satan - lost kitten, metric

don't say yes if you can't say no / victim of the system, say it isn't so / squatted on the doorstep, swollen on the blow / leaving without you, can't say no: you'd always wonder if he knew the sort of power he holds within himself and upon others. the very circumstances of his being coming to fruition is one of complete rage. he knew nothing but a burning wrath that had warped his view for so long, it had curled its tendrils far deep into his veins, to the point you were unsure if he was being consumed, or if he knew exactly what he was doing. it always seemed to be the latter- the way he always seemed so cold, so calculative, like every move was a coordinated act- you saw it in the ways he smiles, and frowns, the way his eyebrows crease while reading a passage, how his lips curve during the climax, his hands as they close the book- he controls the narrative, always and always.

you find yourself knocking upon his door late at night, not ever to his surprise.

when you lie, i'll cover it up / when you hide, i'll cover it up / when you cry, i'll cover it up / when you come undone, i'll cover it up: the truth had come out that you were celestial, with light running through your veins, and when he had met your eyes in the living room that day, you knew he felt he'd lost you. his brothers- they knew you, they tasted you when their wings were platinum, their hair coiffed as they bore celestial garments, with halos glittering upon their head. he never had that, he didn't know what made you so golden, having a past only made up of hell and fury. and with that newfound holiness, you become unattainable- not a lover to kiss, but a god to kneel to, to die for.

you've got my eyes, you've got my eyes / you'll never be mine, ah, but you've got my eyes: hands clasped together, yours upon his shoulder, his guiding your waist, you dance solemnly with his eyes avoiding your own. you know he's in love with you. you try to take his face in your palm but he flinches. and you know why he pulls away. your touch burns, and he's too smart to be drawn in like a moth to a flame.

The Cult Girl (Hannibal x Female!Reader) pt. 13

Hello friends we have come to the end of Cult Girl. Thank you all for hyping me up throughout this story and giving me the confidence to actually post my work. Y/n and Hannibal throw a dinner party.

The sunlight streamed in through the window, illuminating the entire kitchen in that homey mid-morning glow. You were enjoying your coffee and scrolling through an article on your phone.

"Senator Hatch reportedly coughed up his late wife's toe on the floor of the precinct." You read out loud. "Huh. Wonder how that could have happened."

You side-eyed Hannibal, who was contentedly sharpening his knives. Placing a rather large meat cleaver to the side, he met your gaze. "I have my ways."

You finished off your coffee and brought the mug to the sink. "There was no way Theresa was going to survive that night, was there?"

"Clever girl." Hannibal praised.

"You were going to kill her if I didn't, were you?" You felt a smile coming on. "Did everything turn out as expected?"

"Darling, this all went much better than I could have ever hoped for." He smirked. "See, I had the whole evening mapped out. I was hoping you'd be the one to deliver justice and kill her, but I had to prepare for the possibility that you wouldn't."

You folded your arms and leaned against the island. "Is that why I was so sick that day?"

You could have sworn you saw some hesitation in Hannibal's face. Maybe even a touch of regret. "Yes. You needed an alibi. It was as easy as removing a single birth control pill from your packet. You'd see it was missing and think you'd already taken your medicine-"

"So I'd neglect to take my focus meds." You cut in. "Yeah, I knew something was off."

"By the end of the day, you'd be experiencing full withdrawal symptoms." Hannibal nodded. "I don't take any pleasure in upsetting the delicate balance of your brain chemistry, and for that I am sorry. I did what I had to."

"Yeah, don't ever do that again." You ordered, no disarming smile in sight. "I need those meds to function."

"I promise you, darling," Hannibal said, sincerely. "I would never keep you from being anything but your very best. I was just looking after you."

"I suppose now that all this is out in the open, you won't need to pull any shit like that again." You muttered. "But I'm still going to keep my pills at my apartment."

"That reminds me." He said. "Would you like to invite your roommates for dinner tonight? I've prepared a wonderful Spanish-inspired menu that's perfect for entertaining."

"I'd love for you to meet my friends, but, they all keep such weird hours I doubt they'll all be free tonight." You shrugged. "I'll give them a call though."

"Wonderful." He smiled. "You make arrangements while I prepare the kitchen."

You stepped into the office and called up Pilar. She answered within the minute.

"[F/N]!" She near shouted. "Holy fuck, how are you doing?"

"I'm actually doing..." you looked back into the kitchen, watching your beloved Hannibal in his element. "Really well."

"I heard about your cousin." Pilar cut in. "One down, two to go."

You snorted. "No fucking shit."

"Sorry, was that okay for me to say?" She apologized. "I know you said Theresa was a bitch, but it's your trauma and I-"

"No, you're fine." You laughed. "She was a bitch. Hey, do you have any plans tonight?"

"Uh, no. I don't think so." She answered. "Why?"

"Hannibal wants to invite you all for dinner tonight." You said with an audible smile. "Y'know, to celebrate the bitch's death."

"Yo! Steph!" Pilar shouted across the room. "Wake Randy up! We're having dinner at [F/N]'s rich boyfriend's house!"

You could make out Stephanie's voice in the background. "It's about damn time. We've been waiting for her to redistribute the wealth."

"She means thank you for the invitation." Pilar corrected.

"It's not like I had to twist his arm or anything. It was his idea." You chuckled. "He loves having guests. And excuses to dress up."

"Oh so we're getting fancy, huh?" Pilar's voice turned up in excitement.

"Hey [F/N]!" Randy snatched the phone from Pilar. "Text me the menu for tonight. My girlfriend'll steal a nice bottle of wine to pair. She's a pro, she works over at Cavatappi's wine and spirits."

"Much obliged, Randy." You said. "I'll see you guys at seven."

You returned to the kitchen with a smile. "They're coming."

"Well, we don’t have a moment to lose, then." Hannibal placed something wrapped in butcher paper on the counter. "Come now. Let me show you how to properly prepare a heart.

You and Hannibal spent the rest of the morning and the whole afternoon preparing a bountiful meal. You reveled in the irony of finally finding a space for Theresa in your life. That space just so happened to be on the stove.

Seven came far too quickly, but your friends were always a welcome sight. You greeted them at the door with hugs, Hannibal watching with stoic adoration.

"Guys, this is Hannibal Lecter, my partner." You introduced. "Hannibal, this is Pilar, Stephanie and Miranda."

"It is a pleasure to meet you, ladies." Hannibal greeted. “Please, make yourselves comfortable.”

"Here you go, Dr. Lecter." Randy handed him a bottle of wine. "Thank you for inviting us."

Hannibal examined the bottle. "Yes, this will pair quite nicely with our meal. Thank you very much. [F/N], could you show our guests to the dining room?"

You nodded and accepted the bottle, given the extra responsibility of pouring. You led your friends to the dining room and wasted no time distributing the alcohol.

"A toast." Stephanie rose her glass. "Too many of history's worst have had the privilege of dying on their own terms. Today, we celebrate the death of one who didn't: Theresa [L/N]."

"She will join her sisters Nancy Reagan and Madame Nhu in hell tonight." You concurred, tapping your glasses together with a series of satisfying clinks.

"Okay, you need to spill." Randy scooted her chair up and leaned towards you. "How the hell did you get away with it?"

"Well, it helped a lot that her husband was already a felon." You teased. "If I didn't kill her, he was going to eventually."

Pilar made a face. "I can't believe it took actual murder to get that latter-day lump thrown in prison."

"Well, the LDS church is a very influential organization with a stronghold on all of Utah." You explained. "There's a long history of legitimizing sex abuse there."

"We know, cult girl." Stephanie laughed. "You remind us every time your pedophile cousin-in-law comes up. Relax and take your victories where you can get them.” 

“Ladies,” Hannibal entered. You rushed to his side to help him with the dinner plates. “Have we ever tried organ meat before?” 

Everyone’s eyes found Pilar. 

“Braised liver is delicious and you guys are just cowards.” Pilar protested. “I will die on this hill.” 

Hannibal smiled and presented your friends with their plates. “You are a woman of good tastes, Pilar. Our first course is Riñones al Jerez.” 

“Kidneys.” Randy translated. “Who’s kidneys are we eating today, Dr. Lecter?” 

He tilted his head. “Theresa’s, of course.” 

“I don’t care whose organs you harvested.” Stephanie said, her eyes rolling back into her head. “This is delicious.” 

You and Hannibal shared a glance and a smile. 

You and your roommates devoured the Riñones al Jerez, then dug into the next serving of heart stewed with chickpeas and olives. You finished off the evening with natillas de leche and a bottle of Sauternes Hannibal just happened to have lying around. 

“This is the first time since like, Keith Raniere got sentenced that I’ve seen [F/N] happy-drunk.” Stephanie observed.

“Or even just... happy." Pilar said, looking at Hannibal. "I'll have some of whatever she's having, please."

"My pleasure." Hannibal poured her another glass of wine.

Your phone began to buzz on the table, capturing the attention of your guests. You didn't even need to look at the caller ID to know who it was. Nobody else in the world had such horrid timing.

"Shit, you've got to answer it here!" Stephanie pleaded. "So we can all give her a piece of our mind!"

You looked over to Hannibal, who you knew was just as curious.

You dragged the answer icon across the screen and put it on speaker. You gestured for your friends to be quiet. "Yeah?"

"Well look who finally decided to pick up." Grandma said. "Thank you for gracing me with your attention. I know you have so much going on right now, you're just too busy to pick up the phone and talk to your grieving grandmother."

"For your information..." you stumbled over your words. "I was interrogated by the police yesterday. I think that counts as having something going on."

"Are you drunk?" Her voice was laced with a disproportionate level of disgust.

"I'm grieving too, Beatrice." You counter. "What, suddenly you're the only one who can drink the pain away? That's not very democratic of you."

"In your state, you shouldn't even be thinking of alcohol!" Grandma scolded. "You of all people should know the effects alcohol has on an unborn baby."

You smacked yourself on the head. Of course Theresa would plant a seed to fuck you over one last time. "Did Theresa actually tell you I was pregnant?"

"It was her last message to me, actually. Anyway, you're coming home." Grandma said, without so much as waiting for a response. "I won't have my great grandchild living in that dangerous city that your cousin was killed in."

You exchanged looks with your friends, who were going through the same combination of emotions as you were. Grandma's words just seemed to fade out as you shared an entire nonverbal conversation with the people around you.

"And you're leaving that terrible, terrible man."

Hannibal raised an eyebrow and looked at you, waiting to see how you'd respond. You knew what you had to do. It was finally time. You did something you should have done a long time ago.

"No." You said, your nerves loosened by the wine.

"What?"

"No. And I mean it." A big smile crossed your lips. "Theresa lied to you. I'm not pregnant. And you have to live with the fact that your granddaughter's last words to you were a blatant lie."

Hannibal looked at you with pride and your friends began to silently gas you up with encouraging gestures. "

"...And that you're the only one to blame for her deception." You continued. "You raised her in your own image."

"This is why I refuse to let you raise my great grandchild with that man!" She wailed. "He's twisted your mind against me! He's made you cruel!"

"Hannibal made me see clearly that you made me cruel." You said with absolute certainty. "You'll never see me again."

"Don't be like your mother, [F/N]." Grandma snarled. "Don't cut people out for trying to help."

"You'll never see me again." You repeated and decided to leave it at that. You ended the call and blocked the number, joined by an eruption of excitement from your friends.

It was finally over. Your life could truly begin.

What’s Done is Done - Part 3

Pairing: Bucky x reader

Requested by: @joannie95

--

Your lung had collapsed and you lost a lot of blood, but after examination with Dr. Cho, you were said to make a full recovery. Bucky never felt such relief. Feeling like he was going to lose you, made him realize what a terrible, toxic, asshole he was. Every decision he made when it came to you, over the last several months, were all based on fear. You almost died on that one mission, which made him push you away... and yet here you are. He didn’t save you anyway, but caused you more hurt. He hated himself for it and wondered if there was even a chance for him to get you back.

He sat outside your medbay door, contemplating whether he should go in. The whole team went in when you woke up, but he was too scared. Steve smacked him upside the head telling him fear is his worst trait. It made Bucky think. All he thinks about is fear to the point it has become a huge part of him. He tries to fix things, or do certain actions based on his fear and they never turn out right. He decided that he will no longer let fear drive him.

He stands and walks up to your door and takes a deep breath. He opens the door to see a man sitting next to your bed, holding your hand as you slept. When did Tommy slip passed him? Tommy turned at the sound of the door and looked at Bucky, “She just fell asleep. I’ll tell her you came by,” he said before turning back toward you. Bucky looks at you for a moment before leaving the room. He totally forgot about your boyfriend. 

--

You woke up to feel someone holding your hand. You remember Tommy being there, and figured it was him. When you opened your eyes you were surprised to not see Tommy, but Bucky sitting there holding your hand. He didn’t seem to notice you woke up as he sniffed some tears away, rubbing his thumb against your knuckles. You can’t help the electricity that stems from that action through your body. 

Bucky looks up and sees your eyes on him and stops the movement of his thumb. “Uh.. S-sorry,” he says putting your hand down. “What are you doing here?” you ask softly. Bucky sniffs as he feels the tears starting to build already, “I... uh... I had to make sure you were okay,” he says looking at the ground. 

Your heart starts to pound, “I didn’t think you cared anymore,” you say, making Bucky’s eyes snap to yours. Bucky opens and closes his mouth for a second before choking on a sob. He leans forward covering his face and allows himself to just cry while you look on in shock. You have seen Bucky cry a few times in your relationship, but you know he considers this a sign of weakness, so to see him so openly sob is... concerning.

“I... I...” he stutters as he tries to catch his breath. You say nothing and just watch as he completely falls apart in front of you. Finally when you can bear it no more, you grab his metal hand making him look up at you. “Why are you crying?” you ask. Bucky looks at you, his blue eyes look more prominent with tears and redness. “You could have died... and you don’t know... you don’t know how much I wish I could take it back,” he says with a shaky voice.

You furrow your brows, “Take what back?” you ask. Bucky sighs, finally reigning his emotions and drops his shoulders in defeat. “I hurt you. I... I broke your heart, but I... I still love you,” he says. Your eye brows shoot up in surprise. “I know. But can I... Can I explain? I know it probably won’t make a difference, but I want you to know. Please?” he asks. You stare at him for a moment before nodding and sitting back.

“Ok... um... Do you remember that mission a few months ago when HYDRA managed to grab you?” he asked. You gulp as you remember the fear you felt and nodded. “Even though we managed to get you back, and though hurt, you were alive... I... I went nuts,” he says. “I kept blaming myself for your capture. That they found out you were special to me and grabbed you,” he says.

You open your mouth to respond, but Bucky cuts you off, “I know it’s stupid. Steve tried to talk me down, but the fear just overtook me. I started to have nightmares every night after that. Thankfully I never hurt you, but I was terrified that I would snap out of a nightmare with you dead beside me. I tried to create some distance between us, but you... you were like a flame and I was the moth. I couldn’t understand why someone as amazing as you, would want to be with me,” he says.

He laughs,��“You deserve fucking prince charming, but you got stuck with the Winter Soldier. I’m not good enough to shine your damn shoes, let alone date you. I had been fooling myself that I could be with you. I asked Sam’s permission to marry you, and bought a damn ring! I needed you like I need air,” he says shaking his hand. “But when that damn mission happened it was like the glass shattered and I finally saw the reality. So... that night when I was sitting in the kitchen I was planning how I was going to break up with you, as much as I didn’t want to. But, when you came in to console me, I almost lost my nerve.”

“I... I knew that if I didn’t do it now, I would never do it, so I said those... horrible lies to you. I wanted to die seeing that look in your eyes. When you walked out I knew what you were doing. You were giving me space to think, hoping I would change my mind, which is why I packed your stuff, while sobbing, and locked you out. I... I couldn’t face you again. You needed better than me!” he said.

You sat up, “I needed you! Damnit Bucky! You don’t have the right to decide what is best for me. Who I deserve! I do! You just made that decision because you were scared, but you hurt me worse than HYDRA could! And you paraded those women around in front of me... why?” you ask, tears falling down your cheeks.

“I... I wanted you to keep your distance. I didn’t want you to fight for me. I hated doing it to you, not that it makes it better, but I did,” he said in desperation. You scoff, “Yea, I’m sure sleeping with multiple women was a burden,” you said looking away from him in disgust. “It... it was. Half the time the only way to make it through was thinking of you,” he said. “Ugh, seriously Bucky, I don’t need to hear that,” you snap. 

Bucky looks at the ground, knowing it wasn’t going the way he had hoped. “Y/N... if I could change one thing in my life... it would be hurting you. I was clouded by fear, but I know now I can’t let fear decide things for me. I’m so unbelievably sorry. I... I just wanted you to know,” he said standing. You look at him, “Well I appreciate it, but it changes nothing,” you say.

Bucky nods and walks out of the room. You let out the sob you were holding in once the door closes. You knew it was something stupid that made him do this! You knew he was afraid of something! But what kind of person are you who just forgives him when he apologizes? You are not a push over!

Just then the door opens and in walks Tommy. He sees your face and runs to your bed. “Y/N? Are you alright? Are you feeling pain?” he asks. You smile at him, “I’m ok. Just found out some things today that has my mind spinning,” you reply. Tommy lets out the breath he was holding in relief and sits next to you.

“So how are you feeling?” he asks. You nod, “Honestly not bad. This is nothing compared to the last time I got seriously hurt on a mission,” you say with a laugh. “Oh so you get hurt often?” he asks. “No... not often, but I mean my job is dangerous,” you say. “Well the doctor told me that you will need a few weeks rest, so that’s good,” he says. 

“Yeah, but I will do my best to keep it short. I hate not going out on missions,” you say watching Tommy’s reaction. He pales at your statement, “I mean... uh... you aren’t going to want to do missions always right? You want to get married and have a family?” he asks. You stare at him, “Well yea, but why do I need to stop missions for get married and have a family?” you ask.

“Well... I don’t know. I didn’t think you would want to put yourself in danger if you know you a family at home,” he says with a shrug. “I... didn’t realize my job bothered you so much,” you say. He shrugs, “I mean this kind of opened my eyes,” he says. 

You nodded in understanding. “Listen... I like you Tommy. You have been amazing, but if my job is going to be an issue, then maybe we need to call this what it is,” you say. Tommy looks at you wide eyed, “I mean we have only been dating a short time, and again you’re great, but I’m not giving up my job. And honestly... I think I jumped into this relationship too early,” you say. 

“It’s that Sergeant Barnes right?” he asks. “I..” “Y/N, it’s ok. I knew immediately that there was something between you too. He is the one that hurt you though, right?” he asks. You nod silently, “He just told me everything before you came in. I... I can’t forgive him for what he did. He hurt me so badly,” you say looking at your hands.

“Well, take some time... the answer will be clear eventually,” he says standing. “I would like for us to be friends, if you are ok with that?” he says. You smile and nod as he leans in to give you a kiss on the cheek. “I would love nothing more,” you say. “Well let me know when you can leave and I’ll make sure I’m here to help you,” he says. You laugh, “Thanks.”

Tommy gives you a wave goodbye and heads out the door. You look out the window thinking about everything that has transpired over the last hour. Your head hurt thinking about it, honestly. You’re glad Tommy took the break up well. You had not been feeling the relationship for a little while and knew that it wasn’t going to last. Whether if you and Bucky had that conversation today or not.

Now Bucky it a whole other story. You had way too much to process when it comes to him. You didn’t want to deal with it all right now. You felt the tears come to your eyes again. You had to admit it though, it was nice to know he still loved you, but god did a part of you hate him.

--

Decided to make this a 4 parter after all. Not sure how I feel about this part... what do you think?

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Don’t Let The Screen Door Hit You On The Way Out

”It’s never the crime, it’s always the cover-up.” Watergate Lesson #1

Y’know, some bastards need to be cancelled.

The liars, the hypocrites, the betrayers of trust public and private.

The “do as I say, not as I do” anusoids.

Dropkick those bozologists right outta here.

The problem is not people who screw up -- people screw up all the time.

It’s not ideas that later prove to be in error or just plain bad -- all of us at one time or another believed something we now know to be wrong.

No, the problem is those who set themselves us as moral exemplars and then betray the very moral example they proclaim.

Ska-rue those dips.

Cast them into the outer void.

Cast in point: The drugging rapist comedian spent their entire professional career stressing high principles and values, openly saying “look at what I did and do likewise” while deriding members of their own community for not obtaining the heights they did.

A good hunk of that time they spent drugging and raping victims, paying them off to keep silent so they could drug and rape more victims.

Look, back in the day Bob Hope was a notorious philanderer but he and his wife had an understanding and Hope never promoted himself as a moral exemplar (quite the opposite!).

So to find out Hope engaged in consensual adultery with the tacit approval of his wife is neither a big shock not does it undermine any message he sought to convey.

On the other hand, the drugging rapist comedian did espouse a message that millions saw as valid, and they held themselves up as an example for their fans to aspire to.

If we learned said comedian was a garden variety philanderer like Bob Hope, their message and example would be somewhat tarnished but not destroyed; consensual sex gets a tsk-tsk and nothing more, especially if the spouse doesn’t object (and said comedian’s spouse damn well knew what was going on yet didn’t think raping victims drugged into unconsciousness was a deal breaker of a marriage ender).

Some people today hope to this disgraced comedian will die soon so their comedy can be enjoyed publicly again.

Why?

Any good from this rapist’s life has already been done in whatever charitable donations and scholarships they provided, whatever inspiration they gave audiences to help them better themselves before learning of their crimes, and stylistic / topical insights gleaned by other comedians.

The rapist’s comedy routines and TV shows -- all family friendly and morally high minded -- now ring hollow and taste sour.  Whatever comedic insights the rapist had to offer have long since been absorbed by those who followed.

Leni Riefenstahl created two monstrous documentaries -- Triumph Of The Will and Olympiad -- that glorified Nazism while at the same time inventing the cinematic language for depicting mass movements and covering sporting events.

Nobody today ever need watch her original films in order to learn those lessons; thousands of film makers and videographers have applied them elsewhere and the technical lessons remain valid even when divorced from their racist origins.

So be it with the rapist comedian.

Let those who learned from their routines reinterpret those lessons in a form that noi longer contains a poison pill.

Case in point: The comic-turned-film maker presented their work -- no matter how funny the material – as a serious examination of modern moral values.

And, dang, the c-t-f certainly fooled a lot of us.

In their defense, the c-t-f always claimed in public to be a really terrible person, but this was all just c-y-a.

Of course those public admissions were all self-depreciating self-mockery, look how thoughtful and complex the c-t-f films were, how they examined modern life, look how they laid bare the contradictions and conundrums of the human condition.

Then it turns out the c-t-f could not keep their own knickers up and wreaked havoc on a dozen or more lives, rendering all their opinions and observations as worth less that a wadded of soiled toilet paper.

Yeah, the rapist comedian’s crime are worse by at least two orders of magnitude, but the c-t-f only misses a charge of incest by the barest of technicalities.

And it doesn’t matter that c-t-f’s spouse at the time is a batshit crazy homewrecker themselves -- c-t-f knew this then and chose them as a spouse and contributed to the chaos being wreaked in that family.

So, no, you can’t pose your films as Important Serious Examinations Of Modern Morals when you’re acting in a way that would get Dr. Freud to say, “That’s some seriously fucked up shit.” 

Open reprobates like John Waters and Russ Meyer never need worry about failing audience expectations; they’re upfront and honest about their perversions and peccadillos (and to be fair to them, they never screwed up the lives of others the way the c-t-f did).

I used to love the c-t-f’s work and eagerly looked forward to each new one.

Not any more.

You can never trust that viewpoint again, and even the earlier, funnier work is now called into question.

Case in point: This one is smaller, more localized, but I have personal knowledge of it and it’s emblemic of a far larger, far more vast problem.

The retired pastor tried to stay busy, volunteering at their local church and nearby nursing homes, and proposing an outreach for runaway abused teen girls.

It came as quite a shock to learn the retired preacher had been caught in a classic honey trap sex sting:  They texted what they thought was a 16 year old girl but turned out to be an adult investigator trolling for sexual predators.

The retired pastor got probation and registered as a sex offender.  There was a big public confession and an apology to their church, a contrite promise of repentance, and a big heaping helping of forgiveness all around.

There but for the grace of God, right…?

The retired pastor wanted to resume the runaway abused teen girl project.

Oh, they would have nothing to do with it directly, of course.

Just be available to advise others as needed…

Well, that waved more red flags than a May Day celebration in Tiananmen Square.  Even assuming the retired pastor was incredibly naïve -- more naïve than any retired pastor has a right to be -- the sheer optics alone would be incredibly bad.

And the chance of somebody finding out and filing a complaint for reasons real or suspected would put the church sponsoring it at terrible risk.

Dude, you screwed up.   That door is shut to you.

Organized religions are imploding right now, and no matter what faith or denomination, the reason is inevitably the same:  Predators of all stripes infiltrate the structure to find victims.

Sexual abuse ranks high, but there’s also financial abuse, emotional abuse, and just plain old abuse of power.  

It’s ultimately the exact same problem as that of the rapist comedian and the comic-turned-film maker:  Hypocrisy.

Religious leaders are as human as anyone else, few are the plaster saints we make them out to be.

And there are those who make mistakes, and those who hide their personal peccadillos from others (word among the BDSM community is that quite a few religious leaders enjoy those reindeer games), but those have the common fucking sense not to videotape themselves (remember, if you make a copy of anything you’re giving the universe tacit permission to share it and if the copy is digital, the sharing is compulsory).

The worst part is that the very victims of these predators are not only quicky to forgive these abuses and let them continue, but viciously turn on those victims that dare speak out against their abuse!

This is the reason organized religion is collapsing:  It’s become a cesspool of sexual predators and con artists.

Church leaders who decry the declining numbers are eager to blame a lack of spiritual discipline, a loss of faith, cultural influence, and of course that ol’ standby, Satan hizzowndamsef.

But when you ask people who left why they left, the answer is almost always they grew tired of being taken advantage of.

Physician, heal thyself. 

The problem we face today is that too many people impose standards on others they are not merely incapable of following themselves (which would be a sad but typically human failure) but are utterly unwilling to even make the attempt.

We need so-called cancel culture.  We need to expose hypocrites, denounce their hypocrisy, and deny them access to new victims.

Don’t feel sorry for the bastards who get caught, get angry over the harm they inflict.

    © Buzz Dixon

I Love You

Pairing: Mark Sloan x Reader

Summary/Request: Mark and Reader have been very close friends, but he realizes that he wants more after she is shot during the shooting. (We’re gonna pretend that Mark and Lexie were never a thing) (In this one you are a Neuro fellow) (And I’m definitely changing quite a bit about what happens in the episode)

Authors Notes: This is my first fic ever... I hope you guys like it.

Trigger Warnings: Shooting, injury, cursing, blood

“Hey Callie you coming out with us for drinks tonight?” you called to your best friend.

“Who’s all going?”

“Just me and Mark so far, I thought that we could just have a nice night... you need to get your mind off of she who must not be named.”

“I don’t know...”

“It’s decided. You’re coming”

“Ugh... fine”

“Let’s go”

You and Callie finish up your charts and go to find Mark.

“Your ready to go?” you call to him after you find him at the nurses station talking to some nurse, no doubt flirting, and although you had seen him flirt with countless women tonight your stomach had a weird feeling.

Was this jealousy? No, no, Mark is your best friend... this was just being tired or something.

The three of you drive over to Joe’s where you find a table.

“I’ll get the first round,” Mark says confidently walking towards the bar.

While he’s standing there waiting for drinks you catch yourself staring at him and not listening to a word that Callie is saying.

“I’m sorry what was that?”

“Did you hear a word that I said... whatever. Who are you staring at?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re staring at the bar at someone, but the only person that I see is Mark,” she gasps, “(Y/N)(L/N), were you just staring at Mark?”

“What, no I wasn’t, whatever”

“Mm hmm okay...”

-The next day-

“Oh my god, Mark, I am exhausted.”

“It’s only 9 am, how are you going to survive today?”

“Yeah I have no idea-” you’re pager goes off.

“Crap, I’ve gotta go, see you later?”

“Yeah see ya, bye”

You run to the elevator to catch it before it closes, breathing a sigh of relief once you make it in. You’ve basically been running the neuro department even though you’re only a fellow, ever since Shepherd became chief of surgery you had been running the department along side Dr. Nelson, more commonly referred to as “Shadow Shepherd”, but with that came a lot more stress and running around the hospital for you.

As you get on you notice a man already on the elevator.

“Excuse me could you tell me where to find the chief”

“Dr. Shepherd? He’s uh probably in his office”

“Yeah, I’ve been to his office before, I can’t seem to remember how to get there, I keep going in circles”

“It’s in the east wing. That’s over by labs across the cat walk”

“I’m sorry that’s-”

“You just uh cross through the patient floor on three and then follow the signs to the main lobby and then you should find it no problem.”

“Thank you”

“Mmm” you say lost in your own thoughts.

As he gets off of the elevator, he turns to you and says, “have a nice day”

“You too,” you smile back at him.

The elevator closes, and you have only moments before you are out the door of the elevator to answer your page in radiology.

“Hi Dr. Nelson what do we have?”

“Well-,” right before he tells you what’s going everyone’s pager begins to go off. You look down at it, “Is this a drill?” you whisper to Dr. Nelson. The two of you look around.

“I don’t think so”

You go to close the door, but right before you do you catch a glimpse of the guy from the elevator out in the hall. You hesitate before ducking below the window, because in your experience at this hospital there is no shortage of irony and cruel jokes, so it would be fitting that someone that you helped would be the reason the hospital is on lock down, and in that short amount of time he sees you.

Shit

Maybe he didn’t see me. Maybe he’s not the problem

“What happened (Y/N-”

Fuck

The door swings open. “Are you a surgeon?”, he says looking you dead in the eye, pointing a gun at your forehead.

“Y-yes”

He takes a moment, looks around the small room, and says “I won’t kill you because you showed me kindness earlier today, but you’re still a surgeon and for that -”

Bang

There are no words to describe the pain that you felt. You brought your hand to your stomach looking down at the red liquid that was gushing out of you.

“(Y/N), (Y/N)!”, you hear Dr. Nelson saying, his face above yours.

You could barely hear him, but your mind wasn’t on him. The only thing on your mind was Mark. You knew that there was nothing that you could do right now, but all that you hoped for was that he was safe and that he hadn’t encountered Gary Clark.

“Oh God,” you gasp before passing out.

“Ok Jim you can do this..,” Dr. Nelson says quietly to himself, waiting for a little bit and then quietly walking out into the hallway in order to find supplies to keep you alive. As he’s grabbing everything that he thinks he’ll need, he hears somebody , and it sounds like they’re in a lot of pain, but he ignores it because he knows that if he were to go out there you would definitely die, and while he wasn’t a fan of you upstaging him, he did consider you a friend, so he took back off to the room that you were currently bleeding out in. 

When he gets back to the room he begins to get to work, digging up the knowledge from his internship and residency that would help him. He began to panic, because even though he was an attending, he was only one person and the way that things were going he was not going to be able to do this himself. After fully examining the wound he decided to pack the wound and go see if there was anyone else on the floor, and he ran back to the room that he had heard the moaning coming from he tried to open the door, but it was locked. 

Of course

He knocked because he could tell that there were definitely people in there, and he just needed one other doctor. He knocked again. No answer. 

“Please, I need some help” he pleaded in hopes that the people in the room would realize that he was not the shooter and would get some help. “This is Dr. Jim Nelson, I’m a Neurosurgeon here and one of my colleagues Dr. (Y/N) (L/N) has been shot and I need an extra set of hands-” The door burst opened and he was greeted with the sight of Mark Sloan looming over him.

“Did you say Dr. (L/N)?”

“Yeah, um-”

“Where is she?” he demanded.

“Follow me”

The two attendings ran through the hallway not caring if someone heard them or if Gary Clark came back.

When they entered the room Mark froze. He looked at you laying on the ground in a pool of your blood.

“Oh god (Y/N)” he whispered.

However, he knew that if he didn’t move quickly you would bleed out and die, and he could not let that happen.

As he and Dr. Nelson began to work, he realized that he had left Lexie and Alex alone. He turned to Dr. Nelson, and said, “I need you to go back to the room and tell Dr. Grey to come here, can you handle Dr. Karev? He has a gunshot wound, and we have him stabilized for now, but should something go wrong...” 

“Yeah I’ve got it”

As soon as Dr. Nelson left Mark let a single tear slip. He loved you. Like really loved you and, he had never realized until now. He always knew that he loved you as a friend would, but in these moments that you were on the brink of death he began to realize that he would die without you. You had always been a light in his life and if youe died here he thought that he would not be able to go on. Thankfully Lexie coming in to the room snapped him out of his thoughts making him focus on the task at hand. Saving your life.

The two of them worked tirelessly to stop any bleeding, and while they had stabilized you for now both of them new that if they didn’t get into an O.R. you would die.

While Mark generally didn’t believe in God or anything like that, he thanked every single God and his lucky stars that it was soon announced that the shooter had been taken down, and because of that the lock down was lifted. He swooped you up into his arms and ran to the elevator telling Lexie to get any medical personnel she could find to an O.R.

When he got there he laid you onto the table and quickly scrubbed in. As he was finishing he was met with some familiar faces that were going to help him, and as he was going to walk in he heard the familiar voice of Callie Torres.

“You’re not going in there.”

“What are you talking about, I have to. I have to be with her. I have to help her.”

“Listen Mark you are not going to be any help to her. You are a mess. You are just going to have to let them do their jobs, I’m sorry”

Mark realized that he was crying and after he felt one tear he broke down. Callie then took him up to the gallery to watch, which was one of the worst experiences that Mark had ever been through.

“I love her, Callie”

“What?”

“I love her, I always knew that I did, but I never realized that I love her love her. Now, I’ll never be able to tell her and she’s going to die.”

“Mark-”

“No! She’s going to die on that table all alone because I couldn’t help her”

“Mark you did everything that you could have. She’s going to be okay”

“How do you know that?”

“I don’t know. I just do”

Countless hours and after the seemingly longest surgery that either of them had witnessed, the surgical team was done. You were stable for now and alive.

After Mark and Callie came down from the gallery, they found Teddy who was the lead surgeon.

“What’s going on is she okay?” Mark asked desperately

“She’s stable. She’s in the ICU, and we’ll know more once she wakes up.”

Mark didn’t leave your bedside until you woke up. They even set up a cot in your room so that he could sleep in there.

When you began to wake up you look around and see Mark sitting beside your bed, your hand in his, asleep. You squeeze it gently in order to wake him up, and when it doesn’t work, you squeeze a little harder. He slowly looks up at you and when he sees that your awake he jumps up and runs to get a nurse.

After they extubate you and take your vitals, Mark is there holding your hand and kissing your forehead. You look at him and before you get a chance to open your mouth Mark says, “I love you, and I don’t mean like just as friends. I mean I am in love with you (Y/N). I was so scared-”

“I love you too”

“What?”

“Right before I passed out all I could think of was you and that I hoped you were okay... Mark I love you.”

He looked at you with the kindest eyes and kissed you gently, yet with passion. It was the most magical thing that you had ever experienced

December 12 - Part 4

Guys this part is ridiculously long and I am so sorry. I never meant to drag this out for this long and I just wanted to get it done. It’s important to the plot but I will be glad to get back to soft fluff. Anyway, hope you can enjoy this long ass read!

The spirits must have been on their side that day, for the impact of the Slime didn’t kill them outright. There was time to cut them free, and then he could hopefully use a warp totem to get them all out before the mine came crashing down upon their heads.

‘Just stay calm. You’ve trained with Marlon, you can do this.’

He held his sword aloft before him, then dashed in and cleaved the slime in two. Thus divided, it split into two smaller but still large slimes—Sam and Abigail were trapped in one, Sebastian in the other.

From the split also came several much smaller blobs, which eagerly latched onto Ashe’s legs in their fervent attempts to hug him.  The more he cut the big one, the more smaller ones popped out and clung to him. In seconds, he had dozens of them weighing down his limbs; he couldn’t even move.

“No, please—let go!” He was begging, desperate, and he didn’t care. “Please!!!”

His friends were just one cut away from freedom, and they were just out of his reach. The quaking was unbelievable, and with the weight of the little slimes on his body he lost his balance and fell to his hands and knees.

And then came forth dozens of monsters from deeper within the mine; it was seconds that felt like minutes later that he was deafened by the sound of the ceiling and walls collapsing from where the monsters had fled.

A piece of the rocky walls dislodged and struck him on the back, knocking him flat down to the earth and pinning him there. The wind was knocked from his lungs, and his sword tumbled from his grip.

‘Is this it?’

It was impossible to get his breath back. The rock on his back crushed his chest more each time he tried. The larger slimes carrying his friends danced in a panic just out of his reach as more chunks of the walls and ceiling came crashing down around them.

‘I really just got us all killed by slimes... It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have ever brought them here with me.’ His head drooped, his cheek resting against the uncomfortably warm earth. For a brief moment, he could smell the forest. ‘I’m sorry guys… I’m sorry Shane... I'm sorry Mom… and Grandpa… Am I… gonna be reincarnated as a slime…?’

 ####

 The world had gone dark, but now was swimming back into view. A clinical white ceiling greeted Ashe as he forced his heavy eyes open; his eyelids felt bruised. Actually, his entire body felt like it was just one massive bruise.

‘I’m… at the clinic?’

Gingerly, he sat up and looked around. The other beds in the recovery room bore Sebastian, Sam, and Abigail—all breathing. All alive. He sighed, relieved.

“…and that’s how I found them. Just like that.”

He heard Marlon speaking beyond the curtain dividers, and could faintly make out his silhouette along with Maru’s through them. They both spoke in hushed voices; Marlon was as composed and calm as ever, while Maru seemed to be borderline panicking.

“Thank Yoba that you did!” She wrung her hands anxiously. “Of course this happens on the one day Harvey’s not here.”

“Strange, that. He’s not one to leave town.”

“I know. But there’s a seminar being held in Zuzu City that he said he couldn’t miss.” The wringing intensified.  “This is a worst-case scenario.”

“Were their injuries that severe?”

“No, somehow—bumps, cuts, scrapes, bruises, and Sebastian managed to break his foot. But I’m not—I’m only an assistant. I’m not qualified to administer any aid without Harvey present.”

“A bit late to worry about that now. Besides, you seemed to know what you were doing to me.”

“I mean—I have a basic understanding of first aid, but like I said, I’m not allowed to perform it without Harvey being here.”

Ashe’s shoulders slumped as he looked down at his lap. He’d gotten so many people involved in this mess. Gotten his friends hurt, and almost killed. Put Maru at risk of losing her job.

The curtains abruptly were tugged open, and he jumped a little.

“Oh—you’re awake!” Maru sounded relieved, though still anxious. “Thank Yoba. How do you feel?”

“Uh—f-fine,” he fibbed with a meek smile, “just fine.”

He looked to Marlon, and the smile faded. The old swordsman’s face was as stoic as it ever was, but he could see the disappointment in his eyes.

“Never thought you’d lose to a slime, of all things. I suppose there’s a first time for everything, though.”

Ouch. That stung.

Across from his bed, Sebastian began to stir, and Maru quickly rushed to her half-brother’s side. “Sebastian…?”

“Ugh…” He groaned and lightly pushed her face away. “Give me a little space, would you?”

“Oh, Sebastian!”

Without warning she flung her arms around him in a tight hug. “I was so scared! I thought you were going to die!”

“Fuck’s sake—why does everyone try to choke me—” He tried in vain to pry her off of him. “Why the hell do you care, anyway?”

“What do you mean, why do I care?!” She pulled back, an angry expression on her tearful face. “You’re my big brother, of course I’m going to care about what happens to you!”

A flicker of guilt flashed across Sebastian’s face, and he looked away. “… Half brother.”

“Oh my Y—like that matters! Geez! You could at least apologize for scaring me and mom half to death!”

“I didn’t ask you to worry ab—” He stopped mid sentence. “You told mom?”

“Well, yeah!” She curled into herself a bit. “I kinda panicked and… maybe called Jodi too. And Caroline.”

“Yoba damnit,” he rubbed his forehead, “it’s not Mom’s business what I do. It’s not any of our mom’s business.”

Maru poked her fingers together. “I know. Look, I’m sorry, but I just—panicked, like I said. Harvey’s not here, and I didn’t know what to do. Besides, they were going to find out eventually, and they’d be even more upset then.”

“Shit, our moms are gonna finish the job for the slimes.” Sam had been awake for a minute at that point, just lying there listening to things play out as he came to.

Same for Abigail, who pushed herself to sit. “Well, fat lot of good putting fake names in the logbook did,” she said in a deadpan voice. “It’s been nice knowing you guys. Any second now they’re going to come bursting in through the door.”

“Er, actually… they’re in the waiting room.”

“Great.” She looked to Sebastian and Sam. “Might as well get it over with.”

Looking somewhat apologetic, Maru stepped out to fetch their mothers. There was a heavy air hanging in the room. It was awful.

“… How did you know we were in trouble?” Ashe asked of Marlon, who was still standing off to the side.

“Rasmodius reached out to me. Apparently the Junimos asked him to help you, and he in turn asked me.”

To say it was surprising was an understatement. Ashe didn’t think that the little spirits cared all that much for him, especially not since he hadn’t done much to fulfill their requests yet—

Once again the curtains were yanked abruptly open. There stood Robin, and Jodi, and Caroline, all wearing the look of mother bears on the rampage in search of their cubs. Terrifying didn’t even begin to describe the aura radiating from them.

“What were you thinking—”

“You nearly got yourselves killed—”

“How many times have I told you how dangerous those mines are—”

Their voices all overlapped in their attempts to admonish their children. There was no doubt that they were relieved to see them alive and well—the fact that they were so incensed was proof of that.

The heavy ball of guilt weighing down Ashe’s stomach compelled him to speak above them. “It’s not their fault.” In that instant, all their heads snapped to look at him instead of their children, and memories of such reprimands by his own mother flashed in his minds’ eye. “It’s mine,” he continued, somehow managing to swallow the lump that had formed in his throat. “I’m the one who brought them into the mines with me.”

“Wh—it is not your fault, Ashe,” Sam insisted emphatically.

Sebastian nodded. “We’re the ones who asked to come along.”

“And I’m the one who got us into that situation,” added Abigail. “You told us that it was dangerous.”

There was a long moment of silence—awkward, heavy, painful silence. It was broken by the sound of Harvey all but skidding into the recovery room, looking mightily disheveled and thoroughly winded.

“Dr. Harvey!” Maru was relieved, and quickly sought shelter behind him.

“Ladies—” Hastily he attempted to straighten his lopsided tie and glasses, “I understand that you are concerned for their wellbeing, but I cannot allow you to stress my patients out. Much less before I’ve been able to examine them myself.”

“How can you expect us to be calm about all of this?” Robin gestured angrily towards her son, who was lying there with a look that begged to be put out of his misery. “We’ve told them countless times how dangerous those mines are, and they still went in!”

Harvey chose his words carefully. “With all due respect… they may be your children, but they are no longer children. At some point, you have to allow them to make their own decisions. Even if they still live under your roof. If you don’t, then they will be pressured into doing things like this behind your back.” He cleared his throat. “Now, please. I need to be able to examine them myself. Maru, could you bring them back to the waiting room?”

His tone left no room for arguments, and they reluctantly followed Maru out of the recovery area and back to reception. The four in the beds were stunned.

“Uh… Thanks for sticking up for us like that,” Sam said as the doctor pulled his wheely stool over to Sebastian’s bed.

“Hm? Oh, there’s no need to thank me for that. I only did what I felt was in your best interests as my patients.” With a faint smile curling up the ends of his mustache Harvey started to examine Sebastian. “I only got a little bit of the story over the phone with Maru—what exactly happened?”

Ashe swallowed guiltily, and began to recount the misadventure to him before the others could. Harvey just listened and nodded his head, moving from examining Sebastian to setting his broken foot in a cast. For a mercy, it was a brief summary. “… and Marlon brought us here,” he finished in a soft voice, picking at the thin white blanket covering his legs. “That’s pretty much it.”

“Well,” Harvey scooted over to Sam, “we can thank Yoba that things weren’t any worse. They could very well have been.”

Ashe cast his eyes back down to his lap. “I’m sorry…”

           “I didn’t say it to guilt you.” He smiled again. “Rather the opposite; there’s no need to dwell on what might have been. You’re all alive and safe now, and that’s what matters. That being said,” he swiveled around to Abigail’s bed, “it might be a good idea to stay out of the mines for the time being.”

“That won’t be an issue.” Marlon finally spoke again. “There was a massive collapse in the lower levels. Joja will want to close the mines to the public indefinitely.”

“Well there we go then.”

After a minute, it was Ashe’s turn, and he sullenly allowed Harvey to give him a thorough once-over. All he’d wanted was to fix up the community center; he didn’t want to put anyone in danger.

‘But that’s not really true. What I really wanted was something to distract myself from thinking.’ The community center was just a means to an end, an excuse. And maybe, just maybe… maybe he’d hoped something like this would have happened. Maybe he’d really hoped that one of these times he wouldn’t end up coming out of the mines.

As soon as that thought came into his mind, he physically shook it away, earning himself quite a look from Harvey. ‘That’s not true! Not even a little! I’m only thinking like this because I feel so guilty.’ He looked down at his hands resting on his lap. Abby had been right; he couldn’t keep carrying on like this. It was tearing him apart.

After a few more minutes, Harvey was satisfied that Sebastian’s broken foot was the most severe injury among the four. He still needed to set the man up with a pair of crutches and show him how to use them, but was content to let the rest filter out of the recovery area and towards reception.

“Ugh, I’m not looking forward to getting home…” Sam’s voice dripped with dread. “Even if Mom listens to what Harvey said, it’s still gonna be awkward as hell. She’s probably gonna want me to pay for my bill.”

Abigail’s face fell at the thought. “Ugh, tell me about it. And we didn’t even get to bring back anything from the mines so we don’t have anything we can sell.”

Well, there was something that Ashe could do to start repairing the damage he’d caused. With the both of them lulling behind him, he pushed the swinging doors to reception open.

The mothers’ heads popped up at the sound, and the conversation they’d been having ceased at once. There was a sort of muted look on each of their faces, and Caroline and Jodi rose to give their kids what was a much-needed hug.

“Harvey’s helping Sebastian with crutches,” Ashe said to Robin, who had gone a bit pale when she saw that her son was not among them. “And, um… I’d like to pay for everyone’s medical bills.”

Surprise flickered across the faces of everyone in the room. He could see that Sam and Abby were opening their mouths to protest his offer, and so he hastily added, “It’s the least I can do.”

“Honey, the thought is appreciated,” Caroline put her hand on his shoulder, “but the bills are already taken care of. Just please, be more careful next time.” She turned to her daughter. “Let’s go, Abigail. We have a lot we need to talk about…”

One by one Ashe watched his friends file out of the clinic with their mothers. He did his best to put on a smile and wave them off; after all, they were able to leave on their own two feet (well, Sebastian on one). That was worth smiling about, wasn’t it?

“Are you gonna be okay?” Maru asked as he turned to pay for his own bill. “To walk home, I mean.”

“Yeah,” he nodded, still managing to smile, “I’ll be fine—”

No sooner had the door swung closed behind Jodi did it swing back open. “Ashe?” panted Shane, his face red from exertion and the cold of the evening air. He was still in his Joja uniform, which was disheveled from his haste to get to the clinic from the mart.

“Shane?” Ashe’s eyes widened in surprise as he turned to face him. They only widened further as the man strode forward and folded him into a gentle hug.

“Thank fuck…” he whispered in between breaths. He was shaking. “Maru made it sound like you were on your deathbed.”

“Oh, er—” Behind the counter, Maru fidgeted guiltily. “Sorry.”

A new lump formed in Ashe’s throat, taking the place of his voice so he couldn’t speak. It hit him in that moment just how differently things could have turned out, and how happy he was to see Shane again.

“I-I…” His chin quivered, and tears began to well up in his eyes as he brought his arms up to squeeze Shane back. “I-I’m sorry…!”

 ####

 It was a slow walk back to the farm. Shane insisted on it, wanting Ashe to take it easy despite his insistence that he was just a little sore.

“Easy, easy does it,” the older man coaxed, helping Ashe up the front stairs—it was at that point that the pain really was catching up to him, and it showed. “I’ve got you.”

“Th-thanks…”

The stairs cleared, Shane held the door open for him. It was pleasantly warm inside the farmhouse, a welcome change from the bitter cold. Mr. Blue jumped over the back of the couch to greet them as they stepped inside, wending his way through both of their legs with audible purrs.

“I think he was worried about you.” Shane carefully nudged the orange cat out from around their feet so they could make it over to the couch. “Where do you keep your medicine and shit?”

With a wince Ashe let himself be lowered onto the cushions, the pain easing up just a touch when he did. “Uh… in the kitchen. Top left drawer next to the sink.”

“Okay. Sit tight.”

Ashe watched him root around in the drawer. “What are you looking for?”

“What do you think, dweeb? I’m looking for pain killers.” Shane looked at him. “You’re hurting pretty good, and don’t even try to deny it.” His fingers closed around what he was looking for, and he brought two small tablets back to Ashe along with a glass of water. “Here.”

“Oh, uh—thank you…” Ashe popped them into his mouth and took a sip of the water to help them down. “… I, um… I’m sorry.” He mumbled into the glass.

“You already said that, you know. Three times. On the way here.” Shane sighed and shook his head. “Seriously, what am I gonna do with you?”

“… I don’t know.” Setting the glass on the end table to his left, Ashe tugged his knees up against his chest and buried his face into them.

After a moment, Shane took the cushion next to him. “Ashe, what’s really going on here?” He asked. “There’s obviously something bothering you and making you not act like yourself.”

Silence. Then, “I miss her…”

“Your mom?” He wrapped an arm around Ashe’s shoulders as the farmer gave a tiny nod of his head. “I had a feeling. Do you want to talk about it?”

“I-I do, b-but… I-I’m scared that it’s gonna mess up your recovery somehow…”

“Bud, that’s not—those two things have nothing to do with each other. Seriously. And even if they did,” he gave a gentle squeeze, mindful of Ashe’s soreness, “I’m in a place now where I can handle it. And that’s got a lot to do with you. I’m not gonna force you to talk about it if you really don’t want to, but I’m here for you. You can lean on me for this.”

More silence. “I don’t remember what that’s like…” He sniffled, trying his hardest not to start bawling again. “I-I was taking care of Mom for so long that I forgot how to rely on others.”

“She was sick, right?”

“Y-Yeah. Cancer. I ended up taking her place at Joja so she could stay on their insurance.” There was another pause as he drew a deep shuddering breath. “I-I didn’t even get to attend her funeral. My b-boss wouldn’t give me the day off for it. It was the worst way to start the year.”

“Wait, this happened on New Years? This year?”

Ashe nodded again. “I-I didn’t really… y’know, have a chance to process any of it. Work, work work. And then I remembered Grandpa’s envelope, and… I came here. It was nice, having so much to do and people to distract me from… everything. But I can’t ignore winter no matter how hard I try…”

His voice broke, and the tears that he’d been trying so hard to hold back burst forth. “I-It’s not fair! She was all I had! I was all she had! A-And I was working so much that I couldn’t even be there for her most of the time! I had to watch her waste away from a distance! And now Joja wants to take even more way from me! It’s not fair! It’s not fair!!!!”

The room became filled with his anguished sobs, and Shane gently pulled him into another hug. “It’s not, you’re right. It never is.”

For what felt like forever, Ashe cried. He cried out the feelings that he’d kept pent up over the year. And when he had no more tears left to shed, he rested against Shane, completely spent.

“Did that help at all?” Shane’s voice was low and soothing as he brushed the bangs from Ashe’s face.

“… I don’t know…”

“That’s fine. It takes time.” He held him close. “Look, if you feel like you need to cry, come and cry on me. Okay? Doesn’t matter when or where it is.”

It took a moment, but Ashe nodded. He wondered if this was what Shane felt like when he was looking out at those cliffs on that rainy day…  

Angel.Exe: The Worst Time to Confess

I’m  a sucker for angst and shipping content. Gotta make it hurt

TW: Guns, Attempted Murder, Near Death Experience, Valentine literally falls off a building

Summary: Valentine dreaded the day Damien would find her. That day happens to be today. With no where to run, will she be able to survive the wrath of the man who stole her wings?

Dr. Valentine studied the letter she received with worried eyes. The letters were written in a familiar drawl and she knew only one person on this damned planet that called her sweetheart. It meant the obvious. Damien had found her. Again. Swearing, Valentine threw the letter across the room, knowing she’d have to cancel her outing with Dr. Charles Afton. It really was the last thing she should’ve been worried about to be completely honest, but that strange doctor had come to mean a lot to her lately, as much as she denied it to Mortus. When doing procedures on patients, she finds herself wishing the doctor was there to help her, so she could witness his expertise. When cooking food she wonders what his favorite meal is, and if she could learn to make it. When she dresses up for the day, she hopes she runs into him, if anything to try and earn a compliment from him. The man was a brick wall half the time, but when she got even the slightest bit of a reaction, it made her heart flutter. 

She really didn’t want to cancel on meeting with Afton at the park where they had their first encounter. He hadn’t exactly saved her life that day as she had told him. If anything saved her the pain of being stuck inside healing for several months. It wasn’t that easy to kill an angel. But by God did it take forever to heal. 

Shaking her head at the memories of Afton, she moved to message the doctor on her computer hoping he wasn’t busy. 

Valentine: Hey. Something’s come up with me personally. I can’t go out for a while. I’m really sorry to cancel but it’s important. 

She clicked send hoping he wouldn’t ask further questions. She saw the three dots on the screen pop up, and disappear, then reappear. He was probably figuring out what to type. 

Afton: S’okay. Stay safe.

Valentine rolled her eyes at his brief answer, smiling. Part of her wanted to invite Afton over to the house, but she knew Mortus would throw a fit. He wasn’t there to watch them like hawks to make sure no debauchery was afoot. Frankly, Valentine couldn’t care less about the specific “debauchery” Mortus accused her of trying to achieve. She just wanted to have some company knowing she’d have to lay low for a while. 

Accepting her fate, she stood up and examined herself in the mirror. She was having a good pain day so she was capable of standing and walking for a couple minutes at a time. Vanity was never something that came to Valentine naturally because of her condition. She was scarred up from the attempts on her life, not to mention the giant scars on her back that had caused damage to her ability to walk. She turned around, craning her neck to evaluate the scars in the mirror, before admitting defeat and pulling a pink oversized sweater on over her underthings. She was completely admitting defeat at this point. May as well not bother with pants and just get some cleaning done. It’d be awhile before she could go back outside. 

Or at least that’s what she thought.

Valentine had been about two hours into cleaning while streaming a random show she had found when she heard a knock on the door. Confused, she pulled on her doctor's mask and adjusted her sweater to cover her up as best as it could. She stumbled over to the door, her legs starting to complain about the strain she’d been putting them under, and opened the door without thinking. To be greeted with the worst thing she could’ve.

Damien Matterson. The man who stole her wings. 

She reacted by immediately slamming the door shut, or at least trying to as she scrambled out of the entryway and into the living room. 

“Oh come on sweetheart! Is that how you greet an old friend?” He cackled, his proud horns glowing red with energy as he watched her scramble away and out the back door, “So we’re gonna do the chasing game. So be it.” 

He stormed after her, not noticing the purple sparks dripping from the TV as he gave chase. What Valentine lacked in speed, and dexterity, she made up for with her quick thinking and evasiveness. She had managed to shove down several random items in the back alleyway onto him slowing him down, and scrambled inside an old building that was set to be demolished in a week. Jumping inside an abandoned crate, she yanked the lid on top and tilted her head up trying to quiet her breathing. Oh she was dead, she was so dead. She didn’t have her phone with her to call Mortus or anyone who would have helped. Immediately, her brain jumped to Charles Afton. She never got to tell him she loved him. Fuck, she loved him. It was the first time she admitted it to herself, but what better of a time than when you’re about to die. 

Valentine wasn’t able to think about that for much longer as Damien ripped off the lid to the crate and gripped her by the arm, yanking her out and holding her out in front of him. She tried kicking and struggling but his grip just tightened as he bore down at her with his black eyes. Valentine whimpered as he dragged her through the building, making sure to smack her against as many things he could, till she was battered and bruised. Her mask had fallen off at some point allowing her face to get scratched up. He didn't stop till they reached the rooftop of the old building, which by that point, Valentine had procured several large bruises, cuts and a bloody nose. 

“Well, Miss Valentine, it’s been a fun couple centuries hunting you, but I think enough’s enough,” He hissed, lifting Valentine up over the edge of the building, gripping her by her wrist. She looked at him confused. The drop wouldn’t kill her. It would definitely kill a human but not her. 

“Uh…?” She dumbly said, staring at him. 

“Oh yeah that’s right… Well good thing I brought this!” He chimed with a sick happiness in his voice. He used his spare hand to reach into his satchel and pull out a silver pistol, a sigil carved into its side. Valentine felt the blood drain from her face as she recognized the symbol from a long time ago. The angel sigil of Michael. This gun would kill her near instantly with one shot. 

“How did you…?” She mumbled out her eyes wide. 

“An old friend of mine hooked me up with something to take out the pesky nephilim problem we’ve been having,” He responded, admiring the gun before pressing it to her forehead. The door that led to the rooftop flew open nearly startling the demon into dropping Valentine, which while not pleasant would’ve been preferable. He looked over his shoulder to the door, as did Valentine and was met with Dr. Charles Afton standing there, looking quite pissed. 

“What?! Afton?! Get out of here he’s going to kill you!!” Valentine screamed, her panic starting to rise. 

“Oh you know each other? That makes this so much better! Take one step closer and I’ll put this bullet in her head,” Damien threatened. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Afton said, returning the threat. Valentine shook her head, tears welling up in her eyes. 

“No! Don’t hurt him please!” Valentine begged, she winced at the panic she heard in her voice but she didn’t care. As long as Afton stayed alive she didn’t care. Damien looked at her, analyzing her face before he started laughing. 

“No! Don’t tell me! You’re in love with him! Tell me I’m wrong Valentine!” Damien screamed at her as the tears spilled over in her eyes. She looked at Damien, hatred filling her eyes, before looking at Afton who’s angered expression stopped to one of confusion, he met her gaze and his eyes widened. 

“Of course, I love him… He’s saved me so many times, from others, myself… Cruel people like you... How could I not fall in love with him…” Valentine said, her voice soft and calm as she looked away from Afton and towards Damien who was laughing. He had moved the gun away from her skull to laugh at his own sick joke and Valentine realized what she needed to do. She gripped his wrist with her free hand, and fired out a light energy blast from her palm. Damien screamed at the pain and retracted his arm letting her go. She dropped off the edge, and proceeded to fall ten stories. Even though Valentine knew she wouldn’t die, a scream ripped itself from her throat as she felt the weightlessness of her free fall and her hands reached out attempting to grip anything she could but was met with air. She heard a gunshot before her body hit the ground, and everything went black. 

. . . 

It would take three days for Valentine’s body to heal up enough that she could become conscious. She was immediately aware of the pain in her body the moment she was able to wake up. Could she just.. Go back to sleep? Was that an option? 

Unfortunately it was not as she found herself opening her eyes and being met with the ceiling of her room. There was an IV in her arm, something she assumed Mortus had put in to keep her energy stable. She was vaguely aware of the sound of Mortus talking to someone in the living room. Figuring it to be best to get his attention, she called out Mortus’s name. 

She was not expecting Mortus to throw open the door to her room that quickly, but what she expected even less was Afton to come barreling in after him. She tilted her head to see them better as Mortus rushed to her side and began asking a slurry of questions. She ignored them all and reached out her arm towards Afton, now noticing just how doped up on meds she was. He hesitated for a moment before walking over to her bedside, and kneeling so he was at her eye level. He would be the first to speak.

“I… thought you died,” He mustered out. 

“It takes more than that to kill me,” Valentine said, some of her words slurring together. Mortus checked her vitals quickly before nodding at Afton and leaving them alone. 

“. . .Do you remember what you said before you fell?” Afton asked, his eyes reading her face for any sort of emotion. The memories came flooding back to her and she felt the tears well in her eyes again, and a squeaky sob came out. 

“I-I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to tell you like that but… I thought I was going to die! You… you don’t have to love me back I-I just… I’m sorry!” She babbled out, her chest struggling to keep up with her gasping breaths. 

“Shhh…” He comforted, pausing for a moment, “You have nothing to apologize for. It’s okay…Would you at least like to know my response?” 

“Huh…?” 

“Because… I… I love you too.” Valentine looked at him, her tears running down her face, before smiling and letting out a strangled sob. He responded by petting her hair, just as he had done the first time they met and letting her sob. She would pass out soon after, leaving Afton alone with his thoughts. Admittedly, the biggest one on his mind was him scrapping the idea of using Valentine to his advantage. He had realized he hated seeing her hurt. He had realized he loved her. But the worst realization that hit was the one he was beating himself up about the most. 

Damien had escaped and was still out there. Still looking to kill Valentine. And Dr. Afton was not going to let that happen.

A Matter of Trust

Gordon wasn’t going to make it out here by himself. He had no right arm, no weapons, and no one watching his back. If any aliens saw him, they’d eat him for lunch in seconds. The walls of the tunnel pressed in on all sides as he felt the crushing reality of his situation begin to settle on his shoulders. He was fucked.

A narrative depiction of the post-betrayal reunion in Act 3 Part 2. Tommy is the only motherfucker in Black Mesa Gordon can trust and he has Emotions about it. 4649 words.

The paranoia was making Gordon’s skin crawl, but maybe it was just the sewer water in his suit.

Every day prior had been the worst day of Gordon’s life, but this one? This one left them all miles behind. He was beginning to feel like some vengeful god had cursed him to crawl through the guts of Black Mesa forever, stretching his last thread of sanity further and further as he faced off interdimensional aliens and haywire experiments and whatever the fuck else the facility threw at him.

Now, he could confidently say that the soundness of his mind had finally snapped, hacked off along with his right hand and fed to a trash compactor. Gordon wasn’t sure if he was lucky to wake up alive or not - he was beginning to view oblivion as a comforting relief at this point - but the feral, human instinct to survive kept him moving despite all the bullshit he’d put up with so far. What was the loss of a limb compared to sheer, unparalleled adrenaline crashing through his bloodstream?

He stumbled along the tunnels, nerves alive with fear. Who could he trust now, after everything that just happened to him? It wasn’t like he'd call any of the men he had been traveling with his friends , exactly, but you’d think surviving something as batshit insane as the Resonance Cascade together would cement at least some level of confidence in one another.

Too bad he’d made the mistake of allying himself with the craziest motherfuckers employed by Black Mesa. Too bad these crazy motherfuckers chopped off his hand and tossed him in the garbage.

Gordon wasn’t going to make it out here by himself. He had no right arm, no weapons, and no one watching his back. If any aliens saw him, they’d eat him for lunch in seconds. The walls of the tunnel pressed in on all sides as he felt the crushing reality of his situation begin to settle on his shoulders.

He was fucked.

The stump where his hand had been hurt like hell. Every jostle and jolt sent shockwaves of pain radiating up his arm, and he cradled it protectively against his side as he made his way forward step by hopeless step. He had lost a lot of blood, and he found it difficult to plan for what lay ahead in his dizziness. He could see the tunnel emptying out in a few yards and faintly picked up a sour chemical smell, but if there was something in the next room that wanted to kill him, Gordon wasn’t really in a position to stop it.

Laid low by vertigo, Gordon crawled the rest of the way to the tunnel’s opening, hoping to stay out of sight. The rusted metal cylinder yawned out to a room that glowed green and illuminated a solitary figure at its center. Gordon felt his already rabbity pulse quicken when he saw who it was.

Tommy stood there, tall and ghostly in his lab coat, chin tipped up in Gordon’s direction as if he had been waiting for him. He looked haunted, face shadowed and gaunt, backlit by the eerie glow of the sludge that ringed the room.

Delirious as he was, Gordon heard himself bark out Tommy’s name against his better judgment. He didn’t know what this man had been posted here to do, what he was capable of, whether he could be trusted. In the moments before Gordon had been sawed apart and knocked out, he remembered hearing Tommy’s voice, shrill with panic, begging his assailants to stop, but… now?

Tommy was impressionable and outnumbered by the rest of the science team. Gordon didn’t want to distrust the only person he didn't outright dislike in this whole facility, but right now his survival depended on it.

“Are you here to fuckin’ kill me?” Gordon hissed, clutching his arm close to his side.

Tommy looked positively mournful from where he gazed up at him. “No,” he answered. “They tricked me.”

‘They’ undoubtedly meant Bubby and Benrey. Gordon hung an elbow over the lip of the tunnel, examining Tommy with a haggard stare. His fathomless eyes were round and shining with… were those tears? Did those bastards make Tommy cry? “What did they do to you?” he demanded.

The man hesitated and scratched the back of his neck. He at least looked unharmed, but the vacancy in his eyes disturbed Gordon. He needed to get down to his level and out of this grimy pipe. Not that the room Tommy stood in looked much cleaner than his current location, but at least that way he could be face to face with the guy.

He almost blacked out from the effort it took to clamber down to the floor below. He stumbled and pitched forward, and was caught by a surprisingly strong grip on his upper arm. Tommy took Gordon’s weight, fingers digging into him through the suit as if to make sure he was real. It knocked the breath out of Gordon, and he found himself panting as Tommy helped him stand upright, searching his face with concern.

God, he really was crying. Tears slipped silently down the other man’s face, running clear tracks through the grime on his skin. “I ran away,” he explained, looking positively miserable. When he was sure Gordon was steady on his own two feet, he released him, giving him a brief once over. His wide eyes snagged on his gaping wound, finally seeing it for the first time. “Oh my god!” he yelped. “Your hand!”

Gordon was still gritting his teeth in pain from the fall. “I know,” he ground out. “I know.”

“How are you going to write?”

The absurdity of the question choked a laugh out of him. He thought that maybe he answered him, but the pain was fogging up his head, making it difficult to focus on anything outside of the pounding of blood in his own ears. He vaguely registered telling him about Beyblades and medical resources and hazardous waste. Then he realized belatedly that Tommy was guiding him gently by the elbow, insisting they vacated the room.

“Wait.” Gordon snapped back into clarity. “Wait.”

He jerked his arm out of the other man’s grip and winced at the shockwave it sent up to his shoulder. “Can I trust you?” He fixed Tommy with a bloodshot stare, teeth bared against the agony from his stump. “Are we good together?”

Tommy answered him without hesitation. “Yes.”

His face was lined and warweary, his lab coat flecked with blood, but truth shone bright in his eyes. This man had been through nearly everything Gordon had, pushing against an apocalypse where survival meant always moving forward. Yet he was willing to slow up for Gordon’s sake, to guide him through the facility in his handicapped state.

Gordon had to trust him. Regardless of whether Tommy played a part in his betrayal, which he was beginning to suspect was unlikely, he would surely die in here without him.

He nodded finally. “Alright. Okay. Is it three against one? Are Bubby and Benrey out there looking for us? What’s - is Dr. Coomer-”

“I don’t know, Mr. Freeman.”

“You know if Dr. Coomer finds us we’re fucked, right? Like, he will kill us both dead . And Benrey - I don’t even know what Benrey’s capable of. Maybe Bubby - Maybe we can take on Bubby-”

“I think we can make it out of here,” Tommy said, raising his voice to speak over him. His eyes were spilling over with concern as he regarded him carefully.

Gordon realized he was babbling. He closed his eyes, trying to get his dizziness under control. “You’ve still got your guns, right?” he asked, fixing Tommy with an intense stare.

“Uh, yeah,” Tommy answered, patiently indicating the rifle strap over his shoulder and the pistol at his waist.

“Okay,” Gordon said. “Okay.”

He could do this. Maybe all wasn’t totally lost. Tommy was a surprisingly excellent shot, so he felt that his chances were significantly better with him on his side. He drew in a breath to steady himself and steeled his nerves for the pain ahead.

“Let’s go.”

Slowly, Gordon allowed Tommy to lead him through Black Mesa. He was worse than dead weight: he was dead weight in an industrial hellscape, blood loss wrecking his coordination and judgment. He felt drunk in the worst kind of way, and there were many times he had to lean on Tommy for support.

The young scientist was an attentive guide, carefully carving out a path for them as they moved through the world’s worst obstacle course. Gordon could faintly hear his murmured reassurances and patient observations as he stumbled along beside him, incoherently demanding answers. He even thought he laughed a few times at Tommy’s attempts to lighten the mood, but it could have just been the delirium making him hear things.

There were a few horrifying times that he slipped into the toxic waste, and by the time they reached the edge of a pool, his head was spinning. Gordon stared at the swirling brown sludge before them and slanted a half-lidded glance at Tommy.

“This is… raw sewage?” he slurred.

Tommy was supporting most of Gordon’s weight at this point, and Gordon marveled hazily at the ability of someone so rail-thin to carry his heavy ass for this long. The scientist gave the brown water a careful look.

“I think this is clean,” he ventured.

Even in his dizziness, Gordon was skeptical. “That don’t look clean to me.”

Tommy frowned as his gaze passed over their concrete-and-steel surroundings, recognition flickering in his eyes. “Watch out, Mr. Freeman,” he cautioned. “We’re gonna have to swim through something that’s like a Beyblade, but big.”

He’d heard wilder shit come out of the guy’s mouth before, so Gordon just nodded and let himself be deposited in the water. The faster he swam through this nightmare pool, the less likely he was to get sepsis, he guessed. He floated through the cloudy water, trusting Tommy was behind him, and emerged on the other side of the spinning vent in their way.

When he broke the surface, sucking in air, the first thing he noticed was how cold it was in this room. The second thing he noticed was the press of bodies all around him, and the many pairs of eyes pointed in his direction.

Gordon screamed as he found himself surrounded by a seething crowd of men wearing Dr. Coomer’s face. They were all staring at him, grinning identical grins as if Gordon were a delightful surprise, a five dollar bill on the sidewalk, not a half dead man floating in the sewer.

Adrenaline fired off in his bloodstream and Gordon pushed off from the ledge to retreat back into the water, but he felt his body collide with Tommy, who had just surfaced behind him.

“Tommy?” he yelped, hoping the other scientist would offer any kind of reassurance.

Tommy just hauled himself out of the water and unslung his rifle from his shoulder, giving Gordon a complicated look before setting his jaw and aiming the barrel at the nearest clone.

“Do- Doctor-”

Gordon didn’t get the word out before the clones were upon them. Knobby knuckles and long fingernails reached for Gordon while he thrashed in the water, the old man’s congenial greeting of “Hello, Gordon!” battering his ears. He was helpless to stop them from hauling him out of the water, strong boxer’s fists gripping tight on his HEV suit. Gordon’s heart was galloping with fear, staring down dozens of mustachioed mouths repeating his name over and over.

“Tommy!” he called out desperately as the ring of Coomers tightened around him. He could barely see anything in a sea of white lab coats and his arm was screaming with pain as the clones jockeyed around him.

Dr. Coomer’s voice thundered in his head, cleaving it in two. Gordon’s vision went fuzzy as the old man bore down on him with grandiose proclamations of the void outside Black Mesa, of the world within his dreams. This was nuts. This wasn’t happening. Gordon was fucking losing it, and this was the breakdown that would do him in. He could barely see, barely think through the pain. He thought that maybe he cried out for Tommy again, but at this point his brain was so scrambled he wasn’t even sure Tommy was actually there anymore.

Gunfire popped around him and he felt a solid hand shove him towards a staircase. Instinct made him climb it and he ran, too fearful to look back.

The next few minutes passed in a hurricane of screaming voices and pounding feet and gunshot after gunshot after gunshot. Gordon ran blindly over the catwalk and through the halls, ducking back into the water, splashing through tunnels while the clones pursued him. Dr. Coomer was screaming inside his head and Gordon briefly wondered if he was already dead and this was his hell. He flailed through another pool, nearly gulping in a lungful of sewer water, and found himself surfacing back where it started.

It was finally, astonishingly quiet. Gordon weakly clawed at the lip of the pool, coughing and spluttering. Then he felt a pair of hands pulling him out of the water, and he struggled feebly against whatever clone had finally grabbed him.

But it was only Tommy, who lowered Gordon gently onto the slatted steel. He knelt beside him, steadying him with one hand, firmly patting his back until he stopped retching. Once he had made sure Gordon wasn’t going to black out on him, the scientist stood and began to make rounds of the room.

It was only when Gordon lifted his head to watch Tommy that he noticed the bodies littering the floor. Dozens of identical Dr. Coomers sprawled, bleeding, on the ground, riddled with holes. Tommy paused at each corpse, firing a round into each of their skulls. His face was drawn and pained.

“T-Tommy,” Gordon started as his sluggish brain caught up with reality. “What-”

“I killed them all,” Tommy answered. He raised his gaze from his task to stare at Gordon with that haunted look.

“All of them?” Gordon asked, volume climbing. “What about the real one?”

Tommy just went back to filling Coomer skulls with lead. Nausea climbed up Gordon’s throat and he ducked his head to vomit again. This was insane. He was going insane. And if he wasn’t, well, this was definitely the worst day of his life. He wiped his mouth and began launching questions at Tommy, driveling words out until he felt somewhat grounded, not even fully registering what he was asking or what Tommy’s answers were. He sank to the floor, tucking his stump of an arm in close, staring hazily into the distance as the adrenaline leaving his body rendered him boneless.

Tommy finished checking the corpses and approached Gordon, who could do little but stare in disorientation up at him. “Tommy,” he pleaded, though he wasn’t sure exactly what he needed from him. He was shivering violently. “Tommy, talk to me.”

The scientist crouched down in front of him. He was spattered with gore, his lab coat stained crimson. He looked tired and scared and a little sad.

The realization of what this man had just done for him hit Gordon in the chest like a freight train. Tommy had killed every last clone, singlehandedly, for him. Not just any clones, either. Clones of one of the most powerful men at Black Mesa. He could have died - no, he should have died - facing those odds. And Gordon should have died with him.

He frantically passed his gaze over his protector, searching for any sign of injury, but aside from looking a little rattled, Tommy seemed impossibly, miraculously unharmed.

“Um,” his companion began, awkwardly. “Do you want a soda?”

Gordon sank further onto the floor until his forehead touched cold metal. He felt indistinguishable from one of the bodies that littered the room. This brave, foolish man had hauled his useless ass for miles through Black Mesa and laid waste to countless clones. And here he was, offering Gordon a soda. Gordon didn’t deserve jack shit from Tommy. Tommy could have been killed because of him.

“Guh, I’ve lost a lot of blood,” he groaned.

He had to find out what was happening. He had to keep asking questions. The uncertainty was going to eat him alive. Gordon could sense his own lips moving, could feel the rough press of his voice through his raw throat, but the words that gasped out were meaningless as they passed through the fog of his brain. He couldn’t stop shuddering.

The only thing that broke through the haze was Tommy delicately propping Gordon into a sitting position and gathering him close. Gordon was too weak to protest, his head falling limply against the other man’s shoulder.

“Did you kill him? Did you kill him? Tommy? The one that was different?”

He was a lunatic. He was losing it. There was blood everywhere and the scent of iron was thick. Tommy encircled Gordon in his arms, hugging him tight against him as he shook uncontrollably.

“They were identical. They were clones, Mr. Freeman,” Tommy said carefully, voice close in his ear. “That’s… the definition.”

Before Gordon could open his mouth to protest, he felt light fingers in his hair, combing through locks that were wet with blood and sewer water. It was positively disgusting - they both were, slick with gore and shit and the fear-sweat of days on the run. But Tommy repeated the motion over and over until Gordon’s questions died off and his heart rate slowed to a weak flutter. Calm down, he seemed to be saying. It’s alright .

It was the first taste of comfort he’d had in days. Years, actually, if he was really thinking about it. He sagged bodily against Tommy.

“I’m gonna die out here,” he said weakly.

“No,” the scientist murmured against his temple, “I don’t think so.”

Gordon was a shivering cloud of vapor and Tommy was warm and solid and he wanted to believe him so, so badly. His eyes fluttered shut as his shaking subsided, and he could feel himself beginning to drift.

“We should probably keep moving,” Tommy said, pulling him out of his stupor. He disentangled himself from Gordon and stood, offering a hand.

Gordon stared at it. Tommy was right. He needed medical attention. He needed to live. Where bleak despair once gripped his heart, there was now desperate, clawing hope. Gordon Freeman was going to make it out of here. Tommy didn’t lay waste to all those clones for his stupid ass to die on him.

He gripped the man’s hand and let himself be hauled to his feet, once again surprised at the strength of someone so slight. His legs shook and the warehouse tilted around him, but Tommy caught him before he could collapse.

Gordon’s addled brain was running laps around him. Tommy, Tommy, Tommy, slowing up for him, risking his life for him, carrying him through hell. Tommy slung Gordon’s good arm over his shoulder and led him up the stairs while Gordon bore the pain and the tidal wave of emotion crashing through him.

The first med station they encountered was empty, which sent Gordon into a hysterical, babbling episode that Tommy helpfully ignored. They pushed onward, stepping around bodies as they went. Gordon trusted Tommy to lead him, not even bothering to question how he knew where they were going. His mind was beginning to put reality back together piece by piece, using Tommy as his anchor. As they made their way unsteadily along, Gordon was actually beginning to feel a little more normal.

That is, until a corpse sprang to its feet right in front of his eyes.

“Surprise attack, Gordon!” Dr. Coomer’s voice rang cheerily, reverberating up and down the halls and into his disbelieving skull.

Bloodstained, teeth bared, eyes feral and hungry, the old man advanced on them. Animalistic prey instinct seized Gordon and he ripped away from Tommy’s side, hurtling down the hall while gunfire cracked in his wake.

Here he was, running again, useless, a coward, fleeing the impossible. Gordon stumbled and found himself crashing into the water, and as he drifted down, he thought, maybe this is it . Maybe Coomer was the end of the line. Maybe he should kill himself before the old man could take him apart piece by piece.

But he was too weak to swim toward the industrial vent and the current washed him back to the water’s edge. It was death, spitting Gordon back out, refusing to accept him, saying, take this, I don’t want this , to an awaiting Tommy.

Tommy. Tommy! “Tommy!” Gordon yelled.

“Mister Freeman, where are you?” came the man’s distant reply. He sounded scared, but his tone was significantly calmer than Gordon’s racing thoughts.

He struggled at the edge of the pool he was in, trying desperately to reach him. “Tommy!” he cried. It was the only word left in his vocabulary that made any sense.

He felt himself being lifted once again out of the water as his unfiltered thoughts poured unbidden out of his mouth. “You gotta kill him, Tommy,” he heaved, “You can’t let him win, he can’t keep getting away with this.”

Tommy didn’t answer him as he hauled Gordon down the hallway. Gordon woozily went with him, dripping water and blood in his wake, until they came upon a body slumped against the wall with a neat bullet hole in its chest.

Gordon blinked. “Did you kill him?”

“Yes,” Tommy answered, but whatever he was about to say next was cut off by a loud, booming voice that almost shattered his eardrums.

Gordon’s knees buckled as Dr. Coomer broke open his mind.

GORDON… EVERY TIME YOU GO TO SLEEP, I CAN FEEL MY BODY TORN APART ATOM BY ATOM… IT’S AGONIZING, GORDON… I’VE SEEN OUTSIDE BLACK MESA, GORDON… THERE’S NOTHING… BUT I KNOW YOU… THERE’S A WORLD OUTSIDE HERE, GORDON… AND I NEED YOU TO TAKE ME THERE…

As quickly as the voice arrived, it evaporated, along with Dr. Coomer’s body. Gordon collapsed, hysterical giggling pouring out of him as his broken brain tried to reconcile what just happened to it. He laughed like a maniac while Tommy looked down at him with concern.

“We’re fucked,” he giggled shrilly. “We’re fucked. Is this even-” he was limp and yielding as Tommy pulled him to his feet yet again. “Is this even real?”

Tommy was silent, staring at the place the doctor had been, finger still taut on the trigger of his pistol while he supported Gordon. He needed him to say something, needed any shred of reassurance he could offer. “Tommy,” he pleaded, “Do you have any words of wisdom? From your books , or your-” A sob choked out of him, tripping and stumbling over his own laughter. “Help,” he cried pitifully.

The man pulled Gordon tight against him, letting him ride out his hysterics in the embrace while he kept a watchful eye on their surroundings. Gordon hiccupped into his shoulder, terror racing like a livewire through his spine. Tommy just held him close without judgement, running a hand up and down his back until he caught his breath.

He was just about to pull away when Tommy suddenly shoved Gordon behind him, pointing his firearm down the hall as a figure rounded the corner.

“Hello, Gordon!” hit him like a gunshot, but maybe his ears were just ringing from the round Tommy fired in Dr. Coomer’s head.

Tommy backed up, an arm flung out protectively in front of Gordon, as the old man stepped toward them. Blood was gushing from the wound in his face, but he was smiling as if he couldn’t even feel it. Gordon was sure his heart was going to give out from how hard it was hammering in his ribcage.

The three of them stood like that, staring each other down, while Tommy kept his pistol trained on Dr. Coomer. The old boxer spoke congenially to him, but Gordon barely registered his words. His fuzzy brain was thinking about the human shield in front of him, how quickly Tommy had placed himself between Gordon and the threat. He knotted a desperate hand in the fabric of his lab coat, unable to do anything but cling to him.

“How can I trust you?” he called out to Coomer, panic making his voice shrill.

“I think this one is safe,” Tommy commented, flicking Gordon a reassuring glance. “I shot him and he didn’t die.”

“That is kind of like the Coomer we know and love,” Gordon answered, managing to find an ounce of sarcasm in himself. He fixed his bloodshot stare on their assailant. “Prove it to me.”

The old scientist grinned as blood soaked slowly into his uniform. “Gordon, I’m thirsty,” he declared.

The fight went out of Gordon all at once, his legs turning to jelly as Dr. Coomer strode cheerily past him to examine the bloodbath in the other room. Gordon lurched after him, Tommy close behind.

He would have to trust this guy, whether he wanted to or not. He couldn’t let Tommy keep carrying his weight alone, no matter how willing he was to put himself in harm’s way for Gordon. He tried to explain as much to Dr. Coomer, raising his voice to what he hoped was an authoritative volume. Coomer nodded along, unfazed as the blood clotted and dried on his face. A wave of dizziness passed over Gordon and he felt himself sinking.

“Perhaps you should have a seat,” Dr. Coomer advised.

“Uh huh,” he slurred, stumbling backward into Tommy, who caught him with careful hands. Those careful hands guided him, gentle as ever, to the cold steel beneath his feet.

Across from him, Dr. Coomer was sitting down, too, smiling faintly as he passed an interested look between him and Tommy. Gordon no longer had any energy to resist the old man’s eerie presence, but as Tommy settled onto the floor beside him, he wrapped a protective arm around him and fixed Coomer with a threatening stare. Don’t you dare touch him , the man’s intense amber gaze burned. I’ll kill you again if I have to.

Blood loss and affection made him feel lightheaded. This whole fucking day was a neverending loop of Gordon shattering apart and Tommy putting the pieces back together. He wasn’t sure he deserved the hellscape he was being forced to travel through, but he was certain he didn’t deserve Tommy. He didn’t deserve the warm, solid hand at his back. He didn’t deserve the blood that was spilled to keep his pathetic ass alive.

They talked over everything that happened, slowly exchanging information and piecing together a plan. Gordon sagged against Tommy, contributing to the conversation but barely tacking together what he was saying. He was thinking ahead to the impossible future, what he was going to do once he got out, once he strangled Benrey with Dr. Coomer’s help.

How could he possibly repay Tommy for what he had done? What did someone like Tommy want? What did someone like Gordon have to give?

This moment couldn’t last forever. They had to keep moving soon, to plunge into the unknown and follow that pinpoint of hope that was always just too far away. But as Gordon slumped there, awash in the yellow glow of the industrial lights, he thought that maybe he could reach it. He let his head fall against his companion’s shoulder, breathing ragged and thin. Gordon would see the sun again one day, and when he did, he would draw its warm rays down just for Tommy.

And maybe he’d take him out. Buy him a soda. He’d probably like that.

More #AskStrange Responses

 I might have a request for Dr Strange... Maybe, if he has the time and inclination, he could tell us about the bathing part of the aftercare, preferably from Tony's point of view, him slowly coming back from subspace? I know Dr Strange prefers more scientific questions and this request really is incredibly self-indulgent, so no worries if he doesn't have the time!

Loathe as I may generally be to explore Stark’s psyche, even I can admit that I can see the appeal of his dynamic with Rogers at the current moment. Enjoy, poster!

(Author’s Note: The response under the cut is an aftercare scene. There's no sex, but there is a discussion of the sexual scene from Chapter 40, and a conversation about future fantasies.)

*

Tony had been fairly sure he was pretty much out of headspace when Steve had panicked that morning. Seeing Steve, who had been so confident and calm the night before, clearly terrified and full of regret had been like a yank right out of subspace and into something more akin to the adrenaline-fuelled mindset of battle. All that had mattered then had been meeting the objective: fixing whatever was going so wrong in Steve’s head, twisting a night that had been as close to perfect as any Tony could remember into something ugly and wrong.

Given that he’d had no idea that top-drop was even a thing that could happen until his Dominant was in the midst of it right in front of him, Tony thought he’d done fairly well. Of course, Bruce had been the one to actually do the majority of the work, but Tony had at least had the presence of mind to realize that Steve would probably find it reassuring to see Tony checked over by an actual doctor.

What Tony hadn’t counted on (although he damn well should have, he’d been through enough check-ins by now to know better) was his own reaction to Bruce’s presence. He wasn’t sure what it was about the sessions, because he maintained that the check-ins themselves were kind of the worst, but Tony walked out the majority of them half submersed in subspace. If it was a normal day he could usually tug himself back out of it fairly quickly by focusing on work, but today…today was different. Today Steve had been there to watch Bruce examine his most intimate places and ask invasive, personal questions, and now Steve was drawing water for a bath. Tony half wanted to crawl after him, just to be on his knees for Steve again, and because he didn’t like being left alone right now, not even for a second, even though Steve had asked and Tony had told him it would be okay. (Yeah, okay, he was more than a little bit back down in subspace then.)

When Steve returned to find Tony curled up in all of his blankets like a burrito, he frowned and half-jogged his way to the bed.

“Oh sweetheart. Oh Tony, I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have left if—nevermind. I’m just sorry, and I won’t leave you again, I promise, okay? Bruce is going to have some food sent up and Dummy can bring it in here and leave it on the bed. Come on, let’s get you in the bath, alright?” He carried Tony to the bathroom, still wrapped in all the bedsheets, as Tony tried to formulate a proper apology for this latest absurdity. (Why couldn’t his version of subspace involve having just a little bit of chill?)

“I didn’t mean…I know you need my help right now, I didn’t mean to do this Steve.” The water that Steve lifted him up and set him into was the perfect temperature, and even better was the press of Steve’s body against his back once his Dominant had shed his own clothes and slid into the tub.

“Shh. This is exactly what I need, Tony, don’t you see? What helps a Dom in drop more than anything else is to know that their submissive is safe and happy, that they’re still allowed the honour of caring for them. You are everything I could possibly want right now, my good, good boy. No more apologies, hmm?”

Tony could hardly formulate an argument to that when his brain was syrup-thick with submission and contentment and wanted this to be true more than anything. He wanted to be exactly what Steve needed, for as long as he possibly could. So he laid his head back against Steve’s broad chest, feeling the vibrations of the pleased little rumble that produced in his Dominant.  

Eventually, Steve added the salt Bruce had suggested to the water. That turned it silky and a little bit slippery, and Steve held Tony carefully as he adjusted their positions so that they were facing one another. The cloth he pressed to Tony’s skin was ridiculously soft too, better than the stuff he’d encountered at some of the world’s best spas. Steve’s care and regard were evident in everything he did, and even though Tony knew from the other side how irrational drop could be, he truly couldn’t fathom any force on Earth convincing Steve that his Dominance was anything but flawless.

“Are you okay to talk a bit about last night?” Steve asked as he drew Tony’s foot into his lap for a combination wash and massage that had his head wanting to tip back again. The thought of having to actually formulate words made Tony vaguely pouty, but JARVIS had told him that debriefing a scene helped some Dominants through their drop. (Steve needed him. He could do this for Steve.) “Can you tell me something you liked?”

Well, that was actually fairly easy. Tony had liked a lot about last night: Steve’s crop, his tortuously wonderful glass toys, the way he fucked like a machine…

“You,” he concluded after pondering the options for a few seconds. Steve chuckled and Tony realized how vacuous that probably sounded. “No, not…I mean, I liked how you were—you were like this perfect mix of firm and kind. It made me, I didn’t feel quite as—I don’t know, taken over by the submission as I sometimes do, because you made me help put myself there, so I was more conscious of it happening. And that was really embarrassing but it also felt really—um, good.”

“I’m so glad to hear that sweetheart. It was good for me too,” Steve told him as he placed Tony’s right foot into his palm and then began to gently roll his ankle. “I like it when you go down hard and fast, and I’m sure we’ll play that way sometimes too, but for this first time, I liked having you stay with me a little longer. And I like to let you fight yourself a little on the way down instead of just forcing you; it makes the full drop feel even sweeter when I’ve watched you work so hard to get yourself there.”

By the time Steve’s hands were between his legs washing his cock and balls, Tony was glad for the excuse to be making small whining noises. It turned out even talking  bout their scene was enough to make him half out of his mind again.

“Anything we did that you wouldn’t want to try again, or that we didn’t do and you wish we had?”

“I. Uh.” He wanted to say no, because really the only thing he could think of was so small, but Steve had told Tony he was good, that he was perfect, and he wanted to always be those things even when it was embarrassing. “I wanted to clean you, with my mouth, when it was over.”

“Mmm. Phil said you had a bit of an oral fixation. I’m sorry I didn’t realize what you were asking, I thought you were just upset that I was getting up to get the cloths. I’m sorry.”

“Anything…you?” Tony asked, which bordered on nonsense but Steve had him on his hands and knees now so that he could lovingly clean every inch of Tony’s ass, and he felt he should be forgiven for the fact that it was rather hard to think under those conditions. And his Dominant understood anyway.

“The prep we did with the toys made me want to try an extended fingering scene. I’ve been thinking about it since Bruce milked you, actually, but seeing you play with yourself like that…yeah. I’d love to keep you over my lap for a couple hours, just playing with your pretty ass and seeing how many times I could get you to come just from my fingers. Maybe let some of the team watch.” Tony yelped as his hand slipped out from under him, but Steve had him gripped around the waist long before his face even came near the water. “That a yes then?”

“Makes me kind of want to die from embarrassment. Being held open like that, for that long, so that you and everyone else could see…fuck, Steve.” He half wanted to beg for it to happen right there, no matter how sore his ass would be, and Steve seemed to realize that because he got Tony sitting back in his original position and ran a soothing hand through his wet hair.

“Shh, it’s okay sweetheart. We got time. We got all the time in the world.”

Tony hoped that was true; for now, he had to believe it was. Slowly, the urgent want that had surged in him when he’d heard Steve describing his fantasy gave way to the slow, easy pleasure of just being together. He pressed himself back against Steve again, just to feel him close, and let himself imagine that he could really have this forever.

hello hello it’s lucky again and,, sadly,, we don’t have the technology that makes the thoughts we have just.... appear onto our screens yet... so this took a hot sec and still isn’t perfect bc i don’t plan on proofreading :\ but! here,, is,, my new,, drummer boy,, parumpumpumpum

‹ avan jogia, he/him, cis man, bisexual. › ISAAC BAROT is the TWENTY-SEVEN year old from SAN JOSE, CALIFORNIA. when a friend asked them what they thought of the manor they said,  ❝ I HEARD THIS IS WHERE THEY DECIDED TO MAKE THE TWILIGHT ZONE. ❞ they claim GET OUT is their favorite scary movie, and if they were to die in a horror film they would BE OBLIVIOUS TO THERE EVEN BEING A KILLER UNTIL IT’S TOO LATE. their fears include MANNEQUINS, HITCH-HIKERS and DYING WITH NOTHING TO SHOW, and they don’t know we know, but… HE GOT INTO A (MUTUALLY) NEAR FATAL ALTERCATION WITH A STRANGER HE GAVE A RIDE TO (YES, HE WAS AN UBER DRIVER - HIS GREATEST SHAME). hope they enjoy their stay. ‹ PLATANCHOR requested by JOAKIM from STRESSED OUT penned by, LUCKY, 20, EST. ›

QUICK FACTS:

full name: isaac benjamin barot

date of birth: september 12, 1992

*does not perfectly reflect the below Big Three zodiac chart because that’s so much math

zodiac big three: virgo sun, taurus moon, libra rising

gender & pronouns: cis man & he/him

sexual orientation: bisexual

occupation: session drummer + lyft driver + ex-uber driver

mbti: entp

enneagram: 5w6

the song i listen to on repeat while i write the intro: “deja vu” - roger waters

BACKGROUND INFO:

alright. so.

isaac's backstory is neither tragic nor easy. his father was an immigrant who married his mother solely to get a green card (y’all, to be fair... the citizenship tests are whack). there wasn’t any real romance between the two, but the drop-ins always said otherwise. no, outside of putting on a show for government officials, isaac’s father and mother were friends at the best of times.

the best of times culminated in a son who grew up in an interesting dynamic. his father and mother never even attempted to be anything more than friends (with, as you can see, the occasional benefits). after the check-ins finally stopped, his father and mother even began sleeping in different rooms. his mother would trade in her queen for a double and replace the space his father used to take up with his cradle.

it was nothing like the ‘unhappy marriage’ trope, though... again, because they barely ever pretended to be married. they would take their wedding rings off when they went out with friends. sometimes they would even take off their rings around each other and talk the other up to someone attractive.

so it was unorthodox, but it was much better than his parents pretending to be in love in that way and giving him a skewed version of what romance should look like.

one down-side to it, though, was that isaac never knew who he was supposed to go to for what. usually it’s just a given that “if you need/want x, go to the matriarch, if you need/want y, go to the patriarch” but... what happens... when your parents are basically just your friends?

so thank god for growing up in the age of technology. like,, ya,, a literal baby can’t google things like “how to say ‘mom’” but a 15y/o can google “how to shave”

so... ya... his parents were his friends, the internet was his parent(s?).

one thing the internet couldn’t do? give him drums. it could introduce him to the likes of ringo starr, john bonham, keith moon, and ginger baker, but it couldn’t give him drums... not when he was only, like... 10, at least.

so he put a set on his christmas wishlist and figured they would divide amongst themselves.

so ya, his 10th christmas, he got a shitty little rockwood hohner kit that he would use for the next nine years.

he never received any professional training. again, he didn’t know who to ask and... youtube wouldn’t exist for another three years. he tried to teach himself using a few books and, if nothing else, figured out a few simple beats and how to gain independence.

after learning those simple little beats and not knowing if he wanted to buy the next book, he decided to take a break and, instead of going back to professional books, he’d just listen to some of his favorite tracks... most of which were ginger baker... which made things kind of hard when he only had one bass drum, two tom-toms, and one floor tom. those, plus the really low quality pearl cymbals. still, he did his best to make it work.

just a side-note that, because of videos of ginger, isaac used (and still uses, out of habit) a mix of traditional and matched grip.

he went back and forth between the books and mimicking the patterns of other drummers (mostly ginger) up until he was around 16 and his friend, ribs (y’all), decided to teach him a few more technical skills. what you want to learn for this song are polyrhythms, but those are hard and no, ginger isn’t using a crash there, he’s using a splash and do you want a discount on some better cymbals and drumheads from my parents’s music shop because this is a very functional kit but it kind of sounds whack

he continued using the same whack kit, but replaced the heads with aquarians, as per ribs’s recommendation (but evans and remo are also good) and, after literally examining baker’s kit, replaced the cymbals with various zildjian collections

even though we stan istanbul agop in this house.

he also started listening to more drummers than... pretty much just baker with a hint of john bonham, keith moon, and ringo starr. as his friend suggested, he tried out drummers like buddy rich, art blakey, travis barker, dave grohl, karen carpenter, neil peart, nick mason, simon phillips –– even was told to listen to ac/dc songs just to see how a successful band could be made using essentially the same beat over and over and over.

so now he had some split time. school. work. practice. figure out who the hell was making dinner that night/if there was someone making dinner last night because they might both be talking each other up.

although he applied to various colleges, and although some of these colleges actually accepted him, he ultimately decided not to go. instead, he moved from san jose to los angeles in the hopes that he’d find something bigger than himself... and a new drum set...

he found the latter in a ludwig kit with two bass drums, two tom-toms, and two floor toms. then he just added a bunch of stuff and tried to make it like ginger baker’s. pretty much spent all of his money on it and then some.

when his friends formed a band and found success, he was very very happy for them... but... he found himself stuck... driving ubers.

and lyfts!

he’d seen the twilight zone before. he loved that show. he’d seen the episode ‘the hitch-hiker,’ so he was really driving for the companies against his better judgment. 

his worst uber story? the time a guy got into the car, had pinged a location that was still marked as a store on the uber gps but had recently been torn down, and tried to attack him when they got there :\ he 110% fought back, though. was fired because the other guy was the one who made it out injured.

only drove for lyft after that :\

he did take on a few projects, but he... proved to be too much of a roger waters for people who just wanted to chill and have fun. there would be adverts for people who wanted to form a band and he’d be like “hell yeah! finally! a band!” then he’d get pissed that they advertised it so seriously but really... just wanted to jam. did not have any plans to try to do anything with it.

the few projects he did join that involved people who wanted to actually achieve success... if they were slacking, you best bet his inner roger waters came out! which is why he never stuck around in any projects for too long!

but ‘projects’ and ‘jam sessions’ were totally different. you want to do ‘wipeout’ in a project? he’s gonna take that intro that literally everyone on the planet knows SERIOUSLY. you want to do ‘wipeout’ in a jam session? LET’S HAVE SOME FUN WITH IT.

he does some session/studio drumming for other artists to make some extra money while doing something he genuinely enjoys... but... still... it is no project™

in between things right now, he got a call from joakim that, while muffled and staticky, sounded like it said ‘get here, please’ and clearly stated where he was.

of course, voicemail lines were crossed and many many many essential words were left out – words that were basically saying the exact opposite ahfsdkjl. the shadow’s really playin them :\

so here he is, in all his glory.

TL;DR:

i was gonna kms if i didn’t play another drummer, so this is my ginger baker fanboy whose parents were literally just best friends and, as a result, were also both his friend. the internet raised him. started playing drums when he was 10 on a low qual kit with low qual cymbals that his parents got him for christmas, but literally why would you get a beginning a good set? continued playing. eventually moved to los angeles and tried to form many successful projects, but was too much of a roger waters. was summoned up here by the shadow man fucking around joakim. his greatest shame is how many ubers he has driven.

PERSONALITY INFO:

he will always say his proudest moment was when he learned how to play ‘toad’ by ginger baker cream all the way through.

big ginger baker fanboy.

loves the twilight zone and will just spill a random fact out about it every now and again.

a lowkey control freak which completely goes against the way he dresses and the vibe he gives off. 

is only a dick about it if you’re part of one of his ‘projects’ but aren’t taking it seriously tho :\

ok i’m too tired 2 write a personality section rn when im already rly bad at them but!! again!! feel free 2 j refer to the zodiac big three + the personality types!!

FEARS:

mannequins: they’re already creepy enough when you really think about it, then you add in that episode of the twilight zone where the characters wake up in an unfamiliar house and go outside and basically everyone is just a mannequin? ya he hates mannequins.

hitch-hikers: so, as we have just seen, he’s had it bad enough with people who were registered to an app, paying, their personal information readily available, etc., etc... so then what would happen if it was just a complete and utter stranger who didn’t have any personal information, any ping, and was the sole focus of a different twilight zone episode? he... is going... to drive past you. he’ll feel bad about it, but...

dying with nothing to show: here’s the money shot! here’s the deep fear! as has been shown throughout, isaac craves success and some form of a legacy. if he dies with nothing to show for his life, then was his life ever worth it in general?

WANTED CONNECTIONS:

ok,,, it might be bc im tired rn,,, but i have the most basic list that will hopefully be updated tomorrow bc it is SO VERY BASIC:

friends

fwb

ons

exes

enemies (much easier to get on his bad side than it is w/ fluke)

BRAINSTORMING AND/OR SOMETHING FROM YOUR WANTED CONNECTIONS AND/OR WHATEVER YOU HAVE AN IDEA FOR!!!!

Brody’s Diary (Revised Edition): Chapter 9

Part one of the “Pre-Apocalypse Adventures” Series

Chapter 1 ( here )            Chapter 5 ( here ) Chapter 2 ( here )            Chapter 6 ( here ) Chapter 3 ( here )            Chapter 7 ( here ) Chapter 4 ( here )            Chapter 8 ( here ) The wind blows Brody’s hood from her head as she jumps out into the rainstorm, boots splashing against the flooding bell tower roof as she rushes towards her friend while shouting her name. Therissa follows close behind, lighting a path for them with her flashlight and yelling at Brody to be careful. Relief washes over both girls as they approach Violet, but it soon vanishes and is replaced with worry once they’re near enough to actually see the state their roommate is in.

Violet sits motionless, curled up into herself so tightly as though trying to make herself disappear, and is completely drenched from head to toe. Every piece of clothing on her body is soaked and her hair is matted and plastered to her head. Her eyes are dark and empty, staring into nothingness. Therissa shines the flashlight in Violet’s direction and Brody calls her name, but the girl remains silent and still, giving no indication that she’s even aware of their presence.

Crouching beside her friend, Brody can now see how violently Violet’s small frame is shaking. “Vi, can you hear me?”

Therissa bends over to get a closer look. Her youngest roomie is in pretty bad shape. Not only is she not responding to any of Brody’s questions, but she doesn’t even seem to hear them. “Okay. Fuck. We need to get her inside.”

“Vi, come on…” Brody reaches out and holds the sides of Violet’s face in her hands in an attempt to get the girl to look at her. To see her. “Please… Let’s go back…”

The warmth of Brody’s palms against her friend’s icy cheeks seems to have rekindled the flame inside Violet’s brain. The frozen girl blinks and moves her head slightly.

“Vi! You… You’re okay… Can you get up?” asks Brody, voice quivering almost as much as Violet’s body. She doesn’t get an answer. It’s almost as if Violet has lost her ability to speak. She turns to her older roommate for help. “What do we do?”

Therissa shoves the flashlight at Brody and starts shrugging out of her hoodie. “You’re gonna help us get down from here.”

“W-what?”

After pulling her hoodie over Violet’s head and torso, Therissa scoops the girl up bridal style. She’s lucky that Violet weighs next to nothing or else this would be much more difficult. The teenager speaks to Violet, words as sharp as ever, but her tone is gentle and reassuring. “Hate to break it to you, but I’m not letting you freeze yourself to death. You’re coming back with us.”

Therissa holds Violet’s frigid and limp body close. “Brody, you need to lead the way. Make sure we can see the stairs. I’m gonna have to carry her, but we need to go now.”

Swallowing the lump that has formed in her throat, Brody finds her courage and nods. Therissa’s counting on her. Violet needs her. Grasping the flashlight tightly in her hands, Brody walks in front and leads the way, pausing every few steps to check on how Therissa and Violet are doing. Each of Therissa’s steps are careful and deliberate. She makes sure both feet are planted firmly on every wooden step before taking another, and she stops every so often to readjust her grip on Violet. The descent down the long staircase is slow and incredibly nerve-racking, but the teen grits her teeth and presses on.

She swears on her life that she’s going to get this girl back on the ground safely.

The rest of the journey from the bell tower to the dormitory is a blur. Therissa isn’t sure how she managed to carry Violet all the way back to their bedroom without falling or dropping her. It must have been the adrenaline. Her heart is still racing. Sure, Violet has been found, but they’re not out of the woods yet.

“We’re gonna use your bed, okay?” Therissa tells Brody, out of breath and arms ready to give out any second. She sets Violet down on the bottom bunk. “Grab towels. Blankets. All of them.”

Using the back of her hand, Therissa feels Violet’s forehead. Her skin is like ice and she’s pale as death. But the thing that frightens the teen the most is how much her roommate is shivering. She almost looks like she’s convulsing. They need to warm her up immediately.

“All right, you can be pissed or whatever at me later, but this is so you don’t die,” warns Therissa before starting to strip Violet of her wet clothes. She takes her hoodie off, then peels the girl’s waterlogged top and undershirt off. Brody reappears, holding all three of their bath towels and their blankets. “Brody, get her shoes and socks, will you?” Therissa unbuttons Violet’s jeans and yanks those off as well. “Don’t worry, I’m not looking. And you and Brody shower together, don’t you? Nothing she hasn’t already seen, either.”

Once her clothes are off, Therissa and Brody wrap Violet in bath towels, two around her body and one around her head to absorb the water that’s still dripping from her hair. Taking one of the extra blankets that Brody grabbed, Therissa starts to layer it over the girl, but then pauses. “Hey, you wanna get in there?”

Brody tilts her head at Therissa. “Huh?”

The teen gestures at Violet with a nod of her head. “Body heat might warm her up faster.”

No other explanation is needed. Brody shrugs out of her rain poncho, kicks off her boots, and then climbs into her bed right next to Violet. Therissa finishes wrapping her roommates in blankets and then heads for the door.

“Stay put. I’m gonna go get someone,” says Therissa. “Keep talking to her, okay? And make sure she stays awake.”

Violet is shaking really hard, and Brody can feel it through the layers of blankets. She feels awful for her friend. Wriggling her arms free inside Therissa’s blanket cocoon, Brody feels around for Violet’s hands. Finding them, she presses them in between her own to try and warm them up faster. Violet’s fingers are frozen. Her whole body is practically radiating cold.

“You’re gonna be okay, Vi,” Brody tells Violet, snuggling up as close as she can against her. The auburn-haired girl sighs. “You scared me… I was so worried that you were gone forever.”

Violet doesn’t respond, but she turns her head slightly towards Brody.

“I’m sorry,” Brody apologizes, voice thick with emotion. “I’m so, so sorry. I know you didn’t take my diary. It was my own fault.”

Violet’s teeth begin to chatter, and, concerned, Brody pulls away slightly to examine her. Violet’s mouth is open, jaw trembling, and she looks like she wants to say something. Brody waits and listens, but after a few moments of silence she figures that her friend is still too cold to speak.

“I guess I accidentally forgot it in Dr. Larson’s office,” continues Brody, shamefully, “and she had it the whole time. I’m sorry for blaming you. I should’ve listened when you said you didn’t do it. I-I was just really, really upset…”

“Y-you… don’t hate me…?” Violet’s voice is scratchy and dry as these are her first words since the morning. She coughs a little.

“Hate you...?” Brody furrows her brows in confusion, but then she remembers the harsh words she left Violet with the previous afternoon. “Oh, Vi, of course not... I’m sorry for saying what I said.”

Violet is tired. Really tired. Her limbs feel heavy and it’s taking a lot of effort to get her words out. “But… I was mean to you… I called your diary ‘stupid’…” Her voice is so quiet that Brody has to lean in extremely close in order to hear her. “But I didn’t… I didn’t mean it…”

“I know.” Brody wraps her arms around Violet in a hug and rests her head on her shoulder. “It’s okay. You’re still my best friend.”

Violet closes her eyes as the embrace envelops her in warmth that seems to reach all the way through to her core. She uses the rest of her energy to lift one arm around Brody to return the hug. “Sorry…”

After the girls hug it out, Brody pulls back again. “How are you feeling?”

“Still cold…” Violet curls up tighter under the blankets. “And tired…”

“Don’t worry, Therissa went to get help. She’ll be back soon,” reassures Brody.

Now that she’s slowly warming up and her mind is less foggy, Violet realizes that Therissa’s the one who must have carried her back. She’s the one who must have dried her off and covered her with these blankets. Of course Brody helped out, too, but…

Suddenly everything clicks. Violet audibly groans.

“Are you okay?” asks Brody, concerned.

“I can’t believe Therissa saw me in my underwear...”

Brody tries to stifle a giggle, but it doesn’t work.

“It’s not funny,” Violet mumbles, frowning. She pictures her oldest roommate and pulls one of the blankets over her eyes in embarrassment. Speaking of Therissa, Violet hopes that she’s not going to come back to the room with a bunch of grown-ups in tow. She heaves a long, dreary sigh. “I’m gonna be in so much trouble…”

The bedroom door bursts open with so much force that the doorknob rebounds off the wall, leaving a visible dent in the plaster. Preparing herself for the worst, Violet sinks deeper into the blankets.

“Brody? Brody! How’s she doing?”

Violet wonders who this breathless, distressed voice belongs to because it certainly, couldn’t possibly be her tough, moody teenage roommate’s.  

“Therissa! She’s okay!” calls Brody, giving a thumbs-up from her spot on the bed. She then notices that another woman has followed Therissa into the room. “Hi, Ms. Martin.”

Therissa rushes over to the edge of the bed and pulls the covers off of Violet’s head. The younger girl looks up at the teen sheepishly. Violet watches as the older girl’s expression changes from worried to relieved. But then Therissa’s face contorts in anger, and Violet flinches as a hand comes towards her. Bracing herself, Violet squeezes her eyes shut, but Therissa doesn’t hit her. Instead, the teen pinches her cheek, not enough to hurt, but enough to show her disapproval. Brody, alarmed at the sudden display, watches her roommates anxiously with wide eyes.

“You’re the biggest dumbass,” snarls Therissa, pulling on the girl’s cheek. “Don’t even think about doing anything like that ever again, you hear me? Good lord, Violet...”

Violet swallows and nods. The teen crosses her arms tightly across her chest and shakes her head, then quickly turns away and goes to stand by her desk at the foot of the bed. She leaves so abruptly that Violet doesn’t have time to get a closer look, but she swears that Therissa’s eyes looked somewhat glassy. Glancing to the side at her friend, Violet wonders if Brody saw it, too.

“Hi there,” Ms. Martin comes over to the bed and greets Violet. In one of her hands is her white nurse’s bag full of medical supplies. “Mind if I take a look? Just want to make sure you’re okay.”

Brody moves off the bed to give the nurse some space. Ms. Martin takes Violet’s temperature and asks her a few questions. She also checks her pulse and listens to her breathing.

“Well, girls, it looks like you found Violet just in time,” says Ms. Martin, taking the buds of her stethoscope out of her ears. She smiles and pats her patient on the shoulder reassuringly. “You’re going to be fine. Just stay under those covers until you feel better. Come and see me if you start feeling worse.”

“Thank you,” Violet says softly.

“Warm fluids should help,” Ms. Martin adds. “Would you girls like some hot cocoa? I’ll lend you my kettle for the night.”

The two younger girls share a look and break out into excited grins. “Yes, please!”

“Very well,” says the nurse, repacking her bag. “I’ll be back in a bit with the kettle and some dry sheets and blankets. Seeing as you girls haven’t had dinner yet, either, I’ll talk to the kitchen staff and see what we can do.”

The three girls thank Ms. Martin, who steps out momentarily before returning with the promised items. She assists Brody and Therissa with moving Violet, still wrapped up like a burrito, to the other bed as they replace the wet blankets and sheets with dry ones. Before heading back to her office for the evening, Ms. Martin hands Therissa a few packets of hot chocolate mix and three mugs.

Brody and Violet watch curiously as the nurse exchanges a few hushed words with their older roommate. The conversation is too quiet for them to eavesdrop, so they merely look at each other and shrug. After a few moments, Ms. Martin touches Therissa on the shoulder and smiles kindly at her before stepping back and addressing all three of them.

“Take it easy tonight, girls,” she says. “You’ve been through a lot. I’ll drop by tomorrow morning to check up on you.”

Brody and Violet bid the nurse goodnight. Therissa’s expression is still sour, but she gives a small wave as Ms. Martin leaves their bedroom. As soon as the door shuts, Therissa, wordlessly, goes to sit at her desk, leaving Violet feeling uneasy. Brody, preoccupied with boiling water in the kettle and emptying cocoa mix into mugs, doesn’t notice the uncomfortable silence. Violet hugs the blankets around her more tightly, and not because she’s still cold.

Even when Brody finishes preparing their drinks and the sweet aroma of chocolate fills the room, it doesn’t quite comfort Violet the way she thought it would.

SOCIOPATH WALKS INTO A THERAPIST’S OFFICE

I started therapy.

There’s a common myth that people with ASPD won’t seek therapy, or won’t respond to it, that we’re far too high and mighty, too deep into our own sense of power and control that we feel therapy would hamper our greatness somehow, or that we would sense a game afoot and the therapy would turn into a back and forth of tensions and manipulations and ultimately become an irresistible power play to the sociopath who has found a new thrill in analysing the analyser. At best, it’s assumed we’ll flippantly disregard all offers for help and remain ignorant and unwell. At worst, people imagine a kind of Tony Soprano/Dr Melfi scenario, the game of life on hard mode, the ultra-violent psychopath fucking with the resilient therapist’s head, what a thrill, how entertaining and devastating everything we involve ourselves in eventually becomes. And this thinking comes from the notion that antisocials do not suffer, and perhaps I’ve been guilty of assuming  this myself or at least projecting it outward. That’s the nature of my personality disorder: I’m afraid of admitting any kind of weakness. But the studies that have been done that measure an antisocial’s reaction to therapy have some flaws. First of all, the samples are always violent, offending psychopaths, incarcerated in prison, and they’re all men, and they’re all on the severe end of the scale. Secondly, studies are never done about a sociopath willingly seeking therapy, only a sociopath (or indeed psychopath) who has been ordered by court to attend therapy, so there’s a couple of glaring errors there — of course people who didn’t want to have therapy in the first place aren’t going to respond. Of course violent psychopaths who have no remorse, rather than some capability for remorse, won’t respond to therapy. They’re already in prison, they’ve already committed their crimes. You can see how there’d be very little to gain there. 
 So why did I seek therapy? 
Because I am constantly, unyieldingly fucking my own life up, and I’m doing it in a way that often feels uncontrollable to me. Everything is a constant battle between the self that I know and the dark night of myself, the part I know is there but can’t actually make out. All I know is it lurks down the dimly lit allies and leaps out of the dark corners of my psyche, and all of this presents itself as a nervy, fizzing, buzzing bandsaw of baseline level contempt, outrage, and a deep sense of something, maybe sadness, that I don’t know the name of, because if you’ve got ASPD you’ve most likely also got alexithymia as a symptom — that is, a subclinical inability to identify or describe your own emotions, a profound lack of emotional attachment to yourself. And it makes sense; if you can’t empathise with other people, you sure as shit can’t empathise with yourself. And there’s that word I use all the time — lack. Everything about ASPD, sociopathy, is defined by lack. The lack I feel the most is the lack of things that make me a warm-hearted, warm-blooded human being, and the kicker is, I lack the language to even begin to talk to myself about that. 
And that was all fine and well, way back when I had no ambitions, no familial obligation, no partner I really had to care about. If I’m honest, before marriage, I only really loved one person romantically, and he tended to my antisocial nature like he was leaving out trash for a local raccoon to come snatch. Never fetishising enough for me to lose interest, but always teetering on the edge of fascination and admiration, and whilst I thought I may have been happy then — I was just wilder. I had no barriers, and for a time, that was perfect. But that guy killed himself, when everyone thought he was happy, and whilst we had both moved on with our lives by the time he decided to end his, it could be that man was using me as a carte blanche for self-destruction; a drinking buddy gone wrong, my no-tomorrow, no-consequences way of living was normal to me, but for all the compassion and beauty and light he had within him, what I thought were similarities in our personalities, were actually symptoms of his suicidality. So really, what did he know? And what if I end up knowing it too?
 Now I’m settled and happy — externally, I’m happy. I’m married to the love of my life. We have a beautiful perfect baby son together. I’m back at university and I’m working toward a career in forensic psychology. I like the house we have. I live close to people I care about. I love my friends. But for some reason, my pervading, reigning emotions are only rage and fear. So I hauled my ass to therapy and I can tell you now, I’m not the only sociopath in the world who's done this, we’re just not supposed to talk about it. But I’ll let you in on this one, and hope I don’t get kicked out of the circle. 

 One thing you’ll have noticed with this blog and probably with the antisocials in your life is that we are in a constant state of over-examining and analysing our own processes. To borrow a hackneyed metaphor about psychopathy, we run like machines. But the machine has malware, incredibly hard to detect, but everything is bugging from the deepest recesses and nothing is really working, although the machine’s kind of running fine even if too hot, too glitchy, sometimes it blows up. We think we know everything that can be known about ourselves and this is probably a protective mechanism. I know most of us come from a lot of childhood neglect and abuse, so it makes sense we'd internalise that critical parental voice telling us we’re useless, worthless, unlovable, and turn it into a kind of, “aha! You’re wrong! I know EXACTLY what I am at all times and last I checked, I was none of those things” fuck you to our childhoods. What I didn’t realise, and maybe you’re the same, is that deep down, perhaps I feel useless, worthless, and unlovable, only I wouldn't know if that were the case, because I don't know the names of my feelings. 
 My therapist is a good guy. He’s well-dressed, friendly, and empathic in a way that gives me pause, sometimes intimidates me. Twice now I've had these eerie, uncanny moments where he’s said “but you didn't deserve that, you were a child”, and visibly winced with pain as I've matter-of-factly spoken about my early experiences. I didn’t hate it. I don’t know if I loved it. I something-ed it. At the very least, I noted that he’d done that, appreciatively. He’s taught me things about myself too, gross ugly things, like lifting up a rock and showing me all these wriggling, dirty bugs beneath: “See that weird creature with a million legs and no eyes? Those are your narcissistic tendencies. You do have them. You have a bit of a superiority complex and that's why you don't like to talk to other people. It’s because you don’t love yourself and you’re transferring that onto others. You hate other people because what if they end up being your mother? That’s why you’ve got to be superior and mighty but it doesn’t materially mean anything. Oh, and you see that fucking huge worm there? That’s your dismissive-avoidant attachment style. You don't know this but you keep yourself at a distance from love and intimacy because you're frightened of it and you think if you remove yourself from it you'll be safe from it. Weird, right? Oh, and this thing, not sure if it's a slug or what, that’s your perfectionism that you’ve told yourself all your life is one of your most beneficial traits, look at it there writhing into itself. What you don't know about this peculiar beast is that it's hurting you and everyone around you. It’s not “drive”, it’s not “a will to succeed”, it’s a boorish sense of pride and self-imposed notion that you can't stop, ever, in case you die. And you know you can work and work and improve and improve and you can get the grades and get better ones and create targets and hit them all, but it won’t make you love yourself. And you’re holding a negative view of others who don’t work as hard as you but you know what, unlike you, they’re happy”.
Okay, he didn't word it in those ways but this is a blog, I’m here to keep you entertained I don't know what my goal is. A better relationship to myself? Maybe. Other people? Let’s not go crazy, I’m hardly an altruist. But honestly? I’d rather die than give my son the kind of life where, in 30 years time, he’s sitting in a therapist’s office, lifting up the rock, recoiling at the ugly creatures. Especially if one of those creatures is: “ever since your mother died you’ve felt nothing but pain and self-blame”. 

I’d go on to tell you how I feel about  this, but there’s no words I know of. There’s probably a lot of them that exist, though. I’ll keep you updated. 


Misdirection

SERIES: Marvel SHIP: Cassie/Bucky Barnes and Cassie/Quentin Beck CHARACTERS: Cassie Theron, Bucky Barnes, Nick Fury, Quentin Beck, Maria Hill WORD COUNT: 5,137

Chapter 2

Ch. 1

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

For all that Cassie had seen in the last thirteen years, all of the death and trauma she’d lived through, you’d think that she would be fearless in the face of any and all obstacles.

But, as it turned out, that fearlessness didn’t extend to planes.

“How did you think we were gonna get there?” Bucky teased.  “Sailboat?”

“I don’t like those much either, thank you,” Cassie replied, staring up at the massive onyx cargo plane Fury had managed to commandeer for them.  The sunlight glinted brightly off of its aluminum paneling, forcing her to squint as she watched a group of engineers examine the engines and undercarriage.  It was nerve wracking.  “Flying over land is bad enough, but the ocean?  Do you know how often the wrecks from plane crashes just go completely missing?  And you likely wouldn’t die on impact.  You’d be trapped in there.  Clawing at the windows begging for air as the cabin fills with ruthless, icy water—”

“Okay! Okay, I get it, you hate the ocean,” Bucky quickly said, his hands outstretched as he sat down on one of the crates that had yet to be loaded into the cargo hold.  He was infuriatingly okay with all of this, especially considering he wanted nothing to do with this whole world saving business.

“I don’t hate the ocean,” Cassie grumbled. “I just don’t trust it to not swallow me whole when plummeting from forty thousand feet in the air. ”

“How did you even survive that trip we took across the Atlantic to get to Europe?”

“First of all, I didn’t exactly have a choice in the matter.  You were going whether I went with you or not.”  Bucky’s face softened a bit at that.  Those years they spent in hiding were dear to them both.  It had been a weirdly simpler time, all things considered.  “Second of all, I lived in perpetual fear that a rogue wave would capsize the ship before we made it to Spain.”

Bucky relieved himself of the black hoodie he’d come to favor, revealing a plain dark blue t-shirt underneath.  He folded the cloth into a vaguely square shaped cushion as he rested his head back against the larger crate behind him, his hands clasped neatly over his abdomen.  He had no right to be so at ease right now.  “What I’m gathering from all of this is that you don’t travel well, and clearly we don’t travel enough if I’m just realizing this now.”

“I travel fine.  I love traveling!  Just, y’know, not in planes.”

“If we take a cruise after this mess, what kind of manic behavior can I expect from you?”  Bucky’s smile was mocking.  If she wasn’t so sure he would catch her fist before it came anywhere near him, she’d punch that smug smile right off his face.

“If we have clear skies and calm waters?  I’ll be sunbathing on the deck and soaking in the pool.”

He raised his eyebrows.  “And if we don’t?”

Cassie glared at him, huffing angrily.  “I’ll be sleeping with my life vest on.”

Bucky hummed to himself.  “Not as bad as I was picturing.”

“And what were you picturing?”

“You setting up shop in a lifeboat while I go clubbing.”

Cassie laughed out loud.  “You?  Clubbing?  You’re like a hundred.”

“A hundred and seven, excuse you,” he corrected.  “We just celebrated two months ago.  Don’t be going senile on me already, babe.  I don’t know if I can take it.”

She looked up at the plane again, her hands on her hips.  “I take it back.  I can’t wait to fly in this thing.  I can just flip a switch and push you out the loading ramp.”

A deep, throaty chuckle escaped him, and she couldn’t help but smile in return.  He had always been rather good at distracting her from the various anxieties that plagued her mind.  It probably came from all of the demons that still haunted his.

“Are you two done?  Or can we get this show on the road?”  Fury strode over from where he had been overseeing the arduous process of getting the necessary tools and gadgets loaded onto the plane.  “You’re sitting on my seismograph, Barnes.”

“Yeah?  I gotta say it’s awfully comfy.”  Not even the barest hint of amusement crossed Fury’s face.  Bucky sighed and pushed himself to his feet, draping the hoodie over his shoulder as he came to stand next to her.  “What do you even need something like that for?”

“These things don’t exactly come on quietly,” Fury said.  “At least that’s what I gathered from the one we saw in Mexico.  Beck said it was better to bring it along just in case.”

Bucky glanced around the abandoned tarmac.  “Where is Houdini, anyway?”

Cassie wasn’t fast enough to stop the snort that escaped her, a hand flying up to her face with an audible smack to stifle her laughter.  It turned out that Quentin Beck was not just your run of the mill soldier on his Earth, but something akin to what Tony Stark had been.  The major difference lay in the fact that he could apparently use some kind of magic.

Bucky, for whatever reason, wasn’t convinced.

Fury pointedly ignored the quip.  “He should be here soon.  Said he wanted to make one last sweep of Manhattan to make sure he isn’t reading the signs wrong.”

“So he is coming with us?” Cassie asked.  She still had some questions for their newfound ally, the most pertinent centered around this other dimension he claimed to hail from.  And there was also the issue of his strange behavior around her.  He hadn’t even so much as waved at her when they went their separate ways to prepare.

She needed some time to attempt to wheedle it all out of him, and a nine hour flight in the hold of a cargo plane seemed like the perfect place for that.

A frown pulled at the corner of her mouth.  On second thought, best not think about how long the flight would be.

“As far as I know,”  Fury said.  “Don’t really know how keen he is on flying solo across the Atlantic.”

“Please,” Bucky pleaded half-heartedly, “don’t get her started.”

Cassie elbowed him in the gut, earning her a satisfying ‘oof’ from the larger man.  Though it may have just been for her benefit.

Fury shook his head before turning to wander back toward the rear of the plane, calling over his shoulder, “Be ready to board in thirty minutes.”

“Oh, joy,” she mumbled, her hand coming up to press the heel of her palm to her forehead.  The fact that she could already feel a headache blooming behind her eyes probably wasn’t a good sign.  And she’d forgotten to buy gum for the flight.  Great.

“So,” Bucky began, his gaze on the horizon.  It was a beautiful day, with puffy, white clouds perfectly complimenting the sky’s azure coloring.  Ideal flying weather.  And if Beck was everything he claimed himself to be, they would be able to see him coming from miles away.  “What do you really make of all of this?”

Cassie let out a long, deep breath through her nose, tucking a lock of her burgundy hair behind her ear.  A loaded question if she’d ever heard one.  “Well, monsters made of the four elements wouldn’t be the worst thing we’ve ever seen.”

He shook his head.  “That’s not what I meant.”  He looked down at her, his six-foot frame dwarfing her five-foot tall stature.  “‘Another Earth’?  Really?”

She shrugged, keeping her eyes on the horizon.  If she squinted, she could make out the vague outline of the Manhattan skyline in the far distance, the skyscrapers piercing through the light haze shrouding the city like freshly sharpened knives.  “It’s… definitely a lot.  But not outside the realm of possibility, I guess.”

“Am I the only one here that smells a rat?”  He sounded genuinely frustrated.  “Even Fury seems on board with this whole thing.”

That was the most bizarre part of all of this.  As much as she wanted to believe Beck’s story, something about it just didn’t feel right.  Like she was missing something.  She thought back to the way he spoke, his theatrical cadence.  Even his bearing seemed… rehearsed, as ridiculous as that sounded.  It was subtle, only just barely there, but enough to catch her attention, enough to make her wary.

And yet Fury believed him.  Trusted him, even.  And Fury didn’t trust anyone.

“There’s an odor for sure,” Cassie agreed.  “But I’m not sure of the source yet.”

The familiar, cool touch of his metal hand on her chin sent a delightful shiver up her spine as he angled her face toward him, forcing her green eyed gaze to meet his.  Beneath the light of the sun, his eyes were the color of snow-capped mountains.  

“We don’t have to do this,” he said softly.  Tenderly.  “Just say the word and I’ll tell them all to go fuck themselves, and we can go home.  Fury and the carnival sideshow can deal with whatever this is.”

She gnawed on her bottom lip.  He would do it, she knew he would, but not just for her.  He wanted peace, he wanted rest.  There were others that could step in now, as Beck’s presence proved.  There was no need for him, for either of them, to keep fighting, to continue to balance the fate of the world on their shoulders.  Bucky more than deserved to live out the rest of his days as a simple, normal man.  He had earned it decades ago, but now it was actually possible, within his grasp.

But she couldn’t rest.  Not while those nightmares continued to haunt her.  Not while plumes of ash floated through her mind like so many snowflakes.

And she hated herself for it.  Because he would never let her take on the world’s enemies alone.

Cassie attempted a smile, though she was sure it must’ve come across as more of a grimace.  Her hand came up to pat at his chest, the comforting feeling of his heartbeat beneath her fingers a balm on her frayed nerves.  “It’s fine,” she said, her voice mercifully steady.  “One last hoorah, huh?  Then we can go on that cruise to the Bahamas, and we can see how that arm of yours holds up when surrounded by nothing but sand.”

The briefest flicker of disappointment shone in those ice blue eyes, the only sign that he had so hoped she would want a way out of this as much as he did.  It was gone within the span of a single breath, replaced by a warm smile and loving gaze—but it was enough to make her heart drop into the very bowels of her stomach.

What a selfish, vile person she was.

“One last hoorah,” he said, his voice wistful.  How many times had he been told that this time would be the last time?  That he just needed to fight one more battle, and they would leave him be?  “I guess we better make it a doozy.”

The corner of her mouth twitched upward, though the sour taste of bile coated her tongue.  “I guess so, soldier boy.”

A small huff of a laugh slipped through his lips, but it was cut short as his gaze was drawn to something in the distance.  He squinted, gently pushing Cassie behind him.

“What is it?”  She followed his line of sight, expecting to see—well, she wasn’t exactly sure what she was expecting to see, but it certainly wasn’t Beck coming to a stop in midair before them, hovering at least ten feet off the ground.

With what looked like a mist filled glass orb where his head should be.

“Well, then,” Bucky said, his hands resting on his hips as he stared up at the interdimensional soldier, “son of a bitch can fly.”

——————————————————————

To Bucky’s credit, it took about thirty-two minutes into the flight for him to make a snide remark about Beck’s strange headgear.

Although, she wasn’t an entirely reliable source, as she spent pretty much every moment leading up to takeoff alternating between praying to whatever gods still deigned to listen and dissociating.  She might have missed a quip or two.

“So, did you buy it at that gift shop on forty-first and sixth?” Bucky asked nonchalantly, his brow furrowed in faux-curiosity.  What an asshole.  “I always thought they had the best souvenir snow globes.”

“Bucky,” Cassie admonished, kicking at his shin from where she still sat in one of the seats lining the plane’s hollowed out cargo hold.  They were far from the minimal comforts of even the cheapest accommodations on a commercial aircraft, the seats placed parallel to each other on either side of the hold and made of the same tightly stretched canvas you’d find on a military cot.  Not even the slightest bit of cushioning lay between the occupant and its cold, metal frame, the mercilessly straight backed seat forcing you to sit with your back pressed flush against the meager padding that acted as a buffer between you and the hard surface of the wall.  

The ability to recline and maybe exit the plane without a spinal injury wasn’t a top priority on a military grade transport, apparently.

“What?”  Bucky didn’t even pretend to be remotely pained by her vain attempt to silence him.  God, she hated him sometimes.  “It’s an honest question.”

“Barnes,” Fury cut in, that same bluish hued hologram of the planet hovering in the air before him, somewhat distorting the clear irritation upon his face.  Beck stood to his left, seemingly unperturbed by Bucky’s remark.  “We’re now down to a little more than eight hours to get something resembling a plan together.  Unless, of course, you’d prefer this be a ‘fly by the seat of your pants’ kind of mission?”

Bucky had the good sense to look properly chastised, straightening slightly as whatever mirth had been playing upon his features drained away into a blank mask of neutrality.  Served him right.

“No, sir,” he said, his voice low and his body stiff.  She had a feeling he was resisting the urge to stand at attention.  A habit he had yet to break.

“As I was saying,” Fury said, “there’s been a spike in electromagnetic activity in a town on the coast of Morocco.  I’d usually write it off as a sun flare or an anomaly in our satellites, but Mr. Beck assures me that this is a telltale sign of one of the Elementals preparing to attack.”

“They draw their energy from the earth,” Beck said, studying the hologram intensely.  “We were always able to predict where they would hit next by the electromagnetic pulses they emitted.  Sometimes seismic activity, as well.  It depended on which one we were facing.”

“And what are the signs pointing to now, Mr. Beck?” Cassie asked.

Beck was quiet, his gaze locked on that highlighted point at the north-western tip of Africa, his brow furrowed in concentration.  “Have there been any drastic changes in the weather, Director?”

Fury glanced over his shoulder toward where Maria Hill was standing a few feet behind him, her sharp features accentuated by the rather harsh fluorescent lighting.  “Satelites indicate a storm is brewing a few miles off the coast.  Morocco’s known to be pretty dry this time of year, but an errant storm wouldn’t be entirely out of character.”

Beck hummed, his eyes still focused on that single splotch of red in a sea of blue.  “Can you overlay the satellite imagery with this hologram?”

Fury nodded and Hill rapidly keyed something into the tablet she had resting in the crook of her arm.  A second later, the hologram changed from a flat, texture-less view of the planet to what she could only assume was a live view of Earth and the various storm cells that dotted its surface.  To the southwest of their destination sat a rather large cluster of clouds, the dark gray mass undulating slowly as it made its way toward land.

“There,” Beck said, pointing at that swirling bundle of clouds.  “Far too close to the source of those pulses for my taste.  That must be it.”

“And what exactly is ‘it,’ Beck?”  Bucky asked, only just the barest hint of edge to his words.

“The air Elemental,”  Beck said, his voice grave.  “Back on my world, it was known to take the form of cyclones, masking its presence within massive storm cells.  We usually didn’t realize it until it was too late.”

“It’s also hurricane season, y’know.”  Bucky locked eyes with Cassie briefly before he continued.  He was fishing for any inconsistencies in Beck’s story, inconsistencies she could hopefully exploit whenever she got a moment to talk to him.  “Sure, it’s a bit early for something this big, but climate change has been kind of a bitch lately, hasn’t it?”

Beck shook his head.  “The Elementals rely on such assumptions, Sergeant Barnes.  They know how to fool you.  They fooled the people on my Earth long enough to get a foothold, and we were never able to recover.”

Bucky just released a resigned sigh.  “So, what’s the plan?  Not exactly sure how we fight a storm.”

“Leave that to me,” Beck said, and Cassie couldn’t help but quirk an eyebrow at the subtle change in his demeanor.  His voice was sharper, confidence bleeding into every word.  He stood just a bit straighter, his shoulders a solid frame upon which his golden armor and plum colored cape sat.  The very embodiment of a soldier ready for war.  “I have experience fighting these monsters.  Were it up to me, I’d have involved none of you in this.”

“But it’s not up to you,” Fury interjected.  “I am the authority on the safety of this planet, so all plans go through me first.”

Beck turned to face him, his hands held out in a placating gesture.  “Of course.  I meant no disrespect.  It’s just that I know them.  I’ve fought them countless times in countless battles.  I know how they work and what will bring them down.”

“And I know a suicide mission when I see one,” Fury snapped, staring down Beck with an intensity that would have sent any sane man running—but Beck’s shoulders simply slumped, his lips pressed together into a tight, thin line, and he was silent.

An emotion Cassie was afraid to place suddenly seized at her heart, her gaze drifting down to stare at the scuffed, gray floor.  Anything was better than having to see the stricken look that now sat in plain view upon Beck’s face.

A look she knew all too well.

“Barnes,” Hill spoke up, breaking the tense silence that had settled over them.  “We need you to go through our inventory and decide what you think you’re gonna need.”

Bucky snorted.  “I don’t think a grenade launcher’s gonna be much help against a cloud.”

Hill raised a single, finely manicured brow, her lips twisting into a wry smile.  “Would you rather go running into a mass of panicked and terrified people unarmed and wearing jeans and a t-shirt?”

Bucky’s rather self-assured expression crumpled into something akin to embarrassment, a muscle in his jaw feathering as he undoubtedly resisted another witty retort.  After a beat, and yet another resigned sigh, he strode forward to follow Hill toward the rear of the plane where numerous wooden crates lay strapped to the steel floor, mumbling under his breath all the while.

Fury regarded Beck with a steely-eyed gaze.  “Keep thinkin’ on that plan.  The clock’s ticking, and by the looks of that storm, we’re gonna be cutting it close.”

With that, Fury turned on his heel to follow Hill and Bucky, their voices echoing indistinctly against the bare, metal walls as they rummaged through crates of supplies and weaponry.

A hot pang of irritation rippled through Cassie as she watched him go.  As much as she knew that she was only there to ensure Bucky followed through with his agreement, it didn’t exactly lessen the sting of being so blatantly left out of all of the prep and planning.  

She let out a long, drawn out breath through her nose as she crossed her arms over her chest.  Whatever, she’d find a way to make herself useful.

She glanced sidelong at Beck, his expression willfully blank as he stared up at the hologram that continued in its slow rotation, his jaw clenched tight enough to show the strain in the muscles along his cheeks.

Well, she’d wanted time to talk.  She certainly had it now.

“Don’t mind him,” she began, allowing a small, amiable smile to grace her lips.  Beck started at the sound of her voice before he looked at her, as if he had forgotten she was there.  She fought against the urge to scream.  “He was never really the most cheerful guy around, but since he came back after being dust for five years, he’s been an especially giant dick.”

Beck emitted a soft, amused hmph, the slight quirk of his lips hardly visible from where she sat a mere few feet from him.  “I’ve fought under men like him before.  They mean well, but they’re never ready to relinquish even a modicum of their power to someone else, no matter how qualified that person may be to take command.”

Cassie leaned forward in her seat, her legs crossing at the knee as her chin came to rest in the palm of her hand.  The picture of interest.  There was no better way to get someone to talk—especially a man.  “So, you really were a soldier, then."

“Still am, as far as I can tell,” he said, gesturing to the space around them.  “The last of a lost battalion, it would seem.”

Her head tilted to the side a fraction.  He hadn’t been the only one fighting them, then.  “There were others?  Like you, I mean.”

He hesitated, taking a deep breath before he answered.  “Yes.  Many others, in fact.  My battalion specialized in arcane warfare.  It was the only thing that seemed to have any effect on the Elementals.”

“You all fought with magic?”  She didn’t have to fake her surprise.  She thought he’d have been the only one with such power.  “Does that mean you all had this whole—” She gestured up toward her face, her finger making a circular motion around her head, “—thing going on?”

A quiet chuckle escaped him, and Cassie couldn’t help the triumphant smirk that pulled at her mouth.  This was a far cry from the Quentin Beck she’d met in the warehouse.  “Those of the arcana, yes,” he replied, taking a step toward her, his hands clasped in front of him.  “A sign of our experience and rank.  A beacon for the infantry to flock to on the battlefield.”

“You weren’t part of the rank and file, then.”  Her smile turned cheeky, teasing.  Now she was getting somewhere.  “Should Bucky and I be standing at attention when you enter the room?”

“No, no.”  He shook his head, his eyes crinkling in amusement.  “Not at all.  Besides, I’d say Sergeant Barnes and I are on pretty equal footing.”

Her brow shot up.  “You’re a sergeant?”

He made an uncertain hand motion.  “Sergeant equivalent, I’d say.  I lead my own squad, but I still have plenty of people to answer to, if that’s what you mean.”

“Interesting,” she said, and she meant it.  “Did you lead a squad of magic users?  Or were you put in charge of a bunch of poor saps with guns?”

His face fell, and she knew she’d overstepped.  “We were all of the arcana, yes.”

She caught his use of the past tense, her playful mask slipping as a terrible dread settled into her blood.

“You know,” he said, his voice soft.  Perhaps even sad.  “I don’t know what happened to them.  I haven’t really had much time to think about it.  We were among the remnants of a final attempt at a counter offensive.  A last ditch effort to salvage what was left of the world.”

A yawning pit opened up in her chest, his expression uncomfortably familiar.  She thought of Bucky and the survivor’s guilt that still tore at his heart.  More than once she’d caught him staring at the various World War II memorials they’d come across in their time together, his face blank and his eyes hard.  He didn’t talk about that part of his life very often, but she knew it played more than a small role in whatever nightmares jolted him from his sleep.

She swallowed, suddenly hesitant to probe into Beck’s all too recent grief.  Bucky’s still ached after all this time, with decades to heal and forget.  

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, averting her gaze to the floor as a sudden wave of shame washed over her.  The gentle rumble of the plane’s engines filled the silence, the noise almost overtaking the hushed discussions coming from somewhere toward the back.  “I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t be,” he said, and Cassie looked up to meet his gaze.  A faint fondness danced in his light eyes.  “I’m just surprised.  This is the first time anyone’s asked about me since I got here, not just what I know.”

That only made her shame deepen, her hands fidgeting where they lay in her lap.  She’d been so eager to pick apart his story, to find the source of that nagging suspicion that had vexed her since he walked through the doors of the warehouse, that she hadn’t even considered the road the led Beck here, the loss and horror he had experienced.

And he was grateful for it, for her probing questions and playful curiosity, because he thought her to be the first to see him as a person, not as an asset.

Just as Bucky had been all those years ago.

A terrible burning sensation crept its way up her throat.  She wanted to throw up.

“Still,” she managed to say, trying her best to hide how her hands trembled, “that was insensitive of me.  You’ve been through a lot.  The last thing you want to do is answer a million questions about your life back on your world.”

“It’s more a comfort than you might think,” he said, taking another step toward her.  He stood less than three strides from her, and she could see now that his face had softened considerably.  “I don’t want them to have died in obscurity.  I don’t want this all to have been for nothing.  Talking about them, no matter how vague the terms, makes me feel like they’re still here with me, even worlds away.”

If only she could relate to that.  Just the mere thought of Bucky, of all they had lost after that fateful day, had been enough to send her into a grief fueled rage.  She hadn’t wanted to remember, she hadn’t wanted to reminisce—she had wanted them all back.  Memories did little but make her ache for a future she couldn’t have.

She could only hope that Beck wouldn’t wind up like that, bitter and angry and filled with the desperate desire to join those he’d lost.

“We find comfort where we can,” she agreed, suddenly weary.

Beck smiled in return, though it was tight and strained.  It reminded her of the smile he had given her upon their first introduction, and the fondness she had seen in his eyes had dissipated into something heavier, something like… yearning.

And she found it made her distinctly uncomfortable.

“Uh, Mr. Beck?” she tried, a nervous smile playing upon her lips.  “Everything okay?”

He blinked a few times, as if he were fighting back tears.  “Yes, of course.  My apologies.  It’s just…” he trailed off, his voice thick.  He looked at her as if he had seen a ghost, a ghost he longed to be of this Earth once more.  “You remind me of someone, is all.”

It was like a punch to the chest, forcing all of the air out of her lungs in one swift exhale.  She knew that tone, had used it more times than she could count.

But she never realized how much it would hurt to be on the receiving end of it.

Cassie pushed herself to her feet, moving to close the distance between them, to offer some sort of comfort.  Anything at all.  Anything to push that agony back into the recesses of her mind where it belonged, to wipe away the ashes that clouded her vision.

“Mr. Beck—” she began, her hand outstretched.  A strange look crossed his face, one that made her hesitate.  What could she possibly say to him?  She thought of every platitude she’d ever heard, and how much she hated every single one of them.  They were a reflex, something to say to make yourself feel better, with no real consideration for the one in need of genuine compassion.

And there were no words that could fill the hole in his heart, just as there had been none to fill the hole in hers.

It was then, right as she opened her mouth to speak, that the telltale sound of combat boots upon the metal floor reached her ears.  She looked away from Beck, an overwhelming feeling of relief rushing through her as she saw Bucky approaching.  He was newly outfitted in loose, black cargo pants and a fitted black shirt that was conveniently missing the left sleeve, leaving the dark silver metal of his arm free to glint brightly beneath the fluorescent lighting.

And based on the tentative smile on his face, he could see something was wrong.

“Everything okay over here?” he asked, his right arm wrapping itself around her waist, pulling her close to his side.  He kept his voice light, conversational, but his grip on her told a different story.

“We’re fine,” she said, looking up at him with what she could only hope was a subtle, pleading expression.  I’ll tell you later, she thought.  Just let it go.  “Just talking.  You know how I am when I’m nervous.  I babble like an idiot.”

Bucky must’ve caught the hint, because he merely rolled his eyes.  “Better him than me.”

She forced a laugh as Beck wandered wordlessly over toward where Fury and Hill now stood around the hologram, joining them in their continued planning.  “Real charming, Barnes.”

He chuckled, leaning down to press a quick kiss to her lips, his hold on her tightening a fraction.

And out of the corner of her eye, she spied Beck watching them, his hand fidgeting with that simple gold band upon his ring finger.

DEADLY NIGHTSHADE- CHAPTER 2

Chapter 2: relative theory

“What on earth are we going to do?” Caroline sighed, throwing Osborne Whitworth’s file onto the table. “We don’t even have a warrant to search the house, the scene is clear, not even the cup she drank from is there. We don’t even know if it’s a cup!”

“So the murder weapon has been disposed of?” Dwight winced. “Fuck.”

“Fuck indeed.�� Caroline was stressed. “It’s been a long day, do you want to grab some takeaway and crack open some fresh files? I just received some family ones that might be good.”

“Oh my god.” Dwight teased her. “Are you inviting me to your house?”

“Don’t be weird.” Caroline sighed, rolling her eyes. “I’m simply inviting you to do work as you have to close up the morgue which is frankly a morbid place to work.”

“Whatever you say.” Dwight raised his eyebrows, not believing her as he finished his seventh cup of milky tea.

“So your mug…” Caroline squinted. “World’s best mum?”

“Ah yes, Ross got me it for Christmas.” Dwight laughed. “What a sense of humor.”

“Detective Poldark?” Caroline deduced. “Wow if you weren’t wearing such straight boy shoes, I would detect a man crush.” She shook her head, slotting her pencil into the back of her bun, grabbing her bag and heading for the door. “Come on, I’m an impatient woman.”

“Hey!” Dwight looked down at his sensible morgue shoes. “What’s wrong with my shoes?”

They’d gone full out and ordered Chinese. But Dwight only had a vegetable fried rice because everything else was “too spicy” for him.

“So,” Caroline started, with a mouthful of noodles, her feet up on the couch, her adorable pug Horace on her lap. “Let’s talk about Elizabeth Warleggan, née Chynoweth.”

“Relative?”

“Cousin.”

“Are we talking Warleggans like Warleggan bank? They are in charge of my student loan and they have me by the balls.” Dwight sighed.

“The very one, but we will come to her husband George later. I don’t know Dwight, there’s something really really weird about Elizabeth. I think we will have to bring her in for interview.”

“How can you detect her weirdness just from the file?” Dwight muttered, “you can’t just judge someone.”

“Trust me.” Caroline jabbed with her biro. “This woman has secrets. So it says here she came from the Chynoweth family- they’re old money right.”

“I wouldn’t know.” Dwight shrugged, “I’m deeply in debt.”

“I know them socially, I do!” Caroline insisted. But apparently they became broke and then Elizabeth suddenly married George. I’m not saying it’s a marriage of convenience but.” She furiously scribbled with her red biro.

“Do you think the Chynoweth family orchestrated the marriage of Morwenna and,” Dwight sighed. “That man?”

“No. Hear me out.” Caroline stared intensely at the page. “I think it’s,” she jammed her finger on the picture of George Warleggan. “This guy.”

“Mr Warleggan?” Dwight was shocked, leaning back in the armchair, putting his chopsticks down. “Explain.”

“But listen right. This guy is ruthlessly ambitious, as we expect from any man who publicly supports the conservatives.” Dwight laughed but she continued. “Nothing is ever enough for him- he’s the CEO of one of the biggest banks in the world, he has a beautiful wife and owns a private island and yet he’s still trying to cheat people out of their money? There’s something off there.” She scribbled on the page. “I think we have a lot to work with tomorrow when we call them in.

“Wait,” Dwight cut in. “You want me to be there?”

“What?”

“Because it’s kind of beyond my job to do so.” Dwight pointed out.

Caroline pointed her chopstick at him, very endearingly as a hint of blush came up in her cheeks, “Don’t make this awkward Dr Enys. Just be there at 9am.”

POLICE INTERVIEW WITH SUSPECT:

MRS ELIZABETH WARLEGGAN (POSSIBLE WITNESS, COUSIN OF THE DECEASED): EW

DET. CAROLINE PENVENEN: CP

DR DWIGHT ENYS (M.E): DE

CP: Thank you for coming in today Mrs Warleggan, we understand you were the cousin of the deceased.

EW: (EW has a stoic expression) Yes, but when she died we were not as close as we once were. Maybe if we were I could have helped her.

CP: Financially, you and your husband were of great assistance to her, surely that would have made your relationship better.

EW: Money can’t fix everything, Detective Penvenen.

CP: What do you mean by that?

DE: I think what my colleague is trying to say is was there any hostility between you, your husband and the deceased.

EW: (hesistates, thinks about her answer) No. George and I always did what was best for her.

CP: Did she think it was best for her?

EW: I cannot answer that question without legal counsel.

DE: The deceased was poisoned with Atropa Belladonna, a plant better known as deadly nightshade. Do you and George grow this in your garden?

EW: No- wait. You don’t think we did this do you?

CP: We don’t know anything yet Mrs Warleggan, our medical examiner Dr Enys was just wondering if this rang any bells for you. Would you know anyone who grew this plant?

EW: Not off the top of my head. We don’t have it because we have two small children.

DE: Sensible enough.  We understand witnesses place you with Morwenna in the last 24 hours of her life?

EW: Yes, but George and I went home at 5 o’clock after a Sunday lunch. The staff at our home, Trenwith, can consolidate this for you.

CP: Trenwith? How funny, off the record, I am heir to the stately home of Killewarren.

EW: (smiles) I am familiar with Killewarren, a lovely house.

CP: Mrs Warleggan, this may be difficult to answer but do you know if Morwenna had any trouble in her personal life?

EW: I know she was due to start therapy for depression, but not much else. She was very private about her personal life.

DE: So, we should possibly consider this death to be not suspicious? A suicide?

EW: Think of it what you will.

CP: Thank you, Mrs Warleggan, make sure to stay in town if you can.

END OF INTERVIEW

“Was it just me or did she not want to tell us anything important?” Caroline sighed, concluding the notes of the interview. “Something just rings suspicious about this death.”

“I don’t know Caroline.” Dwight closed his binder. “Depression is a vile thing. Ruins people from the inside out.”

“But if she truly wanted to die,” Caroline questioned, “why on earth would she want to do it with deadly nightshade? You’ve seen her dead body, why would you put yourself through something like that?”

“This is true, it must have taken her literally hours to die as it wreaks havoc on her central nervous system. No. This seems like a cruel and painful murder.”

“It’s such a shame we are partners in this case, you’re honestly so attractive when you talk about medicine.” Caroline said dismissively, as if it didn’t fuck up Dwight’s heartbeat.

Before he could even conjure up a reply, there was a knock on the door. Mr George Warleggan was right on time for his interview.

**

POLICE INTERVIEW WITH SUSPECT:

MR GEORGE WARLEGGAN (POSSIBLE WITNESS, RELATIVE OF DECEASED): GW

DET. CAROLINE PENVENEN: CP

DR DWIGHT ENYS (M.E): DE

GW: Can I start by saying, I think it’s rude we are in an interrogation room when this was supposed to be an informal chat.

CP: I’m sorry Mr Warleggan, but there aren’t really many places in this station to just sit and chat, this’ll have to do.

GW: I last saw Morwenna Chynoweth at 5pm and she was perfectly fine. That’s all I will say on the matter without legal counsel.

DE: Ok, answer us this, do you know anyone who would have the motive to murder Morwenna Chynoweth?

GW: I did everything right by her. I let her into my home, gave her a job, got her a good marriage into a wealthy family. I’m not who you should be asking.

CP: What constitutes a good marriage?

GW: I didn’t realize we were here to ask personal questions.

CP: No, but I’m intrigued.

GW: A good marriage is one you are secure in. It is for life after all. You cannot marry someone who cannot afford to look after you. I need to go now.

CP: Ok. It appears we cannot get any further without your legal counsel anyway- like I said to your wife, stay in town.

GW: Wait. One more thing that could help you. (He reaches into his bag). Here’s a stack of letters Morwenna wrote at Trenwith.

CP: May I ask the nature of the letters Mr Warleggan?

GW: Love letters. To her lover. A Mr Drake Carne. Now I really just be going.

END OF INTERVIEW

“Am I the worst detective ever?” Caroline was in despair. “I didn’t even know she had a lover! This is important Dwight, I can’t believe I didn’t know!”

“Hey,” Dwight said assuringly. “You Know now and you can make a file, crimes of passion are more and more common these days.”

“These two witnesses have got me absolutely nowhere, is it wrong to pin all my hopes to this Drake? The one no one even knows? Who even is he? He’s a blank sheet on my book!”

“Caroline hey,” Dwight put his hand on the table, so it lay atop of Caroline’s. “I promise you, we will find the appropriate contacts and he will be in here by 9am tomorrow.”

Right then they were again, interrupted by Caroline’s ringtone, Michael Jackson’s Smooth Criminal.

Dwight broke into laughter so infectious that Caroline could not help but join in, despite her ever growing stress about the case. It felt like they laughed for hours but it may just have been minutes and any person that would’ve walked past would have seen two people so clearly infatuated with each other, you wouldn’t believe they were just a Detective and Medical Examiner, working on a case.

“I lost a bet, ok?” Caroline said, justifying her odd choice of ringtone.

“I best be going, I’ve just got new test results on the body that could help.” Dwight picked up his briefcase and headed for the door, suddenly recognizing a tension in the air.

“Dr Enys!” She called out and he turned so fast it could’ve been whiplash. “Tomorrow, here. 9am.”

“As if I’d fucking miss it.” Dwight laughed back.

A/N: legends i want ur theories. tell me.

Solo #3: ＴｈｅＤａｎｇｅｒｏｕｓＫｉｎｄ

Mojoworld was unbearable, a shit stain in the terrible beauty of so many universes largely unknown--and it's been Simon's second home in the last twenty years. Or just somewhere close to eight months, if he's comparing it with Earth time, the planet where he originated from.

Either way, he hates it here. If someone comes up to him one day back in Earth, who knows he's a mutant, and would ask him about his affiliation, Simon wouldn't have it in him to lie.

He's wanted, for the longest time, to say he belonged with the X-Men. Or the X-Force. Hell, he will take up the mantle of a Magneto acolyte at this point--anything but to be associated with the denizens of Mojoworld.

"It's like Hunger Games, only more oppressive and depressingly dumber," is the exact wording he would use if someone asked him to explain what Mojoworld even was.

That's not to say that Simon belittles or diminishes the only too-real struggles and sufferings of those who never wanted to be here, including the countless actors and musicians (not just from Earth) who had been abducted so they can entertain the Spineless ones ruled by this fucktard Mojo.

That's what they are as a collective species; a bunch of media-consuming, fart-brained, obese aliens who are only kept upright by this device a scientist came up with at some point. They all wake up and go to bed in a cycle of entertainment consumption, and Mojo kept them culled by producing atrocious movies with actors placed in very dangerous situations.

It's an even worse deal with the musicians. Or maybe Simon was just biased because that's his trade being fucked around with, and the reason why they took him during one Tuesday afternoon while he was shopping for shoes.

Zapped him using some sort of temporal distortion or whatever.

Simon had been imprisoned for what felt like ages and forced to perform in sleazy night clubs, stadiums with the most violent mosh pits imaginable, and the occasional kids' parties--all of which had been under the penalty of death if he ever dared refused.

Surprisingly, singing for his life had become a rather exhilarating experience, but that's besides the point.

He's got a very demanding ex-wife and a son back in Earth who can't ever know what happened. And he needed to come home to them.

It wasn't until he met a rebel faction comprised of other musicians that he found a way to escape.

Sort of. Not really.

It was more like he had been bullied into signing a record label ran by these so-called rebels who by now have become accustomed to a certain lifestyle--and bargained their talents in exchange for favors that Mojo personally granted.

And what did Simon get for his deal? Lousy shit he never asked for like his very own entourage and recording sessions at Mojofornia (yes, yes, they named it that) to help score a few movies. But he gets to at least go home.

A week on Earth is already six months in Mojoworld. It meant that, to his loved ones, Simon simply spent the weekend partying until he got sick which explained why he would have the worst hungover come Monday.

And not because he was touring for half a year around an ugly, ferocious, parasitic planet to play music. Apparently, he grew a steady fanbase during his first stint there, and Simon could admit that he actually liked the unique albeit insane environment of Mojoworld. Not aloud, mind you.

It was maybe a Thursday back in Earth, and Simon was just getting ready to leave this shit-stain planet. He had just come back from a particularly rowdy concert too where someone dumped a bucket of artificial blood while he was being passed around a mosh pit at some point.

They shoved him now into the hub where captives are usually transported from point A to point B, and didn't even allow him to change into something resembling human dignity.

Drying his hair with a towel, he steps into a platform, dragging his converse rather petulantly.

"Same time, one month from now?" He calls out with a sardonic smile to one of the slimy bastards operating his hub.

The dipshit just grunts, barely taking its eyes off the screen where a celebrity death match was being broadcasted. That's all they do here in Mojoworld; watch the shows, attend the concerts, eat until they shit and then they hibernate.

"Can we hurry this up because..." He gestures once at the red stains on his shirt and pants and the smudges on his skin. He can't wait to take a shower back home.

The spineless creature just pushes a button and a wormhole opens up.

"Fucking finally, man..." Simon adjusts the strap of his bags as he keeps the towel wrapped around his neck, then steps into the portal.

It takes a while to register that he isn't even walking in the right city, and that's because from the minute he was transported to Earth, Simon was already on his phone so he could text his ten-year old son. They're supposed to go to the park today.

Going from one planet to the next has become so routine by now (like taking the bus) that Simon still keeps looking at his phone and scrolls through the timeline of his social media next to see what he missed.

It was only when he realized that he had to cross a street that he looked up. Thirty seconds must have only passed since he stepped out of the portal and into wherever this is.

Simon blinks in annoyance and confusion. Something was off about this, and it has less to do with what he can see but more of what he could hear with his mutated sonar abilities--or not, in this case.

"Is this supposed to be--" he cuts himself short as he decides to move forward across the very much deserted streets of New York City. Well, that's alarming, especially (he glances at his watch) at this time of day. Wait...his watch has stopped working just now, and this is a special clock designed to keep him on track of the gaps between Earth time and Mojoworld.

"What kind of dimension is this now?" He hasn't started panicking yet. Maybe he should. But after all the bullshit he's been through in the previous planet, this doesn't seem that bad. Maybe he quantum-leaped into the future? Alternate universe? That's a thing, right? Goddamn space travel.

Those fat fucks in Mojoworld screwed up somehow. This isn't his home. Or even his version of reality. He can't explain it, but there's something about the atmosphere--the weight of the air, the littlest composition of matter--that makes him question it even exists.

"Fuck it," Simon unzips his duffle bag and rummages through his stuff until he found the device. It was something that helps him keep in touch with his fellow musicians still doing their gigs at Mojoworld.

Maybe he should take shelter somewhere first. He can't be standing around, out in the open like this. If there's one thing he's learned from being imprisoned in a hostile, foreign environment, is that he has to stay low and not announce his presence.

As he dashes to the closest unoccupied store he has spotted just now, Simon could only hope it wasn't too late. He did just spend several seconds browsing through Instagram earlier like a stupid asshole. Who knows if someone--or something--had seen him then?

He's now inside what looks like a hardware store. Things from the shelves have spilled out, most of which were smashed in or scattered on the broken tiled floor. Whatever shat here must have gone through that gaping hole on the left side of the building. Okay, ominous. Great.

Simon walks over to a wall where an ax was hanging so he could grab that. And then he looks for another room where he can barricade himself in while he tries to contact his friends.

➷

Instead of connecting instantly with Mojoworld, the washed-up punk rebel gets something even more mind-boggling.

"What?" Simon blinks at the message that appeared on his device's main hologram frame. He scrolls through the entire passage once, twice, several times, before he ends up exclaiming, "What the fuck is this shit now?" with all the exasperated indignation of the homesick, overworked, divorced father in his forties could muster.

He has no idea how to even begin unpacking the content of this enigmatic passage other than the fact that it had shitty timing. There's heat on the skin around his collar, so he knows he's fuming, but before the panic and anger could hijack him, he immediately summons prudence and simply breathes audibly through his nose whilst he collects his thoughts.

Simon tries to think, to force himself to actively rationalize what is happening and what to do next. He's itching to get out of his stained clothes. He's parched, a little hungover, and definitely impatient--but he will shove all those negative emotions now, if it meant keeping his wits about him. It's become clear that this new dimension, slice of reality, whatever, is not safe.

He could die--and other people somewhere could be in danger too. And this "Dr. Strange" may be the only key, his only lifeline, to get out of here unscathed. And that entails following their instructions.

As soon as his mind received the clarity it needed, he reads the it again with a more stoic calmness.

'Alright,' he said to himself, 'What sort of shit do I have to get done, doc?'

Rampaging goddesses, a nuclear reactor. So far, so good. Did this Dr. Strange know about Simon's abilities then? It would seem so, given that they phrased the last bit of the message with, 'It will be a bigger strain than your body has ever experienced, but maybe the physics in this dimension will help you.'

Then they end it with a cheery, 'Maybe not'. Fantastic.

He pockets the device and looks around the room he's decided to lock himself in. It's a storage of some sort with things he couldn't fully examine just yet but he might require some of them in the near future. Hopefully never, and that is if he could get out of here soon. Can this Dr. Strange guarantee that? Could he communicate with them, like, text back?

Simon takes out the device again. This was only supposed to connect to Mojoworld. Sighing, he pockets it yet again and places down his two bags. The one other thing he does take from one of them is a small, orange vintage stereo. It was deceptive in its appearance, like most of Mojoworld technology that is very fond of copying human gadget aesthetics.

This blows! He's packed to go back home not get recruited to participate in another Earth's bizarre geopolitics and power play. But sometimes all the choices you are offered are bad ones.

And he's gotten a good grip making them lately.

Clutching the ax in one hand and that stereo in another, Simon walks out of the store with the gait of someone who knows what he's doing. Confidence is part of the costume, and although what he's wearing wasn't exactly ideal for a suicide mission--black everything save the shirt that has 'fuck the police' in pink neon letters, and a rainbow brooch on his leather jacket--but at least he will die with style.

'Try not to die'. Yeah, right.

Simon stands there in the middle of the vacant street, a reluctant, irritated, one-man army, squinting at the horizon. He wasn't even given any directions specifically to locate the nuclear reactor. Some fucking doctor.

But he doesn't need them. He could already sense the energy even from this far distance. The reverberation is akin to doing tequila and whiskey shots, ten of each, without ever pausing for a chaser. Yeah, that's nuclear power, alright, and it beckons him to tip down that glass of radioactive poison.

Simon turns a few of the knobs in the stereo and goes, "This sucks."

A low-level sonar frequency engulfs the immediate ten-mile radius; he doesn't want to attract too much attention, but he also needs the longer range if he hopes to travel much faster.

What Simon doesn't anticipate was that Earth-1922's landscape is far more volatile than what he's accustomed to back in his earth, and even in Mojoworld. He soon finds that out when the vibrations from his tech caused a mini earthquake. One by one the buildings collapse around him like dominos.

"Somebody just fucking fuck me!" he shouts. Looks like he can't do any of this with subtlety anymore. Left with yet another bad choice to make, Simon's physiology begins to convert the crashing site into a power hub. Green, blue and pink lights sizzle and singe in the air, flooding the streets in vibrant colors. He hops into the wavelengths once he solidifies the form properly enough.

He never should have gotten wasted hours ago, because he's pretty sure he's going to throw up.

But he's, well, 'surfing' through the city now and heading towards nuclear reactor. He just happens to be doing it with as much color and chaos that could attract unwanted attention on the way.

➷

Simon has lived in Berkeley for the better part of his married life since turning twenty-seven, but he was originally raised in Oakland, California, located in the East Bay region.

When he thinks about his adolescence, it was always filled with memories of sunny, sea-drenched afternoons playing punk rock and getting fucked up on meth.

Careless self-expression is the trademark of the misfit, and the places he often found himself wrapped up in as a teenager had to be some of the loudest clubs in the country.

One of them was an underground indie music club named 86 Miserab Blvd. It was a melting pot of clashing and complementary energies that his dormant mutation must have been drawn to from the start, even when they had yet to manifest until he reached sixteen.

He thinks about the heartland of his youth right now while he glides through the ravaged streets of New York City from an alternate dimension. He can't stomach being so far away from home like this and under even worse conditions.

Or maybe that rumbling in his gut is just the upsetting combination of greasy onion rings and three bottles of something called Berserk Beer from Mojoworld.

Highly likely.

He will be puking some time today.

The sound-based colorful lights Simon just converted from the crash site four blocks away acted as tides which he is presently on top of. Bending his knees, he maintains that semi-crouching posture while thirty feet off the ground by stretching out his right arm in front of him for balance, while the other arm points below to maintain the energy blasts on his feet.

This position also allows him to steer better. So yes, he's /totally/ surfing. Across a city of ruins. Where everyone else could be dead. Surfing with simmering colors he created himself.

Like an asshole.

The vintage stereo tech was hooked on his belt with the use of a chain-wallet. He keeps the same decibels for now, a frequency no normal range of the human auditory sense could detect except him.

Ahead, the energy signature of the nuclear reactor emanates like a vicious bitch. That level of radioactivity has crawled right into his ear and started wriggling out of his eyes and nose. It's the greatest, most panic-inducing feeling in the world.

"Alright, nobody better come out of nowhere and punch me in the dick next," he mutters under his breath.

Because didn't Dr. Strange (of unverified credentials) say something about a rampage going on between 'goddesses'?

There's only one more mile to go. Simon was starting to taste the overflowing energy surge on the roof of his tongue. Growing even more paranoid and restless, he looks left and right to make sure nothing or no one is upon him.

My god, can't this joyride just settle with one genre of clusterfuck instead? Because Simon can't be smack-dab between a nuclear threat and a mythological battle, is he? Who's got time for all that shit? Dr. Strange?

He hates that guy.

As he turns to the next avenue, he expects that this nuclear reactor would be near a body of water--maybe a sea--to keep the turbines cool as they churn all that...energy. Wait, are those even the right terms?

Simon dropped out of high school, so his understanding of science is very rudimentary, and he mainly bases the knowledge he would acquire on how certain compositions of elements would interact and react to his mutation, or vice-versa.

He doesn't have a fancy degree like Dr. Strange.

After he decides that getting mad at someone he hasn't even met yet is counterproductive, Simon lowers the frequency by pressing something on his tech. This disintegrates the lights beneath him, just in time as he slides off to land on his feet on the ground again.

So here he is now, an untrained mutant recovering from inter-dimensional jet lag, now tasked to avert a global disaster.

If this world isn't doomed before...

He cranes his neck to stare at the power plant in front of him. Right. He can estimate at least another five hours before this whole thing blows up.

And that's if the reactor doesn't get attacked again.

Simon needs to think this through, so he walks further to the left side until the sea's coastline becomes bluer and more picturesque to look at. The sight of water was calming, cleansing, and reminds him how much he's still caked in fake blood and in need of a wash.

So he keeps walking towards the sea until he's leaning on the barrier that separates its depths from land and concrete.

He has the demeanor of a man who seems to have resigned to the inevitability of the catastrophe he must prevent.

'Another version of Earth, huh?' Simon thinks, 'Well, at least it still looks like the world I grew up in. There are worse places to die.'

But then he shakes off that hopelessness before it could kick him in the ass by remembering the one important discovery he's made in Mojoworld:

If the X-Man Dazzler can survive being thrown into a black hole seconds after a supernova exploded, then he certainly has to do better than just piss and moan about being homesick, doesn't he?

Not when this world hangs in a balance. Not when he could actually do something about it. He's a mutant, dammit! The next evolutionary stage that's supposed to be resilient to any adversity thrown its way.

Just as he makes a conscious decision to genuinely try, his other Mojoworld-sponsored device rings. The communicator, as he calls it.

It wasn't another message. Or a call. Instead, it was an alert about the latest "music video" he had shot earlier, and how it's finally streaming across Mojoverse. Gross.

Simon selects the hologram clip of that shitfest and watches himself--drugged up, drunk and shredding on his guitar--perform a passive aggressive song about murdering a disc jockey. It's basically a satire piece--saturated in techno-pop disco and horny pretty people dancing--to overthrow an oppressive regime.

Probably. He was forced to write and record said song in only two days' time, and this is what he comes up with. What did he get? No paycheck at all. Just a bucket of fake blood to the face.

As that video continues to play, Simon's eyes dart to the waters directly below him, and that's when he spots the impressive bloom of two dozen jellyfishes gliding through. Ah, so even Earth-1922 has a sweeping population problem of these poisonous bastards, huh?

Hold on...

Simon snaps his head towards the nuclear reactor. And then back at the water. Then back at the power plant again.

He knows that the certainty of swallowing a tremendous amount of nuclear energy might severely injure him permanently, regardless of his mutation, but not if he could lower the radioactivity that it could actually expel before time runs out.

There had been news coverage a long time ago about a swarm of jellyfish clogging a nuclear reactor in Sweden. Hell, even the Diablo Canyon back in California had the same infestation problem. It forced the people to shut down those plants. Boy, was Simon glad he remembered that as soon as he spotted those wily things.

Could he...is it possible...will he be able to gather enough to...?

And just how many of them are down there? Simon kneels on the pavement by the docks now so he can get a closer look at said marine life. No, this distance just won't cut it. Fucking hell, he's going to have to dive into the freezing water later, isn't he? But what of the frequency he can use to attract the jellyfish? He knows that it has a unique anatomy, and that even though it doesn't have a brain for processing most stimuli, maaaaybe it can respond to vibrations.

And what is sound energy if not just a bunch of vibrations? Or whatever the fuck scientific definition that he can't articulate.

Simon has yet to fully explore the sonar and nautical implications of his sound transduction, but he knows that it's an entirely different playing field under the sea. And that scares the shit out of him more than any black hole.

"Do I even have other options?" Maybe. Does Google work here?

He finds out a minute later that it sort of does, at least since he's using alien tech. Now he's learned that jellyfish can't really hear, but some can see--to a certain extent. Those that do have a sense of sight can detect lights. That's fine. He knows a way to convert sound to light after all.

Which means...

Simon stares back and forth at his communicator device (still playing his trashy song about DJ murder) and the deep blue sea. He then pulls up the stereo tech, but given how everything crashed down around him when he used it earlier, he was not eager to risk the same thing happening while he's underwater. So, the communicator device it is.

Someone needs to know about his plan, and who better inform about it than the one who sent him for this errand in the first place?

He selects the previous message from Dr. Strange and wonders how the hell he can send one back. Maybe he just inputs a response like the usual way, only this tech requires the viewer to blink into the hologram and allow the complex machine to retrieve their words through brain waves. Very telepathic and eerily proficient.

Simon blinks the message that goes: 'O͙f͙f͙ t͙o͙ g͙e͙t͙ j͙e͙l͙l͙y͙f͙i͙s͙h͙ t͙o͙ s͙l͙o͙w͙ d͙o͙w͙n͙ n͙u͙c͙l͙e͙a͙r͙ r͙e͙a͙c͙t͙o͙r͙. N͙o͙t͙ s͙u͙r͙e͙ i͙f͙ i͙t͙'l͙l͙ w͙o͙r͙k͙. I͙n͙ c͙a͙s͙e͙ n͙o͙t͙, w͙i͙l͙l͙ f͙l͙o͙o͙d͙ t͙h͙e͙ m͙o͙t͙h͙e͙r͙f͙u͙c͙k͙e͙r͙ i͙n͙s͙t͙e͙a͙d͙ t͙h͙e͙n͙ e͙a͙t͙ u͙p͙ w͙h͙a͙t͙ w͙o͙u͙l͙d͙ l͙e͙a͙k͙ o͙u͙t͙ f͙r͙o͙m͙ i͙t͙. P͙r͙e͙t͙t͙y͙ s͙u͙r͙e͙ I͙ c͙a͙n͙ u͙s͙u͙r͙p͙ o͙c͙e͙a͙n͙. H͙a͙r͙d͙ m͙a͙y͙b͙e͙. S͙o͙, t͙e͙l͙l͙ m͙y͙ s͙o͙n͙, i͙f͙ I͙ d͙o͙n͙'t͙ s͙u͙r͙v͙i͙v͙e͙, t͙h͙a͙t͙ I͙ l͙o͙v͙e͙ h͙i͙m͙ v͙e͙r͙y͙ m͙u͙c͙h͙. A͙l͙s͙o͙, a͙r͙e͙ y͙o͙u͙ a͙ r͙e͙a͙l͙ d͙o͙c͙t͙o͙r͙? O͙r͙ a͙r͙e͙ y͙o͙u͙ j͙u͙s͙t͙ b͙e͙i͙n͙g͙ a͙ p͙r͙e͙t͙e͙n͙t͙i͙o͙u͙s͙ s͙h͙i͙t͙?'

And with that, he puts on the same video on loop again but not before enhancing the holographic scope of the screen as he tosses it into the sea. The device is all kinds of safety-proof, and the pixels can still work even when submerged underwater like that.

He backs away several paces from the docks and takes a lungful of breath. Afterwards he canon-balls that shit.

'Diving into a region of the sea where a deadly bloom of jellyfish reside' certainly makes for an interesting obituary.

➷

'S̟o̟m̟e̟o̟n̟e̟ k̟i̟l̟l̟ t̟h̟e̟ D̟J̟!~ S̟h̟o̟o̟t̟ t̟h̟e̟ f̟u̟c̟k̟i̟n̟g̟ D̟J̟!~'

His trashy music video blares like the most attention-starved beacon to had ever been broadcast under water. Mojoworld tech is annoyingly durable that way, because the collective that was their consumer society has ensured long ago that they want to constantly watch their shows and listen to music (wherever corner of the universe these fat fucks could end up in) without the jarring interruption of a faulty device. So they figured out how their tech can survive during extreme temperatures and--most importantly--literally stream doses of entertainment while they're chilling in swimming pools.

Simon's communicator in question was the standard issue Mojoworld provides for all its citizens, even to its captive performers. It's an all-around apparatus for the mindless binge-consumer, which means unlimited, unfettered access will always be guaranteed.

He was so grateful that he owns one at the moment.

But as he moves his arms and legs in an attempt to coordinate his joints properly enough so he can keep up with the strong currents, Simon only realizes too late that he's literally in too deep and out of his depth at the same time.

Ha, underwater idioms. Like they're helping any of this become less terrifying.

Oakland has many beaches. California as a state was sunshine capital (no offense, Hawaii). And Simon had learned to swim, fish and surf since before he even knew how to ride a bike. So he loves nature's water, savors the way it drips from his hair and the salt that exfoliates the skin along with the heat of a sun at its peak during noon. He's scuba-dived a few few times too, the most memorable of which was during his honeymoon.

Here in the unknown sea in another Earth--unequipped with the proper gear, and floating so close to a mass of poisonous marine life--Simon is a little concerned not merely of what other horrors await in the deep blue, but also because he's been holding in a barf that's messing up with how he's holding his breath. He should have fucking hurled back at the docks first. Oh, well.

Meanwhile, the holographic clip of him singing the line, 'H̺o̺l̺d̺ h̺i̺m̺ u̺n̺d̺e̺r̺ w̺a̺t̺e̺r̺ u̺n̺t̺i̺l̺ t̺h̺e̺ m̺o̺t̺h̺e̺r̺f̺u̺c̺k̺e̺r̺ d̺r̺o̺w̺n̺s̺~' comes out distorted and hollow as the image spills, the pixels blinking in and out of focus whilst the video plays incessantly.

Simon slaps his cheeks a few times to get a hold of himself. Soon, he notices that the temperature is tolerable, but he knows he can do better, lest he freezes to death. He outstretches his arms to the sides now as he forces his whole body to stay immobile, save for his legs and feet still kicking and padding away. The many vibrations in the sea's sound channel proved very difficult to sort through, because he's mentally fatigued, physically hungover and emotionally unhinged, and these things are taking a shit on his concentration.

However, he reminds himself that he did not undergo extensive torture in the first three years of his stay at Mojoworld, just to drown and die right now. Simon should know by now how to fine-tune the settings of his powers. He's not some closeted mutant with a troubled past anymore. On top of that, he's foremost a performer, so whatever crap he may feel--whatever ounce of self-doubt that can cripple him--must all be set aside so he can do this.

He's aware of the cold, of the deepening chasm, of the jellyfish that are now steadily gaining speed and heading towards him. The communicator was adjacent from his position as it keeps blaring 'Kill the DJ', but it's also surprisingly buoyant enough (yet another desirable feature) to stay just nine feet away from him.

Simon has had his eyes closed for a while now. The sound of his beating heart grows faint from his eardrums as he dares himself not just to hear but really listen to the other songs that this terrible yet beautiful aquatic world wants to share. Once he gets used to the refraction of sound traveling at a speed only the poetry in his genes can match, he curls his fingers into fists so that the energy could pulsate, just in time as he summons the resonance of his own song (coming from the communicator) to flow through him.

This reverberation causes for lights to appear at long last in hues of silver and gold. They twinkle impossibly like stars in a sky, stretching for a mile at best.

He doesn't see the jellyfish coming but he wants them to know precisely where he is. The only way to make sure his song covers more miles here in the deep blue was to let gravity and air pressure to do the rest. So, Simon ceases moving his legs at once. He's suddenly not afraid anymore.

The further he floats down, the more the refraction becomes more whole for him yet also tricky to manipulate. This must be how whales communicate with each other, even when a thousand miles apart in the ocean.

Simon doesn't need to open his eyes to know his method is working. If he did take a peek, what would greet him was the same bloom of two dozen jellyfish he saw earlier now passing above him--more clumped together than usual--and carrying another creature among them.

From at least three miles away, more blooms of jellyfish begin traveling together, drawn to this mutant's song. They now come from different locations, floating towards the rendezvous point near the nuclear reactor where Simon was.

At this rate, the numbers could easily reach to a hundred within less than an hour, and a thousand more after that, so long as he can sustain the rhythm and keep the lights cascading. He hopes that he could amass an army of these deceptively fragile and luminescent pretty things before the deadline he had approximated catches up.

He finally starts swimming up again, this time while leading what jellyfish are already accumulated to head towards the direction of the turbines. They move much faster now since he's using echoes to reel them in. It was only while doing this that he becomes aware of another passenger involved. The composition of its body was decidedly...human? The mass and density certainly not only give it away, but also the rhythm of the heartbeat. Simon knows how people sound far too intimately to ever be mistaken.

And so he starts to swim backwards, flapping his arms as much as he could manage so he can make a quick turn towards the entity.

RvB: A Red Team Celebration

@redvsbluesecretsanta

Merry Christmas, @mercuryblacksleg! Hope you like your Secret Santa gift!

Summary: Red Team doesn’t exactly do holidays traditionally, or tastefully, but they never fail in their enthusiasm. Featuring Lopez the Christmas tree, lights on a Warthog, and a thirty-foot menorah made out of flamethrowers. Gen fluff. Light Grimmons, light sarge/grey.

“Uh. Excuse me, but what the fuck.”

Donut looked up from where he was stringing popcorn onto a needle to see Grif and Simmons staring from the doorway.

“What?” Donut said serenely, threading another piece of popcorn before holding up the string to eyeball it. “It’s traditional. Here, Lopez, hold this for me?”

”No.”

Donut sighed, sticking the end to Lopez’s head with a piece of tape instead, just below the star. “Hmm. Now I know size doesn’t matter, but this could really use a few more inches.”

Grif was still staring, but now his hand was creeping towards the popcorn bowl, so Donut had to smack him away. “Honestly, Grif, I know you love choking it down, but you can walk to the kitchen. I’m using that.”

Simmons, his head poking through the door from behind Grif, blinked. “Is—what happens when he walks away?”

“He won’t. After Sarge got done with him, it turns out he won’t be able to walk for days!”

Lopez rotated his head, disturbing the tinsel around his neck and sending a few pieces scattering on the floor. The ornaments Donut had taped on a few minutes ago jingled, but didn’t fall off. ”Help me. Please.”

“Oh, Lopez, don’t be ridiculous. We can’t add the lights yet. Sarge hasn’t finished painting them all red!”

Grif came back from the kitchen, holding popcorn. “Okay. I’m probably going to regret this, but one question: why.”

“I told you. It’s traditional.”

Simmons made a face. “No, trees are traditional. This—I don’t know what this is, I think it might be cruelty to robots.”

”Thank you.”

“Not that it really matters, since Lopez doesn’t care.”

“I will pour motor oil on the things you love.”

“Do you see any trees around here?” Donut waved one hand to indicate the room, as well as the general idea of ‘island in the middle of nowhere.’ “And aw, Lopez, that’s sweet!”

“What is?”

“He said he loves us.”

Simmons pulled off a dubious expression very well. Half of his face being metal really helped.

“Huh.” Grif stuffed a handful of popcorn in his mouth, looking thoughtful. “Got any more of those lights?” He moved the bowl out of Simmons’ reach before he could grab some.

“Sarge took all of ours, but I think Blue Team still has some from that whole Caboose debacle.”

“Cool. See you later.” Grif took the bowl of popcorn with him.

Donut went back to stringing on popcorn, humming Christmas music. That didn’t mean he missed Simmons’ hand sneaking towards the bowl.

“Ow! Donut!”

“Oh, stop whining. It wasn���t even anywhere tender.”

Carolina hadn’t really stopped for the holidays in a long time, before Chorus. There was always somewhere to be, things to do, people to hunt down, information to find, training. Always something.

And then she had stumbled into a corner of Armonia where someone had carefully framed a computer chip on the wall, a piece of masking tape stuck onto it reading “ תוֹרָה.” On the table beneath it had been a single lamp, powered by a jury-rigged battery.

Carolina remembered standing at the doorway of that little room for a long, long time.

Now she was standing at the doorway of the base, and had been for a long time, but for a very different reason.

“Sarge,” she said, finally. “That...I appreciate the offer, but I don’t--it doesn’t need to be that much fire.”

Sarge looked up from where he was using a sledgehammer and stakes to make sure the last flamethrower was secured completely to the welded-together scrap metal. Carolina could barely see him in the gathering dark. “What?”

Carolina sighed, and took a deep breath to raise her voice. “It doesn’t need that much fire!”

“WHAT?”

Carolina cupped her hands around her mouth. “IT--DOESN’T--NEED--” She stopped shouting and looked again.

Sarge was working on the last of nine upright, oversized flamethrowers he and Simmons had spent most of the day modifying after she had asked--naïvely--if the base had any candles laying around, because she wanted to put together a menorah. The answer had been no. Or, more accurately, the answer had been no, and then Sarge getting a very worrying glint in his eye.

And now there was a giant menorah of scrap metal and flamethrowers put together on the lawn in front of Red Base. She could just barely see where Simmons was hanging onto the far left one, hitting it with a wrench.

It was ridiculous. It was probably going to blow up in a few hours.

And it was...actually kind of sweet.

“YOU KNOW WHAT? NEVER MIND.”

Grif came up behind her, munching on something. “Has anything blown up yet?”

“Surprisingly, no.” Carolina tipped her head to the side, watching as Simmons almost fell off. He and Sarge shouted at each other for a few more minutes before Sarge climbed down.

“HEY!” Simmons squawked. “I’M STILL--NO NONONONONON--”

Simmons did fall off this time, as Sarge started cackling maniacally, and ended up rolling onto the ground. Carolina could admit that at least all the Reds and Blues knew how to fall properly.

“I’m okay!”

“Nerd,” Grif mumbled, around a mouthful of something. “Oh, hey. Here.”

Carolina looked down to see him offering an unopened bag of potato chips. “What’s this for?”

“Simmons said you eat fried potato things. Right?” He sounded a little bit uncertain.

Carolina took the bag of chips, trying not to laugh. “Thank, Grif. It means a lot.”

“HEY! ARE WE GONNA LIGHT THIS THING OR WHAT?”

“Wait! I’m getting the cookies!” Donut rushed past with a dish of cookies that Carolina was reasonably sure--when she squinted--were frosted dreidels.

Well then.

Grif gestured with his own bag of chips. “After you.”

The remote starter Sarge had put together worked perfectly, so after Carolina had stumbled her way through the songs she could just barely remember, the buttons were pushed so first the center, then the far left spout went up in flames.

Donut clapped excitedly. Grif swiped a cookie. Sarge cackled.

“Wait,” Carolina said, as realization hit her. “Where’s Lopez?”

“I hate all of you.”

Dr. Grey made a thoughtful sound as she examined the setup. “Is that…comfortable?”

“No. This entire situation is despicable. If I had a nervous system, I would be ready to rip it out just to end the suffering.”

“Lopez says he’s snug as a bug in a rug, Dr. Grey!”

“If you’re sure,” she said, already moving on. “Ooh, Donut, those look lovely.”

“My aunt Agatha’s own recipe,” he replied, cheerfully. “And let me say again just how glad we are to have you here for the holidays, Dr. Grey.”

“Oh, just call me Emily. After all, I’m not here to patch you up!”

“Well I’d be happy to take a checkup from you anytime.”

Grif had already absconded with a plate of cookies to sit by the TV, where Simmons was arguing holiday movie selections with Caboose. No one was sure why Caboose was there. No one really knew how to get rid of him.

“No—Caboose, we’re not going to watch Love Actually. It doesn’t even count as a Christmas movie.”

“Yes it does. It is snowing. So it is Christmas.”

Carolina, from where she was watching the whole thing, snorted into her cocoa.

“It’s not—Grif, back me up here.”

“Hey, I said we should watch Die Hard.”

Simmons sputtered. “That’s even less of a Christmas movie.”

“Ooh! Stranger Things!”

“No!” Simmons put his head in his hands. “Look. Can’t we all agree on one terrible stop-motion animation Christmas special?”

“That shit is nightmare fuel,” Grif complained.

“We’ve almost died like, ten times in the past year, and that’s what you’re calling nightmare fuel?”

“Well, yeah.”

“I do not want the little elf to pull my teeth,” Caboose said seriously.

“I hate all of you,” Simmons said, flatly. “I mean it this time. I really do.”

Grif shrugged and ate another cookie.

The door to the base slammed open, heralding Sarge’s entrance. “Treason! Disaster! Subterfuge!”

The room looked up at him.

“Those filthy blues have covered our warthog—the great and mighty transportation of the Red Army—in lights! Of the worst color—blue!”

Grif quietly collected the plate of cookies and tried to sneak towards the door.

“Private Grif! What kind of desertion are you trying to pull?”

“Desertion?” Grif said, tone innocent as he could manage. “No desertion. Just going to investigate. Sir.”

“Hmph.” Sarge looked like he wanted to argue, but Grif figured the combined opportunity to get rid of him, plus the idea of figuring out what was going on, was too good to pass up. “Well. I suppose even you have to be useful sometimes, Private Grif. On accident. Barely.”

Grif rolled his eyes and grabbed another couple of cookies off of Donut’s tray before vanishing out the door.

It was quiet and dark out—aside from the five lit flamethrowers on the menorah. Carolina had pointed out that they only needed to burn for half an hour, but when they had all stared at her, she had added, “…but they can always go for longer, I guess.”

Grif took his cookies well away from the giant columns of fire, heading for the Warthog covered in Christmas lights.  

He hadn’t been the one who changed them all to blue. He would have done it, if he’d thought of it, but he hadn’t. So sue him.

Point was, Grif hadn’t done it. And the only one who’d been out here since they’d gone inside after lighting up the menorah had been Sarge. So either it was the Blues pulling a prank—which, Tucker and Wash were alone in their base with Caboose gone, so Grif would bet they were busy—or someone else.

Grif was betting on the someone else.

He put the plate of cookies on part of the frame while he climbed up into the back, legs dangling off the edge. His heels kicked, almost absent-mindedly, and Grif pulled a gingerbread cookie off the plate to bite the limbs off while he watched the dark.

It was almost easier watching for this without a helmet. Seeing the world through a visor, you got used to distortion, little ripples flickering around everything. It was harder to pick out what didn’t belong.

Bare-eyed, he could see the soft flicker of camouflaged armor moving towards the Warthog.

There were a few loud creaks, and the Warthog shifted as weight pressed on one side of its frame, but the air next to Grif still looked pretty empty.

“Dude,” Grif said, rolling his eyes. “I don’t care what kind of superpowers you’ve got. If you want one of these, you’re gonna have to take the helmet off.”

There was a long pause, and then Locus’ familiar armor shimmered into view, and his hands reached up to pull off his helmet.

You look like shit, Grif kind of wanted to say, but he didn’t, because he knew that feeling. So instead, he grabbed another couple of cookies and shoved the plate over.

Locus took one, hesitantly, and turned it over to examine the sprinkles.

“Blue?” Grif asked, just to fill in the silence. “Really?”

“Green seemed…too obvious.” He glanced back at the Warthog in all its twinkling glory. “Your handiwork?”

“What, you’re gonna pretend you weren’t watching?”

The silence spoke for itself. Grif snorted.

“Yeah,” he said, running one hand over the lights. “It’s something…back home. It was this whole thing, when I was a kid. People would put lights all over their cars, and on Christmas day there’d be this big parade. One giant party on the beach.” It felt weird, admitting that, even though he knew he’d said more embarrassing shit when Locus was helping him recue the guys.

Locus didn’t say anything, just chewing on the cookie.

“Look,” Grif said, finally, after the silence had gone on way too long. “Do you want to come inside? We’re gonna argue about stop motion for probably ten more minutes and then put on the Muppets Christmas Carol. There’s popcorn and shit. It’ll be fine.”

“That seems…unwise.”

Grif shrugged. He hadn’t been sure it was going to work. “Suit yourself.”

But he didn’t make any move to go anywhere for another few long minutes.

When there was a faint scream from inside the base, though, he sighed and rolled forward, landing on his feet. “Anyway. I better go back in. Offer’s open if you get cold. And keep the cookies, Donut’s been baking like a nutcase.”

Locus looked up from the single cookie with a bite out he was still playing with, and nodded.

Grif made it five steps away before he heard his name called out, and turned back around to see Locus watching him, almost sheepish.

“I…thank you.”

Grif shrugged. “No problem, dude. Merry Christmas.”

When he made it back inside, the alien and the rat puppets were already up on screen, yammering about something or other, so it seemed things were right on schedule. Lopez was in the corner, muttering death threats, so whenever Sarge reactivated his leg servos Grif was going to go on a long walkabout. Donut had settled on the couch with Caboose, Sarge and Dr. Grey were cuddled up together in a chair (ew ew ew ew ew) and Carolina was resting her feet on an old engine and working her way through another cup of cocoa.

Simmons was on the far end of the couch, so Grif detoured to grab some cookies and a blanket before flopping down at his feet, leaning back against the couch and making Simmons jump.

“Dude, chill.”

“You chill,” Simmons muttered, darkly, but didn’t flinch away again.

Cookies. Cheesy movies. Giant flamethrowers and lurking reformed bad guy outside. Blanket and Simmons to lean against.

Not a bad setup, all things considered.

Grif gave it ten minutes before asking, “So, Die Hard?”

Simmons’ hand, where it had been creeping into Grif’s hair, yanked away to bring a pillow thumping down on his head.