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you-cant-spell-subtext-without · 4 years ago

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I’m back on my bullshit and we have GOT TO TALK about 13x08 The Scorpion and the Frog; which serves as a good example of why you should not ONLY watch spn episodes with Cas (partially because of that scene I shamefully blogged about earlier - no I will not link that cursed post here). The episode title comes from a fable in which the villain is the scorpion. Interpretations of this fable note its uniqueness lies in the concept that “the scorpion is irrationally self destructive and fully aware of it.”

To quote the scorpion, buddies - “it’s in my nature.”

Anyway, this episode is subtextually predicated on exploring Dean Winchester’s nature and specifically - his bisexuality, and I’m not only saying that because it opens with Dean in his Bi Colors Plaid (that also he wore on his burger date with Cas).

Let’s get started, after the cut!

Season 13 on its face gives me absolute whiplash because it starts widow arc-reunion-TOMBSTONE and then Jack yeets himself off to Chuck knows where so Cas can go out Looking For Him Because Otherwise He Will Definitely Kiss Dean there is no other option for the writers at this point. Sigh. Here, have another shot of Dean anxiously cleaning his gun as he always does when Cas has Gone Off For Reasons -

Anyway, this feels like a filler episode at first, but as always they bury the ENTIRE damn world in it and I am here with my dossier to Unearth It.

Lets start with Bart (demon of terrible nicknames and microagressions) meeting the brothers at Smile Diner to talk about some spell or whatever.

(I am not thinking about the Cherry Pie meta I AM NOT)

THEY HAVE THE AUDACITY to start with these lines immediately introducing the theme of duality, a thread throughout this episode.

BARTHAMUS

Everything. I've been following your careers a long time. You're a real pain in the pitchfork. And the halo. Natural disrupters. We have that in common, you and I. DEAN

Mm. Yeah, we're twinsies.

***MORE DUALITY! But as we know, Dean does not like Bart because He Is A Freakin’ Demon

DEAN

Well, see, here's the thing. When a demon tells us to jump, we don't ask how high. We just ice their ass.

UMMM excuse me Barting Bacting Boices? What is that sexual gaze?

Then we find out that Bart has 1/2 of the spell. They need the other 1/2. Oh, a spell with two parts, you say? [ I am going to scream :) ]

***Also, Dean eats the pie Bart ordered. I cannot begin to explain to you the state of unwellness that I am in regarding how important this is. DEAN NEVER GETS TO EAT THE PIE, remember? But in This Filler Episode, Dean eats the pie. While Sam looks at him with a very quizzical expression. Pie -> what Dean wants but never actually gets -> Dean actively eating this pie. Dean is coming to terms that maybe he can have what he wants.

***I am reminding you again that this is post widower-arc, post-reunion, and especially post-Tombstone. Anyway-

Now we get to Smash and Grab. Not literally even though I want to Commit Such Conduct at this point. We are introduced to two one off characters named

Smash (human/female presenting) - can crack any safe built by man

and Grab (demon/male presenting)- expert in bypassing supernatural security.

Reaching or no, you can’t disagree that when spn introduces one off characters - it is almost always a Narrative Parallel or Mirror.

So we have a human and a demon (and Dean Winchester, a human who has been a demon)

who are experts in cracking open/bypassing something that has been secured and guarded (breaking down walls, if you will).

They also use fake names identifying them as Tools to be Used ( Dean Winchester, the Michael Sword/daddys blunt little instrument)

BONUS:

Dean himself is literally used as a tool in this episode.

So yeah. Smash and Grab are physical representations of Dean’s duality. Human/Demon. Femininity/Masculinity. Dare we say something else, too?

Anyway, Dean is paired with Smash and Grab; Sam is off to idk negotiate weird artifact purchases lawboy style with Luther Shrike, a man who cannot die so long as he never leaves his house (I cannot even begin to unpack this shit; please just sit there and think about it. I’m not even going there here. I CANNOT DISCUSS Luther Shrike RN).

Speaking of things I cannot discuss without halgdhsag;lsa - Smash has very Specific boots (a look overall, really).

DEAN

Hey, Winona. The '90s called. They'd like their shoes back. SMASH

Shh.

***That’s right girl - do not take his shit; he actually LOVES them and is therefore Overcompensating for it with this little jab.

***Dean’s pop culture references and particular attention to the details here Should Not Be Overlooked. 90s! Winona! Ryder!

ANYWAY, then Dean and Smash bond over a caffeinated beverage -

[While Dean is doing a spell, Smash opens a can of drink, takes a mouthful and burps loudly. ] SMASH

Ahh. DEAN

You're weird.

***This scene makes me literally insane. (even aside from Dean living on something named NERVE DAMAGE as a KID. They could have called it anything. You’re saying this wasn’t a Choice)

She chugs a swallow of the drink and burps. Something stereotypically associated with masculinity. Not feminine. Dean’s reaction is that she is “weird” - because she is not acting in a way stereotypically, J*hn Winchester brain-rot patriarchy bullshit-tily associated with Being Female. But also, says the stupid show, they like the same soda. They are The Same. She shares the soda with Dean. HIS FACE WHEN SHE DOES -

Other similarities are addressed throughout the episode (they are working for demons because they have no choice; they don’t discuss feelings/emotions, they both sold their soul, they both This Thing -

DEAN

You know, we could help you. SMASH

No, you can't. I gotta take care of me.

etc. etc.) Smash is absolutely dean-coded.

****Also it’s textually established that Smash thinks Dean is attractive -

GRAB

[looking at Smash] Oh. You said he was just a pretty face. SMASH

Shh.

***But Grab flirts with him too.

DEAN

I will kill you. GRAB

I bet you say that to all the girls.

***sorry, Grab - you won’t get far with Dean, but only because as he mentioned in the beginning of this episode -

Drowley rights.

Now Dean has to put his hand in the mouth of this stone lion thing and all of a sudden he is acting....very-not-like-Dean.

[Dean looks again and takes a deep breath.] DEAN

I… how about this? What if I cut myself, put it on, like, a little piece of paper? We'll just wad it up and throw it in the mouth, okay? Okay.

***Dean Winchester, who has been to Literal HELL, who has been torn apart by hellhounds, who has battled the devil and angels and God’s sister - all at the expense of his own life is now - afraid of spiders. Well, technically he has always been afraid of spiders, but why isn’t ‘he being performative about it At This Time??

***Come to think of it, this sends me right back to how Jackles was playing Dean in 12x11 Regarding Dean THE episode dissecting Dean’s performative masculinity [one day I will clean up and post that analysis sitting in my drafts like a sad hamster]. That makes sense actually, because -> -> ->

that episode and this one are both written by Meredith Glynn. Girl get in I want to torture you affectionately with a barrage of questions.

So here we have Dean and he’s not performing for Reasons, and he’s scared he’s genuinely scared of putting his hand in this stone lion-gargoyle-pig-creature’s mouth and then -

Smash gives him a push.

She gives him a push. I cannot stop thinking about how she gives him a push. A push to go do this thing that he is scared of; his fear being something he was hiding under his performative masculinity. Smash - dean coded dean mirror who does not perform femininity and is ‘weird’ - she gives him a p u s h.

***linking here for the jackting joices that follow.

Now, let’s circle back to Smash’s story; why she is working for Bart in the first place -

SMASH

You think I wanna be here? Like I have a choice? SAM

You made a deal. SMASH

Wow! You think? SAM

You sold your soul. SMASH

And if I could take it back, I would.

there is no reason for this picture here other than I needed you to see the jackting again

***How does the story end for Smash?

DEAN

Take care of you. [Dean glances down at the box, and then at Smash. She sees that Dean has put a lighter on top of the bones.] BARTHAMUS

Alice, chop chop!

[Bart indicates she should get his bones]. SMASH

Yeah. [She grabs the lighter and sets Bart's bones alight. Bart screams as he bursts into flames. ]

***She accepts help and breaks free from the narrative, literally burning it down. The female presenting but not female-performing “weird” ooc representing a side of Dean breaks FREE because she makes a choice. The lighter Dean drops? It’s a push. And she goes with it.

Alice reclaims her story.

(Also, Grab gets ganked. The male presenting ooc; the performative masculinity side; the demon; the darkness; the not-humanity - gets ganked).

Guess what Dean says to Alice when they say goodbye?

DEAN

Hey, Alice. Stay weird.

[I know the peace sign is probably just a Charlie throwback but I’d still like to say duality. Two. ]

Dean’s not just talking to Alice. He’s talking to himself; because the walls have been breached and for once Dean isn’t as scared of being different. Maybe, just maybe, he’s going along with the push. That’s exactly how the episode ends - with Dean feeling a little more hopeful, a little more at peace; a little more Considering he is capable of not only loving Cas but also not hating himself for it.

[until the knowledge that Mary is still alive and the guilt of allowing himself ANY happy thoughts instead of looking for her miserably rears its ugly head in 13x09 and round and round we go but for NOW at least -> ]

DEAN

I'll drink to that.

(oh look Dean is just wearing his henley. It’s almost as if a layer has been peeled back).

tagging @im-shaking-like-milk and @deanwasalwaysbi for letting me ramble on to them while writing this; and @lilac-void because you are always so kind about my stuff :)

#my spn meta #spn analysis #spn 13x08 #bi!dean #destiel #deancas #hellerism #spn #supernatural #spn fandom #spn family #spn meta

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ashintheairlikesnow · 4 years ago

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Fish

For @whump-advent-calendar‘s day 4-6, Burn/Candles

CW: Referenced medical whump and dehumanization, light burn (accidental), captivity, muzzling, drugging reference, reluctant whumper turned caretaker

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BAHRAM’S NOTES NOTE TO SELF - SAVE IN EXTERNAL HARD DRIVE. DO NOT LET DR. L SEE.

October 22nd, 20XX 3:45 am Mer in Residence: 19 Days

It’s time to admit I’m more or less keeping a diary at this point as I get to understanding him. So far I’ve written separate notes to myself… for ten or so straight days of the nineteen we’ve had him here, and it’s getting harder to write the official transcriptions the way Dr. L wants me to.

Dr. Lachlan insists I call the mer ‘it’, that it’s to help me distance myself emotionally since it’s such a good mimic of humanity, but I don’t think it’s a damn mimic, I think it’s just… human.

I mean, obviously it’s not HUMAN, but… Miah spelled it out for me, we had an argument about this when he first got here. She gets so angry that he’s getting hurt and you know, I guess I believed Dr. L - mer aren’t my specialty field, I’m a snake man really, I don’t know the first bloody thing about fucking cetaceans.

Anyway, I said to her at the time, “It’s not human.”

She told me, “Maybe not H-U-M-A-N, but P-E-R-S-O-N,” just like jabbing me in the chest afterward. Also, Miah can fingerspell in a way that really makes you feel like a six year old getting yelled at by your mother, for the record. I can’t describe it any other way. I was ready to just melt away from personal embarrassment before she even finished signing “person.”

That’s not the point of this.

I didn’t start a diary just to tell myself how right Miah is about all of this, but hey, here we are.

I need some days off so badly.

Miah wasn’t around today, it’s really just been me and the mer - I’m off for four days coming up here, after 20 days of work, and she’s going to come in and do 24-hour watch until I’m back. It’s not so bad - I don’t really know anyone here, and the bed’s comfortable enough. Dr. L’s paying rent on my apartment so I won’t lose it while I’m working, anyway.

I still feel like some low-level henchman, though. Like any moment some asshole in a tank top is going to show up with guns and I’ll just be a faceless evil stepping stone before the boss fight with Dr. L.

I mean, we all know that Dr. L’s going to be the boss fight, right? Anders would just like lay down or throw Miah in front of himself or something.

No, that’s not fair, he really does love her.

Bahram this is all hypotheticals about a video game. Get back on track, man.

So Miah must have gone shopping or something. She came back with a bag full of these candles from this bookstore she really likes. I mean she came back with an insane amount of books, too, but she had this candle she pulled out and put down on my desk.

She set down the candle - it’s this really nice deep blue and has some kind of like ocean scene painted on the label, like, isn’t that thematic - and smiled at me. “This one reminded me of what we’re doing,” She told me, and her signs were… softer. Her expressions were softer alongside them.

Does that mean… anything? I don’t know. She just put it on my desk and then wandered off. I thanked her but I had to take her shoulder and get her to look at me, first. Maybe her face was a little red.

Maybe not.

We keep the tank room pretty warm, I’m sort of cold-natured and the mer seems more active when we keep the lights really warm, so…

I don’t get why she bought me a candle and why she looked away before I could thank her for it. I don’t get it, and I feel like I should, but I don’t. Is she not looking because it wasn’t a big deal, or because it was a big deal, or… what?

I really WOULD sink into the floor if Dr. L or Miah ever saw that I wrote this. Get it together, Bahram. You are not writing a diary about Miah fucking Kirsse.

It’s been just me and the mer, all day. Dr. L was gone, too, meeting with whoever’s funding this whole thing. She’ll be gone until next week, so there’s no real work getting done, for now. Just blood draws.

She’s showing them its claws she took off. I don’t know why. Honestly, I have such a bad feeling about this, but I needed the cash and nowhere else was hiring for a job that would give me room and board and still time to work on my own research. Not that I’ve done a bit of THAT in a week.

I get too distracted by the mer.

He swims in circles. He stares at nothing, or pokes the plastic coral and ferns we got him, or hides in his cave. I can switch the screens over to watch the camera feed from inside the cave, but he doesn’t do much in there, either. I caught him picking at his scales, and I need to ask Dr. L about that. She took three scales off his tail, which for the record I had nothing to do with (whose record? I’m writing this to myself, and what the fuck does it matter about scales when I’m the one sticking the damn needle in his elbow twice a week), and I caught him sort of whistling sadly and picking at the empty spaces.

They’ll grow back, Dr. L says. She’s not worried.

I am.

A little.

I’m starting to think Dr. L is lying about a lot of things, and I’m not sure what to do about that. If anything. This is a job, and I get paid better than I’ve ever been paid in my life. So… what do I do?

I could call the hotline and report him. It’s anonymous.

She’d know I did it.

I don’t know why, but… I don’t want her to know it was me. Cowardice, I guess. Pure bloody cowardice.

But Miah hasn’t emailed the hotline, either. We can’t both be cowards, right?

Anyway.

Tonight was tank cleaning, which is a bloody fucking chore. Anders was around long enough to help me get the mer tranq’d and into the lift and then the rolling tank where he can just sit until I get my work done. Poor thing just lolls around when he’s tranq’d up. Barely blinks.

Doesn’t stop its fucking crying, though.

We took a lot of blood from him today, too, so he was very weak. Barely moved, just curled himself up small so he was totally in the water and watched me work after Anders left. We’ve got a scrubber machine that does the hard work, I just have to hose some things down and then make sure its filter is still operating correctly. Watch the scrubber. Whole process takes about three hours from start to tank totally refilled, as long as I do it weekly. It’ll take much longer if I let it slide.

Double-checked the camera in the cave, and when I walked out of it I saw the mer’s head was up, watching everything I was doing. He dropped right back down under the water when he saw me looking at him. The muzzle looks so monstrous on him, but more than that, it makes him look like a monster.

Maybe Dr. L doesn’t muzzle him to keep us safe, but to keep me from seeing his expressions while I’m here with him all day.

No, that’s stupid. She doesn’t even think he’s sentient, right?

I finished up, and when I came to roll him back to the lift, I saw he’d popped his head up out of the rolling tank and was looking around the room itself. He hasn’t really looked around at all before this, and he was still tranq’d but maybe I fucked up the dosage? Because he was pretty alert, kind of whistling to himself and giving little chirps and clicks. He sounds like some weird mix of killer whale and fucking otters or something. When he saw me, he flinched back down under the water, but I had this idea.

Dr. L took his claws, and he’s still muzzled except when he’s on the table or when he eats, so like, it’s not like he can hurt me, right?

His eyes had gone to my desk, looking at… I guess all my books and papers and my laptop and everything. Maybe the candle. I waved my hand around until I saw that he was watching me again. With those big eyes it’s hard to tell exactly what he’s looking at, but when I clapped my hands he blinked at me, so I know he can hear it, can see me.

Then - and I swear I’m not lying - he moved himself up out of the water, and put his palms together. His earfins twitched out and back against his scalp, and his white hair dripped water all down his shoulders.

He cocked his head at me. Then he put his hands together, harder this time. He clapped, and then… he clicked.

I KNEW it. I KNEW clicks were questions. Dr. L said their brains don’t work that way, but I bet they do. Who’s even considered how their brains work? Maybe they’re just like us. All the studying I’ve been doing shows that the scans we’ve done of dead ones are pretty similar in overall size and placement of their center of language. They’ve shown that mer populations have their own dialects if they don’t interact with each other, like the Atlantic transients sound totally different than the Pacific transients, which sound different than the residents that stick close to the coastlines up by Alaska...

Making my own head hurt. I don’t even care about fucking mammals, but I guess I do now.

“That’s right,” I said when he clapped, not like he can understand but still. I said it, and I clapped again, and he clapped back. “Can you give me your head? I’ll take your muzzle off, yeah? If you don’t bite.”

Dumbest fucking idea ever, but hey.

I think maybe he knows the word muzzle, because he whistled and shrunk down again, lowering his hands. His ear flaps flattened again. I saw the deep red marks around his neck, from how we have to use the catch-pole to get him out, and I just. I just felt like shit, you know?

I’m shit, that’s what I am, we’re torturing a child, more or less, who hasn’t done a thing to anyone but be by himself because he lost his bloody fucking family. I can’t keep telling myself I’m not the bad guy, you know?

I’m going to jail if I report him, aren’t I? I helped bring him in, after all. There’s my whole career down the drain.

Is this how it felt when everyone was being shit to monkeys in the 70′s and calling it psychology? Did some of them just go along with it because they thought they had to?

This is not helpful, Bahram.

I sat down at my desk and tried to figure it out. His eyes were on me the whole time. I looked over at Miah’s candle, and looked at the label. Like I said, ocean scene. Fronds and ferns and…

I turned the label to face the mer, and tapped on the image with my finger. “Fish,” I said, feeling dumb as hell. I told myself, it’s a bloody animal, Dr. L would roll around laughing at you for this.

But he came back up out of the water. There was a long moment, and I heard him click, and then a soft, “Sssshhhhhh,” sound came from behind his muzzle. They have lips like ours, although their way of communicating is basically whalesong and relies heavily on underwater acoustics. He’s louder in the tank than out of it, although I guess fear might make him quiet, too.

The recordings I found on youtube they get in the ocean are deafening loud. Their voices travel so well underwater, it’s amazing. People sell fucking CDs with mersong over piano to fall asleep to.

I poked at the ocean scene on the label again. “Fish,” I said firmly. “Do you want fish?”

He knows fish.

I KNOW he knows fish because he sat up, held out his right arm, and tapped his elbow with a blunt-edged, broken-off claw before he looked back at me, trembling with fear. He clicked again, twice.

I can’t even tell you how shit I feel, realizing he was asking if I was going to take his blood first. That’s what he meant, it has to be. He poked at the exact spot where he’s bruised up from the needle.

But it makes sense, right?

He’s been here twenty days, more or less. Every couple of days, when he’s hungry enough, we bribe him with fish to get the pole on him, take blood or whatever else, and then he eats.

No, WE don’t take his blood. I take his blood.

He thinks - and he’s fucking thinking, I know he is - that he only eats if we stick a needle in him.

I’m hurting a child.

I’m teaching a child to be hurt.

I’m not religious but this feels like the sort of thing you ask for forgiveness for, doesn’t it? I should call Maman and ask her who I could talk to. I’m going to call Maman or Baba tomorrow.

No I’m not.

What would I tell them I need to speak to someone about?

What if whoever I speak to calls and reports him, and Dr. L knows it was because of me?

I need to stop thinking about this.

“No, NOT draw blood,” I said, and he whimpered again, held out his arm further, closer to me, tapped his elbow again. I knew he could still hurt me - their strength is prodigious, the first time we got him out of the tank he nearly pulled Dr. L down into the water with him - but I decided it was worth the risk.

I kept thinking, he’s more scared of me than I am of him, but you know, of course he is. He’s the one with bruises.

I stretched my own arm out and showed it to him. He flinched back a little, and then leaned forward again, sitting in the little rolling tank that’s barely big enough to hold him. His blunt claws touched my arm, delicate as a feather, clicking as he poked at the sleeve of my sweater.

“No draw blood,” I said. “Just fish. Eat.” I mimed chewing.

He looked at me and clicked twice, cocking his head, then looked at my candle from Miah, pointing at the ocean scene. “Ffff-sshhhh,” he said, muffled.

“No, that’s a candle, it just has fish painted on it. Candle. Fire. Yes?”

Blank stare.

Then, repeated, “Ffff-sssshhh.”

I sighed and pulled out my little lighter. I don’t smoke or anything, but I hate the way matches smell, so I have a lighter on me basically all the time. Plus, having lighters was a pretty good way to make friends back in undergrad when I gave a fuck about that.

I flicked on the lighter, and the mer chirped, curiously.

Has it never seen fire before?

Why would it, it lives in the ocean. Don’t be a dumbshit, Bahram.

“Fire,” I said, and held it out a little for a closer look. “Fire.” I tilted it and lit the candle, and the mer leaned forward, rapt, as the wick sparked up to flame and I blew the smaller flame on the lighter out.

“FFfffff,” The mer said, barely audible. It clicked and held out its hand, and I wasn’t fast enough.

“No, wait stop-”

The mer’s fingertips touched the flame and it let out a deafening loud cry of pain and jerked its hand back down into the water, whimpering at the new kind of hurt, looking at me like it was MY fault, and maybe it was. Eyebrows furrowed, little crease in its forehead, big sad eyes.

The big sad eyes are wrecking me.

“Well, don’t touch fire and you won’t burn,” I said, shaking my head. “No touch fire. Fire bad. Fire burn.”

He held out his hand to show me. “Ffff-rrrrr.” It was a plaintive little breath of air, not quite a real sound.

The ends of two fingers were a little dark, that’s all. I could explain that by saying he’d hurt himself in the tank, maybe. I shook my head and pointed at the water, and it put its hand back in there, huffing a little breath of relief, I think. The water probably helped with the sting.

“Right. Fire bad. No fire.”

“Ffff-rrr... buh-ddd.”

“Right. Fire bad.” I stood up and walked over behind him, and he tried to turn and watch me but I shook my head and pointed back at the candle and he sort of huffed again and looked away. I felt him tense when my fingers touched the back of his head, but he sat still.

Probably because if he struggles when she goes to take the muzzle off or gets her fingers near his mouth, Dr. L has this electricity stick thing…

I’m not supposed to mention that in the transcripts.

I’m not supposed to mention how he screams, and he doesn’t sound like a whale or an otter, then. He doesn’t sound like an animal.

He sounds like a child.

He IS a child

He’s just

I’m a fucking

No. I need to focus. This is stuff I can’t tell Dr. L, I need to write it down here where it’s safe.

The muzzle is easy to get off, you just need to be looking right at it, and I unbuckled and pulled it free, feeling a little resistance from how well it stuck to his face. Without it on, there are deep red lines along his cheeks and jaw, not open or bleeding, just irritated.

He didn't grab at me, or bite. Just watched me with his big eyes as I laid it down on my desk. For a second we were both just quiet, looking at each other.

Then he pointed at the candle again. “Ffff-sssshh.”

“No,” I said. “Candle. Fire.”

The mer’s eyebrows furrowed and he shook his head, echoing what I did earlier. His hair slapped around. His teeth look like shark’s teeth up close, only there’s a lot less of them. “Nnnn-nnnuh,” He tried, shaking his head again.” Nnn-uh. Ffff-sssshhh.” Then he pointed at his mouth, opening wide, showing me the tongue behind his teeth. “Fffff-sssshhh. Ffff-ssshhh.”

I laughed, covering my mouth - he seems to be scared when we show too much teeth, probably in the ocean it’s a threat and they don’t smile like we do. Which, why would they?

But, see, I realized that he wasn’t pointing at the candle at all, but at the fish painted on it. Then he moved to look at the bucket of fish he gets as a reward for obedience, and pointed at that, then looked back at me to see if I was paying attention.

Of course I was. I was barely fucking breathing. This is signs of abstract thought process, recognizing that the image of a thing isn’t the thing itself. That he can point at it to represent what he wants. “You want fish? Is that it? You’re hungry? Want to eat some fish?”

The mer blinked and made a sound like a chirp, clapped his hands together. “Rrrrr. Fff-sssshhh.” He pointed at his mouth again. “Ffff-ssshhh. Buh-rrrrmm. Ffffsshh.”

“What did you say?” I whispered. My heart went cold. I can’t describe it any other way.

“Buh-rrrrmmmm. Ffff-sssshh, Buh-rrrmm.”

The bloody thing knows my fucking name.

He knows we have names and he knows mine and that means-... that means he has one, doesn’t it? If he has a name, if he has

I’m his fucking nightmare aren’t I

I’m the worst fucking thing that could happen to him, me and Miah and Dr. L and Anders and this is a job but it’s the worst thing that’s happened to him and it’s only

It’s going to get worse for him.

He’s going to die here and he’ll know all our names when he does.

Anyway, so... you know... I brought him a bucket of fish.

What else was I supposed to do?

He knows my name!

He let me put the muzzle on him again without fighting after he finished, and I got him back in the tank once the water was refreshed, and he’s sleeping off his meal now. I can see him on the feed, curled up inside the cave.

But I’m wide awake, so I thought I’d write this, because…

Because what the hell do I do now?

I can’t tell Miah.

Can I?

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@astrobly @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @slaintetowhump @moose-teeth @misspelledwitch @whumpfigure @whumptywhumpdump @boxboysandotherwhump @whumpywhumper

#whump #mer whump #nonhuman whumpee #wac2020 #fire #burns tw #burn #mer whumpee #reluctant whumper #caretaker and whumpee #reluctant caretaker #caretaker whumper #referenced torture #tail whump #referenced #captivity #muzzled #muzzle #forced drugging reference

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smolfoxbab · 4 years ago

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okay here’s the Narumitsu angst (with a happy ending)

its my blog and i get to choose the hyperfixation to post about

((1,830 words //tw for injury + blood// hope u enjoy!))

Phoenix Wright wasn’t the type of person to make enemies. At least, not on his own. His selfless nature and optimistic personality made him a likable man to be around, even if he was often clumsy and oblivious at times. However, being a defense attorney was a different circumstance, one that brought a certain set of unspoken dangers with it. In proving his client’s innocence, the guilty verdict was placed onto another. While most of these people posed no threat behind the bars of their sentences, there was no guarantee a grudge wouldn’t push them to seek vengeance.

Miles Edgeworth had plenty of experience with this concept already. He was a prosecutor-- The Demon Prosecutor. Among the death threats and various other attempts on his life, he was all too aware of the risks that came with his job. But he had learned to shoulder them, right alongside the other burdens he carried. He also knew that Phoenix didn’t consider these things, didn’t consider his own safety as much as he considered others. Concussed, tazed, nearly drowned and beaten to a pulp in an infamously deadly river... none of it seemed to phase him. He never slowed in his pursuit for protecting others, and that... that concerned Miles more than anything.

“You need to be more careful, Wright,” he had said once in passing after a trial where a guilty offender nearly wrung Phoenix by the neck, the defense attorney standing just a little too close when the verdict was handed down.

“One of these days something... serious, might happen to you, and you won’t be able to just laugh it off.”

Phoenix only flashed him that dopey grin and said, “I’ll be fine, Edgeworth. For an unlucky guy, I’m pretty lucky.”

Miles wanted to believe that, truly. The man seemed to get off easy in dire situations more often than not, so perhaps he had a point behind his foolish reasoning. Even so, his worry lingered. Luck always tended to run out at some point.

---

Then one afternoon, his phone rang. He had already been driving towards Phoenix’s office, having been called over earlier on the premise of having an “important discussion.” He’d left as quickly as he could, but the traffic seemed to determined to keep him from reaching his destination. It was slow, and he seemed to be hitting every red light possible. It was at one of these prolonged red lights, as he sat impatiently tapping the steering wheel, that a familiar tune sounded off in his pocket. Sighing, he slipped his phone out and checked the screen, not too surprised to see Phoenix was the one calling. Forgot to tell him something in the first call, most likely. He hit “answer” and brought the device up to his ear.

“What is it, Wright.”

There was a raspy breath on the other end before Phoenix spoke, his voice just as hoarse.

“M-Miles, I... I-I uh...”

Miles’ brow furrowed, and he found himself straightening in his seat, grip tightening on the phone.

“Wright? Is something wrong?”

There was another breath, followed by a rather nasty sounding cough. There was then a sound that could have been a laugh, if it wasn’t so strained.

“Ah... s-something like that... I w-was trying to call... hhhah... I guess it d-doesn’t mmmatter... a-are you almost... here?”

The light turned green, and Miles pressed on the gas. Harder than he should have, perhaps, but he was uneasy now.

“Yes, I am. What is it, Wright? What happened?”

There was a grunting sound, and the rustle of paper.

“W-well... fffunny story, ah... there was s-ssomeone at the door and it t-turns out it wasn’t... w-wasn’t you and ahm... shit-”

The hiss was sharp and pained. Miles turned a corner a bit too hastily, nearly catching a street sign as he swung around it. Before he could say anything, Phoenix continued.

“I’m not... I’m nnnot doing too hot, Miles... It’s getting... k-kind of hard to... focus...”

Miles clenched his jaw, trying to hold his composure. He was on the final stretch of road, he just had to get there.

“Stay with me, Wright. Stay on the phone. Do you hear me?”

“Yeah...” came the reply, but the strength in it was fading, “yeah... Miles...?”

“I’m here, Wright.”

He turned into the office parking lot as he said that, haphazardly parking and exiting the car in record time.

“.....what I w-wanted to... tell you... I... I love... you.”

Miles’ breath hitched as he ascended the steps. He would’ve have stopped completely if not for the adrenaline fueling his movement. A lump formed in his throat, which he heavily swallowed as he pressed on. Damn it, why now did he- Damn that man.

“J-Just hold on, Wright. I’m coming up on the door now. Wright? Wright?”

Silence filled the other end of the line as he approached the door, which sat unlocked and ajar. A red smear stained the door handle, while more splashes led across the floor and deeper inside. Miles only hesitated a moment before flinging the door open, rapidly searching the room for the other man. It didn’t take long.

The defense attorney was slumped against a bookshelf near his desk, various papers and books scattered around him, along with his still lit up phone. He wasn’t moving. Miles sucked in a breath as he practically slid to Phoenix’s side, one hand clasping his shoulder while the other went to check his pulse. Thankfully, he could still feel it, though it was weakening.

“Wright? ...Phoenix, can you hear me?”

He tried to get some kind of response, lightly shaking his shoulder, but got nothing. He shifted his gaze downward, where he couldn’t help but spot the dark stain soaking underneath his jacket. He lifted the blue fabric slightly, trying to get some assessment of the damage. It looked too wide a tear to be a gun wound. A stabbing seemed more likely.

“Damn it. Damn you,” Miles cursed under his breath, shucking his jacket off and moving to put pressure on the wound. He set to call the authorities at the same time, his now-shaking hand nearly dropping the phone entirely. He stared at the unconscious man before him as the phone rang, mumbling to himself before the responder picked up,

“If you die, you fool, I’ll... I’ll bring you back and kill you again myself.”

Emergency services responded quickly, and an ambulance was sent with haste. The police force arrived as well, with the ever-diligent Gumshoe heading the charge. Ever-diligent, and ever-emotional, as the detective seemed to blast through one emotion after the next while Phoenix was being prepped for the drive to the hospital. Miles was given the assurance as he boarded the ambulance himself that, no matter what, the culprit wouldn’t get away with it. In the tense silence of the ride that followed, Miles let that statement repeat in his head- let it hold him together. They wouldn’t get away with this. He would see to it personally... Once he was assured that Phoenix was going to make it out of this alive.

---

Several hours of absolutely nerve-wracking waiting in the hospital lobby followed after, but all well worth it when he was informed that Phoenix was in stable condition. That didn’t stop him from nearly throwing the recovery room door off its hinges upon arrival, however. He needed to see it for himself, confirm with his own eyes that the other was alive.

A tired smile greeted him from the bed.

“Hey Edgeworth...”

Miles stood in the doorway for a moment, silent and stiff. Then, slowly, he drew in a breath, let his shoulders relax, and stepped inside with the door closing behind him.

“Wright.”

Phoenix winced at the tone of Miles’ voice, like a child about to be lectured by his parent.

“Look, before you get m-”

“You are an absolute moron, Phoenix Wright. I mean really of all the idiotic- Not only do you call me as you’re bleeding out, rather than contact the authorities-”

Phoenix attempted to interject.

“To be fair I was actually trying to call the-”

But Miles didn’t let him finish.

“But then you have the gall to go and declare- to tell me that you- in such a dire circumstance you decide to claim-”

“Miles-”

“Not seconds before I walk in on what could have well been a murder scene- And what would I have done then? Knowing you had said such a thing before I could even have a chance to process it let alone-”

“Miles if... if you don’t feel the same I-”

“Reciprocate.”

Both of them fell silent then. Phoenix, slack-jawed and staring straight at Miles while the prosecutor locked his gaze to the floor, feeling the heat begin to burn in his cheeks. Phoenix blinked rapidly, beginning to flush a bit himself despite his currently paler complexion.

“Y-y-you mean you-”

Edgeworth huffed and turned towards him, closing the distance between himself and the bed before closing the distance between the two of them. It was an impulsive kiss, and not the one either of them imagined would be their first, but it was real. Phoenix was real, and still here, returning the kiss like it was the most natural thing in the world. A wince and a hiss broke the moment though, Phoenix pulling back to sink into the mattress he’d started to push off of. Miles pulled back hastily, rubbing at his arm with an awkward clearing of his throat.

“A-apologies, I didn’t mean to-”

“No, no- my fault, really. And look I... I’m sorry for worrying you and... how I said that really wasn’t how I meant to go about it-”

Miles cut him off again before he could start losing himself in his rambling.

“I... I know, Wright. I would be far more concerned if your plan had been to confess to me by having a near death experience.”

Phoenix chuckled nervously and looked elsewhere, giving Miles the chance to take up the seat next to his bedside.

“Yeah that’s... a little far out there... even for me. But Miles, you really...?”

Phoenix looked back with a start as Miles took his hand, his grip cautious but protective. Miles attempted to play it off as if he was exasperated, rather than jumbled mess of feelings he was grappling with. The mess of feelings he had been grappling with for some time.

“Honestly, I would have thought just now made it clear enough, but. If I must say it to convince you. Yes, Phoenix. I... I love you, too.”

There was a pause, far too long yet far too short, before Phoenix smiled. Still tired at the edges, but warm and genuine.

“Okay then. I’m... I’m really glad to hear it isn’t just... I’m glad.”

Miles couldn’t help but smile faintly himself, gently squeezing the hand in his.

“...As am I. Now... why don’t you tell me how you got into this mess?”

#narumitsu #wrightworth #ace attorney #phoenix wright #miles edgeworth #My writing #fanfiction #*twiddles fingers*#idk if this is any good but

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zuffer-weird-girl · 5 years ago

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How u think kai will react if he raised his hand during argument&his s/o flinched thinking thst he will hit her? He didn't know but s/o was abused by her*hero*parents for being quircklss&went through inhuman experiments to activate it.They abandoned her in orphan announcing their*precious daughter*died while the truth thy didnt want her 2 bring shame 2 them.Kai discovered that latter bc those info are top hero secrets&she didnt tell him thinking kai will hate her if he found shes hero's daughter

HAHAHA, HOW WOULD KAI REACT?! KAI CHISAKI?! OVERHAUL. REACT TO THIS?!

My god; he would be enraged, completely surrounded by hatred and desire of execution of these two worms considered to be your biological parents.

Discussions between you two were normal; you are a couple, it happens; but even knowing that Kai would never lay a finger to hurt you, you couldn't help but squirm in terror and guard youself with your arms at the moment he raised his hands to only emphasize his point in the argument.

He immediately stopped talking as soon as he saw your scared look; sadly, he knew that expression way too well; and ended the argument right then and there.

Hearing your back story was enough for making his blood boil in a way it never had before but he maintained his composure for your sake.

Now, really, you only increased like, 100x more his hatred for heroes... Congrats.

"They're all sick. This hero syndrome has to be cured, look at what happens when we let those verms in the street... Absolutely disgusting."

Chisaki would become a little more affectionate after this just for ease your nerves. But when he is certain that you're at peace again...

That's when the real show begins...

The hero entered his home completely exausted due to his busy day at the agency as he took off his boots and called for his wife. When he heard no response he went in allert; knowing that she had taken a day off, she must had stayed in home.

He called once again checking every room in his big mansion. When he entered the living room he went rigid when he saw, not his wife, but a man in a green jacket holding one of his extremely expensive cups looking at the window.

Frightening and cold golden eyes; that seemed to pierce his soul; found them qs he finally spoke

"You're late." He spited the words before the hero felt something strongly hit the back of his neck, causing him to pass out immediately.

The man awakened feeling extremely sore as he heard his wife pleading for him to wake up. When he finally got back to reality, he noticed that both of them were chained tightly with their backs against each other.

"W-we were kidnapped dear...!" She whispered in fear "Use your quirk to get us out before the raptors come back, hurry!" She pleaded.

"Alright don't worry, we will be out of here in no time."

Suddenly, a bullet came out of no wear and hitted him straight on his chest, causing the woman to scream if her husband was okay.

"I wouldn't move around too much if I were in your shoes..." spoke a man covered in a plague mask and white hoodie aproaching the trembling couple, never once lowering down his gun.

The man winced in pain before trying to use his quirk to attack the shooter.

Sickes bitch

"W-what?" The man spoke in shook "W-what happened with my quirk?! What ylu did to me your fucker?!"

"Language." Spoke coldly the man before merciless shooting the woman's leg.

The female hero cried in pain letting out a few curses at the stranger.

"For two heroes, both of you are completely useless and disposable, aren't you?" A hushed voice spoke in the shadows of the cold building.

"What do you want from us, damn villain?" Struggled the man in the chains.

The young yakusa boss lifted himself from his place on the dark and slowly walked toward the frightened couple; looking at them with murderous, wide, psychotic eyes; following right after them two mans with also plague masks covering their faces.

Actually now that they notice, there was eight in total... all of them around.

"W-wait a second-!" Said the woman in realization "You're that young leader of Shie Hassaikai! That young yakusa group, his name is Overhaul!" Chisaki didn't seem to even listened the woman, opting to look down in nothing but disgust at the quivering man in front of him.

"Despicable, you and your wife are just disgusting... Not only carry in your veins the hero syndrome but also did something that I can't just let slide..."

"We didn't even once got into the yakusa young man, I swear on all of my career-!"

"Your words are simply equal to trash to me so don't even need to spend your breath." Interrupted the villain, extending his open hand at his side.

A black thing that was on the shoulder of a much taller man gave it to him what seemed like an really old newspaper. When the young leader grabbed, he immediately oppen it on one od the pages, reading out loud.

"'Today, unfortunately, we announce the loss of our beloved, quirkless yet respected only child (Y/N) ... While we were just enjoying the few but precious family moments together, a despicable villain attacked us and took her life during the combat. We, with pure grudge and thirsting for justice, have put the evil factor in behind the bars, but still it does not fill the void that our beloved deceased daughter left us ... rest and peace my sweet (Y/N), we will always have you in our hearts.'" Chisaki read all of what was written in pure rage.

"You two are quite the actors, to have to say that on a jornal." The man wearing a white hoodie spoke coldly.

"Actors?" Laughed nervously the woman "Our daughter died during a villain's fight long ago... She was quirkless, couldn't even protect herse-"

"I don't even need to use my quirk to identify your lies woman." Spoke the man on Overhaul's side "Those are beautiful words but clearly false."

"You really think we are that dUMB YOU PUNks?!" Screamed Mimic in offense.

"What will be your orders boss?" A blond with green shirt spoke in pure sadistic exciment.

Overhaul raised his hand, demanding silence with his gesture, as he messed in his jacket pocket before pulling out a small picture.

He abruptly shoved both of the old newspaper; which had the photo of the supposed deceased child; and a picture that he had took it of you.

"Don't you verms think that these two are a A BIT too similiar?!" He couldn't contain his wrath and shouted at both at them making both heroes flinch in fear.

"Abandoned by you both in a shelter just because they couldn't reach your expectations of being what you two are..." Spoke coldly Chrono aiming his gun close to the womans forehead.

Overhaul gave the paper back to Mimic and right after, saving the photo back in his pocket.

"Usually I don't like dirting my hands, but you two are a real special case..." he started to lower his gloves down.

"Wait a second, please!" Pleaded the man almost tearing up "H-How about a deal? Me and my wife can give you all of our money we earned as heroes! Think about about it!" The woman gave her husband a glare due to his offer.

Greddy woman... despicable. They didn't remind him any of you... thankfully.

"How much you're willing to gave us?" Spoke in interest Mimic.

"Anything really! Just let us go and don't mention about... her to anyone." Chisaki wanted to rip this man's head out of his body at the way your "father" mentioned you.

"Give them all of your credits cards and you passwords. Now." Demanded the quivering man at his wife who hesitantly showed where it was in her purse.

Chrono took all of them, right after giving Kai a silently sign that it was real and he got them right.

"Everyone, except Chrono and Mimic, get out of here and wait outside." Commanded Overhaul which everyman respind with an "yes sir."

Right after Nemoto closed the door, Mimic unchained the couple, but just as them got up to their feet, Kurono headlocked the woman as Chisaki punched the man with all his force, making him hit the floor.

"HON-" Chrono pressed the gun in the women's temple.

"Shut your mouth if you don't want your brain to explode it with this damn bullet."

Overhaul marched his way and grabbed the man's collar shirt staring at him what only could be described as a death glare.

"B-but our deal-!"

"Yo punk, we accepted the money but we didn't say anything about letting you go." Said Mimic checking all of the credit cards while holding a phone.

"You didn't really think I would let go that easy did you?" Groaned Chisaki "After everthing you and your project of a wife did to my angel..."

"Y-your what-" the man couldn't even complete his question when Chisaki merciless touched his forehead and overhauled him on the spot.

The woman screamed in terror. Trying to get out of her captor's hold.

"Don't worry I didn't forget about you... disgusting." Overhaul muttered as he rubbed his hand.

"MONSTER! WHY DID YOU DO THAT?!" the woman shouted not even caring about the gun glued to the side of her head anymore.

"You really are just as dumb as your husband here. I will bring him back, his punishment isn't over..." he looked at her with threatening eyes "Monster huh? Look at both of you, damn hypocrites... Listen closely." He approached the woman who trembles in fear and hate at the villain.

"For every moment of pain; physically and emotionally; for every single tear that escaped from my angel's eyes due to your actions... I will kill; torture even; you both and bring you back over and over again until I am deeply satisfied..." the woman started to sobbing in fear as she pleaded for forgiveness and beged for let them go.

"Isn't it glorius? Feeling completely vulnerable, useless and totally submissive at the power at someone else's hands? I am not the person who you should be begging for forgiveness, but I guess you let that chance slip years ago, didn't you? What a great mother..." he spoke in pure sadistic sarcasm.

In a quick move Chisaki comanded that Chrono let go of the woman, making her hit the cold ground. And just before her eyes could've had catch it, he touched her face with all of his hand and overhauled her.

"Despicable creatures..." mumbled Chisaki as he saw the mess on the ground. He made his way to your once father when Chrono called his attention holding his cellphone for Kai to see.

"It's (Y/N), she's asking how are you doing and if we will take too long to come back. What should I respond?"

"Hey Overhaul? Isn't tommorow or after the day when you meet her or something?"Asked Mimic pointed one of the many credit cards at his boss. Subconsciously giving the young villain an idea.

"Tell her is going to take a little more than we expected, my job here isn't totally complete... But tell that I have a surprise for her so just be patient." Chrono nodded as Mimic snickered.

"Getting lucky with your partner Overhaul?"

"Shut your mouth Mimic."

#overhaul x reader #overhaul scenario #fanfic overhaul #chisaki kai imagine scenario #chisaki kai x reader #bnha x reader #bnha character x reader #bnha villains x reader #bnha #bnha imagine scenario #bnha characters #bnha villains #overhaul #chisaki kai #I LOVED WRITING THIS #my writing #zuffer writings

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border-spam · 4 years ago

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Leech Lord prompts: Hatred

Troy

He cannot fucking stand the makeup and costume team.

Can't.

He sits quietly with so much rage boiling in his abdomen as they scurry around him that he's started needing to remove the prosthetic for most pre-stream prep sessions

He told them it's so they could maneuverer easier, that he was sick of them catching on the sharp edges and jostling him as he'd wait in silence for an hour while they worked his face and body, but it's really because of how many times he's splintered an armrest or come far too close to just grabbing one of them when they won't.. shut.. up.

He hates himself for it more than anything because he knows damn well they aren't actually doing anything wrong. He used to do all his own makeup, all his own costume prep, but as years passed and his attention and time had to be stretched further across more responsibilities and daily tasks, Tyreen insisted they give up on running their own prep sessions and leave it to a group with more skill and far more efficiency than a man with one arm..

She was right. There is no argument, she was right, but God he wishes he'd never have to fucking see any of these people again instead of having to endure them daily, controlling his breathing while they swarm about like insects, applying accessories and fixing problems with how he looks.

They have to talk to each other, of course they do, how else can they do this job, but what they talk about? He hates it.

"No, go up a shade, his undereye is darker than yesterday."

"Need a green tone to cover the bruising, A-410m, no *dab* it on, don't smear, his skin's not great today"

"These need to come in another inch they're barely staying up, call in tailoring."

"Define the bridge harsher, yeah, makes him actually look masculine, stops the eyes looking as sunken too."

"This isn't working - it's just drawing attention to how flat this pec is, do we have any contouring shades we can lift the definition with? He's not balanced, right side’s smaller."

He loathes them, and they have no idea how close they come every day to finding out exactly how much.

Tyreen

There are exceptionally few in Tyreen's sphere of influence who can say no to her. Her followers absolutely do not. The sponsors, the business people, the grovelling off-planet mayors and politicians who travel to the Holy City to beg for her ear certainly don't either. Troy? Rarely, and she can usually muddle him enough afterwards with crocodile tears and gestures of care to get what she wants even when he denies her at first, but his Saints?

Some of his Saints... she wants to eat alive.

Ur-Aurum is the worst by far. He's impenetrable. Has been for near a decade, ever since they handed over their first $5k to him in his citrus scented dust-free luxury office on Promethea. She's not sure she's ever seen the little man look intimidated yet alone act it. A stony-faced, immaculately dressed and groomed business mogul who sacrificed any spark of joy he was born with for hard logic a long time ago, and who has no problem telling God Queen Calypso, Holy Mother of the Vault... no.

He's told her no more than any living person has, including her father. Threats don't work and never have, he's never so much raised an eyebrow at what she does to people in his presence. Manipulation doesn't work because for all her skill, he is so much smarter than she will ever be and he damn well knows it. He's untouchable, Solomon runs all of finance at her stupid fucking brother's decision, and reports to him, not her. He has no family, he has no friends, he's a self-contained fortress of a man she can only scream frustrations at when she's denied, when he shoots down a request for budgeting or vetos a new project she wants to push.

She's disarmed around him, powerless because of this horrible little gremlin, this weakling half her size and weight, and she hates him for it. Loathes him for being so strong without needing to hurt anyone, so dominating without saying a word. Solomon commands respect without a gun or threat or nightmarish cosmic power..

He's stronger than her. She hates him.

Seifa

-- Ur-Machina:// - Mechanica Dept - Internal Com --

U-M : Update immediately - why was 100Ur0B-na blocked with your sign off? That shipment was cleared through lead meetings, it was meant to touch dock 3 hours ago and we're only finding out it was cancelled now. No comms?-

U-C : No need for comms, Saint permission levels are equal, we don't need to send your side updates for every decision made here, remember? Calm down, from what I hear things are stressy enough down in your waste pit without you embarrassing yourself in front of your poor crew by throwing one of your little tantrums.-

U-M : Xan that's very interesting, really. So you without any warning whatsoever cancelled a high-security order that's going to end up causing a major project disruption, and you did this with who's authority? You need to go through Sol to redirect funding and you've left a hell of a messy paper trail here, very easy to follow... did he ok the budget for this new marketing venture?-

U-C : None of your concern, junker. The Holy Father clearly doesn't keep a tight enough grip on your kind's leashes if you don't know your place yet. Necessary channels and processes were followed. We're airtight, you can stop wringing your greasy hands together and put them to some use for once, do some actual work that doesn't involve spreading your legs for a change.-

U-M : Sorry Xan, some of that com text was garbled or something, shame! You should have your techs check out the connection on Marketing's side. Pinged Sol by the way! He's surprised, never heard of this request? I'd expect a call shortly. Honestly, considering who's shipment that was, I'm pretty shocked myself. Maybe I could send you some of my crew over some time, give your team a hand with double-checking data before you dig your own grave in the future!-

//File attached: 100Ur0B-na: Sec code GKT -Personal order- High prio

U-C : We'll have this resolved shortly, thank you for your time.-

U-M : Always got time for you, hun.-

Asks are Open!

(Amazing art from Sick Mick in source)

#borderlands #bl3 #troy calypso #tyreen calypso #calypso twins #leech lord #seifa #lldrabbles #my writing #my hcs

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lavenderwatercolor · 5 years ago

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Black Snake Moan, Joker x Reader

Ask: Could u please write a NSFW smut where reader teases joker and flirts with like one of his henchmen just to make him mad and then joker puts reader in her place and makes her know who she belongs too?!?!! Just really bratty reader with a kinky dom clown daddy joker 😩💦. Thankyou I LOVE YOUR WRITING!!! 💖

Warnings: Cursing, smut

Pairing: Joker x Reader

A/N: Hope you like this! I loved writing it!

***

The week had been going by painfully slow. Excitement was at an all-time low, even law enforcement hadn’t been making much noise. There was almost nothing to do, nothing to discuss in Joker’s midweek meeting, and it was driving you insane.

Even Joker himself had been eerily quiet. Normally he was full of life, full of excitement, he could always make a boring day fun. But there he sat at his makeshift desk in the dingy warehouse building, looking down at a few papers, paying you no attention.

And of course he had insisted, with you being his right-hand woman, you were to be with him at all times. So you sat in front of the desk reading a book, legs draped over the uncomfortable wooden chair, trying to get into it. The book itself was interesting enough, but your sex drive had been unusually high the past week and since Joker was too occupied in his mind he hadn’t noticed. Maybe he had noticed, maybe he was just too in his head to do anything about it.

You sat the book in your lap and glared at him, pondering how to get a rise out of him.

Sighing loudly, you bookmarked your page and slid the book onto his desk. He didn’t look up, of course, his eyes were still locked on the papers in front of him. What the hell was he doing, anyway? You leaned forward and saw he was going through his inventory. Some of his workers, or as he teasingly called them, his ‘henchmen’, reported they needed more Remmington ammunition and gun oil. It was his duty to send out recruits to get the supplies they needed since he had to sign off on it all.

Maybe when your little ‘business’ became larger, he would have someone else to do it.

Hell, you could do it now. But Joker insisted that you never get your hands dirty doing things such as that, so if they got busted, there would be no trace of you. It was kind, but very, very restricting. Why were you his right-hand woman anyways? In most ways, you were basically an assistant, a very limited assistant at that.

“You wanna take a break, sweetie?” You asked as you raised your feet to his desk, hoping to catch his eye. Joker had a thing for your feet, but not in an overly sensual way. He liked when you got pedicures, he loved giving foot rubs, it was a kind of domestic thing to him. Seeing you all pampered and clean made him feel a little less stressed.

But he didn’t even glance up, only giving you a half-assed grunt. You took it as a no.

“Well, I’m a little bored.” You continued on, flexing your toes in a pathetic attempt to get his attention. “Give me something to do.”

In any other situation, he would have glanced up, given you a devious smirk and beckoned you to slide under his desk and help him relieve some tension. But still, nothing.

You were about to turn up the heat and demand attention but one of his favorite goons, a young man named Jesse who had just turned twenty-five, walked into the room. He finally looked up from his desk and you felt a twinge of anger that Jesse could so easily get his attention, but you, the so-called ‘love of his life’, couldn’t.

“Ah, Jesse.” Joker leaned back in his chair and wrung his fingers together. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Jesse, wanting to do nothing else but please his boss, walked forward until he stood next to you and beamed. “Well, uh, Sir. I’m happy to tell you that Jeremiah and I got our hands on some top-secret files from the Wayne household.”

“The ones I wanted?” Joker was suddenly in a much better mood, his eyes wide, a huge smile on his face. You wished you could have made him smile like that.

“Yes, Sir.” Jesse mirrored his smile and took out the folded papers from the inside of his Carhartt coat, handing them over to his boss.

“Good work Jesse!” You stood from your chair, slipping your feet back into your sandals. Joker paid no mind as he scanned over the inked letters, mouthing the words to himself as he read. “You’re my favorite for a reason!”

His face lit up as you praised him, it wasn’t often that Joker’s girl gave out compliments. The fact that you were paying him such special praise sent him sky-high with pride. “Thank you so much, ma’am.” He smiled as you took his face in your hands, rubbing your thumbs over your cheek.

“Oh, don’t call me that.” Your plan was working. Joker finally was paying you attention, he had looked up the moment you touched Jesse in such an intimate way. “I’m your age, silly.”

Jesse continued to smile and dare I say blush, not sure how to handle the attention from a superior such as yourself. Joker was quick to hand out compliments, praise, and affectionate touches such as a clap on the back or a squeeze of the shoulder. But you?

You rarely ever did such things.

Not that you thought of yourself as too good for that, not at all. You just had never been the kind of person to do such a thing. You were the type of person to give a proud smile or a nod across the room, but you had never, ever, given direct affirmation, and definitely had never touched one of his ‘henchmen’ in that manner.

“Give me some sugar, sweetheart.” You smiled up at him turned your face so he could kiss your cheek, which he did without hesitation. He knew that one who hesitates, disintegrates. Especially with the monarch of the business.

After his lips left your cheek you giggled and gave him a pat on the face. “Such a good boy, and so handsome too. How did we find you?” You almost felt guilty when you saw how bright his smile was and how he leaned into your warm hand. “Alright, you’re dismissed, I’m sure you have very important things to do.” You made your voice as sweet as possible, knowing that behind you Joker was boiling in his own skin.

“Thank you,” Jesse almost said the word ‘ma’am’ again but stopped himself short. “Thank you, if you need anything, I’ll, I’ll, uh, I’ll be downstairs.” He left a stuttering, blushing mess, almost tripping over his two feet on the way out. Once the door closed you sat back down in your seat and picked up your book like nothing had happened.

You didn’t have to look at Joker to know you had driven him crazy.

At first, he tried to act like nothing was wrong. He tried to force himself to focus on the new information, but as hard as he tried, he couldn’t push the images of Jesse kissing your cheek out of his mind. The damn look on the kids face, the way his cheeks reddened, it was the way you had made him look the first time you met.

Joker cringed at the thought and ran his hands through his hair, letting out a groan as he pushed himself back in his chair. This time though, it was your turn to ignore his obvious grasps for attention.

You flipped a page in your book, your brain not taking in the words at all. Your heart was beating far too fast for you to even try to read. You were just pretending at that point. It was enough to convince Joker, thankfully, and it was enough to frustrate him further.

“What the hell was that?” He finally broke the silence, crossing his arms across his chest.

You looked up from your book with a look of innocence on your face. “What, sweetie?”

His jaw clenched, the strain in his muscles extremely visible. The sight of it sent chills down your spine, the fact that he was staring you down across the table intensified it all. “You’re playing coy, and I don’t like it.”

“Playing coy about what?” Your sentence slowly faded as Joker stood up from his chair and rounded the desk, standing in front of you within a few quick seconds.

He kneeled down in front of you, running his hands up your legs. Your breath caught in your throat but you fought to remain nonchalant about it all, looking down at him with an even stare. As if you weren’t phased by the way his hands slid up your skirt. “Is it because I’m not giving you enough attention?” He muttered, not breaking eye contact. He battled with you as he ran his fingers over the skin on your thighs, almost winning the staring contest when the tips of his fingers dipped between them and barely brushed against the fabric of your panties.

But you continued to stare him down.

“I don’t know what you mean-”

He had enough at that point, his body slipping up against yours, his right knee planted between your thighs so it was resting on the wooden seat of your chair. You lost the contest and closed your eyes the moment his knee pressed against your pathetically wet center.

His hand grabbed your throat when your eyes fluttered shut and he leaned against your ear, his breath hot and ragged. “You know exactly what I mean. And so do I. I know I’ve been busy, and I know you’re the kind of girl who needs attention round the clock. Or else she goes… crazy.”

He was exactly right, he knew you so well. You let out a breath and he left a kiss on the side of your jaw, right under your ear. “I haven’t been giving you enough attention, have I?”

“No, you haven’t.” Your voice was hoarse under the grasp of his hand, but it was understandable.

Joker hummed and kissed right under your jaw. “I should apologize for that, but I think,” Another kiss, lower on your neck now. “I should show you who you belong to, first.”

God, yes. Finally. Your plan worked perfectly. You picked your feet up out of your sandals and raised them over his hips, pulling him higher against you.

You wanted nothing more than for him to show you who you belonged to, and he was happy to oblige.

He planted more kisses on your neck before dipping below the neck of your shirt, moving the fabric with his face so he could kiss the freshly exposed skin.

Suddenly, by the grasp on your neck, he pulled you out of the chair and switched positions with you. You were too stunned to comprehend what happened, but when you came to your senses your eyes focused on his cock. He was sitting in the chair you were in only a few seconds ago, his right hand stroking his cock, slow and sweet. Your mouth watered.

You couldn’t hold back. You leaned up on your knees and took him into your mouth, almost gasping at the absolute size of him. No matter how many times you’d fuck him or suck him off, his girth continued to surprise you. You missed these intimate moments so much.

He had missed it too, obviously, because he tossed his head back and groaned. His hands found their way to your hair and helped you bob your head on his length. “Fuck.” Something about the way he cursed sent you into a spiral. Hearing him curse was nothing new to you, but when you first met Arthur he had rarely cursed in front of you. When he became Joker it was like an entirely new dictionary opened to him.

You slipped your hand between your thighs, trying to be discreet. Apparently, it wasn’t too discreet, because he noticed almost immediately.

“Did I say you could touch yourself?” The low rumble of his feral voice startled you and you looked up at him, swirling your tongue around his head in an attempt to distract him from his earlier discovery. He moaned at the feeling, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment. You hoped your distraction would work but once he gained his bearings he looked back down to you. “No, not yet. Put your hands on my knees.”

You rolled your eyes but did as he said. He noticed that as well and his grip tightened in your hair. “Something wrong?” He growled, ignoring your muffled yelp.

You slipped your mouth off of his cock with a lewd pop, shaking your head. “No, nothing’s wrong.” Maybe the sass was evident in your voice because he narrowed his eyes. He waited a beat, staring you down, before he finally broke and stood up.

“Over the table.” It wasn’t a request or a demand, because as he spoke he moved your body for you, guiding you to his desk. Your panties were tugged down to your knees and then he was hunched over your body, his head right beside yours.

“Oh, fuck.” You panted, his harsh and quick movements sending a new set of pleasurable waves through you. Something about him being rough with you… you couldn’t explain it. You closed your eyes when his cock rubbed against your folds, teasingly slow. A moan rumbled through your throat and you arched your back, hoping if he felt you moving against his cock he would finally fuck you and give you what you’d been craving all week. “Come on, fuck me. I need it. And I know you do too.”

Joker chuckled, low and gritty, before finally pushing himself into you. You both moaned at the same time, he tossed his head back, his hair falling back from his face. If you had seen his face at that moment you would have came. He looked so fucking beautiful, eyes closed in bliss, lips slightly parted.

It wasn’t slow. As soon as he pushed his entire length into you, he began fucking you with reckless abandon. Slamming his hips into yours, if it wasn’t for the desk being as heavy as it was, it would have slid across the floor.

“God, just like that.” You hissed through clenched teeth, your hands gripping the sides of the desk to stay upright. “Just like that.” He was fucking you exactly how you needed it. Hard and fast, without a pinch of mercy.

His right hand slid up your back and he grabbed a handful of your hair, grabbing a generous fistful before he yanked. You gasped as your head was snapped upwards, and at the same time, he fucked you harder. You couldn’t breathe. Every thrust knocked another breath from your lungs,

“Daddy’s gonna fill you up.” He leaned back down so he was level with your body, his teeth grazing the nape of your neck. You moaned in response and he pulled your hair, moving your neck to the side so he could get a better angle. He sank his teeth into the skin on the side of your neck, biting down so hard you could feel your muscles being pinched. You wanted to move away, the pain being almost too much, but his jaw was set and there was no moving away from him. Especially when he was about to come.

He didn’t say anything else as his hips snapped forward, his thrusts which were once in a steady rhythm quickly becoming the complete opposite.

Joker moaned into your skin, his teeth still set around your neck. He moaned as he came inside you, his hands moving from your hair to your hips. He held you down firmly on the desk as he fucked his last bit of cum into you.

Your pussy clenched around him and you moved your hand between your legs to force your own orgasm, your fingers moving expertly against your clit. You finally came, just as he was pulling out, singing out a symphony of moans and cries.

He released your neck and stood back, almost stumbling as he all but fell into your chair. You turned just in time to see him running a hand through his sweaty hair, right before he put his softening cock back into his pants. He gave you a lazy smirk, his eyes flickering from yours to your panties, which were still around your ankles. While he was looking at them, a slow trickle of his cum leaked down the inside of your thigh, and suddenly his soft cock wasn’t so soft anymore. He looked back up at your face, grinning when he saw how red and sweaty you were.

“How was that?” He asked, loosening the neck of his shirt.

“Perfect.” You hummed and kicked off your panties before walking over to him, sliding into his lap. You looked down at his face, noticing how the greasepaint had worn off near his forehead from his sweat. You were going to say something about him needing a touch-up, but when you moved your hips to get more comfortable on him, you felt how hard he had gotten. “Already?” You teased, locking eyes with him. You caught his mischievous glint and you laughed, tilting your head back as you did so.

You rose from his lap and slipped your sandals on, making sure you maintained eye contact the whole time. When you were done you stood up, walking past him, and gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Well, you’ll just have to catch me, first.”

#joker #joker smut #joker x reader #joker fluff #joker x reader smut #arthur fleck #arthur fleck x reader #arthur fleck x reader smut #joker 2019 #myfanfic

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sylvanfreckles · 4 years ago

Text

Critical Components

First foray into Detroit: Become Human! This was supposed to be an entry for Comfortember, even though I didn’t get anything finished until the end of the month, but the plot ran away from me.

Summary: The real rescue wasn’t when Hank shot the bastard who stabbed Connor in the leg. The real rescue was when he pulled his friend out of the hellhole that was the official CyberLife repair facility.

* * *

“Jee-sus,” Hank whistled, crouching down to examine the scattered remains of the android they'd been searching for—housekeeping model, if he wasn't mistaken. “The hell happened here?”

Connor's LED was blinking yellow as he processed the crime scene—they were supposed to be here to question a witness to a homicide a few blocks away, but it looked like they'd just found another victim. “She's not intact,” Connor observed. Hank rolled his eyes—even he could see that. Between the wires and the splatter of blue blood and the plastic exo-skin that had been fucking carved off.

“Anything else?” he asked sarcastically.

“I mean not all of the components are present,” Connor clarified. He crouched beside Hank and gently turned over one of the biocomponents to check for the serial number. “These appear to be approximately twenty-three percent of an HK400 android.”

“Twenty-three percent?” Hank rocked back on his heels, staring down at the scattered plastic around them. “There's a lot more than that here, Connor.”

“Yes. It would appear these are the partial remains of at least seven androids.”

Hank rubbed a hand over his face. “Shit.”

“Indeed.”

“I'll call it in,” Hank announced as he shoved himself back up to his feet. “See if we can get an ID on the victims here, establish a pattern for this asshole.”

“If they were standard models that won't be difficult,” Connor replied, proceeding into the next room of the ramshackle townhouse. “Original factory parts would be registered under the android's serial number, as well as replacements from reputable establishements.”

“Yeah, here's hoping they were up to date on their warranties,” Hank grumbled. He turned aside to call dispatch, requesting a crime scene team and a tech from the department's newly-formed anti-android crime unit.

It had only been three months since the revolution and CyberLife going under, and things in Detroit were less than peaceful, to say the least. He'd been relieved when the captain had let Connor join the force, even if that meant the two of them handled most of the android cases. Again.

Funny, it didn't bother Hank as much as it used to.

“What else you got?” Hank called, wading through the scattered android pieces as respectfully as possible.

“Thirium. A lot of it. From at least eight different models.”

“Shit,” Hank hissed again. “All right, come on, let's wait outside for the CSI guys. No good contaminating this any further.”

There was a hint of movement in the next room and Connor leaned into the doorway. “I cannot contaminate a crime scene, Lieutenant. I do not leave DNA evidence or fingerprints, and I can process trace evidence in real time. It would be more efficient to begin processing the scene now.”

“Yeah, well, I'm not leaving you in here by yourself,” Hank argued. “Not with some yahoo who's been carving up androids on the loose. We'll wait for backup.”

One hand on his hip, Hank stared down his partner. The kid had to know he was right. They'd been expecting a witness, not a blood bath—there was no telling what (or who) could be in the rest of the house. Connor's LED flickered for a moment, then his shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly. If Hank hadn't been around the kid almost 24/7 for the last three months now he might not have seen it, but there were benefits to having a newly-deviant android crashing on your couch.

Fuck. Living on your couch. Time to man up and face it...he was stuck with the kid.

Hank turned away to pick his way back through the android parts. God, that was creepy. Not as bad as finding bloody human parts, but still creepy. Some of them were intact enough he expected them to twitch back to life any second. What the hell was this fucker even doing?

There was a crash behind him, and Hank spun around just in time to see something leap out of a pile of refuse in the corner of the room and tackle Connor back into the back room of the house. Hank yelled out a warning and tugged his gun free, android pieces scattering as he ran for the next doorway.

“Hank!”

He pulled up short in the doorway. The thing, whatever it was, was grappling with Connor. They were too close together for him to get a clear shot, even when he saw the jagged knife in the thing's upraised hand.

“Hank, shoot him!” Connor gasped.

“Shut up,” Hank snapped. “You! Detroit Police! Hands up and back away.”

The thing sneered, a ragged hood falling back to reveal a man with scraggly hair and a wild-eyed expression. He threw his weight to one side, then the other, finally breaking free from Connor's grip enough to catch the android across the face with the blade.

Connor recoiled and the man threw himself backward, somehow rolling under Hank's guard before he could adjust and springing up with the knife upraised. But Connor was there, forcing the arm with the knife away from the man. The man spun Connor around so that he collided with Hank, knocking the lieutenant into the wall and sending his gun sliding away.

Hank swore again and tried to back away further as the knife flashed through the air. He knew it caught on Connor's arms more than once, but he didn't wait to see. As soon as he had a clear path Hank was diving for his gun, sliding around on the broken tile floor to get into a firing position.

“Hank!”

Oh god. He'd finally gotten himself turned around the right way in time to see the man plunge his knife into Connor's right leg. And again. And again. Connor toppled back, trying to shove the man away as his own blue blood splattered across the older stains on the tile.

The knife flashed again. And again. He was carving his way up Connor's leg, to his stomach, toward his thirium pump...

“Hey!” Hank bellowed. As he'd hoped, the man straightened up and whirled around to face him, knife still dripping blue blood, eyes bloodshot and wild. Hank squeezed the trigger—Connor was sprawled on the ground, out of the line of fire—and three shots caught the man in the chest and sent him collapsing on top of the android.

“Connor?” Hank swarmed to his feet and hurried over, peeling the corpse of their attacker away. “Fuck, Connor, you okay?”

He wasn't. The kid grabbed at Hank's arm, LED flickering red, shaking in shock or pain or whatever the hell damaged androids went through. There were superficial cuts across his arms and face, but the stab wounds in his leg and up his body were leaking thirium and Hank could see the severed ends of sparking wires through the tears in Connor's exo-skin. “Can't...I can't...”

“Hang on, son,” Hank shucked his jacket off and draped it over the kid, more to keep Connor from staring at the damage to his own body than to protect him from further damage. He tugged his phone off his belt and dialed dispatch again, free hand wrapping around Connor's thirium-stained fingers. “This is Anderson. We need a repair tech, now, Connor's been hit....”

* * *

They hadn't let him ride in the ambulance. They hadn't let him come to the emergency room. Hell, they hadn't even responded to his calls until the captain practically got a fucking court order. Now, three days later, he was finally here.

The Facility.

Hank pulled up outside the dour gray building and stared at it for a moment. The repair techs had just whisked Connor away, assuring Hank that he'd get the best care and come back in perfect working order—in a week to ten days.

That was bullshit. He was getting the kid now.

Nobody liked to be in the hospital, especially the fucking android hospital where they didn't even allow visitors. In the days since the revolution most of the CyberLife outlets and repair shops had closed, leaving just the central repair facility. By all accounts it was a miserable place, more like a factory than a hospital. Maybe that was acceptable when androids were nothing more than machines, but not now. Connor hadn't even been activated for a year now and he'd already spent too damn long on his own, no way was Hank leaving him hurt and alone in some soulless factory.

Hank climbed out of the car, still staring at the building. It was a massive, U-shaped structure, with the entrance at the bottom of the U. That part of the building housed the reception and technician offices, the actual wards themselves were in the two wings that stretched out to the back. The open space in the middle of the U was reserved for loading bays, lining up to each ward...because they shipped the broken androids here like so much freight and then just shipped them back out.

He ignored the “No Visitors”, “By Appointment Only”, and “CyberLife Authorization Required” signs on the door and shoved his way in.

The receptionist—human receptionist, he noticed with some surprise—smiled up at him patiently from behind the long counter. “Can I help you?”

“Uh, yeah,” Hank dug into his jacket pocket, pulling out the sheaf of papers with the official stamp of the Android Liberation Committee on the top. “I'm here to pick someone up.”

The woman's brow furrowed in concern as she took the documents. “I'm sorry, we don't handle the release of repairs here. Your android will be returned to you once repairs are completed—you should have received an email with that information, you can check its repair status there.”

It. Hank had meant to remain calm and civil. These were civilians, after all. Just doing their job, after all. It wasn't their fault that they were stuck in a shitty situation with dumbass rules. But hearing the receptionist casually refer to Connor as an it had Hank seeing red.

Hank slammed one hand on the counter, next to the paperwork, making the receptionist jump. “He's not a fucking it. He's my partner. I spent three goddamn days putting this shit together, and it says I can take him home. Got it?” He jabbed his finger against the paperwork to emphasize his point.

The receptionist had gone pale, but she picked the documents back up and thumbed through them. “Lieutenant Anderson?” she finally asked meekly.

“That's right.” Hank had leaned back a little, but still kept one hand on the counter.

“I'm sorry, sir...I was told to expect you, I just...you'll find your andr...uh, Connor...in bay D-19.”

He didn't wait for her to offer to guide him—not that she did—and snatched the paperwork out of her hands. There were clear signs on the walls behind her, pointing that wards A and B were to the left and C and D to the right, and just inside the hall to the right was a further map of the Facility.

Ward D was the ground floor, at least, so no finding an elevator or stairs. Hank stared at it for a moment, seeing nothing but big, warehouse-like spaces on the map, labeled with numbers. 1-80, 81-160. 161-240 and so on. So...D-19 must be in the first big room?

He glanced at the other side of the map and froze for a second. There were a jumble of labs and technical spaces all in ward A, the top floor. Ward B had only one label...Recycling and Incinerator. Fuck. They shipped androids off to be repaired less than a hundred yards from the place built to destroy them.

Hank shook himself off and stormed down the hall, easily finding the double doors that lead to the room he needed. But as if his day couldn't get any more horrifying, he pulled up short again when he saw what was on the other side.

He thought he'd been prepared for this, prepared to see some clinical, impersonal repair lot. Androids hanging in racks until their repairs were completed, or shoved into little cabinets. Tiny cubicles with the walls covered in diagnostic machinery...the chair from A Clockwork Orange, complete with headgear to keep an android's eyes pried open for whatever the hell they did.

These were just...beds. Four rows of twenty, each in a numbered space marked out on the floor, all lined up side by side in a massive room barely lit by bare bulbs overhead. Each bed had an IV stand and a monitor attached, the glow of the monitors casting a lurid green light over the androids beneath them.

When he stepped closer, he realized the androids were all strapped down. And hell, these weren't even beds—they were tables. Bare metal tables. The androids had their skin programs deactivated and most of them weren't even clothed, just smooth, blank plastic as far as the eye could see. They were all in stasis, or something like it, lying still and quiet with their eyes half-closed.

Hank hurried to the first row and followed it back, almost to the end of the row. Even in the dim light he recognized Connor before he got there—they'd deactivated the kid's skin like everyone else, but they'd just cut parts of his uniform away to tend to his wounds, so the scraps of his dark jeans and button-up shirt were a stark contrast to the pale gray exo-skin. Just like the others, he was so motionless on the table he could have been an empty shell, only the incomprehensible data scrolling past on the monitor seemed to indicate there was anything left alive in there.

“Connor?” Hank winced when his voice seemed too loud in the quiet space around him. He leaned over the side of the table to rest one hand on the android's face. “Hey, Connor, you in there?”

“Mr. Anderson?”

Hank glanced over his shoulder to see a dark-haired man in a lab coat standing a few feet away. “Lieutenant,” he corrected. He didn't extend his hand to shake, and the other man didn't offer. “I have clearance to take him home.”

“I'm William Adair, I'm the chief technician who worked on your RK800,” Adair explained. He had a tablet in his hand and was swiping through notifications. “I was hoping to catch you before you made off with it.”

It again. Hank ground his teeth, forcing himself to stay calm this time. He wouldn't help anyone if he decked Connor's technician. “Yeah, well, here I am.”

“Of course,” Adair smoothed one hand over his hair and looked up at Hank. “I know this is an awkward question, but you are aware that your android is a prototype?”

“He's not really my android,” Hank growled. “He's his own fucking person. Nobody owns him.”

Adair's smile was condescending. “And yet it has a registration number engraved on its chassis. But I didn't come here to discuss philosophy, as...interesting...as that might be with a person of your character. I came to make a proposition.”

Hank, still seething from the technician's callous behavior, folded his arms across his chest. “Answer's no.”

“But you don't even know what I'm offering!” Adair protested. He dropped his tablet on top of Connor's feet and pushed past Hank to make an adjustment to the monitor. “As a prototype, your android was built with state-of-the-art software I've never seen before. Some of these biocomponents are so specialized we can't even begin to understand them. I sent scans to the lab, but if you would authorize-”

“Is he good to go?” Hank cut in. He wasn't interested. Even if he had owned Connor, he wouldn't sell his partner to be picked apart by people like Adair.

Adair sighed. He leaned across the table to pick up his tablet and swiped through a few more screens. “We had to rebuild most of the synthetic muscle in its right leg,” he explained. “The damage was similar to a severed hamstring, so it isn't as simple as replacing a damaged component. The repairs are completed but they haven't fully calibrated with its systems. I don't see why you'd want to take it home right now anyway, it's just going to lie in the corner and need routine adjustment as the synthetic muscle molds to its structural framework. Might as well leave it here where it's out of your way.”

Hank's hands tightened into fists. If there had been any other technician in sight he would have decked this little asshole and found someone else to release Connor. As it was he had to be a god-damn nice guy. “That's my decision to make,” he ground out.

“Very well,” Adair shook his head. “Pity. We could have learned so much.” He must have sensed Hank's impatience, as the technician's hand starting tapping out commands on his tablet. The cords binding Connor to the table broke apart and retracted into the table, and the monitor began running new lines of code.

Connor shifted on the table. It wasn't much, just his head turning a little to one side and his eyelids moving, but it took a weight off of Hank's chest. “Connor?” he was back up beside the kid again, picking up one cold, plastic hand. “It's okay, son. I'm right here.”

The android shifted again, eyes opening, blinking as though he was having trouble focusing. Adair let out an impatient sigh and tapped something else on the tablet. The monitor whined in protest and Connor's back arched as he shuddered against a sudden jolt of electricty.

“The hell you doing!” Hank demanded, whirling on Adair, still holding Connor's hand. He'd felt that, felt the shock race through his friend's body.

“We can't just wait around for it to come out of stasis,” Adair complained. “You wanted to get it out of here and that's what I'm doing.”

Connor's other hand came up to grip Hank's forearm, and he turned around in time to see Connor fighting to sit up. Hank stepped in a little closer, sliding his arm behind the kid's shoulders to pull him up, letting him lean a bit against Hank's chest.

“H-Hank?”

“It's me, son,” Hank replied. He rubbed his hand across Connor's shoulders, watching as the android's skin projection slowly crept back across his face. “Ready to blow this joint?”

Connor was staring down at his body, at the smooth patches of skin that showed through his torn clothing. “My repairs are incomplete.”

“They're close enough. We can take care of the rest at home.”

Adair let out a long, unhappy sigh. “I'll send you the adjustments it'll need. You'll have to keep an eye on it over the next three days. If that's all you need, I trust you can find your own way out.”

“Wait a second, hang on,” Hank twisted to glare at the technician. “Got a wheelchair or something?”

“A wheel...of course not,” Adair shook his head. “Why would we need one of those?”

Hank rolled his eyes. “He's gotta keep off that leg for a while, right? How else is he supposed to get outta here?”

“It's supposed to remain in the Facility for another four to seven days,” Adair retorted. “Then its table would be wheeled to the loading dock where it could be crated to be shipped to your residence or a retail location.”

“Well that's not happening,” Hank released Connor to fold his arms across his chest. “So think of something.”

Adair's face flushed. “Mr. Anderson, you have no authority-”

“Lieutenant,” Hank interrupted, emphasizing his rank. “Do you want me to call my captain down here to have another word with you? Or do you want to get me a fucking chair?”

The technician stared at Hank, fury twisting his features, then he spun on his heel and stalked away. Hank huffed out a sigh and leaned back against the table, knocking into Connor's shoulder as he did. “You okay, kid?”

Connor was silent for a moment. “I appear to be functioning at 74% capacity.”

“Not what I meant.” Hank turned until his side was against the table so he could look Connor in the eye. “They treat you okay here?”

There was a hesitation—probably a fraction of a second, but long enough for someone who lived with an android to notice—before Connor spoke again. “I have no complaints.”

“Bullshit,” Hank waved his hand at the space around them. “This is...this isn't right. They just knock you out and tie you to a table. Plenty to complain about.”

Connor looked down. “Not... completely.”

“What's that?” Hank leaned closer to his partner. “What's that mean?”

“Nothing, Hank. Forget it.”

“Nuh-uh.” He ducked down, trying to see eye-to-eye with the kid again, resting one hand on top of Connor's. “I can do this all day, Connor. What do you mean 'not completely'?”

Connor sighed, still staring at his hands. “The stasis here...it's not a complete stasis.”

Hank felt his eyebrows shoot up. “Not complete?”

“We still have...there is still auditory and tactile input.”

He tried to line those words up in his head, find their meaning in plain English. “Hang on. Are you saying you could hear and feel everything those bastards were doing to you?”

“It is common for an android to be aware of what repairs their system is undergoing,” Connor explained. “During the course of our first investigation I was subject to repairs on more than one occasion. It just feels...different now.”

Invasive, Hank's mind supplied. Bodily autonomy was a bitch. And, judging by what that Adair creep was saying, who knew what else the techs would poke around with when they got their hands on someone like Connor. “When we get home you're gonna tell me everything those bastards said and did while you were under,” he said, voice low, as the sound of squeaking wheels got closer. “Then we can decide if the Liberation people or the captain need to know further, all right?”

Connor nodded, clearly uncomfortable at this line of conversation. Hank folded his arms to watch Adair's struggling form come closer, dragging a dark shape behind him in the dim light.

It was a fucking office chair.

“That's all we have,” the technician snapped, seeing the expression on Hank's face. “You asked for something with wheels, this is what we have. Unless you want me to get one of the refuse bins from the incinerator.”

Hank rolled his eyes. “Let's get out of here, Connor.”

Oh well. It was better than nothing.

* * *

“Sumo, down!” Hank hissed, trying to shrug Connor a little higher. The android's right leg was too weak to hold him up, and had been locked in a complicated brace that kept him from bending his knee. Thanks to the office chair they'd gotten him to the car at the Facility, where he'd been able to stretch out in the back seat, but once they got home Hank had to haul him into the house on his own.

“Little farther,” he grunted, shuffling slowly through the living room, one arm around Connor's back with the android's arm draped across his shoulders. “Sumo, no! Kitchen, boy, get in the kitchen!” Of course the big, furry oaf would decide to lie down directly in their pathway, just as both men were about to lose their strength.

“Your fault,” Hank grunted as they shuffled past the dog. “You spoil him.”

Connor gave a breathless laugh, which turned into a groan of relief as Hank finally eased him down onto the couch. “You spoiled him first.”

“Yeah, well,” Hank scrubbed a hand through the thick fur on the top of the dog's head. “I'm a sucker.” He studied Connor for a moment then made his way to the bedroom closet. “When's the first adjustment?” he called over his shoulder.

“In...ah, in an hour,” Connor replied. As far as Hank could understand, the synthetic muscle in Connor's right leg needed to be stretched back into place, but it could only be done in increments. Every few hours they'd need to change the dials on the brace on his leg, which would stretch the muscle out another fraction, then Connor would need to rest so his healing program could strengthen the fibers of his muscle. It was a long, painful process and Hank could understand why it was the sort of thing usually handled by android repair facilities...but that place had been a nightmare.

And now? Now that he knew Connor would be aware of it the entire time anyway? Yeah, he was better off staying at home, even if it meant waking them both up every three hours for the next four days.

Hank came back out with a pair of basketball shorts and a sweatshirt from Connor's minimal stash of non-office clothing. “Wanna get changed?” he offered. The Facility hadn't done anything to replace Connor's clothes. Hank supposed if they had gone through the whole repair they might have shipped him back in a standard android uniform, but...shit. The less they had to do with that place the better.

Connor struggled up to his elbows, fighting with the buckle on his belt. Hank held up a hand and dropped the clothes on the back of the couch, digging out his knife instead. The clothes were ruined anyway; might as well save the kid some pain and just cut them off the rest of the way. At least the shorts were loose enough to slide over the leg brace, and Hank had helped injured (and intoxicated) colleagues enough that it wasn't completely awkward to help his friend dress.

Sweatshirt and shorts in place, Connor practically slumped into the sofa, one hand rubbing at his side where the new repair was obviously still tender. “Thank you, Hank.”

“Hey, you've dragged my drunk ass around too many times to count,” Hank replied, dodging the kid's gratitude. It felt...awkward. Connor was just so damn earnest about everything. “It's only fair.”

“Not just that,” Connor shook his head. “The Facility. It's not a very comforting place. It's not...easy to remember who you are when they still tell you you're a machine.”

“Yeah,” Hank grunted. He leaned over the back of the couch, drumming his fingers against the cushion. “The way that Adair guy was talking. Did he say anything to you? Y'know, while you were under?”

Connor didn't answer right away and Hank didn't press him, letting the silence stretch out between them. “He kept talking about how valuable my biocomponents are,” Connor finally answered.

“That bastard.”

“Wondered what kind of offer you would take, if CyberLife would release any programming files for comparison. Like I was...”

“A machine,” Hank finished. “Yeah. Guy was a real scumbag.”

Connor closed his eyes and folded his hands over his stomach, exhaustion starting to pull him under. “I would prefer not to return there, if possible.”

Hank chuckled. “Yeah, okay. Just don't get stabbed next time, then.” He tugged the blanket off the back of the couch and spread it over Connor. Get some rest. See you in...forty-eight minutes.”

The kid was already asleep...in rest mode...in stasis...whatever it was, by the time Hank parked himself in the recliner.

That Adair bastard could bite him. Connor wasn't going anywhere.

* * *

(The original plan was: Hank rescues Connor from the android “hospital” because it turns out android hospitals are actually terrible places. Then I had to show why Connor was in the hospital. Then the head technician turned into an absolute bastard. Then I realized it wasn’t just a comfort fic anymore and I was building a world around this little grain of an idea. So here it stands, on its own.)

#detroit become human #fic #fanfic #hank anderson #connor #hurt/comfort #android headcanon #android repair headcanon #stabbing #dehumanization #hank anderson swears #only a little less than me #post-peaceful revolution

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chenles-moonpies · 5 years ago

Text

Mission, failed

• An nct mafia au, chapter 1

• 2k words

-----

"You go to china, find the boy, bring him back. Plain and simple."

"Plain and simple my ass. Does he know how many people are here!?" Winwin cursed as he looked around the corner from a fight they were observing. Taeyong, leader of his gang NCT, had sent him and Yuta on a mission to track down someone that fancied his eye. Normally Winwin did an exceptional job at spy work, but being paired with Yuta lately has had it’s consequences. "Also why am I with you?” Winwin complained, “You don't speak a lick of Chinese and always mess up important details." The two had been paired together recently after Yuta begged a reluctant Taeyong to do so for weeks without consulting Winwin. He agreed eventually, “Fine. but I'm not sending you in the private jet when you go to China. Just Business class.” He had told Yuta.

"I'm offended. You know the rules! No solo missions." Yuta reminded his friend, "Unless you're in-"

"What's going on over there?" Cheers, or rather yells, were piercing the air around them. Citizens flocked to the middle of the bustling shopping roads where a fight broke out. Winwin and Yuta looked at each other before racing over to see as well.

"I think that's the one." Yuta whispered. The crowd was rather large so it was a bit difficult to see, however Taeyongs words echoed loosely in his mind. "Short hair, gets in fights, Winwin I think we're done!" Yuta smiled brightly at the taller male. His response was a bit delayed. Could it really be him? Wasn't he a bit… small?

"You IDIOTS!" Taeyong yelled, hands banging down on his desk. "I told you exactly what he looks like and what do you do? Bring me someone not any bigger than a Dream member!?"

The man scoffed, "I'm not that small-?"

"Look, you want us to do well? Stop sending me with him!" Winwin fought back, pointing back to his partner. Yuta's face grew rather disgusted, if not disappointed. "What do you mean?" He questioned. "You always mess around and distract me." Winwin huffed.

"Then stop getting distracted. It's not hard!" Taeyong bellowed. The room grew quiet until the tied up boy spoke, “You guys seem tense. Maybe you should take a bath or something, some tea might help, maybe some Vodka-”

“Shut up!” Taeyong shouted, cutting him off. The four men stood in Taeyong’s office for a moment, unsure of what to do. “I’m sorry, sir. Should we bring him back to China?” Winwin spoke sheepishly, suddenly aware that he should probably just comply with his boss.

“Are you insane or did you break into the drug stash on floor 15? We can’t let him go now. Leave him with me,” Taeyong sat down onto his chair and spun to face his back to the other three men, “I’ll talk to him.” Winwin and Yuta promptly left while bickering quietly. The door shut quietly with a click. “Ok, let's get to it,” Taeyong pulled up a pen and paper, “Name, date of birth, nationality, family and blood type please.” The man shuffled out of the ties restricting him,

“People call me Ten. I was born 27th of February 1996, I have a mother and father and sister and I don’t know my blood type.”

“Whatever, we’ll just get someone in to test you. You didn't tell me your nationality.”

“Well i’m not Chinese as you thought.”

“I didn't ask where you aren’t from, I asked where you are fr-”

“Why do you need to know, huh?”

Taeyong stared at Ten with sharp fury. But that was only the exterior he showed. Inside he was shocked. No one had ever interrupted him like that. 16 members prior to Ten and it hasn't happened once. And that wasn't even the ones he had to “dismiss”

“Just tell me where you're from, pretty boy.”

Ten looked around at the pointings that hung around Taeyong’s office, “Is this you? Who painted it? Their brush technique is very… unique.”

“I Think you’d better sit down and tell me where you’re from before we have a problem.” Taeyong spoke through gritted teeth

“Thailand.”

“Was that so hard?” Taeyong pulled some papers from his desk, “Sit down, Ten.”

“Fine,” he responded, “But I'm sitting because I want to. Not because you told me to.”

Taeyong slid a thin pile of papers across his desk and into the other man’s lap.

“I’m not reading all that.” Ten said, picking up the pile.

“Don’t worry, I'll give you the summary.” He sat back in his chair, “This is the NCT X Building. Its headquarters for the NCT gang. I prefer the term mafia but… to each their own.”

“Oh, shit ok.” Ten pulled out a pair of glasses from a pocket in his silk shirt.

“Long story short my father founded the mafia and I took over after the incident. I never liked the way he ran it so i changed a lot of things. So if you ever think I'm treating you unfairly i’ll remind you he was incomprehensibly worse.”

“So you’re recruiting me?”

“Call it what you want, you’re lucky I didn't just kill you.”

“Fair enough.”

“You’ll get to meet the other members soon but essentially there are two sections: 127 and Dream. 127 handles korean affairs, mainly based in Seoul. Dream…” Taeyong paused to laugh, “Honestly it's more of an experiment than anything and the only reason I'm maintaining it is because they’re good kids and you can't exactly leave this organisations unless you leave in a hearse.”

Hang on, did you say ‘kids’?”

“Yes, they're all pretty young. The youngest is 17 though so don't worry they aren’t too young. Anyway Dream only really handles very minor affairs but they've been doing well.”

“Jesus, you’re not gonna put me with them, are you?”

Taeyong laughed, “You should be so lucky. You’ll probably get put into 127 but for now you’re a trainee. Sign here.”

Taeyong presented ten with a black piece of paper with a light grey print and a white signature line. “That's some shady shit, man.” Ten said,

“Fine,” Taeyong took the paper away, “this is a gang, you don't actually have to sign it,” He said, signing the name ‘Ten’ in neat cursive on the white line, “It’s just so the less intelligent members get a sense of security from the legitimacy of a contract. But you seem smart, so you don’t need that.” Ten laughed quietly in response,

“Now,” Taeyong whispered, pressing a black button on his desk, triggering the large mahogany doors to open, “Would you like to meet the others?"

"You said there's sixteen others, right? Why so many?" Ten questioned, following his new leader out of the room. "I have my reasons. This way."

The hallways were long, some narrow, Ten noted. It wasn't dark like he imagined gang buildings to be either. Most rooms had a large glass window to show into it but a few were kept a secret behind locked doors. They peaked his interest for sure, so the male made a mental note to explore once he has a bit more freedom.

"In here is the main break room on the floor. Usually you can find Johnny, Jaehyun, or maybe even Jeno in here."

"So many J names." Ten laughed. Taeyong couldn't disagree there. "Come in." He nodded his head as he opened the door.

"Johnny, Jaehyun, meet Ten." Taeyong said, introducing him. Johnny nodded while Jaehyun presented his hand. "You must be the new recruit!" Another voice spoke out. A head popped over the edge of the old, slightly tattered, orange couch in the corner of the room. "Who are you?" Ten asked.

"Mark Lee. I'm in all the units. Well, was."

"What do you mean, aren't there only two?"

"He was in dream but graduated. He doesn't have an official position yet."

"That's why I'm in all of them. In Hopes of finding out." Mark said, pointing his thumb and finger at Ten like he held a real gun. "Enough chat. Anyone know where Doyoung went?" Taeyong asked. Everyone shook their heads no.

"Maybe in U-"

"Right, later then. I'm sure someone is in the cafeteria." Taeyong blurted, interrupting Mark. The leader walked out, the heavy door slamming behind them. "Mark, you idiot. No one can know about U so soon!" Jaehyun scolded, smacking the younger boy on the shoulder.

"What's U? I don't understand." Ten asked, his mind buzzing to know what secrets Taeyong was keeping. He'll be damned if he gives up trying to find out. "Who knows Honestly. Kid is so overworked I don't think he would know where his head was if it weren't attached."

Taeyong re-entered, brushing something off his shirt, and was immediately bombarded with Ten’s questioning "What positions were they all?" Ten asked.

“Does this guy ever shut up? Why does he want to know everything so bad…?" Taeyong thought. "Johnny is the muscle. I count on him to keep people in check, sometimes to do the dirty work. Jaehyun is 127s Charmer."

"Charmer?"

"Every talented mafia needs someone to swoon others to get desired information."

"That desperate huh?"

"You won't understand. Not yet."

Ten took in his sudden surroundings as he noticed Taeyong had been leading him down a couple flights of stairs. "Elevators?" He asked. Taeyong shook his head. "Not to the floor we're going to. Doyoung likes his privacy."

After walking for what seemed like hours, Taeyong and Ten finally got to their desired floor. “I get this dude wants his privacy but this is ridiculous.” Ten complained, pretending to be out of breath. Taeyong let out a small laugh, “You know, Ten, I hope your sense of humour helps you get around obstacles and doesn't cause you problems.”

“Well,I'd be lying if I said they hadn’t before.” The two approached a tall, oak door with a silver “DY” on it next to an eye hole. “Kind of weird that you guys have peep holes on bedrooms.” Ten said as he got on his tiptoes to look through it, “It’s blacked out!”

“Mhm. Everyone but me is supposed to have an eyehole to make sure no one’s up to any funny business but Doyoung has a tendency to disagree with that rule.”

“Ah.”

Taeyong knocked three times on the door before opening it, “Doyoung, you’ve got company!” He yelled. A tall, slender man with dark wet hair entered from around the corner, “Taeyong, you might be everyone’s boss but you can't just come in here unannounced. I’m your right hand man not your slave,” he looked up from tying a black robe around himself, “I don’t just do whatever you want me to like the others d-” He paused, “What does he want?”

Taeyong laughed, “Doyoung, you’ve never been the best at making people feel welcome.”

“This looks like a Jaehyun thing.”

“Huh?” Ten looked at Doyoung, puzzled,

“Is this another ‘date in exchange for information’ thing because I'm not doing that again, that's why we have Jaehyun.” Doyoung walked back around the corner.

“No, it’s not.” Taeyong yelled over to him, “And if it was, you’re not supposed to say that to the person.”

Doyoung re-entered from around the corner now fully dressed in a white dress shirt, a silk tie, and tailored slacks. “I have to go out.”

“I don’t remember you telling me that.” Taeyong responded.

“I don’t remember me needing to.” Doyoung pushed passed the two men.

“My name’s Ten.” Ten shouted as Doyoung started up the stairs,

“Thats nice.”

“He’s going to be rooming with you for now.” Taeyong yelled.

“What?!” Doyoung came back down the stairs.

“It’s only temporary while we make up a room for him. Everyone has a roommate and they have smaller rooms. You’re alone and you have a room that could fit at least five people.”

Doyoung stared angrily at Ten, “Fine. But if this lasts more than a week, You and I,” Doyoung looked Ten up and down, “We’re gonna have a problem.”

“I’ll see you around, Doyoung.” Ten responded with a smile. Doyoung stormed off leaving a tapping sound on the marble floor echoing throughout the halls.

Taeyong and Ten looked to each other as Ten laughed, “I like him.”

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jamespottervevo · 6 years ago

Text

painted red (to fit right in) 1/3

James Potter is Spider-Man, and no one gave him an instruction manual.

He really could have used that manual.

Spiderman!AU | no movie spoilers | 7.k words | ao3

thank you to @frxddi @n0tromulus and @sitienessuficientecoraje for beta reading!

(if you showed any above average interest in this fic [yes I read tags bc I crave validation], I’m going to tag you here- @elanev91 @magic-girl-in-a-muggle-world @frustratedpoetwrites @cornerforward13 @padfootdidit)

CHAPTER 1: i feel it in my bones

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

James Potter came to in handcuffs. Again. Sirius kept a tally, for some asinine reason, of all the times he woke up handcuffed. Specifically in public. Not that he made a habit of being handcuffed in private either, that would make things a bit awkward around the house, paper thin walls and all that. He would never be able to look his mum in the eye if she walked in on him in cuffs, or the suit for that matter. He really didn’t want her to walk in on him in the suit. Not because he didn’t like it! He looked pretty sick in red after all. It was just- James took a breath, blinked once, then twice, then tried desperately to ignore the ache that had found a home at the base of his skull.

He was in the back of a squad car and for some inexplicable reason, no one had thought to try and peel off his mask. James supposed that, in the officers’ defense, the seam was really hard to find sometimes. But, on the other hand, what was with the police in New York? Had they even been trained or had they just been given a gun and told to shoot brown people?- something very fucking unfortunate for James.

He looked back down at the cuffs on his wrist, jangling them a bit to see if by some miracle the cops had forgotten to actually lock the damn things, but no dice; maybe they had been trained after all. At least they’d been so kind as to cuff him in the front. He could work with that. His eyes flicked toward the rear view mirror and he watched as a few officers milled about, surveying the scene, chatting loudly, kicking garbage, generally being vaguely scummy in a sort of indistinct way. He grit his teeth and cracked his neck, bouncing just a bit in the seat to garner up some sort of energy, to shake off the fucking jackhammering going on in his skull.

He twisted in the seat, as subtle as he could manage before kicking at the door, hard, and knocking it open. (It occurred to James later that he could have just used the handle.) Okay, so maybe he really needed to work on that whole “not alerting every cop in the area to his escape” thing, but he was like, sixty percent sure he might have had a concussion. He couldn’t be blamed for the stupid things he did while most likely concussed, but he knew for a fact that Sirius wouldn’t let him live it down once the video footage broke.

But right,- cops, staring at him and yelling, hands drifting to weapons. James took another deep breath and pretended his head wasn’t a few seconds off from exploding before he began running, feet hard and fast hitting the pavement. He couldn’t see, sensory overload the helpful little voice in his head supplied as he jumped over a fire hydrant, down the sidewalk, sirens starting to blare behind him again. Everything was too much. Too much light, too many colors, too much movement. He picked up on it all and felt like he might throw up his Cheerios. He really shouldn’t have had that second glass of chocolate milk either.

“Come on, come on,” James mumbled, eyes dating; he just had to find a building tall enough… He grinned as he turned the corner, all but smacking right into a beautiful skyscraper. Okay, maybe it was a little ugly but it was absolutely perfect. He glanced over his shoulder, the police turning the corner. James flicked his wrist, and offered the police officers a wave as the web shot from his hand and plastered itself to the wall up ahead.

“Well, officers, it’s been a ple-” He cut off as the force of the web retracting finally grabbed him, yanking him off toward the wall at a speed that was definitely not safe for the concussion he definitely had or the breakfast he was definitely going to throw up. He’d never thrown up in the mask and he absolutely refused for that first to happen while being chased by a few very angry cops while handcuffed.

Webslinging? Much harder while handcuffed he might add.

But cuffed or not, the feeling still opened up some part of him. Like...magic. Everytime he was in the air, James felt more alive than he thought should be allowed. Like every breath he’d ever held suddenly rushed out of him, no weight to burden him. Nothing had ever made him feel quite so real. It was as close to flying anyone could ever get, he reasoned.

Well. Flying with a little more thought, he amended, as he shot another web, twisted his body to avoid slamming head first into a billboard. Something about lotion. Or maybe yogurt. He hadn’t been able to get a clear picture while hurtling past at breakneck speed. But it had looked like Jamie Lee Curtis, so probably yogurt.

While yes, being in the air, grabbing buildings and flagpoles and billboards to swing and throw himself farther and farther away from the cops was nice (breathtaking, spectacular, fucking fun), it didn’t exactly stop his head from threatening to explode. Had the sun always been that fucking bright? When the sirens started to fade out into nothingness behind him, James began trying to find his alleyway.

Despite what the papers said about him, he didn’t think he was a “public menace” at all! Sure, maybe he still hadn’t quite got a hang of the whole “hero” thing yet, but it’s not like anyone ever gave him a manual. Couldn’t just google “am I a spider?” or “how to be a superhero?” - though, he did think there was a wikifact article on that one actually- or even “how to look good in spandex?” And yes, maybe he’d tried to google that one.

But.

Just because knew he couldn’t truthfully be labeled a public menace, it didn’t necessarily mean people, you know. Agreed with him. So landing in the street? Not a good plan. Besides, all of his belongings were stashed away behind a dumpster and a cleverly placed board in the alley behind the Indian grocery near home. It took a few more swings before he caught sight of the familiar signs and swung himself down into the alley. His nose scrunched. Oh god. He’d forgotten it was garbage day. But beggars couldn’t be choosers, he supposed as his feet hit the ground. He stumbled, having momentarily forgotten that he had definite brain damage and also was handcuffed and probably could taste color thanks to the overstimulation.

James gave his surroundings a cursory glance- he had to be quick about this- before yanking his wrists apart, hard, splitting the cuffs with a satisfying CRACK! Fucking hurt though. And now he just had two locked on bracelets. And still had his suit on. And-

His phone was going off.

James’ train of thought slowed as he heard the blaring saxophone riff of “Careless Whisper” increasing in volume from inside his suit. Fuck. Shit. Fuck. His alarm. Throwing another glance around the alleyway first, James ripped off his mask, hair standing straight up and undoubtedly looking like a rats nest. George fucking Michael was going to get him caught in a skeevy alleyway, half dressed, in handcuffs. Is this what his life had come to? Goddamnit. He hoped his mom didn’t put all that information in his obituary after she definitely murdered him for galavanting about as a superhero without her permission.

After a bit more fumbling, he managed to unzip his suit and shove his hand into it, silencing his “hey dumbass it’s time for school” alarm. Because he was a dumbass who was definitely going to be late for school. James looked around hopelessly, as if he could find a magical key somewhere in the alley that would let him get the fucking cuffs off.

What a sight he bet he was- half dressed in his Spider-Man suit, squinting without his glasses, wobbling from the concussion. James paused, and reached out to steady himself by throwing a hand onto the wall.

His (wildly out of focused) eyes landed on a mostly distinguishable blur. Huh. So, maybe it wasn’t a key, but a pipe should work, right? Without much thought (because, as James would admit, he rarely did anything with much thought) he slammed his wrists down onto the pipe as hard as he could.

The metallic clang echoed through the alley and he had to bite back a cry of pain as the reverberations shook through his wrists, but the cuffs snapped off. A couple bruises were nothing new! He’d be fine!

James spent a few more moments fumbling in the alley. Nearly falling headfirst in the dumpster while reaching for his backpack. (He’d learned his lesson and had wrapped the bag in a quadruple layer of plastic grocery sacks to keep the Garbage Reek off of it.) Tripping over his own feet as he stripped out of the suit. Almost tearing a gigantic fucking hole in his t-shirt as he tried to get it on over his head. He was doing great.

Once he was finally changed and his suit was hidden and his backpack was de-plasticed, James glanced down at his phone. Fuck. Fuck. 7:39. He couldn’t exactly websling his way to class and he’d told his parents he was spending the night with Remus so it’s not like he could manage a ride off them. Fuck.

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

james potter to Big Chungus: anyone near devars rn?

sirius black: tf u at devars for at 7 in the morning

sirius black: ik we have ladoo at home unless ur fatass ate all of them

remus lupin: I’m pretty sure that pete ate most of the pack james thought he’d hid in that hollowed out book on his shelf

peter pettigrew: you promised you wouldn’t tell!!!!!!!!!!!!!

james potter: 1) hate all of u.

james potter: 2) not about snacks just need a ride so come get me

remus lupin: be there in five you absolute jackass

remus lupin: but I want some of those chickpea things from the store as payment

remus lupin: the ones with the peanuts with them

james potter: literally said this wasn’t about snacks like two secs ago. Not even in the store

remus lupin: u want a ride? Bc this is about snacks now jim

james potter: ...which size bag do u want

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

The thing was, he’d never meant to be a hero.

He hadn’t purposefully shoved his hand into a creepy spider’s weird science prison containment cage during the field trip to RidCorp. Hadn’t gone out of his way to bend metal pipes in half on accident (that had been a shock to say the least). Hadn’t woken up one morning with the intention of sticking to walls. Door handles. Stairway railing at school. James Potter had been happy! Never wishing he had more or could be more or should be more.

Because he loved his life! He loved his parents and his friends. He played soccer and helped carry the debate team to victory and fucked around in some of his classes! No seventeen year old in their right mind would purposefully go out of their way for that sort of responsibility! He barely remembered to take out the garbage- of course he never meant to become a hero!

He’d also not meant to accidentally save Lily Evans’ life.

But life just had a way of intervening, didn’t it?

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

“You’re staring.”

James jolted slightly, glasses slipped down the bridge of his nose. Sirius made himself comfortable far too close to James’ ear before throwing himself down at their usual lunch table.

He decided not to grace Sirius with a response and instead rubbed his neck, pretended he wasn’t thirteen different types of pathetic. “I was not staring- I mean. No, what? Who would I have even been staring at?” Smooth, Potter, he thought, really fucking smooth. Inconspicuous.

Sirius raised an eyebrow as he swung his backpack from his shoulders and dropped it to the floor with an unceremonious thud. James flinched at the sound. (Concussed, remember? A week later and he was still dealing with headaches) A few people glanced their way, but it wasn’t as if Sirius seemed to care. Well, James reasoned, he probably had done it for the attention in the first place. James adjusted his glasses, concentrated quite fiercely at a place on the wall, poked at his food with little intention of actually eating.

Sirius snorted. “So you mean to tell me that you weren’t staring at Evans then?” The lilt to his voice made it very apparent that yes, Sirius knew that he’d been staring at Evans and was now being the world’s largest dick about the fact.

Before James could continue his scathing silent treatment, Remus sank into his customary seat. “Oh, no, James was definitely staring at Lily,” he provided. Traitor.

James pulled his phone out from his pocket and finally tore his gaze away from the very intriguing concrete wall and tapped out a message.

james potter to remus lupin: et tu brute

He set down his phone with a huff. “I was not fucking staring at Evans,” he lied. Poorly. Because as he spoke, his gaze shifted back toward her direction. James only vaguely registered Remus’s scoff at the text message because…

God.

Lily E. Evans (so he may have glanced at her student ID. Once… Okay, four times) happened to be the singularly most beautiful person he’d ever met. Fuck, that he’d ever seen. And that included Kim Possible, who he may or may not have had a fat crush on as a kid. (He had a type, okay? The guys never ceased to give him shit over that, but resolutely, James refused to be shamed for the level of self awareness he was positive people would be plenty jealous to achieve.) Evans blew everyone else out of the water.

He loved her hair- thick and red with impossibly good looking bangs. (James melted whenever she pulled it into a ponytail and had managed to fucking fail gym class freshman year because he was distracted. Over a ponytail. Gym class! He was a student athlete!) Her eyes that he could have composed sonnets about if he knew how to do that sort of thing. Her dimples. Freckles. The stubbornness written into her chin, her jaw. Her eyes. Her eyes. Her eyes.

Then there was the way she laughed and flipped her hair over her shoulder and only ever used purple InkJoy pens. The fact she laced her boots to the very top and tucked in the excess. How when she seemed anxious, she’d put on cherry lip balm like a nervous tick. The way she always knew the answers to anything Slughorn asked before James could even comprehend the question. How she gave tours to all the new students and never faked a smile. God. Then there was her smile. He’d thought a lot about her smile. How to make her smile at him instead of scowl. Huff. Frown.

Evans was...was an angel. A goddess. A-

“You’re literally about to start drooling.” Peter snapped James from his reverie. The tater tot that hit him in the face shortly after helped as well.

James snatched the weaponized tot off the table and popped it into his mouth. “No I wasn’t,” he lied once again, this time around the food in his mouth. He swallowed. Stole another one of Pete’s tater tots. When had he sat down anyway? Had he been that enthralled in Evans-land (again)?

Unable to help himself, James took one last glance in Evans’ direction before the undoubtable barrage of soggy potatoes could commence.

Her head was thrown back as she laughed, a featherlight hand on Snape’s shoulder. His stomach clenched.

Evans was a pipe dream.

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

sirius black to peter pronounced venti wrong three separate times in the starbucks line: take bets, is minnie gonna let us pick our groups for this project

peter pettigrew: i hadn’t slept in 40 hours! Bc you made me stay up! Watching every fucking fast and furious movie

peter pettigrew: and then made me give analysis after each one

peter pettigrew: and keep a comprehensive ranking of them

remus lupin: pete did you drink three venti coffees????????

sirius black: he got thru one before he said “his heart was going to burst”

james potter: jesus christ dude

james potter: but tokyo drift is obviously the best

remus lupin: isn’t gal gadot in some of those?

remus lupin: my mother keeps telling me to find a nice jewish girl think she’d be okay with this?

sirius black: jim ur opinions are trash, pete ur coffee habits are wack, remus I keep telling u we’re soulmates god. Now FOCUS.

sirius black: groups. for. project.

remus lupin: dude of course she’s not letting us work together

james potter: yeah do u like...not remember what happened last time

remus lupin: pete still can’t eat spaghetti

peter pettigrew changed chat name to PTSD (post traumatic spaghetti disorder)

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

He died. That had to be what had happened, right? Maybe all the brain trauma he’d been hiding from his parents had finally caught up to him. What movie was it where everything turned out to have all been a dream? Because that was another likely situation. Really, anything felt more plausible than McGonagall- Minnie, his guardian-fucking-angel, a saint on Earth- pairing him with Lily E. Evans for the history project.

James did a great job pretending he hadn’t seen the less-than-thrilled look on Evans’ face when the pairing was announced. Because he was living. The project meant he’d have an excuse to talk to her without coming across as a creep. That he’d be able to spend time with her outside of school.

Pathetic? Oh, definitely. But James couldn’t make himself care because Evans’ number was written in purple ink, tidy little numbers, on the back of his hand. He may or may not have memorized it before class had even ended. So yeah. Pathetic. Happily, happily pathetic.

James kept looking down at his phone.

lily (love of my life) evans: meet me at the nat. history museum by on the front steps?

lily (love of my life) evans: 5:30 okay?

James knew without a doubt that if Evans had asked him to show up at four in the morning and wait all day, he would have without question. So 5:30? No problem. It gave him a little extra time for his patrols too! (Admittedly, he was the only one keeping track of his patrols, but it wasn’t like he should sit by and do nothing, not with the powers he’d been given. Right? Right.)

James couldn’t wipe the grin off his face, not even when he ducked into the closest abandoned alley to change. This time, he’d managed the foresight to wear most of his suit on under his school clothes, save for the mask and gloves. He was learning, thank you very much.

He could only imagine what he looked like, swinging from building to building while still wearing his backpack. (A text from Sirius informed him that he “looked like a whole ass fucking weeb.”)

Swinging from one building to the next, just listening, focusing, he let his senses kick into overdrive to pick up anything unusual. Since the bite, the world had grown too loud, too much, at times. James learned how to turn it off, eventually, but it took him time. Days of headaches and nausea and blurry vision, days when he could suddenly see the flecks of dry skin on Pete’s cheek from across the room. When he could smell Evans’ perfume tables away in Minnie’s class and he nearly fainted. It definitely took time. But he liked to think he’d gotten better at it all. At trying to be a hero, using his powers.

He hadn’t...done much, admittedly. He’d helped that one woman get back into her car; he’d climbed up onto the roof to grab a basketball for some kids. Oh, he’d gotten back a stolen bike, chased down a purse snatcher. Pulled a kid from the street to avoid a jackass on a motorcycle. Small things. Good things, but small things. He’d only been at this for a few months- just long enough for the police to hate him on sight and the Daily Prophet to label him a menace just because he may have accidentally done some light property damage. Maybe.

But doing nothing? Now that felt like a waste. James swung up onto the edge of a roof, plopped down to make himself comfortable, and tugged off his mask. He gulped down fresh air and tilted his head back, letting the wind rush over his face. The building was too tall for anyone to be able to make out his face from down below, or at least he hoped that was the case.

After a little more fumbling, James pulled his phone from his suit and began tapping at the screen while still wearing his gloves. Of course, that didn’t fucking work because it never worked. He huffed and yanked a glove off with his mouth, his other hand pressed against the ledge for balance. He could just imagine his obituary if he fell.

“James Potter was beloved by everyone except his mother who he’s going to send into an early grave because of his shenanigans. He looked like a fool and at the very least could have worn a jacket. He fell off the building because he never ate his ratha poriyal because his brother told him it would make him turn into a Chupacabra. It’s a miracle they didn’t fall off the roof together. He leaves behind a messy room and an angry cat who has begun peeing everywhere in retaliation. In lieu of flowers, send a cleaning crew.”

So he held onto the ledge.

Evans hadn’t texted yet, which meant he still had a little longer to kill before showing up at the museum like a lovestruck fool. James took a few minutes to absently scroll through Twitter, check his email, stockpile a few memes for the guys later. He snapped off a selfie, angling it just right before sending it to the groupchat, just to flex.

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

Casual. Casual. He could do casual. He could definitely do casual. Casual? Not an issue. James Potter was smooth as fuck. He kept his focus on the soccer ball in his hands as he stared up at the stucco ceiling. He tossed the ball in the air, caught it, repeated. Toss. Catch. Toss. Catch.

“So,” he began, fighting the waver in his voice. These were his best friends. They’d understand. Right? They’d believe him. “You guys heard about Spider-Man?” Saying it out loud felt like coughing up dust.

Sirius glanced over from his nest in the beanbag chair, raised an eyebrow, shifted slightly. Remus made a soft, disgruntled sort of sound as Sirius moved and made a bit of a show of adjusting his legs across his lap, draped from where he sat in James’ desk chair.

“You mean the dude that’s been running around in pajamas?” Remus asked, scowled down at Sirius who had simply started wiggling in the seat. Ever the help, Pete began tossing licorice bites across the room to Sirius to further egg on his wiggles. Well. Maybe hinderance, based on Remus’s look as he bapped Sirius on the head with his novel before looking over at James. Sirius caught a bit of licorice in his mouth and he and Pete threw their arms up in triumphant glee. “I’ve seen him on the news some, yeah.”

The ball was in midair as he began to sputter, sitting up. “He does not wear pajamas!” Without sparing a glance, James stuck his hand out and caught the soccer ball in his open palm. Remus looked mildly impressed. Mildly. High praise, really.

Peter chewed on a piece his of licorice. “No, I agree with Remus. He’s definitely wearing pajamas,” he mumbled around his candy after taking his time to come to that conclusion. A conclusion James had hoped would be rational and obvious because of course Spider-Man didn’t look like he was wearing pajamas.

Sirius snorted, tapping away at his phone. “You’re just agreeing with Remus because he’s smart,” he deadpanned, gaze unwavering. Instagram, if James had to guess. But!

“So you agree with me then, right? He’s clearly not wearing pajamas!” James exclaimed, relief almost obvious in his tone. He set the soccer ball down. Uh. Fuck. Okay. His hand was stuck. He casually just...left it there. On top the soccer ball. Like anyone would do.

Sirius let out another snort. This time his eyes wandered over the edge of his phone to land on a perfectly, totally chill, super normal James who just happened to like resting his hand on a soccer ball. “What? Fuck no, of course it looks like he’s in pajamas.”

“But-”

“Remus is smart, not wrong.”

James was melting. God. Okay. Just be calm. Don’t make things weird. Take it eas- “I’m Spider-Man!” He shouted, cut himself off when he remembered they were in his bedroom and his parents were home and he didn’t need the wrath of Euphemia Potter at six o’clock on a Tuesday. “I’m Spider-Man.” He repeated, a little quieter, a little calmer.

This time, it was Remus who broke the silence first. With a surprised yelp of laughter. He set down his book and looked at James, nose wrinkled in amusement. It made him look younger, James realized, the nose thing. “Dude, c’mon. You’re telling me that you, James Fleamont-”

“God don’t remind me-”

“- Potter are Spider-Man,” Remus finished, the corners of his lips tugged up into a cheeky grin.

James suddenly felt, oh what was the word? Re-fucking-gret.

“Do you not remember freshman year gym with Hooch? Because,” Sirius started, “I do. You fell from the top of the rope climb and smacked your bigass head onto the gym floor. You threw up. We all watched you throw up.”

James could have done without the fucking laughter in his tone. Brother who? No. He was an only child from there on out. “Okay that was only because I saw Evans do this thi-”

“You also fell down the stairs last month, like, all of the stairs,” Peter chimed in because of course! Clearly it was mock-James-during-his-big-dramatic-alter-ego-reveal-moment-time! “A lot of people saw that too,” he added with clearly careful thought, fucking reminiscing about James falling headfirst down the stairs. As if he didn’t have enough brain damage already.

He couldn’t take it anymore. Without thinking (wow, he had a habit of not thinking) James flicked his wrist and shot out a web, snatching Sirius’s phone from his hand.

The room went very...very quiet. The trio turned to look at him, faces blank, as if their reactions were buffering and then Sirius opened his mouth-

“What the FUCK.”

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

peter pettigrew to SPIDERJAMES??????????????????????: okay so can u lay eggs

james potter: dude wtf no??????

sirius black: okay r u sure tho? Like have u really tried to lay an egg?

james potter: why. the fuck would i try to lay an egg??

peter pettigrew: science

james potter: I don’t lay eggs.

remus lupin: what happens when you masturbate

james potter: I do NOT want to answer that

sirius black: yknow, also p invested in jim not answering that

peter pettigrew: ………morbidly curious

remus lupin: it’s just as valid as asking about eggs.

james potter: I regret telling all of you anything ever in my life

james potter left the chat

remus lupin changed chat name to spidersemen? is it a thing.

sirius black: im so uncomfortable

remus lupin: good. hard questions should make you uncomfortable

peter pettigrew: ha! Hard.

sirius black: u were so pure before we were friends

remus lupin: you don’t know my life.

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

James shifted on the roof, slipped his phone back into his suit. 5:06. He had exactly 24 minutes to get get to the museum, change, and make himself look perfectly loveable to be just on time to meet Evans. Right. Super duper reasonable! He swung his legs around from the edge of the roof, moving back onto solid ground and grabbing his backpack in one fluid motion. The museum was...James squinted, used his finger to point as he counted, six blocks away. He could totally handle that in 24 minutes.

Wait. Mask. Right. He bent down to swipe his mask off the roof ledge when his body went cold. His muscles tightened, the hair on the back of his neck standing up as a creeping feeling rolled up his spine. He could hear see smell taste everything oh god there was a baby crying down the street- pizza- cat being chased- woman yelling on the phone- trashcan.spiderwebonthefireescape.taxisnearlycolliding.tacotruckemptyinggrease-Hey Get Out Of Her- No I Didn’t Tell Him Ab- I Love You Have A Good D- Yeah I Got The Shit It’s-

James let out a sharp gasp and broke focus, his hand curled tight around his mask. It happened, sometimes, an overload like that. The kind that made every nerve in his body go into hyper-super-what-the-fuck sensitive mode. He felt it, all the time, really. Walking down the street. When he answered the front door. When he saw the police. He didn’t have to have the suit for that. He once tried to explain it as anxiety dialed up to fifty, when there was danger, his body reacted. Like an allergy.

Without a doubt, that spider-sense never led to anything good, especially not when the feeling came across that violently. And in that moment, all James could hear, smell, think was “Yeah, I got the shit. It’s pretty low quality, you sure this is what he wanted?”

James yanked his mask on, took a deep breath. Focused.

“Yeah, I got the shit. It’s pretty low quality, you sure this is what he wanted?”

He started to run and without hesitation, threw himself off the roof, arms spread, a nose dive. A leap of faith that he wasn’t about to do something incredibly stupid. Focus. James shot out a weh on instinct, catching a fire escape and throwing himself higher, faster.

“Yeah, I got the shit. It’s pretty low quality, you sure this is what he wanted?”

Close. James was close. His body felt tense, on edge. He swung around a building and nodded at the wide-eyed woman in the passing window, waved. He heard the slam of a car door. A van. An alley.

“Yeah, I got the shit. It’s pretty low quality, you sure this is what he wanted?”

He landed with a loud, metallic thunk, a creak as the fire escape settled under his weight. James winced, scrunched his eyes shut, said a little prayer that the men didn’t hear him. He quickly ducked behind a comically small potted plant and prayed that would be enough.

Slowly, James peered around the plant, nudging one of the leaves out of the- weed. He was hiding behind a cutesy terra cotta pot of weed on someone’s fire escape. Okay then. He stored that information away for later and took everything in.

A nondescript black van sat parked in the alley, one of the back hatch doors swung open. James could just barely make out a few cardboard boxes stacked in the back. Two men stood to the side, backs turned to James’ hiding place. One in a hoodie, a cigarette in one pale hand. One in a button up shirt tucked into dress pants.

“How much more is he gonna need?” Hoodie asked. His voice hadn’t seemed to have dropped. Young sounding. James scooted a little closer, pushing the plant for cover and immediately regretted the action as the pot scraped across the metal grating. Loudly. Whoopsie.

He studied Hoodie, nose scrunched as he wondered why a teenager wou- oh. If that was a teenage dude’s ass, he was definitely going to have to reevaluate some things later. People did always think that Sirius was his boyfriend which like, gross? They were practically related and he’d seen Sirius’s dental hygiene habits up close and he did not want to get personal. If he’d date any of his friends, obviously it would be Remus. Was that even a question? Actually, Pete would be rather supportive no matter what.

James frowned. He did have a bit of an obsession with George Michael- He paused the steamrolling thoughts and just...filed that crisis away for later.

Button Up shifted, folded his arms over his chest. “Unsure. The experiments have been going as we’d hoped, but it’s not even close to passing under FDA regulations.” Button Up sighed and pulled a bulky looking phone out of his back pocket. James squinted. Was that a flip phone? Who the fuck still used a flip phone?

Button Up held a finger up to Hoodie and brought the phone up to his ear. The three waited, James with baited breath, Hoodie with restless posture and puffs of smoke, Button Up with a perfectly blank face.

Hoodie moved her weight from one foot to the other and pulled her hand from her pockets. She pushed the hood of her sweatshirt off, revealing a mess of dark, curly hair. She took a drag off her cigarette. Exhaled. “Look, I’m in a hurry here. Your boss has my number if he needs anymore, but he’s gotta remember that my supplier takes his time with this. I won’t be able to pull this much out of my ass again.” Hoodie spoke around the cigarette in her mouth, blew smoke toward the van.

Button Up didn’t glance in Hoodie’s direction. “Yes. Hello sir! I- yes...no we didn’t run into any issues- Five boxes as ordered, I’ll be...Uh. Yes. I’ll ask.” He snapped his phone shut, cleared his throat. “He wants five more shipments, as well as a few...test subjects. Double the pay if you get it done by the end of the month.” Button Up cleared his throat, moved as if adjusting a tie.

Hoodie nodded once, then twice, dropped her cigarette butt to the ground and extended her hand. Button Up clasped it in a way so professional, it was almost funny. “He better, or else. Don’t think the boss would like it too much if the Prophet caught wind of this, now would he?” There was confidence in her tone, another shift in her posture. Holding her head up higher. Power, James realized. Whatever this was, the cards were in her hands.

Button Up withdrew his hand and turned away from Hoodie, closing the back door of the van. James’ body thrummed with energy, jittered. They’d not said anything illegal, but he knew better than to doubt his spidey sense. He needed to do...something. Follow one of them or catch one in a web or… Something.

In his moment of internal debate, James had missed Hoodie’s retreat, leaving Button Up to focus on. He turned toward the fire escape as he rubbed his temples and James got a decent look at his face. He felt...a little disappointed honestly. No super badass scars or tattoos, and he wasn’t that good looking. He looked plain, forgettable. Hanging from his shirt was a security badge. James couldn’t quite make out the words, but he recognized the logo.

RidCorp. The pioneer and leader in innovation when it came to new pharmaceuticals and genetics, RidCorp was the public’s darling when it came to the future. Cures for cancer and growing new organs and...James had just watched an employee make a shady deal in an empty alleyway.

He didn’t hesitate. When Button Up turned once again, started to walk toward the driver’s side door, James dropped down from the fire escape with a THUMP. He took a moment to prop a hand on the wall, cross his ankles as he leaned. Button Up swivelled on his heels, fast.

James wiggled the fingers on his free hand. “This looked like a lot of fun. Can I join in? I’m a great conversationalist!” He wished he had a camera to capture the look of absolute “what the fuckery” on Button Up’s face.

“Shit,” Button Up hissed as he leapt into the van and slammed the door shut. Before James had the foresight to memorize the license plate, Button Up was speeding off down the alley. The van made a violent turn into the street and was reasonably met with angry honks and shouts.

James grinned, shot a web, and let the momentum carry him after the van. Button Up hadn’t managed to get very far before James caught sight of him again. He kept up the pace of webswingjump, webswingjump, until he was close enough to land a web onto the top of the van.

Unfortunately, it was impossible to swing from superpowered spiderwebs in a very crowded city, down a very crowded street, without drawing attention.

“Is that Spider-Man?”

“Who’s he chasing?”

“God that costume’s stupid looking!”

That comment was just hurtful, but it wasn’t as if he had time to stop and argue with a random New Yorker. He perched on the roof of the van as Button Up sped down the street, veering in a way that clued James into the fact he was trying to be shaken off.

He stuck himself to the roof with one hand as he bent over, upside down in front of the windshield. “Use the spray,” he shouted, pointed down at the wipers, “I’m sure that’ll help! Usually gets bugs off!” He gave a thumbs up and Button Up slammed on his brakes. The suddenness of the stop dislodged James from the roof and if it weren't for his reflexes kicking in, he’d have flown headfirst into the street. Instead, he fired off a web and swung himself up onto the side of a building, breathing hard.

The van started moving again as James carefully tried to come up with a plan. He’d not expected to get nearly so far. He couldn’t let Button Up get away! Before he could undoubtedly have his brilliant lightbulb moment, police sirens began blaring in the background. Oh fuck.

He looked around, glad for the mask to hide his panic. Sirens. Sirens. Sirens. James tilted his head. A few blocks out still, it sounded, but that didn’t exactly give him much time-

Time. He threw a panicked glance over his shoulder toward the clock hanging off a department store front. 5:26. Evans. James looked back and the van was...gone. Fuck. The police were closer; the van was gone; he couldn’t be arrested again; Evans was going to kill him.

After a moment of deliberation, James started to websling, throwing around his weight as he flung himself up in the air, higher and higher, quicker and quicker, to get to the museum in time. Evans would make that face at him if he was late, the one that made him want to retract into his own body and wither away. Disappointment.

His heart pounded and James could hear it in his ears, breathing fast and hard and his hands were so sweaty. When he finally caught sight of the museum, a wave of relief washed through his body because not only did he see the museum, but a blur of red hair just turning down the sidewalk.

He was going to be on time. Sweaty. But on time. He swung in closer, aiming for the alley around the corner. Evans wasn’t going to hate him. She’d fall in love with him for knowing the names of all the dinosaurs and they’d get married and have the cutest child and- no. no. no. no. no.

James’ body went ice cold.

The scaffolding over the entrance where workers were taking down a metallic spider.

The giant hunk of metal slipping out of place.

Falling. Falling. Falling.

He didn’t think.

He just moved.

It happened faster than even James could comprehend.

The screaming. The warnings. The panic.

A girl looking up too late.

The spider was too big for James to simply push the girl clear of its path. So he shot a web at her waist and pulled her into his chest, curling around her as he threw both hands up to catch the spider as it fell. (Talk about irony.) The weight of it all sent vibrations down his arms and he couldn’t breathe, too high off adrenaline, couldn’t think.

And then… quiet. People stunned into silence around him on the steps, shocked workers up above, the girl no longer screaming in his arms. James gave a grunt and dropped the spider to the side, let his arms drop.

He panted as he looked down and met a pair of green green eyes. Those eyes. Evans stared up at him in wonderment. Relief. Whatever it was, James wanted to savor the moment.

He cleared his throat, stepped away, put his hands on his hips because that’s what superheroes did right? “Alright, E- Miss?” He forced his voice lower. As low as he could make it. Pretended it didn’t crack when he spoke.

Evans blinked up at him, her shoulders shaking. He loved the coat she wore, it matched her eyes- oh god, she’d been talking. “- I...thank you,” Lily finished, hiccuped. James grinned because no one could see.

Admiration. That was the look in her eyes. He didn’t know what to say.

Sirens picked up volume in the background. Cops and an ambulance, James distinguished. Someone in the crowd had probably called 911. Right. The cops definitely still hated him. His feet did not want to move but after a few seconds of internal wrestling- he could just yank his mask off right, show Evans that he wasn’t an entire jackass- James flicked his wrists and fired off a web.

Then he finally spoke “I’m your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man,” he continued trying to sound like Batman, let the web start to pull him away, “that’s what I’m here for!” God. He needed a better catchphrase. But Evans eyes were still on him and she seemed so adoring that he nearly forgot to fire off another web to keep from landing face first in the street.

He had spidey sense, not common sense.

When he wrapped the corner, he could already hear the chatter from the crowd picking up intensity, the sirens halting as the emergency responders arrived at the museum entrance.

The thought hit him as he landed in an alleyway. Evans was going to think he was so late to their meetup.

Fuck.

112 notes · View notes

welcometothepenumbra · 6 years ago

Text

JUNO STEEL AND THE TRAIN FROM NOWHERE (PART ONE)

SOUND: DOOR OPENS, BELL RINGS, RAIN.

MUSIC: STARTS.

CONCIERGE: Ah, good evening, Traveler! Welcome to The Penumbra.

SOUND: KEYS JINGLING.

Detective Steel’s been known to keep odd company, but even by his standards his guest this week is… unexpected. On this job he’s agreed to work with Peter Nureyev, the master thief who’s betrayed him once in the past, and about whom Detective Steel holds very, let us say, volatile feelings.

But our detective has no choice, I’m afraid. There’s an even more dangerous criminal on the prowl, a woman with her eye on a very special train, and the ancient weapon that lies within it.

SOUND: THREE KNOCKS. CARDS SHUFFLING, BELL RINGING.

What luck! It sounds like he’s in. Come, Traveler. Come with me into room J-16.

SOUND: DOOR CREAKING OPEN.

Juno Steel and the Train From Nowhere.

ALL SOUNDS: FADE OUT.

***

SOUND: WIND BLOWING.

JUNO: We don’t have time for this, Nureyev.

NUREYEV: Hm.

JUNO: You said yourself we’re under the gun. As soon as your boss finds out what we’re up to, we’re sunk.

NUREYEV: Correct.

JUNO: Mind explaining why we’ve been parked in the desert for half an hour, then?

NUREYEV: We’re early.

JUNO: Early for what?

…Ahh, I should’ve known better.

NUREYEV: Than?

JUNO: To trust you. Walking into the same trap twice.

I wouldn’t be here if I had any other options, you get me?

NUREYEV: Oh, I get you, Juno.

JUNO: That’s what scares me.

How about telling me about that thing you just put in the sand over there, then? You starting a little garden out here or something?

NUREYEV: Well, telling you that would ruin the surprise, wouldn’t it?

JUNO: Surprise?! Oh, no. Not this time. I’ve had all the surprises I’m willing to take from you. You think you can show up in my apartment in the middle of the goddamn night and expect me to follow along like nothing happened? I don’t think so. You might’ve gotten your hooks in me once, Nureyev, but if you’re gonna pull this again you take your surprise and shove it right up your—

SOUND: SONIC BOOM.

…Whoa.

NUREYEV: Whoa indeed.

JUNO: What the hell was that? It went by so fast, it- it was like the sky just… blinked.

NUREYEV: That, my dear detective, was a train; and you and I are going to catch it.

MUSIC: STARTS.

JUNO (NARRATOR): The Martian desert is a cold, lonely place. You can look around for miles in every direction and never see a human footprint – never see a single sign that anyone has ever lived on this dusty rock.

My name’s Juno Steel. I’m a private eye, which means people and the footprints they leave are my element. Places like this, empty for miles around… they give me the creeps.

NUREYEV: I do apologize for the theatricality, Juno, but you have to admit, the Utgard Express delivers quite a show.

JUNO (NARRATOR): He wasn’t reassuring me any. Peter Nureyev was his name – one of them, anyway. Back when we met he’d gone by Rex Glass, and within two days he’d stolen a lotta junk from me. A key, a mask, a kiss, and…

Eh, forget it. Not this time. I wasn’t gonna fall for it this time.

NUREYEV: As I think you’ve guessed, the recent thefts of ancient Martian artifacts can all be traced back to one individual. She wants what’s on that train, and she’s paid me to procure it for her – but I am of the opinion that we’re all better off if she never receives it. We must board that train, take the artifact, and destroy it – all before she realizes I’ve left her employ.

JUNO: How long do we have?

NUREYEV: Oh, until… tomorrow, at least.

JUNO: So we plan and execute the heist of the century in one day. Sure, alright. I don’t have any plans.

MUSIC: ENDS.

SOUND: CAR ENGINE STARTS.

NUREYEV: The train runs on a very specific cycle. I know that it slows down once a week, and that is our only opportunity to board it… but why it slows and how we are to approach it even then, I’m uncertain.

JUNO: So if we don’t board it tomorrow, we’ll have to wait a week, and by then your employer will be onto us. Got it. Who is she, anyway?

NUREYEV: You wouldn’t have heard of her.

JUNO: Try me.

NUREYEV: Her name is… Miasma. She has no history in crime before these thefts, and those only began four years ago. She’s really an accomplished—

JUNO: Xenoanthropologist. Taught at Olympus U for fifty years; three lifetime achievement awards for her studies on Ancient Martian culture.

NUREYEV: I see you’ve done your homework.

JUNO: Did some research on the ancient Martians when I got into this mess. You tend to notice a name when it’s on half the articles you read. Big name in a small field, it seems like. When I saw she’d stopped publishing I assumed she was dead, but I guess she picked up a few new hobbies.

NUREYEV: I hear theft and murder are very popular these days. The new golf, they say.

JUNO: So what’s she want on the Utgard Express so badly? If this artifact is that important, wouldn’t they keep it in a vault or something?

NUREYEV: The Utgard Express is a vault – the single most secure vault on Mars. The honest fact is that with enough time and planning there isn’t a vault in the galaxy that a master thief can’t enter, which raises a challenge: how to keep the thief from ever getting to it in the first place.

JUNO: So they put the lockbox on a train and shoot it across Mars at a thousand miles an hour.

NUREYEV: Indeed. Inside that vault are some of the most precious items Mars has ever seen. The most dangerous, too.

JUNO: Dangerous?

NUREYEV: We’re not contending with Martian clothing or furniture anymore, not the junk left out on the curbside of history.

A weapon, detective. The weapon. I know very little about it other than the fact that it was the last weapon the Martians ever made… before they disappeared.

JUNO: The weapon that killed off the Martians… and Miasma wants it. The hell could she want a thing like that for?

NUREYEV: Weapons with that much destructive force are good for one thing only: power. It may masquerade as something else – money, or politics, or ideals – but power of that scope only seems justified if it rests in your hands.

JUNO: Power, maybe; but that doesn’t answer the rest of it… the mask, the key, the throne, the pill…

NUREYEV: (CHUCKLES)

JUNO: What?

NUREYEV: It’s just nice to see you gathering clues again. We make an excellent team, I think.

JUNO: (CLEARS THROAT) That’s all a fun story, Nureyev. But how do I know any of it’s true?

NUREYEV: Oh, you can’t.

JUNO: …Seriously? That’s it?

NUREYEV: There’s no point in dancing around it. I’m your only source; in my industry one is more likely to destroy evidence than to keep it on hand. You’ll just have to trust me.

JUNO: Trust you? That’s a good one.

NUREYEV: It’s not so difficult. As far as you’ve seen, I act solely in my own self-interest. Your only choice is to take my word that working with you is my interest.

JUNO (NARRATOR): I couldn’t tell if he was leaning in or if my tight little car had finally gotten the best of me, but that smell… suddenly I was wrapped up in the smell of his cologne all over again, a smell like the spices of some faraway planet. He had that same smirk on, too, like he’d just thought of some private joke that he didn’t feel the need to share…

Damn it, Steel. Not again. Not this time.

NUREYEV: Regardless, we’ve bigger business to deal with at present – and not much time in which to do it. Tell me, detective: do you like to gamble?

JUNO: I got in the car with you, didn’t I?

NUREYEV: (LAUGHS) Well, I hope you’re willing to push the stakes higher than that. We’re headed to the Oasis Casino Resort – my treat.

JUNO (NARRATOR): By the time we pulled into the Oasis, Nureyev’s plan had already been set in motion. He pointed me towards the parking garage and told me to stop the car.

NUREYEV: We’re pressed for time, so I’m going to ask you to park. I’ll check in and start looking for Engstrom.

JUNO: Engstrom? Like… Brock Engstrom? The jewel thief?!

NUREYEV: Please! Retired jewel thief. These days the only crime Engstrom’s guilty of is charging for his ridiculous “seminars in motivation.”

JUNO: The idea of hanging around at a pickpocket convention doesn’t exactly reassure me, Nureyev.

NUREYEV: I wouldn’t even give Engstrom the honor of calling him a pickpocket anymore. He did all of his best work decades ago, and now that the statute of limitations has run out he’s milked the story for every cred it’s worth… and all while being insufferably smug about it. As though he isn’t the thousandth half-rate cutpurse to think of that.

JUNO: But—

NUREYEV: Oh, and you’ll need these.

SOUND: PAPER RUSTLING.

JUNO: Registration? ID? But I already have my… Hang on, the hell kind of name is ‘Dahlia Rose’?!

NUREYEV: Yours, now. Oh, don’t make that face. Not every name can be as pretty as Juno.

SOUND: CAR DOOR OPENS.

Ta, Dahlia dearest. I’ll see you in room one-one-thirteen.

SOUND: CAR DOOR CLOSES.

JUNO (NARRATOR): The rest of it went just like Nureyev said it would. The paperwork all checked out; even the fake driver’s license he gave me went through their systems without complaint.

SOUND: CROWD CHATTER.

The Oasis was gigantic, a huge green tower in the red, red sands. It took me nearly a half an hour of dodging bookies and drunk tourists to find the room.

SOUND: FOOTSTEPS, DOOR OPENS.

JUNO: Hello? …Nureyev? Glass? Whoever the hell you are today?

SOUND: DOOR CLOSES, FOOTSTEPS.

The hell is… (SIGHS) Great. Of course.

SOUND: PAPER RUSTLING.

JUNO (NARRATOR): There was a note by the phone. It read, ‘Off to find Engstrom. Will call. Miss you already. —Duke Rose.’

I knew Nureyev had written it. I’d received a note from him once before which I’d read a few… hundred times. Threw it out the window one day and nearly fell out scrambling to get it back.

The vents coughed up a breeze and a shadow rustled in the corner. I jumped, reached for a gun I didn’t have. Then I saw it was just a coat.

Nureyev’s coat.

SOUND: RUSTLING, CLINKING.

I started through the pockets. a knife; some nuts from the bar; a matchbook from the front desk. Even in the arctic air conditioning, I was sweating. Rex Glass had peeled his skin away to reveal Peter Nureyev, so how did I know Nureyev wouldn’t peel his off to reveal… who?

Christ, he kept a lot of junk in his pockets. A lockpick in a hand mirror. A camera hidden in the button. Bottomless. Endless. Hints of the man, or the mask?

Then, tucked in a hidden pocket inside the left breast, I found them.

SOUND: CRUMPLING PAPER.

Notes. Dozens of them. Crumpled into tiny little balls, diagrams and swirling scripts I’d never seen before. A code. From who?

His boss wanted me dead. How did I know they weren’t still working together? How did I know these weren’t… instructions?

SOUND: PHONE RINGS.

JUNO: (GASPS)

SOUND: BEEP.

What?

NUREYEV (FROM PHONE): Ah, Dahlia, so you found the room after all. Marvelous, marvelous!

JUNO: Yeah, sure. Marvelous.

NUREYEV (FROM PHONE): Well, dear, you can always take a few of the pills the doctor gave you if you’re feeling bloated. I told you about Mr. Engstrom? Well, he says a game has just opened up and I’ll need you down here immediately.

JUNO: You sound like you’ve got it under control. What makes this so important that I’ve got to be there?

NUREYEV (FROM PHONE): You’re my good luck charm, Dahlia. If I could do this without you, I would have left you at home.

JUNO: (GROWLS) Fine. I’m on my way. What room?

NUREYEV (FROM PHONE): Oh, one of Mr. Engstrom’s friends will be by to help you any moment now.

SOUND: KNOCKING.

Ah, that must be her. Don’t keep her waiting. Oh, and do wear that suit I love so much, will you? I hung it in the closet for you.

JUNO: You bought me clothes?!

NUREYEV (FROM PHONE): Don’t say I never get you anything. See you soon!

JUNO: Yeah, yeah, I’m comin’.

SOUND: BEEP. ALL SOUNDS: FADE OUT.

***

SOUND: FOOTSTEPS. MUFFLED VOICES.

VOICE: Mr. Engstrom’s private room is just at the end of this hall.

JUNO: Would you mind not smoking? I got sensitive lungs.

VOICE: Me too. They don’t do so well if I’m not smoking. You learn to live with it, hon.

SOUND: DOOR OPENS.

NUREYEV: Dahlia! There you are!

JUNO: Hi… honey.

ENGSTROM: Thank you, Valencia.

Dahlia Rose. Your husband’s told me so much about you.

SOUND: DOOR CLOSES.

Have a seat, please.

JUNO (NARRATOR): It looked like Engstrom could buy quite the operation. The rings on his wrinkled, shaking fingers were weighed down by gems nearly as big as paperweights and the cigar he smoked must have cost a lot of money, because the stink was awful.

The most impressive part of the ensemble, though, was Engstrom’s ‘friend’ Valencia. She was exactly the kind of bodyguard I didn’t want to deal with because she didn’t look like a bodyguard at all. She looked like a lounge singer, all snaky neck and eyes too far apart.

And she didn’t look armed. That worried me.

ENGSTROM: Valencia, if you would.

VOICE [VALENCIA]: Yes, Mr. Engstrom.

SOUND: CARDS SHUFFLING.

ENGSTROM: The game your husband and I have agreed upon takes some time to prepare, so let’s get to know each other a bit, shall we? Drink?

JUNO: Heavily.

SOUND: LIQUID POURING.

ENGSTROM: Duke was just telling me, Dahlia, that you two lifted the Coveter’s Jewel during its museum tour in the Outer Rim.

JUNO: Sounds like Duke.

NUREYEV: I’m surprised word about the Jewel hasn’t made it to Mars. It was a very big job on the Outer Rim.

ENGSTROM: The Outer Rim is a very small pond, Rose. Your whales hardly rank for minnows here.

NUREYEV: Well, that’s just how we were feeling, Mr. Engstrom! That’s why we thought we ought to sell that rock and use the cash to go after something really exciting. And that’s when we stumbled upon… you know.

ENGSTROM: Plans to stop the Utgard Express. If you don’t mind my asking, Mr. Rose: if you can stop that train, what are you doing here? You should be out there, looting to your heart’s content.

JUNO: I was just wondering the same thing.

NUREYEV: Well, there’s the Utgard security team, isn’t there? If there’s any sign the train has stopped, within sixty seconds we’d be drowning in guards, and that’s not nearly enough time to get what we need.

But you, Mr. Engstrom – I hear you know how to get on that train without alerting security.

ENGSTROM: And so here we are. You can stop the train, but not board it; I can board the train, but can’t leave once I’ve done so. Each of us has information the other needs, but cannot allow the other to learn. This would be an impasse, were it not for our game. The most complicated game in the galaxy, they say.

JUNO: Sounds… fun?

ENGSTROM: A game of wagers where the stakes don’t come in creds, but rather… questions. Information. We call it: Rangian Street Poker.

SOUND: BELL DINGS.

VALENCIA: The game is ready, Mr. Engstrom.

JUNO: That’s the game? There’s got to be a hundred decks on this table!

NUREYEV: Could we talk our way through the first hand? Dahlia gets a little cranky when he feels left out.

ENGSTROM: If you insist.

Your Ask, Rose.

NUREYEV: Very generous of you!

So, Dahlia, one of us asks a question to start the round. Let’s start with. um… How do we get aboard the Utgard Express?

ENGSTROM: (SIGHS) The game’s not ending that quickly.

NUREYEV: Now Mr. Engstrom counters with his own question, and if I agree to it, we play a hand to see which of us gets his question answered. The counter-asker can’t refuse the question; only the asker can turn down the round.

ENGSTROM: Like so: how do I stop the Utgard Express?

NUREYEV: (CHUCKLING) I’ll pass, of course.

JUNO: So if he doesn’t like your question, he has to ask something you don’t want to answer.

ENGSTROM: Just so.

Ah, I nearly forgot. One last matter of business: in a game where each player stakes the truth, we must, of course, address the punishment for lying. And so, let us discuss your… collateral.

NUREYEV: We’re just going by Standard Variation rules, aren’t we? If I lie, you kill me; if you lie, I kill you. (LAUGHS) That’s a rule as old as human civilization, Mr. Engstrom. I think I can follow it.

ENGSTROM: How good to know I’m playing with an honest man.

Detective Steel, would you mind passing me my drink?

JUNO: Get it yours– …what did you just call me?

ENGSTROM: Oh, did I let something slip? (CHUCKLES)

NUREYEV: …Hm. I take it the game has changed, then.

ENGSTROM: Not if you’re as honest as you claim to be.

Did you really think I’d clear out my afternoon for a couple of yokels claiming they can stop the Utgard Express? These streets runneth over with people who think they’ve solved that train. Hobbyists and lunatics and liars, the Utgard Express draws them all… and usually to my doorstep.

NUREYEV: Yet you’ve made time for me.

ENGSTROM: Before I play with anyone, I have their name and address on file – the surveillance system in the front lobby takes care of that for me. Thus, should the terms of honesty within our game be violated, I know exactly where to collect my collateral. But you, Rose… we couldn’t find you anywhere. No address, no name; it’s as if you don’t exist. That interests me. I fully believe you know how to stop the Utgard Express, and what’s more, I believe that isn’t even the most valuable secret you hold. But that does still raise the question of your collateral. If I can’t find you when your lies reveal themselves, you’re hardly motivated to tell the truth.

NUREYEV: So you’ll need a life you can take. Someone you can find.

SOUND: SHIFTING IN SEATS.

JUNO: What?

Why’re you two looking at- me…

(UNDER HIS BREATH) Oh, you’ve got to be kidding.

NUREYEV: If I lie you’re going to kill him.

ENGSTROM: We know where to find him. Detective Steel could not be more visible if he were aflame.

NUREYEV: He does know how to get into trouble, doesn’t he. I’ll accept your terms.

JUNO: Anyone gonna check if I’m okay with this? Like, anybody?

ENGSTROM: Well, now that that’s settled, let’s play. It is my turn to ask.

What planet were you born on?

JUNO: Every time. Every goddamn time.

NUREYEV: I’ll counter: how do you have access to the Oasis’s security footage?

ENGSTROM: I accept. Let’s play.

SOUND: BELL DINGS, CARDS SHUFFLING.

JUNO (NARRATOR): I tried to follow the game. I didn’t stand a chance. Their hands shot across the table, flipping cards and shuffling decks. They had a lot to say about—

ENGSTROM: Rapids?

NUREYEV: Concourse.

ENGSTROM: North or South?

NUREYEV: West.

JUNO (NARRATOR): —but it was all gibberish to me until the dust settled, and Nureyev and Engstrom each had a hand of two cards.

ENGSTROM: Reveal.

JUNO (NARRATOR): Engstrom had a pair of aces. Nureyev had a two of clubs and a picture of a goat.

SOUND: BELL DINGS.

NUREYEV: There we are, then.

SOUND: PAPER RIPPING.

JUNO: Didn’t know you were such a sore loser, Rose.

NUREYEV: Nothing to be sore about. The winner always tears his hand, and the Twin Wargoats is one of the best hands in the game. I won.

JUNO: I… I give up.

ENGSTROM: My answer: I pay the Oasis generously for these private rooms. I’m retired; this is the only sport that still entertains me; they want to keep their star customer. So as long as I bring them publicity, the Casino doesn’t care how I choose my opponents.

NUREYEV: Well, ask a boring question, get a boring answer. Your Ask, Engstrom.

ENGSTROM: My Ask… hmm… What is your real name?

JUNO (NARRATOR): If Nureyev was worried, his face didn’t show it. Most of the time he just looked bored, with a half-smile like he was humoring the world, waiting for it to do something worth his attention again.

NUREYEV: How do we get on board the Utgard Express?

ENGSTROM: Very interesting. (CHUCKLES) Pass, of course.

NUREYEV: Of course. Shall we speed things up a bit, Engstrom?

ENGSTROM: I thought you would never ask.

SOUND: BELL DINGS.

JUNO (NARRATOR): Then they really started moving – cards and questions flying across the table. I tried to follow the game. The hands never made sense to me, but there was one thing I could follow well enough:

SOUND: BELL DINGS. PAPER TEARING.

NUREYEV: Your win. I’m Outer Rim, originally. Brahma.

SOUND: BELL DINGS. PAPER TEARING.

NUREYEV: Your win. No military experience.

SOUND: PAPER TEARING, BELL DINGING SEVERAL TIMES.

NUREYEV: Your win. Your win. Your win.

JUNO (NARRATOR): Nureyev was losing. Bad.

He didn’t give in, though. He’d ask his questions; he’d lose; and over and over again they’d return to the same old battleground:

NUREYEV: How do we get onto the Utgard Express?

ENGSTROM: What is your name?

NUREYEV: Pass.

JUNO (NARRATOR): The message was clear and cold as the ice in their drinks: as soon as either of those questions was answered, the game would be over. But what the hell did Engstrom expect to get out of Nureyev’s name?

Valencia stood behind us. Something about her made me nervous. Her boss was winning but her movements were jittery, impatient: she was smoking a cigarette out of one of those long, fancy holders, but she’d chewed the hell out of her end of it.

NUREYEV: I’ll hit the corners.

ENGSTROM: East to West.

JUNO: It’s Valencia, right? Mind getting me something to drink?

VALENCIA: Do I look like a waiter to you, tough guy?

JUNO: I placed an order and you looked like you wanted me to die, so yeah. Scotch, double.

VALENCIA: You can get your own drink. I’m watching the game.

JUNO (NARRATOR): She was watching pretty intently, too, her eyes flicking from card to card, deck to deck. She looked like an expert – which made it funny that she didn’t know the first goddamn thing about it.

SOUND: STRANGE HUM.

It took a second for that thought to sink in. I didn’t know how it got there, and it barely made sense. She’d set the cards up; she was watching like a hawk. But the actual rules? She knew as much about Rangian Street Poker as I did.

SOUND: STRANGE HUM STOPS.

I was sure of it. I just wasn’t sure how I was sure of it.

She bit her cigarette holder hard and glared at me.

VALENCIA: A picture would last longer, you know.

JUNO: Why don’t you sit at the table, anyway? Better view.

VALENCIA: The view is fine from back here.

JUNO: You don’t say? Maybe I’ll join you.

VALENCIA: Mr. Rose, would you mind telling your date to behave himself?

NUREYEV: Yes.

ENGSTROM: Then I’ll do it for you. Mr. Steel, you will leave my assistant alone, or you will wait outside.

JUNO: She started it.

NUREYEV: (LAUGHS) What can I say? Good luck charms come in all forms. Mine came out “petulant detective.”

ENGSTROM: (THUMPS TABLE) He cannot stand back there!

VALENCIA: Move.

JUNO: You move. I like this spot. Right behind my good pal Rose – how you feelin’, Rosey?

NUREYEV: Thoroughly entertained.

JUNO: And besides, your spot isn’t even so special, Valencia. The one thing you’ve got a really good view of is, well, Rose’s hand.

ENGSTROM: (CLEARS THROAT, COUGHS)

NUREYEV: (LAUGHS)

JUNO: Just saying, it’d be too bad if we found out your boss had an unfair edge.

ENGSTROM: Just what are you trying to imply?

JUNO: Oh, did it seem like I was implying something? Then I’ll be blunt: you are cheating. For a card shark you’ve got a pretty bad poker face, Engstrom. The second I stepped between Valencia and Rose here, you looked like you were gonna be sick.

NUREYEV: Very impressive, detective. So, Engstrom? Are you cheating?

ENGSTROM: Is- is that your question?

JUNO: Oh, no. No. No, no more questions. No more cards. And definitely no more of this dumb, dumb, stupid dumb game, either!

ENGSTROM: You’ll never know how to get on board the Utgard Express.

JUNO: Empty threat, Engstrom. We’d never learn a thing about that train playing against a cheater anyway! Let’s go, Rose.

ENGSTROM: I am not cheating!

SOUND: DULL THUMP. PAPERS FLUTTERING.

Valencia! Clean this up!

VALENCIA: Yes, sir.

NUREYEV: Not cheating, you say.

JUNO: You… liar! Y- you said if Rose lies you get to track me down and kill me! Then you just come out with that?!

ENGSTROM: I will not tolerate this, do you hear me? You have no evidence!

JUNO: Evidence?!

NUREYEV: (SIGHS) He’s right, Juno. Have a seat.

JUNO: Have you lost your goddamn mind?

NUREYEV: No, but you appear to have misplaced yours.

JUNO: Alright, that’s it. I’m callin’ a time out!

ENGSTROM: Time out? What sort of game do you think this is?

JUNO: Fine, halftime, seventh-inning stretch, whatever you want to call it. Rose, you’re comin’ with me.

NUREYEV: Excuse me, Engstrom. My private eye is acting up.

ENGSTROM: Put some drops in him, then. He’d better behave himself when you come back!

JUNO: Don’t count on it!

ALL SOUNDS: FADE OUT.

***

SOUND: DOOR CLOSES.

NUREYEV: Juno, this display is entirely unprofessional, even for—

JUNO: You want to tell me what the hell all of that was about?

NUREYEV: Well, you see, there’s a weapon, on a train—!

JUNO: You know what I mean! I- I bailed you out ten times in there and you just keep digging yourself deeper!

NUREYEV: I’m having some difficulty following this metaphor, Juno. Am I a sailor or a ditch-digger?

JUNO: Oh, quit joking around.

NUREYEV: Fine. Engstrom has backed himself into a corner, and we are in position to take advantage of that. Or we would be, if we were in there right now.

JUNO: He just admitted to cheating and you want to keep playing Go Fish?

NUREYEV: There are several games being played at that table, Juno, but I’m afraid Go Fish isn’t one of them. I am playing Rangian Street Poker as a distraction from the real game at hand. Your game.

JUNO: I’m playing a game? Didn’t you think I’d need to know about it?

NUREYEV: You do know. You’ve already made the first move.

JUNO: But—

NUREYEV: Engstrom has lied to us, Juno – and after making the punishment for lying absolutely clear!

JUNO: But you said we didn’t have any– evidence…

Ohhhhhhhhhh. You want me to find the evidence.

NUREYEV: Glad you’ve caught up. May we go back now?

JUNO: So that’s it? You play a game while I stop a con artist and save the world.

NUREYEV: I said I needed you.

JUNO: To be your stooge, maybe. It’s not like you’ve got anything on the line. Worst case scenario for you is that this game goes belly-up, and a few days from now I go belly-up, too.

NUREYEV: You’re not still whining about the collateral, are you? My God, you’re a sensitive little thing.

JUNO: You’re betting my life!

NUREYEV: I would never bet your life.

JUNO: Come on, do you seriously think I’m that much of an idiot? If you lose, you’ll make up some other name and it’ll all fall on me. You’re throwing me under again, just like you did with the Kanagawas.

NUREYEV: Like the Kanagawas? Really? You have no idea how much I did to keep the Kanagawas off you, Juno. You have no idea how much I’ve risked already. For you.

If I lose this hand… I’m telling him my name. Do you understand what that means for me?

JUNO: Just because the name’s on your birth certificate doesn’t mean it’s worth anything. You pick up a new name with your groceries every week.

SOUND: FAUCET TURNS, WATER RUNNING.

NUREYEV: A word of advice to the crass detective: it’s not kind to tell someone their gift means nothing to you.

JUNO: Hey, I, I didn’t—

NUREYEV: Of course my name is worth something. I cycle those other names out, but by now I’m skilled enough not to leave a trace with them. But my birth name… links me to things it would be best if everyone forgot.

That name is very nearly my only weakness, and I’m risking it all, here. On you.

JUNO: …First off, I don’t believe you.

NUREYEV: Your denial knows no bounds!

JUNO: I’d call it skepticism, but we’ll agree to disagree. Second, if you are telling the truth, you’re an idiot. You bet your life on me? You barely know me!

NUREYEV: This isn’t about knowing you. It’s about trust. I trusted you, didn’t I? In return for that, I only ask that you trust me. So why not? Just let go, Juno. We could do anything in arms together.

JUNO: Fine. Do I want to trust you? Sure. Hell, I want to trust Engstrom, too, and Valencia, and this whole sorry planet. I want to gather us all up in a big group hug, and kiss, and slobber, and talk about how nice it is that we can all be so honest with each other. It sounds great, sure, whatever. And it also sounds like a good way to get dead.

NUREYEV: Is it? I’m still alive, aren’t I? And I trust you.

JUNO: (SIGHS) I have no idea why you do.

NUREYEV: Oh, I have my reasons. Your eyes—

JUNO: My what?

NUREYEV: Sharpshooter’s eyes, of course. And I trust your mind: a master detective’s. And most of all because I trust your will: stubborn as a child in a supermarket.

JUNO: That all sounds nice, but is it really enough reason to trust someone you barely—

NUREYEV: And, of course, I trust you because I have researched you. Extensively.

JUNO: What?

NUREYEV: Just… an incredible amount of research.

JUNO: Quit it!

NUREYEV: (LAUGHING) That’s the cranky detective I know and… tolerate.

SOUND: KNOCKING.

VALENCIA: (THROUGH THE DOOR) Mr. Engstrom wants you all to know that he’s getting bored. Are you two done kissing in there, or should we call this game right now?

NUREYEV: Thank you, Valencia! Tell Mr. Engstrom we’ll be there in just a moment.

So, detective. Are there any other insecurities I can massage before we return to the game?

JUNO (NARRATOR): I still had the notes I’d taken from his jacket. I felt them burning in my pocket. Just one question, and I’d know. All I had to do was pull them out and ask.

JUNO: No. I’m all set.

NUREYEV: Good. I’m counting on you, you know.

JUNO: If you are, you’re an idiot. A real idiot.

NUREYEV: Well, it’s up to you to prove that either way, isn’t it? Come along. Engstrom is waiting.

ENGSTROM: It’s about time. Is everything under control?

NUREYEV: As controlled as he’ll ever be. My detective gets restless if he isn’t taken for a walk every few hours.

ENGSTROM: While you were away I received an invitation I don’t intend to decline. I can give you twenty minutes more. Enough time for a few hands; a last chance at a few big questions.

NUREYEV: Why do I get the sense you only have one question in mind?

ENGSTROM: Sit. Let’s play.

Now: what is your name?

NUREYEV: (QUIETLY) Juno. I can only hold him off for so long. This is your only opening. Are you ready?

JUNO: (QUIETLY) I’m looking, alright.

NUREYEV: (QUIETLY) Good.

(LOUDER) What is the access code to your personal bank account?

ENGSTROM: (LAUGHING) I see! Quite a defensive maneuver, Rose!

NUREYEV: Pass or play, Engstrom?

ENGSTROM: Pass, of course. I wouldn’t risk my retirement on you. And besides, you know how this game has to end.

JUNO (NARRATOR): I checked Valencia for the usual tells. Nothing. No hand motions; Engstrom wasn’t even looking at her. Whatever they were using, it was nothing I’d ever seen before.

NUREYEV: How do we board the Utgard Express?

ENGSTROM: What is your name?

NUREYEV: Pass.

JUNO (NARRATOR): We were running out of time, and Engstrom wasn’t willing to budge anymore.

ENGSTROM: What is your name?

NUREYEV: Pass.

JUNO (NARRATOR): Not a single hand was played. We were going nowhere, and I couldn’t find anything.

NUREYEV: Juno.

JUNO: I know, I know!

ENGSTROM: What is your name?

NUREYEV: Pass.

JUNO (NARRATOR): The moron had staked his entire life on me. He was about to find out just how big a mistake he’d made.

ENGSTROM: What is your name? Your name, Rose! What is your name!

JUNO (NARRATOR): Until, finally…

ENGSTROM: That’s enough, Rose. I was under the impression that you had either the courage to play or the decency to admit your cowardice. I was wrong on both accounts.

JUNO: Courage? You’re cheating.

ENGSTROM: If you levy these false accusations against me one more time, Mr. Steel!

NUREYEV: I apologize for the detective’s outburst, Mr. Engstrom. Tensions run high in a game like this.

ENGSTROM: Were the game played properly, they might. I’ve taken naps tenser than this travesty. I will give you one final chance, Rose. One last hand. After that, I’m afraid I have other obligations to which I must attend.

NUREYEV: Alright, then.

How do we board the Utgard Express?

JUNO: You’re joking. He’s cheating! He’s gonna cream you!

ENGSTROM: What is your name?

NUREYEV: Play.

SOUND: BELL DINGS.

JUNO: (QUIETLY) You’re pulling this too early! I am not ready!

NUREYEV: (QUIETLY) Our time has run out, I’m afraid. What do you have so far?

JUNO: (QUIETLY) They’re not communicating directly. Best guess is she’s got something on her.

ENGSTROM: Care to share your conversation with the rest of the table?

NUREYEV: Corners!

(QUIETLY) Is it a camera?

JUNO: (QUIETLY) No. No lenses, and both their eyes are organic. No way for the feed to get through.

NUREYEV: (QUIETLY) I don’t want to know what it isn’t, Juno.

JUNO: (QUIETLY) I know, but—

ENGSTROM: And that, my friend, is the game.

NUREYEV: Don’t be ridic– Well.

JUNO (NARRATOR): I had to look at the hands twice to shake the déjà vu. Nureyev had a pair of aces. Engstrom had a two of clubs and a picture of a goat.

ENGSTROM: Heh. I win. A fitting end, I’d say. Now, Rose. Your name.

NUREYEV: Last chance, Juno.

JUNO (NARRATOR): Valencia was clearing the table. I knew she must have the key to Engstrom’s method somewhere on her, but I didn’t know where.

My eyes met hers, and then… I saw it.

SOUND: STRANGE HUM.

It hit me all at once, a picture clearer than thought: her cigarette.

In my head, a diagram. A cutaway of her cigarette: a hidden button by her teeth, shortwave transmitter, Morse Code translation drive. I knew how it was powered, what parts it took to build it. I even heard a few words of an argument they’d had about how it needed to make smoke, about how the chips couldn’t take that kind of heat, about how they’d have to find a way to make it work.

I saw it all. I had no time to think about how I’d seen it.

SOUND: STRANGE HUM STOPS.

VALENCIA: Feeling emotional, Detective? Your nose is bleeding.

JUNO: (SNIFFS) Huh. Thanks for the tip. Mind if I bum a smoke?

VALENCIA: For the last time, hon, I– oof!

SOUND: PUNCH.

ENGSTROM: What the hell do you think you’re doing!

JUNO: Something really, really satisfying.

ENGSTROM: Put down that cigarette!

JUNO: Gladly.

SOUND: SMASH. FEEDBACK WHINE.

ENGSTROM: Ah! Damned feedback!

JUNO: Well, well. Funny blend of tobacco Valencia’s into – you ever heard of a cigarette with a wireless transmitter tucked away inside of it, Rose?

SOUND: FEEDBACK STOPS.

NUREYEV: I’m going to guess that earphone you’ve just pulled out isn’t for listening to the radio, Engstrom.

ENGSTROM: So you caught me in a lie. So what? You still don’t know how to board the Utgard Express.

NUREYEV: No, but you were very, very clear on the consequences for lying, weren’t you.

SOUND: BLADE UNSHEATHING.

Juno, turn away, please. I’m going to stab Mr. Engstrom to death now.

ENGSTROM: Kill me? You’re a fool, Rose. I told you: the Oasis rests on my notoriety. If you kill me, if you hurt their bottom line, you’ll wish you died here.

NUREYEV: Well, Juno? He raises a valid point.

JUNO: He does. But there are worse things we can do than kill him. Said so himself.

ENGSTROM: I’ve been in this business too long for empty threats to faze me.

JUNO: Don’t worry, this one’s full to bursting. I’m betting the Oasis wouldn’t like it if word gets out that their big celebrity’s a cheater. Bad publicity.

NUREYEV: And bad publicity means bad business. How did you put it, Engstrom? “If you hurt their bottom line, you’ll wish you died here?”

ENGSTROM: (GROWLS)

NUREYEV: There is an out, of course.

ENGSTROM: I’ve been after that train for half a century, Rose, and you’re going to rob it out from under me?

NUREYEV: That is the plan, yes.

ENGSTROM: This new generation of thieves hasn’t a scrap of honor. What has crime come to?

NUREYEV: Bigger and better things. Now talk.

ENGSTROM: (SIGHS) As you know, that train moves too quickly to be approached. But a lockbox is useless if one can’t put anything in it or take anything out.

JUNO: So it has to slow down to take any cargo.

ENGSTROM: It slows down once a week to intercept shipments. There’s a site out in the desert. They launch high-speed transport drones which intercept the train and drop their payloads. The next shipment is… tomorrow morning. Five o’clock.

NUREYEV: And where is that launch site?

SOUND: WRITING.

ENGSTROM: Here. The coordinates.

NUREYEV: They had most certainly better be. Wouldn’t want anyone to start asking where you get your cigarettes. Come along, Juno.

SOUND: FOOTSTEPS.

ENGSTROM: You’ll regret crossing me, Rose. Do you hear me? You’ll remember this mistake as long as you live.

SOUND: DOOR OPENS.

NUREYEV: I doubt that. You’ve proven yourself eminently forgettable already. Ta-ta… whoever you are.

SOUND: DOOR CLOSES.

JUNO (NARRATOR): My head was swimming after that game – a panicked little one-armed doggy-paddle, going around and around, sinking with every stroke. We won. I’d created the opening, and Nureyev delivered the killing blow. We won – and we’d even done it with style. But I didn’t feel like a winner. Looking at Nureyev, thinking about those notes in his pocket, thinking about how I still had no idea who he really was… I felt like I’d just traded one con artist for another.

SOUND: FOOTSTEPS.

NUREYEV: Why the long face, detective? We beat him!

JUNO: Don’t remind me.

NUREYEV: Oh, cheer up. You’re alive! That’s better than most people!

JUNO: Most people who work with you?

NUREYEV: No, just most people. What’s gotten into you?

JUNO: Sitting down to a death threat isn’t exactly my idea of a nice afternoon.

NUREYEV: I told you, Juno, that I was never going to let that happen.

JUNO: Because a master criminal is the poster boy for honesty, right.

SOUND: DOOR OPENS, CLOSES.

NUREYEV: If this working relationship is to be at all effective, detective, you’re going to need to at least make an attempt to trust me.

JUNO: Trust you! Why the hell should I?

NUREYEV: I’ve saved your life at least once today.

JUNO: I figured out the cigarette!

NUREYEV: Ah, yes. I’ve been meaning to ask, how did you do that, exactly?

JUNO: Look, I’ve got no reason to trust you, alright? You lied to me. You stole Grim’s Mask from me. Then you swing in out of nowhere on a beam of goddamn starlight and you expect me to just forget everything and not think it’s a little convenient?

NUREYEV: Convenient? Juno, you called me. Through Valles Vicky.

JUNO: I—! You—!

NUREYEV: If it was convenient for anyone, it was me. I have very few allies on Mars and had presented myself with a remarkably risky, not to mention extremely deadly, two-man job. I was running out of time rapidly. And then I get a call about a certain detective, who – what was your phrase? Ah: “swung in on a beam of starlight.” Convenient, certainly. But not all convenience is conspiracy.

JUNO: If you honestly believed that, Nureyev, you’d be dead.

NUREYEV: Think what you like. I have neither the time nor energy to make you believe me.

SOUND: RUSTLING, CLINKING.

JUNO: What are you doing?!

NUREYEV: Ah, this? An ancient maneuver, practiced by all the galaxy’s most powerful men and women. It’s known as ‘getting ready for sleep.’ You should try it. Immediately.

JUNO: I’m not done with you!

NUREYEV: I certainly hope not. Good night.

JUNO: I’m not going to let you gut me in my sleep!

Listen to me, damn it! Let’s see you try to explain these!

SOUND: CRUMPLING PAPER.

NUREYEV: What in the world…?

You took these from my coat pocket, didn’t you?

JUNO: I did. What do they say?

NUREYEV: Juno…

JUNO: Goddammit, what the hell do they say!

NUREYEV: These… are doodles.

JUNO: What?

NUREYEV: Even a master criminal has slow moments where he isn’t plotting to kill innocent private eyes in their sleep. So I doodle. Sometimes they end up in my pockets.

JUNO: Like I buy that!

NUREYEV: This one is a cat.

SOUND: PAPER RUSTLING.

Note the ears, the tail, the six compound eyes. And this…

SOUND: PAPER RUSTLING.

A party. Balloons, dancers, music.

SOUND: PAPER RUSTLING.

This is a star hauler… a design for a more secure safe… a zoo I once saw… a—

JUNO: Yeah, yeah. I got it.

NUREYEV: I put my livelihood in your hands, you know. My invisibility is the most precious thing I have, and I trusted you with it. Why? Because in our work, trust is not optional. I have done the labor of trusting you, and now I ask that you return the same professional courtesy.

JUNO: You must go after some pretty easy marks if you think that’s gonna work on me, Nureyev.

SOUND: FOOTSTEPS.

NUREYEV: Where are you going?

SOUND: DOOR OPENS.

JUNO: Making a damn call. What’s it to you?

NUREYEV: Goodnight, Detective Steel.

SOUND: DOOR CLOSES. FOOTSTEPS. COMMS BEEP.

JUNO: Come on, Rita, pick up, pick up…

RITA (FROM COMMS): Hiiiiiiii!!

JUNO: Rita, I need you to—

RITA (RECORDING): This is the office of the Steel Detective Agency, soon to be called Hard-as-Steel Investigations, or maybe Mista Steel Investigations: The Best Ones There Is, or OOH, OOH, maybe Steel and Rita Detective– NO! Rita and Steel Detective Agency! YES, that’s the one, I GOT IT!

JUNO: Damn it, Rita.

RITA (RECORDING): Aaaaaanyway, the boss ain’t here right now and neither am I, so you should probably call back during our normal business hours, which are– uh-oh.

JUNO (RECORDING): Rita! You’re not messing with the answering machine again, are you?

RITA (RECORDING): Nuh-uh, boss, I wasn’t, I swear!

JUNO (RECORDING): You better not be! I told you I liked that message the way it was!

RITA (RECORDING): But Bosssss, it was sooooo boooooooring, and I just—

SOUND: BEEP.

MUSIC: STARTS.

JUNO: (SIGHS) Rita… Rita, this is Juno. I… I have no idea why I’m calling.

You want to know the truth? I’m not even sure how much I can tell you – or how much trouble I’m gonna get the both of us in trying to tell it.

The stakes are high this time, Rita. This isn’t some argument over stream timetables or cheating wives anymore. This is… everything. Giving this to me, Jesus, what was he thinking?

A guy does that for you, Rita, do you have to trust him back? Even if you aren’t sure you know who he is, even if you aren’t sure you know his real face, his real name… or what he’s really capable of doing to you?

And with this much on the line do I really have a choice?

I want you to close up the office. Take a week off. Take a month, hell. And if you don’t hear from me by then, there’s a safe underneath my desk. I want you to take—

SOUND: BEEP.

COMPUTER VOICE: End of message.

SOUND: COMMS BEEP.

JUNO: She’ll figure it out.

SOUND: FOOTSTEPS. DOOR OPENS.

MUSIC: ENDS.

***

SOUND: RAIN & MUSIC.

CONCIERGE: If you’ve enjoyed this tale, please consider supporting The Penumbra on Patreon. You could receive episodes early, read our scripts, and hear commentary by our cast and crew for only a few dollars per episode. Please consider supporting the artists who make this possible. Every dollar helps. You can find that page at patreon.com/thepenumbrapodcast.

We would like to give special thanks to all who support us on Patreon, but especially to Hannah Tsim for her incredibly generous contribution per episode. Thank you, Hannah.

You can also support The Penumbra by liking us on Facebook, following us on Twitter @thepenumbrapod, following us on Tumblr @thepenumbrapodcast, telling your friends about us, telling your friends to tell their friends about us, and especially by rating and reviewing our podcast on iTunes. Every rating, comment, and kind word spreads our stories farther and inspires us to keep creating more and better tales to come.

This tale, Juno Steel and the Train From Nowhere, was told by the following people: Joshua Ilon as Juno Steel, Noah Simes as Peter Nureyev, Emery Westlake as Brock Engstrom, Kristie Norris as Valencia, and Kate Jones as Rita.

On staff at The Penumbra: Kevin Vibert is our lead writer and recording engineer. Sophie Kaner is our director and sound designer. Grahame Turner is our script editor. Original music by Ryan Vibert.

The Penumbra is created and produced by Sophie Kaner and Kevin Vibert.

I’m so sorry you’ve been called away, dear Traveler. We eagerly await your return.

ALL SOUNDS: FADE OUT.

#juno steel

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chocopalustre · 7 years ago

Text

are U interested in reading my final paper for a course on Queer Literature and Theory? do u like lesbians? are u curious about lesbian sexuality in pornography? do u need a good sassy laugh?

look no further than right under this cut!!!

Content Warning: This essay contains sensitive content discussing sexually explicit material.

Tribadism: Lesbian Bump and Grinding. (Definition courtesy of Urban Dictionary)

“Hey, Kylee, how do lesbians have sex?” I pause for a moment, trying desperately not to roll my eyes. With a deadpan expression, I hold up two victory signs with my fingers and mash them together. “We scissor each other, of course.” I let a few seconds pass, taking in their look of bewilderment, before I crack a sardonic smile. I was joking of course. Every good lesbian knows that scissoring isn’t actually a real thing. Scissoring is what straight men think they see women doing in lesbian porn, opening their legs and criss-crossing them together in a cutting motion. Fake lesbians scissor. Sophisticated lesbians trib.

Of course, it took me a while to learn this. Like many other queer youth, I struggled to squeeze out any information in regard to lesbian sex out of the public sex education system. What choice did I have but to stumble across some poorly-made erotic content on the Internet? (Many choices, in fact, but I didn’t know that then.) Much of my knowledge about how two women have sex together without a man initially came from this exploration, shortsighted and misrepresented as it was. But now that I am a Real Adult Lesbian, I am interested in Real Adult Lesbian Sex. As such, I want to move beyond the question of what lesbian sex is and instead examine how pornographic sex represents the lesbian community. What better way to explore this idea than to return to my original Sapphic-inclined childhood investigation… porn on the Internet!

I was a naïve child, so of course I didn’t know that the lesbian porn I was viewing has a specific name: Ersatz porn. Ersatz porn is the term used to describe “girl-on-girl” pornography made by the straight man, for the straight man. And it is this porn that inflames the hearts of indignant female feminists everywhere, including my own. So imagine my surprise upon discovering that sometimes these fake lezzys fueled a fire in my loins as well. How was I supposed to reconcile this?

The 3 P’s: Penetration, Pleasure, and Pussy Shots

Everything I hate about lesbian porn made for men’s consumption comes to the tip of my tongue instantly- pun not intended. First, there are the fingernails. Every performer has an obscenely long, pointed, hot pink $40 set of acrylics. If you buy into the longstanding and dodgy myth of nail length indicating whether a woman is gay, then the 1-inch kitty claws on the screen in front of you are a dead giveaway: She isn’t a lesbian, and the girl she’s fucking isn’t enjoying it. I myself have a love-hate relationship with the nail clipper, often keeping my nails longer (a reasonable length, of course), but I can definitively say that the prospect of somebody scratching up my vulva with those talons, pretending it’s pleasurable… Needless to say, not my kind of thing. Unfortunately, these pricey manicures are least of our worries.

Ersatz porn has only one audience in mind: Men. And every straight man knows that women, lesbian or not, just want a dick. This isn’t about her pleasure, it’s about his. And by involving aggressive sucking and fucking with a strap-on, the male viewer can identify with the woman wearing it on screen. Her purpose is to simply act as a placeholder for a male body. For some odd reason, men still seem to think that women easily get off on penetration alone, so it’s not surprising that there is little clitoral stimulation in girl-on-girl porn. These poor guys don’t know any better. But us lesbians know the truth: The clit is the shit. Dildos and vibes all have their place in the bedroom for dykes, but the end-goal of it all is arousal and orgasm, not a penis. Unfortunately, the sole attention on penetration means that the best these pseudo-lesbians can get are pseudo-orgasms (not that many viewers would be able to tell the difference).

I was happy to discover that I am not the only one curious about other queer women’s take on “lesbian” porn; in an exploratory experiment performed by Todd Morrison and Dani Tallack, a small group of lesbian and bisexual women were interviewed after viewing scenes from both Ersatz porn and lesbian-created lesbian porn. They discussed what they saw the films representing in terms of lesbian identity. Viewers noted that the women having sex in the girl-on-girl scenes didn’t appear to enjoy it at all; there was no genuine emotion nor any interest in pleasing one another. One viewer remarked, “Yeah, this didn’t look very physical … She could have been reading the paper while the girl was banging her.” When one girl fingers or goes down on her partner, she rarely looks up to make eye contact. It’s all very detached, and the pained expressions on their faces accompanied by high pitched whines seem less like the result of a good fucking and more of a “God when the hell is this gonna be over” response.

The male gaze is all about those close-up shots of the genitalia, which is sort of confusing to me because as much as they want to see it, they don’t seem to worship our labia as much as their local dyke does. The objectification and exploitation of the female body is at work, a key instrument in the misogynistic toolbox designed specifically for mainstream heteronormative pornographic orgasms. Let’s pull out the hammer then, shall we? Our good friend penetration makes yet another appearance, often combining hardcore fucking with restraint practices—whether it’s steel handcuffs or a rough pair of hands clenched tightly around wrists. In and out, in and out, we see the pink dildo pounding into a pussy, and rarely does the camera stray from this scene to her face, essentially detaching female pleasure from the action of penetration. She is reduced to an object in which the only use is a hole to be fucked. The penetrator then forces the body below her to slobber and choke all over the dildo, hissing out abusive and demeaning remarks: “Your dirty little fucking pussy likes to take this big fucking cock, doesn’t it? Dirty little slut.”

Pornhub gratuitously offers up tons of content like this. Just look at “TSA Agents Engage in Lesbian BDSM! (Part 2).” (Don’t worry, I took the liberty of analyzing the scene to pull out its most ridiculous parts so you don’t have to.) Here we have a busty blonde TSA agent watching two naked women sixty-nine on a table with a bright light shining down on them… very reminiscent of a visit to the doctor’s office—minus the sex.[1] The blonde doesn’t engage in any physical contact while the other two are going at it and instead looks on with a forced smile of pleasure. Then we have the painfully slow zoom in on the JUICY WET PUSSY. There was also a gun involved, just in case you forgot this was porn made for men; nothing screams heterosexual masculinity like pointing an armed weapon at a woman’s head while you fuck her. And finally, how could we forget the infamous double dildo scene? It’s very important to show that every hole is filled by a phallus. If we zoom our male gaze out a bit to take in the whole body, I fear what we see is not much better than these money shots.

Being Butch and BDSM

Let me just lay this on the table now: I am a hyper-feminine queer woman. I am all too familiar with comments like, “But you’re so pretty?!” or “I never would have guessed…” when a straight person finds out that, yes, I am in fact queer as fuck. My love for glitter, killer eyeliner, and an overall hatred of pants puts me at the unwanted mercy of male attention. Even among the queer community, I feel the need to loudly announce my presence; I’m here, I’m queer, and you can shove your misguided compliments on my “straight” appearance right up your ass. One would think then that I enjoy the performers in mainstream porn, that I would laud them for actively combating femme invisibility. The problem is that a) because of this “representation” men think feminine-appearing lesbians are really just college chicks experimenting and having threesomes before running into the muscular arms of someone with a real penis and b) it simply doesn’t turn me on. Where are the butch ladies? Perhaps my biggest beef with Ersatz porn is that I feel it actually does a disservice to representing lesbians, even my fellow femmes. Representation is only good if it is appropriately and accurately diverse, and Ersatz porn is decidedly not. Sure, the hair color may change and maybe one of them has double Ds while the other has Cs, but other than that… Femmes aren’t flat and they’re certainly not fat.

Returning to the interviews, the participants noted that the bodies in Ersatz porn reflected society’s expectation for straight women, even if they were supposed to be lesbians. Even more unsettling, the performers look less like women and more like girls. Straight men seem to think that college freshmen have the time, energy, and money to maintain a perfectly hairless physique. To loosely quote the response of a previous professor of mine to a male partner who wanted her pubic hair shaved: “Why? Do you like to fuck little girls?” Proportionally, their appearances are reminiscent of the old school Barbie doll: slim waist, young face, and huge boobs. Women, lesbian or otherwise, come in all different shapes and sizes, but it seems that these straight male viewers have yet to catch on to that. Difficult enough is it to accept that two women can get sexual satisfaction without a man, they’ll be damned if she’s fat or has short cropped hair! The performers’ bodies appear to be the biggest difference between mainstream lesbian porn and porn produced and made specifically for queer women.

There is one specific butch body that comes to mind within the mainstream sphere, however: Lily Cade. Now, I have my own gripes with Cosmopolitan magazine. Their advice essentially boils down to “here’s why you’re single and sad, so let us show you how to be sexy in order to catch a man and fulfill your meaning in life!” Any articles that mention identities outside the normative are riddled with misinformation and operate only as a way to clickbait intersectional feminists into reading them. Needless to say, my initial reaction to their article titled “What It’s Really Like to Be a Lesbian Porn Star” was dismissive at best. However, upon looking at the photo of the petite, jean jacket-wearing woman with choppy ginger hair and heavily lined eyes underneath the title, I knew I recognized her and couldn’t resist giving the article a read. (Like I said, fucking clickbait.) Cosmo names Lily Cade the exception to the rule that most girl-on-girl porn stars are actually straight. Before her career really kicked off, Cade described herself as a butchy lesbian with a little bit of baby fat. She struggled to convince directors to give her a chance because her appearance didn’t fit what mainstream porn was selling. Cade then lost 40 pounds, got a tan, and revamped her sexy lingerie in order to break through the business. So how does a real dyke feel producing Ersatz porn?

Cade admits that sparking chemistry on set with the straight women she performs with is one of the most difficult parts of her job. Interestingly enough, Cade criticizes girl-on-girl porn because it’s not meant for female viewers, that the overall the performance is “fake on every level.” Although she weaseled her way into the business by adjusting her look, she doesn’t necessarily think that she performs the way that everybody else in Ersatz porn does. Cade strives for authenticity; she makes an effort to connect with the women so that they can perform a real sex scene. Cade comments, “You don’t have to make love to me, you don’t have to even touch me. Just let me fuck you, and I’ll get you off, and you’ll like it.” But how is it that a lesbian performer can engage in the content she criticizes? Indeed, this is a point of contention for many people involved in queer porn. Lily Cade has come to acquire the label of “sell-out” among the queer underbelly of the mainstream. The changes Cade made that brought her success in the mainstream industry only resulted in derision in the realm of queer pornography. Already a sort of niche business, Indie queer pornographers could have used another butch body to represent and pleasure us lesbians out here. To turn your back on your community and play pretend for the straight team? Unthinkable. Worse yet is the fact that, of all venues, her outlet for public exposure was Cosmo magazine.

But who are we to say that Cade isn’t having authentic sex? After all, she is still a lesbian. And her attitude toward her work certainly seems gay to me; she maintains a high level of enthusiasm and a devotion to performing sex with her female colleagues. For the lesbians that do stumble across her work within the mainstream sphere, Cade is putting out content that is more accessible and relatable for them. Her apparent conformity does not mean she is suddenly no longer a queer woman. In response to criticisms, Cade says that she’s “chosen to create a look that is accessible to a more mainstream audience, but is undeniably a lesbian look… I don’t see myself as a sell-out; I see myself as subversive.” And to all of the straight male viewers of her work, Lily Cade has a message: “I’m showing them how a real dyke does it.”

When the butches do come out to play, they star disproportionately in the BDSM genre, especially in mainstream porn. So even though I want to see the bodies I’m attracted to, I’m caught in a catch-22 situation: Yes, the butches exist, but often only in circumstances involving extreme violence and submission. That isn’t to say that BDSM isn’t arousing. In fact, BDSM relies on domination, bondage, sadism, and masochism as a turn-on for viewers. What I’ve found, though, is that in mainstream porn BDSM is performed in a male heterosexual context rather than a lesbian context. Another Pornhub gem, “Strapon Women Who Fuck Better Than Men – 5,” exemplifies this concept. The video is a thirty-minute compilation of strap-on fucking with butch women doing most of the labor. The content and title combined appear to give us lesbians the recognition we deserve. However, it opens with a quote: “By far, one of the most popular fantasies women have is being the man for one night, literally. That’s right, I’m referring to a strap on penis.” In wearing this sex toy, a lesbian is suddenly transformed into a heterosexual man; it’s clear that the butch body still acts less as a queer woman and more as the placeholder for the male viewer.

Abuse and objectification of the female body also is heightened to suit the male gaze. Hair is pulled violently back as she extends one of her legs straight in the air so that our view of the dick is not obscured. It does not matter that these inorganic, acrobatic positions are not pleasurable nor conducive to sex; penetration and the role of the penis is the primary focus. There is little clitoral stimulation involved, the scenes are rough and more demanding than pleasurable, and the strap-on is glorified as the Sub is made to perform a blowjob for the Dom.[2] Finally, one of my personal favorite scenes—a long-haired femme being pounded against a weight rack, her tennis shoes still on. How did she get her clothes off without taking those bulky sneakers off? It doesn’t matter, these women are making gains at the gym, appealing to the Frat boy’s favorite pasttime. In the end, it seems you have two options to choose from when it comes to Ersatz porn: Watch a threesome between Sorority girls experimenting with lesbian sex for the first time through a hazing ritual, or watch a (still pretty feminine) butch relentlessly subjugate a dubiously consenting hyper-feminine girl and not even pretend to enjoy it.

Advertising and Authentic Arousal

Obviously, then, queer porn is much better at depicting authentic lesbian relationships than Ersatz porn… Or is it? My knee-jerk response would be to let out a loud, defiant YES! OF COURSE IT IS! It’s far easier to find what you are into when perusing the realm of queer porn—even if getting access to it is much more difficult in the first place. Unlike mainstream lesbian porn, which you can find in abundance uploaded on sites like Pornhub or xHamster, queer-produced porn often does not find its way out beyond access to those who pay for it. But when you do find it, you’ve hit the Sapphic jackpot. Performers vary from the familiar femmes to chubby dykes, from chapsticks to stone butches and trans women. The scenes are often more believable because of the bodies in them; they are diverse and range in size, echoing many a lady-lover’s desire to appreciate all parts of all women. The women in Morrison’s study noted that the performers were often much older, “not like they had pubic hair a week ago,” and that “they had marks on their bodies, like stretch marks and stuff. They weren’t perfect.” Not only do the bodies reflect a diverse array of lesbians in terms of style and age, they are also more realistic because of their “imperfections.” These are the same flaws that are quickly airbrushed and implanted away in the mainstream sphere. However, nail length still seemed to be an issue, and what the women lacked in a perfect figure they made up for with the heavy use of makeup, accessories, and perfect hairdos. It seems that no matter who it’s for, pornography still has a certain aesthetic of ideal beauty to maintain.[3]

Bodies aside, what about content? When a butch straps on a dildo and fucks her hot femme girlfriend, are the underlying themes really so different from Ersatz porn? Even in queer porn, it appears that the strict gender binary has its place. Unfortunately, no matter how exclusive the lesbian club may be, societal expectations of gender roles and expression still exert themselves full force on our bodies. Yet somehow, as queer women, we proclaim that this is still what real lesbian sex is. Whether or not it resembles heterosexual sex is not the point or purpose; the fact of the matter is that these are queer bodies performing queer sex. Theoretically, it does not rely on misogyny the way that porn for heterosexual men does. The performers engage in a subversive and empowering scene where they reclaim their right to their bodies and their sex lives. They are performing with their fellow lesbians in mind, not acting for a male gaze.

When examining how porn produced by lesbian women is advertised for consumers, one thing becomes very clear: We want real sex. In order to draw in their demographic, many queer pornography sites capitalize on the idea of authenticity. A few catchphrases used by CyberDyke.net include: “We depict the sex the way people really have it.” “real fantasies / real orgasms / real lust / real butches / real bodies / real sex.” Well fuck, the site has me sold! I would take CyberDyke’s “porn aimed at real women and lesbians” over Lesbian Cheerleader Squad 2 any day. How do I know that those lesbians are fake? Well, I don’t, really, but I’ve never seen porn aimed at straight men claim that the women are Real Lesbians. Mainstream pornography doesn’t need to affirm the sexualities of their performers because men don’t really care about authentic representation. A title with “TWO HOT WOMEN” in it is just enough and the Kleenex are out. Women wouldn’t be watching their porn, anyways, so what does it matter? Perhaps queer porn is not showing us reality, but rather performing “a fantasy of authenticity.” Pornography is essentially a visual fantasy, and we lesbians dream about a world in which our identities are valid, every woman loves us back, and men aren’t around to fuck it up and exploit our desires. It is that illusion of authenticity which gives queer lesbian porn its allure.

It may come as a surprise to learn that not all lesbians necessarily agree that queer porn is the better porn. Authenticity, it seems, has to do with much more than just a body. In a different set of interviews conducted by Valerie Webber, non-heterosexual women who performed lesbian porn made for men were asked to discuss how their performance related to their sexual orientation. It turns out that many did not believe that they were performing “fake” sex, rather simply adjusting their actions to capture and create what the audience needed. Performing with a woman who was also lesbian-identified did not immediately make the scene the performer’s real sex life, and most agreed that the line between their work and authentic sex was not so clearly defined.

Despite the many quarrels we have with Ersatz porn, lesbian-created lesbian pornography cannot escape our critical eye either. Emotional intimacy makes sex appear authentic; when both women are clearly into each other (not giving weird sultry looks in the male viewer’s camera’s direction), I’m much more likely to be aroused. But intimacy quickly strays into mushy romance in lesbian-created porn. The stereotype that women are more sensual and emotive and thus lesbian relationships would maximize on romantic, loving sexual activity is a key point of criticism in queer porn. I, for one, resent the assumption that any sex I have will be vanilla by default. Some viewers admitted to preferring scenes from Ersatz porn; one remarked that the lesbian-created scene “was completely… boring in every way. The music was boring, the women were boring, the scene was boring, the colors were boring, the film was boring, the camera stayed stationary for Christ’s sake. It was boring.”[4] Another admitted, “Um, you guys are going to think I’m a bad lesbian, but I really like the penetration. It’s hot.” Bad Lesbian Club rejoice! Her guilt echoed my own anxiety at my arousal by certain girl-on-girl porn scenes. But clearly not every dyke is into the same thing, and even content produced by queer creators can fall prey to harmful stereotypes.

Not all lesbian porn is quite so corny, of course. Vanilla can be a pleasant no doubt, but as one viewer noted, “Let’s get it really raunchy sometime.” When some of us come out of the closet, we bring along some of our more hardcore desires—whips, sturdy ropes, ball gags, and leather collars. BDSM has long played a role in the lesbian community, and its prominence in lesbian-created pornography adds to the supposed authenticity of the performance. However, as Julie Levin Russo points out in her article, “’The Real Thing’: Reframing Queer Pornography for Virtual Spaces,” it is the “mobilization of recognizable markers of dyke subculture (e.g. butch bodies, tattoos and piercings, fetish attire)” that feed into stereotypes about what being a lesbian is really like. Needless to say, not all queer women participate in or identify with these things. Although butch bodies help clue viewers into what porn is made for them, their representation is still almost exclusively present in the realm of BDSM. Themes of dominance are associated with masculinity, thus reflected in butch-heavy scenes of punishment and orgasm denial. After assessing my pleasure at certain penetration scenes in girl-on-girl porn, now I must question why I can so easily accept porn as made for my fellow lesbians through the mere presence of a butch body. It may seem more authentic to me, but for other queer women, perhaps the message they’re receiving is that certain characteristics—both in your relationship and your physical appearance—must be present in order to be real lesbian.

Reaching the Climax

Some would say that the question of authenticity is irrelevant because the purpose of pornography is to reflect viewers’ fantasies. How necessary is it to be real lesbians having sex? Why does it matter if most people can’t do the splits while they’re being eaten out? But without giving genuine thought to the performers and scenes you show, you run the risk of spreading misinformation about lesbians. Our existence cannot be denied, and failing to consider the impact of homogeneity in porn does a disservice to our very real livelihoods. The ruling is not decisive among women, queer or otherwise, as to which type of pornography is better or worse. My idea of what good porn is does not always match the reality of many queer women in the world; everybody has a different dynamic within their relationship, after all. Ultimately, though, there are definitely some things I could live without. (I’m glaring back at you, male gaze.)

[1] Doctor settings are actually quite a common scene in mainstream porn; straight men seem to have this idea that going to the gynecologist is hot. Because having my OBGYN shove a speculum up my vaginal canal is totally a turn-on, right?

[2] I’m still not sure how either party would get any personal pleasure out of choking on a silicone cock… but then again, butches are really just women who want to be men, remember?

[3] It’s not like we sweat during sex or accidentally choke on our girlfriend’s perfectly curled hair or anything.

[4] A 70-minute sex film set to classical music with zero dialogue wouldn’t be particular titillating for me, either.

Works Cited

Morrison, Todd G. and Dani Tallack. “Lesbian and Bisexual Women’s Interpretations of Lesbian and Ersatz Lesbian Pornography.” Sexuality & Culture, vol. 9, no. 2, Spring2005, pp. 3-30.

Russo, Julie Levin. “‘The Real Thing’: Reframing Queer Pornography for Virtual Spaces.” In Jacobs, Katrien & Janssen, Marije & Pasquinelli, Matteo. “C’Lick Me: A Netporn Studies Reader.” Jan. 2007.

“Strapon Women Who Fuck Better Than Men – 5.” Pornhub, 2016, https://www.pornhub.com/view_video.php?viewkey=ph577e65b319a02.

“TSA Agents Engage in Lesbian BDSM! (Part 2).” Pornhub, October 2017, https://www.pornhub.com/view_video.php?viewkey=ph59ccece3078ca.

Webber, Valerie. “Shades of Gay: Performance of Girl-On-Girl Pornography and Mobile Authenticities.” Sexualities, vol. 16, no. 1/2, Jan. 2013, pp. 217-235.

Wischhover, Cheryl. “What It’s Really Like to Be a Lesbian Porn Star.” Cosmopolitan. 2 Mar. 2016.

#personal #i know like maybe 2 people will read this but thats ok #im really happy w how it turned out and if ur interested it is here for u to read!

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anangelicday-mrwolf · 4 years ago

Text

Wolfsbane : Noblesse Fanfic (post-ending)

(previous chapter)

Chapter 13 – The Past

Click.

Takio could not take his eyes off the door, until it automatically shut tight, its locks securely latched. In reality, he was picturing the person in bed beyond the door. As always.

And her last words were unchanged.

Takio, I’m okay. Don’t worry about me. Just make sure you’re safe. Okay?

It was a euphemism pleading him not to take part in life-threatening experiments. Nevertheless, Takio could not help steeling his mind and body in order to sign up for more demanding experiments. Greater power was a must in order to protect her.

He ultimately resolved to volunteer for this new project on enhancing modified bodies, scheduled to commence in a few days. He was semi-absentmindedly dragging his feet across the corridor, until he heard voices nudging the corners of his ears.

He was at a quarantine sector accommodating test subjects that could prospectively become agents. And he could see several test subjects standing in a circle at a space just outside the hallway of cabins, big enough to house a couple of people for a chit-chat. Feeling no need to join them, Takio was about to round up the corner towards the hallway.

...Teira, was it?

But then the name he will never miss regardless of time and place forced a U-turn on his feet. He kept himself hidden, however, to first find out for what reason were they uttering her name.

His sense of hearing had been heightened thanks to the latest experiment he participated in. And to his fury, the contents of their conversation set fire on his ears and bowels.

“Heard she’s basically a talking corpse, so fragile she can’t even rise from bed without her brother.”

“Huh. And he calls her a sister? More like a burden of flesh and bones.”

“Agreed. Now that brother of hers will be made slave to the Union forever because of her.”

“If I were him, I’d rather kill her behind everyone’s back, pretending there was an accident.”

“But then the Union wouldn’t let him get away with it. Even if it were an accident, they’ll punish him for failing to safeguard an asset, albeit useless.”

“Oh. You’re right. Then it’d be up to that girl to use her head and do the right thing.”

“Damn you’re right. If I were her, I would’ve killed myself already. There’s no reason to stick to such rubbish life, let alone be an eternal shackle to one’s bro...”

At that point Takio could experience for first time in his life the world in red due to wrath. After a sensation of bloody cloud berserkly enveloping his sight, Takio found himself confronting the test subjects, all of them wearing alarm in their huge eyes.

“Take it back. And apologize. Now.”

“W-what the... Wait, are you that brother?”

“I heard the only thing not-so-wasteful with that girl is her face, and I gotta admit – same could be said of you. And, uh... That’s a compliment, by the way.”

The men were flickering their eyes from side to side and yammering incoherently, sweating like ice out in the open, presumably ethical enough to be ashamed upon caught red-handed in the middle of backbiting.

Of course, that was not at all good enough to quench Takio’s anger. He was evidently willing to simply hammer whatever he saw with his gun, if he happened to be holding one.

Yet, Takio registered a tad late that he was mistaken as well. There is no way people so casually discussing burden and suicide would be nice and apologize or take back what they said.

“Uh... So, looks like you heard what we said.”

“So shouldn’t you be the one to apologize?”

“Did your mom tell you to eavesdrop on others?”

“You should’ve just walked away. What gives you the right to glare at us like that?”

They were seemingly acting shameless because they had nothing to hide from the person who overhead everything. In fact, they looked prepared to engage in a fight if required. And Takio had already pledged not to back down once it happens.

“How could you talk about courtesy after slandering someone’s family to commit suicide? This isn’t even about courtesy; it’s about basic morale.”

“So what?”

“It’s the truth. Don’t be so melodramatic about it.”

“Listen to this, boys. Looks like it’s in their blood. The brother’s snooping around and demanding an apology for talking about plain fact, and the sister insists on living like a weed, without even realizing what kind of pain she is for her brother.”

“S-say what?!”

“Then what else did you expect? Her very existence is a chain to your throat, but she has no intention of ending her own life. And the Union has to waste resources, both human and inorganic, to keep her alive.”

“You have any idea how many productive things the Union could do for manpower and resources allocated for your sister? If I were here, I wouldn’t even wait for the night to just bite out my tongue and kill myse... Aack!!!!”

Without waiting for the man to finish his words, Takio launched his fist in a deadly aim towards his jaw.

The other test subjects naturally jumped in, and not long after a not-so-vast space was full of heavy muddled sounds of punching and struggling and indignant voices.

Alas, not even a lion can withstand mauling from a pack of hyenas. Takio might have impressed Union researchers with noteworthy results in body modification, but his upper hand was gone the moment the test subjects clutched his arms so they could freely batter him.

Yet he did not lose his ground, in spite of merciless fists boring through his belly and face. He swore he was not going anywhere, hell or heaven included, until he made sure he murdered these swines.

Just then, the wind took a rapid turn.

“Ugh!!”

“Argh!!”

His arms were released without notice, and the test subjects were hurled towards the wall, producing thudding noises that were by no means insignificant.

“Skirmish among test subjects is absolutely forbidden, and those who break the rule, particularly those who cause damage serious enough to hinder missions or make future experiments impossible, will be accordingly penalized by the Union’s rules. No exceptions. And I thought it’s mandatory for all test subjects to memorize this upon their orientation.”

Takio’s ears perked up at a voice he had never heard before, as sharp as a blade about to eject itself from its sheath. Peaceful and poised on the surface, but preternaturally penetrative under.

What fascinated him was the fact that the stranger was a woman, which was unusual since all test subjects are sheltered and trained according to sex, before they are enlisted as official agents. Which signified this stranger was either an agent with her bachelor’s degree in completing body modifications or a researcher who would have nothing to do with field work.

Takio wondered for a second if he was about to face Dr. Aris, whom he had never seen before, but he retracted the conjecture as soon as he checked her profile. He was smart enough to know that someone who would have spent her entire time awake handling test tubes and papers in labs would never possess such unrelenting presence or piercing eyes.

“B-but...”

“He started all this...! He was the one who threw his fist at us, so...!”

It was so obvious that this woman was powerful and pissed enough to pummel them just with her eyes. Intimidated even before deliberating who could she be, the test subjects pointed at Takio in synchronization.

“Don’t play innocent. It won’t work on me. I’ve got eyes. And ears. And please don’t tell me you had no idea you’d get punched in the face. If you really had no idea, I should run straight to the researchers in charge of your experiments to tell them to perform thorough check-up on your brains. It’s only natural for him to get mad. He just heard you losers insulting his sister.”

“But... We never asked him to eavesdrop on us...!”

“Whether somebody eavesdrops or not, it’s far from appropriate to verbalize something you cannot speak in the said person’s face.”

Words as fiery as her hair ruthlessly hit the men’s eardrums. In the meantime, they held their hands and kept their eyes on their toes. Takio could not even make a breathing sound either, as he watched the scene in live.

No one has ever taken his side under the Union’s roof, save for his sister.

However, Takio could see what would come for him. He started a physical fight with test subjects. The personnel in charge of him would learn of this, and he will be punished correspondingly. After all, the bodies of test subjects were defined as assets of the Union.

That was what he thought, until the woman said, “Now beat it. I’d hate to waste my time reporting to my bosses about some fatheads I doubt are equipped with basic human logics. But if this ever happens again, you will take responsibility for the future offense, plus the stupidity you conducted just now.”

Takio, along with the other test subjects, opened his eyes wide and gawked at the woman giving them unanticipated warning.

“Do I have to reiterate myself to make you idiots hit the road?”

Her facial features implied so severely that annoyance does serve as a legitimate excuse for homicide within the Union, and the test subjects promptly fled.

She did not even wait to see their butts rendered missing, and without further ado she flicked her red hair to exit the corridor as well.

“Wait...! Ma’am...!”

Takio hurriedly called, but it did not stall her footsteps. Slightly fazed, Takio had to hop to catch up to her.

“Uh, thank you. For helping me out.”

“...Like hell I did. I wasn’t helping you. I was annoyed at them.”

Takio wanted to add couple more words, including another thank-you. But she made it explicit that she will make him pay if he keeps her stuck in her spot any longer, because of which he had to give up on the idea. Nevertheless, he could not help asking for one last time.

“If it does not concern you, may I ask for your name...?”

“Forget about it. There’s nothing my name can do for you in this place. If you have time and energy to waste for pointless stuff, you should rather spare it for your surroundings. That way you would keep yourself alive.”

Takio attended to his savior, his lips well-zipped.

“The topmost priority in Union is survival. Survive. Save anything else for later, after you make sure you’ll stay alive. Don’t you forget it.”

She clicked away, with Takio gaping at her back, marveling at how puzzling yet profound her comment was, from someone who did not want to waste her time.

*****

Takio was still standing, just like he did back then, as he reminisced. Unlike that day, he was waiting for Yuigi to retrieve herself from confusion and memories.

“...That was you?”

“...Yes.”

“So you’re trying to repay me for what I did back then.”

“...Basically.”

“...So what are you going to do now?”

Takio was feigning an automatic reply bot so far, his mind yet floating in the sea of memoirs, and he lifted his head at her inquiry to find Yuigi staring at him.

“I appreciate that you took me out of that tank, but what are you gonna do with me now?”

Takio could only seal his mouth at her question.

‘...Now what?’

He realized he had never once thought about what to do with her once she awakened. As he rescued her, and as he waited for her to wake up, the only thing he had in mind was saving her.

Yuigi’s eyes were muddy with suspicion, and Takio could not even bring himself to make up an impromptu of a reason. He was now endeavoring to make himself appear not lost for words, when a sound that would be emitted only from the stomach of a human being deprived of food for a full week echoed exactly from Yuigi’s seat in an enormous RUMBLE.

After an awfully awkward silence, Yuigi lowered her eyes at her tummy, as if she would give anything if only she could pound her own body without embarrassing herself any further.

Takio held back his laughter by chastising himself that the fate of this safehouse (a.k.a. a property of a certain blonde human obsessed with welfare of his own belongings) lies on his lips. He then turned his body, thankful for the fact that he got something to occupy himself with.

“I knew a single meal wouldn’t be enough, so allow me to fetch some more. And let us take time to discuss this matter.”

Despite his own words, Takio had no idea what to do from here on. For now, all he could do was directing himself towards the fridge.

(next chapter)

First of all, I have a news - I finally managed to recover my USB drive that contains my fic! I checked the files, and it turned out I wouldn’t have to update my past episodes, thank heavens. :D

About the part that says Takio has never seen Aris before, I am aware that Aris was pretending to be his so-called sister Teira. But at this time Takio had no idea that Teira is actually Aris, so I hope there’s no confusion on this matter. :)

And some of you might have questioned why Yuigi would be at a quarantine section for test subjects that haven’t been made agents yet. Actually, there is more to this “past” between Takio and Yuigi that I made up, but it isn’t time yet to reveal what really lies at the base of their past. So I hope you’d stay tuned to find out what it is!

#fanfic #korean webcomic #korean webtoon #noblesse #frankenstein #lunark #frankensteinxlunark #wolfsbane

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