#Pack Canva Nail Designer
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Pack Canva (Melhores Opções Para Você Escolher)
Sem dúvida, um pack de Canva é a solução perfeita para quem precisa criar materiais para promover o seu negócio na internet, mas tem pouco tempo para executar essa atividade.
Portanto, se você está nessa situação, aqui tem exatamente o que você precisa.
Os packs de Canva são uma ótima maneira de economizar tempo e dinheiro na criação de materiais de marketing.
Eles permitem que você crie designs…
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#Canva Pack Advogada#Canva Pack Estética#Pack Canva Confeitaria#Pack Canva Design de Sobrancelhas#Pack Canva Lingerie#Pack Canva Marketing Digital#Pack Canva Massoterapia#Pack Canva Nail Designer#Pack Canva Odontologia#Pack Canva Pilates#Pack Canva Psicologia#Pack Canva Semijoias#Pack Corretora de Imóveis#Pack Lash Designer#Pack Maquiadora
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For your fandom fest requests: Lokius, in the middle of the ocean.
(In which we see that a very unusual location like this is absolutely bait and will cause me to bite even when you submit on the last day. 😂 Thanks so much, I hope you enjoy!)
Enemies of the Ocean
(lokius, 3.3k, T; read it below or on AO3) read all the fandom fest fics
Day One
“What are you doing?” Loki asks, squinting across the lifeboat in the harsh light.
The storm that had come out of nowhere and laid waste to their ship had blown off in the night, leaving nothing but endless blue sky in its wake. Their lifeboat is equipped with a canvas roof to keep off most of the worst rays, but it can’t fully hold back the intensity of the tropical sun.
“Taking inventory of our supplies,” the man across from him says. He’s got a slight folksy American drawl, grey hair, and a mustache under a nose broken long ago and set improperly. “We should be prepared.”
Loki watches him for another minute as he sorts through the survival box that had been in the raft. He remembers seeing the man in passing on the ship, but never had cause to meet him. Now they might be the only two people who survived the storm.
“Prepared for what?” The man pauses in his sorting and looks up. Loki raises his eyebrows. “Surely we won’t be out here long before someone picks up our distress beacon.”
“If we’re lucky. If the beacons are actually transmitting. If I know this ship, and I do, making sure the rescue beacons were functioning wasn’t high on anyone’s priority list. These survival packs are designed for one person, for ten days. We have two. Steve Callahan was drifting for seventy-six—”
“All right, all right,” Loki interrupts. He briefly wonders what this guy’s story is—why he knows the ship and random facts about castaways—before deciding he doesn’t care. He’s interested in surviving, not making friends. “I’m getting the picture.”
“Not sure you are,” the man mutters under his breath, but he returns to focusing on his task and leaves Loki to stare out at the endless, hopeless horizon.
~~~~~
Day Two
Loki is seriously considering throwing him overboard. He doesn’t really see any downsides. He’d get the supplies all to himself, which gives him a better chance of survival. He knows how to use the solar stills to make fresh water. And he wouldn’t have to listen to this.
“Would you stop the bloody whistling?” he snaps eventually.
The sound cuts off abruptly and the man looks up from where he seems to be attempting to fashion a fish hook out of nail he dug out of the side of the lifeboat. “Oh, sorry,” he says sheepishly. “Didn’t even realize I was doing it.”
Loki shoots him a supremely unimpressed look, and the man smiles and gives a little apologetic shrug before returning to his work. It’s not endearing. Loki is not endeared. He watches the man a little longer before he speaks again.
“What’s your name?”
The man frowns at him. “It’s Mobius,” he says. “You didn’t know and you waited this long to ask?”
Loki makes a noncommittal gesture with his hand. “Didn’t seem pressing.”
Mobius scoffs and shakes his hand as he looks down again. They lapse into silence, the only sound—now that the whistling is ceased—the soft sound of water lapping against the hull.
“You’re not going to ask me my name?” Loki prompts after a little while, mostly out of curiosity.
“I know who you are,” Mobius tells him flatly. “Loki Odinson. Heir to a media empire. What I don’t know is what you were doing on that ship.”
“Huh,” Loki says. He doesn’t answer the unasked question, though. “Going fishing?”
Mobius snorts. Shakes his head again. “Something like that.”
~~~~~
Day Four
“You’re can’t seriously expect me to eat that.”
“Whatsamatter? You don’t like sushi?”
“I like sushi. That is not sushi.”
“Same difference.”
“It’s bloody. Can we at least rinse it—”
“No! If you put it in the sea water you’re going to consume too much salt, and you’re not using our fresh water for this. Eat it or don’t, but you’re not getting anything more from the supplies.”
“Did anyone ever tell you that you’d make a superb dictator?”
~~~~~
Day Seven
“I was escaping,” Loki says.
Mobius stirs, cracking one eye open as he looks over at Loki. He’s stretched out on the opposite bench, hands linked and pillowed behind his head. He doesn’t speak, but he doesn’t need to. Their conversations over the last week have mostly concerned their survival and little else; Loki told himself he wasn’t interested in knowing or being known by the other man. But truth be told, the prospect of talking about something other than fish is more appealing by the day. Despite their frequent arguments, Mobius seems… kind. Loki doesn’t have a lot of kind people in his life.
“My mother died, and in the aftermath I found out I was adopted. I didn’t take it well, to put it mildly. I just… needed to get away from it all.”
“I’d say you succeeded at that.”
Loki huffs a laugh despite himself. “Overshot a bit, I think.”
“Mm,” Mobius hums, closing his eyes again. “Where were you headed next?”
“Oh, I hadn’t decided. Brazil, maybe. Starting to think somewhere colder sounds more attractive, though.”
Mobius smiles. “Can’t imagine why.”
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
Loki rolls his eyes, though Mobius isn’t looking at him. “Where were you headed?”
“Oh, wherever the ship goes next,” Mobius answers, shrugging a little. “I don’t really pay much attention. Just go where they send me. You know, I think this is the most time I’ve had off in the last fifteen years.”
“You can’t be serious,” Loki says flatly, blinking at him in disbelief. “What about going home? The holidays?”
“No family to speak of. Don’t really have a permanent address to call home.”
“So, what? You’re just a nomad, living for your career?”
“S’pose you could put it like that,” Mobius says. He doesn’t seem bothered by it in the slightest.
“Isn’t that a little… depressing?” Loki asks, trying and failing not to make a face.
Mobius snorts softly. “Not really. I’m happy enough.”
Loki contemplates this—thinks about his messed up relationship with his family, but how he still can’t help but want to see his brother. How he misses home when he’s away too long, even if there’s not much there for him anymore. It’s not like he needs anyone, but being happy alone is one thing. Having nothing outside your job is another thing entirely.
He reclines back on the wooden bench, already feeling the sore spots from constantly laying on the unyielding surface. It’s saying something that he can already feel his eyelids falling shut anyway.
“Hey Loki?” Mobius ventures softly after another few minutes.
“Hm?”
“I’m sorry about your mother.”
Loki swallows against the ache in his chest, the one that’s never truly gone away and never will. “Thank you, Mobius.”
~~~~~
Day Twelve
Mobius is braiding a rope, and it’s driving Loki to distraction.
The combination of Mobius’ polo shirt being stretched out after constant wear and his already noticeable weight loss means the garment hangs off him, gapping open at the collar to reveal a wedge of chest covered by fine blond hair and entirely-too-enticing collarbones. His arms and forearms, once pale, have been tanned a deep russet-brown by the unrelenting sun, which only makes the muscles working under his skin all the more obvious. Not to mention the way he’s got his tongue pinned between his teeth in concentration, a slip of pink glimpsed between pillowy lips, somehow no less alluring for how they’re cracked and peeling.
Loki wants to tell him to cut it out, but they he’d have to admit he’d been watching and, worse, that Mobius is affecting him.
It’s just the sun getting to him, that’s all. The boredom. It’s not like he has literally anything else to do besides watch Mobius. He has been passing some of the days idly carving a design into the wood of the lifeboat, but he did that all morning. Plus, Mobius keeps nagging him about dulling their only knife, even though Loki has been careful to use only the very tip to preserve the rest of the blade.
The point is, he’s bored, and surely no one could blame him for looking, and Mobius hasn’t even noticed—
“Feels kinda like you’re trying to set me on fire with your mind,” Mobius says, startling him out of his thoughts.
“What?”
“You’re staring.”
Loki huffs and looks off into the endless horizon. “What else am I supposed to do?”
“You could help,” Mobius suggests.
“Do what?” Loki asks skeptically. The fact that he doesn’t refuse immediately should frankly be concerning. He is bored, though.
“Here,” Mobius says, shifting across the boat to sit next to him. “You can continue with this one.”
He shoves the half-braided rope into Loki’s hands, apparently expecting him to be able to focus on this and not how their legs are now pressed together from hip to knee. Mobius isn’t any less attractive close up, and he also doesn’t seem inclined to move back to his side of the boat. To be fair, the sun is sinking toward the horizon and there’s more shade on Loki’s side, but still. Does he have to sit right there?
“You’re staring again,” Mobius says, a teasing smile playing on his lips.
“Maybe I’m just watching you so I know what to do.”
“Are you?”
Loki huffs and looks down at the rope in his hands. “I don’t see how that’s any of your concern.”
~~~~~
Day Nineteen
“Hey! Hey, over here!” Loki shouts at the top of his lungs, standing in the boat and waving his arms frantically.
“They’re not going to see you,” Mobius says wearily.
“Hey! Mayday!”
“Loki—”
He can’t just give up. He can’t. There’s a ship right there. It’s not even that far away. He could almost swim if he wasn’t horribly underfed and weak.
“It’s a container ship. Even if they saw us—which they won’t—they wouldn’t stop. Couldn’t.”
“That can’t be true,” Loki insists.
“It is. Now get down before you turn us over and we lose everything,” Mobius says, though not unkindly.
With a heavy sigh, Loki collapses into the boat. He didn’t have the energy to stay standing up much longer anyway. “So we just have to sit here and watch our only link to the outside world sail away?”
Mobius hums. “Pretty much.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
~~~~~
Day Twenty-six
Sometimes Loki feels like he’s acclimatizing to the unending hunger, the constant dehydration, the mind-addling heat that the canvas shade barely mitigates.
Then he realizes: no. He’s just slowly going mad.
Every day is much the same. They wake up when the sun rises, eat a small portion of their rapidly dwindling stores, check the fishing lines they left in overnight. One day it rained, and they spent the entire time collecting as much fresh water as they could and washing away the salt that crusts their skin and leaves sores scattered over their bodies. It had felt euphoric in the moment, but it hadn’t lasted.
They have next to no modesty around each other anymore—difficult to, when you live within arm’s reach at all times. Loki has watched Mobius’ slightly soft form shrink, until his limbs are all sinewy muscle that’s slowly wasting away as well after almost a month of near-immobility. He knows all Mobius’ ticks and habits by now, which is why he knows immediately that something’s wrong when he wakes up to find Mobius curled up on his side.
Loki drops to his knees next to the other bench, wincing at the pain that shoots up through his aching joints, and puts a hand out to Mobius’ shoulder. He’s shivering. It’s not even a little cold. Loki swears under his breath.
“Mobius? Hey, are you all right?”
For a moment Mobius doesn’t respond, and Loki’s stomach drops. But then his eyelids are fluttering half-open. He tries to lick cracked, chapped lips with a too-dry tongue. “‘M fine,” he lies.
“I don’t know why I asked,” Loki huffs. He presses a hand to Mobius’ face and almost yelps at how hot his skin is. “You’re burning up.”
“‘M fine,” Mobius insists, making an abortive move to push himself up. Loki’s pretty sure he wouldn’t have made it even if Loki hadn’t been holding him down. He groans. “Maybe ‘m not fine.”
“What can I do?” Loki asks desperately. “Please tell me there’s something I can do.”
“There’s a small medical kit. Should have a few ibuprofen in it.”
“A few.”
“Better than nothing.”
“I’m not sure it is,” Loki mutters under his breath, but he goes to find the kit. Small is accurate—mostly bandaids and a few alcohol wipes. A roll of gauze. A few individual packets of pain relievers. Loki grabs one packet and what’s left in the solar still of their fresh water. They have a bit more in a larger jug, but they need it to rain again to replenish their supplies. “Here,” he says, dropping the pills into Mobius’ hand and holding out the water. “Drink up.”
Mobius throws the pills back and swallows them dry. “Don’t need it.”
“You do, you’re sick.”
“‘M fine,” he insists again. Loki wants to scream. “Not thirsty.”
“Bullshit,” Loki snaps. “Drink the goddamned water, Mobius.”
Mobius eyes the container uncertainly. “Did you already have your portion today?”
“Yes,” Loki lies. “Drink the rest.”
Fortunately, Mobius doesn’t fight him. The fact that he doesn’t have the strength to is something Loki is absolutely not considering.
~~~~~
Day Twenty-eight
“You need to eat,” Loki insists.
“Don’t,” Mobius mumbles. “Better to save it for you.”
“You need energy to get better.”
“And you need it to survive.”
“I’m not eating if you don’t,” Loki says stubbornly.
Mobius glares up at him from where he’s cradled against Loki’s chest, though in his current state it’s not very intimidating. To be fair, Loki doesn’t think it would be that intimidating under normal circumstances either.
“You’re an asshole, you know that?”
“I don’t care what you think of me. The only thing I care about right now is that you live,” Loki retorts, and somewhere, deep under the fear and exhaustion, he knows he means it completely.
~~~~~
Day Twenty-nine
In his near-delirious state, Loki almost misses the ship. Fortunately, the ship doesn’t miss them.
It’s a sailboat. One mast, not that big. There’s a man standing on the bow, waving to them. “Hei der borte! Lever du?”
Loki blinks and rubs his eyes. He is one hundred percent hallucinating this. They’re speaking Norwegian.
“Anyone alive over there?” the man calls, this time in English. A woman emerges from the cabin: tall, thin, white-blonde hair, a hand shading her eyes as she speaks to the man too quietly for Loki to understand.
Well, if this is a hallucination, he might as well indulge in the fantasy. Loki pushes himself up slightly, careful not to jostle Mobius, and lifts an arm.
“We’re alive!” he yells—or tries to. It comes out as a croak, if it comes out at all, though with the hand it probably doesn’t matter if it doesn’t carry.
There’s a bit of a commotion as the Norwegians spring into action, maneuvering their boat closer. Loki is still convinced he’s hallucinating, even when their hull bumps up against the lifeboat, even when the man leaps down into the boat, even when strong, capable hands try to remove Mobius from his grip. He automatically puts up a brief resistance at that, but he lacks the strength to do much of anything.
A few minutes later, he’s being hauled up on board the sailboat in some kind of sling and watching the lifeboat—their little refuge, the only thing separating them from the deep blue sea for the past month—slowly drift away.
And then, everything goes black.
~~~~~
Five Days Post-Rescue
The sound of a squeaky wheel rouses Loki from his dozing, and his eyelids flutter open to reveal Mobius pushing himself into the hospital room on a rickety wheelchair. His eyes are bright and there’s a smile under his beard, and the sight of him makes something contract almost painfully in Loki’s chest.
“I’m quite certain you’re not supposed to be up,” Loki tells him with as much reproach he can muster, though he can’t quite keep the smile from tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“It��s fine,” Mobius says, grinning wider. “If they didn’t want me to go anywhere they wouldn’t have left the wheelchair next to the bed.”
“Hmm,” Loki hums doubtfully. “I’m beginning to suspect you’re secretly a troublemaker.”
“Who, me? Never. I always follow the rules. I’m just very good at finding loopholes.”
They’ve come a long way since the first days on the boat when they couldn’t stand each other. It’s extremely annoying how much Loki likes him, actually, but Loki supposes it was that or they’d have killed each other eventually.
“Good to see you’re doing well enough to be a nuisance,” Loki says as Mobius finishes wheeling over to the side of Loki’s bed, which is not something Loki is sure he could accomplish if their positions were reversed.
Despite his impressive show of vigor, Mobius collapses back heavily into the wheelchair once he’s arrived, and Loki can see he’s breathing heavily. “Yeah, I’m doing well,” he says, nodding. Then he narrows his eyes at Loki. “Better than you, I hear.”
Loki shrugs. “I’m well enough. Getting stronger by the day.”
“Maybe you can help me out with something,” Mobius says in a pointed tone of voice that spells trouble. “See, I was pretty out of it at the time, but now that I think back on it, it seems like you were giving me all your food and water rations those last few days. But that can’t be right, can it?”
“You’re right, you were delirious,” Loki says tightly, looking away. He swallows hard. Mobius wasn’t supposed to remember. “Why would I do something like that?”
“That’s a good question.”
“Well. I’m sure I don’t know.”
There’s a beat of silence, then Mobius reaches out and takes his hand where it’s lying on the bed. Loki turns his head to watch as he carefully weaves their fingers together, then finally looks up to meet his eyes when he squeezes gently.
“You know, I probably would have done the same thing in your place,” Mobius murmurs, a quiet confession almost overwhelmed by the street sounds drifting in on the warm breeze.
“You’d be an idiot, then.”
“Loki,” Mobius sighs. His eyes flit over Loki’s face, like he’s searching for something. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
“What—” Loki starts, but then he’s being pulled in until he’s close enough for Mobius to stretch up and press their lips together.
It’s brief and chaste, both of their lips still dry and cracked, and it still makes something impossibly warm and soft kindle deep in his chest. Before he can fully process it, Mobius is pulling back, giving him the promised out, and Loki stares at him, wild-eyed.
“This is insane. I’m not— we’re not—” Loki stammers, but then he cuts himself off, chasing after Mobius’ mouth almost without meaning to.
He presses forward again, kissing the smile that’s bloomed across Mobius’ face until Mobius’ lips are moving against his, until he feels the gentle scrape of teeth and flick of a tongue, until all the doubt fades away and all that’s left is a certainty that he feels down to his bones.
They are, actually. More than strangers on a ship, more than companions in extremis, more than friends, more than potential lovers. More than can ever fully be put into words, Loki suspects.
Good thing he doesn’t have to.
#lokius#loki x mobius#loki laufeyson#mobius m. mobius#loki fanfic#loki fic#loki series#loki tv#my fic#chamel's fandom fest
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Eidola: Chapter 16- ARC-08-1216 Clip
Rating: T
Characters: Gen, Clone Trooper OCs, Captain Rex, Ahsoka Tano, and other canon members of the 501st/332nd
Warnings: canon-typical violence; references to self-harm, injuries, and substance abuse; PTSD; it’s post-Order 66 and nobody is having a good time (but they’re all working on it)
Summary: The mission was never to bring down the Empire. Not really. The mission was to save every single one of their chipped brothers. But if doing do helped break the Empire’s stranglehold on the galaxy? Well, that was just a bonus.
“What the kriff are you doing now?” Canvas asked, his voice sounding raspy and a little mechanical through the modified vocoder.
Clip would have thought that was obvious, given the display of ship-grade paints in front of them. “Buying paint,” Clip replied easily, making an effort to flatten out his Kaminoan accent. It was fairly recognizable, even with the mechanical alterations.
The green-tinted, reflective lenses of Clip’s disguise weren’t really helping with the other task at hand either. He thought the can he was holding was the right color tan, given the label, but he wasn’t sure. It wasn’t like he could pull the hood off to check either.
“Okay,” Recoil said, dragging the word out in a way that was more than a little dubious, even through the filter.
All three of them were wearing similar sets of modified environmental suits, topped by loose, hooded robes. The Raiders had taken one look at the disguise Clip sometimes used on similar Reaper missions and had all-but thrown him into a set of their own gear.
Which… okay, fair. He was usually acting as bait for the Reapers, which meant he actually did want to get recognized eventually. That wasn’t the play here, though.
Apparently the suits originally had been designed for one of the methane-breathing species, before the Raiders had gotten their hands on them. They had modified several sets at this point, tearing out the rebreathing filters and methane tanks and replacing them with enough stripped out parts from a few discarded stormtrooper helmets to provide well-concealed, semi-decent comms and recording devices. Sure the masks were bulky, with flexible tubing sprouting out of the face and connecting over their shoulders. But the armored paneling worked into the leathery material made Clip feel a little less exposed than his usual getup, and the overlying robes could cover up any number of hidden weapons, which was even better.
He'd kept his woven pack though. It was useful, and besides, actually purchasing things in the markets made their ruse for scouting in the area all the more believable.
“I’ll bite,” Canvas finally said. “Why are you buying paint?”
“Thought it might cheer up our brothers,” Clip said, holding up one can. “Is this the right color?”
They both stared at him for a second, inscrutable under their own, bug-eyed masks.
“Uh, maybe?” Recoil said.
Canvas looked more closely. His lenses were a different shade than the others, reflective, but less green. “Kind of a medium tan?” he said uncertainly. “What even is the right color?”
“You know,” Clip said, eyeing the can again, “The one Nails wears.” Medium tan sounded right, and if it wasn’t close enough, they could possibly mix in some of the colors the base maintained to fix it. They had literal storerooms of white, gray, and black already on hand.
He looked up after a moment when neither of his brothers said anything.
They were both watching him, shoulders a little hunched in the exact same posture of guilty embarrassment. Clip couldn’t help but smile a little in the privacy of his own mask.
So much for not looking like clones.
But still, what was their problem?
“I hadn’t actually made that connection,” Canvas admitted.
Oh. Clip thought everyone had realized that Nails was also 241st, but weren’t discussing it because of, well… Nails.
The medics had all been very upset when they’d realized Nails had been self-medicating into the floor just about every night. There had been lectures. Several, actually. Nobody had been spared, not even the Corries, but at least they all knew what to look out for though, in Nails and in any other brother who might be struggling in the same way.
“Yeah,” Clip finally replied, not sure what else to say.
“Are they going to let him transfer out?” Canvas asked.
Clip didn’t really know the answer to that, but he could make some educated guesses. “Whenever he gets released from observation,” he said, which wasn’t really an answer. “Maybe sooner, if somebody here can take over watching out for him.”
There was more he wanted to say, but they were all having to mind their words while they were out like this, keeping things vague in case anybody overheard them. Recoil and Canvas were in the same boat, postures tense and impatient, even as they stayed awkwardly silent.
Besides, there wasn’t anything any of them could do about Nails’s situation at the moment, so Clip tried to refocus on the task at hand.
He should get one of the smallest cans of paint and then check in with someone on base. If it was the right color, Clip could always return to purchase more. Force knew they were going to need a lot of it once they got all of the base’s Phase II armor out of storage. Apparently Major Ullmann had socked all kinds of interesting things away in guarded warehouses near the base.
A ping went through Clip’s scavenged comms, the prearranged signal that someone on base needed to talk to them.
So, definitely time to wrap this up.
“Did you see anything else you needed?” he asked Recoil and Canvas, who would have also received that alert.
“Not really,” Recoil said with a shrug and a pointed look at the room’s long window, where the shop’s proprietor – a near-human man with green-tinted skin and pupilless, black eyes – had been surreptitiously watching them the whole time, from his position next to the store’s open-air displays.
Which was fine. They hadn’t said anything incriminating. They were just a trio of non-human sentients, new to the neighborhood and purchasing a few innocuous items. Perfectly above reproach.
But speaking of which…
Clip turned his body, so the shop keeper couldn’t see his empty hand, and flashed the signals for ‘door frame’ where only his brothers could see. Then, trusting that the message had been received in spite of their scrupulous lack of reaction, he headed for the shop’s exit, small can of tan paint in hand.
The symbols carved into the doorframe were inconspicuous to anyone who wasn’t actively looking for them, but Clip had been doing his homework. He’d wanted to learn as much as he could once it became apparent that the Raiders were going to keep bringing escaped slaves home to Draboon VIII.
And, well… He and his brothers were escaped slaves too, in a way.
No, not ‘in a way.’ They were. Even if the label chaffed uncomfortably. Maybe Clip hadn’t thought of himself that way before Order 66 had gone out, but he’d certainly realized it after the medics had pulled the chip out of his head. He and all his brothers had been made to specifications, bought and sold like the assorted tools and ship parts filling the shelves of this shop.
That realization still ached. Clip didn’t like examining it too closely, even now.
But he’d learned, despite the discomfort it caused him. And he knew what to look for, sometimes even better than his brothers from the Raider teams.
The spiked oval, split on the diagonal, was familiar. It was used by a smuggling ring who had a long-established policy of not charging when the items they were asked to transport happened to be escaped slaves. The bird they’d also seen before, in a couple of the other shops they’d explored, and it represented a similar network.
The wing with the single star was new, though. Something about it tugged at Clip’s memory, but he couldn’t quite place it. Maybe one of the others would know what it meant.
Clip let his eyes linger on the carvings, trusting that his active holorecorder would capture the details for later.
“Did you find everything you need?” the proprietor asked when Clip and his brothers exited the building, greenish features settling on a neutrally pleasant expression of greeting.
“Yes,” Clip said, placing the can of paint on the table in front of the man. Then he set down his pack and pulled the correct number of credits out of the pouch he’d stored inside it. He slid the credits onto the table next to the can. “Thank you.”
The shopkeeper just accepted them with a nod and nudged the can back towards Clip.
The paint went into his ruck, alongside the partially shattered droid hand, the questionably sourced interface pad and neural tech, and the handful of gameboards he’d purchased previously. Once he’d resettled the pack on his back, Clip, Recoil, and Canvas stepped out from under the store’s orange, sun-faded awning and wandered back out into the streets.
Canvas reached up to his neck, activating the comms switch concealed under one of the breathing hoses. “Where to next?” he asked casually, because that was also safely vague enough to say in the middle of a crowded street.
A burst of quiet static filled Clip’s improvised earpiece, followed by Jesse’s familiar voice.
“Head back to base,” he said. Clip thought his fellow ARC sounded tired. None of the acting COs on Wadj were getting enough sleep these days. “Captain Rex has requested an update at 17:00 GST.”
Fair enough. Clip glanced over at his brothers and said – half to them and half to Jesse on comms, “I think it’s time we got home.”
“The Lasat has a ring of bald patches around his neck,” Clip said, as the largest of the shop’s three employees came into view in the blue holo-footage. The bare patches of purplish skin had looked like scars to Clip, the kind that came from repeated exposure to low- to mid-voltage electrical shocks. Painful, even disfiguring over a long enough period of time, but not fatal. Usually.
After all, a dead slave represented a wasted investment.
But Quad had more experience with that, so Clip let the Raider team leader draw his own conclusions.
“Good spot,” Quad said, frowning to himself. “Flag them.”
Clip entered the correct codes, and a little arrow appeared, floating above the location of the shop on the map of the capital. It joined a host of others, some added by Canvas and Recoil, others gathered from the other patrols who’d added surreptitious scouting to their ‘peace keeping’ roles. The arrows were scattered around the city’s small port and the poorer mercantile districts. Not that any part of Wadj’s small capital city could be called wealthy… not by the standards of the Core at least. But there was definitely a pattern at play.
Jesse leaned against the table, palms resting on the raised lip around the projection system. “Seems like a lot more people than you’d expect to have by random chance,” he finally said, looking over at Quad. “And they’re at least loosely organized.”
Quad nodded vaguely, still lost in thought. “Some of the people we rescued, the ones who didn’t have anywhere obvious to go but also didn’t want to stay with us, still had some pretty specific drop off requests,” he finally said. “They all had to end up somewhere.”
And Wadj would look attractive to any of those groups, for the exact same reason why they had targeted it. Decent climate, far enough out on the Outer Rim to dissuade casual travelers, minimal Imperial presence, and a lack of significant established industries which might interest pirates or cartels. It was just about perfect, if you were responsible for a group of people who needed to quietly disappear.
“Rex is going to want to know how this affects the housing you’ve been scouting for our non-combatants,” Jesse said.
“It shouldn’t,” Quad said after a moment’s consideration. “We were always going to have to be careful around the locals.”
“Get Lena’s take,” Canvas said from behind Jesse.
Everyone craned around to look at the Raider. Both he and Recoil had already given their reports and then waited while Clip went through his remaining footage.
Canvas took a step forward and continued, “Tapping into the local network is risky, but they’d also be a kriffing priceless intelligence resource on the local situation and broader slave networks.” He looked at Quad and shrugged a little, heavy robes rustling at the movement, but the expression on his heavily tattooed face was perfectly serious. “We can’t be the ones making direct contact. It’d have to be a natborn, and Lena is the obvious person to ask.”
Clip wasn’t sure he entirely agreed with that assessment. Hiding from the locals forever simply wasn’t feasible. But Lena would have some useful insights, so he kept his thoughts to himself.
“Ori is going to kill you,” Jesse pointed out lightly, but he was also obviously considering the suggestion.
Canvas grinned, the symmetrical lines of his abstract, geometric tattoo making the expression look more than a little feral. “Oh, has either one of them made it official?”
Jesse snorted, mouth twisting in a crooked, sardonic smirk, but all he said in reply was, “We’ll take that under advisement.”
As much as they all loved giving their brother grief, the situation was actually kind of sad. All of them had difficulties integrating with civilians, but Ori, for all his perfect, practiced composure while on duty, was worse than most when he was off-duty.
“Anything else?” Quad asked, eyes skating over Clip to land on his own Raiders.
“No, sir,” Canvas said, answering for all three of them.
“Alright, then you’re dismissed,” Quad said.
Clip started to follow the others out, but Jesse reached out and caught him by the elbow. “Not you,” he said, giving Clip a sharp, assessing look. “Ridge requested you stand in for him this meeting.”
Clip wasn’t sure what he might have to add beyond the report he’d already made, but as far as orders went, this one was easy enough to execute. He took a position next to his fellow ARC and waited for the comm from Draboon VIII.
“I swear, if this is another one of those spiny scavengers eating trash again, I’m going to shoot it on sheer principle,” Tanner grumbled.
“Agreed,” said Vault.
“Settle down, we’ll know one way or another in a minute,” Clip said, shutting down his team’s grumbling. With Ridge still out on the island with half of his Reapers, Clip had been left in charge of all missions like this one.
If all fairness, if this was another scavenger, Clip was going to be a little annoyed himself. Just a little, though. Not enough to shoot an animal that was just getting food however it could. But the motion sensors had been tripped on the external western wall of the base, and Clip’s team had the bad luck to be on call. Didn’t mean hunkering down in an alley at oh-dark-thirty was much fun, but it wasn’t worth getting mad over, either.
Dart, as usual, didn’t keep them waiting for long.
“Bad news,” their scout said from the roof of the neighboring warehouse. “I’m seeing two sentients. They’re working on something against the wall, but I can’t see what from this angle. They’re tucked up tight against the middle wall support.”
Well, that wasn’t good news. Worst case scenario, they were dealing with some would-be insurgents placing an improvised bomb on the base. Best case scenario? Still nothing good. Not at this hour of the night, so far from any businesses or residential areas. And ARC training had drilled into Clip’s brain the importance of always planning for the worst.
Clip considered his options for a moment, remembering the layout of the buildings on this end of the base. “Are they setting a watch?” he asked.
“Nothing that formal,” Dart said. “One of them keeps glancing in the direction of the wall’s southeast corner.”
Probably assuming that would be the direction troopers might come from, given the position of the main gate. It was an amateur mistake.
“Listen up,” Clip said. “Dart, you stay on overwatch. Comm whoever’s manning base security this evening and read them in on the situation. Tanner and Aura, you’re with Vault. Coins and Dredge, you’re with Hitch. Ash and Rift, you’re with me.” Clip looked around the loose circle of Reapers. “Vault, you’ll move up to this intersection,” he pointed towards the distant, lit street that ran next to the base. “My team will be positioned one block north. Hitch, you’re another block north of that. Blue means you’re in position, green means advance. We’ll move in as one, cutting off their options for escape. We need to be quick and quiet. Blasters on stun. Any questions?”
It was straightforward enough. No one said a word.
“Alright, Dart, you’re cleared for comms updates. Everybody else, hand signs only. Move out.”
It took a lot of training to move quickly in armor without rattling like a dice cup, but everyone managed it admirably enough. The Reapers had been doing the equivalent of covert ops missions together ever since the war ended. They were good. Maybe not ARC-level, but certainly more than skilled enough to pull something like this off.
The HUDs in the stormtrooper armor were more simplistic than regular clone trooper gear and were primitive compared to Clip’s upgraded ARC rig. Updating designation numbers in their gear was an ordeal they’d skipped when they’d been called up mid-sleep cycle by the tripped proximity alarms. So, Clip resorted to just counting as different designation numbers rolled across the bottom of his field of vision. Three blue dots appeared. That would be Vault’s team reaching their marks.
“Base is read in,” Dart said just as Clip and his team reached the first gap between warehouses and turned up the darkened alley. “No change from our targets.”
Clip signaled for Ash and Rift to slow down when they neared their own positions. Their armor was too white and shiny to risk getting any closer quite yet. He punched the correct button on his vambrace, sending his own blue signal out to the rest of his team. Two more followed in rapid succession.
The three of them waited, listening as Dart checked in once more with a quick, “No change.” Clip remembered being more impatient back before ARC training. He’d get antsy waiting. All he felt now was an anticipatory kind of calm.
Three more blue dots scrolled along the bottom of his HUD. Hitch’s team had hit their mark.
“Still no change,” Dart reported. “They’re not watching the street.”
Okay then. Clip punched the correct code into his vambrace and readied his blaster rifle, snugging the butt of the stock comfortably against his shoulder. The faintest scuff of boots let Clip know that Ash and Rift were falling in behind him, staggered a little to his right and left.
The time delay counted down.
His own, green signal appeared in his HUD.
Clip moved.
He spotted the two figures, exactly where he’d expected them, across the wide street and maybe ten feet to his right. Neither of them had been watching their six.
Both of them flinched and started to turn around at the sound of boot treads, coming up behind them.
“Hands where I can see them!” Clip barked, sights already centered on the figure to the left, knees bent with a low, balanced gait that kept his blaster steady as he advanced. The sentient had short, cropped hair and pale skin. Human male. And young. He was also clearly holding something. “Hands up now!”
The boy’s hands rose. Whatever he was carrying was metallic, cylindrical. Force, if that was a grenade…
The figure on the right spun, obviously looking to run, but Hitch’s team was already there, blocking that escape route. A loose poncho, hood pulled up, gave few clues to their identity, but a pair of slender, dark-skinned hands appeared out of the folds of the fabric. They were empty. And shaking.
Another cannister rolled out next to the second figure’s feet, and they stumbled over it. Their hood fell part-way back, revealing a young, female face, dark complected and wide-eyed with fear. Clip spared one glance down, trying to identify the threat.
It didn’t look like a fragmentation grenade. In fact, it looked a little bit like –
“Hold your fire,” he snapped out, pulling his hand away from his trigger to send up an emphatic, ‘stand down’ gesture with his right hand.
It was a pressurized paint cannister.
“You’ve got to be kriffing kidding me,” Rift said under his breath, just behind Clip’s left shoulder.
Clip was in agreement with his teammate.
Hitch’s team was slowing down, but their blasters were still raised. Still ready. From the sounds coming up behind Clip, Vault’s team was doing much the same.
All nine clones converged on the pair of adolescents, sizing up the situation. Someone snorted. It sounded odd, buzzing and distorted through their vocoder.
“Hey kid,” Vault drawled over external comms. “You misspelled ‘Emperor.’”
The two kids, surrounded as they were by a squad of highly-armed stormtroopers and enough empty paint cannisters to provide ample damning evidence that they were the source of the base’s new artwork, looked like they were both about to piss themselves right there in the street.
“Cut the chatter,” Clip snapped, irritated with his team. Force, these were just kids.
“We,” the girl stuttered. “We were, uh…”
“Yeah, no. Hush,” Clip said, interrupting her. “You’re minors. Stop talking now.”
There were rules about arresting citizens. Some kind of script the Corries had learned and none of the rest of them had put much effort into memorizing. There were also special rules for kids. He was pretty sure he remembered that.
Force, what a mess.
Vault was higher ranking, but Hitch had a more level head. “Hitch,” Clip said, straightening out of his half-crouch and dropping the barrel of his blaster completely. “Check them for weapons. Gently. I need to contact the base.”
“Sir, yes Sir!” Hitch said. He sounded amused.
Amused was better than annoyed. They really needed to not escalate this situation further.
Clip stepped back out of the ring of his brothers. Ash and Rift shifted, filling the gap he’d left behind.
He walked to the far side of the street, far enough away that he shouldn’t be overheard if he only used internal comms. He punched in the code for the communications deck on base and waited.
“Status report?” one of his brothers answered almost immediately. Without a designation number it was hard to tell exactly who it was. It might have even been one of their newest Wadj brothers. More and more of them were taking on light duties around base.
“We’ve secured two civilians, no casualties,” Clip reported, keeping things terse. “Who’s the officer of the watch?”
“Reaver, but he called up Jesse and Agent Weeks when your scout alerted us to the situation.”
Waking up one of the natborn officers was definitely a choice. Not that Clip necessarily disagreed with the call. It just wasn’t where his brain would have jumped to first.
“Right, let me talk to Jesse,” Clip said, wishing he could take off his helmet and rub his eyes. He shot Hitch a quick interrogatory. His response was rapid and negative.
“Talk to me, Clip,” Jesse’s familiar voice said in Clip’s ear.
“Two kids, unarmed,” Clip said, and then sighed. “They were out here painting ‘Kark the Emperor’ on our wall.” He didn’t mention the misspelling. It didn’t seem pertinent.
Jesse snorted. “Dumb move, but uh… Agreed?”
“What am I supposed to do with them?” Clip asked, running through any number of options, and none of them were good.
“You can’t bring them in here,” Jesse said, suddenly deadly serious.
“I know,” Clip replied. They had enough incriminating stuff around base to make anyone inside a major security risk. Just the sheer number of extra brothers running around in non-regulation armor would be more than enough to raise suspicion. “So what are my other options?”
“Hold on,” Jesse said, and the line went dead.
As the minutes ticked by, Clip just let himself breathe, willing the tension out of his shoulders, letting the residual battle-high drain out of him. He knew what they should do, what would be most pragmatic to do… But these were kids. They weren’t Imperial officers.
Clip understood why they couldn’t leave witnesses on Reaper missions, but those were adults. He might not like it, but he could live with it.
He couldn’t live with executing a pair of kids in a back alley.
He couldn’t.
“Send two of your team to get a vehicle,” Jesse’s voice said directly into Clip’s ear. “Consensus is, dropping them off with some local security officers is our best option.”
There was something in his tone that held Clip’s tongue, some hint that Jesse had more to say, if Clip just waited him out.
His instinct proved correct when Jesse finally added, “The new laws punishing political protest are… pretty draconian.”
“So we don’t report what they painted, just the vandalism,” Clip immediately replied.
Jesse breathed out, long and low and loud enough to be picked up by the comms. “That might not be the smartest call,” he finally said, sounding as tired as Clip felt. “But it’s probably the right one.”
“We can make it look like an oversight,” Clip said, and he couldn’t quite keep himself from letting his head drop, just a little bit, in relief. “You know I wouldn’t risk our brothers.”
“I know,” Jesse said, and Clip was grateful that there wasn’t any hesitation in the response. “I’ll send a team out with a pressure washer. It’ll be gone before dawn.”
“Thanks,” Clip said, suddenly weary beyond belief.
The girl still looked gray under her dark complexion, but the boy’s fear had settled into a seething sort of sulk by the time Vault and Rift had returned with one of the base’s smaller armored transports. As Jesse had promised, they were accompanied by three brothers, anonymous in stormtrooper plate. Two of them started to unload a pressure washer from the back.
The third one turned out to be Shark.
Last Clip had heard, Shark was still having hearing and occasional equilibrium issues. Blast-damaged nerves and shattered ear bones just took time to heal, even with easy access to bacta.
Clip took his helmet off in case Shark would benefit from being able to see his lips. “Kix cleared you for this?” he asked. They were lingering far enough away to speak freely. Also far enough away that Clip could pretend to ignore several of his Reapers gathering in front of the drying paint and clearly posing for a quick holo. Tanner held up one hand in an ‘agreed, emphasized’ battle sign.
Shark snorted, glancing over at the group’s antics. “Maybe next time,” he said, holding up a datapad. “Read this over.”
Clip took the ‘pad and flipped it around. It was an incident report form with the Wadj judicial crest dominating the top of the page. The blanks had been filled out. Mostly. There were errors in many places, incorrect codes, very little in the way of details about much of anything. It came across like someone very incompetent or very indifferent had filled it out.
It was perfect.
“I can sell this,” Clip said, glancing up at Shark, who hadn’t taken off his own stormtrooper helmet. The internal comms probably helped compensate for the hearing issues. Shark didn’t give anything away, but this had to be killing him. Staying grounded for so long. Clip wanted to say something else, but he refrained. No ARC ever decanted had ever taken anything resembling pity well.
“You’d better,” Shark just said, bucket tilting slightly to one side. “The plan’s to take them to the station near the spaceport?”
Clip nodded. It was the closest one, driving further would look suspicious.
Shark made a small, considering sound. “Agent Weeks says the security officers stationed there are pretty easy-going. Big fans of trading community service for sweeping smaller infractions under the rug,” he said, but his casual tone of voice was itself suspicious.
Clip eyed his brother and then glanced over the document again. “I take it this isn’t the first time the base has handled something like this?” he finally asked, abruptly wondering if Shark actually had been the one to fill out this form, or if it had been Agent Weeks.
“Apparently not,” Shark said, which pretty much answered Clip’s question.
Reading between the lines, it was pretty obvious that the three natborn officers had been functionally exiled here, kept out of sight and away from whatever political embarrassment Major Ullmann in particular might caught his politician daughter. The whole 241st trusted their officers to an almost ridiculous degree. One of them, Callen, was very clearly in a relationship with Agent Weeks. So really, the question wasn’t whether Clip trusted Agent Weeks, but whether he trusted his brothers’ judgment.
Framed that way, coming to a decision wasn’t so hard.
“Right. Thanks,” Clip said, knocking the back of his gauntlet against his brother’s pauldron. When Shark only grunted a little, sounding almost amused, Clip left to brief a few of his Reapers.
Hitch had already cuffed both of the kids and put them in the back of the transport. Rift would drive up front with Vault as ride-along. Hitch, Ash, and Clip would all be in the back, with the kids. The plan was for Clip to do all of the talking.
Once they got underway, the only sound Clip heard was the rumble of the transport’s engines and the clacking of his own armor, bumping against Ash’s shoulder as they rolled out into the city. The compartment had narrow, slotted windows running down the sides, blaster-height for a standing clone. Clip lifted the hinged cover from one of them, tracking their progress through the city.
There were more signs of life as the transport moved beyond the industrial sector. People were out and about, even at this late hour. They stared as the transport went by, amber-tinted streetlamps casting their faces in shadows. Clip let the armored panel drop back into place, fully blocking his brothers and the two kids from view.
The girl kept her chin high during the entire drive to the station, but Clip didn’t miss the way her hands gripped the fabric of her poncho to keep from shaking. The boy sulked. Clip very badly wanted to talk some sense into him. He couldn’t though. It wouldn’t help their cover story, and he doubted it would work. Someone else would have to take up the task. Someone the kid didn’t view as an enemy.
When they arrived at the station, Rift stayed in the driver’s seat and Vault took a guard position at the rear of the transport. Hitch and Ash manhandled the kids out of the transport as gently as they could while still looking believable.
And they had to make it look believable.
They’d drawn a small crowd, locals clustering together and watching silently from the shadows.
Clip led the way into the station, back straight. The perfect soldier, just following orders.
The police officer staffing the front desk rose to greet Clip, and even if he looked a little pale, he sounded perfectly composed when he said, “How can I help you?”
“Two prisoners, for processing,” he said, producing Shark’s – no… Agent Week’s datapad and its questionable report.
The officer, some faintly-furred species Clip didn’t immediately recognize, took the ‘pad and turned it around to read properly. He glanced over the form, frowning a little. “Where did the incident occur?” he asked, reaching one of the first, glaring problems with the form.
“Sector G, adjacent two of the Altez warehouses,” Clip reported almost mechanically, which was entirely accurate while also completely missing the point. The Altez Co-op owned many of the warehouses in that sector, not just the ones near the base.
The man’s red-tinged gaze shifted from Clip’s blank visor, to the orange pauldron on his shoulder, to the datapad again. His expression twitched a little, an odd flush revealing pale stripes along his cheeks for a moment. He took a breath and his color evened out again, thick fingers slowly scrolling through the incomplete, half-heartedly composed report.
A few additional security officers appeared out of the back, no doubt drawn by the voices. Clip watched them without shifting his position, letting his blank visor conceal the way he was assessing the potential threat. None of the officers looked particularly happy to have found a trio of stormtroopers milling around their lobby, guarding a pair of adolescent locals. They tried to school their expression, but they weren’t terribly successful. None of them reached for a weapon though. None of them tensed in a way that suggested they were preparing to attack their unwelcome guests.
Clip let himself shift a little, angling his body where he could keep all of the security officers in his line of sight, just in case.
When the officer seemingly reached the bottom of the report, he looked up at Clip and asked, “Your commanding officer signed off on this?”
“Yes,” Clip said evenly. The lack of additional questions was a good sign.
“Seems straightforward enough,” the officer finally said, with a casual blandness that Clip had to respect. He might not have Shark’s flair for this kind of mission, but he’d received the same training, both in subterfuge and in recognizing the signs in others. This officer wanted Clip and his brothers gone, but he had enough sense to be subtle and polite about it. “Will you want a copy of our final report forwarded to your base?”
“Of course,” Clip said, because that was protocol, and no chipped brother would overlook such a basic requirement. Reports could be recorded as received and then deleted easily enough. He signaled to Hitch and Ash, who unlatched the kids’ cuffs, Imperial property and all that, and shoved the two kids in the direction of the cluster of hovering officers. The boy staggered, biting back something barely audible and no doubt insulting. “I trust you can handle them from here?”
The transfer was quick and efficient, no doubt because no one in the building wanted stormtroopers lingering around any longer than necessary. Signatures and designation numbers were exchanged. Files were transferred and the datapad was retrieved. Worry still twisted in Clip’s guts though. He got the distinct impression that the security officers were planning on dragging the kids into the back room to yell at them. Clip could only hope that would be the end of it. It was out of his hands now.
On the way out, he did notice a line of familiar symbols, marching above the interior doorframe of the precinct office. A spiked, split oval, a seven-pointed star, a bird, and more. He didn’t pause and couldn’t stop to turn on his record function, but that was interesting. Very interesting.
An investigation team arrived sometime after first light to collect evidence and eyewitness testimony. Except there wasn’t any evidence. It had all been scoured away, leaving only a very clean, fortified wall for the officers to document.
Shark and Agent Weeks had given the interviews. Clip and his team had been sleeping off their interrupted sleep cycle in the Thresher.
A report arrived later that week, threadbare as the one they’d provided in the first place. Jesse let Clip read it before Factor deleted the file and scrubbed the base’s memory of any mention of the incident.
Sixteen hours of community service. Names redacted due to juvenile status.
Clip suggested that they carve Commander Tano’s markings above the doorframes of the safe house they’d procured for their civilians. The structure was positioned in one of the poorer parts of the mercantile district, right in the thick of the network the Raiders had been tracking. Their other options were worse, and the price was right for the amount of space they needed.
Jesse looked at him like he’d suggested taking out an ad on the holonet announcing their presence.
Quad asked him to elaborate on his reasoning.
Their neighbors were going to ask questions and draw conclusions no matter what they did. Better to represent themselves as a mysterious new player in the network than to try and fake a connection to an existing organization, and risk being caught in a lie. They were going to need a symbol, given the local practices, and luckily, they already had one everyone in the know would recognize.
The two officers promised to run the suggestion up the chain of command.
Permission came only a couple days later, along with a suggested name for their false organization: Fulcrum.
The base was in an uproar.
A small team from Draboon VIII had arrived to take over management of the day-to-day functions of the base. Ori was in command of the newcomers, and he had taken up the position with the Corries’ usual attention to detail and utter disregard for reasonable work hours.
A second team had arrived in the civilian spaceport, thoroughly disguised and escorting the majority of their civilians. They immediately moved into the safehouse and started setting up shop. What, exactly, they were going to sell in the space’s first floor commercial space was anyone’s guess. If Cut and Suu’s plans for the island played out, they’d have extra produce to ship back soon. Trip’s team needed to do something with the crates of exotic skins they’d been saving from their hunts. It was all a work in progress.
The final team had gone out to the island itself. From the list, it looked like the Captain and Commander had picked engineering and hydroponics clean, leaving only a couple of brothers behind on Draboon VIII to interface with the Mandalorians. The plan was to start fabricating buildings on site as rapidly as possible. Apparently volcanic soils made excellent aggregates for some of the standard plascrete mixes available on the market. Zinc and Ocher had a plan for cranking out modular blocks, which would speed the construction process along.
The brothers who had been stationed on the Wadj base were being shifted around as well. Some were headed back to Draboon VIII. Others were transferring out to the islands. The medics threatened to revolt if they were forced out of the nicely appointed, well-stocked medical wing on base. In the meantime, all Reaper and Raider teams left on Wadj were to arm up and ship out.
All of them… except for Clip.
He’d triple-checked the assignment rosters. His name and designation number were listed alongside the handful of brothers remaining in the Wadj base. He assumed it had to be an oversight. Apparently nobody had been happy about completely handing over Draboon VIII to the Mandalorians, so a compromise had been reached. Rumors were rampant about what their target might be, but there were very few hard facts. Clip had heard speculation that they were being deployed to hit everything from a star destroyer, to a slaver enclave, to Coruscant itself. No matter the actual target, any or all of those sounded like the kind of mission that would benefit from including all available ARCs. He’d reached out to Ridge for clarification.
Ridge had commed him back almost immediately. “It’s no mistake,” he said, sounding apologetic, but distracted. Clip could hear the sounds of heavy equipment getting shifted around in the background, the team getting ready to leave. “I don’t have the details. You need to speak to Captain Rex.”
That felt like a punch to the gut.
Clip had no idea what he might have done to deserve being removed from his Reapers. Ridge wasn’t unhappy with him. The team’s success rate and casualty numbers were both enviable. Clip maintained his scores and skills in the practice range and the gym. He interfaced well with other teams and had served as second-in-command while Ridge had run his relief mission to the island. He couldn’t think of a single reason he should be stripped of his position.
He asked that Ori pass along his request to be reinstated with his team. He had prepared a number of arguments he felt were sound from a strictly tactical point of view.
He wasn’t expecting an immediate answer. Everyone was busy, shuffling far too many brothers through far too small a base, all arranged in such a way as to minimize suspicions from the air traffic controllers at the capital’s small space port. There were a lot of false transponder numbers being handed out and several nighttime training maneuvers registered with the civilian authorities.
Clip got a rapid response, despite the ongoing chaos. Captain Rex wanted to speak to him at his earliest convenience.
‘At his earliest convenience.’ So, ‘Right now, but you’re allowed whatever minimal amount of time it might take to make yourself presentable first.’
Clip’s stomach sank.
He arrived in the base’s command center dressed in his green-accented ARC gear. He told himself he was only wearing it because he did not need to remain in disguise in the safety of their own base. Certainly not because the prospect of being demoted – of being found wanting and not even knowing why – was making him feel vaguely ill. Not because he found the pauldrons and kamas a tangible, comforting reminder of his own value.
Certainly not.
The command center was only lightly staffed when he arrived, helmet tucked smartly under his left arm. A few brothers were manning the comms and sensor array stations. Ori was standing in front of the holoprojection table looking at a map of Wadj’s capital city. He was speaking to someone, a quarter-sized projection of an armored brother. As Clip closed the distance to the table, it became obvious that the tiny figure was Captain Rex himself, helmet off, looking like he hadn’t slept in a month.
Ori saw him approaching, waved Clip over, and then typed a series of commands into the table which wiped the map and expanded Captain Rex’s holo-projection to half-life-size. Then, Ori excused himself to go speak to one of the brothers on the far side of the room.
Well, at least they were trying to give him some privacy for whatever dressing down he had apparently earned.
Clip straightened his shoulders, told himself to put a little beskar back in his spine, and saluted. “Sir. You wanted to speak to me?”
“At ease,” Captain Rex said waving away the formality. “I won’t drag this out. I know you have requested to stay with Ridge’s team, but I need you on Wadj right now.”
That… didn’t sound like the prelude to a demotion. Still, Clip had points to make. Well-organized, clearly thought-through arguments. “Sir, I’m an ARC trooper. I belong wherever the fighting is.”
“Yes, but you’ve also managed to embed yourself in every effort to reconnoiter the base’s surroundings and interface with the locals,” Captain Rex said dryly. “And you’ve proven to be quite good at it, too.”
Clip wasn’t sure what to say to that. He’d been taking his shifts on patrol, sure. And he’d tagged along with the Raiders a couple times when they’d asked for volunteers. He’d just been trying to make himself as useful as possible in his downtime. He disliked sitting around idle.
“Look, I need someone to step in and work with Ori to manage the base while the rest of us deal with the Mandalorians,” the Captain said seriously. “I think that person should be you.”
So, not a demotion. Not at all.
You didn’t turn down a promotion. It just wasn’t done. Clip opened his mouth, but the words just weren’t coming. Instead of saying something as incriminating as ‘Why?’ he just shut it again.
The look Captain Rex gave him was amused and all too knowing.
“I can’t compromise the top-down command structure of my teams right before we go into battle,” he said, laying out his reasoning with the same inexorable feeling as a landslide. “I know my officers. Ridge will always do the most pragmatic thing, and Jesse will always do the smartest thing. I’ve been reading their reports, and I’m starting to realize that you,” Rex paused, the projection of his eyes became piercing. “You will always do the right thing. That’s why I need you on Wadj right now.”
Clip just stood there, blinking stupidly for a moment. He felt vaguely embarrassed, but he couldn’t put his finger on exactly why. That description just sat wrong with him. But if Captain Rex really felt he was the best man for the job, then he’d try his level-best to live up to those expectations. Finally, he got his brain back on track enough to say, properly this time, “I will do my best, Sir.”
“Welcome to command,” Captain Rex said with a wry twist of his lips. “You have standing permission to curse me for it later.”
AN: I'm all caught up with the chapters I'd previously posted on AO3, so I'll start crossposting on both sites as I finish new chapters from here on out.
Other chapters are available here.
Dividers by freesia-writes using helmets by lornaka. More designs available here.
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New Post has been published on https://www.vividracing.com/blog/top-5-best-mods-for-the-infiniti-g37/
Top 5 Best Mods for the Infiniti G37
Hey everyone, let’s talk about one of my all-time favorite rides – the 2013 Infiniti G37. Now, I might be biased because I own one myself, but trust me, this car is a gem when it comes to modding.
First off, let’s talk about the basics. The G37 is sleek, stylish, and packs a punch under the hood with its V6 engine. Whether you’re cruising down the highway or hitting the twisties, it’s got the power and performance to put a smile on your face.
But here’s where it gets interesting – the G37 is like a blank canvas for mods. From simple upgrades like intake and exhaust systems to more hardcore stuff like coilovers and big brake kits, the possibilities are endless. And thanks to its solid construction and reliable engine, you can push the limits without worrying about breaking down every other mile.
But what really sets the G37 apart is its community. There’s a whole crew of enthusiasts out there, sharing tips, tricks, and ideas for taking your ride to the next level. It’s like being part of a big, passionate family who all share the same love for pushing the boundaries of what’s possible.
So, if you’re looking for a car that’s not just a mode of transportation but a canvas for your creativity, look no further than the 2013 Infiniti G37. Trust me, once you start modding, you’ll never look back. Let’s jump into the top 5 mods when getting started with a G37.
1.) ESR Wheels CS8 – 19 x 9.5 +22 Offset
ESR CS8 wheels are the ultimate blend of style and performance. These babies are like the icing on the cake for any Infiniti G37. With their sleek multi-spoke design, they are perfect amount of style without being too extra. But it’s not just about looks – these wheels are engineered for performance, lightweight yet tough as nails. Whether you’re tearing up the track or cruising the streets, the CS8s are a great match for the G37 platform. Trust me, the CS8s are a popular choice for the G37 for a reason.
2.) Stillen Stainless Steel Catback Exhaust for G37
Stillen developed a game-changer for Infiniti G37 owners: their catback exhaust system seems to tick all the boxes. And let me tell you, it’s a game-changer.
So, what’s the deal? Well, picture this: you’re cruising in your G37, feeling the need for a little extra oomph under the hood without sacrificing your eardrums to some obnoxious exhaust noise. That’s where Stillen’s got your back.
This Catback Exhaust System isn’t just for show – it’s all about performance. Crafted from Mandrel-bent Stainless Steel, it’s built to last longer than your friend’s Toyota. And here’s the kicker: at idle, it’s as quiet as a mouse, but step on the gas and bam – that signature Stillen growl lets everyone know what’s up.
And let’s not forget about the looks – polished stainless steel mufflers and tips? Yeah, they’ve got that sleek, show-ready vibe down pat.
Installation? Piece of cake. Plus, with a lifetime warranty, you can hit the road with peace of mind.
So, if you’re ready to take your G37 to the next level, Stillen’s Catback Exhaust System is where it’s at. Trust me, you won’t be disappointed.
3.) Stillen Generation 3 Ultra Long Tube Intake Kit
If you’re all about squeezing every last drop of power out of your Infiniti G37, you gotta check out Stillen’s latest innovation – the Gen 3 Ultra Long Tube Intake. Trust me, this thing is a game-changer.
So, rewind a bit – Stillen’s been in the game since day one, and they were the first to drop a high-flow intake for the VQ37 crew. Their Gen 1 Short Tube Intake was a hit – decent power bump, killer sound, and easy on the wallet. But they didn’t stop there. Enter Gen 2 with its polished tubes and even more power. Nice, right?
But hold onto your seats, because Gen 3 is here, and it’s a whole new ball game. Stillen’s R&D wizards went all out, testing over 50 variations to make sure this bad boy delivers the goods. We’re talking a radical new design, two big K&N filters chilling in front of the radiator for max cold air flow, and easy-peasy filter cleaning.
And the power? Oh, it’s there. Dyno-tested and approved, we’re talking an 18.5 horsepower gain at the wheels for the G37 Coupe – that’s like strapping a rocket to your ride. Sedan owners, you’re not left out either – you’re looking at a solid 14 horsepower boost.
Now, installation might sound daunting, but trust me, it’s worth it. Yeah, you’ll need to pop off the front fascia clip and maybe widen some holes, but hey, it’s all part of the fun. Plus, you’ll be back on the road in no time, feeling like a boss.
So, if you’re ready to unleash the beast under your G37’s hood, Stillen’s Gen 3 Ultra Long Tube Intake is where it’s at. Say goodbye to stock and hello to serious power.
4.) BC Racing BR Type Coilovers for the Infiniti G37
I’ve got the scoop on something that’s gonna take your Infiniti G37 to the next level – the BC Racing BR Type Coilovers. Trust me, these babies are a game-changer for anyone serious about performance and style.
So, what’s the deal with these coilovers? Well, picture this: you’re hitting the streets or tearing it up on the occasional road course, and you want your ride to handle like a dream. That’s where BC Racing comes in.
First off, forget about preset ride heights – with these coilovers, you’re in control. Easily accessible adjustment knobs let you fine-tune your compression/rebound and dial in your ride height just the way you like it. And thanks to BC’s patented concave lower locking ring, once you’ve set your height, it stays put.
But it’s not just about looks – these coilovers mean business. Pillowball mounts give you maximum feedback from your suspension, sharpening your steering response and giving you that connected-to-the-road feeling you crave. Plus, with BC’s front and rear camber plates, you can dial in the perfect alignment setup without breaking a sweat.
Oh, and did I mention they look damn good too? Sleek, attractive design that’ll turn heads wherever you go.
Features? You bet. Mono-tube shock design, 30 levels of damping force adjustment, pillowball mounts, adjustable camber plates – these coilovers have it all.
And the best part? They’re backed by a one-year warranty and they’re rebuildable, so you know they’re built to last.
So, if you’re ready to take your G37 to the next level, look no further than BC Racing BR Type Coilovers. Trust me, you won’t be disappointed.
5.) SPL Titanium Series Rear Camber Links for the G37
Okay, last but certainly not least. If you’re all about fine-tuning your ride, you’re gonna love what SPL Parts has cooked up – their TITANIUM Series Rear Camber Links (RLL). Now, before you roll your eyes and think this is just another car part spiel, hear me out – these babies are the real deal.
So, what’s the deal with these rear camber links? Well, picture this: you’ve lowered your 370Z or G37 to get that aggressive stance, but now your camber’s all out of whack. That’s where the SPL RLLs come in handy. Designed for high-performance street and race cars, they give you the extra range of adjustment you need to dial in that perfect camber and keep your tires wearing evenly.
But here’s where it gets cool – these bad boys are machined from Billet 6061-T6 Aluminum and decked out with Blue Anodized Titanium Hardware. Translation? They’re lightweight yet tough as nails. Plus, with the slotted main arm and 360-degree rotating clamps, adjusting your camber settings is a breeze. No more wrestling with jam nuts – just lock it in and you’re good to go.
And let’s talk about those bearings – 3 piece FK Bearings Rod Ends with a Teflon liner. Smooth, quiet, and low friction, they’ll keep your suspension feeling buttery smooth whether you’re hitting the streets or tearing it up on the track.
Pair ’em up with SPL’s TITANIUM Toe or Mid Links and their Eccentric Lockout kit for total rear camber and toe alignment with “zero-slip”. It’s like having a precision tuning shop in your garage.
So, if you’re ready to take your ride to the next level, check out SPL Parts TITANIUM Series Rear Camber Links. Made in the USA and built to perform, these bad boys are a game-changer. Trust me, your G37 or 370Z will thank you.
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Choudhary Glasspack is one of the top glass supplier companies in india.Choudhary Glasspack provides home appliances, glass jars, food container jars, clear perfume bottles, designed glass bottles, wholesale nail polish glass bottles, and cosmetics foundation bottles.
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Chaudhary GlassPack is all about exploring the amazing things you can do with packaging. We see glass as a blank canvas, and our dedication to making great products and always coming up with new ideas keeps us leading the pack.
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The Best Laptop Backpacks to carry while traveling
By Wanderela Web Desk:
WaterField Essential Laptop Backpack – Best laptop backpack
Pros
Fleece-lined laptop pocket
Waterproof features
Cons
Smallish capacity
Laptop size: up to 16in
Capacity: 17L
The ‘Essential’ laptop bag from WaterField is, well, focussed on the essentials – but it really nails them.
The aesthetic is simple, but sleek, with a choice of colourful accents below the black body. Built from water-resistant nylon, with waterproof seals around the zips, this is sturdy enough to survive the elements, with a structured body that holds its shape even when the bag is empty.
Outer pockets on each side will hold water bottles or small umbrellas, and there are zipped compartments on both the inside and outside for keeping track of your loose bits and pieces.
The single padded and fleece-lined laptop pouch is big enough for 14in and even some 16in devices, with a simple velcro strap to hold things in place.
There’s also a well-made messenger bag version if you prefer a shoulder bag. This round up is mainly for two-strap backpacks, but the quality of the Waterfield Essential messenger is so good we also wanted to give it a shout out. Its simplicity is its secret – a slender bag with surprising capacity that fits up to 14in laptops along with books, chargers, water bottle and more.
It has clever magnetic snap-shut buckles that slide open and a clever orange lining—instead of black—that helps you easier quickly glance and see what’s inside.
Aer City Pack – Superb build quality
Pros
Robust materials
Suspended laptop pocket
Cons
Small 14L capacity
Laptop size: up to 16in
Capacity: 14L
One of the very best laptop backpacks is the City Pack made by San Francisco company Aer. The bag is well-designed and of excellent quality with top materials, zippers, and compartments.
The outer material is a very hardy 1680D Cordura ballistic nylon complete with YKK zipper and Duraflex plastic on the tag pulls that makes for a premium feeling product. Importantly, the padded laptop pocket (up to 16in) is suspended so your laptop won’t hit the ground when you put the bag down. The straps are also very comfortable for all-day wear.
There are tons of storage pockets to organise your stuff in the front compartment, as well as two outside pockets, one of which has a soft lining for your phone or glasses. With a tiny pocket inside the bag to slot an AirTag, this is a modern backpack with superb attention to design detail.
The one downside is the bag only has a 14L capacity despite being relatively large and boxy. That’s because the main compartment has good length and width but not much depth at only 5in (12.5cm). It means you must stack items such as coats, shoes, lunch box or headphones on top of each other, tower style, and you run out of room surprisingly quickly.
Otherwise this is a stellar choice.
Stubble & Co – Stylish & high quality
Pros
Stylish
Cons
Few pockets
Laptop size: up to 16in
Capacity: 21L
We’ve no doubt that Stubble & Co is making some of the most stylish and well-made bags around. And we’ve included two here because they’re both so nice.
First up is ‘The Backpack‘, which isn’t an overly complicated rucksack with more pockets than you can remember. Instead, it’s simple and effective with just a pocket on the front and a small one inside. You also get side pockets for items like water bottles.
This updated model has a 21L main compartment and you can fit up to a 16in laptop in the protected section at the back. Furthermore, the material is now water-resistant premium Tekwax canvas (also found on the new The Weekender – a holdall with a laptop compartment). If you need a fully waterproof bag then look to The Roll Top.
Not only does The Backpack look great—available in All Black and Pirate colours—the craftsmanship is exceptional. The magnets on the lid have been replaced with a more secure G clip.
The Commuter (pictured on the left, $155/£125) is available in two colours and is also made from British Millerain premium Tekwax canvas. It’s a more traditional shape with comparable 20L capacity along with more sections–namely a dedicated laptop compartment with its own zip–and pockets if that’s more the kind of thing you need.
Bellroy Tokyo Totepack – Tote and backpack in one
Pros
Nice internal pockets
Cons
Not completely waterproof
Laptop size: up to 15in
Capacity: 14L or 20L
This backpack has large tote handles on the top so it can be carried as a tote if you want to, and the back straps fold neatly away.
But this bag is still best when used as a backpack and is pleasingly protective and comfortable despite the slightly unusual design. We tested the larger 20L version (there’s a smaller 14L too) and managed to fit in far more than expected with a 15in laptop, books, headphones, keys, lunch, and spare shoes all fitting in there with room to spare. It’s a bit of a Mary Poppins bag.
There are clever touches like the two internal pockets for water bottle, umbrella, or shoes as well as two outside zip pockets for easy access to smaller items. The top zipper has a weather flap underneath to make up for the fact the zippers and materials used here aren’t waterproof. But this is an excellent and excellently well-made laptop backpack from Bellroy that manages to be lightweight but sturdy.
Laptop bag buying advice
Every laptop bag has a dedicated compartment for your computer, and bags usually advertise the biggest laptop you can carry by giving a screen size in inches. You might find that a laptop with a 16in screen will fit due to its dimensions, even if the bag says ‘up to 15in’ – although it may be a tight fit.
Pockets and flaps for easy access
Frequent fliers should search for a bag with an easily accessible laptop compartment, allowing them to swiftly remove their device at airport security. A luggage pass-through flap will also allow you to affix the bag to the telescoping drag handle of your suitcase.Some manufacturers provide all-around padding (with double at the bottom), whereas others provide only an internal pouch with no upper cover. Consult our reviews to determine the level of protection offered by each bag.
In addition to your laptop, you will need space for the power supply, other accessories, and your personal belongings, such as a gym bag, water container, documents, keys, and a cell phone. The nominal capacity of the majority of bags is the total volume, not a singular compartment for items other than a laptop.Multiple pockets are advantageous because they help keep items organized and separated, whereas a bag with a large supplementary compartment is ideal for carrying bulky items such as shoes. Keep in mind that the larger the capacity, the larger (and typically bulkier) the bag you'll have to carry everywhere.
Some bags have separate pockets for tablets and smartphones or media devices. Occasionally, the latter have a slot through which headphones can be routed.
It is advantageous to have multiple zippered pockets that can be accessed independently, as opposed to having to unzip the main compartment to access internal pockets. This exposes your belongings to potential criminals and is not nearly as convenient.
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Best Pedicure Services in Mohali
As one of the most cutting-edge beauty salons in Pittsfield, Finger 2 Toe has established a strong reputation in Massachusetts. Finger 2 Toe offers a winning combination of luxurious beauty treatments and impeccable customer service, and the company is dedicated to ensuring that every client is completely satisfied. Finger 2 Toe is the ideal beauty salon for women who want to feel like a personality for the day. The moment you walk through the door, you'll feel fabulous.
Best Pedicure Services in Mohali
For those who walk, run, go to the gym, or work out a lot, the fashionable & Best pedicure service in Mohali, called Finger 2 Toe offers a unique sports pedicure. To keep bases feeling better during exercises, Finger 2 Toe pedicures include a deep nail mite, cuticle oil painting, and careful nail trouncing. Hot kerchief wraps to aid in muscle relaxation, alleviate joint pain, and alleviate muscle fatigue in our pedicure clients. The outcome of a Finger 2 Toe pedicure is energizing and refreshing for your athletic bases!
Pedicure Pedicures are full-body treatments for the feet that are suitable for both men and women. Slice, trim, and shape your toenails, care for your cuticles, slip, hydrate, and puff your bases, and, if asked, paint your toenails are all part of this procedure.
Services for Pedicures: Types
1.) Basic Pedicure
Still, if you want to see the simplest package, the introductory pedicure is a great place to start. Soaking your bases, filing and trimming your nails, pushing back and drawing your cuticles, and exfoliating and hydrating your bases are all basic methods for a pedicure. Also, before you leave, your nail technician will apply a top fleece, two fleeces of your preferred polish color, and a base fleece.
2.) D-Tan Pedicure
With cuticle oil painting, the D-Tan Pedicure eliminates dull layers of dead skin on the legs and prevents nail conditions and diseases. The bottom massage cream's skin is softened, smoothed, and retextured as a result. It softens the skin and shields it from everyday harm, D tan fade pack. It is suitable for reducing sun damage to your skin and giving that perfect gleam.
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With an aroma soak, you can purify and detoxify your feet. Natural canvas and ocean swabs aid in skin repair and cleansing during your workout at the gym. Aroma Scrub's velvety goodness will exfoliate your skin. Mask contains a lot of nutrients. Massage Cream The elegant way to conclude your gym session is with our Massage Cream. This delicate nutritional mask will not only pamper your skin but also provide a natural food source. Your skin will be nourished and doused as a result.
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Various chargers, including Swarovski chargers, rocks, and even genuine diamonds, can be used for crystal pedicures. The chargers can be put on the nails in a variety of different designs and are typically applied to the nails with a special gel or cement. Depending on the chargers used and the design of the pedicure, crystal pedicures can be quite pricey.
5.) Lotus pedicure
Lotus Professional gym luxurious and invigorating rose pedicure a high-end treatment designed to cover and revitalize bases and nails. Nail technician service in Mohali We also provide nail technician service, which includes oiling fingernails and toenails, drawing, cutting, and shaping nails, and suggesting colors, rocks, and designs. The duties of a nail technician include polishing fingernails. Smooth ens soothes and nourishes.
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Caryl Daydream: Body Art
He was pulled from a mild thought (one that concerned Mr. Hinley's parched rye fields) with a milder creaking of his door, followed by a figure, a dim oil lamp in hand. Though enshadowed, it had the lines of a woman. He gripped the hilt of his knife with furtiveness and waited.
As the figure drew nearer, Daryl's eyes -they slowly blinked into the moon-coated darkness, to see none other than Carol. Their trip had led them to a tucked-away bungalow; retro looking, with two separate rooms for sleeping. And it looked charming, according to Carol. He had a sneaking suspicion that his longtime best friend had a fondness for vintage anything, really, and it suited her. He, himself, described her in his mind as having that 'touch' that could make any place a home, no matter how disheveled and deserted it looked. She could work wonders with a needle and thread; a bar of soap and vinegar, and create gourmet meals out of near scraps. It was from another time, altogether, that way of hers. And timeless, all the same. He remained reticent in telling her that, though. Settling instead for watching her as she scoped out a room for herself and tossed a "this one's smaller, I'll take it," over her shoulder at Daryl before disappearing inside.
It wasn't terribly unusual, them using separate rooms. Their adventures on the road afforded them lots of time spent "together", and some space for two loners with individual demons was to be expected. Daryl reckoned Carol's behavior had more to deal with giving him some space from her, though. It turned out she didn't leave all her insecurities behind in rugged, blue-ridge Virginia. He hadn't wanted her to, either. All of Carol needed to be packed up with the rest of their belongings, as they headed off to find something all their own. Wherever that was. No, he didn't want a sliver of her to remain with anyone or anything that didn't involve him. That wasn't him. Not even her "broken" parts.
She hadn't re-emerged from the lofty-looking room, and Daryl took that as a sign of her wanting to be alone and get off her feet. Maybe stretch out on her bed or crawl under its comfy duvet. His steps led him to the other room that appeared to be something out of a Cabin Living catalog, with its sanded furniture and spit-shine floors. An oil canvas of a cowboy with his missus overlooking a piece of well-set range, told Daryl that many things awaited him -them- out there.
It had been nearing one week since then.
Shrugging his pack off after another long day, he'd lain down, the perimeters having been secured -and that was hours ago, when the sun still had one eye open at them.
Now the hot, Pennsylvanian moon watched them through a window with a sash design and a flimsy curtain nailed over it by an even flimsier handyman.
All of Carol was now highlighted by its rays; the stars flickered behind her like rambunctious children. She was smiling at him and had the comforter she filched from the other room with her, wrapped about her figure and head. Daryl unfastened his hold on the knife just as stealthily as before, and let the weapon slip back into its holster.
"Thought you was sleepin'."
"A little while ago I was," she replied. "How are you?"
"Mm. Good," he readjusted a bit against the pillows and cleared his throat, whilst raising his right shoulder to relieve a kink in his neck. "You?"
"Me, too," but her voice faltered in the modest space between them. Daryl instantly righted himself, beginning to stand.
"Huck, again? He do somethin' to you?"
That would be Huck Hinsley, of Hinsley Farms. A man with a face far older than the rest of his body, and an ego the size of Texas to go with it, he was the lone operator of (according to him) the last handful of family-owned farms in the east country. Daryl imagined that gave him some pride -and certainly explained his arrogance. If one thought he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, they would've been wrong. Huck Hinsley was more liable to have been born with a twig between his gums. It was as native to his body as any of the other appendages that made up his impressive physique.
He was also the rightful owner of the bungalow he and Carol had found around a week thence.
The most pained cry ripped from his chest as he had drawn his rifle on Daryl, who countered with his crossbow. Shouting profanities and spewing out damnations on him, Daryl was certain the man had gone mad. Who sobbed bitterly while threatening an enemy they didn't know from anywhere?
He had about a foot on Daryl, but he was certain he could still take him if it came to blows. Huck's "hulk" form didn't seem to make him as coordinated as Daryl, so he scanned the room, waiting for an opening to take him down.
It never came to that. For Carol dashed into the room; her long-bow aimed right at him, commanding that he drop his target on Daryl. The advantage and dexterity clearly on their side, Daryl figured the towering man knew he'd had it. But once again, he had assailed Daryl's presumptions by doing the strangest thing he had seen in a while.
He'd removed his straw hat. And clasped it against his chest with both hands, his rifle forgotten.
Daryl thought he'd seen trembling coming off the man, but it was too slight to tell. He appeared stunned, though, rooted to the spot. Beads of sweat collected around his broad forehead; his Adam's apple poked out like a pig with a hernia, bobbing sparingly.
But it was his eyes that unnerved Daryl the most. For how sincere they were. No longer clouded over with rage. A strange fondness and reverence now resided in them, like the peace that comes after a violent rainstorm.
They know each other? Not likely, since Carol had never returned the man's strange salutation. She had, however, seemed struck by something about him; in him. She carefully lowered her weapon.
"Is this your place?" No response. They all looked like statutes posed in a house of dolls.
"She asked you a question," Daryl ripped out, fingers still curled tightly around the crossbow's trigger.
The man never looked away from Carol, but answered "Y-yes. It is." He had sounded criminally northeast American when shouting at Daryl moments ago, but now, a sort of honeyed Southern drawl replaced it. "Had it when I first married many moons ago, beggin' your pardon. Didn't mean to shout, frighten ya."
So the place was important to him? Understandable. But Daryl still couldn't fathom the way this stranger had gone from zero to sixty and back down again in record time. He suspected something changed the atmosphere, and it wasn't the heat of the sun, now trekking to the highest point in the sky, that had done it.
Carol blinked, glancing down the length of his body. And if Daryl knew Carol, it was to see if he was employing some odd tactic to regain the upper hand that she could alert him to. But she found none, and forsook her weapon entirely, stowing it away behind her.
"We're sorry," she started. "We didn't mean to intrude. The place was empty when we arrived."
The man gave a sad smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Yes, miss. It ain't empty no more." That placating way of his. An unmistakable mark of southern hospitality. Daryl felt all his muscles stiffen for some reason. "No needin' to be sorry, now. Can stay as long as you like."
"Nah, we're leavin'," came Daryl, crossing the length of the room to stand in front of Carol. He couldn't name it, but he felt that was where he belonged at the moment. Even behind him, Daryl could sense Carol furrowing her brows at him. "Like she said. Sorry 'bout that."
He had hoped that would be the final word, but for the umpteenth time, this large man who smelt of sweat mingled with whiskey, threw him off.
"Reckon you can't be gettin' far with them bad wires of dynamo on your motorbike," a look of surprise flashed across Daryl's face. He knew the spark plugs were failing on their bike? The man nodded solemnly, as though he heard. "Had a chance to look 'em over when I did my usual inspectin' of the area. I know that particular smell of gas comin' off it ain't cause your engine's faulty."
So he did have the advantage after all. Knowing the area, he recognized a foreign vehicle and also assessed its problem. He probably concluded, then, that Daryl and Carol would be unable to get very far without the bike failing them completely.
Daryl knew the spark plugs were dying; it was why they stopped here in the first place. And he had explained to Carol that they needed new ones in order to continue traveling safely. That day they had made a plan to scout the area for any cars or trucks or bikes (though less likely) that might resolve the issue. One day turned into a few and they still came up with nothing.
Until this strange man appeared.
Carol had gently patted Daryl's arm, as if asking for permission to speak. She didn't need it.
"We actually were looking for the parts off any abandoned vehicles in the area," she explained. "But we weren't successful. Would you be able to help us, Mister…" the man's eyes brightened.
"Huck Hinsley, miss." When Carol smiled at him, the man looked as though it touched him to his very being.
"I'm Carol. This is Daryl. We hope we have your forgiveness for trespassing on your property. Maybe there's something we could do to make up for it? A trade, perhaps?" Daryl kept his eyes on this huckster Hinsley, but narrowed them at Carol's queries. What was she suggesting, time in exchange for supplies? "You help us with our problem and we help you with yours?"
"Don't look like he got anything that needs doin'," Daryl countered, not wanting any unnecessary involvement with the man. But he just smiled, sort of toothy, his head tilted ardently.
"Reckon all of us got problems. The real bad kind." He had no idea what that could be referring to, but Daryl couldn't say he cared for the way Mr. Hinsley continued to stare at Carol. "Don't know where my manners got to these days. Pardon my rudeness." Only then did he nod at Daryl, finally acknowledging his presence since Carol entered the room.
But only for a moment. Then it was back on Carol. "Didn't know you had a lady present."
And that was four days ago. Or one repaired barn, three patched fences, four cleaned horse stalls, and eight, ten-foot long plowed and planted Rye rows, later. All in exchange for the parts they needed to get the bike running safely, again. That had been the agreement Mr. Huck Hinsley had offered in return for helping him fix up his farm about a mile up the road. They could even stay at this place for the duration of the agreement instead of with him in the farmhouse. Daryl had still been skeptical, but Carol eagerly accepted, rubbing Daryl's arm where neither man could see it.
The one stipulation was that Carol specifically not lift her finger to do any hard manual labor. She could, however, use the farmhouse's kitchen to cook the meals for that day and evening and perform general housekeeping duties, including the cleaning and re-stitching of some old-fashioned dresses inside a wooden chest in his bedroom closet. On the third day of their tenure there, Carol had approached Huck about planting a bean garden in the patch of tilled soil, flanking the house.
Man looked about ready to melt at her addressing him. Daryl felt his bowels burn with--
"Your eyes are red, Daryl," Carol touched Daryl's face, inspecting him under the moonlight, finding what she had been looking for.
"Eyes are always red," He avoided. They were. Between the wind pounding his face as they rode fast down the highway, and the early hours they rose to track food and cover miles, Daryl's eyes were always red. Carol shook her head, retracting her hand.
"Not this much," she returned softly. "And not this often."
"Yeah?" What consequence was it, really?
"You're tired, Daryl. You're not sleeping. Even less than you normally do. What's bothering you?"
"Asked about Huck," he diverted. "He do anythin'?"
Carol frowned, but not in anger. "No, he didn't. You always ask that. Ever since we met him." Gesturing to his slightly slumped form, as if that were her proof. "It's literally keeping you up at night." He shrugged with a pretended indifference.
"Don't trust him."
"Why not?"
"Just don't," he replied, turning his face away from her. His tone let Carol know he didn't care to explain what would classify as his reasons. Or rather, he couldn't.
So there was silence. The awkward kind that made one fidget in their seat or look around aimlessly for something to ramble on about, nervously. The long fringe of hair offered Daryl some invisibility as he glanced on Carol to see what she was doing, always careful to view how his words affected her. Or if she could see straight through him. Interestingly, there was a pursing together of her lips and a clutching of her fists around her mantle-blanket, before she slowly retreated from the room.
Daryl watched her go, pretending to be unfazed. But failing.
He was surprised when she returned -as the Black-Crowned night heron just completed two of its calling rounds- carrying a tray that contained food, covered with a linen cloth, which she placed without a word on his end table.
She must have wanted him to eat, but he wasn't hungry. Something that tasted like an apology, however, clotted his throat; something he wanted to voice, but wondered if that would make it worse -seeing as though he couldn't properly explain why he was sorry.
Carol came near him, again. Blanket still in place. She ran her eyes over all of him, before letting out a steadying sigh.
"What are you doin'?" He peeked up at her, sideways.
"Scooch," was all she said, sliding in beside him. A scent like flower petals entered his nostrils, filling his lungs, and he couldn't help the exhale that followed.
Sharing a bed was more common for them than sleeping separately. But Daryl gave a bewildered look at the way Carol was practically hovering over him, her palm pushing the curtain of strands from his face. She seemed to be searching for something there, and must have found it, because she pressed her lips to his forehead in a kiss.
".....?" Daryl could only gasp. What's she doin'?
The night heron stopped mid-call. "Carol…?"
"Relax," her voice was of a soothing quality. Therapeutic. "It's okay." She kissed just above his eye -where his scar was- before bringing both her hands up to massage his temples. Her fingertips were cool. Cooling. Like-
"That smell…" he voiced, recognizing it. The herbs Carol had planted all over Huck's garden. Her hands smelled of it, now. Just now? Was it there before? Why hadn't he noticed it? Had Huck?
"Peppermint," she answered deep into his ear as she continued her work on his temples. A shiver swiveled down his spine like descending a fireman's pole. "Do you like it? It's good aromatherapy."
"Aroma?....Therapy?" He winced at the pleasure she inflicted on him. What on Earth was happening? "...Why?"
"You work so hard everyday. All the farming and repairing you've done with Mr. Hinsley-"
"-Huck," Daryl cut in, his face moving with Carol's ministrations like putty, as she moved over to massage the delicate skin around his eyes. If she had noticed the brazen tone he'd used, she didn't mention it. Instead, she hummed in support. Their bodies vibrated in the prying light of the moon.
"He said you two work well together." She mused.
"No, we don't," he grunted in return. In his estimation they didn't, anyway. Not one of their grueling tasks had been completed without the man throwing demands over his shoulder at Daryl like they were hot potatoes.
And some of them were actual potatoes, too. Huck would chuck them backwards between his legs like some All-American football star from the 1930s; just ordering Daryl to collect the unearthed tubers in the burlap bag, and to stay behind him. He might have been a considerable deal younger than this Hinsley man was, but Daryl was no kid. They would get a lot more accomplished if he would just let him work independently.
Same was true with that damn barn of his. If Huck just let Daryl hammer along with him, instead of making him stand below to hand him extra pieces of plywood like a waterboy, the barn would have been repaired in half the time. And the sooner that was done, the sooner they could leave.
Only when Carol would step into view, could Daryl see the change in him. Sometimes she carried refreshing glasses of homemade iced tea or lemonade with her. Other times it was water and a midday meal. She always looked like a drink of water, though. The way he noticed how Huck would routinely lick the sweat from around his lips, and remove his hat for her in respect -and her, smiling genuinely in return- made Daryl the third wheel on that wheelbarrow they were using to haul around supplies on the farm.
And he felt his blood heating up, but not from Carol's hands.
"He's a kind man," accentuated Carol. "Maybe a little rough around the edges…" she let her hands travel up into his hairline, pulling and pressing on his scalp with the right amount of pressure that Daryl's eyes drooped sleepily, beckoning him to relax. Somehow he had developed a headache over this entire frustrating situation, and Carol's fingers in that area were creating a natural compress. "Nothing a little tenderness can't help soften up, though."
"The hell he need softenin' for?" As good as Carol was making him feel, it did little to abate the anger in him. "You ain't his maid."
That remark made Carol's hands pause in his hair. She moved her face to his before briefly nuzzling it. Having her this close for longer than an embrace was intoxicating. Daryl wanted to purr but didn't.
"I know I'm not," she whispered solemnly, dragging her nails down both his earlobes in repeated motions. The hairs on his neck stood up, liking it. "I just mean he's got his reasons. For being the way that he is."
"That his reason for lookin' at you so damn much?"
"What do you mean?" Now Carol had stopped all movement and focused on Daryl, whose own eyes were shifting about, in an attempt to find something safe (or safer) to look at. "Daryl?"
"Nothin'. Don't mean nothing." He said with haste, wanting to forget it.
Carol seemed about ready to comment when something flickered by the other window above their headboard, catching her attention. She noticed it and looked up at it, Daryl following her gaze a few moments later.
"A moth." Carol observed. The insect appeared to have been trying to get out, but couldn't. "Kind of big, too, isn't he? Is that a different breed of moth around here? Or did he just swallow half that curtain over there?" She asked half-seriously, as if Daryl would know. Insect breeds, classification, wasn't his area. But he squinted in disbelief at Carol not being able to recognize the most basic difference in this case.
"She." Carol peered back down at Daryl, as though she hadn't quite heard him.
"It's a female moth?" She tilted her head back at the creature, unsure of which signs she should be looking for to distinguish its sex. "Are the females usually the larger of their kind?" Daryl chewed on his lip a bit before deciding to answer.
"It's pregnant." Carol gasped, unabashedly fascinated.
"Really? How can you tell?" From Daryl's position, he had an upside down view of the window's ledge with the moth above him. He didn't know if that made it easier to spot, but he craned his neck further back and pointed with his chin at it.
"Its ass is, like, twice the size of a normal moth's." Carol gave a sound that told Daryl she comprehended. But then, she snorted.
"Spying on her bum and saying it's fat -don't you think she's self-conscious?"
Daryl's muscles rigidified beneath her, and he looked away from both Carol and the moth, slightly. Trying to think. He didn't know what made a female self-conscious. He didn't have a mother to teach him any of that by the time he was an adolescent. No way he would learn any of it Merle's way, either. Body parts were just that, weren't they? He didn't mean anything by it.
Carol's smile was flashing in his face like the high beams on an eighteen-wheeler. He narrowed his eyes at her, but wondered if he was just blushing.
"Don't mean it like that," he recovered with a mutter that made him feel pathetic. "Its belly is pretty big, too..." he added as an afterthought.
Carol, an idea having struck her, lifted the heavy blanket from her to reach for the linen cloth covering the tray she had brought in with her, earlier. Daryl stared with curiosity as he saw her rip off a small piece of fabric and place it near the moth's plump buttocks.
"What's that for?"
"Giving her some privacy," Carol said on an exhale, reaching over them to tuck the soft material where the moth had stopped flailing about against the glass. "Us girls have to look out for each other, right?" She had said to the nocturnal moth, and maybe that was what caused her to settle down a bit more and rest against the fabric; its bottom now completely covered. "There. Do you think she'll be okay?"
Daryl couldn't say. But he didn't see why not. "I'm sure nature will take its course."
Carol gave one more sympathetic look to the winged creature, her features contorting into something rueful.
"You know Ed wasn't there when I had given birth to Sophia, either." It was a dead note, like the ending of a tragic number in a classical arrangement. And the sentiment hit Daryl like a ton of grand pianos that played that life-snatching note. "I had her all alone, trying to drive myself to the hospital. Stuffing towels under myself, so my baby would have something soft to land on, upon coming into this world." She shook her head at the memory, and rubbed Daryl's sleeve absentmindedly. "But, you're right. If I was okay, our moth friend will be, too."
Daryl wanted to chastise himself for bringing up something that stirred up such awful memories for his best friend. But knew that Carol wouldn't take too kindly to that response, so he dropped it. Sighed and offered: "She wanted to meet you. Your little girl."
It wasn't much of a condolence, and he knew it. Still, Carol looked down at him, emotion stinging her eyes. As if that was the kindest thing anyone's ever told her. He wondered if it indeed was. To him, Carol deserved all the accolades and compliments one could give. But maybe, in this instance, a moment of silence was the highest honor. So he stayed quiet. She almost whispered: "I wanted to meet her, too. So badly." Then brought her head down to rest on Daryl's shoulder, and let herself sniffle.
A barn owl sang out from a tree canopy-ing the house and they laid together, enjoying the break in tension it offered.
"So," she mused in a mischievous tone. "If I were pregnant, would you be able to know it by the size of my trunk, too?" Daryl blanched.
It clobbered any thoughts he had been paying to the departed Sophia and the anguish her mother had gone through since. Now his facial muscles felt foreign, and too large for his own body to maneuver.
"Huh?" He answered, trying to backtrack his thoughts and coming up with nothing sufficiently controversial.
"Would you?" She actually wanted to know. It wasn't just her yanking his chain, as she was apt sometimes to do. When the mood hit her just right. Like the moon was hitting her hair just right now, giving it an ethereal shine.
Maybe it was her hair messing with his thoughts, making them less coherent. Because before he knew it, he had uttered an undramatic, "guess I could. Since that's where most of the weight on you would go." And immediately, he regretted it.
Carol had pulled back to stare into his terrified eyes, just as shocked as he was. It was like looking at his own reflection in a mirror. And the owl 'hooted' no more.
"You watch my ass, Daryl?" She quirked a brow at him. He couldn't read how she was asking that question; whether as a flummoxed female, or a disturbed equal or an offended friend. Over the years, he had certainly watched her. Watched over her while she slept or cleared hundreds of abandoned buildings. Watched her from afar as she canoodled with the king, and that Tobin fellow; watched her up close in that odd friendship she forged with Negan of all people. He watched her walk away. From him. From them.
He suddenly felt quite ill, having too much experience in that area than he was comfortable admitting. He wanted to open a window, let the stale air out. But was trapped beneath Carol, imprisoning him with that gaze of hers -and that query.
So he went tripping over his words, like a regular Jack-and-Jill. "I, uh- no. I, that's -meant that…'s just, I always watch you. All of you." He hoped that sufficed, however choppy. Carol was good about putting the pieces together. Understanding what he meant. He hoped she was doing that now.
But she hadn't said anything. Not a word. Even the silence was loud. Carol simply stared at him, nothing in her face giving away a thing about how she took his honest remark. His whole body burned under her gaze, wanting -needing- for her to speak, and say something to him. Even if it was critical. Or reprimanding.
"A lot of folks look at you," he tried again, attempting to iron his crumpled up voice out. "Back home. And out here. Huck does. A lot. Seen him doin' it a whole bunch of times. Ain't just me." He hated how defensive he sounded. Like he had a right to justify his actions by explaining it that way. He clicked his teeth, wanting to forsake himself altogether. Why couldn't the words just come together? Why couldn't they ever for him?
Carol remained silent, a concentrated gaze searing a hole into his head. He felt exposed then, as though she could see and read and hear every thought he had stored away about her in there. And confiscate it.
"Daryl, I-" she finally began, but Daryl cut her off so fast, his breathing came out in shallow spurts.
"You mad?" He wanted to, but could not help the fear, shading his tone a dark color. It contrasted greatly with the lightness in hers.
"Oh, Daryl," Carol breathed, as she brought her lips unmistakably close to his before saying. "I think that's pretty romantic."
He had only begun to process that familiar phrase, when the next thing Daryl had felt was her lips on his for the very first time.
I am so sorry. 😞 This is actually just a one-shot but it is too long. It is supposed to have a love scene between them too but maybe I did it wrong by writing too much? I tried to fix it. But my story pacing is not good. But I wanted to give this to you first before TWD starts again. If you don't think it should have it, I can just leave it like that.
Well HOLY GODDAMN as our friend Negan would say. Babe, don't apologize for your writing style. To me, it felt like I was reading an extended scene straight from the spinoff. The nice thing about writing fan fiction/ short stories is there's a lot more room for mundanity. Sometimes the excitement is in the smaller details and your work here is a perfect example of that. I loved the subtle allusions to Daryl's jealousy and Carol being coy, and I especially loved the payoff at the end. It works well as it is, but I REALLY want to read the love scene. Don't worry about the length. I guarantee it won't detract from the quality of the story.
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Tᕼᗴ ᑕᕼᗩOTIᑕ ᗩᑎᘜᗴᒪ
(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5) (Part 6)
Chapter 5: Don't Jinx It!
·•·—–·•†•·–—·•·
Chloé Bourgeois... A girl that can be described in many words
"She's absolutely ridiculous! I can't believe you have to do an art project with her of all people!" - Alix sprawled out on Marinette's balcony
"She can't be that bad, besides we might become friends." - Marinette sketching some designs
"Believe me, even I think she's a bit much... She's snobby, annoying, rude, immature, spoiled, she basically has the “I'm better than thow” attitude to a T."- Kagami sitting next to the flowerbed while reading a literature book
"See? Even Kagami agrees... Just don't talk to her, actually don't even move if you're in her sights. She's like a T-Rex, she can't see you if you don't move." - Alix
… … … … …
"Hello, I'm Marinette, it's nice to meet you." - Marinette reached out her hand as she smiled
*Que Alix facepalming herself while Kagami lets out a sigh*
"Whatever, I'm Chloé, but I'm sure you already knew that." - Chloé
They started their project and most interactions went the same way, Chloé would sit in a chair near the window and paint her nails while Marinette did all the work. The next day Marinette and Chloé were the only ones in the art room.
"Okay, let's get started." - Marinette skipping her way over to the art supplies
"You do that, I'll just sit over here." - Chloé walking to her chair
"... Say, is it fun painting your nails?" - Marinette looking over to Chloé
"Of course, what girl doesn't like nail art?" - Chloé
"Well, painting on a canvas is kind of like nail art, here try painting something." - Marinette handing Chloé a paint brush
"Please, I don't do art." - Chloé refusing the paint brush
"But you ‘Paint’ your nails." - Marinette
"It's different!" - Chloé
"Okay, how about this, if I can do a magic trick for you, will you try painting just a little bit?" - Marinette
"...Fine, impress me." - Chloé giving Marinette her full attention
Marinette pulled a seed she got earlier that day out of her pocket and showed it to Chloé
"A seed?" - Chloé giving an unimpressed look
"I'll turn it into a flower, as you can see I only have this seed, and there's nothing up my sleeves. When I turn back around this seed will be a flower, are you ready?" - Marinette still holding the seed for Chloé to see
"Just do it already." - Chloé
So, Marinette turned around putting her free hand over the seed, and imagined it growing. When Marinette turned back around, all Chloé saw was a fully bloomed Common Rockrose flower, leaving her stunned.
"How did you do that?!" - Chloé walking up to Marinette to get a better look at the flower
"Family secret." - Marinette with a small smirk - "So, you want to try painting now?"
"... Fine." - Chloé pouted her lips and sat down at an empty canvas while Marinette walked to the table beside it, and Marinette may or may not have seen a small smile on Chloé's face while she grabbed some more paint.
After about 30 minutes Alix and Kagami came in and found Chloé and Marinette flinging water paint at the canvas
"Ha!" - Marinette whiped her arm out, watching as the wet paint from the brush splattered onto the canvas
"Ha HA!" - Chloé doing the exact same motion, but with a little more flare
Kagami and Alix just stared in amazed silence... they had created a master piece... It was a magnificent painting showing a meadow with many flowers in an almost hazy dream kind of look, it had a blue sky and a faint rainbow in the background behind some clouds on the horizon
"It's *sniff* Ridiculously beautiful..." - Chloé
"And you thought painting was boring." - Marinette teasing Chloé
"... Isley-Quinzel, look me in the face and say that again." - Chloé
"And you- ("Boop" - Chloé) -Hey!" - Marinette got booped on her nose by Chloé's paint covered finger
"I admit it was fun... to some extent. Now lets act like this never happened." - Chloé getting ready to leave
"How the hell did you get Chloé to paint?!" - Alix snapping out of her surprise, which caused Chloé to get startled and trip, knocking the paint onto Marinette and herself in the process
"Well... that was a colorful entrance." - Marinette now covered in blue, pink, green and red paint
"Utterly Ridiculous!" - Chloé now covered in yellow, dark green, and blue paint
"Ooops?" - Alix shrugging her shoulders
*facepalms* - Kagami
… … …
Marinette and Chloé had to walk around school covered in paint, definitely getting a few awkward stares from the other kids. About an hour later, each pair of students presented their shared work of art. When Marinette and Chloé went up, both holding their masterpiece while still covered in paint, stunned the other students.(Not because Chloé was 1. covered in paint, 2. actually carrying the painting, and 3. had a smile on her face) Needless to say they got an A+, and for the rest of the day Marinette, Chloé, Alix and Kagami hung out laughing and having fun. Not long after that the other kids started making bets on who Marinette would befriend next, and how long it would take for that someone to be an instant friend.
Chloé ended up spending a lot more time with the GPS and eventually...
The girls sat around in a circle within Marinette's room with all the lights off, only having a single lamp in the center of the room to add an ominous glow
"Are you ready to take the oath?" - Alix
"Yes, but why do we have to make it look like some utterly ridiculous ritual summoning?" - Chloe
"I agree with Chloé, I'm not allowed to summon the unnatural or paranormal." - Kagami
"Well, let's forget the paranormal stuff for now, ehem. Chloé Bourgeois, do you promise to always have our backs..." - Marinette
"Through the good and the bad..." - Alix
"To say the truth and nothing but the truth." - Kagami
"Wrong oath Kagami." - Marinette whispering to Kagami
"...... To always stay on the path that is straight and true..." - Kagami
"To uphold the justice in this crazy world..." - Alix
"And to guide those who have abandoned the light... Are you ready to join the GPS?" - Marinette
"Yes." - Chloé
"Girls, time to eat- ... Marinette, please tell me you aren't summoning the unnatural like Harley did that one time." - Selina just opening the door and seeing basically a ritual gathering
"In mom's defense, she was trying to get rid of the spooky spirit." - Marinette
"That was from a story Ed made up that one time, you wouldn't stop seeing the shadows ‘moving’, and then Harley thought she saw them move, and she ended up doing a ritual to get rid of it, but we ended up with the cursed toaster ghost. And now all bread we toast is burnt back home." - Selina
"... But burnt toast is the best!" - Marinette
"Ivy told you that it would make you grow quicker, which then tricked you into liking burnt toast, which isn't tasty at all." - Selina
"*dramatic gasp* You Take That Back!" - Marinette
"Nope, now come down in 3 so we can eat." - Selina closed the door and walked away
"You girls agree with me right?" - Marinette turning to her friends
"... Marinette, how can you think burnt toast is good?!" - Alix
"It's... burnt." - Kagami
"Ehhh, it's okay." - Chloé
"Thank You!" - Marinette hugging Chloé
"... un-second thought, I retract my ‘yes’ to that oath." - Chloé
"Too late." - Kagami
"You're stuck with us..." - Alix then leaned over and whispered in Chloé's ear - "Foreverrrrr."
……… ……… ………
After they had their food they went back up to Marinette's (ritual free) room and started playing Ultimate Mecha Strike 2.
After a few rounds of Marinette dominating Ultimate Mecha Slaughter Strike 2, they moved on to watching some Jurassic Park
"So... your mom cursed your toaster?" - Chloé
"... maybe." - Marinette
"Honestly though, who in their right mind likes burnt toast?" - Alix
"Apparently Marinette." - Kagami
"It's kinda like thin burnt rice crispy treats, just minus the sugar." - Marinette
"*dramatic gasp* You Take That Back Right Now." - Alix
"You don't even know what rice crispy treats are, do you." - Marinette now looking away from the TV and directly at Alix
"Not a clue." - Alix
"It's an American treat, it's actually really good, not to sweet, and not to crunchy." - Chloé
"This is why you are part of the GPS." - Marinette hugging Chloé - "You understand most red blooded American treats, and for that I give you my thanks." - Marinette now starting to tear up
"What are we, chop liver?" - Kagami pointing to Alix and herself
"Well unlike you two, I have seen the other side... I swear, they're all hillbillies, and they live in the worst weather ever! Sunshine state my ass, more like out door saunas 24/7." - Chloé ended up mumbling her last few words
"... That's Florida, and it's not that bad, it never gets hotter than 115°F, and that's during summer." - Marinette
"... No wonder you like burnt toast... your brains were burnt with it." - Alix
"I didn't live in Florida, I lived in New Jersey, and the weather is better there." - Marinette
"That's what she said." - Kagami stuffing her face with popcorn
……… ……… ………
Over the course of the next few months Marinette taught the GPS all she knew about parkour and self-defense, at first they wondered why she knew so many different techniques of self-defense, until she explained where she grew up had a few unpleasant people. They still think she's meta.
When Winter rolled around she was to head back to Gotham for the next month and a half. She was packed and ready when the GPS burst into her room.
"Don't leave! I need an Ice skating buddie!" - Alix clinging to Marinette
"You have Chloé and Kagami, besides, I'm pretty sure Kagami is better on the ice than I am." - Marinette accepting the fact she won't be getting Alix off her anytime soon
"It's Not The Same!" - Alix becoming a human koala on Marinette's back
"She's going to see her family, show some restraint!" - Chloé detaching Alix from Marinette
"No!" - Alix getting out of Chloé's grip and reattaching herself to Marinette
"There's a new attraction with a big ramp jump for the ice skating rink." - Kagami on her phone
"Really?! Let me see!" - Alix detaching herself to look at Kagami's phone, only to see the normal boring ice skating rink - "You tricked me." - Alix gave Kagami the stink eye
"It got you off of Marinette at least." - Kagami putting her phone away
"I'm gonna miss you girls." - Marinette gave them a big hug
"You better not do anything stupid while you're back home." - Chloé
"I would never." - Marinette thinking of the time she ran from the Bat-Birds
"What city in New Jersey do you live in again?" - Alix
"That's-" - Marinette
"Kitten you all set for Gotham?" - Selina opened the door and saw Marinette in a big hug with the girls - "Oh, you girls are here, hope you said your goodbyes because we're leaving in 10 minutes." - She then closed the door to make sure everything was ready downstairs
"... ... ..." - Chloé/Alix/Kagami - "You live where?"
"Gotham...?" - Marinette slowly backing up to grab her luggage and make her way to the door
"Oh hell No!" - Kagami standing between Marinette and the door
"You're staying!" - Alix clinging to Marinette again
"Gotham's a death trap!!!" - Chloé joining Alix and clinging to Marinette
... ... ...
After some convincing the girls let Marinette go, and she was now on the plane that would take her back home.
"... They really think Gotham's a death trap?" - Selina relaxing in the first class seats she got them.
"It's not that bad is it? I had asked them what they thought could even go wrong." - Marinette
"... Well literally everything can go wrong in Gotham... It's not to late to get off actually." - Selina getting up
"Not you too!" - Marinette grabbing her Aunt's hand
"I'm joking Kitten... you are wearing the bullet proof vest under that coat right?" - Selina
"Of course." - Marinette
"Then we should be fine..." - Selina now sitting back down and looking 10 times more nervous than before
"..." - Marinette put her hands together and mumbled under her breath - "Please don't jinx it. Please don't jinx it. Please don't jinx it. Pleeeeease don't jinx it."
……………… They had an hour delay, had to switch flights and couldn't eat anything because it looked like it would give them food poisoning, and they didn't get a wink of sleep......... but they made it to Gotham in one piece... at 2 in the morning.
"You jinxed it." - Marinette dragging her luggage sleepily
"It can't get any worse now-" - Selina
"No!-" - As Marinette tried to stop her Aunt from finishing her sentence, a truck past by the curb and sent a blanket of powdered snow flying into them - "-say it..."
"...Okay, now it-" - Selina was cut off by Marinette stuffing her mouth with the last secret cookie she had
"Don't anger the jinx gods, please." - Marinette pleading to her Aunt
After Selina finished the secret cookie she called Ivy to pick them up. They waited about 15 minutes before Ivy, along with a sleeping Harley in the back seat, picked them up. As they got in the car Harley jolted awake
"Are we dere yet?" - Harley rubbing her eyes
"Yes, and in our snow covered glory we entered the car." - Marinette giving her mom a hug
"I missed yuh so much, it just hasn't been de same wit'outcha cupcake." - Harley returning the hug
"And what about me, did you miss me?" - Selina getting comfortable in the passenger seat
"Ehhh." - Harley tilted here hand from side to side as she continued to side hug Marinette
"... Have I ever told you how great you are at warm welcomes?" - Selina giving Harley the stink eye
"She didn't mean it, you know she has no filter at this hour." - Ivy pulling up to the stoplight
"In other words her honest opinion of me being back is ‘ehhh’, I'm glad she thinks so highly of me." - Selina resting her head on the window
The ride to their base was peaceful, they arrived and went to their rooms after Marinette gave her moms and aunt a goodnight hug. As Marinette went to sleep in her bed, Bud and Lou jumped onto the bed and curled up next to her, as she stroked their fur, she couldn't help but feel excited to spend time with her family and friends. She soon fell asleep in the calm silence of her room, the last thought she had before drifting off, was that she was happy to be back home.
·•·—–·•★•·–—·•·
Chapter 5 complete, hope you're all having a magnificent day, rockin' all the positive vibes and staying safe !BUG-OUT! 🐞💮🐞
〜(꒪꒳꒪)〜Tag List〜(꒪꒳꒪)〜
1st Place★: @jumpingjoy82
2nd Place★: @myazael
3rd Place★: @solangelo252
@fandom-trapped-03, @zorua-adorable, @blueblossombliss, @thefangirlwholiterallydies, @woe-is-me0, @lady-bee-fechin, @jayjayspixiepop, @kashlyn, @toodaloo-kangaroo, @buginetye, @our-preciousss, @vroomtaka, @alessialeone6997, @doll246 , @aestheticnpoetic, @moon5608, @moonlightstar64, @kking13
#maribat#maribat fic#garmari#harlivy#aunt selina#miraculous ladybug#alix kubdel#kagami tsuguri#shenanigans#slight cursing#fluff fic#badass marinette#miraculous crossover#mlb crossover#mlb x dc#mlb fic#chloé bourgeois#harley quinn bio mom#Poison Ivy bio mom#Marinette Isley-Quinzel#the chaotic angel#digital art#foryou#have a good day
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Exit Strategies
Summary: Before they break Alexei out of a maximum security prison, Yelena convinces Natasha that they should rest, that they need to.
A/N: I finally got the chance to see Black Widow today and ugly sobbed through almost half of it. Natasha and Yelena deserved so much more—oh, my GOD, it's not fair.
AO3 Link
—
It’s only when the gas needle edges precariously below a gallon that Natasha frowns, the stark cut on her lower lip curving like a bow just begging to snap.
“We need gas,” she breaks the long silence between them. Yelena glances over at her sister’s profile, sharp and distinct even in the semi-darkness, slightly tinted blue by the BMW’s luminescent dashboard. Her angular jaw. The ribbon-like strands of red hair plastered to the side of her face. The bruises beginning to feather the column of her neck from their recent fight.
And the purple shadows beneath her visible eye.
The lines.
“No shit, Sherlock,” Yelena quips because it’s easier than being sincere, easier than dealing with all of the effed-up history between them. They used to snuggle in the same bed, wrists crossing wrists. Mere hours ago, they came close to strangling each other to death with curtains.
“We also need to rest. Can’t go taking down a multinational child soldier complex on zero hours of sleep, y’know.”
“Mmm,” comes a noncommittal reply, short, patronizing. “You sleep. I’ll drive.”
Yelena simply stares at the older woman, searching, incredulous, and frankly, a little miffed. Has she always been this much of a martyr? She interrogates her own memories—the ones from her childhood are the clearest she has—and surprisingly concludes that, yes, she’s always been this way.
Natasha would get into fights on the playground when older kids tried to bully Yelena.
And she was good with her fists.
She would always win.
“Don’t be stupid, Natalya. You’re not superhuman. Let’s pull off at an exit and get a motel room.”
“We don’t have time for that. My contact’ll be at the rendezvous spot at twelve tomorrow.”
“A few hours tops,” she promises, wheedling, glancing at the car’s central display. It’s 2:07. There’s plenty enough time for them to get some sleep and make it back to Norway, especially with how fast Natasha drives. They’ve never been under eighty-five the entire time they’ve been on the freeway. “C’mon. I stink. You stink. We both need showers and a vodka shot.”
“I don’t stink,” Natasha wrinkles her nose disdainfully. But even as she says it, she lets off the pedal and eases into the right lane. The speedometer slowly sinks from over a hundred to ninety… eighty… seventy…
“You do,” Yelena snickers, mischievous, triumphant, a little kid again teasing her older sister about a hopscotch victory. She arches a smug brow. “You smell like shit.”
“Asshole.”
“Bitch.”
But she watches, with fascination, as the corner of Natasha’s mouth twitches, the cut on her lip quivering too.
—
They get gas at a twenty-four hour station and buy a few necessities inside—some snacks, a bottle of cheap vodka, gauze, painkillers, a pack of Skittles for Yelena.
It’s been a long time since she’s had Skittles.
They’d once been her favorite candy.
Natasha had always preferred chocolate bars.
And behind their mother’s back, their papa would indulge them.
Hush, my little kittens. He would raise a conspiratorial index finger to his mouth. Don’t tell Mama now.
“Jesus hell,” the clearly sleep-deprived cashier says, taking in their haggard, bloodstained appearances.
“We just got back from fight club,” Yelena supplies cheerfully.
“Do you got change for fifty euros?” Natasha asks.
—
At 2:40, they finally pull into a motel, a dingy, little dump far away from the main part of the city. The stolen BMW looks out of place against the worn-down building, all sleek and shiny and new. This is the kind of establishment that most people settle for, not actively choose—unless, of course, said people are two Russian killers trying to evade detection from a militant Taskmaster.
Yelena and Natasha are silent as they creep into the motel room that had been designated theirs by the scruffy faced twenty-year old working the night shift at the front desk, handguns drawn as they flick on lights and canvas the room as they had both been trained to do.
Two queen sized beds.
A boxy TV that looks like it could have been at home in the nineties.
A musty smell in the air.
A spluttering air conditioner in the window.
A framed painting on the wall of something that looks vaguely phallic.
“Clear in the bedroom,” Yelena calls after she checks under each bed.
No monsters under there.
“Bathroom’s clear too.” Natasha walks out of the side door, replacing her Glock in her thigh holster. “If the front door gets blocked, our exit strategy’s the window in the bathroom. Leads out into some woods. We can climb a tree and pick threats off from a decent vantage point.”
Again, Yelena stares at the woman in front of her, trying to reconcile her bruised and scratched face with the kid from twenty-odd years ago, the one who used to make shadow puppets on the wall for her to laugh at, who’d comb her wet hair at night when Mama was working.
There’s so little light in her eyes left, the particulars of her voice perfectly calculated to be distant.
Yelena wants to pull her hair out, wants to stomp around a little, wants to throw a tantrum and scream.
They lived together for three years.
They were sisters.
And Natasha… Natasha is distant.
“Do you always have an exit strategy?” Yelena blurts out a little stupidly. Of course she has an exit strategy. They’re trained fucking spies for God’s sake! Hell, Yelena even has a tentative exit strategy!
(She's just gonna crash through the window and start shooting.)
But she is and really isn’t asking about exit strategies.
Even as her lips formed the words, she knew this. Even as the words fell from her tongue, she felt their insufficiency and knew the depths of her own vulnerability.
Is that all you can look me in the eye and talk about, Natalya?
Exit strategies?
This is our first night together in twenty-one years, and you can stand here and tell me that the trees are the best place for blowing people’s brains out?
Natasha shrugs a single shoulder before limping over to the side table, where they’d placed their singular grocery bag.
“Go take a shower, and make sure you get all the dirt outta your wound.”
Yelena’s eyes flick downwards at her bandaged arm and then back to her sister again.
“You’re such a mom,” she repeats herself numbly as Nat draws the vodka bottle out of the bag, untwisting it with a deft motion and taking a long, practiced drag.
“Shower,” she exhales once she’s done, swiping the back of her hand across her mouth. “We’re leaving in six hours.”
—
Yelena takes a quick shower, ten minutes to the dot, and feels a little like a human again, even though the water was only lukewarm at best, and she has to put on her sweaty clothes from the day before. At least her hair and face are clean, the grime beneath her nails all scraped off, her wound cleansed of dirt. After she towels her hair off, she doesn’t put her jacket and tactical vest on just yet, remaining stripped down to just her undershirt and pants.
She’s slept with her gear equipped before.
On most nights, really.
Tonight, though, just for a few hours, she doesn’t want to.
(She knows she doesn’t have to—her older sister is here.)
As she hangs her damp towel on the nearby rack, she notices that the window behind the dinky toilet has been cracked open about an inch, propped up by one of motel’s washcloths.
A handgun has been strategically placed on the back of the toilet.
A Glock-22.
An exit strategy.
When Yelena enters the main bedroom again, she sees that Natasha is sitting on the bed closest to the window—(the most vulnerable position, she briefly thinks to herself)—shirt off, tenderly probing a nasty-looking laceration just below her ribs.
The dried blood blooms across her stomach like a flower.
Crimson.
Replete with thorns.
“Damn,” she breathes, and Nat quickly looks up, eyes wide, brow furrowed.
“It’s not deep,” she says immediately. “Just long.”
“It’ll scar,” Yelena shakes her head.
Wounds like that always scar.
“I’m no stranger to scars.” A proffered grin—slight, elusive, wry. And no sooner than she says it, Yelena spots the long, telltale surgical incision where the hysterectomy had been performed, and to the left of her belly button, there’s a scar that had once clearly been a bullet’s entry point. “I collect them everywhere I go.”
It’s an innocuous enough statement, but the contents of it jog her memory.
She's reminded of what that their mama said long ago in a military camp somewhere in Cuba.
Pain only makes you stronger, remember?
Yelena has always drawn vague comfort from the words—usually when she’s nursing her own sundry wounds, doing her best to recover from them.
But tonight, looking at Natasha’s body—which surely mirrors her own—she can’t help but think that those words might’ve been bullshit said by a poor, dying woman.
Sometimes, pain can only hurt.
“Your turn to shower,” she says, jerking her thumb emphatically at the bathroom door.
A half-smile.
Her lips are dry and cracked.
“Make sure you get the dirt outta that wound.”
“Asshole,” Natasha chuckles, the sound low and hoarse, and maybe even a little painful because she winces at the end, her bloodied fingers involuntarily drawing themselves up her ribs.
“сука,” Yelena returns, throwing herself unceremoniously onto her bed, hiding her own laughter in a pillow.
Bitch.
—
When Natasha returns some thirty minutes later, she’s already twisted her damp hair into a messy plait, and she’s fully clothed, dressed like an armed gunman is going to burst through the curtained window at any moment.
Yelena had already flicked off the lamp and bunched the stiff blankets up to her nose in an attempt to get comfortable… but she hasn’t fallen asleep yet.
Waiting.
She watches, ever observant, as her sister lithely winds through the room without making so much as a sound, the graceful ballerina that the Red Room tortured her to be. She’s similarly silent as she slowly lowers herself onto the other bed, gingerly propping herself up against the headboard, angling her torso towards the door.
But this is apparently too sudden of a movement for her body to currently handle.
A hissing noise escapes past her clenched teeth.
“You should sleep,” Yelena croaks aloud, having seen enough, having heard more. “I’ll take the first shift.”
Her sister’s hawklike stare finds her in the darkness.
“What? No. Go to bed,” she snaps, obviously annoyed. “You were the one who wanted to stop for the night.”
“Yeah, because I looked over and saw that you looked like death warmed over!” She retorts haughtily. “However much you might pose otherwise, you’ve gotta have needs too.”
This quiets Natasha.
At the very least, it makes her look away.
She shifts (very incrementally) on her bed.
She plays a little with the end of her braid.
“An hour,” she says, so quietly that Yelena almost thinks she’s saying “an oar” for some bewildering reason.
“Чего?” What?
“An hour,” Natasha repeats emphatically. “Wake me up in an hour. It’s… all I need.”
“Okay.” Yelena sits up abruptly, eager to please, desperate to show that she still cares.
It’s a bit sickening, really—the woman practically abandoned her.
She got out and never looked back…
“I mean it.” Her sister doesn’t quite lay down, but she does slouch a little more comfortably against her pillows. “An hour.”
“Yah.”
—
Yelena isn’t a woman of her words, though.
She lets her sleep for two.
“Dammit, Yelena,” Natasha groans, pulling her fingers hard over her eyes. “You told me you'd wake me up."
“Don’t be so dramatic, Natalya,” she yawns, finally slumping her head against her pillow. "It didn't kill you to get a little more beauty rest."
"Asshole."
As the dark takes her away, she smiles.
Bit—
—
A soft hand on her shoulder, a gentle shake.
Yelena blearily opens her eyes to see Natasha standing over her, staring at her with that same inscrutable expression—complicated… and utterly unreadable. It gives her the impression of being pierced through all over, analyzed and deconstructed.
Even though she’s quite clothed, she feels naked.
Seen.
“We gotta get moving,” she says matter-of-factly. “There’s coffee on the nightstand. Once you wash your face, I’ll change your bandage again.”
And then, stepping away, she disappears from view. From the sounds she’s making, she’s clearly cleaning the room, thoroughly removing all traces of their less than six hour presence in this motel in the middle of practically nowhere. In mere minutes, it will be like they had never been here at all.
And so it goes for Red Room operatives.
So it went in Ohio.
When Yelena sits up to stretch, blankets that she hadn’t fallen asleep under cascade heavily to the floor.
She glances to her left.
Sees a bed that’s been all but stripped clean.
—
In the bathroom, the gray light of dawn leans against the partially opened window. Yelena sits on the side of the half-bath as Natasha makes quick and expert work of cleaning her wound and bandaging it up again, snipping the excess gauze off with her penknife.
“Looks better today,” she simply comments as she replaces the knife in her utility belt. “Might not scar if you’re lucky.”
Unspoken between them but nonetheless understood, neither of them have really been lucky.
They were orphans abandoned by their mothers.
They were children who were trained to kill.
And now they have so much blood on their hands.
Red dripping from their ledgers.
Scars on their bodies, so many wounds on their souls.
Yelena’s not even thirty yet.
(Her life has given her plenty of reasons to suspect that she might never be.)
“Pssh,” she snorts derisively as her sister finally yanks the washcloth out from the window.
It closes with a smart snap.
A decisive finality.
Yelena is just bending down to lace her boots up when Natasha suddenly speaks again, apropos of absolutely nothing.
She could have just left.
She shifts her weight from foot to foot.
Gripping the washcloth loosely in one hand, she stays.
“There was... this S.H.I.E.L.D. guy,” she says, her voice reluctant, full of clear misgivings, “who used t’complain all the time that I never had an extraction plan. No exit strategies either. I’d just go in… complete my mission… and it’d be up to my enemy’s aim if I made it out intact.”
Yelena looks up to see that her sister’s back is turned to her, her back stiff, the sharp ridges of her shoulder blades jutting visibly through the black fabric of her shirt.
Somehow, even in a bathroom barely big enough to admit the both of them, she seems strangely small.
Young even.
She curls her fingers around the nearby towel rack like a kid gripping the monkey bars.
“I used to think that maybe that was the best way to atone for everything I’d done,” she continues, her voice ever distant, so perfectly controlled. “To be so reckless with my life that if I died during a mission, someone might actually call it heroic.”
A laugh, short and humorless, entirely disaffected from the horrible words that the same voice just spoke.
Yelena wraps her arms loosely around her stomach.
And represses the primal urge to shudder.
But wish though she could, she can’t look away from Natasha Romanoff.
Mesmerized.
Horrified.
Concerned.
She should hate this woman.
For all of these many years, she has loved her unconditionally.
“But then I got with the Avengers, you know, and I was suddenly in the public eye, tasked to save people, to try and protect my team…”
A violent pause.
Natasha lets go of the towel rack rather abruptly but neatly folds the rag over the top of it.
“It’s different when you’re on a team,” she finally shrugs. “You start making exit strategies because it’s not just your life on the line anymore.”
“So that’s what we are, huh?” Yelena can’t stop herself from asking. Her voice drips its own sarcasm; it relishes in mockery; she hopes it’s enough to hide her hurt. “A team?”
They’d once been family.
Every night, Natasha told her that she loved her.
Every night, Yelena replied just the same.
And in all the years afterwards, there was always a small part of her that hadn't lost hope that her big sister was going to come back for her one day, that she was going to bring the Avengers and rescue her—rescue all the Widows—from Dreykov.
She got out.
Thousands of girls didn't.
“For now,” comes the quiet reply. “C’mon. Finish getting ready.”
Natasha doesn’t look behind her when she walks out.
Yelena is starting to think she never does.
#natasha romanoff#yelena belova#black widow#mcu#black widow spoilers#reginianwrites#f: mcu#I HAVE SO MANY GD EMOTIONS
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A Reborn World’s Anomaly
Well, my first fic after a long ass break is for a character that literally no one knows. So blame @mimisgarbage for sharing my love in this dumb whore. Also, I can never just write about fat Yuma, gotta mention the fucked up ending cause I am still emotionally scarred and hurting from that shit
“Those idiots really did it,” Nagamimi glances down at her newfound arms. Her entire body newfound, she barely marvels in her appearance. No longer in the form of a stitched doll somewhat resemblant of a rabbit, her form is now that of a person. Her black attire the same as ever, the sleeves of her rich black outfit engulfs the entire length of her arm, barely stopping at her wrists. Attached to both sleeves is a single white ruffle that nearly engulfes her hands much like her arms. The rest of the outfit is a short skirt that is much less concealing. Ending a tad bit above midway above her knees, the extra ruffling added at the bottom gives a bit more fabric to cover her up alongside her black leggings and black pumps. A rich lilac vest sits atop her outfit with a darker purple cravat right above said vest. Her dragging bunny ears are replaced with blonde hair, two flowing braids of hair parting it down the back with one being far longer so as to reach down to her knees.
“Nagamimi!” A shrill shout sounds as Mio runs towards Nagamimi. Not quite sure as to how she knows Nagamimi or where she even came from, the innate trust she has in her and Unit 13 has in her eases Mio’s already minimal concerns. Mio no longer as sickly frail, she runs with reckless abandon despite her black boots, her long yellow-green hair flows behind her freely. Her short white top rustles from the movement but her black shorts thankfully covers her up. Unwilling to fully stop, she nearly rams into Nagamimi through forcefully grabbing her arm with glee. ‘What are you doing out here?”
“What’d I say about grabbing me like that?” Nagamimi raises her voice yet she makes no effort in putting up the slightest amount of resistance. “I was just saying an extra goodbye is all,” Nagamimi’s eyes never once taken off from the horizon she stares at the increasingly diminishing figure.
“They already said goodbye. The rest of Unit 13 is still celebrating! And Julietta but he celebrates for everything,” Mio tugs at Nagamimi’s arm.
“Yeah,” Nagamimi continues to stare; the tension in her jaws remain. Her mind races. The thoughts jumbled, sudden, instantaneous moments churn throughout her conscious. Flashes of the world destroyed. Flashes of everyone but a select few killed, those near the stage of a dragon spared. Flashes of Unit 13 destroying VFD and with it, a world free of dragons. And yet, Unit 13’s leader’s sudden call had raised questions. Questions only for Nagamimi as the rest of Unit 13 had been purposefully left out of the loop by their leader. With the near teary state their leader had been from such an unexpected call, Nagamimi had no choice to leave it alone. With only her and Unit 13 knowing the truth of their remade world, there simply had been no opportunity to speak about the contradiction of Yuma existing. A man-made human created for the sole purpose of destroying dragons only to instead willingly turn himself into one, his entire existence is contradictory.
And yet, Unit 13’s leader was willingly overlooking such a strange anomaly. Yuma slain by their own hands, Yuma had refused to back down despite the two’s relationship. The deep burning shame and regret haunting them afterwards, the image of Yuma dying in their arms from the wounds they themself inflicted, properly analyzing the situation was simply out of the question for them.
“What’s wrong?” Mio staring at Nagamimi’s face, she glances between her face and the place where Unit 13’s leader once was, their entire silhouette now gone.
Nagamimi deeply sighs. Her entire frame puffing up with air only to expel it still feels too insufficient of a sigh. “I just don’t want to go back to where everyone is. They’re so loud,” Grumbling herself so as to sell the lie, she immediately gives herself away with her smirk.
“You’re a terrible liar!” Mio pouts as she drags Nagamimi back inside.
“I hope everything works out for those two this time,” She earnestly wishes under her breath before she follows Mio’s efforts to get her to rejoin the festivities.
Stepping off the usually packed trains of Tokyo, Unit 13’s leader deftly weaves through the hustle and bustle of packed foot traffic. This new world exactly the same – minus the disappearance of dragons – as their old, destroyed world, the address Yuma had given them is easy to get to. A quick search revealing apartment complexes, Yuma no longer living at ISDF with dragons ceasing to exist, he had eagerly expressed wishing to see them. The shock of Yuma somehow being alive still refuses to wear off, so they hurry through the crowd despite the angry complaints tossed their way from their rushed state.
Eventually reaching the address Yuma sent them, their prepared mental state or rushing up a litany of stairs is still high on adrenaline even when they find Yuma’s apartment to be on the ground floor. Fishing their phone out of their pocket, they double and triple check the address before placing it back. They clear their throat. Their fist shaking, their lungs refuse to cooperate with them as they hold their breath back upon knocking twice. The instant a second passes without a response, their chest seems to well up with water as the sudden inability to breath sinks in.
“It’s open!” A shout responding to their dread and panic, the prickly moist tears that threatened to protrude begin to recede. They almost slam the door open upon their rushed entrance. “I’m in the kitchen,” The soft yet smug tantalizing voice of Yuma’s penetrates their ears and sinks into their very flesh. Their legs continue on moving towards the captivating voice. They stop upon the sight that awaits them.
The kitchen in a somewhat state of disarray, Yuma is at the epicenter of it all. His engorged figure makes it hard for him not to be, Yuma’s hefty body taking up a large swath of the kitchen area. Surrounded by cats, Yuma’s obese body seems even somewhat laughable with the tiny pets clinging to him.
No longer possessing the fit musculature for a body designed with the singular intent of killing, Yuma’s figure is instead comparable with a body designed solely to eat. Where once there was a defined outline of abs shown only in more personal, intimate moments from their dates, Yuma’s heaping gut lurches forward into a massive overhang. Tucked in neatly and safely behind the comfort of his turtleneck, the fabric surprisingly doesn’t fight back its owner’s corpulent body; instead, it conforms to Yuma’s soft curves making up the doughy mass of his gut. His overhang reaching down a bit above his knees, the end up Yuma’s gut ends in a notably defined bell shape, the curve of his stomach curving ever so slightly inwards below his navel. His stomach mercilessly pulled down by gravity due to its sheer weight, the mass of lard rests comfortably on his thighs. The inner rivulets of fat making up his thighs are hidden behind his tank of a gut. However, the sides of his thighs jut out from so much fat crammed into his figure. The edges of his thighs peeking out from behind his gut offer a sense of their own immense girth, the inner mystery of his thighs filled in by the width of his overhang. Each thigh wider than a person, and with extra width to spare for a second, the two tree trunk thighs fill the fabric of Yuma’s pants. His pants perfectly tailored to fit him just like his turtleneck, the legs of them taper to fit his body, the entire canvas of sagging puffed out fat making up his legs visible. Rolls marcating the edges of where his ass and legs meet, Yuma’s ass juts out behind him, a slight fall to them as well from its own weight like Yuma’s stomach. A cat clings onto the fabric of his pants; its nails digging into the thick fabric as it hangs off the side of Yuma’s thigh.
Yuma’s legs slowly shift in clear, deliberate motions. Moving obviously a challenge with so much girth in the way, his pendulous gut sways from the movement. It slaps against his thighs. Turning to face towards Unit 13’s leader, he lets out a sigh – half from spotting his partner and half from exhaustion. “You’re finally here,” His face is puffed out from the extra bits of flab piled onto his cheeks and chin. No longer so angular, it’s instead rounded out to give a more soft and welcoming aura, The apron attached to him offers an even more welcoming aura, the width of it only covering half the width of his expansive gut. Even his breasts splay out the sides of the apron. Both heavy tits rest comfortably on the shelf of his gut, each sploying out somewhat to the sides. The apron lacking a knot, it instead has a collar to fit around his doughy neck. Two cats vye for Yuma’s attention, one on each soft shoulder. Yuma’s doughy looking arms rest comfortably on his plump love handles. Too much effort to hold up the two burdened arms despite each only holding a bowl of cat food, his fat bunches together.
“Yeah,” Unit 13’s leader is at a shock – partly from Yuma’s mere existence yet mostly from his newfound weight. “I made it,” Releasing a radiant smile as the edges of their lips upturn, their feet glide along the floor as they step forward with zero hesitation. Their fingers gingerly wrap around both bowls in Yuma’s hands. The cats meow at them as they walk back. The cats circling their feet, they take great care in placing the bowls down, yet they do so quickly before the cats can prematurely grab them while still in their hands. The cats content with their food, Unit 13’s leader saunters back to Yone. They press a hand on Yuma’s stomach, their fingers sinking ever so slightly into the warm mass of fat. “Sorry about the wait, big guy,” Immediately accustomed to Yuma’s strange reappearance and even stranger figure, they loop an arm around Yuma’s, the warm pile of pudge encases their arm on all sides.
Yuma lets out a small huff of breath before shaking his head at the nickname; his near shoulder length gray-brown hair swishes from the motion, bits of his green eyes momentarily hidden behind his hair. “I guess I’ll never get you to stop calling me that,” A twinkle in Yuma’s eye, he follows their steps as they slowly lead the way.
“It’s hard to not call you what you are,” They give a couple affectionate pats against Yuma’s wobbling stomach. Leading Yuma out of the kitchen, they make their way past their cats that are preoccupied with eating. “Plus, you seem to get a kick out of it too,”
“Oh, I get a kick?” Yuma counters. His personality much the same, he continues his rebuttal. “I’m not the one insistent on using such a nickname, am I?” His fatigue starting to get to him, he huffs afterwards.
“We’re almost there, big guy,” They ignore his rhetorical question and instead lead Yuma further back into the living room. Yuma merely rolls his eyes with a scoff thrown in for good measure.
Upon reaching the couch, they reluctantly remove themselves from Yuma. A wide permanent indent marking his spot, Yuma gratefully lowers himself down on it with only minimal creaking from the loveseat. His bulk finally resting, his fat bunches up together. His thighs take up nearly the entire expanse of the loveseat. His gut rests on the wide pedestal that is his thighs. “Make yourself comfortable,” Yuma challenges.
Without a pause, Unit 13’s leader sits in the tiny crevice left available between Yuma’s fat and the armrest. However, they lift up Yuma’s gut, the mass of fat barely lifting up despite their best efforts. Shifting around, they place their back on the armrest as they sit on Yuma’s lap. Most of their body smothered under Yuma’s gut, they let go of his stomach with a grin. “Got the best seat in the house. Even comes with a personal heater,” They rub Yuma’s gut with their right hand; their hand goes in slow counter-clockwise motions.
“Glad to be of service,” Yuma suddenly blushes as his stomach growls.
“Now it’s my turn to be of service,” Opening up their phone, they start ordering food without waiting for any input on Yuma’s end. Tapping and scrolling away, they smile as Yuma simply starts searching for something to watch.
Deciding to simply take this newfound world without question, they let out a contented sigh as they place their food order, ready to enjoy their first date with Yuma in this world.
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Trinkets, Worthless, 10: These trinket are garbage plain and simple. They would be termed vendor trash or junk loot in video games. They aren’t touched by stray magic or mystery as with regular trinkets, aren’t made from valuable materials and aren’t particularly useful even if they aren’t damaged.
A burlap bag containing a dozen assorted doorknobs.
A rather large and dead hairy spider that looks as if someone tried to make a wig out of it.
A small beige oilcloth sack embroidered neatly with the word ‘CHEESE.’ You can smell it from halfway across the room.
An expertly taxidermied rat with a built in candle holder capable of bearing a small tea candle. The mouse is posed as if scurrying
A lump of coal with runes carved into it.
A five pound pyrite (Fools gold) ingot.
A worn minotaur’s nose ring that has been bent and beaten back into shape many times.
A lacquered wooden coin engraved with the holy symbol of a minor God of Random Neutral Domain.
A smooth, flat, black river stone.
A small, tattered canvas sack containing a dozen half-rotted teeth that are as long as a thumb, but are decidedly identifiable as human.
—Keep reading for 90 more trinkets.
—Note: The previous 10 items are repeated for easier rolling on a d100.
A burlap bag containing a dozen assorted doorknobs.
A rather large and dead hairy spider that looks as if someone tried to make a wig out of it.
A small beige oilcloth sack embroidered neatly with the word ‘CHEESE.’ You can smell it from halfway across the room.
An expertly taxidermied rat with a built in candle holder capable of bearing a small tea candle. The mouse is posed as if scurrying
A lump of coal with runes carved into it.
A five pound pyrite (Fools gold) ingot.
A worn minotaur’s nose ring that has been bent and beaten back into shape many times.
A lacquered wooden coin engraved with the holy symbol of a minor God of Random Neutral Domain.
A smooth, flat, black river stone.
A small, tattered canvas sack containing a dozen half-rotted teeth that are as long as a thumb, but are decidedly identifiable as human.
A single feather hanging from a chain of slender twigs reminiscent of a bird’s nest.
A dull-red, cloth pouch filled with five pounds of finely ground, rust flakes.
A pair of minotaur horns, which were well used by their original owner.
A tangled mess of metal wires fused together with heat and attached to a wooden plaque. It may be a worthless mess of twisted scrap metal or a priceless piece of inspired artwork.
A heavily used hand cranked wood drill that creaks loudly when used.
A foggy hand mirror that when cleaned, immediately fogs back up.
A cracked and weathered hourglass that only has some sand remaining
A battered leather satchel filled with dried red beans.
A fishing hook that cannot be bent.
A large tin canister whose lid is crudely stamped with the word “JURKY”, which contains dozens of sticks of meat jerky. Any creature can clearly identify the jerky as “meat” but as to the exact animal the dried “food” came from, (If it is only from a single species of animal) is impossible to tell.
A battered stone shaped like a heart.
A child's wooden doll that makes whoever looks at it uncomfortable.
A cloth sack packed to the brim with cat fur.
A cloth sack packed to the brim with dog fur.
A flat, round, dark gray stone speckled with reddish flecks, and about six inches across.
A sewing thimble that, when poked by a needle, will roughly squeeze the bearer's thumb.
A small brass key.
A hand mirror with a horn handle. Instead of actually functioning correctly, the mirror reflects all creature's image as a specific bald human of unknown origin.
A very roughly drawn map of the surrounding area. A knowledgeable creature is able to tell that the map is not to scale and is barely useable for actual navigation.
A spindly iron key.
A chipped nautilus shell.
A moth eaten, gray velvet clutch purse.
A fairly convincing but ultimately inaccurate map, with a single red dot marking “You are here”.
An old scratched up lyre, strung with well-worn cat gut strings.
A Random Humanoid Race’s rotting, severed head.
A crudely made staff topped by a small skull.
An uneven, gnarled length of wood from a grotesque tree.
An old and cracked velum scroll whose script has been rendered illegible by the ravages of time.
A simple, springy rod made of twisting vines and twigs.
A rotting wooden goblet filled with a festering brew of pus, blood, wriggling maggots and worms that spill from the froth on the liquid's surface.
A dusty old pair of half-moon glasses of such a strong prescription that they are unwearable for most creatures.
A cracked glass jar containing a crudely removed bear claw.
A poorly embroidered handkerchief with the words “I love you dad” crudely stitched into it.
A red, child sized, fuzzy blanket that smells of mold and mildew.
A desiccated hoof that once belonged to a large, male elk.
A simple dusty scroll has no marking, seal nor text on it. By all appearances, it is a standard sheet of writing material that is bound by a single hemp thread.
A stone jar of filled with acid. The jar's lid is badly fitting, and the acid bubbles and froths as it moves. The object's sole markings are a skull symbol resting overtop of a warning written in Dwarvish.
A bedroll that is covered in a large, dark stain, but is in otherwise fair condition.
A set of crude fishing supplies, including a box of maggots, several bent hooks and a ten foot length of wire.
A set of clothes, appearing halfling in size and design. They appear partially burnt and have a large, black stain on the chest.
A primitive woolen bag filled with bones.
A rough bag full of leaves and stems of an unknown plant.
A crude animal cage. Inside there are two dead rats a dead bat and a large number of healthy maggots feeding on the aforementioned corpses.
A badly water damaged book whose pages cannot be read.
A set of badly maintained scientific instruments, including a compass, measuring rods, quills and ink. With some repair, they could form a cartographer's toolkit.
A humanoid skull that has been cleaned and bleached white. It has a large, drilled hole in the center of the crown and several abyssal symbols are crudely carved into the temples.
A long clock hand of dark metal, the end raggedly pointed and stained with old blood.
A dusty glass bottle that still holds a few drops of viscous red liquid.
A page torn from a hymnal book dedicated to a god of war.
A clay tablet with indecipherable symbols.
A padlock that any key can open.
A bundle of crumpled papers, each having a partially completed love poem on them. Most of the words are scribbled out and are illegible, but the intended recipient appears to be a woman by the name of Neurelia.
The skull of a bird with an iron nail driven through it.
A crude wooden mask featuring a head crest of branches. The entirety of the mask is scorched wood and it smells like charcoal.
A beaten crate filled with rotted children’s clothing and old toys.
An alligator skull that reeks of sulfur and bog water. The druidic rune for “Preserve” is carved into the forehead.
A stone statue of a goblin, paper-thin and hollow. If the statue is broken, goblin bones tumble out.
A rusty dagger with a blade that is wildly unsuited for any sort of cutting whatsoever. Dangling from the pommel-nut is a leather thong strung with teeth and walnut shells.
A latticed or deformed stone that's possibly a meteorite
A malformed doll with a strange leer that wears a sackcloth dress.
A stitched up bear composed of multiple parts from different teddy bears.
A lady’s brush, elegantly carved of ivory with boar bristle. The ivory is stained and cracked, and many of the bristles are missing.
A hefty book full of notes written by many authors and inserted pages from other books. There are bite marks and slashes on the covers and some dirt might slip from between the pages when shaken.
A wizard's spellbook that was enchanted to repel liquids. Unfortunately, the enchantment is so strong that the pages cannot be written on rendering it completely unusable.
A reasonably shiny pebble.
A plank of wood whose knots and grain, crudely (At best) depict a lesser known deity of Random Domain.
A corroded metal cylinder bearing forbidden writing. The runic script bears little coherence, appearing like mad ramblings about the things beyond.
A set of brass lockpicks that couldn't possibly fit into any known style of lock.
A sheaf of poorly rendered sketches made by children.
A torn flag of an ancient city long since fallen into ruin.
A dissected and flayed corpse of a tiny fey creature.
A syringe with a squared-off crystal barrel. The plunger, flange, and needle hardware are nickel alloy ornately etched in twining, serpentine coils. Though it has no needle, and the plunger no longer seals, it is finely made, given its age.
A rotting quarterstaff made of oak wood. The staff has grips wrapped in slimy brown ape skin.
An old pair of trousers that are almost entirely made of patches and stitches, having been kept in service long past their time.
A crooked rod of dark wood with a possum skull lashed to the top.
An antique sword, rusted to its mildewy scabbard.
A length of heavy rusty chain, entangled in an impossible knot.
A thick waxy candle the colour of sickly pallid skin. When burned, the smoky odor of roasting ghoulflesh fills the room, ideal for setting the mood for foul necromantic rituals, preparing volunteers for human sacrifice, and all manner of depraved acts involving corpses.
A large bird's nest that has human finger bones woven into it.
A thick shirt of coarse brown horsehair.
A small leather pouch containing a double handful of seemingly fresh tree nuts, still in their shells.
An ugly gray wine skin, heavier than it looks, sloshes and gurgles in response to any movement.
A large, cast pewter vial containing a quantity of strangely textured sand. It clumps and sticks in a single doughy mass.
A piece of parchment bearing an unusual symbol drawn in iridescent green ink.
A long and tangled piece of twine with tiny brass bells knotted into it every few feet.
A dingy, brown leather collar with a sea serpent branded along its length is stuck on a jagged piece of splintered wood.
An intricate and spiky ball of cat and rat whiskers.
A heavy shot glass with a cat's face carved into the bottom.
A copper coin with a small hole drilled at the top and attached to a long length of fishing line.
A small, stained sack with a crudely painted figure of a halfling on the side. Opening the sack releases an odour that invokes tears and gagging to those nearby. The sack itself contains a number of crude items designed to disguise a goblin as a halfling. Laying the kit’s inventory out on the ground, you assess its value as a tool for subterfuge and determine a figure of zero. The wig leaves an odor of wet dog on your hands. The goblin disguise kit contains the following items: a chopped and damp wig made from worg fur, flesh-toned paste that burns when applied, a set of incomprehensibly disgusting false teeth, a canvas tunic with a poorly painted “shirt front,” and a pair of greasy gloves.
#d&d#dnd#d&d 3.5#d&d 4e#d&d 5e#d&d homebrew#d&d 5e homebrew#loot#custom loot#loot generator#random loot table#pathfinder#trinkets#roleplaying#rpg#dungeons and dragons#dungeon master#dm#d&d ideas#treasure#treasure table#d&d resources#tabletop homebrew#junk loot#vendor trash
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Eco-Pleasant Organization Tendencies In 2021
The Best Bag And Cable Organizers™
The Custom Leathercraft 3 Multi-Purpose Clip-on Zippered Bags are better suited for your home toolbox than an everyday gadget bag. The trio of pouches are made of canvas, so they’re tough, and sharp nails and needle-nose pliers won’t damage them. The canvas was rougher than our panelists preferred, and most staffers found the dark colors unattractive. Many of us also prefer pouches that are transparent because we don’t like guessing what’s stored in each bag in the set. The IPOW BD02 pencil pouches are sold in a set of four. We liked the fun floral patterns and traditional pencil pouch shape. But the bags weren’t big enough to hold more than a single bulky item, such as a laptop charger. The zippers also stuck and some broke during our tests. The five bags in the Modern Bethel Travel Pouch Set are covered in vinyl, so they’re waterproof. But in our tests, the seams weren’t stitched cleanly and the bags leaked water. We also found that the larger bags (13¾ by 10½ inches and 11 by 8¼ inches) are so big that they’re as bad as just leaving things loose in your backpack or purse to begin with. The Muji Double Fastener Case (medium) was great for storing the small gear on our list. But it couldn’t hold our bulkier items without permanently deforming the polyester bag. It’s also not waterproof, so a spilled soda or leaking lotion bottle would damage its contents. The BUBM cord and cosmetic organizer is a two-way makeup and brush bag that’s convertible to store tech gear as well. The top is a traditional makeup bag, and the bottom unzips horizontally to store brushes, tablet pens, and skinny cable cords. But the main compartment isn’t big enough to carry most of the accessories on our list. And the padded chamber absorbed leaking water, which means that it could retain the stinky odors of other spilled liquids over time. The Chiceco Handy Makeup Pouch offers better privacy than our pick from The Container Store because it’s made of 100D Oxford nylon and not micro mesh. It’s small enough to carry with one hand, and is flexible and durable enough to cram full with gear without fear of it tearing. But the zipper broke during testing, making the bag virtually impossible to use. The Leatherology Clamshell Makeup Bag is sold in two sizes (medium and large) or as a set. Both sizes were great for splitting the storage of our tech gear and personal hygiene items. We liked that both bags have zip pockets, and the clamshell design was ideal for finding small items hiding at the bottom of the bag. But the leather was too soft, and it was easy to scratch and scuff during normal use. Leatherology allows only a 30-day return window and only for unused gear, which isn’t ideal for a product that costs $85 to $180. †Yet we called the customer service line twice and never spoke with a live person (once, we stayed on hold for 30 minutes before giving up and ending the call). Note: As of January 2020, Leatherology now offers a one-year limited warranty against defects in materials or craftsmanship, but we still prefer the quality, style, and look of our Cuyana picks. After two years of testing, we dropped the Dsptch Dopp Kit as a pick. Originally, we liked that its design worked for carrying both cables and lotions because the main compartment had three wide elastic loops that comfortably fit bulky toiletries (like sunscreen) and tech accessories (like charging bricks) beside each other. But the main compartment can’t fully unzip, so it’s harder to peer into and harder for larger hands to dig inside. Similarly, the side compartment’s padded valet tray takes up valuable space, and when the tray was in place, we had trouble quickly grabbing an item from that section without fully unzipping the bag. The Herschel Supply Co. Chapter Travel Kit measures 18 by 4½ by 6 inches, so it holds our essentials with plenty of room to spare. But its large size also means it was way too big to carry each day. This Dopp kit also isn’t waterproof. The Aer Cable Kit was a previous pick, but it has been discontinued. We reviewed its successor, the Aer Cable Kit 2, which isn’t as practical as our Incase pick. The Aer Cable Kit 2 has redesigned pockets and loops, but the storage compartments are less useful in this iteration because they’re more uniform, which means it’s harder to find a spot for odd-shaped gear. And the main compartment is lined in a fleece-like material that’s not very soft. We don’t like the Bellroy Tech Kit because the metal zipper is sticky, the storage compartments aren’t ideal for smaller pieces like USB flash drives and earbuds, and the pockets aren’t taut or zippable, so items can easily fall out in transit. The Dagne Dover Arlo Tech Pouch (large) is a good size if you regularly carry large tech accessories such as a charging brick or docking station, but for most commuters, it’s too big and ungainly. It’s difficult for people with small hands to carry in one hand, it doesn’t rest flat along the spine when open, and the chunky plastic zipper is stiff and hard to maneuver. The Knomo Thames Knomad Organizer is slim enough to stash inside a briefcase, but its wide design makes it harder to carry in one hand while you’re juggling gear as you dash from conference room to conference room. And although it’s made of water-resistant polyurethane, the material is slightly rough, not as refined as the material in our other picks. The Bond Travel Gear Escapade Pouch has a rough nylon exterior, inconsistent stitching quality, and zippers that catch, making it hard to open and close. Eagle Creek Etool Organizer Pro lacks a microfiber lining and padding to protect delicate objects, and there’s limited space to secure smaller items, like thumb drives. Water also leaks through the zippers. The Native Union Stow Accessory Organizer’s leather exterior shows wear and tear easily, and the zippers are difficult to use. The Peak Design Tech Pouch opens like an accordian-style file folder, so gear won’t fall out when you open it. But this was the hardest bag to open that we tested, as the zipper frequently got stuck on the thick piping that was designed to prevent leaks. The Tom Bihn Snake Charmer is an upright bag with dual mesh compartments (like a dopp kit). But it's surprisingly bulky (up to 5 inches deep), and it’s also not waterproof, so tech gear won’t survive a soda spill. For non-water-resistant options, we prefer our Vaultz Mesh Storage Bags because they’re sold in a pack of four for just $8 at the time of writing, are modular and big enough for larger cables, and pack down flat for easy storage. The Welden Nylon Accessory Organizer is well-made and stylish, featuring a modern hexagonal weave pattern on the exterior that’s sure to attract attention. But its small size (4.7 by 7.78 by 2.75 inches) has limited storage space, which won’t work for most people commuting with all of their gear. It’s also pricey ($80 at the time of writing), and we think our luxe pick, the Cuyana Leather Travel Case varlion summum leather backpacks Set, is a better deal (currently two bags for $110). Leatherology Small Tech Bag Organizer has three elastic loops, but the loops loosened after just a couple of uses. The bag is made of soft full-grain leather, which scratches easier than what we would like from a $65 bag. You can upgrade to the firm, full-grain German leather bag for $100.) This bag is also subject to Leatherology’s limited 30-day return window (described above). Both Bagsmart bags we looked at have plenty of loops and slots for our gear, but it felt weird putting toiletries in such a techie-looking pouch. Model Travel Universal Cable Organizer (BM0200044B001) wasn’t waterproof. And though the Thicken Cable Organizer (BM0200064A001) model did repel water, its inside wasn’t very durable and got scuffed up by our bulky laptop cable. Our packing cube pick, the Eagle Creek Pack It Quarter Cube (extra-small) was too flimsy to hold our gear. The Hynes Eagle Travel Accessories Organizer was too small to hold even half the gear on our list. The floral pattern on the bag was grainy and looked cheap. The bag also wasn’t waterproof. The Power Packer is durable, looks nice, and is big enough to store bulky cables, external power packs, and travel adapters. Although that’s exactly what it’s designed to carry, most of our testers found it big for everyday use. And the knitted fabric accents absorbed and leaked water to other sections of the bag.
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Best Pedicure Services in Mohali
As one of the most cutting-edge beauty salons in Pittsfield, Finger 2 Toe has established a strong reputation in Massachusetts. Finger 2 Toe offers a winning combination of luxurious beauty treatments and impeccable customer service, and the company is dedicated to ensuring that every client is completely satisfied. Finger 2 Toe is the ideal beauty salon for women who want to feel like a personality for the day. The moment you walk through the door, you'll feel fabulous.
Best Pedicure Services in Mohali
For those who walk, run, go to the gym, or work out a lot, the fashionable & Best pedicure service in Mohali, called Finger 2 Toe offers a unique sports pedicure. To keep bases feeling better during exercises, Finger 2 Toe pedicures include a deep nail mite, cuticle oil painting, and careful nail trouncing. Hot kerchief wraps to aid in muscle relaxation, alleviate joint pain, and alleviate muscle fatigue in our pedicure clients. The outcome of a Finger 2 Toe pedicure is energizing and refreshing for your athletic bases!
Pedicure Pedicures are full-body treatments for the feet that are suitable for both men and women. Slice, trim, and shape your toenails, care for your cuticles, slip, hydrate, and puff your bases, and, if asked, paint your toenails are all part of this procedure.
Services for Pedicures: Types
1.) Basic Pedicure
Still, if you want to see the simplest package, the introductory pedicure is a great place to start. Soaking your bases, filing and trimming your nails, pushing back and drawing your cuticles, and exfoliating and hydrating your bases are all basic methods for a pedicure. Also, before you leave, your nail technician will apply a top fleece, two fleeces of your preferred polish color, and a base fleece.
2.) D-Tan Pedicure
With cuticle oil painting, the D-Tan Pedicure eliminates dull layers of dead skin on the legs and prevents nail conditions and diseases. The bottom massage cream's skin is softened, smoothed, and retextured as a result. It softens the skin and shields it from everyday harm, D tan fade pack. It is suitable for reducing sun damage to your skin and giving that perfect gleam.
3.) Aroma pedicure
With an aroma soak, you can purify and detoxify your feet. Natural canvas and ocean swabs aid in skin repair and cleansing during your workout at the gym. Aroma Scrub's velvety goodness will exfoliate your skin. Mask contains a lot of nutrients. Massage Cream The elegant way to conclude your gym session is with our Massage Cream. This delicate nutritional mask will not only pamper your skin but also provide a natural food source. Your skin will be nourished and doused as a result.
4.) Crystal pedicure
Various chargers, including Swarovski chargers, rocks, and even genuine diamonds, can be used for crystal pedicures. The chargers can be put on the nails in a variety of different designs and are typically applied to the nails with a special gel or cement. Depending on the chargers used and the design of the pedicure, crystal pedicures can be quite pricey.
5.) Lotus pedicure
Lotus Professional gym luxurious and invigorating rose pedicure a high-end treatment designed to cover and revitalize bases and nails. Nail technician service in Mohali We also provide nail technician service, which includes oiling fingernails and toenails, drawing, cutting, and shaping nails, and suggesting colors, rocks, and designs. The duties of a nail technician include polishing fingernails. Smooth ens soothes and nourishes.
* Applying the gel to the toenails.
* Nails from Tempera
* Massage the bottom and hands.
* provide nail care advice.
3D Nail Art Paper in Mohali
A skilled manicurist or nail technician typically works in a nail salon or nail art plant. You could open your nail salon or work as a freelancer to provide support in customer areas.
Best suited
The 3D nail art parchment is useful for married newbies and manicurists who want to build careers as experts who know what's going on in the nail industry worldwide.
Contact us or visit us at
for additional inquiries.
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The Referral [Mentor Hannibal/Reader]
Fandom: Hannibal
Word Count: ~ 2,782 words
Genre: Drama
Pairings: Mentor Hannibal/Female Reader ; Hannibal Lecter/Will Graham
With Netflix now streaming all three seasons of Hannibal, I've taken the time to binge watch my favorite TV show of all time once again. And then, I took a look at one of the one shot series that I had going on this platform and Archive of Our Own, by the name of "A Monster Among Monsters."
This is my attempt at rewriting the one shots to form a more cohesive story, whilst simultaneously providing myself with pseudo therapy.
If you like the content I create, please consider donating to my Ko-fi! Please help me feed my tea addiction!
|Masterlist Link|
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Disorientating and out-of-place. That was what you felt as you sat down in the small and private waiting room across from a small wooden desk. The secretary, a fairly young Caucasian woman, had informed the doctor that you had just arrived for your five o-clock appointment and asked if you’d like a glass of water while you waited. You politely declined as you had a refillable water bottle stored in your backpack.
This was an entirely different environment than that of your previous psychiatrist, which had been a small office inside a brick building built in the 1980s.
The seat beneath you was a soft velvet plush intricately stitched into what seemed like hand carved oak wood. The shelves lining the wall behind the secretary-
Oh… I’ve already forgot her name… A-…Alissa?… Maybe not… but it definitely started with an ‘A’
-seemed excessive in their design.
In the small waiting room, full of grandeur and elegant tastes, only two things did not seem to belong: the secretary, and yourself.
The secretary, because despite how well-dressed and put together she was, you felt that the older woman felt distinctly uncomfortable in this setting. Her nail polish was chipped, her make up hastily done. The bags under her eyes barely concealed by the cosmetics likely indicated a lack of sleep, or trouble sleeping. She simply didn’t fit this setting naturally.
And then… there was you.
You were probably more out of place than the secretary you’d just observed. Still clothed in the ill-fitting school uniform belonging to your minimally funded high school, you looked more like the child of a patient, waiting for her mother or father to finish their appointment for the day, than a prospective patient to a renown doctor. You wondered idly if you should have packed a change of clothes before walking to school in the morning. At least, then, you wouldn’t have shown up in a navy blue polo shirt two sizes too large for your frame, and khakis bought from the discounted boys section of your local bargain store. Pairing the large clothes with your almost boyishly short hair, and it would not be too off the mark to say that you looked like a young boy.
I definitely stand out.
So much grandeur that surrounded you, and against your better judgment, you took in a deep whiff of the room.
When your father had dropped you off on the front steps of the building, promising to come pick you up once the appointment was over, you’d taken a moment to observe the exterior. Your first thoughts were that the building was rather old compared to the others in the neighborhood, that it was very well maintained, and that the good doctor must have been a man of renown and wealth to be able to afford the entire building. Now, when you decided to take a better look and smell of your surroundings, you noticed that contrary to your expectations, the old building didn’t smell like old musty wood, like you would have associated to your home town’s small public library.
Instead, the smell was that of newly treated wood, clean velvet, something floral, and a subdued sweet strawberry body spray. Your face is a carefully polite canvas even as your olfactory nerves detect the too sweet scent of the body spray, thankful that it seemed to be subdued despite it’s artificial sweetness. Your sense of smell was above average, highly sensitive to strong odors and scented perfumes, but not sensitive to the point of headaches. The strawberry body spray seemed to belong to the secretary, however, as you doubted anyone sophisticated enough to pick out the office furniture to find the the smell pleasant… Or, Dr. Dessai referred me to someone with odd quirks.
You shake your head of these thoughts and take a glance at the watch on your wrist.
16:43
You’re very early for your appointment due to your dislike of tartiness, a trait that certain members within your family did not share. All appropriate paperwork had been filled out through a form sent in via email, so there wasn’t much to do except wait for the doctor. With a sigh, you reach over to your school bag and dig out the reading assignment that your English teacher had assigned, “The Stranger” by Albert Camus.
“Maman died today. Or yesterday maybe, I don’t know. I got a telegram from the home: ‘Mother deceased. Funeral tomorrow. Faithfully yours.’ That doesn’t mean anything. Maybe it was yesterday-”
Approximately 15 minutes later
It is the click of a door latch that catches your attention, pulling your eyes away from the novel in your lap to the dark wooden door as it is pulled open. You blink, once, twice, to refocus your eyes behind prescription lenses as a tall gentleman with greying dark hair steps out of the room. Subconsciously, you inhale deeply and discreetly for the second time in the span of thirty minutes. You’re barely given a moment to process what the man smells like before brown eyes sweep to meet yours and he smiles gently.
“Oh! Doctor Lecter! I would have escorted Ms. L/N into your office.” The young woman looked almost bashful as she stands from her chair.
You take the doctor’s lapse in attention to quickly gather your things and stand as well, compelled to action because of the etiquette lesson’s you’d taken for fun at school. “It is no trouble, Amanda. I prefer to greet first time patients at the door.”
Oh… Amanda… that’s what her name was.
When Dr. Lecter’s gaze settles upon you once more, your smile is practiced and polite as you lean forwards with a singular step and the outstretching of your hand. “Dr. Lecter, it’s a pleasure to meet you!” You are forced to look up at the well dressed man, dwarfed by both his height and his charisma.
The smile widens as Dr. Lecter takes your hand in his, grip equally as firm as your own as he replies, “Ms. L/N, the pleasure is all mine.” He steps a respectable distance back to clear the doorway into his office, gesturing into it with guiding hands, “Please, do come in.”
You enter his office with a polite ‘thank you’ inhaling deeply as you pass the good doctor and into his office. Citrus. You ponder, allowing your eyes to take in the room’s decor and layout even while Dr. Lecter guides you to a set of chairs just slightly off center from the middle of the room. Parchment, old books… something floral again.
“You have a very beautiful office, Dr. Lecter.” You state matter-of-factly as you take a seat in the plush leather chair, gently setting down your bag while your eyes remained transfixed upon the books lining the shelves of the upper level.
You barely manage to tear your gaze from the design of the office to see the pleased smile on the doctor’s face as he takes the seat directly opposite of you. “I thank you for the compliments, Ms. L/N. Please make yourself comfortable.” You have to force your eyes away from your surroundings when Dr. Lecter begins to speak, “Your mother and father informed me that my colleague, Dr. Dessai referred you to me for therapy during my appointment with them last month.”
You nod, eyes meeting the good doctor’s just like your mentor had instructed you. “Yes. Daniella-… I mean, Dr. Dessai, has been my therapist since I first started going at the age of ten. But, Dr. Dessai retired last year, so she referred me to you.”
Dr. Lecter’s smile softens as he straightens up in his seat, “Yes, your mother and father have informed me as to why they sent you to therapy at such a young age, as well as why you decided to stop attending sessions. What your parents didn’t know, however, was why you wished to return to therapy after three years. Your mother and father were both quite alarmed that you wished to return.” There is something disapproving about Dr. Lecter’s gaze even though his tone doesn’t show it. You know that look from anywhere. It’s the same one that your father wears when he doesn’t agree with something you do, but accepts it nonetheless.
You tried to smile, but it quickly turned into a grimace as you tore your gaze away from the rather handsome doctor. “I’m sorry.” The compulsion to apologize forces the words from your mouth. You close your eyes and shake your head with a heavy sigh, “No, I should probably apologize to my mother and father, but they are part of the reason why I wished to come back.”
“It would be best to clear the confusion between you, Y/N. If I may refer to you by your first name?” At your nod of consent, the good doctor continues, his accented voice somehow soothing. “Please continue, Y/N. Why have you decided to continue your therapy?”
Tentatively, you raise your eyes to meet his brown ones again, noting that something about Dr. Lecter’s gaze screamed ‘all-seeing.’ Something within you screams and yells at you to tear your eyes away, but you stop yourself, wanting… needing for someone to see you without the tiresome facade. “It’s recently come to my attention that I might have stopped going to therapy rather prematurely.” You stop and gather yourself before continuing, “I’m sure my parents informed you why they wanted me to go to therapy in the first place.” Dr. Lecter nods, though you barely notice it, your mind replaying moments from the past in short bursts. “Therapy was a relief for my parents, I think. They wanted a professional to observe their child to see if I was traumatized by what my brother did to me. The sessions with Dr. Dessai were enlightening and helped me understand my own mind, but I think I was too young for the sessions to have helped me deal with the incident. My parents and I agreed to stop seeing Dr. Dessai after four years because I didn’t show any signs of trauma.” You tear your eyes away almost shamefully, “I’m beginning to recognize the wounds and the scars.”
Dr. Lecter nods and quickly writes a few notes into the notebook on the glass table beside him. When he meets your gaze again, it is filled with sympathy. “I received a summary of what you’ve endured, Y/N, but I do not have access to the official record. If you’d like to talk about it this session, I will not protest, but-” Dr. Lecter pauses and leans forward ever so slightly, eyes meeting yours so that you understand him clearly, “You have nothing to be ashamed of, Y/N. What your brother did to you was terrible, but it was not your fault.”
Your smile is forced and your voice is hoarse even as you speak, “It’s easy to say, but…” The smile turns into a frown as you force yourself to get back on track, “There’s a lot of chattering in my mind, Dr. Lecter, and I don’t think talking to my family about it will help me.”
“Have you tried talking to your mother and father about your thoughts and feelings?”
You know that the good doctor already knew the answer to his question, but you answer anyways. “My father only listens to half of everything that comes out of my mouth, and I’ve tried to talk to my mother about it, but… it’s difficult to talk to her.”
“How is it difficult to communicate with her?” His face is like stone, showing no emotion even as his eyes twinkle with an analytic ease.
“I love my mother and father, Dr. Lecter, even when I’m one of the least affectionate people I know.” Your expression pulls at all ends as it begs for the doctor to understand, “And I wish I was able to speak to them about my problems, but… with my mother, whenever I attempt to speak to her about something troubling me, she always responds with something about her past as if she and I are comparable.”
“Could it be your mother’s way of attempting to relate to you?”
“Maybe, but I don’t think so.” A heavy sigh escapes your lungs, “When I brought up that I wanted to go back to therapy, her first response was, ‘Why? Is there something wrong with you?’ as if having a mental illness was a prerequisite to going to therapy.”
“Her question could be interpreted as concern, Y/N.”
“I know that she was concerned, but then she continued with, ‘You know, when my ex-husband was beating me, I also thought about killing myself. But I didn’t. Because I’m stronger than others.’” There’s a frustrated stinging at the edges of your eyes as you force your tears away. “I don’t… How does one even respond to that, Dr. Lecter?”
“Well,” Somehow, Dr. Lecter didn’t seemed phased about your mother’s response. “Let us step back and think about this together. When your mother said what she did, how did that make you feel?”
“I felt… frustrated, belittled, aghast… betrayed… angry.” Even speaking about it now, the feelings are fresh, easily rising to the surface of your heart.
“And why do you feel these emotions, Y/N?”
“Because laid a part of myself bare to my mother when I told her that I wanted to continue therapy, and instead of asking me if I was okay or taking the time to sit down with me and talk about it, she makes light of my feelings by comparing it to her own experiences. As if saying that her situation had been more severe. As if saying I’m weak. As if implying that I don’t need therapy to solve the chatter in my head.” The more you talk the more you want to cry.
“You feel as if your mother dismissed your problems as insignificant.” It was an apt summary by Dr. Lecter, but if you were to be honest, what you had just described barely even broke the surface of your communication issues with your mother.
“When you put it like that, I feel like my thoughts were all pointless.” You sigh in exasperation.
The understanding smile on Dr. Lecter’s face makes you feel chastised, “I don’t mean to do that, but have you told your mother that you felt like she was dismissing your problems?”
“No.” The defeat in your voice and body language spoke for itself, “But I don’t know how to talk to my mother. She’s always busy with something, so I never have her undivided attention. And then, when I do manage to get a piece of her time and try to have a serious discussion with her about something, she always has to bring her own past into the conversation as well. Or, if she thinks she’s right about something, she completely dismisses any other opinion. And then, when she loses her temper, I lose my temper.” You look at Dr. Lecter, almost desperate, “And I’m no good in a heated argument, Dr. Lecter. Once people start yelling at me, I can’t help but start crying, and that definitely doesn’t help with anything. But mom especially, because she gets angrier when you cry.”
“Perhaps, Y/N, you should try to pull your mother away from whatever she has to do, and you must tell her that you want her to hear you out completely before she responds. Try to stay as calm as you can during your explanation, and if she starts to become too confrontational, take what she said and rephrase it in your head. Take a moment to respond. This way, you’ll avoid flaring either of your tempers.”
“And if she starts to get impatient?”
The smirk on Dr. Lecter’s lips has something mischievous about it, “Then tell her that your doctor instructed you to take your time. Do you understand?”
You breathe in deeply, taking in the scent of citrus again, the smell calming you. “I understand, Dr. Lecter…” Your eyes widen as you suddenly realize how sidetracked you’d gone. “Oh… um… I… forgot how we ended up speaking about this but…” The smile that rises to your lips is genuine, “I feel like a weight has been lifted.”
The older gentleman smiles at you, pleased. “I am glad, Y/N. We are here for you. So long as I can help lift that weight from you, then I believe that we are making progress. Shall we continue?”
The smile on your face widens as you take another deep breath, “Yes.”
Bergamot… He smells of Bergamot.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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