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areyouwell · 4 months ago

Text

Memento Mori

Ch.1

Pairing: Logan Howlett x F!Mutant!Reader

Warnings: Violence, slight body horror

Word Count: 8.1K

A/N: Took me long enough. New long-fic comin' in from the left! i know i teased this around three weeks ago (ish) but here's chapter one. not sure this is gonna be as long as Phobophobia but i'm really excited about this one. it's a little darker (yeah i know) but i already love this MC. if anyone wants tagging in this pls lmk, i don't wanna assume everyone who i tagged in Phobophobia wants to be tagged again so i'll start a new list <3

Dividers by @/sweetmelodygraphics

“So, as detailed here, there have been a string of these… murders, I suppose.”

Logan sighed heavily. When he woke up this morning, the one thing he didn’t expect was to be called into Charles Xavier’s office so soon after having breakfast, let alone be greeted with grainy photographs of some of the most horrific murder scenes he’d ever had the displeasure of looking at. Entrails, bones, flesh, eyes. None of it was where it should be, which most of the time, seemed scattered around the floor rather than attached to whichever poor, unfortunate soul who’d had the shitty luck of running into their silent assassin. Charles pointed the telescopic stick towards the mangled jacket of one of the equally mangled victims. Logan couldn’t even tell what gender they were, their face nothing but a bloody pulp.

Almost as if it had been exploded from the inside out.

“This symbol here is the only string that connects the murders, and after doing a little digging,” he nodded thankfully to Ororo, her white hair bobbing with her dip of acknowledgement. “We found they all belonged to the same company, here.” With a click of the remote in his hands, the projection flipped to the next slide, a map of San Fransisco, a large red circle drawn around a location Logan was only somewhat familiar with, only because he’d walked past it a few times.

“It’s a warehouse,” he offered, several heads turning to look at him. “I’ve walked ‘round there couple times. Nothin’ special, s’always buzzin’ with life.” He shrugged thoughtfully, tugging a cigar from his jacket pocket and flicking the Zippo lighter open and shut with his other hand. Charles gave him a slightly irritated look, but he pretended not to notice.”So… What? Our killer’s just popping caps in the head’s underpaid workers? Doesn’t make much sense.”

“That’s what we thought too,” Ororo continued, placing down a few pieces of paper and spreading them about the table. “Until we started to notice a pattern. They’ve been picking off specific shift workers, mainly those on the late shift. But it’s never new members of staff either. Always those who’ve worked there for at least two years. Lately, their security has increased, but once they leave work, they’re basically on their own.” Storm took the remote from Charles and clicked to the next slide, a list of names and hours flaring onto the screen, the names of victims having been crossed out, though their hours were still visible on the row of the rota.

“Ya don’t think this has anything to do with that orphanage incident, do you?” Kitty piped up, cupping her mug of tea in both hands, either for comfort or for warmth, Logan couldn’t tell. She had a good point. It must have been around a month ago now. A fire had started downtown in the dead of night. Officials had said it was a discarded cigarette from one of the employees, but that didn’t explain why all the windows and doors had been locked.

Everyone within burned. Children included.

“It’s certainly a theory…” Scott mused, rubbing his hand against his jaw in thought. “A terrible accident sounded far too much like a cover story. Think this killer had something to do with it?”

Charles sighed heavily. “Ordinarily, yes, I’d have some kind of suspicion, if it wasn’t for the fact our killer was elsewhere at the time.” He nodded to Ororo, who clicked the remote once again. “This was taken not an hour beforehand, on the other side of the city. Unless the killer can teleport, there’s no way they could have made it across town in such a short amount of time, let alone take all the precautions and set alight to the building. Though I do not believe it was merely a terrible accident, I don’t believe they had anything to do with it.” Charles finished before Ororo leant over the pages she’d spread on the table, spinning one to face the rest of the team.

“Though we do have this. A pattern of all the attacks and locations,” Logan stood up to skirt around the table, standing between Kitty and Marie as he inspected the red pen. With every X, the attacks almost formed an exact circle around the warehouse, almost as if the killer could predict which ways those victims would take home. Especially after the first attack. “We think the next one will happen here,” Ororo pointed to a side street far between the locations either side. “The most recent one being here, it’s logical to think they’d take the opposite side. At least, that’s what we’re hoping…” She trailed off, and Logan returned to his seat, having an idea as to what this meeting was actually about.

“You want us to lay a trap, right? Trail several employees home and jump in before Killer McGee can get their hands on ‘em.” He clarified, and Charles nodded a little too darkly for his liking.

“Exactly. Which is why I won’t be asking you all on this mission. We need to avoid detection and sending all of us would be too much of a risk. Whoever this is, we must assume they’re a mutant. These attacks happen quickly and viciously, and to cause such damage in such a short amount of time, we must assume they possess some sort of ability.

“Scott, Ororo and Logan, I trust you can handle this task? I will be in Cerebro with Jean on hand, and the rest I want you on standby in the Blackbird in case backup is required.”

“Wait, we’re doing this tonight?” Marie squeaked, casting a wary glance to Kitty who returned her expression. Logan was relieved neither of them would be actively on the mission, he’d come to care for them both deeply, and whilst that didn’t mean he didn’t care for either Ororo or, though he’d never admit it, Scott, he was glad the two girls would be on standby rather than active duty.

“The attacks seem random, as if they flipped a coin to see if they would head out each night, but when you look closer, they’re only on the days the older members of staff are on shift. We think they’re looking for something, or someone, specific.” Ororo explained, pointing back to the projection on the screen. “These three here have been working at this specific warehouse for three, four and seven years respectably,” she clicked the remote again for each of their work ID cards to flash onto the screen. “Scott, you’re tailing Alec,” she gestured to the string bean of a man, blonde hair styled into several spikes atop his head, two silver snakebite piercings adorned his lower lip.

“Logan, you’ve got Manuel, he’s been there for four years,” Logan didn’t think they could have found such a different-looking guy to the previous one if they fucking tried. Manuel was built like a brick shit house, a buzzcut of dark hair dusted the top of his otherwise bald head, ears like fucking cauliflowers. Of course, that’s who he’d be tailing, probably because a punch from this guy would send anyone else across the damn room.

“And I’ll be tailing Henry, he works in the office upstairs but is still very much a likely target. We’re hoping to locate and pin down the killer before their shifts even finish, but in the eventuality The Professor can’t get a lock on them, this is the backup plan. Got it?”

Both Logan and Scott nodded in unison. It didn’t seem too much of a problem mission if this killer was cowardly enough to be picking these guys off one by one, he didn’t think they had much in terms of fighting prowess. Taking an enemy by surprise was the coward’s way out, in his opinion, though he supposed not everybody could heal the way he could.

And taking this killer by surprise was exactly the plan…

Maybe he should rethink his principles.

“Be suited up and ready to head out at ten. Gives us at least an hour to locate and set up.” Ororo gathered the papers on the table, tapping the small stack against the surface before tucking them beneath her arm. “Right, I’ve got a class to teach, pretty sure you do too, Professor.” She turned to Charles who simply smiled and nodded, ending the meeting just like that. With a huff and a stretch, Logan stood from his seat, instantly reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulling out a thick cigar, earning himself a sharp look of disapproval from Xavier, the Professor glancing pointedly to the chilly air beyond the window. Logan knew what he was saying, and usually, he’d tell him to go fuck himself and smoke indoors. But he needed a breath of fresh air after that stuffy, slightly nauseating meeting, and if he could kill two birds with one stone, why wouldn’t he?

With an acquiescing shrug, he shoved his hands in his pockets, turning on his heel to stalk from the boardroom, shoving the door open with his shoulder and almost walking chest first into Jean. His heart skipped a beat or three, lips pulling up into a small smirk to hide the fact he was borderline giddy to be running into her outside the meeting. She’d been the object of his affection ever since he was brought to the mansion and she checked his vitals. He couldn’t help it. There was just something about her he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Something that drew him to her the instant he was in her presence. He didn’t find himself thinking of her much outside their interactions, but when they were in the same room, all he could think about was her. It would be frustrating if he cared about anything said in those meetings.

“Watin’ f’me now are ya?” He teased lowly, savouring the way her lips pursed to stop herself from smiling. There were times Logan thought she felt the same magnetic pull toward him that he felt toward her, times like this, where she didn’t look away from his gaze, and entertained his relentless teasing.

“You know Scott’s still in there. We have plans,” she responded, feigning an attempt to look past him and back into the room where Scott was discussing various strategies with the Professor. Logan raised a brow as he followed her wavering line of sight, keeping that brow raised as he looked back at her.

“Plans? Hope you don’t mean dinner, doesn’t look like he’ll be out anytime soon.” If she could just see how terrible Scott was for her. If he could just make her see how he would be so much better. Would suit her better. Would take care of her better. He wasn’t willing to change for many people, but if Jean asked, he would do it in a heartbeat. He’d change himself for her.

“Yes, Logan, dinner plans before the mission. And you know this is a tradition because you comment on it every time.” She huffed, her hair bobbing slightly with every emphatic move of her head. Logan chuckled lightly, his eyes briefly glancing from her gaze to her lips, how perfect they looked, and how perfect they would look wrapped around his–

“Then we both have our little traditions, don’t we? C’mon, doll. Why don’t we stop this dance?” His fingers curled through a strand of her hair, feeling it between his thumb and forefinger. “Haven’t I shown ya I can be the good guy?”

Jean sighed, and Logan half expected her to move away, but instead, she just closed her eyes, shaking her head softly. Was she mournful? Disappointed? It was hard to tell.

“Logan, I don’t–”

“The fuck you think you’re doing?” Scott’s voice slashed through the charged atmosphere between them, and Logan found his hand falling away from Jean’s hair almost instantly.

“We were jus’ talkin’, Scotty.” Logan shot back, trying to keep the defence from his voice. There was no need to let Scott know just how irritated the interruption made him feel.

“Yeah, like hell you were. Back off, Logan. I don’t wanna have to tell you again.” Placing his arm around Jean’s shoulders, Logan couldn’t help but notice the way she shrank slightly, looking almost humiliated. He tensed his jaw. If she hated Scott’s attention this much, she knew what he had to do. Logan didn’t know how much more obvious he could make his interest in her. All she needed to do was take the leap. “Yeah yeah, ‘stay away from my girl’, I know.” He mocked, sending Jean a wink before continuing on his path to the courtyard. Now he really fucking needed that cigar.

The city was so pretty in the twilight. Silhouetted buildings scattered with twinkling lights against a deep blue sky, it almost made up for the lack of stars. And there was nothing like watching the city skyline descend into darkness that had you more prepared than ever for your latest chosen victim. You hadn’t learned nearly as much as you should have by now, nobody you’d tortured knew anything about what you were looking for and it was starting to piss you off. But you didn’t bury those feelings. Instead, you harnessed them. Used your frustration to your advantage and honed yourself like a forged weapon. Every burn of urgent irritation sharpened your slices, focused your fileting, and pinpointed your precision.

For the greater good, you reminded yourself as your watch beeped ten, and you spun the small knife in your palm before sheathing it in your boot. Your specific target of the night finished early every other week on Thursdays, hence your change in schedule today. In fact, a good few of them did. You assumed it had something to do with specific shipments on the warehouse floor but you didn’t bother yourself with the details. You knew his schedule now. You’d been watching for weeks. And you had every single detail of his various ways home. He was a bus-taker. Though, to avoid you, he’d been taking different numbered busses to other parts of town, before heading home. But the moron used the same three in rotation. There was no cause to wonder why he worked in a warehouse…

Although you had a good feeling about this one. You’d already scored one victim of the night, who was currently unconscious in your chosen location. You were one hundred per cent sure he knew what you were looking for, and you had a fantastic feeling about this one too.

Standing from where you’d been lounging against a rooftop balcony, you stretched your arms high above your head, listening to your bones and joints crack slightly before securing the steel mask over your features, cursing the phantoms of your past for providing you with such memorable makeup, and, shrugging the hood of your short-sleeved jacket over your head. Your hands dipped into the various sheathed across your waist, double checking the various blades in your belt. You were thankful you never needed to go through any kind of metal detector, because it would likely take you the rest of the night to remove every weapon dotted about your body, from the little holsters on your biceps to the sheathes in your boots, to the retractable blades in the bracers on your wrists. A wise woman once said you can never have too many knives.

A phrase you really should copyright before anyone else claims it.

Five past ten. Go time. Taking a few steps back, you broke into a sprightly run, leaping like a dexterous cat across the rooftops, every step measured in surety. You’d done this too many times to start second-guessing yourself now, and it wasn’t like you were a stranger to the city’s rooftops and sketchy alleyways before you started doing this. With little effort, you crossed blocks in a matter of moments, skipping over crowds and traffic like it was child’s play before you landed with a deft roll above the side street tonight’s victim would take in a matter of five minutes.

Like you said. Child’s play

You crouched low, removing the serrated knife from your belt, and flicking it in your palm over and over. It was a habit you’d developed when waiting in anticipation for something. It kept your hands occupied whilst your mind focused on the events to come, picturing exactly how you wanted things to play out. It was difficult. Capturing and torturing these assholes was like shooting fish in a barrel.

“Fourth clear, no signs of our guy.”

You ducked low on the rooftop, an unpredicted obstacle walking into view wearing some shitty leather getup, fingers delicately perched at the side of his horizontal glasses. Though they weren’t exactly glasses. How would you describe it? Eye-guard? Some weird single glass as opposed to glasses? Whatever the fuck they were, you didn’t exactly want to find out what they did. He was holding them as if they were some kind of weapon.

Shit, this really wasn’t good. If he didn’t move on now, you’d have to take him out and risk alerting your victim to your presence. Fuck, fuck and fuck again. And just as luck would have it, Alec appeared at the other end of the alleyway, nervously looking about before entering hurriedly. People didn’t watch enough movies. Did they really not know that entering dark alleyways with a killer on the loose was practically the same as signing your own death certificate? In any case, this actually worked in your favour. With Mr Visor patrolling the other end, you sliced open your hand, your blood humming as you pulled it from your veins to wrap around the metal drainage pipe before you swung off the rooftop, the crimson rope twisting and writhing as if it were alive as you descended, landing quietly a few paces behind him.

Now, if he wasn’t on such high alert, he would have most likely chalked the slight thud of your landing to the sound of a street cat, or perhaps a fox. But the way Alec jumped with a yelp, staggering as he turned to face you, didn’t exactly scream discreet. You held your hand up in front of you, contorting your fingers as your mutation felt for his pulse, slowing down the blood flow in his veins as quickly as you could. Not fast enough, a strangled yell flew from his now pale lips, and you swore viciously as your latest obstacle jogged back into view between the alleyway’s walls.

“Shit, HE’S HERE!” He called to nobody you could see, and you barely had time to duck before a searing red beam of pure energy shot above your head, illuminating the dingy street in the crimson glow. You thought it slightly ironic, as your knife slashed through the palm of your hand, the colour of his mutation and who he was up against. Curving your arm in a wide arc, you manipulated your own blood cells into a wide blade, propelling it forward whilst you took a few steps toward your now collapsed victim. With Glasses now distracted by what you assumed was him discovering your own mutation, you felt around his veins for his heartbeat, tracing the blood flow back until you found the source, and you poured all your energy into slowing that one too.

“He can manip… manipulate bl… blood.” Once again he spoke aloud to nobody you could sense, his knees giving out before he crashed to the floor. You huffed out a breath, fishing a small bandage from the pouch on your belt before wrapping up your hand and pulling the tie tight with your teeth. The one thing you found frustrating about your mutation was your inability to heal. How fucking helpful that would be, if every time you had to slash yourself open, you could just reseal the wound? Instead of running the risk of bleeding out. But you guessed everything had its drawbacks. Even blood manipulation.

You bent to pick up Alec’s ankles, dragging him a few feet back the way he came, before you stopped, and looked back to the unconscious mutant at the alley’s mouth. You should kill him. Things would be easier if you did. And so, dropping your victim’s feet without much care, you strode over, finding a small gap in the wrappings around your palm, you extended a small spear from your flesh with the intention of jabbing it through his head and silencing what he saw here forever.

But there were little voices calling out from a small earpiece nestled in his ear canal. You tilted your head, plucking the bud from the side of his head and holding it up to your own ear.

“Scott? Scott can you hear us?!”

“We’re tracking your location, hang tight!”

“I’m en route, stay alive asshole.”

A kaleidoscope of voices blended together, though the last one had you dropping the earpiece and crushing it with the heel of your boot. Someone was coming. A big someone. Someone whose voice you really hoped didn’t match his body.

You should kill him. You really should kill this Scott guy, but something about the concern and fierce loyalty of those in the earpiece stopped you. This man was loved. He was cared for. Most of your victims didn’t have anyone. No family, very little friends, and all with some kind of penchant for criminal activity. Alec, for example, was finding himself becoming a little too familiar with the gates of a primary school. The more you watched him, the more you found yourself utterly repulsed by the way he would try and get the attention of those kids. Those children.

But Scott had people who would care if he died. And so you let him be, pulling and pushing him upright against the wall before jogging back over to your actual victim and resuming your strained attempts to drag him off to your chosen location for the night.

An ancient, local church, ironically enough.

Logan raced through the streets, across busy roads and through closed parks, leaping over fences and gates effortlessly. He knew Scott’s location, Jean begging him over coms to do what he could. He was still alive, The Professor could sense it, but how the mission had immediately gone south, he had no idea. But at least Scott was still alive. At least, he was for now.

“SCOTT!” He called, slowing his steps as he closed in on his location, his claws sliding from his knuckles. The metallic scent of blood flooded his senses, but it wasn’t Scott’s. He knew what Scott’s blood smelled like, having punched him in the nose a few times for the scent to be memorable. No, this blood was new, unfamiliar, and reeked of mutation. Which he supposed made sense.

Blood manipulator. That was the last thing Scott had said before he fell silent and before his channel died completely. And stalking up to the mouth of the alleyway, he could see why. Scott’s earpiece lay crushed on the concrete, little pieces scattered across the floor. Peering into the alleyway, Logan’s heart raced as his eyes cut through the darkness to find Scott himself lying slumped against the wall, his head hanging low. Logan bent to one knee, placing two fingers against the side of his neck to feel his slow yet strong pulse. The same pulse that would be associated with someone unconscious. But there was no head wound. Nothing to indicate he’d been completely knocked out.

“Is he–”

Logan looked back to see Ororo landing behind him, her hair slightly wild from the wind. She must have flown her way over, avoiding the nightlife altogether.

“He’s alive. Unconscious, but alive. You heard what he said, right? Blood manipulator. I think our guy must have slowed his heartbeat or somethin’. There’s no wound anywhere…” Logan gently moved Scott’s head in search of any kind of blunt force trauma but found none. Not that he was expecting to find anything, since the only blood he could smell was unfamiliar. And it lead right down the alley and out the other side. “Gonna need ya t’stay here, Storm. Make sure Scott’s alright.” He kept his eyes focused on the darkness ahead, and the small sliver of light beyond.

“And where’re you going?” Ororo asked, crouching beside him as if to physically demonstrate she’d stay with Scott. Logan sniffed the air again, almost able to see the blood trail the scent was so damn strong.

“Followin’ our man. We don’t know if he bagged his victim, but if he was here with Scott, then he was after Alec, and I don’t see him anywhere, do you?” He asked, raising a brow to the woman by his side, who shook her head.

“No. And I didn’t see him from above either. Alright, you go. But be careful, Logan. He’s unpredictable and now we have an idea as to how dangerous. If he can knock Scott out cold like this, he shouldn’t be taken lightly,” Ororo implored, watching as he rose from his crouch. Logan huffed an irritated sigh, having to restrain himself before he rolled his eyes.

“I’ll be fine. Look after Cyclops.” Was all he said, before taking off down the alleyway at a light jog, following his nose and turning left at the end.

“Logan, this isn’t a good idea. You can’t charge into the unknown with no information other than blood-manipulator.” Jean’s voice echoed in his ear, and he once again felt his lips pull up into a small smirk.

“Why, you worried about me?” He provoked, chuckling when he heard her deep sigh, pinching the earpiece between his thumb and forefinger. “I’ll send up a flare if I need ya.”

“Logan don’t–”

Whatever Jean was about to say was lost when he tossed the coms unit onto the ground, leaving it and all methods of communication behind as he continued on toward his target. He couldn’t believe his eyes when his nose led him to a looming church, stained windows dark from the inside, spires towering high into the night. This couldn’t be right. Either his nose had failed him, which was unheard of, or the killer had a wicked sense of humour. It must have been the latter, the stench of blood increasing tenfold as he crossed the neatly mowed lawn outside, taking the stone steps two at a time and up to the wooden double doors.

His ears twitched as he caught distant screams from inside, deep enough that anyone passing by would be completely oblivious to any goings on within. Once again, he released the hold he had on his claws, razors slicing through his muscles and flesh as they slid from his knuckles. He took a breath, bracing a hand on the centre of one of the doors before he pushed slightly, the hinges’ echoing screech causing him to freeze, letting the sound settle before he moved. The screams continued, and as sick and twisted as it was, he used that to gauge whether or not he’d been heard. So far, remarkably, so good.

Stealth wasn’t his strong suit. Never was, but he cursed every heavy footstep that bounced off the wooden beams and stone walls, even the stained glass seemed to be mocking him, some ridiculous depiction of a halo-wearing baby with the proportions completely incorrect, being carried by an equally disproportionate-looking woman who seemed to be bathed in holy light. Once upon a time, he may have found comfort in the frieze. Now he simply thought it ridiculous. How could there be a god when mutants like him walk the earth? When mutants like this killer were allowed to wander around completely free?

He shook his head of the thoughts. Now was not the time to contemplate divinity. If he wanted to discuss religion, he’d have a conversation with Kurt. He followed his senses, down the aisle between the pews and up to the lectern, his head snapping to the right and through the door to the sacristy. Once again measuring his steps, Logan crossed the altar and into the shadows behind the pillars, that same coppery scent of blood lingering on the slightly crimson-stained doorknob, the faint smokey smell of mutation told him this was the killer’s blood. Had the victim fought back somehow? He assumed he’d done the same thing to them as he had to Scott, knocked them out before dragging them away.

Shoving the door open, Logan took a moment to look around. Nothing much, other than a large closet, a chest of drawers and a small bathroom sink with a mirror. A rug covered a large portion of the floor, the patterns almost psychedelic in nature, but this was where the scent was strongest so far. Here, in this room. Then where the hell was all the screaming coming from? He could still hear it, in the distance, beyond several walls of stone, or deep beneath–

Logan paused, his eyes flickering from the bare walls to the rug on the floor, one corner ever so slightly raised from the ground. With determined curiosity, he tugged on the fabric, pulling it back from the ground before tossing it completely into a corner. There, now revealed, a wooden trap door. He couldn’t help but think it was a little cliché, to have a trap door leading down to some kind of torture chamber, but if the chosen location told him anything, it was that the killer had a flair for the dramatic.

To hell with stealth at this point. Logan crouched, gripping the large brass handle and throwing up the door so it clattered loudly against the floor. He was glad he had excellent vision, as the darkness beyond would be enough to turn away even the bravest of souls. And yet, here he was, taking step after step down into the pitch black, his eyes reflecting what little light there was. Perhaps the setting was more fitting than he originally thought because it truly felt like he was descending into the pits of hell with each careful step. The scent of blood now fused with the acrid scent of urine, and the musk of sweat. It was enough to have him almost gag, but he kept on going, led by the sounds of broken screams.

Until those broken screams were cut viciously short.

Logan stopped in his tracks, bracing a hand against the damp wall, a crippling sense of failure weighing heavy on his shoulders. He hadn’t been fast enough, and now Alec was likely dead. He couldn’t think of another reason why the killer would just cut off his screams like that. But what unnerved Logan further, was that now one voice had been silenced, another was rising up the dark, dank tunnel. There were two. The motherfucker had managed to grab two victims in one night. What the fuck was he using them for? Why torture them? What was he looking for?

A pinprick of flickering light teased him from the distance, the literal light at the end of the tunnel winking in the distance. How far down had he gone for the exit to only now be visible? Had this guy really dragged two bodies down these stairs already today? A picture was forming in Logan’s mind. He had to have some kind of muscle on him to be able to carry weights such as these. But he couldn’t let himself get comfortable in his predictions. That would only lead to chaos. So he kept his mind open, the only thing he was fairly sure about was the fact this killer was a man.

Not that a woman couldn’t be capable of this kind of thing, but he’d seen the size of some of the victims. Either she was some kind of bodybuilder or a man. One seemed more likely than the other.

He felt like he’d been in this stupid fucking tunnel for years by the time his eyes needed to adjust to the flickering torchlight, the steps levelling out to a long, claustrophobic stone hallway, the low arch of the ceiling barely high enough for him to stand up completely straight, the tips of his brushed up hair lightly brushing the damp brickwork. He continued creeping forward, a cone of more flickering torchlight illuminating a doorway ahead of him and to the right.

The secondary voice gurgled another agonised scream, and Logan felt a decent amount of urgency fuel his steps, half jogging the remaining feet up to the archway, peering around the stone.

His stomach clenched, eyes widening. Well, that would show him not to make assumptions. The killer wasn’t a man.

You were a woman.

The two victims were strapped to chairs, back to back, a knife in the mouth of one, the other’s head– Alec’s head, hung limp. In the lap of the other, you held a map, blood dripping from both your palms.

“Point.” You spat, delivering a harsh slap to the side of his face. “And so help you, your answers better match up.”

With shaky movements, your captive craned his neck down, pointing the quivering tip of the knife against a random point on the map you’d lay in his lap, tears flowing down his face as he whimpered in utter terror. Logan watched as you raised your hand over Alec’s head, contorting your fingers as he groggily returned to consciousness. He couldn’t see his face before, and Logan would spend a long time wishing he could return to that ignorance. Two dark, bloodied holes replaced the sockets where his eyes should be, tears of sanguine had rolled down his cheeks, staining his flesh until it bled into the exposed muscle of his cheek.

“Finally, we’re getting somewhere.” You took a step back, snatching the map from your second victim and drawing a circle with the bloodied tip of your finger. After so many deaths, the cacophony of screams that kept you awake at night, finally you had a lead. “And what is it exactly th–”

You stopped, your nerves alight with alert.

Logan whipped back behind the archway, pressing his spine against the wall and keeping his breathing steady. He didn’t hold out hope you hadn’t seen him, and he was incredibly thankful for that, clenching his fists when your voice echoed in the expanses of the chamber.

“I can feel it. The mutation in your blood. Scott’s friend, I assume?”

With a long sigh, Logan stepped out from behind the archway and into the light.

“Friend is a strong term. Associate.” He responded, his eyes flickering to each of your palms as crystals of crimson extended from the two wounds in your flesh, taking the form of jagged blades. Your head tilted to the side, hood shifting slightly for the light to catch your eyes.

“Scott’s associate…” you mused lowly, striking out with surgical precision to the two captives, keeping your wince locked away as your two blades crunched through their skulls with a sickening squelch.

Logan clenched his jaw, keeping his chin held high. “No explosions this time? Entrails seem far too organised for you.”

“A fan of my work? Sorry, I don’t tend to do meet-and-greets. Although I’d be willing to sign your corpse for you.” You held your blood blades tight in your palms as you bent your knees. You wouldn’t be getting out of here without a fight. And whilst you could feel the mutation in his blood, you had no idea what it was exactly that he could do. The claws were an obvious giveaway, but was that it? You’d come to learn to put all assumptions to the side and be prepared for anything.

Years on the streets had taught you that.

“Why?” Logan asked, taking a steadying breath.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Why?” He repeated with just as much conviction. “Why do this? What’re you looking for? Why’re you doing this?” He watched you falter slightly as if genuinely taken aback that he was interested enough to ask. “You coulda killed Scott, but you didn’t. Y’not afraid of causing pain, but you left him unharmed. Why?”

Too many thoughts were running through your head. Truthfully, you didn’t want to admit that you couldn’t. He had nothing to do with this, and whilst yes he got in your way, he was innocent. None of these people were. None of your victims were. Least of all, you.

“Why ask? Did you want me to? Yikes, that’s some rivalry you got there.” You deflected, twirling one of your blades in your hand. “Tell ya what, I’ll finish the job for you, free of charge.” You grinned behind your mask, taking a step toward him, dragging the tips of your crystalised blood blades along the ground, leaving little crimson trails as you walked.

“Got a lotta lip, ya know that?” He growled, watching you like a hawk as you slowly stalked forward, step by careful step.

“If only you knew the trouble my mouth gets me into…” You paused for a moment, crouching low. Anticipation crackled in the air, sparks of adrenaline igniting the room before you launched forward, keeping low to the ground.

Logan tracked your movements, bending his knees and bracing his claws in front of his body before your blades cracked against his, literal sparks flying from the contact point as you stay low, your other hand braced against the floor, leaving bloodstains on the stone. Your leg swept toward his, and he wrenched his claws from where they’d tangled with your blades, taking a quick step back to avoid your jab.

Using your momentum, you pushed off from the ground, spinning upright just in time to parry a slice from his claws, your blood thrumming with the impact. He was strong. Really fucking strong. Annoyingly strong, in fact. You hated having to manipulate the vessels and cells within your body, but the moment his fists arced down toward you, you had no choice but to increase the blood flow to your biceps, wincing slightly as they shuddered and flexed in response, but it was just enough to catch him off guard, your two blades crossed between his six claws.

You didn’t let the moment linger, delivering a harsh kick to the centre of his stomach and using the almost rock-like surface to send yourself a few steps back, sweat already trailing down the inside of your mask.

Logan bent double, grunting in discomfort before lowering into a similar crouch to your own, watching closely as your blades dragged along the ground once again, leaving little slices of crimson. You raised your head in challenge, the flickering torchlight catching two sparks of sanguine red eyes, pulsing slightly as your mutation shimmered from your hands, veins bulging up your wrists. Something tugged at his chest, and he stilled for a moment. It looked almost… painful. The way he could see every pulse of your heart thumping within those bloodborne blades.

His head tilted to the side, and you felt discomfort crawl over your skin. Was he… studying you? In the middle of a fucking fight? And not the ‘I’m studying you to see your next attack’ kind of way. You grit your teeth, irritation flaring in your gut as you launch forward, anger and frustration now fuelling your movements. How dare he. How dare he try to read you like this. He didn’t even fucking know you. But the way his features slackened slightly, the ever so small tilt of his head. You wanted to tear him to ribbons.

Logan shook himself from his thoughts as you surged forward, once again bracing himself for the flurry of swipes he could sense was coming his way. Only–

You ducked to the side.

Your blades retracting back into your palms as you slid past him, grazing the centre of your hand against the floor in a wide arc. What the hell were you doing? What the fuck was with all the acrobatics. You’d done nothing but flip and spin around him, barely going in for any hits. He whirled around, claws still held before him in closed fists, but you looked… done.

Like you’d already won.

“Well, this has been a pleasure. But I’m afraid I’m a very busy woman,” you paused, placing a hand on your hip as if you were having a casual conversation in a shopping centre. “And you’re wasting my time.”

Logan barely had time to think before the bloodstains on the ground shifted, and in every place you’d dragged your palm across the stone, a sharp spear shot from the marks towards him, impaling through his suit and into his chest, his legs, back, and shoulders with a sick, wet crunch.

Through agonising pain, he finally understood what you were doing. Setting up a fucking trap. Any attempt to move resulted in tearing fire through his body, a rough cry of pain flying from behind his gritted teeth, before it became too much as he sank to his knees. Your sigh almost sounded disappointed, and he watched through hazy vision as you brought out a bandage from your belt and started to wrap up one of your palms with a slight hissed wince.

You’d expected him to be dead by now, and yet somehow he was still clinging to life like a tenacious limpet. An irritated huff warmed the interior of your mask as you flicked your unbound hand, another jagged spear of ruby sailing from your palm and through the centre of his stomach, wrenching another agonised cry from his throat.

“Fucking hell… still here? Most would be dead by now.” You folded your arms across your chest, wandering over to where he was still bent double on his knees, heaving rasped breaths.

“Most of ‘em can die.” He snarled back, his strength slowly returning as his regeneration worked overtime to remove the whipping spears from his body. You watched as they shifted in response to the resistance, fascination curling like smoke in your head. What the hell was this guy?

“And you can’t, I presume?”

“Nope. Not yet, at least.”

“Huh,” you shrugged, your eyes flaring as you wormed those tendrils back through his flesh, something twinging in your chest as you did so. “That’s… unfortunate,” you crouched in front of him, running your fingers along one of the tendrils of blood holding him still, your eyes falling to the little X symbol on his leather collar, recognition striking you like lightning. “Wait… I know you. You’re one of Xavier’s, right? Never thought he’d meddle in simple human murders,” you thought for a moment, regarding him. “Doesn’t it bother you? Being nothing but a weapon to him? Just a gun to point at the enemy whilst he’s the one who claims the victory?” You provoked, finally garnering a response as he all but growled at you, bloodied teeth bared. You had half a mind to use his own blood to sew his mouth shut, but you were curious about him. A mutant who couldn’t die, running around playing soldier for someone who would never walk the battlefield himself.

Sure he should be the one pulling the strings.

Logan knew you were trying to get under his skin. Metaphorically, of course. Physically, you’d already achieved that, the sharp bolts of agony with every slight movement told him that much. But he needed to get under yours.

“I know what these people did,” he breathed, chest searing with each fiery inhale. “The ones you choose. I know why you kill them, but why torture them?” He continued through gritted teeth, tugging against the lashing spears through his body.

“You think that’s what this is? Me cleaning up after this world’s scum? I should add myself to that lengthy list.” You growled back, gesturing wildly to the walls around you. “These people know something. The fact they’re all child predators is simply luck. But don’t you think it’s strange? An orphanage burns down and none of the bodies are found?”

Logan stopped his struggle. “What…? How d’you–”

“Nothing. Not even skeletons. Doesn’t that make you wonder where the hell those kids went? The disappearances throughout the city, all kids. All mutant kids.” You could see the cogs turning in his head as he processed what you were saying, and what it meant.

“Y– you’re looking for information…” He muttered with understanding, and you nodded.

“The men at that warehouse… they’re always hanging around schools and –before it burnt down– the orphanage,” your eyes flickered to stairs beyond the archway, and the distant shouts echoing down the hall. “It’s a slave trade. A mutant slave trade.”

“How d’you know?”

“I… I can’t tell you that.” Something twisted in your gut as his expression shifted to something softer, despite the obvious pain he was in. You didn’t want to hurt him. It was a sudden realisation that you’d acted too hastily. Assumed he was here to eliminate you after the series of events you’d caused. But you should have known the moment he started asking questions. Sure, he was probably here to put a stop to what appeared on the surface to be a sequence of grizzly murders, but he’d asked. He wanted to know why. Not many others had done that. And there was something else flickering in his strikingly haze eyes.

He didn’t want to kill you. Not now he knew.

Your head whipped back to the archway, where those distant shouts had increased in volume and, terrifyingly enough, proximity. You could clearly catch the repeated calls of a name. His name.

Logan.

“Look, if you want to help, there’s a gala happening at Thornbury Hall, west of the city. Saturday the 18th. Meet me there or don’t, it’s your choice. But you come alone. I’ll know if you don’t.” You hissed hurriedly, flicking your fingers to withdraw the countless spears from his body, and he screwed his eyes shut as his wounds immediately began to knit back together, muscle and tissue reforming with an unbearable itch, the crystalised blood liquifying once again, staining the stone red.

“Logan?!”

Your breath quickened as you looked back to the archway, and Logan could just see the fear reflecting in your barely visible eyes as you took a few steps back. He wanted to stop you. Wanted to tell you that you didn’t have to take this on alone. They could help. He could help. And there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that he wasn’t going to take the olive branch you’d just extended.

“How’ll I know it’s you?” He asked as he stood to his feet, eyes narrowing in suspicion despite himself. He hadn’t seen your face. Just two scarlet eyes behind a rather unnerving, featureless mask. Your head flipped between looking at him and looking past him to the archway skittishly, hurried footsteps growing louder as his other associates honed in on your location.

“When you get there, look for a man with a runic tattoo on his neck and ask for Alecto.” You explained, continuing backing up into what looked like just a regular wall. But the greatest thing about ancient buildings such as this was the secret little entrances and exits installed for servants, refugees. Criminals.

“Alecto?” You couldn’t help but huff a small laugh at the slight smirk on his face, the amusement lacing his tone despite your efforts to try and kill him not moments ago.

“Look it up.” Was all you said, before slipping through one of the cracks in the wall the moment he turned around as two other mutants rushed through the archway. You barely caught sight of Scott and the other before you were gone.

“Logan! What the hell? You can’t just go dead like that, what happened to your coms?” Storm ranted before falling silent, panic entered her eyes as she registered the state he was in. “What… what happened to you?”

Logan looked back to where he’d last seen you, finding an odd kernel of relief to see you’d completely vanished into seemingly thin air. “I found our gal. Put up a good fight. Slipped out when she heard ya comin’ and I was immobilised.” He shrugged nonchalantly as if he hadn’t just let the very same killer they’d come here to hunt slip away.

“She– wait, she?” Scott asked, clearly having recovered from whatever Alecto had done to him.

“Yeah, she,” he nodded, before sighing heavily. “Look, no point in standin’ round here ‘n chattin’ about it. Charles is gonna wanna know what I know.”

“And what is it exactly that you know?” Scott asked, suspicion lacing his tone, his arms folding across his chest almost in accusation. Logan rolled his eyes.

“A helluva lot more than you, Slim. Let’s go.”

#wolverine x reader #logan x reader #logan howlett x reader #x men logan #logan howlett smut #logan smut #logan howlett #logan x reader smut #logan x you #logan howlet smut #logan howlett x you #logan howlett fanfiction #wolverine x you #x men wolverine #the wolverine #wolverine smut #the wolverine x reader

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basharnehad1999 · 6 months ago

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A Moment Of Truth

A Palestinian family suffered from the war and its bad conditions for three months, and now, thank God, we are in a safe country, but unfortunately, we lost all our possessions, including our big house that contains 6 floors, a small chicken farm, a large area for relaxation, and a warehouse for fabric goods that cost thousands of dollars. Unfortunately, all of this was bombed and destroyed due to the brutality and barbaric Israeli bombing 💔💔.

I introduce myself, I am Bashar Nihad Mahna. I work in the field of architecture. I graduated from Palestine University in 2019. I went to work in several engineering offices after graduation and a few months before the war. My friend and I established a small office in order to work in the field of engineering and pave our own way towards success. Our only goal was to succeed in our field and support our families and help them as much as possible. Unfortunately, our work office located on Al-Wahda Street in the northern Gaza Strip was completely destroyed. Thus, because of the occupation, I lost my source of livelihood and I am still unemployed 💔

This is a picture of all of us in our house that was completely destroyed with my father and brothers 🌹🤍 My father is a fabric merchant who used to go to China and many countries to import goods and store them in our house that contains a large warehouse, but unfortunately my father's warehouse was bombed, which contains goods and fabrics worth millions 💔.

My brother Firas is an ambitious and hardworking young man who works in the field of programming with a foreign company. His job requires a laptop and fast internet. He worked tirelessly in order to succeed and provide a decent life for himself and his family. Now, due to the weak internet and the lack of a place to work, his source of income has also been cut off, and the foreign company has replaced him with another person due to the circumstances of the war.

My younger brother Malek is studying at the Applied University College in the field of design. He used to work before the war, designing for people and presenting his work to companies in order to work and provide money for himself and provide a decent life for him and our family as well, but Malek’s dreams were also destroyed.

These are pictures of our house after the bombing, which contained a storeroom where we stored my father's goods, a large space for relaxation, and a small chicken farm. It had 6 floors, two of which belonged to my father. They were completely destroyed due to the barbaric bombing by the occupation, even though we are civilians. We live near Al-Shifa Hospital, which as you know was completely destroyed 💔

We have suffered a lot during this war and lost our only home in the northern Gaza Strip and I personally, Bashar Mahna, lost my engineering office on Al-Wahda Street in the northern Gaza Strip. Unfortunately, my father also lost his warehouse, which contained goods worth thousands of dollars, due to the barbaric bombing 💔💔

We hope that you will help us rebuild our home, even if it is something simple, and help us face the expensive necessities of life outside the country, from rent to expensive study costs 💔.

Thank you my friends, I hope you stay well and healthy 🤍🌹

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homestuck-archive · 9 months ago

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HOMESTUCK: BEYOND CANON 6/12 NEWS POST

Hi, James here. Happy American Karkat day. European Karkat day, of course, being on the 6th of December. That’s how birthdays work. Don’t look it up.

Some of you may have noticed I am going to be on a stream with a “Virtual Tuber.” Depending on when exactly this goes up, that might actually be going on right now. If you are coming from over there it is very likely you are just now learning we are still doing Homestuck in 2024. Welcome back. You missed a lot but don’t look any of that up either.

What news for the birthday boy? As you may have seen across various platforms we’re partnering with Makeship, and launched a petition for a Highly Marketable Karkat Vantas Plush! The way this works is, they gauge interest by seeing if we can get 200 people to pledge they’ll buy it before the company commits to producing anything. Their business model allows them to do this at no up-front cost to us which is good because it takes a lot of money to manufacture and ship things. Once we reach our initial goal they then move forward with production and do design revisions, prototyping, etc. They send us a little sample and once we’re all approved and on the same page they do a limited pre-order run. For the first 399 pre-orders we get a 10 percent revenue share, which then changes to 30 percent once it hits 400. You might be thinking “Hey man, that's not very much!” and you’d be right, but they cover all manufacturing and fulfillment and shipping costs. And I don’t own a warehouse. So. This is fine with me.

I did promise to try and be more transparent with what's going on behind the scenes, even when it is boring. The thought process here is that, while less lucrative overall than producing and shipping ourselves this will allow us to try out more merch options. We’ve designed some apparel, and are working out something with Andrew and the usual merch guys. This might take a while, I am still new to this. That Vinyl is still on the back burner as we wait for a few holdouts that sort of make or break things. (There are people who are notoriously hard to get in contact with, so it is taking a while and I overestimated my ability to get this done in a timely manner while in poor health. That's on me.)

The whole idea here is to get you guys some cool stuff, and to pay my team more. Right now the Patreon is doing alright, and we’re trying out some new exclusives over there. Music previews, merch previews, and things like that for paying members. Nothing required to enjoy the comic, and things people will all see eventually. Since I’m trying to pay my team as fairly as possible I split everything we make evenly. Right now, for each team member it comes out to a few hundred bucks each per month which is pretty nice for getting to work on Homestuck, but isn’t exactly a liveable wage. And you see how much work they put into it. I want to give them the world, short of that at the very least a fair wage for all the work they do. Also I don’t know if you’ve noticed but a sandwich costs $19 now for some reason. That in mind if you are a company or private individual and want to pay me to promote your product let's talk. We can work something out. I will put it in Homestuck. I will make Rose Lalonde say she loves the bold refreshing taste of Diet Mtn Dew G’raha Tia Blast. I am not joking. This is my solemn vow. Maybe it's time to bring back the “Your Fantroll Gets Put In Homestuck” deal.

Anyway, two updates this month. I Like this schedule, so it looks like we’ll be keeping it up for the near future.

So to Summarize the key points so there’s no room for confusion:

Karkat Plush Makeship petition (the pre-pre-order, even) is now live

Trying out this style of limited run merch to see what's possible

Apparel incoming, not sure when

Still trying to work out details with musicians, sorry.

Fun new Pateron exclusives, including music and merch previews. Maybe more?

Open to more collabs

Sticking to shorter, more frequent updates for now.

Ok, thanks everyone have a good one.

#homestuck #hs #413 #612 #karkat #homestuck karkat #karkat vantas #vinyl #music #fyp #homestuck archive #mspa #APPAREL......NOT JUST SHIRTS.... WE'RE SO BACK...#homestuck 2 #hsbc

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joannaliangart · 5 months ago

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A LIST OF THINGS I CAN’T REMEMBER (2024) 6.5 x 6.4 in 23 page case bound book and handmade pastepaper. Papercut art and poetry

The “list” includes things of the mundane, humorous, and heavy. At its core, this book asks what exactly is worth trying to hold onto in your memory. Whether because of its trivial or traumatizing nature, is it ever better to forget?

---

not sure if this is called papercut art? I'd been referring to it as 'paper art' in my mind but googling that leads to a lot of like, folded/oragami stuff too

final project for my praxis class in 3rd year! Got a good reception towards it during crit which was lovely C:

god this project took fucking FOREVER, I'm glad I did it because it turned out almost exactly how I pictured it but my goodness gracious AUGH it was a lil rough. I'd be working on this thing literally ALL day from morning till Very Late into the night for SEVERAL days straight to meet deadline it was kinda crazy. My floor was covered in a fuck ton of pastepaper I'd made and my finger was getting callused from holding the x-acto knife so frequently orz 23 pages of papercut images AND papercut words?? whhooweee

Watching a full playthrough of in stars in time is what kept me company during those long long days and nights haha, tis a very potent memory I have now (which now that the whole project-making ordeal is over is a p fun memory lol; isat is v v good)

some thoughts about this piece I jotted down in preparation for crit day:

A list of things I can’t remember my intention was to gather a list of mundane unimportant things as well as more like sad or poetically troubling things to disrupt it throughout. At the end it says “if I want to remember these things” because that is also something that I don’t remember, and it’s kind of the crux of the whole piece as this book at its core is about what kind of things are worth trying to hold into in your memory.

That last page had black text because it’s the hardest to remember or think about, and as such it’s meant to be hard to read/make out clearly.

The wavy black on the spine area is supposed to be like an encroaching darkness of forgetting lol

used pastepaper to make paper art trying to take advantage of the textures and colours I can make with pastepaper

+crit day installation! There were no white plinths left just this bright pink one?? But I was like. Actually that might fit the vibe lol and I think it did C: made the whole piece pop

For the assignment requirements we had to choose something from one of the special collections we visited, and I chose Janet Kellett's beautiful Qualicum Blue. And was also sooo grateful that googling it brought me to a whole website of theirs that had info on its creation. It's what got me into the rabbit hole of pastepaper and hoo boy! making it was a wholleee process haha; here's the slides I made for when we had to present our material research:

I did a WHOLE bunch of experiments; I really wanted to know what I could and could not do with pastepaper and I'm glad I pushed the material so much in the amount of time we had to complete this part of the project. My prof was surprised at how many experiments I did haha

+fun fact: I asked my prof if they could recommend me a place to source black paper for my book, and they sent me to what looked like such a weird sketchy on the edge of town looking place lmao But it was all good they were like a mass producer of paper or smth and they had a lil storefront? in their warehouse selling what I assume were leftover batches in smaller quantities; that was p fun and! Now I know where I can find paper

Also I got some remarks that the papercut art reminded people of The Very Hungry Caterpillar C:

#featured #a list of things I can't remember #process #2024 #books #artist books #paper art #poetry #uni #papercut art #paste paper #pastepaper #wip

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mariacallous · 4 months ago

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On a dead-end road that climbs out of the tiny city of Jenkins, in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains in Eastern Kentucky, there stands a large warehouse with a mint green roof. It shares the road with a few other businesses, but is otherwise surrounded by an expanse of open fields and tree-lined slopes. Inside, the warehouse is stacked high with racks on racks of computers—thousands of them. But none have ever been switched on.

The warehouse is owned by Mohawk Energy, a company cofounded by Kentucky state senator Brandon Smith in 2005, originally to resculpt landscapes disfigured by coal mining. After lying dormant for a period, Mohawk was reincarnated in 2022 when Smith struck a deal with HBTPower, a company then owned by Chinese crypto exchange Huobi, which wanted to use the warehouse for a bitcoin mining operation.

Under the deal, Mohawk promised to fit up its warehouse with the necessary power infrastructure, operate the equipment, and funnel any bitcoin produced to HBT. In return, HBT would pay Mohawk a monthly hosting fee, a cut of its mining revenue, and the associated energy bills.

Smith says he hoped the arrangement would generate tax revenue and create jobs for former coal miners, who could be trained as repair technicians. The coal industry departed Jenkins long ago, the reserves depleted, leaving people in search of work. More than a third now live below the poverty line, per the latest census data. “I liked the idea of going from one type of mining to a new type,” says Smith. “I thought, now in Eastern Kentucky we are going to have our time—we’re going to catch up and play a part in the tech future.”

But after a promising start, the relationship between Mohawk and HBT soured and then fell apart. “Nothing has ever been turned on. It’s a fascinating, almost Willy Wonka–type atmosphere when you walk through,” says Smith. “It has turned into a disaster.”

In November 2023, HBT brought a lawsuit in federal court, alleging that Mohawk had breached its contract on several fronts, including by failing to install the appropriate power infrastructure and secure certain power subsidies, and attempting to sell off the mining equipment. “Ultimately, the source of the current dispute is Mohawk’s basic failure to comply with its obligations, not only in a timely way, but at all in many regards,” says Harout Samra, a specialist in international dispute resolution at law firm DLA Piper and representative for HBT.

Mohawk sued HBT in return, contesting the various alleged breaches and claiming that HBT is delinquent on more than $700,000 in rent, labor, and fit-up costs. The company is also seeking damages relating to the loss of income over the term of the contract and the inability to bring a new tenant into the facility while the equipment remains on-site. “Huobi simply made a bargain it believes now is a bad one, and wants to get out of it without paying the funds it owes,” the filing states.

The legal conflict, which remains unresolved, is just one in a series of fights between Chinese companies and the owners of industrial facilities in the rural US over failed bitcoin mining partnerships. What looked to facility owners in Kentucky like an irresistible opportunity to tap into a new line of business in an otherwise fallow period has turned into a nightmare. They claim to have been saddled with unpaid hosting fees and energy bills worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, with few options for recovering the money. The Chinese parties have been left equally displeased. “HBTPower obviously regrets that this opportunity has ultimately played out the way it has,” says Samra.

The bitcoin mining game—a race between computers to win the right to process a bundle of transactions and claim a crypto reward—is dominated by large corporations that own and operate industrial-scale facilities. But in 2021 and 2022, smaller-scale operations began to proliferate in the US countryside wherever there was available power, including in Kentucky. “A lot of mom-and-pop shops opened up,” says Phil Harvey, CEO at Sabre56, a firm that consults on crypto mining projects and operates its own facilities. “Appalachia has always been a good source of power.”

These small facilities were plugging a gap in the market. A ban on crypto mining in China had left businesses casting about for a new home for their many millions of dollars’ worth of mining equipment. “A lot of wealthy Chinese businesses were affected,” says Harvey. “Every minute these machines are down, they are losing revenue.” Meanwhile, as the price of bitcoin ballooned—and the profitability of mining along with it—mining firms and investor groups began to hoard large quantities of bitcoin mining equipment of their own, says Harvey, without considering where they might deploy it.

In an overheated market, holders of mining equipment jumped into hosting arrangements at short notice with owners of small facilities, some of whom had no prior experience and insufficient expertise, who agreed to install the equipment and run the mining operations on their behalf.

But the haste with which these hosting relationships came together, in the name of striking while bitcoin was hot, says Harvey, set many of the partnerships up for failure. There was limited due diligence conducted by parties on both sides, delays in kitting out facilities and deploying equipment, and disputes over payment terms, he says, among other points of friction. “It's a snowball effect where everyone just ends up getting pissed off with each other,” says Harvey.

Though the American market proved more expensive and bureaucratic than some Chinese businesses expected, says Harvey, problems were also caused by the hubris of facility owners, some of whom found themselves in over their heads. “It’s no joke running a [bitcoin mining] operation of any kind of scale,” he says. “Just because the Chinese are tough to do business with, doesn’t mean they are the ones in the wrong. I would say that blame is equally shared.”

The law firm acting for Mohawk in its dispute with HBT, Anna Whites Law Office, has represented multiple owners of small facilities in Kentucky in similar legal conflicts with Chinese partners. The cases differ from the Mohawk situation, says attorney Anna Whites, founder of the firm, but share a common thread: “We saw a pattern that [companies with ties to China] would ship in machines with uncertain provenance, mine very heavily for three months, then run without paying the bill,” she claims.

Some of the cases settled out of court; Whites is unable to supply the details for reasons of client confidentiality. But others continue to drag on.

Biofuel Mining, a company formerly co-owned by Smith, is involved in legal tangles with two companies that Whites believes to be run out of China: Touzi Tech and VCV Power Gamma. Although both are incorporated in Delaware, per SEC filings, they conduct business in Mandarin and cannot be reached at their listed US addresses, Whites claims. “It's pretty standard for the foreign entities from any country to get a short-term office so that they have less scrutiny from US investors and government agencies,” she says.

In both cases, Biofuel claims, the firms shipped equipment from China to its hosting facility in Eastern Kentucky, then walked away with the bitcoin produced, leaving behind hundreds of thousands of dollars in unpaid energy bills and hosting fees.

Biofuel reached a settlement with Touzi in early 2022 for $60,000, but despite having handed back the mining equipment, it claims not to have received the sum it is owed under the agreement.

In the still-unresolved spat with VCV, Biofuel received permission from the Martin County Circuit Court in Kentucky to sell off the mining equipment, claims Whites, to recoup a portion of the funds it is owed (she has not confirmed the amount), but she alleges that no damages have yet been awarded. VCV has stopped responding to communications, she claims.

Biofuel has since dissolved, put out of business by the failed hosting ventures. “I literally lost my house—I lost everything. It financially ruined me,” says Wes Hamilton, former Biofuel Mining CEO. “I’m just so frustrated about the whole thing.”

WIRED contacted VCV and Touzi for comment, but did not receive any response.

There are few financial recovery options for companies like Mohawk and Biofuel. The situation is made more difficult, as in the Mohawk case, if they are dealing with so-called special purpose entities. Because they are set up by their parent companies for a single specific business venture, these entities need not be concerned about their long-term ability to operate in the US.

“It certainly can be more difficult to recover damages from a non-US counterparty,” says Kim Havlin, a partner in the global commercial litigation practice at law firm White & Case. “There is certainly a risk that an entity that doesn’t need to be in the US may just ignore the case.”

Even if the Kentucky facility owners win out in court, it could be difficult to collect any damages awarded. “A judgment is essentially a piece of paper. Any judgment needs to be turned into assets or cash in order to be valuable,” says Havlin. If the opposing party refuses to pay up and has no US assets to collect against, sometimes that isn’t possible.

Almost a year after the dispute began, the Mohawk case is stuck in legal limbo. In a setback for Mohawk, the presiding judge recently denied its motion to dismiss HBT’s complaint, on the basis that it had failed to sufficiently back up its argument. The judge also pushed Mohawk’s countersuit into arbitration, a forum for resolving disputes privately instead of in open court. Non-US parties tend to prefer arbitration as a way to “remove a home forum from both sides,” explains Havlin. “You can pick an arbitral seat in neither country as a means of creating a neutral playing field.” A parallel federal court hearing is set for December to consider whether an injunction should be imposed on Mohawk, preventing it from selling off the remaining HBT equipment in its possession.

Smith has given up on the idea of recovering the full amount he claims to be owed. “We’re at the point that it’s almost silly to even be arguing about breaking even,” he says.

In an interview with PBS that aired in September 2023, touting the Mohawk Energy facility, Smith said he hoped to prove that not every business that blew into Jenkins would abandon the area. “I’ve stood at their ribbon cuttings, then watched them leave. I’d like to do something to let people know that not everybody is like that,” he said.

After the relationship with HBT collapsed last year, Smith faces the prospect of Mohawk becoming yet another false start. With the facility inactive, the company has been forced to dismiss the former coal miners brought on as technicians. (It is unclear how many people it employed.)

The Mohawk facility was perhaps never set to revitalize Jenkins in the way Smith hoped, anyway. “I would say that a rural community benefits very little from a bitcoin mining facility. In terms of job creation, it’s minimal in a lot of cases,” says Harvey, the consultant. “It's certainly not the savior to a dwindling community.”

Nonetheless, Smith remains hopeful of salvaging the crypto mining project, with a new partner. “I’m hoping that this gets settled in the way that it should and that somebody comes forward and lets us go through with the vision that we wanted for this region,” he says. “I hope every day that maybe some big company will see that there's a place ready to go in this part of the country.”

Otherwise, Mohawk’s dalliance with bitcoin mining will become a cautionary tale. “It was very hurtful to see these families lose their income. We were one of the biggest payrolls in Jenkins,” says Smith. “It adds insult to injury that I’m sitting here arguing in court.”

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beardedmrbean · 11 months ago

Note

Bad Dragon is suing SinSaint over copyright infringement of their dildo designs. What I want to know is, can you copyright the shape of a dog's dick? Because if you can, you shouldn't be able to.

I did knot need to hear about this one.

one more pun

TSG is gonna be one of the more reputable sources for this one

MARCH 25--A manufacturer of “fantasy-themed sex toys” has accused an upstart Brooklyn, New York firm of knocking off its distinctive designs, according to a federal lawsuit alleging that the defendant has infringed on copyrights for dildos such as “Spritz the Seadragon” and “Tyson the Water Buffalo.”

In a March 20 complaint filed in U.S. District Court in Arizona, Bad Dragon Enterprises contended that its “sculptural” products have been illegally copied by SinSaint, which is headquartered in a Coney Island warehouse and advertises that all its “Ethically Manufactured” toys are “made in Brooklyn, USA.”

Bad Dragon, which noted that it has had “significant commercial success” in the adult toy field, alleged that SinSaint has been selling the duplicative dildos through its website and other trade channels, including the recent AVN Adult Entertainment Expo in Las Vegas (where the new firm’s exhibitor booth was next to that of the all-nude Palomino strip club).

The lawsuit identifies 13 separate dildos that Bad Dragon claims have been copied (and renamed) by SinSaint, which was incorporated in New York last year. The colorful silicone toys feature scales, tentacles, suction cups, and other design elements meant to mimic the genitalia of dragons, sea creatures, and other fantastical characters.

Some of the Bad Dragon products that SinSaint is accused of swiping are “Kelvin the Ice Dragon,” “Stan the T. Rex,” and “Vergil the Drippy Dragon.” SinSaint has not been accused of pirating other Bad Dragon offerings like “Jason the Demogorgon” or “Cuttlefish of Cthulhu.”

According to the lawsuit, SinSaint’s counsel last month stated that the company had begun removing “some of the allegedly infringing listings for product redesign.” This response, Bad Dragon contended, was “unacceptable,” adding that it “continues to be harmed by Defendant’s ongoing, unlawful conduct.”

The Bad Dragon complaint seeks an order enjoining SinSaint from continuing any further alleged

copyright infringement and seeks “disgorgement of all of Defendant’s profits” related to the artificial penises. The company may also seek statutory damages of up to $150,000 for each of the dildos in question.

For more than a decade, Bad Dragon has sought trademark and copyright protection for various product lines. While often successful, the firm’s application to trademark its “Cum Tube” was abandoned after a government attorney rejected the ejaculating dildo because the “applied-for mark consists of or includes immoral or scandalous matter.” The application included a very NSFW image, which can be found on the U. S. Patent and Trademark Office website.

According to an August 2023 trademark application, SinSaint’s owner is Oleg Semenenko, 50, a resident of Brooklyn’s gated Seagate community. Semenenko lives less than a mile from SinSaint’s warehouse, which shares an address with GlobMarble, an industrial molds business for which Semenenko is listed as “manager” in a separate trademark application filed this month.

In a brief interview today, Semenenko was asked how a dildo firm grew out of his original business. “We work with rubber,” he replied. Semenenko dismissed Bad Dragon’s claim that its products were unique and original: “How can octopus hand can be your idea?” (4 pages) ____________________________________________

Hope the judge that did the recent trump case gets this one, even though I know that's basically impossible, just the thought of making him listen to hours of testimony about how these rubber fantasy dildos are protected by copyright or trademark law, or something like that is funny to me.

It's not a revenge thing wanting it, just a keep him humble thing. I know you think you're hot shit now, so here listen to these arguments for a bit.

Totally different note, I'm wondering how long until the discourse starts up, or if it has already started up, where using horse dildos is either bestiality or a gateway to bestiality because what with the way people treat cartoons of fictional people I can't imagine it's far off or not already here.

Look to japan for the tentacle ones.........

#anonymous

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cartridgeconverter · 8 months ago

Text

Don Giovanni characters as fountain pens

I have long postponed making this post as I was afraid it might convince me to spend more money. However, armed with a new sense of fiscal responsibility, I think I am prepared.

I've tried to have a range of prices that roughly correspond to the status of the characters, as well as many different brands. Honestly all of these are just vibes, but I've tried to give my justifications were I can.

Leporello - Sailor Profit Junior in Kohiru ($60 as part of a limited edition set, including other products)

I know I just said that I would try and match the lower-class characters to appropriately-priced pens, but look at it. It has a bunny on it. This is the best pen ever.

Don Giovanni - Visconti Opera Gold in Red ($348)

This is probably the only pen on this list that I would absolutely never buy, no matter how much opera-themed branding it has, because it is a ridiculous price and also looks stupid. But "ridiculous price" and "looks stupid" are both things I associate with Don G, and he would definitely be a Visconti whore -- it's a brand highly associated with luxury.

My other choice for him is also a Visconti model, this time the Divina Matte in Bordeaux. This is an even more ridiculous price, at $796. However, it is less obnoxiously red than the Opera Gold, so it is an alternate. He probably would have both anyway.

Donna Anna - Nahvalur Voyage in Shanghai ($130)

I have this one! She is beauty, she is grace. She is also very poorly designed but I forgive her for that. This pen is super elegant, albeit large, and is made from resin with real diamond flakes in it. I love the color also - black, with streaks of blue that show up under light. It reminds me a bit of Anna's costume in the Kasper Holten production. It's simply a very beautiful pen (with tons of design flaws and constitution issues, grr).

The Commendatore - Parker Jack-Knife with silver filigree ($5 in 1902, which is equivalent to $183 today)

This is a very lovely vintage pen from the Parker company, of which I scoured this ancient website for a picture (https://parkerpens.net/index.shtml). As an aside, this site is great; it's very well-kept and contains a detailed account of Parker models through time, with pictures. This pen, though gaudy, is exactly the type of thing that I think old men who do things like duels in the middle of the night would have. (Please work with me here, I don't exactly have a lot of content to go off of :P)

Don Ottavio - Sailor Pro Gear Slim, Shikiori Amaoto collection in Kirisame ($360)

Honestly, any purple Sailor will fit for Ottavio. They're generally on the smaller side, but the designs have an elegant simplicity to them. Also, purple. It's him! It's just him.

This will probably be the ultimate piece in my collection. It's such a lovely little thing, with a 21k gold nib. Unfortunately, I will not be purchasing it any time soon, due to my responsible spending habits.

Donna Elvira - LAMY Al-Star in Black Purple ($48)

Also another model I own -- I swear by Lamys as a great everyday pen. They're reliable and ergonomic, even if they're not as visually appealing as some other brands. The Al-Star, being made of aluminum, is a bit of an upgrade from their plastic model, the Safari with a slightly higher price. I think it's very fitting for Elvira, as a travelling woman.

Zerlina and Masetto - LAMY Safari in Savannah Green and Terra Red ($19)

The Lamy Safari is my favorite everyday pen to use, full stop. It's the same model as the Al-Star, but made from a lightweight plastic. They have a very practical and minimalist aesthetic, but it works, and it works well. They're super durable and apparently can survive being run over by warehouse equipment. I just think this model really suits these two, or maybe I'm biased since it's my favorite.

In particular, these are the two special edition colors made to celebrate the 40 year anniversary of the model, as they were the original colors to be manufactured. The green (which I own) matches Zerlina's dress in the IvH production, which is why I named it Zerlina to begin with. That seems to have been a good name - although filling the converter for the first time was a dramatic ordeal, it's been a reliable pen no matter how much wear and tear I put it through (the black paint on the clip has completely flaked off by now).

Hope you guys enjoyed this tenuous connection between my nerdy hobbies that was actually just a vessel for my rant about how much I love Lamy Safaris. I had fun putting it together, even if a few of these are out of my price point right now. Maybe I will do inks next, although I have put less thought into that.

Off of this list, I hope to eventually buy both Sailors (Leporello and Ottavio) as well as the other Safari (Masetto), although that's not a priority. I just like thinking about having nice things.

#don giovanni #operaposting #pen talk

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apparitionism · 1 year ago

Text

Bonus

Happy particular Monday! Here’s a story for it, which came about mostly because I wanted to put a couple of people into a clichéd situation, and then I had to do leadup and aftermath... anyway, it’s intended to be a two-parter (yes, I know; aspirations) set in a not-entirely-canonical season 4, in which the Warehouse did get brought back and Helena did leave without explanation, BUT Artie doesn’t go full Father Data and Leena doesn’t suffer the consequences—mostly because Mrs. Frederic has sensed some badness to come and thus sent Artie and Leena away. Because why not? Also I have Claudia jumping into Caretakering, and even a bit of Artieing, with some enthusiasm.

P.S. I know I haven’t yet finished last year’s Christmas story—that’s a pain point—but I genuinely am working to get back on various horses, including that one. Weather (in all senses) permitting.

Bonus

“I genuinely cannot believe we’re stuck in an elevator,” Myka says. It may be the most true statement to which she’s ever given voice.

****

SEVERAL HOURS EARLIER...

Myka’s reasonably pleasant thought, burring along as background to her monotonous tasks, is I don’t mind this. She and Steve are in the Warehouse office early in the morning, doing file inventory, and it’s true: she doesn’t mind it. It’s a little lacking as a holiday activity, but with Artie, Leena, and Pete all away, “lacking” is pretty much the flavor of the moment.

Claudia pokes her head in and says, “Ping.” She’s unenthusiastic, speaking of lacking. Where’s the usual revving about what it might be this time? “At some midwestern accounting firm, because it’s important to have a boring Christmas.”

Ah. “An accounting artifact?” Myka asks. Speaking further of lacking: here, it’s artifacty zing. Then again, artifacty zing got Myka trapped in Alice’s mirror, among other catastrophes, so maybe boring isn’t so bad. “Balance sheets?” she ventures. “Pluses and minuses?”

“Some people at this pingy company just got extremely large Christmas bonuses,” Claudia says, “and some got their pay extremely docked. So yeah, ‘balance sheets, pluses and minuses’ just about covers it. Probably. I mean, I might be trying to manage expectations here.”

Claudia’s certainly right, in that getting one’s hopes up—about anything (or anyone)—is a fool’s game.

But still, there’s something to be said for boring-but-remunerative, even if only for some people... what a nice idea. “I’d like a Christmas bonus someday,” Myka says, “instead of a Christmas penalty. Which I think pretty accurately describes the Pete-plus-artifacts situation.”

“It’s two days before Christmas, and he hasn’t done anything yet,” Claudia says. “That you know of,” she amends.

“Because he’s been with his family in Ohio for the past week,” Myka points out, and she’s gratified when Claudia rolls her eyes. It’s practically a concession.

Steve says, “It’s inappropriate to say ‘Christmas’ bonus these days. It’s ‘end-of-year.’” The contribution suggests he’s listening with only one ear.

“I wish appropriateness mattered here,” Myka says, not really to him but in general. Who knows how a Warehouse HR department would make heads or tails of the application of employment laws—much less employment niceties? “Not that it makes a difference. Christmas, end-of-year... call it Fred, and we still wouldn’t get one.”

“If I ever do get a bonus, I’m absolutely naming it Fred,” Claudia declares.

Myka shakes her head. “Poor Fred. Doomed to be injected right back into the discretionary economy.”

“Inject-o-what are you even talking about?”

“Just a guess, but: you’d spend it on things you don’t need.”

Claudia harrumphs. “Thanks for lumping me in with the avocado-toast-and-Starbucks crowd. My fiscaling is way more responsible.”

“Really? What would you use Fred for?”

“Asus VG278HE gaming monitor. Plus a graphics card, maybe the Nvidia GTX 690, depending on how hefty Fred is.” At Myka’s snort, Claudia challenges, “Fine, where would you inject it?”

“My Roth IRA,” Myka says immediately. She’s not sure what assets her evil, crazy, or dead self will need in retirement, but given the many and varied forms each of those, or combinations thereof, could take, it seems like a good idea to have a financial plan in place. That’s another thing a Warehouse HR department might be useful for...

“You’re the actual human manifestation of an accounting artifact,” Claudia accuses. “Speaking of which, here’s the deal. I gotta stay here—some Mrs.-F homeworky stuff—and Steve’s busy reassuring all the misfit toys in the building that Leena hasn’t deserted them forever. And I’d say ignore the ping entirely, but your never know what’ll go viral, and I bet Artie’d say the last thing we need is another financial crisis. Or maybe you’d say it. Anyway, you’re it. And for your backup, when you get to Cleveland—”

Myka groans. “Cleveland? Seriously? Pete’s going to be so mad about you pulling him away from the family.”

“I’m not pulling him away,” Claudia says, blinking like she’s some innocent little lamb.

Myka groans again. “You’re making me do it?”

Claudia shrugs. “Sure. Why not. You’re partners, right? But here’s some advice: wait till you get there to call him. You know, put off the misery, if that’s what it is, as long as possible. Besides—more advice—I really think you should spend your travel time thinking about bonuses. Who gets ’em and why. Because what’s a bonus, really?”

“An economic stimulus whose nametag reads ‘Fred,’ if I’m understanding things correctly.”

“We’ll see what you think about that when you get to Cleveland.”

“On the day before Christmas eve,” Myka grouses. “By the way, that’s a whole lot of ‘advice,’ coming from somebody who’s over a decade younger than I am and not technically my boss.”

“By the way,” Claudia mimics, archly mocking, “we’ll see what you think about that too.”

“When I get to Cleveland?”

“When you get to Cleveland. On the day before Christmas eve.”

“Sounds like the title of a lesser Christmas carol,” Steve says—he’s tuned back in to the conversation. He then says, with his grin that curves so impish, “Think we could get Mariah Carey to sing it? It’s a hit if we get her, right, no matter how lesser?”

“‘When You Get to Cleveland on the Day Before Christmas Eve?’” Claudia skeptics. “Hit-wise, that’s gonna need a lot more power: Mariah dueting with Darlene Love at the very least. Plus we’ll need a Destiny’s Child reunion for at least one chorus.”

“Thanks for reinforcing my sense of how awful this is likely to be,” Myka tells them both, and Steve’s grin turns apologetic.

Claudia, however, shrugs. “Maybe you’ll sing it different.”

Myka is now the one to roll her eyes. “I won’t sing it at all.”

Surprisingly, Claudia doesn’t go with another eyeroll. “We’ll see,” she says, and Myka is struck by the Mrs.-Frederic resonance in her words. Does the homework include practicing the enigmatic tone?

Steve looks up and catches Myka’s eye. He winks. Myka would wink back, but he would probably interpret that as her saying she understands what’s happening. And that would be a lie: serious enough, probably, to make him wince and massage his temples.

So Myka just blinks—not Morse or any other code, just basic eye-moistening blinks. Then she goes upstairs to collect her always-packed travel bag for her trip to Cleveland.

****

Her flight departs late, of course; it’s December in South Dakota. But that’s this-time fine, because it allows Myka a necessary excess of opportunity to prep her Pete-placation. Under her breath, she practices the delivery of such words as “shorthanded” and “necessary,” aiming for maximum sincerity.

When she at last emerges from her Cleveland Hopkins jetway, that extensive prep deserts her entirely, for what awaits her is the manifestation of a Christmas wish she has worked overtime to convince herself would not, could not possibly be granted:

Helena.

Whose arms are crossed, and whose posture betrays that her foot might recently have been tapping out impatience with the plane’s tardy arrival. The attitude is so normal, so entirely of-the-world (rather than of-its-imminent-end), that Myka wants to reverse course, get back on the plane and redisembark, just so she might meet it again, meet it and refeel this wash of absolute relief at seeing Helena impatient in an airport.

Devious, Claudia, Myka thinks. Outstandingly devious. “Hello, Fred,” she murmurs, then tries, in the ten seconds she has before she and Helena are in proximity to speak, to engage in a far more consequential prep.

For Helena has been gone—has been, as Myka put it to Steve not so long ago, “god knows where”—since shortly after the Warehouse did not explode. She was there, in the Warehouse, but then she was gone, and Myka was told only that Helena had “matters to attend to.” God presumably also knew what those matters were, but Myka hadn’t, in the wake of that first moment of absence, and hasn’t since, been able to pry any information about matters or their whereabouts out of anyone, divine or otherwise.

And through the seemingly endless wondering, Myka’s mind and heart have gnawed themselves ragged.

Until this moment, when the wondering and gnawing end: now her blood speeds, coursing with urgency even as everything else seems to slow.... her movements, her reactions, her thinking, all are sluggish, unresponsive; only her blood matters. This blood knowledge. For all her wondering, she’s been avoiding gnawing her way to that answer.

“Claudia said you needed backup” are Helena’s words when they meet.

Myka’s attempt at prep has fallen grievously short—not that she could have risen to such an occasion, not when hearing that voice for the first time in some time, and certainly not when faced with what her blood’s embarrassing insistence has forced her to confront anew. “I... assumed I’d be calling Pete,” she says, to at least go with truth.

“Interesting assumption. Perhaps necessary, if you believe I’ll be insufficient.”

Myka’s impulse is to reassure: “More than sufficient—you’re necessary,” she would shout, or better yet, whisper. Instead, because Helena’s tone is neutral—is she in actuality indifferent?—she falls into a defensive, businesslike crouch, offering only implicit denial of the premise of Helena’s statement. “Let’s head for the accounting firm,” she says, internally cursing herself.

Cursing, but also justifying: Helena is here as backup, thanks to Claudia’s cleverness, and Myka should not assume (speaking of assumptions) that she even wants to be here. All focus should be on retrieving the artifact. Certainly on that and not on Myka’s (honestly) predictably overexcited blood.

She tries to concentrate on Claudia’s advice (while at the same time trying not to resent her success at being cryptic about it): what’s a bonus, really? Helena’s presence, the sight of her, the apprehending of her impatience, the experience of blood: whatever else may happen, these have been—must be—are!—the bonus.

****

The cab ride is quiet. Myka’s resolve to think only of backup and bonus is dissolving by the second, and she lets words reach her tongue that might start a conversation with Helena about things... but those words don’t escape her lips, for a strand of formality seems to be stiffening Helena’s spine. Does she know how Myka cherished her impatience? Is she attempting to discourage such adoration?

Myka, in regret and relief, follows that more-strict lead.

That’s a bonus too, though, for it turns the ride into unpressured, liminal time, perfect for simply basking in presence. It’s best, Myka is now thinking, to treat this reunion as something that was of course going to have happened. For backup or other professional purposes. Despite the fact that it’s the thank-god fulfillment of recurring, desperate dreams.

However: at one point in the traffic-backed silence, Helena, completely unprompted, turns and smiles at Myka.

Myka smiles back.

It’s a previously missing puzzle-piece slotting into place... yet in its aftermath, Myka finds herself having to push with force against a will to worry over other missing pieces; in particular, she must fight the fret-intensive futility of trying to count them.

****

They find the accounting firm’s lobby spacious but quiet—holiday-low staffing, presumably. Myka asks the receptionist, “Is there someone we can talk to about end-of-year bonuses? Also penalties?”

“I’m a temp,” says the young man. His tone suggests it’s his answer to every query... but then he adds, very quietly, “Unofficially, there’s this one guy...”

That has the ring of “artifact,” so Myka nods, encouraging him.

“Super-vocal about his paycheck the other day. How tiny it was. I mean, he’s the kind of guy you might have theories about what else is tiny, but I—”

“Who was that?” Myka interrupts, even as she feels Helena’s readiness to laugh. Mr. Super-vocal is thus probably not a wielder of an artifact; more likely, one of that wielder’s... victims?

“Bob,” the temp says. “I’m sure he’s got a last name, and I’m sure he thinks everybody should call him ‘Mr. Lastname,’ but my care level? Anyway he’s down the hall—one of the only ones in the farm today. Spite-working. Maybe on his anti-everything manifesto.”

“Down the hall” turns out to be a vast expanse of cubicles: definitely a farm.

Myka says to Helena, “Follow my lead?”

“Always,” Helena says.

It’s a tonally sincere utterance—and in that, admirable—but it’s also manifestly untrue; nevertheless, Myka’s blood decides to believe it, to recognize it as another puzzle-piece. I really need to function, Myka tries to explain to her interior. So if we could climb down just a couple rungs. Like to the cab-ride level, maybe?

Her body refuses the agreement.

Of course.

The occupant of the first inhabited cubicle they find is an over-coiffed middle-aged man who clearly spends far too much time in tanning booths. He’s typing aggressively, as if the force of his keystrokes will power his message. His manifesto?

“Are you Bob?” Myka asks him.

“You better be here about my money,” obviously-Bob says, clearly spoiling for a fight.

Myka finds his demand incongruous—his job has to do with other people’s money, and Myka and Helena are manifestly other people. Who could have money. Fred or otherwise.

“In a way,” she says. She follows up with “We’re from the IRS,” and it’s never not funny for that to be useful. Bob winces, as if she's about to strike him. Also never not funny. “We’ve noted some suspicious discrepancies in end-of-year reporting.”

“You have?” Bob asks. Now he’s avid rather than confrontational.

“Looks like some overreporting. Also underreporting. So you see our concern, particularly about effects on withholding.” She is making this up, as she generally does whenever she has to go actual IRS on someone. Read up on tax law, she reminds herself, as she generally does every time. Not that she’ll ever have the leisure to do that... “What we need to find out is whether it was in error, or if it warrants a full investigation.”

“Nancy Sullivan,” he says, with contempt, the name itself a curse. “She’s the one you should investigate, and then send straight to jail. She’s always been a witch about year-end, but now? On steroids. Talking about making her list, threatening to mark down people she doesn’t like, including yours truly, as naughty... and then we got our paychecks, and somehow she did it! No idea how she managed to push that garbage through, but I swear you better get her up on some kind of charges!”

He rises abruptly, clutching a slip of paper; his chair topples over behind him. He shoves the paper in Myka’s direction, his knuckles nearing her astonished nose—but in the instant before contact, Helena intervenes, her arm blocking his, stopping his forward motion.

Backup.

Helena plucks the paper from his pushy hand. “And what’s this?” she asks.

A pretty minimal manifesto, Myka thinks initially. But then she replays his screed in her head, and his babbling about Nancy Sullivan resolves into meaningful references; struck by the realization, she very nearly misses his next statement: “My pay stub. She can’t just do this.”

Helena says, “Of course not.” She’s soothing him, her voice a faux-caress. It’s enough to tempt Myka to act out, just to hear it directed her way, even as Helena continues, “But we understand some of your colleagues, to the contrary, received large bonuses.”

His “tanned” skin darkens further. “Guess she thought they were nice. To her. Suck-ups.”

Mya looks a Find out anything else that’s relevant at Helena, who nods. Retreating back to the pre-cubicle hallway—relieved that her nose is intact—she Farnsworths Claudia. She skips the pleasantries, starting with, “A very disgruntled employee says the woman who signs off on bonuses was making a list.”

Claudia chortles. “You’re hilarious. Was she checking it twice?”

“This is my point. We don’t know exactly what we’re dealing with, not yet, but I bet that’s the crux.”

“I should’ve known you weren’t aiming for hilarity. So you really think this is some Santa thing?”

“No. I’m saying words about lists because I think it’s a grocery thing.” Myka wants to shake her fist at the heavens and every deity who occupies it. Occupies them. All the heavens. “Of course I think it’s a Santa thing! I also think it’s Pete’s fault somehow.”

“Just because it’s Christmas? C’mon.”

“Christmas and Ohio?” Myka snorts. “You c’mon. I don’t believe in coincidence.”

“Maybe you should though. For peace of mind?”

“That’s another thing I don’t believe in. Just see if you can find anything about a Santa’s-list artifact, would you?”

“Roger. By the way, how do you like your backup?” She chortles again and disconnects.

“I like my backup like I like the sunrise,” Myka tells the blank Farnsworth screen.

“What about the sunrise?” Helena asks from directly behind her.

Myka wishes the sound of her voice were either more or less startling. She wishes also that she knew exactly how much overhearing had occurred.

“It’s inevitable,” she sighs.

In response, Helena blinks.

They take the elevator to Nancy Sullivan’s office.

In that elevator, which is aggressively mirrored, Myka can’t help but glance repeatedly at herself. So many reflections. You called this into being, thinking about Alice’s mirror before, she accuses. She tries not to focus on how her hair could really stand to be more controlled... she’d focus on Helena instead, but who knows how that would be received? Instead she allows herself one glance, then looks down.

She likes being on the elevator with Helena, though; it’s a space of relative privacy, like the cab. Have they ever before been on an elevator together? Alone or otherwise? She runs through their interactions, fast-forwarding from the Wells house to D.C., Tamalpais to Moscow, Yellowstone, Colorado Springs, Ohio (here Myka trips over the fact that Helena’ s now been to Ohio twice, if only once in physical form), Pittsburgh, Hong Kong...

The review—the speed with which she can conduct it—reminds her of how limited that time has been, so: an elevator ride. Yet another bonus.

“That fellow,” Helena remarks, and Myka looks up again; their eyes meet in the mirror of the elevator’s doors. It’s uncanny, as if they’re both holograms, so Myka turns her body toward Helena, who meets Myka’s actual eyes and continues, “He attempted to make a lewd joke about his willingness and ability to be naughty when it’s called for. I pretended not to understand.”

Myka can’t help it: she snorts. “I bet he didn’t buy that for a second.”

“I have the ability to perform ‘prim’ when it’s called for,” Helena says, and Myka has to acknowledge that statement as good evidence of itself. Then Helena’s face reshapes into a devilish grin as she says, “In a slightly different vein, his quailing at those three letters with which you assailed him? Hilarious.”

“Letters?” A little perverse-quirk makes Myka want to hear Helena say them, though she’s probably not pulling off “disingenuous” in making the request.

Helena seems fine with the perversity, for she obliges: “I,” she begins, then draws out “Aaaaare.” Then, after a beat: “Esssss.”

Myka now herself feels assailed—by how right Helena’s reading her. She tries to step it down with, “I wasn’t aiming for hilarity. I never do. Claudia can vouch.” But she does spend a little moment thinking about the context of that previous assailing: we’re from the IRS. We are here, together, from an agency. We, together, represent. It isn’t by any means everything Myka would have wanted... but it’s something: part of this bonus. “Fred,” she says, sotto voce.

The office they’re seeking is on the building’s highest floor, suggestive of Nancy Sullivan’s bonus-approving rank; it features several large windows, one of which affords the office a view of the hallway, and vice versa. Through it, Myka and Helena watch a woman, presumably that powerful Nancy Sullivan, writing with a quill-esque pen.

“It’s the pen,” Myka says, because it has to be. “It’s always the stupid pen.”

“Always?” That’s unusually tentative, like Helena’s trying not to step.

“Okay, once,” Myka concedes. “My dad and Poe and a pen, and as a result I’ve developed a severe aversion to those quill things.”

Helena takes a beat. Then: “I never liked feather pens.”

“Are you just saying that,” Myka says, because she might be, and she might admit it, and that might be good or bad or something else Myka has no way of evaluating. Why does Helena say words like this? And for that matter, why does Myka keep spending her limited time on this planet trying to parse them?

“Yes? In that I’ve... said it?”

That really didn’t help with any of the whys. “I mean, just to make me feel better?”

Helena shrugs. “The fact is, today’s ballpoints et cetera are far more reliable. Does that make you feel better?”

She’s playing at being obtuse—surely that’s for a reason? But Myka has no time to wonder further, for Helena is knocking on the office door and opening it without waiting for an invitation, and the real retrieval is underway.

Myka flashes her badge. “I’m Agent Myka Bering, and this is Helena Wells. We’re from the IRS.” She glances at Helena—all these glances!—and gets a small smirk in response.

Rather than introducing herself, the woman says, “Really? I bet that’s not true.”

“Why?” Myka asks. Have she and Helena, over the course of the elevator ride, lost their ability to perform “official” correctly?

“I have a feeling you’re here for this,” Nancy Sullivan says, and she lofts the pen, waving it like a wand. “Mostly because I also have a feeling that I want to close my fist around it, punch my way past both of you, and make my escape.”

Well. “That’s self-aware,” Myka says. “Unusually so.”

“Thank you? Although it’s less self-awareness than kind of a... sixth sense.”

Helena raises an eyebrow at Myka. “Sixth sense aside, we appreciate your good sense to refrain from attempting to punch your way past us. That would have ended poorly.”

“I wish I’d had the good sense not to use this pen,” Nancy Sullivan says.

“Is there a reason for your wish?” Helena asks. She sounds, to Myka’s ears at least, like a recently summoned, slightly flummoxed genie.

“Because of how much I liked using it—particularly when I realized nobody was going to question anything. I signed off on all these orders, and it was like...” she trails off. Then she concludes, “Magic.”

To keep her talking, Myka prompts, “Was it?”

“Having the power to reward good people has been fantastic,” Nancy Sullivan continues, “but penalizing the awful ones? I mean I’ve sort of resented feeling compelled to use the word ‘naughty’ about them, because that’s way out of character for me. But other than that? Utterly spectacular.”

“Bob,” Helena suggests.

“Oh, god, you met him?”

Helena offers a dry “Alas.”

Nancy Sullivan’s smile is as dry as Helena’s tone, astringently vindictive. “I could not have been more thrilled to hit him and everybody like him where it hurt... I admit I’ve always been kind of judgmental, but wielding this pen? Intensified. Like, the hates are more. In particular, the hates are more. I’m not saying the Bobs of this company didn’t deserve what I did, but I feel it more. Punishment. It’s satisfying, but also weirdly costly. Grinch-in-reverse costly.”

That’s a little on the nose. Myka glances at Helena again, because the satisfactions of punishment, of judgment, even of hate, are among the things they will need to talk about. Maybe. Someday. If they are to have a someday that is theirs... if that is even possible after so much time and tribulation... Myka lets the glance grow into a gaze, a resting regard, and it stays that way until Helena, too, glances, with the result then that their eyes meet and lock... such a clasp, Myka feels, could ground that potential, and potentially necessary, talk of things, if only they were not in the middle of a retrieval...

...which makes Myka think. Why are they in the middle of a retrieval?

“I wish I didn’t feel like I need to articulate this, but where did you get the pen?” she asks. Because she has a niggling sense of something larger happening, something beyond her grasp. Nevertheless, it is not—repeat, not—a vibe.

Fine. It might be a vibe.

“My cousin gave it to me,” says Nancy Sullivan.

“Your cousin,” Myka says. “Whose name is?” Now she’s knows what’s coming, and that has nothing to do with a vibe: no, it is entirely deduction based on experience.

“Pete Lattimer.”

TBC

#bering and wells #warehouse 13 #fanfic #Bonus #holiday (but not Gift Exchange)#proceeding at a vaguely nonzero speed #being left in the dust by snails and tortoises #but I do still love a Myka who fights with herself about who deserves what (and why)#and of course a Helena who can be reasonably inferred to do the same #struggling against the graceful acceptance of gifts #whatever form they take

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seat-safety-switch · 1 year ago

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The Mafia of Incompetence is out to get me, and not even for the first time this week. There’s all kinds of reasons these non-aligned dimbulb thugs wish me harm, but chief among them is my insistence that I must always receive my RockAuto magnets.

Perhaps you are unfamiliar. You see, RockAuto is a modern e-commerce corporation. It exists as sort of amorphous blob. Old-school parts warehouses, retail operations, and liquidators go out of business all the time. RockAuto scoops up those car parts and sells them over the internet. One of the things they include with every order is at least one small, rectangular refrigerator magnet, of another freak's car.

Time was, you could count on four things in life: gravity, death, taxes, and RockAuto magnets showing up with your order. Now, fewer than that many things are true. Border patrol has been getting increasingly sticky-fingered around my part of the world, and I'll often have a RockAuto package show up with different tape on it, missing all of its packing material and – critically – the magnet.

I've complained to my local political representative, using virtually the same words as I'm speaking to you now. They ignored me, because they have real problems to solve (what caviar to pair with which wine, how to give a larger tax break than 100% to oil companies.) I had to take matters into my own hands. Contrary to popular belief, a background check for the federal government is really easy to fake. Soon, I was the government's newest parcel snoop.

That's where I met my then-coworker, now-friend, Shaky Tim. You see, he was the one stealing the magnets. I caught him red handed my first day. When all the other border guards went to lunch, he stayed behind and hacked open a bunch of the RockAuto packages. His desk at work was laden with the things, a cascading pile many inches thick of gleaming hot-rods, warm-rods, and even cold-rods.

Ethically, I was in a bit of a pickle. Reporting him to my "superiors" would stop the flow of my magnets into his pockets, but it would result in no other benefit to myself. Ignoring him was out of the question: my refrigerator still had at least a few square inches of empty space on its fascia. When in doubt, make like King Solomon: we decided to split the booty. I wouldn't report him, and he'd punch my time card for me and come by with a shopping bag full of magnets every weekend.

We've been doing this for a few years now, and everything was going great. My boss had been giving me glowing performance reviews, based entirely on my ability to not embarrassingly fuck up at work. And my pension was fattening nicely. Unfortunately, Shaky Tim was the weak point in the whole apparatus. He had a crisis of conscience, and quit the government altogether rather than admit his horrible crime. Doing so backed up the entire works: all the remaining border guards were not nearly as motivated to process RockAuto packages quickly. I didn't get my new Mikuni carb floats for, like, a whole week.

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rhapsodynew · 3 months ago

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#new music

Unreleased recordings of Michael Jackson have been found in the USA

Tapes of unreleased Michael Jackson songs have been found in California.

These are the compositions he worked on shortly before the release of the album Dangerous, from about 1989 to 1991.

According to The Hollywood Reporter, it all started when former Highway Patrol officer Gregg Musgrove purchased an abandoned warehouse that once belonged to American producer and singer Brian Loren. He worked with Michael Jackson at one time. Gregg Musgrove, who at first did not suspect what a find awaited him in this building, discovered cassettes with fifteen recordings, twelve of which can be considered full-fledged songs. In addition, the tapes recorded conversations between Jackson and Lauren, which they conducted during their collaboration

"I'm listening to this and I get goosebumps because no one has ever heard it.", Musgrove admitted

In the recordings, for example, there is a song "Don't Believe It", whose fragments surfaced online. Presumably, it was supposed to be included in the Dangerous album. Journalists consider "Truth on Youth", recorded together with rapper LL Cool J., to be the most "exciting" track. She is a unique copy of the reading from Jackson's mouth.

Musgrove and his lawyer appealed to the Estate of Michael Jackson, which controls the singer's estate and his posthumous income. They conducted their own research, but in the end the company They refused to buy audio cassettes. Her representatives stressed that neither they nor anyone else who may purchase these recordings in the future own the copyrights to the recordings. In other words, these Jackson songs may remain unreleased. However, Musgrove plans to sell the tapes in the near future — he intends to appeal to four major auction houses.

#new music #music news #new #michael jackson #pop #soul #r&b #funk #rock #disco #post-disco #dance pop #new jack swing #music #my music #music love #musica #history music #rock music

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piratefishmama · 2 years ago

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So i know the poll isnt over but i'm going to assume yes, to the background information on Finders Givers lmao.

So this is basically notes, they're notes I have on these characters, things that might not explicitly make it into the fic, and some things that might be included or referenced, but they're just... things i have noted down as character motivations or bits of information for specific characters that i wanna keep note of.

so keep some of these things in mind when characters are introduced! it'll explain a lot in terms of characterizations or vague references.

Please be advised there are CW's in here! CW: Mentions of ED CW: Mentions of human trafficking CW: mentions of illegal behaviour CW: mentions of past parental abuse CW: mentions of police bullshittery

The Harrington Family

Adults

Head of the family - Steve Harrington - 28 - Bisexual

Steve runs several underground businesses around the city, including drugs, fire arms, smuggling, and he owns a few clubs that deal in… illicit behaviours (strip clubs, gambling, etc.)

Steve also deals in legitimate business practices to cover up his naughty ones. He has military contracts for legal firearm development and distribution. He also owns a few local restaurants and a bakery that he bought to give Jane something soothing to do when her nerves are fried.

Steve was under his parents guidance until he was 18 years of age, they passed away in a car wreck leaving him with the 'family business' which he has since expanded and grown into a pretty sizable empire.

He lives in a high rise apartment in the city, the floor to cieling windows are bullet and blast proof and his security system is state of the art developed by his own company, he also has a security team and weapons hidden in several places around his apartment just in case anyone managed to get through the gauntlet of shit he's got lined up for them should anyone tresspass.

He owns the building, Robin lives in it, and so does Nancy and Jonathan although they're planning on getting a house somewhere just outside the city.

Steve wants the Hideout for drug and weapon smuggling purposes as one of the tunnels under it connects to a sewer line that runs to the city docks, getting the Hideout would mean he'd have access to pretty much the entire city from that one spot, as it's an access point to the tunnels not on any official city map.

Robin Buckley - 27 - Lesbian

Met Steve at a restaurant owned by his parents when they were both teenagers, Steve was still under his parents wing at that stage of his life and was held up by a rival family who caught him having dinner with friends, Robin, while working as a server, took a bullet for him, and wound up tied to a chair back to back with him in a warehouse while the bad guys tried to ransom them, took them both together thinking they knew each other because Robin took that bullet. They've been inseparable ever since.

She's the most important person in his life, he'd give up everything for her in a heartbeat. Wouldnt even think about it, he owes her his life.

Robin comes from a middle-class family and worked most of her teenage years in retail and customer service jobs, until she was taken hostage with Steve. She knows multiple languages, can play a few instruments. she's a little clumsy but she has spirit. she and Steve play basketball every now and then with the kids to unwind. She likes baking with Jane.

Nancy Wheeler - 27 - Bisexual

Steve brought her in when she was fired from her first reporter gig for some bogus political bullshit that wound up with her name being blacklisted in the industry when she went after the wrong person without any back up.

He paid for her student loans and brought her and her family into his family, she now works closely with Robin to make sure Steve doesnt do anything stupid, and if he does something stupid without telling them, she aids in damage control.

She's also a solid researcher, can find that needle in a haystack without needing a magnet. And she's really good with a gun.

Jonathan Byers - 27 - Heterosexual

Came with Nancy, is now her fiance. He's good at publicity shots, manages the galleries on the company's website. He takes most of Steve's public appearance photos. Doesn't really have the stomach for crime but he's pretty good at staying quiet.

Argyle - 27 - Pansexual

Came with Jonathan, a pretty spectacular get away driver, a good cook, and solid weed dealer, doesnt deal in anything stronger, has a quality hook up back in California that Steve was happy to connect with. He also ferries the kids around whenever they wanna do something stupid. Sometimes he appears with pizza, nobody knows where he gets the pizza, (he makes it himself).

He's currently staying with the Wheelers as there's no room for him elsewhere. He eventually moves into the block.

Billy Hargrove - 28 - one foot out of the closet Gay (still defensive about it)

Originally forced to work under Henry Creel, the head of a rival gang as an enforcer after his father racked up gambling debts with him. Billy is volatile, violent, and very defensive. He will snap to violence if he's backed into a corner.

Billy has a hair trigger temper similar to Jane, however his trauma is more related to his abusive father and being forced to work for Creel as a hitman/enforcer. He was the muscle, the guy who'd turn up to break things or kill someone. He's not a nice person by any means, he still acts a bit like a shark that's sensed blood in the water, but he's trying to be better now he's free of Creel.

He was raised by a racist, so his views on things are backwards and a lot twisted, but he's getting better. He's no longer antagonistic towards Lucas, he was for the first few months, but Max stepped in and shut that down.

He's doing a lot better now he's in a healthier environment, no longer fearing for his and Max's life, and no longer under Neil's abusive thumb, but he has unhealthy coping mechanisms for his stress and anger.

Joyce Byers - 46

Came with Jonathan. She doesnt really have a role besides keeping Hopper from arresting everyone. Everyone loves her though, she's like a mother to them all. Very protective of them. She'll do odd jobs here and there.

Jim Hopper - 46

Chief of Police in the city, Steve's parents basically blackmailed him years ago and Steve still has the material if Hopper ever stepped out of line.

Hopper has since reunited with, and fallen for Joyce, they went to school together, small world! So he can't do shit without Joyce being mad at him.

Begrudgingly he does actually like Steve though, the kid doesnt cause half as much shit as he could do given how much power he has.

The other parents

Play little to no roles. Not mentioned other than in passing.

Claudia mans the main secretaries desk at the main office which acts as a front for Steve's other shit. Steve hired her after he overheard Dustin talking to the other kids about how his mother had been made redundant at her previous job.

The Kids.

Jane Ives/Harrington - 16

Steve's most dangerous enforcer.

He recovered her from a human trafficking ring, the other victims found their way back to their homes but while they could find her mother, Terry was mentally gone after a blow to the head which happened when Jane was originally kidnapped.

Steve took her in, she uses Harrington as her last name in school. Their relationship is closer to brother/sister rather than parent/child.

Nobody expects Jane to be dangerous, and that's one of the reasons why she's the most dangerous. She's small, she's a wisp of a thing, but she will snap.

People do not take her seriously and then they die.

Jane has PTSD and intermittant explosive disorder (IED). She has trauma triggers that include claustrophobia and a fear of dark places, she doesnt trust easily and her speech is stilted from growing up in harsh conditions with no schooling or socialization.

Befriended Max at school when Steve insisted that she go to school with kids her own age to learn how to socialise (she was chaperoned and the school was well aware of her difficulties). There have been hiccups due to every school having bullies, but Steve has always paid any medical bills caused by those hiccups.

She killed Henry Creel to free both Max and her brother from his clutches using Steve's old nail bat, after convincing Max to bring her to Henry under the guise of her joining his "family".

It took a few weeks to gain his trust, but she killed him in his home by finding out his home security codes, sneaking in at night and taking him by surprise. Nail bat to the face.

Dustin, Lucas, Mike, and Will - 15-16 & Erica - 13

They're the kids, they met Jane in school. They do random odd jobs here and there, mainly they act as spies around the city, they usually communicate through walkies, changing the channel once a week to avoid being listened to.

If there's anything happening around the city that's worth knowing, one of the kids will know it.

Will and Mike already knew Steve through their relatives, which made it easier for the other kids to trust him.

Steve will not allow them to do anything other than act as weird little spies but thats fine, they think it's really cool.

Max - 16

She's a solid get away driver and Billy's stepsister, will absolutely take a baseball bat to someone if necessary, she and Jane are best friends.

She acted as a drug runner for Henry for a year before Jane intervened.

She has a huge crush on Lucas, it's mutual, it's very cute.

The Block

The block is 4 storeys high, there are sixteen apartments in the block in a range of 1 to 2 bedroom. Odd numbers on the left side of the building, even numbered apartments on the right side of the building. Four apartments to a floor. Rent is usually $595pm not including any utility bills.

Eddie Munson - 29 - Gay

Lead vocalist and guitarist of Corroded Coffin which plays at the Hideout, the bar Steve is buying, every Tuesday evening.

Jobless as of start of fic due to a 'disagreement' with his line manager which ended with the manager unconscious and bleeding.

Eddie struggles to find work as he has an assault felony on his record that had him spending two years inside. He used to deal drugs back in highschool but doesnt any more. He still partakes from time to time when he can afford to buy from the shitty dealers in the block. He knows the weed is trash and not at all worth the money they're asking for, but they're easy to get to and it provides a decent enough high to pass the time, he doesnt let Chrissy partake until she's healthy again.

Argyle quickly becomes one of his friends when he moves into the block.

The assault felony was against a local police officer who attempted to coerce him into sexual acts in favour of letting him off with a warning for being caught dealing drugs, hinting that he should be grateful to get any at all given Eddie's sexuality in such a small town.

Eddie punched him and managed to launch the drugs he had into a field lost to the darkness while the officer was disorientated.

The only charge they could pull him on was assault.

When he got out, he was more a freak than ever before, now known as the local queer after the officer he'd 'assaulted' had rushed to claim Eddie came onto him to get out of a harsher charge then panicked when the officer didnt reciprocate when asked to explain Eddie lashing out, as he'd never shown any agression towards officers before and the sherrif couldn't understand why he'd start now, the Sherrif still didn't understand how that could make sense as the story was so hastily told by the officer, so Eddie got out early after a quiet internal investigation led to him being revealed as a victim.

Unfortunately as he did assault an officer, the charge was never wiped from his record.

Eddie spent a year in Hawkins with his uncle after getting out of jail, before jumping ship. Not before making friends with Chrissy Cunningham, who he'd caught at the quarry one night a little too close to the edge of the cliff.

He talked her down, made her laugh, and gave her half his sandwich which she picked at quietly.

He found out about her ED from Jason her childhood friend and 'boyfriend' (performative, acted as a shield against her mother when he could), who at first couldn't believe that Eddie was getting her to eat things, he was defensive at first, angry that she'd go to the local felon instead of him, but… eventually he conceeded that maybe she would be happier, maybe she could survive life if she stayed with Eddie.

Jason sought to convince Eddie to get her to move away from Hawkins with him when Eddie decided to jump ship. He didn't have to try hard. Eddie was planning on whisking her away anyway.

They moved to the city together and have been inseparable ever since as he strives to help her recover.

Lives in Apartment 8 on the second floor with Chrissy.

Chrissy Cunningham - 27 - Bisexual

Lived with abusive parents until she was 16 and then managed to split her living situation between staying with her childhood friend (Jason) under the guise of him being her boyfriend, and hiding out with friends.

Chrissy has suffered with an eating disorder since she was very young mostly due to her mother's insistent comments about her weight and pointed shaming remarks regarding her clothes needing to be let out when they didn't.

She now lives with Eddie in the city, healthier and happier than she's been in years.

Keeps in touch with Jason by semi-weekly calls, he visits every now and then to check in on her.

She's estranged from her parents and little brother, although she wishes she could see her little brother and protect him from her parents. Her parents cut all contact when Chrissy ran away with the town 'freak/felon'. Claiming they didn't want her to negatively influence their son.

Jason was absolutely in love with her, nobody doubts that, but he was aware that she wasnt there, wasnt in that headspace, and probably never would be while in Hawkins, so while he did love her, while he did 'date her' publicly, and while he was happy to pour that love onto her, it was never with any intention to have her do anything with him. It never came with pressures or expectations. He just kept her safe whenever he could.

It's been a month since she last forced herself to throw up and she's put on a small amount of weight that she's happy with. She's on the mend.

Lives in Apartment 8 on the second floor with Eddie.

Dottie and Mick - 19/21 - lesbians.

Dottie and Mick live across the hall from Eddie and Chrissy, they're a couple of runaways estranged from their families who found each other and stuck together, they're not a couple although sometimes they act like it.

They argue sometimes due to Dottie's dependance on drugs and Mick's overprotective tendencies and they're kinda punky, little grungy, but they're nice neighbours usually, and mostly keep to themselves.

Lives in apartment 7 on the second floor

Mrs Luiza Jablonski - 71 - widowed.

She's polish, jewish, and old. She lives alone and usually stays inside.

She loves her neighbours and they love her. She's everyone's grandma.

She crocheted Chrissy a sweater when she and Eddie first moved in, it's Chrissy's favourite thing to wear as it's made of thick cream coloured wool and so cosy, the arms are too long but Chrissy likes how they cover her fingers, makes her feel safe.

She also crocheted Eddie a little plush bat after she saw his tattoo. He loves it.

She has two cats, Mika and Pusia. She owns and can play a grand piano. She occasionally makes enough food to feed the whole floor with leftovers.

She's a little deaf so she doesnt mind Eddie practicing his guitar in his room, which shares the wall with her apartment. Sometimes she will play the piano along with him if she has her hearing aids in, they have little duets sometimes.

Lives in apartment 6 on the second floor.

#Pirate's fic lore #other ficlets have lore like this in a fun little document #but this one has the most lore written up i think #Finders Givers Lore

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ingek73 · 4 months ago

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The Observer

Monarchy

King and Prince William’s estates ‘making millions from charities and public services’

Duchies of Cornwall and Lancaster likely to make at least £50m from leasing land to services such as NHS and schools, according to investigation

Richard Palmer

Sat 2 Nov 2024 20.50 CET

King Charles and Prince William’s property empires are taking millions of pounds from cash-strapped charities and public services including the NHS, state schools and prisons, according to a new investigation.

The reports claim the Duchies of Lancaster and Cornwall, which are exempt from business taxes and used to fund the royals’ lifestyles and philanthropic work, are set to make at least £50m from leasing land to public services. The two duchies hold a total of more than 5,400 leases.

One 15-year deal will see Guy’s and St Thomas’ NHS hospital trust in London pay £11.4m to store its fleet of electric ambulances in a warehouse owned by the Duchy of Lancaster, the monarch’s 750-year-old estate.

The king will also make at least £28m from windfarms because the Duchy of Lancaster retains a feudal right to charge for cables crossing the foreshore, according to an investigation by Channel 4’s Dispatches and the Sunday Times.

William’s Duchy of Cornwall, the hereditary estate of the heir to the throne, has signed a £37m deal to lease Dartmoor prison for 25 years to the Ministry of Justice, which is liable for all repairs despite paying ��1.5m a head for a jail empty of prisoners because of high levels of radon gas.

His estate also owns Camelford House, a 1960s tower block on the banks of the Thames, which has brought in at least £22m since 2005 from rents paid by charities and other tenants. Two cancer charities, Marie Curie and Macmillan – of which the king is a longstanding patron – have both recently moved out to smaller premises.

The Duchy of Cornwall has charged the Royal Navy more than £1m to build and use jetties and moor warships. It also charges the army to train on Dartmoor but the Ministry of Defence refused a Freedom of Information Act request asking how much it costs. The duchy also made more than £600,000 from the construction of a fire station and stands to get nearly £600,000 from rental agreements with six state schools.

In spite of the king and Prince William’s speeches and interventions on environmental issues, many residential properties let out by the royal estates are in breach of basic government energy efficiency standards.

InvestigatorsThe investigation found 14% of homes leased by the Duchy of Cornwall and 13% by the Duchy of Lancaster have an energy performance rating of F or G. Since 2020, it has been against the law for landlords to rent out properties that are rated below an E under the Minimum Energy Efficiency Standards regulations.

The Duchy of Lancaster said: “Over 87% of all duchy-let properties are rated E or above. The remainder are either awaiting scheduled improvement works or are exempted under UK legislation.”

The royal estates also have deals with mining and quarrying companies.

The investigation has prompted calls for a parliamentary investigation and for the two empires to be folded into the crown estate, which sends its profits to the government. The king and Prince William pay income tax on profits from the estates after business expenses have been deducted, but both now refuse to say how much.

Critics say the estates, the income from which have been used by successive governments to keep the headline cost of the monarchy to the taxpayer down, enjoy a commercial advantage over rivals because they are exempt from corporation tax and capital gains tax.

Baroness Margaret Hodge, a former chair of the Commons public accounts committee, said the duchies should at least pay corporation tax. “This would be a brilliant time for the monarch to say, I’m going to be open, and I want to be treated as fairly as anybody,” she said.

Both duchies said they were commercial operations that complied with statutory requirements to disclose information. They also emphasised their efforts to become greener.

The Duchy of Lancaster said: “His majesty the king voluntarily pays tax on all income received from the duchy.”

Over the last two decades the royals have made £22m from the rental of office space in "Charity Towers" at commercial rates to organisations such as Marie Curie, MacMillan Cancer Support and Comic Relief. The King is the patron of Marie Curie and MacMillan

(from someone who is not a sycophant)

Disgusting

And they are already getting half a billion every year

#king charles iii #prince william #abolish the monarchy #comic relief

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itsscatballou · 2 years ago

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The End Will Justify It All - Chapter 5

A Negan Series

Chapter 4 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 1

Warnings: adult themes, adult language, rough/slightly violent smut (18+ only)

A/n - my husband got a new video game so my Friday night was wide open to work on this. It's my favorite in the series so far, and I apologize for how long it is. Feedback is welcome! And a quick inspo credit to @green-eyedladywrites - she reblogged this photo of a statue in a sex museum in Korea several weeks ago, which stuck in my brain and brought about this sex scene. I hope you all enjoy! (ps - I was having major keyboard glitches so if there are bad typos I'm sorry!)

Being part of a Savior crew seemed to come naturally to her. It wasn’t a surprise; she’d been part of groups like these before. She’d learned how to work them to her advantage many times over. Simon started her as a grunt, sending her on the errands and tasks no one else really cared to do, but she didn’t mind. Every task gave her more information about the place, another advantage in her planning.

One of the tasks she was assigned was to check on Dwight’s guard team. Dwight and a couple of his guys took shifts guarding Daryl’s cell door or taking him out for his work with the walkers at the gate. She would check in with them a few times a day, bring them meals when they were on duty, and occasionally kept them company for a while. She cherished this task, the chance to be so close to Daryl. She had to force herself not to pay him any attention, but she stole as many glances as she could when his guards weren’t looking.

All the guys in the crew took to her quickly. They began including her in jokes, games, often inviting her for drinks after their shifts. Simon especially seemed to enjoy her company. They soon had a rapport full of banter and laughs. It didn’t take long for her to move out of grunt work, although she suspected being a wife helped her rise in rank, too. No one wanted to be the one sending Negan’s wife on dumb errands and risk his anger. As her status on the crew rose, Simon began asking her advice. Much like Negan with Rick’s group, he was looking for the best ways to exploit the weaknesses of leaders of the communities he collected from. It was unsettling to her how good she was at it. She had always been good at reading people. She’d used that in the past to survive, but this was different. This was no longer survival, this was… dominance. She couldn’t deny there was a part of her that found naming a stranger’s weakness and using it to get what the Saviors wanted somewhat thrilling. The more Simon asked that of her, the better she got at it. It became a point of pride for her amongst the crew. After a few successful runs, Simon started asking her to stay behind. They would spend hours debriefing or discussing the next run, sometimes over drinks.

It was during one of these after collection debriefs with Simon that she noticed a shift in him. She was sitting on the edge of the back of a refrigerated truck where Simon was leaning against it right beside her. They were laughing about one guy that wet his pants when she had gotten in his face, whatever threat she made hitting the nail on the head.

Suddenly Simon wasn’t laughing, he was staring at her. An intense look in his eye, like he’d just seen her for the first time. She squirmed shyly and nudged his arm gently with her shoulder.

“We make a good team, huh?” she grinned at him.

“We do… but I think it’s more you than me.” He replied, nudging her back.

She heard boots crunch in the gravel nearby. She put a hand on Simon’s arm and leaned a little closer as she said in a low voice, “I’m glad Negan put me on your crew.”

A Savior appeared from around the corner of the truck and both she and Simon quickly separated, attempting to look as casual as possible. The Savior stared at them for a moment, seeming to debate saying something. Finally, he informed them, “Negan called a gathering in the warehouse. He wants everyone there, you especially,” he looked at her. “You should find the other wives for this.”

She did as she was told, finding where the wives were standing, and making her way to stand beside Sherry and Amber. Amber looked pale and gaunt. Y/n raised an eyebrow at Sherry to ask what was up with Amber. Sherry jerked her chin to show her. Following the direction Sherry motioned, she saw a handsome guy strapped to a chair, in front of a blazing fire.

Oh no. Mark. Amber’s lover. They’d been stupid – they’d been caught. She’d tried to warn Amber it was a bad idea – Negan only had one rule for the wives: do not cheat on him. She was honestly amazed only Mark sat before the fire now. Someone must have done some convincing to get him to let Amber off… She looked around, seeing Dwight at the fire with the poker – her blood boiled. She already despised him, but the more she learned of him from Sherry, and the more she saw how he treated Daryl, her dislike had transitioned to blind hate. Her eyes moved from Dwight to the person beside him and she nearly gasped when her eyes met Daryl’s. They locked eyes and she instinctively began to move toward him.

She was stopped short as Negan entered then, walking forward to talk to the crowd. She didn’t hear a word he said, though, as she saw who came in behind him. The Sherriff’s hat gave him away first, and her heart stopped. Why was Carl here? When had he gotten here? Had Negan taken him?

Her eyes shot to Daryl, and she found him still looking at her. What the fuck? She mouthed at him. He subtly shook his head, and she turned her attention back to Carl, willing him to look at her. His face changed at something Negan was doing, she felt Sherry move to Amber and saw her embrace her, so she turned her attention back to the spectacle. Dwight was pulling the hot iron from the fire and Negan was gloving his hands to take it.

She couldn’t let this happen. Mark and Amber had been dumb, but they didn’t deserve this. Amber was not the strongest, she wouldn’t handle this well at all. And Carl… Carl didn’t need to see this. How could she stop it?

She didn’t know what drove her to do it, barely registered her own voice as she called to Negan, “wait!” He put his outstretched hand down and looked at her, fury building behind his eyes at the public challenge. If she shut up and sank back now, he’d probably let this go. That would be the smart thing to do. She felt all eyes on her as her body did the exact opposite and she found herself standing in between Mark and Negan. Idiot. What are you doing?

“I’ll take it. Burn me instead.” She heard some gasps and murmurs from the crowd. She refused to look at Daryl, who was no doubt readying to fight off every Savior in this building for her.

Negan tilted his head as he asked, “Now why would you do that? Why would I do that?”

“Mark is an incredible shot, way better than I’ll ever be, and very valuable to his crew. If you burn him, he’ll be down healing for weeks, and you’ll be lucky if his aim is ever the same going that close to his eye” she pointed at Dwight’s scarred eyed. “I’m barely more than a grunt. If I’m down a few weeks, the worst that happens is Fat Joey doesn’t get his sandwich delivered and he has to go get it himself.” Some guys chuckled behind her.

She could feel the crowd lean in, could feel their pity, and their gratitude – Mark was beloved by a lot of these people. He was a good guy, that’s why Amber liked him so much. And she’d made good points – his crew needed him. They were already short-handed with the redistribution of men following Rick’s massacre at the satellite station. Losing another one from their barebones crew would hurt. They would not be happy about it.

“That’s so very noble of you, sweetheart,” Negan cooed at her. “But what lesson would that teach Mark? How is he going to learn the importance of following the rules if someone else can just step in and take his consequences?’

After a long pause, Negan reached again for the hot iron and added, “and your face is plenty hot enough as it is.”

Someone grabbed her arm and pulled her back to the crowd as Negan advanced toward Mark. She stumbled back with them, and as the screaming started, she turned and left. She could feel the rage of the crowd behind her as she exited. She walked until she reached Negan’s apartment and sat down against the wall outside his door to wait.

She didn’t have to wait long before Negan and Carl approached. She stood as they neared Negan’s door and gave Carl a hard look.

“Carl,” Negan drawled, “I don’t believe you have met my new wife!” Carl scowled at her at the realization.

“Negan, could I speak to you?” she asked him, glancing at Carl pointedly, “privately?”

“As much as I would love a little romp in the sack with you, I am a little busy right now.”

“Negan.”

He moved closer to her, a cat on the prowl. “I said not right now.” He leaned in close enough to whisper in her ear. “I’ll find you later. I have some things to discuss with you too.” His breath on her neck tickled, causing goosebumps to rise. He gently kissed the area, and she saw Carl tense and clench his fist. Negan left her in the hall, leading Carl into his room.

Frustrated, and still confused about Carl being here, she stomped back to her room to wait.

-----

Her time with Negan since the night he held her while she cried in her room had been, well, confusing. He called her to dinner again the following night and they played their question game again, both seeming to ask more interesting questions about the other. She’d learned a lot about him that night, his softer side. It surprised her. She’d also been given a gift, a “reward” he’d called it for such good information about Rick.

“Anything thing you want, ask. A new, badass gun? A bottle of the whiskey we took from Hilltop? Name it. I am in a giving mood, and you earned a good gift,” he’d told her, flirtatiously but genuine enough.

“Do I have to name it right now, or can I think on it a bit?” she’d asked.

“My generosity does have limitations, but you can take the rest of dinner to think on it.”

After dinner, and a few shots later for each of them, she’d chosen what she would ask for.

“I know what I’d like my reward to be,” she declared after he downed his 4th shot, dodging a question about his love life before the old world fell. He smiled at her and nodded in invitation to ask.

“I would like…” she said, drawing it out to tease him a little. The three shots of Whiskey she’d taken had her in a playful mood. He raised an eyebrow suggestively at her. “Oh, you wish,” she fired back. “No. Nothing like that. What I’d like is, well... 5 free questions. I let you know when one of my questions will be the free pass, and you have to answer, 100% truthfully, with no option to back out by taking a shot.”

She quickly saw the loophole in her request so she added, “and I can use them whenever I want, no time limits.” She replayed her words in her head, making sure they were airtight. She felt like she was dealing with a genie from a fairytale.

Negan studied her, a mix of pleasant surprise and something else behind his eyes. “I will give you 3.”

She grinned at him, about to agree when he added, “but I get 3 of the same.”

“Wha- how is that a gift if you get it too?” she whined back.

“Because the gift is from me, and those are my conditions. If you’d like to change your choice to that gun or something a little more… intimate, I will allow it.” He bit his lip, and something in her heated. Stupid whiskey.

She knew it wasn’t a good idea, it was risky to commit to that. But the thought of him having to answer her with no possibility to back out was too tempting to pass up. She prayed the reward would be worth this risk.

“Deal.” This was the second deal she’d made with the devil in a week.

The following nights were unpredictable. She wasn’t invited back for dinner for a few nights, and by the third, she felt unnerved by it. Not afraid, just... bored. On those nights she’d make her way down and usually found Simon eating outside by a fire, where she’d sit and drink and talk with him until she felt tired enough or tipsy enough to go to bed.

The nights she did have dinner with Negan were the same: eat, questions, drink. Sometimes she’d ask to play a boardgame, and they’d continue their game of questions over Scrabble (which she always won and let him hear about it).

One night, after a brutal placement of the word “quiz,” she used her first free question.

“Negan,” she approached it gently. He looked up from his scrabble tiles with curiosity. She didn’t use his name often. “I’d like to use my first free question.”

He slowly grinned at her. “Alright,” he agreed, “let me finish my drink first. I’m sure I’ll need it.” And he downed the remainder of his whiskey in one go. “Okay, shoot.”

“We’ve had a lot of these dinners together,” she prefaced, “and at our first one, you said as a wife I would have to perform ‘wifely duties.’” She paused.

“There a question in there?” he teased her.

She took a deep breath, suddenly nervous to ask this. “Well, you haven’t, um… touched me. At all. You haven’t even asked to… so I guess my question is, why not?”

Negan chuckled. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. It’s not your looks, if that’s your concern.”

She rolled her eyes and shook her head at him. He knew that wasn’t what she was asking.

“Fine. No, I haven’t tried or asked, but it isn’t because I don’t want to.” He winked at her. “In fact, I want to so bad it drives me crazy when you leave here at night. None of my other wives leave here until I’m satisfied… but I knew from the night you came in here and told me to make Rick hold Lucille that you wouldn’t be like my other wives.”

She raised an eyebrow at him, encouraging him to continue.

“You’re different. I want it to be different with you. I told you before, I have enough obedient dogs. So as badly as I want it, I will not touch you until you want it too. And trust me, darlin’, you will want it,” he purred in that Negan arrogance.

She would never want it, she told herself. She told herself so many times she started dreaming it. But no matter how much she told herself she would never want it; it didn’t stop a part of her from heating every time she thought of those words.

She was invited back the next night, where instead of their typical drinking game of questions, Negan upped the ante with a rousing game of strip questions. If they didn’t answer a question, they had to remove an item of clothing.

She was thanking her lucky stars she’d come straight to dinner from a collection with her crew, so she had a lot more clothing on than she normally would at dinner.

With such high stakes, the questions got very personal. “Where is the craziest place you’ve ever fucked?” started it off, and it moved into first loves, worst heartbreaks, hardest kills, and eventually biggest fears. They were both on the couch, him sitting a little too close to her, and both down to their underthings when he used his first free question.

“Free card question,” he stated, leaning a little closer to her. He kissed her bare shoulder, and it sent goosebumps down her arm. Tracing circles with his finger where his lips just were, he asked in a growly tone, “why did you really volunteer to come back with me that night in the woods?”

Uh oh. She sent a silent thank you up to whoever was listening for not being three shots deep into this game. She paused a minute, what could she tell him?

“What?” she flirted, buying some time to think, “you don’t think you impressed me enough for me to want to go with you?”

“No,” he replied, still tracing circles on her shoulder. “I knew when the words left your mouth it wasn’t true. I’ve been trying since then to figure out why you’re here. I thought maybe it was to spy, help Rick take us down from the inside. But you’ve proven to be working against him, and other communities, over and over since then.” She cringed inside at that. Had she gotten that bad? “Then I thought, maybe you were just biding your time to get close enough to kill me. And that could still be true, but the way your body is reacting to my every touch right now, I am doubting it. So, I’d like to know now, what was your reason?”

Think, y/n. Think. It had to be believable. She obviously couldn’t tell him the truth. She feigned a little nervousness, hoping it sold her story.

“I… well…I wanted to kill Dwight,” there was plenty of truth in that. “Honestly, I still wouldn’t mind doing it. I thought my best bet was to get inside here with him.”

He waited for her to continue. “He killed the girl I was seeing. The doctor in Alexandria. Shot her through the eye with Daryl’s crossbow.”

“Wow,” Negan replied. “You play for both teams? I did not see that coming!” He laughed. “I will remember that for our future. As for Dwight… well, I don’t hold a special place in my heart for him, but I’d like him to stay alive for the time being. If or when that changes, you will be the first to know.”

He seemed satisfied with her lie.

“I’m glad it wasn’t to kill me,” he purred, leaning into her neck, “I think you would have missed things you don’t want to miss…” his hand found her knee and began slowly trailing from up her thigh. His lips found skin again, this time on a tender part of her neck.

No, no, no, no. She thought, though her body was responding differently. She franticly searched for any sort of distraction to stop where this was headed. Her eyes scanned the room, anything to ask about, to suddenly find fascinating enough she needed to look at. Then she saw it, leaned against the wall under a window.

“I have a question now. A free one.”

“Mmhmm?” he moaned out, still kissing her neck in a way that was making her quiver.

“Lucille,” she said, putting a hand against his chest and pushing a bit. “Where did you get the name?”

He froze, his lips no longer on her skin. He didn’t seem to breathe for several long seconds. Then he was standing, putting on his pants, and walking toward the door.

“We’re done here,” he said firmly, holding the door open for her.

She stared in shock for a moment, and when it was clear he was not joking, she quickly grabbed her clothes and fled his room.

That was the last time she’d seen him, until now, with Carl in tow. It had been days, maybe a week. What she’d thought was an innocent question had really struck a nerve.

-----

Negan didn’t send for her until late in the evening. She’d had supper already, a bath, and was about to settle into bed with a book when the guard knocked on her door. She didn’t bother dressing up, she decided her leggings and cropped sweatshirt would be just fine if he was pulling her out of bed. She had half a mind to tell him he could see her at a decent hour tomorrow, but she desperately wanted to know what was going on with Carl.

She didn’t knock when she got there, she just walked right in, to find him sitting on the couch with a drink in one hand, and the other hand dragging down his face in exhaustion.

“Long day?” she quipped, looking around for any sign of the Grimes boy.

“You could say that,” he replied, humorless.

She decided not to waste any time with flirting or working up to her questions.

“Where is Carl?” she demanded.

He stared at her, and she was not sure he was going to answer her at all when he finally said, “he’s back home with daddy and baby Grimes, safe and sound.”

Relief washed over her. “What was he doing here?”

Negan chuckled. “He was here to kill me. You weren’t lying when you said the kid was reckless. I like the little bastard.”

“He just showed up to kill you?” she asked, surprised but not shocked. It was a very Carl thing to do.

“He snuck in on a supply truck earlier today. Killed two of our guards before we got to him.”

She didn’t let her face show the pride she felt. “And you just let him go?” she accused.

“I don’t think you’re in any position to question anything I do,” he replied angrily.

“What the hell does that mean?” she challenged. He’d shut her out and ignored her for a week now, she’d lost any desire to filter her annoyance with him.

“I think you know exactly what it means.”

She glared at him, at a loss. What was he accusing her of?

“Tell me,” he said, standing up and taking a few slow steps toward her. “How many people were you screwing in Alexandria?”

“What?” she asked, incredulous.

“Carl seemed real pissed when he learned you were my wife. I just wonder how many people in Alexandria you went through before coming here to expand your selection. Rick, obviously. Your little girlfriend, who else? The redhead? The mullet guy? Spencer? Yeah, I met that douche bag today. Is there anyone else I should know about? I hear you’ve gotten mighty friendly with Simon. Practically throwing himself yourself at him, touching all over him, going to him every night, not days after licking your lips and batting your lashes at me. Anyone here you got your eye on?”

She heard a slap, Negan’s face turned abruptly to the side, she felt a sting in her palm, and a redness began spreading across his cheek.

She’d slapped him. Shit, she’d slapped him.

She bit down the terror of the realization – she’d seen very bad things happen to people who’d done a lot less to him. She willed her face into a rebellious glare, daring him to retaliate, promising hell if he did.

Negan’s stare was just as hateful, never breaking eye contact as he rubbed his cheek and flexed his jaw. Suddenly he sprang toward her, his hand was on her throat, and he was shoving her backwards, she could barely keep upright they were moving so fast. Her back slammed against the concrete wall. Negan’s face was within an inch of hers, she could feel his warm breath on her mouth as he growled, “that. will. not. happen. again,” pausing on each word like a forceful bite. She was prying at his hand with both hands, trying to loosen his grip enough that she could take a breath, refusing to show him the panic rising in her.

He let his grip loosen a bit. “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she breathed out as she gasped to fill her lungs again. He did not remove his hand from her throat or yield even a centimeter to her. He continued to stare daggers into her eyes, but there was something other than anger behind them. What is that?

Desire, she realized. Animalistic desire. It was then she noticed just how close their bodies were, his hips pinning hers in place against the wall, her feet barely touching the floor. She could feel his growing erection pressing into her. She felt a tingle in her core, her body betraying her. Her breath suddenly felt heavy, her chest heaving against his. An image of their naked chests pressed together flashed in her mind, it was as if she could already feel his bare skin. Did she really want this? From him? After all he’d done? She knew she shouldn’t, but with him pressed against her, hand still on her throat, and looking at her like that… she couldn’t deny the desire growing in her, verging dangerously close to need.

He must have read that on her face, because suddenly Negan’s mouth was on hers, crushing her lips with his, his scruff scraping her chin and cupids bow as he sucked, unrelenting. His tongue began forcefully pushing against her lips, like a battering ram, demanding entrance. She conceded. He tasted her mouth like he was eating for the first time in a week - hungrily, greedily, but savoring the taste of each section of her mouth he explored. Then she was kissing him back, just as greedily – no, angrily. It became not a dance of lovers, but a battle of opponents. His tongue pushed, hers pushed back in turn. Her lips sucked, he fought for dominance with his. She bit – not gently- down on his bottom lip and slowly dragged against his lip until it was free. He pulled away from her face at that and his eyes met hers, amusement dancing in them now. He’d met his match. He grinned at the realization.

Their noisy, shallow breaths filled the otherwise silent room, awakening her from the trance his tongue had put her in. She fought to stay above the fog, forcing herself to remember the things he’d done, to remember Daryl, but the memories would not come. All there was in this moment was him - his body, and hers. His dark eyes held her stare a moment longer, and then they were closed, and his lips were crushing hers again. His hands began lifting her sweatshirt from around her waist, his fingers trailing up her stomach. He explored with gentle fingertips, caressing up and down her sides, his knuckles grazing across her lower abdomen, leaving no patch of skin untouched, a trail of goosebumps in their wake. As his hands creeped up her torso, his touch became fiercer. He reached her breasts, found them bare under her shirt, and groaned into her mouth as each hand took a full palm of breast and began massaging. He was not gentle, but she did not pull away. He backed away from her only enough to allow room to remove her shirt and expose her fully. His lips were back on hers in an instant, no less demanding than before. They moved to her neck, and she felt one of her traitorous hands move to the back of his head, tangling her fingers in his short hair. She hadn’t planned on encouraging this, but she gripped his hair harder as he his trailed his lips down her chest, finding a breast and softly biting down. An involuntary moan purred in her throat. He moved to her nipple and began a rough pattern of sucking and biting, causing the heat between her legs to flare.

Again, it was as if he read her mind, as he worked her breast with his mouth, he quickly pulled down her leggings, taking her underwear with them. She was thankful she had not put on shoes to come here tonight, providing no obstacle to kicking out of her pants as he sank to his knees and began moving his lips down her stomach. Further.

“Jump,” Negan growled against her stomach.

“Wh- what?” she barely stuttered out.

“Jump.”

She hopped slightly, then she was being lifted her by her backside, her thighs placed on either side of his head, her bodyweight now shared between the wall and his shoulders. He did not waste time kissing those thighs, or staring lustfully, or slowly working his way to her center. Hungrily, almost angrily, he dove straight for her, parting her lips with his fingers to make way for his tongue. He lapped at her liked a parched animal at water, and found she was just as wet. She arched away from the wall in response. His warm tongue hitting her clit at every angle as it moved. He sucked, and her eyes rolled back in her head as she cried out. Both hands now in his hair, gripping in response to each flick of his tongue, encouraging his rough movements. She rode his face, rolling her hips, her thighs unapologetically pressing in on his head. She wouldn’t last much longer; she could feel her climax building quickly. Now his tongue was at her entrance, teasing as he gently licked around it. She pushed his head into her, needing him to be inside her, desperate to be filled and to find release. He plunged his tongue in, flatting it as he found the underside of her clit, and slowly dragged it back out and up, never breaking contact. He plunged in again with no pause. Dragging, plunging, dragging, plunging. He worked her with expert pressure, she was all but screaming at the sensation. On the last slow drag of her clit, he swept up as he exited, an unrelenting pressure on her sensitive bud, sending her orgasm exploding through her. She threw her head back and did not recognize the noise that escaped her open mouth as she came against his face. He lightly flicked his tongue against her until he was sure she had fully completed.

Before she knew it was happening, she was back on the floor, and he was walking away from her.

“You’re dismissed,” was all he said as he moved to open the door.

She gathered her clothes – she would need to have a word with him about this new habit of sending her from his room undressed – and made for the door. She paused in front of him and turned to meet his eyes, letting him see a twinge of hurt in them.

“Since you asked, and I am counting this as one of your free questions, I did not sleep with Rick or anyone else in Alexandria. And I have about as much romantic interest in Simon as you do,” and with that she made her way back to her room, naked but not caring who saw her.

Back in the dorm, she raced to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before vomiting. Sherry must have heard her, because moments later she was sitting beside her, holding her hair back. Sherry sat with her until she was finished, and then let her lay her head in Sherry’s lap while Sherry stroked her hair.

She didn’t cry. She didn’t shake. She wasn’t traumatized. She hated herself. She hated herself because she knew then she didn’t hate Negan, and she didn’t hate what they’d just done. She hated herself because she wanted more.

It’s time, she vowed to herself, tomorrow we leave, even if we have to burn this place to the ground to get out.

#the walking dead imagine #the walking dead smut #the walking dead fanfiction #the walking dead fic #the walking dead daryl #the walking dead x reader #the walking dead negan #twd negan #negan x y/n #negan fic #negan smut #twd daryl #negan imagine

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hey-heigo · 1 year ago

Text

Chapter 6

ooh...drama.....

also happy 2024. im posting this on new year's eve in my time-zone tho so consider this the last update of 2023

SEE HERE FOR GENERAL WARNINGS AND FIC SUMMARY

Some pre-chapter notes:

lovingly named this chapter 'the naegami pre-divorce fight' in my head

was incredibly worried about how the characterization would work out here. shoutout to @moonlighttogami for beta-reading this one!

Byakuya is an asshole here. But it's in-line with how he is in canon anyways

Reminder that this fic is a slow-burn. For both naegami AND togiri. Which includes conflicts abound

Content warning tags: canon-typical assholery from Byakuya, mention of previous character deaths

< previous - from start - next >

Things are quite tense after that.

It doesn’t help that Monokuma has no intentions of taking any of it seriously. He toys with them openly, seemingly delighting in the collective misery. But he at least opens up the next floor and some other facilities, which offers a wide new variety of options to them.

The first floor warehouse and bathhouse are now unlocked. On the newly available second floor, there’s a pool, some more classrooms, and most importantly, a library, though no kind of technology that could access the internet or the outside world. Even despite all that, it’s a welcome change; Byakuya was beginning to grow bored with the routine of the first floor, and the limited spaces he could occupy to eavesdrop on people.

He found painkillers and nausea medication in the first floor warehouse, which was a veritable boon to him. It’s cheap over-the-counter stuff, but he recognizes the obvious branding labels and has Naegi confirm it for him before he takes some bottles for his own use. Naegi also recovers a bottle of eyedrops, which he accepts, though they prove to have no effect whatsoever; at the very least, they made him feel like some progress was being made.

The real treasure trove, however, was the second floor library.

It’s nothing compared to the library in the Togami residence, of course, but it seems that whoever was librarian here at least had good taste. He runs his fingers over smooth leather spines and finds titles that he recognizes, old favorites that he once tore through with eagerness and newer ones that he had always been planning on reading, and even ones that he had never heard of before. He felt almost pleased by it, though it was quickly accompanied by a note of bitterness.

Not like I can read these myself, however. He thinks, clicking his tongue and making Naegi jump besides him. And listening to someone else read was always irritating, especially when he could usually read faster by sight than they could speak. But he has little choice now, as he pulls Naegi to his side.

“Come to my room tonight,” He says in a low voice, with no uncertain terms. Naegi’s face flushes, and he begins to stammer out something ridiculous before Byakuya smacks him lightly over the head with a copy of Tolstoy.

“Don’t get the wrong idea,” He scoffs, pushing a sizable stack into Naegi’s hands. “Go take these to my room. Then come back.”

“Oh, o-okay…” He walks off, tottering a little underneath the weight. He was listless after the trial, gloomy and less responsive, but he still followed orders well enough.

Byakuya watches him go, before turning his attention back to the shelves. Much as he’d hate to admit it, he was loath to be out of Naegi’s company nowadays. The atmosphere after the first death was palpable, thick with tension. Plus, it didn’t help that some certain, purple individuals, had taken up a new interest in stalking him.

One of whom was Fukawa. He’d noticed Ultimate Writer had taken up some kind of habit of following him around, as told by the slightly harrowed sound of her breathing in his general vicinity, and the general smell. And the other of which was Kirigiri, of whose presence he became uncomfortably aware of recently.

Maybe it was their few, clipped conversations with thinly concealed aggression. Or maybe it was simply her actions during the trial, which now put her at the forefront of attention - she had gone from being someone who the others were prone to forgetting, to a sort of secondary leader. Someone whose advice was asked for, though she was rarely around to give it. But regardless, he now found himself looking for white as soon as he entered a room, tensed as if ready to right. Though, after their first few, hostile interactions, all other conversations were relatively civil.

At the moment, neither of the two girls were posing any real danger. Fukawa, while off-putting, was more importantly boring and therefore relatively harmless (and furthermore, currently involved in some inane argument with Yamada). And Kirigiri was too involved in exploring their surroundings to pay him any real note; he turns just in time to see her pulling something flat, gray and rectangular out of a desk.

“What’s that?”

She shakes the thing, hard enough for him to almost be worried that it’d fly from her hands and smack against the floor, and a cloud of dust flies off. “A computer.”

“Oh?” Now this was interesting. He approached nearer, curious. “Does it work?”

In lieu of answering, she sets the device on the central desk and flips open the lid. After clicking and holding a few buttons, she shakes her head. “Doesn’t look like it. That would’ve been too easy.”

A shame. But she was right; it would have been too easy, considering all the mastermind’s attempts to cut them off from the outside world. “Send it to Fujisaki. She should be able to figure something out from it.”

“I was already planning on that.” She sounds mildly miffed at the suggestion, as if affronted that he would think she wouldn’t come to that conclusion.

“Good. I’m glad you have half a modicum of common sense, then.” He sniffs. It was more than just about anyone else here, at least.

She faces him for a moment, long enough for him to wonder if she was glaring at him, before turning away. “Did you find anything of note?”

“Not particularly. Some interesting volumes to pass the time with, but nothing obviously relevant to our situation as of yet.” From what he could tell, and what he had Naegi explain, the shelves held more than just good books. There were also case files for crimes that never reached the public eye, documents of incriminating evidence and then some regarding some of the most powerful names in the world. He would have to pore through those individually later. And some medical textbooks - he made a mental note of their location, and a reminder to go back for them.

Kirigiri steps past him to run a hand across the surface of a low shelf, sending up a cloud of dust. He wrinkles his nose and steps back. “Do you mind?”

“Sorry. I was just reaching for this.” And she holds up a thin rectangle of parchment, sealed by red wax.

___

The letter creates some interesting revelations.

For starters, the school had supposedly been closed down for nearly a year by now. And secondly, it was due to some circumstance outside of anyone’s predictions or control, that the school shut down in the first place.

There was no other elaboration, and nothing could really be gleaned from it other than the mastermind possibly having more control than they originally thought, provided that the letter was real. It was a frustrating loop back to where they first started; nothing was gained from the loss in morale.

If circumstances were different, he would’ve chosen this moment to break off from the group. He found a new source of entertainment and information with which to use, and with Maizono breaking some unspoken promise, there was now no telling who might strike next. If circumstances were different, he would take this opportunity to try playing a more active role in the game, to see how much he could push his limits, to prove the value and right of his blood.

But with his current situation, he had no choice but to continue to participate in the inane routine that everyone agreed to partake in. Waking up at six AM sharp to dress and clean himself accordingly, taking extreme care to ensure nothing was out of place, and then walking to the dining hall to enjoy breakfast. Ishimaru was usually there at this time, as timely as ever and preparing breakfast alongside whoever’s turn it was to handle the meals that day, and could usually be coerced into making a half-palatable cup of coffee. Then was the usual waiting around as the others made their slow, meandering ways in, exchanging yawned greetings and calls for food.

He sat apart from everyone else, as usual. Sometime around seven, Naegi would show up, and bring over a plate of buttered toast and some cut fruit for Byakuya and move on without another word. At first, the others had exchanged curious, barely concealed whispers, wondering at the nature of their dynamic - now, they hardly paid any mind.

“Today, we should split up and look for clues!” Ishimaru declared, after they had eaten.

“Isn’t that what we do every day, anyways?” Asahina muttered under her breath. Her head was resting in her arms, sprawled on the table. “I wanna go to the pool…”

“Yes, I don’t see why we can’t take a day to enjoy the new facilities.” Celeste interjected, hands folded primly over her lap. “I doubt any of it is going anywhere. And we have endured quite a lot, have we not?”

“Yeah, we should take a break! For like, morale and stuff!” Yasuhiro agreed heartily, nodding emphatically.

As Ishimaru tried to regain control over the table, Byakuya silently agreed right along with them. By his calculations, it would take at least twice as long for him to read anything if Naegi was helping him. Any free time was valuable.

“Well- it’s better to get work done before leisure, you know!” Ishimaru tried again, voice raised. “Otherwise, how will we be dedicated students!”

“We’re hardly students at all though?” Naegi’s quiet voice piped up. “I mean, considering why we're here...”

The previously light-hearted atmosphere vanished instantly. Over the course of just a few days, they’d witnessed the deaths of three of their peers. As much as Byakuya respected the entirely logical reasoning that Naegi had offered, he also felt that it was rather mistimed.

He debated whether or not to offer his own input, before Kirigiri beat him to the punch. “Why don’t we do both?” Her tone was calm and clear as always. “I imagine we will all be in different locations anyways. If every person just makes note of something that’s interesting and worth remembering where they are, we can come together later and combine that information. Everyone who wants to investigate on their own is welcome to do so.”

There’s a chorus of agreement to that suggestion. Ishimaru seemed relieved by Kirigiri’s attempt to boost the group’s cohesion, though Byakuya doubted whether that was her real intention. Bit by bit, people began to split off; predictably, Asahina half-dragged, more-led Ogami away in the direction of the pool, and Celeste began demanding Yamada to make her some tea. Byakuya stood up, watched as Fukawa swooped in and took his empty cutlery, and beelined towards Naegi.

He reaches him just at the same time as Kirigiri, both of them placing a hand on the young man’s shoulders at the time. Byakuya locks eyes (presumably) with the girl, frowning. “Is there something that you need?”

“...No.” She releases him, and walks away. It takes both of them by surprise; Byakuya had been expecting a bigger fight.

“...What was that all about?” Makoto asks, bemused. Byakuya had no good answer to that question.

“You’d do better to stay away from her.” Is all he says instead, before dragging Naegi off.

He had a selection of books he wanted to read for his leisure in his room, but had left anything potentially case-relevant in the library. It is for this reason that he pulls Naegi into the room and positions him directly in front of a shelf of all case files, and points to the one on the right. “Start from there. If there’s anything in there mentioning ‘Hope’s Peak’ or crimes of passion, or killing games like this one, tell me, and we’ll go from there.”

“...Wait, for all of these?!” His voice is a little reedy still, presumably from last night - while he was slow at reading, he was decent at it, and not unpleasant to listen to - Byakuya had made him read aloud nearly half of a translated copy of Atlas Shrugged.

“Is there a problem?” He looks down on the other boy. “You said you’d be my eyes. This is part of what I need my eyes to do. Get started.”

He watches as Naegi wobbles for a moment, turning between him, the shelf, and the door, before reaching for the first file on the far right of the shelf and starting to skim through it. He’s slow, taking a good few moments to look through each page, so Byakuya sits down in the large leather chair by the desk, sinking comfortably into it.

It’s quiet in the library, silent if not for the distant hum of the building’s internal machinery and the occasional flip and shuffle of Naegi going through a folder. Not for the first time, Byakuya wishes for a radio, or a music player. Boredom was a dangerous thing - as Pennyworth had taught him, it dulled the brain and made for delayed, clumsy reactions - and Byakuya had already exhausted the few tricks and games he knew to combat it on his own.

Maybe, it’s for this reason that he decides to initiate conversation. With Naegi, of all people.

“What do you think of her?”

The commoner takes a little moment to respond, and when he registers the question, he predictably begins to sputter, fumbling with the papers in his hands. “I-I-! …Um, w-who…?”

Byakuya rolls his eyes. “Kyoko Kirigiri. Who else?”

Kyoko Kirigiri. He was hoping that, if this school was the Hope’s Peak Academy they were meant to enroll in, that there would be more information eventually revealed about her as well. But for the time being, she was a wild card, and a mystery. These were two things that made her dangerous, and a possible threat.

“Sh-she’s…well, she’s nice…I think?” Naegi tilts his head to the side, unsure about his own answer. “I mean…she helped me out a lot with the trial. I don’t think I would’ve been able to get through it without her help.”

Interesting. That was true from what Byakuya could tell, but it also seemed that Naegi had been doing most of the talking, with occasional interjections from Kirigiri to help push him in the right direction. It was a demonstration of clever manipulation, and one that irked him. If Naegi was going to be working for him, he needed to be free of outside influence.

“Keep looking through the files.” He nods at the shelf, and Naegi fumbles with the folder with his hands, flipping it closed and sliding it away. “I saw you and her talking the other day after the trial. What were you discussing?” He asks, voice casual and almost bored.

“Oh, that? That…” He trails off. He seems to almost visibly deflate, his form drooping over like an unwatered plant. “That was…about Sayaka. She wanted to reassure me that Sayaka still cared about me, at the end.”

Still cared about you? The notion was so preposterous that Byakuya couldn’t help stifling a laugh, instead snorting at the thought.

“...What’s so funny?”

“Sorry. I simply find the idea of it ridiculous, is all.” Sayaka Maizono, caring for him? Perhaps, but the entire plan that she had prepared was, albeit hastily executed, commendable in its elaborate design, considering the short time period in which it was concocted. Trying to derive small comfort from such an assumption was like trying to squeeze water from a stone; a pointless, frivolous task.

“Why?” Naegi’s voice is raised now, and he sounds angry. “It’s not ridiculous. We really were good friends-”

“Oh, please. Were you friends back in middle school? Or did you only watch her from afar?” Naegi shrinks back at the words, which meant that Byakuya had been spot-on. “And she only reached out to you after we found ourselves trapped here, and said all the right things to get you to follow after her like a starving dog.”

“Shut up.” Naegi says, voice so quiet he almost missed it.

“She could’ve used any of the half-witted fools in this class, but she used you because she knew you were unlikely to betray her.”

“Shut up.”

“Did you happen to make a promise to ‘help her no matter what?’”

“I said, shut UP!”

The sudden shout is accompanied by the rustle of papers hitting the ground, as Naegi drops whatever was in his hands to the floor. Byakuya remains carefully composed, though he suddenly feels incredibly wary.

“I’m only telling the truth.” He keeps his voice level, calm. Naegi was standing up, and somehow seemed bigger than before; though that was perhaps due to how Byakuya was sitting down. “It was obvious that she was trying to pin you under her thumb. She was going to betray you eventually, so it’s better to forget about her and move on.”

“You don’t get to say that stuff about her.”

“And why can’t I? Everything I say is simply meant as advice. Advice that you clearly need.” He continues anyways, trying to hide the unease creeping at the edges of his voice. Why did he feel so threatened? The only one here was Naegi. “You know it’s happening again, right? That Kyoko woman. She’ll do the exact same thing as Sayaka and you’ll be none the wiser.”

“She’s not like that.” His words are a low whisper now, barely audible. It seems to fill up the entire room.

“And how do you know? What do you know about her that no one else does?”

At last, he’s met with silence. A question that can’t be answered. He watches the realization sink into Naegi, watches his demeanor change, shrinking back to being small and meek again, and without realizing it he lets out a breath he’d been holding.

“...I don’t know.” Naegi says aloud, at last, and his voice is so small again. “I…I don’t know anything about her.”

“Right.” Byakuya nods, while feeling an inexplicable rush of relief. “So-”

“But I also don’t know anything about you.”

“...Excuse me?”

Not for the first time, he wishes he could discern facial features. He hadn’t realized how much he relied on them before; how telling they were to a person’s character, their emotions, their whims and ideals. Even Naegi, someone who should’ve been inconsequential to him, was capable of becoming dangerous. A treacherous link in a chain.

But Byakuya had no choice but to rely on him anyway.

Naegi turns around, and Byakuya suddenly realizes he was about to leave. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Sorry, I…can’t really think straight right now. I probably won’t be able to help you for a little bit.” There’s a tremor in his voice. Anger? Grief? “But I don’t know anything about you either. Yes, I know your talent,” He adds, as Byakuya opens his mouth to correct him. “And your secret, but…that’s still not enough, right?”

“This-This is different, though.” We’re built on more stable footing, he thinks. Naegi knew his secret and would help him navigate as needed. In return, he would use his authority to ensure the lives of Naegi’s family. That was their deal.

“Maybe, but still. There’s a lot I don’t know about you. And you’re right - I don’t know if I can trust Kyoko’s words, because she could just be trying to use me. Just like Sayaka did…” His voice trails, and he shakes his head. “But I also don’t know if I can trust you. Aren’t you just using me, like you say Kyoko wants to?”

Was he stupid? “Like I said, this is different.” He stands up, steps forward - and hears the crunch of papers beneath his feet, but there’s no time to worry about that now - “I’ve already sworn on my family’s name - there’s nothing else in the world that means more to me, not even my own life - and look at me. Do you really think I’m capable of anything when I’m like this?” He holds his hands out, gestures towards himself. This wasn’t turning out the way he wanted - all he had wanted was respite from boredom, and reassurance that Naegi wouldn’t betray him, and to get some sense into the damn peasant - “Makoto.”

Naegi turns away again. “...I’m sorry.” Byakuya can hear his hand on the doorknob, trembling slightly. “I promise, I’ll keep up my part of the deal still, but…please, let me off for now. To think for a bit.”

He still doesn’t move, however, and Byakuya belatedly realizes that he was waiting for permission. He hears the papers beneath his shoes crumple, as his heels dig into the carpet.

“...Fine, then.” He spits. “Get out. Go play with Kyoko, or whoever you want, and get your pathetic heart broken and betrayed all over again.” He watches Naegi cringe under these words, shying away as if they were physical blows. “Don’t come back to me until I say so.”

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