#when he ripped a WHOLE ASS LAMP POST OUT OF THE GROUND AND SLAMMED A FUCKING HELICOPTER WITH IT!!!

[rocketbirdie]

it's all subjective

[slashthedice]

Be Mine Forever (Ch. 3)

I had hoped to post this yesterday, but life gets in the way and I didn’t want to post a half-assed chapter. Once again, this is a continuation of my Harry Warden/Reader fic. Read the first part here, second part here, or the whole thing on ao3 here.

For a moment, there was an unbearable stillness. You stared in abject horror at the face of the man you loved while he pinned you to the wall with an unrelenting strength. Your breathing was hoarse and rough, but you tried to stay quiet. You feared that the smallest sound from you would break whatever spell had fallen over him when you had managed to rip the mask away from his face. Said mask along with the hard hat and headlamp were now at your feet, the light from the lamp illuminated the coat closet that Harry had appeared from, the hanging garments casting sinister shadows against the back wall.

None were more threatening than the shadow of a man before you, nearly panting as he breathed heavily in your face, warm breath cascading over your features. He had never looked at you with the unbridled rage that now whipped across his dark irises and curled inside the blackness of his dilated pupils. It was enough to make anyone afraid.

And you were afraid.

You had never been afraid of Harry before. This vision of dark fury that loomed over you in the cramped closeness of the darkened hallway certainly looked like the man you loved, but it couldn’t possibly be him. Harry was all thick skin and hardened plains of muscle, but he had always been soft with you. The harsh grip on your neck was not even an echo of the gentleness you had once experienced beneath these same hands.

You trembled under the force of his crazed stare, the flames of his rage burned you. Your own eyes were wide and brimmed with tears. You had been dreaming of seeing Harry for months, but now that he was here standing over you and seething, you found it hard to believe you weren’t in a nightmare.

You expected him to recover and clamp back down on your neck but the seconds stretched on and nothing happened, you were left in an agonizing limbo. The only sounds filling the space was your own strained breathing intermingling with Harry’s. Everything was so still. Your body was taut with anxiety, and Harry was crackling with an unknown energy that assaulted your senses. His eyes that had held you captive just as much as the unyielding grip he had on you were seeking something in your countenance, but you couldn’t imagine that he found much more than fear.

Your mind was blank, frozen like a deer in the headlights, leaving you with no ideas for how to get out of the situation. You desperately wanted to think of something to say to talk him down. Half of you still wanted to throw your arms around him and sob with joy at his return, even if he was still looking at you like he wanted nothing more than to snap your neck beneath his fingers. The other half of you, the admittedly more rational part, still refused to recognize the brutal shadow before you as Harry.

You felt cold sweat gather at your hairline and roll down your back. Warmth spilled down your reddened cheeks, but you were far too stricken to recognize that you were crying. You choked down sobs and gasps, trying to keep your breathing level. Your tongue felt like lead in your mouth, and your throat felt you had swallowed sandpaper.

Anger still simmered behind his eyes, but you watched with rapt attention as something different passed across his features. You hoped the subtle shift was an indication that he was coming back to himself, maybe whatever darkness had taken hold of him was receding. Maybe, you thought, you could reach him if you could just get your mouth to cooperate.

“Harry…”

Your voice sounded hoarse and breathy in your own ears. If not for the oppressive silence that encapsulated the both of you, you weren’t sure the whispered words would have even been audible. However, based on the way Harry’s entire body stiffened, he had heard you just fine. A tense moment hung in the suffocating space between the two of you as you stared each other down. With no adverse reaction from the man before you to the broken silence, you felt emboldened to continue.

“Please-”

The word had barely escaped your parted lips before a hardened resolve overtook Harry’s features. The fingers on the back of your neck clamped down harder than they had even before, and you were sure this time that some of your now sweat dampened hair was ripped out. He pulled you away from the wall and forced you through the doorway into your darkened bedroom. You stumbled over your leaden feet as he hauled you further by the scruff of your neck.

You shrieked and pleaded, though your words fell on deaf ears. Your thoughts were stained by the overwhelming fear and adrenaline that flooded your system. Again and again in your mind’s eye you watched Harry throw you to the ground and drive the pickaxe he had threatened you with into your chest. You could all but feel the cold steel cut easily through flesh and bone with ease, ending its path only when it was buried in your heart and sated by your blood.

But that never happened.

Instead, he turned hard and headed towards the ensuite. You clawed at the hand on the back of your neck, trying to pry his fingers off. Your efforts were fruitless as he did not budge, he continued dragging you towards whatever he had planned for you. As he reached the doorway, he shoved you past him with so much force you stumbled forward until your shins hit the edge of the tub, nearly causing you to go tumbling through the shower curtain and into the tub.

You steadied yourself with a hand on the paper-covered wall just in time to hear the bathroom door slam behind you. You were shocked for a moment, standing stock-still in the middle of the tile. The sound of something heavy scraping across the floor shook you from your petrification. You knew Harry was still out there based on the heavy footsteps against the old wooden floors. You looked around the bathroom for something to help you. You saw the frosted glass of the small window above the toilet, but knew that it offered you less than nothing.

When you and Harry had first bought the home, it had been in need of some repair. Most of the work you two had done by yourselves, working hard to turn the house into something you could both be proud of. However, some things had required assistance from professionals. A simple miscommunication with one such “professional” had led to the bathroom window being caulked and painted shut. An unfortunate oversight that you had not gotten around to fixing.

That meant that your only other option for escape was the door connected to your bedroom. You shuffled towards the door as silently as you could, pressing your ear to the painted wood and closing your eyes to focus on the sounds coming through.

Harry stared with mixed emotions at the heavy chest of drawers that now inhabited the spot in front of the bathroom door. He berated himself, body shaking with a directionless, shapeless anger. This was not what he had planned at all. You were still alive and well, probably shaken up but hardly the worse for wear. He had his list for that night, and you were at the top of it. He had had you. You were right there in his grasp, trembling and terrified. Everything was exactly as he had envisioned it, and then you had ruined it.

The sound of his headgear hitting the ground had been one of the loudest he had ever heard. When he looked back at your face he had seen the fear flee from your features fleetingly, replaced briefly by recognition and shock. He had imagined himself a ghost from your past, a terrible specter returned to force you to face your wrongdoing, but you didn’t look at him like that. Then the fear had come flooding back into your eyes, but along with it was a sort of disbelief, like you didn’t understand why he had to do this.

You had stopped struggling against him completely, frozen and tense in his grasp. It was the perfect time for him to finish what he had started, but something stayed his hand. Being this close to you without the added protection of his gas mask, he was filled by the heady scent of your perfume. Memories beat against the walls he had built around his mind and heart, but he did his best to stave them off, adamantly forcing away the thought of your soft skin beneath his bare fingertips.

Why? Why couldn’t he just finish off the job he had come here to do? It would be so easy. He already had the fragile column of your neck in his grip. A little more pressure would snap the delicate bones house within, so why couldn’t he find the will to do just that?

“Harry…” His name rolled off your tongue with familiarity. Your soft voice slipped from between equally soft lips to caress his ears like a song, and then he knew why.

He still loved you.

The realization crashed down on him like a wave and suddenly he was drowning. He had spent months hating you for abandoning him, for forgetting about him, for leaving him to rot alone crushed under the weight of what he had done and what he still wanted to do. He was hurt. Yes, he was hurt, but more than that he was livid. After all this time how could he possibly still harbor these traitorous, poisonous feelings?

He was so wrapped up in the conflict in his own mind that he had nearly forgotten you, the catalyst for it all, until your wobbly voice filled the silence once more.

“Please-”

Your lips had barely shaped around the word before his vision was filled with red. Then he was dragging you into your once shared bedroom and all but throwing you into the small adjoining bathroom. He quickly spotted the tall, sturdy chest of drawers that had housed his clothes at one point, but he was sure those were long gone. He threw his body weight into shoving the piece of furniture in front of the bathroom door. That should prevent you from going anywhere.

His plans had changed, it would seem, at least in regards to dealing with you. He still had two others on his list to visit tonight, and then he could figure out what to do with you. Save the best for last, as it were.

He turned on his heel and headed for the door. He had to work fast, he only had a couple of hours before the dance at the union hall was set to begin. It would be the last dance, if he had his way. And he would have his way.

He picked up his mask and headgear as he passed them in the hallway. He affixed the items back on his person, and as the mask came back over his face he felt the uncertainty lift off his shoulders and felt a clarity that had been lost to him previously. His heavy, purposeful steps led him to the garage door he had entered before. You had not bothered to change where the spare key was hidden, and it now resided in the breast pocket of his coveralls as he set out into the fading light of the evening.

Excitement and anxiety flowed through him as he stalked the streets. He would finally, finally have the revenge he craved. He had been to Hell because of the two men on his list. They had sent him to Hell but he had clawed and fought and done unspeakable things to make sure he made it out and it all led back to this moment.

The first lived alone. Harry entered the back door as quietly as possible, his task made more difficult by the sound of his breathing in the mask and the squeaky hinges of the old storm door. He found himself in a dimly lit kitchen. Dirty dishes filled the sink and a worn kitchen table was littered with empty beer cans and water rings. The television in the adjoining living room was blaring loudly, although the tattered couch and well-used recliner were vacant. A mostly empty heart-shaped candy box on the coffee table caught his attention briefly before he moved on.

Light spilled across dingy carpet from a cracked door deeper within the house. Harry moved through the shadows with an almost unnatural ease, slipping through the darkness towards his goal. The closer he got, the louder his blood rushed through his veins and roared in his ears. His eager heart pounded in his chest, crying out for him to claim what he was owed.

The door swung inward beneath his gloved palm with little sound besides the quiet whoosh of the large object cutting through empty space. One, two, three steps placed him directly behind his target. The man pawed through his dresser, only half clothed in boxers and a stained wife beater. Harry’s breathing was hard and harsh as he raised the pickaxe. The man heard him and turned, raising his arms as if he had any hope of defending himself. All he could see was red as he swung down hard towards the man’s abdomen. A wet sound along with a strangled cry let him know he had hit his mark.

His vision cleared and he watched the man’s eyes bulge and the color drain from his face. His hands fluttered over the wound in his stomach through which the pickaxe was still impaled. Harry grunted as he withdrew the sharp point and cast the body to the ground. He watched with macabre fascination as blood spilled from the wound and spread across the man’s front, soaking his shirt and dripping onto the carpet.

He had worked with this man for years. He had never been particularly fond of him. Now, however, he loathed him. He had blood on his hands and Harry was more than happy to dirty his own if it meant he could dole out punishment. The adrenaline racing through him felt good, and his revenge tasted sweeter than any Valentine candy.

The man continued to sputter on the ground as he bled out. Harry would have loved to watch him suffer for his transgressions, but he was still on a strict time schedule. He brought the still dripping pickaxe above his head and brought it down hard and fast, burying it easily in the man’s skull with a crunch and then a squish in rapid succession. After that there was no more sound and no more movement from the corpse on the floor.

Actually removing and retrieving the heart from his victim was the most difficult part of the entire operation. Harry had to hack away at flesh and bone before he could finally reach his hands into the chest cavity to remove the organ. He did not want to damage the heart, it had to be recognizable to serve its purpose, but he was short on time and shorter on patience. Finally when his gloves and arms were nearly soaked through with blood and gore, he had an almost completely intact and certainly recognizable heart.

Harry went back to the candy box on the coffee table and dumped the rest of the chocolates on the floor. He deposited the heart into the safety of the large, paper-lined box. He left the same way he had come in, slipping back out into the cool February air now shrouded by the darkness of the nighttime sky.

The second was even easier. Harry once again entered the house of his former supervisor with no worries of locked doors. Valentine Bluffs was a small town, and with that small town mentality came unlocked doors. People were complacent with their safety. Harry could hear the man’s familiar voice from down the hall. It appeared he was talking to himself, laughing about this or that as he got ready for the dance. Harry paid the specifics of the solo conversation taking place no mind as he approached the room.

The man never even saw him coming. He barely had time to gasp before Harry was upon him, cutting him down where he stood. This one’s heart came out much easier as well, now that he knew what he was doing. There were a few different candy boxes to choose from at this house. Harry took the largest and was on his way, now with his Valentine’s present to the town in tow.

Downtown was surprisingly empty as Harry lurked around in the alleyways and back roads. He slipped into the entrance off the alley, eyes sweeping the kitchen he entered to ensure that it was empty. He knew he had little chance of discovery, everyone would be off preening and preparing.

He stepped into the open area of the union hall and froze. Nearly every surface was covered in red, white, and pink. Cupid and heart-shaped cutouts littered the walls, streamers twisted and draped across the ceiling. The freshly pressed stark white table cloth trimmed with intricate lace was spread and upon the covered table was sugary treats and candies. Platters of chocolates and cookies, a red punch that would undoubtedly be spiked by the end of the night, and the traditional cake decorated with red and white frosting all made an appearance.

It seemed the perfect place to leave his special gift to the people of Valentine Bluffs. He situated the boxes at the edge of the table, watching as the paper packages had already begun to spill their contents and deep crimson dripped from his gloves onto the once pure white tablecloth. A heart-shaped card was the perfect final touch, inside were his warnings and instructions.

If they were smart, they would heed his warnings and abandon the hated holiday for good. No matter their decision to listen or not, he had ensured that the festivities on that night would be cut short. Now he just had one final issue to deal with and his work would be complete.

Just what would he do with you?

The walk home was uneventful with the exception of the internal conflict that was happening between his head and heart. And then he caught himself. “Home”. He still thought of the little house as home, that same little house where you lived. It made sense, he assured himself, he had lived there for so long and it did belong partly to him.

It was well and truly dark when he entered the house for the second time that night. He knew the layout well enough that he could maneuver with only the scant light from the street lamps outside spilling through the gaps in the pinch-pleated drapes. He approached the bedroom with a growing anxiety, and he hated himself for it. If he had just stuck to his plan, there would be no reason to feel anxious. He could have left town, content in the knowledge that his work was done. Instead, he found himself standing on the threshold of a room he had known so intimately, only now really taking it in.

He had been in the room when he was there before, but at the time he had been drowning in an overwhelming cocktail of churning emotions, driven to accomplish his goal but torn. His tunnel vision had prevented him from actually seeing the room. For all intents and purposes, it was much the same as it had been a year ago.

Your dresser was littered with trinkets and jewelry. He spotted a picture frame sitting two one side and his heart skipped a beat. He recognized it without a doubt. It was a picture from when the two of you were younger, when your relationship was new and you were both learning what it meant to be in love. You had convinced him to load up a bunch of stuff into that truck you were so proud of and head to the beach for a day in the sun. He could still remember the sound of your laugh and the feel of your sun-kissed skin as you kissed him beneath the shade of a multicolored beach umbrella.

He stepped further in, moving towards the bed. He peeled off his gloves that were saturated with blood, setting them on the nightstand. The bed was unmade, your pillow indented from where your head had lain against it. The bedsheets were cool beneath his wandering hand and it felt like a lifetime ago that he woke feeling warm and safe in their embrace and yours. He always woke up first, always found himself tangled up in a mixture of sheets, blankets, and your stray limbs. That last perfect, dreamlike morning seemed so long ago, but he could still remember the details in total clarity.

He woke before the obnoxious trill of the alarm. He blinked blearily up at the ceiling, eyes fighting off the last blurry moments of sleep and focusing on his surroundings. The rising sun was just beginning to creep through the curtains and spill across the rumpled chenille bedspread. The weight of your arm was spread across his bare torso, and your head was tucked under his chin. He breathed in deeply, welcoming your familiar scent dancing across his senses. He trailed his fingers gently across the smooth skin of your arm, reveling in the goosebumps that decorated it in his wake. He pressed lazy kisses to your hair and forehead.

You groaned as you were dragged into wakefulness, burying your face into the juncture between his neck and shoulder. You pressed closer to him, not so stealthy in your blatant attempts to leech his body heat and protect yourself from the cool morning air. He rubbed your arm and shoulder with a little more force, now intent on making you face the day with him. You groaned again, but this time the sound was followed with your rosy lips pressed to his neck, his shoulder, his chest.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” you murmured against his skin.

He had not allowed himself to indulge in that particular memory in a long time. After the explosion and the cave in, he had used it to focus himself. He needed something to keep him grounded, something to keep his mind from straying and getting lost in the dark. But there was no way to judge the passage of time down there, and it was hard not to get lost when you couldn’t see.

He continued to drag his hand back and forth across the soft sheets until his fingers met an even softer material tucked under the edge of your pillow. Grasping it, he pulled his arm back to find a familiar plaid flannel shirt. It was more worn than the last time he had seen it, and wrinkled from being bunched up, but he recognized it as one of his favorite shirts. His heartbeat stuttered and an uncomfortable tightness overtook his chest as he realized you had been sleeping with this shirt in your bed. He could picture your form curled beneath the sheets with the garment clutched tightly to your body.

Harry stared at the dark wood of the chest of drawers in front of the bathroom and sucked in a shaky breath. It made no sense, but he knew what he wanted to do.

[tsaomengde]

The Dark - Revised

I posted this story months and months back, and since I’ve had it workshopped and I’ve revised it!  It is now way longer.  Like, Jesus, it’s massive.  But it’s also much better.

Irena Matsuo Mtukudzi is a post-human cyborg who has a very human moment, meets a pretty woman, wrestles with her inner demons, and has to kick a whole bunch of ass.  Contains violence, flirting, transhumanism, space queers, Mars, and banter.

           Irena Matsuo Mtukudzi cannot stand the dark.

           She needs very little sleep, and always leaves the illumination in her apartment on high while she does.  But there are nights, like this one, when the dark presses in, threatening to breach the harshly-lit walls, and she has to stay awake, to go out and confront it.  To walk in it, and to deny it any power over her.

           So she strides, purposeful but directionless, through the streets of Olympic City, moving between pools of cobalt light cast by the floating lamps.  She walks down long, deserted pedways, the kilometer-high superstructures of Downtown looming above her.

           And tonight, as she does this, she sees a woman in an alley.  

           The woman looks terrified; she is backing slowly toward a dead end lined with autodumpsters.  There are three men in dark coats closing in on the woman, their body language heavy with threat.  Irena’s mecheyes automatically highlight the sleek, metallic objects in their hands and flash a warning: military-grade plasma projectors.

           She slams the first man’s head against the plascrete siding of the alley’s wall before they even know she is there.  He goes down and does not move.  The other two turn, eyes wide in hard faces.  One of them brings up his projector, sighting in on her, but she takes the distance between them in a single, impossible leap. She lands on his chest, her long locs whipping forward to shroud her face.  He makes an unnatural crunching sound as he hits the pavement – armor beneath his coat, probably.  Irena punches him in the jaw, bouncing his skull against the ground, and he stops moving.

           The last man fires at the woman just as Irena springs at him and closes her hands around his wrist.  She throws his aim off, but the flashing burst of plasma hits the woman in the shoulder, spinning her around and dumping her in a heap in the loose pile of garbage strewn about the end of the alley.

           Irena wants to take her time beating him unconscious, but the woman needs her help.  So Irena sweeps his legs out from under him and kicks him in the face, hard.

           A moment later, Irena is crouched over the target of the erstwhile assailants.  The woman has short red hair, elfin features, pale white skin that suggests Amero-European heritage from back on Earth.  She wears a professional charcoal skirt suit cut in the latest Olympic fashion, hard geometric lines erasing any hint of human softness.  The illusion is shattered by the smoking wound in her shoulder, only partially cauterized by the heat of the plasma bolt.  Her eyes, startlingly blue, are open, but are unfocused.  Irena recognizes shock when she sees it.

           She looks back out at the street, about to tell her integrated comm to call emergency services, but then she catches sight of something: the closest man’s boots.  Steel-toed, vat-grown black leather – and very familiar, very distinctive blue-and-white-striped laces.

           She growls, moving over to him.  She opens his coat, unzips the ferroweave vest beneath, and rips open his shirt.  There it is: tattooed across his left pectoral muscle, a nineteen-digit identification number in dark blue ink.  If the boots weren’t enough, this confirms it.

           These men are cops.

           Two and a half hours later, Irena stands stiffly at attention in the spacious high-rise office of her employer.  Julian Thorne sits at his oversized mahogany desk, his wrinkled face scrunched up in an expression of irritation.  Irena keeps her gaze fixed slightly above and to the left of his head, which means she is looking out the panoramic window behind him. Olympic City stretches out below them, hundreds of silver spires glittering in the harsh rays of Martian sunlight, which are only slightly diffused by the diamond-lattice environment dome.  Rising above the dome and visible to Irena’s left, Olympus Mons cradles the city in its western slope, a vast expanse of reddish rock that goes higher than the window will allow her to see.

           “Just to be clear, Security Chief Mtukudzi,” Thorne says.  He only uses her title and last name when he is angry; those times tend to be rare, but memorable.  “You saw a woman being cornered by armed men.  I understand the desire to intervene.  But why did you not call the authorities and report the situation, instead of leaping into action and beating the shit out of the aforementioned armed men?”

           Irena takes a careful breath.  Thorne, as befits a man of his station, has a top-of-the-line social aug; if she lies to him, the mechanisms embedded in his head will pick up the slight increase in her heart rate, the minute excitation of body hair caused by rising blood pressure pushing cells toward the surface. Even she can’t control these autonomous reactions.

           But she certainly can massage the truth away from the blunt statement she wants to make, which is, because I wanted to.

           “Because,” Irena says, “if I had waited for the OCPD to arrive, the woman in question would be dead and her assailants might be trying to eliminate me as a witness.  I took decisive action to preserve her life and my own.  Afterward, it became apparent that if I had called them and she ended up in their custody, she might not have survived.”

           “Yes, of course.  Decisive action.  Indeed.” Thorne’s thin, dark lips twist in a grimace.  “Answer a question for me, please.  What, precisely, is the nature of your job at my company?”

           “I am responsible for the protection of all Thorne Co. assets, whether personnel or materiel, and –”

           “More basic.  Boil it down.  What do I pay you to do for me?”

           Irena purses her lips.  She knows the answer he wants, and she doesn’t really want to give it, but the best way through one of his quiet rages is forward, rather than lateral.  “You pay me to minimize risks and losses for your company.”

           “That’s right.  Did the actions you took last night do those things?”

           “Quite the opposite.”

           “So you can understand my frustration.”

           That doesn’t call for a response, so she doesn’t give one.  Thorne eyes her for a few more moments, letting the tense silence drag out.  “Do you think there were any cams?” he finally asks.  “Either in the alley, out in the street, or on the men you attacked?”

           “I swept the area as I was bringing the woman in for medical treatment and detected nothing of the sort.  I suspect the cops were not using any recording equipment, integrated or otherwise, because they knew better than to make any kind of record of a hit.”

           “Did any of them get a good look at you?”

           “One of them may have.  The other two I dispatched quickly enough that I doubt it. But I concussed him severely, it was dark, and my locs hid most of my face.”

           Thorne gives her a hard look.  “They’ll fix the concussion with nanosurgery in a matter of hours, Mtukudzi.  At which point, he will most definitely remember a dark-skinned killer cyborg with green mecheyes and dreadlocks beating the bejesus out of him and his friends. He won’t need to have seen your fucking face.”

           Breaking her at-attention stance, Irena tosses her head to the side, letting her locs settle over one shoulder, and crosses her arms. “For the record, I agree with you. But answer me this: When you go home tonight and tell your husband about what I did, will you say that I did a wrong thing, or a stupid thing?”

           Thorne leans back in his plush chair and rubs the bridge of his nose with a gnarled hand, thinking.  “Low blow,” he finally says.  “Bringing Stjepan into this.”

           Irena shrugs.  “He would agree with me.”

           “You will be the death of me one day, woman.” Thorne places his hands flat on the desk, a kind of weary finality in the gesture.  “Why did you do it, Irena?  I mean, really.  What were you hoping to get out of this situation?”

           Feeling the muscles in her jaw clench as she considers the question, Irena finally asks him, “Do you remember when you first approached me for a position with your company?  You offered me a very large sum of money to make unspecified problems go away for you.”

           “I did,” he acknowledges.

           “My counter-offer was what I do now.  I keep problems from happening, rather than going out and surgically removing them.  I don’t know if there’s a true moral difference – I have still killed a fair number of people for you, in my line of work – but I feel better knowing all of them fired first, when it would not have been like that if I were a ‘troubleshooter.’”

           Thorne nods.  “Go on.”

           “When I saw this woman in that alley,” Irena says, “I saw a problem being removed by troubleshooters.  I realized it could easily have been me advancing on her with a drawn weapon.  It could also have been me in her place, and I know I don’t need to tell you why.  The only difference between those men and me is a job title and a vestigial conscience. And I didn’t like that.”  She takes a deep breath, preparing herself to say something embarrassing.  “I suppose I wanted, for once, to do something unambiguously heroic.”

           Thorne gives a carefully calculated half-shrug which says nothing in particular.  He rises from his seat and makes his way to an apparently blank wall.  He waves his hand in front of it and a seam opens, revealing an elevator.  “Well, what’s done is done and you have managed to weasel your way out of apologizing for it.  If we’re playing at altruism today, shall we go see the damsel in distress?”

           Much to her own surprise, Irena feels heat rising to her cheeks.  Thorne notices, of course – his social aug will be telling him it’s happening, even if he isn’t looking at her.  But he remains tactfully silent, awaiting her cue.

           “After you,” she says.

           The medcenter is blindingly, perfectly white. It is almost surprising to encounter actual human beings in such a sterile space.  The techs direct Irena and Thorne to the bio bed where the woman is currently resting.  Her retinas and prints apparently belong to one Madeleine Duvier.  No priors, no outstanding warrants, at least not in the systems Thorne has had Irena spend the time and money hacking into.

           As they approach, she opens her eyes.  She gives each of them a long look before saying, “I really am feeling better.  If you need me to go, I can.”  Her voice is of middling pitch, her words quiet.  Even lying relatively still, she exudes waves of nervous energy.

           Irena and Thorne exchange a glance.  “You are not going anywhere,” Thorne says.  “You are in need of help, young lady, and we are here to provide it.”

           Madeleine’s delicately sculpted brows wrinkle in an uncomprehending frown.  “Sorry? I’m afraid I don’t speak… whatever language that was.”

           They exchange another glance.  “I said you aren’t going anywhere because you need help and we can give it to you,” Thorne tells her.  Irena’s social aug flashes a notification in her visual field that he has switched to Martian English from his usual Old Russian.  Irena knows he only speaks that now-dead language because it pleases him, in a perverse, rebellious way.  His ancestors were neo-Soviet royalty, before nationalities and nobles became obsolete, and he likes to be reminded of it.  Too, anyone important enough for him to talk to will almost undoubtedly have a social aug for translation.

           “Was your social augmentation damaged during the attack?” Irena asks.

           “I don’t have a social aug,” Madeleine says. Even if Irena’s social aug were not informing her of Madeleine’s blush, subtly highlighting the changing color of the other woman’s cheeks, it would be extremely evident – Madeleine is both pale and dressed in a white medcenter gown.  “I’m… stock.”

           Thorne does not bother to hide his surprise. “Stock?  I truly did not think anybody in Olympic City was stock anymore, excepting newborns and Puritanicals.”

           “My parents were Puritanicals,” Madeleine confirms, sitting up in bed.  “I’m not, but since they didn’t have my genome sequenced and given the usual once-over for abnormalities, I have a violent hereditary rejection response to most glial bonding agents.  And I can’t afford the gene therapy to fix it.”

           “I see,” Throne says.  “Well.  I’m afraid I have been rude.  My apologies.  I am Mr. Julian Thorne, and at the moment I am your host.  I must confess I have you at a disadvantage, as my people have told me you are Madeleine Duvier.  What do you do for a living, Mx. Duvier?”

           “Ms. is fine,” Madeleine tells him.  “I’m an executive secretary for the Governor’s office, specifically for Vice-Governor Greene.  Or at least I was until yesterday.”

           “I sense a sad story,” Thorne says, sitting down beside the bed.  Irena remains standing.  “If you’d be willing to extend us your trust, I’d like to hear it.”

           Madeleine gives him an appraising look, then turns to Irena.  She has to crane her neck slightly to make eye contact; Irena is more than two meters tall, after all.  “Before all of that, I think I should thank you for what you did, Mx…?”

           Irena inclines her head.  “You’re welcome.  And I am Ms. Irena Mtukudzi.”

           “Thank you, Ms. Mtukudzi.” She returns her attention to Thorne.  “It might not be a surprise to you,” Madeleine says, “but being stock isn’t exactly a blessing in most lines of work.  I get by without augs, though.  Occasionally someone comes in speaking a language I don’t know, like you, and I just pull out my unintegrated comm for translation and say my social aug is on the fritz.

           “So, I was with the Governor’s office for two years, no issues.  Vice-Governor Greene seemed like a decent enough man, at least for a politician. But then it came out in a conversation with a coworker of mine that – well, that I’m stock.  And somehow this information reached his ears. Apparently…”  She trails off for a moment, jaw working.  Then she continues, her voice tight, “Vice-Governor Greene is – no, he has a… fixation.  On stock people.”

           Confused, Irena looks from her to Thorne.  She can see the light come on behind Thorne’s eyes a moment later, which is good, because she has no idea what Madeleine means. “He’s a stock fetishist,” Thorne says.

           “Yes,” Madeleine confirms.  “He started making advances.  Subtle ones at first, but they got increasingly brazen as I continued to find ways to misunderstand or ignore them.  It came to a head the day before yesterday, when he basically demanded I come into his office for a performance review and then tried to make me have sex with him on his desk.  That was when it became clear he was interested because he’d heard I’m stock.” She shudders.  “I told him to go to hell, and that I would be applying for a transfer to another office, and that if he ever spoke to me unprofessionally or touched me again I would go straight to the Olympic Times and tell them everything he’d done.”

           “Did he threaten you in return?” Thorne asks.

           “He started to.  Said I had no proof, that there was no way for me to have records of any of it because I’m stock.  I told him I did indeed have records, of all of it, because I may be stock but I’m not an idiot.  You remember that unintegrated comm I mentioned earlier?”

           “Of course,” Irena says.  “You kept records on that.  Did he offer money to keep you quiet?”

           “Yes, offers I turned down.  I don’t want hush money, I just want to work somewhere I’m not sexually harassed.  And especially where I’m not subjected to poor treatment because of a decision my fucking parents made for me before I was born.”

           Irena feels the familiar twisting sensation in her stomach.  Memories, ones she has tried her best to ignore, stir and thrust themselves to the foreground of her mind.  Cold glass, needles, destiny.  Running away.  Being caught. The dark.

           With an effort, she shoves it away.  She becomes aware that Thorne is looking at her. “I’m sorry,” she says.  “Did you say something?”

           “I did,” Thorne replies, no hint of censure in his tone.  “As did Ms. Duvier.”

           “I just said that I thought that was the end of it,” Madeleine says.  “Until I was walking home yesterday and those three came out of nowhere.  And I was only out at that time of night because the Vice-Governor asked me to work late.  To ‘take care of a few things before my transfer.’”

           Irena grimaces.  “Then he is certainly complicit.”

           Madeleine shakes her head.  “I don’t understand how he could have arranged this, though.  He’s a glorified button-pusher.  The Governor has all the real power.”

           “You underestimate the abilities of hungry men with ambitions and connections, my dear,” Thorne says.  “The Vice Governor could be involved in any number of shady dealings, ones which might include officials in our less-than-sterling police force.  Such officials might be willing to send men to do an unpleasant job as a favor to the Vice-Governor.”

           “You mentioned your unintegrated comm, Ms. Duvier,” Irena adds.  “It was not in your possessions when our techs prepared you for nanosurgery on your wound.  Is it at your home?”

           “No.  It’s in a safety-deposit box at the Olympic First Bank off of Fifteenth and Baird, under the name of a friend of mine who left me their keycode when they moved offworld. I put it there as soon as I got out of the office the day before yesterday.  The box will only take my biometrics.  Nobody but me can open it.”

           “The solution to this difficulty seems obvious, then,” Thorne says.  “Retrieve the unintegrated comm, take it to the Olympic Times, and blow the whistle on the Vice-Governor.  It’s an election year, and even if Governor Shido is involved in these less-than-legal goings-on, he’ll want to act against Greene to preserve his image in the press if the Times comes forward with allegations and proof.  Irena, I want you to accompany Ms. Duvier.”

           That surprises her.  Irena whips her head around to stare at Thorne.  “Twenty minutes ago you were berating me for getting involved,” she says, not caring that the accusation will make him look bad in front of their guest.

           He crosses his arms.  “Yes, I was.  But you are involved now, and I trust you to see this through to the end.  Do you need additional resources from me?”

           “No.  In fact, it is best that I do this myself.  Plausible deniability.”

           Madeleine looks up at Irena.  “I can’t ask you to do this.”

           Irena gives her a thin smile.  “You don’t have to.  I’ll be back.”

           Irena leaves Madeleine to sleep for a few more hours. There are preparations to make before the other woman is ready to retrieve the comm, and there was already no sleep this night for her.

           First she scopes out the Olympic First Bank at Fifteenth and Baird.  There isn’t any OCPD presence she can detect, obvious or otherwise, just the bank’s own private security.  Next, she makes other arrangements – one with a friend of hers, for a little extra protection, and another by herself, to secure an alternate route in case the streets become unsafe.

           When she returns some five hours later, she has Madeleine discharged, and they head out into the streets of Olympic City. Irena wears her usual long duster, combat jumpsuit, and ass-kicking boots.  She could try to be less conspicuous, but even though she has no visible mechanized augmentations apart from her eyes – no metal limbs or brightly gleaming dermal plates, for instance – there is no way to minimize her presence in the street.  Tall, bristling with whipcord muscle, she has learned to lean into the first impression of danger she generates.  She requisitioned a similar outfit for Madeleine, wanting the woman to have a little more protection than a skirt suit in case things go south.

           “We are about forty minutes from the bank,” Irena tells her, casually doing a sweep of the area as they proceed down the pedway. Groundcars rumble past, the sound of their wheels scraping over the pavement louder than their lossless fusion engines.  It is late morning now, and the streets are beginning to become crowded again as people to go early lunches or start their shifts at work.

           “Do you want to hail a skycab?” Madeleine asks.

           “No.  Any vehicle we get into could be a trap.  We stay on foot, and if we’re engaged, we flee on foot.  We only use a vehicle as a last resort.”

           “Okay, got it.”  Madeleine looks nervous, but doesn’t argue.  They walk in silence for a few more minutes before she speaks again. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

           “Yes.  I may not answer, but go ahead.”

           Madeleine gestures expansively at her.  “You’re obviously highly augmented and genengineered. I’ve never seen anyone move like you. Not cops, not private security. Nobody.  I can’t imagine your mods are HERCA-legal.  Are you ex-military?”

           Irena purses her lips and considers her answer. She has already said she may not answer, so she can just tell Madeleine it is none of her business.  But she has learned quite a bit about Madeleine this morning, and part of her feels that there is a scale which needs balancing.  “Do you know what an ascension cult is?”

           “Radical transhumanist types, right?  Living outside the Coalition government? Illegal hive-minds, AI fusion, extreme genengineering, full-body cyborgification, that kind of thing?”

           “Yes. My parents belonged to the Church of St. Joan.  They were an ascension cult based off of Titan.  They rejected mechanical augmentation in favor of pure genetic engineering.  Their vision was of human reproduction unmoored from the vagaries of sexual congress, and children of incredible genetic potential as a result of that reproduction.  I was the First Child of the Church.”

           “You were a tubie?”

           “In a word, yes.  I have six different biological parents and my genes have been edited to the point that I am not strictly homo sapiens.  My estimated natural lifespan is three hundred years.  I am immune to ninety-five percent of known diseases.  I sleep only two hours a night and can turn my senses on and off at will, or choose specific stimuli to edit out of my perception.  I have perfect visual retention, superior strength, stamina, and speed…”  She shrugs.  “I even have a superior sense of smell.  I could go on, but suffice it to say I am the Church’s idea of the ultimate human being.”

           “So why are you here and not being worshipped on Titan?”

           “I disagreed with my parents’ plans for my future. I ran away.  And I would prefer not to discuss the details.”

           “Got it.  So you’re not HERCA-legal.”

           “No, I’m not.  But my family viewed the Human Evolution Restriction and Control Act as the greatest misstep of the last hundred years.  And existing with these modifications isn’t in itself illegal, just conspiring to make them.”

           “They still can’t have made your life easy in the Coalition.  Especially with the OCPD.”

           “No, they haven’t.  I’ve had many unpleasant interactions with the police.”  Irena looks at her companion.  “But then again, I don’t think any of what I’ve experienced quite ranks with an attempted assassination by undercover officers.”

           Madeleine manages to crack a weak smile.  “I guess that was pretty extreme.”

           “What about you?” Irena asks.  “You mentioned your parents were Puritanicals.  Old-world Catholic, Zoroastrian Neo-Buddhist, or secular?”

           “Secular,” Madeleine replies.  “A pair of high-minded academics who taught at Olympic University and thought augmentation was stagnating human interaction.  Nobody can lie to anybody anymore, or at least they aren’t supposed to be able to without being caught, and that just didn’t sit right with Mom and Dad.  Sure, the polite thing to do is to leave your aug’s truthtell off when you’re with your friends and family, but the bottom line, according to them, was that even having the option to know distorts communication.  They always thought that the mutability of truth was essential to the human condition. Or some such nonsense.”

           “You don’t seem to agree with their views.”

           “No, I don’t.  All their views amounted to was that, at the end of the day, I can’t lie to anyone, and everyone can still lie to me if they figure out that I don’t have a social aug.  Being stock is… not great.”

           Irena has no idea how to reply to that, so she lets the conversation lapse.  They wend their way through the labyrinthine streets of Olympic City in tense silence for about twenty minutes.  The sun is dimmed by the massive plumes of helium rising from the mining operations within the depths of Olympus Mons; the gas is runoff from the process of extracting the bountiful harvest of rare metals that first brought people to settle here two hundred and fifty years ago.  They arrive at the halfway checkpoint – a spot Irena picked out during her rounds this morning as she plotted their approach to the bank.  It is a small Sino-Martian restaurant whose owner, Zizhuang, owes her a favor.

           They are ushered into the kitchen and from there into a back room where Zizhuang runs illegal, cash-based card games.  He gives Irena a toothy grin, nods at an inconspicuous-looking spot on the wall, and sees himself out.

           Irena taps the wall seven times in a particular rhythm.  She swings open the hidden door which unlocked at her gesture, reaches into the wall safe – the one she bought for Zizhuang – and withdraws a pair of snub-nosed, chrome-plated hand pistols with matching shoulder holsters.  She doffs her duster, puts the holster on, and then tucks her pistol safely away in it.  Once her coat is back on, the weapon is impossible to see.

           She helps Madeleine get into her own holster, then holds out the other pistol for her to take.  She frowns when the other woman just stares at it.  “Is there a problem?”

           “I have never held a gun before in my life,” Madeleine replies.  “I don’t even know what kind this is.”

           “Gauss pistol,” Irena tells her.  “Very simple.  Point it at someone, turn the safety off, and push the trigger.”

           Madeleine swallows.  “I don’t want to kill anyone.”

           “You won’t.  These are loaded with Cripplers.  Unless you put it in someone’s eye, the worst you’ll do is – well. They’re called Cripplers.”

           “How did you get these?  Guns are illegal in Olympic City.”

           “Yes, and these in particular are extremely illegal.  But Zizhuang is a good friend with black market connections.”

           Gingerly taking the gun, Madeleine looks it over. “How does it work?”

           “A magnetized slug is propelled down a miniaturized rail by a series of solenoid coils,” Irena begins, then realizes the question is not an academic one, but practical.  “Oh.  You hold it like this.”  She adjusts Madeleine’s grip on the gun, ignoring the feeling of smooth skin under her fingers – not a sensation she is used to, and it is not the time to get distracted.  “Good.  Flip this switch, and – you see the depression on the back?  Use your thumb.”

           Madeleine lets out an involuntary shriek as she accidentally gives Zizhuang’s back room a new hole in the drywall.  The pistol makes a slight buzzing noise; the impact of the round against the wall is far louder.

           Irena smiles.  “Only use it if I’m taken out and can’t help you.  You really have never fired a gun before?  Never gone to one of the equatorial colonies and rented one at a shooting range?”

           “Some people have never been offworld,” Madeleine says, her tone a bit frosty.  “Some people have never had sex.  I, until today, have never fired a gun.  Would you give someone a hard time for one of those other things?”

           “No,” Irena says, trying and failing to hide her sudden feeling of awkwardness.  “I wouldn’t.”

           Madeleine looks more closely at her.  “Oh.  Oh.  You said – about your parents.  The whole asexual-reproduction thing.  I’m sorry.”

           Attempting to seem cavalier, Irena waves the observation away.  “You had no idea.  Holster that and let’s get moving.”

           They head out the emergency exit, which should trigger an alarm but naturally fails to.  The silence between them is tense as they reemerge onto the broad pedways of Olympic City’s main thoroughfares, Irena’s chosen route for the protection offered by the crowds.  Finally, Madeleine speaks up.  “Look, I am sorry.  I just was flustered and wasn’t thinking.”

           “It’s fine.”  Irena sweeps her gaze over the crowd, still not seeing any telltale lingering stares or obvious tails.

           “Can I ask you another personal question?”

           Irena sighs.  “If I say no, will you ask anyway?”

           “No, I won’t.  I’d respect your choice.”

           “Well, ask.  Again, I can always choose not to answer.”

           Madeleine hesitates, then opens her mouth to speak.

           In that moment, Irena – glancing over her shoulder at Madeleine – sees the glint of metal in the crowd behind her.  Her mecheyes highlight the object, just as they did last night: a military-grade plasma projector.

           Irena shoves Madeleine out of the way of the first burst, narrowly avoiding it herself.  She whips her gauss pistol out of its holster and returns fire, putting a Crippler in the right arm and leg of the grim-faced man who just tried to shoot her – charge? friend? – in the back.  He screams and crumples to the ground, plasma projector skittering along the ’crete.  Five other dark-clothed, grim-looking men within the crowd begin moving in much faster. Irena swears.  If she hadn’t been flustered by the conversation, maybe she would have noticed them earlier –

           “Run,” she says, and gives Madeleine a sharp push into motion.  Fortunately, Madeleine doesn’t ask questions; she just flees in the direction Irena indicated.  Plasma bolts begin howling after them as the pedestrians, realizing that they are in the middle of a shootout, begin to scatter.

           Irena drops two more of their pursuers with shots to the arms and legs.  A plasma bolt slams into her chest, lifts her off her feet, and sends her flying to land hard on her back two meters away.  Her combat jumpsuit absorbs and diffuses most of the thermal energy of the bolt, but it still feels like someone struck her in the sternum with a heavy ball of white-hot metal.  Irena rolls backward up onto her feet, dodges two more bolts, and shoots the third man in the gut, folding him up and leaving him writhing on the pavement.

           The remaining two exchange a glance, then stop their pursuit, fading back.  Madeleine rounds a sharp corner, gasping, and leans hard on the wall until Irena catches up with her.  “Holy shit!” she says, looking at the still-smoldering scorch mark in the center of Irena’s chest.  “Are you okay?”

           “I’ll live,” Irena says shortly.  “They are probably calling for backup.  We need to get to the bank, now.”

           They run, Irena not bothering to conceal her pistol, Madeleine not bothering to draw hers.  For five tense, silent minutes, they bolt through back alleys and side streets, abandoning the now-dubious protection of the thoroughfares for the relative anonymity of paths less traveled.  In the distance, sirens begin to wail, their volume rapidly increasing as they draw nearer.

           “Will the OCPD help us?” Madeleine gasps between panting breaths.  “Can they all be on Greene’s payroll?”

           “I’m not risking it,” Irena tells her, skidding around one last turn and arriving at their destination.  “Come on.”

           They are in an apparent dead-end alley, much like the one from which Irena rescued Madeleine only hours ago.  This one, however, has an access hatch for sewage maintenance tunnels embedded in the pavement.  It opens at Irena’s command; she spent an hour earlier today hacking it, in case they needed an alternate route to the bank.

           The maintenance tunnels are made from plascrete.  Clean, well-lit, and odorless, unlike the sewage lines for which it provides access, this particular tunnel also happens to run in a nearly straight shot to the public park right behind the Olympic First Bank that is their destination.

           “Are we almost there?” Madeleine asks, gasping.

           “The hatch ahead leads out into a park near the bank,” Irena tells her.  “I’ve already rigged it up.  All we need to do is hit this button, and –”

           She presses the RELEASE button on the wall-mounted keypad below the egress hatch.  Nothing happens.

           For a moment she just stares at it, frowning, until she notices something odd: a fingernail-sized black spot on the wall next to it.  It is a bead transceiver, a device capable of receiving and sending messages.

           A smooth, male voice emanates from it even as she looks at it.  “I don’t really know who you are, or why you’re helping Duvier,” the voice says. “You’re good, but you’re too easy to track.  I watched you prepare this backup route for yourself and knew you’d just need a push to want to take it and get off the street.”

           Irena feels an unaccustomed quiver of fear crawl through her guts.  “What do you want?”

           “Duvier,” the man on the other end says.  “Send her up, alone and unarmed, and there’s no problem. Fail to do that, and we have a big problem.”

           “Go to hell,” Irena says before Madeleine can say something, noble or otherwise.

           She can almost hear the man’s shrug.  “Suits me just fine.  I don’t get paid unless I bring Duvier in myself, so I’m not telling the OCPD goons where you are.  I’m just going to keep you bottled in there until you’re in a compliant mood.  Just say ‘please, sir’ to turn this back on. I’ll be looking forward to your call.”

           The transceiver switches off.

           And then, so do the lights.  She is back in the dark.

           There is a voice coming from far away.  Irena cannot understand what it is saying.  She is nine years old again, trapped in her room, and her parents have taken away her eyes.

           She flails, blindly, with her hands, trying to find the familiar landmarks – a bedpost, a nightstand, her body-contouring morphchair.  They have taken everything away.  There is nothing but cold walls.  They have taken her animal friends, her puzzles, her flatscreen terminal.  There is nothing.

           No, there is still something.  A small, rectangular object, many fine leaves of paper enclosed in a thick, hard covering.  The paper is covered in bumps and ridges.  Later, when she asks Father Makoto what it is, he tells her it is the Blue Protestant Reformation Bible – the holy book of the Church of St. Joan, a text she has read and been forced to read many times, a text she cannot help but know by heart – in a kind of writing system called Braille.  Father Makoto tells her she will learn to read again, with this book, and she will not be allowed to leave her room or have any of her things returned until she does so.

           And what happens when I do it? she asks. Will I get my eyes back?

           No, Father Makoto says.  Your eyes are gone.  You forfeited the gift of vision when you set your sights on heresy.

           And she wants to cry, but she cannot.  The tears do not come.  Not anymore.

           She is alone in the dark.

           How long she stays gone, Irena has no idea.  The faint voice from before seems to get closer and closer, slowly but steadily. Finally it begins to be accompanied by a physical sensation – a warm hand on her shoulder, gently shaking her. The dim noises of the voice resolve into words she can understand.

           “Irena?”

           Madeleine, it is Madeleine.  They are doing something, somewhere.  Irena has difficulty remembering what and where. She just remembers seeing Madeleine in trouble and wanting to help.  Feeling that she needed to help.

           “Irena, can you hear me?”

           It is so hard to respond, so very hard, but Irena forces herself to.  “Yes,” she says, the word coming out as a slurred croak, barely recognizable.

           “Irena, it’s Madeleine.  Do you know where you are?  Do you know who you are?”

           “Yes.”  The word is stronger this time, though producing it is still a monumental undertaking.

           Madeleine levers her into a sitting position – no easy feat, given that Irena is ninety kilograms of muscle and subdermal augmentations.  “What happened?  The lights went out, you shrieked, and you went fetal.  I’ve been trying to talk to you for what feels like hours.”

           How can she even begin to explain?  How can she make this woman, this stranger, understand?

           “The dark,” Irena finally forces out.

           “What about the dark?  Are you nyctophobic?”

           Irena manages a shake of her head, her locs making soft bumping sounds as they brush against the plascrete wall behind her. Then she remembers that, in the pitch black, Madeleine will not see the movement.  “No,” she says.  “My eyes. They took my eyes!”  She hears her voice rising in panic and can do nothing to arrest it.

           “Your eyes are fine.  I can see them right now, they’re the only light source in here.”

           Forcing herself to focus, to push through the buzzing noises and mounting terror in her head, Irena realizes she has unconsciously closed off her sensorium to input from her mecheyes.  She had done that before, to block the pain and phantom images.

           When she lets that sense click back on, she sees Madeleine’s face, extremely close to her own, illuminated faintly by the light from Irena’s mecheyes.  The soft green glow barely extends beyond that, but instantly Irena can breathe a little easier.  She can see. Her eyes are fine.  She is not alone in the dark again.

           “Hey,” Madeleine says, obviously recognizing the eye contact.  Irena swallows as she becomes aware of other sensations she had been blocking out – the warmth of Madeleine’s breath on her lips, the feel of Madeleine’s hands on her shoulder and knee.  “Glad you’re back.”

           “Yes,” Irena says, fighting the instinctive urge to try to draw farther away.  It would be both rude and useless, given that there is a plascrete wall up against her back.

           Besides, she cannot deny the closeness is helping her. “I am.”

           “What happened?” Madeleine asks again.

           “The lights went out and I was not ready for it,” Irena tells her.  “It caused a dissociative episode.  I have post-traumatic stress disorder relating to my childhood, and darkness is a trigger for it.”

           “I see.”  Madeleine’s lips quirk in a sympathetic grimace and she gives Irena’s shoulder a squeeze.  She shifts her weight off her feet – she had been crouching in front of Irena – and collapses into a sitting position next to her.  “How long have we been down here?”

           Irena checks her social aug’s internal clock. “Two and a half hours.  I am so sorry.”

           “I’m the one who’s sorry.  You’re only here because you tried to help me.”  Madeline shakes her head, anger twisting her expression. “We should just say that galling phrase the guy told us to use and I’ll go up.  At least that way you won’t be stuck in here any longer.”

           “No,” Irena tells her.  “I can counter whatever he’s done to the computer system controlling this maintenance tunnel.  I just – I needed to be in my right mind to do it.”  She tries to get to her feet and fails, for the first time in as long as she can remember.  Her muscles betray her and she slumps back down into a half-sitting, half-supine position, her arms and legs a quivering, spasming mess.  She swears in a language she doubts Madeleine knows.  “And I need to be able to give battle when the door opens and our captor puts up a fight.”

           “Are you all right?” Madeleine asks.

           “These dissociative episodes can cause desynchronization with the augmented portion of my nervous system,” Irena tells her.  “My brain patterns go so far off of normal that the system registers it as a seizure and shuts itself off to prevent me from hurting myself or others.  Turning it back on is supposed to be done with the assistance of a trained lab crew, an input terminal, and an AI.”

           Madeleine cringes.  “So… we’re fucked?”

           “No.”  Irena begins to concentrate, directing electrical impulses within her own body, something she hasn’t done consciously in years.  “But I do need a few hours to do it myself.”

           Gawking at her, Madeleine doesn’t bother to conceal her shock.  “You can reconnect your nervous system?  Don’t we have literally millions of neurons?”

           “About a hundred billion, actually, with thousands of connections each,” Irena says dryly.  “It’s not that my nervous system is disconnected, but it’s conditioned to operate with the augmented portion active, and that augmented portion is waiting for the proper electrical signals to reactivate it, connection by connection. There are about nine hundred thousand of those.”

           “And you can fix it in a few hours?”

           “I’ve already reactivated about seven thousand of them since you asked me if we were fucked.  I just need time and concentration.”

           Madeleine nods slowly, a smile spreading across her face. “You think we’re going to be okay?”

           “I think our friend upstairs is going to be in for quite a surprise,” Irena tells her.  “He doesn’t know who he’s dealing with.”

           There is little to do while Irena works.  Until her nerves are completely resynchronized, she doesn’t want to try to move, and Madeleine is silent, letting her concentrate. About two hours in, however, she speaks up, so softly Irena almost thinks she’s talking to herself.

           “I did want to say sorry,” Madeleine says. “About what I said before.”

           Trying to ignore the pins and needles in her arms and legs as the process of manual resynchronization continues, Irena asks, “What would that be?”

           “Comparing never firing a gun to never having had sex. I know the whole concept of virginity is ridiculous and old-fashioned, but it was the first thing that came to my mind.  It clearly made you uncomfortable, and I’m sorry for that.”

           Irena cracks a smile.  “We’re trapped in a maintenance tunnel by a mystery man who is going to be doing his best to kill us in about an hour, and this is what’s on your mind?”

           “Of course it is.  Don’t you obsessively replay every social interaction where you’ve committed a faux pas over and over, torturing yourself with it?  I’ve been sitting here with nothing to do for two hours, and eventually you get bored of worrying about death and start worrying if you’ve offended your friend.”

           Irena feels her smile broaden.  “So we’re friends, then?”

           “I would hope so.  At least.”

           “At least?”

           Madeleine is quiet for a long, telling moment. Then, “You’ve never met the right person?”

           Irena feels her heart rate begin to pick up. “No, I haven’t.  I find men uninteresting, and most women think I’m intimidating.”

           She hears Madeleine give a soft laugh.  “Most women are idiots.”

           Sparing the concentration to turn her head, Irena gazes at her in the glow of her own mecheyes.  The soft green light casts Madeleine’s elfin features into stark relief. Her skin, already pale, seems almost translucent.  Irena can see the beat of the other woman’s pulse beneath the flesh of her throat. “Most women?”

           “Look, I get that this is quite literally the worst possible time to be talking about this kind of thing,” Madeleine tells her. “But knowing you’re probably going to die in an hour or less kind of reshuffles priorities, doesn’t it?”

           “I have to confess I’m used to it,” Irena says, trying to sound nonchalant and knowing she’s failing.  “But I can understand how being in this situation for the first time might be an enlightening experience.”

           “Very.  I’ve never been a damsel in distress before.  Apart from being shot, threatened, and about to die, I have to say it’s got its perks.”  Her eyes flit up and down Irena’s body, a lightning glance that begins and ends at her face, and she gives a surprisingly coquettish smile.  “Beautiful, dangerous rescuers, for one.”

           Irena feels the traitorous blush again, so strong that she is irrationally convinced Madeleine can see it through the near-blackness.  “You have me at a disadvantage,” she says, trying desperately to remember what people in these circumstances are supposed to say.  Witty, charming things, mostly, she thinks.  “I’m not used to being flattered.  I don’t know how to respond to it.”

           In her estimation, she thinks she falls short of that particular benchmark, but Madeleine chuckles, a low, pleasant sound. Irena feels goosebumps rise up and down her arms, goosebumps which have nothing to do with her resynchronizing nerves. “I don’t have a social aug, you know,” Madeleine teases her.  “If that was a lie, it was a pretty good one, because I couldn’t tell you one way or the other.”

           “I don’t like to lie,” Irena replies.  “I was only caught lying twice as a child, but the consequences were memorable.”

           She realizes, as soon as she’s said it, that it was precisely the wrong thing to say.  The mood dims as Madeleine’s smile fades.  “I’m sorry for whatever happened to you.  For what it’s worth, I wish I could have helped.  No idea how, just…”  She shrugs, listlessly.  “I just wish.”

           “Thank you.”

           A long silence passes.  Irena reactivates more of her augmented nervous system. Finally, Madeleine speaks again. “What did happen to you?”

           The shock is severe enough that Irena miscalculates one of the nerve impulses and shocks herself.  Her left pinky finger begins to twitch, the flesh on the back of the digit crawling in an unnatural pattern.  She instantly compensates and gets control back, hiding the brief flash of pain from Madeleine.  “It’s not something I talk about,” she says.  “With anyone.”

           “I’m not just ‘anyone,’ am I?”

           Irena opens her mouth to issue a flat denial, but the words stick in her throat.  True, she has only known Madeleine for less than a day, but she isn’t wrong.  She is no longer just anyone.  No one, not Julian Thorne, not the few coworkers and subordinates she trusts enough to consider friends, no one has seen her brought so low by a simple change in the lights.  And yet, instead of thinking that she’s pathetic, or useless, Madeleine has been – sympathetic.  Understanding.  Irena realizes the exigency of the situation has, against all odds, not diminished Madeleine’s opinion of her.

           “The truth,” she says, slowly and carefully, “is that talking about it may upset me enough that I miss a crucial nerve connection or make a cascading miscalculation.  I need my focus if we’re going to get out of here alive.  So I will make you a promise: after this is over, if we’re still both standing, I will tell you.”

           “Okay,” Madeleine says, equally grave.  “I’ll hold you to that.”

           With renewed focus, Irena finishes reactivating her augmented nervous system in record time.  She climbs to her feet, tests her dexterity with some stretches, some simple katas from a few of the many martial arts she has learned since striking out on her own.  She turns to Madeleine, nods.  But before she can speak, Madeleine makes a shushing gesture, grabs her hand, and drags her over to the opposite side of the tunnel, where they first entered.

           “What?” Irena asks.

           “I have a plan,” Madeleine says.

           Eight minutes later, Irena watches the distaste on Madeleine’s face as she says, “Please, sir,” to the transceiver.

           The smooth, male voice returns.  “Took you long enough.  Starting to get thirsty?  Maybe needing to use the ladies’ room?”

           “I’m coming up,” Madeleine says.  “Open the hatch.”

           “Right,” their captor laughs.  “Unarmed, just you, your friend stays down there and finds her own way out?”

           “That’s the deal.”

           “I warn you that if you try anything stupid you’ll regret it.  There might be a way for you to come out of this alive, but not if you fuck with me.”

           “I hear you,” Madeleine says.  “Open the damn hatch.”  She looks at Irena, nods, and winks.

           The hatch hisses open, and Madeleine slowly climbs out.

           Irena sprints.  She runs faster than she ever has in her life.

           The plan is quite simple, if multi-layered. They spent the time at the other end of the tunnel productively, Irena hacking the hatch there to open on the same signal as the park exit.  It was the only way to avoid the watchdog AI their enemy had set up around the programming of the park hatch, and the only way for Irena to also gain her freedom from the maintenance tunnel.

           She erupts back out into the alley, a single augmented leap taking her three meters straight up out of her dark prison.  The renewed sunlight would dazzle any other person, but her mecheyes adjust automatically, apertures retreating in a fraction of a second.

           Irena tears out of the alley, back along the pedways, heading full-tilt for the direction of the bank.  The fastest she has ever clocked herself was forty-five kilometers an hour.  She hits fifty as she half-runs, half-leaps down the pedway, plascrete cracking with the force of each of her footfalls.  She clears the two hundred and eighty-nine meters of complicated city travel from the alley to the park in less than twenty-one seconds.  Her eyes scan the surroundings as she slows to a manageable speed: evergreens and grasses genengineered to grow in Martial soil, pedestrians picnicking or out for a stroll – there.

           Madeleine is fifteen meters away, being roughly escorted by a heavily-modified, male-presenting cyborg.  All of his limbs are obvious chrome, and his eyes are hidden behind a reflective polymer visor built into the front of his skull.  There is a strange blurriness to his features – some kind of distortion field, perhaps.

           He hears Irena coming, of course.  She can see his lips distort in a swear, the casual, brutal ease of the way he throws Madeleine to the ground as he turns to confront Irena.  But she has fought men like this and won, many times.  The gauss pistol is already in her hand.  She snaps it up and fires –

           He disappears.  One moment he is standing there, and the next he is gone, as though he were jump-cut out of existence.  Irena gapes as her Cripplers sail through the spot he occupied only a second ago, embedding themselves in the trunk of a tree in a spray of pulped wood.

           Something slams into her hand, sending the gauss pistol flying.  Something else crashes into Irena’s chest, right where she was struck by the plasma bolt. She feels a rib give way under the impact.  The force of the strike slams her onto her side, legs spilling up out of the access hatch. She tries to roll with the impact, scrambling back to her feet, and is just in time to see a nigh-invisible blur rush at her.

           The next attack, her opponent still invisible, cracks against the side of her head.  Frantically, she switches her mecheyes from the normal human-visible spectrum to infrared, then ultraviolet, then even x-ray, but their enemy is wearing a wraithshroud, the tech more bleeding-edge than anything Irena has ever seen.  His emissions are almost perfectly masked, all but undetectable in every spectrum. For a hired gun to have access to this kind of technology, Vice-Governor Greene must have some serious connections.

           She takes another punch to the chest and feels the breath explode from her lungs.  As she tries to suck in enough air to keep herself going, to retaliate, the faint blur seems to levitate a meter into the air.  She realizes her opponent is leaping up into a spinning kick when the toe of his boot makes contact with her skull, just behind her left ear.

           Everything goes pitch black.

           It seems that she is there, alone, in the dark, for ages.  But it must have only been a few seconds, because Irena hears Madeleine’s voice again. “Wherever you are, just – shoot me, take me, do whatever you want.  Just leave her.  She’s nobody, I just hired her to get me here.  Just let her go and I’ll cooperate.”

           For a long, terrible instant, Irena is tempted to stay in the dark, to let Madeleine go.  The words hurt, after all.  But then she comes to her senses.  Madeleine is trying to play for time.  The woman who helped her through the dark down in that tunnel would not abandon her now.

           Irena Matsuo Mtukudzi gets to her feet.  She does not open her eyes.  The dark is still all around her, but Madeleine’s voice, her presence, has cut through it.  She has reminded Irena that the dark is weak.  She has conquered it once before.

           And she will do it again.

           “I’m not done yet,” Irena says.  “And –” she takes a gamble, based on this man’s insulting, patronizing egotism – “maybe this time you can try not to hit like a girl.”

           The crunch of boots in grass stops short. There is a distinctive scrape, the sound of someone turning without lifting their feet.  Irena keeps her eyes closed and moves in.

           She phases out the distant wail of sirens, the shocked outcries of pedestrians, the barking of the dogs.  All she hears is the whisper of air being cut by scything limbs, the ragged, human sounds of breathing, the telltale rustling of grass and dirt underfoot.  Angry, pride injured, her opponent overextends, tries for a wild haymaker to her jaw.  She fades to one side, catches his arm between her own.  Through the thin nanofiber of the wraithshroud, which rasps against her skin like cold, liquid silk, she can feel the hard, inhuman lines of one of his full-replacement bionic arm.

           So she plants her feet, locks her arms around his limb, and tears it out of his shoulder socket with one violent, twisting wrench.

           He screams.  She opens her eyes, sees him staggering away from her.  His entire body, from head to feet, is covered in what looks like a thin coat of plastic – the wraithshroud, its camouflage shorted out. That explains the visual distortion she detected earlier.  Where Irena tore his arm from his shoulder, sparks fly, and thick, dark lubricant seeps.  The wraithshroud has been torn in a jagged line.

           Irena readies herself to go another round with the man.  She is bleeding internally, even her hyper-specialized body not immune to the simple realities of ruptured organs from blows with metal fists.  If he gets in another good hit, he may well kill her.

           But Madeleine, who is standing behind him, now totally forgotten by him, has other ideas.  Executing her part of the plan, she pulls out the gauss pistol hidden at the small of her back, takes aim at his back, and pumps twelve Cripplers into his torso.  

           He staggers.  Even that doesn’t put him down completely – Irena estimates there is less than twenty-five percent of his actual, human body left.  But he collapses to one knee, gasping, and cranes his neck around to stare at Madeleine.  “You,” he rasps, “were supposed to be unarmed.”

           “We certainly said we were going to send me up unarmed, didn’t we?” Madeleine asks.  “We said it quite loudly, right next to that transceiver that you’d supposedly turned off.  Didn’t we, Irena?”

           “Yes we did, Madeleine,” Irena replies, enjoying the look of dawning realization on her opponent’s face.  “Someone isn’t as clever as they think they are.”

           He snarls up at her.  “You fucking b-”

           Irena grasps his severed limb firmly by the wrist and hits him over the head with the other end.

           He drops, unconscious, to the grass.

           Eighteen whirlwind hours later, for the second time in as many days, Irena finds herself in Julian Thorne’s office.  Her chest is encased in a pressure bandage to keep her three broken ribs from shifting while they heal, and there is a cortical monitor affixed to her left temple to track the nanosurgical correction of her concussion. But she is on some good painkillers and is flush with a feeling of accomplishment, so in the final analysis she decides things are not too bad.

           She glances to her right, at where Madeleine sits, and thinks that things might, perhaps, even be said to be good.

           “Well,” Thorne says, looking up from the datafeed embedded in the surface of his desk.  “Vice-Governor Greene has been arrested by Coalition authorities.  So have a number of OCPD officers in his unofficial employ, as well as a one-armed, extremely angry cyborg mercenary wanted on six planets for murder, grand larceny, and dozens of other charges.  Apparently the DA has been sitting on a mountain of circumstantial evidence about Greene’s less-than-reputable business dealings and has just been waiting for a charge to pin on him.  Conspiracy to commit murder is certainly a juicy one.  They brought an entire assault ship of Praetorian Guards in from Earth just for him and his co-conspirators.”

           Irena feels her eyes widen slightly in shock. “They don’t do that for just anyone.”

           “No, they do not.  He has been, to put it mildly, a very bad boy.  Governor Shido is cooperating fully with the Praetorians’ investigation.  I expect he’s hoping to dodge any Senate hearings back on Earth by making his innocence clear.”  Thorne turns to Madeleine.  “I expect, Ms. Duvier, that you were targeted for death because you threatened to tell the press ‘everything he’d done.’  You only meant the harassment, but…”  He shrugs eloquently.  “Crime makes men paranoid.”

           “Fuck,” Madeleine murmurs with a small shake of her head.

           Thorne leans back, steepling his fingers.  “This is going to dominate the news cycle.  If it’s all the same to you, Irena, I’d prefer you to decline any interview requests.”

           Irena nods.  “A good chief of security should be invisible.  I never will be, but I can at least keep a low profile.”

           “Thank you.”  Thorne makes a show of checking his ridiculous antique watch.  “Well, I believe I have a meeting with the board. Feel free to sit a spell and talk, if you like.  Just see yourselves out when you’re done.  And Ms. Duvier, I will expect your resume on my desk by noon tomorrow.  If we’re going to find you a job here, I’ll need to know what you can do.”  He grins. “Apart from being very clever and shooting a man in the back.”

           Madeleine blushes fiercely, but nods.  Thorne gives her an exaggerated wink and ambles out of his office.

           “I wanted to thank you,” Irena says, before Madeleine can speak.

           “Oh?”

           “Yes.  You helped me through the dark, and didn’t leave.  I – I do not have the words to express how grateful I am for that.”

           “And I don’t have the words to tell you how grateful I am.  For my life.”  Madeleine tentatively reaches out and takes Irena’s hand in her own.  “Why did you help, anyway?  It wasn’t just because Mr. Thorne told you to.  You made a decision when you saw me in the alley.  What was it?”

           Irena takes a moment to find the proper words. “I think I can explain by keeping my earlier promise to you.”

           “Telling me about your childhood?”

           “Yes.  I told you before about the Church, that I ran away.  That is true.  What I did not tell you is that they caught me, during my first attempt.  And in order to ensure I did not escape a second time, they burned out my eyes.  They blinded me.  I was nine years old.”

           Madeleine swears, softly, and squeezes Irena’s hand. “That’s horrible.  I am so sorry.”            “Thank you.  I did escape, though, on my second attempt.  And yesterday, when I saw you in the alley, I saw myself.  Alone, in the dark, surrounded by people who were going to hurt me.  I suppose I thought that if I could save you…”  Irena shrugs, trailing off.  

           “I think I understand,” Madeleine says.

           Irena looks down at Madeleine’s small, soft hand, almost half the size of her own, and clears her throat.  “So.  Would you like me to arrange a car to take you back to your apartment?”

           “Only,” Madeleine says, “if you’re in the car with me.”

           The traitorous blush starts rising in Irena’s cheeks again.  “I –”

           “You said that most women find you intimidating. I said most women are idiots.  I wasn’t just making small talk.” Madeleine gets to her feet.  “I just survived a crooked politician trying to have me murdered, so I’ll be damned if I let myself get cold feet about this.  I’ve already said I think you’re beautiful, and I have since the second I woke up and saw you standing at the side of my bed.  You’re also my hero, and deserve a little worship.  Come home with me, I’ll make you some herbal tea for your aches, and we’ll see if we can find a movie we both like.  How does that sound?”

           Irena swallows.  It is utterly absurd, but at this moment she is more petrified than she was when staring death in the face.

           She remembers Madeleine’s voice, cutting through the dark.  She remembers her face, illuminated in the light of her eyes.  And, just now – you’re also my hero.

           “That sounds lovely,” Irena says.  Still holdings hands, they leave the office together.

           And later – much later – Irena allows herself to be persuaded to turn out the lights for the first time in twenty years.

[jimlingss]

Brass & Strings [9]

Episode 8 - Episode 9 - Episode 9.5 OR Episode 10 Words: 5.2k Genre: Fluff, Humour (?), Slice of Life, Music!Au, College!Au Summary: Have you ever wondered what happens to the mean girl after high school? Where do they go, where do they end up? More importantly, what happens when they get mixed up with the classic nerd that's always too nervous to answer 'no'? Things become a lot more complicated when Kim Namjoon encounters you. They dub you as 'bat-shit insane' and you're not ashamed.  Notes: This part is inspired by this which actually inspired the entire series.

Cr.

[3 Years Ago]

The cold nips at your skin and you shiver in your thin clothes, shaking in your bones while the dim light of the lamp post is the sole luminescence. For a mere moment, a sickening dread washes over you, causing you to become nauseous to your very core. Did he leave you behind?

There’s no way.

But you can’t help looking down the road, teeth sunk into the bottom of your lip, rocking back and forth in your dirty shoes. No. You believe in him. It’s impossible that he’ll go against his word. He won’t abandon you…..

He’s the only one you have left.

“Fucking finally!” You shout aloud, stomping up to the dingy car as it pulls up on the curb.

It sounds like it’s running on rocks, making chugging noises and barely holding on. The vehicle is a stark contrast to the luxurious neighborhood. The boy inside winces when you get in and slam the door harsher than necessary. “Hey! You’re going to break it, brat!”

“Where the fuck have you been?! I’ve been waiting for twenty goddamn minutes!”

“There was traffic, you ungrateful piece of shit! I nearly got ticketed for speeding here. Do I get no thank you’s?!”

“No,” you huff out while crossing your arms, turning your head to look out the window. Your house stands behind the gate and in the middle of your noisy argument, the lights inside flicker on. It’ll be any moment now that your parents will look out the window and realize where you’re going or more specifically, who you’re with. “Just drive!”

The nineteen year old grumbles and shifts the gear into place, leaving the street behind you.

Yoongi doesn’t speak a single word. You don’t either, leaning your forehead on the cool window, staring out at the passing nighttime sceneries and the other cars who are most likely making their way home. No one at midnight would go anywhere anyways, except for the two of you.

“Why have you been so catty?” Your cousin finally pipes up, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

You’d turn on his radio but it’s broken. “As if you care.”

“Just tell me if you’re PMS-ing so I can avoid you for the rest of the night,” he chides in a sassy tone that has you scoffing with a smile.

“Bitch...fine…” Your arms are still crossed but you sit up straight, peeling the bright paint off of your fingernails. “I’m going to run away.”

His eyebrow perks and he steals a glimpse of you before focusing back on the road. “Oh?”

“My parents want me to go to their university or whatever after high school. But I’d rather die than work an office job for the rest of my life or teach damn science to a bunch of dimwits.”

Yoongi chuckles, “yeah...you don’t really fit the whole professor narrative.” As a seventeen year old, you’re already surprised that you made it this far through high school without dropping out or getting expelled. “What are you planning?”

You shrug. “I’m probably going to pack up a suitcase, withdraw like a good few thousand dollars.”

“Where are you gonna stay?”

“I dunno.” You’d never admit it to him but you haven’t thought up all the details yet. “Maybe I’ll take a plane out of this shit ass place and I’ll stay at a hotel for awhile. You know, I hear a lot of wealthy folks like to pay young people to go on dates with them.”

“You’re not pretty enough for that.”

You fake a gasp. “Wow, fuck you, I’m gorgeous.”

Your cousin exits the highway, making a left turn and you know you’re getting closer to where the underground concert is. Sometimes it’s a rock show, other times it’s a rap or dance battle. Nonetheless, you enjoy watching the different types of performances. It’s not exactly your kind of scene but it’s different from the usual classy and high-end places that you frequently visit.

“You know, Y/N…..I actually think you should do music.”

There’s a long silence.

You burst out into laughter, slapping your knee, wiping away the water that wells up in your eyes as your stomach squeezes. “And here I thought we were actually having a semi-serious talk. Thanks, asshole.”

“No, I am being serious.”

For once, you know he’s telling the truth. There isn’t a hint of humour or mirth in his voice and Yoongi’s expression is stern, despite you only being able to see his profile. “I think you should do music.”

You scoff, laughs dying down and he continues, “believe it or not, kid, I’ve heard you play and you’re not half bad. You’ve got a really good ear for this sort of stuff. Running away...it won’t do you any good after a while. Take it from someone who’s tried. You’re better off pursuing something decent and actually building a future for yourself.”

You roll your eyes. “You sound like my dumb teacher.”

But you’re secretly hanging onto every single word of your close cousin. He’s in his first year of university after all, having fought with his family to major in composition. If you attended the same place as him, you’d at least have someone with you. “...do you really think I could do it?”

The side of his lip tugs. “I really do.”

“How would I pull it off? My parents would never let me major in music.”

Yoongi’s smile becomes a smirk and his grip on the steering wheel tightens, completely aware of your manipulation skills that’s only getting better as you age. “Oh, I know you’ll figure something out.”

[Present Day]

It’s not surprising that Yoongi doesn’t pick up. He tends to ignore your phone calls and texts, unfazed when you blow up his mobile device. What is shocking, however, is that he actually seems busy.

Aside from grumbling about how early he has to wake up to head to the radio station, his shitty shifts at the music store, having no direction in composing, then he’s complaining about having less than ten hours of sleep. In other words, usually Yoongi isn’t that fucking busy.

But he always has time to talk to you. He’s always there.

You don’t think much of it until you drop by the music store after a particularly nice date with a well-off, rebellious gentleman. Maybe you’re lucky your cousin wasn’t there. He’d certainly ask questions about who the person in the red sports car was.

His co-worker raises her eyebrows, “There’s been a pretty girl dropping by lately.”

One foot is out the door but you’re paralyzed, turning around. “A girl?”

“They come and leave together a lot. I think they might be dating. Did you not know?”

Okay. Whatever.

Yoongi isn't involved with your business. You’re not involved in his. It doesn’t matter to you.

You shouldn’t poke your nose where it doesn’t belong anyways. It’s a mutual relationship of respect and trust. That’s what you remind yourself except-

“What the fuck?”

“Wh-what’s wrong?” Namjoon is immediately on alert, darting his head around to where your eyes are. Your arm slowly lifts and you point straight at the girl sitting in her seat next to the window. “Jennie?”

The concertmistress is innocently writing notes down into her notebook. She colour codes, draws diagrams and has a pencil case full of chubby highlighters. She studies on her rose gold laptop, no less than a real-life doll in a television commercial. But what has shaken you to the very core, caused Namjoon to become worried and concerned is that-

“That’s Yoongi’s sweater.”

//

It’s unmistakable. The white sweatshirt of the band he followed in high school, the black marker signature at the back that your cousin literally dived on stage for. He had taken you that day, snuck you out of your house when you were fifteen for a breath of freedom and during the last performance, Yoongi threw himself to the keyboard player, some Richard guy that you can’t recall completely.

“Y/N.” Namjoon tugs on your arm, forcing you to halt. “What are you going to do?”

You ignore the harpist, shaking off his grip. The suspicions that had slammed itself inside your skull, that made you follow the concertmistress for the past half hour, it’s all confirmed when your eyes pin to the two people across the street. They’re laughing and giggling to each other in broad daylight. Yoongi almost looks...happy.

But you can’t let it happen. “Y/N!”

Your feet cross and they’re still talking to each other until the violinist turns her head. Then, her mouth drops and her eyes enlarge, soaking in your angered expression. “Y/N-”

You rip them apart, shoving her and she stumbles back. Your arm lifts to send a ricocheting slap across her face, one that’ll knock some sense into the bitch but Yoongi instantly covers Jennie with his body.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He shouts, trying to push you back when you try to tackle her again. “Y/N! FUCKING SHIT! You’re psychotic!”

“Let go of me!” You scream at the top of your lungs when your cousin restrains your limbs but you manage to dig your nails into the girl’s scalp, dragging her hair with you. “You bitch! Stay away from him!”

“The fuck?! It’s none of your business!”

“Like hell it is!”

Jennie sobs out and as she reaches up to your hands, she accidentally scrapes her own nails along your skin. The sensation burns and you give a tug on her scalp. Yoongi’s strength is immense, pushing you away but you kick his shin as hard as you can. He falls down and you roughly grab Jennie by her arm, shaking her and pulling on her hair. “Leave him alone! Go find someone else, you bitch!”

There’s a crowd that’s drawing in, murmurs and phones being pulled out. But before mayhem can truly break loose or the police can be called, strong arms curl around your waist.

You’re elevated meters high, feet no longer touching the ground. “Let go of me!”

Namjoon throws you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and he bows, calm and collected despite your fists pounding on his broad backside. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The harpist begins to jog away from the confused horde of people and your bruised up cousin is left with his date. “Kim! Namjoon! Put me the fuck down or I swear to god-”

“You’ll what?!” He retorts with a huff. “What will you do?”

“I-”

“Don’t you know it’s not nice to curse out loud in public? There are children around. It’s not nice to beat up other people either. You can get arrested for that. Didn’t your parents teach you some common courtesy?”

“Namjoon!”

He finally sets you down at some random park where there aren’t many wandering eyes, two full blocks away from where you originally were. “Are you still mad?”

“Yes.” You spit out, flickerings of red appearing in your vision. Your chest heaves and the bruise at your lip, the scratches on your arm don’t faze you. If Namjoon wasn’t Namjoon, you probably would’ve smacked him already for manhandling you like that and for sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong.

“Use your words.” The dimpled boy commands, putting his hands on your shoulders to stop you from marching back there. “You’re an adult, not a toddler throwing a tantrum. Tell me what’s wrong using your words and not through violence.”

If only it were that simple. You don’t know what to say. There is nothing your tongue can spit out that would make the pain any easier.

“He’s my only family.” You inhale, eyes red and stinging. “Families protect each other. And-and….”

Yoongi is the only one you have.

“I hate her.”

He’s your only family. He was once your best friend as well, the brother and ally that you never had. But you’ve been lied to. You were betrayed by him before. While you looked up to him your entire life, aspired to be just like him...he never once solicited your advice, never once talked to you about his own suffering.

Out of the blue, he dropped out of school and abandoned the one thing that you two shared and loved together, music.

You don’t know him. Not the way you thought you did. Your admiration and the bond you thought you shared was one sided. Now, he was dating your enemy. As childish as it seemed to be upset, every single bone in your body screams out in agony.

“I hate her...I hate her…”

“You don’t.” Namjoon somehow manages to soothe you, dissipating your anger away. The red spots in your perception begin to disappear. “She’s a good person. You and I both know that.”

“No!” You push away the boy in front of you, trying to breathe. His presence suffocates you. You want to feel angry, you want to feel rage. Those emotions are less painful than sadness.

“You don’t get to fucking pretend to be my counsellor and try to make things better! You-...you don’t get to stand here and tell me what’s right and wrong. You don’t understand shit about me, Namjoon! Stop….stop trying to act like you care.”

You’re shaking. Namjoon takes a step forward. Your head downcasts to the ground. The kind boy reaches out to hold your hand in his. Teardrops fall like rain from your eyes, wetting the cement by your feet.

“You don’t know what it’s like to have no one.” Your teeth sink into your bottom lip, sobs crashing through your mouth and you hate how weak you are, how vulnerable you’re making yourself. “Y-You don’t know w...what it’s like to….to be left behind.”

You’ve been left behind.

The people around are scared of you. They’re frightened. You can’t even get anyone to stay without threatening them, without being forced in a setting or in a room. Your suitors only care about your exterior, the smile that you plaster on your lips. They don’t know what your major is or your birthday, your last name - the meaningless things that add up to make you who you are.

They don’t care. No one does.

You have no friends, no family, nobody.

You thought you had Yoongi - you’re wrong.

“I...don’t have anyone, Namjoon.”

Your shivering frame is cloaked by his warm body. His arms hesitantly wrap around you before they settle, tapping your back gently. You’re thankful that he’s holding onto you, allowing your tears to drip from your eyes onto his shoulder. It would be humiliating for you if he watched you break down.

“You have me.”

You sniffle, looking up at the sky to stop your sobs. “That’s not true. I made you stay.”

“No.” He smiles, wondering why it was that you felt so fragile in his hold. “I could’ve left a long time ago but I didn’t. I chose to stay.”

There must be three minutes of silence. Maybe more or maybe less.

Once you’ve calmed down and realized the amount of stares you were getting, children who were snickering behind their hands and shielded their eyes, bitter single folks mistaking you two as a couple, you speak up. “Namjoon.” Your voice is hoarse. “You can let me go now.”

“Oh.”

He releases his arms and you quickly dig in your bag for your sunglasses. Namjoon still manages to catch the redness under your eyes and the swollenness before you shield them away. “Are you feeling better?” He smiles to himself as you clear your throat awkwardly.

“Much.” You cross your arms, beginning to walk again. “Let’s never speak of this again.”

The harpist isn’t sure if he can keep that promise but he appeases you anyways. “Okay.”

//

If you aren’t dynamite, then you’re a ticking time bomb. The mere thought of Jennie standing next to your dear cousin still makes you nauseous. You wonder if this is what it feels like in those stories and movies with the older brother protecting his little sister against his own friends.

But in your circumstances, Jennie is someone you already detest.

“We’re just going to run through a few scales and exercises together as warm up before the conductor arrives. Is everyone ready?” The concertmistress lifts her arms and everyone raises their instruments with her motion. The violins are propped on the shoulder, the percussionist holds their mallets and the bassoonists wrap their lips around their reeds.

A little giggle interrupts the session and a few people turn around. “Y/N?”

You’re on your phone, scrolling through some messages and answering some texts. Your instrument is nowhere in sight. The trombonists beside you lean away from your menacing aura. “Hmm?”

“Are you going to participate?”

“Whose authority are you doing this on?” Your pupils flicker upwards, smile void on your lips.

Everyone puts their instruments down. Jennie drops her arms. “I’m the concertmistress.”

“Huh.”

The tension in the room could be cut with a knife. Your classmates swallow hard, averting their gazes and they can sense the fire that is about it ignite. “Will you participate with us?”

“I will but I’m curious as to why you’re the concertmistress.” You look at your nails, flicking off a speck of dirt under them. Your legs and arms are crossed, sitting back in the seat.

“I-”

“Rebecca?” You take a glimpse of the girl in the second seat. “Aren’t you a better player than she is? You’ve been playing for longer and you’ve had more workshop experiences as well. I see you in the practice room a lot. Do you not feel like you are more deserving of Jennie’s position?”

The girl that was dragged into the conversation opens her mouth and closes it. “I-”

Jennie takes a step forward. “Y/N.”

You interrupt all of them. Rose is gaping at you, having no opportunities to interfere and Namjoon is utterly baffled at your disobedience and rudeness. It reminds him of when the both of you first met each other. You were intimidating, unnerving and sharp, a tongue of venom and words that stung of poison. He wonders where the sweet girl he knew went, if she’s hiding underneath the mask.

“Has no one ever questioned the concertmistress before?” There’s silence as your mirthless laugh echoes across the room. You scan the surroundings and the pale faces of all your classmates. “Like, I haven’t ever seen her practicing. If she doesn’t put in the hours, then is she deserving of her seat? It’s kind of odd now that I think about it. How did Jennie get her position? And why do so many professors favour her? Maybe it has to do with her legs being spread-”

“That’s enough, Y/N.”

You look directly into Jennie’s eyes, locking your gaze onto hers. “You pretend to be all innocent and naive, as if you’re a helpless little girl. But you’re really running behind people’s back, fucking their relatives.”

There’s a roaring gasp. People cover their mouths with their hands to stifle the sound. They look around at each other with widening eyes, a simmer of murmurs filling the background. Jennie nibbles on the bottom of her lip, looking like she’s about to weep. Rose stands up but the violinist stops her. “Y/N. Can I talk to you outside?”

“Are you my mother?”

“Y/N.” Her voice does not quiver, does not shake. You’re slightly startled by the stern tone, unable to believe that she had it in her. “As the concertmistress appointed by the conductor for the past year, I require you to step outside the room immediately.”

A flow of curses leaves your mouth in mutters but you follow her. The door is shut and the pair of you face each other.

“You’ve disrespected me in front of our peers. You disrupted the session, insulted me and disregarded my authority.” Jennie inhales, “I know we have private issues but those are private. You are in a professional setting so act like it. If you want to talk to me, curse at me, hit me then do it. I don’t care. But it has to be after practice. In that room, I am your concertmistress. You must respect the position I am in and if you don’t want to, then you can leave.”

She continues to stare at you and you don’t waver. After a second, you notice her pupils shaking. You decide to be merciful. “Fine.”

When the two of you enter the room, it is dead silent.

//

He pushes his glasses up, staring out the lense to the bustling dining hall. “You look miserable. Is there trouble in love town?”

Namjoon raises a brow towards his friend, Taehyung. “What do you mean?”

The saxophonist grins mischievously in response. “Nothing.”

They both sit down together at a table and the harpist asks the other how he’s been doing. Things have been busy lately and they haven’t been able to keep up to date with each other much. “There are some euphoniums who are thinking about dropping out and there’s a competition soon.” Taehyung groans and moans, hitting his hand on the surface of the table. “I’m the section leader and I have no idea what to do! The stress is eating at me, Namjoon!”

The boy gobbles up his sandwich, faking a sob and Namjoon tries his best to encourage the man. There’s a bit of peace as they both chew and the other conversation next to them reverberates down.

“Have you heard?”

“Oh my god. I was there! Y/N totally flipped out. There’s a bunch of rumours and talk going around now.”

“Jennie’s dating Y/N’s relative, right? What a small world. Y/N’s insane though. She totally went bat shit crazy and Jennie had to pull her out of the room. If I were Jennie, I think I would’ve pissed myself. Y/N’s such a bitch. I hope she gets thrown out.”

“Well I heard that it’s not just any relative.” The girl sips on her juice box. “It’s Y/N���s cousin, Min Yoongi.”

“What?!” They dramatically gasp, huddling closer together in murmurs that are all too loud.

“The Min Yoongi?”

“Oh my god.” The third girl appears confused with a frown, hence the other nudges her. “You don’t know who he is? He’s older than us by two years and he dropped out last year. The genius composer.”

“Didn’t he tell off a conductor and then he was put on academic probation because of it?”

The fourth male student who has joined their group nods. “But it turned out the conductor was actually wrong. The school was embarrassed and they didn’t do anything about it, so he dropped out.”

“That’s cool of him,” one whispers out. “Sticking to his guns like that. I wish I had that much courage.”

“You idiot.” The girl hushes her friend. “It was a dumb move. Now he’s out there wasting his talent. I heard he’s homeless and eating garbage. He should’ve just sucked it up. His pride ruined him.”

“I can’t believe Jennie is dating someone like him.”

There’s a ringing screech. They all turn around, ready to berate the person who scooted back their chair so loudly but then their mouths drop yet again. “Are you done?” More people whirl at the sound of your voice and the gossiping group avoids your piercing eyes, gathering together and shutting their lids tight.

You take a step forward but your arm is held back. Namjoon pulls you away and out of the dining hall, abandoning his lunch and poor Taehyung who is completely bewildered.

“Will you stop? It hurts!” Your lie on his gentle grip causes him to drop his hand curled around your wrist. “You’re so fucking annoying! Stop interfering! Dragging me away from places isn’t cute, Namjoon. Can’t you mind your own goddamn business?!”

The students from different majors and faculties glance over from the shouting but they quickly scatter away.

“No. I won’t.”

“What?”

The wind blows through your hair and the blue sky blinds the back of your eyelids. You wish it was dark out or filled with grey clouds, raining perhaps. The nice weather feels like it’s mocking your existence.

“I won’t mind my own business.” He goes on a frenzy, the most serious expression you’ve ever seen on him. “I care about you too much to not, not stick my nose in your business.”

“Who asked you to care about me?!”

“I don’t know, okay?!” The timid boy’s voice is booming and it occurs to you how much taller he is, shadow overtaking your body. “Don’t ask me that. I’m here asking the questions. What were you going to do back there? Were you going to beat them up?”

“I-”

He retorts in a single statement, “you’re childish!”

You stomp your feet, shocked at what he’s yelled out. “Am not!”

“You are! You’re immature. Are you in high school? Do you know it’s assault?! You’ll be put onto academic probation, thrown out! Maybe even arrested! Everything you’ve worked so hard for will be all for nothing. It’s no wonder your parents had such a tight leash on you. You’re a wild animal!”

It’s difficult to refute him when you’ve never witnessed Namjoon lose it. Your entire mouth fills with cotton and you’re aware there’s some truth to what he’s sprouting. You only manage to scream, “that’s rude!”

“What did you tell me about my hand? You said to me that we become nothing without our hands and here you are, swinging it around recklessly! Fighting people and throwing temper tantrums is not cute, Y/N.” It’s unbelievable how he’s used your own words against you. “You’re an adult.”

You feel like you’re being lectured by your parents. But Namjoon doesn’t waver. His pupils don’t shake. You hate it even more because he’s right.

“Fine. I get it.”

//

“What are you doing here?” Their faces dim and Yoongi immediately covers her. “Go away.”

It hurts to be treated like a monster, like the evil dragon. Your once dear cousin is now treating you like a beast, protecting his princess which in reality is some chick he’s met for about a month now. It’s insulting how he threw family out the window for ‘love’. It boils your blood but perhaps you’re being a bit more dramatic than necessary.

“Are you serious?”

“Well if you’re going to start throwing around punches, then yeah.” There’s a slight tug on his lips as he presses his palm to his cheek. “You scratched up my pretty face, brat. It fucking hurt.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. We’re both experiencing all kinds of pains, aren’t we? But I’m not here to talk to you, dumbass.” You point your finger at the shy girl behind him. “I’m here for her. We’re going to deal with our private matters once and for all.”

He looks back at her for any sign of reluctance and she slightly pushes him away. “It’s fine.”

The two of you walk off together and Yoongi’s left beside Namjoon.

“I’m sorry.”

You spit it out without looking at her, though it’s still genuine. “I-I don’t know what to say aside from that. I’m childish, I know. You’re the concertmistress after all. I was rude and you were right about leaving private matters outside the classroom. I should have been more professional.”

“Okay.” Jennie smiles. “Apology accepted.”

You’re shocked at how easy it was. A frown mars your face. “That doesn’t mean I like you or I’m approving of…” You make a gesture wildly, “whatever you and Yoongi are doing. I still hate you very much.”

“That’s fine too.”

“Why are you smiling?”

“I’m just happy.” She merely says, looking over to the children climbing on the playground apparatuses. “I never thought you would apologize to me. So...thank you, Y/N. I appreciate it.”

You two sit down at the park bench, silence filling the spaces.

You break it with a question. “When did it start?”

The violinist reminisces. “A few days after the charity event. I called him...and yeah…”

“You’ve only been seeing him for a few weeks?”

“Yeah.” There’s suddenly an onslaught of guilt that heaves upon your shoulders. When the relationship was already delicate and new to begin with, you had tried to tear and break them apart. If Yoongi had true feelings for her, you were ruining his happiness.

“Do you like him?”

It’s a foolish inquiry but one you ask nonetheless. “Yoongi?” She hums, “I do. I don’t know if I love him….I guess time will tell. But I enjoy his company and I think he’s brilliant. I’ve listened to his recordings, Y/N. I’ve seen his composition work and it’s amazing. He makes me feel warm and I feel inspired just sitting beside him.”

“Yeah. I know the feeling.” You nod. “Are you...serious about him?”

“I am.”

You lean back, exhaling a long breath. “This is gonna be pretty cliche of me but Yoongi’s my only family. If you hurt him, I’ll probably set out my path to destroy you.”

Jennie laughs lightheartedly to your threat. “Okay. I’ll take you up on that offer.” You match her smile and as you get up, she tugs on your limb. “Friends?”

You scoff. “You wish.”

The both of you still laugh together, having made amends properly. It isn’t like high school where you’ll hold it against her, spread rumours, go out and attack her. You’re an adult now and everyone can make their own choices, bear the consequences themselves. It’s no use brooding about something out of your control.

It feels better this way. Namjoon isn’t wrong. The bright sky isn’t as unbearable anymore.

//

It’s extremely awkward between the two males. They’re standing in front of the music shop, watching people enter and listening to the ringing bell chime when the door opens. As Namjoon coughs, he apologizes and Yoongi waves him off.

“Sooo…” He draws out the syllable. “Are you Y/N’s boyfriend?”

“No!” Namjoon protests with a yelp, waving his hands. “I’m not. We’re only friends.”

“I kind of find that hard to believe.” Yoongi smirks. “Are you really just Y/N’s friend?”

“Y-Yes. There’s nothing going on between us.”

“Then….how did you do it?”

The harpist tips his head to the side, confused on what your cousin means. “Pardon?”

“I find you interesting...Kim Namjoon, is it?” The other man nods and Yoongi continues, “if I’m not mistaken then Y/N’s currently resolving her issues by her own initiative. Of all the years I’ve known her, since we were in bassinets together, I have never seen her take the first step before. So let me repeat my question-”

Yoongi’s irises twinkle in curiosity. “How did you manage to control that barbarian?”

“I..” He stutters, “I don’t really know if you can call it controlling…”

“Treat her well. She’s a lot more sensitive than she leads people to believe.” Yoongi pats Namjoon’s shoulder, looking up at him with a proud expression. His impassiveness is spoiled. “I’m glad she has someone around for her. I don’t think I’ve ever been the best influence or mentor for the kid. She’s gone through a lot as well. Try to understand.”

Namjoon quickly pushes up his glasses up the bridge of his nose and nods, making a verbal promise to.

Yoongi muses that the timid college boy who is naive and innocent is quite clever himself. The master manipulator has finally found her match and neither have realized it.

[imnotoikay]

Loss--Giveaway for Shaolinqueen

Here is the story for our second place winner @shaolinqueen ! They wanted the aftermath of the Karasuno game with a side of angst and some IWAOI. And Kuroken which are mentioned but I could not find a good way to have them be bigger in the work and I offed Bokuto, Hanamaki, and Matsukawa as my apology presents for that :) I hope you like it!

Read it on AO3

The loss hurt.

The dropping of that ball near the wooden bleachers. Oikawa’s ravenous eyes glaring off behind him, a red spot growing on his arm where the ball propelled backwards.

The silence seemed to hang forever until—cheers. Screaming fans erupting in shouts to celebrate the great victory of the no longer clipped crows.

Iwaizumi spun around quickly to look at his team. Oikawa was standing now, Iwa had no idea how. He looked so broken. But he quickly attempted to blink it away spreading his arms wide to welcome his team.

Iwaizumi had no idea what he said. His vision blurred and sound seemed to switch in between frequencies like the radio on the bus to the match. He knew he was crying. He could feel the searing tears slide down his cheeks. He could not care less. He felt Oikawa’s arm slam against his back and he forced up whatever pride he could to thank the audience for their support.

He knew his feet were carrying him through the hallways to the changing area, but he was completely unaware of where he was. All he could see was the final ball—how could he have stopped it? How could he have led them to victory? He was the ace—there had to be something he could have done to win.

Now they would not get their fabled chance to take the crown from Shiratorizawa…Their last chance to knock down Ushijima before they all moved forward. What had they trained and fought so hard for all season if not to beat their rivals once and for all?

He ran a shaking hand through his sweat soaked hair as he tried to focus on his breathing to calm down, but all he could see was Oikawa’s broken face when he closed his eyes. His hands and arms stung where the ball ruthlessly pounded into his skin. He could practically feel himself spiking that one hit from Oikawa’s serve as he tumbled into the tables on the side of the court. His head sank, He trusted me…his ace…and I failed him…in our last game together.

The thought came before he had the chance to suppress it. He knew thinking about that would lead him down a long and dangerous road—but it was too late he was already there.

Oikawa would be heading off to the top collegiate volleyball team in the country…and he would be on the sidelines…

This very well could have been the last game he ever played with Oikawa.

Air seemed to stop coming into his lungs. He felt as if he were drowning as he gripped his chest to try and slow his heart and concentrate on breathing. He gasped violently for another breath when a warm hand landed on his shoulder. He opened his eyes for the first time to see Tooru squatting down in front of him. Oikawa placed his hand on Iwaizumi’s cheek to wipe at a long stream of tears and smiled gently at him. Iwaizumi had not even realized he had been crying again.

He blinked rapidly as he attempted to call in his surroundings. He was in the changing area sitting on bench while the rest of Aoba Jousai stood quietly, changed, bags packed at the other side of the room by the door. Tooru kneeled in front of him, also changed into his track suit, two bags slung over his shoulder, the sun setting just behind him through the doorway.

His eyes were red and puffy but there was a twinge of burning pride in his chocolatey eyes. He heard Hanamaki sniffle quietly leaning against Mattsun behind Oikawa.

“The bus is here.” Tooru’s gentle smile remained as Iwaizumi nodded slowly rising to his feet. He stumbled slightly, balanced by Tooru, who grabbed his hand and pulled him quietly out of the room, the rest of the team following dutifully behind their captains.

…

Hajime did not remember falling asleep, but he woke up laying across Oikawa’s lap as the stars danced in the sky outside the bus window. The lights of the bus were off and it was clear that most of their team mates where either asleep or silently mourning the loss of the match. It was such a juxtaposition to that morning where the bus was full of raucous laughter and singing. Now the air felt heavy and uncomfortable whereas before it had been so light and cheery.

He shifted his attention to Oikawa who leaned gracefully against the window. Iwaizumi felt as Oikawa’s hand carded slowly through his hair while his eyes drifted out to the passing cars on the road.

“Stargazing?” Iwaizumi whispered harshly against the oppressive silence. Oikawa jumped slightly at the noise before smiling down at him,

“No, just enjoying a break from your horrible snoring.”

Iwaizumi stuck his tongue out playfully before falling serious again,

“Did you sleep?”

Oikawa shook his head as his eyes shifted back toward the night sky,

“No…but I’m okay, I’m not tired-“

“Bull shit. That was a long ass game everyones tired.”

Tooru frowned slightly,

“You’re sleeping in my bed tonight.”

Oikawa attempted to laugh but it came out more like an exhale as he nodded against the window.

…

[That Asshole Kuroo ;)]

Dude I just saw the coverage of the game and I’m broken I don’t even know what to say to you.

Read 6:35pm

[Kozume Kenma]

Kuroo said to check on you because you didn’t respond to him.

Read 6:36pm

[That Asshole Kuroo ;)]

Bro call me text me are y’all alive?

Read 6:37pm

[Brokuto Koutarho]

BRO I’M SO SORRY FOR YOUR LOSS SHIT MAN I CAN’T BELIEVE THAT SPIKE FROM THE SHRIMP THOUGH THAT WAS AMAZING DAMN WHAT A WAY TO LOSE

Read 6:38pm

[Brokuto Koutarho]

Sorry that was kind of a dick move I shouldn’t have brought that up but it was an amazing serve but I should be more sympathetic I’m sorry.

Read 6:38pm

…

Saying goodbye to the team was hard. They would have practice next week, and they still had several weeks of school to go, but the crushing loss of their dream victory against Shiratorizawa coupled with the future loss of the third years seemed to weigh on everyone’s mind.

Iwaizumi made sure that everyone had someone to walk back to their dorm with as Tooru leaned almost silently on Mattsun. Once the underclassman disappeared down the sidewalk he turned to this three best friends.

“Fuck us,” Hanamaki mumbled as he turned and began walking towards the Senior dorms. Everyone gave a resounded moan as they turned to follow behind him. Tooru shifted from leaning on Mattsun to Iwa like a leaf in the wind, the emotional and physical fatigue finally starting to him them.

The third years walked in relative silence only occasionally complaining about random aches and pains they experienced as they walked. The thrills of getting old Iwa had claimed.

They reached the dorm slower than they usually did. The sky was fully dark by now with the street lamps brightly guided their path. Their classmates populated the area laying in the grass around the large building, some tossing frisbees others chasing after girls as they weaved in and out of the people happily enjoying the warm weather outside the dorm. Everyone seemed to look up at them with excitement but quickly pretended like the had not when Iwaizumi sadly shook his head “no” as they passed. The group entered the dorm and elected for the elevator riding only up to the second floor before making the slow walk down the hallway to their doors. They reached Hanamaki and Mattsun’s first.

“See you in the morning guys,” Hanamaki sighed giving them both a quick hug before kicking his door in. Mattsun shook his head and followed in quickly after them.

They walked to their dorm in a silence that was uncomfortable but necessary. Iwaizumi looked over at Oikawa’s defeated expression. What was he supposed to say to that face? How could he make any of this better? He could never give Oikawa that victory…the one thing he wanted for the past three years.

Oikawa unlocked their door and pushed it open with his toe. The poorly taped polaroids of them flopping in the breeze as the heavy door swung open. Oikawa tossed his bag onto his bed and the flopped forward onto Iwaizumi’s bed with a dramatic sigh.

At least he is being dramatic again, that’s a good sign.

“I can’t believe we lost-“

“I’m sorry-“

They locked eyes as they both attempted to fill the silence. Iwaizumi felt the tugging urge to cry again but he attempted to swallow it. Seeing the shiny tears fall down Oikawa’s cheeks broke his will.

He slowly walked over and flopped onto his back next to Oikawa, their sniffling filling the room. Oikawa easily slithered on top of him locked his arm and leg around Iwaizumi’s body and burying his head into his chest. Iwaizumi wrapped his arms tightly around him at first just grounding him but then eventually tracing slow lines over his neck and back.

“I know how bad you wanted this,” Iwaizumi whispered. The moon illuminated a long streak of white light cutting through the ceiling of the dorm. Pale green starts twinkled across the white ceiling dancing in the moonlight. “Destroy Shiratorizawa”  was hand written on a post it note stuck to the ceiling above Oikawa’s bed. It was a faded pink note, ripped from being taped and re-taped to ceiling after ceiling over the past three years. He swallowed hard and looked over at Oikawa. He was surprised to find him sitting up on the bed looking out the window again,

“We can’t win them all.”

Iwaizumi snorted, “Yeah we could’ve.”

Oikawa frowned shaking his head, “There were two things I wanted more than anything in my whole life…I got one of them…I’m happy.”

Iwaizumi rolled his eyes turning his attention back to the ceiling.

“Yeah and you’re going to kill at that school next year,” he scoffed. The bitterness was unintentional, but he was too vulnerable after the loss of the game today to control the venom that came out at the mention of Oikawa’s perfect future. The thoughts of him sitting on the sidelines, watching, waiting for Oikawa to win game after game. The flashes of him groaning through coursework he would probably hate because nothing mattered more to him than being on the court with Oikawa and now that would be gone.

“Why are you talking about that?”

Iwaizumi turned to find Oikawa staring at him in confusion, his head titled slightly to the side and his eyes impossibly wider than normal. Cute.

Iwaizumi shifted pushing a tucking a long piece of light brown hair behind his pointy ears, “The two things you’ve always wanted…to beat Shiratorizawa,” he struggled to choke out the name, “and to play on a great team in college.”

Oikawa stared blankly before his eyes crinkled into tight lines as he laughed loudly, “You’re so stupid Iwa-Chan! Dumb Iwa-Chan~!” He sang. A rush of anger filled Hajime’s mind as he struggled to push away from his teasing boyfriend, but Oikawa’s death grip on his body made it impossible to move,

“You’re an ass what do you want!?” He grumbled while squirming helplessly,

Oikawa regained full composure instantly and smiled a soft smile that many were never graced with, “You were right about Shira…Shiratorizawa,” he swallowed hard before returning to his smile, “but not the second one silly.” He leaned closer, his long eyelashes teasing against Hajime’s face and he began again, “The only other thing I have wanted as bad as that,” he placed a feather light kiss on Hajime’s nose causing it to wrinkle slightly, “is you.”

His lips found Iwaizumi’s easily and they met with a soft expertise that only comes from experience. After several moments they parted searching for breath. Iwaizumi rubbed his nose against Tooru’s softly watching the other smile,

“It was just a game,” Oikawa whispered lightly.

It was a lie, they both knew it. That game meant more than anything in the world to them—well almost more than anything. There was one thing that would always mean more no matter who was playing volleyball in college, no matter how many times Ushijima would boast about their loss to Karasuno in future meetings, no matter how hard they trained to win that game. Nothing would ever matter as much as the relationship they fought so hard to have. Nothing could ever mean more than their love.

[zuhos-nose]

Past - Yoongi

(gif isn’t mine, credit to owner) (again, I’m not glorifying suicide. I pulled this out of my ass and went with it. I hope this is enjoyable)

It’s raining, just like that night 6 years ago. I’m sitting in the same spot you were lying in when you died. I spend a good portion of my days in that room, going over everything that happened to you in my head to the point of exhaustion. You are me and I am you, the pain one of us felt the other felt too. The banging of fists against a wooden door. Me, shouting for you to open it. The continuous sound of the downpour outside the walls. You, locked away. I begged you not to do it. But I guess it’s not really living being surrounded by the dead. I don’t believe in ghosts. I believe in you. I guess that’s pretty damn close. I cared for you, day in and day out, but you roamed the halls and rooms like the demon following me around. You were that monster, tormenting me, provoking me, hindering me from making a move. That was until you held the weapon to your head. I kicked the door in, moments before the sound of a gun was heard. Yoongi.

~

I find myself under the only lamp in a dark room, tied to a bed with a gag in my mouth. I jerk my arms, panicking while my grunts and muffled cries for help echo throughout the room. I can’t recall my last solid memory, everything being as foggy as my sight under the harsh light. I notice a rusty table towards my feet but the glare from the beacon above me causes my already blurry sight to worsen. There is an item on top, it being the obvious, bulky shape of a handgun. My eyes, now adjusting to the damned lamp, begin to notice my surroundings. Nothing but brick walls that look to be blackened and charred and left alone for years. A faint tapping pulls me back from my haze, no longer thinking about how the hell I got here but what was going to happen to me next. I glance towards the direction of the sound.

Could my mind be playing dirty tricks on me? A shape takes form against the dark walls and approaches my body. I don’t know who would have the motive to take me but-

“It’s been a while.”

It can’t be. That voice. He’s been dead for 6 years. It’s not possible.

“You didn’t think you could get rid of me that easily, did you?” I mumble incoherent curses, struggling even harder to free myself from the ties.

A chuckle leaves the darkness. Finally, the voice steps into the light and rips the gag from my mouth. Yoongi. “You can’t be that dumb. You know exactly who I am, don’t deny your wrong doings. Your past is catching up to you and you’re ignorant if you think it wouldn’t. That’s not how life works. I would know, you took that away from me.” He’s taunting me.

“Don’t act like somebody you’re not, you’re nothing but a liar,” he says while running his fingers through my hair.

He grabs my hand but I can’t move. I’m too mortified by the sight above me. A large hole accentuates his lost eye and hollowed cheeks, while dark, red blood drips onto my face. It’s impossible, I watched his burial, I was at his funeral. I caused his death. “It’s time you finish what you started. You take responsibility for your actions,” he says, shifting his hair to the side, blood still seeping from the opening in his face. “You took on the responsibility to watch over me but you were in over your head. You got tired of having to care for my needs because you had nobody to pay attention to your wants. You selfish bitch.”

Bastard. “YOU did this to yourself,” I yell from my position on the bed. “I did noth-” “YOU did everything. YOU pulled the trigger. I thought it was us, together until the end. But you ended me, you ended us,” he slams his hands onto the table below me causing me to flinch and shut my eyes. “You ended every possibility for me AND you to live a normal life. You wanted to be the good person, the person to take up for the freak and be the hero. You didn’t foresee the outcome, fool.”

He makes his way back to my hands, fumbles with my fingers he once held, and unties them from the posts. The whole situation leaves me speechless, I had stripped the life away him. I killed him before he could kill himself, I was getting rid of him, he was mine. I did it. So why the hell is he here? Finally, deciding to open my mouth, I ask, “Why did you bring me here? Why couldn’t you just leave me be?” “If you were in my position, would you have done the same for me?”

That was my answer.

I shift on the hard mattress, being skeptical all the while getting as far away as I can without getting off the bed. He makes his way to the table, going around to the other side of it. He arranges the pistol and makes his way across the room to the very spot he originated from. Hesitating, I make my way to pick up the firearm and I shift it in both hands. Instead, I turn the safety on and make my way towards him. Looking at him, a tear rolls down my face. There are a million thoughts running through my head but I can’t muster out a single one. I wrap my arms around his thin waist and he doesn’t hesitate to do the same. Stupid shit, he didn’t think this one through. “Fuck you,” I whisper and put the gun against his head. With the safety off and my finger on the trigger, I pull it.

*bang*

And he was gone. No longer haunting me, I chuckle to taunt him, to show my victory all the while dropping the gun to the ground and screaming. I smile, blood running out of my mouth and head onto the floor as my body falls along with it. Laughing and closing my eyes, I realize my mistake. I am him and he is me, I finally died along with the memory of him.

~ BREAKING NEWS

Girl found dead with a gunshot wound to the head. A singular gunshot was heard early this morning in an old, building that burnt down six years ago. The girl was said to be linked to the unsolved murder of Min Yoongi six years ago. More on this story tonight.