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artificialqueens · 3 years

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Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor (14/14) (Branjie) (and background everyone) - Ortega

a/n: WAAH the end is here!! thank u to everyone who’s ever liked, reblogged or commented on this, it means the world!! hope u enjoy the final chapter! it’s finale time babeyyy

fic summary: Strictly Come Dancing enters its 18th series and its producers, after being goaded by a rival dance show on its inclusivity, commission it to be an all-female cast. Unlike Akeria who’s just here to bone her potential dance partner, dancer Vanessa is ready to act like a professional.

And then TV presenter Brooke Lynn walks into the rehearsal room.

*****

12th December, 2020

The glitterball is casting a thousand mirrors onto the dancefloor and the bodies of the girls around her as Vanessa moves gracefully across the ballroom, twirl, twirl, twirl, STOP, kick-and-kick, kick-and-kick. She feels like a little clockwork doll as she completes each move perfectly in sync with Crystal and Courtney beside her, and with all the lights beaming down on her and the knowledge she’s got her girlfriend out there watching her it’s as if she’s made of a million diamonds.

“All these bad times I’m goin’ through, just dance…got canned heat in my heels tonight baby…”

On the last beat she freezes back to back against Phi Phi on her other side, and as the pros all hold their positions the celebrities in the audience cheer and screech and clap loudly for them. Vanessa supposes it’s weird to still be calling them the celebrities; they’re part of the huge big Strictly family now, and it’s so sad that in a matter of hours the whole experience will be over for another year and they’ll have to say goodbye to each other. Well. In theory they will, but for the endless amount of them who seem to have struck up relationships over the course of the show not much will probably change.

Melting out of their poses, the dancers all laugh, hug and hi-five each other, glad they managed to do so well in the dress rehearsal. As they all walk back over to the seats in the audience Vanessa sees Brooke’s bright smile and twinkling eyes as she puts her hands together in a series of tiny little claps just for her.

“You were so good out there! Well done,” she gasps encouragingly, holding her arms out to her for a hug which Vanessa gladly accepts.

It’s crazy how Brooke’s arms have become such a familiar and comforting place for Vanessa, and the feeling of her girlfriend all warm and soft around her makes her feel like her stomach’s full of butterflies. As the hug breaks, Vanessa tilts her chin up to kiss Brooke once, twice, three times, the pair of them smiling at each other all goofy and dumb and happy. They never really announced their relationship to the other pros (apart from to Monique and Akeria, of course, who received a number of loud voicenotes from Vanessa in the Uber back from Brooke’s the morning after she’d stayed over). To their credit, the other girls have barely batted an eye to the occasional coupled-up displays on show; apart from Crystal squealing and gushing about how cute they are and Jan giving Vanessa a sneaky wink and mouthing a told you so.

Vanessa doesn’t mind, though. Being with Brooke feels like being on a boat in a harbour; calm, anchored, safe. They’ve only really been girlfriends for a week but in Vanessa’s eyes it feels like a lot longer. If she’s been worried about not seeing Brooke after they were kicked out of the competition then Brooke has done everything she can to assuage those fears. On Tuesday they went for late-night drinks at a quiet bar in the middle of buttfuck nowhere to make extra sure there would be no press lingering about. On Wednesday Vanessa had picked Brooke up from filming and Brooke had introduced her to her co-presenter Nina, who’d gasped and hugged her and said she’d heard so much about her (which in turn made Brooke blush, to Vanessa’s delight). And on Friday Vanessa had stayed at Brooke’s again ahead of their busy day today, and they’d made cookies together and taken them in for everyone to snack on during the dress run. It all feels like paradise, the best kind of dream that Vanessa wants to stay in forever.

“I don’t think I’ll ever stop bragging about how my girlfriend is the best pro dancer on the whole show,” Brooke says proudly, Vanessa going all giggly and flattered in her arms. Just then, Jackie leans forward from the row of seats behind them.

“Aw, don’t tell me you and Jan have been having an affair?!” she teases lazily, and Brooke makes a childish face at her as she sits down on her own seat, dragging Vanessa with her onto her lap.

“I said best pro dancer, not best crier,” Brooke deadpans, then flinches and gives a cry as she’s hit on the back of the head with an empty plastic water bottle. As Vanessa howls with laughter, she turns around to see who the culprit is- an incredibly unamused Jan.

“Hey, you two cried when you left too!”

“Only cried because I thought I’d never get to grind against Brooke again,” Vanessa jokes, getting a laugh from the two girls behind her and a long-suffering glare from Brooke. As if to punctuate her point Vanessa wiggles a little in her lap, and the glare turns challenging with a minute raise of Brooke’s eyebrows. If Vanessa has anything to do with it she’ll be paying for that later. She can’t wait.

“Are we talking about grinding against our girls?” Crystal asks inquisitively from a few seats along. “Gigi’s impossible. Her hipbones are like razor blades.”

“Hey, I’m not that skinny!” Gigi objects from beside her, Crystal placating her by taking her hand and kissing it as the other girls laugh. Vanessa’s not sure when those two actually got their shit together, but she’s glad they did. She knows how much Crystal had been crushing on Gigi, and she’s happy that another set of girls get to be happy too.

“You done with your fitting then, Crys?” Vanessa asks. She knows all the finalists got called to wardrobe straight after their rehearsal, and it still looks as if Akeria and Monique aren’t done yet.

“Yeah. The skirt is so long, though, God knows how I’m gonna dance in it.”

“How’re you feeling, Gigi?” Jan asks politely, the finalist going vaguely green beside her partner.

“Like I drank a bucket of cold sick.”

“How poetic,” Crystal rolls her eyes. “You’ll be fine! Better than fine. You’ll be amazing. You’ve got me!”

“That’s the part I’m worried about,” Gigi deadpans, and as the girls roar with laughter Vanessa catches Gigi reassuring Crystal that she was only kidding, kissing her cheek for good measure.

Vanessa cranes her neck, searching the studio. When her eyes don’t fall on the people she’s looking for, she turns to Gigi and Crystal again. “Hey, you know if Kiki and Monique are done yet?”

“Nah. Still there,” Gigi says, sipping from her water bottle on one hand with her other still curled round Crystal’s.

“Right. I’m gonna go wish ‘em good luck in case I don’t see them before the show,” Vanessa says decisively, making to stand up. Brooke pulls her back into her lap, fixing her with a pout and a kissy face.

“Needy,” Vanessa teases, before pressing three little kisses to her lips that the other girls either simper, fake-vomit or wolf-whistle at.

It’s not hard to find Akeria and Monique; they’re both still in wardrobe with their partners, although Monique looks as if she is done and Akeria is dressed in her showdance dress, a riot of silver and gold sequined fringing. Asia’s is matching, and they both look like identical twins as they’re prodded with pins and needles and measured with lengths of tape.

“Wow, you two look stunnin’,” Vanessa says by way of a greeting, to which Akeria’s face lights up in delight.

“Hey boo!” she beams, holding her arms out for a hug and then forgetting she’s practically rendered immobile for the time being.

Monique greets her too, but she’s muted and quiet as she sits on the small sofa beside Monet. She looks nervous. It’s rare that Monique gets nervous. In all the time Vanessa’s known her and all the contests they’ve competed in together, she has hardly ever seen Monique look anything other than 100% sure of herself.

“How you all feelin’?” Vanessa asks, laughing as Asia sticks her tongue between her teeth and makes a noise like a big wet fart.

“Nervous as hell. I’m just gonna go out there and have a good time, though. If we win, we win, and if we don’t, well…the public have no taste.”

Akeria points at her in approval and agreement, and Vanessa’s gaze turns to Monet.

“I��m just excited! I’m not ready for the whole thing to be over. Think I’m just gonna go out an’ have fun, like Asia. But I’ve not been able to get a word out of this one all day,” she gently nudges Monique with her knee, threads her arm around her waist. “And y’know, usually I’d be overjoyed about getting a bit of peace, but it’s unnerving. I think she’s more nervous than I am.”

Monique looks up at Monet with a small smile, but her brow’s still furrowed in worry.

“I just don’t wanna let you down. You work so hard every damn day an’ you deserve the win so much. I mean what if I do fuck somethin’ up? Forget a step or do somethin’ wrong?”

“Monique,” Vanessa interjects, her lip curling in disbelief. “You are a literal dance champion. You have three trophy cabinets at your family home- don’t deny it, I’ve seen ‘em. You’re a professional dancer, for Christ’s sake! Why are you so nervous about this in particular?”

“Because she wants to win it for her boo,” Akiera raises her eyebrows at the pair of them on the sofa, and Vanessa doesn’t miss the way Monique grows all bashful and Monet develops a slightly smug smile.

“That ain’t it at all! It’s just…it’s my first final, and yeah I’m nervous, and not gonna lie, I wanna win. And…” Monique trails off as she looks at Monet. “…okay, I kind of am putting myself under more pressure because it’s you.”

Vanessa and Akeria cast each other a knowing glance, one that lets Akeria communicate to her just how correct she was.

“Babe,” Monet chuckles, pulling Monique closer. “I got six Brit awards, two MOBOs, two number ones an’ a top five album. Winning tonight would be nice, but…there’s more important things to me, like the pair of us havin’ fun together. Besides. I already won when I got partnered with you, so.”

Monet tails off, a little embarrassed at how soppy she’s got in front of the others, but Vanessa thinks it’s worth it when she sees how Monique lights up at her words.

“Go on, kiss her. It’ll make Akeria sick, an’ that’s funny,” Vanessa teases, and as Akeria rolls her eyes at her Monique peppers Monet’s face with grateful kisses.

“Now listen,” Vanessa speaks again, her tone sincere as she steps forwards and takes her friend’s hands. “If I don’t see you both before the final…go get that glitterball, okay? Do it for all three of us, we said one of us would take it. Have fun, do your best. But whatever happens, I’m so proud of you both.”

“Shut up. You’re gonna make me cry,” Akeria says stoically, but Vanessa knows there’s love behind it.

“Love you, V,” Monique smiles tearfully, untangling herself from Monet’s arms and moving to hug her.

“Fuck it,” Akeria shrugs, gingerly putting her arms around the pair of her friends.

Vanessa hopes she’s conveying with her hug just how much she loves her sisters, how desperately proud of them she is and how much luck she’s wishing them both. It’s so crazy for her to think about the three of them, in their late teens with their hair scraped back into tight buns and too much makeup on their face, meeting for the first time at the tower ballroom all those years ago. Now Akeria and Monique are in the final, and Vanessa gets to watch them.

She can’t quite believe this is her life.

In the green room all the other girls are chatting excitedly, happy they’re not under any pressures tonight other than to do the group dances well, have fun, and cheer loudly for their friends. Some of the girls are doing some last-minute touch-ups at the mirrors and some have spilled out onto the floor, surrounded by boxes of pizza that remind Vanessa of how hungry she is and make her stomach rumble. Her eyes eventually land on Brooke, tucked up in a corner eating a slice of pepperoni and busy scrolling her phone which is plugged into the wall. She’s wearing one of the dressing gowns that production provides them with, clearly too cold in her opening dance outfit. The sight makes Vanessa’s heart melt a little bit and she crosses the room to meet her.

“Hey! Woah, watch!” Brooke laughs, as Vanessa wraps her whole body around her- arms around Brooke’s head, thighs around her waist- and clings to her like a koala. “You’ll get pizza grease on your dress and then costume will shout at you.”

“You looked cold,” Vanessa mutters against her hair, by way of explanation.

It’s too late when she notices Brooke editing the photo for her Instagram story- Vanessa’s head resting on top of hers and Brooke pulling a silly face for the selfie.

Sleepy baby ahead of the finale, Brooke types, and Vanessa’s heart grows all warm.

“That’s gonna raise some suspicion, y’know,” Vanessa smirks, tapping her nail against the word baby as she releases her girlfriend from the full-body hug and settles herself down beside her.

“What? You are a sleepy baby. It’s just a fact,” Brooke shrugs, making Vanessa laugh. Brooke’s reaction makes her consider something.

“Hey, d’you think we should wait til we’re asked about us to say that we’re together? Y’know, in like, an interview? Or should we make like…an announcement?” she asks her, Brooke snorting at her last sentence.

“An announcement! We’re not the royal family, baby, let’s chill,” she taps her on the nose, and Vanessa huffs beside her.

“Well! Our fans might still want to know. I don’t know if you’ve looked at either of our comment sections lately, but they’re both full of kids wanting to know if there’s anything going on between us.”

“I think wait to be asked,” Brooke shrugs, to which Vanessa raises her eyebrows at her.

“We already got asked! And we denied there was anything at all going on!” she laughs, thinking back to their It Takes Two elimination interview where Cheryl had grilled them on their relationship status, and they’d had to smile and laugh and say they were just friends.

(Although the way Brooke had pushed her up against the wall backstage to kiss her afterwards, unable to keep her hands off her, begged to differ.)

“Well, they’ll ask again! I’ll be mad if they don’t,” Brooke huffs, making Vanessa giggle all the more.

There’s a lull in the conversation where Brooke leans over to her side, hands Vanessa a pizza box with three slices of pepperoni inside it. “Saved you some. I knew these vultures would be ruthless. I think Willam’s had five slices already, fuck knows how she’s going to dance.”

Vanessa laughs out a thank you, taking a slice that’s gone from hot to warm but biting into it regardless. As Brooke nibbles on her crust and the pair of them chew contentedly, Vanessa nudges Brooke’s calf with her foot.

“What’re you doin’ this week? I wanna see you.”

Brooke tilts her head in thought. “I’ve got Wednesday off filming. Other than that I’m free most afternoons and…Friday night.”

Vanessa pouts. “So I can’t stay over Tuesday?”

“I’ll get back from filming at, like, nine. But you can stay over, of course you can! You might need to make dinner, though. Ooh, or we could get Chinese?”

It makes Vanessa feel all excited and tingly, the fact that she and Brooke get to do this. Plan their week together and what they want to do; endless little futures, dreams becoming real. Each time Vanessa spends time with her girlfriend she swears she’s one step closer to telling her exactly how she feels about her, words she’s not said properly in quite a while. It’s a scary feeling, but an exciting one, like being on a rollercoaster or doing a bungee jump.

Brooke sees the dopey smile on her face and laughs. “What?”

“I’m just happy we get to do this. Just be together an’ do coupley shit. Never thought I’d be able to do all this again with someone,” she smiles shyly, and her words make Brooke lean in and kiss her forehead. Vanessa suddenly remembers something and flinches. “Pizza grease lips!”

“Oh, relax. They’ll stick some foundation on it and you’ll be fine,” Brooke pouts, cuddling her closer. “Hey, when do you fly back home for Christmas?”

“20th. You?”

“21st,” Brooke says, then sighs and takes Vanessa’s hand. “Will it give you the ick if I say I’m going to miss you? Like, a lot?”

“Shut up, not at all!” Vanessa tips her head back to laugh, incredulous. She brings Brooke’s hand up and kisses it three times in quick succession. “I’m gonna miss you too. But hey, when we get back we’ll have rehearsals an’ then the tour. It’ll be almost like we’re back doin’ the show!”

Brooke perks up beside her, and Vanessa uses the small pause in conversation to take another bite of her pizza, being ever-so-careful not to have it touch her lipstick.

“Where’re you most excited for?”

Vanessa looks back at Brooke and blinks, her train of thought lost. “What?”

“On the tour. Where are you looking forward to the most?” Brooke asks again patiently. Vanessa thinks, then raises her eyebrows as she decides.

“Belfast is nice. Good places to eat, good nights out. An’ the river is so gorge when it’s night and all the buildings around it are lit up.”

Brooke waggles her eyebrows. “You’re going to be taking me on some romantic midnight walks, then?”

Vanessa laughs, winks at her. “If you’re lucky. What about you, boo, where you excited for?”

Brooke tilts her head in thought. “Aberdeen interests me.”

Vanessa can’t help the laugh she splutters out. “Oh, baby. Aberdeen is dead, there’s fuckin’…nothin’ there. If we’re talkin’ Scotland then Glasgow is the best. They know how to party in Glasgow. I remember the first year we did the tour me an’ a few of the other girls had a night out there. Well Lord Jesus if it wasn’t the most chaotic night out we ever had. It was like a renaissance paintin’ or some shit. Kiki an’ Monique were just standin’ there open-mouthed at everything but me an’ Crystal were lovin’ it. Reminded us of nights out back home but on steroids.”

Brooke laughs, hums as something occurs to her mid-pizza slice. “Newcastle, though. That’s a good night out.”

“Y’know what we need to prioritise? Cute date venues. That’s what we can do while we’re both away! Make a list of all the cities on the tour an’ look up good places to eat an’ things to do,” Vanessa says enthusiastically, watches Brooke’s face light up in response. It makes Vanessa’s heart happy to know that Brooke’s as invested in the pair of them as she is, the concept of them being them.

The pair of them spend the time leading up to the finale chatting excitedly with the other girls, singing loudly along to the songs playing through the speakers with the other, and finishing off the pizza. Vanessa thinks it’s interesting seeing how all the different new couples behave. Vixen and Blair are low-key and subtle; a squeeze of each others’ hand here, a shared look of affection there. In contrast, Jan and Jackie can’t help but kiss each other on the cheek every few minutes or so, vocal and proud of each other and wanting all the other girls to know it. Willam and Courtney’s budding relationship seems to be built on Willam gently bullying Courtney, and Yvie and Scarlet’s built on Yvie laughing at things Scarlet does, even if she doesn’t mean to be funny. Gigi and Crystal are shy and still a little nervous and Jackie thinks it’s funny to call them out on it every so often and make them blush furiously. Monique is bashful and secretive and Monet is loud and public, clearly wanting everyone to know how loved-up she is.

It’s funny the way that a simple dancing competition has brought so many different girls from so many different walks of life together, who might not ever have met otherwise but now have the chance to build a future with each other. It’s nice, Vanessa thinks, as she puts her arm around her own future that’s sitting beside her, howling at a joke Yvie’s made.

Soon enough, the girls are all called through to assemble on the ballroom floor. Vanessa slips her hand into Brooke’s as they make their way through the corridors that are hidden from view with huge black drapes, her heart pounding in anticipation. It’s a bittersweet feeling; the last time she and Brooke are going to be dancing together on the ballroom floor, the last time she’s going to be dancing with the other pros for a while at least. But she wants to make it count, and she wants to be the best she can be, so she tips the scales in her mind to the more positive side, squeezes Brooke’s hand and kisses her on the cheek as they wait to be told to assemble.

“So proud of you,” Brooke murmurs against her hair, having not quite pulled away yet.

“So proud of us,” Vanessa corrects her, squeezing her waist. She wants to say it, she wants to just say I love you like it’s the most simple thing in the world.

Not yet.

When they all dance together for the last time and the audience claps and cheers, Vanessa’s heart feels full and lit up. She’s happy, and she’s no longer carrying the burden of what-happened-last-year around with her. She feels as if she’s walking on air as she makes her way up to the Divinatorium with Brooke’s arm around her shoulders, ready to watch her friends all dance their hearts out for a chance at the glitterball.

The finalists had to prepare three dances: their favourite of the ones they’d performed all season, the judges’ pick, and a showdance. The couples’ pick is up first, and Vanessa watches with interest at each of their choices. She smirks up at Brooke as Monet and Monique perform their Waltz to I Have Nothing again, explaining to her that their first kiss had been when they’d rehearsed for it. It’s still beautiful and mesmerising though, just as it had been the first time around, and when they get a perfect score of 40 Vanessa swears she’s the loudest member of the audience there is.

Akeria and Asia are next, and they’ve picked their Argentine Tango from Musicals week. Their reasoning is clever, Vanessa thinks; it was a semi-recent performance so it’s still fresh in their minds, and it was the one they performed in the dance-off so they have the opportunity to redeem themselves for the judges. When they’re scored 38, Vanessa’s heart bursts with pride.

The last couple to perform their first dance are Gigi and Crystal, who’ve chosen their movie week dance to Licence to Kill. Vanessa smiles as she watches the pair of them, remembering how Crystal had told her how gorgeous she’d thought Gigi looked in her Rhumba dress. Watching the pair of them dance now it’s filled with so much more passion and heat, and Vanessa will eat her own hands if they don’t score 40. They end up receiving 39 thanks to Bianca and her stubborn scoring, but Vanessa’s proud of them anyway.

“What would we have chosen if we’d made it this far?” Brooke asks Vanessa, as there’s a break to allow some guest performer to showcase their new single. Vanessa doesn’t even have to think twice.

“Argentine for sure. Wait no- maybe the Salsa.”

“You just want an excuse to do sexy dances with me again, then?” Brooke pokes her tongue out, murmuring quietly. Vanessa gives her girlfriend’s butt a squeeze in response and has to clap a hand over her mouth to stop herself laughing as Brooke lets out a squeak right in the middle of the performance.

“I’d do our Commercial. I never got to do it with you the first time around,” Brooke says, after she’s calmed down. Vanessa raises her eyebrows and nods in approval, liking the idea. Maybe they could do one of each on tour.

The evening soon progresses to the judges’ choice dances. For Crystal and Gigi, they’ve chosen their week one Samba- a choice that, Vanessa is sure, the girls will be cursing them for as it’ll have required a lot of re-learning. However they still perform it well, and they earn a 38. Monique and Monet perform their Jive, and as Vanessa watches it she becomes all excited for her friend, because it’s shaping up to be one of the most iconic dances in the show’s history. They receive 39, another amazing score. Akeria and Asia perform last- their Commercial, which Vanessa is pleased about. Commercial is easy and almost guarantees a good score. Sure enough, the judges give them 40, and Vanessa practically leaps on her friend when she’s finished with her interview.

After a pro dance, the final dances of the evening- the last attempt to win some votes- are the showdances, designed and choreographed to be a showcase of all the celebrities have learned over the course of the competition. Vanessa’s excited- she hasn’t seen any of the girls’ rehearsals and she’s deliberately not looked at the songs they’ve chosen, and so she’s going into the dances blind.

She clasps Brooke’s hand excitedly as she watches Akeria and Asia go first, the fringing to their dresses Vanessa had seen them be fitted for earlier making her realise it’ll have elements of a Charleston. The opening chords of I Got Rhythm blast out into the studio, and the girls immediately throw themselves into their dance. Vanessa watches it all with delight, so relieved and happy at how well the two girls are doing. When it gets another score of 39, Vanessa screeches so loudly that Aja gives her a glare, deafened from her position on the other side of her.

Gigi and Crystal are next, and their matching pink dresses are perfect for their dance to Sparkling Diamonds. They hit every beat effortlessly, and it’s clear that they’ve both put everything into rehearsals as the dance is executed perfectly. They are scored 39 too, and Vanessa bounces on her toes impatiently, a little irked. The judges are handing out the perfect scores sparingly tonight, and Vanessa badly wants Monet and Monique to get another.

When the last couple take to the dancefloor underneath a giant halo of fairy lights, Vanessa gasps. Monet’s hair is loose and curled down her back and Monique’s is matching, a little sparkling silver butterfly clip pinning some of it back from her face. They’re in long white dresses of taffeta and lace, dotted with sparkling silver diamantes and sequins, and they’re barefoot, indicating a contemporary theme. Vanessa’s heartened by how stunning they look.

And, as the piano begins playing, Vanessa hears Brooke let out a little gasp beside her.

“Oh my God, this is going to be beautiful,” she whispers, and Vanessa nods excitedly in agreement.

As the singer begins, Monique and Monet start to move; slowly, gracefully, gently, like two little figures in a music box.

“I close my eyes and I can see, the world that’s waiting up for me…that I call my own…”

Vanessa is close to letting out a gasp herself as the two girls move across the ballroom floor with skill and agility, tumbling and twirling through the air. It’s not just how perfectly they’re executing the dance though. It’s the way Monique’s looking at Monet with adoration, it’s the way Monet smiles back at her, just happy to be dancing with the girl she cares about. It’s the way the dance is illustrative of what’s blooming between them- fragile, delicate and beautiful- and Vanessa wonders if Monique intentionally choreographed it that way.

“Every night I lie in bed, the brightest colours fill my head, a million dreams are keeping me awake…”

As the song reaches its climax and the pair of them run over to a huge circular platform, Vanessa lets go of Brooke’s hand and cups her face with both of her own, awed and stunned. Because carpeting the platform are shimmering circles of white and silver confetti, and as Monet and Monique conclude their dance, kick up and scatter it, it surrounds them like stars. Vanessa doesn’t know if it’s the music, or the choreography, or simply the connection between the two girls, but she finds her eyes beginning to fill with tears, so much so that Brooke notices and pulls her in close for a hug. They watch the dance finish with their arms around each other, and that’s how the girls end too; Monet’s arms anchoring Monique tightly and Monique’s wrapped around Monet’s waist.

The judges are crying, and, to Vanessa’s unbridled delight, the girls are given full marks for their showdance.

As Vanessa gives her friend a quick hug before they have to go back on stage for the winner to be announced, she whispers to Monique.

“That dance just won you the competition, baby. Well done.”

Monique pulls away and makes a face. “C’mon, Vanj, we don’t know that for sure.”

But Vanessa does. So after the VT is shown of the recap of the full season and Michelle announces that the votes are closed, Vanessa holds her breath. From her position at the bannister she can see Crystal and Gigi, Monet and Monique, and Akeria and Asia, all of them standing within about two metres of the glitterball trophy and within touching distance of being announced the winners. Vanessa would love it to be any of the girls, but she’s sure of who is going to take the trophy. The lights go down, the audience holds their breath, and Brooke clings tightly to Vanessa from behind.

“Crystal and Gigi…” Michelle begins, her voice full of suspense and anticipation. “…Akeria and Asia…Monet and Monique. The votes have been counted and independently verified, and I can now reveal that the Strictly Come Dancing champions of 2020 are…”

Drum beat. Drum beat. Drum beat. Vanessa is holding her breath so much she feels as though she could be sick. She can feel Brooke’s heart beat through her chest against her back, and Vanessa feels as if her whole body is shaking as she looks down at the girls. Crystal has her arm around Gigi as the other girl looks to the ceiling, taking deep breaths. Akeria’s holding Asia’s hand, both of them looking to the floor nervously. And Monique is tucked in to Monet’s side, their arms wrapped around each other and both of their eyes squeezed tightly shut.

Drum beat. Drum beat. Drum beat.

“MONET AND MONIQUE!”

Vanessa immediately flinches against Brooke, almost knocking her out as she launches herself roughly ten feet in the air and screams so loud she feels as if her vocal cords will snap. When she begins crying it’s as if a massive bank has burst, the relief and the pride and the love she feels for her friend so overwhelming and euphoric.

Monique is doubled over in shock, sobbing as she launches herself away from Monet, and Monet, for her part, is simply screaming “WHAT?” over and over again. The two other pairs are laughing and beaming as they cheer for the winners and Akeria is jumping up and down, clapping so hard Vanessa’s worried about the skin on her palms.

Michelle ushers the winning girls over, and Vanessa melts against Brooke with bliss as her girlfriend presses a kiss to her temple. The win is as much for the three friends as well as Monique and Monet themselves, and Vanessa wants nothing more than to throw herself off the balcony and run to Monique and Akeria, to crush them both in a hug and never let go. But Monet is being interviewed, her arm tight around Monique’s waist as she’s asked how it feels to win.

“I still don’t believe it!!” she cries, her face a picture of disbelief as she looks at Monique with incredulity. “It feels absolutely crazy, crazy and surreal, I mean the fact that we won in amongst all this talent…I never expected it, not one bit. But you know…I should’ve expected it, I should, because I have the best teacher, the absolute best teacher and friend and straight-up best person I could’ve asked for to share this experience with, and she deserves this win so much, I just…I mean, you know how I feel about you, babe, so I’m just gonna shut up.”

The audience cheers as Monet pulls Monique in for a hug, and Vanessa can see Monique’s frame shaking as she sobs against Monet’s chest. Vanessa knows how unlucky Monique’s been with her previous partners, she knows how much she’s wanted this for so long. Michelle is smiling as she gestures to Monique.

“Monique, what would you like to say to Monet, to the girl that got you the glitterball?”

Monique pulls out of the hug, takes a few deep breaths to compose herself and breaks out into a coy smile as she looks at Monet, a little twinkle in both their eyes.

“What would I like to say to Monet…many, many things, so many things…I mean, first up, thank you, Lord, thank you for bein’ the best student, for giving your everything every single damn week, for…” Monique gestures to the trophy. “…for this…but also for bein’ the best person to share this whole crazy journey with, and it has been crazy, it’s been crazier than I ever imagined, but I’m so grateful for it all.”

Vanessa can feel the tears stream down her face as she watches Michelle rest a hand on the glitterball trophy. “Well, Monique and Monet, it gives me great pleasure to present you with this trophy, and to officially announce you…Strictly Come Dancing champions!”

The audience cheers in anticipation of the two girls lifting the trophy, but there’s a little pause as Vanessa watches Monet turn to Monique, whisper something into her ear with a little questioning look to her gaze. Monique looks to the floor bashfully, then bites back a smile as she gives a little nod. It’s when that happens that Monet turns to Michelle again, her hand on the trophy.

“Actually, Michelle, can I say somethin’ else before we lift this up?” Monet asks, and Michelle smiles indulgently.

“Make it quick, girl, we’ve got two minutes of screen time left.”

“Okay. I also just quickly wanted to say thank you so much to everyone involved who commissioned this series…it has been an absolute triumph, to see and to work alongside twenty three other women who’ve all proved their talents and who’ve all proved that same-sex pairings can work, and that the world doesn’t implode if you let two girls dance with each other…and I hope future series are going to reflect this too. And finally…” Monet smirks, curling her fingers around the trophy as Monique’s hand rests on top of hers and joins it. “…it wouldn’t be my career without me doing or saying something controversial, so why change the habit of a lifetime? THIS ONE’S FOR THE LESBIANS!”

With that, Monet and Monique lift the trophy in the air, the pyrotechnics go off in the background, and the two girls crash their lips together in a kiss that’s instantly broadcast to roughly nine million people. The audience is almost cheering the roof off the studio, Brooke is punching the air, and Vanessa screeches so loud and for so long that she’s momentarily worried for her lungs. Michelle smiles wryly as she concludes the show and the competition for another year, and the girls in the Divinatorium are given the green light to flood the ballroom floor, descending on the winners and the runners-up and showering them in hugs, kisses, and congratulations. And, just as she’d wanted, Vanessa sweeps Akeria and Monique into a tight hug, the three of them teary and euphoric, happy they’d done what they set out to do from the start.

Vanessa supposes she doesn’t need any alcohol at the afterparty given how completely drunk off Monique’s success she feels already, but she ends up being three glasses of celebratory champagne in anyway. It would be rude not to, and she’s never one to turn down free alcohol, but judging by the way the other girls are swaying around the hotel function room, she’s not holding up too badly in comparison. Blair has already been dispatched back to her flat in an Uber, Vixen’s coat thrown over her head to prevent any of the paparazzi getting any less than desirable photos. The Strictly afterparties are always riotous, and adding Willam into the mix doesn’t help matters either. So when Brooke taks Vanessa’s hand and tugs her in the direction of the fire exit to grab some fresh air, Vanessa is happy to follow and get a small break, some peace and quiet.

It’s nearing half past midnight and the street outside is becoming coated in a thin sheen of frost, one that makes the pavement sparkle under the yellow halo glow of the streetlamps. The paps have all scuttled back into the sewers from whence they came, already satisfied with the shots they got of Gigi and Crystal leaving hand-in-hand which are sure to get tongues wagging tomorrow. All is still, calm and quiet to the extent where Vanessa feels as if she’s experiencing some form of ambiguous space and time. If it’s cold outside, she doesn’t feel it.

“So? How’re you likin’ your first Strictly aftershow party?” Vanessa asks Brooke, punctuating her question with an ever-so-slightly tipsy wink. Brooke giggles as she leans against the brick wall, hissing a little at the cold.

“I don’t think I’m going to survive til the end,” she laughs. “Although Jackie keeps feeding me pints of water against my will, so it doesn’t even feel like I’ve had any alcohol despite the fact I’m making it my mission to drink the BBC out of house and home.”

“You’re too sensible,” Vanessa pouts, circling her arms around Brooke’s waist and squashing her cheek against her chest. After a moment to think, she chuckles. “Wonder how many Ofcom complaints Monet’s gonna get for that kiss.”

“Thousands. And good for her. Now everyone’s going to be talking about their win for years to come. That was a smart move,” Brooke nods appreciatively. “Guess those two will be girlfriends within the next twenty-four hours then.”

“Oh, for sure. It’s so clear that Monet’s head over heels in love with her,” Vanessa smiles, then her face drops as her heart siezes up.

It could be the night, it could be the champagne, it could be the way everything around them is sparkling, but Vanessa pulls her head up from Brooke’s chest, smiles as she looks her in the eye. There’s just one thing left to make the night as perfect as it could possibly be.

“What?” Brooke giggles a little, her gaze soft as she tucks a lock of hair behind Vanessa’s ear. “Why are you just staring at me? I know I’m pretty, but it’s rude to stare. Unless you want to take me back to yours. Then you can stare at me all you want. Preferably without any clothes on.”

“Brooke Lynn, shut up,” Vanessa laughs gently. Her heart is beating so fast in her throat that she feels as if it might crawl up and choke her, and every second she gets closer to admitting things she feels as if she’s about to pass out. But she takes a deep breath, squeezes Brooke tighter because if she does then Vanessa knows she won’t run away.

“I think I’m falling in love with you.”

Brooke’s jaw goes a little slack, in disbelief for a second before a smile slowly spreads onto her face. Vanessa can’t tell what that means, so she continues to babble on. “I promise it’s not because I’ve had a drink. I mean it. I really love you, and I know that’s a lot and you don’t have to say it back.”

“Vanessa,” Brooke brings a hand up to cup her jaw, which she immediately nuzzles into. “Me too.”

The validation makes Vanessa’s smile hurt her face. Brooke loves her. Brooke is in love with her. It’s an unspoken promise that they’re about to embark on a crazy but amazing journey together, one that Vanessa never wants to end, and she feels her heart ever-so-slightly break with how much and how intensely she loves her girlfriend.

“I love you,” Brooke says, through a nervous, excited giggle.

“I love you too,” Vanessa smiles back at her.

She tilts her head down to kiss her, their lips meeting urgently but their kiss slow, as if to match the kind of purgatory they’ve found themselves existing in. But it’s not, because kissing Brooke is like a heaven that Vanessa’s only ever dreamt of, and it’s real. She leans against her, both their bodies steadied by Brooke’s back against the wall, and when she pulls away she keeps their foreheads pressed together as if she’s not quite ready for their perfect moment to end.

It’s only in that second when Vanessa blinks that a bright flash clouds her vision and the sound of a shutter echoes from across the street. Her head snaps to the other side of the road and she’s met with the figure of a tall man, a brown bag slung over his shoulder which Vanessa instantly recognises as one which holds varying pieces of photographer’s equipment. He struggles under the weight of his long-lens camera before scurrying away out of sight.

When Vanessa turns back to look at Brooke, the pair of them splutter out a resigned laugh at the same time.

“Well. Guess that solves the problem of how we reveal our relationship to the world,” Brooke smirks. Her expression quickly changes into one of concern, and she takes one of Vanessa’s hands in hers. “Hey. You okay?”

Even a thousand camera flashes couldn’t stop how happy Vanessa feels. “I’m amazing.”

Brooke raises an eyebrow at her, as if to check. “Sure? Not bothered by the incriminating photos of us smooching in the street?”

Vanessa laughs, locking her fingers around Brooke’s knuckles. “We can deal with that tomorrow.”

Brooke’s expression relaxes and as it does, Vanessa leans against her and raises a suggestive eyebrow.

“Although maybe the poor guy needs a better shot. Maybe…” she smirks cheekily, tilting her face close to her girlfriend’s. “…we should keep kissing some more.”

And as Vanessa meets Brooke’s lips once again, she finds herself not caring about cameras, paparazzi, the newspapers or the media or the opinions of anyone else.

All she cares about is Brooke Lynn and the future they’ve got together, and all of that is worth a million glitterball trophies to her.

#rpdr fanfiction #ortega #bet you look good on the dancefloor #strictly au #lesbian au #branjie #vanessa vanjie mateo #brooke lynn hytes #jan sport #jackie cox #crystal methyd #gigi goode #akeria davenport #monique heart #monet x change #background momo #background jankie #background crygi

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romancevsreality-blog · 6 years

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the bachelor, season twenty-two, episode ten: go away, SCUMBAG.

Oh, y’all didn’t think I was just gonna disappear on you, did you?

Unfortunately for me, I got spoiled early on in the season1 and once that became glaringly clear it was going to be true, I lost all interest in the season until that was going to happen. But alas, here we are. The finale of El Bachelor.

But first, I must get something off of my chest.

From this moment going forward, Arie will now be known as Arby.

Why, do you ask? Because he is the living embodiment of the worst fast-food dining experience I have ever had, which was at an Arby’s.

Much like Arby’s, Arie isn’t awful all the time. It has its moments of decent glory, which is fine. In a pinch, it’s there and it gets the job done. Would I personally want to have it every single day? No, but I know people who wouldn’t complain about that life. No one ever gets super excited about Arby’s, though. We kind of forget Arby’s until there’s no other preferable options around. Arby’s will make you sick and then give you some coupons to make up for it and then two days later you still have explosive diarrhea and you’re wondering “Why did I even take the coupons?”

If you haven’t figured it out yet, I’m Becca, and Arie is Arby’s in this scenario.

The episode opens with My Mortal Enemy Chris Harrison talking us live on the air and telling us that we’re going to see a completely un-edited version of the final scene of the season. I get the dramatic effect of doing all of this, but like… that just sounds like a lot of dead air. Anyway, we’re still in Peru! Arby’s struggling with the idea that at the end of all of this, he has to choose someone.

Right? That’s what his issue is. He doesn’t like the fact that he has to choose. There’s a struggle in that Becca is who he probably should be with, and The Last Remaining Lauren is the one he wants2 because he likes the way her hair moves, or something. A literal rainbow shines over Becca when she comes up wearing the jean jacket with the sheepskin every boy who grew up in Brooklyn has in both denim and leather. The editors can’t fake a rainbow.

I mean they can, but it would be absolutely monstorous to do that. Like, if anything could get me to stop watching this show, a fake ass rainbow is the thing to do it.

Lauren comes out with a glass of champagne and writes in her gournal and Arby’s like “she’s a risk, she’s been reserved, she doesn’t know if she wants to open up - but she loves me!” Lauren’s gournal is probably just her writing “Mrs. Lauren Ludfjdhlfjsfheljahdsfkchyk” over and over, let’s be real. Girl ain’t got a thought deep enough to journal about.

We’re seeing Arby’s family for the first time since he dragged Krystal to Scottsdale. The only advice his dad has for him is “Good luck, buddy.” Which is great advice from a parent who’s never been in this scenario. The Last Remaining Lauren is so nervous when meeting his parents because… she could be getting engaged to their son after all of this? I mean, I’ve met my significant others’ parents, both serious and not-so-serious, but usually it’s not that big of a deal.

God, I’m going to nitpick everything Lauren says in this episode, aren’t I? I mean, she also barely speaks, so...

Lauren admits that she’s not cool and she’s like “every date is amazing! Everything is amazing!” Arby basically mansplains how she’s feeling to her, and I barf. Lauren says the most words ever when she gives a toast and it’s so… bland. “Here’s to meeting the family of the man I love!!!!” Okay, Lauren. Okay. Lauren’s afraid of getting engaged and it not working out like it did previously, but Arby is good at reassuring her that everything is going to be okay. Which is a good thing to Lauren, but Arby’s like, “dude, am I going to constantly have to remind her that it’s okay, because we’ve actually never had a real conversation and that’s exhausting.”

How do you love someone you’ve never had a real conversation with?

Lauren talks to Arby’s mom about the fact that she loves Arby but she knows there’s another girl in the picture. Arby’s mom is actually really good in the moment because yeah, it’s hard. Can you imagine? She does her best to reassure Lauren and tells her to remain positive and then Lauren admits that she doesn’t like to talk about her feelings. I wonder what compelled Lauren to go on this show, then?

My favorite part is that Lauren, who just admitted she wasn’t cool, gets called “cool” by Arby’s mom.

The next day, Arby’s entire family is like, “alright, I guess we’ll meet Becca now, whatever,” and Becca rolls up with a basket and a gorgeous bouquet of flowers because no girl who works in PR isn’t gonna come through with the big guns, OKAY? Arby and Becca have a conversation that basically confirms what we later know to be true - Arby wants to want Becca, but Arby really wants a girl like Lauren. He doesn’t like the fact that Becca’s so confident in their relationship and wants to reassure her from time to time. He thinks he doesn’t want a woman to need him, but that’s all he wants3.

Arby’s family immediately takes to Becca - save for Arby’s mom, who is still Team Lauren. Becca turns that around with no effort and Arby’s mom is like, “yeah, they’re both great.” Arby’s dad asks Becca how she feels about Lauren, and Becca’s like, “uh… she’s great but we’re not best friends.” They didn’t need to air this. So boring. Arby’s dad is like, “eh, I’ll be fine regardless of who he picks.” Literally every time she sits down with a member of Arby’s family, they’re like, “So, Lauren, right?” What did she do yesterday to have these people so under her spell?!

Arby sits down with his family and talks through his dilemma, and his family is pretty much 100% in on Becca, because she’s the clear better choice. She doesn’t have reservations about their relationship.

Back at the live studio, Caroline has appeared! Caroline, who will make a great Paradise contestant alongside Bekah M and Tia, caused a mighty uproar at Women Tell All when she looked Arby dead in the eyes and said, “Bitch, I know what you did, and you should be ashamed of yourself. (Bitch was my personal inclusion.) Caroline still maintains that if what she’s heard is true, Arby is despicable and vile garbage. He doesn’t know what he wants and went through the process believing one thing but actually doing another.

It’s Arby’s last date with Lauren, and he’s feeling melancholic about it. That’s not the first time anyone’s used “melancholy” in reference to Arby. They’re going to Machu Picchu, on a private train, which obviously means someone’s getting Murdered on the Orient Express or they’re going to The Bad Place. Trains don’t mean anything good is going to come. Even Snowpiercer. That movie was about a train, and it was AWFUL. One of the worst movies I have ever seen. And they’re making a TV show about it?! WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT TO TILDA.

They hold hands and talk about the clouds and they make out. I have no interest in ever kissing Arby. Kissing Bandit, my ass. They even sneak away from the cameras to make out, blarg. Arby loves that she has a “speckle in her left eye” and I’m not sure what that means. Does she have a sty? They go to dinner, and Lauren basically says the most words she’s ever said ever. He talks about how what they have is inexplicable and he just has a feeling, and it’s like… Yeah, neither does the rest of America. Because she’s said 5 words so far. She talks about their life which is basically make dinner and go to bed. And hang out with their dogs.

... Normal couple stuff.

Oh, this really seems like a couple I’m on board with.

Arby is so in love with her. It’s so weird.

Bekah and Sienne are seating with Chris Harrison and Bekah spills some T - if Arby is really so conflicted, he shouldn’t propose at all. She also gives a look that is simultaneously horror and disgust at the idea of being where Becca and Lauren are right now.

Arby meets with Becca on a rainy day, and Becca looks so European Vacation chic. Look at her body suit. I love her. They get to walk the streets of Cusco4 and meet some alpacas. I would like to kiss an alpaca more than I would ever like to kiss Arby. We get some ominous talk while Becca prepares her hotel room for Arby’s arrival5 and we hear her say, in so many words, that a relationship with her and Arby would be an equal partnership, and Lauren’s basically just like every other girl he’s ever dated. They declare that they don’t have any problems in their relationship (oh honey) and they don’t have questions for each other (oh HONEY). It’s foreboding. I’m nervous.

There was a moment when the girls were getting dressed that I was convinced that Lauren was winning because Lauren clearly got the Winners’ Dress6. Arby, however, woke up that morning still conflicted, and he shouldn’t have gone through with it.

Arby’s wearing a navy suit, and Lauren steps out of the limo first. Whomp whomp. I forget every season they’re forced to talk to Chris Harrison for 10 seconds before stepping into meet their fate. I mean, it’s literally like meeting the devil.

Lauren gives a long speech about how she’s feeling but it doesn’t matter anyway so we’re moving on. Lauren goes from 0 to pissed in half a second, and she’s just confused. Arby’s like “I didn’t decide until this morning!” and I would be so mad if I had heard that come out of the mouth of the man I loved. Just sittin’ around, eating eggs, deciding we’re not going to be in love anymore. Okay, sure.

Lauren lets her real bitch flag fly in the limo exit, and she’s so snotty and snarky. She does ask how he’s going to get down on one knee over a decision he made earlier that day.

Becca looks gorgeous and ugh, knowing what happens, just proves Chris Harrison is literally leading her through the gates of hell. Arby literally can’t even smile when Becca is talking about how she wants to do the damn thing with him. He gets down on one knee and he chooses her today and every day “here on out”, which is going to make the next half hour very painful.

They transition us into the Happy Couple Montage - they’re in hammocks! They make pizza! They pretend they know how to play Chess! Becca looks so happy, and Arby’s just… there. He’s been thinking about Lauren. Why are you thinking about her, though? Because she’s an empty vessel of a person you can project your hopes and dreams onto? (Yes.) He feels guilty with Becca, because it’s not fair to be in a relationship with someone who’s only half-in. He wants to risk it all with Lauren, which basically sounds like he’s going to wear a colored tie instead of grey one.

That’s not a risk. The risk is that America is going to hate you - and her - after all of this goes down. What’s at risk is your reputation and your integrity, Arby. Lauren is not a risk. You’re leaving an interesting girl for an uninteresting (and far too young for you) girl.

Arby continues to claim that Becca’s seen his struggling with his relationship with her vs. Lauren, and Becca has no idea.

As in, they brought the cameras in, flew Becca there, to have him break up with her on camera. They’re gonna blindside her with CHRIS HARRISON. She thinks they’re going to have a “happy couple weekend”, for Christ’s sakes. She’s so happy-go-lucky and she’s not prepared.

They cut to the audience, where they’re booing Arby.

What we get is a split-screen, unedited version of the breakup between Arby and Becca. As soon as Arby arrives, Becca’s like, “you’re making me nervous.” She knows. He won’t look at her in the eye. He’s distracted by her tattoo. She’s still nervous. He’s still thinking about Lauren, and he can’t get past the feelings he has for her. And the longer the two of them hang out, the less likely he’ll be able to reconcile with Lauren.

Fuck Arby for this, and fuck him so hard.

You see Becca realize that all of this is going to be on camera, and that’s why he brought her there. To break up with her. In front of the cameras. That, to me, is the cruelest part. Not leaving her for the girl you didn’t pick - the harshness of doing it in front of the cameras for television.

Also, THAT IS HOW IT FUCKING WORKS. The more time you spend with your fiancee, the less likely it is that you’re going to be with someone else. Because you told her you wanted to marry her, you jackass.

Becca has the perfect and only worthy response: “Are you fucking kidding me?”

He acts like he wants her sympathy or something. We find out that Arby and Lauren had talked, and of course he had. He talks about “fairness” and how it’s not fair being half-in with Becca when he wants to be all-in with Lauren. He told Becca that basically he picked her because that’s what made sense logically, and that he couldn’t imagine marrying Lauren.

He tries to do the whole “make it better” thing, and she’s just baffled.

I mean, she’s doing much better than I would in this moment. They wouldn’t be able to legally air my footage because I would be in jail.

When Becca took off her ring, I screamed, THROW IT IN HIS FACE THROW IT AT HIM MAKE HIM CHOKE ON IT!!!!!!!!

Becca tells him if he was so conflicted, he shouldn’t have gotten down on one knee. He seems to want her sympathy for how hard he’s going to have to work. He’s a fucking child and I hate him.

I haven’t hated someone on TV like this in a while.

Becca gets up and walks away after they sit in silence for a while, and we see her packing up her stuff. Arby follows her.

WHAT ARE YOU DOING? WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?

He follows her, and she’s like, “I’m not gonna, like, hug you good-bye, or anything.” Because why should she, really? He’s doing that annoying thing where he wants to control the narrative at this point.

He wants her to lash out so he can tell everyone she’s crazy.

He wants her to fight for him and beg for him to stay, so he can feel like he’s been won.

Arby asks if she wants a few minutes for herself, and she says she wants him to leave. He actually exits the house, and we hear Becca sobbing in the bathroom.

Arby goes BACK IN THE HOUSE. LEAVE, MOTHERFUCKER ELASFKLDSJF;DS LEEEEEEAVE

This is all so cruel and you can tell Becca wants nothing more than to be alone but literally she’s just surrounded by cameras and producers and people and Arby. Chris Harrison guides us down this horrible spiral, pretending not to be gleeful at the footage they recieved. This is all so unnecessary, and the split-screen doesn’t help much. And bullshit at the unediting scenes - they cut Arby’s camera to black right before he goes outside, because you know there was a producer out there yelling GET THE FUCK BACK IN THERE AND MAKE HER SMASH SHIT.

This is cruel. Arby sits on the couch and listens to her weep long enough that she thinks he’s left before he continues to try to talk to her and I want to punch him in the face.

Leave her alone. Do not touch her. She is not yours and she does not deserve your time. You’ve told her she’s not who you’re picking. She is being graceful and he is not worthy whatosever.

We thought Jake Pavelka was bad, Jesus.

He refuses to leave her while she’s crying and I am literally just saying ohmigodleaveohmigodleaveohmigodleaveohmigodleaveohmigodleave over and over. He doesn’t want to get married, he doesn’t want anything. He wants to chase forever and he definitely is in the middle of a mid-life crisis. He’s not in love with Lauren, either - he’s in love with control and having all the power. Becca wanted it to be equal. Arby could never.

We sit down with Becca and Chris Harrison, and she gets a loud round of applause. Because she was graceful when she didn’t need to be. She’s going to see him again, tomorrow. With Lauren.

Oh, god. I hope someone throws a tomato at Arby.

Random Assessments from the Desk of Amanda:

Who was more sociopathic - Arby v. Becca, Luke v. Stassi, Bentley v. Emily, or Joe v. Juelia? Answer: Chris Harrison.

I recently broke up with my boyfriend and I’m 100% sure my friend Maggie is going through my Instagram and filling out an application for me to go on the show. Can someone tell her to wait until we at least see our options from La Bachelorette? Love you, Magz.

Becca’s got a nice butt. Like, she’s got long legs and a really nice butt. She’s gonna crush it.

This blog was NOT sponsored by Arby’s. However, if they decide in retrospect, I’ll take it.

My favorite part of the episode was the camera cutting to Tia in the audience as she's realizing she may not be the next Bachelorette after all.

I hope Becca’s first question is “Why the cameras, though?”

ABC really didn’t GAF this season though, ruining the potential of Another Mesnick by putting it on the cover of last week’s US Weekly. ↩︎

Probably because he’s projecting some kind of opinion on her like she reminds him of the woman who broke his heart on national television last time. ↩︎

Seriously - if a man tells you he wants a strong, confident woman, he absolutely does not. Your strength will, to him, read as an affront to his masculinity and his own personal strength. Trust me. I’m going through this right now. He only wants you to be strong in a manner that benefits him. The minute you try to work on your own, that’s when you’ll see it. ↩︎

You’re telling me that Lauren “We’ll Make Dinner” B got MACHU PICCHU and Becca gets to cry in the rainy wind?! ↩︎

Like Postmates, but worse. ↩︎

For more on the Winners’ Dress theory, listen to my podcast! ↩︎

#The Bachelor #The Bachelor Recap #reality tv #Reality Tv Recap #Arie Luyendyk #arie is TRAAASSH #this is the cruelestt #poor becca #why did this episode need to exist

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deadcactuswalking · 3 years

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REVIEWING THE CHARTS: 06/03/2021 ("BED”, Digga D, Kali Uchis)

It’s finally a really short filler week on the UK Singles Chart but not one without its importance as we’ve got some real interesting stuff to talk about this week, even if there are only six new arrivals. Olivia Rodrigo’s “drivers license” is at #1, and whilst I may not be able to post this on Twitter because I’ve been locked out – don’t ask why – this is still REVIEWING THE CHARTS.

Rundown

So, a lot of our debuts are gone, including “test drive” by Ariana Grande as well as other bigger hits dropping out of the UK Top 75 – which is what I cover – including “Burner on Deck” by Fredo featuring the late Pop Smoke and Young Adz, “i miss u” by Jax Jones and Au/Ra, Taylor Swift’s re-recorded “Love Story”, “Before You Go” by Lewis Capaldi, “Shallow” by Lady Gaga and Bradley Cooper and “Perfect” by Ed Sheeran. There are also a handful of fallers across the chart like Fredo’s continued drops as “Money Talks” with Dave is at #28, “Let’s Go Home Together” by Ella Henderson and Tom Grennan off of the debut to #34, “Love Not War (The Tampa Beat)” by Jason Derulo and Nuka at #36, “34+35” by Ariana Grande at #40, “Good Days” by SZA dropping hard with the streaming cut down to #46, “Mixed Emotions” by Abra Cadabra at #54, “Watermelon Sugar” by Harry Styles at #60, “Didn’t Know” by Tom Zanetti off of the debut to #68, “Siberia” by Headie One featuring Burna Boy at #71 and “willow” by Taylor Swift at #72. What’s probably more interesting are our gains and returning entries, as for returns, we’ve got “ROCKSTAR” by DaBaby featuring Roddy RIcch back at #75, Wilkinson’s 2013 drum and bass track “Afterglow” featuring uncredited vocals from Becky Hill back at #74 for whatever reason, “Higher” by Clean Bandit featuring iann dior at #70 and “Goodbye” by Imanbek and Goodboys coming back strong at #59. Our gains are also pretty unique, as we have some second winds for “Looking for Me” by Paul Woolford, Diplo and Kareen Lomax at #67, “Loading” by Central Cee at #61 and “Roses” by SAINt JHN and remixed by Imanbek at #55. We also have a handful of climbers within the top 40, like “All You Ever Wanted” by Rag’n’Bone Man surging up to #33 off of the debut, which I’m pretty happy about as it’s a really good song. I’m less over the moon about “Little Bit of Love” by Tom Grennan at #27, “Believe Me” by Navos at #25 and finally, “My Head & My Heart” by Ava Max up to #19. There’s not much movement above that however, so let’s get into our new arrivals, starting with something I didn’t think I see here this soon.

NEW ARRIVALS

#65 – “SugarCrash!” – ElyOtto

Produced by ElyOtto

I love doing this show because I find out more about genres I’d usually tend to avoid. I’m not the most knowledgeable person about Afroswing or really, a lot of the house that ends up charting on the UK Singles Chart. I think I know my fair bit about at least the mainstream of a lot of the UK drill stuff, but what I really would consider myself somewhat specialised in is hyperpop. I’m probably too old to enjoy any of it as much as I do but that may just be why I have a connection to this overly online, digital scene of SoundCloud producers and rappers making pretty obnoxiously mid-2000s-influenced electropop, as it really does feel like a retreat to a simpler time with all of the angst of the emo-pop being made around the same time. The hyperpop scene and bubblegum bass as a whole has always felt inclusive, which I think is one of the main reasons why it’s big with teenagers nowadays, because there really isn’t much of a limit in the genre or at least the scope that we’ve found as of yet, whether it be integrating elements of ‘hexd’ or brostep or trance or what have you. Whilst companies may want us to be nostalgic for the 1990s, I think most people are taking a couple steps forward here, and it’s creating some genuinely great music – some of the time, at least. Hyperpop has birthed many SoundCloud-based sub-genres, or I guess micro-genres, including one of which being glitchcore, a glitchier, more off-the-wall brand of cloud rap with a lot of high-energy trap production and nightcore-esque pitch-shifting. I see some brands of infighting amongst people who listen to hyperpop and glitchcore seeing as glitchcore has arguably taken off a bit faster than other more electronic or pop-focused scenes, but I see that as evolution of a scene more than anything. 100 gecs sounds nothing like A.G. Cook, anyway, it’s pointless gate-keeping at this point, especially when TikTok gets their hands on this random kid from Canada. In a genre full of pioneers, this young Canadian guy’s debut single is what gains traction and for what it’s worth I’m happy for the guy but I’m not a fan of the song at all. This does feel like a parody if anything, with its fast-paced gecs impression and admittedly pretty ethereal synth patterns pretty drowned out by lightweight trap percussion and this ElyOtto guy who really isn’t a presence at all, especially if he’s going to pitch himself down and further into the instrumental on the outro... of a song that’s already only one minute and 20 seconds yet runs through two choruses and a verse, of which nothing really is said of substance. People like blackwinterwells and osquinn make similar music especially in terms of lyrical content but there is something to be said about their honesty and somewhat paranoid tones that creep in, whilst there’s nothing really emotionally convincing about this guy’s delivery or content, as while he may make the same semi-ironic references to self-harm, pain medication and Gen Z culture as they do, he doesn’t really have any tact and it feels overly self-aware to the point where I refuse to believe anyone outside of ElyOtto can really enjoy it fully. It makes perfect sense that this started off as a “short soundfont test” and really, it probably should have stayed that way. There’s a lot to be enjoyed in hyperpop but if this isn’t a satire and is a genuine attempt at approaching the scene, I’d be genuinely surprised. That said, his song “TEETH!” is legitimately good with the exact same length, so maybe I’m just full of it. Either way, I’m not a fan. Sorry.

#56 – “AP” – Pop Smoke

Produced by 808Melo and Rico Beats

Another posthumous Pop Smoke single, except this was actually recorded well before his death and probably finished before to boot, as it’s attached to a film, Boogie, that he will actually star in. With 808Melo on production, it’s guaranteed to have at least some hard-hitting drill production and, yeah, I mean, it’s fine. It’s got a pretty eerie vocal sample behind all the murderous lyrics and pretty busy drill percussion with some great 808s, even if it and the sample feels a bit too loud in the mix when Pop Smoke’s rich voice feels buried. It’s just gunplay, really, and a bit of flexing and references to his older songs, as he makes a call and it’s war and he’s off that Adderall. It’s sad that from now on, any material we get from Pop Smoke will be his leftovers and throwaways. That said, this is fine, perhaps a bit too long, and it could be worse – I mean, it originally leaked with a Rich the Kid verse, it REALLY could have been worse. Once again, RIP Pop Smoke and I hope 808Melo gets his YouTube channel back if he hasn’t already.

#50 – “Pierre” – Ryn Weaver

Produced by benny blanco, Ryan Tedder and Michael Angelakos

The UK Singles Chart is changing, and I think that’s what makes this such an interesting week as there is genuinely some stuff here we’ve never seen debut on the chart before – or anything like it – and that’s exciting to me. You probably know Ryn Weaver from “OctaHate”, a brief 2014 viral pop song written by Charli XCX and produced by Cashmere Cat that led to a debut album the next year and thanks to presumably TikTok, a deep cut from said album has now debuted in the top 50. Now I hadn’t heard of her before looking at the chart about an hour ago, so I can’t tell you much of anything at all about the California singer. I’m not really a fan of “OctaHate�� but I do have a fondness for that janky electropop production from the mid-2010s – “Gold” by Kiiara is a hill I’d die on – so with production from Michael Angelakos of Passion Pit, I’d hoped “Pierre” would be pretty cool and, yeah, it’s pretty odd, actually. It seems like a pretty ballad but with a very fast-paced, raspy delivery from Weaver and some choppy production that soon tenses in the chorus and I’ve got to say, while I’m not 100% on the mixing, I can get behind the concept here, especially with some multi-tracked vocals from Weaver. The song itself is about trying to run away from her feelings for a lover that never really went away, particularly as she hooks up later with a man called Pierre who speaks in broken English, which gives a lot of reason for the tense pace of the song, even if that is undercut by the production being muddy and awfully willing to kill its momentum in the outro as there’s never really a proper climax. That said, it’s fitting for that final line, “I’ll come around”, which can be interpreted as about moving on or complacency – just coming back to that guy after years of searching for someone else. I do like this – or at least what it’s trying to do – but I feel like it’d enjoy it more with less clutter, particularly in that chorus, which could really elevate this but as it is, it’s fine.

#45 – “telepatía” – Kali Uchis

Produced by Albert Hype, Manuel Lara and Tainy

Okay, so alt-pop all the way from Latin America, that’s also a first... except not really, as ROSALÍA has charted before, if only off of the back of Billie Eilish. Regardless, this is a really high debut for a global hit from Colombian-American critical darling Kali Uchis, someone I’m always glad to hear from. Admittedly I did not check out that last project that was a return to a lot of the Latin American music, including reggaeton, she took early influence from. That debut studio album is mostly an English-language neo-soul record so I appreciate the risks taken, even if I personally didn’t check it out. I probably should though, because this bilingual streaming success “telepatía”, is pretty damn smooth with some of the signature fuzzy keys you’d hear from any Kali Uchis song, somewhat reminiscent of Tyler, The Creator in all of the elegant piano ambiance and soul drums that cut the line thin between live and programmed, but sound quite either way. I especially love the flushes of Latin guitar in the chorus but really, Uchis’ silky voice is what shines here, especially in the subtle, seductive double-tracking and how smoothly it switches from Spanish to English. It’s not perfect, I mean, the transition from chorus to second verse and back again is somewhat awkward, and it does feel like it runs a little short. I was honestly expecting a guitar solo or something but we get very little of anything after that final chorus. Given that I know Tainy mostly from his work with J Balvin – and I’ll admit, also mostly from his work on the Sponge on the Run soundtrack – I’m pretty pleasantly surprised with how this has meshed together and I do really hope this sticks around.

#23 – “Bluuwuu” – Digga D

Produced by Glvck

We didn’t get an album bomb from Digga D, bless the Lord, but we did get this one single and... do American rappers make genuine death threats on their top 40 singles? Just wondering, because this has several references to rival gang members and how he’s going to hurt them in one way or another. That would be fine if it were convincing, but this guy really isn’t, especially if he’s going to do the silly “bluuwuu” ad-lib in the chorus over one of the least interesting drill beats I’ve ever heard. The 808s don’t slide notably, the percussion is like a template and there isn’t any energy to this... which is fine, because it’s very much just about gang violence, half of it censored. That said, it crosses the line from intriguing detail to possibly too detailed in a way that’s just unwarranted over a boring beat and with the tendency to go off-topic with his flexing ever so often. I’d probably rather listen to the posthumous Pop Smoke single over this if I had to choose, at least that beat is, you know, good.

#20 – “BED” – Joel Corry, RAYE and David Guetta

Produced by Giorgio Tiunfort, New Levels, David Guetta and Joel Corry

I thought these guys were literally famous for just being producers, why does a song by two producers need two extra producers and if it really needs them, why aren’t they given a lead artist credit as well? Oh, right: name recognition, even though neither Corry or Guetta have ever made anything worth recognising. This song with RAYE, personality-void guest singer, relies on the line, “I got a bed, but I’d rather be in yours tonight”, because it’s a sex jam in one way or another, even though there are no stakes to that chorus line at all. Yes, I know RAYE has a bed; she probably sleeps very comfortably on it. She probably bought it from Premier Inn. Maybe they were having a sale. There’s no point in clarifying that you have a bed – in fact, a more interesting lyrical turn would to maybe bring some stakes into it by saying that RAYE does not in fact have a home, and the intimacy with unnamed man keeps her afloat in times of hardship. This is really just me stalling because this may be our highest debut but that does not mean it’s worth talking about. “BED” doesn’t really do much more than it’s supposed to. It’s got some vaguely 90s keys, fake hand-claps, a checked-out performance from RAYE and an anti-climactic deep house drop. Do you care? Does that description make you want to hear it? It’s not a negative critique, it’s an unbiased description of what happens. Are you intrigued with that? Do you want to check this out? This’ll go top 10 next week because of the music video, but God, this is just soulless, and that’s coming from someone who talks almost purely about the pop charts. I do like the post-chorus vocal melody for what it’s worth, but, yeah, no, I don’t care.

Conclusion

I don’t even care enough to give it Worst of the Week, as that’s going to “SugarCrash!” by ElyOtto with a Dishonourable Mention for Digga D’s “Bluuwuu”. Best of the Week should be obvious as Kali Uchis’ “telepatía” is the only good song here, but the Honourable Mention I guess goes to the late Pop Smoke for “AP”, even if that’s mostly because of 808Melo on the production. Here’s this week’s top 10:

I predict a lot will change next week, as we’ve got new songs from Justin Bieber, James Arthur, Bruno Mars (with Anderson .Paak!) and an EP from Drake... follow me on Twitter @cactusinthebank if you want in the event that I can use that again, and I’ll see you next week for that snoozefest.

0 notes

musicalmatrix · 7 years

Note

About TGC: I also think a lot of the former stans pushing around arguments without context (that Mandy/Dave/Rachel are to blame, that the casting was bc of intentional racism, etc) were so quick to turn and skip straight past valid complaints about the racism of the biz into faux-activist nonsense bc of a serious inferiority complex brought on by black-and-white viewpoints about what is "diverse" and trying to push GC as a show that earns them Woke Points then being let down, if that makes sense

No no I get that. Here’s how I see it:

The ATW didn’t feel like being progressive this year (because they never are, hello people). They choose the show they think will make them money. Tbh it’s not really about who deserves what. It’s all business. But the reason nobody’s been significantly pissed about it in awhile is because money and deserve lined up for a few years there, namely with Hamilton.

But that era is over. We’re back to money. And a diverse cast singing five different genres of music just was too out there for them. And like they lowkey always have in the past, the ATW proved themselves to be pretty damn racist (literally only two actors/actresses of color nominated?? Are you literally fucking kidding me?).

Fast forward to this week. The ATW decision to not give The Great Comet any awards lessened audiences enthusiasm for the show. Now they only want to see it because Groban’s there. Groban leaves, Ingrid comes. Ingrid leaves, Oak comes. But it’s not enough. Sales still plummet. Not because of Oak, but more because people simply lost interest. How good could this show actually be if it lost all its awards to the pop show of the season? So the show gets desperate to stay on because they worked too damn hard to give it up. Mandy Patinkin wants to do it. It’ll basically save the show, but he can only do it Oak’s last three weeks. They make the tough call, and Oak steps back.

What they didn’t consider (and completely 100% should have) was they were stripping a black man of a lead role and replacing him with a famous white man. It was completely insensitive and yes, racist to do so. And they definitely deserved the backlash and Oak deserved the support.

But they don’t deserve to close for this.

It seems like they’re willing to learn from their mistake. They’ve apologized and it seems pretty genuine. Mandy has stepped down from the role. They shouldn’t have done this, and it’s absolutely horrible they did, but this one Tumblr post keeps popping in my mind throughout this whole shitshow. It was a post I read a few days ago before this all went down and it was talking about the differences of being an openly discriminatory show and being a show that tries to be inclusive.

Now this post was referring to TV shows (and I’m pretty sure it was going around because of the Supercorp debacle), but I think the point is important to mention in this situation. Shows that are aiming for (in this case) white audiences, don’t have to worry about whether it will look bad if they replace a cast member with a white cast member. Shows like Phantom of the Opera, Wicked, Les Mis, Dear Evan Hansen, etc? They don’t have to worry about diversity issues because they never bothered to worry about them in the first place. If they do put a minority in as a character, the next cast could be white as ever and no one would even bat an eye, because we all knew the diversity wasn’t permanent.

However, shows that aim to be diverse often get a bad rap. They often make mistakes, and you’re right that’s not okay. They should be held accountable for those mistakes. But they shouldn’t go down because of them. There are things shows do that make us angry because they didn’t realize it would make us angry. And they should do better to realize those things. But if we look at every diverse show and take them down every time they make a mistake, we’re not going to have any diversity left. We’re going to be left with all white shows with occasional diversity because for some reason we’ve decided that better than someone who tries and messes up.

Pretty soon people are going to stop trying.

When diverse shows make mistakes, we should absolutely get angry and tell them they did something wrong. But then we have to realize that a show that is trying to be inclusive is worth sticking with and helping them do it the right way. Phantom will never do diversity right. Wicked will never do diversity right. Les Mis will never do diversity right. But The Great Comet can. We have the opportunity to have a great diverse show, and some people are willing to throw it away because they made one mistake.

The ATW was racist towards this show a month ago; in turn, the producers stupidly and frantically did something racist to save the show. Neither was right and both deserve backlash, but one was obviously the cause and one was obviously the effect.

TL;DR The ATW was racist first, but it doesn’t excuse the decision on Oak; however, we can’t let diverse shows sink because of one mistake when non-diverse shows are constantly making mistakes and we let them thrive.

Also: rereading this ask I have no idea if I even responded to it, I’m so tired

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solivar · 7 years

Text

WIP: I Heard The Bells

aka the one where Jesse makes all his friends cry on Christmas for more than one reason

@joasakura remains the best for letting me use Tombo, Mizuchi, and Zentatsu

Content warning: somewhat more graphic than usual but still canon-typical violence, discussion/depiction of unpleasant gunshot wounds

Now with 100% more sassy navigational hijacker and everybody else going OMGWTFBBQ, though in many more words.

The packages arrived within hours of each other, in cascading order, earliest time zones first, on Christmas Eve. And, for a miraculous change, nothing -- no deficiencies of local air or ground mail delivery, no perfidious intent-thwarting issues of back-ordering or selling out, nobody failing to be where they were supposed to be when they were supposed to be there -- managed to screw a single solitary bit of it up. He watched it all come together as the delivery notifications popped up on his tablet, from the vantage of a cheapass hotel room in Fredericksburg while he waited for it to get dark enough and late enough to complete the last stage of his self-chosen mission.

Within sixteen minutes of the first delivery, his phone chimed with the tone he’d assigned to Genji the very instant he’d found out his former partner in twentysomething angst had shacked up in a Nepalese monastery with an omnic spiritual adviser. It was a gong. The most obnoxious gong available in open source sound files. Hearing it now brought an extremely satisfied little grin to his face, a grin that stretched a fraction wider with each new, unique text notification tone.

Really. It was almost as good as being there.

🌟

Dr. Angela Ziegler desired nothing more than sleep. She longed for the soft, cool embrace of her pillow as she desired absolutely nothing and no one else for years. The terrible, heavily bleached hospital sheets she and everyone else slept on called to her with the sweetest of siren voices. The door to the suite she shared with the two other doctors -- an infectious disease treatment specialist and an epidemic disease control specialist -- with whom she was coordinating the establishment of the world’s first teaching hospital interfacing all of their disciplines lay but a few feet away and she had, at that very moment, been awake so many hours in a row that she was perfectly willing to abandon a lifetime of heartfelt pacifism if someone would try to prevent her from reaching it. So close.

“Angela!”

And yet so far.

“Yes, Kate?” Katherine Solaja was an amazingly gifted young woman, afire with the desire to help others, a quick study and a steady head under pressure, and generally Angela was grateful to have such a talented young physician working with her. At the moment, however, she was firmly resisting the urge to introduce her resident to the truest meaning of the term ‘defenestration’ and then offer the last fifty-two sleepless hours as her defense when someone came to arrest her. Perhaps they would be kind enough to handcuff her to her bed and wheel her out that way.

“You have got to come down to the office. Something just arrived for you with the late mail drop-off.” Angela found her hand in Kate’s uncompromisingly energetic grip and, before her weary brain could formulate a coherent objection, she was being pulled down the hall and into the elevator.

“Kate,” Angela began.

“I know you’re tired, Angela. But I’m serious. You need to see this.” Kate was grinning, dark eyes shining with glee.

“What could possibly be so -- “

“Trust me. You’re going to want to see this.”

The elevator doors hissed open and Angela again allowed herself to be dragged along, into the labrynth of offices that occupied the hospital’s lowest floors, her own inclusive, which seemed to contain entirely too many people for that time of day. Entirely too many, and most of them loitering in the vicinity of her own neatly arranged workspace, which at the moment contained a desk, three floor to ceiling bookshelves, a potted ficus, a tiny holotank in one corner, approximately the entire senior medical advisory staff, and a cylindrical object approximately three feet around and four feet tall, wrapped in silver paper neatly stamped down its side with air mail shipment codes.

“What in the name of God is that?” Angela asked, completely flummoxed.

“That’s what we’d all like to know.” Kate nudged her gently forward. “Like I said, it came in with the late mail. Go on, Angela, open it open it open it.”

“It’s -- “ Slowly, Angela’s weary mind put the pieces together -- the lateness of the day, the lateness of the year, the unexpected late delivery. “Oh, dear. It’s Christmas eve, isn’t it?”

She found herself collecting a series of pitying looks and, gathering the remains of her dignity about her, she stepped forward to examine the object. Not just silver paper, clearly -- it was a far heavier gauge than simple paper, wrapped in an overlapping scallop design that came together at the top beneath a medallion of what was probably not sealing wax but which artfully resembled it nonetheless. Fortunately, she had absentmindedly stuck a clean scalpel into her pen case earlier that day; it slid beneath the edge of the seal and disengaged it without damaging the seal itself. She palmed it into the pocket of her lab coat as the wrapping unfolded itself, expelling a burst of intensely cold air and releasing a genuine flurry of impossibly tiny snowflakes as it did so, glittering briefly in the artificially dry air of the hospital complex’ air conditioning. The entire assembly took a sudden breath, some ooohed, others ahhhed, there was at least one squeal that Angela suspected came from Kate.

The little Christmas tree contained inside the package was utterly perfect in every way, its blue fir branches glittering with a hint of frost, strung with beaded golden and crimson garland, hung with impossibly tiny and perfect blown glass ornaments, the angel atop it bearing a rather suggestive resemblance to her Valkyrie suit as occupied by she herself. Piled at its base were a selection of equally tiny and perfect individually wrapped presents, all of them tagged with her name in a hand she knew well.

“You’ve been holding out on me,” Kate murmured as Angela bent down and retrieved one, opening it to reveal an orb of dark chocolate molded in the shape of a Christmas ornament. “You do have a secret admirer.”

Angela handed her the tiny gift box. “No...not an admirer. A brother.”

At that moment, her phone buzzed for the first time, and continued to do so steadily for the next three hours.

🌟

WickedCuteButDeadly:

Oh my God. OH MY GOD.

DeathFromAbove:

Are you kidding me? You too? Is is a tree? He sent you a tree, didn’t he.

WickedCuteButDeadly:

HE DID. IT’S SO CUTE I WANT TO DIE. AND -- look, I don’t know about the rest of you, but I don’t have a good number for him, the last time he called me was, oh, maybe three months ago wanted to be sure he had a good snail mail addie for me, and I spent two hours chewing his ear about Em and how we met and how wonderful she was and how happy we were AND HE SENT US A PREPAID RESERVATION CARD FOR A COUPLES WEEKEND AT THIS SWANK SPA HOTEL IN PARIS AND THE NUMBER I HAVE FOR HIM IS NO GOOD ANYMORE AND I KNOW AT LEAST ONE OF YOU HAS TO KNOW HOW TO GET IN TOUCH WITH HIM. Ange, it’s you, isn’t it? It has to be you, you’re his DOCTOR.

DeathFromAbove:

My tree is covered in miniature planes from the dawn of aviation to the present. I’m afraid to open any of the boxes. My heart can only take so much.

WickedCuteButDeadly:

Do it. You know you want to, Fareeha.

DeathFromAbove: …

DeathFromAbove:

This is not okay. I can’t stop crying.

WickedCuteButDeadly: ????!!!!!!

DeathFromAbove:

You remember that huge old erector set I had as a kid? The one my father got me for...I want to say my tenth birthday? I lost it in one of the moves sometime before I went away to college and I swear I only told him about it once and he found it HE FOUND IT. I’VE GOT IT SITTING IN MY LAP RIGHT NOW. I don’t even know how he knew I was going to be in Vancouver for Christmas this year, I only finalized my plans two weeks ago!

WickedCuteButDeadly:

Angie, please.

DeathFromAbove:

Angela, you have GOT to tell us.

SantasLittlestHelper:

I don’t know how he remembers ALL THEIR NAMES and all their favorite candies. I’m their FATHER and I don’t remember all that at the same time.

🌟

Angela fell asleep with her phone still vibrating next to her on the bed, having given away far more of Teuscher’s wonderful champagne truffles than she actually ate herself and without receiving a reply to the text she sent to the one contact number she had.

🌟

The inner rooms of the monastery were, it was generally agreed by all residents and visitors, far warmer than the outer chambers -- the milled stone walls were paneled in ancient, fragrant wood, hung with the heavy woolen draperies woven in the radiant iris pattern of the Shambali order dyed in brilliant hues of saffron and emerald. They captured the warmth of strategically placed high efficiency solar powered ceramic heaters and the more traditional charcoal braziers and the banks of votary candles in the memorial shrine dedicated to Tekhartha Mondatta, kept it close for the succour of the monastery’s handful of entirely human residents. Most were postulants to the order, men and women who had come from all corners of the Earth, drawn by the offer of all-encompassing inclusion and acceptance that lay at the core of the Shambali philosophy. Some were tourists -- the monastery opened its doors to the curious as well as the dedicated, provided they were willing to respect the customs of the order during the course of their stay. Only one was a professional assassin.

The assassin occupied one of the outermost of the inner chambers -- it was cooler, markedly so, but also significantly less likely to result in being forced to interact involuntarily with another human being, particularly the sort of human being likely to seriously strain his minimal tolerance for idiocy. (There were a number of wealthy tourists on hand at the moment, forced by the weather to wait for the next stage of their pre-packaged Journey Of Enlightenment, and they were growing gradually less enamored with the pursuit of spiritual evolution and union in the soul of the world with every passing day, most of which were exceedingly cold. The monks tolerated them because the tour companies always donated generously on top of the standard fees, the novices tolerated them because they could always claim to be functioning under vows of silence in order to escape unsatisfactory conversations, and the assassin tolerated them, barely, because there were simply not enough places to hide all the bodies -- the snow piled at the bottom of the cliff would, after all, melt eventually.) He had arrived at the end of autumn, just ahead of the first snows, greeted with an excess of enthusiasm by his brother -- a student of Tekhartha Zenyatta -- that many considered equal parts ill-advised and adorable, and, after a lengthy private interview with the elder sibling serving as abbot that season, was permitted to stay. He selected a room on the same corridor as the chambers his brother and the mendicant Zenyatta occupied when they were in residence, and thereafter he was an enticing mystery to the rest of the monastery’s inhabitants, a phantom within its walls, nearly invisible unless he chose to be seen and he almost never allowed it. The cooks saw more of him than the monks, for he would occasionally take his meals in their company, and the security team that patrolled the plateau on which the monastery sat, who occasionally witnessed the feats of physical prowess he indulged in during his personal exercise regime. The best chance anyone else had of seeing him was on one of those rare days when he made use of one of the public chapels or meditation rooms, rather than retiring to the privacy of his own chamber.

It was therefore a matter of some note when, one morning just at the edge of dawn, when no one but the earliest-rising novices would be stirring, he emerged from his quarters dressed in a manner that would not have looked out of place in a painting of the Heian imperial court, carrying a small rolled silk case in the crook of one arm. Word of this astonishing sight -- rendered even more astonishing by the sharp contrast with his decidedly untraditional hair and even less traditional piercings -- made the rounds from novice to support staff back to novice and from there to more than a few monks while he was still crossing the courtyard to the dokhang. By the time he set foot on the first of the five staircases he would thereafter climb, the prayer hall was at least half-full of novices, monks, and three sleep-groggy tourists, most of whom shamelessly watched him in his progress, for reasons ranging from wildly irrepressible curiosity to absolute prurience, for no one could deny the sight of him at that moment was one of the most glorious to be found on the mountain. At the top of the fifth and final staircase, he retired to one of the uppermost meditation chambers, politely declined the offer of a senior monk to bring him anything that he might require to effectuate his devotions, and slid the door shut.

🌟

It took twenty minutes to grind the ink to his satisfaction and another twenty to make certain that it was warm enough in the vicinity of the plate for his chosen medium to remain in its liquid state. The upper meditation rooms were, in general, fiercely cold at the best of times and today the cold was particularly penetrating -- the wind was light but constant, dry enough to suck the last lingering traces of moisture out of any exposed skin, and with a certain cutting edge to it that suggested the weather might be about to make one of its unpredictable high altitude changes. The pass leading up from the next nearest village had only just been cleared enough to allow passage the evening prior; below in the courtyard, the tourists were making good their chance at escape. At the moment, the sky was a pure and perfect shade of blue that reminded him of his dragons’ scales, the snow-capped Himalayan peaks that ringed the monastery’s high plateau shone savagely in the thin winter sunlight and undulated away in a manner that reminded him of their coils as they flew, and he wanted nothing more than to capture the image in paper and ink. The exceedingly traditional multiple layers of heavy winter clothing simply meant he could do so without freezing to death while in the best painter’s vantage point in all of Shambali.

He rendered the faint, nearly invisible filaments of windbourne snow curling away from the saw-backed ridge of the mountains in the palest, pearlescent shades of gray, the bones of the mountains themselves in a darker wash, a wider stroke. The snow itself was nothing more than the pure white of the silk on which he painted, it existence delineated in washes of pale gray that established the shape of the snow line, the jut of stone and ice in slightly darker shades. It was soothing, to create so, allowing the brush to dance and the ink to sing in a way that he had not for years, having neither the leisure nor, if he were being honest with himself, the desire. Painting had given him great peace and joy as a child, and even as a young adult; as an adult, with violence and death as his closest companions, it seemed nearly obscene to engage in such pleasures, the perversion of an art of which his hands were no longer worthy. He still did not feel worthy, precisely, but now his own absence of virtue seemed to matter somehow less, enough that he could lose himself in the serenity of drawing his brush across an unblemished length of silken canvas, allow his thoughts to vanish into the concentration needed to compose each stroke, to contemplate nothing but the image taking shape before him. His spirit was as still as the surface of a lake on a windless day, tranquil enough that, when the dragons stirred within him to watch what he was doing, it disturbed him not at all and, for the briefest of instants, his awareness became theirs and theirs became his --

Something sent a ripple of dissonance through them -- through them and into him, jarring his concentration and, very nearly, his arm, and it was only intensely disciplined reflexes that saved the stroke from complete ruination. For an instant, the insides of his skull were a jumble of perception and emotion not his own -- a flash of something silver, a flash of something green-gold-crimson, a breath of cold, surprise childlike delight a sudden stab of sorrow so intense it brought involuntary tears to his eyes and made Tombo keen softly --

Hanzo blinked the tears -- not his own -- out of his eyes, set his brush carefully aside, and briefly considered the stairs before deciding that swinging over the window ledge, sliding down the secondary roof, and climbing down the side of the dokhang was altogether more efficient, particularly once he shed a few layers of clothing. Fortunately, most of the tourists had already departed the courtyard; also fortunately, those that were left contented themselves with gawking and did nothing to impede him as he crossed the distance between the prayer hall and the monastery’s living quarters at a dead sprint. The cluster of human and omnic novices gathered in the dormitory’s central common hall was too small to be called a crowd, no more than a handful really, but they effectively screened the source of the distress that had cried out to him. Fortunately, they also knew, to a being, that it was generally best to get out of his way.

“Genji?”

His brother sat cross-legged in the middle of the common room floor in front of what looked, to his eye at least, like a fully decorated albeit miniature Christmas tree -- branches somehow frost-coated despite the relative warmth of the room, tiny ornaments glittering and, unless he was seriously mistaken, that was a Pachimaru sitting on the top, where an angel or a star ought to be. It was. A Pachimaru. Genji’s head was in his hands and his shoulders were quivering silently and there was a box sitting open on his lap. And not a single one of any of those things made the slightest trace of sense, taken individually or together, and so he knelt, and carefully placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder, firmly resisting the urge to shake something resembling an answer out of him before he was ready to provide it on his own.

It took some moments before Genji was ready to speak and, when he did, his voice was not steady, synthesized or not. “I -- My apologies, aniki. I did not mean to disturb you. But I...was not expecting this, in any way.”

“You did not disturb me.” Softly. “What has happened? Why -- “

Silently, Genji showed him the package. Inside, nestled carefully in a mass of impact-resistant wrap and neon green tissue paper, were a pair of hand-held game machines, one black with green fittings, the other black and red. Perplexed, Hanzo looked up and found his brother’s eyes swimming again with unshed tears and, before he had even the slightest chance to construct a reasonable interrogative about either, Genji’s head was resting in the crook of his neck and his shoulder. He did, at least, know what to do about that, and wrapped his brother close. It seemed to be the correct choice, for shortly thereafter Genji began to speak again, softly. “When I was...first recovering...the initial neuromechanical attunement was...complex. I could not walk reliably for weeks. I was confined to the medical research complex at Watchpoint Geneva for much of it. I was losing my mind from the boredom -- I was not yet allowed access to anything and then...one day...someone found out about it and decided enough was enough. And brought me these.” A pause. “Well, probably not these particularly since these are much newer but...the same thing. Something to distract me. To help with something that...simply made me feel better.” He could hear the smile, tremulous thought it might be, in his brother’s voice. “I can imagine that Jesse would think a monastery on the top of a mountain in the middle of the winter would be the very definition of madness-inducing boredom.”

“Jesse?” The word itched at the back of Hanzo’s mind, familiar for no good reason that he could name.

“Jesse McCree.” Genji pronounced that ridiculous surname with the ease of long familiarity. “A comrade in arms and a very dear friend.” A flicker of expression crossed his face, a welter of emotions mostly visible in his expressive eyes. “I have often wished -- “

“McCree.” Hanzo knew he was mangling it, and the uncontrollable twitch at the corner of Genji’s mouth confirmed it. “Are you certain this came from him?”

“It is extremely likely. He knew that Zenyatta and I would be here through the winter and his Christmas gifts in the past have been…” Genji gestured eloquently. “Not quite as elaborate as this, but always well-meant and heartfelt. He cannot be with us, and so instead sends the best that he can give.”

“Why?” Hanzo caught the tiny package Genji tossed at him and opened it to find it contained higashi, carefully shaped in the form of snowflakes, tinted blue and silver, and he decided in that instant whatever faults the absent friend might possess, bad taste was not among them.

“Not all of us joined, or left, with a clean slate.” Unspoken: Overwatch. “Jesse attempted to wipe his clean but circumstances conspired against him, then and now. He -- “

It clicked into place then -- suddenly and all at once, he knew where he had heard that name before, and in what context, and he forced his face empty of expression. “Genji.” He reached into the innermost pocket of his clothing and drew out his tablet, thumbed open the lock, scrolled through the most recent half-dozen of his contracts, made his selection, and handed it to his brother. “Is this your friend?”

Genji’s brows knit momentarily. “How -- ?” He looked, and read, and the last of the color fled the scarred skin of his face.

“Someone attempted to hire me to kill him before I came here.” Hanzo replied.

🌟

GreenCyborgNinjaDude has joined the conversation.

GreenCyborgNinjaDude: Does anyone know how to contact Jesse?

DeathFromAbove: LET ME GUESS. He sent you a TREE and EVERYTHING UNDER IT made you cry like a two year old?

WickedCuteButDeadly: I DID NOT CRY. We both cried, it’s not the same thing if everyone’s crying all at once.

DoNotHassleTheHoff: A case of the finest Schwarzbier, a currywurst sampler, and two tickets to the Hasselfest tribute concert next year. Tears were shed. MANLY TEARS.

SantasLittlestHelper: He remembered the names of all my children AND my wife AND somehow knew that I needed a new portable thermal anvil. I suspect a conspiracy.

DeathFromAbove: And Angela isn’t answering her phone --

GreenCyborgNinjaDude: My friends, please. THIS IS VERY IMPORTANT. Do ANY OF YOU have good contact information for him? The number I had now belongs to a very pleasant young woman who did not appear to speak any of the languages I know.

DeathFromAbove: Not I.

SantasLittlestHelper: Alas, no, or I’d have used it.

DoNotHassleTheHoff: Nein.

WickedCuteButDeadly: I was trying to get someone to cough it up earlier. Still think Angie’s our best bet but she’s not picking up or answering texts.

GreenCyborgNinjaDude: This is bad.

WickedCuteButDeadly: What’s the ish, Genji?

GreenCyborgNinjaDude: I have unfortunately excellent reason to believe that he is in danger. MORTAL danger.

DeathFromAbove: …

WickedCuteButDeadly: …

DoNotHassleTheHoff: …

SantasLittlestHelper: …

WickedCuteButDeadly: SPILL IT.

GreenCyborgNinjaDude: An...acquaintance...here in the monastery witnessed the arrival of my present and recognized Jesse’s name when I spoke of him, and indicated to me that he was offered a contract on Jesse’s life before he came to Nepal, but ultimately declined.

DeathFromAbove: An ACQUAINTANCE? At the MONASTERY?

GreenCyborgNinjaDude: It is a very long story. But I have no reason to doubt him or consider his information in any way not credible. The request came through a contract broker my acquaintance has worked with more than once in the past -- I have seen enough of the negotiation to know that, whoever made the request, they knew enough of Jesse’s service with Blackwatch to extend specific warning of his abilities. And they seem to know where he is going to be tonight.

WickedCuteButDeadly: TONIGHT?

GreenCyborgNinjaDude: Yes. The contractor seems to believe he will be at Arlington National Cemetery tonight.

WickedCuteButDeadly: IT’S CHRISTMAS!

DeathFromAbove: I’m pretty sure anybody willing to put out a hit on someone isn’t really going to care about that, Lena.

WickedCuteButDeadly: I KNOW that but -- it’s the PRINCIPLE of the thing! And at

DoNotHassleTheHoff: Gabriel’s grave. He is going to visit Gabriel’s grave.

DeathFromAbove: I’m trying Angela again. Is there anybody in the eastern United States right now? ANYBODY?

WickedCuteButDeadly: If we took off from Gibraltar RIGHT NOW it would take us at least eleven hours to get there -- we couldn’t cruise at commercial air altitude -- and we can’t take off right now, I’d have to fuel up for a long-haul flight and run preflight checks and

DeathFromAbove: I’m closer and I’m still not close enough, Lena. It’s not your fault. Angela, please, please pick up.

🌟

Genji was distraught. That, alone, was astonishing -- Genji, as a young adult, had been charismatic, effortlessly charming to all except the eldest and most hidebound members of the clan, almost casually lethal with everything from blades to the edge of his tongue, and as utterly self-absorbed as it was possible to be. Hanzo, then, had thought he could count the number of people his brother actually cared about on the fingers of one hand, if that, and rarely considered himself among the number.

Hanzo, now, had more than one reason to reevaluate his judgment. He had not anticipated, when he made his decision to follow Genji to Nepal and make the attempt to reconcile all that had passed between them, that he would witness his brother in fear for the life of another. It occupied the precise space between astonishing and heartwrenching and Hanzo, for the first time in a long time, had no idea how to react.

“There must be something that can be done,” Genji muttered, on his sixth pass around the perimeter of the dormitory common room, now cleared of random bystanders by the order of the abbott, who had sent senior monks to shoo them back to their own neglected tasks. He was dialing another number that could, in theory, be used to contact Dr. Angela Ziegler who, it seemed, could be anywhere from Zurich to some godforsaken war zone without even the most basic communication service; the woman did not, apparently, even take holidays off and she was, in the estimation of all, the most likely to know how to reach Jesse McCree. Thus far, no one had managed to raise her.

His brother was, at most, sixteen seconds away from literally climbing the walls in his anxiety, for which Hanzo could not at all blame him. A discreet nibble around the edges to his intermediary had yielded the information that the contract was no longer available -- not cancelled but accepted and closed to further interested parties. That was, in his estimation, no good news whatsoever, given that he had been directly and personally approached for the matter. His particular skills, areas of expertise, and reputation placed him among fairly rarified company in the loose and not especially friendly society of freelance killers-for-hire; he could think of three who could reasonably be considered his equals and only one his superior and none whom he would wish to bet against in matters of life or death.

Genji uttered a number of uncomplimentary things under his breath in Japanese and came to a halt, folding into a place at his side, deliberately and carefully setting down his phone between them. Hanzo rather thought he wanted to throw it, either against the nearest wall or off the side of the mountain, and that impression was confirmed an instant later as Genji flexed his hands, his wrists, flicked weapons from beneath the armor his forearms, between his fingers, and then back into their housing, nothing about the gesture bleeding any tension from the set of his shoulders, the length of his body. “Hanzo.”

“Suzume.” He rested his hand on Genji’s shoulder and could not miss the shudder that passed through him.

“Please tell me that he will survive this.” It emerged as a whisper, barely given voice at all.

It was on the tip of his tongue to utter a comforting lie. He was spared the necessity of making it sound convincing by a soft chiming, almost as of bells, and an equally quiet voice. “My apologies, Shimada-san. It was not my intention to interrupt.”

Genji took a ragged breath. “Master.”

“Tekhartha.” Hanzo inclined his head slightly in greeting. “No apology is necessary, and your company is welcome.”

It was only a slight overstatement; Genji found his deepest comfort in the companionship of his mentor, and comfort was what his brother needed more than anything but a solution right now. Tekhartha Zenyatta, hovering in the doorway yet, bowed from the neck and floated to Genji’s side. In his wake, the senior Shambali monk acting as the monastery’s abbot also entered the hall and, if it were possible for machines to look thoroughly and utterly uncomfortable, Hanzo would have used those words to describe his posture, the set of his spine.

“It was not my intention to interrupt,” Zenyatta continued in that same perfectly modulated voice, the one that he adopted when he was strenuously controlling the urge to allow the direction of his thoughts to show in his tone, “but I feel that I must do so. It has been brought to my attention,” out of the corner of his eye, Hanzo swore he saw the omnic abbot actually flinch slightly, “that we have at our disposal a means of reaching your friend more swiftly than we thought.”

Tekhartha Zenyatta turned what had to be the most heavily weighted look Hanzo had ever witnessed between two omnics on his brother, the abbot, who responded with a low, deep bow -- to Zenyatta, to Genji, and, peripherally, to himself. When he spoke, his voice was also a carefully expressionless tone. “Some months ago, after much discussion among the elder siblings in residence here in Shambali,” the faintest hint of reproach colored residence, Hanzo thought, “it was decided that we required a more reliable method of transport into and out of the monastery in the event of an emergency -- physical danger to the community in the form of attack, or an inability to resupply by our ordinary methods due to weather. We therefore entered into a contract with the Vishkar Corporation to meet our needs in this regard.”

“What Brother Dzasatta is trying to say,” Zenyatta cut in, coolly, “is that the monastery is now equipped with an active short range telestation.”

“What.” It was not actually a question and Genji surged to his feet in a sinuous motion that, only barely, remembered to turn into a bow. “Brother Dzasatta, may we -- “

“Yes. Yes, you may.” The poor abbott sounded as though it gave him enormous pain just to say it and Hanzo could not help but wonder how many arms Zenyatta had to twist, and with how much enthusiasm, to achieve that permission. “We have already calculated your route. Our telestation is not powerful enough to reach the United States directly -- you will have to transit in stages, from here to Tehran, Tehran to Istanbul, Istanbul to Madrid, and Madrid to Washington, DC. The arrangements have already been made but you must depart soon.”

“Thank you, elder brother.” Genji bowed again, lower this time, and then turned to him. “Aniki, I must -- “

“I know.” Hanzo rose. “Give me a moment to change and retrieve my case and I will -- “

The force of his brother’s embrace lifted him entirely off the floor.

🌟

Columbarium Court Nine would, in any other place, have been a cemetery all by itself, a long fully walled quadruple rectangle of elegantly designed and expertly tended landscaping, the perfectly flat-cobbled lanes between the niche walls kept clear of snow in the winter and leaves in the autumn and blowing blossoms from the flowering trees in the spring, the marble benches discreetly placed just so in the central memorial garden, around the fountain, for mourners to sit and collect themselves, before or after or both. Since it was sitting in Arlington National Cemetery, it just happened to have the distinction of being the largest of several of its kind, originally part of an expansion intended to extend the useful life of the cemetery, and then expanded twice more in the years since its construction, home to sixty thousand inurnment niches, about half of which were in use. By day it was the very image of martial, commemoratory solemnity, row upon row of variegated gray stone walls faced in gleaming white memorial plaques, surrounded outside in row upon row of headstones and monuments and, in at least a few places, something vaguely resembling a serious attempt at security fencing, mostly around the places where, paradoxically, people were supposed to enter the grounds.

Jesse McCree had been to Arlington National Cemetery exactly once by daylight and the occasion still resided under the heading of the Worst Day of My Life in his memory, only dragged out and examined under duress or too much terrible whiskey in the middle of the night or some combination of the two. Subsequently, he kept his visits confined to those hours when he was distinctly unlikely to encounter another living being -- well after official closing time, far after dark, and he never bothered hopping one of the more properly fency fences while it was possible to jump off the top of the last metro train of the evening, over the significantly lower back-end fence along the tracks, and walk the rest of the way under the cover of night and the thin copses of trees still left standing along the perimeter. It was particularly possible that night: bitter cold and dark, the moon a brushstroke crescent hanging low in the west, the rest of the sky an empty arch of light pollution that offered no help to unenhanced eyes. He had a flashlight clipped to his belt for the parts of the walk that lay outside the nimbus of the security lamps scattered along the main thoroughfares, routes he generally avoided, in any case -- the grounds weren’t patrolled, but there was always a full guard complement on station, rotating on and off watch at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier through the night. And, once he was inside the outer wall of the Columbarium, through the arch of the ungated gate, he had no need, could find his way to where he was going without eyes if necessary.

Overwatch had its own monument, plunked down on one of the plots set aside for the memorialization of future disasters, immediately next to the significantly larger one dedicated to all the victims of the Omnic Crisis, civilian, military, and otherwise. One of them was, in fact, a columbarium in its own right, laid out in the form of the organization’s insignia, Morrison’s nonstandard gravestone beneath which his ashes were interred dead center, and every former member of Overwatch who had also first been a member of the American armed forces had the at least theoretical right to be buried there. In practice, “anyone” included a specific exclusion, for the obvious reasons, particularly when the six layers of international and domestic bureaucratic fuckery involved in the decisions related to who got to rest where could veto each other and reject requests for reconsideration until Hell froze over solidly. The Marine Corps, by way of contrast, had authorized Silvia Reyes’ request on behalf of her late brother without hesitation -- Major Gabriel Reyes had, after all, saved the entire goddamned world while still under their colors and, even if the rest of his service record was so classified God himself wasn’t rated high enough to access it, that was something they never forgot for one minute.

Gabe’s niche was in the newer segment of Court Nine, in one of the alcoves at the far end of the whole structure, a quiet and secluded little spot equipped with its own sculpted marble bench and a little patch of garden around the base of a wide-spreading sakura, currently winter bare, a bit of ice clinging to its corners. The plaque wasn’t quite centered in the back wall but it was at least still mostly aligned with the bench, more or less at eye level, polished white marble incised with his name and final rank, Omnic Crisis, two dates nowhere near far enough apart, You Are Not Forgotten. Silvia and Lorena always came in the summer, on his birthday, to make sure the plaque was tended and to lay flowers; he always came at Christmas, by mutual agreement, to lay the wreath.

The wreath, this year, was tiny, a braided confection of evergreen and holly made by the same former client who’d constructed the trees, strung through with strands of beaded garland in black, white, red, and came with a hook small enough to hang on the lip of the plaque. He fussed with it a bit until it looked just right. “Been awhile, shizhé’é’. Got quite a bit to catch you up on.”

The glass and the bottle wrapped up in his pockets had come through the jump-off-the-train-and-roll routine without a scratch, fortunately, though both were warmer than they’d been when he set out. He cracked the seal and a scent more in common with summer filled the cold air, cherries and almonds, the liquor clear as it poured, the kirschwasser he’d developed a taste for while living in Switzerland. It wasn’t sweet, which Jesse had always thought completely defeated the point of drinking something that tasted like cherries, and he had never gotten even slightest buzz from it, because there wasn’t a booze on Earth strong enough to overcome his super-science-enhance metabolism, but he’d loved the flavor and thus the cemetery caretakers had acquired an encyclopedic collection of fine European lifewaters over the years. He left both the glass and the bottle sitting on the bench next to him.

“You remember how I told you last year that Ylva was pregnant out to here and we were all making bets on when she’d pop? Well, she didn’t make it two weeks past New Year and guess what? They finally did it. Gabriel Matthias Lindholm.” A smile curled one corner of his mouth. “I understand he’s already a precocious little troublemaker who escaped his bassinet Mission Impossible style before he was eight months old so your legacy is in good hands.”

Somebody wasn’t moving as quietly as they could have -- that was an unmistakably distinct scrape of boots on stone. Jesse reached down and unclipped his spurs, tucking them into a pocket.

“Lena finally stopped dodging long enough to actually get asked on a date -- they moved in together last month. And, yeah, it was the one Angie spent two years trying to set her up with. Two years. You’d think she’d have eventually given up but noooo.”

He unclipped a stun grenade from his belt, thumbed it over to maximum yield on the flash, minimum on the bang, and deactivated the micro electromagnetic pulse generator entirely, because he didn’t need even minor twitch issues with his arm right now. The yahoo -- or, more likely, yahoos -- dithering on just the other side of the alcove wall weren’t likely to dither for much longer and so he set the timer for fifteen seconds, boosted himself up the outside wall with just a slight gravity anchor assist, waited for them to round the corner, dropped into the alcove they had just vacated, and shielded his eyes. The detonation wasn’t quite as impressive as it would have been if he’d left everything cranked as high as it could go and, even so, it was more than sufficient for the purpose to which he’d put it -- the pair of would-be assailants, one big, the other bigger, staggering around the alcove in visibly disoriented anguish were wearing night vision gear. Jesse indulged in an infinitesimally tiny amount of pity for perhaps a tenth of a second before he introduced Big’s head to the edge of the alcove partition wall with force sufficient to break a few of the more delicate bones in his face and robbed Bigger of the remains of his senses and the free use of his jaw with a firmly to-the-point left. The echoes of the grenade’s sonic component were still propagating across the rolling fields of the cemetery as they hit the ground and if that didn’t poke a stick into the honor guard relief quarters and swish it around a few times, nothing would, and that gave him little time to work.

Big was carrying a heavy shock baton, one of the new school tasers hung heavy enough to work on an omnic or a cybernetically enhanced human, and a pepper-box muzzled sidearm whose ammo looked more like a reinforced hypodermic needle than a standard flechette. Bigger had one of those, too, and another baton, and a couple cylinders he knew for a fact were area-of-effect neurodisruption ordnance. “This is a goddamned cemetery. And it’s Christmas. You couldn’t wait for me to walk out?”

He tossed both the flechette guns and their extra ammo over the far wall, with the hope that they would meet their end under the wheels of a passing truck or at the very least not end up pointed at him. He slid both shock batons through his belt, the taser in the pocket not containing his spurs, and briefly considered the neurodisruptor grenades before the quiet hiss of static caught his attention. Bigger had a still-active comm in his ear and a bit of attention lent to it gave him the knowledge that his present companions were not alone (too much to ask for), there were at least six other teams of two positioned at strategic points (the entrances/exits, the major cross lanes), and two of them were being sent to investigate What the Hell That Was. Jesse cheerfully decided he knew what he was going to do with the neuro grenades.

The best and worst aspects of the Columbarium were one and the same. The pathways were wide and open, particularly the main thoroughfares running through the midline and up both sides, easily traversed when searching for a grave, obstruction-free fields of fire in the admittedly not planned for instance of the place turning into a combat zone. The niche walls themselves varied in altitude, from little more than waist high (good enough for cover in a pinch) to the overhead gate caps at least ten feet off the ground (perfect platforms for enfilading fire). Staying low yielded some advantages, but not enough. Jesse detached the night vision goggles from Bigger’s face and used the last of the charge in his gravity anchor to retake the high ground, hugging close to the outside wall as he put healthy distance between himself and the initial point of contact, scanning across the visible territory through the night vision goggles, careful not to look directly at any of the security lights.

There was the team he arbitrarily chose to call Dumbass One and Dumbass Two, approaching from the central memorial garden in staggered order. From what he could see, hunkered down in the shadow of one of the enormous memorial trees growing along the Columbarium perimeter, Dumbass One was carrying a flechette gun at the ready and Dumbass Two had a taser in hand, both had a baton, arguing for organization and standardized equipage, and yet no recognizable insignia. He swept the upper levels, found no one hanging out up top with him, or at the very least no one visible. He moved, quickly, because D1 and D2 were about to discover the present he’d left sitting on the trussed-with-their-own-MOLLE-webbing colleagues in Gabe’s alcove. The subsequent involuntary screaming was, indeed, music to his ears and also helped cover the largely unintentional noises he made jumping between outer wall and niche wall and then scrambling up to the top of the gate.

Something was going down at the far edge of the enclosure beyond the central garden -- he caught a flicker of movement between the walls, there and gone again before he could properly focus on it, a strangled, choked-off cry in the distance. Beyond that: headlights coming down one of the internal access roads, a hoverjeep no doubt carrying a team of honor guards off rotation coming to investigate the brouhaha, which officially made cutting and running the least morally defensible of his options -- if he hadn’t been there, neither would Dumbasses One through Twelve, and whoever was in that vehicle would be spending a long, boring winter’s night freezing their asses off or recovering from the same, not in danger of strolling into the middle of a fight with opponents armed to, at the very least, mess their central nervous systems up good and proper.

Fortunately, it looked like D1 and D2 had been the team assigned to cover the central garden, with its low enclosing wall and an exit into the rest of the cemetery on each side, and no one else had moved in yet to replace them. Or, if they had, that team hadn’t made it yet; he waited, tensely, feeling acutely exposed in his present perch while he watched for his most recent victims’ backup to arrive and received nothing for the effort. Whatever was going on at the far side had migrated to the east, close to the furthest gate; he could hear, just at the edge of range aided by the Columbarium’s accoustics, the faint thwipthwipthwipthwip of semiautomatic flechette fire. Running footsteps, approaching quickly, and he dropped flat against the top of the gate, watched arbitrarily assigned Dumbass Three and Four running down the narrow corridor between the outer wall of the Columbarium and the inner wall of the garden, foregoing the exit and sprinting almost directly towards him. He unclipped a second stun grenade and lobbed it as they came in range, flash and sonics both fully engaged, pulled off the goggles and covered up.

Dumbass Three was having trouble keeping on their feet, blind and deaf and off-balance after catching a face full of less-lethal ordnance. Dumbass Four was clinging helplessly to the edge of the garden wall. Jesse dropped off the side of the gate, landed in a roll, came up swinging with one of the shock batons, and caught D3 under the chin; the impact was almost disconcertingly satisfying as was the solid thud as they landed in a senseless heap. “Seriously. Christmas. In a cemetery. What is wrong with you people?”

D4 collected a sharp blow to the gut and folded, which he found somewhat surprising, before he realized they were already wounded, ballistic armor smeared with tacky blood and something long and thin jutting out of the shoulder joint. An arrow. An arrow that had cleanly pierced armor specifically designed to prevent just that eventuality. Of all the evening’s surprises that was, he decided, probably the most surprising thus far.

The distinctive pop of military standard-issue small arms fire joined the second round of echoes and the ongoing flechette thwipping and he filed armor-piercing arrows, provenance unknown under things to investigate once he was closer to the action. He took a moment to make certain D3 and D4 wouldn’t get back up without assistance and ducked into the garden corridor, keeping low and moving quickly. Up ahead, the sound of caps popping grew more frequent and more widely spread. On the far side of the cemetery, the Old Post Chapel’s belltower began sounding the hour in low pealing tolls and, beneath it, he heard the sharply echoing bark of a rifle firing, from above and behind.

🌟

“That may have been one of Jesse’s stun grenades,” Genji remarked in an undertone, as they crouched together in the deepest available pool of shadow, watching as armed and armored individuals took up station at strategic points throughout the cemetery.

A moment before, an intensely brilliant flash lit the far southern end of the Columbarium and a not insignificant portion of the sky above it; even as far away as they were, Hanzo was still blinking after-images out of his eyes after a single unwary glance. More worrisome were the echoes of the detonation, which would no doubt be audible for some distance. “I suspect, then, that he has made contact.”

“No doubt.” Once again, he could hear the smile in his brother’s voice and it was not a kindly one. “Shall we make the odds somewhat more even?”

“A moment.” Hanzo closed his eyes, pressed the tips of two fingers to his brow, and silently bespoke Zentatsu and Mizuchi, where they coiled within his flesh and soul, begging the aid of their clarity of vision. When he opened them again, it was as though the night had fled, replaced by a flat and shadowless stormlight that dispelled the advantage of darkness. He murmured his thanks and turned an unkind smile of his own in Genji’s direction. “Right or left?”

“Left.” Genji was up and over their concealing wall with a speed that exceeded even his own dragon-enhanced vision, little more than a flicker of motion briefly silhouetted against the sky.

He waited for the soft but unmistakable sounds of Genji introducing himself to the pair guarding the southern entrance before leaving the alcove himself, clinging close to the outer wall until he drew even with the next team, one to a side along the midline thoroughfare, crouched and waiting for something to come in their direction. Neither saw him, dressed to blend into the darkness and indistinct in a way that deceived the eye, even one equipped with night vision enhancements; he climbed the wall and slid forward on his belly to observe them at closer range. Ballistic armor, including what looked to be a military-grade helmet, night vision gear, communication equipment. Their sidearms looked too boxy for a silencer or flash suppression, and they were both carrying a baton of some kind. His curiosity itched, and he scratched it by firing a scatter arrow directly between them, flechettes radiating out from the point of impact in multiplying waves. The one closest to him fell with a howl of anguish, pinned to the ground; the further fell silently, with at least two slender shafts jutting from their throat. Hanzo dropped behind the howler and gave him peace and the world silence. He gathered up the gun and the baton and made good his escape before the running footsteps he heard approaching could reach his position, retreating to a spot atop the outside wall where he could both watch the pathways and examine his acquisitions.

The gun was a flechette pistol, which explained the boxy design, but the entire thing felt heavier than the weapons of that type with whom he was acquainted. He ejected the magazine and then a clip of the darts, found them to be substantially beyond standard, a projectile hypodermic flechette, reservoir filled with a clear liquid. He snapped a picture with his phone, making certain to catch the serial number engraved on the side of the dart, and sent it to Tekhartha Zenyatta, on station with their getaway vehicle. Tekhartha, please identify if possible.

The baton also modified -- weighted normally enough, sufficient to break unenhanced bone and pulverize unenhanced flesh, but also equipped with a shock generator heavy enough to overcome omnic, or cybernetically enhanced human, neuromechanical surge protection. He reached up and keyed the comm. “Genji, be careful. At least some of these creatures are armed with weapons that can harm you despite your armor.”

“Thank you, aniki.” Genji sounded slightly breathless and Hanzo glanced back in the direction he had come, concerned. “Be aware that our friends have brought more reinforcements than we originally suspected and also a team from Fort Myer has arrived to investigate.”

“Do you require my assistance?” Hanzo tucked the pistol into a jacket pocket and slid the baton into his belt, half-turning as he did so.

“No.” And now it sounded as though he were breathless with laughter. “I have the situation under control. Find Jesse -- if any proper soldiers reach him first, we may have to do something...regrettable.”

“As you wish.” He slipped his bow off his shoulder and nocked an arrow, arming the scattershot as he did so, and sped along the top of the outside wall as quickly as he could without compromising his balance. To his right, the midlane remained clear as he passed a second set of internal gates, to his left, something flickered in the corner of his eye, movement.

Hanzo stopped, spun, and snap-fired -- connecting, to his annoyance, with nothing. The arrow passed cleanly through empty air and came to rest somewhere amid the field of gravestones opposite the Columbarium and the access road running between. He remained in place for a moment, intensely still and watchful, waiting for whatever he had glimpsed to show itself.

Behind him, someone screamed. It was a brief, abortive, choked off thing followed shortly thereafter by a storm of semiautomatic flechette fire -- it sounded like more than one gun -- and running footsteps rapidly approaching his position. He nocked another arrow and waited, drawn to the ear, and loosed the instant the first target crossed into view. The arrow punched cleanly through the shoulder joint of their armor and they stumbled, half-falling and half-dragged by their partner as they both fled. A gust of something, a dark mist moving against the faint breeze, flowed down the midlane in pursuit and Hanzo followed as swiftly as he dared.

Ahead, the night dissolved into another intense burst of light, one he was spared by the grace of the dragons, and far more intense burst of sound -- loud enough to make his ears ring, even at a distance, not enough to affect his sense of balance. He leapt across the outside lane to the top of a niche wall, ran its length, and dropped into the midline, attempting to get a better look at what was going on up ahead. The garden wall was low enough to see over, barely, as he ran in that direction and he caught intermittent glimpses of a scuffle taking place before the gate that opened into the southern end of the Columbarium, someone ducking into the corridor passing the front wall of the garden, the muzzle-flash from atop the gate and the report of a single high-caliber gunshot.

Hanzo went over the garden wall even as the shooter dropped from the gate, its form slim and sleek and dark in a manner that suggested engineering rather than armor. He crossed the garden at a dead sprint, arrow already on the bowstring, and as he came through the gate, he fired point-blank at the shooter’s center of mass, once, twice, before he rolled out of the immediate line of fire, explosive heads that knocked it back and forced it to give up the shot it was about to take. Its target lay in the garden corridor, a pool of blood spreading across the paving stones, shuddering helplessly in a way that suggested a seizure in progress. He came back up over the wall, the last of his explosive arrows nocked, just in time to find the shooter regaining its feet -- an omnic most definitely, nothing purely human, even an armored human, would have shrugged off those hits that quickly -- reaching for a cylinder at its hip, hurling it at him. Hanzo fired to intercept it at the peak of its arc and dove flat; the neurodisruptor pulse spent itself on nothing as it triggered in midair and he rolled to his feet, reaching for a scatter arrow.

The shooter fled across the narrow court separating the garden wall from the gate, and regained its previous perch in a single prodigious leap. To his surprise, it did not turn back -- did not even attempt to do so, leaping to the top of the next niche wall and sprinting across the rows in long, loping strides. He watched until it vanished out of immediate view, dropping below the level of the walls, and then turned his attention to its target.

He was scruffier than the pictures in the file sent along with the contract information, his beard and hair longer and less tamed, but still recognizable as the man he had nearly been hired to kill. His upper left chest was a mass of blood-soaked cloak and shredded outer jacket, the wound itself concealed in layers of clothing, but the shooter had clearly not missed. And he was seizing, his muscles spasming convulsively, the tension half-lifting his back off the ground, face contorted with pain, desperate sounds that were almost words coming out of his mouth. Hanzo knelt at his side, caught his face between his hands, and, with an effort that he felt in his own flesh, Jesse McCree forced himself to meet his gaze and rasped out, “Arm.”

McCree’s left arm was a known cybernetic enhancement and at that moment it lay at his side, unmoving, fingers locked in an involuntarily contorted claw. He felt along the edge of the skull plate and found the switch concealed there, popped open the diagnostic panel, reading red across the board with multiple neuromechanical system failures, and pressed the emergency disengage switches in sequence. The joint sealed and locked, the arm itself disengaged with a series of audible metallic clicks, and the muscular convulsions slowed almost immediately, finally stopped entirely as Hanzo lifted him, gathered him around the chest, and bodily pulled him into the garden, behind the fountain basin. It wasn’t the best possible cover but it was still better than none and it allowed him to prop McCree up as he sliced away the blood-soaked over-cape and the heavy suede-and-fleece jacket beneath. With both gone, the blood flowed freely across the ballistic armor he wore under them, armor that had been broken from beneath by a high caliber, high velocity armor-piercing round that punched through it completely, taking a divot of flesh and bone and muscle the size of a large man’s fist with it. Hanzo saw, amid the mass of pulped flesh and shattered bone, strands of broken neuromechanical control wire, the feedback from which must have caused the seizure. McCree coughed, and wheezed, trying to draw enough breath to speak and another pulse of blood flowed out of the wound, frothed with air bubbles. Hanzo hit the disengage switches on the remaining shoulder joint and both side panels, lifted the armor away as gently as he could; the sounds that escaped his patient were completely involuntary.

Hanzo reached up and activated his comm. “Genji, I have him but he is badly injured. We are in the central garden.”

McCree’s throat worked silently for a moment as Hanzo opened the pouch in which he carried his own medical supplies, inadequate though they might be to this task, and began searching for something large enough to serve as a proper compression dressing. A little sound escaped him as Hanzo pressed one of the sleeves of his own jacket over the site and bound it as best he could with knots and a length of sterile bandage wrapped around to keep it in place.

“Genji?” He croaked.

“Yes.” Hanzo slipped out of his own coat and wrapped it around McCree as best he could -- the man was broader across both chest and shoulders than he, but he had no other means of warming him, and silently cursed the lack of an emergency blanket among his gear.

“Shimada.” It took all of his breath to properly aspirate the syllables and Hanzo pressed a hand to his chest.

“Yes.” Gently. “Be still. Save your strength and your breath. He will be here soon and we will...make certain you are properly cared for.”

He was in no way certain that was true. He knew, from many years of long experience, what a sucking chest wound looked like, suspected mordantly that the heavens would not favor making this one clean or uncomplicated, knew that the longer it took to bring him comprehensive medical attention the greater the chance of his death from shock or cardiorespiratory collapse. Knew also that saving this man’s life greatly exceeded his skills. He pressed close to his unwounded side, the best to share body heat, resting one hand against the curve of his throat to monitor his heart-rate (high, fast, with pain and adrenaline), watched the shape of his chest for signs of a collapsing lung.

McCree took three ragged breaths, in and out, and rasped, “Who?”

Hanzo glanced up, found dark eyes hugely dilated with pain fixed on his face. “Hanzo. At your service. Please, do not speak.”

He looked, for an instant, like he might try to argue that point -- and then his gaze shifted upwards, and his lips parted in a pained, more than slightly bloodstained smile. Genji landed almost precisely at his side, soundless and apparently none the worse for the evening’s exertions. “Jesse.”

“I just told him to save his breath,” Hanzo remarked, with some asperity.

“Heya...li’l brother,” McCree wheezed. “Long time...no see.”

“Perhaps I should save mine.” Hanzo flicked a glance over his shoulder. “Pursuit?”

“Napping.” Genji held up one of the flechette pistols with the tip of one finger, the gesture a thing of ineffable disdain. “Experimental sedation rounds -- the serial number you sent my master matches a lot stolen from a cargo hypertrain last month. I summoned assistance for the soldiers, at least, and my master should be here -- “

A sleek, nondescript sedan pulled up immediately opposite the garden entrance, the rear door cycled open, and the driver’s side window came down, Tekhartha Zenyatta peering owlishly out at them. “Please hurry. Another group of soldiers has been deployed and I suspect we should make good our departure before they arrive.”

Together they lifted and together they carried, McCree biting down on his gloved right hand to hold in any sounds of pain, and in such a way did Hanzo find himself sitting in the car they had stolen upon their arrival at Vishkar’s Washington DC telestation with a bloody cowboy propped against his chest. Fortunately, there was an emergency blanket in the vehicle’s First Aid case and, perhaps even more fortunately, the wrapper was large enough to lay over the worst part of the wound with enough whole flesh around it to tape it in place. One of Zenyatta’s spheres joined them in the back and hovered over McCree’s chest, shedding warm and soothing golden radiance as it did so. The desperate edge to McCree’s breathing eased somewhat, his head fell back against Hanzo’s shoulder, and his eyes flickered shut as exhaustion claimed his senses. Hanzo kept a hand wrapped around his wrist, fingers on the pulse-point. “Where can we take him?”

He could feel the helplessness in Genji’s gaze as he looked back at them. “I...do not know. If we take him to the hospital…” The thought trailed away into things that they both knew would happen. “I am going to message Lena for their ETA and then we can -- “

“My student,” Zenyatta was behind the wheel of the vehicle, carefully navigating them through Christmas Eve traffic. “Something is...happening.”

“Master?” Genji looked up from his phone, perplexity clear in his tone.

“Something is attempting -- “ A pause, a brief burst of sound that Hanzo was tempted to call a gasp. “Something has ejected me from the vehicle’s control systems.”

Hanzo’s hand flew to the manual door latch, only to find it locked. Genji swore, short and explosive, as he made a similar discovery, and all of Zenyatta’s spheres chimed a single high-pitched tone of alarm. Then, the vehicle’s onboard sound system activated itself, and the console navigation panel flickered, flashing a lurid electric purple overlaid with a stylized white skull icon, its nose an inverted heart; the voice that came over the speakers belonged to the vehicle’s GPS navigation system. “Whatever you do right now, do this one thing: do not panic.”

“Who are you?” Hanzo demanded, reaching up to steady McCree’s head where it rested, as the vehicle maneuvered through traffic at a rather higher rate of speed; a sign for hyperlane access sped past on the right.

“Consider me a contractor.” A warm little chuckle in the navigation system’s sexless contralto. “I’ve been hired by a not exactly neutral third party to make sure you and your cargo make a clean getaway and reach a place where you can hunker down in reasonable safety. So, if you want my advice -- and, I assure you, you want my advice -- don’t entertain any heroic foolishness for the next couple hours, sit back, and enjoy the ride. So long you make sure the dumbass vaquero doesn’t bleed to death or hack out a lung, we’ll be golden, and the rest will be up to you once you get where you’re going. Agreeable?”

“If it were not agreeable?” Genji growled.

“Oh, well, in that case,” The navigation system replied cheerfully, “I’d pulse some sonics through the vehicle’s entertainment system that would render you all unpleasantly senseless and you’d still go where I’m taking you, only you’d get there with a skullfucking headache and maybe a dead cowboy. Seriously, the speakers in this thing are incredible.” Hanzo felt one, just behind his back, vibrating at a decidedly threatening pitch. “Your pick.”

“Agreed,” Hanzo snapped, before Genji could intervene. “Where are you taking us?”

“I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you. Seriously...just relax, and make sure he doesn’t die. All I ask.”

The vehicle peeled off onto the hyperlane, headed west.

🌟

GreenCyborgNinjaDude: We have him but he is severely injured.

DeathFromAbove: HOW severely? We’ll be leaving for the airport in a minute, btw, might be without good service for a bit while Dad and I are on the road.

GreenCyborgNinjaDude: It would be best if my master describes it, he is monitoring Jesse’s condition.

PeaceLoveAndBalance has joined the conversation.

PeaceLoveAndBalance: Greetings and thank you for permitting me access.

ATHENA: You are entirely welcome, Tekhartha.

WickedCuteButDeadly: What’s the word? Winston, Em, and I are inbound and we’ve got one of those mobile life support pods loaded in the passenger compartment. Incidentally, I hope nobody’s carrying too much gear.

DeathFromAbove:...Weren’t those experimental?

PeanutButterIsLife: They’re significantly less experimental than they were. Tekhartha?

PeaceLoveAndBalance: Briefly, he was shot from behind by an individual using a sniper rifle, firing high caliber, high velocity ammunition. He was hit between and to the left of the first through third thoracic vertebrae, just above the upper edge of his ballistic armor. He has suffered significant injury to both the trapezus and pectoralis major muscle groups, the brachial nerve plexus including the neuromechanical attachments to his left arm, the left scapula, the left clavicle, the left acromioclavicular joint and ligament, the glenohumeral ligament, the second rib and costal cartilage, and the upper left lobe of his lung. He was respiring abnormally when we found him but has responded well to our efforts to treat that particular injury and his lung is not in danger of collapsing at this time. He has, however, lost a great deal of blood, which we have no means of replenishing, and he is still bleeding internally -- slowly, I can personally assure that much. But we are maintaining him in a state of shock, at best, and he requires more care than we can provide in our current circumstances.

WickedCuteButDeadly: I hear you. What’s your present position?

GreenCyborgNinjaDude: That...is an excellent question. We are not entirely certain ourselves.

WickedCuteButDeadly: What.

DeathFromAbove: I’m with Lena. What?

GreenCyborgNinjaDude: Our vehicle has sort of been hijacked.

WickedCuteButDeadly:...

DeathFromAbove:...

PeanutButterIsLife:...

ATHENA:..

DeathFromAbove: Explain this to me using small words and diagrams.

PeaceLoveAndBalance: As we were departing the Washington DC metropolitan area, an external force ejected me from our vehicle’s navigational systems and seized control. It was not...violent, per se, but it was extremely swift and thorough and brooked no resistance on my part. We have been proceeding under its control since.

GreenCyborgNinjaDude: We’re travelling through the mountains west of the city, heading south.

WickedCuteButDeadly:...

DeathFromAbove:...

PeanutButterIsLife:...

ATHENA:...

PeanutButterIsLife:...Are you saying that, in addition to everything else, you three have been KIDNAPPED? By parties unknown? Is that what you’re telling us?

GreenCyborgNinjaDude: Sort of? Whoever they are, they helped us get away -- in fact, they told us they were hired by an interested third party to make sure we got away and would reach a safe place for your arrival. Admittedly, we do not know where that is yet.

WickedCuteButDeadly: OKAY, THEN.

GreenCyborgNinjaDude: I am so sorry, Lena.

WickedCuteButDeadly: No no no, don’t be sorry. I made certain all the fuel tanks were loaded to capacity before we left and the backup solar cells are fully charged. Just...lemme know your final coordinates as soon as you’ve got them out and we’ll...figure things out from there!

DeathFromAbove: You are going to owe her all the booze, Genji. The GOOD stuff. And me. All of it.

GreenCyborgNinjaDude: I am poignantly aware of that, yes.

MercyMercyMe has joined the conversation.

MercyMercyMe: I’m sorry, everyone, I just woke up -- it has been a terribly busy last few days. What is going on?

🌟

In the front seat of the car, Genji uttered a sound that, even synthesized, could not be mistaken for anything but a moan of absolute despair. Zenyatta reached over and laid a comforting hand on his student’s shoulder; he leaned into the touch in a manner that suggested he had forgotten, for at least a moment, that they were not alone in the vehicle.

Hanzo declined to remind them, partly watching the scenery as it passed, mostly attending to his charge, who was drifting in and out of consciousness and occasionally making sounds that were almost words. McCree was, at the moment, still and silent and the view outside the window consisted entirely of dark, dense forest with occasional glimpses of overcast sky, the leading edge of a storm according to his phone’s weather app. Even more occasionally he caught a glimpse of ruddy light pollution staining the bottom of those clouds, though at present is was oppressively dark, the road lined in stands of enormous evergreens that screened the view as effectively as a wall. A glance at his phone showed him they were still heading generally southward, now tending somewhat more west; the road wended along the side of a heavily forested mountain, one of a dozen twisty lanes they had followed since leaving the hyperlane an hour before. They had, in fact, only remained on the high-speed, fully-automated-vehicles-only interstate long enough to put a hard burst of distance between themselves and the city and turned off as soon as pragmatically possible -- not the least, he suspected, because the hyperlanes were heavily monitored by law enforcement.

Their navigator had, in general, declined to explain their thinking, ignoring questions in general in favor of switching through a series of radio stations exclusively playing Christmas music and actively refusing them access to a newsfeed. Hanzo managed to find one on his phone, displaying luridly melodramatic streaming text suggesting that a left-wing domestic terrorist cell was clearly responsible for desecrating America’s most hallowed cemetery on the very eve of Christianity’s most important holiday, and he clicked it off, satisfied by the lack of immediate association with Jesse’s rather too notable name.

Jesse chuckled softly, the sound more cough than laughter.

“You should be resting,” Hanzo murmured against his ear, and slid the phone back into his jacket pocket.

“Ears...popped.” Several slow, shallow breaths. “Woke me up.”

They were, Hanzo had to admit, changing altitude, climbing higher into the mountains and, it seemed, slowing as they went, as though their unseen navigator were searching for something. They found it quarter of an hour later, the vehicle slowing almost to a stop, then turning off onto an unmarked side road that wended deeper into the forest and higher onto the hill. The antigrav generators whined in protest, the entire frame shuddered the incline steepened and in the headlights Hanzo could see that the road itself was entirely unpaved. Jesse’s body tensed with every jolt, and Hanzo held his arm and head as steady as he could; even so, by the time they reached their destination, he was soaked with pain-sweat and shivering uncontrollably, tiny, choked off sounds clawing their way up his throat.

“And we are here.” The navigation system informed them. “Wait just a moment annnd…”

In the forest ahead, lights appeared -- low-power security lamps, lining a path through the woods.

“Follow the path. Your destination is at the top. I’ve unlocked the doors and turned on the power. Once you’re inside, I’ll activate the security perimeter.” The door locks disengaged. “Rápidamente.”

It took some time and quite a bit of careful maneuvering to get Jesse out of Hanzo’s lap and into Zenyatta’s, the monk more than capable of holding him and floating at a decent clip despite their differences in size. Hanzo took the lead, bow in hand and at the ready, and Genji took rearguard, covering their tracks as snowflakes began drifting through the winter-bare canopy. It was, fortunately, not a far or strenuous climb, the path opening into a small clearing, the bulk of which was taken up by a compact two-story cabin. A light burned on the porch next to the door, and in the window athwart it; as promised, Hanzo found the door unlocked and a puff of air warmer than that outside greeted them as he opened it.

Hanzo resisted the impulse to ask his companions to wait outside while he scouted, choosing to err on the side of bringing Jesse into the relative warmth before he lapsed even more deeply into shock. There was not, in fact, much to scout: immediately inside the door, to the right, a kitchenette and dining nook, a security panel gleaming luridly purple against the far wall; to the left, a sitting room separated from the rest by a low counter, equipped with heavy wood-frame furniture, a flat-panel holotank mounted in the wall. Down a short hallway: a bedroom, equipped with two sets of bunk beds and a single cot; a bathroom, sink, toilet, shower; linen closet full of pillows and blankets sealed in plastic. A steep, narrow set of steps having more in common with a ladder than a staircase led upwards to the second floor, which was more of a storage space, stacked front to back with storage bins, their contents neatly stamped on the the visible end: provisions, cold weather gear, warm weather gear, small arms, ammunition, medical supplies…

Hanzo seized that one and dragged it to the top of the steps. “Genji, please assist me with this.”

His brother appeared and took one end of the case as Hanzo eased it down, then carried it into the bedroom, where he and Zenyatta had already transferred Jesse to the cot, propping him up against the rear wall with a half-dozen pillows behind him and at least two blankets thicker than reflective foil spread over his legs and chest. The lights were pale and mounted in the walls and showed all too clearly how terrible his color was under the dried streaks of blood, eyes closed and sunken into nearly bruised hollows of flesh, his chest heaving with the effort it took to breathe and fresh blood welling beneath the bandages. Zenyatta cracked open the medical supply case and began extracting useful items; Hanzo left him, and his able assistant, to the task of tending Jesse and prowled back into the kitchen, to the security monitor.

“The security perimeter is armed and active.” The security system’s voice was close kin to the navigation system, though slightly deeper. “Write this code down.” He fetched a yellow legal pad and a miraculously functional pen from one of the kitchen drawers and scribbled down the alphanumeric sequence that crawled across the screen. “That’s the deactivation code, one-time use. Punch it in when your rescue crew arrives. Otherwise, don’t touch this panel unless I tell you to do so. And, just so you know, I drove the car off the side of the scenic overlook just up the way. You’re welcome. Thermostat controls are in the hallway but I suggest you let the heater work on its own curve, it’s running off the solar batteries in the attic. So are the lights. For the time being, you should make yourselves comfortable, let me keep an eye out for any pursuit, and get in touch with the rest of your friends. Not necessarily in that order.”

Hanzo, shivering slightly from the chill in the air and covered from neck to knees in the dried blood of a man he hadn’t actually tried to kill, could find very little to argue with in that.

🌟

#WIP #I Heard The Bells #Short story is officially a novelette

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