in his life. “…yeah. sure.” he takes her up on the offer and leans up against the wall, willing himself to even sink into it, phase out of existence for just a few moments.

but he can’t deny it’s about all he can ask for to see an old friend right now. a familiar face, alive and well and willing to stand on his side. 

“Glynda,” he gruffs, “…thanks.”

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Glynda would peek out of the worn down windows of their hideout and didn’t spot any Atlas shoulders. Robyn had silently offered to be on watch so the huntress could catch up with her old friend. She nods at her then walked back to Qrow who sunk on to the wall.

“ No problem. It’s.. good to see you Qrow.” She sighed and would go to a pile of compressed haystack taking a seat on it.

“ I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m here..” She said, patting down on some dust on her pants.

“ I heard about the incident at Haven Academy and immediately I knew they were going after the relic so.. I went to Atlas in hopes to retrieve the other one. However, it seems James has turned his back on everyone.”

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qrow had a lot of people to thank once the dust settled. eyes draw back from staring at nothing in particular to focus on Glynda, “…same.”

actually, he wonders more how she got here with the borders still closed than why. why seemed pretty obvious. he takes a deep breath and crosses his arms over a depressing chest as he lets it out. time to get back to work. next steps. no time for huntsmen to grieve, at least, not until the job is done.

“well, he turned his back on Mantle, that’s for damn sure. cut off our scroll communication right when everything started. i don’t know what’s happened in the cities since the declaration. or with the relic. or the kids. an’ i have no idea what he’s thinking or why, apart from what i assume is some bullshit martyr complex nonsense. never got the chance to talk. …but things are past reasonin’ at this point, anyway.”

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“As sad as it seems, I predicted this from James even back at Beacon. His whole military coming to the Vytal Festival, showcase of military and the council granting him seats.” She took a deep breath shaking his head. “ I can guess he’s lost his heart and.. mind. But, fear can do that to you. It’s just the way how you handle it and I bet James didn’t know how to.”

Glynda would start up a small flame to keep them warm. “ Talking to James would be difficult at this point… At least when you do. I’ll try to reason with him with all of this madness but– a punch to his face can wait.” She wasn’t exactly intending on ‘verbally’ reasoning with him.

“ I just find it upsetting after preaching about ‘unity’ and ‘working together’ with Mantle, he just turns his back the moment a bigger threat showed up.” She sighed, looking at the flame then back at Qrow. “ His fear will consume him sooner or later.”

“But.. pressing matters at hand, we need to help out Mantle..”

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“yeah, well. all the ‘i told ya so’s in Remnant ain’t changin’ the situation, Glyn,” he chides in a low rasp. sharp features find their edges amid grief, but he directs their focus more into the fire than at his friend. surely, some of that was about getting thoughts off her own chest more than being heard.

and she’s not the only one looking to take him down with more than words once they get a handle on all this and find the overgrown tin can.

right. one thing at a time. like most of his thoughts must be right now. one card building each base of a castle, lest trying to have too many at once make it all come crashing down around him again.

he sits up, finally, leaning towards warmth and flickering, distracting lights. “how is mantle holding up so far? any new reports come in?”

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He was right, nothing was really going to change the situation no matter the ‘What If’s’ they had. Glynda just found herself frustrated after leaving Beacon only to find that Mantle had been cut off by Atlas. James was a man of ‘protection’, ‘security’ but ‘power’ as well and it’s upsetting he had fallen into a pit where he may not possibly get up anymore.

She took a look at her scroll, seeing the alert of all the Wanted huntsmen. Sure enough, Qrow was there along with her other former students. “ It seems you really pissed off James if he’s turning you all in but of course, he’s losing his mind like his heart.”

She sighed tapping onto her scroll looking at the live feed of everything. Her eyes looking at the dark clouds lurking. “.. I don’t think Mantle will hold up any longer. Salem is about to arrive.”

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she’s catching up with this whole damn emotional roller-coaster just like he’s trying to catch up with the past day or so. both hands run through his hair with the same frustration before he gives the fire the thousand yard stare again, “tch. he’d only be pissed if he cared. nah. s’just like Robyn says. all he wants is t’have us outta his way.”

hands clench between his knees, “well, that ain’t happenin’.”

he pulls his scroll out for the first time since it has been returned to him. a bunch of missed calls flood the screen, so someone must have gotten them working again, and he has maybe two guesses who. not that it matters when he still can’t really answer anyone.

“so Salem’s right at our doorstep and we’re squabblin’ among ourselves just like she wants. this is bad. this is really bad.”

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“ He’s lost his mind and heart if arresting all of you is his solution to get what he wants. I’ll have to remind him that the half of his body can easily be destroyed if I deem it to be useless.” Her tone seemed calm yet dangerous considering she actually WAS capable of tearing him apart with her semblance. Glynda’s often level-headed when it came to frustrating situations but this was one of the rare occasions she’d serious about using violence to knock someone back into reality.

Glynda glanced at Qrow for a moment. His body language immediately told her he’d been through a lot and she was too afraid to ask him about it fearing it might shake his thoughts and emotions.

That wasn’t the priority anyway, it was the danger that has arrived in Mantle. Salem.

“ Fighting Salem head on is a suicide mission but if we wait for her to land in Mantle then it’ll cease to exist in a matter of hours.” Glynda sighed. “ ..And judging by the clouds, she brought a whole army of Grimm to get what she wants.”

“ We need to move soon. I’m sure you’re worried about Ruby and the others. It’s best to rendezvous with them because we need all the help we can get if we want to save Mantle.”

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usual memories of Glynda store as her putting things back together. often messes he’d created himself. in a single moment of emphasizing her ability to just as easily tear things apart, she reminds qrow of how terrifying a woman she really is. he can’t say the image of James severed right down the middle doesn’t jolt him out of his thoughts, and bring some shred of solace. it’d serve him right.

looking up meets the emerald fire in her eyes, sizzling slow and controlled.

right, one step at a time.

hands cup around his face as he thinks. this’ll be the most difficult battle they’ve faced yet. and that’s saying something. “i’m more worried about all the grimm than Salem. her track record shows more’a desire to control humanity than exterminate it. unlike those beasts’a hers.”

arms then fall to his lap with the mention of Ruby and her friends. his family. but now also huntresses and hunters in their own right. “Glyn, the kids… Ironwood issued ‘em their license before it all went down. ‘course i’m thinkin’ of them, but they can hold their own. have been for awhile now. if our scrolls are workin’ we can get in touch. it…,” it twists in his gut as if the words are food poisoning themselves, “it might be best if we all spread out throughout the city. besides, this is too important to…”

he turns away again, shuts his eyes and tries to force out the image still imprinted behind eyelids of blood …so much blood, “well, they might be better off without me around for this.”

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“ Salem creates the grimm herself and anytime she can procure a unit of grimm to ambush any parts of the city if the numbers dwindle. But… if we leave the grimm be, the civilians will suffer in their hands.” Glynda sighed feeling a little conflicted about how they’ll proceed.

Everything was coming too fast, Salem’s arrival, grimm already infesting Mantle, Ironwood cutting off Atlas and Mantle and everything else.

Her attention wavered though when Qrow mentioned licenses were handed to them. “ that seems bold of James to give them their licenses that early but… with the conflict, can you really tell them to sit down for a class?” She tried sounding sarcastic for a moment but knew the situation was too dire to insert that in.

“ Sounds like your niece and her friends have really evolved into huntsmen and huntresses at such a young age. Though.. spreading out would be a good idea if we’re going to hold off and protect Mantle from multiple points..”

His last sentence though, worried her. “ Qrow? Why do you think that? What made you possibly think that they’re better off without you? And I’m certain that’s not because of your semblance..” Glynda’s well aware of his semblance being a key factor in putting the kids in danger but he was right– they were capable of taking care of themselves yet.. there seems to be more.

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lids stay screwed shut; qrow’s head shakes in the smallest arc side to side, processing what Glynda says, meshing it with what he thinks. his palm aches to hold a drink that would help slow it all down. but he’s done with that, and they’re out of time, and it does him no good to be dulled.

and he doesn’t really know the answer. qrow’s vision only goes so far as giving his report and insight, and Glynda or Robyn can decide how to manage from there. they’re better suited to delegate orders, and maybe qrow might just follow along until he can break off and run his own vendetta mission alone like always, because more than ever he knows he’s not meant for a partner, and has always known he was never really cut out to be a leader.

even the voice in his head is hardly his own.

with the conflict, can you really tell them to sit down for a class?

that finally earns Glynda a turn to her direction again, dark brows lifting to rest on his face in a soft and wistful way. she makes an inappropriate comment, and qrow lives for inappropriate. it’s downright refreshing from her.

qrow shrugs, tilts his head down to accentuate a coy glance up, a glint of hope returning to red eyes, “heh. you know, Oz would say he’s glad you still have a sense of humor in alla this.”

one moment of lighter breath, and then it’s gone - just like the man mentioned and a solid chunk of qrow’s affection for him; expression sours as hands come down harsh on his knees.

“so you must be joking.”

she’s certain it’s not his semblance. she’s got to be kidding! how can anyone be certain? qrow sure as hell can’t ever seem to tell when and how and who Misfortune hits the worst!

he leans in, frowns and furrows lining frustration into his face, but he speaks more haggard than rough, “of course i mean my semblance, Glyn. this ain’t a single man brawl or bust ‘em up rescue mission! there’s too many lives on the line! …we can’t afford any mishaps. …I work better from the sidelines and the shadows, we both know that.”

[artificialqueens]

Different People (Different Arguments), 3/14 (Branjie/Jankie) - Ortega

a/n: ayo!! so sorry for the update gap fam, but chapter 3 is here! soooo hope u all enjoy. p.s. i promise I love Nicky, Gigi and Crystal…but every good story has a bad guy right???

fic summary: Brooke Lynn is a political advisor for a government department where she has to contend with an incompetent Minister, maintaining her stone-cold bitch image, working alongside a press team of slackers, and the Prime Minister’s ever-so-slightly terrifying enforcer breathing down her neck 24/7. So when a familiar face from her past arrives as her new boss, she’s not exactly thrilled to add another problem to her ever-growing pile.

And then she admits she’s got a crush on her coworker.

Last chapter: Jackie became a breakout political star after she spoke out against the homophobia and misogyny in the media, and Brooke finally acknowledged that her feelings for Vanessa maybe weren’t as platonic as she’d thought.

In this chapter: When Shadow Minister Nicky Doll and her advisors arrive at DoSac for an informal, pre-election briefing, Jan tries to cope with the stress of seeing her old colleagues again. There’s more at stake, though, when Jackie reveals a secret that cannot get out.

***

Casting her eyes over the meeting room, Brooke attempted to focus on what Jackie was actually saying. She was trying her hardest, she really was, but it was just that Vanessa was wearing the red jumper today, the really soft one that made her look more cuddly and adorable than normal.  

Brooke had a crush on Vanessa. She’d accepted that now. The way to deal with it was just to never act upon it, talk about it, or to admit it to anyone outside of her own head. She’d spent so long cultivating the perfect stone-cold, heartless bitch image and she wasn’t exactly going to do anything to taint that now. The most important thing she had to remember was that she didn’t need anyone- she had no desire to be in a relationship, to be tied down and have to answer to someone else all the time. She had a perfectly good bullet to get her off and if she felt like it she could always go and pick up someone random from a bar. There was always that irritating aspect when the afterglow had faded, though, if whoever she’d used for the night wanted to stay over, or heaven forbid see her again. Things were just better as they were, Brooke concluded. She couldn’t get attached, or hurt, or fall in love this way. If there was one thing she wasn’t, it was vulnerable. Getting into a relationship with someone put you in the weakest position you could possibly get.

She would know, after all.

Still, she was allowed to dream about it; an ideal world in which love worked out the way it did in books and movies, one huge cliché where Brooke and Vanessa were happy together and lived in perfect domesticity, had the best sex of their lives and went on adorable dates. It was simplistic and shallow and completely unrealistic, but perhaps that was all it was meant to be.  

Gazing at Vanessa again, she was surprised to see her eyes already on her. She was even more surprised when she looked around the room and saw that everyone else was staring at her as well.

“Brooke Lynn?” Jackie asked, staring at her expectantly. She stood in front of a huge whiteboard with marker pen scribbled all over it- generic buzzwords such as “connectivity”, “inclusivity” and “diversity” sprang out to her, but nothing really indicated what Jackie could have previously been talking about.

“Um. The fiscal year?” Brooke guessed blankly. Jan laughed from across the table, throwing her head back and letting her blonde hair cascade down the back of the chair. Jackie didn’t find it as funny.

“For God’s sake, Brooke, this policy is only going to work if everyone pays attention and has some form of input other than just staring at me with glassy eyes like they’ve been goddamn taxidermied!” she sighed, sitting her pen down on the table and sliding into an empty chair. Brooke felt a pang of guilt- Jackie had been doing well in the two weeks that had followed her Von’Du interview and had received heaps of public support and attention. The perfect time, Bianca had insisted, to get some new ideas out there and into parliament.

“Sorry. Remind me of the premise?”

Irritated, Jackie rolled her eyes before Vanessa cut in with a sweet smile. “Issa scheme to get the UK to house more refugees and get ‘em into work therefore boosting the economy, diversifyin’ the nation and basically makin’ us look like good guys to the rest of Europe.”

Brooke shot her a grateful smile across the table, trying her best not to blush.

“Thank God someone’s been listening,” Jackie smirked. “We’re basically just trying to come up with a name for it. Or a tagline or something.”

Brooke pressed her pen to her lips, thinking for a second. Nina suddenly piped up from beside her.

“What about…Don’t be bigoted. Be uninhibited,” she said, her suggestion met with utter silence from the rest of the group.

“Well that was nice, Nina, but how about something a bit less…” Jackie thought for a second, trying to find the correct word.

“Shit?” Brooke shrugged, Jan once again letting out a peal of laughter. Vanessa was clearly trying to conceal her giggles from the other side of the huge table, while both Nina and Jackie looked unimpressed.

“Do you have any better suggestions?”

“No, and I’m not going to pretend like I do! I’m not going to just yell out any old crap like I’ve got shit idea Tourette’s,” Brooke shrugged, Jan now bent over in her chair from laughter and Vanessa now audibly giggling. Brooke couldn’t tell, but she could have sworn Jackie let out the tiniest snort of a laugh before regaining composure.

“Ladies, please, this is important! This is a good damn idea, if I’m allowed to blow my own trumpet, and we’ve got to get it out there sooner rather than later,” she insisted. A loud, harsh vibration from Nina’s phone startled them all.

“Bianca’s here,” she announced, trying to keep her tone bright. Before the girls even had time to react to the news, Bianca had appeared in the room in a smart, tailored black and white suit.

“Good morning to you all, shit Spice Girls impersonation act,” she smiled cheerfully.

“Mornin’, Bianca,” Vanessa greeted her.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Jackie quipped dryly, lounging back in her seat.

“Two things from me,” Bianca began, ignoring the Minister’s sarcasm. “The shadow minister’s visit, today at 11. They’re going to be talking to Nina and the rest of those brain-dead, civil-service puppets out there about what’s going to happen if they take office. Nina, your job is to basically communicate to them that they’ll be taking it out of my cold, dead hands.”

“Fuck, that’s today?!” Vanessa exclaimed somewhat involuntarily, earning her a steely glare from Bianca which in turn made Vanessa look as if she was seconds away from death. Reaching into her pocket and retrieving her phone, Brooke fired off a quick text to Vanessa under the table.

B: It’s okay. Snakes only eat once every few weeks x

As Bianca briefed Nina, Brooke watched as Vanessa looked down into her lap and smiled, a light blush colouring her cheeks very slightly, although that could have just been the light of the room. Satisfied that she’d made Vanessa feel better, she tuned back in to what Bianca was saying.

“…you tell them nothing. Except where the toilets are, but you lie about that.”

“So who’s actually accompanying Nicky today? I’ve heard nothing and I want to make sure I’m relatively prepared for whoever enters my department,” Jackie folded her arms across her chest, already defensive.

“You already know about Nicky. Privately educated daddy’s girl and massively out of touch with the electorate. Probably a lizard wearing a human skin suit, I’ve never particularly wanted to get close enough to her to check if that theory’s true,” Bianca shrugged. “The other two coming with her are going to be her advisors, Gigi and Crystal.”

“Oh no,” Jan suddenly exclaimed from her chair. Her face had gone incredibly ashen, her eyes wide and fearful. Suddenly Brooke was acutely aware that she no longer had only Vanessa to worry about. If Jan’s old colleagues and ex-friends bumped into her it wouldn’t be particularly pleasant, and Jan would no doubt be incredibly shaken. Crossing the floor was like a betrayal, pledging loyalty to one party after being aligned with another was treacherous, and so it was likely that Gigi, Crystal and Nicky still wanted Jan’s head on a stick.

“Oh yes. Gigi Goode, bit of a newborn as far as politics is concerned but she’s got impressive credentials. Graduated from Oxford University with a first class degree and a PhD in Politics and Business. Won the World Universities Debating Championships five consecutive times. She’s confident, clever, and has zero scruples. Knows every loophole in the world of politics,” Bianca reeled off. Jackie raised her eyebrows, clearly impressed.

“She sounds interesting.”

“Don’t even make contact with her, she’ll probably have you telling her the fucking nuke codes and all the department’s discrepancies within the first 30 seconds of meeting her.  Crystal Harness is a different story,” Bianca frowned. “Not too good when it comes to actual political knowledge. Nina, you and her would get along. She’s a baby too, really, not been in the game long. Graduated from Oxford Brookes. Second class degree in Psychology and Sociology. Don’t think for a second that this is a reason to underestimate her. She is cunning and has intellect and knows everything about everyone, don’t let her see you break a sweat.”

Jackie looked momentarily terrified. “I didn’t realise Nicky had some kind of metahuman task force working for her.”

“They’re not that bad,” Brooke sighed, tipping her head back in her chair. “If you talk to Nicky entirely in cockney rhyming slang, she’ll just combust. Gigi is fine if you give her a fake smile or two. Crystal is basically simple. You’ve got nothing to worry about, Jackie.”

Feeling the mood in the room change, Brooke turned around in her wheely chair and was met with Bianca’s icy stare.

“What part of ‘don’t underestimate these people’ do you not understand? What, you think they’re here for a jolly little chat with Nina about worker’s rights and office hours? They’re here to get intel, and I want you all to be more airtight than some middle-aged white woman’s Tupperware. And no, that’s not a euphemism.”

Brooke watched as Vanessa wrinkled up her nose in distaste. She had such a cute little nose, and Brooke found herself imagining how perfect it would be to just kiss it gently before they both drifted off to sleep together in a little house that they shared. Frowning involuntarily, Brooke chased those particular thoughts out of her head. They were way too intense, too weird and commitment-y for her friend she had a stupid crush on. Remembering what Bianca had said earlier, she turned and faced her.

“What was the other thing? You said you had two things to tell us.”

“I’m getting there! Right, Jackie, I’ve got you a good photo op this evening. Some new charging points for electric car owners, it’s going to be the biggest one in the UK and a big step for climate change, yadda yadda yadda. We’re going to get you driving in a fucking Prius or something, charging it up and then driving out again. Pretty simple, but effective- what? What is it?”

Every head in the room turned to face Jackie, who looked as if she’d seen a ghost. Her hands were gripping the edge of the table, her knuckles white. She’d turned pale, her face ashen, and she seemed worried.

“Driving? No, I can’t drive, there’s no way,” she babbled, her usually calm and composed exterior completely destroyed.

“Jackie?” Jan prompted quietly, clearly concerned. Brooke shared a brief look of confusion with Vanessa. It was clear nobody had the faintest idea what was going on.

“I mean, you can drive. We have your drivers’ license, you sent in a photocopy as proof of identification when you received Darienne’s job. I don’t really see the issue here?” Bianca curled her top lip, completely unfazed by Jackie’s behaviour.

“Bianca, you don’t understand…I’ve not driven in ages, I…do you not-”

“Do I not what?” Bianca cut in, her irritation mounting by the second. “Look, I don’t really have time to stand here and argue the toss. This is part of your job. You’re doing the goddamn photo op. Christ, this was the girl who two weeks ago was desperate to get on prime time television. Now you’re shitting yourself at the thought of driving a bloody battery operated car. Get it done. 6 o’clock tonight. See you all later.”

As Bianca click-clacked out of the department, the mood in the room was still very tense. Almost frozen, Brooke thought, the tiny hairs on her arms standing up from goosebumps. Jan was the first to speak.

“Jackie, are you okay?” she almost whispered, her voice both deafening and quiet in the silent room. There were a few seconds (minutes?) where there was no response at all, in fact Brooke was almost convinced that nobody even breathed. Finally, Jackie spoke.

“Yep. All good. So, um, if you ladies can continue thinking up some form of line or title we can use or something while you’re finishing off that immigration data, and Nina if you can just forward me the protocol for Nicky’s visit again so I can read over it, then that would be great,” she said, her body almost frozen in place and her face wearing a fake smile.

Deciding not to push it any further, Brooke simply nodded and walked back to her desk. It wasn’t long before Vanessa was following behind, rolling her own wheely chair along to sit beside her.

“What d’you think all that was about?” she whispered, leaning her elbows on Brooke’s desk expectantly. Brooke couldn’t help but stifle a laugh- Vanessa could be such a gossip and it was one of the things that was oddly endearing about her. Trying not to be too taken in by her perfume and parted lips, Brooke instead threw up her defences again and rolled her eyes.

“I don’t know, ‘Ness. To be honest, it’s not my place to ask. It’s not yours either,” she chastised softly, hitting Vanessa gently on the nose with her pen. Wrinkling her nose and pulling away, Vanessa shrugged.

“You’re right, I know. Still, she was kinda rattled. Hope she’s okay,” Vanessa frowned, nibbling on her bottom lip.

“She’ll be fine. Honestly. Just go and do your damn job.”

“Hmm. Winding you up’s more fun, baby, but I’ll do what I’m told,” Vanessa winked at her, shooting back off to her desk in her chair.

Feeling her heart speed up, Brooke fleetingly wondered if maybe the feelings she had for Vanessa weren’t entirely one-sided. That was flirting, right? Brooke wasn’t reading too much into it? Or maybe she was. Reality brought her back down to earth with a bump, telling her what a ridiculous thought that was. Vanessa saw Brooke as a friend and a co-worker, and that was where her feelings ended. Brooke couldn’t let herself get carried away or distracted with the idea that Vanessa would ever treat her as anything more than what they already were.

Letting out a huge exhale of breath, Brooke opened up the immigration spreadsheet and was about to start working when there was a thud of two elbows on the empty space to her left. Turning slowly in an attempt to conceal her flinching, she was met with Yvie; head in her hands, black dreads cascading over her shoulders and a huge, smug grin on her face.

“Don’t even say a word,” Brooke warned her, clearly too late as Yvie began sniggering a laugh behind her hands.

“I wasn’t actually here to gloat, but now you mention it…” Yvie joked, lolling lazily against Brooke’s desk. “So you’ve not admitted anything to anyone else. In fact, you’re probably maintaining the fact that there’s nothing to admit. But you’ve definitely admitted something to yourself, because I think your face is so red that you could go stand at a street corner and act as a traffic light.”

“If you keep talking, I’m going to staple your mouth shut,” Brooke glared, grabbing the stapler on her desk for emphasis. It didn’t seem to intimidate Yvie at all, who was still grinning maniacally and completely unfazed.

“Hey, like I said! Not here to gloat at all. I’m actually not here to talk about your deep feelings for your coworker in any way. Just thought you might like to know that Akeria texted me this a couple minutes ago.”

With that, Yvie produced her phone and held it out to Brooke so that she could read the screen.

A: ahahaha yeah. Big Silk with the fuckin bodyshots man!! Don’t actually know how she made it in today. Also, 100% confirmed Nicky’s looking for stuff to take Jackie down with bc she’s still pissed about that dig in the Von’Du interview. watch ur back xo

Attempting to ignore whatever conversation that had been going on before, Brooke focussed on the important information. She wished she could say she was surprised by the shadow minister’s plan but in all honesty, she’d highly expected it. Sighing, Brooke handed Yvie her phone back.

“I mean, I’m not too worried. What can she possibly dig up? Jackie will’ve been vetted by Bianca already,” she shrugged, clicking on a single cell of the spreadsheet half-heartedly.

“She got pizza delivered to the office last week?”

“That’s not even- Yvie. Come on,” Brooke raised one eyebrow in disbelief. “The papers would be hard pressed to conjure up a paragraph on that. Jackie will be fine.”

Appearing to be satisfied, Yvie pushed herself off the desk and made to return to her seat, but not before turning back to Brooke with the same smug look on her face as before.

“You know, I don’t think anyone in the office could’ve missed that wink Vanjie gave you just there. Whatever you’re feeling, I don’t think it’s as one-sided as you think,” she smirked, making sure to keep her voice low. Unsure of what to reply, Brooke simply narrowed her eyes, picked up her stapler and clicked it twice in warning. Chuckling, Yvie sauntered back to her desk.

Trying not to even entertain the thought that Vanessa could like her back, Brooke continued with her work. All of the numbers suddenly seemed scrambled and jumbled up, making no sense to her whatsoever. Feeling as if she was about to scream with frustration she made to ask Jan for advice until she noticed her desk was empty. Come to think of it, Jan hadn’t actually left the meeting room with her and Vanessa. Bullshit if she was getting away with doing nothing while Brooke worked on this entire set of figures by herself. Getting up and smoothing her skirt down she made her way to the meeting room only to find it empty. Puzzled, she began to walk slightly aimlessly down the corridor, her curiosity piqued at the disappearance of both Jan and Jackie. It was unlike Jan to just wander off without telling either Brooke or Vanessa where she was going.

Reaching the photocopier and a dead end with no Jan in sight, Brooke was about to give up and ask Nina for help instead when she heard two sets of muffled voices coming from the stationery cupboard.  

“I’m just panicking, I know. But I feel like I have good reason to. I mean, it’s going to be absolute carnage if this gets out.”

“It won’t, don’t worry. I still can’t believe Bianca missed that when she vetted you. But please don’t panic, it’ll all be fine! I’ll speak to Nina and I’ll get her to quietly cancel it.”

Jackie and Jan. What the hell were they in the stationery cupboard for, and most importantly, what were they talking about? Whatever it was, it sounded serious. If it was serious business, Brooke deserved to know. Making to burst open the door in a show of outrage, she stopped herself when Jackie’s voice spoke again.

“I just feel like such a failure. I should’ve known it would get out, I should’ve said something-”

“Hey! You are not a failure,” Jan’s voice cut in urgently. There was an odd sort of pause in which Brooke wasn’t quite sure what was happening. “You’re a good person, Jackie, and a kick-ass politician. You’re the best thing to happen to this department since I arrived, even if I do say so myself.”

Soft laughter, then Jan’s voice again. “You’re incredible. Don’t ever doubt that.”

Another pause. Brooke couldn’t quite bring herself to move, somehow feeling as if she shouldn’t be hearing this at all. Composing herself, she rested her hand on the door handle.

“Jan I…this might seem inappropriate, but-”

“Okay, what the hell is going on in here?” Brooke demanded as she flung open the door and revealed herself. Both girls seemed to jump back a bit, Jackie looking to the floor awkwardly and rubbing the back of her neck, Jan’s mouth forming a perfect circle as her jaw dropped in shock. They had both gone bright red, which Brooke thought was odd for two colleagues having a professional conversation.

“Jesus, Brooke, you scared the crap out of me,” Jackie breathed out raggedly, her voice spooked but holding an underlying note of irritation.  

“I don’t care, you haven’t answered my question. What were you talking about? What’s going to be carnage?” Brooke replied, keeping her glare cold. Jackie kept her eyes trained on the floor, not seeming to want to look up anytime soon. Jan still hadn’t spoken.

“Close the door,” Jackie said finally, sounding a little shaken. Feeling the wind slightly knocked out of her sails, Brooke did as she was told and watched as Jackie steadied herself on the shelf and sat on an unopened box.

“Um. Do you remember I kind of went off grid after uni? A lot of people were asking after me and couldn’t really find me.”

With a pang of guilt, Brooke’s first reaction was that she hadn’t really cared. She’d been glad to see the back of Jackie at the time, if she was honest. Times had changed, though, so Brooke simply nodded instead. Jackie wrung her hands together, her face completely racked with nerves.

“I wasn’t in a good place. My mental health spiralled out of control pretty dramatically once I graduated, I struggled to find a job for a while and when I did, I got way too into it. I would work myself into a frenzy, I’d do consecutive days on two hours of sleep…at one point I was averaging a panic attack per day. I didn’t really, um. I didn’t really have anyone to talk to about things. I tried going to therapy but it just didn’t help. I don’t know…it felt like I was making progress just being able to know that I was visiting someone, I guess, but I wasn’t really. Anyway, you don’t need to know my sob story,” Jackie frowned, shaking her head repeatedly. “To cut a long story short, I was driving into work one day, trying to do twenty things at once as usual. It was idiotic, but I was on the motorway and a text came through from my boss and wanting to seem like I was organised and in control, I tried to type and drive at the same time…the motorway was quiet, there was nobody around me…fuck, sorry-”

As Jackie’s voice broke slightly, Jan crossed over to where she sat and rested a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“I crashed into the barricade in the central reservation doing fifty miles an hour. God knows how I’m still alive. The police obviously came along with the ambulance and the fire brigade and of course they wanted to know how it was that I managed to crash on a clear stretch of road with no other drivers around me. I’ve never been able to lie to save myself, so I just told them. I’d only passed my test the year before that, so they took my license away. That’s why I can’t do the PR thing. It’s illegal for me to drive. I got a fake license purely so I could take this job.”

Leaning against the door, Brooke felt she wanted to sit down too. This was so much to deal with. She couldn’t style herself out as not caring about this, because she actually felt sick to her stomach with guilt. She couldn’t believe Jackie had coped- or not coped- completely on her own through all this horrible mess. Even though there was no way she could have known, Brooke just wished she could’ve done something differently. She desperately hoped Jackie was better now.

“Jackie, I’m so sorry.”

“No, no, don’t be sorry. This isn’t about me being…enormously god damn mental in the head, or whatever,” she snorted a derisive laugh. “I’m more worried about how we’re going to placate Bianca. Jan said she’d talk to Nina and get her to cancel the shoot but Bianca’s going to ask questions.”

“Well it’s not your fault she didn’t vet you properly,” Brooke shrugged, how Bianca would feel the absolute last thing on her mind right now. “So she can just deal with it. How Bianca feels doesn’t matter. What matters is that you’re okay.”

Jackie looked up at her, her face grateful but slightly taken aback at this raw show of compassion. Truthfully, Brooke was also slightly shocked at how kind she was being towards her. She was grateful for the shout that came from the hall suddenly.

“Brooke? Guys? You in there?” Vanessa asked, as she opened the door and stepped inside the stationery cupboard that was ever-decreasing in space. Confused by the presence of her boss and the two other advisors, her perfect eyebrows became furrowed together. “There some meeting I didn’t know about?”

“Yeah, in the stationery cupboard. It was really important, girl, did you not get the memo?” Jan laughed affectionately. Laughing briefly at her own ridiculous assumption, Vanessa then tentatively looked at everyone else again.

“So…why we all here?”

Brooke briefly looked at Jackie, then sighed. “Jackie can’t do the PR stunt because legally, she’s not allowed to drive. She got done for texting while driving years ago and her license got revoked.”

Vanessa’s mouth dropped open a little as if she was about to ask how, then shut again as she clearly decided against it. “Does Bianca know?”

Giving her an affectionate smile, Brooke raised her eyebrows at her. “V. Come on. Use your brain.”

“Fuck, ‘course not. I’m so not with it today. So what’s happenin’?”

“Jan’s telling Nina to cancel it and when Bianca finds out, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. What’s important here is Jackie,” Brooke said decisively. Shocked again at the vulnerability she was showing, she smoothed down her black pencil skirt and sniffed once, trying to ignore just how close Vanessa was in the tiny space. “So that’s settled. Can we all get out of this cupboard and do some damn work? I feel like I’m suffocating.”

Without speaking, the four girls filed out of the cupboard as if the conversation had never happened. Brooke’s head was still slightly spinning as she slumped back in her chair, the excel spreadsheet now more confusing than ever. She was still attempting to take in everything that Jackie had just told her. It was so much to process, and Brooke couldn’t shake the guilty feeling that was settling in the pit of her stomach, the feeling that maybe there was something she could have done to help all those years ago. Sighing, she cast her eyes to Jackie’s glass-fronted office where the Minister was now typing into her phone, her face failing to betray anything about the heartfelt conversation that had just taken place. Why the hell did Jackie have to confide in her like that? Life would be so much less stressful if everybody just kept their guard up like Brooke did.

Still, she mused, everyone would probably be a whole lot more lonely.    

Suddenly, Brooke’s phone screen lit up with three messages at once- two from Jan, one from Vanessa.

J: I would love to, that sounds amazing (: we could go for sushi?? Wardour Street has some really nice places! Xxx

J: whoops wasn’t meant for you lol sorry

Brooke would probably have been about ten times more intrigued and curious about Jan’s text if she didn’t have a text from Vanessa awaiting her.  

V: I don’t care what kind of front you try to put up, you’re kind and caring and a total sweetheart x

Not even daring to look up and risk meeting Vanessa’s eyes, Brooke reached for a piece of paper on her desk and began to fan the blush that had just flooded her cheeks. Trying her best not to think about what Yvie had said earlier, she began to compose a reply.

B: You’re a cutie. Don’t tell anyone I was nice to you though, being a bitch is kind of my brand x

Risking a peek up over her monitor, Brooke watched as Vanessa picked up her phone and giggled, covering her mouth with one perfectly manicured hand.

God, it was going to be a long day.

***

They had arrived.

Brooke felt like a bird of prey as she stood beside Jan and watched from above as Nicky and her two advisors were greeted by Nina in the lobby. Even from six floors up Brooke could tell that Nina was hating the fact that she had to be at the very least civil to the three opposition members. Narrowing her eyes, Brooke watched closer.

Nicky was using the tactic she employed every time she had a television interview; gushing about how happy she was to be here, playing the humble, meek elected representative of the people. She was wearing an immaculate navy pencil dress with what appeared to be a Tiffany heart around her neck, and her sleek blonde hair was piled on top of her head in a bun. Following dutifully behind her were two others. The first girl Brooke heard before she saw- a cry of excitement at being in the building had been the very thing that proclaimed the arrival of the opposition. She was still making an obscene amount of excitable noise which travelled up the floors of the lobby as if it was riding the elevator. Squawker- or Crystal, Brooke supposed she should call her- was equally well turned out. She gave off a clear professional vibe in her button-down shirt, blue skirt and little heeled boots, and her curly red hair was swept over one shoulder.

“Gigi needs her roots done. See?” Brooke whispered to Jan, not taking her eyes off the three opposition members. Receiving no response, Brooke turned to look at her friend. Jan’s shoulders were tensed up as she trained her eyes on the member of the opposition in question. Her style was immaculate and she wore a pressed white shirt with huge sleeves and a pair of smart tailored black trousers with her high heels. Her long, blonde hair had been immaculately styled and blow-dried, and Brooke found herself wondering how or if she had the time to do that every day. Looking to Jan again she found her brow furrowed, biting at her long, painted nails.  

“Jan, come on. Don’t ruin your nails, you’re better than that,” Brooke scolded, grabbing gently at Jan’s wrist and pulling it away from her face. Jan finally turned to meet her eyes before looking quickly back down at the floor again. “Hey. Talk to me.”

Sighing, Jan leant against the balcony, watching as the opposition were led away to the lift. “Sorry. I know I’m not myself today. It’s just this is really, really freaking me out. It’s not like this is the first time I’ve seen these girls since I crossed the floor, but to have them here where I work? It’s just a lot. It sounds dramatic but like…it kind of feels violating, if that makes any sense?”

Brooke nodded slowly. “I know you’re worried about it. But you’re being really brave about the whole thing. And hey, you kind of have an advantage, I guess! They’re on your territory, they’re not familiar or comfortable with anything here. Mainly because nothing’s engulfed by the flames of hell or costs over £10,000.”

Snorting a brief laugh, Jan’s face grew somewhat blank again. “I mean. Their tanks are on our lawn, though, they know we’re shook.”

Rolling her eyes, Brooke laughed derisively. “Jan. These private school bitches are not going to take power. You live in this country at the moment, do you really think the public are going to vote for people like Nicky?”

“Well, the public are idiots.”

Brooke gave a snort. “Jan, you can’t say the entire nation are idiots.”

“Yes I can, I’ve met them,” Jan deadpanned, signing off with a smile. Brooke relaxed against the balcony, comforted by the fact that Jan clearly felt a little better.

“Listen. One single day. One day of smiling and nodding like a puppet and just taking whatever crap or snide comments or shade they throw at you. You’ve handled so much worse,” Brooke smiled reassuringly, resting both hands on Jan’s shoulders. Comforted, Jan made to turn back to the department when suddenly she whipped her head back round.

“Brooke,” she murmured. “What if they find out about Jackie?”

“What, that she exists? I know it was a crushing disappointment to us all but they’ll get over it some day,” she deadpanned. Jan gave a colossal roll of her eyes.

“No, you bitch! The license thing,” Jan sighed in exasperation, raising her voice just a little.

Brooke paused for a moment. It was weird how protective Jan was of her boss. She was never like that with Darienne at all. Fair enough Jackie was far more competent but still, it wasn’t as if the two shared some deep personal connection or anything. Brooke thought about asking her about it, but instead decided that that probably wasn’t what Jan needed right at this very moment.  

“Who’s going to tell them? Me? You? Vanessa? Jackie herself? We’re the only ones that know. Come on, Jan, think,” Brooke tapped the side of Jan’s head once, punctuating her point. “It’s not going to get out.”

Smiling slightly, Jan seemed to compose herself and took one deep breath. As if something had occurred to her, she let out a laugh.

“God, what’s happening to you, Brooke? First you’re nice to Jackie for once and then you listen to me vent for ages. Your cracks are showing,” Jan smiled. Brooke attempted to style it out by shrugging, secretly a little unnerved that her recent empathy was being noticed.

“Stop psychoanalysing me, psycho, and let’s get back to our desks.”

No sooner had both girls turned the corner towards their office when they came face to face with the three members of the opposition coming out of the lift, Nina leading them. Jan immediately froze in place, seemingly unable to move. Brooke wanted to do something, anything to reassure her but before she could even look at Jan, Gigi’s cold grey eyes met her own.

“Nicky,” she turned to her boss, her cheerful, light voice at odds with the stare she was giving Brooke. “You go on ahead with Nina. Crystal and I are just going to have a little catch-up with a couple of old friends we haven’t seen in a while.”

Brooke wasn’t easily intimidated and she swore that today would be no different. As Gigi and Crystal advanced towards them, she drew her shoulders back and tilted her head, not giving a single thing away on her face. She could feel Jan growing more and more timid beside her. Christ, if these girls were planning on giving her friend a hard time then they’d be leaving the department in an ambulance.

“Brooke Lynn. Jan! So good to see you both,” Gigi began, her smile smug as she rested one nonchalant hand on her hip. “God, how long has it been? When was the last time we saw these two, Crystal?”

“Gee, Gigi, I don’t know! Did they not serve us at McDonalds when we went to get nuggets a couple days ago?” Crystal chimed in, flashing a quick, amused smile at her friend. Brooke muffled a derisive laugh as she shook her head. She couldn’t quite believe the schoolyard bullshit that these adult women were trying to start in her department. Still, if this was the game they were playing, then Brooke would play accordingly.

“Clever, implying that we’re both in minimum wage retail sector jobs! Something which your party loves to shit on very often. I love it,” Brooke smiled sweetly, gently clapping her hands. Gigi gave a fake laugh.

“Ladies, relax! It’s just some classic cross-party fun, no harm meant by it. You know that, right, Jan?” she flashed her a false smile. Brooke watched as Jan, shoulders now so hunched she was practically concave, gave a meek nod in response.

“You know, we really miss you, Jan,” Crystal nodded somberly, her voice high and sweet and almost-but-not-quite masking the fake sincerity behind her words. “Nicky’s always saying how open she’d be to having you back if you’d ever want to cross the floor…again! Gigi and I miss you too. We miss our friend.”

With that, Crystal reached a hand out and touched Jan’s arm gently. Flinching a little, Jan finally met her former colleague’s eyes and gave a weak smile. Brooke felt a flame of anger sting her veins as she watched the whole interaction. It was the same every time Jan ran into these two- they would start with the bitchy high school bullshit and Jan would be unable to ignore it, growing more and more quiet and subdued with every passing comment. Fuelled by her anger and dislike of behaviour of the two girls in front of her, Brooke snorted sardonically.

“Friend? Spare me the bullshit, you’d stab yourself in the back if it meant you got ten more followers on Instagram. Now if you’ll excuse us, we need to get back to work. You know, being in power? But this has been lovely,” Brooke flashed her bright white teeth in a smile, which Gigi returned equally as insincerely. “I haven’t had the conversational equivalent of hepatitis C in a long time.”

“As always, Brooke, you’re a very funny girl. Quite the comedian,” Gigi gave a tight-lipped smile as she stepped to one side and cleared a path down the corridor for the two girls. Hooking her arm through Jan’s, Brooke began to leave and had taken roughly three steps when she yelled her retort over her shoulder.

“I’ve got a lot of jokes, but none as good as your boss!”

Still fuelled from the frustration coursing through her veins, Brooke steered Jan the rest of the way down the hall and into the small kitchen like a demented steam train. It was only after she flicked the switch on the kettle so hard she thought she might have broken it when Jan spoke.

“I know they annoy you, babe, but don’t be too hard on them.”

“Don’t be too…Jan! They were standing there making you feel like a sack of shit, I wasn’t going to sit back and let them rip you to shreds! God, I can’t believe you’re defending them,” Brooke cried, grabbing two mugs and two teabags so hard she felt they might crumble apart in her hands. Silent for only a moment, Jan began playing with the edge of a tea towel, deep in thought.

“They were my friends once though. Who knows, maybe…maybe they were being serious. Maybe they do want to be friends again.”

As the kettle reached boiling point, Brooke took one deep, calming breath and began pouring them cups of tea. Part of her hated the way that she’d been conditioned into going straight to the kettle when something was angering or upsetting either her or her friends, as if a ridiculous hot drink was going to help make things any better. Vodka, now that would go some way to really help the situation. If Brooke and Jan shared a 75cl bottle, they’d be able to get so wasted that those idiots from the opposition wouldn’t bother them anymore. The bottle would also be ideal for smashing over Gigi’s smug face. Too bad it was too early for alcohol, Brooke mused, as she handed the smaller girl a steaming hot mug of tea. As Jan gave a grateful smile and began to sip, Brooke found herself wishing she could knock some sense into her. One of Jan’s biggest strengths was very feasibly also her biggest weakness; her determination to always focus on the good in people, to ignore their flaws and instead choose to look at their positives. It was something that made Jan such a horrendous judge of character. Christ, she’d worked for the opposition for a year, after all.

Casting another glance at her friend and deciding she’d visibly gained back a little of her confidence, Brooke grabbed her own mug off the countertop.

“Right, come on,” she said decisively. “We’re going to go back to our desks and drink these up and get on with our work, because these snakes that have slithered into the department don’t change a single thing about how capable you are as a professional. Okay?”

With a stifled smile Jan led the way back to the office, leaving Brooke wondering if she could still maintain the bitchy façade she always presented to the world if she was getting this good at cheering people up.

***

Sadly that wasn’t the only encounter they had to suffer with the opposition that day. Nicky soon appeared in the department’s offices with Nina, almost as a grand finale to the tour of Dosac she’d been given so far. She watched with narrowed eyes as Nicky made her way from desk to desk of the comms team, shaking hands and smiling in a sickeningly sweet manner that made Brooke want to hurl. Gigi and Crystal hovered behind Nicky’s shoulders like little cartoon devils and angels, except in Brooke’s opinion neither of them had many angelic qualities about them.

Attempting to ignore the gatecrashers in her office, Brooke turned back to her monitor. She supposed that maybe both Gigi and Crystal were pleasant people. Perhaps even Nicky at a push. They might still have been fun and friendly people to hang out with, after all, the politics they followed didn’t define them. Suddenly remembering a very obvious exception (Hitler), Brooke sent another withering glare the opposition’s way. Hit with another pang of doubt, she reasoned that comparing Nicky Doll to Hitler was perhaps an overreaction. Tuning out of the immigration stats that sat in front of her, Brooke instead found herself listening in to the conversation between Nicky and Nina.

“The space here is lovely. Very professional, very focused. There’s maybe about twenty-five percent that I’m not okay with, though. I think I’d prefer isolation booths for everybody to work in- it’ll keep everyone more on task,” Nicky asserted, Brooke noticing out the corner of her eye how Yvie and Scarlet both recoiled in horror at the thought of not being able to chat and keep each other going throughout the day.

“Okay, so you’d prefer isolation booths in addition to the longer working hours of 8.30am til 7pm, and only half an hour for lunch,” Nina confirmed. Her hair was twice as big and frizzy as it usually was, probably as a result of tearing half of it out in frustration after the amount of hours she’d spent with Nicky.

“Christ, does she want us chained to the phones as well?” Adore mumbled. Brooke immediately tensed up- if she had heard that comment, then Nicky definitely had too. Sure enough, Nicky whipped her head round and stared Adore straight in the eye.

“That’s very funny, but no. I would not be chaining people to phones, I would simply be employing popular and common tactics that are used by employers the world over. Something which you wouldn’t have to worry about, because I wouldn’t have you working for me,” she smiled fake-sweetly, her voice getting more and more clipped as she reached the end of her sentence.

Brooke found herself praying that the opposition would never reach any position of power whatsoever if they were going to have this tiny dictator running the department. Adore had slunk down into her wheely chair, as if trying to make herself invisible. Suddenly, Brooke heard Jackie’s office door open behind her.

“What the hell is going on out here?” she muttered as she reached Brooke’s desk, looking straight at the visitors to the department. Glad of an opportunity to relieve the tension, Nina once again plastered the fake smile on her face.

“Minister, may I introduce your opposite number, Shadow Minister Nicky Doll,” she smiled at Jackie, waving a hand at Nicky as if she was unveiling a booby prize on a game show.

It was interesting to watch how the two women regarded each other. Nicky immediately narrowed her eyes, pursing her lips together in a display of agitation at no longer being the highest authority in the room. She made no show of moving to shake Jackie’s hand, in fact she didn’t appear to want to speak to Jackie at all. Instead, Jackie herself made the first move and stepped forward once, twice, finally reaching a safe distance and holding out a hand for Nicky to shake. Her face was placid and gave nothing away. Almost Sleeping Beauty-esque, Brooke thought.

“Nicky, it’s so good to finally meet you properly,” she smiled calmly as Nicky gingerly took her hand to shake. “I hope you and your team have had a good day in the department?”

“Oh yes, it’s been lovely. Although obviously there are a number of things that will need changed once we get into power!” Nicky gave a fake little laugh, her eyes still hostile.

“Well. If,” Jackie wrinkled her nose in a smile, which Nicky returned sourly.

Brooke was suddenly distracted by a buzz from her phone. Yvie.

Y: Christ there’s more fake smiles in here than the outpatients’ at a fucking plastic surgery

If Brooke had been in the mood she probably would have been howling with laughter, but the tense, uncomfortable conversation was still taking place.

“I found it interesting that you chose to highlight my disagreement with Manila Luzon in your interview with Chad Michaels. I felt it slightly undermined your point about the need to raise other women in politics up when you yourself were clearly intent on taking me down,” Nicky continued to smile falsely, the bitter undertone to her words not going unnoticed by Brooke. Jackie kept calm, smiling lazily back and raising her eyes to the ceiling.

“Oh, I don’t know about undermining my point. In order to make a good argument, you have to present some evidence to back it up, and that’s all I was doing. I’m sure you understand it was nothing personal,” she said, giving a little nod.

Nicky flared her nostrils, her face now unimpressed as she swept a hand through her hair, rendering her bun a little messy. “Well. It was lovely to meet you anyway, Jackie, but I still have numerous issues to talk through with Nina. If you’ll excuse me.”

With that, Nicky turned on her heel, not even bothering to wait for a reply. On her way back to Nina, she stopped to murmur something in Gigi’s ear, which then resulted in Gigi marching round the corner. Brooke could have followed her up, but was too distracted by Jackie coming to hover at her desk.

“Numerous issues? I’ll bet she has numerous fucking issues, God. Let’s hope that lot never get into power, she’s more unhinged than a flat pack IKEA cupboard,” Jackie whispered, causing Brooke to splutter a laugh. Jackie smirked at her reaction, then her face grew suddenly serious. “Did you know if Nina managed to get that photo op cancelled?”

“She did it about half an hour after we spoke. Jan really got on her back about it, so it was pretty impossible for Nina to wriggle out of it,” Brooke explained offhandedly, trying in vain to focus on her work. Looking up, she noticed that Jackie seemed to have a faraway look on her face.

“She’s so good, isn’t she? Jan. She’s just incredible. So organised and on it,” Jackie said quietly to no-one in particular. Confused, Brooke simply nodded. Apparently remembering where she was, Jackie cleared her throat, smoothed her skirt down and returned to her office.

Around ten minutes later, Brooke thought she was making some real headway with the persisting immigration data. That was until she almost jumped out of her skin when she felt a hand come crashing down on her shoulder. Spinning around rapidly in her wheely chair she was shocked to see Bianca looming above her, her face grave as her eyes met Brooke’s.

“Bianca, holy fuck. You scared the crap out of me,” Brooke sighed, Bianca not even cracking a smile as her grip on Brooke’s shoulder tightened and she escorted her out of the room. Brooke’s stomach churned as she was led out into the corridor. What the hell was happening, or what the hell had happened, or what the hell was about to happen?

The bright white light of the corridor contrasted violently with Bianca’s expression, which was the personification of the wrath of God itself. She was silent for a moment, which prompted Brooke to tentatively speak first.

“So, um. Why did you want to see-”

“I want to know why a certain Sasha Belle over at transport now has the very same PR stunt I very nearly passed a kidney stone to secure for Jackie,” Bianca snapped. Her voice was cold and low, and Brooke felt goosebumps prickle over her skin just hearing her speak. She felt conflicted. Half of her wanted to reveal Jackie’s personal reasons for having backed out; it was a legitimate excuse and might even make Bianca feel some form of remorse, God willing. On the other hand, it was a part of Jackie’s life which Brooke was sure she wanted to leave behind, and if more and more people knew about it, well. That would make it increasingly hard to forget. Biting her lip, she tried to tell a white lie.

“She had personal reasons for backing out. We decided as her team of advisors that it would be best if she didn’t go through with it.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass what deeply held personal fucking reasons she had against it, it is her JOB to go to photo ops, it is her JOB to give herself media coverage!”

“Well she couldn’t even if you wanted her to. Not legally anyway,” Brooke found herself saying, her voice too loud in the echoey hallway. Bianca raised her eyebrows a little, as if urging Brooke to go on. Slightly regretting having not simply kept her mouth shut, Brooke continued.

“Jackie had her driving license revoked. It was years ago- she was texting while driving and crashed on the motorway. So even if she wanted to do the damn publicity, she couldn’t,” she explained, sighing as Bianca’s face slowly took on a look of realisation. “I don’t know how you didn’t already know this, Bianca. Her license was fake, I don’t get how that slipped by you. I thought you did background checks on everyone that came within a five mile radius of the party.”

Bianca exhaled loudly, slowly running one hand down her face. She opened her mouth to speak, then shut it, then opened it again.

“When I asked you about Jackie, it wasn’t just a casual, out-of-interest enquiry. We were seriously fucking desperate. We had nothing on her, nothing on her at all apart from the fact that we knew she had a degree in politics and she’d been around the stock exchange for years. We were just desperate to get Darienne out of the party and stop the fucking spiral of madness she was driving us all down. Her position had become toxic, Brooke Lynn, nobody we approached about the job would touch it. So we needed somebody unknown, someone who wouldn’t know or understand who she was succeeding. That’s why we failed to do intensive background checks. I mean, we established that Jackie hadn’t murdered or stabbed anyone, for Christ’s sake. But everything else we had to skim over. We couldn’t have had Darienne in her job for any longer, it would have just…it would have just killed the party.”

Brooke could sort of understand where Bianca was coming from. Taking a calming breath, she suddenly felt the panic rise up in her throat again. “But Bianca, if this gets to the papers-”

Bianca cut her off, holding a single hand up in front of her face and looking down the corridor with suspicion. Wordlessly, she walked to the double doors at the end of the corridor and wrenched them open. Behind them stood Gigi, who jumped at the sudden movement.

“Oh. Hello Bianca. I was just, uh. Trying to find the toilets. This department is like a damn labyrinth, you know?” she laughed awkwardly, almost paralysed under Bianca’s glare.

“Do you want a massive cup to press against the door too, or are you good?” she quipped dryly.

Brooke’s heart began to palpitate nervously. Gigi had clearly been behind that door and listening for quite some time. How long, she didn’t know. But if she’d heard the reason why Jackie couldn’t drive, this was all different kinds, shades, textures and flavours of bad.

“Bianca, really. All I heard was that Jackie wasn’t exactly vetted properly. Which, you know, could be kind of a big story in itself, I think,” Gigi smiled cunningly. All at once, Brooke wanted to laugh. Attempting to get the upper hand on Bianca Del Rio was an interesting tactic, one which basically ensured you weren’t going to win. Deciding to step back, Brooke let Bianca take the reins.

“Oh, I see! You were looking for a story! Well here, here’s a great one for you,” Bianca smiled sinisterly, putting Brooke in mind of a predator about to pounce. “Did you know that Jaqueline Cox is sitting in that office there despite the fact her driving license got revoked? She crashed her car on the motorway because she tried to text and drive at the same time. Did you not know that?”

Brooke watched as Gigi’s face lit up at the revelation. She had to admit she didn’t really know where Bianca was going with this or what she had to gain from revealing the information to one of the Shadow Minister’s aides. As Brooke attempted to interject, Bianca simply turned and fixed her with a smile.

“You didn’t know that, no?” she asked Gigi again. She simply shook her head, delighted at what had just been revealed. “Oh, wait, of course…you wouldn’t know that! Because the only people who do know that are, um, Miss Cox…her three advisors…and me. If this information got to the press…I would know that it came from you.”

Brooke wanted to practically jump for joy as she saw Gigi’s face fall, growing very apprehensive as Bianca took two steps towards her. Her voice lowering, Bianca continued the onslaught.

“And I would rain down upon you so hard that your body would have to be re-assembled by crash team investigators-” she hissed. Gigi opened her mouth to defend herself and Bianca immediately stopped her. “- do not fucking interrupt me, girl. Now, you breathe a word of this to ANYONE, you fucking living toothpick, and I will-”

Already shaking with laughter, Brooke ducked her head out of the door and ran into the offices.

“Jan! ‘Ness! Come quick. Bianca’s going off on one at Gigi,” she stage-whispered, the two girls looking up, bemused but quickly following Brooke back to the corridor doors nonetheless. The double doors were fronted with a small pane of clear glass, which the three girls all peered through to see Bianca continuing to verbally grill Gigi, now far less composed than she was before.

“…I will eviscerate you, right? And I mean, I don’t have your education, I don’t know what that means. But I’ll start by plucking your eyes out and I’ll busk it from there. Okay? Glad we’re agreed. Have a great day.”

As Gigi stumbled back down the hall in a daze as if she’d just crawled out of an avalanche, the three girls on the other side of the door tried to compose themselves after their laughing fit.

“Bianca has such a way with words,” Jan mused, wiping tears from her eyes. “So why was she yelling at Gigi, what had she done? Looked at her?”

Brooke explained what had happened to the two girls, watching as their facial expressions shifted from confused, to fearful, then some semblance of reassured. There was still an aspect that was a little panicked, however, the knowledge that Gigi knew about Jackie’s past clearly worrying them both.  

“Look, don’t give it too much thought. Bianca has it all under control. She always does,” Brooke reassured them, shrugging as she walked back to her desk.

“Guess I’m happy to trust Bianca,” Vanessa smiled, relaxing a little. “Hey, you ladies had lunch yet?”

“Not yet. Pret?” Brooke offered, Vanessa smiling beautifully and picking up her bag from her chair. Brooke didn’t miss how Jan simply nodded silently, her face still troubled, clearly not as trusting of Bianca as Vanessa was.

***

As the three girls sat huddled around Jan’s desk eating their lunch, Brooke watched as Vanessa scoffed down her messy meatball panini with marinara sauce and mozzarella cheese that oozed out the side and made long, inconvenient strings. She could have teased Vanessa for her shambles of a lunch but she decided against it, instead choosing to compliment her.

“‘Ness, how can you eat literally whatever you want and still look so good?” Brooke asked, attempting to look offhanded but still feeling like her guts were made of jelly as the words came out her mouth. It was hugely tiresome how much more nervous and self-aware she was around Vanessa now that she’d actually acknowledged her crush on her. It was much harder to pretend things were purely platonic if she gave her a compliment.

In response, Vanessa simply smiled bashfully and shrugged, her mouth full of food. “Hey, I always wonder the same thing about you, baby. I’d kill to look like you.”

“With these thighs? Girl, no you wouldn’t,” Brooke snorted, trying to keep herself from blushing.

“You got good thighs,” Vanessa insisted, making Brooke wonder just how much attention Vanessa paid to her legs. Snapping out of it, Brooke told herself that she was probably just being kind. After a beat of silence, Jan cut in.

“Well, I know both of you find me wildly attractive and are also madly jealous of my amazing figure, which is why neither of you have said anything,” she joked through a mouthful of salmon salad. Brooke gave her a playful shove, shocked when she heard a little cry.

“Jesus, Jan! It wasn’t that sore.”

“That wasn’t me. That came from Jackie’s office,” Jan said gravely, looking at the Minister’s office door where she could just see the blonde bun belonging to Nicky peering over the strip of frosted glass. Exchanging concerned looks, all three girls made their way over.

Brooke was the first to walk in and when her gaze met Jackie’s her heart sank. She was sitting behind her desk and had turned pale, her eyes frightened and huge in her face which had gone almost ghostly white. Turning her gaze to Nicky she noticed that the girl seemed smug in some way, as if she had the upper hand. In a moment, Brooke knew exactly what had happened.

Gigi had spilled.

“Miss Doll, you ain’t actually allowed in here. This is the Minister’s private office,” Vanessa began in a valiant effort to stick up for Jackie who was clearly past sticking up for herself.

“Oh, it’s quite alright. Jackie and I were just having a little chat. A little reminisce on the past, if you like. Well. Her past,” Nicky smiled, casting an amused gaze at Jackie whose face was ashen and defeated as she sat at her desk. Brooke suddenly felt herself overcome with fury.

“I hope you’re giving Gigi a big pay rise for that information. She won’t have much time to spend it though once Bianca finds out. I’d maybe give her two…three days left to live?” she hissed, her face contorted as she glared at the shadow minister.

“Brooke Lynn, is it?” Nicky addressed her, Brooke momentarily wondering how she knew her name. “Brooke Lynn. We all know what it’s like in politics. Unfortunately if someone has some information on someone else, it’s only natural that they’re going to exploit it. And that’s all that’s happening here! It’s not personal. Just professional.”

“Like hell are you exploiting anything,” Jan spat, her face dark. Come to think of it, Brooke had never really seen her so angry, but the tiny girl was like a spitfire as she narrowed her eyes at her old boss. “You know full well where to draw the line between personal and political information. If you leak this to the media then you’re more reprehensible than the party you represent.”

“I’m sorry ladies, but this is how you play the game, and I play to win. I’m not really prepared to discuss it any further,” Nicky rolled her eyes, picking up her bag from where it sat on Jackie’s desk.

Just as she made to leave, Nicky turned to see Bianca standing in the doorway of Jackie’s office, glancing with confusion at the scene in front of her.

“Bianca!” Vanessa cried, for once happy to see the Prime Minister’s enforcer. “We were just talkin’ about how Nicky maybe shouldn’t go to the papers about Jackie…? Telling them about her driving license? Tryin’ to think of a reason why this would reflect badly on her party in some way…?”

Brooke watched as Vanessa looked pleadingly at Bianca, willing her to do something, anything to spin them out of the situation. Bianca for her part seemed calm, upbeat even.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe she should! Good idea!” she shrugged, flashing a smile Nicky’s way as she turned and made to leave the room.

Vanessa’s face immediately dropped as if she’d been slapped. Jan’s expression was completely blank. Brooke didn’t know what to think. It seemed as if Jackie was holding her breath, and Nicky simply stood rooted to the spot, her eyes still on Bianca as if she knew there was more to come. Sure enough, Bianca reached the doorframe, stopped, and turned on her heel.

“Oh, shit, wait a minute! I know why she shouldn’t! Because you know, if she did that…she’d be dead,” Bianca said simply.

Brooke watched as Nicky blinked silently at her. Bianca continued to speak.

“To me. To her advisors. To her party. To the electorate. And the only job she’d get in power is for this government’s catering company sweeping up crumbs as a kitchen cleaner, because I’d call every journalist I know, which of course- that’s all of them! Isn’t it Nicole! And I’d tell them all that lovely little story I’ve had saved for a rainy day, about a certain Right Honourable Lord Doll- how is your Dad, by the way?- and how he enjoyed a lovely five years as a member of the Bullingdon Club at university, a club so fucking morally bankrupt they had a exposé film made about them! Of course, the homeless person your Dad had to burn money in the face of for his initiation- he didn’t enjoy it so much. Nor did the live pigeon he had to bite the head off of either. And I believe there’s also rumblings about…something about a pig, which I won’t go into. And so I’d quite happily email all these journalists any photos and soundbites and CCTV footage they wanted, because I’d say…I’d say that’s quite a big story. I’d say that would probably contest a Minister’s silly little eight-year-old car accident in the running order of the ten o’clock news. That’s what I’d tell her,” Bianca finally finished calmly, smiling a little at Nicky whose mouth was now hanging open like a goldfish. Turning to Vanessa, Bianca simply nodded on her way out of the door. “But maybe you should tell her!”

Catching Vanessa’s eye, Brooke couldn’t help but burst into a triumphant grin. Vanessa returned the smile, now completely relaxed knowing that Jackie had the upper hand. Nicky was still standing completely still and hadn’t moved since Bianca had left.

“I’ll, um. I’ll ask Nina to get your coat,” Jackie addressed Nicky pleasantly, sitting at her desk and pushing a single number on the phone as Nicky simply nodded wordlessly.

Brooke wanted to burst out laughing. Bianca had her enemies in Westminster, but she was also an absolute mastermind.

***

They had made it through the day. They always did, after all. They were a great team, Brooke thought, and God help them if they were ever disbanded in any way. Sitting in a quieter corner of the office with her head tipped against the head of the sofa, Brooke took a deep breath. It was often needed at the end of days like these. Jan sat to her right, curled up against the arm of the couch and simply staring into the distance. Thinking for a moment, Brooke turned her head and stared at Jan.

“Do you think Bianca really had all that stuff to back up what she said about Nicky’s Dad?”

Jan smirked and met Brooke’s eyes. “It’s Bianca. She’s a walking, talking database. She probably has shit on all of us. She probably knows stuff about us that we haven’t even done yet.”

Before Brooke could even try to get her head around Jan’s words, Vanessa joined them. She flung herself against the sofa dramatically, gently tilting her head so that it rested in the crook of Brooke’s shoulder. For a second she could barely breathe.

“I wonder what she’s going to do to Gigi when she next sees her. Can’t imagine I’d want to be in her six-inch heels right now,” Brooke continued, trying to talk through her breathlessness.

“We talkin’ about Bianca?” Vanessa murmured, nuzzling her head against Brooke’s shoulder to get comfortable. Christ, why the fuck did she have to do that?

“Yeah,” Jan smiled wistfully. “God, I’d be running for the hills if I was her. Alyssa’s charity ball is in three weeks, remember? I wouldn’t put it past Bianca to stage a live crucifixion as the night’s entertainment.”

Brooke felt Vanessa laugh softly against her side. She was such a warm, happy person, at least when she wasn’t stressing her head off at the latest party shambles. She was too good to be working here, but Brooke was so glad that she was.

“So you’re not going to be ditching us to run back to the opposition anytime soon then? Not going to be meeting up with Gigi and Crystal for a cute little catch-up coffee?” Brooke only half-joked, turning to address Jan again. She watched as Jan’s face grew a little dark, her brow furrowing as she let out a derisive laugh.

“I’m not fucking with anyone who attempts to sabotage Jackie’s career,” she said forebodingly.

There it was again, Brooke thought, this protective side to Jan which she’d never really seen before. She didn’t think she’d ever get over how strange it was.

Footsteps behind the sofa prompted all three of them to turn around. It was Jackie- she’d freshened up her makeup a little and had sprayed some deodorant or perfume or something that smelt nice. Reaching the sofa, she gave a warm smile to the three girls.

“Thanks for your support today, ladies,” she said sincerely, leaning on the back of the sofa. “It was a tough one, but we got there in the end.”

“Sorry that Nina couldn’t arrange an alternative bit of PR in time, Jackie,” Vanessa smiled apologetically. Jackie let out a small laugh.

“Are you kidding? That was a blessing in disguise. After the day I’ve had the last thing I want to do is go and feign interest in electric cars for an hour,” she shook her head. “Seriously though, thank you. You three are a total blessing.”

Brooke was surprised when she then turned to face Jan, her expression turning a little shy. “Ready to go?”

“Yeah, two minutes. I need to pack up and I’ll be good,” Jan smiled timidly back at her, her cheeks going a little red.

“Okay. I’ll wait at the lifts. See you tomorrow, girls,” Jackie said finally, waving goodbye to Brooke and Vanessa before walking away.

Vanessa tipped her head off Brooke’s shoulder to lean forward and look at Jan, who was grabbing her coat. “Where are you two off to then, Miss Ma’am?”

Jan stopped in her tracks, as if she hadn’t really been expecting the question. “Oh! Um, Jackie’s just giving me a lift home.”

Brooke screwed up her face at her friend. “A lift home? In her car? That she drives? Is that meant to be a joke?”

Seemingly realising her mistake, Jan smiled and shook her head. “I meant her driver. Her driver’s going to drop me home on the way back to Jackie’s.”

Brooke sat blankly for a moment, turning to Vanessa and seeing her face hold the exact same expression. Vanessa laughed in disbelief. “Your flat’s five minutes away, you lazy shit!”

“Hey, give me a break! I’m exhausted, a five minute walk is still a walk I don’t want to do, and I’ll take what I can get,” Jan shrugged, grabbing her bag and making to leave. “Bye, girls. See you both tomorrow.”

Brooke gave a tired reply as Jan made her way out of the department. Sighing, Vanessa leant against the arm of the sofa, kicking her legs over Brooke’s lap and subsequently causing Brooke’s pulse to quicken by about 90%. They sat in silence for a moment, Brooke’s brain too full to even contemplate starting a conversation. Luckily, it was Vanessa that spoke first.

“Do you think something’s goin’ on there? Between Jackie and Jan?”

Brooke paused. If it were any other situation, she’d maybe have thought Vanessa was right. But this was work, and sometimes people got incredibly passionate about their party and the people that ran it. Jan had had to put up with Nicky, and then Darienne. It was only natural that now that she was finally working for someone competent of course she was going to want with every fibre of her being for that person to do well. Turning to face Vanessa, Brooke made a doubtful face.

“No, girl. Jan’s just loyal. She wants to see Jackie do well. That’s all I think it is anyway.”

Brooke watched as Vanessa knit her brows together, frowning momentarily then casting her gaze into her lap.

“You know-” she began, then cut herself off as she decided against saying whatever she had to say. Then, changing her mind, she began again. “I swear you’re so blind half the time, Brooke Lynn. I think you have your guard up so high you can’t even see when someone has feelings for someone else. It’s kinda…I don’t know. Anyway. It don’t matter.”

Brooke watched, astounded as Vanessa swung her legs off her lap and stood up. Her face was bright red, as if she was embarrassed in some way. Brooke felt she had to reply, but she had no idea what to say or how to respond. She simply blinked at Vanessa, as if her last ditch attempt at communication was morse code.

“I’ll, uh. I’ll see you tomorrow then?” Vanessa continued, smoothing down her dress and smiling as if she hadn’t said a thing. Going along with the façade, Brooke nodded slowly. “Bye, Brooke.”

As Vanessa’s footsteps retreated down the office and into the lift, Brooke just stared straight ahead and tried to make sense of what Vanessa had said, or what it even meant, or what the implications were. It had felt like she was mad at her in some way, although Brooke couldn’t figure out what she’d done. What had she meant by it all? It made Brooke’s head hurt.

She was still there when the cleaners arrived half an hour later, and she still hadn’t managed to unscramble her brain. Giving up, Brooke grabbed her coat and bag and made her way to the lifts, stuck with the feeling that somehow she’d left something behind.

[chaosworthyarchive]

                                                                3.14.3226                                            Location ¦ Green Hill, Johnny’s Bar                                                           ————————

     The bar settled on the bare outskirts of the village was one of the newest structures it had to offer, and yet it was also one of the most lively. Even now in the early afternoon the sound of clinking cups, plates and animated conversation between the Green Hill citizens came from the restaurant. Adults and children alike were laughing over the ambient music playing from the building’s speakers, and despite the noise there was a peaceful air among the small crowd. The air of comradery, of a community that thrived together.

     Among it, gathered on the other side of the building where the bar was settled and currently empty save for them, were three of the six Freedom Fighters. And one, very shiny guitar. It went without saying that Sonic and Mina were passionate about music, and even that was putting it very lightly, but Johnny had a similar interest, or at least he had when the hedgehog mentioned his latest splurge. The rabbit was currently fixated on the purple hued instrument, eyes taking in the off gold trim and extricate bird design on the neck. It was fitting for the hero and even Mina was having a hard time not admiring it as the three of them conversed.  

     They had been talking about nothing in particular, simple day to day things, when the backdoor, the one within the kitchen, opened. A few moments later a rather rugged but, friendly looking, older rabbit walked through the double swinging doors. Upon settling his gaze on the group, a hearty laugh erupted from his throat and he smiled.  

     “Ain’t this a sight for sore eyes,” he began, smirking as he looked from Johnny, his son, to the blue hedgehog. Johnny’s father was a tall, darker furred rabbit with a gruff appearance but a good heart. Kind despite his size, but strong (something the hedgehog was reminded of as the rabbit hugged him outright). Often away on business it was rare that the elder was seen around the village and it had been a long time since the hero had done just that, let alone had a conversation with the man who had been a big part of his childhood. They had both been busy over the last few years, to say the least.

     It was something he could tell was going to be remedied as the older rabbit looked him over, that grin growing in a way both proud and curious. “How've ya been? Other than that mess on the news a few years back, I mean.”

     There was a collective glance from the three younger Mobians towards one another, all three of them thinking the same thing but none of them willing to voice that thought. At least not then, and not out loud. It was probably better they didn’t anyway, no need to drag down a perfectly casual conversation after all.

    “I’m still around, so I can’t complain much about that, I s'ppose.” Sonic couldn’t help but grin back, despite the memory, and made a nonchalant gesture. “As for things...they’ve been good, great actually. An’ after everything that’s happened there’s something almost terrifying about that.”

     “I know what ya mean,” the elder agreed, nodding his head with a particular weight in his voice. It didn’t last long, however, and there was something almost scolding that took over their tone, his eyes fixed on the hedgehog. “But I’ll tell ya what, while the world’s a lot better place with you in it, if ya ever pull a stunt like that crap in the city, you’ll be hearing from me. Got it?”

     The hero did get it, very much so, and even though he could tell there were burning questions on the elder’s end the conversation continued and drifted from there. Something Sonic was thankful for. It didn’t just give the four of them a chance to catch up (or, in the case of Mina and the elder rabbit, a chance for introductions and more than a few shared, embarrassing stories at the hedgehog’s expense) but managed to dispel the weight in the air. In fact, there was something entirely new by the time Johnny’s father pointed to the guitar on the counter. He didn’t need to ask whose it was, he had a pretty good feeling.  

      “Ya still play, right?”

     Sonic would have been lying if he said he hadn’t expected the question sooner or later, and Chaos knew he could already pinpoint the look in the other’s eyes. It was a look he had seen a lot as a kid, even Johnny had recognized it and had laughed as the hero answered with: “occasionally, yeah. Do you?”

     “Hey now, don’t forget who taught ya everything ya know.” The response came with a much heartier laugh, a look of enthusiasm in the older rabbit’s eyes as he jabbed a thumb off to the side, towards a different section of the restaurant they both knew all too well. “How about we give ‘em a show? Show me that natural talent of yours.”

     Oh yes, the hero had been expecting that indeed. It was rare that he got the chance to see one of the people who had practically raised him, apart from Rosie, and yet it never failed that the same request came up every time he did. Though, this time, Sonic would admit he had walked right into it. Had his father not asked the hero had a strong feeling that Johnny would have and he would have ended up playing in some shape or form regardless. Given that the middle part of the building was a small but functional stage only added to that possibility.  

     However, even now, there was hesitance as the hero pondered the question. There was a temptation, but still a reluctance and yet before he could say anything, someone else had taken the decision out of his hands.

     “He’s in.”

     If the look the hedgehog had just shot his girlfriend was anything to go by, they were definitely having a talk later. Something that likely would have happened right then and there had Johnny not added his own response to the pile.

    “So am I.” It was punctuated by the younger rabbit clapping the hero on the shoulder, his grin just as wide and exhilarated as his father’s had become. Honestly, it was times like that when Sonic realized the pair really were the splitting image of each other. But as the older rabbit followed suit, going as far to get up and grab the bass he kept as a spare in the restaurant, the hedgehog realized he no longer had a say in what was happening.  

     He wasn’t the only one either, and as he felt a hand slip into his Sonic looked back to meet Mina's eyes. There was an apology in her jade hues, but also that fire the hero had fallen in love with. Giving his hand a squeeze, she smiled at him, a supportive gesture. "Just this once, alright? For me? It’ll do you some good.”

     “You owe me, I hope you know that.” There was a semi-serious tone to his voice, one that the mongoose answered with a look that spoke volumes as the hedgehog grabbed the guitar from the counter. If he was going to do this, might as well break in a new instrument, right?

     It only took a few minutes for everything to be set up, and Sonic would have been surprised if it hadn’t broken some kind of record. Then again, the stage portion of the restaurant was used just about every weekend so things were ready to go at a moment's notice to accommodate any person or band who wanted to play for the night. It wasn’t the first time the hedgehog had been on the stage but standing there, even with a song already in mind between the three performers, there was still a heavy feeling his gut. A feeling only marginally helped when Mina smiled from a nearby table and Johnny’s voice rang out from the drum set behind him.

     “Ready?”

     The word ‘no’ had almost jumped off the hero’s tongue but he bit it down and nodded. Trying, and failing, to ignore the rapid beating of his heart as there was some more shuffling behind him and the countdown started, the hero let his eyes slip close.

     It was funny, some voice told him, how many things could happen in a few seconds – in just a few bars. How doubts could fester, all at once and suddenly, bringing with it an utter sense of dread that had quite literally turned the hero’s stomach. How all at once, despite shaking hands and the innate desire to hide from the dozens of eyes now on him, hearing the first beats ring out into the air was almost cathartic. Like the voice of an old, cherished friend.

     It was now, or never.

     With one breath, on one beat, he sang:  

          “Standing in the rain, with his head hung low.           Couldn't get a ticket, it was a sold-out show.           Heard the roar of the crowd, he could picture the scene.           Put his ear to the wall, then like a distant scream…”

     It was almost instinctual the way his fingers moved, like it was second nature, a gut feeling that he couldn’t think to fight. A feeling he didn’t want to fight, he found. The dread, the trepidation? It had all been nullify, replaced with something far more fierce; far more real.

     He never understood it, likely never would, but just like so many times before a sense of peace washed over the hedgehog, growing stronger with every passing second. Stronger with every passing note until his mind cleared, his body relaxed and those bright eyes opened once more.  

      And he smiled.

     Not the smile of someone forcing their way through a task, not the smile of someone who wanted to flee, but the smile that spoke of a true, unadulterated joy. A joy – fun - that bled into the next few minutes, into each note, each syllable.  

     Because there really was nothing better than music. Not to him.  

[jitterbugperson]

Talentswap AU Prologue: Part 2

Yeah these are gonna come out weird, you’re gonna get a flood of updates when I have a random spike in motivation and then just radio silence for a month, that’s just how it goes.

Prologue: Same School, Same Rules, Different people - Part 1

As soon as the doors swung open, fluorescent lights even brighter than those in the hallway pierced his eyes, causing him to flinch back away from the door and close his eyes for a moment. When they opened again, he noticed an abrupt halt in the speaking, and several pairs of eyes were on him now. He felt a shiver run down his spine at their presence, feeling a strong aura coming from the students in this room. He couldn't let it get to him though. He knew what he was getting into by accepting the invitation, and he was prepared. Keeping the smile wide, he stepped into the entrance hall.

“Um, hi everyone! I guess I was a little late to the meeting, huh?” He said sheepishly, feeling his heart start racing when no one answered him, only continuing to stare.

“Sorry if I’m interrupting something.” He tacked on fast, trying to cover up his embarrassment. The tension grew when again, no one answered, until someone towards the front stepped forward.

“Are you the sixteenth student?”

Kaito felt surprised at that. This person was getting straight to the point. He turned to the voice and saw a small girl staring up at him with piercing red eyes. The first thing he noticed about her was that she was much shorter than he was (not entirely surprising considering his height), with brown hair in a loose ponytail and a deep red jacket that matched her irises buttoned over her uniform, which was mostly just a button up, tie, sleek black legging and dress shoes. He could feel her gaze peering into his brain, and he gulped, keeping his smile. <i>So this is what the Ultimates are like.</i> 

“Yup! Guess everyone else is already here?” He asks, quickly counting the others in the room with him to make sure the number was correct. The small girl hummed in acknowledgement, stared him down for a few seconds longer, then stepped back. Kaito took the opportunity to relax a bit, not realizing he was so tense until she was further away from him. He turned away from the girl to look at the others in the room.

“So, is this all like, tradition at this school? I know this school isn’t like the others, but are all of the windows and creepy lighting necessary?” He tries to make a joke to lighten the mood of the room, but it doesn’t have the intended effect. Instead, several students made eye contact, communicating something between them that he wasn’t aware of. 

One of the others, a much taller girl with sleek blonde hair in a very professional looking pink dress with a leg cut, high heels, and a feathery white boa around her neck, made eye contact with Kaito. Her gaze wasn’t as intense as the smaller girl’s, but it was still very intimidating by her sheet height alone.

“How do you remember getting here?”

That was an odd question, but considering the odd circumstances around his arrival, it may be important.

“Well, I don’t actually remember. I sort of passed out in front of the building and woke up in one of the classrooms.” He gave a small laugh, hoping it didn’t sound as nervous as he felt like it did.

At his response, the tall girl seems to get disheartened, for some reason Kaito can’t pinpoint. He hears a few sighs ring out in the group he’s in, making him more confused.

“Is… something wrong with that?”

“It’s how we all got here.” A girl with pinkish-blonde hair standing next to the one with the boa spoke up. Similarly to the boa girl, this student was dressed rather lavishly too, although more in a fashionable sense. She wasn’t wearing her uniform, and was instead wearing a several piece outfit centered around the black, white, and pink color scheme. It was fashionable, and rather provocative in some areas. She definitely had no problem showing off some skin, that’s for sure. Keeping his eyes locked with hers and away from her more… exposed areas, Kaito gave her a questioning look.

“Wait, so none of you know how you got here?” He asked, taking a step closer. Both girls shook their heads. 

“Nope. At least from what we’ve gathered so far, no one remembered much after arriving at the building. Of course, we all remember the basic stuff, like our names, our families, our talents…” The boa girl trails off at the end, her eyes unconsciously traveling to a group of three standing in the corner of the room, one of which being the girl in the red jacket who’d talked to Kaito earlier.

“Well, most of us anyway.” The girl finished off, before turning to face Kaito.

“Speaking of, none of us have introduced ourselves.” She calmly offers a hand to Kaito, along with a small, charismatic smile.

“Kaede Akamatsu. You probably recognize my last name I assume.” 

Kaito took a second to process this after taking her hand and shaking it. He did recognize her last name, but he couldn’t pinpoint exactly from where…

“OH! The Akamastu corporation!” Kaito blurted out as soon as the realization hit him. He heard some laughter next to him, and the crudely dressed girl leaned over, slinging her arm over the taller girl’s shoulders. Kaede seemed comfortable with this and made no move to retreat from the gesture.

“Hell yeah she is. My girl here’s got a fortune behind her name, so you better be nice.” 

Kaede let out a small, breathy laugh.

“She’s joking, of course. I’m the Ultimate Affluent Progeny, which sounds sort of threatening, but it simply means I’m to inherit a large fortune when I become an adult.”

“Oh.” Kaito muttered. No matter how she phrased it, that’s still threatening, especially to someone like him, who’d never gotten an allowance over $20 before in his life.

“Yup. But she works hard for that money, so don’t go thinkin’ she’s one of those pretentious brats who get everything handed to ‘em.” The pink-blonde spoke up on behalf of the other girl. 

Kaito gave them a once over, noticing their comfortable posture around one another and the fact that the pink-blonde keeps speaking up for her taller friend.

“Do you two know each other?” He questioned. They both nodded.

“My parents like me to have the best of the best, and often buy me more expensive and lavish clothes than necessary. Because of her profession, we often come in contact with each other, and we’ve become friends over this.” Kaede explained.

“Profession?” Kaito felt like he was missing some information here.

“Yup! I’m Miu Iruma, Ultimate Fashionista, baby!” She yelled out, proud and cheerful. It was a good energy to have, considering their situation. 

“Oh, yeah I think I’ve heard of you before too. You’re in a lot of teen magazines.” Kaito now recognizes her from magazines he’s seen in stores before. He’d never bought any, but he now realized where she seemed familiar from. 

After he’d said that, Miu looked him up and down, sizing him up.

“Don’t think I’ve seen you before though. You have to be big to get into this school, so what’s your deal kid?”

He mentally flinched at the use of the word “Kid”, as that was not one he liked to be used to describe him, but he didn’t comment on it.

“Uh, well it’s not special, and I’m not big like the rest of you are. I don’t really have a talent, I’m the Ultimate Lucky Student. It just means I got here through chance, they picked me out of a bunch of average students.”

Miu and Kaede shared a look, but it wasn’t one of pity or disgust like he’d been expecting. 

“That’s still a talent nonetheless.” Kaede reassures him. Miu pipes up from behind her.

“Still better than those three.” She gestures lazily to the three in the corner Kaede had looked at earlier. Kaede elbows her friend at the comment.

“Stop being rude.”

“Wait, what’s wrong with their talents?” Kaito asks instinctively. Kaede gives the three a sympathetic look.

“Well, that’s the thing. You see, Miu and I were one of the first two to wake up and make it to the entrance hall, and we’ve been gathering people’s talents since they’ve started arriving.” Kaede pulls a folded paper from a well hidden pocket in her dress, along with a pen. As she unfolds the paper, he notices the outside of it is from the card he’d seen on his earlier with the scribbled crayon writing. <i>So everyone got one of those.</i>

“I’ve been keeping a record of names and talents, but those three over there-” She gestures to them, “- don’t seem to remember their talents, unfortunately. Well, we think the purple haired one doesn’t remember. He wouldn’t tell us that or his name.”

Kaito looks at the mentioned purple haired guy, finding him to be the shortest one of the bunch. He had dark purple hair, a shade not unlike Kaito’s own, tied in a tiny bunch at the base of his neck. He was wearing very comfortable clothes of the gray, white, and black color scheme, obviously not caring for the dress code or required uniforms. He seemed fairly normal, the only defining features of his outfit being the grey and black checkered scarf around his neck, and the military-style black hat on his head. 

Kaito heard a snort from beside him, making him turn his gaze away from the short guy.

“Yeah, little asshole laughed at us when we tried to get his name and talent. I’d stay away from him if I were you, he’s definitely bad news.” Miu said, taking a moment to stick her tongue out at him, to which he didn’t respond to.

“Oh, alright then.” Kaito looks at the three outcasts of the group, standing away from the others, composed of the purple haired guy, the girl in the red jacket, and someone else he hadn’t talked to or heard about before. He was furthest away from the group, keeping to himself. He was dressed modestly, in normal everyday clothes of a darker hue. He had navy blue hair, from what Kaito could see underneath the large hat he kept his face hidden under. 

Kaito broke his gaze away, realizing he was staring, turning instead to face the two girls.

“So uh, what about the others? You’ve been keeping track, so I’m guessing you know the names and talents of the other nine?”

Kaede nodded.

“The others were much more cooperative, and didn’t seem to have any trouble sharing their talents with me.”

She looks up at Kaito.

“Are you interested in learning about the others?” She asked. Kaito nodded without hesitating.

“Oh, alright then.” She looks down at her paper, and begins to read them off.

[prettyboy-parker]

good boys, bad boys

chapter 1: roller baby

words: 1.5k

warnings: homophobic language

read on AO3 here 

masterlist

***

Peter’s exhausted.

Usually, he loves trying on clothes and doing his own makeshift fashion show, but it’s already been an hour and he hasn’t been making any progress.

“No. I don’t like it. Too...” MJ taps her pen on her chin, “Basic.”

Peter lets out an exasperated sigh.

“Come on MJ, I’m losing my patience. These are Guess jeans, they’re practically the nicest thing I own!” He huffs, turning to step over piles of clothes to head back to his closet.

Okay Peter, think.

He turns to sift through a pile of graphic tees, pulling out a pink MTV shirt. With some newfound inspiration, he grabs black running shorts from the other pile. He quickly shucks off his current outfit, hiding from MJ’s view behind his door.

“Okay, this is the last outfit.” He shouts, emerging from the cramped closet into his messy room.

“Yes! That’s the one!” MJ exclaims, tossing her comic off of her lap and bouncing over to Peter.

“Casual but cute.” She quips, straightening his shirt and then taking his hands in hers.

“You’ve got this.”

“I’ve got this.”

MJ grins.

“That’s the spirit. Now go get ‘em, Tiger.”

Peter drops her hands, turning to pick up his socks by his dresser.

“Besides, it’s not even a date.” He says solemnly, sitting on the ground to slide on his Chucks.

MJ lets out a scoff.

“Sure. And if you take any longer I’m biking home alone.”

The ride to Skateland Roller Rink is peaceful, MJ bidding her goodbyes as they neared her house. He knows the route to the rink like the back of his hand, and soon he’s nearing the ugly neon sign claiming ���Free Skate on Tuesdays!”

He parks his bike on the bike rack, when a voice calls out:

“Peter!”

Peter turns to see the shining face of Steve Rogers.

Steven Rogers is a junior like Peter, a leading quarterback on the football team and an all-American boy. With light blonde hair and striking blue eyes, the entire female student body fawns over him. His baby blue polo is paired with khaki shorts and Converse matching Peter’s own.

He smiles and waves back, jogging over to where Steve is standing next to the front entrance.

“Hey, Steve!” He chirps, taking the 5 dollar bill out of the waistband of his shorts.

“Glad you showed up.” Steve says with a smile.

God, his teeth are bright.

“You know I’d never leave you hanging.” Peter responds, nudging him with his shoulder lightly, before wrapping his dainty arms around Steve’s large figure, pulling him into a hug.

“No need to worry, I’m here!”

Stephen Strange emerges from the parking lot, waving his wallet in the air.

Stephen is also a junior, one of the brightest in the grade but also one of the richest. With sharp facial features, light blue-green eyes, dark brown hair, and a tall lanky figure, he’s one of the top romantic interests in the school. Being a part of Steve’s entourage helps him up the social hierarchy, though. Not to mention that both his parents are some form of doctors, and they live in the nicest neighborhood in town.

“Stephen!” Peter squeals, the other’s arms already outstretched in anticipation of a hug.

Stephen has told him many times before that he’s not a hug person, but most people can’t resist a hug from Peter Parker.

“Hey Pete. Had to run to get my wallet.”

“No biggie.” Peter tells him, pulling away to survey his outfit.

He’s dressed more casually than usual, a plain navy t-shirt with jeans.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Peter spots the semi-familiar face of Pietro, making it clear that Stark and his guys are here tonight. Peter doesn’t know his last name, but he’s seen him around enough to get a first name and an idea of what he looks like.

“Steven Squared! My favorite Stevens in the school.” Pietro shouts with a bit of bite to his words.

Steve visibly tenses, eyes becoming dark.

“Actually, we wouldn’t be squared, because our names are spelled differently.” Stephen mutters, earning a soft giggle from Peter.

“Shut up, Pietro. What are you doing here?” Steve snaps, moving closer to Peter.

Pietro smirks, left hand resting in the pocket of his leather jacket, while the right raises his cigarette to his mouth. He takes a long drag of it, blowing smoke into their faces.

“Can ask you the same thing. What’s with the hostility? Thought you were the peace love and happiness kid.”

“Maximoff, if you don’t shut the fuck up-“

“You’ll what? Beat me up? I’ll just sit here and take it then, putting all the blame on you.” Pietro sneers, tossing his cigarette on the ground and crushing it under the heel of his Doc Martens.

Peter prays that they don’t get into a fight.

“I’ve got places to be, Rogers.” Pietro huffs, pushing past Steve and stomping up the steps to the skate ring.

“What’s his problem?” Stephen asks, staring at where Pietro went off to.

“Don’t know. He’s just a dick.” Steve grunts.

Peter doesn’t understand, because Pietro wasn’t really provoking them.

If anything, Steve is the one who started the hostility in the first place.

“Come on, Pete. Let’s go skate.” Steve says softly, placing a light touch on his wrist. Peter smiles and follows him inside.

To much protest, Steve pays for all their entrance fees, letting them get their skates and excitedly pulling Peter and Stephen to the rink. They sing along to the music, trying to dance while skating. It’s loud and bright but they all love it, that’s why it’s so crowded. Soon Peter tells the boys that he has to use the bathroom, and they tell him they’re going to get food. He skates off to the carpeted hallway with the bathrooms, blood turning cold as he sees who’s hanging out at the end of the hall.

The skates aren’t quiet, so the boys in leather turn to see the unwelcome visitor.

“Ah. It’s Peter, right?” Asks none other than Tony Stark, taking a quick puff of his cigarette.

Tony is a bit of a legend among the school community. Being the son of Maria and Howard Stark, previous owners of Stark Industries, most people around the world know of him. He’s a senior, so they’ve only talked once or twice. Peter is unlucky enough to have Business 101 with the guy. He can’t stand him, mostly because Steve has some unspoken grudge with Tony. He sits in the back of the class all day with a stupid smirk on his stupid face.

“Yeah.” Peter tries to reply confidently, but it comes out wavering.

None of Tony’s crew look sympathetic. His fear seems to amuse them.

“You wanna come get milkshakes with us, doll?” The boy behind Tony asks, speaking up.

Bucky Barnes. Peter doesn’t know much about him, except that he should really cut his hair and that he probably listens to metal. He vaguely remembers Steve mentioning he moved here from Russia when he was little. (Or was it Romania?)

“No. Absolutely not.” Peter says a little firmer this time, crossing his arms and shifting his stance in the skates.

Tony’s mischievous grin only widens.

“What? You scared? Did your mommy tell you to stay away from those bad boys, like me and Barnes? Or was it Maximoff and Barton?” He taunts, stalking closer to Peter.

Without missing a beat, Peter replies,

“My mom is dead.”

Right then and there, Peter witnesses Tony Stark’s entire facade crack. His face pales, grin wiped off his sneering face.

Peter smirks in triumph.

Much to his disappointment, Tony’s sneering grin returns.

“My mom’s dead, too. Glad to know we have something in common.”

Bucky looks at Tony like he has 3 heads. With some thought, Peter assumes that Tony doesn’t talk about his mom all that much. From hearing gossip, he’s gathered that Tony really did love his mom.

More than his father, anyways.

“Stop harassing him, Stark.”

Peter jumps out of his skin at Steve’s voice, his large hand pressed against Peter’s small shoulder. He looks up at Steve, and will admit that he was trembling slightly.

“Rogers! Always happy to see you. Is Peter your boy? Didn’t know you were a fucking fag.” Tony taunts, demeanor changing from relaxed to defensive.

“You’re in no place to call me a fag when-“

“When what, Rogers?” Tony hisses, stepping closer to both Peter and Steve, “Why don’t you tell us. Sure Coach would love to hear what you have to say.”

“Shut the fuck up Stark, you swore-“

“Please!” Peter cries out, hand on Steve’s chest and the other held out to stop Tony.

All the boys turn to look at him now.

“Cut it out. Please don’t fight.” Peter pleads.

Tony backs away, slipping his cigarette back into his mouth.

“Fine. We’re leaving.”

Tony barges past the both of them, Bucky, Pietro, and who he can assume is Barton following.

As Bucky passes by, he mutters in Peter’s ear:

“Remember darlin’, that milkshake offer is always on the table.”

tag list: @starker-flame @lurafita @sam-christo @337-years-old

[theheartchoice]

Lonely Is The Word 

teen  |  2k  |  canonverse s6  |  ao3

for @profoundnet's bi-weekly Bot Stat challenge. prompt issued: April 30th 2019 

Dean needs a beer. Cas is listening to angel radio. S̸a̵m̴ ̸i̶s̵ ̸f̵i̵n̵e̷.̸ ̷E̵v̵e̵r̵y̶t̵h̷i̴n̸g̴ ̵i̶s̵ ̷j̵u̶s̶t̵ ̷f̸i̴n̶e̷..̴.

Sam knows about his soulless gap year and Bobby's having a hard time trusting the resurrected version. Even without monsters, their lives are still a shitshow. Add in warring Angels and friggin' Purgatory-seeking Dragons and Dean just needs a second to breathe.

Dean only leaves because Sam is safe. No safer place than Bobby's. He just needs an hour or two to wrap his mind around things.

With Baby back to rights he drives 'til the sun dips below the wheatgrass horizon, no destination set in stone but half tempted to find a bar just south of the border. It's the best combo there is to clear his head: just the open road, whatever's on tap wherever he pulls up, and the right kind of company for just long enough to sate this desire to scream his lungs out - at crappy circumstance, at the Winchester family curse, at his own bad choices. 

He just wanted his brother back, is that so bad? Sam didn't deserve to be left behind - not in that place; no one does. He shudders to think how Alastair's torture might pale in comparison to Lucifer's. For Sam to go through that again - to re-discover whatever's left of him? Forget calling in Death for a quick-fix favour, because even Dean knows some things can't be fixed, can't be undone, unseen. 

Dean lives with his memories from the pit every day. Avoids 'em, as much as it's possible to do so without some magic mind-block, but he's changed forever because of 'em. And Sam might not've been the one dealing out damnation, but if time works in a similar way down there then he was Lucifer's chew toy for over a century. And if that doesn't shake anyone to their foundations just to think about then they're either a lunatic or a goddamn liar. 

Cas spelled out Dean's fear in no uncertain terms: Let me tell you what his soul felt like when I touched it: like it had been skinned alive. 

But was he right? Had Dean doomed Sam to a fate worse than death by trying to do the right thing? Trying to save him?

If you wanted to kill your brother you should have done it outright. 

Sam's fine - for now. But how long before his wall crumbles into Hellfire? The structural integrity's already been compromised, and no matter what Sam promised, Dean knows his brother: if Sam wants to right his own alleged wrongs then he'll do it and nevermind the cost to himself.  

And while Dean holds fast that whatever Samdroid did while his soul was MIA isn't on Sam, Bobby's less convinced. Just to throw another wrench in the gears of the 'better life' that was 'spose to finally be possible after the Apocalypse was averted. Not that that was really ever gonna happen. 

No Armageddon, but the tradeoff was Sam jumping into the pit. Sam gets resurrected, but his soul gets left behind. Dean gets a taste of the Apple Pie life, but hunting is his bread and butter. There's a civil war up in the clouds because (as everyone well-knows) Angels are dicks. And as if the self-crowned king of Hell trying to rip a hole between dimensions wasn't enough, apparently that little adventure is now on some dragon-dude's bucket list. 

Crazy as it sounds, Dean kinda misses the ol' days. Y'know, when all they had to do was take down a couple of overzealous Archangels. They've got shit stacking up on so many spinnin' plates right now it's impossible to tell which one's gonna be the first to topple and shatter, that crap raining down on 'em in a mess of blood and pain and one gruesome smear of trouble after another - and it'll soil a bunch of innocent people too, if they're not careful. 

Knowing their luck it probably won't be just the one plate, either. 

But when it comes to this sorta thing all they can really do is.. wait n' see. Try to be ready to divert whatever mountain of crap avalanches at them - or try to outrun it, sidewind it before the risk catches up with them and the goddamn consequences bury them alive. 

    Some small-town city limits come into view just as the clouded night kisses down the last of twilight. Dean knows this place. He can get what he needs here, on a lucky night. Hell, two out of three ain't bad. Booze? Check. Distance? Check. Company?.. Guess he'll have to wait and see. 

He'd kinda like some answers, too. Some goddamn direction to point himself in when he hits the road again. And there is a certain someone who might be able to help with that - or might not. But whatever the case, Dean wouldn't turn his company away. Maybe what he needs right now, more than anything, is a friend. 

Baby slows to a stop in the vacant lot across the street from the bar, Black Sabbath cutting out with the purr of her engine. 

"Hey, Cas.." And where the hell does he go from here? Honesty, or a passable lie? Maybe somewhere in between. "I know you think what I did for Sam was the wrong call, and.." Yeah.. okay. "..honestly, I dunno. I dunno if what I did is gonna make things better or worse in the long run. All I know is that I had to, man - I had to." There's really no more to it than that. Except maybe just, "I could really use a friend, right about now." Reckless little brother, uncle who lied to him for a year; seems he can't really go wrong seeking the advice of his Angelic best friend, right? Even if he has been out of sorts since their little reunion. Better than the alternatives at least, even if there is a year of space between them now. 

Dean'd be lying if he said he didn't wonder what Cas got up to during that year. Caught himself before shooting off a prayer more than once. Maybe just to check in, maybe to brainstorm ways to save Sam. His spirit - already struggling to dry off from the shitstorm of their lives - was dampened to learn that Cas wasn't the one who saved Sam from The Cage - or tried to. Cas did try though, so maybe that's somethin'. 

In the time it would take for Heaven and Hell to play out the last few bars of track seven and most of the closing number, Dean sits alone in the driver's seat, headlights lighting the way to nowhere, waiting. 

Turns out to be just another mistake in a long line of dumbass mistakes, another mark on the board for his tally of bad choices. Baby purrs back to life half only half a minute before she's put to sleep again and Dean's stalking away into the bar. 

    "—Castiel?" Rachel's voice pulls him back before his wings denote a telltale stretch - still a reflex he must wilfully deny. "Is something wrong?"

Yes. "No, I was just.. listening." 

Her eyes harden, and Castiel has been made accustomed to that look over the last mortal year as she nods. "Raphael's soldiers think blocking our channels with their rhetoric will hinder our efforts, but his numbers are not what ours are. And they can't affect our communications for much longer." 

Of course. It is a tactic only effective in the short-term, for the amount of energy required to interfere would significantly drain the Angels pervading the etheric communicative transference. 

She proceeds to inform him of their recent losses in battle along with how many of Raphael's soldiers were presumably wounded or killed. 

Castiel dreads such knowledge perhaps most of all; knowing the extent of Angelic grace being spilled in a war that would not be waging if not for his actions, his choices alone. The only reprieve he finds from the guilt is in the belief that Raphael would have spilled more - and destroyed the Earth, as well - if Castiel and his brothers and sisters had not taken up arms against him. 

He manages a tight-lipped smile, something enough to satisfy that he understands. "Have we any more news of the missing weapons?" 

"Not yet." 

"Then I suggest you get back to it." 

In the very least, being the Commander of garrisons affords him seniority, and with it the propensity to not have to explain himself further. 

She takes her leave, and once he feels her grace reach an adequate distance in the aether, in her absence, he takes flight. 

The familiar silhouette of one 1967 Chevrolet Impala is almost indistinguishable from the night sky, if not for the gleam of street-lamps off the polished metal belying an impression of the sun. 

The moon is hidden tonight, as are the multitudinous stars of this galaxy - a favourite among many Angels throughout the eons. However, given the events of recent times, Castiel suspects he may be one of few Angels who prefer it over other galactic creations primarily for its housing of one particular solar system, which bears one particular planet, upon which a very special species makes its home. 

Dean is gone. 

The bar seems his likely destination, and if Castiel concentrates, allowing his Grace to reach out and survey the atmosphere.. yes. He can feel him near: warm and alive, though not at peace. He has never known what it is to feel Dean at peace in the mortal realm. There was a singular moment - fleeting and seeming so long ago, now - when his Grace touched Dean's soul raw and exposed; it seized his fear, incentivised Dean to feel safe, to trust in Castiel's intentions.

It was something akin to peace, perhaps relief. At the time, Castiel had thought it might be resignation to God's plan. But as he came to know Dean, he came to interpret that feeling as something intensely personal and not at all connected to The Grand Plan. 

Perhaps, once Castiel completes his mission, once he stops Raphael and prevents the Apocalypse for all good, Dean will know peace. He deserves that much. He deserves much more. 

The inside of the Impala is cool. Not as cold as the night air outside, but enough that Dean wouldn't be comfortable if he were to emerge from the bar this instant. Castiel places a hand on the dashboard, and while the engine remains silent, the interior comes alive in light and sound and air-ventilated warmth. 

The music is not familiar, despite having listened through much of Dean's collection during his time with the Winchesters. Over the past year Castiel has not regretted safeguarding Dean's chance for peace, his life away from supernatural beings and the chaos and destruction they wrought. Although, he will admit to a certain discernible ache for their foregone time together; on the road within this now-familiar vehicle, or in whatever capacity Dean would have allowed, in any way that he might have needed Castiel's help. 

The war in Heaven is not going well, despite Rachel's assurances. Without weapons at their disposal, Raphael's forces will soon diminish their own and all will suffer because of Castiel's failing. Which is precisely why he cannot fail.

Castiel always knew the chance of defeating an Archangel on his own was impossible, and therefore anything that could afford him victory in this war - to end the graceshed, to save Humanity, and the Earth, and Heaven from itself - then he must take it. 

But even against all reason, all dangers considered, there are times when Castiel, too, does want for a friend.

For one friend, in particular. 

..been higher than stardust 

I've been seen upon the sun 

I used to count in millions then 

But now I only count in one 

Come on, join the traveler 

If you got nowhere to go 

Hang your head and take my hand 

It's the only road I know.. 

If only Castiel could pray to Dean. 

..Yeah, Lonely is the word 

Got to be the saddest song I ever heard.. 

But the want of a friend is selfish, dangerous. 

Drawing Dean into the skirmish of Angels would further remove him from any chance at peace. And that, Castiel decides, is not worth the win. Even if Dean wants to help, he cannot allow it. He must keep Dean safe, and far away from the destructive reach of Heaven's current state. 

..Yeah, Lonely is the name 

Maybe life's a losing game. 

[overdrivels]

The Way to a Heart (15)

Wow that took longer than expected, but I hope it was somewhat worth the wait. The next chapter should have some certain things revealed.

<<Chapter 14

It is not something Hanzo would have or could have known beforehand, but the sheer number of things that come to light after the failed attack is earth-shattering, and not even half would be covered by day’s end.

It starts with Lúcio and Soldier rushing you out of the kitchen and toward the medical bay with Zenyatta floating behind, who gives him a painfully meaningful look without being able to change his expression at all.

The look keeps his feet glued to the ground, stops him from chasing after them.

Not that he had any good reason to do so. There was nothing he can do. Assassin as he is, he cannot help a dyi—an injured person except to end their suffering. That fact and the memory of Zenyatta's silent request keeps his feet stuck in place.

Soldier barks an order to Mei who comes rushing in, looking grimly resolute and with her homemade gun in hand, taking aim and sealing the Cellar door with a well-placed ice wall before pointing it at their new found prisoners.

Never before had Hanzo seen such a look on the bubbly scientist—it is so alien on her, but so eerily familiar; Hanzo sees it in the mirror and on the veterans who turn away when their faces are cast in the dark. He grits his teeth and turns away, lamenting his inadequacies.

If only he were faster. If only he had known. If only he dug deeper, pried harder, tried harder, then none of this would need to happen.

It’s not until this moment that he needs to know what is in that Cellar more than ever and what occurred here.

But that need is quickly forgone (but not forgotten) when McCree arrives on the scene, a little winded and more than willing to be put to work, helping Hanzo and Winston ‘escort’ the Talon agents they have in their grasp down to the few holding cells the base has, leaving Mei and Snowball to fend for themselves.

“I’ll be fine. Go on ahead,” she manages through a forced smile before turning her attention toward the sealed door.

The cells are not well-fortified or separated enough from the rest of the infrastructure, but they’ll have to do. It will at least keep any more blood from being spilled if he so chooses to beat their faces in.

McCree calls the shots here, instructing Winston who clumsily tries to follow with the hands of someone who has never had to restrain or frisk another living being before.

Questions upon questions crowd in his head which he has to stuff away into the very recesses of his mind where an avalanche of other, older questions reside, threatening to spill over and out of his mouth in an endless stream. He clamps down on that urge, focusing on his current task, methodically checking the belongings their prisoners, divesting them of all weapons, communicators, or anything remotely useful.

This, at least, he is familiar with and good at (and if he had a choice, he’s just strip the people naked and yank out the circuits of the Omnics and leave them—though he knows that would not stop the best of assassins like himself).

It’s a good distraction.

He even has the presence of mind to search the inside of their mouths and common areas where small implements could be held (not that he believes any of them have that sort of resolve, but it’s always best to be thorough—he cannot fail his responsibilities).

One or two of them put up a token resistance, but they're no match for Hanzo, McCree, or Winston. It’s cute, if irritating.

Looking through their belongings yields nothing. It's the standard fare of guns, ammunition, night vision goggles, and the like. The communicators are encrypted with more than just the standard fingerprint scanner.

The end result is a pile of junk that is left for Athena to process later.

“All right, boss, how d’you want to do this?” McCree asks after he’s inspected Hanzo’s and Winston’s work. The cowboy is a lot more thorough in looking at them, nearly getting spit in his eye for it. Strangely enough, it didn’t seem to bother him; he just moves on like he was used to it.

Winston looks confused, a little unsure. It’s hardly the look of a leader. “Pardon me, but do...what?”

McCree jerks his chin at the three cells Talon occupies, who watch them all with defiant trepidation. (It's hard to take them seriously when they've been relieved of everything but their underthings.) “What’re we gon’ do with ‘em. Turn ‘em over to the Gibraltar authorities or hang on to ‘em?”

“We interrogate them, of course,” Hanzo snaps without hesitation, pulling his shoulders back and glaring at each Talon agent with a look that makes nearly every one of them flinch.

Winston looks taken aback. “Interrogate—?”

"Hang on jus' a sec."

McCree walks over to a control panel nearby and does something that makes hard light walls appear in between the empty spaces of the bars.

"It's so that they can't hear us but we can hear them," he explains as he returns, his back to the cells. "And s'much as I’d like t’ agree, I can’t condone that, partner. Or if we do, we gotta do it lawfully.”

“Since when did you care about the law?” Hanzo sneers, more biting than he had intended.

The cowboy just throws him a shrug that looks like it took more effort than it should’ve to seem nonchalant and then looks at the cell where Talon is being kept.

“Since we became ‘Overwatch’, I guess.”

He bites back a snappy remark to that, because as much as it stings Hanzo to admit it, McCree had a very good point.

This isn’t Hanamura or the right political climate to do the stuff that Hanzo would have liked. Hanzo's brand of interrogation ranges from literal heavy-handedness to threats that are often followed through. He had the luxury of doing so because his Shimada clan was the law. This is different. Trying to rebuild Overwatch and establish its legitimacy is already a herculean effort; adding further criminal activities to the fray would only hinder their efforts now and in the future.

"I say we hold off until we have a better grasp of the situation," Winston suggests. "It's unclear if this is the only attack or if this is just a scouting force. We should try to regroup and solve this together."

McCree scratches the side of his face thoughtfully before he shrugs.

"You're the boss."

"...understood."

So he has no choice but to (figuratively) sit on his hands while Winston tries to gather his thoughts and the statuses of every reachable agent.

The questions come back again along with a new sort of unease that slithers beneath his skin, the why’s and how’s chipping away at his concentration.

This unease is not brought on by instinct—that has long faded away—but by the familiar makings of his own mind.

Each recollection of you brings about a different detail for him to focus on. It replays for him over and over in an all too familiar way.

The paleness of your face. The shallow, shuddering breaths that shook your body. The amount of blood, too much and already coagulating, and what seemed like it could have been viscera peeking out from the bullet torn portions of your shirt—regular civilian shirt.

You weren't even wearing your uniform.

It's such an innocuous and negligible fact, yet the thought of it is shocking.

You never intended to return, did you?

Talon may have very well forced you here in the middle of whatever you were doing.

If so, what is Talon after? Is it supposed to be a message? To whom? What’s the message? And why did it involve you?

The simmering anxiety rises, twists in his stomach with a mix of cold, dripping horror and perverse intrigue.

What is your involvement with this? Or is it because they know you’re involved with Overwatch and they wanted to make an example out of you just to show they’re not above such means? But if that were the case, then they would've been more flashy about it, not sneaking around like thieves.

Maybe you yourself were involved in Talon’s operations and you had been double-crossed by them?

He shakes his head violently and runs both hands through his hair, which he thinks he can feel grow even more grey with each unanswered question that ailed him.

No. It’s not possible. You’re just a chef. Like the many times he’s told himself before, you’re not capable of something that would get you in trouble with people so dangerous as Talon. It's illogical—what would Talon have to offer you that Winston couldn't get for you? Money? Fame? Threatened your friends and family?

His head snaps up with a potential realization, startling McCree whom he pays no mind to.

Is that why there are no other chefs? Were they captured and used as hostages?

But then wouldn’t Winston have known about it? Underneath the roof and protection of the once-mighty Overwatch, a few chefs shouldn’t be a problem for Winston to send protection for. (Though Hanzo knows the reality wouldn’t be so simple given Talon’s underhanded tactics and Overwatch’s current reputation.)

But even if the other chefs were captured, there should be no reason for you to risk health and hunger. There would be no reason for you to be kind to anyone or work so hard in the middle of the night.

The more cynical side of him rears its head: unless it’s a ploy for you to get closer to everyone. Listening in on conversations, stealing plans and passing along information while pretending to care about them.

“Y’mind thinkin’ any louder? I can almost see the steam risin’ from your head.”

Hanzo shoots McCree a glare, but he doesn’t seem the least bit cowed by the look. Instead, he seems amused.

“I guarantee whatever you’re thinkin’, it’s probably not what it looks like.”

The audacity. What would McCree know about what he's thinking? He bites back a scathing comeback that he so desperately wants to make. Instead, he settles with an "Is that so?" through clenched teeth.

"Yep." He looks fairly confident, flashing Hanzo a grim grin that looks a touch menacing behind the shadow of his hat. "Either you're assumin' Chef sold out or we're gettin' played like a deck o' cards."

Hanzo says nothing, sour. It's irksome to know that McCree is already several steps ahead of him in something that he should be good at.

"Bold assumption."

"It's only logical."

"Even if those were my thoughts, how are you certain it is neither of those options?"

McCree chuckles but it's bereft of any actual amusement. It's bitter and sticks to him fiercely like there's a story that needs to be told and is begging to be heard.

"Let's just say I got my sources."

"Either provide answers or do not bring it up all," he snaps. With the situation being as blackboxed as it is, he has no time to be playing idiot mind games. Those days of political tiptoeing and nasty implications are over and Hanzo prefers to keep it that way.

McCree seems to consider that for a minute before reaching into a pocket and pulling out a silver case, popping it open to get an unlit cigar to mull on.

The urge to smack it out of his mouth is tempting, but he crosses his arms, hands firmly tucked beneath his armpits hard enough to at least numb them a little so McCree would have a bit of a fighting chance should it come down to it.

"Since you asked so nicely," he starts sarcastically, casting a glance at the Talon members in their cells. "Been checkin' up on the chef since it ain't usual to go AWOL so long. Chef ain't too good at keepin' secrets or duckin' under the radar like the rest of us. So I did some trailin' and found out a few things."

He pauses, looking briefly to the ceiling. More solemnly, he says, "Whatever happened last night wasn't supposed t' have happened. Chef bit off way more than I think even any of us can chew. Heart's in the right place, but…”

McCree hums around his unlit smoke. “Sometimes when you’re too single-minded tryin’ to do something for people, y’ end up hurtin’ everyone around you.”

Something dark wells up from the bottom of Hanzo’s stomach, muting the unease throughout his body.

He utters coldly, “Are you implying something?”

“Nope.”

Hanzo squints at McCree, trying to ascertain the truth behind his words. McCree raises his hands, palms up in clueless surrender. It’s vexing that he would know so much and give so little. It’s not an unfamiliar game with him but usually he had the power to end it.

“And what is it that Chef did?”

The cowboy takes the cigarillo out of his mouth, rolls it between his fingers, and holds it. He takes a pensive breath, and leans forward.

"To help—"

“Agents, your presence is requested over Channel 6. Please check-in,” chirps Athena from out of nowhere.

Hanzo stares at the ceiling in disbelief. This sort of thing could not have been accidental.

He sends McCree a look that he hopes conveys very clearly that this conversation is not yet over. He only gets a shrugs in return before they both tune into the 'official team conversation' on their communicators.

The screen is split into parts and the only ones who look like they're in the same place are Winston and Soldier, who surprisingly, is missing his signature jacket. Winston clears his throat loudly, shuffling some papers that look like they're more for show than any actually notes. There is the noted absence of several people—the most notable being Genji—and he can't be sure if he's grateful or resentful of the fact.

“Thank you everyone for being available on such short notice."

A chorus of echoed sentiments sound off.

"For those who are unable to make it or have become unreachable, we will update them as soon as possible." There is also the distinct lack of Junkers though Hanzo isn't sure if that's intentional or not. "But since this matter is most pressing, allow me start.

"At 0451 today, seven Talon members entered Watchpoint: Gibraltar proper. The exact method of entry has not yet been confirmed. The chef was injured as a result and is currently undergoing treatment. The connection between Talon and the chef is not known at this time.”

Morbidly, Hanzo thinks that Winston has gotten a bit better at speaking to crowds and probably took some time to actually pull himself together.

“Unfortunately, we are unable to confirm this. It seems all cameras inside the kitchen were turned off some time ago—”

"Wait. The cameras? In the kitchen? They were turned off?"

Winston fumbles, stuttering at the sudden outburst from Fareeha, ruining any semblance of confidence or authority he had at the beginning.

Athena explains, “Several months ago, the chef had asked for them to be turned off for privacy reasons."

Security agent that she is, the dumbstruck look on her face is almost expected. Winston seems to know this, shrinking just slightly. “How could you let that happen? A chef does not get to override basic security protocols! Who even authorized this?" she shouts, fist raised and ready to strike, but she unfurls it and presses her fingers to her head, muttering, “What were you thinking?”

Suddenly Hanzo is reminded very vividly that she is Ana’s daughter. It seems that he’s not the only one with that thought as Soldier looks away from the screen for a moment to cough away something that sounds suspiciously like a laugh.

“As the kitchen currently belongs to the chef, the request for privacy was granted after some consideration.”

“The kitchen is Watchpoint property and is a public space. There is no expectation of privacy in a public space," she stresses, irritated and grumbling beneath her breath. “Are they turned on now?”

“Affirmative, though leaving them on 24/7 will expend a large amount of power that the Watchpoint cannot sustain, I recommend setting up motion sensors in the kitchens using the remaining inventory.”

“We’ll do that then." Clearly, the Helix agent had a lot more to say, but her lips are pulled tight and the glare she has aimed at Winston does not alleviate any of the tension in the room. “Continue.”

Winston clears his throat, takes a breath, and raises three fingers. “Right. So here's the plan. We regroup. We secure the base. And we get answers. Tracer, will pick up as many agents as possible in the next two hours. After that, Tracer's group will meet up with Ms. Vaswani who will then use her teleporter to bring everyone to the Watchpoint."

A globe appears on the table in front of Winston, the blue light illuminating the shadows and weary lines on his face. Red dots appear with a bubble of several agent's faces, a line mapping the course for Tracer connecting each of them.

"Agents Pharah, Reinhardt, Symmetra, and Torbjörn are projected to be in your path for pickup. The second round will likely have Mercy and several others. As several agents are still not responding with their locations, we will do an availability check when the first group returns."

"Hey! What about me?" A new voice chirps from what seemed to be Reinhardt's screen. From the back of the giant of a man, a ponytail peeks out before the curious face of a young woman appears.

"Oh! Brigitte!"

"Of course you can."—"Of course you can't!"

Reinhardt and Torbjörn stare each other down from their respective screens. The effect is diminished when they’re looking in different directions on Hanzo’s screen.

"No civilians," Soldier stresses.

"But Dr. Zhou is a civilian."

At the mention of her name, Mei jumps to attention, the slightest bit of a blush on her face, hands up defensively.

Soldier: 76 looks like he's holding back a sigh; the weight of it can even be felt through the screen. "Dr. Zhou was formerly Overwatch. A different branch, but still Overwatch."

"Then what ab—"

"No, Brigitte. I told you not to get involved."

"But Papa!"

Winston holds up a hand and pinches his head with the other. "Please. Save your bickering for later."

"Coming anyway!"

"Brigitte!"

Winston clears his throat loudly, picking up and tapping his stack of papers against the table. The map disappears at his silent command, as does the family argument.

"You all have your assignments. Details for pickup and transportation will be sent through a series of secure messages. Time is of the essence if we don't want another surprise attack. Is everyone clear?"

""Clear!""

"Yes, sir!"

""Crystal!""

"Understood."

"Right, then meeti—"

“Wait, Winston?”

“Yes, Mei?”

Mei puts down the hand she raised, concern etched all over her face. “How...is the chef's condition?"

The conference falls silent, all eyes on Winston who sags just a little bit as though the weight of everyone’s gazes are pinning him down. Hanzo unconsciously leans forward into his screen, pressing the volume up button twice.

"We're waiting for a full diagnosis from Dr. Zielger. Until then, we can't say." After a pause, Winston adds, "However, based on the information I received from Zenyatta, the chef’s condition may be...precarious.”

Hanzo sucks in a sharp breath.

“Bu-but not to worry! Dr. Zielger is currently working remotely and is overseeing the treatment along with Zenyatta and Lúcio.”

“Why did Talon hurt Chef?” Zarya asks from her panel. “Chef does not fight, does not leave, has no business with Talon.”

Winston shakes his head. “We’re still trying to find the answers. We have to wait until Chef is better or until Talon decides to talk.”

“Oh, we’ll make them talk, all right…” mutters Torbjörn beneath his breath, his metal claw clinking menacingly. No one else seems to disapprove of the idea, and it is the slightest bit relieving.

They wouldn't let you die. If there was one redeeming quality about this mess of a ragtag peace-keeping organization, it's that they would never abandon one of their own (for better or for worse). At least they all seem to trust in you, believing in your innocence even if Hanzo is still skeptical.

"Winston, a moment.” Satya looks as prim as ever, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I recall Watchpoint: Gibraltar and it's perimeter was fully equipped with turrets prior to this incident. From which point did Talon manage to enter the premises?"

"That's, ah, still being investigated."

"Give us a break, Winston!” Torbjörn shouts so loud that even his screen shakes. “It's the Cellar, isn't it? Always knew that'd be trouble."

Again, it’s Fareeha with the hard hitting questions and demands. “Winston, I think it’s about time you tell us what’s in the Cellar. If Chef was attacked in the kitchen, there is no way Talon got in through the front doors. So talk. What’s in the Cellar?"

The tension becomes palpable even through the screen as everyone’s attention is focused on Winston. His eyes dart around, seeking answers before they settle on Soldier, after which he closes them and takes a deep breath.

“To tell you the truth,” he says ever so slowly, “I don’t know.”

"What do you mean 'you don't know'? You're the commander—"

“That information is classified.” Soldier uncrosses his arms and leans heavily into the table before him. It’s strange to see it now, but he really is much more well built than his silhouette implies, scars running up and down his shoulders and arms. Hardly the look of someone who calls himself ‘old’.

Several people have the decency, including Hanzo, to look affronted.

"Classi—"

"—he just said he didn't kno—"

"Stop playing dumb—"

Winston holds up his hands. "Please. Soldier. I think it's time you told us. I admit, I, too, am curious about the Cellar."

From above, Athena warns them, "It is not a wise idea to do so without the chef's expressed permission. I have assure—”

"We should not need permission from the chef," Fareeha states, voice full of the authority she likely uses with her team at Helix. “This is a matter of security. Life and death. We can prevent this from happening again and putting everyone’s lives on the line because of a promise or privacy is foolish.”

She raises a hand. "Vote: everyone who wants to know what's in the Cellar, hands up."

First, it’s Torbjörn, though from the way he speaks, he already knows. Then it’s Zarya. Satya. The girl behind Reinhardt. Ever reluctant and with a wary eye on Soldier, Winston.

Hanzo hesitates. He wants to know, but not likely this: given to him on a silver platter instead of his own prowess and investigative skills.

But knowing would be for the greater good.

He does not raise his hand. Neither does McCree.

"There. Majority.”

So quietly that Hanzo thinks he imagined it, he could swear she grumbles, "Shouldn't have to do that in the first place."

Soldier looks like he feels the same way but in a different context. He rubs the skin above his mask and gives Winston one final look that—if the mask weren’t there—might have been pleading or exasperated. The scientist returns it, lips drawn in grim determination.

Voice weary, Soldier begins his story.

“The Siege Tunnels of Gibraltar. When Watchpoint: Gibraltar was built, the architects incorporated some of it into the design plans. After the Watchpoint was built, the Head Chef at the time decided to expand the kitchen and incorporate an abandoned section of the tunnel. That expansion was the creation of the cellar.”

“How come we didn’t know about that until now?” Fareeha asks.

“It was omitted from all blueprints. The chefs kept it secret and never let anyone else near it long enough to have it mapped.”

McCree snorts from his holovideo. “‘Secret’, sure.”

“Secret enough to keep anyone from actually finding it until now,” Soldier snaps back. “Everyone knew the Cellar existed, but no one's been in there beside those cooks. If you want someone to spill their guts about it, check the operating room.”

“Listen Jack”—an icy hush falls over the room—“you knew the tunnels were down there. You knew it was a weak point. You knew Chef was there and what it’s being used for. So if you knew so much, why didn't ya stop it?”

There is something in his voice that implies the question is far deeper and far more than what is being asked.

Though is that Soldier's true name? Jack?

“I tried.”

“Tried doin’ what? Not eatin’ the chef's food?” McCree snorts, voice increasingly accusatory and taking on an edge of outright defiance and authority that Hanzo has not yet heard before from him. "You know each ‘n every single one of 'em are stubborn as a mule. You don't eat, you get it forced down your throat. You knew, Jack. You knew this would happen.”

Winston speaks up, hesitant and meek. “I—I suppose I'm partly to blame. Soldier: 76 did want to get rid of the chef because of this exact reason. I stopped it. I just didn't realize just how accessible the kitchens were. By all accounts, it is actually one of the most secure areas on base—”

“I ain't askin’ for excuses, Winston. No 'ffense, but this wasn't a decision you should've made. ‘Sorry's can't fix what landed Chef upstairs.”

“Agreed,” says Fareeha. “Security detail is not your expertise. Jack is at fault for withholding crucial information, and you made a bad call based on it. That's called...what was it again, Jack? Misconduct?”

Hanzo has long given up on keeping track of these secrets.

“So you all knew,” Soldier mutters.

“My friend,” Reinhardt says solemnly, quieter yet more powerful than Hanzo has ever heard him, “we never thought any less of you.”

There's a moment of silent agreement among all members on the call until Fareeha mutters, “I did.”

“Fareeha!”

She rushes onward, McCree’s momentum seemingly too infectious not to take advantage of. "Even if Winston is in charge, you had a responsibility as a part of Overwatch to disclose this weak point.”

"We never had the chance,” Soldier shoots back. “Chef was always there up until the past two weeks. We would ha—”

“—when Chef was gone, you could have at least taken the time to patch up your holes! What if Chef wasn’t there last night? Would you have waited until everyone got shot in their sleep?”

“That isn't the point. We needed a plan and—"

“Oh, please! You know that's not the case! Everyone could have died—"

"We had countermeasures!"

"What countermeasures? Your stup—"

“If Ana were here—”

“She’s not! You’re a fuc—”

“Everyone, enough!”

The yell pierces through Hanzo’s earpiece and everyone flinches away from the sound and the image of Winston, halfway through a transformation of primal rage. An oppressive silence descends upon them all until bit by bit, the standing fur on the scientist flattens once more.

Steely, Winston announces with unwavering authority finally befitting of a leader: "I believe we have extracted enough information as of now to determine next steps. Standby and await your instructions. Meeting adjourned."

The feed cuts off.

The tense silence from the call carries over between himself and McCree. The meeting definitely did not turn out the way either of them anticipated, but what's done is done and nobody can take back the secrets that have been spilled.

“He’s Jack,” McCree says bitterly. “Jack Morrison.”

Where has he heard the name before? It’s so…

Hanzo balks. “Jack Morrison? The Strike Commander of Overwatch?”

“Former Strike Commander.” McCree turns away, practically rending the cigarillo in half with his teeth. “Former.”

“...and you all knew.”

He grunts, taking a moment to compose himself. “Sorta. Had a huge inklin’, but I wasn’t gon’ bust some secret in case he had some reason for it.” Underneath his breath, he mutters, “‘s a fuckin’ coward, is what he is.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that, doesn’t know the history behind it to even try, but what he does know is that this may be the first time he’s clearly seen the darker side of McCree that he has been constantly hinting at.

To think...the legendary Jack Morrison was among them. He thought the man had perished, having heard nothing about them since the incident in Switzerland. By then, Hanzo had been on the run already, seeking his next kill rather than political angles he could abuse.

His father had kept a wary eye on Overwatch, smiling wryly whenever the then-Strike Commander came on the news to speak, silently dissecting his words and judging him. When he was feeling indulgent, his father would point out the missteps and hidden meanings in Jack Morrison's televised appearances. Other times, he would ask Hanzo to give him his thoughts, and he—not knowing Morrison personally or expecting to ever meet him at any point in his life— spoke harshly and loosely.

It was silly posturing at the time.

He could not have guessed the silver-haired man with the abrasive tongue could be the man once cloaked in gold—fool's gold.

If that's the case, truly, then why is Winston leading this operation? Why not allow the former leader to take his place? Is there infighting already? Or did Morrison not want the position, already scorned and disillusioned by his previous tenure?

Hanzo supposed he'll have to ask the man himself, but it's not important who the leader is or what Jack Morrison's reasons are. He is supposed to just follow orders.

He raises his head and squints at McCree, who seems to be in no mood to continue speaking. While he wants to know, he's not so tactless as to ask about you now. Or about Morrison.

The awkward silence stretches out between them until Athena takes mercy on him and breaks it.

“Agent Hanzo, your presence is required in the kitchen.”

For a foolish iota of a second, his mind switches immediately to the thought of food—that you're calling because he's late for lunch, and his stomach responds accordingly, stirring awake and hungry.

But no, the reality of that is crushed far too swiftly when Mei comes down through the stairs, still armed. She smiles at them both, clearly strained but trying to maintain a brave face.

"Hey there."

McCree nods at her and Hanzo does the same, dumbfounded that she would be the one to take his place.

“I’ll be here to help until Torbjörn and the rest get here.”

It’s uncharacteristic for him to hesitate, even for a moment, but he does and asks, “Are you certain?”

“Oh, don’t worry about me! I’m not as good as you, but I’m going to do my best.”

Internally, he cringes at that. Once upon a time, he may have wanted to hear those words from all of his peers, but hearing them from Mei just feels criminal.

McCree just waves at him. "Jus' git, we'll take it from 'ere."

They both nod at him, urging him to go.

It should unnerve him to leave Mei with a bunch of criminals, but she has McCree there. McCree seems like the type who would rather die than to let a friend get taken. He resolves not to think on it, making his way to his destination.

The mess hall lives up to its namesake a little more than usual: dirty, dragging boot prints from Talon draw a clear map from the kitchen to the door where Hanzo stands; the kitchen counter still covered by a block of ice, near white from the number of bullets it had to take and probably two more hits from shattering, a puddle of water already pooling around the base. The floors will warp, no doubt.

He could see you now, getting angry over the blockage of your counter. You'll probably bash at it with the back of a ladle by yourself, not ask anyone for help. Maybe you'll make everyone's least favorite foods for them or give them a lecture.

It's be preferable to whatever is happening to you now.

He almost dreads going through the double doors again. It feels like every time he goes through them, the scene behind them only get worse.

They stand impassively, waiting for him to make his move, betraying nothing of what happened several hours ago. Like they always do.

With a deep breath, he places his hands on either door. Even at his gentle touch, they begin to part. Another push and they swing open completely.

There, he is greeted with the still fresh carnage in its entirety and Soldier: 76—Jack Morrison, former Overwatch strike commander—who has his jacket back on. Chillingly, the front of it is covered in a brownish stain that reminds Hanzo far too vividly of what has transpired this morning even more so than the destruction around him, and he has to look away.

"Took you long enough," Soldier says gruffly.

"I apologize; I was not aware I was being timed."

"You weren't, but you sure stood outside long enough. Thought Talon might've gotten you."

Despite his mortification and offense, Hanzo schools his face into something neutral. "Unlikely."

"Hmph. We're still waiting on Fareeha, but I want to make sure you have the right equipment on you."

At that, Hanzo jumps to attention. "What is it you require?"

"Your Sonic arrows, for one. The path is straightforward, but there are rooms in there that need to be inspected for any agents in hiding. Close range weapons, and this."

From one of his many pockets, Soldier produces an earpiece with a short microphone which Hanzo takes, giving it a quick inspection. It looks like an older radio wave receiver. He doesn't recognize the model but it bears the well-worn symbol of Overwatch on it.

"We'll be using those for communication. The signal in the Cellar is bad, and we likely won't be able to contact each other without it. It's already set to the right channel."

Hanzo closes a hand around it. "Is it secured?"

Soldier snorts. "Nothing is 100% secured. Talk loud enough, it won't mean anything."

It's hard to overlap the image of the bright-faced Jack Morrison with this cynical old man. Though, a few years a leadership position and a building falling on top of you amidst a blazing explosion could help in changing a person.

"Understood. What is our mission?"

"We'll get to that when Fareeha gets here. Any minute now." The last part is muttered so low that Hanzo's not sure he should have heard it.

She does not magically appear, unfortunately. Hanzo wants to say something about it, just to give the older man a hard time, but the appeal is not high when there is so much else happening.

"Was the kitchen inspected?"

"Already did. But you're welcome to do a once-over." Soldier jerks a thumb behind him. Even his gloves are colored with the brownish stains. "Couldn't hurt to get a Shimada to give it a seal of approval."

The comment strikes a strange chord inside him: pride and a touch of shame and irritation. He can't be sure the true intent behind Soldier's words and says nothing. Instead, he puts on the counterpart contact lenses for his sonic arrows, the earpiece which he gives a successful test before he surveys the area under Soldier's watchful eyes—he can pretend he's not watching all he wants, but there's no mistaking the tingling on his back where his red gaze lands.

Hanzo ignores it. There's more pressing matters at hand than Soldier's perverse curiosity.

Looking around, the kitchen is a complete mess. Strangely enough, this mess makes it feel more homely and personable than the pristine condition you had kept it in, almost like you were trying to preserve it.

After all the excitement of hours ago having long faded from his ears, the kitchen is also eerily quiet. There are mechanisms running still, but there is a distinct lack of sound and rhythm and calm that Hanzo had long begun to associate with this place. It's not the first time he's thought this, but being in the kitchen is by one's self is a very isolating and lonely experience—and not in the comfortable way either.

Even on the run, Hanzo still had interactions with people (some food, some bad), but you don't even get to see anyone's face. Objectively, your customers may as well not exist.

And if you were truly a traitor, it would make your job that much easier to never know the faces of the people whom you would eventually betray.

He shakes his head. No. That still hasn't been confirmed yet. More evidence is required, and most of it should be in this room and the Cellar beyond. He just has to find it among all the rubble.

As he walks around, he makes mental notes of everything out of place. The normally well-organized drinkware and container racks were all smashed. There’s a sink or two that have their faucets knocked off, the water still gushing from it quietly. Bullet holes riddle the walls and every available surface. Even the ceiling wasn’t spared.

The glass doors to the walk-in freezers haven’t been fixed or replaced, chilly air leaking out in waves, the faint scent of rot lightly entwined in it and curling at his shins and ankles.

Stepping gingerly inside the cooler through the outline of what could've once been the shape of a person, the smell becomes more pronounced and the chill makes even the hot-blooded Hanzo shiver, the wind blowing straight through his clothes and hair. Glass and spilt vegetables at his feet become an obstacle course to navigate around; a deathtrap for anyone who wants to navigate through this space.

Food and raw ingredients sit in their boxes, some wilted, other visibly rotting and off-colored. There's a hefty amount of food here lining the wire racks from floor to ceiling where an industrial fan continues to spin loudly.

Looking around and tapping his feet against the floor for any sounds or signs of trap doors, he could find nothing out of the ordinary among the steely walls and tiles.

The other walk-in freezers are similar. Nothing of interest or suspicious (beside the floating tuna fish whose dead eye stares at him from beyond it's cryogenic prison).

In the last freezer, just as he is about to leave, something catches his eye in the corner of the freezer and Hanzo does a double-take, nearly stepping straight into an unfortunate pile of some reddish, chunky sauce which has long lost its aroma in his haste.

Miso.

...there's miso in here. Not just one type, but several small containers of it, the name and brand labelled in Japanese: white miso, red miso, yellow miso, and more from different regions in Japan like Yamanashi and Nagoya.

What are they doing here?

The contents of the transparent containers seem untouched. Were you planning on cooking with them?

What would that be for other than Japanese food? Why so much if you were going to make anything at all? Surely you didn't know how to use them all.

Maybe, he thinks, maybe you bought them long ago and left them to rot—ferment—like miso does.

The expiration dates stamped onto each container says otherwise, too far out in the future to have been an old purchase. You were planning on using this.

He dares not let himself hope it could've been for him. It had to be for the team. There’s just too much of it., yet each container is small. You must have just been waiting to experiment.

It could be for Genji.

A sinister voice in the back of his head reminds him harshly that Genji cannot eat. Another whispers that awful reminder: it's all Hanzo's fault.

He shakes his head, backing out of the freezer with less finesse than before. He can't afford to speculate on something so silly. It's just miso. There could be hundreds of foods that use miso and many reasons that does not involve himself or Genji. There had to be.

But somehow, it didn’t feel as convincing as he would like it to be.

Ignoring that thought, he searches the rest of the kitchen with Soldier dallying in the background. Maybe having been at the top of the food chain puts these sorts of activities beneath the great ex-Strike Commander.

However, no matter how he looks, there doesn't seem to be anyone else around. The rubber mats on the ground hide the footprints Hanzo would've needed to determine the exact number of people in this room (except Zenyatta). He mentally maps out the markings on each counter, the dents, the skid marks, discarded equipment—everything he can to piece together a moving picture of each strike and attack that had taken place until he can determine that yes, it seems that everyone in this room had been accounted for.

The final piece of the puzzle is the Cellar door.

It seems as sturdy and unyielding as when he first encountered it that fateful night he discovered you were—are—so painfully human and learned the hard way that you did not allow trespassing without a semblance of a fight.

The only clues he has are the obvious dried blood on the hand scanner and the faint dents of the ammunition fired against the door. He runs a hand over the ones near head-height, the divots smooth and dusty except for one which is singed with something dark. He rubs his fingers together.

Just how much firepower could this door withstand? What is it made of? What could be so important that this door was made to withstand even a barrage of bullets and pulse munitions?

The smear of a handprint, fingers pointed downward.

At the bottom of the door, blood pools in a thin line as though trying to get in. Hanzo crouches down to get a better look. There is a trail beneath the holes of the rubber mats, but nothing substantial enough to indicate it was swept down from the floor itself. It had to have come from directly above.

"This blood is…?"

"The chef's," Soldier says matter-of-factly. "As you probably guessed, the door has a hydrophobic coating. The scanner is the only thing that doesn't. Must've worn off over the years."

The scene in his mind becomes clearer.

Talon likely injured you and you stumbled back, leaving behind a trail that seeped in through the floor mats. Your clutched at the wound, and then held your hand out to activate the scanner. Talon continued to shoot. There are gouges near where your head might be. Someone had tried to get you in the head for an instant death, but clearly did not succeed. They may have gotten you once or twice before the door opened.

It is not likely any of them managed to come after you. You were still alive when he saw you, after all.

A now familiar grip on his stomach gives him pause.

You’re definitely still alive.

"I see."

“So, what’s your analysis?”

Hanzo glances over at Soldier: 76.

“...based on the facts, there does not seem to be more enemies. Though, given the number of Talon agents in our custody, I’m afraid that...they will not be handled adequately.”

Soldier gives a sharp nod. It's very likely he was just as uncomfortable sending Mei down to watch over Talon. “When Torbjörn and Symmetra arrive, we’ll have turrets available to monitor Talon. I also want Genji to get here and stay with Lúcio and Zenyatta just in case the chef is far more involved than we thought.”

Hanzo raises a thick eyebrow. “You have proof of Chef's involvement in this?"

“Talon came through the Cellar without a doubt. Who else has access to them?”

“The chefs.” Hanzo narrows his eyes dangerously at Soldier. “And you.”

“Nice try, Shimada,” Soldier says, not sounding the slightest bit amused but not overly angry either. “We're going down there to change that. It's for the chef's own good. And ours.”

"You've already done the chef harm based on the conversation before."

"...it wasn't intentional."

"Hard to believe anything you do is not intentional, Jack." Fareeha steps in through the doors, quietly holding them back from making noise. She’s not in her usual gear—no hover jets or rocket launchers. Instead, she's in fatigues and a sturdy vest, a stern look decorating her face.

The thickest part of Soldier's neck quakes like he wants to turn away, but forced himself to be still and face Fareeha.

"Good, you've made it. We can finally get started."

He tosses her an earpiece and she snatches it out of the air with ease, giving it a similar check before putting it on. "So, what's the plan?" she asks, unconcerned with the fact Soldier blew off her sarcasm.

"Tunnels need to be checked for Talon soldiers and any other surprises they might have left in there for us. I conducted a sweep before but I didn't find anything at the time."

"When did you get the chance to do a sweep?" Hanzo asks.

"Before tonight."

Fareeha waves him off. "So that information is useless then. Let's get in there and do a thorough check; leave no rock unturned. Has this kitchen been checked?"

Hanzo nods. "Thoroughly."

"Great." He could see her eye the kitchen as though itching to do it herself. The assassin and ex-clan head inside him is offended that his work would be doubted, but Hanzo understands the feeling of needing to check the work of others just to be sure. There have been cases where his subordinates have made very human mistakes that cost someone a finger here and there, and in other cases, a head. Cases like these should be handled like any other security incident: with several fine toothed combs.

"Fareeha, you'll be doing a security assessment while we're down there. Hanzo, you'll be the lookout."

"Obviously." Hanzo glances over at Fareeha. He doesn't remember her being so irritable before. It reminds him of McCree a little.

"Understood."

Briefly, they all go over the hand signs they plan on using and what to expect in the Cellar. Apparently the place is outdated with low ceilings and stone walls. Fareeha will likely be documenting any issues she finds and Hanzo will be constantly checking for traps and taking care of any enemies. Soldier will be supporting them both. Once everything was agreed upon, they all came face to face with the Cellar door.

"Good. Let's go.”

Soldier places his hand on the scanner, right over the dried blood. Hanzo can't help but wince internally, breath running short as the image collides with a memory where the panel is replaced by tatami.

As usual, the door beeps and slides open immediately, inviting everyone inside with a rush of air. Finally, the chance to see what is inside, but…

Hanzo says nothing as the three of them take their first steps inside. Hanzo's heart thuds loudly in his chest, picking up speed with every single step.

The tunnel goes straight down, sloping slightly. Long lights flicker above them. Wires cling tightly to the half-heartedly fortified walls at the very top corners, some sagging and hanging down, low enough for Hanzo to touch. The tunnel lacks the distinct cold, musty smell that most stone tunnels have. The air is not stale or overly humid either. He deduces there’s an air filtration and environmental control system somewhere, and if Athena isn't the one maintaining it, it has to be manual or done by some other AI.

Their pace is slow, careful.

However, not even a few meters in, Hanzo lingers, something on the ground catching his eye and his stomach plummets as he recognizes it for what it is.

Blood spatter.

"You don't look very enthusiastic, Shimada. Remembering the time Chef threw a tantrum at you?" Fareeha teases softly.

Hanzo’s head snaps up and he scowls. To her credit, she doesn't flinch or seem intimidated.

"..."

"Thought you would've wanted to look inside here. The bet with Jesse and all."

Unconsciously, his lip curls. "That is between us."

"Well, you better get moving if you're going to win. Doubt the cowboy made it this far. Ever."

"Less talking, more moving."

Fareeha and Hanzo simultaneously make a face at the man's back. He whips around as though in tune with their thoughts. Hanzo barely manages to return to a neutral expression in time and wonders if Soldier's reaction isn't due to extensive experience.

Still, he is begrudgingly grateful for his intervention. The bet is tertiary at best, the mission is first and foremost. To that end, his eyes drag across the ground while his ears listens for anything out of the ordinary.

The trailing blood spatter continues your story: you were stumbling backward, shoes stepping into the puddles you left behind, bumping against the wall a few times, the bleeding growing worse or bleeding through whatever was being used to stem it. Your hand, maybe. There are two sets of prints, one leading into the tunnel and a different set leading out. His first conclusion is Talon, but then it doesn't explain why they didn't finish you off or take you hostage.

You fell down, hand prints where you tried to catch yourself clear. Rested a while and let yourself bleed. Then you tried to drag yourself up with the wall, stumbling but determined until you fell again, dragging your hands down.

The story ends with an oddly shaped puddle, too large for the stay to have been short. It's here that Hanzo finds it hard to breathe, his heart having leapt into his throat and blocking all air and words. This is also where the second set of footprints begin. Whoever it was came from the opposite end of the tunnel.

"This where Chef was found?" Fareeha asks solemnly, kneeling beside the dried puddle.

Soldier nods, arms crossed. "Yeah."

There are things that Hanzo wished he never knew—Genji's first sexual encounter for one—and being able to deduce you were on the verge of shock based on the size of the stain is another. Perhaps you had already begun to slip into it when Soldier had retrieved you. You couldn't have been doing well and knowing just how close you were to the other side makes his stomach sink lower and lower. Were you still conscious then, gasping and fearing your mortality? Did you regret being involved as you felt your life drain away into the ground?

Beside the puddle is a glimmer of hope—a discarded biotic emitter, and he doesn't dare voice it but the weight that lifts off his chest upon seeing it is liberating.

Did you carry one on you and use it when you realized your life was draining away?

Before Hanzo gets a chance to take a closer look, Soldier snatches it up from the ground and stuffs it into his pocket.

"We'll get Mercy to recycle these."

Faint boot marks that look like they stopped to face you. Someone knelt down beside the blood. Maybe it was from when Soldier came to fetch you. It only made sense.

Either way, you were still breathing when you were found. You were receiving treatment. You…

You had already lost too much blood.

And the blood stain on stone then overlaps again with tatami.

He pulls in a sharp breath, shakes his head, teeth clenched tight to stem the churning in his stomach. You’re with Zenyatta and Lúcio. Two of the most soft-hearted people—beings—on the base. They won’t let you die even if you were on the very verge of death.

He forces himself to exhale. Guilty or not, they won’t let that happen.

Soldier turns his back to them. "We should get going."

Eventually the tunnel walls are no longer fortified by steel; instead they’re back to stone and doors are carved into them. Old fashioned wooden ones with the knobs, barely able to withstand a kick. Soldier signals both Fareeha and Hanzo who press themselves against the walls.

All nearly identical and some marked with number signs, nothing to indicate what could be inside. At Soldier’s signal, Hanzo fires off a sonic arrow which lodges itself into a door frame.

There’s no sign of life or a reaction from any of the rooms the sonic waves can reach, and he gestures back such.

They’ll have to look into them one by one, just in case.

Soldier takes the nearest door on the left, Hanzo takes the door on the right while Fareeha keeps watch on the tunnels, ready to provide backup and noting any security issues.

Hanzo's room looks like a storage room. Tall racks on wheels and spare kitchen equipment, all caked in a sheet of dust. Nothing interesting here or anything to indicate someone ever entered this room recently.

“All clear,” grumbles Soldier through the earpiece.

“No intruders found,” Hanzo responds back.

They both leave their respective rooms and continue down the hall just like that, one by one, going through doors.

Eventually, Hanzo finds himself in what seems to be an office or document room too small and jam-packed with stuff to harbor any actual criminals. The humming of an air vent is loud here. On a wall of glass were words, unintelligible and, when Hanzo runs a finger through them, they do not smear or budge. He can barely make out words like 'glace' and 'framboise'.

Old fashioned books that had withstood the test of time lined the uneven shelves drilled into the stone walls and were strewn about the room. Some were even opened, enticing Hanzo to read their contents.

To his disappointment, they are just cookbooks. Recipes written in a language that looked like it could be French. The other books have are similar but in different languages and with varying amounts of now faded, but still delectable-looking pictures caked in dust.

In the side of the room, behind a tall shelf, there is a computer, however.

As he approaches, two things stand out:

One: the area around it was used more recently than the rest of the room.

Two: the computer is still on.

Hanzo raises a hand to his ear, never taking his eyes off the power button, breath coming up short. “Pharah. I have found a computer. It's still on."

“Great. That might be just what we're looking for. Standby.”

He waits, not paying any attention to the banter that started between Fareeha and Soldier in his ear.

Was it you? Sitting alone in this room and tunnel, facing a computer doing whatever it is you were doing? Or was it Talon who sat here, stealing data from a machine that looks like it is ten years out of date?

Slowly, he approaches the desk, eyeing all the scattered papers that added to the mess. They were small rectangular papers, the top edges torn and the lines filled with near illegible scribbles.

It seems that whoever wanted to protect this terminal forgot the number one rule of security: never write your passwords anywhere. Instead, there’s a little note with the words “username” and “password” clearly written. For a place with such a sophisticated door guarding it, everything else in here is ridiculously shabby. Whatever fool designed this place must have assumed the Cellar door would solve all their security problems.

Hanzo rolls his eyes. Not that it would’ve stopped him regardless, but this was just sloppy.

Before he can do anything with the information, the door swings open and Fareeha comes in, signalling for him to switch with her.

He debates asking to stay but knows when to concede; computers just aren’t his expertise. Besides, everyone has their role, so he stands guard outside, watching as Soldier walks into another room on the opposite side of the hall.

It takes some time, but Fareeha is back, a scowl on her face as she turns around and marks an inconspicuous place on the door frame with a sticker of sorts, probably for later identification.

“What did you find?”

“It looks like this controls a few places here like the HVAC system, but not everything. Judging by the traffic, there's a few more endpoints on the same network, different VLANs.”

“Meaning?”

“We got ourselves a lot of work to do." She shakes her head and pulls out her communicator.

"Athena.”

“Yes, ho—may I a—ist?” She frowns, raising it up for better signal.

"Athena."

"..."

“We’re in too deep, I think.” Fareeha waves a hand at the walls surrounding them. “The rock and whatever else is here is messing with the signals. We'll have to run a line here after we secure the area."

From across the hall, Soldier comes out from the room he was inspecting and shakes his head. Nothing.

Hanzo can't say he's disappointed with the results, but it is underwhelming. There are only two more rooms, bathrooms with multiple stalls and showers and lockers. Nothing exciting.

If Soldier has found anything more interesting, he says nothing of it.

Further along, the path splits into another few parts, but even after investigating, they still came up empty-handed. Dead-ends and more storage rooms. There was even something that looked like a common area, equipped with well-worn couches and tables and even a water cooler.

It feels strangely voyeuristic as they move from room to room, like he’s peering into your personal life and history.

But if you used these facilities, it would be no surprise he never saw you leave the kitchen; you have all you need here.

Seeing all this, however, deep in a tunnel away from anyone’s knowledge and prying eyes, your existence seems even lonelier than before. He can’t say why, but knowing all this brings an ache to his chest.

He takes back what he says about the cafeteria and kitchen being a sanctuary.

It’s a prison.

Your prison.

With yourself and the past as the guards.

Prisons are meant to keep people in, but in your case, perhaps it was to keep everyone else out?

The realization nearly bowls him over.

Maybe he has been misinterpreting your isolation. What if he sees this from a different angle? What if you were trying to keep your contact with the other agents as scarce as possible, put up a literal and figurative wall between you and them, kept the kitchen as pristine as it is in the hopes that when your other fellow chefs returned, they’d be returning to something familiar?

That would explain so many things. It would explain your discomfort in asserting your own rules even in a space that you would be considered the master of. It would explain why you never ate with them despite your excuses. Your isolation, self-imposed, is all preparation for when you are no longer needed.

You’re hoping to fade back into the background when the Head Chef—if he’s even alive—returns.

The realization settles heavily in his stomach, holding back his pace and his mind scatters, plunged into a white noise.

What would the Watchpoint do without you?

Sure, he's always thought of a chef as dispensable and a luxury that the current Overwatch cannot afford, but after suffering through takeout and MREs, he doesn't know if he wants that anymore.

Having a taste of that luxury, of homemade meals and warm drink whenever he wants, has spoiled him once more.

Hanzo barely manages to catch himself, nearly crashes into Soldier: 76 when he stops abruptly.

He's almost about to demand an explanation when he hears it: voices.

His stomach clenches, the anticipation of an ambush strums in his veins. Finally.

All of them take their positions seamlessly, directed by Soldier's silent orders. Creeping toward the source of the echoing voices, they find themselves at another crossroads. Hanzo grabs at another sonic arrow and moves in front of Soldier, slipping just slightly past the mouth of the room to take aim at anything other than rocks or metal.

But then, he catches a glimpse of their mystery guests.

Releasing the pull of his bow and his breath, he lowers his weapon, annoyed.

“Junkers.”

Junkrat jumps into the air, clearly startled and not expecting anyone but themselves. Roadhog doesn't even react.

“Heya! What's you lot doin’ here?” He points at them accusingly as everyone files out from their hiding spots.

“What are you doing here?”

Fareeha grunts in what seems to be disgust, waving a hand in some vague direction. “You blew a hole somewhere in the Siege Tunnels, didn't you?”

Junkrat can only laugh nervously, poking his index fingers together, looking the most sheepish he's ever been, bare shoulders the slightest bit pink (though that could just be the lighting of the place).

Soldier looks like he's barely holding himself back from decking the Junker across the face.

"What are you doing here?"

"Ehehe, well, mate. We—ah, what's it again, Roadie?—oh yeah, makin' ourselves a home!"

"...at home."

"Right you are! At home!"

In unison, Soldier's, Fareeha's, and Hanzo's face fall into a skeptical deadpan.

"In the tunnels?"

"Is just like the Outback."

"Hiding what you're doing?"

"Just like home."

"Trespassing and blowing things up?"

"Whad' I tell ya?” Junkrat stretches out his arms, presenting the gate behind them. “Home sweet home."

Behind the Junkers is certainly a room protected by a large man-made wall. It’s dome-shaped and white, the stark contrast so strange, Hanzo wonders why he never saw it before.

At the base is a segmented gate, large enough for a vehicle to go through. On the very edge are doors, probably for people. The door itself looks like it’s seen better days, flowers of black marring the white paint all around its edges and barely hanging onto its hinges, propped closed by a shovel, of all things.

Is this where they've been hiding this whole time?

Annoyed that they were able to go into the Cellars before him, he grinds his teeth together.

They are likely covering up the treasure, coveted it for themselves. Probably already sold it off for a shiny credit. If there was alcohol in there, Hanzo has no doubt that they probably drank it all, leaving nothing for them.

There goes his bet with McCree. (A small voice in the back of his head wonders if he can't just buy some and pretend it was found in the Cellar; it's not like the cowboy had ever made it down here. He would hardly know the difference. But the deal was to split the alcohol—hardly worth it if Hanzo had to pay for it all.)

Soldier takes a few steps forward as does Fareeha, but Roadhog is quick to move in their way, using his bulk to protect most of the choke point between room and tunnel.

"Do you mind?” Fareeha asks.

Ever the silent wall, Roadhog only stares down at her, daring her to do something.

Soldier opts for a different tactic. “We’re here to check for Talon. The Watchpoint got attacked. Seen any of them?”

Junkrat vehemently shakes his head, waving his arms, but that does not assure any of them in the slightest.

“Nope, just us!”

“You're sure about that?”

“Ey! Have I ever lied t—”

“Just us,” Roadhog insists. To punctuate this point, he taps on his shotgun, gripping it by the handle.

It seems that no one would be able to pass so long as they were there.

Soldier, Fareeha, and Hanzo look at each other, a silent conversation held between them.

Fareeha straightens herself up, refusing to be dwarfed by either Junker. "Fine. We'll be going. But if there's anyone—"

"Just. Us."

Roadhog stands just a little taller to lord his height over everyone else and Junkrat scrambles to follow suit, not quite managing to pull himself out of the near permanent hunch he's gotten himself into, but he tries nonetheless to look intimidating.

The standoff drags on for several moments, neither side budging.

They silently agree they'll come back when neither of the Junkers are here.

They can hear the echoes of the Junker’s conversation—

“’s a close one, right, Roadie?”

“Hrmph. Work.”—and the sound of a door opening and closing.

The journey through the remaining of the tunnel is short; there isn’t much left and Hanzo's beginning to think they'd never find any signs of Talon or evidence that they came through here.

Fareeha glances backward, past Hanzo’s shoulder and the bend. "Are you sure it’s okay to leave them alone, Jack?"

He shrugs one tense shoulder. “I doubt Talon would be with them. Or have anywhere to hide in there.”

“So you know what’s inside?”

It takes a moment for him to answer but he only replies, “Never been."

The answer grates on Hanzo’s nerves harder than expected. Knowing now who Soldier: 76 really is, the space in between his lines only seem wider. But he holds his tongue, deciding there’s no point in stirring a pot that he doesn’t know the depth of.

Eventually, the tunnel leads to a room with mismatching stone walls that look like parts of it has been excavated and modified, tables, chairs, metal shelves, and hand trucks stacked up against the side of the room, bright lights hanging from the ceiling where a ring of metal is embedded, creating a gateway into a room above. Directly below the ring is a truck with a familiar logo on its side: a heart with green scales, each one fading from a darker to a lighter green.

Hanzo squints at it, sifting through his memory. He knows he's seen this more than once. Soldier stops them before they all make it into the room, gesturing for Hanzo to make a move.

It takes only a few moments for him to fire off another arrow, confirming there is nothing resembling a person or omnic lying in wait.

Fareeha wastes no time, already taking pictures, documenting it and everything else around the vehicle. Hanzo doesn't even manage to take a step before Soldier's arm shoots out, stopping him in his tracks.

"Stay back. Let her do her assessment," Soldier orders. The two of them hang back, the itch of inactivity settling into Hanzo's skin almost immediately. Each of Fareeha's movements seem to have slowed to an unbearable crawl, her inspections too slow and too thorough.

Patience. He needs patience.

There's a tense moment when Fareeha gets to the back of the truck. Her hand rests on the handle and she gives Soldier a very hard and meaningful look, one that conveyed a message Hanzo couldn't hope to decipher before the sound of a lock echoed in the chamber and the rhythmic clacking of the door sliding up counts down the potential bite of a deadly trap.

Clack, clack, clack, click.

The door rises up fully and silence reigns over them. Shining a light into the interior of the truck, Fareeha disappears for a moment, the truck visibly sagging beneath the added weight before springing back up.

Relief comes when Fareeha gives the all-clear signal, allowing the two men to approach and do their own investigation.

Hanzo checks the front seats, immediately noticing the pile of clothes on the passenger's seat, almost thrown there haphazardly along with a courier's cap. The color is familiar, too, and cautiously, he opens the door, a watchful eye for hidden wires or other traps.

There are none, luckily. Instead, he ends up holding up the shirt that's been discarded haphazardly onto the seat like whoever took it off was in a rush. On the arm of the shirt is the exact same logo as the side of the truck. Was it yours? The size seems just about right, and you definitely wore a similar uniform when he first saw you in person—as a person—maneuvering through the kitchen and challenging him with those angry, unerring eyes.

What is your connection to this logo?

“Do you think this belongs to Chef?”

“Most likely. I can't imagine Chef being able to leave Gibraltar wearing the Overwatch uniform."

Fareeha's joke falls a little flat, but it still elicits an amusing image of yourself strutting around Gibraltar, advertising Overwatch's return with your apparel.

The possibilities run through his brain, each nearly landing on identical solutions: you're a traitor. And McCree is not as clever or in-the-know as he may think.

"Found something."

Both Fareeha and Hanzo rush over. In between Soldier's fingers is a small device barely larger than a fingernail.

Inhaling a sharp breath, Hanzo hisses, "Tracker."

It's a sobering piece of evidence that perhaps you were only a victim and used for your connection to Overwatch. Chances are you never told Talon about this tunnel or they didn't trust you and planted the tracker without your knowing.

"Under this truck. This type of adhesive meant it was temporary. Whoever put this here just needed to track this vehicle long enough to get the general path."

"Talon?"

"Likely. But this looks too commercial." Soldier flips it over, holding it up to the dim lights. "Not a lot of dust. Either it's newly installed or…"

"The truck hasn't been driven much," Fareeha finishes, crouched by the vehicle in question, doing her own checks. "Hard to tell since this dust and dirt is old. If we get this truck into the base, Athena can analyze its data and maybe find out from its inbuilt GPS what it's used for. But..."

Hanzo shakes his head. "It's too risky."

"Right. If the tracker really is Talon's work, who knows what other presents they could have added."

They all unanimously agree to leave the truck alone for now lest they find out the hard way the entire thing is rigged to explode. The tracker itself gets stuffed into a special pouch Fareeha has brought and placed carefully on her person.

The room itself yields nothing else out of the ordinary or interesting other than the work bench where tools of different sorts are mounted and a closet so chock full of equipment, Fareeha barely managed to close the doors before it all came toppling down on her. (They were more careful about what they touched from then on.)

Finally, they turn their attention to the lift, slightly out of date with a round hoverpad on the ground and a single terminal. All three of them look at each other and nod wordlessly.

They all board, pressing themselves as close to the edge as possible. There’s only two levels: up and down. Down does not produce anything, so up it is. As soon as the button is pressed, blue hard light comes up around them, stopping just past waist level, and the lift begins to move.

Hanzo breathes slowly, arrow nocked and ready. The gate above them slowly opens up and immediately, Hanzo’s arrow flies out into an arch, hitting the floor immediately above.

There’s mere seconds left.

The signals from the sonic arrow flood the area.

To his surprise and relief, Hanzo signals there’s nothing, but nocks the next arrow just in case.

Slowly, the lift comes to a halt. A gentle 'ding' lets them know they’ve reached their destination, the force field around the elevator sinks back down into the ground.

Nothing.

It's the darkness of the night, the quiet of nature that greets them. Hanzo’s heart knocks against his ears. Cautiously, they all step off the lift and Hanzo retrieves his arrow.

It's a garage of sorts. Small enough to house two trucks, but little else. Even more baffling is the lack of anything in this place. Soldier: 76 braves shining a dim light around. Everything looks ordinary by all accounts. Except for two muted glints.

Hanzo signals to the others. "Cameras. By the doors."

They were hard to see in this darkness, but even without it, they were well hidden in the architecture of the beams that crossed right above them.

If there were cameras, that means they had to have footage of what occurred last night.

Fareeha signals them both, crouching by the only door leading out of this place, peeking out from a sliver.

"All clear...there's no sign of omnics or humans around us," she says after a few moments, glancing at the device around her wrist. “GPS tells us we're close to the border to Spain.”

��We’re close to the Watchpoint then.”

“Is this all then?”

“There weren’t any other paths we could’ve taken except the one where the Junkers were.”

While Soldier and Fareeha speculate, Hanzo slips into his own thoughts for a moment. Is that all there is to it? You risked everything to protect a tunnel not even a five minute drive from the Watchpoint? A stupid tunnel?

He inhales sharply and breathes out as slow as he can, trying to stem the rising heat inside. Briefly, he pinches the bridge of his nose.

No. There’s still the possibility of the Junkers hiding what you’ve been protecting. There’s a possibility that you were angry that your cooperation with Talon would be discovered.

Even with all the clues at hand, he can’t piece together the entire picture. Are you guilty or are you an innocent victim?

All of that remains unanswered.

“Hanzo, get into position, we’re opening the door.”

That snaps him out of his thoughts easily enough. Right, he still had a mission to do.

Bravely, Fareeha presses a button on the side of the door. Groaning and creaking, the sheet of metal slowly rolls up, allowing the three Overwatch agents to take their first steps outside where the city lights of Gibraltar glitter at them and the sun wavers out of sight.

The air is crisp for once and wraps around Hanzo, caressing his face. Hanzo breathes in deeply, drinking in the sight of the city and the horizon where the dusk skies pull in the night and its stars.

It’s beautiful, relaxing in a way that makes the last few hours feel surreal; a stark reminder that life goes on and cares very little about the minute details of anyone's life. It makes him and his troubles feel so infinitesimally small.

—

Their return is even less exciting than their departure. They go back the same way they came, finding nothing new or of interest while Fareeha locks up doors and gates behind them with some of the gear on her person. Briefly, they debate going back to check on the Junkers—maybe they’re not there and can actually determine for themselves if there truly are any enemies around—but they decide against it in the end. It’s a foolish move, but it would be even more so to incur the wrath of the two biggest wildcards in their team.

Though, the biggest surprise when they return at the number of turrets that immediately swivel at them from the very edge of the Cellar door when they step out.

“Vaswani’s been busy, I see.”

They don't have a lot of time to admire the handiwork; Athena calls them all for another meeting. Despite the attendance, there is still no sign of Genji or Mercy.

Winston, looking a little like he is about to fall asleep on his feet, announces, "Thank you everyone for all your work today. Now that we are together, we can now share what we have discovered. McCree, I’d like to being with you, if you would."

“Y’ got it," McCree says from his holovideo, still apparently down with their prisoners. Though strangely enough, the number of Talon agents seem to have diminished.

“Here’s what we know.

“Talon’s been planning this attack for a while. No idea who gave the orders or what they were really after, but we do know they’ve been skulkin' 'round these parts for weeks.

“They finally went after someone named ‘Tanuja S. Deshmukh’, former Overwatch.”

Winston tests the name in his mouth quietly as do some of the other agents, but McCree presses on.

“Singh gave up intel that Chef’s been heading between here ‘n’ there in exchange for immunity.” Something bitter tinges McCree’s voice, but it’s overshadowed by his grave professionalism. “Talon’s been tailin’ Chef and found out ‘bout the tunnels.

“Chef was just at the wrong place at the wrong time and walked in on ‘em right as they were strategizin’. ‘Cause surveillance in the kitchen was turned off, Athena didn’t know ‘til it was too late.”

A flood of refreshing relief washes over Hanzo. You weren't involved. It was an accident. You never tried to betray or take advantage of them. But the relief is short lived, engulfed by an undercurrent of guilt and disgust. This is Overwatch, where people trusted and believed in each other. Yet here he is, having doubted your intentions even as you lay injured upstairs, taking bullets and spilling blood meant for people like himself.

"Athena, who is Tanuja Deshmukh?" Winston asks, seemingly unable to come up with an answer.

A pause.

"Tanuja Singh Deshmukh. Former Overwatch Operational Department, Field Logistics division."

"The Field Logistics division?"

"They're in charge of making sure supplies get to the front lines and negotiating with vendors, land owners, and ensuring services and goods have been appropriately delivered."

"Glorified mailpeoples," Torbjörn mutters darkly.

"Right," says Winston slowly, pointedly ignoring the comment. "Now where is that communicator?"

"According to our records, it has been in Gibraltar for the past several years."

From her screen, Mei seems to be with McCree still. "I'm surprised she didn't answer Recall. What could this person have to do with Chef?"

"Their communicators seem to have been in close proximity. We can conclude both the chef and Tanuja know each other."

"They knew each other? Oh, I guess they must have if..."

Reinhardt butts in. "Ah, but all chefs knew everyone. Always greeted me by name and knew how I liked my eggs!"

"They knew you, big guy!" McCree retorts lightly.

Zarya crosses her massive arms, glaring down at the screen, "We should find this person, bring here, and ask questions. Convince this Tanuja to talk."

"Whoa, there, partner. S'much as I'd like to dispense some good ol' fashion justice, don't think that's the right approach this time."

Fareeha snorts. "That's rich coming from you, Jesse."

He holds up his hands. "All I'm sayin' is that there's different priorities right now. Chef's with us now and ain't goin' nowhere. 'sides, Chef probably don't want to see the face of the person who sold 'em out. So I vote we focus on securin’ our blind spot t' keep Talon out and t' keep Chef from looking for revenge. How’s that goin’, ‘reeha?”

She nods sharply. “There’s a lot of work to be done, starting with connecting Athena’s network with the standalone ones in the kitchen and back, but we should be done in four days given that we have the supplies."

"So the Cellar was controlled through a separate network," Winston muses. "We knew that was the case, but the extent of its scope is still not yet known to us."

"We're not 100% sure if everything it controls without getting a network topology, but that shouldn't be too difficult to figure out." She tilts her head toward the ceiling. "Athena? We will need you to visualize a topology once the connections have been made."

The AI takes a few moments to respond. "...while that is indeed possible, I would like to inform the chef of these proceedings."

"Are we still on that? Chefs are not equipped to decide on security matters! They cook! That's it! No further discussion."

A flash of irritation strikes Hanzo straight in the gut. How dare she.

"I understand. I merely wish to keep Chef informed."

It's strange to think that a faceless AI has more compassion and a desire to protect a promise to you than anyone else here does. But Fareeha isn't wrong either despite the irksome way she speaks of you as though this is entirely your fault. You have been temporarily cleared of blame, but there are still many questions that require your cooperation to answer before anyone can make a judgement call.

“Fine. But Chef doesn’t get to make decisions about it.”

Reluctantly, Winston agrees. “Right. We will be...making an executive decision. All security matters will be handled by Pharah and approved by myself.”

“Hmph. Can’t wait to see this,” Torbjörn mutters, a sly smile on his face.

"Back to the point. Once we have a topology, we can then begin to make the necessary changes to the network and protect it. The computer the chefs were using doesn’t have the right security updates on it and needs to be locked down. Additionally, we found the other end of the Cellar. There was an abandoned truck and a lift to an abandoned garage. We’ll need at least two people to guard it until we can put the right defenses there.”

“Interesting. Please give the coordinates and we’ll see if we can find who the building is registered to.”

The Helix agent's face turns dark. “We also found the Junkers in a part of Cellar.”

Winston groans. “What are they doing there?”

“They apparently found something interesting and didn’t let us through. They insist Talon isn’t there with them but we need to be sure.”

“I see. I’ll...have to have a word with them, it seems.”

"Feh, you'll need a lot more than just words," Torbjörn grumbles. Hanzo is inclined to agree—they didn't seem like they wanted to leave for any reason; only a whole arsenal of Ana's tranquilizers would be able to put a dent in them. "Sounds like they found the Head Chef's project, though," Torbjörn continues. "Loads of scrap went into that thing and I don't think the chef's ever really knew just what it could do. Chances are those Junkers'll do better. Who knows."

“What project?” Hanzo asks faster than he could stop himself.

Torbjörn waves him off. “Nothing you’ll be interested in, that’s for sure.”

"That is for myself to decide."

"Yeah? And I decided it was none of your business."

Anger swoops down on Hanzo and he only manages to lean forward, a scorching retort at the ready before Winston steps in and demands that the meeting remain on topic and to take any bickering outside. They both grumble but acquiesce.

Beyond that, the meeting focused on securing their base of operations and next steps for handling Talon. (Someone even jokingly asked that the kitchen get fixed first so you wouldn't have a fit, but no one was particularly amused by the suggestion.) It's risky to keep Talon here, but they couldn't just give them back either. Shifts for watching over them was decided and next steps required Soldier—now openly referred to as Jack (and not in a particularly nice way by some), Ana, and Winston.

Winston told everyone to break for dinner; more instructions will come in the morning.

Among all the excitement, Hanzo had forgotten he was hungry at all. It only serves to remind him that the reason they're in this mess is because of you (and for you).

Hanzo pauses at the fork in the hall looking down the one to his right, the medical bay. No one had emerged from that area yet to disclose the news of your wellbeing to anyone.

He shouldn't go down that way, he has no right, especially not after considering even for a moment that you were complacent in Talon's schemes. You were just a pawn. An innocent victim.

The more he thinks of it, the more the hall seems to stretch, running away from him and expanding the distance. Further and further away.

Until the sound of heavy footsteps cut through his illusions and Lúcio appears, crossing the hall in absolutely no time, making a joke of the imagined distance Hanzo put between himself and you.

“Hey, Hanzo. What’s up with you?”

“How the chef?” he blurts out, a little mortified but unwilling to take it back.

Lúcio wipes his hands, a persistent grimace on his face that he can't hide even when he forces a smile.

"Chef's gonna do great. Mercy really came in with the clutch, handled the surgery remotely, going in and out and zap!" His smile fades a little and Hanzo's stomach plunges miles below hit feet. "Though, it was a little rough. Some wounds were starting to heal over and we had to actually...make more cuts and redo the injuries and a bit of intestine had to get taken out. Won't be eating any of that for a while. Ugh."

Hanzo pointedly ignores the intestines comment.

"Is…" He swallows, suddenly nervous and tries to not blink too many times or breathe too deep. "Is Chef able to receive visitors?"

Lúcio's brief grimace lands heavily against his chest. "Sorry, Hanzo. Mercy says not yet. We should let Chef rest for a bit. Or a long bit. Long, long while. Some good old peace and quiet will go a long way…” There is something unspoken behind his words that sound suspiciously like ‘I hope’, and Hanzo hopes so too.

It’d be an insult if you died at the hands of the very enemies they’ve all been fighting against. Even with Talon in their custody, it would still feel like they won if they took away your life.

"Whoa, Hanzo, you—you okay there man?"

Blinking away his thoughts, he regains his focus on Lúcio who has taken a step back.

"You were...lookin' kinda...feral there."

"No, I'm fine. I just, had a thought."

Immediately, Lúcio perks up, clapping his hands together. Likely an attempt to change the solemn mood. “Yeah? I also got one! What’s for dinner? I’m starving!”

Even with Lúcio leading him down the hall, he could not help but look back at the long stretch of the medical ward where, in one of those lonely rooms, you were laying, and how he’s once again walking away from another person he does not and cannot help.

Though the food is spread out in front of him, he doesn't have the appetite for it; the sauce transforming into the blood puddle in the tunnel, the taste drying up in his mouth. Hanzo polishes it off quickly, forcing himself not to think of how unsatisfying it is or just how odd the texture of the meat is.

No one talks to him and he likes that just fine. Everyone else seems to be locked in their own heads, most just taking their meals with them to do whatever work they were assigned, the air practically humming with tension.

There is much to process and even after a quick shower, he has not untangled the mess of information from today.

He sinks into his bed, the excitement and revelations finally descending upon him like a mudslide in his moments of solitude. The facts and opinions are difficult to sort. You’re innocent. The cynical side of him feels justified in accusing you—you’re always putting up a wall between yourself and the other agents, your behavior is too suspicious. But another part of him that he thought dead asks for rationality—you’re too softhearted and tied too deeply to your past.

It’s probably your softheartedness that got you into your current situation, and his gut clenches with a heat that could be anger and irritation. How could you get yourself so injured to let yourself get protected by the Cellar instead of protecting it?

Most of the mystery of the Cellar has already been solved. It’s not as exciting as Hanzo expected it to be, but it is definitely not what he expected. Though, the chances of a ‘treasure’ still had to exist in the white, dome shaped gate that the Junkers have made their home. That looked like it could be hiding something good, and he can’t even get a hint as to what it could be—the Junkers liked anything and everything.

Then there was McCree and his secrets, Soldier and his, you and yours.

A drink or eight would be the perfect distraction from this, but as much as he wants to, the memory of having made an absolute fool of himself adds to the weight of today, and he decides against it, letting all of his thoughts smother him into an uncomfortable sleep.

There is much to do.

Chapter 16>>

[tariqk]

More Minecraft grumping

Cut to spare the dash.

Things I really don’t like about Minecraft, honestly:

The early survival game is inaccessible

Here’s the thing about early Minecraft survival: you’re plonked in the middle of the wilderness, with absolutely nothing, and literally the first thing you got to do is punch a tree and find a safe place to spend the night before you get beaten up by monsters.

That’s it. You could spend the night hiding in a hole, probably crafting and mining something in the middle of the night, while hostile mobs wander areas that aren’t lit up, waiting to, basically, kill you. And you’ll stay in this precarious situation for at least a few days, as you 1) make a place to sleep, 2) build shelter, 3) get supplies to venture out, and 4) don’t die, because if you die, you lose your stuff.

This is a game marketed to mass audiences. For children, even. And it can be so manifestly unpleasant I have no idea how it got popular so quickly.

I don’t actually have a problem with this, actually! I positively enjoyed some of that experience, and some of that tension makes for some fun gameplay and entertaining stories — like the one where I found a white horse, tamed it, named it, and then proceeded to take it to a foolhardy exploratory quest before it fell under a hail of arrows (RIP Binky 2019–2019).

And I don’t even have a problem with the learning curve, because I’ve learned and thrived in environments like Dwarf Fortress. I use emacs for gods’ sake. Low accessibility and high difficulty environments are my jam.

But getting here involved more than a dozen start-and-stop moments of gameplay where I literally quit the game, deleted the save, and went to bed in disgust. It’s stupid. It’s aggravating. I can’t believe that this was ready for mass market, what with the lack of telegraphing and the pretty damn high stakes from the start, that the only people who’d play this would be gamers who are familliar with the tropes, already know a little about Minecraft lore, and are invested to try and try again.

To be fair, they’ve made some things easier: they’ve included guidebooks with recipes to automatically load items you already know into the crafter, there’s an official guide online, and if need be, you have cheats. But consider:

If you need to cheat to get the game accessible, there is something wrong with the core game loop.

You can’t create a guidebook and then rely on players gaining “enough experience” to access them to make the game more accessible.

You can’t just bloody have a guide that a person needs to open a browser, or buy the book, to get by.

Survival is very much a non-starter if Minecraft is your first serious game, you get frightened or suffer from anxiety in trying to stay alive, and you have difficulty optimizing your moves to get the best result.

Redstone is a mess

Actually, I have no opinions on how redstone is implemented on a purely technical basis. It’s a system, it’s mostly Turing complete, that's… interesting. What pisses me off is how the Technical Minecraft community is… well, frankly, hard to get into, hard to gain proficiency in, and looks fairly clannish, insular and… honestly a drag to Minecraft’s further development, if Minecraft was to get developed further.

Like I’ve talked about this before, but the existence of the Technical Minecraft is entirely dependent on a class of software behavior that you could make an argument are actually bugs. Zero-tick pistons, anomalous sticky piston behavior with blocks, quasi-connectivity… these weren’t intended consequences for the developers of Minecraft, and they’ve said so before.

Say what you want, but honestly if the only reason why a developer reverted a bug-fix because a bunch of small, clannish, insular, and loud minority were making complaints, I’d honestly ask how much value those people should have in how you run your business.

But that isn’t all. I had taken to writing down notes because I wanted to figure out how certain redstone constructions worked, and even the simplest designs suffer from the following:

There appears to be no standard way of sharing schematics and designs for redstone creations.

Most of the instructions are in video, which is a terrible medium to instruct in, because you don’t have a way to skim through the resource, the presenter literally doesn’t have to say anything more than what they do on video (and thus can be as vague and contradictory as they want).

Most of the instructions are in the nature of, do everything this way, except this section, in which you need to do (flurry of movement as the presenter puts in a slightly different design that you better be able to catch). It’s “simple”. No, it’s fucking not.

Another thing that bothers me is that, fundamentally, most redstone designs are hand-crafted, which is mind-boggling. For one, if you are just starting redstone in Minecraft, you’re going to be sitting with the same toolkit that the most experienced users of redstone are. You’ll still be laying down redstone lines and putting in comparators. You’ll still be dealing with the janky and inconsistent behavior that experienced redstoners are. You’d still be debugging your creations with the same tools experienced redstoners are. And like, you’d be doing it with nary any institutional or technical support, because… reasons?

It’s like you progress from electrical engineering to low-level programming to high-level programming to virtual machines to virtualization… so that you can get back to electrical engineering again? Using skills that may or may not transfer well into other fields? Why?

And there are consequences for this as well, which I’ll get to in a bit, but also, I need to talk about how the community gets around this problem, which is basically…

Modded Minecraft replaces the problems vanilla has with other problems

Specifically? One of them is performance.

I don’t know if you’ve tried 1.12.x and then compared it with 1.15.x, but the differences are night and day. Like, I run a potato computer, mostly because we’re broke af and don’t have the scratch for a l33t gaming machine, but… well, yeah. What’s occasionally janky in 1.15 is literally unplayable in 1.12. What takes 5 minutes to load in vanilla takes up to thirty minutes in modded Minecraft.

And sure, this will sort itself out as modders eventually take advantage of the new architecture and optimizations within 1.15, but in some other ways, it won’t. Mostly because the nature of modded Minecraft is that it literally has to interface with the literal source files to generate or insert new code, and since mod-makers don’t have access to the code pipeline and the tools that they can use to optimize the game, well…

And we’ve only talked about the Java Edition, and not Bedrock, which I suspect will be even more tightly incorporated into the platforms that it runs, at the cost of having less open infrastructure, and as a result, more consequences to mod performance and stabilty.

But another thing that bothers me about modded Minecraft is how so many mods are just… Minecraft, but more. More power, more game mechanics, more technical additions, more mobs, more enchantments… but half the time the resulting game feels bloated and overly-complex.

This is funny because it literally sounds like I’m contradicting myself over the fact that early Minecraft survival had too little in terms of letting itself be accessible, so you’d think I’d welcome mods that worked out some of these gaps with things that made player lives easier.

But what I’m looking for is a realignment of how the game approaches players, not as a punitive, inaccessible system where difficulty is a mask for what is ultimately shallow gameplay, and what we get from modded Minecraft is more stuff. Sometimes, in some modpacks, just so many things that several mods do the same thing that the other mods do.

It’s kind of telling that every time I see a modpack that includes Draconic Evolution the first thing I think of is I better not get into Draconic early, because if I do the rest of the game will literally break, because I have no idea what the hell the mod creators are doing there, but when your damage scales allow you to three-shot the Ender Dragon final boss, that mod breaks the game. Doesn’t matter if you make a boss that’s three times tougher than, say, the Wither. Game’s fucking broken.

There are some good approaches: FTB Academy and other questbook mods do give players a chance to orient and align themselves with what to do, without forcing players to have to go through the anxiety and terror of not knowing what to do, and keeps them engaged far longer than they should be, but honestly… ultimately what you’re doing is more stuff, just through the lens of what the mod wants you to do.

Plus FTB Academy has Draconic and you can literally two-shot the Guardian of Gaia, which is supposed to be so tough that metal music starts playing and it can cause effects that are twice as worse as the Wither… well.

Is it just me or are there only dudes in this party?

If I have to count the number of people who weren’t cis men or boys in the time I’ve been lurking around Minecraft’s YouTube channels, I can quite literally say that the number would be less than half a dozen.

That’s very bad. When your visible community is 95% cis dudes and everyone else aren’t there, it tells me that:

The game alienates literally everyone who isn’t a cis dude

The player base are driving away anyone who isn’t a cis dude

Part of the reasons for #1 are, well, I’ve mentioned them above: it only really allows people who have the time and wherewithal to plug into an activity that offers no real benefit outside of the game itself, most of the fantasies it caters to is power fantasies of vanquishing more and more powerful opponents, and there’s barely any community support for newcomers.

So that’s no surprise that the kind of people who are popular Minecraft YouTubers are dudes who are either bad at explaining what they do, are inarticulate, or… well, to not put it too unkindly, dicks. I mean, Minecraft’s recent rise in popularity and relevance was, sadly, because PewDiePie was playing it. So that tells you everything.

And we haven’t even gotten into the fact that the playerbase looks pale as fuck, so you know that’s a thing. I’m seeing a few Indonesian-language Minecraft tutorials on YouTube, so that’s neat, but otherwise… it’s pretty white-dominated.

And this all assumes that the causes are all because of structural inequalities, not active fuckery against marginalized folks. I honestly don’t know how often that happens, though I wouldn’t honestly be surprised if it did. I mean, it’s not as if the game isn’t associated with nasty folk like PDP… and hell, even the original creator, who, to their credit, Microsoft and Mojang have sidelined, is a homophobic and racist dude.

But, yeah. I mean, $CHILD_1 and $CHILD_2 are still at it with Minecraft, and I’ll be around to help them through, hopefully to steer them away from the nasty stuff. But still, ugh. There are so many reasons to be grumpy about this game.

Mind you, at least it isn’t Roblox.

[queenieofaces]

To build an unimaginable future (or, Queenie is way too jazzed about queer futurity)

This post has been cross-posted to The Asexual Agenda.

This post was written for the April 2018 Carnival of Aces on “All the birds but us...”  In typical Queenie fashion, I’m getting this in at the last possible second, but if you can type at supersonic speeds, consider writing a submission as well!

Content warnings: spoilers for a movie that came out in 1939, some pessimistic talk about the future and trauma

In spring of 2014, I was assigned a portion of Lee Edelman’s No Future for a class.  

I hated it.

I hated it so much, in fact, that I vagueblogged about how much I hated it.  I hated it so much that I decided that I was going to prove Lee Edelman wrong with every part of my existence.  Like many things that I start as semi-jokes, it very quickly became not so much a joke as a way for me to conceptualize why what I was doing mattered.

Yeah, this is it.  This is the post where I finally talk about queer* futurity.

A disclaimer to start: I’m not a queer theorist and I’m not super well-versed in queer theory in general.  I find a lot of theoretical work convoluted and inaccessible (both to the general public and to me specifically), and my training is primarily as a historian and ethnographer.  What I’m talking about here is not queer futurity from a theoretical perspective (although there’s been a fair amount written on it from that perspective, including work actively refuting Edelman)** but rather queer futurity from a personal perspective.  This month’s Carnival of Aces prompt asks, “How did your (a)sexual and (a)romantic orientations impact your (expected or imagined) future?” and this is my answer.

That said, it’s probably important to explain what Edelman’s work is all about so that you know what I was reacting to.  Here’s the blurb from Amazon:

In this searing polemic, Lee Edelman outlines a radically uncompromising new ethics of queer theory. His main target is the all-pervasive figure of the child, which he reads as the linchpin of our universal politics of “reproductive futurism.” Edelman argues that the child, understood as innocence in need of protection, represents the possibility of the future against which the queer is positioned as the embodiment of a relentlessly narcissistic, antisocial, and future-negating drive. He boldly insists that the efficacy of queerness lies in its very willingness to embrace this refusal of the social and political order. In No Future, Edelman urges queers to abandon the stance of accommodation and accede to their status as figures for the force of a negativity that he links with irony, jouissance, and, ultimately, the death drive itself.

Basically, Edelman links futurity with biological reproduction and then says that queerness’s power is negating or denying that future.  (He says, at one point, that queerness is defined by having non-reproductive sex.)

There are a lot of reasons to hate this.  First, there’s the weirdly exclusive definition of queerness.  What about bi folks?  What about trans folks?  What about ace folks?  What about gay folks who have biological children?  Etc. etc. etc.  Second, there’s the idea that the only way to have a future is to biologically reproduce.  I know that Edelman has been (rightly) critiqued, especially by queer scholars of color, for discounting social reproduction--passing on culture and community to folks who are not blood relations, for example.  If you want an example from my own studies, there are several medieval Buddhist sects in Japan that have master-disciple transmissions, where the master and disciple are not theoretically*** blood relations but still are part of the same lineage.  Third, there’s this general sort of nihilistic, pessimistic way of thinking about queerness.  I’m going to talk about that more below so I won’t go into it here.

Anyway, enough about this book that I didn’t like.

When I talk about queer futurity, I’m talking about a way of imagining a future connected to our present that doesn’t rely on biological reproduction.  This probably sounds very conceptual and academic, so let me explain with some reasons why I am so excessively jazzed**** about queer futurity:

The first point is a bit of a weird and heavy one, so I apologize for starting with this but here goes: I don’t believe that “it gets better.”  I understand that that’s often a comforting thought for LGBTQ folks (it’s the basis of the It Gets Better Project, after all), but it’s not for me.  I don’t think that there will be a brighter, better future for me, because experience has yet to offer me any concrete proof that things will get better for me.  I’ve known I’m queer for more than a decade, and things haven’t gotten better; they’ve just gotten hard in different ways.  

On a related note, as I’ve mentioned before a couple of times, I have no real felt sense of the future and no ability to conceptualize what my future might look like.  Part of that is PTSD (trauma does weird things to your sense of time) and part of that is a lack of role models.  This is why things like “The Path of the New Woman” appeal to me--as Ito puts it, The New Woman “does not know where this new path originates nor where it leads.  Consequently, she understands the danger and the fear that attend the unknown.”  The future, to me, is scary but also fundamentally nebulous and unimaginable.

People often mistake me for an optimist, but I wouldn’t say I am.  I don’t think the future is inherently a better, brighter place.  I don’t think the sun will come out tomorrow.

What I do think is that if tomorrow continues to be dark, the least I can do is make sure that whoever comes after me has a flashlight.

And this is where queer futurity comes in for me--being able to conceptualize a better future not for myself but for the people who come after me, but also being able to conceptualize a way that I am connected to and contributing to that future.  Because the idea that I’m disconnected from the future entirely or that I’m negating it in some way?  That’s hopelessness.  Because if nothing will get better for me, if my future is already so inherently difficult to imagine, and if I will not have any legacy to pass on to the next generation, there’s no point in me continuing to survive.  (As I’ve said before, my ability to care for myself goes up substantially when I have other people to take care of.)

So, for me, queer futurity is hope, not that things will get better, but that I can make them better for whoever comes next, that whatever I build (whether that’s resources or community or just plain ol’ relationships with other individuals) will live on beyond me.

Needless to say, a big part of queer futurity for me is conceptualizing alternative families (found family is lovely!) but also ways to have an impact on the next generation that don’t require a family.  When I was in my preteens, I saw Goodbye, Mr. Chips and I sobbed through the ending.  If you haven’t seen the movie, it follows a teacher at a boys’ school from his first day teaching until his death.  On his death bed, one of his colleagues remarks that it’s a shame he never had children, and he responds, "I thought you said it was a pity, a pity I never had any children. But you're wrong. I have! Thousands of 'em, thousands of 'em...and all...boys."  (You can find a clip of the scene in question on YouTube.)  This appeals to me because I’m a sap who cries about gum commercials***** but also because it’s very much in line with how I imagine my own role as a teacher, an educator, and a mentor.

I am not planning on having children--either biological or adopted.  I have no intention or desire to pass on my family name--I’m not on speaking terms with my family, and haven’t been for years at this point.  I’m not sure that I’ll ever be in another partnered relationship due to the puddle problem and also due to my drifting further and further into romantically grey areas.  As hard as it is for me to conceptualize my future, it’s even harder for me to conceptualize a future trajectory that looks at all normative.******  If we imagine futurity as tied to biological reproduction, I am a dead end.

But here’s where I turn to queer futurity again: if the future isn’t solely predicated on biological reproduction, if my lineage isn’t constrained by my ability or willingness to pass on my genetic material, I am no longer a dead end.  Because, you know what?  I may never have kids and may never be part of a family, but I have mentees.  I have my LGBTQ students and kouhai who’ve reached out to me for support.  I have everyone who’s ever read something I’ve written and said, “Hey, this helped me understand myself better.”  I have everyone who I’ve helped feel less alone or less scared or better equipped to face down the future in all its frightening, unknowable glory.  I have a community I’ve contributed to building, and that will live on past me.  I come from a lineage of ace bloggers and activists whose words have educated, comforted, and inspired me, just as I hope that someday my words will educate, comfort, and inspire someone else.

So here’s what it comes down to: I’m excessively jazzed about queer futurity because I can’t imagine a future for myself, but I want to build one that’s better for whoever comes next.  I’ve been shaped not only by my biological family but by my community, by my ace and/or queer elders, by everyone who has ever offered me a hand up or a shoulder to cry on.  I’ve inherited that legacy and I’m going to pass it on, whether Lee Edelman likes it or not.  

All the other birds may have begun their nests, but me?  Maybe I don’t need a nest.  Maybe there are other ways for my existence to have meaning.

*To head off the inevitable questions: when I talk about my being queer, I’m talking about both my sexuality (or lack thereof) and my romantic orientation.  These things are inseparable parts of my queerness.  If you are interested in reading more, I recommend checking out my tag.

**Full disclosure: I haven’t read this particular book of Muñoz’s (I’ve read one of his other books) or much of the other work refuting Edelman.  I’ve had it recapped to me in seminar by other folks.  Like I said, not a queer theorist or a queer studies specialist.

***In actuality, sometimes people fudged their vows of celibacy and had sons who became their disciples.  But biological relationships aren’t actually required or expected for transmission of teachings.

****Those of you who follow me on my sideblog: I am so sorry that you are subjected to the endless stream of semi-incoherent yelling and memes about queer futurity but also, like, I’m not actually that sorry and we all know it.  As a special bonus for all of you, here is a terrible meme:

You’re welcome.

*****Do you think I’m frickin’ joking?  Do you think this is a joke?  This is not a joke.  I’m so serious about crying about gum commercials.

******One of these days I’m going to write that post on queer time/ace time.  It’s going to happen.  I’ve said I’m going to write a post on queer futurity for years and years and now I’m finally writing it, so the queer/ace time post will happen one day.  Just not today.

[mistyschallenge]

Don’t Move.

This is Haru Usasa.

She’s a level designer for Super Mario Maker. At the time I first found her, she’d been ranked the #1 designer on the network by star count, the #1 “maker” as they call it there.

That means a lot. I think for any of us it would be an honor to have as many as a hundred or even a thousand stars. I think for many of us it would be an honor to any stars at all. Usasa has a million stars, a million stars and counting, and just to hammer that bit home, just to drive in the scale of it, consider that at the time of posting, she has more stars, and more medals, than the next two highest-ranked designers combined, outstripping the greater of those two by a 700,000-star lead.

And that? That’s the low estimate. The real numbers are even higher.

Haru Usasa is, to put it bluntly, in a class all her own. She is, to put it plainly, a h*cking legend.

And also? These are the levels she makes:

Ta-da! It’s an automatic.

Some of you are probably cringing right now, but for those of you who don’t know, don’t mind, and would like to know more: Automatic levels (or automatic “courses,” to use the Super Mario series’ exact—and frankly, arbitrary—terminology,) are courses that play themselves, using objects and enemies to propel Mario forward with little to no input from the player. They first bubbled up out of the Super Mario World modding community (as did so many other aspects of the SMM scene that I am dead certain there’s an argument to be made that the original 1990 release is to SMW what Vanilla is to Doom,) starting with a series of musical courses set to megamixes from Nico Nico Douga.

An automatic, by the way, is also a type of gun, which I think is pertinent to what it feels like to look at one of these courses, or to play them.

And speaking of that, here’s an example:

Boom.

At this point, they’re practically a genre in their own right, but they’ve become a bit of a base breaker in the SMM community, due in large part to their growing ubiquity on the Course World servers. Some of us could take ‘em or leave ‘em, some of us love them, and many of us write them off derisively, as cheap star grabs peddled by lazy amateurs. (Which, I mean, aren’t we all amateurs here?)

But me, personally? I think Usasa here deserves every star she’s got.

This is the sort of claim you just have to put into context, so first let’s take a moment to talk about Sonic. Don’t bother mentioning the irony, I already know. But I promise, I am going somewhere with this.

People still have fond recollections of the Genesis-era Sonic games. The runaway success of a deliberate throwback like Sonic Mania is a testament not only to the strength of those recollections but also to the idea that, in many ways, the games still hold up today. But there is still a lot of contention about just what made them work, about what their essence was, beyond second-order issues like “multiple routes” or “gameplay-to-story ratio.” Some even argue that early Sonic wasn’t about speed so much as it was about platforming, pointing out, correctly, that these games weren’t nearly as fast as their successors would become.

But what isn’t talked about often enough when discussing what made those games special was their physics, and the way that Sonic was, in the end, all about its physics. Even Sonic’s speed only really mattered to the extent that it let the game express its physics.

Sound like a hard left? I mean, don’t get me wrong, Sonic was fast. But he wasn’t boosting Blue Falcon fast. He wasn’t even boosting blue hedgehog fast. No, Sonic speed had always been a darting speed, an agile kind of speed, a portal fling-swing kind of speed. There’s a post going into that difference in detail, and there’s a lot of detail to go into here, but this quote sums up the gist of it:

“Which of these moves faster, a commercial airliner or a roller coaster?

“Alright, now which one of these feels faster?

“[…] It’s pretty obvious that, although the airliner is going to (sic) faster for longer, the roller coaster is what feels the fastest. The reason for this phenomenon isn’t speed, however. It’s acceleration, which we can define as a change in speed, or a change in direction, or both (for short, a change in velocity.) The reason that the airliner feels almost motionless in mid-flight is that it builds up speed slowly, turns even more slowly, and gives your body plenty of time to adjust, whereas the roller coaster speeds up, slows down, lunges, dives, and whips around corners and corkscrews faster than your body can adjust.

“Which, coincidentally, sounds like something out of an ad for an old Sonic game.”

This is a big part of what made a paid fan project like Sonic Mania feel so much more authentic than Sega’s own in-house attempts at a Genesis homage, which faithfully recreated the musical style and visual motifs of those games but often treated their physics like an afterthought. The system of momentum that powered the games might’ve made platforming a chore, but they’re also what made loop-de-loops and corkscrews click: You could see the strings. You knew how this trick worked, and yet it amazed you regardless, despite this, because of it, because you could marvel at the intricacy of a system capable of stretching itself this far. You didn’t always gain much speed at any given time, but you didn’t have to; the thrill of the speed you did gain emerged from the yawning gap between your standard speed and the speed you could potentially achieve by manipulating this system to your advantage, by capturing that fire, by bottling that lightning.

Many will say that the reason reaching high speed felt so satisfying, in the end, is because “you had to work for it,” because it had to be “earned.” And while that is one way to frame it, I’d like to suggest, instead, that what made that dizzying acceleration worth watching was that it was always authentic: never scripted, never automatic, never anything more than an inevitable consequence of the game’s laws as they were written, carried out to the letter. Where later Sonic games would say with their on-rails sections: “Look at how fast Sonic is going,” the Genesis games said something fundamentally different:

“Look at the power, the raw kinetic potential, contained in these slopes and inclines. Look at what you can do, what you can create, and with nothing but a little weight, a little gravity, and a little push.”

It’s Phoenix Wright interpreting Newton. It’s you, as the marble in a Rube Goldberg Machine.

It’s the awful palpable potency of a loaded automatic.

I don’t...have to explain that last pun, do I? No? Okay, good. Then we can get back to Mario, because it’s the exact same thing for Mario.

The automatic courses in Super Mario Maker actually differ from the ones you see in Super Mario World on two key points:

1. None of them play music, and if there is one that does, I haven’t seen it. In fact, the automatic music course that these new courses sprung from appears to have split off into two separate genres, automatic and music. To wit, the top two course creators are an automatic maker and a music maker, in or out of that order from week to week. (The only other million-star maker is a musical course designer known only as Ochagama.) Though there are few courses, if any (again, I know of none,) that re-unify the best traits of both genres, the problem isn’t laziness or lack of imagination. Instead, it’s that Super Mario Maker’s course size limit is below that of any music mod I’ve ever seen. There’s a strict object limit, somewhere around 100 for enemies and obstacles like 1-Way doors and trampolines (though there is a separate and significantly higher limit for static blocks and coins.) This all leads to the second point:

2. Super Mario Maker’s automatic courses are DENSE. Where the old automatics chugged right on ahead to keep in time with the music, these courses bounce back and forth across the stage like a pinball. Rather than stretch 100 objects across ten screens, these courses pack as much as possible into a small space that folds over on itself to produce a spectacle of excess. It is a bursting, exploding thing, but it’s an explosion more like a blossom than a bomb. To cut it down to simple talk, it’s kineasthetic sakuga.

Super Mario Maker is, essentially, a sandbox game, like Minecraft. You switch back and forth between creative and goal-oriented play, and in either case your goal is to explore, engage with and appreciate the complex systems at play, the systems that allow the game to be what it is. Play is only valuable inasmuch as it helps you to do this.

It’s often complained that automatic courses aren’t “real” courses because you can’t play them, which echoes similar complaints in the last several years that games like Dear Esther aren’t “real” games because your agency is limited within them. Automatic courses seem like an extreme version of this issue: You’re not allowed do to anything, and even attempting to act, save for the few cases in which you are expressly asked to do so, is punished harshly. To a certain type of player, this approach to design is bound to come off as inconsiderate, even offensive.

The compliments that are usually given to these courses, on the other hand, typically come down to the amount of effort it must’ve taken to build them. And okay, yes, true, there’s a reason Usasa takes about a month between each upload, but I think that these courses can be appreciated on their own merits, on their merits as experiences. More than just cheap popcorn fodder, the automatic course is a surprisingly poignant example of a videogame, or a section of a videogame at least, without a player, as the “player” is traditionally understood, a non-player-centric space in which the only necessity is that the player be present to “perceive play,” as Mattie Brice puts it in “Death of the Player.” And even with that you could just, I dunno, watch YouTube or something.

Automatic courses do the same thing attract modes do for arcade games: They say: “Look at what this game can do.” Only this is different, because now you’re there and you can attest to the fact that the course is moving on its own. All you really need is to be there. Be there, and be very still, and you just might get to watch the game sing.

If you enjoyed reading this, here are some courses you may be interested in:

“全自動マリオカート　Automatic Mario Kart“ by ササエタマエ. A screenshot from this course was used in the essay. It’s the one with the red and black shells. ID: 635C-0000-0045-AF89.

“ ↑ﾎﾞﾀﾝを押し続ける鍵ドア半自動 Keep ↑” by  うささ. Crams all the activity of an automatic into the span of a single screen. ID:  1747-0000-0259-926D.

“ 36回楽しめる自動マリオ 36 Auto patterns“ by  さぼ. Allows you to take a different route through the course depending on which buttons are held down from the start. There are 36 routes total. It’s...kiiind of incredible. ID: 1883-0000-02C1-89AC. (Here is a video showing all possible routes.)

*ECK

[rpchive]

Ninety Sixth Encounter-- Knowledge and Power

this is the 0 to 60 rhianna warned you about

The door to Daedalus' room swings open and the man himself casually steps out into the hall, shutting the door behind him. He rolls his neck and shoulders around a couple of times to stretch them out and lets out a small groan. Sliding his sunglasses back over his eyes, Daedalus makes his way down the hall while stretching his arms out in front of himself. He passes through the console room and steps inside the kitchen, glancing around for something as he scratches the back of his head. Though it's not even noon, Maya is already drinking what is presumably her second bottle of some type of alcohol. There's no visible proof that she's even eaten anything for breakfast. She glances over to Daedalus when he enters, but doesn't greet him. Daedalus briefly glances at Maya as he heads toward a cabinet before doing a sudden double take. A moment passes before he speaks. "Uh... You seem new." Maya: Oh really now? Didn't think you could even see me since you're wearing fuckin' sunglasses indoors... Daedalus: Hey, I've made 'em work. Besides, I think your taste in breakfast is more questionable than my outfit. Maya: Didn't I see you yesterday? How'd you forget my name already? You guys kinda saved my life, after all. Guess you're used to fishing girls out of boxes in space, huh? Daedalus: Wh- Oh. No, wrong skinny tall guy. I'm his... twin. Maya: Oh, cool; I thought I was just seeing double 'cause of the vodka. Right; well; my name's Maya; I almost died in a box in space, but your robot decided to loot a spacecraft that was torn in half, so now I'm on your ship. Daedalus: Well, I've heard weirder reasons for being on this thing, so welcome to the club I guess.

He turns back to one of the cabinets and pulls out a thing of coffee grounds. He starts the brew and then turns back to Maya again while it runs, leaning against the counter. "Seriously though, what's up with the drinking? It's like... well, I don't have a watch, but it's pretty damn early to be hitting the hard stuff." Maya: The corporation that basically kidnapped me about...10 years ago? Shot me and all my friends into space in an attempt to kill us all along with one of the monsters we were charged with overseeing. If it hadn't killed us, they were planning on shooting the survivors with a laser they had trained on the ship from the moment we left. And that's just yesterday's mistake. Daedalus: ... Shit, alright, I'll give you a pass for now. This wasn't another alternate universe version of Aperture, was it? Maya: It's a place called Lobotomy Corporation. Believe it or not, they export energy; but that's about all they provide uptop. The coffee machine finishes brewing finally, prompting Daedalus to grab a mug and pour some of the pot for himself. "Energy? So what, kidnapping and babysitting monsters are just hobbies or something to them?" Maya: Oh no, that's where they /got it/ from. Interactions with these monsters somehow release energy that can be harnessed and refined into tons of other stuff. Us employees were allowed to use excess to create armor and weapons to defend ourselves with like some kind of sick joke; doesn't make a damn bit of a difference when you're in the wrong corner. Daedalus: Shit... I'll be honest, the whole "monster energy" thing sounds neat, but I know all too well what being trapped in a facility is like. Not sure what'd be worse though, that or solitary confinement. Hell, maybe it's just two sides of a shitty, shitty coin. Maya: ...So you guys came from something like Lobotomy? Daedalus: Ehh, vaguely, and not all of us.

He takes a sip of the coffee, flinches slightly, and sets it back down with an angry scowl. "Tch, too damn hot... Anyway, only me, Collin, and Fawkes came from that place, although I guess I technically wasn't physically present. Point is, Collin and I spent a good couple years or so in this place called Aperture Science, which was a facility designed to test different inventions and whatnot. The problem is that it was taken over by the world's most complex and sadistic AI who wanted nothing more than to test shit, regardless of the cost." Maya: Oh, believe me, I've met AIs like that. Angela was the same way. Then again, she had some weird thing for the Corporation I never really understood; moreso than all the others... Daedalus: Damn, you just had everything back there, huh? Still, at least you had other people around. Getting so desperate for interaction that you befriend a box isn't a good place to be, I promise. Maya: Hey, at least a box won't die on you. Daedalus: No, you'll just be forced to incinerate it in order to move on to the next test. Maya: Anyone who says they're looking to better the world through any sort of business is full of bullshit. Science for the greater good isn't a fuckin' thing; people only care about themselves... Daedalus: I'd be inclined to agree, but the other people on this ship seem pretty damned and determined to prove otherwise. And hey, not all science is bad. Cavemen didn't have coffee machines, after all.

He takes another sip, looking more pleased with the result this time. "Thank God, finally left the lava threshold..." Maya: Maybe not; but I've still yet to see anyone swearing they're gonna fix somethin' big with science do a damn thing good with that promise. It's only ever ended in blood and tears. Daedalus: Well, can't argue otherwise there. But hey, to hell with those people. They've got no hold here on this little soda machine of ours. Maya: ...I don't know shit about any of you; but I get the feeling you guys can make a real change...but you're rough around the edges; disorganized as hell...you people would fall apart in a heartbeat if you ran into something you couldn't handle; I can see it in all of you. You're close friends, that's for sure, but in a pinch, you'd all die in an instant. I've seen it dozens of times in my employees...but the right guns; the right clothes; your close friendships; they won't save you from something all-powerful, or something smarter... Daedalus levels a steady glare at her for a few seconds while he takes a longer swig from his mug. He smacks his lips a couple of times and then lifts the mug slightly in her direction. "Thanks for the encouragement, coach." Maya shakes her head slowly, letting out a sigh as she sets her bottle down.

"You can be sour; but I'm right; you people need help. I asked some of your friends to tell me about the stuff you guys do; what you get into and the like. That Jay kid and your twin are magnets for disaster; everybody in this box is a damn kid; most of you don't even know what you're capable of, let alone what you can do in cooperation with each other...everything you do unfolds in front of you; you've never been prepared for a single incident, and it will cost you in the long run." Daedalus: I didn't say you were wrong, y'know. Your delivery could use some work though. Plus, you don't seem that much older than any of the rest of the people here, and I'm damn sure they're not gonna take kindly to being called "kid". Maya: ...Maybe so. I just don't want to watch this fall apart. You guys could really fix things if you just...knew how to work better. All I'm saying is that it really shows that you guys just kinda...picked up some weapons and started kicking shit around if only to stay alive. Coincidentally, this led to you fighting for greater causes...but it also puts you in more danger. Looks like you're putting the cart before the horse, really. Daedalus: Well, it's not like all of this started deliberately; it was a pretty frantic scramble for survival at the start of it all. Hell, I've only been alive again for a few weeks now, so it's not like I had any input in all of this. Maya: ...Okay, I'm a little tipsy, but you said you were a twin, right? Daedalus: It's a very loose term for a much weirder situation. Maya: I'll chalk it up to clone shenanigans and move on; okay. At the very least, you guys have a medic, and specialists in the recurring fields of...shenanigans that surround your lives. That's a start; probably how you've made it so far. Right, well, once I'm sober again I can probably try to figure out how to help you punks pull your shit together. In the meantime, your medic has the right idea; reliable communication in any situation is invaluable in your situation. Daedalus: I can give you a detailed story if you ever want it, but sure, clone shit. Guess I'll get out of your hair while you try and make your lesson plan or whatever it is you're planning on doing. Maya: Again, when I'm sober, for sure. But alright; you do you, pal. Daedalus starts to walk back out but stops after a few steps. He turns back to the counter and pours a new mug of coffee before setting it down on the table next to Maya's glass. "Should help you sober up. I think."

Not waiting for a response, he heads out of the kitchen.

I think those two could be friends if he can get past Maya’s...extra

[Meanwhile]

Collin casually knocks on XL's door and takes a step back. Silky answers the door instead. "Oh, Collin! Need something?"

Collin: Oh, hey Silky. I was just wondering if XL had finished working on those communicator things after that incident on the island. Never know when we're gonna need those things again, after all. Silky: Thanks to Rio, yeah, we've got a more functional build going this time. They're still kinda big, but they look a lot less like toys. She's still trying to make one for everybody though; but there's several that are ready now. Collin: Ah, nice. What've we got now, then? Silky goes back into the room and retrieves another one of the hockey puck sized commuincators; the colors now a darker shade of blue, nearly black, with lighted ring around a small touch screen in the center. The ring at the moment is glowing white.

"The light has multiple functions; it can change colors; you can turn it off; it can shift to a blacklight;  but mostly it's just to tell the commuincators apart. They're waterproof to absurd depths, mostly for my sake; heat resistant to extreme temperatures, mostly for XL's sake; in all likelihood they're cold resistant, but we weren't able to test that past the freezer since Firefly was so busy...there's trackers, but they can be disabled; a recording function; obviously a camera and mic, but both can be disabled individually..." XL: We mostly made this with the idea of one of you getting kidnapped or running off in mind; if anything weird happens; we'll be able to find you; hear you; or see what's going on. All these functions can be voluntarily disabled, but only by the owner themself.

that’s gonna be useful considering their history, lol. half of holding off on this was making the design, the other half was that it would make doing dumb shit harder. but it could also make things more interesting!

Collin: Wow, that is... one hell of an overhaul you've done here, XL. No wonder you've only got a few ready. XL: ...Oh, you bet. With you guys, we need to be prepared for anything and everything; our equipment should be no exception. Collin: So uh... how do you fly this thing, exactly? XL: It's a touch screen, but there's also a pair of buttons on the bottom; both on the front and the back; either of these will turn it on. Perfectly silent; the backlight can be dimmed to illuminations essentially entirely invisible in darkness. From there, it's just a menu and some icons; easy and fast to navigate. Collin: Faaair enough? I can probably figure it out. I can work a portal gun, so this can't be much harder, right? XL: Oh, this'll be a piece of...it'll be easy as pie, ahaha... Collin's expression changes to his "must've missed a joke" face for a moment. "Well, should I come back when they're all done, or...?" XL: Unless you'd rather pass out the finished products.

Collin: Hmm, well, maybe we should hang on until they're all done actually. It'd be kinda weird trying to pick out who should get one now that I'm thinking about it. XL: Suit yourself; you know where to look if you need them sooner, though. Collin: Alrighty, I'll leave you to it then. Got a guess on how long it'll be? XL: Maybe a few more days; week and a half tops. Collin: Kinda figured. I'm gonna head to the kitchen if you need me for some reason. Silky: We'll keep it in mind! Collin gives a small wave and leaves down the hall, passing through the console room on his way to the kitchen. Maya is at the console, arguing with Nydins about something.

Nydins: We can't just 'drop everything and hold a meeting;' people are working on important things!

Maya: Oh yeah, you look really busy, sweetheart. Look, I really need to talk to everybody I can; but if you feel like you don't need to hear it, that's perfectly fine, you can drop me off wherever you land that isn't Earth; I'm perfectly fine with not helping you people if you're unwilling. Collin: Is uh, something wrong? Rio: Maya's saying that we need to have some kind of big, serious group meeting about how we do things around here, but, well, Nydins doesn't think that's worth interrupting XL and Firefly over... Collin: I mean, I know XL's busy working on those communicator things, but what's Firefly up to? Nydins: I'm...not sure, but she said it was important, so I believe her!

Maya: Aaaand that's exactly why I want to have this talk. Collin: Alright, alright, if it's really that important, we can at least go ask them if they can put it on hold for a bit, right? Maya: Trust me, it won't take too long.

Nydins: ...Fine; where do you want everyone to meet? Here?

Maya: The practice room.

Nydins: B-but there's nothing in there!

Maya: Exactly; it's huge and empty, perfect for all of you to have an unobstructed view. Collin: View of what? Maya: What I'm gonna talk about. I'll meet you there; get your buddies.

With that, she walks off.

Nydins: I just can't read her...she feels like a tight spring just waiting for something, but she doesn't feel bad... Collin: I know exactly what you mean. Still, she seems pretty serious about whatever this is, so I guess I'll go bug Firefly first and see if I can get her out. Rio: Alright...I guess we'll see you in the room? Collin: Sounds good. Try and round up whoever you can too while you're on your way. With that being said, Collin leaves the console room and heads over to Firefly's door, which he knocks on a few times. After a few moments, Firefly comes to the door and opens it slightly, though she seems distracted.

"Is something happening?" Collin: Kinda, yeah. That person that Fawkes saved, Maya, seems really set on getting us all together about something. Can you walk away from whatever you're doing for a few minutes? Firefly: ...Yeah, sure. Just uhh...give me a little bit, I'll meet up with you once I sort this out. Collin: ... Do you need help in there? Is everything alright? Firefly: I'm fine; I'm just looking over some stuff while we're coasting. Collin: You seem a little too distracted to just be reading a book, honestly... Firefly: I didn't say it was a book. Collin: Well, what is it then? Firefly: The flower petals that were in the compartment of the casket Maya was in. They're not right... Collin: Somehow I'm not surprised by that. Well, don't wait too long, alright? She seemed pretty serious about talking to everyone. Firefly: Yeah, I know... Collin leaves Firefly and heads back to his room to get Jay and whoever else might be inside.

I’m sure that Maya mentioned the ship got ate in half, but that won’t stop Firefly from trying to figure out what ate it

As the group assembles in the training room, Maya stands patiently by herself, nodding in approval once she sees everybody in one place.

"About time; thought you guys were gonna keep me waiting forever."

Collin: Sorry, it takes a little bit to get everyone together. Walking around the front of the group, Maya continues to look everyone over carefully.

"Yeah, I understand that. Used to run an entire sector of the Corporation; organization kinda had to be my jam. Do you know why I called you all here?" Daedalus raises his hand. "Oh, oh, pick me!" Maya: Yes, you; the smug, sarcastic stunt double in the shades; what's your answer? Daedalus: You're gonna tell us to get our shit together so we don't die horrible, horrible deaths, right? Maya: In a nutshell, yes. Kind of had a broader explanation, but you know.

Nydins: W-we don't need you to tell us how to do our jobs!

Maya turns, locks eyes with Nydins, draws a gun, and fires six rounds directly at Jay's chest. Every round, however, was a blank of some sort, doing no physical damage to him whatsoever. This, however, does not change the fact that he looks like he wants to vomit on the spot, shakily backing away from Maya before she speaks again.

Maya: You didn't fact check me at all, you know. I told you this morning that I'd talked with your friends to learn about you; that was a lie, I asked your ship to show me everything you'd ever done the instant I got here since you left me alone and unguarded; I stayed up all night learning everything there is to know about every single one of you, then I used your ship to make all kinds of weapons that could've had you all dead in 5 minutes tops; which you also didn't notice. The only things left in my room now are Hal and my suits, but my point still stands: you trust too quickly. Collin: What the fuck?

Collin's hands erupt with energy, crackling with barely contained power. "What kind of fucking stunt are you trying to pull here?" Maya: Look, these guns aren't loaded; check them yourself. Check my whole suit if you want; hell, I'll let you search me too if you want to. My point is that you found me, a sole survivor, on a stranded ship in the middle of space- a ship that was destroyed; torn in half; everybody else bled to death or killed themselves; and you didn't wonder why I was like that? You never thought that maybe I dragged that body over to my casket; that maybe I lied about making friends; you didn't once think that maybe I killed that entire ship and you let me onto yours? Unguarded?! If I were a villain, you'd all be dead. Fawkes' visor blinks for a few seconds "No live ammunition detected. She's telling the truth about that, at least." Rio: There's better ways to tell us these things...!!

Maya: But would you do anything about it? I watched those two kids get kidnapped; tortured; dismembered; and stolen from several times; and they didn't do anything about it! Jay's heart is still exposed; Collin still let me stay alone without question; not a damn one of you even questioned why I had guns in my casket if I was supposed to die in it; you idiots are asking to be taken advantage of, and the universe has obliged over, and over, and over again. I'm cutting you off; you're too soft, and you need an intervention; you wanna be fucking superman; you need to address your kryptonite first. Collin: Call me an idiot ONE MORE FUCKING TIME. Maya: What, you wanna hit me over this? You're mad and scared, right? You should be. You should've been yesterday. I didn't change; you just started seeing me as a threat because I spelled it out for you; because I needed to spell it out for you; and I just gotta ask you, do you really feel safe? You're only two years into this gig and you're still making day one mistakes; I'm just trying to help here. Collin: Oh yeah, because pretending to shoot my fucking boyfriend really sets the fucking mood, doesn't it? Maya: I feel like we're getting off on the wrong foot here; mind giving me a hand in this whole heart to heart thing you have going on?

Nydins: THAT'S ENOUGH!!

Maya: Oh no, I was just getting started.

Demo: The only thing you're starting is a fight! Just shut up; you're making this worse!

Maya gives a shrug as she puts her gun away. "Mad as we are; I'm right."

Maya’s...good at her job. she won’t quit doing it just because she’s not at Lob Corp anymore

Collin struggles to bring his breathing back down to a normal speed and gradually dissipates the energy around his hands. "....Fine. So what do you even want, then?" Maya: I'm not asking you to get paranoid about every stranger you run into that happens to have combat experience; I'm not even asking you to question each other; but clearly the way you've been doing things isn't good enough. Like I said, you need to figure out your weaknesses and learn how to make up for them, or it's gonna bite you big time. Daedalus: Well that's all well and good, but do you have any ideas for that, or is that just the next part of our grand personal adventure that we have to figure out? Maya: Oh, that's gonna be my personal mission with you guys; I figure since you trusted me enough to unload 6 rounds without clocking me into the Nth dimension, the least I can do is figure out what your weak points are and try to help you fix them. Just don't come into my room unless you just really wanna see all the stuff you went through condensed into a few movies; feel like that'd be a bit much. Fawkes: Actually, that brings me to a question I have about all this. How exactly did you figure out how to use the IT for all of those things so quickly? Maya: It makes rooms and food; it can make anything, right? So I asked for clothes; then my suits; my old weapons; ammo; then I realized there weren't any limits. Everything functioned like it did in Lobotomy, but all of it was fabricated from the ship. So I asked for dangerous things; I asked if you had weaknesses, and it literally handed them to me with no problems at all. I figured if it could do something so dangerous, it could tell me about you; so I asked again. I expected a book or something; this damn thing showed me everything from the moment that Jay built it; then from his perspective, all the way up until you found me. Daedalus: Amazing. This stupid soda machine would sell us all out at the drop of a hat. What a comforting thought, huh guys? Demo: It accommodates anyone we let on board. It helped her because we told it she was okay.

Maya: You handed me your history the moment you left me alone.

she does raise good points, even if I’ve never actually thought about making somebody ruin the IT from the inside out

Collin: ... Fucking Christ... Maya: If you want my face value observations; you're making a right step with getting some communication going; separation usually cripples you guys pretty badly. Taking whatever Jay is out to hunt more of what he is has had an 80% backfire rate, though; so if I were you, I'd find a way to block your chest off, or do what Demo does and find a way to distance yourself from your...whatever it is now. Can't say much about the rest of you; you're all working on your individual issues yourselves. Daedalus: Damn, the kleivenn always get the easy bits. Maya: You in particular; you're the one I wanna find out about the most. For somebody that literally came from nothing, you're also nothing to shake a stick at; but it's pretty apparent that you've got about as much of a clue as to what you're capable of as everybody else, and that's pretty...well, it's something to think about. Daedalus: Oh believe me, I've been working on it. Not saying I've made much progress, but I'm fully aware I've got some weird shit going on now. Maya: For what it's worth, Big Red over there might be able to help you out as much as your..."twin." Between the two of them, you'll at least have some idea of what it is you're dealing with, even if you don't figure out what you're capable of. Daedalus: We'll see about that, I guess. The nice thing is that I can work as my own welder now, at least. Maya: I'll probably try to regroup you guys once I have more to say, but for now, I think you get the point.

alienrabitt: ...Just...promise you won't bring guns next time...?

Maya: Guns; swords; flamethrowers; no weapons; promise. Sensing that the meeting is over, Collin turns around and practically storms out of the training room and down the hall. The crowd disperses; Jay going off on his own somewhere, while Zenith and Rio hang back and quietly discuss if they should try to comfort their friends. Rolling her eyes, Maya elevates one of the training room obstacles to use as a seat while she pulls out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

Maya: Class is dismissed; you guys can run too, y'know... Daedalus: Oh I know, I'll be out of here in a sec. I'm still just sorta marveling at just how fast you managed to make Collin jump from zero to a thousand. Maya: Guess that's the fear of god people are always talking about, huh? Daedalus: Probably could've been worse. Pretty sure he was more scared than angry still, so at least that went in your favor.

yeah, that’s what she meant by “fear of god;” she made him scared, didn’t she? :P

well, demigod but Y’Know

Blowing out smoke, Maya glances off towards a wall.

"If he's expecting an apology, it's not happening. I'm not expecting a thanks either." Daedalus: Oh hell no, neither of those things are happening- Well, that may be a lie, but we'll have to see. Personally I don't think you're wrong in the slightest, but that's beside the point. Anyway, you enjoy your smoke break, I need to get back to work. With another sigh, Maya looks back to Daedalus.

"...I didn't used to be this harsh, y'know. I spent half the night that I was watching those videos debating on if I should actually address you guys like this or not. In the end, I saw my team in your friends, and I couldn't let it happen twice, y'know? So you're right about that, I'm not sorry." Daedalus: Hey, justify it however you want. I'm in no position to judge. Just be careful about Collin for a little while, you've miraculously landed on his bad side through a combination of timing and pressing two of his very few buttons. Maya: You've got it, blues brother. Daedalus: .... Oh, the sunglasses. Har har, good one. Anyway, I'm out.

Daedalus waves once over his shoulder and leaves the training room. After a while of slinking around in the shadows, Azreldeh finally finds the room Collin is in, slipping under the door and appearing on the other side.

"Slow down, tiger; that much thunder's gonna have lightning too close to home." As Azreldeh reforms inside, she notices that the fountains and the water wall have completely frozen over. The hot tub jets have stopped, leaving the room eerily quiet aside from the quiet crackling of the ice. Collin stops pacing in a circle around the tub and turns to face her, struggling to pull his expression away from a burning anger. "What are you doing here?" Azreldeh: I was worried about you? I've never seen you get that mad at somebody before. Collin: I'm not mad at her. Not anymore, at least. Azreldeh: Then what are you mad about? Collin: Oh I don't know, maybe the fact that I could've gotten every single person I care about killed in a matter of hours? Azreldeh: I mean, feel free to feel mad, but anger won't fix the problem. Guilt; fear; those things you can learn from or something; but anger? What's there to gain from being mad when there's nobody to punish? The only one who gets hurt by that is you, and the guy who took six hypothetical rounds to the chest and hasn't left the bathroom since. Collin: You think I'm not feeling all of that at the same fucking time? Jay could've died right then and there, and there wouldn't have been /anything/ I could've done to stop it. How the fuck can I say that I care about Jay and everyone else when I almost let that happen? Azreldeh rolls her eyes. "First of all, normal bullets wouldn't kill Jay. It'd shatter his heart, but he'd survive. Secondly, even if you had no idea who the hell this chick was, you also couldn't have prepared for a damn thing she was capable of. If you let it happen, that means that, on some level, you knew something was wrong, but you didn't say or do anything. But that's not what happened, right?" Collin: Well no, but that doesn't change the fact that she could've theoretically wiped us out anyway. Azreldeh: Lots of people could've done that. Hell, half the people in the IT could do that at any given moment at time, but you don't see them doing it. She definitely had a point; you guys are a little too quick to be welcoming; but you can't just be paranoid and heartless either. She just doesn't want you getting your kindness taken advantage of. Collin takes a breath and then rubs his eyes with the palms of his hands.     "God... I just don't know what to do now. I feel so stupid looking back on how easily we just let people in here." Azreldeh: ...I mean, what else is there to do? You can't do much to actively take her advice in the moment; clearly everyone else here is trustworthy considering you've been living with them since you got free...unless you mean long term. Collin: I /do/ mean long term. It's kind of inevitable we'll pick up someone at some point in the near future, or at least the opportunity to. Azreldeh: On the honest, straight fly? Not much. I mean, you don't really have a reputation to keep up, so theoretically you could just...leave people that are blatantly desperate or whatever, but then you'd wind up abandoning actually helpless people with people that want to hurt you...ultimately, there's not much you can do besides let people in anyway and just...keep an eye on 'em? Maybe don't straight up guard their room and stuff, but y'know, look for weird things. Collin: Yeah, like the IT manufacturing them weapons specifically tailored to kill each of us... Azreldeh: Maybe your first order of business is making your ship less accommodating. She couldn't hurt anybody if she couldn't do that. Collin: I guess. I just didn't think the IT could do something like that. I mean furniture and clothes are one thing, but being able to figure out how to make something to kill a specific person? Azreldeh: I don't think you understand the limits of what you're dealing with. Do you even know anything about what's powering this place? Collin: Well yeah, it's a chunk of the green sun from SBURB. I knew the IT was intelligent to some degree, but not like that. Azreldeh: Who says it's because the ship is smart? You don't know much about how that chunk of sun works besides being a power source, right? Maybe that's why Maya could make all that stuff. Collin: I... guess. I really don't know. Azreldeh: But Demo and Jay would know, right? Getting to know how your ship works is the first step to knowing how to stop it from doing things you don't want. Just telling it not to might not be enough if someone manages to do something weird with that sun chunk by itself. Collin: Maybe so. God, alright, I should probably go see if I can get Jay out of the bathroom then. Azreldeh: You sure you're gonna be alright? Collin: I have to be. Especially if Jay's locking himself in a bathroom like that. He did get shot at, after all. Azreldeh: Don't talk like that. How you feel; how you're handling this; that's important too. You shouldn't be your own last priority. Collin: It's a hard habit to shake. I've lived through worse though. I did lose a leg once, y'know. Azreldeh: Maybe so; but just because it's smaller doesn't mean it's not important. Little things pile up. Collin: I know that, but... I really don't have the time to uncork all of that right now. Azreldeh: Just don't let it wait; I know how Demo got here, after all. Collin: Daedalus is already here, so at least I got resurrecting my doppleganger out of the way already. Azreldeh: Heheh, yeah. Just...be careful, okay? Collin: I'll try my best, for whatever it's worth.

He glances around at the room. "God, I'm going to have to fix this at some point." Azreldeh: Oh, don't you worry; I've got no problem heating things up. Collin: You don't have to do that. It's my mess after all. I didn't even mean for it to happen, it just sorta... did. Azreldeh: It's whatever. You just worry about your boyfriend; you can worry about me later~.

you’ve hit on somebody in every single log you’ve been in, haven’t you?

Collin: Wh- Good grief, alright, I'm out then.

He makes his way out of the room and heads toward the bathroom. As promised, the door is locked, though the only proof that the room is even occupied is Demo sitting with her back against the door. Collin: Uh... Jay, you okay in there? Demo: He's...fine. He just keeps freaking out; I tried to get him to talk to me, but once he heard me, he quit talking altogether. He hasn't come out or said anything since. Collin: Well hell. Jay, can you please say something to me? "...-on't want to..." Collin: Is there anything I can do to help? Demo: Look, the door's gonna open eventually; there's only one bathroom on the IT unless there's an emergency, so you can't stay locked in there forever, asshole. Besides, it's not like you haven't been shot at before; suck it up. Collin: Demo, that's really not helping. Besides, your girlfriend hid in here for like two days or something once. Demo: She came out when she had to... Collin: Just let me handle this for now. Jay, would you mind letting me in, or would you rather I stay out here for now? Demo slides away from the door as she feels Jay begin to open it, though he seems to be hiding behind the door. Collin steps inside and closes the door back behind him. Jay has stuffed a bunch of towels in the bathtub and has been sitting in it, facing the door the entire time Demo was there. He has blatantly been crying, and will not meet Collin's eyes. Collin puts the lid down on the toilet and sits on it like a chair. "... Want to talk about it yet, or do you still need a few minutes?" alienrabitt: ...Do you think we made the right call letting people on the IT? Collin: ... I do. That much I still don't doubt. Do you not think so now? alienrabitt: ...I don't know. After Oz got taken care of, I stopped having dreams or nightmares about stuff that could happen, but ever since that weird...thing took Demo, I can't stop seeing things. Even the things around me don't feel right; and when Maya pulled out that gun... Collin: ... Did it play into whatever weird thing you were feeling? alienrabitt: It felt like reality had fragmented; in that moment, I saw every possibility in that situation; I couldn't handle it; I watched her shoot me; I watched her kill everybody; I watched her fire blanks; I watched her fire them at Rio too; but only one of those actually happened here; but I don't care which one happened! Collin: That's... Jesus, okay, that's new. I was wondering why this was hitting you so hard, honestly... alienrabitt: I wasn't scared of her, I just...something is wrong. Somebody shouldn't be here; or we ran into somebody weird, but something is very, very wrong... Collin: Okay, it's okay, just calm down for now. I believe you, I'm just not sure what's going on. alienrabitt: ...I don't know either....I'm not sure I want to... Collin: Well, it probably has to do with whatever that thing was with Demo, right? alienrabitt: ...Maybe so. I've just never had this serious of a reaction; not even to... Collin: Not even to...? alienrabitt: ...No. This is something worse than unpreventable; this thing could ruin everything we have. This doesn't just have the capacity to hurt us, whatever's messing with us could bring an end to absolutely everything we care about; I can feel it.

I can’t remember what he was talking about; wanna say it might’ve been uhh...not being able to predict the whole Dez thing

Collin: ... Alright, well I'm definitely scared now. What is it, though? alienrabitt: That's the thing, I don't know! I'm supposed to be able to see what's capable of separating us, but this time I can see everything except for what's causing this! Collin: Maybe it has something to do with that thing that took Demo? I mean, this all started after you ran into it, right? alienrabitt: M-maybe, but I don't know where it is now... Collin: Well, it'd have to be back in Silky and XL's universe, right? alienrabitt: Yeah, but where? Are we sure it's a good idea to track this thing down? Collin: I'm... not sure, about either of those things. I'd say we could go ask someone else about this first, but who would we even go to? alienrabitt: It was working with Lana, right? Maybe it still is...? Collin: And Nuru is probably looking for her too, so at least we wouldn't be alone? alienrabitt: We just need to stop it. Whatever it is, it can't go free. Collin: Especially if just being near it is messing with you this badly. Everyone's okay though, I promise. alienrabitt: ...S-so...what did you decide to do about what happened? Collin: What do you mean? alienrabitt: Are you gonna do something to Maya? Or the IT? You looked really upset, but I...I couldn't go after you...not like that... Collin: Not to Maya, no. Her way of communicating might be fucking horrible, but she had a point. The IT though, we're definitely gonna have to figure out soon. alienrabitt: ...What do you need to do? Or know...? Collin: I'm... not sure. I mean, I guess we need to know what it's really capable of, and if we can stop people from doing all that stuff Maya did. alienrabitt: It's capable of just about anything we ask it. The power that I had as Demonstrator was all due to my connection with the green sun; being able to access that power allows the IT to provide anything, reasonable or not. It's how it can be so much bigger on the inside. Collin: Well, can we put some sort of limit on that? I mean, she was able to have it make weapons to kill each one of us specifically. That seems a little terrifying, don't you think? alienrabitt: Weapons don't mean a damn thing if the person using them doesn't know how...I have to wonder how much of what she said is bullshit. Collin: I'm... not really sure. I guess we'll have to talk that out some more, but let's worry about that later. Are you gonna be okay? alienrabitt: ...Yeah. I'll be fine as long as nobody pulls any stunts like that again. We just need to find that damn thing... Collin: I'm sure we can manage that. It's pretty easy to get into trouble with us, after all. alienrabitt: Let's find Nuru first. If she finds Lana, that thing won't be far... Collin: That's what I was thinking. Wanna get out of this bathroom, then? alienrabitt: Y-yeah... Collin: Alrighty. Hug first? Letting out a relieved, yet tired sigh, Jay hugs Collin. "...Thanks..." Collin returns the hug, gently kissing him on the top of his head. "Anytime, my love."

get a room

uhh, the next log is Intense if it’s the one I think it is, but we’ll be confronting Lana!

[rscenarios]

Zelo - Control

Anon request “Can you write a very hot smut with Zelo (he takes control and everything)?” and a tasty treat for myself on my birthday. I hope that you enjoy this since I threw in some fluff to show your relationship. -Admin Em

Rated M

Warnings: Mild BDSM themes, a line or two dirty talk, orgasm denial, marking, being tied, oral.

Absentmindedly you fiddle with your phone as you zone out on your TV and debate if you should text your boyfriend again or not. You haven’t heard much from Junhong for the last three days, just little texts here and there saying how you miss each other or wish each other well. It shouldn’t bother you so much since sometimes you go for almost a week without hearing from him when he’s on tour, but he’s been home the last three days. He’d warned you he would be busy, but you expected he would at least spare time for dinner with you or that he would invite you over for a little bit.

You focus when your phone lights up, telling you he’s made an Instagram post. Unlocking your phone, you look to see footage of him dancing in the practice room. His talent never ceases to amaze you as you sit smiling at your phone. He seems happier in his latest posts and it warms your heart. Still, you can’t help but worry that he pushes himself too hard. He always assures you that he rests as needed, but with all his late night posts and lives, you have your doubts.

You actually stayed up late last night watching his live, even if it was just him lying in bed listening to music. It made you miss him more and wonder why he couldn’t send more than a few words. And today, you haven’t heard anything. Not one word. It makes you worry. You knew his idol life would be demanding, and that was something the two of you discussed multiple times before and during your relationship. Still, you can’t help the worry that his life as Zelo is pulling him away from you: that he is no longer your Junhong, but is instead simply Zelo.

Briefly you think about contacting his mom to see if you could bring the family dinner later. She already seems to think of you as a daughter, the two of you spending time together when Zelo was away on tour. Even if you didn’t get to see your boyfriend, at least you could spend some time with Mochi since you didn’t end up babysitting him at all during this tour yet.

The thought is tempting, but you realize it’s late and that they’ve probably already eaten. Not to mention, you don’t feel the motivation to make that much food after the long day of work you had. You actually should still be in the studio editing more of the photos from the upcoming project, but you had worked from 7am to 6:30pm and that felt like more than enough time, especially after you were up late.

Thinking about work and food makes you realize that all you’ve done in the hour since you left work is laze on your couch. Forcing yourself up, you find some ramen and begin boiling the water. As you wait, you change into your pajamas, aka one of Junhong’s shirts and your underwear. You smell his shirt, sighing softly since it’s starting to lose his scent. You head back to make your little meal before settling back on the couch to eat and watch TV. As you finish up, you glance at your phone, wondering once again if you should message Junhong to at least see if he made it home. Although by his standards, this is too early to quit.

Not yet ready to call it a day, you half-heartedly clean your apartment. When you finish you hope there’s a message from him, but there’s nothing. You would definitely have a talk with him about this when you have the chance. Although the current situation would make it seem otherwise, the two of you were actually good about communicating. When the relationship was newer, there were quite a few petty fights until the two of you learned to better express yourselves. Sometimes you could anticipate each other before anything was said, but other times words were necessary.

You remind yourself that he told you he would be busy, but that still doesn’t ease your worry especially since he would be headed out for the rest of the tour in two days. There’s no use dwelling on it until you can have a proper conversation about everything. With this in mind, you head to bed and begin to start a goodnight message only to stop as you hear the front door open and slam shut.

There’s a soft curse or two that leave you wondering if you should go to him or wait in bed. Sometimes when he’s upset Junhong needs space before he talks to you, other times you cuddle and talk about it. Last time this happened, he asked you to slow dance with him.

“______________?” You hear him softly call. With that signal you leave the bedroom and guilt forms on his features. “Did I wake you?”

“No, I just laid down,” you soothe, crossing the distance between the two of you since he hasn’t moved from the spot near the door. Gently you comb the hair away from his eyes. “Do you need to eat or shower?”

He shakes his head before taking your hand. “Lie down with me?”

You give a simple nod, allowing him to lead you back into your room. He settles onto the bed, and as soon as you lie down he rests his head on your shoulder, seeking your comfort for whatever is bothering him. Immediately, you hold him close to you and kiss the top of his head as you rub his back gently. You want to say something to ease whatever pain he has, but instead you keep quiet and wait for him to explain.

“I...I wasn’t sure if I should come,” he mumbles. His words surprise you, causing you to stop your movements for a brief moment. “I didn’t want to bring my problems to you...but I really, really missed you.”

“I missed you too, but this is a partnership. I am here to help you to the best of my ability. You don’t have to go through anything yourself, remember?”

“I know I’m not alone. The company is just adding more pressure, and I feel like I can’t keep up lately. I want to do better, and so I keep practicing and practicing between schedules but it still doesn’t feel like enough. I try and show the fans as much love as I can with lives and such to make up for it. Except that doesn’t change that I barely have time to see any of my friends or you...I almost thought I wasn’t going to see you because of how much I have to do,” he tells you, tightening his hold on your waist.

You wait to see if he’s going to say more before speaking. “You are one of the most talented idols out there. And I’m not just saying that because I’m your girlfriend. There are many out there who admire your skills and feel inspired because of you. Many of the comments you’ve been getting are telling you how great you are and to encourage you to rest. You’re your worst critic, where you see flaws, some people see their idol being more human. True fans want you to be healthy and happy.

“So do your friends, and they understand how crazy your life is, but just let them know you’re thinking of them now and again. As for me, I won’t lie, I was starting to get worried since you weren’t sending much. I thought maybe your career was coming first, which sometimes it has to. I know that. But I worried since we barely spoke...I thought maybe you were starting to forget about me today. It was foolish to think that when could tell you were going through more than you were letting on, and I didn’t want to push you or seem needy while you were so busy.”

“I’m sorry for worrying you and making you feel like my career came first. It matters to me a lot, but so do you,” he places a light kiss on your neck. “I just got trapped in my own head for a while and I didn’t know how to tell you what was happening...the company even threatened to take away my phone during the tour since they felt that I wasn’t focusing enough. I didn’t want to start a conversation I could finish or make you feel like you’re causing trouble. I could have handled things better, I’m sorry,” he kisses your jaw.

“It isn’t your fault. I can understand your worries. I should have reached out too. We’ll both do better next time. What matters now is that is that you’re here.” You carefully tilt his head to press your lips to his.

The kiss is soft and slow, almost hesitant, but it doesn’t take long for Junhong to shift so he can kiss you again. This time, there’s a little more force before he stops to rest his forehead against yours. He takes a moment before kissing along your jawline. “You always know how to make me feel better. Even when I feel like I’ve lost control of my life.”

Naturally, your head tilts back as you savor his actions. You feel one of his hands rest on your bare thigh. You know where this is going, and so you spur things on by whispering, “Take control.”

The hand on your thigh tightens its hold, but he pulls back to look at you. “You’re sure?”

The two of you had only recently started getting a bit more experimental in the bedroom by dominating each other every now and then. It was a rare occurrence, partially due to timing and partially because you were both still learning, but whenever it was going to happen you would at least have some sort of discussion about what would happen. The unexpected still would happen of course.

As eager as he is to dominate you, he doesn’t want to push anything.

“I trust you. We have the safe words. But if you don’t want to-”

His kiss cuts your words short, causing you to take a moment to kiss back. He shifts, gently nudging your legs further apart so he can settle between them and get a better angle for the kiss. His lips move away from yours, traveling down your neck before finding a spot to mark. Your fingers tangle into his hair, making him softly moan against your skin.

He pulls back, looking at his work before growling in your ear, “I’m going to leave so many marks that you won’t forget how much you matter to me.”

His words send a shiver down your spine before he lightly nips your earlobe. As he starts to leave another hickey your body arches to be closer to him, but to your surprise he uses both hands to push your hips back down. You feel him smirk as a soft whine leaves you. As he kisses his work and moves to another spot, you feel his hands start to move up your shirt and to your breasts, which are then given a gentle squeeze.

You gasp softly and that’s enough to make him pull back to pull the shirt off of you. You’re about to reach out to take his shirt off, but your hands are pinned before you come close. “Wait.”

You want to protest, but you keep quiet which earns you a kiss. His hands release yours to ghost up your body and fondle your breasts once more. When he begins playing with your  hardening nipples, he uses your surprise to slide his tongue into your mouth. One of his hands reaches for one of yours, giving two gentle squeezes to check in with you as he continues the kiss. Slowly you return the gesture, which makes him kiss you more eagerly.

When he pulls away, he quickly moves down to leave marks on your collarbones. He presses his lower half to yours, allowing you to feel his erection through his jeans before he grinds against you. Junhong is a dancer, making him in tune with his body and he’s made it his task to know yourself just as well. He wastes no time, kissing along the spots he knows you’re sensitive to as you grip onto the sheets, trying to let him lead.

Your restraint crumbles as a tongue runs over one of your nipples, and you quickly grab at the back of his shirt, trying to pull it off him. When he pulls away, it’s enough for you to get the fabric off. “I thought I told you to wait?”

“I’m sorry...I couldn’t...” you say softly, noting the dark look in his eyes as he looks down at you.

He takes the shirt from you, tossing it aside on your behalf before he harshly pinches your nipples as a form of punishment. “You couldn’t what?”

“I couldn’t wait anymore. I wanted to see you,” you whimper, more from the deep tone of his voice than the pain. “I’m sorry,” you tell him again.

One hand gently cups your chin as the other pulls at his belt. “Tonight I’ll be generous, if you show me how sorry you are.”

He sets the belt to the side, but you don’t question this as he kisses you gently before he stands to get rid of his pants and boxers. You lick your at the sight before crawling forward, glancing up at him before taking a hold of his cock. He lets out a content sigh as you start to pump him, but you prefer the noise he makes as you run your tongue over his tip. Usually you would tease him, but not tonight. Not after you already went against an order.

You run your tongue over him, coating him with your saliva before you take the tip into your mouth. Gentle hands gather your hair into a ponytail as your head sinks lower and lower until you can’t take anymore. At first Junhong doesn’t push you as you bob your head up and down, but soon he begins guiding your paces with slight tugs on your hair. Any time you pull back for air, your hands take place of your mouth.

Carefully, you breathe and relax your throat enough to deepthroat him, pulling the most delicious sound from your boyfriend’s mouth as well as a few curse words. He starts rocking his hips, wanting more and more from you. It’s the second time that he pushes his hips too much that you smack his thigh and pull away. “Yellow,” you warn.

He quickly presses kisses to your face, his dominance forgotten to soothe you. “Sorry, sorry,” he says softly. “No more of that. Do you need a minute?” You hadn’t given the word to completely stop, but he still want to be certain.

“I’m okay, we can continue,” you pant before he pushes you back onto the bed. He leans over you to pull the lube out of the nightstand so it’s at the ready. His fingers tease at your waistband before moving lower to your wetness. He keeps quiet, but the smirk on his face says it all as his fingers press into the damp spot. Slowly, he lowers himself so can make marks along your stomach and hips as he lowers your underwear. As he begins nibbling on your inner thigh, the anticipation makes you whine. “Junhong, please.”

He doesn’t say anything as he continues marking your other inner thigh.

“Ple-oh!” You moan loudly as his tongue presses to your clit. He sucks it lightly while pulling your legs further apart as you try to close them. Your hips buck lightly as his tongue moves around the sensitive bud before his tongue slides between your folds. Vaguely, you hear the pop of the lube top, but all you can focus on is the waves of pleasure building. It’s only seconds later that you feel a finger sliding into you, going nearly knuckle deep.

Once the digit starts moving, it only adds to the pleasure you’d already been feeling. It isn’t long before another is added, stretching you further while bringing you closer and closer to orgasm. You reach to grip on Junhong’s hair in attempt to make sure he doesn’t pull away as the pressure builds. Despite the tight grip he still manages to pull away. He gives a soft chuckle at the cry you make as your orgasm starts to fade away.

“Don’t worry baby,” he kisses you gently, reaching for a condom that’s quickly rolled on. “Hands up,” he instructs grabbing his belt from where he’d set it. You do as told and soon he has you bound to the headboard. “As much as I love you marking me, we can’t have it so close to our departure,” he explains as if he can tell what you’re thinking. “Too tight?”

You shake your head, earning another kiss as his hands trail down your body. You can feel his cock against your entrance, and press against it as you’re unable to do much else. A slight smack on your thigh is a silent warning not to rush him, and so you try to settle down. This once again proves difficult as he runs his tip around your entrance.

You start to beg, wanting more. Needing more. Your words are enough to get your way as he slides into you. The both of you moan in unison. “You feel incredible,” you tells you as he starts to thrust into you gently.

The bruising grips on your thighs tell you he’s restraining himself to take things slow. Despite the slow pace, his thrusts are still forceful as he plants kisses along your body along with the occasional bite. You want to touch him, but the belt keeps your hands in place, leaving you mildly frustrated. It’s only once he begins to move faster that his hands move to the sheets so you can meet his pace. His name falls from your lips like it’s the only word you know and it spurs him on to find your g-spot.

When he does, you don’t even seem to know his name anymore as only moans come from you. It isn’t long after that you reach your peak and Junhong works you through it. His own follows just after, causing him to moan out your name as he releases.

When his high is over, he rests against you, catching his breath and listening to you do the same. You reach to try and hold him, only to feel the belt tighten. “Babe, can you untie me?”

Junhong gives a small nod before pulling out, leaning over to release you before disposing of the condom. He looks down at you as you lower your arms, allowing them to fully relax. “Was that too much?” He looks at the red marks covering your body and wants to be certain everything is alright.

“Outside of the one warning I gave you it was perfect.”

With that he flashes an adorable smile. “Thank you. I’m so lucky to have someone like you to love.”

You lean up and kiss the tip of his nose “I love you too, and I’m really glad you decided to come over.”

He starts spreading kisses all over your face, showering you in affections. Between each kiss he speaks, “Me too. You always make me feel better. Now do you want to shower?”

“Only if we can snuggle after.”

“Anything for you, my love,” he promises, kissing your forehead. He disappears for a moment to grab a few things, such as a change of clothes for after, and starts the water so it can warm up.

With everything set, he carries you bridal style into the bathroom only setting you down before entering the shower. The two of you wash each other off, occasionally using the soap to tickle each other as you joke around. He teases you for tracing your finger over his tattoo, and so you make sure to point out every time he lingers on a darkening mark on your body.

When you're done washing, you towel off and slip into the underwear and shirt Junhong grabbed for you. Once he has his sweatpants on the two of you change the sheets, tossing the dirty ones to be washed before settling into bed. This time you rest on his chest.

“Comfortable?”

“Mhm,” you hum in content. “What time do you have to leave tomorrow for schedules?”

“Not until after lunch. I plan to spend all morning with you.”

“Perfect. Will you sing me to sleep?” You ask with a yawn. Happily, Junhong begins singing Shine, only stopping once he’s sure you're fast asleep.