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Futuristic ＯＵＲＯＢＯＲＯＳ.

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Willie Sprake





Kuznetsova Manor





Bea, Fred, Tasya, Fausto; open for midday interacts





x










"I'll see you later, Will,"

Bea chirped, charging into some forgotten corner of the Kuznetsova home dressed in the archaism that he had grown accustomed to. That was the end of his due diligence, so he claimed a room next to the soldier's. At least I can guarantee quiet on one side, Willie bemoaned the thought of sharing a wall with half of his coworkers. He hung Bea's leathers on a coatrack and deposited his junk in the general direction of the floor.

The home was, as a matter of fact, older than dirt. Maintained as a point of pride, certainly, but pride did not substitute central heating. Willie caroused through the halls for a bite to eat. Every wall stuffed paintings, tapestries, and reliefs so densely within its paneling that it became easier to stare at the trim. Interior design was not intended for those with several lifetime's worth of curios. He shuddered to think of what lamentable relics did not make the cut.

Bound within the kitchen's island was a platter bursting with self-serve options summarily ignored. Throwing wide one cabinet in particular, he discovered orderly cookware without a hint of dust. Willie right himself and smoothed his jacket. That elucidated the manner of the situation well enough. The shrew woman meant business through and through. Why he ever dared to hope for reconciliation with someone who couldn't commit to a doctor's visit was beyond Willie. Yet another fiasco to be fixed by his handiwork or left to fester. Doubtless she knew that too, and would twist it to her advantage somehow.

Tasya had a remarkable ability to take an honest man's words and hang him with the commitment she imparted them. As far as it concerned her, Willie had made the decision to show up this morning and that was confirmation enough. Nevermind that Bea had needed a place to stay and transportation. Truth be told, he had half a mind to leave. But sentiment died like bad habits, and this kitchen bore one memory he could not afford to sweep under the rug. Breakfast board thoroughly plundered, Willie set up by the fireplace and wrinkled his nose at the selection of literature.

All day he sat vigil over the arterial causeway, making formalities when appropriate, otherwise feigning absorption in vapid self-help advice. Notable among his distractions manifested as Fred's welcome invitation to execute a range test. Willie wondered if his face had betrayed him so readily. He stretched stiff legs and followed his olive branch to some offshoot trail Willie had never actually traveled. Brows furrowed at that thought, for the notion of so much time spent inside rather than this pleasant trail.

Fred demonstrated safety techniques before swiftly executing a horde of targets.
"Shooter ready?"
Two shots per target max, how hard could it be? Point and shoot. Shrill whistles pierced right through the careful concentration he had been cultivating. From the manor's rooftop, who else would be giggling to themselves but Tasya and Bea. Willie shook it off as best he could.

"Ready."
He tried to take every shot at a brisk walk, more slowly than Fred, but far too quickly to be effective. The sinking feeling the spectatorship engendered spiked the first time it took three shots to confirm a hit, then four. Upon identifying the final target, there was nothing left.

"Bang."
He pantomimed some kickback and demonstrated nothing was chambered for Fred, who wasn't surprised or impressed.
"Can we count that last one?"
All told, it was bad. Fausto might as well have broadcasted the monumentality of the failure on international television. Willie bit his tongue and risked a glance back at the audience, who too were in stitches. At this rate, it would need surgery to be reattached: dignity and tongue both.



♡coded by uxie♡
 
Even now, deep in his own focus at the situation in front of them, Fred could hear the snicker and the teasing from behind him, Willie and Fausto. Without looking away from the man in front of him he shook his head lightly.

"There will always be distractions, chaos and noise. It will always try to divert your attention, make you hesitate or even break you." Fred nodded. "Find your focus."

The stopwatch beeped and Willie sprung into action. A bit slow as far as his pacing went and a bit too easy on the trigger, like he just wanted to get it over with.

Ah, the telltale signs of a frustrated and stressed shooter.

Fred followed, making sure to stay out of Willie's way. When the motorcyclists' gun clicked empty and the man instead mouthed his intent Fred pressed down on the stopwatch to freeze it.

"Can we count that last one?"
Click to expand...

Fred glanced at the target. It was a hooded man with a scoped rifle hiding behind a rock which overlooked a wide section of the trail. He then looked back at Willie and shook his head. "No, we will not."

He gestured towards the stopwatch. "Your overall time was alright but your shooting technique could use some work."

Fred then gave Willie an encouraging pat on the back. "All in all it wasn't too bad for a first run. Now lets tape up the targets," he finished, offering a roll of red tape to Willie.

Once the two men returned Fred gave the ladies up top a curt nod before positioning himself next to Fausto. Just like before he stood on the left side with his stopwatch raised.

"Ready when you are, Nobrega."
 
ziva chan
the forger
a house but not a home
shedding her skin
drippin'
interactions

everyone, fausto FloatingAroundSpace FloatingAroundSpace , tasya birth of venus birth of venus , willie myl myl
The initial meeting went smoothly, not a single drop of blood spilt, an all around civil occasion. No promises could be made for what might occur with so many unique personalities under one roof. Especially when one of those personalities had a habit of ruining professional relationships by being the criminal underworld's biggest whore. Fausto could single-handedly keep a brothel in business.

Fate resided on a knife's edge, perfectly balanced but teetering as the weight of each team member unraveled themself in front of Ziva. Some preferred the danger that they knew, the fragments of missions past that made up the mosaic of her career. Most of the familiar faces at the table didn't particularly like Ziva, but they respected her, and for the most part she respected them as well. The familiarity of their work was a comfort and a risk, knowing each other's strengths and weaknesses made planning the operation easier, but it also meant tense words and heated looks.

On the other edge of the blade lay the newcomers, an unknown addition to the equation that could throw the mission to either end of success. If Tasya trusted them for a mission this personal, then surely they had both skills and her approval. It didn't do much to ease the apprehension that came with placing her life in the unfamiliar hands of others.

Whether she trusted them or not, adaptability was the true make or break of any mission. Plans were important, but the way one handled a situation gone haywire was what made an expert, to embrace the chaos and master it was the signal of a true professional dreamsharer. There was nothing Ziva was better at than shifting to her surroundings, flipping her entire being on its head to be whatever would help her survive in the moment. A snake constantly shedding its skin, devouring itself whole over and over again.

The first day was spent slipping into a new skin, as pale as the winter snow with the frigidity to match. Tasya was an interesting case study, the current frazzle of her emotions letting Ziva slip into her psyche easier than expected, though a glimpse of anything beyond those shaded glasses and stony composure was rare. The architect would lift her mug and the forger would mirror, until she could tell it was coming by the briefest of twitches in her forearm. Tasya would tilt her head as she sketched out structures and Ziva copied, down to the exact angle of her neck.

Laughter danced on the edges of Fausto's lips as he watched the ordeal, not the first time he'd seen the forger perfecting her craft. The pragmatist had been studied by her several times, more for fun than anything else. Even before she sat down on the edge of his chair, she knew how he would reach for her hand and pat it gently before exchanging insults disguised as pleasantries. Predictable yet ever exciting, a dance that kept both of them on their toes.

"You look lovely, it almost makes up for how vile you are."

"Pok gai (fuck off), I'm only trying to keep up with you."

The rest of the day was spent studying Tasya's every move, avoiding the gazes of both Fausto and Béa, and guiding Willie through the steps of forgery. As the great poets said, keep your friends close and enemies closer.

Stretching like a cat awoken from an idle rest, Ziva moved across the table without a word as Fausto and Willie disappeared behind Fred. Plopping into the seat beside Tasya, she reached for a handful of almonds that the architect had been snacking on and chewed thoughtfully, umber eyes raking over the other woman.

"It's exhausting being you." She smiled, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "You never sit still, quite a tough person to imitate." Cardinal colored nails tapped against the weathered beachwood strewn with endless files and drawing material. A hand paused, twitching ever so slightly around the pencil in hand, and Ziva's eyes softened as she struck a fresh wound.

"Perhaps you can tell me a bit more about your relationship. I'm not quite sure what having siblings is like." Family was a double-edged blade, a shadow that never left no matter how far you ran. A mentor more than a father, Ziva both cursed and thanked him for raising her in the darkness, not quite a good basis for how family should act around one another. A lonely childhood had shaped Tasya too, but at least she'd had Timofey. Though given his current state, perhaps it was better if she hadn't.

"What are your favorite memories with him?" Ziva had never cared enough about anyone to lose them, and so keen eyes watched Tasya for any flicker of emotion, the signs of someone grappling with the possibility of someone they loved slipping through their fingers like frayed thread.

coded by natasha.
 
Last edited:
— FAUSTO & YANAN.
collab w/ FloatingAroundSpace FloatingAroundSpace tags: béatrice cavitea cavitea
01. fausto nobrega.

Fausto sauntered his way towards the entrance of the house, hands deep in his pockets as he kept his eyes trained on the windows, watching as various people arrived, slowly but surely. There was a tension that lingered in his shoulders, that pulled at the muscles in his neck, that threatened to make him stiff with the almost familiar simmering that sat underneath his skin, that was threatening to break free after years of tamping it down. He did his best to keep himself occupied as a result, needing a person to distract himself with-- through pleasure, through animosity, through teasing words that were meant to pull people towards him, to encourage them to lay their hands on his own flesh, for better or for worse.

Ah, he thought, spotting a familiar, tall frame, one that he always found so appealing. With his signature grin that was edged with a promised of more, teeth that reminded people that they were mere steps away from beasts, he sauntered up to Yanan, depositing himself by the other man and offering a helping hand towards his luggage.

"It is truly a fortune that we find ourselves in one another's company," he said, his voice steady and open and inviting– dip your toes in, the water is just fine. "Please, grant me the pleasure of spending more time in your long-awaited company."


02. yananovic borgov.

With air free from fumes and the never waning stench of piss, the chemist’s migraine alleviated. His black boots echoed on veined marble tiles as his ghostly silhouette entered. Yanan spared a minute, letting the view of the building solidify in his brain. A figure materialized next to him and before the chemist could make out a face or voice, he breathed in a scent that painted pictures of boisterous waves in curly hair –

"Don’t get lost in the sea, boy. Wicked and Swallowing."

– "I’m not scared of the sea."

"I did not say the sea is to be feared ...But when the cold turns your lips blue and your feet won’t reach the ground...the void of the sea is inevitable. Once too far out, in the clutches of the current, never returning to the same shore you entered from."

– Fausto. Friend. Stranger? Watch out, watch out for that one. No. Let his current take you, let your lungs fill up til there’s no more. Let yourself go, flow, it’s what you do so well~
A scent not salty like the sea but sweet like ripened strawberries. They’d squelch when taking a bite. Just one.

As his luggage consisted of barely anything (a sports bag with a handful of fresh clothes, a different track suit than yesterday, toiletries as well as the souvenirs of shame), Yanan shook his head gently. "Excuse you? I am very much capable of carrying my own luggage," harsh in tone and lecturing, an invisible raised index finger swayed in front of Fausto’s face. The chemist let half a moment pass to take in the sight of Fausto’s face forming a shocked reaction.

"I’m messing with you," a hearty hyena laugh revealed white teeth. "Take it, if you like~" Yanan’s smile only grew wider, ribbing as he brushed Fausto’s fingers and pressed his bag in the pragmatist’s hand. "The pleasure is all mine. Please, join me. It has truly been a while since our last– " Lips welcomed him like a long awaited guest, clinging onto him as if it’d kill him to let go. Eyes imperious, shaped in pure Alexandre Cabanel, Fallen Angel. "–…encounter." They emerged the stairs with their feet in lock step as Yanan claimed one of the upstairs bedrooms. "Have you chosen a bedroom yourself yet?"


03. Fausto Nobrega.

The grin flickered for just a moment when Yanan gave a rebuttal to his outstretched hand, but did not vanish, a moment caught in stillness as his eyes roved over Yanan’s form, trying to piece together what exactly it was that he was feeling, what exactly it was he was saying— is this real, is this a joke, is he like the others? It vanished when it became clear it was a jest, and Fausto’s entire form seemed to roll its eyes at him for the momentary uncertainty before he took the bag, perhaps stepping in a tad closer than absolutely necessary to do so, even as the other man pressed it into his hands.

The grin returned to his lips, now certainly leaning too close to the chemist as they reminisced about the same thing, a dinner that had led to more, hands roving and trying to peel away layers— until they had been interrupted and there was only dissatisfaction left on his tongue. "Perhaps this will be yet another one," Fausto said loftily. The ghosts that lurked in the halls would have to be dealt with at another point in time, his attention captivated by the current maybe and perhaps that stretched out before him.

"I have not chosen a bedroom," Fausto remarked, glancing about the room that Yanan had claimed, examining the windows and the furniture, his mind working as it always did to detect corners and danger and problems, not quite stepping into the room yet. Still, he paused in his silent examination to glance over at Yanan again, the grin still present as he stated in his usual flirtatious lilt, "Are you offering?"


04. Yananovic Borgov.

There it was again, the scent of the sun burning its radiation in pale skin for it to darken ever so slowly, of strawberries as the pragmatist leaned in. Perhaps this will be yet another one. Not the same nervosity inhabited him like it did when he was twenty-seven. Instead of growing red around his ears, his brows raised in peaceful uncertainty. "Mayhaps it will. I’m a chemist, not a psychic."

Yanan slouched through the room and attempted touching the ceiling with his fingertips. Almost. "You’re very funny," he remarked and shrugged. "You wish... I am not very talented at falling asleep. I might keep you awake all night, we wouldn’t want that, huh?" His dark circles had set into his skull over the years; purple, blue, purple, red. Another engraving of a past wound – slice – decorated his neck. Where was this from again? Ah, yes. Elevator frogs.
"Be quick with your choice. Last one to pick is never lucky," he advised Fausto and brushed through his hair as he stepped forward again to the door frame, leaning against it.




05. Fausto Nobrega.

Fausto hummed, his grin now just a simple smile as Yanan looped back around to him, examining the tired-looking chemist, tipping his head a bit to gaze up at him because goddamn did he like the height that separated them. "Who said we would be sleeping?" Fausto asked loftily. He entered the room to place the bag at the foot of the bed before reaching the door frame again, peering around the hallways surrounding them and poking his head into the room next door, finding it open and unattended.

"Well," he said with a wolfish grin, sauntering back up to Yanan, "If I pick next to you, that would be very lucky, yes?"



06. yananovic borgov.

The chemist rested his head against the frame and observed his every move closely.
"Well, yes. I would believe so, indeed."

Certainly he enjoyed wrapping people around his finger. But in the corner of his mind – was it the curve of the blue banisters or the second to last step that carried the thought? – Yanan couldn’t bear the possibility. The absolution of meaningless flesh he’d be for him, there to please for an hour, a night, maybe several at most? to be pleased. In the morning, when bodies turned cold… not yet corpses but the decay of abominating disgust for his own greed, the way his body was looking so so wrong. remnants of bitemarks, scratches and cigarette butts beside his bed. In this very corner of his quick-witted brain, Yanan knew. Fausto could only give him what he wanted right here; carnal desire with their bodies two feet apart. For what would follow after would've evolved, matured, rotten into yet another cross behind a name in Fausto’s books. He would keep him exactly here, at a safe distance.



07. Fausto Nobrega.

There was another retort on the tip of his tongue, some other tantalizing set of words that might draw the man in closer, that might place him in a position where Fausto could wrap himself around him, limbs and all, when—

“Pardon me, gentlemen,” and the distant whiff of roses accosted him, even if it was faint. The words were falling out of his mouth, faster than his mind could catch up to it, an old, latent instinct— trained into him like the dog he was.

"Hello Béa," a name that she reserved for only those closest to her, a name that he wore out in his throat a lifetime ago. He realized the mistake immediately, knew that he had crossed some line by saying those two words, and his eyes widened only a fraction as he took a polite step away from Yanan, dragged his eyes up and down the other man to try and save some face. He offered a cheeky grin, instincts that could be bent into the situation as alarm flooded his body, memories of nights spent wrapped around the same figure over and over and over again—

Matching pajamas. Somewhere in his suitcase.

"I will see you around," Fausto said, the singular beat that he missed passed over smoothly, confidence and swagger called upon at a moment’s notice. "I need to move my own stuff in. Perhaps we may find each other at night," and like that, he turned to saunter down the hallway, dealing with the dull thud thud thud that was hammering against his ribcage, fingers that tingled rather than shook, and an old song wafting through silent halls in his head.



code by @leviathan.



​
FAUSTO — YANAN
MENTIONS: fausto/yanan/béatrice

TAGS: collab w/ FloatingAroundSpace FloatingAroundSpace ; mention: Béatrice cavitea cavitea

Fausto sauntered his way towards the entrance of the house, hands deep in his pockets as he kept his eyes trained on the windows, watching as various people arrived, slowly but surely. There was a tension that lingered in his shoulders, that pulled at the muscles in his neck, that threatened to make him stiff with the almost familiar simmering that sat underneath his skin, that was threatening to break free after years of tamping it down. He did his best to keep himself occupied as a result, needing a person to distract himself with-- through pleasure, through animosity, through teasing words that were meant to pull people towards him, to encourage them to lay their hands on his own flesh, for better or for worse.

Ah, he thought, spotting a familiar, tall frame, one that he always found so appealing. With his signature grin that was edged with a promised of more, teeth that reminded people that they were mere steps away from beasts, he sauntered up to Yanan, depositing himself by the other man and offering a helping hand towards his luggage.

"It is truly a fortune that we find ourselves in one another's company," he said, his voice steady and open and inviting– dip your toes in, the water is just fine. "Please, grant me the pleasure of spending more time in your long-awaited company."

♘ ♚ ♘​

With air free from fumes and the never waning stench of piss, the chemist’s migraine alleviated. His black boots echoed on veined marble tiles as his ghostly silhouette entered. Yanan spared a minute, letting the view of the building solidify in his brain. A figure materialized next to him and before the chemist could make out a face or voice, he breathed in a scent that painted pictures of boisterous waves in curly hair –

"Don’t get lost in the sea, boy. Wicked and Swallowing."

– "I’m not scared of the sea."

"I did not say the sea is to be feared ...But when the cold turns your lips blue and your feet won’t reach the ground...the void of the sea is inevitable. Once too far out, in the clutches of the current, never returning to the same shore you entered from."

– Fausto. Friend. Stranger? Watch out, watch out for that one. No. Let his current take you, let your lungs fill up til there’s no more. Let yourself go, flow, it’s what you do so well~
A scent not salty like the sea but sweet like ripened strawberries. They’d squelch when taking a bite. Just one.

As his luggage consisted of barely anything (a sports bag with a handful of fresh clothes, a different track suit than yesterday, toiletries as well as the souvenirs of shame), Yanan shook his head gently. "Excuse you? I am very much capable of carrying my own luggage," harsh in tone and lecturing, an invisible raised index finger swayed in front of Fausto’s face. The chemist let half a moment pass to take in the sight of Fausto’s face forming a shocked reaction.

"I’m messing with you," a hearty hyena laugh revealed white teeth. "Take it, if you like~" Yanan’s smile only grew wider, ribbing as he brushed Fausto’s fingers and pressed his bag in the pragmatist’s hand. "The pleasure is all mine. Please, join me. It has truly been a while since our last– " Lips welcomed him like a long awaited guest, clinging onto him as if it’d kill him to let go. Eyes imperious, shaped in pure Alexandre Cabanel, Fallen Angel. "–…encounter." They emerged the stairs with their feet in lock step as Yanan claimed one of the upstairs bedrooms. "Have you chosen a bedroom yourself yet?"

♘ ♚ ♘​

The grin flickered for just a moment when Yanan gave a rebuttal to his outstretched hand, but did not vanish, a moment caught in stillness as his eyes roved over Yanan’s form, trying to piece together what exactly it was that he was feeling, what exactly it was he was saying— is this real, is this a joke, is he like the others? It vanished when it became clear it was a jest, and Fausto’s entire form seemed to roll its eyes at him for the momentary uncertainty before he took the bag, perhaps stepping in a tad closer than absolutely necessary to do so, even as the other man pressed it into his hands.

The grin returned to his lips, now certainly leaning too close to the chemist as they reminisced about the same thing, a dinner that had led to more, hands roving and trying to peel away layers— until they had been interrupted and there was only dissatisfaction left on his tongue. "Perhaps this will be yet another one," Fausto said loftily. The ghosts that lurked in the halls would have to be dealt with at another point in time, his attention captivated by the current maybe and perhaps that stretched out before him.

"I have not chosen a bedroom," Fausto remarked, glancing about the room that Yanan had claimed, examining the windows and the furniture, his mind working as it always did to detect corners and danger and problems, not quite stepping into the room yet. Still, he paused in his silent examination to glance over at Yanan again, the grin still present as he stated in his usual flirtatious lilt, "Are you offering?"

♘ ♚ ♘​

There it was again, the scent of the sun burning its radiation in pale skin for it to darken ever so slowly, of strawberries as the pragmatist leaned in. Perhaps this will be yet another one. Not the same nervosity inhabited him like it did when he was twenty-seven. Instead of growing red around his ears, his brows raised in peaceful uncertainty. "Mayhaps it will. I’m a chemist, not a psychic."

Yanan slouched through the room and attempted touching the ceiling with his fingertips. Almost. "You’re very funny," he remarked and shrugged. "You wish... I am not very talented at falling asleep. I might keep you awake all night, we wouldn’t want that, huh?" His dark circles had set into his skull over the years; purple, blue, purple, red. Another engraving of a past wound – slice – decorated his neck. Where was this from again? Ah, yes. Elevator frogs.
"Be quick with your choice. Last one to pick is never lucky," he advised Fausto and brushed through his hair as he stepped forward again to the door frame, leaning against it.

♘ ♚ ♘​

Fausto hummed, his grin now just a simple smile as Yanan looped back around to him, examining the tired-looking chemist, tipping his head a bit to gaze up at him because goddamn did he like the height that separated them. "Who said we would be sleeping?" Fausto asked loftily. He entered the room to place the bag at the foot of the bed before reaching the door frame again, peering around the hallways surrounding them and poking his head into the room next door, finding it open and unattended.

"Well," he said with a wolfish grin, sauntering back up to Yanan, "If I pick next to you, that would be very lucky, yes?"

♘ ♚ ♘​

The chemist rested his head against the frame and observed his every move closely.
"Well, yes. I would believe so, indeed."

Certainly he enjoyed wrapping people around his finger. But in the corner of his mind – was it the curve of the blue banisters or the second to last step that carried the thought? – Yanan couldn’t bear the possibility. The absolution of meaningless flesh he’d be for him, there to please for an hour, a night, maybe several at most? to be pleased. In the morning, when bodies turned cold… not yet corpses but the decay of abominating disgust for his own greed, the way his body was looking so so wrong. remnants of bitemarks, scratches and cigarette butts beside his bed. In this very corner of his quick-witted brain, Yanan knew. Fausto could only give him what he wanted right here; carnal desire with their bodies two feet apart. For what would follow after would've evolved, matured, rotten into yet another cross behind a name in Fausto’s books. He would keep him exactly here, at a safe distance.

♘ ♚ ♘​

There was another retort on the tip of his tongue, some other tantalizing set of words that might draw the man in closer, that might place him in a position where Fausto could wrap himself around him, limbs and all, when—

“Pardon me, gentlemen,” and the distant whiff of roses accosted him, even if it was faint. The words were falling out of his mouth, faster than his mind could catch up to it, an old, latent instinct— trained into him like the dog he was.

"Hello Béa," a name that she reserved for only those closest to her, a name that he wore out in his throat a lifetime ago. He realized the mistake immediately, knew that he had crossed some line by saying those two words, and his eyes widened only a fraction as he took a polite step away from Yanan, dragged his eyes up and down the other man to try and save some face. He offered a cheeky grin, instincts that could be bent into the situation as alarm flooded his body, memories of nights spent wrapped around the same figure over and over and over again—

Matching pajamas. Somewhere in his suitcase.

"I will see you around," Fausto said, the singular beat that he missed passed over smoothly, confidence and swagger called upon at a moment’s notice. "I need to move my own stuff in. Perhaps we may find each other at night," and like that, he turned to saunter down the hallway, dealing with the dull thud thud thud that was hammering against his ribcage, fingers that tingled rather than shook, and an old song wafting through silent halls in his head.

code by fudgecakez
 



fausto nobrega.





































  • mood



    eager to goad and to poke
















After the disastrous conversation with Yanan, one that had been derailed by memories potent enough to emerge after years of slumber, with long fingers reaching for his neck, Fausto did in fact bother to pick up his items from where he had left them with some sort of servant or other, offering glimmering teeth and four crisp, fifty pound notes to the man, who swallowed and turned them over in his hand. “It does not matter whether or not you are permitted the cash,” Fausto assured him dismissively. “You will soon be subject to wandering hands and quick fingers. Cash is a safe thing to line your actual valuables— it is abundant and therefore boring, something that will entice for a moment before it is found useless.”

Leaving the bewildered sod who was hopefully being paid a hefty amount to deal with the sheer insanity that having individuals like Delphine or Ziva under one roof brought, Fausto hefted one of his suitcases over his shoulder and picked the other one up to walk up the steps, arriving at the doorway where he had just seen Yanan, and selecting the room right next to it, dropping his suitcase back down to push open the door carefully.

He spent a prolonged period of time meticulously examining the room, going over the corners with his fingertips to see if there were any hidden doors, lying down close to the floor to check beneath the bed, opening the drawers and closets and peering in every nook and cranny to see if there may be something hiding in there. Once he was certain no one else had been in the room for some time (a flicker of a bitter thought, about what might have been — but there was no use for those considerations anymore), he set to work securing it. He knew that Ziva was somewhere within the walls, certainly contemplating the ways she could slit his throat for the slight he caused her. It had been a true victory— one that had not led to any loss, their words still sharpened against each others tongues, their hands and feet reaching out to touch— to break and puncture and twist, but still, the fleeting warmth of flesh on flesh was permitted.

He wandered the halls, considering the yawning chasm that was this house, how eager it seemed to want to swallow everyone and everything whole. Tasya was well-known and well-respected throughout the industry— which meant that everyone had noted when she had started to retreat away for reasons that were unclear. Fausto thought that something too large had finally come down on her head (and the video of Timofey, in a voice that did not sound like his, lunging across the room towards Tasya’s throat in a way juxtaposed with their similar frames seated together on a motorcycle), and wondered what sort of condition she might be in, what she might have let in. (A shade wearing a man’s skin. A prospect he had never truly considered, always the one to put them out of their misery, to pull the trigger when someone slipped too far, too fast into the waves of limbo.) Had she simply existed in this void, in this emptiness?

The thoughts were dismissed when he finally spotted another figure— Ziva, in all her finery, in all her expertise, performing her role to Tasya as she enacted hers, a delicate dance that caused a laugh to slip from his lips— almost warm, but still edged with tension. She hated him, he hated her, and yet here he was, seating himself to watch a woman that wanted a dagger to his throat, to unseam him from navel to sternum. There was the thrill as she perched herself on his chair and an invisible shiver locked under his skin as he reached out to touch her hand, to press fingertips to flesh. Insults disguised as pleasantries, desire coated in venom, want in the blood-soaked pill of animosity.

At least he knew this game.

The one that the other pragmatist (what was he doing here? What necessity did he fulfill? Where had he come from? Questions swirling around in his mind, thoughts that toppled over one another in their desperation to be answered and coming up empty-handed) was playing made him raise an eyebrow as he watched him set up targets. He was being called— and Willie, and there was a twinge of irritation that he was eager to fan into a flame of bitter jealousy. He could not quite recall the other man, could only really reminisce about calling him the name of orcas dying in tanks too small for them, but he knew, he knew something lingered. An old scar that was vanishing under time, but that still was raised skin when he skimmed a hand over it.

The jealousy motivated him to bother changing into something a tad more comfortable, more conducive to the situation at hand— shifting out of gray plaid trousers into black cargo pants that were stuffed into combat boots rather than brogues as Willie set out for his round. A belt was utilized to cinch the waist to his body, his usual handgun strapped onto a holster there, never far from reach, though he kept the yellow turtleneck— it was tight enough that it would not risk him getting snagged on any stray branches and it was tight enough that anyone who wanted to look could see the flex of muscle built over the course of a career spanning nearly a decade-and-a-half now. The blazer was removed, though, not wanting to potentially dirty it, and he strolled back outside to greet Willie as he practically scrambled back into place, snorting with clear derision as the man practically flailed at the last shot. An eyebrow started to rise on his head as he watched Fred offer some platitudes; “All in all it wasn't too bad for a first run.”

“If you want us all dead in fifty seconds,”
Fausto stated flatly, like he was discussing a dog that had not learned its commands quite yet.
“We’ve got our hands full as is making sure we can count everyone’s fingers and toes at the end of this,”
he said to Fred,
“Not so sure we should be provide false confidence for any victims of infantile coordination.”


He was aware of the women that were congregating to watch, the piercing gaze of three old shadows, haunting him even now. Eyes that he had perhaps once recognized, the memory of skin he had been permitted to see and touch once upon a time embedded into his fingertips (alongside the blood under his nails). He was proud of his foresight to keep on the turtleneck, and a grin that was almost sloppy came over his face as he pulled out his own handgun from his belt, the one that he knew how to wield. (There was a joke about it being his dick in there, somewhere. He was sure someone was picking it out, somewhere.)

This was his bread and butter, drilled into his head over and over and over again (“Do it fucking again,” and again and again— waking or sleeping, not a moment of rest as the actions were repeated until he could do it in his sleep, on the job, wherever it would take him). There wasn’t even adrenaline as he moved, no pressure to perform, motions that he could do in his sleep over and over and over again. His shots were true, even as his eyes moved onto the next target, his feet carrying him steadily across the terrain without hesitation. He emptied out his entire clip, all fifteen rounds, one after the other, a steady staccato on beat, before he turned around and sauntered back, the now empty magazine discarded and the new one reloaded in one smooth motion.

“I think we’re done, no?”
he said, tucking it back into his holster, head tilted at Fred, refusing to look up at Tasya even as his thoughts turned to her; This is all you need to see. This is all you require.

































cry for love



백현










♡coded by uxie♡
 
“We’ve got our hands full as is making sure we can count everyone’s fingers and toes at the end of this,” he said to Fred, “Not so sure we should be provide false confidence for any victims of infantile coordination.”
Click to expand...

Fred stared at Fausto with a blank expression for a moment before nodding downrange. "I hope you shoot better than you talk."

Despite the statement Fred didn't have much of an opinion on Willie's shooting. Granted, he would prefer if everyone on the team was as sharp and focused as himself but handling weapons required as much finesse, training and grace as dancing or practicing martial arts. It wasn't anything one would be an instant expert on- regardless how much they wanted to.

No, Willie's mistakes were that of an inexperienced shooter. They would also vanish fairly quickly with repeated training and drills as Willie would grow more comfortable, more steady and more focused.

Shifting his focus back to Fausto, his fellow pragmatist handled himself just as Fred had expected him to. Granted, he was a bit too aggressive and a bit too eager in his shooting but then again all of the targets had been pacified with extreme precision.

Too bad he isn't anywhere close to being a teamplayer.

When Fausto asked Fred his question the swede shrugged lightly. "I don't know," he said.

"Depends on how you answer this question;"

Fred crossed his arms and straightened up, towering slightly over Fausto. "Are you here to keep everyone safe or are you just here to take a piss on the rest of the team?"

He glanced up at Tasya, giving her a curt nod and a brief smile before looking back at Fausto, blank expression returning. "If it's the latter and you're just here to stroke your own ego you ought to consider if you really should be here."

Fred tilted his head slightly. "Because I know at least ten other guys that could do your job just as well with none of the ego-tripping."

He paused before uttering his final words; "That being said, if I have somehow misjudged you then feel free to prove me wrong. Ultimately I will watch everyone's backs- including yours. I hope you will do the same for me."

Fred then extended a hand towards Fausto.
 



yananovic borgov

































The sudden retreat of Fausto left him with a question mark hovering over his head, tongue licking over the upper row of his teeth. Roses caressed one's nose, thorns stuck in one's hand. He made himself comfortable, opened his sports bag and slipped on the beige coat he had brought and returned to the outside of the estate. The pack of cigarettes slid in his pockets, one he stuck between his teeth on his way out.

On the lawn, between trail and vast nothingness for miles and miles, three men put on a show with– Yanan pushed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose and scrunched his eyes – with targets and pulled guns. The stairs offered an excellent spot to sit and watch, not to lean back though, as the chemist lit his cigarette. A flame painted his face in a whip of warm light before grey fumes balanced out the play of saturation. Despite Fausto, he hadn't met the other two men. What were their names again? Fridolin? Frank? Ah...always so forgetful. As they caught his blank stare at them, his features didn't soften, instead his face turned tense. Yanan presented them a slight nod only, before he granted himself another drag as the cigarette butt grew and crinkled. He wondered how far he could make it grow without breaking.

Yananovic Borgov was a terrible shooter. Never did a minute pass where he wasn't a safety hazard. Despite being very much aware of this factuality, he would welcome a gun in his hand at first offer. Only later, when the immense weight pressed down his hand, it would make him quiet. Or not.

































seoul



Jaysen










♡coded by uxie♡
 











DELPHINE














THE DISAPPEARING LIGHT . . .





And in the hotel bathroom mirror it witnesses a face.

Morning of the first day.

It stands there, naked from a cold shower with no makeup on, uneasy on the balls of its feet. No one has ever seen this. The woman, like this. This woman. It would be like a secret or a prank on the population if the woman was real but it’s only really an appearance, an image. An image of a woman with black-grey-brown scales of varying darkness spread from its left leg and right thigh, to its right hip, to its left breast and shoulder and arm, passing lighter-to-nothing over the left side of its face. An image, of the destruction of something that didn’t physically exist, wreckage, accounted for in photographs and reflections, an erased footnote in the text of the universe. Inside a nothing, a nowhere. It examines its blown-up left eye in an occultic line of self-staring, blinking like diseased cells, multiplying and multiplying and multiplying.

Poster girl for a new kind of living, one without the propaganda of facts or questions about people. New face of a new world.

Then it does its makeup and chooses how it will dress that day and midway through that she begins a conversation with Franziska, a friend that she’d never even had:

“I try these days to, you know, approach calm, and I say that to mean often. I think people are scared of calm. Like they think it weakens you. But people who don’t let themselves be calm, or make themselves up into calm people, you know, you stay at an amateur level, I think. You do what you do at an amateur level. If you want a career in anything, or, ha, even to raise a child, like that takes, you know, you have to know to be and stay calm, have a learning of that in you, or people will laugh at you and see you as bad, or as… lame, you know, not serious. And everything you do is amateur and a risk to what you’re responsible for, just a joke, right?”

Black buttoned shirt and wide-leg pants, boots, claret-coloured waistcoat, frocked lead-coloured overcoat, she’s walking around pocketing things in the room with a business to her feet that’s like the other side of something foul.

“I don’t get to shoot many people. On the least not as many people as I think should have with the work that I do and all. And, you know. I’m not in support of more shooting. I’m not for more people who need someone to shoot them. I do not like that as a cause, but, you know, I did all that training, and now it’s just, you know? Even for a dream, you know? Because it’s a dream and you should get all the chances to kill all the people, or not really people, whatever you call them, but really what I’m saying is, you know, the what’s being killed is not the point, it’s just me, you know, I’m going and getting something, climbing up a tower to rescue some item, I’m another person, I’m in the enemy armour, or the enemy is being made to do the thing, and that’s most of what I get to do. I do active things, meaningful things more when something goes wrong.”

“'Well, do you want it to go wrong?' Well, no, Franziska. I don’t want it to go wrong and not get four million euro or get privileges from Tasya Kuznetsova. I would rather it not go wrong. Did I tell you about yesterday? She asks us to do this job with such risk, you know. Everyone agrees it’s really risky, sort of without saying it. I say, do we get a gift bag? The meaning of that being: are we going to get something afterward, as a note of sort of ‘good try, guys’, or just something for the people we’re responsible for, you know? Because she’s risking other families for her family and I wanted to point that out so she’d know that. In example-” and the word example worms a too-Swedish vowel out of her very suddenly, making her flinch, “if I had a family I would be saying, we either win and get four million euro or my family is ruined, blown apart, right? Then I think she thought… she reminded me, ‘oh, don’t you know you get four million?’ and I think she thought I was making a joke, and I sort of was, but I think she thought I was talking about real gift bags. Ha ha. You know? Just one of those ha ha, silly things.”

She goes to the mirror a last time, checks her face from all sides, places her sunglasses over her eyes with both hands. She ties her hair into a ponytail with practiced hand placement, then searches the image. It looks like a professional woman with a spotless work record and a sexual past, unbetrayed and perfect. It looks like “The Serpent”, that Delphine Jonas from somewhere in Europe, prepared to steal four million euro from Tasya Kuznetsova for how good it is at its job. She leaves smiling.

***

Hours later Delphine speeds to a stop at the front of the Kuznetsov property, Ducati motor singing evilly in the February wind, helmet visor breathclouded. Her coat has a rip in it near the bottom and she can’t explain where it happened.

She has no luggage, only a gift bag from a luxury store in the grasp of her white glove. She dismounts, plants a kickstand in the firm earth, removes her helmet and brings her shades to her eyes before anyone can see.

She gazes up at the house now. The house…

The English country house…

The English country house so varnished, yellowed almost, by bad circumstances. Something wrong happened here. She might’ve judged the house to be glaring at her personally with some sort of meanness, with a motive and a reproof, but she comes without challenge this evening. Too slippery to really rub up on anything. Facing the same way as the rest of the world but with her eyes closed to whatever they’re looking at.

Nearest thing to real dreaming she’s done in…

Well.

Shots bang off. Birds fly out urgent and uncatchable.

***

There’s a little man in black by the door when she steps through and, giving him the gift bag, she addresses him with such a distance in her voice it’s like she’s one of the paintings on the wall, a reproduction of something faraway: “Can you see that this gets into Miss Kuznetsova’s hands? My thanks to you sirrrrr.”

He turns out of sight with the bag, and she turns unthinkingly back to the door as a departing deliveryperson would, but then she corrects herself. It’s just a house! And what a lovely house that it is!

The candlelight and the wood panelling and the patterns in the upholstery - each element here is somehow so disagreeable to Delphine that an expulsion of gas rises nervously from her stomach and out of her mouth. She laughs at herself, appalled. She imagines the interior designer being beaten and flailed in a dungeon for his offenses and laughs a little more, making her shoulders roll in different directions. She wriggles her coat off.

She steps into the living room now, where Mr. Sprake from yesterday is resting his hand on the mantle-edge, bowing to some old photo of some old Kuznetsov. Chairs with seamlessly stitched cloth that Delphine could guess hadn’t been made anywhere in over a hundred years; hidebound books and fire and Mr. Sprake, stoking it himself every now and then; ‘a handsome room’, she could hear someone else call it.

“Oh, this is great. Just beautiful.” And she says this without any complement in her voice at all. Her body language does this thing like she’s pulling away from thorns, even though she’s across the room from Willie. “Yes, good,” and for a minute it’s like she’s going to leave the room, but... she doesn’t. In fact, she crosses halfway to Willie - “Tether, tether, tether. Nice to meet you. Is this not wonderful?” - with no sense like she’s talking to him at all, just somewhere around him, maybe into the fire. “Old room, old house, two friends.” Her eyes aren’t even on him, like he would be able to see that. Then she snorts with a laugh, shakes something out in her neck, an animal reflex: “Nice to meet each other. I like that. Foundation for a great working relationship.”

***

Del walks out of the living room, stops, and moves each knee up to her chest with a crack. Handsfree. Getting older and yet she’s as limber as she ever was. If she were alone and without vanity and in possession of some sort of earthbound mindset, then she might try the splits right now.

She thinks she sees a shadow cast down the stairs from the second-floor landing. That woman from yesterday, with the teapot and the nunnery, and… then Tasya and Ziva Chan are heading up those same stairs, not the shadows of the them but their real bodies and arms on the bannisters and lengths of hair. Del watches them; they don’t see her, or if they do, then they don’t, you know what I mean. She wonders if the women are meeting somewhere upstairs for some purpose... meeting about her, The Serpent, and all of the daggers they should slip inside her belly.

She considers following them up there.

She doesn't.

***

After some time, Del falls outside and goes and sits on this lonely outdoor chair, this lovely old thing that creaks like nighttime when she sits down, and she takes the electronic cigarette she removed from her coat pocket inside and begins smoking it, little puffs of grey-blue air in the disappearing light of the day. She remembers, in that silence there, the men inside her. Big, imposing men, dangerous men sometimes, men who swore and spat and fled like turkeys. Small men, men on the outskirts of manhood, rodent-men. Men who’d known women and other men and sometimes nobody, for it was too dark and awful and serious in them for them to want. Men like Nobrega, men like Sprake, men like any man she might have worked with. It was pleasant to know and know again how much nothing a man must be to be a man.

Puffs on her cigarette.

She remembers the women she’s been. A bit more complicated. Each novel, a mandate, a new restraint, each demanding something she was prepared to give before she even knew it was something she had to give, and on and on, again.

It’s easier when you don’t stop. Del tells herself she is not something that rests because she does not keep, does not hold a centre. She is not like them. She would run back through the trees to not be like them.

...Should she go any further here she would risk really thinking, like really thinking. So she stops in her tracks. Is silent with the silence, the birds.

Puffs on her cigarette again, or tries to. Nothing comes out this time.

She retreats wholly from her shapeless contemplation now, retakes herself. Something leaves her whenever she does this, whenever she comes back, but she doesn’t know what it is.

She jumps up and treks over to the other source of smoke that she can see. They’ve just finished shooting. The heat left in the air balms her eyes.

There’s the bald man, the father-maybe, ha ha… there’s Sprake… there’s Nobrega… there’s a target that’s a female gunfighter with blonde hair.

Delphine walks to her out of the bushes and plugs one of the holes in her with her finger, for just a minute. I think I know her.

She turns, finds the men now. “Who won?” She doesn't want an answer to that. More to herself than anything: “Do any of you have a cigarette?”

Her attention switches from Fausto - Nobrega - past Willie, to Fredrik - Commander, giving none of them time to answer the question she's just asked, walking past them entirely - to

him, some feet away, on the stoop. Watching the grownups play. “Oh. The chemist. I have a mental nickname for you. It’s not polite so I won’t tell you. But you’re cute. Like a little lost dog. Not in a bad way. Necessarily.” She’s smiling in resignation here, like she lost some important battle somewhere back and is now detached from all concerns, afflicted and starved in the moment's splendour, but also, at the same time, parent to a child. She takes his cigarette from between his fingers, sits down next to him, pulls on it, makes a face like she's trying to contain her own joy, and hands it back, blowing out the corner of her mouth. "That's terrible. I stopped smoking those."



MOOD
A celebrity on a sinking ship.


LOCATION
The Kuznetsova Residence
Outside London

TAGS
Willie ( myl myl ), Yanan ( mangomilk mangomilk ), Fausto ( FloatingAroundSpace FloatingAroundSpace ), Fredrik ( Viper Actual Viper Actual ), everyone (open for midday interacts).
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Last edited:



fausto nobrega.





































  • mood



    projecting, egotistical
















Fausto’s face remained partially bored as the other man talked, his mouth a neutral line, his eyes focused on the opposing beady set, head still tilted as if Fausto was contemplating looking interested in the words that were being offered to him. Internally, he had come to the conclusion that he did not like Fred, in a different fashion than how he did not like Oliver. With the endlessly flamboyant extractor, he could now tell that there was a pit of disappointment, covered in tough fucking shell that he did not intend to crack, ignored so that it may rot away into nothingness. With Fred, it was a bubbling cauldron that he was more than happy to stir, to peer into the depths of and plunge headfirst into animosity and rivalry, gnashing teeth and broken skin underneath his nails.

Despite the fact that they had never worked together, the shadows seemed to coalescent on the other’s face as Fausto gazed at it, shimmering, glimmering memories that he had no use for as a pragmatist. He would blame the other hovering apparitions that were watching him for the fact that the flickers of Palladio and Josep and Titus— hundreds of names and men and their oozing disappointment in him for failing his role as pragmatist (permitting others to plunge into limbo, leaving others behind to wake up with a jolt, getting wounded because his role was to fight through everything, even his own screaming body begging for rest), as man (a misplaced compliment, a misjudged glance, and the words in snarling tones or fists and open-hands that he had learned to dodge following quickly thereafter) — that arose from the swamps of his mind, filling the cavity of a bald-headed soldier thinking he was in the same war he used to be in.

He permitted a condescending chuckle to escape from his lips, his head rightening back up as Fred turned to glance at Tasya and proved how truly green he was in the industry to imply that there was anyone comparable to him— anywhere, on this fucking plane of consciousness that he walked. His own gaze glanced upwards to find Tasya (and refused to slide to where Béa sat) and Ziva, raising a hand to give a lazy wave at the women on the patio.

(There was a dark tunnel deep underground and two corpses, one curled atop another. There was a body in the backseat of a car miles or perhaps only mere feet away, and a broken promise that, somehow, was kept in the end.)

“You have misjudged, I’m afraid to say,”
Fausto informed Fred, lowering his gaze back on the man, his lips peeling back to reveal teeth, bared in defiance,
“just about everything. The point of this job is get Timofey — whoever wanders out of this alive,”
he gave a shrug, his head shifting with it, uncaring and unmoved (lie: there were some he needed to get out alive).
“Sure, there are those who need to be kept alive longer than others, but if there is a stumble here and there? Cutting losses means you might be able to keep everyone who can keep pace alive long enough to actually finish the damn job and get four million dollars— which, mind you, I would think you would want, as well, you know, given your whole,”
he gestured vaguely at Fred’s general appearance. At least Oliver had a sense of style, even if it was grating and atrocious.

He glanced down at the hand, the mocking way it was presented to him, as if they could be brothers in arms, asking Fausto to meet him as equals.
“You haven’t been here long enough if you really think there are ten others that could take my spot.”
Not a brag— a statement of fact. Hand-picked by Tasya (just like him, an irritating voice said) because of a reputation he had built through the darkness of the underworld, shaping global circumstances in the way he knew how: a gun, pointed at whatever target and fired with deadly accuracy.
“I’ve put most of them in the ground.

“I’m not going anywhere,”
he said matter-of-factly, his arms resting on his lips, a truth that he didn’t even hold dear— it simply was.
“Because, at the end of the day, egghead, I’ll get this fucking shit done. And everyone who’s seen me knows it.”
Another grin tossed his way.
“I’ll see you in the dreamscape,”
he said dismissively, and walked right by the other man, turning up to give yet another wave at the women, slow and from the shoulder, tossing a wink along the way, ignoring whatever further protests could possibly come from a man that couldn’t keep his hair.

































hot sugar (washed out remix)



glass animals










♡coded by uxie♡
 









scroll








THE ARCHITECT.



TASYA.













mood

"God help us all."











outfit

Blouse and pencil skirt → turtleneck and slacks.











location

The manor.











interactions

Everyone. Mentions: Ziva, Béa, Fausto, Fred, Willie, Yanan, Delphine.
















Earlier in the day, sat at her immense dinner table and surrounded once again by various papers and files, Tasya somehow found herself under the scrutinizing eye of Ziva Chan.

Such an intense scrutinization was an odd feeling, a reflection that followed her every uncanny move throughout the day. She was almost irritated by the entire charade. Oh, forgers and their mirages. Reflections of reflections, the void of mirrors. Tasya remembered the days she spent sat before her vanity in a near identical display, playing out the motions of what looked most flattering, what could be most convincing, what was femininity and what could it do for her? It was as exhilarating as it was exhausting. Now, there wasn't as much of that constant shift. Blonde brows furrowed behind impartial shades as her thin, sloped handwriting was scribbled into margins of maps.

Tasya blinked pointedly at Ziva's words, only a hand pausing to adjust the sunglasses on the bridge of her nose. With such a line of questioning it seemed work was put on pause. A long-fingered hand reached into the breast pocket of her blouse to open a thin metal case. A cigarette met lips, and soon the telltale flick of a lighter. It was a petty front to put up, a barrier of smoke and aloofness that was practiced down to bone marrow, and it was her own house after all.

"Mm. Mm."
Smoke exhaled from her nostrils. They were skirting God's open wound now, a delicate line of questioning.
"...My brother and I did not grow up together, so I suppose you could say I don't know much of what it is like to have siblings either. We were separated as children, he was... adopted. We reconnected recently, almost five years ago by now."


Atop the table was a chintz ashtray that seemed well loved, and Tasya brought it towards her to tap away at her cigarette. Favorite memories were few and far between. Memories of things she didn't want to remember, pulling teeth from an unwilling mouth. Vaguely, a voice in the back of her mind reminded her that it was necessary, that her and Willie and many of the others would need to know details sooner rather than later.

"That's a tricky one. Maybe... driving around in his car. I don't drive, so he takes me everywhere. Or-"
A newer memory resurfaced, one that had helped build schematics for a certain level of the job.
"There was a gala, two years ago. It was the first time I saw him drunk, for he does not drink. He ended up knocking over four butlers somehow. It was very silly."
Though her words remained paced, calm and as composed as she could be, there was a slight upturn to her lips. Fond memories were sugar-sweet poison in disguise, and useless to her now in the face of such a task. Nevertheless, Tasya tried to indulge her.

-

Later in the afternoon, after staring for ten minutes at a gift bag (allegedly brought by Delphine, an employee had informed her, and she could not bring herself to look inside just yet), Béatrice appeared at her bedroom door. The work of a host was never over, it seemed, though her company was much more welcome in comparison to many of the others. At least the woman had manners, and manners of her own were graciously received as Tasya pulled out her chair and sat them atop the rooftop patio.

Men always proved themselves to be a problem, despite touting that they were the solution. It bored her, it exhausted her, it frustrated her to no end on most days and even that very morning. Now, however, they ran through the trees and shrubbery like her own two dogs. As the trio lifted their guns to shoot down targets Tasya stuck two fingers between her lips and wolf-whistled loud, shots were sent askance from surprise, and the two atop the roof snickered between themselves like schoolgirls.

There was a smile and wave from Fredrik, and then from Fausto. The woman raised a dainty napkin in return, and a hawk's dark eyes watched Delphine move across the grass before finding a place nearby Yananovic below. A house, with people in it. What a thought.

Late day sun poured honey over the scene, warm light more akin to hot needles against sensitive eyes. Though she eventually removed her shades, Tasya drank tea and discussed the details of Limbo with their nurse in a newfound amnesty between two blondes. The interaction had been a sort of balm to her mood (ironic, given the fact that Tasya openly disliked the moniker of Mother but received such comfort all the same), but a midnight vigil soon approached. Even the presence of a pious woman such as Béa could not ward off the ghosts that haunted her every step, a descent into the mouth of hell.

-

The lab was frigid as hours passed, statue-like before the observational glass. The witching hour hung in the air. A stillness only broken by chainsmoking and the repeated opening of a flask, and soon a midnight visitor, bringing his biblical anger to dismantle her from consecrated grounds to the peaks of bell towers. The numb realization that Tasya had cried and been hugged more in the past two days than perhaps in the past five years was cold and reverent. Suffering was her penance, but absolution felt out of reach.

And there, her mirror image laid still in what could become his grave. Timofey slept peacefully, dreamless with simple sedatives and IV bags keeping him hydrated. She only hoped for the same sleep later that night.

Eventually, as midnight dipped into the ichor of night, Tasya ascended the stairs accompanied by Willie to enter the kitchen and throw together something to eat. Nicotine, coffee, liquor, and small peckings of biscuits and fruit had been the only sustenance in her stomach, and the woman was wearing down thin from both ends of a lit candle. Whatever the kitchen would hold, it was certainly unexpected for a woman with backup plans locked in safes.



♡coded by uxie♡
 
béatrice & fausto.
❝ I'll let you break my heart again. ❞
mood
for a moment.
outfit
x.
location
the kitchen, midnight.
interactions
willie myl myl , fausto FloatingAroundSpace FloatingAroundSpace , tasya birth of venus birth of venus

Time passed the same in the house of Kuznetsova as it did under the sweltering blanket of dogs and smoke-infused suburb of Le Vésinet. Time was brutal to those desperate for more and equally so to those who clutched rosary beads and wished for dug graves to catch their withering corpses. Béa, in all the youthfulness of thirty and two years, found herself occupying the second category.

Limbo hadn’t treated her with the kindness of battlefield medics she showed to others. Years she had lived, lifetimes spent in a cruel world of her own creation until eyes woke up from the last gasp of the elderly and she was in her twenties again, shivering. What once had made up the soul of someone dancing on the pages of Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre was now a weeping memory hiding behind smiles picked from magazine covers, speech from silver screen films. She had lived and she had died only to be forced to breathe again and pretend she was fine.

There was nothing she could do anymore to stop the double-takes and second glances into mirrors, looking for wrinkles that days ago had scrunched over her face and now smoothed themselves in the realm of reality. It wasn’t real, nothing was truly real anymore. Time was Béa’s captor, haunting in Her tune and brutal in Her love.

Time was her God and Béa was forced to be the foul servant that prostrated before Her.

The slamming of a microwave door snapped focus back where it was due. Time had changed and she was no longer the remnants of a girl with dreams, laughing on a patio and letting another soul wrap their fingers around the moniker of Béa. A vile name, a vile shortening of letters that spilled in woeful beauty from a dog that had abandoned her.

What could she say that had not already been said in a dream that wasn’t real, to a shade that didn’t exist, to the skin of a man that now haunted her reality? What point was there to the pastel silk pajamas she found comfort in wearing still, their matching set clutched by ungrateful, unloving hands.

The microwave told her of the time, of hours past midnight when the house around had been presumed asleep and she had snuck out of her room, ghostly in her steps. The backlit numbers mocked her a bit, winking in the knowledge that three days had nearly passed since she allowed her body to rest. Three days, and she punched in a time on plastic-covered buttons.

Whirring sounds picked up from the wonder, rotating slowly the cup of tea she had wandered in slow steps to the kitchen to make. She couldn’t will her hands to make it properly, to give respect where it was due. No gloves covered them here and it dragged her attention down to stare at them. Her hands; aged eyes looked on the flesh littered with scars the same way a surviving drummer would look out on a battlefield and see only bodies. They notched the resilience of a mind in the same way others notched conquests of flesh in the headboard of a bed. They were as welcome as they were many. She was ugly here, a comforting thought considering smooth skin reflected a dream she couldn’t escape. Fingers quivered as they reached and pulled at skin before the shining reflection of the microwave, running along the bruised circles of somniphobia until they passed in carelessness at a scar that once elicited a sneer she felt too tired to express.

Everything, everywhere was a carousel she felt bound to ride on. Yellowing lights and chipped paint never seemed to slow the pace, decrepit glass eyes reflecting a hollowness she felt had leaked out in every pathetic squeaking word. Was she begging for attention when passing by those in the hallway, sat upon a chair on a patio, or was it the mechanism she had to fall back on to make sure others knew she was alive? A cup spinning with the monotonous drum of an eidolon kept her head from spinning as mismanaged curls leaned in and pressed against the glass.

“Just two more days,” She whispered, broken words as much as they were hopeful. “Just two more days and then …” Béa sighed and let the gentle warning of her beverage prompt eyes to slide shut.

══════════════════​

Up the winding staircase, down the hollow halls that finally had a semblance of life in the form of occupied rooms shut towards one another, Fausto lay awake, staring at the ceiling with his hands clasped together, folded on his chest. Sleeping in a new place never came quite easy to him, instinct (not paranoia, certainly not anxiety) telling him to be prepared for every stray sound that he could not account for, every flicker of shadow that could not be tied neatly back to something within his line of sight. He had crawled through too many windows himself, walked up to doors that he picked open and put bullets in skulls, knives to throats to ever rest easily somewhere away from the home that he had fortified.

There seemed to be quite a few others who couldn’t sleep, though this was not an unforeseen reality. While Fausto himself only utilized somnicin for the job, he knew that there were plenty of others who used it to fucking sleep, as well as those who mixed it with various other uppers and downers and everything in between, a concoction injected right into their veins and meant to— to what, exactly, he wasn’t sure. So many minds could be shattered in the dreamscape, and yet it seemed that everyone was more than willing to squeeze the last cracked pieces for some sort of electrical impulse that, paradoxically, their continued use of substances had overloaded and eroded away, now entirely dependent on said substances.

It made him wrinkle his nose in revulsion, and he let a stray thought of whether or not it was Oliver prowling the night, in whatever eye-burning outfit he had put together for the evening, pajamas with shades that clashed a little too well, patterns ripped right out of hotel wallpapers. He almost shuddered now, at the fact that he had fucked that for several times. (And this was becoming a thing here, in this haunted house— stray thoughts of what lay beyond his own door: the swirl of faces, the ties of fate and connection that were fraying at their edges wrapping themselves around his fingers, his neck, cutting into flesh and stealing away air. Perhaps there was not a dagger waiting behind the creak of floorboards of the faint shifting of fabric— perhaps there was just the empty, yawning nothingness that lay between them.)

Fausto sat upright, refusing to entertain such thoughts for much longer. He was wearing a pastel purple silk top with a “P” embroidered over the chest pocket, and black boxer shorts, a thigh holster strapped to his right leg with his usual handgun. He slipped on the soft gray slippers he brought with himself everywhere (a faint comfort from a faint memory of a gift once given to him), and approached his own door, pressing his ear against it out of habit to ensure there was no one lurking outside, before opening it and making his way down the hall, aimlessly wandering like he had earlier that day. Part of him was hoping to see another figure, another shape in the darkness of night as he ambled about, eyes trying to discern what the shadows that lined the corridors aligned to— inanimate object, or painted figures?

There was commotion, somewhere, the hum of a microwave. Someone was in the kitchen— a distraction. He made his way with more purpose now, arriving within the practically sterile environment to spot—

Motherfucker.

“Have you been warming it for so long that it has lulled you to sleep?” Fausto asked, approaching her with confidence that he did not have. There was no shame on his face, no red on his features, but there was a “P” sewn over a heart that he had been unable to give up, not fully, not completely.

————— ୨୧ —————​

Béa was unprepared for the sound of another, a slip of her head from the protective sanctuary of glass pulling a soft, 'oh!' from her as grey eyes stared in a wild exhaustion. Everything softened as much as it pulled tight, an expression betraying earlier self-reprimands as she blinked at curls and closeness.

"Ah, I guess you've caught me 'slipping' as they say." Scarred flesh twitched upwards in the awkwardness she was sure bled from her pores. "Would, well, would you perhaps like something as well? You're up late too so perhaps …" Her words faltered the more she saw the other, took in his outfit and the familiarness of someone she knew too well. A stitched "P" matched a jarring "H", two letters stitched on their respective owners in a way that now wove more sadness than laughter.

Somewhere something broke inside of her, a lamp pushed off a table by the alley cat she taken in with the understanding it would cause no harm. Behave, she said and behave it did not. A whitening of knuckles on already bone-dusted skin hid themselves in a grip behind her back as hands — now more consciously covered in their years of scars — hastily reached into the microwave for a mug she soon presented to Fausto.

"It's been awhile, hasn't it? You still pull off purple well, you know." Her lips pushed themselves into a smile, forced the happiness she would rather crumble beneath.

══════════════════​

Fausto was not so hubristic as to believe he would never age. There were no grays (thank fucking god), but there were lines at the corner of his mouth, in the middle of his forehead, a growing dull ache in knees, in his lower back in the waking world (he had a feeling that he would need to halt his bloody plod that he had embarked on in his mid-twenties, the wear and tear starting to weigh down on him and his limbs). Everyone succumbed to age, the march towards death a steady beat that all had to follow (and he had taken on the sacred duty of hastening that march to meet death).

But still, even with this knowledge— Béa had aged in a particular way. His eyes traced her face, an archeologist attempting to dig for the memory of the past he recalled (memory was of no use to a pragmatist, their only purpose to train instinct and, not for the first time, he half wondered if she trained him in some way). The scar across her lip remained the same, straining against her face, a brutal reminder of a man Fausto had never met but wished he had killed, but there was something ancient resting in her now, creases that seemed as deep as the canyons, eyes heavier than the center of the earth.

She spoke, and he blinked and looked down at the mug, at the scars that now littered her fingers. A brow furrowed, worry bloomed in his chest, and (yes, he thought, there is some part of you that is now instinct) his hand reached out to cup around hers, the warmth bleeding through to his fingers.

“It has,” he said, his voice still level, though quieter now, answering her question and not acknowledging anything else said, not quite yet. There was no rasp, no hovering guilt. “I suppose it is time to break out spring colors in hopes of whatever daylight we may be able to start seeing soon.”

————— ୨୧ —————​

“Ah,” Was all she had exclaimed as hands once held in the softness of dawn wrapped comfortably around her own. A disgusting match, she’d be forced to think, recoiling internally at the thought of gloveless hands being held so kindly. “I never thought—” but she couldn’t say that, the smile on her face breaking in the waves of personas scrambling to the surface. “Yes, spring colors and walks in the park. It’ll be that time soon.”

Béa looked up from her microscopic study of hands, forced herself to meet into eyes with the sadness of washed out jeans and eternities lived between their meetings. “Is there someone waiting for you? I’d hate to keep you.” She remembered bodies lingering in a door frame, looks exchanged that whispered rumors back to her in a reminder. It wasn’t her anymore.

Hands fussed themselves in the grip on them, steps taken forward and back like a boat that felt uncertain of docking.

Béa had lived lives and Fausto had lived in others. It was worthy of a bitter, short-lived laugh, a sound of ducks fighting for attention on a night too long ago. The tear wasn’t even noticeable among the shaking of a heart that had succumbed to dormancy long ago. Lifetimes ago. “Give me a minute and I can make you something else. I promise I’ve made improvements since …” She cut herself off into a smile, disjointed as she was. “Well, no more burnt soup, anyways.”

══════════════════​

This had— this had gone off the fucking rails. A sense of foreboding filled Fausto’s chest, a pulsating warning that this might be yet another indicator of what was to come, what was already occurring with far too much frequency for the smattering of hours he had spent in the company of others. There were far too many faces that he had never wished to see again for an even more innumerable amount of reasons, useless memories that were starting to dig their claws into his mind again, dripping from every corner with hollow eyes of the past. It was rancid, it was constant, it was here.

“No one,” he said smoothly, and perhaps it would have ended in a line before— but you, perhaps. But there might be an inkling of truth on one side or another, a truth he had not liked seeing laid bare, and so—

“It is frequently difficult to sleep in new locales,” a reasonable explanation, a conversation perhaps. Between strangers, fumbling through an interaction that was new (raw, pulsating wounds and pasts coming back to life, flowing with blood and— was that a tear?).

Her fingers slipped from his and he did not have to walk forward to reach a hand out and press a thumb against a cheekbone, swipe it across a cheek and feel the wetness that had formed there. His own face shifted as well, furrowed brows and sharply dipped corners of the mouth indicating unhappiness that he could call his own.

“No need to trouble yourself,” he said— about the soup? About the tear? This whole conversation? “I seem to have interrupted your nighttime routine, anyways.”

————— ୨୧ —————​

No one was waiting, and her heart leaped too comfortably into her throat at the thought, an acidic sensation on the way back down to her stomach as she swallowed and sighed. “Yes, I understand that plenty well. Sleep never …” It never came easily, not since a night spent with hollowed eyes and the concerned eyes that looked at her now. Eyes that led to a hand that led to her cheek and she leaned into it before she could stop. Not even the truth permeated back then, a truth to the decades spent in the span of hours between what was and should've been. Somehow, still somehow there had been a reassurance from another, a care that stopped the world and held together the scraps of she.

“You have always been a welcome interruption; you, Fausto.” Béa was closer than she had been, fractions of inches that closed the miles of years. Mistakes were being made, each moment that grey eyes sunk themselves into a familiar pair.

Why was she here?

“It’s nice to see you again.” She smiled, a risky thing a heart better protected would’ve shaken a hand at. Years flooded into her mind; many were fake but one was real.

What was she doing?

══════════════════​

A distant hum came from Fausto, burgeoning from his chest and traveling through his body, a noise of agreement and understanding. Sleep had always been harder for Béa, and his solution was similar to the current occurrence— wrapping limbs around her smaller frame and knocking out on top of her, some sense of safety enveloping them both.

It was getting dangerously close to that feeling again, one that had sent him on a tailspin when he realized there was no bottom, when it stretched forward and onwards forever and ever and ever. His hand moved like it was sticky, not quite wanting to part from the warmth of her cheek. It did not wander far, reaching forward to push the pads of his pointer and middle finger through strands of hair, lightly and loosely before it arrived at a curl, pinched now between his pointer and thumb, the nail digging through the stands into the soft flesh there. His eyes traced over to this moment of contact, this small moment as his name hovered between them, from lips that used to call him something else, too.

“Béa—” strong and steady and perhaps, he was to say something. To ask how she was, truly and really, to ask what she was thinking, here and now, to offer an explanation that was potentially real, potentially hidden behind lies he told to himself, too.

No matter.

Someone else arrived at that moment, a door knob opening and figures piling in, Fausto’s neck practically snapping towards the intrusions, fingers wrapped around the handle of his gun as if to kill for this transgression.

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */
© weldherwings.
 
“Do any of you have a cigarette?”
Click to expand...

Before Fausto responded the ever-elusive Miss Jonas appeared only to disappear just as quickly, but not after inspecting the first target which was in close proximity to the treeline and, by extension, Tasya's house itself. Fred still didn't know what to make of that particular colleague because while people like Fausto could get someone killed they were at the very least easy to read or even anticipate.

Honestly, that woman gives me the creeps.

“You haven’t been here long enough if you really think there are ten others that could take my spot.”
Click to expand...

Refocusing on the man standing before him Fred listened in silence as Fausto berated him for his words. He wasn't surprised though he had hoped for an alternate outcome as opposed to possibly making an enemy out of his fellow pragmatist. Granted, Fausto wasn't necessarily wrong but he wasn't entirely right either.

Yes, the goal was Timofey but what would the four million be worth if one ended up in limbo just like him? What would it be worth if you crossed everybody else just because you refused to work together with others? Long-term there was more to this mission than just the objective itself. There was an immense amount of moving parts- such as the operators themselves- not to mention the possibility of encountering numerous shades.

“I’ll see you in the dreamscape,” he said dismissively.
Click to expand...

Once finished Fredrik watched as Fausto walked off, leaving his hand waiting for a gesture that would not be returned. Fred sighed and glanced at Willie who was still lingering nearby. "You can head inside if you want to, I'll stay for a while longer. Maybe do a run or two of my own before collecting all the targets."

*
​
Wind caressing the skin around his eyes carefully. The crunching of sand beneath his boots. Sweat and dirt joining together to form a thin layer on his balaclava. Whispers, voices and echoes in his ears mixed with static. Fred looked down at his rifle. It was as scarred and blemished as himself.

"Fred!"

He looked up. Around him were aircraft- military and civilian- forming up on the various runways of the airport. In the distance American troops formed a impenetrable wall from the screaming crowds begging for a seat.

"Fred!"

Fred narrowed his eyes, searching. A figure broke through the perimeter, escorted by one of his teammates. It was Nila and Hamid.

By now he could feel his pulse increasing. Fred raised a hand, tried to stop them. Another figure broke through the perimeter, it was Nadim. Fred opened his mouth but only managed to gurgle.

"Fred!"

An explosion erupted at the gate, flattening a large portion of the crowd. Several soldiers collapsed as well. Nila and Hamid kept running, spurred on by his teammate. Nadim was nowhere to be seen. Once Hamid and his mother had passed him Fred remained frozen, even as voices began to call over the radio. They were leaving. Now.

Far away in the distance a figure slowly rose up from the ground. Nadim. He had lost an arm. His torso was split open. Blood had splashed over his robes, beard and face.

He shook his head at Fred and raised a disapproving finger.

"FRED!"

*
​
Fredrik woke up and instinctively entered a prone shooting stance on his back, still lying inside his sleeping bag which had been rolled out onto the bed one of Tasya's people had carefully made for him. His eyes darted to the left and then to the right. The muzzle of his pistol remained trained directly at the door which had been blocked off with a chair. It was still firmly fixed in position.

Outside the door there were faint murmurs. Fred couldn't hear what they were saying- his heart was beating too fast. He took a deep breath and lowered his pistol before closing his eyes.

Breathe.

Slowly he exhaled, feeling the tension in his body vanish in its entirety. Fred exhaled once again, shook his head and tucked away the pistol.

He got up from the bed and grabbed his grey hoodie, pulling it on to match his black Under Armour shorts. Scars from gunshots, knives and shrapnel were instantly covered up- as were any tattoos still left behind from his past life, his life with Elin and with his two daughters, Anna and Clara.

A lifetime ago it would seem.

Moments later Fred found himself staring out the window in his voice, focusing entirely on his breathing. The murmurs heard from other parts of the house were now nothing more but background noise as the veteran tried to ease himself back into a calm state of mind.

Breathe.

He visualized the green back home. The clear water. The smell of pine trees. Birds calling and deer carefully grazing. There were other thoughts too- thoughts he tried damn hard to suppress- of family, of friends and of the other side of his life.

The side of his life which had gone from reality to a faint memory.

Breathe.
 
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Meanwhile, in the kitchen...
scroll!


Chaos reigns.
Time: Well past midnight.
Interactions: Beatrice, Fausto, Willie, Tasya.
Tasya finally pulled away from Willie, cold lab air rushing to fill the space once more, pushing up her sunglasses for what must have been the first time in days. No use in denying it—she was a mess. Red-rimmed eyes, pungent odors of the sour past and bitter present, and despair's grave pallor.
"I'm going to fix something up in the kitchen, if you'd like to eat as well."
Tasya had relaxed markedly, the tension in her shoulders fled, taking her inhuman impassiveness with it. Get lost, he prayed.

Attempting casualness, he maneuvered himself between Tasya and the prisoner's cage.
"Perhaps I could finally prepare the pierogies properly."
Even now, did he yearn to use it? Blood ran hot still. He was ready, not eager. There was no other reasonable explanation. The gauntlet obfuscated imperfection, it was a tool. Man was meant to loathe the use of his weapon, Willie thought, for eagerness deprives the soul. His soul, whatever state it was in, could mend if he did not strain it further with this foolishness.

The kitchen light was on, down the hallway and around the bend Willie nearly expected to see the ghostly form of something he thought dead months ago. Instead, Béatrice was consorting with the unmaker of her soul. Had it been anyone else, he might have felt guilty for being the shadow that doused the sparks between them. Now, Willie was glad. Béa was hopeful, in a reckless and belligerent fashion that consistently led to ruin. Couldn’t he love Béa enough to leave her be?

Willie twitched at Fausto’s intensity, now directed towards him, and blinked at the white-knuckls on his pistol grip. Now there was a fool who didn’t know when the fight was over.
“Oh, hey Fausto. I thought you would be with Oliver, or Yananovic, or—”
He trailed off. Needlessly insensitive? Perhaps, but Willie couldn’t help himself.

The figure that first came into view turned out to be the tether, still plucking at the strings of memory that he had no use for, some sort of past looming behind the figure that wanted to be let in. Fausto’s hand loosened from the grip it had on his gun and he did let go of his connection with Béa for just a moment, the sliver of hair slipping from his fingers as they almost— almost brushed against a shoulder, catching silk fabric rather than flesh and warmth. He did not step away though, and he offered the other man the same sort of condescending, shit-eating grin that he had provided Fred earlier that day, a lack of consideration of Willie, of his being and presence.

The next one, well. The next one was Tasya, in a form that he had not seen her in before (or at least, not in a very, very long time). She was clearly disheveled, distressed, did he do that? The smile sharpened, his gaze locking in on details (in another world, maybe he would have trained to be an architect. In another world, maybe he would have utilized his keen eye and ear and the constant distant hum of needing to know everything to build up dreamscapes where control was sewn into the fabric of knowledge, of the sort of near-paranoia that coerced him into memorizing every schematic of a potential weapon. whether or not they may exist in the waking world, that he could get his hands on) — her sunglasses were on her head, her eyes were red rimmed, her face seemed to have had some form of color painted on it that was now fading.

Fausto was being spoken to, words that were strung together for some purpose that he didn’t really care for. The grin remained, a deflection and a projection, the sort of thing that oozed something, though what it was, was unclear.

A sweep of his eyes across the scene again, a glance between Béa and then Willie and then Tasya and ah. There had been a meeting, before the other meetings, before this meeting, certainly. A moment in time where Fausto had seen Willie outside of the realm of dreams and nightmares, chaos and order colliding to formulate some form of reality. They had met in reality first, when Willie had been wearing a suit and there had been a woman next to him in a dress, at a wedding that Béa was involved in and that she had asked, in that gentle way she asked anything of him, if he would like to come. He had appeared, walking past a log and a saw, and sauntered into the throng of party goers to watch her, in all her seriousness, hair a flowing halo about her head, hands as steady as her voice that carried over the crowd. He had been a bit of a nuisance, laughing the entire time obnoxiously, clapping his hands together or smacking the top of his thigh, seizing hors d'oeuvres off of passing waiters and popping them into his mouth while others glared at him.

And at the end of it all, the man in the suit with a bride on his arm had passed by Fausto, walking to greet the real guests that had come to celebrate instead of just for Béa, and made a remark;
“Might be you next, you know?”


His gaze flickered back to Willie, the grin sharp as he recited the words in a tone meant to dig;
“Hey there, Tula. Trading in one blonde for another? Guess it really was just a boring party rather than a wedding— would think that blondie number one wouldn’t appreciate you off playing other hearts.”


Willie couldn’t help but chuckle flatly, nodding along. How this muscle-brained curr had the faculties to realize that… It didn’t matter–Fausto was right. That hurt more than anything that could follow. He tried to rationalize what he was going to do about that, but every emotion unleashed on Tasya–hardly a minute before–boiled over in moments.
“Can’t leave anyone at the altar if you’re dead.”


There was no element of surprise or advantage that could have made the first swing land. Fausto had hardly seemed to move until one smooth motion caught Willie’s forearm mid-punch and pulled him off balance. Vaguely, Willie remembered that that was how he ended up gasping on the floor tiles, but he did not remember living through it. His face bounced with the jaw-wrenching impact, and his surroundings were becoming painfully loud. He willed the gauntlet to connect with the mass on top of him, but on his stomach, it was impossible.

Distance grew between him and the pummeling that must have been happening. There were not thoughts, but distant feelings of nervousness and a rage quenched by the impending sense of doom creeping along the edge of consciousness. Shock and unawareness of where his body started and ended tingled with numbness as sense was restored. Only then did it blossom into dull aches and throbs that threatened to disgorge everything he had ever eaten. His throat felt very, very tight. The cacophony bounced around in his head, churning it into butter, before breaking out of his skull on the other side.

What, Fausto thought, and the shit-eating grin was substituted for a look of vague confusion at the remark that Willie offered, his brows furrowing together and one side of his lips downturning as he tried to understand what Willie was implying with his haphazard statement— as far as he understood, they had done the vows and been at the altar when Fausto showed up, and so therefore they were already married as far as they could tell, so no one was leaving anyone at the altar, unless his wife was dead, or had divorced him, and therefore was leaving him at the altar now, though, Fausto would think it wouldn’t count now—

An arm was pulling back, muscles aligning in the tether’s body that told Fausto what was happening before it truly happened, giving him enough time to sigh, to rest a hand against Béa’s shoulder and gently push her out of the way so Fausto could maneuver his own body now perpendicular to her. He watched the arm of Willie extend past his nose and seized it (there were no corded muscles under his fingers, no true strength underneath flesh that would have even made the hit, if he permitted it to land have any true impact or mark), yanking the other man down and off-balance, watching him spill onto the floor. Quickly, knowing that Willie must be eager to get back up soon, he pressed a knee to the small of his back and gathered the other man’s hands, one that had a gauntlet and one that was free, twisting them about so they were pressed against his own spine and lowered his head to his in his ear,
“Listen, Shamu, I can fuck you, but you don’t have a chance in hell of fucking with me. Got it?”


He stood up in the next second, letting the man go entirely to clamor up if he thought he could have another go at this.

It was all unfolding: napkins and origami pulled apart at their creases by the bitterness of unresolved emotions. And these dreadful men were indeed unresolved emotions. Béa couldn't breathe from the moment a hand guided her away like a doll placed back on her shelf. Protection, from a man like Fausto? Protection, it seemed, from someone who at least had the courtesy to pretend like she wasn’t a train of baggage.

"Get,"
she stuttered, a step that wavered as much as eyes did between the men fighting,
"Get away from him."
The tone carried the exhaustion of usual words, a sharpness only heard in years her body didn’t reflect. She was on her knees already, hands hovering over the body of a friend, reaching in gentled touch to a head, a cheek. If you are so desperate, if this is what being a real man is to you, all thoughts swept under the rug and away from a mouth too tired to speak the poison she felt. In movements almost desperate for distraction she stared instead down at the unmoving man, a bitter frown beneath blonde curls.

“You’re right, you are an interruption.”
Whispers still as she hauled limp limbs to a sitting position, leaned against the island of the kitchen.
“I suppose when sending invitations Tasya dear forgot to include an age limit barring children.”
She was gripping at Willie’s chin, a shaking of fingers hardly stilled by the action as she turned his head side to side, eyes pouring over the skin where bruises were surely to form. A tear may have been swept away but it didn’t end the bubbling risk her eyes held now, an ancient anger more than the sadness of time.

There was little energy to do more than huff out a laugh at Willie’s words – the woman was bone-deep exhausted from the entire ordeal of the day. Very carefully sidestepping her own emotions, the siren’s song of what ifs and maybes left her wading knee-deep in seas of possibilities. Blocked from sight in a way she knew had been purposeful, red eyes closed and scrunched around an ever present headache. Hunger need not make itself known, for it had always existed. Familiar, unlike the various hugs she had somehow earned that day. Too many careful glances and cautious words. Half of the team that day had looked at her as something delicate, ready to crack and break, while others looked on with loathing and scrutinization.

Right. Let everything be alright for tonight, he had said. The ascent of stairs was enough to clear her head, stepping into the new air of her kitchen, and then – pause.

Tasya felt borderline disconnected from her own body as the moment exploded. What could have been a gentle ending to a tumultuous day instead seeded doubt and confusion, cried-out eyes aching and eyebrows raised at the rather close scene (intimate, the word rang in her mind, unfamiliar) between both Béa and Fausto. She suddenly felt extremely childish, a preteen once again standing to the side as she witnessed school yard fights over pretty girls (the type of girl she could never be, she thought once) but that trickle down exhaustion curdled into something deeper, more angry. It pained her, the thought that like many other things, she would never be graced with the ability to forget. To forget this.

“God damn it- god damn you both, stop!”


A sick thud of skin making contact, an even sicker, harder thud of Willie’s cranium against her marble floors, and Tasya was cursing their family lineages in Russian, and bodily shoving Fausto against her kitchen cabinets to separate the two fools. A high-intensity thrumming of anger threatened to break. Cracks in porcelain.

In the back of her mind, regret rang true. This was all a horrible mistake, this was never going to end well, these are the consequences of all your wrong-doings.

Two blonde heads now crowded Willie’s vision as she ducked down as well to assess the damage.
“Idiots, fucking idiots.”
Anger sat ready at the tip of her tongue, half-ready to give the man her own brand of lashings, to make him a fool and cast both of them out. How nonsensical of an attempt. A glance to the side, a wonder of what Béa could possibly be thinking. A nebulous web of questions and answers formed, a spider’s web to weave over a restless night once this was all over.

Dark eyes narrowed, vicious and ready to strike as Tasya stood to full height and stalked across the kitchen to face Fausto. How nonsensical indeed, how ridiculous to have ever harbored the thought of inviting him. Once, there was a sense of safety without compromise; perhaps they did not bury their dead and wash their hands of blood as they should have, but her naive hopes had been thrown overboard. Contempt boiled over into acute loathing.
“And you, you fucking dog. What in God’s name is wrong with you, you self-inflated fucktoy, why are you still in my kitchen?!”
The contact point of heat lightning, a hand raised and struck to slap him and send him to his room like a belittled child.

Obviously, no such contact was made. A hand reacted in anticipation, Fausto grabbing her wrist with ease but with no reflection of her own anger. Tasya nearly screeched in rage and frustration, the full breadth of her Old Testament punishment unfurling ugly and true, hand flailing to force him to let her go.
“Get out of my fucking kitchen, get out-!”


A figure stood in the entryway of the kitchen. In all of her vexation, it took a moment for rationality to take back control, bottled lightning the moment Tasya looked up and realized her own undoing had waltzed into the scene unannounced. A quiet voice echoed in the newfound silence, raspy and unused for many days. Even in the low light Timofey was a skeleton. The muscle of his arms was sinewy, frame haggard and eyes reflecting open void.

“Тася, что происходит? Вы ранены? С тобой все в порядке?”
Tasya, what’s going on? Are you hurt? Are you alright?

All at once, she exhaled rage and replaced it with cold, sudden stillness. Turning the other cheek, the blonde looked down to inhale, a flash of upset and tears ready to breach, before another steady exhale and a step forward. The others were all but forgotten as she shushed his questions of,
“Почему ты плачешь? Кто эти люди?”
Why are you crying? Who are these people? A hand on his shoulder guided him out of the room, coldness replaced by worry as Tasya remembered he had not eaten in nearly two weeks. He was on his feet, solely fueled by worry and nutritional IV drips, nothing of substance in his stomach. That frazzling nervosity had her step out of the doorway, urging him to stay put.

A curious thought popped into her mind, mulling over ways to deescalate. What would Oliver do?

Tasya stepped back into the sorry scene. There would be no peace to be found in her yet, shoulders squared and eyes narrowed, a predator on the prowl. Though she was too tired to uphold anger, it still spoke through her tense form, a last burst of exasperated words.
“Béa-”
A short breath to abate vexation,
“I won’t ask. Just please, give me a moment. Check on Willie, he could have a concussion. As for you two fools,”
the tension broke, the dam crumbling as she unwillingly yelled her last words before exiting,
“Clean it up! Get a fucking hold of yourselves!”


Shaking hands guided her hunger-pang brother back down, shushing and tutting and soothing the entire time as they descended slowly and carefully back into the laboratory. How foolish to have left him unattended, the first time I leave him alone and unsupervised in days, we’ll have to keep a constant watch now. It shattered her whole and built her up again. The never ending cycle of self-devouring, self-hatred, self-criticisms. He may have been awake and alert, but Timofey was not himself, and Tasya had desperately hoped this would not reoccur again. More foolish hopes.

The moment he was sedated and asleep, hand clasped between her own two, Tasya took a deep drink from her flask. For the umpteenth time in two days, she found herself thinking - What a fucking mess.

TW: mentions of abuse. | There was more confusion blossoming within Fausto, a shivering worm that curled about his lungs when Béa moved to the other man.

This was not how these situations worked, this was not how the scene went.

See, it was supposed to be this: someone is angry (at him). Someone swings the first punch (at him). Someone (him, it was usually him) takes the hit. There is blood on the floor and in his mouth, and no one is watching as the red spreads across his face and his neck purples as air is finally let back in.

So— this is different. This is out of sync with the rhythm of how these situations occur, how they arise and how they resolved themselves. Béa moving forward to offer touches against a head and a cheek, an examination of someone who had fallen and supposedly been injured (even if it was Willie’s fault that he had hit the ground that hard. The man had swung first— that was part of the scene. Fausto had barely touched him, simply pulling his arm slightly to send him tumbling to the floor— his apparently inability to react fast enough to catch himself being the cause of how hard he had slammed downwards, an almost comical scene if it weren’t for the fact that it had gone sideways) was not part of this. People didn’t fucking look, people didn’t fucking acknowledge the black eye or the split lip, and the shivering worm turned into something hot and burning, a flame licking up his sternum and enveloping his chest as she fucking accused him of being an interruption, a child— there was supposedly a grown-ass man on the ground that couldn’t fucking catch himself.

(A moment ago, before the others had arrived, she had spoken his name, gently and delicately, offering it to him on a silver platter. And in a moment, she had turned to the other, offering him nothing. What did he have that Fausto did not? Pale skin, blonde hair, the ability to maintain a wife. Was that all it took? Fausto had sunk himself into the sort of blood and pain that they said made men, that they said broke boys. And yet—)

Tasya was moving as well. She was saying things, things that hurt and showed the flame for what it was— the sort of ancient craving that was in his bones, that had been sewn into his flesh when he was a child and sitting in wooden pews, staring up at a man whose hard eyes had not left his mind in the decades since he had seen them first. He looked down at her, past his nose, seeing red-rimmed eyes and angry wrinkles, a pinched face that offered nothing but resentment— a bottle of amber liquid, a crack running right down the middle with a note that offered no explanation beyond the looming thought that he had not been enough.

Why am I here? he thought as she called him a fucktoy, his own face impassive as the heat swallowed his soul, his body moving on auto-pilot as it always had been in times of crisis, adrenaline thrumming through veins until they were just pins and needles, sensations that turned into an overwhelming mess as she tried to hit him. His eyes turned to the helpless flailing of her hand and a thought entered his mind here, haunting and terrible, I could break her wrist.

He let her go once it entered his mind, at the same time as a shadow loomed in the doorway, terrible and pale. Words spoken in a different language, exchanged with the undercurrent of kindness that was being applied to the man on the floor. Saliva filled his mouth, bile, too, the urge to vomit, an urge he had not felt in years, not in well over a decade, when he still could be considered so new, nerves frayed at all ends, a man that now had three scars down his face looming over him with a fresh anger that Fausto would learn the extent of. There was another shout from her, another implication nearly made him twitch, and it almost spilled from his lips, acidic and reaching for her: he beat me half to death after what you did. You left me for dead, you fucking bitch. There are parts of me that have never mended. A concussion is nothing to the way I bled.

He turned, not bothering to look, not bother to clean up a mess that was not his own (this was his part in the scene now— the one that did not look, the one that declared this a failing of him— Willie— whatever) and headed out of the kitchen, face as empty as it always was.

new person, same old mistakes by tame impala
code by birth of venus.


Tasya finally pulled away from Willie, cold lab air rushing to fill the space once more, pushing up her sunglasses for what must have been the first time in days. No use in denying it—she was a mess. Red-rimmed eyes, pungent odors of the sour past and bitter present, and despair's grave pallor. "I'm going to fix something up in the kitchen, if you'd like to eat as well." Tasya had relaxed markedly, the tension in her shoulders fled, taking her inhuman impassiveness with it. Get lost, he prayed.

Attempting casualness, he maneuvered himself between Tasya and the prisoner's cage. "Perhaps I could finally prepare the pierogies properly." Even now, did he yearn to use it? Blood ran hot still. He was ready, not eager. There was no other reasonable explanation. The gauntlet obfuscated imperfection, it was a tool. Man was meant to loathe the use of his weapon, Willie thought, for eagerness deprives the soul. His soul, whatever state it was in, could mend if he did not strain it further with this foolishness.

The kitchen light was on, down the hallway and around the bend Willie nearly expected to see the ghostly form of something he thought dead months ago. Instead, Béatrice was consorting with the unmaker of her soul. Had it been anyone else, he might have felt guilty for being the shadow that doused the sparks between them. Now, Willie was glad. Béa was hopeful, in a reckless and belligerent fashion that consistently led to ruin. Couldn’t he love Béa enough to leave her be?

Willie twitched at Fausto’s intensity, now directed towards him, and blinked at the white-knuckls on his pistol grip. Now there was a fool who didn’t know when the fight was over. “Oh, hey Fausto. I thought you would be with Oliver, or Yananovic, or—” He trailed off. Needlessly insensitive? Perhaps, but Willie couldn’t help himself.

-

The figure that first came into view turned out to be the tether, still plucking at the strings of memory that he had no use for, some sort of past looming behind the figure that wanted to be let in. Fausto’s hand loosened from the grip it had on his gun and he did let go of his connection with Béa for just a moment, the sliver of hair slipping from his fingers as they almost— almost brushed against a shoulder, catching silk fabric rather than flesh and warmth. He did not step away though, and he offered the other man the same sort of condescending, shit-eating grin that he had provided Fred earlier that day, a lack of consideration of Willie, of his being and presence.

The next one, well. The next one was Tasya, in a form that he had not seen her in before (or at least, not in a very, very long time). She was clearly disheveled, distressed, did he do that? The smile sharpened, his gaze locking in on details (in another world, maybe he would have trained to be an architect. In another world, maybe he would have utilized his keen eye and ear and the constant distant hum of needing to know everything to build up dreamscapes where control was sewn into the fabric of knowledge, of the sort of near-paranoia that coerced him into memorizing every schematic of a potential weapon. whether or not they may exist in the waking world, that he could get his hands on) — her sunglasses were on her head, her eyes were red rimmed, her face seemed to have had some form of color painted on it that was now fading.

Fausto was being spoken to, words that were strung together for some purpose that he didn’t really care for. The grin remained, a deflection and a projection, the sort of thing that oozed something, though what it was, was unclear.

A sweep of his eyes across the scene again, a glance between Béa and then Willie and then Tasya and ah. There had been a meeting, before the other meetings, before this meeting, certainly. A moment in time where Fausto had seen Willie outside of the realm of dreams and nightmares, chaos and order colliding to formulate some form of reality. They had met in reality first, when Willie had been wearing a suit and there had been a woman next to him in a dress, at a wedding that Béa was involved in and that she had asked, in that gentle way she asked anything of him, if he would like to come. He had appeared, walking past a log and a saw, and sauntered into the throng of party goers to watch her, in all her seriousness, hair a flowing halo about her head, hands as steady as her voice that carried over the crowd. He had been a bit of a nuisance, laughing the entire time obnoxiously, clapping his hands together or smacking the top of his thigh, seizing hors d'oeuvres off of passing waiters and popping them into his mouth while others glared at him.

And at the end of it all, the man in the suit with a bride on his arm had passed by Fausto, walking to greet the real guests that had come to celebrate instead of just for Béa, and made a remark; “Might be you next, you know?”

His gaze flickered back to Willie, the grin sharp as he recited the words in a tone meant to dig; “Hey there, Tula. Trading in one blonde for another? Guess it really was just a boring party rather than a wedding— would think that blondie number one wouldn’t appreciate you off playing other hearts.”

-

Willie couldn’t help but chuckle flatly, nodding along. How this muscle-brained curr had the faculties to realize that… It didn’t matter–Fausto was right. That hurt more than anything that could follow. He tried to rationalize what he was going to do about that, but every emotion unleashed on Tasya–hardly a minute before–boiled over in moments. “Can’t leave anyone at the altar if you’re dead.”

There was no element of surprise or advantage that could have made the first swing land. Fausto had hardly seemed to move until one smooth motion caught Willie’s forearm mid-punch and pulled him off balance. Vaguely, Willie remembered that that was how he ended up gasping on the floor tiles, but he did not remember living through it. His face bounced with the jaw-wrenching impact, and his surroundings were becoming painfully loud. He willed the gauntlet to connect with the mass on top of him, but on his stomach, it was impossible.

Distance grew between him and the pummeling that must have been happening. There were not thoughts, but distant feelings of nervousness and a rage quenched by the impending sense of doom creeping along the edge of consciousness. Shock and unawareness of where his body started and ended tingled with numbness as sense was restored. Only then did it blossom into dull aches and throbs that threatened to disgorge everything he had ever eaten. His throat felt very, very tight. The cacophony bounced around in his head, churning it into butter, before breaking out of his skull on the other side.

-

What, Fausto thought, and the shit-eating grin was substituted for a look of vague confusion at the remark that Willie offered, his brows furrowing together and one side of his lips downturning as he tried to understand what Willie was implying with his haphazard statement— as far as he understood, they had done the vows and been at the altar when Fausto showed up, and so therefore they were already married as far as they could tell, so no one was leaving anyone at the altar, unless his wife was dead, or had divorced him, and therefore was leaving him at the altar now, though, Fausto would think it wouldn’t count now—

An arm was pulling back, muscles aligning in the tether’s body that told Fausto what was happening before it truly happened, giving him enough time to sigh, to rest a hand against Béa’s shoulder and gently push her out of the way so Fausto could maneuver his own body now perpendicular to her. He watched the arm of Willie extend past his nose and seized it (there were no corded muscles under his fingers, no true strength underneath flesh that would have even made the hit, if he permitted it to land have any true impact or mark), yanking the other man down and off-balance, watching him spill onto the floor. Quickly, knowing that Willie must be eager to get back up soon, he pressed a knee to the small of his back and gathered the other man’s hands, one that had a gauntlet and one that was free, twisting them about so they were pressed against his own spine and lowered his head to his in his ear, “Listen, Shamu, I can fuck you, but you don’t have a chance in hell of fucking with me. Got it?”

He stood up in the next second, letting the man go entirely to clamor up if he thought he could have another go at this.

-

It was all unfolding: napkins and origami pulled apart at their creases by the bitterness of unresolved emotions. And these dreadful men were indeed unresolved emotions. Béa couldn't breathe from the moment a hand guided her away like a doll placed back on her shelf. Protection, from a man like Fausto? Protection, it seemed, from someone who at least had the courtesy to pretend like she wasn’t a train of baggage.

"Get," she stuttered, a step that wavered as much as eyes did between the men fighting, "Get away from him." The tone carried the exhaustion of usual words, a sharpness only heard in years her body didn’t reflect. She was on her knees already, hands hovering over the body of a friend, reaching in gentled touch to a head, a cheek. If you are so desperate, if this is what being a real man is to you, all thoughts swept under the rug and away from a mouth too tired to speak the poison she felt. In movements almost desperate for distraction she stared instead down at the unmoving man, a bitter frown beneath blonde curls.

“You’re right, you are an interruption.” Whispers still as she hauled limp limbs to a sitting position, leaned against the island of the kitchen. “I suppose when sending invitations Tasya dear forgot to include an age limit barring children.” She was gripping at Willie’s chin, a shaking of fingers hardly stilled by the action as she turned his head side to side, eyes pouring over the skin where bruises were surely to form. A tear may have been swept away but it didn’t end the bubbling risk her eyes held now, an ancient anger more than the sadness of time.

-

There was little energy to do more than huff out a laugh at Willie’s words – Tasya was bone-deep exhausted from the entire ordeal of the day. Very carefully sidestepping her own emotions, the siren’s song of what ifs and maybes left her wading knee-deep in seas of possibilities. Blocked from sight in a way she knew had been purposeful, red eyes closed and scrunched around an ever present headache. Hunger need not make itself known, for it had always existed. Familiar, unlike the various hugs she had somehow earned that day. Too many careful glances and cautious words. Half of the team that day had looked at her as something delicate, ready to crack and break, while others looked on with loathing and scrutinization.

Right. Let everything be alright for tonight, he had said. The ascent of stairs was enough to clear her head, stepping into the new air of her kitchen, and then pause.

Tasya felt borderline disconnected from her own body as the moment exploded. What could have been a gentle ending to a tumultuous day instead seeded doubt and confusion, cried-out eyes aching and eyebrows raised at the rather close scene (intimate, the word rang in her mind, unfamiliar) between both Béa and Fausto. She suddenly felt extremely childish, a preteen once again standing to the side as she witnessed school yard fights over pretty girls (the type of girl she could never be, she thought once) but that trickle down exhaustion curdled into something deeper, more angry. It pained her, the thought that like many other things, she would never be graced with the ability to forget. To forget this.

“God damn it- god damn you both, stop!”

A sick thud of skin making contact, an even sicker, harder thud of Willie’s cranium against her marble floors, and Tasya was cursing their family lineages in Russian, and bodily shoving Fausto against her kitchen cabinets to separate the two fools. A high-intensity thrumming of anger threatened to break. Cracks in porcelain.

In the back of her mind, regret rang true. This was all a horrible mistake, this was never going to end well, these are the consequences of all your wrong-doings.

Two blonde heads now crowded Willie’s vision as she ducked down as well to assess the damage. “Idiots, fucking idiots.” Anger sat ready at the tip of her tongue, half-ready to give the man her own brand of lashings, to make him a fool and cast both of them out. How nonsensical of an attempt. A glance to the side, a wonder of what Béa could possibly be thinking. A nebulous web of questions and answers formed, a spider’s web to weave over a restless night once this was all over.

Dark eyes narrowed, vicious and ready to strike as Tasya stood to full height and stalked across the kitchen to face Fausto. How nonsensical indeed, how ridiculous to have ever harbored the thought of inviting him. Once, there was a sense of safety without compromise; perhaps they did not bury their dead and wash their hands of blood as they should have, but her naive hopes had been thrown overboard. Contempt boiled over into acute loathing. “And you, you fucking dog. What in God’s name is wrong with you, you self-inflated fucktoy, why are you still in my kitchen?” The contact point of heat lightning, a hand raised and struck to slap him and send him to his room like a belittled child.

Obviously, no such contact was made. A hand reacted in anticipation, Fausto grabbing her wrist with ease but with no reflection of her own anger. Tasya nearly screeched in rage and frustration, the full breadth of her Old Testament punishment unfurling ugly and true, hand flailing to force him to let her go. “Get out of my fucking kitchen, get out-!”

A figure stood in the entryway of the kitchen. In all of her vexation, it took a moment for rationality to take back control, bottled lightning the moment Tasya looked up and realized her own undoing had waltzed into the scene unannounced. A quiet voice echoed in the newfound silence, raspy and unused for many days.

“Тася, что происходит? Вы ранены? С тобой все в порядке?” Tasya, what’s going on? Are you hurt? Are you alright?

All at once, she exhaled rage and replaced it with cold, sudden stillness. Turning the other cheek, the blonde looked down to inhale, a flash of upset and tears ready to breach, before another steady exhale and a step forward. The others were all but forgotten as she shushed his questions of, “Почему ты плачешь? Кто эти люди?” Why are you crying? Who are these people? A hand on his shoulder guided him out of the room, coldness replaced by worry as Tasya remembered he had not eaten in nearly two weeks. He was on his feet, solely fueled by worry and nutritional IV drips, nothing of substance in his stomach. That frazzling nervosity had her step out of the doorway, urging him to stay put.

A curious thought popped into her mind, mulling over scenarios of de-escalation. What would Oliver do?

Tasya stepped back into the sorry scene, shoulders squared and eyes narrowed, a predator on the prowl. Though she was too tired to uphold anger, it still spoke through her tense form, a last burst of exasperated words. “Béa-” A short breath to abate vexation, “I won’t ask. Just please, give me a moment. Check on Willie, he could have a concussion. As for you two fools,” the tension broke, the dam crumbling as she unwillingly yelled her last words before exiting, “Clean it up! Get a fucking hold of yourselves!”

Shaking hands guided her hunger-pang brother back down, shushing and tutting and soothing the entire time as they descended slowly and carefully back into the laboratory. How foolish to have left him unattended, thoughts of the first time I leave him alone and unsupervised in days, we’ll have to keep a constant watch now. It shattered her whole and built her up again. The never ending cycle of self-devouring, self-hatred, self-criticisms. He may have been awake and alert, but Timofey was not himself, and Tasya had desperately hoped this would not reoccur again. More foolish hopes.

The moment he was sedated and asleep, hand clasped between her own two, Tasya took a deep drink from her flask. For the umpteenth time in two days, she found herself thinking - What a fucking mess.

-

TW: mentions of abuse. | There was more confusion blossoming within Fausto, a shivering worm that curled about his lungs when Béa moved to the other man.

This was not how these situations worked, this was not how the scene went.

See, it was supposed to be this: someone is angry (at him). Someone swings the first punch (at him). Someone (him, it was usually him) takes the hit. There is blood on the floor and in his mouth, and no one is watching as the red spreads across his face and his neck purples as air is finally let back in.

So— this is different. This is out of sync with the rhythm of how these situations occur, how they arise and how they resolved themselves. Béa moving forward to offer touches against a head and a cheek, an examination of someone who had fallen and supposedly been injured (even if it was Willie’s fault that he had hit the ground that hard. The man had swung first— that was part of the scene. Fausto had barely touched him, simply pulling his arm slightly to send him tumbling to the floor— his apparently inability to react fast enough to catch himself being the cause of how hard he had slammed downwards, an almost comical scene if it weren’t for the fact that it had gone sideways) was not part of this. People didn’t fucking look, people didn’t fucking acknowledge the black eye or the split lip, and the shivering worm turned into something hot and burning, a flame licking up his sternum and enveloping his chest as she fucking accused him of being an interruption, a child— there was supposedly a grown-ass man on the ground that couldn’t fucking catch himself.

(A moment ago, before the others had arrived, she had spoken his name, gently and delicately, offering it to him on a silver platter. And in a moment, she had turned to the other, offering him nothing. What did he have that Fausto did not? Pale skin, blonde hair, the ability to maintain a wife. Was that all it took? Fausto had sunk himself into the sort of blood and pain that they said made men, that they said broke boys. And yet—)

Tasya was moving as well. She was saying things, things that hurt and showed the flame for what it was— the sort of ancient craving that was in his bones, that had been sewn into his flesh when he was a child and sitting in wooden pews, staring up at a man whose hard eyes had not left his mind in the decades since he had seen them first. He looked down at her, past his nose, seeing red-rimmed eyes and angry wrinkles, a pinched face that offered nothing but resentment— a bottle of amber liquid, a crack running right down the middle with a note that offered no explanation beyond the looming thought that he had not been enough.

Why am I here? he thought as she called him a fucktoy, his own face impassive as the heat swallowed his soul, his body moving on auto-pilot as it always had been in times of crisis, adrenaline thrumming through veins until they were just pins and needles, sensations that turned into an overwhelming mess as she tried to hit him. His eyes turned to the helpless flailing of her hand and a thought entered his mind here, haunting and terrible, I could break her wrist.

He let her go once it entered his mind, at the same time as a shadow loomed in the doorway, terrible and pale. Words spoken in a different language, exchanged with the undercurrent of kindness that was being applied to the man on the floor. Saliva filled his mouth, bile, too, the urge to vomit, an urge he had not felt in years, not in well over a decade, when he still could be considered so new, nerves frayed at all ends, a man that now had three scars down his face looming over him with a fresh anger that Fausto would learn the extent of. There was another shout from her, another implication nearly made him twitch, and it almost spilled from his lips, acidic and reaching for her: he beat me half to death after what you did. You left me for dead, you fucking bitch. There are parts of me that have never mended. A concussion is nothing to the way I bled.

He turned, not bothering to look, not bother to clean up a mess that was not his own (this was his part in the scene now— the one that did not look, the one that declared this a failing of him— Willie— whatever) and headed out of the kitchen, face as empty as it always was.
 







Oliver Brazzos



  • .



It was out of character for Oliver to stay at a client's house rather than rent a hotel, but the idea of going back and forth from a hotel wasn't favorable (especially not when you're getting crossfaded). Not to mention the advantage of a home office. The walls were thick, the furnishings were immaculate, and the Internet connection was surprisingly decent. It gave him time to mark up the documents Tasya had given him as well as do his own research into Timofey. He learned a lot about Tasya through her work, but knew very little of her brother. Hell, he couldn't recall the other man's face until he saw the photo attached to the rest of the papers.

"Racketeering, extortion, assault, it's better to ask what's right about you, eh Timmy?" he chuckled as he scrolled through Timofey's arrest records.

Surprisingly, nothing came up for corporate espionage nor did he find anything more than a few sentences in LUCID's records (funny how they never deleted his user information). They'd run into each other during a few gigs, but he was no better than your run of the mill point man. Nonetheless, he was her family and that made him more valuable than even the most skilled dreamsharer.

Oliver would be lying if he said he didn't feel the same way about Darius. He loved the man even after death, but he was no prodigy. To others he was just another architect, but to Oliver he was the platform that helped him reach the stars. From the half of one broken duo to another, all he could say was fine before pivoting to a far less popular resource within LUCID's database, the library.

He hadn't been lying when he told the team that somebody rescued another person from Limbo, but he also hadn't been telling the truth. All the identifying information on the case was blacked out and much of the information was conjecture. Unlike the other case reports in the library this one felt more like a bunch of secondary accounts cobbled together. The only consistent details were that the victim had gotten shot wounded in the first layer, everyone was heavily drugged, and they were performing inception. Normally the last bit was enough for Oliver to write the whole thing off as fake but what good would an information brokerage be if they couldn't even vet their own sources?

What stuck out to him most, in this drought of information was the question of whether anyone involved in the gig had shades. Extraction (be it a body or a piece of paper) was already an art, but doing so while fighting off the guilt ridden demons of another person's subconscious was another hurdle entirely. How many enemies had Timofey racked up? Two? Five? Ten?

Maybe two pragmatists wasn't such a bad idea, he sighed, rubbing his temples. He wasn't sure how he'd been in there but the sun had set and his stomach was woefully empty. Stepping out of the office, Oliver walked towards the kitchen. It reminded him of the days he'd subsist off coffee and cigarettes because he couldn't be fucked to eat. It reminded him of the days where he'd drink his lunch because he kept hitting dead ends with his mark.

It made him miss when Darius would plop a greasy burger on top of his paperwork just to get him to eat.

Even before reaching the staircase he could hear the shuffling of several people, the thud of someone hitting the floor, and the loudest “Get out of my fucking kitchen, get out-!” he'd heard in years. He didn't have to think too hard about who would be involved. The voice was very obviously Tasya, the nexus of any trouble tended to be Fausto, and the last people were whoever got caught up in their mental issues. It was enough for Oliver to reconsider getting anything, but seeing just how hallowed Fausto's form was stopped him from turning back.

As much as he was dying to know what happened moments ago, he understood the pragmatist well enough to know that prying would get him nowhere. Where some found comfort in confiding with their peers, Fausto took refuge in the armor he'd built around himself. Where Oliver utilized pills and potions, Fausto's wrapped himself in wise cracks and the arms of his teammates. Offering advice would do nothing for him and drugs would only get Oliver slapped. He had to be delicate, empathetic, compassionate--

"Oi Fausto," Oliver started, gently grabbing the other man's arm "you want to chat in the office?"

--and maybe a bit of a fiend.





/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.
 
ziva chan
the forger
the circus
malicious joy
nightmare vibes
interactions

tasya birth of venus birth of venus , fausto FloatingAroundSpace FloatingAroundSpace , willie myl myl , bea cavitea cavitea , oliver Steve Jobs Steve Jobs
Empty tea cup in hand, a lone figure stood silently on the stairs in silent assessment of the noises coming from the kitchen. Though she could only see the entryway, it wasn't hard to figure out what had happened based on the conversation, or lack thereof.

Grave dirt seemed to choke up Tasya's words, heavy with emotions Ziva pretended she'd never had. This was already a stressful situation, having a clown like Fausto running around was like bringing the circus into an operating room. Perhaps that made her the lion that ate the clown.

Oliver approached the tangled web of emotions first, quietly pulling the pragmatist off to the side in a strategic move she would only expect from someone as used to navigating delicate situations such as these. The eyes of a predator appraised Fausto as he fled another one of his messes, Bea's usually soft voice and Willie's groans alerting her to who had been on the receiving end of Hurricane Fausto.

A smile that was all malice and no sugar pulled up the edges of her lips, appraising the pragmatist as one might inspect a pile of shit they'd stepped their Louboutin's in. The only man to ever beat her at her own game, a bitter taste on her tongue every time that smug grin assaulted her vision. She was not the first nor the last of his string of conquests, but she was certainly the most violently unhinged. To fuck around and find out with a con artist touting a degree in human behavior was not a particularly wise decision.

"Do you ever get tired of running, Forrest?" Voice like honey, words like knives, she dragged her caustic gaze across him with a particularly malevolent joy. "We have a nurse on this team to fix what you Pragmatists break, it'd be best for everyone if you didn't disgust her into packing her bags. Might help if you didn't kill our only tether either." With an annoyed click of her tongue against the back of her teeth, a teacher scolding an especially problematic child, she shook her head slightly as she let her gaze fall from his unholy image, the soft sound of her feet the only noise as she entered the kitchen.

Like a benevolent ghost, she gently brushed a hand across Tasya's shoulder, as if she might break. She didn't bother watching their host descend into her own personal hell, choosing instead to inspect Willie as Béa's unusually rough hands assessed him.

"Next time, we bargain for an all female team." Ziva huffed, departing from the kitchen to rummage through the bathroom until she found what she was looking for. A peace offering in the form of a first aid kit presented to the nurse, pressing her lips into a firm line to fight the manic urge to laugh at Willie's condition.

"You're lucky, I would've stabbed you." The Forger offered cold comfort to Willie, a pat on a surely aching shoulder as she held the gauze for Béa's quick moving fingers.

coded by natasha.
 
Last edited:



fausto nobrega.





































  • mood



    repressing under aggression
















Spectacle followed Fausto wherever he went, and though he enjoyed it the majority of the time, there were moments like this where it bubbled up under his skin. The image that he had made of himself, the one that tilted its chin up as it sauntered out of the kitchen, leaving behind soft whispers that raised the hairs on the back of his neck, felt a bit too tight, like a hand wrapped around his neck, an oppressive weight on his chest. A band formed around his midsection, squeezing his ribs together, pressing his lungs, too, and setting free a breath he had not realized he had been holding until the moment another apparition-made-real emerged, plucked from his mind and set before him.

If only his outfits could be even slightly less obnoxious than Fausto though he recalled. It would permit him to scrape some dignity together and tell himself he had taste when it came to the clothes he was willing to put his own hands on and shed from others.

He was prepared to walk straight past him, prepared to make his way back to his room and stare at the ceiling and stew over Willie (stupid fucker can’t even balance himself right, stupid fucker can’t even swing a punch right, stupid fucker is a useless dick hanging onto a useless frame—) when a hand reached out for him. Usually, he would make a motion to stop it— no one touched him unless he permitted them, reflexes that had been built into every part of him. But he was intrigued with what Oliver might offer, stark (eye-burning, really, and how he managed to do that past midnight was nearly admirable— dignity. We’re looking for dignity) form standing before him, true form standing before him.

An offer was made, words that nearly made Fausto raise his eyebrows, because this was a line, this was an offer, and his first instinct was to say no. His first instinct was to pull back his lips and offer a snarl, his first instinct was to bark, to bite, to say, I do not offer charity work to the geriatric.

And then— and then, because of course, because his life was a spectacle (he had designed it to be a spectacle, had pieced together the stage bit by bit, year by year, until all eyes could only be transfixed on him— and he had not realized how hot the stage lights could be), Ziva appeared. Another breath, actually, the words turning into air that pushed out of his nose in a rush as she opened her mouth and spoke the barbs that were always waiting for him. He tilted his head— he knew this game and its rules (there were none), could play this game as well as he always had, and offered to her,
“Our only tether is doing a well-enough job of killing himself, I’ll have you know. I’d expect him to wither under your ministrations in no time flat— or perhaps just your mere presence. I’m just providing another wheezing corpse to you— your cats would understand the appeal.”


No acknowledgement of the nurse was made in the remark and as soon as Ziva was gone, he turned back to Oliver, scanned the man up and down, taking in bright blue and searing yellow and offered a grin (with more edge than the other ones he used to offer— aggression hiding desperation given it had been over a year).

“Depends on whether or not we want everyone else to hear,”
he offered with a shrug to the older man, nonchalant and careless, as always.

































hot sugar (washed out remix)



glass animals










♡coded by uxie♡
 
Last edited:
— DELPHINE & YANAN.
two petri dishes.
01. yananovic borgov.

The sweltering nucleus smoldered; a tumor feeding on matter and slowly destroying what kept it alive, killing itself softly. Strumming my pain with his fingers. Singing my life with his words. The scent of burnt tobacco clung to his coat as well as his fingers. Yanan drifted off to a space that was neither dream nor reality. Why-is-the-grass-still-so-green-here?Shouldn’t-it-be-bald-like-Mr.-military-man’s-hemisphere-of-a-head?That’s-mean.Haha.Still.

A harsh cloud grew from the space between his lips. It almost froze in the air if it weren’t for the heat he still radiated despite his bruised knuckles; red like Santa's hat, red like tired eyes and painted lips. A face wore a body, a woman. A face that shifted through the green grass slithering under remnants of snow and mist; a serpent? Pale like a mask, her expression told him nothing at all. Tabula Rasa. I have a mental nickname for you. You’re cute. Like a lost dog.

Do-I-look-like-a-lost-dog-to-her? Her shoes almost touched his, Yanan raised his chin to see her. Did he? A day prior he had deemed her not worthy of his time nor attention, pretentious. arrogant, de trop? gift bags. HAH…HAH-HAH. A series of giggles of the hyena sitting in his throat during the meeting when the woman voiced her comment. Today, the woman wore a different nose and brighter eyes, a different accent? Yanan couldn’t remember. Ah..always-so-forgetful. focus-cus-fo-cus.
“Keep the nickname a secret if you like. I will come up with an impolite one for you as well,” he smiled.

Her fingers picked his incense stick of tar and shit and judging from the warp in her face, it tasted like it too. The chemist leaned back against the invisible rest of air and chuckled. “And you?” he began before he took another drag. What-are-you? He was about to ask. In a field of flowers that bloomed with freaks and clowns, what kind was the woman? “A forger?” he wondered out-loud. It was more a broad guess than anything else. “Do you have a name? Or a nickname that isn’t a secret?” he grinned as he offered her a cigarette of his own despite the alleged ‘terrible’ taste as if her opinion on his brand of choice could’ve changed in the last few seconds.


02. delphine jonas.

“...Or a nickname that isn’t a secret?”

Movement starts in Delphine’s haunches like she’s about to get up and just leave; but she doesn’t commit; she reaches up to her shirt collar and buttons the top button back up. Like that’s what she was going to do the whole time.

Her mouth purses for just a second, a restless impatient kiss-face intended for no-one, and then, unrushed and a little too loud: “Borgov. I think they called you that. I could be wrong…”

…and she falls off now, whatever else she was going to say lost at the sight of a cigarette stuck a little too far out of its pack. An offering? She’d maybe printed the sentence somewhere inside her mind just before, a glance of a dictum: imagine if he offered me another one right away, and I took it. So genius. Cue immature laughter, a haha’ing child on the floor. A little genius for the stupid day. Stupid house. An iota. But then he really did it.

The baby boy, his pathogenic little modesties.

How did he know?

Did she tell him? Without telling him?

Seasons change in Delphine. Dust and dying crops.

She recovers enough in the half-moment to push through it, sway her way through some new observation, spoken with narcotic slowness:

“I like your arm. I like it when things have happened to people. It makes everything simple.”

In between words her mind initiates systematic safety procedures. If she had anything on her face before, or in her way of sitting or just anything, the walking of her fingers - there’s even less there now. Not so much a non-face as an anti-face. A protest against the idea of faces. Sort of like how when wind bristles the trees and you see the anger in yourself there. The parsimony. The resistance to other-forces that aren’t that other at all.

They’re both watching the same point in the distance: the makeshift shooting range and the pollen of that argument slowly lifting away. That one man, so bald and so respectful. She can tell that he’s Swedish but she’d rather not think that out loud so she doesn’t.

Lowering herself: “The serpent. Hissss. I don’t remember when that started. Maybe in soldier school. Maybe it’s just cabaret. Well, that it is. Ha. But that’s a name, anyway. Nickname.”

She squints with half-seriousness at Yanan’s arm. With end-of-day the sky is getting black and flat with each interval of counted time, lengthening the light across both of their faces. It smells like tar and gunsmoke (& in the area of Delphine: synthetic orchid) and one thinks of crawling suspicious sunset insects. Something about what this is, this house all the way out in this place, evokes horrible archaeology, and maybe Yanan can sense it too. “Do you think that we’re going to die? A level three extraction. An unstable brother. What our survival odds must be. So exciting.”


03. yananovic borgov.


The four-eyed man held the dying end and delivered the finishing stroke, smudged ash on gray granite stone, contrasts set to zero. Green grass now a lush # 818181, faces missed a rosy flush from cold on warmth turned to stone, medusa. snake headed woman, misunderstood and abused. Rising with her serpent hair, eating men like air? lady lazarus. scratch that. focus-fo-ucs. The woman held his name in her palms like a treasure. A stolen prize he didn’t want or rather, an old wound that scarred like his own small collection on hands and throats. Borgov. Bor-gov. Yan-an-ov-ic. Yanan warped his face – slightly – his head bopped once just to shake it in the very next moment: “Yanan works. My full name is a long one and hard to pronounce.”

His gift – untouched – left on the package for later use perhaps. I like your arm.
The woman formed an impression on him now, not like paint on canvas, too stating, but her words turning into sand just to cascade through his hands again, a castle forming on the ground between his feet and he stared at it. She likes what happened to you. She likes who did it to you. The man took a look at his arm, then back to her. “It was a gift,” he said but it was a joke but not a lie either. Hands rested on thighs dressed in black pants for once (a fresh tracksuit waited on the bed on the second floor) while one foot bopped up and down in repeat. “I like it too, though,” he added. He really did. I really do. I think I do.

Sounds of guns roared in his ears, which he hated a bit. Hard-bass-in-clubs-was-never-a-problem-why-are-guns-so-much-worse?Built-to-kill-kill-nothing-perfect-ever-grows-from-guns.

“You are a soldier too?” A quick look scattered towards Fausto and the military man..Fabian? Finn? Frodo? Her nickname slithered around his neck. “I like that one!” Nameless after all, the sand castle had faded and the serpent stayed the woman. For now.
“Serpents are interesting creatures too! Often labeled as cunning and abras-” he grew silent very suddenly.

Memories of baby pythons fighting their way out of the egg. The egg is the world. Who would be born must first destroy a world. Abraxas. Demian, integral absorption of self in Sinclair. Adolescent pythons resting on his twelve-year-old shoulders, initial flickers of parted tongues against his neck.

Her eyes darted on his arm – sleek surface, waning lights reflected, titanium – and he stretched it out for her investigations.

“Oh, I think we will die. Haha.” Silence wasn’t a well-learned forte. “We very well might. You know those moments when you think: If I’d die right now, it’d be fine by me. But then it doesn’t happen. You wouldn’t kill yourself but being run over by a truck or falling victim to a shooter would come in handy. God, bless America!” he started laughing again just like the day prior, in the meeting: Hah…Hah-Hah. “It will be fun. We can live a whole life in our dreams, and then, when we come back, if we come back, we can start over. And over.” A thousand lives in one.

“Ever gone three levels?” with the elevator? He died to know. If-so-who-was-the-chemist?Was-it-sloppy-?Probably.Do-I-know-them?
“Do you like liquor? I brought some very fine vodka from Russia.” It only sat on his kitchen rack back in New York, waiting to intoxicate. Another gift, from him.



04. delphine jonas.


“Oh, I think we will die.”


Haha.

Ha ha.

Something about this Yanan Borgov is so hilarious to her. The cursed way he speaks about everything. As if outside his own life, never to enter - staring it all down with that terrible vacancy - and anyway, she starts laughing that laugh, her laugh, an old hector repeating through a gramophone, and as he speaks for longer she persists with an enviable stamina even through his questions.

She stops and takes in some short clarifying breaths. “Yes and yes. Both very good.” It’s not like she doesn’t see through that part but for what it’s worth Delphine cannot stand the taste of liquor. “When I went level three it was the party of a lifetime. It’s possible someone died then. I can’t quite remember. It’s all perhaps.” Though it would not and does not stop her drinking of it.

(Acute, never habitual, never haunted.)

“I was talking to a friend about just that. People hate perhaps. I don’t mind it.” And Del doesn’t know that he’d believe she has friends outside of work, believe she doesn’t only say that, believe the image she forms as fully as someone like Fausto Nobrega would, even someone like Tasya Kuznetsova. She doesn’t really like this or him but she doesn’t find herself springing to her feet now.

There’s something spoiled and sour shared between them, not nemesis but co-apparition; Del doesn’t often notice it in other people and it’s not something she’s aware of noticing when she does, but it’s here now, this nonvisible thing they’re sitting with, this blemishing-under-skin.

They sit in it for a moment. Del would pretend it’s the space before something new to say, so that’s what it is for her. And this Yanan is just…

there, cut-off, a defeated echo of a man…

and she doesn’t really know how best to manage this. And she would fall almost last in knowing this, in knowing she knows this.

Del takes the once-offered cigarette and turns it with no hurry through her fingers, a little trick of patient waiting as the sun goes away. She’s returned to something normal now. She’s a fortress again, unafraid and impregnable.

“Do you see how Tasya is a little in love with everybody? Bosses with big feelings. It always causes trouble. I think it’s because when you’re desperate enough you forget about what things are about. It becomes about” - and she cusses with the thrill and the unassurance of a little child - “fucking, and not fucking, and wanting to fuck or not fuck. It gets romantic. Even for old-aged people and ugly people.”

Del excites - not really a laugh, more of a fleeting vocal excitation.

“You’re wounded and your trust goes phoooo plunk. Down to the worst place. So, you know. This is kind of doomed. But doom can be fun.”

And now she gets to her feet at last, an itchy gymnast with hands as busy brushes, wiping off all the dust she picked up from the steps; she pivots back to face Yanan, still brushing:

“Learning from each other - just as much fun. Super fun. Let’s look forward to the future. But now I’ll go lie down.” And then she stands there for a few more moments. Longer than any real hesitation. She watches him like he’s years of sweeping sand, her mouth a secretive design, a studying, like she’s a scientist. He ought to respect that.

Then she heads inside.

But then she immediately comes right back out with her coat, crosses the wide lawn to her motorcycle, and with a few motions it comes alive, and she becomes something more silent - a helmeted biker vanishing into the night.




05. Yananovic Borgov.


“Perhaps, perhaps. Uncertainty is hateable I guess. Not that I’d know.” Perhaps was a concerto of free flow with swaying hands in the ocean of people. Perhaps was the liquor on his shelf, drink it tonight or leave it be, drink it in the morning after brushing his teeth. Foaming mouth with not rabies. The liquor he may or may have not consumed, both until he’d walk into the messy or clean kitchen the morning after. Schrödinger’s vodka. Not the time. Focus-focus. “Uncertainty is curable, or is it? If there was a remedy to all of perhaps I wouldn’t inject it. Kind of boring, I hate boring.”

This, the woman must’ve known but the chemist couldn’t grasp the concept of her being. If he tried to grasp it, he’d fail and scrunch hairs on his head as if the equation was incorrect while it should be, but for now, Yanan didn’t pick up the chalk to write on blackboard. This, the man must’ve felt in some shape or form but the woman formed an indescribable entity of nexus. Her words linked in his mind like skeletons of trees in winter. When the wind would rustle, the whole body would shake too like his own right now. The cold burned.

As if it could keep him warm, he lit another cigarette. The lighter placed in their shared middle, a little treasure of a new acquaintance.

Do you see how Tasya is a little in love with everybody?
His eyes drifted from the peculiarly green grass to the woman. “Hmm,” he inhaled gray fumes. They reappeared from his mouth as he blew them towards her face. His astonished face given away by raised brows but a look that radiated an anomaly of approval. “I think Tasya is much more capable of love and fondness than she’s aware. Fondness is an undefended light.” Attracting hope but also moths. “No need to sweat though!” He never did. “We shall see, we shall see!” Too busy to keep a facade of a highly skilled, very dependable man.

“Yes, I am looking forward to that as well.” Lips parted in a smile revealed a row of white teeth, holes in muscles underneath skin made dimples appear. “Super fun, indeed,” Yanan quoted her and nodded her goodbye for the night. He, too, wanted to head inside. But not before he had finished his cigarette. Light blonde hair swirled by february winds as he watched her leave him where she found him. “Serpent! Still don’t got another name for me?” he yelled after her but she just kept on walking, as if she didn’t hear or as if she didn’t want to answer.





code by @leviathan.



​
DELPHINE — YANAN
MENTIONS: fred,fausto,tasya

TAGS: collab w/ celadon. celadon. ; mention: tasya birth of venus birth of venus fausto FloatingAroundSpace FloatingAroundSpace fred Viper Actual Viper Actual

The sweltering nucleus smoldered; a tumor feeding on matter and slowly destroying what kept it alive, killing itself softly. Strumming my pain with his fingers. Singing my life with his words. The scent of burnt tobacco clung to his coat as well as his fingers. Yanan drifted off to a space that was neither dream nor reality. Why-is-the-grass-still-so-green-here?Shouldn’t-it-be-bald-like-Mr.-military-man’s-hemisphere-of-a-head?That’s-mean.Haha.Still.

A harsh cloud grew from the space between his lips. It almost froze in the air if it weren’t for the heat he still radiated despite his bruised knuckles; red like Santa's hat, red like tired eyes and painted lips. A face wore a body, a woman. A face that shifted through the green grass slithering under remnants of snow and mist; a serpent? Pale like a mask, her expression told him nothing at all. Tabula Rasa. I have a mental nickname for you. You’re cute. Like a lost dog.

Do-I-look-like-a-lost-dog-to-her? Her shoes almost touched his, Yanan raised his chin to see her. Did he? A day prior he had deemed her not worthy of his time nor attention, pretentious. arrogant, de trop? gift bags. HAH…HAH-HAH. A series of giggles of the hyena sitting in his throat during the meeting when the woman voiced her comment. Today, the woman wore a different nose and brighter eyes, a different accent? Yanan couldn’t remember. Ah..always-so-forgetful. focus-cus-fo-cus.
“Keep the nickname a secret if you like. I will come up with an impolite one for you as well,” he smiled.

Her fingers picked his incense stick of tar and shit and judging from the warp in her face, it tasted like it too. The chemist leaned back against the invisible rest of air and chuckled. “And you?” he began before he took another drag. What-are-you? He was about to ask. In a field of flowers that bloomed with freaks and clowns, what kind was the woman? “A forger?” he wondered out-loud. It was more a broad guess than anything else. “Do you have a name? Or a nickname that isn’t a secret?” he grinned as he offered her a cigarette of his own despite the alleged ‘terrible’ taste as if her opinion on his brand of choice could’ve changed in the last few seconds.


♘ ♚ ♘​

“...Or a nickname that isn’t a secret?”

Movement starts in Delphine’s haunches like she’s about to get up and just leave; but she doesn’t commit; she reaches up to her shirt collar and buttons the top button back up. Like that’s what she was going to do the whole time.

Her mouth purses for just a second, a restless impatient kiss-face intended for no-one, and then, unrushed and a little too loud: “Borgov. I think they called you that. I could be wrong…”

…and she falls off now, whatever else she was going to say lost at the sight of a cigarette stuck a little too far out of its pack. An offering? She’d maybe printed the sentence somewhere inside her mind just before, a glance of a dictum: imagine if he offered me another one right away, and I took it. So genius. Cue immature laughter, a haha’ing child on the floor. A little genius for the stupid day. Stupid house. An iota. But then he really did it.

The baby boy, his pathogenic little modesties.

How did he know?

Did she tell him? Without telling him?

Seasons change in Delphine. Dust and dying crops.

She recovers enough in the half-moment to push through it, sway her way through some new observation, spoken with narcotic slowness:

“I like your arm. I like it when things have happened to people. It makes everything simple.”

In between words her mind initiates systematic safety procedures. If she had anything on her face before, or in her way of sitting or just anything, the walking of her fingers - there’s even less there now. Not so much a non-face as an anti-face. A protest against the idea of faces. Sort of like how when wind bristles the trees and you see the anger in yourself there. The parsimony. The resistance to other-forces that aren’t that other at all.

They’re both watching the same point in the distance: the makeshift shooting range and the pollen of that argument slowly lifting away. That one man, so bald and so respectful. She can tell that he’s Swedish but she’d rather not think that out loud so she doesn’t.

Lowering herself: “The serpent. Hissss. I don’t remember when that started. Maybe in soldier school. Maybe it’s just cabaret. Well, that it is. Ha. But that’s a name, anyway. Nickname.”

She squints with half-seriousness at Yanan’s arm. With end-of-day the sky is getting black and flat with each interval of counted time, lengthening the light across both of their faces. It smells like tar and gunsmoke (& in the area of Delphine: synthetic orchid) and one thinks of crawling suspicious sunset insects. Something about what this is, this house all the way out in this place, evokes horrible archaeology, and maybe Yanan can sense it too. “Do you think that we’re going to die? A level three extraction. An unstable brother. What our survival odds must be. So exciting.”


♘ ♚ ♘​

The four-eyed man held the dying end and delivered the finishing stroke, smudged ash on gray granite stone, contrasts set to zero. Green grass now a lush # 818181, faces missed a rosy flush from cold on warmth turned to stone, medusa. snake headed woman, misunderstood and abused. Rising with her serpent hair, eating men like air? lady lazarus. scratch that. focus-fo-ucs. The woman held his name in her palms like a treasure. A stolen prize he didn’t want or rather, an old wound that scarred like his own small collection on hands and throats. Borgov. Bor-gov. Yan-an-ov-ic. Yanan warped his face – slightly – his head bopped once just to shake it in the very next moment: “Yanan works. My full name is a long one and hard to pronounce.”

His gift – untouched – left on the package for later use perhaps. I like your arm.
The woman formed an impression on him now, not like paint on canvas, too stating, but her words turning into sand just to cascade through his hands again, a castle forming on the ground between his feet and he stared at it. She likes what happened to you. She likes who did it to you. The man took a look at his arm, then back to her. “It was a gift,” he said but it was a joke but not a lie either. Hands rested on thighs dressed in black pants for once (a fresh tracksuit waited on the bed on the second floor) while one foot bopped up and down in repeat. “I like it too, though,” he added. He really did. I really do. I think I do.

Sounds of guns roared in his ears, which he hated a bit. Hard-bass-in-clubs-was-never-a-problem-why-are-guns-so-much-worse?Built-to-kill-kill-nothing-perfect-ever-grows-from-guns.

“You are a soldier too?” A quick look scattered towards Fausto and the military man..Fabian? Finn? Frodo? Her nickname slithered around his neck. “I like that one!” Nameless after all, the sand castle had faded and the serpent stayed the woman. For now.
“Serpents are interesting creatures too! Often labeled as cunning and abras-” he grew silent very suddenly.
Memories of baby pythons fighting their way out of the egg. The egg is the world. Who would be born must first destroy a world. Abraxas. Demian, integral absorption of self in Sinclair. Adolescent pythons resting on his twelve-year-old shoulders, initial flickers of parted tongues against his neck.

Her eyes darted on his arm – sleek surface, waning lights reflected, titanium – and he stretched it out for her investigations.

“Oh, I think we will die. Haha.” Silence wasn’t a well-learned forte. “We very well might. You know those moments when you think: If I’d die right now, it’d be fine by me. But then it doesn’t happen. You wouldn’t kill yourself but being run over by a truck or falling victim to a shooter would come in handy. God, bless America!” he started laughing again just like the day prior, in the meeting: Hah…Hah-Hah. “It will be fun. We can live a whole life in our dreams, and then, when we come back, if we come back, we can start over. And over.” A thousand lives in one.

“Ever gone three levels?” with the elevator? He died to know. If-so-who-was-the-chemist?Was-it-sloppy-?Probably.Do-I-know-them?
“Do you like liquor? I brought some very fine vodka from Russia.” It only sat on his kitchen rack back in New York, waiting to intoxicate. Another gift, from him.

♘ ♚ ♘​

“Oh, I think we will die.”


Haha.

Ha ha.

Something about this Yanan Borgov is so hilarious to her. The cursed way he speaks about everything. As if outside his own life, never to enter - staring it all down with that terrible vacancy - and anyway, she starts laughing that laugh, her laugh, an old hector repeating through a gramophone, and as he speaks for longer she persists with an enviable stamina even through his questions.

She stops and takes in some short clarifying breaths. “Yes and yes. Both very good.” It’s not like she doesn’t see through that part but for what it’s worth Delphine cannot stand the taste of liquor. “When I went level three it was the party of a lifetime. It’s possible someone died then. I can’t quite remember. It’s all perhaps.” Though it would not and does not stop her drinking of it.

(Acute, never habitual, never haunted.)

“I was talking to a friend about just that. People hate perhaps. I don’t mind it.” And Del doesn’t know that he’d believe she has friends outside of work, believe she doesn’t only say that, believe the image she forms as fully as someone like Fausto Nobrega would, even someone like Tasya Kuznetsova. She doesn’t really like this or him but she doesn’t find herself springing to her feet now.

There’s something spoiled and sour shared between them, not nemesis but co-apparition; Del doesn’t often notice it in other people and it’s not something she’s aware of noticing when she does, but it’s here now, this nonvisible thing they’re sitting with, this blemishing-under-skin.

They sit in it for a moment. Del would pretend it’s the space before something new to say, so that’s what it is for her. And this Yanan is just…

there, cut-off, a defeated echo of a man…

and she doesn’t really know how best to manage this. And she would fall almost last in knowing this, in knowing she knows this.

Del takes the once-offered cigarette and turns it with no hurry through her fingers, a little trick of patient waiting as the sun goes away. She’s returned to something normal now. She’s a fortress again, unafraid and impregnable.

“Do you see how Tasya is a little in love with everybody? Bosses with big feelings. It always causes trouble. I think it’s because when you’re desperate enough you forget about what things are about. It becomes about” - and she cusses with the thrill and the unassurance of a little child - “fucking, and not fucking, and wanting to fuck or not fuck. It gets romantic. Even for old-aged people and ugly people.”

Del excites - not really a laugh, more of a fleeting vocal excitation.

“You’re wounded and your trust goes phoooo plunk. Down to the worst place. So, you know. This is kind of doomed. But doom can be fun.”

And now she gets to her feet at last, an itchy gymnast with hands as busy brushes, wiping off all the dust she picked up from the steps; she pivots back to face Yanan, still brushing:

“Learning from each other - just as much fun. Super fun. Let’s look forward to the future. But now I’ll go lie down.” And then she stands there for a few more moments. Longer than any real hesitation. She watches him like he’s years of sweeping sand, her mouth a secretive design, a studying, like she’s a scientist. He ought to respect that.

Then she heads inside.

But then she immediately comes right back out with her coat, crosses the wide lawn to her motorcycle, and with a few motions it comes alive, and she becomes something more silent - a helmeted biker vanishing into the night.

♘ ♚ ♘​


“Perhaps, perhaps. Uncertainty is hateable I guess. Not that I’d know.” Perhaps was a concerto of free flow with swaying hands in the ocean of people. Perhaps was the liquor on his shelf, drink it tonight or leave it be, drink it in the morning after brushing his teeth. Foaming mouth with not rabies. The liquor he may or may have not consumed, both until he’d walk into the messy or clean kitchen the morning after. Schrödinger’s vodka. Not the time. Focus-focus. “Uncertainty is curable, or is it? If there was a remedy to all of perhaps I wouldn’t inject it. Kind of boring, I hate boring.”

This, the woman must’ve known but the chemist couldn’t grasp the concept of her being. If he tried to grasp it, he’d fail and scrunch hairs on his head as if the equation was incorrect while it should be, but for now, Yanan didn’t pick up the chalk to write on blackboard. This, the man must’ve felt in some shape or form but the woman formed an indescribable entity of nexus. Her words linked in his mind like skeletons of trees in winter. When the wind would rustle, the whole body would shake too like his own right now. The cold burned.

As if it could keep him warm, he lit another cigarette. The lighter placed in their shared middle, a little treasure of a new acquaintance.

Do you see how Tasya is a little in love with everybody?
His eyes drifted from the peculiarly green grass to the woman. “Hmm,” he inhaled gray fumes. They reappeared from his mouth as he blew them towards her face. His astonished face given away by raised brows but a look that radiated an anomaly of approval. “I think Tasya is much more capable of love and fondness than she’s aware. Fondness is an undefended light.” Attracting hope but also moths. “No need to sweat though!” He never did. “We shall see, we shall see!” Too busy to keep a facade of a highly skilled, very dependable man.

“Yes, I am looking forward to that as well.” Lips parted in a smile revealed a row of white teeth, holes in muscles underneath skin made dimples appear. “Super fun, indeed,” Yanan quoted her and nodded her goodbye for the night. He, too, wanted to head inside. But not before he had finished his cigarette. Light blonde hair swirled by february winds as he watched her leave him where she found him. “Serpent! Still don’t got another name for me?” he yelled after her but she just kept on walking, as if she didn’t hear or as if she didn’t want to answer.


code by fudgecakez
 
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Oliver Brazzos






Hook, line, and sinker.

While Oliver knew Fausto wasn't in a good state of mind, he hadn't expected Ziva to come in with the assist.

She was a wild card and the only person he'd never even heard of before this mission, but she was making a hell of an impression. Her demeanor dripped with cyanide, her words poisonous yet laced with a sweetness that no normal human could produce. (Not that anyone here was normal). In only three sentences she slayed any semblance of dignity the pragmatist had while doing Oliver the favor of summarizing what happened while he was away.

And just as quickly as she came, she was gone.

In her stead was not the husk, but the core of the man he...kind of loved? No, love wasn't he right word but he did care for the other man more than he would ever admit. Fausto's aggression betrayed his vulnerability, like a cornered rat bristling to bite the next soul that walked by. He missed the pain that came with the pleasure, the comfort that their dalliance would end with the both of them pretending they were unbothered by each other's demons. But more than miss, he needed the version of Fausto who would be in top form tomorrow.

"Despite my impeccable fashion sense I know how to be discreet," Oliver smirked, matching Fausto's aggression with hunger. The man let his fingers trail down the pragmatist's forearm before pulling him close. "But it's better to show than tell."





/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.
 








day two

THE CLOCK IS TICKING...




scroll





Morning dawned over the manor, a particularly blue day as frigid storm clouds pulled a duvet over what should have been golden early sun. Rays of light pierced through drab gray, hopeful beams casting pillars across rolling grass and the bricks that upheld her isolated home. Tension laid as thick as dust in the house, and no attempt to sweep it away by hired hands and dutiful servants would fix such a scene. Damage had been done. A critical mission would begin in twenty-four hours, if all went according to plan. Below the surface of packed-hard frozen ground and morning birds singing the blues, another grave, made of concrete and stainless steel, could not hold down the body of a restless man. Their job had awoken last night and though sedatives blurred his mind and melted veins into sleeping vexation, he jerked against restraints and continued to have no control over his body. No matter, for the mission was afoot soon enough.

Three stories above, another one of God's cruel tricks struck sun like lightning through cracks in curtains. Squinting through a vicious hangover and painful morning light, a quick glance at a clock and soon a rather worried bout of knocking at her door, Tasya prayed whoever waited before the entry of her bedroom would simply go away. Wouldn't it be so easy, for this entire problem to disappear? No such relief would ever be found. A warm body pressed against the line of her back, and another over her stretched out legs, but soon they roused too. A conundrum of a ticking clock, a knocking door, and two whining dogs waiting patiently to be let out.

Tasya sat up at a glacial pace. Head pounding with the sudden noise threefold, the twin Dobermans snuffled and whined with excitement as their owner finally roused. A wet nose bumped her cheek and she scratched under his chin with an affection rarely given to others, crooning as Ares nosed at her face and shoulder in a funnily-human gesture to get up. And at her feet, Mars huffed and lumbered over to the door to wait patiently.

The knocking paused for a beat, but continued once more. Slowly stepping across the room (the floor was littered with her belongings - a few empty liquor bottles, scattered clothes and makeup, an upturned chess board), the door cracked open barely half a foot before the two dogs bounded to greet Béatrice with excited woofs. A hand pushed unkept hair away from her face as she peered through the crack at their nurse. For once, Tasya found herself nearly at a loss for words. An uncomfortable beat passed.

"Please excuse my tardiness," She explained, voice rough. An excited woof came from below. "They've grown to like you, feel free to take them out for a bit. I'll be down shortly." The door inched open more to allow room for both dogs to file out, and without another word it shut, the closed door of a mausoleum tomb.

A searing hot shower, a face mask to depuff her hungover state of self, hair dried and straightened into immaculate neatness, there was nothing else to do except for power through her tremendous hangover and be ready. Tasya knew she couldn't think about it, about last night or of past connections. Too much dwelling, too many unnecessary emotions, it was all useless. An open drawer in her walk-in closet provided different options on how to survive the day. Ketamine was briefly considered, a detachment from her body sounded good, but alertness was key. The decision was made, a line of cocaine and a tiny bottle of vodka, and Tasya was game.

The first hour of her late morning spent outside of her room was akin to torture. Late breakfast, or early brunch by then, was a prairie oyster and buckwheat porridge. Her meal was made and pecked at, sunglasses were a permanent fixture on her face. She was smiling too much. A tense, overexerted expression of professionalism, a host with too many ghosts in her closet and unable to function if she wasn't at her best. Unnerved glances and uneasy returned smiles were noted, so she tried to dial it back. Tasya was wired, efficient. Though the blonde hid her substance usage well, her tense and at times overly-polite demeaner was a stark contrast to the day prior.

Preparation for the mission was to be continued after dinner, she explained to any poor soul unfortunate enough to cross her path during the first half of the day. As late arrivals for the team were imminent, another combover of job details after supper proved to be the best timing. Thankfully no rain fell as the cloud cover broke, if only for midday.

It was nearly noon when shooting range practice was decided, and in all honesty, the distraction was needed. Though it might not have been the best idea to let her handle a gun, Tasya was self-aware enough to know she was a poor shot. As still as an oak tree planted at the back porch steps, the woman stood with a cigarette between her lips and a phone in hand, unable to go even a few moments without checking the security cameras for the laboratory. Some time spent outside will be good for the disposition, Tasya thought as she puffed away. Or at least, to get me out of this damn house, lest I lose my mind with the others around.






♡coded by uxie♡


 
Once the house had finally quieted down the evening before so had Fred's wandering mind. He'd been able to get enough sleep to feel relatively well-rested and focused though in all honesty he could've most likely slept for another two or three hours- had he lacked discipline.
No, healthy habits were not made to be broken nor to be skipped. They existed to provide structure and guidance, something Fred needed to function. Something others in the team could use as well.

When morning dawned he was the first (if not one of the first) up, going for a quick jog around the property which was followed by a quick shower followed by a classic british breakfast thereafter. As he sat on Tasya's porch eating baked eggs and beans with a cup of coffee in close proximity he found himself staring down at the improvised firing range from the day before.

Directly after breakfast Fred had changed into a pair of low-ankle hiking shoes, a pair of coyote brown utility pants with built-in kneepads and a olive-drab T-shirt with "K3" stamped on the back and above the heart in bold stencil letters. As most of the others- including Tasya herself- began their day Fred went ahead and re-arranged the entire course into a static firing range with fixed targets neatly arranged in a row.

After some pleading and convincing from Fred the groundskeeper relucantly allowed the Swede to hammer several poles into place which would be used to fix the targets onto. Not only that but Fred was also allowed to draw a line of dirt across the near-pristine and well-trimmed grass lawn.

It was very basic but it was still miles better than some of the ranges Fred had been to in Mali and Afghanistan. No sand, no barracks and no barbed wire.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Smells almost like home. Almost.

With the range complete Fre dmade his way over to Tasya, offering his employer a curt nod before adressing her;

"Miss Kuznetsova, with your permission I'd like to run a second round of drills with more members of the team joining in." He paused, deciding to pick his words with care before continuing.

"The purpose of this exercise is not to train anyone into a gunfighter, but rather to help with focus and team cohesion. With proper guidance an hour or two at the range can be exhilirating, relaxing even. That and after last night's chatter I figure that some members of the team are more anxious than others to blow off some steam."

To Fred's surprise, Tasya agreed.

*
​
It was now noon. The sky was painted in a vibrant orange with little to no clouds in sight. Fair winds, no rain. It was almost too good to be true. Fred's stern face cracked into a faint smile as he thought of the days back in boot camp when the platoon had spent hours on end lying down in rain-soaked mud firing at paper targets that could barely stand up, much less appear visible in the midst of rough conditions.

Fred's smile faded and he swung around, ear defenders in one hand and stopwatch in the other. "Alright people, today's exercise is relatively simple;"

He raised the stopwatch, pressed down on the side and then allowed the device to chime.

"Once you hear the beep you will put three shots- and only three shots- into your designated target. You will do so at your own pace."

"We only have three handguns to utilize as of now so we'll do three people at a time. Once I issue you a verbal command you will inset a magazine into your weapon, chamber a round and then holster the weapon. Once the stopwatch sounds you will clear your weapon from your holster and send three shots downrange. Remember; There is no rush."

Fred clasped his hands together. "I want all of you to find your focus, your calm. When we start you will only focus on your target, on your weapon and on your breathing. Everything else is irrelevant. Once you have fired your three shots you will holster your weapon and wait for the others to finish until I okay everyone to approach the targets."

"Questions?"
 


















the darkness is the light





Why me?

That was the only thought running through Angelo's mind as he leaned his head against the window. Why him? Why was he the one called for this? He didn't even know what 'this' was, to be quite honest. No. He knew nothing. He was told, or more like threatened, to get on this plane immediately, so he did.

It was no use dwelling on it. He knew he should try to get some sleep, but also knew that he had absolutely no prayer of doing so. Instead of trying to catch some shut-eye, his mind wandered back to the previous day and reason why he was on this flight right now.

■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■​

Manhattan, 17:58
The sound of his phone ringing woke Angelo up from the wonderful nap he was currently experiencing, a rarity in his life since he mainly experienced nightmares whenever he tried to sleep. Through anger-filled narrowed eyes, he slammed his hand around on the sheets, trying to find the damned device. When his fingers closed around it, he swiped to the right to answer without looking at the caller ID. “Yes?” he answered, voice thick with sleep and irritation.

London, 23:00
Silver her tangled in a finger, pale and porcelain as Yanan received the news. “Hah. She couldn’t make it, huh?” Hands dug deep inside green tracksuit pockets. “She heard it was me who suggested her to you and couldn’t take it, I bet. How embarrassing~" Confidence peaked in monotone voice. Glowing eyes like pearls were happy, so very happy about something, but Yanan didn’t know why.

The ballerina had asked for yet another favor, one that Yanan might fulfill with a call.
He picked out his phone and scrolled through chaos of saved contacts, names in cyrillic, names without surnames, mere numbers. There.
It rang. It rang a couple of times.
“сла́ва бо́гу…(thank god…) Angelo, my most diligent, my most beloved..student,” Yanan flattered. “It seems I have woken you. You can wake up while I talk to you. Where are you? Spain? It must be a bit warmer there I suppose..” Yanan craved blazing sun to tickle his nose with the effect of urging to sneeze. “I have a grand opportunity for you!”

Manhattan, 18:03
Perhaps he should have checked to see who was calling since the voice that came out of the speakers nearly caused Angelo to drop the phone in shock. He hadn’t heard it in over two years. Why was Yanan calling him? Then came the flattering he knew he was about to get. “Student?” he asked incredulously, raising a brow. “Yeah, sure, if that’s what you want to call me.”

Yes, he was woken up by this call. “You did wake me, but that never seemed to bother you before,” And apparently it still didn’t. An irritated sigh followed. “No, I’m still in Manhattan and it’s freezing. I've only been back to Spain twice since I started at Columbia 9 years ago.” Did he miss it? Yes.

Oh goody, an opportunity. “I don’t want it.” he said without waiting to hear whatever it was.

London, 23:05
With Tasya still lurking next to him, Yanan turned around as if it’d grant him more privacy; an illusion he was building with his back as a wall, now he was all alone, it was an absolute truth despite being subjective.
“Mhm, in the end it seemed like me waking you up never really bothered you either...” Yanan wallowed in reminiscences. “Anyway!” His voice was too loud. “What do you mean you don’t want it?” Yanan had the habit of asking questions he didn’t expect answers for, instead he left no room for replies, a conversation that usually went his way. “It will look very good in your résumé~ You’ve heard of Tasya Kuznetsova, yes? Not only does she need someone as skilled as you but if money is what you’re interested in, there’s no end of it.”

His arm rested against a wall, leaning against it with his head touching the cold wall while his other hand held onto the phone. And while Yanan felt, he had outdone himself pitching this job offer, he was very well aware of Angelo’s stubbornness. It had always been hard to animate him to do things he had no interest in (which happened to be a lot).

He had an ace up his sleeve still, it lingered in his tracksuit, almost peaking out.

Manhattan, 18:11
Angelo felt his lip curl at that but said nothing since, grumbling as he may have done, it never bothered him as much as he implied. “I mean exactly what I said. I. Do. Not. Want. It.” he repeated, putting an emphasis on each word.

“My resumé is just fine. I already have potential employers reaching out to me,” He yawned loudly and looked at the clock. Maybe he should eat something instead of going back to sleep after this. “No, I have no idea who that is,” The name was not familiar. “Money?” That caught his attention. Rent here was expensive and more money couldn’t hurt, but he was still skeptical. “Yeah no, that won’t work on me.”

London, 23:17
Yanan scoffed now. This little brat… He now restored publicity as he turned around and let his back rest against the freezing brick wall. The scientist was now weighing the odds, nails clipped by teeth, an old habit that reemerged. “Tasya Kuznetsova is someone you will need in your résumé if you want to make a name for yourself. This is a matter I find difficult enough for you to have fun with.” Lies. Yanan ignored past rejections, they simply didn’t register with him: “Listen. Pack your stuff, come to London. If you don’t get here in the next 24 hours I will not write the recommendation letter you requested.”

■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■​

Absolutely zero sleep? Check. Bags under eyes? Check. Glasses digging into his nose? Check. Flight landed? Check. Through customs? Check. Bags collected and in taxi? Check. Any idea of where he was going or what he was headed into? No check. The rain pounded against the windshield of the taxi, almost mirroring the turmoil he felt inside his head. What the fuck was I thinking? he wondered to himself.

“What was that?” asked the driver. “Was that Japanese?”

Apparently he did not keep the thoughts inside his head, nor did he speak them in English. “Not Japanese,” he snapped. I don’t speak Japanese. “It’s Mandarin. Taiwanese Mandarin.” And he spoke it with such hostility that the driver was silent for the rest of the ride.

Pulling up to the mansion, Angelo almost wished that he and the driver were on better terms. If they were, he’d just have to hit the driver with a “yo Tom, get me out of here” and he’d be on his merry way. But he’d already snapped at the driver and they were not buddy buddy so he just opened the door, grabbed his luggage from the trunk and watched the black vehicle speed down the driveway as if it were eager to put as much space as possible between itself and Angelo.

Gelo couldn’t blame it. He’d love to put as much space between himself and this mansion that presumably held the answer as to why he was here inside. But he knew his ankle wouldn't hold very long, would give out a few hundred meters from now and he wouldn’t escape the driveway to his freedom. Maybe he should start attending the physical therapy that had been suggested to him.

The hand that had been reaching for the door handle paused in its tracks as he wondered whether he should try to look more presentable. The hoodie and joggers he was wearing didn't exactly scream professional, nor did the bleach blonde streaks through the front of his dark brown hair, hair that was currently all pushed back by a metal headband. Then he discovered that he didn't really care. A sharp scowl on his face, he pushed open the front door.

What Angelo expected to be greeted with, he didn’t know, but he expected at least someone. Instead he was met with an empty room, not a living soul in sight. What an awesome welcome. He’s so glad he was forced came to this rendezvous. You hate people, shouldn’t you be happy? asked a voice inside his head. Yes, he answered himself.

But he wasn't happy. Try as he might to talk himself down from it, he did expect a better greeting. With a sigh, he wheeled his suitcase further into the house and down a hall full of doors. Curious as ever, he began trying to open the doors and cursing when they wouldn’t budge.

“Fucking hell,” he mumbled to himself, trying more doors. “Do I need to whisper the magic word to open these? Dance and wave my hands in the air?” He asked no one in particular. “Why are all these damn doors locked?”

Eventually he gave up on door opening and continued down the hall, pulling his phone out of his hoodie pocket in order to check the time. Seeing a few unread messages, he began to reply to them. If Angelo had been paying attention, he would’ve noticed he’d ended up in the kitchen, and if he hadn’t been so absorbed with his phone, would’ve realized there was someone else already sitting there. After finishing his reply to the first message, he became aware that he wasn’t alone and looked up.

Both his suitcase and his phone fell to the floor with a loud clang when he caught sight of who it was. He knew this person, knew them from the beginning of his Ph.D days, knew them from endless hours spent wandering around NYC, perhaps knew them better than anyone else.

Except there was something about him that was different. They hadn’t seen each other in two years so it made sense something was different, but this was something else. He looked pale, worn out, profoundly exhausted, and Gelo knew he himself looked the same. “Thanks for the impromptu phone call,” he said quietly, remaining where he was and not moving closer. “Think you could tell me why I’m here?”






























your side of the bed












♡coded by uxie♡

 
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"The cigarettes are burnt and here you are, clinging to paper like it'll provide your salvation."
JUNO.

— 𝘼 𝘿𝙍𝙄𝙑𝙀 𝙊𝙑𝙀𝙍.

Somewhere, somehow, Juno belonged in the stars, a menagerie of gaseous forms that twinkled and smirked at the ants propped in their little case on the desk of a corner office, devoid of light. They were a God when they stared through the microscope at the world around them, smirking with pearly whites on the passenger seat of a disjointed car that puttered more than it purred, lurching along the roads towards a house they figured would weep with the obnoxiousness of platinum beasts and furthermore liars.

A finger picked at the skin of their hand, peeling back the flecks of citrine paint that reminded them of the mess they were due to clean up when they returned home. They had left in more of a rush than what pleased them, kissing goodbye to unmolded clay and tired flesh, promising a swift return. Swift and four million dollars richer.

They inhaled, the crumbling end of a cigarette littering itself on the dingy mats of the car as they leaned back and adjusted the way their legs stretched possessively over the center console.

Seconds passed and they could smell the edge from the other occupant of the car.

"Juno, are you able to clean that later or?" A more timid God sat behind the wheel, driving in his broken bones and weakened soul along the road Juno had vaguely pointed out. Starless eyes glanced over at the artist and they met them head-on, an unamused look only softened by the crow's feet that had already made their aging mark on Juno's face. "I'll pay you back for it, Jup, don't worry." Their words cooed as much as they sunk poison into the man's flesh, another tap sending more ash down to the dirty floor.

"Besides, I won't be here long, darling. I don't intend on playing any reindeer games." Smoke filled the car on a pushed exhale of their lungs and they closed their eyes to the passing scenery. It was eighteen days until they kicked out the body that lingered at home, five days until they had to finish a painting they had started the night before or rip it to shreds. Two days until this mission was over and they were curled back around their pretentious things and people.

Two, two, two, two, two. A disgusting number.

— 𝘼𝙉 𝙐𝙉𝙀𝙑𝙀𝙉𝙏𝙁𝙐𝙇 𝙄𝙉𝙏𝙍𝙐𝘿𝙀𝙍.

A chaste kiss to the cheek was all they offered to the man in the car, running paint-coated hands along skin they had memorized in a silence that suffered between the two. An exchange was briefly made, a hunk of green plastic for a pearl drop earring, whispers of comfort only given for the moment it took to still the twitching hand on the wheel before Juno was retreating from the beaten-up car.

"Don't wait for me." They breathed out the words with their last exhale of smoke before a scratched up lighter was stuffed into a pocket and a cigarette buried underneath red-bottomed boots. The car shuddered as a door was slammed, a weeping look from the man inside ignored with an upward flick of their own lips. Only a small bag was shouldered, as beaten and frayed as it could be without spilling out spare clothes and packs of substance.

The house was as obnoxious as they thought it would be, a dominating mass that looked as pretend as movie sets and hospital scenes; something about it tasted like a dentist's office in the 60's. Bleached exterior didn't match the boiling forms of blood inside, a note only made as they stepped along to the entrance, a lounging form taking themselves in leisure they wanted to afford themselves despite being a day or so tardy on their arrival.

Grotesque, they offered themselves briefly in response to no prompting, a hand curling around a door they allowed themselves into as quietly as thief would. There was no pomp, no circumstance, no welcoming and therefore they broke into the home.

Eyes wandered themselves up and down decorations and spots where it was lacking, brushstrokes that could fix the dulled icicles and dust that desperately needed to be knocked off the corners. They spelled out the desperation in the request they had gotten from the unnaturally natural blonde, a need for their expertise and furthermore lack of attachment to most within the scene. "You could do with some newer rugs," words spoken to no one as the prowling God made their way further within the home, stepping with a confidence that betrayed their lack of knowing the twisting corridors and secrets hidden behind each bend.

A kitchen was where they eventually settled, plopping a bag with a wheeze from threads down upon a counter before they were reaching into their pocket to fish out a crudely bejeweled flip phone and tightly rolled paper.

"Newer rugs and newer people." The phone flipped open before their thumb rested comfortably along the center digit, teeth biting down on the end of the packed and prepared escape they fished for a lighter to begin. "At the least there could have been one balloon."
role | the forger.
scroll
location | a rat in the kitchen
outfit | x
tags | open
/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */
© weldherwings.
 



ada shi.





































  • mood



    anxious, foreboding
















A distant ping let Ada know that her sister had arrived, that she was probably waiting at the door to her apartment to be let in. She sighed, lowering the silk blouse that she had been pressing up against her figure with the umpteenth pair of trousers that she was attempting to coordinate with it, the two articles of clothing thrown carelessly on a bed that was already covered in fabrics of different shapes and shades, her bedspread swallowed whole by her overflowing closet. She picked her way out of the guestroom, her feet nudging aside even more items in order to forge herself a pathway out. She balanced herself delicately on the balls of her feet in the spots that she made for herself through the tornado of clothes and accessories, metal belts and buttons glinting menacingly at her and promising pain if she misstepped.

Finally arriving at the front door, she peered through the peephole to see the tall, lanky form (still so lanky, after all of these years, after all of this time. Scars did not fade it turned out, and the form that Hilda had manifested in when she appeared back in Ada’s life seemed to be the form that she would retain) of her younger sister.

“Be quick,”
Ada said as she swung open the door, turning herself in an instant to head back towards the mess she needed to cram into a suitcase, not bothering to gaze upon Hilda. Her skin prickled with anticipation as to what was coming, what words were hanging in the air just waiting to be plucked and spoken aloud.
“I have to pack still.”


There was dead silence as the shift of fabric let Ada know that shoes were being removed— it meant that she would be staying for at least a moment. It was a reassurance that their existence would continue, that this shaky, barely forged bond would exist for a moment more, and she felt herself exhale as she stood in the doorway to the mess, determined to forge forward.

“I have told you,”
Hilda began, in a worn voice floating to her from the door— she had not moved from her spot, “I do not want and I will not accept your blood money. I will be in debt for the rest of my natural life—”

“It’s not blood money,”
Ada said brusquely, as if swatting away the concern and complaint with her statement.
“Tasya is a very wealthy woman—”


“Who has made her money through tricks of the trade, Ada. I am not a fool— I know women like her. I served them, too,”
the words spoken with the ache that came with the memories, the references she was making to a sordid past.

“Not your trade,”
Ada informed her, another blouse plucked from the floor with perhaps a touch more aggression than necessary, wrinkles and lines appearing where her fingers had curled into it.

“It is the same trade,”
exhaustion dripping from each word. Ada still refused to look, still refused to acknowledge, knowing what she was to say— either of them, really, was to say next. This conversation had happened ad nauseum between them, over and over again since the day that Ada had informed her sister; I am an architect. It was her greatest regret, to have told her what she did when they were both still so raw to one another. They had met when they were children, when they lived in the same burning house. Their respective escapes had left them at different maws of the world, different hands reaching out to break them to pieces and put them back again, leaving them dirtied and wounded and off-center when they found one another once more. The outlines of the profiles that they had once known by the flames of the burning house were different, dirtied and jagged and out of place, and Ada had not realized the weight of this, reaching out with both hands and drawing blood.

“It is not,”
a bit snippy now, because she needed to pack and Hilda was being distracting with this game. If only she had not told, if only! Then, she could say she was going on work trips and perhaps she would want to tag along. Then, she could say she had received a nice bonus and could offer support to her without the questions, the haunted, hollow eyes boring into her own soul alongside a slack-jawed mouth and shaking fingers that pushed it away.

The next step, the next words, ought to have been some variation of it is, a rebuttal to Ada’s statement. Instead, what came was this:

“You don’t know,”
spoken through rattling teeth, shaking as they filtered through the air,
“you don’t fucking know. And you don’t care,”
a pinched tone that finally, finally made her turn around to stare at a face that was lined with tears and blotchy. It was a punch to her gut, the air in her lungs rushing out in a gasp of,
“Hilda—”
Feet moved forward, but a hand was brought up, held in front of her to prevent her from stepping forward.

“If this is your choice, then it is your choice. It is one that I can’t ever agree with. I have told you time and time again why I do not support it, why I want you to choose differently.”
There was a pause, a wet swallow as broken eyes turned towards the floor between them, as the hand slowly fell to push itself into a pocket, disappearing from view.
“You have made it clear that you do not care to hear these reasons. You have made it clear that you do not care,”
a guttural growl curling itself around the accusation.

“I do care,”
harsh and grating.
“I fucking do.”


Hilda raised her head again, overflowing gaze meeting Ada’s own shaking one.
“Not in a way that matters,”
she whispered, pain coating the entire phrase.
“Not in a way that I can endure.”


Shoes were being put back on and a wrinkle formed between Ada’s brows. Something filled her chest, a type of dread that she felt in the dreamscape as the cracks multiplied and fractured out from the center, the breaking point being pushed again and again and again. Her limbs felt light and full of pins, her breath felt drawn out from her chest, each one a jagged hook that dragged itself out.

“I hope you make your peace,”
Hilda was saying to her, one hand on the doorknob of her apartment. Her mouth opened again, as if to say something else, as if to give some final, grand statement, but it shut soon afterwards, alongside the front door.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦​

Ada glanced down at her phone again as she sat in the back of her taxi, her purse in her lap, her carryon seated next to her, her suitcase rattling about in the trunk. Excessive, perhaps, for what was a trip that she was making short anyways, that she had opted to arrive at the moment it was necessary rather than spend time in the presence of a woman who offered grins of gritted teeth. Whenever the two of them stumbled into one another’s company, Ada found herself eager to escape it, bearing her own expression as an offering and a weapon towards Tasya, the greatest architect. And yet— here she was, reaching out to Ada, offering a hand that had not been presented to her in years, since she began, really.

There would be others reportedly— a smattering of others actually, virtually innumerable compared to how a mission would usually be constructed. It was clearly personal, it was clearly weighted, and she should have asked more questions, but she had seen the words, dreamed about them really: four million dollars. She had attempted to negotiate, greed spurring her forward to ask for more, trying to prompt the other woman to either offer information or more cash for Ada’s presence. After all, it was clear that she was needed that there was a weight to her own existence, a necessity to her appearance at a mansion out in who-the-fuck-knew. Surely Tasya, the greatest architect (a mantra that had been fed to her over and over again, told to her as an introduction and then as a slight, a standard and an expectation that she could never quite reach) could spare at least a couple thousand more from her coffers. What could she even need with all that money, what family could she possibly pass that wealth down to? Ada had her sister—

Her sister, her sister who had walked out of her apartment with a sense of resignation, unsettling Ada herself. There was a queasy feeling in her stomach that was not quieted by ginger ale that she had sipped on the flight over, and she stared down at the last text: I’m here.

Where was she now? Should she ask? Could she even ask? Would this next message tell her that she was blocked, that her sister had made the choice to cut her out?

I’m here— Was that true? Did that hold true now, across the ocean, time zones away, after what could have been called a spat, a rift, a conflict? Would she return and find the aged form of her sister at her dinner table again?

“Here we are,” interrupted her thoughts and quickly, her head shot up, the screen of her phone flipping around before it was tucked into a pocket, put out of mind as she gathered her items and spilled out onto the sidewalk.

She marched herself forward, marched herself towards the looming door that seemed intent on swallowing her whole and refusing to let her go. Her jaw clenched, her fingers flexed on her bag, and she strode forward and forward and forward, reaching a hand out to knock, once, twice, thrice.

When it swung open, she was greeted by a housekeeper, given the uniform, the lack of washed out paleness that Ada associated with Tasya. There was disappointment upsetting her stomach now, jostling about as she handed off her luggage, suitcase and carry-on deposited at the feet of the woman without a smile as she strode further into the building, not bothering to take off her shoes here. The bitch could hire a cleaner.

She wandered for a beat, noting that her steps seemed to echo in the wide expanse of it all, heading down a hallway that deposited her at the doorway of a kitchen, somewhere in the bowels of a place that seemed eternal and ever shifting like a dreamscape itself, changing to suit the needs of its inhabitants— until it would betray them, too. Her skin prickled here, too, the sense that something was happening, that something had happened winding its way under her skin, through her bones and gripping its teeth into her throat. She swallowed past it and instead turned her head to a familiar face, one that could offer her some sort of reprieve.

“Juno,”
spoken as if they were friends (they were not friends), light and airy and expectant of a response.
“Hello, hello, how have you been?”
feet striding forward, a lilt offering an open invitation of a response, a blank, dotted line that needed to be signed.

































nobody



mitski










♡coded by uxie♡
 
Last edited:



yananovic borgov





































  • mood



    disconnected, on edge, hungry; in this order.

















A loud hill rustled with grass swaying like weeds of the sea. He was a pearl in an oyster – dark – but exuding a foul stench of acid. A rotten fruit in its slumber tucked away. The lid of the can would open at some point, in a day or a year when the best before date had long passed, when the decay was written on his forehead. A mark. Of Cain. Where’s Abel? Did he murder him already? Or again? His sheaf of wheat laid in his lap blotted with crimson. Not enough, never good enough. Never, never, never. With the wheat in his lap, there laid a man as well. Slayn. Cain slaying Abel, Peter Paul Rubens, c. 1600. And the weeds enveloped him in green and warmth turned to cold.

And then Yanan woke up. It had been a dream he barely remembered the moment his lashes flashed open. He still dreamt unlike many others. Sometimes. A self that hadn’t been a visitor in another's dream for a long time. He hadn’t been in anyone’s nightly imaginations, at least he figured so. It was fine, it was so very fine.

Yanan’s torso rose in the bed, a corpse as a mere shell. Give it a knock, a crack would tore sevenfold and finally collapse. His soul was swaying somewhere close by but not inside. Nothing a bad coffee couldn’t cure.

♘ ♕ ♘​

In the kitchen sat a body that wore a wifebeater and striped tracksuit jacket; open, zipper down. His I and It slowly shook hands and intertwined, a reintroduction. We have been here before. Yanan picked up the ceramic cup and stirred the dark brown matter, so deep it implied a black hole to him. Milk now swirled into the abyss like a spiral galaxy. Messier 101. Haha. Hah. Ha-

Echoed steps on clean tiles and faint squeaks of sneakers. The figure that stopped in the kitchen door stitched his mind back into place, for now. He came. And as always he was pulled into his phone like a slaving dog. Yanan waited, this time, with patience and lifted his cup. He slurped the hot coffee. Hairs pushed back by a headband, Yanan couldn’t remember when he had last witnessed the absence of hair covering the other man's forehead, or the tiny mole that sat right on the tip of his nose. The countless times he had k-. The taste of bitterness unfurled in his mouth, Yanan’s nose scrunched and the corners of his mouth pulled down. "This is atrocious. No, to be quiet frank, it tastes ass," despite being a sweet tooth, the chemist kept forgetting coffee, his vile enemy.

The descent of a phone and luggage, how very dramatic. Pieter Bruegel the Elder; the fall of rebel angels, 1562. Yanan didn’t flinch but instead kept a close eye to compare differences from his blurry memory. The shadow of a young man that complained and opposed, one that stole his nerves over and over and over again for only doused lights acted a cure. Three a.m. sittings of instant ramen packages. Bring 500ml to a boil and add the seasoning packages with the noodle. Boil for 5 minutes and serve hot. It tasted better when only boiling them for 3, the remaining heat did the rest. Yanan knew what he was doing. Slurping cheap noodles and gasping for air to cool milled bites in the mouth. Urging touch and gentle strokes of hair on a kitchen floor when hunger reignited.

"Think you could tell me why I’m here?"
"Certainly." A leg crossed over the other, Yanan set the cup back down. "But I don’t think myself business man enough to pitch it too well," he admitted. "I told you much about the Dream Sharing field, have I not? An old friend of mine fell short on a chemist to pull off this job. I think of you skilled enough to do it, it’d be a shame if you weren’t to stay. There's a whole binder...that I also still need to skim through.."

He pushed the chair he was seated on back and got up. Thinner than ever, Angelo’s cheeks had sunken into his skull just like his own. Yanan pulled the headband from his head as straight strands fell back into place. With the headband he slicked his own hair back and put it on. He liked the way it caressed his scalp. "You must be a bit tired. The downstairs bedrooms are not all taken just yet." Yanan picked up the discarded suitcase and pulled it after him, slouching his back as he always did.

The second the word “dream sharing” was spoken, Angelo’s face contorted with fear. He didn’t bother hiding it. "Yanan, I haven’t dreamshared since you left," The ‘me’ wasn’t said but definitely implied. "I haven’t done it in forever. I’ll probably mess it up and ruin the whole thing," He didn’t want to be responsible for that.
"- You won’t mess up…," he interrupted.
"And I’m no chemist, I’m BME that just so happens to have a focus in neural engineering and sleep. I’m honored you think I can do it, but I don’t think I can. Plus, you should remember as well as anyone just how awful it was to dream share with me. When I was in charge of the dream, it was nothing but endless nightmares level after level." Angelo didn’t say anything when his headband was taken, just scowled when the blonde streaked hair fell into his eyes and blurred his vision. “I’m not tired.” Untrue, but he didn’t want to have a nightmare within an hour of being here. But it appeared that he wouldn’t get a choice in the matter since they seemed to be heading towards a bedroom.

"You’ve proven yourself, Angelo…" While he often wouldn’t admit gaps of knowledge or argue to justify them, Angelo couldn’t accept the credit whereas Yanan thought credit was due. “Mhm,” he now remembered bit after bit. Blaring alarms deafened their ears. Wails and moans and cries drilled through bodies or more so – the air in them. Immovable, frozen and struggling to breathe. "You won’t be the host of this dream. So don’t fret."
Yanan couldn't grasp how others might not be able to be thrown in cold water and learn to swim. What a pity.

“Doesn’t matter whether or not I’m the host,” Gelo snapped. “I’ll still bring them in; the people, the setting. Even when you were hosting, they followed me in and would always target you.” He never mentioned this until now. “The entire time we were under, I was fighting them off, trying not to let them enter the dream at all and if they did, keep them from you. It was exhausting and I don’t want to have to go through it again. I also don’t want my nightmares attacking anyone here.” He’d taken a seat on the edge of the mattress as he spoke and now looked up at Yanan with a pleading expression, willing him to understand.

Yanan set the suitcase next to the free bed. Air strengthened with scents of pine trees and chopped wood. Black rimmed glasses traveled down the bridge of his nose, on the crook it came to a stop, a slide too steep. “I don’t think we have another choice.” Yanan didn’t believe that Angelo inhabited shades in dreams, it was much more complicated. But he couldn't be certain. The night of the call he didn’t think about this. Anyone else in the industry was mediocre at best. Decisions, decisions, decisions. Yanan liked to flo-ow from one situation to the next. “Arrive first,” he began. “If you’re not tired, we might as well grab something to eat. Come.” A dimpled smile revealed itself to Angelo. A twitch from his prosthetic signaled Angelo to get up. Yanan pushed his hands in the pockets of his pants while taking a turn to exit the room. He already scribbled down internal notes of seeking a conversation with Tasya on Angelo's behalf. Despite their connection of mentor and mentee having expired years ago, Yanan couldn't help it.

They trailed to the other kitchen in the hopes of finding something slightly more nourishing for breakfast. Assuming it was fine, a cigarette was put in his mouth and it found a home like a mold between his parted lips. Click. Click. And lit. Yanan craved sweets or fluffs of fried batter clouds, he thinks they called them pancakes.

Voices, voices quiet but there. They were there and real and aligned in the space he was going to step in at any moment. His frame glided through the door as if a ghost from the past floated in semi-transparency, here to haunt and chuckle and inflict. Two faces of familiarity, one more than the other with another one behind his back. "Junebug?!"
The amount of fleeting conversations he remembered and the way their faces had grown more mature, new haircuts, new moles and laughs made him wonder: would they notice a change in him? had he not bettered and only matured with aged skin?A panic struck his core as if he was put on a stage.. Focus-fo-cus. And the hammer it strikes and snaps necks and ribs.
"Ada." A smile lingered as he crossed his arms and rested his back against the wall. "It’s a welcome change to see the both of you face to face. It’s been quite a while, has it not?"

































seoul



Jaysen










♡coded by uxie♡
 







Oliver Brazzos






For the first time in years Oliver had woken up sober. Far from the drug induced haze that colored all of their previous encounters, he remembered their night (really, quarter night) together in perfect clarity. The discarded clothes, the tangle of limbs, and absolute lack of emotional resolution. Fausto had been kind enough (or perhaps, put together enough) to make it back to his room, which gave Oliver to absolve himself of whatever guilt he might have had over flagging the pragmatist down in such a vulnerable state.

Flinging away the comforter, he left his bed at a glacial pace, stopping every so often to stretch a stiff muscle or pop a creaky joint. His spine had been a source of great discomfort and not having his chiropractor here was a great hindrance, one that couldn't be so easily solved by extorting Tasya. Instead, he opted for a hot shower and a new suit, courtesy of his last client. Though target practice was on the menu today, he had no qualms with getting his suit wrinkled nor the rain that often came at this time of year.

What mattered more was getting into the proper state of mind and that meant, a proper meal. He hadn't eaten anything in nearly a day and the threat of starvation induced heartburn were a good enough reason to haul himself to one of the two kitchens at this egregiously large estate. Thoughts of over easy eggs, smoky bacon, and mushroom filled his working mind while the hiss of his lizard reminded him that he hadn't had his daily dose of caffeine...or nicotine...or alcohol.

Honestly, it was a miracle that he managed to survive the plane ride over here.

Oliver's stroll to the kitchen quickened just the slightest bit as he heard a few new names, courtesy of Yanan, their chemist. Ada wasn't an extremely familiar name, but Junebug? Juno? Boy did that bring back memories. He resisted the urge to pump his fist, opting instead to greet everyone.

"Well, well I wasn't expecting to see this many new faces," he announced, casting his gaze towards an unknown man, then who he presumed was Ada, and finally landing on his artner in crime. "and you Juno. You never told me you knew Yannan!"





/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.
 
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