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liebgotts-lovergirl · 1 year

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Fire On Fire: Chapter 22

(Ch. 21) ... (Ch. 1)

II Gallery II Symbol Guide II

Summary: A closed reduction is painful but not as painful as a broken heart.

WARNINGS: Description of Injury Correction

Taglist: @latibvles @softguarnere @brassknucklespeirs @mccall-muffin @lieutenant-speirs @emmythespacecowgirl @holdingforgeneralhugs @parajumpboots @hxad-ovxr-hxart @indigo-luvers @ax-elcfucker-blog @chaosklutz @mads-weasley @vibing-away @eightysix-baby

Contemporary: October 25th, 1944. Driel, Netherlands.

“Genie, how long do I have to stay like this?” Alix groaned as she stared up at the sky with her knee bent while the meticulous medic inspected her ankle yet again.

“My leg’s starting to cramp.”

"Jus’ hang in there, cher,” he soothed as he cautiously applied a bit of light pressure to the area once again, causing her to hiss in pain as he examined her range of motion.

“You don’ want me rushing this.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Alix caught a glimpse of Joe nearby, pacing back and forth like an anxious guard-dog, his forehead creased with worry lines as he took a hasty drag of his cigarette.

"Whaddya need, Doc?" he asked as Roe assessed her ankle one final time. “What can I do?”

“You already asked him that,” Alix snapped, eyes narrowed. “Three times.”

“Well ‘scuse me for being fuckin' worried about you,” Joe shot back.

The heartbroken spy was about to tell him exactly where he could shove his false “worry” when Eugene's slightly modulated voice cut her off, giving Joe an instruction seemingly from the depths of Alix’s own heart.

"Hold her hand."

Alix practically choked on air.

"What?!"

The spy began struggling to get up but the medic stopped her with a gentle touch to her shoulder and lowered his voice so only she could hear.

"I ain't exactly jazzed about it either, cher," he said softly and with the mournful look in his beautiful blue eyes, she didn't doubt it.

"But puttin' personal feelings aside, you gonna need somebody to grab onto so you don' pass out."

Alix scoffed inwardly.

"Putting personal feelings aside," he'd said.

As if there had ever been a time when Gene put his feelings anything but dead last.

"I'd rather be unconscious than touch him," she muttered bitterly and perhaps it was his guilty conscience or perhaps it was genuine concern for her well-being, but either way, Gene wouldn't hear any more of her protestations.

“Jus' till the reduction's done,” he pleaded as he helped Alix out of her jump jacket, which she would need to bite on for the pain.

“Mais, if I could find Spina, I'd hold your hand myself an' let him do it, but he ain't close."

Alix chewed on her bottom lip, glancing around the clearing as she weighed her options.

Don had gone in search of a German Luger for his nephew and Skip had gone with him to ensure he wouldn’t die.

The pair had offered to carry her but she didn’t want to encumber them.

The woods were dangerous enough as it was without adding another load to their packs.

So, they had gone, leaving Alix with Gene, Joe, and her own thoughts, surrounded by a group of relative strangers.

As much as she hated to admit it, Joe was looking like the only option so reluctantly, she relented.

“Fine, whatever, let’s get it over with.”

With a satisfied nod, Roe began assembling the necessary components of the splint set and Joe knelt beside her.

Shivering slightly in her camisole, she tried to pretend he wasn't there, staring straight ahead into the tangle of branches and shadows that comprised the surrounding forest.

“Hey, you okay, Ziskeit?" Joe inquired, the familiar gravel of his voice softening around the foreign word.

Zees.

Zee-skite.

There was something comforting about the way it seemed to roll so easily off his tongue like a reflex, like a prayer.

Alix shook her head to clear it.

Remember who he is, she told herself, noting the ink-stains that seemed to mar his fingertips.

Ink stains from the letter he had been writing earlier, no doubt a reply to the one that haunted her memory.

Remember all the lies.

She wondered vaguely if he called Millicent that word back in California.

Zeeskite.

Probably just another recycled line.

But even still, when he slowly reached for her hand, she couldn’t bring herself to pull away and as he laced their fingers together, a flurry of butterflies erupted in her stomach.

Their fingers interlocked perfectly, like they were made for each other.

"You can squeeze too, y'know," Joe added, giving her shoulder an affectionate brush with his own. "If ya need to, that is."

Alix fought to keep her face neutral and inwardly cursed the stubborn heat creeping up her neck and cheeks anyway.

"I don't wanna hurt you though," she squeaked but Joe just chuckled.

"Break my fuckin' hand for all I care, Zees," he joked with an easy shrug and his laugh felt almost… familiar, as if she’d heard it a million times before.

But he sobered quickly, using his thumb to lightly caress the back of her hand.

The blinding sunlight light up each ray of honey-gold in his hypnotic brown eyes, creating a dazzling shimmer almost like the flicker of a flame.

"Seriously though, this ain't about me." His forehead was etched with worry lines.

"You're the one who's gonna be in pain so you fuckin' squeeze as tight as you need to, okay? Don't worry 'bout me; I can take it."

He was being so considerate that it actually hurt and she found herself wishing he would've just been an asshole. It was easier to remember to hate him that way.

"Don't," Alix mumbled, the frigid ache in her chest returning as she noticed the ink-stains on his skin for a second time and she very nearly pulled her hand away.

"Don't do that."

Joe's brows scrunched in confusion.

"Do what?"

There was no malice in his voice anymore when he spoke, the sharp edge from earlier seemed to have evaporated with the morning mist.

It was an honest question that deserved an honest answer.

Could she give him that?

Alix dropped her gaze, unable to look him in the eye as she answered, studying each blade of grass they were seated on instead like a coward.

Her voice sounded hollow, the words burning in her throat like sawdust as she spoke:

"Don't pretend to care about me."

She would've rather endured a hundred interrogations than take comfort in his lies, especially now.

There was a heavy silence for a moment as Joe registered her comment, followed by a small sigh as his chest seemed to deflate.

"Christ, Zees, you think I'm pretending?"

He wasn't angry, although she wished he would be.

If he just shouted at her then she could return fire and the dislike wouldn't feel so goddamn one-sided.

But he didn't treat her like he did the men of the company. He might bristle at her accusations, might even snap as he rose to her bait, but she had never once heard him truly yell in anger, not at her.

For a man with such a reputed temper that prisoners would slouch to avoid his gaze, it was almost unfathomable.

An unexpectedly soft hand on her arm roused her from her thoughts.

It was Eugene, who gave her a wan smile.

“You ready, cher?”

"You're gonna be okay, Zees," Joe murmured with one last encouraging squeeze of her hand and Alix took a shaky breath before confirming her assent.

"I'm ready."

"Une…"

The medic tensed as he positioned one hand on her hind foot and the other on the lower part of her shin. Alix bit down on the sleeve of her jump jacket.

"Deux…"

There came a slight pressure to her ankle like a warning and she braced herself, leaning subconsciously against Joe's shoulder for comfort.

"Trois!”

∆∆━━━━∆∆━━━∆∆━━━∆∆

Nothing could have prepared her for the pain.

Feeling the pop of bones slamming back into place was like a thousand kitchen knives stabbing her nerves, like a roaring fire engulfing her ankle, needle-sharp sensation so intense that it was momentarily blinding.

Alix gripped Joe's hand so tightly that she lost feeling in her own as a strangled cry was ripped from her throat, fortunately muffled by the thick material of her jacket.

“Jesus Christ, Doc!” Joe snapped and Alix could feel the instinctive coil of his muscles, like a wildcat set to pounce as he rounded on Gene.

“Give her a second, will ya, you’re fuckin’ hurting her!"

The medic ignored him for a moment, focusing his energy instead on the first internal rotation of her ankle, causing Alix to groan in misery and squeeze Joe’s hand still tighter.

"Don' got no choice," the medic grunted apologetically, not even looking up from his work.

"Can’t stop now. Shoulda stayed at the aid station where they got anesthetic. But she almost done; Jus' got one more part of the reduc an' one more rotation."

"One more, Zees," Joe mumbled, releasing her hand and wrapping his arms around her like a protective blanket.

"Just one more. You’re doing real good."

“Une…"

Through the red fog of her misery, Alix could vaguely feel Gene readjusting his grip on her heel as he counted down and she sank back into Joe as she fought to remain conscious.

"Deux…"

The medic was beginning to apply pressure and feeling her tense in preparation, Joe pressed a kiss to the top of her head and began to gently smooth her hair in an attempt to offer comfort.

"Trois!”

"Dio Santo!" Alix swore, bolting upright as the final bone slid back into place with a pop, causing involuntary tears to slide down her blanched cheeks like rain.

"C’est tout," the medic announced a moment later, sitting back on his heels.

"The hard part's done. Now we jus' gotta keep it all in place."

As the medic positioned the wire splint against her foot, Alix managed to summon enough strength to slide herself out from under Joe’s arms.

She wanted nothing more than to lean back into him again, to let him hold her close, but she couldn’t…Not when she knew he would only be thinking of Millicent.

“It went good, cher,” Eugene praised as he began to wrap her ankle in protective bandages, oblivious to her conflicted thoughts.

"But don’ let me catch you walkin’ on this thing till it’s good an’ set, you got that? You need somethin’, you better be askin’ somebody to go get it.”

Great, Alix thought, watching forlornly as Eugene finished and began packing his remaining supplies into his bag.

She’d be stuck for at least an hour and she doubted Joe would miraculously decide to leave her alone.

“I gotta go make my rounds, cher, but I’ll be back, alright? Soon as I can.”

“Can I at least sit back on the log then, Genie?” she bargained and the medic nodded grudgingly as he stood up, thin lips twitching into a smile.

"Mais ya, as long as you're careful."

Scooping her up like he had before, Gene plopped her comfortably onto the fallen oak before giving her a lightning-quick peck on the cheek.

Alix had always imagined that the first kiss between two people would be magical like the ones in the novels she read.

When Heathcliff burst into Catherine’s room in Wuthering Heights and swept her up into his strong arms, planting a whirlwind of passionate kisses upon her, their love was like a force of nature.

But when Gene had kissed her cheek… No lightning strike, no giddy sparks like fireworks going off in her head.

Nothing at all except for a tiny twinge of guilt serving to only make her more confused.

This was what she had wanted, wasn’t it, what all her curiosity about the medic had led to?

Then why wasn’t she satisfied?

Why was she always searching for something she couldn’t find, something she wasn’t even sure existed?

But clearly Gene had been satisfied because when he stepped back, the tips of his ears were scarlet again and his half-mumbled "I'll see you around, cher” came out almost dazed.

He had just turned to leave when Joe jumped to his feet, stopping the medic by his elbow as he passed, and Alix held her breath as she awaited the seemingly inevitable conflict.

The medic froze in his tracks, the two men standing face to face.

Eugene was taller by a good 5 inches but even so, Alix had no doubt that Joe would gain the upper hand in a heartbeat.

But to her surprise, no conflict ensued.

"I- uh– just wanted to say thanks, Doc,” Joe said awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Y'know, for takin' good care of my... of Alix."

Even so, Eugene eyed him warily.

"Lieb," he began, his tone cautious. "Jus' so you know, I'm not tryna-"

"Doesn't matter."

The medic raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"What?"

Joe exhaled slowly and he tried to muster up a smile but there was a flicker of pain just behind it.

When he spoke, there was a catch in his gravelly voice and the words were so quiet that Alix had to strain to hear them.

"If she's happy, I'm happy."

The spy distinctly saw Eugene's shoulders relax at his fellow trooper’s words and the Southerner gave him a polite nod before walking off, leaving Alix alone with the one person she had been trying to avoid.

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jaratedeguadalupe · 2 months

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what do you mean this isn't canon

#so so so SO tempted to make this into a fic #i'm not even joking #it doesn't even have to be practical espionage #it just needs to be spy pointing at a pot and asking where its hat is #is this funny to anyone else #don't answer that unless that answer is yes or you're getting blocked #tf2 #team fortress 2 #tf2 engineer #tf2 spy #engiespy #practical espionage

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aloha-obi · 1 year

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I HC that the first time Bruce let Dick go on a ‘undercover mission’ it was for a class field trip to one of Lex Luthor’s tech facilities. Dick managed to bug his office, sabotage a top secret (potentially world ending) project and leave chocolate pudding on Lex’s favorite chair. Luthor definitely sat in it and ruined his favorite pants. Clark and Bruce were 100% both a nervous wreck during the entire thing. At the next gala, 10 year old Dick trolls Lex by eating chocolate pudding cups the whole time.

#batfam #someone write the fic #dick grayson #first undercover mission #Bruce and Clark are maybe freaking out the whole time #ready to go break walls and Luthor’s face if he even touches the kid #Dick’s field trip = espionage training #Bruce Wayne thinks 10 is old enough to spy #nightwing

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wangxianficrecs · 5 months

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Life as House by Terri Botta (Isilwath)

Life as a House

by Terri Botta (Isilwath) (@isilwath)

T, 55k, Wangxian

Summary: After Wei WuXian is proven innocent, Lan Zhan moves. Kay's comments: Based on the corporate espionage au over on @angstymdzsthoughts Wei Wuxian is sentenced for a crime he didn't commit and Lan Wangji watches and does nothing. Later, when Wei Wuxian is proven innocent, Lan Wangji finally manages to break free from the shackles of duty and obligation that have been holding him down all his life. He moves out and builds a house, for himself and he hopes, for Wei Wuxian and their son. This story works through the trauma the characters went through beautifully and for once, Wei Wuxian doesn't easily forgive and forget and rush back into Lan Wangji's arms. No, instead Lan Wangji has to work on it and himself and that makes the happy ending all worth it. Excerpt: Lan WangJi may or may not have opened an account with the same unaffiliated credit union the week after Wei WuXian’s trial and the guilty verdict. He may or may not have been siphoning off excess income into the account; just as much as he could risk without garnering any attention from Lan family members or employees who might take notice of large sums of money disappearing from the account he held at the Lan affiliated bank. He may or may not have opened an account for Lan Yuan, and been making regular deposits under the guise of “allowance.” He may or may not have managed to accumulate quite a sum of money that was completely out of the control or knowledge of his family, because he learned that anything could happen, and it was vital that he have access to funds that no one could take away from him. He may or may not be planning the defection of the decade. He wavers on it regularly, fighting down nausea and panic attacks, gasping for air, his heart pounding in his chest, until he can wrestle calm from the chaos that often consumes his thoughts. He is having one now, sitting in the sparse, impersonal studio apartment, ignoring the tea that neither of them have bothered to drink. He quells it with the reminder that he is doing this for his son. He is doing this for Sizhui.

pov lan wangji, modern setting, coporate espionage, angstymdzsthoughts, modern no powers, post-divorce, breaking up & making up, father-son relationship, families of choice, reconciliation, angst with a happy ending, lan wangji/wei wuxian get a happy ending, past abuse, recovery, abusive relationships

~*~

(Please REBLOG as a signal boost for this hard-working author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)

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thefangirlofhp · 6 months

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21. gift horse part 2/2 to helping-hand

“So,” Azriel informs her, from the privacy of their camouflaging shadows as they hide by a lamppost. They’ve been following Lord Chester around for the better part of an hour, unbeknownst to the male; apparently the shadows conceal them entirely to the world. “The esteemed male he’s meeting for dinner is from a noble family in Winter. Chester was one of the courtiers who suffered exponential losses during Amarantha’s reign, not only in finances but in position as well. He’s been working to repair the damages, so to speak.”

Elain rises to her toes, her eyes following the fae as he makes his way through the street towards a restaurant. “Which is why he’s taken on the charity, I presume? Nothing restores credit like charitable work.”

“Mhm,” Azriel agrees. “It also does allow him access to considerable amounts of funding. I know I personally donate fortunes to charities.”

Elain drops down to her heels. “Should we follow him inside?”

Azriel nods and heads off. “We should.”

“But we don’t have a reservation,” Elain follows him. “Does your name come with certain privileges?”

Azriel smiles incredulously, pushing open the door to the restaurant and holding it for her. “Not really. Most of the city isn’t familiar with me like they are the rest.”

“You keep to yourself,” Elain nods, finding it sensible, taking in the restaurant appreciatively. She likes the decorations, and the tasteful lighting.

“Good evening, how can I help you?” the receptionist greets them pleasantly from behind her stand. Elain glances at Azriel, before approaching.

“Hello, I believe we have a reservation,” Azriel replies, leaning closer a little.

“Can I have a name?”

Elain watches a shadow dart around the stand and disappear into the folds of the pages before another one curls around Azriel’s ear. “Ronan.”

The fae slides a finger down the register, turns the page and finds it. “Oh, Mr. and Mrs. Ronan. We thought you wouldn’t make it. Follow me please.”

Azriel holds out his elbow which Elain quickly loops an arm through, glad to be wearing a dress suitable for dinner and they follow the waiter inside, who seats them at a two-person table, three tables away from their person of interest.

“This is nice,” Elain figures, looking around briefly as she settles in her chair, angling it to keep Lord Chester in her line of site. “It was a lucky guess, that the Ronans didn’t show.”

Azriel sips from a glass of water, glancing at Lord Chester out of the corner of his eye and hums his agreement.

“Or was it an educated guess?” Elain thinks. “Did your shadow know?”

He nods. Elain peers over at their suspect, who is dining with a platinum-haired fae of elegant handsome features, wearing regal tailored clothes with great detailing and stitches.

“Can you hear them?” Elain murmurs, receiving a confirming nod. She rests her chin in the palm of her hand, propping her elbow on the table. “What are they speaking about?”

“Dinner-talk,” Azriel answers, his fingers drumming once on the surface. “Exchanging pleasantries. I expect the actual purpose of the meeting wouldn’t be discussed immediately.”

“I wonder,” Elain’s eyes flit over Lord Chester. “Does he have any heirs, unmarried daughters?”

Azriel blinks. “There is one, of marriageable age. His youngest. Why?”

“Well Father would invite important people to prestigious places when the need to impress them was dire. For my engagement to Graysen, he spent a small fortune inviting Lord Nolan and his heir to different places, showing them his status and wealth. I can’t imagine Lord Chester meeting with an outsider in one of the best restaurants in Prythian for naught. And he’s a nobleman, you say. I suspect Lord Chester is attempting to marry off his last daughter.”

Azriel’s brow narrows. “It would explain the need for funds, for her dowry. But there are other possibilities.”

Elain taps her fingers on the table. “A foreign nobleman invited to Velaris, Lord Chester is spending a good penny to impress him and is coincidentally with one unmarried daughter left? I highly doubt it.”

As it turns out, she is right. Halfway through their meal, Azriel’s brows rise and he nods at Elain who relishes in her victory with a grin. When their suspects finish their meeting, Elain and Azriel hurry out after Lord Chester without so much as having dessert (a grievance Azriel expresses with much chagrin, which Elain promises to rectify when this is over) and follow him through the city, and to his estate home.

“We’re breaking and entering, aren’t we?” Elain murmurs, as Azriel walks along the brick wall sealing off the property. He looks up along the length of the estate, and nods. When Elain takes his offered hand, Azriel tugs her for one step and she finds herself standing in a richly-furnished study, her shoes sinking into a thick carpet and her wide eyes taking in the packed bookshelves and the cluttered desk. She has flashing memories of her Father, burning the late-night candle, pouring over his accounts and his correspondences.

Azriel approaches the shelves and reads the titles curiously, while Elain hurries to the desk and tugs at the drawers. One is expectedly locked, which she leaves last as she rummages through the contents, finding stray stencils and outdated receipts. A stamp, ink bottles and pens.

Elain slides out two hairpins from her hair, and sets to work on the lock.

“Try thi—” Azriel trails off, a lockpick falling into his palm from a shadow, when Elain manages to slide out the drawer with an accomplished grin. “Much experience picking locks, my lady?”

“A few,” she smiles, finding keys, letters and documents. “Father kept his foreign sweets locked.”

Azriel chuckles, going back to his task.

“We need any evidence of large transactions,” Elain tells him, while she peruses through classified letters. “Receipts, account balances, bank statements. Or better yet the charity accounting books. Aha, look, he is marrying off his daughter to…Lord Vansucci ”

“Like this?”

Her head snaps over her shoulder, as Azriel slides out a large ledger from the shelves and holds it up in the air. She shoots up instantly. “Yes.”

“Here,” he hands it off and resumes his examination. Elain settles in a leather armchair and makes herself comfortable. Father used to let her help with the accounting, so her eyes are acclimated to reading the numbers and making sense of the transactions while Azriel uncovers every secret Lord Chester’s ever kept, occasionally remarking things like “fucking knew it” under his breath. Elain cannot help but liken him to someone reading society papers, having their suspicions and gossip confirmed. But she doesn’t tell him that.

“Azriel, come look,” Elain calls him over, which he instantly answers. “There is a confusing discrepancy. There’s a substantial amount missing from here, his family fortune, and from the charity’s funds. They do coincide, approximately, in time. Both last week. And see, it recurs ever month. Now it does roughly correlate with his tax, but the deductibles don’t explain this. And the documented amount missing from the charity does not come close to what is actually missing. I know for a fact how much donations and funds were approximately allocated to the charity, and this income isn’t a fraction of it.”

Azriel’s jaw tightens. “Son of a—”

“And I found these receipts,” she shows him. “From the locked drawer. Does this look anything like Rhys’ signature to you?”

Azriel grimly smiles. “They’re forged.”

Elain nods. “Now look at this: a certificate of ownership—”

“—For an estate in Encers,” Azriel reads. He grins. “It’s for the mistress and secret family.”

“No,” Elain’s jaw drops.

“Mhm,” Azriel confirms, waving a set of letters in front of her. “I always suspected something was the matter with him, but Rhys’s never allowed me to confirm it.”

“Why not?” Elain frowns.

“He didn’t want me to waste my energy,” Azriel answers, reading over her shoulder the rest of the papers. “I have a lot on my plate, you see. A thousand things that demand my attention, and digging into the secret lives of his couriers was never a priority, Rhys believes. He’s right, in a sense, nothing worthwhile comes of knowing for a fact about Lord Chester’s…tastes. But I always find uses for everything.”

“Will this help us?”

Azriel nods. “We’ll need to collect the receipts from the people who donated, and I have a few friends at the bank that can give you a statement of what was allocated to the charity and with this you can prove the misplacement of a substantial amount of money. If we can prove for a fact where they’ve gone, like the estate, would be even better.”

“But there’s so much to dig through,” Elain realizes, looking around the study and the amount of evidence they have to sludge through.

Azriel shrugs. “This job isn’t very exciting. I once spent a week combing through a hoarder’s collection for a hairpin. Wasn’t really worth it. The things I’ve done for this job…”

“What if we drew a confession out of him?”

“That’d make things infinitely easier.”

“It’s settled then. Males like him retire to their study after dinner to tend their affairs, and in Chester’s case his literal one. It’s a matter of time.”

Sure enough, Elain hears the tell-tale sound of someone climbing a creaking staircase and the door unlocks, admitting a yawning Lord Chester initially oblivious to the intruders in his study in the dim light and when the faelights brighten, revealing the court spymaster and a strange lady he audible yelps.

“What the hell are you doing here?!” he demands, quickly shutting the door behind him.

“Well, well, well,” Elain says slowly, crossing her arms and tries to lean against the bookshelf behind her, only to stumble against its unsteady frame and have no choice but to stand straight. “Lord Chester.”

“What the hell?” he demands again, directing his rage to a mask-faced Azriel. “This is an outrage. What are you doing?”

Azriel points to the seat behind the mahogany desk. “Sit,” he orders coldly.

Elain sits down in the chair across the desk and crosses her ankles.

“You—you bitch—” Chester realizes, recognizing her from her previous attempts at speaking with him.

“Ah, ah,” Azriel holds out a threatening hand. “Shut the fuck up and sit down. Now.”

“You’ve got no right to be in here.”

“Foraging and embezzlement are serious crimes, Lord Chester,” Elain remarks slowly. “How do you respond to those allegations?”

“I deny them, of course. They are nonsense.”

Elain turns to Azriel.

“All-right,” Azriel yanks out a chair, its four legs scraping loudly against the carpet as he drags it over to Chester and slams it down violently. Azriel sits down, straddling the back and fixing Chester with a dark look. The darkness behind him thickens, stifling the fae-light. A visible fright swallows the entirety of Chester’s face, as sweat beads form at his temple and his lips pale.

“Now, you can come clean about the embezzlement and we’ll leave it at that,” Elain negotiates. “Continue to deny it, and I’m afraid we’ll be examining other crimes as well.”

“What crimes?” Chester snarls.

Azriel begins to tick off his fingers. “Tax evasion, treason, conspiring with enemies of the court, murder and…I’m missing something. Right: desecrating your sacred vows to your wife.”

When Chester remains silent, his jaw visibly clenched, Elain’s jaw drops.

“So,” Azriel murmurs. “A few years in jail in Hewn and a fine or The Prison? Your pick. Personally I’d throw you in the sea but the magnanimous lady has no such intentions.”

Chester grits his teeth.

***

“That was amazing!” Elain cannot contain her thrill, after they’ve left Lord Chester’s estate. “You were amazing! How did you know about the other crimes? Murder?! Treason?!”

Azriel’s lips turn up in a crooked smile. “Shot in the dark. Now I know for certain.”

Elain’s jaw drops. “You were bluffing? I couldn’t tell! And he believed it! Oh, you’re very good.”

“It’s my job,” Azriel tucks his hands in the pockets of his jacket. “Well, now you have everything you need. He’ll be sentenced to a few years, assuming Rhys doesn’t murder him for the foraging.”

Elain slows, and turns to Azriel.

“Do we have to turn him in?”

The spymaster freezes in his steps. “What are you getting to?”

Elain feels a little wicked, and unclean but somehow it feels the right course of action. She bites on her lip. “What if we kept this to ourselves, and told him it would remain so, as long as he corrected his mistakes?”

Azriel regards her sharply. “You mean to blackmail him, keep him under you thumb.”

Elain shrugs slowly. “Why would you kill the enemy’s spies if you could make use of them? I don’t see why we should…dispose of a pawn, who could prove useful.”

“Elain Archeron,” Azriel remarks. “Your thorns are sharper than you let on.”

***

Breakfast is quieter and more orderly in the large estate Lord Chester has so kindly donated to the charity. The children now sleep in pairs of two in each room, with enough space for two different wardrobes and trunks. Said wardrobes are each equipped with several different outfits chosen by the children themselves with help from one of the ten-new caregivers that have been employed to work with the orphans. And after breakfast, those old enough are off to their schools for the day where they spend the time learning, and the younger ones signed up to different classes such as Feyre’s art classes, or physical gymnastics that Gwyn Berdara teaches. They have a large library stacked to the rim with all sorts of books, fictional or otherwise, and equipped with desks for the children to do their work.

Elain helps occasionally, sometimes coming round to teach baking or gardening and make the children delicious desserts. Some nights, she helps put them to sleep and read them bed-time stories. And if Lalitta has several questions about this sudden change in generosity and budget, then Elain is just as clueless as she is, wondering just as much what had changed so quickly.

“I don’t think it’s a coincidence,” Lalitta informs her one night, after the children are put to bed. “That fortune smiled on us the day after you asked about the budget.”

“I’m not sure what you’re insinuating, Lal.”

“I think you do. But I’m not the fae to look a gift horse in the mouth.”

“I’m sure you’re not,” Elain smiles, and sips her cup of tea.

#elain archeron #elriel #elriel fic #acotar fic #espionage #elriel going on a local lil spy mission #azriel #elain x azriel

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sees-writes · 8 months

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Writing fanfiction am I right

#horrific #painful #have to do more research into government espionage #fanfic authors #fanfiction #fanfic #fanfic writer #fanfic writing #ao3 #time travel fic #time travel fix it

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kizzyking · 3 months

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Catching up on mha and I'm curious why I never heard of this scene through the fandom. The aggressive bossy one following orders all perfectly while blindfolded? Idk. Did I miss it?

#like where is the increase in espionage fics?#bnha #mha #bakugou katsuki #mha bakugou #also todoroki laughing was adorable

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jamiethebeeart · 5 months

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Sketches

#shuichi iguchi #shigaraki tomura #spinaraki #these were 2 unrelated sletches but then my brain starting brewing some thoughts #mainly an au where spinner is sent in as a spy (for???? not the heroes lmao) to get into Shigaraki's confidence which of course means #wink wonk bedroom activities ANYWAY spinner catches feelings and doesnt really want to inform on Shigaraki anymore and is feeling conflicted #about what he should do and shigaraki knows something is up with his maybe boyfriend but not what and just :))) angst and split loyalties #amd feeling torn in two directions #(i sya not heroes but the only group with enough prescence is the mla but thats not really their m.o. either so???? idk what group would #have the reach/influence to feel threatened by some upstart kid in the villain world and manipulate a member into taking this espionage job)#anyways ive got so many au ideas and not enough time to write a fic or 12 lmao #like the research + planning + plot points + writing + editing + energy to pull it off.... im tempted to dabble in it all again tbh #im a year behind the manga tho and still havent watched the last season so idk where characters have ended up #and id rather not write anything until i catch up (idk maybe horikoshi has revealed some fun/character specific info?)#here i am talking on + on in the tags. anywho if anyone wants to write a fic based on any of my posts feel free bc i probably never will

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coffee-writesthings · 4 months

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First kiss, a little drabble because I was feeling inspired by hozier's "Like Real People Do"

Cross-faction btw!

A rough day on the battlefield, with shared deaths on either side. Both RED and BLU were struggling to gain any real ground in what looked like it was going to definitely become a stalemate. Capture points were one of the worst sorts of things, in Dell's opinion-- having to move around all the time turned into so much work.

If he had to guess, it must have been similar for the other team's Spy. Though maybe, maybe that snake liked having something more to do. More things to sap, more places to go, more ways to catch someone off-guard.

It was thinking about things like this which caused death, after death, after death for him. This time though, he wasn't killed immediately. Instead, under the guise of invisibility-- definitely a cloak and dagger, rather than one of the other invis-watches, he held a knife just by his pulsing neck. The cold metal of his Big Earner could've felt like a peaceful respite from the heat, had it not been joined by a dark chuckle.

Unfortunately for Spy's attempt at intimidation, he'd had just about enough of this for one day. He clenched his jaw, breathing slowly so that he could say what he was about to, without making a fool out of himself.

"Aren't you tired?"

The knife's hold on him faltered. "Of what, exactly?"

"Killing people, running 'round without letting people see you, all of it."

"I could ask you the same question, laborer."

"Would you though? We're pitted against each other every day, in every way. How are we s'posed to care?"

"We… aren't."

"Then why do I find myself thinking about you. Why does your rat face fill my dreams? Why can't I get you out of my head?"

"You care about me?" he scoffed, taking the knife away from his neck. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the shimmer of overused invisibility.

Actions were always something that came before words for Engineer. It was something passed down to him from the earliest age when he lived in Bee Cave, and something he'd keep living by until the day he really died. In a swift motion, he pulled out his destruction PDA, getting rid of his sentry. To hell with the objective.

"This is my gun," he displayed the plain weapon, notably not crackling for bloodshed. "it's not the Frontier Justice-- I'm not gonna kill you with a couple of bullets. Take it if you don't believe me."

"You can keep it. I don't need a shotgun." He clicked a button on his watch, revealing himself to the prying eyes of the other. "Why? Why would you leave yourself entirely prone?"

"There's just somethin' I need to get outta my head. Would you kiss me?"

"Would, or could?" His face was neutral, if a little curious. He didn't seem entirely against the idea.

"Please. Just once, to get it out of my system."

"And if I find that I like it?"

"That'd be one hell of a surprise."

He took a step forward, checking around for cameras-- or a pesky teammate who would interrupt them. "To hell with it." he ripped off his balaclava, revealing his face, and his hair. It was damp with sweat, but still managed to hang about just so, in a way that framed his face.

For moments, he found himself unable to figure out whether he was supposed to look away. In his train of thought he managed to forget how to breath, and how to look away. He kicked himself inside for it.

"You want this?" he confirmed with Spy.

He nodded with a little smirk. "You're getting very good at making a man feel safe, Mr. Conagher."

"Please, call me Dell."

"Okay then, Dell. Come here then. If I'm competing with your dreams, I should use my whole arsenal, no?"

A nervous laugh escaped him as he stepped forward to the other. An arm wrapped around to the small of his back, bringing him even closer-- their torsos pressed together, something neither party minded in the slightest. "Is this a good time to mention that I've never done this before?"

"Truly?"

"Yeah. Not like I could really get out anywhere, always had things to build, stuff I was workin' on."

"I'll make sure to set a high bar then."

He leaned his head forward and down, inviting for him to meet him in the middle-- something he had to go up on his tiptoes for. The hand holding him there was gently supportive, just present, as if he could fall otherwise. And sure, he might've, but not in the literal way.

His lips were so warm, so soft. The hand not on his lower back traveled to the back of his neck. He felt himself melt into the embrace, noticing just how pleasant the sandalwoody, cinnamon scent of his cologne was.

When the kiss broke, he buried his face into the other's shoulder to continue enjoying that smell.

"Good?"

"Yeah, yes. I- I really don't know how that could've gone better."

"I have a few ideas. Maybe we can discuss them over a glass of wine, sometime?"

"I'd like that." he nodded his head rapidly.

With that, Spy stuffed himself back into his mask and disappeared into thin air. "It's a date, mon cher."

#tf2 fanfiction #tf2 #writeblr #engiespy #practical espionage #napoleon complex #how obvious is it that im afraid of being hurt by a person i trust?#cus im seeing the thruline in my fics and uhhhhhh

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fuckyeahfightlock · 3 months

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The Jewel in the Tower (207k, E) completed 25 JUN 2016

Sherlock (TV), 29,862 hits, 1051 kudos

Summary:

In a contemporary dystopia, Unity is peace--despite the fact unsanctioned information, illicit currency, and every sort of danger flows unchecked in the world's pleasure districts.

John Watson, a weary hired gun, is assigned by the mysterious Mentor to investigate a subversive element lurking in the Icehouse, the world's most famous House of Repose. As accustomed as he is to dealing with the unexpected, John is nevertheless woefully unprepared to meet the gem of the Ice house, Xie, the world renowned "drashaskaya," the living work of art after which all other drashas are modeled.

In sumptuous suites, amid trailing puddles of silk and fervent whispers in the night, John soon learns that nothing is as it seems in the floating world of London's pleasure district.

Grade: A-

Favorite Line: We are imperfect for each other.

What I’d do differently today: The chapter/s wherein Sherlock is found injured and taken to hospital, and the way the hospital scenes play out are kind of. . .operatic? They felt a little histrionic to me, as I reread it this weekend. I could also see where I either wrote it in a hurry or was getting tired of writing it, in that section (maybe readers can, too, or maybe not, I don't know). If I were to rewrite any of this, it would be about 30 - 50% of that segment of the story.

Notes: I reread this over the last couple of weeks because I wanted to read about the clothes, and was surprised to find myself kind of drawn into the story--there were bits and bobs I'd forgotten, including the details of the espionage subplot; the fact John and Lestrade became friends; and Sherlock's sweet tooth.

I was proud of a lot of the snappy dialogue, particularly between The Face and the Mentor, but also in the scenes with The Face and the Lamia, as well as that oozy, awful monster Jim Moriarty, who was terrible and terrifying without slipping into mwahaha-moustache-twirling villain territory, which he can.

The smut is intensely hot in places--and no penetrative sex, which was appropriate to the story, and looking back on it probably a challenge to write, considering there are probably 20+ sex scenes in the story.

As I was reading, at one point I thought to myself, This is someone's favourite Sherlock fic, and while I have no proof of this (no one I can recall ever having said this to me), I feel sure it's true, and that's sweet and humbling.

Most of you know I retooled this and published it as a novel without the Sherlock characters. I cannot remember most of the names I gave them. The fic is more "real' to me than the novel, now/still. Whatever that means. Probably nothing but it's interesting, considering I spent at least as long with the novel prep as I spent with the fic.

#my decade in fic #writing #fic #The Jewel in the Tower #modern-day dystopian/one-world government/espionage/geisha!lock AU

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fluffy-starlaxy · 21 days

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Behold! The least complicated TF2 shipping chart,

Fluf edition.

These are the ones that I can remember liking off the top of my head, but I enjoy almost every other mercs ships (except scout and spy for obvious reasons..)

Blanks & og post (got the screenshot from another tumblr user)

#come talk with me #tf2 #yeah thats it I have a few specifications and lil fhings about them as well #like how I enjoy specifically blu sniper/red scout #and I tend to like boots n bomb with red demo and blu soldier #bc red solly is a faithful man #but demo can still join in haha #also theres #uh... dnmsd... double agent/double espionage #i do like when the spies spy #oh my god spy/sniper/spy tickles my brain so much its INSANE #big sucker for texas toast #im just waiting for incendiary to update again #i love you incendiary #mwuah #also red specifically means I have read fics dedicated to them before #you would not have guessed how much bloody suit and boots and bomb ive read #i do like silence scope better but nobody uses it :(

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liebgotts-lovergirl · 1 year

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Fire On Fire: Chapter 18

(Ch. 17) ... (Ch. 1)

II Gallery II Symbol Guide II

Summary: New visitors share old memories and Alix finds out just how much it cost Joe to be there when she needed him.

A/N: One thing about Alix Martinelli is that she will fight everything + everyone tooth & nail, even her own feelings lol

Taglist: @latibvles @softguarnere @brassknucklespeirs @mccall-muffin @lieutenant-speirs @emmythespacecowgirl @sleepisforcowards @hxad-ovxr-hxart @holdingforgeneralhugs @parajumpboots @indigo-luvers @chaosklutz

Contemporary: October 22nd, 1944. Zetten-Andelot, Netherlands.

It'd been just about a month since she'd last heard from Joe and though she would never admit it out loud, Alix was worried.

In spite of her outwardly prickly demeanor, she had hoped he would at least send a letter or maybe a note...

Technically, she wasn't supposed to read for another two weeks to ensure her concussion was fully healed but for Joe, she would have made an exception.

Gio had always said that no news was good news but that pertained mainly to letters from home while they were away at school, not updates from… from friends during a war.

That’s what we are, Alix thought, trying to force the phrase to stick in her brain. We’re just friends.

But nonetheless, for reasons she couldn't explain, Alix found herself craning her neck till it ached every time she heard the screeching tires of arriving ambulances, praying desperately that it wouldn't be Joe she'd see laying bloody and broken on a stretcher.

Fortunately, it never was but the bittersweet relief she felt each time made her heart heavy with guilt.

These were someone's sons, brothers, boyfriends, husbands, she thought to herself as she listened to the gutwrenching agony of the wounded. Their lives mattered too.

Yes, they were people she hardly knew, but so was Joe…Wasn’t he?

Why did she care so much about a man she barely knew?

Why did her heart race at the very thought of him?

Why did the memory of his arms around her bring a rush of heat to her cheeks?

Why did her head automatically swivel when she swore she'd heard his voice?

She couldn't say but it was driving her insane.

She hated herself for it but ever since their last meeting, the paratrooper had been occupying her thoughts more and more, though she would continue to chalk it up to the wandering thoughts of an idle mind.

She couldn't afford it being anything else, not now.

Not during a war.

This was no time for romance.

Besides, she reasoned, it's not like she had anything else to do except let her thoughts run wild. They were products of her boredom, nothing more.

The doctor had been very clear: Due to the severity of her concussion, there would be no reading, no writing, no planning or executing missions and no training or physical exertion allowed for at least the next two weeks as a further precaution to ensure that it was healed properly.

Until then, she was more or less confined to her cot in a cramped, chaotic room, constantly surrounded by the misery of the dead and dying.

It might as well have been prison.

One of her only distractions from the monotony was the radio.

Stolen Owned by a paratrooper from the 82nd a few rows down from her, it was only ever set on one channel but it constantly buzzed with lively swing music, interspersed with regular so-called "updates" from a well-known Nazi propagandist.

Her predictably defeatist statements were irritating to listen to but listening to actual music from home almost made them worth suffering through.

"Good evening, Yankees," an alluring alto voice purred over the grainy air waves, causing a temporary hush around the aid station.

"Axis Sally here, sending you a warm welcome from Radio Berlin."

"This that Jerry bitch again?" Someone snorted loudly from across the room and Alix stifled a giggle.

Apparently Nazi propaganda wasn't working as well as the enemy would have hoped.

"At the sound of the chime, it will be exactly 21:00 Eastern War Time on October the 22nd, 1944."

1944?

Alix stiffened.

Ever since her head injury, hearing the year out loud sent shockwaves rippling through her system as her brain struggled to fill in the blanks.

When she had first come to, she would have bet her entire inheritance that it was still 1943, that she still had a year left to train, that she still had a year left before she would have to take a life for the first time.

But that was a comforting delusion, not reality.

She had been wounded in the field during a mission, so she'd been told. With a thirty-foot drop like that onto cobblestone, it was a miracle she hadn't broken her neck.

But why had she fallen in the first place? Surely, she wasn't that clumsy.

Or had she jumped? But why would she take that kind of risk?

She could have been killed.

Alix had far more questions than answers, a fact that only made her head ache worse with every blaring trumpet.

Her case officer, Lieutenant...Well, Captain Nixon now, stood against the brick wall on her right side, supervising her recovery like a silent spectre.

He would pop in every few days to check on her but he rarely spoke and Alix got the feeling that he was trying to keep himself distracted, though from what, she couldn't be sure.

More a shadow than a man, Nixon stood out of the way of the nurses as he nonchalantly skimmed fresh intel reports like the evening paper.

"Mind if I-?" Alix started, reaching a hand out to pluck a file from the bunch but before she could, the sight of two fast-approaching paratroopers caught her attention.

One seemed to be calling something out in her direction as he approached and the other was waving his arms enthusiastically as though signaling a plane.

“Hey Pyro, we thought that might be you!”

The speaker had a face dusted with freckles, decidedly auburn hair that was sticking to his forehead, and an exhausted but upbeat smile that faded to a frown as he approached.

“Jesus, you look like shit.”

His companion, a trooper about a head shorter with a mop of dirty blond hair and startlingly golden eyes, smacked him in the arm.

“Nice going, Don,” he quipped, shaking his head with a bemused chuckle. “Why get off on the right foot when you can shove it straight in your mouth instead, huh?”

“Well, he’s not wrong,” Alix interjected, taking the pair by surprise and the redhead– Don– made an emphatic gesture with an arm.

“See, even she admits it!”

“Don’t encourage him, Pyro,” the blond one scolded in an exaggerated stage-whisper, laughter twinkling in his amber eyes.

“I’m trying to teach him some manners here.”

“Oh get lost,” the redhead– Don, Alix corrected herself– scoffed, jostling his friend’s arm jokingly.

“Man gets a fiancée and suddenly thinks he knows all about women!”

“I know they generally don’t like being told they look like shit, Mal,” was the dry reply.

“But you don’t exactly have to be Dick fucking Tracy to figure that one out.”

“Hi, sorry, um,” Alix interrupted, waving a hand to get their attention. “Hate to put a damper on things but do I know you...? And why do you keep calling me…Wait, what did you call me?”

“Shit,” the redhaired one-- Don-- breathed as his brows knit with concern. “So it is true.”

“What’s true?” she inquired, already feeling even more out of the loop than before.

“You really can’t remember. Lieb said so but I didn’t think–”

The spy’s head perked up instantly.

Lieb…As in Liebgott? As in Joe Liebgott?

He was alive?

“Joe’s okay?” she asked, a note of hope ringing out clear in her voice and the blond paratrooper exchanged an amused glance with his friend.

“Well wouldja look at that, Mal.” He put a teasing hand to his heart as though swooning, cracking a playful grin. “As the great poet, Larry Clinton and his orchestra once said: ‘Love really does live on’.”

“‘Love’, my ass,” Alix retorted unceremoniously with a roll of her eyes. “I asked if he’s okay, not if he’d marry me.”

She hated how her heart seemed to skip a beat at the notion.

“Bet he’d say yes if you did ask though,” Don hooted and his blond friend snorted in agreement.

“Are you two done yet?” the agent asked dryly, pretending to inspect an invisible watch on her wrist with impatience.

With a shake of his head and a grin so infectious that Alix couldn’t help but grin too, the blond paratrooper plopped down at the foot of her bed, causing the frame to groan its complaint.

“Oh we’re just getting started!” he piped up proudly, his amber eyes twinkling with warmth. “We’ve got a lot to catch you up on!”

∆∆━━━━∆∆━━━∆∆━━━∆∆

“And then, wham!"

Don swung his fist out in a dramatic slow-motion display.

"You slugged him right in the kisser!"

The blond trooper, whose name was Skip– pretended to fall back onto the bed with a high-pitched "Nyahh" reminiscent of the Three Stooges and Alix couldn’t help but giggle at the ridiculousness of his performance.

“Somehow I doubt it went exactly like that,” she commented wryly but Don shrugged amicably.

“No, it was basically like that,” he corrected with a chuckle. “Except with a lot more swearing. And blood, way too much blood.”

"It was a real show!" the blond– Skip– agreed, sitting up and swinging his legs back and forth over the bed's edge like an excitable child.

"Like watching Sugar Ray in the ring…Y'know, if Sugar Ray was a short Philly Italian with martial arts training and anger management issues!"

"And that's why everybody calls you Pyro,” Don informed Alix with a proud smile. “Like pyrotechnics. Y'know, firecrackers! Bull came up with it!”

Now she was lost again.

“Sorry, who?” she asked, trying to keep the rising frustration out of her voice.

After all, it wasn’t their fault she couldn’t remember.

“Bull Randleman,” Nixon answered from beside her, barely looking up from the report he was reading.

“He’s an NCO. You’ll meet him when you get back. Great soldier–”

“And a swell guy too!” Skip added happily. “Say, that reminds me! How long're you in for?"

Glancing surreptitiously at Nixon to be sure he wasn't listening, Alix leaned over to her newfound friends, lowering her voice.

"Nurses say about two more weeks but I'll be damned if I stay here that long. I'm going out of my mind."

"Well hopefully it'll be sooner than that," Don said, putting his hands in his pockets. "'Cause we all miss you."

Skip waggled his eyebrows.

"Especially a certain Corporal Liebgott," he sing-songed and Alix rolled her eyes.

"If that was true, he'd be here," the spy countered but to her right, Nixon gave a skeptical snort.

"What?" Alix snapped, rounding on her handler.

"You think he hasn't tried?" The captain barked out a laugh.

"Liebgott's been bugging the hell out of any officer he can get his hands on, trying to get us to cut him loose so he can come here. If we didn't need him interrogating prisoners, I would've let him go myself just to get him to shut up already."

Alix blinked in shock.

"Wait, really?"

"No, I'm just lying to inflate your ego." Nixon said sarcastically. "Of course really. Kid must have it bad too because that stunt he pulled last time, staying here overnight when he should've been back, cost him his promotion."

The spy balked.

“It what?!”

“Just what I said. Liebgott might be a scrawny, hot-tempered, snarky little shit but he's also a damn fine interrogator and one hell of a machine gunner."

He shifted the dossier he had been skimming to his other arm and then continued.

"Not to mention, for some reason, he's still only a T/5 at 25 years old. Dick was filling out the paperwork to get him promo'd to T/4 when he heard about the whole 'Lieb going AWOL' thing and…"

Nixon grimaced with a helpless shrug.

"Well, you can imagine how that went."

Joe had lost his promotion…Because of her?

Tugging her thin, medical issue blanket around her shoulders, Alix's thoughts were moving at warp-speed.

This was not what she had wanted, not at all.

If she had known that Joe would get in trouble for staying, she never would have asked him to.

She had been through flashbacks and panic attacks before; as awful as they were, they were nothing new. She had become a distraction to him and him to her.

This needed to stop.

But the steely edge of Nixon's voice cut through her thoughts like a knife.

“And don’t go beating yourself up for it, alright, because I know you are.”

Her case officer crossed his arms before continuing.

“Lieb made his choice– he put his personal feelings before the job. That is not your fault.”

The young agent sank back in her cot with a sigh of defeat as she watched the never-ending crush of patients being rushed in like commuters from 30th Street Station.

Joe had put his job on the line for her…However complex her feelings about him were, Alix couldn’t allow them to continue, for Joe’s sake.

Turning to Skip and Don, who were engrossed in their own conversation, she decided to make one thing crystal clear.

“Don’t you two go risking your careers for me too, you got that?”

The redhead dug a hand into his pocket with a chuckle.

“Don’t worry,” he said breezily, pulling out a crumpled carton of iodine swabs and some hastily-wound gauze for her inspection.

“We’re here on official business.”

“Volunteered for a supply run while there’s a lull,” Skip explained with an infectious grin, revealing a couple pilfered tourniquets stuffed into his jacket.

"We wanted to check up on you and Spina's already starting to run low on some stuff so we figured two birds, one stone, ya know?"

Alix couldn’t help but grin with him, already feeling at-ease in their presence.

“You guys are the best.”

“We know,” Don quipped, jostling her shoulder lightly. “But what are friends for?”

“It really blows that you can’t come back with us, Pyro.” Skip’s seemingly ever-present smile started to slip slightly.

“Just doesn’t feel right without you. We’re missing our third man…Well, woman. But you get what I mean.”

It was then that an idea struck Alix like a bolt of lightning, an idea so risky that for a second, she wondered if it was even worth mentioning.

But she had to try...She couldn't spend another week cooped up at the aid station, bedridden and bored to tears while thousands of others were risking their lives, she just couldn't.

The field was where she belonged, where she had fought so hard to be.

Besides, her most serious injury-- her concussion-- was almost healed and she had been assured that her memory would return in time.

With her cover as a combat nurse still intact, Alix knew she could just as easily let her wrist and ankle heal after she made it back to Joe--

To Easy, she corrected herself. After she made it back to Easy Company.

So it was decided then.

She knew what she had to do.

Gesturing surreptitiously for her new friends to move closer, Alix whispered, "Say, how'd you guys like to help me bust out of here?"

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willowcrowned · 8 months

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‘I’m gonna give the me everything I want’ is a great fic writing strategy until it’s three months later and it turns out the ‘everything I want’ is approximately four thousand words and still unfinished

#writing #technically the corporate espionage verse is not incomplete but it is FAR too short #I’m considering leaving a comment to pester the author into writing more. however I have a feeling she is out of ideas for it #and also in the midst of finishing up a huge project #fic

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spookyspaghettisundae · 2 months

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None the Wiser

With walls so white that fluorescent lights made them blinding, Chloe Grant soon started seeing bright spots everywhere. Ghostly echoes danced about her field of vision, around her own reflection in the bulletproof glass surface. Instead of bars, clear windows separated visitors from the inmates in their cells, with thick glass plates reaching from floor to ceiling, and tiny breathing holes that wouldn’t even permit anybody to poke as much as a finger through.

Automatic lights turned on everywhere they wandered. Stern-faced and square-jawed guards kept close watch, sporting glossy body armor, and electric stun batons hooked onto their belts. Doors here never opened to traditional keys, their magnetic locks only yielded to plastic cards with RFID chips. Electric buzzing came muted and quiet from those devices, with tiny red lights turning green, and dim touchscreen interfaces flanking the sides of every cell.

Low ceilings swallowed all echoes and suggested floors upon floors of other tracts, and the overall oppressive atmosphere made it less inviting to say anything than in a church during a sermon.

Though security here was as high as it got, this whole place felt less like a prison, and more like a strange sanitarium, transported from a dark past into an even weirder future.

On the way in, Chloe Grant had half-expected to see a real-life Hannibal Lecter standing inside one of the bright chambers, bound in a straitjacket, goading them to step closer.

Instead, Singh paced back and forth inside his cell. Dark rings underlined his haunted eyes, and every joke the thin man cracked to lighten the mood felt forced.

Grant recognized this brand of despair. Their former colleague was on the brink of a nervous breakdown.

“I’d love to tell you more,” said Doctor Solomon. The corners of his lips twitched with a hint of a smile, like a child who could barely contain himself. “But I believe everything we say here is recorded and gathered, and for the sake of our continued paychecks, I must keep our upcoming innovations confidential.”

The eccentric doctor and lead engineer in their company was doing his best to cheer up Rida Singh. It wasn’t working. Still, Singh’s face featured a brief flash of recognition over Solomon’s noble effort.

Ruiz scratched his five o’clock shadow and nodded. They all knew what Solomon was trying, so Ruiz offered his best attempt towards the same end.

“Can we get you anything in here? Everybody’s being sketchy about visiting times, and rules, and the likes.”

Singh shook his head and coughed.

“No. This place is only temporary anyway. Lawyer said, uh, I’m being transferred to some other facility next. Before the trial, yeah?”

Grant hedged so many unspoken questions for Singh. Why he had pulled the move he had to land himself here, what he had hoped to accomplish, and if he realized that his stunt had effectively gotten Carter killed.

It wasn’t the time nor place. She held her tongue.

She had almost expected Ruiz to pose those questions, anyway given he seemed to have been closer to Carter and Singh and a spy for… another agency? Company? Who knew? Bennett was still digging.

Ruiz was playing it cool. Playing the concerned colleague all the way.

Or maybe he wasn’t even playing at all.

The most convincing liars rarely lied. They drew their confidence from the naked truth, letting deceptions fall unnoticed through the cracks.

She had been watching him for the past days. She had noticed the shake in his hand. At Carter’s funeral, Ruiz had tried to hide the shaking. Not even smoking could do it.

And the man’s eyes had welled with tears at the funeral. His loss appeared profound and honest. Carter and Ruiz had been working closely together for over a year.

Grant’s inner monologue drowned out whatever superficial things the three men were talking about now.

Singh’s eyes wandered her way and she felt pressured to say something again. So she did.

“Whatever you do, don’t say anything without Spencer’s legion of lawyers to sand it down.”

He smirked. Scoffed.

“Man, I am really,” Singh started. Pausing, he ran a hand through his frazzled hair and sighed. “I don’t know, I’m just really disappointed in Spencer. He’s leavin’ me hanging here, man.”

Grant sympathized. With both Singh and Spencer.

The CEO needed to keep the ship running. The lights on, the bills paid, the progress made.

Meanwhile, Singh had only been doing his job, and if things had worked out, he might have been celebrated for his actions. Instead, Carter was dead, the US government’s team had killed the T-Rex and taken its remains, and Singh, their former head of IT, now sat in federal prison, awaiting a trial that could put him in a cell for life.

“Yeah,” she replied. Sighed. She hated that this was the best she could muster in response. “Wish we could do more.”

Singh cracked another feeble smile. He appreciated her own miserable attempt at giving him any shred of courage.

He continued pacing back and forth in his cell.

“Don’t worry old chap,” Doctor Solomon told his junior colleague. Despite the oppressive gloom of this brightly-lit prison, the elderly man beamed. “Chin up. Spencer’s a cold fish when you shine a light on him, but he rewards your loyalty when you least expect it. And speaking of fish, Bernie’s taken care of—I have him in my lab and he’s only being fed the best money could buy.”

Solomon tapped the window between them twice and gave Singh a reassuring nod.

Singh exhaled sharply and he smiled the first honest smile since their arrival.

“Thanks. Owe you one, Doc. Just, uh, don’t do anything funny with Bernie, okay?”

“I would never dream of it,” said Solomon. Then he tilted his head. “Unless you give me consent to experiment on him? See, his species would make him a good specimen for tests relating to the Devonian—”

“No. N. O,” Singh said, spelling out his denial and emitting a nervous chuckle.

None of them were sure when Solomon said things like that.

“In all seriousness,” Ruiz said, “I bet you, Spencer got Bennett and whoever else diggin’ on what really happened out over in Midland. You’ll be out in no time, then the first drink’s on me, amigo.”

Grant wasn’t convinced.

How much did Ruiz know? How much of it was in his hands? Could something he knew set Singh free?

She flashed Singh a smile so feeble that they may as well have been looking into a mirror, rather than through a glass window.

“Stay frosty and see you soon,” she said. A deep breath, and part of her composure returned. She winked at him. “And don’t bite too hard when you get any cake, might just be a file hidden in there.”

His smile widened, replete with warmth.

The three visitors remained quiet on their way out. Down the claustrophobic corridors, past the tiny blinking lights, and doors that only guards could open with their mag-lock keycards. Before long, the trio found themselves back out on the parking lot of the Carrington Federal Correctional Institute.

High fences topped with razor wire surrounded them. Only few other vehicles stood parked on the visitor’s lot.

The shadows of visors concealed the watchful eyes of prison guards, all observing their every move as the trio shuffled about on the parking lot.

The three stopped and stood in silence, all grappling with what to say next, before they inevitably scattered in the winds.

Uncomfortable in this environment, Solomon was first to speak and first to leave. He straightened the collar of his gray jacket. “Oh, well, don’t let any of this eat at you. I’m confident Spencer can pull some strings and get Singh released soon enough. He’ll be back to annoying you on comms before you know it. On a lighter note, I’m excited to share with you the details on our newest achievement. Not here, of course. I’ll see you two back at the office. Bring beverages, the briefing might take a while.”

The head engineer disappeared into his old blue Charger and drove off, leaving Ruiz and Grant behind.

Ruiz was smoking a cigarette, leaning against his motorcycle. Grant hadn’t even noticed him light up his cancer stick.

His eyes narrowed, studying one of the fence’s watchtowers. Like a sharpshooter, observing his mark, staring back at a guard up there. When he spoke, it almost looked like he was talking to the faraway guard, but the words were aimed at Grant.

“Why did you come here, anyway?”

Her heart started pounding like a huge drum. It wasn’t even like she felt caught—the question offended her somehow.

“Excuse me?”

Ruiz took a long drag from his cigarette. “You’re still pretty new to FP. I never figured you and Singh to have been close.”

This left her speechless. He must have known how his words would hit. But why? And why now?

He answered unspoken questions, answering for his offense unprompted. “Sorry. Just curious. Trying to get to know you better. You know what, though? I ain’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. ‘Preciate you’ve been here—been to Carter’s funeral, now, this—good having you… havin’ you on the team.”

Ruiz’s gaze wandered from the watchtower to Grant, locking onto her eyes with a burning stare. He took another drag. His eyes glittered something strange. His model shape looked stunning in this sunlight.

She swept her hair back, stewing on his speech, looking for the right words to counter it with.

“Don’t mention it. Least I can do.” She bit her lip. Maybe the easiest way to keep tabs on him would be to… “I know you offered Singh a drink when he’s out, but how about you offer me one sometime?”

She got into her car while he stood there, staring after her, smoking.

“Careful,” he said. Every syllable billowed out like smoke. “Don’t wanna get us into hot water for fraternizing too closely outside of work.”

Ruiz nodded, as if agreeing with himself on what he had just said. He stood still where he leaned against his motorcycle, posed like the languid statue of a post-modern deity, rivaling famous underwear models in his attractive poise.

She shot back. “Hold them horses cowboy, it’s a just a drink or two.”

His lips curled into a smile. He performed a mock salute with two fingers.

She took off, pulling the car around and driving away.

Grant shot furtive glances in her rearview mirror as she left the prison’s parking lot behind. Ruiz continued staring after her as she drove away. Then he stamped out his cigarette on the Tarmac, mounted his bike, and slipped the black helmet over his head, visor flapped down.

Then, as Grant’s car trailed around the curving road, lines of tall trees swallowed Ruiz and the prison whole.

She had a lot to think about, and she had a long drive ahead of her. Visiting Singh here was quite out of the way, and he would be transferred even farther for the trial.

Things weren’t looking good for Singh, and she wondered if she could get him off the hook… if only she gathered enough evidence on Ruiz’s espionage, and the mystery redhead he worked with—that suspicious suit he had been meeting at the café in Austin.

He had met with that redhead more than once since Grant started following him around. Grant had been stalking Ruiz, always careful not to tip him off to his tail.

She used rentals, taxis, and even set up in any inconspicuous locales where she could watch the roads he frequented throughout the city.

Grant even knew where Ruiz lived now. Downtown, fifth story of an old building that looked fit for gentrification in the near future. She wondered what his place looked like inside.

Endless minutes later, her phone buzzed, piercing the mind fog. Danielle Bennett was calling.

Grant plugged in an earbud and tapped her phone to take the call.

“What’s up, Danielle?” she asked Bennett.

“Where are you? Driving?”

“Mhm. On my way back from visiting Singh in Carrington.”

“Did he—you know what, tell me later. You’ll have to step on the gas, we got another incursion to deal with. The operative C2A is about to go out any minute now.”

Grant clicked her tongue. “Where?”

Bennett’s fingers hammered away at a keyboard with incredible speed.

“Kentucky. Appalachian mountains.”

Grant sighed. “Guess my book needs to wait. Again. I’m on my way.”

Her finger hovered near the button to hang up. More words from Danielle followed, stopping her from pressing it.

“What are you… you know what? Tell me later? Uhm,” Bennett paused for a long beat. More click-clacking at her keyboard followed. “I didn’t just call about the incursion, I, uhm, I got more on… you-know-who.”

She sounded as mousy as she usually looked. Grant knew exactly who Bennett meant.

The redhead Ruiz had been holding his clandestine meetings with.

Grant kept her eyes on the road. Traffic on the highway drifted in slow motion despite her car accelerating. “You sure this is the right channel to talk about it? The walls have ears, and all that?”

Bennett gasped. A frustrated gasp. Grant immediately regretted posing that question.

“Hey, I’m no newbie here. If I don’t want to be seen or heard, then I won’t be seen or heard.”

Grant smiled, stifling a laugh. “Okay, okay. I know. Just… we gotta be careful, okay?”

They still hadn’t informed anybody yet. As far as Grant knew, nobody knew that she and Bennett knew about Ruiz’s espionage on Spencer’s boardroom meeting. Or about the redhead.

“Do you wanna hear it, or not?” Bennett asked.

“Sure thang. Hit me.”

Bennett simmered in another long pause. The furious typing at her keyboard stayed absent for several beats, for so long that Grant almost asked if everything was alright, just before Bennett started hacking away again.

“Her name is Loretta Corsino. She is in no shape or form affiliated with the American government. She’s a consultant in the private sector. Harvard, attorney, squeaky-clean record, can’t find dirt on her anywhere.”

Grant snorted. This surprised her. Another private firm, butting into FP’s business?

It made enough sense. For now. Still, some pieces of the puzzle were missing. Frustratingly so.

“Huh.”

“She works part-time in cybersecurity at a US branch of a British company named Celava Semi-Conductors.”

“Huh,” Grant said again. “So they’re IT?”

“A little bit more than that. Get a load of this,” Bennett said. “They’re kind of a pioneer in the field of high-energy physics, developing new forms of semi-conductors, shielding, and other components for use in nuclear reactors, particle accelerators, and other high-tech projects.”

Grant’s heart started racing again. Celava sounded like competition. A rival for Future Proof. This wasn’t good.

They knew. The had to know what Future Proof was dealing in.

“The plot thickens…”

“No kidding! CEO’s a guy named Malcolm Wright, a real Conan the Barbarian-looking guy in a suit,” Bennett’s typing ceased. Her syllables drawled out as she was reading something off a screen before continuing. “Celava used to be trumpeted by the British government as an example of how their national industry was ��moving into the future’, but then Wright caused a rift between the government and his company.”

Now, Grant was intrigued. She said nothing. Bennett continued uninterrupted.

“A year ago, there was an accident at Celava’s main research facility. Two scientists died. According to official accounts, there was some kind of explosion of super-heated steam when a faulty valve blew. The families of the two dead scientists there were given generous compensation—and, curiously, made to sign an agreement that both funerals would be held immediately, with closed coffins and no viewing of the bodies.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. You thinking what I’m thinking? This also sound very cover-uppy to you?”

“Yeah.” They knew. The Anomalies, the dinosaurs from the past, the mutants from the future, and the secret operations to keep these things from the public. “Yeah, they sure as hell know.”

“Good, glad we’re on the same page. You gotta be careful, okay? No telling how deep this rabbit hole really goes. It’s a whole other can of worms if the spy’s working for someone else in the private sector.”

“I know, I—”

“I mean it. I know you know. I know you’re going to tell me that this is the kind of rabbit hole where people disappear and wind up dead, or in closed coffins with no viewing of the bodies. I know you want to tell me to be careful, too. I know.”

“Okay. Yeah, let’s just,” Grant took a deep breath. “Let’s just play it cool, keep our cool. Keep working like we’re none the wiser. I’m starting to think we need to go to Spencer about all this, sooner than later. We, uhm. Speak soon, Danielle, I’m stopping at home before hitting the HQ for airlift. I’ll be a few minutes late.”

“You… call me Dan.”

Grant smiled.

“Okay, Dan. See you soon.”

They hung up.

Half an hour later, Grant pulled into her new driveway. Gravel crunched underneath her sneakers on the short way from the garage to her front door. The fresh coat of paint looked good.

It was a nice place.

Even with all the cardboard boxes inside, cluttering the entrance foyer, and the living room, and the kitchen, and the—

The doorbell rang. It startled her. She froze, heart racing again, in the middle of packing a bag to exchange her laundry at Future Proof’s city HQ. Just as she zipped up her duffel bag, the doorbell rang a second time.

A shadow awaited her outside. Still, calm, and looming, the tiny windows obscured everything about her visitor but the shadow.

She opened the front door.

The shadow turned out to have been Ruiz. He was standing out there.

Ruiz thumbed his lip as their gazes met.

How did he know where she lived?

“Hey,” he said. Husky, smoky, and stern. “I needed to see you. Speak to you. It’s urgent.”

What? About what? How—

She almost voiced her doubts unfiltered, then found her cool, thinking back to what she had told Danielle earlier—to keep their cool. “Is this about the incursion, or about the drink?”

Ruiz smirked. His eyes glittered something strange again. Flashing with something seductive.

“No. Getting to HQ for the job needs to wait, too. I need to speak to you. Alone.”

Taken off-guard, Grant rubbed the back of her neck, and considered her options.

He gave her no space to think.

“Can I come inside? Talk in there?”

“It’s… quite a mess. I’m still moving in,” she fired back.

“I ain’t fussy,” he said. His eyes flashed again. Narrowed. Drilling into her, scanning her up and down.

Did he know? Did he know what they knew?

“Okay, sure. Don’t say I didn’t warn ya. Let’s chat.” She stepped aside and invited him in with a sweeping gesture.

He stepped inside, swerving past the stacks of cardboard boxes, looking for a place to talk.

Grant licked her lips.

Her gun was upstairs.

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