#when we come in swinging with sincerely me instrumental i know that is correct. & every sincerely me clip giving everything

[unproduciblesmackdown]

trimmed around these production clips of the deh australian tour from a news segment

[dragonrajafanfiction]

The Island

Fingel Von Frings took a deep drag of his cigar and exhaled smoke against the glass that allowed him to see into the cryo chamber while the people inside couldn’t see out.

Cassell medical personnel wrapped in thick cloth hazmat suits with protective helmets and visors worked quickly to secure Tom Allman for transport. His thick claws were wrapped in cut proof mittens. HIs arms were twisted tight in a straight jacket. On top of that, thick straps reinforced with kevlar tied his arms together. Finally, a helmet faced with a titanium alloy cage  was fitted over his head.

There was no point in wasting any more serum on this young man. He had passed the point of no return. 

As the Vice Chancellor, he’d only had the responsibility to sign off on his expulsion from Cassell. He didn’t have to be here. But he always made it a point to see off every student who left academy without an official ceremony.

A wheeled metal coffin was rolled in. On the count of three, the medics lifted his body and placed him inside, closing the lid. A pneumatic pump, sealed it with the push of the button and the glass that showed his sleeping face inside was frosted over as liquid nitrogen filled the tubing in the metal casket dropping the temperature inside. At this point, all of his body processes would cease functioning.

Fingel took a deep breath and let it out.

Footsteps approached him. Mr. Baldwin, the head of the executive department came up to him and held out a stack of papers. He stared at it. He was starting to hate those 8 x 10 white sheets as much as he hated doing his classwork.

But after a seconds hesitation, he took it from Baldwin’s hands and started to flip through it. “Runes, in Norton Hall?”

“First I’ve heard of it. Of course, it’s not the strangest thing I’ve heard. We scanned the entire place. No sign of any runes.”

“Have it tested for Longwei.” He pulled a pen from his pocket. It gleamed golden, a diamond at its head. He signed his name and handed the papers back to him.

“Yes, sir.”

“How is she?”

“Emotional.”

Fingel turned to him and stared coldly, his hands in his pockets. “What emotions.”

“Sadness, betrayal, distrust...”

“Has she talked to anyone?”

“She refuses all visitors. She believes Tom is dead. I’m fine with that. No one ever comes back from that island.”

“Does she want to leave?” Fingel began to walk out of the medical ward, still puffing on his cigar.

“She hasn’t said that. She hasn’t called her parents either.”

The chill wind from the rotors of a helicopter tossed Fingel’s golden hair about his face. The coffin was wheeled from the high security facility and into the open cargo bay of the helicopter.

“That’s strange. She talks to them every day...”

“Yes, her father has called the main office several times asking to speak with her. No word from her mother though.” Baldwin said this casually.

Of course, Fingel and Carli - otherwise known as Meixiu - talked frequently and Baldwin knew this. She had to be informed of new patients admitted to the island. “Do you want to know her opinion on the situation?”

“I do actually!” Though he was raising his voice to shout above the roar of the helicopter engine, Fingel could still hear the anger in his voice.

The machine lifted off and gained in altitude before swinging its nose to point towards the northwest and speed out of sight.

Once it was quiet enough to speak normally. “I want to know how long she plans to continue this cruel exercise. It would have been much easier to just expel him and put a bullet in his head. Which is what I suggested from the outset! And what I suggested after he went berserk and almost killed her the first time!” “Well, you went against your own orders the first time...” Fingel was quick to correct him.

“Which... I sincerely regret.”

Fingel turned to face him directly. “Why? What gave you hope the first time that has left you now?”

“There was a theory. I’d say it’s more of a myth than a theory. It stemmed from the report of Akira and Kogure Sakurai. Those two unstable Hybrids were part of the Devil Clan and had dangerous bloodlines. Both of them were held in the black jails run by Hydra until they escaped. Kogure, however, never harmed anyone, and Akira, after running on a spree of rape and murder, suddenly stopped.”

“The common denominator of the two was personal attachments. Kogure was attached to Chimei Gen. It was only after she felt that she had lost him that she finally gave in to her blood. And Akira had given in to his blood until he met a girl on the subway, which was actually an undercover agent for Hydra. He switched from killing every woman he met, to trying to protect her.”

“Ah... the power of love and friendship!” Fingel said without any mocking tone.

“Of course, this has been impossible to study. But when I saw how attached Ru’Yi was, I hoped she could act as a restraint for him. I knew this also posed a danger, so I put her under constant surveillance. But... this only served to put her in danger. The result was the same. She’s in the hospital, and he’s her mother’s guinea pig. The results were the same for Akira and Kogure as well.”

Fingel raised his hand and put it on Baldwin’s shoulder without looking at him. “Science has progressed and will progress. Even if he is a guinea pig, it may be one on the road to a solution.”

“We have a solution... Vice Chancellor.” He shrugged off his hand. “She just doesn’t want to accept it.”

Mr. Baldwin left Fingel to make the slow and long walk back to his office in the drifting snow.

The helicopter traversed the continental United States, briefly stopped for fuel in LA and lifted off again over the endless blue ocean of the Pacific. Eventually, the sun set and the pilot only had the instruments to go by. According to the official maps, there was no island on the coordinates. The helicopter was headed for a deadzone. The pilot turned the navigation to auto and stood up, walking back to the cargo bay.

The pilot removed the heavy flight helmet, revealing falling cascade of ebony hair which she shook out and ran her hands through.

Mai Sakatoku then reached into the onflight fridge for a can of beer which she opened and took a sip. “You make for quiet company.” 

She leaned over to see into the window of the coffin. The young man’s eyes were still closed, frozen in place by tears that couldn’t be shed. She lightly tapped the glass with a delicate fingernail. “You and Miss Chu’s daughter, hm?” 

She leaned against the coffin, her mind going back to the countless so called boyfriends of the past. “I suppose it’s fitting. Her father was also a berserker, before he fell head over heels for a certain dragon. And in the end, that was what saved his life.”

“She never got to tell you the story, because she doesn’t know it. In fact, I think it’s just me, my fellow Nanny and Mingfei Lu that know the end of that story.”

“Let’s hope yours ends a bit differently.”

There was no signal out here. So Mai had to content herself with whatever she had already downloaded on her phone, bingewatching her favorite movies and K-dramas. Meanwhile, she kept a close eye on the casket, making sure the temperature was kept cold enough to keep this guy from waking up.

A sudden alarm shook her from her reverie. She stood and went to the cockpit. Another plane, flying low, almost out of radar range but nearly directly below her. “Ah... we have a curious jet?”

She tried to get a picture of it, but it appeared invisible against the dark waves of the ocean. “Cloaking technology?”

Her eyes narrowed. This was no normal inquiry from a nation-state. Few nations could approach this level of high tech on a plane. Hybrids were higher functioning physically. The technology they surrounded themselves with was likewise ahead of human technology. 

That made this jet fair game. She did not change trajectory. Instead, she reached for a large gun on the back of the the plane. She hoisted to her shoulder with a soft grunt and strapped it to herself. She then hooked herself to the interior of the helicopter and opened the door.

The ferocious wind was enough to tear her away from the helicopter and she grit her teeth and let go. She was like an out of control kite, fluttering precariously in the wind. It was like being on the worst carnival ride. Still her powerful muscles braced themselves and forced the sight to her eyes. It wouldn’t do to have any reports getting out about the island.

She aimed directly for the cockpit of the jet. A tiny target to be sure. She took her time fluttering back and forth. Eventually her mind caught the rhythm of the wind, the speed of the aircraft, and linked it to the knowledge of the speed of the missile. She aimed at a spot far ahead and after a few more seconds, she pulled the trigger.

There was a bright flash of light. She blinked and the target had disappeared. She imagined the pilot getting vaporized instantly, the instrumentation getting blown apart. She turned her head to look, there wasn’t so much as a ripple that could remain in the open ocean.

[allycryz]

Apodyopis for Nerys and Thancred? (Or for Nerys and Haurche if that fits better for you)

Set during the Astral Era quests, probably some time between Ramuh and Leviathan

PG-13 for sexual thoughts/implications and an implied foursome; brief food mention

WoL x Thancred

--

It takes the better part of an hour to end up perched on Ahtstahl's lap with Greinswyf seated beside them.

Contrary to rumor, being Warrior of Light does not lead to a flood of eager would-be lovers. It leads to some, she won’t lie. But most respond with deference, caution, careful handling. As if at any point someone else will notice and they shall be in trouble.

What helps is that she knows these two somewhat. They have all worked together on settlement construction efforts, trapping creatures for meat and parts, being invited to the same revels in the pub. There is the easy familiarity of those who have seen each other often without deeper intimacy, save appreciative glances between her and the couple.

Nerys now leans against Ahtstahl's broad chest, watching the circle of dancers about the aetheryte. A breeze whispers cold into her bare arms, causing the fine hairs to stand up on end. The combined warmth of her companions helps some against the chill.

It isn't correct to call it unseasonal for a Spring Festival. The last calamity changed Mor Dhona to where it’s possible to experience all the climates in a single day.

Ahtstahl runs the backs of his large sage-colored hands over her arms. “And where is your coat, Warrior of Light?” His tone is light, caressing around the syllables of the title.

“What need have I of a coat?” She asks, smirking. “With two such fine companions to keep me warm.”

Greinswyf laughs, low and throaty. She gathers the end of one of the pink ribbons streaming from Nerys’ flower crown, wrapping it about her index finger. “Smoothly done.”

The merriment produces her own chuckle. “I thought so. I haven’t lost my touch?”

“Not as far as I can tell. Though I would be convinced if you buy the next round of mulled wine…”

“Absolutely not,” says Ahtstahl, his voice rumbling through his chest and into Nerys. “Don’t let her guilt you, Nerys-”

“Damn.” The Roegadyn woman grins at them both. “You two shall not let me have any fun.”

“-because,” he continues as if his partner hasn’t interjected. “I plan on her buying us breakfast.”

They all break into laughter. Three pairs of hands slide upon each other, finding palms and skin to fit against.  Nothing too indiscreet, as they sit on one of the benches dragged out in front of The Seventh Heaven. Not that the dancers or onlookers pay them much mind. The glances her way are more likely to be curiosity about the Slayer of Primals than anything else.

A pleasing, scandalous thrill goes through her all the same as Grienswyf rubs a gentle circle into her knee.

“Do you two dance?” She asks. “Not that I am inclined to get up any time soon.”

“Only to welcome the King,” Ahtstahl says. One of his hands wanders to smooth against her hip over the fluttery linen dress she bought for the occasion. The warmth of his palm is steady and strong against the layers of pink fabric and white petticoats

“...Beg pardon?” Nerys glances about the gathered crowd, at the mingling throng up near the markets. Most decked in their best clothes with crowns of flowers or leaves upon their heads. A fine assortment of shining faces but no King among them. As the only King I know is Moogle Mog XII, surely they don’t mean…

“The King of Spring,” says Greinswyf. “They pick someone every year to usher in the season and lead us all in dance. And if he, she, or they pick you as their first dance partner; your year shall be a blessed one.”

“Oh.” ‘Tis not at all like the equinox festivities in the Shroud, given to somber offerings during the day and a raucous bacchanal during the night. There is no figurehead or even a singular master of ceremonies.

There is a masked committee of twelve Gridanians who watch over the festivities. They ensure no ill comes to anyone celebrating as the frenzy of liquor and dance reaches its zenith. Usually they are Wood Wallers or high-ranking Lancer’s Guild members.

“Who is it this year?”

“We find out together. I had my money on your Minfilia, but I see that is not to be.” Greinswyf gestures to one of the stalls set-up along the walkway between aetheryte and market. Minfilia–resplendent in an artfully draped blue gown and matching blooms in her hair–peruses the wares. Beside her, Papalymo speaks with emphatic hand gestures. He wears his usual mode of dress, but she can just make out a red flower pinned to his collar.

Between duties, she had been somewhat aware of the residents descending upon the wilds for the last moon. Bringing back as many flowers as they could find. Demand fast outpaced supply, though.

Her own carnations and lilacs are from the Weaver’s Guild, created in Ul’dah before arriving here. She has Yda to thank for it, one day rousing everyone at dawn to stumble to the market and make their reservations. Not really understanding what was happening, Nerys had gone along for the chance to buy some pretty. 

Hm. Perhaps it’s her? I haven’t seen her all day.

“There’s so much activity,” says Nerys. “I cannot tell yet who is missing and not just out of view near Rowena’s.”

“And the King has a court, to keep people guessing. Money rides on it, of course.”

Soon as the words leave Greinswyf, the musicians ease their song to an end. The dancing slows with it, the concentric circles of linked hands shifting into a teeming mass. From her vantage point, Nerys sees the pan flute player set down his instrument. Up he stands, picking up a large, curling ram’s horn. It gleams in the sunlight, ivy twined about it.

He raises it to his lips. What emerges are notes so clear and strong and loud, they ring out across the settlement. A hush settles over the crowds. The only sounds, the horn and the steps of festival-goers answering the summons; descending from the upper markets to join the rest.

“There,” Ahtstahl says, nudging her chin to look at the North Silvertear entrance.

A procession marches in, the crowds parting to give space and everyone else a better view. Nerys hears snatches of conversation as eight attendants lead the way. The court then, their presence ruining several bets placed on the King’s identity. Both Yda and Hoary Boulder are among them (she in scarlet and white, he in black and gold), their linked hands swinging merrily. 

Two yellow Chocobos enter, bridles festooned with ribbon and ivy. Behind them, they pull a cart upon which is a magnificently carved chair. It looks like it was hewn directly from an ancient tree, the branches of its back reaching into the heavens. And upon it-

“Knew it,” says Ahtstahl.

Thancred lounges upon the chair, one leg thrown over an arm. An elegant crown of bare twigs and verdant ivy perches upon his white hair, an apt combination representing the meeting of winter and spring. As they near the aetheryte, he sits up and gets to his feet in front of the throne.

Oh.

Nerys has seen Thancred naked a dozen times now. She saw him so yesterday. She has near memorized every ilm of his body. And yet. And yet.

Unlike the loose clothes he favors, his emerald tunic conforms to the line of his chest and nips in at the waist. The high collar brushes the ends of his hair and opens enough to show off throat and collarbone. He turns and the umber trousers could better be called a second skin for the way they fit him, showing off the pert curve of his rump and the muscles of his thighs. The fawn-colored boots cannot mold to his calves but they do whatever the closest thing is.

Her mouth goes dry. She cannot look away. Cannot do anything but imagine sliding her hands between the tight fit of cloth and abdomen. Peeling down those trousers and baring the curve of hip, pressing her mouth against it.

“You as well?” Ahtstahl murmurs. “The way that man attracts all eligible persons is downright uncanny.”

“You are one to talk,” says Greinswyf. 

“I did not say it was a bad thing.”

Nerys is somewhat aware of the world moving around her, of three hands clasping her waist and keeping her balance. Only when her feet touch the ground, does she realise her companions have stood and brought her up with them.

Thancred’s gaze turns, catching her just as she loses herself again in the tantalizing skin over his pulse. His smirk turns knowing, and he winks. She shall never hear the end of this. (If he promises to wear this outfit often and let her imagine doing all sorts of things to him in it...he may tease her for the rest of time.)

“Go,” Ahtstahl touches her shoulder. “See if you might claim a dance.”

She turns to them, mortified. “I’m not about to drop the two of you.”

“And you shan’t.” Greinswyf leans in to kiss her cheek. “Should you not make it back, we shall have you for breakfast some other time. I promise.” 

Nerys walks towards the cart, guilt lingering. But their smiles are so encouraging and she does not doubt their sincerity and...yes, she does want to dance with the King. This King with his insouciant smirk and arrogant lift to his chin. This King who looks at her now in a way that says of course I shall be rewarded with a dance from you. Such is my due.

He jumps down from the cart and strides towards her. She fixes her resolute gaze on the blinding beauty of his visage rather than the temptations below his chin. She must look too determined because his shoulders shake with barely suppressed laughter.

“Your majesty,” she says, curtsying before him. Her skirts and petticoats swish about her knees.

“Fair warrior,” he purrs, extending a hand. “Will you usher in spring with me?”

“I am honored.” She takes his hand and he pulls her close, his other arm curling about her waist. It is the cue the musicians need and there is a scramble as pairs and groups form, trying to make room for each other while also watching the King and his partner.

It is all a bit chaotic, more teeming mass than field of dancers. For a long while they hover confined to one spot, her close against him, The velveteen of his tunic soft against her arm. Nerys recognizes the song, that the musicians are tripling the verse’s length. Likely aware that no one shall be ready to dance before the song’s usual end.

“Well,” Thancred says, looking up at her. “You have not told me how well I look.”

Nerys clears her throat. “Green suits you, and the crown is quite nice. I think you make a handsome King.”

His brown eyes dance. “Somehow that does not match the molten heat of your gaze when you first beheld me. Tell me, what was your initial reaction?”

“I have not seen you in clothes so well tailored before.” If he is going to tease her, she will tease back. One cannot be bullied, even when speaking to royalty. “My compliments to your weaver.”

Space opens at last, allowing his highness to begin the dance in earnest, as is his duty. They whirl around the aetheryte, him leading her in a complicated figure she did not know herself capable of. There is an art to guiding your partner when they are unfamiliar with the steps. Whoever taught him should be proud.

He spins her away and catches her again, hands about her waist and sliding north and his knees bending just so. She follows his cue and hops straight upward, helping him lift her twirling into the air. Down she comes, wrapping her arms about his shoulders.

“Are my clothes why,” he says, touching her cheek to tilt her face down while he rises up on tiptoe. “You were imagining all sorts of wicked things when you saw me? Don’t deny it. All this time, I only needed to wear such garments to stir such naughty thoughts.” 

“I wasn’t-I didn’t-” She sputters. Drops her voice to a whisper “I have told you far naughtier things. I have done far naughtier things-”

“I know.” He kisses her cheek and spins her again. Catches her again. “But never so publicly. I rather like it.”

Nerys laughs, shaking her head. “His majesty is wicked. But I find I don’t mind, even when he tries to fluster me in public.”

“Your highness is glad.” The music, stretched out as long as possible, winds down. Thancred bends over her hand, kissing the air above it. Drops his voice. “My duties call me away. Wickedly, I like the idea of leaving you in suspense.”

“Cruel, cruel king.” And he is not far off, because she would like to pull him into some dark corner or into their rooms to pay private homage to his royal beauty. That she cannot is maddening. “What shall I do?”

He steps back and bows. “You still have your eyes and imagination. I hope this helps.”

The King of Spring walks away in such a manner that brings attention to legs and rump, molded so perfectly by his clothing. She is not the only appreciative glance. Ahtstahl is correct: it truly is uncanny how easily he can attract all and sundry.

The trick is, deciding just how she will pay him back.

--

The door is unlocked when she returns, arms full of a morning feast fit for an army. She finds Ahtstahl and Grienswyf in their kitchen, blearily watching a kettle boil. Neither have dressed beyond pants. 

It's a lovely sight.

"I recognize those bags," Ahtstahl says, gesturing. The blue paper bags are streaked with grease and she quickly places them upon the table. Yael’s foodstuffs cost double anyone else’s and require waiting in a long line. But it has always, always been worth it.

Grienswyf sets to work pulling the crimped pastries bursting with egg and cheese from the bags and putting them on plates. As the aromas flood the kitchen, she moans aloud in delight.

"Now that, dear Grienswyf, is a sound I shall never tire of..."

Thancred steps out of the bedroom, hair damp from a shower. He has redonned his royal garments and they are just as delectable now as they were yesterday. Perhaps moreso. Until last evening, he did not have bite marks decorating his throat and clavicle.

The sight of them is near enough to reawaken her desires, even after the night’s exertions.

Thancred smirks. "Poor Nerys, running errands to satiate our hunger while she looks at us ravenous."

"I can scarce believe it," Ahtstahl says, wandering over to Thancred. Rubbing his hip. The Hyur man leans into the touch. "After all the ways she had you screaming last night, Thancred, and still ready to go."

"One must give the king his due," Nerys says, unable to keep from smirking. Very aware of Greinswyf herding her towards the others. "Wait, won't the food get cold?"

"Let it get cold," says Thancred. "You danced with me, you are meant to have a blessed year. We must start it off right." 

Far be it from me to defy a king, she thinks, submitting to his will as he tugs her down to his mouth. 

Breakfast can wait.

[caraidean-fics]

First Swings

Characters: Ike, Mia

Setting: Path of Radiance, between Chapters 11 and 12

Words: 1800

Summary: A bored Mia talks an early rising Ike into sparring at dawn for the first time, sparking off a long tradition and letting the two get to know each other. 

"Well, if you can think of something better to do with our time, I'd like to hear it." Mia pointed out as she finished her stretches. Her training sword, battered from a near decade of use, was propped up against one of the masts of Nasir's ship as she rolled her shoulders back one more time. She sprang to her feet and practically skipped the few paces to where it rested, picking the wooden blade up and knocking it against the mast a few times with flicks of her wrist. "Come on, Boss. I'm sure you've seen the rest of this ship a dozen times over!"

"The sun's not even up yet, Mia." Ike pointed out, blunt but not unkind. The waves rocked the ship a little more, as the first few rays started to peak over the horizon. "It's not really passing the time if most people aren't awake yet."

"Yeah, well," Mia said lamely, shoulders sagging. Eventually she perked up a little, slapping a fist into the palm of her hand with a grin. "We can't spar up here later, there'll be too many sailors trying to do their jobs! This is the only chance we're gonna get!"

"I can't argue with that." Ike agreed, grabbing his own training sword from the bench he'd been sitting on. His original intention had been to just pass the morning alone watching the sun rise, woken far too early by recent, painful memories. In hindsight, maybe he shouldn't have been surprised to find the swordswoman up here. It shamed him to admit it, but given everything that had happened he hadn't had much of a chance to get to know the woman - save for a brief conversation the day before heading out from Gallia back to Crimea. 

He knew she was excitable, and dedicated - possibly too dedicated - to learning how to fight. He'd seen her work on the battlefield, both when they first met in a flurry of violence and quickly exchanged explanations, and during the flight to deeper within Gallia. He knew she'd more than held her own when helping keep the Daein soldiers at bay within the castle, and had proven instrumental when clearing the prison - Boyd had raised the alarm by accident, and if it weren't for Mia's quick swordsmanship the guards may have executed Kieran and Brom far before the rest of them could have gotten there. 

Beyond that? Nothing. All he had to work with was her basic personality, and her skills. He could see a few similarities between the two of them, but only on the surface. Their styles were different for a start - Mia's was more diligent and refined, all fast strokes and feints, substituting raw power to be in almost five places at once. His father had trained him well, but certainly not in that style - his was powerful strokes, careful footwork setting up stances for multiple rapid, strong blows. 

That was almost like their personalities, he reckoned - while they were both fairly simple and to the point, Mia tended to dance around, words leaping from her tongue into the conversation with an energy he'd only ever seen a few times in Mist. He favored barging through the conversations, getting to the core of it in an instant, not picking away at it piece by piece. 

"Are we going to fight or not?" Mia asked, tapping her trainer against the floor a few times. Ike snapped out of his reverie and nodded, setting back into his father's stance silently. "Okay, Boss. Here I come!" 

She moved like she had on the battlefield - no pausing to take him lightly here. The two understood each other, at least when it came to the fight. There'd be no holding back between them, no worry about bruising each other's pride. Ike found himself forced back under the opening exchange, the sheer speed and number of the strikes catching him off guard even with what he knew about her, barely managing to keep her at bay. Soon, however, he saw an opening - her excitement and energy getting the better of her, stepping out of her refined stance to start delivering more wild blows, arcing in long swipes with her strength behind them. 

She'd changed to fighting Ike's kind of style instead, and that would be her undoing. On a rising slash Ike countered not with a block, but a slash of his own - overpowering the myrmidon and slapping her blade down and to the side, making Mia wince as the muscles in her sword arm complained. She tried to jump back, evading Ike's reversal, but failed - his sword catching her in the ribs, winding her as she was knocked to the floor. 

"Ow." She mumbled, lying on her back and staring at the sky. For a second Ike was worried he'd misjudged - that the woman's pride was going to be injured - and opened his mouth, an apology on his lips before suddenly the purple-haired woman let out an excited laugh. "That was awesome!"

"Excuse me?" Ike asked, but Mia had already jumped back to her feet. Her shoulder ached a little, and she knew she'd have to ask Rhys to look at it later - it felt like she'd strained something on one of her strings, an over-extension or similar - but that was barely going to stop her. 

"Are you kidding? That was the first decent fight I've had in months!" Mia said, voice completely sincere as she raised her sword once more - settling back into yet another stance, beaming. "Come on, Boss! Let's go again!"

"I guess we can do best of three." Ike agreed, still slightly bemused - but smiling as well now. The entire exchange had been over in under two minutes, the blitz that Mia had opened with making it feel longer than it had been. As they locked blades again, Ike realized she was changing it up - gone was the opening blitz he'd seen her use on so many others before him, replaced with more careful strikes and strokes, feet sliding back along the deck after every blow to pull her out of his range. 

"Are you taking me seriously now?" Ike raised an eyebrow, Mia shrugging. 

"Kinda? I don't really use these stances much." She admitted, and now that she had Ike could see it. Hesitation, furrowed concentration on her face as she kept correcting her footwork, and most importantly her blows were weaker and slower - too worried about getting the stance right to commit to any one attack properly. 

"I can see that." Ike replied, and then he moved - pushing through. Like he'd thought, Mia's hesitation was her downfall, and his blade bounced off her collarbone - making the myrmidon let out a slight groan of frustration. 

"Best of five." She offered, firm and determined but with light dancing in her eyes, and Ike agreed. This was longer, the two used to each other now - even when the ship rocked due to the ocean's wave it only bought Ike a few seconds advantage before Mia managed to squirm out of it. Their almost ten-minute duel brought them across the length of the ship until, finally, he managed to snake in a blow against her knee. 

Exhausted, Mia sank to the floor, letting out a massive sigh as she caught her breath. Ike sat beside her, laughing slightly - the girl turning her head to look at him. 

"Best of seven?" He asked, teasingly. Mia gasped, mock-offended, and punched him in the arm. 

"You jerk, boss." She pouted, turning away. She couldn't keep it up, however, and soon the two were laughing, Mia running a hand through purple hair.

"Maybe later." She said eventually. "You're good, Boss. Your dad taught you, right?"

"Yeah. Some style he came up with himself." He shrugged, passing her a waterskin. Mia accepted gratefully, gulping some down greedily - wiping away some of the water that splashed over her chin with the back of her hand. "Who taught you?"

"A dojo in my second village." She replied, distantly. "My parents and I had to leave our first one after a bandit attack. When we got there, I never wanted to be helpless again. I'd always loved pretending to fight, anyway, so I went and got them to teach me how to do it properly. I was the only woman learning there."

Ike hadn't heard much about Mia's past, other than the fact that she was a mercenary even before joining his father's group by sheer chance. She continued, staring off at the rising sun with a small smile on her face. "It was fun. I beat up so many guys - they didn’t take me seriously at the start, not like you did, so it was pretty easy for the first few months. Eventually, though, my teacher just got too old to keep doing it properly - so he suggested I go out and get some real life experience, and here I am. Got hired by Crimea to fight in the war after everything went south, got captured by Daein, and your father busted me out. He..."

Mia hesitated. This was a delicate topic, and like she'd told him before - she never quite knew what to say at times like these. "...seemed nice."

"Yeah." Ike said quietly, the two watching the sunrise. Mia passed the waterskin back, and he sipped at it carefully before putting it away. "He was."

The quiet turned awkward until Mia finally groaned, hanging her head back. "Augh, this sucks. I came up here to fight, not...you know...talk about feelings and stuff. I'm no good at that, Boss."

"If you want beaten another time, you should have just said so." Ike laughed at the sudden change in mood, standing up and offering Mia a hand. After a long second Mia took it, grasping his wrist and letting him pull her to her feet. "Just promise you'll go see Rhys after, okay? Your shoulder seems a bit beat up."

"Oh, please. It's just a bit of a handicap." Mia waved him off, even though her sword arm did feel a little strained. "If I beat you like this, well. That'll be embarrassing, huh?"

Ike just laughed again, feeling lighter than he'd felt in a while as the two walked back to the center of the deck, getting ready. "We've not got long, you know. Everyone else has to wake up eventually."

"Yeah, you're right." Mia shrugged, bouncing on the heels of her feet. "Guess we'll just have to do it tomorrow as well, huh?"

Ike's response came a lot faster and easier than, looking back, either of them really expected it to. 

"I'd like that. Ready?"

Mia just beamed, pulling her training sword back up in front of her and staring at him defiantly, shifting back into the same stance she'd used in their first bout. Maybe he'd be tired enough for the blitz tactic to work on him this time. 

"Hah! I'm always ready, boss! Here I come!"

[tevotbegotnaught]

Dubov's Last Jump-off pt 3

Saturday afternoon, we found out the club couldn’t (or wouldn’t) accommodate our third night. Dubov had to pay us, of course. Mo was looking at other venues, possibly for tonite, realistically for the coming week. He asked our availability. Once we all responded, possibilities quickly evaporated. That weekend passed and more days after.

After waiting a week, I texted Mo about money. Hours later, he replied:

“High paint he otter eyes or sue didn’t cut anything”

At the gigs, I watched Mo use his phone; its screen at his nose, glasses mid way between forehead and hairline. He looked down precipitously, grumbled, grumbled again, then pressed send. What usually came through was a ransom note clipped from Beckett. He never corrected these puzzles until one of us asked. Here, a fully translated version of our exchange:

“I paid the other guys, you sure you didn’t get anything.”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Did you send your invoice to Julie.”

“Yes”

“I’ll call them”

“is there anything I can do to expedite this?”

“Chris, I’m not your employer”

“Right”(!)

“There’s a rehearsal tonite, will you be there”

“I didn’t know about a rehearsal. Where and when?”

“Still working on a place. Maybe 7?” (3 hours from now)

“Tough for me”

“No worries. If you go, you’ll be paid of course”

“Ok”

“No worries. I’ll get back to you”

Now, I was enrolled in the Godot payment plan. Dubov was looking at spending four lifetimes in more chains than Issac Hayes ever wore. I just wanted to get my money.

Weeks later, Mo Bedbug went live.

“Bears ash oh Friday”

Mo called in a favor with some Long Islanders. We had a show Friday. I lobbied for travel money.

Any evening rush hour on the LIE (a highway, not an enormous falsehood) was a parking lot. Friday rush was tailgating minus libations. I pressed him for my other money in the bargain.

“I paid Pianist with Venmo. Do you have Venmo.”

(I send my Venmo)

“This is will be easy, I didn’t know you had Venmo.”

“Ok”(I offered twice before)

“I’ll see you Friday my place"

Mo balked at travel money, though. Arranging an Uber from his place and promising we'd miss rush hour. To get to Mo's, I took the bus, two of them. It cost me way more than the fare. Flushing Avenue, Shabbat imminent, was a sightseeing tour: high school kids, restaurant workers, construction crews. So many people boarding, I couldn’t see nor hear my stop and had to walk an extra half-mile.

Turning onto Mo’s street, a familiar Bushwick tableau appeared. A massive pit, surrounded on three sides by green plywood. Graffiti tags and band decals fading under the shrouds of old posters. At the curb, a ziggurat of garbage-strewn ten-foot pipes and a marooned RV, black spray paint scrawled over its siding and vents, windows cracked and stuffed with wads of insulation, front seats piled to the ceiling with bundled magazines and crumpled newsprint.

On the next block, I found Mo's address stenciled on the brick wall of a old factory. Drummer stood away from its entrance smoking and scrolling his phone. He looked up.

"Man, I texted him like 10 minutes ago."

"No answer?"

"He said he’s coming right down"

"I’ve been giving him progress reports. F***ing bus was crawling."

The building’s entrance, a glass and brushed steel module, sat cheek by jowl with a battered freight elevator. After a text reminder and more waiting, the freight elevator doors parted vertically. Mo let the canvas strap swing overhead.

"This way" he said, glancing over his shoulder at the gleaming foyer before pulling the strap down. The elevator enclosure, a hypoxic chamber of fuel vapors and sawdust, led darkly to a huge steel door. Mo punched a code and pulled the handle. Inside, a newly carpeted hallway, filled with tarps, drywall, paint cans and the potent smell of sandalwood.

"They’re still doing work....as you can see. My place is cool, though.”

"Where’s Keys (the new pianist)?"

"He’s here. Been here a while. Working on the music."

"You have a piano?"

"Uh, I have kind of a studio. Not for recording, but you know, instruments and stuff."

Mo had room for those instruments and plenty more. His walls sprouted art in every medium and material: paintings on wood, metal, plastic jugs, shards of glass; sculptures of bottle caps, cardboard, styrofoam; violent, erotic black and white photos fetishizing punk style and concert posters from Downtown’s acme.

I stooped to gawk at an undulating video in a KFC bucket.

“That’s from my gallery. I used to have a gallery. When it closed I moved everything here. Well, not everything, but…you know.”

Keys sat on a leather couch. He was a kid, maybe twenty-five. I was his grandfather. That messed me up. Before excusing himself, Mo pulled me an espresso from a fancy Italian machine. I packed sandwiches and coffee, but the extra shot was welcome. From a closed door, medicinal-grade weed wafted. We were a full hour behind schedule.

Out on the street, waiting for the Uber, Mo nodded at the construction site and listing RV, saying in his mumblecore voice,

"That’s my girlfriend’s art project.... I mean, ex-girlfriend. "

"The RV? She did THAT?"

"Yeah....Well, her friends... they did it together. I don’t know who did which part"

(There were ‘parts’?)

"How long has it been there?"

"Uh....nine months. Wait...yeah. We broke up six months ago. She was living in it for a while."

"Living in it? You’re kidding. Was that part of the project?"

He chuckled. "Yeah...I don’t know."

"We’re still friends" he said, mostly to tumbling litter in the street.

Inside the Uber, Mo continued: “the realtor told me this was east Williamsburg, but it’s not, it's Bushwick. I don’t care what they call it, of course. I don’t mind living in Bushwick. It’s easier to have a car here.”

“You have a car?”

“Not now. Had to get rid of it. Wasn’t right for this neighborhood”

“Wasn’t right?”

“it was an Audi R8. Midlife crisis car. These streets are so bad, I kept having to get it fixed.”

Driving due east, the winter sun behind us pooled on the shiny road. We careened through four lane traffic. Ahead, break lights fanned out, ruby droplets cascading off a humpback’s tail.

Drummer and Keys talked through the set, then volleyed gossip about mutual friends.

When the radio spun an artist he knew personally, Mo turned around and apropos-ed a story, interrupting the other guys. In the 80s, he produced videos for many fledgling stars. It was a new medium for him and Pop music. A few of his clients soared from Downtown digs to world domination. Mo didn’t stay on for their ascent, though. He also worked on an early Dubov-produced movie until the boss’s relentless cost-cutting and hostility wore him down. While he rambled, a vape pen did plenty of its own talking.

Tonight’s venue, a redux of a famous Long Island rock room, now tucked in the basement of a new boutique North Shore Inn. That building, a block-size Cape Cod, dropped like Dorothy’s whirling farmhouse at an angle to the tony commercial strip.

We had a seriously low pressure slot, opening for a veteran blues band. Ten white guys from three generations; a solid outfit with a long history playing sincere, tasty covers. Always simpatico, Karolina added "Stormy Monday" to our set list. Due to the short notice, we lost Pianist, our stellar MD, and Trumpet wasn’t available. Pruned to prototypical stripper band: saxophone, piano and drums. Not without some irony..

When the ladies hit “Uptown Funk", shimmying and signifying, the audience, almost all sixty year-old white dudes with the occasional spouse, started hooting and whistling. T and A wasn’t on the bill, but it still satisfied. Margherita did her canned steps for ”Too Darn Hot". Karolina was confident and sold her songs. Keys somehow kept the basslines and harmonies together. I completely missed the famous trumpet intro to “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy". The ladies jumped in undaunted. The Male Gaze kept the show alight until we exited, dodging the headliner's B3, Leslie and vintage amps.

The ladies were pros now and we repaired to the underground parking lot to celebrate. The girls in jeans and hoodies, band in our "gangster suits". While she waited for Keys to blaze up. Margherita asked me,

“Did you have fun?”

"Sure, I always have fun" I told her. What counts as honesty when the entire premise of an act is fakery?

"Great" she said, tracking down the joint.

A couple hits and we went back inside, sitting down near the jacked-open exit door. The blues band’s horn section looked on wearily as the front man sang verses fashioned by tougher men for harsher times. From our seats, we saw Mo sweep through the green room doorway, his long canvas coat and scarf swinging. He pivoted at the closest table and exchanged with the owner, a grizzled man with a barely legal date. Their conversation rearranged chairs and sent the men striding out of the club, proving there actually were blues to be had everyday.

When Mo and dance partner failed to return, we headed upstairs and onto the porch, where patio furniture gleamed under blinding lights. At the foot of the wooden steps, livery cars glided in and out of the glare. After a flurry of texts, the ladies gathered their garment bags and kissed us goodbye. A black SUV, indistinguishable from the others, stopped and a rear window opened. Inside, Dubov’s face, like crumpled paper, if paper were milled from lipids and dusted with ash. "Good job guys" he said, voice level and hoarse. We thanked him. The ladies got in on the far side, Dubov’s window closed and the car drove off.

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

After dropping him at the factory, Mo left the meter running on our Uber so the band could get home. On the way, we speculated about Dubov’s eventual prison sentence, Mo’s fee and when "the New Yorkers" might book their first Bar Mitzvah.

The driver, a Bengali, navigated without commenting on our post-mortems, confirming and re-confirming each address for his app. I was last on the circuit. Once we were alone, I asked the driver about his night. His answers were brief and courteous. As we waited at a light, he turned his head toward me. "Excuse me, one question. Have you ever been to Las Vegas?"