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cinnamonest · 4 months

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Uhtceare

Yandere Ayato x Reader - "Failed escape attempt" series

(I still cannot publish posts that have people tagged. I don't know why, it just gives me an error popup saying it couldn't be processed. Apologies to those in my taglist.)

Warning: DARK CONTENT, noncon/dubcon, implications of forced/coerced marriage, masturbation voyeurism that’s also kinda forced, manipulative use of mental health and problematic way of addressing it, gaslighting and psychological manipulation, implied future forced drugging, there’s just a lot of my man being awful here

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“Ah, there you are.”

Of course. He would be right there at the entrance waiting, wouldn’t he.

You were hoping to get a few more seconds to put off the inevitable, but the reality of your situation was not so kind as to grant you that. It was all far too fast — the full events of the night before, the journey of being dragged back here — flanked on all sides by doushin all the while — all went by in a blur, leading up to this very dreaded moment.

You kept your gaze turned to the ground, unable to bring yourself to make eye contact. Your fingers curled, digging into the fabric around your thighs.

Nonetheless, without even hesitating nor willing it, you found your feet moving on their own. Perhaps it was instinct, to get away from the unfamiliar men that made you so uncomfortable and uneasy, and into the arms that, despite everything, were at least familiar, and thereby a comfort at the end of your long trial of distress and misery. Maybe you knew it was expected, and feared some consequence for not acting as you knew you should. Or maybe some of both.

Regardless, your feet shuffled forward, any thoughts muted in favor of instinct as you bounded over towards your husband — as much as you hated to acknowledge it, your one source of comfort. As you grew close, he reached an arm out, hand firmly planting itself on your back and pulling you in. Perhaps out of that same sense of fear at the thought of disobeying expectations, perhaps out of pure exhaustion, you allowed it without struggle coming to stand directly by his side, grasping at his clothes, burying your head against him and squeezing your eyes shut as if it would obscure the others’ view of you.

“I can’t thank you enough. You have no idea how worried I was about her,” he spoke to the arrangement of men now standing a ways away, moving his hand on to rest atop your head. “I apologize for the inconvenience. The poor thing gets a bit irrational from time to time. You know how it is.”

The other men only gave a brief, curt sound of acknowledgement. One, the own standing closest to the two of you based on how close the voice sounded, seemed to deem it appropriate to give at least some response. “Of course, sir.”

Not that that actually made any sense, that such a bizarre thing to say could ever warrant an ‘of course’ as a reply. But they weren’t there to be sensible, to assess the situation and act according to any supposed principles. To help. They were there only to follow through with an assigned task, one that they had not even tried to conceal in their expressions and tones towards you was an unwanted inconvenience, and to turn a blind eye to any conclusions they might draw.

Maybe that too was intentional — the estate lord could have easily sent his private forces to be the ones to escort you back to the estate, yet he chose to allow the public law enforcement to return you. Perhaps he knew you’d grown to resent the family’s private forces, and thereby had no issue inconveniencing them, whereas he knew you’d feel more embarrassment and guilt having strangers be forced to bring you all the way back… yes, the more you thought about it, that certainly seemed like that was his intent.

“I hope she didn’t give you too much trouble?”

“Not at all, sir.”

“Ah, I see, that’s good to hear.”

Your hands balled into fists.

The whole show made of it all was utterly humiliating — that too no doubt the intention — but you had no choice but to stand there. Doing something rash like running off to hide yourself from the embarrassment would only meet a worse consequence later.

The burning, bitter anger only made said embarrassment that much worse. It was consuming, maddening. Everything — this place, these people, their words and their attitudes, their dismissal of you as if you were a child or an animal — it made you so damn mad, and yet, you could do nothing but endure.

Your eyes burned. You blinked a few times in rapid succession. You couldn’t forgive yourself if you actually cried in front of these strangers. The back-and-forth between the two parties continued, but you did your best to tune out the words, knowing that listening would only hurt you further.

It wasn’t until there was movement that you returned your attention to them, pulling your head away from him to look — now they were turning, walking away.

Leaving you alone with him.

You then dared not avert your eyes from the ground, watching the men from your peripheral vision as they made their way down the path, growing smaller and smaller and they moved further away, until their footsteps were no longer audible.

All that remained was a heavy, palpable tension.

Avoidance was the easiest path — a foolish choice, of course, which you knew full well. It wasn't as if you could avoid the present reality forever, but nonetheless, you found yourself clinging to each precious second that ticked by, body growing stiffer as you braced yourself for the inevitable. Perhaps you could trick yourself into believing that if you just kept your gaze turned to the ground, nothing would happen.

But sure enough, you clenched your jaw as his hand moved upwards, and came to rest on your shoulder.

“Come on now. You're certainly tired. Let’s get you to rest for a while.”

His voice only made your stomach twist further. It was calm and gentle, not explosive or infuriated. It would have felt more assuring that way, if your fear could just be easily confirmed, rather than a calculated calm that felt far more dreadful and foreboding than any rage.

His hand moved from your shoulder, coming down to grasp your wrist. It wasn’t a sudden, harsh motion, nor was the grip itself strong enough as to be painful — but it was noticeably firm.

And then, he pulled. A soft tug, pulling you in the direction of the doors.

Your resistance was not a conscious choice, not something you thought about nor had any time to do so; it was only a reflex. Instinctively, your body stiffened, your feet dug into the ground, and thus his pull was met not with the meek obedience that was expected of you, with footsteps that followed where you were guided, but instead a firm resistance.

Your own realization of that resistance, what you’d just done, sent a sharp rush of fear through your veins.

And thus, for the first time since arriving, your gaze tilted upward, and your wide, frightened eyes met his.

His expression shifted. The amiable, pleasant smile half-faded, still present, but only barely.

“…Don't be difficult. Come on.”

Likewise, his voice dropped far lower, a dark and foreboding tone far removed from the one he’d spoken with just moments ago to the other men.

Your mouth opened, instinctively wanting to reply, but you couldn't summon a coherent thought. You were afraid, you were angry, you were so, so embittered and ashamed and wanted nothing more than to run to your room, close your eyes and burrow into the bed.

And for a moment, you considered the compliant option. If you just lowered your head and followed along, apologized and insisted you were just being petty or immature or whatever he would call it this time, and took whatever consequence was handed out, then you could do just that, confine yourself to your bed and try to forget it all.

But the shame only fueled the fury, like gasoline to a fire. It was his fault. As scared of punishment as you were, your pride could not stand for simply bowing your head, and as your mind raced, the sheer fury you’d been stewing in all throughout the night before, all the angry words you’d monologued in your head and vowed to spew at him when you saw him again, all came rushing back.

You swallowed, fingers curling even harder around the fabric around your thighs. Now that it was just the two of you, although you still fought it as best as you could, you couldn’t help that your eyes watered, burning as your vision blurred out of pure frustration and misery.

“I… I know you did all of this on purpose! I only got all the way out there because you let me, a-and…”

The words came out in a trembling, wavering voice, far weaker than intended.

He exhaled a heavy sigh, closing his eyes in frustration. His voice was still characteristically gentle, but you could hear his patience waning. “We can discuss this inside.”

“But I—”

“Inside.”

You stiffened, freezing in place. That was not a tone you heard often in your married life, more firm than normal.

You swallowed, gaze darting to the ground again, unable to summon a reply and not wanting to make eye contact again. With another heavy exhale, he pulled at your arm with a gentle tug, and this time, you followed, feet quickly shuffling behind his.

You didn’t say a word, though, through the full minute or so of walking across the courtyard, through the front doors, down the hall, only dimly lit today due to curtains hanging over the windows lining the walls. It occurred to you with a sinking feeling in your stomach that you were headed straight for your shared bedroom, rather than one of the estate’s many drawing rooms and lounges, which meant the anticipated conversation to come would be one you’d both want kept in privacy. Your stomach felt as if it were turning in knots, your chest compressed by an unseen force, each breath feeling strenuous and weighted.

And then, finally, you both came to a halt as you reached the last room at the end of the hall. You felt helpless, unable to do anything as you watched the handle of the door turn, stumbling in as you were guided forward by the hand that came to gently press on your lower back.

Likewise, equally pitifully, you could do nothing but stand there and wait as you listened for the door to close behind you, clenching your jaw at the trepidation in your chest from the footsteps on the floor behind you, but made sure to not let your fear swallow your fury.

“Now,” he began slowly as he moved around you to the other side of the room, voice now back to its usual tone, but still firm nonetheless, “I can tell you have a great deal you want to get off your chest, but you’ll have to forgive me for a moment… your well-being is my primary concern.” He looked you up and down, and his voice took on a note of concern that admittedly sounded sincere. “You aren’t hurt in any way, are you, dear?”

You bit your lip at the affectionate term, and more importantly, at how unbothered he came across. Granted, you now knew just how much of the past twelve hours or so had been entirely within his control, so it made sense that he was never genuinely distressed, but admittedly, it was also disappointing. Part of you wanted him to have been panicked and worried, to get the satisfaction of knowing you’d successfully gotten under his skin.

Still, you shook your head, keeping your gaze to the ground as you gave a curt, frustrated reply. “No.”

“Good,” his eyes closed for a moment, taking a heavy breath of pause. “Well, in that case…” He leaned back against the wall, folding his arms. “I believe this would be the best time to give you a moment to explain yourself.”

You couldn’t miss the obvious foreboding in his voice, nor the way it made your body stiffen.

But you had already prepared for that — you knew it would be intimidating, that it would be awkward and shameful, but you had spent the previous few hours trying to preemptively harden your resolve against that. Besides, after it was interrupted earlier, you now had the chance to get back to what was essentially the pre-written script you’d memorized in your head of exactly every little thing you wanted to say to him.

Unfortunately, as it turned out, the you that was standing there in front of him was significantly less brave than the ‘you’ in the scenes you’d played out in your head on the journey home.

Still, you clenched your hands into fists, thinking you had to at least force him to acknowledge the one point you’d deemed most important.

“You let me leave.”

In your mind, you’d spoken with a bold voice and looked him directly in the eye… and while the same words came out of your mouth, they were instead said with a weak, shrill attempt at an accusatory tone, pathetically looking to the wall as you found yourself unable to summon the gall to look up, once more lacking the firm accusation and self-assuredness your imaginative self had had.

He tilted his head. “That’s not a very accurate way to put it. I never granted you any such permission… I was simply aware of your intent to run off, and didn’t stop you.”

For a moment, you contemplated asking how he knew — but you had a feeling the answer would only make you more upset. His voice was laden with a faux sincerity, a sort of disingenuousness that made your blood boil, enough to embolden you further as you continued.

“And you… you had people following me the whole time, I know you did!” Your voice began to get louder as you grew bolder, bitter anger strengthening you against any trepidation. “They didn't even do a good job! I started noticing them towards the end of it!”

"Well, that would be because they were specifically told that concealment was not necessary.” He kept up the dry manner of speech, seemingly unbothered by your fury. “They deserve a break from high effort jobs every now and then, surely you understand. Besides, they didn’t directly interfere with your little outing, yes?”

He was so calm in contrast to your visible irritation, no doubt at least in part deliberate. It only served to make you even more mad.

“They told the local doushin to — no, you told them to tell them! There’s no other way that could have happened! I-I, I got," in sheer frustration, you jerked your fists in a sharp downward motion, "arrested!"

“I’m very well aware.”

“They put me in jail!”

“I do believe that is the standard process for an arrest, yes.”

“I was all by myself for hours!”

“Naturally. I couldn’t allow you to be placed with any dangerous persons, that’s why you were put in a solitary space.”

You clenched your fists so hard they trembled. “You, y-you let me get that far in the first place, and, and…” A lump formed in your throat again, which you did your best to suppress. “…Just to make me go through all that… I was there for hours before they came for me…” Your face scrunched up as you fought the urge to cry.

You hung your head, shoulders falling as you let your body relax, the fuse of anger burning out as it turned to a quiet bitterness swelling in your stomach. What was even the point? You knew better than to think your emotions would be given any weight, treated as anything beyond trivial.

A few moments of quiet passed, perhaps to see if you would say anything more, or perhaps just to force you to wait in uncomfortable uncertainty. After a moment, he shifted his posture slightly before unfolding one arm, holding out his hand in a standard gesture of speech.

“And what have we learned?”

You never would have thought one question could send such a spark of fury through your body in a single moment. Everything, from the wording to the timing to his tone, felt utterly mocking, infantilizing in a way that made you seethe.

You swallowed, practically trembling. “That you’ll go to any lengths to humiliate me?”

He returned the extended arm to its former position, exhaling heavily, straightening his stance. “It's rather unfair to assume I had such malicious intent. Stopping you early on in the past has clearly not worked in the long term, so further measures were necessary.” He tilted his head to meet your averted gaze, reflexively turning your attention back to him, eyes connecting with yours. “My only intention was that you would have some time to reflect on your series of decisions… and hopefully return with a change of heart. These episodes of yours are worrisome.” He gave a brief pause before finishing, “claiming I had cruel intent when you know in your heart that I only arranged this because I care for you… that's rather harsh, isn't it?”

You clenched your jaw, refusing to acknowledge the notion that the words were genuine. Admittedly having fallen for the words die a moment, you mentally shook off the momentary feeling of guilt.

These situations always went the same way, you'd be driven to apologize and feel bad about your choices. You had never met anyone else in your life with such a mastery of speech-craft as to be able to control your emotions and actions with words as easily as if it were pushing buttons on a machine. The first few times, you'd actually fallen for it, found yourself completely malleable, psyche bending and shifting to another's whims. At least with time, you'd become more resilient, had learned to notice and recognize the attempts… so you believed.

You opted to avoid answering the quesiton. Instead of acknowledging his own words, you turned to another matter that had come to mind during your escapade.

“Aren’t you abusing your authority? How are you even allowed to do this to begin with?!”

He took another deep breath, as if it were a trivial matter, or one that shouldn’t necessitate explanation.

“It’s… complicated, but the law does fully permit estates to employ local forces to locate any missing property belonging to the estate… people employed or bound to it are a sort of grey area in that regard.” After a moment of pause, he added, “besides, I also made it very clear that you were not in your right mind at the time, so your wellbeing was of immediate concern, and they were happy to help.”

“What?” The anger in your tone only rose. “I was perfectly in my right mind, you, you… a-and I’m not…”

A few moments passed as you trailed off, having to pause to collect yourself, blink away frustrated tears.

He opened his mouth as if to respond, but seemed to decide against whatever he'd considered saying, closing his eyes and taking a breath before finally replying in a more exasperated tone.

“You're making yourself upset needlessly. I can only do so much… in the end, I only wanted to keep you safe. You have to be the one to accept the grace you're given. Wouldn't that be easier for you?”

There was still unease to his tone, but the way he said it was nonetheless indicative of a sort of tiredness, as if not wanting to carry on about the matter anymore. It almost sounded like he was saying that you “accepting” his “grace” was all that was required to bury the matter entirely.

You spoke slowly, cautiously.

“You’re not… mad?”

“…I never said that.” He shifted away from leaning against the wall, standing upright. ”Of course, I can’t allow this to go entirely unacknowledged.”

He took a few steps towards you, and you fought the urge to step back, keeping your arms rigidly straight at your side as he continued.

“Normally, a proper form of consequence would be in order… however, after consideration, I realized that this was in large part my own fault, and I owe it to you to take responsibility for that.”

The words took you by surprise. The idea that he was in any way acknowledging that he had any responsibility for what you did was baffling, all things considered. He had never once even acknowledged that refusing to let you leave the estate was essentially holding you prisoner, and usually insisted that everything he did was what was best for you, even if, as he seemed to believe was the case, you did not understand that.

You hesitated before replying. “What… what do you mean?”

He flashed you an amiable smile. “A lesser person would only act on their momentary frustrations, but I’m not the sort of person who acts without understanding the situation. Luckily, I do understand you.” He looked off to the side, holding a hand up to his chin in a pensive pose, before adding in a quieter voice, “I made the mistake of getting too caught up in my work recently. Acting out over feelings of neglect is entirely different from misbehavior out of sheer petulance.”

He turned his head back towards you again before finishing,

“It would be cruel to respond to a cry for attention as if it were ordinary disobedience.”

The words took you aback, and you hesitated in your response, but as it fully registered in your mind, the momentary surprise was replaced with shameful fury. You held your arms firmly at your side, hands balled into fists as you replied.

“What?! I didn't— I didn’t do it for attention!”

You felt foolish for thinking for even a second that he might actually empathize with you, might finally come to enough humility to realize that much of your perceived disobedience was due to the sheer degree of meticulous, total control he held over everything you did. But no, instead, your attempt to run away was being treated as attention-seeking. It felt belittling, degrading.

He took a short breath, as if about to say something, but as his gaze fell upon you again, he simply exhaled, an amused smile forming on his face, replacing the former exasperation — and only infuriating you further, realizing even your anger wouldn't be taken seriously.

“Yes, yes, of course.” He made no effort to hide the dismissive amusement in his voice, either, but cleared his throat before returning to a more neutral tone before you could give any retort. “Regardless, you've been through a lot already. If you can be mature and calm down, make some acknowledgement of the trouble you’ve caused and show some remorse, then, I'm willing to somewhat overlook this.” Making direct contact between your eyes and his, he finished, “Won’t that be easier on us both?”

The obvious dismissal of your statement and implications of what he thought made your face feel hot. The embarrassment that had already been weighing down on you now became suffocating, and the utter arrogance of the presumption of your willingness to comply made you so upset it felt nauseating.

“What does ‘somewhat’ mean?” You tried to suppress the irritation in your voice.

He gave another heavy sigh. “Should you really be asking for specifics? It’s your best course of action regardless.”

You opened your mouth and inhaled as if to speak, holding your closed fists up to your chest, ready to spew every ounce of vitriol you’d been building up, and then, you fell silent as your eyes met.

His expression grew dark, eyes half-lidded and features blank — not contorted with anger nor curiosity, but merely waiting, watching, warning. Anticipating your defiance, prepared to react accordingly.

You looked down, hesitating.

Was it really worth it…? A few moments of lashing out, at what cost? ‘Consequences’ hurt, in one sense or another, they always did, no matter what form that word took.

You swallowed. He was right — one path before you was wiser.

You hung your head.

“…I’m sorry…”

Even with your gaze turned downward, you could see his eyes widen just a bit in your peripheral vision, not having expected such quick compliance — understandably so, based on your past incidents. But after a moment, his expression softened. He took another step, closing the gap between you, cupping your face in his hands and forcing you to lift your head back up.

“Mm. I’m glad you understand. You know, you've matured quite a bit recently.”

You almost, almost found yourself feeling happy at the praise, but then pushed that feeling away. It was part of the way he did things, part of the process, so you'd slowly come to recognize, putting the pieces together over and over until you became aware of how he managed to bring you down to submission each time. You refused to be swayed by that. You were only giving it up and apologizing because it was the was the easier, less painful choice… so you reminded yourself. Now, at least, you'd be done with this, could move on and quietly begin plotting again.

But then, as you felt his hand move down to your shoulder, then to your waist, you remembered the ‘somewhat.’

Yes, of course it couldn’t be left at that, wouldn’t be so simple as forcing you into humility just once.

You knew that full well. These checks of obedience after an act of disobedience never came solitary, and the desire for that subservience to be affirmed was not easily satiated. It would only grow deeper, an increasing hunger for your subservience. Pushing your pride further and further down, carving into your personhood and whittling away anything deemed unfitting. It would only go further, debasing you in increasingly violating ways.

You felt a gnawing in your stomach. You hadn’t thought of that part, in the moment, but the realization now made your heartrate begin to accelerate once more.

His eyes drifted downward.

“…Ah, right. The clothes you’re wearing, we need to have a servant wash them for you. Just set them by the door for now.”

You looked down. You hadn’t even bothered to think about it until now, having been so preoccupied with other thoughts, but indeed, the oh-so-nice and expensive clothing you’d been so lovingly lavished with, was now fully coated in grime and dirt.

At the same time, your immediate instinct was to protest the idea, knowing the intent. He wasn’t going to get you a replacement — which he himself would need to do, seeing as all of your clothing was, no doubt deliberately, kept outside the bedroom itself, and it had been established early on that you were to rely on him or servants to fetch whatever he would have you wear that day for you. Was the command too, then, intentional?

The very moment you even asked yourself the question, though, came the immediate answer, making you feel foolish for even questioning it. Of course it was intentional, planned — what wasn’t, anymore, in your life? You remembered looking back, on the day you were brought here, thinking over the past with borderline horror at the realization of how intricately detailed and precise every detail had been in his effort — what you now were certain was a premeditated plan — to get your family to call off the years-long betrothal you’d already been in, and marry you off to him instead. That realization of it all had kept you rightfully afraid of him, knowing he was always one step ahead of whatever you might attempt.

The corners of your mouth pulled taut with embarrassment, and you pulled your hands in towards your chest again, elbows pressed firmly to your sides. “That’s…”

He caught a glimpse of your face, and in turn smiled, an amused sort of expression. “Come on now,” he took a step towards you, reaching out and grasping at your hands, pulling them out of their defensive position, “even now, you’re still so shy over this?”

“I— no, I’m not—” you cut off, teeth clacking together as you snapped your mouth shut when his hands released yours, instead moving around to the binding ties of your outfit, pulling the knot apart.

You held your hands up to the level of your shoulders, bent at the elbow, fingers curled as if preparing to reach forward, to grasp at his hands, to do something.

But you didn’t.

The exchange was itself a means of conversation, communicating something not fully articulable by word alone. Violating your comfort and dignity, baring you to him, those things themselves were an assertion, a statement. To interrupt would be to challenge that assertion, to deny him. And perhaps it was, in part, also a test, a question of whether or not you would dare to deny the unspoken statement.

As the silk strands came undone, the first layer gave way to the second, and pulling apart that knot caused the fabric bound by it to slide apart, exposing your bare skin to the cool air.

An unspoken reminder that your body was not your own, that any right to autonomy and privacy you might have beyond this room, no longer existed within it. Access to you was not a privilege granted by your permission, but an inherent right, provided by the very contract that legally bound you to him.

The casual, unhesitating manner with which you were stripped down only emphasized that that very reality itself was not something to be regarded as of any great significance, but a fact accepted as readily as any other. Exposing you, touching you, exercising that unconditional access to your body was given no greater thought than utilizing any of one’s possessions.

There was nothing he could ever say to you, nor adequate words to even exist, to fully encapsulate the degree to which you were owned — but with that gesture, you understood all the same.

And even though the humiliation of the reminder made your eyes burn, made you bite your lip, you lowered your hands to your side. An admission of defeat, surrender.

It did not go unnoticed. He smiled.

“Very good. You’re behaving much better today than I anticipated.”

Another moment of praise. He was genuinely pleased. You could see it and hear it through his face and voice.

Were it on any other matter, you might have felt proud to be praised in such a sweet, charming voice. If the praise were on something you actually wanted to achieve.

And then, his eyes trailed downward, running over your body, taking in each detail. His eyebrows furrowed as his gaze settled on one particular spot.

“You really shouldn't lie to me,” he spoke in a quiet, low voice.

At first, you felt a momentary panic, not quite sure what he even meant, thinking you had somehow made a unintentional transgression. It wasn't until you looked down that you saw the scrape just below your collarbones from your, admittedly unsightly, vigorous resistance upon initial confrontation with the doushin the night prior, having essentially had to have been wrestled down to the concrete street. In hindsight, you were even surprised with yourself for putting up such a fight, but at the time it had just been the instinctive reflex, fueled by desperation.

It all felt distant now, as if further back in time than it was, the memory all blurring together. It was only a very small mark, and had now scabbed up as part of the natural healing process, but as his fingers brushed over the spot, you still tensed at the slight lingering sting.

“It doesn't really hurt,” you replied nonetheless. “It's fine…”

He only straightened back upright, closing his eyes momentarily.

“I suppose I shouldn't have expected common doushin to be able to follow instructions… just so you know, I did specifically say to ensure you weren't hurt in any way.” He turned his gaze downward, hand held to his chin as he added in a low mutter, “I'll be sure to only use private hands in the future, should I need something like this again.”

You shrugged, turning your eyes downward to the floor once more. Really, you wanted to not have to think about the incident any further, the mere memory stirring up embarrassment, which did not combine well with your already vulnerable state. “It's fine. It's not a big deal,” you grumbled. After a moment of hesitation, feeling another urge of spite, you added, “it wouldn't have happened if you didn't… do all that.”

He huffed in exasperation, but was quiet for the moment, seemingly composing his thoughts before replying.

“Don’t be disagreeable. We've discussed this. I care for you dearly, but that does not mean that you are exempt from expectations to behave.”

He always gave you that line — that a behavioral matter of yours had been previously ‘discussed,’ which merely meant he'd told you not to do something, or behave a certain way. That was the end-all-be-all — whatever you were told was set in stone the moment it left his mouth, and transgressing against the standard that was set was often treated as if you’d forgotten, as if it slipped your mind, the idea of intentional and deliberate disobedience being something unthinkable to such a degree that simply having done so by accident were more believable to him — and perhaps you ought be grateful for that.

You clamped your jaw shut, turning your head downward.

His gaze turned back to your body.

“…Your nerves are unsettled.” His hand slid it's way down your side, the feeling of touch lingering in a trail behind as his palm brushed over the curvature of your waist. “See, that's what causes these irrational episodes of yours. Stress, overexcitement. It just… builds naturally for you, over time.” After a moment, taking in your expression, he added, “it's nothing to feel bad about, dear. I don't mind helping you with it at all… I'm glad I can do so, really. I worry about how you'd manage without having me to help.”

You hesitated before giving a response. “What… what do you mean? I'm not… irrational…”

It was as if your words went in one ear and out the other, continuing on without responding to your objection. “But again, I failed to keep it in check this time, so this was ultimately my own fault… I'll have to make a note to be more thorough.”

His hand grasped at your waist, pulling you close. His other hand reached up, cupping your breast. He looked over towards your shared bed.

“Come on. Let's get you in bed.”

“Huh? But—”

His grip tightened. “Don't be difficult.”

Your stomach began to churn. You were still angry. The last thing you wanted was to go through what was essentially a humiliation ritual. There was something about the act itself — at least, between the two of you — that made you feel embarrassed and ashamed. The inherent vulnerability, for one, but moreover, because you knew the intent, you knew the way he viewed it in his mind, could practically feel the sentiment. An act of claiming, an exchange of power in which your loss of dignity became his gain of pride and control. Carving into your very personhood, marking you as something belonging to him.

Your opened your mouth, but whatever you intended to say was cut off by your small noise of surprise as you were pulled forward, in a manner that was somehow so gentle in touch, yet forceful enough to move your whole body towards his. His arm wrapped around your frame, the other positioning itself underneath your thighs before lifting you up and moving down to sit.

You fidgeted, tried to pull away — but his grip tightened, as much to secure you as it was a warning, telling you to hold still.

“It's for your sake. This will help you… you may not realize that yet, but you’ll thank me, I promise.”

His hands moved to your hips and turned you so that your back rested against his chest.

“As I was saying, you simply… build stress and neurosis, naturally. It's not your fault, really. You're just sensitive to changes, stressors... Every individual has at least some… defects in their nature.”

His hands retracted, and there was a brief rustling sound before they returned to your skin, now ungloved, flesh on flesh. The contact sent sparks through your nerves.

“That's why people pair with those they are compatible with. They fill each other's needs, compliment each other’s natures… I’m obligated to take those defects and resolve them.”

He gave you a smile — you couldn't see it, but could feel it as his lips pressed softly against your neck. Warm, full of sincerity and adoration.

“I wouldn’t do that if it weren’t out of care… and you in turn provide me with something that needs care and guidance. I enjoy having that.”

For all his attempts at soothing words and the gentleness of the touch, you knew in your heart that there was no doubt that that was part of the intent — to humble you, to tame you and make you docile, to make you submit. Forcing you to such a vulnerable state and inflicting reactions of pleasure was itself an act of exerting power and control.

It was, in a way, remarkable, that the human spirit could not only be broken by both brutal cruelty, but equally — or, perhaps even more effectively — eroded away with a gentle voice and touch, humiliation so deeply intertwined with affection that they became impossible to distinguish from each other, forming a unique sentiment that was both one and the other.

You were endearing to him, but that affection for you was like a venom that ran through your veins — an affection that diminished you, reduced you to some inhuman possession, a toy to be manipulated in any way he desired.

It made you feel sick. It made you feel angry, it tormented your psyche—

Your thoughts were turned to a haze as his fingers rolled your nipple between them. You inhaled a sharp gasp, back arching forward.

Processing your own reaction, embarrassment took place of the momentary pleasure, and your face felt hot. You reached an arm up instinctively to cover your breasts, pulling away from the touch.

“…We've had this conversation before, haven't we?” He reached up, grasping your jaw with a grip just firm enough to communicate a warning.

You swallowed and, albeit not without just a moment of hesitation, lowered your arm. You looked down, breasts now exposed fully. “I'm… sorry…”

He gave you a hum of approval, returning to the former fondling, fingers playing with the sensitive flesh. You bit your lip, breathing growing labored.

After a few minutes, his hands wandered downward, slowly, softly, down to your thighs, then back up over your hips, where they finally settled.

“Touch yourself.”

The command caught you off-guard. Your eyes widened. “…What?”

“Before I help you,” he murmured, “I want to see what you will do for me. That's only fair, don't you think?” He squeezed at your waist.

“Prove to me…” he leaned forward, breath hot against your ear, “that you know your place. Do as I say.”

You swallowed.

It was in your best interest to obey.

You reached down slowly, shivering as your fingers brushed over your clit. You pressed down, beginning to rub your outstretched fingers back and forth. With your other hand, you reached up, tweaking your nipple just enough to send pleasure through your nerves.

“There you go.” He pulled you a bit closer to him, so your bodies were firmly pressed together. He craned his neck, no doubt catching your abashed, embarrassed expression.

Not that he would give you any words of comfort on that matter, tell you not to feel embarrassed. He only smiled, grasping your hair and forcing your head to turn, pressing your mouth to his. It was only a short contact, parting with the softest of sounds.

His grip on your hip tightened, and you realized why he’d pulled back when he spoke.

“Don’t stop.”

You hadn’t realized you had, too focused on the slight surprise to being kissed. You took a shuddering breath, and resumed the motion. Your eyes closed, heightening your senses — the sensation of each touch and the shockwaves it sent through your core to every nerve in your body.

Your breathing quickly became labored. Even if you were inducing the sensation itself, it was good. You bit your lip as a soft, weak little sound came out of your throat, unable to refrain from vocalizing at the intensity of the feeling.

“Not just like that.” One of his hands reached down to your thigh, hand wrapping around the underside of it and pulling it to the side, spreading you open further. “Go on.”

“Mm…” You couldn’t summon any particular words, overwhelmed by the conflicting sensations — the heat to your face and knot in your stomach at the shameless way your body was so exposed, at the feeling of being watched as if the act were a performance, and the haze of arousal that rapidly began to cloud your judgement, obscuring the feeling of discomfiture, drowning your inhibition.

Even without the pleasure compromising your hesitation, you didn’t want to think about the alternatives if you refused to obey — this was thus far, comparatively, far from the worst consequences you’d ever received for acting out.

You reached down further, pushing two of your fingers past the slick coating your flesh and inside your body, curling them into the spot that made you tense, made your muscles spasm, over and over, each movement sparking a rush that surged throughout your body.

Each breath was a deep gasp. Your toes curled, your muscles went taut and your insides clenched around your own fingers.

But something was missing.

It was pleasurable, but there just wasn’t enough to push you over the edge. The sensations were too weak.

Your body had been conditioned something more, and this was not comparable.

Sweat began to accumulate on your skin as you kept curling your fingers, desperately chasing a high. His arm moved from your hip to wrap around your waist, pressing another kiss to your neck.

You tried. Frustration began to build. Your eyes watered as you curled your fingers as hard as you could, pressed as far in as they would go, down to the knuckle.

It wasn’t deep enough.

It wasn't what you were used to. Your fingers were too short, just short of reaching that one perfect spot that made you lose yourself in pleasure, melting to a mewling mess.

You shuddered. You couldn’t reach a climax, no matter how hard you tried to focus. Even without orgasm, though, your exertion reached a peak you couldn’t carry on further from, and your fingers stopped moving as you went limp, trying to catch your breath, frustration and desperation nearly enough to make you cry. Your head fell back, eyes closed as you panted.

You could feel the corners of his mouth upturn against the flesh of your neck.

“…Is something wrong?”

Your jaw clenched, and you swallowed the lump in your throat.

That was the other goal of it, besides proving yourself to him — it was also to prove something to you. Something you didn’t want to admit out loud, something that made your chest swell with bitterness just to admit to yourself, much more so to do so aloud.

“I can’t… I can't do it.”

“Mm.” He pulled you further back against him. “Then, what do you need?”

The tingling sensation, the desperate need, the remnant frustration of lost pleasure, was too much to bear. You swallowed your pride, closing your eyes as you forced the words out.

“…I need you to do it…”

You were expecting him to say something in return, but for a moment, he was only quiet. He began to drum his fingers back and forth against your waist.

“Is that so?”

You nodded again, which seemed to be to his displeasure—

“Use your words.”

“Yes…” You swallowed.

You waited, but no touch came.

“Hm. How odd.” His voice was low and quiet, but unmistakably derisive. “You seemed to think you were perfectly capable of caring for yourself, running off like you did.”

Your eyes welled with tears. You shook your head back and forth, unable to bring yourself to speak.

“No?” His hand trailed downward until it ghosted over your sex, the lightest of touches, borderline torment. “Then, you can't do this for yourself?”

“…No…”

He moved his face even closer, speaking directly into your ear.

“Then what do you say? Tell me exactly what you need. Show me.”

You swallowed. The burning of humiliation in your chest was almost too much to bear. Had your insides not still been alight with the wavering, tight feeling of need, your pride would have outweighed your desire. But in that moment, it did not.

You spread your still-quivering legs wide apart.

“…Please touch me.”

“Mm. And what do you want from that? For how long?”

You squeezed your eyes shut.

“I want to cum.”

Finally — finally — his fingers pressed down against your clit, enough pressure to send waves of pleasure up your spine.

“There, see…” He pressed another kiss to your face. “Aren't things so much easier when you just choose to be honest?”

You nodded. “Yes. I… I’m sorry…”

He gave a low hum of acknowledgement. “This stubbornness is just your nature.” His fingers slid back and forth, gracing the bundle of nerves with friction. “But that can be fixed.”

You bit your lip. “I… I’m not— ah—”

One motion of his hand was particularly firm, the sensation it sent through your nerves so intense it was almost painful. Your hands shot forward, grasping at his wrist.

It was only when the motion stopped that you realized you’d erred — it was a habit of reflexively grabbing at his hands when a sensation was too intense, trying to pry them off — something he very much did not like you doing.

Sure enough, he sighed, frustration blatantly evident. You jerked your hands away, but it was already too late to take back the first offense.

“…Now,” he started, “Can you refrain from doing that again, or do I need to bind them?”

“I…” you paused, realizing you genuinely needed to think it through. You weren’t certain if you could abstain.

You felt him shift back, leaning away from your body.

“Well, that’s enough of an answer itself.”

You heard the rustling of clothes, felt movement behind you, and you turned your head over your shoulder just in time to see as he pulled off first the top layer, then the undershirt over his head and off his body. You made a soft sound as he then pushed down on your back with a firm touch, forcing you to lean forward, grasping at your hands and pulling them behind your back — firmly, enough to be a clear message to not try to dissuade him, but your pride, weak as it was, still couldn't let it happen with no objection at all.

“Wait, wait, I can do it, I don't need—”

“This is for your sake. Hold still.”

“But I—”

“Be still.” He spoke firmly, but softened his voice as he continued, “It’s not your fault for having that reflex… but you have to train yourself against it. You want to be good, don't you?”

You shut your mouth, nodding as you sounded an answer. “Mm-hm…”

Cloth wrapped tightly around your wrists, using one sleeve to bind them together. Not enough of a bind that you couldn’t break out with some effort, but just enough to keep you from reflexively trying to interfere.

“Now where were we…”

You were pulled back once more, perhaps even closer. You could feel the rise and fall of his chest against your back.

And his hand quickly moved back down, and the bliss of shockwaves of pleasures overcame you once more. You whimpered, biting your lip.

His fingers pressed more firmly, rubbing circles into the nub, and for a moment, your wrists jerked against the bind as the reflex kicked in. It was too much at once, but now, you were prevented from doing anything about it. As he began to rub in circular motions, your body shuddered, and an involuntary moan came out of your throat — a wanton, shameful sound, laced with pleasure and lust.

“There you go.” You could feel him speak, shuddering at the vibration of his chest against your back and the warm breath against your ear. His other hand rolled your nipple between a finger and thumb. “Give into it.”

Your body trembled against his touch, and jolted as his own fingers pressed inside of you. His were longer, and the touches firmer, and the result was a degree of pleasure you were simply incapable of replicating on your own.

As much as you hated it — hated to think it, hated to acknowledge it, hated to try and not acknowledge it as the reality prodded at the back of your mind — he made you feel better than anything you had ever experienced, better than anything you could ever make yourself feel.

You whimpered, toes and fingers curling. Your hips moved, a rolling motion to meet each pressing movement.

A singular motion, and singular sound, both of which you near-immediately caught yourself doing, having been too lost in the feeling to think clearly. You cut off your voice and went still, but it didn’t go unnoticed.

“Don’t.” He didn’t stop moving his fingers as he spoke, instead pressing down with harsh force, essentially pulling you back closer to him with the hand partially inside you. “Holding yourself back like that is another form of dishonesty.”

You bit your lip, squeezing your eyes shut, but unable to form a response before he continued.

“And you wouldn’t want,” the fingers that had been gently tweaking at your breast pinched down hard, a momentary spark of pain and the lowering of his voice making you go tense, “to make this unpleasant because you couldn’t be good for me, would you?”

You shook your head back and forth with vigor. There were many punishments in your domestic repertoire that were unpleasant, and the thought of any of them made your heart skip a beat. “No, no, I don’t… want that…”

“Then you’re going to be honest, aren’t you?”

“Yes! Yes, I promise…”

“Mm.”

He kept rubbing his thumb against your clit, even in perfectly synched timing to each motion his fingers curled inward inside of you.

It was so pleasurable, so intense, it made you angry. Mad that he was capable of it, mad that his control over your body was greater than your own, and most of all, mad that he did it with such ease, effortless, that making you come undone entirely was something he mastered without ever being taught.

That pleasure began to build and build. You squirmed and whimpered, muscles throughout your body tensing and relaxing over and over. Your hips rolled into his hand. Each movement built the pressure in your body higher and higher, rapidly reaching a peak.

The edge that climax made you quiver, body and legs trembling.

“There it is…” his voice was so soft and gentle, soothing in a way it had no right to be.

The noise that came out of your mouth was nearly animal-like, a whimpering cry as you threw your head back, quivering and spasming. The waves of sensation pulsated throughout your body, reaching a peak and then beginning to ebb away.

You went limp, bodyweight falling back against his chest, heaving with heavy breaths. Your head felt as if it were spinning, and you stared forward in a dull stupor, body trembling with aftershock.

You twitched at the feeling of his fingers sliding out of you, with a wet squelching sound that made you shiver.

“Look at that…”

He spread his fingers apart, clear fluid forming a trail between them. You bit your lip, tilting your head downward in a futile attempt of avoidance of what you knew well came next — but that effort was quickly negated as he grabbed your jaw, turning your head back up and squeezing your face.

“Open.”

The force of the grip as he squeezed down more or less forced your jaw apart anyway. You didn't even get to take a breath before he pushed his fingers into your mouth, salty taste spreading over your tongue.

“Clean them off.”

Maybe it was a way of forcing you to acknowledge your own bodily reaction, even if you tried to deny it to yourself. Maybe it was much simpler than that — just another way to degrade you, or something simply arousing for him because it just was.

You complied nonetheless. Your tongue swirled around each finger, sucking and swallowing the taste of yourself. Even as he pulled his fingers back out, a string of saliva connected them to your tongue.

And then, after wiping his fingers off on the fabric around his thigh, he returned the arm to your waist, pulling you close, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“See… so much more at ease now, aren't you?”

That was one way to put it. You couldn't even bring words to your mind. Even processing what he said felt like a significant effort. Everything felt far away, your mind like a blank slate, numb and empty. Your body was even more exhausted, totally lax aside from involuntary twitches.

You made a soft sound as he turned your body to the side, just enough to look you face-to-face. Looking down at your watery eyes as they met his, the stupor in your expression, even as your brain began to clear, as if a machine turning back on after a few moments of darkness.

And he smiled. It was soft, full of endearment. And belittling. It was not made any better by the small chuckle he gave, patting the top of your head.

It burned in your chest, down into your stomach.

Your eyebrows furrowed and your lower lip quivered, an admittedly petulant pout. Shame formed a knot in your stomach. Disappointment in yourself, ending up like this again after swearing so many times over that this one would be the last, the last time you'd come apart so easily, the last time you'd find yourself spent and susceptible to the touch that seemed as if it were designed for your body.

And he laughed. An amused chuckle, patting your head.

“Mm. I had a feeling that wouldn't be quite enough.”

He leaned in, firmly grasping at your arms as you tried to squirm, bringing his mouth so close to yours, forehead resting against yours.

“But, that does admittedly work out for my sake.”

You grunted in surprise as he hooked his arm under your legs again, this time only lifting you just enough to set you down onto the padding of your bed, gently pushing on your shoulders until you were flat on your back, arched over your hands bound behind you.

“A-ah, I…” You swallowed, grasping at the sheets to the best of your ability. It was nothing you weren't anticipating, but the vulnerability made you tense.

It didn't help that he paused any motion, eyes trailing over your body, before reaching down and running his hands over your flesh, one moving to grip at your waist, the other your opposite hip. You couldn’t reach to cover yourself, forced to lay bare and vulnerable. Instinctively, you pressed your thighs together, but firm hands grabbed at the undersides, pushing them apart and positioning himself between them so you couldn’t close them again.

The former act was not enough. Putting you through the ordeal of being made to wait in jail like a child in time-out was not enough, exposing your body was not enough, toying with your body and forcing an acknowledgement of his own control was not enough.

Your lip trembled.

But anger still pervaded through your negative emotions. It compelled your courage, you felt defiance surging up. You had to look him in the eye, tell him exactly what you felt, tell him you knew what he was doing and push him off, then, maybe then you'd have the satisfaction of some sense of control.

You could do it. You had to.

“You… you're just doing the same thing as before!” Your eyebrows furrowed. “You’re trying to, to—”

“Again with this?” He tilted his head. “I really wish you wouldn’t assume such ill intent. This is how people love each other… you know that.”

You bit your lip. You almost, for just a second, fell for it, almost felt guilty. You shook your head forcefully, clearing your mind of the thought.

“No, I won't let you—”

And with that, there was a rapid shift in expression. His eyes narrowed in a piercing, foreboding look. You went silent.

Your shoulders stiffened. The words came out on impulse, resolve of defiance broken as quickly as it had formed. “I'm— I'm sorry—”

Dammit.

For once, the dark expression did not shift back to pleasant as soon as you apologized — an indicator of having gone too far. His hand slowly reached up, this time not in a loving caress or gentle-but-firm grip, but outright harsh grip on your jaw.

“You…”

He tilted his head forward to more directly look you in the eye. His voice was low and cold, making your heart race further.

“Do not ‘let’ anyone do anything.”

His fingertips pressed into your flesh, squeezing your face between them.

“I know you understand your place. Don’t behave as if you don’t.” Finally, his voice softened as he finished, “I can’t help you if you keep fighting me every step of the way. So… you’ll control yourself, won’t you?”

You swallowed, nodding your head, twitching as the motion made his fingernails dig into your cheeks.

“You know I don’t like being so harsh with you, don’t you?”

You nodded again.

“Good.” He leaned down and pressed his mouth to yours. Only for a short, chaste moment, but a slow, sensual motion nonetheless. You closed your eyes, tuning out the rustling clothes, heavily breathing with anticipation.

“You’ll have to forgive me for this. This whole ordeal has been stressful for me as well.”

You didn’t get time to ask what he meant — he rammed himself into you all at once, completely stuffing your body in one rough, forceful motion.

You cried out, back arching and body stiffening. You felt your insides clamp down, pulsating against the intrusion.

His hands tightened their grip on your waist, holding you still as the momentary sting ebbed away.

“There you go… calm down.”

You felt him slide out, then push back in, the latter movement sending sparks of sensation running up your spine, causing you to go tense all over again.

Your breathing became ragged, legs twitching and spasming at the sensation. You tried, without thinking, to snap them shut, but it only resulted in effectively squeezing his waist with you thighs.

The intensity of the sensation naturally induced a reflex of strain and exertion to your muscles, a need to channel the feeling through your body, causing your toes to curl, your thighs clamping down harder, quivering at the bare touch of flesh to flesh. You closed your eyes, but couldn't drown out the sound of skin making contact to yours, the sound itself increasingly accompanied by a wet squelching as skin met fluid with each passing second, leaking out of your body.

“You're so much more honest like this.” You could hear just the slightest strain in his voice, otherwise so very composed to perfection. “So meek… it's lovely. Once that resistance in you is fixed… you'll be perfect.”

You could see the corners of his mouth upturn into a look of amusement.

“You should see yourself.”

Your body stiffened, but all you could do was whimper. The words felt like a cold knife to the stomach — and you knew he knew that. Knew that that moment was you at your must vulnerable, the peak of awareness of your own helplessness, the moment you felt the most degraded, and yet, it still wasn't enough.

He leaned in close, speaking directly into your ear, so close you could feel the warmth as he spoke, never ceasing to move all the while.

“Whimpering and drooling like that,” he murmured. “You're trembling… and that expression on your face is so adorable. Like you can't even think straight.” He leaned back up, enough to look you in the eye — now welling with tears.

And again, he only smiled.

“How precious.”

His hands ran down your body, grabbed at your hips, and began to pull you, jerking your body back and forth to meet his own movements.

It was too much. Even with the knot of emotion in your stomach, you felt a hot, tingling pressure build in your body. Your legs quivered, the wanton little sounds from your throat higher and higher.

You didn't want that. It was the final part of this ritual that so demeaned you, one more confirmation of his control of you. You pressed your hands into the mat, trying to push yourself back — but it was only met with a harsh pull, forcing your body back until you practically slammed against his hips.

“Don't fight.”

It was the last thing you heard. You threw your head back as the sensation became overwhelming, back arching and eyes rolling back as the feeling reached a peak. You could only faintly register the high-pitched sound that sounded as if it couldn't be you, a voice you didn't recognize.

And then it began to ebb away. A hazy stupor filled the void as the pleasure dissipated, a feeling of exhaustion. Your weight went limp.

You made a soft sound as he grasped your jaw again, turning your head just enough to place another kiss to your lips.

“There you go. Look at you now… all that stress and in you, totally gone. You can see it in your eyes, even.”

He paused before adding,

“Well, gone for now. I'll have to start monitoring for it more closely.”

You shuddered at the sensation as he slid out of you, fluid spilling out onto the sheets.

You felt him reach behind you, untying your wrists — you brought your arms to the front of your body, but the forearms only laid useless, having fallen asleep from your weight.

He came to rest beside you, upper body slightly propped up on his elbow, head resting in his hand, looking down at you with adoration and endearment.

And you were so, so weak. So much weaker than you wished you were, body, mind and spirit alike. So weak that, in the rush of emotions that followed, you found yourself slowly crawling forward, burying your face against his chest with a pathetic little noise.

“Poor thing. Maybe that was a bit too much for you…”

His arm reached behind your back and pulled you close, and the comfort you felt seemed to melt your mind into nothingness.

“You should rest for a while,” he continued, “then we'll get you cleaned off. We have a few hours before you'll need to be ready.”

After a moment to process the words, you tilted your head up with the softest of inquisitive noises. The cold, creeping dread began to spread through your stomach once more.

He seemed to realize, then, that you didn’t understand.

“Ah, right, you wouldn't have known.” He reached out with the hand he wasn’t leaning on, brushing his fingers over your scalp. “While you were gone, I sent someone to arrange a house visit with a psychiatrist… a private one that works for families such as ours.”

His words certainly didn’t help soothe your nerves. Your mouth felt dry. Your voice came out weak, hesitant, part of you not wanting to ask, lest you learn an unpleasant answer.

“…Why?”

He tilted his head in just the slightest, loose strands of hair shifting and waving with the motion. “Well, keeping your needs in check does help with your condition, but I’ve realized it would do you good to have a secondary means to treat your hysteric tendencies as well.”

“My…” You swallowed. “My what?” The words slowly pieced together in your mind, hitting you with a sense of dread and confusion. You squirmed backwards, shifting just a bit away from him. “There's… nothing wrong with me…”

“Of course, of course, there’s nothing wrong, that’s…” He spoke in a reassuring sort of tone, as if to comfort you. “…A harsh choice of phrasing. You just need some help, is all.” After a moment of pause, he added, “don't worry, it's perfectly normal that you aren't self-aware of it. That's usually how these illnesses work.”

His arm reached out further, pulling you back towards him, pressing your bodies together before he continued.

“He’s just required to see you in-person for a little while before giving you anything. Regulations and all. We’re just going to get you something to make you a little more… docile.”

His arm wrapped around your body, and he pulled his head back just a bit to look you in the eye, smiling with endearment.

“Ah, I can tell by your face that you’re nervous. Don’t worry, I'll be there throughout the whole thing… I'll answer any questions, you just sit there quietly, alright?” He pulled you a bit closer, planting an affectionate, short kiss to the top of your head. “I know that sort of thing is a lot on your nerves.”

If your trembling could be felt, he didn’t say anything about it, only carrying on with his gently-spoken words.

“We won’t have to worry about you having these… irrational escapades anymore. And you’ll be so much happier, too.”

You felt his hand on your back, firmly in place — you were pressed so close together that there was no need to pull you any closer, but perhaps he wanted to be sure you couldn’t pull away.

“So… rest for now, alright?”

Mind and heart alike racing, in your stupor, you let the pause linger for too long. The hand on your back began to close in on itself, fingernails brushing against your skin just enough to send the faintest of pains up your spine.

You had no strength left in you to give anything other than the correct answer.

“Okay...”

He only gave you a hum of acknowledgement, and began to stroke your back up and down, a pattern that should have been comforting and soothing, yet was anything but. Exhaustion wore on your body, but even as you forced yourself to close your eyes, true rest was nowhere to be found.

#awful men portraying themselves as selfless/benevolent >>>>>#genshin smut #.ay

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snowflake-of-destruction · 3 years

Note

Wait wait wait tell me about Tales of Arise

The shortest answer is that Tales of Arise is a video game, the latest in the "Tales of" series, which, like Final Fantasy, has shared themes and elements and a few sequels and crossovers but typically has each game with a new cast on a new planet, living out a new story.

Now, here is an answer with a little more story and meat.

The world(s) of Arise are the twin planets Rena and Dahna. 300 years ago, the Renans who have both the magic and the technology because life is unfair invaded and conquered Dahna, and enslaved the populace. Now Dahna is divided into 5 realms, each ruled by a Renan Lord (and the lords can be female) who is armed with a Master Core--an extremely powerful mystic artifact, you know the type--linked to the element their realm is associated with. Each generation, the "Crown Contest" is held to decide which of the five reigning Lords will become the next Renan Sovereign, based on the amount of “astral energy” extracted from Dahna's population and environment (see the magical potential lives in the Dahnans too even though they supposedly can’t wield it and just house it) stored in the Master Cores in each Lord's possession.

With me so far? Now let’s meet our heroes.

Alphen, a Dahnan slave locked in an iron helmet (for what infraction nobody knows) who doesn’t remember much of his past--and, in fact, at first doesn’t even remember his original name and is just called Iron Mask. He is a SWEETHEART though even though he looks like he should be the “edgy” protag type when dressed in the dark armor that is his main outfit...well, his main outfit for those who haven’t unlocked the ability to dress him as a farmer or a in a towel and put bunny ears on him. The mask slowly breaks and chips away and I won’t say it’s symbolic or linked to recovered memories and him emotionally opening up but you can draw your own conclusions. It also allows him to wear a "judging you" face.

OH AND ONE MORE THING. Alphen cannot feel pain, again for reasons he doesn’t know. This is presented with drawbacks semi-realistically shown such as not realizing when he is injured or to what extent sometimes.

Our story kicks off when Alphen meets Shionne. Renan hunted by her own kind because she stole one of the master cores (and maybe not just for that). Tough, spirited, gorgeous, and also a sweetheart once you get to know her, she has her own agenda I won’t spoil but she is a traitor to her own kind who plans to steal all the master cores and kill all the lords--freeing slaves being more of a side effect than a goal at first.

Shionne was also born under a curse where anyone who touches her is caused extreme pain, making her real touch starved and lonely, so lucky she ran into the one person not effected by it.

That is literally just the beginning, only scratching the very surface of the two leads and not even introducing our other party members

Rinwell, (baby girl, baby, but also full of justified dark resentment toward Renans) a Dahnan who proves that whole “Dahnans can’t perform magic” thing false and who has a pet baby owl named HOOTLE that lives in her hood.

Law, another Dahnan, introduced as someone who sold out and reports on his fellows/helps the Renans enforce because that’s what you do to get by.

Then these two, Kisara and Dohalim, who show up to trigger some bisexual awakenings.

They have some great backstory too, but, you know I need to just sling some jokes before I ramble too much. That’s your intro. More details can be given upon request.

Great story, even if, like many JRPGs, you have to meet the story halfway and fill in a few holes in the third act or resign yourself to "it gets a bit confused"

Great characters and designs.

Good mix of serious and then silly breather scenes and hot springs trip sidequests and space aliens.

#tales of arise

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shinobirain24 · 3 years

Text

It was a Saturday afternoon and Weiss and Neptune held hands to meet his parents for the first time. It was then that the two looked at each other and blushed, smiling. "What's wrong, Snow Angel?" Asked Neptune.

Weiss ran her hand into her cheek in nervousness. Thinking of the reaction of his parents once introduced. "I don't know, Neptune. Ever since we got engaged. I am not sure how your parents would react, cause you know..." Weiss said.

Neptune figured that because she is a Schnee. She thought she would get rejected. But he knew otherwise that her personality counts and not her name. "Hey, don't worry about it. I am sure my parents would have to get to know you first. Least my brother won't be here to ruin the mood. On the bright side when I met your mom, she is actually nice, and too exciting when we told her the news."

-One month ago-

Willow gripped on Neptune's hand a bit tightly as she just got excited for their engagement. And saw some kindness in him. Unlike Weiss' father, Jacques. Weiss never saw this side of her mother before. Normally she would be more composed.

"Give me grandchildren!" She told him. Making Neptune eye-widened. Weiss is also jolted at this reaction.

"Mother!" Weiss and Whitley sighed.

-Present-

"Sorry about that. I never saw this side of my mother before. But she seemed better than before since my father is now gone." Weiss said. Even a bit shocked at her mother's reaction. She was glad that she accepted her fiancé. If her father were here, he would've went after him like a tyrant, which he already was.

"Hey, don't worry. I'm glad things gotten better since the wars." Neptune said. Recalling the events of meeting Willow. "Also, I might have to want you about my sisters." Neptune stammered. Weiss looked at him with surprise as m she did not know he has sisters.

"I don't know you have sisters." Weiss blinked. "What about them?"

"They are triplets, Vesta and Juno went to Haven together, while Ceres is a doctor, she's sweet and all, so there's nothing to worry about cause I think you might get along with her just fine. Needless to say, Juno and Vesta can be a bit of a powerhouse. It's safe to say they are overprotective of me. The last guy who picked on me got sent to the hospital after Juno and Vesta beat him up badly." Neptune rubbed the back of his head.

"Oh, I guess they couldn't help but love their little brother. Take it from my sister, she always believed I have to be on my own feet. But it doesn't stop her from helping me find my own ground." Weiss said.

Then minute they knocked the door. Weiss breathed a bit to keep calm when meeting others. Then when the door opened and Neptune's father Saturn is the first on the front door. "Son?" He greeted.

"Hey, dad. Sorry it's been too long...and..." Before he could say anything, Saturn greeted his son with a hug. "I am so happy you finally come for a visit!" He teared up. And then turned to Weiss. "Oh, who is this lovely young lady?" Weiss then introduced herself.

"Please to meet you, Mr. Vasilias. My name is Weiss Schnee, and your son is very wonderful." She smiled whole blushing at the same time seeing how sweet the reunion was between father and son. "It's a pleasure, Miss Schnee." He greets.

"Saturn, what's this all about?! I thought I heard panic, but..." His wife, Lydia covered her mouth in shock to see her son in person. She then launched herself into a hug. "My baby! Look how big you've grown!" She noticed his height almost as tall as her husband. "Great to see you too, mom."

Weiss is a bit astonished to see her fiancé's mother looking a bit younger than her husband. She must've been in good health. Lydia turned to Weiss and greeted her with a smile. "Oh my goodness. Neptune told me about you and you looked very beautiful!" Lydia squealed. As Weiss paled a bit that she never expect this kind of greeting before but did not say a word.

"Uh...thank you..." Weiss stammered. "You look also lovely as well." She told her back to ease up a bit. That's when Lydia gave her a hug, unexpectedly. The same reaction far joyful. Like Willow. "Come here!" She said. Weiss blushed, a little taken aback by the surprise. But tried to be polite. Then Lydia wrapped her arm around Weiss as she showed her the entrance. "Come on in, teriyaki and sushi can't eat themselves. Help yourselves!" She said cheerfully.

Then they all entered the house for a meeting. Later in the living room. "So I heard your sister is leading the military now, you must be very proud of her." Lydia said. Weiss nodded in agreement. "I am, she taught me in some way of gaining my own ground. Since my father is long gone, our family is free to chose our own paths."

Lydia sighed in relief for the mentioning of Jacques now deceased. "Well, I for one relieved. Ever since he framed Saturn for weaponry trafficking. I had to defend him in court. Not once he was ever locked up until now." Lydia recalled the case. This made Weiss paled a bit. But maintain her composure. "I for one, agreed. Not once did my father paid the price. I am also happy he is out of our lives."

"I am sure you don't deserve your father's treatment towards you. Your mother and I had been close at a young age. And for some reason, Jacques had been depriving her right to contact me. I couldn't help but feel bad for her. And as a result of the past, Jupiter grew to resent your sister."

"That I did not know. But once the wedding starts. You and my mother can make up for lost time." Weiss insisted. This got Saturn and Lydia surprised to hear that word. "You don't mean...?" They paused as Neptune and Weiss nodded as she showed them a silver ring that he used to propose to her. "Yep, he proposed to me." This brought joy.

Later, after the meeting. They decided to have some time to themselves. "Your parents are actually nice. Never have I thought they would be this joyful." Weiss admits. "From what I heard, your dad and your mom. They did work together on multiple cases. They seemed so happy together." Weiss said. A bit jealous that she never had parents like that.

"How so, Snow Angel?"

"The thing is, my parents were never like that. Form what I can remember, my father always kept his distance from my mother. All he did was give her a cold shoulder. For me, it was way harsher. The more I saw this, the more I thought some parents are like this, but it just wasn't right." Weiss told him.

"I get where you're coming from. Mom saw cases like that before. That's why I decided to work with law enforcement. To help others in need. When I was a kid. I used to call myself a coward. All those negative thoughts kinda blocked me from reality. I hate hurting others because of my semblance."

"Maybe that makes two of us. I'm glad you decided this yourself. I for one learned one thing. Seeing the world today, it was crazy, but it was also fun. If I were to still be an heiress, I wouldn't have met you today." Neptune took her by surprise by wrapping her arms around her in an embrace.

"You are the best one that's ever happened to me. I promised you, I'll do whatever so can for you. I don't care if you're a Schnee anyway. Your happiness is my happiness."

"Neptune, there's no need to be worked up about this! I appreciate it, really! But..."

"But I really mean it." Neptune finished. As they looked into each other's eyes.

Later, Saturn and Lydia present them the kimonos they were never familiar with. "Ta-da!" Lydia cheered. "Mom, what are these?" Neptune asked, a bit confused.

"These are what your father and I wore for our wedding! Black for the groom and white for the bride! Those are actually Mistral's traditional wear. Dont they look so beautiful?!" Asked Lydia.

Weiss and Neptune looked at each other. "Actually, they are. What do you think?" Neptune is at a loss for words. "I am not sure..."

"Come on, son. It won't hurt if you tried it on first." Saturn said. Suddenly they heard a crash from the kitchen and they ran to check it out. It was two of the triplets, Vesta and Juno. Standing above a Nevermore they killed and made a hole in the walls. "Haha! Another day, another Grimm down! Take that!" Vesta then paid attention to her parents. "Sorry, Daddy! Juno is not the type to find landing spaces." Vesta apologized while Juno is too busy celebrating another hunt completed.

"Guys, seriously?!" Neptune groaned. Then his sisters jumped off to hug him. "Our baby brother is back!" Making Neptune feeling embarrassed. "Nice to see you too! Please let me go!" Neptune pleaded while his sisters gripped on him, being overly affectionate. "Aw, come on, don't be baby! Just a few more minutes!" Juno cheered. Then eyed on Weiss. "Who is she?"

"Um...hi." Waved Weiss. Suddenly, Ceres came home from work in the hospital. "Daddy! I'm home! I heard Neptune's back and...!" Ceres paused to see her sisters and the Nevermore. The turned to Weiss. "You must me Weiss. It's nice to meet you. Sorry about my sisters. Also, I have to warn you. Don't get me wrong. I love my brother, but he is a flirt." She whispered the last thing near her ear.

"Don't worry about it, it's nice to meet you too." Ceres seems genuine, but more likely to save other girls from heartbreak. Since she seems to be gentle but strict out of the triplets. Not sure is her brother changed or not. "Ceres! I'm not that guy anymore!" Snapped Neptune.

"Don't worry, I knew you grown. I am sure your sisters are amazing too." Weiss assured. Then Lydia grasped her hand. The same reaction Willow had shown before. "Please say you'll give me grandchildren!" Pleaded Lydia. Making the rest of the Vasilias household, except Vesta and Juno, paled. "Mom!" Shouted Neptune.

"Lydia! It's too soon to ask something too personal!" Saturn joined Neptune. "Mom!" Added Ceres. As much as Saturn wanted grandchildren, he knows patience is a virtue. And Lydia did not seemed to get any older, physically. As for Vesta and Juno, they are getting too excited to have a niece or a nephew. But for Weiss and Neptune, it was getting too much. But decides to wait until things have calmed down a bit.

"Eeek! Did you hear that?!" Juno squealed.

"Yeah, just give us a niece or a nephew! I don't care!" The sisters held hands and jumped up and down. Much to the dismay of their third triplet sister, Ceres. "Vesta, Juno, not you too. Did you not see the damage you caused there." Ceres gestured at the broken walls. "Lighten up, sweet sister! Think of all the fun we can have with their kids!"

"Want my advice? Get yourselves some boyfriends." Ceres advised strictly. But they are not listening.

"So, when's the wedding?" Saturn asked. Awkwardly rubbing the back of his head. "We've been thinking a month later." Weiss replied. The couple looked at each other and smiled, knowing that it might not be a perfect wedding, but it will be a great time to spend with their families.

#rwby #rwby fanfic #weiss schnee x neptune vasilias #weiss schnee #neptune vasilias #weiss x neptune #iceberg rwby #rwby iceberg #rwby icy seas #icy seas

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another-snape-story · 4 years

Text

Merry Christmas

Chapter XXI

The days that followed were tough. You happened to visit The Department of Magical Law Enforcement every once in a week – although you were beyond suspicion, they always had new questions.

“They call me again.” The words that made Snape’s heart sink each time they were spoken. Once annoyed, the other time despaired – “They call me again,” you announced over and over again. Of course, this couldn’t pass by unnoticed without affecting your emotional state which kept worsening after every new attendance.

Snape felt you were getting estranged – from him, from the world around. It was unbearable seeing vigorous glint of your eyes gradually die out. Knowing your passion for nature walks, he used to take you outside whenever possible. Snowy landscapes along with fresh air worked wonders, and you were back again – distressed, tired, but still alive.

Support Severus gave you was huge, substantial, able to bring you to tears, which in your current condition was easy as pie. Immensely grateful for his regard, you felt like giving him the whole world in return. The more time you spent together, the stronger grew your sentiment for the man, until you realized you could no longer imagine your days without him. Relieved in the solace his presence offered, you wished you could nestle under his protective wing, shielded from all the horrors of cruel reality, and doze off in a long deep peaceful slumber.

You hated the moment Snape left you at your door late in the evening, afraid to stay alone with your thoughts or just selfishly unwilling to let him go – sometimes you seemed to forget he wasn’t your possession and had other things to take care of apart from you. The man’s become an indispensable part of your life, a vital part of you, which, if taken, would cause a fatal outcome. Little did you know you’ve become the such for him as well.

Looking you in the eyes as he put you on train, Snape struggled with desire to cup your face and make that one last step towards the edge to let you know his heart was beating for you and you only, to assure you were not alone, that you could count on him whatever happened. However, being a man of a rational mind, he admitted he was no good match for you – with heavy burden of his past and a vague chance for future – what could he give you? Moreover, he wasn’t hoping you’d accept him. How pathetic thinking you would!

Snape felt uneasy letting you go to London alone. Having grown exceedingly protective of you he couldn’t find any peace until you returned, safe and unharmed. During hours of your absence, Snape questioned himself what if the court found you were involved by implication? What if you decided not to prolong your contract with Hogwarts and left the school once the term was over? What would his life be like without you?.. Intrusive thoughts that scratched in the back of his mind aggravated all of his unpleasant traits, and students got to suffer Snape’s ill temper more severely than usual every time you were away.

“It’s over,” wearied, emotionally drained, you informed Severus when he met you at the station in Hogsmeade as he’s done since the process started.

“You told everything like we’ve agreed?” anxiety bubbling inside his chest, Snape intently examined your face to detect the slightest change in your expression trying to foresee the probable answer before you could utter a word.

The question reminded you about the dispute you had before your departure. You nodded weakly. Although you’ve chosen to follow Snape’s advice, you still were uncertain if you did the right thing.

“Good,” he approved calmly as befitted his usual composure, while a sudden yet so much anticipated relief made him feel dizzy. No one would take you from him, now he knew it for sure.

“He’s been sentenced to ten years,” your voice bleak and lifeless. “I should’ve told the truth. Should’ve told them it was all my fault.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Snape stepped closer, his hands reaching out for you.

“It’s unfair. That’s not what I intended.”

“Listen. It’s just the consequence of negligence,” he softly rubbed your shoulders. “Nothing more.”

“I know,” you sighed bitterly. “I know… But… I didn’t mean to ruin his life. Didn’t mean to…” you fell silent fighting back tears.

“He’d end up in prison anyway,” Snape stated with contempt, wishing the man who brought you so much trouble be damned. Snape realized you’d need time to finally get over all this and move on – and he was there to help you. “Let’s go back.” He led you along the platform covered with a thick layer of trampled snow dotted by hundreds of footprints.

“Have the students left already?” you asked indifferently just to switch the trail of thought.

“Yes. This morning.”

A ghost of a smile swept across your lips. “How was the feast?” sad notes in the tone of your voice revealed utter disappointment over a missed opportunity to attend one of the main school events.

“No trolls, no three-headed dogs,” he spoke apathetically. “Boring, in other words.” Snape could’ve probably been other opinion if you kept him company.

“Huh, I thought all the celebrations here had an element of surprise,” you sniggered recalling the night of Halloween. The night of Halloween! Quirrell… You knew Severus wouldn’t appreciate what you were going to tell him, but keeping it in secret after the risk taken would make no sense either way. Preparing for being told off, you listened to the snow creaking serenely under your feet.

“I saw Quirrell again,” you confided at last as you turned around the corner heading towards the carriage harnessed by a pair of Thestrals.

“And again you followed him?” Snape frowned disapprovingly, just as you would expect.

“Yes, but this t…”

“How many times have I told you not to mess with him?” he resented.

“And how many times have I mentioned I were not a child?”

“Leave him to me! Being ‘not a child’ isn’t enough!”

“Aren’t you even curious what I’ve seen?!” you huffed in disbelief. He’s never taken it so bad before.

“No! I’m not curious at all!” Snape raised his voice. “Merlin! He might be dangerous! Is it too complicated for your stubborn head to grasp the simple fact?”

“You speak this way to your students, not me!” you spat back. That was way too much. Who did he think he was?!

“I will speak to you the way you deserve unless you listen to me!” he hissed angrily.

“Oh is that what I deserve? Really?! After a month of interrogations with testifying at the trial on top of this SHIT-CAKE? Is that what I deserve?!” you burst out. “I listened to you and didn’t tell them it was me who purposely changed the data! And now I’ll have to LIVE with it!” yet you were shouting.

“At least you’ll live!” Snape growled in frustration. He shouldn’t have spoken to you this way. Living in constant fear for your fate, holding back all the doubts that ate on him while he played confidence assuring you everything was going to be all right, but actually having no idea how the things might’ve turned out was a real torture – no wonder, he still resembled a bare nerve when it came to the matter of your safety. Always composed and collected, this time Snape failed to restrain his emotions.

Although he regretted it immediately, it was too late for remorse. Exasperated, pissed with his tone, you rushed past the carriage. “I’ll walk!”

Trying to stop you, Snape grabbed your elbow. You spun around, shooting him a vicious look which shattered Snape’s puny hope you would accept his apology. “Get in,” he said calmly. “I will walk.”

“FINE.” You abruptly freed yourself from his grip and climbed inside.

The carriage set off.

You laid your head on the backrest, tears streaming down your cheeks. This scene was easy to be avoided, but, as ill luck would have it, everything came together at the breaking point. Of course, he was worrying about you. No one ever had. Yet he did. He placed your interests over his own. How many days, how many nights he has spent comforting you! Fixated on your problems, you’ve never taken into consideration when he has managed to keep up with his work… after spending hours and hours and hours with you… Anger struggling with an expanding feeling of guilt and gratitude tore your soul apart.

But his tone! You crossed your arms on your chest, still doubting whether to forgive him. His tone hurt!

The window hole offered a wonderful performance of trees and bushes garmented into gentle niveous covering slowly dancing along the road. As much as you loved winter, the other day you’d hardly be able to take your eyes off this fairy picture, but now it seemed to just dishearten you. You turned away – the vacant seat beside you gaped with pervasive emptiness – same that you felt inside. Severus used to take it, right next to you. Once, you’ve even fallen asleep on his shoulder… A memory brought a dolorous smile to your face. You missed him. You missed him so bad. What just happened wasn’t right. It should’ve been different. Moreover, on a day like this.

You gave a sign for the carriage to stop and stormed out – you haven’t gone too far – he’d catch up with you soon. Wading through the snow, you hurried back to reunite with the man so dear to your heart as soon as possible. In his black coat he should be an easy target to spot, but Snape was nowhere to be seen. Frozen to the bone, you found yourself standing on the place where you left him. Despaired, you looked around – not a single soul.

“Severus!” you called him desperately, a lump in your throat growing thicker as you tried to hold it in. “Sev…” Everything’s gone so wrong.

Lost the last bit of hope – despondent and wretched – you sobbed into the void, scoffing grievously at yourself, “Merry Christmas…” Perhaps, you deserved it indeed.

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#snape #severus snape #snape x reader #severus snape x reader #snape fanfiction #severus snape fanfiction

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ronsenburg · 3 years

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i saw this post and IMMEDIATELY started writing an essay, so I moved it here so as not to clutter up someone else’s post...........

it absolutely blows my mind that, today in 2021, i honestly can’t remember what’s canon from the turnabout serenade case, what i read in a fanficition, and what is my own personal HC. like, it’s been more than a decade since i played the case for the first time and it’s probably been 5ish years since the last time i played AJ (definitely forgot to play it again before writing youngblood which is.... contributing to this) so i really don’t know if what goes on in my head is accurate, but, over the years, i’ve come up with a Lot of Thoughts, which i’ll discuss below.

tldr; it’s all about power (the desire for, the subversion of, the need to maintain), but if you’d like the specifics, here you go:

daryan: i think the explanation that he did it for “the money” is a line. please don’t mistake me, daryan is an asshole and a murderer, im not discounting that, but in court ive always thought that he was playing the part that everyone- especially klavier- is expecting of him. he’s the bad guy. might as well make it a finale for the books.

i’ve always seen daryan and klavier as opposite sides of the same coin when it comes to family and career aspirations. where i imagine klavier came from a well off and well loved family before his parents died, i see daryan from a working class, difficult upbringing. i read a few papers on the psychology of children/parenting style of police officers and decided early on that daryan’s dad was also a cop. his mother is either dead or (more likely) left them early on. dad coped by working a little too hard, gambling/drinking a little too much, and was overall not around a lot and kind of an authoritarian/controller when he was. it left daryan with a lot of anger he had to cope with, about what it means to be a cop, the idea of a “just cause” and the ends justifying the means, and an issue with authority (which is laughable, considering what a bully he turned out to be. sometimes we emulate our parents unintentionally; it’s the only thing we have to model our behavior on). so daryan started off at a disadvantage. klavier started off loved and supported and surrounded by expensive belongings, but the death of his parents and the subsequent emotional and financial abuse by his newly appointed guardian/brother left him in a similar place by the time he and daryan met. i think it was probably the foundation for their bond, and i think it’s why klavier decided to become a prosecutor instead of following in his brother’s footsteps and why daryan ultimately decided to enter law enforcement as well. i think they had a lot of optimistic, idealistic thoughts on being better than the people that hurt them, on utilizing the law to make the world a better place. i don’t think klavier ever conceived that kristoph could have wanted him in the prosecutors office as another pawn to play, and i don’t think he realized how fluid daryan’s morality could be.

shipping alert—you guys know me, im crazy for the idea of a “best friends to on again off again lovers to tenuous coworkers to bitterly disappointed in but still harboring feelings for the other person despite being on opposite sides” dynamic between daryan and klavier. i honestly can’t separate the ship from the case and im sorry about it. if you read youngblood you know that i think daryan started to resent klavier pretty early on, when they were still together, when the band was still successful, because klavier was able to move forward and work through the issues of his past while daryan was seemingly stuck. yes, daryan had made detective and the gavinners were a hit, he’d risen above his initial social standing and thrown off the control his father, he had money and fame and a future. but everything he had was because of klavier. daryan needed klavier, emotionally, morally, financially. but even when klavier was professing his love for daryan, both privately and in the form of chart topping songs, he didn’t need daryan. it was obvious (and of course, healthy, but how do children of abuse learn what a healthy relationship looks like without help? especially when the only relationships you’ve ever had are codependent and, in some ways, just as toxic?) and so things spiraled. daryan got possessive and angry again and klavier got distant and they broke up and got back together and broke up and didn’t get back together but kept ending up back in each other’s arms for comfort and for support and because how the hell do you move on when the person you’ve been in love with since you were 15 is sitting next to you on a tour bus and is also your partner in a homicide case and singing songs he wrote about you on stage in front of thousands of screaming fans?

okay, shipping glasses off, sorry. but no matter how you look at their relationship, daryan’s promotion out of homicide was probably the most distance they’d had from each other in years, as it removed a large chunk of the daily “working relationship” aspect. and without klavier there to act as a moral compass, it was likely easier to slip back into his earlier thoughts about what constitutes justice and his intense hatred of being pushed around by someone who has more power than you. so enter the chief justice with a son who is sick, dying even, but can’t get the medicine he needs because there’s a government out there telling them no. The reasons are arbitrary: the medicine could be used as a poison and can’t be found anywhere else so it might come back to bite the country in the ass if it’s misused by criminals. newsflash: pretty much all medicine is poisonous if it isn’t used correctly, should we stop using penicillin entirely because some people might be allergic to it? they’ve essentially condemned a whole bunch of people to death because they’re worried about their reputation. and that doesn’t sit well with daryan, who is caught up remembering the bullshit justifications his dad would spout when he knocked him around, that kristoph would give when withholding every single penny of money klavier was entitled to until he agreed to do what kristoph wanted. it isn’t right, it isn’t fair and unfair laws shouldn’t have to be upheld, especially when they’re the unfair laws of a country you most definitely did not swear to uphold and protect. it was never about money, though daryan agrees to take it when the chief offers it to him, more for his comfort level than for daryan’s need or desire. it’s about justice and putting a bully in it’s place with a (seemingly) victimless crime that should be so easy given his role in the international division of criminal affairs and klavier’s sudden hard on for the country of borginia. seriously, how could this have been any more straightforward? daryan is capable of murder, though. all cops are. and if it came down to a “them or me” shootout, of course he’d pull the trigger.

machi: when you come from nothing, the desire to have something of your own is overwhelming. the idea that machi is famous and financially set is disingenuous; he is not individually famous, he is Lamiroir’s “blind” pianist. yes, she views him as a son and seems to care deeply for him, but his main purpose in her life is to perpetuate a lie. machi has been abandoned before; what will happen to him if lamiroir suddenly remembers who she was in the past? what if she has a family and a true son of her own and has no use for him? what if their secret is found out and the public rejects him for his role in it? he is 14. what does he know about being provided for? about contracts and trust funds and royalties? he ended up in an orphanage originally because he was unwanted, and that led to a life of poverty and hardship. abandonment issues are rooted in fear and are rarely logical. i find it far easier to believe that machi did it for the money, but more for the power money might have given him towards independence in an unfeeling and capitalist world.

kristoph: i won’t get into this, because this is supposed to be about daryan and machi and the guitar’s serenade, and kristoph is not really involved in that at all. but i think everything that kristoph has ever done in the game, good or bad, is rooted in a pathological need to constantly be in control. i think that kristoph and klavier both have very intense personalities that they have sought to control over the course of their lives for the sake of their careers. kristoph believes that to be a good lawyer, you need to play your cards close to your chest, that to show your hand is to expose a weakness that the enemy can exploit, that to show no weaknesses at all places you in a position of power. klavier believes that to show his true self, to display his weaknesses and fears to the public, would result only in their rejection. as such, they both wear masks of their own creation even under the most intense of pressures: kristoph as pleasant and calm, klavier as magnetic and dynamic. note the primary difference in their rational? klavier wants to be wanted, while kristoph wants power. and power corrupts, after all. once you have it, what could be more overwhelming than the idea that you might lose it all? it can drive even the most rational people to commit acts of passionate irrationality in the name of holding on to that power. and kristoph has so many pieces involved in his strategy to maintain.

#i love daryan crescend i'm so sorry #i cut this to spare you all the pain of my rambling and also my inability to use caps and proper punctuation #gonna tag this as klavdar so you can avoid it just in case it bothers you #i think it's hilarious that this is JUST AS MUCH ABOUT KLAVIER as it is about any of these other people #shut up krissy #i have a lot of feelings about this case okay #man i'm still obsessed with lamiroir and machi's portrayal in 'dirty sympathy'#excellent stuff i'm going to go read that again #klavdar #i don't think i ever managed to squeeze in my hc about the specifics of kristophs abuse towards klavier into any fics #specifically the financial aspects of it #but its absolutely an effective weapon #klavier's money from his parents would absolutely be in a trust and controlled by kristoph until he was legally able to access it #he would have to ask kristoph for EVERYTHING #can you imagine how easy that would be for kristoph to turn against him? as a means of control? i just......#broke: kristoph physically abused klavier when he was a kid #woke: kristoph didn't have to abuse klavier when he could manipulate him so completely with money and mind games #all the while making klavier believe that he was truly looking out for him and any hurt klavier experienced was selfish and misguided #and klavier's fault #:|

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hngrylikethewoolf · 3 years

Text

Cry Wolf, Bleed Red || Errigan

IN WHICH...Errol's work behind the scenes on a case he was mysteriously handed months ago finally comes to fruition. He travels to London, information asked of him in hand (or, rather, hidden but nearby) and allows his curiosity to finally pull him toward the person in question. Little does he know that he already knows then, and he's possibly bit off more than he can chew. Then again, when hasn't he?

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Blood, Violence, Guns, Improper Medical Treatments, Errol’s Shady Military Shit (i.e. Special Forces) Mentioned, Death

[BACKDATED JULY 19TH, 2021] @professorofcrimeratigan

ERROL:

He never thought he'd be back in London so soon.

There was a certain hunger in this city, just a Bart away from the town he had put roots down in for the last two years, the town he had never thought that he would stay in for more than a few months nor find people to care about within it. But that wasn't what this was. This was something else entirely, a maneuvering, a life-sized game of chess and shadows.

The life Errol had lived by the hand of a state and had thought he'd put to bed with a medical discharge and its night terrors. This case had deemed it otherwise, however, and so here he was, rucksack in hand and information at the ready.

It seemed someone wanted to kill this mysterious shadow he'd been tracking and they couldn't have that, now, could they? Regardless of what the man might or might not be involved in, Errol could cite plausible deniability. He'd grown particularly fond of the shadowy bastard, after all. Or, as much as one could without knowing their face.

The sheriff had made the appropriate arrangements to get himself to the city, the flash drive of information he held in hand a culmination of every skill he possessed. It had been damn hard to unravel, but it had been done, in the end.

And the results were alarming enough that he walked, dressed in civilian garb, knife and handgun hidden on his person, to a predetermined meeting to discuss it.

RATIGAN:

It went without being said that he did not want to be here.

Usually he wouldn’t— his involvement in things like this were slim to none. That was the benefit of where he sat at the head of the table, there were so many people working under him that he rarely had to lift a finger let alone carry out a job himself. Obviously the circumstances for him to be here, in person, had to be special.

Or, as it was, dire.

This situation had blown itself out of proportion. He had only anticipated a slight ripple in the pond when he had sent the head sheriff on the case. The man he had wanted arrested and put on display for his wrongdoings had more to him than Ratigan previously thought. And what was worse, the sheriff had been quite good at his job. So good that he had uncovered the plot against him faster than Ratigan had and if he hadn’t been so angry at the notion that someone had been working against all he had built, he would have been highly offended by this. He could deal with that and all it implied later, for now he had information to obtain. Ever since the slip up last year that had resulted in the getting bitten Ratigan’s paranoia for things like this had grown substantially. And with the promise of an attempt to overtake his empire he knew he couldn’t trust anyone else to oversee the workings of this plot. While he would not face the sheriff in person, he would be there to make sure the information was obtained.

They had been tracking the sheriff’s movements as he moved about the city— and this late night stroll was no exception. They had already gone through the room the man was staying in looking for the evidence he had collected, only to come up empty handed. Unfortunately he was smart enough to know the safest place for it would be on his person.

“Where’s he going?” Fidget asked from the driver’s seat. The rest of the crew that had been assembled would be close behind, their wardrobe had needed an upgrade for this change of plans.

“Seeing as he is not in uniform, I think our sheriff is trying to infiltrate the enemy’s line undercover,” he sighed, annoyed by this turn of events. It had made all of this needlessly complicated. “And yet he has not informed anyone else of his intentions.”

“...what’s that mean?”

“It means we’ll be playing his back up.”

ERROL:

At the back of his mind, waking down the street, the sheriff was running over the list of information he had. Of course, it wasn't on him, not really. That would have been stupid. But, then again, so would leaving it just lying around so anyone could waltz into his room and find it.

(He would be surprised if they hadn't done so already, actually. He hadn't been gone long, but there would have been time in between. It would have been what he'd done.)

No, the flash drive was safe and hidden somewhere no one would think it to be, a trick he'd learned during his stint pretending not to exist for twenty years. Hiding in plain sight was easy. Acting like a civilian was easy, too, but Errol still felt eyes watching him with every step he'd taken.

There was a certain feeling one had to recognizing they had a tail. It started at the base of the spine, the pit of your stomach, a bit of a tingling as it raised the hairs on your arms, the back of your neck. Skin stippling with the gooseflesh that dotted your flesh. An alarm that rang off in your head, telling you there was someone there but that if you acted normal, acted ordinary they wouldn't know.

This notion flashed through his brain in only a few seconds. It was easy to pick out from his other, more inane, thoughts. The sheriff thought about how he should have worn full Kevlar, how there was a nagging sense that things were going to go poorly, but that he knew if he was to be searched a vest would have given him away. Errol had been undercover before. He knew how it worked.

It still didn't make the feeling go away.

Errol ducked into the closest coffee shop, the smell of it detectable a mile away and where he had been heading this whole time. He wove in between customers, snagging bits and bobs as he went by, a genteel smile on his face as he pocketed money, fake stumbled into someone and took a scarf to cover his face and neck, a dark beanie hat he shoved over his curls.

He was in and out of the area in about a minute, parts of himself concealed that had not been previously, pilfered coffee in hand. The back door made little noise as it swung on its hinge, his boots making more noise as trash and alley goo squelched beneath them.

He was at the mouth of the alley, turning back onto the main street, when a solid impact to the ridge of his shoulder had him spun into the bricks, startling him. Automatically, he glanced up. No sniper in sight, but then if there were, they weren't a good one. They'd missed his head, if that had been the target. Errol had stumbled but he hadn't fallen, a glancing ricochet of a bullet off his shoulder strong enough to move him, so he rolled his arm and kept moving, weaving seamlessly back into the crowd with a grimace on his face and the smell of blood in his nostrils.

They wanted him alone, but the safest place was amidst people.

A trap, however, was never ideal. Not unless it was his, and the gun at his hip said it would be.

RATIGAN:

“What’s he doin’ now?” Fidget leaned over to get a peak at the screen while they were stopped at a red light.

If there was one thing that Ratigan did not miss it was the population of the city and all that accompanied it— traffic being among the top 10 behind all the other environmental determinants and housing crises it perpetuated.

“Gettin’ coffee?” The driver cackled, head tilting back slightly as he let out his amusement. Ratigan simply rolled his eyes at the sound and leaned against the arm rest so that he could rub at his temple. He knew by now what he was getting into when being alone with Fidget and yet there he was, making the mistake all over again. (Yet another reason he would resent the sheriff for his actions after this.)

This was why he did not miss being a part of the field work. He could remember the days when he would sit for hours on end in the dark listening to the conversations of that of his mark or between people who would soon lead him to where he needed to go. The inane, unintelligible nature of them. Back then when he had nothing but himself and the lone weapon the family would lend to him upon giving him his instructions. How different it was now, with a whole team and technology his brain had not even fathomed into existence back then.

Of course, his insides were all the same— filled with black like tar of vitriol. He would always be that creature that roamed the shadows of the world like a wraith, observing the people around him in an attempt to mirror their movements and expressions. All in the hope that in the few moments he did step out into the light, it would be enough to convince those that saw him that he was derived from the same beginnings.

“I don’t get it,” Fidget started up again, making Ratigan breath in deeply, preparing for what was to come. “Why can’t we just take him out? Why all this chasing?”

“Because, Fidget, there’s no point in that.” Even if it would have been more fun compared to this absolute mess. “Despite his superiors' lack of interest, he is still law enforcement.”

“Suddenly we care about Scotland Yard?”

“No, but should he die they will be informed and all will be lost to that failed organization of so called investigators.” He glanced up and rolled his eyes again at Figet’s confused stare. “If he dies now someone else will take over this case and since an officer died while investigating it there will be more interest, as well as all that he has already managed to dig up. I have no doubt our half will be untraceable but the people targeting the sheriff are not so careful, and I do not intend to let the police get involved. These people are mine to deal with. The police will just get in my way and they do not deserve prolonged hope of life.”

Fidget nodded slowly. After a moment he asked, “What’s he doin’ now?”

ERROL:

There was something like single mindedness that could narrow a man's focus down into pinpoints, the tunnel vision of pain or fear of the smell of his own blood sending him off to do something stupid. Errol couldn't afford that feeling.

He breathed in through his mouth and out through his nose, kept his shoulder as protected as he could, edging through a small crowd of people. Tried not to flinch when something whizzed past his good ear and struck the concrete in a small spray of dust. Another miss again but this time more purposeful, an indication that whoever was herding him didn't care that other people were involved.

Hell, they probably barely cared that he was police. It would be more trouble for them in the long run if they killed him, he knew, but he wouldn't put it past them. This group wasn't exactly smart, they were just ruthless. Or, well, what amounted to their version of it anyway.

The car that had been following him wasn't their handiwork, though. It was a bit too subtle, save for the fact that he'd seen it too often to be coincidental. He glanced toward it, briefly, with a smile as he stepped off the curb and jogged across the street, switching sides to the less populated areas. Errol's left hand rested on the gun settled at his hip, jaw clenching as he jarred his shoulder. The knife was already hooked around his thumb, the handle curled into his palm.

RATIGAN:

Ratigan had taken his eyes off the tablet for a moment when one of the other members of the crew had sent him the text that they had hit a slight delay but would be on their way soon. He cursed silently to himself.

The police really were just a bunch of pests, weren’t they? Ironic that them holding up these people would only put one of their own in danger. Normally this would have delighted Ratigan but knowing what could be lost and what was at stake only made him frown.

Ever since the sheriff had uncovered more than was expected in this investigation anger had begun to simmer under his skin. All that kept him from getting lost to it and putting his fist through any given surface was that he had been trained not to— but it was a near thing. This was not how his plans were supposed to go. He was careful, thought through every perceivable outcome thoroughly before making his move and planning accordingly. It was why his systems worked so sufficiently, why those who had entered into his game rarely complained of how things worked since they did not have to pay attention to the system they were working with. It was simply there to make sure their world moved along smoothly and without those in it having to worry about the semantics.

But, as this whole affair had shown, not everyone enjoyed the efficiency. Wanting to revert back to the ways things used to be run. That thought alone made him want to smash his fist through the window beside his ear. (Given the extra strength from the bite, he knew his fist would go through the bulletproof glass.)

When he looked back, the dot had gone off course— this time he cursed aloud.

ERROL:

The silence of this side of the street was unnerving, enough to make any normal person turn on their heel and stride back into the crowds. Errol wasn't most people, certainly wasn't normal, and he breathed calmly when most people would have started panicking.

That first scuffle of sound further down made the famous words of Admiral Ackbar ( it's a trap! ) ring in his ears. He hated the feeling that coursed through his veins, the adrenaline of it all. He didn't have anyone to back him up, save for the car that had been following, quite obviously, behind. But even they were too far away right now. Both Dublin and Delilah were back in Swynlake.

He felt the loss of the dogs keenly when he was rushed from his left side, a large beast of a man all but hooking his hands under Errol's arms and throwing him into the wall across from him. Probably done to try to get rid of his weapons, or maybe just to be a tit, but the slag certainly didn't expect for him to clamber to his feet, snarl in his face, and cut his belly open.

Served him right, Errol thought, watching as he slumped to the dirty floor, and kept moving. He limped more visibly this time, the impact he'd sustained cracking his head against the brickwork and wrenching his hip. Everything else was sore, pounding with an ache he hadn't felt in ages. The thought crossed his mind that this was what they'd wanted, to get him into a secluded area before trying to pick him off. It made frustration well up in his chest.

He'd been so worried about someone else being hurt, had reverted back to that mindset, that Errol had forgotten what was at stake here. Namely, whose life would be taken if he didn't play his hand expertly. Like a chess match, and one that he was currently losing.

The sheriff took his own advice and turned back the way he'd come, picked his way carefully toward the more populated areas. He wasn't quite back at the street yet when a loud banging sound from behind him made him heave a sigh and adjust his grip on the tactical handle curled in his grip. The blade was slick with blood and gore. He'd need to clean all of his weapons later, make them shine again.

A slight grimace curled around his mouth when he turned and noticed not one but four men blocking the only other exit. Errol should have kept walking, could have, but the people that streamed past the alley entrance had no clue what violence was about to be wrought a few feet away. He really shouldn't make them aware of it. That was when people, more than himself, got hurt.

He made the first move, not waiting for his assailants to attack first. Every movement was economical, purposeful and forceful, and the surprise on each of their faces as he came closer, drove them back through the doorway of the building off to the side, and dispatched them neatly one by one was almost amusing.

Unlike their boss, they hadn't done their homework. It was clear they'd had no idea what he was capable of, even injured.

It was almost laughable.

The blade of his knife cut through throats and tendons, his free hand helping block attacks that came to close, snapped arms like toothpicks when they came at him. The gun at his hip stayed where it was; bullets went through buildings. He didn't need to shoot someone walking outside.

The men in the room, most now crumpled dead to the floor, had no such qualms. Handguns lay scattered around them, quickly dispatched and removed from the equation. One of them had hit their mark ( clearly they weren't taught how to shoot ) and exited through his side. Another caught his leg, tearing into the meat of his thigh. He'd stumbled, but kept moving. He could worry about it later.

When all was said and done, the engagement lasted for only a short while. Blood covered Errol's hands, clothes and face. His chest heaved from the exertion of the fighting, but he still stood on his own two feet, if a bit less stable now.

The next three came a few moments later, or so he thought. This time, he had his gun in hand, stance shifted to keep his balance from wavering. If he could see his own face, he wouldn't recognize it.

He had survived, but the part of him that would have been sickened was nowhere to be found in his eyes.

RATIGAN:

In the time it took for the sheriff to be corralled the crew had finally bypassed the delay and were moving in on the location within their assigned groups. The first few had been able to navigate to where Ratigan had relayed the location. The description of the carnage was not his priority, the bodies could be taken care of later. He wanted to know where the sheriff had run off to and whether or not he was still able to give them the answers he needed.

This organization (if that’s really what they were calling themselves) had only been the instigators. The top of the pyramid. What he needed were the names of everyone that had been willing to place themselves underneath to hold them up. He could find them, but that could take time— something that he was not willing to give them to reorganize. Or run.

He let out a frustrated noise and cut off Himari, assigned leader of this particular operation, before she could finish describing the injuries the men had sustained. “Does anyone have eyes on him?”

Only static replied. He sighed, hitting his head back against the headrest. “Pull over.”

“But boss we don’t even—”

“Fidget.” Ratigan’s voice fell into a low warning. “Pull over.”

The driver didn’t need to be told a third time.

Ratigan stepped out of the car and onto the busy sidewalk they had pulled up beside. “We’ll need to follow on foot.”

Fidget gave a short nod, reaching forward to turn off the ignition. He checked his person to make sure he had his weapons on him before stepping out to join Ratigan on the sidewalk. The two made an odd pair standing next to one another, one short and shifty as he glared at everyone who passed by who eyed him oddly while the other stood in an elegant line as he buttoned his suit’s jacket with no concern for anyone else.

“I’ll be with you shortly,” Ratigan said, turning to find Fidget looking up at him from under his well worn jaxon cap. He received a confused lift of an eyebrow.

“Where’re you gonna be?”

“I’ve just said I’ll be joining you soon.”

“But—”

“Trust me, Fidget.” Ratigan smiled, the sound of it evident in his voice. “Go help the others, you’ll know when I’ve arrived.”

He began down the pavement in the opposite direction of where his people had entered the building. Fidget watched him as he went only when he blinked, the man had disappeared among the various figures. (He hated it when he did that.)

The first team consisted of three people, all dressed in police uniforms and they had arrived at the scene in the car to match. The second and third groups would do the same, all dressed as some form of local law enforcement because who would question the presence of police at a crime scene where one of their own was in harm’s way?

They moved in silence, following the silent hand signals of Himari as they made their way toward the sounds of fighting. The closer they got the easier it was to make out the groans of pain and bullets sounding off despite being suppressed by silencers under all the yelling. Along the way they took out the men that had been loading their weapons to join in against what appeared to be a one man army.

When they had reached the nearest hallway the two other groups had announced that they were in position. (One had taken out the set of snipers, the others had taken care of those that were waiting around the perimeter of the block.)

Himari stepped forward to look into the room, eyes roaming the men inside until she could see the figure they were there for. She pulled back, relaying his position to the other members of the team so that they wouldn’t take him out by mistake, and then gave the final signal.

With that they all stepped inside and took their shots. The rest of the men that had been gaining their ground on the sheriff were taken out within the span of a few seconds. Everyone entered the room, guns trained on their marks and checking over the bodies to collect the weapons and ensure that they wouldn’t be getting up anytime soon.

Fidget, having joined the secondary team, approached the sheriff alongside Himari. They shared a glance with one another that communicated their concern for him. (Not because they cared for his life, but they feared what would become of them should their boss not get the outcome he desired from this.) Fidget flicked his head forward for Himari to take this one. She rolled her eyes at him— he had always been a scaredy cat. Especially when staring down a man covered in blood surrounded by a trail of bodies.

“Sheriff Woolf,” she said softly, holding her hands up as she approached with measured steps. “We’re here to help you. Please lower your weapon so we can do so.”

Somewhere outside the distant roar of sirens had everyone looking up in alarm.

ERROL:

The sheriff panted, winded by his own injuries, and finally laid the last gun down to rest, dismantled where he stood with a few deft movements of his hand. He'd kept away from windows, knowing snipers lay beyond (though based upon their shooting, he highly doubted their ability to hit anything vital).

The last body had fallen, but it wasn't by his own doing. As it stood, however, there were about ten or so bodies sprawled at his feet, all incapacitated by a tactical knife, a snapped neck, or their own weapon. The kills had been clean, efficient, and would have made any normal person's stomach roll. To Errol, it had just been another brush with death, the training from the SRR put to use when he needed it. Looking at the carnage, Errol was fairly certain the bastard had it out for him after he'd been cheated twice before.

The team that moved in toward him, however, were not familiar. They had also been late, and he leaned against the wall at his back to keep himself from swaying as he studied them. Fatigue was finally taking over, the adrenaline running its course, and the pain in his leg was no longer a dull throb, but he still had information to give.

Stripping the scrap from his neck while two of the team spoke in hushed tones, Errol made a makeshift tourniquet just above his wound. The sluggishness of his movement upward suggested he had lost a fair amount of blood, more than he had believed.

The sound of the siren was a relief, made his shoulders inch downward from their defensive position, but he still bared his teeth at the woman when she came closer and raised his knife.

"While I appreciate t' assistance, I ain't sayin' shite tah any o' ye. T' information 've got 's fer yer boss. No one else." He turned his gaze to rake through the crowd of people clustered around the room on instinct, a sardonic laugh pulled from his chest as he spied one of the men on his list of information. Errol pointed toward him, a smirk on his face. "An' 'at rat bastard 's why. Wouldna trust 'im if I was ye, luv, he'd stab ye in t' back fer a few extra pounds."

Errol didn't like bastards like him. His commanding officer, the one who hadn't died, had been one of them. The contempt was palpable in his gaze, a hatred there that was more than just about the information he had. Two of the other team grabbed the one he'd pointed out by the arms and dragged him out the back of the building half of them had come through, unconcerned with the fact that he was struggling.

Good.

Errol did another sweep of the room, then, and found no one else he'd memorized the names and faces of plus all the information he'd gathered (legally and...not so legally) on them. It was only then that he put his knife back into its place on his person.

Nodding toward the exit, Errol spoke not to the woman who had come toward him but the lad in the jaxom cap, a slight grin on his face. "Show me where yer boss is, eh, lad? He'll want t' information 've got, an' yer t' only one that didna travel wif t' rest o' 'em."

It was as he took his next, limping steps, that Errol sagged a bit, tiredness and blood loss finally, and firmly, grabbing hold.

"Lad," he called, motioning for him to hurry up, as best he could, anyhow. Errol had noticed the prosthetic the moment he'd walked through the door. When the younger man finally edged closer, Errol dropped his voice so he could speak, the words serious. "Yer boss isna jus' dealing with a mutiny, like he thought. They're tryin' tah kill 'im."

RATIGAN:

Fidget blinked at the man, eyes wide from both fear and general shock at being addressed. How had this guy known who he was? Or that he worked right under the boss? How had he pulled all this off on his own? How was he standing and talking right now when he looked like he had stepped right out of a scene in some horror movie?

Just who the hell was he?

Himari stepped back over to them before he could even process what he had just been told.

“Sorry to interrupt but there will be enough time for this later, we’ve got to move.” She turned her dark eyes onto Fidget. “The boss isn’t answering. Do you know where he is?”

“Uh, no. No, he disappeared.” He made a motion with his hand and blew on it, as if trying to depict smoke.

Her jaw clenched a few times before she spoke again. “Did he say anything to you before that?”

“Yeah. Yeah, yeah, he uh— he said that he would meet us here! Yeah!” Fidget smiled up at her, proud of himself for remembering but she only rolled her eyes.

“What’s going on?” Landon, sturdy both in build and on any job, came over to join the commotion. “What’re we doing? We moving him out of here or what?”

“Yes.” Himari leaned in closer, “I just don’t know how far he’ll make it.”

Landon eyed the man they had come here for in the first place from over her shoulder. The sheriff already looked like he was a few inches in the ground; maybe the information he had was better left with him. All this trouble for one man, and what for? Because he couldn’t keep a secret? It wasn’t like they could leave him alive after all this anyway. They could just explain to the boss that they hadn’t gotten there in time— that it had been too late. His fingers curled, arm lifting slightly so his thumb brushed against his weapon holster.

“H, we’ve got an ambulance pulling up outside. What do you want us to do?” Mandy, who was posted outside, asked, voice coming over the comm. It made everyone pause.

Landon and Himari shared a look before she reached up to press a finger to the talk button.

“Confirm if they’re real or not. If it’s more of these guys deal with them but secure the vehicle. If they’re the real deal, keep them out there.” She turned to address the sheriff. “Can you walk?”

“Uh, H?” Mandy interrupted.

“I told you—”

“I know, but H—”

“What?” Himari snapped, annoyed at the unusual backtalk. But no one had to answer as the door was shoved open.

A man, dressed in the green paramedic uniform complete with the fluorescent green night jacket, came through the door pushing a stretcher with a medical bag on top. He paused when everyone in the room holding a weapon aimed them at him, raising his hands and looking rather annoyed when someone shined their flashlight right in his face.

“While I appreciate everyone’s professionalism, we don’t have time for this.”

ERROL:

The sheriff's eyes flickered between the young man in front of him, the woman who thought she ran the joint, and the man with the itchy trigger finger. The last one is who he focused on, squaring his shoulders and baring his teeth in a slight snarl at the man, his own hand edging toward the gun at his hip.

Errol might have looked like hell, but he was a stubborn bastard. The only thing that would kill him would be something on his own terms. This? Wasn't it.

"Aye, I can walk. But keep t' whelp away from me."

Staring Landon in the eye and lifting his chin, snarl still in place, the radio chirped that there was an ambulance pulling up outside, giving them all pause. Errol, however, just waited. There was no need to panic, not to him anyway. It gave him a good chance to watch the way this team operated, anyhow.

With the other information he'd gleaned--that their boss had disappeared but that he'd said he would meet them, that they intended to move Errol himself somewhere, but wouldn't say where--Errol figured the boss was here. Besides, the people walking around outside wouldn't have heard anything, let alone sent an ambulance. How could they? He'd not used his gun, every other one had silencers attached to their barrels.

If he had learned one thing during his time working both undercover and for the government it was that no one paid attention to the world around them. Certainly, not when something was right underneath their noses.

So, unlike the rest of the people milling about, Errol didn't raise a weapon when a man walked through the door. He cocked a brow and crossed his arms across his chest, shifting so he kept a bit of the weight off his leg. When the man, pushing a stretcher and its accompanying medical equipment, stepped into the room and raised his hands and head, a snort escaped from the sheriff, amused and chagrined at the sight of a familiar face.

The woman who appeared to be leading this little operation glanced at him from the corner of her eye but Errol didn't pay her any mind. Instead, a lopsided grin broke across the sheriff's face and he started laughing, quietly, to himself.

While he was surprised, the information he had gathered made more sense now and all the pieces of before fell into place around it. Certainly the fact that he'd been given the investigation. He knew the man they were trying to kill, after all.

"Ye know, I should be surprised an', yet, I ain't," he mused, unfolding his arms to run a hand down his face, pulling a face when it came away bloody. "But I s'pose it makes sense, really." He had, fleetingly, of course thought something of Ratigan, but those thoughts were neither fit for present company nor along the lines of 'international criminal.' More...WitSec for a crime he'd witnessed, maybe a turncoat to his organization, but not that Pedram Ratigan was running the bloody show. He waved a hand to indicate the entire scene, jumpsuit and all, grin still firmly in place. "That ambulance fer lil' ol' me?"

RATIGAN:

“Stand down!” Himari motioned her hand in the silent command as well and everyone followed direction, though that did not stop them from looking at the man with curiosity. Many of them would not connect the dots because it was not their job to do so. For now they would just believe that someone had called in the paramedics on their payroll to come help with the extraction.

Ratigan continued to push the stretcher across the room until he was standing with Fidget, Himari, and Landon. The smell of fresh death was rank as it clung to the back of his throat— and the most prominent smell belonged to that of the sheriff, his own blood having seemed to spill out in vast quantities. There was too much of it covering him for Ratigan to be able to tell where his injuries were but the tourniquet was telling enough.

“Do be quiet, sheriff, unless you’d like another hole through that thick skull of yours.” His tone was controlled yet anyone could hear how close to the edge it was. He was in no mood for the man’s games. In fact, he was quite angry with him. For all the marks he had gotten on his professional career he had been stupid enough to get himself caught up in this and had nearly died in the process.

“Boss, where—”

“Marasete gomennasai.” Ratigan turned and looked at Himari pointedly. Her eyes wandered around to their audience for a moment before she returned to him, understanding. They spoke for a moment to one another in Japanese, fast paced and with little to no animation. The conversation ended with a nod of agreement from both parties and she turned away, motioning for Landon to follow her as they went to address the rest of the crew.

“Uh, boss? What’s with the get up?” Fidget raised an eyebrow as Ratigan approached where himself and the sheriff were still standing. Ratigan ignored him, his glare focused on the metaphorical thorn in his side in the shape of a blood stained police officer.

“I’ll give you a choice, though you’ve not earned the right to it. You will come with us willingly to tend to your wounds. Or, you refuse and this ends here.” Again, the room’s weapons took aim. Only this time they were pointed at the man they had come here to save. Ratigan’s eyebrows lifted. “Judging by the blood on your trousers, I would say time is not on your side.”

ERROL:

Dramatic entrance aside, Errol would give his whole performance a 7/10.

You know, purely because he knew him. Bedside manner could do with a little work, though.

And it appeared that Ratigan’s people barely knew who he was, if the guns a moment ago were anything to go by. Errol looked to have been correct in his assumption, too, that the lad worked closely with him, as Ratigan maneuvered the stretcher to where he, the woman and the other two men were clustered.

Ohhh and he knew Japanese. How quaint.

The tone Ratigan projected, while controlled, was one that held an undercurrent of...oh was that an emotion? Directed at little ol’ him? Oh, Errol was flattered, really. He couldn’t even argue with the snip at his stubbornness, either. It was true enough. It was part of why he’d been dinged during basic training, why he and his second commanding officer had often butted heads. There was nothing different here, except he didn’t hate the man that was currently glowering at him.

The sheriff tossed off a jaunty salute in reply, smile still firmly in place while he waited for Ratigan to finish his hush-hush conversation. There was a bit of relief, however, when the woman took the little whelp away. Meant one less person who clearly didn’t care if he died or not. No matter what Ratigan might say on the matter, or how he may affect an air of not giving a shite, Errol had information about the people he’d been asked to find.

He had a lot of information, and all of it was pertinent to the other man and his survival.

Errol chuckled again and answered the man in the jaxom cap, not waiting for Ratigan to do so because he had a hunch that he would not. “‘e stole t’ ambulance, lad. Frankly, ‘m impressed. Ain’t easy.”

And, yes, he knew from personal experience.

Ratigan started speaking, saying how Errol didn’t have a right to a choice and the sheriff’s brows mirrored the man’s across from him, hiking up into the curls at his hairline. He didn’t flinch when some...ten? Ten, odd guns pointed at him. Instead he laughed, nothing more than a huff of breath. “I ‘appen tah like those odds,” he mumbled, rolling his stinging left shoulder back, “but aye, yer right. Bullet nicked me femoral artery, I fink. ‘S been bleedin’ fer a lil' while. Tourniquet slowed it down, though. But, I, ah, also know who’s tryin’ tah kill ye so--” The emphasis on kill shouldn’t have been lost on the man. After all, Ratigan wasn’t stupid. In fact, he was quite the opposite. Errol had been tasked with finding the men willing to start a mutiny, but he had uncovered something that appeared to run far deeper than the surface appeared to show.

The sheriff shrugged his shoulders, pointedly ignoring the guns pointed at him from all sides and the twinge in his leg. Instead, he cocked his head to the side, watching Ratigan’s face the whole while. Finally, after another moment, he smirked and nodded.

“Ye brought clamps, aye? ‘M gonna need 'em. An’ another pair o’ ‘ands.”

RATIGAN:

(The sheriff was, unfortunately, correct in his deductions. Still, he had to run through the scenario for his own benefit.)

Had the sheriff not been an advantage in this tiresome game then Ratigan would not have cared what happened to him. He would have left him at the mercy of the people standing around this room, all of whom did not like law enforcement, and been on his way.

The option was still there. It was tempting, too. The rage that boiled just below the surface of his skin, made the wolf grow agitated. It clawed at his ribs, the bars of its cage. Whenever it wanted out his chest would ache against its efforts, but the pain did nothing to tempt him into letting it free. It was the concentrated anger that enticed him. That black tar that consumed and spilled into every part of him, the heart, the soul, the mind. It all was placed on this one man who was threatening everything he had worked for. After all Ratigan had undergone to obtain what he knew was rightfully his.

He wanted violence, so deep was this rage, so heavy his vindication. The wolf could have made it easy.

His mind cleared rapidly after that. Ratigan regained awareness of the situation and knew he could not do that.

To run an organization such as the one he had helped to build, one could not move with only the next ten minutes in mind. It was why so many failed in this line of work— it was why the Shrivani’s had. They had seen a boy kill a man and did not stop to think how that could be the beginning of their end.

No one here was aware of what he was, not really. Neither wolf nor a killer. To his network he was just a very smart man who had made his way to the top with clever words and letting other people pull the trigger for him. They did not know he had been dipped in blood, no inch of him untainted. He would like to keep it that way for as long as possible. If he chose to expose himself now, over such a man, he would never forgive himself for such a mistake.

As for the sheriff— Ratigan did not have the time to waste on digging up everything while he was being buried in the ground. He would just need to find relief from the mad grief in bringing the people who thought killing him would be a move made without negative consequences.

Ratigan blinked in the span at which his decision had been made, expression unchanged. He did not say anything to the sheriff or anyone else before turning away and back to the exit. There was no need to.

Fidget moved forward with the stretcher toward the sheriff, giving it a pat to indicate to the man to get on. “We gotta go.”

ERROL:

Used, quite frankly, to these small bits in time of waiting for people to decide what to do with him, Errol's patience held out well enough. It was tired and it was frayed at the edges, but it held. Besides, it gave him an opportunity to study that look on Ratigan’s face, the one that hinted at some deep, boiling anger.

For a man that clearly held himself to a higher check in standard, probably claimed he was emotionless, Errol saw quite a lot of it in the few seconds he had to search it out. And he didn't say a word, just as Ratigan himself didn't say anything before he blinked, turned, and walked back the way he had come.

Errol's shoulders fell a fractional inch and his chest ached with the force of holding himself still, keeping himself in check when his heart beat thrummed and fluttered in the wound at his thigh and blood had begun to dry across his entire body.

The lad with the cap on moved forward with the stretcher and Errol couldn't help the small smile that curled one side of his mouth upward. He nodded his thanks to him as he leveled himself up onto the stretcher, eyes darting toward the rest of the assembled teams.

When their boss had turned, their guns had lowered, but there were still some whose guns had taken a split second too long to do so. While their faces weren't familiar, not like the man he'd picked out before, it was something to consider.

Yes, he was quite aware that they probably hated his profession but he didn't give two fucks about that. They had no idea why he had done the things he had, why he worked the way he worked. What he had seen or lost or why he didn't sleep at night.

"Thank ye," he murmured, glancing down to his leg with a sigh.

The tourniquet helped, but it was not a proof-all solution. If this had been like what had happened before, back in Afghanistan, he could have stopped the bleeding in the field. But he couldn't. He needed tools, a pair of steady hands that weren't his own….

"Lad, yer gonna need tah get me intah t' otharcarr. Now. I'll talk tah yer boss while I fix meself up, right as rain." He proffered a smile, voice leaning a bit further into the 'calm and collected and everything was okay' persona.

He was calm, but he was starting to feel the cold, and that terrified him.

RATIGAN:

Once the sheriff had situated himself onto the stretcher Fidget turned it around and began to follow after Ratigan. Their path had been cleared of the people that had been dropped, but the wheels still had to roll through the pools of blood that had been left in their wake.

When she was done telling everyone else where they were supposed to go from here, Himari joined Fidget in the effort to get the man out to the awaiting ambulance. They did not look at one another or share any words as they rolled him through the corridor and out into the back alley.

The arrival of their boss in person had been a surprise, but more so than that had been the way in which he conducted himself. Normally he was much more upbeat than he had been tonight, words as if they were lyrics to a song in the way they were said on his smile. When put in front of an audience he would capture everyone’s attention, even when he was in a foul mood. His annoyance was well known in relation to the tolerance of something not going to plan, but it was always telegraphed in louder ways. Slammed doors and barked orders, as if he knew that these were the only ways people would clearly understand that he was angry with them.

Tonight there had been none of that. Everything he had done was quiet. His silence scared them more so than when he was shouting at them— it meant that there was something wrong, not just a misstep that could be corrected.

He was waiting for them beside the ambulance, the lights and sirens having been turned off. Again, he said nothing. It set the tone for the two of them, that there was no time for anything else but the work.

Fidget stepped aside to let Ratigan and Himari get the stretcher into the cabin of the ambulance and he went around to the front to get himself acquainted with the driver’s seat.

Himari stayed behind in the alley and shut the doors on them. She clapped her hand against the side of the vehicle for Fidget’s benefit and they were off. They needed to get to one of the doctor’s the network had within the city— the only problem was that they were all just out of reach of the time limit they were working with given the sheriff’s condition. As always, time was the enemy that no one could touch.

“As hard as this may be for you, sheriff, I’d appreciate it if you refrained from any of your usual need of having to be the funniest person in the room.” Ratigan sat beside the stretcher, pulling on a pair of gloves and grabbing the scissors from the supplies. He leaned forward, over the stretcher to get at the fabric of the man’s blood soaked trousers.

ERROL:

The silence around him was almost deafening, but Errol didn’t let it penetrate. He focused on his breathing, instead, about keeping his heart rate steady, calm. If he could do that, it would slow the blood flow, would hopefully keep him alive for long enough that he could repair the damage done to himself. He let himself be wheeled after Ratigan, gaze fixed on the back of the other man’s head. Something familiar to anchor himself when his head would start swimming from the blood loss or the nausea would hit.

It was, unfortunately, a dance he’d done before. Didn’t mean he liked the familiarity of it, but he was quiet the entire time he was being loaded into the back of the ambulance, barely looking at the woman or Ratigan before the doors were closed. Errol only turned his head when he heard the telltale clap of a palm against the side of the ambulance’s back paneling and felt the slight lurch of the vehicle as they started driving.

Beside him, Ratigan was pulling on gloves, some quip about finding it in himself not to be the funniest person in the room. He snorted, quietly amused, but nodded. He’d be good, though, really, that wasn’t why he did any of what he did. Not that Ratigan would know that, but his bravado, his lines and his sarcasm were all a way for him to compartmentalize, to get done what needed to be done.

“Mm ain’t ‘ard,” he disagreed, nudging his leg to the side so the other man could get at the inseam of his bloodied trouser leg. “Yer jus’ sore ‘cause I did me job. Long list o’ people ye pissed off. Ain’t jus’ a mutiny, either. ‘S more ‘put a bullet in yer ‘ead an’ call it a day.’” He lapsed into something like silence for a while after that, face pinching slightly when the cloth stuck to the skin around his wound was pulled away. It gave a lovely view of the scars that already existed there and Errol huffed a laugh and leaned his head back from where he'd angled it to give Ratigan room to do whatever he was going to do. After a moment he tilted his face to look Ratigan in the eye. “If ye gimme a needle an’ suturing thread I can take care o’ t’ wound on me shoulder. Eventually gotta patch up me side, too, but ‘s a through-an’-through.”

He just wanted to be useful, really. Needed his hands to be busy or else his head would start spiralling, he’d start cataloguing the injuries, the blood he’d lost, how many quarts he would need, if they had blood for transfusions (even though he’d done all of that within a split second of being in the rig and cataloguing all of the equipment at their disposal) but that wasn’t the path he needed to go down in the back of an ambulance with a halfway irate man holding a sharp pair of surgical scissors so close to his soft bits.

Ironically, though, not the first time he’d been in a situation like this one.

“Ye know...ye could’ve jus’ asked instead o’ all t’ bloody cloak an’ dagger shite. Like I said. All o’ this--'' he gestured minutely with the hand furthest from where Ratigan was working, indicating the encounter as a whole “--ain’t a surprise. 'S jus' a bit different, mutiny an' murder."

And he'd done both, himself, so the slight shrug of a shoulder was nonchalant.

RATIGAN:

Ratigan highly doubted that. In situations like these people were always looking for some sort of release. From the pain. From their current reality. From the possibilities of what that reality may be for them. Many people turned to humor. Laughter like an air bubble that brought them back to the surface before they were inevitably dragged under once more. As he had learned, the sheriff enjoyed pressing the people around him— it was his form of coming up for air against the heaviness. Someone else may have appreciated it, someone else may have even joined him in such a method, but he was here with a man who had never learned to stop for air should he need it. He had always kept his head down until the weight was cut and allowed it to sink itself.

“If that is why you believe I’m angry then you are more self absorbed than I originally believed.” Ratigan threw the fabric out of the way and turned, digging into a drawer to pull out the IV needle and tubing that led to a bag of saline that would need to be pushed through this man’s system.

Outside there was a loud honk and the vehicle they were in gave a sudden jerk as it veered to the side sharply.

“Fidget!” he yelled, having to push himself up from where he had fallen back against the seating.

“S-sorry, boss! Not my fault!”

Rolling his eyes, Ratigan returned to what he was doing. He applied the IV to the back of the man’s hand, and placed it on the hook beside the stretcher. “You’ve lost too much blood to be trusted with anything regarding your health.”

Not that he would have trusted the man with it even if he had not been shot and bleeding everywhere. “Focus on staying awake. How about telling me where it is you’ve hidden the information you’ve almost died for?”

ERROL:

"Nah," Errol drawled, smirking. "Ye jus' like ev'ryfing jus' so." He tilted his head to get a look at the other man's face, ready to push or concede the point depending upon the tick in his jaw. It was a slight little thing, just like the flare in his nostrils when he'd walked into the room and smelled all the blood, but it was there.

That was about as much of a tell as Errol had ever gotten, and he learned to read the little things for what they were.

The sheriff was about to comment about the saline bag, offer up his arm even, but the vehicle lurched and he jerked to the side, jarring the bullet wounds under his ribs and throwing his shoulder into one of the cabinets.

A curse ripped from Errol's mouth as he pressed a hand to his side, grumbling under his breath as he drew back his shirt carefully with a sigh, relieved when he saw the wounds hadn't started bleeding again. He'd been able to wrap them a bit with a section of the scarf while people had been speaking, but they would need to be cleaned and dressed properly.

A noise of offense was pulled out from the depths of Errol's chest at the other man's words and he offered his hand for the IV with a furrow between his brows. "Who d'ye fink fixed me leg t' first time?" It was an ugly scar, and he knew it too. But that was what he got when he only had gunpowder and his mate's matchbook to cauterize the wound. Then, the tone became curious, brow curling vaguely upward. "'d'ye even know 'ow tah clamp off an artery?"

Ah. Yes, Ratigan should hear all of that shouldn't he.

"Ain't wif me, if 'at's what yer wonderin'. Drive's hidden at t' hotel, but 's got a fail safe. Memorized all t' names an' faces, though. One o' 'em was at t' extraction."

RATIGAN:

Did Pedram Ratigan know how to clamp an artery?

What reason would he have to know such a thing? Or any first aid for that matter. He had certainly never been a soldier at war nor had he trained in the medical field. As far as anyone knew (disregarding the detective back in Iran), he did not like to get his hands dirty. No one knew the reason for that, either, though. They simply thought it had something to do with his nice suits and the conceited attitude.

He did not mind this— it was better than the truth.

He did not answer with words, instead proving his use by actions alone as the point was not to explain or prove himself to any capacity. What did it matter where or how he had learned it? It didn’t. The sheriff already knew more about him than Ratigan cared to acknowledge.

His touch was not gentle or as precise as that of a surgeon, the only thing he knew was efficiency. Using the tools available to him within the cabin, he cut an incision to the sheriff’s leg for better access to the real cause for concern. He pushed past the muscle to find the severed artery and placed the forceps’ ratchet to the second click centimeters above the separation to stop the bleeding, and did the same for the other side.

While he did this his mind was elsewhere— on the drive that was hidden in that hotel they had checked over. All this time wasted on one man when he could have just bought that hotel and torn it apart brick by brick instead.

“Tell me where it is.” He looked up at the sheriff, gaze steady. “Tell me and be done with this. It has nothing to do with you, it never did. You gain nothing from the information, only from giving it to me and keeping out of it.”

ERROL:

Right. Because he totally didn't think he was going to die the moment he gave the information over.

Errol would have said that, or something to that effect, but he was robbed of any ability to say much of anything when Ratigan sliced into the meat of his thigh, deftly twisted past the muscle and clamped the artery down within a matter of, perhaps, a minute. Errol bit into the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something nasty, though the 'bastard' that slipped out when he pressed the heel of his other leg into the base of the stretcher to stop it from twisting away was well-earned.

Breathing rapidly through his nose to keep both his heart rate down, because he knew that wouldn't help, and his mind from the pain, Errol glared balefully from beneath a fringe of curls. "Right. So ye answered me question 'en. Good tah know. Better than usin' a lighter an' gunpowder," he grumbled, tapping the ugly knot of scar tissue higher up on his leg absentmindedly with his free hand.

A distraction from the renewed pain in his leg.

He was quiet for a moment, mulling over the words he wanted to say and how he wanted to say them. Because, really, it did mean something, particularly that he knew the person these men were trying to kill. Shifted a few things about in his head, so to speak. Thankfully he was still coherent enough, despite his blood loss, to remember everything. His vision blurred a little at the edges but when he turned and held Ratigan's gaze, it was clear and it was steady.

Errol held up his pointer finger on the opposite hand, indicating a list. "Ain't said anythin' 'cause if ye havena found t' drive by now it might nah have yer information anymore, since it was time-sensitive. Also 'cause I fully expected tah be shot after I gave ye t' information," he murmured, gaze steady as ever. He knew the measure of this game, after all.

"If it does, the key is faolchú. Erases itself if ye get t' password wrong so make sure ye spell it right. If ye need me tah write it down, I can. Know ye can barely understand me normally." Yes he was taking the piss with that last comment, but he was right. He held up his second finger, a smirk curling the edge of his mouth upward. "I didna say anythin' before 'cause I knew whoever asked me tah show up wasna who I'd been workin' fer. Messages sounded off. 'Ad tah know it was t' real fing."

As he had said before, Ratigan or the correspondences that had come from him through whoever had relayed his desires, had a particular way of wording his messages. Straight, to the point. Efficient. That hadn't been the case when he had been called to London, but he'd gone anyway, knowing that something would come of it either way.

He held a third finger up, switching to Farsi, his normal accent all but disappearing to make room for the new language. He had a hunch the man driving the rig wouldn't understand anything they said using it, anyway. "You've got a lot of people trying to kill you. The information is coded in triplicate. 'M sure you'll figure it out quick like but t' key to get it started is a chara, no space."

You know: speak friend and enter.

Then, he rattled off a handful of names, their information, and the positions they held within Ratigan's organization. Hell, he even had some of their banking information. "There's more than them, about four times that number actually, but they're all on there. I can tell ye, too, if need be. Names, positions, banking information, etcetera."

RATIGAN:

Well, at least the sheriff had the foresight about one thing, that his life was only as valuable as the information he could provide.

“Very presumptuous of you to believe that they are trying to kill me.” He turned, grabbing gauze from the supplies. For all the sheriff knew he could have just been the leader of this branch, another cog in the machine.

Why did he have to be so careful about this when he had been the complete opposite before regarding the people that had been trying to kill him? Had he been under Ratigan’s crosshairs they would not be having this conversation right now. And yet, had he been less careful with a drive rather than his own life, they would also not be having this conversation. Ratigan would have left him to his own devices and not had to intervene on the order to kill the sheriff.

It seemed as though this man, despite not even knowing of Ratigan’s involvement, would always deliberately make his life that much harder than it ever needed to be.

“Then why go at all? If you knew they were not a part of your team of officers, why show your face? And why go alone? Why put yourself in such a position?” In truth, he didn’t care to know the man’s train of thought. The questions were more accusatory, a way in which he could convey his irritation.

The more the sheriff spoke, the angrier he became. Four times that number of people who had been trying to turn over the table? After all he had done in the name of organized crime? And why? Because they thought they could do better?

He grit his teeth and let out a slow breath through his nose to keep the anger repressed. It would not do to blow up in the back of an ambulance with a man who had everything he needed being held together by clothing accessories.

“Very well.” Ratigan nodded to him. “Continue. In exchange, I will ensure you survive the night.”

ERROL:

“Not if ‘m right it isn’t,” he shot back, eyes following the other man’s movements as he reached for the gauze to pack the wound with. Which would also hurt like a bitch, but he wasn’t surprised by that, not in the slightest. Everything hurts now. His entire body was throbbing, both in the way his heart beat in every open wound and the variety of injuries he had sustained.

Sure, Ratigan could have just been the leader of a particular section of people but that didn't seem like his style. He didn't seem like the type to play second fiddle. Didn't seem the type, much like Errol himself, to like authority when he could be it.

The questions the other man raised were good ones, and they deserved a decent answer, but the only one he could give at that moment was a small shrug of his good shoulder. "Curiosity, probably. And figuring if they were dumb enough to think I'd give them the information, that I would be followed by the person who actually needed it."

It didn’t take a genius to recognize that he would have someone following him. Someone who would want the information more than the other, who had a reason behind it that kept them there. The comment about knowing if it was one of his officers or not made the Irishman snort and he laughed, quietly, for a moment before tilting his head to watch Ratigan’s face, speaking normally for a moment. “Didna tell anyone else. None o’ me officers knew anyfin’ an’ fer good reason. ‘S less people tah protect if ‘s jus’ me. An’ I did it because my client’s a bit of a ponce, a bit of a bastard, but ‘e’s t’ kinda bastard I like.”

He could hear the growing anger boiling just beneath the man’s genteel tone, the flash of it in his eyes, and Errol smirked slightly to himself, brows twitching as he shifted around to straighten his leg ever so slightly. His knee was starting to stiffen and he knew if he did not move it, the joint would lock up and it would make moving around later a pain in the ass. Errol dropped his head back with a thump and a sigh, a hand settling across his stomach as he waited to have the gauze shoved into his leg.

“Yes sir,” he muttered, poking a bit at the man just because he could, mouth curling around the familiar, lilting tones of Farsi once more. “Your biggest problem’s a bloke named Bartholomew. Nasty little bastard thinks he’s got it in him to run an entire organization from the ground up.” Errol rolled his eyes, clear distaste for the man stark on his face. “But he’s got people who agree with him, a lot of them, and they won’t be easy to just...get rid of. They’re everywhere, top down.” Errol paused for a moment and lifted a hand to rub at his eyes, the ceiling and Ratigan’s face swimming a bit.

“D’ye ‘ave any transfusion bags? Fink ‘m gonna need ‘em. Any’ll do, ‘m a universal donor.” And then, to himself as he glanced behind the other man to try and catch a glimpse of any, he said, “‘Course, direct transfusion could work in a pinch, too, ‘cept yer Muslim. ‘M nah gonna ask ye tah do that.”

No, he hadn’t realized that little factoid had slipped out, but he didn’t care even if it had. Despite what others might think of the religion, Errol had been around and actively participated in portions of it off and on for the twenty years that he’d been stationed in Islamic countries.

RATIGAN:

It was not often Ratigan made mistakes. They were few and far between. Yet, only a year ago he had made several that had nearly cost him his life. Perhaps that is where this had all started, in that warehouse when someone had thought they’d gotten the best of him. Back then there had been a line of them that he had traced back as if he had been carrying a spool of thread with him all along.

Here, he had only made the one— misjudging the motivations of the sheriff. A single dismissal and it was costing more than he would have liked.

Judging by the shade of the man’s skin and the disorientation he was fighting to hide, the blood loss was significant, as it should have been given his wounds. It was a miracle he had not bled out as soon as his artery had been hit. (Or perhaps just stubborn willpower.) Ratigan did not care whether he lived or died by any moral standard, his life meant nothing to him. In fact, it would have been easier if he did die. His body could be used to frame the people he was going up against and everyone knew that the loss of one of their own would light a flame under that of Scotland Yard.

“I’m afraid there are none, and I cannot give my blood for reasons that are not tied to my religion.” It did anger him to think this man knew anything about him but it wasn’t as if he had done anything to hide it from his cover in Swynlake. But, despite what people may think, it was fine to donate blood so long as one did not collect any sort of reward in return and did not cause harm to themselves by doing so.

It was clear to Ratigan that unless they got this man to their medical facilities he would not survive. They were too far out to make it before he would be passed saving. But he needed those names the sheriff claimed to have wrapped up inside that head of his. They only needed just that much more time.

“Thank you for the advice, sheriff. I am sure the time you’ve spent on this has made you such an expert, I will be sure to pass along your valuable advice.” His tone was polite and proper, but perhaps that is what made the facetious point of it all the more biting. “What are the rest of the names?”

ERROL:

Errol hummed his acknowledgement, tapping his index finger against his good thigh (or, rather, the thigh currently not housing a few clamps) and screwed his brow together, forehead wrinkling as he shifted a bit. His leg was falling asleep. "'S fine. Figure we're almost where yer wantin' tah take me any'ow."

The sheriff listened to the other man speak and snorted, despite himself, amused at the tone that would have normally made him bite back his own sarcastic retort, a lopsided grin taking over his face, more unguarded than it normally would be in a situation like this. He almost wanted to tell him to quit being such a prick, that he was telling him. Didn't he see his hand, the tapping? Except, his voice wouldn't work, words wouldn't come, and Errol knew he needed to fix that. Right now. Even though he was wavering, fading into the edges of black around his eyes, Errol was still gritting his teeth and swinging back around, wrenching his eyes open and shifting forward, allowing the pinch in his leg, while painful, to wrench himself from the darkness of unconsciousness.

"Yer a genius," he mumbled, words slurring a bit despite how confident they were, and it was a fact because he was, Errol knew that, "ye'll figure it out. Jus' watch, 'cause 've been tellin' ye."

If anyone could figure out some sloppy Morse code in the back of a stolen ambulance by a man who'd lost more than a few quarts of his own blood, it was Pedram.

RATIGAN:

The Morse code, while juvenile and annoying beyond belief, was noticed. It was also a testament to how much longer this man had if he had already given up on the effort of speech— seeing as it was all he ever did.

“Unless you are taken to a medical professional there is nowhere that I can take you that could save you. For all that I am, a surgeon I am not.” He glanced down at the open wound, knowing very well that there was nothing he could do to fix it.

It would take some sort of miracle to do such a thing with the amount of time that had passed already and the amount of blood that had no doubt been lost. It was already astounding that the man’s heart was still beating now. There was only so far his beliefs would stretch outside his logic.

Silence followed this as he focused on the code the man was giving out. It was only so much information that could come across. There was not enough time. Wouldn’t be enough time unless he survived and there was nothing that could keep him among the living that Ratigan had within the cab of the ambulance. He sat back, tearing off his gloves in frustration, throwing them away. His mind cleared to work over the problem at hand, the sound of the traffic faded and he closed his eyes against the overhead lights.

The man was dying. Ratigan needed him alive, unfortunately, if he was to get the information.

He was overlooking something. But what was it? What—?

Inside, the wolf whined.

Ratigan’s eyes opened and slid over to the sheriff.

“You are dying.” A fact. “If I make sure you live, do I have your word you will give me everything you can remember?”

ERROL:

Errol could speak but he was starting to tire, a fuzziness about his vision that made the back of the ambulance and it's equipment almost grey, like the color had been leached out of the world. Slowly, and then all at once, the blackness would descend, and he, for the first time in a long while, feared it. This time did not feel like any other, like any other of his 'almost-but-not-quites.' Rather, this was the 'not quite yet' that had been hanging above his head like a scythe ever since he was a lad.

He'd cheated death one too many times. This would be his last, unless they figured something out.

A bark of bitter laughter escaped, and it almost sounded more like a punch to the gut or a cough. If he'd chanced a look downward he would have seen a grayish pallor hanging over his skin, from blood loss and death's gaze both. "I know," he mumbled, sighing through his nose when he shifted to glance upward at the other man's face (neck, chin, jaw, half of a cheek but not the eyes) with a little grin. "Feels like it did, t' last time. Was in a coma fer...weeks. 'S when they took me dog."

There was something angry in that, something brutally, visibly wrong there. He hated the thought of someone that wasn't family taking Delilah and, now, Dublin, too. Someone he did not trust and fuck he might have just learned perhaps one of the biggest secrets of the other man's life, but he trusted Ratigan enough to be here, dying, in this ambulance with him. Trusted him enough to try to fix what he could not, he would trust him with his dogs, too, if he knew the man would take them (he wouldn't, but Errol was okay with that).

"'S unfortunate ye ain't, luv," he mumbled, allowing the moniker to slip rather than the real first name like it wanted as he shrugged a shoulder, trying to sit upward a bit more. The world tilted and he groaned, fingers white-knuckling the edge of the stretcher he was laid along, cursing beneath his breath.

Errol watched in placid fascination as Ratigan stripped off his bloody gloves and threw them across the ambulance, every line in his body radiating frustration. It was clear it was about the information he was not getting now because there just wasn't enough time, never enough time, but Errol wondered why there was such a large upwelling of it.

The sheriff waited, patient in the face of his own death, for Ratigan's eyes to open again and slide back to his face. Both brows raised up into his hairline, intrigue and confusion sliding together in his gaze before the edge of his lip curled, showing teeth. Despite his acceptance of death, he was a stubborn bastard. If Ratigan could think of a way to fix all of this, then Errol would take it.

"Cross me 'eart. Everyfin' 've got an' then some. 'S yers." Despite the tone, the false-joviality of the attitude, there was a deep seriousness that said he meant every word.

RATIGAN:

As soon as the permission was given Ratigan put the plan into motion. The behavioral straitjacket of control and posturing was locked into place once more as he leaned forward to clap his hand against the wall between the cabin and front seats of the ambulance.

Fidget startled but turned his head to glance through the little viewing window. The pair exchanged words, the driver confused at first but once consoled with an unwavering gaze simply nodded his head in understanding. He would do as he was told, like always.

It didn’t take him long, the instructions had been simple. (Whatever happens, whatever you hear, do not stop driving until you’ve taken the sheriff to the doctor. I will contact you tomorrow, Ratigan had told him. Fidget had no reason to think he wouldn’t.)

This was a bad idea, of this he had no doubt. When desperation entered into a situation there never seemed to be any other kind. All he had was this if he wanted to right the wrongs. He would be inflicting great harm to a man, changing the course of the sheriff’s life just as it had done to Ratigan, to anyone who had been inflicted by this magic. But he had no choice— he was not dead yet and if he waited too much longer the infection wouldn’t be able to save him anymore than a hospital could. He was out of options.

The wolf whined again, pacing and clawing, looking for its way out.

For once, Ratigan let it.

It took no more than an intake of breath— where once there was a man there was now a wolf.

The wolf was distracted by everything all at once. The smell of blood made it whine in the back of its throat. The enclosed space made it start to pant, it hated the man’s basement where it had only been allowed out, but this was smaller. Too small. It felt caged and threatened and it wanted out. It hated it here, it didn’t feel stable, every time it tried to move the floor would shift as the ambulance rocked against its weight. The wolf barked and the sound of it bounced against the too close walls.

Then, the wolf noticed that there was something else in the cage with it.

The smell of blood and sweat made its eyes snap to the man laying there. It knew just by looking at the figure that he posed no threat. One slash of its paw across his throat and he would be dead. It bared its teeth, growling, ready to— that was when the man’s thoughts met the wolf’s.

The man’s were different, he wanted this one alive for reasons that were complicated and had been calculated down into something that was less to do with emotion and more to do with business. The wolf was not like the man in that regard. While it did hold his intelligence, its thought process was more base.

It barked again, a warning shout before it reached. The wolf sunk its teeth into one of the man’s biceps. (One of the only places not injured, easily hidden by clothing for the scarring that would be left behind.) The flesh caved easily around its teeth and it thought, briefly, about just pulling back while its jaws were still locked. It would be easy. Just as easy as it would to go for somewhere softer next. It could feel those thoughts from the man inside, from the days when he had known only blood and death and darkness. It could be like that, perhaps that was the connection it needed to—

The wolf released the man’s arm, the fur around its mouth now matted with his blood, and barked again. The walls were too close. It could feel Ratigan’s fear of enclosed spaces now boiling to the surface, too. They were together on this— it needed out.

Its eyes roamed the steel cage until it spotted the windows at the back of the space. It waited until the constant movement of the box to come to a stop. (Fidget pressed on the brakes, adhering to a stop sign.)

It lunged.

The doors to the ambulance popped open and the wolf stopped only long enough to sniff the night air before running off.

ERROL:

There was something like dread, or finality, in Ratigan's eyes. Errol could see it. Maybe not dread, then, but a knowing. The kind of knowing that Errol hadn't yet picked the thread of yet and run with, the kind that was still forming, sluggishly, at the back of his mind. Perhaps, if he had been more aware, if he had not lost so much blood, he'd have been quicker on the uptake.

He heard every word exchanged between the man in the cab and the one beside him; as drowsy as he looked, his mind was still sharp, was still taking in and processing information. The weight of the ambulance shifted as the driver started driving again, just as he had been instructed, not stopping unless it was warranted. They needn't draw attention to themselves, after all.

That one was loyal, perhaps unconditionally so. Good. Maybe he could help Ratigan fix his problems if Errol couldn't.

(And maybe Errol shouldn't have been glad for that, given the divide between law and lawlessness that veiled them, but Errol understood what it was like, having a foot between both right and wrong, doing what he could to survive and skating just beneath the surface of the law to do it. It was not something he forgot, never probably could. He didn't blame the man).

Ratigan turned to him and he breathed and in one second to the next Errol was no longer staring at the face of a man but the face of a large, snarling, wolf.

Somehow, the second shoe had dropped a long time ago and only seconds ago, at the same time. Errol was not surprised. In the back of his mind, he wondered if he ever would have been.

The wolf growled and barked, the sound echoing off the too-small walls. The body language was apprehensive, put off by the instability of the ambulance cab and the smells that surrounded the beast. If Errol had been of any other mind, he might have been able to speak with it like he did his dogs, to get it (Ratigan) to understand he was no threat.

Though, when it paused, considering in that all too human way a beast had when it burst forth from its first skin, Errol figured it already knew that. Errol had seen it, once, a long time ago.

He didn't have much time left, he knew that. But he did recognize when an animal was about to lunge, the coiling of the body and the way their head angled to grab hold, to grab for the softest flesh it could reach.

Usually the throat, normally, if given half the chance. Ratigan had every one.

The wolf took a chunk from his left arm, the scarred one, and Errol was almost grateful. It would be easier to hide amidst the mass of damage already done. Would look like any other mark done to him in the first attack. Easily believable that it was another.

His own blood running down his arm, a burning sensation radiating from the wound, was what he was left with when the wolf backed away. Errol's eyes tracked it, alert but tired, and watched as its great big body bounded against the ambulance doors and out into the street, letting the night in. There were no sounds of cars honking frantically at the wolf loping into traffic. There wouldn't have been. Where they had gone, the streets were nearly deserted. Errol chuckled half-heartedly, glancing at his arm, and pulled his hand into a fist against the stretcher. The thumping, throbbing ache was still there but it had slowed, spreading out into a fire instead.

The sheriff sighed and dropped his head back against the wall once he fixed himself more firmly upright. He knew what this was, what had been done. He knew how this had changed everything but, in the back of his mind, Errol was already past caring, even while his blood burned.

Just like every other time life had dealt him a shitty hand, Errol would slip a new card into the deck and make it his own. It was the one way he knew how to survive.

When Fidget finally stopped and opened the ambulance doors and wheeled him into the makeshift hospital, Errol didn't tell him anything, suggesting only that he would see his boss tomorrow, just like Ratigan had said.

#ch: Ratigan #p: cry wolf; bleed red #r: machiavellian #//we've been sitting on this and plotting for months!! I am RIDICULOUSLY EXCITED #//thank you so much Sid for agreeing to do this awesome wacky plot with me #//can't wait to see what else we come up with 😉#//also Errol is a shit head even faced with his potential death and I love that for him #blood tw #violence tw #guns tw #death tw

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miasmacaron · 3 years

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I’m in love with carmine and would die for him. Please answer every single question on the ask meme for him. Including the author questions.

What’s the maximum amount of time your character can sit still with nothing to do? Carmine doesn’t need constant stimulation, but he does prefer to keep busy and distracted, lest the Bad Thoughts hit him and ruin his good mood.

How easy is it for your character to laugh? It’s pretty easy to make Carmine smile, and even get one of those single huff laughs from him, but it’s actually a lot more tricky to get him to break out in a full fit of laughter.

How do they put themselves to bed at night (reading, singing, thinking?) As often as Carmine goes to bed via blacking out, sometimes he has to do it the hard way, which is no good. He prefers sleeping somewhere like a room above a noisy tavern so he can focus on the ambient sounds rather than his own thoughts as he drifts to sleep.

How easy is it to earn their trust? Back when he was a Pathfinder Carmine trusted people easily and freely. These days his trust is a lot harder to gain, not because he was wronged by others, but because he has become less trustworthy. It’s hard to believe you can rely on someone when you can’t imagine why someone would help you.

How easy is it to earn their mistrust? Fastest way to earn Carmine’s ire is to loot through his things. His personal effects are not to be touched by others.

Do they consider laws flexible, or immovable? Laws are inflexible to those not born in privilege. But the people enforcing them can always be bent if you know how.

What triggers nostalgia for them, most often? Do they enjoy that feeling?The smell of inauthentic Tian cuisine (especially sesame chicken), the scent of freshly squeezed orange juice, and the sound of wet feet on floors. The feeling ranges from bittersweet to heartbreaking, depending on where his mood already sat.

What were they told to stop/start doing most often as a child?Carmine was one of those kids who thought of the world as his canvas. He had to be told many times that no, you can’t draw on x surface. He was also told that it was okay to stop remembering.

Do they swear? Do they remember their first swear word? He doesn’t remember his first swear word since cursing was just such a normal thing in his household. His household being the Tian-themed brothel his mother and all of his “aunts” worked in. He does know when swearing is and isn’t appropriate though, and doesn’t have a sailor’s tongue.

What lie do they most frequently remember telling? Does it haunt them? Historically, that he “doesn’t worry about the whole reincarnation thing” because it does, in fact, haunt him. Recently though he has been lying about a great many things, including why he retired from the Pathfinder Society.

How do they cope with confusion (seek clarification, pretend they understand, etc)? When he doesn’t know something he will often play up his confusion on the matter in such a way that it makes people thing he is lying about not knowing it. He takes the piss out of the idea that he could ever know anything about the matter.

How do they deal with an itch found in a place they can’t quite reach?That’s what friends are for. Or random strangers he just made friendly with, if you catch my drift. If no one is around however, a wand of cure light wounds makes for a good scratching stick.

What color do they think they look best in? Do they actually look best in that color? Carmine is firm on the fact that red is his signature colour, but no, it is not his best colour. Having pale blue skin results in him looking a lot better in blues, purples, and even some greens. He refuses to let his pigmentation rule over his self expression.

What animal do they fear most? Carmine doesn’t have a great fear of any animals, but the closest he gets to that is a weird factor when it comes to snakes. His last big expedition with the Pathfinder Society involved a lot of sneeple, snake gods, and snad times. It’s less of a fear and more of a festering wound.

How do they speak? Is what they say usually thought of on the spot, or do they rehearse it in their mind first? He tends to think on his feet with his words, always finding new innuendo to pepper in as he goes. His speech tends to be relaxed but playful, and has a habit of speaking with his hands, partially because it distracts people from his eyes, as people tend to get put off by his lack of pupils. He is chatty and can sound self aggrandizing while at the same time downplaying his actions and mind. The pleasure is all yours, but never make the mistake of thinking he could possibly have anything but hedonism on the mind.

What makes their stomach turn? Sexual violence. He likes a bit of light bdsm but Carmine has witnessed too much honest to god sexual violence in his life to find pleasure in anything too brutal.

Are they easily embarrassed? Shame? Never met her.

What embarrasses them? If Carmine is to be embarrassed it would be from something like forgetting someone’s name or face, or even the fact that they were once a lover of his. The drugs hinder his mind as much as they help it.

What is their favorite number? 69. Obviously.

If they were asked to explain the difference between romantic and platonic or familial love, how would they do so? It’s hard for Carmine to put a line between them. He basically divides his love in terms of would I want to have sex with them? Then it’s romantic/platonic. Do I love them and do not want to have sex with them? Then it’s familial. Romantic love he would say is generally more possessive than platonic love but he’s just not a possessive person.

Why do they get up in the morning? On the micro: Because he needs to go the bathroom, or to drink or ingest something to deal with his hangover. On the macro: Because he still has work to do.

How does jealousy manifest itself in them (they become possessive, they become aloof, etc)? Carmine isn’t a possessive person but he is definitely an envious one. He tends to get out a quick mope to himself, then seeks to distract himself from it by having his own fun.

How does envy manifest itself in them (they take what they want, they become resentful, etc)? If his envy towards something (never for a lover) is allowed to fester it turns into rage. Anger at the world that would deny him again and again.

Is sex something that they’re comfortable speaking about? To whom? Sex is probably the topic Carmine is the most comfortable discussing to just about anyone, the limit being no I am not talking about sex to children.

What are their thoughts on marriage? Not for him. He is glad for those for whom it is a source of joy, but.. Not for him.

What is their preferred mode of transportation? One time on a Pathfinder mission he made a quick comment about carrying the conversation (he was essentially yammering to himself to fill the dead air that the mostly silent group left), and the hobgoblin barbarian then picked him up and carried him the rest of the way to the dungeon. It was quite clever really, now /he/ was carrying the conversation. Best mission ever.

What causes them to feel dread? The glyph of the open road, the sound of arrows knocking, knowing he is going to run out of intoxicants and will have to risk hunting them down in a new area on the road.

Would they prefer a lie over an unpleasant truth? Carmine may like distractions from the unpleasant truth, but he prefers that to a lie. He wants to know exactly what he is running from.

Do they usually live up to their own ideals? He tries to. He really tries.

Who do they most regret meeting? Rue. Another Samsaran who knew Carmine’s past life. Carmine wants nothing to do with them, and nothing to do with that life.

Who are they the most glad to have met? It’s hard to say, as there is such pain in having known them. Probably his greatest love.

Do they have a go-to story in conversation? Or a joke? He tends to lean on innuendo and flirting in conversation, that or falling into his rambling on philosophy.

Could they be considered lazy? Carmine isn’t lazy, his character flaws keep him from getting the things done that he wants to do, but he definitely has the drive to do them.

How hard is it for them to shake a sense of guilt? He doesn’t carry a sense of guilt so much as he brandishes it like a weapon. He refuses to shake it, he feels he deserves it.

How do they treat the things their friends come to them excited about? Are they supportive? Carmine ADORES when people talk to him about their interests. As a hedonist he is all about people seeking out joy and he personally takes great pleasure in the joy of others. No one shines more than when they are embracing what brings them happiness.

Do they actively seek romance, or do they wait for it to fall into their lap?Carmine is a flirt and does consider most of his entanglements to be romantic, simply not particularly longstanding romances. Every one night stand is to be cherished and savoured in it’s own way. And as he is very fond of having ‘entanglements’, he definitely seeks them out.

Do they have a system for remembering names, long lists of numbers, things that need to go in a certain order (like anagrams, putting things to melodies, etc)? Carmine actively avoids learning memory tricks, he just has to trust his gut with things. Such is the life of a man with a lot he wishes to stay forgotten.

What memory do they revisit the most often? Soon after his hair went white as a child, due to extreme stress, his mother took work off with his “aunts” covering for her, to just hold him and tell him stories.

How easy is it for them to ignore flaws in other people? Quite. He would like people to overlook his flaws so he affords others the same.

How sensitive are they to their own flaws? He is hyper aware of his flaws, at times this means he shrugs them off as being a part of his life, and other times it crushes him. All depends on the day.

How do they feel about children? Carmine wants kids far away from him because he likes kids. He is a bad man after all, and a worse influence.

How badly do they want to reach their end goal? Carmine is willing to do almost anything to achieve his goal, and honestly? If he knew he had to do x horrible thing and that would guarantee the completion of his ambition? He would probably say yes, regardless of what x thing was.

If someone asked them to explain their sexuality, how would they do so? Yes please. (But also pan.)

QUESTIONS FOR CREATORS A) Why are you excited about this character? I can’t wait to play him in our upcoming Carrion Crown campaign because he is just SO MUCH and I just love playing characters who are sassy, flirtatious, and complex. He’s my bad boy with a heart of gold and honestly it’s gonna be so fun switching between sex jokes and philosophy talks on the drop of a hat. B) What inspired you to create them? Carmine was originally a one-shot character whose race and class were randomized from a table I made. I then decided I wanted to make a fresh take on a Samsaran, one who had an interesting view on the whole reincarnation thing. I remember design wise being inspired by high fashion and Varric from Legend of Korra. I also joked at the time that he was based on Dorian from Dragon Age without knowing much of anything about Dorian, and now I am playing DAI and going “CARMINE IS THAT YOU??” C) Did you have trouble figuring out where they fit in their own story? Luckily as he is a TTRPG character, I don’t have to do much of that. D) Have they always had the same physical appearance, or have you had to edit how they look? Over time he has changed his look, going from a kempt shorter hairstyle with a fantastic pencil stache to a messy mop of hair, stubble, and a handlebar moustache. He also sports different clothes but that is only natural. He has also since his creation gotten a tattoo on his lower back of a butterfly with one wing ripped off. E) Are they someone you would get along with? Would they get along with you? We would get along excellently tbh. Both of us are social butterflies and would chat the night away. F) What do you feel when you think of your OC (pride, excitement, frustration, etc)? Delicious heartache and just a wee bit of lust. I mean, come on, look at him. I’m demi and honestly part of my joy when it comes to him is the fact that he would be the perfect man for me to experiment with. He is experienced, but I also know he would be just as happy with me if I told him mid-go that I wanted to stop and just cuddle. THE PERFECT (EXTREMELY FLAWED) MAN. G) What trait of theirs bothers you the most? I am concerned about how his addiction issues will go in the game itself, and hoo boy his anger issues are nothing to be sneezed at. H) What trait do you admire most? Carmine’s attentiveness to other people’s needs and boundaries, and his ability to be so open to new experiences. I) Do you prefer to keep them in their canon universe? It’s hard to translate him outside of his universe as he is a Pathfinder-specific race and his race largely paints his worldview but I honestly would love to role play him in other situations. J) Did you have to manipulate or exclude canon factors to allow them to create their character? Samsarans all have jet black hair naturally but I did the anime thing of his hair all going stark white due to stress. I know people’s entire mops of hair and eyebrows and eyelashes don’t turn white like that but shhhhhh it’s aesthetic.

#IM SO SORRY DASH #longpost #asks #carmine dritan #my ocs #my posts #omg thank you for this but also god this is long lol #batriddler

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reddogcollar · 3 years

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thinking more if my funny little rewrite thoughts so like. here's an entire run down of what I'd do with season 1 of my pride

under the cut cuz its long and like. warning for like. everything that already happens in the series anyway

starting first! with the naming conventions. so the whole naming scheme is appropriation of indigenous culture. and I'm white so take this one with a grain of salt but replacing that mess with instead the mother naming the cub after a trait after getting to know em would. probably fix it? Like naming a cub Power or Tenacious and. stuff

the names could not only be personality based but just general descriptors. Quick for someone fast, Golden for someone blonde, Cherished for someone especially loved by their mother. Names could also be based off something they want the child to be, like Fearless or Perceptive. naming a child after something they don't start as, but turn out to be instead would make everyone to regard the mother as an especially good one for knowing her child so well. Being wrong would have the opposite effect. Waiting too long would bring scorn, implying you don't spend enough time with your child to think of any name at all.

Prideless lions wouldn't be named by their parents at all, instead given the right to name themselves based on what they think. This leaves room for them to rename themselves as grow and change, something pride lions cant do. Until the cub names themselves, the mother will refer to them with affectionate nickname.

and I think that. fixes that issue. onto plot

I think episode 1 is fine left alone, though all three children would be left unnamed. though I think its weird how quick managed to rip off the skin all around nothing's eye but didn't actually damage it. Like at all. so she's half blind now too.

So they go on lion trial, power saying quick is unfit because he was bested by a cub, so there's no way he could've beat star fairly. sharp calls forth the currently unnamed fire to ask his opinion as a supposed witness. even though I'm pretty sure he ran away before star died? eh <3

despite having the chance to get rid of quick, he says it was fair and quick has earned the pride. whether or not that's true, fire is a devout believer in pride law and a pride without a mane would be worse than a pride lead by a cheating mane.

because nothing and quick each half blinded each other, they go with the law of equivalent exchange. one each gets something from the other. nothing asks for her and her brother's lives to spared, and quick asks that she always takes as little resources as possible

instead of like. skipping 2 years. it would instead actually like. show the childhood. how nothing is ignored by her on mother, and doted on by fire. specifically because he think she's weak. despite doting on her, he also generally ignores her opinions.

even as a little wounded baby she gets the least food and water, enforced by quick and even fire sometimes, rules are rules. some of the unnamed adults will try to cheat this tho and get her more food and water cuz Holy Shit? Dude?

when she's a little older and not. covered in open wounds. the adults more or less stop trying to protect her. she's on her own now, and they have cubs of their own to worry about anyways.

since time is also a resource she gets the least of that too, most notably the least time being trained in anything. hunting, fighting, tracking, she's taught the absolute least.

despite that, she always tries.to do the absolute most. first to volunteer for anything she could theoretically do, last to get picked for any minorly important task. getting ridiculed for doing things slower due to her limp, to the point where she starts trying to just power through the pain to walk normally. it only slows her down and she gets mocked more. fire generally doesn't stand up for her, just makes her lay down

eventually she starts getting out a bit. The younger cubs mock her, their parents don't stop them, her mom never speaks to her unless its to antagonize her, and quick is downright terrifying. despite being healed up, fire never leaves her alone and disregards her when she wants to be alone.

this is how she meets hover, who is now named insightful. bc I just inexplicably cant stand the name Hover for a lion. she thinks she's insightful, but she's kind of just snarky and a little mean without saying anything w real depth, probably bc they're all prepubescent

despite being snarky and a little mean, she's a breath of fresh air to nothing cuz she's yk. not ableist and calls fire out when he starts acting ableist. its a short interaction, and when they're home fire immediately goes to tell his mom there's not only a prideless lion in their territory, but a cub, implying her mother and possibly siblings are around. cuz he's a little bitch

nothing gets into an argument with him over it, she could've been their friend after all, and both fire and her mom yell at her for even thinking about disobeying pride law

not sure what else to do here, so skip to when they're 2 and fires about to be kicked out. they're both still nameless, bringing a lot of bad opinions power's way. she's also required to name at least fire before he leaves. so she sits down, rolls her eyes, and half asses the name fire. quick is about to push him out but nothing interrupts, saying she still needs a name.

power gets annoyed and demands what she could even be named after, her injury? her disregard for the law? her ability to butt in at the most annoying times? nothing sputters, shocked and unable to come up with a response for a moment. before she can, she's named nothing

she protests, and even fire thinks that's a lot. they're both shut down, by power and quick respectively. most of the present adults are shocked, some of the older ones even appalled. none step in though. fire has to go, and nothing leaves toward the watering holes so she doesn't cry in front of her mom. all that stupid shit is internalized though so she starts trying again to support her full weight on her leg no matter how much it hurts. thinking maybe it broke and healed so wrong that it can barely support her now. idk I'm no doctor

she ends up laying down by the water, feeling all bad and in pain. then she notices the crocodile and some other lion and yada yada saves her life. insightful immediately recognizes her and that stops nothing from chasing her off. they catch up a little until they hear someone coming. insightful runs off and farleap, now called jumper comes out of the grass.

she questions nothing, she heard something and she can definitely smell a stranger. nothing lies and said she just chased off a prideless. jumper doesn't seem convinced, but doesn't push it because the stranger is gone, at least. so she just gets her drink and nothing goes home. and that's the day.

next day we can be introduced to feather, now named light. he's the runt of his litter, the lightest color of his siblings, and the light of my life. his name has nothing to do with the reincarnation stuff, which ill get into later. he gets teased for being smaller than his sisters, but keeps up an over energetic, happy mood that children have. he prefers hanging out with nothing though, seeing as she's not gonna be mean to him for being short.

he refuses to leave her alone to the point of finding out when nothing starts sneaking out to see insightful. their little dates go all nice and cute until light jumps out of the bushes scaring the life out of them. nothing freaks out a little because holy fuck? quick's son just found her out? oh god oh fuck! insightful is just amused though, because children are funny.

they make light swear to keep it a secret, and he promises. as long as nothing lets him go with her whenever he wants, because its fun breaking the rules and being out at night. it's a little less fun third wheeling on your cousin's date when you're like 7 but its fine cuz insightful plays with him

everyone thinks its pretty weird how both nothing and light are getting exhausted in the middle of the day, and jumper is still on that "I don't believe that you chased that prideless off" stuff, and eventually convinces power of increasing like patrol or whatever, and everyone keeps their guard up, making it harder for nothing and insightful to meet

this spurs nothing to ask insightful to join, to which insightful asks her to leave the prides and go with her. nothing says she doesn't want insightful to just have to take care of her and it goes back and forth and its a whole thing. it turns into an argument and they part ways for the night before it can escalate further.

the next morning, insightful has shown up and is asking to join. mostly so she can spend more time trying to convince nothing to leave the prides with her.

they get convinced and she is stripped of her name immediately. either quick or power will rename her when they come with something suitable. of course she is. upset as all hell. she swallows it though, since she's never seen nothing so happy. light is ecstatic, also, cuz he thinks she is cool.

go through some time showing insightful being worn down by pride life, nothing still continuing to practically destroy her body to make herself palatable, and light being downright bullied because he's still smaller than his everyone his age. quick even starts looking down on his son cuz Why Is He Still So Small? light begins to resent his father, and pride life a little.

jumper is rude as hell, naturally. except this time insightful actually stands up for nothing by cuz holy shit? that's your girlfriend why wouldn't you help her?

we can also implement the homophobia rule here. because of course power is a homophobe. would you expect anything less??

and yeah that's the vibe until nothing is left with some unnamed lion to look after the children while everyone else is off doing things that are important. she goes off for a drink and light follows her because of course he does. yadda yadda fire is back for a visit cuz he thinks nothing is like. useless and can't survive without him. their little visit goes down light thinks its so cool to meet a bunch of prideless men yk yk

on their way back they run into quick, who is followed by power and insightful. that unnamed lion with the other children said nothing and light had been gone for a long time and quick is pissed off cuz that's his only son n she just took him off for a jaunt.

he's yelling at her and insightful is about to interject before she's stopped by power, and light interrupts his dad to tell him about fire's group. cuz hey it'll make him leave them alone so like? go off??

nothing gets pissed off at him though because he just sent his murderous father off to kill her brother. rude or not he's still important to her. she and power have their interaction, power whining about how much she "loves" her children, you know. except nothing disowns her. power gets called out and yk yk. its a whole thing and gives nothing some of the agency she lost over the years

then she goes off to find quick, insightful follows her to help, and light follows them because he feels bad.

quick is dead, proud is a dick, light is hidden away in this scene. it goes much the same except light is seeing his father's corpse for himself and insightful is there negotiating their lives alongside nothing. also threatening proud

they yet away with their lives and run as far away as possible just in case he comes after light. nothing may be annoyed but letting your small cousin be murdered isn't cool

so they go off to find fire. its important to nothing cuz ykkk he's her last living sibling and as far as she's concerned, her remaining immediate family. he treats her how he does cuz he loves her, right? right. right?

nothing lives on the stretch how she lived in the prides, taking as little as possible of everything. insightful starts trying to get her to eat more before she like. drops dead. but its hard bc yk internalized self hatred is a vibe. they stay hot on fire's trail, until they come across some bones, a lot of blood, and the eaten remains of tangle. I'm making that plot point more fucked up.

everyone is of course freaked out, and insightful immediately takes it on herself to make sure nothing and light have some skill in fighting cuz Oh My God! they each play to their strengths, and it's like typical training montage. I like to think that with nothing's bad leg opponents would naturally try to take advantage of her balance, and which point she could rear up on her hind legs and then unexpectedly just crash down onto her opponent with her full weight. idk I've never seen a lion fight.

so yeah they eventually find fire and light and insightful are like. not trusting him at all, they suspect him. nothing isn't so hasty with the blame, cannibalism is a lot to accuse your brother of. fire says that if he takes over the nearest pride, he can change her name due to her time as a prideless lion.

as discussed, light objects. he thinks she should be able to choose her own name. pride or not. fire the devout follower of pride law didn't like that

they kill that old man, fire demands the pride, moonstrike (now striker) denies him and he's like. "You cant do that. That's illegal" and striker claims he couldn't have beaten her mate in fair combat after getting his ass kicked the first time. plus he's got some random child that isn't his

he takes that as "kill the kid" and yk. goes after light. nothing's reaction time is normal now though and barrels into him before he can rip lights throat out. he's still gravely wounded though, so much so that insightful is fully occupied trying to keep him alive.

nothing and fire square off, fire is ableist, nothing challenges him. You know. except this time she kills him. she gets him on his back and cuts him open, guts everywhere. no Ghost scene.

Injured and horrified, she lays down. she's like. going to have a breakdown. she just killed her brother, light may be dead, these strangers won't quit staring at her, its not good. episode end.

cut to like next morning and nothing's injuries are being taken care of at the same time as light's. insightful is in there with em talking with striker. noticing she's up, striker asks her name. I'm still not sure what I'd want her to change it to but she does change it. perhaps Enough?

idk idk either way, she doesn't get the pride. she beat fire but it wasn't his to give. however, striker offers them all a place there, including light. boom season 1 end

#Tumblr did unimaginable things to this post

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somedayonbroadway · 4 years

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I am literally begging you to tell me about the Psych AU???

(Just to be clear this will be set in the fantasy land where all cops are trying their best to be good all the time. Thank you!)

So Psych was actually probably my favorite show for a lot of my life so I am pretty excited about this one. For those of you that haven’t seen the show, go watch it. It’s on Peacock and I believe it’s still on Amazon Prime. Definitely it’s at its best in the first three seasons, but it never ceases to be funny. However, I enjoy the first season a lot more because of how smart they portray Shawn without having him also be, for lack of a better word, an idiot. Shawn is incredibly smart and his humor and charisma highlighted that instead of hiding it and I miss that in the later seasons, but it is still a really funny show and I do recommend it.

Anyways, enough of me ranting.

Just to be clear, it could work with either Jack or Race as Shawn, and if you would like to see this AU the other way, just let me know!

Psych AU

Characters

Racetrack Higgins — Shawn Spencer

Albert DaSilva — Burton Guster

Jack Kelly — Henry Spencer

Spot Conlon — Juliet O’Hara

David Jacobs — Carlton Lassiter

Medda Larkin — Chief Karen Vick

Racetrack Higgins (Shawn Spencer)

Tyler James Kelly had never had an easy life, with his drunk father or absent mother who had him on accident with a man she barely knew

His father had named him Anthony Higgins

When he’s six all of that changes when his half brother takes him in, against his father’s wishes.

Jack renames him Tyler James Kelly.

Race didn’t know Jack all too well back then. But he looked up to him, even if he’d refuse to admit it later.

Jack is eighteen and just starting out as a beat cop. But Jack’s father had been training him to be a good cop his whole life. Right up till he died.

Race never knew what a parent was supposed to look like. So when Jack began to test and train him, he didn’t think anything of it.

Race has a eidetic memory and Jack knows it even if his baby brother refuses to acknowledge it

The kid is hyper observant and quick witted which often can lead him into trouble though he describes it as being useful stay one step ahead intellectually while being one step behind physically

Was born two months too early and has always been pretty thin and small

Loves classic movies and television shows and often references them

Is wickedly smart and clever, resulting in him graduating high school three years early and leaving New York to travel the country

Growing up he’s best friends with his next door neighbor, Albert DaSilva, who he relies on constantly as he has a fear of abandonment

While growing up with Jack, Race finds himself somewhat resenting his brother who constantly pushes him to be more and do more and get better. He explains that Jack never let him just be a kid, and never lets Jack explain why he has him memorize how many hats are in the room and learn how killers and criminals operate

When he’s fifteen he takes the detective’s exam and gets a perfect score but refuses to go into law enforcement, instead chooses to leave Jack behind, illegally, and travel around the country on a bike he wins in a poker game with a bunch of old men who think he’s no threat.

When he’s eighteen, he inevitably ends up back in Manhattan.

After not speaking with Jack for three years, he has no idea if he’s still even there and is terrified to face him, feeling bad about running away and not knowing if Jack will forgive him.

He gets his own apartment, taking odd jobs around town to make ends meet

He starts going by Anthony Higgins again, but most of his friends just call him Race, a nickname he got from Albert when they were very young

Albert is the only one who knows when Race is back in town and Race makes him swear not to tell Jack.

Race often spends his nights watching the news, calling in tips to the police whenever he figures out a crime that they can’t.

Eventually this leads him to getting arrested before he even turns nineteen, as the police suspect he’s an inside man

In order to get out of this, he tells a lie that he believes will be a one time thing.

He makes the cops believe he is psychic.

Things spiral out of control from there.

After making the majority of the station believe he has the gift (all except for one skeptic who happens to be head detective) he thinks they’re going to let him off the hook.

He has no idea the chief of police is going to ask for his help

Actually excited by the idea, Race runs to Albert’s school and begs him to help him out. Albert is reluctant at first but eventually agrees

Race and Al go out investigating as private detectives until Race figures out the case, leading them straight to the suspect who turns out to be dead.

With nowhere else to turn, Race goes back to his brother, a brilliant detective who got injured in the line of duty and retired early, for help

Jack isn’t even shocked to see him. He’s not surprised, he’s not happy and he’s not angry. It makes Race mad.

Jack takes Race out to lunch where he lets Race talk and tells him that he’s the ultimate disappointment because Jack told Race all growing up how much he hated private detectives and psychics. But ultimately, he helps Race out anyway

This leads to Race solving the case and getting recognition for it. Jack keeps his secret and is even secretly proud of him

The happiness he feels at that convinces Race to open up his own agency with Albert

Throughout their journey as detectives, Race ends up falling for a junior detective, a transfer from Brooklyn who is a partner to the skeptic head detective, David Jacob, his brother’s former partner and best friend.

Spot, the Junior detective, often flirts with Race and leads him on, but they don’t start a relationship until five years later.

Race is faced with countless situations where he becomes a target for serial killers and criminals who come after his and his friends and family.

Race gets shot and kidnapped at one point.

He and Albert get held captive constantly and The Yin Yang killer, a serial killer who had been messing with the department for years, takes a special interest in him, causing his current boyfriend to be nearly drowned, Spot to be nearly dropped from a clock tower, Jack to be nearly blown up and he and Albert to be nearly poisoned.

Despite only telling this lie to get out of going to jail for a crime he did not commit, he ends up sticking with it and finding his purpose in life was to help others instead of help himself and loves it

Albert DaSilva (Bruton Gaster)

Grows up with a good life.

His mother died when he was really young, not even a year old, and he lived with his father and two much older brothers who spoiled him and loved him.

Albert was always smart. He was always smart in different ways than Race was and enjoyed learning and gaining better understandings of things

When he was young, he wanted to become an astronomer. He always loved the planets and the stars.

While being academically advanced, he knew that graduating with Race was not the best option for him as he used to doubt himself when Race wasn’t around to tell him how much he needed him

As a child he applied for a school for advanced students, which he was accepted into. His father refused to send him on account of wanting him to be a kid which Albert never truly liked being

His father never did appreciate the influence that Race had on his son, but allowed it in order to let Albert be a kid because he knew Albert needed it

Albert loved academic activities growing up and had nearly won a national spelling bee that Race botched for him. After learning this, Albert is angry with Race and realizes his friend’s need for him as Race eventually admits he was scared his only friend was going to leave him

Albert is very independent and enjoys doing things on his own, much to Race’s dismay

Al was voted most likely to succeed in high school

When Race runs away, Albert knows about it and tries to stop him, but believes Race will get nervous and come back

When that doesn’t happen, Albert is too embarrassed and scared to tell anyone so he lets Race go, feeling abandonment for the first and possibly only time in his life and he’s always secretly a little angry with Race for leaving

Albert goes to college right out of high school and studied medicine, wanting to become a doctor

When Race comes back into town, he ends up missing a lot of classes and barely manages to stay ahead in school

He still works towards becoming a doctor, which often helps with solving crimes

After finding out he does not like the sight of blood and dead bodies, he switches to forensics which also helps with a lot of investigations

Albert’s oldest brother is a rocket scientist at NASA and his other brother is an engineer

He constantly feels as though he’s trying to catch up and be just as accomplished as his brothers

Albert was pep captain in high school in attempts to be popular. While he did have more friends than Race, he didn’t accomplish actually being popular, but hanging around so many girls turned him into somewhat of a ladies man

During his senior year spring break, Albert, who’s already eighteen, heads down to Mexico with some friends but ends up meeting a girl. He gets drunk and marries her before leaving and never speaking of it again, not seeing the girl until years later when she is getting remarried.

After helping Race on his first case, Albert finds he had a knack for assisting his friend in crime fighting and, though often gives Race a hard time about it and complains, genuinely enjoys helping

Is very protective of his car that his father pays for, affectionately named the Blueberry by Race who picks up the name from a stuck up client

Albert knows Race better than Race knows himself and is sometimes the only thing actually keeping him from chaotically causing his own accidental death, despite Jack’s best efforts.

He has a very refined sense of smell

Grew up catholic and believes in demonic possessions and exorcisms

In an attempt to be cool when he was younger, Albert learned how to pick locks and crack safes

Is often given ridiculous nicknames by his best friend while they’re out solving cases, just for fun. He just rolls with them typically.

He joined an a capella group in college because he knew how to sing and was curious as to what it would be like. Race always finds it entertaining.

Is an experienced tap dancer

Has trouble doing things that are more on the dangerous side while Race doesn’t mind jumping in head first just to see what will happen.

Albert’s father is very protective of him and, even when he’s being accused of murder, tries to constantly give Race money and have someone babysit and take care of him.

It isn’t until Race sets the record straight that Albert’s dad begins to trust him to take care of Al moving forward.

Albert is the only person Jack trusts with Race for a long time as Race had a history with bullies all growing up and never really wanted any other friends.

Albert becomes like another little brother to Jack and Jack teaches him some street smarts to get him by after Race runs away.

Albert helps take care of Jack after his career ending injury

Albert eventually becomes a forensic scientist and ends up working for the FBI

Jack Kelly (Henry Spencer)

A trouble maker when he was young, the only child of his father, James Francis Kelly Sr. and first born of his mother

When Jack is fifteen his father dies, murdered by a criminal who’d been out on a killing spree.

His father had always wanted Jack to follow in his footsteps and become an officer so, to honor him, Jack does

When Jack was twelve, his mother had had another baby. Jack did not know a lot about this, but after his father died, became very curious.

When asked about the baby, his mother got defensive, so he tracked the kid down on his own, finding him in a neglective home and immediately falling in love with the kid and wanting to protect him.

Although he often shows Race tough love, he genuinely makes it his life goal to keep the boy safe and protected

He renamed Anthony Higgins, Tyler James Kelly, because Anthony was originally named after his father, the man who almost never acknowledged that the kid existed and Jack didn’t want him walking around with that.

Even after Race starts introducing himself as Anthony again, he still calls Race Tyler and Tyler James and his little Tyler James because that’s still Race’s legal name

Jack is a bit of a troubled kid growing up.

He has ADHD

His father helped him channel that into being hyper observant and alert

His mother was a bit of a deadbeat, but Jack still loved her up until she died from lung cancer. He didn’t trust her to look after Race once, instead hiring experienced babysitters and sometimes even taking Race into work with him and having another officer watch him

When he first meets Race, he quickly picks up on the fact that the kid is special and had extraordinary talents and he wants to help Race use them in the best way

Jack is a very protective person, though he normally comes off as slightly intimidating stand-off-ish. He is genuinely friendly and actually is the inspiration behind Race’s sense of humor

Jack raises Race to be the perfect detective, believing he was doing this for Race’s own good as Jack himself is terrified of losing someone else, especially his baby boy who he finds he loves more than anyone else in the world.

While Jack was a bit of a prankster and a fighter growing up, his father explained to him that this was a good thing and would help Jack in the future as he knew how criminals could think

Jack is an artist and loves to paint and draw. It’s his most peaceful activity

He once arrested Race when he was fifteen for “borrowing” a car to impress a girl with Race later reveals he only did to keep the football team from finding out that he was gay

He moves up in the police force quickly, becoming the youngest head detective the department had

He is partnered with David Jacobs who quickly becomes his best friend and eventually replaced Jack as the head detective.

When Race runs away Jack is extremely hurt and goes through a small depression that ultimately makes him lose his focus and gets him into a bad car crash, ending his career as a detective

His knee is shattered and he can’t run as easily as he used to be able to.

Refuses help most of the time and locks himself away from the world until Albert comes knocking on his door

He lets the kid help him out

It is eventually revealed that Jack put a gps tracker in the dog tags that had been his father’s. He’d given them to Race because he convinced the kid they’d keep him safe. He knows where Race is at all times

This is why he’s not surprised when Race is back in town and this is how Jack continues to be able to find Race when Race is in trouble.

When Race is shot and kidnapped, his drops the dog tags and Jack panics because he’s never not been able to find Race and when he does eventually find him, he puts the dog tags back around his neck and yells at Race to never take them off again

That’s when Race finds out what Jack did

Jack is Race’s biggest critic and biggest supporter all rolled up into one

While he never truly approves of what Race is doing, he still does his best to help him and protect him as best he can and is always proud of him no matter what he does.

During his time in recovery, Jack sells paints and works on commission, starting his own arti website and becoming a fairly famous artist

When the Yin Yang killer returns to New York, it is revealed that Jack worked the case before but had not been the target of the serial killer.

He is kidnapped by Yang who knows somehow that he’d be unable to run and slightly traumatized him, placing him in a car at a drive in movie with a bomb in his lap

Though he tries to convince everyone that he’s not scared, Race ends up staying with him to comfort him through the nightmares.

After Yin and Yang strikes again, making it even clearer that it’s Racer he’s messing with, Jack accepts a job from the chief of police as a police liaison in attempts to keep Race safe

A few years later, another old case of his comes up and he realizes that the cops who trained him and worked with him were dirty and tampered with his evidence.

He is later shot point blank by one of his old partners and left for dead, but Race, who had followed him, manages to take him to a hospital, saving his life though it was a very close call

After all of this, Jack eventually retires from the police department, no longer respecting the badge as he’d used to and becomes a professor of criminology at the same college Albert attended where he meets Katherine, his future wife

Spot Conlon (Juliet O’Hara)

Sean “Spot” Conlon grew up being around cops a lot.

His father was a crook.

While he knew his father loved him, he also knew that his father was a conman and what he did was wrong.

Growing up, Spot would wake up to receive little gifts on his nightstand and eventually he figured out that his father had been breaking in to leave them for him, taking the window apart and putting it back together without a trace.

Spot loves his father but moves on and grows up to become a cop to stop people like his father from taking advantage of others

He has one older brother, Hot Shot, who is also a criminal, though he is a criminal in the name of the Army which he was trying to protect

Spot does have to arrest his brother but is not shocked to find that his brother escaped

Spot does have a younger brother, Charlie or Crutchie as he’s called by his brother, who he loves very much and tries to preserve as the kid is the only member of his family who is remotely innocent.

Crutchie eventually moves from Brooklyn to Manhattan to be closer to Spot and meets Spot’s friends who he adores.

Charlie is the one who reveals that Jack was one of Spot’s idols. Spot looked up to Jack because Jack was one of the youngest head detectives in the country and was an overall brilliant detective

Spot first meets Race while undercover. The conversation only lasts a few minutes before Race deducts that he is in fact a cop about to make a jump on someone.

Wary of Race at first, Spot keeps his distance. He is skeptical of Race’s “gift” buy after observing him behind to believe his abilities may be real

Upon his transfer to Manhattan to become a detective, Spot is partnered up with Jack Kelly’s old partner David, who is very stand-off-ish and mean at first

Spot and David begin to build a relationship based on trust and become like brothers after a long while

Originally, Spot is not taken very seriously as he’s very young and cares about how he looks. Many of the other cops make fun of him, calling him “pretty boy” and other derogatory names because they all know that he’s gay

David often sticks up for him but doesn’t let Spot thank him.

Spot eventually starts calling Race “pretty boy” as a means to give the words good meaning again

Spot is very good at going undercover for jobs and enjoys getting to be placed in different roles.

Race often tells him that if he hadn’t been a coo he would’ve been a hell of an actor but Spot doesn’t like that because he fears he’s becoming too much like his father

Spot is desperate to succeed in his work and often goes to Jack for advice (I know, they like each other in this one. It’s crazy)

Spot is very competitive and likes to be right.

He often brags about solving cases before others but does not put others down, necessarily, in the process

Though Spot is a bit on the shorter side, he makes up for it with muscle and strength.

When he gets angry, people back off, afraid of what he might do if he decides to take his anger out on them.

Spot is fluent in Spanish, just like Jack, and after Race and he start dating, they often have conversations about Race right in front of him.

After getting kidnapped by Yin, Spot is traumatized to the point of being unable to stay at the station.

He develops a paralyzing fear of heights that’s Race helps him through

Eventually, Spot becomes the head detective in Brooklyn when the chief is transferred there.

David Jacobs (Lassie Face)

David had always had a difficult time with trust

He grew up with a twin sister and a little brother.

His father cheated on their mother and his mother cheated on his father

His sister grew up and left without telling anyone.

His ex wife had cheated on him and left him

Suffice to say that trust didn’t come easy to him.

Growing up, Davey likes the rules and he likes enforcing them. He likes being in charge and he’s good at it.

David loves his younger brother a lot. Les is going to school for film and he loves getting insight about what police actually do. He likes to make documentaries

When David is partnered with the head detective, he’s shocked to find he actually likes Jack

Jack is the first person he truly trusts in a long long time

Jack becomes his best friend and only confidant

As he’s close with Jack, he does meet Race a few times, but when he questions Race about his tips under his old name, he doesn’t know why Race looks so familiar

It isn’t until David sees Race with Jack that he remembers.

Jack lies to David and tells him that Race is a psychic and found out when he was fifteen and that’s why he left even though he knows Davey won’t believe him

David understands and respects that Jack puts his little brother first

But the kid still annoys him

Despite not necessarily getting along with Race, David does everything he can to protect him as a ways to pay Jack back for all the times he’d saved his life

When Jack gets in his accident, David refuses another partner, nervous about not living up to Jack’s reputation.

His first new partner ends up being a girlfriend of his during his separation from his wife. Race outs the affair on accident and the woman is transferred

David and Spot don’t get along at first but Spot quickly shows David that he’s not any junior detective and is really good at what he does

He ends up really liking the kid

After Jack’s accident, David has a hard time going to see him, feeling as though he’d failed the other man somehow.

Eventually, he takes Jack out for a drink where Jack apologizes for screwing up and they have a bonding moment

Eventually, David finds himself infatuated with a suspect in a case he’s working

Though the girl is ultimately guilty, he visits her in prison and eventually marries her

His whole life all he’d wanted was to be the chief of police

Eventually, after Chief Larkin is transferred, his dream comes true.

He and Race manage to become friends and, after receiving a video message from Race, confessing to the fact that he’s not a psychic, he tears the disc out and breaks it, never needing to know how Race did what he did

I absolutely love this one, so if ya’ll wanna see any scenes from it, just let me know!

For more Mood Boards and AUs, click here!

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monkey-network · 4 years

Text

Onizuka, Katsuragi, and The Shonan Kidnap Hunt Arc (GTO Shonan Days)

Great Teacher Onizuka is the most underrated badass manga series that I’ve ever read and I say the key to it, the legit special spice that helps it all work every time, is its escalation. The stories know how to amp up the struggle Onizuka goes through to make his victories all the more satisfying. As such, I’d say the best example of this is first major arc of GTO’s spin-off series, 14 Days in Shonan.

The background for this is simple: Eikichi Onizuka, teacher assistant at a private academy, is forced to go to his hometown in Shonan after both escaping the hospital and getting into trouble on television. Soon as he get there, he meets a caregiver at White Swan Youth Home, a place for children/teens that came from broken or abusive families. The caregiver, Shiratori, invites him to stay with them and help out after recognizing him and his legacy from a friend and fellow teacher of Onizuka. With that, it’s time to set the stage with the story’s first antagonist: Miki Katsuragi

One of the children at White Swan, she’s well known as the daughter of the chief in the Shonan/Kanagawa Prefecture police. While she’s able to contact tough guys to rough up whoever she pleases, her biggest trump card is her phone’s GPS signal where a single message can immediately sick a ton of pigs on whoever she targets, whether or not they did anything to her. After his initial arrest, Onizuka immediately makes himself welcome with the other students at the orphanage, even throwing out the brutish father of one of the juveniles when Miki calls him in. Katsuragi tries her best to chase him out, from almost setting him on fire to putting a bounty on him for Cromartie thugs.

Each time Onizuka manages to come out on top

After facing off a whole gang of high schoolers, Onizuka finally kidnaps Katsuragi before she called the cops again, taking her to a special place of his.

At that place, Onizuka shares his childhood with Katsuragi, helping her see that he’s a meaningful person that’s risen from his hatred for adults. Like his many students in the past, she gets to see his philosophical side and comes to regret thinking the worst of him. Her father arrives with other law enforcement and when we think everything’s fine, the first time we have Katsuragi and her father in the same space we see the other side of Katsuragi’s life, the reason why she came to White Swan. While Katsuragi depends on her father and his status for protection,

Her father cares more about his position than her

She generally used his status and the police force merely to get his attention, often getting in trouble with her cell phone being the only thing that could get the attention of somebody that would never make time for her, even at her lowest point when her mother died long ago. Now feeling like nothing but a burden to him after his chastisement, she runs away. This is the point where the arc truly garners speed. Out on the streets, she encounters a guy who saves her from perverted thugs only to unfortunately get captured by the guy who turns out to be a sex trafficker.

Miki’s father ignores her calls as she’s carried off in a black minivan. Onizuka is soon on the hunt for her and encounters former goons who help him and the others with him realize her possible abduction. They try to reach to Katsuragi’s father but to no avail, leading Onizuka, in his signature fashion, to charge in and beat a little sense into the guy.

The father lets him go while Onizuka takes matters into his own hands. At the police station, he slowly realizes that Onizuka and everyone else was onto something about Miki’s abductor, with her phone getting cut off after it got smashed along the road. He signals a full scale deployment in search of the minivan with him stepping out as well. In the meantime, Onizuka called in early some old contacts and not long after leaving the station, his other ride arrives with many of his friends riding along.

Being a former street gang member in Shonan, he called up old members who were able to get up to 200 bikes mobilized on the hunt for Miki and/or minivan. This is honestly where the arc gets its powerful hype. We’ve seen that there’s hope for Katsuragi, we see the stakes of where losing can lead, and we see Onizuka at his persistent best to where, with the first arc of this mini-series, the entirety of the city is shaken by him and his influence in the efforts to not only bring the traffickers to justice but reunite a daughter and father.

Across the city, gang bikers are stopping and checking every black van with police reporting on the incidents and are in pursuit to round the bikers. The search is hitting a rough patch, but luckily another friend arrives having heard the whole situation. Sure enough, more men have gathered for the mission

Like one of my favorite arcs of GTO, the clock is truly ticking. With more bikers on the hunt, the risk of police catching and arresting them is now higher than ever and Onizuka’s search could be made futile. More of Eikichi’s friends call in to help with information about the potential ring responsible for kidnapping not only Miki but other teen girls who were pronounced missing not long ago. Onizuka in the meanwhile tries to bust through a police barricade to help his comrades continue and is about to get caught

Luckily Shiratori step in. As Katsuragi’s father is at the barricade, Miki’s friend Ikuko and Onizuka manage to convince him and the officers to join in the search. As Onizuka finds a lead thanks to Miki’s broken phone, we cut to Miki at the slave market, getting “prepared” by the lolicon bastards in charge, not long before the cavalry of the night arrive in the nick of time.

The police charge in and arrest the assholes with one almost escaping. I say “almost” as Onizuka catches him trying to drive off with this badass end to the rescue.

The bikers head off to avoid arrest, Katsuragi is freed, but her resentment towards her father is still there. The next day, her and Onizuka talk about what happened where the latter shares that Miki’s father has stepped down from his position. After the incident, he resigned to a simpler police relative job in his efforts to be there for his daughter more.

I’d say this is more ideal than most would believe but I say his father’s sacrifice was as much earned as Miki’s respect for Onizuka after all he did for her. GTO to me has always earned its arc endings where our main Onizuka gives his all into reforming the most bitter of hearts. Not only that but making the danger that comes with his all having organic and thought out escalation. Just saying, this is the first fifteen chapters and while we went from a minor bounty hunt to a city wide search party with biker gangs, this is the least insane compared to later down the line. That’s what I love about this series, the first arc alone can have so much and yet only scratches the surface of what happens overall. It’s a compelling motivator to see what’s next with every new arc being a capitalizing banger of comedy, action, and drama. What more can I say?

It’s the best

#GTO #great teacher onizuka #eikichi onizuka #manga #long post #analysis

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sultrysirens · 4 years

Text

Blue Blood [Part 17]

Universe: Detroit: Become Human

Rating: PG-13 (swearing)

Characters: Connor, Evelyn (OFC)

Tags: interspecies, romance, fluff, detective, law enforcement, original character, continuation, sex

[>>>MASTERLIST<<<]

[<<<BACK<<<]

[>>>NEXT>>>]

The next day at work wasn’t quite so pleasing. Guerrero pulled them in for a talk as soon as they arrived, before they’d even had a chance to sit down.

Connor stood before the captain with his hands clasped in front of him. Evelyn, he noted, clasped her hands behind her back -- a military stance. Guerrero, on the other hand, looked tired, perched at the edge of his desk.

He began, “You brought in two men for android assault.”

“That, we did,” Evelyn agreed.

“Android assault isn’t a thing yet,” he pointed out. “There’s still no laws--”

“So that means we should just let them assault people?” she demanded.

He gave her a hard look. “You interrupt me entirely too often, Forbes.”

That got her to glance down. “Sorry, Captain,” she said.

“It’s a problem of yours, and you need to get that sorted,” he impressed.

She shifted, uncomfortable.

“If I may,” Connor cut in, a hand held up for patience.

Guerrero sent him a measuring look, then nodded. “Sure,” he allowed.

His tone wasn’t exactly inviting, Connor thought, but he took the opportunity nonetheless. “It’s not just android assault. I’m a detective here, too -- they assaulted a government official. And even if we can’t prosecute them, those men were being aggressive and violent. They need to know it’s not acceptable behavior in a civilized world.”

Evelyn gestured him. “Spoken better than I could’ve,” she noted.

The captain ducked his head, rubbing his buzzed scalp with a sigh. At length, he looked up again, saying, “We had to let them go. There were no charges to give--”

“No charges -- they incited a riot,” she snapped, agitated.

“Forbes,” he returned, a warning to his tone.

“I’m sorry,” she said again, “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just...they need some kind of punishment. We can’t sweep this under the rug just because it happened to an android--”

“Forbes,” he repeated, more firm; she fell silent. “I understand. You feel this is an injustice and your job is to provide that justice -- particularly in defense of your own partner. But there’s still no android laws,” he impressed. “And as for a riot -- I read the report. They were threatening neither persons nor property, and until the laws get updated, androids are neither persons nor property.”

A deep, burning resentment took hold of Connor then, hearing that. Guerrero wasn’t wrong -- thanks to the president declaring androids as people, they no longer had the protection of being property, and until they were included in the law as a people, that meant they were nothing. Neither people nor property...they were honestly better off before.

At least before people could be fined for damaging an android. Now they didn’t even have that in their favor.

Guerrero continued, “Any judge would throw out the case, and then the D.A. would have a field day with the press -- especially because you were off duty,” he intoned. “You shouldn’t have been making any arrests to begin with. At this point we’ll be lucky if they don’t turn around and press charges against the precinct.”

She looked away, radiating both chagrin and frustration.

He took a breath, sighed. “There’s nothing we can do about this that won’t make things worse for the precinct. And until we have a stronger back from the community,” he continued, “we need to be cautious, whatever your moral compass says. We don’t have the numbers to deal with actual riots. Not anymore.”

She huffed, clearly unhappy with this call, and Connor empathized with her. But he could see things from Guerrero’s point of view, too; the captain was thinking of the precinct as a whole and he was trying to keep them in the community’s good graces. Connor couldn’t fault the man for that -- especially since the revolution. The lack of android officers meant half the precinct was unavailable to deal with any backlash from the community.

Aloud, Connor said, “I understand. Perhaps just being in holding for a night was enough to scare the men straight. And if they continue to pick fights, we need only to bide our time. The laws will come,” he said to Evelyn.

She gave him a questioning look, as if she didn’t quite believe him, but nodded regardless. “Here’s hoping,” she agreed.

Guerrero seemed satisfied by that, and he prompted, “Well. Now that we’ve sorted that out, what about Montgomery? I understand you two dug up some leads yesterday.”

The change of subject was a relief. Connor happily gave a verbal update, interspersed with Evelyn’s thoughts and conclusions, leading to the outcome that they’d need to interview Montgomery’s rival lawyers as well as Montgomery’s L.A. home and office. Neither of them believed a lawyer had gotten their hands dirty, but it was likely at least one of them was in bed with who had.

Guerrero listened, then gave a nod. “If you think it’ll aid the investigation, you’re welcome to go. Good luck,” he said, giving them a dismissive wave towards his door.

Evelyn nodded without a response, heading out, but Connor left with a cordial, “Have a nice day, Captain.”

Guerrero didn’t reply.

Outside the room, she commented, “You know you don’t need to be all hyper-polite, right?”

He glanced at her, surprised. “Should I not be polite towards my own captain?” he said as he trailed her, the pair of them heading to their desks.

“Not Guerrero,” she chuckled. “He never responds. I think it’s his way of being the ‘dad’ of the precinct -- giving everyone the cold shoulder, pretending to be all distant and tough.”

Curious, he asked, “Did you used to do it, too? The farewells?”

“When I first started, yeah. Took me a couple weeks before I figured out he’s being the tough, stubborn boss and won’t reciprocate.” She took her seat, logged in, and navigated to the digital case file.

He considered that -- Guerrero’s behavior -- for just a moment, concluding that the man was likely keeping up appearances. Then, attention shifting, he logged in, too, and began filling out a report on the information they’d gleaned from Mrs. Dulcevey.

Evelyn lifted her hands from the keyboard as he did so, surprised and amused. “Well, I can’t type half that fast. Or read that fast,” she noted as his report spawned into being from simple thought, appearing on her computer, too.

He chuckled. “Sorry, this is just how fast I go.”

“Mm. In which case,” she began, rising, “I don’t wanna interrupt so I’ll just go grab a coffee. Don’t break anything,” she added as she stepped away.

He smirked. He was truly starting to enjoy her teasing. It was just so friendly, the way she spoke to him. And...his thoughts were bleeding over into his report, he realized with a start. Those small thoughts managed to get sandwiched in the middle of a sentence about Ton Hoang.

Whoops.

He quickly edited those unrelated snippets out and continued his task. By the time Evelyn returned with her coffee, he’d narrowed down a sequence of events for the future of the case -- aside from interviewing the lawyers, which he expected would take time. They’d need to set up appointments, given they had no evidence to call upon, and undoubtedly the lawyers would wait until they had their ducks in a row. Aside from that, however...

To Evelyn, he outlined to her his desire to return to Montgomery’s estate so he could use his features to search for additional clues, namely how far the wireless signals went and if the home was receiving any from outside sources. Second, he wanted to check Montgomery’s L.A. residence and office as well, hoping that the victim had moved the thumb drive they were looking for to one of the two locations, and if not, they’d at least be able to build more of a profile on the victim that way. Third, he wanted to interview those closest to Montgomery himself.

Once he was finished speaking, he waited, and after a few moments’ time she spoke up.

“We can set up interviews pretty easily,” she began. “Montgomery is set to have a wake on the 15th. Most of his family are here already, as far as I know, so that shouldn’t be too hard. The lawyers will probably play the system as long as they can, though, waiting days or weeks or months if possible -- we’d be better off leaving them until we have some way to pressure them to show.”

Then, sounding exhausted already, she intoned, “Either way, we’re in for a grind.”

“In which case,” he replied, “perhaps we should start with Montgomery’s residences.”

She snapped her fingers and pointed at him. “Agreed. Is the report done?”

He nodded. “You can check it if you like,” he offered.

“I’ll have to,” she returned. “I’ll need to add my own perspective, at the very least. Think you can handle contacting the family to set up interviews?”

“Not a problem,” he agreed. He’d have to do them one at a time, though; he had to verbally speak to make calls to humans. He started those while Evelyn read his report and started adding in her own words, ultimately setting up five interviews by the time she concluded her part of the report.

Once he checked it, he was actually surprised. She was fast -- almost unnaturally so, he noted. Even factoring in her occasional pauses, clearly thinking things through, she managed roughly 82 words per minute.

Not beyond human ability, he admitted, but that still came out to more than a word per second. She must’ve written up a great deal of reports in this job, he concluded, impressed.

Granted, he could do 256 words per minute (being a literal computer was kind of amusing sometimes) so he was already a minimum of three times faster than her, but still. For a human her speed was definitely notable.

It wasn’t too long before their desk work was completed -- less than two hours since they clocked in -- and then they were off. In the car, Evelyn started to set her dashcom* to direct her to Montgomery’s residence (their first stop), but Connor stopped her, already having the route calculated. He told her when and where to make turns for the half-hour drive, keeping up with traffic changes in real time, and got them there faster than her dashcom could’ve.

The home was in a suburban neighborhood, and he reflexively scanned things as they approached the home. Everything was well-tended down this snaking road, veering in gentle twists between roads, and numerous cars were parked on car-lots and on the curbs. A few humans were about, doing maintenance or walking dogs or talking in small gatherings.

Not a single android was in sight, he noted.

“You know what’d be cool?” she said as they got out of the vehicle. Without waiting for his response, she answered, “If you’d stop making all of my devices obsolete.”

He chuckled. “I can’t help it. But if it makes you feel any better,” he offered, “I can’t make a decent cup of coffee.”

She inclined her head. “Well, that’s one thing I’ve got, I guess. But I swear to God, if you turn around and get some coffee machine feature, I will scream.”

“I’ll just file that away under ‘Ways To Make Evelyn Scream’,” he commented, amused.

She gave a laugh. Then, as they headed to the door of Montgomery’s two-story suburban home, a sound caught their attention from within. They both stopped dead, glancing at one another, and Connor took the opportunity to analyze the sound.

For a suspended moment in time, he replayed the noise in his own mind, concluding that it was the sound of a drawer being shoved closed -- not gently, but with excessive force. Someone was within.

He asked quickly, “Would it be likely that Montgomery’s relations would come here, possibly to pack his things?”

“Not when there’s no car out front,” she answered, already reaching to her belt.

He took another glance at the street, but none of the vehicles in sight -- aside from Evelyn’s Mustang -- were close enough to suggest which one, if any, might belong to whomever was currently inside the home.

“An invader,” he concluded, already striding to the front door to check it. It was unlocked, he found, though undamaged; the digital lock had been hacked open. He sent Evelyn a glance over his shoulder, relaying as much.

She gestured him aside. “I’ll go in this way, you find a side door,” she directed under her breath.

“I’d rather be the one taking that risk,” he returned as quietly.

“I’m the one with the firearm,” she shot back. “Go.” She inclined her head to her left, around the side of the house.

For a split second he was conflicted. From a logical standpoint, that was smart: the person with ranged defense could easily distract any opponents while the one without snuck up from elsewhere. But from an emotional standpoint, he didn’t want her in that kind of danger.

During that split second, he struggled with himself, a war of tactical advantage versus emotional impulse. A feeling of nostalgia rose as he fought to determine the priority between the two, reminded of his first investigation alongside Hank.

After a heartbeat of debate, logic won. He gave a firm nod and headed off, moving around the home as quietly as his shoes would allow, keeping low so he wouldn’t be seen through the windows. Soon he came upon a side door -- unsurprising for this type of home -- and checked it. Still locked.

He hacked it with a touch, the physical lock clacking as the digital code released it. He pushed it open, listening, and found he’d entered the kitchen area. He could see three open doorways from here; following the sound of rummaging led him further left, towards the rear of the home. He caught a glimpse of Evelyn through the middle doorway as he moved, hands low in front of her, her firearm at the ready.

He hugged the doorway ahead of him, looking into the room beyond -- some form of sitting room, he deduced, with comfortable furniture. Listening closer, he heard the creak of footfalls further to the right and ducked into the next room to follow it.

Now that he’d pinpointed the intruder, though, he encountered a new problem: this room’s door was closed. He’d undoubtedly be noticed if he opened it. Still, reminded that Forbes could potentially be in danger going by her path, he gripped the lever handle and gave it a slow, testing twist. Unlocked, he determined, though it had a physical keyhole on his side of it.

Assuming the room beyond was Elias’ home study and, by extension, for the intruder to be looking for valuable case files, he moved slowly, avoiding making the slightest noise--

--right up until he heard Evelyn’s voice clearly call out, “Don’t move! Hands where I can see them!”

The target of her forceful order gave a startled shriek and Connor dropped pretense, swinging the door open to take in the situation.

His assessment had been correct, he saw at once: this was a study. A single bookshelf, desk, computer, and chair filled one half; the other half had merely a low, oval coffee table with a sofa and two chairs situated around it. And currently there was a woman behind the desk, illuminated by the window on her opposite side.

She was black with blue eyes, her head shaved, wearing an ensemble that was almost eerily identical to Evelyn’s. She also had two cameras on her in easy sight, one at her left shoulder and one anchored to her belt, as well as a half-visor over her right eye he didn’t recognize. He scanned the female at once, finding a laundry list of criminal accusations -- and no convictions. Not a single one went through, he found with surprise.

[Sasha Porter; born 3/15/2012; 5′9″, 137.2lbs]

She already had her hands in the air, and she called out, “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Don’t shoot, I’m here legally!”

“Legally?” Evelyn echoed. “Identify yourself.”

“Sasha Porter, I’m a P.I.,” the woman declared. Then she seemed to notice Connor, giving him a double take but clearly more concerned with the gun trained on her.

Evelyn went from suspicious to sputtering, “Y-you’re a -- you’re a private investigator?” she checked.

“Yes,” Sasha insisted.

Jutting her chin, Evelyn demanded, “Show me an I.D.”

Moving slow, keeping one hand in front of her, Sasha did so, reaching down to her belt and withdrawing an I.D. wallet. She opened it, showing Evelyn.

To him, Evelyn said, “Connor, please check it.”

Not a problem. He strode closer, keeping aware of Sasha’s hands as he did so (just in case), and she turned the I.D. towards him offering as he neared. He scanned it as soon as it was close enough for his gaze to pick up on the details, checking the credentials.

It was legitimate, he concluded at once. Issued on 9/12/33, Sasha had been in this profession for the last five years. With this, he was even able to connect her to thirty-eight successful convictions. She got another commission completed roughly every two months.

She was good at her job.

He gestured Evelyn to back down, saying, “It’s real.”

With a sigh, she relented, holstering her weapon. Sasha gave a heavy exhale, too, patting her chest, and put her I.D. back in her pocket.

“What the Hell are you doing here?” Forbes demanded.

“Investigating, what’s it look like?” Sasha returned, tone sharp. “What are you, anyway? LAPD?”

Evelyn nodded. “Yeah. I’m Sergeant Evelyn Forbes, this is Detective Connor,” she introduced, gesturing him.

“Scared the shit out of me,” Sasha complained.

“I’d be surprised if you didn’t get that a lot in your profession,” Evelyn returned. Then, giving Sasha a vague wave, she asked, “You recording?”

“While I’m on the job? Always,” Sasha confirmed, giving Connor a glance. “You an android?” she asked him.

“Jacket give that away?” he returned dryly, moving to join up with his partner.

She gave him an annoyed look.

“Hey,” Evelyn began, getting Sasha’s attention. She gestured own her eye, saying, “What’s this you’re wearing?”

“Camera/scanner combo,” Sasha told her. “Doesn’t record, but it can take pictures and has a number of visual settings.”

“Ooh. I should get me one of those,” Evelyn commented.

“Good luck with that, it’s new tech -- just released a couple days ago,” Sasha told her. “Super expensive.”

That would explain why Connor hadn’t been able to identify it, then. He checked, “What’s it called?”

Giving him a curious look, Sasha answered, “Heimdall Elite. Kinda pretentious, if you ask me.”

He logged that, creating a file for it. It didn’t take but an instant to have it named with all of its identifying markers and logged with all the information he could glean from the internet.

Evelyn commented, “Cool. Now who hired you, and what are you looking for here?”

Sasha gave her a dumb look. “You know I’m under no obligation to answer either of those questions. Gotta protect my clients. You understand,” she said -- not a question.

“Mm,” was Evelyn’s response. She paused then, thoughtful, and Connor was hit with a sense of impatience.

“Why are we waiting?” he asked her.

“Because she’s recording,” Evelyn returned, crossing her arms.

Good point. As long as a private investigator was present and recording, the police were limited in what they could do -- and, given she had active cameras going, what they were willing to do.

Sasha gave them a wave. “You can wait outside. Or just check some other rooms. Don’t let me get in your way.”

“You’re directly in our way, actually,” Evelyn told her.

Shrugging, Sasha said, “I got here first. And you know I can’t take or even move anything. Let me finish up my job, then you can do yours. Deal?”

Evelyn sighed, relenting, and moved back out towards the hall. He kept pace with her, taking stock of the area he hadn’t yet seen. The hall led directly to the front door, the study completely opposite the front door, with more doorways opening to a living room and dining room with a staircase right in the middle of it all.

“Pretty nice place,” he noted.

“Yeah -- I’m not buying it, though,” she commented, glancing around.

Looking towards her, he asked, “What do you mean?”

“Lawyers usually get penthouses and mansions, not family homes in suburban neighborhoods,” she explained. “This is tiny and much more familial than his other residence. It doesn’t add up -- I’d bet this was just a show home.”

He could definitely see that, he admitted. Thinking on it, he decided to run a check, searching through what few databases he currently had access to; finding the deed and former owners of this home, he said, “This was Montgomery’s childhood home. He inherited it. Technically, it belongs to his son now, but Henry hasn’t been here in over a decade.”

Nodding, Evelyn worked out, “Then this is more likely his personal office than anything.” She glanced around, thoughtful, before starting to ascend the stairs. “In which case, there’s gotta be something here worth finding,” she was saying.

He trailed behind her, sending a glance down the hall -- checking on Sasha -- as he went. She was still busying herself with her digging, picking up stacks of papers before replacing them and investigating the drawers and bookshelves. Confirming that she was obeying the private investigator restrictions, he left her be.

Four doors sectioned the second floor, he found: two on their left, one on their right, one a few steps ahead. All were open, allowing him to note that the master bedroom was the one furthest to the left with a den of sorts on that side as well. The door to their front was a bathroom, and the one to their right was a spare bedroom.

She was heading for the den as she directed, “No touching anything you don’t have to, and if you move anything, put it right back where you found it.”

He was familiar with the P.I. laws, so he replied, “I’m more than capable of following the law.”

“A reminder never hurt anyone,” she pointed out.

Fair.

He left her to the den while he headed for the master bedroom and began his search.

It was about as fruitful as searching Helen Baker’s apartment had been, Connor found close to twenty minutes later. He’d looked absolutely everywhere, checking every drawer, examining the walls for hidden compartments, scanning for abnormal power lines, even checking every single article of clothing in the wardrobe and closet.

Nothing significant or noteworthy came to light. His conclusion: either Montgomery had kept all crime-related business out of his home, or he’d kept it out of his bedroom.

Giving up, he checked on Evelyn then, finding her sitting on the floor with a circle of papers around her, clearly having placed them there.

“So much for not touching anything,” he noted, striding in to take a closer look. “What did you find?”

“A pattern,” she explained, starting to gesture certain parts of the papers.

Each one seemed to have a different theme -- some were printed emails, some were excerpts from cases or books, some were collections of notes -- but he saw what she did: a sequence.

Time, date, place, and some kind of key word -- either a noun or an adjective and noun paired together. 5:23pm, November 11th, Donovan’s, red corvette; 2:17am, August 6th, Bookman’s, ATM; 9:02pm, April 27th, Franklin Blvd, yacht; it went on, a total of fourteen clues laid out together.

Impressed, he asked, “How did you notice this?”

“It stood out from the rest,” she answered absently. Then, glancing up at him, she checked, “Do you have all this memorized?”

He nodded. “You should put them back,” he said, but she was already doing so, arranging them almost haphazardly in between a series of other stacks.

Concerned that she might be mixing them up, he said, “I wish you’d gotten my attention before you pulled all those out. I could’ve put them back exactly as they’d been.”

She pulled out her phone. “I took pictures before I removed anything,” she informed him. “But you’re right -- I’m sorry about that. Guess I’m still just used to working alone.”

As she’d been for the last year, he reminded himself. The habits she must have developed from the lack of a partner...he’d definitely have to fight her now and again, if only to remind her that he was there and he could handle himself. She’d already displayed some of that loner mentality, he realized then, despite her visibly trying to include him the rest of the time.

“Not to worry, I’ll help you break those habits,” he teased, “whether you like it or not.”

She smiled at him, and he heard Sasha ascending the stairs then.

To Evelyn, he said, “Our rival is on her way.”

Blowing out a sigh, Forbes nodded. “I think it’s in our best interest to take our leave, then,” she concluded. “Let her do her thing. We can come back later.”

Agreeing, he gestured ahead, directing, “Ladies first.”

The look she gave him, then, was a kind of amused suspicion, like she was surprised by his politeness.

Somewhat offended, he retorted, “What? I’m not allowed to have manners?”

“Nah -- I’m just not used to it,” she explained, heading out. “Excuse us,” she said to Sasha as the P.I. passed her at the landing.

Sasha stepped aside, watching them go. “Y’all done?” she checked.

“For now,” Connor answered. “Good luck on your investigation.”

Eyes narrowing with suspicion, Sasha returned, “You, too.”

Once they were on the road again, Connor noted, “So, she was interesting.”

“You think?” Evelyn prompted, curious. “What makes Sasha Porter so intriguing?”

“For one thing, she was dressed almost identical to you,” he noted.

“I am immediately offended.”

He chuckled, then continued, “For another -- she has blue eyes. That’s exceedingly rare. Most likely, she has European ancestry in her -- and if not, she’s a mutant of the most beautiful variety.”

Smirking, she quipped, “Well, you already sound smitten.”

“I am immediately offended,” he shot back.

Laughing, she said, “Seriously, though, I agree. Those eyes are gorgeous on her. If I were a lesbian, man...” She gave a soft whistle.

With a dry laugh, he pointed out, “You’re married, so you wouldn’t do a damn thing.”

“How dare you crush my hopes and dreams,” she complained.

“Besides which,” he pressed, “she’s a P.I. You’re a cop. You said it yourself: the professions don’t mesh.”

“Sounds like a great premise for a rom-com,” she returned. “Maybe some good drama in there, too. I can see it now: she was a detective with LAPD, hard-driven and no-nonsense,” she intoned with a deep, narrative voice. “But while on a case, she crossed paths with a private investigator -- and what they found took them down a path of intrigue, betrayal, and romance--”

“Enough,” Connor laughed, waving her to silence.

Giggling, Evelyn relented. “So,” she prompted, “how about we actually get to work? Can you set up a timeline for those settings?”

Not a problem. He’d organized them by date and put pins in a mental map of where they’d taken place, linking them together, while they’d been talking. He said now, “Already done. It’s...interesting,” he offered.

“How so?”

“The locations are very random,” he explained. “They’re all over the state, not just L.A. I’m thinking they’re most likely related in terms of who or which entities own the areas -- there’s just no pattern to their locations.”

“Unless there’s more locations and we just don’t have that information yet,” she suggested.

Plausible, he admitted. “Maybe. But we should hold off on that until we have more to go on.”

“Agreed. You ready to go digging in a lawyer’s corner office?” she checked.

“More than. Let��s get this done,” he said, feeling more determined by the second. It seemed everything they found on Montgomery only deepened the mystery, rather than unraveling any of it.

It they didn’t find any solid leads after today, he feared it would become an obsession for him, the puzzle too great to ignore. Yet, weirdly, he found himself liking that concept: that he’d find a case he literally couldn’t put to bed.

In a sense, the deviancy case had never been solved, and to a small degree he was still curious about it. But the way things had gone, he’d ceased to care about why it’d happened -- it was just a good thing it had. And, to an extent, he didn’t want to solve it, either. A part of him felt protective of the mystery, liking keeping it unsolved meant he was protecting his fellow androids.

No, the deviancy case was perfectly fine left cold. But this one -- Montgomery -- was a damn good substitute, drawing his focus and intrigue. He couldn’t wait to see where it went from here.

* Dashcom = an abbreviation I came up with for “dash computer”, as I assume they’ll be incredibly popular in the near future (especially for government officials, like the police and FBI) and will very likely be referred to as such.

[>>>NEXT>>>]

#siren nightshade #blue blood #detroit: become human #connelyn #sfw #part 17 #exophilia #interspecies #romance

4 notes · View notes

severusdefender · 4 years

Text

The Concept of a Werewolf!Lily AU is such an Amazing Dumpsterfire I couldn't resist adding more

Hi, I’m here to blether about AUs and blow up ur inbox with said blether, hope you enjoy it as much as I did scribbling out my love of making everyplot needlessly complicated. X3

A fiat of timing could be everything in terms of future. Lily &Sev talking might be more frank they might end up pooling resources to simply leave the blastzone that is Wizarding UK/Scotland.

Also I feel that the personal guilt of Turning someone else into a werewolf would’ve nuked the Remus-Sirius friendship from orbit with feelings of betrayal, just saying.

Or Sev & Lily might separate for a time due to miscommunication (again, sweet merlin save me), and while Sev’s over there realizing he’s getting in over his head (I don’t know the chain of realizations he’d have, but it’d happen or start somehow), Lily gets drinkspiked &sudden possible prophecy child (idk who’d do the drinkspike specifically, maybe not James[who i think would at Least feel guilty about the too-late-to-stop-my-friend-from-accidentally-turning-you-into-a-werewolf thing, prolly not everything else, but that thing at least], but Sirius, who’s being an impulsive arsehole) & now she’s getting shipped off to safehouse w/ JP despite her protests.

Idk about possibly setting up a future Lily v Remus interpersonal conflict if she manages to forgive him in his unwitting role in screwing her life during this time with fighting/supporting the Order of the Phoenix. But him basically ghosting Harry later and Lily coming back to find, hey, his so-called promised support never fucking happened, could be juicy interpersonal conflict in the future as well. <<Sidenote.

Maybe the Order starts the rumor of “Lily Potter (nee Evans)” and a fake news of a wedding? Idk maybe in a attempt to Protect her Politically? Lily would absolutely despise it. It begins the Legend of Potter’s Muggleborn Wife, which also conveniently leaves her devoid of person-flaws and the fact that she’s a werewolf (probably never reported by Dumbles). A Huge Fiction.

In the meantime, Lily would be trying to cobble some sort of new, prolly a little or a lot Dark, ritual together so she and her kid don’t fucking die while trying to Not Think about this stupid train of trauma she’s desperately trying to not deal with regarding her… Safehousemate.

Things would be a little different but a little same, Lily wouldn’t be told who the Secret Keeper was though. Severus still overhears part of the Prophecy and gives it to Voldie, Voldie gives chase. But things could be different because Werwolves are more natural spellsinks? So there’s a badass-but-desperate fight at Godric’s Hollow, James dies but Lily gets away with Harry and is in the wind.

Voldemort is still at large.

And there’s also a countdown clock, because Lily got away with only a limited supply of Wolfsbane (or none at all, she’d be capable enough to brew it but the question is of ingredient access). But Lily hasn’t approached the Order again either.

The Ritual that she Made could serve as a Chekhov’s Gun in this plot though how I don’t know yet, but keep that in mind.

The Order needs to find her, but none of them Know her as well because she was always very withdrawn and played her cards close to her chest during her time with the Order this time around. So what do? Dumbledore seeks out one Severus Snape, and fishes for information.

Somehow this could culminate in Snape piecing together that something happened, thought he doesn’t quite have all the details yet. But he’d figure that the prophecy hunt net included Lily and oops, that’s kind of his fault, fuck. So Dumbledore has found guilt and stuff to push-leverage Snape into tracking down Lily.

Snape defects both because his friend (*& her son, he still doesn’t believe the papers about the “happy marriage”, he assumes the Literal Worst) is being hunted down, and also Guilt and kicking himself. But it’s less defecting to the other side, and more defecting towards what he considers his own side with Lily, and I don’t know how this complication could work. He gives chase, a whole runaround all of Wizarding Britain for maybe a little under a year, only to end up in the next town over from Cokeworth with no leads. Until-

Rumors of a strange beast sighted in the woods? Gotta check it out.

Severus and Lily finally meet again, but before they can truly hash it out, Lily’s about to transform and Voldemort & co. AND the OotP had also been hot on the trail. A running battle breaks out, Sev tries to get himself, Lily, and Harry (can we pls call him Henry, Henry’s such a good name), clear but Lily’s much closer to shifting. Shit happens, Voldemort pursues them personally yet somehow manages to not see the Identity of the Prophesied Child & his Mudblood Mother’s Protector (which is Severus). Maybe Sev & Lilyw/Harry got separated and now, Lily’s transformed fully and is throwing down w/ Voldemort.

Something happens, maybe the Ritual or some effect of that nature? And some canonmirroring just in a diff time diff place, Voldemort is destroyed by his rebounding AK, Harry gets the Scar and hailed BWL, and the fiction of Muggleborn Paragon Wife Lily Potter is preserved in quietude for the ages. But the strange part is that Werewolf!Lily was nowhere to be found, and it’s assumed that her body had been destroyed.

Severus is both devastated and suspicious.

From there it can either somewhat echo some stations of canon, but diverge further from there, or completely depart from the stations of canon entirely. Can’t decided what’s juicier or senseier. Snape could still end up a more tenuous Spymaster and Potions’ Master at Hogwarts, because technically he did fulfill his end of the bargain but Dumbledore still needs to keep him close after all. Snape still searches from what happened to Lily, but deeply resents Dumbledore despite not saying no to the resources that allow him to stay out of Azkaban and able to keep up his “fruitless search.”

Basically, this results in a more ambivalent Snape, his redemption arc happens differently.

The fable of The Potters is preserved for posterity and into the society’s collective memory, Harry Potter products are made. But Harry is not legally a Potter, Lily and James never married, Harry Evans is a true bastard in the lawbooks. I could still see him getting carted off to the Dursley’s for whatever actually well-meaning reason to be frank.

Idk, would Snape be Allowed to know about Harry’s survival status in this context especially since the Order or Law Enforcement would’ve gotten to him first? Maybe not, maybe Snape was under the impression that the baby “killed” the Dark Lord but was also killed in the process. Can’t decide if that’s worse than knowing Lily’s kid survived but is squirreled away somewhere where Snape can never check. Haven’t decided, both are equally angst. *shrugs*

Severus Snape still manages to be a disaster human on main.

Meanwhile, a big Russet Werewolf (stuck in form? Stabler? Haven’t decided yet) is wandering the somewhat intermittently devastated countryside, memoryless and adrift. (because I can’t resist shoving amnesiac au in here, im sorry i accept full responsibility lol).

Thoughts?

the only thoughts i have is ‘this would be an awesome fic’

#severus snape #lily evans #pro snape #headcanons #submission #long post

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chiseler · 4 years

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Wanted Man: On THE FUGITIVE

The road at night is home to one of America’s perennially romantic figures: the man who’s on the lam. The escaping slave wading in the water to throw off the dogs; the western outlaw with his face on a Wanted poster and a price on his head; the Depression-era bank robber gunning his stolen V-8 toward the state line. Guilt or innocence is almost incidental; it’s the race to stay free, and the need to keep on the move, that lend such dark luster to the fugitive. The double meaning of “wanted man” is inherent, never stated more succinctly than in Nightfall (1957), when just before they kiss Anne Bancroft tells Aldo Ray, who is pursued by both cops and criminals, “You’re the most wanted man I know.”

With all due respect to Aldo Ray, the most wanted man of all was surely David Janssen, who carried one hundred and twenty episodes of the television drama The Fugitive (1963-1967) with a charisma deeply rooted in the unease, alienation, and desperation of the man on the run. As Dr. Richard Kimble, who escapes en route to the death house after being falsely convicted of killing his wife, Janssen imbued the show with a hunted, haunted, hellhound-on-my-trail mystique. His might be called a one-note performance, but that note is a suppressed intensity that never slackens for an instant; he never forgets or lets us forget that he’s under sentence of death. The fear of being caught is in his husky, constrained voice; the nervous smile that twitches one side of his mouth; his darting, plaintive eyes; the way he stands with his shoulders slightly hunched, as if against a cold wind. Every woman wants to give him aid and comfort. Who could resist a strong, quiet, kind, yet just possibly dangerous man who is also as lost, alone, and in need of help as the bedraggled stray kitten he fleetingly bonds with at the end of the series debut? Because Kimble is a mensch, at times perilously close to a saint, it’s all the more important that Janssen has a dark, gritty edge to his presence. While the scripts place him again and again in the position of risking his safety to help someone in trouble, Janssen brings out Kimble’s exhaustion and bitterness, his reflexive distrust of authority, his lonely and self-punishing stubbornness.

Every episode of The Fugitive ends with Kimble alone, walking down the highway, thumbing a ride, huddling in the back of a truck, skulking through a railyard, or slumping in the gloom of a Greyhound bus—disappearing into the no-man’s-land of the American night. The look and mood of the series are relentlessly drab and melancholy. “Another shabby room, another lonely night,” the narrator intones; another dreary town that looks just like the last, another cheap hotel, another menial job where the stranger must put up with bullying bosses and needling co-workers, another toxic web of resentments and desires waiting to trap the newcomer. The Fugitive paints the life of a drifter as a dismal and repetitive slog. In this it forms a perfect counterpoint to Route 66, another popular television show with which it overlapped. (Route 66 ran from 1960 to 1964, and Janssen was a guest star on the show just before The Fugitive began its run.) Buz and Todd, footloose buddies zipping around the country in a Corvette, are troubadours for the philosophy of moving on; at each stop they help release people trapped in emotional ruts, then motor on, restless searchers for some ultimate true home.

These contrasting shows nicely illustrate the two kinds of travel that haunt the American imagination: exploration and flight, discovery and escape. To be on the road is to be free, unfettered by emotional bonds or confining routines, going to the next new place. To be on the lam is to have no safe haven, no-one to trust, just a desperate and dwindling hope of eluding capture. In The Fugitive, Richard Kimble wants nothing more than to settle down, to return to the stable and wholesome life he once had as a pediatrician in the fictional small town of Stafford, Indiana. He roams (rather than fleeing the country) in the far-fetched hope of tracking down the one-armed man he saw running from his home the night his wife was murdered. He stubbornly pursues the dream of clearing his name—a determination that is part of the machinery required to keep the series in its perpetual holding pattern of flight and pursuit. The paradox of the show is that it depicts all the horrors of being a fugitive—the constant fear of betrayal, the impossibility of forming ties, the need to remain in a sub-legal twilight—yet also creates an irresistible glamour around the figure of the fugitive, who is strangely purified by his shadowy existence outside society, and who unintentionally seduces or provokes the masses gnawing at their private traps.

The show’s machinery is also kept running by Kimble’s dedicated hellhound, Lieutenant Gerard (Barry Morse). Writer Stanford Whitmore confessed to deliberately giving the character a name similar to Javert, the monomaniacal policeman obsessed with capturing Jean Valjean in Les Misérables. Gerard, who comes within a whisker of catching Kimble in roughly every third episode, is robotic in his idée-fixe; inhuman in his refusal to respond emotionally or change his mind. The keynote of his character is his peculiar refusal to state that he personally believes his quarry to be guilty. Every time the question comes up, Gerard smugly states that it doesn’t matter what he thinks. “The law pronounced him guilty. I enforce the law. Whether the law is right or wrong is not my concern. Let others debate and conclude. But when I begin to doubt, to question—I can’t permit it.” In a sense, Gerard is not a person at all, but a personification of authority at its most rigid and unimaginative. Often, people encountering Gerard remark that now that they have met him, they hope Kimble gets away. Even more often, the thwarted Gerard complains that he can’t understand why so many people, especially women, side with the fugitive and help him escape.

Kimble is a litmus test. Every plot turns on the way people react when they learn who he really is. Some help him because they believe he’s innocent; or because they’re grateful for something he’s done; or for some obscure personal reason, like a desire to get back at someone else who wants to turn him in. Some people betray him because they figure it’s their duty under the law, some for gain, some out of spite. Carrying his own story with him like a personal storm-cloud, Kimble continually stumbles into situations involving crime, injustice, mistaken identities, false accusations, and deceptive schemes. The whole country is filled with wrongly accused ie. nnocents and villains with law-abiding fronts. In “Come Watch Me Die,” Kimble helps a young man who is accused of murder but proclaims his innocence escape lynching, only to learn that he did commit the brutal killing and is a remorseless sociopath. Frequently Kimble is torn between his need to testify to things he’s witnessed, and his fear of coming forward and risking police attention. He’s a supremely ethical, conscientious man for whom the law and all its trappings is the enemy. “Come Watch Me Die” ends with a rare moment of humor, when a sheriff, favorably impressed by the way Kimble has captured the killer, asks if he has ever considered a career in law enforcement. The fugitive responds with a nervous, queasy smile.

Flung from one moral dilemma to the next, he is constantly caught between his societally-imposed guilt, which forces him to hide his identity, and his innate goodness. “Wings of an Angel” incisively illustrates the way he is caught between the forces of law and crime. Wounded when he (yet again) helps capture an escaping convict, he’s taken to the nearest place for treatment—which happens to be a prison hospital. He’s a hero to the guards whom he fears and a villain to the inmates, who sneeringly call him “cop-lover.” When some inmates recognize him, they blackmail him into stealing morphine for the prison’s junkies. Being a doctor adds to Kimble’s trials, as he often feels obligated to help the injured despite the risks of revealing his medical knowledge.

Though he always resists serious moral compromise, his life is constructed of lies and deceptions: in every town he assumes a new name, invents a back-story and a home town, fills job applications with phony references. He’s quite ready to knock people down to make an escape, steal a wallet when he needs identification, or fake his own death. His surprising competence at living outside the law is a large part of his attraction. In “See Hollywood and Die,” when he is held hostage by two young thugs along with a woman whose car they steal, Kimble convinces them that he’s a cool professional crook, and plays the part of a fast-working seducer to forge an alliance with his fellow hostage. The sense that this man could be dangerous, if he wanted to be, keeps him from seeming too idealized—or rather, it idealizes him in a different and more appealing way.

Much has been written about the transference of guilt in Hitchcock’s wrong-man stories. But being a fugitive, even with all the attendant ethical snares, does not tarnish Kimble’s conviction of his own innocence and his right to stay free and alive. (The one exception comes when, inevitably, he contracts amnesia, and on learning his identity, can’t be sure of his innocence.) The moral dilemmas so elaborately constructed in each episode can sometimes feel contrived or repetitive or strain credulity, but the show is driven by this basic, burning core of Kimble’s desperation, his raw fear and profound depression whenever he’s cornered or fingerprinted or locked in a cell. The suspense is superficial yet sure-fire: watching each episode, I know perfectly well that he’s not going to get caught, because if he did the show would be over, yet I respond with dutiful Pavlovian reflexes. Oh no! How’s he going to get out of it this time?

The Fugitive has the ritualistic, same-time-next-week quality of classic television, so different from today’s mandatory novelistic arcs. Each episode opens with a re-cap of the premise, which grows tiresome, though it comes in the deliciously portentous voice of William Conrad. (The credits were changed, very much for the worse, at the start of the second season; the season one credits include wonderful noirish footage of Kimble’s escape from a train wreck, and Conrad somberly intoning, “Richard Kimble ponders his fate as he looks at the world for the last time, and sees only darkness. But in that darkness, fate moves its huge hand…”) The Fugitive was the creation of Roy Huggins, the veteran writer and producer who was also behind Maverick, 77 Sunset Strip, Run for Your Life, and The Rockford Files. According to his obituary in the New York Times, Huggins taught himself to write by copying Chandler’s Farewell, My Lovely in longhand, which is enough to put him in my good books. He got into movies when his novel Too Late for Tears was adapted into a taut and terrific 1947 film noir with Lizabeth Scott and Dan Duryea. A member of the Communist Party until 1939, he was called before HUAC in 1952 and pragmatically named names—but only of those who had already been named. Presumably, he knew something about moral compromise.

The Fugitive was both a critical and popular success, though only for one season did its ratings break into the top five TV shows. Famously, the show’s finale (a two-parter called “The Judgment”) was watched by more people than any previous television program—72% of all households that owned TV’s tuned in. For the record, I have not yet seen the final episode, since I am still working my way through season three. I have an idea how it might go, though: I imagine Kimble will capture the one-armed man and be exonerated, at which point all of the scores of women who fell in love with him over the course of 120 episodes will appear, saying, “At last we can be together!” Then an enormous fight will break out, and he’ll be torn to pieces like Orpheus by the Maenads.

But seriously…

The enduring power of The Fugitive lies precisely in its unresolved tension, the way it portrays being a fugitive as a universal and eternal condition. Richard Kimble has nothing. He often carries a small suitcase, but since he’s regularly forced to flee with only the clothes on his back, the suitcases can’t hold anything that he’s attached to. He has no identification, just whatever petty cash he earned at his last job. He works as a mechanic, a farm laborer, a handyman, a lifeguard, a truck driver, a hospital orderly—always something faceless and expendable. He goes by whatever name he pulls off the top of his head. But his own identity clings to him as an inescapable threat: his fingerprints and his face inform against him, yet he never tries plastic surgery or burning his fingertips with acid. (He does dye his hair, but this fools no-one—though it vastly improves his appearance, and neatly distinguishes his fugitive identity from his previous square self.)

The scripts may insist that Dr. Kimble yearns to go back to being a solid citizen, with his medical degrees hanging proudly on the walls of his office, but those who love the show just want to see him in another shabby room, for another lonely night. He’s the eternal drifter; the hitch-hiker with the worried face; the guy keeping to himself in the corner of a boxcar; the stray that every woman wants to take in and console; the friendless stranger turning up his collar against the cold wind; the man who is from everywhere but here, and who’ll be from here soon.

by Imogen Sara Smith

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nothingadventured-nothinggained · 5 years

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OitNB Character Updates

Ready to binge the new season of Orange is the New Black but dont want to binge the last season to remember where at your favorite characters are at?

Under the Read More there is updates on where most of the characters left off in the last season. I divided them based on which cell block they’re in when they were in minimum. Also there’s a section on the COs and staff.

Not everyone is covered, specifically none of the new characters we met this season, but I think I covered the majority of them! Also forgive any mistakes; I tried to do my research but any mistakes pointed out will be updated! Enjoy!

‘The Suburbs’ Inmates

Piper Chapman: She’s out of here! After finally getting prison married to Alex in a beautiful ceremony, Piper has gained early release. Cal came to pick her up from prison and brought her back to his home where Neri is making something with chard. She is last seen in Cal’s car, with him asking her what she’s going to do now.

Alex Vause: Alex made a deal with the devil, or more specifically Carol, to get Badison to stop trying to steal Piper’s date. In exchange, Alex would be on Carol’s crew. No clue how things are going to change now that Carol and Barb are dead. She put in an application to law school but got rejected. She is last seen out in the yard playing kickball.

Galina “Red” Reznikov: Red’s been recovering from a rough last season. She got 10 years added on to her sentence for being a riot instigator, after being named by Piper, Freida and Nicky. Thus begins her revenge scheme against Freida. She gets frustrated with Carol because Carol is more focused on inter-block fighting than getting Frieda. Eventually, Red’s family came to visit her with the grandkids for the first time in years but she ruins it by trying to choke out Frieda and gets sent to the SHU. She is last seen joking with Gloria in the SHU.

Tiffany Doggett: After leaving Donuts in the woods, she turns herself back in. She gets to join the ladies in B-Block (”Florida”) after making a deal with Linda. While in Florida she gets close with Suzanne and tries to get her to be more social. She convinced Suzanne to join the kickball team and go out to the yard to play. She is last seen playing kickball outside.

Nicky Nichols: Nicky named Red as an instigator of the riot in order to get out of drug charges (since she took over minimum’s pharmacy during the riot). Red forgave her, however, because she was upfront about it unlike others. Nicky joins Barb’s crew, but she tries to be the voice of reason and peace. Once the moment of the attack happens, she convinces the D-Block girls not to fight. She is last seen playing kickball outside.

Lorna Morello Muccio: Lorna got fully into gang warfare this season but then realized how stupid it was after Piper and Alex’s wedding. Nicky has her hide in a closet in the laundry room so she won’t have to go to the bloodbath of kickball, but Lorna goes into surprise labor. She is last seen in agony being dragged to medical by one of the guards, with blood between her legs.

Frieda Berlin: Been in hiding in B-Block. Super paranoid since Carol, Barb and Red are all after her. Crazy Eyes was acting as her bodyguard, but Frieda told Suzanne that she wasn’t her friend and pushed her away. She was last seen in her cell, smiling and eating a pudding cup.

“The Ghetto” Inmates

Tasha “Taystee” Jefferson: After pleading guilty of being a riot instigator, she went on trial for the murder of Piscatella and was found guilty. She is last seen re-entering into Litchfield, but it is unconfirmed what the sentence will be for the crime. There’s a worry it may be the death penalty, but it’s “extremely rare”.

Cindy “Tova” Hayes: Cindy deals with a lot of guilt because she testified against Taystee, in exchange for immunity for riot charges. After talking with Flaca, she realizes she needs to move on. She is last seen acting as an announcer for the kickball game.

Suzanne “Crazy Eyes” Warren: Suzanne was put in B-Block and develops a close relationship with Frieda and Pennsatucky. She struggled with going out into the yard for fear of the gang war, but ends up joining the kickball team. She is last seen on the field playing kickball.

Sophia Burset: Ends up in B-Block. She decides not to sue FCC since they bribed her with a whole lot of money and early release. She is last seen reuniting with her wife on the outside.

“Spanish Harlem” Inmates

Gloria Mendoza: Gloria got no extra time for the riot, but told the investigators that it was Maria who instigated it. She doesn’t like all this gang warfare, and tries to tell Luschek so he will stop it. Instead, she finds out about Fantasy Inmate and threatens Alvarez to tell everyone about it, so he sends her to the SHU. She is last seen talking with Red in the SHU.

Aleida Diaz: Aleida is currently worried because Daya is getting hooked on the drugs she and Hopper are sneaking in. She eventually decides to give up on Daya in order to save her other kids. It’s unclear if she and Hopper are actually romantically together, or just together until she can get enough money to get her kids back.

Marisol “Flaca” Gonzalez: She is working as the radio DJ for the prison. She and Tova become very close as co-DJs, but she still misses Maritza. She is last seen acting as the announcer for the kickball game.

Dayanara “Daya” Diaz: Daya took a plea for murdering CO Humps. She is assigned to C-Block and starts dating/hooking up with Daddy. She eventually starts to take drugs, initially for the pain of being beaten by guards but then because she becomes addicted. She is last seen in the yard playing kickball.

Maria Ruiz: Maria is still struggling with everything that happened in the last season. She tries to turn to religion, but realizes that no one still forgives her for what happened in the riot so she joins the gang life. Eventually after a talk with the Mormon guard, she realizes she can still be a good person. She gets McCullough to make everyone choose kickball teams so the teams are mixed. She is last seen on the yard playing kickball.

Blanca Flores: Blanca tells the investigators that Maria instigated the riot, in exchange for immunity for riot charges. She learns she’s running out of time to have a baby, so she tries to sneak some of Diablo’s sperm into the prison to get prison. It doesn’t work, but she learns she is getting early release. On the day of the release, she doesn’t leave the prison but is instead put back in cuffs by Immigration and Customs Enforcement. Poor Diablo is left waiting outside of the prison, flowers in hand.

Management/CO’s

Joe Caputo: After the riot, he was put on leave and ran out of things to do. He tried to get his warden position back, but is transferred to Missouri. While packing to move, he starts to get close and invested in Taystee’s case and begins to work with other inmates to file suit against MCC, which causes him to be fired. During all of this, he is strengthening his relationship with Natalie Figueroa. He follows the case and even investigates the CERT team leader who, unbeknownst to him, covered up Piscatella’s murder. Once Taystee is found guilty, he confronts the man who punches him in the nose. He then goes to an MCC party and reunited with Fig. He is last seen getting taken care of by Fig.

Natalie “Fig” Figueroa: Fig finally admits that she is Joe’s girlfriend in this season, while still appearing in public with her gay husband for appearances. She fights with Joe about how he is so interested in the female prisoners even though they have done nothing for him. She is last seen taking care of Joe, who was punched in the nose.

Linda Ferguson: As the new senior vice president of MCC, Linda seems to have learned nothing of her time in the riot and how terribly inmates are treated. She talks about stuffing as many inmates as possible into a prison, uses bribes to stop a lawsuit and makes a completely fake commercial promoting MCC (now PolyCon). She is last seen announcing to a bunch of fancy rich people that the newest moneymaker is in immigration detention centers.

Sam Healy: Healy meets with Caputo at the beginning of the season. He is out of the psychiatric hospital, and now much more mellow. He tells Caputo that he needs to move on from the riot and put Litchfield behind him.

Joel Luschek: While at Max, Luschek becomes commissioner of the Fantasy Inmate team, as well as running the rec class. While teaching rec he gets close to Gloria. Throughout the season Luschek seems to really just not care about anything. He feels guilty that Gloria was put in the SHU after finding his Fantasy Inmate score sheets. He is last seen in a DeLorean (he’s collecting Back to the Future merch) driving away scared that the kickball game will end in a bloodbath.

Artesian McCullough: McCullough is really having a tough time with what happened in the prison. She’s struggling with anxiety, paranoia, insomnia and depression. She snaps at inmates sometimes, and whenever she loses control she is seen putting out lighted cigarettes on her thighs as a form of self-harm. At the kickball game, when Maria tries to put a stop to the bloodbath, McCullough trusts her and seems to slightly get over her fear of inmates.

Charlie “Donuts” Coates: Coates tried to make it work with Pennsatucky on the outside and wants them to escape to Canada, where they can hide out. She ends up leaving him because of his violent nature. He is last seen sleeping in a forest.

Lee Dixon: Dixon joins Coates on his road trip because he thinks Coates is suicidal. Once it is revealed that Pennsatucky is there as well, he actually accepts it and joins them at an amusement park. Once a warrant is put out for her arrest, Dixon leaves. He returns to Max as a CO. He still holds resentment towards some of the inmates for the riot. He agrees with another guard saying that the inmates are animals, but says that “there are some good ones”.

Ryder Blake: Blake returns to Max as a CO, and gets involved in Fantasy Inmate. At the opening party, he smokes pot, eventually saying “What if Joseph Smith made it all up?” After the party he drops out of Fantasy Inmate. He gets close with Maria and works with her through her anger and helps her grow in her religion. He is last seen helping Lorna to medical.

Locations of Others Not Mentioned

Unknown: Miss Claudette, Stella Carlin, Allison Abdullah, Janae Watson, Brook Soso, Maritza Ramos, Mei Chang, Brandy Epps

Inmates Transferred to MCC Cleveland: Norma Romano, Gina Murphy, Yoga Jones, Anita DeMarco, Big Boo, Leanne Taylor, Angie Rice, Shelly Ginsberg, Stephanie Hapakuka, Kasey Sankey, Brandy Epps, Skinhead Helen, Carmen “Ouija” Aziza

Released: Jane Ingalls (compassionate release), Judy King

Psych: Lolly Whitehill

Deceased: Poussey Washington, Maureen Kukudio, Miss Rosa Cisneros, Tricia Miller

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ghostbustermelanieking · 6 years

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praescitum chapter two

chapter one

casefile, season 10, season 11: pre 10x03: mulder and scully meet the weremonster. part of my series that i write as i rewatch the x files.

Summary: As Mulder and Scully adjust to their reassignment to the X-Files and working together in the wake of their separation, they find themselves investigating a small town and a ghost that apparently warns people of bad things to come.

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two.

october, 2015

Skinner signs off on the Willoughby case, to Mulder's surprise; he'd expected more argument, but it's been a long time since they've done this and he suspects that their boss just wants to get them away from all the DOD attention. He and Scully leave two days after the closure of the Goldman case, and nearly a week since he'd gotten the original call from Deputy Jacobs of Willoughby.

Willoughby is about a ninety minute trip from DC; no sense in flying to somewhere that close. Scully drives. Mulder sits in the passenger seat and fiddles with the radio, tries to figure out how to connect his phone to the Bluetooth, offers tidbits on stories he's heard about this particular ghost. “I'm surprised we never ran into this ghost story back in the day,” Scully says dryly at one point. “Sounds exactly like the kind of cases we used to get all the time.”

“Sounds like it happened just a couple years too late,” Mulder says in the same dry tone, and then mentally winces. He has a lot less resentment for Agent Doggett now than he did fourteen years ago, but he and Scully have had a lot of pain and resentment over those lost years in the past, and the last thing he wants to do is bring that pain back. (He hasn't ever blamed her for those lost years, anyway, not really; how could he? Any resentment he had for her insisting he leave back in 2001 has long faded. They've both suffered enough.)

Scully hums absently in the back of her throat, not commenting on that. “So what's your theory, Mulder? What are you thinking?”

He shrugs a little, casually. “I don't know that I have one yet. I mean, it sounds like the ghost probably exists, seeing as how our colleagues investigated it all those years ago. They must've been called in for something.”

“It could've been a hoax of some sort,” Scully points out. “People capitalizing on a local legend to manipulate people, or… gain publicity…”

“I doubt we would've heard from law enforcement if it were some kind of hoax,” says Mulder. “Besides, how does a missing dog contribute to that theory? Deputy didn't say where the kid saw the dog, but he did mention that the kid was only six, remember? In my experience, kids that age can't lie very convincingly. And I doubt that kid was in an easily accessible place when he saw the ghost, one where he'd be susceptible to a hoax from an outside source. And how could the supposed trickster know about the dog unless they were the one who took it?”

“Who knows,” Scully says with a sigh. “I think we might be overthinking this, Mulder.”

“Oh, I dunno.” He smirks a little at her from the passenger seat. “A lot of simple things we've seen turned out to be more complicated than we expected. You never know.”

“I know about this one,” Scully says at length, halfway annoyed, but she's smiling a little. Just a little as she watches the road, and Mulder feels it in the pit of his chest.

“We'll see,” he says slowly, fiddling with the radio again. He's missed this. He's missed her.

Scully fully smirks and shakes her head. Static bubbles through the speakers as he flips through stations, and they drive on. Mulder thinks he may never want to leave this moment, just he and Scully in the car, driving off to investigate some great mystery. Sitting here now, it almost feels as if nothing has changed.

---

Willoughby is the kind of sleepy little country town that they've both seen a thousand times. A few main streets, lots of farms and suburban houses among the rolling green hills. They pass an old stone church next to a forest, surrounded by houses and small apartment buildings. Mulder leans closer to get a better look and spots a cemetery full of ancient, weathered tombstones. “This town is old, Scully,” he says delightedly. “Perfect setting for a ghost.”

“If the ghost is real.” Scully flips on her turn signal, coasting to a stop at a stop sign. “Which is doubtful.”

“Same old Scully,” Mulder says haughtily, and is relieved to hear her amused scoff from behind him. He watches quaint little Virginia houses flit by until they reach the downtown and the police station.

Inside, they find a receptionist sitting before a cluster of desks and police officers. “Can I help you?” she asks politely.

Scully flashes her shiny new badge. “Agents Mulder and Scully from the FBI, here to see Deputy Kenneth Jacobs.”

The receptionist raises her eyebrows in surprise. “Kenny?” she calls over her shoulder, a tad suspicious.

A bearded man in a uniform rounds a corner and waves a little at them. “Agents Mulder and Scully?”

Mulder nods. “That's what they said,” says the receptionist.

The man steps forward, reaching out to shake their hands. “Kenny Jacobs,” he says by way of introduction. “Glad you could make it—although I've gotta say, I don't remember you from 2002.”

“You're thinking of Agents Doggett and Reyes, the agents assigned to the unit at that time,” Scully says. Her tone is unreadable; Mulder scuffs his shoe against the floor and tries to ignore it.

“Oh, yeah. What happened to them?”

“I'm not sure about Agent Reyes, but last I heard, Agent Doggett is living in Florida. They left the Bureau years ago, but we have plenty of experience ourselves.” Scully offers Jacobs a polite smile.

“I’m Agent Mulder, we spoke on the phone,” says Mulder, reaching out and shaking his hand. “You said there'd been several more sightings since the original one you called me about?”

Deputy Jacobs motions them towards a desk with two chairs pulled up to it. “Yes, sir. Two more, to be exact.”

“We'd like to talk to the people who have seen… it,” Scully says a little awkwardly. “If that's all right. Would the sheriff mind if we talk to his son?”

“Joe? I mentioned that I called you, and he wasn't thrilled—he’s not a big believer in this stuff—but his son, Robbie, got all excited, convinced you all could find his dog. I tried to tell him not to get too excited, but he's all wound up, and Joe agreed to talk to you because of that. They'll be over as soon as Joe picks Robbie up from school.”

They both nod as they take a seat at the desk. “So, Deputy,” Mulder says, mostly out of curiosity. “Have you ever seen the ghost?”

“Can't say that I have,” Jacobs says almost automatically, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “I’ve heard the stories all my life, but I've never seen him. I will say that people who claim to see him usually have events coinciding with it pretty soon after. My grandma once said she saw it the night before her cat passed away.”

“And what does this… specter look like?” Scully speaks stiffly, awkwardly. “Based on the stories?”

“It’s supposed to be a colonial man in a cloak with a lantern. People say it 'lights up the truth’ or whatever. Like I said, I've never seen it, but I really think there's some truth to the story. There's been sightings every now and then throughout my life, and in 2002, there were at least thirty sightings that ended in three people dead. The reason those other agents were called in.”

“And you don't think any of that could be the result of some sort of mania?” Scully asks. “A psychological response to bad luck? A follow-the-crowd mentality?”

“No, ma'am,” says Deputy Jacobs. “I'm inclined not to. There's an entire history of the Willoughby Specter… It's actually part of some book on folklore in Virginia, if you want to check it out.”

“I did a little research and went over the case from 2002, so I'm a little familiar with the phenomenon,” says Mulder.

Deputy Jacobs nods a little in response, his eyes shifting over their shoulders. “Hey, Joe, over here,” he calls out, waving at someone behind them. Mulder turns around to see a man wearing a sheriff's star walking in, holding the hand of a boy in a Spider-Man t-shirt.

“These the FBI agents?” the sheriff asks as they reach the desk. The kid is looking up at them shyly; Scully smiles, the genuine smile she usually gives kids, and waves a little, and he hides behind his father's leg.

“Yes, I'm Agent Mulder, and this is my partner, Agent Scully.” Mulder stands and shakes the man's hand. “Deputy Jacobs said you'd agreed to talk to us?”

“Yeah, let's get this over with. We can talk in my office.” The sheriff motions his son towards a door at the back of the room, and Mulder and Scully follow them into the room.

Inside, the sheriff scoops up his son and places him in his lap. “I’m Joe O’Connell, and this is my son, Robbie,” he says by way of introduction, patting Robbie's back.

“Hi,” Robbie says quietly.

“Hi, Robbie,” Scully says, and Mulder finds himself thinking of Goldman's kids behind glass panels, little girls with the face of Scully's dead sister and babies cradled in her arms. He swallows back the memories, forces himself to focus.

“So, Kenny mentioned he called you in, but he didn't spend a lot of time explaining why. Something to do with my dog and the Willoughby Specter?” Sheriff O’Connell's voice is full of a skepticality that Mulder finds more than familiar; not exactly unfriendly, but not exactly friendly, either.

“Yes, Deputy Jacobs mentioned that Robbie had seen the Willoughby Specter the night before your dog disappeared,” Mulder says, drumming his fingers on his knees.

“I did!” Robbie says excitedly, seeming to perk up at the mention of the ghost. “It was really cool.”

“Do you want to tell us about it, Robbie?” Scully asks gently.

Robbie looks up at his dad, who ruffles his hair and nods. “Go ahead, buddy, it's okay. Tell them the whole story.”

“Okay.” Robbie screws his eyes shut in concentration, before beginning to talk rapidly. “Okay, so cause it's gonna be Halloween at the end of this week, my mommy and I watched the Snoopy Halloween movie the night I saw the ghost. And it wasn't very scary at all. I like Scooby-Doo better. But anyways, we watched Snoopy Halloween, and then Mommy took me upstairs and took me to bed. She made Bear—that’s our dog!—stay downstairs cause he's not supposed to sleep in my room. She tucked me in and said goodnight and turned on my nightlight. And then I went to sleep.” Robbie folds his hands in his lap, serious as Mulder has ever seen a six-year-old, and continues. “I woke up a little later, and then I was looking at my nightlight. It's orange, like jack-o'-lanterns, so it was the right color for Halloween. But it went out! Mommy says the bulb burned out. But there was still a light, like a yellow one that was moving around a lot. It was coming from behind me.”

Entranced in the story, Mulder absently looks up at Sheriff O'Connell and sees that his eyes are wide with astonishment. Not quite belief, but at least astonishment. “You never told me all this, son,” he says. “About the light…”

“You never asked,” Robbie says simply, and Mulder has to hold back a knowing laugh. “Anyways, I saw the light from behind, and so I turned over, and that's when I saw him.”

“You saw the Specter?” Mulder asks. Robbie nods. “Was he scary?”

Robbie starts to nod again, but then changes his mind and shakes his head. “At first, he was. His eyes were really black, and he was wearing a black cape and hat, and his lantern was scary. Like the Headless Horseman! My teacher has a picture book of George Washington stories, and I saw the Headless Horseman, and it's really scary. He was on Scooby-Doo, too. The ghost looked like that, except he had his head. And I was scared at first, and I was gonna scream for Daddy—cause Daddy's a cop, and he's very brave, and I knew he could protect me—but then I kind of felt okay. My great-uncle Theo told me all about the ghost, and he says the ghost is nice. Like an angel! And I said, everyone says he looks scary, how is he an angel, and he said that angels from the Bible look scary, too—” Out of the corner of his eye, Mulder sees Scully purse her lips in a way that makes him think of nephilim and seraphim and her lost daughter. “—and I guess he was right, because the ghost made me feel real good, like an angel. Even though he looked scary. But he wasn't.” Robbie nods confidently.

Scully clears her throat awkwardly. “And… and what happened next, Robbie?”

Robbie's face twists in confusion. “I… I dunno. I think the ghost disappeared, then I fell asleep. And then Daddy woke me up asking if I'd seen Bear.” His lower lip juts out in a pout. “I miss Bear. The ghost is cool, but I wish he hadn't made Bear go away. Can you find Bear for me?”

Mulder blinks, taken aback; he probably should've expected this, but somehow, it had never crossed his mind. “Well, Robbie,” Scully says awkwardly, “we don't really…”

“Cause Uncle Kenny said you were like the Ghostbusters, or the Men In Black. I bet they could find my dog!” Robbie grins, kicking the side of his father's desk.

Sheriff O'Connell bounces his knee up and down and tickles his son's side, sending Robbie into wild giggles. “Hey, Rob? Why don't you go sit at Uncle Kenny's desk and play Angry Birds on my phone? You wanna do that, bud, so I can talk to the FBI agents?”

“Okay!” Robbie jumps down and grabs his father's phone off of his desk. He starts to leave before pausing, turning to address Mulder and Scully. “If you wanna find the ghost, and maybe my dog, you should really talk to Ryan.”

“Ryan?” asks Mulder. “Who's Ryan?”

“He's my babysitter. He sees the ghost every year! Usually when it's cold.” Robbie leans forward and whispers confidently to Scully, in a too-loud rasp, “He's the only one who sees it anymore. No one besides Ryan has seen it since before I was born! Except me. Just me and Ryan.” Robbie grins excitedly. “So he'd probably know. But I told him I saw the ghost, and he wasn't excited. He's the only one in town who doesn't think the ghost is awesome! It's so weird.” He turns around and runs out of the room, clutching the phone in his hand.

Scully turns to Sheriff O'Connell as the door slams behind Robbie. “So, Sheriff,” she says. “What do you make of all this?”

O’Connell rubs at his forehead contemplatively, maybe a little wearily. “I dunno, Agent. I really don't. I've never really believed in the ghost, like most people in this town anymore. The only people who do anymore are the old-timers, the superstitious, and kids; everyone else is sensible. I always thought Robbie would snap out of it, but that Ryan kid wasn't helping anything, filling his head with these stories. My boy doesn't lie, and when he does, he's not good at it, so I don't think he made up that story. I think it might have been a nightmare; the only things that match up are the burned-out lightbulb and the fact that our dog did disappear.” O'Connell grimaces, rubbing a hand over his stubbly face again. “Honestly, agents, I'm starting to think my dog might be dead, or holed up with some other family. He's been gone for a week now, and I know he knows how to get home. I wish Kenny hadn't called y'all in and made a big deal out of nothing.”

“I don't want to give you a false impression, Sheriff, so I'll be straight with you,” Mulder says. “We work on a unit that investigates paranormal phenomenon. That's largely why we're here. Deputy Jacobs mentioned that there'd been other sightings, and we're here to look into those as well.”

O’Connell blinks blearily at them. “I remember a little bit about your unit. Gotta say, I don't see the point in investigating an urban legend.”

“I have to say, I share your sentiment,” Scully says, and Mulder resists the temptation to roll his eyes.

“We just wanna dig a little further,” he says lightly. “Sheriff, can you tell me about this Ryan kid?”

Sheriff O'Connell clears his throat. “Ryan is Willoughby's local celebrity. He's got a tragic past for sure—his parents were murdered by his uncle back in 2002, and everyone around here knows it.”

“2002?” Mulder asks. “Was the crime in conjunction with the multiple Specter sightings?”

“Supposedly—it came up at the trial—but I don't believe a word of it. The uncle, Jared, used his widely known Specter obsession to try and get off. Should've pled guilty by reason of insanity. He's in prison now.”

“Could this Ryan be using his family's past with this alleged Specter for attention?” Scully asks. “How old is he?”

“He's fourteen, and I doubt it. He's supposedly been seeing the ghost since he was four or five. The story got out when his aunt took him to a psychiatrist. Annie Caruthers—nice lady. She's his primary guardian now, and probably the best turn out from that family. Anyway, as a child, Ryan reportedly had horrible nightmares every winter, and told her that he saw a ‘glowing man’. When the story got out on accident, everyone went wild. Said that the boy was being guarded by the ghost cause of what happened to his family. And Ryan insisted the story was true as he got older, so he's gradually gotten more and more famous. 'Cept the kid claims that the ghost is evil, which goes against every version of the legend around here. Pisses people off.” The sheriff has a knowing look on his face, his eyebrows raised. “I don't know that they think the ghost is protecting him anymore.”

“And he's your… babysitter?” Mulder asks.

“Not by my choice. My wife works with Annie, and Robbie was so excited that we hired the kid—loves ghost stories. He seems nice enough on the outside, but, you know. I've never liked the kid. He's good with Robbie, but he seems disrespectful. And between you and me, he's been visiting his Uncle Jared in prison lately. That's a bad influence if I've ever seen one.” O’Connell nods as if convicting the boy. “I told my wife I had a bad feeling about Ryan, so we fired him a couple weeks ago. Amicable enough. We sent our apologies to Annie. But then, my dog disappears and my son starts talking about seeing the Specter?” The sheriff leans closer to add quietly, “Between you and me, our door was standing wide open the morning Bear went missing, and my wife swears she locked everything. So unless Robbie has taken up sleepwalking, then someone unlocked the door from the outside and let our dog out. And Ryan never gave us back his key.”

---

“What do you make of this town, Scully?” Mulder asks as they leave the police station. Robbie waves merrily to them as they exit and Scully waves back, with the same sweetness she always has for kids. Mulder waves, too.

“I’m not sure,” says Scully. “It seems to me like the Willoughby Specter is such a well-known and worshipped phenomenon in this town, that everyone is obsessed with experiencing it.” She pauses decisively, pulling her hair back into a ponytail as they walk back to their car. “But then again, that theory of claiming sightings for attention and local fame really doesn't work in conjunction with the idea that this Ryan is the only one who's seen the ghost for fourteen years. It's possible that the kid is doing it for attention, but then again, why would others not capitalize off of that attention by also claiming sightings?” Scully pauses again, tightening her ponytail. “I don't think Robbie O’Connell is lying. Unless someone coached him—the sheriff being an unlikely candidate for that; I'd say Deputy Jacobs is a possibility, since he's clearly close to the boy, but I don't know what his motive would be… Anyway, there’s no way a six-year-old could concoct a story that complex.”

“Dana Scully,” Mulder says slowly, teasing, “are you saying that you believe in the Willoughby Specter?”

“I most certainly am not,” Scully says, bristling, but she's smiling again. “I'm simply going over the facts. Which aren't even facts, really—the only people we've talked to are Robbie, the sheriff, and the deputy. We'd need to talk to some other people before we make any conclusions.”

“Uh huh.” He makes a face at her.

“I still think the story is bogus,” Scully says defensively. “I just think that there must be something that these people think they're seeing. I don't know how to explain it, but I guarantee you, Mulder, that there is not a ghost haunting people before bad things happen to them.”

“Oh, sure, Scully. So what is your explanation for all of this?”

“I told you. I don't know.” She looks up at him with a certain defensiveness in her eyes. “But I'd say we should talk to the other witnesses and find out.”

Mulder shrugs a little, grins at her. “So we should.”

---

The other witnesses seem to play right into Scully's theory: that this ghost is not real. Maybe even that this is a case of herd mentality: someone besides this Ryan Caruthers claims to see the Specter and everyone else jumps on board. Either way, Mulder truly hates to admit it, but neither of the two people they speak to about seeing the ghost could be considered credible witnesses.

The first is a college student—kid by the name of Mark Johnson—who reminds both Mulder and Scully too much of the teenagers they'd run into on their second case together, or the stoners that had made appearances a couple times on cases they had in 1996 (one of which did involve a missing dog—a dog that unfortunately had belonged to Scully. Mulder hates that he can't remember its name). He speaks in a slow drawl, and stinks of weed so bad that Mulder either wants to laugh or flash his badge, just to freak the kid out. Scully can scarcely keep from rolling her eyes or conducting the entire interview with thick sarcasm; the conversation lasts all of five minutes before she's done.

The second is a girl—also college-aged, whose name is Emma Gibson—who admittedly seems more credible than the other witness, at first. But when she invites them into her self-proclaimed office, they see a paraphernalia of paranormal trinkets: posters of horror movies, a Ouija board on a shelf, the type of equipment Mulder’s seen on more than one paranormal investigation show, and a cluster of true ghost story books. This is the first clue that this witness is not quite reliable. The second is that her story is not very believable—it’s awkward and stilted, like she's coming up with it on the spot, and when she starts talking about the ghost physically dragging her into the woods past the old church and threatening to murder her entire family in a voice “kind of like Darth Vader,” Mulder is inclined to agree with Scully about the idea of follow-the-crowd mentality.

By the time they're finished with the interviews, it's late, already dark and chilly outside. Mulder takes Scully to one of the small-town diners they haven't frequented in years. There's a flurry of Halloween decorations taped to the big glass windows: paper jack-o'-lanterns and skeletons. There is a cartoonish ghost over their table, his oval mouth open in a ghastly black wail. Mulder taps it with his index finger. “I found the Willoughby Specter,” he says dryly, and Scully giggles.

“That's uncharacteristically cynical of you, Mulder,” she says as they sit. “Those last two witnesses get you down?”

“Just a little bit.” He plucks the menu out of its holder and examines it. “I still think Robbie O’Connell had to have seen something. I'm just not sure that the other two did.”

“That's for sure,” Scully agrees. A waitress in an apron comes by and they both order their drinks. As she moves on, Scully adds, “Although I'm becoming convinced that whatever Robbie O’Connell saw was not what he thought it was. Remember, the sheriff said he suspects this Ryan of letting out the dog as revenge for being fired? He had access to Robbie's room. He could've set up some sort of prank.”

“It sounds to me like this Ryan kid is getting treated unfairly,” says Mulder. “Besides, what kind of prank involves a disappearing man in a black cape and lantern coinciding with a burnt-out night light?”

Scully shrugs. “A complex one? It seems like people today can do anything with technology, Mulder. Maybe there was a projector or something.”

“Wow, we are getting old, Scully. You've started throwing around the 'kids these days’ phrase.” She shoots him an annoyed look across the table, and he shrugs right back. “Whatever the case, I think we can agree that Robbie isn't faking. But I guess the question is, what do we do now? Talk to this Ryan kid?”

“Maybe,” says Scully. “But what the hell would be our explanation? Why are we here, Mulder, for that matter? To find Robbie's missing dog? To arrest a kid for stealing the sheriff's dog? To prove the existence of this Specter?”

“Honestly? I have no idea. Likely the latter,” says Mulder. Because he still believes it's real. Of course he believes it's real.

“Except I doubt either of us have any idea how to prove its existence,” Scully says.

“Hey,” he says, shooting her a fake wounded look, and she smirks innocently.

The waitress reappears with their drinks to take their orders, and by the time she's left, their conversation has lost some considerable steam. Scully clears her throat, pulls out her phone to check it and immediately starts to type something into it. “Sorry, just heard from my mom,” she says.

“Is everyone okay?” Mulder asks. He hasn't seen Maggie in months, but he's had some concerns, based off of some comments Scully's made about her ability to get around the house.

“Yeah, she's fine. Just wanted to check in on me.” Scully's fingers fly across the screen at an impressive speed, and Mulder wants to make another joke about kids these days, but he doesn't. “She misses Bill; he's off in Germany on assignment, and she's been taking it hard. Says she misses seeing Matthew. He used to fly up a couple times a year before they left, about a year ago.” The reason goes unspoken: because the other grandchild she was close to was given up just before his first birthday. Mulder swallows awkwardly, looks down at the table.

“But we try to keep in touch,” Scully adds. “We have dinner a couple times a week. I'll probably call her tonight when we get back to the hotel.”

“I'm glad you two are still close,” Mulder offers. (She hadn't seen her mother a lot in the years before he could come back to the surface, and he'll always feel guilty for that.) Scully nods a little, laying her phone face down on the table. Mulder tries a different subject, a pathetic attempt at conversation. “You were really good with Robbie today,” he offers.

He means it as a compliment, but Scully is silent for a few seconds after—just enough time for Mulder to mentally berate himself for bringing up the one topic that has been off-limits for most of their time together. But he's surprised to see a smile spread over Scully's face before she answers. “He was a cute kid, wasn't he?” she says. “Sweet kid. Kind of reminded me a little of you, isn't that weird?”

Mulder is taken aback, but he realizes that Scully must not think of William as a little kid like Robbie anymore. William is fourteen, wherever he is, likely a sullen teenager like this Ryan they keep hearing about. Growing up without them. He gulps anxiously, says, “Is it the proclivity for ghost stories?”

“That must be it.” Scully is grinning at him across the table, and it's one of the more startling things he's seen. (But also one of the most beautiful: Scully's fucking thousand-watt smile.) And then she says something that truly shocks him to the core: “You know, he kind of reminded me of William. Or, you know… who William might've been eight years ago.”

She is acknowledging the trauma between them that they mention so unoften, the heavily avoided subject of their son. It seems so incredible, after years of avoiding the subject, of her getting furious every time he brought it up. This feels like dangerous territory. He takes a deep breath before answering, “Me too,” in a tentative sort of way, because he had thought of William. He couldn't help it.

The truth is this: If it'd been Robbie on his own, he probably would've had some slight flickerings, fleeting thoughts about who William might've been. But seeing Robbie and Scully together, even in their brief interactions, Robbie confiding in Scully specifically, made it worse. Made him hyper-aware of what he could've had, all he'd lost.

(Mulder daydreams sometimes about what it would be like to find William. It's impossible not to. This last case with Goldberg, all those kids in the hospital, he couldn't stop considering the possibilities. What it would mean to Scully, what it would mean to him. Intellectually, he knows they will never get a chance to raise him, or anything like that, but he thinks it'd be enough to know that he was okay. Their son.)

“It's hard not to imagine the person he could've been—the person he is right now,” Scully says softly. “It's hard to think about sometimes, but sometimes I can't help it.” She looks down at the table, her hand flat on the table next to her phone. “Is it the same for you?”

Mulder's eyes stray to her hand. He'd like nothing more than to reach across the table and take it, but he has no idea how she'll react. He held her hand in the car the other night, sitting outside the home she's made without him. He can remember an encounter in a diner not too long ago when he took her hand and she pulled away. He doesn't want to push it. Doesn't want to push her away. He keeps his hands in his lap.

“Yes,” he says, though, a peace offering. The verbal equivalent of taking her hand. “It is.”

Scully smiles wobbily at him across the table. Slides her hand back to curl around her mug. He's tempted to keep going—to ask what she imagines, if she'd like to discuss it more, if she thinks they'll ever see him again—but he doesn't know how. This is dangerous territory. His fingers twitch, like he is longing to reach out and take her hand, but he doesn't move.

---

After dinner, they go back to the local hotel, an old-fashioned inn that looks considerably better than the sad little motel that probably has bed bugs they passed on the way into town. Scully asks for two rooms at the front desk, and Mulder reminds himself that he shouldn't expect anything different. They're not together. They haven't shared a bed in two years.

(He can't help but feel as if he's stuck in the nineties again, awkward and madly in love with his untouchable partner. Except they're both older and smarter and have more history between them. They're married, they lived together for a decade, they have a son out there somewhere. And she loves him, too, or she did once. She told him that she'd always love him. She told him once that this would only be temporary, that she'd come home someday. But he doesn't know what to think now. He wants to believe she'll come home. He wants to believe, but it's hard to know what to believe in anymore.)

(Two hotel rooms. Just like the old days. At least they're side by side.)

Mulder offers to carry her bag, and Scully politely refuses, jabbing him in the side and teasing him a little, and the receptionist winks at them from underneath her jaunty witch’s hat, waves as they walk together to the stairs. Their room is on the third floor, and Mulder is lamenting the lack of an elevator. And then they're standing between the doors of their room, and Mulder remembers how, twenty years ago, he'd make excuses for them to keep working or offer to split a pizza or snacks from the vending machine, just because he wanted to keep hanging out with her. He thinks about doing it now, but what excuse does he have? There's nothing else to investigate.

Scully smiles brightly at him, and it all feels stilted suddenly, like they're putting on a show. He's seen her go to bed angry so many times in the last year or two of their relationship, and it feels impossible that she could be this happy to be with him, here on this dead-end case. “See you tomorrow?” she asks, and he can hardly believe it. If this is the only way he can have her back, for now, he'll take it. The chance to drive into the unknown with her and share small-town diner meals and see her in the morning.

“Bright and early,” he says, unlocking his room. Scully chuckles quietly, and he raises his eyebrows questioningly.

She turns a little red, but explains, “It's just that… that's what you said to me the first time we met. Just before I left. That you'd see me tomorrow, bright and early.”

“How do you remember this things?” he asks in near disbelief, and she chuckles again. He chuckles, too, touches her shoulder, briefly, in some small attempt at intimacy, and starts to turn towards his room—he still has no idea how Scully feels about the way he said goodbye last time, and he certainly doesn't want to push his boundaries. But she surprises him yet again tonight by rising on tiptoes and kissing his cheek this time. “Night, Mulder,” she says in a husky voice. And then she's disappearing into her room, leaving Mulder standing halfway in and halfway out of his doorway with a stunned expression on his face.

Later, he'll be able to hear her pattering around in her room, turning on the TV, calling her mother. The walls in this hotel must be thin as shit. But whatever the case, he finds it comforting: to know she's there and she's all right. It almost feels like being home.

---

Joe O'Connell has never been superstitious, and he's remained un-superstitious throughout all this Willoughby Specter bullshit, as irritating as it all is. (He's not mad at his son, of course. He's mad at that kid Ryan and his fucking ghost stories, at Kenny for making a big deal out of something that was probably a dream or Robbie's imagination, at those two kids who claimed that they also saw the ghost and were probably lying. He's mad at the whole goddamn mania. But he's not mad at Robbie.) He wishes the whole thing would just die down. He resents that the FBI agents, whatever their names are, are here to give his son false hope. He's ready to accept that Bear is gone and just tell Robbie that so they can move on with their lives. Maybe he'll get the boy another dog for Christmas.

But this is before Robbie wakes him up at the crack of dawn the morning after the FBI agents arrive, jumping on top of his stomach and whispering frantically, “Daddy, Daddy, I saw the ghost again!”

Beside him, Bonnie grunts out a dim protest as she turns over; Joe grabs his son and sets him down on the edge of the bed, groaning a little at the pain in his gut. “What happened, Rob?” he asks in a soft voice.

“I saw the ghost!” Robbie is wriggling with excitement, oblivious to his parents’ desire to keep sleeping. “He told me where Bear is! Daddy, you gotta go get him!”

Joe groans, his eyes slipping closed. It isn't that he doesn't believe his son, but it's four a.m. and he'd rather not go on a wild goose chase this early. “Robbie, buddy, I dunno…” he mutters sleepily, ready to tell him to go lie down, and he'll take care of it in a few hours.

“He said it was an abandoned apartment building on Church Street,” Robbie says. “He says someone took Bear there and locked him in.”

And that wakes Joe right up.

Because he knows for a fact that the Caruthers lived on Church Street in a two-apartment building when they were murdered in 2002, and he knows it was put on the market but never sold. And it sounds ridiculous, considering the kid's history, but it seems kind of fitting to him that two members of the Caruthers family would choose the same building to commit their crime.

---

Mulder gets a call from Sheriff O'Connell entirely too early in the morning. He's called to ask a favor—apparently Robbie had another dream about the ghost, telling him where the dog is: an abandoned apartment building on Church Street. “Far as I know,” says O’Connell, “there's only one abandoned apartment building on Church Street. And it's the building that Ryan Caruthers's parents were murdered in.”

Mulder blinks blearily, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand. “So you think…” he says slowly, not entirely awake yet and not completely following what the sheriff is saying.

“I know I said a lot of stuff about this ghost not being real, and I still think that, but…” The sheriff hesitates for a minute before finishing. “I really do think that little shit is involved,” he says. “Revenge for us firing him or something. And that'd be the perfect place to hide Bear if he took him, right? A building he knows is abandoned?”

“Bear?” Mulder asks in confusion.

“Bear,” says O’Connell. “The dog's name is Bear. I'd really appreciate it if you went and took a look.”

Mulder goes. Mostly because it's the best lead they have, and because he wants to know: are the claims legitimate? If the dog is there, than that means there is at least some truth to Robbie's story. It might even prove the existence of the Willoughby Specter, if the ghost just so happened to give Robbie the correct location. He goes, and he texts Scully several times to invite her along. She comes out eventually, her hair strangely wild and her demeanor familiarly sharp, blunted with the impact of being woken before seven o’clock. He pulls through a drive-through and gets them coffee as a peace offering, and her thanks is sincere, but her tone speaks volumes as to her perspective on the whole thing.

By the time they've reached the abandoned apartment building (Willoughby Woods Apartment Building) on Church Street (not entirely hard to find, Sheriff O'Connell had said; just look for the church), Scully has woken up a little more, looks a little less wild and angry. But her attitude towards the case itself does not seem to have improved. “We're out here chasing a dog, Mulder,” she says as they climb out of the car, shivering in the October chill. “Not a criminal. A dog. At six in the morning. ”

“What if it were that dog of yours, Quog?” Mulder asks, hoping he got the name right. He's somewhat annoyed with the case himself, at this point, but his annoyance is mixed with a genuine hope that they find something, some sort of evidence. That this isn't the pointless waste of time Scully said it was, that he's not foolish for believing the word of a six-year-old. Some hope that one of their first cases back isn't total and utter bullshit. “Don't you think that would be worth chasing?”

Scully shoots him a look. “His name was Queequeg,” she says, and Mulder grimaces. (He hadn't gotten the name right.) “And that's not the point, Mulder. How did the ghost tell Robbie where the dog supposedly is? How does that work?”

“I'll remind you that we had two ghosts tell us a lot of things, Christmas Eve of 1998.”

She makes a face at him, partly teasing, partly true malice. (He guesses the memories of the actual haunted house aren't exactly happy ones, although the morning that followed had gone much, much better.) “I'll remind you that whatever happened that night was not real. And this lead feels like a setup. It feels much too convenient.” They reach the front stoop of the apartment building, and Scully unlocks the dusty door with the key the on-duty officer at the police station had given them. It swings open, the hinges squeaking like the door in a haunted house.

Mulder flips on the flashlight and steps inside. “O’Connell said that the Caruthers's apartment was the one on the first floor,” he says, moving his beam down the dusty, decrepit hallway. There are two doors: one hanging half-open exposing the staircase, and another one with a brass 1 hanging upside down on the door. “Do you still think Ryan Caruthers is responsible? The sheriff suspected that he'd take the dog here.”

“I'm honestly not sure,” Scully says. They start together down the hall towards the apartment door. “I'm guessing you're hoping to find the dog here, though,” she adds. Maybe a little good-naturedly, maybe a little sympathetic.

Mulder throws her a thin, wry smile. He is hoping to find the dog, but he's certainly not looking for sympathy. Not on this subject. “You guessed right.”

The door to the apartment unlocks with the same key as the front door. Inside are bare, empty rooms, a kitchen catty-cornered off from a living room. A window towards the back is broken, a cluster of canned foods and an old blanket in a corner. “It looks like homeless people have been staying here,” Scully says, moving her flashlight across the shell of a home.

Looking down at his feet, standing on the threshold of the apartment, Mulder can see old bloodstains underneath the soles of his shoes and out into the hall, the wood turned pale from where someone tried to bleach it away. He almost shudders. The one thing he knew about home improvement for years, before he bought a house of his own and actually put effort into it, is this: bloodstains don't come up easily. This apartment looks haunted, and not by the Willoughby Specter. By the ghosts of a family torn apart right around the same time that his was. He grimaces, biting back another shudder.

He steps into the apartment himself, angling his flashlight down the hall off to the right. There’s something red-looking and bright on the walls; he jogs across the living room and into the hall to examine and sees jagged words spray-painted there. CURSED CAROTHERS!!! Caruthers is misspelled. “Looks like more than homeless people have been here, Scully,” he calls. He steps inside a large bedroom that must've belonged to the parents; there's more graffiti, some related to the ghost, some not. No dog.

The next room is sadder: painted baby-blue, a old crib on its side on the floor. It feels emptier, somehow. It absurdly makes Mulder want to cry, even though he knows the baby is the one who lived. He tries to stay focused: there's no dog, there, either.

He checks the bathroom and a room that must've been a study, and doesn't find the dog. He checks all the rooms again, even opening the closets, to no avail. Something of disgust is starting to build inside him, mostly aimed at himself. When he reenters the living room, he finds it empty, but Scully reappears a moment later, sticking her head through the front door. “I decided to run upstairs and check the other apartment,” she says, and Mulder is so relieved that she didn't have to see the abandoned nursery that he almost misses what she says next: “Dog's not up there. If he ever was here, he's gone now.” Her eyes are apologetic; there is definitely sympathy now.

Mulder sighs, shaking his head, some strange mix of disappointment and resentment clogging his throat. He probably should've expected something like this based on previous evidence, but a part of him had still hoped the ghost was real. But he supposes that this is the most obvious answer they'll get: it's not. It's a hoax of some sort, or a nightmare, or something, but it probably isn't involved in the disappearance of the dog. He feels foolish, sweat pooling under the wool collar of his coat. “I guess I'll go ahead and call Sheriff O'Connell,” he says. “Let him know we didn't find the dog, and that we're getting out of here. I'm pretty sure he'll agree that there's no reason for us to keep investigating.”

“We don't have to go home right now,” Scully offers half-heartedly. “We could… stay and talk to Ryan Caruthers if you want… We've only been here one night, surely there's still more to investigate...”

“No, Scully, we should go,” says Mulder, defeated. Whatever excitement he'd felt about this case initially is gone, replaced by a general feeling of dismay. The supernatural is less attainable, there is nothing to find in this little town, and his partner pities him. He flips off his flashlight and heads for the door. “You were right from the beginning: this case is a waste of time.”

#xf rewatch #xf fanfic #i wrote this

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